THE 
 
 ETCHINGHAn 
 
 Iffllr *i 
 
 sir::,: ■'■-! 
 
 FREDERIGK POi-LOCI
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OE CALIEORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 f~f^r^ 
 
 fMf
 
 ^■' X 
 
 .'■^
 
 The Etchingham Letters
 
 
 The 
 
 ETCHINGHAM 
 
 Jeftet:« 
 
 'By 
 
 Sir Frederick Pollock 
 
 and 
 
 Mrs. Fuller Maitland 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD ^ COMPANY 
 
 1899 

 
 r 
 
 Copyright^ iSgS, 
 Ry Donn, Mead and Company
 
 chief Persons of the Letters 
 
 ^ 
 
 Sir Richard Etchingham, 
 lately retired from Indian 
 service (political depart- 
 ment), widower. 
 
 Harry Etchingham, Major 
 R.A. ; Charles Etching- 
 ham, of the Equity Bar, Sir 
 Richard's brothers. 
 
 James Etchingham, assist- 
 ant tutor of Silvertoe Col- 
 lege, Oxbridge, Sir Rich- 
 ard's cousin. 
 
 The Rev. Edward Follett, 
 Vicar of Much Buckland. 
 
 The Rev. SeptimusWeekes, 
 his curate. 
 
 Stephen Leagrave, of the 
 Education Office. 
 
 William Shipley, of the 
 Record Office. 
 
 Elizabeth, Sir Richard's 
 sister. 
 
 Margaret, Sir Richard's 
 daughter. 
 
 Laura, Lady Etchingham, 
 second wife and now widow 
 of the late Sir Nicholas 
 Etchingham. 
 
 Mrs. Vivian, mother-in-law 
 of Charles Etchingham. 
 
 Minnie, wife of Charles Etch- 
 ingham. 
 
 Mrs. Follett, wife of the 
 Rev. Edward Follett. 
 
 Cynthia Leagrave, sister to 
 Stephen. 
 
 Alice, wife of Col. Newton, 
 sister to Shipley.
 
 THE ETCHINGHAM 
 LETTERS. 
 
 I. 
 
 From Miss Elkabeth Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, 
 London, S.W., to Sir Richard Etchingham, 
 Bart., Tolcarne, Much Buckland, Wcssex. 
 
 Most excellent Richard, — As much of 
 your sister's mind as remains when painters, 
 carpenters, bellhangers, electric-Hghters, sanitary 
 engineers, chimneysweeps, and "men about the 
 kitchen range" have done their worst and their 
 work — or rather done their worst and left their 
 work undone — now proposes to address you. 
 
 Harry very kindly met his stepmother, his 
 sister, and a pyramid of luggage, which included 
 a bicycle and a bath-c'hair, at Paddington. (Cyn- 
 thia only joined us yesterday, after three days 
 spent at Oxbridge with the Gainsworthys.) Tre- 
 lawney, Tracy, and the bullfinches were more 
 en evidence than conventionality permits cer- 
 tainly, and perhaps the sight upon a platform of 
 a flustered cat and dog and a cage of fluttering 
 singing-birds proved too much for my brother
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 — greatly as he appreciates the creatures in 
 private — for he vanished from among us as in- 
 stantaneously as if he were a conjuring trick, 
 and, though I heard his foot upon the still un- 
 carpeted stair at midnight, we saw him no more 
 till the next morning. ("I was surprised, M'm, 
 and so was Grace and Mrs. Baker, that Tre- 
 lawney did not catch the Major's eye at the sta- 
 tion ; set ofif so, as he was too, by his blue riband, 
 and the cat looking for notice," was Blake's com- 
 ment on the platform episode — the episode not 
 of defective vision, but of cutting dead.) 
 
 Please, Richard, learn one lesson that no man 
 ever learnt yet — learn that a woman does not of 
 necessity enjoy all that she endures with pa- 
 tience, nor welcome every ill she tolerates. The 
 hanmicring and the hugger-mugger, the upset 
 and upsidedown condition of everything that I 
 have striven to suffer, if not gladly, heroically, 
 Harry evidently believes to be welcome as the 
 flowers of May to his sister. "Elizabeth likes a 
 disturbance — all women do," he says with a 
 touch of irritation, as he seeks, poor dear, among 
 the chaos for his hat (upon which the furniture- 
 removing people yesterday had thoughtfully 
 placed the refrigerator). But was not this con- 
 clusion of Harry's a tribute to his sister's powers 
 of self-control? 
 
 I hope our joint menage may prosper. 
 
 Between you and me and the doorpost, I think 
 we were mistaken as to the fragmentary condi- 
 tion of Harry's heart. He looks extremely well, 
 
 a
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 and this Intelligence Department appointment 
 is just what he likes. I am thankful that Ada' 
 Llanelly did not marry him. She is such a 
 worldly little thing, and he is so perfectly sim- 
 ple-minded, really, that the marriage must have 
 come to grief. Between the worldly and the 
 unworldly there is a greater gulf fixed that even 
 love and affection can cross. 
 
 By the way, if you are writing to Charles, do 
 give him a hint of the desirability of sending 
 Minnie to see us speedily. I do not wish to 
 worry Minnie ; she and I have never particularly 
 cottoned ; but, as you have good reason to know, 
 our stepmother holds to her lbs. of domestic 
 and social flesh, and she begins to be a little 
 prickly on the subject of the delayed visit. She 
 has shown herself on the defensive indeed ever 
 since Minnie indirectly refused to provide her 
 relations-in-law with "orders to view" unfur- 
 nished houses in the Lower Berkeley Street 
 region, and despatched sheaf after sheaf from 
 Sloane Street and Cadogan Place agents. (There 
 Minnie was right. The Park is an excellent 
 bufifer between kinsfolk, and we are best where 
 we are.) But, alas, for all of us, if we begin 
 our London existence with a clearly defined 
 "unpleasantness ;" and Charles having in the 
 past always rather failed — failed even more than 
 the rest of us — to give satisfaction, much do I 
 fear that the apprehended "unpleasantness" will 
 soon be an accepted fact. Our stepmother is 
 making ready to feel slighted, and has already
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 taken the huffed tone. (Are we armoured with 
 pride or humility, you and I, to whom it never 
 occurs that any one should wish to slight us?) 
 What with his work and with this notion of get- 
 ting into Parliament (Minnie, I gather, is very 
 keen for the carrying into effect of the Parlia- 
 ment scheme), Charles, likely enough, is too 
 busy to come himself immediately, but he would 
 do well to send his wife. "Charles owes it to 
 the memory of his father to call at once, what- 
 ever may be his engagements ; and the walk 
 across the Park from Lower Berkeley Street to 
 Hans Place is nothing for an active man in the 
 prime of life," is what I hear, my good Richard, 
 very, very often ; and, as you may remember, 
 Laura's appetite for a grievance has always 
 grown with the talking. 
 
 Do you know, I feel sure that your sister is 
 on the high-road to becoming a shocking gossip 
 — a mauvaisc languc of the worst description. I 
 find that there are predicaments in which the 
 good-natured thing is to be ill-natured, the char- 
 itable thing to be malicious. 
 
 You see, our poor stepmother is held in such 
 durance vile by rheumatism as to be at present 
 unable to drive or walk, and she therefore re- 
 quires a good deal of within-doors amusement. 
 And, though this evident law of nature is some- 
 times forgotten, people can only be amused by 
 what amuses them. "Who did you see?" and 
 "What did they say?" is asked of me after every 
 outing. When I have seen next to nobody, and
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 next to nobody has said next to nothing, rather 
 than disappoint her news-hunger I am almost 
 induced to draw upon my imagination, or to take 
 away one woman's character for the sake of 
 diverting another. 
 
 Now that I come to think of it, sharp-tongued, 
 fault-seeing women are, surely, oftener than not 
 the stay and support of invalid mothers or step- 
 mothers. Poor wretches, I have no doubt their 
 power of apparently malevolent criticism or ruth- 
 less backbiting is the outcome of good hearts 
 and filial piety. Invalids, for their health's 
 good, must be entertained and diverted, and old 
 ladies are not to be interested by political crises. 
 I doubt if the being in attendance upon an old 
 man would foster evil-speaking, lying, and slan- 
 dering. The old man probably would prefer the 
 dullest newspaper leader or most unfathomable 
 stock-market quotations to the turning inside 
 out for his benefit of his neighbours' characters 
 and conditions. 
 
 I am impatient for news of Tolcarne, and I 
 must be told quickly what you think of every- 
 body, and how things generally prosper. Is 
 Margaret ordering the house as wisely as if the 
 child were her own grandmother? and is she 
 mothering the garden? The almonds and the 
 mezereon must be now ablow, and soon there 
 should be white violets everywhere. You will, 
 I fancy, come to like the Vicar and Mrs. Fol- 
 lett, and you will, I know, terrify poor Mr. 
 Weekes, the very meekest of meek curates. Let
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 me hear, too, if the dear old dogs, "Tray, Blanch, 
 and Sweetheart," are taking kindly to the 
 change of masters. I hope so. Mr. Weekes 
 said to me once, in his painful conversation- 
 manufactory efforts, "I like your dogs. Miss 
 Etchingham ; they don't bite curates." Our 
 Tracy walks abroad in Cynthia's company — 
 Tracy wearing a coat cut with a Medici collar. 
 
 (Tell Margaret that Blake, when reproached 
 for the inordinate length of time spent in the 
 running up of a coat for his spaniel dogship, 
 brought forward the plea, "I'm making Tracy's 
 coat. Miss Cynthia, with a Medici collar.") 
 
 Poor Tracy, he looks pathetically bewilderi ' 
 by the uproar of the traffic and the perplcxi ^ 
 avenues of bricks and mortar. Cynthia inust 
 write and ask Mr. Follett whether spaniel his- 
 tory is repeating itself, and if Herrick brought 
 his "Spaniell Tracie" to his "beloved Westmin- 
 ster" from "dull Devonshire." If so, the poet's 
 Tracy had little to trace, poor fellow, but his 
 master; though London precincts were not as 
 birdless then as now. As to Margaret's friend, 
 Trelawney, we are congratulating ourselves that 
 his cedar-wood-hued fur is a "good wearing" 
 colour, and comes through a fog less discred- 
 itably than could the white coats of his still-in- 
 the-country Persian relatives. Looking just 
 now at his green eyes that shine like emeralds, 
 it occurred to me that, besides flame, there is 
 yet anot'her thing — eyes — that London smoke 
 cannot tarnish.
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Later. — My letter-writing this afternoon was 
 interrupted by the welcome arrival of Charles 
 and Minnie. Minnie was pleasanter perhaps be- 
 fore she wrote her novel. (You really must read 
 "Only a Woman's Heart" — or, at least, try to 
 read it. It is "expected of you," to quote an 
 habitual phrase of our stepmother's.) Minnie 
 is thoroughly literary now, and is surrounding 
 herself with the ragtag and bobtail of poets and 
 story-tellers. I had no opportunity of tcte-a-tctc 
 speech with Charles. Various people appeared, 
 and had to be dealt with : Sir Augustus Pampes- 
 ford, among others, very solemn on the wrongs 
 '^f "our honourable order," and confiding his 
 ,-"^es to Admiral Tidenham, who, notwithstand- 
 ing- his ear-trumpet, believed himself called upon 
 to sympathize with the plague of barrel-organs, 
 not the provocation of baronets. Then old Mrs. 
 Carstairs came and discoursed upon the ini- 
 quities of the young girl of the present day, quot- 
 ing as text to her sermon one of Mrs. Baxter's 
 daughters, who always dines in her own room 
 because her parents bore her, and Lady Clem- 
 entine Mure's child, who insists that her mother 
 should winter at Pau, so that she herself may 
 follow her studio avocations without the hin- 
 drance of Lady Clementine's requirements. 
 Stephen Leagrave, too, walked in. He and 
 Minnie seem to fuse as they never did before 
 she wrote her novel, and they have much to 
 say to each other of authors of whom I, in my 
 ignorance, have never heard. Stephen's work at
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 the Education Ofifice does not wear him to a 
 thread-paper seemingly, and he has taken, in a 
 moderate degree, to journaHsm. Cynthia's 
 pleasure in her brother's company is pleas- 
 ant to witness ; and he is proud, as he should be, 
 of his sister. She really is a very pretty crea- 
 ture. She is also a singularly relationless crea- 
 ture, lacking as she does — with the exception 
 of our stepmother — all female kith and kin. I do 
 hope she will be happy with us until Colonel 
 Leagrave comes home and takes possession of 
 his very attractive property : unless, which does 
 not seem unlikely, some one else has succeeded 
 in doing so meanwhile. 
 
 The door closed upon Charles and Minnie, 
 Harry, who had maintained an ominous silence 
 during Charles's visit, and during Charles's refer- 
 ences to a possible Parliamentary career, kicked, 
 to Trelawney's intense disgust, the fireguard on 
 to the hearthrug, and in cjuite ferocious tones 
 begged me to inform him how a man with any 
 pretension to the character of a rational being 
 could be a Gladstonian, a Home-Ruler, and out- 
 and-out Radical. "Charles I believe to be an 
 honest man. I wish to believe Charles to be an 
 honest man. But just tell me — how can an 
 honest man go in for plunder, for downright 
 swindling, for betraying his country, for pander- 
 ing to the worst instincts of the dregs of hu- 
 manity? How do you reconcile the two, Eliza- 
 beth? Are they reconcilable? I hold the Radi- 
 cals responsible for everything that has gone 
 
 8
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 wrong during the last " (I forget Harry's 
 
 figures). I tried to disown responsibility for 
 opinions that I dO' not share ; but Harry's wrath 
 was really kindled, and he continued to heckle 
 me till the dressing-bell rang my release. 
 
 Why are the electric-light folk, of all work- 
 men, the most troublesome and dilatory? Is it 
 because with electric-lighters evolution has not 
 yet had time to play its part, and so not only 
 the fittest electric-lighters survive? 
 
 Yours ever and alway, 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 P.S. — Write soon and tell me of things inter- 
 esting, and of a book or two beyond my compre- 
 hension — to read what I don't understand makes 
 me feel on the high-road to scholarship. A 
 correspondence with you was always a solace 
 in your Indian days ; and now, as then, your 
 learning and wisdom are sufificient for the two of 
 us, and I need not strain myself by pretending 
 to either. 
 
 At present (ii p.m., Saturday night) I am not 
 wholly reconciled to London, though, all things 
 considered (how much lack of consideration this 
 convenient phrase can cover), I think the com- 
 ing here was the best move possible. It was a 
 choice of evils — as everything in life is — I, to- 
 night, am inclined to think, tired to the quick 
 as I am by my efforts to cope with this "set- 
 tling-in" process. But, take notice, when I am 
 old — really quite old (Cynthia considers I have
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 passed the allotted span of life already, and sees 
 little to choose between my years and those of 
 Methuselah) — I shall drag myself back to Tol- 
 carne, to "the dull confines of the drooping 
 west." Old age does not strike me as pretty 
 in cities. You must lend me a hovel somewhere, 
 and I will be no trouble, nor expect any vege- 
 tables. Remember, remember the vegetable 
 grievance, and, please, let old Enticknap, for 
 peace's preservation, despatch a hamper some- 
 times, if only filled with his beloved cabbages. 
 I will keep bees, and sow annuals — ^the annuals 
 that used to grow in "the children's garden" 
 when we were children. And I will sit and sun 
 myself on a seat, wind-sheltered, and Cut in a 
 wall betrained with apricots. 
 
 It will be very comfortable. 
 
 Good night, good brother. 
 
 P.P.S. — Do not forget the vegetables. Do 
 not forget "Only a Woman's Heart." 
 
 ID
 
 II. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchingham to Miss Elizabeth 
 Etchingham. 
 
 My dear Elizabeth, — I congratulate you on 
 having effected the concentration of your mis- 
 cellaneous forces in town without having 'any 
 casualty to report. As to good order, perhaps 
 I had better say nothing. Your description of 
 the scene on the platform is rather like the too 
 famous retreat of Colonel Monson : Chore par 
 haiidah, hdthi par sin— in English, adapted to the 
 circumstances, "Dogs in cages, and dicky-birds 
 in muzzles." However, there you are, and still 
 the best of correspondents, though I no longer 
 have to rely on you for home news. We used to 
 dream of being together when India had no 
 more use for me ; instead of which we find our- 
 selves comparing motes on setthng down in dif- 
 ferent places. 
 
 It is good to be here in English country, 
 among bright English faces, hearing the rich 
 Western talk. And yet there is a kind of Asia- 
 tic home-sickness with it. One does miss the 
 cheerful brown babies (clear, lustrous bronze, 
 not the muddy tint that comes of mixing negro 
 and white), and the coppersmith with prehensile 
 
 II
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 toes who sits hammering in his open shop-front, 
 while a small boy next door is making his first 
 copy of bold square Nagari letters in an equally 
 open manner, and quite unmoved by the noise. 
 And I am sorry to think that I may not expect 
 to see my old friend Ram Singh again. I have 
 told you of him — a poor gentleman with noth- 
 ing in the world but his bit of land and his 
 grandfather's tulwar, which he carries tucked 
 under his arm, according to the privilege of 
 Native States. And he will look any one, from 
 the Viceroy downwards, straight in the eyes, 
 and talk to him with the most perfect manners, 
 knowing what he owes to himself as a Rajput 
 of ancient family, and assuming that the Eng- 
 lishman knows it — ^as, if he is worth his salt, he 
 does. Walter Scott would have understood 
 Ram Singh down to the ground. (I hope to 
 live to see the public understand ; that is the 
 only final security against the formulizing crea- 
 tures of pens and ink who infest all govern- 
 ments, even the most God-granted.) There 
 must have been such people in the Highlands, 
 almost within living memory. 
 
 I have broken off for a hunt in my battered 
 copy of Colonel Tod's "Rajasthan," one of the 
 most fascinating and worst arranged books in the 
 world. At length I find the story of the young 
 Rajput sepoy, who, being alone in charge ot an 
 elephant, was set upon by about fifty robbers, 
 fired on them, and was cut down and left desper- 
 ately wounded. Having been brought into camp,
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 ^ 
 
 I "he was firm, collected, and even cheerful ; and, 
 to a kind reproach for his rashness, he said, 'What 
 would you have said, Captain Sahib, had I sur- 
 rendered the Company's musket without fight- 
 ing ?' " All this packed away in a casual foot- 
 note. Compani kd banduq is dead and buried, and 
 John Company too; but the Rajput breed is 
 there still, and, moreover, can shoot straight 
 as well as fight, now that there is something 
 better than the musket of our ancestors to shoot 
 with. 
 
 But this is Tolcarne, and I am no longer a 
 Pohtical, but a squire, or squireling, of Wes- 
 sex; and you ask me for the news. 
 
 Vegetables you shall have as soon as it pleases 
 the elements and Enticknap. Talk not to me of 
 terrifying curates, but teach me how I may be 
 delivered from grovelling before Enticknap. A 
 certain dignity is "expected of me" by the tradi- 
 tions of the service ; but what is a poor man to 
 do who knows nothing of English gardening? I 
 have corresponded with official superiors, in- 
 terviewed holy men of several religions, clean 
 and dirty, clothed and unclothed, in their right 
 minds and otherwise, and all unshakeable in 
 argument (Harry knows the other end of one 
 of those stories. I mentioned, by the way, to 
 the Mullah at parting, as a piece of family news, 
 the impending arrival of Harry's battery in 
 camp, and we heard no more of the tribal saint 
 growing half a cubit a week in his grave) ; and 
 I have wholly failed to make any impression on 
 
 13
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 a globe-trotting anti-opiumlst ; but your gar- 
 dener is the only true infallible. Enticknap says 
 the almonds are blighted like. Do I know what 
 he means? No. Why don't I ask him? What? 
 Would you have me tamper with the founda- 
 tions of belief? Perhaps you may know, though, 
 Enticknap admits no difiference of opinion in 
 matters of gardening, but I believe him to admit 
 that you are capable of understanding his rea- 
 sons. Anyhow, there is no almond blossom yet. 
 As to our people — animals first, of course. 
 Marlin the ancient, who was young and frisky 
 when I last went out, is confirmed in his opinion 
 that I am really the same person. Songstress, 
 apparently so called from being of a rather silent 
 habit, and of even more melancholy looks than 
 a basset-hound has any right to be, has taken 
 a sort of quiet fancy to Margaret. Curates' legs 
 do not interest them, naturally. Why should 
 they? Bishops' legs, now — nice tight gaiters all 
 over, buttons to take hold of — are quite different. 
 Dear old Bishop Abraham was irresistible to 
 the college beagles at Eton. It was against eti- 
 quette for him to notice their existence — and he 
 didn't. Mr. Weekes must either be nervous 
 about dogs, or generally anxious about his own 
 person, or — as indeed you most plausibly con- 
 jecture — at a pass for something to say. He is 
 but a kutcha sort of young padre, or it might 
 be juster perhaps to say, in literal English, half- 
 baked, for he may make a man yet. Just now he 
 is distracted between shyness and zeal to improve 
 
 14
 
 .The Etchingham Letters 
 
 in cycling (it will be so useful to him for visit- 
 ing his flock in a scattered parish). Margaret 
 is the only person here, for the moment, who 
 knows much about it, and she conducts us on 
 easy rides fit for beginners. She says she won't 
 answer for the consequences if either of us is 
 turned loose on these roads before she certifies 
 us quite safe. If I am a good old man, she holds 
 out hopes that in a few weeks more I may ride 
 all the way down the hill to Little Buckland. 
 You know the curve and the steepness thereof 
 — no, you don't ; looking down a hill from a 
 bicycle is quite unlike looking down it in any 
 other position. At present, that caution-board 
 is more formidable to me than any Ghazi's green 
 turban to any soldier. Our cousin Jem of Sil- 
 vertoe is said to be a mighty man of wheels ; 
 I am writing to him for some general advice, as 
 Mr. Weekes, having an inordinate respect for 
 every kind of authority, and having heard of 
 Jem in that capacity from some Oxbridge friend, 
 would not rest till I did. That youth would 
 rather be stuck on the devil's pitchfork — being 
 the real proper devil — than wafted to heaven on 
 the wings of an unlicensed seraph. However, 
 Jem ceases from his lectures in a week or two 
 now, so there is no harm in asking him. Weekes 
 is, so far, less able on his machine than I am ; 
 but he has got up the slang elaborately, and 
 indited a list of questions for Jem which I don't 
 more than half understand. . . . Margaret 
 sends me packing to dress for dinner. What 
 
 IS
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 a treasure is a methodical daughter ! . . . 
 I came home to enjoy a spell of being governed. 
 
 Monday night. — Also not to have a mail-day to 
 think of. This Aryan brother is going to say 
 abbynay when he likes, now he is mustered out. 
 Yes, we like the Folletts already. The little 
 old gentleman is quiet, seems dry at first ; I 
 thought we should never get much forwarder. 
 But never make formulas about people till you 
 know them (did you teach me that principle?), 
 and best not then. Towards the end of his re- 
 turn visit, Margaret mentioned that the eminent 
 restoring architect, Mr. Newpoyntz, had been 
 seen at the station. "Not to do anything to the 
 church, Mr. Vicar?" says I. "Saving my cloth," 
 says he, "I would sooner curse him with the 
 curse of Ernulphus than have him touch a stone 
 of it." 'Ts it so?'' cried I, and took down the , 
 little "Tristram Shandy" that used to go my 
 rides with me in one pocket, to balance the 
 Penal Code in the other. "Indeed, Sir Richard,'* 
 said he, just a little taken aback, with the book 
 in his hand, and a queer little pucker about his 
 lips, "by the virtue of this book, I am bold to 
 profess myself a humble admirer of the late Mr. 
 Sterne — as a man of letters." So thereupon we 
 are friends : not yet so far as the friend-of-your- 
 friends-and-enemy-of-your-enemies footing. We 
 shall see. Nobody can tell me to what school of 
 theology Mr. Follctt belongs, and that I like 
 well, too. 
 
 j6
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 For one fruit of our acquaintance, the Vicar is 
 to show me in Selden's "Titles of Honour," 
 when I am next at the parsonage, some profit- 
 able matter for Sir Augustus and the Honour- 
 able Order. 
 
 I note your family news, and perceive that 
 my training in the political department is not 
 to lie rusty. Meanwhile, I guess many things 
 will answer themselves. There is surely some- 
 thing I forgot — yes, we call the new cart-horse 
 "Job," because there is nobody else he looks 
 like. From your loving brother, these — nay. 
 we have royal names, and it pleases me to sign 
 as a sovereign. 
 
 Sur ce, Madame et soeur, que Dieu vous ayt 
 dans sa tressainte garde. 
 
 Richard Etchingham. 
 
 P.S. — I have read "Only a Woman's Heart." 
 You can tell Minnie I think it excellent. What 
 I mean is the title. Not that I believe it was 
 her own invention. 
 
 17
 
 III. 
 
 From Miss Elizabeth Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, 
 to Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarnc. 
 
 Dear, oh dear, oh dear — the vegetables have 
 never come. Elements and Enticknap permit- 
 ting or not permitting, send, best of brothers, a 
 mildewed beetroot or frost-bitten cabbage at 
 once. Remember that our immortal feelings, 
 not our mortal appetites, are at stake, and in 
 such a case a very turnip's top may prove am- 
 brosia. 
 
 "Lady Clementine Mure never buys a cab- 
 bage." The cabbage-tide flows in fast from 
 
 Mure Hall. "Mrs. Carstairs never " As 
 
 you love me, Richard, send a leaf or root. 
 
 I w'as very glad to have your letter. To see 
 your handwriting on any but the transparent 
 envelope, stamped with the far-away-looking, 
 light-green stamp, gives me a shock of pleasure, 
 and somehow I am not wholly sorry that you 
 in Wessex do in a manner regret the Land of 
 Regrets. The Land of Regrets does not get its 
 share of sentiment. Our countrymen and coun- 
 trywomen pass years and years of life there, and 
 — unless there is a child's grave to leave for 
 ever also — they can say an eternal farewell to 
 
 18
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 India witih not the slightest pulHng-up of them- 
 selves by the roots. 
 
 Yes, I seem to know your friend Ram Singh, 
 his nice honour, his gentle manners, and high 
 courage, and I wonder if he is the Rajput Colo- 
 nel Newcome — Colonel Newcome with a 
 prouder ancestry behind him. 
 
 I wish you would make a book of Indian 
 heroes for the children's reading by-and-by. (It 
 goes without saying nowadays that by "the chil- 
 dren" we mean Charles's and Minnie's boys.) 
 These recent Frontier campaigns have brought 
 forth deeds of heroism sufficient for the falling 
 of many chapters. I wish you would tell, with 
 other stories of valour, of the Sikhs who last 
 June, by that garden wall in the Tochi Val- 
 ley, lost their lives to cover the retreat of their 
 wounded comrades. I wish you would put into 
 print the names of Subadars Sundar Singh, ist 
 Bengal Infantry, of Narain Singh and Sundar 
 Singh, 1st Sikhs, who, seeing all the British 
 officers wounded, got together a party of their 
 men, making a most determined stand, and cov- 
 ering the withdrawal whilst themselves under 
 heavy fire. The wording of the despatch con- 
 cerning that Tochi Valley garden-wall site, 
 which I read first in the copy of The Madras 
 Weekly Mail sent by Colonel Leagrave to Cyn- 
 thia, stuck in my memory like a burr. "Tho 
 conduct of Subadar Sundar Singh, ist Punjab 
 Infantry, at the place where he died was most 
 heroic. At this place many other men also be- 
 
 19
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 haved with great heroism. All those who fell 
 there gave their lives to cover the withdrawal 
 of their comrades." 
 
 You will like the boys. Your namesake is an 
 attractive creature, and little Harry a Puck- 
 like spirit. Their Uncle Harry, v/ho from the 
 first found great favour in their sight, proved 
 in levee harness a ravishingly splendid spectacle. 
 "I speak gwuff and wear a sward like Uncle 
 Hawey," Harry now declares ; and since the 
 levee day he and his brother try with more as- 
 siduity than success "to speak gwulT." 
 
 I don't know if "everything is spoilt by use," 
 but the faculty of seeing likes and unlikes seems 
 to be, and seems to fade with childhood. "Are 
 they the petals of my feet ?" Dicky asked, look- 
 ing at his pink toes after his first botany lesson. 
 (The transcribing of babies' babble no longer 
 needs an apology, since wise men and learned 
 have turned their scientific attention that way.) 
 
 The children will prove, I hope, a source of in- 
 terest to our stepmother ; but as character fixes 
 the point of view of every situation, woe be it to 
 each one implicated should the perambulators 
 stand oftener at the maternal grandmother's door 
 than at the door of the step-paternal ancestress. 
 And please bear in mind lest the gravity of the 
 situation escape you, that the dwelling of Mrs. 
 Vivian, measured by a blue silk inch-measure 
 on the map of London, is, if anything, further 
 removed from Lower Berkeley Street than is 
 
 20
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 that of Laura, Lady Etchinghaim ; so the doc- 
 trine of propinquity cannot excuse the too fre- 
 quent progress thitherwards of the nursery peo- 
 ple. 
 
 I thought that you and Mr. Follett would 
 discover each other. The neighbours generally 
 — not the cottage folk ; they swear by "Parson 
 Follett" — are inclined to look askance upon him, 
 and to call his orthodoxy in question. Every 
 one in the country does not go with you in pre- 
 ferring charity to the Creeds. 
 
 Tell me if the "Titles of Honour" supplies in- 
 telligence meet for Sir Augustus, who, for some 
 reason best known to himself, has developed a 
 tendency to visit us incessantly. He seems keen, 
 also, that we should go to have tea at the Her- 
 alds' Office with some one known to him. (What 
 a pity it is that he is not a pursuivant himself. 
 He would idolize his tabard.) If, as I expect, 
 Mr. Follett unlocks for your benefit both his 
 heart and his book-cases, Tolcarne will blossom 
 out in books like the rose. I hold in affectionate 
 remembrance the shelf of old folio editions of 
 the English classics. It was from that shelf, one 
 afternoon in spring, when the birds sang and 
 the sunlight came slanting through the network 
 of mulberry branches, that Mr. Follett took and 
 laid upon the study table the great brown volume 
 in which I first made the acquaintance of "The 
 Faerie Queene." The rightful adjuncts to "The 
 Faerie Queene" still seem to me to be the song 
 
 21
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 of a thrush, gold sunlight slanting through t)he 
 branches of the old mulberry tree that adorns the 
 parsonage lawn, and the scent of Mrs. Follett's 
 pale-blue hyacinths. 
 
 I was called yesterday from my writing to the 
 drawing-room, there to find Mrs. Vivian — be- 
 tween whom and Laura, by the way, there is no 
 love lost. Mrs. Vivian shocks Laura ; Laura 
 bores Mrs. Vivian. Is it better to be bored or 
 shocked ? "To be bored," would say the holy ; 
 "To be shocked," would think the profane. 
 (There is one thing about it: no one likes to 
 be bored, and many like to be shocked.) How- 
 ever, I trust that on this occasion neither Laura 
 nor Mrs. Vivian was, thanks to the other, in 
 extremis, for fate, in the person of Harry and Sir 
 Augustus, provided Mrs. Vivian with lier pana- 
 cea for all ills — an audience, and dowered Laura 
 with a dock to her nettles in the guise of a 
 sympathizer — old Mrs. Carstairs. 
 
 Mr. Vivian's taciturnity was the sul)ject of 
 Mrs. Vivian's flow of words. (She looks as pretty 
 as ever, and grows younger with the years ; 
 she is ten years younger than her daughters 
 already.) "My husband," she said, "never 
 speaks, unless it is to ask if any one has seen 
 his umbrella, or knows where 'Bradshaw' is. 
 When I tell him he really must talk, he says he 
 can't — he has nothjng to say. I dare say he 
 hasn't. Still, it would be a relief if he would 
 even groan, or strike the hours, like the clock." 
 A solemn "Very true" here, from Sir Augustus 
 
 22
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 who is too self-occupied to catch the gist of 
 words that have no bearing upon one of his 
 own hobbies, and a significant cough from Mrs. 
 Carstairs, whose collection of present-day crim- 
 inals now includes Mrs. Vivian. 
 
 By Laura, of course, these utterances were 
 taken seriously, and, fortified by Mrs. Carstairs's 
 sympathy, she was prepared, had a pause in Mrs. 
 Vivian's oration allowed of more than an ejac- 
 ulatory reply, to argue 'that "a groan from the 
 lips of a dumb animal, even, must be excessively 
 painful to right-minded hearers. How much more 
 so from the lips of a human creature whom we 
 love and honour." Mrs. Vivian, speaking in 
 the direction of Harry and Sir Augustus, went 
 on to say that she did not know how it might 
 be with right-minded people, she seldom came 
 across them, but she would often be glad to hear 
 her husband groan, just to prove that she was 
 not sitting alone with the tables and chairs. 
 
 At this point we were invaded by Mr. Big- 
 gleswade (once Jem's Oxbridge acquaintance, 
 now the Vivian's Dampshire vicar). Having 
 pretty well ignored our stepmother, whose pol- 
 iteness to clergymen of every persuasion is un- 
 failing, he produced from his pocket a very slim 
 volume, and presented it to Cynthia — ''As I 
 promised." 
 
 "Are those your pagan love-poems, or the 
 verses in whidh you generously patronize Chris- 
 tianity, Mr. Biggleswade?" inquired Mrs. Viv- 
 ian. "It is so kind of Mr. Biggleswade to be- 
 
 23
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 lieve — most thoughtful and considerate, is it 
 not?" Thereupon Harry's "gwuflf" laugh was 
 heard, and a repetition of Sir Augustus's im- 
 pressive "Very true." Mr. Biggleswade, however, 
 lost none of his jaunty airiness of demeanour. 
 He fixed his Oxbridge smile for a moment upon 
 Mrs. Vivian, and admitted, as he seated himself 
 upon the sofa by Cynthia's side, that he "did not 
 pretend to be one of the old school of clerics." 
 What he then went on to say to Cynthia, "not 
 knowing, can't say," to quote old nurse ; but 
 evident was it that his discourse embarrassed 
 the child. As the colour which had flickered 
 in her cheek since Mrs. Vivian announced, in 
 quite audible tones, "Miss Leagrave is just like 
 a Romncy," heightened, Mr. Biggleswade's 
 bantering laugh grew more frequent. Will Har- 
 ry go to the rescue, I wondered, or shall I ? 
 But as I wondered, lo and behold, suddenly 
 the Oxbridge smile petrified, Mr. Biggleswade's 
 cheek blanched, and terror wrote itself in his 
 eyes. Had influenza marked him for its own? 
 Had he just developed a conscience, or a heart 
 disease? No. Dropping my gaze from his face 
 to his feet, there saw I our Trelawney suspi- 
 ciously snuffing the Biggleswade boots ; and hav- 
 ing sniffed and not apj^roved what did our Tre- 
 lawney but proceed to sharpen his claws upon 
 tlie leg of Mr. Biggleswade's chair, as if pre- 
 paring weapons of attack. Poor pseudo-pagan 
 love-poet. Poor patron of Christianity. Poor 
 disconccrter of shy Cynthia. With an inco- 
 
 24
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 herent reference to train-catching, the Thing 
 was gone. 
 
 "Does your cat like cream, Elizabeth?" then 
 asked honest Harry. To murmur "Not enough 
 to go round" was to waste breath. Out ran the 
 contents of the cream-jug into the saucer of 
 Harry's teacup, down to the very last drop. 
 Lowlily bent Harry, and with a very fair imita- 
 tion of the air of self-conscious condescension 
 with which Mr. Biggleswade serves the Church, 
 did Trelawney deign to lap the cream held con- 
 veniently by a major in Her Majesty's army to 
 the level of his Persian lips. There, now you 
 know all about it. 
 
 As to that bicycling business, well can I pic- 
 ture your wicked child entertaining herself with 
 Mr. Weekes's timidities ; but should Jem unbend 
 in his reply to the cycling questions, the poor 
 "half-baked" man will, I trust, be supplied with 
 an expurgated edition of Jem's wit. 
 
 And now, Richard, put kind inquiry concern- 
 ing his rheumatism to Enticknap, pat the ancient 
 Merlin and the mute Songstress for me, and 
 beg Margaret, as cats do not always care for 
 caresses to make Luna's pat from me a — pat of 
 butter. 
 
 .Yours to command, 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 P.S. — Here, as a postscript, is a pretty old sad 
 song for you : — 
 
 25
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 "Qu'il pleue, qu'il vente, qu'il neige 
 Orage ou autre temps, 
 On voit toujour sans cesse 
 Le laboureur aux champs. 
 
 "Le pauvre laboureur 
 N'ayant que deux enfants 
 Les a mis a la charrue 
 A I'age de dix ans." 
 
 26
 
 IV. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchingham to Miss Eliaabcth 
 Etchingham. 
 
 My dear Elizabeth, — How like you this re- 
 turn of winter out of season? There is no talk 
 now of almond blossom or any other; lucky is 
 the plant that has not been over-hasty. Luckily 
 for Enticknap's temper, too, he is not idle, for 
 there is a good day or two's work in clearing 
 the snow off every piece of exposed roof. The 
 drift is two feet deep in the Little Buckland 
 lane, mounded by the jwind in places into crests 
 running almost to a knife-edge. For my part, 
 I am glad to be away from town, as I prefer 
 clean snow to dirty mud ; and that you are swim- 
 ming in mud I make no doubt. And so yester- 
 day being, as Pepys would say, a very foul, 
 snowing, windy day, I trudged across to the 
 Vicarage, and had a good time with Parson Fol- 
 lett among his books. I have fancied now and 
 again that I was really meant for a bookworm. 
 On the other 'hand, the professional scholars I 
 know have mostly given me to understand that 
 they envy those to whom scholarship is a recrea- 
 tion ; and I suspect that a man who gives him- 
 self to books before he has seen anything of the 
 
 27
 
 The Etchiiigham Letters 
 
 world is but penny-wise in his own craft, for it 
 may be doubted if be will ever more than half 
 understand his books. The Vicar, at any rate, 
 thinks that pure ignorance of men and affairs 
 is answerable for many astonishing conjectures 
 and futile controversies of learned persons. 
 
 We had out Selden's "Titles of Honor" — not 
 Honour with a u, so much for the new-fangled- 
 ness of "American spelling" — which seems to be 
 an inexhaustible mine of elaborate frivolities. He 
 sets forth the authentic documents about the 
 origin of Baronets at large, and nothing can be 
 less romantic. We date from 1611. King James 
 I. founded us in the most undisguised manner 
 to raise money for the settlement of Ulster. It 
 must be allowed that he did, or endeavoured 
 to do, the business in a decent fashion, not by 
 way of selling the dignity to the highest bid- 
 ders. The transaction was for a fixed price, with 
 ready money for part, and good references for 
 the rest. There were Commissioners **for treat- 
 ing with such as desired to be created upon the 
 terms in the preamble of the Patent," and they 
 were instructed to inform applicants "that those 
 who desire to be admitted into the dignity of 
 Baronets must maintain the number of thirty 
 foot-SouIdicrs in Ireland for three years, after 
 the rate of eight pence sterling Money of Eng- 
 land by the day ; And tihe wages of one whole 
 year to be paid into Our Receipt, upon passing 
 of the Patent." Mr. Follett bade me observe 
 the Scottish prudence of the king as to the sterl- 
 
 .28
 
 The Etchingliam Letters 
 
 ing money of England; Irish money was worth 
 much less (like Scotch, with which — or the lack 
 of it — he was of course well acquainted). The 
 applicants had to show both a personal and a 
 property qualification besides their money : the 
 Commissioners are to "proceed with none, ex- 
 cept it shall appear unto you upon good proof, 
 that they are men of quality, state of living, and 
 good reputation worthy of the same ; and that 
 they are at the least descended of a Grandfather 
 by the Fathers side that bare Amies, And have 
 also of certain yearly revenue in Lands of in- 
 heritance in possession. One Thousand pounds 
 per Annum de claro," or an equivalent. . Knights 
 were not necessarily to be preferred to esquires, 
 knighthood being "such a mark as is but tem- 
 porary." There was sense in this, too, said Mr. 
 Follett, as in James I.'s time several of the best 
 and most ancient families in England had never 
 been anything but esquires from father to son, 
 as indeed some of them are to this day. Mr. 
 Follett himself has stayed with a western squire 
 who still punctually receives a rent of a pound 
 of black pepper reserved by a deed of fhe thir- 
 teenth century, and he has seen a writ of William 
 Rufus in the Record Office containing the identi- 
 cal Christian names and surnames still used 
 by the same family at the same place. The 
 secret of these fortunate stocks must have con- 
 sisted in being just big enough people to hold 
 their own, and not so great as to be tempted into 
 high treasons and other dangerous adventures. 
 
 29
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 I don't tiiink James I. caught many of them to 
 be made baronets. I am glad they went on, and 
 still go on, as plain gentlemen; it is one of the 
 things that make an English gentleman's posi- 
 tion unique. 
 
 James I. (to return to his new creation) was 
 even careful to provide against corruption and 
 extortion ; every newly created baronet was to 
 take his oath that he had not directly or in- 
 directly given more for the dignity than the regu- 
 lation price as laid down, and "the charges of 
 passing his patent." Also there is a strict in- 
 junction that all money paid in is to be kept as 
 a separate fund. Selden does not tell us how far 
 these excellent intentions were carried out in 
 fact, and perhaps he did not choose to inquire. 
 Within a year "a. certain controversie touching 
 Place and Precedence between the younger sons 
 of Viscounts and Barons and the Baronets" 
 arose "out of some dark words contained in the 
 Letters Patents of the said Baronets." It was 
 solemnly heard by James I. in person with the 
 aid of his Council, and decided in favour of the 
 younger sons of viscounts and barons by a long 
 and pompous decree. This decree contains the 
 king's promise to the baronets not to create 
 any new title or dignity beneath that of a Lord 
 of Parliament and superior or equal to a bar- 
 onet's, which has ever since been repeated in the 
 patents issued to new baronets. And now you 
 are at least as well qualified to discuss the Hon- 
 ourable Order and its privileges as Sir Angus- 
 
 30 
 
 J
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 tus Pampesford. Mr. Follett explains to me 
 (for I really knew nothing about it) that the 
 grievance of our Order consists in the Crown 
 having declared that the sons of Lords of Ap- 
 peal (who are barons only for life) are to go 
 before us. I suppose the Crown took good ad- 
 vice, and Mr. Follett as much as said he could 
 see nothing in the point; the question seems to 
 be whether a Lord of Appeal is a real baron, or, 
 if you please, whether, if James L had made 
 Lords of Appeal, he would have considered them 
 real barons. It might have been a pretty ques- 
 tion for Jacobean heralds to argue. But I hope 
 Sir Augustus will not meet our good brother 
 Charles in Hans Place or elsewhere while his 
 head is full of this, as Charles would certainly 
 deliver a discourse of half an hour, proving to 
 Sir Augustus, on the most infallible Liberal prin- 
 ciples, that he has no business to exist. Perhaps 
 I should have swallowed formulas too if I had 
 stayed at home. 
 
 Margaret and I have performed our dinner at 
 the Squares. The dullness was just what you 
 told me to expect, with the addition of their long 
 dining-room being horribly cold ; you know they 
 are people who live by the calendar; so they 
 have taken down their curtains and reduced their 
 fires because the equinox is past. Well, "I have 
 seen colder," as an early saint said when they 
 asked him how he could bear standing in ice- 
 cold water ; and perhaps I have seen duller at 
 Indian official entertainments. But formal din- 
 
 31
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 ner-parties are a necessary evil to me at best. 
 Margaret is anxious to keep me up to my social 
 duties, and tells me we really owe it to the neigh- 
 bours. No doubt she is right, especially as you 
 do not contradict her. 
 
 Jem has written to me from S.T.C., and it 
 won't do to show to Mr. Weekes at all — in fact, 
 T can think of nothing better than sending it on 
 to you to be out of harm's way. Not that Laura 
 would be pleased with it either, so treat it with 
 the discretion due to a demi-official communica- 
 tion. By the way, you know Laura's little habit 
 of questioning people about their letters and 
 wanting to see them. She can very seldom — 
 perhaps never — be gratified so far as mine are 
 concerned. As to Weekes, I must tell him that 
 Jem is still too busy to answer in detail, which 
 is true so far as it goes. 
 
 How shall I have my Tod's "Rajasthan" 
 bound? He is barely holding together. You 
 need not tell me to ask the Vicar. I want the 
 benefit of your taste as well as his wisdom. 
 Your affectionate brother, 
 
 Richard Etchingham. 
 
 [Enclosure.] 
 
 From Janws Etchingham, Assistant Tutor of 
 Sih'crtoc College, Oxbridge, to Sir Richard 
 Etchingham, Tolcarne. 
 
 My dear Sir Richard, — It is the end of 
 term, true enough, but with that end comes a 
 
 33
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 business called Collections, not conducive to 
 leisure for tutors. Anyhow, I don't see how I 
 could answer a string of questions from a man I 
 have never seen which range over the whole art 
 of cycling, and every part and fitting of a ma- 
 chine, from lamp to backstays. The short an- 
 swer to about three-quarters of them is that it is 
 a matter of taste, and he had better find out what 
 suits him, and stick to it. Otherwise the Rev. 
 Septimus may take in a penny cycling paper and 
 become a valued correspondent. He can get as 
 many answers as he likes that way, and I should 
 think it would just do for him. If you wanted to 
 know anything I could tell you for yourself, that 
 would be quite different. But I guess I may be 
 riding about your country in the vacation, and it 
 will be simpler to call in person one day and see 
 how you are getting on. 
 
 However, our scholar Blunham was in my 
 rooms when I got Mr. Weekes's requisitions. 
 He is an odd fish : I think I pointed him out to 
 you when you were here. He is said to have 
 dropped his eyeglass one Sunday when he was 
 reading the first lesson in chapel (it was a chap- 
 ter of the Proverbs), and to have found it less 
 trouble to invent the rest of the chapter than to 
 pick up the glass. He has taken to the wheel as 
 the most independent pastime, and rather taken 
 to me because I don't mind what he says, don't 
 expect him to say anything, and am indulgent to 
 his experiments in scholarship, even when I have 
 to point out to him that he should reserve orig- 
 
 33
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 inality till he is through the schools. We were 
 going out for a ride. I showed him Mr. Weekes, 
 and he twinkled silently. During the ride he 
 seemed meditative, and latish in the evening he 
 came in and asked me abruptly if I had heard of 
 the Professor of Aramaic's last discovery of some 
 new fragments apparently belonging to an 
 apocryphal wisdom-book. Now, Aramaic is 
 not a Greats subject, and so I gave him my 
 thirteenth variation this week on the theme that 
 a fourth-year scholar vvho aims at a first should 
 not be too much interested in too many things at 
 once. He remarked that he had no intention of 
 reading the original, but had obtained a private 
 copy of the Professor's translation in the first 
 draft, and thought I might like to see it. This 
 is what he offered me. 
 
 As a pair of wheels that run truly with a pleas- 
 ant murmuring, so is the talk of man and wife in 
 an house which is well ruled. 
 
 As the noise of a cheap crock which rattleth, 
 so is dissension in the house of a niggard and a 
 sloven. 
 
 The inches of our gear are three score and 
 ten ; and though there be some so strong that 
 they ride four score, yet is their speed but labour 
 and sorrow at the day's end, when they fetch 
 their wind short upon an hill. 
 
 Blessed is the damsel whose cruse of oil failcth 
 not, and who lookcth to her own tires; and be- 
 hold, he that takcth her to wife shall prosper. 
 
 34
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Three things are plagues to a wheelman — yea, 
 and a fourth is abominable : a boy which leadeth 
 an unruly horse, and a swine which strayeth in 
 the road, and a rash woman among traffic which 
 regardeth not the right hand or the left ; but the 
 most grievous is a County Council which scat- 
 tereth heaps of stones in the highway and saith, 
 It is well mended. 
 
 My son, beware of inventors which promise 
 marvellous things with their mouth, lest when 
 thou puttest thy trust in their many inventions 
 thou be overthrown in stony places. 
 
 Take heed unto thy riding in strange bor- 
 oughs, and fall not into transgression of their 
 by-laws, lest thou be worsted in striving with 
 them that swear valiantly before the judgment- 
 seat. 
 
 Of two manner of people thou shalt have a 
 care, and flee from the third as an host of the 
 heathen : a deaf man which walketh in the dark- 
 ness, and children which run violently out of 
 school at noontide, and a constable with girded 
 loins who lurketh after sunsetting. 
 
 Perhaps even Mr. Weekes need not be warned 
 against the current advertisement of this type : — 
 
 Genuine Offer. 
 
 Selvedge & Trimmings 
 
 Have taken up the Cycle Trade as a branch of their 
 world-wide Drapery Stores. 
 
 35
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Selvedge & Trimmings will present Every Lady Cus- 
 tomer who sends in One Hundred of their Five-Shilling 
 Coupons within the half-year with one of their dainty 
 and deliciously running 
 
 Roly Poly Cycles. 
 
 Voters roll to Early Polls 
 
 On Roly Poly Cycles; 
 Bustling bakers bring your rolls 
 
 On Roly Poly Cycles; 
 Holy Missioners mind your souls 
 
 On Roly Poly Cycles. 
 
 Dear Madam, — Have you passed your youth? You will 
 pass him easily if you are riding a Roly Poly Cycle 
 and he is riding anything else. 
 
 A fair customer writes: — After being unable for 
 many years to take any kind of exercise, I have been 
 for a fifty-mile ride on a Roly Poly Cycle. My doc- 
 tor agrees with me that I shall never want to ride any 
 other. 
 
 You will never want to repair your Roly Poly 
 Cycle after its first season. 
 
 Chainless cycles are largely advertised at fancy 
 prices. Your Roly Poly Cycle will be chainless after 
 the first hundred miles. 
 
 Madame Sarah Bernhardt writes: — I never fully re- 
 alised the joys of decadence before I coasted down the 
 EifTel Tower on a Roly Poly Cycle. 
 
 Ask for Selvedge & Trimmings's Illuminated Cycle 
 Catalogue. 
 
 36
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Here comes a man with an essay on the Pla- 
 tonic Number. I know it will be about every- 
 thing except the text. 
 
 Yours most truly, rigidly, and rotarily, 
 
 Richard Etchingham. 
 
 37
 
 From Miss Elisabeth Etchingham, 83 Hmis Place, 
 to Sir Richard Etchingham, Bart., Tolcarne. 
 
 Dear, dearest Richard, — Thank you very 
 much for the vegetables ; but, oh, the irony of 
 Hfe. The vegetables waited to come till a time 
 when my spirit refused to feed upon Wessex 
 beetroot or to find solace and refreshment in a 
 Tolcarne Brussels-sprout. 
 
 I am about to issue a writ to inquire into the 
 state of Sir Augustus Pampesford's mind. You 
 will say that the proceeding is not premature 
 when I tell you that since Monday my time has 
 been fully occupied in refusing the hand and 
 heart of the honest man who condones mental 
 inferiority for the sake of respectable birth. And 
 there seems no end to the business. What am I 
 to do? I have been driven to hint that I would 
 rather — so low are my taste — tramp the country 
 selling baskets than live or die as Lady Pampes- 
 ford of Pampesford-Royal ; but nothing pene- 
 trates, and notes still come on the thickest, 
 glossiest paper, emblazoned with the Panipes- 
 ford crest and motto (crest — a crowned peacock ; 
 motto — "I lead"), in the when-you-have-duly- 
 considercd-thc-matlcr strain. "An alliance be- 
 
 38
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 tween two ancient and honourable families," 
 "The houses of Etchingham and Pampesford" 
 — no, "Pampesford and Etchingham." It is 
 more than I can cope with, and I beg and im- 
 plore you to write to him yourself and tell him — 
 tell him that I am a Katherine Shrew sort of 
 person ; that I am a certified lunatic, and only at 
 large for the Easter vacation and to help my 
 family settle themselves in London (the very 
 task for a lunatic) ; that we are not the real 
 Etchinghams, after all, of Tolcarne, Wessex, and 
 Heddingley, East Anglia, with a forbear who 
 represented his county in Edward II. 's Parlia- 
 ment, but mere mushrooms, who took the name 
 and arms of the original stock. Tell him, too, 
 that though I accepted a copy of "The Armorial 
 •Families of the Universe," and wrote and 
 thanked him for the book before I cut the pages 
 (a plan I learnt from you, when doubtful as to 
 the matter to be found therein), I did not look 
 upon the acceptation of the volume as a pre- 
 amble to marriage with the man. Tell him that 
 I am married already : so I am — to a memory. 
 
 You see, I have no one here to whom to speak 
 of this absurd affair. Good Harry's fidelity of 
 nature extends to his jokes ; and did this subject 
 for ridicule reach him, he would not have done 
 with chafhng till Doomsday. Experience, in fact, 
 teaches that the longer he has a joke about him 
 the more valuable and serviceable it becomes. 
 And did I confide in Laura, not only would she 
 weep over me as I broke the news, but for days 
 
 39
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 after I should see tears gathering in her eyes 
 whenever she looked in my direction. Laura has 
 always held tears to be the fit environment of 
 marriage engagements, and even tidings of a 
 Pampesford proposal would unnerve her at once. 
 
 Later. — Your letter has just come. Would it 
 be judicious or not, under the circumstances, to 
 make over the baronite-lore to Sir Augustus? 
 Were my heart as bad as my temper, I should 
 be inclined to wish that he would take to a "Roly 
 Poly Cycle" himself. Doctors no longer re- 
 quired, only grave-diggers. I never saw a man 
 who looked to me as if he would, if he could, so 
 thoroughly enjoy the importance of his own fun- 
 eral as does Sir Augustus. I am not really brutal 
 enough to desire his removal by death, but he is 
 making my life a burden to me at present, and 
 I think Jem's ingenious friend might be less use- 
 fully employed than in producing an apocryphal 
 Book of Job for my recitation. 
 
 How these days that have something of spring 
 about them make me wish to shake the dust of 
 London ofY my feet and take tickets to Much 
 Buckland for poor, country-loving Tracy and 
 myself. I long to see the blowing of the daffo- 
 dils, the Wessex "Lent-roses," in Little Buck- 
 land meadow, and the flitting to and fro of the 
 long-tailed tits, to whom the alders by the river 
 serve as withdrawing-rooms. (Birds are con- 
 servative. I think, in their vocabulary.) The 
 
 40
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 first breath of spring, when it reaches one in a 
 town, is depressing. It is at least to me, and 
 gives me, with its suggestion of the unattainable, 
 a doleful, Amiel-melancholy. But stay here I 
 must, for Laura cannot be left. If you ever see 
 in your sister any sign of this inconvenient in- 
 ability, please crush it out at once. People who 
 cannot be left, and who, therefore, must be pro- 
 vided with constant companionship, levy a rather 
 hard tax upon their relations. But Laura is 
 madeso,and I do not feel it my duty to discipline 
 her out of her faults, as would some one cast in 
 the special constable mould. It is impossible to 
 persuade her to leave home herself during the 
 rheumatism regime. She is starved in her 
 friends' houses for want of proper food, poisoned 
 by the strength of their tea, roasted by their fires 
 or blown out of window by their draughts. 
 (Other people's draughts are draughts ; our own 
 are ventilation all the world over, you may have 
 noticed.) So here I am, and here must I remain. 
 Laura now breakfasts in her own room — the 
 habit is one to be encouraged — and when letters 
 come by the first post I am not bombarded with 
 questions ; so write, write, write, write, Richard. 
 Do not fail me in this ridiculous Pampesford 
 affair. 
 
 Your loving Sister, 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 P.S. — I have the blues. Be very amiable when 
 you write. 
 
 41
 
 VI. 
 
 Sir Richard EtcJiingham to Miss Elisabeth 
 Etchingham. 
 
 My dear Elizabeth, — This is the most ex- 
 traordinary joke : don't think me unfeeHng, but 
 read on and understand why you can afford to 
 take Sir Augustus with levity. Have I ever seen 
 him? I rather think not. Certainly I have not 
 seen "The Armorial Families of the Universe," 
 but I suspect you will find in that great work a 
 certain vagueness about the circumstances at- 
 tending the succession of the great Pampesford 
 family in its present branch. For now I know 
 what I know, and what you shall know in a few 
 lines more. In short — but I think the method 
 of all female gossips and most male pleaders, 
 namely, to begin from the beginning in strict 
 order of time, will be best in this case. You 
 know old Mrs. Tallis who lives by herself at Lit- 
 tle Buckland — at least you know about her — 
 and how she has wanted for years to negotiate 
 an exchange of two little odd-shaped corners of 
 our respective properties to round off our boun- 
 daries, and how in my father's time Laura, for 
 no reason she would assign except that she 
 thought Mrs. Tallis's cap not suitable to her 
 
 42
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 years, would not let him hear of it, whereby such 
 slender relations as Tolcarne ever had with 
 Fuchsia Dene were suspended ; or rather all this 
 is better known to you than to me. Now you 
 may be guessing (with swift feminine skipping 
 of all the intermediate diplomatic events and 
 matters of inducement) that Mrs. Tallis has a 
 niece with prior claims on Sir Augustus, or is 
 even entitled by precontract, and prepared with 
 all the terrors of a breach of promise action, to 
 lead him to the altar herself; and, indeed, it 
 would be no more than proper dramatic justice 
 — but it is not that. A shame to keep you in 
 suspense, you say? Pray, how often have you 
 told me that men always spoil a story by leaving 
 out all the beginning and letting out the end in 
 the middle? So please attend to the real story, 
 which is coming. 
 
 It seemed to me that Mrs. Tallis had been 
 rather badly treated ; but, as an old Political, I 
 was afraid of starting an official correspondence 
 without knowing the ground a little ; you see the 
 old lady might have fired ofif her accumulated 
 store of temper in some form that would have 
 made further approaches hopeless. So I betook 
 myself to our excellent Parson Follett, with 
 whom I have now an understanding as good as 
 an alliance in most things that concern the two 
 Bucklands, and authorized him to convey my 
 expressions of personal regret, and assure Mrs. 
 Tallis that, without discussing past unpleasant- 
 I'css in which I had no share, and which I had 
 
 43
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 no means of preventing, I should be happy to 
 reconsider the affair in a neighbourly spirit. At 
 the date of my last letter the parson had seen 
 Mrs. Tallis, and she said very little, so I did not 
 mention it to you then, not knowing whether 
 anything would come of it. However, two days 
 later I get a very polite note wishing me joy of 
 being at home for good, hoping to be out and 
 about and call at Tolcarne when weather is 
 warmer, though the Buckland hill is hard work 
 for a small pony-carriage ; finally asking me if I 
 will not call at Fuchsia Dene next Sunday and 
 take a dish of tea without ceremony. Not a word 
 of business, or boundaries, or Laura. Mrs. 
 Tallis has not lived sixty — or is it seventy? — odd 
 years for nothing. So that looked promising, 
 and I went. 
 
 Mrs. Tallis was as gracious as might be in a 
 pretty old-fashioned way, and gave me the best 
 of tea — you know my weakness that way. She 
 wanted to know all about the Indian Empire, in- 
 cluding a second cousin once removed who had 
 been on railway work in Travancore about ten 
 years ago ; whereby I had humbly to point out to 
 her that Travancore is a good deal farther from 
 Rajputana than Little Buckland from Thursbor- 
 ough,andyctwc don't know everybody in Thurs- 
 borough ; as also, one house and one division at 
 Eton are far enough from one another to disable 
 Arthur from giving Mrs. Ginx full information 
 about her nephew in tlic fourth form who has 
 just come to Poole's, a house of which, as it hap- 
 
 44
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 pens, they don't think much at Lytewell's. 
 Luckily Mrs. TalHs took no offence, and we maf- 
 fled and talked on. Did you not once tell me, 
 long ago, family history was Mrs. Tallis's strong 
 point? Anyhow — and most luckily — it is. We 
 came somehow to the grievances of the baronets, 
 and I mentioned Sir Augustus Pampesford as 
 among those who were making, in my opinion, 
 an absurd fuss. "Pampesford, indeed !" cried 
 Mrs. Tallis, "he is as much Pampesford as you 
 and I are De Coucy : not that you or I, Sir Rich- 
 ard, have any call to want anybody else's 
 name." And out comes the whole story, I little 
 thinking how useful it was to be to us, but tak- 
 ing it in most attentively, both because it was 
 part of my business to appear amused, and be- 
 cause it really amused me. You shall under- 
 stand, then, in brief, that Isaac Pfandersfurth of 
 Bremen, merchant, transferred his principal seat 
 of business to England some little time before 
 the French Revolution, and prospered. This 
 Isaac had a son, Solomon, who increased the 
 paternal wealth, and became acceptable, doubt- 
 less for solid reasons, to H.R.H. the Prince Re- 
 gent. Now at that time the Pampesford estates 
 were encumbered, the family on the point of ex- 
 tinction ; and one fine day the world learnt that 
 Solomon Pfandersfurth, Esq., had become the 
 owner of Pampesford Hall (it was not "Royal" 
 then). Then it was put about that a younger 
 branch of the Pampesfords had gone crusading 
 against the heathen Prussians in the fourteenth 
 
 45
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 century, perhaps in company with Chaucer's 
 knight, and had left representatives in Germany 
 whose name had been Germanized for con- 
 venience. Presently it became known that Solo- 
 mon Pampesford, Esq., formerly Pfandersfurth, 
 had, with all proper licences, assumed the name 
 and arms of Pampesford ; and lastly, after a de- 
 cent interval, his Majesty King George IV. was 
 pleased to create Sir Solomon Pampesford, of 
 Pampesford-Royal, a baronet of the United 
 Kingdom. Sir Solomon, Mrs. Tallis added, per- 
 petuated the testimony of his Englishry and 
 orthodoxy by building a church in the most ap- 
 proved style of early nineteenth-century sham 
 Gothic just outside the park gates, and becom- 
 ing a strict game-preserv^er and an indifferent 
 shot — an example which, it is said, has been 
 piously followed by his descendants. We have 
 all read these things in our classical novelists, 
 and it seems they sometimes happen. 
 
 Well, thereupon I enclose you a letter for Sir 
 Augustus, which you may close and forward, if 
 approved, making sure that the address, of which 
 I am a little doubtful, is (juite correct. If you 
 think it too risky, I will alter it ; but I suppose 
 you are not over-anxious to keep up the ac- 
 quaintance. May I trust that the blues arc dis- 
 persed? 
 
 As I was taking leave of Mrs. Tallis after this 
 long talk, of which she had done most, I asked 
 her in a by-the-way manner if she remembered 
 that odd three-cornered piece of our cast hams 
 
 46
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 that runs into her land, and said it had occurred 
 to me in walking round that it might be for our 
 mutual convenience to have a little adjustment 
 of boundaries on that side. Mrs. Tallis answered 
 that she had talked enough for one afternoon, 
 and had no wits left for business, but she would 
 be pleased to think it over and let me know. 
 Then she caught sight of Margaret on her bi- 
 cycle, who had been round on errands, and came 
 back to convoy me. We had meant Mrs. Tallis 
 not to see it the first time ; in fact, Margaret was 
 quite sure it would be shocking to her. But she 
 was only pleased and amused, and we rode o& 
 with a blessing waved after us from the porch. 
 If you have any interest left for my small afifairs, 
 know that I had actually ridden, with exceeding 
 caution, down the Little Buckland hill. Mar- 
 garet says I begin to do her credit. Jem may be 
 here any day now, and will perhaps condescend 
 to put some touches to our education. There 
 is a shade of something amiss about Margaret 
 these last days ; she looks worried at times, and 
 I don't think it is the housekeeping or anxiety 
 for her or my improvement in cycling. No 
 doubt she will tell me in good time if it is really 
 anything. 
 
 The Follets are expecting one Shipley, a vdry 
 learned medievalist from the Record Office, to 
 spend a few days at the Vicarage, and examine 
 some documents in the neighbourhood, or in the 
 Thursborough archives, I am not sure which. 
 They have hardly met Mr. Shipley, though Mr. 
 
 47
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Follett knows his work well. Margaret and I 
 are to help to entertain him. We are all rather 
 in fear of the learned man, and try to comfort 
 one another with the hope that he may not turn 
 out altogether too weighty, or otherwise yery 
 formidable. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother, 
 
 Richard Etchingham. 
 
 [Enclosure in No. VI.] 
 
 Sir Richard Etchingham to Sir Augustus 
 Pampcsford. 
 
 Dear Sir Augustus Pampesford, — My sis- 
 ter has communicated to me, as head of the 
 family, the substance of the very flattering pro- 
 posal you have been pleased to make to her, as 
 well as of her own views already expressed to 
 you. She is, as I need not point out, fully com- 
 petent in age and otherwise to form her own 
 judgment, and I must add, having known her 
 from our childhood, that nothing I could say 
 would be likely to afifect her judgment in such a 
 matter. It is not for me to indulge my own 
 feelings by confirming your estimate of her 
 qualities, and still less to cast doubt on your dis- 
 cernment by pretending to dispute it. However, 
 as your ancestor, Sir Solomon, the first baronet, 
 is reported to have said to some one who pre- 
 sumed to censure his full and final adoption of 
 English customs, shekels are silver, but sov- 
 ereigns arc golden. I cannot bring myself to 
 
 48
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 think that it will be long before your golden tal- 
 ents and advantages find in some other quarter 
 metal as attractive and more congenial. 
 Believe me, dear Sir Augustus, 
 
 Yours very faithfully, 
 
 Richard Etchingham. 
 Sir Augustus Pampesford, Bart., etc., etc. 
 Pampesford-Royal. 
 
 49
 
 VII. 
 
 From Miss Elhabeth Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, 
 to Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarnc. 
 
 Dear Dickory, — Why are not postmen who 
 drop letters into wrong letter-boxes decapitated 
 on the spot, to prevent like wrong-doing in fu- 
 ture? Why, if postmen drop letters into wrong 
 letter-boxes, is it always the wrong letters that 
 are thus consigned? Why was it not the black- 
 edged appeal from a clergyman for funds to re- 
 pair a north-country church, of which I had 
 never heard, or the splendidly gilded and bla- 
 zoned offer from a money-lender to Harry of 
 the mines of Golconda, or the bill for Laura's 
 Sunday bonnet, or the invitation to Cynthia to 
 dance at Vivian-End in Easter week, that the 
 folly of the postman delayed in transmission 
 rather than your Pampcsford epistle? I will tell 
 you — because man, and woman also, is born to 
 trouble as the sparks fly upward, and because 
 desperately wicked is the heart of postmen. 
 
 You see, thanks to this postman folly and 
 wickedness, I never had the letter, which should 
 have come at breakfast-time, till the moment 
 whenTurnbull brought it into the drawing-room, 
 ostentatiously laid upon the tea-tray, and all un- 
 
 50
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 sheltered from Laura's eyes. Never trust short- 
 sighted eyes not to see, nor deaf ears not to hear. 
 BHnd eyes and deaf ears are freakish things, and 
 will play you false if you put your trust in them. 
 Laura saw in a moment from whom the docu- 
 ment stamped with the Tolcarne postmark came, 
 and before I could forge a reason for letting it lie 
 unopened, Turnbull ushered in no other than Sir 
 Augustus himself. Really, Laura's policy of the 
 open door has much to answer for, (As is known 
 to you, we are never allowed the protection of a 
 ''Not at home," unless we are down with an in- 
 fectious disease, in bed, or in the street, but sit at 
 the receipt of custom the day through at the 
 mercy of all the unemployed in Christendom.) 
 To fill up the cup of my woes, our stepmother 
 frustrated my attempts to leave the room, and, 
 alas. I can't take flight through these French 
 windows into the harbour of the shrubberv, as, 
 in such a predicament, would have been my 
 course at Tolcarne. "Pour out the tea, dear 
 Elizabeth," was my order; "if it stands too long 
 the tannin will ruin our digestions." Better be 
 tanned to shoe-leather, I thought, than retain 
 one's digestion in Sir Augustus's company ; but 
 this reflection I had to keep to myself. "And 
 now let us hear the Tolcarne news," Laura per- 
 sisted ; "I am sure Sir Augustus will forgive my 
 impatience when he knows that it is a fortnight 
 since we heard a word from our old honip." (T 
 have, you will observe, treated your communi- 
 cations as private.) Alas, alack, from first to last 
 
 51
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 the luck was against me, for, when forced to 
 open the letter I proceeded to break the seal, up 
 leapt Trelawney with a robust purr to my knee, 
 and, jerking my elbow as he leapt, jerked out 
 the enclosure, address upwards, to Sir Augus- 
 tus's feet. Alack, alas, the envelope I saw was 
 open, and probably meant for my perusal before 
 delivery. Means of escape, however, if not of 
 victory, were at hand, and sweeter than the song 
 of nightingale was the sound at that moment of 
 Harry's hoarse shout of "Elizabeth !" echoing 
 through the house. And never was man's call 
 more quickly responded to. 
 
 Harry, poor fellow, has a cold in his head, and, 
 in passing, I may mention that far less to-do 
 would he make were a gun-shot wound his com- 
 plaint. "I could not go to the drawing-room 
 after you," he explained, "as TurnbuU told me 
 that ass Pampesford is there again ; and I want 
 to know if the time hasn't come round to inhale 
 this beastly eucalyptus stuff." So your letter 
 was read whilst the bath-towel that enveloped 
 brother and inhalation shrouded Harry's proud 
 head : and read to the accompaniment of the suf- 
 ferer's sighs and piteous appeals to be told if "it 
 isn't long enough." And yet Harry without a 
 qualm would have stormed Dargai's heights, 
 and anything else really formidable that you 
 like. 
 
 As to the Pampesford antecedents, I am not 
 surprised by what you tell me. The glitter points 
 to an origin of the sort. I do wonder what the 
 
 52
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 enclosed missive said. It is pretty sure to be 
 effectual, for you are rightly held to be an ef- 
 fectual person with a pen. 
 
 Later. — And what do you think? When — Sir 
 Augustus safely out of the house — I went back 
 to the drawing-room, there I found Laura 
 bathed in tears and declaring herself to be most 
 deeply hurt by our secrecy, our duplicity, our all 
 things imaginable that are bad, in concealing 
 from her matters that concerned our very heart's 
 blood. Sir Augustus had evidently let her know 
 that he has spent his time during the last fort- 
 night in offering what I have not the sense to 
 accept. I fear that poor Laura's feelings are 
 really injured, and, of course, a la mode of 
 Laura, she turns her injuries into an instance of 
 disrespect to our father's memory, who put her 
 "in the place of his wife." Her sympathies, I 
 need not tell you, are entirely with Sir Augustus, 
 who is, she says, "a very good-hearted man." I 
 dare say he is good-hearted, but it is useless to 
 argue with her that the absence of brutality in 
 his nature does not establish his right to marry 
 any unwilling woman he may fix upon as a de- 
 sirable wife. 
 
 Thursday. — Laura still wears a stone-wall face, 
 and treats me with a sort of offended-governess 
 air, as if I were a child in disgrace. "I am not 
 in your confidence, Elizabeth, and therefore am 
 not surprised to see you wearing your grey 
 
 S3
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 gown instead of your black, or buying new shoe- 
 laces without consuhing me." As an oUve 
 branch, I have written to beg Mrs. Carstairs to 
 come to tea this afternoon, and I shall retire to 
 my room early in the entertainment, so as to 
 give the aggrieved one a good opportunity of 
 complaining of me. What more to please can 
 woman do? 
 
 Harry's cold, I am happy to tell you, is better, 
 and he is not to die of it. It is an acknowledged 
 thing, indeed, that his sneezes will not land him 
 this time in Hades, and he talks of going north 
 for a week at Easter, a-fishing. The Vivians 
 have invited Cynthia, also Stephen, to stay witli 
 them at Vivian-End, for a hunt-ball next week. 
 \''ivian-End, you know, is JMr. Biggleswade's 
 cure, and I am thinking of packing up Trelaw- 
 ney with Cynthia's dancing-frock as Biggles- 
 wade defence. I must not again forget what I 
 have intended to tell you before, which is that 
 Stephen would very much like an invitation to 
 Tolcarne. He is writing the life of some west- 
 country mariner for the "Naval Notabilities" 
 series, and thinks that you or Mr. Follett can af- 
 ford him some valuable information on Wessex 
 sailor-lore. Mrs. Vivian affronted him by in- 
 quiring if Noah was to be included in the "Naval 
 Notabilities" series. 
 
 It is not for the first time, perhaps, that Jem's 
 expected arrival has given Margaret a worried 
 look ; but if there is anything to be told to you, 
 she will tell it herself. 
 
 54
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 I think I know the Folletts' expected guest, 
 Mr. Shipley. Is he not brother to my dear Ahce 
 Newton? I think so. The Newtons have taken 
 a house in Sloane Street for three months, and I 
 shall see something of her, I hope. Her sister- 
 in-law, Mrs. Ware, came to see us the other day, 
 a woman devoid of understanding, who thinks 
 it is time that Alice, whose child died a year ago, 
 "roused herself." Prolonged grief bores the on- 
 lookers : — 
 
 "They bid bereaved Priam smile. 
 And Niobe, the childless, dance." 
 
 We are all allowed to be unhappy for a little 
 while, you know ; but, then, we have to "begin to 
 get over it." Poor Alice, I think she found in 
 her child consolation for her marriage. (It was 
 Mrs. Ware who, in Indian days, finding that 
 some one she considered a black sheep was not 
 tabooed by Bombay, pleased Harry by the in- 
 quiry, "What is the use of being respectable if 
 such people are to be asked to Government 
 House?") 
 
 Don't forget that it is "expected of you" to 
 invite Charles and Minnie in the course of time 
 to Tolcarne. I am really sorry for Minnie, 
 a propos of the treatment she receives from her 
 mother in the matter of "Only a Woman's 
 Heart" ; and I feel that we must all be very 
 good-natured about it, and make the most of our 
 liking — or, rather, the least of our disliking — of 
 the book, to make up. When I went to see Mrs. 
 
 55
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Vivian the other day, I was followed into the 
 house by Minnie, who came in quite excited and 
 breathless over a most polite newspaper notice 
 of the novel. "My dear Minnie, these ridiculous 
 reviews are either written by people who have, 
 not read the book, or who know me," was Mrs. 
 Vivian's comment. "And now I come to think 
 of it, Hugo Ennismore writes in the Minerva, 
 and there is nothing foolish that he would not 
 say or do to please me," etc., etc. This was hard 
 on Minnie, and she was all tears and tremors in 
 a moment. Blanche, the pretty younger sister, 
 is much happier in her relations with her 
 mother. She laughs when attacked, and Mrs. 
 Vivian receives the laughter as a tribute to her 
 humour, and is appeased. From Mrs. Vivian, 
 on the same occasion, I got the latest intelli- 
 gence in printers' blunders. The printer of a re- 
 port of some philanthropic work in which she is 
 interested turned "L'Union Internationale des 
 Amies de la Jeune Fille" into "L'Union Inter- 
 nationale des Arrics de la Jeune Fille." What 
 do you think of that? 
 
 Thursday evening. — Whilst Laura was con- 
 fessing my sins to Mrs. Carstairs this afternoon, 
 I read some chapters of Earle's "Microcosmog- 
 raphy" — the new reprint. Perhaps I am right, 
 perhaps T am wrong; but, wrong or right, T pre- 
 fer the portrait gallery of Theophrastus to that of 
 Earle, and that of old Fuller in his "Holy and 
 Profane State" to either. For your guidance, as
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 an elder brother, I might make over to you an 
 extract from the character of "The Elder 
 Brother" in "The Holy State" : 
 
 "He relieveth his distressed kinred, yet so, 
 as he continues them in their calling. Other- 
 wise, they will all make his house their hospitall. 
 his kinred their calling. When one being as 
 Husbandman challenged kinred of Robert 
 Grosthead Bishop of Lincoln and thereupon re- 
 quested favour of him to bestow an office on 
 him, 'Cousen' (quoth the Bishop), 'if your cart 
 be broken I'le mend it ; if your plough be old, 
 rie give you a new one, and seed to sow your 
 land, but an Husbandman I found you and an 
 Husbandman Fie leave you.' It is better to ease 
 poore kinred in their Profession than to ease 
 them from their Profession." Very, very true. 
 
 Wars and rumours of wars : what will come of 
 it all? I pity those who sit in kings' and presi- 
 dents' and prime ministers' places — 
 
 "One would have lingering wars with little cost; 
 Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings; 
 A third man thinks, without expense at all, 
 By guileful fair words peace may be obtained." 
 
 So it was, so it is, and so, I suppose, it will al- 
 ways be. 
 
 Do not dock me when you write of the Tol- 
 carne news, of the Tolcarne sayings and doings. 
 They throw up the window and freshen the air 
 of the room (ventilation, not draught). Is En- 
 ticknap, as usual, grudging growing-room to 
 
 57
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 everything but a cabbage, and hungering — I 
 trust futilely — to dig the borders? Don't let 
 him. If he had his way he would destroy every 
 vestige of blossoming vegetation. The good 
 creature confuses a Sahara and a flower-garden, 
 and all that he does not cut down he holds it his 
 privilege to dig up. I wonder if Merlin, poor 
 old dog, still, every fine morning, takes a sun- 
 bath on the terrace? I liked to see him throw 
 himself down before the big myrtle with a sigh 
 of reposeful content. And tell me if the cocks 
 and hens flourish, and if you now are called 
 upon to find names for the infants of the poultry- 
 yard. Great was Enticknap's embarrassment 
 when Margaret gave her own name and Cyn- 
 thia's to two of the chickens. With "Miss Cyn- 
 thie the cock" and "Miss Margrot the pullet," he 
 finally solved the etiquette difficulty. 
 
 My sahitations cmpressees to you and to every- 
 thing at Tolcarne, and those of Trelawney to the 
 birds — robin, linnet, thrush. Much does he wish, 
 horrid fellow, that it were for him to devastate 
 the nests this spring. Much do I rejoice that it 
 is not. Good-bye, good-bye. 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 58
 
 VIII. 
 
 Sir Richard Etchingham to Miss Elisabeth 
 Etchingham. 
 
 My dear Elizabeth, — Laura may go to 
 Duzakh, which is in the Persian the opposite of 
 Bihisht; and if you don't know what those two 
 places are, you may guess. Seriously, can you 
 go on living with her much longer? There is a 
 point where self-respect, after a fair trial, sets 
 limits to every social duty. However, Sir Au- 
 gustus's exit is assured, and I shall not break 
 my heart because it was a little more abrupt 
 than we meant. 
 
 For once your penetration was at fault about 
 Margaret. Her little worry had nothing to do 
 with Jem : we have had a refusal here too, but of 
 a very different person. Mr. Weekes, the curate, 
 who began his relations to me with a rather ex- 
 aggerated version of the civility due from a 
 younger man to a considerably older one, has 
 become more and more obsequious the last week 
 or two, till at last it was positively oppressive. 
 Alargaret, regarding him as an inoffensive per- 
 son to whom it would be a sin to refuse charity, 
 continued to instruct him in cycling along with 
 me. Last Thursday morning he came round 
 
 59
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 when I happened to be well occupied with letters 
 and Enticknap (I do remember that Friday is 
 outward mail-day, for the sake of keeping up 
 with some old colleagues), and I said that if Mr. 
 Weekes and Margaret would start on our usual 
 run — the one approximately flat piece of the 
 Thursborough road near us which you once 
 complained of as our one dull walk — I would 
 come after them presently and overtake or meet 
 them. "Huzur," said Margaret (she will call me 
 Huzur, though I have explained to her that it is 
 quite pointless), "can't you really come with 
 us?" But I really could not very well, and saw 
 no need for it. In about half an hour I stepped 
 out to fetch my hired machine from the portion 
 of the stable which Margaret has converted into 
 a cycle-house, when Margaret came riding in at 
 the gate, faster than usual, and almost ran 
 against me, with Mr. Weekes panting and wob- 
 bling after her. They dismounted and took their 
 bicycles in (Mr. Weekes's lives here till he can 
 find storage elsewhere — there is no place at all 
 in his lodging in the village, and as his and mine 
 were hired from the same shop in Thursborough 
 at the same time, it seemed the natural thing), 
 and as I was moving in the same direction there 
 came out in Margaret's most practical house- 
 keeper's voice — the one she uses when some- 
 thing stupid aggravates her — "Do stop talking 
 nonsense, Mr. Weekes, and don't upset my ma- 
 chine." Then a limp black figure, dusty as to 
 the knees, came scrambling past me with a hasty 
 
 60
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 salute most unlike Mr. Weekes's usual cere- 
 mony ; and when he was well out of the gate, 
 Margaret emerged and half drew, half drove me 
 mto the study. "What," said I ; "you don't 
 
 mean to tell me he has ?" She looked as if 
 
 she did not quite know whether to laugh or to 
 cry — you know I become imbecile when people 
 cry — but happily the laugh turned the scale, and, 
 after giving a little choke or two, she collapsed 
 on a stool in a violent fit of laughter. "Yes, in- 
 deed," she said, when she could find words, "and 
 he's been proposing all the time." Apparently 
 Mr. Weekes accepted the chance as a provi- 
 dential omen, and as soon as they were fairly 
 started he began to blurt out incoherent com- 
 pliments, in which the virtues of Margaret, 
 Much Buckland, and myself were hopelessly 
 tangled, and then reeled off what he intended to 
 be a proposal in due form, with a full exposition 
 of the secular and spiritual advantages that 
 would accrue to both parties, and to the people 
 of the Bucklands, from Margaret becoming Mrs. 
 Septimus Weekes. As he is barely capable of 
 riding and talking at the same time, his dis- 
 course was adorned by narrowly averted col- 
 lisions with the Squares' family coach, a farmer's 
 cart, a donkey, a wheelbarrow, and Margaret 
 herself. All these events gave Margaret plenty 
 to do in looking out for herself and ejaculating 
 imperative cautions, so she could only get out a 
 few words of dissent. When he followed her 
 into the stable he essayed to go down on one 
 
 6i
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 knee, but, the space being limited, he only 
 achieved stumbling over Margaret's machine 
 and barking his shin against the mud-guard. 
 Net result — Mr. Weekes must find quarters for 
 his bicycle somewhere else without loss of time. 
 By good luck there was Jem's coming — now 
 come, in fact — and I wrote a little note explain- 
 ing to poor Septimus that Jem was very particu- 
 lar about having plenty of room. So there is 
 another exit, and I have escaped, I trust, a sol- 
 emn letter or a solemn interview, or both. And 
 Margaret, I think, now feels more intimate with 
 her half-known parent from the Indies. She had 
 been suspecting the catastrophe for some days, 
 but looked, as I should have looked, for some- 
 thing much more formal and dignified. She is 
 not exactly angry with the man, but vexed at his 
 folly. Such persons do seem a blot on the rea- 
 sonableness of things. 
 
 Now concerning the arrival of Jem and Mr. 
 Shipley, which also has had unexpected ele- 
 ments. Arthur's movements are known to you, 
 as he did his duty by calling on you before he 
 came on here for the holidays, and you have 
 verified for yourself his healthy state of indififer- 
 cnce to the problems of the universe. I don't 
 think he will turn out the sort of young man 
 who considers that his own opinions must ])c of 
 serious importance to God Almighty. Well, 
 Jem telegraphed to us on Tuesday to expect him 
 by the Thursborough road, and the three of us 
 set ofT wheeling after lunch on the chance of a 
 
 6«
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 meeting. About four miles out we perceived, as 
 the old-fasliioned first chapter used to say, two 
 riders approacliing at a swift and steady pace 
 from the cathedral town. Meanwhile we had 
 been discussing the unknown Mr. Shipley. My 
 guess was a dry, precise little man. Margaret's 
 was a tall, thin, anaemic man, with a stoop and 
 blinking eyes. "Oh ! no," said Arthur, "that's 
 not the sort. I know those awfully clever history 
 chaps; we had one to give a lecture to the 
 School Society this half. He was red and 
 smooth, and just like a Rugby football, and 
 looked as if he couldn't stand up by himself. He 
 talked of nothing but common fields and grass- 
 farming and mangold-wurzels ; that's what they 
 make us learn for history now." "Look," said 
 Margaret; "isn't that Jem?" "Somebody with 
 him, then," said Arthur. A few minutes showed 
 that it certainly was Jem, and with him a proper 
 enough man of no remarkable dimensions any 
 way in excess or defect, and of decidedly cheer- 
 ful aspect, old enough to wear a full beard in de- 
 fiance of the modern fashion of youth — that is, 
 enormously old to Arthur's eyes, and in the nov- 
 elist's "prime of life" to mine. "Let me intro- 
 duce Mr. Shipley," said Jem ; "we met at Ox- 
 bridge some time since, and we have fallen in on 
 the road." Not a bit like any of our guesses. 
 Things very seldom are, so far as I know, and 
 people never. So we rode back to the Vicarage 
 quite an imposing procession ; and if Jem 
 thought the pace funereal, he did not say so. 
 
 63
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 To the Vicarage, because Mr. Shipley did not 
 know the way ; and Mr. Follett, who was walk- 
 ing in the garden, had lis all in to tea. We took 
 the back way by reason of our machines, and 
 thereby were surprised. For who should be sit- 
 ting with Mrs. Follett but poor Weekes ! She 
 is a motherly, comfortable person (all the more 
 so to the world from having no children of her 
 own), and he doubtless had come for consola- 
 tion. Margaret made herself a rampart of Jem 
 and me. Mrs. Follett asked if there was any 
 more talk of war in London, but Jem, not hav- 
 ing been in London for some days, disclaimed 
 knowledge, and ]\Ir. Shipley said there was noth- 
 ing certain. "Is it not shocking. Mrs. Follett," 
 said Mr. Weekes, "that war should still be possi- 
 ble? My friend Dr. Wogglcs, of the Universal 
 Arbitration League, writes to me in a truly 
 painful state of anxiety." "I am not sure that 
 the Vicar agrees with you," said Mrs. Follett. 
 
 "Rut on all Christian principles " he replied, 
 
 and, catching sight of Margaret, gasped and came 
 to a dead stop. "But," said Air. Follett, who, of 
 course, knew nothing of our late episode, "a 
 clerk in orders is hardly free to deny that Chris- 
 tian men may sometimes lawfully bear arms. Dr. 
 Wogglcs is probably not bound by the Articles. 
 And there are some other archaic writings which 
 we are bound at least not to dismiss without con- 
 sideration. Sir Richard, will you kindly take 
 down that Vulgate which is just behind your 
 head on the shelf? Thank you. And you, Miss 
 
 64
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Margaret, will you read this verse? Yovt learnt 
 Latin at your High School, doubtless with the 
 true Italian vowels — one thing at least that girls 
 are taught better than boys." "Please, Mr. 
 Vicar, I don't know Latin," said Margaret. 
 "Enough to read a text in the Vulgate," said 
 Mr. Follett, "and our barbarous English Latin 
 is not what the Vulgate deserves." "A good 
 judgment." said Mr. Shipley. "It will save you 
 talking," I whispered to Margaret. So she took 
 the book from the Vicar, and wdth a ring in her 
 voice quite different from the housekeeper tone, 
 and (it seemed to my ears, which have heard a 
 good few tongues between Gibraltar and Bom- 
 bay) a mighty pretty Italian accent, she read 
 out : — 
 
 "Accingcre gladio tiio super femur tnum, potcn- 
 tissimc. Specie tiia et pulehritudine tua intende, 
 prosperc procede et rcgna, propter vcritaem et man- 
 suctndinem et iitstitiaiii: et dcducct tc mirahiliter 
 dextera tua." 
 
 "I suppose," said Mr. Shipley, "those last 
 words are wrongly translated ; but in themselves 
 I like them better than the 'terrible things' of the 
 English version." "That was why I chose the 
 Latin," said Mr. Follett. Mr. Weekes had van- 
 ished. "Well," said I, not having attended much 
 to Western public affairs for some years, and 
 having no clear or decided notions about the 
 Cuban question, "and who is your mighty man 
 that is to gird himself with his sword upon his 
 thigh?" "The President of the United States," 
 
 65
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 said Mr. Follett. "Et dcducat ipsum mirabilitcr 
 dcxtcni sua," added Mr, Shipley. "He's all 
 right," said Jem. 
 
 So there you have incidentally the answer to 
 your question about rumours of war. We are to 
 dine at the Vicarage to-morrow. Merlin, who 
 you remember came from Jem's old home, is 
 quite spry at seeing him again. Arthur, who 
 patronises us all except Jem in cycling, took out 
 the family and Mr. Shipley for a ride to-day, and 
 on the return was cautioning us about the in- 
 cline down to the house, when the learned man, 
 remarking that the slight breeze against us was 
 an excellent substitute for the brake, put up his 
 feet, and, drawing ahead of Arthur by the ad- 
 vantage of a man's weight over a boy's, sailed 
 in neatly through the one open leaf of the gate 
 with just enough way on to dismount easily. 
 Whereupon Arthur has confided to Margaret 
 and me that he considers Shipley an old brick, 
 and doesn't believe he can be an historian at all. 
 
 I am asking Charles and Minnie to come here 
 for the short Whitsuntide vacation. You have 
 never told me your opinion about the binding of 
 Tod's "Rajasthan" — and lots of other things. I 
 must contrive to see you soon, though they have 
 given me an infinite deal of nothing to do as 
 Chairman of the Parish Council, and Wessex 
 farmers are less manageable than Rajput princes, 
 and trains at Buckland Road Station are few and 
 evil. The only fast thing one sees there is the 
 Midland express running through to the north, 
 
 66
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 which is obviously not of much use to a man 
 who wants to go to London. It is said that it 
 once sHpped a coach for a director, which made 
 a nine days' wonder for all Buckland folk. Think 
 of a time to suit you, and I will make it out 
 somehow. No more at present from 
 Your loving Brother, 
 
 Richard Etchingham. 
 
 67
 
 IX. 
 
 From Miss Elizabeth Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, 
 to Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarne. 
 
 Dear, dearest Creature, — Poor Margaret 
 — poorer Mr. Weekes. But what a goose the 
 poorer man must be to have supposed himself 
 capable of converting Margaret into Mrs. Sep- 
 tinms Weekes. There is a certain ingenousness 
 about him that I always rather liked, and a 
 meekness not in keeping with the hardihood of 
 his last move. Do you know, I wonder, the tale 
 of his first appearance in the Tolcarne pulpit one 
 Sunday afternoon, as told by Blake? — "Mr. 
 Weekes, M'm, up he went, and he looked round 
 and round all in a flutter, and then says he, 'My 
 thoughts have gone from me. Will you excuse 
 me?' and down he ran, scared as a hen by a 
 hawk." I don't feel sure that valour was absent 
 from this explanation, though terror certainly 
 takes people differently — making some speak 
 when conscious that thought has left them. 
 
 You will be welcome wherever you appear ; 
 and as to the time, the sooner the better. "Ask 
 the Rajah if he isn't coming up for the May 
 Meetings or the Empire Ballet," was Harry's 
 last injunction before departing this life on his 
 
 68
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 way north, armed with much fishing-tackle. 
 Voire convert est mis, and we all consider you to 
 be due. 
 
 I really fear that my memory is failing me, and 
 senile decay is setting in, when I think how of- 
 ten I have meant but failed to answer your ques- 
 tion as to the binding of Tod's "Rajasthan." 
 Were the book mine, and did I love it, I would 
 give it brown calf — good, solid, sober, russet 
 calf. For all but butterfly books, I think I pre- 
 fer brown calf to other bindings. It has the de- 
 mure look, the durable look, and, if fittingly 
 treated, the look of quality. 
 
 About what you ask as to living on with 
 Laura, well, yes ; without a violent asserting of 
 myself, I don't see any way out of it at present. 
 She means well, as tiresome people according to 
 your doctrine are apt to do, and in her tiresome- 
 ness we see the defects of her good qualities. She 
 is keen for affection, and she has always meant 
 to "do her duty," and I really believe that it 
 would distress and astonish her beyond measure 
 to find that I wish to cut myself free. And then 
 the opinion of her neighbours assumes mam- 
 moth dimensions in her eyes. "What people 
 would think" ; "What people would say," if I 
 went my own way — we should see her with 
 straws in her smooth hair. (Laura is precisely 
 like a picture by Sant that I came across the 
 other day.) I am capable, I need not tell you, of 
 being odiously disagreeable momentarily when 
 my temper is touched, but I am not capable of 
 
 69
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 sustained effort in the direction of my own bene- 
 fit. I must therefore, I suppose, suffer for my 
 ineptitude, which, by the way, rather reminds 
 me of the Burmese proverb : "The ass, though 
 fatigued, carries his burden." 
 
 I am glad that Margaret's reading from the 
 Vulgate pleased you. Her voice is a valuable 
 possession. Had I been present I would possi- 
 bly have asked that the reading might be con- 
 tinued over the page — "Deus noster refugium 
 et virtus." "Auferens bella usque ad finem 
 terrae." 
 
 Do you remember the "antique song" that our 
 mother used to sing? 
 
 "Oh, if I were Queen of France, or still better. Pope 
 
 of Rome, 
 I would have no fighting men abroad, no weeping 
 
 maids at home; 
 All the world might be at peace, or if kings must show 
 
 their might, 
 Then let those who make the quarrels be the only ones 
 
 to fight." 
 
 But you need not brand me as a Wogglcsite, for 
 the way to peace, I admit, is often through war. 
 I regret to inform you that Sir Augustus 
 Pampesford, after a week's absence, has again 
 appeared upon the scene. He, however, now 
 asks pointedly for Laura, and pretty well ignores 
 me. Laura, who always had a great respect for 
 anything in the shape of a man. thinks he is "a 
 very pineapple of politeness," and I dare say that 
 he is an agreeable contrast to her crowd of an- 
 
 70
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 cient women. Aunt Jane comes to visit us 
 rather often, and she and Laura have struck up 
 an intimacy. She sits for a long while and puts 
 many family questions. "And what news have 
 you of Richard?" "Do you hear often from 
 Margaret?" "Is Charles quite well?" "How 
 is Harry?" "What news has Richard of 
 Arthur?" and so on, and so on; and this just 
 suits Laura. There is no fatigue nor mental ex- 
 ertion about it, and while it lasts they both look 
 sleepy but comfortable. Laura is really kind to 
 Aunt Jane, and Aunt Jane says truly enough 
 that Laura has nothing in common with the ob- 
 jectionable women — if one can call them women 
 — who unsex themselves, and who, she hears, 
 
 are really, really You know Aunt Jane. 
 
 But I like to hear Aunt Jane tell of the long past 
 days at Tolcarne — of our grandparents and their 
 punctilious ceremony, and of the formal polite- 
 ness, which ruffled temper but increased. When 
 the entente was not perfectly cordial, the Eliza 
 and Nicholas became "Your Ladyship" and "Sir 
 Nicholas." Our grandfather was something of 
 a martinet, and our -grandmother did not forget 
 her beauty and heiressdom, and so the ceremo- 
 nious mode of address was from time to time in 
 requisition. 
 
 Later. — A letter "to hand" from Harry. He 
 seems happy. The river — oh, unique river — is 
 in good condition, and he has killed and is send- 
 ing south a fish. He begs to inform me that his 
 
 71
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 "waders, when hung upon a hedge to dry, were 
 the subject of much perplexed discussion by 
 some P>ench tourists t'other day. Mystery fin- 
 ally solved to the satisfaction of all parties. 
 Waders were undoubtedly worn 'for the ascent 
 of Ben Nevis.' " 
 
 So effectually mended is Harry's heart — if by 
 Ada Llanelly ever broken — that I should not be 
 surprised if — can you guess? No? Well, an- 
 swer me this : Is it all in the day's work that our 
 good brother should spend hours in the attic 
 box-room sweeping the leads and roofs through 
 a field-glass, when Trelawney, worshipped by 
 Cynthia, has wandered far? I, too, worship Tre- 
 lawney ; but would Harry throw over anybody, 
 everybody, anything, everything, rather than 
 Trelawney should vanish into space, were his 
 sister's heart alone lacerated by the thought of 
 Trelawney's disappearance? And why, please, 
 did he nearly put out his sister's eye with the rib 
 of her best umbrella, snatching the umbrella 
 from her without so much as a "by your leave" 
 lest Cynthia's feathers should suffer? Are not 
 my eyes of more value than many feathers, ex- 
 cept in the opinion of one under the spell of the 
 wearer of the feathers? And does it not require 
 some passion equal to that of love to banish, 
 when rain falls, all regard for the welfare of his 
 own hat from a man's remembrance — of his own 
 new hat, not of the hat that had been sat upon 
 by the refrigerator? Dear Harry. His hat was 
 new, and he ruined it yesterday, which surjirised 
 
 72
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 me almost more than did the careless grace with 
 which he nearly put out my eye. But even h 
 Cynthia is disposed to like him, I do hope that 
 he will be content to "mark time" for a while. 
 For Cynthia is very young, and I would not 
 have Colonel Leagrave written to just yet to say 
 that his child is engaged to our brother. He 
 might consider that an unfair advantage had 
 been taken of the living-together circumstances. 
 But this would never occur to simple-minded 
 Harry. What do you think? 
 
 Cynthia is an attractive thing. Pretty as a 
 Cosway miniature, and pretty to live with : 
 which beauty is not always. And she seems to 
 be an alifectionate, lovable little soul ; not pos- 
 sessed, perhaps, of Margaret's strength, but the 
 strength may be there, dormant, for all I know. 
 And then she has that invaluable old-fashioned, 
 possession — a conscience. The Fates would be 
 Kind to Harry did they give him Cynthia as his 
 wife, nor would they, in my humble opinion, do 
 Cynthia the while an ill turn, for men, as kind, 
 as upright, as crystally honest as Harry are not 
 plentiful as blackberries on hedges. 
 
 Laura begins to think that it would suit her 
 to be braced, and the last notion is that she and 
 I should go somewhere for bracing benefit in 
 June. Mrs. Carstairs tells her that the air of 
 Scotland would serve the purpose, and she in- 
 tends to consult Harry on this point when he 
 returns. I cannot quite imagine Laura upon 
 the hill — can you? It would be from inn to Inn 
 
 73
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 we should go, as, if our friends were disposed 
 to entertain us, their tea would be too strong 
 for our digestions, or their climates too enervat- 
 ing for our constitutions, I suppose. 
 
 It is, alas, Laura's intention to give a lamenta- 
 bly large dinner-party in your honour when you 
 come to London. Poor, poor Dickory ; try and 
 bear the trial well. This is just a case of Laura's 
 compassing the very thing detested, with the 
 idea of pleasing. I repeatedly implore her never 
 to do to others as she would be done by, but my 
 prayers are unheeded. She welcomed a dinner 
 invitation, even when at Tolcarne, and drove 
 with alacrity, whenever the neighbours gave her 
 the chance, through darkness to depression. 
 
 Thank Margaret for her nosegays. The great 
 boughs of pear-blossom and the forget-me-nots 
 have dressed us out elegantly in white and blue ; 
 and the violets, if the Jinnestan romance tells 
 truly, should ward off the cruel and evil spirits 
 "whose malignant nature is intolerant of per- 
 fume." How is the flower-perfumed world at 
 Tolcarne? To-day, Good Friday, potato plant- 
 ing, according to Devon tradition and supersti- 
 tion, is the rule in every cottage garden ; and in 
 yours too, probably, for Enticknap is a stickler 
 for old custom and luck-lore. Bid him trans- 
 plant some parsley, and see if your will or his 
 superstition prevails. He said to me once, with 
 a note of interrogation in his voice, that he had 
 "heard say" the whooping cough was never 
 taken by a child who had ridden upon a bear. 
 
 74
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 In reference to this, Mr. Follett, I remember, 
 told me that when bear-baiting was in fashion, 
 the bear-owaier's profits were largely augmented 
 by money received from parents whose children, 
 for their health's good, had ridden the bear. 
 
 Now good-bye. Take care of yourself, and 
 don't forget to outlive me. I enclose a letter 
 from Cynthia, and rest 
 
 Your loving sister, 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 [Enclosure.] 
 
 Vivian-End. 
 
 My dear Miss Etchingham, — Thank you 
 very much for sending my satin shoes. I do not 
 know how I would have danced to-night with- 
 out them. 
 
 You would like the woods here ; they are so 
 full of oxlips and wild hyancinths and wood- 
 anemones. There was a dinner-party on Mon- 
 day evening. Mr. Biggleswade and another 
 clergyman and his vv^ife and some other neigh- 
 bours came. Mr. Biggleswade asked me, if I 
 had the opportunity, to explain to Mrs. Vivian 
 that he was perfectly willing to meet London 
 people ; that he would prefer it to being invited • 
 to dine with the aborigines, with whom, he says, 
 he has absolutely nothing in common ; but that 
 Mrs. Vivian did not seem to understand that it 
 is so. But I think that Mrs. Vivian understands 
 it quite well. Stephen thinks that she does, and 
 Stephen thinks she makes a point of introduc- 
 
 75
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 ing Mr. Biggleswade to people as "our vicar" 
 because it amuses her to irritate him. Stephen 
 thinks, too, that she speaks to Mr. Biggleswade 
 about the Guardian for the sake of hearing him 
 say stiffly that he does not seek the paper. He 
 has not talked to me much since Lady Honora 
 and Lady Wilfrida Home-Lennox came. I do 
 not think they like him, but they say his poems 
 are supposed to be very clever and Elizabethan, 
 and he is now going to write a play. I hope my 
 darling Trelawney is well, and that he has not 
 been brought back in disgrace from anybody's 
 dust-bin again. (If he strays away, does Turn- 
 bull look for him now that Major Etchingham 
 is not there ?) I hope also that Blare and AthoU 
 are well, and that Blake is not turning them 
 back with two much hemp-seed. Mr. Biggles- 
 wade lets his gardener shoot bullfinches, 
 Blanche Vivian says, because he thinks they cat 
 his orchard buds. I think this is very horrid. I 
 shall not care for his pretty verses about Gly- 
 cera's bullfinch any more. I hope that Major 
 Etchingham is having fine weather in Scotland. 
 He sent a great salmon, that arrived last night. 
 I will bring you some oxlips ; and please tell 
 Aunt Laura I do not want the goloshes. The 
 ground is quite dry. 
 
 With best love, your very aflfectionate 
 
 Cynthia. 
 
 76
 
 X. 
 
 Sir Richard Etchingham to Miss Eliaaheth 
 Etchingham. 
 
 My dear Elizabeth, — Harry's attentions to 
 Trelawney, which you report with so much in- 
 terest, afford a curious example of what the 
 modern naturahst calls "throwing back." Pur- 
 suit of strayed animals was amongst the earliest 
 functions of Intelligence Departments. In fact, 
 there is a stage of society, still possible to ob- 
 serve in parts of India, where the chief occupa- 
 tion is lifting your neighbours' cattle, diversified 
 by expeditions for tracking, and if possible re- 
 covering, the cattle which he has lifted from you. 
 When the cattle-lifter comes, by the progress of 
 other industries, to be in a distinct minority, 
 people begin to call him a thief, and to make 
 rules for the game of hunting him, as to which 
 he is not consulted. Mr. Shipley tells me this is 
 one of the few topics on which Anglo-Saxon law 
 was copious. And, substituting the compara- 
 tively modern horse for the archaic herds of 
 kine, we may find similar developments in the 
 history of California and of the Australian col- 
 onies. Now it is the law of all forms of hunt- 
 ing that ultimately they are carried on with re- 
 
 77
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 gard to the sport as an end in itself, and the 
 original purpose of acquiring food, destroying 
 dangerous or noxious animals, recovering valu- 
 able property, or whatever else it may have been, 
 falls into the background, and, after serving for 
 a while as an excuse, finally disappears. This 
 may be well seen in Somerville's poem on the 
 Chase, where fox-hunting is just beginning to 
 take rank as a sport for gentlemen, and the 
 hunters are still represented as the farmer's allies 
 and protectors, who deliver his hen-roosts from 
 Reynard's depredations. Such was the transi- 
 tion towards the middle of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury. Now the sport of tracking stolen oxen is 
 not easily practised in modern England, least of 
 all in cities; but by the legitimate substitution 
 of the cat, a smaller and swifter animal, and fol- 
 lowing the trail across housetops, where the 
 signs of passage are less obvious than on a road, 
 the material conditions are reconciled with mod- 
 ern civilization, and the discipline of intelligence, 
 with the concomitant satisfaction of the sport- 
 ing instinct, is not only preserved but improved. 
 There is a piece of evolutionary argument for 
 you. I have heard young civilians just come 
 out with their heads full of Herbert Spencer de- 
 liver themselves of less plausible ones in all seri- 
 ousness — and seen them do right good men's 
 work a few years later, when they had found out 
 that the gods of Asia don't rule their world ac- 
 cording to Western books. But a quite different 
 alternative hypothesis occurs to nic about 
 
 78
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Harry's conduct : perhaps our War Office wants 
 to go one better than the Germans, and train 
 cats to act as orderhcs. In any case, it is evi- 
 dent that he is carrying out some kind of experi- 
 ment under secret instructions ; so be careful 
 how you talk of it. As for the sunshade and 
 feathers incident, I give it up, having never had 
 anything like it in my official experience. My 
 good old friend Colonel Leagrave is too far ofif 
 to consult on the point. Cynthia is a pretty 
 name, but Cynthia Etchingham would make a 
 rather awkward hiatus. Has she no second 
 name that would go between? 
 
 You may remember that in one of the less dull 
 pages of Eckermann Goethe is reported to have 
 said to some one who urgently asked for his ad- 
 vice, "I shall be happy to give you as much as 
 you please on one condition." "And what is 
 that?" said the young man, eager to pay any 
 price for Goethe's wisdom. "That you do not 
 take it." And so it falls out as to the binding 
 of Tod's "Rajasthan," and your advice to put it 
 in brown calf. In Elizabethan and Jacobean 
 bookland, my dear sister, I do homage to only 
 one Queen Elizabeth, and she is alive. Brown 
 calf is good for your Fullers and Burtons, and 
 ail the better if it is the old binding; indeed, 
 modern calf binding, when it is not the very best, 
 has a kind of shiny smugness about it which I 
 detest. Do you remember those old school prize- 
 books, the remaining stock of travels and anti- 
 quities bought cheap and dressed out in tawdry 
 
 79
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 gilt calf with a greasy surface, and the hideous 
 so-called ecclesiastical binding with thick ribs on 
 the back ? However, I cannot see Colonel Tod in 
 any sort of calf at all. Those dare-devil Rajputs, 
 as splendid and as impracticable as any heroes of 
 European chivalry, who, when all was lost, would 
 put on saffron garments and perish in a last des- 
 perate sortie, will not be constrained to your 
 sober Anglican livery. The Five Colours of 
 Rajasthan, on the other hand (you have never 
 ridden on an elephant with his trunk painted in 
 them !), are both too many and too gaudy to put 
 on the outside of a book. On the whole, since 
 we live in a clean air here, I think I shall fall 
 back on white vellum, with a sparing use of some 
 little Oriental or quasi-Oriental decoration. Jem 
 has a pet binder at Oxbridge whom he swears 
 by, and is sure I could get it well done there. 
 
 We had a pleasant little dinner-party at the 
 Vicarage last week : just our two housefuls, and, 
 if you please, Mrs. Tallis, and a niece who is 
 staying with her, to redress the balance of the 
 sexes. The old lady is really more active than 
 she will admit to most people ; she is cunning 
 in getting off duty visits. I wish I could learn 
 the trick of her. After dinner I told ]\Ir. Shipley 
 how the \''icar and I began to fraternize over the 
 curse of Ernulphus. But Shipley spoke of that 
 immortal document with some levity, saying that 
 though it contains passages of great merit, it is 
 a late and diffuse fortnnla not of the best period ; 
 so that ]\Ir. Follctt and I began to doubt if such 
 
 So
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 sentiments were compatible with a sound Shan- 
 dean faith ; which, as we had ah eady made up 
 our minds that the suspected heretic was a good 
 fellow, would have been an occasion of sadness. 
 But he proceeded to clear himself. "Don't sup- 
 pose," he said, "that I would in any way detract 
 from Sterne's merit in finding and using the 
 curse. He was a royal thief, and stole the best 
 thing he could find, and no man of letters, with 
 the best intentions, can steal more. It was no 
 fault of Sterne's that nearly a century was to 
 pass before we had the 'Codex Diplomaticus' in 
 print." (I had not the least notion at the moment 
 what the "Codex Diplomaticus" might be, and, 
 indeed, I had rather assumed that the curse of 
 Ernulphus itself was largely improved, if not 
 wholly invented, by Mr. Sterne. I am beginning 
 to know a little more now.) "I have had to look 
 at Anglo-Saxon charters, though not often," an- 
 swered Mr. Follett, "and I have noticed those 
 clauses, which I suppose you refer to, denouncing 
 various penalties in the world to come upon any 
 one who may attempt to interfere with the pious 
 king's gift ; but they seemed to me fragmentary 
 and fantastic work." "Only you should consider 
 the variety," said Mr. Shipley. "You may have 
 your portion with the traitor Judas, which is per- 
 haps the commonest form ; you may be swal- 
 lowed up with Dathan and Abiram ; your soul 
 may be hooked out of your body with devils' 
 claws to be boiled in Satan's cauldron world 
 without end ; you m.ay be devoured by the Sala- 
 
 8i
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 mandcr ; you may be smitten in sunder with the 
 falchion of Erebus; or, contrariwise, you may 
 be dehvered over to the maHce of the Pennine 
 demons, that they may plague you with the iciest 
 blasts of the Alps." Here it seemed to me, though 
 knowing nothing of ancient European charters, 
 that I had one card useful for this game, so I 
 mentioned that Colonel Tod had translated a 
 Rajput grant, though not a very old one, con- 
 taining a clause of this nature which might pos- 
 sibly compete with most Western productions. 
 "I have heard," said Shipley, "that the Eastern 
 vernaculars are unsurpassed in terms of vitupera- 
 tion." "Certainly," said I, "and the most ele- 
 mentary of them will not bear translation in re- 
 spectable company ; but that is not exactly my 
 point." "Yes," said he, "I suppose you mean 
 some precise form of spiritual condemnation." 
 "Well," I continued, "what do you say to being 
 a caterpillar in hell for sixty thousand years?" 
 After a moment's reflection, Shipley admitted 
 that for compendiousness and comprehensiveness 
 he could not beat that out of the whole of Kem- 
 ble's "Codex Diplomaticus," or any other Eu- 
 ropean collection. Then he began questioning 
 me about the Rajputs' charters, and wanted to 
 know many more things than I could tell him 
 without book ; so we settled that he should come 
 over and inspect them in Tod for himself. Mean- 
 while he had found, as he says one always does 
 find, that the Thursborough documents wanted 
 much more looking into than he had been told, 
 
 82
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 and he was somewhat easily persuaded by Mr. 
 Follett to stay on a few days more instead oi 
 rushing back before Easter Day. Mrs, TalHs 
 was in a most festive mood, and we made an 
 appointment for a view of those boundary pieces 
 of land. 
 
 Somehow we were all a good deal occupied the 
 next few days, the parson with his Good Friday 
 and Easter duties, Shipley with his copies and 
 notes of documents, so that he could only join 
 the young people in short rides or potter with 
 this ancient squire, and the said ancient squire 
 in the still continuing process of putting things 
 to rights, or what the father of didactic poetry 
 called "Works" (not Weeks, as I have seen it 
 misprinted) "and Days." Talking of the garden, 
 I cannot get any good word for the bullfinches 
 from Enticknap. He sticks to it that they are a 
 downright mischievous lot, and he has seen a 
 "proper rendyvoo" of them eating the buds zo 
 vast as they could. As to sparrows, I am inex- 
 orable myself: they behave like land pirates of 
 the worst kind, as I remember from old days at 
 home. Turning the martins out of their nests is 
 a favourite sparrow's trick. 
 
 On Monday, however, being a welcome fine 
 day, parson and antiquary came in together and 
 called for a sight of Tod ; I desired Mr. Follett's 
 mind about the outside of him too. We ad- 
 journed to the garden, book and all, for the 
 Vicar is a great lover of sun, and calls himself an 
 old wall-fruit. "Mr. Shipley," said Arthur, after 
 
 83
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 due salutation, "I suppose it comes quite easy to 
 you to make out history from all those parch- 
 ments written in dog- Latin?" "That depends on 
 what you call easy," said Shipley. "Construing 
 medieval Latin is easy enough mostly, when you 
 know the common words that are not classical^ 
 not that I allow it to be dog-Latin. Reading 
 medieval manuscript is only an affair of practice 
 if it is fairly well written and you have some 
 notion what it is about. But as for knowing 
 what tenth-century or even thirteenth-century 
 people really had in their heads, and how things 
 look to them at the time, that's another story, 
 and the more I learn about these things the less 
 easy I find it to think I understand them. About 
 as easy, I should say, as" — here he seemed to 
 cast about for a simile — "getting a goal from a 
 shy in Bad Calx." "Why, sir," exclaimed Arthur 
 with a sort of explosion, and struggling with his 
 company manners, "can you be the Shipley who 
 was Keeper of the Wall and got that goal at the 
 tree?" "Do they still keep up the memory of 
 that old fluke of mine ?" said Shipley, and beamed 
 all over like a schoolboy ; and Tod lay on the 
 •bench, Mr. Follett carefully putting it in a shaded 
 corner, while we discussed the question of bind- 
 ing, and Shipley and Arthur were deep in mys- 
 teries of Eton football and other shop, which 
 sounded to me like the far-off bells of one's 
 native village church — they would be about as 
 intelligible to an outsider as the difference be- 
 tween a zamindar and a taluqdar to the globe- 
 
 84
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 trotter who knows all about India when he comes 
 home. And the study of the Rajput charters 
 didn't come off that morning. 
 
 Just as I am closing this I get a note from 
 Charles accepting for Whitsuntide, with some 
 obscure remarks about fitting in with probable 
 engagements in Dampshire. Pillarton, the mem- 
 ber for the Clayshott division, who is a furious 
 old-fashioned Tory, and cannot abide the mod- 
 ern social legislation of his party, is said to be 
 on the point of resigning in a huff. I wonder 
 if that seat is what Charles is after? He won't 
 take much by it in my opinion : but if so be, let 
 it be. As I cannot in decency be expected to 
 oppose my own brother, it will be a good excuse 
 for me to keep out of party politics for a season. 
 
 There will be lots of things to talk about, I 
 begin to count the days till I am to see you again, 
 and I will gladly endure Laura's dinner-party. 
 lYour loving brother, 
 
 Richard Etchingham. 
 
 85
 
 XI. 
 
 Frojn Miss EU::abctli Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, 
 to Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarnc. 
 
 My dear Dickory, — Thank you very much 
 for the vegetables that have just come, and thank 
 you very much for your letter containing the 
 curses, &;c. Cauliflowers and curses thankfully 
 received, dear. And as you are all so learned in 
 such matters, tell me now the words of Hecate's 
 ban, "With Hecate's ban thrice blasted, thrice 
 infected," or perhaps Merlin or Songstress, 
 though not ban-dogs, would gratify my curiosity. 
 When I begged Tracy to do so he said the thing 
 had slipped his memory. The dog seems pre- 
 occupied. He detests the town. 
 
 For your banning I will return blessing, or 
 rather for your curses a charm. Do you know 
 the old West-Country charm for the prick of a 
 thorn ? 
 
 "Happy man that Christ was born, 
 He was crowned with a tliorn. 
 He was pierced through the skin 
 For to let the poison in; 
 But His five wounds so they say, 
 Closed before He passed away. 
 In with healinj?, out with thorn, 
 Happy man tlint Christ was born." 
 
 86
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Ask Margaret to recite the charm if ever, in 
 my absence, the thorn of a rose-brier dares to 
 prick you. 
 
 Harry, the hunter, instigated by primal in- 
 stinct, sweeping the chimney-pots through a 
 field-glass for Trelawney, the prey, is a picture 
 pleasant and profitable to contemplate. That the 
 job pertains to the work of the Intelligence De- 
 partment is an equally pleasing suggestion, and 
 as Imperial interests may be bound up in the 
 business, I will take your advice and not divulge 
 the fact to any but an Anglo-Saxon when Harry 
 and field-glass are again so engaged. Cats are 
 full of contrivance and resource, and with Tre- 
 lawney as his orderly — or perhaps rather as his 
 colleague, for the race is intolerant of authority 
 — my brother might go further and fare worse. 
 Talking of throwing back and kindred subjects, 
 is Harry the hue of the primal man ? According 
 to the author of a book I lately read, Trelawney's 
 cedar-coloured coat is not far removed from the 
 colour of the primal cat — sandy. 
 
 I really do feel mentally obliterated by what 
 you say of brown calf; reduced, in fact, to the 
 point of thinking that I might possibly better 
 my condition by changing places with the cater- 
 pillar your letter mentions. Yes, yes, yes, I re- 
 member, when you refer to them, those horrible 
 bindings, your school prizes, and, later, Laura's 
 devotional works. But my memory, when left to 
 itself, seems to select, as does the eye of the artist, 
 and seems to leave out of the picture everything 
 
 87
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 not in keeping with the time "which now shines 
 with so much splendour before our eyes in chron- 
 icle." I was thinking when I wrote of the dear 
 old Tolcarne books, attired in their comfortable 
 russet livery — pleasantest of all linings, to my 
 thinking, for a room — and I was for the moment ' 
 quite oblivious of the modern binder's work. Ask 
 Colonel Tod's "Rajasthan" to forgive me for 
 venturing to suggest that the heroes should go 
 clad in a garment that it disgusts you, their ad- 
 mirer, to touch or to contemplate ; and let me 
 make amends for the worthlessness of my advice 
 by the gift of a book for your birthday — any pro- 
 curable book that you will — and bound by Jem's 
 Oxbridge binder in vellum ; unless, by any 
 chance, you would not despise silk, embroidered 
 by my needle ? One of the few things your sis- 
 ter can do decently is stitchery. (Were I not 
 ground to dust by your rejoinder I should at- 
 tempt now, at once, I think, something gorgeous 
 and slightly barbaric for your dare-devil Rajputs, 
 The five colours could be sufficiently subdued by 
 intrenchment in dead-gold and white.) 
 
 Or would you prefer for your birthday present 
 a coppice of pot-nectarine trees? I ask this be- 
 cause Alice Newton and I (your Mr. Shipley is 
 her brother) went this morning to the Botanical 
 Gardens flower and fruit show. The flowers were 
 a lovely sight — a paradise of Crimson-Rambler 
 roses and silver-white spir?ea — but it was the lit- 
 tle nectarine trees, thickly hung with fruit, that I 
 think I liked best. Fruit trees are not suffi- 
 
 88
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 ciently used for decorative purposes in gardens 
 of pleasure. First the flower and then the fruit, 
 and though "the flower that once has blown for 
 ever dies," the melancholy is lessened when the 
 falling of tlie petals means the forming of the 
 fruit. Say, then, if little nectarine trees shall go 
 to you, or a book? And if a book, please. Sir 
 Richard, what book? The arrival of the nectarine 
 trees would, I fear, throw Enticknap into the 
 dolefullest dumps. Everything green that grows 
 he looks upon as an addition to the long list of 
 his grievances ; and I never could see why he ob- 
 jected to the bullfinches : if they really do devour 
 the fruit buds they by so doing save him the 
 trouble of gathering in the fruit. 
 
 I see that a Tolcarne volume that is rightfully 
 yours is here with our possessions : "A calendar 
 made at Stratton in Norfolk in 1755." The 
 authorities quoted are calmingly remote, "Pliny 
 says that bees do not come out of their hives 
 before May nth, and seems to blame Aristotle 
 for saying that they come out in the beginning 
 of spring." "According to Ptolemy, swallows 
 return to ^gypt about the latter end of Jan- 
 uary." (How much /Egypt loses in appearance 
 by the loss of the diphthong.) "Pliny says the 
 dRTeTTrme for bees to make honey is about the 
 solstice, when the vine and thyme are in blow. 
 According to his account, then, these plants are 
 as forward in England as in Italy." "Aristotle 
 says this bird" — the ringdove — "does not coo in 
 the winter." The calendar ends abruptly Octo- 
 
 89
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 ber 26. "Here ends the calendar, being inter- 
 rupted by my going to London." 
 
 The Vivians are in Prince's Gardens again, 
 and Mrs. Vivian visited us yesterday. Azore, 
 the coffee-coloured poodle, whose top-knot is 
 tied up twice daily with new blue riband, and Mr, 
 Vivian, looking benevolent and saying nothing, 
 were in attendance. Mrs. Vivian is not too well 
 pleased with Charles's decision to stand for the 
 Clayshott division of Dampshire. His agent, she 
 says, will, she supposes, prevent his doing any- 
 thing extraordinarily foolish ; but she asked 
 every one present to explain to her why a rad- 
 ical son-in-law should be her deplorable fate. 
 A radical is always mannerless, she says, and 
 when any one takes her in to dinner and 
 immediately begins to talk across her to her 
 other neighbour, she decides at once that 
 "the man is a Radical," and she is never 
 wrong. I wished that you could have been pres- 
 ent to see the expression of Laura's face whilst 
 Mrs. Vivian proclaimed Azore's merits and the 
 sentiments that the merits inspire. "The dog is a 
 perfect saint, and I would far rather lose my 
 husband than lose him ; and the worst of it is 
 that he is infinitely more likely to be lost or run 
 over than John is." Laura, of course, talked as 
 if we could not have heard aright, and tried, as 
 though with the object of sparing Mr. Vivian's 
 feelings, to twist the meaning of his wife's words. 
 Her well-intended efforts, however, I need not 
 say, were needless, for the office of a peacemaker 
 
 90
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 between Mr. and Mrs. Vivian is a sinecure. Poor 
 Alice Newton's listless rejoinder of ''Certainly, 
 if you wish it," to Colonel Newton's endless de- 
 mands is really significant, though Laura cannot 
 see it, of an unhappier state of things than Mrs. 
 Vivian's flow of words and Mr. Vivian's admir- 
 ing silence. He thinks her the loveliest, clever- 
 est, wittiest woman in the world, and she finds 
 him invaluable as a background. 
 
 I am distressed about Alice Newton. She is 
 killing herself with her good works and her 
 societies, and if one expostulates she only an- 
 swers that it is not as easy to kill oneself as 
 people suppose. And do you remember what a 
 lively creature she used to be? How was she 
 induced to marry Colonel Newton I wonder? 
 He boasts and he fidgets and he is rude to her, 
 and to it all she says "Certainly, if you wish it," 
 and he evidently takes the compliance as a tribute 
 to his superior worth. 
 
 I hear through Alice that her brother is very 
 happy at the Parsonage and is in no hurry to 
 come av/ay. You and Mrs. Tallis seem to be 
 growing very thick. Don't make her an ofifer 
 of marriage, there is a dear. It's not "expected 
 of you." 
 
 Laura is still bent upon spending June in 
 Scotland, and this house will be at the disposal 
 of you and yours whilst w^e are away. Selfishly, 
 I am glad that Cynthia wishes to come with us, 
 for to travel tctc-a-tctc with our stepmother would 
 only, if amusing at all, be amusing in retrospect. 
 
 91
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 But Harry looks sad when Cynthia speaks as if 
 the prospect were delightful to her, for he, with 
 or without his orderly, Trelawney, will be tied to 
 London and the Intelligence Department during 
 June. In answer to your question, Cynthia's 
 second name is Rose — Cynthia Rose — I like the 
 name Rose for love of the Rose Aylmer lines. 
 What over and above the bracing, which is a 
 passive, not an active process, Laura will find in 
 Scotland of a satisfactory nature, I cannot imag- 
 ine. She has never crossed Tweed yet, and she 
 seems to think that to do so "is expected of her," 
 and, being Laura, she will in the future have a 
 certain satisfaction in feeling that she has "done" 
 Scotland. (Mrs. Carstairs' small grandchild told 
 me the other day that she had done astronomy.) 
 But to Laura I believe the Highlands will be 
 savage and horrid as mountainous country was 
 to an ancient, or, at any rate, no more attractive 
 than the Swiss Alps, as scenery, are to me. Then, 
 except as dinner-table decoration, she does not 
 care for flowers. So what does she expect to 
 find congenial in Scotland during June ? 
 
 I dreamt of you last night — an absurd dream. 
 I dreamt that you told me that it was your prac- 
 tice, before falling asleep, to set a row of lighted 
 candles beside your bed "to attract Fate's atten- 
 tion." Fortunately for my dreaming peace, the 
 dream did not go on to tell that Fate returned 
 the compliment by setting you on fire. And then 
 I turned to dreaming of Alice Newton kneeling 
 before a white-draped altar as Calantha, and for 
 
 92
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 candles there was a torch reversed. "Our orisons 
 are heard, the gods are merciful," she said, and 
 went on to tell me, as if it were good news, that 
 at last she was to be allowed to die. "My child 
 is dead you know, Elizabeth." 
 
 The scholarship now assembled at Tolcarne 
 can no doubt give us the right reading of "The 
 Broken Heart" dirge. Alice, in a volume of 
 lyrics, has it in one version and I, in my head, 
 have it in another. Is this right or is this wrong, 
 your worships : — 
 
 "Sirs, the song." 
 
 Glories, pleasures, pomps, delights and ease 
 
 Can but please 
 
 Outward senses when the mind 
 
 Is untroubled or by peace refined. 
 
 Crowns may flourish and decay. 
 
 Beauties shine, but fade away; 
 
 Youth may revel, yet it must 
 
 Lie down in a bed of dust; 
 
 Earthly honours flow and waste, 
 
 Time alone doth change and last; 
 
 Sorrows mingled with contents prepare 
 
 Rest for care; 
 
 Love only reigns in death; though art 
 
 Can find no comfort for a "Broken Heart." 
 
 Farewell, Dickory, for now, "Multa habui tibi 
 scribere : sed nolui per atramentum et calamum 
 scribere tibi. Spero autem protinus te videre, et 
 OS ad OS loquemur. Pax tibi." 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 93
 
 XII. 
 
 A. — From Sir Richard Etchinghani's Note-book: 
 left with Miss Elisabeth Etchingham in London. 
 
 Friday in Easter Week, in the Garden at Tolcarne. 
 Enter to Sir Richard, Mr. Follett and 
 Shipley, bringing back Tod's "Rajasthan" 
 and Sir A. LyalFs "Asiatic Studies.'' 
 
 Mr. Follett. Sir Richard, I hope you will keep 
 these books well now that you have them again. 
 It is not good for Shipley to see too much of 
 them, and not good for your parson to be 
 tempted to envy and jealousy. You have made 
 me live in fear that you will entice Shipley away 
 from our Middle Ages to these heathen Asiatics. 
 
 Shipley. The Vicar may well say he is jealous ; 
 this is the very censoriousness of jealousy. No 
 such thing as deserting the Middle Ages is in my 
 mind. What pleases me about these Rajputs, 
 their manners, and their documents, is that they 
 have continued early medieval institutions into 
 the nineteenth century. It is like seeing a piece 
 of what we call the Dark Ages come to life. 
 
 Sir Richard. There is much talk of feudalism 
 in Tod; but to me wlio know nothing of Eu- 
 
 94
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 ropean feudal history, his analogies darken more 
 than they enlighten; they need a fresh com- 
 mentary of their own. 
 
 Mr. Follctt. Learned authors in all ages have 
 been drawn by a fatal attraction to the method of 
 explanation which we call obscurum per obscuriiis, 
 or, in English, trying to throw light on some- 
 thing you partly understand from something else 
 which you understand much less or not at all. 
 
 Sir Richard. In this case the correction is 
 supplied by Sir Alfred Lyall in his essay on the 
 Rajput States ; I mean so far as he has shown the 
 true nature and connexion of the Indian facts on 
 their own ground. But the result seems to be to 
 cut ofif the Rajput clans from any distinct Eu- 
 ropean analogy, unless your modern scholars 
 have got some new theory of feudalism that you 
 can fit them into. I understand there is a new 
 one about every ten years. Only just now, as 
 Arthur said the other day, history seems to be all 
 running to mangold-wurzels. Perhaps Shipley 
 can give us some light, as he seemed to be 
 hunting. 
 
 Shipley. No light of mine, but the clan system 
 of the Rajputs does fit in beautifully with what 
 has been worked out as to the origins of feudal- 
 ism in France. These good people are, or in 
 Tod's time were, in a quite regular Carolingian 
 stage — only they never had a Charlemagne, and 
 never developed real feudal tenure out of their 
 tribal allegiance. And what is very curious and 
 pleasing to a student of charters is that the 
 
 95 . . •
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Rajput charters are good for much else besides 
 the caterpillar in hell which any one who resumed 
 the grant was to be turned into. Lyall does not 
 mention them, but they confirm his view exactly. 
 The forms are wonderfully like those of Carolin- 
 gian documents in the West nearly a thousand 
 years earlier. Why, it is lucky that the gulfs of 
 time, place, and language are wide enough to cut 
 off all suspicion of forgery or imitation. And 
 one understands how your Colonel Tod jumped 
 at full-blown feudalism as the nearest thing he 
 could think of. He could know nothing of the 
 times just before the birth of feudalism in Europe 
 — times which are dark to us, as somebody has 
 said, in respect to our ignorance at least as much 
 as theirs. 
 
 Sir Richard. Good for Lyall ; not that I should 
 have believed you without compulsion if you had 
 found anything against his work ; and I am glad 
 you have a good word for Tod. 
 
 Mr. Follctt. Even the cursing clause appears 
 to be quite in its proper place by analogy to the 
 corresponding European period. 
 
 Shipley. Yes, those curses disappear from 
 English documents when true feudalism comes 
 in. The Norman clerks were too business-like 
 to indulge in such fancies, and devised better 
 methods of assurance for worldly purposes. But 
 the history of solemn documents and their vari- 
 ous set forms is a great matter, and one might 
 talk of it, on English materials alone, from now 
 to midsummer. 
 
 96
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Sir Richard. You scholars whose talk is of 
 charters ought to know about seals. Where is 
 the resemblance to a seal in the flower called 
 Solomon's seal that grows in the border here? 
 
 Mr. Follctt. Wait till it is out, and you will 
 mark how the blossoms hang under the leaf all 
 in a row ; when a charter has many seals, they 
 hang along the foot of it in the same way. 
 Medieval gardeners who had heard of Solomon's 
 seal would certainly think of it as appended to 
 Solomon's charters in the fashion they were 
 accustomed to see. 
 
 Shipley. Just as fifteenth-century illuminators 
 put Joshua and his knights into plate armour. 
 
 Mr. Follctt. While the armourer himself was 
 minutely copying in steel the latest Court fashion 
 in pointed shoes. 
 
 Sir Richard. But would the gardener be much 
 in the way of seeing charters ? 
 
 Mr. Follctt. He would in many cases — those 
 of monastery and collegiate gardens — be a 
 brother or clerk told off for gardening duty, and 
 so learned enough to know at least what the out- 
 side of a charter looked like. 
 
 Enter Margaret and James Etchingham. 
 
 James. Are you still on your medieval swear- 
 words ? 
 
 Mr. Follctt. Curses on the breakers of chart- 
 ers are a commodity you should have need of at 
 Oxbridge, Mr. Etchingham, if all I hear of your 
 reforms be true. 
 
 James. I wish you could spare us a few for the 
 
 97
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 makers of our college statutes. We are always 
 having verbal wrangles over some clause or 
 other. 
 
 Margaret. Why are learned men so fond of 
 bad language ? To be sure, artists are worse. 
 
 Mr. Follctt. I think it is an affair of nation 
 more than of profession. Fantastic imprecations 
 and devilries in general are mostly Teutonic, or 
 at any rate of Northern stock. Our grandfathers' 
 favourite adjective Gothick is in its place when 
 one talks of grotesques. 
 
 Shipley. I always see that Gothick with a k. It 
 suggests a special note of contempt to the nine- 
 teenth-century reader, though I suppose it was 
 not intended. As the Vicar says, the Germans 
 are easily masters in that branch of art. 
 
 Sir Richard. But what about French gro- 
 tesques ? 
 
 Shipley. I count them as Frankish, not pure 
 Gallic, and therefore as Germanic in the larger 
 sense. Your Italian is nowhere when he com- 
 petes with the Northerner in devilments. He 
 can be terrible, but not terrible and ludicrous at 
 the same time. Fra Angelico could make noth- 
 ing of devils. 
 
 Margaret. Why should he, Mr. Shipley, when 
 it was his business to paint angels? I suppose 
 he had to put in devils now and then, but I am 
 sure it gave him no pleasure. Do you know 
 those lovely angels at Florence dancing in a ring 
 with the blessed souls at the gates of Paradise? 
 
 Shipley. Yes, indeed I do. There is plenty of 
 
 98
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 seamy side to the Middle Ages, and I don't see 
 how any honest man who takes them at their 
 own word can deny it ; but such things as Fra 
 AngeHco's make one forget it all. 
 
 James. This also shall please the Lord better 
 than a devil which hath horns and hoofs. 
 
 Mr. Follctt. Amen to that, Mr. Etchingham, 
 and you may keep the devils for your restoring 
 architects at Oxbridge. 
 
 Margaret. Now, Jem, I trust you are more 
 careful when you call on the Gainsworthys. They 
 are frightfully shocked at anyone not taking the 
 devil quite seriously. I thought your college 
 made you believe in the devil, and renounce 
 Dissenters, and abjure the Pope, and all sorts of 
 things. 
 
 James. So some journalists appear to think to 
 this day. We made a Catholic Fellow at our last 
 election. 
 
 Shipley. The Queen has promised us lay peo- 
 ple with her very own mouth, which for this pur- 
 pose is the mouth of her Judicial Committee, 
 that nobody can require us to believe in any 
 personal devil. Under your correction, Mr. 
 Vicar, I think that is so. 
 
 Mr. Follctt. I remember the case, and it was 
 in substance as you say. The Church of England 
 is the least dogmatic of churches in all things 
 that can by any reasonable construction be con- 
 sidered not of the essence of a Christian com- 
 monwealth. 
 
 Margaret. But is it the same for clergymen, 
 
 99
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Mr. Vicar ? Are you really not expected to be- 
 lieve in the devil? 
 
 Mr. Follett. Since you ask me as a clerk, my 
 dear Miss Margaret, I answer as a clerk, that is, 
 with the caution belitting an officer of a body, 
 established by law and under discipline. The 
 question you put is between me and — my 
 bishop. 
 
 Arthur {entering hastily). Father, here's young 
 Mr. Squire and half the Parish Council, and they 
 want you to go and look at those new inclosures 
 at the bottom of Brock Lane. 
 
 Sir Richard. Coming, my son. Panchdyat kd 
 hiikin hai. 
 
 B. — From Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarne, to 
 Miss Elisabeth Etchingham. 
 
 Just a line to tell you I find all well on coming 
 back. Margaret and Arthur have kept house 
 together most discreetly : I was sorry for myself 
 to lose a few days of his holidays, but it was 
 better than waiting till they were over and leav- 
 ing Margaret all alone. Mrs. Tallis has been 
 more than civil to them, and treats Margaret 
 almost like a daughter. Perhaps Arthur found 
 their conversation a trifle dull, but it is good for 
 schoolboys to sit with old ladies now and then. 
 It tempers their robustiousness, and gives them 
 a sort of reverence for antiquity which familiarity 
 prevents them from learning at home. Of course, 
 anybody can teach yoimg people a sort of false 
 
 100
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 external respect by snubbing them at an early 
 age. But that is the way to make the real thing 
 impossible — and very thankful I am to you, not 
 for having done nothing of the sort yourself while 
 you were in charge, for you could not if you 
 tried, but for not having let other people do it. 
 This morning we (Mrs. Tallis and I) had our 
 perambulation of those little parcels in the hams, 
 with Mr. Follett assisting. Luckily there were 
 no treaties with native princes or chiefs to be 
 considered, and the only question of effective 
 occupation that might have been raised if we 
 chose was who had been accustomed to cut the 
 old thornbush in the place where there is a double 
 bank and ditch, so that one cannot be sure of 
 locating the boundary by the outer edge of the 
 ditch in the usual way. It is really quite a simple 
 matter of exchange, and obviously useful to both 
 parties. The only practical doubt is whether we 
 must have in the family solicitor and do it in due 
 form. The Vicar says it is worth thinking of 
 whether we won't just alter the fences and ex- 
 change rough plans, and leave lapse of time to 
 make all right. Such things, it seems, are not 
 uncommon. I suppose this is the only country 
 in Europe where quite a large proportion of im- 
 portant affairs, from the Constitution downwards, 
 are worked by just doing the thing you want and 
 saying as little as possible about it even to your- 
 self. As for British India, you know it is a land 
 of codes and regulations and minutes. And to 
 think that there are well-meaning "able officials" 
 
 lOI
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 who want to carry the formaHzing business into 
 our deaHngs with native States ! Well, if it ever 
 happens, my only comfort is that I shall not be 
 there to see the mess. 
 
 Parson Follett agrees in your text of the song. 
 The modern editors who print 
 
 " The outward senses when the mind 
 Is or untroubled, or by peace refined," 
 
 only reverse and break up the rhythm of the 
 whole piece under pretence of making two lines 
 look more regular. Such folk are of the tribe 
 whom Mr. Swinburne somewhere calls deaf and 
 desperate finger-counters. 
 
 Perhaps I ought to consult Charles about that 
 exchange : are not such things the speciality of 
 the Chancery Bar? But he will have Clayshott 
 Division on the brain for weeks to come. He 
 threatens to send me his address in draft — on the 
 chance of converting me, I suppose — and it may 
 be here by any post. Good-bye, dear Elizabeth : 
 you see I have almost written a letter. 
 
 Your loving 
 
 DiCKORY. 
 
 102
 
 XIII. 
 
 Trom Miss Elisabeth Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, 
 to Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarne. 
 
 "Trusty and wel beloved, we greet you well." 
 "Trusty and wel beloved" you are missed. 
 There was more luck about the house when you 
 were here. Tracy too is missed ; and his little 
 empty collar, with its inscription, 83 Hans Place, 
 has now something of the sacred relique about 
 it in Cynthia's eyes. But it was cruel to keep 
 him in London. Spaniels are not the dogs for 
 a town, and I always thought that his frolic 
 humour would land him under a wheel. Now, 
 I suppose, he is racing round and round the lawn, 
 fringes and love-locks flowing in the wind. Does 
 he still pause in his impetuous career to insult 
 Eld in the person of blind old Merlin with belated 
 invitations to play? 
 
 I found your notebook after you were gone 
 yesterday hidden away with my sewing tools. 
 I remember you pushed it under a pyramid of 
 embroidery-silks to screen it from Laura's in- 
 quisitorial eyes and then forgot it, careless crea- 
 ture. (No, you are not really careless.) I loobed 
 into the book again before sending it after you, 
 and I am half inclined to exchange my derivation 
 
 103
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 of the name Solomon's Seal for Mr. Follett's. 
 His is the prettier as well as the more ancient. 
 The seventeenth-century garden-books explain 
 the name by the circles that show when the root 
 is cut, which "do somewhat represent a seal." 
 The doctrine of signatures has always had a fas- 
 cination for me. I should like to believe, as I 
 read once upon a time in Cole's "Adam in Eden," 
 that "the fruit of the Pome-citron tree being like 
 to the heart in form, is a very soveraign cordiall 
 for the same." That the walnut, having the per- 
 fect signature of the head, is the one thing need- 
 ful for the brain ; that viper's bugloss is an espe- 
 cial remedy against the bitings of vipers and all 
 other serpents, "as is betrayed by both stalk and 
 seed." The author of the book in question is a 
 staunch upholder of the doctrine of signatures, 
 yet he condemns fanciful theorising in others, 
 and will not accept the story "told by a fellow 
 herbalist, Culpeper, I think, of the Earl of Essex, 
 his horses," which being drawn up in a body lost 
 their shoes upon the downs near Tiverton, be- 
 cause moon-wort — loosener of locks, fetters, and 
 shoes — grows upon heaths. Culpeper "was very 
 unable to prove" that moon-wort grew upon 
 Tiverton downs, and the tale of the lost 
 shoes must therefore, in his more cautious 
 contemporary's opinion, be taken with a grain 
 of salt. 
 
 It was to-day, was it not? that Mr. Follctt 
 was to guide your steps to r)ratton T>eys, there 
 to see the "devil's door" in the north wall of the 
 
 104
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 church ? I suppose the door is no longer thrown 
 open during the Baptismal service, for the devil 
 to escape at the Renunciation, and carefully 
 bolted and barred on all other occasions? Mr. 
 Shipley visited us yesterday evening. He seemed 
 very sorry to have come just too late to encounter 
 You. I told him that I had heard that when 
 Medievalists met, the devil, who ruled their 
 period, had, naturally enough, taken a prominent 
 part in the conversation, and he answered that 
 the conversation was of angels too. Tell Mar- 
 garet that I commend her for asking, as, accord- 
 ing to Mr. Shipley, she did, how Fra Angelico, 
 who began painting with prayer, could have seen 
 the devil at his worst. She seems to have in- 
 quired too, d propos of the inferiority of Italian 
 demons to the Flemish variety, if Spinello's devil, 
 who slew the artist that created him by appear- 
 ing in a dream, and asking the terrified painter 
 where he had seen him looking so hideous as in 
 the fresco, and why he ventured to ofifer him so 
 humiliating an afifront, was not terrific enough. 
 The shock of so unusual an incident naturally 
 killed Spinello, and Mr. Shipley thinks that 
 Margaret has substantiated the claim of the 
 Italian devil to a prominent place in Pande- 
 monium. 
 
 Later. — I was sent for by Laura this afternoon, 
 and found the Vivians and Alice Newton in the 
 drawing-room. "I am not again preventing your 
 finishing a letter to Richard, I hope, as he only 
 
 los
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 left us yesterday,'' poor aggrieved Laura said in 
 her huffed tone ; the expression of which hope 
 excited Mrs. Vivian's easily roused curiosity, and, 
 as she docs not scruple to put c^uestions when 
 her interest is awakened, I found myself under 
 cross-examination, and when asked what I was 
 writing to you about to-day, answered, "I am 
 writing to Richard about the devil." I wish 
 words would paint the expression of Laura's face. 
 "The devil," Mrs. Vivian cried with increased 
 vivacity, "that's most interesting. Somebody 
 was telling me about the devil the other evening 
 and amused me very much. A man's devil was 
 just the god of his enemy, was he not? and did 
 not the devil first of all come out of Persia?" 
 Laura murmured something about the devil and 
 the fruit of the tree of knowledge. "Oh, my dear 
 Lady Etchingham," exclaimed Mrs. Vivian with 
 her sweetest smile, "after your serpent you have 
 to wait centuries for your devil. For your 
 familiar horned, hoofed, satyr devil I feel pretty 
 sure that you have to wait till the Middle Ages. 
 What is the date of the satyr devil, John?" Mr. 
 Vivian, to whom, as he mechanically stroked 
 Azore, Alice Newton with admirable patience 
 was trying to talk, had not time to produce, if 
 he knew it, the date of the horned, hoofed appari- 
 tion's first appearance before Mrs. Vivian's tide 
 of words flowed on again. "And I believe that 
 the further east you go the huger and more 
 hideous tlic devils become. But Paris was a 
 great place for devils, and Dante went there for 
 
 1 06
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 his devils, his three-headed devils, as I go for 
 my clothes. And do, Elizabeth, if you are writ- 
 ing, ask Sir Richard if he thinks those dreadful 
 Campo Santo devils — the Campo Santo of Pisa — 
 and those at Mount Athos are cousins? and if 
 they can have flown into Italy from Greece and 
 into Greece from Persia? It's a bore not to 
 know." I was thinking that Blake and sal vol- 
 atile would have to be rung for on Laura's be- 
 half, and a copy of the Papal bull that teaches 
 the exorcising of fiends for the benefit of us all, 
 but fortunately at that moment in came Colonel 
 Newton, and to my unspeakable relief I soon 
 heard : "You can begin a war without an army, 
 but you can't finish one" ; and Laura's response, 
 "Oh no, of course." 
 
 Mrs. Vivian, however, had by no means talked 
 herself out, and went on to demand sympathy 
 in piteous accents on the fount of the "frightful, 
 horrible, hideous Christian Death" that had sup- 
 planted the "pretty Death" of the Pagans. "Yes," 
 Alice Newton said, "it would be interesting to 
 trace the twin-brother of Sleep to the stern deity 
 of the tragedians and on to the ghastly personifi- 
 cation of Death which had little to separate it 
 from the medieval devil. Elizabeth, do you re- 
 member the winged figure girded with a sheathed 
 sword, from the temple, I think, of the Ephesian 
 Artemis ? The face is so dreamy and wistful and 
 the hand lifted as if beckoning. It was thought 
 by some, w^as it not? to represent Eros, and by 
 some, Thanatos. The doubt is attractive." Alice
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 then looked as if she had forgotten all of us till 
 jerked back by Colonel Newton, who broke away 
 from Mrs. Vivian's announcement that the Chris- 
 tian artist's daughter of Herodias and John Bap- 
 tist's head was just the Pagan Muse holding a 
 mask, to ask Alice if she had remembered to tell 
 the servants that he was dining out. "Jupiter and 
 his eagle were used up, Hugo Ennismore says, 
 for St. John the Evangelist, and the poor Cupids 
 had to be angels," was what I then heard Mrs, 
 Vivian say, for want of a male listener, to Laura, 
 "If Nature is a spendthrift, Art was always eco- 
 nomical, wasn't it, Elisabetta?" 
 
 Mrs. Vivian sent you a sheaf of amicable mes- 
 sages. She was very sorry not to have seen you. 
 You must come and dine, "just ourselves," when 
 you are next in London. "If Sir Richard had 
 married my daughter," she told Alice Newton, 
 "I should not so much have minded. Sir Richard 
 is charming, very amusing, and original. But 
 I have a son-in-law whose hobby is drains, 
 and whose Paradise is a Trades Union Con- 
 
 crress." 
 
 Thursday evening. — Your letter has come. Do 
 you remember Harry's trick of tying my hair to 
 the back of my chair when my eyes and attention 
 were riveted to the multiplication table, and then 
 exclaiming "Luna has another bird!" with the 
 object of seeing his sister rise, chair and all, on 
 the strengtii of a cat's imaginary misdemeanour? 
 Dear, your pronounced references to Mrs. Tallis,
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 who struck 70 the day you were born, somehow 
 remind me of Harry's mischievous proclivities. 
 You may tell Mrs. Tallis from me, that though 
 she treats Margaret "almost as a daughter," by 
 a clause in our father's will no one can adopt you 
 without my permission, and that permission I 
 have not the slightest intention of granting. After 
 Margaret you belong to me, and I command you, 
 by holy obedience, to resign yourself meekly to 
 the inevitable. 
 
 No, I don't think your girl and boy have had 
 the life trodden out of them. I like the natural 
 growth, and never could believe in the crushing 
 beyond recognition of minds and spirits. Nor 
 is there any excuse for it now-a-days, for it is 
 not the fashion of the age to obliterate, as it was 
 more or less in our childhood. The other way 
 is ffie happier, and, as far as I can see, unwilling 
 obedience is little better than rebellion. "Libertie 
 kindleth love, love refuseth no labour, labour 
 obtaineth whatsoever it seeketh." Nor do I ap- 
 prove the crushing of parents, and if Margaret 
 or Arthur bully you, be so good as to send them 
 to me for correction. You shall not be bullied 
 either (except by one person whose name, oddly 
 enough, happens to be — Elizabeth). You have 
 not yet, I think, heard Mrs. Vivian on the subject 
 of her sons? Reggie, she says, makes her life a 
 burden to her when she takes herself to Eton to 
 see him. He prods and pokes her with his elbow 
 at every turn, lest she outrage the proprieties, and 
 sendsherhomebruised black and blue. He would 
 
 109
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 rather see her burnt, she informs everybody, than 
 button the lowest button of his waistcoat, roll up 
 his umbrella, or walk down the roadway instead 
 of on the pavement. No woman, she declares, is 
 enslaved by fashion and the opinion of contem- 
 poraries to the extent that a schoolboy is. Hugh, 
 when visited at Oxbridge, she finds equally exact- 
 ing in another direction, and her theory is that, as 
 girls grow free and easy, boys grow precise. 
 Hugh has something of the Methodist or the 
 Quaker in his temper of mind, according to his 
 mother, and is constantly correcting her for exag- 
 geration, whilst himself affixing D.V. to the an- 
 nouncement of his plans. "He dragons his sis- 
 ters, as though he were a mother of the early 
 Victorian period, and his propriety is something 
 absolutely abnormal." 
 
 Charles's address has not yet come our way. 
 Here, for the sake of peace, I ignore his political 
 proceedings. Honest Harry, as we know, thinks 
 sin and radicalism one and the same thing, and 
 considers the family disgraced by Charles's poli- 
 tics. What Charles's politics are I don't myself 
 quite know, and you should enlighten me. He 
 and Minnie are in Dampshire now. Mrs. Vivian 
 tells, that when driving across country and recit- 
 ing his speeches to Minnie, Charles, who cer- 
 tainly is a shockingly bad driver, was jerked out 
 of the dogcart. Mrs. \''ivian assures me that 
 Minnie was far too deeply engrossed in thinking 
 out the plot of her next novel to notice, till the 
 horse of its own accord drew up, that her hus- 
 
 110
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 band was no longer seated at her side, but pros- 
 trate in the ditch. 
 
 Poor Minnie is in her mother's bad books at 
 present. She is staying at Clayshott with "a. most 
 horrible, rich, vulgar woman, a Mrs. Potters, who 
 fawns upon her in the hopes of getting some- 
 thing out of her : which Minnie, taken in by ful- 
 some flattery, is too dense to see." (I am: again 
 quoting.) The Tory grandc dame of the place 
 is Lady Leyton, and the Leytons and the Vivians, 
 though Minnie apparently ignores or forgets it, 
 are old family friends. Lord Leyton is a builder 
 of model cottages and Lady Leyton is one of the 
 kindest women in the world, "a friend of the 
 poor," whose pony carriage if not at one cottage 
 door is at another. Into this Conservative Ar- 
 cadia poor Minnie, backed by Mrs. Vivian's hete 
 noire — Mrs. Potters — and armoured with all the 
 courage that crude feminine Radicalism inspires, 
 is about to penetrate. Do you think she will 
 escape intact? Charles, Minnie and the babies 
 were at Vivian-End in Easter week. Little 
 Harry had some unusual experiences and came 
 running in from the garden in hot-haste to 
 say, "Mim, Mini, I hear the slugs eatin' Gran's 
 flowers." 
 
 The question of the existence of ancient vine- 
 yards in Britain is, I see, discussed in one of the 
 newspapers. There were vineyards at Ely, at all 
 events, a very long while ago, according to the 
 Latin rhyme, which was Englished long ago too. 
 I was too lazy to send the rhyme to the news- 
 
 III
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 paper — but here is the 17th Century English 
 version for you : — 
 
 " Four things of Elie Towne much spoken are 
 The Leaden Lanthorne, Maries Chappel rare 
 The mighty Mil-hill in the Minster field 
 And fruitful Vineyards which sweet Wines do yield." 
 
 Good-bye for now, Dickory, and write again 
 
 soon. 
 
 Je prie a Dieu que il vous doint ce que vostre 
 ceur desir." 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 112
 
 XIV. 
 
 Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarne, to Aliss 
 Elizabeth Etchingham, London. 
 
 My dear Elizabeth, — Charles has sent me a 
 proof or early copy of his address to the electors 
 of the Clayshott division. There is a long para- 
 graph about ground values and betterment, the 
 utility of which in a Dampshire farming district 
 is not obvious to my mind; but then I don't 
 understand home politics. Also the inevitable de- 
 nunciation of frontier wars, which I suspect will 
 not to be relished, as a Clayshott man has got his 
 promotion as sergeant-major, and has been writ- 
 ing home enthusiastic letters about Johnny 
 Gurkha (this information is not from my vener- 
 able Egeria, Mrs. Tallis, but from the gossip of 
 the last parish council meeting). Also the iniq- 
 uity of the Indian laws against the native press 
 (there are no press laws and no distinction be- 
 tween native or vernacular and Anglo-Indian 
 publications, and the "Anglo-Indian community" 
 has turned against the Government on that ques- 
 tion just because they most properly refused to 
 make any such distinction, but that is a detail 
 which I shall not impart to Charles, as he would 
 not believe a prejudiced official). Also a jeremiad 
 on the wickedness of subsidising landlords : I be- 
 
 113
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 lieve the landlords in that part of Dampshire hap- 
 pen to be popular. But you will doubtless have a 
 copy of the thing too, with or without official 
 commentary. For my part, I must follow the 
 example of higher Powers by issuing a proclama- 
 tion of strict neutrality. 
 
 Mr, Weekes has negotiated an exchange of 
 duty, to the relief of all parties. I don't much 
 think we shall see him here again. 
 
 Tracy is very well and happy, though we can- 
 not get Merlin to treat him with anything better 
 than dignified acquiescence. Merlin has arrived** 
 at the stage of the very holy Brahman who, hav-^ 
 ing fulfilled all his duties as a householder, left a 
 son to maintain the family sacrifices, and mas- 
 tered all the wisdom of the Upanishads, retires 
 from the world and spends the rest of his life in 
 pure meditation : which, being reduced to terms 
 of canine philosophy, signifies that Merlin has 
 ceased to hunt rabbits, and is almost indifTerent 
 to the mention of rats. 
 
 If Mrs. Vivian knew anything about Christian 
 art, says the Vicar, she would know that the prev- 
 alence of the skull and cross-bones business in 
 churches dates from the Renaissance, rather late 
 in that, and not from the Aliddle Ages. This, of 
 course, said I, does not alter the fact that any 
 common Athenian stonemason, from the days 
 of Pericles to those of the Antonines (let us say, 
 to be on the safe side), could make a dignified 
 and graceful work of art of a funeral monument, 
 and certainly the average modern sculptoj^let 
 
 114
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 alone stonemason, can't. No, says the Vicar, but 
 that is not because he is oppressed by super- 
 stitious ideas ; it is because he generally has no 
 ideas at all. We agreed that professing and call- 
 ing oneself a heathen does not suffice to make 
 one an artist ; and also, India having taught me 
 to be patient before many mysteries, I submitted 
 to Mr. Follctt that we really know next to noth- 
 ing about the conditions — beyond the obvious 
 ones of available material, adequate skill of handi- 
 craft, and a certain superfluity of wealth and 
 leisure — which determine an epoch of great art 
 or good taste. Do we know, by the way, whether 
 the Athenians of the classic age would not have 
 admired, if they had ever had the chance, our in- 
 ventions which are denounced in their name? 
 Indian princes — able ones too — who live in a 
 splendid harmony of form and colour, the envy 
 of European artists, delight in our musical boxes 
 and childish mechanical toys. So did Italian 
 noblemen in the seventeenth century, as witness 
 Lassels' "Voyage of Italy." And are we not 
 wringing our hands to see the abominations of 
 Brussels and Kidderminster patterns spoiling the 
 design of Asiatic carpets ? Bad taste, one fears, is 
 at least as catching as good. 
 
 By the way, you have not seen Lassels, at least 
 not my copy : the spoils of Brindisi, where it had 
 drifted somehow to that pleasant little book-shop 
 on the quay where a German couple are delighted 
 to sell you the comic pictures of Munich. I meant 
 to bring it to town, but forgot. "The Voyage of 
 
 115
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Italy, or a compleat journey throug-h Italy. In 
 Two Parts. With the Characters of the People, 
 and the Description of the Chief Tozvns, CJiurches, 
 Monasteries, Tombs, Libraries, Pallaecs, Villas, 
 Gardens, Pictures, Statues, and Antiquities. As 
 also of the Interest, Government, Riches, Force, &c., 
 of all the Princes. With Instructions concerning 
 Travel. By Richard Lassels, Gent., who Travelled 
 through Italy Five times, as Tutor to several of 
 the English Nobility and Gentry. Never before 
 Extant, Newly Printed at Paris, and are to be 
 sold in London, by lohn Starkey, at the Mitre in 
 Fleet-street near Temple-Barr, 1670." An ample 
 title this for a plain squat little book of just under 
 450 pages. The author was an English Catiiolic. 
 His highest epithet of praise is "neat" : St. Peter's 
 at Rome, if I remember right, is "exceeding 
 neat." At Florence he heard that there had been 
 such a person as Dante, for he mentions among 
 other famous men whose tombs you may see in 
 the Duomo "Dante the Florentine Poet, whose 
 true Picture is yet to be seen here in a red gown." 
 He seems to have thought that Joannes Acutius, 
 "an English knight and General anciently of the 
 Pisani," ought to have been .Sharpe by name, 
 and to have had some dif^culty in believing that 
 Acutius represents Hazvkzvood. Air. Lassels was 
 not a very clever man. 
 
 What really interested him at Florence was 
 that "by special favour we got the sight of the 
 Great Dukes fair Diamond, which he always 
 keeps under lock and key. Its absolutely the 
 
 n6
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 fairest in Europe. It weigheth 138 carats, and its 
 almost an inch thick : and then our Jewellers will 
 tell you what its worth." And wherever Lassels 
 went he was on the look out for such matters 
 as fancy clocks, watches in a walnut-shell, and 
 "wetting sports" — the unexpected fountains 
 which spring up to surprise the unwary visitor 
 in great men's gardens. I have heard that a fine 
 specimen of this Italian jest, which continued in 
 fashion well into the eighteenth century, is extant 
 and in good order at Chatsworth, Why did not 
 the Italian adventurers who left their mark on 
 the domestic architecture and decoration of In- 
 dian noblemen introduce "wetting sports" as a 
 regular part of the ornaments that no prince's 
 palace should be without? The princes of the 
 Mogul period would certainly have taken to 
 them. Want of engineering resources, perhaps, 
 though the hydraulics required for that kind of 
 diversion are simple enough. 
 
 Jem has been investigating the roads north of 
 London (I think he had some examination or 
 conference at Mill Hill), and sends me a savage 
 growl at the Middlesex County Council for the 
 state in which they leave their roads in those 
 parts. Riding down from Mill Hill to Hendon, 
 he says, is like being tossed in a blanket among 
 sacks full of stones ; and the steep places are 
 really almost dangerous, by reason of their 
 roughness, to any one but an experienced rider — 
 not merely "dangerous" in the danger-board 
 sense, which, in the home counties at any rate, 
 
 Ii7
 
 The Etcinngham Letters 
 
 means, with very few exceptions, that you can 
 ride down with care in ordinary conditions of 
 weather and surface. 
 
 Jem also says that he is pleased with Arthur's 
 promise of scholarship, which he took some little 
 pains to look into. He greatly approves the old 
 Eton plan of letting boys read the classics in con- 
 siderable masses and acquire a feeling for them 
 as literature, instead of treating them as reper- 
 tories of linguistic puzzles. There is plenty of 
 time at the University to find out how hard the 
 hard places of easy authors really are. But, Jem 
 says, there are really no easy Latin authors and 
 very few Greek. 
 
 I wonder whether Tennyson's "Promise of 
 May" contains a cryptic allusion to May weather. 
 It is strange that the name of that poetic month 
 is conspicuous in the two least good pieces of 
 work he ever did (the other being the May 
 Queen). Mr. FoUett remembers Tennyson once 
 saying, a long time ago, that an English sum- 
 mer was like living in an undressed salad. All 
 the neighbours are grumbling at the unseason- 
 able weather. I think of what the sun is now in 
 the desert round Bikanir, and feci like Anson's 
 sailors when they hailed the "chearful gray sky" 
 on the Peruvian coast after a long baking in the 
 south seas. 
 
 Your loving brother, 
 
 DiCKORY. 
 
 P.S. — ^I must send you Lassels by post. He 
 will amuse you. 
 
 it8
 
 XV. 
 
 Miss Elizabeth EtcIiingJiani, S3 Hans Place, to 
 Sir Richard EfcJiingJiam, Tolcanie. 
 
 Dearly beloved Dickory, — I feel crosser 
 than words can say. So enraged indeed have I 
 become that fortunate for you is it that you are 
 not within reach. I have pent-up grumbles and 
 growls enough to last from to-day till Christ- 
 mas, and were you here you would think that 
 the state of the stone-deaf was not without com- 
 pensations. My temper, I find, is not of the kind 
 that improves with keeping, and I make up for 
 persistent self-control by indulging the accu- 
 mulation of the very spirit that I long resisted. 
 You know how I have preached, if you don't 
 know how I have practised, forbearance with 
 Laura since we came to London. I really have 
 toiled and moiled to throw oil on the troubled 
 family waters, and have found a thousand reasons 
 that don't exist for Charles's lapses in the way 
 of visiting his relations, for — for everything, in 
 short, of which Laura complains. And now, sud- 
 denly I see myself wishing to stir up every dor- 
 mant evil passion and embroil each member of 
 the family. Restraint evidently does not suit my 
 temperament. 
 
 I begin to think that you were right in sug- 
 
 119
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 gestiiig that existence with Laura is unworkable. 
 We shall never amalgamate, and you cannot 
 imagine how extraordinary jealous she is in the 
 pettiest matters. At present, you away, she has 
 fixed upon my relations with Harry as a per- 
 sonal calamity. Harry has reached the point iii 
 his falling in love process at which, if he cannot 
 talk to Cynthia, he must talk of her, and, as even 
 the dumb speak when thus bewitched, Harry, 
 who in normal frames of mind is not taciturn, 
 now, whenever the opportunity ofifers, pours forth 
 a perfect torrent of words on the subject of 
 Cynthia's perfections. Mrs. Vivian now-a-days, 
 or rather now-a-nights, takes Cynthia to and fro 
 pretty often (Cynthia and Blanche have struck up 
 a friendship), and the evenings that Harry and I 
 spend at home he looks upon as hours set apart 
 for the expounding of his hopes and his fears. 
 And here ^omes Laura's latest and largest griev- 
 ance. She bitterly resents my sitting below with 
 Harry and his cigarettes after diimer whilst she 
 writes letters in the drawing-room. Why, please, 
 may not I sit with my own brother, or with any- 
 body else's brother, for all that, and not be 
 treated as if I had broken every law, human and 
 divine? It is absurd. If Laura chose to use the 
 sense with which I suppose an indulgent Provi- 
 dence provided her, would not she know that you, 
 Harry, and I must be more to each other than 
 she is to us? But she will not acquiesce. 
 
 When first we came to London Harry did not 
 trouble about her one way or the other, but ac- 
 
 I20
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 cepted her as he does the stair-carpet — as part 
 of the furnishings of the house, though the stair- 
 carpet happily does not rise up and require of 
 each wanderer who returns a map indicating with 
 Ordnance Survey exactitude the course of his 
 wanderings. But during the last week or two 
 Harry has come to consider Laura the person- 
 ification of his life's evil. He thinks she means 
 to marry Cynthia to Sir Augustus. And really I 
 don't know that she does not. 
 
 Laura, as befits her unimaginative nature, has 
 the greatest possible respect for this world's 
 goods ; a "comfortable establishment," massive 
 diamonds in obtrusively solid setting, powdered 
 footmen, and carriage horses, with bearing reins 
 stupidly, cruelly tightened, are all things for 
 which, in her opinion, to give thanks kneeling 
 in church. The crowned peacock crests poised 
 upon the Pampesford-Royal gates, and let into 
 every available stretch of bricks and mortar — Sir 
 Augustus has shown us photographs of Pampes- 
 ford-Royal — would not bore her or have any- 
 thing of the ridiculous about them to her eyes. 
 Cynthia is her niece, and her pretty-well penni- 
 less niece, and I am by no means sure that, from 
 Laura's standpoint, the marriage is not only de- 
 sirable, but supremely advantageous. If Cynthia 
 were of Laura's fibre, it might not be wholly dis- 
 astrous, but Cynthia, as women are apt to do 
 more or less, inherits her father's temperament, 
 and to Colonel Leagrave loaves and fishes never 
 counted for much. I don't know what to do. 
 
 121
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 The fact that Harry is my brother both drives 
 me on and holds me back. Harry is a poor man, 
 and to marry Harry would be, in the judgment 
 of the vulgar world and all who serve Mammon, 
 a poor marriage. And that thought restrains me 
 when I feel I must go to this motherless Cynthia 
 and tell her that she had better fling her life into 
 the gutter than marry some one for whom she 
 does not care. But then in the case of such an 
 unsophisticated child it seems criminal to stand 
 by and let so mercenary a marriage come to pass. 
 If Harry were not in the running, or were I 
 wholly sure than Cynthia is one of those to whom 
 the things which money-bags cannot pay for are 
 the worth-having things, I would make over my 
 opinion to her forthwith ; but as it is, I don't 
 know about bringing pressure to bear? She is 
 open to influence, readier to succumb than to 
 oppose, and my words possibly might carry un- 
 due weight. Do please tell me what you think. 
 
 I unfolded the story of my own encounters 
 with Sir Augustus to Harry. I thought that the 
 present turn of affairs demanded that I should. 
 At first he laughed loudly, and then, poor fellow, 
 he slid back into gloom, and said in doleful ac- 
 cents, "The ass evidently means to marry." 
 
 Sir Augustus at present "waits" upon us (no 
 other word seems to fit the grandiloquent pro- 
 ceeding) with the superfluous regularity of Gen- 
 eral Lcitc when, with his suite, he came daily to 
 ask the Duke of Wellington how he had passed 
 the night, even when the Duke's night had been 
 
 122
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 passed in the trenches. And he is received by 
 Laura with a far fuller measure of cordiality than 
 the politeness of the Spanish Commander-in- 
 Chief drew from the Duke. 
 
 When I attempt to sound her as to the object of 
 the surplus visitations, she looks mysterious and 
 rings the bell for Blake, with some such excuse 
 as that she needs eau de Cologne, or wishes to 
 change her shoes. You will probably think that 
 it is impossible for Cynthia to accept Sir Augus- 
 tus, as you only know him as a pompous, mid- 
 dle-aged (or to quote Mrs. Vivian) medieval 
 bore ; but I don't know that Cynthia is not young 
 enough and undeveloped enough, morally and 
 mentally, to marry, at Laura's bidding, almost 
 anybody. She thinks Sir Augustus "very good 
 natured." She thinks Harry "very good 
 natured," too. She is right, but it is not good 
 nature that forces Sir Augustus, puffing and 
 panting, up these stairs daily, nor is it good 
 nature, in the ordinary sense of the word, that 
 sends Harry from his soup to the front door if, 
 in answer to Cynthia's inquiries at dinner-time, 
 Turnbull reluctantly admits that Trelawney was 
 seen to go up the area steps, but not to come 
 down them again. I witnessed another instance 
 of Harry's imperturbable good nature yesterday. 
 Instead of keeping an appointment at his club, 
 he held the feathered forms of Blair and AthoU 
 whilst Cynthia, armed with gilded scissors in the 
 form of a stork, shortened the claws of the be- 
 loved birds. 
 
 123
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Now I have your letter. Thank you for it and 
 for the book. You may disclaim all knowledge 
 of European politics, but the science of convey- 
 ing your opinion upon the politics of others 
 seems, my dear Richard, within your ken. From 
 the comments accompanying the extracts from 
 Charles's address, I don't somehow fancy that 
 the balance of parties is likely to be changed by 
 our brother's Dampshire exploits. 
 
 I wonder if our nineteenth-century handicraft 
 monstrosities will be the curios of the twenty- 
 second century? Time can hardly succeed in 
 making Kidderminster carpets and early Victo- 
 rian furniture beautiful, but Time may make 
 them quaint. Even the portrait of a provincial 
 mayor, when 300 years have passed over its 
 head, may come to have a certain cachet. I 
 don't think that some of our old Etchinghams of 
 the sixteenth century, grim Sir Nicholas with 
 his thumb in his magnificent chain for example, 
 can have beautified the walls when first hung. 
 
 Perhaps at last will be discovered the laws that 
 govern artistic achievement, and the conditions 
 that help or hinder the sowing, the flowering, 
 and the seed-time of art. What a thing it would 
 be if research enabled the chemists to furnish the 
 London County Council with soil and even 
 climate, congenial to the aesthetic growth. Can 
 soil influence the choice of medium? Pastel 
 should flourish on chalk, water-colour on sand 
 or gravel, and oil on clay, talking nonsense, it 
 seems to me. 
 
 124
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Minnie, guided by Mrs. Potters (of whom 
 Harry irreverently speaks as Mrs. Potters's Bar), 
 addressed a Clayshott mothers' meeting, I hear, 
 and spoke to the "mothers," a body of substan- 
 tial and comfortable women, of the abomination 
 of female out-of-door labour. The worthy 
 mothers were greatly incensed, and met the ex- 
 pression of Alinnie's sympathy for women field- 
 workers as would Laura, did Mrs. Vivian in- 
 clude her when commiserating the hardships of 
 washerwomen. 
 
 Stephen does not forget, if you do, his wish 
 to visit Tolcarne. He is quite pleasant, and I 
 think that he and Minnie would amuse one an- 
 other if under your roof at one and the same 
 time. But that is your afifair, not mine. Stephen 
 thinks to glean some West country-folk lore 
 from Mr. Follett, some of the legends that dub 
 Sir Francis Drake with a wizardry akin to that 
 with which the Italian peasants endowed Virgil. 
 From me he can get nothing but the well-known 
 superstition that Sir Francis leads the Wild Hunt 
 over Dartmoor, and rises to join in the revels at 
 the beating at Buckland Abbey of the drum he 
 carried round the world. With this old epitaph 
 Stephen's monograph is to close : — 
 
 "Where Drake first found, there last he lost his name, 
 And for a tomb left nothing but his fame, 
 His body's buried under some great wave, 
 The sea that was his glory is his grave." 
 
 Now Alice Newton has fallen ill, and your 
 
 125
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 friend Mr. Shipley is unhappy about her. Col- 
 onel Newton so far has not realized that wailing 
 robes with reason might be donned. I felt sure 
 that she would collapse. She was always a fugi- 
 tive creature, and of late she has looked intangi- 
 ble as one of Maeterlinck's dream-women. She 
 said to me the other day, ''You see, one can be 
 dead and be still going about and people don't 
 know that one is dead. That is the curious part 
 of it." Her old nurse, who was the child's nurse 
 too, appeared w^hen I went to see Alice yester- 
 day, and, though I tried to stop her, she per- 
 sisted, undeterred by Mr. Shipley's presence, in 
 telling me of Alice's misery since the child died. 
 "Mrs. Newton, M'm, she would come wander- 
 ing up into the room that was the day-nursery, 
 at three and four o'clock in the morning, and 
 walk up and down and cry by the hour. No 
 health could stand such goings on." Mr. Ship- 
 ley is devoted to his sister, and I am very sorry 
 for him. When you come to London you must 
 hold out the hand of friendship to him. He 
 asks for Tolcarne news frequently. 
 
 Would you welcome a copy of Willughby's 
 Birds— "The Ornithology of Francis Willughby 
 of Middleton in the County of Warv.ick, Esq." 
 — the text in English, London, 1678? Laura 
 met me the other evening on the doorstep with 
 the book under my arm. I saw it lying in a 
 dim, dusty shop to wliich I repaired in search 
 of something else, and 1 had not the heart to 
 leave it. Laura hates old books, looking upon 
 
 126
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 them but as dust-catchers and germ-carriers. 
 When reigning at Tolcarne she put John Florio 
 into a room with a sulphur candle, to my in- 
 tense indignation. (Poor John Florio to be dis- 
 infected at this time of day.) The Willughby is 
 hardly a pocket-volume, and I could not con- 
 ceal it, as, to save an argument, I would have 
 done. "What in the world is the use of such a 
 book to you, Elizabeth ?" Laura inquired. "I 
 shall give it to Richard," I said ; so don't turn 
 me into a liar by refusing it. The Willughby 
 will be happier at Tolcarne than in Hans Place. 
 
 Publication brings strange shelf-fellows, I 
 thought as I glanced at the books in our book- 
 case this morning. Laura's Marie Corelli, Edna 
 Lyall and then Herrick, and Catullus all in a 
 row. If contrast is attractive, Maeterlinck and 
 Dr. Johnson, cheek by jowl, as we have them 
 here, are desirable. (Dr. Johnson : "Sir, you are 
 a fool." Maeterlinck : "I am not happy. I am 
 not happy.") For myself, as in the long run I 
 prefer a chime to a clash, a harmony to a dis- 
 cord, I have half a mind to carry Maeterlinck to 
 Mr. Vivian presently. Mr. Vivian (a figure of 
 silence not of speech, to quote his wife) buys a 
 Burne-Jones whenever he can get one. When 
 Burne-Jones is on the wall Maeterlinck should 
 be in the book-case. Do invent a conversation 
 between M. Maeterlinck and Dr. Johnson, and 
 mention too what M. Maeterlinck would say to a 
 Hogarth, and Dr. Johnson to a Burne-Jones. 
 
 Now good-bye. I have rather written out my 
 
 U7
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 evil temper and no longer feel that every one is 
 trying to beat the record of his or her past 
 troublesomeness. I begin to reproach myself 
 also for my denunciation of Laura. However, it 
 shall go (there is nothing like a remorse for 
 paring down ill-temper to reasonable dimen- 
 sions), and please don't be a hundred years an- 
 swering. I am impatient to hear what you think 
 about the Harry-Cynthia-Laura-Sir Augustus 
 affair. I am rather inclined to expect the worst 
 — Cynthia being a childish creature, used to au- 
 thority, and of the stuff of which victims are 
 made, whilst Laura, in her quiet way, is ob- 
 stinate as the Pope's mule. Sometimes I wish 
 that Harry would propose to Cynthia, and have 
 done with it. But he thinks by so doing he 
 might lose the little he has got. I don't, as you 
 see, know what to say or to leave unsaid, and 
 don't agree w'ith myself for five minutes con- 
 secutively. I shall try and reduce my thoughts 
 to order by reading your little old book. Laura 
 dines with Mrs. Carstairs to-night. Harry is 
 bidden somewhere whither Mrs. Vivian is con- 
 veying Cynthia. Sir Augustus is decorating 
 with his presence a Primrose League Entertain- 
 ment, so the family and the family's adjunct are 
 happily disposed of, and I shall spend the even- 
 ing with Trelawney and "The Voyage of Italy." 
 Your obedient servant, your loving sister, 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 128
 
 XVI. 
 
 Sir Richard Etchingham to Miss Elisabeth 
 Etchingham. 
 
 My dear Elizabeth, — You shall have a 
 short and prompt answer for once. Why can't 
 yon send Gynthia here along- with Stephen ? It 
 would put her out of harm's way for a while at 
 any rate, and give you time and occasions to test 
 your conjectures. 
 
 This is sickening stufif about poor marriages. 
 What had Maggie and I before we married, and 
 
 what had we not afterwards? The.re — you 
 
 know there are some things I cannot put on 
 paper even to you. 
 
 Don't be worried out of your evening sessions 
 with Harry, whatever you do ; and be firm. The 
 head of the family is with you for whatever that 
 office is worth in this present Kali Yiig. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 R. E. 
 
 129
 
 XVII. 
 
 From Lady Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, to Sir 
 Richard Etchingham, Tolcarne. 
 
 My dear Richard, — I have not seen your let- 
 ter, but I understand from Elizabeth that you 
 have kindly invited Cynthia to Tolcarne for 
 Whitsuntide. 
 
 I am sure that Cynthia would be very pleased 
 to be with Margaret, but I am afraid that I do 
 not quite see how it can be managed just at 
 present. Elizabeth, who has been very much 
 taken up with Mrs. Newton lately, proposes, I 
 now suddenly hear, to start off with her to the 
 sea for ^ few days next week. You know what 
 Elizabeth is when she takes people up violently, 
 and how impulsive. Mr. Shipley, Mrs. New- 
 ton's brother, called last evening to say that the 
 doctors suggest change of air for Mrs. Newton, 
 whose health has been, I believe, very unsatis- 
 factory lately from insomnia and nervous ex- 
 haustion, and would Elizabeth be persuaded to 
 go too, as his sister had an invalid's fancy to 
 have Elizabeth with her. I do not myself see 
 the need, as if Mrs. Newton docs not consider 
 her husband sufficient escort, there is a sister- 
 in-law — a Mrs. Ware — quite willing to be of use 
 and accustomed to illness. I remember her tcll- 
 
 130
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 ing me the first time I met her that Mr. Ware 
 had been completely paralysed for five years be- 
 fore he died. Also, as I told Elizabeth, I think it 
 quite possible that Mr. Shipley just suggested 
 her accompanying Mrs. Newton, thinking she 
 might enjoy the trip. She often speaks of her 
 dislike of London, which is, I think, a mistake. 
 Mrs. Newton, I fear, is on the verge of melan- 
 cholia, and would really be best left with her 
 husband, who no doubt understands her tem- 
 perament. 
 
 If Elizabeth is to be away for several days with 
 her friend, I feel quite sure that Cynthia would 
 not consent to leave me wholly alone, much as 
 I should like her to have the pleasure of a visit 
 to Tolcarne. My eyes have troubled me a good 
 deal lately, and I have rheumatic gout in my 
 hands (from weakness, Dr. Bowles says), and to 
 sit alone, unoccupied, though I am willing to 
 undergo it if Elizabeth thinks it will amuse her 
 to be with Mrs. Newton, is not, I know, what 
 others would choose for me. I really quite think 
 also that for Cynthia's own sake it is better for 
 her to remain quietly at home till the weather is 
 more settled. You have had heavy rains I hear 
 from Mrs. FoUitt, and dear Tolcarne, of course, 
 is damp. I always considered the roof faulty. 
 Hoping you have had no recurrence of your old 
 attacks, and with love to Margaret and yourself. 
 Believe me. 
 
 Affectionately yours, 
 
 Laura F. Etchingham. 
 
 131
 
 XVIII. 
 
 From Miss Elizabeth Etchingham to Sir Richard 
 
 Etchingham. 
 
 Dearest Dickory, — Thanks very much for 
 your letter. It was just exactly what I wanted, 
 and it has stiffened me. Cynthia would be per- 
 fectly content at Tolcarne with Margaret and 
 Stephen, and he and she can travel down to- 
 gether. I will propose it at once, and I should 
 hardly think that Laura's hardworked team of 
 phantom lions could be trotted out to block this 
 path. 
 
 I am summoned to the drawing-room, and 
 rumour reports Mr. Shipley's arrival with a mes- 
 sage from Alice. So here endeth this epistle. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 P.S. — Send me a supplementary letter soon, 
 and in it wrap up a recipe for patience and a 
 right judgment in all things. 
 
 132
 
 XIX. 
 
 Sir Richard Etchingham to Miss Elisabeth 
 Etchingham. 
 
 My dear Elizabeth, — Let a pleasant thing 
 come first. I shall be delighted to have Willugh- 
 by's Birds ; the rather that I had almost forgotten 
 what home birds are like. Did I ever tell you 
 that among the great Akbar's accomplishments 
 was a lively interest in the natural history of 
 Hindustan? The work of encyclopaedic Indian 
 statistics (or as near statistics as Asiatic scribes 
 could get) compiled under his charge includes 
 elaborate figures of Indian plants. I wish the 
 ingenious Mr. Traill would add a dialogue be- 
 tween Elizabeth and Akbar, wherever they 
 ought to be, to his "New Lucian." Akbar de- 
 serves to be in the eagle's eye in the sphere of 
 Jupiter, whether Dante's principles could make 
 room for him there or not. I am not so sure 
 about Elizabeth. Akbar could have taught her 
 not to scamp the supplies of stores and ammuni- 
 tion to her fleet. If ever the Government of 
 India gets a piping time of peace before the com- 
 ing of the Cocqcigrues, there ought to be an 
 adequate life of Akbar produced by a combina- 
 tion of European and Indian scholarship. He 
 
 133
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 wanted, like Frederick II. some centuries earlier, 
 to do more than was possible for any one man, 
 including the foundation of a universal religion. 
 But he was a magnificently ambitious prince, 
 and his peccadillos were trifling as the sins of 
 Eastern despots go. There should also be a 
 great publication of his architecture at Fateh- 
 pur-Sikri, that city of palaces which stands to 
 this day deserted, but not ruined. It is more im- 
 pressive in some ways than any of the show 
 monuments of Delhi or Agra. Some publication 
 there has been, but with the curious shyness of 
 oflficial publications, almost amounting to con- 
 cealment. I want a monumental work, more 
 like what the French would do if they were in 
 our place. 
 
 The British public does not appreciate the 
 "New Lucian," I fear, perhaps never will. Mr. 
 Traill's humour is too subtle for the general. But 
 there will always be a select number to delight in 
 it. His work, if it is not so brilliant as Landor's, 
 is free from Landor's prejudices and crankiness, 
 and the violent disproportions introduced by 
 them into Landor's Imaginary Conversations; 
 and sometimes it rises to a note of historic 
 tragedy, as in the dialogue between Alexander 
 II. and Peter the Great. If you ever meet with 
 the comments of the Canaanitish press on the 
 Exodus — written by Traill before the outbreak 
 of the Russo-Turkish war in 1876 — grapple 
 those few leaves without fail. But you won't, 
 for it has become one of the really scarce 
 
 13-t
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 pamphlets of our time, and I doubt if it is to be 
 had for money. 
 
 Sir Augustus's proceedings are very dark to 
 me. There is nothing impossible in a vulgar 
 ambitious man being captivated by a fresh pretty 
 face ; and yet I fancy somehow that his ambition 
 is more calculating, and can hardly conceive that 
 ruling passion being dethroned. Watch, I say 
 again, and keep Harry out of despondency if 
 you can. Cynthia is unformed, and may change 
 her mind once and again before she fixes it ; I 
 cherish hopes that the final direction may be 
 right. 
 
 Stephen Leagrave has settled to come here 
 next week, with a quite neat and official dis- 
 quisition on Secondary Education thrown in. 
 Charles may tackle him on that subject if he 
 likes, and give the Clayshott electors the benefit 
 of the result. It will be about as useful and in- 
 telligible to them as the other matters Charles 
 is committing himself to in his address. Here 
 come by the same post your note, and a gushing 
 billet from Minnie, omitting to specify the date 
 of arrival, for which I particularly asked, so there 
 will most likely be a morning of telegraphing; 
 and a letter from Laura, who is verily of the 
 tribe of the Duzakhis, if odious virtues ever 
 made anyone so ; I enclose it for your edification. 
 You see she is too many for us as regards my 
 little plan about Cynthia. She carefully mis- 
 spells Mrs. Follett's name. If there is a thing 
 I detest it is misspelt names. 
 
 135
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 I have had to explain to several people that 
 Wei-hai-wei is not in the sphere of the Indian 
 Political Department, and that a smoking ac- 
 quaintance with cheroots does not make one an 
 authority on Manila. But my comparative study 
 of the Parish and the North Indian Village is 
 going to be a great work. 
 
 Your loving brother, 
 
 Richard. 
 
 136
 
 XX. 
 
 From Miss Elizabeth Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, 
 to Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarne. 
 
 Dearest Dickory, — Cynthia has refused 
 Harry, Trelawney is lost, and Sir Augustus has 
 gone away to bury a relation. If Niobe left a 
 recipe for preserving furniture from mildew, 
 please send it. We are very damp here. Had 
 Trelawney not strayed, there might now be no 
 new misadventure to report; but Trelawney left 
 his family on Monday, and has not since been 
 seen or heard of. Wherefore what follows. 
 
 This not being the first time that Trelawney 
 has absented himself, Cynthia, till this morning, 
 buoyed herself up with hopes of his return. This 
 morning, however, Blake, with her race's love 
 for harrowing, went to Cynthia with a chapter 
 of cat accidents, derived from the milkman — 
 kidnappings, poisonings, &c. — the scene of 
 every one of these catastrophes being this neigh- 
 bourhood, the time the present. Cynthia car- 
 ried the depressing intelligence about with some 
 stoicism for an hour or two, and then, suddenly 
 succumbing, wept. Harry, like you, has no 
 armour against tears, and Cynthia smiling hav- 
 ing of late disturbed his equanimity, Cynthia 
 weeping was altogether too much for the poor 
 
 137
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 fellow. From offering consolation and seeking 
 to inspire hope, he went on to tell the story of his 
 heart ; and presently he came to my room, look- 
 ing sad enough and white enough to frighten me. 
 (Of course, before he spoke my thoughts sug- 
 gested a telegram with bad news from Tolcarne.' 
 I always think that something will happen to 
 vou, because it would obliterate me if it did.) 
 Harry, blaming and banning himself the while, 
 then begged me to go to Cynthia, who was cry- 
 ing, he said, in the drawing-room, and whom 
 he had frightened, "clumsy boor" that he was. 
 
 Until I beheld Cynthia I felt almost angry 
 with her as the cause of Harry's distress ; but no 
 sooner had I seen the creature's scared, woebe- 
 gone aspect than I found myself commiserating 
 her almost as much as I commiserated Harry. 
 She clung to me, weeping, and said, as well as 
 she could for her tears, that she was very hor- 
 rid, she knew ; that we should all hate her ; that 
 Major Etchingham was very kind, but — but she 
 did not want to be married. With this pretty, 
 absurdly pathetic-looking child clinging to me 
 as if I were a rock of defence, my sympathies 
 were equally divided ; and, while I was doing my 
 best to quiet and reassure her, in walked Laura 
 — come to see if the blinds were drawn down, 
 lest the sun should injure the furniture. 
 
 (It was long since proved to me that the Fates 
 were humourists. Of late I have suspected that 
 these ladies are not only humourists, but practi- 
 cal jokers.) 
 
 138
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 When Cynthia looked up and saw Laura she 
 instantly took to flight, and left me to tackle our 
 stepmother single-handed ; and Laura straight- 
 way, in frigid tones, inquired if it would be an 
 impertinence to ask the cause of Cynthia's emo- 
 tion. "Of course, I have no wish to force any- 
 one's confidence, or to come between you and 
 my niece." As Cynthia is not only Laura's niece, 
 but her ward, and as Harry is my brother, I 
 considered Laura entitled to an explanation. In 
 another very few minutes I wished that my tem- 
 per were sweeter ; and in still another very few 
 minutes I wished my de profundis wish — that 
 you were present. Laura can be perfectly de- 
 testable ; and I am not one of those to whom the 
 inheritance of the earth is promised. At this 
 juncture whom should Turnbull, suddenly jerk- 
 ing open the door, announce but Mrs. Vivian, 
 who flitted in with her charming smile and air 
 of graceful well-being. 
 
 "Oh, Lady Etchingham, I did not know that 
 you ever appeared upon the scene so early," was 
 the propitious beginning. "I came to see Eliza- 
 beth about " (the boarding out of London 
 
 children at Vivian-End). It was as if the Mother 
 of Mischief were prompting Mrs. Vivian's chat- 
 ter. In response to Laura's statement that how- 
 ever far from well she might feel she considered 
 it her duty to take her place in the house, Mrs. 
 Vivian airily recommended her to try Christian 
 Science for her ailments. "I think you might 
 like it very much. Don't you think, Elizabeth, 
 
 J39
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 that Lady Etchingham might be very much 
 amused by Christian Science? It's not half so 
 nasty as the SaHsbury beef cure nor so danger- 
 ous as German baths. Lady Clementine Mure 
 says it's done wonders for her, and she means 
 to stick to it, and not try the new fresh air treat- 
 ment. Not that Lady Clementine had anything 
 but maladc iinaginoircism the matter, and as 
 Hugo Ennismore says of Christian Science, 
 imagination cures what imagination creates. (I 
 think you would like Hugo Ennismore, Eliza- 
 beth ; he is thought clever.) Then there was 
 Tessy Graham-Gordon, who lay upon her back 
 for two years and would not see a soul, and now 
 she cycles twenty miles a day and takes fencing 
 lessons. I always said if that poor unfortunate 
 husband of hers, who is so weak as to be almost 
 wanting, had only had the strength of mind to 
 set the house on fire it w'ould have got her off 
 her sofa before. But Christian Science did 
 equally well, and made far less mess than del- 
 uges of water and flames and firemen's dreadful 
 heavy boots trampling over everything. Do give 
 it a trial. It is sure to do your nerves good if it 
 does not drive you mad." 
 
 "Dr. Bowles considers that my nerves have 
 stood the strain to which they have been sub- 
 jected peculiarly well," Laura answered, in her 
 North Pole voice. After half an hour of this and 
 other equally pacific matter, it seemed prudent 
 to leave the room when Mrs. Vivian did ; and 
 having seen her oflf the premises I sought out 
 
 140
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Harry, whose dejected looks haunted me. I hope 
 I succeeded at last in convincing him that 
 Cynthia's health and happiness are not perma- 
 nently blasted by an offer of marriage from a 
 good man. He was very grateful for nothing, 
 but very sad. "Send somebody out to look for 
 that brute of a cat : it is all she cares for," were 
 his final words. I dared to say that perhaps it 
 was not all that she would ever care for, and 
 poor Harry patted me on the head and departed 
 with a sigh. (What I write is, as usual, for you 
 only ; for you who, in the matter of confidences, 
 are a ctd-dc-sac.) 
 
 The disquieting Cynthia I think had best take 
 advantage now of Mrs. Gainsworthy's invitation, 
 and stay at Oxbridge till we go north. As to 
 that letter of Laura's which you return, I believe 
 pique prompted it. Why invite Cynthia to Tol- 
 carne and not herself? Between you and me it is 
 safe to ask her. She wishes to be asked, but 
 she does not wish to go. I am very sorry that 
 my possible absence next week afforded an ex- 
 cuse for keeping Cynthia here to play compan- 
 ion. But if Alice Newton wished for me I would 
 not refuse. Long ago, soon after she was mar- 
 ried, when once she was very low and wretched, 
 she made me promise that I would always be- 
 friend her if I could. I can be of no real use, 
 but for a greater thing than a whim of Laura's 
 I am not disposed to say "No" to Alice, who is 
 unhappy and ill. Yes, would not Mrs. Ware, 
 who related every particular of her husband's 
 
 141
 
 ^ 
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 fatal illness on the occasion of her first meeting 
 with Laura, be a congenial companion to some 
 one who is bruised? As it turns out, Alice is too 
 ill to go anywhere. I visited her this morning and 
 found Colonel Newton fussing and fuming, and 
 not in the least amused by a charge in a solici- 
 tor's bill — "rectifying error caused by our own 
 carelessness, 13^. 4(/." 
 
 After the commotion of the day I went in 
 search of a sedative to St. Paul's Cathedral. 
 Evensong and anthem, as every afternoon of the 
 week given there, are the best nepenthe I have 
 yet discovered in this vast kingdom of London. 
 And then at St. Paul's Cathedral we do not see 
 half the people we know crowned with their best 
 bonnets, and best bonnets and the Confession 
 never somehow seem to agree. (Mrs. Vivian 
 says that while she can imagine the Apostle 
 Peter admitting a beggar to the precincts of 
 Heaven, "I can't quite see him letting in Lady 
 Etchingham in her Sunday get-up.") But the 
 patterning of St. Paul's is disturbing. There is 
 rest and relief to my eyes after the plague of pat- 
 terns from which we suffer in the cold, white 
 bareness, unfretted by device or design, and I 
 trust that this superfluous patterning will not 
 encroach very far. For an understanding of the 
 value of blank spaces, we look, as a rule, in vain 
 to the art of the West. It is realised in Japanese 
 art. Also where patterns are, there the full play 
 of light and shade is not ; and to turn from St. 
 Paul's Cathedral and from the art of Japan to 
 
 142
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 dwelling-house decoration, the shadow of flow- 
 ering bough or foliage thrown upon homely 
 whitewash is beautiful, but throw the shadow 
 upon a patterned surface, and however fine the 
 fabric, the beauty of the shadow line is lost. 
 Do you go with me in preferring whitewash to 
 the meaningless scrawls and imitation anythings 
 with which walls are often hung? 
 
 I heard from our cousin, Arthur Etchingham, 
 by the last mail. He is very hot and rather 
 depressed, poor man. The Bombay winds have 
 been all wrong, and the winds they have a right 
 to expect to come off the sea have never come — 
 a condition of things bad for man, beast, and 
 temper, he says. The prayer for the plague has 
 been used, he tells me, in the Bombay churches 
 for the last six months. 'Tf you look at it you 
 will see how futile it sounds on an occasion like 
 this, and like an attempt to appease one of the 
 hundred-armed Hindoo avenging deities. Don't 
 you think that parsons should adapt themselves 
 more to the times ?" The letter breathes carbolic, 
 and Arthur is homesick, I fear. He speaks of 
 the parks and of the fiower-beds "which are such 
 feasts for Indian eyes after years in this coun- 
 try." If I had my wishing-carpet, I would spirit 
 Arthur back. "Tell Richard to bring you and 
 Margaret out for the next cold weather," he 
 says. "Oh, that 'twere possible" after being 
 pent up here with poor Laura to go ever so far 
 away. I wonder if you too sometimes feel an 
 
 143
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 acute desire to hurry to the further side of space 
 and see nothing for a hundred years that you 
 have yet set eyes on? 
 
 Mr. Traill would not, I imagine, covet the 
 British public's appreciation of "The New 
 Lucian." When I tried Laura with "The New 
 Lucian," she said, "Where is the joke? Is it 
 meant to be humorous?" To continue my re- 
 searches into the recesses of the human mind 
 I then plied her with a translated extract from 
 "The Sale of the Philosophers," but when she 
 interrupted the reading to suggest gravely that 
 probably the chronic weeping of Hcraclitus 
 arose from inflammation of the tear-duct — she 
 had sufifered from it herself, and it was very 
 troublesome and difficult to cure — I thought we 
 had gone far enough. 
 
 Let me hear the tale of Charles's and Minnie's 
 visit. The weather will, I hope, permit of the 
 airing of theories out of doors. To be shut up 
 with adverse opinions makes a long day. Has 
 Minnie, as she threatened, asked your leave to 
 dedicate her new novel to you? She says that 
 your encouragement has been such a great help 
 to her in her writing. The title of the novel, on 
 the dedication page of which she proposes to 
 print your name, is "A Tribute of Tears." When 
 she told me that you had encouraged her to 
 write, I felt disposed to say, "Richard is too wise 
 to encourage a woman to do anything." In 
 Minnie's absence and by her leave, I repair 
 rather often to Lower Berkeley Street and sit in 
 
 J44
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 the nursery with the small boys. And here is 
 Dicky's description of his first flash of lightning 
 and first thunder clap : "I saw an angel go into 
 Heaven and bang the door after it." (Mrs. 
 Vivian says, "The child never said anything of 
 the sort. It's just one of Minnie's second rate 
 literary ideas.") 
 
 It is very, very late. 'The time of night when 
 Troy was set on fire," and I am cold and tired. 
 So good-bye for now. 
 Your loving sister, 
 
 St. Elizabeth (not of Hungary, not 
 of Portugal, but of Hans Place). 
 Not your saint, your sinner. 
 
 Thursday morning. — I open my letter to tell 
 you that Trelawney has just sauntered in with 
 an air of perfect unconcern. It was Turnbull, 
 not Harry, alas, who opened the door to him. 
 
 145
 
 XXI. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarne, to Miss 
 Elizabeth Etchingham. 
 
 Dear and much tried Lady Sister, — She 
 is a little goose ; little, because her age gives her 
 the privilege of that mild and endearing diminu- 
 tive ; if she were five years older she would be a 
 great goose. If she likes no one else better — 
 and I see nothing to show that she does — it may 
 come right yet, with patience and leaving alone. 
 Acting on your hint, I have sent an invitation in 
 due form to Laura. If she accepts, I must in- 
 vent some new form of the old Eton "Friday 
 fever," when Friday was the heavy day of the 
 week, with every one from sixth form to lower 
 division {i.e. of fifth form) doing the same 
 seventy lines of Horace : and there was some- 
 thing in that old fashion of taking our classics in 
 good lumps, as I think I said on some occasion 
 a while ago. But, as you wisely observe, Laura 
 will not accept. I should like to see her try 
 "Christian Science," of which the Christianity is 
 even more obscure to me than the science. I 
 understand it to consist in believing very hard 
 that there is nothing the matter with you; and 
 when there is nothing the matter, as is often the 
 
 146
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 case with people who have nothing else to do, I 
 do not doubt it may be an excellent way. 
 
 Also part of their scheme is to believe that 
 matter is nothing, a doctrine of which the Chris- 
 tian Scientists appear to suppose themselves the 
 first inventors — they are only some few thou- 
 sand years late. This may seem, if it could 
 prove anything for their purpose, to prove too 
 much. For if your body is nothing real, then 
 health and sickness are alike illusions, and an 
 ache more or less in your tooth or your stomach 
 is merely indifferent, and it is not worth while 
 to be well even if it is to cost you no more than 
 the pains of thinking so. And so forth in an 
 ever-increasing tangle of absurd consequences, 
 if you begin to converse with such folk accord- 
 ing to the folly they have confounded with a lit- 
 tle bad science and a little even worse philoso- 
 phy. Speculation about the remote or ultimate 
 nature of things really makes no difference at all 
 to actual experience. Stones, and my head, 
 and gravity, may be all illusions in some sense. 
 All the same, a man who does not desire the 
 illusion of breaking his head will keep up the 
 illusion of not falling on stones. But Lord ! to 
 think of the patronising contempt the smallest 
 Yogi would pour on these pale, far-ofif imita- 
 tions of the old, old Eastern tricks ! And of our 
 bishops confronting Shiva with their polite and 
 reasonable Anglican prayers ! The doctors 
 seem to have all their work to do to stand up 
 to him. 
 
 147
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Our enlightened brother Charles and Stephen 
 Leagrave are dosing me with the latest wisdom 
 of the West. The very night of their arrival 
 Charles went off on the iniquity of voluntary 
 schools (there being no Board school at Clay- 
 shott, and not the least demand for one), and 
 Stephen gave us a lecture of an hour and a half 
 on Secondary Education. Margaret nobly came 
 to the rescue by insisting that the whole Edu- 
 cation Department and all the electors of the 
 Clayshott division should not deprive her of her 
 revenge on me at piquet. We find it a fasci- 
 nating game : it seems more human than whist. 
 I could never rise to the height of the men who 
 can play a good hand at whist in the Red Sea, 
 with a following breeze that makes a dead calm 
 on the ship, and the thermometer steady 
 at 90°. When I say more human, I mean that 
 one gets a more faithful image of life in the 
 alternation of elder and younger hand, in the 
 power of the lead to dominate the adversary's 
 cards, and in the chance of taking the tide at the 
 flood and making one's fortune by a judicious 
 discard. I believe, by the book, in very bold 
 discarding ; our practice, I suspect, would be 
 considered feeble and pottering by good players. 
 Then piquet is adventurous, as whist is not, and 
 as life can be in the East at any rate, and used 
 to be before John Company came sweeping and 
 garnishing and stickling, Mrs. Battle's way, for 
 a clean hearth and the rigour of the game. 
 What is there in whist to come near the emotion 
 
 148
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 of a repique, or the fearful joys of manoeuvring 
 to save a capot? On the subject of whitewash 
 I partly sympathise with you ; but I have had a 
 dose of orthodox aesthetics too, and am crushed. 
 Leagrave is what they call a good fellow, but 
 I fail to get any satisfaction from him. He is 
 educated : doth he not serve My Lords who 
 educate us? and they can pick and choose their 
 servants among the best University men. He is 
 trained and able ; he can write a neat and per- 
 spicuous minute. He is always ready when 
 wanted, never at a loss for something to say, 
 and what he says is mostly appropriate and 
 never absurd ; good-tempered, an easy com- 
 panion, altogether a desirable and safe member 
 of a party or an excursion ; active enough too, 
 short of competing with younger men. I be- 
 lieve he has done some respectable mountaineer- 
 ing within the last few seasons. And yet I find 
 myself asking. Where is the real man? or even. 
 Is there any real man? There is something he 
 wants ; perhaps, morally and figuratively speak- 
 ing, it is a good shaking. If, now, he had been 
 cent to hunt dacoits in Burma instead of analys- 
 ing school returns, or whatever else he does in 
 Whitehall, he might have grown in some direc- 
 tions. Or if it should occur to a young woman 
 to think him a real man, perhaps, on the prin- 
 ciple of your Christian Scientists, it might make 
 him so. But then I don't see how, at best, it 
 could make him more real than the young 
 woman herself; and I should hardly expect the 
 
 149
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 young woman who takes a fancy to Master 
 Stephen to be of the most real sort. 
 
 IMeanwhile, our neighbour Square (not old 
 Mr. Square, but his son, who is active in pro- 
 moting local good works) had got wind some- 
 how of Leagrave being a man of letters, and 
 caught him to give a lecture on English poetry 
 at the Little Buckland Working Men's Club. 
 Charles pleaded multitude of correspondence 
 and arranging meetings in Dampshire — when 
 he leaves this it is for the final campaign — and 
 Minnie could do no less than stay to help him, 
 So Margaret and Leagrave and I jumbled down 
 to the fat pastures of Little Buckland, which we 
 half envy and half despise, and Leagrave held 
 forth in the orthodox modern manner on mod- 
 ern poets. He left one the impression, though 
 he never said so, that Wordsworth is ante- 
 diluvian, Tennyson obsolete, Browning un- 
 couth, and the history practically begins, for this 
 generation, with Rossetti, being continued even 
 unto — Mr. Biggleswade, of whom he spoke with 
 apparently sincere respect. The only thing the \ 
 audience seemed to care for was a piece of Kip- \ 
 ling, which he introduced in a sort of rather j 
 deprecating way, as if not sure whether it was ', 
 good form or not (by the way. I am bound to / 
 say he reads well enough). Most of it was re- 
 ceived with a respectful desire for instruction, 
 and assumption that what he said must be all 
 right : and those who preach week-day sermons 
 surely need not complain of being treated no 
 
 150
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 worse than the parson. What really bored them, 
 being, then and there, entirely puzzling to them, 
 was a passage he had evidently taken special 
 pains with, about Omar Khayyam and Oriental- 
 ism, and the reactions of Eastern and Western 
 mind. I listened with a grim inward chuckle, 
 knowing that the young man's father, the Col- 
 onel, who does not pretend to be literary, could 
 have told him, if he had the wit to avow his ig- 
 norance and ask, some things a good deal more 
 to the point on that subject. 
 
 And so vote of thanks to lecturer for most in- 
 teresting lecture, to worthy chairman for pre- 
 siding (they had made me take the chair), and 
 our party back up the hill, feeling virtuous and 
 rather empty. Leagrave wanted to convert us 
 to some of his new little poets — must we not ad- 
 mit a delicately fervent passion in Huiteau Led- 
 ache's ballads? "Margaret," said I, "what was 
 that opinion somebody gave us of Huiteau Led- 
 ache? I never read him." "Oh yes," answered 
 Margaret, with a shade of hesitation, "was it 
 Jem? No, it was Mr. Shipley. He said the 
 creature was fit — yes, just fit to put in Rudyard 
 Kipling's pipe, and bad tobacco at that." Lea- 
 grave tried an attack at another point by claim- 
 ing recognition — an adequate though not ex- 
 travagant recognition — for the speculative 
 charm of Exon Versine and the intellectual 
 frankness of Biggleswade, his latest "Omarians." 
 This was too much. "They have not enough 
 stufif among them," I protested, "to make a clout 
 
 iSi
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 for the left shoe of old FitzGerald, whom your 
 father and I knew by heart in India before they 
 were born." So Stephen Leagrave and I don't 
 agree on the most modern poets ; we don't quar- 
 rel, either, for he is well bred. 
 
 Charles, for all I can see, is organising a cer- 
 tain defeat for himself, but I know nothing of 
 election tactics. 
 
 Your loving brother, 
 
 Richard. 
 
 P.S. — You may discount what I have been 
 saying about Stephen L. to any reasonable ex- 
 tent. Strike off from twenty to thirty per cent. 
 if you like. The confident polish of the home 
 ofificial has a peculiar effect in rubbing us old 
 Indians the wrong way. Stephen is a scholar, 
 and not pig-headed when you reason with him. 
 I have just made him admit that one of Tenny- 
 son's later minor poems, a pretty late one, which 
 I fancy the general public never cared for, is as 
 absolute a piece of workmanship as can be found 
 in any modern author for language, verse, and 
 felicity, and that no other man could have done 
 it. Now guess which it is, and you may take 
 three guesses. R. E. 
 
 152
 
 XXII. 
 
 From Miss Elizabeth Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, 
 to Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarne. 
 
 Good morning, Dickory. How do you find 
 yourself to-day? Well, I trust. You need never 
 trouble to be ill, thank you. Illness is a grave 
 fault and one it would go against my conscience 
 to tolerate in you for a moment unless it gave 
 me the chance of keeping my hand in as sick 
 nurse. And of me in that capacity you had best 
 beware. I should treat you very harshly, forc- 
 ing a new-old book upon you every day and re- 
 fusing, without consulting the patient, all gar- 
 den-party invitations that the Bucklands might 
 afford. Ordination only should compel male 
 attendance at a garden-party. Have you ever 
 noticed the sown broadcast smile — pathetic al- 
 most in its want of focus and concentration — 
 which the typical clergy assume at a garden- 
 party? 
 
 Why are tiresome Mrs. Mammon people even 
 yet more tiresome and impossible when under a 
 tree than when under a roof? Is failure to ad- 
 just themselves to environment at the root of it? 
 And does a garden full of women in garden- 
 party attire vaguely expressing admiration for 
 
 153
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 their hostess's shrubberies and flower-beds make 
 you long to hybernate? It does me. First Per- 
 son Represented: "What a charming effect: 
 pink geranium and white viola. I wish my 
 gardener, &c., &c." Second Person Repre- 
 sented (languidly and with eyes at the back of 
 her head, as otherwise the charming effect has 
 not come into her line of vision) : "Very, very 
 charming. Mrs. Bowanbore has such exquisite 
 taste. Everything is so perfectly kept. (With 
 sudden vivacity) Oh, Mrs. Bowanbore, we were 
 just saying, &c., &c." Richard, how deadly, 
 deadly dull to hear people applaud what they 
 don't admire. Please I will fall asleep and dream 
 of something real till they have quite done. 
 
 Would you have me try Christian Science 
 upon Laura's huffs or upon her rheumatic gout 
 — which, however, she now says is not rheumatic 
 gout at all but neuritis — "A far more likely com- 
 plaint for me to suffer from, Elizabeth, after all 
 this strain." I don't think Christian Science 
 moves huffy temper. The prefacing formula of 
 
 huffy folk is "I am not annoyed, but still " 
 
 The persistent disavowal of annoyance accord- 
 ing to Christian Science doctrine should dispel 
 it, whilst in reality the disavowal seems to feed 
 the distemper. Mrs. Vivian's friend, Lady 
 Clementine Mure, has, I admit, bettered her 
 state by conversion. A forlorn, kind, backbone- 
 less creature of the sort only comfortable under 
 a desi)otic form of government, after that very 
 decisive and slightly tyrannical Mr. Mure died 
 
 154
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 she drifted aimlessly till a Christian Scientist 
 took her in tow. When her husband had no 
 further use for her services she was thrown out 
 of work, poor soul. (Maud Mure carries the re- 
 butting of her mother's good offices to the point 
 of seeming to resent Lady Clementine's exist- 
 ence.) And what excuse in the way of vagaries 
 and depression of spirit is not to be made for the 
 unemployed? The old divine who said he had 
 known a man come home in high spirits from a 
 funeral merely because he had had the manage- 
 ment of it, had the rare gift of seeing cause and 
 effect. A fanatical cidtc is essential to the happi- 
 ness of women like Lady Clementine. Those of 
 her type and of an earlier generation found com- 
 fort, I imagine, in sitting under Evangelical 
 clergymen and strewing tracts on the efficacy of 
 prayer in paltry mundane matters. (How ag- 
 gressively determined to have their own way 
 with Fate some folk are.) For the derivation of 
 the term Christian Science, I give you Mrs. 
 Vivian's explanation : "They call it Christian 
 Science thought it's neither scientific nor Chris- 
 tian, because two negatives make an affirma- 
 tive." 
 
 But now to business. You were always oblig- 
 ing, and may I ask you to do just one commis- 
 sion for me? Box your own ears, dear (not 
 brutally). That postscript to your last letter 
 can't go unpunished. Had you told me to guess 
 by word of mouth and while I could drag the 
 riddle's solution from you after five minutes' sus- 
 
 155
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 pense, I should have looked upon it as a trial of 
 patience. But to be told by post to guess, and 
 left for days to seethe in tormenting perplexity, 
 I could not have believed it of you, and the deed 
 throws a new and lurid light upon your charac- 
 ter. And to treat me so, for whom you profess 
 a very especial kindness. Heaven defend those 
 Avhom you do not pretend to favour. That they 
 may die before they meet you will be my prayer. 
 And the expense, too, to which you put me. We 
 have no Tennyson here, and curiosity drove me 
 to the bookseller and brought me back again 
 the richer by a fat emerald-green volume, and 
 the poorer by ys. 6d. Refund the money, please. 
 Not that I meant to guess. Canny folk, like 
 your sister, not only never sign anonymous let- 
 ters, but never guess without sufficient evidence 
 for the forming of a correct opinion. It was 
 Goethe, I believe, who said that women have 
 very weak ideas about poetry and think of 
 nothing but the feelings and the words and the 
 verses. I would not for the world put the dead 
 in the wrong — an even baser treachery than 
 speaking ill of the dead — and I should be sorry 
 for Goethe's verdict to find itself challenged by 
 any brilliant poetical criticism of mine. So take 
 notice that I offer what comes as proof, not con- 
 futation, of Goethe's dictum. 
 
 The Tennyson poems, latterly published, that 
 I think T like best are, the "Hymn to the Sun," 
 with which ends "Akbar's Dream" (write a life 
 of your friend Akbar yourself), "Silent Voices," 
 
 156
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 and "Early Spring." Don't you think the 
 "Hymn to the Sun" exquisite? It seems to me 
 born, not made, and excellence of workmanship 
 or workmanship at all is not suggested by it. If 
 we can separate the thought and the phrase, has 
 not phrasing failed to go as far as felicity of 
 phrasing can? The two should be indissoluble 
 — the word the only complete manifestation of 
 the thought; as a snowdrop can be only mani- 
 fested in the form of a snowdrop, a rose in the 
 form of a rose. 
 
 On Stephen's return to London I will preach 
 the Gospel of Wordsworth, Coleridge's "Friend 
 of the wise and teacher of the good." I may not 
 get Stephen to endorse Matthew Arnold's 
 eulogy, but I will make him admit here and there 
 a measure of beauty which brings Wordsworth 
 near Shakespeare. There is one thing, though, 
 for which I don't forgive Wordsworth. The 
 sonnet — "Why art Thou Silent," that enshrines 
 the lovely imagery of a "forsaken bird's nest 
 filled with snow," should come from a man to a 
 woman, or a woman to a man. Not from man 
 to — I suppose — Coleridge. 
 
 But who can throw a stone at Stephen if he 
 has passed Wordsworth by? The days don't 
 grow longer, and the roll of poet names does. 
 Further than ever removed are the times "When 
 all found readers who could find a rhyme." Paid 
 readers will soon be a necessity and Maecenas 
 will subsidise his protege, not to produce verse, 
 but to read his patron's. As to quality, for an- 
 
 157
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 other Golden Age of Literature shall we have 
 to wait for another Age of Calamit}'? Does the 
 Tree of Letters need a winter, a black frost, a 
 severe check, a stern repression? The reign of 
 Mary came before the reign of Elizabeth. The 
 triumphal Elizabethan days followed the days of 
 persecution, which drove many scholars out of 
 the kingdom and made the pursuit of learning 
 dangerous to those at home. Were a law 
 passed making death the punishment of publica- 
 tion, or even composition, on the law's repeal — 
 perhaps sooner — we might again get something 
 supremely poetic. 
 
 Stephen improves on acquaintance, and it looks 
 as if a very real young woman, Blanche Vivian, 
 takes sufBcient interest in him to shake him into 
 activity. Blanche is delightful — frank and unaf- 
 fected as a pleasant boy, and yet not a hoyden. 
 I can't agree with Mrs. Carstairs in her condem- 
 nation of the young girl of the present day and 
 her pastimes. I would rather see, as more 
 hygienic, time spent in cycling and playing 
 hockey than spent in painting china tiles and 
 playing the piano — sheer waste of energy when 
 there is no prospect of excelling in paint-box 
 or piano work. 
 
 To return to Stephen, his faineant manner is, 
 I think, a pose, and he schools himself to indif- 
 ference. He does not lack grit, and if some 
 pretty stories cherished by Colonel Leagrave of 
 his school days tell truly, he has pluck enough to 
 be no disgrace to his "for valour" decorated 
 
 158
 
 Etchingham Letters 
 
 father. And I like his courtesy. "Know, dear 
 brother, that Courtesy is one of the qualities 
 of God Himself, who, of His Courtesy giveth 
 His sun and His rain to the just and the un- 
 just; and Courtesy is the sister of Charity, 
 the which quencheth hate and keepeth love 
 alive." 
 
 While looking into Maeterlinck I was re- 
 minded by his chapter on silence of the story 
 given in the "Fioretti," of King Louis and 
 Brother Giles. When King Louis met Brother 
 Giles the two spoke not the one to the other, but 
 knelt down and embraced with "signs of love 
 and tenderness." And when the Brothers up- 
 braided Brother Giles for discourtesy in having 
 refrained from good words, he answered that 
 looking on each other's hearts they read each 
 other far better than had they spoken with their 
 mouths, and sought with the weakness of hu- 
 man speech to show forth the feelings of the 
 heart. But in what Maeterlinck says of silence, 
 etiquette and habit have to be taken into ac- 
 count. I dare to be silent while watching En- 
 ticknap's potting operations, nor feel as if with- 
 out a frantic wrench and speedy flight by the 
 vehicle of speech we should find ourselves on the 
 threshold of "the great kingdom of the dead," or 
 a realm mystic as Omar Khayyam verse. Possi- 
 bly though, Enticknap on such occasions is not 
 equally unmoved, and, in his queer guttural 
 sounds and half-articulate expression of disgust 
 at the cussedness of things, we have his efiforts 
 
 m
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 to escape from the uncanniness fast closing 
 him in. 
 
 Do you know Archbishop Seeker's first rule 
 of conversation — silence? 
 
 Colonel Newton is making his cure at Carls- 
 bad, and I can't help wishing he might continue 
 the process till the end of the chapter. Alice, 
 unmolested, has gathered herself together more 
 or less. She mobilised her forces sufficiently to 
 dine with us last night. She still looks young, 
 and she still looks as if it were possible that lif« 
 might have something better to give her than 
 the power of enduring distress. Mr. Shipley, for 
 the time being, has taken up his abode with her, 
 and the plan works well. I think she would be 
 glad for him to marry, although his marriage 
 would take him from her to a certain extent. 
 The other day she was saying that she wished he 
 might find himself a wife if only he found the 
 right woman — "someone who would care for 
 him most for what is best in him, though his 
 merits might interfere with social success and 
 the amassing of riches." Alice admires excel- 
 lence — admires it far more than she admires the 
 diamonds with which Colonel Newton, when 
 first they were married, stored an iron safe of 
 dungeon-like proportions. She has never learnt 
 to endure the way he ill-uses his dogs and bullies 
 his subordinates. I found her once crying over 
 the parting with her dog. I asked her why she 
 sent him away. "Because Hubert kicks him 
 when he is out of humour with me," she said. 
 
 i6o
 
 The Etcliingham Letters 
 
 Colonel Newton used to think to allay her indig- 
 nation with presents, and now the presents have 
 ceased, and I think she is glad of it. (Who is it 
 who said "Death, alone of all the gods, loves not 
 
 a gift"?) 
 
 Laura is happily occupied in finding reasons 
 for not accepting your invitation to Tolcarne. 
 Certainly, at her pace of travel-preparation, if 
 we mean to cross the Border any day this month, 
 we must before going north turn neither south, 
 east, nor west. She is one of the people who 
 prepare and provide for every possible contin- 
 gency, and to avoid minutes of trifling discom- 
 fort, spend hours in painful precautionary meas- 
 ures. Harry, whilst admitting that camel-corps 
 business is child's play compared to the getting 
 of Laura from London to Edinburgh, bids me 
 bear in mind that Land-Transport has been 
 acknowledged by high authority to be a most 
 difficult question. He tells me that in view of 
 the coming campaign he feels bound to remind 
 us that it is thought unadvisable for a convoy to 
 occupy more than one mile of road, which would 
 allow it to consist of from 60 to 180 wagons. 
 "And on no account forget that if oxen are 
 worked in larger companies that 80 wagons you 
 will find yourself in grazing difficulties, Eliza- 
 beth. Leave your pack elephants undisturbed if 
 possible from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. daily. Remember 
 that Blake, when loaded up by Laura, will take 
 about as much room as four loaded camels. 
 Send Blair and AthoU if sick or wounded along 
 
 161
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 the Line of Communication as quickly as possi- 
 ble to the Base," &c., &c., &c. He recommends 
 Mrs. Carstairs for Intelligence Department 
 work, since there is nothing sanguine about her 
 disposition, it being rather of that calm and dis- 
 trustful order which is acknowledged to be most 
 efficacious for such employment. He promises, 
 too, a list of necessaries. The necessaries to in- 
 clude hand hatchets, felling axes, lashing ropes, 
 shovels, crowbars, &C.'', &c. In discoursing after 
 this fashion he amuses himself, then he strokes 
 Trelawney's coat meditatively, and, poor Harry, 
 sighs. He is taking his repulse to heart. 
 
 I shall be thankful, as far as the background 
 goes, to get away from London. The long, hot 
 days in London are very long and hot, and when 
 Pan sleeps there is no hush of omnibuses. I hope 
 that change of air will do Laura good. She has 
 unfortunately for herself lost lier voice, and so, 
 when she is huffed, we don't hear much about it ; 
 a state of affairs Harry likens to artillery with- 
 out ammunition. Since Laura's dumbness su- 
 pervened, Admiral Tidenham, whom previously 
 I had on her behalf cultivated, is unavailable as a 
 safety-valve. I thought there was no safer har- 
 bourage for her lamentations and grievances 
 than Admiral Tidenham's car-trumpet. She 
 tempered them for transmission by ear-trumpet. 
 (You can't with graceful ease accuse those of 
 your own household of heinous offences down an 
 ear-trumpet.") Admiral Tidenham is a kind old 
 fellow, and his talk of armoured cruisers, food 
 
 163
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 supply in war, Russian naval expenditure, of- 
 fends no one that I know but Charles. Sir Au- 
 gustus, rumours report, is at Pampesford-Royal, 
 and contemplating alterations of the house. If 
 ever there was a dwelling deserving of the house 
 agents' objectionable term of mansion, I feel it is 
 Pampesford-Royal. 
 
 Rumour further says that Mr. Biggleswade is 
 now at Oxbridge. (The Gainsworthys are his 
 despised relations.) If Cynthia sees him, his 
 rather impertinent attentions may, by force of 
 contrast, do Harry a good turn. "Put your 
 mind at rest ; you have made it plain to me that 
 you have no prejudice against sin, and you may 
 as well let the subject drop," Mrs. Vivian told 
 him when last I saw them together. "I see from 
 the publisher's advertisements that you are in 
 eruption again," she went on to say, and further 
 informed him that she thought she preferred the 
 Elizabethan "frankness" to his. "Yours, you see. 
 Vicar (the Vicar form of address she knows is 
 abhorrent to him), seems an anachronism, and 
 theirs was in keeping with the manners of the 
 age. The coarseness of their verse and sports 
 and jokes. Hugo Ennismore says, tallied." Be- 
 fore he appeared upon the scene she had told me 
 that the title of his new volume is "Love in a 
 Mist," and she wished there was more mist. 
 
 What you say makes me disposed to learn 
 piquet. I have gone the length of looking into 
 the book of the game, and the first rules I came 
 across were those that I wish Providence had 
 
 16.3
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 adopted when framing the rules of life: "Cards 
 accidentally dropped may be retaken." "If the 
 cards are dealt wrongly the error may De recti- 
 fied before either player has taken up his hand." 
 The following would tie the hands and tongues, 
 of meddlers and busybodies : "A bystander call- 
 ing attention to any error or oversight and 
 thereby affecting the score, may be called upon 
 to pay all stakes and debts of the player whose 
 interest he has prejudicially afifecte'd." Poor 
 Mrs. Carstairs, poor countless old women, were 
 this rule of piquet the rule of human existence. 
 "For he that hath to him shall be given, &c.," 
 seems the idea of piquet as of life. Is piquet the 
 sword-game, do you think? 
 
 At last, at Alice Newton's bidding, I have 
 read "The Secret Rose." Owing to your 
 brotherly munificence I am the owner of sundry 
 Indian necklaces, strings of cut and uncut, 
 many-hued stones. If among these I threw a 
 tassel or two of seed-pearls, of gold-dust, of am- 
 ber, of jade, of crystal, as much. Sir, as you will ; 
 if to these I added a raven's feather and the 
 feather of a swan, "a lily pale," a damask rose 
 (crimson), a sprig of funeral yew; and if then I 
 could dream of a rainbow reflected in silver mir- 
 ror and stars reflected in cypress-circled pool, I 
 should get the feeling that I had read "The Se- 
 cret Rose." You would esteem the curse of 
 Hanrahan the Red. I quite enter into the senti- 
 ment of it and the insufficient reasons for the 
 various damnations please me. In certain moods 
 
 164
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 I feel disposed to call down fire from Heaven 
 and consume someone, because in my mind's eye 
 I always see her in a bonnet of an unbecoming 
 hue, or upon another because, when I am impa- 
 tient to be gone, he is rather longer over his 
 dinner than is a dog. 
 
 Which day do you come to London? It must 
 be before we go. Don't let us have for stage di- 
 rections again. Exit Elizabeth, Enter Sir Rich- 
 ard. I really must see you, and there are plans to 
 discuss. The present situation is untenable, and 
 somebody must retire or show a change of front. 
 But I won't give an opinion in family conclave 
 till I have heard yours. Harry says, "Chuck the 
 whole thing up," by which he means "chuck up" 
 Hans Place, and he speaks of a flat at Albert 
 G te or in Sloane Gardens for the two of us, or if 
 alone, his old quarters in Duke Street. I, how- 
 ever, am partly responsible for the rent of this 
 house, which we took on a seven-fourteen- 
 twenty-one years' lease when Laura seemed to 
 wish the future to be a fixture as far as we could 
 make it one ; and I do not feel free to leave with 
 a month's notice. We might let the house. 
 Houses let in this part of the world, and Laura 
 could put herself and Cynthia into a smaller 
 dwelling-place if she would. Aunt Jane says, 
 "You and dear Harry have always a home in 
 Chester Square." But nothing would induce 
 Harry to go there. Aunt Jane is very kind, but 
 her sympathy and partisanship have of late be- 
 come rather too marked for the preservation of 
 
 i6s
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 peace. Since her talebearing old maid learnt 
 from Blake that "her ladyship wants so much 
 waiting on that she can't do 'Miss Etchingham 
 justice," Aunt Jane's bearing is that of benevo- 
 lent aunt to Cinderella ill-treated by a step- 
 mother. "Dear Elizabeth was always used to' 
 this and that," she tells Laura pointedly, and 
 Laura in consequence no longer considers Aunt 
 Jane in need of a champion, and shamefully 
 neglected by every member of the family but 
 herself. 
 
 Now write "before three suns" and tell me 
 which is your Tennyson poem, and let the letter 
 be a "best selected" letter. Those letters that 
 can be read aloud to Laura or carried round to 
 Chester Square are nothing very much to me. I 
 like the letters from you that I understand, but 
 which, did they fall into the enemy's or the un- 
 initiated's hands, would provoke the enemy or 
 uninitiated to say in irritated accents. "What in 
 the world is all this about?" A letter, not of com- 
 merce, should but be possible from its sender to 
 its recipient, and should bear the impress of both 
 like a gift. 
 
 Farewell, Dickory, "Yours in that which no 
 waters can quench, no time forget, nor distance 
 wear away." 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 P.S. — Blair and Atholl have not been quite 
 themselves, but are now convalescent. They 
 send you a message : "In thought we gently ruf- 
 
 iCG
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 fle ourselves against Sir Richard's hand." Tre- 
 lawney, cat of my heart, on hearing this, and not 
 to be outdone in dutiful affection, said, "When 
 I think of Sir Richard I purr involuntarily." 
 
 167
 
 XXIII. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchinghani, Tolcarnc, to Miss 
 Eli::abcth Etchinghani, 83 Hans Place. 
 
 My dear Elizabetpi, — Speak not of garden 
 parties, or rather do, for Mrs. Follett is much 
 comforted by your opinion of them. Last week 
 she was set upon in intervals of tea and croquet, 
 within about half an hour, by six other clergy- 
 men's wives, who wanted to know exactly why 
 that excellent young man Mr. Weekes had gone 
 away; likewise Mr. Follett's opinions on ritual. 
 She gave them six dififerent and widely incon- 
 sistent answers, and hopes they will be edified 
 when they compare notes. 
 
 We agree pretty well about Tennyson's latest 
 poems, I think. But the one I had in mind is 
 not of that set ; it dates from several years be- 
 fore. I mean the lines to Virgil written at the 
 f request of the Mantuans. (Stephen Leagrave 
 
 must needs write Vergil with an c. I will not 
 alter a name fixed in English literature for cen- 
 ' turics, because the true Latin form has turned 
 
 out to be Vergilius. any more than I will write 
 Muhammad for Mahomet or Quran for Koran 
 when I am writing English.) There is to my 
 thinking no more perfect example of Tenny- 
 
 16S
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 son's mature art. A novel and impressive met- 
 rical form, which would alone have gone far to 
 make a new poet's reputation, is the least of its 
 perfections. It is full of Virgilian scholarship 
 and exquisite Virgilian echoes, and there are 
 lines in it which for pure harmony cannot be sur- 
 passed even in "Lycidas." This, for example, 
 which I see people are beginning to use as a 
 quotation : 
 
 "All the charm of all the Muses 
 
 often flowering in a lonely word." 
 
 Still more choice, perhaps, is this : 
 
 "Summers of the snakeless meadow, 
 unlaborious earth and oarless sea." 
 
 And then the delicate conceit of the Italian form 
 brought in at the end ; something of risk in it, if 
 you will, but such risk as only the consummate 
 masters of language know how to take and use : 
 
 "I salute thee, Mantovano, 
 
 I that loved thee since my day began, 
 Wielder of the stateliest measure 
 
 ever moulded by the lips of man." 
 
 Just so would Virgil, if called on to celebrate a 
 Greek poet, have delighted to play with some 
 rarely sounding Greek name like his Actios 
 Orithyia, or close on some fuller half-exotic ca- 
 dence like that of his wonderful line — 
 
 "armatumque auro circumspicit Oriona." 
 
 Not that the lines to Virgil are Tennyson's 
 
 169
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 greatest work, or in the strict sense a great 
 poem. But they are a jewel of workmanship in 
 a difficult kind, absolute in its kind, and such 
 as Tennyson alone, in our time, could have 
 wrought with such a combination of high dig- 
 nity and minute felicity. 
 
 Now and then I wonder why Tennyson did 
 not strive to emulate Virgil and Milton in their 
 use of proper names to ornament verse. Per- 
 haps he felt that Milton had done it in English 
 once for all. Mr. Swinburne, I suppose, is of 
 the same opinion. He knows Victor Hugo's 
 work intimately, as Tennyson did not ; and I be- 
 lieve Victor Hugo is the only modern poet who 
 has habitually aimed at that sort of efifect. It 
 would be unkind to ask Mr. Swinburne whether 
 he thinks Victor Hugo succeeded, as unkind as 
 to ask us oldish fellows, who were carried ofi our 
 legs by "Songs before Sunrise" a quarter of a 
 century ago, to go back on it now and pick out 
 the inequalities. My own feeling, with submis- 
 sion to French critics, is that Victor Hugo did 
 not succeed with his proper names on the whole. 
 They are imposing only by chance ; he could 
 not handle them with Virgil's or Milton's per- 
 fect choice and sureness, and sometimes he gives 
 us nothing but a jaw-breaking catalogue for the 
 space of two or three couplets. Leconte de Lisle 
 (a poet whom English scholars ought to be bet- 
 ter acquainted with) occasionally gives signs that 
 he could have achieved more in this line if he 
 chose. All this without prejudice to maintain- 
 
 170
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 ing old father Hugo's fame, in other respects, 
 contra niundum. Have you still that precious, 
 thumbed, bedamped, bedusted, pencil-marked, 
 travel-beaten volume of the "Legende des 
 Siecles," in which we read his masterpieces to- 
 gether? I shall never get so much pleasure from 
 the final ne varietur edition : the pieces are all 
 shuffled about, as I found the pictures at the 
 Louvre, and I can't lay my hand on an old fa- 
 vourite without a hunt. But Lord ! (I thank Mr. 
 Pepys daily for that convenient form of break- 
 ing off) to think how fev^^ English people know 
 that French poetry is a kingdom of itself, and 
 richly worth taking the trouble to enter into. 
 Perhaps M. Rostand may be the destined mis- 
 sionary. So many English folk have bought 
 "Cyrano de Bergerac" that I suppose a good 
 many must be reading it who never read any 
 French verse before. And M. Rostand's verse — 
 leaving it to the French critics to settle the pre- 
 cise degree of excellence — is certainly very good. 
 Maeterlinck, Maeterlinck, and Maeterlinck ! 
 Stephen Leagrave has been preaching him to 
 Margaret and me. We feel rebellious. There 
 are pretty things, some fine ones, and Maeter- 
 linck has doubtless made a manner of his own. 
 But can you believe that this modern mysticism 
 will come to more than a curious literary phase 
 to be chronicled in the school books of the later 
 twentieth century? Real speculative mysticism 
 is lofty and splendid while it holds together — 
 and perhaps more of it is true than the formal 
 
 171
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 philosophers allow. In decay it is odious. By 
 no means is it the case that "/« morceaux en sont 
 tons." The bits, when it breaks up, relapse into 
 disgusting superstition. I have seen "The Se- 
 cret Rose," too ; it gives me more pleasure than 
 Maeterhnck. And I don't see why it is not quite 
 as good work. I believe, however, that they do 
 these things better in the East, and I doubt if the 
 clever young men of our day can get into any- 
 thing but a backwater by competing with the 
 East or even the Catholic Middle Ages. 
 
 Piquet does seem to be connected with the 
 Italian picchc — which became pique in French, as 
 for us the equivalent spade became the suit of 
 spades ; but the connexion is none too clear. I 
 can only refer you to Cavendish's historical in- 
 troduction. 
 
 The enclosed letter from Jem will have some 
 interest for you. I am not sorry about Cynthia. 
 She may appreciate a gentleman better after 
 having to suffer a pretentious cad. I add a 
 translation of the curse. 
 
 Our brother Charles is ofT to command his 
 fate, if he can, in Dampshire. After this week 
 I am free for London when you please. Let me 
 have your orders accordingly. Margaret is 
 keen on hearing some good music ; there are not 
 even any musical people here. The Follets 
 would like to be, but have no time to keep it up. 
 
 Your loving brother, 
 
 Richard. 
 
 172
 
 XXIV. 
 
 (Enclosed in No. XXIII.) 
 
 From Janws Etchingham, Silvertoe College, 
 Oxbridge, to Sir Richard Etchingham. 
 
 My dear Sir Richard, — Our young friend 
 Arthur's work will do, I think. When I was at 
 Eton last week — a mighty pretty ride from Ox- 
 bridge — Lytewell let me see some composition 
 of his, which was really well turned, and showed 
 a good grip of the language for his age. 
 
 I have been meeting another young friend of 
 yours at the Gainsworthys', a Miss Leagrave — 
 immature, but pleasing so far as she goes, and 
 she seemed disposed to expand. I dare say she 
 was hampered by the formal, old-fashioned ways 
 of her well-meaning hosts. They bristle with 
 prejudices and find something to be shocked at 
 in every new person who makes their acquaint- 
 ance, unless he or she comes to them with some 
 sort of reputation, in which case they assume 
 with the most touching simplicity that it must be 
 all right. So they tolerate, or more than toler- 
 ate, that intolerable ass and impostor Big- 
 gleswade, whom Aristophanes would have 
 called [Marginal note by Sir R. E. Here 
 
 173
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 follow some epithets which, being Greek, you 
 could not read, nor should I recommend most 
 of them for your reading if you could. So I have 
 cut olT those few lines at the bottom of the page.] 
 
 Pity that such corruptions breed in the sun of 
 learning at times. The beast was rather offen- 
 sively attentive to Miss Leagrave. I am bound 
 to say for her that she seemed to dislike it thor- 
 oughly; her mind is unformed, but I guess her 
 instincts are pretty sound. If Mrs. Gainsworthy 
 had been a person of any gumption she would 
 have rescued the poor girl. But she smiled and 
 looked on fatuously, no doubt supposing that 
 Miss Leagrave was much honoured by the con- 
 versation of a distinguished author. What 
 d d idiots good people can be ! 
 
 Blunham and I have been cursing the com- 
 mon dog for the last fortnight. Hunter, one of 
 our promising scholars (a history man, so I don't 
 see much of his work myself), was out cycling 
 with Blunham, and as they were coming home a 
 big loafing village dog turned right across 
 Hunter's wheel and brought him down with a 
 broken collar-bone. Wheeling, like mountain- 
 eering, has some unavoidable accidents besides 
 the (n -f i) avoidable ones. Lucky it was not 
 Blunham, who is in for the schools this term, 
 both for himself and for the College ; and it was 
 one of the first remarks Hunter made, which 
 does him credit. He is a cheerful man, and has 
 been finding amusement in learning to do as 
 much as he can v/ith his left hand, I suggestecj 
 
 174
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 a trial of Leonardo da Vinci's trick-writing, re- 
 versed from right to left, to be read in a mirror ; 
 and he finds it really comes easier to the left 
 hand that way. Blunham and I revisited that 
 village within a few days and found the dog as 
 fat and well-liking as could be. He was too 
 large to be run over, and seemed not to have 
 minded at all. So we could only relieve our feel- 
 ings and Hunter's with a curse. I got it a little 
 touched up by Shipley one day when we met 
 in town ; of course he would have done it better. 
 Still, it may amuse you and Mr. Follett. 
 
 Incipit excommunicatio canina. 
 
 Maledictus sit canis ille impudentissimus qui 
 scholarem nostrum de rota eversit. 
 
 Maledictus sit cum omnibus malis canibus qui 
 a principio mundi maledicti sunt. 
 
 Maledictus sit cum canibus Samaritanis qui 
 carnes reginae lezabel comederunt. 
 
 Maledictus sit cum latratore Anubi et ceteris 
 daemonibus cynocephalis quot unquam in 
 Aegypto latraverunt. 
 
 Procul sint ab ipso omnes benedictiones quas 
 boni canes meriti sunt in caelo vel terra. 
 
 Minime videat annos Argi, neque cum angelis 
 ambulet sicut canis Tobiae. 
 
 Maledictus sit per canes caelestes Sirium et 
 Procyonem et Canes Venaticos. 
 
 Maledictus sit in triplici maledictione per Cer- 
 berum canem infernum et per tria capita eius. 
 
 Maledictus sit coram domina regina et coram 
 
 I/O
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 comitatu per omnes constitutiones de capistris 
 imponendis. 
 
 Maledictus sit etiam per omnia rotabilia quae 
 facit Dominus, per primum mobile firmamenti et 
 per gyrationes eiiis, per Stellas, per planetas, et 
 per polum, per solem, per lunam, per terram, et 
 per omnium angelorum potentiam qui revolu- 
 tiones ipsorum regunt. 
 
 Maledictus sit in ventorum circulis et in oceani 
 gurgitibus. 
 
 Maledictus sit per rotam motricem universi 
 quae est materia et per rotam directricem quae 
 est spiritus et per catenam quae est ipsorum liar- 
 monia praestabilita. 
 
 Maledictus sit per rotas animalium alatorum 
 quae vidit Ezechiel propheta et per eorum volu- 
 bilitatem in saecula. 
 
 Opprimat eum Fortunae improbae rota et 
 semper in infimam sortem deiciat. 
 
 Torqueatur super rotam Ixionis et frangatur 
 sicut rotae curruum Pharaonis. 
 
 Maledictus sit in orbe rotundo ac prefecto 
 maledictionum. Fiat, fiat. 
 
 Explicit. 
 
 Otherwise the chief news of this ever-bcing- 
 reformcd University is that we have been with- 
 out a burning question for two whole terms. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 James Etchingham. 
 
 176
 
 XXIVa. 
 
 (Enclosed in No. XXIII.) 
 
 Translation. 
 
 Here beginneth the excommunication of the 
 Dog. 
 
 Cursed be this dog of infinite wickedness who 
 upset our scholar from his wheel. 
 
 Cursed be he with all evil dogs which have 
 been cursed from the beginning of the world. 
 
 Cursed be he with the dogs of Samaria which 
 ate the body of queen Jezebel. 
 
 Cursed be he with the barking god Anubis 
 and all other dog-headed devils that ever barked 
 in Egypt. 
 
 May all the blessings earned by good dogs in 
 heaven or earth be far from him. 
 
 Let him in no wise see the age of Argus, nor 
 walk with angels like Tobit's dog. 
 
 Cursed be he by the heavenly dogs Sirius and 
 Procyon and by the Hunting Dogs. 
 
 Cursed be he with a threefold curse by the 
 hell-hound Cerberus and his three heads. 
 
 Cursed be he before our Lady the Queen and 
 before the County Council by all and every the 
 muzzling orders. 
 
 177
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Cursed be he likewise by all wheeling things 
 which the Lord hath made, by the prime mover 
 of the firmament and his rotation, by the stars, 
 the planets, the pole, the sun, the moon, and the 
 earth, and by the power of all the angels who 
 govern their revolutions. 
 
 Cursed be he in cyclones and cursed in whirl- 
 pools. 
 
 Cursed be he by the driving wheel of the uni- 
 verse, which is matter, and by the steering wheel, 
 which is spirit, and by the chain, which is the 
 pre-established harmony thereof. 
 
 Cursed be he for ever by the wheels of the 
 winged living creatures which Ezekiel the 
 prophet saw and by the swiftness of their rolling. 
 
 Let the wheel of Fortune in her wrath crush 
 him and ever cast him down to the meanest fate. 
 
 Let him be whirled upon Lxion's wheel and 
 broken even as the wheels of Pharaoh's chariots. 
 
 Cursed be he in a whole and perfect round of 
 cursing. So be it. A true version. — R. E. 
 
 178
 
 XXV. 
 
 From Miss Eliaabcth Etchingham, The Hotel, 
 Glenfearn, N.B., to Sir Richard Etchingham, 
 83 Hans Place, London. 
 
 Wonders, Dickory, will never cease ; we have 
 actually survived the hardships of a journey from 
 London to Edinburgh and on from Edinburgh 
 to Glenfearn. Certainly we have left from 
 Laura's point of view most necessaries of life be- 
 hind us, but as we have not left ourselves, that 
 need not trouble you — who need Hans Place 
 house-room. I really did think we should never 
 get Laura off unless we dug her out with a spade. 
 She seemed as firmly rooted to the ground as if 
 she were a tree. It was, you know, that last visit 
 from Sir Augustus that finally set her in motion. 
 What arguments can he, of all people, have 
 brought to bear to get her to the starting point? 
 The matter is full of mystery ; however, while I 
 can see the hills, range beyond range, still topped 
 with snow, and breathe this delightful moor- 
 scented air, I feel as if Sir Augustus and all his 
 works weren't worth the fraction of a moment's 
 thought. 
 
 I am glad to escape, and waste time wonder- 
 ing why any one lives in London who can live 
 elsewhere. Do you remember in "Fumifugium" 
 
 179
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 the story of the merchant who had "so strange 
 an antipathy to the air of London" that when he 
 came to the Exchange he "within an hour or 
 two grew extremely indisposed," and was 
 "forced to take horse and ride as for his life till 
 once more he came into the fields"? My mortal 
 frame is not so sensitive to maleficent influence 
 as was this gentleman's, but I think my spirit's 
 antipathy to the air is unconquerable. John 
 Evelyn had no patience with the "presumptuous 
 smoke" which "spreads a yellowness upon our 
 choicest pictures and hangings," "kills our bees 
 and flowers," and "sticks on the hands of our fair 
 ladies and nicer dames." "Where is there such 
 coughing under Heaven as in the London 
 Churches?" he asks. London, he says, killed 
 Old Parr, and he likens the city to "the Suburbs 
 of Hell." 
 
 Glenfearn does not quite match my old recol- 
 lections. There is more snow upon the hills and 
 there is more water in the burns than I remem- 
 ber, and where I used to see scarlet hips and 
 haws wild white roses now are blowing. The 
 thicket of rose-briers at the head of the loch is 
 white with blossom, the whin on the brae glit- 
 ters in cloth-of-gold, and, as is seemly in Scot- 
 land, bluebells — "the azured harebell" like 
 Fidele's veins — are everywhere. 
 
 Crossing the border would not, T suppose, en- 
 able the Ethiopian to change his skin nor the 
 leopard his spots, and this side of Tweed Laura 
 is Laura still. The poor "Camelry," as Harry 
 
 1 80
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 christens Blake, has therefore been busily em- 
 ployed running to and fro on telegraph business 
 to the post-office — a queer dim little room in a 
 road-side cottage overshadowed by fir trees, its 
 whitewashed walls garlanded with Tropcoolum 
 Spcciosum. Things telegraphed for include 
 green glazed calico and a green lampshade to ex- 
 clude the light of day and night, a square of 
 mackintosh, "as her ladyship thinks now, M'm, 
 that the damp will rise when she sits out," a tray 
 on which to bring breakfast up-stairs that will 
 not crush beneath its weight the Breakfaster in 
 bed, beef-essence, peptonized cocoa and milk, 
 meat lozenges, a filter, &c., &c. Our stepmother 
 has already changed her room three times. In 
 the first room the noise kept her awake late, in 
 the second the light awoke her early, in the third 
 a most pestiferous (and, I fancy, imaginary) 
 odour prevented the closing of her eyes all night. 
 Blake was caught red-handed by Mrs. McPhail 
 pouring Condy's fluid into a gully outside this 
 last-mentioned room. Had Laura ordered the 
 breakfast to be thrown down the gully Mrs, Mc- 
 Phail's feelings would have suffered less. We 
 ran indeed, thanks to Laura's passion for disin- 
 fectants, a narrow risk of being turned out of 
 "The Hotel, Glenfearn," bag and baggage. 
 "That woman's fou o' fikes, I canna be fashed wi' 
 her. The drains was a' richt afore she cam — 
 naething short o' Scone Palace and a French 
 shaif wadd plase her," was what Mrs. McPhail 
 did not mean me to hear. However, I had not a 
 
 iSi
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 father in the diplomatic service and a brother in 
 the political department for nothing, and, though 
 our tenure is precarious, here we remain. 
 
 Laura, too, is slightly better content. Tlie 
 hotel omnibus yesterday brought a woman of 
 London aspect accompanied by many substan- 
 tial-looking trunks and an unsubstantial-looking 
 maid tottering under the weight of a big dress- 
 ing-case and a bigger dressing-bag. When 
 Laura found the new-comer's name to be Mrs. 
 Le Marchant and her address Lowndes Street, 
 dejection gave way to interest. Later in the day 
 I was thankful to see her venture so far as to 
 seat herself beside Mrs. Le Marchant on a bench 
 in the dank and diminutive garden of the inn — a 
 garden where a paling, a privet-hedge, and a 
 dilapidated water-butt concealed every vestige of 
 the view, which is wide and magnificent. The 
 Birds of a Feather fell almost immediately into 
 conversation, and talked on and on with decreas- 
 ing suspicion and increasing civility till nearly 
 dinner-time. "She seems to know a good many 
 people that we do," Laura told me afterwards, 
 with far more approbation in her tone than I had 
 heard since we left home ; and her "leddyship" 
 and her "leddyship's" latest find have now gone 
 to drive together in Mr. McPhail's largest 
 landau ; and on and on they will drive, the 
 eternal hills around them, too conversationally 
 occupied in the quest of mutual acquaintances to 
 see anything but each other's veils. 
 
 If you think it would not be indiscreet, you 
 
 182
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 might let Harry know that la dame de ses pensecs 
 is auspiciously sad. Her Oxbridge advent L;rcs 
 have done my dear Harry's cause good. Jem is 
 right about Mr. Biggleswade and right about 
 Mrs. Gainsworthy too. She is fatuously uncon- 
 scious of the obvious — of the obvious which was 
 not the obvious in her youth — as advancing 
 years and increasing bulk make many a worthy 
 woman. There are exceptions of course, but age 
 does dull women more than it dulls men. The 
 dullards of your sex at least retain some shred of 
 interest in their past, but those of mine seem to 
 become the next thing to comatose. What a 
 good fellow is that man of many jests but few 
 spoken words, Jem, He seems to have played 
 the friend in need to Cynthia once or twice, par- 
 ticularly once when Mrs. Gainsworthy sent her 
 home from some house where they were dininj,^ 
 under Mr. Biggleswade's sole escort, and Jem, 
 for all his shyness and avowed dislike of women's 
 company, voluntarily went too, Cynthia's in- 
 stincts are true enough, and I doubt that she will 
 be as easy to move in the marriage-way as, with 
 less evidence at my disposal, I judged. And for 
 this I thank Heaven. 
 
 In Edinburgh I paid a visit to one of the old 
 bookshops. I bought myself a copy of Hobbes' 
 "Leviathan." Tell me if you are an admirer of 
 Hobbes, but don't tell me I can get "Leviathan" 
 in "Morley's Universal Library." I see their 
 value, but I detest wonderful-at-the-money re- 
 prints, and would as soon read Hobbes in such 
 
 183
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 guise as see him himself portrayed in deer- 
 stalker and shooting-jacket. Then, to add to 
 your song-books, I bought a little second-hand 
 but not old book of Canadian songs, taken down 
 from the boatman. I can't suppose they will 
 satisfy your fastidious taste, but approach my gift 
 in a complacent attitude please, at all events. 
 The first in the book, ''A la claire Fontaine," 
 seems to me pretty — 
 
 " A la claire fontaine 
 M'en allant promener, 
 J'ai trouve I'eau si belle 
 Que je m'y suis baigne. 
 
 Fya longtemps que je t'aime, 
 Jamais je ne t'oublierai. 
 
 " Sur la plus haute branche 
 Le rossignol chantait, 
 Chante, rossignol, chante, 
 Toi qui as le cceur gai. 
 Chante, rossignol, chante, 
 Toi qui as le coeur gai: 
 Tu as le coeur a rire, 
 Moi je I'ai-t-a pleurer. 
 
 " J'ai perdu ma maitresse 
 Sans pouvoir la trouver. 
 Pour un bouquet de roses 
 Que je lui refusai. 
 
 Fya longtemps que je t'aime. 
 
 Jamais je ne t'oublierai." 
 
 And the tune of "A la claire Fontaine" is at- 
 Iractive. 
 
 184
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Still further did the Edinburgh bookseller 
 tempt me, and I bought a collection of old 
 Scotch songs. In England the song-makers are 
 in want of a "little language," and the Scotch 
 have the better of the southerners there. The 
 English are not quite happy in diminutives, and 
 to talk affectionate nonsense it is well to have 
 another tongue. 
 
 As to what you said once about the decorating 
 of English verse with proper names, do you 
 know Drayton's "Poly-Olbion?" Look into 
 "Poly-Olbion" when you return to Tolcarne. 
 You will find it beside the Crashaw in the library. 
 Drayton gives delightful pictures of birds and of 
 fishes, to say nothing of the descriptions of 
 "tracts, rivers, mountains, forests, and other 
 parts of this renowned isle of Great Britain." 
 
 And tell me this. Do you agree that for 
 melody pure and simple there is no English poet 
 that excels Crashaw when Crashaw is at his 
 best? Do you remember the lines entitled 
 "Love's Horoscope," and also the "Hymn of 
 the Nativity"? 
 
 " Proud World (said I) cease your contest, 
 And let the mighty Babe alone, 
 The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest, 
 
 Love's architecture is his own; 
 The Babe whose birth embraves this morn 
 Made His own bed ere He was born." 
 
 The St. Teresa lines, too, which Coleridge says 
 were in his mind when writing the second part 
 
 185
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 of "Christabel," have magic in their cadence. 
 And when you are about it tell me your opinion 
 of Henry Vaughan. 
 
 From Henry Vaughan and Crashaw, the mys- 
 tics, my thoughts turn to Alice Newton. Beg 
 Margaret to go and see her, or rather go your- 
 self. I think somehow she might get on better 
 with you than with Margaret. Margaret is both 
 too old and too young, and therefore too literal, 
 for the dovetailing of her sentiments with Alice's. 
 Alice was never matter-of-fact, and her troubles 
 have accentuated her taste for parable and meta- 
 phor, Vcxces du malhciir Vavait fait en quclque sorte 
 z'isminairc. That is what Vcxces dii malheiir is apt 
 to do if it has any thread of mysticism to work 
 upon. The Temple of Mysticism and the Cave 
 of Adullam I always fancy in the same street. 
 
 Last night's post brought me an ecstatic let- 
 ter from Minnie. "We are most sanguine. 
 Everyone is as cordial as possible, and it has 
 been quite a triumphal progress for Charles. Mr. 
 Baxter" (the Tory candidate and Lady Leyton's 
 nephew) "is ridiculously blind to the needs of 
 the times and to the fact that country electors 
 are not fossils. The poor man seems to tread, 
 too, on everyone's toes to an extent that would 
 be ludicrous if it was not pitiable. I am really 
 sorry for him, and his agent is most unpopular — 
 a regular tactless bear." ... "I have been 
 doing a lot myself, and am nearly dead ; but I 
 don't grudge it a bit. Women can do so much — 
 though I must say I think the Primrose League 
 
 i86
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 tactics perfectly shameful." Charles, she says, is 
 hourly receiving most flattering telegrams from 
 the leading lights of the Radical party. "It does 
 not do, of course, to be too sure, but I have not 
 the slightest doubt myself that the majority will 
 be enormous. The poor people are so touchingly 
 glad of sympathy and I am getting a great deal 
 of 'copy.' " Minnie winds up by saying that 
 Mrs. Potters is very kind and not half as vulgar 
 as she looks. Then in came a letter from Mrs. 
 Vivian, asking me if I see my way to going with 
 her to Marienbad next month. "Blanche goes 
 to Norway on her own account, and I want some 
 one to walk about with John. Come if you can, 
 and I won't trouble to look out for anyone else. 
 It would do Lady Etchingham a world of good 
 to run her own errands and shift for herself." 
 And this is her view of the Dampshire election 
 case : "It's a comfort to reflect that Minnie's time 
 for making an idiot of herself is drawing to a 
 close, and if that horrible Mrs. Potters imagines 
 that by helping my daughter to do what I abhor 
 she is getting herself asked to my ball she will 
 be woefully disappointed. . . . The Ley- 
 tons, fortunately, are far too sensible and kind- 
 hearted to hold Minnie's follies for more than 
 they are worth ; still to set herself down like that 
 in the pocket of such old friends of her people 
 and do everything that bad taste can devise is, 
 &c., &c." Mrs. Vivian goes on to ask if I have 
 heard "that after all Charles's tirade against the 
 muzzling order and the gross injustice of muz- 
 
 187
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 zling sheep dogs and letting hounds go free, that 
 spiteful httle Trixy of Minnie's bit the baby of 
 the pet Sociahst ploughman and the one 'mother' 
 that Minnie had really reason to suppose she had 
 torn from the Primrose League. The 'mother' 
 sent to Lady Leyton — as everyone always does 
 when in need — and Lady Leyton sent a groom 
 in pursuit of the doctor, and the village is going 
 solid, I hear, for George Baxter." (Charles will 
 now sympathise with Jem's canine curse.) "The 
 child was not really hurt, but that was not 
 thanks to Trixy or Minnie. I have told her re- 
 peatedly he is not to be trusted. The horrid lit- 
 tle wretch always growls at Azore, and if the 
 dog were not a saint he would have killed him 
 ages ago. Come to Marienbad, do, and take 
 John off my hands." 
 
 In one respect I sincerely commiserate my 
 married friends. Half of them seem to labour 
 under the burden of fruitless Sisyphus-like en- 
 deavours to provide their husbands with con- 
 genial companionship. The braiding of St. 
 Catherine's tresses must be a far less fatiguing 
 task in the long run. "Do, my dear, go and see 
 
 Mrs. , it would really be a charity." "Why 
 
 can't you call upon ? I am sure she would 
 
 be delighted to see you, and it would give Rover 
 a walk : I can't send Elisc out with him to-day, as 
 she must finish my gown." Mr. Vivian (with 
 Azore, who requires regular exercise) calls upon 
 us about every fifth Sunday, his whole de- 
 meanour telling that he has been driven to the 
 
 i88
 
 The Etchino-ham Letters 
 
 o 
 
 door on the point of the sword by his wife. 
 "Ralph hasn't a friend in the world," "Phil be- 
 longs to three clubs and goes to none," is what 
 I constantly hear. 
 
 Here is the Camelry wandering into the room 
 in search of another telegraph form. "Her lady- 
 ship, M'm, says as I'm to telegraph for the minc- 
 ing machine. Her indigestion is getting that 
 dreadful for the toughness of the meat, and she 
 is coming in." (And through a gap in the privet- 
 hedge I see, sure enough, the ferules of Laura's 
 and Mrs. Le Marchant's ornate chiffon parasols 
 approaching the house.) And here, too, is Cyn- 
 thia saying, and saying truly, that the hour has 
 struck for which we ordered the boat. Good-bye. 
 
 " I'ya longtemps que je t'aime, 
 Jamais je ne t'oublierai." 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 P.S. — Out of this abundance I should like to 
 send Margaret flowers, but the wild roses and 
 bluebells — wise as well as lovely things — would 
 not travel. 
 
 II P.M. Thursday (my letter did not go to-day 
 after all). I have opened the window. Listen, 
 do you hear the splash and swirl of the water? 
 Near the stepping-stones there is a birch-tree — 
 not a willow — "grows aslant the brook," and 
 over the lower branches the river wliyen in flood 
 sweeps. Do you see the stars? The loch looks 
 like quicksilver while touched by the moon- 
 
 189
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 beams. I would like to go out of doors. How 
 pleasant it will be to be disembodied and to run 
 no risk of hearing, "What in the world are you 
 doing out at this hour? Aren't you afraid of the 
 
 damp? You always say your throat " I 
 
 should like to be a ghost. Where should I go, 
 I wonder? To see you? No, not first. I should 
 go to look for someone who has not been mortal 
 for seven long years, and with whom last I stood 
 face to face not very far from here. ... I 
 have been reading Emily Bronte's "Remem- 
 brance" to-night, and my fortitude rather goes 
 to pieces after the reading of it. The light of 
 many of the stars that we see is their light years 
 ago, is it not, and that has taken time to reach 
 us? Is the light that I see in the sky to-night the 
 light of that evening when we (I don't mean, 
 dear, you and I) said good-bye, good-bye till to- 
 morrow as we thought? Richard, . . . 
 
 Promise to befriend me always and be amiable 
 when you write. (A knock at the door. "Please, 
 M'm, her ladyship can't sleep nohow. This 
 room's worse than any. The bed '"> Good- 
 night, Dickory. 
 
 190
 
 XXVI. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, 
 S.W., to Aliss EU::ahcth Etchingham, Glen- 
 fearn, N.B. 
 
 My dear Elizabeth, — Margaret joined me 
 here yesterday. She sends you her best love, 
 and her regrets that she could not see you this 
 time. "But," she adds, "the Protector of the 
 Poor knows very well that I should not really 
 have seen Aunt Elizabeth even if there had been 
 room for me, what with the packing going on 
 and other people coming in and out and never 
 letting me alone." The other people mean one 
 person, I need not tell you. Margaret could 
 never abide Laura. Well, I suppose the time will 
 come when we may really be together for a while 
 at least. Meanwhile I console myself with the 
 company of your books, and am beginning to 
 make (or renew after years) pleasant acquaint- 
 ances among your old friends in brown calf. 
 Margaret has, of course, a fair shelf-knowledge 
 of them already, and she "seems to know some- 
 thing of the insides of a good many of them too. 
 We find a curious pleasure in being alone in the 
 middle of the London season ; I say "we," be- 
 cause Margaret does not seem at all anxious to 
 
 191
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 plunge into general society. We .shall see our 
 own particular friends, and I shall look up old 
 official superiors and colleagues — in some cases 
 for duty, in others for pleasure ; otherwise we 
 expect to be pretty domestic, and look forward 
 to Arthur coming up for the Harrow match as 
 our greatest dissipation. Margaret pleads for 
 some concerts, and, though I have not her musi- 
 cal education or enthusiasm, I shall be well 
 pleased to hear a good European orchestra. 
 During my years of service I have at any rate 
 endured a sufficient infinity of variations on 
 Tdsa ha taza to feel that I deserve it. 
 
 Charles has been liere once : he rushes off to 
 Clayshott whenever he can steal half a day. He 
 is running his head against a brick wall so far as 
 I can see ; but it will give him a certain claim on 
 his party for services rendered, which may be 
 useful to him in his profession sooner or later. 
 You will know more about the details than I do, 
 as I have in self-defence kept myself ignorant of 
 even the day of the election. If I have tried once 
 to explain to Minnie that the only thing I can 
 do, not at all sharing my brother's opinions, is to 
 be strictly neutral, I have tried a dozen times ; 
 while Harry has been working hard to make me 
 see that it is my duty as head of the family to 
 make a solemn public protest against Charles's 
 lamentable defection from sound principles. The 
 worst trial was when Minnie came here with an 
 earnest Radical lady wlio must have bored Min- 
 nie nearly as much as she did us; that was some 
 
 192
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 comfort. Margaret put on the air of a very 
 simple country girl, and chaffed Minnie by ask- 
 ing innocent questions which the good lady took 
 quite seriously. Finally, she said with extreme 
 gravity that we found the affairs of Much Buck- 
 land so interesting and difficult that we could 
 really spare no time for general English politics. 
 As Minnie's friend could not deny the import- 
 ance of local self-government, she rather lost her 
 bearings, and tried to make a diversion by at- 
 tacking me on the Indian National Congress. 
 Now it was a little too much to be lectured on 
 the government of India by a woman wholly ig- 
 norant of the subject whom I had never seen be- 
 fore. "Do you know," said I, "what are the really 
 capable classes in India? Can you guess what 
 the sort of Hindus and Mahometans I have lived 
 among for the last dozen years would do with 
 your National Congress if we let them?" "No, 
 indeed." "Take the fluent English speech-mak- 
 ing, English article-writing Babus — the oil-fed 
 sons of the quill, as Lyall's old Pindari calls their 
 kind — every man a couple, one in each hand, 
 and chuck them into the Indian Ocean." Mar- 
 garet intervened with an ofifer of more tea, which 
 was declined. We don't think Minnie will bring 
 that well-meaning lady here again. 
 
 Here comes a letter from Jem which puts 
 Margaret in the seventh heaven. It appears that 
 he and Shipley, months ago, got up a little party 
 to go to the "Ring des Nibelungen" at Covent 
 Garden, Mrs. Newton and one or two others be- 
 
 193
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 sides themselves ; I suspect it was in part a little 
 conspiracy to take Mrs. Newton out of herself 
 and her troubles if possible, for I know that Jem 
 is an excellent fellow, and I don't know that he 
 is a devoted Wagnerian, though his tastes are 
 pretty catholic. However, it now turns out that 
 Jem is wanted at Oxbridge to replace an ex- 
 aminer who has broken down ; he cannot well re- 
 fuse the work, and it will keep him there all 
 through July. So he writes to me to ofTer his 
 place to Margaret — not as a gift, so you need 
 not begin to spin a romance ; besides, he is 
 sensible enough to know that we should not ac- 
 cept it in that way. You remember the elaborate 
 plan we made last year for a meeting at Bay- 
 reuth, you two from the West and I from the 
 East, by way of Brindisi or Trieste, and how dis- 
 appointed Margaret was when it failed, like many 
 other neatly contrived plans, chiefly for the com- 
 monplace reason that it turned out I could not 
 get started for home anything like soon enough. 
 There is no need to tell you how pleased the 
 child is now. She says it is a pity I can't go too ; 
 like most young people who are fond of their 
 parents, she would like to educate me to all her 
 tastes, and thinks it would be cjuite easy to do it. 
 I tell her it is no matter, and that if she could 
 take me she would only find me too old to learn. 
 It is true I have charming recollections of Wag- 
 ner's earlier operas heard long ago in Germany, 
 before the British public knew anything about 
 them, much less cared. But advanced Wag- 
 
 194
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 nerians, I understand, put these away as childish 
 things. Stephen Leagrave talks in that way, not 
 that I believe — or Margaret either — he really 
 cares for music of any school. Never mind ; he 
 did not hear "Lohengrin" at the old Dresden 
 Theatre before it was burnt down. Such mem- 
 ories make one feel hugely old, but they are 
 good all the same. 
 
 Leagrave, by the way, seems anxious to im- 
 prove Margaret's knowledge of literature on his 
 own correct and critical lines. No romance 
 about that either, if you please ; it is pure intel- 
 lectual benevolence for the good of his neigh- 
 bour's mind, with a little touch of vanity and the 
 natural hope that the young may be more teach- 
 able than the old. Not that it would be human 
 nature for a preacher of aesthetic or any other 
 principles to prefer his converts ugly — even 
 when one has, like Stephen, about as little hu- 
 man nature as it is possible to go through the 
 world with. Just now he is still dosing us with 
 Maeterlinck. We took our revenge last night 
 by concocting a Maeterlinckian scene — not to be 
 shown to Stephen, I need not say, for he would 
 be most solemnly and seriously aggrieved, and 
 might feel bound to renounce our acquaintance. 
 So I send it you — like various other things — to 
 be out of harm's way. 
 
 I have to go to the Society of Arts to-morrow 
 to support poor dear old Gritson. He has a 
 theory of Indian currency which nobody can un- 
 derstand. You see that even in retirement one 
 
 195
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 may still have to sacrifice oneself for the good 
 of the service. When I come back from that 
 function, if not before, I hope to be consoled by 
 a letter from you telling me what sort of estab- 
 lishment you have made at Glenfearn — unless 
 Laura has taken a fancy to stop at some other 
 health resort by the way. 
 
 Your loving brother, 
 
 DiCKORY. 
 
 Here follows the scene in question : 
 
 Le roi Lysaor (frh z'iciix, immohile dans son 
 
 fauteuil) . 
 Le dug Ypnocrate. 
 La princess Dilbarine. 
 Le prince Huglimugh (enfant). 
 La dame Eliane, gouvcrnantc du prince. 
 
 Lysaor: Je ne digere pas bien. Je sens que quelque 
 
 chose va certainement se casser. 
 Eliane: Le roi croit que quelque chose va se casser. 
 Huglimugh: Jc ne comprends pas le sens de ces 
 
 paroles. Les grands-peres disent toujours des choses 
 
 qui n'ont pas de sens. Moi, je casse les choses 
 
 quand I'envie m'en prend. 
 Ypnocrate: O mon neant supreme! n'es-tu pas bien 
 
 heureuse? 
 Dilbarine: Nous sommes bien hcurcux, effective- 
 
 ment. 
 Ypnocrate: Mon ame voit pourtant que tu es 
 
 inquiete. Dis-moi pourquoi tout de suite, ccla sera 
 
 phis simple pour I'auditoirc. 
 Dilbarine: Je m'inquiete parceque la grand'mere est 
 
 somnambule. 
 
 iq6
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Ypnocrate: D'abord nous le sommes tous. Puis tu 
 
 I'as enfermee a clef dans sa chambre. 
 Dilbarine: Elle aura certainement trouve I'autre clef. 
 Ypnocrate: Comment sais-tu qu'il y en a une autre? 
 Dilbarine: Parce que I'auteur en a besoin, 6 mon 
 
 abime tres precieux. 
 Ypnocrate: Prends garde de dire ces choses-la, nous 
 
 ne sommes pas seuls. 
 Dilbarine: Si fait, c'est a peu pres la meme chose. 
 Ypnocrate: Comment! tu trouves que c'est la meme 
 
 chose? Le petit prince est tout oreilles. 
 Dilbarine: Comme tu manques de foi, mon obscurite 
 
 cherie! Pourquoi causons-nous amour dans la 
 
 langue symbolique du maitre, sinon pour que ni les 
 
 personnages, ni le souffleur, ni le public n'y com- 
 
 prennent rien? 
 Ypnocrate: Et I'auteur? 
 Dilbarine: Lui moins que personne. 
 Ypnocrate: L'auteur n'y comprendrait rien? 
 Dilbarine: Quand je te dis que non! Cherche la 
 
 raison toi-meme. 
 Ypnocrate: Je cherche done . . . oui, j'y suis. C'est 
 
 qu'il fait du symbolisme. Or ce n'est plus du 
 
 symbolisme des que quelqu'un commence a y com- 
 
 prendre quelque chose. 
 Dilbarine: Parfait. Continuous. Nous disons done 
 
 que je m'inquiete de ce que pent faire la grand'- 
 
 mere. 
 HuGLiMUGH (a la fenetre): Ah! ah! je vois quelque 
 
 chose. 
 Eliane: Le prince dit qu'il voit quelque chose. 
 Lysaor: Une chose qui va se casser, j'en suis siir. 
 Huglimugh: Ah! ah! que c'est drole! Viola la grand'- 
 
 mere qui grimpe sur le pigeonnier. 
 Eliane: La grand'mere est sur le pigeonnier. 
 
 107
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Dilbarine: C'est bien cela, la grand'mere s'est evadee 
 
 pour grimper sur le pigeonnier. 
 Huglimugh: Elle est au faite! Ah! ah! ah! c'est bien 
 
 drole , . . elle va sauter . . . elle saute . . . elle 
 
 tombe. 
 Elaine: II dit qu'elle tombe! 
 Ypnocrate: On dit qu'elle tombe! 
 Dilbarine: Evidemment, il faut qu'elle tombe. 
 Huglimugh: Elle s'est casse le cou . . . hou, hou . . . 
 
 je n'aime pas a voir les gens qui se cassent le cou. 
 Elaine: La grand'mere s'est casse le cou! 
 Ypnocrate: Elle s'est casse le cou. 
 Dilbarine: Elle s'est bien casse le cou. 
 Huglimugh: Hou, hou, hou . . . j'ai bien peur . . . 
 
 c'est trop vilain . . . je veux qu'on interdise de se 
 
 casser le cou. 
 Lysaor: Je disais bien que quelqu'un allait casser 
 
 quelque chose. Je ne digere pas bien. 
 
 198
 
 XXVII. 
 
 From Miss Eli::abcth Etchingham, The Hotel, Glen- 
 fearn, N.B., to Sir Richard Etchingham, 83 
 Hans Place. 
 
 My dear Tolcarne, — (One must do in Scot- 
 land as Scotland does.) Our letters crossed — 
 
 "When letters cross 
 A double loss." 
 
 I meant to write the very day I heard from you, 
 my pen set in motion by the impetus of what I 
 read, but impediments that Laura would speak 
 of as "other claims" intervened, and then the 
 semi-stupefaction that a very big dose of the 
 open air produces laid the spirit of scribbling to 
 rest ; and here we are at Sunday and no letter 
 has gone. I should certainly answer in the nega- 
 tive Renan's question, ''Pent-on travailler en prov- 
 ince?" In London, notwithstanding countless in- 
 terruptions, I do as much in a day as here I do 
 in a week. 
 
 Your Maeterlinck has converted me to 
 Maeterlinck. I find it the missing link between 
 Maeterlinck and life, and it has led me to a little 
 discovery : Maeterlinck is not a symbolist but a 
 satirist, and your satire satirises not only Maeter- 
 linck but life. Read Maeterlinck as a satirist and 
 
 199
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 see how finely he hits off the blunders, the blind- 
 ness, the selfishness of human nature that pur- 
 sues its own ends and clings to its own aims 
 through thick and thin, light and darkness, 
 virtue and sin. I find, too, a likeness between 
 Maeterlinck and the Book of Job. Maeterlinck's 
 characters play the part of Job's comforters one 
 to another adroitly. "Your soul was never so 
 beautiful as since I have broken your heart." "I 
 am glad that my soul is so beautiful since you 
 have broken my heart." In irony and humour 
 surely Maeterlinck touches high water-mark? 
 But if to read Maeterlinck as humorist and 
 satirist contrasts too violently with your former 
 attitude, read this pseudo-Maeterlinck as a satire 
 on life not Maeterlinck, and see how well my 
 theor}^ works. 
 
 There is always a someone who announces 
 "Jc lie digere pas bien," when his wife or someone 
 comes to grief. There is always a wiseacre, after 
 the event, to declare "Je disais bicn que queJqunn 
 allait casscr qiielque chose," be the qnclqitc cJiose" 
 what it may, from a tea-cup to a bank. There is 
 always an infant, young in intellect, if not in 
 years, who finds the first act of a tragedy "bien 
 drolc," and wishes that the last act of a tragedy 
 had been forbidden ; and there is always another 
 key to unlock the door that leads to destruction 
 if Fate, the author, has need of it. As to repeti- 
 tion, the old "Oxford Spectator," whose wit I 
 only made acquaintance with lately, may say that 
 "the repeated assertion of an insignificant fact 
 
 200
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 tends to weaken and finally to destroy the mind ;" 
 but I don't know. Nature has vast recuperative 
 power, and the repeated assertion of an insignifi- 
 cant and significant fact is going on all round, 
 and has doubtless gone on since time began. 
 Eve, probabl}^ never to the day of her death, fell 
 into low spirits but that she asked Adam if the 
 afifair of the apple had not been very unfortunate, 
 and Adam assuredly answered a thousand times, 
 "Yes, Eve, it was very unfortunate." 
 
 By all means draw Alice Newton back into the 
 world if you can. She probably feels more at ease 
 and also less down-hearted with comparative 
 strangers than with people who have looked into 
 the four corners of her existence. In certain 
 frames of mind it is a relief to be with the folk 
 who know nothing and care less about one's 
 worries. Not that Alice would find this indiffer- 
 ence in you, but still you are not knit into her 
 past, and your role in regard to her is not that 
 of memorandum. You must make haste and get 
 her out of her fastness and out of herself before 
 Colonel Newton returns. Once he is at home 
 again, an intangible something will come down 
 and separate her from realities. Is it wicked to 
 wish that Colonel Newton might be removed to 
 another sphere? Yet I am sorry for him, for I 
 believe he has still, in his unpleasant way, far 
 more afifection for her than she ever had for him, 
 and the one who cares least, when it conies to 
 extremities, has really the best of it. And then 
 the poor man gets no pity. His affections may 
 
 201
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 be blighted, but as he grows more hectoring, as 
 well as fatter and redder, day by day, he does not 
 win a scrap of sympathy. So, though he is what 
 Harry calls an ill-conditioned brute (he is hated 
 in the service, Harry says), I think the ill-con- 
 ditioned brute has had his bad moments, poor 
 wretch. 
 
 Is Margaret to be painted? And if so, by 
 whom? Everybody has been painted already, I 
 am inclined to say, and so why not let well alone? 
 Everybody has been painted that is, but the 
 painting is not always, or often, in the posses- 
 sion of the original, or the original's family. If it 
 were so your portrait by Titian would not be in 
 the gallery at Florence, but in the cedar-room at 
 Tolcarne. Margaret's counterfeit presentment 
 hangs in the Louvre. After Leonardo, who need 
 trouble to paint her? Mrs. Vivian's picture is 
 labelled Mrs. Hanslowe, and accredited to 
 Cornelius Jansen, and I used to wish for no bet- 
 ter likeness of Alice Newton than Sir Joshua's 
 Nelly O'Brien. But she has gone away from her 
 former portrait and might sit for her own ghost. 
 Sant has set the full face of our worthy Laura 
 upon canvas, as I have already said, and for her 
 profile what do you think of the portrait of 
 Simonetta Vespucci at Florence, of which the 
 guide books rightly say, ''c'cst nne ccnvrc qui n^a 
 pas iin grand charmed 
 ^ Monday. — 'T/m na ncb'il a' dol an fniimead," 
 which translated from the Gaelic into the vulgar 
 tongue means the clouds are becoming heavier. 
 
 202
 
 The Etchingham Letters . \ 
 
 Which translated from the vulgar tongue into ''•. 
 Etchinghamese means that Laura has put on her \ 
 bonnet. Which idiom is closely related to the ' 
 phrase of the Mont Blanc guides, "7/ met son 
 bonnet," when they see the little cloud on the 
 mountain-top, the little cloud that foretells a 
 storm. 
 
 Yes, Laura certainly has put on her metaphor- 
 ical bonnet. She has had it out of the bandbox 
 since the day of our arrival, and she clapped it on 
 for good and all, I fear, yesterday during dinner, 
 when the waiter from Aber-r-r-r-r-deen en- 
 tangled the cruet-stand in her hair, and a fellow- 
 lodger of doubtless blameless character, but per- 
 haps unpolished manners, whose conversational 
 overtures she had sternly rebuffed, joined with 
 the waiter in his efforts to free that ram — the 
 cruet-stand — from that thicket — Laura's tresses : 
 "Let me redd it for y're Leddyship. He's just 
 ravelin't mair." Poor Laura, it was indeed a sight 
 to see her while the hands of the waiter from 
 Aber-r-r-r-r-deen and Mr. Dugald McTavish, 
 from Dundee, met in her nut-brown locks. The 
 waiter, in his philanthropic anxiety to relieve 
 Laura of the undesirable cruet, held the sauce- 
 boat at an angle at which, unless the laws of 
 gravity had been altered to save a gown, the 
 melted butter could do nothing but form a cas- 
 cade down Mrs. Le Marchant's neat silken back. 
 "Damisht ye. Doe ye think a get butter for 
 naething?" was Mr. McPhail's sotto-vocc ejacu- 
 lation from where he stood by the sideboard ; and 
 
 203
 
 The Etchinorham Letters 
 
 no one was pleased but two rude bicycling boys, 
 whose laughter was loud and long. 
 
 I wish you would write upon a postcard, "I 
 trust Glenfearn is not too bracing for Laura," 
 and I would let it lie about in noticeable places. 
 Without some such wile the unfortunate Camelry 
 and myself will soon be in the thick of the trans- 
 port business again, for Laura's present griev- 
 ance is that this air is enervating. 
 
 Why is it my lot in life to be for ever thrown 
 with persons whose need of bracing is insatiable? 
 I, to whom no summer heat but that of a city 
 proves enervating, no climate relaxing, find the 
 thread of existence inextricably tangled with that 
 of folk to whom, did one take them at their word, 
 the proximity of icebergs is comforting, and 
 who fail to distinguish between the summer tem- 
 perature of the Highlands and that of the Black 
 Hole of Calcutta. In Laura we have a perfect 
 specimen of the ever-enervated type. She is 
 parched when the sun shines. The sense of suf- 
 focation is here continually. Her fate is it to feel 
 "oppressed by the terrible heat," "overpowered 
 by the sultriness," "unnerved by the airlessness," 
 "unable to creep even as far as the post-ofHce." 
 She broils, she is in a vapour-bath, she burns, 
 she pants, she likens Glenfearn to a furnace, she 
 finds the weather stifling, "so airless that a thun- 
 derstorm must be iinniinent," "absolutely torrid," 
 "perfectly tropical" — in fact, Cynthia and I pass a 
 considerable portion of our time wondering why 
 calcined or liquefied remains arc not all that is 
 
 204
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 left to a mourning world of her. It really is 
 amazing, when you come to think of it, that un- 
 singed and unscalded she passed through the 
 kilns and caldrons that await the unwary between 
 King's Cross and Princes Street. 
 
 The climate of the West Highlands cannot, I 
 allow, be characterised as bracing, but it is 
 balmy, which I think better, and I feel disposed 
 to beg the people with whom we come in contact 
 not to speak in Laura's hearing disparagingly of 
 the place from the atmospheric standpoint. "Tell 
 her that she will be braced, if only she will have 
 patience," is your sister's latest form of prayer, 
 and most amiably it has been acceded to. Mr. 
 Dugald McTavish, when a new-comer at the 
 hotel, however, gave me a scare. Overhearing 
 from the other side of the dinner-table Laura 
 complain of enervation, he exclaimed emphati- 
 cally "Braemar's the place for ye, Mum, if ye 
 want to be set up." I seized the first occasion 
 that offered to hint that the family generally did 
 not want to be "set up" ; that "setting up" would 
 kill Cynthia and me probably, and later he very 
 cannily informed Laura that "there's sic a throng 
 o' folk at Braemar that ye leddyship micht na get 
 bed or meat." Picture Laura to yourself "na 
 getting bed or meat." I have heard no more of 
 a move to Braemar. 
 
 (On one point I have quite made up. my mind. 
 Before I travel with you I will have it in writing 
 that your idea of a "thorough change" is not a 
 sojourn in a refrigerator, and that in your vocab- 
 
 205
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 ulary bracing air is not synonymous with the air 
 of Paradise.) 
 
 To our landlord's delight, the inn garden, "a 
 fine place for sitting in the Sabbath," still remains 
 Laura's and Mrs. Le Marchant's favourite re- 
 treat. Their extreme civility to one another is a 
 matter of astonishment to me. They yesterday 
 talked for an hour of "The Christian" and "Hel- 
 beck of Bannisdale," and so excessive was their 
 politeness and so guarded the expression of their 
 opinions that to the end it was never brought 
 home to them that they were not discussing the 
 self-same book. 
 
 Cynthia is melancholy, truly, but it is the 
 pretty "white melancholy" from which she suf- 
 fers, not the ugly black kind. It turns her to the 
 reading of Shakespeare, and to sitting upon the 
 floor with her head against my knee when she 
 ought to be going to bed. She recognised, even 
 sooner than I did, the handwriting of a letter, 
 from Harry to me, that we found laid upon the 
 "parlour" table when we came in from a long 
 drive this afternoon. 
 
 So far Laura seems unable to get Sir Augustus 
 out of her head. She tells me now that Mrs. Le 
 Marchant, who she finds knows him, says his 
 mother was of "very good family," and that, on 
 the distaff side of the house, he has Plantagenet 
 and Stuart blood in his veins. Cynthia has learnt 
 this from her, also, apparently. Remember that 
 we did not solve tiie problem uf the family's fu- 
 
 206
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 ture, though we did talk for about six hours daily 
 while you were in Hans Place. Laura looks mys- 
 terious and Cynthia tearful when I speak of their 
 setting up house together. I can't make out what 
 Laura wants, or with whom she would ordain to 
 live. Things may settle themselves, she says. To 
 her hufifs and misunderstandings are not as in- 
 tolerable as they are to me. I think, if for any 
 reason best known to themselves people can't live 
 in peace and amity together, they had best live 
 apart, but this opinion is by no means univer- 
 sally held. Yet in various ways Laura is not un- 
 amiable. If she married my father for the place 
 — the "situation" — she nursed him with the 
 greatest possible assiduity, and she is really 
 good-natured, quite lavish in fact to Cynthia in 
 the matters of frocks and fairings. Cynthia's 
 drawing-room attire was ordered with a magnifi- 
 cent disregard of the bill, and did I develop con- 
 sumption or cretinism she would do her duty to 
 the bitter end. But while I am neither bodily 
 nor mentally afflicted to any unusual extent we 
 shall never hit it ofif. We don't agree about one 
 of the trivialities that go to make existence. In 
 the matter of domestic economy, for instance, she 
 fears big economies, and small economies fret 
 me. To be carriageless I find a bearable priva- 
 tion, but to hear the cook's aptitude for consum- 
 ing lard incessantly lamented is to me a bore. 
 Laura could not metaphorically hold faster to the 
 brougham were she a limpet and the carriage a 
 rock, and she enjoys the lard lamenting — "the 
 
 207
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 waking of the lard," as Harry, who once over- 
 heard her wails, termed the proceeding. Then 
 our tastes are every bit as incalculable to her as 
 are hers to us. I told you, did not I, that with- 
 out malice prepense, with the air rather of a per- 
 son conferring a favour, she suggested not long 
 ago that we should have a permanent "Day," and 
 deface our paste-board with "At home,Tuesdays, 
 ;^-y" ; and I had accused myself of an indecent 
 display of dislike for what Harry calls the viola- 
 tion of territory and bore raids to which we are 
 subjected. (We have no "close time," he says.) 
 Laura with benignant smile proposing the ab- 
 horred "Day" as a peace-ofTering reminds me for 
 incongruity of the London young lady of eight- 
 eenth-century fame, who collected all the chicken 
 bones upon her plate as a delicacy for her 
 brother's horse. 
 
 I wish you could see the Glenfearn wild-flower 
 and fern show. Great splendid foxgloves rise 
 up from dim green shelters, and Pan does some 
 of his most attractive meadow-gardening with 
 pansies — 
 
 " The little western flower, 
 Before milk-white, now purple with love's wounds. 
 And maidens call it love-in-idleness " 
 
 should ])c the little northern flower. In free 
 blossoming and in intensity of colour the pansies 
 of these northern meadows beat their cousins of 
 the west hollow. 
 
 208
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 To-morrow's "Scotsman" will give Charles's 
 fate, I suppose. "My ladies want the 'Scotch- 
 man,' " is the form in which Blake persists in 
 asking for the paper. "Is the war any better?" 
 she inquired, when I was last reading the war 
 news. Good Heavens ! What a din ! Really 
 Mr. McPhail should be broken of beating his 
 dinner gong with a violence that might be 
 deemed excessive had he resolved to awaken the 
 dead. But to him it is a "gran sound." "If it's 
 owre muckle for ye, put tow in yer lugs," he said 
 to a nervous old gentleman suffering from in- 
 somnia, who expostulated the other day. Lugs 
 = ears. 
 
 Lover of strange tongues, I sign myself in the 
 Gaelic. 
 
 Ealasaid. 
 
 209
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchingham, Hans Place, to 
 Miss Elisabeth Etchingham, Glenfcarn, N.B. 
 
 My dear Elizabeth (or whatever you make 
 of it in the GaeHc), — Verily it must have been a 
 spectacle worthy of kings and poets to see that 
 Aberdonian waiter realising the Persian figure of 
 speech for supreme ecstasy, "one hand on the 
 cup" — read cruet — "and one hand in the locks 
 of the Beloved." The genuineness of the back 
 hair is, I believe, undisputed. 
 
 Charles is handsomely beaten, as you will have 
 seen by this time, if indeed you take any note of 
 Southron by-elections. But he will not be incon- 
 solable. He is the hero of paragraphs in the Op- 
 position papers, which prove to the satisfaction 
 of the writer, and I suppose his, that it was a 
 moral victory ; he has fought the election in a 
 highly creditable and orthodox manner, if not 
 with much wisdom of the serpent ; in short, he 
 has done everything a still rising political lawyer 
 ought to do to establish a claim on the party, 
 without going to such extremes as to be in any- 
 one else's black books. Minnie goes about say- 
 ing that the South of England is hopelessly 
 stupid, and wants him to begin cultivating a 
 northern constituency this very Long Vacation ; 
 
 210
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 which might be a judicious proceeding if he 
 could go without her. I think he will leave it 
 alone for the present. 
 
 The old Canadian boat-song is pleasing. I 
 suppose the French colonists carried with them 
 the tradition of the simple popular ballads which 
 Moliere immortalised by one specimen in "Le 
 Misanthrope :" 
 
 " Si le roi m'avoit donne 
 
 Paris, sa grand'ville, 
 Et qu'il me fallut quitter 
 L'amour de ma mie: 
 
 Je dirois au Roi Henri, 
 
 Reprenez votre Paris: 
 J'aime mieux ma mie, oh gay! 
 J'aime mieux ma mie." 
 
 A simple thing enough, as Alceste says after his 
 first recital of it : 
 
 "La rime n'est pas riche, et le style en est vieux." 
 
 But what an exquisite turn of Moliere's art to 
 make him repeat it once more, and what a treat 
 it was in the days now past to hear the double 
 delivery of those lines by Bressant, rising at the 
 end to a solemn triumphal dignity, the everlast- 
 ing protest of a gentleman of the old school 
 against ephemeral frivolity! Perhaps it was a 
 little too impressive for dramatic probability. 
 Bressant's Alceste would have swept the pedants 
 and fribbles out of the room. Delaunay made 
 more, I think, of the real humanity of Alceste; 
 he was the man who would be sympathetic if any 
 
 211
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 of those about him would show something de- 
 serving of his sympathy. Bressant was incom- 
 parable in the majesty of high comedy, unbend- 
 ing to generous humour or touched with tragedy 
 as the action demands. One of the most tragic 
 things I ever heard was his delivery of the last 
 words in "Les Caprices de Marianne:" "Je ne 
 vous aime pas, Marianne, c'etait Coelio qui vous 
 aimait." 
 
 If there be poetic justice for good artists in 
 Elysium, Bressant should be expounding the 
 glories of French comedy — or rather la Comedie 
 Fran<;ais — to Charles Lamb, who had no chance 
 of knowing them in this world, and Shakespeare 
 and Musset should be in the front row. The 
 Musset of "Comedies et Proverbes" I mean; 
 never mind the vexed question where his poetry 
 ought to rank. Why don't I see Victor Hugo in 
 that front row? Because I doubt whether the 
 same row would hold him and Shakespeare. The 
 old man was so cock-sure that he knew all about 
 Shakespeare ; and then he would want Shake- 
 speare's views on the universe and the wicked- 
 ness of kings, and I don't think William would 
 relish that sort of conversation between the acts. 
 
 M. Delaunay lives in honoured retirement, 
 and, I believe, still imparts the traditions of the 
 good school of acting to the younger generation. 
 We old folk shall never believe the new comers 
 can be as good, for all that even a Delaunay can 
 teach them : but we may be wrong, and anyhow 
 we don't mean to despair of France while the 
 
 212
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Theatre Frangais flourishes, or while the College 
 de France can show scholars like James Darme- 
 steter — the man who came out to India and got 
 to know the Afghans as no Englishman knew 
 them. I wrote to you about him when I met him 
 on the frontier. Let us see what Shipley says, 
 having studied for his own purposes in Paris (he 
 has just called to settle the dining-out arrange- 
 ments for the Ring week). "French degenera- 
 tion?" answers he, as nearly snorting as an amia- 
 ble man can. "I know nothing about French 
 politics, but I shall begin to talk about France 
 being degenerate when we have learnt at the 
 Record Office half the things they can teach us 
 at the Ecole des Cliartes." Don't ask me, my 
 dear Elizabeth, what the Ecole des Chartes is. 
 First, because I do not clearly know, and next 
 because you had better wait till you can ask 
 Shipley, who has been there. Something at the 
 back of my head tells me that we may possibly 
 come to see a good deal more of him. It would 
 be with my good will. Not a word to anyone if 
 you take my meaning, for it is only a dim sur- 
 mise. I like the man much, especially when I 
 can get him disengaged from our mixed visitors. 
 Mixed they are just now more than usual, be- 
 ing all full of grievances or projects of their own, 
 and each with only half an ear for anything else. 
 Minnie bemoans, as aforesaid, the darkness of 
 the Clayshott division, while Leagrave congratu- 
 lates himself — meaning a little to include the 
 world, though he does not say so — upon that 
 
 213
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 long-promised monograph on Drake being off 
 his hands. Now he wants to turn to something 
 Hterary, a lesser light of the seventeenth century 
 for choice. It is rather embarrassing for Mar- 
 garet to have to find an opinion whether Cow- 
 ley or Henry More would be more suitable. It 
 is useless in such a case to tell our excellent 
 Stephen that you have read very little of the one 
 author and not a word of the other. He only 
 goes on as if he did not believe you. Harry, who 
 is our usual resource on these occasions — hav- 
 ing a military and official faculty of looking re- 
 spectfully intelligent whenever required — is him- 
 self engrossed in endeavouring to get sent to 
 Egypt. He says he is afraid of becoming a mere 
 pen-and-ink soldier if he does not go back to see- 
 ing the stuff his work is made of ; anyhow, he is 
 pressing for something that will take him to the 
 front, and, as his superiors are well pleased with 
 him, I should think he is likely to get it. A fresh 
 parting just when we are all (comparatively) to- 
 gether would be some disappointment — but we 
 have always held in this family that we owe our- 
 selves to the Queen and the country, and if the 
 best work Harry can do for the Queen and the 
 country is up the Nile, we must not say a word 
 that could make his going less cheerful. 
 
 Your pet minor English poets seem to be 
 either at Tolcarne or (as I suspect) carried off by 
 you to the parts of the North : I have not found 
 them here. So I have nothing to say of them 
 just now. The other day I spoke of Leconte de 
 
 214
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Lisle's handling of proper names ; one of his best 
 performances that way is in "La Paix des 
 Dietix," which still sleeps, I believe, in a Revue 
 des Deux Mondes ten years old.* The spirit of 
 man calls up before him all the gods he has ever 
 worshipped : 
 
 "Et I'Hote interieur qui parlait de la sorte 
 Au gouffre ouvert de Tame et des temps revolus 
 Evoqua lentement, dans leur majeste morte, 
 Les apparitions des Dieux qui ne sont plus." 
 
 With submission to the judgment of native- 
 born French ears, I know nothing in modern 
 poetry to surpass the solemn cadence of these last 
 two lines — but I was coming to the procession of 
 the gods. There is something Miltonic in the se- 
 quence of strange imposing names, with just 
 enough adjective and explanation to colour them. 
 Leconte de Lisle, being a pagan and a Hellenist, 
 had no love for Semitic deities, and cannot be 
 said to have treated them civilly ; this is how he 
 marches them on : 
 
 "Et tous les Baalim des nations farouches: 
 Le Molok, du sang frais de I'enfance abreuve, 
 Halgah, Gad, et Phegor, et le Seigneur des mouches, 
 Et sur les Kheroubim le sinistre lahve." 
 
 He goes right back over the brilliant philoso- 
 phy of the half-Greek Alexandrians and the ex- 
 pansive moral reform of the Prophets to the sav- 
 age old thunder-god who came down from Sinai 
 
 *[It is now (1899) reprinted in a volume entitled 
 Dernier' s Potmes.] 
 
 21S
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 to war with Chemosh and Baal and overthrow 
 Dagon, as they tell of him in the rugged frag- 
 ments embedded in Judges and Genesis, so old 
 that the pious post-exilic editors dared not 
 smooth off their asperities ; the Lord who cap- 
 tained his own battles, and would now chastise 
 his unruly children, now argue with them and 
 jest with them, like a modern frontier leader 
 managing Afridis in about the same stage of 
 tribal education. Modern respectability has for- 
 gotten him, and made unto itself a comfortable 
 benevolent monarch, a sort of chairman of bank 
 directors, author of the Economy of Nature and 
 other valuable works — a lahvc-Pignouf one 
 might call him in Flaubertian language. What 
 would the tellers of those wild stories of palace 
 treasons and feud and murder in the Books of 
 Kings have thought of a peaceful rustic congre- 
 gation sitting in an English church to hear them 
 droned out as First Lessons, and taking them in 
 a hypnotised fashion as something which must 
 somehow be edifying to modern readers, since 
 it is in the Bible? But the Hebrews have not 
 forgotten the old Lord of Hosts, except maybe 
 some who have become too prosperous. Heine 
 had not when he put those lines into the mouth 
 of an unsavory Spanish rabbi combating a no 
 less unsavory monk : 
 
 " Unser Gott ist nicht die Liebe, 
 Schabeln ist nicht seine Sache, 
 Dcnn cr ist ein Donnergott 
 Und cr ist ein Gott dcr Rache. 
 
 216
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 " Unser Gott, der ist lebendig 
 Und in seiner Himmelshalle 
 Existiret er drauf los 
 Durch die Ewigkeiten alle." 
 
 Talk of German being an unmanageable lan- 
 guage ! What writer in what language has bet- 
 tered the feat of achieving a grand poetical effect 
 with a dry abstract word like exist ren? But we 
 are insular in prose only less than in poetry, and 
 in poetry only less than in theology. And in the 
 fine arts? — no, that is where our chance of salva- 
 tion seems to come in. But I begin to ramble 
 unconscionably : the letting out of waters in the 
 season of freedom long deferred. Old Indians 
 ramble about Service shop, my young friends 
 brutally tell me, when other topics fail them ; and 
 probably I talk nonsense. Leagrave would stick 
 all this full of his critical pins in five minutes. 
 Therefore I write not to Leagrave, but to a sis- 
 ter full of wisdom and toleration. 
 
 Talking of pictures, Margaret will be painted 
 — when we are rich and you will catch me the 
 ideal painter. What is that about a Leonardo in 
 the Louvre? She does not set up to be like 
 Mona Lisa, and I forget the looks of the other 
 Leonardos there, if Leonardo's handiwork they 
 be : there are not too many real ones in the 
 world. 
 
 Your loving brother, 
 
 TOLCARNE. 
 
 217
 
 XXVIIIa. 
 
 (Postcaj'd.) 
 
 Glad to hear you are well settled in the North, 
 but don't presume on the climate. Neither you 
 nor L. find it too bracing, I hope. Is it not liable 
 to sudden changes? All well here. 
 
 R. E. 
 
 2t8
 
 XXIX. 
 
 From Miss Elisabeth Etchingham, the Hotel, Glen- 
 fearn, N.B., to Sir Richard Etchingham, 83 
 Ha)is Place. 
 
 Dearest Dickory, — "Earthquakes as usual," 
 or Laura-quakes, if you object to hyperbole. 
 
 What is the meaning of AnnosusF A telegram 
 came yesterday, addressed Etchingham, signed 
 Leagrave, and consisting of one word — An- 
 nosHS. We none of us knew what it meant. Laura, 
 who, since Mr. McTavish's expressions of inter- 
 est in her "setting up" and her "getting bed and 
 meat," has smiled more or less upon him ("not 
 of course, like ourselves, but a very worthy, well- 
 meaning man"), passed the cryptic and, as we 
 supposed, "Unicode" communication on to him 
 as a last resort. Mr. McTavish laid down his 
 fishing tackle, the sound of the winding of the 
 reel ceased, and he thought he had a copy of the 
 "Unicode" "aboot" him. And so he had, and 
 straightway went on to announce in matter-of- 
 fact tones that Annosiis signified, "Twins both 
 dead, mother not expected to live." 
 
 Here was unlooked-for news upon a fine sum- 
 mer morning, and Laura, of course, was terribly 
 unnerved at once. The fact that for all our en- 
 
 219
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 deavour we could not place the disaster, of which 
 the transmitter was, we supposed, Stephen, 
 hardly served to compose her, Mr. McTavish's 
 "It may be no true," our landlord's "Deed I've 
 heard o' waur happenin'," and the "Na! Davy, 
 that ye ne'er heard o'" of kind Mrs. McPhail 
 (kind, save when the integrity of her drains is 
 questioned), were intermingled with Laura's 
 sighs, shivers, and awe-struck utterances ex- 
 pressive of the unexpectedness of Fate — unex- 
 pected indeed in a case where, as I have already 
 said, we did not even know upon whom to fasten 
 the calamity. The arrival of the coaches and 
 "shar-a-bangs" drove Laura from the inn door 
 upstairs, and when her audience consisted of but 
 Cynthia and myself we heard again the old story 
 of the want of confidence with which she is 
 treated by the family; the Cimmerian darkness 
 to which she is consigned, "Anything might hap- 
 pen without my being prepared, and with an ac- 
 tion of the heart like mine I do not consider it 
 safe." After a little of this I sent the Camelry, 
 who was weeping in premature sympathy, to the 
 post office with a telegram telling Stephen to re- 
 peat the message. Hours of vague surmises, dur- 
 ing which Laura dwelt upon the possibility of 
 getting satisfactory mourning in Edinburgh and 
 wondered if Charles were the bereaved husband 
 and father; wondered if Colonel Leagrave had, 
 unbeknown to us, taken to himself a second 
 wife; wondered if Stephen himself had made a 
 secret marriage and waited till now to inform us 
 
 220
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 of the fact. "Sorrow, Elizabeth, though you may 
 smile (and I think your smiles are very out of 
 place), does soften people, and to whom should 
 Stephen turn in the day of trouble if not to me?" 
 Mrs. Le Marchant also sat with us and indulged 
 in sepulchral recollections of the mothers and 
 children she had known to be carried ofi at one 
 fell swoop, and then at last the return telegram 
 came : "Anmmicro." I flew in search of Mr. Mc- 
 Tavish. " Anninncro :" "Book is not yet pub- 
 lished." 
 
 "It's a peety folk doesna' say what they mean," 
 was Mr. McPhail's comment. 
 
 All this has so shaken Laura that she feels "it 
 is not fair to myself" to remain longer at Glen- 
 fearn ; and consequently the head and shoulders 
 of the Camelry have been buried in travelling 
 trunks since breakfast time. A dentist and a 
 shoemaker are our ostensible reasons for hurry- 
 ing to Edinburgh. "Her ladyship says, m'm, 
 that the filling is now gone from her tooth (per- 
 haps it's the toughness of the meat has drawn 
 it), and her heel's blistered that dreadful and 
 painful that she don't know how to walk ;" but 
 as Mrs. Le Marchant (who has been spending 
 odd days here between visits) leaves Glenfearn 
 to-morrow, Laura anyway would have found this 
 heathered place unendurable when deprived of 
 her companionship. Mrs. Le Marchant has just 
 proved the hair that prevented the sword of 
 Damocles from falling and causing death from 
 solitude. Laura has confided in her freely, and 
 
 221
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 "grief is easy to carry when the burden is di- 
 vided among friends" (I take this reflection from 
 Reynard the Fox's uncle, Martin). Your post- 
 card too was wrongly read. "Don't presume 
 upon the climate" Laura understood to mean 
 that the enervation from which she now suffers 
 is nothing to what she may expect. 
 
 With Mrs. Le Marchant as a warning should 
 I ever have a house to call my own, nothing will 
 induce me to let it and throw myself for months 
 together upon the hospitality of my friends. The 
 hospitality of our friends is delightful, so long 
 as their hospitality is not our convenience, but 
 to be fitting in visits, eking out one there, and 
 squeezing in another here, I think it is detesta- 
 ble, almost depraving. And then there is a sort 
 of atmosphere, unscverable from formal visits, 
 that comes between oneself and the heart of the 
 country. The very views from the windows be- 
 come the property of host and hostess as much 
 as do the pictures on the walls. I remember dur- 
 ing a three days' visit to the Leytons hearing 
 Laura praise the nightingale as if she were com- 
 plimenting Lady Leyton on the musical per- 
 formance of her niece, and she really spoke 
 of a peculiarly brilliant sunset with a civility 
 that led one to infer that she imputed the 
 splendour of the evening sky to the admirable 
 taste and feeling for colour of Lord Leyton 
 himself. 
 
 I am sorry for Charles's disappointment. 
 Minnie is not the first woman, and will not be 
 
 222
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 the last, whose help has been a hindrance to her 
 husband. ("When Job was afflicted, the loss oA 
 his wife was not included in his misfortunes," / 
 Mrs. Vivian once observed.) Charles has, how- 
 ever, as you say, established a claim upon his 
 party, and to have established a claim in public, 
 as in private life, is to gain possession of a potent 
 weapon. Let us hope that if he stands again 
 Minnie will be too deeply engrossed in "A Trib- 
 ute of Tears," or some other work of imagination 
 to throw herself "heart and soul," as she calls it, 
 into the campaign. Minnie is always posing as 
 something or other. She has lately posed as the 
 devoted "helpmate," the colleague as well as 
 wife. (I don't mean that her afifection for Charles 
 is a pose, for of course it is not. I only mean she 
 has consciously set herself to play the part.) If 
 we could shift her pose and get her to take tem- 
 porarily that of fcmme incomprise, or soulful 
 woman linked to a soulless husband, whilst she 
 was occupied in pouring the soul into a novel, 
 Charles, uncompromised by his wife, might suc- 
 ceed in getting mind and body into St. Ste- 
 phen's. Stephen Leagrave, by sympathy and 
 approval, could possibly bring about this state of 
 things. He has always treated Minnie's literary 
 exploits with gratifying interest, and went the 
 length of describing "Only a Woman's Heart" 
 as a human document. And then, when Charles 
 had taken his seat, Minnie might be gently 
 pushed into another pose — the pose of the sensi- 
 ble young woman who played with her babies 
 
 223
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 and minded her own business, and was as kind 
 and good-hearted as Minnie really is. 
 
 To be sure it is the Mona Lisa that I see as the 
 portrait of your frank, unsophisticated, bicycle- 
 riding Margaret. To revert to truth after this 
 deviation from it. La Belle Ferronnicre was in my 
 mind when I wrote, and as soon as the letter was 
 posted, I remembered, with staircase memory 
 (staircase memory is allied to staircase wit), that 
 La Belle Ferronnicre is not, in these latter days, 
 included in Leonardo's works. Have you a 
 mind in which what you know lies dormant at 
 times, and suddenly forces itself — mostly too late 
 for use — upon your consciousness? Certainly 
 not. The mind of Richard is better regulated 
 doubtless. I should like your views of the Mona 
 Lisa. Are you fascinated, as I am, or repelled? 
 Had I to put a personality to her I should 
 choose, I think, that of another Margaret, that of 
 a very far distant Margaret — Marguerite of Na- 
 varre. Pater's description of the picture does not 
 please me, but then the beauty of Pater's writing 
 is a beauty I fail to appreciate. I find something 
 meretricious about it, and between that and hon- 
 est beauty there is to me just the difference that 
 lies between a field of cowslips or a bank of vio- 
 lets and a perfumer's shop. 
 
 And when do you accomplish your "Ring"? I 
 hear from Mrs. Vivian that, on her way to 
 choose a new brougham — "Our old one, as I 
 have been telling John for years, looks as if poor 
 Noah had used it when he drove up to the ark" 
 
 224
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 — she saw Minnie and "that horrible Mrs. Pot- 
 ters (who only goes because she thinks it the 
 right thing to do) tearing hot and hatless down 
 Long Acre." Mrs. Vivian may be correct as to 
 Mrs. Potters's reason for hearing Wagner, but 
 I resent the general imputation that this or that 
 in art or letters is liked because it is the Fashion. 
 How are we to like that which we do not know? 
 That mysterious influence, the Fashion, hawks 
 ware, pedlar-wise, to and fro. Autolycus was a 
 rogue, but as a distributor of "lawn" and "Cy- 
 prus," "bugle-bracelet," "necklace-amber," he 
 was of use. And as a distributor, too, that folly, 
 the Fashion, has its use and brings before our 
 notice much that otherwise would bloom un- 
 known. 
 
 You excite my curiosity when you speak mys- 
 teriously of feeling at the back of your head that 
 you will see more of Mr. Shipley. Is the subtle 
 sensation at the back of your head engendered, 
 Dickory, by anything very tangible that you see 
 before your eyes? Tell me. Thoughts can fly 
 far while one is braiding St. Catherine's tresses. 
 I can see Margaret married and living happily 
 ever after. I believe in William Shipley, for he 
 is beloved by Alice, and if a brother is beloved 
 by his sister he is not perhaps more wholly bad 
 than you are yourself. And having excited my 
 interest, don't, man-like, relapse into eternal 
 silence on the subject, but tell me all about it, as 
 is your bounden duty. Do not only tell me what 
 you thinkj but tell me what reasons you have 
 
 225
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 for thinking what you think, so that with my 
 feminine skill in such affairs I may winnow the 
 grain from the chafif of your premises. But, be- 
 ing a man, you are of course very much more 
 communicative, a thousand times less discreet 
 when you talk than when you write. Being a 
 man, you go in much greater fear of commit- 
 ting yourself upon paper than by word of 
 mouth. And with me, as I am a woman, it is 
 just the other way. And how, if you don't dis- 
 pute them, do you account for these facts? Is it 
 that the written word remains to rise up and 
 testify, and the waves set in motion by the 
 spoken word are not apparent to our senses, and 
 so the discreet creature — man — speaks, and the 
 indiscreet creature — woman — writes ? 
 
 This old reason, new to me, for objecting to 
 the hiding of foreheads by fringes of hair I send 
 to Margaret: "John Rows of Warwick re- 
 proached the beaux of his time for suffering 
 their long hair to cover their foreheads on which 
 they had been marked with the Sign of the Cross 
 at their baptism." The book which tells me this, 
 tells me too that Henry V. when, as Prince of 
 Wales, he "waited upon his father in order to 
 make his peace, was dressed in a mantle or gown 
 of blue satin full of small eyelet-holes, with a 
 needle hanging by a silk thread at every hole." 
 Very convenient this if the wearer or his friends 
 wished to darn a rent. 
 
 Your observation on the thunder-god of the 
 past and the lahve-Pignouf of the present re- 
 
 326
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 minds me of De Quincey, "As is the God of any 
 nation such will be that nation" ; and so the God 
 of feudal times was "the great Suzerain to whom 
 even kings pay homage." As the world grows 
 more merciful, I suppose, it follows that a fuller 
 and fuller measure of mercy will be ascribed to 
 the Deity. The qualities that human nature ad- 
 mires are those with which it invests what it 
 worships. Human nature does its best. 
 
 "Nor is it possible to thought 
 A greater than itself to know." 
 
 Poor little Cynthia is showing signs of dis- 
 tress. After hearing (from Laura, not from me) 
 that Harry was keen to go to Egypt, she took 
 refuge in her own room. I was afraid of worry- 
 ing her, but yet, as she had not reappeared when 
 the Aberdonian waiter (whose attitude the other 
 evening so perfectly illustrates the Persian poem) 
 banged down a great iron tea-tray upon the 
 "parlour" table, I went in search of her. She 
 was standing gazing forlornly out of the win- 
 ciow, with a damp cobweb of a pocket-handker- 
 chief in her hand. Then and there I determined 
 to write to Harry, but half an hour after there 
 came a belated letter that the witch-like old post- 
 mistress had till then ignored. The belated letter 
 was from Harry. "The Rajah will have told you 
 of my plans," he says. (You have not, atrocious 
 Rajah, told me of his plans definitely.) "I'm ofif 
 to-morrow," he goes on, "and hope it won't be 
 a case of getting there the day after the fair." 
 
 227
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Then a postscript bids me tell Cynthia that Tre- 
 lawney fattens and flourishes and deigns to accept 
 Margaret as a slave. So now I incline to think I 
 had best not write to Harry. If he is to go, or 
 rather if he has gone, doubts as to the wisdom 
 of his going will but unsettle him. What do you 
 think ? Write me a leader on the subject. How 
 I wish he were safely home again. Till he is safely 
 home again (I am touching wood as I write) I 
 shall be for ever imagining ill. I do think for 
 women who have leisure to sit and think, the 
 lively fancy that pictures disaster with a vivid- 
 ness that outvies in vividness the actual is an en- 
 gine of tortiire'that the Inquisition need not 
 have despised. 
 
 I hear from Enticknap that old Merlin has 
 passed away. I wish it had not been in the ab- 
 sence of his family that the dear old dog 
 breathed his last. Enticknap had a great opin- 
 ion of the dog, as he has of everything that 
 he counts ours, and was solicitous about him ac- 
 cording to his lights. When once I inquired why 
 in the world a large potato was pierced with a 
 string and tied to Merlin's collar, Enticknap 
 confessed that they did say a potato carried 
 in the pocket would get the rheumatism out 
 of the bones, and as the old dog had no pocket 
 there was no saying but what the tying it to his 
 collar might serve. (The potato cure for rheu- 
 matism is an old Devon superstition. It is sup- 
 posed that, as the potato softens, the rheumatism 
 
 228
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 lessons. The potato should by rights be placed in | Q^ 
 
 the patient's pocket by a member of the opposite 
 sex and unobserved.) Poor old Merlin. The 
 death of a faithful, affectionate, dumb thing hurts 
 surprisingly. I like Carlyle upon the death of 
 Nero : "Little dim white speck of Life, of Love, 
 Fidelity and Feeling, girdled by the Darkness as 
 of Night Eternal." And he could not have be- 
 lieved, he says, that his grief would have been the 
 twentieth part of what it was. I was reading 
 the other day what Horace Walpole wrote on the 
 death of Madame du Deffand's Tonton. A ten- 
 derness for animals was one of Horace Walpole's 
 redeeming points. Enticknap tells me that he 
 has laid old Merlin under the grass on the lawn 
 near the filbert trees. I wish I could persuade 
 you to write Merlin's epitaph. Almost the last 
 verse that my father wrote was an epitaph in 
 Latin on the first Merlin, this Merlin's father. 
 Write something on this dear old dog. I wish 
 I could have seen him again. 
 
 We are passing through such a lovely day. 
 Why don't you conquer distance, span space, 
 and come and take a walk? Or if you are lazily 
 inclined, you would find the knoll above the river 
 where a knot of rugged old pines gives shade, and 
 grey rocks padded with wild thyme supply seats, 
 a far and away pleasanter resting-place than a 
 lifeless club. Carpets and curtains strike one as 
 lifeless when contemplated from the site of reeds 
 and trees. I should like to see the wind raising 
 
 229
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 the carpets and tossing the curtains of the "East 
 Indian," but then I suppose some old clubite 
 would ring passionately for the waiter to close 
 doors and windows. Crash ! Here is that "gran" 
 sound, the thunder of Mr. McPhail's dinner- 
 gong again, and either there will be no walk for 
 me or no dinner. The "gran" sound is too much 
 for Blair and Atholl's nerves as it is too much for 
 mine. Poor fellows, they flutter from side to 
 side of their cage in wild alarm. Blair and Atholl 
 are not a thousand miles away now from the 
 place from which they take their names. Did you 
 know that of old, Atholl was famous for witches? 
 Two thousand and three hundred of these per- 
 sons of greater skill than probity were, in the 
 year of grace 1597, drawn up together upon an 
 Atholl hill. 
 Farewell. I break ofif to consume mutton. 
 
 Your loving sister, 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 P.S. — Is mutton bracing? Send your next 
 letter to The Thistle Hotel, Princes Street. 
 
 (Enclosed in Letter XXIX. Posted at Stirling.) 
 After Ossian. 
 We went. In the hands of the Camelry was 
 the immense dressing-bag of Laura. Filled with 
 everything needless is the immense dressing- 
 bag of Laura. In the thoughts of Laura was the 
 awful fear of enervation. She waked her own sad 
 tale at every step. 
 
 230
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 I met railway porters in fight. I took the 
 tickets. I alone of all the Etchinghams took the 
 tickets. I felt the strength of my soul. 
 
 Stately are Laura's steps in enervation. Stately 
 is Laura on the platforms of railway stations. In 
 her hands are no parcels. The Camelry is 
 broken down with parcels. Many are the parcels 
 of the Camelry. Many and immense. 
 
 O wonderful is the enervation of Laura. 
 Wonderful are her fusses and fidgets. Often 
 have I heard that no woman can fuss and fidget 
 as Laura can. 
 
 The traveller shrinks in the midst of her jour- 
 ney. She shrinks from a fellow-traveller who 
 eats jam sandwiches. Horror possesses her soul. 
 Horror possesses the enervated soul of Laura. 
 
 Fat was the man from Glasgow who ate jam 
 sandwiches. Fat and heated and red. Exulting 
 in the strength of his appetite. O ye ghosts of 
 heroes dead ! Behold Laura boxed up in a rail- 
 way carriage with a fat man eating jam sand- 
 wiches. We looked, we wondered. Laura shrank. 
 
 231
 
 XXX. 
 
 From Miss Margaret EtchmgJiam, Hans Place, 
 to Miss Elicabeth Etchlngham, Edinburgh. 
 
 Dearest Aunt Elizabeth, — I warn you that 
 this letter is going to be about the Ring, and the 
 Ring only. What else can I write about when 
 the last week has been full of nothing else? So 
 there. It is a most curious experience to have 
 seen that wondrous work here. In Dresden, 
 three years ago, it seemed quite a part of one's 
 life there ; but it is different here in the midst of 
 London turmoil and traffic. One felt a little 
 mad, starting off at four o'clock in one's evening 
 clothes to be thrilled by Siegfried and Briinn- 
 hilde. And we were thrilled ! I must allow that 
 we were all a little damped the first day by "Das 
 Rheingold." It depends so much less on dra- 
 matic interest than the other parts, that you want 
 the orchestra and scenery to be perfect. Now, 
 this orchestra might be good enough for the 
 common run of operas, though they would not 
 think so at Dresden or Munich. But it seemed 
 sadly rough and coarse for the magically delicate 
 Rhine music. Then, there were all sorts of little 
 mishaps — and not all very little — in the stage ar- 
 rangements. The singers were good, and strug- 
 gled bravely not to be put out. It must have 
 
 232
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 been even worse for them than for us, when a 
 large agitated carpenter was seen crossing the 
 stage instead of the expected Wotan. Poor old 
 Wotan, he had enough to put up with besides 
 having his entrance spoilt. 
 
 Two days later we set out undaunted for "Die 
 Walkure," and we were much better pleased. It 
 was something of a wrench when we bustled out 
 after the first act, speechless and overwrought 
 from the wonderful love-duet of Siegmund and 
 Sieglinde — to get our dinner. Isn't it a wonderful 
 thing? You know the music in concerts. But 
 dining between the acts is a good plan ; it en- 
 ables one to bear up under the emotion ever so 
 much better. It was quaint to see the lovely 
 ladies in opera cloaks and diamonds tripping 
 down Long Acre in the sunlight — but every one 
 took it as a matter of course. We found that the 
 orchestra had pulled itself together and the stag- 
 ing was at least decent, and we could give our- 
 selves up to the splendour of the music. 
 
 We were all in love with Fraulein Ternina ; 
 she is a splendid, quite superhuman Briinn- 
 hilde. We couldn't make up our minds whether 
 we were more impressed by the dignity of her 
 warning to Siegmund in the second act, or the 
 pathos of her appeal to Wotan at the end, which 
 was quite unutterable and upsetting. I don't 
 mean that she couldn't utter it, because of course 
 she did, but we couldn't speak of it. 
 
 Our third night — "Siegfried" — was the most 
 delightful of all ; it is like a happy enchantment. 
 
 233
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 One seems to feel the wind and the sunshine 
 every time when Siegfried blows his horn. We 
 had a good young Siegfried and he did not put on 
 an aggressively childish manner, as some singers 
 do. He was more than sufficient to cope with 
 the Worm — for it was a very poor, lumbering 
 reptile. 
 
 I have a difference with the rest of the party. 
 They won't allow that Mime is a charming per- 
 son. The cleverness of the way in which the 
 music fits his odious character without being un- 
 musical is to me particularly pleasing ; but I won- 
 der why Siegfried did not kill him much sooner 
 or set the bear at him. I know I should have 
 done something to him. But what a glorious 
 height of joy the last act rises to after Britnn- 
 hilde's awakening! it is a thing to make one 
 dizzy. Some people still say there are no tunes in 
 Wagner. I suppose they do it merely to annoy 
 — somebody always does. Did not people once 
 complain that there was no tune in Beethoven? 
 
 As for the "Gotterdammerung," it left us very 
 weak and crushed, even the strongest of us. But 
 tlic music is full of beauties, and Ternina and the 
 De Reszkes were superb. It feels too flat and 
 stale to go about ordering dmner" when one's iri- 
 her self is walking with those heroes in bearskins 
 (though I must admit that ITagcn's vassals are a 
 poor stagy crowd in London), and Siegfried's 
 horn still rings in one's ears. ' 
 
 Father got more and more excited about it and 
 wanting to hear fuller accounts as it went on. T 
 
 234
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 am sure he will take us to Bayreuth next year. 
 He said we must all come here to supper to be 
 restored after the "Gotterdammerung," and we 
 had a very pleasant party, though we were all 
 rather grave. I wish you could have been with 
 us, and I wish you were here now to play over 
 some of the music. Instead of which dinner has 
 to be ordered. O dear, I wish it was all to come 
 over again. Uncle Harry is somewhere in the 
 Mediterranean by this time. I believe he is not 
 allowed to tell anybody what his orders are. All 
 he would say was : "I wanted to take out Trelaw- 
 ney as a Sudanese orderly, and they won't let 
 me." Trelawney feels rather flat, too. He is at- 
 tached to us all, but no one can make him purr 
 like Uncle Harry. Good-bye, dear Aunt Eliza- 
 beth. Mrs. Baker is here for orders. 
 
 Margaret. 
 
 235
 
 XXXI. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchinghani, Hans Place, to 
 
 Miss Elisabeth Etchingham, Edinburgh. 
 
 My Dear Elizabeth, — You want facts about 
 Harry : I can only tell you that he has gone to re- 
 port himself at Cairo, but is to call at Malta and 
 spend some days there for some piece of technical 
 work which either he will not be informed of 
 himself till he is there, or he must not disclose. 
 He has been there before. 
 
 You want evidence about my conjectures. 
 Well, you know the distance from Hans Place to 
 the Record Office, and Mr. Shipley of the Rec- 
 ord Office has been here on several occasions 
 when a busy man would have been quite justified 
 in using the post, and Margaret has made no re- 
 mark whatever. Also we have had an interest- 
 ing little party to view the treasures of the Rec- 
 ord Office under Mr. Shipley's guidance, and 
 Margaret showed a much livelier curiosity about 
 medieval palaeography than I should have ex- 
 pected. Did you ever see a good American say 
 his prayers to Domesday Book? Of course they 
 are quite right : it ought to be put to bed in state 
 every day with a procession, like the Granth in 
 the golden temple at Amritsar. I should like to 
 
 236
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 call up one of William the Conqueror's Norman 
 clerks and compare notes with him on our re- 
 spective methods of working a revenue settle- 
 ment. As far as I can make out from Shipley, 
 they elaborated a language quite as technical as 
 any of our Anglo-Indian slang, so technical in- 
 deed, that after about two centuries nobody un- 
 derstood it. 
 
 Hobbes of Malmesbury is another old fellow I 
 should like to call up, and see how he would 
 make our relations with native states in India fit 
 into his doctrine of absolute, indivisible, inalien- 
 able sovereignty. But even in England, accord- 
 ing to his principles, we have been living pretty 
 comfortably in sheer anarchy for more than two 
 hundred years. If Landor had known enough 
 law, he might have made a pretty conversation of 
 Hobbes and Selden, disagreeing widely but with 
 mutual respect. I hope your copy of Leviathan 
 is a good one ; the engraved title-page with the 
 great artificial man made up of little men is too 
 commonly in poor condition. There ought to 
 be a cheap edition, not quite so cheap nor quite 
 so unattractive as the "Universal Library" re- 
 print, which, however, I was once glad enough 
 to get from Bombay. 
 
 Those post-Shakespearian poets of yours (if 
 Leagrave will allow any one but himself to claim 
 any interest in them) seem curiously like our 
 modern minor poets, of whom one or another is 
 always going to dethrone Tennyson, or Brown- 
 ing, or Swinburne, and never does. It is the same 
 
 237
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 story of the generation after the heroes ; much 
 deserving work, much excellence in detail, very 
 fine things here and there, but the "pride and am- 
 ple pinion" that make the difference between 
 great poetry and good verse-writing nowhere. So 
 far as workmanship goes, the workmanship of 
 our moderns is, I think, better and more even. 
 Whether their conceits are less violent than Cra- 
 shaw's or Vaughan's will be for the twentieth 
 century to judge. 
 
 But music reigns alone here for the present. 
 Margaret has written to you about the Ring. 
 Now I am free to wish I could have been there 
 too. Did the company add to her enjoyment? 
 Guess for yourself ; you know as much as I do. 
 
 The only parting blessing I could think of to 
 give Margaret on going to "Siegfried," was the 
 clown's in "Antony and Cleopatra," "I wish you 
 all joy of the worm." According to her report, 
 the English stage worm is a very shallow mon- 
 ster, so a critic might well continue in the clown's 
 language, "This is most fallible, the worm's an 
 odd worm." Other things seem to have been 
 odd too. "Spoiling the ship for a ha'p'orth of 
 tar" is an English proverb, but when a work of 
 art is in hand, nobody in this country seems to 
 realise the importance of that ha'p'orth of tar. 
 
 After the last night's performance wc had the 
 whole party to supper here, including one Crewe 
 of the Chancery Bar, one of the remnant who 
 love learning for its own sake. Charles has men- 
 tioned him to me as an unpractical person with 
 
 J38
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 no public spirit — meaning thereby, I suspect, am- 
 bition. He quotes chapter and verse from seven- 
 teenth century books to show that a lawyer ought 
 to be musical. Shipley has made friends with 
 him on the ground of legal antiquities. While 
 they were discussing the various possible mean- 
 ings of the Ring, Crewe turned upon Shipley and 
 said, "You are the only person here who will see 
 that the true moral of this trilogy is professional." 
 "'How do you mean?" "Why, Loge was the first 
 amateur lawyer, and the gods were punished for 
 taking his bad advice." "We all know such 
 wicked advice must be bad," said Mrs. Newton, 
 taking it, as might be expected, seriously, 
 though she seemed happier than usual. "He says 
 it was bad law as well as wicked," explained 
 Shipley : "Ancient Pistol, I do partly understand 
 thy meaning. Let us hear." "Perpend then," said 
 Crewe. "Loge tells Wotan it is safe stealing to 
 steal from a thief, and Wotan believes him. But 
 that is dead against the first principles of ancient 
 German law, which have been preserved in our 
 law. You may catch your thief red-handed if 
 you can. If not, taking is keeping until the true 
 owner comes to reclaim his goods, and Alberich 
 had a better right to the treasure than Wotan, 
 unless Wotan would retake it in the name of the 
 Rhine-maidens." "But that was just what it did 
 not suit him to do," I ventured to interpose. 
 "Yes," continued Crewe, "but he ought to have 
 known better, after giving an eye to purchase all 
 the wisdom there was. Anyhow, putting his 
 
 239
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 trust in Loge's thoroughly bad advice was his 
 ruin." "Are you sure the point was settled so 
 early?" said Shipley. Here Mrs. Newton called 
 on him to take her away, and indeed it was 
 pretty late. 
 
 An epitaph for Merlin, say you? Have not 
 our masters, even Matthew Arnold and George 
 Meredith, commemorated their dachshunds in 
 verse? And who am I that I should botch where 
 they have carved? One could wish that dogs 
 lived longer, or that the long-lived animals were 
 more interesting. A tortoise may be a good 
 heirloom, but is not much of a companion. Even 
 White of Selborne's interest in his old tortoise 
 was more scientific than personal, I think. 
 
 What do I think of Mona Lisa? Mona Lisa 
 was not easy to make acquaintance with, and was 
 apt to be alarming during the period of slight ac- 
 quaintance. She had not many friends, but to 
 the few she had she was adorable, always know- 
 ing everything in a quiet way, never in a fuss, 
 never out of temper ; one of the women who can 
 be on terms of real friendship, no less, and noth- 
 ing else, with a man. If she had been seriously 
 angry with any one she would not have said 
 much, but he would have found his plans crossed 
 in some unexpected and particularly unpleasant 
 way. I doubt whether she was often beloved (for 
 the man had need of much daring and of the 
 power to love heroically), or ever in love. If 
 she had loved at all, it would have been so that 
 the world nuist liave heard of it. Other people, 
 
 240
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 and Pater for all I know, may make her out 
 quite dififerent. I don't care if they do, and am 
 not sure that I would take a contradiction from 
 Leonardo himself. 
 
 Your loving brother, 
 
 Richard. 
 
 241
 
 XXXII. 
 
 From Miss El babe th Etchingham, Edinburgh, 
 to Sir Richard Etchingham, London. 
 
 Thistle Hotel, Princes Street, Edinburgh. 
 
 Many happy returns of the day, Sir Richard. 
 A very fortunate day, this, for you. (It is not 
 your own birthday to which I refer. Unhke most 
 people, you are only allowed one a year.) I refer 
 to my own. 
 
 I really do think, Dickory, it is rather horrid 
 of you to have forgotten this universal festival. 
 Not one word in your writing, not the ghost of 
 a packet that looks like a present. My wrath is 
 kindled against you. However, lest over severity 
 drive you to despair, I will hint that I'm not im- 
 placable, and if you write me a long, long letter 
 and promise me another Helleu etching, I may 
 again like you almost as well as I like Sir Augus- 
 tus Pampesford — The saints defend us ! Richard ! 
 Speak of the deil — he — Sir Augustus, is in the 
 room! 
 
 With chastened spirit and the worst quill in the 
 world, I return to my interrupted letter. Ehcu! 
 Sir Augustus is under this very roof — come to 
 Edinburgh to interview Lyon King of Arms; 
 come to look for a shooting; come to be civil to 
 
 242
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 somebody (not to me). I never did see anything 
 quite so solid and solemn as he looked projecting 
 himself into the hotel drawing-room with a Royal 
 Stuart plaid wound about his massive arm. 
 
 And the sight of him did not astound Laura 
 as it did me. For once the shock and enerva- 
 tion and nerve prostration were mine. And what 
 did I hear ? I heard what led me to suppose that, 
 while ministered to by the waiter from Aber-r-r-r- 
 deen the other evening, we narrowly escaped the 
 sight of Sir Augustus darkening the coffee-room 
 window, shutting out the light of heaven, as his 
 elephantine form descended by ladder from the 
 roof of the station omnibus, to the door-steps of 
 the inn. But for some contretemps Sir Augustus 
 would, it is plain, have joined us at Glenfearn the 
 evening before last. He is in treaty for a shoot- 
 ing within easy distance of the inn, (Wait a 
 minute, the post has come in.) 
 
 Thank you for your letter, dear. You will have 
 heard what Mr. Shipley writes to tell me. Poor 
 Colonel Newton. Frankfort railway station does 
 not seem a suitable departure platform for an- 
 other world. From what Mr. Shipley says, he 
 died quite suddenly. His servant reports that 
 during an altercation with the porters about the 
 taking of small luggage into the carriage, he fell 
 and never recovered consciousness. I shall be 
 anxious for further news of Alice. I am rather 
 glad that she had already gone back to Suffolk. 
 Not that it can make any vital difference, but the 
 
 243
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 influences of the country are soothing, and those 
 of London are not. She asked Mr. Shipley to 
 write to me and then, later, wrote a few lines her- 
 self. "Why could it not have been me?" she says. 
 "I always thought Hubert could have been quite 
 happy if he had married another sort of woman, 
 and now there is an end to all that he might have 
 had, and might have been." 
 
 There came, too, a characteristic, ghoulish let- 
 ter from Mrs. Ware, Colonel Newton's sister, 
 who has already started off on the tack of "I 
 should have thought Alice would have wished the 
 remains brought home for interment in the family 
 vault, but this, from what I learn, is not, &c., 
 &c. . . . Alice herself seems wonderfully 
 well. I have offered to be with her as long as 
 she likes, regardless of serious personal in- 
 convenience, but she is expecting Mr. Shipley on 
 his return from Germany, it appears, and mean- 
 while does not feel the loneliness as one would 
 have expected. For months after Mr. Ware's 
 death I could not be left alone for an hour." Mr. 
 Shipley's note differs wholly in purport. He 
 fears that this shock will give yet another rude 
 shake to Alice's shattered nerves, a far greater 
 shock than news of the signing of her own death 
 warrant would have been. Charon must have 
 the hunter's passion for pursuit. He despises 
 willing prey. 
 
 Mrs. Vivian writes to tell me that as T am not 
 available she is taking Ada Llanelly to Marien- 
 
 244
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 bad. "It is easier to take her than to shake her 
 off, and now that Eddy Leyton's engagement to 
 Vv^ilfrida Home-Lennox is an accompHshed fact, 
 Ada does not give herself the airs that she did 
 when imagining that she was to marry him her- 
 self. I heard from Lady Leyton this morning, 
 who is thankful that it is not Ada. She likes the 
 Home-Lennox girl. I certainly should be sorry 
 for a son of mine to marry Ada. She is a regu- 
 lar Becky Sharp ; but she will do well enough at 
 Marienbad, and John likes her, as she troubles 
 herself to be civil to him. She would go and sit 
 beside a scarecrow and be civil to it, if it wore a 
 man's coat." Tvlrs. Vivian furthermore tells me 
 that Mr. Biggleswade and Ada impressed each 
 other very favourably when last he came to Lon- 
 don "dressed, poor zany, to look as much like 
 a guardsman as possible and making it plain that 
 no one considered the Church a greater anach- 
 ronism than he does himself." 
 
 Mrs. Vivian goes on to ask me, "How would 
 it be if Mr. Biggleswade and Ada Llanelly made 
 a match of it? They have each impressed the 
 other with the sense of social 'smartness.' Ada 
 wonders how Mr. Biggleswade came to go into 
 the Church (a wonder after his own heart), and 
 he speaks of her as very 'good fun' (a verdict af- 
 ter hers). "She couldn't tolerate life in our vicar- 
 age, but she might tolerate it as the wife of a 
 West or South-west London clergyman who re- 
 mained in the Church because he thought it 
 would be hard on the poor dowdy old Church if 
 
 245
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 he threw her over, and who preached on secular 
 subjects to a crowd of got-up women painted to 
 their eyes." So says Mrs. Vivian. 
 
 Is it true that Stephen and Mr. Biggleswade 
 are writing a play together? Since I received 
 the "Unicode" telegram that my last inquiries 
 concerning his book-making produced, I feel 
 shy of putting questions on literary affairs to 
 Stephen. 
 
 I did not tell you that while we were at Glen- 
 fearn I went over to Dalruogh, It was cowardly 
 not to have gone before, but one side of me has 
 been half crazed I think these years ; and I have 
 had letters constantly; and I have written con- 
 stantly as you know. (A letter had come from 
 Dalruogh the morning of the day on which that 
 foolish Sir Augustus first asked me to marry 
 him.) And when I was at Glenfearn I felt as if 
 I could not face the going there, though I felt 
 too as if I should be sorry always afterwards if I 
 did not. And then Mr. Fraser — Dalruogh, as he 
 is in that country — rode across the moor to Glen- 
 fearn one afternoon when the others were out 
 and seemed as if he wished me to come. We had 
 met already at half-way places. He was grow- 
 ing old, he told me, and old folk had not over- 
 much time for getting their way, and he had a 
 wish to see me there again and to give me one or 
 two things I might care to have. So I went. I 
 was deceitful, T am afraid, in concealing my in- 
 tention from Laura. But I could not speak of it 
 
 2.^6
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 or have her, or even Cynthia, with me. Some 
 things one can only do and endure alone. 
 
 Mr. Fraser still lives by himself. He and the 
 collies — one of them the white collie I christened 
 Fingal, now old and stiff — came out to meet me. 
 The house looks just the same, and the gardens 
 as peaceful and lovely as ever. I used to think 
 how when you came home you would admire 
 those hanging gardens overlooking the river, ter- 
 race divided from terrace by old iron gates, and 
 the brilliant flowers thrown into relief by the 
 background of dusky yew. I used to think of the 
 library, too, how much you would like the books. 
 And Mr. Fraser told me I was to tell you in de- 
 tail of his treasures; they might perhaps tempt 
 you to Dalruogh some day, and for this, he 
 showed me the copy of the Montaigne in 
 which Florio apologises for printers' and other 
 errors by saying an engagement at Court had ab- 
 sorbed his time ; and the first English New Tes- 
 tament printed at Geneva, and a folio Beaumont 
 and Fletcher with the wreathed portrait, and 
 Hunnis's "Seven Psalms" and "Handful of 
 Honeysuckle," and other rare books of old verse, 
 and black-letter Bibles and wonderful missals, 
 and then copies of about ten folio editions of 
 Horace, and as many Virgils. They would all, 
 he said, go to a ne'er do weel lad who would sell 
 the lot to pay his racing debts. He had only 
 one son. 
 
 We went to the churchyard. I had not seen 
 
 247
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 the stone. The inscription just says, "Alastair 
 Ian Fraser of Dalruogh, born January 7th, 1852, 
 died August 12th, 1891" — from a gun accident. 
 Suddenly— that was better perhaps than ilhiess. 
 
 But why had it to be? 
 
 The stone looks quite grey and old, as if it had 
 been there a long while now. Seven years is a 
 long while, and yet it is nothing. A thousand 
 years and but yesterday. 
 
 His life was very good while it lasted, I like to 
 think that. He was very successful in his pro- 
 fession and had interests all round. As keen a 
 soldier as Harry, with a love for things bookish 
 like you, and a love for the country like me. And 
 his father and he were friends; not only father 
 and son ; and to his mother he was all the world. 
 His dying sent the light out of her sky for ever, 
 and it killed her, I think. I was tougher and 
 young, and got acclimatised to living on in the 
 dark. 
 
 I don't know why I am writing this to you, 
 rending my heart but not my garments. Yes, I 
 do know. I want to bring him back into your 
 thoughts, if only for the moment, so that he may 
 live in your memory ; and I have never the forti- 
 tude to do it speaking, though I have often tried. 
 For the dead arc forgotten, Richard. We only 
 pretend that they are not. To all my relations 
 now it is as if he had never lived and died. Laura 
 said to me the other day, "I think your nerves 
 are getting out of order, Elizabeth; you wince 
 when you hear a gun." It is true, I do. But I 
 
 248
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 have not suddenly become what Harry would 
 call gun-shy. I have been so ever since the day 
 of a gun-accident on the moor above Dalruogh. 
 
 Mrs. Vivian would say I have had more in not 
 marrying him than if we had been married. The 
 half in such cases is greater, she declares, than 
 the whole. The saints were mostly unmarried, or 
 married to brutes or shrews, she is fond of an- 
 nouncing. I remember someone saying once, 
 apropos of the engagement of a woman she knew, 
 to a man who had been married before, "I should 
 not be jealous of the woman he married, but of 
 the woman he cared for and did not marry." "It's 
 the men and women that are beloved but not mar- 
 ried that are canonised." But there are people in 
 whom there is nothing that disillusions. Their 
 trifling faults and failings are either lovable or 
 seem to throw their virtues into higher relief. 
 And even if there are graver faults, I don't think 
 that would interfere ; unless they were base, un- 
 generous faults. Pride, hot temper, self-will, ob- 
 stinacy, arrogance, prejudice, what am I that I 
 could not forgive them all? 
 
 It was even harder to pull myself from Dal- 
 ruogh than the going there had been, and it was 
 evening before I came away. But I shall go 
 back, I think. I think I shall go back soon ; I 
 said I would. There, at least, he is not forgotten. 
 His guns and fishing-rods, all the inanimate 
 things, are just as they used to be. And when 
 
 249
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 his father wished me good-bye he said, "God 
 bless and keep you ; we have both the same sor- 
 row in our hearts." 
 
 And then I drove the twelve miles over the hill 
 to Glenfearn, and was met by Cynthia with many 
 caresses, and by Blake with the tidings that "her 
 ladyship was that alarmed, not knowing where 
 you was, M'm, and them nasty tinkers about, 
 that she's having tea instead of dinner." 
 
 For the rest that I had to say I cannot say it 
 now. Good-bye. 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 250
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, to 
 Miss Elisabeth Etchingham, Ocean Hotel, St. 
 Kentigerns, N.B. 
 
 Dearest Elizabeth, — How should I forget 
 your birthday? It was the binder who was a few 
 days late with his reverent mending of a little old 
 eighteenth-century reprint of Sir John Davis's 
 "Immortality of the Soul," which you should re- 
 ceive by this post or the next. I was sure you 
 would not like it re-bound if the old binding 
 could be saved. Sir John pleases me, I confess, 
 better than your later English Platonists. His 
 images are more noble and sustained, and he does 
 not fly up like a sky-rocket to burst in a shower 
 of crackling little conceits. I don't say he is free 
 from affectations in his minor work. Only an 
 Elizabethan lawyer-poet could have set down 
 that "Every true wife bears an indented heart, 
 wherein the covenants of love are writ." But I 
 claim judgment for him, as every man ought to 
 have it, on his best, the "Nosce Teipsum." What 
 say you now to this? 
 
 "As a king's daughter, being in person sought 
 Of divers princes, who do neighbour near. 
 
 On none of them can fix a constant thought, 
 Though she to all do lend a gentle ear: 
 
 251
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 "Yet she can love a forrain Emperor, 
 
 Whom of great worth and power she hears to be. 
 If she be woo'd but by Embassador, 
 
 Or but his letters or his pictures see: 
 
 "For well she knows that when she shall be brought 
 Into the kingdom where her spouse doth reign, 
 
 Her eyes shall see what she conceiv'd in thought, 
 Himself, his state, his glory, and his train. 
 
 "So while the virgin Soul on Earth doth stay, 
 She woo'd and tempted is ten thousand ways. 
 
 By these great powers, which on the Earth bear sway: 
 The wisdom of the World, wealth, pleasure, praise: 
 
 "With these sometime she doth her time beguile, 
 
 These do by fits her Fantasie possess; 
 But she distastes them all within a while. 
 
 And in the sweetest finds a tediousness." 
 
 The conclusion of the simile is good, but not 
 quite so good. And some pages farther on : 
 
 "Bodies are fed with things of mortal kind. 
 
 And so are subject to mortality; 
 But Truth, vvhich is eternal, feeds the mind, 
 
 The Tree of life, which will not let her die. 
 
 "Heaven waxeth old, and all the spheres above 
 Shall one day faint, and their swift motion stay; 
 
 And Time itself in time shall cease to move; 
 Only the Soul survives, and lives for aye. 
 
 "And when thou think'st of her eternity. 
 Think not that Death against her nature is, 
 
 Think it a birth; and when thou goest to die, 
 Sing like a swan, as if thou went'st to bliss." 
 
 252
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Stanzas like these, when one considers the dif- 
 ficulty of handhng a philosophical argument in 
 verse, appear to me to place the author's art very 
 high. 
 
 True it is that Sir John Davis has not con- 
 vinced the world that his aspirations amount to 
 proof : nor has any one. For I take it that those 
 who believe in personal immortality on direct 
 conviction, not merely on authority, or as having 
 convinced themselves that they ought to believe 
 on authority, are no very large number. Indeed 
 it is or has been an orthodox opinion that nat- 
 ural reason is not adequate for this purpose. But 
 it is good to aspire. And for once I must dis- 
 agree with you, though on things almost too sa- 
 cred to discuss — I mean, when it comes to one's 
 own personal application. Speculation is and 
 ought to be absolutely free, but human weak- 
 ness can preserve its freedom only by keeping it 
 in general terms. But here is my difference. 
 You say the dead arc forgotten ; are you not un- 
 just to the remembrance of the few — those who 
 ought to remember — in confounding it with the 
 large inert oblivion of the multitude? No, our 
 dead are not forgotten; least of all, perhaps, 
 when least present to our conscious thought. 
 None of us can really sound the depths of his 
 own memory. They have entered into our lives 
 and work with us, and all that we do is their 
 tribute. For the rest, I am content to be no 
 wiser than the nameless sage whose wisdom 
 was deemed worthy to borrow a name from 
 
 253
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Solomon. "lustorum animae in manu Dei 
 sunt." 
 
 The full solution is not for us now. But some- 
 how, some time — or peradventure as much be- 
 yond our measures of time as beyond our limits 
 of space — the rules that keep our day-dreams in 
 order — it is plain in the infinite thought of the 
 One who wakes. If we may not pray with the 
 saints, we can watch with the humble sinners. 
 Which is the greater faith — to think that we have 
 the secret of God's counsels, and can dispense it 
 in daily rations, and earn doles of it by good con- 
 duct, or to trust God's knowledge far enough not 
 to be afraid of confessing our ignorance? 
 
 "Some draw the wine to drink thereof full deep, 
 
 And some i' the mosque their night-long vigil keep — 
 
 Unstedfast all, tossed on a shoreless flood; 
 For One doth wake: fools in their folly sleep." 
 
 So says Omar Khayyam, the real and serious 
 Omar, I conceive, when he rends the veil of his 
 ambiguous conventional imagery and ceases 
 from his antinomian flings against the formalism 
 of both Mullahs and Sufis. How do I know, you 
 may say, that this and not the other — or one of 
 the others — is the real Omar? Well, I don't ; but 
 this and like utterances — not fitting into the com- 
 mon forms even of unorthodoxy — seem far less 
 likely to have been interpolated than the six hun- 
 dred and one stanzas about wine and moonlight 
 and the lips of the beloved by the lip of the field 
 (the boundary between tilth and wilderness in a 
 
 254
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 country living on irrigation), which scores of 
 versifiers might have written at any time over sev- 
 eral centuries. Not that the wine and moon, and 
 so forth, need always have their literal meaning, 
 or only that meaning. My own belief is that the 
 reader is often wilfully left to take his choice as 
 he may deserve : but that is yet another story. 
 
 As to more modern literature, it is quite true 
 about Stephen Leagrave and Biggleswade. They 
 are concocting an Elizabethan drama. Not much 
 of it is written, so far as I can make out. Lea- 
 grave tells me of interminable discussions on the 
 mint and anise and cummin of archaism. Big- 
 gleswade wants it to be written in Elizabethan 
 spelling, with stage directions to impress on the 
 reader at every turn that the action takes place 
 under the conditions of the Elizabethan theatre, 
 on a platform commanded by the audience all 
 round, and with no costumes or scenery. You 
 know — or don't know — that our incomparable 
 Biggleswade is a professed enthusiast for the re- 
 vival of the pure Elizabethan stage management. 
 Apart from my general objection to Biggleswade 
 and his works, that seems to me one of the queer- 
 est fads of an archaizing age — permissible, per- 
 haps, as an occasional curious exercise. Not 
 long ago, when Shipley was in Paris working 
 with his friends at the Ecole des Chartes, he met 
 one of the first living actors of France — one who 
 has had to do with Shakespeare — and told him of 
 these Elizabethan performances in London. The 
 actor's comment was what a Frenchman would 
 
 «>w
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 call "brutal" if an Englishman had said it. "C'est 
 stupide !" What is more, I think Shakespeare 
 would have called it stupid. If Shakespeare made 
 "four or five most vile and ragged foils" and a 
 few "chambers shot ofi" furnish forth the siege 
 of Harflleur and the field of Agincourt, it was hot 
 because he liked it so, but because the stage and 
 the property-room of the Globe could do no bet- 
 ter for him. He tells us so himself. What is the 
 inference to any one who has not drilled himself 
 into the very lunacy of antiquarian pedantry? 
 Surely that, if Shakespeare could be with us now, 
 he would applaud Sir Henry Irving to the full, 
 and work the resources of the modern theatre to 
 their utmost capacity. Leagrave is dogmatic 
 enough, but he is too much of a scholar to have 
 broken with all the traditions of rational modern 
 education, and he has not got to the point of de- 
 spising everything done between 1590 and 1890. 
 So I don't very well see how he and Biggleswade 
 are going to hit it ofT. The play will no doubt 
 find some one to praise it ; Biggleswade has at 
 any rate not neglected the modern art of "ladling 
 butter from alternate tubs." But it needs no 
 great skill in fortune-telling to prophesy that it 
 will have none to act it and very few to read. 
 
 Do you know the story of the minister at a 
 Scottish funeral giving out the hymn? — "Let us 
 sing hymn No. 297 : it was always a favourite 
 hymn with the remains." Mrs. Ware may sing 
 hymn No. 297 over Colonel Newton if she likes; 
 as indeed she is in duty bound. I shall not pre- 
 
 256
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 tend to be sorry that poor Mrs. Newton, after ap- 
 parently throwing away her Hfe, has another 
 chance of Hving. Margaret is sorry without 
 much pretence, and it can hardly be for Colonel 
 Newton. Shipley took a hurried leave of us be- 
 fore going ofif to Frankfort to do what has to be 
 done there ; after which he will have to give an 
 uncertain amount of time and trouble to putting 
 things in order at home. I know nothing of Col- 
 onel Newton's affairs, except that he was the kind 
 of man who is apt to leave most trouble to sur- 
 vivors — that is, he thought he was business-like, 
 and was not. Mrs. Newton probably does not 
 know the difference between a cheque and a 
 bank-note, so Shipley will have to look to every- 
 thing. 
 
 Arthur has come up for the Harrow match, and 
 gone back disgusted with the usual inconclusive 
 result (it seems that nowadays a drawn match is 
 rather to be expected than not) ; but he is much 
 pleased with his recent promotion to Sixth Form 
 — to be captain of one's house and in Sixth Form 
 is a great matter. Perhaps it is as near the posi- 
 tion of a reigning Indian prince — with the house 
 master for Resident and the head-master for 
 Viceroy — as anything this country can show. 
 Meanwhile Shipley and I had spent a half-holi- 
 day afternoon and evening at Eton — the very day 
 before Colonel Newton's death was announced. 
 Arthur has most likely written to you since, as he 
 is a pretty good correspondent. He is devoted 
 to Shipley, as you are aware, and wanted very, 
 
 257
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 much to entertain him. I don't know which of us 
 enjoyed it most. We rowed up to Boveney weir 
 for a bathe, as all good Etonians ought when they 
 get the chance; and I am free to maintain that 
 there is no better bathing-place in the world, and 
 none so good, except perhaps in Rosia Bay near 
 Europa Point at Gibraltar. And then tea with 
 L'ytewell in his garden — a real individual garden 
 which he has made. Is that admirable type of 
 scholar and gentleman — scholar all over, not 
 merely in Latin verses and such like — threatened 
 with extinction? Does it begin to seem antiquat- 
 ed to our young folk? Not to Arthur ; I can an- 
 swer for him : but he is only one. I hope not. 
 Our public schools are not laid out for commer- 
 cial seminaries, and will only be beaten at that 
 game if they try. But the humanities have sur- 
 vived the great Useful Knowledge illusion of 
 sixty years ago — an illusion not lasting enough 
 to disturb the slumbers of Aklis with a Master of 
 the Event — and they seem healthy enough for a 
 while yet. "And what do you make at your pub- 
 lic schools?" said a worthy Privat-dozcnt, still a 
 little hazy about the idiomatic use of his English 
 verbs, to a well-trained gunner going back to 
 Indian service from his leave. The carefully self- 
 informing German had already ascertained that 
 his examinee had passed into Woolwich from 
 Marlborough. "Men," said the gunner. And the 
 Privat-do::cnt, having discovered his mistake by 
 further questioning, made a careful note on the 
 annoying refinements of the English verbs make 
 
 258
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 and do. This was the last time I went out, some- 
 where off Crete. 
 
 Arthur was fuller of Shipley's praises than ever 
 when he was at home, and Margaret seemed as if 
 it got on her nerves somehow. What does that 
 mean? 
 
 If there be anything in so-called Christian 
 Science, Laura will surely be very ill one of these 
 days — I suppose it works both ways. 
 
 Your loving brother, 
 
 Richard. 
 
 259
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 From Lady Etchingham, Thistle Hotel, Edinburgh, 
 to Sir Richard Etchingham, 83 Hans Place. 
 
 My dear Richard, — Kindly send me Mr. 
 Weekes's address at om'c. The Follits are away 
 for their hohdays — somewhere abroad, I fancy — 
 so there might be delay in receiving an answer 
 from them. I should be obliged if Margaret 
 would have my bronchitis kettle (the largest of 
 the three) got out of the cupboard in the Bath- 
 room, where I hope it still is carefully packed, and 
 sent to me without losing a post to The Ocean 
 Hotel, St. Kentigerns, N.B. (Grace must clean 
 it thoroughly first.) I have not bronchitis at 
 present, but my breathing since Sunday has not 
 been quite free, and did I wait till an attack 
 came on to write for the kettle it might reach me 
 too late, and there is never any harm in being 
 prepared. 
 
 We took some pretty drives at Glenfearn, but 
 the air is terribly enervating, and it is scarcely a 
 place to stay in. The food is very indifferent, and 
 the attendance thoroughly bad. Elizabeth did 
 not, I think, notice the poorness of the accom- 
 modation. She seemed up in the clouds all the 
 time. I was sorry that she should not have told 
 
 260
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 us the day she went over to Dah'iiogh, but I posi- 
 tively had not the sHghtest idea of where she 
 was going, and was more surprised than I can 
 express when I heard from Blake, who asked the 
 driver, where she had been. Neither I nor Cyn- 
 thia know Dalruogh, and we should have enjoyed 
 the drive. As it was, we wasted the day, which 
 was one of the finest we have had. An old in- 
 valid gentleman from Bournemouth, with a very 
 objectionable, pushing young nurse, took the 
 other landau, and I had to do without my daily 
 drive. 
 
 It must have seemed odd to Mr. Fraser that, 
 when we were all in the neighbourhood, Eliza- 
 beth should be the only one of the party to call. 
 As that pleasant Mrs. Le Marchant said, it 
 might look as if we were not on good terms for 
 Elizabeth to go ofif like that by herself. It is 
 much better for people to keep together, and it 
 makes less gossip. 
 
 This hotel is very well managed and the beds 
 are good. We go on to St. Kentigerns to-mor- 
 row (Mrs. Le Marchant assured me that I might 
 depend upon the East coast of Scotland being 
 most bracing and invigorating), and we expect to 
 be at home on Saturday. Elizabeth will let Mrs. 
 Baker know about dinner when she has looked 
 out the trains. She has now gone ofif again to 
 St. Giles's. If it can be managed I shall take 
 Cynthia to Holyrood before we leave. I suppose 
 one ought to see it. 
 
 Colonel Newton's sudden death from heat apo- 
 
 261
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 plexy is very shocking. Perhaps Mrs. Newton 
 now will be sorry that they did not get on better 
 together. Here, too, it is excessively warm, but 
 the weather may change. 
 
 I hope Margaret will see that the spottt of the 
 kettle is properly packed, and that the parcel is 
 labelled '^ Fragile" "With great care" as well as 
 "Immediate." 
 
 With kindest love, 
 
 Affectionately yours, 
 
 Laura F. Etchingham. 
 
 P.S. — Tell Margaret without the spout the kettle 
 is useless, and Grace is so terribly heedless that 
 she had better make sure herself that it is all sent 
 and registered. 
 
 262
 
 XXXV. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, 
 S.W., to the Dowager Lady Etchingham, 
 Ocean Hotel, St. Kentigerns, N.B. 
 
 My dear Laura, — I am sorry I cannot help 
 you to Mr, Weekes's address, as I have not seen 
 or heard anything of him since he left Much 
 Buckland. Neither do I know Mr. FoUett's pres- 
 ent address. If you ascertain it and have occasion 
 to write to him, please observe that he spells his 
 name with an e and two /'s. He is an old-fash- 
 ioned scholar and particular about such things. 
 
 Should Mrs. Le Marchant, with whom I have 
 not the honour to be acquainted, or any other 
 person, trouble you with any more conjectures as 
 to Elizabeth's visit to Dalruogh, you have my au- 
 thority to tell him or her that I am fully informed 
 of Elizabeth's reasons, and that they are perfectly 
 good. 
 
 We can find no bronchitis kettle here at all an- 
 swering your description, but only an old kettle 
 and a spout which do not fit one another. I 
 should guess that your large kettle went with the 
 rest of your luggage to Glenfearn and has been 
 accidentally left there. If not, I should presume 
 
 263
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 that "whitesmith" is good Scots for a man who 
 makes, or will make, bronchitis kettles, and that 
 he and they are to be met with in Edinburgh. 
 
 London is particularly pleasant and healthy 
 this summer, and cool for the time of year. 
 Yours afifectionately, 
 
 Richard Etchingham. 
 
 264
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 From Miss Elisabeth Etchingham, Ocean Hotel, 
 St. Kentigcrns, to Sir Richard Etchingham, 83 
 Hans Place. 
 
 Dearest Dickory, — You don't know how 
 grateful I am to you for your letter. "They that 
 are whole need not a physician, but they that are 
 sick," and virtue went out of you when you 
 wrote. I wanted you to contradict what I said 
 about the forgetting of those who are gone. 
 When I feel as I felt when my letter was written, 
 I am unjust, I know. 
 
 I have been all out of gear lately, unjustly re- 
 senting that people did not realise what I do 
 my best to conceal. It is unfair to blame Laura, 
 or blame any one, for hurting, when my object is 
 to pretend to pretty-well every one that T am 
 callous. You know what is amiss by instinct, 
 and, as far as I go, it is only those who do know 
 what is amiss by instinct, who understand, 
 whether we will or not, whose handling of the ill 
 is bearable. 
 
 It is stupid to mind the things that I often 
 have minded. If we are to live with our fellow- 
 creatures, we must take our chance and rough 
 it. But the merest trifles can give the feeling of 
 
 265
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 a great unbridgeable gulf fixed between what we 
 really are, and all around us. When Charles, the 
 evening before I left London, looked surprised, 
 and asked, in astonished accents, across the 
 table at dinner, how in the world I came to any 
 knowledge of the "honours" on the Black Watch 
 colours, it made me feel — I don't know what it 
 made me feel, unless it was that I and the pres- 
 ent were, by everything that exists, divided. And 
 that time when Laura found that I had been to 
 Dalruogh, she not only regretted that Cynthia 
 and she had missed the drive, but said that Blake 
 might have sat upon the box. Richard, is it a 
 fortunate or unfortunate accomplishment to be 
 able at the same time, as I am, to laugh with 
 one's mind, and cry with one's heart? 
 
 People are handicapped. I think, for sensible 
 rational behaviour who have the gift of seeing 
 with their thoughts as vividly as with their eyes. 
 Sometimes, halfway through a dinner party, or 
 when I have taken Cynthia to a ball, I could see 
 suddenly, just as if it was let down before my 
 eyes, what happened that day on Dalruogh 
 moor. I could see it all, I could even hear the 
 ripple of the burn from which they must have 
 
 brought water, and the But I will not let 
 
 myself think of it now. 
 
 After the first it was never jarringly desolate 
 at Tolcarne, as it was during the time in London. 
 We had been together at Tolcarne, and there 
 were associations and a background not alien 
 from all I felt. But in that Hans Place house, 
 
 266
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 where he has never been, and where there is 
 nothing of which the look was to him familiar, I 
 have gone through all the agonies. (You are to 
 make over a hovel to me at Tolcarne in my old 
 age — you really must.) 
 
 There, now I have told you, and I wish I had 
 told you before ; for of you one does not ask 
 bread and get a stone, nor does one get what is 
 worse than a stone — that obtrusive, publicly 
 shown after-sympathy with which the tactless 
 molest the harassed. 
 
 Since your letter came I have wanted an 
 analogy for the present and the past — the pres- 
 ent which is the outcome of the past. It is not, 
 for all of us, the flower of the past; but do you 
 think that it is the seemingly withered seed, not 
 beautiful to look at and not fragrant, but still as 
 much part of the flower that has gone as of the 
 flower that will come? 
 
 You must have known beforehand that I 
 would like the verses from the "Immortality of 
 the Soul." I wish the book would appear. I 
 really did think that you had forgotten my 
 birthday, but then I was all to wrongs and in a 
 mood to fear the worst. 
 
 As to the battles of the creeds, it is, I think, 
 easier to believe that we ourselves can go out 
 like a candle than can those for whom we care. 
 It is not as if we had seen life while we know 
 life exists. It is not as if we had seen the motive 
 power as well as the machinery, what propels as 
 well as what is propelled. The manifestations 
 
 267
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 of life, not life itself, are apparent — the outward 
 and visible sign, not the inward and spiritual 
 grace. What it is that makes personality — 
 what inspires that we do and are — is no more 
 visible in what we call life than if the change 
 that we call Death had come. There is some- 
 thing in us that enables us to realise what is too 
 fine for our senses to grasp ; and the sceptics, as 
 far as I know, do not prove that Death can 
 touch that. 
 
 Margaret's letter must be answered now. It 
 deserved a quicker response ; and I have a letter 
 from Arthur to answer as well. (Both the crea- 
 tures are fashioning their handwriting upon 
 yours.) Arthur's letter is in the key of Mr. 
 Shipley, and indignation prompts his pen. Here 
 was I, Elizabeth Etchingham, honoured by ac- 
 quaintance with this phoenix, and I had bottled 
 up the important fact during a period of many 
 lengthy years. Arthur had not the ghost of a 
 notion that I knew the man. Had he known it, 
 he would have raised my pedestal sky high. 
 That he makes plain. Black deceit, double- 
 dealing indeed, never to have let out that I was 
 acquainted with this prodigy — this athlete, this 
 wit, this everything valiant and valuable rolled 
 into one. 
 
 Margaret's raptures arc for the "Ring." Mr. 
 Shipley does not come into her letter, which 
 does not, of course, prove that he does not come 
 into her thoughts. When I try, however, I find 
 
 268
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 I can't put Margaret's possible emotions under 
 the microscope. But from what Ahce Newton 
 wrote to me a httle while ago I gather that he 
 is very much occupied with her — "I hope Sir 
 Richard won't think that Will is giving the 
 family too much of his company ; he seems un- 
 able to tear himself away from Hans Place." I 
 heard this more than once. Can Mr. Shipley be 
 back from Frankfort before you and Margaret 
 leave London? Your instinct would be to take 
 her away, I believe, even though you think he 
 is everything that he can be. For does any 
 man seem quite good enough to another man 
 when looked upon as the lover of his daughter? 
 I once heard Mrs. Vivian wish that people came 
 into the world and went out of it in congenial 
 pairs. "It would be deadly dull and would leave 
 nothing to write books or invent falsehoods 
 about," she said, "but it would save endless 
 trouble and unpleasantness." (Her last "mot" 
 on Mr. Vivian's taciturnity is that she wishes, 
 to break the silence, "he could be fitted up with 
 a spring, as Hugo Ennismore says was that 
 colossal statue of Memnon at Thebes which 
 struck a musical note at sunrise." The Army 
 and Navy Co-operative Society might do the 
 work, she believes.) 
 
 Your letter to Laura did not miss fire. It was 
 just the very letter to hufif her most, and she 
 had it out of her dressing-bag to read three 
 times between Edinburgh and St. Kentigerns, 
 and seemed after each perusal more and more 
 
 269
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 enervated. She does not like to be addressed as 
 the Dowager Lady Etchingham — "Laura, Lady 
 Etchingham looks more like me." And that al- 
 lusion to the temperate climate of London was 
 a cruel sting in the epistle's tail. You are cer- 
 tainly formidable as an antagonist, and never 
 turn, please, from my friend to my foe. Laura 
 only read out selections from the letter to me, 
 but what I heard of the odd kettle and spout and 
 the London temperature was quite enough to 
 account for the Christian-martyr air with which 
 she traveled, and the many restoratives that she 
 required on the way. 
 
 The red rocks of this shore remind me of the 
 rocks of the West, and between the sea and the 
 Lammermoors there should be romance. And 
 there are other sights more humanly impressive 
 than the sights of the sea and the hills. Under 
 lowering grey clouds, and to the playing of the 
 "Dead March," a soldier's funeral passed to-day 
 up the very wide grass-grown street of this 
 quietest of quiet towns. Then there is contrast 
 here as well as harmony. Cynthia and I made 
 use this morning of the St. Kentigerns Grange 
 garden keys, lent to us by the absent owner. A 
 clear trout-stream, a lake on which swans float, 
 ' JUCflse-garden, rose-full, and a sun-dial bound 
 about with honeysuckle, delighted us. And to 
 pass through a little door in the high sea-wall, 
 over which China roses blow profusely, was to 
 find ourselves upon the beach with salt-water 
 for fresh, seaweed for roses, and seagulls for 
 
 270
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 swans. Is your Paradise provided with salt- 
 water or fresh, seaweed or roses, seagulls or 
 swans, green lawns bordered with lilies or yel- 
 low shell-strewn sands? Do you prefer the 
 sound of the river or the sound of the sea? The 
 "many waters" of my dreams are the waters of 
 many rivers. 
 
 We saw enough and to spare of Sir Augustus 
 in Edinburgh. I believe, I believe, I believe — 
 (Enter the waiter, "Any more letters, M'm?" 
 "Yes.") Good-bye. 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 271
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 From Lady Etchmgham, Ocean Hotel, St. Kcnti- 
 gerns, to Sir Richard Etchingham, 83 Hans 
 Place. 
 
 My dear Richard, — You being the repre- 
 sentative of your father, whose first object was 
 my happiness, I write to tell you that I have 
 promised to become the wife of Sir Augustus 
 Pampesford. I feel sure I shall have your good 
 wishes for my future. I have always tried to 
 perform the duties of a delicate position, and I 
 have the satisfaction of feeling that no efifort of 
 mine has been wanting to promote your happi- 
 ness and that of your sister and brothers. 
 
 In justice to Sir Augustus and myself I can- 
 not refrain from saying that evidently a very 
 erroneous view of his former sentiments was en- 
 tertained. He once fancied, it is true, that an 
 alliance with a woman he could trust and re- 
 spect would satisfy the needs of his heart and 
 mind; but I believe he pretended to no intense 
 afifection for Elizabeth — in fact, he has informed 
 me that it is only comparatively recently that he 
 realised the extent of the devotion that a woman 
 could inspire. I explain this because I should 
 not like Elizabeth or you, who have sometimes 
 
 272
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 seemed jealous for her, to suppose that I have 
 supplanted her, or even taken what she re- 
 jected. I am accepting what was never hers. 
 
 The living and chaplaincy of Pampesford- 
 Royal being vacant, we propose to appoint Mr. 
 Weekes. 
 
 Trusting that you and Margaret are well, and 
 with kind love to both, 
 
 Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 Laura F. Etchingham. 
 
 273
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Miss Elizabeth Etchingham, Ocean Hotel, St. Ken- 
 tigerns, to Sir Richard Etchingham. 
 
 Laura, with the Great Mogul at her elbow, if 
 not with his hand on her pen, is writing, Rich- 
 ard, to tell you of her engagement to him. (Self- 
 importance is but a weak word with which to 
 describe the inflated grandiloquence of their 
 bearing.) Is it not a most merciful dispensa- 
 tion of Providence? I am sure, as Mrs. Vivian 
 said to her of Christian Science, that she will 
 like it (like being Lady Pampesford) very much. 
 Double-barrelled pomposity is far less subject 
 to discomfiture than is the one-barrelled species, 
 and Sir Augustus and Lady Pampesford may 
 imagine their dual existence to be the pivot on 
 which the world turns, and run no risk of a rude 
 awakening. 
 
 The more I reflect, the happier I think are the 
 auguries. He can and will give her all that she 
 asks. And he will never puzzle, and by puzzling 
 disconcert and disturb her, as you have done. 
 You know your comments, that she only sus- 
 pects are sarcastic by seeing some one else try 
 not to laugh, have always bewildered and dis- 
 pleased her; and then she had no confidante in 
 
 274
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 the family. She would have liked us better if 
 we had liked each other less. To carry out the 
 divide-and-govern advice has been, where her 
 step-children were concerned, impossible. If 
 felicity is bad for our morals, it is mostly good 
 for our manners, and she will be far and away 
 pleasanter with an admiring Sir Augustus at her 
 elbow than she has been with people much more 
 taken up with each other than with her. Laura, 
 in certain narrow grooves, is genuinely amiable, 
 and to imagine herself of importance always 
 puts her into a good humour. For grievances 
 we shall now, I feel sure, have graciousness. 
 
 And Mr. Weekes is to go to Pampesford- 
 Royal. The meek little man will develop an 
 obsequiousness equal to, if not surpassing, that 
 which bowed down Mr. Collins before Lady 
 Catherine De Bourgh. No clergyman with a 
 backbone would stand the blend of interference 
 and condescension that his patrons will dis- 
 pense, and I think they have shown a masterly 
 choice of tools. 
 
 Write as amiably as you can to Laura. She 
 has sufifered many things at my hands, if not at 
 yours, and I am really delighted that she has got 
 at last what she likes. The bronchitis kettle is 
 forgotten and the air here is found most in- 
 vigorating. 
 
 "Trustie and wel-beloved," are you taking 
 care of yourself? If not you are selfish and bad. 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 P.S. — I am writing to Harry. 
 
 275
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, 
 S.W., to Miss Elisabeth Etchingham, Ocean 
 Hotel, St. Kentigerns. 
 
 My Dear Elizabeth, — Your second letter, 
 and a solemn announcement from Laura which 
 confirms the same, have come together just as 
 I was going to answer the first. Their contents 
 are really too good. Erring and purblind crea- 
 tures that we were not to perceive for what an 
 appropriate use in the world the great Sir Au- 
 gustus was reserved ! Gladly let us dine with 
 them once a year — even twice if need be — for 
 the rest of our joint lives. We, dear sister, be- 
 cause the hovel called Tolcarne, though it is not 
 a great house, is wide enough to hold us both. 
 If we find harmony too dull we can always quar- 
 rel over the binding of a book. Talking of bind- 
 ings, Jem has been very mysterious about my 
 Tod's "Rajasthan" ever since he carried it off: 
 he would not tell me exactly where he meant to 
 take it, and insisted on having unlimited discre- 
 tion. And now Jem has appeared in his proper 
 person, on a flying visit in a respite of his ex- 
 amination work, bearing the book in its new 
 garment. It is bound in a rich deep russet, not 
 so far from the dark brown you wanted ; only it 
 is Eastern morocco, not calf, and relieved with 
 
 276
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 dull gold ornaments of Eastern design. One 
 could almost believe it the work of a native 
 craftsman. It is not by Jem's man at Oxbridge. 
 While Jem had it out in his rooms at Silvertoe, 
 there came round one day the Professor of Ro- 
 mance Languages, who naturally finds few stu- 
 dents of Provencal or Catalan, but knows every- 
 thing else from Iceland to Japan, and is ready 
 to tell it in every way except officially. He 
 pounced on the book, which he had never seen 
 before, became deeply interested in it, firmly 
 vetoed Jem's and my plans about the binding, 
 and took it out of Jem's hands to an art school, 
 of which he will not reveal the exact location. 
 Jem has been wondering all these weeks whether 
 I should ever see my Tod again ; without cause, 
 as it now appears. I am interrupted ; a mysteri- 
 ous visitor, it seems. . . . Truly Sir Au- 
 gustus is our benefactor, but he has not deliv- 
 ered us for nothing. What should I find in the 
 drawing-room but two ladies I had never seen 
 before, rather tall, angular, very correct in bear- 
 ing, very antique in dress (it seemed to my in- 
 expert eyes) very — well, let us say rather — 
 antique in person ; armoured and glistening in 
 many beads and bugles ; one of them black, or 
 nearly black, the other dark purple. I could not 
 think who they were, and they did not look as 
 if they expected me or knew who I was. "I beg 
 your pardon," I began feebly. No response, 
 only puzzled and timid glances exchanged be- 
 tween the two personages. They must be sis- 
 
 277
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 ters ; were they two spinsters, or widow and 
 spinster? What could they want? Perhaps it 
 was a begging dodge for some doubtful or 
 worse than doubtful would-be charitable enter- 
 prise. I bethought me of the sage caution of 
 the C.O.S. (Charles had been telling me a lot 
 about it ; he is a zealous committee-man in his 
 district, whereby he does more good than by 
 politics), and tried that tack. "If you have called 
 on behalf of any — institution — would you kindly 
 leave the prospectus with me and give me time 
 to consider it? " Expression of pained surprise 
 and polite but firm deprecation ; their feelings 
 apparently too bad for words. So that was a 
 failure, anyhow. Then I remembered that Mar- 
 garet had entered into relations with our district 
 committee. No beggars these, then, but more 
 likely stewards of charity, stern but efficient 
 dragons, and wisely benevolent under their 
 scales, though the scales were many and won- 
 drously shiny. "A thousand pardons," I re- 
 sumed. "I think it must be quite the other way. 
 Perhaps you came to see my daughter on Com- 
 mittee business? I am sorry she is out." The 
 visages relaxed slightly, and the necks (I believe 
 dragons' necks are wrinkled) bridled with a cer- 
 tain complacence as if to acknowledge the 
 apology. But still I was oflf the mark. All signs 
 of a hit were wanting. Another pause, in which 
 I felt all sorts of colours. 
 
 At last the blacker dame seemed to be labour- 
 ing at a spring somewhere in her vocal chords, 
 
 278
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 as one struggles with that stout back-spring of 
 a Spanish knife. — "For the love of God, Sefior, 
 lend me a dollar to ease the spring of my knife," 
 says your sturdy Spanish tramp ; and the way- 
 farer, if not armed and ready with his arms, finds 
 it well to produce the dollar, and not be urgent 
 for its return. — Well, the spring gave, and out 
 came a high dry voice with a quaver in it. "We 
 have the pleasure to speak with Sir Richard 
 Etchingham?" — "That is my name." — "The 
 present head of the family?" Thus joined in the 
 voice of the purple one, a fat, blurting voice, with 
 an occasional uncontrollable falsetto in wrong 
 places, which rather spoilt the intention of dig- 
 nified ease. — "At your service." — "Teresa !" re- 
 sumed the first with a monitory aside. "It is 
 true, Sir Richard, that we intended in the first in- 
 stance to pay our compliments to Miss Margaret 
 Etchingham, but I am sure you will readily, 
 quite readily, admit our claim on your acquaint- 
 ance." I felt blanker and blanker. Could Jem 
 have sent me two mad undergraduates in mas- 
 querade? Had something gone wrong in the 
 Zodiac and made it a Gilbert and Sullivan 
 world? "Because," plumped out the second, 
 "dear Lady Laura being so soon to be our sis- 
 ter makes Miss Margaret a kind of niece to us, 
 and we thought it would be so nice to know you 
 all, and indeed a want of duty, with an example 
 to set in our neighbourhood, too, if we delayed." 
 "Teresa! Familiarity will perhaps be more in 
 place when Sir Richard Etchingham has re- 
 
 279
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 ceived the full statement of the circumstances 
 and reasons to which he is entitled. And, to be 
 sure, we should not complain of Sir Richard for 
 being properly cautious, though I should have 
 
 thought the name ." "Excuse me," I cried 
 
 in despair, "but I have heard no name at all !" 
 Here enter Grace — who is so careless, as Laura 
 says ; she really is a good soul, with fits of wool- 
 gathering — bearing an abashed countenance and 
 a salver. "Please, Sir Richard, I forgot the 
 ladies' cards." I took ; I read : 
 
 Miss Pampcsford, 
 Miss Teresa Pampcsford. 
 loi, Palace Gardens. 
 
 So they were the sisters of Him, the semper Au- 
 gustus. They worship him ; they have shrivelled 
 in watching his growth, as in an old cookery- 
 book I saw long ago two cutlets are "victimised" 
 for a third, which is cooked between them and 
 absorbs all their goodness. For twenty-five 
 minutes did those much-absorbed spinsters des- 
 cant in treble and alto on the nobility of their 
 brother and the virtues of Laura. My agree- 
 ment that it was an eminently proper match, and 
 entirely satisfactory to me, so far as I had any 
 right to an opinion, was genuine so far as it 
 went, though I could scarcely abound in their 
 sense. We had a very polite leave-taking. Five 
 minutes later Margaret came in. I suppose she 
 will have to call on them. 
 
 Meanwhile the Elizabethan drama runs to 
 
 280
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 alarms and excursions. It will soon be "Enter 
 Biggleswade and Leagravc, fighting." Biggles- 
 wade's epistles on the points of spelling and 
 stage directions have been exacting, per- 
 emptory, rude, violent. He has worked himself 
 up to threatening Leagrave with an action to 
 compel him to carry out the plan — according to 
 Biggleswade's interpretation ; and having writ- 
 ten his solemn threat, he has taken advice on its 
 legal value. Charles, who does permit himself 
 to be amused by professional jokes, came in at 
 breakfast-time this morning chuckling over an 
 opinion which Crewe had shown him before he 
 sent it out. Biggleswade's solicitor, finding his 
 client intractable, laid a case before Crewe, with 
 a hint that nothing short of a full and learned 
 opinion would give satisfaction ; and he got one, 
 it seems. Crewe has proved with many authori- 
 ties that no court of law or conscience, in the 
 time of Queen Elizabeth or at any time since till 
 this year 1898 inclusive, would undertake to 
 compel a man to write a play. My somewhat 
 vague and distant recollections of the Indian 
 Specific Relief Act confirm the soundness of his 
 conclusion ; this somewhat to Charles's surprise, 
 for Charles is under the impression that all In- 
 dian judges and magistrates exercise a despotic 
 and patriachal jurisdiction with the most arbi- 
 trary discretion, and I have never been able to 
 remove it. Not that I do not personally wish 
 one could frame some literary frontier regula- 
 tions of a summary pattern, and apply them to 
 
 281
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Biggleswade and one or two others. Frontier 
 regulations ought to be good for bounders. 
 
 Charles and Minnie are perhaps coming to 
 the neighbourhood of Tolcarne when the courts 
 rise on August 12. They have heard of one or 
 two houses which might possibly do. I fear this 
 means that he is still hankering after the Clay- 
 shott Division ; but he must go his own way in 
 that respect. Meanwhile, he can help Mrs. 
 Tallis and me to settle that little boundary ques- 
 tion in the simplest manner which the wonderful 
 land laws of this part of the British Empire will 
 allow. But he maintains through thick and thin, 
 whenever I mention the subject, that the system 
 here is the only one suited to English habits, and 
 that my praise of Indian land transfer at the ex- 
 pense of the English family solicitor (for whose 
 only benefit the whole business seems to me to 
 exist) is just another piece of official prejudice. 
 This is not exactly what, by the light of nature, 
 one would expect from an enlightened and ad- 
 vanced Radical. But I have met with few 
 Radicals who are not intensely conservative 
 about something, generally belonging to their 
 own profession. 
 
 We must clear out of this, I suppose, a day 
 before you come back. The house won't hold 
 us all, and Laura will, of course, expect to find 
 everything, down to the old unserviceable 
 kettle, well swept and garnished. 
 
 Ever your loving 
 
 Richard. 
 
 282
 
 XL. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchingham, Hans Place, to the 
 Dowager Lady Etchingham, Ocean Hotel, St. 
 Kentigerns. 
 
 My dear Laura, — Accept my best congratu- 
 lations on your engagement to Sir Augustus 
 Pampesford, in which Margaret begs to be 
 joined. 
 
 It seems in every way an excellent and most 
 suitable match, and Elizabeth will no doubt con- 
 firm me in saying that I express her opinion as 
 well as mine. 
 
 Wishing you all prosperity and happiness, 
 I am yours afifectionately, 
 
 Richard Etchingham. 
 
 283
 
 XLI. 
 
 From Miss Elisabeth Etchingham, St. Kentigerns, 
 to Sir Richard Etchingham, London. 
 
 Is there imbecility, dear, in the family (the 
 Pampesford family), or was it only imbecility's 
 counterfeit, nervousness, that made her put 
 Laura into the peerage and twist Margaret — 
 Laura's step grand-daughter — into her own 
 "kind of niece"? Find out, do, if they are all 
 feeble-minded, and leave a note to say "Yes" or 
 "No" upon the chimney-piece in my room. And 
 what was Grace doing straying about the draw- 
 ing-room with cards on a salver? Heaven help 
 her if Laura hears of her proceedings. Laura 
 would inquire in severe and shocked accents, 
 "Where, pray, was Turnbull?" 
 
 I will write from Hans Place. At this mo- 
 ment salt water is running from the hem of my 
 garments and making pools upon the floor big 
 enough to accommodate salmon. Such mag- 
 nificently towering waves are breaking to-day 
 over the sea-wall, and I was childish — or im- 
 becile — enough to wish that one would break 
 over me. One obligingly did. 
 
 Yours ever and always, 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 284
 
 XLII. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchingham to Miss Elizabeth 
 Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, S.IV., to await 
 arrival. 
 
 No, my dear wave-salted sister, it was not 
 natural imbecility, but anxiety to talk with polite 
 ease and show that they knew the world. They 
 ought to have married auctioneers in a small 
 borough, and devoted their ambitions to qualify- 
 ing a daughter to marry the town clerk. Plenty 
 of nerves, certainly, and not too much brains. 
 
 Biggleswade has sent Leagrave another furi- 
 ous letter, declaring that everybody, including 
 his own solicitors and counsel, is in a conspiracy 
 against him. Stephen's troubles are not likely 
 to be at an end. He is advised that Biggles- 
 wade will probably fall into the hands of some 
 shady solicitor, who will carry hopeless proceed- 
 ings just far enough to run up a nice little bill of 
 costs ; after which there remains the lowest depth 
 of being a plaintifif in person. Biggleswade is 
 capable of that. He thinks he knows as much 
 as Shakespeare; we are told that Shakespeare 
 was a lawyer; argal, Biggleswade must be a 
 lawyer; and, with the proverbial fool for his 
 client, he may plague honest men for a season. 
 
 Thine, R. E. 
 
 28s
 
 XLIII. 
 
 From Miss Eli::abcth Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, 
 to Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarne. 
 
 Renseignements Mondains. 
 
 Arrives a Londres et descendus a I'hotel Etch- 
 ingham — 
 
 Your stepmother. 
 
 Your stepfather-in-law (Milord Auguste Pam- 
 pesford-Royal, Bart.). 
 
 Your sister. 
 
 Your stepmother's niece. 
 
 La Camelrie. 
 
 Les singing-birds. 
 
 (I was once at Dieppe for an hour, and, Hke a 
 better known personage, without wholly acquir- 
 ing the French tongue, lost the complete knowl- 
 edge of my own, and have spoken broken Eng- 
 lish ever since.) 
 
 It was grievous to find only your note, and not 
 you. But St. Kentigerns, when enjoyed in the 
 company of Sir Augustus, proved so enchant- 
 ingly bracing that Laura would not cut down her 
 stay there by an hour. I was sorry for some rea- 
 sons to cross the Border. But it shall not be 
 "Lochaber no more," 
 
 You tell me that, when confronted with the 
 Miss Pampesfords, you asked in your bewilder- 
 
 286
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 ment if they had called on behalf of any institu- 
 tion. Well, I really do think they did call on be-\ 
 half of an institution. I, who have now travelled ; 
 with him, assure you that Sir Augustus is nearer j 
 to an institution than to a man. And a pros- ■ 
 pectus would befit him better than a character. ; 
 Surely he is the personification of an Institution, ') 
 or a Corporation, or a City Company, or a.' 
 Board. His solemnity is appalling, and per- 
 fectly illustrates the Gallic definition of gravity : 
 "Gravity is a mysterious carriage of the body in- 
 vented to cover the defects of the mind." And 
 Laura enjoys and finds safety in the "mysterious 
 carriage" ; she approves of the seriousness with 
 which he takes himself and takes her, instead of 
 being bored to death by it. Solemnity is to me 
 sufifocating ; and as to love-making, I agree 
 with — 
 
 "He had been a fool, 
 An unfit man for any one to love, 
 Had he not laugh'd thus at me." 
 
 A bantering epistle has reached me from 
 Harry, who had just received my note telling 
 him of Laura's engagement when he wrote. He 
 is in high spirits, and in answer to my enquiries 
 says the hourly bulletins will be discontinued, as 
 his usual rude health shows no sign of breaking. 
 He is kept fully employed, and has, he informs 
 me, no quarrel worth mentioning with Fate at 
 present. 
 
 Poor Stephen came in to see us last night. He 
 
 287
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 has suffered acutely at the hands of Mr, Big- 
 gleswade. And as Mr. Biggleswade carries his 
 seventeenth-century madness to the point of al- 
 lowing no words to pass till not only he, but his 
 friend Mr. Ledache, is satisfied that it is used in 
 its strict Elizabethan sense, and as Mr. Biggles- 
 wade and Mr. Ledache are not always in accord, 
 Stephen's tortures, legal proceedings apart, are 
 likely to be long drawn out. Then his collabora- 
 tor writes an almost illegible hand and uses lead- 
 pencil that effaces itself in transit, so the 
 wretched Stephen, while knowing that he is 
 rated and reviled, can only guess at the exact 
 drift of the ratings and revilings : a pleasant part 
 in truth. Mr. Biggleswade began by insisting 
 on a masque and anti-masque, and when 
 Stephen objected, as anachronistic stage direc- 
 tions, to "enter Cupid in a yellow hair," and "the 
 Masquers are discovered seated in their several 
 sieges," Mr. Biggleswade dealt with the demur 
 as if it were an affair of pistols for two, coffee for 
 one. Has not Shakespeare in the "Midsummer 
 Night's Dream" himself parodied the Eliza- 
 bethan Society's theories? The Elizabethan So- 
 ciety seems, at last, to have reached Paris, and 
 "Measure for Measure" is to be put upon the 
 stage after its primitive methods. But it is the 
 older Parisian attempts to give Shakespeare that 
 are amusing. To carry King Lear on to the 
 stage upon a bed of roses, to enable him to see 
 the sunrise, was a charming notion. 
 
 A letter from Mrs. Vivian was waiting for me. 
 
 288
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Her charity is to be found, not in her words, but 
 in her deeds, and she writes from Marienbad to 
 say that she wishes she could beheve that "sem- 
 per Augustus" and Laura would irritate each 
 other as much as they irritate her. ''And I con- 
 gratulate you on losing your place of Bonne a 
 tout faire. Lady Etchingham will now indulge 
 in paid servants, I trust. But the poor in intel- 
 lect being always with us, some other silly 
 woman will most likely tack herself on to you 
 now." Mrs. Vivian wishes to know what is to 
 become of "that lovely child." That lovely 
 child's father. Colonel Leagrave, is most oppor- 
 tunely coming home for good this autumn, and 
 Stephen talks of going as far East as time will 
 allow to meet him. The Vivians speak of India 
 for the winter too. "Why does not Sir Richard 
 take a jungle? Would it not amuse him?" Mrs. 
 Vivian asks. When you know that the omnipo- 
 tent "Hugo Ennismore" and "Jock Home-Len- 
 nox" are taking jungles, you will, she thinks, be 
 disposed to follow suit. The P. and O. that 
 takes out the Vivians, including Blanche, will be 
 the boat, I think, in which Stephen will engage a 
 berth. He talks to Minnie but he looks at 
 Blanche, and Blanche won't sit by silent and 
 hear him pulled to pieces by her mother. But 
 the Stephen and Blanche romance, if it exists, is 
 the other side of our border, and there will be lit- 
 tle of Stephen left for romantic or other pur- 
 poses if Mr. Biggleswade does not soon tame 
 down. 
 
 289
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 "People must be beginning to fight shy of Ada 
 Llanelly, your brother Harry's old flame," Mrs. 
 Vivian also tells me. "She has become so ab- 
 normally civil to every respectable old female 
 bore in the place. This is quite a new thing. She 
 todies Lady Clementine Mure, to whom she 
 used to be frightfully off-hand and rude, and 
 Lady Clementine is made very nervous by the 
 unprovoked attentions, as she does not give balls 
 or anything. She thinks Ada would never take 
 so much trouble unless she meant to marry her 
 boy — the conceited clever one who has just got 
 a decent appointment in Egypt. 
 
 Azore is now with us. Azore with his bangles, 
 his silver-backed brushes, his blue silk wadded 
 dressing-gown, for wearing should the nights be 
 chilly when he is recently clipped, his gilded 
 basket, and his crystal water-trough, on which 
 "Azore," in gold letters, is engraved. Mrs. 
 Vivian refused to leave him in Minnie's charge 
 whilst she was abroad. "Minnie has no sense of 
 justice, and she would let the dog see that she 
 preferred that abominable little Trixy to him. 
 And if she found a bite upon the small boys she 
 would be certain to accuse Azore." So Azore 
 is here, bounding and bouncing as poodles can. 
 He nearly flung "semper Augustus" just now. 
 The only personality he respects is Trelawney's. 
 Trelawney has but to meet his eye and he retires, 
 saddened and solemnised. 
 
 It is very good to me to hear what you say of 
 
 290
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 "the hovel called Tolcarne" — "that it is wide 
 enough to hold us both." Of course, that would 
 be, as you know quite well, what I would like 
 best. But while you have Margaret I will not 
 come permanently. Though Margaret would 
 not admit it even to herself, I think that things 
 as they are suit her best. They would have 
 suited me best, far, if I were in her place. (I 
 would not wish aunt Jane brought in were I 
 keeping house for my father.) The child was in 
 the state of pupilage when she and I were to- 
 gether at Tolcarne. I might not always seem to 
 rem.ember that it is more her house and garden 
 now than mine, and creatures of her age are 
 jealous of prerogative. Nature did not make me 
 a "peace at any price" soul ; but close proximity 
 to Laura has afifected me with nervousness, I 
 suppose, and I have come to fear the very ghosts 
 and shadows of jars and misunderstandings with 
 those for whom I care as I care for your children. 
 When you are bereaved of Margaret, I will 
 come like a shot, and be thankful to come, and 
 will quarrel with you over bindings as often as 
 you like, for binding quarrels are not the misun- 
 derstandings that I dread, and my courage re- 
 mains high for such encounters. (Not that I did 
 quarrel with you over Colonel Tod's uniform, for 
 I gave in then, and am still ready to admit that 
 mine was a poor khaki suggestion compared to 
 the Durbar finery in which the gallant gentle- 
 man is now clad.) And Margaret will marry. 
 She will marry all too soon for your wishes. 
 
 291
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 probably, and then I will pack up Trelawney and 
 les singing birds, label myself and the baggage 
 "Tolcarne," and inflict myself upon you for life. 
 "Port after stormie seas." 
 
 Your loving sister, 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 P.S. — Send me some rosemary. You took the 
 temperate climate, of which you boasted to 
 Laura, away in your portmanteau seemingly, 
 and London is oppressive and not rosemary- 
 scented. 
 
 292
 
 XLIV. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchingham, Tokarnc, to Miss 
 Elizabeth Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, S.W. 
 
 My dear Elizabeth, — It was a pity to miss 
 you, but it could not have been much of a meet- 
 ing. I wonder whether our devious course 
 (Margaret's, Jem's, and mine) has been made at 
 all clear to you by a hasty telegram and three or 
 four sleepy post-cards. Jem turned up to dinner 
 on our last evening, having got free of torment- 
 ing his yovmg men at Oxbridge, and with no 
 plans for the next week or so, but wanting a 
 great deal of fresh air; and I asked him if Tol- 
 carne air would not serve as well as any other; 
 and he liked the notion, but begged to be left to 
 come in his own fashion ; and then it occurred 
 to us that it might be good sport if we all made 
 a wheeling tour together part of the way, leaving 
 Jem to complete the rest at fifteen miles an hour 
 if he chose. Thereupon Jem sketched out, 
 straight off, three or four alternative plans to 
 suit various winds and weathers. Laura's feel- 
 ings might be shocked at hearing of such a de- 
 parture, but we considered that her happiness 
 would make her comparatively tolerant, and 
 bound her to be dignified. Indeed, she may not 
 realise the facts at all. 
 
 293
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 And so the morning, being fine with a light 
 north-easterly breeze, found us at Slough. We 
 caught Arthur and Lytewell for a passing salu- 
 tation, and had a lovely ride through Windsor 
 Park, up Queen Anne's ride and across the head 
 of the Long Walk, and out through wood and 
 warren across the western end of Virginia 
 Water. They say foreigners envy us our parks 
 and turf; I know I envied them in India. But 
 how should Continentals not envy a country 
 which — but for mere flea-bites of civil broils, and 
 those fading into historic distance — has had cen- 
 turies of peace within its own borders? Not the 
 least wise of Maine's wise sayings was when he 
 pointed out this wonderful good fortune of Eng- 
 land, and told us — or rather left us, as his way 
 was, to read the counsel between the lines — not 
 to be puffed up with any folly about our merits 
 or our fathers' having deserved it. But the Muse 
 of the historic present tells of a wheatsheaf 
 which, notwithstanding its vegetable name, hath 
 flesh-pots ; of that wheatsheaf as a tempter ; and 
 of Jem the strenuous — whether as leading the 
 party into temptation, or hardening their hearts 
 to push on in the direct line to some humbler en- 
 tertainment, it boots not to mention. Enough 
 that we sped on through the land of Bagshot, 
 skirting the odorous fir-woods of the Welling- 
 ton College country. Jem is indignant with 
 those who say cyclists observe nothing, and 
 maintains that the noiseless approach of the 
 pneumatic wheel gives them special advantages. 
 
 294
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 A yaffle, sitting just inside the bank of a fir- 
 plantation, got up within a few feet of us to jus- 
 tify him. 
 
 We cunningly avoided Aldershot (the cun- 
 ning, of course, was Jem's) to earn our rest in 
 Farnham. There my lord bishop has a park 
 almost as fine as the Queen's, and a castle of all 
 dates from the Dark Ages to the Restoration, 
 but scant leisure for enjoying either : for they tell 
 me he bustles about like a mediaeval king of 
 England, and is seldom more than three days 
 together in one place. Lazy bishops, I take it, 
 are about as common in England now as 
 hookah-smoking nabobs in India, and the fabu- 
 lous wealth of both is equally extinct. I should 
 not have said fabulous, though, for the colleges 
 founded by Wykeham and Fox are no fables. 
 Have not we moderns lost something of the 
 noble use of wealth? 
 
 Talking of India, Harry is hard at work in 
 Cairo at something which I suspect to be ex- 
 periments with high explosive shells ; I know he 
 was making a speciality of such things before he 
 went to the Intelligence Department. (There 
 was another experiment he offered to try a 
 month or two ago, but the chance never came. 
 We met some American ladies who were rather 
 nervous about the chances of a Spanish fleet 
 bombarding their country house on the coast 
 somewhere near Salem. Harry tried to reassure 
 them by undertaking to eat the bursting charge 
 of every Spanish shell that fell on New Eng- 
 
 295
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 land or any other American ground. They 
 ought to feel safe by this time.) Well, Harry 
 observes a proper discretion as to his doings and 
 probable movements : only he gives me to un- 
 derstand that he is not likely to go to the front. 
 A man can't well complain of being put to con- 
 fidential work which he is particularly fit for, and 
 which will not be forgotten in the proper quar- 
 ter, though the public know nothing of it. But 
 I guess he is a little disappointed. I cannot be 
 sorry for the chance of seeing him back sooner 
 in an honourable way. We have all earned our 
 peace, I think. 
 
 From Farnham to Winchester is a well-beaten 
 highway, and in part rather dull when judged by 
 the high standard of Surrey and Hampshire 
 picturesqueness. Yet it is a good road and a 
 good ride, and we paid our respects to Jane Aus- 
 ten's house at Chawton, which is on one of the 
 prettiest bits. From puzzling remarks made to 
 us about our country we gathered that we were 
 taken for Americans. Almost every visitor who 
 inquires for Miss Austen's house is an Ameri- 
 can, it seems, and we were classed according to 
 the presumption founded on experience. Per- 
 haps English callers will increase now, since 
 Miss Austen is decidedly in fashion, to judge 
 by the number of recent editions and the figure 
 they make in the bookshops. The length of the 
 villages or small towns along this road is curi- 
 ous ; it looks as if everybody had insisted on hav- 
 ing a frontage to the turnpike — all highway and 
 
 296
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 no byway. On the whole, the effect is pleasing 
 and sociable, even if it verges on fraud for a 
 place like Alton to be nearly a mile long. 
 
 You should know Winchester better than I 
 do. There is a special reverence due to the 
 school from Eton men, for if Henry VI. was our 
 father, William of Wykeham was our grand- 
 father; not only was his foundation our pious 
 founder's model, but Eton was actually started 
 with a colony of Winchester boys. Apart from 
 that, it is one of the most famous and also one 
 of the most delectable places in England. A 
 small thing that greatly took my fancy was the 
 clear trout stream that runs along between the 
 main street and the public garden, where the 
 fish — and sizeable fish, too — well knowing that 
 they may not be caught by tickling, angling, or 
 otherwise, lie out on the gravel in full view, and 
 do not trouble themselves to move even if you 
 drop in pebbles over them. I should like to be- 
 lieve King Alfred put them there. 
 
 Finally, we took the train to Salisbury — Mar- 
 garet and I, that is — reserving the New Forest 
 for some other time. Jem, as route-finder and 
 guide, took charge of sending forward all the 
 impediments, so that we had next to no weight 
 to carry, and enjoyed the riding thoroughly. 
 Jem's own things are now being carted up from 
 Buckland Road station, and we expect him at 
 some uncertain time this evening. 
 
 The Folletts have been back some few days : 
 they have been strolling among French castles 
 
 297
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 and churches, and winding up their tour at a 
 very modest Norman watering-place not far 
 from WilHam the Conqueror's reputed port of 
 embarkation. A friendly and cheerful country, 
 Mr. Follett says, where all the villages have 
 double names, grand in proportion to the small- 
 ness of the village. Who would not be proud '^ 
 /of having to walk a mile or two to buy his/ 
 i stamps at Sassetot-le-Mauconduit? And at 
 Xngerville-le-Martel Mr. Follett bought a fabu- 
 lously cheap pair of slippers, which he declares 
 are the best he ever had. Breaute-Beuzeville is 
 a name of noble and historic sound ; the place is 
 in fact a small railway junction. Perhaps, the 
 Vicar thinks, it was the place of origin of the 
 wicked Fawkes de Breaute, who at last for his 
 sins died suddenly by poison, and was found, as 
 the chronicler relates, "dead, black, stinking, 
 and intestate'' — this last, it seems, a terrible com- 
 bination of spiritual and temporal opprobrium. 
 Much pleased was Mr. Follett at being able to 
 revive his old pastime of swimming to his heart's 
 content under civilised conditions, and without 
 anybody thinking it the least odd for a reverend 
 gentleman of his age. Sea-bathing is certainly 
 one of the matters they order better in France. 
 We have never grasped the possibility of fitting 
 it into social life, or the case of making it a 
 decorous and even graceful form of social 
 amusement. In America they wisely do as the 
 French do, I understand — yes, in Puritan New 
 England ; while we continue to flatter ourselves 
 
 298
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 that there is some occult virtue, some fetish that 
 ensures British success, in our stupid neglect to 
 study human amenity. Such are our joint re- 
 flections, the Vicar's and mine, in our afternoon 
 stroll — which somehow gets much entangled in 
 our respective gardens. Enticknap is muttering 
 about things being cruel dry, and we are rather 
 anxious for the late summer. 
 
 The story of Biggleswade and Leagrave 
 caused Mr. Follett to smile a rather grim smile. 
 I have a notion that he knows Biggleswade's 
 Bishop fairly well. One day or another I hope 
 the creature may be choked off, before he 
 reaches the plaintifif-in-person stage ; not that I 
 care the least about his making a fool of himself, 
 but Leagrave has already had quite as much 
 annoyance as he deserves. 
 
 Margaret and I are both all the better for our 
 expedition, I assure you, and still have increased 
 appetites. Jem was most ingenious and consid- 
 erate in laying out the stages so that we were 
 never hurried. When he wanted to let off his 
 own superfluous energy he did it by pushing 
 ahead to order lunch or see that our quarters 
 were all right. Behold, as I close this, he rides 
 up like a catharine-wheel device of white dust, 
 overhauling the messenger with the letter-bag. 
 
 Your loving 
 
 DrCKORY. 
 
 299
 
 XLV. 
 
 From Miss Elkabeth Efchingham, 83 Hans Place, 
 to Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarne. 
 
 "Dear and Respectable Sir," — Thank you 
 very much for the letter, the copy of Sir John 
 Davis's poems, and the stack of rosemary just 
 received — 
 
 ("Up and down and everywhere 
 I strew the herbs to purge the air"). 
 
 Your binder, Richard, has mended Sir John 
 Davis's back perfectly. I will appoint him spinal 
 instrument maker-in-ordinary to my old authors. 
 I like my present and I like the verse you wrote 
 on the flyleaf. To whose garden of poetry did 
 you go to gather it? (Don't forget to answer 
 this.) And my birthday has brought me other de- 
 sirable possessions. Mrs. Vivian, whom we 
 should all think as kind as she really is, did she 
 not tell us to the contrary, sent me by the hand 
 of Minnie an old Psalm Book — the white silk 
 cover embroidered in silver and coloured threads 
 by the Nuns of Little Gidding. And Charles 
 presented me with an efficacious umbrella, which 
 confirms my opinion that character shows itself 
 in gifts. (Charles brought his son when he last 
 
 300
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 visited us, and little Harry clamoured to be taken 
 home on the ceiling of the omnibus.) Mrs. Vivian 
 journeys homeward from Marienbad almost im- 
 mediately. She tells me that Ada Llanelly is now 
 "glueing herself to that horrible Mrs. Potters, 
 who has turned up here and means to winter in 
 Egypt, and Lady Clementine's dread that Ada 
 intends to marry her boy, who will be at Cairo, 
 too, has increased to panic point. But she surely 
 would find your brother Harry less tiresome. 
 George Mure may be clever, but for choice I pre- 
 fer the cleverness that doesn't make every one 
 brought in contact with it feel qualified for 
 Earlswood." Lady Clementine has given up 
 Christian Science. Her son-in-law, according to 
 Mrs. Vivian, informed her in harsh positive 
 tones that it was "all rubbish," and the poor wo- 
 man's state is again — "to what God shall we now 
 offer up our sacrifice?" 
 
 That Harry does not go to the front is, to a 
 craven like myself, most excellent news. He 
 wrote to Cynthia after receiving the tidings of the 
 Pampesford engagement. He wrote, and wrote 
 in that mystic diction that expresses less than is 
 by it understood. It amused me to find that 
 Harry — guileless Harry — knew in advance of 
 "semper Augustus's" invasion of Scotland, and 
 kept his own counsel, which is yet another in- 
 stance of the secretive effect of falling in love. 
 Cynthia showed me his letter not very long after 
 she received it. And she answered it, and I do 
 not believe that there were as many words in the 
 
 301
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 epistle as it took minutes to write them. Then 
 she went on posting errand herself. I wish sec- 
 ond sight could have enabled Harry to see his 
 postwoman escorting her letter the first stage of 
 the way. When all of a sudden no member of a 
 household, no proven friend, well-loved relation, 
 faithful servant, is to be trusted to post a letter, 
 the letter-writer is perhaps rather far gone 
 through the faery land of Romance. 
 
 The confession of Harry's devotion took Cyn- 
 thia by surprise, but as soon as the shock of the 
 surprise had passed she realised, I think, how 
 much he was to her. She accepted us all, you see, 
 as relations ; and had this been otherwise, 
 Harry's demeanour has misled less unsophisti- 
 cated beings. That half-chafiing, half-solicitous, 
 and wholly courteous manner of his may mean 
 everything or nothing. If she was slow to know 
 her own mind, I myself am disposed to sympa- 
 thise with the mind slow in such recognition. 
 She is a dear, good child, and I think we 
 may feel quite happy and content about her 
 and about Harry, for, soon or syne, Ada Llanelly 
 at Cairo or not at Cairo, all I believe will be well. 
 
 Did I tell you that Mrs. Carstairs has lent 
 Laura her house at Wimbledon, and it is to be 
 our headquarters till the day that turns our step- 
 mother into a Pampesford? (Laurel Lawn, 
 Wimbledon, is the address.) Mr. Weekes has 
 been found — at Worthing. Worthing somehow 
 seems to befit Mr. Weekes as environment. Sir 
 Augustus is most attentive. Laura beams and 
 
 302
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 bridles. It is all quite delightful and studded 
 with diamonds and ushered in on massive gold 
 plate. 
 
 We dined with the Pampesford family last 
 night. The house, as Harry said of Mrs. Pot- 
 ters's house, reeks of money. And though the 
 contents, taken separately, are really above re- 
 proach, yet the whole effect is not beautiful in 
 the least, but boastful and nothing more, I was 
 then and there convinced that even Corots and 
 Millets can be vulgarized by the machinations of 
 frame-makers anci paper-hangers, and that old 
 Italian cabinets and old Persian prayer-rugs can 
 be over-done up and over-done till they speak of 
 nothing but bank-notes. The very flowers — 
 poor dears, what a shame ! — looked purse-proud. 
 I came home, determined that when my room 
 next needs decorating, it shall be decorated a la 
 cell. There is no "moss" in that Palace Gardens 
 house, no refining touch of utility. I would 
 give its plenishings from roof to basement for 
 the contents of my mother's sitting-room at Tol- 
 carne. (I hope Mrs. Enticknap attended to in- 
 structions and re-arranged everything after we 
 came away as it was before Laura's reign.) 
 Dreams have a trick of reverting to the past for 
 their background; and I dream of that room 
 sometimes now, and think I see the David Cox 
 water-colours, the delft china, the old lacquer 
 cabinet, in which the mother-of-pearl fish 
 counter lived with which we used to play at com- 
 merce, the tortoise-shell workbox, the oval 
 
 303
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 hand-screens upon the chimney-piece with their 
 faint embroidery of faded flowers — but I need 
 not write an inventory of that upper chamber in 
 your very own house. Don't you like an upstairs 
 country sitting-room where the windows are on a 
 level with the heart of a tree? Especially when 
 the tree is a cedar-tree, and the windows give 
 upon the west, and the sunset is to be seen 
 framed by the great level cedar-boughs? And 
 when the windows of a room are on a level 
 with the heart of a tree, the birds come so de- 
 lightfully near. I trust that the jays have not 
 been improved away from the Wellington Col- 
 lege fir-woods. The flash of blue wings used to 
 spangle those shades as with gleams of blue fire. 
 Back to our Pampesford dinner after this 
 country excursion I go. The company was just 
 what we might have expected. Apathetic or rest- 
 lessly ill-at-ease women "stuck o'er," not "with 
 yew" but diamonds. Men who looked — what 
 did they look ? I don't know. What I do know is 
 that, from these persons, Cynthia and Stephen in 
 appearance and manner seemed as far removed 
 as do the etchings of M. Helleu from Gustave 
 Dore's oil paintings, or as the "Voyage autour 
 de ma Chambre" does from the "Dampshire 
 Timcs's"full report of the wedding gifts to a local 
 bride and bridegroom. The heat was asphyxiat- 
 ing. I sat nerving myself to see the scarlet, 
 choleric-looking gentlemen on either side of me 
 fall insensible into their priceless china plates. 
 The dinner was abnormally long. There was far 
 
 304
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 too much dinner — there was far too much of 
 everything that money brings. 
 
 But never you trouble, dear, to describe femi- 
 nine attire to me again. You said that the Miss 
 Pampesfords' apparel, even to your eyes, looked 
 antique. Antique ! No, Dickory. They go clad 
 in the latest fashion. The colouring sombre cer- 
 tainly, as becomes the w^earers' ages, but you will 
 be calling Mrs. Vivian dcmodce next. My old 
 black rags and Cynthia's new white frock were 
 nowhere beside our hostesses' splendour, and 
 even the gown that Blake terms "her ladyship's 
 best ruby" was cowed by the splendid trappings 
 of Laura's future sisters-in-law. The Miss 
 Pampesfords' minds may be dowdy, but their 
 raiment, believe me, is not. 
 
 It must be fear of mankind, I think, that fright- 
 ens the old ladies into the paroxysms of per- 
 turbed silence that you described. They talked 
 quite freely the other evening, not during dinner 
 certainly, nor did it seem to occur to the various 
 editions of Dives present that their hostesses 
 were there to be spoken to. Stephen made valiant 
 attempts to storm the citadel of Miss Teresa's 
 dumb embarrassment, but sank back in his chair 
 with a look of profoundest depression and mental 
 exhaustion about the period of the fish. After 
 dinner, however, there was a buzz of talk. Laura 
 told everybody what she could digest, or rather 
 what she could not. ("Je ne digere pas bien" is 
 nowadays a well-worn theme.) And Miss 
 Pampesford recommended digestive biscuits, and 
 
 305
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Miss Teresa recommended digestive — I forget 
 what. It was eleven o'clock before poor Stephen 
 and the rest of the company "joined us," and as 
 Laura wished to go on somewhere we had not to 
 wait long for the order of release, 
 
 Elsenham Market Hall, Suffolk: Sunday. 
 
 Alice needed an excuse for the warding off of 
 Mrs. Ware, and so sent for me, and I kept my 
 letter back to give you news of her. Mrs. Ware 
 is one of those gruesomely disposed persons who 
 insist upon the etiquette and pomp of woe. Do 
 you remember Harry's story of the resentment of 
 his servant's widow, because the poor man's fu- 
 neral paraphernalia did not include "plumes" ? — 
 "I did, Sir, count upon plumes." Mrs. Ware 
 counts upon plumes, and comes periodically to 
 see if Alice is mourning in orthodox fashion and 
 if the crape is deep as can be upon both her skirt 
 and her soul. I prefer "soldiers' sadness" to 
 plumes. 
 
 "What his funerals lacked 
 In images and pomp they had supplied 
 With honourable sorrow, soldiers' sadness, 
 A kind of silent mourning, such as men 
 Who know no tears, but from their captives' use 
 To shew in so great losses." 
 
 You will be glad to hear that Alice is in rather 
 better case than I had gathered from former re- 
 ports, and Mr. Shipley, who, by the way, says his 
 work will take him to Winchester next week — 
 
 306
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 thinks, too, that she has turned the corner. She 
 does not seem quite as restless or look quite as 
 over-driven as she did. This is peaceful, pleasant 
 enough country — the country that Constable 
 painted — and the Stour threads the meadows 
 through which this morning we walked to 
 church. I would give the languid Stour from 
 start to finish for a span of the least Highland 
 burn that splashes the heather, but Alice likes this 
 country, and the country cottage people like her. 
 
 I hope and believe that her life will fill itself 
 with wholesome interests, and that she may 
 recover as much tranquillity, if not happiness, 
 as has to serve for many a one. She is unselfish, 
 and so, when not harassed and fretted almost be- 
 yond endurance, she will find pleasure in the 
 well-being of others. I don't say that she will 
 not paviperise the village, but there are infirm 
 aged folk and ailing babies whose moral fibre 
 will not be permanently injured by a rather over- 
 lavish distribution of supplies. Poor Colonel 
 Newton was for ever denouncing "useless vaga- 
 bonds" and "able-bodied beggars who would not 
 work." Very likely there was some truth in his 
 indictment ; but we may perhaps hope that we 
 are not doing much harm by smoothing the last 
 stretch of the way for the old and feeble, and 
 trying to make pain less for a sick or crippled 
 child. 
 
 Alice is full of dreamy fancies, always. She 
 v/ould not be Alice if she were not. But her 
 fancies bring hope and comfort to her, and why 
 
 307
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 they should excite Mrs. Ware's disapproval and 
 suspicion I don't know. "Have you ever no- 
 ticed," she said to me just now, "that when the 
 birds spread their wings to fly they make the 
 sign of the cross?" 
 
 The post goes early to-day, so good-bye. 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 N.B. — "I'ya longtemps que je t'aime, 
 Jamais je ne t'oublierai." 
 
 3f>3
 
 XLVL 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarne, to Miss 
 EHj^abcth Etchingham, Laurel Lazvn, Wim- 
 bledon. 
 
 My dear Elizabeth, — Our only positive 
 news is that Arthur is home for the hohdays 
 (having missed you in London by your excur- 
 sion into Suffolk) ; and the Folletts expect Ship- 
 ley for a short visit. Those charters, or whatever 
 they are, at Thursborough seem not to be ex- 
 hausted. Mrs. Ware and her kind, who love the 
 pomp of woe, have an ancestry so respectable and 
 so widely spread that one almost thinks their 
 frame of mind must be the real primitive human 
 nature. It flourishes in the West country, as 
 witness the dialogue between a groom and his 
 uncle, overheard in a Devonshire stable, and re- 
 corded among the sayings of Mr. Hicks of 
 Bodmin : 
 
 "Well, Jem, you didn't come to Betsey's burv- 
 ing?" 
 
 "No, Uncle, I couldn't get away." 
 
 "Ah, you'd 've enjied yourzelf. We had dree 
 quarts of gin, one quart of brandy, and one quart 
 of rum, roast beef, and viggy pudden." 
 
 Then a sighing eulogium on the "poor, dear, 
 
 309
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 patient creature," followed after a pause by the 
 matter-of-fact information that "her lied screech- 
 ing vower hours afore her died." Such dialogues 
 need Sir Thomas Browne for a commentator, to 
 show us that there is no real break between the 
 humours and the solemnity of life. Heine would 
 have done even better perhaps, if he had not been 
 disqualified by invincible ignorance of English 
 character. Why is it that even the cleverest and 
 most painstaking Continental writers are apt to 
 make at least one grotesque blunder when they 
 write about England? Of course, our half-edu- 
 cated public make quite as absurd ones about 
 French, German, and American, not to mention 
 Anglo-Indian matters ; but not our best people, I 
 think. Taine, I have been told, was really ac- 
 curate, and the younger Frenchmen of his school 
 are following suit ; for Darmesteter — a scholar of 
 quite original genius — I think I can answer. But 
 Jem won't admit that any foreigner has ever 
 touched English Universities with impunity. 
 
 The name of Darmesteter reminds me — you 
 will see why directly — of the verses I copied on 
 Sir John Davis's fly-leaf. I thought you would 
 hardly guess whose they were. 
 
 "For in my Soul a temple have I made, 
 
 Set on a height, divine, and steep and far; 
 Nor often may I hope those floors to tread, 
 Or reach the gates that glimmer like a star." 
 
 There is an old-world flavour about them, but 
 they arc very modern indeed — Madame James 
 
 310
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Darmesteter's. Her verse has to me more of the 
 real singing- quahty in it than can be found in 
 almost any of our living poets junior to Mr. 
 Swinburne, save one — and that one is a woman, 
 too, so there is another guess for you. The 
 thought exactly marks the difference of the nine- 
 teenth from the seventeenth century. Our specu- 
 lation has travelled wider, and learnt not despair, 
 as some impatient folk would have it, but pa- 
 tience and modesty, and the renunciation of ex- 
 pecting precise and formal agreement even from 
 our dearest friends. 
 
 Margaret and I have been watching the educa- 
 tion of Songstress's puppies with deep interest 
 and occasional controversy. Margaret believes 
 that puppies and kittens are very clever and re- 
 member all sorts of things, which I don't. But 
 we agree that there is nothing more fascinating 
 to see than a young creature, .dog or cat, playing 
 with an older one. Those who have observed this, 
 know that there is nothing new in the modern 
 tyranny of children over their parents. It is 
 curious, too, to see how, with plentiful display of 
 teeth and claws, they manage never to hurt one 
 another. Enticknap has three kittens at his cot- 
 tage, of whom we call one Joab, as being "him 
 that first getteth up to the gutter" — he did it at 
 quite an early age by judicious use of a creeper ; 
 the gutter of the toolhouse in the garden I mean. 
 So he is "the agile Joab," as Margaret finds it 
 written in a silly book of Scripture history that 
 Laura gave her once with a view of doing her 
 
 3"
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 good. The other two are Sampson and FiUpina 
 ("the connection of which with the plot one 
 sees"). FiUpina seems of a Hvely disposition 
 enough, but Sampson is at present very proud 
 and shy. People used to talk as if character 
 depended merely on education ; and yet, if they 
 had kept their eyes open, they could have seen 
 the most marked differences in character be- 
 tween puppies and kittens of the same litter at 
 a few weeks old. Which is also rather bad for 
 astrology, as they must have pretty much the 
 same horoscope ; but no doubt an astrologer 
 would be ready, like all professors of pseudo- 
 sciences, to patch the breach of his fictitious rule 
 by finding an equally fictitious exception. When 
 you have once begun the business of com- 
 plicated fallacy, "cycle on epicycle," one fiction 
 more costs nothing. Joab has climbed in 
 at the study window and is trying to eat the 
 feather end of my pen while I am writing. I 
 don't think he is laid out for a house cat. No, 
 Joab, I am not the Philistines or the children of 
 Ammon that you should scratch me, and your 
 manners have not that repose which elderly per- 
 sons desire in a domestic companion. I love cats, 
 but a restless cat gets on one's nerves. I shall go 
 to the stable and talk to the snub-nosed puppies ; 
 they are rather soothing. Cats have more roving 
 and miscellaneous curiosity than dogs ; a dog 
 begins to get a working notion of what concerns 
 him and what not almost as soon as he finds out 
 anything; and then he proceeds to leave a lot of 
 
 312
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 things alone. A cat is not satisfied till he has ac- 
 counted for everything in the room. In other 
 words, the cat might say, you mean that the 
 dog is a business man, a tradesman, a pursuer of 
 the main chance, and I am a philosopher? That 
 is so. But the cat would be a sophist, or else (as 
 he is likely to be) incapable of seeing the point 
 that the dog has attained the state of a sociable 
 animal, which very few cats do, though I have 
 known it in some. It is harder to appreciate cats 
 than dogs, because you want so much more de- 
 tachment ; in fact, you have all the way to go to 
 the cat, while the dog comes half-way to meet 
 man. But it does not follow that the cat is the 
 nobler animal. More interesting as a study in 
 some ways, perhaps. Arthur calls me to the pup- 
 pies. He is at the age that distinctly prefers 
 dogs. 
 
 I have been turning over Cobbett's "Rural 
 Rides," a book I had not looked at for many 
 years — indeed I had all but forgotten its exist- 
 ence. Cobbett is delightful, not only for his racy 
 downright English and love of the country 
 (as country, not as a collection of subjects for 
 pictures), but for the perpetual paradox of his 
 being what he is. He was a Tory by nature, if 
 ever there was one, hating cities, standing 
 armies, foreign trees, free trade, paper money, 
 and Dissenters, especially Unitarians. And yet 
 he became famous as a Radical. If he had come 
 a generation or two later he would have been a 
 pioneer, or at least a pillar, of the new Toryism. 
 
 313
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 The wretched Unitarians get the choicest vials 
 of his wrath, like this outpouring when he rides 
 past the Devil's Jumps on the way from Sel- 
 borne to Thursley : "The Unitarians will not be- 
 lieve in the Trinity because they cannot account 
 for it. Will they come here to Churt, go' and 
 look at these Devil's Jumps, and account to me 
 for the placing of those three hills, in the shape 
 of three rather squat sugar-loaves, along in a 
 line upon this heath, or the placing of a rock- 
 stone upon the top of one of them as big as a 
 church tower?" And again, where he says — 
 after mentioning the conversion or perversion 
 of his old friend, Baron Maseres, to Umtarian- 
 ism — "1 do most heartily despise this piggish set 
 for their conceit and impudence" — and proceeds 
 to pose them with a series of questions in natural 
 history, most of them absurd and founded on 
 vulgar errors, though Cobbett boldly says that 
 the facts are all notoriously true. The middle 
 one of the seven questions — "What causes horse- 
 hair to become living things?" — is a fair speci- 
 men. 
 
 Next to Unitarians, Cobbett hated Scotch fir 
 and barren common lands. Hind Head, which 
 is now frequented for its wild beauty, is for Cob- 
 bett "certainly the most villanous spot that God 
 ever made." It is another question, whether the 
 increase of building, villas, boarding-houses, 
 convalescent homes, and what not, will not soon 
 cause Hind Head and several other formerly se- 
 cluded places to vie with one another for being 
 
 314
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 the most villanous blot on fair country that man 
 ever made. But this would be nothing to Cob- 
 bett. Perhaps he was the last of the writers on 
 rustic matters who frankly made no pretence to 
 an eye for the picturesque. He could admire a 
 smiling landscape, but a soil where crops would 
 not grow was in his vocabulary ugly, nasty, 
 "spewy," or blackguard. 
 
 And so no more at present from your loving 
 brother. Richard. 
 
 315
 
 XLVII. 
 
 From Miss Elisabeth Etchingham, Laurel Lawn, 
 Wimbledon, to Sir Richard Etchingham, 
 Tolcarne. 
 
 Dearest Dickory, — Some folk prove incor- 
 rigible. I will not be told by post to guess. How 
 irritating you are ! How weak-minded I am ! 
 Had I any real strength of character, I should 
 sweep your provoking conundrums out of my 
 mind and have done with them ; but as, demon, I 
 weakly desire to know your opinion about every- 
 thing, I let your guessing orders disturb me. I 
 went out to buy a Tennyson to enable me to 
 come to a conclusion when you last bade me 
 guess, but I am not at this hour going out to 
 buy the works of all the modern women poets. 
 Their name is legion. I can't gather 
 
 "into quires 
 The scattered nightingales." 
 
 It would need every van with Carter Paterson's 
 name upon it to bring the quires here, and I 
 should be taken up by the police for obstruction, 
 doubtless, did I attempt the task. 
 The women poets with whom I am intimate 
 
 316
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 are the women who lived on the other and more 
 romantic side of the border ; and they are long 
 dead and gone. (I rather think I like my verse, 
 as I like my china, old.) Jane Elliot, Lady Anne 
 Lindsay, Lady Wardlaw, Lady Nairne. I don't 
 know that women now can write as they did, but 
 then I know little about it. I have, however, an 
 acquaintance among the latter-day Philomels, 
 and she wrote this : 
 
 "Time brought me many another friend 
 
 That loved me longer, 
 New love was kind, but in the end 
 
 Old love was stronger. 
 Years come and go. No New Year yet 
 
 Hath slain December, 
 And all that should have cried. Forget! 
 
 Cries but — Remember!" 
 
 I like the song. I like the sentiment. But it was 
 not my intention to quote verse to-day or to look 
 through that cypress and rosemary bordered 
 avenue backward : 
 
 <( ( 
 
 Tis not the air I wished to play, 
 The strain I wished to sing; 
 
 My wilful spirit slipped away 
 And struck another string." 
 
 I meant to reprove you for ruffling a temper, 
 smooth, till you touched it, as an angel's wing, 
 and then to pass on to Pampesford and present 
 affairs. You would have scoffed to see the fold- 
 ing of your sister to the heart of Miss Pampes- 
 
 317
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 ford and Miss Teresa Pampesford yesterday. 
 This is how the folding of the heart befeh While 
 Laura was undergoing the process known as 
 "being fitted" (she really must be as strong as a 
 horse, as she goes to London and back nearly 
 every day through this overwhelming heat) I 
 thought I would do a politeness and call upon 
 the Miss Pampesfords, who had repeatedly 
 begged me to "come in and have tea informally." 
 I found them alone and apparently unoccupied, 
 the nearest approach to occupation being the 
 "Times," "Morning Post," and 'Tllustrated Lon- 
 don News" neatly folded and lying upon a con- 
 sole — I suppose you would call the marble-and- 
 gilt splendour. I tried them with various sub- 
 jects and strove to discover what really is their 
 "shop," that I might get them to talk it. Their 
 brother is their "shop." I sympathise with the 
 people who have a long-standing craze for an- 
 other human creature, particularly if the other 
 human creature is not of the same sex as tlie 
 crazed — (don't betray this sentiment to Laura 
 or Mrs. Carstairs) — and there is something pa- 
 thetic in their idolisation of "Augustus." After 
 a while I began to think that I quite admired 
 him too. 
 
 "I don't know if we ought to say it to you," 
 Miss Pampesford said at last, growing more and 
 more confidential ; "but you seem to feel kindly, 
 and you have brothers yourself, and so perhaps 
 we should not be misunderstood if we tell you 
 that our thankfulness in the prospect of Augus- 
 
 318
 
 The Etchino;ham Letters 
 
 tus's happiness is intensified by the fact that for 
 many years we feared that happiness would 
 never be his again." "Yes," poor old Miss Teresa 
 said, wiping her eyes with a magnificently laced 
 handkerchief, "we feared that happiness would 
 never be his again." "In the prime of youth," 
 Miss Pampesford went on, "he became attached 
 to and married a very sweet young thing. She 
 had no fortune and no high-born connections 
 (she was a governess, my dear Miss Etching- 
 ham), she had just the fortune of a sweet, grate- 
 ful, lovable nature, and a most lovely face." 
 "Yes," Miss Teresa repeated, "a sweet, grateful, 
 lovable nature, and a most lovely face." "She 
 died, my dear Miss Etchingham, she and the 
 dear little baby, on the first anniversary of her 
 wedding day." Poor Miss Pampesford tried to 
 speak on, but her voice for a moment or two 
 left her. "Our brother," she continued after 
 what seemed a long pause, "was a changed man. 
 He would sit by the hour silent and abstracted, 
 scarcely answering when addressed. It is very 
 hard, my dear Miss Etchingham, to be able to do 
 nothing to lessen the suffering of those one 
 loves." (It is. Do you know anything very much 
 harder? I don't). 
 
 They have hearts, Richard, and when grim old 
 dragons, even, have hearts, I like them. I hope 
 Laura won't trample them to death. 
 
 I conveyed Azore yesterday to Prince's Gar- 
 dens that he might there be re-united to Mrs. 
 Yjyian as she passed through London on her 
 
 3^9
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 way from Marienbad to Vivian-End. ("My saint 
 looks well," she admitted.) She has been advis- 
 ing Lady Clementine Mure, "who travelled home 
 with us, looking, Elizabeth, as we crossed, for all 
 the world like tin mouton qiti rcvc," either to 
 marry Admiral Tidenham or go round the 
 world : "Admiral Tidenham, being deaf as a post, 
 is cut out to have a silly wife who talks inces- 
 santly about nothing, as he won't hear a word 
 she says." "You," she told me, "are 'still too 
 3^oung for marriage, or globe-trotting, as the 
 fashion now is. Wait till you are fifty." But a 
 third alternative presents itself to Lady Clem- 
 entine. On board the Channel boat she was the 
 thankful witness of Ada Llanelly's and Mr. Big- 
 gleswade's cordial relations. (He was on his way 
 back from Paris. "London," he says, "is too sub- 
 urban for me, I admit." You know, I suppose, 
 that he has came into a big fortune?) "Ada," 
 Mrs. Vivian tells me, "forsook all others, includ- 
 ing George Mure, and cleaved to Mr. Biggles- 
 wade from Calais to Charing Cross." Further- 
 more, the next morning's post brought a letter 
 from him announcing his intention of leaving the 
 Church, "as literary engagements and the duties 
 of a landed proprietor," &c., &c. Vivian-End 
 living is in Mr. Vivian's gift, and there is a very 
 excellent "High Church" Alick Mure (Lady 
 Clementine's youngest son) now half killing 
 himself and destroying his delicate lungs with 
 curate's overwork in the South London parish to 
 which Mrs. Vivian plays Lady Bountiful. Alick 
 
 320
 
 The Etchingham Letters i 
 
 Mure will go to that delightful rose-and-jasmine 
 embowered Vivian-End vicarage, and poor rud- 
 derless Lady Clementine can make her home 
 with him. He is the only one of her family who 
 has never bullied or been rude to her. She will, 
 of course, become High Church too, and em- 
 broider stoles and altar-hangings in peaceful pre- 
 cincts for the rest of her natural life. So that is 
 
 all right. 
 
 Commend me to your dogs and cats, your kit- 
 tens and puppies. (You have not said a word 
 lately of Tracy.) Dogs I consider the most lov- 
 able, cats the most fascinating, of animals. To 
 fall beneath the fascination of a cat, especially of 
 a Persian cat, endowed both with the languor 
 and the fire of the East, is to be under a spell. 
 Friendship with a dog means the finding of a 
 dear, perfect, sympathetic, faithful friend. I 
 don't know that a cat's fidelity is to be trusted. 
 When Azore ailed slightly the other day (he had 
 taken to himself a ham from the sideboard), I 
 sent for his doctor, who gave me various in- 
 stances of the gratitude of dogs as patients. I 
 then inquired about horses as patients. "Horses 
 have no way to demonstrate," he said. "And 
 cats?" I asked. The expression of Azore's 
 medical attendant changed from mild philan- 
 thropy to long pent-up indignation. "Cats !" he 
 exclaimed with heat— "I don't get any grati- 
 tude from cats." But this perhaps is an excep- 
 tional experience. 
 
 Treat kindly the little knot of white heather 
 
 321
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 that I enclose. Some heather and bog-myrtle 
 came just now from Dalruogh. A day or two 
 ago dear Mr. Fraser sent us grouse, and then the 
 story of my erratic conduct in going off to Dal- 
 ruogh alone was related to Sir Augustus. "Au- 
 gustus asked me if it is not unusual for ladies to 
 pay afternoon visits at houses where there is no 
 hostess," Laura told me afterwards. Oh dear, oh 
 dear, the imbecility, and worse than imbecility, of 
 this sort of thing! Should men and women be 
 buried in the same churchyard, do you think? 
 Mrs. Le Marchant and Mrs. Carstairs would say 
 No. Mrs. Carstairs, if I may be forgiven for 
 thinking so while living, though not as her 
 guest, under her roof, is the type of woman that 
 I trust evolution will rid us of shortly. She is 
 an adept in sinister insinuation and in unpleasant 
 interpretation of innocent acts. The world, ac- 
 cording to her, is made up of jealous wives and 
 hoodwinked husbands, or the other way round. 
 The folly or falsehood of insisting that such 
 cases are the rule, not the exception, surprises 
 me anew whenever I am confronted by the point 
 of view. But it is not worth being angry with, 
 though it does sometimes anger me. And then I 
 think that the women whose thoughts run in 
 such grooves are mostly objects for compassion. 
 Unloved and unlovable, they wither for want of 
 the sunshine of wholesome human afifection. 
 Mrs. Vivian's tirades arc of a wholly different 
 nature. Her tongue may be sharp, and she may 
 indulge over-frccly in feline amenities, but ad- 
 
 32?
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 der's poison is not under her lips, and her nature 
 has no trace of the ugly twist that makes Mrs. 
 Carstairs my hcte noire. Why cannot we in nine 
 hundred and ninety-nine cases out of a thousand 
 think of and treat human beings as our fellow 
 creatures, not in that stupid, uncomfortable way 
 of — I am a woman and yovi are a man ? I never 
 had any patience with it. 
 
 Farewell, Dickory, I have known worse folk 
 than you. 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 22Z
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarne, to Miss 
 Elizabeth Etchingham, Laurel Lawn, Wim- 
 bledon. 
 
 My dear Elizabeth, — There is news for you 
 this time. You are to keep your Christmas at 
 Tolcarne and not go away again. No refusal 
 this time. For if Elizabeth will not come and 
 reign with Richard at Tolcarne, there will be 
 nothing left for Richard but to get up a lawsuit 
 with Mrs. Tallis to occupy his declining years, 
 and steal her housekeeper as an episode. Marry, 
 how? Shipley is at the vicarage, and we went 
 there to afternoon tea ; and Mr. Follett was full 
 of Anglo-Saxon antiquities, and in great indig- 
 nation with somebody who had been vamping 
 up some of the old nonsense about King Alfred 
 — the fable of his hanging forty odd unjust 
 judges, I think it was ; and Shipley was too busy 
 to go out with Arthur, and yet he did not stay 
 with us to talk of King Alfred ; and Mrs. Follett 
 was engaged with her gardener over the fowls. 
 Her game-fowls are a fine breed. They want a 
 great deal of attention when certain visitors are 
 seen approaching — and at other times. And so, 
 
 324
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 when the Vicar and I went out into his qtiercus 
 walk, and he was showing me how the trees had 
 come on this summer, who should meet us but 
 Margaret and Shipley, hand in hand, and she was 
 looking — well, not as she looked after a certain 
 interview with Mr. Weekes, of Worthing that is, 
 and of Pampesford Royal that is to be. They 
 had settled something that was more to him than 
 Alfred and Edward and all their charters. And 
 the Vicar beamed, and I — never mind exactly 
 what I did. 
 
 But this morning I took out the two seal^ you 
 know, which for years I had looked at only once 
 a year, those that my dear old Munshi got en- 
 graved after the writing of a cunning scribe at 
 Agra. Mine — the one that reads "I said Alif — 
 is to be Shipley's, and Maggie's, inscribed "My 
 soul said, Say no more," is for Margaret. They 
 are to have them on the wedding-day. You re- 
 member the interpretation of the lines those 
 words come from? 
 
 I said Alif : my soul said, Say no more : If One 
 is in the house, one letter is enough. 
 
 Margaret will tell you more. 
 
 Yours in joy, 
 
 Richard. 
 
 P,S. — The poet whose name you will not 
 guess is Mrs. Margaret Woods. 
 
 32s
 
 XLIX. 
 
 From Miss ElhabetJi Efchingham, Laurel Lawn, 
 Wimbledon, to Sir Richard Etchingham, 
 Tolcarne. 
 
 Dearest Dickory, — You are the most un- 
 selfish creature in the world (I may have men- 
 tioned this before, as it is a conclusion I came to 
 as soon as I could come to conclusions). I 
 have a very happy note from dear Margaret, 
 but she thinks much more of you than you do 
 of yourself, and "leaving father" is already a 
 cloud on her horizon. You have won her 
 affections, as I knew you would, during the 
 short time you have been together. I am 
 thinking of IMaggie now, and thinking that she 
 would be glad (she and I always agreed about 
 people. She would have liked and believed 
 in "Will" Shipley ; and she would have wished 
 Margaret to marry. She was far too happy with 
 you not to consider marriage the happiest des- 
 tiny for a woman. And T think he is a good 
 man, upright and "trustie" ; and then he is quick- 
 witted on the surface and will not, for want of 
 intuition, hurt his wife. I have often admired 
 the tact and self-control with which he handled 
 
 326
 
 The Etcliingham Letters 
 
 the many entanglements of the Newton house- 
 hold. To succeed in being everything to 
 Alice, while for her sake remaining on good 
 terms with Colonel Newton, was a great dip- 
 lomatic achievement. The marriage will de- 
 light Alice ; and Arthur will not withhold his 
 consent. 
 
 No refusal from me this time, you say. No. 
 Don't flatter yourself that you could keep me at 
 a distance if you tried. I am com.ing, and com- 
 ing to stay. 
 
 I remember about the seals, and what you 
 tell me now made me go rather blind for a 
 minute. In a way I want the child and her 
 "man" to have them, but I want you to keep 
 them too, and I think I want you to keep them 
 most. Have others made. Do not give up 
 those till you are where you will not need seals, 
 dear. But perhaps I am wrong. As I have 
 no children, perhaps I cannot realise that what 
 a parent gives to a child a parent keeps. 
 
 Laura's reception of the news would have 
 amused you. Being Laura, she does not quite 
 like honours to be divided, and would have pre- 
 ferred one engagement at a time in the family. 
 Still she is benevolently inclined to Margaret, 
 and ''enters into Margaret's feelings as only 
 those can who know what it is." "You, Eliz- 
 abeth," she told me, "as I have often heard 
 people say, live in books ; which, perhaps, is 
 fortunate, as you don't seem to attract. But I 
 have always found my happiness in my afifec-
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 tions, and Margaret is, I think, like me." One 
 of Margaret's most valuable presents will be 
 "from Sir Augustus and Lady Pampesford," and 
 Laura's feelings for her are sisterly and emo- 
 tional to the verge of tears, and not step-grand- 
 motherly at all. I shall see you and my dear 
 Margaret soon, if bulwarks of wedding presents 
 and wedding garments allow me to see any one. 
 Don't indulge in "a recurrence of your old at- 
 tacks," and so escape the ceremony. You must 
 witness the turning of Laura into a Pampesford. 
 "It is expected of you." We go back to Hans 
 Place next week. 
 
 Your loving sister, 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 P.S. — Keep the seals. I can't bear you not to 
 have them. I can't bear it for you or for Maggie. 
 I think, if she knew, she would rather they were 
 yours, only, still. I know she would. Keep 
 them, please. 
 
 328
 
 L. 
 
 From Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarnc, to Miss 
 Elisabeth Etchingham, 83 Hans Place. 
 
 To my most excellent sister, Elizabeth, by the 
 hands of our well-beloved daughter, these : 
 
 A touch of that old malaria, with a measurable 
 temperature, a touch to swear by. Margaret says 
 I must not think of going to Laura's wedding, 
 and I dutifully think of not going. There is 
 much to be thought of here, and it would never 
 do for me to be disabled. A medical certificate 
 v»ill be furnished if desired. Our old enemies do 
 sometimes befriend us. A modern Amritsar rug, 
 not bad, but gaudy enough to please Laura, must 
 help to make my excuses go down. 
 
 We are childishly happy and given up to our- 
 selves. Tracy is the only exception ; he is rather 
 sulky at the exuberant youth of Songstress's 
 puppies, whom Margaret insists on calling John 
 and Edward (i.e. De Reszke) in defiance of all 
 sporting traditions. Likewise he despises the 
 cats, though he would not commit himself to 
 anything so vulgar as active hostility. John and 
 Edward, on the other hand, have passed through 
 
 329
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 a stage of diplomatic but cold relations to fra- 
 ternising, which leads to admired disorder from 
 the human point of view. Mr. and Mrs. Square 
 came to pay us a state visit on Wednesday, 
 charged with solemn congratulation (the en- 
 gagement is known, of course). They found, us 
 entirely occupied with watching John and Ed- 
 ward laying siege to Sampson, who had en- 
 trenched himself under the sofa ; the puppies 
 whining with excitement, Sampson uttering an 
 occasional mew defiant, Arthur crying "Fetch en 
 out !" Mr. Follet aiding and abetting with most 
 un-padre-like laughter. The young people had 
 just been telling him they would have nobody 
 else to marry them. The whole party rather 
 wanted to let off steam in some direction, and the 
 puppies and the kitten obligingly supplied an ob- 
 ject. The Squares must have thought us quite 
 mad, but I believe they thought so before. 
 
 ]\Irs. Tallis, who was beginning to think it 
 time for either a marriage or a murder to hap- 
 pen in the neighborhood, is as brisk as may be, 
 raid regrets that there is no more dancing at 
 weddings. She has won Arthur's heart by sur- 
 rendering to Shipley at the first encounter ; it so 
 fell out that he knew more of a local genealogy 
 than she did, having lately found a missing piece 
 of decisive evidence among the witnesses to one 
 of the Thursborough deeds. But Mrs. Tallis has 
 one trouble. A sailor nephew has sent her, with 
 infinite precaution, a charming little Italian owl, 
 and the housekeeper is in mortal fear of bad luck 
 
 330
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 following it. I find these edifying and sound re- 
 marks in a paper by an educated Paris gentleman 
 on superstitions common to Europe and India, 
 in the Bombay Anthropological Society's jour- 
 nal. "The ugly owl is everywhere considered a 
 bird full of bad omen. I remember the peace of 
 mind of even an English schoolmaster of a high 
 school being disturbed at the sight of an owl on 
 the roof of his school. He did not rest till he 
 made it leave his premises by means of stones." 
 Mrs. Tallis's housekeeper must be taught not to 
 attempt any counter-charm by means of stones 
 or such like. Perhaps we can persuade her that 
 the Italian owl is quite different from the com- 
 mon owl. Why does anybody think an owl ugly? 
 Or a toad, for the matter of that? I do not even 
 share the supposed inborn aversion to snakes. 
 Vipers have, no doubt, to be treated as enemies 
 of man because they are accustomed to bite 
 hounds, not to speak of common dogs. But I 
 maintain that in themselves they are pretty creat- 
 ures enough. Indian poison-snakes are a 
 graver matter — though you know that more peo- 
 ple die officially of snake-bite than ever felt a 
 serpent's tooth. Another maligned bird is the 
 puckeridge, vnlgo, night-jar, without whose 
 soothing monotone I consider no fine summer 
 evening complete. Was it the noiseless flight 
 that seemed uncanny to our ancestors? 
 
 Mr. Follett is a naughtier and more secular 
 clerk than I knew. He and Mrs. Follett were 
 captured by an American family at their Norman
 
 The Etchino;ham Letters 
 
 village, and the Americans taught them euchre, 
 which they have proceeded to teach us. I am not 
 converted to holding the four-handed game, 
 where the partners are constant, anything like an 
 adequate substitute for whist, though it may do 
 for the young and giddy. But with Shipley we 
 make up five, and then it is a bewildering but 
 fascinating system of shifting triple and dual al- 
 liances, with occasional tacit coalitions against 
 a player who is dangerously near the winning 
 score. Towards the end of the game there is 
 need for high political judgment in bidding or 
 not bidding for the lead, as you have to weigh 
 the advantage of gaining points for yourself 
 against the risk of advancing temporary partners 
 who are also rivals. Altogether it is very like a 
 picture in little of the so-called concert of the 
 Great Powers in Europe. I leave to wiser heads 
 the question who has been most euchred in that 
 game. 
 
 I all but forgot to tell you that Harry is on his 
 way home with confidential despatches, and may 
 be in time to represent me at the great function ; 
 I have sent a request to that cfifect to catch him 
 at the War Office. But I expect he has written 
 or telegraphed to you himself. 
 
 As to the seals, what I felt was that in the 
 young folks' hands they would be alive for me 
 too. But Margaret and Shipley had something 
 like your thought ; they begged to consult be- 
 fore deciding, and they say they will gladly have 
 copies^ but I must keep the originals for my own
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 time. So now I hope you will approve without 
 reserve. 
 
 Tell me all about the most august wedding. 
 Your loving brother, 
 
 DiCKORY, 
 
 333
 
 LI. 
 
 From Miss Elizabeth Etchingham, 83 Hans Place, 
 to Sir Richard Etchingham, Tolcarne. 
 
 Oh, Richard, Richard, 'tis a shocking thing 
 to be wholly depraved. What am I to do with a 
 creature who, when he should be hasting to the 
 wedding in Sloane Street, remains in Devon- 
 shire, and sits down calmly at home to comment 
 upon toads and snakes and vipers and Mrs. 
 Tallises and owls and night-jars? Is this a time 
 to turn to wondering why night-flying "foules" 
 are birds of ill omen, and to quote learned Par- 
 sees and Bombay anthropological journals? If 
 refusing to haste to the wedding, surely good 
 feeling would have prompted the throwing off 
 of a prothalamion sort of note, a song of "swans 
 of goodly hue," "fair plumes" and silken feathers, 
 and a dismissal till more opportune moments of 
 your evil-boding, fatal owl ? I am grieved to the 
 core. And your truancy cost us Arthur too. 
 
 As to the recurrence of your old attacks, I tell 
 you plainly, my dear, I don't believe in it. When 
 I said to Margaret, "Is your father really ill?" 
 Margaret smiled ; and though Laura, whose in- 
 variable interest in diseases was aroused, had 
 
 334
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 already reached the point of suggesting "pack- 
 ing" for the lowering of your temperature, "Will" 
 (I still speak his name between inverted commas), 
 with the crass simplicity of a man, casually let 
 out that you had seen your family ofi. from Buck- 
 land Road station and intended to take the par- 
 sonage on your way home. Was there ever such 
 an abandoned wretch? (Phantom) toads, snakes, 
 vipers, Mrs. Tallises, owls, night-jars are subjects 
 on which the delirious wax eloquent, but I know 
 you too well to think that your mind, when you 
 wrote, wandered, and no doctor of medicine, but 
 rather a doctor of divinity, would suit the needs 
 of your case, Dickory. However, no more of 
 this for now. I am soon to take charge of you 
 for life, and shall feel it my duty to re-mould your 
 character from the roots. There's one thing, 
 however, I may mention : if Mrs. Tallis is to 
 keep her owl, I must keep my falcon — my merlin 
 to be correct — "To a king belonged the gerfal- 
 con, to a prince the falcon gentle, to an earl the 
 peregrine, to a lady the merlin, to a young squire 
 the hobby, while a yeoman carried a goshawk, a 
 priest a sparrow-hawk, and a knave or servant a 
 kestrel." (I think my first request to Enticknap 
 will be that he should carry a kestrel.) Mr. Fol- 
 lett's copy of Pliny will explain why Mrs. Tallis's 
 owl requires my falcon — "The falcon, by a secret 
 instinct and societie of nature, seeing the poor 
 howlet thus distressed" (beset by a multitude of 
 antagonistic birds), "cometli to succour and 
 taketh equal part with him, and so ended the 
 
 a35
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 fray." Good heavens, what am I doing? Evil 
 communications do corrupt good manners, and 
 I am writing of "howlets" and leaving every 
 hymeneal task undone. 
 
 Presents are pouring in and furniture is pour- 
 ing out to make room for the wedding-guests 
 that to-morrow will bring. (Trelawney followed 
 his favourite velvet chair to the box-room and, 
 having been searched for high and low, was 
 found there with paws neatly folded under his 
 heavily furred person.) Laura's trunks block 
 every passage ; Laura prophesies imminent 
 faints ; Blake runs constantly to inform me that 
 her "ladyship feels she may go off any moment." 
 There is Margaret to talk to and Cynthia to for^ 
 tify — dear little Cynthia, who has looked tremu- 
 lous since she heard that Harry may appear at 
 any moment. There is Minnie in the ofhng very 
 full of "A Tribute of Tears," and Charles equally 
 full of the homicidal system of drainage that con- 
 verts the Rectory, of which he has temporary 
 possession, into a "death-trap," "a disseminator 
 of typhoid," a booking-office for Styx. (I don't 
 believe it is ever safe to trust a clergyman's word 
 on his own drains.) There are flowers to arrange 
 and a thousand marjoram-wreath, saffron-robe, 
 pine-tree torch deeds to do and to prevent being 
 done, so I will wait till to-morrow, till Laura is 
 Lady Pampesford, for my epistle's end. 
 
 Wednesday. — The August wedding day. 
 "Hail, Hymen, Hymenaeus hail !" 
 
 Richard, as I was coming out of the church 
 
 336
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 after the ceremony, I felt my arm gripped and I 
 heard a voice say, "Any orders to-day, M'm?" 
 and there was my beloved Harry, safe, sound, 
 and sunburnt. Then he greeted Cynthia, and 
 she could not find her voice to answer, and I 
 thought for a moment she would have answered 
 by fainting, for she was as white as her frock. But 
 she did not faint, and Harry saw what I did and 
 was equal to the occasion. In another moment 
 he had put her into a hansom, had followed her 
 into a hansom, and had shouted directions to the 
 driver. Is there time driving from Holy Trinity 
 Church, Sloane Street, to 83 Hans Place, to 
 speak words that alter the hereafter of two lives? 
 Apparently there is. When I caught sight of 
 Harry and Cynthia again, Cynthia was smiling 
 shyly — and Harry? Harry had the desire of his 
 heart, and knew that there are other triumphs 
 than those of an Egyptian campaign. He suc- 
 ceeded in pushing his way presently through 
 the wedding-guest throng and found an oppor- 
 tunity to say, "Is not she a darling?" Yes, she 
 is a darling, and he is something good and de- 
 lightful also, and they are to be married before he 
 goes out again in November. And they will be 
 happy. They must be happy. Why am I so vio- 
 lently anxious that the people I care for should 
 have what they want, when I am always telling 
 myself, and trying to make myself believe, that 
 happiness is but a paltry thing, a thing of small 
 moment after all ? 
 Well, now, again for the wedding. Experts 
 
 337
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 tell me that the wedding went off very well. Con- 
 sciousness of her gown's merits and regard for 
 what Blake calls its "set," wound Laura up to the 
 semblance of stoical fortitude. (The Camelry 
 has already determined to follow Cynthia's for- 
 tunes and not to be tempted by the flesh-pots of 
 Pampesford-Royal.) "Augustus" showed honest 
 emotion, and I quite liked him ; when wishing 
 me good-bye he said, with real feeling if pom- 
 pous diction, that it was his "earnest hope that 
 the most cordial relations would be preserved 
 between the families." (In marrying Laura he 
 imagines himself to be depriving us of some- 
 thing that our unselfishness alone enables us to 
 part with willingly.) The Miss Pampesfords 
 (who have taken the lease of this house ofif our 
 hands) furtively wiped tears from their eyes, and 
 they embraced Margaret and Cynthia and Min- 
 nie as well as me. I hoped they were going to 
 press Charles to their hearts, but Mrs. Vivian 
 dispatched him upon one of her many errands 
 before this caress was brought ofif. How should 
 you like to find yourself in the clasp of your 
 black and purple dragons ? 
 
 The time and the place considered, the family 
 and the family's friends and acquaintances made 
 rather a brave show. You were, of course, 
 sorely, sorely missed, but yours was about the 
 only vacant place on the dais. The services 
 were well to the fore, as a tottering Admiral 
 uncle was produced by Laura to give her away, 
 and Sir Augustus was "supported" by a Major 
 
 338
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 Sampson Pampesford, who is evidently looked 
 upon as the Lothario of the house of Pampes- 
 ford. (Miss Teresa, with kind care for my peace 
 of mind, murmured that "the Major, though ex- 
 cessively pleasing, was not a man of domestic 
 tastes, and fitted for conjugal happiness, like our 
 brother, my dear Miss Etchingham.") Mrs. 
 Vivian killed two birds with one stone — bring- 
 ing Azore to see his doctor, and herself and Mr. 
 Vivian to see Laura married. (She asked if I 
 had noticed that the form of Solemnisation of 
 Matrimony was followed in the Prayer Book by 
 the order for the Visitation of the Sick — "the 
 compilers of the Prayer Book, my good Eliza- 
 beth, took in the likelihood that in every mar- 
 riage one or other would quickly be tormented 
 and worried to death.") Margaret and her Will, 
 I regret to tell you, did their duty by no one but 
 each other. Charles, arms folded and back to 
 wall, sustained the bridegroom with his theories 
 on drainage. Minnie sought fervid copy among 
 Laura's conventionalities. Lady Clementine 
 Mure devoted herself to the wedding's most 
 genial Colonial Bishop. Stephen found Blanche 
 Vivian, and Blanche seemed well content to be 
 found. Mr. Weekes, glancing nervously round 
 the room the while, made timid efforts to talk 
 down Admiral Tidenham's ear-trumpet. Aunt 
 Jane broke out of a bath-chair upon the as- 
 tounded world, crowned with a bonnet from 
 which sprang a gorgeous orange crest and from 
 which waved an equally gorgeous and striking 
 
 339
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 orange plume, (Laura has hinted that my place 
 for the future is at Aunt Jane's side, but Aunt 
 Jane does not feel herself in need of a caretaker, 
 and prefers, like many other invalids, liberty, as 
 far as she can get it in a bath-chair, to super- 
 vision.) Jem kept Mr. Vivian's taciturnity in 
 countenance, and fiew before the orange crest 
 and plume of Aunt Jane, whose passionate desire 
 to learn from his own lips if he found the cli- 
 mate of Oxbridge healthy was thus frustrated. 
 Our cousin, Canon Etchingham, joked ecclesi- 
 astically with the self-satisfaction of a portly 
 Church dignitary used to an audience of minor 
 clergy and holy women. The Canoness (very 
 gaudily, not very prettily, attired) was crushed, 
 without realising the crushing, by Mrs. Vivian. 
 Mrs Carstairs and Mrs. Le Marchant lacerated 
 their neighbours' reputations and arranged for a 
 continuance of an acquaintance thus promisingly 
 begun. Minnie's Mrs. Potters attached herself 
 to the absent-minded Lord Leyton, who failed 
 to discover that he was politely returning the 
 attentions of a woman who for years has lived 
 within a stone's throw of one of his lodges and 
 has been persistently ignored by Lady Leyton 
 and himself. Lady Leyton meanwhile was too 
 deep in conversation with Mrs. Vivian, and too 
 closely hemmed in by Mrs, Vivian's retinue, to 
 notice the irrevocable catastrophe and recall 
 Lord Leyton to her side and his senses. "If," 
 said Aunt Jane, "that Miss Llanelly" (who asked 
 herself) "and Mr. Biggleswade" (whom Laura 
 
 340
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 would ask) "are not engaged to be married, I 
 really, really do not know what sort of behaviour 
 we may expect to see next. I really, really do 
 not." For the rest you must wait till we meet. 
 
 We shall meet very soon now, and the play of 
 which the scene is London is very nearly done. 
 (Trelawney and les singing birds travel back to 
 their native land with your child to-morrow. 
 She and Will found manv books to turn over in 
 the back drawing-room this evening, and Harry 
 and Cynthia did equally well without books on 
 the balcony.) Three days with Alice Newton, 
 two at Vivian-End, and then peaceful Tolcarne 
 for always. ... I have been saying "Bless 
 you my children" all round, and I feel to-night as 
 if I wanted to hear some one say, as my father 
 used, and as Mr. Fraser still does, "God bless 
 you" to me. 
 
 Good-bye, Dickory. 
 
 Your loving sister, 
 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 341
 
 LII. 
 
 From Sir Richard EtchingJiam, Tolcarne, to Miss 
 Elizabeth Etchingham, 83 Hans Place. 
 
 Ai sahar-dast u zar-dast a::dr! 
 
 Most imperious and sceptical of sisters, 1 
 never said I was ill. I said I had monitory 
 symptoms. If I had very much wanted to go to 
 Laura's wedding, and be taken to the hearts of 
 sentimental dragons, I should have gone in de- 
 fiance of the doctor. Instead of which, Arthur 
 showed a most filial anxiety that I should take 
 care of myself, and, moreover, was willing to re- 
 nounce the ceremony (Margaret having the best 
 of escort) in order to stay at home too and take 
 care of me. Why should I disappoint his piety? 
 Well, you have done your duty and mine. Sab 
 tamdsha Jiogyd. There is something brutal in 
 women's way of abusing their power, and driv- 
 ing poor men to lay bare the weakness of their 
 skill in excuse. We have not your subtilty; 
 which being confessed, you might leave it there. 
 As the ingenious author of "Cupid's Whirligig" 
 remarked in 1630, "Man was made when Nature 
 was but an apprentice ; but woman when shee 
 was a skilfull Mistress of her Arte." 
 
 And you are really to be here in a week, and 
 
 342
 
 The Etchingham Letters 
 
 this is, I hope, my last letter to you for ever so 
 long. In witness whereof you will note that I 
 seal this with the seal inscribed, "Say no more." 
 
 Leagrave has sent Biggleswade a polite and 
 solemn renunciation of all his interest in the pro- 
 jected play. Biggleswade, being mollified with 
 his late good fortune, has been pleased to accept 
 it; so Mr. Follett will not have to set the bishop 
 on him, and the dead season wall be the poorer 
 by a curious plaintiff-in-person suit that will not 
 come into covirt ; and the play will be all the 
 work of the egregious Biggleswade and a very 
 precious piece of Wardour Street antiquity. 
 
 Now let us indeed say no more, and abide in 
 the beatitude of the other verse : "If one is in the 
 house, one letter is enough." It is a fine quality 
 of mystic aphorisms that they will carry many 
 meanings, as the sunlight is one, and yet breaks 
 up into infinite sparkles and colours. 
 
 "Guftam ki alif: guft digar Hich ma-gu: 
 dar khanah agar kas ast yak harf bas ast. 
 
 Your loving brother, 
 
 Richard. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 343
 
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