L
A PAGE OF MODERN TYPE.
[See "The Two Pages."
1
BRILLIANT TALES
OK
LONDON SOCIETY.
PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED WITH ELEGANT
ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD.
NEW YORK:
SOLD BY HURD AND HOUGHTON.
1869.
CONTENTS.
(£nar<ifuns&
Drawn by Page
A Happy New Year T. S. Seccomle 41
A Pastoial Episode .. .. .. .. .. .. W. Small 406
A Romance in a Boarding-House .. .. .. .. Adelaide Claxton 328
A Shot at Twelve Paces .. •• .. .. .. .. .. 21
A Strange Courtship G. Bowers 480
An Expensive Journey .. .. .. .. .. .. J. G. Tliompson 36
Aitists' Notts from Choice Pictures: —
Pcrdita .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 470
Before the Footlights .. .. .. .. .. .. C. II. Boss 30,32
Changes J. D. Watson 373
County Courts : — W. Brunton
The Judge .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 456
The U.-her.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 457
Plaintiffs and Defendants .. 458,459
The Attorney .. ., .. .. ., .. .. .. 459
Fashionable Tea Parties.. .. .. .. .. .. Fane Wood 189,192
Goldsmith at the Temple Gate].. Paul Gray 392
Honey wood and the Bailifi's .. .. ... .. .. .. .. 248
How 1 set about Paying my Debts .. .. .. .. L. C. Henley 388
How I made my Escape from Hydropathy .. J. G. Thompson. Frontispiece.
Hunting Sketches— An ' Old Hand ' ■ G. Bowers 224
In the Consultation Room .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 481
Interrupted .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 565
Leaving the Confessional .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 564
Lily's Loss .. .. .. .. .. .. .. J. A. Pasquier 381
«tf}uite Alone ' W. Small 111
Sketches of the English Bench and Bar: —
Sir Alexander Cockburn .. .. ., ,, .. .. ., 86
Lord Chelmsford .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 87
Lord Westbury 184
The lite Lord Justice Knight Bruce .. .. .. .. .. 185
Sir Frederick Pollock 252
Lord Chief Baron Kelly 257
The Right Hon. Sir James P. Wilde 343
Smothered in Roses .. .. .. .. .. .. T. S. Seccombe 511
Social Problems .. .. .. .. .. .. .. G. Bowers 17
Society in Japan • .. .. .. .. .. .. Luke Limner 331
St. Valentine's Day .. F. and A. Chuiun 114
Still Unmarried Fane Wood 521
The Gold Sprite .. Alfred frowquill 83
The Heart hath a World of its Own 547
The Meeting between the Laurel Hedges .. .. .. W. Small 163
17
Contents.
LIST OP F.N'.kavinv.s — continued: Drawn by Taj??
Old, ou s sm
The Pit at the Stiand ft ff. Boas 131,133
The Two Page*:— F. W. Seynoldt
An lllutninnted Pa .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ) . , 7
A Page of Modern Type .. .. .. .. .. .. .. J
The Wimling ol the Stein .. .. .. .. .. 31./:'. Edioardi 177
To a Pretty Sti anger .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 49
'Try to Ke*»p I nm and True' .. .. .. .. IT. 8mall 361
Watching a Window .. .. .. .. .. .. Adelaide Cfaxton 430
What's in the Papera C. 11. Burnett 513
Winter .. .. I
Women and their Ways .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 193
5 England .. .. .. .. .. .. .. •• 288
Calctf.
Tage
A Forgotten Valentine : —
Chap. i. The Messenger who bore it 120
n. Its mark on the years to
come 121
Hi. Its message — after many
days 125
A Romance in a Boarding-Honse .. 321
A Shot at Twelve Paces 21
An Expensive Journey 35
Ilou 1 male my Escape fiom Hydio-
pathy 481
How I set about Paying my Debts.
An Oxford Story '. 385
Lily's Loss. In Three Chapters .. 375
Mr. Fair weal her's Yachting: —
Chap. ii. My Fiist Yacht .. .. 305
in. In trouble 432
Mrs. Brown's Christmas Story .. .. 42
Playing for High Stake*. By the
Author of ' Denis Donne,' ' Played
Out,' &c. :—
Chap. i. Miss Talbot comes Home . 1
n. Mis. Satton i> frank . .. 7
III. False Diplomacy .. .. 13
Tagr
Playing for High Slakes — contnucd.
Chap. iv. Blanche 155
V. CumbeieJ with much serv-
ing 164
VI. The Family Party .. ..167
VII. Kin and Kind 264
VIII. 'What are the Wild Waves
Saying?' 268
ix. The Daphne 277
X. 'Blood is thicker than
Water' 352
XI. Self- Deception 357
XII. Down at Haldon .. .. 361
xm. Weaving the Spell .. .. 406
XIV. An Hour of Bliss- .. .. 411
XV. Misunderstanding .. .. 415
XVI. Brotherly Counsel .. .. 420
XVIL A Day Dieam 422
xviii. By the Lake 548
XIX. ' Thou art so near, and yet
so far' 5.Y2
XX. Cause for Doubt .. .. 559
Still Unmarried 521
The White Feather 203
£fcrtri)nJ,
An Evening with my Uncle ..
■ lights : —
Tii" Private Boxes at I>iury Lane .
Tli.' Pit at tli.' Strand
t Oxford : —
i 'i..iji. i. The New Captain ..
ii. <ii, • i ,,. pjd '
in. A B mpS ppei
iv. How WingKeld steered the
Oxford Eight, and Bax-
ter rowe 1 ' Five '
•ity Courts
• i
. h.irtmoor
La li-ui AthleM qaea
!'i i\.it.- Life of a Public Nuisance ..
..•■• tiona of a Beu helor
139
30
131
289
•j '.i ;
■t 25
■Ml
455
Mo
31 i
223
Sketches of the English Bench and
Bar:—
Introductory 86
The Lord Chief Justice of England
(Sir Alexander Cockburn) .. .. 89
The Lord Chancellor (Lord Chelms-
ford) 95
Lord Westbury 178
Tho late Lord Justice Knight Bruce 1 S 1
Sir Frederick Pollock 852
Lord Chief Band Kelly .. ..
Sir William Kile 259
Mr. .lustier Bylea 242
Sir lames Wilde, Judge of the
llivoice Court 343
Mr. Justice Willes 348
What's In the P.ipeis? 512
Contents.
jflt^rrnanrous papers*.
70
101
234
461
Ambassadors out of Work
Ai.ecdote and Gossip about Clubs :-
I'arti
II
in
Artists' Notes from Choice Pictures: —
Honeywood introducing the Bailiffs
to Miss Richland as his Friends.. 247
Perdita 470
A Summer Trip across the Atlantic.
By one who helped to lay the Cable 75
A Winter at St. Petersburg .. .. 145
Balls in Vienna 50
Curiosities of Fashion. In the matter
ot one's Food 334
Etiquettes of Grief 199
Fashionable Tea Parties 188
Page
Modern Beau Brummellism .. .. 298
Playgrounds of Europe — The South .. 441
Something about Breakfast .. .. 97
St. Valentine's Day 113
The ' Beaux Mondes ' of Paris and
London 17
The Inter-University Games .. .. 49(3
The Last Run with the Harriers .. 400
The Last Run with the Stnghounds .. 504
The Society of Female Artists .. .. 302
The Sublime Society of Steaks .. .. 282
The Tamar and The Tavy .. .. 449
Vi.-its to Country Houses: —
No. 1 64
ii 126
in 393
Women and their Ways 193
Portrii.
A Happy New Year 41
A' Rhyme for January: The Gold
Sprite 82
A Strange Courtship 475
Castles in the Air 288
Changes .. 370
Leaving the Confessional 564
Goldsmith at the Temple Gate .. .. 391
Over aBiule-Gueule 246
Smothered in Roses 511
Society in Japan 330
The Duke's Answer. A Modern Myth 173
The Heart hath a World of its Own .. 547
The Old, Old Story. Sybaris to Lydia 319
The Two Pages 137
The Winding of the Skein 177
To a Pietty Stranger 49
Watching a Window .. .. .. 430
LONDON SOCIETY.
FEBRUARY, 1867.
SOMETHING ABOUT BREAKFAST
T
T has often been asserted that as
long as human beings congre-
gate together like wild beasts at
* feeding times,' this age has no
right to lay claim to superior civi-
lization, and that it would be an
improved manner of life if relays
of food could be brought to some
particular place at stated times, to
which any who chose might resort,
As it is an acknowledged fact,
that society and conversation are
the best promoters of digestion, the
plan that these captious people
propose would be both unwhole-
some and unsocial, but it might be
advantageously acted upon in the
matter of breakfast, for that, as
English people ordain it, is de-
cidedly a mistake.
' Breakfast is such a charmingly
social meal,' we heard a lady once
say in speaking of a large breakfast
in a country - house, ' every one
comes down so fresh, everybody is
in time, and ready for the duties
and pleasures of the day. I con-
sider it a delightful moment.' It was
a sentimental and poetical view,
but as far as possible removed from
the truth ; for in our estimation it is
a peculiarly unhappy moment, and
one in which many persons are prone
to regard their fellow-creatures as
their natural enemies.
When people are hungry and
cold it follows as a matter of course
that they are cross, and as large
parties in country-houses usually
o^cur in the winter, this is tolerably
sure to be the case. Shy people,
too, are always shy in the morning ;
they cannot take up life where they
left it the night before, or say ' Good-
morning' at all m the same happy
<iuu. *I. —NO. LXil
and friendly spirit in which they
said ' Good-night.'
People are not ready for social
intercourse till they have been up
at least three hours. It is quite
curious to see how disagreeable
really good-humoured people often
are before breakfast. They are
often conscious of their moroseness,
and try to conceal it by utter silence-
or cynical smiles; but with all their
endeavours we are aware that it
would be a service of danger to
speak to them, and whether it be
our most valued friend, or simply a
highly agreeable or intellectual ac-
quaintance, we equally hope that
it may never be our fate to meet
him again at breakfast. Surely it
would be a great advantage to the
world if these individuals break-
fasted alone !
Perhaps the most depressing thing
we can meet with is anything like
hilarity or even great cheerfulness-
so early in the day. Few things
are more trying than the jovial,
hearty manner in which the master
of the house often enters the room
where his guests are assembled in
the morning. If in winter, with
blue nose and red hands, loud in
his praise of the weather (which to
our thinking is simply detestable),
advising every one to follow his
example and take a turn before
breakfast : ' Sharpens the appetite ;
freshens one up ; does a world of
good.' Take a turn before breakfast
that raw January day ! you cannot
even reply except, by drawing closer
to the ftre, and looking with horror
at the freezing fog through the
window. You sit, down t > hr» akf'ast
to endure another trial from your
u
1)8
S'Hiiilliinij about Breakfast.
well-meaning host, he being one of
those who invariably make b pro
gramme of the day lor other peop'e,
totally regardless of the t'.ict that
what people may like to do at two
o'clock they dislike at ten, ami
vice vend. But all this goes for
nothing with your cheerful friend.
He usually calls to his wife, who is
absorbed in a tea-pot at the farthest
end of the table, ' Well, my dear,
and what have you arranged for
our friends to do to-day V There is
a murmured response to the effect
that no one wishes to do anything.
'It is so very cold to-day/ Mrs.
■ replies, languidly.
' Cold! not at all ; that is so like
you ladies, who never take any ex-
ercise, and do nothing to promote
circulation ; then you say it is cold !
It is a fine, healthy, seasonable day ;
no sign of rain or snow. A day
like this in January must not be
wasted. Come, what will you all
do? What would you like?'
'To be left .alone,' is the unspoken
reply in the mind of most of his
guests, hut of course the ungracious
thought is not put into words. The
pertinacious pleasure-hunter maps
out the day for them. They can
only resign themselves to' his will,
hoping that some happy coinci-
dence, such as morning visitors,
or a fall of snow, may give them a
pretext for remaining comfortably
by the fireside.
There are always some people
who arc more restless or less self-
sufficing than others, who really
prefer anything to their own society
or remaining quiet; but these are
exceptions, and to those who are
victims to this kind of energetic
ruling it is poor comfort to Know
that the same w< ■arisome repetition
awaits tbemon the morrow.
Kind-hearted people often unin-
tentionally inflict considerable an-
noyance on their friends by inquir-
ing anxiously every morning after
their health. Hue comfort is that
the inquirer often forgets to wait
for a reply; for as sleepless nights
and aching heads are in themselves
sufficiently miserable, few are de-
sirous of going through a CTOC -
ruination upon them.
Th( re has been a considerable
change of late years in the fashion
of breakfast. It is a good deal more
<t<l libitum as to time, ranging from
half-past nine to twelve. Tea and
entire are seldom now put upon the
table, but are made out of the room,
or by servants, on tho side-table,
who hand the cups as they are
wanted. In some large houses
several small tables are set for
breakfast, so that, as then: are only
three, or at most four places, people
may be said in some sense to break-
fast alone, or at least with whom
they please. This is, upon tho
whole, a good arrangement, hut wo
doubt if it would not he still moro
desirable for people to breakfast
alone in their rooms. The objec-
tion to this would probably be, that
to carry up breakfast to eighteen or
twenty people as varied and recherche*
as it is made now, consisting of fish,
hot and cold meat, and fruit, as
well as tea, coffee, bread, butter, and
eggs— to send up, in fact, to each
person a miniature dinner, would
exhaust the resources of the largest
establishment. One way, and per-
haps the 1 est way of meeting this
difficulty would Ik; to imitate the
example of most foreigners, who
have a cup of coffee or chocolate
when they first rise, and only come
down at eleven or twelve o'clock
tor the '/<;/■ um r, which with them
corresponds to our luncheon; for no
more eating is considered necessary
till dinner-time, which is generally
not later than seven o'clock. They
have meat and wine as well as tea
and coffee, and their dejeuner, in
fact, combines breakfast and lun-
cheon in one. This is in many
respects a much wiser division of
the day, as it leaves the whole after-
noon free for exercise or smusement,
either at home or abroad. But tbe
amount of food that is put before us
at breakfast is totally unnecessary,
and if the meal were changed tea
more simple one there would be no
longer any difficulty about having
it alone.
Though we have boen discussing
our breakfast, nothing has been said
of the food of which it should con-
sist. People's tastes are so differ-
ent that it is quite impossible to lay
down an\ gastronomic law upon a
Something about Rreafcfael.
99
meal the constituents of which vary
from bread and water, to salmon
and grouse, and pate de foie (jras.
We have Been unhappy wretches
deliberately pour out a tumbler of
cold water as their only breakfast
beverage. Others, who make equal
sacrifices at the shrine of health, are
content to abjure even bread and
butter, ami breakfast entirely on
some unpalateable mess, which, by
dint of advertisements, has worked
its way into fashion. Gentlemen
who are addicted to field sports, and
who for the most part despise lun-
cheon, make breakfast a most sub-
stantial meal. Indeed, modern
breakfasts seem drifting back to the
beef and ale and goodly capons that
young ladies found necessary to
support nature in Queen Elizabeth's
time. Ladies, and idle men of a
more sedentary turn, are contented
to depend mainly upon luncheon.
There are other kinds of break-
fasts, besides the early morning
meal of which we have been speak-
ing. It is a constant habit with the
literary world in London to have
reunions of scientific and agreeable
people early in the day, and what
in the evening would be a convtrsa-
zione, in the morning is simply
called a breakfast. But the greatest
misnomer of all is the habit, in
London, of calling a dinner, and a
ball and a supper, if given alfresco,
a 'breakfast.' No one dreams of
going to these parties till five *
o'clock, and they last frequently till
the small hours of the morning. As
the meeting usually takes place in
the garden or grounds of some villa
near London, the guests appear in
morning dresses, which we suppose
is the reason of this strangely mis-
applied term.
There is another annoyance to
which those who never breakfast
alone are exposed. Letters in the
country always arrive in the morn-
ing, and we are tolerably sure when
we go down stairs to find a packet
of letters on the table awaiting us.
It is amusing to watch the different
manner in which people behave
about their letters. Some dart
eagerly upon them, are instantly
absorbed in their contents, from
time to time doling out small pieces
of intelligence from them ; others
examine them carefully, and then
lay them aside, deferring the plea-
sure or the pain of their perusal to
a ' more convenient season ;' others,
and these for the most part young
men, take them up with real or
affected indifference, and transfer
them at once to their pockets. The
chances are that these consist prin-
cipally of reminders, more or less
pressing, from the neighbourhood
of Bond Street, Begent Street, and
Piccadilly. Their contents may pos-
i-ibly be paraphrased in the parody
of a well-known ballad: —
' You remember, you remember.
The little bill you owe ;
'Tis but two pound ten and four, sir,
And I've waited long, you know.
' On my word, sir, on my word, sir,
1 wouldn't trouble now,
But I've got a long account, sir,
To make up, and don't know how.
• You do take, sir, you do give, sir.
Three letters every day;
OP Vis what you take, sir,
I U is what you pay.*
It is to be feared that these 're-
jected addresses ' form a large por-
tion of many people's correspond-
ence ! There is one very odd pecu-
liarity that many people have about
their letters, and one for which it is
difficult to account. If a letter or
note is brought, and the receiver is
somewhat puzzled to know from
whence it comes, the seal is closely
investigated, the direction pondered
over, the postmark held up to the
light; every possible trouble is
taken to examine the outside of a
letter, when, by simply opening it,
the desired knowledge would be
attained. Does this show that hu-
man nature delights in a mystery ?
In some houses it is the custom
for the children to be brought down
to be admired at breakfast. This
habit, unless the children are quiet
to stupidity, cannot fail to be a
nuisance. The only time that we
can gladly hail the appearance of
children out of their own legitimate
sphere, is in the formidable half-
hour before dinner is announced.
Then they create a diversion, and
possibly suggest topics of conver-
sation.
h a
100
Something nl^aJ Breulfast.
Breakfast is generally, more or
less, ii solemn process. Tho only
aim at uprightlineRa it was over our
Cats to witness was so disastrous in
it-i results that we OOnld only hope
tlio attempt wonld never bo re-
peated it was at a large parly in
h count r\ -house, and the conversa-
tion had accidentally turned upon
eggs. The young lady of the house,
who was seated by a ci-devant jeune
hommr, an exquisite of tho last gene-
ration, who bad been evidently taken
with her beauty and pay spirits, de-
clared that it was impossible to
break an egg by pressing it ever so
tightly, provided you held it in such
a in inner that the two cuds, and no
other part, touch the palms of the
bands. Her neighbour heard her
with a supercilious smile, and re-
commended her to try. She re-
peated that she bad seen it done
constantly, and would convince him
thcro and then of the truth of her
assertion. So saying, she took up
an egg, and turning towards him,
said, ' Now, see if 1 am not right!'
When, to her dismay, tho egg
smashed at once, and its contents
spurted over the very particular gen-
tleman by her side, soiling his fault-
less shirt and waistcoat, and cling-
ing pertinaciously to his whiskers
and stuH>]y beard. Utterly dis-
mayed at such a very unexpected
disaster, partly from amusement,
and partly from nervousness, Mux
— — burst into a violent fit of laugh-
ing. Her example was followed by
several others, for in truth n ithing
could present a more Ind crons and
unhappy appearance than the poor
man. Besides which, lie was fu-
riously angry, believing the whole
thing to have' been a previously ar-
ranged practical joke, and to sco
that he was the laughing stock of
tho company, of course enrageel
him still more. In vain tho poor
girl tried to explain that the acci-
dent was quite unintentional, ami,
indeed, that her theory still held
good, as the egg was broken not by
the pre6SUie but by her ring, which
she bad forgotten to remove, lie
would hear nothing, hurried out of
tho room to repair the mischief
done to his dress, and would not re-
turn to the breakfast- table ; in fact,
we did not sec him again, for he left
the house the fame (lay.
We have not spoken of tho ar-
rangement of a breakfast-table, or
the pretty decorations of which it is
capable. Flowers seem more in
keeping with breakfast than with
dinner, for if the china is ever so
beautiful, or the damask ever so
fine, a breakfast- table is dull and
colourless without tin m. But how-
ever inviting it may he made, wo
still hold to our theory that for tho
most part it is better to break fast
alono.
II. T.
101
ANECDOTE AND GOSSIP ABOUT CLUBS.
PART I.
r pHEword Cluh has puzzled the
I braiu of many an acute ety-
mologist, and of many a lazy specu-
lator who is content to wonder on
for ever as to what in the world so
odd, and abrupt, and compact a
monosyllable might originally mean,
and where in the world it dropped
from, to become a euphonious part
of English, and latterly of almost
universal speech. ,
Bailey, one of our veteran lexi-
cographers, defines a club — which
he identifies with the Saxon clubbe,
and associates with the Latin clava
— as (i) a great thick stick; and
(2) an assembly of good fellows.
The verb to club comes, according to
the same authority, from the Saxon
ckovan, to cleave, and refers to the
division of expenses amongst the
members, where it was expected of
' every man to pay an equal share.'
Skinner is of the same opinion;
deriving the verb to club from the
Anglo-Saxon cleofan, findere, to
cleave, divide, because the ex-
penses are divided into shares or
portions. To club is thus, with him,
to contribtite a share or portion;
and a club is an assembly of per-
sons, contributing each his share or
portion. Noah Webster, as becomes
his diluvian Christian name, is more
recondite, and quotes the Welsh
clopn as a probable derivation. On
the whole, we are rather inclined to
favour the theory of Webster; for
if it be allowed, it will help us
somewhat to get out of another dif-
ficulty which it requires a dashing
decision to solve. We refer to the
question of the antiquity of clubs.
For if the modern word be &■ direct
descendant of one similar in sound
in the language of the Cymry— a
language which has been proved, to
the perfect and unanimous satisfctfo-
tion of the demonstrator himself, to
have been the language of our first
parents — it would not be too much
to assume, even for so unassuming
a person as the present writer, that
Adam had invented the word to
describe tho important little commu-
nity of whicn he was the President,
and of which Eve, according to Euri-
pides and Milton, was the Vice.
But he is a poor thing in com-
parative philology who cannot make
one word do doiible duty — who can-
not engraft a slip from one language
into the stock of another. The no-
tion, which belongs to the Anglo-
Saxon derivation, of an equal or
equitable division of expenses, is no
embarrassment to us. If money had
not yet been coined or dug from
the tortured bowels of the deep, ex-
penses could still be jointly borne
by a system of equivalents. Labour
is the basis of capital. We know
that—
' Adam delved and Eve span,'
though what she span for is not so
easy to decipher in the prre-figleaf
epoch of her existence — and that he
was a ' grand old gardener,' and she
a setter- out of simple and elegant
repasts. The manly, invigorating
toil of the one was fairly compen-
sated by the gentle activity of the
other ; and if Eve had earned, by
previous exertion, the right to crack
her filbert, Adam no less, by grate-
ful and unsweating labour, had
made good his privilege, like a very
ancient Pistol, to enjoy his leek.
We are aware that there are many
painful contrasts between the club-
life of Eden and that of Pall Mall.
Cookery was nowhere in those pri-
meval days; and the illustrious
Soyer would no doubt have inferred,
from the fact that, even when pre-
paring to entertain company, there
was * no fear lest dinner cool/ that
soup— in which temperature is, if
a small, yet an emphatic considera-
tion — clid not initiate the banquet.
However, all things must have a
beginning, just as imperatively as,
philosophers tell us, all things must
have an end. Housekeeping is not
learned perfectly in a prolonged
pic-nic ; and it would not have sur-
prised us if Milton, who has dog-
matised as much about Paradise as
most people, had stated that the
first dejeuner therein was not, strictly
102
Anecdote and Gos&iu about Clubs.
speaking, a la /ourehette, Clubdife,
again, is not a gourd, a mushroom,
i>r oven a Minerva It is not the
growth of u day, just m Borne was
not the growth of a day. It docs
not leap forth fully Equipped and
perfect in all points, like an on-
mothered goddess. But what we
have chiefly to complain of— it is, by
the way, a nice question whether, if
perfu't rules had been in vogue in the
Adam-anel-Eve club, wo should ever
have had the opportunity either to
complain or to approve of its rules,
or of anything else connected with it
— is that no code of exclusion had
been drawn up, or, if it had, that it
was administered witli a too great
laxity. The black ball had either
not been introduced for the keeping
out of ineligible candidates, or the
mother of mankind forgot, on at
least one memorable and disastrous
occasion, to exerciso her privilege;
and this, too, in the absence of her
husband, who, by as disastrous an
oversight, had omitted to leave his
veto proxy. The Club of Paradise
was essentially a club for two ; the
introduction of a third member, it
may be said with reverence, played
tho serpent with it. So much for
the antiquity of clubs. It is enough
to have fixed the first; and we shall
not again intrude on the other side
of the Flood, except barely to men-
tion that memorable little associa-
tion which iloatcd over its dangers
secure within tho wooden walls of
the Ark. That also was a temporary
association, which carried within
itself the seeds of dissolution. With
the subsidence of the waters it was
dissolved accordingly.
Man, it has been profoundly ob-
served, is a social animal. He likes
to link his life to that of another
man; sometimes in desperation, of
love or of some other pleasant affec-
tion, to that of a woman But in
addition to his fondness for society
— a disposition which presupposes
a tendency to interchange views on
things in general in random and
miscellaneous gath< rings— he is al o
an associative animal. That is, ho
i- social and exclusive at once. Be
win lx; on intimate terms with some
one, not with every one. lb: will
have his choice, more or less, in his
convives or companion-!. He is not
a straw or a feather, to be drifted
any whither or blown upon by every
wind of heaven; not a pipe, to
Ikj played upon by every passing
bungler of a musician. This ten-
dency to correct sociability by exclu-
siveness, is one which manifests it-
self in different degrees in different
countries, and in different stages of
taste or phases of civilization. The
higher his amount of culture, thu
more dainty and exiyeant will a man
be in the demands he makes for a
like amount in his fellows; and if
tho training of the intellect has not
worn away and erased the heart,
the greater will be tho fastidious-
ness with which he selects the few
whom he will venture to make the
depositaries of his profounder senti-
ments. Education multiplies inde-
finitely the possibility of difference B
of opinion, although it abridges tho
likelihood of their external manifes-
tation. Two New Zealanders may
only be distinguished by the pre-
ference of the one for an Englishman,
of the other for a Frenchman — wo
mean when viewed as maUrid for
their simple cuisine. But national
enlightenment and individual culti-
vation will introduce questions of
even greater delicacy and impor-
tance than the relative succulence
of a Jesuit and a Protestant mis-
sionary. And there is scarcely a
point of difference in matters poli-
tical, ecclesiastical, social, scientific,
literary, or artistic, which has not
been the basis on which a club— an
association which recognizes tho
identity, on somo important ques-
tion, of its members, and the diver-
sity of opinions entertained by tho
persons without their rules— has
not been founded.
England has been reckoned tho
native land of clubs, and lie
Englishman the most clubbable of
animals. The reason for this has
bein found in his disposition to
unbend and to refect himself within
a limited circle. lie likes to tako
down tho windows of his bent;
but it shall not be on the highway,
lie likes to converse about the
! his party ; but he will Dot
betray it watchwords to any but
itained sympathizers. The fal-
Anecdote and Gossip about Clubs.
103
lacy has before now been pointed
out which made Archbishop Trench,
in his unmitred, decanal days, infer
that because the < lab is, in its modern
sense, a peculiarly English idea and
entity, therefore the English are
peculiarly sociable above all the
other nations of the earth. ' The
contrary is true,' as Grace and
Philip Wharton, in their ' Wits and
Beaux of Society,' jointly affirm;
* nay, was true, even in the days of
Addison, Swift, Steele — even in the
days of Johnson, Walpole, Selwyn;
ay, and at all time siuce we have
been a nation. The fact is, we are
not the most sociable, but the most
associative race ; and the establish-
ment of clubs is a proof of it. We
cannot, and never could, talk freely,
comfortably, and generally, without
a company for talking. Conversa-
tion has always been with us as
much a business as railroad-making,
or what not. It has always de-
manded certain accessories, certain
condiments, certain stimulants to
work it up to the proper pitch.
" We all know" we are the cleverest
and wittiest people under the sun ;
but then our wit has been stereo-
typed. France has no " Joe Miller ;"
for a bon-moi there, however good,
is only appreciated historically. Our
wit is printed, not spoken ; our best
wits behind an inkhorn have some-
times been the veriest logs in society.
On the Continent clubs were not
called for, because society itself was
the arena of conversation. In this
country, on the other hand, a man
could only chat when at his ease ;
could only be at his ease among
those who agreed with him on the
main points of religion and politics,
and even then wanted the aid of a
bottle to make him comfortable.
Our want of sociability was the
cause of our clubbing, and therefore
the word " club " is purely English.'
In any case, the English are not
to have it all their own way in the
matter of clubs, as if other nations,
whether of antiquity or of modern
times, knew nothing about them.
The tendency to association rests,
as we have already had occasion to
recognise, upon the fact of identity
or of likeness of taste or opinion on
the part of the persons associated,
with a synchronous idea of unlike-
ness or unsympathy in regard to
their binding principles on the part
of the persons without their pale.
Wherever there has been commu-
nity subsisting side by side with
indifference or antagonism, there has
always been a tendency to incorpo-
ration. And corporations, whether
ancient or modern, are in their
essence clubs, whether they do or
do not justify their claim to the
title by the equal distribution of
expenses, or whether, in fact, they
have or have not expenses at all to
incur or to defray. Club, indeed,
in this sense, is not a name derived
from a necessity, but from an acci-
dent of organization. The esoterics
of Pythagoras, the mystics of
Eleusis, were virtually clubbists, as
being differenced from the exoterics
or from the uninitiated. Such as
these, and as the Essen es amongst
the Jews, were in iact the philoso-
phical or religious club-men of
antiquity. Other associations for
the prosecution of morals, or of
iramorals, as the case might be, were
well enough known to Greece ; and,
when introduced furtively into Roine,
alarmed the virtue of the senate.
Clubbismhas resulted from expa-
triated nationality. The old colonial
Greek would cleave to his fellow-
Greek as against the barbarian
whom he superciliously excluded
from the amenities of his society.
The Roman pro-consul or centurion
would unbend with his fellow-
Roman when he would not suffer
the intimate or equal advances of
the chain-mailed Dacian or the
Briton of the meteoric hair.
Politics have been a club-bond ;
and associations, ages before our
own Carlton or the French Jaco-
bins, had been formed for the con-
servation or for the overthrow of
existing governments.
Science had its clubs dotted here
and there throughout a scattered
Hellas, ages before our own Royal
Society sought to explain the reason
why a living fish introduced into a
vessel brimful of water would not
cause the water to overflow.
Art was a mystery, and a basis of
association. Caste and hereditary
handicrafts were the insignia of the
104
Awcdote an<l Gosxip nbrnit Chths.
olubbjst spirit, as nowadays are tho
trades' unions, tilts strikes, and tbo
lookout*) of labour and tho ein-
ployersof lal>our. There is, indi id,
scarcely any end which two men
may have in omnium which nifty
not give ri.<u to an association for
the purpQM of accomplishing that
end, whether it be for good or for
evil ; for revolution or for consoli-
dation ; for science or for amuse-
ment; for gambling or for plunder;
or even, I ttibut the Thugs cum De
Quincey, for the fine art of murder.
But chiefly we look upon the club
as a social gathering of convives; of
men who, whatever be the pro-
founder purpose for which they
assemblo together, agree in this,
that they shall be comforted with
apples and stayed with flagons in
congenial society. Eating and drink-
ing are, if not the life of clubs, a
very viable sign of their existence.
The spirit of adhesion is in tho
bowl or the loving-cup ; the soul of
co-partnery is in the cookery ; the
sentiment of confraternity is warmly
cherished at tho extremity of an
Havana ; and tho clouds of external
difference are dissipated along with
tho narcotic incense to such gentle
winds as an enlightened theory of
ventilation permits to play around
tho smoking-room.
A churchwarden, whether done
in flesh and blood or, less fearfully
and wonderfully, in pipe-clay, was,
we have reason to believe, l>eyond
the rest gorgeous dreams or the
most magnificent ideals of Plato.
Yet the philosopher enjoyed his
Symposium, as did many of the cul-
tivated and curious Athenians of
his own and of after times. Wo
have a taste of the quality of some
of these meeting! in Iho ' Symposiac
Questions' which the piety Of Plu-
tarch has preserved and discussed.
Tho idea Of gathering for tho joint
refection of mind and body has
given us tho ' Deipnosopbists ' of
Athemeus, and tins 'Saturnalia' of
Microhms. Athens had its clubs
proper, whero each man sent his
proportion of the feast, and brought
his proportion of the intellectual
entertainment. Of these, the club
named after Hercules is tho ono
which, perhaps, at tho present day
is the best remembered. Sputa
was elubhish to the backbone in tho
idea of its oommon repa»ta, where
tho public tables were Bpread for
messes of fifteen each, the members
of which were elected by ballot.
We leave these, however, to their
black broth and their lacoiiisms,
that we may como to tho foaming
tankard and tho wit-combat, to 'lie
sparkle of champagne and the effer-
vescence of repartee. ,
Perhaps the earliest club in Eng-
land of which we have any traces
was one ofwhicb Qccleve, and pro-
bably Chaucer, were members. It
was flourishing in the reign of
Henry IV., and was called 'La
Court do bono Compagnie.' It
was a society govern* d by its duly
appointed officers, and amenable to
a certain code of regulations. ' This
society of four centuries and a half
since was evidently a jovial com-
pany,' says Mr. Tinibs; to US its
members are simply empty littles,
marines, and dead men.
Ben Jonson, whose Bocial and
affectionate allinitii s were, todo him
justice, as remarkable as his con-
vivial proclivities, was the founder
of a club that met at the Devil
tavern near Temple Bar. Tho rare
old Ben would doubtless be magni-
ficent in the midst of bis literary
'sons,' whoso privilege it was to
wait reverently for his hiccups and
his flashes of wit and merriment.
For the moment we prefer, how-
ever, to think of him as a, member
of that more historical which met
at the Mermaid, in Bread Street,
and to which belonged Raleigh,
Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher,
Bonne, and others of only less cele-
brity. But it was yean after this
that we make acquaintance with
the word 'club;' for formerly tho
thing had gone under different
names, aooording to the different
objects proposed. The genua bad
to 1)0 named after the Bpecies had
grown and multiplied. 'We now
ose the word aubbe,' says old
John Aubrey, F.B.8., and the pos-
siping recorder of 'Miscellanies,'
' for a sodality in a taverno '—so-
dality, in this case, being, as wo
opine, tint Latin for a ' free-and-
y.'
Anecdote and Gotxip about Chihs.
105
So early as 1659, when Aubrey
became a member of the Kota, after
due balloting and admission, we find
tliat politics had penetrated far into
club-life; and it is not wonderful
that we should find Dryden think-
* ing it necessary to ask indignantly,
during the patriarchal government
of Charles IL, who was the father of
(so many of) his people, by what sanc-
tion they became the rallying places
of the Opposition. ' What right,' de-
mands glorious John, ' has any man
to meet in factious clubs to vilify
the government?' What right, in-
deed !
But we have anticipated. Before
the first real club was opened under
that name, a society of wits who
met at the Mermaid, and whom we
have just mentioned, had flourished
and sparkled under the favour or
the presidency of Shakespeare and
Ben Jonson. Who would not, if he
could— conveniently, that is, with-
out sacrificing his privileges as a
contemporary of telegraphs, express
trains, aud limited liability hotel
and finance companies— have given
a pretty premium to have been
6towed away in a corner of the
room, or to have served for 'one
night only" as a drawer of their
strong waters, if he might but have
listened to such 'wit-combats' as
Beaumont celebrates in an epistle to
the 'rare Ben' of our literature,
and as Fuller alludes to in his
' Worthies ?' ' Many were the wit-
combats,' says the latter, ' betwixt
Shakespeare and Ben Jonson, which
two I behold (in my mind's eye,
Horatio!) like a Spanish great
galleon and an English man-of-
war : Master Jonson, like the
former, was built far higher in
learning; solid, but slow in his
performances. Shakespeare, with
the English man-of-war, lesser in
bulk, but lighter in sailing, could
turn with all tides, tack about and
take advantage of all winds, by the
quickness of his wit and invention.'
Beaumont is more rapturous a de-
Boriber, as becomes one who had
personally assisted at the intellec-
tual revels to which he refers. One
or two lines of the following quota-
tion from him are known to nearly
everybody ; the whole of it may be
rather more unfamiliar.
' Methinks the little wit I hart is lost
Since I saw you; for wit is like u rest
II Id up at tennis, which men do the best
With the best gamesters: what things have wo
seen
Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have
been
So nimble and so full of subtile flame,
As if that every one from whence they came
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,
And hail resolved to live a fool the rest
Of his dull life; then when there hath been thrown
Wit able enough to Ju-tify the town
For three days past, wit that might warrant be
For the whole city to talk foolishly
Till that were cancelled : and when that was gone
We left an air behind us, which alone
Was able to make the two next companies
Right witty; though but downright fools, more
wise.'
Modern scepticism has thrown
much doubt on the long current
tradition that it was sir Walter
Baleigh who founded the Mermaid
Club. It was very pleasant to re-
ceive this account of its institution,
by faith ; it can for the future be
received, alas! by nothing short of
credulity. Gifford, however, who is
not generally omnivorous in his
beliefs, speaks of the Mermaid as
though he saw no reason to chal-
lenge the popular sentiment as to
Sir Walter being its father. In
addition to this, he endorses the
commonly received notion of the
Mermaid having stood in Friday
Street, Cheapside ; whilst it is said
by Ben Jonson himself, who must
have been well informed on the sub-
ject, at least when he entered the
tavern, to have been in Bread Street.
But the difference is reconciled when
we have an opportune explanation
that the Mermaid in Bread Street,
the Mermaid in Friday Street, and
the Mermaid in Cheapside, were all
one and the same Mermaid with dif-
ferent outlets and approaches. The
house was consumed in the great
fire of 1666.
Now for Gifford. ' About this
time (1603),' he says, 'Jonson pro-
bably began to acquire that turn for
conviviality for which lie was after-
wards noted. Sir Walter Raleigh,
previous to his unfortunate engage-
ment with the wretched Cobham
and others, had instituted a meeting
of beaux eyits at the Mermaid, a
celebrated tavern in Friday Strett.
Of this club, which combined more
talent and genius than ever mei
106
Antr<lote and G<>gsij> about Club*,
together before or since, our author
was a«inember ; and here for many
years ho regularly repaired, with
Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher,
Selden, Cotton, Carew, Martin,
Dunne, and many others, whose
Dames, even a* this distant period,
call ap a mingled feeling of reve-
rence and respect.'
Simon Wadloe, the host of the
Devil Tavern, which stool near
Temple Bar, and had for a sign St.
Donstan pulling the devil by the
nose, see us to have been a magnate
of good fellows, if, that i<, the com-
plimentary rank of Duke Wadloe,
and Simon the King, conferred upon
him by Hen Jonson, ought to be
taken as tho tribute due to honest
worth. His liquor, we fear, was not
so princely as his character; for Den
declares that he wrote his comedy
' The Devil is an Asse,' when he ami
his sons 'drank bad wine at the
Devil.' Was there a punning charge
in the title of this play against tie
commercial imprudence of acquiring
a reputation for the Ealeof undrihk-
able thuds? For the Apollo Club,
which met here Den Jonson drew
up his celebrated ' Leges Convi-
viales,' in which he was disinte-
rested enough to recommend tem-
perance and to eschew the Utterance
of 'insipida poemata.' Above the
door of the club-room was placed a
bust of Apollo, and underneath the
bus! were inscribed the following
linen of ' Welcome,' which were
after his death authenticated by the
inbcription, borrowed from his tomb
in Westminster Abbey, '0 liare
Leu Jonson.'
' Welcome all, who lead or follow,
'I u the Otm '< of ApoUo,
II ii- he spealu oul of l>i ^ j»ii lie,
Oi the tripos, hi> towei bottle |
All nil nuwera are dlv ,
I null lUell doth Bow In » Inc.
Hang up all the pool li"|i..|i inkers,
old Sim, the Icing oi Bklnlceraj
II-- tii.ii hiilf of Life al
That lite watering with the M
Those dull girls no goud can mean u«;
Willi- il i> the mi I k. ol V' mi-,
And the |»- t'sh inted:
l "i v it. and jroo .ill are mount* d.
' I i- inn . the I'Iiu-Im-i.iii 1 i <j ii- .r
ei - the brain, make* "it the qa
I'i-.- all debU, cures all -1
And at once the •■ - iw- |il>jx--».
U .inn le oil, who lead or Mlow,
To tue OraeU »j .\potu>:
bare lien was king here, and
patriarch; looked up to by his
surrounding 'sons' now as 'the
boon Delphic god ' himself, now as
a flamen to that deity. Ladies were
allowed to attend the meetings Ol
the club; but whether they exer-
cised any suffrage there in the shape
of open vote or ballot, we know not
"We would respectfully relegate the
task of discovery to Mr. J. S. Mill,
whom we fancy wo have probably
helped to a new and valuable argu-
ment for his next advocacy of fern de
enfranchisement. If a woman could
vote at the Devil, why not at the
less important and less brilliant
club of St Stephen, with whom she
would naturally have a more fami-
liar spirit.
Poor Ben, canonized at the Devil,
was sadly shorn of his splendour at
Hawthornden, whither he had gone
on foot, and where he spent three
weeks with Drummond, to whom
lie detailed those maudlin exagge-
rations of the miserable circum-
stances of Spenser's death, which
every person of sensibility tries hard
not to believe. Drummond has re-
corded his impressions of the cha-
racter of Ben Jonson ; in which it
will be seen that he darkly alludes
to the hitter's change of religion.
Whilst under a cloud — in prison, in
fact, for the murder of an actor, of
which he was acquitted— Ben had
been converted to the Roman Catho-
lic faith by a priest of that persua-
sion who visited him. With his en-
largement came his recantation ;
and it is certified, as an evidence of
his sincerity, that upon his recon-
ciliation with the Church of Eng-
land, ho drained the sacramental
cup in his satisfaction at finding
himself again a member of a reli-
gious community that had the g<> id
taste to celebrate the communion in
lioth kinds. His spiritual life was
too robust to l>e supported on a
wafer. 'He is a gnat lover ami
praiser of himself,' says Drammoad ;
' a contemner and soorner of others ;
given rather to lose a friend than a
jest ; jealous of every word and action
of those about him, especially after
drink, which i one of the elements
in which he liveth ; a dissembler of
ill parts which !'• ign in him ; a
bragger of some go >1 thing that he
Anecdote and Gossip about Chihs.
107
wanteth ; thinking nothing well but
what either he himself or some of
his friends and countrymen hath
said or done ; ho is passionately
kind and angry ; careless either to
gain or keep; vindictive, but, if
well answered, at himself; for any
religion, as being versed in both ;
interpreted best sayings and deeds
often tc the worst ; oppressed with
fantasy, which hath ever mastered
his reason, a general disease in
many poets.'
Thomas Randolph was one of the
adopted sous of Ben Jonson. H8
was born at Nuneham, near Daven-
try, in Northamptonshire, and edu-
cated at Trinity College, Cambridge.
He was the author of ' The Muse's
Looking Glass,' 'The Jealous
Lovers,' of a 'Divine Pastoral!
Egloque,' which is extant in a ms.
of the Harleian collection, where it
forms one of a ' Handful of Celestial 1
Flowers.' How natural it is may be
inferred from the fact that its pas-
toral personce argue the question of
predestination ; a mistake into which
it was the vice of his age to fall, and
into which Spenser had previously
fallen, when in his ' Shepherd's
Calendar' (1579) he made Colin
Clout and his fellows of the crook
enter upon questions as abstruse
and learned as those which occupied
the council of Milton's Pandemo-
nium. Randolph impaired his fine
talents by the indulgence of intem-
perate habits, and precipitated the
death which cut short his promise
at the age of twenty-nine. The in-
troduction of Randolph to Jonson,
and their assumption of a correla-
tive sonship and paternity, is one of
the salient traditions of the Apollo
Club. Randolph had remained suf-
ficiently long in London without
means, to have held really as well
as poetically a ' Parley with his
Empty Purse.' This was a poem
which Jonson had presumably seen
and admired. Randolph, indigent
yet curious after literary celebrities,
determined to feast his eyes with a
sight of London. Accordingly, at
a fitting moment he repaired to tho
Devil ; but being unknown, and
abashed by his own conscious want
of money, he ventured no further
than to peep into the room where
a small company of choice spirits
were assembled, Jonson being one.
Ben, catching sight, of the ' scholar's
threadbare habit,' called out, 'John
Bopeep, come in,' which Randolph
did without further invitation. Im-
mediately the company began to
make rhymes upon the meanness of
his clothes, ordering in, at the same
time, a modicum of sack to keep
their wit from rusting. This was a
challenge to Randolph, who re-
turned the compliment in character
by thus addressing the company,
four in number: —
•J, John Bopeep, to you four sheep.
With each one his good fleece,
It that you are willing, to give me five shilling,
'lis fifteen pence a-plece.'
' By J — ,' and Jonson here swore
an oath which is now almost the
monopoly of Irishmen — ' I believe
this is my son Randolph.' The
extemporised affiliation was con-
firmed; and Randolph was ever
after one of the adopted ' boys' of
father Ben.
The Rota, which we have already
named as counting Aubrey on its
roll of early members, was instituted
in the year 1659. It was a repub-
lican debating club, and used for
the dissemination of republican
principles. It met in New Palace
Yard, Westminster ; and derived
its name from a plan proposed to
the House of Commons, by Henry
Nevil, one of the members of the
Rota, and which it was the design
of the club to promote, that a third
part of the national representatives
should rote out by ballot every
year, and be incapable of re-election
for three years to come. Round
the table ' in a room,' Aubrey tells
us, ' filled every evening as full as
it could be crammed,' sat Henry
Nevil aforesaid, Milton, Marvell,
Charles Wolseley, John Wildman,
Cyriac Skinner, Dr. (afterwards Sir
William) Petty, Harrington, and
their friends, discussing ideal con-
stitutions and administrations. The
principal spouter or lecturer at this
club was Harrington, who gave fre-
quent prelections here on the ad-
vantage of a commonwealth and the
ballot. This was the James Har-
rington who wrote an Utopian
Aristocratico- Republican work called
108
Anecdote and Gomip about Cltd>$.
'Oceana,' published in 1656: and
who managed to win Mrs. Clay-
pole's assent to procure the privilege
of dedicating the performance to
the Protector, her lather; whoso
government, nevertheless, was as-
sailed in it as ' the violent admi-
nistration of the Protector, by his
bashaws, intendants, , or majors-
general.' Harrington was a repub-
lican, but no leveller, and held
firmly by the inherent and exclusive
abilities of gentle blood to lead and
to command successfully. Hnmo,
who pronounced the ' Oceana,' al-
though it be the model of a perfect
republic, the most rational of all
similar productions, further observes
that ' it was well adapted to that .
age, when the plans of imaginary
republics were the daily subjects of
del«.te and conversation; and even
in our time it is justly admired as a
work of genius and invention.' It
was, we may remark in passing,
against this ' Heathenish Common-
wealth' of Harrington, that Richard
Baxter published his ' Holy Com-
monwealth,' intended to assert the
superiority of a monarchy over
cither an aristocracy or a democracy.
The Rota, of which we havo said
that Harrington was the Mcrcnrius,
or chief Bpeaker, was broken up
after the Restoration. A reference
to its members and their pursuits
survives in the third Canto of tho
Second Part of Butler's ' Hudibras,'
the argument of which sets forth
that
' The Knight, wi'li various doubts posscst,
To win the lady goes in quest
OfSIdrophel the Etosy-cractan,
To know the destinies' reditu' ion.'
Sidrophel is described by Butler
as being —
■ I full of tricks
As Rota-men of politics.'
It has been pleasantly but rather
illiberally remarked that the second
Charles was said to have died a
papist because he had no religion at
all during his life. When such a
king had been la-ought back to take
the place of a ' puritanical protec-
t irate,' and especially when he ha 1
1 .laced the country at the feet of
Prance and invih 1 Insult an 1 injury
fr an Holland, it was not wonderful
that loyalty and tndep odence of
personal and national feeling should
be at war. Nor was it wonderful
that men of opposite parties, when
they m(J t together to discuss their
bottlo and their pipe, should fall
out with rather uncivil dudgeon,
and make themselves mutually dis-
agreeable and mutually uncomfort-
able. Society, therefore, if it would
have any unanimity or peace in its
meetings, must have, amongst other
conditions, and beyond other con-
ditions, a like political shibboleth.
The vehemence of religious and
political partisanship combined with
the introduction of coffee-houses to
originate and to multiply the forma-
tion of clubs whose members might
with security discuss opinions about
which they were in the. main una-
nimous, or about which, being una-
nimous, they could afford to be
silent at the same time that they
had no trepidation at the thought
of their accidental introduction.
It was during the reign of Charles
II. that men left such open ga-
therings as were afforded at the
' Grecian,' a coffee-house which, in
1665, was kept in Devereux Court,
Strand, by a Hellenic gentleman,
named Constantino; ' "Wills, - which
Dryden a few years later made illus-
trious by his wit and critical
acumen ; ' C-arra way's,' of Exchange
Alley. It was, we say, during tho
reign of Charles II. that men began
to find it convenient to forsake tho
open gathering* of such establish-
ments as the above, and to betako
themselves with birds of their own
feather to separate houses. Poli-
tical opinions dictated the several
places to which gentlemen resorted
for their refreshments ; so that pre-
sently there came to be recognised
and regular Whig and Tory coffee-
houses. In the time of Queen Anne,
the 'Cocoa-Tree' in St. James's
street was reserved for the Ja lobites ;
while Whigs alone frequented the
' St. James's* in the wuni street
The club politician of the reign of
Qui 60 Anne had, however, le u in rl
to c mcern himself with smaller
matters than his predecessor of the
c immonwi alth, the Proti otorate, or
tho Restoration. Whilst the latter
had been plotting to compass a
revolution, the subversion of a dv-
Anecdote and Gotsip about C/uhn.
109
nasty, or the overthrow of an ex-
isting government, the former was
content to intrigue for the downfall
of a ministry or for the disgraco of
a favourite.
The ' Octoher Club,' named from
the paculiar tipple— October ale —
which its patrons most affected, was
one of the most uncompromising of
Tory associations. It numbered
about a hundred and fifty members,
country gentlemen and county re-
presentatives, who drank their en-
thusiastic toasts, sometimes to the
king over the water, and at others
to ])r. Sacheverell and the Church
of England. The meetings of the
October Club took place at the
Bell, in King Street, Westminster,
where the fiercest Jacobite of them
all tolerated a portrait of Queen
Anne, by Dahl, which hung in the
club-room. They did not under-
stand temporising, and could not
brook any processes of political ex-
pediency. They found fault with
the Harleian administration, which
took office in 1710, because its
members treated with some mode-
ration their rivals, the Whigs, whom
the Octobers would have impeached
without reserve or exception. ' We
are plagued here,' says Swift, in a
letter to Stella, February 10, 1710-
n, 'with an October Club; that
is, a set of above a hundred par-
liament men of the country, who
drink October beer at home, and
meet every evening at a tavern near
the Parliament, to consult about
affairs, and to drive things on to
extremes against the Whigs, to call
the old ministry to account, and get
off five or six heads.' It was to
cool the noble rage of these rustic
legislators that Swift wrote his
skilful, judicious, and successful
' Advice humbly offered to the Mem-
bers of the October Club.'
Even at its fiercest, the October
had been too slow for some of its
choicer spirits, who, seceding from
the original society, formed the
March Club, which kept the vestal
fires of its altar in an intenser and
more constant flame.
Other clubs with which Swift was
closely identified were the Saturday,
tho Brothers, and the Scriblerus.
' I dined,' he says, writing to Stella
in the year 171 3, ' with Lord Trea-
surer, and shall again to-morrow,
which is his day, when all tho
ministers dine with him. He calls
it whipping day. It is always on
Saturday; and we do, indied, rally
him about his faults on that day.
I was of the original club, when
only poor Lord Rivers, Lord
Keeper, and Lord Bolingbroke
came ; but now Ormond, Anglesey,
Lord Stewart. Dartmouth, and other
rabble intrude, and I scold at it:
birt now they pretend as good a
title as I; and, indeed, many Sa-
turdays I am not there. The com-
pany being too many, I don't love
it.' It is not every Irish dean who
could afford or assume to be so
exclusive.
Swift was in his time a very im-
portant and influential political
character. He knew much of the
club-life of England of his day, and
had studied it with minute atten-
tion. A few years before the time
at which he wrote the letter to
Stella from which we last quoted,
he had made a singular debut at
Button's coffee-house, whilst yet his
literary reputation was restricted,
and his intimacy with the wits of
the metropolis was limited to Con-
greve and a few others with whom
he had contracted an acquaintance
at Sir Wiliam Temple's. Button's
was at this time a noted rendez-
vous of the wits, who for several
successive days observed a strange
clergyman come into the coffee-
house, who seemed utterly unac-
quainted with any of those by wdiom
it was frequented. It was his prac-
tice to lay his hat down on a table,
and walk to and fro at a good pace
for half an hour or an hour, without
speaking to any mortal, or seeming
to attend in the least to anything
that was going forward. He would
then take up his hat, pay his money
at the bar, and walk away without
opening his lips. After having ob-
served his singular behaviour for
some time, they concluded him to
be out of his senses, and accordingly
distinguished him by the appella-
tion of the ' mad parson.' They
now became more attentive than
ever to his motions ; and one even-
ing, while they were observing him,
110
Avrcfhttf ati'l Qomtop nboni fjlnbt.
they saw him cast his eyes several
times on a gentleman in boots, who
si i med to be just conic from the
country, and at last advance towards
him, as if to address him. All
were eager to bear what the dumb
mad divine had to Bay, and imme-
diately quitted theii scuts to get
near him. I kring ap to the country
gentleman, Swift, in a very abrupt
manner, and without any previous
salute, asked him: ' Pray, sir, do
you remember any pood weather in
the world?' The country gentleman,
after staring a little at the singu-
larity of his manners and the oddity
of the question, replied: ' Yes, sir,
I thank God, I remember a great
d< al of good weather in my time.'
' That is more/ returned Swift,
' than T can say : I never remember
any weather that was not too cold
or too hot, too wet or too dry; hut
however God Almighty contrives it,
at the end of the year, 'tis all very
well.' Thus having said, the mad
divine resumed his hat, and speak-
ing no further word and taking: no
further notice of any one, quitted
the coffee-house, leaving the staring
spectators more confirmed than
ever in their opinion of his insanity.
On their part, it was unhappily an
error only of time. Towards the
close of his life, Swift was subject
to fits of giddiness, which finally
loped into a chronic state of
fitfully illumed lunacy. It was in
1736, whilst occupied with a poem
entitled ' A Character, Panegyric,
and Description of the Legion Club,'
a hitter vituperative satire, of which
the vigour and the indelicacy are
l-oth up to the standard of Raw lais,
that lie was seized with an attack
Tere as to incapacitate him ever
after from any work that demanded
continuous thought or lal>oiir.
Hut we n turn to the year 1 713,
when Swift drew up the rules of
Brothers' I Hub, which met every
Thursday, and which had for its
■ •t • to advance conversation and
friendship, and to reward learning
without interest or recommendation.
We take in," he ,i\ -, ' none but
ttu n of wit, or men of interest ; and
if we go on as we tx pan, 110 oth( r
club in that town will he worth
talking of.' Originally the broth. 1
met at the Thatched House Tavern,
in St. James's Street ; from which,
lor purposes ol economy, they mi-
grated to the Star ami Garter, m
Tall Mali It was one of the Bro-
thers, 'Duke' Disney — 'a fellow
of abundance of humour, an old
battered rake, hut very honest ; not
an old man, hut an old rake' — who
' said of Jenny Kingdown, the maid
of honour, who is a little old, that
since she could not get a hiishand,
the queen should give her a brevet
to act as a married woman.'
The Brothers had a political pur-
pose, which having served, it was
broken up; its dissolution having
been precipitated through the ani-
mosity of Oxford and Bolingbroke.
In 1714, Swift was busy in organiz-
ing the Scriblerus Club, which was
rather literary than political. Of
this society, Oxford and Boling-
brokc, Arbuthnot, Pope, and Gay,
were members. The name of Mar-
tin Scriblerus owed itself to a pun
of Lord Oxford's upon the patro-
nymic of Swift, the common or
generic term for both these birds
being swallow. The transactions of
this society have been partly pre-
served in ' P. P., Clerk of the Parish,'
a satire upon Burnet's ' History of
his own Time,' and partly in the
' Travels of Lemuel Gulliver. 1
Mr. Timbs, in his recent work on
the ' Club Life of London,' has so
conveniently epitomized a certain
tract, reprinted in the Harleian
Miscellany, which was the first to
introduce a general knowledge, true
or false, of the Calves' Head Club,
' in ridicule of tho memory of
Charles I.,' that we are inclined to
transcribe his account of it. Tho
tract alluded to is entitled ' Tho
Secret History of the Calves' Head
Club; or the Republican unmasked.
When in is fully shown the Religion
Of the Calves' Head Heroes in iheir
Anniversary Thanksgiving Songs
on the 30th of January, ly flu 111
called Anthems, for the yean 1693,
if>V4, 1695, 1696, 1697, now pul>-
lished to demonstrate the restless,
implacable spirit of a certain party
amongBt us (1703), who are never
to be satisfied until the present
blishmcnt in Church and state
is subverted.'
Anecdote anil Gcusip abnul Clubs,
lit
« The author of this " Secret His-
tory," supposed to bo Ned Ward,
attributed the origin of the Club to
Milton, and some other friends of
the Commonwealth, in opposition
to Bishop Nixon, Dr. Sanderson, and
others, who met privately every
30th of January, and compiled a
private form of service for the day,
not very different from that long
used. " After the Restoration," says
the writer, " the eyes of the govern-
ment being upon the whole party,
they were obliged to meet with a
great deal of precaution ; but in
the reign of King William, they
met almost in a public manner ap-
prehending no danger.'' The writer
further tells us, he was informed
that it was kept in no fixed house,
but that they moved as they thought
convenient. The place where they
met when his informant was with
rhem was in a blind alley near
Moorfields, where an axe hung up
in the club-room, and was reve-
renced as a principal symbol in this
diabolical sacrament. Their bill of
fare was a large dish of calves'
heads, dressed several ways, by
which they represented the king
and his friends who had suffered in
his cause ; a large pike, with a
small one in his mouth, as an em-
blem of tyranny ; a large cod's head,
by which they intended to repre-
sent the person of the king singly ;
a boar's head with an apple in its
mouth, to represent the king by
this as bestial, as by their other
hieroglyphics they had done foolish
and tyrannical. After the repast
was over one of their elders pre-
sented an " Icon Basilike," which
was with great solemnity burnt
upon the table, whilst the other
anthems were singing. After this,
another produced Milton's " De-
fensioPopuli Anglicani," upon which
all laid their hands, and made a
protestation in form of an oath for-
ever to stand by and maintain the
same. The company only consisted
of Independents and Anabaptists;
and the famous Jeremy White, for-
merly chaplain to Oliver Cromwell,
who no doubt came to sanctify with
his pious exhortations the ribaldry
of the day, said grace. After the
table-cloth was removed, the anni-
versary anthem, as they impiously
called it, was sung and a calf's skull
filled with wine, or other liquor;
and then a brimmer went about to
the pious memory of those worthy
patriots who had killed the tyrant
and relieved their country from his
arbitrary sway ; and lastly, a col-
lection was made for the mercenary
scribbler, to which every man con-
tributed according to his zeal for
the cause and ability of his purse.
' The tract parsed, with many
augmentations as valueless as the
original trash, through no less than
nine editions, the last dated 17 16.
Indeed, it would appear to be a
literary fraud, to keep alive the
calumny. All the evidence pro-
duced concerning the meetings is
from hearsay; the writer of the
" Secret History," had never himself
been present at the Club ; and his
friend from whom he professes to
have received his information,
though a Wlvg, had no personal
knowledge of the Club. The slan-
derous rumour about Milton having
to do with the institution of the
Club may be passed over as un-
worthy of notice, this untrustworthy
tract being the only authority for it.
Lowndes says, " This miserable tract
had been attributed to the author
of ' Hudibras ;' but it is altogether
unworthy of him." '
The same writer proceeds : ' Ob-
servances, insulting to the memory
of Charles I., were not altogether
unknown. Hearne tells us that on
the 30th of January, 1706-7, some
young men in All Souls' College,
Oxford, dined together at twelve
o'clock, and amused themselves
with cutting off the heads of a
number of woodcocks, " in con-
tempt of the memory of the blessed
martyr." They tried to get calves'
heads, but the cook refused to dress
them.
' Some thirty years after, there
occurred a scene which seems to
give colour to the truth of the
• " Secret History." On January 30th,
1735, " Some young noblemen and
gentlemen met at a tavern in Suffolk
Street, called themselves the Calves'
Head Club, dressed up a calfs head
in a napkin, and after some hurra-;,
threw it into a bonfire, and dipped
- •
- -
■ s ,
. ■: -
■ '•■'!:■
... ■' . _'.- .
-A
« -
■ . in
|k -■' f
' • *mj ■ ■
-
•»*»
'ff- %Q&
Drawn by Florence wid Adelaide C'laxtoti.J
ST. VALENTINE'S DAY
-
113
ST. VALENTINE'S DAY.
I
HAVE long devoted myself to
that kind of observation which
' with extensive view,
Surveys mankind from China to Peru.'
Of course it has fallen to me, in
the operation, to remark many an
anxious toil and eager strife, as Dr.
Johnson has done before me— many
a passion of hope and fear, of desire
and hate, of ambition and of love.
The conclusion of the whole matter
— so far, that is, as I am concerned,
for I do not wish to commit the old
bear to any proposition half so
amiable — has been that love is, after
all, the master passion, vanquishing
honour, laughing at death, and,
about this time of year especially,
writing innumerable letters. The
catholicity of love and of love-
making is the only absolute one;
and I back it for the only true and
genuine eirenicon. The memory of
St. Valentine is touchingly and ap-
propriately honoured even by those
who have no idea of the red-letter
days of a Christian calendar. Flut-
tering Cupids daintily hold in their
softest fetters the gallant mandarin
who sees the gentle Venus, hominum
Divumque vvluptas, reflected in the
adorable and elliptical eyes of his
celestial charmer. Dragged along
by the silken cords, we behold in
our mind's eye the representatives
of all populations, from the Pata-
gonian to the Esquimaux, from the
Maori to the Fox Islander, from the
Hottentot to the extra-civilized races
of Europe.
How the impish progeny of the
Queen of Love ring out their joyous
glee and let fall their tinkling laugh-
ter at the heterogeneous but unani-
mous procession which marshals
itself on the artist's brain and peo-
ples his quaint and fertile invention !
First with a becoming and national,
but only outward, insouciance,
marches Young England, male and
female; after whom, separated only
by the elegant natives of the Flowery
Land, who have been introduced
already, proceed, with more outward
demonstrations of affection, the re-
presentatives of a rather more elderly
VOL XL— NO. LXII.
England. The drill-sergeant has
fallen back upon the once despised
glories of the goose-step, and seems
to rejoice in parading the affection
of his well-preserved elect. Fol-
lows an Arcadian, sentimentally
haranguing his lady-love in the
chastely-ornamental style of Claude
Melnotte, and eloquently descanting
about that chateau of his that, on the
shore of some lake in lovely Spain,
towers up into the eternal summer.
Merrily, and taking pleasure plea-
santly, trips to dance-music the gay
army subaltern of la grande nation.
Then a nondescript pair, whose pas-
sion is that of romance and disguise,
who exchange the ever-fresh and
kindling vow in the worn-out lan-
guage of the formal past, and tread
meanwhile a stately measure. Fol-
low a crest-fallen couple who have
dared the impious experiment of
electing friendship to the place of
love, one of whom, the spectator
rejoices to observe, is justly being
tweaked as to the nose for his au-
dacity. The pet god is not more
amiable when indulged than venge-
ful when his patience has been too
much or too impudently tried.
Next after these rebuked and
punished wretches, a lady of Eliza-
bethan time and dignity receives
with a gratified hauteur and with a
guarded mouth the addresses of the
gallant who pays a half-Mephisto-
phelean homage in the shape of a
kiss on the coyly-surrendered hand ;
whilst the knight, whose motto is
' God and the Ladies/ sighs to think
of the vows that come between him-
self and a more particular selection.
The squire is happier with his pil-
lioned demoiselle; and Hodge and
the grenadier perform to the best of
their willing ability the almost dou-
ble duty which three capricious and
capering beauties demand at their
hands and hearts. The Elizabethan
gentleman in the wake of these is
about, we fancy, to contract a mes-
alliance ; and the tar walks stoutly
off with a lady who must have fur-
tively wandered from the neigh-
bourhood of a court, and who doubt-
less enjoys the despair of the barrister
114
St. Valentines Day.
who in pl< ading bis own cause has
imethe most unhappy and hope-
leSB of suiters.
All these, however, are the mero
phantoms of the artist's brain ; but
what shall we say of the fortunate
pair whose forms in all but flesh
and blood occupy the centre of his
ornamental lozenge? What shall
we Bay ? It is a difficult question for
any writer or reader to answer who
is conscious of tho necessity of re-
maining true to an allegiance that
has been pledged elsewhere. Turn
over the page quickly, fair lady or
gallant gentleman, unless, indeed,
you have the good fortune to be the
identical ones represented in all tho
intensity of pictorial bliss ; in which
case, as nobly and ungrudgingly as
we may, we will wish each of you
joy, and pray that every succeeding
day may be a renewal of love and a
commemoration of this day of St.
Valentine.
What memories does not the name
of the dear old saint call up— what
memories, not all undashed with re-
gret! For, alas! it is so very easy
for the best things to degenerate
into the worst ! As I walk through
the streets in these latter days of
January I see in the windows of
every print-shop flaring and absurd
parodies of the tenderest of passions,
monstrosities of inhumanity in-
tended to burlesque the most sacred
and tho most universal of mortal
or immortal affections— coarse and
flaunting vulgarities of form and
colour, matched by doggrel verses
offensive and ribald beyond tho
furthest stretch of license. Only
here and there amongst tho hideous
caricatures there is erected some
chaste, retiring, and half-exposed
altar of Eymen, from which tho
fames of ina use are with difficulty
seen to asci ud to the delighl of a
group of fluttering Cupids, and to
the edification of a pair of lovers in
the act ol blessing each other by
the interchange of mutual vows of
eternal union mA con tancy.
My earlier memories of tho feast
of St. Valentine are of a different
ordi r. in a primitive add a cludi d
Mi trict, where life m emi 1 to win a
soli mnity even from its monotony,
the claims of the most popular of
the saints were not so set at nought.
The stately drama was the business
of the celebration ; the farce, if there
was one, was an afterpiece which
followed, as the Christmas hilarity
followed the morning sermon. I
fish up from the imperishable stores
of memory the recollection of tho
mystery that hovered over tho ac-
tions, the sayings, the innendoes of
my compeers for many days before
St. Valentino gave his sanction to
thoso hearty declarations which it
were a forlorn hope to suppose
could be quite anonymous. Tho
kind of valentine I best remember
in those days was one cut out of
paper into many curious patterns,
and folded afterwards into as many
shapes as the ingenuity of waiters
lias since devised for metropolitan
dinner-napkins. Triangular, oblong,
square, diamond, circular, polygonal,
worked out by tho cunning shears
to the similitude of most elaborate
lace-work, and made vocal by some
quaint and ardent rhyme — such were
tho bait with which we angled for
the favour of our chosen fair, and
with which, O rapture! wo occa-
sionally succeeded in captivating
them for a couple of days. The
arbiter elegantiarum in these mat-
ters, without whom nothing could
be done, or at least done well, was a
cheerful lady who, having slighted
the opportunity of taking that ebb
in her affairs which led on to matri-
mony, devote,! much ot her genial
old maidenhood to the delectation
of tho youth of both sexes. Her
services, her taste, her nimble wit
and pliant shears, were called into
requisition whenever an assault
more determined than usual was to
bo made on some too-obdurate
charmer's heart. I know not where
now abides tho spirit of that vestal
priest) as of Venus j whether it haply
floats about mo as I write these
tines, or whether, still incarnate, it
initiates the youth of the antipodes
— whither, obedient to some noble
impulse, she went to end her days —
into the samo mysteries that, twenty
years ago, were bo piquanl and en-
gaging to tho youngsters of my
ive village. Peace be to her,
wherever she may be; yea, peace
m ' be with her as a condition of
St. Valentine's Day.
115
her benevolent and placid exist-
ence.
When the valentine was finished
came the task of selecting a ' posie/
a legend, a rhyme of true love,
which had to be written round and
round inwards until it centred finally
in a bleeding heart transfixed by the
dart of Love. Let the blase reader
try to imagine the ineffable tender-
ness that welled out in such pathetic
words as
' The rose is red, the violet blue,
Carnations sweet, and so are you ;
And so are they that sent you this;
And when we meet we'll have a kiss—
A kiss on the cheek and a kiss on the chin,
And when we meet we'll kiss again.'
To this astounding length did our
proposals go. Whether they were
ever carried out, the present depo-
nent is in no position to say. An-
other of these poems began with the
lines
•As I lay sleeping on my bed,
I saw a rose and it was red ;'
the first of which the philosophical
inquirer into valentine literature
will be interested in comparing with
the
' Quant je suy couchie" en mon lit,'
which commences one of the numer-
ous valentines of Charles Duke of
Orleans, a personage with whom we
are inclined to wish our space en-
abled us to make the reader a trifle
better acquainted.
In those days, and in that locality,
— which, we may inform the reader,
in confidence, was in the neighbour-
hood of the thriving emporium and
fashionable watering-place of Daws-
mere — we urchins, wise in our
generation according to our lights,
passed by the temptations of the
penny- post and delivered our love-
missives in person. After this
manner. When the shades of even-
ing had fully closed in upon the
face of nature, and a row of blinded
and curtained lights streamed out
fitfully upon the straggling street,
the adventurous youth arose and
sallied forth. His elegant declara-
tion — possibly he would be Don
Juan enough to fortify himself with
more than one — being duly directed
in the best disguise his hand-
writing could assume, was laid
tenderly, silently, and with trepi-
dation of heart against some door
behind which his inamorata was
very likely lurking expectant. One
good heavy knock and a scam-
per of feet in fearful flight; the
opening of the door, sometimes all
too prompt; the groping for the
valentine on the part of the lovee
and her jealous sisters— these were
the circumstances that made illus-
trious the delivery of each. So far
the youngster had proceeded in good
faith ; but now, after having cooled
a little from the fever of doubt as to
whether he had been discovered, and
as to how his devotion had been re-
ceived by the idol of his soul, he
was at liberty to make fun of the
fair to whose charms he was indif-
ferent. His next exploit would be
a practical joke. A piece of paper
folded up in some form proper to
the occasion, and promising as much
as if it were veritably sick of love,
would be perforated for a piece of
string. The sham valentine is laid,
as before, on the doorstep; the
knocker is thumped as emphatically
as before ; the retirement as speedy
as before, but not to so remote a
distance. The operator has only
retreated to the further extremity of
the string, of which the other end
secures the traitorously-folded sheet,
when, as before, the door opens.
Anxious fingers grope until, in the
semi-darkness, they pounce at length
upon — the bare, cold ground or the
vacant stone. The valentine itself
has moved about six inches. ' 'Twas
but the wind.' The eluded fingers
try and try again, whilst again and
again the wind delights to frustrate
their intention of taking possession.
Then comes the climax of the joke.
Whenever a grab has been made at
the valentine lying on the ground,
a judicious pull from the observing
youth has attracted it in his own
direction ; until the mortified maiden,
either at length fairly baffled or fully
enlightened, gives up in despair or
bridles up in wrath, and closes the
door with a bang to a chorus of un-
mannerly laughter from the asso-
ciates of her tormentor. A variety
of this joke was to draw the ' coun-
terfeit presentment' of a valentine
I 2
116
St. Valentine's Day.
in crayon: in other words, to chalk
a parallelogram on the ground be-
fore the door. But this was a com-
paratively tame affair, as there could
of ooune l>e only one disappoint-
ment and one triumph he lore the
mean trick was exploded. J think
I have heard of pins being intro-
duced into the valentines to which
strings were attached ; but this was
getting far beyond the pale of fun
into that of mischief, if not of wan-
tonness and malice. For myself I
will not, because I cannot, confess
to a malpractice of this kind; but
of all the others I thank a certain
Venus of eleven years old— at that
time, of course; she is now a Juno
and a matron — I have had my share.
To-day, alas! concerning valentines
I must profess actum at, so far, that
is, as the tending of them is con-
cerned. But no man can bar his
door against the dulcet appeal of a
double knock ; and if the valentines
I have had the happiness to receive
for the last three years from, I be-
lieve, the same faithful and devoted
angel, were sent by any one who
reads this tattle of mine, there is
still time for her to know that I am
looking forward to my annual com-
pliment, and that I am open to a
declaration which shall not be anony-
mous. After this candid advertise-
ment of the state of my affections I
shall know, if the post-office is neg-
ligent towards me on the morning
of the impending festival, that my
fair one is faithless and that I am
forlorn. May I be spared the tears
and dejection of so chilly a convic-
tion ; yet let me rather be neglected
than scorned. I would not choose
to appear, even to myself, depict) d
with the ears of Midas, or witn the
sometime head-dress of 'awed bully
Bottom,' the weaver. So much, kind
reader, bave I been permitted to say
of myself; but I have a few stray
jottings to lay h fare yon witb refer-
ence to onr deaz old Bi Valentino
and his world -r. pi cted day.
The peripaft tic di liv< ry of valen-
by the principals, to which
I have alluded, presents featti
analogous to the proceedings which,
according to the anthorof ' Bambli -
in an ( "Id city,' characterise the eve
of St. Valentine at Norwich. ' The
streets,' says Madder, ' swarm with
carriers, and baskets laden with
treasures; ban-, bang, bang go the
knockers, and away rushes the
banger, depositing first upon the
doorstep some packages from tho
basket of ston B ; again and again at
intervals, at every d ■ to which a
missive is addressed, is the same n -
peated, till the baskets are empty.
Anonymouslj St Valentine presents
his gifts, labelled only "With Si
Valentine's love," and "Good-mor-
row, Valentine." Then within the
houses of destination, the screams,
the shouts, the rushings to catch
the bang-bangs; the Hushed faces,
sparkling eyes, rushing feet to pick
up the fairy gifts ; inscriptions to
be interpreted, mysteries to be un-
ravelled, hoaxes to be found out;
gnat hampers, heavy, and ticketed
" With care, this side upwards," to
bo unpacked, out of which jump
little live boys, with St. Valentine's
love to the little ladies fair; the
sham bang-bangs, which bring no-
thing but. noise and fun, the mock
parcels that vanish from the door-
step by invisible strings when the
door opens; monster parcels, that
dwindle to thread-papers denuded
of their multiplied envelopes, with
fitting mottoes, all tending to the
final consummation of good counsel,
" Happy is he who expects nothing,
and he will not be disappointed."
It is a glorious night; marvel not
that we would perpetuate so joyous
a festivity.'
In Devonshire the peasants be-
lieve that if they go to the porch of
a church, and wait there till half-
pi t twelve o'clock on the eve of
st. Valentine's day, with a quantity
of hemps i d in their bands, and at
the time above mentioned, scatter
the seed on either aide, repeating
these lines —
' Hi no] i i ow, bemp I I mow,
She for he) that will my true love be,
CJoms rake the hempeei <i after me, 1
his or her true love will appeal
behind, in the act of raking up the
seed just sown, in a winding-sh* • t.
In some parts of Norfolk this super-
stition appears modified in time and
purpose, it is there a part of tho
practices on tin eve of St Mark
April 25) to sow the bempseed in
St. Valentine's Day.
117
the expectation that it will bo mown
by the sheeted ghosts of those who
are to die that year, marching in
grisly array to the parish church.
And the rake of the Devonshire
spectre is replaced by the scythe of
the ghostly Norfolkman. A more
pleasant and a more strictly valen-
tine use is made of a variety of the
same ceremonial at Ashborne, in
Devonshire. There, if a young
woman wishes to divine who her
future husband is to be, she enters
the church at midnight, and, just as
the clock strikes twelve, begins to
run round the building, repeating,
without break or intermission, the
following formula : —
• I sow hempseed, hempseed I sow,
He that loves me best,
Come after me and mow.'
And when the young lady has thus
performed the circuit of the build-
ing a dozen times without stopping,
the figure of her lover is supposed
to answer to the gentle invocation,
and follow her.
These are Old World supersti-
tions, and we are not to look for
them in the New. But in America
St. Valentine is popular, and would
seem to be turned to a direct prac-
tical advantage in the way of in-
itiating the process of courtship and
of facilitating the process of matri-
mony. Of course, in a great coun-
try that licks creation, and is just
now reposing and ' recuperating '
after licking itself ; where marriages
are cooked up in a short railway
trip, and performed by some zealous
and opportune clergyman in tran-
situ ; where railway companies at-
tach ' bridal chambers ' to excursion
trains as a part of their regular fur-
niture ; and where enterprising
couples plight their troth and endow
each other with all their worldly
goods in a balloon — in such a coun-
try it is no great marvel if there
should be some truth in the hy-
meneal puff of an advertisement
like the following, culled from a
' Worster Democrat ' issued in early
February a few years ago : —
' The great increase in marriages
throughout Wayne Co. during the
past year is said to be occasioned by
the superior excellence of the
Valentines
sold by George Howard. Indeed,
so complete was his success in this
line, that Cupid has again commis-
sioned him as the " Great High
Priest" of Love, Courtship, and
Marriage, and has supplied George
with the most complete and perfect
assortment of " Love's Armor " ever
before offered to the citizens of
Wayne County. During the past
year the " Blind God " has centred
his thoughts on producing some-
thing in the line far surpassing any-
thing he has heretofore issued. And
it is with " feelinks " of the greatest
joy that he is able to announce that
he has succeeded.
'Howard has got them!
'To those susceptible persons
whose hearts were captured during
the past year, George refers, and
advises others to call on them, and
find them on their way rejoicing,
shouting praises to the name of
Howard. The "blessings" descend
unto even the third and fourth
generations, and it is probable that
the business will go on increasing
year upon year, until Howard's
valentines will be a " household
word" throughout the land. The
children on the house-tops will call
to the passers-by, shouting
" Howard's Valentines !"
while the cry is echoed from the
ground, and swelling over hill
and vale, reverberates the country
through.
'Bemember that the only regu-
larly-authorized dispenser of Cupid's
goods is
George Howard,
two doors East of the American
House, Worster, 0.
' ijgf* Orders by mail promptly at-
tended to. Prices range from six
cents to five dollars.
' Valentines ! !
' A large and splendid assortment
of valentines, together with all the
necessary fixings, for sale wholesale
and retail, at the New Column
Building.
' J. H. Baumgarten & Co.
• Worster, Feb. 3, 1853.
118
St. Va&mtmtfM Day.
' Vai.fmim s. —Behold, St Valen-
tine's Day is coming, and all are
set king for mi to be de-
spatched under cover of this Saint
t> friend or foe. They are provided
of all kinds, styles, and varieties,
ready for use. The turtle-dove
hind, with its coo ! coo! the sensible
Si Hi mi' ntal. the cutting and severe,
and. in short, everything that can
be required. Just call on George
Howard or J. II. Baumgarten A: Co.,
and you can be suited to a T.'
Does the curious though hazily-
informed nailer wish at this singe
of our progress to suggest a ques-
tion ns to who St Valentine was?
That is a question to which, thanks
to the ' Acta Sanctorum ' and Alban
Butler's ' Lives of the Saints,' an
answer is tolerably easy and precise.
' Valentine was a holy priest in
Rome, who, with St. Marius and his
family, assisted the martyrs in the
persecution under Claudius II. He
was apprehended, and sent by the
Knipemr to the Prefect of Rome,
who, on finding all his promises to
make him renounce his faith in-
effectual, commanded him to bo
beaten with clubs, and afterward to
be beheaded, which was executed
on the 14th February, about the
year 270. Pope Julius I. is said to
have built a church near Ponte
Mole to his memory, which for a
long time gave name to the gate
now called Porta del Popolo, for-
merly Porta Valentin! The great-
est part of his relics are now in the
church of St. Praxedes. His name
isoelebral Is that of an illustrious
martyr in the Bacramentary of St.
Gregory, the Roman Missal of Tho-
masius, ir. the( lalendar of P. Pronto,
and that of A Hat ins, in Bede,
Dstard, Ado, Notker, and all other
martyrolo i< a on this day. To
abolish the heathen's lewd, super-
stitions custom of boys drawing the
names of girls, in honour of their
goddess, Februata Juno,onthe 15th
of this month, several zealous pas-
tors Substituted the Halm s of saints
in billets given 00 tins day.' To
this we would only enter the single
■ at that the /, tu relics of St.
iitine are, in a l" atified state, at
this pn sent moment daunting in
nnnumbi red stationers' windows,
and waiting to be scattered abroad
to the tour winds of heaven on th6
wings of every post. St. Francis do
Sales, a bishop and prince of Ge-
neva, who died in 1622, and was
canonized in 1665, to whom we are
inclined, for the sake of his devout
treatise on ' Practical Piety,' to for-
give everything but this, was one of
the 'zealous pastors' who, to use
the words of Alban Butler, ' severely
forbade the custom of valentines, or
giving boys, in writing, the names
of girls to bo admired and attended
on by them : and, to abolish it, he
changed it into giving billets with
the names of certain saints to honour
and imitate in a particular manner.'
It is too heartrending to contem-
plate the disappointment of the in-
genuous youth who, hoping to re-
ceive the likeness or the name of
the blooming Mariana or the saucy
Julietta, received instead the effigies
of some musty and dyspeptic ascetic
at loggerheads with the devil — some
Antony of the Desert, or some Dun-
stau of the Tongs.
In the early part of last cen-
tury it was the custom for young
folks in England and Scotland to
celebrate a little festival on the eve
of St. Valentine's Day. 'An equal
number of maids and bachelors,'
says Misson, a traveller of veracity
and discernment, ' get together ;
each writes their true or some
feigned name upon separate billets,
which they roll up and draw by
way of lots, the maids taking the
men's billets, and the men the maids';
SO that cadi of the iu,m lights upon
a girl that ho calls bis vdL ntine, and
each of the girls upon a young man
whom she calls hers. By this means
each has two valentines; but the
man sticks (astir to the valentine
that has fallen to him than to the
valentine to whom h, has fallen.
Fortune having thus divided the
company into so many couples,
the valentines Live balls and treats
to their mist 1 ear their billets
several days upon their bosoms 01
sleeves; and this little sport often
ends in lov< .'
The great Pi pya has some epiaint
and picture que particulars of his
valentine exp ri< oce We copy tho
following entries from his 'Diary':
St. Valentine's Day.
119
'Valentine's Day, 1667. This morn-
ing came up to my wife's bedside (I
being up dressing myself) little
Will Mercer, to be her valentine,
and brought her name written upon
blue paper in gold letters, done by
himself, very pretty; and we were
both well pleased with it. But I
am also this year my wife's valen-
tine, and it will cost me 5^.; bat
that I must have laid out if we had
not been valentines.
'February 16. I find that Mrs.
Pierce's little girl is my valentine,
she having drawn me : which I was
not sorry for, it easing me of some-
thing more that I must have given
to others. But here I do first ob-
serve the fashion of drawing mot-
toes as well as names, so that Pierce,
who drew my wife, did draw also a
motto, and this girl drew another
for me. What mine was, I forget;
but my wife's was, " Most courteous,
and most fair," which, as it might
be used, or an anagram upon
each name, might be very pretty.'
Pepys tells us also that the Duke of
York, being on one occasion the
valentine of the celebrated Miss
Stuart, afterwards Duchess of Rich-
mond, ' did give her a jewel of about
800/.; and my Lord Mandeville, her
valentine this year, a ring of about
300?.'
But we meant to have anticipated
another question on the part of the
benevolent reader. St. Valentine
being such as he was, and not a
bishop who immortalized the day by
writing a love-letter upon it — as we
were in very early youth given mis-
takenly to understand by a here-
siarch of a nursemaid — how comes
his name to be used as a cover for
all the love-doings that take place
under the quoted sanction of his
name and authority ? This has al-
ready been vaguely explained in the
quotation from Alban Butler. But
we may say ten more words about
it; and these words we choose to
say by deputy of the author of a
small paper entitled ' The true story
of St. Valentine,' which appeared in
the 'Churchman's Family Maga-
zine ' for February of last year, '"in
ancient Borne there was, about the
middle of February in each year,
held the public festival called Lu-
percalia, which was given in honour
of the Lycaean Pan. One of the
numerous ceremonies at this pagan
festival was to put the names of
young women into a box, from
which they were drawn by the
young men, as chance directed ;
and as in those days auguries were
thought much of, and exercised
great influence over the minds of
the superstitious Romans, the girl
whose name was thus drawn by lot
from the box was considered as a
person very likely to become the
future wife of the drawer. As a
good deal of barbarous and licen-
tious conduct was often the result
of this ceremony, the zealous fathers
of the early Christian Church used
every possible means in their power
to eradicate these vestiges of pagan
superstitions. The names of saints
instead of these girls were placed
upon the billets, and that saint
which each drew was to be his
tutelary guardian during the follow-
ing year, and as theLupercalia was,
as we have already mentioned, held
about the middle of February, they
appear to have chosen St. Valen-
tine's Day whereon to celebrate their
reformed festival. The exertions of
the priests were not altogether
barren of good results, for although
St. Valentine's Day is a day pecu-
liarly devoted to love affairs, its
festivities are no longer associated
with the pagan aspect which called
forth the righteous ire of the good
Fathers of the Church ; a result for
which we ought to be truly thank-
ful, and one which is a striking
example of the good work which
Christianity is ever doing. It has
not abolished the custom, but puri-
fied it. It has taken away the old
heathen coarseness and licentious-
ness, but has left unchanged the
play of human feeling and affection ;
true-hearted lovers, instead of being
afraid of their newly-discovered
emotions, may have reason to con-
gratulate themselves that they are
under the tutelage of so good and
noble a saint as Valentine of Rome.'
S. St. M.
120
A FORGOTTEN VALENTINE.
CHAPTER I.
THE HBBKNOEB WHO BORE IT,
AND who never delivered it.
Perhaps it would have been too
much to expect of him that he
should do so ; too much to expect
that tho little packet, carelessly
taken and thrust away amongst
others, would ever enter his head
again. At any rate it did not. Ho
was a young man still, though he
had been for some years a widower ;
and he had fallen in lovo, and was
on the way to learn his fate.
It cannot be flattering to a young
lady, if she knows it, that her suitor
should be capable of taking thought
for any one besides herself; but
certainly Sir Hugh h'ainham tried
to believe that he was not making
his own happiness altogether the
first consideration. There was tho
well-being of his little girl to be
thought of; and what did he know
about bringing up little girls?
He had heard sensible people say,
and ho was ready enough now
to accept the dictum, that the
wisest thing a man in his position
could do would be to marry
again ; wisest l>oth for his own
future and his child's. He said
this to himself as he stood in
Evelyn Neville's drawing-room, hat
in hand, waiting, looking out upon
the baro branch) a which were soon
to be green again, and wondering,
in a desultory fashion, if this Febru-
ary day would bring him another
Spring-time, or only the desolate
branches, the dead leaves whirling
about, and the cold sky beyond. Ei
had nof long to wait. When she
rami' info tin room, and that thrill
went through his heart which the
|ip -i nee of one we lore alone c m
bring, it mus4 have left some mark
upon his bee; lor she knew why
ho had come, and in a few rapid
arguments bad decided anon her
answer. Be was rich ; hut 'lie did
not Can i ' much about that, not
knowing what it was to he any-
thin lie was sir Hugh Bain-
ham ; but she didn't caro for that
either, her pride being of another
sort: ho was good, generous, and
devoted; these things she did
care for. He loved her; and he
came on a day when that samo
pride of hers was smarting under
a senso of neglect. In tho few
seconds allowed her hefore he spoko,
Evelyn Neville made her decision.
She had thought that he knew, and
was jealous of, her friendship with
that cousin Frank, whom she had
fancied might one day l>o nearer
than a cousin. But that was over.
The cousins had kept up a childish
habit of exchanging valentines ;
and to-day there was nothing from
him, while her own had gone as
usual. That was the humiliating
part of it If-/" had broken through
the custom, it would have been well ;
but that he should lie the first ! and
when, too, he had given her cause
to expect that his would be no ordi-
nary valentine! Here, within hex
reach, was the means of punishing
him ; at any rate, of letting him
know that she did not care.
Evelyn listened to Sir Hugh with
a forced attention; hut he knew
nothing of that. When ho spoke of
his little girl, lulteringly, she roused
up and saw the strong earnestness
and anxiety in the man's face; and,
strange to say, this touched her
more just then than any passionate,
lover's pleading from his lips would
have done, she turned towards
him suddenly, ami put her hand
into his, and said, speaking of tho
small Cecilia —
'She shall be veiy dear to mo,
and precious : I will care lor her,
as much as you could desin
And when Sir Hugh had left her,
she did not repent. It is true that
there came upon b< r a e. rtain •
of being bound; of having dono
what could not he undone; and
tii it half rel - Li in t<> he fri i ,
which is almo.-t always in - parable
A Forgotten Valentine.
121
from an act that seals one's own fate.
And then the drawing-room was
rather lonely ; the trees outside the
window got a ghostly look, and
seemed to wrap themselves up
tighter as the fog gathered round
them ; and — altogether, she thought
she would just go and tell her
brother, by way of convincing
herself that the thing was finally
settled.
When she told him, he lifted up
his eyebrows and stared at her.
'Is it true? — You look as if it
were. Eather scared, and that sort
of thing. Not that there is any-
thing to be scared about; only I
suppose it's proper. Hem ! I might
have thought of Frank Neville ; but
this is wiser.'
She bit her lip, but never an-
swered him. She wished he bad
not said that about Frank, and she
didn't like the word ' wiser/ What
had wisdom to do with it ?
She started from her sleep that
night, with a mist before her eyes
and a great throbbing at her heart,
for Frank's voice was in her ears.
Would he care ?
But what use to ask, now that it
was too late ? And that it was too
late no one knew better than her-
self; for to her, having once decided
publicly as it were, change would
have been impossible.
And on her wedding-day she was
to Sir Hugh a radiant princess, far
away above him, stooping to crown
him with the blessing of her love.
Anyone who had seen him that day
might have doubted about its being
altogether, or even very much for
his daughter's sake that he took this
step.
* I have reason to be grateful,' he
said to his new brother-in-law, when
the speechifying was over, and the
bride was going away to change her
dress.
George Neville looked at her and
nodded.
' She's a good girl enough : a little
self-willed, perhaps; but then she
has always had her own way.'
'And will have it still, I hope/
said Sir Hugh. ' If I don't make
her happy, I shall deserve to be a
miserable man all my life/
In years to come he recalled the
speech, and wondered whether some
strange misgiving had moved him
to utter it.
Just then Frank Neville was say-
ing to Evelyn, ' So you did not
think me worth an answer!'
She was passing through the
throng towards the door, and she
never faltered or raised her head.
No one knew that the words fell
upon her with a sudden chill, like a
cold hand grasping her heart. She
had seen her cousin amongst the
guests, and knew that he was look-
ing miserably ill, but she had been
too much occupied to think about
that.
' What do you mean, Frank ?'
' Oh ; not much. Valentines don't
require answers in a general way ;
but I think you might have given
me a few words last February. How-
ever, you'll keep my secret. No
one knows it but you, unless it [s
your husband. What's the matter,
Evelyn ? You look as if you didn't
understand/
' I don't/
' You must have had it. I missed
the post over-night, and gave it to
Eainham, there, as I knew he would
see you the next day/
' To— my husband ?'
'Yes; I'll ask him »
'Frank,' she said, with a heavy
hand on his arm, ' forget all this.
Never speak of it — for my sake.'
He looked at her with a perplexed
expression of inquiry, but he saw
that she was white and flurried,
and gave up the point.
'Well, we have always been
friends ; have we not ? I would ask
you yet for your good wishes, as
you have mine ; but the doctors
say there's something amiss here,*
touching his chest; 'and I may
not live to never mind! God
bless you, Evelyn !'
CHAPTEE II.
ITS MABK ON THE YEARS TO COME.
Sir Hugh brought his wife
home: and his hair was not grey,
neither had any premature wrinkles
marked his face. To his servants
there appeared no change in him,
either for better or for worse.
122
A Forgotten Valentine.
He was just tho same grave, silent,
rather deliberate master they re-
membered. They did think, indeed,
that bo was dreadfully polite to his
lady ; but perhaps that was proper
— before servants.
Sir Hugh, taking Evelyn to tho
drawing-rooms, which lie had caused
to be altered and brightened for her,
turned and said to her, ' Welcome
home.'
And as he said it, the memory of
his own dreams of that home stung
bim so bitterly that he half put
out his arms to take into them the
Evelyn he had once known. But
she never saw tin' movement; and
would not have heeded it if she had
seen. She passed on into the room,
the brilliant light of which seemed
to hurt Sir Hugh's eyes, for he put
his hand over them suddenly ; and
for a moment he stood at the door,
irresolute; then closed it gently,
and went to see after his little
girl.
That was r^+ural enough, they
said — those go ,psdown stairs who
were always on the watch. But
why didn't he take his new wife
with him? And why did he stay
with the child, hour after hour, till
none of the evening remained ? The
first evening, too! Above all, why,
when the household had retired,
and all was quiet, did a tall, slight
figure, which rustled a little as it
passed, go into the nursery and
kneel down beside the sleeping
child and sob?
The nurse saw, for she was not
asleep, as my lady landed ; and she
was not likely to keep it to herself,
either. These and such things were
puzzling. At first they formed a
constant source of whisperings and
shakings of wise heads; but gradu-
ally the gloss of newness wore away
from them ; the dull days swept on,
and something of the grimness of
the stone heads that guarded tho
sweep of steps at the hall-door
seemed to have crept into the house.
It was so still and sibut ; so mono-
tonous. But lor the small Cecilia,
it would have been unutterably
dismal. But she was a child, and
had childish ways, which remained
unchecked, she was quite young
gh to take very kindly to tho
new mamma, who was so beautiful
and so good to her.
' Not like nurse said she would
be — ugly and cross,' she said to her
favourite playfellow — ' but good. I
think she could have brought the
little princess to life again, as well
as the fairy did. You never saw-
such eyes in your life as she has
got ; just like the pool under the
willows, where we aro not to go,
Charlie, you know ; down, as if J on
couldn't ever see the bottom ; ever
so deep. And she kisses me, too.'
To which the boy replied, with
decision, that she couldn't be a fairy
in that case, for fairies never kj
anybody; it wasn't lucky, that was
unless they were wicked fairies.
And it was all very well now, but
when Cecil married him, he shouldn't
allow her to kiss anybody.
By-and-by, however, as Cecil grew
older, she used to wonder in her
wise little head what made her
father and mother, when they were
alone, talk to each other, if they did
talk, so like ' company.' That was
her idea of it. She jumped up from
the piano one day, and waltzed
round to the footstool at Lady Bain-
ham's feet, with a sudden thought
that she would find out.
' Well,' said Evelyn, looking at
the pursed-up lips, which evidently
had a question upon them, 'what's
the matter? Is your new music-
lesson too hard '!'
'My new music-lesson is— is a
fidgetty crank,' said Cecil, hesitating
for an expression strong enough ;
' but it's not that. I was just won-
dering why you and papa '
Sir Hugh let his book fall with a
sudden noise, and went out of the
room, passing the child, but taking
no notice of her.
' Why you and papa,' went on
Cecil, reflectively, ' are so odd, like
grand visitors. When there's any
one here I know I have to sit still,
ami not tumble my frock, nor cross
my feet ; but when there's no one,
it's different. 1
' Your papa and I are not chil-
dren,' said La' ly Rurnhfm, 'Grown-
np people must !*■ steady, < '
' Then I don't want to Ihj grown
up. And I'm sure, quite sure, that
I'll never bo married, if one is to do
A Forgotten Valentine.
123
nothing but sit— sit all day long,
and have no fun.'
Lady Rainham bent down to kiss
the resolute lips that uttered this
bold decision, and then her face
grew sad. There were times when
even to her pride the life she led
seemed almost too hard to bear —
times when she was mad enough to
think she would tell Sir Hugh that
the act which stamped him in her
eyes as base and dishonoured was
no secret from her, as he doubtless
believed it to be. But she could
not do it. It seemed to her as if
the consciousness that she knew
would only make him' more con-
temptible in his own eyes as well as
in hers. It would but widen the
gulf, and make what she was able
to bear now utterly intolerable. For
she never doubted that the purport
of the letter was known to him, and
he had suppressed it for his own
ends. And the poor boy who wrote
it was dead. There was the great
mischief of it all. If he had been
living and well, so tender a halo
might not have rested over the past,
and all in the past connected with
him ; so bitter a resentment might
not have been nursed in silence
against the wrong which her hus-
band had done them both. But
Frank had lived but a few months
after her wedding, and she never
saw him again. He was dead, and
she had killed him — no, not she, but
Sir Hugh.
She was thinking such thoughts
one day when something made her
look up, and she met Sir Hugh's
eyes fixed upou her. There was so
peculiar an expression in them that
she could not prevent a certain
proud, antagonistic inquiry coming
into her own. He went towards
her with his book open in his hand.
He bent down and put his finger on
a line in the page, drawing her
attention to it.
' " How much the wife is dearer
than the bride." This struck me
rather, that's all,' he said, and went
away.
Evelyn fat on by the window, but
the book dropped from her fingers,
and she covered her face. What
did he mean ? If he had only not
gone away then !
■ How could ho do that one thing ?'
she said to herself. ' He meant the
line as a reproach to me. And I
would have loved him — is it pos-
sible that I do love him, in spite of
it? Am I so weak and false? I
want so much to comfort him some-
times that I half forget, and am
tempted. But I never will — I never
must. I used to be strong, I shall
be strong still.'
And so the same front of icy in-
difference met Sir Hugh day by day
and year by year, and he knew none
of her struggles. But he wrapped
himself up more and more in his
books and his problems and writings.
New MSS. began to grow out of old
ones, for he had always been given
to authorship, and the accumulation
of papers on various subjects. In
these days a little fairy used to come
in from time to time with a pretence
of arranging them for him. She
would open and shut the study
door with a great show of quietness,
seat herself on a big chest which
was full of old papers, and in which
she meant to have a glorious rum-
mage some day ; and begin folding
up neat little packages; stitching
loose sheets together ; reading a bit
here and there, and looking up now
and then with a suggestive sigh till
he would lay aside his work, and
declare that she was the plague of
his life. This was the signal always
for the forced gravity to disappear
from Cecil's face ; for her to jump
up, radiant and gleeful, and just
have one turn round the room — to
shake off the cobwebs, as she said.
' But you know you couldn't do
without me, and I do help very
much. "What do you know about
stitching papers together? And
you are a most ungrateful man to
say I am a plague, only you don't
mean it. I wonder what you'll do
when I am married.'
' Married !' echoed Sir Hugh. * Go
and play with your last new toys,
and don't talk ncnsense.'
But the word worried him, and
made him thoughtful. When he
came to consider it, the fairy was no
longer exactly a child, though she
was as merry as a young kitten.
He did a little sum on his fingers
in sheer absence of mind, and found
124
A Forgotten Valentine.
out that in a few weeks she would
be eighteen. It was twelve years
since he went, that February day,
to plead her causo and his own with
Evelyn Neville. Ho used to go
now sometimes to tho window and
look out, and rememlxjr the day
when he had stood at that other
window watching l»aro branches and
wondering about his future. I It-
know it now. If only he could find
out why it was thus. What had
changed her all at once, on her
wedding-day, from tho very mo-
ment, as it seemed to him, that she
became his wife?
Sir Hugh pushed his hair away
from his forehead and sighed. He
was getting grey by this time, but
then ho was past forty, and Evelyn,
his wife, must be two-and-thirty at
least. It occurred to him that ho
had noticed no alteration in her.
She was as beautiful as ever, with
the beauty of a statue that chills
you when you touch it. He thought
he would look at her that evening
and see if he could trace no change,
such as there was in himself. He
did look, when the room was bril-
liant with soft light, and she sat
languidly turning over a book of
engravings with Cecil. They formed
a strange contrast; the cold, proud,
indifferent beauty of the one faco
and the eager animation of tho other.
The girl's one hand rested on Lady
Rainham's shoulder, caressingly, for
the tie between these two was moro
like the passion of a first friendship
than the affection of mother and
daughter. Suddenly Cecil pointed
down the page and said something
in a whisper, and Lady Rainham
turned and looked at her with a
smile.
As he saw tho look, just such a
thrill wen! through Sir Hugh's heart
as he had fell when she came to him
twelve J > to give him his
answer. No, tune had n< >t done her
so much wrong ae it had to himself,
and there was one hope in which
she had Dererdisappointed him — her
care for his daughb
' For her Bake/ he said (hat night
whenOedlia was gone, 'I am always
grateful to you.'
Bat lie did not wait for any reply,
He never did. Perhaps he no
not have got ono if ho had ; or per-
haps he thought the time had |
1 y for any change to be possible.
Lady Rainham looked from tho
window the next morning and saw
Cecil under a tall laurel, reading
something. And the sun had come
out; there was a twittering of birds
in the shrubbery, and the sky was
all flecked with tiny white clouds.
It was Valentine's Hay, and Lady
Puiinham knew that the girl was
reading over again the one which
Sir Hugh had handed her with such
a troubled face at the breakfast
table. What did that unquiet ex-
pression mean ; and why did Cecil,
when she saw it, look from him to
herself, Lady Bainham, fold up her
packet hurriedly and put it away ?
It meant, on Sir Hugh's part, that
he knew what it was and didn't like
it; that he could not help thinking
of his life, doubly lonely, without
the child. But this never occurred
to his wife. Presently some ono
joined Cecil in the laurel walk, aud
though of course Lady Rainham
could not hear their words, she
turned instinctively away from the
window.
Cecil was saying just then, ' No, it
isn't likely. Who should send me
valentines? They're old-fashioned,
vulgar, out of date. Charlie, mind
I won't have any more.'
'Why not?'
'Because — I'm serious now — for
some reason or other they don't like
my having them,' said Cecil, motion-
ing towards the house. ' And it's a
shocking thing to eay, but I'm sore
there's something not straight
between papa and Lady Rainham,
some misunderstanding, you know.
I'm sure that they are dreadfully
fond of each other, really ; but it's
all so strange; I do so want to do
something that would bring it right*
and I shall have nothing to say
to you till it is right.'
•Cecil!'
'I mean it. I am a sort of go-
between; no, not that exactly ; bat
they both care for me so much.
They don't freeze Up win II I'm
tin re. I can't fancy them without
me; it would be terrible.'
' Bat Cecil, von promised '
' No, I didn't. And if I had, I
A Forgotten Valentine.
125
shouldn't keep it, of course ; that is,
yon wouldn't want me to. It would
kill papa to lose me, and as to Lady
Rainham, why I never cared for any
one so much in all my life. I didn't
know it was in me till she woke it
up. You remember what I used to
say about her eyes. They are just
like that ; like a beautiful deep pool ;
all dark, you know, till it draws you
close and makes you want to know
so much what is underneath.'
Here Lady Eainham came to the
window again, but the two figures
had passed out of the laurel walk,
and she saw them no more.
In the afternoon Cecil went as
usual to her father's study, but he
was stooping over a book and did not
notice her. He was, in fact, thinking
the thought that had troubled him
in the morning, but Cecil fancied he
was busy, and looked round to see
what mischief she could do. It
flashed upon her that here was a
fine opportunity for the old chest,
and so she seated herself on the
carpet and began her rummage.
Presently Sir Hugh, hearing the
rustle of papers, looked round.
' I should like to know who is to
be my fairy Order/ he said, ' amongst
all that mess.'
' I will, papa. I shall give a tap
with my wand, and you will see it
all come straight. But look here.
Isn't this to mamma? It has never
been opened, and it's like— a valen-
tine.'
Sir Hugh looked at the large
* Miss Neville ' on the envelope, and
knitted his brows in a vain effort to
remember anything about it. He
couldn't. It was very strange. He
fancied he knew the writing, but yet
could not tell whose it was— cer-
tainly not his own — nor recollect
anything about the packet. He
considered a little and then said.
' You had better take it to her.'
He took a pen and wrote on the
cover 'Cecil has just found this
amongst my old papers. I have no
idea how or when it came into my
possession, neither can I make out
the hand, though it doesn't seem
altogether strange. Perhaps you
can solve the mystery.'
CHAPTER III.
ITS MESSAGK — AFTER MANV DATS.
It was in verse, as Frank's valen-
tines had always been ; halting, and
with queer rhymes and changes of
measure. It was full of the half
humorous tenderness of quiet
friendship ; and it ended with a hope
that she would make ' old Hugh '
happier than his first wife did ; that
was if she accepted him ; and with a
demand for her congratulations upon
his own approaching marriage ; since
he was 'the happiest fellow alive'
and couldn't keep the news from her,
though it was a secret from all be-
side.
And the evening grew old; the
white flecked sky turned colder, and
the moon came out. But Lady
Eainham sat with this voice from
the dead in her hand, motionless ;
full of humiliation and remorse.
And she was thinking of many years
of bitterness and sorrow and pride ;
and of a heavy sacrifice to a myth,
for she had never loved him. And
her husband — whom she did love —
whom she had so wronged— how
was she to atone to him ?
By-and-by the door opened and
Cecil stole in. And she saw Lady
Rainham's face turned towards the
window with the moonbeams light-
ing it, and thought she had never
seen anything so beautiful in her
life.
' Mamma,' she said, softly, ' why
don't you come down? We are
waiting, papa and I; and it's cold
up here.'
' I will come,' said Lady Rainham ;
but her voice was strange. Cecil
knelt down beside the chair and
drew her mother's arm round her
neck.
' How cold you are ! Dear mamma,
is anything the matter ? Cannot I
comfort you?'
Lady Rainham bent down and
held her in a close embrace.
' My darling, you do always. I
cannot tell whether I want comfort
now or not. I am going down to
your father, and Cecil, I must go
alone ; I have something to say.'
She went into the drawing-
room, straight up to where her
husband sat listlessly in his chair at
126
Visits in Country Houses.
the window. TTo started when ho
Bawher,andtaid something hurriedly
about ringing for lights, but sho
stopped him.
' It will bo better thus, for what I
have to say. Hugh, I have come to
ask your forgiveness.'
Sir Hugh did not answer. Tlie
speech took him by surprise, and
she had never called him Hugh be-
fore, since their marriage. lie had
time enough to tell himself that it
was only another mockery, and
would end in the old way.
But standing there, with Frank's
letter in her band, Bhe told him all,
not sparing herself, and then asked
if he could ever forgive lier. She was
not prepared for the great love which
answered her; which had lived
unchanged through all her coldness
and repulses ; and which drew her
to him closer now perhaps than it
might have done if her pride had
never Buffered under these years of
wretchedness.
Cecil never knew exactly what
had happened ; but when her father
put his arm round her and called
her his blessing, -she looked up at
him with an odd sort of conscious-
ness that in some way or other tho
old valentine found in her rumn
amongst his papers had to do W
the ehango she saw. And it was
her doing. So she made up her
wilful mind straightway to exult and
triumph over the fact to poor
Charlie ; and then, if he wanted to
send her another next year — why,
after a proper amount of teasing and
suspense, which was good for him
and kept him in order, she would
perhaps say that he might.
VISITS IN COUNTRY HOUSES.
No. II.
WHEN Mrs. D and her son
separated after the London
ion, each bent upon as full an
enjoyment of country life as could
be obtained, they made a compact
to acquaint each other with their
experiences. Mrs. 1) fulfilled
her part of the contract in the letter
which she wrote to her son Arthur
from the Garringtons, in which
sho described very vividly one
phase of society in country houses.
Arthur's first visit was to one of his
oldest friends, who was a millionaire
and a large landed proprietor in the
West of England. Sir Archibald
Edmon tone had been Arthur's
friend at Eton and at Oxford, and
now it ran ly happ q< d that either
of themwt at to Richmond, or Ascot,
Ipsom, or, in tact, any party of
pleasure in v. Inch the oth< r was ool
his companion. Scarci ly a day
d without their mi etmg either
at their p homi . or in
Gotten Bow, or at their clubs. No
brothers were em r mi re insepa-
rable ; and the firel move which
Arthur made out of London wa in
the direction of Garzington Hall,
where' he was to pick up Sir Archi-
bald and accompany him to Scotland.
Garzington Hall was a large mo-
dern house, situated in the midst of
a fine old park which had belong* I
to the Edmonstones for generati
It was a place to be proud of, for it
was very beautiful, surrounded by
the most magnificent woods, and,
from some points, commanding v< ry
fine views of the sea, which was
about eight miles off as the crow
flies. Sir Archibald was about a
year older than his friend. His
house was still the home of his
brother and sisters, who did all th< y
could to make it pleasant to their
brother and his friends. Hedi •
this of them, for there never w
more dutiful son nor e kinder
brother; anil his great wish was
thai when he came of age thtro
should be no i I ■ in the old
way j. Often had his mother iv-
monstrated, saying it was better for
her to get out of the way betio
before his wife came to turn her
out; to which remonstrance he in-
variably replied, ' Time i aough,
mother, time enough. I love my
Visits in Country Houses.
127
liberty too well to part with it just
yet.'
The Edmonstone family consisted
of three sisters and a younger
brother, who was still at Eton.
They were a racketting lot. Two of
the sisters were ' out,' and the third
and youngest on the very verge of
that interesting moment in every
young lady's life, when she bids
adieu for ever to the school-room
and mixes in the gay and giddy
world. They were rather ' fast,' and
rather noisy ; greater favourites with
the gentlemen than with those of
their own sex, who were somewhat
afraid of them. They could ride
well, and across country, too, some-
times; they could pull an oar across
the lake which formed the southern
boundary of the garden ; they could
skate, and had been known to shoot,
and were not bad shots either. They
were almost invincible at croquet;
and the knack with which they sent
their adversaries' ball flying across
the ground was the envy of many
of the gentlemen. They could
play at billiards, too ; and yet the
more feminine accomplishments of
singing and drawing had not been
by any means neglected. Their
mother, Lady Theodosia, was a very
clever woman — rather blue, but de-
cidedly clever and original, and
with a horror of conventionalisms
which prevented her seeing any
objection to many of the amuse-
ments in which her daughters ex-
celled, but for which many of her
friends blamed her and them behind
their backs, denouncing them as
man-ish, unladylike and noisy girls,
and congratulating themselves and
thanking Heaven and blessing their
stars that their daughters had more
regard for the convenances of society
and for what they called ' decorum.'
But the Miss Edmonstones were as
good, honest, warm-hearted, and
generous girls as could be found,
singularly free from the petty jea-
lousies which disfigure so many of
their own age and sex. Nor were
they by any means devoid of talent ;
tl?ty inherited a fair share of their
mother's cleverness, and could con-
verse as pleasantly and rationally as
most people and much more plea-
santly than most girls of their age.
They wero free from mauvaise hontc,
and yet by no means free and easy.
Devoted to their brother, they wero
always ready for any fun of his sug-
gesting, confident that he never would
mislead them into doing anything
that was really unbecoming, or could
compromise them in the remotest
degree. Such was the family by
whom Arthur was always well re-
ceived as one of their brother's
oldest and best friends. At this
time there was a large gathering
for certain cricket matches which
usually came off about this time.
To make them a more popular in-
stitution in the neighbourhood, Lady
Theodosia collected as many young
people together as she could, and
while the days were devoted to
cricket, which was anxiously watched
by crowds of neighbours and guests
for whose accommodation marquees
had been conveniently placed, the
evenings were spent in tableaux and
dancing, which left little time for
repose, and made Garzington Hall
the most popular place in the
county. All the country belles
looked forward to these annual
gatherings and festivities as their
' red-letter days ;' and as specula-
tions upon them were the general
theme of conversation before they
took place, so their reminiscences
were canvassed over and over again.
It was fromJGarzirigton that Arthur's
first letter was dated.
'My dearest Mother, — You are
wondering why I don't write, and
have been abusing me like a pick-
pocket for my silence; but if you
only knew what we have been doing
day after day your wonder would
turn altogether the other way. Even
now I am writing at 4 a.m. with
only one eye open, the other being
fast asleep, for I am dead tired, and
if I had any time to think about
anything I dare say I should find
out that I had every conceivable
ache that over-fatigue can produce.
But don't let your maternal heart
become anxious on my account. I
am very well, though nearly worn
out with the endless racket of this
place. Cricket by day and dancing
by night leave one's legs very little
time to rest. Luckily, Lady Theo-
128
Visits in dmntry Bouses.
dosia is very merciful, and gives Dfl
somo law at breakfast-time. I am
rally the last, and, if I dared,
would be later still, for, somehow, I
am more tired when I get up than
when I go tO b 1. At about 1 1.30
tho wioketfl art.' pitched, and by
ia o'clock wo aro at work. Tho
wi ither has ben fine, and ah
too hot. Unluckily, I have always
been on the losing side, hut we have
had capital matches. You will care
more for a d< Bcription of the folk,
their names, weights, and colours,
than for any account of the matches,
which are the engro.-sing subject
here; and yet I think you will like
to know the sort of life it is. There
has been a cricket match every day,
and as it generally lasts till dressing-
time there is really very little time
for anything else. Then dinner
is succeeded by preparations for
" tableaux," which arc in their turn
followed by dancing. I honestly
confess that I think this is too much
of a good thing. On one or two
occasions, when the cricket was over
sooner than usual, we were instantly
had in request for croquet matches,
in which the ladies a rtainly ex-
celled. Thco. Edmonstone is tho
best croquet-player I ever saw. I
wi>h you could have seen how well
she put down that conceited young
puppy Parker. It was as good
play. You must know that " Happy
Parker," as ho is called, considers
himself an awful swell. He is rich,
rather good-looking, and has been,
I am told, the spoilt child of fortune.
He is in the Blues, and is made a
fuss with because ho has lots of
money, good horses, good shooting,
and a good temper. He thinks the
whole world is r< ady to be his hum-
ble servant. Ho had never been
at GarziriL'ton before, ami scarcely
knows Edmonstone, never saw Lady
.1, and was onee introduct '1
to tl 1 I girl, Nina, who holds
him in special aversion. I n>
saw any , fr< e and 1
and off-hand as hi- i . He wagg
about as if h' v. bowing
off In 1 I behavi as if he
was the most intimate fri< nd of the
family instea 1 of what he is. all
• r. I 'in' night, when Tin o.
E Imonstone ha I bat n looking aft. r
some of the guests, and had l>een
getting partners for Borne of her
country neighbours, and Mas stand-
ing alone and apart from the dan
"Happy Parker" comes up with an
air and a grace, and in a cool, off-
hand way says to her, " You're doing
nothing; would you like to dance
with me? Come along." To which
she quietly replied, looking him full
in tho face, "No I thank you; that
would indeed be one degree n
than doing nothing." He looked
awfully sold ; but he had found his
match, for she is tho last girl to
stand any nonsense of that sort, and
it is time for him to be brought to
his bearings. You talk of not
having a moment to yourself. Pike
Miss Miggs, you consider you
are always toiling, moiling, never
"giving satisfaction, never having
time to clean yourself— a potter's
W( seel ;" but what would you think
of this life? It would kill
strongest man in no time at all, and
would ilog Banting out of tl>c field.
You aro hunted from cricket to
croquet, from croquet to tableaux
and charades, and then to dancing,
and tho intervening time is devoted
to dressing and dining, and you are
lucky if you get to bed by 4 o'clock
a.m.; for, after the ball, wo men ad-
journ to the smoking-room, where
we wind up tho festivities with
cigars and cooling beverages, and
talk over the events of the day, an 1
criticise some fair dib Uantt who has
omed for the first time at the
Garrington Ball. To-night, tho last
of the series, we wound up with Sir
Poger do Coverley, sang (.'<>d save
the Queen and Jolly Hogs all in
chorus, and gave sundry cheers for
Lady Theodosia and the house of
Edmonstone.
' But now about the "other folk."
Tho house has been as full as it can
hold, and Bev< ral men all ep ovi rthe
stable^ your humble servant among
the number. I id and Lady
Camel ford and their son anddaugh-
b r, Lady Bland e ! ad her
husband, l id] < I 1: ach and
her two dl besides the
Thompsons, I ry pretty M
Nashes, and Lord and Lady Fair-
light, and some country neighbours.
There are, of course, a lot of men,
Visits in Country Houses.
129
"loose men" as Lady
would
call them, some of whom are in-
vited because of their skill at
cricket. Tom Lee and young Dry-
stix are among the number. As
usual, Tom Lee is the autocrat of
the cricket-field, the ball-room, and
smoking- room. He lays down the
law in the most insufferable manner,
and considers no one has any right
to do anything of any kind without
his permission. I cannot imagine
why he is asked everywhere, for
very few people like him, as his cool
indifference with regard to the likes
and dislikes of his neighbours
almost amounts to impertinence.
His success last year when he was
on the Northern Circuit has made
him more unbearable than ever.
But as he is too unpleasant a subject
to dwell upon, I will tell you about
the tableaux. Lady Fairlight and
the youngest of the three Miss
Nashes were the belles. You can-
not imagine anything more beautiful
than Lady Fairlight as Mary Queen
of Scots at her execution. Lady
Camelford's daughter and the Miss
Eoaches were her maids of honour,
and young Lord Tufton was the
executioner. Lady Fairlight was
dressed in black velvet. In the first
tableau she appeared absorbed in
prayer while her maids of honour
stood weeping around her ; and in
the second she was in the act of
giving her "beads" to one of her
ladies. I never saw anything like
her expression in this last scene. It
was a combination of resignation at
her own sad fate and tender com-
passion for those she was about to
leave for ever. The next tableau
was from the " Rape of the Lock,"
in which the youngest of the Nashes
represented Belinda. She was ex-
quisitely dressed, and as her fore-
head is low the effect of her hair
being drawn off away from her face
was exceedingly good, especially as
she has a good brow. Altogether
with powder, and flowers jauntily
set on the top and side of the moun-
tain of coiffure which she wore,
and with patches, and sac, and
short petticoats displaying a small
foot and neat ankle, she was as
lovely a sight as could be seen.
Tom Lee did his part well. His
VOL. XI. — NO. LX1I.
unwhiskered face came in admirably
for such a tableau. Ho was capitally
dressed, and so were Miss Nash's
two sisters, who filled up the back-
ground. The last tableau was of
Elaine as she was borne along in
her barge. Ellen Pendarve's fine
outline came out beautifully as she
lay upon the bier, and Lord Camel-
ford's masculine head and features
with the addition of a snowy beard
well represented the "dumb old
servitor" who steer'd tho dead
" upward with the flood."
• In her right hand the lily, in her left
The letter — all her bright hair streaming
down —
And all the coverlid was cloth of gold
Down to her waist, and she herself in white
All but her face, and that clear- featured face
Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead
But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled.'
I am not sure it was wise to finish
the tableaux with one so sad — for it
was not easy to shake off the im-
pression quickly, and.it was only by
a kind of an effort that we returned
to jollity. However, we did manage
to recover ourselves, and were as
jolly as ever, dancing away merrily
to fiddle and fife. Our charades
were even better than the tableaux ;
and some of the acting was admirable.
Young Drystix made a first-rate
conspirator in "Counterplot," and
Lord Tufton a capital man milliner.
The passages between him and
Theo. Edmonstone were admirable.
" The Peer," as Tom Lee, his bear
leader, calls him, has a quantity of
black, greasy-looking hair, a bright
colour, good features, and an inci-
pient moustache, which he is al-
ways manipulating tenderly; and
altogether he well represented that
peculiar class of mankind which is
devoted to measuring tapes and
laces by the yard and to proffering
their goods to the fair sex in the
most irresistible manner. It seemed
to me quite his metier to unfold
silks and satins, and assure the pur-
chasers that they were " the newest
style," the "most fashionable,"
"quite distinguished," &c, &c.
Theo. Edmonstone's contemptuous
banter of him, and reckless incon-
siderateness in making him display
his goods, without the remotest in-
tention of purchasing any, exhibited
K
130
Visits in Country ITottses.
to the liff the mode in which some
ladies of our acquaintance conduct
themselves in certain shops which
profess to provide them with all
that is requisite to their success
and reputation in society. And
now, dear mother mine, 1 must shut
up and get to bed, tor Edmonstone
ami I are off i arly to-morrow on our
way to the North. I will write to
ymi again as sunn as I can, l>ut if
wo are worked as hard at Staple-
ton's as we have been here, I shall
not have much time to write
What a pity and a bore too, it is
that some of the kindest-hearted
and most good-natured people in the
world make life such a toil to them-
selves and their friends. There are
people who are always striving to
a pence out of every
shilling, and so there are others
whose sole object is to get more
hours out of every day than is
to bo got, and so it is all " hurry
scurry after 'amusement of some
kind.'
Arthur and Sir Archibald set off
early, and travelled as luxuriously
and comfortably together as it is
ible in this mosl luxurious ago.
By dint of proper precautions, in
direct contravention of the orders
and regulations issued by tho direc-
. and in contempt of the penal-
: and anathemas annexed to any
infringement of those ordi
two friends were able to propitiate
the gnat to secure for thera-
i the undisputed and undis-
turbed i on of one oompart-
t, in which they slept and
smoked and talked and read as
felt inclined ; and in due course
of time they arrived at their desti-
ii, where they had been invito d
for grouse-shooting and deer-stalk-
ing. The nickname by which 'the
1 known among a certain
if familiar frii nds was ' Lib) it y
Ball/ 1 ■ ■ e the own< r and mi
of it piqued himself upon allov< ing
ev< ry one tod i just what he liked,
and neither more nor l< bs than ho
I. The bee might be as busy
raid, and the di lla
It was from Liberty Ball that Ar-
thur Q< d his second letter to
his mother.
'Db&bsbt Mottter, — It seems to
me the world is always in extremes.
At Garzington we wero never al-
lowed a moment to ourselves. We
W( re hunted from pillar to DOat,
never might lie sulky or indulge
any wayward fancy of one's own ; and
here we are allowed to do what we
like, go where we like, and indulge
an\ passing mood. I have 1
here B week, and have very little to
tell you; hut you will rail at me,
and iei urn to your old chargo
against all men, and say that they
can never be pleased, if I say that I
do not think tho absence of all rule
and law, as it exists at "Liberty
Ball," conduces to one's comfort.
The fact is, than when the master of
the house surrenders his right to
plan and devise for the amusement
of his guests, every one is at a loss
to know what to do, and the practi-
cal result is that we either go about
amusing ourselves in a "shilly-
shally" kind of way, or else sub-
mit to the dictation of some ruling
but less scrupulous individual who
forces his own views upon others
as to what is or is not the thing to
be done. Wo have at this moment
an instance in point. Hervey Gray,
a cousin of our host, presumes upon
his relationship, and absorbs all the
"gillies," and directs us all with
much more imperiousness than his
cousin evi r would assume. At tho
nning of our visit we W< re left
much to ourselves, and had
of us a gilly of our own, and
whatever else wo wanted, but there
was no plan — no combination, —
and it did not answer, especially as
the master of " Liberty Hall " is ndt
himself much of a sportsman, and
has taken " the Lodge " more for the
honour and glory of the thing than
for his own special love of BDOrl ;
but now Hervey Gray rules ns
With a rod of iron, and, though
fond of jho tting, but very ignorant
of the noble art of deerstalking,
layB down the law for us, for the
! - I i , for the gillies, for every-
body and everything, and his law
is not always good or pleasant.
In short, I am altogether rather
out of humour, and think that it
is possible to have too much of
own way, and that 1 1 • i
Before the Footlights.
131
Gray is not a good substitute for
the laird of " Liberty Hall."
' Arthur D was quite right in
saying that it does not conduce to
comfort when the master is not
roaster. It is like an arch without
its keystone ; there is no centre, no
point of union. The combination of
law and liberty is rare, but where it
exists, it promotes happiness. It
sounds almost absurd to use such
grand words and ideas for the
expres-ion of a very simple fact
— that the pleasantest houses are
those in which the owners occupy
themselves for the comfort and
entertainment of their guests, and
arrange for them what shall be
done, and at the same time make it
quite appreciable by all that each
one is at liberty to say " yea " or
" nay " according to the bias of
his own mind. It is difficult to
steer clear of the two opposite evils
of which Garzington Manor and
Liberty Hall are the types ; but
there are houses in which the gifted
hosts and hostesses contrive to pro-
vide for their guests whatever shall
be most conducive to their enjoy-
ment without fussiness or dictation.
No one is neglected ; all are consi-
dered ; and life passes so easily and
pleasantly, without noise or confu-
sion, that we thinking people are
scarcely conscious of the amount
of tact, consideration, and fore-
thought which they ought to
place to the credit of those who
make it a part of the business
of their life to contribute, as far
as they can, to the social enjoyment
of their friends.
' Tom Slender.'
BEFORE THE FOOTLIGHTS;
at, &ktU\)c£ of piag$fltttf« &acict$.
II.
THE PIT AT THE STRAND.
ILL you be good enough to step
this way ?'
Taking our position here, my
courteous companion, while
the orchestra is playing that
wonderful selection of popular
street airs which forms the
overture to five burlesques out
of six, you will possibly object
that we can see nothing of the
performance; but as when we
visited Drury Lane together I
requested you to turn your
back upon the stage, so here,
in the little Strand Theatre,
I wish you to be blind to the
symmetrical actresses and
comic dances, while you direct
your attention solely to the
audience. Your eyes, my aristocratic friend, I perceive, ore directed at
once to the private boxes; but it is not at that portion ot the house I
wish you to gaze. Sink them, if you please, lower and lower : pass over
the gentlemen in evening dress, and the ladies in opera cloaks, sitting lan-
guidly in the cushioned stalls, and then with your lorgnette sweep the
K 2
132
Be/or* the Footlights.
front row of those crowded Mats
behind. Thi re ! Now the curtain
has risen, and the bo - are, with but
few exceptions, tnmed towards the
Btage. It is astrange motley collec-
tion of individuals, from almost every
i of Bociety, you Bee before you.
The pit of u theatre is a sort of
neutral ground upon which all
may mi et. The semi-geii-
teel go there, because it is more re-
spectable than the gallery; the
young theatrical lover, because it is
cheap; ami the genuine playgoer,
1 1 c rase it is the besl place tor
g and hearing in the house.
I . t as criticise some of the charac-
ters, and then, I think, you will
allow the truth of my assertion.
That elderly man who has at-
tracted your attention is, without
doubt, a highly respectable tanner,
from the midland counties. His son
has told him what 'jolly fun' the
Strand burlesques are; and, being
in Loudon for the first time these
ten years, be has come to see and
hear for himself Twenty minutes
ire the doors were op d he took
up his position in Surrey Street. He
wenl in with the rush, and stragj
into a front place, and for the half-
hour before the curtain drew up,
entertained his neighbours by tell-
ing them it was nineteen years since
he ha I been inside a theatre, and
that plays were plays when he was
a boy.
You maj have noticed, my dear
Loungi : me to remark, by
way of parenthesis, that the longer
the interval that has elapsed since
the is been inside a theatre,
the louder he usually is in di preci-
ation of the pri enl style of the
drama, and in lamentations at its di
I I in ration ; and if you care to carry
the notion further, and make a
broadi c application of it, you may
sail l\ lay it down as a rule m con-
nection with the British snob that
the less he knows aboul a thing the
more noisily and vehemently he <li -
tti s it.
Howi -.' r, t . return to our el-
derly man. Look at the pi tpll x< d
ezpn •. ion on I le can
• nothing of the rhymed j
in the burli Bque, and i trying
their mi Qoeas,
math r, my intelligent companion,
even for you at timi . I imagine —
and behind him you will pern ive a
good-natun d Looking fellow 1 t-
plaining the jests and repeating the
puns until they enter the thick head
of the farmer in a confused and
mangled way. Listen.
' What's that ?' asks the country-
man, in a hoarse whisper. ' what
did that young woman in boy's
clothes saj ?'
His question is unheard, in a roar
of laughter at something on the
Btage, and he repeats it.
• Said Bhewas meal-an'-coaly— ha,
ha, ha !'
'He, he, he! Why? 1
' Don't you see— meal-an'-coly —
melancholy— eh? Ha, ha, ha!'
' But, yon know, 1 don't see why
she should say it.'
■ '( lause it's in her part.'
' Well, but I remember seeing
Macri a Iv in '
' Hush,' ' Sili nee,' ' Turn him
out,' shout his neighbours. But
though silenced, by the expression
of his conntt nance I opine he is still
struggling over that pun, though
there have l" i n a dozen better ones
sin e. When our bucolic friend re-
turns to his native pastures, you
may rest assured that, in giving his
account of the burlesque at tho
Strand, he will have a good dial to
say about the acl i accompanied
by mysterious nods and sagacious
wink's ; but if questioned as to the
words, he* will pronounce a very un-
favourable opinion respecting them.
Si e, however, tin re is something lie
appreciates: it is a song, the tune
ot which he has heard at three
music halls, and on all the barrel
organs, in the wi eh he has kx en in
I ondon ; -he n cogni > t it as an
acquaintance, is proportionately de-
and laughs hi artily. But,
talking of laughter, turn your at-
tention now, my observing friend, to
the woman who sits nexl to him. I
will answer Gar it there is no one
I I ij ing the evi aing i ntertain-
menl more than sin-. From the
lnoiui nt the curtain drew up a
broad grin n ttled on her homely
tare, w Inch be - i II ver lefl it up to
the ; • time. 1 '" you observe,
whenever the supernumeraries are
Before the Footlights.
133.
131
Be/ort the Footlights
on, how intently she regards ■
young pretty-looking girl dressed as
b page? That page is herdaughfe r,
and shr feels a mother's anxiety in
her child looking hex bt st, and a
mother's pride in her every action.
}l">t probably Bhe herself, in her
yonng daySj has trod the boards in
sparkling array as a magnifioi nt
hut silent 'super,' and now is well
up in all that pertains to the theatri-
cal world. It is likely enough Bhe
k( rps a Fmall shop somewhere in
the neighbourhood, and exhibits the
theatre hills in her window; and 1
will engage she could tell von the
real names of half the Miss Mont-
rnorencys andVavasonrs in the pro-
f< ssion.
At the further extremity of the
front row, leaning against the wall,
you will recognise a youth wo have
a en apain and again, or, if not that
ven one, his exact counterpart.
He is one of an unfortunately
numerous class — a class generally
i in connection with three-ha It-
penny cigars and short pipes, flashy
mock jewelry, and dirty, gloveless
hands,— one of a class to ho met with
at third-rate luncheon hars, at infe-
rior music halls, and all places of
low resort. lie has, I may safely
1 1, a loud voice, a ltettiug-hook,
and a taste for cheap tobacco; he is
fond of coarse personalities, which,
with him, are equivalent to wit; he
is apt to emphasize every other sen-
tence with wholly unnecessary ex-
pletives; he glories in being on
sufficiently friendly terms with a
prizefighter to shake hands with
him on meeting; and lie considers
the having imhi!>ed more spirituous
adulterations than ho can walk
under a thing to ho proud of, and to
be told as a wonderfully humorous
incident in his life. He came in to
the pit late, with a smirk and a
igger ; l-' has stared two re-
spectable girls out of countenance:
he has pushed and elbowed an old
man from his place, and has
sworn at a woman who requested
him to allow 1m r to pest h
him. Look at him now as he
up, whistling, totu n. accom-
paniment to the air being rang on
the stage, with his hands in his
lounges there, his mouth screwed
pockets and his hat tilted on one
side, — look at him, and tell mo if
you do not see a low vagabond,
who, sooner or later, if he mi ets his
deserts, will find his way into ono
or other of the London police courts.
lie is, in all probability, a Bhopboy,
or, perhaps, a clerk in a fifth-rate
Jew I 'ill-discounter's office; and it
will be well for his employer if, one
day, tho till is not ransacked to pay
for those cheap flashy clothes which
he delights to wear. He would tell
you— supposing he could answer
your que lions civilly- that he was
a 'man of the world,' that he ' knew
a thing or two,' and that he was 'up
to most dodges.' What do 1 under-
stand by such phrases ? By being a
' man of tho world,' I understand
that he has succeeded more or less
in aping tho vices of his betters ; by
'knowing a thing or two,' that he
could toll you a horse to back for
the Derby, and could introduce yon
to various low BO nes of cheap de-
bauchery ; and by being ' up ' to
'most dodges/ that by association
with sharper- he has heroine, rather
their accomplice than their dupe.
Phew! Let US turn away from
him, and forget his miserable ex-
istence.
, tl i re is a nice, pretty, rosy-
cheeked girl, a pleasant contrast, in
truth. She has been brought hereby
that very particularly sheepish-look-
ing man, seated behind her, who
gazes with a pertinacity worthy of a
In tter cause al theback of her bonnet,
and registers solemn but inaudible
vows never to take her to the theatre
again unless he can sit beside her
himsi If. Hideous pangs of jealousy
are preventing him from having tho
hast enjoyment of the buries pie;
but yet, I doubt not, she, with a G w
words, will calm his ruffled temper
long before the omnibus has taken
them to Camden Town, after tho
performanci has come to an i ^d.
Do yon i that gorgeously-attired
individual? 1 should much like,
my (bar Lounger, here to give you
some particular* am at the natural
history of the ' swell :' to point out
to yon tho peculiarities of hi di
his manners, and his language, and
then from him branch off to the
parasite or monkey swell. This
Before the Footlights.
135
latter is a Brummagem piece of
goods, a cheap imitation, a lacquered
copy of the genuine article ; and, as
is the case with all worthless arti-
cles, only bearable until the impo-
sition is discovered. The monkey
swell has probably a nodding ac-
quaintance with some hanger-on
to the aristocracy, and believes in
him to a great extent. He dresses
after him, speaks like him, walks
like him, copies his gestures, and
imitates his tastes with enough ex-
aggeration to make himself ludicrous
instead of a man of fashion. The
monkey swell is a sham and an im-
position. On a salary of three
hundred a year he endeavours to
live in the same style as his ac-
quaintance with three thousand.
Shams are the bane of this genera-
tion. Laudable ambition is well
enough, but why on earth need
Tom or Harry buy brass watch
chains of the same pattern as my
lord's gold one ?
Thank you, my patient friend ;
that yawn is not thrown away
upon me, and I will take the hint.
My remarks on the monkey swell
were called forth by that highly-
objectionable individual with a glass
in his eye, who is far from com-
fortable in the front row, wedged in
as he is by the crinoline of a pretty
girl on one side, and the portly frame
of a middle-aged gentleman on the
other. You may see at a glance,
for all his pretentious airs, that he
is hardly the distinguished indi-
vidual he would have us believe
him to be. I dare say, if he would
condescend to wear an apron, he
would make a very good shopman,
but I am sure no power on earth
could make him a gentleman. Do we
not know a score like him? Are
we not always meeting those sham
'swells,' those unmitigated snobs,
who never lose an opportunity of
trying to impress upon us what
wonderfully fine fellows they are ?
But enough of him : let me direct
your attentic i now most particularly
to that yoL ig gentleman whom
' melancholy appears to have marked
for her own.' Observe him nar-
rowly, and I will tell you his history.
His manners are mild, his speech is
nervous, his heart isj susceptible,
and his purse is light, It is not
more than six months since that ho
was the pride of his native village.
Then he was a mere lad, who had
never been away from homo for
more than twenty-four hours by
himself, and whose greatest dissipa-
tion had been a tea-gathering in the
village schoolroom, where he had
greatly distinguished himself by his
ability in handing dishes and cups.
This was his first great success in
life. But time rolled on (as the
novelists say) and it became neces-
sary for him to worship the world
and Mammon, or, in other words,
to earn his living by becoming
a clerk in a merchant's office.
Brought up in the good old-
fashioned belief that courage, truth-
fulness, and honesty in word and
action are the characteristics of
gentlemen, he steered clear of the
sunken rocks of dissipation and
riotous pleasures, but, as I have
told you, his heart is susceptible,
and scarcely a week passed by, after
his arrival in London, that some
fresh divinity did not reduce him to
the verge of despair; and now, so
close an observer as yourself, my
intelligent companion, can see with
half an eye that the present object
of his adoration is that young
lady, whose fancy dress and nimble
bounds in that double shuffle have
just aroused the gallery to a burst
of applause and a vociferous encore.
See how he follows her every move-
ment with despairing eyes ; observe
how he clenches his fist when an
actor puts his arm about her slender
waist; notice how he fingers the
bouquet which lies half concealed
within his hat, nervous and doubting
about throwing it to the present
object of his affections, though he
selected it with care, and paid for
it with his savings this very after-
noon in Covent Garden for the
express purpose. He has already
picked to pieces many of the choicest
flowers it contains, the leaves of
which lie scattered at his feet, and
you will be tolerably safe in pre-
suming that he will never summon
up either courage or strength suf-
ficient to throw it over four rows of
stalls and the orchestra. If he does
throw it, you may take it for granted
that it will be at the worst of times,
and that a contraction of the brow,
136
Before the Foot! ig his.
instead of a smile, will reward him
for his act of gallantry.
A i yon sweep tiro pit, your eyes
will possibly reel on that group of
men Btanding at the hack-. They
camo in at balf-price, ami are occu-
pying theii opera-glasses and their
time in observing and discussing
tho symmetry of their favourite
actresses. They are evidently of
the class known as 'fast.' That is
to say, they dr< B8 after one another
in a certain style, they cut their
hair short as a convict's, they fre-
quent disreputable places of amuse-
ment, they drink more than is good
for them, they smoke more than
they onght to for health's sake,
they play cards and billiards for
higher stakes than they can afford,
and, worst of all, they cultivate a
spirit of cynicism which they do not
feel — a mean, paltry spirit of sneer-
ing at everything good, and crying
down everything they ought to
respect. You see them there, at the
back of the pit, commencing tho
evening; when the burlesque is
ended, they will adjourn to some
music hall or casino, and thence to
a West-end supper-room, probably
concluding their evening's enter-
tainment (?) in some still more dis-
reputable haunt. They are ' sowing
their wild oats,' they are 'seeing
life,' they are 'making the most of
their youth,' their apologists say ;
but whether their oats had not
better remain unsown, and life, as
they view it, unseen, is a question
I ask, but leave others to discuss.
If you wish to see how a burlesquo
can be enjoyed enjoyed for its wit
and fun, and not for its performers'
look at those two boys
Bitting far back there. They havo
not once turned th< ir i y< 9 from the
Btage -nice the curtain rose; they
have' not lost a Bingle word thai
has been Bpoken; tiny have fol-
. step of the comic
dances, and they havo Btamped
and clapped their hands in such
vehement applause as to call for a
remonstrance from thai choleric old
vman sitting behind them, who
is 'Disgusted, but, positively dis-
I at the degradation of the
drama l 1 an 1 would gi t out and go
home if he were not so tightly
wedged in as to render motion
next to impossible. ITo has lost
his temper and his pocket-handker-
chief; he is indignant and uncom-
fortable; and neither Miss Dnck-
bam's songs, nor Mr. Shuffle's
dancing can draw from him a smile
or a sign of approval. There is yet
another character in the pit of the
Strand this evening whose acquaint-
ance 1 wish you to make, lie is
B very important character, too, in
his own estimation, and rarely con-
descends to express approval by-
more than a depreciatory simper.
Do you know him? No? Why that
is one of our best burlesque actors
—at least ho would be, he says, if
the public would recognize amateur
talent. His acquaintance is sought
after a good deal by ladies and
gentlemen wishing to give private
theatricals, but without the slightest
idea how to manage them. He sets
them right, appropriates the b t
characters for himself, and rants
and raves, dancing out of time, and
Binging out of tune, applauded to
the echo by enraptured guests, who,
having hern told in a mysterious
whisper that ho is tho 'famous'
Mr. Blank, refuse to be guided by
their own judgment, and hear tribute
to the fame of one of the silliest and
most absurd of would-be actors in
the country. Look at him now,
full of self-conceit, saying doubtless
to himself, ' Tut moon these hoards,
give mo a fair chanco before a
British public, and see how I will
electrify them.' There, now! he
has turned and is pushing bis way
out of the theatro in apparent dis-
gust Good luck go with him!
I see by the bill you hold in your
hand, my dear Lounger, that wo
have already arrived at tho last
'•'He of the burlesque; so, ere yon
shut up your glasses, just sweep
round the remainder of those pil
and tell mo who you see i>< -
rides those to whom wo have paid
particular attention.
Then , to your left, is nn old lady
with a basket, from wl sh peeps a
bottle-neck. She has lardlj heard
a word of the burl -que, owing
to a quam l with a mild young
gi ntleman sitting next her, respect-
ing the right tu a certain seat. You
will that she is now purplo
With md heat, and that her
The Two Pages.
137
opponent, notwithstanding the grand
way in which he pretends to hear
none of her sarcasms, is far from
comfortable in the place he occupies,
despite the fierce attacks of the
old lady. Behind them, again, is
another couple. They have heard
but little of the play, either, so
much have they found to whisper
into each other's ears, disregarding
the frowns and angry remonstrances
of those about them, and the jeering
allusions to a ring and a clergyman,
made by a would-be wag in an
audible whisper. Besides these,
there is a soldier with his be-
trothed, a father with his son, a
score of young men with eye-glasses,
a dozen young women in hats, and
a very fair number of middle-aged
men, some stupid, some asleep, but
many appreciative. See now, as
the curtain rolls slowly down, how
old and young alike clap their
hands together in token of approval ;
and listen how the juniors shout
frantically for their favourites to
come before the baize and bow
their acknowledgments. The cur-
tain rises and falls a second time,
the applause dies away, and there
is a scuffling for hats and cloaks,
and a rush for the door. There is a
farce to come yet. Shall we wait and
see it ? No ? Then let us adjourn.
I much fear, my friend, that you,
to whom doubtless the salons of the
nobility are open, will have found
playhouse society in the Strand pit
hardly to your taste ; but take
courage. The Opera season will
soon commence, and in a stall at
Her Majesty's you shall reap the re-
ward for your patience this evening.
As I said before, let us adjourn
and sup together at the club.
THE TWO PAGES.
LIKE a missal, all ablaze
With the gold and colours blended,
Shine the gay chivalric days
In the hazy distance splendid.
Maidens veiled in yard-long hair,
Knights in golden armour flashing,
Glow of pennons in the air,
Gleam of falchions ever clashing, —
And the volume to complete,—
Volume lettered * Middle Ages,' —
Bright at every heroine's feet
Lie illuminated Pages !
Glittering in their iris hues,
Hawk on wrist, with bells and jesses,
Eyes of liquid browns or blues,
Maiden cheeks and maiden tresses.
Fond of joust and fond of brawl —
Dagger out ere word is spoken —
Life of bower, and life of hall,
Youth's free spirit all unbroken.
Singing to the twangling lute
Minstrel ballad last in fashion,
Till the lips that should be mute,
Learn the parrot-lisp of passion.
Then beneath the pleasaunce walls,
(Ripe with nectarines and peaches),
To My Lady's damozels
Oft Sir Page the lesson teaches.
138 Tlie Two Pages.
Eyes upon a blushing Gum, —
IS 'tin;:, too, B milky shoulder,-*
Ann about a resting place
Might dismay ■ lover bolder.
Of Ins heart and its despair,
wing much and much protesting,
Till so much of love is there,
Only half of it is jesting.
Happy Tape, who thus can move
In a round of bright enjoyment —
Happy to whom som;' and love
Represent life's sole employment!
But from this the glowing past
And its splendours rvancscent,
Let our dazzled e; tat
Over Life's superior present.
With these ages wholly ripo,
With these days of faster movement
Comes a Page of modern type,
Showing every last improvement, —
Comes a maiden whom we sing,
Whom we laud in songs" and sonnets,
Leads a greyhound by a string,
W< ars the cream of Paris bonnets.
At her heels our iris Page,
On these days prosaic stranded,
Flashe8 buttons, Hashes gold, —
Round his hat superbly banded.
Banished from his lady's side,
Ee ignored and quite eschew'd is, —
Bears a parcel, pack-thread t i . d,
» arries home a book from Mudie's ;
And if softly in Ins ears
' Hither, Page !' the lady mutter,
Tis that for her hound she fears,
Or needs aid to cross a gutter.
Or of shopping she is tired
S 'king trifles to adorn her),
And the brougham is required —
Waiting for her round the corner.
So our sprightly Pago, at last
Wholly changed in each essential,
Haply to atone the past,
Finds a present penitential.
As for love — does lie but own
Halt' tin- warmth of bygone ages,
To tlir door be would be shown — ■
With no mention of his wages. W. S.
\^,\^K
139
AN EVENING WITH MY UNCLE.
HOW I first came to know Uncle
Gawler, bow it happened that
our acquaintance, at first of the sim-
plest sort, ripened gradually to a
friendship warm and durable, need
not be here discussed. It is suffi-
cient for the purposes of this paper
to state that between my uncle and
myself such a happy condition of
affairs prevails. The act of parlia-
ment which regulates the times and
seasons during which my uncle may
transact business with his numerous
other poor relations in no way af-
fects me ; indeed it is more often
• after seven ' than before that I
make my calls, and I am always
■welcome. The strong spring-bolt
that secures the flap-door of my
uncle's shop counter is cheerfully
withdrawn at my approach, giving
me free access to the sanctum
beyond— where the money-till with
its silver ' well,' as large as a wash-
ing-bowl, and its gold ' well,' big-
ger than a quart basin, is always
ajar ; where on back counters, and
shelves, and bunks are strewn rings,
and pins, and brooches, and lockets,
and bracelets (all solid and good
gold, as attested by the grim glass
bottle labelled ' aquafortis,' conve-
niently perched on its little bracket),
where deep drawers, open just a little,
reveal countless tiny and precious
packets, done up in brown paper,
and white paper, and stout bits of
rag, and patched with a blue, or a
red, or a yellow ticket, to indicate
the number of pounds sterling that
have been advanced on them ; where
watches, gold and silver, lie heaped
together in a living heap, as one
may say, each one hobbled to a
pawn ticket, and left to die, but
not yet dead, but, faithful in the
discharge of its duty, clamorously
' tick, tick, ticking,' though nobody
now takes the least interest in its
time-keeping, nor minds its urgent
whispering of the flight of time any
more than the angler minds the
gasping of the fish he has just
landed. Were J a sentimental
writer (which, thank goodness, I am
not), and this a sentimental article,
I have no doubt that a very pretty
paragraph might be written on
these faithful little monitors con-
signed to dungeon darkness and the
stillness of death for just so long a
time as may suit the convenience of
the tyrant man. Torn from the
bosom where they had so long lain
nestling; abandoned by the band
that gave them life and motion,
there they lie, true even unto death,
the uncompromising, though some-
what astonished ' tick, tick ' of the
Engjish lever; the plethoric and
muffled tones of the old-fashioned
' hunter' of the mechanic ; the spas-
modic whimpering of the wretched
Genoese, reminding one of — of —
(not being ready with a happy simile
I turn to Mr. Gawler, who is church-
warden, and who promptly suggests)
cases of desertion on doorsteps.
It must not, however, be inferred
from the above statement of the
wealth in my Uncle Gawler's pos-
session that he is as well-to-do in
the world as many other of my rela-
tions in the same degree. He is not,
for instance, as rich as my Uncle At-
tenborough, whose meanest place of
business is a palace compared with
that in which my poorer uncle carries
on his trade. Uncle Attenborough
affects plate glass and green and
gold ornamentation, and informs' you,
through the medium of off-hand
little notice-boards in his window,
what is his price — per peck — for
pearls and diamonds, and what he
can give, per ton, for Australian
bullion. Should the keeper of the
crown jewels call on Uncle Atten-
borough, and request the fullest
possible advance on them, he would
no doubt be packed off with a satis-
factory ' ticket.'
Such matters, however, are alto-
gether above Uncle Gawler. He
makes no pretension to dealing in
diamonds, or foreign bullion, or
sculpture or paintings by the old
masters. It is a wonder, considering
the locality in which his business is
carried on— near Whiteeross Street,
St. Luke's— that so much valuable
property is confided to his keeping ;
and, doubtless, the fact is mainly
due— firstly, to the great number of
110
An Evening with Rtjf Uncle.
y< an be baa boon established ; and,
ndly, to the canvenii d1 anai
t ni his pn arises. It is a eorni r
bouse, and the ahop, which faces the
Bigh Btreet, isan innocent jeweller's
Bhop, and nothing more. There arc
neatly-writh d cards in the window,
variously inscril ed, 'jewelli ry re-
paired,' 'watch fitted,'
* ladies' i Bare pii ro d, 1 &c. ; so that
ev< n thongb one should happen to
be seen i atering Mr. Gawler e simp,
—nay, even though an inquisitive
brute should be mean enough to spy
from outside, and seo one hand his
'Dent 'to Mr. Gawler, and r< f
in i ichange for it a neatly-folded bit
of pasteboard, the evidence of the
pawning would be anything but
complete; watch glasses will como
to grief, and watch works need re-
pair, and it is the commonest thing
in the world for the watchmaker to
give the owner a memorandum, as
security for his property. I have
known fellows in the Strand take
the ' Angel ' omnibus on purpose to
avail themselves of the services of
Mr. < tawler.
Bnt it is not on watch and jewel
and trinket-pawnersthal Mr. Gawler
9 for the support of his busi-
n< 38. Tho street, of which my
uncle's shop forms the comer, is
one of the most densely populated
streets in London. It is a market
t, a -tii 1 1 of simps, abounding
in 'courts,' and ' alleys,' and 'yards/
with entrances like accidental chinks
in the wall, and swarming with men,
and women, and children, as rats
swarm in a sewer, it is a roaring
Btn el for business; there are tw< nty-
two butchers' shops in it, sev< utei n
bak< rs' -hops, and tw< m.. gin
Bhops and beer .-hops. s.> it i
easily be imagined that Dncle
Gawli r di • - bis share of tra le,
lb i Well pn pan d for it. fjp
the atn i 1 by the side of the inno-
cent-looking jeweller's hop a long-
ish way op th< is a mi
looking do irway, that might I e the
entrance to a hack yard That it is
something n i this, how.
may heat on v.d by the st-ne
threshold worn throngb to the
brici iih, and the doori
paint-rubl i d and grimy of elbow
'I - ; ■ poor pawn ra 1
entrance. It opens on to a passage,
e\ti riding down the whole |< ngth of
which is a row of latched doors,
close together and hinge to hi
Tbi re are eleven of thi se doors, and
they belong to as many ' box< e ' or
compartments aboul tour feet wide
ami ten deep, boarded on < ach side,
and with a portion of count* r
(hoarded, of course, from the top
downwards) in front. There is B
little bolt on the inside of the cell
door, BO that if a custom, r d(
privacy he can secure bimsi If from
observation until his negotiation
with the pawnbroker is completi d.
This precaution is - at least a
gards the daytime— quite super-
fluous ; for win n the door is do ed,
the closet is dark as evening, making
it next to impossible for any one
to recognise his neighbour, except
by the sound of his voice. 1 have
said that each closel is fronted
by a portion of the long counter
which extends from one end of tho
pawning compartmi nl to the other
—I should rather have said that it
is a ledge raised a fo >t above the
1' \el counter that faces the <-us-
tomer, the said raised ledge being,
doubtless, intended as a clack
against flio evil disposed, who
might bo tempted to advant
themselves of the bustle of much
business, and walk off with their
own or their ik ighbours' unran-
SOnied goods.
Againsl the wall opposite to tho
bos B, and facing the middle one,
the 'spout ' is built. The ' spout '
at a pawnbroker's, as the gentle
reader will pl< a ,• to understand, is
a bozed-in space penetrating the
uppt r wan house floors, and con-
trived lor the more n ady delil
of pledgi d goods; which consisting,
as they usually do among |
foik-s, of wearing apparel, and i ts,
and shot s, and b< d-linen, may be
colli et. ,i from their various places
of stowage and bundled by the
dozen through the a] i rture in
qui stion from the top <,| the h
to the bottom. I i iommodate
I licle (iawhi's BZtl n ive 1 1 1 1 : - 1 1 ;
his ' spout ' was of rmoUS si/o.
] opening v arge a, a
1 itchi n chin I to two sii
of it upright ladders u, re fill d.
An Eveninj with my Uncle.
141
Astraddle over the holo on the top
floor was a windlass with a stout
rope and a chain and a couple of
hooks depending from it. This was
used to wind up the sacksfull of
pledged bundles, and no doubt
saved a vast amount of labour.
About the spare spaces (very few)
of Uncle Gawler's shop walls were
stuck various placards and business
notices : one relating to the rates of
interest allowed by law; one or two
relating to recent instances of pro-
secution, and conviction, of persons
pawning the property of others
without their permission, and of
other persons who had endeavoured
to foist upon the unsuspecting
pawnbroker ' Brummagem ' ware,
reputed to be honest gold or silver.
There were other placards more or
less curious, but none more so than
one which in red and conspicuous
letters, bore the mysterious an-
nouncement that ' there could be
no parting after eleven o'clock.' A
solution, however, to this mystery,
and many others, appeared in the
course of the evening I passed with
Uncle Gawler.
How I came to enjoy that rare
privilege I will explain in a few
words. Although my calls at the
shop in St. Luke's were not unfre-
quent, they had invariably taken
place on some other day than Satur-
day. It was a real pleasure to call
and see Uncle Gawler : he was
always so filled with contentment
and gratitude. ' How was he get-
ting on?' 'Oh, nicely, thanky—
very nicely; a little overdone with
work, that's all: small cause for
complaint you think, eh, young
fellow? Ah! but the amount of
business to be attended to in this
place is enormous, sir— en-normous!'
And then he would cp.st his eyes
towards the long row of ' boxes,' and
from them to the mighty 'spout,'
with the cable and the chain and
hooks dangling down, and sigh a
pleasant sigh, and jingle the keys in
his pocket.
He said this, or something very
like, so often, that one could not
help looking about him for symp-
toms of the enormous business Uncle
Gawler made so much of. Looking
about for these symptoms he failed
to discover them. Although there
was kept up a pretty constant slam-
ming of the box-doors, and a briskish
clamour of ' serve me, please,' ' it's
my turn,' and 'ain't that there
come down yet?' the eleven boxes
were never a quarter tilled, and
never at any time had I dropped in
at such a time of pressure that Mr.
Gawler was unable to tuck his
hands under his coat-tails and gos-
sip for half an hour, while his two
young men plodded along, the one
examining and valuing articles
brought to pawn, and the other
making out the deposit-tickets and
handing over the money, but with
very little show of excitement. This
circumstance, coupled with another,
viz., that Uncle Gawler was inva-
riably as unruffled as regards his
habiliments as though he had just
dressed for au evening party, drove
me to the conclusion that either the
worthy old gentleman possessed a
marvellous aptitude for getting
through an 'enormous amount' of
business with perfect ease, or else
that he was slightly given to exag-
geration. At last came the eventful
evening when my unworthy suspi-
cions were vanquished, and my be-
lief in Uncle Gawler established
more firmly than ever.
It was a Saturday evening and
the time of year was July. I had
not met Uncle Gawler for several
days, and it happening that a friend
had kindly given me an order for
the admission for two on the Adel-
phi Theatre, I thought it would be
a good opportunity for a manifesta-
tion of my regard for him. It was
rather late, ' but,' thought I, ' he is
sure to be ready dressed, and he
will only have to pop on his hat
and we may be off at once.' Enter-
ing Uncle Gawler's shop I was im-
mediately struck with astonishment,
not to say awe. The two young
men were there — Uncle Gawler was
there, but how changed ! No longer
was he an elderly gentleman dressed
for an evening party, but a person
whose avocation it was to put down
mob risings, to quell riots, to stop
prize-fights, and who, calmly con-
fident, expected each moment to be
called on. It was his custom to
■wear a black satin stock and a dia-
142
An Evening irith my Uncle
mond pin; these were cast aside,
and, only for the Deck-band of hn
shirt, his throat was bare. Ever
before I had Been him in a coat of
the glossiest black; now he wore
no coat at all, but a waistcoat
with tight black holland sleeves,
like a porter at a paper-warehouse.
Usually he was particular as to tho
arrangi mi nt of his hair, so thai the
side-pieces were cunningly coaxid
upwards to conceal the nakedness
nt' his crown; this, however, was
no time for an indulgence of such
weaknesses, and his Btubbly, iron-
locka appi ared in the same
state of delightful confusion they
were originally thrown into by tho
hath dowel.
Whatever was Mr. Qawler's ob-
ject, it was evident at a glance that
both his young men were prepared
to second him while breath remained
hi their bodies. Like their master,
they had thrown aside their neck-
erchief, but, unlike him, they were
without black holland sleeves to
their waistcoats, and wore their
shirt-sleeves rolled hack above their
elbows. And all for what? Never
before had [found Uncle Gawler's
shop so peaceful. With the excep-
tion of one, the eleven boxes wero
quite empty, and the exception was
provided in a shape no more formi-
dable than that of a young laun-
dress, who was redeeming a brace
of flat ir<ms, and mildly remonstrat-
ing with Mr. Gawler f 8 assistant oon-
■ ruing their condition, while the
young man, with equal politeness,
endeavouring to exonerate the
firm from the charge of b
-tly (lamp' | that being the basis
of the young woman's argument),
hut ' impelled ultimately to
fall back on the saving clause printed
on every pawn-ticket, 'that Mr.
( ; awli r ble tor moth
or n
' How do'.'' said Uncle I lawler.
' I'n tty time to mil, of all tim- s in
m ek, upon my word I' laying
this, hi ci: M watch, and,
ap] an ntly alarm* d to find it so late,
immediately rushed to the ■ spout '
bawled up it, ' ' on lads!
make 1. 'it your ti
isn't a minul
' Why, what may lc the math
I asked. ' Anything unusual ahout
to happen V
' ( m no, nothing unusual — tho
regular thing of Saturday nights,'
replied Uncle Gawler, pushing his
musctdar arms further through his
waistcoat-sleeves, as though not at
all afraid of the ' regular tiling,' but,
on the contrary, rather anxious for
its approach. 'You won't stay, of
course,' continued he; 'they'll be
here like a swarm of bees presently,
you know, and I shan't have a mi-
nute to myself for the next live
hours.'
At this moment several of tho
'box' doors were heard to open and
fall to again with a slam, at which
signal Mr. Gawler started and laid
out his hand to say good-bye. It was
evident that those who would pre-
sently arrive like a swarm of bees
v\< re customers. It was for their
ption that my uncle and his
assistants had prepared themselves,
and taken oft' their neckcloths and
rolled back their sleeves. My reso-
lution was at once taken.
'Shall I be much in your way if
I stay for an hour?' 1 asked.
'My dear fellow!' began Uncle
Gawler, while his two young men
looked round with astonishment
'I could sit in the parlour and
look through the window,' 1 sug-
gested. ' 1 won't disturb you: I'll
sit in there as quiet as a mouse.'
'Will, go in if you like,' paid
TJncleGawler, after a moment's I
tation; 'you'll soon be glad to get
out again, I'll warrant.'
So 1 went into the little parlour
and took a chair at the window in
the wall that commanded a fair view'
of the shop from ono end to the
other. Especially there was a fair
, of the boxes, and, to my sur-
prise, although bul five minutes had
elapsed since the slamming of tho
firsl of the elevi □ doors had b gun,
at least fort; OCTS had already
mbll d. Although, owing to tho
deep gloom in which the interior of
e ich box was Bhroudi d, it was diffi-
cult to make out thi of tho
customi rs, it v. is i < nough to
i t their number, tor one and all
I i thro tout I Old containing a
|] pack of tick ts ol redemption.
It Wfl an odd Bight to ece this h>ng
An Evening with my Uncle.
143
row of grimy fists and tattered gown
and jacket and coat-cuffs all poking
towards the shopman and beckoning
him coaxingly. However, there was
no favouritism. It was quite use-
less for the owners of the gown-
cuffs to address the young man in
familiar, not to say affectionate, lan-
guage, calling him 'David,' and even
'Davy' ('Davy, dear,' one woman
called him), or for the jacket- cuff s^to
growl and adjure David to 'move
hisself.' David had a system, and
he well knew that the least depar-
ture from it would be fatal to the
proper conduct of the business of
the evening. Beginning at box
number one he began the collection
of the little squares ot pasteboard
with both his hands, and ' hand-
over-hand/ as one may say, with
a dexterity only to be acquired
by constant practice, crying out
' tickets! tickets! tickets!' the while.
By the time he had perambulated
the length of the shop and called at
all the boxes he had gathered as
many tickets as his fists would hold,
and at once turned to a back counter
where stood John (the other shop-
man). John and David then en-
gaged in 'sorting' the tickets, an
operation rendered necessary for
several reasons. Some of the tickets
referred to tools and flat irons and
articles of furniture too cumbrous
and unwieldy to ascend the ' spout,'
and which were accommodated with
lodgings in the cellars. Other of
the pawn-tickets related to wedding-
rings and Sunday brooches and
scarf-pins, which were deposited in
the room whose walls were mailed
with sheet-iron in the rear of the
shop. Another reason why the
tickets should be sorted was this.
A goodly proportion of Uncle Gaw-
ler's customers were unacquainted
with the art of reading, and not un-
frequently tendered tickets pertain-
ing to goods in the custody of another
' uncle' keeping a shop in the neigh-
bourhood, an error if not at once
detected likely to lead to a great
waste of time and temper.
The tickets sorted, a heavy and
melancholy youth, bearing a dark
lantern, opportunely emerged from
the bowels of the premises through
a trap-door in the shop floor, and
took into custody the tickets relating
to shovels and picks, and saws and
planes ; while John bustled off with
another lantern and the jewellery
tickets, and David remained to
attend to the 'spout' department.
Lapping out at the mouth of tho
spout, and waving gently to and fro,
like the busy tongue of the ant-
eater, was a long leather bag ; into
this David thrust his handful of
cards, and at the same instant
briskly touched a bell-handle fixed
to the side of the 'spout,' and, with
a sudden jerk, the tongue vanished
upwards into the maw ; to return,
however, long and lean as ever, and
dangling and wagging as though it
had just caught the flavour of the
food it was remarkably fond of, and
much desired some more.
It must not be supposed that
Uncle Gawler himself was mean-
while idle. Bedemption was the
order of the evening ; still, there
were numerous cases in which it
was necessary rather by way of
barter than by ready-money pay-
ments. As, for instance, Mrs.
Brown, being a laundress, has found
it necessary to pawn the table-linen
belonging to one of her customers,
and, not having money at her com-
mand to redeem the same, she feels
it convenient to ' put away ' the
shirts of another customer, and thus
make matters square. On Monday
she will redeem the shirts of cus-
tomer number two, by pawning the
sheets of customer number three.
Or, again, as for instance, the
Browns are asked by the Greens to
come and have a bit of. dinner to-
morrow, and have accepted the in-
vitation ; but Brown has made a
bad week ; has not earned enough,
indeed, to 'get out' his Sunday
coat and the children's frocks.
Brown is a man who doesn't like
' to look little.' He won't want his
working clothes till Monday; and,
as they will be from home, they
won't miss the hearthrug. Again,
there are exceptions to the rule
altogether. Saturday night is a
ticklish time for poor mother. No
work this week — last week— the
week before. Not a single penny.
No dinner to-morrow— no dinner
on a Sunday! Mother does not
144
An Evening with my Uncle.
care. Father docs not care— much ;
but the children! It is all very
well to rub along all the week with
bread and treacle for the mid-day
meal, or, at a pinch, with nothing
between breakfast and an 'early
tea ;' but it is different on Sundays.
/ nobody has dinner on Sunday,
even in a Whitecrops Street alley;
the atmosphere is hazy with tho
-tram of 'bakings;' and by two
o'clock yon won't tind a little pina-
fore that is not dinner-stained. 'It's
of no use/ says poor mother, ' a bit
of hot dinner must be got vomehow.'
So she waits till dusk, and then,
slip-shod in old slippers, carries her
sound shoes to Mr. Gawler's and
places them on the counter.
This sort of work keeps Uncle
Gawler tolerably busy, whilo his
young men arc busy restoring the
pledged goods ; but he is not nearly
so busy as he will be presently. By
this time the slamming of tho
box-doors has increased, and a
quick succession of dull bumps and
thumps announces the descent down
tho 'spout' of parcels of all sorts
and sizes from tho various ware-
houses above. John has returned
with the lantern in one hand and a
bunch of little packets in tho other;
and three times the gloomy boy has
laboured up the cellar steps, lad' n
with ironware and tools, which he
has deposited, with a malicious
clatter, upon the shop floor, and
once more retreated. The eleven
boxes are gradually filling; and
from out their gloomy depths, where
the clatter and chatter is each
moment increasing, there crops a
thick cluster of ticket-grasping lists,
Wriggling to be delivered. But it is
not time y» t to gather in this second
crop: the result of the first, which
choke> op the spout, has yet to bo
cleared i
This part of the performance is
conducted by the indefatigable
David. Hauling and tagging at
the rag-wrapped bundles thai bulge
out at the mouth of the spout, h<
i ipidly rangi a them, ticket up-
ward (it should have been si
that a duplicate of tin held
by the pawnee is pinned on to the
i perty pawned, and that, when
the searchers have found the bundle
to which the ticket put into the bag
refers, ho pins it by the side of the
ticket already distinguishing it),
and then begins to call out tho
name the duplicato bears.
' Jones!'
' One ; here you are,' somebody
calls.
'Threo and sevenpence-half-
penny, Jones ;' and in a twinkling
the money passes one way, and the
parcel the other, and Jones is dis-
missed.
' Robinson ! how many, Mrs.
Robinson?'
' Five.'
Mrs. Robinson must wait : when
the other four bundles happen to
turn up, she will get her ' five,' not
before ; so, putting her first dis-
covered bundle aside, David con-
tinues his investigation.
' Mackney ! How many, Mack-
ney? Mack-ney! — how many more
times am I to holloa ?'
' Is it McKenny ye mano ?' shouts
a shrill voice.
'Well, p'raps it is: what's tho
article?' inquires the cautious I >avid.
' Siveral,' pipes Mrs. McKenny;
'there's the childers' perrikits, 'and
me olo man's weskit, and a shawl,
and- '
' Two and a halfpenny,' exclaims
David, cutting the lady cruelly
short
' But I want to part, Davy dear,'
said the Irishwoman.
1 Why didn't you say so at first?'
snapped Pavid, and at tho same
time tossing the monstrously largo
two-shilling bundle towards Uncle
( law ler.
Uncle Gawler at onco seized it,
unpinned it, and disclosed petti-
coats, and shawl, and waistcoat, be-
side .- .-< \i i-.il other articles.
'I want the weskit and shawl,
and have: the list for fifteen pilico,'
said Mrs. McKi ony.
' Nmepi nee is what you can leave
'em for,' replied Uncle Gawler, with
a <l< b ruination ,!...: Sirs. McKenny
I ad not the courage to combat;
' one and four, pl( 886.' And baring
paid this sum, Bhe walked off with
the shawl and waistcoat. This at
at once explained the mi aning of
the mysterious placard, ' No parting
after i leyen o'clock.' ltwaserid< ot
A Winter at St. Petersburg.
145
enough that the process of ' parting '
was not a little tiresome, and calcu-
lated to hamper and impede busi-
ness if allowed at the busiest time.
The first delivery of pledges
over, the second crop of tickets was
gathered ; and so much heavier was
it than the first, that by the time he
had reached the sixth box, David's
hands were quite full. Big as was
the leather bag suspended in the
'spout,' it was chokeful when David
thrust in his gathering ; and before
five minutes had elapsed, the noise
of falling bundles within the spout
was fast and furious. Tear and haul
at them as David might— even with
the assistance, slow but determined,
of the melancholy cellar-boy — the
lads above, now well warmed to
their work, were not to ba outdone,
but kept up the shower, pelt,
bump, thump, until the throat as
well as the mouth of the spout was
fairly choked. Still, in flocked the
customers, until there was no more
door-slamming, for the boxes were
crammed and brimming over into
the passage ; and the number of
ticket-grasping fists that threatened
over the counter was enough to
appal any but such tried veterans
as Uncle Gawler and his crew. Then
the uproar ! Small- voiced women,
of the better sort, begging and en-
treating of David to take their
tickets, at the same time pouring
into his adder ears the various
domestic businesses on which their
need for haste were based. Shrill-
voiced women of the worser sort,
dirty-faced, baby-bearing, gin-hic-
cuppy slatterns, brawling, pushing,
driving their elbows into other
people's eyes, and trampling on
their feet. Drunken men who had
never given any ticket at all, and
who yet obstinately persisted in
blocking up the front and most
desirable places, taking great oaths,
banging their great fists against the
counter, and challenging David into
the road to fight. Great indeed
must have been the joy of David and
John when eleven o'clock struck,
and Uncle Gawler shouted ' no more
parting!' and, whipping off his
sleeved waistcoat, came to their
assistance. He was a host in him-
self. By a few pertinent remarks
as to what would be the probable
result of their outrageous behaviour
when they brought their things back
to pledge on Monday morning, he
silenced the vixens ; and by em-
phatically declaring that he would
not deliver another parcel to his
customers until they turned out the
noisy drunken men, he got rid of
them in a twinkling. He assailed
the glutted ' spout,' and delivered
bundles in batches of six and eight,
and counted up the interest, and
took money, and gave change with
a celerity that took away one's
breath to behold. In half an hour
the box doors began again to slam — a
sure sign that the rush was thin-
ning : in another twenty minutes
he had so slackened the pressure as
to find time to come in to me, mop-
ping the perspiration off his scarlet
visage with his silk handkerchief,
and inquire what I thought of it all.
James Geeenwood;
A WINTER AT ST. PETERSBURG.
THE class is but a small one to
which the winter months do
not bring their full share of labour
at home, and even of those who
cast over the pages of Murray in
search of winter quarters, many are
invalids compelled to make the pur-
suit of health their first considera-
tion, who naturally take flight to-
wards the sunny south, and settle
on the sheltered coast of the Medi-
terranean, or in some of the warm
regions of southern France.
VOL. XI. — NO. LXII.
The number, then, is limited who
can open a gazeteer uninfluenced by
any previous bias, and follow the
exact course their fancy dictates.
To this class especially, desirous of
seeing something totally new, and
not too much trammelled by con-
siderations of health and purse, we
would desire to suggest a residence
where, if they delight in the novelty
of observing a new people and hear-
ing a new language, they may gratify
their wishes and enjoy at the same
L
115
A Wtnttr at St. fttersburg.
time an unlimited amount of skat-
iiiLT, sledging, descending ice moun-
tains, and similar pastimes charac-
teristic of the far north.
The country to which we allude
in I; Deeming which distant
land prejudices are rife in England,
and winch is only now, through
railway communication, beginning
to Ih3 opened up to travellers from
the v.
St. Petersburg may lx? reached in
three days and a half from London
Bridge, or, with a night's rest at
Berlin, in five days. The former
journey Is far too fatiguing to be
undertaken l>y any but the v- ry
■tarong, and even then the urgency
of the motive ought to 1x3 eonsi I r-
able. The journey of five days, for
those who aro already acquainted
with Belgium and Prussia, or do
not care to linger there, is quite
practicable. For ladies, however,
we would recommend more frequent
■ssppages, and, aboreall, ahouldtbe
trip be a winter one, a plentiful
supply of furs for that part of the
journey beyond Berlin. Brussels,
Cologne, Berlin, and Koenigaharg
will be found convenient balting-
places. Between the latter citj and
St. Petersbnrg there it an unavoid-
able run of thirty hours, unless the
trtvelli r have the hardihood tO« • k
the slielter of the hotel at Duna-
bourg without a knowledge of Buss.
Ire and snow are hardly neees.-ary
to invest the north eastern plains of
Germany with a dreariness which
■ nom a inherent to their flat, sandy
expanses, and which, as the traveller
advances towards the frontier, lx>r-
row more and more bleakness from
the vast marshy deserts of the
ii . ighbonring Russian Umpire.
If the transition, SO far as external
nutur.' I, be a gradual
one, the .-M'ltra-t in all that regards
human society and habitations is
sudden and glaring, and BW r\ sight
and sound help, to remind the
traveller that he' is leaving behind
him the effects of a hundred yuan
of civilization, and turning over a
leaf of European life separated by
at least that period from the i
just pel used.
The whole appearance of the
frontier station of WtrbaUen, or by
its Russian name, Wierzbolow, ia
calculated to depress the traveller
from the west. The indescribable
indigence of the mass of the tra-
vellers, the inferiority of tho re-
freshments, the absence of the com-
monest comforts in the waiting-
rooms, aud the gruffness of tho
custom-house officials, combine to
discourage the Englishman who is
about to cross the threshold of all
the BuBsias. It is in such situations
that the blessings of steam commu-
nication come most forcibly before
the mind, and he who wearies ot
northern journey may imagine
for bis consolation some ten w< try
days and nights spent in a sledge in
former days between tho Prussian
and Russian capitals, at an expense
of about twenty-five pounds. At
present the cost of the railway
journey, in very comfortable car-
riagi B,does not exceed seven pounds,
and the time occupied is forty-eight
hours. Beyond "Wirkillen each
carriage contains a stove, and tho
occupants are far more likely to
suffer from heat than cold.
The approach to St. Petersburg
by laud has none of the charm which
rewards the summer traveller after
six days' tossing on the North Sea
and the Baltic, when the golden
dome of St. Isaac's Church rises
gleaming out of the horizon, and
the niagniicent river Neva, with its
noble quays and Bparkling waters,
first meets the eye. The appear-
ance of the town from the railway-
station tends, on the contrary, to
confirm the somewhat dismal im-
pression made by the welcome at
the frontier, and it is only when
standing on one of the quays, fa-
voured by a bright sun and clear
atmosphi re, that then ally beautiful
features of the city are discerned.
st. Pen rsburgis grand in itsgi neral
• Hi cts, though the impression I
away when the gn at thorough!
nre forsaken for the remoter parts]
where a monotonous Asiatic mode
of existence reigns supreme, and
where the vnst 'prospects,' as the
Russians term then? largest stn
appear, owing to the pane popu-
lation, yet Tatter than they really
are.
The hotels of St. Petersburg will
A Winter at St. Petersburg.
147
not fail to demonstrate in a very-
unmistakable manner the backward
civilization of Bussia. They are
dear, ill provided with comforts,
and dirty. The English traveller
will act judiciously, if he speaks no
Euss, in going to Miss Benson's
hotel on the English quay, where
there are very fairly good rooms,
with civil attendance, and English
cookery. This is a boarding-house,
and a somewhat motley assemblage
of guests breakfast and dine toge-
ther. Here, however, an English-
man's most ordinary wants will not
be regarded with such blank aston-
ishment as in the purely Eussian
hotels. For a residence of any
length, furnished lodgings, with a
German or French servant, are the
most desirable quarters.
The town is situated on either
bank of the Neva, both of which are
lined with fine quays of Finnish
granite. The river is here about
six hundred yards wide and fifty
feet deep. Its waters form nearly
the only outlet both of Lake Ladoga,
itself one hundred and fifty miles
long, and of the immense system of
Finnish lakes known as the Saima.
The stream is clear and beautiful,
and to it the city owes much of its
majesty. The houses are chiefly of
stone, and in only four cities of
Russia do stone edifices preponder-
ate. Unfortunately, however, most
of the public buildings are adorned
with stucco fronts, as, for instance,
the Admiralty, a vast structure
which extends for a great distance
along the left bank of the Neva.
The town is upwards of four miles
in length, though comparatively
narrow. Its population does not
greatly exceed half a million, but
varies considerably in summer and
winter, owing to the influx of pea-
sants seeking for employment during
the latter and longer half of the
year. Among the Eussian popula-
tion there can hardly be said to be
a middle class, the shopkeepers
being either very humble, or en-
titled, owing to the vastness of their
trade, to rank rather with the upper
than the middle stratum of society.
This state of things is fruitful of
evils, and to it may be ascribed the
fact that there is among the Russians
proper scarcely any medium between
luxury and want. Education has
not yet been diffused throughout
the masses, and whilst this remains
the case, the progress of the nation
must be slow. The influence of the
large German population is in this
respect a good one, for wherever the
colonists from the Baltic provinces
of Esthonia and Livonia have settled,
either in town or country, they have
both themselves succeeded, ami have
set a good example to the inhabit-
ants. An edict of Peter the Great
provided that none but Germans
were to follow the trades of bakers
or chemists ; no doubt owing to the
fact that these trades demand a
greater amount of conscientious care
and attention to details than the
Eussian character could boast of a
century ago. The law has long
been repealed, but the fact remains
that both these trades, and the
greater number of the profession of
physicians, as also the bulk of the
men of science resident in the
country, are Germans. It is slid
that one of the few occupations for
which the true Muscovite mind
shows a strong spontaneous leaning
is that of driving, in which great
excellence may be generally re-
marked. They have likewise in
great vigour the constructive faculty
so common amongst Orientals, and
country carpenters will execute the
most complicated pieces of cabinet
work with wonderful accuracy to
pattern. Invention, and what the
French call 'initiative,' they lack,
and this applies no less to literature
than to matters of physical skill.
The character of the great mass
of the Eussian people is little known
in England, for of course none but
the upper classes are to be met with
in western Europe. We consider
the former to be the superiors of the
latter, who are in truth rendered
soft and indolent by luxury. It has
been justly observed that the extreme
of cold is far from producing the
same bracing effects as the more
moderate mountain air which nerves
the Highland gillie ; it rather causes
the mass of the inhabitants to resign
themselves to the severity of the
climate, and, instead of combating
the cold by exercise, to pass seven
L 2
113
A Winter at St. Pe ttr t bu rg .
or eight months of the year wrapped
in mountains of for, and in total
muscular inaction. When this
i le of life is aooompanied, as it
generally is, by loxuriona living,
lato hours, constant am ikinu', and
the consumption of an unlimited
number of bonbons, it is not diffioult
to account for the frequent illness,
and the lo »k of usttassnesa and joy-
lessneBS so ebaracteristio <>f tlie
country. The peasantry, which, of
course, forms ttio great mass of tho
sixty millions figuring in geography
bo 'ics bs the population of Curopean
Russia, and winch supplies the raw
material for her vast armies, is of
the resigned and apathetic disposi-
tion naturally engendered by three
unfavourable influences working to-
gether — a spiritless religion, an ab-
olutely despotic government, and
profound iguoraiice. They are,
sp aking generally, of a mild dispo*
Biti m, which is, however, modified
by an enormous consumption of
' vodka ' or native brandy. ' ) wing,
however, to his placid character, the
Bussian ' moujik ' is rarely violent
when intoxicated; his inebriation
generally induces an excess of ten-
derness, and he may be frequently
observed Btaggering along with bis
arm round his latest acquaintan
neck.
Though hating the conscription,
and using every means in his
power to avoid being enlisted, the
Bussian soldier is justly noted for
his cool intrepidity an I courage of
the more passive sort, and for extra-
ordinary powers of endurance.
A subject interesting to all
st range rs is the expi use of a Russian
i di nee. This, though really very
large i ofb a exaggerati d. Tho
. of the dearness arc —
tii -t, that so many articles of con-
sumption must be imported from a
great distance; and, secondly, that
owing to 1 ft nty of the clii
and the backwardm ilization,
many things which are luxuries in
u, 1. 1 ii Euro] e are indisputable
nee oi St Pi tersburg. Tins
applies, of course, with gn at force
to a short r< Bidence, b ca e many
r ingfl are l» >ught one,- for all, and
last long. Foragontlemau intending
to go into society, an outlit of fun.
costing at least 3o7., is essential, and
equally requisite is a carriage and
pair, either for a married or Bingle
man, with a sleilge for the months
when the snow covers the ground;
that is, about one third of the year.
The best coat is a very thickly
wadded one, r< aching well below tho
knees, with a beaver collar only,
which costs about 15 guineas, and
in which walking is quite prac-
ticable. A beaver cap, costing ah
4/., is a necessary addition. Besides
this, the traveller mual possess a
loose cloak, reaching to the ankles,
lined with thick fur, and furui-hed
with a hood to cover the whole
head. This is for sledge driving ill
intense cold, and if fortunate, ho
may obtain one of these 'sehoobs'
seconddiand for about 10/. If
any ice boating he indulged in, a
pskin is also required, value
about 2/. A sledge bad better ho
bought for a long, and hired for a
short residence. A carriage and
horses are always better lined, and
may ho had very fairly good lor
all ait 1 25 roubles, or iSl. per m .nth.
Tin' first m '■• ssaries of life, such as
bread and meat, are cheap; every-
thing approaching to comfort or
luxury is dear, especially public
amusements, wines, and dress for
both sexes. On the whole, it may
be said that the same amount of
comfort is attainable by a single
man in London for half the m my.
To a married man this do, s not
apply, because 1 \\ uses are not
doubled, servants' wages and tho
prim iry household ( spi uses being
in., ler it' . and the same carriage
serving for two as for one. H.01
rent is in every case enormously < \-
peo jive, about half as dear again as
in Paris. Permanent reaidi nts can
hardly remain at St. Petersburg
in summer, and this is a new source
of exp inc. Wealth in Buss a is in
the ban Is of the few; and I
indi ring gnat Bumsal I
and Bomburg are < ither niembi ra
oi a few nally rich familii ■ , or are
1, ding their capital. It is a mis-
take to suppose that riches are
widely distributed, and until free
trade is established, an I good in-
ternal oommun 1 available, :o
that tho resources of tho count) y
A Winter at St. Petersburg.
140
may be developed, they will not
become so. Property, as in France
and Germany, is very generally sub-
divided among the children.
The visitor at St. Petersburg, it
he have a French or German ser-
vant, will not bo greatly inconveni-
enced by ignorance of the Russian
language; for although many even
of the upper classes understand
nothing else, a knowledge of French
and German is widely diffused.
The former will be found the more
useful language in society, the latter
with men of business, and in shops.
Some knowledge of Russ adds, of
course, greatly to the traveller's
pleasure ; but in a residence of less
than six months it is not worth
while to attempt more than to ac-
quire a familiarity with some of the
common substantives and verbs, the
numerals, and the like. The writer
acquired considerable knowledge of
the language in nine months, but
this was by daily study with a
master, and the above period formed
only a part of a residence of several
years. Much is said of the extraor-
dinary difficulty of the Russian
tongue, but we think that there is
exaggeration in this respect. The
grammar is difficult, and requires
some three months' application to
acquire a tolerable facility, but the
construction is very simple, and there
are none of the articles, the constant
introduction of which is such a
crucial test of knowledge of gender
in German. On the pther hand the
learner is not assisted by roots de-
rived from the Latin or any language
likely to have been previously ac-
quired. Russian is a complicated
key which does not as yet open a
literary Paradise sufficiently exten-
sive or fascinating to reward a
thorough acquisition of its niceties,
and the principal literary works
have been translated by various
authors, among whom may be men-
tioned Sir John Bowring. The poet
Puschkine is a real poet, and his
writings bear some resemblance to
those of Lord Byron. It may be
doubted whether a diluted edition
of Byron, subjected to a second
watering through translation, would
excite much interest in England at
the present day. If not as yet fertile
in native literature, the Russians
show the disposition to appreciate
tho productions of other nations,
as the translations of really good
English books are numerous. A few
Russian words and phrases will
show how new are the sounds meet-
ing the ear on arrival. The numerals,
one, two, three, &c, the bare know-
ledge of which, preceding the word
rouble or kopeck, is invaluable, are
in Russian as follows : ahdeen, dvah,
tree, cheteere, piahtt, shest, sem,
vosem, deviett, desett, adinazzat,
dvenuttzt; a hundred is sto, a thou-
sand teessiatch. It has been remarked
that the word ' so ' is the one most
frequently heard in Germany, in
Russia it is certainly ' ^eetcbahss,'
' immediately,' which is the invaria-
ble Russian rejoinder when told to do
anything. The formula of address
to the drivers of the' little, uncom-
fortable, open vehicles termed
droschkies, is something of this
kind. The traveller names his des-
tination. 'Saurok kalipake,' 'forty
kopecks/ says the driver ; ' Dvahzatt/
' twenty,' says the stranger ; ' Neel-
ziah, bahtiouschka,' ' impossible,
little father,' is the reply. The pas-
senger walks on, and soon hears the
horse's feet pattering behind him on
the hard snow, and the offer of
' Noo, zeevoltye,' ' well, allow me.'
After a short experience, the writer
found the best plan to be to seat
himself and pay the just fare at the
end ; but this requires some know-
ledge of distances. Tales were at
one time rife of people being taken
to back streets and murde'red by
these drivers, but the introduction
of gas and an improved system of
police has put an end to this form of
atrocity. Crimes of violence are,
however, still frequent, and a certain
number of people are said annually
to disappear, being misguided
enough to cross the Neva on foot at
remote places on winter evenings.
It is believed that these poor people
are murdered and buried under the
ice. The best plan for any one quite
ignorant of Russ, is to conduct all
transactions with respectable Ger-
man or French shops, and to avoid
Russian servants. By hiring a
private conveyance per month, all
annoyance and disputes with the
150
A Winter at St. Petertburg.
drivers f»r the rise of their drosch-
Iries and sledge* is avoided Just
ten times the sue will l>e asked with
i • . mnces and an Englisb-
sadly perplexed if he attempts
to buy anything himself at the great
tar, or 'G • e Dvor.' I
d is the rule among the lover
orders. It may be mentioiied as a
significant!'. I >• money
- of the country, that lew
■hops in St Petersburg, however
well the customer may be known,
will leave the smallest article at in*
house until paid for. If in England,
especially at the univ. the
credit system is esfried too far, the
y one is equally overdoos
at St. Petersburg. The former is at
all events more Mattering to the in-
habitants. The English trad' moan
argues, 'We art- pretty sure of our
principal sooner or later, and have
placel it at good interest' The
nussiaa, ' It' I don't get these fifty
ron 'V»r the counter, it is very
nn ike y that I shall i so, and
my ^ all not leave my custody
unpaid for.'
The amount of really high play
at St. Petersburg, among people
often far from rich, is one of the in-
dica* - bow little the value of
■ j is thought of. It is spent as
recklessly as in the United 81
and unfortunately the country
not possess ihe same rmans
of r- storing shattered fortunes •which
available in America
A few remarks on the climate of
St. Petersburg, and the degree of
sold for which the traveller must be
prepared, may not be out of place.
rsburg, being situated <'ii the
and not, like Ifos-
. in the interior of a great oonti-
considerabiy afie t- d 1 y the
sea, and changes are more frequent
than in th I L The inti
fn>-tfl of winter are interrupted by
tllttWS, f r by
occasional, though ii' tei rain.
The temperature from the
middle (,{ .\ to tie middle
of March is probably ab>ut ■.
■
In a m o de rate frost, 8t Petersburg
lightful, for the sky is generally
ir and bright, and it is
then that the amusements of sledg-
ing and descending ice mountain «,
presently to be descril>ed, can l>o
enjoyed to the utmost. Equally
le is a thaw, of which several
occurevery winter, the principal pul>-
lic square being in par' ntly
covered with water a foot Avrp for
days together, whilst the jolting
droschky takes the place of the swift
and smootlily-glidiiig sledge. We
have described above the dress we
consider most judicious, and it must
not be forgotten bow much the dif-
ference in clothing does to n ooncils
a stranger to the te:u| • nature. In-
ti "is the comfort is o
Double windows are universal for
six months of the year, and \
they used in England for thn a, we
doubt not that colds and rheum at ism
would become rarer than they are.
1 e Russian store is quite differently
managed from that employed in
Germany, and if sufficiently large,
BO) d only be heated once in the day.
It is filled with wo «1 early in the
morning, and several hours after-
wards, when every particle of tho
wood has been reduced to smoulder-
ing ash, the pij>e is closed by an
arrangement for the purpose, and
the heat thrown back into the room.
This economical system, and the
oheapi ess of 1 ,n nder fuel
a much less heavy item than might
be supposed. Firewood is freqm ntly
included in the price of nn n;
ment. Strangers should not attempt
og the stov< i tin mi is the
least morsel of unconsumed wood
may cense the most dangerous
fumes to fill the room.
Having endeavoured to put tho
stranger, as regards materia] com-
forts, m a position to enjoy himself,
we shall now describe the recrea-
tions at his command, and the way
to ili rive ph asure from th< m
ice-hills, skating, and
ice-boating, are the chief out-door
I
Sledg ag is of course not, as in
Germany, an occasional pastime,
but the univ< r-al coil ve;
high and low for four months of the
year. It is a serious misfortune in
Russia win n frost and BDOW C
very late, for it prevents tint
i uits bringing to the c ipital the
D pro\i r all the winter
A Winter at St. Petersburg,
lol
months, and induces universal stag-
nation in inland trade. A Russian
road, at all times excessively bad,
is rendered truly frightful when
autumnal rains have produced one
universal pulp. A good frost and a
plentiful layer of snow changes
everything. The rivers become
highways, and thousands of carts
on sledges glide with ease along
the paths lately almost deserted.
Locomotion becomes a great plea-
sure, instead of a very literal pain,
and Russia and its inhabitants are
seen to the best advantage. Much
in this country, even in the height
of summer, tends to remind the
traveller of the long, deadly grip
which winter keeps on the land,
and which it relaxes so late and so
unwillingly. Of this nature are the
bridges of boats on the Neva, so
constructed that they can be re-
moved when the ice begins to col-
lect in the river in autumn, and
when its huge fragments are borne
along with terrible violence in
spring. The windows of the car-
riages on the Moscow Railway,
made as small as is consistent with
a moderate amount of light, show
that the passengers are more con-
cerned about warmth than scenery.
To return to our account of sledg-
ing, we must inform the reader that
Russian sledges are not in general
ornamented, and made in the shape
of swans or dragons, after the fan-
tastic taste adopted during the short
sledging season of Central Ger-
man?, but that they are in general
simply boxes furnished with the
necessary seats, and invariably
covered with a huge bearskin, which
keeps the occupant warm and com-
fortable. It is very common, when
a party is formed to drive round
the islands, or to some other part
of the environs, for three horses to
be harnessed abreast. This equi-
page is termed in Russia a ' troika,'
and the three horses are likewise
occasionally used with carriages on
the roads in summer. The two
side horses are trained to hold their
heads curved outwards in a curious,
and we think rather unnatural way,
but the general effect of the ' troika,'
the horses decked with tinkling
bells, and the carriage filled with a
merry party, is very pretty, and the
gay dresses contrast in a charming
manner with the snow.
One of the most frequent desti-
nations lor these parties is to fho
ice hills on the ' Kammenoi Ostroff,'
or Stony Island, of which pastime
we shall give some account. At
either end of a long strip of care-
fully-watered ice, divided by a
strong wall of snow into two equal
halves, is a sort of wooden tower
some twenty feet high, which is
ascended by means of a stair, and
from the summit of which the de-
votee of this amusement descends
a steep inclined plane of ice. The
descent is effected on a very small
and light iron sledge, about three
feet long, covered with a soft
cushion. This craft is steered by
the use of the tips of the fingers
alone, the hands being covered with
very thick leathern gloves. For a
day or two the beginner is almost
invariably upset shortly after leav-
ing the hill and entering upon the
flat ice, over which the light vehicle
of course glides with delightful
rapidity ; delightful, at least, if the
pilot have acquired certainty in the
art of keeping his sledge's head
straight. The steering is managed
by pressing lightly on the ice with
the fingers of the right or left hand
according to the direction wished.
The learner invariably presses too
much, which causes the sledge's
head to assume an irretrievably
wrong direction, and make straight
for the bank of snow and ice fencing
in the course on either hand. At
this stage, all that can be done is to
perish in the least violent manner
possible, and to try and meet the
wall of snow sideways instead of
being pitched head foremost into it.
A sufficiently exaggerated pressure
on one side or other will cause the
sledge to spin round like a tee-totum,
and for the first three or four days
beginners return again and again to
the charge, white as millers. They
of course excite great mirth at first,
but persevering, generally graduate
in the art by conveying ladies safely
down behind them. The more
heroic and resolute of their sex offer
themselves first, and are followed, if
they reach the other end safely, by
152
A Winter at St. Petri tbnrg.
tli'' diffident ones; so that a man
may measure his proficienoy by tho
amount of confidence displayed by
his lady frienda Some have com-
pared th< ir sensations on being first
hurled down this abyss bo r>
thrown out of the w indow ; but we
think that the metaphor, to be
exact, should Bpeclfyone of a mode-
rate height,— say a lowisfa second-
floor umdow, because the idea of a
possible prolongation of life de-
cidedly preponderates on beginning
to dash down this artificial preci-
pice; whereas the sensation on
l. i ing the top of a house must he
unfavourable to such hopes. ]f, how-
ever, the feeling of being nowhere
in particular can he experienced
at a eh. aper rate than this, the first
descent of a Russian ice-hill realizes
the emotion. When tolerable pro-
ficiency has been attained, it is a
very agreeable amusement, and ex-
cellent exercise. The degrees of
skill are— descending sitting, on tho
breast, nn the knees, and standing.
The latter cannot be accomplished
alive, without bending considerably
on tho hill. It is averred that a
gentleman deed Dd< d on his head.
The average period during which
skating can be enjoyed at st. Peti rs-
burg is four months, or about tho
same time as sledging continues
practicable. It is a curious fact,
that very few years ago, skating
might have bet n said to be un-
known in the Russian capital, save
among the members of a small
English club on the Neva. The
inhabitants of St. Petersburg, who
thus possi BS a healthy and delight-
ful p creation r< ady to their hand,
have always shown, and still show,
the greatest apathy regarding it.
About (bur years ago, a really good
and largo skating club was organ-
ised "ii the Neva, with extensive
and well-warmed rooms on the lee
for ki e| ing and adjusting .'■kales,
and even an orchestra for a weekly
band. Tins admirable institution
induced m my Rui ians as well as
English to take to the ice as an
and young and old, at
i ■.' rj tage of proficii ocy, may now
i 'ii. any tolerably mild day from
Novenii i r to the < nd of March, i n-
jpying themaelvei on the wide,
glassy Burface watered and smoothed
by the club. The number of ladies,
above all, who have become con-
verts, is very great, and th< for
elegant and brilliant skating dr<
n l n i» r the BCene, on a sunny day, a
most attractive one. From the con-
stant practice they are able to have,
the tyros of November generally
become fair proficients by the end
of the season, and the learner is not
left, BS in England, to mourn for a
yi sx over the I ackwardni .- i of his
left leg, to which no opportunity of
amendment is open till another
January's frost momentarily covers
the Si i'| I Dtine With two inches of
ice. Winter once well begun in
Russia, all taking thought as to tho
safety of the ice may he omitted till
about the time Parisians begin to
water their streets. Four feet is a
common thickness.
The skating club above alluded
to gives one or two most brilliant
evening fetes in the course of tho
winter, when tickets are Bold to all
introduced com< re. These pay par-
ties are generally honoured by tho
presi ace of the Emp< rorand various
members of the Imperial Family,
( specially their Imp rial Highm
the (band Dukes Nicholas and
Leuchtenberg, the brother and
nephew of the Kmperor. The latter
espec ally excels in skating, fencing,
and all athletic ex< raises. < in the oc-
casion of these festivals, the ground is
Burrounded with in autiful coloured
lamps and an excelh nt band che< is
on the fur-clad quadrille dancers.
About eleven o'clock the skaters are
all BUpplii d with torches, and tho
distant and imaginative spectator
may set down the hundreds of
gleaming figures, as tiny plido
through the darkness of the night,
for a gi neral meeting of all tho
Willies o' the Wisp in Europe. A
Bpecies of skating unattainable m
England, and h st ( ojoyed in Hol-
land, may, now and tin n, I kj had in
perfection at St. Petersburg. This
is skating a long distance straight
forward. The writ< r skated with a
friend on the ( th M ircl , i s r> ^ , from
st. Petersburg to Cronstadt Tho
di tance,asthe crow fiies,is< ighteen
miles; but, owing to unfavourable
wind, a circuit of seven miles was
A Winter at St. Petersburg,
153
necessary : tho twenty-five miles
being accomplished in two hours
and a half. The return journey took
place on the following day, under
greater difficulties ; for there was a
strong head wind, and the run occu-
pied three hours and three quarters.
With a fair wind and a fine, smooth
surface, free from cat's ice, Cron-
stadt may well be reached by an
average skater in an hour and a
half, and by a really fast one in con-
siderably less than that time. Snow,
of course, spoils the Gulf completely,
and the latter does not admit of
this journey oftener, on an average,
than one year in six.
An ice-boat is one fixed on a tri-
angular framework of wood, fur-
nished at each corner with sharp
skates, and rigged with a boom and
a sail like those of a sloop. When
the wind is very favourable and the
ice smooth, a speed of thirty and
even forty miles an hour may easily
be attained. This is, however, a
decidedly dangerous amusement,
owing to the shocks to which the
vessel is liable from cracks and from
impediments on the ice. The cold
is of course severely felt on the open
gulf when no exercise is taken, and
very warm clothing is imperative.
Such are the out-door amusements
which are in a great degree novel
and generally interesting to the
English gentleman of average health
and strength who visits St. Peters-
burg, and without them we are at a
loss to conceive how the long winter
would be cheered aud the constitu-
tion braced to endure the cold.
Walking, except on the quays, and
in the great stueet called the Nefski
Prospect, is highly monotonous.
Riding, with the thermometer below
zero of Fahrenheit, which it often is
for many days together, tries the
spirits sadly. Shooting, which, ex-
cept in the immediate vicinity of the
capital, is free to all, requires, owing
to the immense distances, a great
deal of expense and much leisure,
and the game, though varied and
interesting, is too thinly distributed
to be worth pursuit within a reason-
able distance of the town. Those
who have a knowledge of the lan-
guage, and who take good dogs, may
find excellent sport in the regions
lying far to the north-east of St.
Petersburg. Finland offers a fine
field in the country beyond Tam-
merfors, which the writer has visited,
and in summer the fishing for trout
and very large salmon-trout is in
parts really excellent. The beau-
tiful rapid of Imatra, on the river
Wuoksen, is well worth a visit either
from the angler or the lover of the
picturesque. It may be reached in
about sixteen hours from St. Peters-
burg.
When night closes in, and the
last sledge from the ice-hills has
ceased to tinkle, resources are opened
up in abundance to the visitor, who
must of course endeavour to pro-
cure as many good letters of intro-
duction as he can, before leaving
England. He should by all means
be presented at court if possible,
for which purpose previous presen-
tation in England is necessary.
Without this the traveller will be
unable to carry away with him the
recollection of the most beautifully
organised and splendid entertain-
ments in the world. Several balls
are given at the Winter Palace each
season, of which at least one, and
generally two, are on an enormous
scale. Others are very small and
exclusive, and happy is the man
who is fond of really enjoyable
dancing, and is invited to therm
But for absolutely dazzling magni-
ficence the first great ball of the
season cannot be surpassed. The
vast ball-room called the White
Hall is illuminated by thirty thou-
sand candles arranged in exquisite
festoons, and the dresses and jewels
are truly lovely. The men are,
without exception, in some kind of
uniform, from the gorgeous attire
of Prince Gortchakoff and the am-
bassadors to the smallest Russian
official who has contrived to be in-
vited. Round this hall are long,
brilliant galleries and a vast suite
of apartments, through which the
guests can circulate at pleasure.
One of the most charming retreats
is from the hot ball-room to the
green and tranquil conservatory,
where beautiful flowers and plants,
marble statues and trickling foun-
tains, refresh the eye and ear by the
most delightful of contrasts. The
154
A Winter at St. Petersburg.
supper-room resembles rather the
scenes an imaginative child conjures
up when deeply immersed in the
Oriental glories of the ' Arabian
Nighta 1 Entertainments' than any-
thing to be a an at the Tuileries or
tho Court of St Jamea'a The
saloon is tarnished with three long
tabl< niiio lating about thir-
teen hundred people, which arc
i red with gold and silver plate,
inter- 1 1 reed with plants, and adorned
with every variety of fruit The
servants are dressed in r gay and
extraordinary Oriental costume, pe-
culiar to these occasions, and a tine
baud at one end of the room strikes
up some well-chosen melody as the
notes of the orch. Btra at the tint her
end die away. We can realize how
Aladdin had every sense gratified
at the same moment, and how the
eastern voluptuary takes no thought
for the morrow but to picture to
himself in bis more languid mo-
ments an El Dorado of the future
borrowing all its delights from tho
fleeting Paradise of the present.
The private balls at St. Peters-
burg, which take place chiefly be-
tween New- Year's Day and Easter,
are numerous and brilliant, and tho
visitor will find hospitality an excel-
lent Busman quality. The mazurka,
universal at balls, gives them an
animation and a beauty to l>e found
n iu here else. This dance, originally
Polish, has liecn long naturalized in
and, like tho Cotillon in
< h rmany, generally finishes the ball.
It lasts about an hour and a half,
all the ordinary round dances being
introduct d A good partner for the
mazurka is a matter of prime im-
portance. Well danced by tho na-
tive s, nothing can be more grao ful,
but the step doi s not generally suit
our countrymen, unless they begin
v. ry i arlj . I ' w I Inglishmen buo-
i in mai tging th< ir limbs with
the easy, Slavonic swing required,
and a pictun sque Caucasian, or
other somewhat wild uniform, adds
much to the I ffi t which is lu-i in
a dl it. A man may more
[y l< am to m ak a fon ign lan-
guage with wondertul aoouraoy and
pa I' ct ■ -cent than kO dance f..i
national dances with I BM and era e.
An Englishman enlisted an u fourth
in a Scotch reel seldom looks 'to
the manner born,' and it is fortunate
that all Europeans can meet on tho
neutral territory of waltses and
quadrilles.
The theatres arc well attended in
St. Petersburg. The Italian Opera
is excellent, and thero is likewise a
Russian ( tpera at the Marie: Theatre,
one of the largest in the world. Tho
French and German stages are both
repn sented, and there are two Rus-
sian performances every evening
Whilst engaged in acquiring tho
language the writer atto ndod tho
latter, but found that the plays,
dealing chiefly with the lower walks
of Russian lite, were rather written
down to the level of the audience
than calculated to elevate their taste.
Classical pieces are, however, some-
times performed, and ' Hamlet,' in-
terpreted by M. Samoiloff, is a
favourite. The Russian stags is
neglected by tho influential class,
who crowd either to the Italian
Opera or to tho French pieces at
the Theatre Michel, which rea mhlo
those of tho Vaudeville at Paris.
The Russians possess, like the
French, abundant dramatic talent,
and have already produced clever
plays, such as the 'Be visor,' and
' ( lore ot Oumah.'
During Lent, conceits innumer-
able are the order Of the day. They
are as a rule indifferent and dear.
The taste for the best German mu&io
has not yet become general among
the Russian public; and two per-
formances of the ' Messiah,' which
took place as an experirut nt tho
winter before last in the Salle de
Noblesse, were attended chiefly by
Germans. \\ rdi is as yet in j- r reuter
honour than Handel.
No stranger should omit to see
some of the great eeol< bj i tical ■
monii b, the mosl imp > ing of winch
of course take place at the great
epochs of the Church's y< ar. The
sen ices of the < Ira k ( ihurch are
soli inn, and the tine mi n's voices
aro well worth hearing; bul to our
mind the a!'-i DC6 "I an Organ and
the great length of the d< votional
raw b n ed< r them t< dious. The
old Slavonic tongue, from which
Russian is d< rived, and not Bum an
itbtlf, is the language employed.
Drawn by W. Small |
PLAYING FOK HIGli STAKES
| See Hi.' Slorv
Playing for High StaJces.
155
The architecture, which may be seen
in perfection in the Isaac's Cathe-
dral, is massive and very richly de-
corated, and the exterior of the
latter, overlaid with fine ducat gold,
is the great ornament of the city
from a distance. The peasant has
universally the profoundest reve-
rence for the Church and her cere-
monies, keeping her fasts and obey-
ing her decrees with unquestioning
fidelity. Among the upper classes
we think the form of belief frequently
takes the place of the substance.
Both for details concerning the Greek
Church, and the numerous sects
which have separated themselves
from her, and for enlightened criti-
cism on the position of Russia in
general, we desire to refer the curious
reader to the able and impartial
pamphlets of the author writing
under the name of Schedo Ferrotti.
Hitherto, prejudice has been a very
general characteristic of writers on
Russia, a country which may yet
have a very great future, and which
is now engaged in the useful work
of gradually bringing Central Asia
within the pale of civilization.
We must now take leave of St.
Petersburg, and recommend the
reader to visit it at the season we
have described. Spring, autumn,
and summer are all less favourable
than the bright, keen month of
January.
A visit to Moscow, for a descrip-
tion of which interesting city we
have no space in this paper, should
not be omitted. Many a beautiful
sight awaits the traveller in the an-
cient capital of the Czars.
A. D. A.
PLAYING FOR HIGH STAKES.
CHAPTER IV.
BLANCHE.
'"TvENBIGH Street, Belgravia,'
±J was the address which Mrs.
Lyon gave to all such correspond-
ents as she desired to hear from.
Her letters would have reached her
a post or two sooner had she sur-
rendered the truth, and permitted
' Pimlico ' to appear upon the enve-
lopes. But ' Belgravia ' looked
better, and Mrs. Lyon saw great
cause for studying the look of things
still.
' Denbigh Street, Belgravia, is my
temporary abode, while my daughter
is staying in the country,' she had
been saying in reply to all inquiries
as to either her house or her child
during the last six months. But
now Blanche was coining back to
her, a change was about to be made ;
and Mrs. Lyon was glancing for-
ward hopefully to a time when
lodgings, and difficulties about din-
ners — an overwhelming sense of
utter inability to keep ' litter ' in
the background — and 'herself
should be on less familiar terms.
Miss Lyon was expected home to
dinner. She was to arrive in town
a few days after Miss Talbot, and to
be told on her arrival of the plans
that had been formed for Miss Tal-
bot's welfare. Mrs. Lyon was to be
the communicant; and Mrs. Lyon,
at the moment of her introduction
into these pages, was looking for-
ward tremblingly to her task.
She was a middle-aged, neutral-
tinted woman, who had always found
herself less well placed in the world
than she had confidently expected
to be, and who yet, withal, had never
expected much. She had gone
through life obeying mild impulses
that invariably tended to convey her
further from fortune, and all the
delights appertaining thereunto,
than she had been before. Yet all
her reverses, all her never-ending
declinings upon some position still
lower than the one she had before
occupied, had been powerless to
wrinkle her brow, or deepen the
lines round the softly-moulded lips
that had never been known to utter
a severe or a sensible sentence.
The nearest approach to a frown
that her brows had ever known was
15G
Playing for High Stakes.
upon them now, as she Fat betwe< n
the table and the fireplace, awaiting
her daughter's advent. She was
ly )« i]il( red and annoyed about
two or three things. The chief one
was a message thai bad been brought
up wonlily trim the kitchen to the
effect that, if Mrs. Lyon did not
have her chicken an now that it
was ready, it would bo burnt to a
cindi r.
' It maybe brought up the instant
Miss Lyon arrives nol before,' Bhe
bad answered, almost deprecaticgly ;
and then Bhe had gone on to explain
to the. servant, whose usual manner
was one of insolence, tastefully en-
livened by familiarity, that, ' Now
Miss Lyon was ooming, things must
be different: they really must, fox
Miss Lyon was most particular.'
Presently Miss Lyon came. She
was heard giving directions about
her luggage in the hall; then she
.came miming upstairs, and her mo-
ther advanced halfway to the door
to meet her, and then fell back to
alter the situation of a saltcellar,
and then faltered forward again, and
finally involved herself with the door
handle just as Blanche was coming
into the room: involved herself in
such a way, that some lace on her
sleeve caught in the key, anil brought
it to the floor with a clatter that
bewildered her, and prevented her
■ g Blanche's outstretched hand,
and face bent down to kiss her.
While Mrs. Lynn was extricating
herself, and explaining how it camo
to pass that tlie key should have
fallen at this juncture, and calling
to 'hasten dinner' in a tone that
was unintentionally petulant by
n i -on of her anxiety to make her
daughter comfortable at once,
B incl •• swept on into the full light
of the lamp, and stood by the tire,
looking back half impat ieiitly, half
laughingly, anon the oonfusion her
entrance had can i L
The light of the lam]) bad never
a nn a brighter l>< auty than this
ono. She had a fee that was flash-
ing, thoughtful, cloudy, smiling, in
such rapid snoot bc on that it ap-
p ured to be at once. No expres-
sion bad a long life in her eyes, no
■mile, and no r< MOB for jt, n
than a temporary abode on her lip
and in her heart. There was about
her that magic of luminous darkness
which characteri/.ei 1 Edgar Allen
Toe's genius. The sliet n on each
wave 01 her lustrous ruddy-tipped
dark hair; tho quickly 'dilating
pupil of her gnat black-lashed gn y
eyes; tho lino that came from ner-
vous agitation or anxious thought
across her rather low, squaro, ol< \' r
brow; tho quick, char tones that
never lost their cultivation; the
lithe movement that was never
lounging; the rapid gesture that
was always refined— all spoke of
suppressed lire— all made one mar-
vel at her being the daughter ot her
mother.
Hounded, but fine-drawn in figure,
lacking in those large proportions
which made Beatrix Talbot such a
glorious type of woman, but with a
grace that was all her own, and that
was inferior to none; a grace that
clothed each action, making it Be m
the fitting thing to do; a grace that
came from perfeel proportion, and
from an artistic appreciation of all
the power p rfeel proportion gives.
A woman— in a word— p IBS) seed of
that most 'gorgeous cloak for all
deficiencies' — an inimitable manner.
How splendidly Bhe Btoo 1 the test
of tho strong light alter tho long
day's travel! Standing there, her
hands in her muff still ; her hat on
her head; ono well-bred, high-in-
Btepped little foot lii'ti d up to the
top bar, to the detriment of tho
shapely boot that covered it; her
long drapery falling away in grace-
ful folds; and her little d< licately
pointed nose and chin held aloft in
laughing cont. nipt for the chaos she
had created -Blanche Lyon looked
well worth any man's lovo, and any
woman's envy.
It had been ber portion to havo
much of both. Men had woo d her
warmly, and still somethil g had
always come between the wooing
and tin! actual satisfactory winning
towards which all wooing should
tend, she had b< I n vt ry ofti d loved,
ami very often left. Whether the
fault was tho lover's, or hers, or
Fate's, it was hard to tell. Tho
fault was, and was a bitter one —
bitter to her mother, and to such of
her relations as felt the bright beauty
Playing for High Slakes.
157
to bo a responsibility so long as she
remained unmarried, but not bitter
to Blancho herself. There had al-
ways been something wanting on
the part of herself or the other to
make the union fit. Unless that
something could have been sup-
plied, the chasm the want of it
made was accepted by Blanche as
an inevitable, and not very much to
be r< gretted, thing. She often told
herself that a thorough heart-searing
would be welcome, as a distraction
to the many minor ills by which she
had been surrounded ever since she
had grown up into the capability of
seeing the folly of things, and feel-
ing strongly about them.
It seemed many a long year ago
since this capability first became
hers, for Blanche Lyon's perceptivo
faculties developed early, and she
was three-and-twenty when her in-
terest in the set of events which go
to the making of this story com-
menced. The rough side of life had
been the one on which her baby
eyes opened, and it had never been
smoothed for her up to the present
date. Once upon a time her father
had been a gentleman of consider-
able property in the West of Eng-
land, but that time had been long
past when Blanche came into the
world most inopportunely, adding
to expenses that Mr. Lyon found al-
ready far exceeded his receipts, and
making the delicate, vacillating,
neutral-tinted woman he had mar-
ried more delicate, vacillating, and
generally unendurable than she had
been belore.
It was a sorry home for anything
so bright as she was, that in which
little Blanche Lyon grew up. Her
father took to the evil courses to
which men of strong passions, waver-
ing minds, small means, and few
interests, are apt to take. He drank
and gambled, and was miscella-
neously gay in a way that soon de-
graded him oiit of the ranks of the
order to which he belonged by right
of birth. Then his wife reproached
him, and lamented, and so goaded
him along the lower road faster
than ho would otherwise have tra-
velled, and the atmosphere of their
homo was one of black, bitter dis-
content and gloom, that was never
brightened by one ray of approving
conscience.
Yet in thisungenial atmosphere, in
this sad grace-abandoned home, tho
girl grew and thrived, mentally and
j)hysically. Gradually she came to
take a sort of coinmauel of the house-
hold, to regulate and refine it a
little, and to force the semblance of
peace, at least, to hang around it.
Long years of gross neglect on tho
one side, and of feeble reproaches
and furious jealousies on the other,
had weakened the always slender
tie that existed between the husband
and wife to the point of dissolution.
Tho marriage had not been one of
love, nor had respect, or convenience,
or sympathy brought it about. They
had married because Mr. Lyon, then
a young debonair man, had taken
too much champagne at a hunt ball
one night, and under the influence
of the same, had seeu some charm
which did not exist in the daughter
of one of the professional men of the
town where the festivities were
going on. Bather for the sake of
avoiding the necessity for making an
unsteady progress across the room
in search of another partner, than
from any feeling of preference for
Miss Pulleyne, Arthur Lyon danced
with her many times in succession,
and kept by her side in the inter-
vals. What he said, or why he said
it, he never had the remotest idea ;
but that he did say something, and
that Miss Pulleyne was satisfied
with his reasons for the speech, may
be gathered from the fact of Mr.
Pulleyne calling on him in tho
morning before the nausea conse-
quent on the previous night's dissi-
pation had passed off, and mildly,
but firmly, making it manifest to
him that he must consider himself
engaged to marry Miss Pulleyne, or
be considered a defaulter from the
code of honour by all Miss Pulleyne 's
friends and relations.
The alternative was not a very
painful one to the young man, who
had a strong element of defiance in
his nature. He would have braved
the outraged feelings of the whole
Pulleyne family, root and branch,
without hesitation, had he had any
stronger motive for doing so than
mere indifference to the daughter of
1.
M
Pin i/intj for High StaLm.
the house. But indifference wm
not a sufficiently active feeling to
make him do anything definite thai
might be a Iverse to me interei ts of
the one towards whom he felt it.
I • in. ] to him that there would
be l< • cause for exertion, lew call
for explanation, it' be married the
girl tliiin if be n fua d to do bo. No
other woman had any place in liis
hi art, bo Arthur Lyon allowed him-
self to drift into matrimony without
even the a mbiai ce of lore for his
wife, or the semblance of curiosity
as to m bother Bhe loved him <>r not
For u few yean the house was
kept 1 1 1 > in a free, open, roughly-
hospitable, uncomfortable way— a
waj tliat involved the expenditnre
of a great deal of money, and that
kept the whole establishment in a
chronic state of confusion. Mrs.
Lyon went wafting along with the
tide of folly, offa n enjoying it, often
bewailing it, oftener still weakly
suffering herself to be Bubinerged
by it ; but never once attempting to
turn it. When things w< re at their
worst she would weep at her hus-
band, and though her tears were but
a drop in the ocean that eventually
I him, there was some truth
in the man's declaration that he
might have breasted it but for
those readily flowing reproaches.
Mi antime, while wings were t< ml-
ing towards the worst— which was
the selling of his property and the
n duction of the family to hve on
the liberality of an old uncle of
Arthur Lyon's— a little girl had
been born— the Blanche of these
l • s. She grewintoaoomprehen-
of the state of things surround-
ing her verj rapidly; it seemed to
Arthur Lyon that it was but the
' other 'lay ' he had tossi <1 her in
long clothes when she advanced
hi t own opinion on a measur
proposed taking, and stood out
against his.
This measure was nothing less
than the total si Juration ol the i-'ii 1
from her (amily. The old ancle
; fallen sick - sick of life thai had
la-ted till llolle loved llllll Ick of
i i by those who rave
such services as they wen paid for,
bu1 never n b i:der tone or look. He
Iflsfa old man— it ran in tho
Lyon Mood to be selfish — and he
was true to his race in that respect
to the last. He had liked women
about htm all his life. He liked
them for their pretty ways ami their
Belf-sacrificia] power. But now he
was old, ami women stood afar from
him, so he wailed out a plaint to the
nephew he supported to the effect
that he was deserted and left to die
alone, and his nephew, who shrank
himself from the society of the old
sensualist, said that ' Blanche should
OOme and cheer him ii]i il she would.'
It was merely sagacious on the
father's part to add this clause, for
Blanche had a will of her own.
' If he wire ill I'd go and tend
him,' she said, with her bright face
in a flame when the plan was pro-
posed to her; 'but he's not ill,
papa; he eats and drinks more than
is good for him, and I never can
love him, or put up with him.'
' You may lose a fortune through
not doing so,' her father answered,
moodily ; ' you're not the only one of
the family, remember, Blanche/
she thought he was referring to
her mother and himself, and she was
melted in a moment.
' Oh, papal and I would do any-
thing to serve you; but let it l>e
with you ; don't semi me away to
grow a sneak.'
' I meant, remember, that he can
easily find some oth< r relative who
will be more acquiesoi nt,' her father
replied ; ' as to serving me, and not
leaving me, 1 wish to heaven you'd
do either, or both, poor child! I
shall do you no good; but if you
won't go, and my uncle takes a fancy
to Batbursfs hoy, it's all up with
your fate ever being brighter, that's
all, my girl.'
She was only a girl of sixteen
when this conversation took place,
but a woman's winning ways were
familiar to her even then. She hung
over his shoulder, resting her chin
up m it, and looked up into his face.
'Who knows, papa? l'.athur.st's
boy may take a fancy to me I*
' H( aright do somi thing moro
extraordinary, certainly. Bo you de-
cide, then ''. IOU will stay with me,
and rough it.'
She nodded her head.
' Yes, don't mmd my roughing it
Playing for High States.
159
ever, papa. I have a little of tho
gipsy in me, I believe ; there's a
cross of a vagabond in me someway,
I am sure ; it must be on your side,
for mamma has nothing of the vaga-
bond in her.'
' Your mother is a slave to mythi-
cal respectability,' he answered, tes-
tily, and Blanche could not help
thinking that her mother had been
spared the sight of her thrall for
some years.
' Yet she would have had me go
to old Mr. Lyon's,' she answered,
quickly. 'Well, never mind; you
have let me have a choice — I will
rough it with you.'
So the question was settled, and
once definitely arranged between
them, it must be stated in justice to
Mr. Lyon, that he never reopened it.
But Mrs. Lyon suffered from an
utter inability to keep the peace on
the subject. Whenever life went
ever so little harder than usual with
them, Mrs. Lyon sought, after the
manner of her kind, to obviate the
present difficulty by lamenting the
past possibility.
' When I think how different
tilings would have been if only
Uncle Lyon's offer had been ac-
cepted, I have no patience ; if my
advice had been asked instead of
Blanche's '
' It wouldn't have been taken by
Blanche, that is certain,' her husband
would reply. So another element of
discord was introduced ; the mother
grew to dread the child, the child
to despise the mother.
It was not a ' bad blow,' or a
' terrible shock,' or any other form
of woe that would admit of conven-
tional expression to Blanche Lyon
when her father died. His life had
shocked her a great deal more than
his death ; he had fallen away upon
evil ways, and his daughter knew it,
and was grieved alike in her purity
and pride. But when he died she
was conscious of rising up under it,
glad almost of the opportunity of
putting her shoulder to the wheel
of the family coach without seeming
to usurp his place, and degrade him
to the background.
Naturally the woman who had
wept at Arthur Lyon almost inces-
santly while he lived, wept even
more copiously for him when he
died. She was an exemplary widow.
She felt it ' due to poor Mr. Lyon,'
sho said, ' to have the best cra]50
and the widest hem-stitched pocket-
handkerchiefs.' When she had got
them she could not pay for them,
and then she felt it due to the
mournfulness of the position to sit
down and weep over the inability,
and nearly madden Blanche by ap-
pearing abject before the draper.
For a time it was one of those
social mysteries that may never be
solved how the widow and her
daughter lived. Old Mr. Lyon had
died before his nephew, and had not
left them even so much as a mourn-
ing ring. All his property, personal
and landed, was left to a young man
already possessing a fine estate of
his own, the son of a first cousin,
Frank Bathurst.
The fortunate heir had made one
or two efforts to institute friendly
relations with the widow and daugh-
ter of the man who had been more
nearly related to old Mr. Lyon than
he (Frank) himself. He had heard
little of them ; they were but names
to him, for old Mr. Lyon rarely
spoke or thought of people who
were not actually engaged in con-
ducing to his own comfort. Still
though he had heard so little of
them, he knew that they were to be
regarded as wronged, or rather that
they might be forgiven for so regard-
ing themselves. Accordingly he
held out a flourishing olive branch,
and Blanche gracefully waived it
aside.
' What can the friendship of a
young man like Mr. Bathurst do for
us?' she asked, when her mother
remonstrated with her on the ground
that she was throwing away another
chance ; ' he's very kind to say he
will call ; he means well, but he
needn't do it ; callers waste so much
of our time.'
' Don't latter such sentiments,
Blanche; they are not natural to
your age and station in life.'
Blanche laughed.
' I forget what my years are, but
I have learnt a good deal in them
one way and another; as for my
" station in life," well, mother, I
don't agree with you about my sen-
1G0
Playing for Ilijli Stakes.
timents not being "natural;" they
arc perfectly natural : thej
with the outward and visible
of positi 'ii I am at present banj
out. One little parlour, with a Btrong
odour of roast mutton pervading Lt,
is not the place 1 Bhould cai
people in ; though 1 make
i i of it, and put it nicely for
my pride by declaring that callers
time, and hoping Mr.
I >ik Bathurst will stay away.'
' You're like your poor dear lather,
and yon always stand in your own
light,' Mrs, Lyon replic 1.
Then the subje st was dropped, as
far its words went; but Mrs, Lyon
recurred to it often in what stood
her in place of a mind, and made
Blanche aware that she was doing
i by dropping tears down at un-
cted times into unseemly places.
If Blanche sto id in her own light
out of innate perversity, it must l>o
conce led to her that the ground Bhe
:■ I to Si md upon was far from
ant, and so she may be ae-
ore lite I wii b a certain integrity of
purpose. She was the i iund
plank in what was left of the
wrecked Lyon family, and so she
willingly took it upon herself to
■ the brunt of every storm that
might arise.
' We have nothing to live upon,
and so we must din like paupers/
.Mrs. Lyon had remarked, while
folding away her crape upper skirt
on the ilas of her husband's funeral.
' We must live, and »l must work,'
Blanche bad r< pH d. ' You know
you wouldn't like starving, mamma;
and we are neither of us likely to
die just yet.' Which speech made
Mrs. Lyon feel very unhappy and
discontented, for at themomi nt
she ■ tica Ij n a ly to onder-
g i any mai tj t lorn in order to prove
\x\ ivoxs that her dead husband
y nej ted 1 duty
in not amply providing fox hex out
•thing.
will to work had 1
but she ha 1 a tough
straggle with i if many
fore lar v. ill could carrj hi r
into any r mum tative path.
went ' ' ary round of agency
:■ llina the same outspoken
btory at each— 'I want to make
enough money to support my mo-
ther and myself, and I want to make
it respectably. 1 don't expi el com-
fort or consideration. Shall 1 do?'
The majority of lad 163 t I whom
she addressed herself declar d with
emphasis that she would not do for
a governess in their houses. They
ir had marriageable sons, or
daughters who were engaged, and
in either case Miss Lyon's brilliant
bloom and beautiful ey< a went very
much against her. But at last a
mother, with do such responsibility,
was found, a lady who bad no sons
at all, and whose eldest daughter
was only ten, an ! who lived away
SO deeply in the heart of a midland
county, in an old secluded country
grange, that Blanche's beauty, liko
the famous ilowcr, seemed born to
blush unseen.
This lady, Mrs. Marsh, was tho
widow of a man who had chanced to
have business relations during his
life with .Mark Sutton. S > it came
to pass that, the year before this
Btory opened, Mr. an I Mrs. Sutl in,
and some friends of theirs, had gone
to pass a few fresh invigorating days
down at Mrs. .Marsh's place. Mr.
Talbot was with them, and when ho
went hack to town, he left his heart
with the beautiful governess whom
bis charming Bister, Mrs. Sutton,
ha 1 sedulously flouted the wbulo
time they were together.
Indeed, the pretty guest had been
most sorely tried by the resident
My. .Marian had gone to tho
Grange gracefully enough to all
outward seeming, but she had It ul
a sharp struggle with lar sense of
expediency before she did so. Bex
husband asked it as a favour to him-
self that she should accept the invi-
t it ion of the widow of his old friend,
and Marian, who knew that it was
Wl '1 hi r list of favours .shown to
him Bhould be a long one, made a
fair show of BUrface BWi and
wi id, determining to make the best
of it. She was well aware thai the
Oge was imt the t\ p ■ of e.» intry
•.-. 1 1 r the time would tly. She
Qtimenl that it would bo
ible and inti n i ly dull, and
th it she should get to bate the < X-
Marsh I had
lung tasted that lady's hospitality.
Playing for High StaJcee.
161
But as it was advisable she should
go, she went with a fair show of
grace, reflecting that she could per-
haps ravish the hearts, and tastes,
and eyes of some of the better sort
of the male members of the be-
nighted neighbotirhood that had
never seen a Marian Sutton before.
On the strength of this hope she
had some very perfectly designed
costumes made to take with her,
and bowed the neck in getting them
from Hortense. It was hard to find
Miss Lyon in possession after such
a praiseworthy display of self-abne-
gation, and such tasteful efforts to
make herself look as well as she
could. Hard, very hard, to feel
that her prettiness paled before
Blanche's radiancy, and that the
governess did not spoil her beauty by
evidencing an overwhelming sense
of inferiority to Mrs. Sutton, as Mrs.
Sutton deemed it only becoming go-
vernesses should do.
' Miss Lyon is more than pretty,
she is almost lady-like/ Marian said
to her brother Edgar one morning,
when together they were sauntering
in the gardens of the Grange. ' Doyou
admire her ?' Marian gave him one
quick glance through her half-closed
eyelids as she asked the question,
and saw that he coloured as he
answered it.
' Admire is a weak word for her.
I think her splendid.'
'So does Mark,' Marian said,
laughing. She knew that her bro-
ther rated Mark Sutton's intellect
very low indeed, and denied him all
claim to tbe possession of taste. It
was pleasant, therefore, to her to put
Edgar in the position of having his
admiration for Miss Lyon endorsed
by Mark Sutton. 'So does Mark.
She is just the sort of dashing,
rather loud young country lady
whom Mark would admire.'
'Thank you for the implication,
Marian.'
' Why ! what have I said that is
not quite true'?' she inquired, open-
ing her eyes a little wider as she
spoke. ' Don't thank me for im-
plying things, Edgar. I never im-
ply; I speak out. It's my mis-
fortune to be too truthful.'
' You have never suffered from
the effects of that misfortune as yet,
VOL. XX.— NO. LXII.
luckily. Never mind, Marian ; what
more have you to say against Miss
Lyon ?'
'Against her?' Mrs. Sutton re-
iterated, gathering her skirts away
from contact with the ground, and
putting her hand through her bro-
ther's arm : ' not a word again&t her ;
she amuses me too much.'
'How?'
' Oh, with her would-be lady-liko
airs of quiet reserve when she is as
full of animal spirits as she can be.
She is like all underbred people —
odious when quiet on compulsion.'
Mrs. Sutton spoke with consider-
able animation, in a ringing treble.
Her hand, too, trembled on her bro-
ther's arm.
' You speak with a good deal of
feeling. What has Miss Lyon done
to you, Marian ?'
• Done to me !' She laughed and
recovered herself. 'Perhaps you
believe that I am capable of being
jealous of Mark's clumsily-expressed
admiration for her ?'
'If he were not your husband I
should think so decidedly.'
' But as he is my husband ? My
dear Edgar, pray banish that notion
from your mind. He admires our
cook very much — she is Miss Lyon's
most formidable rival ; he wavers to
such a degree between the two, that
I feel my balance of power is not
endangered.'
' The sarcasm is neither very de-
licate nor very keen. It is modest
on your part, though, Marian, to
undervalue Mark's taste in this way.
He chose you.'
' Which speech is full of the attri-
butes which were wanting in my
sarcasm,' she replied. ' Come, Edgar,
let there be an armed neutrality be-
tween us about Miss Lyon. I can-
not endure incivility ; and you are
almost capable of being uncivil to
me when I venture to hint that she
is not as absolutely perfect as Mark
thinks her.'
It will easily be understood that
after this Mrs. Sutton had less tolera-
tion in her soul, though far more in
her speech, for Blanche Lyon. The
girl held her own so quietly amongst
them all, even when her mother
came to join the party at Mrs. Marsh's
considerate invitation. Mrs. Lyon
M
162
Playing fur Ilijh Slakes,
fell an easy and unsuspecting vic-
tim into every pit Mrs. Button pre-
pared for her, and Mrs. Sutton
1 many. It was altogether be-
yond the power of the pretty, young,
wealthy, admired married woman,
to put the governess in tbo second
place. Mrs. Sutton had quite ex-
hausted her store of depredatory
devices on Miss I. yon. and still M bs
Lyon was as composedly indifferent
to her, and asn: 1 in her in-
tercourse with Mr. Sutton and Mr.
Talbot as it' Marian had not existed.
Mrs. Sutton had taken a patronizing
tone, and Blanche- had, with great
good temper, and good breed-
ing, too, made manifest the fact that
Mrs. Sutton's patronage was too
small a thing to be either accepted
or r ted. Then Marian bad
ignored Blanche's presence and re-
marks, and neither Blanche's pre-
sence nor remarks grew less bright
for the treatiuent. If Mias Lyon
had employed a country dress-
maker, and her waist could have
Ken proved to lie an inch too high
or too low, too slight or too la
Marian would have been less bitter.
But Miss Lyon daringly empl
the great Hoiter.se, and did n it givo
"ton the shadow of a chance
of finding fault. Marian had almost
given up the contest, when Mrs.
Lyon came, and strengthened Mrs.
Sutton's forces unintentionally at
once.
The poor lady had sighed for this
invitation, and in her own trans-
nt way had schemed for it. She
had declared her intention of taking
lodgings in the n* ighhourhood of
the I g for a few weeks in order
to be 01 U her child. And her child
had kepi the di claration a dead
t from Mrs. Marsh while she
could, and I
alter the i: But, like all
le who are unstable by nature,
Mrs. Lyon cultr
und gth of will,
■ r the display of it
■
for the better' which her half hoj i -
fill, half di -• i mind had a!-
L Tins >< emed to I
fittin_' opportunity for daunting out
her limp il i_ r of deftanoi
ingly she did it in a tremulous
manner that was essentially her own,
and essentially repugnanl to Blanche.
wrote to Mrs. Marsh, proposing
that Blanche should come and pass
a few weeks with her at a farm-
house about two miles from the
Grange, and during those weeks
walk backwards and forwards for
the fulfilling of her educational
duti' .Is the little Marshes.
To the proposition of this plan she
appended a humble hope that
Blanc Lc would not catch a violent
cold on her cheat in the course of
compulsory walks, and so de-
velop an hereditary delicacy which
had always h en B source of anguish
to her anxious mother. The reply
to this letter (the coo f which
Mrs. Marsh k< pt from Blanche, but
which were told to her in a song of
triumph sung by Mrs. I. yon as soon
as she arrived,) was the invitation
which brought her in contact with
Mrs. Sutton, and more important
still, with Edgar Talbot
For a day or two Blanche was
taken in by the manner Mrs. Sutton
adopted towards Mrs. Lyon, but
after a day or two she saw through
and r aented it as such a woman
would n Bent a manner that was the
offspring of such a motive. It lias
been Baid that Mrs. I . m wont with
celerity into all the pitfalls Mrs.
Sutton prepared fox her. She did
more nt into them as if they
I • plao a. Under tho
influence of tlio false, subtle, fas-
cinating allurements of tho soft-
voiced woman with 1 ler half-
closed eyes, poor Mrs. I. yon would
enter upon the telling of endless
narratives that were uninteresting
in tl i B, that cone rued peo-
ple of whom her auditors had never
heard, and that were singularly \
Of point And Mrs. Sutton would
tin iii with an assumption
of into r> Bt that Blanche fell t<
and would r< ill the wan-
dering atto : her brother
I ir, 'and generally portray pity-
D tOWBJ ■
<r in a way that at last made
on writ)
Writhe to a degree that at length
the smaller i I m< cts in b r
oization trampled over the
better, and urged her to enter upon
Playing for High Stakes.
163
an ignoble contest. Then she brought
the battery of her great beauty, the
wonderful wealth of her auiuual
spirits, the subtle charm of her soul
superiority to himself to bear upon
the husband of the woman who
sought to render her ridiculous
through her mother. She took the
conversation, as women of her mental
calibre know how to take it, on to
ground where Mark Sutton was very
much at a loss, and compelled him
to join in it, and contrived that he
should do so to his disadvantage.
In short, she sought to shame his
wife through him ; sought to do so
till she saw him smart under the
consciousness of one of his blunders,
and then bitterly repented herself
of the littleness.
There was nothing attractive,
nothing interesting, little worth
thinking about, in short, in Mark
Sutton. Still Blanche's heart went
out warmly to him when he told
her that lie 'had always thought
too httle of himself for it to have
been quite worthy of her to have
made him think less.' The rebuke
was a bitterly sharp one to her in
its moderation and humility. If the
man she had_; made absurd in the
eyes of others, above all of his wife,
if he had turned round upon her as
a man of his class would be likely
to turn, she thought she could have
borne it better, and forgiven herself
more readily. But he was kinder
to her than before, kind as to one
who had need of protection against
herself amongst others.
Blanche Lyon had a bright, clear,
discriminating power, and she recog-
nized this element, and acknowledged
that there was ground for its being
shown. She had just a few words
of explanation with him, and bound
him to her by them a faster friend
than before. Going to him one
afternoon as he was walking along
between two high laurel hedges,
with a little flush of mingled peni-
tence and pride on her rounded
healthy cheeks, with a shimmer over
her grey eyes, and a touch of tremu-
lousness in her voice that appealed
to him very sweetly, what could any
man do but forgive her when she
said —
' I have been made to smart so
that like the scorpion I was ready
to sting myself, Mr. Sutton ; I did
worse, I tried to sting the only
human being who cared enough for
me to be stung by my ingratitude.
Can you forgive me?'
She looked what Edgar Talbot
had called her, a ' splendid creature,'
as she asked this. Standing there
before him in her rich, heavily-
falling, violet-hued, winter drapery,
with her bright face toned down
into a transient tenderness by re-
morse, with all the winning delica-
cies of her most winning manner
brought into such quiet play, with
the silent weight of the pretty, re-
fined, feminine trifles of becoming
hat and well-fitting gloves, and mere
idea of perfume brought to bear
upon him — to bear upon the man
who had never known them in his
youth, and who accepted them all
as badges of the station to which
he had climbed. What could he do
but forgive her, and utter the hope
that he might be permitted, might
be able to befriend her?
' And if you ever can, I will ask
you,' she said.
' And I will do it while I live,' he
answered.
' Even against your wife ?' she in-
terrupted, with a laugh, and Mark
Sutton's heart sank and his colour
rose at even so slight an allegation
being brought against Marian ; but
still he replied heartily, taking the
hand of the girl who had made it,
' Even against Marian, if '
* Let m there be no " ifs " in the
case.'
Mrs. Sutton herself interrupted,'
lounging forward from a half-con-
cealed seat in the laurel hedge.
' Excuse me ; I would have spoken
before if I had recognized your
voices,' she added, carelessly ; ' but
I thought it was some of the ser-
vants indulging in a lovers' quarrel ;
it was not till my name was taken
in vain that '
' You remembered ladies do not
listen,' Blanche put in, hastily. Then
the belligerents looked straight into
each other's eyes, and it occurred to
Mark Sutton that it might be very
hard for him to keep his promise of
befriending Blanche, 'even against
his wife.'
M 2
164
Tbujing for TJigh Stake*
OHAPTEB V.
ODMBEBl D WITH KUOH BKBVINQ.
M< anwhus an alliance that would
have » 'in' 'l \' iv atrange ami Cull
of discordant elements to Blanche,
had she noticed it. had been formed
between Mrs. Lyon and Edgar Tal-
Almost before the girl, with
all her sensitiveness, was conscious
Of it, he mark' '1 Ins sister's manner
1 \i Lyon, ami saved hex
from it as tar as he could. 1 1'' p'T-
ceived at once that in her garru-
krasness lay Mrs. Lyon's chief dan-
ger, and Mrs. Sutton's chief chance
of stinging Blanche into subjection.
Then fore la' turned that, garrulous-
ness upon himself as far as ho could,
devoting himself to the mother in a
way that would liave touched tho
daughter very much had she loved
him, but 1 li.it , as it was, simply made
her regard him as a well-meaning
youn.Lr man who could have nothing
in common with her, .since he
■ nil to prefer mamma's
tedious talk.'
It must at once he conceded that
Blanche Lyon was very far from
1» ling a type Of the duteous child of
real life or romance, who Can cloud
her own judgmenl over to the extent
of believing, whatever the parental
attributes, that tiny are perfect
She oever allowed herself to say or
look aught that might be construed
into a slight upon the woman with
the Lukewarm nature and limp mind
whose child it was her misfortune
to bi But though she kept the'
l md was tilial outwardly, she
Was inwardly conscious of all the
i il!,- used no shallow
euphemisms in describing them to
In reelf. When Mrs. I. yon got into
a wordy labyrinth, and tin n imme-
diately proceeded to display an im-
patient ho] about ever i k-
Edgar Talbot would
put in a word, and help In r to clear
in a waj that can i d Blanche
to li very trustfully
to hi, un ivy, hut at tin- game time
k him n. a axactty a ' i •
P rhapa ; hut at
more than a ' i
young man who suited
mamma.'* Ih r own lad of inti
in, and appreciation for him, blinded
her to his motives, his admiration
for llel'self, his tenderness for her
feelings, his anxiety to put all be-
longing to her in the best light -all
these were lost upon her by reason
of her heart being untouched by
him.
So it came about that when Mrs.
Lyon left the Grange, and went back
to' live in London, her communica-
tions respecting Mr. Talbot's un-
abated interest in, and kindness to
her, fell flatty upon Blanche.
'It's very good of him to go and
call on mamma — I Buppose her old
stories amuse him,' was her sole
mental comment upon the fact of
Edgar Talbot having ' renewed the
acquaintance, and said he was sun!
he hoped it would continue,' to use
Mrs. Lyon's own words. Miss Lyon
thought so little about it, in fact,
that she never so much as referred
to it in any one of the litters which
Mrs. Lyon, in her frequent bursts of
maternal pride, would give him to
read. Accordingly, when he first
mooted the plan of the united house-
hold for the sake of his sister Beatrix,
he treated it as lie did any other
venture, and declared that it would
he injudicious to talk about it pre-
maturely. ' Wait until Miss Lyon
< ies home, and then tell her what
you have kindly consented to do—
her companionship will he invalu-
able to my sister,' b bad aid. And
Mrs. Lyon had refrained, sorely
against her will, from writing wordy
fetter , and had kept a silence on
the subject which was to he hl'okell
for the firsj time on this night of
Blanche's arrival.
Mrs. Marsh was going to bn i k
up her establishment, put hi r
daughter to school, and go on the
Continent herself, therefor*
quired Miss Lyon's services no
Longer. Blanche had come homo
chaived with good P olutionB.
Amongst others, she was col going
1,, suffer impatn ace to obtain for
one minute m la r hi ftli ' tho
weak one who should 111
Support, and who in all tine had
to lean upon her. Additionally, she
was going to spend the three or four
months' holiday ''lit to take
in Learning i iguageoraccom-
Playing for High, Stakes.
165
plishment winch should fit her to
take some better situation than she
had hitherto held. The conscious-
ness of being fraught with good in-
tentions came to her aid happily,
and tided her over the irritating
half-hour of confusion, complaining,
and explanation which succeeded
her advent. Mrs. Lyon was a
woman who was utterly incapable
of letting a fact speak for itself.
The dinner was late — the dinner is
very apt to be late where unceasing
fuss and one female servant reign
alone. Blanche could have borne
this with composure, as she had not
set her hopes on dining the moment
she arrived. What she found hard
to bear was being told it was late,
and why it was late— a stream of
narration which was swollen con-
tinually by many wayside springs of
explanation concerning all the nouns
incidentally mentioned. It was hard,
very hard, indeed, for the girl who
had a good heavy weight upon her,
made up of many things, to listen
patiently to the tale of the green-
grocer's laxity, the butcher-boy's
peccadilloes, and the servant's gene-
ral iniquities.
' I do not mind for myself,' Mrs.
Lyon wound up with, when the
wearied Blanche drew a quick breath
that was as much of a sigh as a
sensible woman can ever permit
herself to heave, and this not out of
impatience at any of the ills to which
the livers on narrow incomes are
heir, but at the manner of their
recital, ' I do not mind for myself; I
never expect to be anything but
worried and uncomfortable; but I
do wish to make your home pleasant
to you.'
' Then, mother, let me do all the
fault-finding,' Blanche answered,
brightly. ' You sit down and take
things easy.'
'Ah!' Mrs. Lyon said, shaking
her head, and rising up laboriously
to move two or three things that
might with perfect propriety have
remained where they were, ' it's
easy to talk : your poor dear father
always spoke as if regulating a
household, and having things nice
and comfortable, was no more
trouble than taking a walk.'
' But you don't have things nice
and comfortable, with all the fuss
you make.' Blanche only thought
this sentence, she did not say it.
All she said was, ' I daresay you
aro right, mamma; but comfort is
a most uncomfortable thing.' Then
she took off her hat and threw it
back on to the sideboard (when
Mrs. Lyon followed it as if it might
have done some damage to the nor-
mal decorations of that piece of
furniture, if it were not carefully
supervised), and then she threw off
a good deal of the brightness with
which she had come into the room,
and sat down rather sadly, under the
conviction that her good resolutions
would be utterly routed before
long.
Down at the Grange there had
been an easy-going refinement per-
vading all the arrangements — a re-
finement that came as much from
the mistress having a clear head, as
it did from her having a full purse ;
but here, up in this little cramped
lodging, where the head and purse
of the presiding domestic deity
were alike badly supplied, there
was a good deal that was temper-
trying and unavoidable, and (which
w 7 as worse) there was a good deal
that was temper-trying and avoid-
able. Probably the race of Marthas
— the women who are cumbered
with much serving — will survive
and flourish unto the last. It may
be for our good that they should do
so. In some cases the end does
justify the means ; as, for instance,
when vaccination causes small-pox
to be lightly taken, or when mis-
sionary pie brings one savage of
delicate digestion to a sense of the
superiority of living preaching mis-
sionaries over the preparation which
has disagreed with him. But, in the
majority of every-day matters, the
end is too small for fussy means to
be forgiven.
' I am sure, the day I have had !
— not a moment to call my own
since I got out of bed, Blanche!'
Mrs. Lyon commenced, piteously,
when the chicken made its appear-
ance at last, and the two ladies sat
down to dinner.
' How happy you must have been,'
Blanche answered, with most inju-
dicious truthfulness. It was a fact
1G6
Piny 'ni'j for TTljh Sluices.
that Mrs. Lyon never was so ca^y
in her mind as when she was actively
loyed in contributing to con-
fusion ; bnt it was a tart the men-
tion "f which Bhe always resented.
' Sappy!' sin' echoed, pausing in
her employment about the toughest
pari or the win:.'. ' Sappy ! it is
v< ry little happiness I have known
in life, Blanche— very little, as I
have told your poor dear father over
ami over again?
'What a comfort it musfhave
been to my father to hear yon say
so.' Blanche had rem< mbered her
good resolutions by this time; so,
though she conld not resist making
the speech, she made it in her
lightest, pleasantest manner.
'lam afraid he cared very little
about it,' Mrs. Lyon replied, patheti-
cally. Then she shed a tear or two,
ami had to stop to chase them down
her chei ks and dry them before they
| i d. Meanwhile the chicken
grew cold, and Blanche had time to
won 1> c whether it had been quite
worth while to spend the whole day
in designing and striving after a
consummation that was suffered to
Spoil when achieved.
' T< 11 nie some of the tilings yon
have been busy about, mamma/
Blanche ash d, hastily. And then
Mrs. Lyon entered upon a narrative
that remind* d h< c daughter of the
us brook, in that it hid fair to
go on'for ev< r.' A narrative that
wound round and round the ori-
ginal subject which it 1 ad pi
to treat of at starting, cleverly
avoiding that, and embracing in-
stead a variety of topics that had
no connection whatever with any-
thing about which Blanche ever had
1 1. or ever could di sire to In ar.
The truth w.< | | Mrs. Lyon
w • ■ • ! ihera If for the
ha;. i promise d Edgar Talbot
to 1 1 i at, by taking a convi
tional pr liminary canter, she
rath, r • the look the nn-
nouncemi nt might call into life m
her dau| it, gr< y, I
. .More, si;. I ;i
definite refusal mi Blanchi ' pari
to accompany In r t.. Mr Talbot's
Incise, there to play the pari
dian-angel to Mr. 'lull
■ r.
Mrs. Lyon broke tlic tidings, in
wdiat she conceived to he a. singularly
diplomatic way. she waited till
Blanche (tired out with her journey
and several hours' hard hunting
after Iht mother's meaning, which
had been, as usual, sedulously con-
ci tli d in many words) went up to
ho- own room and prepared to go
to bed.
To hed, but not to sleep; for
Mrs. Lyon followed her with a
glass of warm sherry and water, a
Beverage with which Blanche was
unsympathetic, tho mere Bight and
faint odour of which brought back
memories of childish illnesses and
general debility. Mrs. Lyon followed
her with this draught and the
words —
• My dear Blanche, what do you
think of this plan of Mr. Talhot'fl?*
laying a slight stress on the words
' what do you think/ as if the matter
ha 1 been before Blanche for b >me
time, and had been a subject of in •
discussion between .Mrs. Lyon and
others.
'Mr. Talhotl — Mrs. Sutton's
brother? I don't think I know any
plan of his/ Blanche replied, raising
herself up and leaning on her
ell iow.
' Then I may as well tell you to-
night, to give you something plea-
sant to dri am about/ the elder lady
rejoiind, with a little affected air of
jocularity that was very pitiable.
Then she went fin to tell what Mr.
Talbot had thought, and she had
thought first ; and then what each
of them had said to the other, and
then what each had thought tho
otlnr would think, and then what
both had : aid Blanche would think,
until she swam away into a haven
ot sati faction out of the .1 nil i rOUS
difficulties Of the OOt an of words she
herself had created. 'There, now
go hi !i eji ami dream ah i it it, ami
ask no ■ i ii< -tions until tin; morning/
she int. irrupted, rather i|iu rulously,
w hen Blanch I ' But, mamma.'
The interruption tell on <!.
howi .' i . blanche would no! go to
;i and ilinin aboul it ju- 1 \et.
' To n Mr. Talbot's house
and his sister! What is his dbtar?
an infant or an idiot ?'
* Really, blanche, no one, to hear
Playing for High Stake*.
167
yon, would believe how careful I
always havo been in my own lan-
guage. Choice ! I was considered
quite choice in my expressions when
I was a girl ; and I am sure for
years after my marriage your father
never heard mo say a word that the
whole world might not have heard.'
' I dare say not, poor papa !' the
girl cried, with petulant irreverence.
' Never mind my bad language to-
night, though, mother, — tell me
more of this plan ; tell me some-
thing I can hear with patience; —
tell me, you have not agreed to put
yourself and me in the position of
servants in Mr. Talbot's house.'
She spoke fast and earnestly.
Her mother, in describing the tones
Blanche used on the occasion, after-
wards, to the sympathising Mrs.
Sutton, denominated them ' fierce.'
'I am to be Miss Talbot's cha-
peron.'
Blanche laughed out merrily.
The absurdity would touch herself
she knew ; still she could not help
seeing the humour of it all, and
laughing at it for the time.
* And I — what am I to be ?' she
inquired.
' You are to be Miss Talbot's com-
panion — treated quite like her sister;
and really, Blanche, I do not see
that a companion is so much lower
than a governess,' Mrs. Lyon added,
hurriedly. Then she went on to
cry a little, and to say that this was
a prospect that opened up some-
thing like peace, and comfort, and
security to her — things (she would
mention incidentally) which had
hitherto been denied to her. But of
course she should have to give
them up, and go on living the life
of privation, not to say misery, for
which she had been expressly born !
Then Blanche had to perform a
humiliating task : to argue against
her own judgment, for the sake of
rescuing her mother from the
watery abyss over which the latter
insisted on hovering. She reminded
herself that she was not sure of
being able to do better for Mrs.
Lyon than Mrs. Lyon proposed
doing for herself, and she sedulously
strove to cultivate the feeling that
it was unworthy of her to imagine
that there would be any degradation
in going in a subordinate position to
the house of Mrs. Sutton's brother.
The mere thought of her fair, inso-
lent, skilful antagonist brought* her
worst qualities vigorously to the
surface. ' If she does not keep the
peace from the first— from the very
first — keep it fairly, and never try
to deal me a foul blow, I will strike,
— and wound her, too,' she thought,
as she turned her hot, throbbing
brow from the light and pressed it
into the pillow, when at last her
mother left her alone— but not to
sleep.
CHAPTEE VI.
THE FAMILY PARTY.
Mrs. Sutton had certainly not neg-
lected one of the primary duties of
woman on the night of the family
dinner party to which she had asked
Mr. Bathurst. She was looking her
best; there had been no counting
the cost in the creation of the rich
costume that seemed only a fitting
finish to her prettiness — it was so
perfect in its unobtrusiveness. Hav-
ing abstained — as may be remem-
bered — from going to offer Beatrix a
hint on the subject of her dress, she
was rather disappointed to find, on
Beatrix's entrance, that the hint
would have been superfluous, Miss
Talbot having dressed the situation
capitally. Securely as Mrs. Sutton
stood in the centre of her own rich
draperies, she did feel her heart
hardening against the younger sis-
ter, who, coming straight from the
wilds of the country, dared not
alone to know what to wear, but
how to wear it.
As a rule family parties must be
admitted to be very trying things.
They are pleasant to read about
when they are treated, for example,
as Dickens treated the Wardles, in
' Pickwick.' Still we cannot help
being struck by the great truth that
even the Manor Farm might have
been dull, even at that hilarious
season of the year, if it had not been
enlivened by the presence of the
Pickwickians — and introduced to us
by Charles Dickens.
Mrs. Sutton thoroughly appre-
ciated all the difficulties attendant
168
Playing for Eijh Stale*.
on making ft family dinner party po
off well. The thorough appn
tion w;is not t!u i nee,
f"r it was tl: • \me her brothers
an'l sisters had met together under
bar roof, and Mark was too com-
pletely the result of circumstances
f. >r any material family connections
he might have, to come under
- consideration. Bat though
she had had no practice in the art,
her theory about it was very pa
'The salvation of the amir will
be, that two of us know nothing
whatever altout each other or the
id to herself
while eh ' I'rixy and Lionel
will Ie themselves together
here with as much faith in us all
and our surroundings as if they
were strangers to as.' Mrs. Sutton
laughed a pleasantly derisive little
_h, as she thought this, and
looked at herself so sweetly in the
S that her maid thought it
an auspicious moment to hint how
acceptable her ' wages ' would be to
her. At the sound of the word the
fair, innocent-browed, well-to-do
beauty's face clouded, and she
turned impatiently from the glass.
1 1 have told you, over and over
again, that I will pay you when I
can, Rickson. What is the use of
your worrying me about it? You
are all alike — a set of spoi.t extor-
tionists, ilortense would not have
charged any one else three guineas
a yard for this lace, that looks
nothing now it is on ; and as for
you, with the things I am always
giving you, you are as well-dressed
as 1 am myself. 1
Bicfcioa had lived with the syren-
voict'l lady ever since her marriage,
and wa to her after a
fashion. Mrs. Sutton was one of
those women who wound, and
wrong, and insult with soft hand,
• I, and gentle tones. It
was almost impossible to feel angry
with her, or to deem her in the a l
that an]
should feel pi' itfa her, and
consider her in the right She would
falsify facts, trick, deceive, d> il in
any form of traachi ry, in short
Put the did it all i
so, some way or other, though the
was found out continually, her
pendents stood by her, and served
\:< r. and suffered for it. It was her
;alty to be sweet and gentle,
nine and pleasant Given the
t Lady MacKth had to gain,
and she would have played Lady
Bfaebi th'e part. But she would first
have made Macduff love her for her
tenderness and delicacy and for her
fair innocent beanty, that she might
have killed him the more coi
niently while his admiration was
at its height, with a nice clean
dagL'- r.
So now, though she spoke impa-
tiently to Etickaua, and would not,
like Hope, tell a ' flattering tale ' of
prompt payment there fell the
magic mantle of her pleasant man-
ner between herself and her servant,
who showed her sense of that man-
ner's artistic merit by l>eing far less
uncivil than she thought she dared
to be.
Nevertheless, though the subject
was dropped almost as soon as
started, it had brought the fact of
there l*.-ing several serious crumples
in her rose-leaf prominently before
Mrs. Sutton. She set her little,
white, straight teeth together sa-
vagely as her sister came into the
drawing-room, remembering that
Beatrix had it all before her— had a
fair start — might marry, and carry
on the war as brilliantly as 6he
(Marian) was doing it, without one
of Marian's inward pangs.
For pretty Mrs. Sutton bad these
occasionally. She was not one of
the successful sinners of romance,
who do all sorts of reprehensible
things, with a conscience unclouded
as their cheeks. Mrs. Sutton told
stories, and deceived her husband,
and got herself into debts and dilli-
culties through panning a tortuous
course, when fair sailing would
have carried her clear of all such
things. But she did not sin with
impunity. She was horribly fright-
ened at times — she was brought so
very low, at others, as to have to put
on a fair surface-st fining to her in-
f< riors ; she went al»out in daily
danger of being found out. And
though she fully A a rv. d it all, it
being her <l< a rl did not make the
inward pangs less hard for a woman
tob
Playing for High Stakes.
1G9
It may be doubted -whether she
Buffered in her conscience. It may,
indeed, be doubted whether she had
any conscience at all, in the proper
acceptation of the word. Her two
strongest qualities were thoughtless-
ness and vanity, and these do not
conduce much to the preservation,
far less cultivation, of any conscience
with which a human being may
originally have been endowed. But
however it may have been about
that, it is undoubtedly a fact that
she went through many a quaking
time when her pride of place, her
power of creating and keeping ad-
miration, her domestic position was
endangered. For all her well-bred
little airs and graces, she had it in
her to be very much of a sycophant
— had it in her to trail her nut-
brown tresses in the dust in private
rather than have them lowered one
inch in public, even though there
was no moral degradation in such
lowering.
She had banished the sharp ex-
pression of savage jealousy before
Beatrix had time to see that it was
more than a welcoming smile — ban-
ished it, and substituted one of
young matronly dignity, that sat
very gracefully upon her almost
girlish beauty, Frank Bathurst
thought. During the first ten mi-
nutes of being with the two sisters,
Mr. Bathurst made many profound
and original observations to himself
on the superiority of perfect tact,
grace, and style over mere ' perfect
beauty,' as shown in the favourable
contrast Mrs. Sutton offered to her
younger sister. It did not occur to
him at the time that the contrast
might not have been so markedly in
favour of the married woman had
she not happened to be apparently
absorbed in something he himself
was saying to her. When he men-
tioned afterwards to Lionel that
'Mrs. Sutton talked well,' Lionel
knew enough of his friend and his
sister to feel certain that the latter
had listened admiringly.
But when they got themselves
seated round the dinner-table, the
inferiority of perfect beauty was less
patent to Mr. Frank Bathurst. He
saw that there was a touch of no-
bility about the girl opposite to him
which her pretty married sister
lacked. Beatrix had not a vivacious
face, but she had a face that was
capable of very intense expression,
and this capability made itself mani-
fest to the artist at a very early
stage of the dinner, and brought
him very much under her banner,
though he was ignorant of the cause
that called forth that intensity. For
want of some more interesting topic
which should have a common in-
terest, they had been speaking of
some of the extravagances of the
day, and Edgar Talbot had quoted
some of the dull and dead season
letters to the ' Times ' about it.
' From a man's point of view, it's
simply feeble the way in which you
ladies haunt certain shops and mil-
liners' establishments,' Mr. Talbot
said to Mrs. Sutton; 'you order
your dress, and take a fair amount
of time to do it, and then you give a
few more days to the buttons, and
the band, and the trimming. I
won't have you spoil Beatrix,
Marian.'
' Marian has commenced well, at
any rate,' her husband put in. Then
(he was off guard for once) he
added, ' She tells me she did not
even take her sister near Hortense
yesterday.'
Even as he spoke he remembered
himself — remembered how he had
seen his wife's carriage at the dress-
maker's door, and his heart smote
him as he looked at Beatrix and
saw the same look of intense, hot
scorn on her face which Frank was
just admiring.
Like a cat, Mrs. Sutton invariably
offered a velvet paw, keeping the
claws well back, and purred when
she dared not scratch. She dared
not scratch now ; every one of the
people present could be, and should
be, useful to her. So she said, quite
suavely —
'Trixy finds the room too hot;
she is quite flushed. Take my ad-
vice, Edgar, and have a nice perfo-
rated oak screen put up in your
room before you begin giving din-
ners. When do the Lyons come to
you?'
The diversion was perfect. Mr.
Bathurst ceased in an instant to
admire Miss Talbot's expression.
170
Playing for Iligh Stakes.
and to ponder over what conld havo
called it into being.
'The Lyons,' ho repeated, ad-
dressing Mr. Talbot; 'do you know
any Lyons V
' I know a Mrs. Lyon and her
daughter,' Edgar replied, rather
stiffly. Ee exceedingly disliked
having to offer up explanations con-
oerning his relations with the Lyons
to elinnee questioners.
' We all know Mrs. Lyon and her
daughter,' Mrs. Sutton went on to
explain, ' and wo arc all very much
at the feet of Mrs. Lyon and her
daughter, are we not, Mark ?'
' I am more than rather interested.
I have someeousins — distant cousins
— of the namo of Lyon. Is Miss
Lyon called Blanche ?'
'Yes, the children used to call
her Blanche sometimes/ Mrs. Sutton
replied.
' Children— what children?'
' The children where she was
governess,' Mrs. Sutton said, quietly.
And something in her tone brought
tho blood to the brows of the two
men to whom Blanche was nearest,
the one through his love for, the
other through his relationship to
her. Frank Bathurst was tho first
to speak.
' She went out as a governess, did
she? A high-spirited girl, as sho
ought to bo, coming of that stock.'
Then he told the story of old Mr.
Lyon's request, and rage at Blanche
Lyon refusing it ; and when he had
finished, Mrs. Sutton felt very sorry
that she had spoken about the Lyons
at all. She had still one more
chargo in the gun she always car-
ried against Blanche Lyon, and this
sho contrived to deliver in tho courso
of tho evening. But sho sent it
homo to tho ' ono ' alone— sho felt
that at dinner sho had not been
diplomatic.
As soon as tho two sisters found
themselves alono in tin; drawing-
room, Mrs. Button realized thai she
must talk very fast and very forcibly
in order to keep Trixy bom uttering
tho reproachful words she wa
dently burning to utter relative to
Mad:ime Hurt' 006. She had DO dis-
trust of her own powers of m
to avoid hearing unpleasant tl
A few minutes spent in saying pretty
things fluently, then a few minutes'
sleep, ox assumption of it, and then
tho men would como in, and ' decent
sisterly feeling would prevent Trixy'
speaking. Mrs. Sutton was great
about many things, but perhaps sho
was greatest of all about tho moral
and social responsibilities of others.
Accordingly sho commenced at
onco, while wheeling one little couch
round nearer to tho fire to mako
' Trixy comfortable,' and pushing
another back into her own pet
corner, where were low seats for
satellites.
' Very good looking Damon and
Pythias are.'
' You mean Lionel and his friend ?'
Trixy asked.
' Yes, of courso I do. What a
fortunate thing it is for us all that
Lionel did not go into the bondage
of an artistic friendship with ono of
the many untidy and poor young
men who paint, and whoso name is
legion.'
Marian paused, and Trixy was on
tho point of saying a word as to tho
possibility of tho untidy and poor
young man being not utterly devoid
of merit. A moment's consideration
saved her from tho error. Marian
had not impugned their merit; sho
had only said it was a comfort to
tho family that Lionel had not
formed a friendship for ono of them.
Probably she was right.
' It is an immense satisfaction to
me that ho is what ho is,' Marian
went on. ' I am far too fond of my
brothers,' sho added, piously, 'not
to feel it my duty to sec a great deal
of them ; a married sister can be of
such immense service to a young
man, can she not?'
The climax was weak. Beatrix,
had been feeling her painful in-
feriority ami utter uselessncss as an
'unmarried Bister/ bul she was par-
tially restored by the appeal.
'I havo no doubt that sho can,
and that you are, Marian,' she rc-
1, laughing. 'Do your good
offices extend to their friends? 1
' Win n their friends are liko Mr.
bathurst, and I have a beautiful
• r, who is still Miss Talbot, near
me, yes. Tho storytells itself, with-
out trouble, Trixy; my experience
of men with those heavenly bluo
Playing for High Slakes.
171
eyes is, that they fall in love with,
every loveable earthly creature they
meet.'
Amongst other girlish attributes,
Miss Talbot had a fair sense of her
own importance. She did not hold
it absolutely necessary that other
lips and other hearts should have
played no part in the past of the
one who might hope to win her in
the present. She did not hold this
absolutely necessary. At the same
time, it would be a first condition
with her that she should reign, and
reign alone. So now she said. —
'My experience of men with
heavenly blue eyes is yet to be
gained, and will not be from Mr.
Bathurst.'
'I have heard those decisions
against a man's suit, before it has
been proffered, made before to-day,
Trixy,' Mrs. Sutton said, in her
most dulcet accents, stretching her
feet out so that the dainty silk shoes,
with their big rosettes, just escaped
below her robe. ' Don't deter-
mine too resolutely against Frank
Bathurst ; his eyes will upset your
strongest resolutions, if he ever
brings them to bear upon you.'
'1 will give him up to Miss
Lyon, she has the prior claim,'
Trixy said, laughing. And then
Mrs. Sutton sat up and pushed her
brown hair back off her forehead,
and suffered her eyes to scintillate.
'You will be weak— weak is no
word for it, — you will be foolish
and wrong to the last degree, if you
suffer that girl to be in Edgar's
house for a week, Trixy ; she will
marry him and lead him like a
blind dog !'
' And if she does ?'
'If she does! — you ask it coolly
enough now ; but, take my word
for it, you will know the reason
why it would be better she should
not, before she has been his wife a
month. She is artful, designing,
unscrupulous, and clever.'
Mrs. Sutton spoke fast and
forcibly, but neither loudly nor
coarsely. She panted out her de-
nunciation of Miss Lyon much as a
silver bell might 'ring out' the
falseness of the epoch with its
tinkling chimes. In the face of the
knowledge she had that Marian
could diverge from the truth to suit
her own convenience, without effort
or scruplo, and despite her brother
Edgar's caution on the subject,
Beatrix was conscious of being con-
siderably carried by the fascinating
homilist on the sofa.
' You know something to her dis-
advantage, Marian ?— you could not
be so bitter against this girl for
nothing,' Trixy asked, unguardedly.
And Mrs. Sutton said to herself, ' I
wish I did,' and to her sister —
' I know nothing ; but I have my
instincts— a pure woman's instincts
seldom mislead, Trixy,' she con-
tinued, with a brilliantly rapid
assumption of the best British
matron manner. Then they had to
cease from the subject, for Lionel
and Mr. Bathurst came in to ask if
they might take their coffee there.
The pure woman, whose instincts
seldom misled her, thought it well,
on the whole, since she desired to
stand highly with Frank Bathurst,
to devote herself a good deal to
her almost stranger brother this
evening. There was a good deal
about Lionel that was very interest-
ing to most women. He was intel-
ligent, with a bright surface intel-
ligence that does not always — or
often— go with the deeper, more in-
tense sesthetic feeling for apprecia-
tion of, and proficiency in, art or
literature. Further, he was good-
looking, fine, well-grown, and grace-
ful. There was no need for him to
be ticketted — no woman seen with
him would feel called upon to give
a hasty explanation respecting him.
She would rather take pride in
waiting and hearing the speculations
to which his appearance gave rise,
since all of them were flattering.
If there was a good deal that
was interesting to women generally
about Mr. Lionel Talbot, the young,
already well-reputed artist, there
was even more that was particularly
interesting to his sister, Mrs. Sutton.
She saw in him a good, strong,
legitimate stepping-stone to a higher
place in the social scale for herself.
She was very far from being con-
tented with the position she had
gained. Mark was utterly useless
for the purpose of Marian's glorifica-
tion. She would willingly have seen
172
Playing for High Stakes,
him thrice as plebeian in appear-
anco, and know liim three bandied
times as plebeian in mind, to liave
been able to hang him on, 'when
casually mentioning him, to some,
OOfl of the great county families. Bat
she could qoI do so, fertile as was hi r
imagination, and inexhaoatible as
were her expedientafor Belf-aggran-
disement. In most things he pan-
dered to her weakness, for the sake
of keeping it from the Bight of tho
world that was only too willing to
misjudge.
But in this he was firm — lie
would not lie himself, or bo lied
by any one over whom he had sway,
into tho line of Buttons of high
degree. ' 1 am not much to boast
of, but, such a.s I am, I'm the best
and the first gentleman of my
family,' he would say. And when
he would say this, no matter whom
it was said before, Marian, beneath
all her falseness, all her keen desire
to seem higher than she was, all
her mortification, and all her indif-
ference— had a feeling of admira-
tion for the pluck of the man who
could avow it calmly, and not vaunt
himself upon tho daring to so avow
it. The speech had frequently
knocked down some delicate fabric
of fiction respecting the family she
had married into, which Mrs. Sutton
had erected with much elaboration,
for the benefit of some stranger. It
had made her wince, aud smart,
and blush over and over again;
but it always made her like tho
man who said it more.
Now, about Lionel her hopes
were very high. She saw that ho
was made of inoro ductile materials
than Edgar; moreover, ho knew
1' about her, and was more likely,
therefore, to come under her influ-
ence. If only he succeeded bril-
liantly, she would attach herself to,
and identify herself very much with
him. In pursuance of this idea,
sho told him she was sorry ho
had established himself with Mr.
Bathurst at b ' You
could have had a capital studio
here, Lionel, and I could have
P< sped in on yon sometimes, without
feeling that I was interrupting Mr.
Bathurst,' she urged, in roferenco
to her proposition.
'You can do that now, Marian;
the "Battle of the bards" doesnt
occupy much of his timo just at
present; ho has goi an idea of
another subject from the same poem
in his head — Venus herself luring
Tannhauser up the fetal mountain;
SO he is letting himself lie fallow
until he can meet with a model for
Venus. 1
'I wonder if ho will find one,'
Mis. Sutton replied, looking round
towards tho man under discussion
and her sister. The latter looked
fair enough to be a model for the
goddess of beauty at the moment.
Tii notion that Frank Bathurst
might think her so, and perhaps let
it he known that he thought so, to
the overthrowing of Mrs. Sutton's
claims to bo first always, roused all
the sleeping ti-iv-s vanity that was
always there, even if couchant, in
Marian's character.
' I was looking at Trixy, hoping
sho would do,' sho said, carelessly
turning towards Lionel again; 'she
has good features — perfect, I sup-
pose they may be called,— and nice
violet eyes; but she is no Venus.'
' bathurst will not readily find a
better type.'
' It's a very usual English typo,
however,' Mrs. Button pursued. She
could not bear that her own brother
should admire her own sister. 'A
very usual English type— fine and
fleshy,and wide-eyed ; more a Juno
than a Venus, isn't she, Mark?'
Mr. Sutton, who had just como in
with Edgar Talbot, seated himself
by his wife before he answer* d —
' I am not sure that my ideas
about the respective goddesses are
very clear: what is tho question?'
' Mr. l.athur.st wants a face to
paint Venus from: Trixy will not
do?'
'No; but his cousin, Miss I. yon,
will,' Edgar Talbot exclaimed. Then
he felt annoyed with himself for
Qg it, or thinking it ; and more
horribly annoyed still at the fact of
the relationship rising to his recol-
lection. 'That mother of hers will
harass blanche into marrying the
fellow,' ho thought angrily; and
then he determined that he would
tell Lionel to keep his friend away
from his (Edgar's; houso on Trixy's
The DuJce's Answer. 173
account. ' It will never do to give fall in love with every Ioveable
him the freedom of the place ; earthly creaturo they meet.' Trixy
Lionel will quite understand that,' remembered her sister's words, as
he said to himself. Yet it did not Mr. Bathurst looked at her while
give him any great uneasiness to see telling her some art story, until ho
that already Trixy and Mr. Frank grew confused in the telling. Trixy
Bathurst were talking a duct, appa- was not sure that sho hoped her
rently very much to their own satis- sister's experience might be excep-
faction. tional ; but she was sure that Frank
' My experience of men with those Bathurst's eyes were of the most
heavenly blue eyes is, that they heavenly blue.
THE DUKES ANSWEE.
A MODERN MYTH.
* An answer trips not ever off the tongue.
A sign may speak although the voice be mute;
And silence, with the finger on the lip,
Hath pointed many a man to death and doom.'
THE Lady Bertha had a game to play.
Though born of gentle blood, the maid was poor,
In all, alas ! that gilds poor virtue's crown.
A worldly matron aunt, and the sharp round
Of three full London seasons, did their best
To cultivate her taste for strawberry leaves.
What flower might blossom, or what fruit might set
Within the coronal that clips the brow
Was as a thought uncared-for or undreamed,
By all save Bertha ; and she hushed it down
Deep in the darkness of her troubled heart.
The duke was old ; and youth is youth ; and love
Must find its equal in all things— or die.
Badly the Lady Bertha played her game,
And yet she won ; as dicers, reckless grown,
Set the dice reeling, and then start to find
The winning figure uppermost at last
Befused to all their steady-measured throws.
The game was won : the duke was at her feet.
Did triumph move her, with a regal air,
To bid him rise and take the conqueror's meed ?
Or did she dally with her prize, and make
Sweet favour sweeter as more hard to win ?
Neither. She silent stood and looked aghast
As one who sees the spectre of her fear
Bather than living substance of her hope.
She reddened upward to the marble brow
As though her purpose flew upon her face
And struck her suddenly with one quick blow
To shame her in her youth and maidenhood.
Her better impulse was to say him nay.
Then came the swift, strong trouble of the world,
And all that world would say : its jeer — its laugh, .
Its ' Ah, poor thing ! she sentimental grew :
You heard— you saw— she jilted the old duke :
174 The Duke 8 Answer.
She thought, perchance, upon that poor lieutenant
"Who wooed bet all his life, from boy to man;
Who, as ho should do, slipped aside and let
The rich duke tako his place. Thank you— somo ice :
The air is heavy ; hark ! the waltz begins.'
The gentle blood in my lord duke perceived
The shadow of constraint on that Hushed brow ;
And gave her time.
So she, once moro alone,
Stood tracing wave-like circlets on the wall
That seemed to course about a ship at sea,
Tdl the room reeled around her. All she felt
"Was suaaen respite, mercifully sent
As unto one whose eyes tho glimmering axo
Ibis dazzled like to a departing sun
That looks its last upon a world of joy.
'Twas respite; but not riddance. All sho knew
Was that her answer would be looked for when
Eed-l>randed autumn burned upon tho woods
And the strayed-he rries tangled in her path,*
And the wild equinox brought hack to land
The ship 'Truo Heart.'
At that her heart made pause,
And all her thoughts grew tangled as the ways
In moody autumn when tho weeds run wild.
"What was that ship to her?
It once was well
Through dull long nights to dream about the ship,
And through pale visions watch the tiger-leap
Of hungry waves that broke about her prow :
To list in waking fancy to the strain
Of groaning timbers, as tho parted hulk
Let in grim death along the bounding swell
That upward Bprang and rode the startled deck;
Then start, and shriek, and crave for mom to break
The shuddering horrors of the darkened deep.
'Twas other now. Her end, long-hoped, was gained.
The strawberry leaves wero straying to her feet,
A little twisting of the web of wiles, •
A little winding of the threads of late, —
And then the garland for tho duchess' brow !
The golden year was rounding to its close
The curl of the eternal serpent grew
Almost a ring of days. Before tho galo
Autumn 1< t fall bi r burthen of tho boughs.
Along led path the strayed leaves trailed;
And by the high-awelled margin of tho brook
The dying a tson lay with hair all loose,
Grasping the waters.
• The word strawberry >- from the Anglo-Saxon, and moans the stray, strewed, or
■tnwed-1 I from tl forth by the plant, Tho straw-
berry leaf, it scarcely need be laid, is the ornament of the ducal coionet.
The Dukes Answer. 175
Gales sped back the ship ;
The ship 'True Heart' brought Horace Vernon home.
Nay, more— such sports will fickle fortune play —
To-night he comes ; to-night, too, comes the duke :
Horace to end that broken game at chess
Left but half-played the day he sailed to sea, —
(Bertha had kept the board untouched till now !)
The duke to take his answer, and bear home
A bride, or leave a heartless jilt in scorn.
The two were seated by the Indian board.
Her white hand slid an easy pawn aside,
And captured Horace's chief man at arms.
He took reprisal through the breach thus left,
Seizing her bishop by the bi-forked crown.
She stood rebuked. 'Twas a strange oversight.
Were her thoughts wandering ? lie was all himself,
As ripe for battle as when rooted fast
Upon the ' True Heart's ' deck, 'mid battering guns,
He won that wound that crippled his best arm.
She would do battle, too. So, now more 'ware,
She (gazing meanwhile on his rest-slung arm)
Careered her knight into her foe's strong hold.
A move or two, and all the game seemed hers.
His one hand seemed to combat ill 'gainst two.
Or, were his thoughts, too, wandering ? — At that
She paused again, and fell in musing mood.
Soon, all the present melted from her view,
Save but the chequered board, of dark and light
By turns, as were her hopes of rescue near,
And one poor, broken, standard-bearing pawn.
The silent board became alive with dreams.
The serried line of battle, moving on,
Was closing round one small devoted band.
The captain of that band— a wounded man —
Lifting his bright face loyal to the last,
Held fast a banner in his unsmit hand,
And gallantly went down to death. His corse
Lay trampled ; and his red-robed freres
Gave way. Anon, a black funereal band,
Priest-headed, came and bore the dead to dust.
Kings followed, mourning; and one queenly form
Wearing a crown upon her shame-flushed brow
Stood bowed above the red grave of the man
Who died so loveless — yet with love so near !
The board grew dim. Her streaming tears flowed fast,
Betraying all her heart. She rose, and turned,
And would have hid her anguish from his sight.
But he had watched her, moved as she was moved,
By fears of lonely life and loveless death
For her who sat so silent, facing him
With the wan aspect of a soul all lost
That wanders wide of heaven for its sins.
Thus, as she stood, forbearing now no more
To call her back from that distempered dream
That filled her eyes with waters of dismay,
He breathed an old ancestral name ; a name
176 The Duke's Answer.
Not hers, bnt of a warrior maid who bore
Her father's crest in many a holy war;
A name she ever bore in those old days
Of infant courtship, lisped beside the brook.
The dear old name ! So childlike sweet of old!
The martial beauty of it struck her homo
As with a sense of high and strong resolvo
J I id in her nature, waiting but the call
Of some true soul to rouse it into act.
So, making one brief struggle of weak shnmo
At thought of that poor dukedom and its duke,
She lifted up her sudden eyes to his.
An instant movement drew her to his side ;
And to his shoulder fell her droojung head,
Like a rath snowdrop.
But tho while she leaned,
Safe as a plumcless bird in nested brake,
The air filled full with life — and spring come back—
And all tho winter wandered from the world, —
Came ushered footsteps up the soundless stair ;
And in the open door, lo tho duke !
What need wo more? The hotter gamo was played.
Her early error wept for and atoned,
The Lady Bertha proved a loyal wife.
Her feet, love-guided to tho nobler path,
Trod firm, and no more walked the slippery ways
Of worldlings. Still she dreamed ; but dreamed no more
Of gilded coronals. Her heart has found
Its rest — it may bo on a troubled wavo
Angels alono can smooth with halcyon wing.
But when tho noisy traffic of the world
Jars on her sense, and all its poor vain pomp
Rolls past her as a cloud, her soul is far,
Far on tho great wido waters with tho brave.
Eleanoba. L. IIervey.
S3
s
a-
CO
W
o
H
Q
a
177
THE WINDING OF THE SKEIN.
THE orchard trees are white with snow,
As they were white with bloom,
Foam- white, and like a sea beneath
The window of the room ;
And fitfully an April sun
Now went, now gleam'd again,
But longest gleam 'd, I think, to see
The winding of the skein
We were two sisters, Maud and I,
And dwelt, as still we dwell,
In the old house among the trees
Our mother loved so well ;
A few old friends we had, and priz'd,
Nor others sought to gain,
But chiefly one whose name recalls
The winding of the skein.
Our artist-neighbour, Clement, loved
The orchard like a boy,
The blossom-roof, the mossy boughs
Made half his summer joy ;
And like a brother in our hearts
He grew in time to reign, —
And this was he whose name brings back
The winding of the skein.
There was a fourth that day. You guess
The story ere 'tis told :
Our cousin back from Paris, — gay,
Nor coy, nor over-bold ;
But used to homage, used to looks,
There was no need to feign,
As Clement found ere they began
The winding of the skein.
I saw them as they met, and read
The wonder in his face,
And how his artist-eye approved
Her beauty, and the grace
That kindled an admiring love
His heart could not restrain,
Though hard he strove with it, until
The winding of the skein.
The idle hours with idle toil
We sped, and talked between:
With all her skill our cousin wrought
A 'broider'd banner screen :
And so it chanc'd that Clement's aid
She was so glad to gain,
And he — could he refuse to help
The winding of the skein ?
Ring after ring the golden floss
About his fingers roll'd :
He thought — ' Her hair is brighter yet,
It has the truer gold.'
VOL. XI.— NO. LXII. N
17-
Skttche* of the Enylith Bench and Bar.
I read this in his <?;• I strove
To turn from her in vain,
And loath 'd my rav a tbrongh
The winding of the skein.
Bound afti r round they wound before
The task was wholly done.
And if their fingers touched, the Wood
Straight to his cheek would run;
And if the knotted silk she chid
Her voice through every vein
W\nt with a thrill of joy, through'
The winding of the skein.
Round after round, until the end,
And when the end was there
He know it not, hut sat with hands
Rais'd in the empty air :
The ringing of the merry laugh
Starl i dreaming brain,
And then he knew his heart ensnar'd
In winding of the skein.
Beneath the apple-blooms that day,
I many a day they stray
I saw them through a mist of h
While hard for death I prayed.
And still those blossoms like thee
I' Dumb my heart with pain,
And Maud knows well when I r-_
The winding of the skein.
W. 8.
- rrCHES OF THE ENGLISH BENCH AND BAIL
II.
&ora CTcstbuvn anil the Lite ILorG .Tnis'ticc knight Urttrc.
TRD WESTBUBTS portrait
j illu-v - at once the truth
and the fallacy of physiognomy.
11- countenance in I his real,
nal nature, and so, in a certain
• •, his character, bat does not
yon an idea of his habitual na-
1 character.
y there has never been
known a man ninence
and more enemies. You would not
think so, looking at his portrait, or
:.? on his ■ it all
seems so placid, so nt, and
so benevolent, you would !«,• willing
to l^lieve him when he
— as he is fond of saying— with his
peculiar calm,
ance, that ' l>enevolenc-
tinguishJEg feature of his character.'
You might perhaps associate with
that calm countenance the idea of
conscious intellect and superior
power ; you might imagine it united
with a bland, halt-compassionate
ng towards others; but you
would not suppose that it cov.
but scarce concealed, the moat su-
percilious contempt of all, how
• himself. You n
fancy that those lips spoke calmly,
perhaps softly, but you could not
BOpp ..-•■ that they forth in
such soft voice accents of all
ine swo f all
would yon realize that the w
always
Is of th- mptuous or
cor' rn.
Vet the features do not speak
Sketches of (he English Bench and Bar.
179
falsely, and the countenance, after
all, does not falsify physiognomy.
They portray the man's original
nature, the rest is his acquired cha-
racter. The key to the puzzle is
that Sir R. Bethell affected a charac-
ter very different from his real na-
ture. He has always assumed a far
greater degree of scorn than he felt,
though that was great enough, no
doubt. He assumed an air of calm
disdain, and it became habitual to
him; he affected a calm, scornful
utterance and manner, and it has
become a second nature. And thus
he acquired by degrees a sort of
second character which is not na-
tural, except so far as it no doubt
is the growth of the pride of his
nature. A single anecdote of hiui
reveals this. There was an old
chancery barrister with whom he
used to contend, and of whom he
used to speak with thrilling con-
tempt. • That fellow,' he lisped out,
• lost me a thousand a year with his
infernal prolixity and incurable dul-
ness.' Yet no sooner was he Chan-
cellor than he presented the son of
his old professional rival with a
good place. Now there is the man
in his double nature, his acquired
habits of affected contempt spring-
ing from his intellectual pride, and
his acts of real goodness springing
from his natural kindliness. And
he is a man to stand by his friends :
a fine feature in a man's character.
Beyond all doubt, Lord Westbury
has that to be said in his favour,
that he is a stauch friend, and
never shrank from doing his best
for any one who had served him.
In this, perhaps, he is better than
better men. But it illustrates his
mixed character. There probably
never was a man iu whose charac-
ter were mixed up such diverse
elements natural and acquired.
Hence the result— there never was
a man more disliked or more be-
loved. And, paradoxical as it may
appear, there really is some truth
in his own idea of himself — the ex-
chancellor is not a bad fellow. He
will do kind things, but he never
could resist the temptation of say-
ing unkind things. His second
nature is scorn of other men, and
his luxury is sarcasm. The secret
of the dislike entertained for him is
what perhaps an acute physiogno-
mist might detect even in those
bland, calm features— au overween-
ing, egotistical confidence in his
own superior intellect, and a pro-
found scorn and contempt for other
men. Coupled with the feeling
arising from it is a great talent for
sarcasm and an immense alacrity in
its exercise, which of course is only
another word for making enemies.
Taking these elements of character
into consideration, and looking again
carefully at that tine countenance,
possibly our readers may imagine
him as Lord Derby graphically de-
scribed him, as ' standing up and
for upwards of an hour pouring
upon the head of a political oppo-
nent a continuous stream of vitriolic
acid.' Nothing less forcible than
that remarkable expression could
describe the biting, scorching sar-
casm of the ex-chancellor. So he
was when Sir Richard Bethell ; and
it is believed that there never was a
man in the profession of whom so
many pungent, sarcastic witticisms
were reported. It is difficult to
convey an idea of their effect as
they were uttered in that calm,
sweet, lisping voice, with such slow-
ness of utterance and such bland-
ness of countenance, with such an
amusing contrast bet ween the honied
accents and the biting words. "When
the late Lord - Chancellor (Lord
Cranworth) was Yiee-Chancellor,
Sir Richard spoke of him as ' that
respectable old woman;' and once,
when the Yice-Chanceilor said he
would ' turn the matter over iu his
mind,' Sir Richard turned round to
his junior, and with his usual bland,
calm utterance said, ' Take a note
of that; his Honour says he will
turn it over in what he is pleased to
call his mind.' So when some one
said of an attorney -general for whom
he had a contempt, that it was a
shame to put any one over his head,
Sir Richard said, in the same calm,
lisping accents, ' Head, did you say ?
Has he a head'?' The exquisite
effect of these sarcasms was so much
the result of utterance that they
could only be fully appreciated by
those who heard them ; but by at-
tentively studying the features of
N 2
ISO
Sketches of the Englith Bench and liar.
the portrait, ui:il imagining ■ peou-
liai ly soft, su'i et, calm voice, utter-
stinging sayings, i
i may bo Formed of theii i
mi the delight d h( arers. Being
asked how he was getting <>n in an
appeal before au archbishop, and
hi> ass< f«or, a 1< arned doctor, be
. ' < >< tting On, tliil you say?
How is it possible to get on bi
who understand
nothing whatever of tho matter?'
Arguing a case in error before the
judges, one of them, for whom ho
bad a dislike, asked him a question
which somewhat pinched him, upon
which lie blandly replied, in his
Bweetest, softest accents, 'Before I
answer the question, may 1 venture
to entreat your lordship to recon-
sidei it, for I am sure upon consi-
deration you will perceive that it
>lv< s a si '/ - : '/i/.'
It maj a& m scarcerj credible that
such things have been sod ; but
such was the Bwe< tness, caln i
and softm bs of the tune in which
they weir said, that, somehow, they
■ d by 1 ■• fore those to whom
they were addressed had received
the shock of surprise, espi cially as
the sting was always at the end, and
Sir Richard wenl on with his argu-
meiit as c dm ai d unruffli d as if he
had just paid a happy compliment.
It was the Bublime ol insolence: it
was insolence sublimated almost to
grandeur.
I or his i ■! mal opponents
and riva 1 e ha 1 an unbound* d
contempt; for all hut one, that
Mr. Bolt, who, indeed, was
the 01 B match for
him. Y< t even to him ho would
assume his habitual air of calm supe-
riority. ' So much ' lie said i
i n plj ii g 1" i o much
ii i> nd's firsl argu-
; . my li rds, as tin' piths
ol 1 1 ror are nun ind devious,
my Ii aiia d friend has anotbi rargu-
i ■ > w Inch I v. ill now adv< 1 1."
I i • | ok< n slowlj , loftily,
My, lisping!} ! It was im]
f-ii >lu to] ■• u Mr.
Holt, who i -humouri d ai d
ed it; and the jn I
laugh d. But Sir Rich ird w< nl on,
i ind lispingly, with that nn-
i ol Buperiority, in
which no man at the liar or on tho
Bench, in living memory, ever re-
sembled him. It was a peculiar
feature of sir Richard Bethell's
character that his scorn was too
lofty to have anything in it of a
cunning or spite. It was lofty and
ovi rbearing, hut there was nothing
in it eitheroi litth m ss or bitterness.
Sir Richard's sarcasms were rather
scornful than Rpiteful, and had often
more of wit than bitterness. You
saw (hat his object was rather to
display his air of Buperiority and
gratify Ids pride, than to give pain
or wreak revenge. He was too proud
for small resentments, and had too
constant a sense of his own supe-
riority to condescend to wrangle or
to quarrel. He could not, for tho
world, liavo so compromised his
dignity; and this dignity of tone
and manner he never lost even while
at the Bar.
This happy gift of dignity, with
its alloy of sarcasm and scorn, he
carried with him to the Woolsack
and the House, of Lords; and ho
quickly made every lord tin re of
any mark or eminence, his foe— at
least among the law lords, with
whom h' came, of course, more
: ly in contest 1 1 is animo-
sity to Lord Chelmsford — his con-
tempt, i'mi Lord Cranworth — his
acorn for Lord Wensleydale— all
were unbound) d, and could only be
conveyed l>y his wonderful power
of sarcasm. Au>\, above all, he
loved t ) show his contempt for the
( lommon Law Jadg< s, upon appi als.
Headm-:: » ntence from one of their
judgments, he ^;i"l to counsel, \\ ho
atfa nd< d to support it ' Pray, Mr.
nd-S >. upon which of these pm-
ions do you intend to relj '
for you must perceive that they are
ly icconeisti His power
ol exciting enmity was unrivalled,
and he revelled in it. lie could
throw into a few bland WO]
spoken in the calm* si tone, a bitl
which Would 1::
a man his < mmy foi lit'-. Be was
an < mbodimenl of int< lloctual pride.
He had the most unl* unded confi-
ne in his BUperioi ity to otla r
men, ev. n the \> iy highest in his
own i on, and loved to show
! it bj th'' Hi' fit ml'
Sketches of the English Bench and B
ar,
181
and impassioned scorn for them.
Perhaps you might not have found
it out from his features, but, being
aware of it, possibly - turning to his
portrait— you may fancy that you
can read it there. At all events, if
you ever saw and heard him — only
for a moment — there could be no
mistake about it. The first words
he uttered would suffice to give the
impression, at once, of superior in-
tellect and of immeasurable pride.
The spirit of scorn and sarcasm
seems native to his breast, and to
breathe in every tone of his voice,
which even affects more scorn than
he feels. How unlike Sir Alexander
Cockburn— easy, natural, and genial:
whose voice rings out in bright and
lively tones of good-heartedness !
There could not be a greater con-
trast than the portraits and the
characters of these two eminent men
present; yet they were for many
years associated together. They were
law officers of the crown at the same
time; they were Benchers of the
same Inn ; and Sir Alexander will
tell a good story, how Sir Richard
once said to him, in a tone of inde-
scribable compassion, ' My dear
fellow, equity will swallow up your
common law.' ' I don't know about
that,' said Sir Alexander, ' but you'll
find it rather hard of digestion !' The
remark and the repartee very well
convey the characteristics of the
two men, — the one all supercilious
pride and scorn, the other of a
quick, lively, generous spirit.
With Lord Westbury may very
fitly be associated the late Lord
Justice Knight Bruce. Alas! we
have lost him !
Lord Justice Knight Bruce had
been nearly twenty years on the
Bench ; and as he left the Bar be-
fore Sir B. Bethel 1 became great
there, they did not, have any rivalry
as advocates. But they came fear-
fully into collision when Sir Richard
had become great, and came before
the Lord Justice as an advocate.
The Lord Justice, as a veteran and
venerable lawyer, deeply versed in
the principles of equity, could not
brook the overbearing tone of Sir
Richard, and the profound scorn
with which he always spoke of
views opposed to his own. And as
they almost equally excelled in the
fatal gift of sarcasm, it may be
imagined what scenes ensued.
The Lord Justice was a man of
greater depth than Sir Richard,
though not of such brilliant ability ;
and you could see, from his features,
that he was a man of deep thought
and reflective mood. You would
not guess, however, that he had a
vein of dry, grave humour, which
he delighted in displaying ; and this
was one of the traits which excited
Sir Richard's scorn. It marked the
distinction between the two men
that though the Lord Justice was
often sarcastic, Sir Richard was
never humorous. And though the
wit of the Lord Justice per-
haps was sarcastic, it was rarely
ever so severe, so scorching as Sir
Richard's. There was always a
touch of humour about it, and a
tone of good-humour, quite distin-
guishing it from the great advo-
cate's. The Lord Justice had a
grave, solid, old-fashioned, emphatic
way of speaking, which very much
enhanced the effect of his wit, or
humour; and the difference was,
that he delighted in displaying his
wit, while Sir Richard delighted in
uttering sarcasms. The Lord Jus-
tice had, indeed, a kind of grave
judicial waggery about him exceed-
ingly droll. He has been known to
deliver a whole judgment in the
gravest tone possible — but one piece
of solemn waggery from beginning
to end. Such was his judgment in
the case of a suit between an attor-
ney and his wife, about a separation
deed, the dispute having arisen upon
the disposition of her separate pro-
perty. ' The court,' commenced
the Lord Justice, 'has been now for
several days occupied in the matri-
monial quarrels of a solicitor and
his wife. He was a man not unac-
customed to the ways of the softer
sex, for ho already had nine chil-
dren, by three successive wives.
She, however — herself a widow —
was well informed of all these ante-
cedents; and, it appears, did not
consider them any objection to their
union : and they were married. No
sooner were they united, however,
than they were, unhappily, dis-
united by unhappy disputes as to
IS J
Sketches of the Eixjlixh Bmrh ami B ir.
her property. These disputes dis-
turbod even the period usually cL -
ted to tlio soft delights of
matrimony, and the honeymo n
was occupied by endeavours to in-
duoe her to exercise a testamentary
p iwi -r of appointment in his favour.
She, however, refused, and so wo
rind that, in cine course, at the
end of the month, he brought
li mil', witli some disgust, his Btill
intestate brida The disputes con-
tinued; until at last they ex-
changed the irregular quarrels of
domi stic stnt'c for the more disci-
plined warfare of Lincoln's Inn and
Doctors' i lommons ' And so on, in
the same vein of irony, to the end.
So, in another celebrated judgment
of bis, about the 'Agapemone,'
which he held up to ridicule and
scorn. So in a ruse as to the con-
struction of a will. After counsel had
Keen hard a' work all day contend-
ing lor different meanings, the
Lord Chief Justice thus, with ihe
utmost solemnity, commenci d his
judgment — ' If,' be said, 'the spirits
of the departed are ever per-
mitted to be conscious of things
Which take place here below, and if
the spirit of the testator has been
cognizant of the discussion which
has been going on here to-day, ho
must have Im en, no doubt, consider-
ably astonished— perhaps I might
say disgusted at be intentions
which have been ascribed to him,
and the various meanings which
have heen put upon his words.
Nevertheless, wo must presume
that he intended what, as lawyers,
we make his words to mean— no
matter whether he meant it or not'
All this, mind, in the most Bolemn
an I m otient, easy tone, and with a
1 .harly oracular air, which im-
mensely enhanced t I of tins
judii gery< h is impossible
■ mci ive a gr< at< r power of
gravi onical ridicule than was
I by tin Lord Just iv ; and
there are few judgments of his
wbioh are i ' •• d by the intro-
duction of souk play of hunour ur
»f wit Hi- was a mind
which gla llj ■ I the ten-ion of
re an 1 continuous thought hy
such Eallil s Of Wil and humour.
Tin ii 'thing ill-natured is his
character; and though ho was so
fond ni it that he wo'dd not abstain
merely lest it should give p > t n . he
did not practise it at all, f v the
Bake of giving pain. It was
simply his diversion, his delight;
his enjoyment to l>e witty when-
ever he could. If to be witty ho
must be aarca>tio, why he would ho
so; but his object was only to bo
witty. He had a little harmless
vanity to he thought witty; and
being a man of a long and enlarged
< K] erience, and oi a d< ep, cultivated,
and reflective mind, he was never
trivial, though play ful in 1 is w it,
and never vulgar though familiar in
his pleasantries. lie was pedantie
in his tone, with a grave, formal,
emphatic, measured way of speak-
ing, more resembling the late Lord
Chief Liirons than any other judge;
and - like him— belonging to an old
school, n >v passing away.
The twenty years' difference in
the professional life of the Lord
Justice and the late Lord Chancellor
mark, in l< ed, very well the boundary
between the past and tho present
raco of advocates. Tho Lord Jus-
tice belongs to the age of Sir Thomas
Wilde, and Sir William Follett, and
Sir Frederick Politick, and Sir P.
Thesiger, and Sir P. Kelly, all of
whom have now left the liar; and
tho last of whom are, one hy one,
leaving the Bench. Long may they
linger there, tor they represent a
school of greater depth of learning
and breadth of mind than the
present, for the most part, are:
aixl the distinction is well illus-
trated by the differ* dc • bet w& n
the thoughtful, well-stored mind
of the Lord Justice and tho more
brilliant and showy abilities of tho
late Lord t II ancellor.
The judgment of Lord Justice
Knight Bruce in the case of tho
' Agapemone ' was, beyond all doubt,
the ricl i -t specimen of judicial
irony ever uttered. Reading a few
I agi - of it, and tht n looking at
the portrait of the Lord Justice,
the re idi r will, on the one hand,
get infinitely more of the rehsh and
enjoyment of it; and on the other
hand get a truer idea of Iho
judicial • ter of the Lord Jus-
tice than be possibly could derive
Sketches of the English Bench and Bar.
183
cither from the portrait or the
perusal. The reader should bear
in mind that the Lord Justice was
eminently grave, slow, soleum, pre-
cise, and sententious in his utter-
ance, and this immensely enhanced
the ' humour ' of the thing.
It was an application, it shotild
be observed, on the part of an infant,
that a proper guardian should be
appointed, and that his father
should be restrained from taking
possession of him. In the gravest
and most sententious tone, but at
the same time the deepest irony, he
spoke thus : —
' His parents are both living ;
one of them, his father, a native, as
I collect, of Wales, having been
educated with a view to become a
minister of the Church of England.
I do not, however, collect that he
proceeded beyond deacon's orders,
or that he now considers himself
to be a member of that church ;
nor does it appear that he has any
present or prospective preferment,
office, employment, business, for-
tune, means, or source of income
whatever.' (There was a world of
judicial irony, of grave, solemn
waggery in this careful, precise enu-
meration and exclusion of every
conceivable source of income.)
' The wife, the petitioner's mother,
is one of the daughters of a gen-
tleman of good fortune, a lady in
good circumstances, and a person
of respectability, with a portion of
some thousands of pounds ; the
marriage, whether equal or unequal
otherwise, seems, in that respect at
least, to have been unequal, for the
husband had not, I believe, any pro-
perty. It took place without the
consent of the mother, and it seems,
in a considerable degree, ascribable
to the influence and ascendency over
her mind which must, I fear, be said
unhappily for her, to have been ac-
quired and exercised by a fanatic
or a pseudo-fanatic preacher, who
styled himself the servant of the
Lord ; who seems to have acted
less as a " go-between " than as a
spiritual director in forming this
and other matches between endowed
ladies, and such of his followers or
associates of the other sex as were
judged fit for his purpose. One of
these was the person (the petitioner's
father), whom Miss Agnes N
seems to havo been led to believe
it was the will of God to reveal,
through the servant of the Lord,
that she should marry, and whom
she did so marry very much on
that ground. She married without
a settlement: her fortune, conse-
quently, came into his power. The
want of a settlement was, however,
not through oversight: sho men-
tioned the subject to him it appears,
at the same time mentioning a pro-
mise, probably connected with it,
which she had made to her parents.
It appears that not quite three
weeks before the marriage he was
moved, and permitted himself, to
write to her, this all but impossible
letter.' Then the Lord Justice pro-
ceeded to read the ' all but impos-
sible letter' in tones of irony which
made it for those who heard it a
treat they will never forget. It ran
thus : —
' Let not your heart be troubled
under your present circumstances,
neither let it be afraid at what
friends or foes may suggest. Abide
in the Spirit and will of God, and
then will your peace be like a river,
wide and overflowing, and your
soul will be borne sweetly along the
stream of time until it reaches the
ocean of eternal rest and quiet.
What I say unto you I say also
unto Harriet and Clara' (her sisters).
' Assure them of my love, and let
them trust themselves to be carried
by faith, &c. My beloved Agnes, I
must writo to you just what the
Spirit leads me to do. This I do
with the more confidence, because
I believe you have an ear to what
the Lord may say unto you through
him that loveth you. You mention
your desire to have a settlement
of your property upon yourself.
This, I assure you, would be very
agreeable to my own feelings, and
is so still ; but last evening waiting
on God this matter came quite un-
expectedly before me. I had en-
tirely put it away from my thoughts,
leaving it to take its course as you
might be led to act ; but God will
not have it so. He shows me
that the principle is entirely con-
trary to God's word, and altogether
184
Sketches of the English Bench and Bar.
LOUD WE.STBURY.
Sketches of the English Bench and Bar.
185
THE LATE LORD JUSTICE KNIGHT BRUCE.
186
Skeichn of the English Bench and Bar.
at variation with that confidence
whiofa is to exist between us, who
arc of ono spirit. This desire on
your part must be abandoned ; givo
it np i" < tod, and Bhow that you
can trust his faithfulness, and I can
assure you that tho confidence you
repose in hisn will not he disap-
pointed. As regards tho promise
you made to your parents, any
promise made when you were un-
converted, and which was not in ac-
cordance with the word of God, you
are not to abide by; neither would
it be right in you to adhere to it.
'I must bid you farewell, and be-
lieve me to abide in much love,
' Yours affectionately in tho
'everlasting covenant,
' Brother Thomas.
' Tho testimony of Jesus will be
proclaimed in " Adullam " on Sun-
day.'
After reading this 'all but im-
possible letter,' the Lord Justico
proceeded :
'Even this unparalleled perform-
ance failed to open the lady's eyes,
and, her marriage taking place, she
me annexed, and an addition to
the school, or suite, of " the servant
of the Lord." The bride and bride-
groom visited various places from
the time of their marria more
than half a year. During the latter
part of that time they wen at Wey-
mouth, and lodged at a house where
" the servant of the Lord" was also
living; and here the lady appears to
have received from her husband,
and not from him alone, treatment
of a coarse] harsh, and unmanly
ription. In January, 1846," tho
nit of the Lord" and some of
bis followers and associates went, 1
believe, professionally to Bridge-
water, leaving the lady and her
husband behind. Some of these,
including the husband, but not his
On, it seems, Sent for.
The summons— which professed, I
I be a call to attend a
spiritual fa a-party- yed,and
he went, leaving his wife behind
bun. The husband sent for his
clothes, and then, ha\ ! ived
them, hi bed to bis \\ ife this
indescribable communication : —
"MVII-I I'.l I.OYKI), ] herewith
enclose you a binall portion: eat,
drink, yea, drink abundantly; and
let your soul delight in fatness; let
the will of God be your home and
resting-place. 'The servant of the
Lord' told me that you would not
be in your present state unless you
had rebelled months ago, and thus
you will Buffer for it in not being
able to go about with me as you
otherwise would ; but when ] see
you I will tell you all about it; for
the pics Mt abide quietly where you
are, and go on as If I were with you.
We are separated, but we are not
severed, and 1 abide, dearest, the
samo your unchanging and affec-
tionate Bbotheb Thomas."
' When,' continued tho Lord Jus-
tice, 'it is known that the writer of
this letter did not return, but that
his departure from her was tho
commencement of a total separation,
such a Composition may seem to bo
in the last degree perplexing.' Then
after commenting upon the deser-
tion in terms in which indignation
absorbed irony, the Lord Justice
resumed his tone of irony. ' Such
a course of conduct seems inexplica-
ble, except on the supposition that
the influence and ascendancy of tho
person calling himself " the servant
of the Lord " had been excited, and
prevailed over " J '.rot her Thomas,"
as strangely as they had at ono
time over his wife. I collect that
after tho marriage she exhibited
symptoms of insub irdination, not
towards her husband, but towards
"the servant of the Lord /'attempted
bo shake her husband's allegiance to
him, and was found out. However,
upon these, or no more just grounds,
" tho servant of the Lord " took a
dislike to the lady after the marriage,
and did mainly, if not solely, influ-
ence her husband's mind in his ill-
treatment and desertion of her. Nor
ought it probably to be ascribed to
his own spontaneous feelings that
he v, rote to ber tbecoarse and shame-
ful letter dated the " kgapemone/"
which the Lord Justice proceeded
to read, and which had this passage
and others similar: '1 write merely
to inform you of my determination
concerning you: God is puro and
holy — I am His and He is mino,
and you are mine; and I am re-
solved to use tho authority God has
Sketches of the English Bench and Bar.
187
given me, and tor this purpose I
can and will compel you to livo
where and how I please, and subject
you to my will and authority,
through God's pure love to me; and
in this I have hitherto yielded to you
the greatest indulgence, and you
have abused the liberty and inde-
pendence I trusted you with as you
have abused your every other bless-
ing. I have therefore felt the ne-
cessity of making you aware that I
can and will direct your life, and
this I will cause you to know by my
actions and not only by my words.
Should you again write, or speak
contrary to my wishes, I will imme-
diately remove your residence, and
take the child under my own eye,
and superintend the expenditure of
the money for God's glory,' &c.
' The power of " the servant of
the Lord,"' gravely continued the
Lord Justice, 'over the husband's
mind seems to have remained un-
diminished, although the lady ap-
pears to have been cured. It is in
such a state of things that he has
been endeavouring to acquire the
possession and custody of the son,
which would, of course, involve the
care and direction of his education.
But there are other facts in the case,
and other circumstances to be con-
sidered. To what abode is he to
take the child ? None is suggested,
except the somewhat mysterious es-
tablishment, of which it seems ne-
cessary to say a few words. It
appears that "the servant of the
Lord" has founded or formed a
csenobitical establishment, which,
though not on the Eurijras, but on
the Bristol Channel, he has denomi-
nated " Agapemone," a name, no
doubt, adopted in order to make the
people of Somersetshire understand
or guess its object, which, however,
unluckily, I fear, few either there or
elsewhere in any very clear manner
do. The establishment scarcely
seems to be a convent either in con-
nection with the Greek Church or
otherwise. Its inmates, who are not
a few, and are of each sex, can hardly
be nuns or friars, for some, though
not all of them, are parried couples,
and the men and women are not
separated. They, however, call
themselves, and address each othe>%
as brothers and sisters, and there
appears to be something of a reli-
gious kind, whether really or only
professedly, in the nature or design
of the institution, which might per-
haps be described as a spiritual
boarding - house, though to what
kind of religion, if any, the in-
mates belong does not, I think,
appear. I believe that they do not
attend any place of worship, in or
out of the Establishment. They
sing hymns, I think, addressed to
the Supreme Being; but, as I collect,
they do not, in the sense of suppli-
cation or entreaty to God, pray at
all. The Agapemonians appear to
set a high value upon bodily exer-
cise of a cheerful and amusing kind.
Their stables, according to the de-
scription given of them, must be
unexceptionable. It does not appear
that the Agapemonians hunt, but
they seem distinguished both as
cavaliers and charioteers. They play
moreover, frequently or occasion-
ally, at lively and energetic games,
such as " hockey," ladies and all, so
that their lives may be considered
less as ascetic than frolicsome. The
particulars, however, of the Aga-
pemonian's exterior existence, not
being open to general observation,
are little, if at all, known beyond
their own boundary. Now this is
the establishment in which the father
in this case has been, and is, one of
the dwellers. He has, I apprehend,
no other home, and thither, accord-
ingly, I suppose that he would take
his son. But God forbid that I
should be accessory to condemning
any child to such a state of probable
debasement! As lief would I have
on my conscience the responsibility
of consigning this boy to a camp of
gipsies !'
These extracts illustrate better
than any words of ours could pos-
sibly do the judicial character of the
Lord Justice. They are so charac-
teristic of him, indeed, that no other
judge upon the bench could have
pronounced it, and any one ac-
quainted with the judicial character
and style of our judges would re-
cognize it in a moment: perhaps
any one of its more remarkable
passages — nay, there is scarcely a
sentence in it which would not be
188
Fashionable Tea Parties.
recognized as his. The judgment,
it may be added, was delivered six-
teen years ago: the Lord Justice
bad then been several yean upon
the Kneh : lie was still, at the time of
writing these lines, in the full exer-
of his great judicial abilities in
the high office which be had so long
filled: ho hud thus been more than
twenty years upon the bench, and
bad previously been, we believe,
i iv, r thirty years at the bar; and
these simple facts, taken together,
will amply suffice to show that Lord
Justice Knight Bruce was one of the
most wonderful men that we have
ever known in modern times upon
the bench ; nor was there any one in
Westminster Hall who could com-
pare with him except the late Lord
Chief Baron, sir K. Pollock.
We have lately lost both these
eminent judges: the tirst by death,
the latter, we rejoice to say, only by
retirement Bnt not the less—
rather all the more on that account
— are they retained among our
'Sketches;' for they both belonged
to a great school of scholarlike and
accomplished lawyers, who have
left none behind to rival them in
reputation ; and who, for thai rea-
son, pre-eminently deserve to bo
remembered.
FASHIONABLE TEA PARTIES.
C\OULD any candid observer fail
I to have remarked, in the events
of the past season, one new and
striking feature?
I allude, not so much to the in-
crease of population as to that of
tea parties. The cup of tea at
five o'clock lias (to speak figura-
tively), crept insidiously into the
heart of our social life. The ad-
vance, secret at first, then accepted
with apology, has burst this sum-
mer across the frontier of our
Society, and bids fair to drown in
a weak and sugary element the fair
surface of our afternoon existence.
To analyze the states of this invading
custom will be a profitable and
instructive employment for my pen,
and your thoughts, my beloved
read Is there reason in tho
roasting of eggs— how much more
in the drinking of fa
The subject, then, before us is one
fraught with interest of the most
mn nature, and may most pro-
perly l>e divided into two parts. In
giving of tea at five o'clock thero
is as much difference of mode and
usage M in hairdn wing and in lift-
ing of hats for salutation.
First, then, li t there bo one great
lino of demarcation betwi an
The Tea Suggestive
and
Tho Tea Impressive.
The latter, being tho evil divi-
sion, is, like all things evil, manifold
in its forms, and may be subdivided
into the Tea Economical and tho
lea Magnificent.
Tell me, says CSarlyle, the religion
of a people and I will describe their
character. Let US first seek the
motive of the above-named tea-
partiesand then describe the result.
No woman, astute, and versed, in
Belf-knowledge, and her daughter
in the knowledge Of mankind, but
knows that the mind is reached
through the body; i. < ., if you
make a man thoroughly comfort-
able in your house he will come
there again. This is true logic;
and I need not say what is the ob-
ject, the motive, the religion, of tho
w, 11-regulated and maternal house-
holder of Mayfair and Belgravia.
Now for the result.
' Wo are at homo about five,
Mr. Fitz So-and-so, always; come
when you like.;' or,
' Do come in the afternoon about
tea-time you know: we are always
at home. 1
You happen to be in Eaton Place
about five, and you ask casually if
Lady S is at homo.
' Yes, she is at home.' In tho
large room my lady is working at
that pretty lace-work, a little table
by her with her scissors, and a big
Fashionable Tea Parties.
169
sweet rose in a specimen glass.
There is a cunningly stuffed arm-
chair for you ; there are sofas that
you can sit on with your hat beside
you; not barricaded by unwieldy
writing-tables as arc some sofas, like
a fortified town. Julio, whom you
are rather fond of, is playing softly
at the end of the room, with the
light behind her from an open
window with flowers. Looloo is
writing notes in the little room with
red blinds and more flowers.
Julie comes to talk to you ; she
shows you her dear little workbag
with the fox's head, and wishes you
would tell her the exact size that
she should make her cigar-case of
' ticking.' Mamma rings the bell.
John brings a snug three-legged
table out of a corner; there is a
shiny white cloth and glittering
silver, and little flat cups, and round
buns with currants in them— not
muffins, they grease your gloves,
and the girls have voted them low
form, though to be sure how good
they are! Your particular friend
' Whatsisname/ of the Cold streams,
comes in, and Looloo makes tea.
You feel as if you had always been
there ; you have plenty to say, and
you forget the existence of your
hat ; the tea is hot, and strong, and
brown. Looloo has a wicked little
apron with pockets, and blue bows
at the corners, and makes tea per-
fectly.
Mamma is charming ; she does not
make love to you more than you
li»0
Ftithionablt; Tea Parties.
like, nnr tell her daughter to ' sing
thiit sweet song, dearest, thai So-
and-ao admired so much; 1 but Bhe
talks b i \w ll thai you Bad yourself
the pleasantest man of your ac-
quaintance, an 1 urn gpo away, with
a little sigh of regret, and with tho
impresai m that, aiw r all, what a
shame it is, the way they abase
mothers-in-law. One could fancy
I .a ly 8 , now!
You find yourself pretty often in
Eaton Place. Next time you go
there is a new face there, a very
pretty, cheery girl.Xooloo's special
chum, also an old fellow who is
talking family with Mamma.
Julie is quite el arming, in a pink
skirt and little silver buttons: Bhe
tells you her confidential opinions,
gives you her particular photo-
book to look at ; and she sings you
French romances that gloat and
quiver through the twilight.
Waturally you go again; so do
Whatshisname, and the pretty girl,
and the old fellow; so does every
one that is nice, aud likes nice
things. The room is never full of
stupid callers. A whole family of
large women is not announced dur-
ing your visit, to sit stolidly before
you and ask qaestions; nor do sud-
den and affectionate incursions of
near relations take place and engross
your hostesses.
The girls are prettily dressed,
work pntty work. There are scraps
and bits of bright colours, and little
baskets on three-legged tables,
' suggestive' Of cricket-belts, eigir-
ippers, and the like. You
do not sit on Stiff, sleiMi r chairs,
at a certain distance from a thick
table, with idle hands on your laps
or smoothing nm isy hats. There
is QO glare of light, rosy blinds half
dow D, o > il jalousies and green
pi mis ; all (lark, co >1, frag rant, in
siimiiK r : i > , warm m early
spring or winter. Possibly inpri-
nd Looloo may Bquabble,
Mamma ma] BCOld, but to the
ol the tea-drinking guests all is
-' Sug
Hpw diffen nt is the ft a Imprcs-
Boils, papa will not all
Dinners an itly -so ume-
mune ative. You must e or
l>o lorgotten — A drum No, not a
drum! tho young men will not
come to a dram -and it entails
supper and lighting. .Mamma and
the daughters cogitate. (Jive them
tea— yes— five o'clock tea. 'Mrs.
Uphill at home Tuesdays and Fri-
days in June, four to seven.'
Cards are sent to all and sundry,
for ono may as well be popular —
ww nie.
Weak tea in tho dining-room,
made by the cook and la lies' maids,
to lie drunk standing ill a thorough
draught, with jour heels on Lady
Longtrain's gown, and your toes
under the ponderous footstep of
Mrs. Bightoway; at the door up-
stairs stands your hostess in lilac
silk and a sweet smile; the inevi-
table white poodle under her arm —
'Is it not a dear doggums? So
good of you to come.'
' What a charming little do—'
your pretty speech is broken by the
vociferation of the butler, and by
a push from behind and before.
The room like tho stairs is choked
With 'lovely women;' a both
full of artificial flowers. You find
yourself close face to face with three
tall young ladies, whose facts you
are tired of, but to whom you never
have been introduced; you are
hemmed in and feel like a fool, when
you smile feebly and bow, to some
one who is recognizing you from
the other end of tbe room.
There are tho most wonderful'old
ladies. It is a >lemn and silent,
and yet there is a distracting buzz
of voices. Faint moaning from an
inner chamber betokens music. A
few victims are seated near the per-
former, who sings in ii ghastly man-
ner, with a sense of beii g unappre-
ciated. No music has bei n pre-
COncerted. Tho tenor has ii, en
dragged from a group of la ins and
coerced into a song, against his will.
A stout young lady thump-; and
rushes on the piano; nobody
listens, but a heavy silence is ui-
d. On everj face a gloomy
ace or a sullen smile is s< an.
i'he girls watch < a :h other's bon-
. the old lad I up n .
other, and push and go Dp and
down Btairs. There is generally
man there; fa uneasy
glances round him, and is afraid of
Fashionable Tea Parlies.
191
so many women; his countenance
does not conceal that he is bored
and 'wishes he were at his club ; he
is chiefly happy if he can find an
acquaintance, when he professes a
hypocritical interest and fervour,
squeezes himself behind her into a
chair, and talks under his breath,
and is absorbed.
But he escapes when he can, and
vows silently, but solemnly, that
' never, never.' When all are gone,
it is seven o'clock ; Mrs. Uphill and
the daughters eat up the remains of
the bread and butter, and congra-
tulate themselves on the success of
their party.
The ' Magnificent' differs from
the ' Economical ' chiefly in regard
to the food provided for the bodily
sustenance of the invited. Weari-
ness unutterable for the mind still
pervades the crowd, and seats are
wanting to rest the limbs where-
with ; but there is claret cup,
champagne cup, grapes, straw-
berries, and, pregnant fact ! there
are more men.
The Tea Magnificent is generally
indicative of a brother, one or more,
and he brings his friends or ought
to do so. It is not a case of Tues-
days and Fridays in June. It is a
great effort — * Supreme,' as Victor
Hugo would say ; a little buffet in
the back drawing-room, mingled
sounds of Campana's duets, and the
clatter of spoons.
' Io vivo e t'amo,' — ' iced coffee,
please.'
' Non posso vivere senza di te.'
' Champagne or claret cup?'
Lady and Miss de Tankerville,
Sir Roger de Tankerville.
' Ah, ha, mio be-ne.' One re-
quires here two ears at least to take
in the combination. Useful young
ladies untie their bonnet-strirjgs
after artful surprise at being called
to sing the duet they had specially
prepared for the occasion. The
hostess prowls amiably and picks
off the musical guests for a chorus.
Sponge-cakes and fruit do not im-
prove the voices, and the soprani
never are in tune, but the ' P.on-
dinella ' is victimized, and as nobody
listens it does not much matter.
The hostess has been making pretty
speeches to every one that she can,
and she makes tho prettiest of all
to the pet tenor, who is out of sorts?
because the man of all others whom
he hates, and who sings his new
song with the A sharp, which is his
special hit, has been asked to sing
before him. There is a lady singer
with a wonderful gown and a silvery
voice, but she won't sing a note,
and the hostess devours her wrath
as best she may, and pretends to
understand and believe in the
' little cold ' that causes the refusal.
If the buffet be down stairs the
scene of action is chiefly at door-
ways and on the staircase. Cunning
and acquisitiveness are called into
play. Dowagers ' spot ' likely young
men, and victims are sacrificed to
hungry mothers ; but take it alto-
gether the * temper of the mob' is
a better one than at most public
meetings; the men drink and are
amenable; the old women eat and
are content ; the young ones have, or
hope they have, some one to admire
them, and a little business may be
done with boudoirs and back stairs,
but it is always lame, and I should
never advise it except in extreme
and desperate cases. Flirting in
bonnet strings and a hot room is
never good for much. Cornets or
very young clerks are possible,
but the full-grown object is apt
to have an engagement at the
club or a quiet little ' Suggestive '
somewhere else, or a match at
Lord's, and is impatient and dis-
traught. With a social meeting, a
gathering together of friends and
acquaintances— such as the original
tea party might suppose itself to
mean, the Tea Impressive, whether
economical or magnificent, has of
course nothing in common. But — as
a comprehensive mode of receiving
acquaintances and friends— it is un-
rivalled in the annals of the past
seasons, for it combines the two
great elements of modern entertain-
ment — it includes all and pleases,
none.
Some day, I live in hopes, that
a spirited leader of fashion may
arise and introduce a mode of en-
tertainment more sensible and pleas-
ing and equally general and im-
partial.
Instead of inviting to her house
lit 2
Fashionable Tm Parties.
more pe tple than it will hold at
thf hour when open air and i si i
ought to supplant airless munis and
crowded Btaircasi s, let her issue
tickets entitling the bearer to such
portion of delica ^s at < lunter's or
Brunette's as shall !"• equivalent
to the f< ast Bhe would offer them
in her dining-room, to be obtained
at what hour and on what day the
ir of the ticket shall oh
This would at once evince hospi-
tality and avoid confusion; and tho
glorification of the giver of 1ho tea
impressive would be methinhs, en-
ced by tho publicity of tho
matter. To flio giver of tho Sug-
gestive I need offer no hint. To
the fair Julie and tho amiable
Looloo I dedicate the motto —
Kon posso vivere
Scnza di'
Tea.
Painted by W. P. Frith, R. \.|
HONEYWOOD
Drawn and engraved by W. I.. Thomas, by permii
3 HE BAILIFFS.
[See " Artist's Notes from Choice Pictures."
>fi|e Artist, who reserves all rights in the Copyright.
LONDON SOCIETY.
MARCH, 1867.
WOMEN AND THEIR WAYS.
BY
TOM
SLENDER.
FEOM the day when Eve first came before
Adam, ' a woman fair and graceful spouse,'
down to the present time in which we live,
woman has been both the blessing and the
curse of mankind. She has been the cause of
^ strife and ruin, of misery and bloodshed among
nations, and in domestic life has not unfrequently
been the discordant and jarring element. Yet she
is also the very type and embodiment of all grace
and virtue, the source and centre of peace and re-
conciliation, the one gracious influence which softens and humanizes man-
kind, reconciling the contradictions of opposing wills and natures and
bringing them into harmony by her healing presence. Poets have never
ceased to sing her praises, and these songs have been among their best
and happiest efforts. She has been their inspiration, awakening in them
all their chivalry and love of the beautiful and pure. They who have, like
Scott, spoken of her as capricious, have, like him, almost in the same
breath laid at her feet the just tribute of their praise.
' O woman, in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made ;
When pain and anguish wring the brow
A ministering angel thou !'
There is no heart so dead to all good influence that is not touched by
the exhibition of a woman's unselfish, undying love, which is ever ready
to requite evil with good, and to forget the wrong that has been done in
her desire to win back the affection that has strayed. She calmly waits her
opportunity, ' hoping against hope,' and praying that it may come, and with
a wondrous patience and winning grace welcomes the first indications of
a return, and goes forth clad in robes of purity, forgiveness, and love
to meet the wanderer and aid or hasten his faltering steps. There is no
sight more beautiful than that of a woman's inexhaustible tenderness,
VOL. XI.— no. lxiii. o
VJi
n iinni ana tn>ir \\ayt.
tonally prompting her to givo
that read] sympathy which
1 hearts b s!'>vr
Who look for no return."
Fur back in our livt b we can trace
the hallowing influence of a woman's
, the footprints of which
i. ive not \ • I 'ii trodden out by
time. 11 mother's
, hex unselfish care, het ready
ear, and quick response to our
childish . have left an imp]
>i..n which nothing and
which puts us in good-humour with
all womankind. Tho memory of
unnumbered blessings that lave
: prang from ltr gathers ronnd us
. . d in advance 1 life, when all feel-
ing of romance lias long since di< id
away, and tho very name of woman
awakens in us feelings of reverent
affection. Mrs. Norton's beautiful
lines addressed to the Duchess of
Sutherland are applicable to women
generally.
' Like a white swan down a troubled 'ream,
• raffling piniona hath \\v power to fling
the turbid 'l r ' pa which darkly gleam
And mar tl
So (.-/c) with queenly erare and gentle rode
• tli- world'l dark wa.ves In purity doth
glide.'
I Jut leaving for a moment this sen-
timental but just view of woman-
kind, we will beguile ourselves with
the cons n f'f some of tl
rities which are exhibited in
tain specimens of the fair sex.
There is nothing more true than
the old adage that ' all is not g"M
that glitters;' and it may he I
with equal truth that all women
are not fair. There arc exceptions
to every rule, and if we amuse our-
selves for a time at the expense of
those exceptional cases, we trust
that we have already sufficiently
guarded against the possibility of
our bt in'-' charged v. ith insensibility
to the pout r of woman's charms of
mind and person.
Nature is lull of exceptions to its
eidinary rules, and incongruities
and eccentricities are to l>e found in
the very midst of r itifa]
works. It is therefore do reproach
to the bit ks to say that some
women have peculiar ways which
would fairly puzzlo tho man who
had not been more or loss acclima-
tized to them. ' Woman's at best
a contradiction still,' Bays Pop ; and
linly no angler was < ver more
at a loss among the slippery and
tinny tribe than man is among
wayward, capricious, ami
• women. It is next to im-
ible to know how to lake tin m.
That which pleases to-day is an
offence to-morrow. Their moods
are so variable that no one can
i. certain of them for two hours
together. / • and capricious,
the disproportion of tin ir demands
is only t" i- < quailed by the un-
accountable fitfulness with which
they change; and any one who has
burnt his fingers in the vain endea-
vour to meet and satisfy their wishes,
soon learns, in the painful process,
to wait with calm indiffi rciico for
the passing away of their ever-va-
rying moods.
There are women who have a
marvellous faculty for skimming
rapidly over the surface of things,
reminding one of the swallow as
he sometimes skims over the water
in search of food, dipping here and
there in his rapid Bight. It is as
breathless and fatiguing to follow
them in their conversation as to
pursue a Bquirrel as he leaps with
wonderful agility from tree to tree.
No sooner do you imagine that you
have caught their meaning, and arc
going to enjoy a little conversation
that can boast of some conseontive-
ti an you are obliged, by a
powerful wrench or intellectual
Height of hand, which recalls the
ftats of acrobats and jugglers, to
divert your thoughts 'suddenly into
a totally different chain el, wholly
unconnected with anything that
las gone before, till you are led
through mazes of which a volatile
ian alone is capable. Over-
powered with the exertions of tho
chase, you give up, simply exhausti d
by the prod BS, without any clear
or distinct idea on any on subject.
This exercise is frequently accom-
panied by a considerable amount of
vivacity and naivete, which imparts
a r to the i nt, rtainment,
which would otherwj-e lie only un-
bearable, shouts of laughter suc-
d one another as you find youra if
Women and their Ways.
195
engaged in a kind of steeplechase,
or in an intellectual version of the
old-fashioned game of ' hunt the
slipper,' only with this difference,
that the slipper is rarely the same
for two minutes together. Or it
may be that the transitions are too
rapid for the completion of any
sentence calculated to explain the
idea which, for the moment, has
possession of the mind ; and while
you strain every faculty you have
in order to gain some insight into
the meaning of what is said, you
are abruptly asked, in the middle
of naif-uttered, half-expressed, in-
coherent and broken sentences,
whether you do not understand.
If it were not for the arch good-
humour with which the question
is put, you would feel disposed to
resent such an off-handed way of
disposing of conversation. And,
after all, what is it you are supposed
to understand ? ideas not ex-
pressed; thoughts not shaped into
words. Fairly puzzled, yet un-
willing to own your defeat, or too
courteous to insinuate the utter in-
comprehensibleness ot your fair
friend, you either try to catch at
some meaning as well as you can, or
content yourself with giving a vague
kind of answer that may mean any-
thing or nothing, or endeavour to
shelve the whole matter by an affir-
mative which, if not strictly in
accordance with the truth, seems
the only loophole of escape. This
game is played again and again
with equal .naivete, and the most
abstruse questions are touched upon
in the same reckless and superficial
manner, for no subject is either too
grave or too deep for them. No sphy nx
ever uttered darker sayings or pro-
pounded more perplexing riddles.
There are certain privileges which
women claim for themselves, and to
which no man would dispute their
right ; but there are others which
we should not be so willing to ac-
cord to them. For instance, women
may change their minds or express
dissatisfaction at their pleasure.
They would, no doubt, resent its
being treated, as complaint or dis-
content, but how they would desig-
nate the peculiar disposition of mind
to which we refer it is not for us to
say. In the absence of any other
name, we can only spoak of what it
resembles, and describe it as it is to
be found. Everything is out of
tune ; nothing is right. The gown
does not fit ; is not the right colour,
nor the right cut ; is not suited to
the weather or the season; it is
either too hot or too cold, too thick
or too thin, too heavy or too-light.
The bonnet is equally at fault. The
carriage should be open when it is
closed, and vice versa. The dinner
is not right ; the meat not tender ;
the hour is wrong ; the ' service '
indifferent; the company not well
assorted. If they go to one theatre,
they instantly discover they ought
to have gone to another. If they
visit Lady , or Mrs. , they
are envious of the furniture and de-
corations. They continually com-
plain of what they have, and covet
what they have not got. It is true
that the complaint generally refers
to the more superficial circumstances
of daily life ; but if an effort is made
to remove the cause of offence, or to
supply what is wanting, then that
is, in its turn, converted into a
grievance, and men are railed
against for being so ' stupid ' and
' narrow-minded ' as to take them at
their word. They consider it a hard-
ship that they are not allowed to
grumble ad libitum, and are, or pre-
tend to be, provoked that any
should be so dull and matter-of-fact
as to take them au pied ' de la
kttre, and endeavour to provide a
remedy against that which, after all,
proves to be their pastime. It is
very difficult to imagine it possible
that there should be any luxe in
grumbling : yet so it is. There are
women to whom it is as much a
part of their life as it is to eat and
drink. Yet as it is said that two
things are essential to the happiness
of every Englishman — a grievance,
and some one to tell it to— why
should we be astonished at the fact
that there are women who love a
good grumble and find a pleasure
in crying for the moon ?
We have all been introduced to
the ' Naggletons/ and might, with-
out any very great difficulty, find
the exact counterpart of Mrs. Nag-
gleton among our friends and ac-
O 2
196
Women and thriv Ways.
quftintanccs. She is by no means
a rara avis. ' Snagging' is a most
expressive word, its very Bound
d< Dotes thai roughness of temper
which is continually fxetting against
people and things. Some women
e u peculiar talent for i
captiousness, which it is their de-
light to i leroise every day and lionr
with onabated vigoor, keeping it
free from rust. They <io not waste
tluir strength and time in violent
outbursts of vituperation, but by
means of incessant reproachi b and
twittings keep their victims in a
oi i" 1 1" tual discomfort Water
will wear a stone by its continual
droppmg; and these women know
how to W( ar out the peace of a man's
life by tin ir unremitted ' snagging.'
It is a process of slow torture, not
unlike the tactics of a cat towards a
mouse, or of a spider towards a fly.
Women who have this peculiar gift
generally select as their victims
those of an easy temper who are
not conspicuous for any strength of
character, but who poss* ss b certain
fund of I ■"'■ They find them
suited to their purpose, and
well disposed to submit to the in-
ible for the sako of a quiet
home. In addition to her other
powers, Mrs. Naggleton has the
faculty of always making herself
appear as the martyr. While she
tortures her victim she assumes the
air of injured innocence, and tries
to persuade' others, as successfully
as she p i i.i |i a herself, that she is
herself the victim of an inconstant,
neglectful, or inconsiderate hus-
band; and, with wonderful self-
oonunand, si Is him to savor
do something which shall put her
in the right With great cleverness
she baits her Lull, and at the samo
time gets out of him opportunities
for further -port. Having also the
■ girl ot t. :ii them in to
her aid, when Other measures fail,
and the old t tctics si i m to have
lost their power, and is content to
pain her point even at the cost of a
httlo apparent weakness; for she
knows that few men can withstand
' the unanswerable tear in woman's
eyo.'
The love of cruelty is inherent in
human nature, and women aro no
I >t ii >n to the rule. It is certainly
the most hateful aspect under which
they can present themselves before
us ; and the idea itself is so entirely
contradictory to all that distin-
guishes B woman from the rest of
the creation, that it seems almost
paradoxical to say that she can be
cruel. Yet it is not so by any
means. History can supply us with
too many instances in which women
have been conspicuous for their
cruelty, and the annals of crime re-
oord against them some of the most
ilting murders and crimes. The
form of cruelty to which we refer is
generally combined with a certain
cleM mi SB which belongs to womi n
who have the reputation for being
intriguantes. It is, of course, com-
bined also with unscrnpulousnes8;
because no one can be both cruel
and considerate towards others. If
an unkind thing can be done or
said, they say it and do it not only
without hesitation or compunction,
but even with satisfaction. They
take pleasure in playing upon a raw,
in chating a wounded spirit, in
goading almost to madness a mind
that is, perhaps, already heavily
laden, with wonderful discrimina-
tion and quickness of perception
they ean discover the weak point
win-re an assault can be made with
success, and they direct theii efforts
to it. Where their own si hemes
and designs are immediately or in-
directly concerned, they are not
likely to show pity; but apart from
this they take actual pleat ore in
wounding, and in watching the
its of their cruelty. It is their
amusement and their sport. No tio
of relationship, however (dose and
intimate, is any protection from
their lash. ' Their tongues are
sharp swords, and the poison of
aspe is under their lip . If, by
any chance, a young wife, whose
rienceof life is hut short, comes
across her path, the cruel woman
will amuse herself at her exp I
She will BOW the BeedS of suspicion
and distrust ; will open the eyes of
her unsuspecting victim to any im-
perfections in h.r husband's charac-
ter : will suggest the thought that
ho has concealments from her. If
she has known him in his bachelor
Women and their Ways.
197
days she will pretend to a more in-
timate acquaintance with his opi-
nions, feelings, and habits ; will re-
fer, with an air of mystery, to some
circumstance or event of his past
life which, without any evil inten-
tion, he may not have disclosed to
his wife, and will feign astonishment
when, in reply to her repeated and
off-hand assurance that ' of course
her husband had told her all this
long ago,' she sees nothing but the
blank look of ignorance, and will
affect surprise that the past is such
a sealed book to the young wife,
who sits quivering under the tortur-
ing process. Or, in the very wan-
tonness of her love of mischief she
will assume that, be it as it may
with regard to the past, there must
be perfect unanimity in all that re-
lates to the present ; and making the
most of such knowledge as she can
acquire, will convey the impression
that she possesses the confidence
which belongs to the wife, even
while she assumes, in the very ex-
quisiteness of her cruelty, that that
confidence has not been withheld
from her to whom it is due : or,
varying her mode of attack, will
comment upon the dress or equi-
page, assuming that it has been
directed and provided by the care
and forethought of an attentive and
devoted husband, while she knows
that these are not matters which
occupy his thoughts in any degree.
The cruel woman knows well how
to take the brightness out of every-
thing, and how to say the most
cruel, cutting things in the blandest
possible tones. If her cleverness
secures for her a favourable recep-
tion in society, the withdrawal of
her presence always occasions a
sense of relief, though she never
fails to leave a sting behind. Just
as the presence of a hawk causes a
commotion among the small birds,
she creates a sensation wherever she
goes. Her dearest friends are not
safe, for she will not scruple to
sacrifice their comfort and happiness
to her love of cruelty, and she hails
the sight of tears as a tribute to her
power. Such women are essentially
birds of prey, and though such ex-
amples are rare they are not alto-
gether unknown.
From the extreme susceptibility
and nervous organization of women,
there is a considerable tendency to
excitement and versatility, which
conduces to impatience of the minor
circumstances of life. There can be
no doubt that the smaller contra-
dictions of daily life are, in a certain
sense, harder to bear than many of
its severer trials. Against the
former we are not specially pre-
pared or on our guard ; against the
latter we are. Against the one we
set all the fortitude of which we are
capable, but of the others we take
little heed. We are disposed to let
them take their chance, and in this
dangerous security lies the secret of
their strength and our weakness.
As a rule, the lives of women are
more affected by externals. Their
occupations and interests are of the
lighter kind, and hence the small
events of everyday life are a greater
fret to them ; they both feel them
more keenly and are more influ-
enced by them. This is not said
disparagingly, but only to account,
in some degree, for the peculiar
susceptibility and impatience which
women frequently exhibit. The
variations of weather produce cor-
responding changes in our natures.
A dark day infects the mind with its
gloom, and the nervous system acts
like a barometer under the varying
influence of the temperature. There-
fore it is not astonishing that the
thwartings of daily life should have
the effect of exciting impatience in
natures which are so finely consti-
tuted. As the faintest breeze can
awaken the notes of an iEolian
harp, so the slightest ripple in the
circumstances of life can call into
existence those feelings which are
especially under the influence of the
nerves. The nervous, impatient
woman is a torment to herself as
well as to others. She demands the
utmost promptitude in the execu-
tion of her wishes. No one is quick
enough, and yet all are too quick.
Her juste milieu is unattainable.
Though it is impossible, without a
spirit of divination always to fore-
stall another's wants, yet the irri-
table woman is in a frenzy if her
requirements are not speedily met.
Servants, children, friends, all are
198
Women and their W
in fault, and she is alway-
plaining why her chari >t-w:
fry. Life ■ •:• hi
energ
the most intense Tehamf n
and manner accompanies the :
triv. Repose av rind
no i th her. 1
troubltd '
• i
invi: . ell.
Love is the domain which specially
••voman, OTer which she
rales with undisputed sway. It is
her pec ul Lit privilege and province
to awaken it, as well as to lavish
and bestow it. Yet there is a tem-
per anl disposition, which n.
almost be called a vice, that springs
from love and keeps close by its
If pity is ak n to love, jeal
- offspring, turning ' love divine
are
produced by fire. It is affirmed by
some that there can be no true love
>utjea'. : rue in a
certain sense. It would be impos-
sible to love another and to be at
the same time indifferent to his or
her infidelity or neg H is
not true in the sense in which it is
:. urged as the plea for absurd
groundless jealo - It often
happens thai trivial
:nto
:emeanour3 and ofil :. gainst
the law of love by those who arc-
always on the look-out for grounds
of jealousy; and the co:.
cour - 4 life are misconstrued
and suspected of evil, till so
1 as one vast con-
spiracy against their happiness. It
can- ::ng,
and not unfrequently brings a
the very evil which is so much
Women who talk and women who
love to manage are among those
who have brought discredit upon
womankind. These an.- they who
never can undertake tl e smallest
thing
of talk. Everything must Ik- dia-
ver and over again, not for
the sake of pruden U aides
ke ■ ■: " •■ ■ - in* may
be duly considered, but fur the
mere love of talking; and thus the
truth ai. .
are not always as carefnll;
as they might Ixj. M are
made ; • . . - - • the
truth : no watch is set on the lips,
and words are used m re-
ttie entertainment they
are meant to afford than to truth.
Ti . _• woman always
occupies he: ig her n-
hour's house in ordtr. She is np to
any emergency, is ever ready with a
- -_ .in and a plan, and equally
take offence if her aid
is cot followed. She criu'o
cusses, proposes, and advises. She
is the bane of young newly-mar: 1
people, who, diffident of tbeir own
powers and i s, are too ready
ike the D - jT woman at her
own value and listen to berconnsela.
The wayaof womankind are mani-
fold, and if some of their peeuliari-
.-iug than others, or
are fraught with danger to our
peace anl happinee tnnot be
denied that in nine cases ont of ten
they are our _ I ind solace. Al-
I we know of virtue
religion we have learned I
.an. Ourgr
come from her. 'Without her the
of this life woui .
-uccour, and the niiddlo
be devoid of pleasure.'
• A cpM'.ure not too bright or |
Prj- I .-:.. in and smiled
• • » •
A perfect woman, : '.ed
To • And cuennuod,
D and bf ight.
,*T
199
ETIQUETTES OF GEIEF.
THERE is nothing in which pecu-
liarities and differences of cha-
racter show themselves more strik-
ingly than in the variety of ways in
which people take their griefs. By
griefs, we mean those sorrows which
are the result of some bereavement.
There is no one whose heart is so
dead to all regard for others, or so
absorbed by self-love, that there is
not some one object the loss of which
would plunge him into the most
profound grief. Every one has his
tender side, as well as his weak
point. Some possess a greater num-
ber of interests than others, but
every one has something, a husband,
a wife, a child, or a friend which
occupies his thoughts and care, the
presence or loss of which makes life
a pleasure or a blank. It is quite
true that ' the heart knoweth its
own bitterness,' and that no one can
properly estimate the trials of his
neighbour, or calculate beforehand
how any one will conduct himself
under affliction. You cannot argue
upon it, nor safely draw any in-
ferences on the subject. It is one of
the mysteries of the human heart
which no one can solve, and, being
so, it* is as unfair as it is narrow-
minded to say that this or that
person does not feel so strongly as
another because his conduct or ex-
pression does not tally with certain
laws or rules which we may have
chosen to lay dowu on the matter.
It is quite possible to argue both
ways on a subject of this kind ; but
it is not safe to pronounce upon
any one as really deficient iu feeling
because he does not act according to
cur notions of the way in which we
believe that we should ourselves act
under similar circumstances. We
are not lawgivers, and have no right
to lay down rules for others in such
matters, especially as they are be-
yond the reach of any law.
A great grief often changes the
character so wonderfully that we
are not able to recognize it again.
Like a veil, it hides from our
eight the expression with which
we have grown lamiliar and are
wont to look lor ; or, like blindness,
it takes the light out of the eyes
that used to shine brightly upon us.
We have known instances of per-
sons who were the gayest of the
gay, on whom the ordinary trials of
life could make no impression ; who
have seemed to live in the present,
and to bo the life of the circle in
which they moved ; who had no
care, no thought for the morrow;
apparently without any special in-
terests, because the whole world
was to them as an instrument of
sweet music, which was always
ready to respond to their slightest
touch, and about whom it would
have been difficult to predicate what
would or would not touch them.
We have known such struck down
by an overwhelming grief. Death
laid his hand on some treasure which
they scarcely knew how much they
prized, and of which they always
felt secure, because it was always
there ; the reaper came and carried
off the flower they loved, and in a
moment the heart was frozen, ice-
bound with grief. The sunshine
had gone out of their lives, and had
left them to grope their way in the
darkness. From that moment they
were changed, transformed almost
beyond the power of recognition.
Others, again, have lived for years
in the selfish enjoyment of the bless-
ings which surrounded them, have
culpably neglected those who have
been the chief ministers to their
comfort, treating them with selfish
indifference, and showing but little,
if any, regard for their happiness ;
and wben death has deprived them
of the companionship of one whose
unselfish, unwearied, and patient
love chiefly conduced to their com-
fort, they have bewailed their loss
in ceaseless tears, and have ex-
hibited the most overwhelming
sense of their bereavement, and
have quite taken the world by sur-
prise at their poignant grief, be-
tokening an affection for which no
one gave them credit. There have
been men of great reserve who feel
acutely, but the outward signs of
whose* joys and sorrows do not lie
on the sunace. No one supposes
200
Eliijuetles of Orirf.
them to be capable of any greal sen-
aibility, and \( t thi v sutler acutely ;
: gnaws into their hearts ; they
■a tin ir way silently bul <u eply
monrning oyer the graves of their
dead Even they w bo l are !
sdingly demonstrative in their
affection towards a beloved object
will sometim< a i the grei
surprise t> their friends by the
manner in which the] behave under
affliction. Tiny will speak almosi
lightly of the dead; will comment
upon the last momi nts ; rep a1
:i and again thi last words ; de-
scribe the last looks; and even dis-
• the appearance of the body as
it lies shrouded in its coffin. Tiny
will Bpeak of themselves as 'crush* <!,'
' annihilated, "ami ' desolate' in I
and accents inconsistent with such
language. Tiny will take the great-
est personal interest in the arrange-
ments for the funeral ; will act as a
kind of master of the ceremonies, or
chief undertaker; or will he, strict
in their inquiry how everything
went off; and will demand the most
exact and detailed account of tho
proceedings of the day, and the re-
:s that were made ; and will
take au e\ idi ut pride in the
that may have been paid to the
memory of the di c< ia< d.
Others, again, who have seemed
to live only in the pi
beloved one, will shrink from
very mention of the name; will
r suffer it to 1 e uttered in their
, much ! t allow it to
pe their own lips. It is almost
; some di were attached to
it, as if something of dishonour and
Bhame v. I with it It
ildi d up iii the past, nev< t to be
unfold' d again ; or < rased, as if a
•i taken to bid out
name for I And yet it is
not really | The belov< d
name is i usbrini d in the hi
I ii]) tin re like witl
flowen within t
pn otouB 1 ok, ox like the relics
which t! it pilgrim honours.
re are tin y also w hose lovi
beyond all dispute, who take as
tinly opposite line, and can talk of
the unvarying
theme ol theii
r letter [I U ttempl
inado to divert the thought into
some other channel hearing more
upon daily life and the blessings
that remain, they ingeniously mai
to make tin in drift hack again to
the subject of their sorrow. Every
scrap of writing is produced, to be
]■• 1 1 again and again ; every inci-
dent is narrated till sympathy is
almost worn threadbare, and the
over-indulged grief h comes a mono-
mania We are strangely-consti-
tuted beings, ofto n. in extn
movi d in various ways by our pas-
sions and affections. It is quite
into Ib'gible that a violent shock
should, for a time, almost unhinge
the mind, and drive it into ecct n-
tricities; and it is, therefore, tho
more unfair to judge and condemn
harshly any form which sorrow may
take that is not altogether in unison
with received customs. We cannot
grieve by rule and measure. Small
griefs are loud, but great ones
still.
• Angry he* . - grieve londawhlla
■ n bi arUt an- tlninli B
T.mightcr comes not from profound
joy, nor weeping from di i p sorrow.
[t is true that tear- and s >rrow are
frequenl companions, but rarely in
their highest < ccesses, and therefore
there is nothing more fallacious
the outward Bl'gUS of sorrow.
The chances are, that the affliction
which shrinks from publicity, a
to be invisible, and avoids ceremony ;
is more true and di i p than that
which finds its solace in that out-
ward display whi^h invites the com-
ment of the world at lai .
It always appeared to us as pecu-
liarly hard that our gracious (,»ueen
was at one time censun d for in-
dulging her sorrow. If any one had
greater cause than another to mourn,
it was she. Placed by Providi
in an exalte 1 and ti\ ion, she
n . d-d all the Support and aid that
an intelligi nt mind and a faithful,
I. and loving hi art could afford.
No sorrow, care, or anxiety had
hitherto ( uteri d hex I to, svhioh
the very tj pe "I ilmni -tic fe-
licity. Suddenly the greatest of all
is befell in r, at a time
when t! I in r children made
a father's hand and counsel all the
Etiquettes of Grief.
201
more necessary ; and who could
blame her that she did not mourn
by rule? that she still reveres and
honours the memory of one for
whom the whole nation wept ?
There have been others in humbler
rank, no doubt, equally sorely tried,
who have mourned all the days of
their life, and who can never bring
themselves to discard the symbols
of their desolation, or to return to
the world as if it still possessed any
charms for them. They prefer the
quiet of their own home circle, and
no one questions their right to in-
dulge their preference ; but then it
must be acknowledged that society
has no direct and positive claim
upon them. It is one of the penal-
ties of the most exalted rank, that
they who occupy it must, to a cer-
tain extent, put a restraint upon
their natural desire for privacy. In
her gradual approach to her former
life, let us deal gently and lovingly
•with our Queen, as a child would
towards a parent, that she may
know that we understand and can
appreciate the great sacrifice she is
making of herself for the public
good, and that we are fully sensible
that human nature is the same in
all — that the stricken heart of both
rich and poor alike need repose and
time to recover itself.
There is, however, one aspect of
this subject — the expression of grief
— with which we confess to have
very little patience. We allude to
certain etiquettes which, in many
instances, are fol lowed to an absurd
extent. There are some persons in
the world who cannot exist without
satisfying themselves that all they
do is en regie. We have known in-
stances in which when the death of
a relation has been announced, for
whom the survivors had no feeling
but that of dislike, that they think
it necessary to shut themselves up
in their rooms, as if they were over-
whelmed with affliction. They go
through the farce of pretending to
a sorrow which all the world knows
they do not feel. Heirs who never
cared for those from whom they
inherit, think it necessary to go
through certain formalities. A
brother, who has supplanted us in
our birthright, or in the affections
of some one on whom we were de-
pendent, and who has plotted against
us to his own advantage and our
injury; a child, whose disobedience
and want of affection has been the
trial and torment of our lives; a
mother, who has forsaken or neg-
lected her children ; and a wife, who
has been the bane of her home, can-
not cause the same sorrow and re-
gret as those whose faithfulness,
tender care, duti fulness, unselfish-
ness, and uprightness have endeared
them to all who have been asso-
ciated with them. And yet no dis-
tinction is made ; the same etiquettes
are observed, the same retirement
from the world, the same expres-
sions, the same language is adopted
in both instances. We do not, of
course, refer to the custom of wear-
ing mourning, which is a rule which
cannot he dispensed with ; and,
so far, etiquette may serve us in
good stead, when it prevents our
proclaiming too plainly to the world
the estimation in which we have
held our deceased relatives and
friends. It is said that 'blood is
thicker and water,' that ties of re-
lationship bind more strongly than
other ties. It may be so where the
mutual obligations of relationship
are cheerfully fulfilled, but certainly
not where those obligations have
been neglected, set at nought, and
contradicted through life.
' To be wroth with one we love.
Doth work like madness in the brain ;'
and ties of relationship are worse
than without force, when all the
affection, kindness, and considera-
tion which they are supposed to
represent, are not only wanting but
reversed.
Two rather absurd and amusing
instances occur to us connected with
the subject of etiquettes of grief.
One was that of a parish clerk, who
was called upon to take part in the
funeral obsequies of one of our
country magnates. The clergyman,
having been somewhat disconcerted
by the apparent backwardness of
the clerk to make the responses
which, when he did make them,
were not in his usual tone and
manner, but rather as if he were
suffering from a severe cold, in-
202
Ettquette$ of Grief.
quired, after tho service was over,
wheth c be was ill. The clerk both
looke l andexpn sst d astonishment
at being bo interrogated. Tho
gj man i xplained, and added
that be was afraid lie was stiff, ring
from a severe oold. The dork in-
stantly drew down tho corners of
his month, Aid said, in the Bame
snuffling, lachrymose tone, that ho
was not ill. but that be thought it
his duty to appear affected Tho
other was thai of a lady who had
ntly become a widow, she had
i.. n conspicuous for fidelity or
conjugal affection, and, when sho
saw some of her husband's relatives
for the first time after his (hath,
and observed, or thought she ob-
served them scanning, with looks
of disapprobation, her uncovered
head, forestalled all remonstrance
by Baying, with a sigh, that 'dear
Tom' had made her promise sho
would not disfigure herself by
wearing thai hideous head-dress
called a widow's cap; 'dear Tom,'
she well knew, was not a man to
know or trouble himself about any
woman's dress when ho was alive,
and it was not likely that his n st
would be disturbed by the thought
that his Lovely widow might be dis-
figuring herself by wearing the sign
oi her widowhood.
It continually happens, during
a London season, that a whole
lily is shut out from society
by the death of a relative for whom
I. and whom somo
of them never beheld. The rule
of etiquett nach d that no
one shall mix in society till after
a certain time has elapsed after the
ii of a relative, and a kind of
ale has bei n fixed, vary-
i! g .-• »rdi] / to the degrees of rela-
tionship. Any infringement of this
rule is . commented upon,
and the trai i - are denounced
unfeeling, indecent, heartless,
and many other things h ridi a. A
mother who ha il daughters
to dispose Of or perhaps it may
be only one, but thai one on the
apparent verge of a proposal from a
t eligible imetimes
suddenly shut out f mm Bocietyby
an etiquette which det hex
a retirement from the world for a
in, on account of the death of a
■ Ion for whom none of them ever
cared, or had any reason to regret,
and she has perhaps to bear, in ad-
dition, the uncertainty whether tho
anxiously-expected marriage will
ever ' come off,' the course of truo
lovo having been interrupted at a
critical moment Instances might
be multiplied ad infinitum, exposing
both the inconveniences and ab-
surdities which result from a com-
pliance with the rigorous laws of
etiquette. There are people who
think it indecorous, at such times,
to meet the different members of
their family at dinner, but manage
to get over their grief at tea-time,
ami have little odb ries in their bed-
room or sitting-room ; or who think
it honouring the dead to darken
one of their windows for a twelve-
month with a huge unsightly hatch-
ment ; and who consider mutes, and
an assemblage of mourning coaches
and private carriages, indispensable
appendages of grief. The custom
of people sending their private
carriages (dosed, as their represen-
tatives, to follow in the train of a
funeral prooi BSion, is certainly one of
the strangest imaginable. In fact,
all funerals in this country have
a somewhat pagan aspect, owing to
the power of etiquette, which has
prescribed what shall or shall not
be done, and which scarcely any ono
dares to resist. When the heart is
b iwed down with grief, and silently
pleads to be let alone, the under-
taker has it all his own way, and
hatbands and scarfs of silk and
crape swell the amount of his bill,
and help to make the solemn n le-
mony a profit to himself. Tho
clerk gets another breadth for bis
wife's Sunday gown, and the clergy-
man's wife or daughter a new silk
a] iron.
The tradesman oomplii a with eti-
quette and puts up B shutter in
honour of a den asi a patron, which
also serves as an advertisement to
the living, and conciliates the sur-
vivors. Alter the lapse of a certain
time, during which tho relatives
mourn, oz are supposed to mourn
in private and retirement, cards ol
thanks for kind inquiries are sent
out, which aro meant to exp
The WItile Feather.
203
that the mourners are well disposed
to other society than their own. In
short, from first to last, etiquette
has prescribed, with a surprising
definiteness, all the minutire of the
symbols and expressions of grief;
so much so that an amusing anec-
dote has been told, perhaps more
ben trovato than true, of a lady who
went to one of the great mourning
warehouses in London, and, on
mentioning what she required, was
politely requested by one of the
shopmen to go further on. ' Thi«,
madam, is the light affliction depart-
ment; the heavy bereavement is
further on.'
The result of all this system of
etiquette is, that, while invidious-
ness may be avoided, there is a con-
siderable amount of unreality under-
lying the whole question. A com-
bination of friend and relation is of
infinite value; a blessing to be
prized, and to be bewailed when
lost; but it is possible to have a
friend whose love, like Jonathan's
for David, surpassed the love of
women; or a daughter-in-law liko
Kuth, whose love and loyalty
prompted her to say to her mother-
in-law, ' Where thou goest I will
go ; where thou diest I will die, and
there will I be buried. Thy people
shall be my people, and thy God.
my God.'
No outward expressions of grief
can ever sufficiently represent the
sorrow which their loss must occa-
sion those who are called upon to
bear it, and who are properly sen-
sible of it. It is when a deep and
overwhelming sorrow comes upon
us, that all minor considerations are
lost sight of. The heart that is
really stricken has neither inclina-
tion nor time to dwell upon the
host of little things which occupy
those whose griefs are only skin-
deep.
THE WHITE FEATHEE,
ijiifeUi^)
EADY, Helen?'
asked perempto-
rily, more suo,
Gertie Fairfax,
appearing, para-
sol-whip in hand,
at one of the open
windows of the
long drawing -
room at Laures-
ton one afternoon,
the last of a certain
August. ' Eeady,
Helen?'
A fair - haired
girl, buried in a
low, soft chair,
day - dreaming,
with her pretty
gloved hands ly-
answered lazily,
rose, not too wil-
ing in her lap,
'Yes, dear,' and
lingly.
• Then come along,' said Gertie ;
'Damon and Pythias are wild to
start, and the dog-cart went for Dar
half an hour ago. We shall be too
late for the train, after all. Come
along, dear !'
And, thus adjured, Helen Tre-
herne followed her cousin out of
the cool, pleasant room on to the
hot asphalte of the terrace, and
eventually into the perfect little
pony-chaise it was Gertie's pride to
call her own.
'That'll do, Drake/ Miss Fairfax
said, presently, when the white
dust-wrapper had been settled over
her own skirt and her companion's ;
'that'll do; let them go!'
And Drake (a tiny Elzevir groom,
known to his mistress's intimates as
' the Childe ') obeying, the impatient
ponies flung themselves with a jerk
into their collars, and started off at
a hand-gallop down the avenue al-
most before ' the Childe ' could
swing himself into his perch behind.
' They're awfully fresh, Nell !' said
their delighted mistress, as soberly
as she could, while the Jouvin's
sixes on her firm little hands, that
controlled so skilfully the vagaries
of those wilful pets, were sorely
strained and tried in the endeavour
to keep the said pets straight now
as they rushed past the lodge;
20-1
The While Feather.
•they're awfully fresh! It's lucky
we v,. re coming, and
open, i.-ii't it ? I
think we shall gel to Baddin
Dar, all. Gently,
onl Quiet, sir!' as the on
thoroughbred tried to break into a
oann t again on the smooth high
i. and the congenial Pythias, on
the m at side, bi emed quite n ady to
follow his example. ' rhere! that's
itiiul! Aren't they darlings,
n ■?'
■ l ». at ted ^li^s Tn h< rne;
• but just a little too much for yon
at times, I think, Gertie.'
• Nona nse ! they've never got out
of my band once since Dar gave
them to ma Why, he chose them
for me himself, on purpose for my
own driving, or mamma would
never trust me with only "the
Childe," who is only ornamental,
you know. I say, Nell, I'm so glad
Dar is coming. This is the last we
• it' him. Jlis leave's up in
December, and the regiment isn't to
come home for goodness knows how
long.'
' Will Dar go back to India, then? 1
I reherne asked.
'I'm afraid 60 !' Gertie
'I wish he wouldn't. So does
mamma. She wants him to marry
and settle down with us at Lau-
reston.'
'And Dar declines? 1
' tio it appears. He always laughs
in that provoking way of his at the
notion of his ever being seriously
, you know; says he should
tare of any woman in a week, and
that sort of thing. The fact is,'
tie added, after a pause, 'in his
t, " dangerous" way, Mr. Dar is
a frightful flirt; and ne'e bi a so
spoiled that I don't think ho is
lik< h e me a sister-in-law yel
awhile. I I UBOD
am ■ with Flora Hod<
don. Vou know the Hoddeadona—
up yonder at Tin And I
fancy Flora Liked him. As, indi ed, 1
remarked, < . the partial
sister, 'most women do somehow,
when he means they should. And
we thought he did i
Bui Dar went oil
tly one morning to Bad n, or
• where, and not . f it.
I think mamma would quite ap-
prove of flora , and p. rhaps n tW,
w hen tiny up it —but one m • t
knows what to make of Far. He
) everything so coolly; though
no one can he more winning when
be i-l ms. Vere Fra'iazon says
he's worshippe l in tin- regiment.'
' And who is Vere Brabazon?' in-
quired Helen.
•Oh! didn't T tell you?' Gertie
said, looking straight forward be-
tween the ofF-ponya ears; ' he's a
friend of Dar's, in the same i
Hunt. Dar 6 ived his life in India.
They came homo on have together,
and we met him in London, lie
follows Dar about everywherei'
• liens \ will he follow his pre-
server down here?'
' I'm sure 1 don't know. I be!
mamma asked him. She took rather
a fancy to him.'
'And is he a "cool captain,"
too?'
'No; he's only a sub. And he
d • -n't like Dar's line at all, though
he looks up to him immensely.
They call him " Hebe" in the r. gi-
ment, because he was quite a child
when h. joined, and has yellow hair
and a (ace that would be like a
girl's if it weren't for bismousti
and the Indian bronze on it. But
he behaved splendidly, Dar says, in
that horrible mutiny!' Gertie went
on, her pale, delicate little face
lighting up as she spoke — ' splen-
didly! and bore all the hardship
and suffering as carele^ly as the
oldest soldier there. And then he
was awfully wounded, too, poor
follow! And he would have I
killed but for Dar.'
'Altogether, "Hebe" is rather
inter. ~t in.LT ?'
' Well, yi .' Gertie n spondi d,
laughing, hut with the flush on her
I; Mill.
' And I >ar saved his lii'i ! How
was that?' M Treherne pursued.
' Well, you know,' Gertie an-
swer, i ■ i.. ither of them would
much about it. But in , Mr. Bra-
bazon, told me that Far Bwam his
hone into a river under a hi avy lire,
and helpe I him to the bank \
hr hid 1" i n hit, anil I foiling
from hi saddle. lie says nothing
but Dar's pluck and coolm
Tlie While Feather.
205
them both, and that Dar ought to
have the V. C. He's very quiet and
gentle, and at first I thought almost
ladylike in his manner. I suppose
he hasn't got strong again yet; but
he grew quite excited and eloquent
when he talked about " the Don's "
(they call Dar " the Don," you know)
good-nature in coming in after him.
" I thought it was all up with me,
Miss Fairfax," he said to me; "I
was getting dizzy and confused, for
I'd been rather badly hit, and
couldn't head old Mustapha, my
charger, for the bank, as I ought to
have done, and we began going
down stream, while the niggers were
taking pot-shots at us quite com-
fortably from their cover. I felt I
should roll out of my saddle in an-
other minute, when I heard ' the
Don's' voice close beside me, and
then I knew it would be all right.
He brought Mustapha and me out
of it, and never got touched him-
self, though the Pandies blazed
away harder than ever all the time,
and he was covering me. It was
the noblest thing that ever was
done, by Jove ! it was." '
' So it was !' Miss Treherne said,
with a light in her own violet eye,
when Gertie had finished her ex-
tract from ' Hebe's' narrative ; * and
you quote Mr. Brabazon admirably,
dear!' she added.
' Absurd !' the other laughed, ad-
ministering rather uncalled-for pun-
ishment to Damon for breaking the
trot. And neither spoke again till
they were driving through the High
Street at Baddingley.
The cousins were more like sis-
ters than some sisters are I wot of.
The same age to a day, they had
been nearly always together since
they left their Paris pension, and
never separated for so long a time
before as they had done this year,
when Gertie Fairfax had been up to
London for her presentation, and
had been entered to run the gaunt-
let of her first season.
Helen Treherne's father, the dean,
a courtly, clerical grand seigneur,
who grew every year more loth to
leave the dignified ease and repose
of the Cathedral Close, and to miss
his darling's fair face and brighten-
ing presence from his side for very
long, had put off that ordeal in her
case till another year.
Even as it was, when she came
back to Laurcston, Gertie had to
take dean and deanery by storm,
and fight a hardish battle, before
she could carry off his sunshine (as
the old man loved to call his daugh-
ter) for a brief visit. But Miss
Fairfax had a knack of getting her
own way in most things, and the
dean had to yield, and did.
While the ponies were trotting up
the sharp rise which leads to Bad-
dingley Station, the express, five
miles off, was rushing full swing
down the line bound for the same
goal.
Fast as they were going, and ad-
mirably as they have kept time all
the way, one of its passengers, loung-
ing on his cushions over ' Punch '
and a regalia, was beginning to wax
impatient.
'Deuced slow work this, aint it,
" Hebe ?" ' Daryl Fairfax said at
last to his companion, a slight, tall,
fair-haired Light Dragoon, with a
bronzed face and a yellow mous-
tache, who was sucking away at a
facsimile of the other's cabana.
' We ought to be there by now.'
'Don't know ..about slow, you
know,' Vere Brabazon responded ;
'done the last six miles in seven
minutes and a quarter by my watch.
Whereabouts are we? You ought
to know, Dar.'
Daryl Fairfax picked himself up,
and looked out of the window.
' All right !' he said ; ' there's Bad-
dingley spire. And there's the
whistle !' he added, the next mo-
ment, as the engine began to shriek
on nearing the junction.
' Get yourself together, " Hebe,"
and hand us over that gun-case.
Can't afford to trust that to any one
but myself. Here we are !' And
creaking, and groaning, and hissing,
the express ran into the station.
There was a crowd of people on
the platform ; but for all the noise
and confusion of yelling porters,
struggling passengers, gaping, help-
less bucolics, and the rest, Vere
Brabazon managed to catch a glimpse
of a face which had been haunting
him all the journey down, and for
many a long day before.
206
Tlie Wltitc Feather.
' I Bay, Pon,' ho said, flinging
away his cigar, 'there she is!'
' is .-! iponded Dar, with
n rag-strap between his b
•Wh
• Four - i fcer.'
• 1 1. aoe Bhe Lb !' observed Mips
Fairfax's brother. 'Why, I told
them to send over the dog-carl for
us. At least, yon know, 1 don't
think l Baid anything about your
coming, Vere. I BUppoc
e to meet me with the po]
1 1 < r. •. guard!' And that polite of-
ficial came hurrying up to unlock
the door. ' Never mind,' Dar went
on, when the two were on the plat-
form, 'well make room for you
Bomehow. You shall have "the
Childe's" perch behind, if Gertie's
here alone. < lome along!'
In another moment they had
emerged from the ruck, and Miss
Fairfax's watchful eyes had lighted
on them
' Tin re they are, Nell !' she paid,
suddenly. 'There's I>ar, with that
gun i ase in his hand !'
'And "Hebe" bringing up the
rear.-' whispered Helen; for the
pair were close upon them now.
'The aoubriquet suits him admi-
rably, Gertii V
I Gertie had moved off to wel-
r brother, dutifully.
' I»< arold Dar I I'm so glad you've
come !'
' I can oblige*, petite I' the di ar
Dar vouchsafl d to answi rj ' but 1
say, 1 hope you've Bent something
for us in sides your phaeton. L've
brought V< r ■ down with mi
• < ih. .ii !■ ■ ],' < lertie said, becom-
aware of the 1 1
uh an individual. ' How do
do, Mr. Brnbazon ?'
Mr. 1: i, who had tx i n
standing silently by, pulling
»w hi and looking
Ight) certainly vi ry
' ladj like' ana languid, brightened
up immediately, and a i m< d p r-
fectly bappy when his fingers
■ d round the little hand Gertie
gave him.
'There's the dog-cart for you,
Dar,' hi tlyj ' I'm
afraid Helen and I and ' the < 'hilde '
quite till the phaeton, you know.'
' " Helen," ' Dar said— he had ken
wondering for the last thirty seconds
who the blonde-haired girl with the
white leather in her hat might be
— * " Helen," not Cousm Helen.'
'Why not?' Cousin Helen asked,
with a smile and little blush, as she
put out her hand to meet 1 tar's.
' ( >n the contrary,' that individual
respon led, in somewhat invo \ I
•h ; 'on the contrary, every
■ii why. Except my failing to
Be you, as I ought to have
i, at once. It's— how many
years— since we saw eacb other
last? There is that excuse for me.'
And l hey made their way out of
the st at ion by degrees Helen and
Dar, followed by Gertie and Vera
Brabazon— till they came to whero
'the Childe' stood at the ponies'
heads, and conversed affably on the
chances of the coming ' Cambridge-
shire,' with the groom who had
brought over the dog-cart.
While the porti rs were Btowing
gun-cases and dressing-bags, and
other light luggage into it- interior,
the two men stood one on either
side of the phaeton when the girls
were aeated, talking pleasantly.
Pleasantly, because Yere and
Gertie Fairfax were beginning to
understand each other; and because
'the Don' was by no means sorry
to discover that 'the Monde-haired
girl ' was Cousin Helen.
Little by little he got to identify
her with a pet of liis Borne ten y< an
ago, a plucky little woman of eight,
whom he had taught to sit her first
pony, and who had wept such j -
siouate tears one nighl when a big
official letter had come to Laureston,
and Count Fairfax of 'Ours' WBJ
order* d to embark f>r India and
active service forthwith.
He remembered, too, how they
had drunk a bumper after dinrn r
to his bon -how the old
Squire, the kind, generous governor
he was never to Bee again, bad
pledged him with a somewhat shak-
ing Voice from the In ad of the long
tahle in the oak dining-room, and
pray d I tod bless his only son —how
Cousin Helen bad turned white in
her muslin robes, and had slipped
from her chair and from the room ;
and how he ha I discovered her, half
an hour afterwards, in the dark
The White Feather.
207
library alone, sobbing as though
her heart would break.
He had called her La Fen Blanche
in the old time, she was so delicately
fair and fragile looking. Watching
her face now, as it was lifted to his,
and as the child's smile seemed to
come again upon the lips, and the
old, half-grave, half-laughing look
to fill the violet eyes, ' the Don ' was,
certes, not displeased to discover
that time had only ripened that
early promise, and that Cousin Helen
was very good to look upon, and La
Fee Blanche still.
So there was a happy ten minutes'
talk. For Gertie was at least that
time in finding out that her pets
were waxing wrath at the delay,
and taxing 'the ChildeV powers of
soothing and intimidation to the
uttermost.
As the phaeton drove off at last,
Gertie nodding saucily in adieu, and
promising to announce their ap-
proach to ' my lady ' at Laureston,
Dar stood watching the white feather
in Helen's hat till they had turned
the corner, lighting a fresh cigar
the while, and thinking how well
that velvet toque with its long
(streamers became her.
'Flora never looked well in a
hat,' he thought, aloud and ungrate-
fully, ' and she'd never the sense to
discover it. Wonder whether she's
down here, and whether she's likely
to be troublesome if she is.'
By-and-by he and 'Hebe' were
driving towards Laureston in the
wake of Gertie's phaeton, which,
however, as she had told them, they
had small chance of overtaking.
' We'll shoot the home covers to-
morrow, Vere, I'm thinking,' Dar
said, as they went along; 'I hear
uncommonly good reports of them.'
' All right,' murmured ' Hebe,'
lazily ; ' there wont be so much
tramping to do. That floors me
utterly, you know.'
' Lazy beggar you are ! Tou
mean to shut up by lunch-time.
Well, we'll send you back in Gertie's
charge if yon do. She always drives
to meet us with the? vivrcs when we
shoot near home, and lunches with
us. So there'll be afield ambulance
ready for you if you get put hors-
de-combat.'
'Capital arrangement,' assented
Vere, making up his mind to be
utterly exhausted by the afternoon ;
'morning's always enough tor me,
you know. I aint so enthusiastic
as some fellows about the afternoon
birds.'
In point of fact 'Hebe' was a
good deal too indolent to care much
for any sport that involved long-
protracted physical exertion, and
detested walking above all things.
And he had been rather dreading
long days over the stubbles and the
turnips after wild coveys without
perhaps a glimpse of Gertie Fairfax
till dinner-time.
The prospect seemed brighter
now after ' the Don s,' his liege lord's,
announcement, and Vere pu 1 led away
at his eternal cabana with renewed
energy.
' Yes,' pursued Dar, still busy
with his programme for his opening
day, ' that will be a fair morning's
work. Shoot up to Thickleton ;
lunch in the Hoddesdons' wood
under the King Oak; meet their
keepers there, and keep the outlying
fields for the afternoon. That'll do
capitallv.'
' The Hoddesdons ?' ' Hebe ' asked.
' Do they live about here ?'
'There's their place,' Dar said,
jerking his whip towards a tall-
ehimneyed edificeon a rising ground ;
' we've just passed their lodge-gates.
You know 'em, don't you ?'
' Mademoiselle — tall, dark girl,
with good eyes. Yes, I know her.'
'Ah, well, you know all that's
necessary if you know Flora. She
rules, you know. Ignores Madame
Mere altogether, except as a chape-
ron.'
'By the way, Dar, hadn't you
something on with the daughter
this season? I heard something
about you two.'
' My dear boy ; no ! Flora and I
are very good friends, I believe.
That's all. She's not the sort I
should ever think seriously about.
In fact I never met a woman who
was yet. Ours is a very platonic
business, and I mean it to remain
just that.'
'Tant pis pour elle!' thought
'Hebe.' 'Shouldn't like a platonic
friendship, that was never to be any-
208
Tie Whit,- Feather.
tiling more, to exist b twi en " the
Don " and a Bister of mine, if I had
one, I know.'
And thru he fell bo thinkingabout
the state of things between himself
and < it rtic Fairfax, an l to wond« r
what his own Chances were iii
little game he f< II it would be bit-
terly hard to give np, or to lose
now. His ohai
A j runf t son, living, he couldn't
tell vmi exactly how, on his younger
bou's portion of a few hundreds plus
pay and allowances, what chance
had he of winning a dowered belle
like Gertie?
Be loved In r, poor boyl ho
couldn't help that, but lie doubted
often very sorely, in his odd times
of reflection, whether ho loved
wisely.
She might like him to raise with
— 'Hebe 1 knew that, despite his
indolence, natural and acquired, he
could steer a valseuse through an
ugly crush, or swing her round a
crowded circle b - few of the Light
could do — and she mightn't
■t to have him by her side in
1 1 !■ morning canter in the Row, and
she might how and smile pleasantly
enough to him when he doffed his
to her in the Ring. But did
she really care for him? Would
Bhe listen to him one day? Would
his love win her? And even if it
did, would hi r people let her fling
elf away upon a penniless sub,
with nothing but his sabre to de-
pend on '.
Sometimes, when these considera-
tions and doubts presented tin m-
selves to him very Btrongly and
ibly, poor ' Eebe ' was fain
to bite his yellow moustache sa-
ly : and. groaning in the spirit,
to wish the deuce he hadn't applied
for that confounded sick-leave, and
almost make up ids mind to report
himself W( 11 at once, and rejoin
' i ►urs ' thai winti c at Amberal
N.W.P. ; find then find a doz n
unanswerable reasons fox staj
On, and
and ask for ' fa-t dai
and, perhaps, while the Clicquot
was biasing at I ling in
tumbler, i • that he
i- j had some chance of pulling
off the race after all. Going tobed.
or to finish the eight at the Rag,
with the n c Election of < lertie's
smile and 'good-night' when he
had put hi r into the carri
haunting him still, and with a happy
though hazy notion that ' it would
all come r ghl Bomehow, perhaps. 1
But there were times when so-
phistry of this sort was powerless
to soothe him, as now, And so
Vere Bat behind his big ci.Lrar an-
swering such ohservations as hia
companion vouchsafed him in lan-
guid monosyllables, l>ut sorrowful
fit heart, and inclined to curse the
folly which had made him accept
so gratefully Bar's invitation to
te down to Laureston for the
first, and the greater folly he had
committed in coming down to play
moth to tho dangerous tlame that
had Binged his wings desperately
idy. And yet ! and yetl —
She had looked adorable when he
saw her at the station. She had
welcomed him so kindly and so
frankly, that surely he would have
been an idiot to m ing her,
a d the rest of it.
'Hebe's' cogitations described
their wonted circle, and came back
to their old starting-point as usual.
By that time they were driving
up the avenue at Laureston. As
they camo out of its shadow tl y
saw the white dresses of the two
girls gleaming on the b rraee ; and,
mounting presently the broad, white
stone steps that led ap from tho
drive, they were received by 'my
lady ' in p rson an honour seldom
accorded by that tall, I lately chate-
laine to any but the sen s'he wor-
Bhipp d. she was vi r.\ gracious to
her son's friend too, though.
As < h rtie had said, ' my lady '
ed to have taken a great biking
for Vere— for Bar's sake, perhaps.
The two girls came up, and t
all lingered in the Bunlight till tho
dri asing-bell ran
' Well, He 1 ' n, and wl at do you
think of him f I k< d, coming
into her cousin's room y I Pincot
had finished coiling the fair hair
about hi r i ■ apely little
bead, and had bei n di mi ed
'What do you think of him
now?'
' Think of whom '.' Miss Treherne
The While Featker.
209
asked. '"Hebe"? I think he's
very nice, dear.'
'I don't mean him. Dar. Did
you remember liim ?'
'Perfectly. He hasn't changed
much. The bronze, and that l>ig
black moustache alter him a little;
but I should have recognized Dar's
voice and manner anywhere.'
' Yes. They're his own, certainly
— Dar's are.'
• Like Mr. Brabazon's. ' Hebe ' is
immensely ladylike for all his yellow
moustache, Gertie,' laughed Helen;
' and he's very pretty too.'
'Well, he can't help being lady-
like and pretty, you know,' Gertie
responded. ' Poor boy ! he is quite
a child still; he seemed to have
something on his mind to-day, I
thought. He was looking quite ill
again.'
' Been sitting up too late at the
club, and smoking too many cigars,
perhaps,' suggested Helen; ' he'll
be better after he's been at Laures-
ton a day or two, I dare say. Espe-
cially if you take him in hand,
Gertie.'
'Oh, Helen!'
' J'ai des yeux noir ! And they
tell me there's nothing the matter
with ' Hebe ' that you can't cure,
darling, — if you choose, that is.
Do you mean to choose, Gertie ?'
Miss Fairfax smiled, and shook
her head.
' It's awfully cool of you to talk
like that, Nell,' she said; 'I've
never told you '
' What need was there to tell me,
after what I saw just now, when
you spoke to him?'
' And what did you see, pray?'
Miss Treherne's answer was no-
thing more intelligible than a kiss.
But it seemed sufficient, for Gertie
asked no more questions, and the
two went down to the drawing-room
together.
Vere was there before them,
lounging over the piano alone, and
twisting about the leaves of a pile
of music upon it.
When Dar arrived presently,
Helen was playing a valse, appa-
rently for her own and sole delec-
tation, for the other two were at a
distant window; Gertie seated on
cushions in the sill thereof, and
VOL. XI.— NO. LX1II.
'Hebe ' outside on the terrace, talk-
ing low-toned talk to her — about
the sunset, probably.
'So the "Amaranthe" is a pet
valse of yours, too, Helen?' Dar
said, crossing at once to the piano.
' How do you know?' she asked,
without stopping.
'Easily: you play it, as people
ought only to be allowed to play
that valse, perfectly.'
' Ergo, it is my pet ?'
'Ergo, you understand it, and
like it — or you wouldn't be playing
it to yourself. And as very few of
your sex are content with merely
"liking" a thing, but almost in-
variably end by "loving" it, I may
fairly conclude you love the " Ama-
ranthe " best. 80 do I.'
' I don't know whether your con-
clusion's a fair one or not,' Helen
said, finishing with a rush ; ' it hap-
pens to be a true one in this case,
though.'
And then she fell into that
' loving and liking ' snare he had
set for her ; and Dar amused him-
self very well till dinner.
During which he, seated beside
her, talked about the old days when
she was La Fee Blanche, in white
frocks and blue ribands; and he
' Cousin Dar,' home for the Eton
holidays.
Grown harder and more self-con-
tained now, as was but natural ;
but, in her eyes, but little altered,
Miss Treherne thought, as he opened
the door for their retreat back to
the drawing-room, by-and-by, on
' my lady ' making the move. Not
quite so much of a demigod, either,
as he had been once in her childish
eyes; but, all the same, a strong,
straight, stalwart, soldier cousin;
none the worse to look upon because
his dark face was bronzed and set,
and the silky down on his upper lip
had become a heavy black mous-
tache, falling over it like a wave.
Altogether, she liked the present
' Cousin Dar ' at least as well as the
former, she confessed to herself.
And then she remembered his
dictum anent feminine 'liking'
again; and felt rather inclined to
be angry with herself for remem-
bering it.
It was a pleasant evening at
Li I
Tltp While Feather.
Laureates, that of 'the Don's'
trrival. 'Mylady'tooli her coffee
in Ik r peculiar chair, in a &
l • - I Maw ing-n "in ;
nnd Dar mn le 1 1 r happj by sitting
on the footstool at her feet, and
ing to 1 er a she besl Iov< i t i
h< it liiai talk ; while < lertie and
I 1 'ii sang half-a-doz< n duets, and
• Brabazon was on duty at the
piano.
Then they strolled on to tlio t< r-
in the moonlight, ' my ladj '
watching them from l
nook. And ' I i I to find
something inspiring in the poetry
of the scene— it was, in fact, the
post-prandial Burgundy which had
revivi d his hopi a and qu I liis
fears and misgivings— and had a
1 deal to say to his companion,
which, doubtless, she seriously in-
clim d to h< ar.
Helen found a garden-chair a
little in the slmdoM I it there
with the moonlight falling on her
fair liair till it lo ike I a halo abont
In r head, li aning her ana on the
broad stone balu >trade.
The odour of an BTavannah, and
Cousin Bur's step behind her, mado
her look round.
Tin going to shock yonr im-
aginative tendencies by smoking a
i' out here,' Dot's voice said.
' The Madre v. ante 1 me to send yon
in; i cold
for yon to-night; but I promi 1
yon should run no risk, if you til I
alight hotter than the lamp-
light; and so I've brought von
Be held out a warm violet-and-
: ti iped mn I poke— a
wra] 9 in the ey< s of the
frill I Indian, ever cynically
distrustful of the vagaries of an
1 . lish ell! i:
' For me V Helen aid: ' but I
don't wanl it, thank yon.'
• Gratefuir
' I n i'' nd of yon to
t I'm not cold.'
■ TI e Madre a i ms to think yon
• to l e, an] l ow ; yi m'd l etter
let me pni it round von.'
Whirh he did, skilfully. Tl
: c r, li aning
atom work of I
too, and Bmok< d on lr sili d ■••
•What a lovely night!' II I
said, | > i « si ntly.
1 1 ovoli !' ' ti e Don ' assent* d,
king how well her face, with
the sofl Bhi ''ii apon it. came out
the dark folds of the plaid
draped above b r Bhouldera;
' Laureston alwaj s looks its be
mo alight.'
i I think.'
Lake Meli e, yon know; and,
for the : of that, like i
othi r plac( a to tho i • ye. That
pens to be a f< a) ure I don't.
; hut tin's light dors suit all
tin'-; stonework, t r ber think-
ing that night, reago— just
such a night as thi -. it was — when
I was turning my back on it to join
'Ours' in India, tint I had never
seen the old place look so well. The
notion that I might ni ver pro it
again had something to do with my
admiration, I dai bul I recol-
li t di tinctly noticing tho effect,
and admiring it.'
'And while yon wen- coolly ad-
miring the effect, we were all sob-
bing in chorus in there, in tho
drawing-room !'
' Sou mi an I ought to have heen
doing the same out here? Do
you give us your tears, then, only
■
'Grateful!' she said, in his own
' Not so nn yon fancy.
r j men are. If we wani examples
of t 1 I ily virtue, we look to
you for I i a rally, you know.'
' Why? To i ingratitude
in vonr own sex ; or to prove it '.
which?'
• Neither: though yon don't put
it badly. To l< orn it. in our turn.'
' Tja grand< " she said, pro-
voked, and shrugging her Bhouldi ra
r a way Bhe had. I >ar pmili d.
' You've disai i tho maud,'
1 : 1 ; ' let me fold it again for
l "■ i ing, wo
ungrateful as you think
I am ii"', anj ho v. I haven't
it I «'■ Blanche who
i I to inhabit Laureston once; and
whom I saw the nighi I went a«
the last time I turned my bi
• ha . •■
a little ■ u odii n to
1'vr alwa) ite-
The White Feather.
211
fill to tliat Fee in my heart. Do
they call you Fco Blanche still,
Helen ?'
' Of courso not!' she said, laugh-
ing, while the colour came into her
face.
'Of course not,' he repeated,
gravely; 'who would dare talk in
that way to a demoiselle of nine-
teen with a turn for satirical French? '
' Only "Cousin Dai-,'' I suppose.'
' I hope so, Fee,' he said, then ;
' I shouldn't like to hear any one
take my name for you in vain, I
think.'
Miss Treherne didn't choose to
ask hitn why; and so after that
they were silent — she looking out
over the terrace-garden and the
park, on to the far-away woods
shimmering in the moonlight ; and
he standing beside her with folded
arms, his eyes resting often on her
face.
I think one of these two, at all
events, was sorry when ' Hebe ' and
Gertie came up, and formed a quar-
tette, which lingered talking and
laughing so long that ' my lady '
had to summon them all back to the
drawing-room.
' Will you sing me the "Addio,"
Fee V Bar's low voice whispered in
Helen's ear, as they came in last
through the open window; 'it's
just the night to listen to Schu-
bert. The Mad re will order you off
directly. Come to the piano now !'
Now the ' Addio ' was Miss Tre-
herne's song of songs, and had
never been sung by her for other
delight than her own; so she
asked —
'And pray how did you know
that the ' Addio ' was a song of
mine?'
' I found it before dinner under a
pile of Gertie's trash. I'd a sort of
certainty that it belonged to you,
and that you made it caviare to the
general. Bight, am I not?'
' Yes,' Helen said ; ' but then '
'Why do I ask you for it, you
mean? Because it is caviare to the
general. I don't want what you
give to everybody. You'll sing it
me— won't you, Fee? Let me sit
here ; this chair's just the right
distance; and jou won't want me
to turn over leaves for you, I know.'
And 'the Don' established him-
self in a low chair near the piano;
and Helen Treherne broke her rule,
and did as she was told, and sang
him ' L'Addio ' adorably.
I don't think she had even a
thought of refusing 'Cousin Dar'
this that he asked; though I am
certain she would have refused any
one else tout rut. But she had been
in the habit of obeying all Dar's be-
hests implicitly from a child, and,
now that he had come back, their
little tete-a-tete on the terrace just
now seemed to have quite re-esta-
blished the old relationship of ruler
and ruled between them. So, when
he wanted her song of songs from
her, he got it at once ; just as he
had got all it pleased him to require
from J<a Fee Blanche ten years be-
fore.
He sat in his lounging-chair while
she sang, a little behind, but so that
his eyes could watch her face un-
known to her. He never moved till
the last passionate, quivering notes
had died away, and her hands had
fallen idly into her lap.
He got up then, and came and
stood beside her.
' I shan't ask for anything more
after that!' Dar said. ' Thank you,
Fee.'
And if he could not well have said
less, yet the tone he spoke in, and
the look hjs face wore satisfied the
singer amply.
By-and-by ' my lady ' and the two
girls went away.
Over his Cavendish and B and S,
in ' the Don's ' smoking-room, Vere
Brabazon would have liked to open
his heart to his chief, and tell him
of the belle passion he had auda-
ciously conceived for the daughter
of his house.
Poor ' Hebe's ' throat, though,
would get so dry and husky every
time he had made up his mind to
have it out before he went to bed,
that the words wouldn't be uttered,
and he had to gulp them back with
a draught from the species of glass
stable-bucket at his elbow.
He didn't know, you see, how
Dar might take the avowal, exactly.
He felt that he had no earthly busi-
ness to be in love with Gertie Fair-
fax ; that he certainly oughtn't to
p 2
212
The White Father.
be at Laureston in thi pn enl
of things ; and tl Don' would
Lave fail canst- for rebuke and
ang< r, when he Bhonld know all, at
bis remaining ti ■
For all his girl's face and ' lady-
like ' manni r, ao one who knew
1 Bebe ' ever doubti d his pluck and
dariog. Old bands in India, who
liked tho boy, took some trouble to
p him out of ui 1 1 ry pt ril,
whi rein he was perpetually wonl I >
thrust himself; and would have
t Ti n an extra risk orso upon them-
Belves cheerfully enough to save
him from getting his beauty spoilt.
In truth he was as laughingly
reckless, as languidly careless of
danger, as cool, and as full of dash
when the right moment came, as
( vi ir was Cavalier, or Mousquetaire
Gris.
And yet to-night ho shrank, as
he had never shrank when it was
merely his life that was in question,
from ' having it out with the Don'
about Gertie, and was fain to smoke
steadily on and hold his tongue.
After all, it would do just as well
in a day or two, when ho Bhonld
perhaps know his fate from her
lips. Yes; he would take the next
chance she gave him, and tell all to
her.
And, vexed with much taking of
thought— about as strange a task
to him as picking oakum, — poor
'Hebe' drank his B and S, and,
when his pipe was empty, took him-
self off to bed to sleep upon tho
only determination ho could como
te.
' I say, Bar,' Gertie Fairfax said
next morning, as she came into the
breakfast-room where the two men
were fortifying themselves for tho
fa ud work of ' the tirst ;' 'I say,
Dar, l'v< just I ad a note from Flora
Iloii.ii -i|on. She wants us all to
come and lunch at The Place, in-
stead of pic-nicking in tho wood, as
■ eight.'
■ I >h, does she? I lax n spend* d,
with his mouth full of toast and
caviare ; ' well, what will yon d
'Go, I SUpp • • [fl \. ■.. kind of
her, you know; but it would havo
i» i n better fun on the grass than
in the Boddi don dining-room.
However, wecan't refuse. V II and
I will drivo over about ono ; yon
and Mr. Brabazon will bj there by
that time, of course?'
'Of course,' Mr. Brabazon ro-
sponded, wishing it were one bow,
and all well.
' Don't know about of courso,
" ll< be," ' Dar said ; ' we've all our
work to do to gel there, anyhow.
You'd better leave "theChilde"at
ho ne to-day, • h rtie. Vere will be
- ■ <t by lunch-time, and
von and Pee must take charge of
him, and bring him back with you
in the phaeton.'
Vere tugged at his moustache,
and glanced dubiously at his un-
conscious host, who was tilling a
double-sized pocket-flask at tho
sideboard with a certain cura'
punch he affected.
Gertie laughed, and blushed a
little.
'I'm afraid Mr. Brabazon will
find " the Childe's" perch an nn< asy
seat for a weary chasseur ! Hadn't
we better send over an ambulance
in the shape of a brougham ?'
' Never mind the brougham, Miss
Fairfax, thank you!' poor 'Hebe*
I, who in his then state ot mind
thought Gertie's innocent raiilerie
abominably unkind. ' If [do break
down I can manage to get back
without that, or without ovcr-
wi ighting your ponies, either.
"Never mind me, you know!'
' i >h. very well!' (!« rtieanswer* I.
wondering what was the matter
with him.
And thi n ' the Don,' wdio liad
been nearly out ot ear-shot of this
littlo conversation, having com-
pleted the tilling ot his flask, an-
nounced that it was time to Btarl ;
and Veie had to rise and follow I
leader.
The birds were plentiful and not
too wild, and 'the Don' had male
a very satisfactory bag by tho timo
the two camo m sight of The Place,
upon one o'clock.
'I Buppose we mud go up,' Dar
said; 'they'll l>e waiting lunch for
us. Though, as Gertie said, it
would have been morn fun down
In re, and we should save time l>e-
.' he added, banding over ins
bn ech-loader and paraphernalia to
the attend, mt kl Bpers, v ho had lieen
TJie White Feather.
213
in silent ecstacies all the morning
at the major's shooting; and who,
nodding approval at the line his
master indicated for the afternoon,
went off with Gaiters, a confrere in
the Hoddesdons' service, to be hos-
pitably entertained in the servants'
hall.
' Very fair bag, ain't it ?' Dar ob-
served, as they walked up the drive,
' considering we haven't been over
the best of the ground yet.'
'Oh! haven't we?' 'Hebe' re-
sponded, wearily. And then; 'By
Jove! there they are !' with sudden
animation.
'Who? ah! Gertie and Flora.'
The two girls were standing at
the swing-gate at the top of the
drive, waiting for our friends' com-
ing; and all four walked on toge-
ther towards the house.
' Where's Fee ?' Dar asked of his
sister, who was following a little in
rear of himself and Flora, with Vere
by her side.
' Who's Fee ?' asked Flora Hod-
desdon.
' She wouldn't come, just at the
last,' Gertid said ; ' she'd a head-
ache, and was afraid of the sun.'
' The Don ' gave the black mous-
tache a twirl, but said nothing.
' And who's Fee ?' repeated Flora,
watching him sharply out of her
black eyes.
' Don't you know ?' Dar re-
sponded ; ' my cousin, Helen Tre-
herne.'
' Oh! Helen Treherne. What a
strange sobriquet, isn't it?'
' Not at all, I think, for her. How
is Mrs. Hoddesdon ?'
And nothing more was said about
Fee.
During lunch Flora tried to dis-
cover if things were to go on as
heretofore between Dar and herself;
whether she was to be allowed to
take up her parable where it had
been broken off; or whether it was
to be considered as having come to
an end.
She was wise in her generation,
Mi?s Hoddesdon.
She would have liked very much
indeed to marry Daryl Fairfax ; she
would have infinitely preferred him
to many a really better parti ; and
she had done her deadliest to win
him that last season. But if it was
not to be sho was prepared to say
' kismet i' quietly — to hold her
tongue, and give utterance to no in-
discreet lamentations. If the bow-
string should break and the shaft
so carefully aimed fall short, Flora
wasn't one to tear her hair (in these
days of chignons and false nattes
that might have been an awkward
business) ; she had another string
all ready, and was quite able and
willing to fit it on, and without loss
of time proceed to try again. There
was a successor to ' the Don '
marked down even now; though
kept in petto till he should be
wanted. It was Flora's game to
find out if the second string were
likely to be required. She tattled
a good deal \o Dar with this intent,
and got very small hope or encou-
ragement from that individual, who
was feeling rather aggrieved, some-
how, at Helen's absence.
Altogether, when he rose at last
to go, she had come to the conclu-
sion (not without a little pang or
two, for poor Flora was, after all,
no worse than the rest of her kind,
and she did like Dar more than very
much) that string No. 2 would have
to be used after all.
She bore her disappointment
pluckily enough — it wasn't her cus-
tom, as she said herself, to give in
under punishment — and she wished
Dar good-bye, and good sport with a
nod and a smile as usual, and then
turned back to press Gertie to stay
an hour or two longer.
Gertie was a few yards off on the
croquet-lawn, pretending, as she
tried to fasten the button of her
driving-glove, not to see Vere Bra-
bazon coming towards her. Ob-
serving which, Flora, who was fairly
good-natured an, fond, thought
better of her intention; and went
indoors, and had a long inspection
of herself before her cheval-glass
previously to making her prepara-
tions for fitting on her second
string forthwith.
' Why not?' she muttered aloud;
' he cares nothing for me. Never
has, I suppose. I was a fool to
think he ever meant anything. _ I
should be a greater fool still if I
wasted any more time over him.
214
The Whit, Father.
And Ouy seems caper enough. And
he's us good ■ a i Dar, after
all— or 1>. tter. And yet !' And
then Miss Boddi sdon Bbook hi
ther impatii utly, and stamped
a mat in tie Balmoral-booted foot
upon the BOOT, I aid.
Meanwhile Gertie, on tlio lawn,
1 adn'1 e din buttoning that
obstinate gauntlet yet. Vera was
olose beside her now, and sho had
to look op.
■nil! Mr. Ili.il.aznn,' sho said,
demurely, holding out her wrist to
him as she Bpoke,and Dot forgetting
to notice bow eagerly ' Hebe's' fin-
I up in it, ' might I a^k
yon to button this tiresome glovo
for me ?'
\ ere was a long; time about it,
and as it seemed he had nothing; to
say, she was obliged to speak again.
' You know liar is gone, 1 sup-
pose ? Don't you care for tho after-
noon birds?'
' Dettst the walking so!' he an-
Bwered ' If I might have a pony
I shouldn't min 1 so much. But
"the Don" calls that sort of thing
unsportsmanlike, and so I have to
trudge through these never-ending
stubbles in these awful things,' be
continued, glancing down ruefully
at his shooting-boots.
' I suppose you haven't ordered
the ambulance for me, Miss Fairfax?'
ho said, presently, doing penance,
as it were, for his little Bpeech in
the breakfast-room, that morning.
'No!' raid Geitie, sternly— ho
had buttoned the refractory gauntlet
by this time—' you didn't de.-ervo
it!'
' I know that!' pleaded ' II.hr;'
' I misunderet 1. I thought you
wi re laughing at me, you know!'
' Laoghing at you ? I don't un-
di i stand, Mr. Brabszon !'
' AWait my shutting up so soon,
and that.'
' What i. "!;'-< a • ! you ought to
have known 1" tfa r. And now I
Suppose you nn SU to walk back to
Laareston ?'
' Well, yes. I shall pet thero
somehow, you kn >\v, onli SB '
' Dull ■ what ?'
' Unless you will consent to i
poso "the Childe," for OUOSJ
take me back on bSJ p ich?'
' As if you could sit there!' Clcrtie
laughed. 'No, I can't consent to de-
pose " the Cbilde." But you may
DATS Nell's place, if you like.'
' May I? What, biots and all?'
' I; lots and all. Will von?'
' Won't 1 r
' Tin n come and Bay good-bye to
Mrs. Hoddesdon anl Flora;' and
she rang; for the ponies.
Dancing, and snaking their wilful
little heads, under the guidance of
'the Ohilde,' in whom skill sup-
plied the plaice of strength, Damon
and Pythias came round to the door
in due time.
' The gates are open below, Plory ?'
Gertie said, just before they started,
to Miss Hoddesdon, who stood on
tho steps in her walking dress
watching; them off, and thinking
how grateful Yere ought to bo tc
her for leaving them to themselves
all that time on the lawn.
' Yes, they know you're comimr,'
Flora answi red; ' they see n awfully
fresh, don't they?' sho continued,
as tho ponies began ' backing and
tilling,' in their disgust at this
colloquy.
' Always arc!' Gertie responded,
fingering her reins, and nodding to
* the Childe' to let them go; ' th-y
don't get half enough work, poor
things. Good-bye I'
And the light phaeton shot like a
whirlwind down the drive, and
round tho sharp corner into a road
which led them across the common,
and then, by B r, back into tho
main highway to Laurcston.
There was a shorter route, but
the ponies fycing so short of work,
Miss Fairfax chose tho longer on
this occasion. Perhaps too, she
thought that at the rate they m re
going they would pet borne quits
soon enough, notwithstanding the
detour.
Jf she didn't, Ycrc did. And as
ho lay back lazily on his cushion-:,
watching his companion under his
lonp eyelashi s, he b< gan to wish the
distance were d mbled at least.
For Gertie was so taken up with
the managi men! of her pets thai he
h It she could hardl) he ex] i cted to
listen to him at present, and half-a-
dozen miles oonid be got over only
too quickly. Perforce ha held his
The While Feather.
2! 5
tongue, then; not altogether sorry
to hold back a while longer from
putting his fortune to the touch
and winning or losing all, and
happy enough in his propinquity to
her. So they rolled along, without
speaking, at rather an alarming pace
for a nervous individual, the light
phaeton swa.ving sharply now and
then from side to side in a decidedly
ominous manner, and the ponies
going so free that it was an open
question whether they had bolted
or not.
If it hadn't been that both the
occupants of the pony-chaise had
reasons of their own for not wishing
what ought to have been a pleasant
tete-a-tete to be brought sooner than
need be to an end, I believe they
would have enjoyed the excitement
of the pace thoroughly. As it was,
Gertie was wishing her companion
would offer to take a pull at the
rebels, though she couldn't bring
herself to admit they had got out of
her bant already, and Vere was
wondering whether he dared do
that thing.
'Looks deuced like a bolt!' ho
thought. ' Shouldn't like to tell her
so yet, though. She thinks she can
manage these little beggars ; and,
by Jove ! she does handle 'em beau-
tifully. What a darling she is !
and how I wish we were only going
slow enough for me to tell her so.
I think I could do it now. They'll
sober down a bit, perhaps, after this
hill, and then '
And ' Hebe's ' languid pulse began
to quicken at the thought of what
he meant to screw his courage to do
then.
Gertie's little hands meanwhile
were growing stiff and livid with
the strain upon them. Her numbed
ringers were clenched desperately on
the thin white reins they could
hardly feel, but by some ill chance
the Hoddesdort groom had shifted
them from lower-bar to check when
the ponies had been put-to again at
The Place.
' How stupid of "Drake not to see
to that!' poor Gertie thought, as
they began to rise the short, sharp
hill that lay between them and the
open common. ' I can't hold them
a bit ! They must bo running away !
And those gravel-pits on the com-
mon !' And, for all her pluck, Miss
Fairfax turned a little pale when
she remembered them.
On the other side of the rise thoy
were swinging up now, the road,
within half-a-mile, debouched on to
a waste, through which ran the
deep- rutted track of the heavy carts
used in carrying away the gravel
from the pits on either side.
Once in this cart-track, and it
would take little, at the pace they
were going, to bring about a catas-
trophe. Their only chance, she
knew, was to stop the runaways be-
fore they quitted the comparatively
smooth main road.
Already the hedges were gliding
by with a rapidity that made her
feel sick and giddy — already her
strength was exhausted, and Pythias
had followed Damon's example, and,
with a jerk of his obstinate little
head at the fast-slackening reins,
had got the bit fairly between his
teeth. There was no help for it ;
she must confess herself beaten, and
ask Vere to help her.
She turned her head towards him,
as, ignorant of their common danger,
and indolently reckless by nature,
' Hebe ' lay back watching her, and
speculating as to when she would
have bad enough of it, or the ponies
would become amenable.
'Will you try and stop them,
please ?' Gertie said, at last. ' I — I
think they must be running away,
do you know.'
' I've been thinking so for some
time/ Vere responded, tranquilly, as
he took the reins from her ; ' only
the road seemed all clear, and you
didn't seem to mind, and I was
afraid you'd be angry if I told you.
Good God ! what's the matter ?' he
cried, his voice losing suddenly all
its wonted languor, as he saw her
sink back pale and trembling.
' You're not afraid, I know ; be-
side s, they can't go another mile at
this pace.'
They had reached the top of the
hill by this time. The waste land,
scarred here and there, rigid and
left of the rough road that ran
through it, with rents and chasms
that were visible even now, lay be-
fore them, a gentle descent of per-
216
The White Frather.
bopj half a mile intervening. <i.
pointed forward.
■ The gravel- pits, yonder!' Bhe
said. ' Can you stop them ? There
is just time, I think.'
■ Bel e ' saw it all then- -measnn d
the danger, and rose to it, as be had
done to ^n at. c p> til than this, only
then it was bis own life, not hers,
he had had to look to.
He gripp '1 the b1< nd< r white
vein--, taking a turn round each
hand, and wondered if tliey were
likely to bear the strain. Then he
■ ■ < rertie one lo ik that said a
1 deal.
' Sit still. Miss Fairfax,' ho said,
' whatever happens. I think it will
be all right They're running quite
straighl now; and I shall try and
turn them on to the bank on the
ide. We may go over, but it's
our best chan
Down the slope they rushed faster
than ever— the danger was ncaring
at < very stride.
Vera couldn't help looking at bis
companion again— there was just
time for that befiro he made his
effort.
She was very pale, and her hands
were clasped tightly together. But
there was never a sign or trace of
fear upon her face, nor in the eyes
she turned to nieel his.
'I'm not afraid, Vere,' she said,
calling him by his name at that
moment unconsciously; 'I can trust
to you.'
•That's right!' he muttered, with
BOmething that sounded very like
'darling, ' trust to me. Remember,
I shall turn them on to the off-side.
Hold arm!*
There was little time to lose now.
I the end of the
nt, and v. re had to take the
■ thai offen d - a slight
bend in the road, thai gave him an
advantage With a sudden, vj
pull on the off-r* in, be got the
runaways' heads toward, the hi
at a p 'int \vh< re the hank was low-
est : and, nnable to stop them i Ives,
the ponies had to charge the quick-
I he jerk of the polo Bung one.
offender on hi; kne< s, the ph U " 'li
lurch, and only
just did not g i over. And I
as lifting Gertie lrom it in
his arms ; and ' tho Childo,' who
had behaved splendidly throughout,
was at the h, ads nt' the discomfit, d
pair, and all danger wis over.
Whereupon Mi I 'airfaz did what
she never remembered doing in all
her Ute before, and bunted dead
away. Horribly scared at the deadly
pallor on her face, ' Hebe' d< -
'lied ' the Childo ' for assistance
to thi i i 'Mage, and then, not
knowing what on earth to do, de-
po ited his charge tend< rly on tho
carriage cushions, which he had
flung out upon the hank, and began
to adjure her passionately to speak
to bim, if only one word.
Some minutes elapsi d 1m fore ] . >< .r
Gertie recoven d consciousness. But
presently the faint colour i
hack to her face; her eyes opened ;
and she saw Yeiv hanging over her
with a look of such pitiable hclp-
ness anil con irn on his usually
xiant visage thai almost n
her laugh, even tin n ; while her
ears caught his devout i xpn
of relief and thankfulnesa
She said nothing just at that mo-
ment, bat the little hand he was
chafing so tenderly h. tween his own
wasn't drawn away; and Vere
si i med quite content with that.
By-and-by 'the childo' came
hack. But the help he brought
with him in tho shape of a comely
cotter's wife was no longer needed.
( lertie professed herself quite right
a.L'ain. and quite rea ly to start.
So ' Hebe ' put her can fully back
into the phaeton, and took the reus
himself this time, without a word of
objection from her, and then they
starte I.
At a foot pace over the rough
i 1 across the common, the \a\\ n-
ing gravel-pits making Gertie shivi r
and close her eyes, and looking un-
ci, minonly ngly, even to Vere's
careless glanct . b be thought «
might have happi ned to his wilful
by this tune il she had bl I u
alone ; and at a sober trol along the
n lanes on the other side, tho
poni< s thoroughly di comfih d and
ined.and Bcarct ly d< < ding Vere'ii
firm hand over them. And so to
I n ton.
Little was : aid by either on tho
way.
Tlie White Feather.
217
He felt it was no timo to speak
the words that had been trembling
on his lips an hour before, and Ger-
tie's heart was too full for any idle
talk just now.
Once she had put out her hand,
to him, and-'-they were on the ter-
race then -striven to utter collected
words of thanks. But her voice
had faltered strangely, and the
warm tears would start unbidden
into her dark eyes, usually so full
of laughter and badinage. So she
had left her gratitude unspoken,
and had gone off to tell the story of
her adventure to ' my lady,' leaving
Vere, though, happier than he had
heen for many a long day, with the
sound of his own name, as she had
breathed it, lingering divinely in his
ears.
Meanwhile, the birds in the out-
lying fields had been put up, and
knocked over to 'the Don's ' entire
satisfaction. Hodges, the Laureston
keeper, chary of praise as he was,
grunted assent to the majors re-
mark, that, on the whole, to-day
was about as good a ' first ' as he
had known, while he received over
the latter's equipment once more;
and Dar prepared for a sharp walk
home across the fields.
' Wonder why Fee didn't come to
lunch to-day?' he soliloquised, be-
tween little clouds of blue tobacco
smoke, as he trampled through the
crackling stubble on his way back,
alone. ' I suppose the headache
was a headache ; or perhaps Gertie
has been putting some nonsense
into her head about Flora, and she
was afriad of being de trap. There's
nothing more annoying than for
outsiders to imagine there's any-
thing between oneself and a woman
when there isn't, and when, as in
this case, there won't be either.
Flora ! why she's carried on the
game she's been trying with me
with, half-a-dozen fellows already.
I don't mean to be my wife's iris-aller,
if I know it, by Jove !'
He stopped a moment to knock
the ashes out of his pipe, and to re-
plenish it, here.
On the farther side of the field he
was crossing lay the road that ran
from The Place to Laureston. Bor-
dered by a close-clipped hedge, side
by side upon the footpath, walking
very leisurely, two people came in
sight while Dar was striking his
vesuvian and getting his fresh pipe
fairly under way.
The one nearest the hedge, a
woman, kept her face slightly turned
from it, and towards her companion
(a tall, dashing, and unmistakeablo
Plunger, in spite ot his round hat
and pekin shooting-jacket), who,
with his horse's bridle over his arm,
lounged along quite contentedly.
When his meerschaum was blazing
away again ' the Don ' turned to re-
sume his march. As he did so, the
tall figure on the footpath (which
ran parallel with the line he was
taking) caught his eye.
' What's Guy Devereux doing
here?' he thought, carelessly. He
knew the man at once — a major on
the cavalry staff at Maid low, who
had once served in his own corps
' And who's the woman he's flirt-
ing with so heavily?'
Just then Guy Devereux's incog-
nita turned her face almost fully
towards him, and consequently away
from Dar. The sinking sun lit up
something in her hat. A long white
feather, the same 'the Don' had
stood watching the evening before at
the Baddingley Station, when La Fee
Blanche drove away with his sister.
'That's it, is it?' Dar ejaculated.
' There's no mistaking that white
feather. We're carrying on a little
game with that fellow Devereux,
are we? A secret little game, it
seems, since we resort to migraine
and solitary walks. Little fool you
are, Fee. You don't know Guy as
I do, or I doubt you'd trust him
quite so far. I'd better drop down
on them, I think.'
And 'the Don' half turned out
of his course to put his thought into
practice.
The pair on the footpath, how-
ever, were either aware of him or
dreaded interruption from other
quarters, for they quitted the high
road for a green lane that ran mto
it just there, and were out of sight
at once.
Dar checked himself with his hard
smile, curving the ends of his mous-
> tache the while, and went straight
on his way.
218
The Wiaic Feather.
' Wliii am T about ?' lie mutton <1
aloud : ' v. hat busim
I supp 'i take care of her-
3 of
the thing, though. Pleading a hi
ache t<> compass a with a
man hie Guj 1 »<•> ercux don't
look well. Hardly like her,] iould
have eaitL Bui th d she n< per ex-
recognizi d a1 this timo
htn't to iWll
Bah! 8 e's a
woman ! w hy the devil Bhould /
bo surprised at anything of this
sort ?"
1 dare Bay he succeeded in pep-
bu iding himself that he w is not
surprised in the leas! i ho
lied Lanresl d. Out he debated,
nt, as to whether ho
) tell Helen what ho bad
i. and whether, as a simple n
tor of duty, he oughtn't to tell her,
nothing of tho man in
whose compromising company ho
h id bi i n her.
'If she cares fur him/ he argued,
' all 1 can Bay will be rather w<
than s. If she don't, why is
she walking with him in country
lanes alone at this hour, whi
supp >sed to bo a victim to i
re?'
' Mi the whole Dar crime to tho
conclusion that it would l>o better
to bide his time and not interfere at
•
Devereux, for aught ho knew,
might have won the right to play
I. A ii' 1 yi t, why on
earth should she make a mystery of
what mighl be barmli is an 1 n itural
'. It was the mystery, of
course, which he found so unplea-
Ho hadn't given ll< len —
whom, i . he was, he couldn't
bring I i think hardly of so
soon— he h idn'l I oushi Helen
■ . lit for this turn for p itty plot-
.'• mighl be able, p ir-
• i tell him thing v.
would cxpl u'n all.
When, i< d mi dub I
mounted th' G rtie,
who had been Ij ing in wail for him
then upon him ui
tell him Mine thing whi I
a long way li lin-
ing "f.
\ ' re JJr.ihazon's t I "imo
at Inst, it seemed. Winn Gertie
l ad come down ter render-
ing account of w hat ha I h. ' ii n
lar to 'my lady,' and had tutored
her voice 1 i tell him cohen ntly and
.lily that which was hut indi i d
his di.e, then ' Hebe' knew that
if he were to speak at all it should
l>o now. So, once again, the old,
old story that La ever new waswhis-
p< n i into i ager-li&tening ears; and
win n it was ended the toller felt
that it had not bo n told in \ain.
This was tie news which Gertie
had mule: t, i en to break to 1 >ar.
'The Don' received it with his
usual tranquillity, though he was
rather surprised, at be sap-
posed obildren woul 1 be children,
and made rather light of it, till his
pet' gan to flash a little under
his badinage; and then ho put his
arm round her and ki so I her, and
told her (in that chn ged voice few
but his sister and b \ motl er i
heard, and even they not often) that
it pleased him well to know she
loved the: man who was to himself
aa a broth* r aire idy, and to whom
he could trust even one so dear to
him as she was.
'Dar! liar! how* kind you are to
me,' murmured i through her
happy tears, as her he td rested on
his broad sh tulder. She knew how
much these few fond words meant,
coming from one like him.
Then she took him off to ' my
lady,' to put the matter in the best
light for the malt rn.il i
'.My bad-j ' hi ard wl at both had
got to say ; and then, with a pleased
smile that belii ! la r word . told
her daughti r tl at wo ral lar ab-
Burd, and so forth; that Bhe ought
to marry a pri like l'> nru-
thyn or Pol wheal ; that Bhe and
\ were a pair of fo dish obildren ;
and that it they insisted on ma
ing for love they mi ' ! i pn pare 1
II Mirts of terriblo consi quences.
Bui ' my lady's* only c indition was
to i»e Bhould le ive
the army and B( I lo d iwn with his
wife in the vacant I tower House in
.. the la - 1 I > j i g that ' my
lady 'hilt en b f<incj to
■ II. be' from t i i he-
r own Dor ha I risk< d his
li to save the boy's and that she
The White Feather,
219
had, I fear, mesdames, rather hete-
rodox notions of what constitutes a
good match.
It was evidently all right; for
Gertie presently ordered Vere off to
dress before time, his presence being-
required in 'my lady's' morning-
room so soon as that operation
should bo completed, from which
apartment Mr. Brabazon issued forth,
half an hour or so later, radiant and
happy, leading his hostess down
stairs to the drawing-room.
That night all whom it might im-
mediately concern were aware that
Gertie Fairfax and Vere Brabazon,
of 'Ours/ were engaged, with the
cordial approval of the powers that
were.
Helen Treherne had the whole
story of their loves poured into her
ears as she and her cousin sat to-
gether in the hitter's room, during
the pleasant half-hour before Pincot
and dressing.
' He's to leave the army, of course,'
Gertie said ; ' I should never be let
to go out there with him, you know.
Oh! if Dar would only find me a
sister-in-law and sell out too, I
should have nothing lef,t to wish
for. It's horrible to think he's
going out again in December.'
' Perhaps he won't go out again,
who knows?' Helen said.
' He will unless . Why, he's
talking of it already, and it's barely
twenty-four hours since he came.
It will take some one stronger than
the Madre and me to keep him in
England, Nell.'
' Well, isn't there Flora Hoddes-
don?'
' Flora ?' Gertie shook her little
head very wisely. 'It won't be
Flora, Nell, you'll see. I Matched
them to-day at luncheon. Either it
never was she, or it's some one else
now. It's all over between them.'
' Vrai f Helen asked.
'I'm sure of it. I only wish I
were as sure about the some one
else. And so the headache's better,
dear?'
'Oh! yes; it's quite well now/
Helen affirmed.
It was never very bad, I believe,
that migraine with which Cousin
Helen had chosen to afflict herself
that afternoon. ' The Don ' perhaps
had hit on its true cause when he
put it down, rather egotistically, to
a desire on FeVs part not to be dt
trop at The Place under certain
probable circumstances. Anyhow,
Helen went away to her own room,
after her conversation with Gertie,
perfectly convalescent.
The lovers spent the evening on
the terrace in the moolight roman-
tically enough. When Dar came
into the Long Drawing-room after
dinner he found Helen all alone at
the piano playing Chopin to herself;
' my lady' he had jost quitted, esta-
blished on her sofa in her own
chamber again.
' Why didn't you drive over with
Gertie, Fee?' 'the Don' asked, as
he came uj> to Ids cousin. * She said
you'd a headache. The drive would
have done you good.'
'I think it would now/ she an-
swered ; ' but I thought I was better
at home. It was fortunate I didn't
go, wasn't it? It's awful to think
what might have happened to poor
Gertie if only I, instead of Mr. Bra-
bazon, had been with her.'
He paused after this a little while
before he asked her,
' But you went out somewhere,
to-day ?'
She never noticed the slight in-
flection in his voice that might have
told her this was no such idle
question, from his lips, as it
seemed.
' Yes. In the park: for about an
hour, at sundown. Major Deve-
reux called here ; and I went out
after he was gone.'
' I see/ Dar said, ' and only into
the park? no further?'
' I was alone, you know. Why
do you ask ?'
She lifted her face to his as she
spoke, and met his gaze unflinch-
ingly.
'She does it well!' he thought;
' she must know what I mean, even
if she didn't recognize me when she
was with him. • I am not to inter-
fere, I suppose.'
Then he replied aloud, ' I fancied
I saw you as I came home, that's
all! at least I did see your white
feather iu the distance.'
' When?' Helen asked, smiling.
The smile seemed to stab him.
230
Thr White Frn'hcr.
' On the road b hvun this and
'I'll.' P] tot ab ml ten iiiiuuh s IV im
the lower lo Ige, i \i course I was
mistaki n.'
• ( If c rarse I* Bhe answered ; ' I
wasn't nut of sight <>t' the terrace all
the afternoon.'
' and who wearsahat like yours
hi re?' li«' questioned rathi t sud-
denly. A vi iv simple idea had just
nt d to him.
• No one but I lertie, thai I know
of,' I 1 1 ; ' I believe my to |ue
to be unique down here. Gertie's
feather is black, you know.'
' It was ii white feather I saw,'
be said, watching her keenly, and
thinking again how well Bhe did it.
• And it was yours— I could have
Bworn.'
' Strange !' laughed Helen.
' My mistake, of course!' Dar
said. And said no more.
But as he eat alone that ni^lit iu
lu's own room, smoking ova- his
log-fire, it si emed quite cl< ar to him
tint she im ant to keep tier own
counsel, and that he had no right
to interfere. Right? What was
Bhe to him, or ho to her? There
might be a hundred reasons why
she should walk with Guy Devcrcnx
■ , of which he knew, and
<• add kn iw, nothing, lie hadn't,
indo d, givi o her credit for so much
diplomatic and vng-froid.
B it what grounds had he for think-
ing she was incapable of either?
lie h tdn't seen hi t since she was a
child. The child was a woman now ;
and how much faith in her kind had
his experience taught him?
1 1 l nirfas grew quite his
wonted cynical self again, over ins
pipe that eight.
Ih he persuaded
himself, in I;;.- own mind that his
philosophy was ti ,• true one.
The da; and went. Thi re
was little outward change in his
n annera towards Cousin Helen —
, bi t I i lait she
at least fi It sometimes that
Con in i ■ i;e old time bad al-
ien d more the bad at
imagined. And not for the i • tter.
Since that first Dighl on
ti rrace the;. at other-, then ;
and Helen Treberne w;<^ (ail
not without a strange, aharp
\ that her hero could he harsh,
ami bitter, and unjust, like an or-
dinary mortal.
I Inly, that if ho had 1 tin the
ordinary mortal, Bhe wouldn't have
cand much for the discovery. Hut
being what he was- her hero since
she could remember him — she d d
care a good deal.
'The Hon' was growing angry
with himself and with her. Twice
sin •(■ that first tine twice ere tlio
first days of October— the white
feather had gleamed before his eyes
as he neared home; and both
times in the attendanl cavalier ho
had recognized < ruy l levereux.
Both tunes, too, something— ho
could hardly define the feeling —
bad prevented him from Betting all
doubt at rest, and making o r-
tainty doubly sure. He had no
right. What was she to him? Ah!
more than ho had ever dreamed a
woman could be— more than he
would have acknowledged to him-
self then.
Helen and he wero left much
alone toeether just now. ' My lady'
was an invalid, and Gertie and her
lover had plenty to occupy them.
And one night, when he bad ar
himself into the belief that he could
talk on the subject gently and
firmly and wisely, as became one
who stood towards her in the rela-
tionship he did, Dar, at last, b]
words which first astonished, and
then wounded and an ;ered Helen
sorely.
It don't much matter what they
Were to us; but whin he and his
cousin parted for the night, the ono
fell they wi re words it would ho
very hard to forget or to forgive; tho
other, that he had L BD wrong in
uttering them at all -wrong in
thinking she would trust him— a
fo .I for holding her what, in Bpite
ot all till now, in bifl b( art of hi arts,
he had held lnr to be. Another
month passed ; and ' the Don ' be-
to think of his pn |> nations for
going out next mad to rejoin. It
was t' (> fust wei k iii November ;
he con <1 c itch the Mar: ■ illcs steamer
of the tenth.
So hetold them i. ne morning that
he was going. It v. ier than
he need go. Hut what Wits thero
TJie White Feather.
221
to stay longer for? Certainly not to
witness the denouement of that
mysterious affair between Helen and
Guy Devcreux. Better, lie thought,
that he should be miles away if
that was to end as ho believed it
would.
So he wouldn't see the silent,
wistful pleading of ' my lady's ' face ;
she was too proud to ask her son to
stay in England for her sake; so
he made light of poor Gertie's en-
treaties ; and misconstrued Helen's
sudden pallor, and the look that in
her own despite came into the dark
violet eyes, so true, though as he
thought so false, when they learned
his resolve. And yet had she been
all he remembered, all he had once
thought her, it might have been
different. It wouldn't have been
so hard to give up the excitement
of his soldier's life, and the brilliant
work ' Ours' was doing far away
up in the ' north-west/ if he had
found the dream which, hard, and
cynical, and selfish as he might be,
he had dreamed once realized in
Cousin Helen.
But that was not to be. And he
hardened his heart, bitterly. Hard-
ened it against those he loved, and
those who loved him. One there
was who loved him more than they
all— one whose love he was flinging
blindly away — who had deemed
that 'Words of his had wronged her
past forgiveness; but who felt all
anger die in her when she knew she
was so soon to lose him.
For he was her hero— unworthy
of her perhaps, as he was, and, to
her, greater, better, nobler than all
others.
If he had misjudged her, she
couldn't hate him. If he had
wronged her. she could pardon. For
through all she loved him.
It was a cruel, hard ti'toe for
' La Fee Blanche,' those last few
days of ' the Don's ' stay at Lau-
reston. But it was almost worse
for him.
Have you ever known how—
• To be wrath with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain ?'
He was wroth with her ; though
even when at the Maidlow ball she
gave Guy Devereux the valses she
had kept for him, and which ho
wouldn't ask fir, and his jeidousy
had found confirmation of all his
suspicions in the Plunger's bearing
towards her; even when he called
her frankness towards himself some-
thing worse than falseness, when he
tried to hate, he loved her most.
And now they were to part, sun-
dered by a doubt, a suspicion, that
seemed flimsy enough, but which to
this man was irrefutable.
He thought of this that afternoon
which was to be his last at Lau-
reston as he walked along a narrow
path in the Pleasaunce, his feet rust-
ling among the sere yellow leaves
that lay thick upon the ground.
It was a favourite lounge for out-
door smoking purposes, that little
skilfully - arranged wood which
bounded the deer-park on one side,
and stretched away for a mile or so
in the direction of The PJace.
Dar strolled moodily along, his
hands in the pockets of his shoot-
ing-jacket, and the smoke from his
brule-gueule curling in blue clouds
in the still, mild air.
It might be the last time he
should ever walk there ; to-morrow
he would be gone. In his bitter-
ness* of spirit he wished he had
never come to Laureston, never
seen her face — never, as little by
little he had done, learned to love
her with the last love of his life.
Proof-armoured, as they who
knew him best would have deemed
him, he had gone clown before a
woman's weapons like another man ;
had been tricked by a fair face, and
a false smile, and lying lips, and
treacherous eyes, like even unto
those at whom he had been wont to
make mock. Vanquished ? ' No !
not quite !' he muttered between his
teeth, set hard on the amber mouth-
piece. 'She don't know of this
cursed folly. It'll be my own fault
if she ever does. It's all over now.
She and I will never meet again.
Bah ! Am I a child, to be as weak
as this?' And Dar laughed bit-
terly.
On a sudden his face changed,
and, with a curse, he halted, and
drove his heel savagely into the turf.
Half-a-dozen paces from him, with
its bridle flung over a leafless branch,
I
The Whir Feather.
wan ' him oul of ita great, deep
eyes,
well. It vi • Ravi Dswing,' ( lay
1 1 -V: ir \', cl ir. i r. The rid< r
r off. What was he
doing h< it? ' Tho Don' gm i
easily enough.
His right h I, as though
lie would have liked to dash it in
Deverenx's face —ibis man, for
his l!' l< n, had
p< '1 to falsel ood and deceit— in
a paroxysm of jealous rase worthy
of the love-mania of a boy. That
w b soon over Men who have lived
his life, if th< y can't i xorcise, at
least h am to ki ep in hand the devil
they know to be within them. And
the look thai was not good to see
■opt across ' the Don's'
t the h >r<! smile a littlo
ler nnder the black moustaohe.
But this time, at all events, ho
lid meet her face to face. lie
had not long to wait.
Standing a little back from tho
winding pathway, hidden by the
gnarled trunk ol the king oak, al-
ii a iy he could see i m of the
white feather, as the wearer of the
velvi • he kn< w eo well came
towards him, in close and confid en-
converse with Devereux the
Plunj
lie sit his teeth hard, and stood
as the trunk he leaned
agaii '
'Bavenswing' pricked lis tars,
and whinnied, as his master camo
round the List turn of the path ;
and 1 lar lifted bis eyes then and
made him start and palo
to the vi ry lips.
He saw tl e velvet toque, and the
ther, and the long
• g behind ; hut in-
li ii Trehi rne's fair hair,
ra Hoddesdon's dark
braids that curled beneath it— her
. and nit hi cousin's, that ho
l ingoing lightly at something
ing to b< r, I'l' ra pa ed
by, and i i ting thi
wl i n the rider was in
I
adii a i y. Tin a, afti r
• o about hi r, 1 I'll a
moved off in hex turn, and £
■; with !iis 'li <". ry.
simple truth was plnin at la x .
This was the shadow his oynicism
and mi.-trnst bad let him make a
ty ; this was the miserable
canse of the wrong he had done tho
woman he had learned to h.ve —
done, not so much by the words ho
had spoken, as by the thoughts he
had thought of her. This WTi fccl <d
error was driving him from her now
— had, perhaps, sundered tie m for
ever.
I don't think I need tell you all
thai i' i sed through his mind :.
walk* d back all the - of
Belf-reproach, regret, repentance, not
unmingled with something akin to
happiness. There was ha] p
for him at least in this, thai Fee
had never ne rite 1 the ill he had
dared think of her by word or di H d ;
that she had been right, and he
wrong. This much he would tell
her before he left Laareston, and
ask of her what it was his wont to
ask of none— forgiveness.
II • found hi r | n si ntly in the
library, and alone. He openi 1 the
door so noiselessly that she c
raised her heal, she was sitting on
Beat bef >re the dickering wood
fire, half in the light, half in tho
shadow, bending a little forward,
her chin resting on bi c band.
At her feet lay Par's bloodhound,
'Odin,' watching her with loving,
wistful eyes. •
The other end of the long oak-
panelled room, win re Dar stood, was
all in semi-darkness, and, by tho
gleam of the burning hrands, ho
could sec every detail of the picture
hi fore him. lie could seethe shiui-
Tiier of I I ten hair as the light
fell on it; he conld si e the pale
look upon her fair face; tne fitful
flash of the opals in a ring, his gift,
which si upon the hand that
d on 'Odin' 'he id.
He saw and marked all tin's as ho
stopped a momi nt ni ax the di or-
way, still and silent, feeling, by tho
ki i nness of his i rreat
the wrony; he had done hor,
love. But the hlood-
hound moved uneasily, c mSClOUS of
his there; and
lleli n, rouse I from hi r reverio,
turned and look I Is him.
'I'la D 1 1 ir e one nut of the d irk-
The Private Life of a Public Nuisance.
223
ne^s into the light, and she saw who
it kvas.
She rose hurriedly, as if to go,
while lie was bendiug over his dog,
as though ho had barely noticed
her.
' Don't go, Fee!' Dar said, when
she had moyed a step or two from
him. 'Don't run away from me!
I've something to tell you, if .you
will listen to me.'
The old name, the old tone. What
did it mean? She had stopped when
lie spoke, and waited, without a
word, for him to go on. And ho
went on, and made his atonement —
such atonement as ho could— and
his confession unflinchingly, leaning
his arm upon the high, curved man-
telpiece, and with his eyes fixed upon
her face, trying to read his sentence
there. And so Helen learned at
last what had been keeping them so
long asunder.
' Fee, can you forgive me ?'
She answered him never a word,
but she gave him her hand — the
hand that wore the opal ring.
Then Dar spoke again, with all
the passion that was in him And
Fee learned something more — some-
thing that made full amends to her
for all the misery of those last days.
He was telling her — her hero,
whom she thought to part from so
miserably on the morrow— that ho
loved her ; asking so eagerly, so
passionately, with look and voice so
changed she hardly knew him, if
she could trust herself, alter all, to
him and his love for the time to
come ; asking if he should go or
stay. Slowly, as his strong right
arm closed round and clasped her
to him, the golden head sank down
upon his shoulder, till her fare, sad
and pale no longer, was half hidden
from him there; and, as he bent
over her, tho answer to all his
pleading came in these low-whi'j-
pcred words—
' Stay, for me, Dar ! I have loved
you all my life!'
And here. I think, had better end
the story of the White Feather.
' Buy.'
THE PRIVATE LIFE OF A PUBLIC NUISANCE.
IT is no uncommon thing with folks
of an ingenious turn to make
' capital,' as the saying is, out of
what at first sight seems calamity.
As, for instance, a friend of mine, an
Alpine traveller, and an indefati-
gable naturalist, whilst on a journey
of exploration in his favourite moun-
tainous region, one night retired to
his couch exhausted by the fatigues
of march and faint for sleep. It
was denied him, however. Not that
' Nature's soft nurse ' was ill-dis-
posed towards him ; not that his
conscience was ill at ease ; not that
he had supped rashly or inordinately.
It was because he was wanted for
supper. That ravenous monster,
the Alpine flea, but meagrely fed
through many months on hardy
herdsmen and chamois hunters,
sniffed his tender carcase, and with-
out even the warning of ' fe-fo-fi-
furn,' fell on him from the roof
rafters, and commenced his savage
and sanguinary repast. A man of
common mind and courage would
have engaged the enemy until ex-
hausted, and then yielded at discre-
tion. Not so my friend. He struck
a light, and calculating his chances
of a night's rest, and finding the
balance heavily against him, he
coolly dressed himself, and unpack-
ing his microscopical instruments,
selected and impaled a few of the
largest and finest of his tormentors,
and passed a pleasant and profitable
night in investigating the peculiari-
ties of the form and structure of
pulex irritans. There is no knowing
how much of ingenuity dwells in
the human brain till it is pressed
between the hard mill-stones of ne-
cessity. Before now, despairing
captives have beguiled the tedium
of dungeon life by a study of the
habits and manners of the very rats
which at first were so much their
horror and aversion.
I have an enemy more tormenting
than any flea that ever hopped —
more voracious than the rat, inas-
much as he feeds not on my bread
224
The Prioate lJfr of a Public Nuuance.
and my cheese, bul on my brain. I
have little months to till, and little
keel to eovi r, and little back
clothe; 1 have house-rent to pay,
and wad r-rate ; I have to contribute
shillings and pounds towards the
maintenance ol the poor, and the
police, and the main drah ; I
have to provide against the visit of
tlic income tax collector ; and to
I these various demands, 1>< in£ a
BcribblerOi the hard-working sort, I
am compelled to sel my pen dancing
ov< t the paper with considerable
rapidity and perseverance. And I
am \< iy willing to do so. I am
willing to sit down in the morning
early as any tailor or cobbler, and
make my hay while the Bun shims.
lint this my tormentor forbids. He,
has hay tu make while the sun-
shines. He makes his hay out of
my green hopes, sapped and
withered ; he grinds my brain to
make him bread. He bestrides my
sober pen, all sudden and unexpected,
as it is plodding industriously over
the pap. r, and sets it jigging to the
tune of ' Hop Light Loo' or the
• bat. Mteher's Daughter.' He tills
the patient, well-intentioned quill
with the jingling idiotcy common in
the mouths of banjo-plaj ing, boa -
rattling Sambos and Mumbos, and
turn minim sense about to be
uttered by it into twaddle and pro-
fitless nonsense. He breaks into my
0U8< of thonghl and turns its
contents topsy-tnrvy. He seizes my
D hours, and Condemns them to
a lingering and horrible death, maul-
ing thi mi an. I pulling them into
flinders, and the
El w minutes his
monkey mischief has l. ft entire.
name of this blowfly in my
lard< r, this w< evil in my meal-jar, is
.11 ( rrind< r.
1 1 is, of coin e, well known to mo
that, in accordance with a recent Ad
of Parliament, I am at liberty t 1 1 . t
the < ngineof law in motion to crash
the organ man if he annoj - me ; but
there is a power much f I ban
any Act of Palilalia lit 6V( i
and backed by it. My tormentor
may grin defiance at his arch-
. I: : N.i I( SS true than
i doxical, the sup. rior power in
qui dion consists in a weakness tb<
wi akness inherent in every free-born
Englishman, to succour all Buch as
he may lind downtrodden and driv< n
to the wall. 117,// downtrodden is
a ipiestion which the noble-minded
Briton in ver stops t.. in mire*, it is
enough that a poor fellow is down,
to enlist for him the Briton's heartiest
sympathies. Nevermind how richly
he may have merited the shoulder
hit that laid him low, he has only to
n plaintively at in the
mire— to whine a little, and beseech
pity, and a hundred hands are
Stretched forth to lift him up, and a
hundred mouths arc opened t<. cry
' Poor fellow!' There is ointiin nt
for his brui.M s in shape of a gather-
ing of money,' and he is set on his
and hailed as a man and a bro-
ther. Who did it? A pared of
stuck-up, purse-proud, bloati d aris-
tocrats! Why don't you hit one
your own size? Hit him again, if
yon dare. This noble sei.j'meiit
has been of imiiK nso si rviee t<> the
downtrodden organ grinder. I ; <
law, acting in behalf of < >. (i.'s suf-
fering victims, ha\ ing knocto dO. G.
down, the highminded but tough-
sMnned British mob has ~, t him up
again, and taken him under its
special profe ction. J have no in-
clination to dispute its right to do
so. It admires organ grinding. To
be sure, the fact of its utter indif-
ference to the existence of barrel-
in l .-ins and hurdy-gurdies before the
pa dug of the Act is calculated t.>
give rise to the suspicion that pig-
h< ad< d obstinacy may have some-
thing to do with it, but there is
nothing for certain. The miller who
could sleep tranquilly while his mill
was clashing and crunching and
rumbling, awoke the momi nt the
mill stopped The mob is the b< t
judge Of what suits it. It likes its
music full flavoured, and with
plenty of grit in it. A weaker qua-
lity falls idly on its tympanum.
Some animals are s.. thin skinn, d
that the titillatioii of a hair will
drive them to madness, whereas the
rhinoceros delights to have his I
d with the prongs of a pitch
fork ; but that is no reason w hy the
rhinoceros should not be tickled if
he likes it.
So it comes al>out that the organ
The Private Life of a Public Nuisance.
225
grinder finds in the nolice of eject-
ment that was served on him a new
lease. But a few months since lie
was a skulking, surly wretch, with a
heavy tread, a hanging head, and
the general air of a felon, hopeless as
to this life, and by no means com-
fortably assured of the next ; a broad-
shouldered muscular, doomed for
some monstrous iniquity to tramp
the highways and byeways of a
foreign land, fettered eternally to a
demon of discord — a lunatic Orpheus
riding him old-man-ot-the-sea-wise,
torturing his sensitive ear, and
mocking his weariness with ' funny '
music worthy of St. George's-in-the
Fields, or, at the very least, of Earls-
wood. A treacherous, lean dog,
ready for a halfpenny to mow and
grin and show his teeth to win. the
smiles of little children at the win-
dow, and equally ready, should he
be rashly informed that the little
ones are ill, to haggle and make
terms as to his consenting to cease
from racking their poor little
heads with his horrible din ; a worse
than ghoule, hunting for sickness
that he might make a meal of it,
with vulture eyes for sadly droops
ing window-blinds and muffled
knockers, and a keen scent for mer-
cifully-strewn tan, that the wooden
leg of his engine of torture may find
standing in the midst of it.
Distinguished by such unamiable
characteristics, it was impossible to
love the organ man; still, seeing
him go about so evidently conscious
of his own unworthiness, so down-
cast and depressed, and altogether
miserable, your indignation was not
unfrequently tinctured with pity,
and you had at least the gratification
of noting that, however much he
plagued and tormented you, he
never appeared to get any satisfac-
tion out of the transaction beyond
the grudged penny flung to him.
But since he has been ' persecuted '
the aspect of the case has become
altogether altered. The organ
grinder is no longer a glum villain
serving his term of life as though it
were a punishment, and not a pri-
vilege. The dull dead log has
sprouted green leaves, and become
quite a sprightly member of society.
True, he has not given up the ghoule
VOL. XI. — NO. LXIII.
business, nor the lean dog business,
but now he is a ghoule in a cut-
away coat in place of a shroud ; the
lean dog cocks his ears, and carries
his tail with an insolent and defiant
curl in it. He is a man and a bro-
ther in pursuit of his honest calling.
He has music to vend in ha'porths
and penn'orths; and if you don't
choose to buy, there are plenty of
householders in your street that will.
Don't put yourself out of the way,
my clear sir; don't stand there at
your parlour window shaking your
head, and frowning, and making
threatening gestures ; he is not play-
ing for your edification ; he is playing
to the people next door but one ;
they are his regular customers, and
take a penn'orth of music of him
every morning as regularly as they
take a penn'orth of dog's meat for
Mungo. A pretty thing, indeed, that
you should presume to order him
off just because you don't happen to
like music ! You might as reason-
ably prohibit the dog's-meat man
from calling at number thirteen be-
cause nobody on your premises has
an appetite for dog's meat. This is
the argument provided for the organ
grinder by his noble champions and
supporters, and he is not slow to
avail himself of it. How can you be
out of temper with a poor fellow
who knows not a word of the lan-
guage in which you are abusing him,
and therefore cannot retaliate? It
is mean, it is cowardly, it is un-
English. It would not be surprising
if he turned round on you and pelted
you with such broken bits of Eng-
lish as he is master of. But he is a
good-humoured fellow, and does
nothing of the kind ; if you shake a
stick at him, he replies by thrusting
out his tongue, and making a funny
face at you. If you appear at your
gate and order him off, he is moved
to no worse than playfully applying
his thumb to the tip of his nose, and
twiddling his outstretched fingers.
Yah! Go in. Stuff your ears with wool.
It will be quite time enough for him to
go when he sees you rushing clown
the street in search of a policeman.
Even if you have the good luck to
find one in time, and the courage to
give the ruffian into custody (which
means accompanying the ' charge '
Q
SL6
Tlie P rivalr Life of a Public Nuisance.
to the station-house, and being
hooted and chaffed by the organ
grinder's friend, the mob, all the
way ymi go , yon will probably find
the game hardly worth the candle,
prisoner does nol know one
word of English, explains the inter-
preter to the magistrate, and was
quite unaware that the gentleman
wished him '■• go away. But, Bays
his worship, the gentleman states
that be took the trouble to come out
into lu's garden to motion yonaway.
That is true, replies the interpreter,
after referring his worship's remarks
to the now deeply penitent grinder,
but the prisoner misunderstood —
he thought that the gentleman was
come out to dame.
It may occur to the inexperienced
that all this is most unnecessary
fuss, the remedy for the alleged
grievance heing so obvious. The
organ grinder is no fool ; all be
seeks is your penny, and cares not
how little lie does for it; what,
therefore, can be easier than to save
your time and your temper by
sending him out so paltry a sum
with the civil message that you
won't trouble him to play. You
may be making 6omo sacrifice of
principle, it may cause you momen-
tary annoyance to suspect that your
enemy grins as he turns from your
gate with your penny in his pocket,
but look on the other side of the
question! The blow-fly banished
from your larder, your meal-jar freed
from the devouring weevil, your
quill rescued from its impish rider,
your g ilden hours round and sound
and all your own!
You are right, oh innocent adviser !
Cheap, dirt cheap would it be if, on
payment of a penny, immunity from
■ iiit ii in might be purchased.
It would be a stroke of business on
the accomplishment of which wo
might well be proud if one bought
<>IT the whole bl igand army at a like
figure. But beware of the pitfall !
Should you be weak- enough to
yield thai fu -t pi nny your
doom is Malt d. It is m< r< ly a
hushing fee entitling yon to rank
amongst the organ mai alar
customers. The torturer will now
regard himself as r< gularly eng igi d,
and exactly a week from the time
when you committed the fatal error,
be will turn up again, his counte-
nance beaming with a smile of recog-
nition as you amazeiUy look out on
him from your window, and he won't
budge until ho gets his penny. Nor
is this all. You are duly reported
at the head-quarters of the sworn
brotherhood of grinders as another
to the long list of victims willing to
pay for peace, and for tho future no
organ or hurdy-gurdy bearer will
pass your door without giving you
the opportunity for exercising your
philanthropy. There is no cure for
the evil ; organ-grinding has become
a settled institution of tho country,
and as such must l>e endured.
And having arrived at this con-
viction comes in the example of tho
Alpine traveller quoted at tho
commencement of this paper — of
the poor prisoner who beguiled the
tedium or incarceration by an exa-
mination of the habits and manners
of the rats which at first were his
horror. Might I not be better em-
ployed than to sit moping in my
chamber with vinegar rage adorning
my throbbing temples because of
these Italian rats squealing under
my window? Were their habits and
customs less interesting than thOFC
of the four-legged vermin? Did 1
know more about one than the
other? Decidedly; but the advan-
tage was with the quadrupedal
animal. I do happen to know
something about mtu decumanuB, I
know that its hind legs are long* r
than its front ones, that it has a
propensity for burrowing under
walls, and that it commonly sits on
its hind legs and holds the food it
eats in its fore paws. I know that
its nature is very cunning; that,
acting in concert, rats have Ik en
observed to cart off nnhroken <
from a basket, one, acting as 'cait,'
lying on his back and cradling the
egg between his fore paws, while two
other rats, acting as teamsters, havo
dragged home the 'cart' by its tail.
I have in aid, and place equal reli-
ance in, the story of the rat that
emptied a narrow flask of oil by
lowi . caudal appendage into
it, withdrawing it, lickmg it clean,
lowi ring it again, and soon. But 1
don't know hall as much about the
The Private Life of a Public Nuisance.
227
organ grinder. That his fore limbs
are shorter than his lateral may be
assumed, but, what about his bur-
rowing? That he does burrow is
certain, because during certain hours
of the twenty-tour fee, happily, disap-
pears. He must have a home some-
where. He is met at all hours of
the day as far away as Higbgate,
Hammersmith, and Sydenham, but
come night wherever he may be, he is
invariably tound to be turning his
steps in a north-westerly direction.
However far away, he is rarely seen
refreshing himself at an inn ; ho was
never yet known to apply for a bed
at the wayside country public-
house. It is doubtful if he made
such an applicationwhether it would
be entertained. If a man on horse-
back applied for lodging the matter
might be easily arranged, the man
to his chamber and the horse to the
stable ; but a man with an organ !
They are inseparable. He is an
organ man — a man with an' organ
on his back, as other unfortunates
have a lump on theirs — with the
difference that the former, for busi-
ness purposes, admits of being occa-
sionally slewed round to the front
part of the man's body. Fancy
letting a clean and decent bed to a
man with an organ on his back !
Then as to the grinder's family.
Has he a wife and children ? How do
they employ themselves? Are the
white-mice boys and the guinea-pig
boys, the monkey-boys and the boys
with the hurdy-gurdies the organ
grinder's Children? Are those his
daughters who go about with a silk
handkerchief about their heads,
singing and playing on a tambou-
rine? Where is his wife? Is she
still to be found working in the
vineyards of the sunny South, or
does she reside with her ' old man '
on Saffron Hill, occupying a snug
little room, ironing the grinder's
shirts and mending his stockings and
preparing something comforting and
savoury for the poor fellow's supper,
when at midnight he stumps in from
Sydenham or Brentford ? Does Mrs.
Grinder ever go out washing or
charing to eke out her husband's
earnings? What were his earnings?
Did the little Grinders go to school ?
Was it all work anu no play w T ith
father Grinder? or did he occasion-
ally take his pipe and his pint and
seek diversion like another working
man?
1 had frequently observed that
the organ grinder ceased from his
persecution earlier on Saturday than
all the other days of the week. On
other evenings he was to bo
heard as late as ten and even eleven
o'clock ; but on Saturdays, even
though you wanted an organ-man, u
would be difficult indeed to find one
after four or five o'clock in Ihe after-
noon. How was this ? Was Satur-
day evening an 'off-time' with the
grinder? Was he a patron of the
Saturday half holiday movement?
If so, how did he profit by the in-
dulgence ? Did he belong to some
corps of volunteers? not likely.
Did he make one of four for a quick
pull up the river? He could not
well accomplish such a feat without
divesting himself of that peculiarly
blue corderoy jacket of his ; and the
sight of an organ-man in his shirt
sleeves is one that never yet met
human gaze. Did he take a cheap
excursion ticket and go to the Isle
of Wight or Margate? What! with-
out his organ ? Preposterous. How
did he spend the only work-a-day
evening he could spare from
drudgery ? The only way to set the
question at rest was by personal in-
vestigation. No time like the
present, which happened to be a
Saturday afternoon.
Putting on a slouchy coat and a
slouchy cap, I at once set out for
Saffron Hill, making it my business
to call on my road for an artist
friend whose sketches have often
delighte 1 the readers of this maga-
zine. My pretence for desiring
his company was that there was a
probability of his finding a picture
worth sketching in some one of the
many strange places I purposed
t.king him to; but my main object
in soliciting his company was that
1 might be benefited by his pro-
tection in the event of my being
forced into doubtful company — our
ai tist being a man of extraordinary
size and muscular development.
It was a lonely evening for such
a wild-goose chase as was ours —
dark over head, miry under foot,
QJ
228
Tlic Private Life of a Public Nuisance.
and drizzling wretchedly of rain. I
e.ill it a wild-gooae chase, and it was
little less, for beyond the popularly-
KOOeptl d belief that the home of tho
organ grindei was 'somewhere in
neighbourhood of Helton
Garden,' we w« re in utter ignoranco
of the abiding place of the individual
of 'whom we were in search. Hatton
Garden, as the reader is possibly
aware, is a long ami wide street
<>l" ning from the crown of Holborn
Hill.
At 7 p.m., tho darkness nnd tho
drizzling rain nothing abated, wo
arrived at Hatton Garden, and dili-
gently perambulated that lengthy
and retired street from this end to
the other, but either in or out of
harness not a solitary organ man
did we meet. I fay out of harness
on my companion's account, not
mine own ; he was quite sure, he
said, that he could detect an organ-
man even though disguised in tho
garb of a Quaker. No opportunity,
however, for a display of his extraor-
dinary sagacity occurred; and wo
arrived at the end of Hatton Garden
and found ourselves at Hatton Wall,
no wiser, as far as the object of our
search was concerned, than when wc
turned out of Holborn.
Hatton Wall is by no means a nico
place for a stranger to find himself
blindly groping about on a dark
February night ; indeed, making an
allowance of sixty per cent, for timo
and wealth, I should lie inclined to
say it was one of tho ugliest, if not
tho most ugly, spots in London.
There may be uglier. In one's perc-
grinations round about London
you never know when you have ar-
rived at the worst I thought I had
done so when I fust beheld Ntal's
Buildings in Beven Dials, but was
fain to acknowledge my error on an
Investigation of Brunswick Street,
Rateliffe Highway, and even this —
the hideously-renowned Tiger Bay
— must se 1 afterwards discovered,
knock undi r to Little Keatc Street,
Wbiteeba] Yet it is hard to
award the | aim, the claim to tho
supremacy of ugliness being based
each on diffi renl gronn la N<
Buildings is Dotbiog worse than the
stronghold of Irish squalor, ami all
manner of Blthineat and ragi and
beggary. Tho women squat in
groups on the squelch; pavement of
Neals Buildings on bet summer
days, airily garbed, and with a
toothed instrument of horn sle< k-
ing their golden tresses, and smok-
ing stumpy pipes, and sinking good
ohl Irish soul's, and holding cheerful
converso with their male friends,
some sprawled over the door thresh-
holds, some lounging half out of
first and second- floor windows, their
shocks of fiery hair surmounted by
a nightcap, and so full of gaping
and yawning as to give rise to tho
suspicion that they are not yet
entirely out of bed. Tiper Bay is
less repulsive at first sight ; indeed,
it is only when night closes in, and
the women, turned wild leasts, leave
their lairs to prowl abroad and hunt
for sailors, and tho born whelps and
jackals and hyenas in man 6hapo
congregate and lurk in washhouses
and coal-holes, ready to pounce
out on' and l>eat and worry nigh to
death the hapless wretch the females
of their tribe have lured to the com-
mon den, that Brunswick Street
appears uglier than its neighbours.
Little Keato Street, again, taken as
a street, is not particularly ill-look-
ing; and the traveller might inno-
cently enough take it as a promising
short cut to eastern parts of tho
metropolis. Nevertheless it is a terri-
ble street. It is from thence that the
midnight burglar sallies with his
little sack of ' tools' and his bits of
wax candle and his lucifer matches
and his life-preserver. These, how-
ever, are amongst tho better sort of
tenants inhabiting Keato Street —
fellows who can pay their way
handsomely, and bring to a man
liberal dogs— the stay of any poor
wretch of their acquaintance who
may stand in urgent need of assist-
ance Ask the shopkeepers of the
neighbourhood — ask tho butcher
and the cheesemonger concerning
his Keate Street customers! If they
tell you as they told me when a real
or so since it was my business to bo
making such inquiries, they will say
that they live luxuriously. 'It's
nothing, bless you,' said the butcher,
' for them to order a quarter of lamb
—and that w 1 cB it's a shilling a
p >und— as lute as ten o'clock, to bo
The Private Life of a Public Nuisance.
229
cooked that night for supper. They
like their nick-nacks too, and often
my boy is running all over the town
to get thera sweetbreads for break-
fast.' ' You'd think, to stand atop of
the street and take a view of it both
sides of the way, right to the bottom,
that they wouldn't trouble me much
except it was for butter-scrapings and
bacon hocks and that sort of thing,'
said the cheesemonger ; ' Lor' bless
you ! It ain't single, no, nor yet
double Glo'ster that'll do for 'em.
It must be best Cheshire or none.
Same with butter. Same with ham
and eggs. The very best and never
mind the price is their motto.' The
ruffians of Keate Street, however, are
not all of this superior order. The
common pickpocket finds a home
there, and the 'smasher,' and the
area sneak, and the ' snow gatherer,'
as the rascal who makes the thieving
of linen his special study poetically
styles himself ; and, worse t hah all, a
swarm of likely young fellows who
as yet cannot lay claim to be called
robbers, but who are satisfactorily
progressing under the teaching of
Moss Jacobs and Barney Davis.
If roguery stands there would be no
approaching Little Keate Street by
a mile.
I should not like to say that Hat-
ton Wall was, in a Keate Street
sense, as ugly as Keate Street. I
have not such great enmity against
the organ grinders as to wish that it
might be. To look at, however, it
is uglier: a horribly dark, dingy,
antiquated place, all gutter and
cobble-stones, and smelling as strong
of Irish as Neal's Buildings itself.
The police, as we observed, went in
pairs ; and when this is the case in
a neighbourhood, you may mark it
as one in which it would be unsafe
to openly consult your gold lever in
order to ascertain the time. 1 ven-
tured the insinuation that perhaps
we had better retrace our steps, and
come again some other night— some
moonlight night, but our artist, who
is as brave as he is big, at once
taunted me with cowardice, and de-
clared that since I had drawn him
into the mess he w y ould see the end
of it, even though he searched every
nook and alley in the place; aud
immediately proceeded to carry out
his valiant determination by inquir-
ing of a little boy, that moment
emerging from a scowling little
public-house near Bleeding Hart
Yard, hugging agin bottle, whether
he would be so obliging as to inform
us where the organ men were to be
found.
Tho little fellow replied that he
was jiggered if lie knew;— that they
lived a'most anywhere about there,
' down here, mostly, and over there ;
and a good many up that there way,
if you means their lodgings ;' and he
indicated 'down here' and 'over
there' by pointing with his gin-
bottle, and in the same manner gave
us to understand which was ' that
there way,' which was not at all an
inviting way, being more dismal
than any we had yet traversed,
narrow, miry, and flanked on either
side by little-windowed houses, tall,
dingy, and mysterious - looking
enough to be haunted — or at least
in Chancery. However, it was the
organ man's ' lodgings ' that we did
mean, and so we manfully struck
into the unclean crevice, known as
Little Saffron Hill.
But though we perambulated the
dingy thoroughfare in the most
careful manner, no organ man could
we find either entering or emerging
from his domicile. Once my com-
panion thought that he descried the
object of our pursuit ascending tho
steps of a distant house, and with a
subdned exclamation of triumph he
started off to see ; in a few seconds,
.however, he returned disconsolate to
report the mistaken figure a woman
with a clothes-basket. At that in-
stant, however, and while we were
at a standstill, the lively notes of a
poiku, suddenly greeted our ears,
and eagerly following the welcome
sound, we presently arrived at tho
house from whence it proceeded.
It was a private house, quite an
ordinary-looking habitation, with
the same closed shutters and dingy
door as the rest, and no more than
the average amount of light glim-
mering through the chinks, to be-
speak it a place of amusement.
Still, however, as we stood and list-
ened on the steps of the house, we
were convinced that it must be.
The polka ceased, and was instantly
2:30
The Private Life of a Public Nuisance.
followed by a jicr in tho eamo lively
measure; moreoTez there waa tho
bom of many voices, and the sounds
of the ihuffiiog of f< et,
' It is n threepenny hop,— there
can't Ihj a doubt of it,' said we ; and
feeling in our pocket for tho neces-
sary intranet -ni'iiu y, we boldly
push d op ii the door and ( ntered.
Tlif passage was dark, but at tho
end ft" it there was a door of a room,
in which there was evidently plenty
of light, and in which, its wo could
now plainly make out, tho music
and dancing was. Without a mo-
ment's hesitation we stepped up to
this door, as to the first, and pushed
it open.
Our expectations, however, were
not exactly realized. In an instant
we found ourselves, not in a dancing-
room but in a workshop— an esta-
blishment for the manulacturo and
repair of street organs. It was a
small place, no bigger, probably,
than an ordinary dining-room, but
it was chokeful of organs, old and
new, — stacked against the walls, on
the floor, and on work-benches.
Eight or ten bare-armed, bearded
Italians were busy, patching, and
polishing, and tinkering at the in-
struments. The jig tune that had
attracted OB was still proceeding as
we entered, the organ from which it
was produced standing on tho
ground, and the performer km eling
before it gravely grinding at tho
handle. It was the property, as it
seemed, of an nnmistakeable street
grinder, who stood by, watching tho
io doctor as ho examined tho
ailing organ, with as anxious and
distressed a countenance as though
it were nothing less precious than
his eldest born brought to be tasted
on account ol some suspected intes-
tni il d sorder.
Fatohere, polishers, tinkers— em n
the man that was grinding the jig —
led in their various o scupations
and regarded us inquiringly. Tho
situation waa embarrassing, the more
so that the door h id slammed t..,
and we m re shut in, and we la-
boured under the disadvantage of
not knowing a word of the Italian
ue.
• Vat }ou biani nanoV 1 tho
street grinder, presuming on
knowledge of our languago to bo
spokesman.
We had no business — none, at
least, that could be explained in an
oil hand and satisfactory manner.
My companion attempted the expla-
nation, however.
' It's all right,' said lie, with an
insinuating little laugh — ' it's a little
mistake — we thought there was
something going on— don't mind us.'
The organ grinder merely replied,
' Aha !' as far as we could make out ;
but, turning to the workmen, tho
traitorous villain must have alto-
gether misinterpreted to them my
companion's observation, for they
rose, with warlike gestures and
ejaculations, and turned as one man
against us,— luckily, however, with
so much noise that the proprietor of
tho premises, who was engaged in
an adjoining apartment, was dis-
turbed, and came hurriedly in to see
what tho row was about. Ho was a
civil follow, and listened with polite
attention to what we had to say.
His knowledge of English, however,
could scarcely have been so 'per-
fect' as, at starting, he assured OS
it was ; that is, judging from his
answers.
'Oh yes! what you say is exact,
gentlemen ; but you cannot dance
hero for threepence or for any
money. If you will dance, you
must go to Badessa, or to Sugar
Loaf, or to Golden Anchor. Good
evening, gentlemen.' And he showed
us to the door.
Although this little adventure
could not i)e said to be in all re-
Bpects gratifying, it was so in tho
main, inasmuch as it provided us
with a clue. Clearly the p
enumerated by the worthy organ
builder Were places of public (lit. r-
tainment— places where d incing was
encQuragi d. Where was the Gold* n
Anchor / Opp irtunely there came
by a policeman.
1 Keep straight on and cross tho
road, and it's the second public on
the loft.'
' ]t is a place where organ m< n
tnble for their amusement, is it
not f
• Foul! pi'' oious soon find the port
of place it isbefure yon get within
a do/en yards of it,' replied the p >-
The Private Life of a Public Nuisance.
231
liceman. And so directed we onco
more stepped out through the mire
and the drizzling rain, with hope
revived.
Since we paid a visit to the Golden
Anchor, that hostel has earned for
itself a hideous notoriety. Murder
has been done there. At least that
is how the law, misled by police
pig-hoadedness and the reckless
oath-talcing of false witnesses, at
first called it ; but now, as it appears,
the result of the bloody broil there
enacted was merely a man slaugh-
tered and not murdered — one man
slaughtered and two or three others
maimed and gashed and prodded !
It was a pity that the disgraceful
bungle was not completed by the
hanging of an innocent man before
Newgate. The Golden Anchor would
have ' drawn ' theu with a vengeance,
and done such a trade as never was
the like ; as it is the enterprising
and conscientious landlord reaps
little or no advantage from the per-
petration in his house of the pretty
little tragedy.
At the time we were in search of
it, however, it had no special attrac-
tion ; and it was not without some
little difficulty that we discovered it
— a lo\v, broad house, gay with gas,
clean looking, and standing at the
corner of a lane leading to that
dismal waste opposite the railway
station in New Victoria Street, pa-
tronized by that miserable dreg of
humanity, the betting blackguard.
In the distance the house looked so
quiet and decent that, despite the
emblem of hope blazoned in gold
above the doorway, we should have
thought ourselves again at fault had
it not been for the tokens the police-
man had hiuted at, and which were
made known to us, not at one dozen
yards' distance off, but at three at
the very least.
It was not a sound of mirth,
neither could it be mistaken for
quarreling. It was an uproar com-
posed of single ejaculations, de-
livered by many voices, and with a
vehemence that was absolutely start-
ling. It was as though a multitude
of strong-lunged religious fanatics
had seized on a victim and were, in
set form, cursing him, dwelling with
demoniac relish on each syllable of
the anathema, by way of transfixing
the soul of the poor wretch with
horror. At the same time there
smote on the listening ear a hollow
thumping noise that would well
have passed as the rapping of
poignard handles on the lid of an
empty coffin.
Nor did a glimpse of the interior
of the mysterious caravanserai,
afforded by the swinging ajar of its
centre door, do much toward dis-
pelling the suspicion that some
mystic and terrible ceremony was in
progress within. There was to be
seen a ferocious band seated about
a long table, while one stood up in
their midst, in a fiercely excited atti-
tude, and continually raising both
his clenched fists above his head,
and bringing them down on to the
table with a bang. And yet, marvel
of marvels ! the individual that
opened the door was a little girl
with a beer jug in her hand, and
she went elbowing close by the fierce
denouncer, with no more apparent
concern than though he had been a
peep-show man describing the won-
ders of his theatre. Surely where
so helpless a creature went we might
venture, — so in we went.
A glance explained the mystery.
The bar was very long, and the
space before it ample. There were
butts and tables and forms in this
space ; and about the tables and the
butts were grouped knots of Italians,
young and old, playing at their
national game of moro — a simple
game enough, as the reader is per-
haps aware ; a sort of combination
of the English boys' games of ' buck
buck ' and ' odds and evens/ the
seated players watching the up-
raised hands of ' buck/ and in their
turn anticipating the number of
fingers 'buck' intends displaying
by the time his rapidly descending
fists reach the table-top. In the
hands of these Italians, however, it
was a terrible game. With flushing
eye and dishevelled hair, the callers,
too eager to keep thoir seats, half
rose and leant over the table, roar-
ing out their guesses, with their
noses nearly touching that of ' buck/
— the deep chest voices of the men,
the high-pitched clamour of the
lads, the laughter of tho lucky
2^2
The Private Life of a Public Nuisance.
ruonooro, rnl tin- disappointed
growls of the unlucky ones, blending
::lke B BC< lie Ino-t In -i ll;l!ili: i>ll.
It aeemed a confliot for blood rather
than tor bei r. Nevertheless, fchey
were a jolly, good-fe mpered crew
oough; and as the games came to
an end (there were at least half
a dozen games in progress at the
various tables . they came jovially
to the bar and drank their liquor,
with much joking and friendly
shoulder-slapping. They paid down
their losings, too, with the air of
fellows who had Bpare sixpi Q06S to
spend; indeed, they seemed to be
6o flush of money that we began to
doubt if tli » * \ could possibly be men
who mucked np a day's earnings a
halfpenny at a time by grinding at
an or*: tin, an 1 took opportunity to
ask the waiter (the poor wretch,
probahly, who afterwards was fo
nearly fatally stabbed in the stomach)
if such were the ca-e.
' They ain't nil organ men,' he re-
plied; 'some of 'em are pictur-
frame makers, and image-coves.
They are about half organ men.'
' They seem to spend their money
pretty freely.'
'So they ought; they earns
enough.'
' What, the organ men?'
'Organ men, ah! A'pencc tells
up, don't yer know. They picks up
a jolly sight more than me and jou,
as works hard for our livin'.'
There was nothing in the dress of
the moro players to distinguish* the
organ grinder from his friend the
'image cove.' All were dressed
alike -and very well dressed, altera
style. More than anything they
ed like a body of seafaring men
—foreign sailors, recently paid off.
Their long bine jackets w< re th
of holiday-dressed sailors, as were
tin ir black satin waistcoats, tin r
'navy ' caps, their pumps and their
earrings, and their abundance of
silver watch-guard. Bforeovi r,
most of then wore bright-col rared
worsted comforters, a> do fop
sailors invariably when dresseJ in
their i" it hi l ashore. Alt gether,
their aj j> aranOS WU BUcb M to en-
tirely change one's vi wi concern-
ing the beggarly trade, of organ
grinding.
Meanwhile our friends carouse,
and the moro players cluster thicker
about the tables and butts, and the
din becomes such that the tall and
muscular landlord has to hold his
band to bis ear that he may catch
the orders of his customers. Sud-
denly, however, a sound of music is
heard, and instantly there is a com-
motion amongst the players, and all
but those who are in the middle of a
game hurry towards a door at the
end of a pissage beside the bar.
Joining the throng, we too approach
the door and enter the room it opens
into.
It is that to which the organ
builder recommended us, 'if we
must dance.' It is a Fpacious room,
with bare, dirty walls, an. I scant of
furniture as the casual ward of a
WOrkbOQSe. There is only one large
table in the place, and a-top of that
is mounted a hard-working grinder,
in his every-day clothes, with his
organ at his side, and labouring at
the handle of it at stolidly, and with
the same business air as though ho
were standing in the gutter in the
Edgware Boad. Amongst the
throng thai crowd the room he
must recognize many friends— rela-
tives perhaps, — but he looks as un-
concerned as a soldier on duty iu a
barrack-yard. Perhaps he would
not get so many halfpence if ho
affected to regard his services as
merely frit ndly.
As it is he docs not fare badly.
Between each polka and waltz he
makes a significant pause, and the
dancers feu him. There are female
dancers as well as male; and,
Strangely enough, the females are
not one of them Italian. They
are chiefly English and Irish girls,
working in the neighbourhood as
looking glass frame polishers We
were informed by one of thedamseli
in question that the Italians never
bring their countrywomen with
them to the dancing-room Perhaps
this may be accounted tor on econo-
mical grounds ; did they bring their
countrywomen with them, they
would naturally < Kp t to he tr< add
witli some degree of generosity;
win r< as the grinder's treatment of
his English or Irish partner
as shabby as can be well imagined,
Hie Private Life of a Public Nuisance.
233
her only reward being a pull at the
pewter pot out of which he himself
regaled. True, lie did not ask much
of her ; indeed, his contract with her
could scarcely be said to amount
to a partnership, the dance being
managed in this strange fashion: —
Jacko and Antonio make up their
minds for a dance, and select each
a damsel ; but Jacko and Antonio
dance together, and the two damsels
dance together alongside Jacko and
friend. When the dance is over,
Jacko orders four pen'north of beer,
and the four divide it amongst
them.
'Stingy beggars, arn't they?'
whispered the damsel who had
given us the bit of information con-
cerning the organ man's peculiar
method of dancing ; « thinks as much
of a shilling as another man would
of five. It ain't as though it was
every night.'
' They don't come here every
night in the week ?'
'Bless you, no! a few on Mon-
days, sometimes, but nothing to
speak of. Saturday night is their
time— their time out, I mean : Sun-
day is their time at home.
'Their time for what?— not
dancing?'
'Dancing, no! no room for
dancing, with twelve or fourteen of
'em in a bit of a back parlour.
Drinking and cards and dominoes,
that's what they get up to. Let
'em alone; they can come out
strong enough amongst their own
set. Plenty to eat and drink, plenty
of rum, plenty of everything.'
'I shouldn't have thought that
they earned sufficient money to in-
dulge in such luxuries.'
' They don't earn it all : see what
their wives earn at artificial-flower
making and cigar-making.'
' Then they have pretty comfort-
able homes ?'
' Well, comfortable as they look
at it: you see, they are people of
such Btrenge ways: all for '•club-
bing." They club together to pay
the rent of a room; to buy a joint
of meat ; for their beer, for their
tobacco, for everything; eating and
drinking and smoking together, a
whole houseful of 'em, just as
though they were all brothers and
sisters. Plenty of everything, you
know, but such a hugger-mugger.'
The young woman spoke as one
that knew ; and it was very much
to our annoyance that, just at this
moment, Jacko once more advanced
towards her, and invited her to stand
up and earn another drink of bad
beer ; and so we lost sight of her.
We had gleaned enough, one way
and another, however, to convince
us that Jacko makes a very decent
livelihood out of his organ. He
lives well, takes his amusement, has
a bettermost suit of clothes, and a
silver watch and chain.
'Which is crowning evidence,'
triumphantly observes the grinder's
champion, ' that the public are well
disposed towards the poor fellow,
that they appreciate his humble
efforts to amuse them, and properly
reward him.'
But isn't there another point of
observation from which the flourish-
ing grinder may be viewed? We
humbly and hopefully think so.
Assuming— and surely it is fair to
assume — that at least half the
grinder's gleanings accrue to him
as ' smart money ' to send him and
his nuisance packing, our eyes are
opened to the immense strength of
this section of the army of opposi-
tion — a section more powerful than
any other, and one that has only to
vigorously assert itself, and the days
of the organ monster's reign are
numbered.
James Greenwood.
*&Q
234
A5ECD0TB AND GOSSir ABOUT CLUBS.
PART II.
TITE ' Spectator,' who knew some-
thing about clnbe, and indeed
modestly Burmised that bis detrac-
tow bad some colour for falling
him the King of Clubs, has oracu-
larly Baid that 'all celebrated clubs
founded <»n eating ami drink-
ing, which arc points where most
men agree, and in which the learned
and the illiterate, the dull and the
airy, the philosopher and the buf-
foon, can nil of them bear apart 1
But it is not every club that has
avowed itself by its name or title as
formed on this basis. Of course the
father of Fielding's Squire Western
would have no extra blush suffuse
his fully pre-occupied cheek in an-
nouncing that October was a drink
fit for the Jacobite gods of the fox-
chase who liked to enjoy their rua in
urbt , and to keep op the simplicity
of their tastes during a temporary
sojourn amongst the complexities of
metropolitan society. There are two
or three clubs, however, which de-
clare their culinary bas s with more
straightforwardness than even tho
October did. Indeed it is only by
BUpplying an ellipsis, and thinking
of the pleasure and dignity of
'going to bed mellow,' that the
name cf the last can be brought into
connection with anything eatable or
drinkable. Bat about the Beef-steak
Club and the Kit-Kat Club there is
no room for mistake And of these
we are about to rt cord a few parti-
culars. ' The Kit-Eat itself/ says
Addison, in illustration of the pro-
ition quoted from him a few
lines above, ' is said to have taken
:i;tl from a Uutton-Pye. Tho
1:. ■ t'-steak and October Clubs, are
therof them Averse to eating and
drinking, if we may form a judg-
m< ut ol tl ■ mi from their n q» ctive
titles.' The Beef-sb ak Clubj thus
alluded to, waa founded in the
Augustan n ign <>f Anii'-; and was,
j a • History ol tl
informs us, ' composed of the chief
wit n at men of the n ttion.'
The badge Of the club was a small
gridiron of gold, worn suspended
from the nock by ft green eilk
ribbon. Dick Kstconrt, the player,
was made Providore of the club.
lie was a man of infinite wit, amia-
bility, and good manners. His name
appears very frequently in the
' Spectator,' and always honourably.
At one time Sir Rogi r de Coverl< y,
addrt BSing him from the country as
' old comical one,' acknowledges tho
safe arrival at Coverley of 'tho
-heads of neat Port,' and praises
it> qualities of hygiene and good-
fellowship. ' Tray get a pure snug
room/ proceeds the knight, 'and I
hope next term to help fill your
Bumper with our people of the
Club; but you must have no lulls
stirring when the "Spectator"
comes; I forbore ringing to Dinner
while he was down with me in tho
country.' Kstconrt at tins time
(1711), and for a \\'\v months after,
was the landlord of ft tavern called
the Bumper, in Covcnt Garden. Tho
' Spectator' for Wednesday, August
27, of the following year, is de-
voted to tho eulogy and lament
■with which Steele 1 ououredthe me-
mory of this unrivalled emu] anion.
Confessing his obligations to his
deceased friend for many hours of
mirth nnd jollity, Steele particu-
larizes those {acuities tic possession
and the ufc of which had made
Kstconrt inimitable. lbs percep-
tion of incongruity was so subtlo
and delicate that ho was a very
arbiter of taste ; and he had 410 less
a profound rand just sense of the
beautiful. ' 1 dare say, there is no
one who knew him will, but con
repeat more well-turned compli-
ments, as well as smart repartees, of
Mr. EstCOUrt's than of any other
man in England. This was easily
to be oba rved in his inimitablo
faculty of telling a story, in which
lie would throw in n itoral and on-
expected incidents to make his court
to one part, and rally the other part
of the company, '1 hen ho would
vary the UfagC bo u^'O them,
cording as In; saw them bear kind
or sharp language. lie had tho
Anecdote and Gossip about Clubs.
235
knack to raise np a pensive temper,
and mortify an impertinently gay
one, with the most agreeable skill
imaginable. There are a thousand
things which crowd into my me-
mory, which make me too much
concerned to tell on about him.'
His power of mimicry was match-
less, and going furt er than the
manner and the words into the
very heart and thought of the person
represented. His urbanity under
the galling weight of a profession
which subjected him to bo called
upon simply to amuse, when he had
within him tho consciousness of
higher worth, was as great as ever
it Mas in any man of like nature
and genius under like circum-
stances. He was dreaded only by
' the vain, the formal, the proud, or
those who were incapable of amend-
ing their faults; to others he was in
the highest degree pleasing. * * *
It is to poor Estcourt J chiefly owe
that I am arrived at the happiness
of thinking nothing a diminution to
me, but what argues a depravity of
my will.' Further on, Sir Richard
speaks of him as ' this extraordinary
man, who, in his way, never had an
equal in any age before him, or in
that wherein he lived. 1 speak of
him as a companion, and a man
qualified for conversation.' He was
without presumption ; but he never
forgot his own dignity, nor that of
the guests whom he was called upon
to entertain. ' I wish it were any
honour,' Steele concludes, ' to the
pleasant creature's memory that my
eyes are too much suffused to let me
go on .' We trust that we have
not sinned against the patience of
the reader in dwelling thus far
upon Dick Estcourt; the social
idol of the 'Spectator' deserved a
more than momentary or nominal
mention. Ned Ward, in his 'Secret
History of Clubs,' does not make
such complimentary allusion to
Estcourt or to ihe club of which
he was so prominent an officer.
According to Ward, the Club of
Beef-eaters first established them-
selves 'at the sign of the Imperial
Phiz, just opposite to a famous con-
venticle in tho Old Jewry, a public-
house that has long (1709) been
eminent for the true British quin-
tessence of malt and hops, an 1
a broiled sliver off the juicy rump of
a fat well-fed bullock.' Hero tho
'superintendent of the kitchen was
wont to provide several nice speci-
mens of their beefsteak cookery,
some with the flavour of a shalot or
onion; some broiled? some fried,
some stewed, some to;isted, and
others roasted, that every judicious
member of the new-erected Club
mi^ht appeal to his palate, and from
thence determine whether the house
they had chose n for their rendezvous
truly deserved that public fame for
their inimitable management of a
bovinary sliver, which the world
had given them.' Being satisfied
on this point, they fixed their meet-
ings to be continued weekly at tho
same place. Here, after a time, the
boys of Merchant Taylors' School
were accustomed lo regale the club
on its nights of meeting with up-
roarious shouts of ' Hi. zza— Beef-
steak.' ' But the modest club, not
affecting popularity, and choosing
rather to be deaf to alt public flat-
teries, thought it an act of prudence
to adjourn from thence into a place
of obscurity, where they might feast
knuckle-deep in luscious gravy, and
enjoy themselves free from the noisy
addresses of the young scholastic
rabble; so that no^, whether they
have healed the breach, and are
again returned into the Kit- Cat
community, from whence it is be-
lieved, upon some disgust, they at
first separated, or whether, like the
Calves' Head Club, they remove from
place to place to prevent discovery, I
shan't presume to determine; but
at the present, like Oates's army of
pilgrims, in the time of the plot,
though they arc much talked of,
they are difficult to bo found.'
The Beef-s-tenk Society is not to
be confounded with the Beef-steak
Club; a designation which tbo
former eschewed. We touch but
lightly on the ' Sublime Society,' as
a special paper in this number (seo
p. 282) is devoted to their history
and doings.
Captain Morris, ' the Bard of tho
Beef-steak Socie'y,' must not be
omitted from our record, however
slight. Charles Morris was born of
good family in 1745, and appears to
236
Anecdote and Gossij) about Clubs.
have inherited a taste for lyric com-
position, for his father composed tho
popular b ng of ' Kitty Crowder.'
For half ii c ntiiry Morris moved in
the first cirrics of r.iuk and gaiety:
he was the 'Sun of the Table' at
Carlton House, as well as at Norfolk
Souse; and attaching himeeli po-
litically as well as ooiivivially to his
table companions, ho composed the
celebrated ballads of 'Billy's too
young to drive US* and ' Billy Pitt
and the Farmer,' which were clever
satires upon the ascendant politics
of their day. His humorous ridi-
cule of the Tories was, however, hut
ill repaid by the Whigs; at least, if
we may trust the 'OJo to tho Buff
Waistcoat,' written in 1815. His
' Songs Political and Convivial,'
many of which were sung at tho
Steaks' board, l>ecamo very popular.
In the decline of life and fortune,
Morris was handsomely provided for
by his fellow-Steak, tho Duke of
Norfolk, who conferred upon him a
charming retreat at Brockham, in
Surrey, which he lived to enjoy
until tho year iS;S, surviving his
benefactor by twenty-three years,
lb- had taken leave of the Society,
and voided his laureateship, how-
ever, in 1 s j r , l>eing then in his
eighty-sixth year. The following is
pn serve 1 as his valedictory poem: —
' Adieu to the world I where I gratefully own,
Few men more delight or more comfort have
known ;
To an age far beyond mortal lot nave I I
The path of pure health, that best blessing of
Q d;
And k> mildly devout Nature tempered my
frame,
II ly patience still soolbed when Advei
cat
Thus with mind ever cheerful, and tonguo
never tired,
1 autig the gsy strains these sweet blessings In-
■ 1 ;
And by 1 lending l gut mirth with a moral-
IlllXt at
Wont •■ smlk of the gay and the nod of tho
Hut at length the dull languor of mortal •
Throws a « eight on lta spirit too light for its
And the fancy, ssbdne4,ai the body's opp
pit lbs luint fl giits that loans train in
■
A painful memento that mai/n nol to play
A game of light folly throi I sober day]
A J'i»t admonition, though viewed with n
Still blessedly offered, though thanklessly
met.
Too ions. I perhaps, like the many who stray/,
It.ive upheld the guy themes ol the Boccha*
nal's day
Hut at length Time has brought, what it svef
will bring,
A shade that excites more to sigh than to sing.
In this close ol Life's chapter, ye Ugh>
fjvoiir il few,
Take my Muses last tribute— this painful
ndi' u '
Take my wish, thai your bright social circle
on 1 .11 (h
For ev. r may Sourish In concord and mirth ;
lor the long years of joy 1 have shared ut
your board,
Take the tbanla of my heart— where they
long have bt en stored ;
And remember, when Time tolls my last part*
Ing km 11.
The ' old bard " dropped o tear, and then lade
ye — Fan \\ 1 II !'
But he paid other honorary and
poetical visits to his dear brethren
and children of the Sttaks at inter-
vals in his remaining lifetime, al-
ways welcome, always jocund nnd
gsy and affectionate. Morris died
at the patriarchal age of ninety-
three, dying even then, as Curran
said of him that he would, 'in his
youth;' ami only a few years after
he had favoured a select number of
friends by singing, to his own ac-
companiment on the pianoforte! tho
air of ' The Girl I left behind me/
in a bookseller's shop at Hoiking.
The Beef-steak has conferred a
designation upon other incorpora-
tions besides those we have men-
tioned—upon one, namely, which
was established at the Theatre
Koyal, Dublin, in 1749, under the
presidency of Mrs. Peg Woffington,
the only lady admitted to its cele-
brations; on the club in Ivy Lane,
in the classical neighbourhood of
Newgate Market and Paternoster
Bow, of which Dr Johnson was a
member; on a political association
called the Bump-steak, or Liberty,
Club, the members of which w< re
in enthusiastic opposition to Sir
Robert Walpole'a administration ;
and on still another, instituted l>y
Beard, Dnnstall, Woodward, Gifford,
and others, at the Bell Tavern,
Church Bow, Hound-ditch. From
this last circumstance let any curled
darling! of fashion or of literature,
on tho look-out for a new sensation,
an 1 thii king. I aply, of establishing
a Beef-steak club ut the Toad-in-a
Hole, Shadwell, bo encouraged to
Anecdote and Gossip about Clubs,
'J 37
persevere. They aro surely on the
road to fame
- In glancing at the Beef-steak
Club and Society, we have neces-
sarily arrived at a point from which
it becomes us to retrace our steps
for nearly a couple of centuries, in
order that we may enact the rhap-
sodist to the multiform glories of
the Kit-Kat Club, formed about
the year 1700, towards the latter
end of the reign of King Wil-
liam III. The origin of its peculiar
designation is variously accounted
for. Pope, or Arbuthnot— for the
authorship of the lines is unsettled
—sings: —
• Whence deathless Kit-Kat took its name.
Few critics can unriddle :
Some say from pastry-cook it came,
And some from Cat and Fiddle.
'From no trim beaux its name It boasts.
Grey statesmen or green wits;
But from the pell-mell pack of toasts
Of old cats and young kits.'
This epigrammatic derivation leads
to the conclusion that it was named
from its well-known custom of
toasting ladies after dinner. The
supposed sign of the Cat and Fiddle
(Kitt), mentioned, to be discarded,
in the foregoing lines, offers another
solution. But there is a third,
which— if we are not to suppose that
the title was a haphazard one to
which theories of its etymology were
adapted, and which was retained on
account of its singularity — is deserv-
ing of attention.
The Kit-Kat Club had their first
assemblies at a house in Shire Lane,
near Temple Bar, which was occu-
pied by a pastrycook named Chris-
topher Katt, famous for his skill in
making mutton-pies, a dish from
which the club itself, and the viand
which formed the piece de resistance
at their entertainments, took its
name.
' A Kit-Kat is a supper for a lord,'
says the prologue of a comedy of
1 700 ; but Dr. King, as Mr. Timbs
points out, is in favour of the pie-
man. Says the Doctor, in his ' Art
of Cookery ' —
• Immortal made as Kit-Kat by his pies.'
'Ned Ward/ says Mr. Timbs, ' at
once connects the Kit-Kat Club with
Jacob Tonson, "an amphibious
mortal, chief merchant to the
Muses." Yet this is evidently a
caricature. The maker of the
mutton-pies Ward maintains to be
a person named Christopher* who
lived at the sipn of the Cat and
Fiddle, in Gray's Inn Lane, whence
he removed to keep a pudding-pye
shop, near the Fountain Tavern, in
the Strand. Ward commends his
mutton-pies, cheese-cakes, and cus-
tards, and the pieman's interest in
the sons of Parnassus ; and his in-
viting " a new set of Authors to a
collation of oven trumpery at his
friend's house, where they were
nobly entertained with as curious a
batch of pastry delicacies as ever
were seen at the winding-up of a
Lord Mayor's feast;" adding, that
" there was not a mathematical
figure in Euclid's Elements but
what was presented to the table in
baked wares, whose cavities were
filled with fine eatable varieties fit
for the gods or poets." Mr. Charles
Knight, in the " Shilling Magazine,"
No. 2, maintains that by the above
is meant, that Jacob Tonson, the
bookseller, was the pieman's
" friend," and that to the customary
" whet" to his authors he added the
pastry entertainment. Ward adds,
that this grew into a weekly meet-
ing, provided his, the bookseller's,
friends would give him the refusal
of their juvenile productions. This
" generous proposal was very readily,
agreed to by the whole poetic class,
and the cook's name being Chris-
topher, for brevity called Kit, and
his sign being the Cat and Fiddle,
they very merrily derived a quaint
denomination from puss and her
master, and from thence called
themselves of the Kit-Cat Club.'"
The Kit-Kat was the great Whig
club of Queen Anne's time, and at
its commencement was composed of
thirty-nine members, amongst whom
were the Dukes of Marlborough,
Grafton, Devonshire, Richmond, and
Somerset ; the Earls of Dorset, Sun-
derland, Manchester, Wharton, and
Kingston; Lords Halifax and So-
mers ; Sir Robert Walpole, Van-
brugh, Congreve, Granville, Addi-
son, Maynwaring, Garth, Stepney,
and Walsh. In later days it num-
288
Anecdote and Gossij. about Clubs.
Ixrod tlio greatest wits oi the age
among its members.
The Club subscribed in 1709 tho
stun of four hnndred guineas for tho
enoouragi meni of pood comedies,
and is also Famous for the enoou*
!in nt it ( xvi d< rj to art. Pope
writes to Spenoa: ' Von have heard
of the Kit-Cat Club. The master of
the house where the club met was
Christopher Katt; Tonson wis sec-
retary. * * * Jacob (/.-., Tonson)
has In's own and all their pictures,
by Sir Godfrey Kneller. Each
member pave his, and In: is going to
build a room for them at Barn
Kims' Tiusi portraits were all of
one size, thirty-six inches l>y twenty-
eight; and the mime of theClnbhas
been thence used extensively to
designate pictures of these dimen-
sions.
The Club hold its summer meet-
ings at the Upper Flask, Hamp-
•■ id lb ath.
Bui the culminating glory of the
Kit Kat, after is political, literary,
and artistic characteristics have
been duly honoured, was in its
spirit of gall intry. It was still the
custom, at tho timo ot its institu-
tion, to call upon the name of some
lair maiden, and chaunt her praises
over the cup as it passed. Tho
Kit- Kat reduced this custom into a
system; and every meml>er was
compelled to name a lieauty, whoso
claims to the distinction of being a
t of the Club were then dis-
■ d ; and if her charms were con-
spicuous enough to give her victory
m Mich an ordeal, a separate bowl
WAS dedicated to her wen-ship, and
v. m I to her honour wero engraven
ipon it. Sumo of tho mr»st cele-
brated of tho toasts had their pic-
tures hung up in the club-room;
and to be the favourite of the Kit-
Eat was an "'';■ ct of no small am-
bition. Lady Mary Wortley Mon-
tagu had attained this distinction
at the ripe age <,| eight years. Lord
Dorchester, her father, afterwards
Duke of Kingston, gave on one oc-
. ill ' the pretty little child ' for
bis toast; but the other members,
who had DOl Seen the young as-
pirant, de mur red to her canoniz-
ation until her pre ence had been
secured by her father. When the
little beauty was produced, how-
ever, all disaffection and all objec-
tions at once were slam, and she
was passed from memki to ad-
miring member, from knee to dand-
ling knee. Another e< lebrated toast
of the Kit- Kat, mentioned by Wal-
pole, was Lady Molyneux, who, ho
says, died smoking a pi|>c. Other
favourites were Lady Qodolphin,
Lady Sunderland, Lady Bridge-
water, and Lady Blontbermer, all
daughters ot the Duke of Marl-
borough ; the Duchesses of Bolton,
St. Alton's, Richmond, and Beau-
fort; Mrs. Barton, the friend of
Swift, ami niece of Sir Laac Newton,
and other ladies too numerous to
mention.
Tho poet of the Kit- Kat, par
excellence, was Sir Samuel Garth,
the physician and friend of Marl-
borough, with whose sword he was
knighted by King George I. fie is
poetically known in these days
chiefly by his ' Dispensary,' a satire
upem the apothecaries, lit was a
jovial memher, and a witty man.
One night, lx sing at the < 'lui>, and in
love with the wine and the com-
pany, he had completely forgotten
the fifteen patients whose names ap-
peared on his list of the day, but
whom he had so far left unvisitcd.
When it had liecome too late to call
upon them, ho excused himself to
Ins brethren ot the Kit-Kat by da
elaring that it was no great matter
whether he saw them that night or
not, ' For nine of them,' said be,
' have such bad constitutions, that
all the physicians in the world can't
save them; and the other six have
such- good constitutions that all tho
physicians in tho world can't kill
them.' The laissez-fairt of such a
speech it would be difficult to l>eat.
Charles Montagu, Earl of Halifax,
was the M; eon as of his day, whom
I 'npe described in tho character of
Bulb.
Praad as Apoil". "ii oh forked liHl,
Bal (tall-blown Rofo, puffed bjr every quill;
1 ed tUont .ill day Ihiir,
1 Im went band In band In long.'
But Bufb would himself enjoy the
honours of ■ p hb4 ; and his claim to
this character reposes in part on the
es which he wrote for the toast*
ing-glasses of the Kit-Kat Club in
Anecdote and Gossip about Clubs.
239
1703. The following are two or
three of them : —
Duchess of St. Alban's.
'The line of Vere, so long renown'd In arms,
Conclude s with lustre in St. Alban's charms.
Her conquering eyes have made their race
complete;
They rose in valour, and in beauty set.'
Lady Mary Churchill.
' Fairest and latest of the beauteous race,
Blest with your parent's wit, and her first
blooming face;
Born with our liberties in William's reign,
Your eyes alone that liberty restrain.'
Duchess of Richmond.
'Of two fair Richmonds different ages boast.
Theirs was the first, and ours the brightest
toast ;
The adorers' offerings prove who's most
divine,
They sacrificed in water, we in wine.'
Besides the illustrious Club of
■which he was a member, the ' Spec-
tator' has registered societies of
nearly every conceivable degree of
eccentricity, and where he could not
discover, has pleasantly invented or
caricatured. We propose to follow
his guidance for a few pages, either
when he deals with what are pro-
fessedly historical clubs, or when
he celebrates the laws and usages of
what Mr. Bright, in a facetious mood,
might, if he pleased, designate the
'Spectator's' 'fancy' clubs. We
may, in encountering these last, be
pretty sure that they have a cer-
tain degree of verisimilitude; and if
their titles and objects are obnoxious
to ridicule, it is tolerably manifest
that they are the portraits in dis-
temper of other societies whose
bonds of brotherhood were scarcely
less ridiculous than these clubs of
the imagination. When we hear a
man's nose hyperbolically measured
by the foot, we may take our oath
that that imposing feature is at
least a hair's breadth more developed
than that of ordinary people. Bidi-
cule itself can flourish only as it is
nourished by truth and as it is in
some way or other evolved from it.
Be thy spirit with us, oh most elo-
quent of the sons of silence ; and
may our silvern speech grow ruddy
whilst we sojourn within the sparkle
of thy gold !
' Every one,' says the ' Spectator,'
' has heard of the Club, or rather the
confederacy, of the Kings. This
grand Alliance was formed a little
after the return of King Charles
II., and admitted into it men of all
qualities and professions, provided
they agreed in this surname of King,
which, as they imagined, sufficiently
declared the owner of it to be alto-
gether untainted with republican
and anti-monarchical principles.'
Another Club, founded on the Chris-
tian name common to its members,
was that of the Georges, which held
its meetings at the sign of the
George on St. George's day, and the
pet characteristic oath of which was,
Before George!
There was in the days of the
Merry Monarch a Club of Duellists,
of which every member had called
out his man, and the president of
which had approved his valour by
killing half a dozen in single com-
bat. The other members toi k their
seats according to the nun,b_r of
their slain. 'At a side table were
ranged those who had only drawn
blood, and who were therefore reck-
oned as acolytes or postulants. This
Club owed its dissolution to a
majority of its members being cut
off by the sword or the executioner,
not long after its institution. Verily,
of Clubs, as of individuals, it may be
said, ' Whom the gods love, die
young.'
La a certain market town, which
for reasons of delicacy the ' Spec-
tator ' does not name, we hear of a
Club of Fat Men, who, superior to
the charms of sprightline-s and wit,
met only with the benevolent idea of
keeping each other in countenance
Two doors of different dimensions
opened into their room of meeting ,
and if a candidate stuck fast in his
endeavour to enter by the smaller,
he was brought round to the larger,
by which he entered to be saluted as
a brother. This Club, as the ' Spec-
tator ' heard, ' though it consisted of
but fifteen people, weighed above
three ton.'
The Society met with an ill-
natured opposition from the Club
of Scarecrows and Skeletons, who
represented their well-conditioned
foes as persons of dangerous prin-
ciples, and sought to deprive them
of the magistracy on this plea.
210
Anecdote and Gossip about Clubs.
The Clubs thus became factions,
and rent for an hile the Bociety of tho
town ; till u truce was concluded,
in \ irtne of wl Ich each of the two
Clubs i lected one of the two bailiffs
of the town, 'by which means tho
principal magistrates are al this day
coapled like rabbits, one fat and one
lean.'
The Hnmdrnm Club and the Mum
Cluhwi re societies for the encourage-
ment of silence, where honest gentle-
Den ol pacific dispositions sat toge-
ther smoking, meditating, and saying
nothing, till midnight The Two-
penny C'luli was an institution of
artisans on I mechanics, whose laws,
as giving 'a pretty picture of low
life, the ' Spectator ' was at the pains
to transcribe from the wall of tho
little alehouse where was their ren-
dezvous. The curious reader may
find them in the number for Satur-
day, March 10, 1711.
.Mr. Alexander Carbuncle, writing
from Oxford, gives a humorous
account' of a certain Clul> which had
h. mi instituted in his University.
Remarking on the prevalence of such
hebdomadal societies as the Punning
Club, the Witty Clnb, and the
Handsome Club, he proceeds to in-
form the ' most profound ' Mr. Spec-
tator of a Society which had been in-
corporated in burlesque of the last,
and which had the generous audacity
to call itself the DglyClub. It con-
I of a President and twelve
fellows, who were eligible according
to certain statutes entitled ' The Act
of Deformity.' Of this code Mr.
Carbuncle is kind enough to volun-
e or two: —
•I. That no Person whatsoever
shall lie admitted without a visible
Quearity in his Aspect, or peculiar
• • of Countenance , of which tho
I at and < IfficerS tor the time
being are to determine, and tho
li lident to have tho casting
Vo.
II. That a singular Regard bo
had, u)i-ii Examination, to the Gib-
bosity of the GentTi men that offer
tin \ : ders' K 1 11 -in' 11 ;
or to the Obliquity oi then- Figure,
in whal ■' r.
'III. Thai if the Quantity of any
Man's N" •• !"• 1 minentlj mis-calcu-
lated, whether as to Length or
Ho adth, h< shall havcajustrreteneo
to he elected.
'Lastly, That if there shall be
two or more Competitors for tho
same Vacancy, ca-terit paribus, ho
that has the thickest Skin to havo
the Preference.
' EjVsrt fresh Member, upon his
first Night, is to entertain the Com-
pany with a Dish of Co d-tish, and a
speech in Praise ol /Esop; whose.
Portraiture they have m full Pro-
portion, or rather Disproportion,
over the Chimney ; and the lr Design
is, as soon as their Funds are suffi-
cient, to purchase the lb ads of
Thersitet, Dune Scotus, Scarron,
Hudibras, and tho old Gentleman
in Oldham, with all tho celebrated
ill Faces of Antiquity, as Furnituro
for tho Club Room.'
Although tho Club throw open
its privileges to lady aspirants, no
candidate of the gentler sex had
offered herself, up to the date of Mr.
Carbuncle's letter, although that
gentleman did not yet despair of
female recruits. The motto of tho
Society seems to have been: ' Le
lieau, e'est lo laid.' It encouraged
tho poetry of ugliness. A Mrs.
Touchwood, upon the loss of her
two fore-teeth, became tho subject
of a congratulatory ode ; and Mrs.
Vizard, having been extensively
manipulated by the small-pox, and
so rendered reasonably agly, becamo
'a top toast in tho Club.' Tho
'Spectator/ whose faco was not
quite so long as it was broad, had
the touching honour of being ad-
mitted ' informis societatis socius'
on tho strength of his own testimo-
nial, and without previous personal
examination. The recipient .of so
delicate and singular a distinction
Was not a little sensible of the
favour, stamping as it did the ('lul)'s
approval at once of his deformity
and veracity.
But his measure of gratification
was not yet tilled. A month or
two alter, he was invited to be ad-
mitted <"/ - undi m in a like corpora*
tion, the Cluh of 1 fglj Paces, esta-
blished at tin sister university. Tho
Cantab who conveyed this invitation
is jealous for the honour of his
alma mater, and argues for tho
superior antiquity of his Club over
Anecdote and Gossip about Clubs.
241
that of the Oxford one, ihe former
having been originally instituted, as
ho says, with an air of most innocent
mystery, 'in the merry reign of
K— g Oh-lcs II.' The Cambridge
man's letter would indicate that his
Society were not all volunteers, and
enlarges upon the subterfuges to
which the modesty of proposed
members drove them to escape from
the eminence and responsibility of
its fellowship. This comparative
reluctance to identify themselves
willingly with ugliness would appear
to have been discriminative of the
Cantabs, who some years after in-
stituted a Club, confined to tb em-
selves, called the Beautiful. The
' Athenreum ' says that ' the mem-
bers — men, of course — painted
dimples on their cheeks, if they did
not already possess them ! This
was at least reported. This Club
held that the neckcloth made the
man. One of the members is said to
have remarked, " When I undress
at night it is like heaven ! But a
man must suffer in order to be cap-
tivating !" ' The poor fellow is to
be pitied for his torture ; but Nar-
cissus and Adonis, our faithful
readers, to whom Nature has been
more bountiful, will hardly recog-
nise the necessity which mastered
him. And that the present writer
may venture to combine comfort
with elegance may be pretty well
inferred from the fact that our
travelling passport last year de-
scribed our face with not less poetry
than precision, as offering a fair
idea of Apollo in his better days —
when, that is, his face had become a
little bearded, and dashed with a
portion of the severer dignity of Jove.
Let us be humble, my brothers.
The Cambridge correspondent
triumphantly — to himself, at least —
vindicating the antiquity of his own
Ugly Faces over the Ugly Club of
Oxford, assured the ' Spectator ' that
the former were of coeval date with
the ' Lowngers,' a Club of ' the same
standing with the University itself.'
The Lowngers were a sect of Philo-
sophers who bore an external and
nominal resemblance to the Peripa-
tetics of old, but who did not
slavishly imitate the latter in such
minor matters as studious specula-
VOL. XI.— NO. LXIII.
tion and the imparting or the ac-
quirement of instruction. There
seems to have been something, in-
deed, about their lofty indifference
to the gravest sublunary things
which argued an Oriental genea-
logy. One of their grand crusades
was against Time, who, as a general
foe and destroyer, they voted ought
to be himself destroyed and mur-
dered without mercy. Cowley, who
was once of Trinity College, Cam-
bridge, may possibly have belonged
to this venerable fraternity, if we
may trust the following eloquent
lines of his ' Complaint :' —
' Business ! the frivolous pretence
Of human lusts to shake off innocence ;
Business ! the grave impertinence;
Business ! the thing which 1 of all tilings hate ;
Business ! the contradiction of thy fate.'
These lines are presumably a poetic
rendering of a maxim of the Lown-
gers, ' that Business was designed
only for Knaves, and study for
Blockheads.' The more accomplished
of these philosophers of negation
would contemplate a sun-dial for
several consecutive hours ; less ad-
vanced fellows would find their at-
tempts at attaining the supreme in-
difference they cultivated diverted
by street signs and shop windows,
by the news that a butcher had re-
lieved a calf from its burden of mor-
tality, or that a cat had added a
batch of kittens to the population of
a mews. The speculative reader
may profitably compare with these
western philosophers the Nihilists
of the farther East, and the fourteenth
century Omphalopsychites or Umbi-
licani of Mount Athos.
The Amorous Club was another
Society which had its head-quarters
at Oxford. The members were all
in love; and by their rules were
obliged to celebrate the objects of"
their affections in becoming verse.
No man was thought good company
at its convivial meetings who did
not sigh five times in a quarter of an
hour ; and every member was reck-
oned very absurd if he was so self-
contained as to return a direct
answer to any question. 'In fine,
the whole assembly was made up oi
absent men, that is, of such persons
as had lost their locality, and whose
B
Aurr.h I. and Go >■>;■ nbont G<ub*.
minds nnd b « I kepi com-
pany w i'h one anoi bi r.'
Tl: >us t Hub was an asso-
ciation of men who were allow* d
e pretensions to intelli ct, but
in whom this was dominated by the
t, But the Fringe-< Hove Club,
u metropolitan institution of f< ehle
imitators, was simply a refuge for
destitute, who, having no store
of brains to furnish expr< ssions for
their . vented it all on their
dress, winch was calculaN 1 to show
them visibly to the world as [ov<
They were such fool— ish persons,
as Mr. Carlyle would compassion-
ately call them, even bt fore their
wits had l" en unpaired by the in-
tensity of their affections, that
'their irregularities could not fur-
nish BUfficient variety of folly to
afford daily now impertinences.'
This paucity of invention was in
I ml the death of the society.
The Everlasting Club is worthy
of being d< s iril i d in the ' Spec-
tator's' own words. In his number
for Wednesday, March 23, 1711, he
: • A friend of mine complaining
of" a Tradesman who is related to
him, after having represented him
as a vary idle, worthli - I 1 How,
who 11- [ ct dhi l amily.an I penl
the most of his time over a Bottle,
told me, to conclude his Character,
that be was a member of the Ever-
lasting Club. So very odd a Title
raised my Curiosity to inquire into
the Nature of a Club that had BUCh
• ounding Name; upon which my
friend gave me the following Ac-
c /unt :
• I'm-: I'.r ■ Club consists
of a hundn d Members, who divide
the whole twenty-four Hours among
them in such a manner, thai
Club sits Day and Night from one
end of the N 1 at to the other; 110
Party presuming to rise till they
are reb< n d bj those who arc in
course to BUG 1. By this
meani a Mi ml er of the
cinh i;e\c r v. impany ; lor
tho' li< is not upon Duty him-
k I f, he is mre to find Some who
are; bo thai ii h< be di p 1 to
take a Wh< t. b N ling, an Even-
li t, or a Bottle
Inigbt, 1 to the ( lub, and
liuds a kno*. oi Friends to In- Mind.
' It is a Maxim in this Club That
the Steward ne\er diis; for as they
succeed each other by way of Rota-
tion no man is to quit the great
Elbow-chair which stands at the
upper End of the Table, till bis Suc-
cessor is in He 1 lines- to till it, inso-
much that there has not been tkSede
r icante in the Memory of Mm.
• This Club was instituted towards
the laid (or as BOme Of them say,
about the Middle of the Civil Wars,
ami continued without Interruption
till the Timeoi the Great Fire, which
burnt them out, and dispersed them
for several Weeks. The Steward at
that time maintained his Post till
he had like to have b en Mown up
with a neighbouring House (which
had been demolished in order to
stop the Fire); and would not leave
the Chair at last, till he had emptied
all the Bottles upon the Table, and
received repeated Directions from
the Club to withdraw himself. This
Steward is frequently talked of in
the Club nnd looked upon by oven
Mi mber of it as a gr< iter .Man than
the famous Captain mentioned in my
Lord Clarendon, who was burnt in
his Ship because lie would not quit
it without Orders, lie said that to-
wards the close of 1700, being tho
Great Fi ar of Jubili e, the ('lub had
it under Consideration whether they
should break up or continue their
ion; but after many Speeches
and l'ebates, it was at l< ngth agree 1
to sit out the other Century. Tin's
Resolution passed in a general < Hub,
.\i nn ' a- { 'ontrudic*
'Hwin; given this short Account
of the Institution nnd Continnati >n
of the A'' rlasting Club, 1 shall here
endeavour to lay something of the
Manners and Characteristics of its
nl Memb W, which I shall do
irding to the best Lights I have
r. ceived in this M
'It appears by their Books in gene-
ral, that since their first Institution
they have smoked Fifty Tun of To-
baCCO, drunk thnC ad Butts
Of Ale, ( me Thou and Hog hi ids ot
Bed Port, Two Hundred Barrels ot
Brandy, and a Kilderkin of Small
!;• er. There I vise bi en a
great Consumption ot Cards. It is
also said that tip y obsi I've the I. aw
Bt n Jon oil's Club, which orders
Anecdote and Oosxip about Clubs.
24 J
the Fire to bo always kept in (focus
perennis r.s/o) as well for the conve-
nience of lighting their Pipes, as to
cure the dampness of the Club-
Boom. They have an Old Woman in
the nature of a Vestal, whose Busi-
ness it is to cherish and perpetuate
the Fire, which burns from Genera-
tion to Generation, and lias seen the
Glass-house Fires in and out above
an Hundred times.
'The Everlasting Club treats all
other Clubs with an Eye of Con-
tempt, and talks even of the Kit-Kat
and October as a couple of Upstarts.
Their ordinary Discourse (as much
as I have been able to learn it)
turns altogether upon such Adven-
tures as have passed in their own
Assembly ; of Members who have
taken the glass in their turn for a
week together, without stirring out
of the Club; of others who have
smoaked an hundred Pipes at a Sit-
ting ; of others who have not missed
their Morning's Draught ior twenty
years together. Sometimes they
speak in raptures of a Eun of Ale in
King G7;arZcs'sBeign,and sometimes
reflect with astonishment upon
games of Whist which have been
miraculously recovered by Members
of the Society, when in all human
probability the case was desperate.
'They delight in several old
Catches, which they sing at all Hours
to encourage" one another to moisten
their Clay, and grow immortal, by
drinking, with many other edifying
Exhortations of like nature.
'Tkeee are four general Clubs
held in a Year, at which Times they
fill up Vacancies, appoint Waiters,
confirm the old Fire- Maker or elect
a new one, settle Contributions for
Coals, Pipes, Tobacco, and other
Necessaries.
' The Senior Member has lived the
whole Club twice over, and has been
drunk with the Grandfathers of some
of the present sitting Members.'
The title of the preceding Club
has a sort of affinity with that of the
Last Man Club, which, beginning
with a certain number of members,
was never to admit a new one. A
bottle of port wine was sealed up
in the room in which they assem-
bled, and when only one member
survived it was to fall to him to sit
in the room and drink tho wine to
the memory of the dead ! It is taid,
however, that when only two mem-
bers survived, they met and emptied
the magnum between them. Poor
fellows! neither of them dar-ed to
face the notion of the ghostly soli-
tude in reserve for the longest liver.
He would be doing a pleasant and
benevolent service to ' London So-
ciety' who would, in the spirit of
Gay, sing a new ' Trivia, or the Art
of Walking the Streets of London,'
adapted to the peculiar trials and
crosses of the current year. Since
the 'stamping out' of the garotte,
the slaughter of human beings in
the streets of the metropolis — a
branch of industry which is carried
on at the rate of 3 1 3 annually, in leap
year 314, being one death for each
day in the year, exclusive of Sunday,
which is generally a day of rest in
this profession — has been confined
to draymen, carters, and cab-drivers.
But early in the last century, when-
Gay wrote the 'Trivia' referred to,
there were nightly perils to life and
limb arising not only from profes-
sional plunderers and murderers,
but from young dissipated bloods
and rakes who incorporated them-
selves in clubs for the prosecution of
amateur violence. To slit noses, to
crop ears, to gouge out eyes, to roll
ladies in barrels down Snow Hill,
and other amenities of a like nature,
were their ordinary exploits. In
the third part of the ' Trivia,' which
exhibits rules for the safe and com-
modious traverse of the streets by
nkh v , Gay thus advises his reader —
■ Where Lincoln's Inn, wide space, is railed
around.
Cross not with venturous step; there oft is
found
The lurking thief, who while the daylight
shone
Made the walls echo with his begging tone :
That crutch, which late compassion moved,
shall wound
Thy bleeding head, and fell thee to the
ground.
Though thou art tempted by the link-man's
call,
Yet trust him not along the lonely wall ;
In the midway he'll quench the flaming brand.
And share the booty with (he pilfering band.
Still keep the public streets, where oily rays, '
Shot from the crystal lamp, o'erspread the
ways.'
B 3
241
Aufl'ti uwt CiOMip about Club*.
And again —
•Now u the ihne Hint mkeatheli revel* keep ;
Ktadten ol i lot enemies ■ t tie p
Hid tbe Dying. .Nieki-r lllns-i
And »ui. Um coppex ibowei ii» caaemeni
Wbo i, ia d i bean the mldnlgbl
rune?
Who baa do! trembled al tbe M.>' w It's nami i
Waalherea michman feiok blab ly rounda,
Baft from tbeil blowa, or new-iiiv.nt.il
"illlM.U .'
1 p.isj ihoir desperate deed*, and mtacblefl 'I me,
Where Iron SnowbiL black ateepj torrenti
'IIP .
How matrons hoopoe wiunr. tin Doganead'a
wo t>.
Wen tumbloi tajou tneno ; the 'oiling
tomb
O'er tiie atonee thunden bound! Iron suit to
tide
So Hi kuI us tn ^iv. hi: i>i iurj died '
With such ]>orils to encounter
from truculent fopa and tools on the
one hand, and from professional
marauders on tho otliei — not to
mention the ill-lit, half-paved, mud-
drenched condition of the thorough-
fares — it is not wonderful that tho
graver Londoner found it advisable
to shorten the distance between his
home and his club as much as pos-
sible. This led to the formation of
what were called Street Clubs, where
tho householder or inhabitant of a
particular street would be able to
enjoy the society ot his neighbours
at a tavern within easy reach of his
dwelling. To such aclubtho'Spec-
tator' whimsically refers: 'There
are,' he says, 'at present in several
Parts of this City what they call
Street-Clubs, in which the chief In-
habitants ofthe Street converse to-
gether every night. I remember,
upon my enquiring after Lodgings
in Ormond . v '/"/, tho Landlord, to
recommend that Quarter of tho
Town, told me, there was at that time
a very good Club m it; ho also told
mo, upon further Discourse with
him, that two or three noisie Coun-
try Squires, who wero settled there
tho Year before, had considerably
sunk the Price ol Eouse-Bent; and
that the Club (to prevent the like
Inconveniences for the future') had
Thoughts of taking every SOUM that
became vacant into their own Bands,
till they had found a Tenant tor it,
of a sociahlo Nature and good Con-
versation.'
Gay has mentioned tho Nicker,
the Scowerer, and tho Mohock
amongst those who made the night
of London hideous. ' Jiut it had
been for many previous years the
favourite amusement of dissolute
young men to form themselves into
Cluiis and Associations for commit-
ting all sorts of excesses in tho
public streets, and alike attacking
orderly pedestrians and even de-
f ncelese women. These Chilis took
various slang designations. At tho
Restoration they were " Mums" and
" Tityre-tus." They were succeeded
by the "Hectors" and "Scourers,"
when, says Bhadwell, " a man could
not go from tho Bote Tavern to tho
l'iazza onco but he must venture
nis life twice.'' Then ?amo the
" Nickers," whose delight it was to
smash windows with showers ot
halfpence; next wero tho "Hawk-
aoites ;" and lastly, tho " Mohocks."
Tho last are described by a cor-
respondent of tho ' Spectator' as 'a
set of men (if you will allow them
B place in that Species of Being) who
have lately [ i 7 1 2 J erected them-
selves into a Nocturnal Fraternity
under tho title of the Mohock-Club, &
Name borrowed it seems 'from a sort
of Cannibals in India, who subsist
by plundering and devouring all tho
Nations about them. The Presidi it
is styled Emperor of >'••■ Moh
and his arms area Turkish Crescent,
which his Imperial Majesty bears at
present in a very extraordinary
manner engraven on his Forehead.
Agreeable to their Name, the avowed
design of their Institution is Mis-
chief; and upon this Foundation all
their Rules and Orders are framed.
An'outrageous Ambition of doing all
possiblo hurt to their Fellow-Crea-
tures, is the great Cement ol their
A isembly, and the only Qualification
required in the Members. In ordi r
to exert this Principle in its full
Strength and Perf< ction, they tal e
care to drink tin in elves to a pitch,
that is, beyond the Possibility of at-
tending to anv Motions of Reason or
Humanity ; then make B gei eral
Sally, and attack all that are BO un-
fortunate as to walk the Sti
through which they patrol Some
are knocked down, others Btabbed,
others cut and carbonadoed. To
Anecdvle and Gustsij) ub tut Clubs.
245
put the Watch to a total Bout, and
mortify some of those inoffensive
Militia, is reckoned a Coup d' eclat.
The particular Talents by which
these Misanthropes are distinguished
from one another, consist in the va-
rious kinds of Barbarities which they
execute upon their Prisoners. Some
are celebrated for a happy dexterity
in tipping the Lion upon them ;
which is performed by squeezing
the Nose flat to the Face, and boring
out the Eyes with their Fingers.
Others are called the Dancing-Mas-
ters, and ttach their Scholars to cut
Capers by running Swords through
their Legs; a new Invention, whether
originally French I cannot tell. A
third sort are the Tumblers, whose
office it is to set Women on their
heads and commit certain Barbari-
ties on their limbs. But these I
forbear to mention, because they
cannot but be shocking to the Beader
as well as the Spectator.'
In addition to the Lion-Tippers,
the Dancing-Masters, and the Tum-
blers, there was another species of
the genus Mohock called the
Sweaters. ' It is, it seems, the Cus-
tom for half a dozen, or more, of
these well-disposed Savages, as soon
as they have enclosed the Person
upon whom they design the favour
of a Sweat, to whip out their Swords,
and holding them parallel to the
Horizon, they describe a sort of
Magic Circle round about him with
the Points. As soon as this Piece
of Conjuration is performed, and the
Patient without doubt already be-
ginning to wax warm, to forward
the Operation, that Member of the
Circle, towards whom he is so rude
as to turn his Back first, runs his
Sword directly into that Part of the
Patient wherein School-boys are
punished ; and as it is very natural
to imagine this will soon make him
tack about to some other Point,
every Gentleman does himself the
same justice as often as ho receive3
the Affront. After this J ig has gone
two or three times round, and the
Patient is thought to have 6weat
sufficiently, he is very handsomely
rubbed down by some Attendants,
who carry with them Instruments
for that purpose, and so discharged.'
To allay the panic which the pub-
lication of such particulars was cal-
culated to provoke, it was contended
on the other hand that the Mohocks
had only an imaginary existence,
and were 'like those spectres and
apparitions which frighten several
towns and villages in her Majesty's
dominions, though they were never
seen by any of the inhabitants.
Others are apt to think that these
Mohocks are a kind of bull-beggars,
first invented by prudent married
men and masters of families, in order
to deter their wives and daughters
from taking the air at unreasonable
hours ; and that when they tell them
the Mohocks will catch them, it is a
caution of the same nature with
that of our forefathers, when they
bid their children have a care of
raw-head and bloody-bones.'
Whether or not the Mohocks were
such creatures of the imagination,
the Temple — if the 'Guardian' of
March 24, 171 3, be not scandalous
— had the merit of furnishing to
their ranks a considerable portion
of their recruits. And, at any rate,
their name was enough to occasion
some trepidation to that mirror of
knighthood, Sir Boger de Coverley,
during his occasional sojourns in
town. Swift, also, for fear of re-
"ceiving any delicate attention at
their hands, was accustomed to dis-
bi;rse the hire of a coach, when he
would otherwise have saved the
expense by walking. ' They go on
still,' [in spite of a royal proclama-
tion] he says, ' and cut people's faces
every night! but they shan't cut
mine ; I like it better as it is.'
(To be continued.)
5Wfi
OVKR A BRULE-GUEULE.
KEEN, wintry stars through Dane Court elm-trees gleam,
Down the Long Avenue the night-winds moan;
Late, by a waning tire, I sit and dream
Over a brule-gueule alouo.
Ah! Cousin Helen of the Iow-arch'd brow,
And amber hair, and dewy-violet cyc«,
Why must your Gaoe, through floating smoke- haze, now
Witchingly-winsome arise ?
And not the face it pays to love the best—
The brow, the eyes, the— well ! she calls it hair! —
Of Miss Molasses, that too-amorous West
— Indian millionaire?
Whom I should marry, everybody .'ays,
And think myself in Luck exceedingly;
A hopeless detrimental, all my days
Jew- ridden. Misery me!
It's likely I shall come to that, I fear,
Hunted by duns and my Barbadian too!
Then why on earth do I sit dreaming hero,
Penniless Helen, of you?
I, who am yet accounted worldly-wise,
Sublime in cynical philosophy,
Why do I shudder when the Dark One sighs?
— Execrate Brabazon Leigh?
That ' rent-roll Cupid,' worshipp'd Golden Calf
Of chaperons truckling at his cloven feet,
And needy belles, who stand his horsey chaff,
Cringe to his insolent bleat.
I know what brings him down to Dane Court. Ho
Has made Dp what he's pie i '1 to call his mind
To bid for Cousin Helen. Well ! she'll bo
Surely alono oi her kind
If he can't buy her ; if the blinding gold
Don t' gild the fatraighten'd forehead of the BooJ, 1
Till it so in Jove's to Dan&e. Lay hold
1 . t by the feminine n
That ' mom y m ikyth lean '—ma I of this
Dull, v. .M-calf. Jove'fl in love! He'd pay
Perhaps half a million for a lover's kisal
Don't let the chance slip awujj
Artis b N tes from Choice Pictures. 247
Be mee, mon enfant. Take him. Where's the sin?
Betises alike, love, honour, honesty,
When either bars you from the prize you'd win
Cheaply by one little lie!
And I'll become my wiser self; and take
Molasses' liberal offer. From to-night
With dreams of you and this love-folly break.
Ah ! but, in utter despite
Of all I try to be and think, your face
Again, my Helen, whom I must forget,
Rises before me with such tender grace,
Darling ! it conquers me yet.
And, so, while pale stars through the casement gleam,
And in the Dane Court elms the night-winds moan,
Still by the dead white brands I sit and dream
Fondly and sadly, alone. Rux
ARTISTS' NOTES FROM CHOICE PICTURES.
$}uncntoaarj tntrorjuring tlje 33atItfF<> to fHteS fttcftlantr a£ fate
tfvicntfs*.
USUALLY these Notes have dealt In considering a picture of this
with only parts of pictures. class, in which the painter has given
The fairest face lias been taken as an palpable shape to the conception of
illustration of the painter's ideal of an eminent writer, we have a double
female beauty, and one or two others duty to perform. We have to as-
of feebler attractions have been certain the intention of the author,
placed alongside it, to serve as foils and how far the painter has caught
or supporters. In like manner the his spirit and embodied his meaning ;
comments have treated mainly on and then, from the painter's own
the fair one's typical character, and poiut of view, to estimate his work,
the artist's greater or less success in The comedy of the 'Good-
depicting it. Here, however, we set natured Man,' from which Mr. Frith
before the reader a complete picture, has taken his subject, was written by
by means of an engraving, which, Goldsmith in 1767, and played at
from its size and careful execution, Covent Garden Theatre, under Col-
represents it as fairly as woodcut man's auspices, at the beginning of
well can. And as our pencil note 1768, exactly two years after the
differs, so must that of the pen. We publication of the ' Vicar of Wake-
propose, if jou will, to examine to- held.' It was his first effort in
gether, somewhat in detail, Mr. comedy, and his friends looked
Frith's' Honey wood and the Bailiffs.' doubtfully on the experiment. They
It may be a useful and need not be an questioned his wit ; they distrusted
unpleasing exercise. The original is his tact; they feared he could not
in the South Kensington Museum, reach the genteel taste then in
and can be readily referred to. vogue ; but they were most in
218
Artist*' NoU$ from < hoice Pi tares.
despair because he had thrown tlio
popular i<i<>l (Sally) overboard, and
was looking for his model to tlie
dramatists of the past age— when,
as he wrote in his Preface, ' little
more was desired by an audience
than nature and humour, in what-
ever walks of life tiny were most
conspicuous.' Their fears were in
a great measure justified. The play
was but moderately successful.
Audiences pref rred Kelly and his
' genteel comedy ' of False I N licacy '
— now, happily, utterly dead and
forgotten — and pronounced Gold-
smith's humour ' low.' Johnson,
however, championed the 'Good-
natured Man ' nobly. He wrote the
prologue, which was spoken by
Bensley, attended the rehearsal, was
present with Burke on the first
night, and praised the play as the
best comedy that had appeared since
the 'Provoked Husband.' There
had been of late, he said, no such cha-
racter exhibited on the stage as that
of Croaker, and, ' Sir,' continued he,
'there is all the difference in the
world between characters of nature
and characters of manners. . . .
Characters of manners are very cn-
ter taming; but they are to be un-
derstood by a more superficial
rver than characters of nature,
where a man must divo into the re-
;' the human heart.'
Praise like this was exactly what
[smith need* d and< r his disap-
pointment ' To delineate character
of this kind,' ho declared in his
Preface, ' was ln's | rincipal aim ,' and
it was this that Johnson, first of
critics a.s ho held him to be, had at
once pronounced to be the distinctive
featuro of the play; that which
rendered it the best comedy of tho
and for the perception of which
a man must dive into the re-
ef of the human heart. 'i
this last touch must have thoroughly
B itisfil d ' our little bard.' The well-
known phrase belongs to this
comedy: Johnson bad so designated
him in the Prologue, but, finding it
touched his sensitive feelings, altered
it to 'our anxious bard.' Goldsmith
not only enjoyed prai but knew
how to distinguish that which was
really appreciative; and Johnson's
commendations, wo may he sure,
helped him to bear the public's
coldness, perhaps even to make that
odd-sounding acknowledgment in
the Preface, that ' upon the whole,
the author returns his thanks to tho
public for the favourable reception
which the " Good-natured Man " has
met with.'
What he could do in comedy was
only fairly shown in 'She Stoops to
Conqui r,' produced five years later;
but the ' Good-natured .Man,' though
the plot is far from feasible, and the
way in which the incidents arc de-
veloped is ofb D quite absurd, is full
ofcbarmmgpassages, and surcharged
with buoyant humour. The author
s < ms to be bubbling over with that
kindly wit, that genial vivacity and
native; tenderness and delicacy
which are the perennial charm of his
Vicar, but which were an utter
novelty in tin conn dies of his time,
or even in those which he had taken
as his model.
The scene which Mr. Frith has
represented is laid in Honey wood's
house. The heedless young spend-
thrift has been arnsted for debt, and
Miss Richland, who is ardently-
attached to him, having heard a
rumour of the misadventure, d< ter-
mini s to call upon him, avowi dly
to thank him for 'choosing her little
library,' but really to ascertain
whether the report is true— she
having, however, first directed her
lawyer to pay his debts. Iloney-
wood in his perplexity, as the bailiffs
will not, of course, sutler him out of
their sight, determines to introduce
them to the lady as his friends. Ho
has already bribed them to be on
their best behaviour ' in ca^o com-
pany comes,' and be now directs his
servant to detain Miss Richland for
a moment whilst the: worst clad of
tho two dons his blue and ge>Iil suit,
' the first that comes to hand.'
Probably, al the ftrsl glance, most
who look at the picture with at all u
Critical eye', fancy that Mr. Frith has
exaggerated the vulgar ob equiotu-
D( B8 Of one and the coai x r brutality
of the other bailiff. But exa
ration and coarseness are not faults
into whuh Mr. Frith is often (if
i ' tray< 1 ; and u cursory ex-
amination of the play will show
that he has not so i rred here. Tho
Artists' Notes from Choice Pictures.
249
bailiffs are thorough jail-birds— cari-
catures of the class we should have
supposed them to be had any one
elso so represented them ; but Gold-
smith unluckily knew the sort of
men only too well, and he has
evidently drawn them carefully, and
was rather proud than otherwise of
the portraiture. His compatriots
indeed judged otherwise. On the first
night, the bailiff scene nearly proved
fatal to the piece. Afterwards, as the
author tells us, 'in deference to the
public taste, grown of late, perhaps,
too delicate, the scene of the bailiffs
was retrenched in the representation.'
He, however, thought too well of it
to let it be lost ; and so when he
printed the play, for his own satis-
faction, and ' in deference also to the
judgment of a few friends, who
think in a particular way,' the scene
was restored. ' The author,' he con-
tinues, ' submits it to the reader in
his closet ; and hopes that too much
refinement will not banish humour
and character from ours, as it has
already done from the French
theatre.' The reader in his closet
will certainly thank him for having
restored a scene so essential to the
development of the story, and which
undoubtedly contains both humour
and character in a marked degree,
whilst all who see this picture may
thank him for an additional pleasure,
however unintended or unanticipated
by the author.
As the ' Good-natured Man ' is es-
sentially a comedy of humour and
character, Mr. Frith must be held to
have succeeded or failed— apart from
and antecedently to his technical
failure or success— in proportion as
he has appreciated the subtler
humour of the scene and delineated
the character of the actors in it : by
no means an easy task for a painter.
The chief personagesare Honey wood,
Miss Richland, and the bailiffs; let
us look at them in succession.
Honeywood, the Good-natured
Manof the comedy, is an open-hearted,
generous young fellow — ' immensely
good-natured,' as Lofty sneeringly
remarks — with ' that easiness of dis-
position which, though inclined to be
right, had not courage to condemn
the wrong ;' who, consequently, was
easily led into debt and difficulty,
and whose errors were the ' errors of
a mind that only sought applause
from others.' ' Splendid errors,'
Goldsmith makes the good uncle,
Sir William Honeywood, call them;
' splendid errors, that still took
name from some neighbouring duty
— charity, that was but injustice;
benevolence, that was but weakness,
and friendship but credulity.' Gold-
smith in drawing this amiable, un-
selfish, affectionate, but too ductile
character, was, one cannot but feel,
painting from the life— himself the
sitter. Only the genius is wanting
to make the portrait complete.
Miss Richland appears in the play
only when her presence is absolutely
required. She is the favourite of
every one, including the author.
' The most lovely woman that ever
warmed the human heart;' and
Goldsmith has done his best to
credit her with intellect as well as
beauty. Even her maid, Garnet — ■
herself an eminently shrewd body —
wondered how ' so innocent a face
could cover so much cuteness.'
The bailiff, Timothy Twitch, is a
coarse, rough-speaking fellow, who,
rating his rude insolence as wit,
holds that ' a joke breaks no bones,
as we say among us that practise the
law ;' and, after his insolence, cring-
ing for a bribe, declares, ' I am sure
no man can say I ever gave a gentle-
man, that was a gentleman, ill usage.
If I saw that a gentleman was a
gentleman, I have taken money not
to see him for ten weeks together.'
His follower, little Flanigan, ' has a
good face, a very good face ; but
then he is a little seedy,' and so is
put into the blue and gold suit.
But his face is not his only recom-
mendation. ' There's not a prettier
scout in the four counties after a shy
cock than he. Scents like a hound ;
sticks like a weasel.' Both are alike
vulgar, of the pot-house type of
vulgarity. One would say they were
not quite the men for their vocation ;
not active enough, nor sly, nor sleek
enough ; but, as was said before,
Goldsmith had been himself in the
hands of bailiffs, and knew the
tribe.
These are the personages as Gold-
smith describes them: now let us
turn to the picture, and see how
2:.0
ArtmtH Notes Jrtm Choice Pictures.
Frith has painted them. They arc
arranged, as will be Been, in two
distinct groups: the bailiffs on the
right, Boneywood and Miss Rich-
land, with her maid, on the left; a
sort of natural repulsion keeping
them well apart - one of those in-
stinctive proprieties that frequently
notice, but always mark the
true artist lint not only are tho
groups thus opposed by their pi
in tho picture, the contrast of refine-
ment with vulgarity is equally
brought out by the quiet, well-bn d
ease of one set of persons as com-
pared with tl rat l attitudes
of tho others in their awkward at-
tempts to appear genteel. And
here, in this first broad general
view, may he observed the concord
of the attitudo of each, the position
of the limbs and the movement of
tho hands, with the expression of
their respective countenances ; and
along with tin's the simplicity and
naturalness of the individual pose,
and of the arrangement of the
whole.
The central figure of the compo-
sition is the Good-natured Man.
Honeywood is a tall, (dim young
fellow, very gentlemanly, very goo 1-
looking, evidently amiable, and, like
the original, rather insipid. Though
in a morning habit, he is faultlessly
attire 1 according to the fashion of
the mi Idle of the last century.
Ovt r an< abroidered silver-coloured
silk waistcoat, with long flap-pock-
ets, brown velvet breeches, and silk
stockings.he lias thrown negligently
along yellow dressing-gown, so as
to show the blue lining. His right
hand holds lightly the tips of his
visitor's Bn| with assumed
nonchalan », he introduct s to her
' two of mj v< ry grv d frit nds, Mr.
Twitch and Mr. Flanigan.'
'I be i xpn ion of .Mi- i d's
I balf-pnzzle 1 bul now
gliding into certainty, as she looks
e uncouth sp< cimen oi
humanity, is n ry happily n nd( n d.
You can B< I . and follow step by
step, hi r . as plainly as though
you In ard it — ' Who can tb< e odd-
looking mi n be? I i- ar il I
v. informed. It musl be
Bliss Richland is all e of
Mr. Frith s I rta She is
bending in a gracious hut formal
OOUrb BJ an attitude that seldom
appears graceful in a picture, and
here she is evidently constrained by
involuntary repugnance of the -men
to whom she is paying this outward
tribute of respect yet there is no
question possible respecting her
ease and breeding. As Goldsmith
B of Mdllu. Clarion, ' Her first
appearance is excessively engag
And her elegance is not merely
superficial. She has tho perfect
ease and polish of good socit ty,
but there is the charm of frankness
and innate kindliness. Lovely as is
her face, it is bettered by the sweet-
ness, tenderness, and intelligence
that irradiate it.
It is not till you have well studied
her face that you observe how Ix.-
comingly and unobtrusively she is
attired, and how skilfully the artist
has noted the rich dress and pt cu-
liar fashion of the time— how free,
in a word, from all awkwardness
and ostentation the costume sits.
For the benefit of our fair readers
who may not have immediate ac-
to the original painting, we
will make a brief note oi Mi-s Kich-
land's attire, not very accurate, per-
haps,,for we are utterly ignorant in
mercery, but sufficient to supple-
ment the i ngraving. It is, it will
be remembered, the morning walk-
ing dress of the days when George
the Third wai youi g, or a little
earlier; the days when
•Oft in dreamt Invention they'd bed >w
I <> cfa mge a il iuni e, it ad i .1 Curb Ijw.'
The flounced and furbelowed petti-
coal -plainly the main feature, tho
pith and BBS) QOe of tho dress, that
which serves as support and motive
of all the rest — is a rich, figured,
pale drab lutestring ; and over if is
the open skirt, also of a light silk,
but of a different texture and more
my hue. The bis )k bat is lined
with crimson taffety, which, with
the large red b >W at hi r bosom,
Berves, as a painter would say, to
cl( ir and brighten, or, as we might
phrase it, to set off, or give health
and tone to her pearly complexion,
II r hands are gloved, the left n
ing in Boney wood's, the rigid in a
natty ht'lo figured sill: inutT A
short black cloak complete., a very
Arliuls' Notes from Choice Pictures.
251
pretty and ladylike costume. And
the ladylike character of her beauty,
dress, and bearing is rendered the
more obvious by the contiguity of
the plebeian good looks and plainer
habit of her maid, Garnet, standing
immediately behind her.
With equal distinctness, though
with more appearance of effort, is
the vulgarity of the opposite group
brought out. Twitch, the principal
bailiff, a churlish, broad-shouldered
fellow, not having had time to don
a suit of Honeywood's, is accoutred
in his own rough brown horseman's
coat, long red waistcoat, velveteen
shorts, and dirty top-boots, his
thoroughly blackguard costume
being completed by a coloured
belcher twisted untidily about his
neck, and a curled coachman's wig.
A glance is enough to account for
Miss Richland's dislike; but it needs
a perusal of the play to be satisfied
that the make-up is not overdone.
In little Flanigau's genuine Hiber-
nian face, red shock hair, and ob-
sequious bow, we have the low Irish
runner exactly hit off. Mr. Frith
has put a brass-headed constable's
staff in the hand behind his back,
seemingly to indicate more clearly
his office ; but for this purpose it
was hardly necessary, and for any
other it was not wanted. Flanigan
would scarcely have taken out his
emblem of authority in such a
presence, at least after what had
occurred between him and Honey-
wood. To us it seems the one mis-
take in the composition, and Mr.
Frith, if ho were to repeat the pic-
ture, which he is not likely to do,
would, we have little doubt, omit
it.
The two groups are, as was said,
entirely distinct and strongly con-
trasted. But observe how cleverly
Mr. Frith has, by a simple little in-
cident, connected them, and, at the
same time, enforced the contrast
between them. In taking Honey-
wood's hand Miss Richland has let
slip from hers the ribbon by which
she held her spaniel, and he has
run forward, and is now looking up
and sniffing suspiciously at the bail-
iffs, marking, as significantly as dog
can, his scorn of ' the vulgar rogues.'
And observe, on the other hand, how
skilfully the principal group is, to
speak technic dly, carried out of the
picture by Honeywood's servant
standing with the half-open door in
his hand, watching furtively the
curious rencontre ; hinting by his
sly looks at what has gono before,
and indicating the out-of-the-way
character of the scene. And fur-
ther, whilst noticing this little evi-
dence of artistic completeness, we
may be pardoned for calling atten-
tion to the marks of study in the
introduction of the various accesso-
ries, their propriety, careful execu-
tion, and yet entire subordination.
Apart from the conception of cha-
racter and dramatic power, the
composition and execution of the
picture would attest it the work of
a consummate artist.
The 'Catalogue of the Sheep-
shanks Collection,' to which this
picture belongs, says of Mr. Frith
(with some unnecessary dislocation
of grammar), ' The thoroughly Eng-
lisn character of his subjects have
made his works great favourites with
the public' There can bo no doubt
that the English character of his
works has done much towards in-
suring their popularity. But he is
so great a favourite in reality be-
cause he represents familiar scenes
and agreeable subjects not only with
scrupulous accuracy, but with ex-
quisite tact and refinement— quali-
ties rarely found in previous painters ,
of similar scenes — thus lifting them
out of the category of mere common-
place imitation, and breaking the
chain of traditional treatment. He
thus, while in his earlier works
taking a position between Leslie and
Mulready, vindicated his claim to
originality of conception and treat-
ment, and originality is what the
public seldom fails to recognize.
The secret of his originality, we
suspect, lies in his having had the
good fortune or courage to select a
class of subjects exactly correspond-
ing to his personal tastes, and
working them out in his own way.
And this seems the more lib ly
from his inferior success in subjects
chosen for him, and when working
under enforced conditions. Take,
for example, his ' Claude Duval,' op
even * The Railway Station.' Evety
252
Skflc'irs of the Engtith Bench and Bar.
line and touch exhibits ilio oon-
Bcientiooa labour bestowed upon
tl em, but cvi ry line is equally want-
ing in spontaneity.
But we must not part from the
picture )h i re us without remarking
how well it illustrates Mr. Frith's
anxiety to make even the simplest
ect 11- ]' rfect as possible. Tho
in re carefully it is examined, the
more clearly will it be seen that
every part has been deliberately
studied, probably before a touch
was given to the actual painting,
and that it was then patiently
wrought out, with a continuous re-
gard to each part, and to tho effect
of the whole. As it now appears,
the seeming case with which it has
been executed might lead an in-
cautious observer to underrate tho
labour bestowed upon it. Undoubt-
edly it was painted with comparative
facility, but such facility could only
have resulted from long years of
intelligent practice.
SKETCHES OF THE ENGLISH BENCH AND BAR.
Ill
(The late 2.oriJ
Sir Fbkdkriok Pollock, it was
well said some ten years ago,
is a 'wonderful and venerable
man;' and, of course, he is now
even still more wonderful and
\( n< Table. There is no one living
who, at his great age, and after a
life of such unceasing exertion,
retains such wonderful vivacity
and vigour. Bis countenance,
which reminds one of that of an
old lion, bears the impress of
intellect, energy, and thought. It
is the countenance of one lifted
^ With a great intellect, which lias
been highly educated and nobly
• raised. It is the head of a
man who was a senior wrangler
some half a century ago, and who,
after Mime thirty years of forensic
struggles and forensic triumphs,
ant twenty years of judicial
labours, Bnds his recreation in the
mo t ab truse mathematics, and
at the same time is playful and
ant n a child. There is the
great & Lord Chief
Baron's fivacity and vigour. Ee
has always b. . u in In art and spirit
a boy. \Vh< n a boy, he must I
lw en of a noble and manly character,
and win D lie is an old man, his
In art retains the fri -hne-s of a
Ixiy's. He i one ol tho i of \\ horn
our : tso b intifully Bpoaks,
who in their youth were tempi
and abstinent —
Chirf Saxon.
• Therefore his age Is as a lusty winter,
Frosty but kimlly.'
There is no one upon the Bench
— We lament that he is there no
longer— Who better deserves Q place
in Ha Be pages than the late Lord
Chief Baron, both because of his
amazing vigour of mind, and his
marked and remarkable character,
and also on account of the interest
he takes in matters of literature,
science, and art Wo believe there
is not a single judge whose mind
takes such a wide range, and at tho
same time penetrates bo deeply into
science. He tak( s a deep interest in
every branch of science or of art;
is President of the Photographic
Institution, and not long since pre-
sided at one of their assemblies;
and art! they not proud of tho
\t in i able old man ?
The prevailing characteristic, of
the Lord Chief Baron's countenance
is oneof solemn dignity— one might
almost say majesty. There is no
judge on the Bench nor has t!
ever been within living memory —
one who equalled or ev< n rest mbled
him in this. Any one who looksat
his photograph or portrait must bo
struck with it. There is Borne thing
in it wonderfully expressive of intel-
lect, energy, and dignity. There is
a combination of these attributes
to be ob* rvi d reflected in it, to bo
looked for in vain in any other jup
I ■ '12 J
SIR FREDERICK POLLOCK.
Slcdches of the English Bench and Bar.
253
dicial personage. In repose, the
expression is one of mild, calm, in-
tellectual dignity, with an immen-
sity of latent energy ; and when
that energy is raised, the aspect of
the countenance is majestic.
He certainly was a wonderful
man, that old Chief Baron. His
intellect was perfect, though his
bodily strength was weak. For a few
hours in a day he could still apply
the mighty power of his mind to
legal labours, and the vast aid they
derived from practice and experience
would for a time more than counter-
balance his physical weakness. He
was weak, however, and could not
do much work at a time, and a long
hard day's work was too much for
him. While his strength lasted,
however, his vigour and vivacity
were wonderful at his age. His
utterance and mode of speaking
were always exceedingly energetic
and empnatic,and there was a certain
measured, stately tone of delivery
which wonderfully enhanced its
dignity. While at the bar, bis
oratory was remarkable for dignity ;
and there was no advocate who
assumed so lofty a tone, and gave
one so much the idea of .Roman
dignity. This tone and manner,
of course, were well suited to the
Bench, and while Sir Frederick
sat in the Exchequer he carried
himself with as lofty a dignity as
any one in living memory. He was
good-natured and genial withal; but
his countenance and manner were
always remarkable for a certain
solemnity and dignity, which were
his chief characteristics, and in
which no judge on the Bench
equalled him. Having so enlarged
and cultivated a mind, he had great
variety of ideas, and clothed them
with a happy felicity of language ;
and all this, united with his dignity
of delivery made him a most effec-
tive and emphatic speaker. His
annual addresses to the Lord Mayor
in the Court of Exchequer were mas-
terpieces of that species of eloquence
in which very few men excel. Pro-
bably there is not a man on the
Bench who could have delivered
them. There was, however, about
the Lord Chief Baron, at times, an
overbearing vehemence of tone and
energy of language perfectly
astounding in so old a man; and
if it were not that he was so very
old and venerated, it would not bo
tolerated. He was, however, re-
garded with veneration, not merely
as an old man, but as a very
wonderful old man, as he still is.
His style of speaking upon the
Bench was sometimes, perhaps, too
discursive: he was fond of philo-
sophic generalities ; he digressed, as
the wags of the Bar would say,
'into all manner of disquisitions
upon abstract moral questions ;' but
still his ideas were fine, and his
style was grand ; although, as his
manner was always very solemn
and emphatic and Johnsonian, the
exaggeration of it in those moods of
his was somewhat amusing. The
fine old fellow had a nap pretty
regularly, about the middle of the
day. His waking, however, was
often exceedingly comical. He
would start up, seize his pen, and
with imperturbable gravity say to
the counsel who was arguing,
' What page did you cite ?' as
though he had been following him
closely through all his citations.
For the most part he left the ordinary
work of his court to his puisnes,
who were very fond of their chief,
and were very glad to do his work
for him as far as they could ; and
if the Bar were dissatisfied, they
bore it, from admiration and venera-
tion for him, and a melancholy feel-
ing that, with all his faults and
failings, he would leave a sad gap
in Westminster Hall, and it would
not be easy to replace his vast
power, his majestic dignity, and the
matured wisdom of his long ex-
perience.
This, indeed, was what the old
man said himself, when they pressed
him to resign. ' Find me,' he proudly
said, 'a man whom Westminster
Hall will deem my equal, old as
I am, and I'll resign to-morrow.'
There the old man was right. Who
could sit in his place without pro-
voking painful comparisons ?
They tell a capital story of the
Chief Baron : that one who wished
him to resign, waited on him, and
hinted at it, and suggested it, for his
own sake, entirely with a view to
254
Sketches of the English ll-nch and B tr
the prolongation of Ms valued life,
ami bo forth. The old man i
mill Baid with his grim, dry gravity,
' Will .Mm dance with met The
pit* st stood Qj hast, as 1 1 10 Lord
( hief Baron, who prides hin
particularly upon his tegs, began to
caper abonl with a certain youth-
\ i a ity. Se ling lis visitor
standing Burpi I I up
to him, and said, ' Well, if you
won't dance with me, will yon box
with And with that ho
ire 1 ii]) to him ; and half in
,]i Bt, an 1 half in earnest, fairly b
him out of tho room. The old
Chief Baron had no more visitor.;
anxiously in miring after his health,
and courteously suggesting retire-
ment.
Even then, when there was a case
which has great interest, as the
of the ' Alexandra,' or the caso
of Muller, he ' warmed to his work,
and did it, if not well, at all events
with a wonderful vigour and an
energy which at his age was really
marvellous. Memory, however, be-
gan to play him tricks; he was,
like all oil men, fond of relying on
it, and that was a dangerous habit for
an old judge, for it may fail him,
and li a I him into Bad mistakes.
But 1 ll< no doubt of tho
vivacity and vigour of the old man's
mind; aid, though his voice was
: i till it retained H j
I I, emphatic, utterance, it-;
dignity of delivery, its im] i
sive manner, and its solemn tone.
The peculiar characteristic of t]
I ion's featun s is a certain
.My. This aspect they
when he w.isaroi: -. d
to . Ei ii ways i p ike in
the ham ired and emphatic
i iften was tho
• •'.)<: of his voice,
in the h< al of argument or • n
when he was im] i m,
arid declaimed with v< hen ei
Th< i I'" QCfa who
united, to such a dignity and
-y. At t, was
almost imp i ion l ; yet he d<
• this dignity "f manner and
emphatic, dogOJ ' nity of
; [■■ i • ami . in l< i l, d
d itic and di the rnon
ippo < d.ar o ■ ■'■'< d pro]
f-itions ns if he were pronouncing
Benh nee. When his mind was I'm |y
engagi d in argument, no oi e can
have an idea of his vehemence
and vigour : and he was a match,
in tin se moods, lor the whole
Bar put together. lie was like au
old lion at lay . and woe to any
■one who came near him. lie would
lay in the dust ad who dared to
him, and then toll his
arms, lean back on his seat, and
look calmly and proudly d
upon them, appearing at such
moments what he oi doubb dly was
— a wonderful and vein table man.
The Lord < 'hn t Baron was prone
to the expression of strong general
views, which he conveyed in a man-
ia r emini nently characteristic, with
an idiomatic vigour and originality
almost amusing. 'If,' said lie, on
lie occasion--' if every man were to
take advantnge of eve ry occasion to
have "the /"""of his neighbour,
life would not he lorn for the
litigation which would result. All
■ l would I' turru d >i>t<>
plaintiffs "ml defendants!' The
■ r must imagine this uttered in
a slow, distinct, deliberate, solemn
, with considerable < i r jy, and
a raising of the tone at the words in
italics. This may serve as a speci-
men of the Lord Chief Baron's style.
it is full of the emphatic uth rai
of general principles, or broad
moral sentiments, which he SOme-
tiine; makes tho basis of his 1.
views; whence it is that tlay were
often uncommonly loo-') and un-
' ictory ; and, though sometimes
the- utterances of the old man had
a breadth of view, and elevation of
which, united with great dignity
and energy of ( xpr< i in, made
t 1 em < I" [uent, they often broke
away from the bounds of law, and
have fforded amp for
| TV.
Lord Chit f Baron \ ipt
to t 'I i broad I old \ iews, and to
act upon them boldly and abruptly,
by directing .'i i or v. edict
for the deft ndai ' Pollock's
tits' passed into a byword;
and a distinguished advocate now
on the Bench has Ik en hi od to
■ ( ih. it v.is one of the Chief
a'a ma suits !' Not long a o.
Sit ■'<:!) es oj the English Bench and Bar.
255
in a ca c e of some magnitude, in
which a host of eminent men were
engaged on either side, ho took
upon himself suddenly to direct
a nonsuit, absolutely astounding
every one on both sides ; there
being evidence both ways, and a
strong case for the jury. The non-
suit was, of course, set aside, though
it was in his own court ; he himself
could scarcely attempt to uphold it.
There is not a single judge but
himself who would have ventured
upon that nonsuit; nor has there
been one within living memory who
would have dared to do it. The
old Chief Baron had been always
characterised by a high tone of
lofty audacity ; and he had not yet
lost that trait. Age, with him, had
certainly not brought timidity ; on
the contrary, it seemed to have
brought greater boldness : the auda-
city had augmented with his years.
Such a nonsuit as that, at an age of
nearly eighty, was probably without
parallel in legal memory.
Sir Frederick has a fondness, not
only for science and literature, but
for art; and several arts he prac-
tises himself— photography, for in-
stance. He possesses also a won-
derful skill in caligraphy, which he
is fond of turning to purposes of
amusement. He practises all sorts
of innocent deceptions upon his
friends, being able to imitate any
handwriting perfectly. He once
wrote a most absurd opinion, in the
name of a learned friend of his at
the Bar, and sent it to him, per-
plexing him most painfully by its
apparent genuineness and its mon-
strous absurdity. There was the
signature— or what seemed to be so
-and the handwriting ; apparently
beyond all doubt : but the matter —
it was downright, stark nonsense.
The poor barrister could not make
it out, until, all of a sudden, he
remembered the Chief Baron's skill
in caligraphy, and was consoled,
and at the same time amazed and
amused beyond measure at his illus-
trious friend's success. On another
occasion, it is said, the Chief Baron
forged the signature of a triend of
his— an eminent dramatic author —
to an 'order' tor admission to a
theatre— having already got a genu-
ine one, 'and desirous of seeing
whether he could counterfeit it.
lie did so, and substituted the
forged one for the genuine one ;
and it was so perfect a counterfeit
that it was passed as readily as
the genuine one would have been,
which the Chief Baron retained, to
show to his literary friend, and
triumph over him in his cali-
graphical skill. His friend said,
' Why, my Lord Chief Baron, you
would have made a first-rat \ former !'
' Shouldn't I ?' said the Chief Baron ;
'I should have beaten Fauntleroy
out and out, and even surpassed the
illustrious Patch.'*
The Lord Chief Baron was proud,
as well he might be, of his age, — or
rather, of his perfect possession of
his mental powers, and his fitness
for judicial duties at such an age.
' 1 am' (he is fond of saying; 'the
o!de-t judge who has ever been
known to sit on the English Bench.
1 am eighty-two. Lord Mansfield
never, I believe, sat after he was
eighty.' There sire stronger in-
stances on the Irish Bench, wo
believe,; but then the work of an
Jrish Chief is nothing to that of an
English Chief: and no one ever
dreamt that the Lord Chief Baron
was not perfectly able to discharge
his judicial duties with efficiency,
so far as mental power went.
The Lord C'uef Baron was proud,
as weli he might be, of his family,
and his descendants. Being lately
asked if he had yet attained the
dignity of a great-grandfather, he
answered, proudly, ' Yes, indeed ; I
have five sreat-grandchildren.' He
added, ' The total number of my
descendants is sixty-five.' What a
patriarchal dignity and happiness
the old judge had attained unto ! He
had indeed, in the language of Scrip-
ture, lived to see his children's
children, unto the third and fourth
generation. At the last assizes at
Kingston — the last at which he
ever sat — one or two of his grand-
children, some fine young girls, the
daughters of one of his sons, were
sitting beside him on the Bench:
* The man who in the last century kept
up for a series ot years the most astounding
system of forgery on the Bank, as narrated
in ' All the Year Round.'
256
Sketches of the Bmglith Bench and I>ar.
and it was pleasant to Bee DOW be-
nignly the old man looked upon
them from time to time, and now
tl eir f.tir yi aog cl ei ks Hashed with
happy pride as he Bmiled, and
said a u u playful words to them ;
and how delighted, and with what
affectionah rent ration his son —
then fiathei — looked upon them.
Alt. it was a fine family
picture ; and one oonld not fail to
tl al all that domestic happint js
can bring a nan in his old age had
fallen to the lot of the Lord Chief
Baron, and thai he was loved and
honoured by Ins children and his
childn n's children.
sir Frederick is just the sort
of old man that young people are
ml of. Grave, yel plaj ful ; with
a quiet, gentle gravity, as of a great
intellect taking its last calm look on
life, and looking at all around it
with a loving spirit, blended with
natural playfulness, ever breaking
out in many a graceful pleasantry;
a calm and cheerful temperament,
as of a man who has made the most
of life, and spent it wisely, and feels
it now drawing towards a close,
desin a to be at peace with all, and
with thankfulness and cheerful'
to yield it up when called upon.
Sir Frederick is a man whoso
juvenile energy, vitality, and viva-
city are pi rfi ctlj inexhaustible.
There was a st >ry current not long
ago, that he had actually, at his
\eii, rable age, taken a fancy bolearn
nan '. and in order that he
might read German works \ Anyone
who has the most distant idea of the
difficulty of learning the German
language— especially at such an
advanced age ami of the depth
and extent of German literature,
will be at once amazed and amused
at the idea of a judge, at the
of eighty-two, proposing to
1< ani that ho with the object
of rending that literature'. What a
thorough confidence in his own
vitality ; what a consc of
his own onwai and
unwavering powers this she
We do not know l ow far the Fact
is literally true ; but we beard it
as currently reported among the
liar, and we have reason to
E it to Ihj true: and even if it
1)0 not literally correct, we are suro
that there was some foundation for
it; and the very currency of such a
story shows the Bense universally
entertained of the chief Baron's
( xhaustless ( nergies.
It is a remarkable fact, that of the
three 'chiefs,' sir Frederick Pollock
was by many years the oldest, and
that he was decidedly — on the whole
— the youngest, in the elasticity of
his energies, and the buoyancy — we
might say tho boyishness— of his
spirits. There wasjust ten years' dif-
fl rence in their respective a-* s: sir
A. Cockburn, 6a; Sir W. Erie, 72;
and Sir F. Pollock, 82 ; and though,
no doubt, Sir W. Erie was more
robust, and could stand a longer and
harder task of judicial labour, at a
time, than either of the others, yet
in point of elasticity and buoyancy,
and unwavering freshness of vigour
and vivacity, tho Lord Chief Baron
surpassed the two other, and tar
younger Chiefs, albeit he was full ten
years older than one, and twenty
years older than the other.
At length, however, the decline
of physical strength warned the fine
old man that it would be wiser ami
bitter to retire, while his mental
powers remained unimpaired, an I
fully able to enjoy tho repose of re-
tire neiit. Long may he live to en-
joy it!
Till': LORD CHIEF BARON,
SIR FITZROY KELLY.
Sir Fitzroy Kelly was, win n ele-
vated to tho Bench, the father of
the English Bar; at all events, there
was no one at the liar of an emi-
nence equal to his in age and
standing in the profession. JIo was
contemporary with Erie and Pol-
lock, and bad retired from ordinary
practico about twenty years, about
tho period they had lxen on the
Bench. His features thoroughly 1 x-
\ the chief trait of his forensic
character — deep, earnest, concen-
trated energy. There was a won-
derful compressed energy in his
and manner of delivery, every
word weighted with dei p empha
— in this respect resembling Erlo,
only with more perfect elocution.
Sketches of the English Bench and Bar,
257
LORD CHIEF BARON KELLY.
VOL. XI. — NO. LXin.
Sketches of the English Bench and Bar.
259
It would be impossible to look
upon the countenance of Sir Fitzroy
without seeing, even if one had
never hoard anything of his previous
career, that he was a man of re-
markable energy. Deep, condensed,
concentrated energy is the predomi-
nant idea his countenance conveys,
combined with a kind of keen,
pierciug, suspicious penetrativeness
of glance. There is no intellect, no
genius, no engaging air of frank-
ness ; it is the look of a man of a
determined, iron energy, and a man
by nature and character, keen,
watchful, and wary.
Sir Fitzroy had great forensic
power. His only fault was mo-
notony ; and that had grown upon
him with years. When a younger
man, he had so much warmth and
energy as to hide it ; but of late
years it was observable, and there
was a tautology and a tediousness
which gave a dulness to his delivery ;
but still, under all this dulness you
could see the remains of a first-
rate forensic speaker and a for-
midable ad vocate ; and even to the
last, when warmed by a great cause,
there would break forth some flashes
of his former eloquence, showing
that 'even in his ashes burn the
wonted fires.'
Sir Fitzroy, however, had so long
retired from ordinary practice —
twenty years at least— that he had
become half-forgotten in Westmin-
ster Hall ; and few who saw and
heard him on the rare occasions of
his appearance there could remem-
ber his forensic achievements thirty
years ago, when Follett, and Pol-
lock, and Erie were at the Bar, and
Lyndhurst sat where he sits now.
During that long interval he had
been more of a politician than an
advocate, and he had achieved a par-
liamentary position and reputation.
He had, however, acquired enormous
experience at the Common Law Ear
before he left it; he went a good
deal into Chancery, and the House
of Lords, and the Queen's Bench, in
great cases; his mind, of course,
was much enlarged by his par-
liamentary career. He has great
gravity, and some dignity of manner :
he preserves the proper demeanour
of a judge ; is calm, patient, pains-
taking, and considerate; and keeps
his Court well in order; and a< his
mental powers are still in their full
vigour, ho makes an admirable and
invaluable Lord Chief Baron.
THE LATE LOUD CHIEF JUSTICE
ERLE.
Lord Chief Justice Erie, though
some few years younger than the late
Lord Chief Baron, aud not so won-
derful a man, bid fair to be as
venerable. He is a man of less
vivacity and less demonstrative
energy. His energy is more con-
centrated, so to speak ; his mind is
less enlarged and elastic ; his
manner is more quiet and con-
strained; his countenance, though
not so majestic, has more settled
gravity in its expression; his fea-
tures are not so fine, but his face is
more grave. Then his voice, also,
is more subdued and restrained;
his utterance is slow, grave, and
sustained; with no variety of in-
flection, no alteration of tone —
monotonous, though earnest, with
a kind of unchanging emphasis,
very different from the demonstra-
tive and impressive earnestness, the
altered tones and heightened ac-
cents of the late Lord Chief Baron.
Sir William Erie was never known
to raise his voice to a declamatory
tone during all the twenty years
he had been upon the Bench. And
even when he was at the Bar, he
was strikingly argumentative —
never declamatory. His style of
speaking was plain and homely.
He has a fine fresh florid counte-
nance, with a mixture of good-
nature and shrewdness. His eyes
are keen, yet kindly, and his whole
air and aspect are thoroughly gen-
tlemanly. Yet there is a smack of
homeliness about him, and in his
voice a trace of provincialism or
rusticity. There is a compressed
energy in his delivery, shown more
in earnest emphasis than in raised
tones of voice; indeed, the tone is
nearly always the same, and this
makes it somewhat monotonous;
but its honesty, its very homeliness,
its earnest ne3s, its good sense always
win the utmost attention, and gives
great influence to what he says.
8 2
260
of the English Bench and Bar.
Be -Hi.: . 1 up in a plan
-
tain gravity of demeanour which
appro t ;h< 'I • hole
manner anil d< ex-
.! ; and as he
ible, ainl full
. he
the t'< si of our
jndj Ac he gn w ••'•!• r
the vene-
rable Tindal. He bad a sense of
or, and rather liked it;
and, not k id to a
coonael, who apologized for a Pally
of wit which Bel the court laug]
'The court is very much ol
any lean tlemanwho beguiles
tlie tedinm of a legal argnm< at
with a little honest hilarity.' hut
ho himself had no wit or humour
in him, nor any spice of that solemn
in which the old Cbief
ther he
a graver character. He re-
sembled greatly in bis occasional
of observation —
though not in the musical voice
delivery— Lord Lyndhurst.
thing in Ins
! Lynd-
hurst, before whom he practised
;!, for whom he had a
f admiration, and who m
him judge He r< -• mbled him in
the ca manner, and the
■ : .
-
ire strong —
but from ' rn com]
and r 1 Taint. !
• that, naturally, ngs
t he had for a
pi th. m
at, •
!:. He be-
• which he
■
repn
r. rtain
ranee—
whi time when
■
it is now. It '
William Eli •!
simple and wh
still it w.-is ap] i<li-
v. ry, which
of
inflection or change of tone. Sir
William El naturally of an
amiable ch.ua -t. r. Hie and
pursuits are more rural than stu-
dious; be is attached to animals,
hones and doge ; be is
fond <>t" open air i \< . ads
• of his leisure riding about,
He is not a Bportsman, for he 1
the idea of killing any living thing
rermin i, and they say be
won't have the birds Bhol on his
land, and that it i^ a paradise for
the feathered tribe He may often
when ill the e illitry, with
fondling him, and I the
very cart horses on his farm know
him. He is a thorough English
■ eman, with a. fine honest nature
fine manly tastes and pursuits.
All this you could st e mi his coun-
. and if engravings had but
colour, and could give the ruddy
freshness of his cheek, or the •
blue of his eye, you would a
in his liken it is, you can
catch the keen yet kindly ex]
sinn of his face, with his pleasant
<-t— so shrewd, so sensible, eo
genial.
v in. n wi re more beloved and
admired than sir Wi Inn Erie His
heart was even i ill his 1
and bis good and genial qual
amply excused any infirmiti s of his
mind.
A skilful | ' . gnomist would
pro' mn-
of sir William Erie, that
his a mind as bl
it is powerful : not preben-
as it is b1 p, and
not so quick in it is
ions in its hold. And tl
impressions of his mental char.;
would he tolerably a II -
much h\ any mi
so mark 1 by bn ndth as it was by
depth. H
subj went into it, but
then part
of it, rather than to embi
c »m] i the whole, Hi
powerful mind, but a mind rat
n bal it once
. than in g< tting hold of
e got
|y to 1
firm and immovable, on bis
Sketches of the English Bench and Bur.
2G1
impression of a case, as never to
alter it: in which respect he re-
sembled a good deal Baron Martin.
When Erie, they said, had formed
his impression, as to getting him
to alter it, you might as well try to
move one of the Pyramids. This
trait in his character was often, nay,
constantly displayed. It is the key
to his whole character. He himself,
in his grave, good-humoured way,
often avowed, and displayed, this
trait of character. Thus one day,
at judge's chambers, after having
been pressed very strongly for some
time against his own views by
counsel (a capital fellow, one Tom
Clark), the Chief Justice said, with
quaint good humour, ' Mr. Clark,
I'm one of the must obstinate men
in the world.' ' God forbid/ said
Tom, 'that I should be so rude
as to contradict your Lordship.'
He laughed, with the most, thorough
enjoyment. Thus, one day, after
hearing Mr. Bovill, as he thought,
long enough, against a new trial, he
rose up, stuck his thumbs in his
girdle, and, with a comic look of
humorous determination, and a sly
twinkle in his eye, as if he quite saw
the fun of it, and enjoyed it, said,
' Here we stand, Mr. Bovill, we four
men ; and we have all firmly made
up our minds ' (with an immense
emphasis on " firmly ") ' that there
must be a new trial. If you think
it worth while going on after that '
(playfully), ' why, of course, we'll
hear you, Mr. Bovill.' It need
hardly be said that even Mr. Bovill
— who himself is tenacious enough,
and utterly inexhaustible in words
— could not stand up any longer,
but sat down laughing. On another
occasion, the Lord Chief Justice
said— 'Mr. So-and-so, there is a
time in every man's mind, at which
he lets down the floodgates of his
understanding, and allows not one
drop more to enter ; and that time,
in my mind, has fully arrived 1 .'
It was, of course, hopeless to say
more: the intense emphasis with
which it was spoken made it so
expressive of relentless determina-
tion and fixed, immovable resolve.
Now, Cockburn would no more have
said either of these things than he
would have stood on his head in
open court. And no one who knows
the judges would hesitate for a single
instant, if he were told the story
without the name, as to who did
say them. It is curious how an
anecdote may illustrate a character.
There is often an idiosyncracy in a
single expression which reveals its
author, and portrays his character.
In many traits of his mental and
judicial character Lord Chief Justice
Erie resembles the late Lord Chief
Justice Campbell, with whom he
sat so long on the Queen's Bench
— the same energy ; the same iron
will ; the same grave, solid— almost
stolid — gravity and silence ; the
same slow manner, and quiet, earn-
est, dogged demeanour. It is curi-
ous to see how eminent men borrow
of each other some prevailing traits
of manner, resulting, no doubt,
partly from some resemblance in
character. There was the same
obstinacy in Campbell as in Erie.
To move his mind, once made up,
was like trying to remove from its
base one of the granite mountains
of his Dative land. And it was
scarcely less^hard in the case of Erie.
Some years ago a writer in a
quarterly described Erie as, ' Bating
a little English obstinacy, the best
of our judges on the Bench of
Common Law.' This obstinacy was
the one flaw in Erie's judicial
character, and though he was always
invested with the strongest sense of
justice, it often tended to counteract
it. It was a defect which arose from
his mental character. There was no
sufficient power in Erie's mind of
balancing opposite views. As if con-
scious of that, his great object was
to get one view firmly into his mind,
and what that shall be was deter-
mined, sometimes; perhaps, a little,
by preconceived impressions. There
was not a particle of philosophy in
Erie's mind. He was what he calls
' practical,' and he never delivered
a judgment or a charge in which
he [did not allude to /practical ex-
perience/ and the views he took
were always rather practical than
philosophical. And he had had, no
doubt, a vast deal of the practical
experience he so prized, aud he had
immense energy, and sound judg-
ment, and great power of work,
2G2
Skttckn cf the English Bench awl Bar.
and, on tlio whole, the Bar deemed
liini u ' strong ' judge.
sir William Erie, with all his
faults, ]( ft a void which will not
easily be filled. < teourriog bo booh
after the retirement of Sir Frederick
Pollock, it was tin' more felt His
r< tii« lip nt, a . it t< ok place in full
term, was a most improssivi
which none win) witnessed it will
ever forgi t. The whole Bar felt that
they bad sustain 1
ami Dover was a judge more missed
from his accustomed Mat.
MR. JUSTICE BYLE&
Mr. Justice Byles, though lie was
on the Bench before sir Fitzroy, is
a younger man than he is; audit
was only jnet as Sir Fitzroy had
reached the climax of his forensic
<■ in i r, some tw< nty years ago, that
Bylea became frequently his rival.
Tho memorable case of Tawell, in
which Mr. Serjeanl Byles conducted
the case for the prosecution, aud sir
F. Kelly for the defence, was tho
most Btrikiog occasion in which they
were brought in contact, Byle being
tin n ready for liis elevation to tho
ft DCh, and Sir Fitzroy for his re-
tirement from regular forensic prac-
.Mr. Justice Byles deserves por-
traiture in the s line class as Pollock,
and Brie, and Kelly, because ho be-
longs emphatically to the 'old
school ' — the school, for example, of
Campbell, who for thirty years was
the constant antagonist of Pollock;
ohoo] of rindal, and Kelly, and
; a grave, slow, sturdy,
methodic, i!e -orolis.d Lllliii d school,
bringing more to mind what the old
lawyers of past BgeS might 1
, and « hat, from tin ir portraits,
bould fancy t1 |ll t they w< ra
Tin pn railing characteristics of
the countenance of Byles are calm
gy, gn at cauti 'n, ai ■> tolid
gravity. There i- a remarkahleand
nnmistaki ible !•><>!; of firmness in
tin- Corel* ad, < -| ' cially just over
the i ye, Somebo ly who had set n
him in a gn I ' thi B ir of
the Lords, eaid 'he looked hko a
lion,' ai d BO he did. I an
iron . ;. about tic: forehead
and eyes aud tho whole face very
rarely met with; and his tone and
milliner of Bpeeoh was what ono
might fancy from such a counte-
nance — quiet, calm, slow, grave, sen-
tentious, with a sort of oompn
energy and iron terseness, so to
Bpeak, which is wonderfully impres-
;-l\e.
His manner, even at the Bar, was
rather judicial than forensic, and was
quite the main er of the "Id lawyers.
Jlc had more tli<' air of a judge than
nn advocate; and he seemed marked
out by nature for his present ]><»i-
tion. In this respect he resembled
the late Lord Campbell, whose great
fortt was gravity, and it is wonder-
ful what a force there is in it. Upon
his model Byles formed bis stylo.
He has tho very geshueof Campbell,
the ouly one he ever allowed himself,
- standing still and immoveable as
a statue,— and holding up his right
hand. It is a simple gesture, but
when done slowly, solemnly, calmly,
with a grave air, and an earnest
utterance, it lias an impressive ef-
fect. At all events it was all tho
action Campbell or Byles ever had,
and it went a great way with them.
Byles recalls old Campbell more
than any otlu r judge on the Bench.
There was no man at the Bar so
cautious — some said crafty — as
Byles. There is a story of one of
the Guildhall jurors being overheard
to say, when Byles enti n d the
COUrt, ' Here conies old Crafty!' He
was indeed a most formidable antago-
nist; always astute and observant;
ever watchful, and ever wary; calm,
cool, and collected; never off his
guard for an instant llewas really
such a man as you might imagine
Coke to have been, or Cecil— grave,
cold, astute, taciturn, keen, observ-
ant, cautious, suspicious, undemon-
Btrative, unimpassioned, full of
deep, quiet energy, though without
warmth, without eloqUI DCS ; thl '
eloquence, as a thing of genius and
warmth and imagination. There
plenty of force and power —
very weighty were those words of
his, Galling so gravely and with
such compressed energy from his
lips ; and even now, upon tho
ft och, in summing op an important
I, there is not a single judgo
np ui tho Bench (since Boilock)
Sketches of the English Bench and Bar.
2G3
whoso tone and manner have such
an impressive effect, such an air of
solemn dignity, as Mr. Justice
Byles. This, and a certain vein of
quaint, grave, dry humour, and a
fondness for old-fashioned ' saws '
and sayings, make him quite one
of the ' old school,' and carry us
back ages in our ' mind's eye ' to
the days of the old Elizabethan
lawyers. If any one wishes to have
an idea how they looked, and spoke,
and expressed themselves, the best
way is to look at Mr. Justice Byles.
Also, if one wishes to have a notion
of the difference between the old
school, and the new school, let him,
after looking at Byles, look at Bram-
well. If he wants to go further
back than Elizabethan times, and
have an idea of the rude, rough,
blunt vigour of older days, let him
look at Martin — or, rather, look at
and listen to him — and he will have
an idea of what judges were in ages
before they were formal and conven-
tional, as they had become in Eliza-
bethan days, and as exemplified in
Mr. Justice Byles. But, indeed,
thero would bo no need to go out
of his own court to seek at once a
resemblance and a contrast ; for by
his side sits Mr. Justice Willes,
quite Elizabethan in his aspect —
' With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut.'
and the Chief of his Court is Sir
William Bovill, keen, quick, sharp,
fluent, off-hand in his tone and
manner, quite of the modern school,
and as great a contrast to Byles as
it is possible to conceive. But that
Mr. Justice Byles belongs so em-
phatically to the old school of which
he and Sir Fitzroy are now the last
upon the Bench, it would have
been unfit to give him precedence
to the Chief Justice; and, on the
other hand, the Chief Justice must
not be brought in at the end of a
chapter, and he will, therefore, as
the head of the new school of
judges commence the next group
of sketches.
2G4
TLA vim; FOB 1ITC. II STAKES.
OB \l'l T.K VII.
KIN AND KIND.
IT was hard on Miss Lyon to be
compelled to surrender ber own
judgment on a matter that was of
much moment to her; bnt, on the
whole, it was expedient that she
Bbould do bo, and, Bince Bhe could
i insurmountable barrier to
the going, that she Bhould go as
amiably us mighl be in ber mother's
train to Mr. Talbot's house, ll.f
sole aversion to the scheme, indeed,
w i- to he found in the fact of her
distrust of Mrs. Sutton, and know-
ledge of Mrs. Sutton's dislike to her-
b< f. Mr. Talbot's hopes and fears,
and doubts and sentiments gene-
rally, respecting her, wero so many
sealed hooks to this girl, who was
genuinely indifferent to him. Had
not been this, there would have
been another disquieting element
B Ided to her state of mind on the
Sill
I When once Blanche had made up
1 1 r mind as to the inevitability, or
at any rate the a<h isability, of a
c lurse, she never paused to qui stion
the superior propriety there would
have been in persuing any other.
If the path she had taken prOV( d
miry, and the briars and thorns
by the wayside more prickly than
m. she did nol pause
to lament th< se tacts, and to specu-
on the supei ioradvanl iges pos-
Biblj ed by the roads she had
iwed. Bhe only trod more
fully, and moro untiringly
i; tho obstructions, with-
out ever baiting to bewail what
hi have i» i n.
In tin • had to
•) up her mind with ml delay,
•; having some defi-
nite opinion of her own to advance
when she met her mother in the
morning. Fell exp ri< ooe ha 1 ta
Blanche that any i I a calm
and w< ll-ba 'i of a
with Mrs. Lyon wore buill upon
i. Kirs Lyon would But ntl;
h Ion;; rolls of a I ex-
tremely improbable possibilities —
would hopefully first suggest, an 1
then assert, and t lit n proa edto pre-
a further train of fortunate
events in the fm shest manner. Hut
the lightest hint to the effect that
ber eloquence, praiseworthy as it
was in itself, had the Blight draw-
back of being founded upon Blippery
and untenable grounds, was suffi-
cient to change the joy strain into a
dirge, the pesan that celebrated ber
hop a into a piteous protest against
the fate that was always less bright
than siie had anticipated its being
live minutes before; and the daugh-
ter, who was stoutly opposed to
abiding alternately in a glittering
palace of hope ami a gloomy cavern
of despair.
' It will bo useless to talk it
over with mamma,' Blanche Lyon
thought; ' I shall never glean from
her whether it will be well for mo
to fall in with her plans or to opp
them.' So, in default of anothi r,
she talked it over with herself, ami
came to the conclusion that, :
she conld propose nothing better,
and since hi r obji ctions to the plan
were, afti r all, of a pui rile, personal
nature, that she would agree, and
6 the I , ,~t of it.
It must be und< n to id thai Mrs.
Lyon's knowledge of the world into
which she had undertaken to intro-
duce Beatrix Talbot was of tho
BCantieBt order; that her instincts
wire not those keen, bright ones
which save their poSI eSSOrs from the
thousand Snares laid on all sides for
them in social lit'-; tl at she had
C lei n known to do the I
thing by intuition ; and that all
these facts were painfully pah nl to
her child, still Blanche fi II ti at it
l ehovi d in r to be past ive, and sho
i llV( d that, BS she had to bow to
the inevitable, she would do it be-
comingly.
In her own ii q| May Mr ,
Lyon had armi d her i h for a sort of
conh st by I ii time, the mi
iog afti r i return. Bhe had
Playing for High Stakes.
'265
charged her memory with countless
precedents that bore a pale resem-
blanco to the case, and slio had come
to a comprehension of the propriety
of keeping silence about her fondest,
proudest hope in the affair. As in a
glass, darkly, she saw that Edgar
Talbot had that feeling which differ-
ent women call by a different name
for her daughter; and with greater
clearness of vision she saw that,
if her daughter suspected this, or
even suspected that she (Mrs. Lyon)
suspected it, the end would come
quickly, and would be unsatisfactory
to herself, and suicidal on Blanche's
part.
At times it was given to this
mother to have a mother's insight
into her child's feelings, and this
chanced to be one of these fine and
rarely- occurring occasions. By reason
of the little thought she gave to
him, Blanche Lyon had no fear of
being accused of ' following him
up,' or of ' throwing herself in his
way,' or, in fact, of doing any of the
delicate tactics with the commission
of which women are so apt to charge
one another. The epidemic love had
never shown itself in his case in
any of the signs with which Blanche
was familiar. He had been kind and
considerate in a gentlemanly, distant
way, that made no impression what-
ever on a girl whose father had
theoretically impressed her with the
belief that all men would be (or
ought to be) these things to her, or
to any other well-born beauty. And
this truth got borne in upon Mrs.
Lyon's mind some way or other, and
was a very shield and buckler to her
when the matter was mooted by
Blanche, who, in accordance with
her plan of putting the fairest face
on what must be, asked —
' When are you thinking of going
to Mr. Talbot's mamma ?'
' Well, it will be very desirable to
go there as soon as possible, Blanche/
Mrs. Lyon replied, with an important
earnestness that would have been
infinitely more amusing to Blanche
if the lady who displayed it had not
been her own mother. ' As soon as
possible; for poor Miss Talbot is
quite alone — no one to see after her. I
shall not be able to reconcile it to my
conscience to delay unnecessarily.'
Blanche checked a laugh, and ha-
zarded a few guesses in the depths
of her soul as to the present state of
the one to whom Mrs. Lyon designed
to play the part of guide, philoso-
pher, and friend. ' I will be no
hindrance to you, mamma. Tell me
your arrangements, and I will fall
in with them,' she said, quickly ; and
when she said that, Mrs. Lyon felt
a little disappointed, in that she
had put on such trusty armour
for nothing, and proceeded to raise
a little cloud of obstacles to a de-
parture.
' It is utterly impossible that I can
get away from here at a day's notice,'
she began, in a gentle, injured tone.
' They are not like low lodgings —
most respectable, and, I will say,
most comfortable. I cannot leave
them all in a hurry, as if I thought
them— as if they were— as if I
had '
' Certainly not,' Blanche inter-
rupted, as Mrs. Lyon floundered
hopelessly into a labyrinth of the
mistiest meanings — ' certainly not.
The longer we stay here the better,
I think.'
' There it is/ Mrs. Lyon struck in,
querulously , ' you're just like your
father, Blanche — never satisfied with
what I do, though I always try to
do for the best.'
' Well, mother, shall I say that
the sooner we go the better ?' Blanche
replied, good-temperedly.
' Ah ! there you go from one ex-
treme to the other,' Mrs. Lyon re-
sumed, looking round at the walls
and fire-irons, as if she would ask
them to bear witness to the justice
and truth of what she was saying,
— ' always wanting to do things in a
hurry, without weighing the conse-
quences — just like your poor dear
father. " The sooner we go the
better." It's easy to say that, Blanche
— very easy to say it ; but I have to
think and consider — and reflect.'
Mrs. Lyon pronounced the last
word as if it was something that dif-
fered widely from everything else
which she had declared she had to
do — pronounced it in a tone of suf-
fering triumph, and at the same time
with a conclusive air that might
almost have been the offspring of
deep thought and decided convic-
20 G
Playing fur High Stakes.
tion. Blanche ww not deluded into
supposing it to be this though, she
knew it intimately. Mrs. Lyon pre-
j wi nt on —
•I have to think ami oonsider and
reflect, as 1 hope yon will have learnt
to do when you're my age. 1 am
not going to have Mr. Talbot Bup-
t!iat I am impatii nt to go
there; and I am not going till I am
perfi 'tl\ ]>n pared and can go there
comfortably. You cat nothing,
Blanche ; what is the matter ?'
1 Nothing,' Blanche replied. The.
matter was, that Bhe was doubting
her own capability noi only of being
a passive witness 'of all this,' as she
phrased it, but of peeing others
it too: doubting her own capability
of suffering this, and determining
that if Miss Talbot proved in tho
.-lightest degree to be like Mrs. Sut-
ton she (Blanche) could not stand
it.
A few days after this tho test
commenced. Mrs. and Miss Lyon
at Mr. and Miss Talbot's earnesl
request took up their abode in
Victoria Street, and now the interest
of this Btory commences in the meet-
ing ot Blanche and Beatrix — the
two women who were born to cross
i> other's paths, to pain and in-
jure one another — to whoso intro-
duction to each other all that has
been written has been but a pre-
liminary strain.
Mrs. Sutton had blandly volnn-
red to come herself and to bring
her husband and Lionel to spend
the first evening, and ohviato any-
thing like awkwardness. She hid
made the offer to Beatrix in a sweet
oomridi rate way, that won Beatrix's
immediate acceptance of it. Miss
Talbot bad her reward when the
time an 1 with it Mrs. Sutton,
t- >r Mr. Bathursl accompanii d them,
and Mr. Bathursl had in the course
of a few meetings recommended
himsell largely to Trixy. The one
drawback she permitted herself to
Feel to the pl< asnre ol l ty on
this n was, that Edgar was
palpabh ■ touch less than pit I
tin • I'rank I'.athurst. Trixy WOUld
not permit herself to search I ir a
reason for this almost imperceptible
shade of diffi rence ; u.<l< ed, he
resolutely looked away from it when
it obtruded itself upon hor notice.
Mrs. Sutton was less scrupulous.
'Let US hope that the kinship is a
well-established fact, for they <•< r-
tainly Mem more than kind to each
other,' sho whispered to Beatrix,
while Frank Bathursl was pouring
out a plaintive, low-toned reproach
to Mi - Lyon for not having replied
to his advances towards a good
understanding long ago. And
Beatrix replied —
■ And why should they not be
more than kind, Marian? 1 know
of no reason;' and ached to know
that there was no reason, so far as
she was herself concerned, and
checked a little sigh at tho speedy
seeming defalcation of this man
whom she had only known the other
day, and tried to think ' what a well-
matched pair they would be,' and
could not heartily approve them
nevertheless.
They were a very handsome,
bright pair, a pair that took to each
other joyously and suddenly, causing
Mrs. Lyon to undergo most wonder-
ful transitions of feeding as sho
marked them. Mr. Talbot became a
mere nothing in her estimation, and
Frank Bathurst stood revealed at
once as the fitting and proper man,
foredoomed by nature and old Mr.
Lyon to marry her daughter. Sho
almost dep >rted h< rself haughtny,to
tho Talbots uinler the influence ol
this convict ion. and judiciously mur-
mured her belief in its being a well-
founded ono into Trixy Talbot's ear.
So it came to pass that more than
ono heart ached and beat high and
painfully beneath Edgar Talbot's
roof that night, alter they had
separated on tho agreement of all
meeting at Frank Bathurst's studio
the following day.
No attempt has been made to
depict what were the prevailing n u-
sations of Miss Talbot and Blanche
Lyon on this their first meeting.
The external aspecl was fair and
pleasant enough, lor they W( re both
gracious-mannered women, with a
good deal of cultivation su|k redded
to their innate r< tini nn nt ; and it
would have jarred upon their tastes
to show othl r than a very smooth
social surface'. Bui they did not
conceive and instantly develop a
Playing for High Stakes.
267
devoted attachment and enthusiastic
admiration for one another. To a
certain degree Beatrix Talbot was in
the place of power, and the half-
consciousness that she was this may
have been the cause of the shade of
restraint which made itself manifest
in her demeanour two or three times
— a shade which she strove to dispel
quickly in her sunniest way, but
which remained long enough for
Mrs. Sutton to remark it, and to
fathom the cause of it to a certain
extent.
' There is something very incon-
gruous between Miss Lyon's po-
sition and her cousin; to which
do you think her best adapted ?'
the married sister kindly asked
Beatrix ; and Beatrix replied —
' I won't indulge in vague specula-
tions about her ;' and then immedi-
ately added, ' there is something in-
congruous in Mr. Bathurst's cousin
being about in the world in this way ;
it must strike them both painfully.'
' No, pleasurably rather ; he is at
once patronizing and adoring, lord
and lover— King Cophetua on a
small scale — and a gratified artist.
Poor Trixy ! your reign is over.'
' It never commenced.'
• Indeed it did, and was not alto-
gether inglorious; traces of your
rule are to be seen in his studio ; he
has sketched you in for his Venus,
and I don't think Miss Lyon will
succeed you there, for he would
have so much trouble in idealizing
her nose into proper proportion that
he would weary of that type sooner
than of yours. We will ask Lionel
what he thinks about it. Lionel !'
Lionel came at her call, and
listened to her remarks, and then
declared himself incapable of throw-
ing any light on his friend's final
election either in the matter of
Venus or anything else. In reply
to Mrs. Sutton's inquiry, 'Should
you say he is a marrying man,
Lionel ?' Lionel answered, ' No, in-
deed ; any more than I should say
that he is not a marrying man.'
' Should you like him to marry
Beatrix?' She whispered this ea-
gerly, cutting Beatrix out of the
conversation by the low tone she
used. Lionel's reply was made
in an equally low tone.
1 No, certainly not."
'Then you know something about
him — something against him ?'
' About him, yes ; against him, not
a breath.'
' If he does not marry Trixy he
will that Miss Lyon, mark my
words.'
Lionel turned his head and looked
at the pair mentioned. ' That would
be better far,' he said.
' Why so ? you do know something
against him. Lionel.'
'I only know that he has the
germs of inconstancy in him; tho
latest thing is apt to be the best in
his eyes. If the shadow of a chango
fell, Miss Lyon would either arrest
it or be entirely uninfluenced by it.
I am not so sure of Beatrix.'
'Then you'll all come to our
studio to-morrow?' Mr. Bathurst
exclaimed, interrupting the con-
versation at this juncture by coming
up to them. ' Miss Lyon refuses to
be considered an art enthusiast, but
she is good enough to be interested
in my works; what time will you
come ?'
'Shall it be two?' Mrs. Sutton
suggested.
' It shall be two, and it shall be
luncheon,' Mr. Bathurst replied.
And then Blanche joined them, and
recommenced the old game of self-
assertion, which she had played
down at the Grange against Mrs.
Sutton, by saying —
' Until I know whether or not
the plan suits my mother, I can say
nothing.'
' Nor I, of course,' Beatrix put in,
hurriedly.
' You can go with me,' Mrs. Sutton
said, with a well-marked emphasis
on the ' you,' which completely
excluded Blanche from the proposed
arrangement.
' Thanks ; but Mrs. Lyon will
order my goings now, Marian,'
Trixy replied, with a humility she
would not have expressed if her
sister had not offered a slight to
Blanche. Then Mrs. Lyon rejoined
them with some knitting which had
been specially designed for this
evening's employment, towards
which end it had been carefully put
away in the most remote corner of
her largest trunk. She was acqui-
•2-N
Playing far High 8take»,
at mi'l anxious to oblige every
ono on the plan being mooted to
her, and then Bhewaa assailed by
saddening doubts as to her being
want* i. ' Young people like 1 being
by them she observed ; nml
then at once pz I to qualify
that statement by declaring that sho
'should Dot think of letting bliss
Talbol and Blanche go alone, not
for a momi nt.'
1 Then it is settled, mamma, wo go
at two?' Blanche Baid, hs ' y.
' If that hour suits Mr. Talbot and
y r. Bathuret' Bin. Lyon was pain-
fully anxious to propitiate every one
• i 'hat is all understood,' Blanche
explained ; and then they parti d :
Mrs. Sutton whispering to her sister,
as she took leave, ' Your duenna is
a delightful person ; your position
will l>e a touch less ridiculous than
her daughter's— there is consolation
in that:
'Thanks for offering it/ Trixy
replit-d, wearily. Then she had to
give her hand to Mr. Bathurst
' You will see to-morrow what
cause I have to be grateful to you,
Biiss Talbot,' he Baid, as her great
violet eyes met his rather reproach-
rally ; and sho could think of nothing
more brilliant to reply than 'Shall
1 indeed?'
' Yes, indeed you will ; and I owo
you another debt: you are the cause
of my knowing my cousin at last.'
'Ahl good right !' Trixy evi-
dently wanted no v< rbal reward for
; good deed; she turned away
almost impatiently from his thanks
to say ' good-bye ' to her brother.
Presently, for the first time that
evening, alias Lyon found herself
near to Lionel Talbot.
' M iy we see your picturo, too?'
she a- i 1
'I shall have great pleasure in
•wing it to you.
She laughed and Bhook ber head.
■ No, i ■ oeither i . dot rc-
lucl r any other f< el-
ing. You won't care a hit whit we
think— and you will be BO right'
dropp l b r voice sudd< oly in
ottering the laal word , ' ; y fell
apon hi i an alone.
He felt that he COUld 1
entiously say that he should be very
li interested as to what they
thought of his work; therefore ho
did not answer her for a few mo-
ments. Daring those few moments
a Blight transition took place in his
mind respecting his into rlocator,and
- i he told her, honestly enough, that
he should care for her opinion : ' and
yon will give it tome, and mo alone,
will you not?' he added, earnestly.
' So be it,' she said, lightly. ' I
have given the same promise to
my cumin. 1 should give Ihesatno
promise to a dozen men, if they
asked me— and probably break it.'
she looked up qaestioningly into
his face as she put the probability
before him.
' As far as I am concerned you
will keep it?'
« I think I shall.'
' 1 know you will.'
'And you will not care whether I
do or not. Praise or Maine, it's all
alike to you, Mr. Bathurst says.'
'And as a rule lie is right,' Lionel
replied, laughing; and Blanche felt
for a moment that it would be plea-
sant to be the exceptionally regarded
one.
CHAPTEB VIII.
' WHAT AltE THE WILD WA VI s BATING ?'
Mr. Talbot had been feeling too
profoundly dissatisfied with himself
and the result of his Bohemes for his
Bisti r's Bocial well-being, to take an
active pari in the drawing-room en-
tertainment which has just been
sketched. Absence really had made
his heart grow fonder. The months
that hal elapsed since that time of
their being together at the Qrai
had ripened his admiration tor
Blanche Lyon into love. From the
moment he looked apon her again
— string her there in his own hi i
sitting by his tin side as it' she '
at home— knowing that she would
be there to say ' goo 1 morning ' to
him when he went out, that her
welcoming word and smile would be
a thing that might be his every
night, when he came back we, nil d
with the burden and heat of the day
— the m intent he saw her again and
real ! all this, he determined to
win hi r if he could. No considera-
1. of fortune' should stay him. lie
Playing for R'ujlt Stakes.
269
would just wait for some one of his
many important ventures to come to
a successful issue, and then he
would marry Miss Lyon, if she
would bave him.
Six months ago he would not
have inserted this clauso in his
mental declaration of intentions.
But now the doubt sprang into
strong and lusty being, and would
not be banished as a mere creature
of his disordered imagination. Six
months ago he had very naturally
thought of Miss Lyon as a girl living
in deep and rarely broken seclusion,
as an intellectual creature who
would unavoidably contrast him
favourably with other breakers of
the same. Insensibly he had pre-
sumed on the position, and had
brought all his energies to bear upon
the solution of the problem of how
he should gratify himself with her
society, and at the same time keep
himself free from all suspicion of
having any intentions whatever. He
had played his cards well ; but he
began to fear that he had played
them for other people, when Frank
Bathurst came in Mrs. Sutton's wake,
and, on the unassailable plea of con-
sanguinity, monopolized Blanche's
attention — attention which she gave
with a winning gladness that planted
thorns in the pillow of the man who
knew that his reputation as a grave
business man had prevented his
getting as near to her during long
days spent together as this gay
stranger had managed to get in an
hour by aid of a certain calm auda-
city that sat upon him gracefully
enough. He compelled himself to
allow that it was natural, fitting,
and well that Blanche should be
fascinated from him by a man so
much brighter than himself; yet,
withal, he could not quite free her
from the charge of ingratitude which
his sore heart brought against her.
It was grievous to him that his love
should have been the direct cause of
her meeting with her cousin. And
now his love was nothing to her,
and her cousin would be everything.
So he told himself as he sat
sulkily behind a magazine watching
them, and being injured by them in
every tone they used and every
glance they gave. In his jealous
injustice, ho would neither bo quite
one of them, nor would he quite set
himself apart from them. It was not
the least painful prick that he got
that night when he saw that they
were unfeignedly blind to his beintr,
or having cause to be, injured. It
was almost a relief to him to blame
Marian for having brought Mr. Ba-
thurst to his house ; a relief he
sought to the full by censuring Mrs.
Sutton to her husband, who did earn
for it, instead of to herself, who
would not have done so. ' We have
only Lionel's word for his being a
decent fellow,' he said, severely, to
Mark Sutton ; ' and here is Marian
taking him into the bosom of the
family without hesitation. If I were
you, I would check it.'
' He is related to the Lyons,'
Mark Sutton said, by way of extenu-
ating Marians last offence.
' A relation they have shunned
until now, when he is thrust upon
them in my house by my sister.
Marian will do as she likes as long
as you'll let her; but I shall tell
Lionel that I can have no Bohe-
mians here while Beatrix is with me '
' He has one of the finest proper-
ties in shire,' Mr. Sutton re-
plied. ' You cant shut him out on
the score you have stated. Beatrix
couldn't do better — and you want
her to marry well.'
' Beatrix is much too sensible a
girl to care for him.'
'Perhaps you don't think the
same of Miss Lyon ?' Mr. Sutton
asked, laughingly ; but Edgar Tal-
bot only loiked moody by way of a
reply ; so Mark deemed it prudent
to turn the subject; and soon after
they had all separated, as has been
told.
It will easily be understood that
the plan of visiting the studio was a
specially obnoxious one to Edgar
Talbot. He was strongly moved
once or twice to set his face against
Beatrix's going, and, by so doing,
putting an end to the arrange-
ment. But he remembered that if
he did this it would be usurping
some of the authority over his sister
which he had formally vested in
Mrs. Lyon. In his heart he called
that lady a weak-minded, unreason-
ing, injudicious simpleton, for her
270
Playing for Ilijh Slahs.
ready acceptance of the invitation;
ami the fall force of hie own tram-
parent folly in having given her the
line flooding in upon hie
mind, lint for the time, at least, lio
was bound t<> plnok what lie bid
planted, bitterly us it pricked him.
The authority lie bad vi st. <1 in a
foolish woman must ho upheld by
him for his own credit's sake, until
Blanche married him or marred him
by iiiiu']} ing soi -<■. Hi' was
quite resolved n >w nothing but her
own will should stand between
them. So, out of consideration for
his own reputation for consistency,
Edgar Talbot placed no obstruction
in their path to tho studio the fol-
lowing day. Nevertheless they did
not reach it until an hour after tho
appointed time, divers unforeseen
accidents and events having oc-
curred to delay them.
In tho first place, Mrs. Lyon had
boon smitten with a sudden doubt
as to the perfect propriety of taking
two young girls to Bee two young
men. Hid she made known this
doubt to Edgar Tallxyt ho would
only too gladly have strengthened
it into a decision against tie' trip.
But one of those faint instincts witli
which Mrs. Lyon was endowed in
place of reasoning powers saved her
from doing tin; very thing that
Would bava l>een most pleasing to
the man she desired to phase, and
most distasteful to her daughter.
She argued, sagaciously enough,
that if she seemed to distrust her-
self and her own force of discri-
mination, that Mr. Talbot would
very probably go and do likewise.
On the other hand, she told herself
that 'two heads were lietttr than
and Blanche's being tho only
availahle head lor the service, Mis.
Lyon went and not i is stly oon-
Bulted her daughter, but grew con-
%. national about the difficulty.
'Ons really hardly knows what
to do, when there are bo many to
think about/ Mrs. Lyon commi d
going into Blanche's ro >m
that yonng lad] I I 1 fioishod array-
ing herself tor the exp dition. It
half-| at one, a;,. i j n mh Miss
. s mesaorj bi i moth r had
new r achieved the < ' toilet in
1 a than an hour.
Blanche looked round carelessly,
anil saw that Mrs. Lyon had not so
muofa as untied In r cap towards
getting into her bonnet, also that
she had a look of being what sho
herself termed ' flusti n d.'
1 what is yonr difficulty, mother?*
' Why, I am not quite BUre that
T see the good of our going to Mr.
Bathurst's lion
'It is almost a pity that you did
not say so before,' Blanche replied,
quietly. ' Bliss Talbot is in tho
drawing-room, dressed, and waiting
for you.'
' There it is,' Mrs. Lyon answered,
triumphantly, looking round ap-
pealingly at the corner of the room
as if she were requesting it to take
notice of tho manifold obstacles that
impeded her progress through tho
world— 'there it is! one nover can
do what ouo feels ono ought to do
when one has to think for so many
people.'
Blanche began moving somo of tho
scent-bottles on the dressing-table
It was a habit of hers to give her
hands abundant employment when-
ever Mrs. Lyon launobed into tho
illustrative style of argument and
spoke of herself as 'one. 1 She was
always hard to follow on BUCh occa-
sions; she was specially hard to
follow now.
' Don't let me add to your diffi-
culties, mother,' Blanche said, pa-
tiently, after a few moments' pause.
Her heart no, but her fairy was
very much set upon this visit to
the studio. Still tho game was not
worth the candle.
' I think you might let nic spiak
of them, Blanche, without going off
at a tangent in that way.' Mrs. Lyon
iim d the tone of oppn ssed r< otitude
— a tone that is very hard to hear
when the hearer knows very well
that there is in it In r oppression dot
rectitude in the o ise '1 he so nt-
bottli s and one or two other trifles
were moved w ith eel< rity now ; mid
Blanche BOUght to check her ri-nig
anger by speculating as to whether
should ever Beem a wearisome,
unreasoning woman, and whether
she should ever come to consider
life insufficiently stocked with real
trials, »nd i fall to the manufacture
of sham ones for the stupifying
Playing for High Stakes
271
of herself, and the saddening of
others.
While Blanche pondered on these
possibilities Mrs. Lyon lapsed from
the loftily injured into the familiarly
curious tone.
' I was going to say when you
went off at a tangent' (this last, as
will he seen, Avas a favourite form of
expression of the worthy lady's, who
affected it partly because she had
heard her mother use it, partly be-
cause it had always irritated her
husband., and chiefly because she
was hopelessly in the dark as to
any meaning it might possibly have),
' I was going to say when you went
off at a tangent in that way, Blanche,
that I think Miss Talbot is a little
too anxious to go and look at the
pictures. Pictures, indeed! stuff
and nonsense.'
' Rather premature to describe
them so before you have seen them.'
' Which so? What?' Mrs. Lyon
asked, lazily ; and then, on Blanche
curtly replying, ' The pictures,'
Mrs. Lyon proceeded to set forth
a lengthy statement as to how she
had not meant them, and how if
she had meant them, perhaps
Blanche would find when she had
arrived at her (Mrs. Lyon's) age that
if she had done so it would not be
anything so very foolish and ridi-
culous as she was sorry and grieved
to see Blanche (like her poor dear
father) chose to think everything
that did not fall in with her views.
When the act of accusation was
read down to this point Mrs. Lyon
grew a little out of breath ; and
Blanche (feeling very hopeless about
reaching the studio now) gently
protested that, as she had not given
voice to any particular views, there
was a shade of injustice in her
mother saying that she (Blanche)
was deriding that which did not
meet them.
' But there, I suppose I must go,'
Mrs. Lyon observed, irrelevantly,
and with an air of martyrdom, when
Blanche ceased speaking. The
well-meaning but irritating-man-
nered woman was in reality pleased
and feebly excited at the prospect
of the little expedition, which par-
took of the nature of dissipation.
She was pleased at the prospect;
she would havo been disappointed
with the keen, fresh disappoint-
ment of inexperience if the plan had
come to nothing. Yet, withal, she
could not refrain from doubting
and demurring about it, in the hope
of giving it additional importance.
' There! I suppose I must go,'
she reiterated, as Blanche main-
tained the dead silence which is
the solo safeguard such natures as
hers have against domestic broils.
Then Mrs. Lyon made a little busi-
ness of untying her cap, and finally
conveyed herself out of the room
with almost a smile on her face, and
with the proud conviction at her
heart that she had deported herself
as became the guiding star and
responsible person of the Talbot
household.
The girl she had left stood mo-
tionless for a few minutes, and then
lifted her head suddenly, and looked
at herself in the glass. ' What am
I? morally or mentally wanting,
that I let that sort of thing goad
me into this,' she asked, as she
gazed at her crimson cheeks and
angry eyes ; ' it's only a surface ill-
humour, only a habit of querulous-
ness, only the result of long ytars of
anxiety, care, and disappointment on
an originally mild, ductile nature ;
but it's detestable to me.'
The storm broke as she uttered
the words ' detestable to me,' and
she shivered from head to foot with
the force of her own fury. For a
minute she leaut back against the
bed-post, putting her hand up to
the eyes that were blinded by the
hot feeling which she would not
suffer to well away in tears. There
then came to her aid the reflection
that this was a burden that must
be borne ; that it was in reality
trifling (' I'd prefer a big woe, for all
that/ she thought), and that, after
all, other peojfle endured worse
things ! So the crimson ebbed away
from her cheeks, and the angry light
faded from her eyes ; and she was
presently the brilliant, beautiful,
light-hearted Miss Lyon once more,
as she made her way to the draw-
ing-room, inducting herself into a
pair of silver grey gloves as she
walked.
Miss Talbot was sitting there, bon-
— » —
Playing for High St"!;i\<>.
mtt.d and cloaked, trying to n id,
and betraj ing, in the di start
■ • and tried to cover as
Blanche entered, a bardly-i l
and a eonsci >usni as of
its not 1 g well to feel the - one,
that told II own tale I b r-
WOman.
' 1 thought— I hoped it was Mr-,
l j :i, putting her book
down aa s : n she
aaw or fancied ahe aaw, whioh
comes to the same thing— that there
little of the air of con-
scious superiority of place in t ho
way M bb ralboi held her head tip,
and seemed to demand an explana-
tion. For an instant ahe hesil
r or not Bhe should give
it. Then— perhaps she sympathized
with the impatience in some degree
— Bhe said—
' You must win your brother's
forgiveness for mami 3 Talbot
Tiie position is so new to her that
she was . i\. rcome by a sense of her
responsibility out of all sense of
tuality.'
ttrix was softened. 'My bro-
ther, Edgar, would forgive her
igh if Mrs. Lyon fought
off going all r, I believe,' she
said, lai Then a half d<
to make a half confidant . and
I, and rose again, and
softly t: ed forth
by i
' I didn't mi an that brother. Docs
not Mr. Talbot— I mean 1 don't
think Mr. Talbot cares much for
art
i shook her head. ' Not
much. He said last to me
that he could exist till May without
■
. the sai
' He d • are much for art or
he'.'' 1 con-
d.
tar own brother 1
yon i, as if it
thing in ti nc te to
though
O110
of the principal ol .
template l visit.
• ^ i - 1 know.'M I ; • r< d,
hurriedly; 'bul I thought ■'
»0 you could not think
of Lionel as sueh an artist as Mr,
Bathurst, your cousin,' Trixy in1 r-
rupted, in a tone that was mi ant
to be ftp dogetic for Lioni '. BV fore
Bl mche could retort,'] should think
not,' Mrs. Lyon came in, and the two
girls wore paved from further mis-
undi retanding —for the time
Being already late for their ap-
pointment when they started, it was
only in the order of things that they
should be still more delayed on their
way. Mrs. Lyon had a pet theory
about short cuts. It was a th<
that was not based upon measure-
ment, or reason, or anything tan-
gible, but upon the Blightly illogical
sentence that 'short cuts are often
the I S > this day, when Miss
Talbot gave Mr. Bathurst's address,
and addi 1. • Through the Parle and
out at the Victoria Gate,' Mrs. Lyon
interpolated, with considerable ear-
nestness, ' /should Bay Park I.
1 Better through the Park,' Blanche
said, qo ttling herself back in
her bi .it, and trj ing to catch
Talbot's eye, and telegraph some-
thing equivalent to 'Stand to your
guns' to her. But the worthy in-
tention was defi ah d ; I ilbot
looked at her chaperone and re-
peated, hi sitatingly —
'Through Park Lane did you
say r
'\ ainly, / should say.'
Mrs. Lyon became
one who was victorious, and about
the beneficial i victory
there could b no doubt A ■•-
lingly the order was given, and
they drove through bark bane, or
rather did no! driv . but
got into a block, and passed an mi-
itful twi nty minuti b in looking
out through the carriage window
one ot Pickford's vans, which pi
of quiescence crushed Mis. Ljon
an ahj( ct frame of mind, and
r. nd< n d hi r ally alive to
vanity of all earthly JOJ and the
iry nature of all t . iumphs.
' Whenever one da - anj thing for
tin • find that < no
had better have lei thing ■ go their
own way,' sin- remarked, by way of
anation, wh< n at last they
ihed Mr. Bathurst's 1 oi
the two young mi n came from
studio to meet them with laughing
Playing fur High Stahrg.
273
reproaches for their being so late.
And somehow or other both girls felt
the explanation to be all-sufficient,
and the block in Park Lane a face-
tious trifle, and everything as plea-
sant as possible, and incapable of
improvement.
She would have sought to banish
or explain away the Tact, if it had
been put before her in so many
words ; but it was a fact that Blanche
Lyon had a better feeling of equality
with these people with whom she
had been compelled to come and
live in a dependent position when
she and they were in the society of
Frank Bathurst, her cousin. She
was grateful to the good-tempered,
good-looking, educated, rich gentle-
man for being her relation. Down
at the Grange, where she had been
as kindly, conscientiously, and con-
siderately treated as any girl (or, at
any rate, any girl who is a gover-
ness) can be, she had still been
aware that she was so treated by an
effort — a tiny and admirably con-
cealed one, certainly, but still an
effort. Blanche Lyon was a girl to
the full as practical and sensible as
she was proud and sensitive ; and so,
though she recognized this fact, she
at the same time recognized the im-
possibility of its being other than it
was. The woman who stands alone,
with no apparent relations, whose
friends may be legion, but are invi-
sible, cannot, and cannot expect to
be treated precisely in the same way
as her well- surrounded compeers.
It is inevitable that there should be
little distinctions ; and far more in-
justice is awarded (in print) to the
employers than to the employed.
The genus ' Governess ' has been
idealized by ill-usage, in fiction, into
a very false position. The attempt
has been made to teach thousands of
young women, who would have ac-
cepted obscurity as their birthright
had they remained in their fathers'
homes, to gird against it as a great
wrong when they find it their por-
4 tions in the homes of people who
reward them metre or less liberally
for educating their (the people's)
children. Blanche Lyon was not one
of this order. She was too keenly
alive to the perfect propriety of the
mighty Jsystem of give and take to
VOL. XI. — NO. LXIII.
have ever weakly wished to he looked
upon as other than she was, and was
remunerated for being. Neverthe-
less, though she had never felt tho
situation of the past to be other
than perfectly natural and becom-
ing, she did feel the superiority of
that of the present. It was pleasant
to be known as the cousin of a man
of considerable mark in the set in
which, however good their will, she
still must be regarded as not quite
one of them. It was pleasant to
have him gladly and gallantly put-
ting forward tho fact of this rela-
tionship as a thing of which he had
to be proud. It was pleasanter to
know that she was not regarded any
more as an isolated being, but rather
as the most important link in the
great chain of events which had
made Frank Bathurst what he was.
The old talk with her father, held on
the subject of old Mr. Lyon's offer,
came back vividly to her mind as
she came into the house of ' Bath-
urst's boy,' and knew him for the
motive-power of that meeting.
She could but rejoice in him for
being what he was, and (being her-
self) she could but rejoice and be
glad in him openly. The position
can readily be realized. She liked
him for being what he was, and she
liked him the better for being it
partly through her agency. In her
rash, impulsive, chivalrous, unad-
vised girlishness, she bad rejected
the prospect which Frank had real-
ized. More of the old conversation
floated back in scraps. She had said
perhaps ' Bathurst's boy might take
a fancy to her,' and her father had
said that 'more improbable things
occurred frequently.' But, though
she remembered this, no hope of its
being the case now brightened the
sunshine which seemed to radiate
from his presence, and warm her
into closer relationship with him. It
gladdened her to her soul's core
that he should seem taken, dazzled,
fond of her. He was too bright and
bonnie for the bright bonnie woman
who had unconsciously helped to
shape his good fortune, not to be in-
terested in his interest for her.
While as for him, he was a man
with a quick eye for the beautitu!,
with a keen appreciation for the
<rt
PlmjiiKj f>r High 8take$t
sympathetic, with ft catholicity of
sentiment respecting the lovable,
and, us l.i<>n<l Talbot bad Baid, with
the ■-< nns dt inconstancy in him.
He bad had the babit of loving all
that was lovely from bis boyhood,
and the habit had got him into more
than 01 fctei ly-Iamented scrape.
lie was musical, poetical, artistic,
Btetl aer. It was liis fate
■ t vi ry fond very often. It was
his fancj to be touchingly gentle to
y pair of b< autiful eyi s and soft
hauls that respectively brightened
and smoothed bis path. His affec-
tions were not very deep; on tho
contrary, they were shallow, but
they were marvellously wide. His
voice always took a tender tone, his
always had a loving look in
them when he addressed a young
and pretty woman. It was as na-
tural to him that it should be so
as that he should gather a rose with
a careful hand, or ride a tine-mouthed
horse with a light rein. He was no
gay deceiver. Hie adoration was
invariably thoroughly meant as long
as it lasted. His sweet words never
knew a false ring. Hie Likings did
llwaye die away when the object
disappeared: they would lay in
at* van •<•, an l would be n ady to
spring up greenly again when the
!< returned And, w ith all this
fickle:;, ss about them, he still thought
well of women, believed iii them as
in beinge who wire infinitely purer
and better than himself. It was a
great el< ment in his love that it
r turned to cont< mpt It waned
and w. nt to sleep, but it never woke
up disgusted with that it had for-
merly delighted in ; and thi- must be
added in it> favour, that hitherto it
had never fallen upon unworthy
These two young women, both
itiful, both well m :lin< d to him,
Hi itln r of whom he had known ft
of
joy to him just DOW. He was not a
man to make plan and la] schemes.
lb- took thin.'- as thej came, and
brightened them pin, rally by his
OWn way of looking at them. Put
Trixy Talbot mil Blanche Lyon
d no adventitious brightening;
without it they dazzli d him quite
sufficiently.
It was hard to say which of tho
two young men was the master of
the house, so each girl bad the sa-
tisfaction of feeling that she was the
put st of a brother or a cousin i
cially. There was a brief discussion
— a good-humoured <li.-si nsion aa to
which should be done honour to
first, the pictures or the luncheon.
The first place was given to the
latter evi ntually ; and Blanche sat
next to Frank Hat hurst, and was
made much of by him, In cause she
made it easy for him to make much
of her, by l»iir_ r entirely unfettered
in her own manners; and Trixy's
sparkling wine might have been ver-
juice in consequence.
For it is a fact that Miss Talbot
was very much in love with the
one who actt d so thoroughly up to
the poet's advice to young men,
'Gather ye roses while ye may;'
and I, as her historian, refuse to
treat it as essential to the art which
is placing her before you, that good
and unassailable n for the
love be given. They are not given
in real life; they are d >t asked for.
A. shallow substitute for the ' rea
why ' is offered occasionally by well-
meaning people, who like to explain
natural laws without in the faintest
degn e compn bending their deep
significance. When a marriage
Comes off, and all looks fair aid
smooth before the newly-united
pair, excellent -sounding solutions
of the mystery ol then love aro
freely offered. They were born in
the same county; or they both had
a well-marked prefereno for tho
melodrama over the burlesque of
life; or they both liked the samo
books, or parson, or madi -dishes, or
some other admirable na-on for
wedding. But no one ev< r stands
forth as champion for tin sufficiency
of the causes which brought about
tho love between people who make
each other misi ruble by falling away
before marri The event is
allowed to Diake all the difference;
an 1 that is wisdom and discretion if
the ring l>e won, which is forward
folly if it be not.
Therefore, tor a while, Trixy Tal-
bot mu t stan I accu led of the latter
offence; far, without laving any
Ik ni rea one to give, she had
■•
Playing for High Stakes.
275
found Frank Bathvtrst's winning
words and looks irresistible to the
point of falling in love with him.
Desperately in love— so desperately
that all her sweet armour of self-
possession and affected unconscious-
ness of his admiration failed her.
She hung upon his accents in away
that made her seem absent and
stupid ; she thrilled to the touch of
his hand in a way that made her
afraid to resign hers to his clasp
when others were by ; she wearied
for his words when he was silent,
for his meaning when he spoke;
she was vaguely jealous of every
unknown woman upon whom his
soft glances might have fallen in
the past; she was painfully, pitiably
alive to the fact of his having taken
no greater trouble to make her these
things than he took probably with
every woman who pleased his taste.
She was keenly conscious of having
a formidable rival in Blanche, if
Blanche chose to rival her; and
how could Blanche ' but choose,
with such cause for rivalry ?' she
asked herself, in her impassioned
infatuation. In fact, she was en-
tirely in love, and so at a disadvan-
tage. She felt sick under all the
sudden alternations of unfounded
hopes and despairs which assailed
her, as Frank Bathurst was gallant
and gay to herself or to his beauti-
ful cousin. She shrank from the
thought of the parting that would
inevitably come when they had
looked at the pictures and it would
be time to go home to dinner. She
was feverishly impatient for a new
move to be made every moment.
Her heart went up absurdly high
when he bent down to lament her
lack of appetite in low tones, coming
round to the back of her chair to do
it, and so seeming to make her com-
fort peculiarly his own. It (her
heart) went down, equally without
good cause, when he left her and
returned to his place by Blanche;
for Miss Lyon's hand was on the
table, twirling a rose about, and the
handsome young host put his own
upon it gently, as he impressively
offered his cousin something that
she did not want. And Blanche,
whose hand stayed steady under
the touch, Blanche, whose brilliant
eyes met the very warmly admiring
glance of his quite coolly, Blanche,
who was so little affected by his
low tones as to answer them in loud
ones, — became, despite her beauty,
a horrible object in poor Trixy
Talbot's eyes — those sweet violet
eyes that ached when Mr. Frank
Bathurst used little seductive tones
and airs and gestures in commend-
ing the claret to the new beauty, to
whom it was meet and right and
his bounden duty to show such
homage, since she was his cousin.
Not that he was at all off with
the comparatively old love whose
figure he had sketched in for
' Venus ' in the picture, the second
subject from ' Tannhauser,' which
had rather put the first in the back-
ground. He liked being sweet to
them both ; he would have been
amiably charmed by their both
being sweet to him in return. He
was gifted with such a mighty fund
of fondness that he could not resist
nourishing all the attractive reci-
pients of the quality who came in
his way. It came so easy to him to
love, to be very much fascinated,
and be just a little thrown out of
gear, and even a little sleepless
about more than one woman at a
time, that he gave no thought to
Miss Talbot being in the least un-
comfortable, or having cause to be
so. There had been soft pleasure
to him in feeling sure that she had
found it pleasant to have him stand-
ing by her chair, anxious to tend
upon her, earnest in waiting on her.
There had been equally soft pleasure
to him in taking Blanche's small
hand in his, when the occasion
scarcely called for the act ; in feeling
how slender and smooth it was, and
how delicate it looked resting there
in his clasp; and, as he never
denied himself any pleasure that
might be his harmlessly, he took
these, and enjoyed, and was grateful
for them, like the sinless sensualist
he was. And Trixy Talbot saw
that he did the one and was the
other, and still loved him desperately.
It has been brought as a reproach
against modern fiction that a good
deal of the action takes place at,
and a good deal of the interest is
made to centre in, the dinner- table.
T 2
276
Play in 'j for FTiijh Stakes.
In (lie faceof tin's reproach, it must he
declared thai do sequestered Bylvan
glade, no moon-lighted cathedral
el. .1^:, :^, no whirling waltz, no
Dumber of village rambles with
'the object' in the cause of 'being
l to the poor, 1 can ripen the sen-
timents which arc the bricks and
mortar of all novels more swiftly
and surely than does the welf-
cto 'I and carefully-furnished hos-
pitable board. People are apt to
_■ t very near bo etch oti BT'b hi arts
and minds (when tlie guests and
hosts cure young, especially); all
try to be at their best; audit stands
to reason LItdl men and women at
their \>< -t are considerably more
attractive to one another than at any
other time Flowers and wine, and
wit and beauty,— and, in the present
s, the unuaualness of the thing, —
ought to work, ami do work. The
litt'e party I have been describing
felt that, if they had known each
other from childhood, they could
D it have known each other better,
or liked each other more than they
did under existing circumstances,
when tiny rose at length to go
and look at the pictun
'By the way, I left my model
when I came to meet yon,' Frank
Bathurst said to Miss Lyon, as,
with hi r by his side, he h d the way
to bis studio. Then he w< nt on to
tell I er what a wonderful (
Lionel had succeeded in producing
with the representation of waves
alone ' He's l>y way of being a
genius: there's not a boat, or a
gull, or a lighthouse, or anything
But water on his canvas; and still
you gi t puih d u)i before it.'
When he paid that tribute to his
fri« mi's tali nt, Blanche felt that
tin re must be an immense <1< al in
k Bathurst she rendered up
hand to him with delightful
offered to help her
the thm sbold, and tin n down
the flight of steps which came 1" -
■ ti the hack and Front part of
his studio; and she spoke out her
admiration lor his ' Battle of the
Bards ' With hearty i do ■pa DOS when
tin y paused before it.
' Now I want to show Biiai Talbot
something,' he exclaimed, Impa-
tiently, as ho f-aw !:• atrix walking
on with her brother; 'I hope that
fellow won't point it out to her
first.'
'Go and stop his doing so,'
Blanche said, quickly. And Mr.
Bathurst took her advice; and
presi ntly Li >nel Talbot came and
joined Miss Lyon, leaving his sister
\i ry happ\ by the act.
'There is a good deal of spirit
in that,' Blanche said, waving her
hand at large towards the lingo
canvas whereon ' Tannhauser ' was
depicted, in the midst of a well-
dressed mob, giving vent to the
defiance —
'Grim bards of love, who notbing know
Now • in is tbe unequal li^hi be tw e e n us;
Duo as I dared ! to Boi m! p>,
And i on the lip* "i Venus.'
'A great deal of spirit,' she re-
peated, feeling at the moment utterly
unable to oiler any other art criti-
cism.
1 Fes/he replied,' I wish Bathurst
would work at it, instead of wasting
his time on the other one.'
' What is the other one ?'
' Come and see it.'
' No, no,' she said, as she glanced
in the direction he would have
taken, and saw her mother in mid-
distance, and Miss Talbot and Mr.
Bathursi further on : ' 1 want to see
yours first.'
' Then come and look nt it.' And
he led her to the other end of the
long studio; and they stood alone
before the waves that had steeped
his mind in admiration for their
wild beauty long ago on the ( 'ornish
coast.
She stood in silence for awhile,
not only averse to, but incapable
now of offering an opinion, n sp. ct-
ing the painting the more for his
being the painter of it, and tho
painter the more for the painting
being his. Letting her admiration
for both i'i act upon each other, in
foot, with a Bubtlety that women
often employ iii like casi s.
' What are yoo going to call it?'
she asked, at l< ngth, abruptly.
' Frank Bathurst suggests as a
motto fox the Academy catalogue,
" What are the wild waves Baying?"
do you like it '!'
' Yes - were you alone when JOU
• i love those waves.'"
rn I iv W -
"QUITE AI,ONE."
: hml "l"-"-l the nroi I i he nroulri not h«r< . i „,,!, || le
■ litem. "
' I'l.lN MIL' - | . ».»■
Playing for High Slakes.
277
' Quite alone,' he replied ; and
then as she almost seemed to sigh
in relief as she looked up at him,
he repeated more emphatically still,
' Quite alone.'
If he had repeated the words a
dozen times she would not have
been satiated with the sound of
them, but would have cried in her
heart, ' That strain again ? it hath
a dying fall.' It was music to her,
sweet, full, rich, sufficient. Music
to her, that assurance he gave her
that the wild waves said nothing to
him of one whom he had Joved and
looked upon when he loved and
looked upon them. She was quite
contented with that implied assur-
ance — quite charmed "with the fit-
ness of the motto— quite satisfied
with what the ' wild waves were
saying,' and quite oblivious of
Frank Bathurst. Beatrix Talbot's
impulse towards Lionel had been
a true one; her brother was her best
friend.
CHAPTER IX.
THE DAPHNE.
There was a conservatory at the
garden end of the studio. At least
it had been a conservatory, but was
now cleared of its plants and occu-
pied by a dais for the models to
pose upon. From one end of this
.part of the studio a spiral staircase
led up to an observatory on the
leads, where a delightful view, con-
sisting of a bit of Bayswater and a
slice of Kensington Gardens, could
be had. Up this staircase the four
young people walked after a time,
leaving Mrs. Lyon (who had been
more engrossed by the lay figures
than anything else) to follow at her
leisure.
' Story ' the waves had ' none to
tell ' to her. ' Venus ' on the moun-
tain made her uncomfortable, and
brought back all her doubts as to
the wisdom of having come here;
and the ' spirited ' composition of
the Battle of the Bards seemed to
her simply a representation of an
infernal orgie. But she took a calm
pleasure in examining the magnified
doll, and trying how its joints
worked; thus innocently destroy-
ing some folds in the drapery which
Frank had spent a long time in
arranging that morning.
' A nice room wasted — entirely
wasted,' she said to herself, as she
surveyed the studio. Frank Bath-
urst had been at considerable
trouble and expense about this
studio. He had first had two rooms
on the ground floor thrown into
one, and then he had put up a
groined and vaulted oak ceiling,
thus spoiling the rooms above it.
It had a richly-coloured window at
one end ; pomegranate-hued curtains
of soft sweeping velvet fell in full
folds from ceiling to floor. It was
enriched with oak carvings, with
ebony brackets and bronzes ; with
perfect casts from perfect originals,
with rare old glass, with a deeply-
eni^ossed shield resting on some
sort of stand of metal in which
Quintin Matsys had had a hand.
The sunlight, what there was of it
on -that winter's day, fell upon the
the floor iu broad rieh masses ; the
shadows laid in unbroken grand
depths; there was nothing slight,
nothing pale, nothing puerile about
the room, and Mrs. Lyon deemed it
very dud.
She had been uncertain whether
to go with them when they went
up on the leads or to stay behind.
While revolving the uncertainty in
her mind, their voices sounded
faintly in what seemed the far dis-
tance to her, and at the same time a
tall, curiously-carved screen, drawn
across in such a way as almost to ,
cut off a corner of the room, caught
her attention. So, with an empha-
tically-worded observation on the
folly of people taking so many un-
necessary steps to see so little as
could be seen from the top of a
house in Bayswater, Mrs. Lyon
walked towards the screen, and pre-
ceded to curiously inspect it.
It was an elaborate piece of work-
manship, modern, perfectly artistic
in proportion, and delicate in de-
tail. Titania, Oberon, and Puck
wreathing themselves and each
other in fauciful garlands in the
centre, and wood nymphs and satyrs
doing nothing remarkable at the
sides. ' A nicely-grained piece of
wood spoilt!' Mrs. Lyon thought,
as she put her hand upon it to see
273
Phujiwj for Iliijh Stiles.
■whether the dimness came from
dust or DOl in Order that she might
dp a goo i turn to the helpless gen-
tlemen who owned it, by denouncing
the (lu>ty proclivities of their house-
maid). She put her hand upon it;
tin- Bcreerj turned easily on a swivel
at the lightest touch, ami it re-
volved, l»a\ ag the corner exposed.
Mrs, I. \on uttered a little cry of
mingled horror and virtuous satis-
faction at having unearthed tho
se of it, for there, in a large arm-
chair, her head thrown back upon
the ' velvet violet lining,' a pretty
yellow-haired girl lay sleeping.
The girl and all tho accessories
wne so pretty that must people
would have been content to keep
silence, and look on the scene as
one of the fair sights in life which,
perfect in themselves, may l>e suf-
fered to pass by unquestioned.
But Mrs. Lyon liked to grapple with
difficulties that were not — loved
to defend what was not assailed,
delighted in putting things straight
before tiny were crooked. '1 can
s.- lively believe my eyes,' she ex-
claimed, believing them thoroughly
the while, and quite ready to do
battle in tli^ cause of their trust-
worthiness, should any one hint at
optical delusion. ' I can scarcely
believe my eyes; young woman, this
i- shami li se !'
The girl, who had opened In 1 1
at the liist Bound, sat np at the last
words and suppressed a yawn. She
was dies e : m a costume tor which
Mrs. Lyon ha 1 no precedent, though
Frank Bathurst had given much
thought and consideration to it;
aii' 1 en her bright yellow-haired
id a littlo cap of Mack
I with seed pi ails.
In fact, she WSS the model for tho
' princt ^s ' lor whose heart and
hand the hards were sinu-inu' ; and
she had fallen a ter waiting a
long time for Mr. Bathurst, and
now she woke op, startled and
rather o
' This is shameless,' Mrs. LyOfl
'■ 1 ; and the girl, thinking sho
u ing rebuked lor drowsini
I - i, I. ed guiltless of every other
nee, wax I petulant with the
old lady who came inste id of the
smiling, handsome, agreeable gen-
tleman whom sho (the model) had
expected to see. She was a pretty
girl, and her beauty was very nmcfi
in favour that year ; accordingly her
time was fully occupied, and she
was getting into the habit of giving
herself littlo airs of conferring a
favour when she kept an appoint-
ment. Moreover, she was a good
deal admired in a certain dance in
one of the pantomimes, for she
joined the profession of ballet-girl
to thai of model. < >n the w hole, it
will readily be surmistd that she
was not likely to be meek under tho
reproof of Mrs. Lyon.
' Then he should have comeback/
she retorted, on the supposition
that she bad been wanted and
missed while she had been Bleeping.
And she pushed her bright jellow
hair out of her eyes and glanced up
defiantly, instead of being crushed
to the ground, as Mrs. Lyon had
half anticipated seeing her.
'lie should have come back!'
Mrs. Lyon repeated tho words in
sheer amazement at their audacity.
* lie' was her remote relation, 'ho'
might be good enough to marry
Blanche, if no awful discoveries were
made; ami this ' minx,' as she called
the popular model in her wrath,
dared to Bpeak of him thus fami-
liarly.
' It's too lato for anything now,
so I shall go,' tho girl said, rising
up and casting a glance towards the
darkening shadows thai were falling
Over the dais where she bad sat a
princess in the morning; tin n the
stream of Mrs. Lyon's virtuous elo-
quence burst tlie banks of astonish-
ment and indignation, and sho
poured forth a flood of words that
were utterly incomprehensible, but
at the same time intensely aggra-
vating to the model.
' Too late I lost! lost! unhappy
OP itlll'e !'
' i >h ! it's not of such consequence
n that,' the girl interrupted, hastily
Dg her bead ; th< n she added
something relative to Mr. bathurst
nibsing her more than sho should
him — a statement w hich C8 OSSd
1 1 Lyon to tremble and pronounce
the word 'abandoned' under her
hn ath.
As the girl leisurely put off tho
Playing for High Stakes.
279
jacket and tunic and velvet cap
of royalty, and inducted herself
into the bonnet and mantle of this
period, Mrs. Lyon gazed at her,
and made profound reflections to
herself on the callousness which
could be so unmoved under detec-
tion, and the frivolity which could
attempt to disguise vice in fanciful
splendour. Then she thought that
it would be a good thing to remove
this fair young rock on which he
might split out of reach of tempta-
tion — at any rate out of reach of Mr.
Frank Bathurst ; and then she calcu-
lated the cost of the charitable act,
and wondered whether she had
money enough in her pocket to do
it, before the young people came
down from the roof of the house.
' If you would alter your mode
of life I might assist you,' she began,
drawing out her purse; and the
girl, who was adjusting the bows of
her bonnet-strings with great care
before she went out, stared at Mrs.
Lyon, as if that lady was beyond
her comprehension, as indeed she
was.
' Alter my mode of life ? not on
any account, thank you;' then she
thought of her Terpsichorean tri-
umphs, and determined to very
much dazzle the old lady. ' Do you
know who I am ?' she asked ; and
Mrs. Lyon looking a horror-stricken
negative at once, the girl went on
glibly, ' I'm Miss Rosalie St. Clair,
there — good morning,' and walked
out, happily unconscious of the
meaningless sound that name had
for Mrs. Lyon.
The skirmish had been sharp, but
brief. Mrs. Lyon had almost a feel-
ing of triumph when she reflected
on how quickly she had, as she
thought, routed the fair invader.
Now the danger had departed, she
began to make many hazy but com-
forting conjectures respecting it.
After all, it might not be Mr.
Bathurst whom the girl had spoken
of as ' he.' Mr. Lionel Talbot was
very quiet ; but— ah ! it looked bad
— very bad. She remembered now
that he had eaten no luncheon. At ,
this juncture she remembered that
the girl had used Mr. Bathurst's
name, which proved him the of-
fender. ' I declare one* had better be
in a lion's den at once,' she mur-
mured, pathetically, ' and then one
would know what one was about.'
Then she fell to softly bewailing the
combination of circumstances which
had brought her into this difficulty,
and wondered whether she had
better tell Mr. Talbot about it, and
wondered what Blanche would say
now (Blanche being quite innocent
of all former thought or speech on
the subject), and ' hoped Miss Talbot
would listen to advice another time '
(not that any had been offered to
poor Trixy), and was altogether
hopeless and helpless, and overcome
by a sense of responsibility.
' What could they be doing up on
the leads all this time?' The leads,
in Mrs. Lyon's imagination, was a
place of gruesome horror, slippery,
flat, with no parapet. She wished
that she had gone up with them.
She wished she had not let them go
up at all. She wished that she could
put old heads on joung shoulders
(this last wish not being weakened
by the faintest doubt as to the great
superiority of her own over every
other head belouging to the party).
She wished that they had all stayed
at home, and that Mrs. Sutton had
come with them, and a great many
more totally irreconcileable things.
Meantime those on the house-top
had been so happy, so entirely un-
conscious of the cark and care, the
tumult and the strife that was raging
at the foot of the spiral staircase.
There was a glass erection on the
leads — an eminent photographer had
lived there before Mr. Bathurst took
the house— and under this glass they
stood about, and were happy.
Very happy, on the whole, all of
them ; though Beatrix Talbot went
up and came down in her spirits in
the sharp, sudden, unreasoning way
that is specially symptomatic of the
disease under which she laboured.
The very manner and the very looks
which won her more and more,
which drew her nearer, and made
Frank Bathurst dearer to her, be-
came so many sources of irritation
to Trixy Talbot. She had reached
the stage when a vague feeling of
the loved one being u just is born.
He had it in his power to make her
so supremely happy— to exalt her,
280
Plnyimj for Uiijh Stake*.
Fondly believed, above .'ill wom< n
— liy telling her and all the world
that he low rl her, and he did Dot
avail himself of it. She would have
disavow* I ; iog, had it I
I r in the b kid, cold
words I have used. She would have
il - .wni .1 all connection with it. and
iblj h ive declared it to be ou-
womanlj . forward, an 1 vain ; and
Id have tried to believe thai
meant what she profi Bsed, and
taken herself sharply to task for
taring to love before ' the obw cl '
had asked for her formally in holy
matrimony; and all the time would
have gone on fretting and loving,
and being happy and miserable, as
it is, and has been, and ever shall be.
But though he had it inhis power
to make her supremely bles-ea, and
did not set in at all likely to do it,
ph.' took the good the gods gave,
and was grateful. It wan something,
in default of security of passing her
life iii the sun <>f his presence, to be
warmed by his Bmiles; and he was
no niggard of these, giving thera
lavishly when he was pleased— and
In- was always pleaded when pretty
women were by, especially if they
liked him. Their beauty and his
p1< isure in it n acti d upon each
1 better pleased they were
with him the prettier th< y looked ;
and the pr tti( c they looked the
better pleased he was with them. It
was a charmed circle, and Frank
Bathurst delighted in drawing it
r and in strengthening it : and
generally, in gathering his roses
while In- might— while they grew
Well within reach, where he could
gather them easily— there was no
,oharm in ditfi sulty to him.
■ If -ii" dig it in. when l
1 • i.. i in bet go,'
he would carol gaily, on the smal
sign of <• i) di eded not to be
' col ; itself manifest
in the o\ meanour of the Cj nth
th^ minute. Ind i 1, now it was
only Bland • 1 . op nly-
sliown i in his Bocii ty that
ightly from M iss
Tall) .t Aecord ^'". , . , bright,
tical cd .1 short to
wa ■'• one hour of it in lo iking for
anybody's hidden motives. The
frankly-expressed joy, the readily-
vouchsafed sympathy, the open pre-
fer nee. were so many tributes to
bis vanity- and his vanity wan great
It was so glancing and sunny that
Blanche, who to a a rtain extent
appreciated it already, saw in it no-
thing to resenl or regr< t, and bo led
it a little ' pandi red to it.' Trixy
Talbol termed it. in her anger; fox
Trixy felt the vanity would be a
]m rmaiH nt rival to her —and still
would not have lad the Btnallest
change made in the man who wa i
vain. II.. wa ■ a genuine ' source oi
ju\ and woe ' to Mis- Talbot, but
he was a source of joj pure an 1
sinjpV t i Blanohe Lyon, and she
showed him that he was tin's; and
so he took the turning that should
eventually leal him into error.
Mrs. Sutton bad been compelled
to remain away, by reason of a very
unforeseen and inopportune event,
which will lie duly chronicled. It
Was an even! that caused her a <_'ood
deal of Bavage sorrow, ami the sole
halm she could find for the wound
was, thai the ' affair would he a fail-
ure without her.' She felt quite
Convinced in her acute mind t a!
Mrs. Lyon WOUld, by some over-
anxiety or misapprehension, mar the
' fair form of f< slal day ;' and sin
was gently pleas* d thereat, aft< r the
fashion of Marian. If in fancy she
could have bi en the quartette upon
the leads, the ground would have
been very much cut from under her
feet.
It would l»e difficult to the
ingredients which went to the com-
]» isitioii of tin ir ec ratio s itisfaction
that day. It always is difficult to
a certain what makes people who
are in love so Buperblj satisfied with
each other; for they are rarely bril-
liant or at east under the circum-
stances. But this difficulty does not
iway with the faol of tin ir being
frank Bathurst, in reality the
mos1 th raghtless of the part] , knew
quite well why be liked it. '1 hose
t wo girls, with their I ices,
i, and graci fully-falling
draperies, alone would have bet n
-h for him. Bui be had another
s luroe of pleasure. Lio el Dalbot
and he wen I to one anoth< r.
Playing for High Stakes.
281
A pood deal of boyish enthusiasm
mingled itself with a good deal of
genuine affection. Frank respected
Lionel, valued his opinion, espe-
cially when it coincided with his
(Frank's) own. They had the spirit
of comradeship upon them strongly,
and it pleased Frank that they
should be together. When it hap-
pened so, Mr. Bathurst liked to have
his taste for beauty and grace and
fascination endorsed by his friend.
When his friend could not endorse
it, it must in honesty be added that
Frank was perfectly resigned. But
in this case it was palpable that
their tastes matched ; and Frank
was not at all jealous, but magnani-
mous, as became him— gracious in
calling Trixy's attention to the grace-
ful bearing of the other pair leaning
against one of the supports of the
glass walls — nobly indifferent to the
fact of Blanche lowering her voice
to a tenderer tone when she ad-
dressed Lionel than Mr. Bathurst
had ever heard her use to himself.
'Isn't it strange that we should
all have come together. I was just
going to ask you how you thought
you would like my cousin, Miss
Talbot— forgetting that she is my
cousin, and that I mustn't express
curiosity about her.'
'But you may — to me, at lea=t ; and
I think I like her vtry very much,'
Trixy replied, with a little more
earnestness than she would have
employed if she had thought so.
' " Won by beauty " — we are all
liable to be that, you know, Mr.
Bathurst.'
' Yes— and she has beauty — mar-
vellous beauty,' he answered, warm-
ing to his topic at once. ' Look at
her hands — I think they're the
sweetest little bauds I ever saw.'
Trixy assented. Her own hands
were equally pretty; but it was
scarcely her place to call his atten-
tion to this fact.
' And her head !' he went on, ani-
matedly. ' There is something won-
derfully taking iu the turn of her
head— a way I never saw in any
other woman. Do you notice it ?'
He turned a questioning glance
towards Trixy as he spoke. She
had fixed her eyes stedfastly on the
girl she believed to be her rival—
her lashes were levelled, not lowered
— her brow was bent painfully, and
her lips were a little more com-
pressed than was usual. Altogether
there was a look of sad, yearning
interest in that love-fraught face
that stirred some fibres in Ids heart.
She was as beautiful as Blanche—
quite as beautiful ; and she had this
brief advantage, that Blanche was
engaged with some one else at the
moment and she (Trixy) was not.
He felt all sorts of compliments to
her on the spot, and longed to pay
one without seeming abrupt.
His diffidence about it served him
in good stead ; for Trixy marked it,
and felt it to be the most graceful
one he could have paid her. ' Mrs.
Lyon's patience will lie exhausted,'
she exclaimed, blushing a little.
' We are forgetting the time alto-
gether. Will you ask Miss Lyon to
comedown?' As he moved to ask
Miss Lyon ' to come down,' a bit of
daphne he had worn in his coat fell
to the ground. They all moved in
close together. Blanche Lyon
dropped her glove, and herself
stooped to pick it up; and when Mr.
Bathurst, the last of the party to
descend, looked for it, the daphne
was gone. The colour rose even to
his brow, and he turned a careless
ear to the sour tones with which
Mrs. Lyon met her daughter, and
indirectly reproached them all for
having been so long.
Presently they separated, the
ladies going back in bleak silence
to Victoria Street, and the two
men driving up to their club. Al-
most for the first time in his life
Frank Bathurst was glad of the ex-
cuse his spirited horses gave him of »
concentrating his attention on them,
to the neglect of Lionel Talbot, who
sat by his side. He had never seen
Lionel so completely resign himself
to the charm of any woman's society
as he had this day resigned himself
to that of Miss Lyon. He (Frank
Bathurst) had been void of all active
feeling on the subject at the time —
all feeling save that of pleasure at
seeing his friend pleased. But now r !
— he had seen Blanche bend down
for the fallen glove; and he rejoiced
more in the loss of his Daphne than
he had done in its possession.
282
THE SUBLIME SOCIETY OF STEAKS.
A FEW months ago there ap-
peared in a periodical work, ac-
customed to sensational flights, tho
Btrange assertion that no instance
oonld be adduced of a beefsteak
being eati n in perfection west of
- pie Bar! The unlucky wight
who threw oh* this vain Ixmst could
know little of th( :■ . tronomk topo-
graphy of tin-' metropolis, or his
Knowledge must have been a light
rider, and easily shaken off; sinoe,
for more than a century and a
quarter has there existed a Society
iii the classic region of Covent
Garden, formed expressly for eating
beefsteaks in perfection, this l>eiug
the only dish of the repast; and
punch the paramount accompani-
ment, with the occasional addition
of port wine
Clubs have been formed for objects
much less worthy than cooking and
eating beefsteaks. This was laid
down with much humour aud par-
ticularity by Professor Wilson, in
the palmy days of ' Maga.' ' How
many consid( rations,' says die oracle,
'are requisite to produce a good
rump-steak! as the age, the country,
and the pasture of the beef; tho
peculiar cut of the rump, at least
the tilth from the commencement;
nature of the tire; the construc-
tion and elevation of the gridiron;
the choice of shalot, perchance ; the
masterly precision of tho oyster
pauce, in which tho liquid is duly
favoured with the fish. It were
better if pepper and salt were inter-
dicted from your broiling steak,
and tongs only should be used in
turning it. Iflefl too long on tho
tire -the error of all badoooks— the
meat will be hard and jaioeless. If
Rauce be used, it should l»o made
hoi before il is added to the gravy
of tl And here we are re-
mind* d that < lobbett, \\ ho was g
rally not a whit more choice in his
meat th in in bis words (these, by
the way, he sometimes at- 1, was
very careful about the ■ooompani*
ments to a steak. II" grows indig-
nant about old h or s o radish, which
cats more like little chips than like
a garden vegetable: — "So that at
taverns and eating-houses, there
frequently seems to be a rivalship
on the point of toughness between
the horse-radish and the beefsteak ;
and it would be well if this inconve-
nient rivalship never discovered
itself any where else.' Then, ' people
who want to enjoy a Bteak should
eat it with shalots and tarragon.'
Oobbett adds: 'An orthodox clergy-
man once told mo that ho and six
others once ate some beefsteaks with
shalots and tarragon,' and that they
' unanimously voted that beefsteaks
were never so eaten before.'
The earliest club with the mime
of 'Beefsteak' was formed in the
reign of Queen Anno, when tho
science of cookery had made great
strides. Dr. King, in his ' Art of
Cookery,' humbly inscribed to tho
Beefsteak Club, 1709, has these
lines: —
' He that of honour, wit, and mirlh p makes.
May !>•■ ■ lit 1 •imp inion ■ >'• r be* fob ak> ;
Iii-. name may !• t ' fimiic limes en
In Eatcunrt'i book, whose gridlron't framed
» ah g"M.'
Estcourt, the actor, was made ' pro-
vidore' of the club, and for a mark
of distinction wop; their badge,
which was a small gridiron of gold,
hung about his nick with a green
silk ribbon. Ohetwood, in his ' His-
tory of the Stage,' 1749, tells us:
' This club was composed of tho
chief wits and great men of tho
nation.' Dick Estoourt was beloved
by Steele. Who that has read can
ever forget sti i le's introduction of
this choice spirit, and the touching
pathos of his last exit— embalmed in
the pages of the ' Spectator r° Then,
in No. 264, wo find a letter from Sir
Boger do Coverley, 'To Mr. I
court, at his Bouse in CJovent Gar-
den,' addressing him as ' < >id Comi-
cal One,' and acknowledging ' tho
ihl ads 0!' n, at port Came safe ;'
and hoping next term to help till
Elate ant's Bumper ' with our people
of the club.' The ' Bumper ' was
tho tavern in Covent < lard* 11, which
1 . t.nurt openi d, win ,i Pamela
spoke of him thus: —
The Sublime Society of Steaks.
283
'Gay Bacchus liking Estcourt's wine,
A nolile meal bespoke us ;
And for the guests that were to dine>
Brought Coraus, Love, and Joeus.'
Ned Ward, in his ' Secret History
of Clubs,' 1709, describes the 'Beef-
steaks,' which he coarsely contrasts
with ' the refined wits of the Kit-
Cat,' and thus addresses them : —
' Such strenuous lines, so cheering, soft, and
sweet,
That daily flow from your conjunctive wit,
Proclaim ihe power of Boef. that noble meat.
Your tuneful songs such deep impression make.
And of such a« ful, beauteous strength partake,
Each stanza seems an ox, eacli line a steak.
As if the rump in sin es, broild or stew*d
In its own gravy, till divinely good,
Turn'd all to powerful wit as soon as chew'd.
******
To grind thy gravy out their jaws employ,
O'er heaps of reeking steaks express their joy,
And sing of Beef as Homer did of Troy.'
A few years later was established
' The Sublime Society of Steaks/
who abhor the notion of being
thought a club. The society was
founded in 1735, by John Eich, the
patentee of Covent Garden Theatre,
to whose genius we owe the comic
pantomime. He was accustomed to
arrange the comic business and con-
struct the models of his tricks in his
private room at Covent Garden.
Here resorted men of rank, who re-
lished the wit which hangs about
the stage, and Rich's colloquial
oddities were much enjoyed. Thither
came Mordaunt. Earl of Peterbo-
rough, the friend of Pope, and com-
memorated by Swift in the well-
remembered lines commencing with,
' Mordanto fills the trump of fame,
The Christian world his death proclaim,
And prints are crowded with his name.
In journeys he outrides the post,
Sits up till midnight wiih his host,
Talks politics, and gives the toast.'
He was then advanced in years, and
one day stayed talking with Rich
about his tricks and transformations,
and listening to his agreeable gos-
sip, until Rich's dinner-hour, two
o'clock, had arrived. In all these
Golloquies with his visitors, what-
ever their rank, Rich never neg-
lected his art. The earl was quite
unconscious of the time, when he
observed Rich spreading a cloth,
then coaxing his fire into a clear,
cooking flame, and proceeding, with
great gravity, to cook his own beef-
steak on his own gridiron. The steak
sent up a most inviting incense, and
my lord could not resist Rich's in-
vitation to partake of it. A further
supply was sent for, and a bottle or
two of wine from a neighbouring
tavern prolonged the enjoyment to
a late hour in the afternoon. But
so delighted was the gay old peer
with the entertainment, that, on
going away, he proposed renewing
it at the same hour and place, on
the Saturday following. The earl
then picked his way back to his
coach, which was waiting in the
street hard by. He was punctual
to his engagement with Rich, and
brought with him three or four
friends, ' men of wit and pleasure
about town ;' and so truly festive
was the meeting, that it was pro-
posed a Saturday club should be
held there whilst the town remained
full ; the bill of fare being restricted
to beefsteaks, and the beverage to
port wine and punch. It is also
told that Lambert, many years prin-
cipal scene-painter at Covent Gar-
den Theatre, originated the club
among the visitors to his painting-
room, under similar circumstances
to those under which Rich is said to
have done. Possibly both patentee
and scene-painter got up the Society.
The members were alterwards ac-
commodated with a special room in
the theatre; and when it was re-
built, the place of meeting was
changed to the 'Shakespeare' tavern,
where was the portrait of Lambert,
painted by Hudson, Sir Joshua Eey-
nolds's master.
In the ' Connoisseur,' June 6th,
1754, we read of the society ' com-
posed of the most ingenious artists
in the kingdom,' meeting ' every
Saturday in a noble room at the top
of Covent Garden Theatre ' — the situ-
ation of the painting-room — and
never suffering 'any. diet except
beefsteaks to appear. Here, indeed,
are most glorious examples; but
what, alas ! are the weak endeavours
of a few to oppose the daily inroads
of fricassees and soup-maigres ?'
The apartment in the theatre appro-
priated to 'The Steaks' varied.
Thus, we* read of a painting-room
284
Tiic Sublime Soeutf <>f Steals.
d with the Btage over the
kitchen, which was under part of
the Btage nearest Bow Street At
one ]« riod they dined in a small
room over the passage of the theatre.
The steaks were dreased in the same
room, and when it was (bond too
hot, a curtain was drawn between
the o >u i > ins and the fire. For-
ly the members wore a bine
OOat, With red collar and call's, and
buttons with the initials ' i;.s.. and
behind the president's chair was
Socii ty's balbert, which,
with the gridiron used from the
formation of the Steaks, was found
among the ruins after the Oovent
Garden fire. This gridiron is pre-
served in the ceiling of the room
wherein the * ><i< ty now dine.
Among the oelehrities who came
early to ' The Steaks,' were Bogartb
and his father-in-law, Sir James
Thornhill, stimulated by their love
of the painter's art, and the
equally potentcharmof conviviality.
Churchill was introduced by his
frand Wilkes, to whom he writes
on one occasion : ' Your friends at
the Beefsteak inquired after you
la-t Saturday with thi greatest zeal,
and it gave me no small pleasure
that I was the person of whom the
inquiry was ma le.' Charles Price
was a member,and it is n [ated that
he and Churchill, with their wit,
often kept the table in a roar. Mr.
J u.st i Welflh was fre pi« tttly chair-
man at the beefeteak dinners; and
Mrs. Nollekens, his daughter, ac-
knowledged that she often t\r*
bis hat for the visit, trimmed with
ribbons s milar to those worn by
the Yeomen of the Guard. The
Justice was i loyal man, but discon-
tinued bis membership when Wilkes
joined the though Wilkes
I 81 iks.'
T-. 'The Steaks' Wil ni a
copy of his infamous 'Essay on
Woman,' first print >l for private
circulation ; lor wl ich I Sand-
wich (Jemmy Twitcher) himst If a
in' mbi r of th>- g ej, ty, mov< d in
the BoUSe of Lords that Wilki s
should he taken into custody.
I! .r ice Walpole writ- s in tl
'-, 1763: ' The wick' 1 tliat
\. ry lately at a club [The
tiicakh] held at the top of the
playhouse in Prury Lane, Lord
Sandwich talked BO pro&nely that
he drove two harlequins out of
company.' The grossness and
blasphemy of the ' Essay ' disgusted
'The Steaks,' by whom Lord Sand-
wich was expelled; and Wilkes
11. \. r 'lined there after 1763; yet
when be went to I Vance they hypo-
critically made him au honorary
member.
Garrick was nol fond of club-life,
but he was an honoured member of
'The Steaks;' and they po
amongtheir relics the bat an 1 sword
which David wore, probably 011 the
night when lie Btayed to 1 long after
dinner, and had to play 'Banger'
at Drury Lane. The pit grew rest-
li ; the gallery bawled, ' Manager I
man iger!' < iarrick bad been Bi nt for
to 'The Steaks,' at Covenl Garden.
Carriages blocked up Russell Stn
and he lia<i to thread his w;i\ be*
tween them. As he cam" panting
into tl 10 theatre, ' I think,' said
Toid, one of the anxious pat oteea,
'considering the stake you and I
have in this house, yon might pay-
more attention to the busim
'True, my good friend,' returned
G li rick, ' hut I was thinking of my
in the other house.'
At 'The Steaks' Garrick 1
reconciled to Column, to which the
following n it. n f< re:
' Ml I'EUt CeLMAN,
' Becket lias bean with me,
and tills me of your friendly u ten*
tii his towards me. 1 should have
In 1 n In E irehand with you, had I
not I" en ill with the beefst aka and
arrack punch last Sit unlay, and
was obliged to leave the play-
hou
" II tli.it parts us sli.ill bring a brand from
II iwn,
An.l ti r. - IU h 1
' Ever yours, old and new frien 1,
■ D. Gabrigk.'
At ' The St al 'one nigh I I rarrick
boasting of his regulai ity in
tick, ting and labelling plays at nt
to him for acceptan •<■ for 1 erform*
ance; when Ifurpbysaid across the
tiiM. ' \ Bg for your by 1 riay ,
yon know, 1 »t y, you mislaid my
tragedy two months ago, and I
make no doubt you have lost it.'
77ie Sublime Society of Steaks.
285
' Yes/ replied Garriek ; • but you for-
get, you ungrateful dog, that I
offered you more than its value ; for
you might have had two manuscript
farces in its stead.' This is the
right paternity of an anecdote often
told of Sheridan and other parties.
Jack Richards was never absent
from ' The Steaks,' unless arrested
by the ' fell sergeant,' gout. He was
recorder, and had to pass sentence
upon those who had offended against
the rules and observances of the
Society ; when he put on Garrick's
hat, and inflicted a long wordy
harangue upon the culprit ; nor was
it possible to see when he meant to
stop. He was a most exuberant
talker; but would as soon adul-
terate his glass of port wine with
water, as dash his talk with an un-
generous remark.
Mrs. Sheridan's brother, William
Linley, often charmed the Society
with his pure, simple, English song,
to a melody of Arne's, or Jackson's
of Exeter, or a simple air of his
father's. He had written a novel
in three volumes, which was so
schooled by ' The Steaks ' that he
wrote no more. A member brought
a volume of the w T ork in his pocket,
and read a passage from it aloud.
Yet Linley never betrayed the irri-
table sulkiness of a wounded author,
but bore with good humour the
pleasantries that played around him,
and used to exclaim —
* This is no flattery ; these are the counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.'
Dick Wilson, whose complexion
had for many years been crimsoning
over the port wine of the Society,
was a solicitor, and long dignified,
as Lord Eldon's ' port-wine loving
secretary.' He stood the fire of ' The
Steaks ' with good humour. An-
other good-natured butt was Old
Walsh, the ' Gentle Shepherd.' Row-
land Stephenson, the banker, was
another ' Beefstcaker ;' as was Wil-
aain Joseph Denison, who sat many
years in Parliament for Surrey, and
died a millionaire. He was a man
of cultivated tastes : we remember
his lyrics in the ' Keepsake ' annual.
The golden period of the Society
is generally considered to be that
when Bubb Dodington, Aaron Hill,
Hoadley (who wrote ' The Sus-
picions Husband'), Leonidas Glover,
Bunnell Thornton, and Tickell were
members. John B- ard, the rich
tenor, who sang in Handel's operas,
was President of the Club in 1784.
In 1785, when the Society had been
instituted just fifty years, the Prince
of Wales was admitted: there was
no vacancy, but the number of
members was increased from twenty-
four to twenty- five. The Dukes of
Clarence and Sussex were also of
' The Steaks :' these princes were
both much attached to the theatre
— the former to one of its brightest
ornaments, Dorothy Jordan.
Charles, Duke of Norfolk, was
another celebrity of • The Steaks,'
and frequently met here the Prince
of Wales. The Duke was a great
gourmand, and used to eat his dish
of fish at a neighbouring tavern,
and then join ' The Steaks.' The
Duke took the chair when the cloth
was removed : it was a place of
dignity, elevated some steps above
the table, and decorated with the
insignia of the Society. For the
dinner, as the clock struck five, a
curtain drew up, discovering the
kitchen, in which the cooks were
seen at work, through a sort of
grating, with this inscription from
Macbeth —
' If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere
well
It were quickly done.'
His Grace of Norfolk would eat
two or three steaks, fragrant from
the gridiron ; and when his labours
were thought to be over, he might
sometimes be seen rubbing a clean
plate with a shalot, for the r< cep-
tion of another steak. The Duke
was an enormous eater; he would
often consume three or four pounds
of steak, and after that take a
Spanish onion and beetroot, chop
them together, and eat them with
oil and vinegar. After dinner he
was ceremoniously ushered to the
chair, and invested with an orange-
coloured ribbon, to which a small
silver gridiron was attached. At
the sale of curiosities belonging to
Mr. Harley, the comedian, in Gower
Street, in November, 1858, a silver
gridiron, which had been worn by
296
77ic Siihlime Society of Steulcs.
n member of 'The steak-; was Bold
for il. j«.*
In tbe chair the Dake of Norfolk
aporti 1 himself with urbanity
and good humour. Usually the
President was the t irgef at which
the ji Bts were fuel, bul moderately ;
for though a oharaoteristio equality
reigned at ' The steaks,' the influ-
of rank and station w< re felt
there. The ' ike's conversation
occasionally Bhowed evidence of ex«
tensive reading, which was rarely
impaired by the sturdy wine of
the Society. Captain Morris, the
laureate-lyrist of ' The steaks, ' usu-
ally BaDg our or two of his own
Bongs, At nine o'clock the Duke
quitted the chair, and was succeeded
by sir John Hippisley, who had a
terrible time of it: no one spued
him— even new members made their
first essays upon the Baronet, than
whom no man was more prompt
to attack others. Be quitted the
Society in consequence of an odd
adventure which really happened
to hiiu, and which being related
by one of ' Che steaks' with mali-
cious fidelity, raised such a shout
of laughter at the Baronefs ex-
1 ■- use that be could no longer Btand
it.
John Kemble was one of 'The
celebrities, and upon familiar
is with his Ciare of Norfolk,
evening at Norfolk House,
Captain Morris having left the table
i arlj , for the lyrist kept better hours
his ducal friend, it grew late,
when Kemble ventured to sup.
to the Duke some significant hints
aprovi ment of Morris's
fortune. Hi- Grace grew generous
over his wine, and promised : the
■ 'ii came, and Morris lived
to the age of ninety-thn e to enjoy
it.
It baa been remarked of ' The
•.s,' t 1 at th( re must have been
originally a wise and simple code
Of ISWB, Which COUld have held them
ther tor bo l' ngthened a period,
i ■ • ■ id, during the past
aiitj ktory time of it.
Oovent Qarden Theatre, m which
• 'Club Lift I Londoo,' vol. j. p, 142;
to whirh work ackn
ceitnin of the anecdotes lel.itt*! 111 tlr ]■
p*pv a
the first steak was broiled, was
destroyed by fire in 1808; the
first gridiron, which had long been
enshrined as one of the Penatt - of
the club, was saved ; lmt the valuable
stork of wine shared the fate of the
building, and the archives of the
Society perished. Herein it was cus-
tomary to set down the good things
said at ' The steaks,' and register the
names oi the early nieiiiher-. After
the fire at Oovent Qarden the • Sub-
lime Society ' was re-established at
the Bedford Hotel, until Mr. Arnold
had fitted up apartments for their
reception at the English < >p> re
House. Here they continued to
meet until tin' destruction of that
theatre by tire, in 1830. Tims,
twice burnt out, they returned to
the Bedford ; and their old friend
Mr. Arnold, in rebuilding his theatre,
the Lyceum, had a dining-room
provided for them of a very
racteristic order. Mr. Cunningham
has appropriately termed it 'a little
Escurial in itself.' The do
wainscoting, and roof, ol good old
English oak, are studded with grid-
irons, as thick as Henry Vll.'a
Chapel with the portcullis of the
founder. Everything assumes the
shape, or is distinguished by the
representation, of the emblematic
implement — the gridiron. ' Tho
cook is seen at his office through
the bars ol a spacious gridiron, and
the original gridiron of the Society
(the survivor of two terrific lin-),
holds a conspicuous position in the
centre of the eeiliiiLT.'
The portraits of several worthies
of the ' Sublime Society ' have hern
painted. One brother hangs ' in
chains,' as Arnold remarked, in allu-
sion to 1' e civic, chain which he
wt us. His robe drew from Lord
Brougham, one of ' The Steaks,' on
being b k< I if the portrait was a
likeness, the remark, that it could
not fail of being like him, ' there
was BO much of the fur (thief) about
him.'
We have spoken of (he brother*
1 1 equality of the Society, and
may as well note that the junior
member has a duty accordant with
his station. Thus the nohle and
Ii anird lord, whom we have just
mentioned, has been seen emerging
The Sahlime Society of SteaJcs.
287
from the cellar with half-a-dozen
bottles in a basket! And the Duke
of Leinstcr, who is now the president
of the Society, has, in his turn,
taken the same duty. Morris con-
tinued to be the laureate of ' The
Steaks' (the other day he was irre-
verently called a poet ' by courtesy ')
until the year 1831, when he bade
adieu to the Society. He was then
in his eighty-sixth year.
Morris revisited the Society in
1835, when he was presented with a
large silver bowl, affectionately in-
scribed. He then addressed the
brotherhood. There was still another
effusion on the treasured gift : —
'And call to my Muse, when care strives to
pursue,
" B ing the Steaks to my memory, the Bowl
to my view." '
Morris was staid and grave in his
general deportment. There is, in the
collection in Evans's Music-room in
Coven t Garden, a portrait of the
bard— a poor performance, but a
likeness. A better portrait, from the
family picture, is engraved as a
frontispiece to ' Club Life of London.'
Moore, in his Diary, tells us of
Colman being at ' The Steaks/ ' quite
drunk,' making extraordinary noise
when Morris was singing, which
much disconcerted the bard. Yet he
could unbend. We remember to
have heard him strike a pianoforte
at a music-seller's, and sing, ' The
Girl I left behind Me :' he was then
past his eight ieth year. Curran said
to him one day, ' Die when you
will, Charles, you will die in your
youth.'
Morris's ancient and rightful
office at ' The Steaks ' was to make
the punch. One of the members
describes him at his laboratory at
the sideboard, stocked with the va-
rious ingredients. ' Then smacking
an elementary glass or two, and
giving a significant nod, the fiat of
its excellence ; and what could ex-
ceed the ecstasy with which he
filled the glasses that thronged
round the bowl, joying over its
mantling beauties, and distributing
the fascinating draught —
" That flames and dances in its crystal bound." '
Morris's allegiance to ' The Steaks '
was undivided. Neither hail, nor
rain, nor snow-storm kept him
away; no engagement, no invita-
tion, seduced him from it. He
might be seen ' outmatching the
bear' in his seventy- eighth year,
when nature had given no signal
of decay in frame or faculty.
'The Steaks' partake of a five
o'clock dinner every Saturday, from
November till the end of June. The
Society consists of noblemen and
gentlemen, twenty-four in number ;
every member has the power of in-
viting a friend.
With the enumeration of a few
memorials, we conclude. Formerly
the gridiron was a more prominent
emblem of ' The Steaks ' than at pre-
sent. The table- cloths had gridirons
in damask on them ; the drinking-
glasses were engraved with grid-
irons, as were the plates ; just as the
orchestra decorated the plates at
Vauxhall Gardens.
Among the presents made to the
Society are a punch-ladle from Bar-
rington Bradshaw ; six spoors from
Sir John Boyd; a mustard-pot
from John Trevanion, M.P. ; two
dozen water-plates and eight dishes,
given by the Duke of Sussex ; cruet-
stand, given by W. Bolland ; vine-
gar-cruets, by Thomas Scott : Lord
Suffolk has given a silver cheese-
toaster— toasted or stewed cheese
being the wind-up of ' The Steaks '
dinner.*
1866.
Club Life of London,' vol. i. p. 149.
288
Cn sties in the Air.
CASTLES IN TTIE ATK.
YOUTH, build thy eastleB in the air-
Live and you'll find, as I have found,
The ruins ..I' those structures fair,
Heapsofoold ashes on t In ■ ground,
To scatter to the evening air,
Or — on the sackcloth of despair.
W.
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LONDON SOCIETY.
APKIL, 1867.
BOATING LIFE AT OXFOED.
CHAPTER I.
THE NEW CAPTAIN.
JOST people who know anything
IfjL of Oxford, know that of all the
amusements of the place, boating is
the most absorbing, and the most
keenly pursued. Not only on bright
summer evenings, but through the
damp mists of November, and the
frost and sleet of February, the river
from Folly Bridge to Iffley Lock is
covered with craft of all descriptions,
from the quiet 'dingey' to the
stately ' eight.' Whatever be the
attractions to be found elsewhere,
whatever be the state of wind or
weather, be it rain, hail, or snow, as
long as boats can live, boats are
launched, and the regular fre-
quenters of the river pursue their
daily recreation, or, rather, their
daily business, for business it is;
more or less absorbing with dif-
ferent men, but a business with all.
Probably most people, who are con-
nected either as friends or relatives
with Oxford men, know thus much
about Oxford boating ; but few under-
stand why its influence so widely
pervades Oxford life, and its spirit
so deeply enters into every Oxford
man, whether he take part in it per-
sonally or no. Of course Jones's
sisters are delighted to hear that he
is going to row ' Bow of the 'Varsity '
this year, and they like the excite-
ment of getting up in the twilight
to go and see the race ; possibly
they know what is meant by a
'bump,' and a 'stroke;' but why
John should think so much of his
VOL. XI. — NO. LXIV.
boat making a 'bump,' why he
should speak of rowing in the Eight
at Putney as preferable to any num-
ber of first-classes, they cannot un-
derstand. And Jones's father, from
his oracular post on the hearthrug,
says, ' Boating is a fine, manly exer-
cise, but he hopes John will not
allow it to interfere with his studies,
and make a business of what should
only be a pastime.' So that, on the
whole, Jones feels that on the sub-
ject dearest to his heart he does not
receive much sympathy in the do-
mestic circle. Now this want of in-
terest in a pursuit which engages
much of the time and energies of
young men of both our great uni-
versities, is surely to be regretted,
and is, in fact, regretted by many.
It is not, of courss, to be expected
that those who do not engage per-
sonally in a pursuit should feel an
equal interest in it with those who
do ; but it seems both possible and
desirable that they should under-
stand how that interest arises, and is
so constantly maintained among uni-
versity men of every variety of taste
and every degree of muscular deve-
lopment. I purpose, therefore, to
attempt, in a few sketches of boating
life and boating men, to illustrate
without exaggeration, and sometimes
by scenes from real life, the im-
portant position that boating holds
at Oxford, to account for the en-
thusiasm it creates, and to mark the
nature of its influence on the life of
290
Boating lAfi at Oxford.
an Oxford man. I shall begin, with-
out farther preface, with somo ac-
count of
A '!■' BOB Ml KTLNG.
On the morning of tlio 22nd of
January, 18— , the following notice
was posted "U the inside of the Col-
lege gates:—
•St. Anthony's College Boat Club.
A meeting of the Club will be held
on Monday evening next, in Mr.
• .ins, at nine o'clock, to
elect a Captain, and transact other
business of importance.
(Signed), 'Chablks Thokxuill,
' Captain.'
I, Tom Maynnrd, a freshman, read
this notice, in common with the rest
of the College, as I walked forth for
a morning stroll between Chapel and
breakfast. Looking back at myselfas
I was then, I believe 1 may say with-
out vanity that I was pretty much
what a freshman ought to be. I had
a proper reverence for senior men, a
proper wish to support the institu-
tions of my college, especially the
College boat, a d< sire to avoid ' a bad
set,' and a wholesome fear of doing
anything that might seem 'fresh,'
or might cause me to be oonsid< ted
ky or pn sumptuous. I had,
therefore, some doubts, after reading
the notice of meeting, as to whether,
in spite of having the day before
paid a subscription of 2/. m., 1 was
entitled to take part in the august
deliberations of the St Anthony's
B >.U Ohlb However, having talon
counsel with a brother freshman,
who, being ofa more bustling temper
than I. made more blunders, but got
tion on things in gem ral
quicker than 1 did, 1 l< arned that I
might consider 1 full-Mown
member of the club, with a right to
and blow up the officers,
and 1 r ything, my d< ar fel-
low/— and) were his words— 'pro-
inrei If lor captain, and me
for stroke of the 1. ght, if you
like.' After this aasi rano From my
id Wingfield, an enthuai
nal man, who
r-ini • 1- 1 1 1 < 1 its ti ii*iii« nl
the said b d< m a\ wi ighing ui
an stone, I determined to go to
the meeting, and to tho meeting I
went.
It was ten minutes after nine
o'clock when I reached Mr v
[ease's rooms. Business had not
yet commenced, but then 1 wa
tolerably good muster already. Men
of all sizes were lounging about the
room, some disposing their limbs in
the most luxurious manner on 1
chairs and s tfas. Borne li aning against
the high oak manfa Ipii se, some
perched on tall sea's in the window;
about balfwi re smol ing and sev< ral
huge tankards of beer w< re p 1
round the room from tune to time,
and were saluted with much gusto.
'Look here,' said Wingfield, who
sat next me, and took his pull at the
beer with the air of an old band,
'this cup is to commemorate tho
year when we won everything at
Eenley — the Grand Chi . the
Ladies' Plate, the Stewards', and the
Diamond Sculls. Bather good,
wasn't it, old boj ? And d'ye see
that big thing with a lid to it?
They say a man once 'hank it right
off in Hall : it very nearly killed him,
and no wonder, for it holds more
than two quarts; bul he's all right
now; a parson somewhere in tho
country, 1 believe.' While Wing-
Geld was giving me this information
in an nnder-tone, there was plei ty
of chaff going ahont the 10 mi, and
an occasional bit of ' bear-fighting,'
which I ma\ describe, for the benefit
• if the uninitiated, as a friendly in-
terchange of compliments, taking
tin' form of wi hi aving of
b-cushions, &c
At the table, with a large mode-
rator, ami pens, ink, and paper be-
fore him, sal the captain, 1 onferring
gravely with the secretary, who sat
at bis right, <>n tho business about
to be tram acted.
'7 say, Barrington,' shouted the
eaptain to one of the men In the
window, 'just sing oui one.' more,
and if no 00 I turns up, we'll
in.'
Barrington upon this open< d the
window, and calli 'l oul in torn s vary-
ing from a cracki 1 tenor to a tragic
bass, the single monosyllable ' l tag.'
II i\ ii | donethi about adoz< ntin
apparently to bis own imm< use cn-
joyment, he closed the window, and
Boating Life at Oxford.
201
awaited the result of his efforts.
• The Eight are not all here,' said a
sharp voice. '1 hope you'll fine
those who are away, Thornhill ; it's
the rule, you know.' 'All right,
Tip, it's only old Five ; he's always
late, but he's sure to come.'
' Oh ! here you are, at last/ cried
Tip, as the door opened, and a very
large body, surmounted by a good-
humoured and rather handsome
face, with a short pipe in its mouth,
loafed into the room. ' You're just
in time. You'd have been fined in
another second.'
' I'll break your neck when I get
near you, young 'un,' returned Num-
ber Five. ' I hope I'm not late,
Thornhill; there was a rattling
brew of bishop going in Jackson's
rooms, that was too good to leave.'
• Of course ; we knew you must
be lushing somewhere,' put in Tip.
'Will you shut up?' replied the
big man, threatening him with the
tankard he had taken up on first
entering the room. 'The fact is,
captain, I believe I'm like those
things in the Greek Testament, that
stumped me in the Schools the
other day, containing two or three
firkins apiece.' 'Ah!' said Thorn-
hill, 'only very little of it is water;
however, sit down, and we'll begin.
Order, order!'
At this all hats went off, and
everybody listened.
1 Gentlemen,' said Thornhill, ' be-
fore we proceed to the main business
of the evening, the secretary will
read the annual statement of ac-
counts.'
Hallett, the secretary, then rose
and made a brief and not very lucid
statement, from which it appeared
that the club was not more than
150?. in debt, and there was great
hope that, with careful manage-
ment, the debts might be easily paid
off in the course of a few years.
When the ' Hear, hear, ' that
greeted the secretary's statement
had subsided, Thornhill rose again
and said, after scraping his throat
more than once, ' Gentlemen, I have
now to resign the captaincy of the
club, aud to ask you to elect a fresh
man in my place.'
Although every one had known
long before that the captain was
going to resign, no one seemed to
have realized the fact till now, and
there was silence all through the
room.
' If that were all,' continued
Thornhill, ' I should not trouble
you with a speech ; but, as I shall
leave the College to-morrow, and be
on my way to India probably within
a fortnight, I want to say a word or
two before I go.'
He spoke the last sentence quickly,
as if he feared his voice might fail
him before he got to the end of it,
and then patised and looked hard at
the tablecloth.
' Pass that beer/ exclaimed the
ever-thirsty No. Five, whose name,
by-the-by, was Baxter. ' Young
Tip, you're not fit to live.'
Tip took a long pull himself, and
then passed the tankard, taking care
to keep well out of reach of Baxter's
arm.
' No man in the College/ conti-
nued Thornhill, raising his eyes,
' will ever leave it with more regret
than I shall. I have passed a hap-
pier four years here than I ever did
or ever shall pass again. I have
made a good many friends who will
last me my life.' (' Hear, hear/ and
' Rather, old fellow/ from Baxter.)
' And I think that every one here
at least wishes me well.' (Loud
cheering all round the room, in
which Wingfield and I joined with
great enthusiasm.) 'I thank you
with all my heart for your kind-
ness/ Thornhill went on, ' and I'll
never forget it ; and wherever I may
be, I'll try and do credit to the old
place.' Here every one cheered lus-
tily, and then Thornhill began
again in a firmer tone. ' And now,
gentlemen, before I go, I want to
say something about the boating of
the College. Our Eight stands
higher on the river now than it has
stood for the last ten years ' (great
cheering) ; ' and with such men as
Hallett and Baxter to pull the boat
along, it ought to go higher still.'
(Hear, hear.) 'I wish to thank
those gentlemen and all the mem-
bers of the Eight, for the good will
they have always shown me, helping
me, both in the boat and out of the
boat, to get the Eight well up on
the river. They have always been
v 2
202
•■ , /. 'ft <if Oafordt
willing to submit their judgment to
mine, end have trained, with ono
or two exceptions, conscientiously
throughout' ('Alia! Bags,' said
Tip, . bo Baxter, ' that's
for you. Who drank beer at
eleven o'clock in the morning?*) ' I
hope tlic next captain may be ahle
to say the same; there is not a
grander thing to be seen in the
world than a set of nun yielding
obedience of their own free will to a
ruK rof their own choosing. Depend
upon it, if all the men of the- Col
work well together, and keep up
I training and discipline, the
bo it will go to the head of the river,
and the reputation of the College all
round will rise with it. You may ho
sure, when I am out in India, that I
filial 1 watch eagerly for any news of
tho College, and the College boat;
and shan't I make a rush at " Bell's
I ." whenever I get a chance, to
Bee what the Eights arc doing! If
I could only see our boat row head
of the river, I think I shouldn't
mind if 1 died the next minute.'
Then Thornhill sat down, and tho
cheering was long and loud. When
it was over, we proceeded to tho
[on of a new captain. A slip of
pap r was banded round on which
each wrote the name of the man he
considered fittest for the captaincy.
' I shall vote for Ballett; said I
to Wingfield. ' 11^'* the right man,
isn't he? .Stroke of the Eight, you
know.'
' Well, I don't know,' returned
Wingfield. 'I rather think I shall
vote for Percy, tho little man they
call "Tip;" he Bteered the [Varsity
I nt; 1 1 allot is not a 'Varsity oar.'
1 think Wingfield had a secret
ambition to Bteer the 'Varsity Eight
i I wished to en ate a pre-
at for his own election to the
;i 1 perhaps there w
Similar i in my ovi n si
bosom, when I voted lor Hallett.
The voting-pap rs were qow ool-
nbill announced tho
result— ' Mr. Balletl is elected by a
large majority.' Then h<
If in a quiet corner
by B utter, and Hallett took the chair
eh. | fil
• i , Hallett, rising
as there was B calm, ' I
thank you with all my heart for tho
honour you have eonfi nvd upon
me, the greatest honour you could
confer, and one that, I don't mind
Baying, I have wished for many and
many a time. I hope I shall do
credit to the post —at any ral i I'll
try.' (' Of course you will, old boy,'
from Baxter.) 'However, I won't
make any promises now, 1 nit just say
a word about old Thornhill, who is
leaving us, .Most of as here know
him well; and [ can tell those who
don't, that he's tho best man, the
truest friend, and the plncl
that ever stepped. His rowing last
year at Putney, bow of tho Bight,
was a treat to see, and ho was the
only man in tho boat whose back
was as straight as a board when
tho boat passed Hammersmith
Bridge. I have often heard it said,
"Oh, everybody knows, Thornhill
is the best oar in Oxford for his
sizo."' ('Wouldn't you like that
to be said of you?' said Wing-
field to me. 'Bather!' I replied;
and all my soul was in tho word.)
' No one,' went on Ballett, 'ever
loved the College with all his bi ni
like Charlie Thornhill; and he may
be sure tho College will not foi
him ; and whenever any sun
turns up, and wo win a prize or
gain a place on the river, our first
thought will be "Won't old Thorn-
hill be pleased at this?" It will
keep ln's spirits up, if ever they are
down, to know that tho old place
remembers him kindly, and that,
whenever his name is mentioned
among tho old men who have left
us, whether in a toast at supper, or
over a quiet glass of wine, he will
always be spoken of as "dear old
Thornhill." And now, gentlemen,
let OS give him musical honours and
three tunes three.'
All rose at once ; and Baxta r, who
had been patting Thornhill on the
back throughout Ballett's speech,
with more or less vigour, according
to the variation of his feelim . \< I
off in a stentorian voice, with • I
a jolly good fellow.' &0., in which
we joined with all our might. Then
followed such cheers as I nevi t
I in all my life before, pro-
longed till we were nil hoarse, and
y deaf. Thornhill sat all tho
Boating Life at Oxford.
293
lime in the same corner by the win-
dow with a half-smile on his face,
trying not to show the emotion he
really felt. After the cheers, Baxter,
who by this time was getting ex-
cited, proposed ' An Id lang syne,'
which was sung with fresh enthu-
siasm. Then every one crowded to
shake hands with Thornhill, and
wish him good-bye ; and I, on the
strength of having been coached by
him two or three times in a tub
pair-oar, grasped his hand like the
rest, and thought it the greatest
honour I ever received. Then
Thornhill left the room with Baxter,
and I saw something very like a tear
in the corner of his eye as he went.
And so the meeting ended, and I
went to my room with a flashed face,
and a tumult of thoughts in my
brain, which kept me awake till near
morning.
CHAPTER II.
OUR 'TORPID.'
As few people, in all probability,
know what is meant by a ' Torpid/
it may be as well to begin with a
brief explanation of that rather un-
attractive term. There are two
periods of the year at which races
regularly take place between the
eight-oared boats of the various
Colleges in Oxford, namely, March
and May. In May crews formed of
the best eight men that can be got
together out of each College, and
called 2 iar excellence the ' Eights,'
race against each other for the head-
ship of the river, or strive to come
as near it as they may. In March
the racing of the second best boats
takes place: these boats are the
' Torpids.' Why so called none can
tell ; the origin of the name is veiled
in mystery, which it would seem to
the present writer sacrilege to at-
tempt to penetrate. No one who
has rowed in his College Eight of
the previous year is allowed to row
in a Torpid, so that the Torpid crews
are formed chiefly of the fresh blood
of the year, and, as showing what is
the new material in each College,
the Torpid races possess a peculiar
interest for the rowing community
of Oxford. So much for explana-
tion, which, however necessary, is
likely to be dull. I shall now pro-
ceed with the history of the St.
Anthony's Torpid for the year 18 — .
We had always been proud of our
Torpid ; I say ' we,' for, though at
the time I speak of I w r as but a
freshman, I felt myself heir to all
the old traditions of the college, and
a good Torpid was one of the oldest.
Whatever our pick of men might
be, whatever bad luck we might
have — and we had our share — we
had always worked hard and made
the best of it; and we could, and
often did say with pride, that never
since we first put on a Torpid had
we fallen so low as to take it off.
The year before I came up to St.
Anthony's our boat had moved up
from ninth to fifth on the river, and
the prowess of the crew was well
remembered at every festive gather-
ing in the College. This year, how-
ever, our prospects were not of the
brightest; our best men had been
drafted into the Eight, and the
freshmen of the year were not a
promising lot ; or, according to
Baxter, who, like most big men,
inclined to a desponding view of
things, ' no good at all.'
' Why, look here, young 'un,' I
heard him say to the more sanguine
Tip, 'I coached that big lubber
Wilkinson every day last term to
try and make something of him,
and all he does now is to put his
oar in deep, and pull it out with a
jerk.'*
'Well but, my dear fellow,' re-
turned Tip, 'all that bone and
muscle must be got to work some-
how, and I'm sure the man's willing
enough ; besides, just think what an
awful duffer you were yourself when
you began to row; by Jove, I shall
never forget your plaintive old face
when Thornhill was pitching into
you for not keeping your arms
straight!'
' No more of that, Tip, or I'll
scrag you,' replied Baxter, as Tip
began an imitation of his first essay
in rowing ; ' I'll have another turn
at the big duffer, but it's my belief
the boat will be bumped three times
with the crew we've got at present.
Come along ; it's time we were down
at the barge.'
From the time when Thornhill
294
BoatiiKj Life at Oxford,
r ^nod, and said good-bye, the
og spirit bad < nh rt 'l da ply
into my si ml. and I made ;i Btrong
ve that, if pi rsevi ranee and
haul work could do it, I WOoid
some d ij bi ■ good oar. I I ad
learned something abont the hand*
of an oar on the riv< r n< ar my
home, and by dint of I
practice and plenty of coaching
\. d at last what was then
de in -i u 1-I1 nf my heart, a place in
tin' Si Anthony's Torpid. Wing-
field, !■ ing bj far the lightest man
in the College, and possessing that,
qnickm bb and self-con fid< nee which
is indispensable in a coxswain, was
learning the art of steering, and was
pretly sure to keep his position in
the: stem of the boat.
It wanted now three weeks to the
first day of the ran s, and I was
seated in the window of my ro iins,
which were on the ground-floor,
pegging away at Euripides for the
1 smalls ' that lo imed In the distance,
when I was aware of Ballet! ami
Baxter talking at a short distance
from me.
' Have yon considered, old man,'
n Baxter, ' that it only wants
weeks to the races, and the
Torpids not made up yei ?'
' Yes, I know.' replied Hallett,
' it's an awkward state of thil
the mi n ought to go into training
to-morrow, hut it's no use without
having the crew settled, and espe-
cially Btroke.' •
' .1 -aid Baxter, rather in-
distinctly, for he bad a cigar in his
mouth. ' Well, what's to be done?
\\v 1 1 1 1 1 - 1 try Bomebody; there's
Wilkinson will do well enough for
five; I mnsi say he's turned out
r than ever I expected, and
Vt e is pn d at six, and
Bi ton makes u fair two, hut none
o r them would do f »r Btroke.'
' Well, th< ing Maynard,'
i llal!ctt, reflectively; at
I pricked up mj and
Euripides and Bmalls vanished into
thin ;ur. ' Se'l not the '" I 'ar in
the boat,' continued Ballett, ' but
he I ' pluck an I go SDOUt
him of any ; BUpp ■-• we try him to-
day. \\ bi real oats dot I tie i
out? Hullo !' lie wenl on,
lower tone, 'isn't that his HI
over the door? If he's in, ho must
have heard all we've been saying.'
With that he knocked, and both
entered.
'( too 1 morning, Bfayoard ; I ex-
pect you heard what Baxter and
I wire talking about ouside.' I
turned ratln r red, and confl sm d 1
had, ' Well,' said Ballett, 'yon see
we want you to row stroke to-day,
and if \ou get on all right well
in tiaining to-morrow. 1
' Von mustn't ho surprised, you
know,' said Baxter, ' if you're sent
back to your old place.'
'Oli, of course not,' replied I,
met kly, ' but I'll do the best 1 can
to keep my place at stroke.'
'All right,' returned IIall< tt ;
'mind you're down in time — threo
o'clock sharp, you know,' and ho
and Baxter left the room.
I remember, as if it were yester-
day, the feeling of mingled pride
and misgiving with which I stepped
into the hoat that afternoon to row
Btroke. I felt as if all the river
would be watching every turn of
my oar, and, as the boal went
swinging down the stream, J fancied
I could hear the mi n on the bfiJ
Baying to each other, 'Here comes
St. Anthony's; so they've ^ot a
stroke at last ; wonder what he's
like.' Baxter's voice on the hank,
however, soon recalled me to my
senses. 'Not so quick, Stroke!'
' Keep your feather down!' ' You're
missing the beginning l' and so on,
at intervals, all the way down.
At Iffley we turned and began the
row up, Hallett and Baxter, not to
be shaken off, keeping up a raking
lire from the bank. ' Put your back
into it, live.' ' Mind the time,
three.' 'Slowly forward, two.'
' Hallo, WingQeld, mind what you're
abont; look ahead, steer in shore;
by .love there'll be a Bmasfa !' ' Look
ahead,' cried Wingfield, suddenly
jumping up in the utmost excite-
ment. '' Easy all ! Hold her!'
In another second we felt a shock
all through the hoat; there was a
crash of oars, and we were pitched
I Brat into the water.
' I— can't— swim,' panted Wing*
field, a.s became to the surface, and,
before I could seize him, disap*
I again. In a few seconds the
Boating Life at Oxford.
295
email head rose once more, and this
time T managed to grasp the little
man by the collar, and, with some
trouble, got him astride of the boat,
which lay bottom upwards on the
water. The rest had by this time
got ashore, and I now followed them,
leaving little Wingfield, by no means
sure of his seat, on the boat, the
water streaming from him on all
sides, and altogether looking the
most comical picture possible. He
was soon rescued by a punt, and
then wo all ran back to our barge
to change our wet flannels and keep
the cold off by a nip of brandy at
the Boat- House Tavern.
' Well, Wingfield, you made rather
a mess of your steering just now,'
said Hallett; 'you and the cox. of
the other boat both lost your heads.'
Wingfield looked very crest-fallen.
' Well, nevtir mind,' said Hallett ;
' how are you now?'
' Oh, all right, thank you. You
see, I can't swim, so I was rather in
a funk at the time.'
' Yes, anybody could see that,' re-
marked Tip, who had enjoyed the
whole thing immensely. ' When
you were safe astride of the boat,
you looked just like John Gilpin
when his horse ran away.'
'I hate that fellow Tip,' said
Wingfield to me immediately after-
wards, ' don't you ? No, of course
you don't, you never hate anybody,
why should you? It's only small
men who've reason to hate ; they're
obliged to do it in self-defence.
But, old fellow, I haven't thanked
you yet for pulling me out of a
watery grave; you may be sure I
sha'n't forget it, and I'll pay you
back some day when I get the
chance.' I could tell by the tone of
his voice that he meant more than
he said, and I felt that from that
day the little ' Torpid' coxswain was
the firmest friend I had.
As we walked up from the river,
Baxter said, ' Maynard, we've settled
that you'll do for stroke, and the
crew is to go into training to-mor-
row. Breakfast in Hallett's rooms
to-morrow morning, and mind
everybody has a good walk first.
Wingfield, you'll have to see that
all the crew are off to bed by half-
past ten.'
And so the business of training
began, and beef and mutton twice
a day was our food for nearly a
month. I shall not now enter into
the details of that training; how
' bow' was ill, or fancied he was, for
three days; how Vere was nearly
turned out of the boat for being out
of bed at midnight ; how Wilkinson
turned sulky, and spread a spirit of
mu tiny among the crew; and how
Hilton once ate buttered toast for
breakfast, and caper-sauce with his
boiled mutton, all which particulars,
however momentous in the eyes of
the St. Anthony's Torpid then, would
doubtless be tedious to the general
reader. Suffice it to say, that the
first day of the races found us all in
excellent fettle and high spirits, and
even Baxter was fain to confess that
we had improved immensely in the
last week, and might make a bump
or two. Does every body know what
is meant by a • bump ?' Very likely
not. So, at the risk of being con-
sidered a bore, I shall take the
liberty to explain.
The Torpid races are conducted
in the manner following. At the
part of the river where the start
takes place a number of posts are
placed along the bank 160 feet apart,
and by one of these each boat takes its
station according to the order of the
previous year, the head boat being
highest up the river, the second 1 60
feet behind it, and so on to the last.
To each post a rope is made fast,
one end of which, having a large
bung attached, is held by the cox-
swain of the boat. When the start-
ing-gun fires, the bungs are dropped,
and each boat starts in pursuit of
the one before it. Any boat over-
taking another, so as to touch any
part of it, makes a ' bump.' Both
boats lay to out of the way of those
behind, and on the following day
the ' bumping' boat takes its station
above the 'bumped,' and tries to
overtake the next boat, and so on
through the six days of the races.
With this explanation the reader
will, I trust, understand the par-
ticular races I am about to de-
scribe.
At two o'clock on one of those
damp, ' muggy ' days, which are only
too common in Oxford, the St. An-
Lift at Ozfcrd.
at of tfae<
-i:--.: -:- •.-.: :; -■: - :
--z, z -.'■■r^Ciiz.'-'-
had begu. For the
Wc
-i.
■Wf- I
WeO rowed
: "
n:
— _
si:
:. :: : - :
rlT".
it bo< : Li
298
MODERN BEAU BRUMMELLISM.
BEAU BBUMB4ELL was tho
dandy of his day, ami a dandy of
■uliar kind. K'\ mologists tell us
that the word ' daiuh ' IS delist d
from the French dan lin,oi ' ninny,'
or from the Italian dandola, 01 'toy.'
Benoe a dandy means one who
dreeaee himself like a doll, a fop, a
OOXCOmb, a ninny. The peculiar
type which was especially repre-
sented by the famous Brummell was
combined with an amount of •fasti-
diousness and helplessness to which
there is no parallel. Ho was a re-
markable instance of a man pushing
himself into a grade of society to
whioh he had no claim, by dint of a
certain amount of assurance and a
high estimation of himself. There
is nothing more true than the say-
ing that the world takes a man at
the value he sets upon himself. He
who depreciates himself by a humi-
lity, whether true or false, will not
be esteemed by the world at large.
The dealer who cries 'stinking fish'
is not likely to rind much custom
for his wares. Let a man assert
himself, and lay claim to a certain
amount of wisdom, and talk like an
oracle, and the chances are that, un-
I' ss he is a fool, the world, having
neither time nor inclination to go into
the matter, will take, him at his own
valuation. It only requires perse-
verance, an indomitable will, and in-
ordinate self esteem, combined with
a certain amount of tact, which, in
this instance, might - almost be
better called an instinct of self-pre-
servation, which prevents a man
from showing the cards which ho
holds in his own hands. Some peo-
ple are easily imposed upon by
silence, and are apt to attribute
depth of learning and profundity of
thought to the man who is silent,
for no other reason than that he has
nothing to say. Coleridge-
' Silence docs not always mark wis-
dom ;' and goes on to relate an
anecdote in illustration. ' 1 was at
dinner, some tune ago, in oompanj
with a man who listened to me and
i nothing for i long time ; bat
ho nodded his head, and I thought
him intelligent At length, towards
tho end of dinner, some apple dump-
lings were placed on the tablo, and
my man had no sooner seen them
than he burst forthwith "Them's
the jockeys for me!" Be destroyed
whatever prestige lie had acquired
by his silence by showing his folly.'
Had he remained silent, Coleridgo
might have continued to think him
intelligent. The man who is wise
enough to keep his own counsel
while he lays claim to superior gifts,
will probably get credit for all ho
claims. In Brummell wo have a
remarkable instance of a man valued
according to his own estimate of
himself. Possessing no great mental
gifts, ho worked his way into the
highest ranks of society, until ho
came into the very presence of
royalty, where ho made himself ne-
cessary by tho force of will, assurance,
ami self-conceit, which had already
obtained for him so great a reputa-
tion, that to be sp iken to by brum-
mell, and to dress like him, was the
ambition of all the dandies of tho
day. No doubt he possessed great
graces of the body, as well as the
natural gift of an almost faultless
taste: otherwise it would bo impos-
sible fully to account for the com-
pleteness of his success while he
basked in tho sunshine of royal
favour. Ho was tho very typo of
dandies,
' neat, trimly dress'd,
Freeh as a bridegroom . . .
> * •
II w.i-i perfamed like a milliner,
And 'i\\ Ixt hi.-, flngi r end bit thumb he held
a pooncet-box, which era and Boon
lie gave liU nose, and took 't away again.'
Stories without end aro told of him,
all pointing to him as tho g]
oracle in dress. No lady ever re-
quired the attention of her hand-
maid more than Brummell d< manded
the assistance of his valet during
the tedious operation of his toilet.
The gnat scent of tying a cravat
was known only to Brummell and
his sit; and it is reported of him
that his servant WM seen to 1>
his presence with a large quantity
of tumbled cravats, whioh, on l>eing
intern 'gated, he said were ' failures,'
so important were cravats in those
, and so critical tho tying of
Modern Beau Brummellism.
299
them. His fastidiousness and help-
lessness are exhibited side by side in
this anecdote. The one that there
should have been so many ' failures'
before he could be satisfied; the
other, that he should have required
the assistance of a valet, or, indeed,
of any hand except his own in tying
it.
This fastidiousness and helpless-
ness are not, however, confined to
any age. Indolence, conceit, love of
dress, and helplessness, will always
exist so long as we have bodies to
pamper and to deck. There will
always be men who devote much
time and thought to their personal
appearance, who ' shine so brisk,
and smell so sweet, and talk so like
a waiting gentlewoman ;' men who
try on coat after coat, and waistcoat
after waistcoat, that their effect may
be faultless ; who consider harmony
of colour, and the cut of a coat, or
the fit of a shoe or a boot, matters
of the greatest moment in life ; who,
whether beardless boys or elderly
men, never pass a looking-glass
without stealing sly glances at them-
selves, and never move except with
care and caution, lest the arrange-
ment of their hair, or some portion
of their toilet, should be marred.
The elderly dandies study to be
Men conserves, while the younger
ones care only never to be behind
the fashion of the day, be it what it
may. In a certain listlessness of
manner they, like Brummell, de-
mand the constant attention of a
valet. They require him to stand
behind them and arrange the part-
ing of their hair at the back of the
head and to smoothe it, to make the
collar and tie tie well, to tighten the
waistcoat, and put on the coat artisti-
cally, and press out any creases, to
put the right quantity of perfume
on the hankerchief, and, in fine, to
be responsible for their appearance.
These dandies cannot lace or unlace
their own boots ; they cannot take
off their own coat ; and never for a
moment dream of packing their own
clothes, or of looking after their own
luggage when they travel. They
look for, expect, and demand an
amount of attention which any, who
do not happen to be somewhat be-
hind the scenes, would suppose
none but the most helpless of women
would require It by no means fol-
lows that they have been brought
up in such Sybarite habits. Love
of ease, love of self-importance, or a
mistaken idea that it indicates high
breeding, have led to this unman-
liness. There is no greater mistake
than to suppose that they who have
been most accustomed to what are
called the luxuries of life from their
very cradle are the most dependent
upon them. Perhaps some of the
most independent men are "to be
found among those who have all
their lives been in the full enjoyment
of every comfort, while, on the other
hand, they who have come into
possession of them only recently, ;
and by a lucky stroke of fortune, lay
the most stress upon them, and are
very tenacious of them, as if the
secret of true happiness were bound
up in them. Nothing illustrates
this more than the noblo and manly
way in which some of those who
had been brought up in the very
lap of luxury bore the hardships and
adversities of a soldier's life during
the war in the Crimea. Then it was
that the true metal showed itself;
that good blood proved itself by
noble deeds.
It cannot be denied that it would
be difficult to devise anything more
hideous or unbecoming than the
dress of a gentleman of the nine-
teenth century. It may be easy and
comfortable, and a wider margin
may be allowed to' the caprice of
individuals ; but, in all its forms, it
is ugly and deficient in both pic-
turesque and pictorial effect. One
of the great charms of Vandyke's
pictures, apart, of course, from their
exquisite painting, lies in the dress.
They are all such courtly gentle-
men, and one feels to be in such
good company as one admires them.
Theirs was no fancy dress put on
for the occasion, no special dandyism,
but the ordinary dress of the times,
such as men of their rank and posi-
tion were accustomed to wear.
There was much more etiquette in
dress formerly than now exists, just
as there was much more formality
in all they did. Euffles and buckles,
silk hose and doublets, were not
adopted specially by any one more
300
Modern Beau Brummelliem.
devoted than his neighbours to the
and soli noe of dn as. Men sod
worn, n wriv more courteous to one
another, outwardly ut hast, than
they now axe. Children rose up at
the entrance of their parents, and
did i:"' ]' some their seats while
they were standing. No man would
■ddren any lady in public with his
In ad o rvered. Soung men would
take off their bats even to their
equals, always to their elders. The
old minuet </■ la eou/r was a very
,-tdate kind of dance compared with
those of the pri senl day. If wo
have gained in freedom, we havo
lost a great deal of outward mutual
respect Much of what we mean
still remains on the Continent, where
there is a considerable distinction
between the various classes in
matters of dress. The peasant has
his or her style, and the nobles theirs,
while the intermediate classes have
their distinctive styles. These dis-
tinctions are now abolished. We
have no national costume ; and the
lowest menials endeavour to imitate,
to the best of their powers, the
grandest lords and ladies in the
land.
It would be a great mistake to
infer, from the pictures which have
been handed down to us, that there
was more dandyism formerly than
now. Who would lay anything of the
kind to the charge of Lord Nelson?
Set we find him represented to us,
in paintings descriptive of his great
naval actions, dressed in knee-
breeches, silk stockings, and all the
I ies of a court dress.
It was the custom which pre-
vailed at that period, and is by no
means a fashion in the sense, in
which the word i- aged to denote
super-excellence and super-fastidi-
ousness in dress. At the death of
Lord N< Leon thi officers who sur-
round, d that great bero are de-
picted dr. ■ 1 according to the
custom which was as muoh de
•■ nr as it is H"'A for officers in
the army and navy to put on their
uniforms when thi into the
pn --. ace of royalty. To compare
J] things with great, we find
that Lord Winohil i a's I •
played at cricket in silverdaced
hats, ku , and silk si
ings. Bumps and even blood would
tonally show and come through
the stockings; and it is related of
one man that he tore a finger-nail
off against his Bhoe-buokle in pick-
ing u]i a ball! There must have
been a very different kind of howl-
ing tin n to that which now prevails,
if we may judge from the necessity
for pads of all kinds and descrip-
tions, and when, in spite of pads
and gloves, lingers and, occasion-
ally, even legs ass broken by the
( v. vsive \ ioh nee of the howling.
The formality and courtliness in
dress which existed even to 6o late
a period as that to which we have
referred, may be said to have gone
out- with hoops and powder. Our
ancestors, no doubt, deplored tho
changes which took place in their
days, and sighed over the intro-
duction of novelties, and tho fn e-
dom or license, as it may be called,
in dress in our times would have
shocked their sense of propriety,
for we find an amusing account in
the ' Spectator' of the alarm felt at
the way in which ladies dressed
themselves for riding, ' in a hat
and feather, a riding-coat and peri-
wig, or at least tying an their hair
in a bag or riband, in imitation of
the smart part of the opposite sex,'
which the astonished countryman
di scribed as ' a gentleman in a coat
and hat.'
There can be no doubt that a
certain amount of attention to dl
is necessary so far as it effects per-
sonal cleanliness and neatness. A
welbdressed man, that is to say, a
man who dresses like a gentleman,
neither like a top, nor a clerk, nor
a tailor who makes his own back
his advertisement, is sure to be well
received in all good society. Gold-
smith says that ' Processions, en*
valeadcs, and all that fund of gay
frippery furnished out by tailors,
barlu rs, and tin women, mecha-
nically intlueiice the mind into
ration; an emperor in his
nightcap would not meet with half
the resp ct of an < mperor with a
crown.' Tho only complaint made
■gainst our gracious Queen, when
sisited Ireland, by some of her
pOOC Irish subject! was, that 'she
was dressed like any other lady, and
Modern Beau Brummellism.
301
had no crown on her head.' There
is much worldly wisdom in paying
some heed to the adornment of the
outer man. It is a good letter of
introduction ; but when it goes be-
yond that, and branches out into
excesses of foppery, it becomes un-
manly, and, as such, cannot be too
much condemned. When young
men are either so helples-s or fas-
tidious that the constant presence
of a valet during their toilet is a
sine qua non ; that the parting at the
back of the head requires as much
attention as a lady's ' back hair ;'
it is time, indeed, that some such
satirist as the old ' Spectator'
should rise up and turn them into
ridicule.
But of all the fops in existence,
the old fop is the most contemptible.
A man who has outlived his gene-
ration ; who trips like Agag ' deli-
cately,' to hide the infirmities of
age, or affect a youth that has long
ceased; who competes with the
youug men of the day in his atten-
tions to the fair sex ; who dresses in
the very extreme of the prevailing
fashion of the day, with shirts ela-
borately embroidered, and wrist-
bands, fastened together with con-
spicuously magnificent sleeve-links,
which he is always pulling down,
either to show them or to establish
the fact, which no one would care
to dispute, that he has a clean shirt
to his back ; who is scented and
perfumed ; whose wig, faultlessly
made, is judiciously sprinkled with
a few grey hairs that it may appear
to be his own hair when he has
long ceased to have any to boast of ;
who uses dyes and cosmetics that
the marks of age may be obliterated
and the bloom of youth imitated ;
who is in a flutter of delight when
any one conversant with his weak-
ness is kind enough to mistake him
for his own son or the husband
of one of his daughters; such a
man is an object of both pity and
contempt. When age is not ac-
companied by wisdom, but exhibits
only the folly of which man's weak-
ness is capable, it is a hopeless
case.
Dirty fops are an especial abo-
mination. Men, young or old, who
are at great pains to adorn them-
selves without the most scrupulous
regard to cleanliness; who wear
many rings upon very indifferently
washed fingers ; who hang them-
selves in chains of gold; whose
shirt fronts present the greatest
variety, at different times, of the
most costly jewellery ; whose dis-
coloured teeth and ill- brushed hair
are a revelation in themselves, —
such men only make their defect
the more conspicuous by the deco-
rations with which they overlay it.
It is related of a gra/nde dame who
was remarkable for her wit and
beauty, that she rejected a man of
considerable note in the world, as
well as an ' exquisite,' of his day,
and who was one of her most de-
voted admirers, for no other reason
than that she saw ensconced be-
tween his teeth, when he made his
appearance at breakfast, a piece of
spinach which she had noticed the
evening before. It is impossible
for any one, whether man, woman,
or child, to be too particular about
cleanliness of person and of habits.
In these days, when there are such
facilities for washing, and when all
appliances are so easy of attainment,
it is perfectly inexcusable in any
one to fail in cleanliness ; and of all
people, the fop, who professes to
make his person his study, is the
most inexcusable if he neglect the
fundamental principle of dandyism,
which is, in fact, its chief, if not its
only recommendation.
It has been said that the youth
who is not more or less a dandy,
will grow into an untidy, slovenly
man. There may be some truth in
this. Indeed, we should be sorry to
see any young man altogether in-
different about his personal appear-
ance. It is not that which offends.
It is rather the excess to which it is
carried ; when self becomes the
all-absorbing subject upon which
thought, time, and labour are spent ;
when it degenerates into foppery,
into an effeminacy, into a certain
listlessness, helplessness, and affec-
tation which are unworthy of a man.
It is finicalness of dandyism, and
not its neatness and cleanliness, that
we quarrel with, on the principle
that whatever detracts from manli-
ness is unworthy of a man.
302
TIIE SOCIETY OF FEMALE ARTISTS.
THE art of renewing works of
human skill and industry with
tlif l< ast p ssible amount of trouble
to tin' critic would make a curious
treatise, and perhaps add a new
chapter to the ' Curiosities of Lib ra-
ture.' To out up a bo >k without
cutting its pages; to notice a new
play without [ it ; to criticise
an opera without a knowledge of
thorough bass, or even, perhaps, of
music, would, no doubt, be excel-
lent practice for the imagination and
the display of ingenuity, but by no
means conducive to the purity of
those laws which are supposed to
govern the republic of letters, thongh
the system lias been tried before
now ; and if tins short article were
an essay upon criticism instead of a
brief criticism upon the pictorial
essays of female artists, we might be
able to give our readers more than
one illustration of the— shall we say
— 'gay science' of re- viewing with-
out viewing at all ! Indeed, the ex-
perimentot importing the semblance
of truth to mere guess-work has its
temptations; and at this moment it
were quite possible to write a criti-
cism, more or less elaborate, upon
the pictures exhibited by the Society
of Female Artists without seeing
th< in, in which case it may inh
the sceptic to know how such a piece
of literary prestidigitation could bo
accomplished, and nothing more
when the art is once known.
W< Bhould commence by a general
inght on all such minor institu-
ting under notice, terming
them, in co »n with the gn it
< Inhibitions of London,
the little forcing-frames of the nur-
grounds which encourage the
pn c :ale, or protect the
lling. Thi n, guidi d by
ue borrowed o
tin nd, we si. nil! those w<
i ir especial praise against which are
affixed the high i ad after
lauding B ■ Bonbenrs sketch of
i i Pawni it* t ; I
Fontainebhau' I
venture, we should go on, trusting
to a delicate instinct for feeling in
the dark, to sneer at, condemn, and
depreciate all the less pretentions
works, interlarding our remarks
With Certain technical phrases which
would at once prove us a- speaking
. but at the same time,
careful lest we should set m to forget
the dictum that 'art is difficult—
criticism easy,' we should ascertain
what pictures had been told, and
armed with this valuable knowli
we should sing 'IS roans' in their
praises without stmt or limit.
Thus, with only a slight know-
ledge of the critic's legerdemain, we
could write a capital notice ; and
who would possibly surmise it was
inspired and 'thrown off' in the
coffee-room of an hotel fifty miles
from the gnat brick-and-mortar and
stucco Polypus called London?
All this knowledge, however, of
playing the game of speculation, or
of a sort of literary Mind man's Imff.
is useless in our especial case, owing
to tlie fact that we regard the So
of I', male Artists with sentiment
respect, and from the belief that it
is worthy of honest encouragement;
more especially when we consider
the exclusive in ss of the two water-
colour societies, who decline to have
anymore female members, and the
sli oder chanG s of artists' unknown
works finding admittance to the Royal
Academy. The Society dates from
al' nit i S 5 7 , and tor the first six
years was managed by lady patron-
esses, but failed for want of healthy
organization. On the committee of
ladies retiring from the direction,
the artists appointed an excellent
Becretar] . and ex< rted themselvi • to
procure a good gallery, which, thanks
to the liberal tli atlnellt of the Insti-
tute of Architects, they have ob-
tain* d ; they also instituti d a c
forstudy ing from living models, and
■ I sufficii m funds to make a
fresh start. All this is i
worthy; and it now only rests with
the artists themselves to n n l< r, by
the nature of the works they exhibit
>• ar,a fresh record
and of success.
In to the works at present
TJw Society of Female Artists.
303
on the walls of the Exhibition, if we
take a quiet stroll round the room,
beginning at the lowest number, and
proceeding leisurely on, we may be
able, perhaps, to arrive at a fair con-
clusion as to their merits in detail, as
well as some idea of the Exhibition
as a whole.
The first picture that we pause at,
No. 28, by Miss C. James, is a very
unambitious one, but withal de-
serves especial remark. It is called
' The Last of the Season,' and con-
sistsof a bouquet of chrysanthemums
so daintily painted, that we hope its
title will, for many a long year to
come, only apply to the subject the
artist selects, and not to her works.
'The Minster, from Bootham Bar,
York' (No. 29), by Miss L. Eayner,
is very nearly the host picture in the
collection, if not the best of its kind.
The light at the end of the street,
the perspective, the foreground, and
evident painstaking in the entire
composition, will well repay a
thorough examination. ' Magnolias,'
by Miss Lane (No. 41), is very
clever ; and though, as a rule,
flowers are not considered market-
able, we confess to an especial plea-
sure in the portrait-taking of these
lovely ere itions. Sauntering on, we
come to No. 43, ' Gorge of Pfeiffers,
near Bagatz, in Switzerland,' by
Mrs. Marrable, who contributes no
less than fifteen pictures to the Ex-
hibition ! There is a boldness and
decision about the works of this lady
very remarkable in an amateur, and
she has the good sense and artistic
feeling to escape conventionalities,
and copy direct from Nature. There
is nothing so offensive to true art,
nothing so fatal to genius, as the in-
dulgences of prettinesses of all sorts;
while the boldness to seek Nature,
and courage to limn her in all her
moods, without fear and without
ceremony, is one of the rarest gifts.
The rough crag and brawling torrent
become too often the smooth cliff
and purling stream, just as, in por-
trait painting, the masterly sketch
and vigorous outline is rendered,
with a smile of complacency, as the
tea-board picture, all finished and
decorous. A determination to paint
scenery as it is, with no attempt to
sublimate it with pretty trickeries,
is especially apparent in the more
ambitious of Mrs. Marrable's pro-
ductions, which we consider a far
better augury for her future artistic
career than the possession of talents
more striking and clap-trappish.
The faults most perceptible in the
works of this lady are the absence of
a delicacy of tints required for dis-
tance, the lack of aerial perspective,
and a general want of transparency
in her colouring where transparency
is needed; and also, we should say,
a neglect of the minor details of her
pictures, which your true artist is as
jealous of as the rest of the work.
But these are secondary or mechani-
cal faults, which thought, labour, and
a love of her art — which latter she
evidently possesses — will overcome.
' The Study of a Head ' (No. 54), by
Mdme. Henriette Brown; 'Streatly
Church, from the Thames ' (No. 59),
by Miss Warren; 'The Knitting
Lesson ' (No. 81), by Adelaide Bur-
gess ; are all deserving of especial
notice ; while ' Arlington Church,
Sussex ' (No. 90), by Miss M. Eay-
ner, and ' Monks in Canterbury
Crypt' (No. 107), by Miss Louisa
Eayner — especially the last for power,
colour, and finish— require that they
should be thoroughly examined for
their proper appreciation. ' Ehodo-
dendrons and Azalias' (No. 146),
by Florence Peel, must not be passed
by ; neither must ' Tria de Trabajo '
(No. 148), by Agnes Bouvier. The
latter, while exhibiting undoubted
care in its manipulations, is stiff,
and too near an approach to miniature
painting. ' Autumn on the Thames,
near Mapledurham ' (No. 151), by
Miss S. S. Warren, for its quiet
beauty, harmony of colouring, and
sober, tranquil character — all feeling,
and no display — is, in our opinion,
the gem of the Exhibition, and ex-
hibits one of the rarest qualities in
paintings of all descriptions — con-
tentment with the use of a few
colours. The great painters were
satisfied with a very limited stock of
pigments ; and in the same way that
the giant musicians of the past com-
posed their chefs-d'oeuvre by the aid
of a scale so limited that our bravura
singers would shake in their throttles
to think of it, so, many of the world-
famous painters of old employed as
304
Tlir Society o/Femah Artist*.
limited a chromatic scale in their
etpedal art ; l»ut then tiny knew the
1 1 L-t efieoi of i aeb pigment, whence
our modeno artists are perpetually
making oomprotmeea in colour, end
1 1 of a g l born -i r d, blue,
How, will dilute and eon-
rase them into so-called neutral
lints, which may, or may not, b
eoristence in Nature. Precision in
the use of colour hi as needful in
painting as precision in the touch of
a note in music: in either caso
indecision is a sure Bymptom of
weakness and want of skill.
• The Brook Bide' (No. 190), by
Miss Williams ; ' Portrait of 11 Young
Lady' (No. 195), by Mrs. Bridell ;
'Gloxiani' (No. 200), by Miss
Baker; ' In Perthshire' (No. 219) —
very charming — by Mrs. J. W.
Brown; 'Great Expectations' (No.
225) — the faces admirable— by Miss
Emma Brownlow; 'Jehu' (No. 235)
— which, if not a copy from, has a
promising relish of, the antique— by
Miss Jekyll ; ' Arab Boy Dancing to
bis Companions' (No. 138), by Mrs.
F.Lee Bridell, are all pictures worthy
to arrest the attention ; and then we
como to 'The Courtship of Sir
Charles Qrandison' (No. »59), by
Miss Olazton, which, in many rc-
btx <ta, is so excellei I ially tho
finish and expression of the faces
of the beau and belle, thai it is a
pity this lady should copy in her
drapery and pose of tho figures the
caricatures of Gilray. Let her trust
toher own talents and inspiration,
and not to the bizarre creations of a
bygone school. Next, a word of
commendation is justly earned by
Warren (No. 279), for her
picture Of the 'Thames at Islc-
following
rial notice, though,
of course, m the limited s]
signi 'i • »a critique in the pag<
a monthly p 1 iodical, it Le impoe rible
bo 1 at r ate the details of the sub-
jeel : — they are, ' Pa my, < to. ' ( No.
281 I harlotte Jami ; ' \
Qui on the Tl
282), by Mi Warn n ; ' Pipi r
1 • >t ; 19a , by J. l». ;
dy of B Negi (1 . by
Mr . P. Lee Bridell ; and ' C mnting
tho Stitches' (No. 348;, by Ellen
Partridge
If artists— men and women — will
only learn to courageously view
even their shortcomings as stepping-
stones to bettt t achievements, much
may be expected from tho art work-
shops of the world; and we would
wager the humble and patient
against those with more striking,
nay, with more brilliant, attributes
(supposing each is commencing a
career), if to the former is given a
power to self-criticise, and judgment
(0 tell them what they should leave
unattt mpted. Tin's latter knowledge
would have prevented Miss Emma
Cooper (No. 268 - introducing a snail
into her picture, or, at all events,
Buch a snail ! Delicate elaboration,
and lavish expenditure of time and
patience, are the first requisites for
depicting 'still life/ as so wonder-
fully illustrated by the minor ac-
n'ies in (he great Dutch masters,
such as the tlies, spiders, snails,
butterflies, and drops of water of
Van Os, Van iluysnni, Rachael
Buysoh, Casteel, and even our own
countryman Luke Cradock. Upon
the same principle permit us to ask
Miss B. Brownlow < No. au) why, it
she paints toy ducks fin the fore-
ground, too!), she does Hot ;
favour us with the little loadstone
rod to attract them, and dish or
basin to swim in? Then again,
self-criticism would have prevented
Miss L. Swift (No. 187) painting
satin with clay, not colour; and
would have thrown a little air and
distance into the backgrounds of
. 170, 197, and .'00, by Mesdames
Seymour, Bridell, and Baker, each
work possessing merit ially
the latter.
\ - 1 a whole.it is impossible to d< oy
that tho collection is a poor one, and
that the majority of the works exhi-
bited lack dignity, power, and imagi-
nation ; while DOl a Single production
can be said to be inspired by genius.
I' il'ly the only picture in the
gallery which has any preh nsioii at
all to rank under tins title i.^ .Miss
Jekylrs ' Jeho ;' hut it is impossible
to radge by a Bit . cimen of
t la I3 ' talents, or to say if she
illusti ■!' G 1 the's dictum, that
■ there aie many echoes, but bw
Voices,' and whether the picture wo
alludo to is a copy, a bit out of sowo
Mr. Fairwcathcr's Yachting.
805
ceiling, perhaps, or the expression Carlyle lias taught us in eloquence
of her own thought
But nil desperandum should l>e the
Society's motto, for at least it boasts
of a largo amount of individual in-
dustry ; and labour in every calling,
incontrovertible, is noble, and en-
nobling even in failure, for failures
are often the pioneers to success, by
warning us from the paths we ought
not to take.
MR. FAIRWEATHER'S YACHTING.
By the Author of 'Yachting round the West of England.'
CHAPTER II
MY FIRST YACHT.
ALTHOUGH my experience of
yachting had been up to the
present time so limited, many of
my original ideas on the subject
were already changed. Among
other mistakes, one I had laboured
under was with regard to the cha-
racter of sailors. I had always
looked upon the crew of a vessel as'
a company of generous, congenial
spirits, whose faults mainly con-
sisted of too great a contempt of
danger and too strong a tendency
to jollification. I could not have
imagined that the petty cares and
jealousies of shore could exist among
the free waves and fresh breezes of
the sea. Yet such I found was the
case. Brown, the captain, was per-
petually complaining to me about
James, the crew, and he in turn
revenged himself by making friends
with Simpkins, the maid, and con-
fiding his misgivings about the cap-
tain in a quarter where he knew
they would be repeated with addi-
tions. James had been in the navy,
Brown in the merchant marine,
and they fought as though the desti-
nies of the rival services depended
upon their personal exertions. If
James asserted that the British navy
were the finest body of men in the
world, and could do anything on
sea or land, Brown maintained that
they were the refuse of the popula-
tion that nothing could be made of
on shore, and still less at sea. If
James said they had four good
things in the navy, bread, chocolate,
rum, and tobacco, Brown observed
VOL. XI.— NO. LXIV.
that he did not care for any of them ;
give him the good roast beef. They
also differed as to the proper cut of
a pair of trousers, which, as sailors
often have to make their own, occa-
sioned a greater misunderstanding
between them than might have been
anticipated. As to the boy Harry,
he was always in the wrong ; both
were agreed on that, and he enjoyed
the reputa'ion of a domestic cat,
who is looked upon as the cause of
every catastrophe and misadventure.
Dickens has ably portrayed the
miseries of quarrelliug in a cart,
but they were nothing in compari-
son with contending over a red-hot
stove in a forecastle where there was
not even room to stand upright.
Another point on which I had
been in error related to fishing. I
had supposed that having a vessel
provided with nets and lines, I
should, in the course of my excur-
sions, take a considerable quantity
of fish, and had even given some of
my friends reason to hope for an
occasional present. But I found
that fishing was a distinct occupa-
tion from yachting ; it necessitated
remaining almost stationary for
hours and clays, and in the most
distant and inconvenient localities.
It also destroyed the neat appear-
ance of the deck and rails, and,
in a word, occasioned so much out-
lay and loss of time that it would
have been cheaper to buy flounders
at half a guinea each than to catch
them in our own net. We once or
twice attempted line fishing, but
30G
Mr, Fairweather'* Yachting,
n in this flu re was gi m rally too
much ( >r too little way on tho ve ■< I
od< r it sikvc BBfuL
The Zephyrina waa not a smart-
ing craft. She waa ondermasted,
which always gives a dampy ap-
pearance In lamenting and con-
sulting over tliis nnfoi tnnato eir-
oamstanoe with the c iptain, I e
i that it might be partly
edied by substituting a taller
topmast ; tor to have alb red the
mainmast would have been to have
renewed all the sails and rigging.
80 the captain obtaini 1 a vi ry long
sk,' and had a large new sail
made for it, bat it did not produce
tho anticipated effect; <>n the con-
traiy, it attracted more attention to
the lower mast and mainsail, and
mad it look still more insignificant
and dingy.
This improvement was carried out
shortly before we started on our
next exp dition; and my opinion as
to its sum ss was formed trom the
extremity of So I pitr while
awaiting the 1» at which was tocon-
!n on board. The large top-
Mil, however, had a di cidedly fcx ne-
iicial effi ct npon our speed, \' v wo
I the Nore lightship,
and were passing Shi ppej in tno
direction of Margate. The north
' of this island was loftier and
more picturesque than I had ima-
■ 1 en i d ded mo of
some parts of North Devon. It was
moulded into grassy fa rra© - and
slopes, and in some plact a luxuriant
tre< i cro med the heights or de-
bcended the ravines to the water's
1 dge. Shi ppey was once held in
higher estimati n than it is at pre-
when good Queen Sexburga
founded a nunni is apon it in 670 —
Bomeportions of which still remain —
and, mdi 1 d, all thi e ci hi of Ki nt
woul 1 1 lered highly
Dg fro ii th( ciations
bad tbej d »1 bi come too familiar to
to their vicinity to the
1 1 e wind had chanf 1 d before we
I n ach M ti •- ate, and we v.
obligi I ' 1 put about and make for
. an l Bocl ester. I Ik
shelves a aally al<
tic ! . and v. had i ou-
st pieutly — for the wind v.
— to enconnter a considerable
amount of 'lumpy' water. We
pa l a very strange-looking cutter
on our way, a pay boat 150 years
old ; but as we approach! d Shi er-
we could have imagim d that
we bad obtained the golden branch
of the Sibyl, and w< re sailing
ea the Styx into the shadowy
realms below. On either hand iwo
the monarchs of the sea of bygone
Bgi I mighty warriors pilent and
motionless, lying grimly side i>y
aide, as in funereal state. All w< re
1 ■ iefu] now as the gallant he urta
who once bore them to victory.
Bere maj t! in honour, and
i; 11 re future gen< ration- to emu-
late the glories of the pa tl
We anchored on ler the old castle
of Rochester; and, although the
Norman conqueror had li ti hi re
tho most conspicuous mark of
his dominion, we found interesting
traces of the Saxon in the very
name of the city, which is derived
from the camp of Hrof. King
Ethelbert also built, in 597, a Chris-
tian church here, founded a monas-
tery for s. CUlar priests, and est 1-
blished a bishop's see. We spent
the night at an hotel kepi bj a lieu-
q1 in the navy, anancii nt houpe
manding a tine \ iew of the castle
and cathe Iral, and as the wine Wfl !
still unfavourable, determined nexl
morning upon rowing up the Med-
way, for which we had a fini
and a fair breeze. .lames and my-
self were the oarsmen on this occa-
sion, and as the boat was light we
soon passed the lower part of the
river, which is disfigured with store-
houses and cement works, and eii-
I a smiling country where luxu-
riant trees and well-kepi lawns
bespoke the presence of wealth and
taste. After passing under the pic-
turesque old bridge of A3 li ford,
in ax which Vbrtijern and lh agist
are supposed to have fought thi ir
first gieat battle, the bo qi ry of the
'smooth Midway' became moro
iidifiil. The hanks wi re en-
nobled with magnificent trees, varied
and there by some ivy-
mantled remnant ol the past, or
by some ornamental villa whoso
bright parterres extended to the
water's edge, and crimsoned the
Mr. Fair weather' a Yachting.
307
silver flood. Wo disembarked at
Allington Castle, which stands in a
solitary position on the left side of
the river. Making our way through
the tall loosestrife which fringed the
water with its purple flowers, we
gained tlie precincts of the rain. It
is of considerable extent, and in fair
preservation. Nature has cherished
what man has abandoned, has spread
her leafy arms around it, and em-
bosomed its crumbling walls in the
emblem of immortality. On the
south a large tower rears its shat-
tered crest, and is supposed to have
formed part of the earlier building.
Allington derived its name from the
Saxon iElinges, and was granted by
the Conqueror to William de War-
rene. It then passed through a
family of the same name as the
place to Sir Stephen de Penchester,
who obtained license in the reign of
Henry III. to fortify and embattle
his castle here. But it derives its
principal celebrity from the Wyatts,
into whose possession it fir-t came
in the reign of Henry VII. The
son of Sir Henry, the first possessor,
became a remarkable man from his
great talents and personal attrac-
tions. He is mentioned by Surrey
as a model of virtue, wisdom, beauty,
strength, and courage. He seems
to have spent much of his lime at
this castle, which, as we may see by
the remains of Tudor architecture,
he greatly enlarged and embellished.
In one of his poems he thus refers
to his life here —
* This maketh me at home to hunt and hawk,
And in foul weather at my book to sit,
In frost and snow then with my bow to stalk,
No man doth mark whereso I bide or go,
In lusty leas in liberty I walk,
And of these news I feel nor weal nor woe.'
There were some whisperings that
he had formed an attachment with
Anne Boleyn, but they were pro-
bably merely the suggestions of
envy, as he was a great favourite
with Henry VIII. His son, unfor-
tunately for himself, did not inherit
his father's peaceful and j>hilosophic
temperament. Sir Thomas was a
man of enterprise, and took a warm
interest in the religious and political
movements of the day. His party
were highly incensed at the conduct
of Queen Mary, and on hearing of
the proposed alliance with Philip of
Spain, ho, while others were mostly
hesitating and concealing their dis-
affection, openly raised the standard
of revolt. He was supported by the
greater part of Kent, and at first
met with so much success, that he
advanced upon London and de-
manded of the Queen to give up the
Spanish marriage and put the
Tower into his hands. But the
royal party in the city were by this
time in arms; Sir Thomas Wyatt's
followers began to desert ; and he
was finally defeated and made pri-
soner near Temple Bar. He be-
haved himself nobly in his misfor-
tunes; and it was owing to his pro-
testing to the last on the scaffold
the innocence of the Princess Eliza-
beth that she was released from im-
prisonment. He was beheaded at
the Tower, and his head, after it
had been cut off, was, in accordance
with the barbarity of the times, ex-
hibited on a gallows on Hay Hill.
The people in the neighbourhood of
Allington account for the present
desolation of the place by asserting
that all the inhabitants followed Sir
Thomas Wyatt to London, and never
afterwai'ds returned.
We reached town by the evening
train, having left directions with the
captain to proceed with the yacht to
Banisgate. Our excursions bad not,
up to the present time, been very
considerable ; but we determined to
crown the season by a voyage to the
coast of France. A fine autumnal
morning, about a fortnight after-
wards, saw us whirling over the
rails through the garden of Kent,
and admiring the busy, picturesque
scene presented on all sides by the
hop-gatherers at work. We reached
Bamsgate at one, and hoped to have
been under way immediately ; but
no such good fortune awaited us.
We found the Zephyrina lying at
the highest part of the dock, and as
the tide was not high she was not
afloat ; and even had she been we
were informed that she could not
have left as the dock- gates were not
open. They said that in the course
of* half an hour these difficulties
would be removed. Vain hope !
Scarcely anything was prepared.
The vessel, having no papers, had
x 2
308
Mr. Fairte other** Tacltinn,
to be measured before l< a\ ing, I
llio amount of the harbour dues,
iu.il tin- official upon whom ill a
duty devolved was away upon Borne
other busin< b& Aft< r a long i
he arriv« I with his chains and i I
Bed himself as t » ber burd< n, < n-
abu'ng us to calculate the amount
due, al the rate, of Bixpence a ton.
But all wa i not y< t over; the m roey
was not to be paid in that oflE Land
manner and the affair settled. We
must wait upon theharb rnr master!
who was for thu momi at i
then call at tlic custom- Iioum- thru
return to the harbour-master, and
then mount again up two flights of
Btaira to the custom-house. I was
tired out and almost in despair
before wo started, which was not
until four o'clock. The day was now
somewhat far advanced and began
t > look a little unsettled to the west,
l>ut as tin re was a favourable X.W.
breeze we determined to pi e d.
A Blight squall came on .just as wo
•ged from the barbour, which a
little discomposed my wife hut it
soon pasa d, and by the time wo
were half aort i i Pegwell Hay tho
ther was as fine as could have
i u u i I. This hay, which for
many of us | i little of in-
(, and is now tx cod i i lu-
ullv filled up with sand, has wit-
ed some of the most rem trkable
scenes in the English history. Hen-
gist and Horsa, with their fierce,
rude followers, wi re homo across
its waves to Ebbsfleet, which once
i on its Bhore, and at the same
place landed St. Augustine and bis
monks, and formed a procession to.
King Ethelbert, bearing bet
them a pictureof a crucified Saviour
and [an chai I
For bo ' the white cliffs of
North Foreland,
lit up by the urn's rays, formed
itiful objects in our wake, hut
by <! d to lose them,
and * bD< al more clearly
lying along the lowland on the
farther side of the bay. S mdown
tie — a massive tow< r rising
grandly from the water's edge, at tho
er < itremity of the town —
■ :n this point, the princi-
pal fi tore in the t iew. This fino
oil pile will be a great loss to Deal,
for I hear it is in course of demo-
lition for the purpose of constructing
a harbour. The tvuter in which uo*
anchor* d, and v. hi h extt nds for
some miles, was remarkably calm,
and is commonly known as the
' 1 'owns,' a term derived from
>n ' dunes/ and applied to this
channel as being sheltered by hills
or shoals of sand. The e— the Good-
wins— extend north and south for
about t( n mih s parallel with tho
are supposed once to
have foruii d an islon I, ' Lomia/ be-
longing to Earl Godwin, and to have
been overwhelmed about the year
I IOO.
It was seven when wo landed at
hud. We were much pleased with
the pioturesque irregularity of the
town, and the brightness of the line
pebbly beach, although tho length
and steepia ss of the ridge rendi led
it difficult for some of our party to
scramble to its summit. But we
accomplished the feat, and our
i gage was distributed among a
trihe of little toys, who folio
US in a long train to the hotel with
unconcealed wonderment and ad-
miration.
The evening had been brok< a l>y
Clouds and had a wild app
As we ha l sailed along we had
marked the warning 'drums'
hoisted along the coast, bul the
si amen paid little attention tothi
Towards nighl the sky cleared, and
the view from our windows over
the placid sea, studded with the
lights of innumerable ships at
amhor, as far as thi itis' re-
volving light, was peaceful and
beautiful. The distant horizon was
occasionally lighted np by a flash of
oing, but this seemed too
no uneasint bs, and ladies and gi n-
tlemen w< re parading up and down
on tho esplanade until past ten
o'clock.
.\> xt morning we to e at w ren.
Tho weather was lovely ; and I went
out in the bighi Bt Bpiril . to c i Bult
the captain about li aving. He
on board, not irly,
so that J was obliged to hire a b at.
' Fine morning/ i observe d, ad-
d» sing one of the seamen on tho
shore. ' lh-w is the wind fur
Fran
Mr. Fainccathcrs Yachting.
309
'Fair, sir — west by north.'
• I want a boat to bo put over to
that vessel. Have you one?'
' Yes, sir. Which vessel ?'
' The cutter close to us.'
' All right, sir. This way if you
please.'
'How much will it be?' I in-
quired; having paid half-a-crown
for coming ashore.
' A sovereign, sir.'
' A sovereign ?' I repeated, iu
astonishment.
' Yes, sir.'
I turned away in disgust. He
observed my movement.
' Well, sir, I'll do it for ten shil-
lings.'
The man tried to follow me about,
demanding, ' Didn't 1 wautaboat?'
but 1 soon quick* ned my pace, and
left the impostor to his own con-
science. I hear that half-a-sovereign
is not an unusual amount for Thames
watermen to charge foreigners for
lauding them on their arrival in
England.
We weighed anchor at ten, and
steered in tho direction of the South
Sand light, threading our way
through the innumerable vessels
which lay around. The Downs is a
favourite roadstead, being ^protected
on nearly every point of the com-
pass, but the reason it is generally
bo crowded is that in this part the
tide runs nino hours np the Channel
and only three down, so that vessels
outward bound prefer waiting here
for a change should the wind be
contrary. All nations seemed to
be here collected together— Norwe-
gians, Dutch, Americans, and others,
and jet all were easily distinguish-
able from one another by the dif-
ferent build of their ships. Our
attention was attracted by a con-
siderable number of French fishing-
boats lying at anchor. They were
three-masted luggers, and not cutters
or ' smacks ' such as are used in
England. They are more weatherly
boats than ours, and sail closer to
the wind, brat require more hands
to manage. them. We observed that
almost every one bore on its stern
the name and effigy of some tutelary
saint. Southern seamen have always
recognized their dependence upon a
higher power oven before St. Paul
set sail from Alexandria in a ship
whose sign was Castor and Pollux.
The wind freshened as we ad-
vanced, and passing Walimr, half
concealed by its luxuriant foliage,
we opened Dover Castle, and the
long line of the white cliffs whenco
Albion derives its name. We were
now making good way, but as the
breeze blew more and more free, tho
sea began to rise into white crests,
and to treat us and our little bark
in a most undiguified and disagree-
able manner. It appeared as though
old Neptune were ridiculing our
pretensions, and had resolved to
show his power and make us repent
of our temerity.
As we were thus progressing,
• carried up to the heaven, and down
again to the deep,' wo heartily con-
gratulated ourselves when we found
that we were approaching the en-
trance of Calais harbour; for al-
though the sea was higher than
ever, we began to look forward to a
termination of our airy career. Our
dismay was proportionably great
when, within about a quarter of a
mile from the shore, aird in the very
worst of the ' lop,' the captain un-
ceremoniously brought the vessel
' up,' and informed us that, as he
was unacquainted with tho port, it
would be desirable to wait there for
a pilot. Nothing resembling a pilot-
boat was to be seen, and we were
beginning to give ourselves up to
despair, when, most opportunely, a
three-masted French lugger came
in sight, and Brown, who was a
man of resources, determined npon
following in her wake, adopting tho
bright idea of the Irish navigator,
who sailed in this way to ' Biugsil,'
instead of to ' Fingal.' In our case
the plan succeeded admirably ; we
rounded the pier safely, and sailed
into smooth water. Just as we were
clear of our difficulties, an un-
wieldy old boat, with two men in it,
pulled alongside, and before we
could ask any questions, one of
them sprang like a cat over our
bulwarks upon the deck, and com-
menced a wild unintelligible ha-
rangue, accompanied with violent
gesticulations. I at first supposed
that he was come with some autho-
rity, or was warning us against some
310
Mr. Dunrc'ithrr's Yachting,
unseen danger; but hie manner
ted quite opposed to such an
i ami, ind( ed, he did not app ar
■w any definite obj( -t in view.
' What do - be w int ?' 1 i ^claimed,
raghly mystified and somewhat
alarmed.
' Wellj sir,' r< plied I-rown, whoso
natural Bhrewdn pensated for
his want of book knowledge. 'Well,
sir, I think he want-, to be em-
ployed; and perhaps we bad better
him, as, although he cannot do
as much go "i, he may otherwise do
ns some harm.'
' Much good ' ho certainly did not
do, for we did not understand any-
thing he said. Brown had been in
so many countries, and had learned
fo many languages, that he could
not remember one of them, and the
only word which ho and the pilot
Beamed to have in common was
' provo,' which was occasionally ex-
changed with mysterious signs
and looks, as if it had some deep
signification. On one point, how-
. the intruder made himsi If
thoroughly understood, and that
was, that live francs were not sulli-
: for his services, but that he
must have six.
Sou ely had we settled ourselvi a
in the saloon, and were exploring
the i of our Yorkshire pie,
when a new commotion was heard
on deck, and the captain came
down to inform US that the i
tom-hou rs had arrived, six
stahvait en, in the govern-
ment uniform, presi nted a some-
what formidable appearance; but
their manner was nol so alarm-
ing at their aspect, for they merely
i it" the yacht belong) d to any
;• t.' ' and whether I had any
papers. Having been answered in
dive, they made some irre-
levant observations, but did not pre-
| ire to make any exaiuinal i >n. nor
to return to their boat. Such
tat of math rs, whi n it oc-
curred to me that our mutual em-
barrassment might l"' removi d by
a timely libation. Mj I hire
proved cornet for on pi
that they sh ne below and try
the m' 1 dity "' our sherry, tin j took
of] their lints, and aoo pfc d the in-
vitation with great alacrity. What-
ever may be said to the contrary,
French are naturally a good-
natured people. Thej seemed to
approve of the wine, for they tilled
up again without much pressing,
and repeated, with genial smiles as
they drained their glasses, ' Anglais.
vary goof When the bottle was
finished, they withdrew with polite
bows, and re-embarked in their boat,
having with us a very favourable
impression of French custom-house
((Hirers.
As we intended to stay several
days in Calais, we determined upon
removing to a hotel, tor, not to men-
tion minor inconveniences on board,
there were several leaks in the deck' ;
one, especially, just over my berth
of so insidious a nature that no
ingenuity could detect its origin.
I had some faint recollection, even
at such a distance of time, of
Quillac's hotel, as of a large gloomy
building in which the One or two
visitors might l>e disco v< red in vain
endeavouring to find their rooms,
but now I heard that tin's house
existed no longer, or rather, that
M. Dessin had taken it, bis own
having been converted into a
museum. Quillac's establishment
had probablj died of atrophy, and
I I -in's hotel had Im ( n vc ry appro-
priately con -• rah d to the M u
inasmuch as Scott had meditated
within its walls, and Sterne had m< t
with delightful misfortunes in its
Some porters were soon
found to assist our men in carrying
up our b . and we march* d in
an irregular procession to our desti-
nation.
With what an air of romance and
mystery did the mode of our arrival
invest the good city of Cal ris. One
would have supposed that it had
hi en one of the hast known pi
in the habitable globe; and, ind I,
the tall houses, the long windows,
and the thin pi ople had a certain
charm ofnovelty for me, for I bad not
been in France since 1 was a boj in
kets. As a zealous Btud< nt and
disciple of the 'Times,' and having
rea 1 therein that there \va as much
worth seeing in the British Isles as
in any other put of the world, 1 had
• n r piously turned my autumnal
footsteps in the direction of our own
3L: Fairweatker's Yachting,
311
salubrious watering places. But
what surprised me most— and I
should think a similar impression
must bo made upon all visiting a
foreign land for the first time — was,
that every person we met with, in-
stead of speaking plain English like
other people, insisted on talking
some unintelligible jargon. The
Greeks, who considered the Egyp-
tian priestesses to be a kind of
pigeons, would certainly have de-
scribed this as a community of daws
and magpies.
Next day we proceeded to take a
general view of the town. The
shops were, with very few excep-
tions, divided into two clas.-es — one
devoted to the sale of ' liquides,'
the other to that of confectionery.
Arethusa was quite wild with de-
light at the brilliancy of the laiter —
a child who had considered all sub-
lunary happiness to culminate in the
enjoyment of barley sugar or rasp-
berry drops— felt almost bewildered
among such transparent colours,
such magical devices ; and she
doubted whether even Cinderella, in
her glass slippers, had seen anything
half so enchanting. We accordingly
entered one of these establishments
to purchase some of ihe tempting
sweetmeats. Down the centre of it
was a long table laid out with a row
of jars of preserves, half eaten, and
in one of them stood a large w r ooden
spoon, with which customers were
wont to go through the confections
in order, before making their choice.
The shopman requested me to pro-
ceed. I looked with some mis-
givings at the proforred spoon, but
Arethusa seemed to have no such
scruples, and went through the
ordeal very creditably, though not,
I regret to say, without ulterior con-
sequences. She finally gave the
preference to the 'omnibus' pre-
serves, so named because formed of
a mixture of all kinds of fruits. We
purchased a few pounds of this, and
some samphire, which, for pickling,
ought to be in more demamd than it
is at present, although we should
scarcely be warranted in risking our
necks to obtain it, as people seem to
have done in Shakspeare's time. A
few doors farther on our attention
was attracted by a curious little
tree growing in a pot, at the door of
an image — or, to uso plaiu English,
an idol- monger's shop. The tree
looked like a deformity, for it had
a very large round head standing
upon a very slender stem. Observ-
ing our attention, a sharp little
woman came out and informed us
that what we were examining was a
mignionette tree, and requested us,
at the same time, to step in and in-
spect her stock. As we did not
seem inclined to comply, she assured
us we need feel no hesitation, as she
received large orders from Pro-
testants in England, and had a very
choice selection of saints.
But the principal object we had
in view was to visit the church,
whose massive tower, surmounted
by a short steeple, is the first mark
by which Calais is recognized from
the sea. There was something in
the quaint form of this grand old
pile — something in the reflection
that it was built by the English
— that transported us, 3s we paced
its spacious area, to ages long past ;
to a state of things far different from
the present. But the more we en-
deavour to fill up the picture, to
grasp the pleasing vision, the more
unsubstantial did it appear; for
it is the halo of mystery with
which the past is surrounded that
'lends enchantment to the view.'
While we were thus vainly endea-
vouriug to conjure up the scenes
and evoke the heroes of bygone
ages, we found ourselves opposite a
large painting representing a war-
rior rising from the sea on his
chargei 1 . As the costume did not
bespeak a sea divinity, nor had I
ever seen one so like a Frenchman,
I felt considerably puzzled, and ap-
plied for information to an old pen-
sioner who had been pursuing us all
over the church, dispelling our il-
lusions by his obtrusive loquacity.
' That, sir,' he replied, ' is the Duke
de Guise, who wrested Calais from
the English ; and he is represented
as rising from the water because
Calais was then surrounded by the
sea.' The fact was that the to-vn was
formerly surrounded by marshes,
which rendered its defence easy, and
was one reason why the English were
able to hold it so long. There was
312
.1/, /' '»« other $ Fui hting.
only ono approach to it on tbe land
side, and tha ties of
st. Ag ' ,; a and Newman Bridge, waa
1 l.y a . nd Btror
fortified. It was over-c nfid< nee in
the Datura] strength of the place
led to LI by tho
French. After the battle of St.
utin, Goligny si i I to the
Duke de Guise thai Calais might be
illy surprised in the winter,
a1 wl on the English left there
a vi tv small garrison. The fleet
was accordingly ordered round, a
furious :it tack made by Bea and
land, and after eighl
was drained and the town carried
by assault.
" The puissant Balafre* is v< ry natu-
rally a great favourite in Calais; a
bust of him lias been plaot d beside
that of Richelieu in the Grande
Place, and a Guildhall built for the
mayor and aldermen of Edward III.
- part of which, principally the
gateway, still i as is desig-
nati d l ] 1 de Guise, from bis
having afb r occupi< d it. How
muc ility was lo I in
this prince through insatiable and
xupuloue ambition! Had he, in
those momentous transaction
whi< " :lt ;m influ-
ence, curbed his haughty and in-
tolerant spirit, lie would have
escaped t! e t of th<
an 11 a i ami
only in France but throughout
Chi im.
B fore n turning to our hotel I
paid a visit to our' craft,' wl icb
■v l in the barbour near the
railway-station. Bhe pr< 5ented a
ram-h n< aler appi arance tl an when
we ba i l< :: her; the captain had
,1 ne bis b -t to make her look well ;
had Btowed away the sails, which
re not very ornamental, and hung
out the carpet, which was, and
which had attra t. i an assembly
little b ■;■ wl o Bb od in a line
y in mnt(
tion.' He baa al oh led the flag,
though at a gp ' Of p< r-
gonal feeling, for it < othing
more than ■ plain n 1 whiff. It' he
had a w< akness it •■ i I • '
and he wa -mly
enumi ral ng the advai I I ■
longing to a yacht elui>, evidently
thinking my not doing so to be a
of culpable negligi nee. But
the fact was thai 1 wa uffl-
!y familiar with yachting affairs
to d( c<de wh( thi t it would be de-
fer me to belong to a olub;
nor was I acquainted with any
membi r of one to whom 1 would
will ngly apply. Bo Brown was
ml inue in hi - astoni b-
ment, and to i oisl the obnoxious
and unprivilegi d v. h
Our firsl excursion from ('.dais
was to St Omer ad ofabout
five leagues. We arrived in the
afternoon; the day was soft and
autumnal, and i □ b or
listles i!' •- emi l to pervade the
I e— a stilb i to i
niflcence in d< cay. On either
of the Btreet rose those palatial
buildings which; from their size, are
in France designati d ' hotels/ but
in most of them there waa as little
sign of life as among the ruins of
Thebes. Of many, the gates ap-
I to h ive bi i o olos< d for a
of some, the side-door was naif
opi n. revealing statelj qua Irangles,
rted and decay in;.-; one was
still occupied as a convi nt ; while,
through the port tls of a very few,
glimpses were i I of I i
1 in those prim I
i French so
much a Imire. The onlj movi ment
visible in the town was along the
il which winds through it. and
ii which barges were constantly
quainl and Dutch-
ing in build, cud o bedizi m d with
iurs, thai we could almost fancy
ourselves in Eolland. Thecathedral
ii ancii nt and ma'j'nilici nt build-
c rat lining altars rich with I
itings and sculpture. In going
through it we found on the lefl Bide
a huge stone : '
which was a notice purporting that
it containi d thi me great
saint with an unpronounceable
I luteh name, bj ■ the thank-
for vi ho e miraculous cures
this cath< dral had b» n originally
founded From this we visiti d tho
ruins which had i □ i formed part
of a still grandi r i diflce thai of
the abbey church of St. Bertin,
.I troyed in the Ri volution under
the Directory. Over the gateway
Mr. Flu ,vv ailier s Yachting.
313
the inscription was still legible,
'Sanctum Divi Bertini templum
caste memento ingrodi ;' but of this
once splendid building nothing now
remains but the gigantic tower an 1
a few pinnacles. It was the favourite
church of the learned Alban Butler,
who wrote ' Tho Lives of the Saints,'
and lived in this town as President
of the English College. This esta-
blishment exists no longer, but was
remarkable as the place in which
Daniel O'Connell received his educa-
tion for the priesthood.
The pure air and tho exercise
which these investigations neces-
sitated, began in time to produce a
beneficial effect on our appetites,
and we directed our steps towards
the principal street. This — the Rue
de Commandant, for St. Omer is
fori ilk d —we travc rsed with no satis-
factory result ; but found accommo-
dation at an unpretentious inn in a
less fashionable quarter. It was
named the ' Hotel de Commerce ;'
but how different was it from an
English commercial hotel. True,
everything was plain and simple to
a degree ; the room into which we
were shown had a round straw mat
in the place of a carpet, and its only
ornaments, if such they could be
called, consisted of rows of pears,
ranged very regularly on shelves
along the wall. But its neatness
and cleanliness could not be sur-
passed. Here was no dubious table-
cloth, no waiter wiping your plate
with his pocket-handkerchief; the
linen was spotless as the driven
snow, and tho glass sparkled like
Alpine crystal. The dinner, which
was served by the landlady and her
assistant, in their prim white caps,
consisted of seven excellent courses,
the whole charges for four persons,
including a bottle of St. Julien, was
only ten francs.
Our next expedition was to Wat-
ten, where we visited the ancient
convent, and again met with Dutch-
looking barges of all kinds and
sizes ; from the Express boat for
Dnnkerque, gliding along merrily
behind a pair of horses and a huge
postillion, to the torpid craft of
burden, whoso snail-like progri
depended on the exertions of one
man, and was towed by a lino
attached to the top of a flexible rod
set upright like a mast. We found
that in this, as well as in our suc-
ceeding excursions, our best plan
was to make an early breakfast be-
fore starting, and to return at night
to Calais, as we could not usually
obtain good accommodation else-
where. There, in our hotel, every-
thing was not, only comfortable, but
luxurious. The dinners were first-
rate, and we were especially pleased
with the waitress who attended us,
who was one of the neatest and
most willing of serving- women. She
was dressed in the costume of the
peasantry, and was a remarkably
tine specimen of a Frenchwoman
— tall and well-grown, and of such
proportions as are best suited to
activity and- strength. She seemed
to be made of sterner stuff than
English women generally are, and
wanted that softness which we so
much admire ; but her features were
regular ; her complexion, though
toned, was clear and unsullied, and
her countenance was of that heroic
cast of which French sculptors are
so fond, and which imparts subli-
mity to statues of Freedom. We
heard that she was not in good
health, and, although she never
complained, we were concerned to
see her working so incessantly', and
carrying such heavy burdens. But
what struck me as most remarkable
about her was, that she refused to
accept money. Arethusa's light
heart and foot occasioned many little
domestic misfortunes, and, I regret
to say, much unnecessary work;
but on my wife's offering Louise —
for su^h was her name — some com-
pensation, she only laughed, said
she would receive nothing, and that
it was a pleasure to do anything for
' mademoiselle.' Such conduct was
to me most unaccountable. I had
r.ever before met with any person
who refused an offer of money,
except one poor woman who had
shortly afterwards to be placed in
a lunatic asylum.
(To be continued.)
314
LES JEUX ATIfLl'.TTQUES.
' \Vlli:\ you eel to St M
t t don't pi th< re, bul to St.
in.'
These directions in ly appear pa-
ra toxica] to the iniiinlia!< d, but I
took tlu' advice that was given me,
and found il Bound and go >d. Vou
St. Malo proper, tin- quaint old
city within the walls, the old-
ioned place with the five-story
gabled houses, and narrow stn
rivals that other fair city of Cologne
in ono Bad particular. There air
Btrange, unnatural, choleraic smells
it the place; and though it is
allowable to put your handkerchief
up to your nose when yon thread its
labyrinthine mazes by day, it is
quite impossible to keep your bed-
i window open by night
St Malo is built on a peninsula,
and is separated from the Angli-
I suburb of st Servan by the
narrowest possible strip of land.
The St. Servan houses are washed
by the sea; the St. Servan streets,
though odoriferous at times, have
not the everlasting odour which
g8 to the St. Malo alleys St Ser-
van boasts of society and leads the
fashion; and, what was by far the
to me, St Servan
numbers amongst its hotels ono of
tiie .-In eric. t little places 1 have
had the luck to fall acr >8S, kept
by as charming and good-natured
an English lady as I have ever met
• Mind you go to Mrs. C 's
1 ; and, rem mbl r, don't be per-
suaded into putting up at St. Malo,'
ud my Mentor; or rather, to bo
urate, the wife of my Mentor, as
wo three— what a pleasant party it
it I ttie- hn id and honey
•ML' the carnations, that grew in
•:i iii the little old French-
woi . rdi n overlooking Bozel
a tb l aland of Jersey.
Mentor d ing
through ■ . "ii their way hi
l France. 1
morning, in a
landed a iraewhi re or other on the
t of Fj . bul win re 1 did not
precisely know or care. My friends
made me die with la
ription of the various lolks I
should tind at Mrs. C 's. They
primed me with chaff to tire at the
hypochondriacal Indian civil
van t, as hale and hearty, and as jolly
a fellow as could be found, who had
mt tor tartlets and other
hsome daintii 3, and a fixi d idea
that his liver was so disi Ofied that he
was a doomed man. They told me of
Madame and Ma lame's ' chat,' who
was invariably getting lost or eaten
or boiled; of the fnssy 'notaire'
who dined at the table d'hote every
day, and touted to let or sell the
Villa Cuba, on whose merits he ex-
patiated so loudly and persistently,
that he made Mr. Brian Bom, an
honest, plain-spoken Irishman, re-
lieve himself of such a volley of in-
vectives, in English asides, that we
were all in an agony of tear lest the
' notaire 1 had not, by chance, on his
travels picked up a word or so of
our mother tongue. They told me
of the Colonel and the Colonel's
child, with a face like ono of Ra-
phael's angels; in fact they told
me so much, and so far excited m\
Curiosity, that when at last I gol to
St. Malo I did go to st. Servan.
'I don't know where Tm to put
you, sir,' wire Mrs. C 's first
wools. ' We arc perii ctly full.'
I protested 1 had come all the
way to St S rvan on purpose to put
up at .Mrs. C 's. ' Had sho the
heart to turn me out?'
' Would vou mind an attic?'
1 Not in the least'
And so I went to the attic, the
airiest and best bedroom by far in
the house as it turned out. The
window looked out upon the sea,
and when 1 opened it at night the
pleasant booming oi the water on
the rocks below lulled me comfort-
ablj to Bleep.
1 bad not hen in St. Servan half
an hour before I met, most nni x-
pi ch dry, one of my most Intimate
friends. Th> re W( re a few minutes
to spare h< lie table d'l.bi.-, solt
myself off to inspect the ferry, which
i been told was the ni are I and
by far the most convenieot way to
st. Malo. A boat full of pa < o
I ad just arrivi d at the steps. < >ne
Les Jeux Athh'tiques.
315
l>y one I watched the passengers
disembark. A handsome St. Bernard
dog first attracted my attention. He
had something in his mouth. Where
had I seen that dog before ? Not in
the Regent's Park! Up the steps
came the owner, there was no doubt
of that. Boating shoes, thick-set
frame, general get-up most deci-
dedly English! Pot-hat! Kingston
ribbon ! Could it be possible ! Of
course !
It was the Captain!
There was a wild yell of recogni-
tion on both sides which made poor
Alphonse stare. He was not accus-
tomed to such a burst of enthu-
siasm from the lips of any English-
man.
The Captain (I will call him so
for the future, seeing that he
led our little English company
at St. Malo) had been at St. Ser-
van for some weeks, and he me-
ditated staying seme weeks longer.
He was there with his ' people,' he
said, and was reading very hard. I
knew very well what that meant. I
have been acquainted with the Cap-
tain for some years now, and he is
always reading very hard. To the
best of my knowledge, however, I
have never seen him with a book in
his hand. I have called for him at
his chambers scores of times, and
never found him at home. Eive
minutes' conversation with the Cap-
tain told me his exact position at St.
Servan. Gifted as he was — singu-
larly gifted, I may say — in the art of
hitting a sixer to leg, rowing stroke
in a four oar, running a two-mile
race, playing a game at billiards,
swimming round the Fort, dancing
till any hour in the morning, and
singing and playing with sympathy,
consummate taste and skill, my
friend the Captain was evidently an
acquisition at St. Servan. He was
looked up to and quoted as an autho-
rity by the little band of university
men, public school boys, barristers,
officers, civil servants cum multis
aliis who happened to be in St. Ser-
van or St. Malo; and as to the
women — well, they hung about the
piano and insisted on the most per-
fect silence when he sung German
Lieder in his sweet persuasive voice,
and were invariably talking about
and quoting ' tho young tutor and
his dog.' How they got hold of that
notion about the tutor I can't con-
ceive. He was no more a tutor than
I was ; but they stuck to their
original notion, and in a few days
talked of me as the ' tutor's friend.'
' I say, old boy, look here,' said
the Captain, seizing mc by the arm,
and half dragging me across the
street. ' Do you see that blue bill ?
Bead it, and tell me what you think
of it.'
I read the heading, which was vs/
follows : —
' Jeux Atbluliques d'Amatcurs,
A la Caserne de St. Servan,
Par permission de M. le Colonel du 75 Kegiment
d'lnfanterie.
14 Aoflt, 1868.'
Then followed the list of sports and
the names of the committee and
stewards. The Captain was the hon.
sec.
' Athletic sports/ said I ; ' that
will be no end of fun. But I had
no idea that there were enough Eng-
lish here to gt^t them up or ensure
their achieving anything like suc-
cess.'
' My clear fellow/ said the Cap-
tain, 'these races are creating the
most profound excitement. The
French officers do nothing but chat-
ter about them ; and as to the Eng-
lish girls here, they have behaved in
the most plucky manner, and col-
lected every farthing of the money
for the prizes. If only to repay their
kindness, we must try and make
these races go off well.'
' There are some good names in
the list of stewards/ said I.
' Oh, yes, there are plenty of well-
known Eton, Harrow, and Marl-
borough men staying here. But
what do you think of this ?'
He pointed with his finger to the
last line of the bill —
' Le Juge— Dalhousie MacGregor,
Esq.'
' It's our only fictitious name/ he
said ; ' and I thought I'd get a good
one while I was about it.'
The captain would not hear of my
leaving France in three day s'time, as I
had originally intended. So, bribed
with the pleasant prospect of lots of
dances, pic-nics, croquet parties, fas-
cinating acquaintances, and, above
:UG
L's ./ I letiquel.
all, the famoj iues,' I
ultini itt way, and prom
i > si iy :i little long
* Von must oome to dinner with
na to-night, at any rate,' Baid
Captain, 'and
wards. They are ^ ting to plaj
< Offenbach's " Liscbi □ et Frischen "
this eve ning. . tb or the
Alsatian dn< t in it. of o tune, that
we used to ra ■ it at |
old Billy's Friday evenings? Why-
did the old monster go and live
down at Benlab Spa, of all pla ses
in tlio world, burying himself
i iy Christi ins, tortnented
Bverlasting -and serve him right
—with invitations to battered toast
and prayers. After fie operetta
• will be a swell dance. You've
our dress cloth i, I hope?'
By tho luckiest a scident in
world I li id bro ight my di
hes; so I re] aire 1 to Mrs.
G 's, not to table d'hote, as she
: lly i'n igiue I. bu1 to tell her that
I lul found a friend, and wanted a
t-key ! 1 did m >re than this, for
1 \< i - is le 1 the dyi peptic civil s r-
vant t > c ime on to the * !a rino in the
evening, much to the horror of his
i, whodi
tea t i an
and went t > bed regularly
ut half-p ist nine every evening. 1
think they 1 repro-
Imt that is no matter. We
all very good fri< n Is, and 1
a cap on i
than r»ne o :ca -i in for the ]i
tion of th c immunity. The
t ible, you know, was all very well in
iy. 1 thought it i'ii I
htful when oi e ol the |
■ little French girls ima-
irm r and
lisfa ; but my
Dating friend would go b e-k
with ber Bister-in-law to Paris;
[ p] , less
I off all tho
ro>p married men I •
or ( de la
. . : illiard-tfl
and ■
l dined with t : dn and his
ace irding to arrangement.
What a treat it was to hear tho
i ful ii 1 1 j_c of friendly vo
u, and to talk over adventures
and home, and to get an affectionate
ling afii r so niueh lonelim BS
among strangers! After dinner we
w< nt to fhe < ' isina The Casino at
St. Brfalo is not a large or imposing
building, but it is admirably fitted
up, and pOESi Bsing, as it docs, an
excellent floor, and being well ar-
ranged for dancing, the lull nights
are always popular, and attended by
the best p ople of both towns. I
was soon friends with Oxford, Eton,
Harrow, and Marlborough, and in a
very short s]> ice <>t' time ha I been
mtroduci d to all the English girls,
and danced a long, long valse with
the 'Chic' girl, as they profanely
called her there. The 'Chic' girl
and I became great friends, .she
was a mystery, this young lady.
There was a .sad, melancholy cx-
pri ion about her face, but her
always found you out some-
how, and i think it is pleasanter to
lie found out by sad, dreamy eyes
like hers, than by flashing, beady
om s which dash at you, and v< ry fre-
itly l(t jou go again. 1 bi came
rapidly— this is a sad failing of mine
— very inter* sted in mj fair friend,
a feeling which was heightened by
my unluckily touching, by th
ac a' lent in the w irld, on the ' lost
chord.' Somebody or other had
! badly to her, th' re was no
doubt of that, tor the poor girl's
. filled with tears. I was in-
ly sorry lor my mistake, hut it
is pleasant, after all, to li d a i irl in
this nineteenth century with just a
little bit of feeling, i- it not ? As I
remarked before, the 'Chic' girl
and I became great friends, she
I she was to glad I li id promisi I
t i stay over I J, and then wo
fell to talking about the < laptain, at
the mention of whose singing she
actually enthusiaf tic, and th< re
just a Bash of fire in her mi lan-
[f I had n well
acCUSi in d to lit-; I. ' in other
wo aen, under similar circ imsl inces,
Id, not know how jealous I n.
not have h en ; bul in ties instance
the put
out of the qui stion by her asking
me to wear In r colours on the great
day.
• What I,,, dd thoy lx; ?' said I,
innocently. She was dressed m tho
Lcs Jeux Athlctiqucs.
317
simplest white, with just a suspicion
of black here and there.
' Black and white,' she whispered.
' Noir et blauc,' vvero my colours
on the card.
The Captain had not exaggerated
the excitement which these foot
races created. A lot of us were
standing talking in the ice-room
when tho Captain was called on one
sidis by a sous-lieutenant of the
regiment stationed at St. Seryan.
The Bous-lieutenant was accom-
panied by a friend. The officer was
in uniform, of course. The friend,
who was rather a swell in his way,
was not. I must describe his cos-
tume, ' Le costume, du bid.' Light
French grey trousers, high black
waistcoat, tail coat elaborately
watered-silked, and a tie, oh! such
a tie! It was composed of wdiite
satin, bow -shaped, with long stream-
ing ends, the edges of the ends being
decorated with chocolate-coloim d
horseshoes ! There, what do you
think of that for grande tame f He
was evidently bent upon making an
impression, and he certainly did —
upon the English.
' I am the bearer of a message
from my brother officers, and the
French athletes generally in St.
Malo and St. Servan,' said the little
officer to the Captain.
The Captain bowed.
' We have determined to beat the
English at their own sports, and to
win.'
The Captain bowed again, and
made some general remark about
trusting that the best man would
always win.
'We shall win!' said the little
officer, getting excited. ' You shall
see it, Monsieur le Capitaine, et Mes-
sieurs les Anglais sur le champ.'
And then he went off with a half-
detiant gesture and a very theatrical
nourish. The friend stayed and
made himself particularly affable,
assuring us that when at school in
England he had won several prizes
at cricket and birds'-nesting !
We kept it up very late that night
at the Casino. The ' Chic ' girl
danced exquisitely, and the excite-
ment was pleasant to one who had
been travelling for some weeks alone.
We had a hard day's work before
us on the eve of our athletic festival.
A ' course aux haies ' had been ad-
vertised among the other sports, and
not a hurdle was to be got for love
or money. They tether all the
sheep in that benighted country.
At ten o'clock in the morning an
impromptu committee meeting was
held in the middle of the Grande
Kue, St. Servan. Just a suspicion
of grumbling was heard, and bin's
given that nothing would be done,
and that somebody ought to have
thought of the hurdles before. These
generalities are not uncommon on
such occasions, and the Captain
showed he was an old stager by
putting a stop to them iu very
plain and decisive language.
After delivering himself of his
mild rebuke, a bright thought came
into the Captain's head, ami in less
than rive minutes the committee
hud purchased two •shopsful of
birch brooms and faggots, and these
we carried on our backs through
the crowded streets to ' la Caserne.'
Ti me was an object tons, but Ahphonse
thought us mad. It is a nasty awk-
ward job making ten flights of hur-
dles out of birch brooms and faggots,
but the feat was got over satisfac-
torily, thanks to a strong public
school division which came over
from Jersey in expectation of a
cricket-match that day. They were
disappointed, of course, but they
had their revenge by winning nearly
all the races. It was irritating,
when working like slaves at these
hurdles, to find that the French
soldiers who happened to be about
the barrack-yard, simply stood with
their hands in their pockets looking
on, smoking cigarettes, sneering,
but never so much as offering a
helping hand. They should have
treated us better, considering two
prizes were offered to be competed
for by the soldiers alone. The fact
was that the soldiers, and, I think
the majority of the French people,
thought us simply insane, and pre-
dicted a dead failure and an absence
of all excitement on the morrow.
But when, on the following morn-
ing, people came flocking into the
barrack-yard by hundreds, tho
French soldiery and people were
318
Les Jcnx Athf/'iijiien.
stung with a sudden enthusiasm,
,., havi ,1 thoroughly well. They
■ inly contributed not a little to
the tun of t ! ting. A hurdle-
of French Boldiers in their
heai y trousers, with as
much> idea of jumping a hurdle us
an elephant, was as laughable a
■ as I have ever witnessed.
i v were not content with falling.
somehow entwined their feet
in tht 1 hurdles, anil van away with
them. The running costume of
Alplionse — the amateur gentleman
Alphonse, I mean — was not bad.
bt groom's trousers, with drab
rs, high buttoned-up waistcoat
with sleeves a hi Sam Weller, and a
n velvet hunting cap. In this
up Alphonse considered himself
invincible However, wo will not
laugh, for Alphonso is delighted
with athletic sports, and promifi 9
if we will get up some more next
that he will bo proficient at
n rything.
The races went off "with the
spirit, and were a grand
Alphonse nearly won one
race, but ho consoled himself after
it with the reflection that be
could bardly he expected to win
when his opponent was so very
much taller than himself! Th
was not a hitch all day, and when a
prominent member of last year's
W( -tmii ster eleven jumped 5 6 et
4 inches in height, and a Harrow
hoy ran a mile in 4 minutes 43
iuls, Alplionse shrugged his
Bhoulders, and murmured, ' S 1 prist i!
Sacre* Dii nl'
1 have mentioned before that the
ladies collected the money for tho
prizes. Phi j did more than this,
for they gave the prizes away, and
an intelligent observer mighl have
noticed a pretty little arrangement
by which each winner n ceived his
prize from the hand of Well, this
is betraying confidence. Anyhow,
there were a go id many hln.-ln s on
both sides. Women do manage
tin so things so uncommonly well.
We made the old barrack-yard ring
with la arty English cheers before
wo parted, the loudest of which
were for'The Ladi< -.''The French/
and 'The Captain.' They all de-
served them thoroughly, for to tin 111
was due all tho success of 'Les
Jeux Athlt'tiques.'
one word more. Notwithstand-
ing all our exertions that day — wo
went madly in for every race, of
course- they gave us a hall after-
wards. We kept it up until fivo
o'clock. It was a moonlight night,
very soft and very clear, ami after
every round dance two imprudent
young people looked out upon tho
rtea Square from an open French
window. Tho 'Chic 'girl said she had
never met anybody who talked bo
strangely. Unhappily, but perhaps
luckily for me, 1 left St. Malo for
England at seven o'clock the m •;
morning.
C W. E
I i. .in the Painting by Bom iel. j
THE OLD, OLD STOHV
- baris to Lydia.
319
THE OLD, OLD STORY.
(Considering what she should inscribe on her Tablets.)
' Lydia, die, por omnes
Te deos, oro, Sybarln
Cur properas amando.
' Perdere ? cur apricum
Odprit campum, patiens
Pulvcris alque sotis?'
Horace, ' Ad LydiamS
""■ TAKE not oracles oflife
1 From bounding pulse or writhing vein;
From the arena's dusty strife ;
From thought or fancy, joy or pain.
I trust no more the senses five;
My heart demands a subtler sign,
And only then is sure I live
When it can tell me I am thine.
'Tis not to mirrors sought by stealth
I sue for proofs of manly grace ;
I do not gather signs of health
From forehead smooth and ruddy face;
I care no more to gauge the swell
Of lungs within a heaving chest ;
If my heart tell me all is well —
My heart and thou— I leave the rest.
It is not from the flying leap;
The well-thewed limb of might and length?
The voice, like Stentor's, loud and deep —
'Tis not from these I prove my strength.
I reck no more of outward show,
Whilst powers unseen to me belong;
Aleides' self might fear a blow
When thy love bids me to be strong.
I do not count my hoarded gold
Till even the growing figures tire;
I reckon not the mines I hold ;
The jewels and the stones of fire.
I do not tell my gems of art,
Nor treasures of the land and sea ;
I cast out all to fill my heart
With more than Croesus' wealth in thee.
I do not ask the painless day,
The unconscious night and dreamless sleep,
The song, the dance, the shifting play,
The dearer joys that bid me weep —
820 The Old, Old Story.
N it tl 1 ask, in doubtful tone,
If they will deign my life to ble ; ;
Why mock their weakness? thou nlono
Tli«' Been t ha t of happine .
"When l would know if cloudless light
And b.er 1 the day ;
If gentli qi ss brood o'er the night,
And all but peace is Bat away:
I do not b b if storms are Bed;
[f sun or moon is bright the while
All things ai re 1 to a head —
1 question only, Dost thon smilo?
I do not ask my halting mind
It' I Am witty or am wise;
If I am pitiful or kind;
Or gallant in a thousand eyes.
I nek not of the world without;
1 would not my own judgment provo;
My heart resold s me of my doubt:
1 am all these if thou dost love.
With soul as Vestal's fail and pure;
With heart like Sappho's in a flamo;
Both in one tender word secure',
l'p in thy tablets write my name.
And mar it write this burning plea:-*
Ealf i my life is, to be thh
Ti the other half with thee—
Tl half that thou art miuol
A. II. Q.
321
A ROMANCE IN A BOARDING HOUSE.
A FEW years ago, on my return
from India, I was perplexed
where to locate myself for the
winter months. I did not at all
relish the idea of entering a new
house at such an unfavourable
season; so my friends advised me
to board somewhere till the spring
of the coming year, and in the
mean time I could look about me,
and arrange my future plans. I
resolved to follow this advice, and it
was even suggested to my mind,
that if I found this style of living
agreeable, I might continue it for
the whole year that must elapse
before my husband joined me, in
preference to burdening myself,
while alone, with the responsibility
of a house of my own.
According to further instructions
from obliging friends, I caused an
advertisement to be inserted in the
' Times/ to the effect ' That a lady
just returned from India required
board and residence, where she
would have pleasant and select
society, and a comfortable home, 1 in
return for liberal remuneration.'
I was positively inundated with
answers. Some from ladies who
' merely received a few inmates
into their home circle for the sake
of society,' but who quite repudiated
the notion of keeping a ' boarding
house.' Some from the widows of
professional men, who were 'com-
pelled, through the death of their
lamented partners, to add to their
limited incomes by admitting stran-
gers into the bosom of their families;'
but very few who seemed to pride
themselves upon their 'old-esta-
tlished houses,' the excellent table
kept, the patronage of distinguished
foreigners, and sociable whist even-
ings,' and to none ot these latter
ones would my friends hear of my
going ; though, for my own part, I
scarcely liked the idea of intruding
upon any of those ' strictly private
families,' who evidently thought the
privilege a very great one, and
named the remuneration they would
kindly accept at a proportionately
high rate.
After useless and innumerable
VOL. XI. — NO. LXIV.
interviews, besides a host of letters,
I became thoroughly stupid and
bewildered; and having arrived at
this point fell an easy prey to one
who evidently understood the busi-
ness most thoroughly. Mrs. Wilson,
my captor, took great pains to im-
press me with the fact that her
connections were most 'genteel,'
and, therefore, ' she never took any
one into her house but people of the
highest respectability; for she had
too much regard for the memory of
the late Mr. Wilson to act other-
wise.'
Her house was situated in a nice
part ol Bayswater ; it was well fur-
nished, and well managed by the
clever widow, who seemed to know
how to look after her own interests ;
and, in spite of ' former days,' when
she ' had lavished money recklessly,'
she had acquired since as fair a
notion of the value of £ s. d. as it
was possible for any one to have if
they had studied the- matter all their
lives.
When I made my debut in the
drawing-room the first evening of
my arrival, shortly before dinner
was announced, in addition to a sort
of general introduction, Mrs. Wilson
favoured me with an especial one
to the few whom she evidently con-
sidered the crime of the assembly.
They were, Mrs. Colonel Stacey,
a tall, stiff old lady, with white hair
and a faded but still handsome face,
and the manner and deportment of
a perfect gentlewoman; but, as I
soon discovered, one who was ever .
on the alert to obtain the best of
everything for herself, and take out
the full value of her money. Mrs.
Wilson thought it such an advan-
tage to have a real colonel's widow,
that she yielded to her whims and
fancies (not a few), and consulted
her taste in the choice of viands,
&c. ; and Mrs. Stacey took good care
to keep up this feeling, and managed
to inspire, not only Mrs. Wilson, but
the other inmates of the establish-
ment, with a certain amount of awe
towards her. She did not receive
me with much cordiality, and I think
it was because she had a kind of
322
A Iinni'inre in a Boaxlimj Hottte,
i'li a that I might try to usurp her
place, on tlir stri ogth of ooming
from India; but Bhe was slightly re-
assured win n she heard that my
husband ' only ' held a civil appoint-
ment Mrs. and M m Pr mrose, on
the contrary, overwhelmed me with
civilities, and might have known mo
for years. The former bore the re-
mains of good looks, and was at-
I in the deepest of widow's
Is, a style of dress which be-
came 1" r, and was for this reason
Mill worn; for her hnBband, I
fonnd, had been defunct many years,
still she oevi r made any allu-
- tn him without heartrending
sighs, and even applications to hex
of a dec-ply black-bordered
cambric pocket-handkerchief; and
she fastened her collar with a fune-
real brooch containing his hair.
Lavinia Primrose was a gashing,
Bentimental young lady (of seven
or eight-and-twenty I should have
said, had her mother not told me
that She Was just lliliete.'])). She
was attired in light muslin and
fluttering ribbons, and though not
ha 1-loi.kiiiLT, she spoilt herself by
an unim aning simper, and a profu-
sion of feathery ringlets that made
her head look very much like B mop.
Mrs. Primrose was quite confiden-
tial, and during the little time we
waited fur dinner, she told me that
Bhe had to make many sacrifices for
her dear girl's health, which was
very delicate. She had given up a
P rfi ct ' mansion 1 near town, because
the air Was not considered so good ;
and she submitted to the discom-
forts of a boarding house that she
might tx ready to start off for Italy
the slightest appearance of a
cbangi f I- the worse, for the dear
girl, ired, was consumptive,
and of such a nervous, linely-
wrought nature, that she required
the most ti oder ■ an
I a my own part I could not dis-
r anything particularly delicate
in the round Eace and rather
plump figun of the young ladj
1 v< atured to suggi si that
would very likely outgrow the
dreaded symptoms, and that ev< c
now I could not pay hi r the
bad compliment to say she loo
ill.
Mrs. Primrose thanked me for my
sympathy with her handkerchief
raised to hi C I yes, and added that
dear L ivy's complexion was BO bril-
liant that it deceived many people,
she then pointed ont a Captain
\ . noli, and in a loud whisper,
which 1 felt sun- lie heard, informed
me that he was the younger son of a
noble family, but had the advantage
over most younger sons, of inherit-
ing a country estate and fine for-
tune from his mother ; and having
si i n plenty Of active service, he had
now retired on his laurels, and she
thought would take a wife and settle
down to a quiet home life. She said
this so significantly, that I could
only conclude that her daughter
was his choice ; and yet. as I looked
at him, I could scarcely think .such
a man would choose such a woman.
lie was apparently about forty, and
though not positively handsome,
there was something noble and
aristocratic in his face, and soldier-
like and commanding in his tall, fine
figure. The expression of his clear
blue eves was frank and open, and
the lines of his mouth firm and de-
cided, with a touch of .sit ire. lie
was polite and attentive to all the
ladies, and if rather more so to
Lavinia than to the rest, it was
apparently because she drew it
forth. At dinner I had an oppor-
tunity of oi.-i rving the rest of the
company. There were two sisters,
Miss White and .Miss Bella White;
the eider a noisy, rather vulgar
woman, who made fun of every one
in a good-tempered sort of way, and
laughed long and loudly at her own
jokes, which sometimes went home
too severely to be enjoyed by those
against whom they were directed:
the younger sister was quieter, and
pn ten led to 1kj shocked at ' Fan's'
Outbursts, but she WBfl more ob-
j< ctionable with her affectation and
over-attempts to be a lads than tho
other with her noise and coarse i
There was a ipiiet old lady who did
not talk much, and took everything
and everybo ly just as she found
them. A thin, tall, eldl rly city
bleman took the bottom ol the
table , he wore a rusty black tail-
coat, a still" white neckcloth, and
shirt-collars : his manner wt
A Romance in a Boardimj House.
323
grave and impressive, and he digni-
fied every lady with the appellation
of ' Mum,' and tried to lie particu-
larly civil to the eldest Miss White.
There was also a stout stockbroker,
who wore a short Cut-away coat
and a coloured necktie, with a red
blotchy face and straight brown
hair, who never looked off his plate
(except to address Miss Bella
White), and kept one in a state of
alarm lest he should have a fit of
apoplexy.
Remarks upon the fare at table
were pretty freely made on all sides,
and I was surprised to find how
coolly our hostess listened to them
(they would have been in such a
different strain had the company
been 'visitors' instead of 'boarders').
Mrs. Stacey complained of every-
thing, and kept enumerating the
things she was sure must be in
season, and ' quite reasonable,' and
wondering that Mrs. Wilson did not
see about them ; still she managed
to make a very good dinner, and
partook of every dish with the air
of a martyr.
The fair Lavinia's appetite was
such as might be expected from the
delicate creature her mother had
described her to be ; but as I after-
wards found that she made an early
tea in her own room at five o'clock,
I was no longer surprised. But
she seemed to think that her neigh-
bour, the Captain, ought not to be
hungry either, for she plied him
continually with questions, and al-
lowed him little time for eating.
After we had returned to the
drawing-room, the eldest Miss White
sat by me and entered into conver-
sation, and kept me on what is
called ' thorns,' by the remarks she
made about every one in her loud
key. She informed me that Captain
Vernon had been to Mrs. Wilson's
four years running, and that La-
vinia Primrose and her mother were
trying hard to catch him, as he
was worth having ; that it was all
very fine of Mrs. Primrose to ape
the grand lady now, but that she
could remember the time, not so
very far back either, when Mrs.
Primrose had kept the ' Green
Dragon' in Cheapside, and that
Lavinia's fortune was not anything
worth making a fuss over; then she
laughed at the notion of her 1 eiu^
only nineteen, and said she would
vouch for her being at least thirty.
I said that it appeared to mo
rather a pleasant way of living as
we were doing.
' Yes, indeed it is,' she replied.
' There is no place like a boarding
. house for fun and love-matches.
Bell and I have been in no end, but
I do believe this is poor Bell's last
one, for Jones there (indicating the
apoplectic gentleman) is evidently
smitten ; and I believe she will give
in, and leave me in the lurch after
all, though we both always vowed
to remain single.'
' But another gentleman is very
attentive to you,' I replied, seeing
that the free-and-easy style was the
custom of the house.
'Did you though?' said Miss
White, quite pleased. ' Well, 1
rather think he has a hankering
after my ten thousand pounds, but
he won't get it ; for I am not to be
taken in with soft words and fine
speeches, and intend to lead a jolly
life, bound to obey no man's un-
reasonable whims and fancies.'
While chatting thus the door
opened, and a young lady, whom I
had not yet seen, entered. Her
beauty could not fail to attract in-
stant attention ; her features were
regular, her complexion that pecu-
liar waxy pink and white, her eyes
a clear true blue, and her hair,
which was perfectly golden, was
drawn in wavy luxuriance off her
broad forehead, and gathered at the
back into a massive bow. She was
tall, with a figure of rounded pro-
portions, and even in her dress of
plain black alpaca, and simple linen
collar and cuffs, she looked stylish
and lady-like.
' Who is that lovely girl ?' I asked
eagerly of Miss White.
' Oh ! that is Miss Maitland. Her
father was a poor curate, who died
from overwork and starvation, and
his wife soon followed, leaving this
girl alone without a relation in the
world ; so she turned her musical
talents to account, and gives lessons
all day. Mrs. Wilson knew some-
thing of her, I fancy, and she has
been here for the last two years,
Y 2
::2l
A Romance in a Boarding Home,
<
helping to amuse the boarders, and
paying Borne very trifling sum for a
home. She plays and sings very
welli as ymi will hear presently ; bul
until Mrs. starry has finished her
nap the piano is not allowed to bo
touched.
' Miss Maitlaiiil looks Bad,' I re-
mark) 'l
1 I >h, as for that,' she replied, ' she
won't !•<• friendly with any one, but
sits like a statue, without speaking.
I isi winter 1 fancied the Captain
was struck with her pretty face,
but she tossed her bead at him, and
gave herself as many airs as though
she had been a young woman of
fortune, instead of a poor musdo-
t< acher tramping the streets of
London, and going from house to
house, wet or fine, for half-a-crown
an hour.'
' Poor girl,' I said, compassion-
ately. ' It is a sad position for one
horn a lady, and endowed witli
beauty and talents.'
' Well, so it is,' said Miss White;
' and that is why I say there is no-
thing like a good trade. Now my
father rose from a mere shopboy,
but lie managed to leave twenty
thousand pounds behind him; ami,
without silking it, I get more re-
sp i-t anil attention, because 1 am
independent, than the clergyman's
daughter, who probably congra-
tulates In rself upon having no
relations or friends m trade.'
Mrs. Stacey now made her rc-
appearance, and I noticed that she
gave the young musician a patro-
nizing shake of the hand, and as
Boon a- Bettled in her arm-chair,
called out, ' Now then, my dear,
give "- "He of your pretty son^s.'
Captain \ > rnon advanced to lead
her to the piano, and though he had
but m • b 'I her with a DOW when
she tir.-t came in, he now held out
Id's hand. She took it formally,
and then intimated, that as she
- and pla\< d without notes, she
would dispi ose with his presence at
the piano.
lie looked vi \i il. and returned
to his place by Lavinia's side, and
hi talking to her in a mo I
animateil Strain. . Bv< ry now and
thin she Interrupted him with,
' La! Captain Vernon, don't talk
such nonsense I you make me qnito
vain.' Then there was the mower's
echo. • Now, Captain, I mustn't
let you excite Livy so, or she won't
Bleep a wink all night.' But Miss
Maitland began to sing, and the
hum of tongues ceased. Her voice
was replete with exquisite SWi
in ss, and she sang with such simple,
unaffected taste and expression, that
1 introduced myself, on purpose to
thank her for the treat she had
given me. She seemed pleased, and
accorded me a bright smile, which
at once won my heart. Her office
was no sinecure, for she was called
upon for song after song, and looked
quite weary and worn when we
parted for the night.
From that first evening Hilda
Maitland wound herself uncon-
sciously round my affections in ,i
manner that surprised myself First,
my advances of friendship were as
coldly treated .as those of others,
but at last she saw that mine was
not insolent patronage, but warm
liking, and then she seemed quito
glad to have found a true friend.
She told me that all her life,. short
as it was, hail been one continued
chain of trials and privations; for
her father had, as Miss White said,
literally died of starvation, and for
soine time she was only able to
earn very little; so that when Inr
mother also laid down the burden
of life, it was for her own lonelil
only that she grieved. Now she
could make sufficient to support
In r>e|f, and, with strict economy,
save a little; but it was hard, try-
ing work, and a joyless life for ono
young and gifted.
Lavinia Primrose disliked her
cordially, for she was jealous of her
superior attractions, and feared her
as a rival, and she sou-lit to annoy
and mortify her in ever] way wor-
thy of one so narrow-minded.
When I had made my observations
for a short time, I likewise fancied
that Captain Vernon admired Hilda,
but she gave him no visible encou-
ragement, and in a sort of pettish
pique he flirted with Mis- I'limi
tor whom it was < asy to see he did
not care a straw. But BB Hilda
mver introduced the Captain's name
in our conversations, I thought it
A Romance in a Boarding House.
325
better not to broach tho subject
either.
One morning Mrs. "Wilson (who
from the commencement of my
sojourn in her house, had seemed to
think that I was an easily-managed
boarder) came into my room in
great tribulation, to tell me that
the ' Primroses ' threatened to leave
at the end of their week, unless
Miss Maitland was instantly sent
away ; as they considered her a low,
designing person, and declared that
her manner with Captain Vernon
was forward and presuming.
' I cannot afford to lose two good
payers, nor do I like sending the
poor girl among strangers again,
as I really don't think she has
meant any harm,' she continued ;
' besides I don't believe Mrs. Colonel
Staccy would like to be without
music now ; it was one of the things
that made her come to live here.'
' Tell Mrs. Primrose and her
daughter that you cannot possibly
comply with their request, Mrs.
Wilson,' 1 said, ' for their accusa-
tions are perfectly unfounded ; and
should Miss Maitland have to leave
in consequence I shall accompany
her ; for, like yourself, I do not think
it right to throw a beautiful young
woman like she is needlessly about
the world ; there are too many
wicked enough to take advantage
of youth and innocence. Miss La-
vinia is herself the one whose con-
duct is improper, but my own idea
is that she will never win her game.
One thing, however, you may be
sure of — that they will not leave so
long as Captain Vernon remains.'
And thus the storm passed over ;
but I think Mrs. Wilson gave Hilda
a few hiuts about what had passed,
tor her manner towards Vernon was
more freezing than ever; though,
from certain signs, which a woman
alone can detect, I began to feel
sure that she really loved him, but
for some private reasons she would
not allow him to see it.
After this Lavinia seemed seized
with a violent friendship for Hilda,
and sought her company as much
as she had hitherto despised it. She
even went so far as to talk oi hav-
ing a few singing lessons from her,
but this Miss Maitland declined, on
the plea that her time was fully
occupied. But in spite of her
drawing back Lavinia would confide
to her that Captain Vernon had all
but made the offer to her, and she
did not think it would be long- be-
fore she became Mrs. Vernon.
' And do you know,' she continued,
giggling, ' at one time I was a little
jealous of you, but the Captain has
assured me without a cause.'
• Quite so,' replied Hilda, coldly,
but she did not encourage further
conversation.
One evening shortly after this
Mrs. Primrose addressed Hilda in a
loud tone from the further end of
the room, saying :
' So you would not acknowledge
us this afternoon, Miss Maitland,
though I bowed, and my daughter
waved her hand.'
' I never saw you, Mrs. Primrose,'
she replied. ' But I suppose I was
walking quickly, as I usually
am.'
' No, not at all,' replied the lady,
significantly. 'I mean when you
were in the park. But it was quite
excusable, my dear, with such a
good-looking companion as you had
to engross your attention. I sup-
pose we shall be losing you soon?'
' It isn't fair of you to speaik out
before every one, ma,' said Lavinia,
with a simper. 'Of course Miss
Maitland will tell us all about it in
good time. But I must say,' she
added, trying to look arch, * that you
are very sly about it.'
Hilda blushed a deep crimson,
but she replied, proudly, ' I really
do not understand you, Miss Prim-
rose.' Then catching Captain Ver-
non's eye fixed upon her with an
expression of pain and surprise,
she moved to the piano without
another word.
Miss Primrose had evidently ef-
fected her object — more successfully
even than she had dared to expect ;
tor Captain Vernon, ungenerous
though it might be, was fully im-
pressed with the notion that Hilda
was meeting some one clandestinely,
and her blushes and proud manner
oi disdaining to deny it still more
confirniGd the Relief; though really,
ii he had reasoned the matter over
in his own mind, he might have
326
A Romance in a Boarding Ilouse.
discovert d thai as she had do oni
to control h< r actions, do Been cj
was Deeded, and it" sla- were really
tn- i-' d Bhe could be bo openly.
To me, in private, she -aid tin
whole was a fabrication, as she bad
never even been in tin/ park ; but
sh< i me to say ootbinj
she merely told me because she
thought it a duty to herself and my
friendship fur la r.
A short time after this Captain
Vernon went into tin.' country, but
fixed the daj and hour of his return,
and laughingly said hi' should < \-
• as to welcome him hack quite
joyfully.
The day of bis return arrived, hut
it was not till evening thai he was
to come. Just as we were sitting
down to dinner Mr. Jones rushed
in late, and informed as thai there
had l" hi a fearful accident to tin
train by which Captain Vernon was
to come; the laws had been tele-
graphed up to London, and every
one was in consternation, as the
Dumber of killed and injured was
something fearful. We were all in
a state of excitement and sorrow at
the tidings, though many of ns
would not think that our frank,
sable companion, so lately
among ns in health and spirits, was
now lying a mangled corpse or a
maimed sufferer. Lavinia was sup-
ported from the room bj lier mother,
hut she recovered Bufficii ntlj to re-
appear aft. r dinner, and reclining
languidly on the SOfa, she alter-
nately applii d a melling-bottle to
her Dose and a pocket-handkercbiel
to lar eyes, and seemed to think
if an obj< ct of interest and
li r compassion.
poor Captain's sad death
might indeed he a blow to her ma-
trimonial speculations, hut if she
i hi Tt it a rtainly remain d
untouch d
I mi ant to bavi lipp d away to
have broken if. i dn odful tidings
1" Hilda ill the privacy of h, i- ,,w I,
ro 'in. tor 1 .In adi d tin , ffi ,-t u| on
I -ill-
'• mpl making my exit, she
b deadly |
ted calm ami colli en d
she was immediately entertait
with thi In i, plad
' that she had heird from the ser-
vant, and was exceedingly sorry.'
This remark was so common-
place that l fell quite angry with
her ; but she afterwards confi I
to me that she was suffering mar-
tyrdom, and a sort of supernatural
Strength alone prevented her from
breaking down beneath her agony ;
hut cruel eyes were fixed upon her,
an I she knew that they would gloat
over her misery, so Bhe hid it deep,
deep in the ive, sses of her constant
heart
.Mrs. Stacey hated tin. kind of
dulness, and asked, as ui ual, for
some music; but for once her will
was resisted, every one declaring
that it would he most unfeeling,
and Lavinia adding that 'she could
not hear it.' She tried toenlist Mr.
.Ion s's services tor herself, first ask-
ing him to draw her sofa a little
nearer the lire, then to tan her
burning temples, and lastly to rub
lnr hands; and all the while she
cast such tender glances towards
him that Miss Bella White was
alarnnd. Mr. Jones was worth
catching, and Lavinia thoughl that
he would do to till the Captain's
vacanl place; though it was, attar all,
er amusing to see how she gave
ns all to understand that there had
been something between herself and
Captain Vl mon, Not that wi-
ll' ved it. All her blandishments,
however, could not draw Mi'. Jones
from his allegiance to the lair llella.
Perhaps he thought that her ten
thousand pounds was more substan-
tial than the large fortune winch
was to lie Miss Primrose's portion;
anyhow, he performed tin- offl -es re-
quired of him very much as a b
t have done, hut he would
no fart lnr. We had all re! ipsed
into a mournful silence, <>uK broken
bj an occasional snore from Mrs.
y i who had grumbled herself
into a Bee >nd nap), when we were
startled by a loud knock at the
'•do ir, and the same thou
struck us all, that it was the bo ly
of the unfortunate man being
brought tlnre, probably thro
some card or envi lope in hi- p KjJ
bearing that address. M
fully awakened, w hi pen d in a
sharp, nervo is, audible tone —
A Bom-ince in a Boarding House.
327
' He must not be brought here. I
would not stay in the house one
hour with a corpse.'
Mrs. Wilson had always expe-
rienced great liberality from the
Captain, as she herself allowed, and
was really sorry for what had
occurred, but she evidently agreed
with Mrs. Stacey, that the Captain
living and the Captain dead was
not quite the same thing ; so, giving
a reassuring nod to the old lady, she
pi'epared to leave the room, in order
to refuse admittance to the unwel-
come object. Before she could reach
the door, however, it was flung
open, and in came Captain Vernon
himself, as full of health and spirits
as when he parted from us.
' Mary has just informed me of
my own death,' he exclaimed, gaily ;
' in fact, she could not quite believe
that I was actually flesh and blood,
till she had carefully inspected me
by the gas-lamp. She said, • " Yon
was all awful cut up ;" for which I
feel exceedingly flattered.' Then he
added, more seriously, ' I am thank-
ful that I came up bv an earlier
train, or I might indeed now be
lying a mangled corpse, like so
many other poor creatures. On my
arrival in town I met an old fellow-
officer, who insisted upon my dining
with him at his club, and though he
tried hard to persuade me to linger
over the wine, I was not to be en-
ticed ; for, as I had told you to ex-
pect me this evening, and taking it
for granted that you would all miss
my society, I hastened away as soon
as possible; though had I known
that my friends were going to be so
kindly anxious on my account, I
certainly would not have subjected
them to it.'
We all congratulated him warmly
on his providential escape ; and La-
vinia, thinking this a favourable
moment for forcing a declaration
from her dilatory swain, detained
the hand he held out to her, and
then went off into violent hysterics.
Mrs. Primrose expressed frantic
alarm, declaring that no one knew
what her dear sensitive child had
suffered in the last few hours ; and
she implored the captain to speak
to, and soothe her, and ' not let her
lie there and die.'
He looked uncomfortable, and was
beginning to say something expres-
sive of thanks for so much interest
on his behalf, when his glance fell
upon a prostrate figure in a dark
corner of the room. We had all
forgotten Hilda Maitland, and there
she lay, pale and deathlike.
With Miss Primrose, I, too,
thought — now is the time to test
his real feelings : so I whispered —
' The shock of seeing you safe,
after the agonizing news, has been
too much for her, poor girl !'
' Is this really on my account ?'
he replied, with a sudden gleam of
happiness lighting up his manly
features.
I nodded an assent.
Then, heedless of the wondering
eyes fixed upon him, he folded her
in his arms, and laid her drooping
head upon his breast. This scene,
•liich was not lost upon Lavinia,
mads her redouble her shrieks; and
ber mother, seeing that the game
was up, became positively abusive.
' Bring her up to my room,' I
whispered to Captain Vernon, point-
ing to the still unconscious Hilda,
' for it will not do for her to hear all
this abominable language.'
' You are very kind, Mrs. Merton,'
he replied, huskily ; and lifting his
precious burden tenderly as an
infant, he carried her up in his
strong arms and laid her upon my
bed. Mrs. Wilson followed, and
begged him to go back and just say
a few words to Lavinia; but he
sternly refused, declaring that Miss
Primrose never had been, and never
would be, anything to him. So our
good hostess was obliged to go away
in despair, saying, ' If poor dear Mr.
Wilson only knew all the troubles
and annoyances she had to endure,
he wouldn't rest in his cold grave.'
I, in my turn, began to victimize
the poor man, and immediately we
were alone I said —
' Captain Vernon, I take a warm
interest in this poor girl, and for
her sake I wish to know how all this
is to end ?'
' By her becoming my wife,' he
interrupted quickly ; ' at least,' he
added with sudden bitterness, 'if
she be free — a fact which I must
doubt.'
828
A Romance in a Boarding Home.
I reassured bin on tin's point by
telling him that tin- story the
' Primi l' told tliat day was all
a fabrication, intended to mislead
him, bat 1 firmly believed that the
injured girl cared only tor him. At
tlii— moment she opened her large
bin. eyes, and as her glance fell
Dp 'ii \ I rnon tiny lost their terrifn (1
expression, ami elosed again as if
Bed, wlnir she murmured, with
a sigh of reli( f. 'Safe I safer
This was a Btronger proof than
any surmises of mine; and the de-
lighted lover clasped her to him
and exclaimed —
'Hilda! Sly own darling I You
love me in spite of your cruel cold-
. and now that I know it
nothing shall come between us.
You are mine!'
P< rhape it was against the strict
rules of propriety — but I was not
accustomed to English society— so
my readers must not judge my
morals harshly when I confess, that
at this point I became deeply in-
terested in what was passing with-
out, and I allowed the lovers to
whisper their mutual tale of doubts
ami fears, hope and happiness;
while, with my face glued against
the window at the other end of the
room, I sought to distinguish the
dusky figures who were threading
their way through the dim, dismal-
looking Btreets on that dreary Xo-
vember night. At length 1 disco-
v. red that lovers are the most
-li creatures in the world, and I
might have kept my station all
night for aught they cared; so I
Eronh d tin m, and requested the
Captain to make his adieiix. But
e I could get rid of the tire-
some fellow he would make me all
pretty speeches, which silly-
little Hilda > eh.M d. At last he W( nf,
and 1 insisted upon the excited
girl sharing my bed with me in-
■ her own attie.
At an i arly hour the in \t morn-
ing Mrs. and .Mi~- Primrose de-
camp 'I ild not i
sibly remain another day in a house
where such proa . ding - v.. re al-
lowed. Mr-, Wilson wat consolt d
for their loss by the Captain's assur-
that, ;■■ . -he
shook! not Ik; any tuff n r, ami I
suspect she was, on the contrary, a
very considerable gainer.
» » * »
Christmas Day came in clear and
frosty, and very pleasantly we spent
it, having unanimously agreed to
refuse all invitations. After dinm r,
under the protection of a piece of
mistletoe, the Captain ventured to
kis- the ladfes all round, beginning
with Bfrs. Colonel Stacey (who re-
ceived the salute most gracious)},
coming from military lips), and
ending, last but not least, with his
fair betrothed. A little later, under
tin- exhilarating influence of whisky
punch, Messrs .(ones and I'.rown
intimated that they should likewise
avail themselves of the privilege of
the season ; but as the proposal was
not encouraged, Jones was satisfied
with paying this delicate attention
to his charming Bella; and brown
Commenced and ended with the
buxc n hostess, who was much
gratified, and would doubtless have
been more so had Miss White ap-
peared at all jealous.
( hi New Year's 1 )ay I dressed dear
Hilda in her bridal robes, ami very
beautiful she looked. She had made
objections, declaring that she was
too poor and humble to wed with
one well-born and rich ; but he re-
minded her that she wasalady, and
that was all his friends cared about;
ami that she p hi- da 1" -t
affection and gave him hers m re-
turn, and that was all he cared
alxmt. The only point he would
yield was, to have the wedding
quite private.
Every one in the house present! d
the bride with some little parting
gift. Mrs. Stacey, always grand,
tracted from the di pths of a huge
chest a very handsome but anti-
quated Indian scarf As a poor,
toiling, striving, music-mi-tn M, an
Orphan and unknown in the world,
Hilda Maitland nut with m> sym-
pathy or kindness from the very
people who suddenly evinced the
warmest friendship for her when
she was about to become a rich ami
happy wife, and m eded it not.
Mr. Jones followed the good ex-
ample, and brought his courtship to
a sp. i dy conclusion ; so Mi-- Bella
White became Mrs. Jones, and the
A Romance in a Boarding House.
829
happy couple went to reside at
Islington. The city gentleman (Mr.
Brown) foiling in his attempts to
induce Miss White to sacrifice her
freedom, turned his attention to
Widow Wilson, who was not such a
bad speculation after all, and they
very shortly after united their in-
comes and interests in the bonds of
matrimony — the widow declaring
that 'her late lamented husband
would rest more quietly in his
grave if he knew she had found
another protector.'
My husband returned some
months earlier than I anticipated,
so we settled in a home of our own,
and have since had the pleasure of
entertaining Captain and Mrs. Ver-
non and their infant son.
Lavinia Primrose, I hear, is at
last successful in her matrimonial
attempts, and is about to become
Baroness von Schlossenhausen. The
baron is a bearded, middle-aged,
smoking German, and says that ho
has hitherto been unjustly kept out
of his hereditary rights, which
causes him a little inconvenience in
the matter of ready money. But
all tiiis will shortly be at an end,
and he intends to conduct his bride
to ' Castle Schlossenhausen,' where,
he adds, her charming mother will
always be an honoured and welcome
guest.
The baron is not quite indifferent
to the fair Lavinia's large fortune,
so it is to be hoped he will realize
it ; and as she is, in her place, much
elated at the idea of acquiring a
title, and living as mistress of a real
castle, we trust that she may not,
when too late, discover that, like
many of the ' Chateaux d'Espagne,'
her husband's ancestral home is but
a heap of ruins.
330
SOCIETY IN JAPAN.
K LL lustres fade, all typi a decay,
- ■ That Time has strength to touch or tarnish;
Japan itself nrciv. IS to-day
A novel kind of varnish.
All Asia moves; in far Thibet
A fear of change perturbs the Lama;
You'll hear the railway whistle yet
Arousing Yokohama !
Methinks it were a themo for song,
This spread oi European knowledge;
■oracters adorn Bong-Kong,
Calcutta keeps a college.
Pale Ale and Cavendish maintain
Our hold amongst the opium-smokers;
Through Java jungles runs the train,
With Dutchmen for the stokers.
The East is doomed : Romance is dead,
Or sorely on the point of dj ing ;
The travellers' books our hoy hood read
Would now be reckoned lying.
Our young illusions vanish fast;
They're obsolete— effete— archaic ;
The hour has corne that sees at last
The Orient prosaic!
The brother of the Sun and Moon
lias long renounced his claims excessive;
And now we find a new Tycoon,
Who styles himself ' progressive.'
Where once the Dutch alone could trade,
With many a sore humiliation,
The Bags are flauntingly displayed
Of every western nation.
Our artist— some celestial U ech,
Or pig-tailed Hogarth, sharp and skittish—
Has drawn, upon a nam. [< i„ aoh,
A group ofaimli bs British.
As gently, in the summ< t br< e/o,
The ribbons and the ringlets flutter,
They till the gaping Japan
With thoughts they cannot attar.
Society in Japan. 333
The steamers in the distance smoke ;
The Titan-Steam begins its functions :
There'll be a market soon for coke,
When jnnks give way to junctions !
The oriental little boys,
"Who now survey those- startling vapours,
Will learn to shout, with hideous noise,
The names of morning papers !
The East is dying ; live the East !
With hope we watch its transformation ;
Our European life, at least,
Is better than stagnation.
The cycles of Cathay are run ;
Begins the new, the nobler movement : —
I'm half ashamed of making fun
Of Japanese improvement !
W. J. P.
331
cdeiosities
in tlir ifl.nl I rr
Fasi 1 1' >N is Bociety'a Chancellor
of the Exchequer, and fails nut
to tax tli< with ingenuity
and unrelentii u r Bternnera cf pur-
Onr n a.!t is will doubt-
remember Sydney Smith's hu-
morous illustration ol the infinite
ties of taxation that beset the
British taxpayer. Alas! be omitted
from the terrible list— which, in a
certain sense, may be said to ho the
English librocPoro—iheaaan ssments,
direct and indirect, the contribu-
tions, voluntary and involuntary,
that Fashion levies. These are liter-
ally mind >< r!. bs, and envelope us in a
mesh from which there is no escape.
i lie dr< BS( s of uiir wives and sisters,
the folds of their petticoats, the
dimensions of their bonnets, the
arrangement of their carls; the
hats with which we cover our ach-
ing heads, the hoots in which We
torture our aching feet, the waist-
coats that cover the British bosom,
the broadcloth that develops the
British back; our horses and our
carriages, our bouses and our rami-
; the plays which we groan id,
the books which we nod over: the
wines that we drink ourselves, and
t 1 e win) B We give to our friends;
t 1 • n giments in which we place our
Soils', the ;icc .Iil|illshlljent8Which We
ti ach our daughters ; the hours of
our rising and Bleeping, dining and
tea-ing; the powdered hair of our
ai.d the cauliflower wigs of
our coachmen; do we not recognize
r on i ach and all of tic
11 Fashion? At home and abroad,
ion follows us cloa ly, liko a
phantom fell; and though the most
id and volatile of spirits,
wields, i • vertl < ill ss, a sceptre of
i >ii. You don't like nidation
la, bul to n ad them la— the
fashion. You don'1 care ab ml Bel
Demonio,' but to admire it is the
fashion. STou pri fi t an old-fashion* d
English dinner, full, substantial,
abundanl and materialistic, to the
lightness and inanbatantiality of a
& la I but th< ii the
fashion] Ti inter up
I down i: tt. d Row j i rpli n - you
OF FASHION.
of Oar's jrunO.
with an unutterable sensation of
ennui, but — ii is the fashion. Fashion
makes you wear a hat that pinches
jour ample brow, and puts on
Amanda's head a bonnet that does
not become her. Fashion tempts
you to live on a thousand a year
when your income is only eight
hundred. And Fashion— to be
Bparingof ourinstanot b - subscribed
for the relief of wounded Danes,
when English pluck and honesty no
longer stood to the front in behalf
of the weak and oppi. >-ed.
Hut perhaps the most personal
and humiliating of Fashion's provo-
cations is its interference with our
food. Not even the kitchen and the
saUe-a-manger are safe from its
vexatious intrusion. As sternly as
anAbernethy to a dyspeptic patient,
it says to society, ' Ihis thou shalt
tat, and this thou shalt not cat.
dish is vulgar; yonder//"/ is
obsolete; none hut the - raiiii par-
take of melted butter; only the
ignorant immerse Hair souls in
beer ' And changeable as that Bex
which is supposed to worship it
mos1 humbly, Fashion proscribes in
1863 what it sanctioned in 1763;
and approves now, what in the days
w hen < it orge III. was king
- — it most sterol) condemned.
The meals which now do (too oft. n )
coldly Furnish forth the table were
regarded with contempt by our
great- great-grand fathers. Fancy sir
rdeCoverlej examining a salmi
des j'l'/ii.i or a ji&tS de Jbu gnu\
In like manner the Bonourable
Fitzplantagenel Smith would regard
as 'deuced low' the hoar's head
that delighted his cavalier ancestor,
or the pi acock pie that smoked upon
Elizabethan boards.
In the y< or 1 873, the tia n Lord
Mayor of London issued an edict
which fixed the prices to he paid in'
certain articles of provisions at the
OSe tor fiV( pel.ee ; It
wild goose, fourponce; pigeons,
tin. e for One pi any ; mallards, three
tor a halfpenny ; a plover, one penny;
b 1 rb idge, thn 1 -halfpence ; a do/en
01 lii I. . one penny balfj onnj ; a
Curiosilifs of Fashion.
335
pheasant, fourpence; a heron, six-
pence; a swan, three shillings; a
crane, three shillings ; the hest pea-
cock, one penny ; the best coney,
with skin, fourpence ; and the best
lamb, from Christmas to Lent, six-
pence, at other times of the year,
fourpence.
.Now, out of the foregoing list of
edibles, Fashion nowadays would
strike the mallard, the heron, the
swan, and the crane, and would
look askant at the peacock.
But the peacock was of old aright
royal bird, that figured splendidly at
tho banquets of the great, and this
is how the mediaeval cooks dished
up the mediaeval dainty : — ' Take
and flay off the skin with the fea-
thers, tail, and the neck and head
thereon ; then take the skin and all
the feathers and lay it on the table
abroad, and strew thereon ground
cumin. Then take the peacock and
roast him, and baste him with raw
yelks of eggs; and when he is
roasted, take him off and let him
cool awhile ; then take him and sew
him in his skin, and gild his comb,
and so serve him forth with the last
course.'
Our ancestors were very fond ot
savoury messes compounded on the
gipsy's principle, of putting every-
thing eatable into the same pot. A
curious mixture must have been
the following: —
' For to make a mooste choyce paaste
of bamys to be etin at ye Feste of
Chrystemasse (a.d. 1394).
' Take Fesaunt, Haare, and Chy-
keune, or Capounne, of eche oone ;
w l ij. Partruchis, ij. Pygeonnes, and
ij. Conynggys; and smyte hem on
peces and pyke cltne awaje p'fro
(therefrom) alle p e (the) boonys p*
(that) ye maye, and p'wt (therewith)
do hem ynto a Foyle (shield or case)
of gode paste, made craftily yune
p e lykenes of a byrde's borlye, w' p e
lyavurs (livers) and hertys, ij.
kjdnies of shepe and jarv.es (forced
meats) and eyrin (eggs) made ynto
balles. Caste p'to (thereto) poudre
of pepyr, salte, spyce, eysell (vine-
gar), and funges (mushrooms)
pykled; and panne (then) take p e
boonys and let hem seethe ynne a
pot to make a gode brothe p'for
(therefore— i.e., for it), and do yt
ynto p a foyle of paste, and close hit
uppe faste, and bake y' wel, and so
s've (serve) y' fortbe : w' p« hcde of
oone of p° byrdes, stucke at p« oone
ende of p 8 foyle, and a grete tayle at
p e op' and dyvers of hys longe
fedyrs setto ynne connynglye alle
aboute hym.'
If any one of our readers should
attempt this choice game pasty, we
shall thank him to make known to
us the result of his exjwriment.
A favourite dish of our ancestors
was — herring pie. in the town
charter of Yarmouth it is provided
that the burgesses shall send to the
sheriffs of Norwich one hundred
herrings, to be made into twenty- four
pies, and these pies shall be de-
livered to the lord of the manor ot
East Carleton, who is to convey
them to the king. Were these
herrings fresh, or salted herrings ?
The latter was a popular edible with
all classes of Englishmen, and have
an historical importance from their
connection with the famous Batnille
de Harengs, one of the last victories
won by the English in France.
The origin of the red herring is
traditionally this : — A Yarmouth
fisherman had hung up some salted
herriDgs in his hut, where they re-
mained for some days exposed to
the smoke arising from a wood fire.
His attention being then attracted
to the forgotten dainties, he saw —
ate — and wondered ! The flavour
so pleased his palate that, deeming
what was good for a fisherman must
be equally good for a king, he sent
some of the smoke-cured fish to
King John, who was then at or near
Norwich. The monarch so much
approved of them that he rewarded
the purveyor by granting a charter
of incorporation to the town of
which he was a native.
Fish, indeed, was a much com-
moner article of diet with all classes
of society in the 'good old days'
than at present. If it figured at
royal banquets as a dainty, it was
placed on the tables of the poor as a
necessity. Nothing is more astonish-
ing than the prejudice of the lower
orders now-a-days against fish. We
have lived in seaside towns, and
33G
Ouriontie$ oj Fashion,
Mtn it Hung forth as offal by the
half-starving families of the fisher-
men, who would thankfully accept,
the next moment, a stranger's alms
to purchase a fragment of rank and
onssvoorj meat. Our ancestors, on
the other hand, were animated by a
most laudable icthyophagio zeal.
Every monastery bad its 'stews'
find fishponds, if it did not happen
to be planted in plea-ant places on
the hank of some tishful stream.
Our kings preserved their fisheries
as .anxiously as a country squire
preserves his game. Almost every
kind of fish was good that came to
our forefathers' nets. Fashion
sanctioned sturgeon and lampreys
( /'■ tromyzon fluviatilis) — everyhody
knows that Henry I. surfeited him-
self with the latter, and died thereby
— John Dories and stockfish, carps
and crabs, mullets, gurnets, burs,
ling, pilchards, nearly every fish
' Tli.it with their fins and shining scales
Slide Qnta the green WW
or,
ortlng, with quick glance,
SbOW to th>- sun li.. Ir wav'd OOlitfl dropp'd, with
p. Id.'
Even whales, if stranded on our
its, were salted and eaten; and
in the bill of fare of the Goldsmiths'
Company, we find enumerated
• blote, fish, fowls, and middles of
sturgeons, salt lampreys, congers,
pike, bream, bass, tench, chub, seal,
and porpove '
Ina fish-tariff issued by Edward L,
mention is made of ' congers, lam-
preys, and Bea-hogs.' Fancy Lady
Ma\ fair inviting her guests to par-
take of a sea-hog! In the Earl of
Northumberland's Household Book
we tii). I allowed for 'my Lord and
Ladiefa table/ ' ij. pecys of salt
fische, \j. pecys of salt fische, vj.
vmed nerryng, iiij. white her-
ryng, or a dish of Bproote (sprat
d< ep draught of < ianary or
Malvoisie would be Deeded to wash
down so dry a repast ! Bfacki re!, a
fish now so popular, is not men-
tioned earlier than 1247; bul its
1 qualities bo won !•< came g
rally recognized, that we read of it
London stra t cry in the ballad
of ' London Lickpanny.'
Efeli w< re < in < dingly popular,
and the monks especially loved to
feed upon them. The oellanasof
Barking Abbey, Essex, in the ancient
times of that foundation, was.
amongst other eatables, 'to provide
nut ">,/, in Lanton, and to bake
with elys on Share Tuesday;' and
at Shrovetide she was to have ready
' twelve stubbe eles and nine schaft
eles.' The regulation and manage-
ment for the sale of eels seems to
have formed ■ promini nt feature in
the old ordinances of the Fish-
mongers' Company. There Were
artificial receptacles made for eels
in our rivers, called Atiguilonea,
constructed with rows of poles, that
they might be more easily taken.
The cruel custom of salting
alive is mentioned by some old
writers.
Fashion did not set its seal upon
turtle soups until a comparatively
recent date An entry in the ' Gen*
tleman's Magazine,' August 31, 1753,
proves that 'calipash and calipee'
were still a rarity: — 'A turtle,
weighing 350 lb., was ate at tho
Bong's Arms tavern. Fall Mall ; the
mouth of an oven was taken down
to admit the part to be baked.'
Turtles have travelled eastward
since then. One does not look now-
adays fox turtles in Belgravian
hotels, but at the London Tavern or
the Mansion House, and associate it
as a thing of course with civic
banquets and aldennanie paunches.
The great ministers of fashion, its
agents in enforcing its d< orees upon
unhappy society, have been the
cooks— always a potent, a conceited,
and, sooth to say, an ignorant fra-
ternity. From the days of Aris-
toxenes and Archestratus to ti
of Ude — File, who refused four
hundred a \ear and a carriage when
offered by the Duke of Richmond,
Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, bi oause
there was no Opera at Dublin from
the days of ArchestratUfl to those si
1 fde, they have Btudied rather the
display of their inventive po I
than the laws of physiology and the
stomachs of their patrons. Ben
Jensen furnishes us with an admir-
able description of one of tl
gentry, who are more solicitous
about the invention of wonderful
Ities than the provision of a
Curiosities of Fashion
337
wholesome and sufficient dinner :^
1 A master cook !' exclaims the poet ;
' Why, lie's the man of men
For a professor ; he designs, he draws;
He paints, he carves, he builds, he fortifies;
Makes citadels of curious fowl and fish.
Some he dry-dishes, some moats round with
broths,
Mounts marrow-bones, cuts fifty-angled custards
Tears bulwark-pies, and lor his outerworks
He raiseth ramparts of immortal crust;
And teacheth all the tactics at one dinner:
What ranks, what files to put his dishes in ;
The whole art military. Then he knows
The influence of the stars upon his meats,
And all their seasons, tempers, qualities;
And so to fit his relishes and sauces,
He has Nature in a pot, 'bove all the chemists,
Or airy brethren of the Kosy-Cross.
He is an architect, an engineer,
A soldier, a physician, a philosopher,
A general mathematician !'
It is the cooks who are respon-
sible for the untasteful monstrosi-
ties and semi-poisonous plats that
still figure in our bills of fare. Just
as the cooks of ancient Rome served
up to their patrons the membranous
parts of the matrices of a sow, the
echinus or sea- hedgehog, the flesh of
young hawks, and especially rejoiced
in a whole pig, boiled on one side
and roasted on the other — the belly
stuffed with thrushes, and yolks of
eggs, and hens, and spiced meats ;
so the cooks of modern London love
to disguise our food with an infinite
variety of flavours, until the natural
is entirely lost, and the most curious
examiner is at a loss to detect the
component parts of any particular
dish. The ancient cooks, with a
vegetable, could counterfeit the
shape and the taste of fish and flesh.
We are told that a king of Bithynia
having, in one of his expeditions,
strayed to a great distance from the
seaside, conceived a violent longing
for a small fish called aphy, either a
pilchard, an anchovy, or a herring.
His cook was a genius, however, and
could conquer obstacles. He had
no aphy, but he had a turnip. This
lie cut into a perfect imitation of the
fish; then fried in oil, salted, and
powdered thoroughly with the grains
of a dozen black poppies. His
majesty ate, and was delighted !
Never had he eaten a more delicious
aphy! But our modern cooks are
not inferior to the ancient. Give
them a partridge or a pheasant, a
VOL. XI.— NO. LXIV.
veal cutlet or a mutton chop, and
they will so dish you up each
savoury article that nothing of its
original flavour shall be discernible !
O Fashion! cooks! confec-
tioners ! We are your slaves, your
victims ; and our stomachs the labo-
ratories in which you coolly carry
out your experiments. Look, for in-
stance, at vegetables: no food more
wholesome, or more simple, and yet
how the cooks do torture and mani-
pulate them, until the salutary pro-
perties of these cibi innocentes utterly
disappear !
The ancients, however, set us an
excellent example with respect to
the number of guests one should
invite to dinner. Archestratus, in
his ' Gastrology,' thus enunciates his
opinion: —
' I write these precepts for immortal Greece,
That round a table delicately spread.
Or three, or four, may sit in choice repast.
Or five at most, who otherwise shall dine
Are like a troop marauding for their prey.'
Just so. The present writer has
before now had the evil fortune to
make one out of four-and-twenty
unhappy cosmopolitans ' intent upon
dining,' but bewildered by a Babel
of noises, an army of waiters, and a
Brobdignagian pile of dishes. The
Romans more wisely decreed that
the number should not be less than
the Graces, or more than the Muses.
Who has not heard of the Roman
gentleman that apologized to a friend
for not inviting him to dinner, be-
cause his number was complete?
Thre was a proverb in vogue which
limited that number to seven : —
' Septem convivium, novem convicium facere.'
But we should not murmur if a
liberal Amphitryon invited us to
make the twelfth at his ' well-spread
board.'
Talking of dinners necessarily
brings us to the question of the
dining hour. Fashion, in this re-
spect, has exhibited the most
astounding vagaries. In the reign
of Francis I., the polite French were
wont to say —
* Lever a cinq, diner a neuf ;
Souper a cinq, coucher a neuf;
Fait vivre d'ans nonante et neuf.'
Froissart speaks of waiting upon
the Duke of Lancaster at five o'clock
338
Ouriot tii * of Viisltinu.
in the afternoon, after he had lugp >!.
If our ancestors dined at nine in the
morning, when did they breakfast?
When aid they gel an? They were
curly risers, undoubtedly ; nor would
they have accomplished such sur-
prising exploits bad they not began
to work and think with the first
dawn of the day. For some cen-
turies the dinner-hoax was fixed at
ten, and the supper at six, and the
later hours now in voguodid not pro-
vail in Englaud until after tho
■ ration.
Fashion has improved upon the
past, however, in the matter of
drinking. There are, happily, few
three-bottle men now-a-days, and no
gentleman considers it a necessary
condition of his hospitality to make
his guests so drunk that they cannot
walk home. The beauty and use-
fulness of temperance are now very
generally recognized. Society would
be scandalized if the great Whig
leader or the accomplished Conser-
vative guerilla-chief rolled into the
House of Commons ' flustered with
wine' — seething, like Pitt and Fox,
with a couple of bottles of port.
Hard drinking is no longer one of
our national vices, as it remained
from our early wars in the Nether-
lands until tho conclusion of our
late war with France. Fashion, in-
fluenced hy good sense, has waved
her wand, and the swine have
ceased to wallow 'in Epicurus' sty.'
A treatise might l>e written upon
our ancient drinking customs. What
wine-bibbers and beer-bibbere wero
the Elizabethan swash-bucklers, and
the Stuart cavaliers! No thin pota-
tions; no half-filled cups for them!
In those days he was nobody that
could not 'drink superoragulum;'
' oaroose the hunter's Imope;' or
' quaff upso freeze crOSSe.' The
satin-t Nash fives a curious picturo
Kjietj in the thirsty TodoX days.
Be delineates eight different kinds
• it drunkards, and each must have
U-cn sufficiently common to enable
him so accurately to detect and de-
BClibe their humours. ' The tirst,'
he says, • is ape-drunk, and he leaps
and rings, and hollow and dances
for the I thesecond is Lyon-
drunk, and he flings the DOtfl ftboot
the house, breaks the glass wind
with his dagger, and is npt to
qaaixel with any man that speaks to
him; the third is Swine-drunk,
heavy, lumpish, and sleepy, ami
cries for a little more drink, and a
few moro clothes; the fourth is
Sheep-drunk, wise in his own con-
ceit when he cannot bring forth a
right word ; the fifth is Maudlin-
drunk, when a fellow will weep for
kindness in the midst of his drink,
and kiss you, saying, " Jiy God,
captain, I love thee ; go thy ways,
thou dost not think so often of mo
as I do of thee : I would (if it
pleased God ) 1 could not love thee
as I do;" and then ho puts his finger
in his eye and cries. The sixth is
Martin-drunk, when a man isdrunk,
and drinks himself sober ere he stir ;
the seventh is Goat-drunk, when in
his drunkenness he had no mind but
on lechery. The eighth is Fox-
drunk, when he is crafty drunk, as
many of the Dutchmen be, which
will never bargain but when they
are drunk. All these species, and
more, I havo seen practised in one
company at one sitting ; when 1 have
been permitted to remain sol>er
amongst them only to note their
several humours.'
To drink wpoMHigvlum, that is,
on tho rail, is thus explained by
Nash: 'After a man lias turned up
tho bottom of his cap, a drop was
allowed to settle on the thumb-nail.
If more than a drop trickled down,
tho drinker was compelled to drink-
again by way ot penance '
Provocatives of drink "ere freely
relished by our roys'cri ig, hard-
drinking cavaliers. Th se wero
called ' shoeing-horns,' • whetters,'
' drawcrs-on,' and ' pullers-mi.'
Maaringer pate forth a curious list,
whose perusal will induce the reader
to bo thankful for Fashion's
changes: —
• I other
Such an unrxpof'''' dainty Wl for hn-akfast
i . ook'd ; 'Hi n"i botargo,
•-, |...i.ii m in urnuci, r wear,
iii.- pull "I an Kogliab chine of
Nor ">"" Italian, delli ate wild nroaoroi
\i, i .Mi it fon ihow not
An i|.|h III.-, .ih ! I in-. Ill ool wy
i-. imi devour it. trlibou! |i ic too,
(l-'or it win not -iiy ,i pn 1. 1- • ). i .mi ahaaa'&j
And all my pn.it j.r. .-. Mat.'
Cariosities of Fashion.
339
Ben Jonson affords us some
glimpses of the drinking habits
common to all clashes. Tn the comedy
of ' Bartholomew Fair ' he makes
Overdo say : ' Look into any angle
of the town, the Streights, or the
Bermudas, where the quarrelling
lesson is read, and how do they en-
tertain the time, bat with bottle-ale
and tobacco ? The lecturer is o' one
side, and his pupils o' the other;
but the seconds are still bottle-ale
and tobacco, for which the lecturer
reads, and the novices pay. Thirty
pound a week in bottle ale ! forty in
tobacco ! and ten more in ale again !
Then for a suit to drink in, so much,
and, that being slaver'd, so much
for another suit, and then a third
suit, and a fourth suit! and still the
bottle-ale slavereth, and the tobacco
stink eth.'
After the Bestoration England for
a time abandoned herself to a na-
tional saturnalia, and men drank
deeply, from the king to the lowest
hind. The novels of Fielding and
Smollett are full of pictures of wild
debauchery and drunken extrava-
gance. It was the same with the
next generation ; with the genera-
tion that looked upon George, Frince
Begent, as the first gentleman in
Europe; shameless profligacy and
mad drunkenness were the reproach
of every class. A three-bottle man
was then a King in Israel ! States-
men drank deep at their political
councils ; soldiers drank deep in
the mess-room ; ladies drank in
their boudoirs ; gentlemen at their
clubs and their dining-tables ! The
criminal on his way to Tyburn
stopped to drink a parting glass.
Hogarth, in his wonderful pictures,
has held the mirror up to society ;
in his ' Gin Lane ' and ' Beer Court/
as in his ' Marriage a la Mode,' has
shown how general was the shame,
how terrible the curse! Thank
Heaven! it is not 'the fashion,' in
this present year of grace, to bemuse
one's self with drink. We love the
cheerful 'glass,' but eschew the
' punchbowl ' and the ' bottle.'
Hitherto we have dealt with Eng-
lish fashions chiefly. Before we quit
the subject, it will be as well to
glance at the customary food of
other nations. We shall find that
man exercises his gastronomical
powers upon an astonishing variety
of subjects. Not many of these
should we be solicitous for Fashion
to render popular in the British
isles, notwithstanding the praise-
worthy exertions and generous sacri-
fices of the members of the Acclima-
tization Society.
Let vis suppose that some philan-
thropic gourmands— some adven-
turous Brown, Jones, and Robinson
— are going on a tour of culinary
discovery. First, then, they may
dine with the Esquimaux in a field
of ice, and be treated to tallow
candles as a particularly delicious
dish, with a slice of seal by way of
something solid. Or they will find
their plates loaded with the liver of
the walrus — which, by the way, an
American savant has commended in
enthusiastic terms. They may vary
their dinner by helping themselves
to a lump of whale-meat, red and
coarse and rancid, but very tooth-
some to an Esquimaux notwith-
standing !
If they sat down at a Green-
lander's table, they would find it
loaded with, or, to use the fashion-
able expression, ' groaning under ' a
dish of 'half-putrid whale's tail,'
which has been lauded as a savoury
matter, not dissimilar in flavour to
cream cheese ! Walrus' tongue is
also a dainty, and the liver of por-
poise makes a Greenlander's mouth
water. They may finish their repast
with a slice of reindeer or a roasted
rat, and drink to their host's health
in a bumper of train oil.
If their iastidious taste will not
allow them to rest content with
these varieties of Arctic fare, they
may go further and fare worse. In
South America, for instance, Fashion
recognises a notable plat in the
tongue of the sea-lion. 'We cut
off,' says a curious traveller, 'the
tip of the tongue hanging out of the
mouth of the sea-lion just killed.
About sixteen or eighteen of us ate
each a pretty large piece, and we all
thought it so good that we re-
gretted that we could not eat more
of it.' We remember to have read
in an American magazine that, in
Honduras, the tail of the manatu, or
sea-cow, is a staple dish for the
Z 2
310
Curiosities of Fbuih l< « .
table, though now settlers cannot at
first overcome its striking resem-
blance to innn. Tlio female has
bauds, and holds its young up to its
breast precisely asa human mother
would. We fear, therefore, that
manatn would bo objected to by
Brown, Jones, nnd Robinson,
Let them visit China, then, where
fashion and the cooks have invented
some extraordinary dishea Among
these a foremosl place must bo given
to soup compounded from sharks'
fins so that they import every year
from India twelve to fifteen thou-
sand hundredweight of them. Off
Kurrachee, near Bombay, about
forty thousand sharks are annually
offered up to John Chinaman's
eccentric appetite. Then the rats!
Why, game is not half so religiously
preserved in England, nor is venison
nearly so much esteemed. Birds'
nests, too, supply tho materials of a
very fashionable soup. Those made
use of are the nests of the Hirundo
esculenta. The gathering of these
nests, which are procured from caves
on tho southerly seacoasl of Java,
takes placo three times in a year —
in the end of April, the middle of
August, and in December. 'They
aro composed of a mucilaginous
substance, but as yet they have
never l>een analysed with sufficient
racy to show the constituents.
Externally, they resemble ill-con-
oooted, fibrous isinglass, and are of
a white colour, inclining to red.
Their thickness is little moro than
that of a silver spoon, and tho
weight from a quarter to half an
ounce. When dry they are brittle
and wrinkled; the size is marly
that of a goose's egg. Those that
■re dry, white, and clean, are tho
in *t valuable. They aro packed in
bun Hi s, with split rattans run
through to preserve the shape.
Those procured after the young are
j • d, are not saleable in China.
. . . After the nests are obtained ,
(hey aiv separati d from ft athersand
dirt, are carefully dried and packed,
and are then tit for the market. The
Chinese, who are the only people
that purchase them for their own
use, bring them in junks to this
market, where they command ex-
travagant prices; tho best, or white
kind, often being worth fonr thou-
sand dollars per pi. Mil (a Chinese
weight, equal to 1 3311b. avoirdu-
poise), which is marly twice their
weight in silver. Tho middling
kind is worth from twelve to
eighteen hundred, and tho worst, or
those procured after Hedging, one
hundred and tifty to two hundred
dollars per picul. Tho labour be-
stowed to render the birds' neal tit
for table is enormous ; every feather,
stick, or impurity of any kind is
carefully removed; and then, after
undergoing many washings and
preparations, it is made into a soft,
delicious jelly.'
John Chinaman has a penchant
for dogs, and fattens them as tho
Berkshire farmer fattens pigs. This
predilection is also shared by the
ladies and gentlemen of Zanzibar,
in Africa, the aristocracy of tho
Sandwich Islands, and the half-
mannish, half-brutish aborigines of
Australia. Brown, Jones, and Ro-
binson — in Canton — may go to tho
butcher's shop, and order 'a fine leg
of young dog,' just as Mrs. Tomkins
orders her 'leg of lamb' at her
butcher's in Camherwcll. A tra-
veller who has visited the Sandwich
Islands asserts that, at a house or
hut where on one occasion ho dined,
near every placo at table was a
plump young dog; and its tlesh
was bo much relished by his lil>eral
palate, that he speaks of it as com-
bining tho peculiar excellences of
lamb and pork. These Sandwich
dogs are fed with peculiar nicety, and
aro considered fit for market when
two years old. The mode in which
tiny are cooked is somewhat pecu-
liar. A bole is dug in tbo ground
larpe enough to contain the puppy.
A good fire is built up in this holo,
and large stones cast into it to re-
main until red hot. You then pilo
those red-hot stein 9 about the sides
and bottom, throw in leaves of
odorous plants, and lay the dog,
well cleaned and carefully prepared,
Upon the glowing stones. More
leaves, more stones, and, finally,
Borne 1 artfa aro heaped upon tho
Smoking dainty, until tho oven be*
(•onus, as it were, hermetically
Sealed. The meat, when done, is
full of delicious juices, and worthy
Curiosities of Fashion.
341
of a place at the Lord Mayor's table
on the 9th of November.
Fashion, in. Siam, prescribes a
curry of ants' eggs as necessary at
every well- ordered banquet. They
are not larger — the eggs — than
grains of pepper, and to an unac-
customed palate have no particular
flavour. Besides being curried, they
are brought to table rolled in green
leaves, mingled with shreds or very
fine slices of fat pork.
The Mexicans, a people dear to
Napoleon III., make a species of
bread of the eggs of insects ; hemip-
terous insects which frequent the
fresh waters of the Mexican lagunes.
The natives cultivate, in the lagune
of Chalco, a sort of carex called
toute, on which the insects deposit
their eggs very freely. This carex
is made into bundles, which are re-
moved to the Lake Texcuco, and
floated in the water until covered
with eggs. The bundles are then
taken up, dried, and beaten over a
large cloth. The eggs being thus
disengaged, are cleaned, sifted, and
pounded into flour.
Penguins' eggs, cormorants' eggs,
gulls' eggs, albatrosses' eggs, turtles'
eggs— all are made subservient to
man's culinary experiments. Turtles'
eggs are of the same size as pigeons'
eggs. The mother turtle deposits
them at night— about one hundredjat
a time — in the dry sand, and leaves
them to be hatched by the genial sun.
The Indian tribes who dwell upon
the palmy banks of the Orinoco,
procure from them a sweet and
limpid oil, which is their substitute
for butter. Lizards' eggs are re-
garded as a bonne bouche in some of
the South Sea Islands : and the eggs
of the guana, a species of lizard, are
much favoured by West Indians.
Alligators' eggs, too, are eaten in
the Antilles, and resemble hen's
eggs, it is said, in size and shape.
Infinite is the variety of edibles dis-
covered by necessity, and sanctioned
by fashion!
An attempt was made, a few
years ago, to introduce into France
the practice of ' hippophagy,' but
Fashion did not take kindly to horse-
flesh. M. Isidore St. Hilaire, how-
ever, grew enthusiastic in his advo-
cacy of the new viand. ' Horse-
flesh,' he exclaimed, ' has long been
regarded as of a sweetish disa-
greeable taste, very tough, and not
to be eaten without difficulty. But
so many different facts are opposed
to this prejudice, that it is impos-
sible not to perceive the slightness
of its foundation. The free or wild
horse is hunted as game in all parts
of the world where it exists— Asia,
Africa, and America— and, perhaps,
even now, in Europe. The domestic
horse itself is made use of as ali-
mentary as well as auxiliary— in
some cases altogether alimentary —
in Africa, America, Asia, and in
some parts of Europe.
' Its flesh is relished by people
the most different in their manner of
life, and of races the most diverse,
negro, Mongol, Malay, American,
Caucasian. It was much esteemed
up to the eighth century among the
ancestors of some of the greatest
nations of Western Europe, who
had it in general use, and gave it
up with regret. Soldiers to whom
it has been eerved out, and people
in towns who have purchased it in
markets, have frequently taken it
for beef. Still more often, and in-
deed habitually, it has been sold in
restaurants, even in the best, as
venison (!), and without the cus-
tomers ever suspecting the fraud or
complaining of it.' Let our readers
take warning by this revelation, and
never call for venison at a Parisian
restaurant.
Insects, in many parts of the
world, supply esteemed dishes.
Thus, locusts are eaten by several
tribes of North American Indians;
the Bushmen of Africa indulge in
roasted spiders; maggots tickle the
palates of the Australian aborigines ;
and the Chinese feast upon the
chrysalis of the silkworm.
The inhabitants of the Philippines
indulge in frogs as a peculiarly
edible delicacy. After the rains,
says a traveller, they are taken from
the ditch that encompasses the walls
of Manilla, in great numbers, for
they are then fat, in good condition
for eating, and make an admirable
curry. The French are still a frog-
eating people. Mr. Frank Buck-
land, in his amusing ' Curiosities of
Natural History/ observes : —
342
CWioiftifli of Fathw*,
• in Franee, frogs are eoonden d
ft luxury, as any ordering
a dish of them at the TrOtS Kivres,
lit Paris, may, by the long price,
speedily ascertain. Not wishing to
try such an expensive experiment
in gastronomy, I m nt to the lavtf e
market in the Fanbonrg Bi Ger-
main, and inquired tor frogs. I was
mi il to a stately-looking dame
at a Belt-stall, who prodnoed a box
nearly full of them, huddling and
crawling about, and occasionally
croaking as though aware of the
fete to which they were destined.
The price fixed was two a penny,
and having ordered a dish to be
prepared, the Dame do la Halle
dived her hand in among them, and
having secured her victim by the
hind legs, she severed him in twain
with a sharp knife; tho legs, minus
skin, still struggling, were placed
on a dish ; and the head, with tho
-legs affixed, retained life an 1
motion, and performed such mo-
tions that the operation became
painful to look at. These legs were
afterwards cooked at the restaura-
teur's, being Barred np fried in
bread-crumbs, as larks are in Eng-
land; and most excellent eating
they were, tasting moro like the
delicate flesh of the rabbit than
anv thing elso I can think of. I
afterwards tried a, dish of tho
common English frog, but his flesh
is not so white nor bo tender as that
of his Flench brother.'
The vagaries of fashion havo not
as yet introduced frogs into our
English bills of fare, and, as far as
our own taste is concerned, wo
trust no such innovation will be
attempted, Hut if ever frogs should
figure on our tables, it is some con*
Bolation to reflect that our cooks
will prevenl them from tasting like
frogs,— they will bo spice, and
Savour, and combine, and dilute
the dish. As Sam Slick says, —
' V( al to tie good, must look like
anything else but veal. You mustn't
Know it when you see it, or it's
vulgar ; mutton must be incog., too ;
beef must havo a mask on; any
thin' that looks solid, take a spoon
to; any thin' that looks light, cut
with a knife; if a thing looks like
fish, you take your oath it is flesh;
and if it seems real llesh, it's only
disguised, for it's sure to bo fish ;
nothin' must be nati ral — natur is
out of Fashion here. This is a manu-
facturin' country; everything is
done by machinery, and that that
Bint, must 1)0 made to look like it;
and I must say, the dinner ma-
chinery is perfect.'
<••'. • ■
I r- .1 ii a Photograph by John mil Chiirlea Watkint.]
THE BIOHT HON. BIB JAMES P. WILDE.
Till n I". I "I I Ml DIVORI 1 C0UB1
343
SKETCHES OF THE ENGLISH BENCH AND BAK.
IV.
THE JUDGE OF TUE DIVORCE COURT.
fFHE ladies would never forgive
A us if we were to forget Sir
James Wilde, the judge of the
Divorce Court. And perhaps we
could scarcely begin our sketch of
him better than by giving a little
story of him, told by a lady; and
which is in itself a very good sketch
of his character and manners. A lady
— the wife of a Queen's Counsel and a
Member of Parliament — (who told
the writer the story) met at dinner a
gentleman whose name she did not
happen to hear and whom she did
not know. She sat next to him, and
found him a delightful companion.
He was young looking, and hardly
seemed one who could be called even
middle-aged. He had fine dark eyes
— good, regular features — a keen,
yet kindly expression of countenance ;
spoke in a quiet, agreeable tone of
voice — was rather lively in conver-
sation — was evidently accustomed
to society, had rather the tone and
aspect of a man of fashion, and spoke
freely on lighter topics, such as
ladies are likely to be familiar with —
the latest novel or the last new opera.
' How did you like your companion,
my dear?' asked her husband,
later in the evening. ' Oh ! he is
delightful — who is he ?' ' He is Sir
James Wilde,' answered the gentle-
man. 'What!' cried she, 'the
judge of the Divorce Court ! Well,
my dear, I had no idea he was a
lawyer T The fact is, he was so
pleasant and agreeable a man, so at
home among the lighter topics of
the day, and with so much the tone
and air of a man of fashion, that
she could not imagine him to be
even a lawyer, still less a judge, and
judge of that court which, above all
others, appears so fearful and so
formidable to the female mind.
From this it will be manifest that
Sir James Wilde is, as he ought to
be, a man of the world ; and a man
of sense and intelligence ; and a man
of society, not less than — perhaps
we might say more than — he is a
lawyer. For the peculiar nature of
his judicial duties these are really
more important qualities than mere
knowledge of law. As a lawyer he
is, to say the least, respectable, and
fully of the average judicial
standard ; while in ability he is cer-
tainly above the average. There
are few judges on the Bench more
able than Sir James Wilde! He has
not some of Sir Cresswell's great
qualities, but has others perhaps
better. He may not be so good a
lawyer, and perhaps not quite so
quick, so clear-headed, and so keen.
But he is shrewd and sensible
enough— full of sense and intelli-
gence, and if not quite so clear he is
not quite so cold. He is not ice, as
Sir Cresswell was. He has not that
cold, calm countenance, that seemed
to freeze you with its cool, chilling
glance of those clear blue eyes.
Sir James has a face warmer and
more alive to human sympathies and
passion. It is a face which reveals
feeling as well as sense, shrewdness,
and intelligence. It is not so cold
and so hard as Sir Cresswell's ; there
is a fulness and brightness in the
fine, dark hazel eyes, quite attrac-
tive.
The voice, too, has a fine, mellow,
kindly tone in it, utterly unlike the
thin, clear, cold, hard tones of Sir
Cresswell. You would say at once
that the man had ' more of the milk
of human kindness in him.' He has
not been soured, as Sir Cresswell
they say had been, in early life, by
disappointed affection, the bitterness
of which had turned to cynicism.
Sir James, on the contrary, has gone
through life, socially as well as
professionally, with happiness.
Marriage has made his fortune, and
matrimony gives him fame. He
married a daughter of the Earl ot
Radnor, a lady of the great Whig
house of Bouverie ; and that (with
his reputation for ability) got him
:mi
Sketches of the Enylixh Bcnrh and Bur.
tho judgeship of the Divoreo Court ;
and thus haying made his own for-
tune (and, let lis hope, hex happi-
oi bs) by a good marriage, he passes
his time pleasantly in determining
upon the follies, or the woes, or tho
miseries of those who have not
married so happily.
As a judge he is very niueh
liked. He is calm and clear-headed,
and sufficiently quick and sensible,
while he is not so sharp and snap-
pish as Sir ( 'n -swell was. He is a
perfect gentleman and a most
amiable and agreeable man. Ho is
patient and attentive, candid and
considerate, and if he ever errs, it is
rather on the side of lenity and for-
bearance -than of over severity. He
in disposed to take as lenient a view
as possible of matrimonial naughti-
nesses and a vin sympathising view
of matrimonial miseries. In a man
who has himself married happily
this is natural and amiable He has
erred ; and erred seriously, for in-
stance, as most men believe, in
the case of Mrs. Codriogton, in
taking an unfavourable view ol In r
case ; and in poor Mrs. Chetwynd's
ease, in not allowing her to havo her
children. But however he may
err, you see that he does his K'st to
do right; and there is so much
evident anxii ty to do so, that, what-
ever his emus, one cannot be angry.
Ibi ipresn s himself on all occasions
with exquisite propriety : his diction
is admirable; his delivery quiet and
unaffected, but with much subdued
earnestness - sometimes eloquence
— a frreat contrast to the coldness of
Sir CresswelL If he is not so acute
a judge as Creeswell, ho is one far
more amiable, and when ho is a few
;.. irs older lie will be fully as pood
and as great a judge. He has a
larger mind than Cm -swell, one far
more comprehensive and philoso-
phical He does not take so cold
and hard a view of human life,
especially as regards the matrimo-
nial relation; but for that very
on Um re is n u on bo believe
thai he will, at all ev< eta, when his
mind has l" eon i tnd matured
by experience, take b sounder vii w
of it than Ins great pr. • • Sir
< 'n aswell had been disappoint! d
und soured in early life, in the very
matter of marriage, nnd that pavo
a cynical torn to his mind, parti-
cularly on that very subject. Ho
has been happily described in a
poetical portraiture, in theso lines:
■ Willi brain u dear as crystal, and with maimer
As cm ami i blUlog- i Ireeawi U - ■ mi ii i" itand
In Isolation from his fellow nun.'
Then the poet asks —
• Was hi- tonipor
So from tho Brat? Nay; bal hit lifo was
irod
By one keen disappointment of the soul,
Which turned Ms days to hllffinif *
The poet proceeds to tell the story
of Sir Cresswell's blighted hopes,
and he tells it beautifully.
'Tho story
Is commonplan- ; bat not led tnu — of love,
And pride thai ovennaatered that strong love
And a itolen Highland thi a ■ desolate hearth,
And an overwhelming sorrow and distrusl ;
And so his life thenceforward was a desert.
Yet let bis name be honoured. All forgotten
Thai sharp -ana-ti. tour and rnrl of lip,
And so! nt ui eye— that seldom smote bui when
l'ert folly Called tbem forth; lor Truth and
Justli e
Array d in Learning's grand Imperial roi>e,
W'-r<- ever by hi- side npon tho bench,
Guiding bis Judgment when he spake the law.'
Now Sir .lames Wilde has all his
predecessor's judicial excellencies
and good qualities, except the great
judicial experience which Sir On -
well had already had before hecame
to the Divorce Court; and except,
also, the extraordinary BCUteneSS
which distinguished him ; to counter-
balance which, Sir James is tree
from the one great defect of Sir
Cresswell, his soured and cynical
spirit; and, moreover, as ho has
greater warmth of nature, BO be has
greater breadth of mind, and, as we
have said, in a few years be will
probably be found as sound, nnd
perhaps B greater jndpe than
CreSSWelL He has bad nothing
Certainly to sour his nature. His
own happy and auspicious marriage
has rather, as already observed,
tended to give him that warm sym-
pithy with the matrimonial relation
which the judge of the l tivorce
and Matrimonial Court ought surely
to possets. Already on more than
one point his opinion has Inch
d< eined by the profea ion sounder
Sketches of the English Bench and Bar.
315
than Sir Cresswell's. The fact is,
Sir Cresswell's mind though acute
was narrow. Tho magnificent
address delivered by Sir James
Wilde at York alone would suffice
to show liim a man of enlarged and
philosophical miud. Sir Cresswell
could no more have delivered such
an address thau he could have flown.
And very likely he would have
sneered at the man who delivered it.
His mind was cramped as well as
soured by the cold, cynical spirit
which possessed it. Were he alive
he probably would have joined with
thoso who sneered at some of Sir
James Wilde's judgments as ' weak '
and ' sentimental/ because he be-
trayed a belief in the possibility of
reconciliation and reunion between
married couples who had quarrelled.
But tho experience of future years
will perhaps prove that Sir James
was right after all ; and the proba-
bility certainly is in his favour ; for
he is a married man, and has actual
experience in the matrimonial life,
whereas poor Sir Cresswell never
knew it, and looked at it only
through the distorting medium of
a soured and disappointed spirit.
Sir James Wilde is, as the judge of
the Divorce Court should be, a
married man : and a man happily
married, and one who has practical
experience of matrimony. Partly
from this cause, he goes far more
largely into society, especially
female society, than a judge who is
unmarried possibly can; and he
knows infinitely more of the inner
life of married people, the aspect of
domestic life, the character of women,
the causes which make or mar their
happiness ; the sources of disagree-
ment or dislikes; the trumpery
causes which sometimes lead to
dissension and separation ; the
tendency of former affection to revive
and yearn for its original object.
All these, and a hundred other
things, Sir James, going largely into
society with his wife, must learn,
and hear, and observe; of which
poor Sir Cresswell, in bis miserable
isolation, must have been ignorant.
Sir Cresswell knew 'the world/ no
doubt, in a certain sense ; but it was
a hard, cold world— the world which
lawyers see, not the inner world of
married life, and the sacred circlo of
home, with all its domestic cares,
and joys, and duties. To all this ho
was a stranger ; yet for a judge of
the Divorce and Matrimonial Court,
this was the most important know-
ledge of all, as enabling him to
enter into and understand the dis-
putes of married people and the
chances of their reunion. . Happier
than his predecessor, Sir James
Wilde has this knowledge in its
fulness, and therefore he is, we
think, a better judge of that Court.
He admirably upholds the decorum
and dignity of the Court, and has a
perfect control over the Bar there,
and this without anything severe,
snappish, or sarcastic; but simply
as himself preserving on all occa-
sions a perfect air of self-possession,
calm, gentlemanly good-breeding,
and a quiet dignity of tone and
manner, which commands the entire
respect of the Bar, especially as it is
blended with the most thorough
amiability and constant courtesy.
On the whole Sir James Wilde is an
admirable judge of the Court over
which he presides, and it is a
pleasure to see him sitting there.
The following passage may be
taken as a good specimen of Sir
James Wilde's judicial style, his
justness of thought, his purity of
diction, and his felicity of expres-
sion—
' The shape or form that the
petitioner's misconduct in married
life may take, its degree, the length
of its duration, its incidents of
mitigation or of aggravation, its
causes and effects— all these have,
or may have, a bearing on the peti-
tioner's claim to relief, and yet are
capable of such infinite variety and
intensity that they escape a distinct
expression, refuse to be fixed in a
positive and distinct enactment.
The duty of weighing these matters
has therefore been cast upon the
Court ; and when the cases arising
have been sufficiently numerous to
unfold any rules of general applica-
tions, this Court may be enabled to
guide itself and others, in these more
narrow limits, by further definition.
But until then the same reasons
which have served to make the legis-
lature express itself with latitude,
346
Sk&Uske» of the Eiitjlifh Bench and Bar.
OQgfat to mako the Court cautious
in restricting itself by precedent. 1
Or, Bgsin, take the following
*—s masterly definition of the term
' desertion/ as applied to the matri-
monial relation. We make no
apology for introducing these
tracts, i" oanse they are not only
happy illustrations of judicial style,
bat also on a subject of great interest
to our fair readers.
'It is not easy to define "deser-
tion." To desert is to " forsake" or
" abandon." But what degree or ex-
tent of withdrawal from the wife's
society constitutes a forsaking or
abandoning her? This is easily
answered in some cases, not so easily
inothcrs; for the degree of inter-
course winch married persons are
able to maintain with each other is
various. It depends on their walk
in life, and is not a little at the
mercy of external circumstances.
The position of some, and, indeed,
the largo majority, admits of that
intimate cohabitation which com-
pletely fulfils the ends of matrimony.
Short of that, all degree! of matri-
monial intercourse present them-
selves in the world. To somo, it is
given to meet only at intervals,
igh of fn quenl occurrence, it
is the lot of others to be separated
for years, or to meet only under
itriotzons. The fetters im-
posed i'\ ti e profession of the army
and navy, the requirements ofeom-
mi n-i.il Hit. rprise, and the call to
foreign lands which so frequently
attend all branches of industrial life,
make these restrictions often inevi-
table. but perhaps in no class do
they fall so heavily as on those who
■to themselves to domestic
:ce for the means of life. Ami
natrimony is »,</</> for nil ; and
mat > intercourse must accom-
modate itself tn tht n; ,,//,fi. r ,,,,,, i',/t-
ratU >?■ 1 1 ii hi' . Prom tin se
Don idl rations it i.^ obvious that the
of finding a borne for the wife,
and living with her, is not uni-
\i really applicable in pronouncing
" desertion " by the husband. Nor
does any other crrfa rion, suitable to
all cases, present itself to the mind
Of the Wife. To Iiegl. et ojipo! tllli
of consorting with a wife is not
necessarily to deseii I.' r. Indif-
ference, waid of proper solicitude,
illiberality, denial of reasonable
means, and even faithlessness, is not,
desertion. Desertion siein> pointed
at a breaking off, more or less com-
pletely, of the intercourse which
previously existed. Is thu husband
tin n bound to avail himself of all
means at his disposal for increasing
the intimacy of this intercourse on
the peril of being pronounced guilty
of desertion? <>n the other hand,
is he free bom thai peril so long as
he maintains any intercourse at all ?
The former proposition is easily
solved in the negative. It may Ik)
doubted whether the latter ought
not be answered in the affirmative
But it is enough for the decision of
this case. So long as a husband
treats his wife as a wife, by main-
taining such degree and manner of
intercourse as might naturally be
expected from a husband of his
calling and means, he cannot be said
to have deserted her.'
Nothing, it will be seen, could bo
more sensible, more philosophical,
or more true. Our readers may
easily recognise the good Bense of a
man of the world, the enlighten, d
ideas of a philosophical mind, and
the calm reflective spirit of a judi-
cial temperament, with the happiest,
most pointed, and most expressive
judicial style. < >in more illustra-
tion lor the sake of our fair readers.
It was in a very painful and un-
happy case in which the wile had
sinned, but sought forgiveness in
such a humble and contrite spirit
that she won the judge's sympathy,
though Bhe failed to touch the heart
of her husband.
'The burthen of the husband's
letters seems to be as follows. I
still love you and long lor your
love I will summon yon to rejoin
me on one condition —that of true
religious repentance. Go to my
sister in England , she w ill help
you to n pent ton have m ver
loved me, and are ungrateful for my
■ leniency. The tone of these
letters i- that of very stein iv-
proacfa mixed with much religious
exhortation equally stern. Mere
peniti oce \\ ill oof suffice: his wife
is to " abhor herself in dust and
■ s," -In is to undergo dee])
Sketches of the English Bench and Bar.
317
humiliation and self-abasement be-
fore her repentance can bo real.
But there is a strong yearning for
her affection, and in the earlier let-
ters an evident wish to satisfy him-
self that he might take her back
with safety. On the side of the
wife the letters may be thus epito-
mized. " I will not pretend to an
amount of religious feeling which I
do not entertain. I can never sym-
pathise with what I consider the
extreme views of yourself and your
sister in matters of religion. Stiil
I am truly sorry : I am but a sinful,
wicked woman, but I do sincerely
repent of past misconduct; pray
take me back to live with you; I
feel more true longing for your
society than ever; but I make no
pretences. You must take me, if at
all, as a wicked, sinful woman, who
will try hard to be all you wish,
and who earnestly repents conduct
which she now sees in its true
light." Complete submission, abso-
lute prostration before her hus-
band's will, and tender entreaty on
one side ; reiterated reproaches, bit-
ter words, an austere and uncom-
promising censure on the other,
with avast amount of religious allu-
sion on both sides— these are the
principal features of this most dis-
tressing correspondence. It comes
to a cruel end. For six or seven
months had the hope of being re-
ceived again been held before the
eyes of the wife. The husband
wrote letters which, interpreted by
himself, actually offered her the
option of return to his home. She
misunderstood them, and waited for
a more sure welcome. Then came
the final blow to all for which the
wife had yearned — an explicit with-
drawal of all that had been held out
to her.'
Then, after a masterly analysis of
the evidence, leading to the conclu-
sion that it was a case of suspicion,
not of conclusive guilt, the judge
proceeded to declare the husband's
petition dismissed, and concluded
in a passage which was made the
subject of much severe comment at
the time, and is as good a specimen
as could be given of his mental
calibre and his judicial character.
' My mind comes to the conclu-
sion of much levity, actual miscon-
duct, but no downright guilt. It
is impossible not to feel the deepest
interest in the future fate of this
unhappy couple. If the petitioner
is disappointed at the end arrived
at, he will bear in mind that, while
human judgment isahvajs fallible,
he has no cause to quarrel with the
means. The case has been most
carefully sifted, and with the most
earnest attention of all who had it
in hand. And the thought is not
without some solace that human
judgment, impartially applied, has
absolved his wife and confirmed his
own early conclusions. Thus forti-
fied, he may safely take her back to
his home. No one can read the
entire submission and pitiful appeal
of his wife without indulging the
conviction that the future will not
be with her as the past. She owes
all to his generosity and forbear-
ance ; and she will not disgrace that
which does him so much honour.
May it be so ; and should the day
come when peace and mutual con-
fidence shall be established between
himself and the mother of his only
child, haply he may not regret that
it has not been permitted to this
court to undo the most solemn and
most sacred act of his life. Forsitan
et hcec oliin meminisse juvaoit.'
That is, in plain English, in that
event he will ever look back with
pleasure to the result of proceed-
ings which at the time were so
painful. Those who censured this
celebrated judgment did not do it
justice, and forgot that the gist of it
was that the husband himself had
originally been disposed to look over
what had passed, and to receive
his wife back, and that it was the
influence of third parties which had
interposed to prevent his carrying
out this resolve, which the judge,
after careful consideration, con-
sidered to have been right. And as
he perhaps charitably arrived at the
conclusion that there had been no
actual guilt, why should the hus-
band not take her back ? and if so,
why should they not, hereafter,
recal the result of these painful
proceedings with grateful pleasure,
seeing that it had restored them to
each other? Those, then, who
348
Sketehet of the English Bench and Bar.
sneered at the judgment as 'senti-
mental' were, as aneerers usually
are, Bballow-minded and ignorant
of the human heart. No doubt, not
a sentence of the judgment could
have been deliver) d by Sir (V
well ; and it proa eded bom a very
different mind and nature; and for
that wry reason we have quoted it
as eminently characteristic of his
successor, Sit James Wilde. And
unless a sold, severe, and cynical
nature is a proof of infallible wis-
dom; and unKss human judgments
are necessarily to be less merciful
and charitable tlian divine, who
shall say that Sir James is the worse
judge because ho has the warmer
sympathies for human nature, a
kindlier feeling for its faults, a truer
sense of its mixed character, and
therefore a more enlarged and philo-
sophieal view of its real character,
than a colder and a narrower mind
would adopt? What verdict do our
readers pronounce upon the present
judge of the Divorce Court? Is he
guilty of too much lenity because
he has more sympathy ? Is he
necessarily weaker than his p redo-
ne, <>r may it not be that in such
matters he is wiser? If Sir Cress-
well was the colder judge, may not
sir James be the better? We think
our fair readers will decide in his
i (Your.
MR. JUSTICE WILLES.
We aSBOOiate Mr. Justice Willes
with Sir James Wilde l ause, not
long ago, when there was a rumour
of the removal of Sir James to the
■ of Chief Baron of the Exche-
quer, it was also rumoured thai Mr.
Justice Willi to suocei d him
in the Divorce Court ; and because
ho alone, of all the common-law
judges, at all n sembles him in his
judicial characi r,or would be likely
or qualifii I to Bucceed him, which,
indeed, may have p. en the i round
of the rumour refem d to. Be may
fitly enough th< reforo b ted
with sir Jan* - Wilde, and Ins fit-
neu for the office it wai Bupp • I
he was to All may pi i bap in
d< gn eh i thnate l from our sketch
of his judicial character.
A single glance at the counte-
nance of Mr. Justice Willes will
show you that ho is a man of intel-
lect^ of calm and philosophic mind,
and of great study and learning.
It is a countenance somewhat of the
same general class or character as
that of Sir James Wilde; a regular
oval face, linely-cut features, rather
inclining to be sharp, a thoughtful,
reflective aspect, a look at first
rather of quiet reserve. There is
this difference, however, that Sir
. hunts Wilde is dark, Mr. .Justice
Willes is fair and light There IS
some resemblance, too, in general
manner and demeanour — an air of
quiet self-possession, an aspect calm,
composed, and reflective; an in-
clination to be, if not taciturn, at
all events sparing of words among
strangers, and to speak with terse-
ness and neatness of expression ;
and at the same time beneath an
exterior of rather cold reserve, a
great capacity for the enjoyment of
general and refined society. As re-
gards society, however, Sir James
Wilde has probably gone much moro
into society than Mr. Justice Willes,
who has led moro the life of a stu-
dent. These two words, society and
study, mark as much at possible the
gnat difference between the two
men. Sir James Wilde is more a
man of society, Mr. Justice Willes
rather a man of study. The latter
has read far more than the other,
the former has seen and heard much
more. The one is more an adept in
learning, the other in real life. For
this reason, probably, Mr. Justice
Willes might not make, in some re-
ogood a judge of the Divorce
Court as Sir James Wilde, not having
so much knowledge of life, of human
nature, and of the world. Each,
however, is characterised l>y a la
and enlightened mind and a philo-
sophic and reflective disposition.
Perhaps a physiognomist would say,
looking at thnr countenances, that
Sir .lames Willes had the larger
me i nre oi inn llect, the most acute
and capacious mind, and certainly
it has hi "ii most enriched, enlarged,
and expanded by acquired learning.
Tin re prol ' |] Fj never was a judge
who more rigidly practi ed the gnat
gift of taciturnity than Sir James
Sketches of the English Bench and Bar.
349
Willes. He always was distin-
guished for it, and ho sits in a court
which is remarkable for it. There
he sits by the side of the grave and
solemn Byles ; they are rare listen-
ers, and seldom interrupt ; but none
is so taciturn as he is ; and when he
speaks it is sparingly and tersely,
and often with a queer, quaint
pointedness, which he rather affects.
He seems to pride himself upon ex-
pressing the most pointed meaning
in the shortest possible form of
words, and, if possible, in a single
word, which he often succeeds in
doing. Thus, the other day, a young
counsel had been rather copiously,
dogmatically, and vehemently urging
a certain view. When he had ex-
hausted himself, the learned judge
simply said in his quiet tone, * I
concur.' This is the formula used
by judges to express their concur-
rence with each other, and it was
adopted evidently to convey, in a
delicate manner, a slight touch of
satire on the dogmatic tone taken
by the young counsel, who at once
saw and enjoyed the satire.
On another occasion, when a coun-
sel, in the heat of argument, made
a statement obviously exaggerated,
'Bhetoric,' said the learned judge,
quietly, ' rhetoric' It was enough.
The learned judge is of a kindly dis-
position and a thorough gentleman,
and when he has to convey a rebuke,
he does it in some delicate and refined
way like this. Thus once on cir-
cuit a young barrister, counsel for
the prosecution in a criminal case,
who was breaking down, feeling
rather in a hobble, wished to get out
of the difficulty by putting it on the
judge, and said to him, ' I will throw
myself upon your lordship's hands.'
' Mr. ,' said the learned judge,
quietly, ' I decline the burden.' On
another similar occasion the counsel
asked if he should take such and
Mich a course ; to which the learned
judge dryly replied, 'No one is
allowed to ask questions of the
judge except her Majesty and the
House of Lords.' On some occa-
sions the scholastic, almost pedantic,
turn of Sir James Willes' mind leads
him, when he desires to be em-
phatic, into queer and quaint ex-
pressions, which sometimes appear
incongruous or have a humorous
sound. Thus once in delivering an
elaborate judgment, 'I hope,' he
said, with emphasis, yet with his
usual hesitating manner — 'I hope
that on all occasions I shall be
valiant in upholding the powers of
the court.' On another occasion,
when a dictum obviously wrong was
quoted from a Nisi Prius report, ' I
am sure,' he said, ' the learned judge
never said what the reporter has
been' (hesitating as if for choice of
an expressive phrase) 'malignant
enough to put into his mouth.'
There is this dry, scholastic manner
about the learned judge which some-
times has the aspect of pedantry,
but is not so, and is only the result
of much study. It is impossible to
imagine a greater or more striking
contrast than between Mr. Justice
Willes and Mr. Justice Blackburn,
or Mr. Baron Martin. He so quiet,
so taciturn, so sparing of speech,
and so studied in his words, they so
voluble, so pliant, so vehement ; he
so fond of reflection, they of discus-
sion and disputation. His whole
judicial manner and character more
nearly resembles those of Sir James
Wilde than those of any other judge
on the Bench ; but his quaintnesses
of expression are so peculiar to
him that there is not another judge
on the Bench who could possibly
have uttered them, or to whom
they would ever be ascribed. There
is something extremely characteris-
tic in those idiomatic phrases made
use of by a man, especially if he be
one of strong mind or peculiar cha-
racter. They mark the man's men-
tal traits or peculiarities as strikingly
as the features of his physiognomy,
and often much more so. They
embody in a single word or phrase
the whole idiosyncrasy of the man,
and hit him off, so to speak, as a
photograph does, in an instant.
There is something in the utter-
ance and manner of Mr. Justice
Willes exactly what you would
imagine in a man not physically
strong, with a voice somewhat weak
and a constitution impaired by ex-
cessive study and enormous prac-
tice and severe intellectual labour;
with a spirit greater than his
strength ; with a nature exceedingly
050
Sketch* of (he Enalhh Bench and Bar.
native ; with a mind scholastic
and all but pedantic in its tunc, ami
only redeemed from pedantry by the
force of his intellect ; with a I
extremely fastidious and refined ;
with a turn for t tcituruity and b I
aeeB of expression ; and withasin-
gnlar mixtare of modesty and self-
sumcieney, the effect at oner of
oonscio if intellectual power
and knowledge, and a constant si
of the beantyand propriety of humi-
lity.
The result of all these physical
and mental traits is that he speaks
at first in a nervous, hesitating kind
Of way. which, however, as hifl ideas
tlow forth freely from his well-
eultured memory and richly-stored
mind, and as his intellect feels its
force and mastery of his subject,
>mes more rapid, though still
with a nervous kind of manner,
and every now and then with a
hesitation not the result of any dc-
ncy of words, but of a fastidious
choice of an expression, tho choieo
being often, as already illustrated,
dingly peculiar. The delivery
is hurried and ineffectiTe, and nevi r
I its air of hesitancy; but his
manner rn< Bl and emphatic,
and withal so calm and impas-
sioned, so thoroughly intellectual
in its tune, its correctness bo ob-
viously the result of much thought
and study, deep reflection, and
strong and clear conviction, that
it always makes an impression:
though far removed from oratory
or eloquence, there is no man on
the Bench who conveys so much
earnestness with such perfect quiet-
, such strength and clearness
of conviction without the least ap-
hemenca His style of
Icing is the most purely intel-
[( ctual of any judge on tli • common-
law bench, ana, to revert again to
our ] nparison, it reminds
one more of Sir James Wilde than
any other j id I ■< pi BS to its
nervous, burrii l manner of deli-
very: for Sir Jam a Wilde is firm
and" fluent : and though both alike
are, a- already i ' d, dispo i I
d ( son •• in, he i m
copious than Sir James Willes,
whose style i wh&\ more
re and r -trained | and again,
Sir James Willes is far more formal
in his Btj le.
Sir .lames Willes's formality of
manner and fondness for allusions
to ancient learning sometimes add
to the air of pedantry; but there
is no man in reality more free from
it. His learning is genuine, aud
there is no judge 00 the bench
who so happily, in his mind, unites
ancient wisdom with modern en-
lightenment, and blends the expe-
rience of the past with the philo-
sophy of the present. ife has
gathered from the learning of past
ages all its richest treasures, and
he applies and improves them to
tho practical uses of tho present
time. It was this property of his
mind which made his labours so
valuable, as a Common Law Com-
missioner in improving our system
of civil procedure.
There is one trait in the judicial
character of Mr. Justice Willes
which will commend him to our fair
readers ami to all generous-minded
men, and perhaps goes a great way
to qualify him for the Divorce Court,
and that is, a chivalrous feeling for
woman, a deep Bense of her worth,
a warm sympathy for her trials, a
kind indulgence for her failings, and
a strong tiding of indignation at
her wrong-:. Let any man who has
in any way behaved badly to a
woman beware how he comes for
trial before Sir James Willes, for it
will go hardly with him. He is
nevermore severe in his sentences
than in such cases. He always
'leans to woman's side,' and if the
case is doubtful, is disj psed to give
it against the man. He is 'to her
faults a little blind, and to her vir-
tues very kind.' He always remem-
bers that she is the ' W( akt r Vessel,'
and that it is for man to protect
her, not to wrong her or injure her;
and if a man, in his opinion, has
clearly behaved badly to a woman
he will do his best t" punish him
for it; not, of course, by warping
tho law, he is fir t a -en-ntious
and strict in his ideas of law to do
that ; but if there is no doubl as to
the facts, and it is plain the woman
has at all events been badly treated,
it will go hardly with tho man if he
is tried before Sir James WjIIcs.
Sketches of the English Bench and Bar.
351
He is always, in cases where women
are the pro=ccutors, especially if
young women or girls, exceedingly
tender, considerate, and delicate in
his tone towards them, and while
perfectly just, he does his best for
them ; and this is so whether the
matter be civil or criminal. In this
he differs greatly from some other
judges, whose tone towards women
on such occasions shows that they
don't believe in women, and that
their disposition is against them.
Very far otherwise is it with Sir
James Willes. The inclination of
some of his brethren is always to
treat woman as the tempter ; he is
more disposed to regard her as the
sufferer, and as falling a prey to the
temptations of the stronger sex.
His idea always is, that a man,
being stronger, should protect a
woman, if need be, even against
herself, not betray her or ever take
advantage of her fondness for him.
Hence he is very much against the
man in cases ot seduction or breach
of promise of marriage. ' If a man
misleads and ruins a young woman,'
he said once, on an occasion of this
kind, ' he ought to be made to pay
ior it.' The jury took the hint and
gave large damages. The words
were few and simple, but they were
uttered with that nervous, hurried
emphasis which perhaps betokens
strong feeling as much as eloquence,
and they had the same effect. So
on another occasion, a most remark-
able case of breach of promise of
marriage, tried before Mr. Justice
Willes, where the excuse was that
the young man's mother did not
like the girl. ' Gentlemen,' said the
judge to the jury, 'if a man has
promised to marry a young woman,
he ought to many her.' What could
be more simple, and, to read, what
might be supposed to be more tame ?
But these few simple words were
uttered with all that peculiar air of
suppressed feeling which is so cha-
racteristic of him, and they had an
immense effect, as the verdict
showed, for the jury gave 2500?.
damages, one of the largest ever
known. These instances may suf-
fice to show that Sir James Willes
has that sympathy for the fair sex
which men of generous minds
usually have, and which certainly
that sex will consider, to say the
least, no small qualification for the
office of Judge of the Divorce Court,
especially as it is controlled by a
most severe and periect sense of
justice.
3^J
PLATING FOR HIGH STAKES.
CHAPTER X.
' BLOOD IS TIIICKKIt THAN" WATER.'
SIX years ago, when Fato had
graciously I I tli it white
elephant Marian upon Air. Sutton,
ho had made an earnest bat fruit-
attempt to arouse her interest
on behalf of some members of his
own family. His father an 1 m >ther
were dead, but his brothers and a
t were alive and in high health,
and anything but corresponding
circumstances. Mark had l>een, as
has been seen, the successful one of
the family. The rest had laid their
respective talents up in a spirit of
over-caution that had kept l>oth
excitement and wealth from their
doors. They had all given vent to
warning sounds, and been rea'ly
with fluent prognostications of evil
thin >:ne for him when .Mark
commenced the speculations that
eventually floated liim on to fortune
They had Stood afar off from him,
prophesying that he would go up
like a rocket, perhaps, and down
like it* stick sun ly, and had gene-
rally been a otentious and given
t i il'-'-iunn.u' that the paths their
parents trod, and the lives their
Mis lei, and tlie modest com-
Qcies their parents made, were
good and gn at i Bough for them.
But when Mirk succeeded— when
he went up hko the before-quoted
rocket, and seemed very unlikely
ever to come down again, they for-
him for having falsified their
. and affably l>orrow< d
money of him wherewith to increase
their OWD businesses, and were alto-
gether affectionate, and much ini-
bued wit i the family mind towards
hitn, aa v. a- iir and \
Mark Sutton being a plain, pi
- man, i i iously to
us of people l>eing
nobler than they W( I I the
change bo the frafc rnal sentiuM nts
towards himself, an I
r them as the reasonable off-
spring of common sense and i
dienoy. He knew that they
all thought him wrong in bygone
days. lb' knew that they had l>ecn
wrong in thinking this, and be
knew that they knew that he knew
it. But he took his triumph meekly,
and never reminded them ut any-
thing that they evidently wish I to
forget, and altogether conducted
himself for awhile quite alter the
pattern of the ideal rich relation ot
romance.
His only sister had married a
farmer and grazier of the name ot
Bowden— a man who was rich in
flocks and herds, and who com-
manded a good market. Ho had
died shortly !>efore Mark Sutton's
marriage with Mi.-s Talbot, leaving
his widow and lour children (all
girls; amply provided lor, under a
will of which .Mark Sutton, who
was also his nieces' goardian, i
sole executor. Shortly alter Bow-
den's death Mark Sutton mar,
and made that earnest attempt
which has been chronicled to inte-
i. -t Marian in his relations-— prin-
cipally in Mrs. Bowden and ber
daughters. And Marian mutely re-
fused to be interested, and Mark
tacitly accepted her decision.
Still though his sifter girded
against him pu'rulously down in
her own locality in the heart of a
midland county, for letting his ' fine
lady wife wean him from his own
flesh and blood,' the management of
her affairs continued in his hands,
and her store in From timo
to time be borrowed money of her,
money which was always quickly
returned with heavy i and
at length he persuaded her to let
him s|m culateon her account, which
she did, until at the date of the
Opening of this story the well-to-do
widow had Income a Very wealthy
one
When Mr. Bowden died his eldest
daughter, a sharp little girl of
twelve, liad been n moved from
school 'to be a comfort' to her
mother, [n sober truth, Mrs. Iknv-
den stool in no Bp cial need of par-
Drawn by \V. Small.]
TRY TO KEEP FIRM AND TRUE."
[See " Flavin" for Hiijli Stakes
Playing for High Stakes.
353
tieular comfort at th'ia juncture, for
the deceased Mr. Bowden had never
been much more than the bread-
winner to her ; and she was a woman
blessed with a sound digestion, a
good appetite, and an aptitude for
iinding consolation in solid com-
forts. But she was a decorous
woman, one who never put herself
up in the slightest degree against
public opinion. So when the cler-
gyman of the little country town
where she lived told her 'she must
Jive for her children now/ and two
or three of her neighbours added
that if they were in her place they
' would have Elly home; none could
say how much better she would feel
if she kept the dear child under her
own eye ' — when these things had
been duly said, and enforced with
the sighs and shakes of the head
that are ordinarily and judiciously
brought to bear on the bereaved,
Mrs Bowden took Elly home, and
at once ceased to think of her object
in doing so.
Her uncle and guardian agreed
to the plan, thinking perhaps that
he could do nothing else, since his
wife had made it impossible for
other than mere business relations
to exist between his sister and him-
self. So without let or hindrance
Miss Bowden came home from
school, and grew up in the atmo-
sphere of a country town— grew up
juht what might have been expected
from her parentage, her wealth, and
the liberty she enjoyed.
Now it happened that though
Mark Sutton was much older in
years, and far more experienced on
the Stock Exchange than Edgar
Talbot, that the latter had obtained
a business ascendancy over his
brother-in-law — an ascendancy of a
marked and positive character — an
ascendancy which Mr. Edgar Talbot
did not hesitate to employ when it
suited his purpose. It had suited
his purpose lately to raite heavy
sums of money from Mark Sutton,
and additionally to make Mark a
sort of partner in his ventures.
What those ventures were need not
be told here. It would be easy to
introduce facts connected with the
Stock Exchange -easy to employ
technicalities in describing them —
VOL. XI. — NO. LXIV.
easy to pad this story with any
quantity of business matter, but I
shall refrain trom doing so. The
high stakes for which Edgar Talbot
was playing were a brilliant, unas-
sailable social position, and a power
of influencing divers governments
through their treamries. The alter-
nations of his luck will be marked,
bat there is no need to describe
each card as he plays it.
The last effort of this embryo
Rothschild's mind over Mr. Sutton
resulted in the latter attempting to
negotiate a loan with his sister,
Mrs. Bowden. He had every reason
to suppose that she would accede
willingly to his proposition. The
fortune her husband had left had
been more than doubled by her
brother's judicious investments. But
Mrs. Bowden was a cautious woman,
and now that it had come to Mark
wanting to borrow a very heavy
sum of her, she suffered no senti-
ments of gratitude for the luck that
had hitherto attended his specula-
tions on her behalf to intervene, but
resolved not to give him a favour-
able answer until she had seen him,
learnt his views, undei>t,iod his
plans, and won through his wife an
introduction into society for Miss
Bowden.
London life— at least the London
life led by Mr. and Mrs. Sutton —
loomed largely in the atmosphere of
that little country town where Mrs.
Bowden lived. Partly through ig-
norance, and partly through pride,
she overrated the position of Mark
and his wife. In his quiet, unob-
trusive way he had put Marian before
his own people as a star of great
magnitude; and so Mrs. Bowdeij,
away out of reach of the crucible
where Mrs. Sutton's pretensions
could be tested, fell into error re-
specting her sister-in-law, and pic-
tured her as one of the most bril-
liant, persistent, and powerful vota-
ries of pleasure and fashion. It
may be added that Mrs. Bowden's
notions as to the career run by one
of these favoured beings had been
gathered from a diligent perusal
of the novels of the silver fork
school. What added pungency to
the desire she had to introduce
Elly to Mrs. Sutton, was the belief
2. A
154
Playing for High 8take$.
b1 e had that through that lady's
inlli; leil would marry well —
al any rate, be induced to forget an
Did Trie 1x1 who had grown np loving
an 1 1 iv< ] by her.
Bo v. ' ; M irk Sutton asb d a
i b:g favour of her, Bhi
the granting of it
well wortb ber own whi
' Before I lend the to von,
I should like to have a conv< rsation
with you. I [ be idle to seek
to draw Mrs. Mark and you out of
the cay vortei by inviting yon I
so I shall tike Elly up to London
for a month, starting to-morrow,
when wo shall have opportunities
of meeting.'
Then she went on to give him
lur London address— a good family
hotel in Piccadilly, for it was no
part of her plan to forco herself
upon him at his houso until he
eutn ate 1 h< c to come.
He had received this letter (only
the housemaid who lighted the fire
the following morning with the torn
COpi - of it knew what it had cost
Mrs. Bowden in the inditing) on the
day that witm l t : e I.\
at l ' ' . a Talbot's hou
During the evening he had i
mnnicated the c intents of it to
ir, adding that ho had said
aotl . l to Marian, as
she shrank from all association with
his family.
I get over '
folly in thia hi r brother
said, I harshly; 'you most
n civil to your ister.'
. Bowden's note
and glanced over it again, snei ring
an l laughing to himself at that
iv vol-!- '■:.' and
I, ' mio comes up to-day, I .
mud make Marian her
to morrow. 1
•ther it hurt Mark
I
u by her own brother.
' I will ask be* tod > it,' he answered,
curtly.
' Ask her,
shell Bay, or will
lo tk if 3 ' ' hi t in that ti
you I . Mark.'
tlcam
'Then I can.'
Edgar Talbot nd
imperiously, and Mark Sutton had
to fall back up in the old, i ver
recurring situation of accepting
what Edgar had spoken, in dread
li | he should speak still worse
things. It was always well within
the hounds of probability that
Marian might have been guilty of
act of folly with which her
brother was acquainted, though her
husband wo oot.
' If her regard for me 1 (Mark
Sutton spoke in a very low, humble
, ' If her i- gard for me prompts
her to please mo by calling on m.
r, I sha'l i i iteful to her ;
hut I will not coerce her.'
He spoke so di cidedly that Edgar
Tall) it said no more to him about
the matter. But the following day
— long before Mrs. Lyon had got
herself and her scruples under weigh
for the studio— Mr. Talbot had
called on Mrs. Sutton, and made
her sco the J y not BO much
of calling on Mrs. Bowden without
delay, as of obli im.
'You will he pre] ired to meet
them then I hoj I am sure I
11 not know \ to a ':.' she
id, cornfully. To which he re-
plied—
'Ob, nonsense! t! at sort of thing
len's minds are
always running on the necessity for
I rial gatherings.
or anyone •
• i meet them— only he civil to
them.'
' I low?'
1 That I li . >u/ ho replied,
g up to go away. ' I only tell
you to lose no time about it.'
So it came I » pass that Mrs. Sut-
ton, 5 to the studio,
went to call on hi r husband's si-
It was as about a^ distasti ful an
employment as c mid p issibly have
ed f '!• b i by her wor I
iy. The wid iw wa l far from
terrible part of the
t i Marian. Mrs. Bowdl n was
ppy, hi irty, large, buxom wo-
man, Wl made a merit of and
revelled in I of n fin< ment
d, hi althy,
and I and
hilarious. There was a touch of
Bly humour in the way she madu
man I r perfect understanding
Playing for High Sluices.
355
of tho causes ■which had brought
Mrs. Mark to call upon her at last;
and Marian recognised this touch
and appreciated it as a species of
cunning insight into other people's
feelings that was twin to her own.
Moreover, for herself, Mrs. Bowdcn
wanted nothing of the fair, selfish
lady, whose power of giving was
gained entirely from Mrs. Bowdcn's
brother. A course of shopping,
methodical and unceasing during
the week, and a course of musical
services at one of the churches most
celebrated for its choir on Sundays,
was all Mrs. Bowden desired for
herself in the way of metropolitan
gaiety. But she asked for more
than those things for her daughter.
The girl was standing by the
window when Mrs. Bowden came
into the room, looking out upon the
ceaseless stir and excitement in
which she bad no share, and halt
wishing herself at homo again,
where every spot had its interest,
and every hour its occupation for
her. She looked out upon a
butcher's shop, a publishing office,
and a cab-stand. There was no-
thing visible of the glory and
grandeur, of the beauty and fashion
of which she had heard and read.
The high street ol their own little
country town could show them
brighter and more seductive shop
windows than any she could see
from her post of observation in this
excellent family hotel. Overladen
omnibuses — they seemed overladen
to her — horribly- horsed cabs, and
long lines of earnest, anxious-look-
ing pedestrians! The heart of the
country girl sank down as she
looked out on these things, and felt
despondently that she had nothing
brighter before her for a month.
As this conviction smote her, ' Mrs.
Sutton ' was announced, and she
turned and acknowledged that some-
thing brighter w r as before her al-
ready.
Marian has been already de-
scribed. Picture her now as she
came in with a bright, light, roso
tint on her cheeks, the effect of the
winter air and of annoyance that
was hardly subdued. She looked
pretty, graceful, smooth. There
was a promise about her appearance
of those better things which Miss
Bowden had vaguely expected to
find in London. She welcomed
them, and made manifest her sense
of tho relationship that existed be-
tween th«m in a few simple words
that seemed to Elly Bowden the
perfection of sound. Mrs. Sutton
was neither too warm nor too cool
to them. She had, in truth, made a
little study of the manner it would
be advisable to bring to bear upon
them, and she was perfect in her
part, hard as it was for her to play
to such an audience.
To the girl who turned from the
window to meet her, Mrs. Sutton
took a contemptuous disliko at once.
Theoretically she had always de-
spised the Bowdens, and held aloof
from them, as has been seen, and
now at sight of them she declared
to herself that her theory was jus-
tified. There was no appeal against
that decision, no softening influence
in the mother's evident pleasure,
and the girl's evident gratitude to
her for having come at all. She
contrasted Miss Bowden's healthy,
mottled, plump cheeks with her
own little, delicate, fair face; and
when the girl put a great, hearty,
rather red hand out to her, Mrs.
Sutton had strong need to remember
all her brother's injunctions before
she could bring herself to touch it
with cordiality.
' I bring a message from Mark ;
he will give me an hour here alone
to get acquainted with you, and
then he will call for me,' she
said, turning to the beaming Mrs.
Bowden, who forgave the estrange-
ment at once, after a generous
fashion that Marian would have
thought utterly incompatible with
her sister-in-law's manner and pro-
vincialisms, had she given herself
to the consideration of such trifling
causes and effects. And then Mrs.
Bowden, after declaring that she
' should be glad to see her brother
at any time,' grew affectionately
communicative to his herald, until
Mrs. Sutton had to strengthen her-
self by the reflection that an hour is
only sixty minutes, and that 'every-
thing must come to an end.'
By-and-by Mrs. Bowden made an
excuse for banishing her daughter
2 A 2
366
Playing for Hi$ • ' .
for a while, in coder that she might
discD88 some of her own hop a
Ellen and Ellen's character
•with the new relative, about whose
magically refinii I b Mrs. B iw-
be very
hopeful.
' I< that your eldest daughti
Mrs. Sutton inquin A, as M
den went away from the room,
reluctantly, in
t, tot
thii - • had grave d
to her mother having brought with
hi r. and no doubt at all as to hi r
er not wanting. Mrs. Sutton
made this inquiry in order that it
• • she had
never pursued the subject of Mark's
relations with keen i' I In
fact, she was keeping the ' word of
pron me had given E
Tall>ot 'to the tar. and breaking
it to the sense ' in tint there
nothing tangible in her manner, of
which Mrs. Bowden, a woman who
acute enough in her I
could take I 1 complain (
.»r own heart about; so she
answ- re I low in perfectly good
tait!
• V- s, my eldest, and thongh I
say it, who shouldn't say it- I
a mother shouldn't I
never been quite sure— as goo.l a
girl as ev.r lived ; foolish as yotiDg
!e will be, you know, my .'
'Indeed, 1.
with the fan t of
' Yes,' Mra Bowden respon
warmly, to even that hunt tone of
- wholly
with her children, and she grew
very thoroughly in ■ in-
rning them was
ton to tell
how Elly 1 • d h< r hi art to
the b ur of
theirs, a ' you]
ag enough, bul
••
thai.
B hard one. I
D Willi
adel<
coni' : na-
tion of or in mJi' i im.
' I hive nothing 1 1 say against John
WiImot.br. - might do better —
and sh< ■ after
seeing more' of you.'
In a moment the indirect flattery
made its mark. The insatiable,
uity of the woman who
listened, male- the commonplace
words of the one who spoke dan-
gerous, and productive of evil con-
Mrs. Sutton liked to
that in her more graceful pre-
r of niak"
true- I girl fi
and There would
ible Bah . ■ g this,
would at once .
on these pe iple for I
with her (in itself an nnpardoi
audacity), and she would prove to
her husband and her astute brother
. ir that they had era d in
ing this personal communication
upon her. Tl nothing
Mrs. Sutton liked better than hurt-
ing some one else when she was
I. Ir" she could make the
offender Buffer, it was good, if •
could not, she would in some way
wound t! i next nearest, and bo
satisfied. These Bowdens were- in-
nocent of all wroi her
• original one of b
husband's kin); but not :
did she mean 1 m smart
if she could do so w a smil-
ing exterior as would save her from
r found out.
' When p t tl
I rves
. . • .. suffer for it,'
Mrs. Sutton thought phi -she
1 t ) Mis. bow.!
hopeful | cerning the
future of her daughter, if by any
happy chance John Wilmot could
put out of her head. The
she could deftly put
in a few refining touches o!
fnl • ace on the canvas of
Elly's life, aim the
nt aunt to the prosp cl of the
ship of the inele.L
: ir a time. The girl had,
during tin ir short colloquy,
trayed something like a genuine
1 >ve- for the home I 'ids
she had so recently left; and I
tgonism
in Marian, who had not a genuine
Playing for High Stake*.
357
love for anything save herself.
' If they force her upon me she
shall go home and find her John
Wilmot tame, dull, and unprofit-
able/ Marian thought, when Mrs.
Bow.len had finished her ul
revelations. ' They will all bore her,
and she will never be fit for any-
thing better, and it will serve her
right for putting her-elf out of her
proper place.' It would have been
malevolence on the part of an old,
ugly, unattractive woman to harbour
such thoughts as these. For the
wording of less hurtful ones old
womm have struggled in horse-
ponds, and been otherwise tortured
by their more enlightened fellows
as witches, danger^ the com-
munity. But Marian Su f :on ' was
fair and young and beautiful ex-
i'jgiy;' moreover, she did not
word her thoughts, nor did she
snffer the reflection of them to ap-
pear on her face as they rippled
through her mind. Both Mrs.
E-wien and Ellen were delighted
her, and with the suggestive
naif-promises she made of future
intercourse — delighte I with and
charmed by her long before Mark
• >n came to fetch her and wel-
come them.
re was rather a fuller exhi-
bition of family feeling made when
he arrived. Mrs. Bowden had re-
strained herself with difficulty be-
fore, but when he came she would
vhat he thought of E!!y ? and
point out in w t : .:t that
young lady resembled the Suttons
more than the B "She
favours her father about the eyes,
and her hands are the same shape
as his; but in all else I see our
Lher in her, don't you, Mr.
Mrs. Bowden asked, looking with
affectionate, admiring eves on the
blooming, buxom girl, who lapsed
into awkward cons.uonsne-s of a
terribly crashing nature nnder the
ill-adv;>e;l observatr r s. It wor::-!
Miss Bowden and nearly made her
cry to see Mrs. Sutton's ey c s settle
upon the hands quoted and travel
slowly over their leng:'i a:: i breadth.
They grew redder an i t ' icker while
the tour of inspector, lasted. The
handsome ring the girl woi med
to make the finger it was upon
stand out in cruelly strong r
in a wny it hid never done b
poor El!y c told have vowed. Miss
Bowden's sole previous experience
of great ladies in her amiable ig-
norance she placed Mrs. Sutton at
a in her list; had been gained
from the squire's wife down at Bay-
ford, a kindly old lady, before whom
Elly never trembled and dish
her own hands. But this remem-
brance brought her no relief now,
as she sat wondering what it was
that made her so rent to her
uncle's wife.
CHAPTER XL
SKLF-DECTPTIOX
The winter months wore away,
speedily for some of these people
whose fortunes we are following,
slowly for others, surely for all. Mrs.
Ly m, for instance, found the life
she had undertaken to lead for ]
Talbot's benefit very different to that
which she had anticipated leading.
There was less variety, less excite-
ment, less dining out and dinner
givi: _ dressing, less dancing,
I 3B imusements altogether, and,
consequently, less occasion for her
to urge faint protests agai:
pation than she had confidently
looked forward to being able to do.
rdingly sometimes the hours
--.hand the days seemed long,
and eveiything a mistake. Or.
other hand, Blanche, also, found it all
verv different to her pi :ved
fears. Now that Mr. Talbot had
established Mrs. Lyon as Trixy*s
chaperone and guardian angel in
he seemed quite contented
to keep Txixy very much out of
En short, he instituted a
quiet, regular routine, which Bla:.
saw established with very gj I
. rare, and which she helped very
materially to maintain in unbroken
■ grity.
' f have a good deal on my mind,
and I do no: - :and
about on other people's si
-: nt -■- : y u m -: so without me,
Trixy/ Edgar Talbot said to Ms
r, when an in vital for the
whole party (which Mrs. Sott d had
procured for them) arrived, sh .
a::=r Mrs. Lyon and her daughter
358
Playing for IJijh Slnhrs.
had come to live with them. '
do ]. i!"* a bit, 1 I r,' Trixy had
replied, e igi rly. '1 hi d Mi - 1
had • re hei brother
several excellent ami unanswerable
reasons I her going oul for
awhile. And he being glad to
■ ircle intact, i
them after a brief i
1 Bui the Lyons ! It's nol fai
Mi l yon hi re in solitude/ ho
I to his sister.
Trixy move I b< r Bhonlders with a
lift! lure. Something
bad made the girl very clear-sij
about many matters; and she Saw,
m a crystal ball, that l ' □ ■' e
l is avi rse, or rather as in-
different, to miscellaneous gatbi i
as she was herself. Miss Talbot
accounted for this fact very readily
and very bitterly, will
en led to take counsel of hi
concerning it. The two young
painters— the gennine artist, and
the dashing amateur — were not
at in the el t" which Edgar and
the Suttons had access; ' and she
only e:nvs to meet her com-in,'
Trixy thought, inlignantly, as she
answered —
'Oh. a home lifo suits the Lyons
• : they say bo. Praydon'1 think
of them.'
But Edgar did think of them, or,
at li one of them, and )>!■ i
himself ban by thinking what
thing it was that 'a home
li e suited thi tn I est ;' it suiti d him
Whi i hi]>s
came home— when mimic of the
7 trembling in the bal
bel 'i failure and sue were
ire 1 of the latter— when, in
Bcores <>f brilliant probabilities
I r tthi i' ovi rsi I hi judg-
.t of late, and madi him ra h,
I themselves into ace >m-
tbl n hi '
his wo ting, and Blanche I yon and
.: I have a home life worth
livh
Bo bi ' mghl an l hop d and
tor the future, an 1 me iii-
while tried to be verj
with things as they were. Blanche
! .11 was < \ idi utlj 1 ' iming in-
t< p jti d in him, he !. |fc i
it in the thousand i
almo t imperceptible ways in which
a refined woman can show it, ho 08-
I himself, she was interested
in his family, interested evon in that
praiseworthy hut minor mallei- o.
liis brother's success. In a conver-
sation she had with him one day — a
ition in which she was q
carried out of the i UStomary calm
which marked her demeanour to-
war Is him !.e out son.
her thoughts as to the relative
mi ritfi of Mr. Bathurst's an 1 Mr.
1 nel Talbot's works in a way that
neai ly cured Edgar of I >asy
of the former. ' You compare tl
You actuallj compare them!' she
Baid, in the pi tulanl toneof one who
is stung out of all ] lower of proving
the comparison <> fiou by il
ing been made at all. ' 'I ! ey ore on
such different levels that you must
]iull one up or drag the otln r down
in doing it: it's not fair to your
hi oilier.'
' The time lias not arrivi d, in your
i, fir Caesar to be
praised without derogating from
Tom;
' Your quotation hardly fits the
BUbji id. If .Mm do n it K el what I
do about it, Mr. Talbot, it is hope-
less to try and teach yon. [ appre-
all Frank Bathursl hi s d
ai d is ti\ [ng to . thinks he is
trying to do. I think it is very
i of him, in a way, to make the
i]it to I than
r 1 i ojilc bavi him ; and I
I bis picture will be well hung
and well ii i. and then in
c :ii goon ] ainting and having some-
thing to thinlc about; but it's
absurd to compare him with your
brotl
she was a woman who emphasised
In r word i ever so slightly, often
laying the stress in the wrong place.
In this casi she rather softly
I dn d up in than em] I the
last wi id hut one of In r 1 1 Hi' oce.
And Edg 'i' T I ' R It that it would
be well i omi ' m s, pi rhaps, for I
to he well disposed towards
Lionel, all for 1
eoiir. e. Anion. . |.,
1 I lately in\< -'• d Lionel's m
in some dazzlingly promising sh i
on his own account. When tin
bark of fortune come Bailing in, he
that it would b Bgn ible t i
Playing for High Stakes.
350
acknowledge the temporary obliga-
tion to Lionel, by giving him as large
a share as he chose to take in the
home life he (Edgar) contemplated.
' Do you really feel tin's about my
brother ?' he asked, almost tenderly ;
and Blanche turned her face full
\ipon him, covered, as it wa^, with a
quick, hot blush, as she replied,
'Indeed, I do; indeed, I do, Mr.
Talbot.' He was resolved to bide
his time. But his dream of bliss
promised very fairly, he felt.
Meantime Mr. Frank Bathurst, in
blest unconsciousness of the exact
nature of his cousin's sentiments to-
wards him, went on painting in and
painting out his Venuses, and en-
joying his life, and cherishing his
own notions regarding the daphne,
and finding the quiet evenings Lionel
and be frequently spent at Edgar
Talbot's house better than any other
form of entertainment his wealth and
position procured him. For some
reason or other best known to him-
self, Mr. Talbot had not fulfilled his
threat of requesting Lionel to keep
Mr. Bathurst from familiar com-
munion with the home circle. Mark-
ing Blanche's manner to Mr. Ba-
thurst with the naturally impartial
and unprejudiced eyes of a man who
was in love with her himself, Edgar
Talbot still saw nothing and feared
nothing that could by any possibility
affect his peace of mind about her.
She was very frank and cordial with
Mr. Bathurst ; indeed, she talked a
great deal more to that blithe and
well-satisfied gentleman than she
did to any one else. But— and in
this, at least, Mr. Talbot did not de-
ceive himself— though she talked to
Frank Bathurst more than to any
one else, he was far from being the
most interesting person to her in
the room. She talked to him, and
openly expressed pleasure at seeing
him ; and that the pleasure was un-
feigned was patent to any one who
chanced to glance at her when the
two young men would be announced,
and she let him see that the relation-
ship he so ardently claimed was an
agreeable fact to her, which, indeed,
it was, for the reasons given in a
former chapter. So all these cir-
cumstances combined to make the
quiet domestic evenings exciting and
delightful to Frank Bathurst. They
were exciting enough to Trixy, too ;
but, perhaps, any one would have
been justified in declaring them to
be less than delightful to that young
lady, as ' her eyes on all their mo-
tions with a mute observance hung '
in a way that spoke eloquently to
Lionel.
They were not seeing very much
of the Suttons about this time. Mrs.
Sutton laughed at the 'new order of
things,' as she termed it, and in ad-
dition to Jaughing at them all, she
had takeuto opposing and irritating
Edgar. Whatever hold Edgar had had
upon her formerly was weakened now,
evidently. She ceased to maintain
the smallest appearance of respect
for his opinions. She openly charged
him to Beatrix with being unscrupu-
lous about other people's feelings,
fortunes, happiness, honour almost,
when his own interests were at stake.
Whatever his influence over her had
been, she had freed herself from it ;
and she gloried in the freedom, and
was more extravagant and vain,
more frivolous and conspicuous
than before ; and Ellen Bowden was
with her a great deal, and Mrs.
Bowden began to hope that John
Wilmot would soon cease to be a
stumbling-block in her pretty
daughter's path.
It may be mentioned here that
Mrs. Bowden had been very ac-
quiescent about that matter which
had been the primary object of her
journey to London. She had not
only advanced money to her brother
(whose own capital was farmed out
under Edgar Talbot's advice), but
she bought shares in her own and
her children's names in more than
one promising speculation. ' Mark
was so prudent, far-seeing, honour-
able, and right-thinking altogether,
that there must be safety in follow-
ing where he led,' she argued, when
some of her steady-going old country
friends warned her against being led
away and dazzled by the brazen
images that were the reigning gods
of the Stock Exchange. Her argu-
ment was unanswerable, for Mark
Sutton's character for probity and
caution was unassailable. Neverthe-
less, hints to the effect that ' even
he might be mistaken sometimes'
3 GO
Playing for High Sinlcrs.
were off o 1 to, and di n gardi 1 by
her. 'I I of gain, the fever
ile, had
' Irs. Bo had
'■'In
to lii r : and as ' ■ c if p was
ii ol ; ibly
brighl :u I I
I over
i S >rts she i
ii ticallv i infallibly I i
binatioi The o< in-
ts, and pi o or s of the pn
w< re all po <v and tame to her by
oomparu m with those thai might
fall to h< c lot in the future, if every-
thing went well. On the other 1
if everything went ill, she might
soon be reduced to such a ;
as would cause her present n-
■ loom before her regretful
ii in the proportions of limn
Eer mind was much disturbed by
j es, yet she
rage and resolution
to free herself from th< ir '• iring
influence by 'realizing,' even when
mighl have done b
[i ii dreams alwaj led
her nil. Vague fancy I | her
int > believing that the ig of
unrest would pass away with the
nov( !'y. She began— being e
tially a good-i an 1 woman— to
worry hi r If as to ; ,: ' way in which
itry
friend-;, with their rough mam
and tones, q I heir
in the s i i 'y of th ones
which 1 1 r gold would . lin her.
Mm i goo 1 di al
fcurbed ah ul E li n. The girl had
li ft h. hind with t! e aunt, who
i anxiotu t i efface all
memory of her lou med
• kindni left
I with this aunt \fi-y much
'.-, will,
ibly dull and
rardly mi; of place at (ir t in the
grand Bolitude t<» which itton
mnt 1 her Blli n) while
rgoinga pro-
ibing th ii v. ' a ler
hex a i 1 1 m lit in
Marian's hands. If M\ i. Butt a:
1 any prin liple aii 1
honour, i be would not have- been a
bad i fur a young, un-
formed country girL As it i
Ellen Bowden insei ' T ly caught a
i rofle :tion of the perf
unruffled ease th( i in ith re»
■ ; n nt which leayened ;:ll that
Mrs. Button did and said. Marian
had the art "I' h lli' g h r pupil
whal i ( would lie well for her to-do
without ing her directly, it
i not be understood by this
li that Mrs. Suit nn was
guilty of the vul Iking at
b< r gu< -t bin she bad a way of
I ill n aiin'it other girls w b i
had the ii ni> of
m ' up ir th in ; and she
would put in the Balienl points of
their manner with a firm, i
touch or two that was not lost upon
i, w!i > grew more uniformly
quiet, and at the same time le^scon-
fctraiiH d.
Anxious as Mr. Sutton hi d I
that his sister and hei faj lyshould
at h a I be known to and kindly
tn ;ih d by his wife, he had nol gone
w ith the latter cordially v. I
prop eed that E1I< a i hould
with le r for thn <• or fair months.
' You lac m il BO ki'idly ' (he alv
would think the b • t of anj act of
i tii's), ' that I hardly like to
throw cold water on yotu plan ; but
I ii'l : aney tl th.e
better for the cl ange, or muofa • i a
on for you; bi 3ide3, po r
girl, she has a sweeth art d
re.'
' I did mi an it for tl a best. 1 1 >w-
ever, I Bhall bing more; the
sh ill b i it with
mother and yon now, .Mark ;
lad I am ild show
them you think companion
for the girl.'
After that Mr. Sutton of;', red no
ion on the i nbj cl ; and Mr ,.
-en deoidi d thai Ellen should
. n, as ' hex aunt so kindly in-
vited her.'
After thai lib le ] I of proba-
tion or polishing, Mrs, Sutton ■
her young oharj
ty of gaiety, pi i pportu-
nities of fo John Wilmot
the vows she had < v I
with him. Bui a counter-infh
at work, ol which Mis. Bu
i r,] nothing. Mark
Sutton i i' hi i nil ce any i ax>
l, or marvellous hall-dresses—
Playing for High Slalces.
361
ho left all that for Marian to do, and
Marian was open-handed ; hnt ho
gavo Ellen something that the girl
could not help valuing more highly
than she did any of the things Mrs.
Sutton lavished upon her. His gift
wan a good, genuine, uncalled-for
opinion.
'So you're going to marry young
Wilmot, Elly V he said to her, when
he was alone with her the first even-
ing of her stay in his house.
4 Wo both mean it now, I believe,
uncle,' the girl replied, blushing a
little.
' And you would be mightily an-
noyed if he Avas the first not to
mean it, I suppose? But I would
rather see you keep honest of the
t.vo. Don't make mo curse the at-
mosphere of my home, Elly, by pee-
ing you change in it. Try to keep
firm and true: don't gut false and
fine in it, child.'
The girl looked up wonderingly
as he stopped, choked by a sob. He
had his handkerchief up to his face,
and was trying to cough and cover
his emotion, and, by so trying, mak-
ing it much more apparent to the
girl, to whom it revealed many
things that he would willingly have
concealed.
' I don't think I shall ever disap-
point you in that way, uncle,' she
said, feelingly. All her sympathies
were aroused by that sudden rent in
the veil which habitually fell over
Mr. Sutton's domestic policy. All
her sympathies were aroused, and
yet she feared to betray that she felt
any for him, or rather that she felt
that there existed cause for her feel-
ing any. It occurred to her, with
painful force, that the atmosphere
of his home must have been bad for
some one, or why should he have
warned her against growing 'false
and fine.' The graceful lady who
ruled his household and shared his
name was fine in the sense that a
delicately nurtured and carefully
tended flower is so. It was just
probable that she might be false
also, Ellen thought, as she looked at
the grieved, humiliated expression
which came like a cloud over Mr.
Sutton's honest open face.
So, though Miss Bowden's stay
with the Suttons was prolonged far
beyond the original term of the in-
vitation, she was not dazzled out of
her allegiance to her old love, but
remained for several months, at
least, as entirely without reproach
as Mr. John Wilmot was without
fear on her behalf. Mrs. Sutton
gavo her plenty of amusement, and
the girl liked it, tor Marian had
taken her niece's measure correctly,
and only piped such airs as Ellen
would care to dance to. Mrs. Sutton
was possessed of a fine tact, that
would have made her remarkable in
a worthy way if she had been a better
woman. As it was, it only aided in
making her contemptible, but not
contemptible to her niece yet. In-
deed, Ellen Bowden constructed
rather a fine character for Mrs.
Sutton, anil described the same in
warm words to Mr. John Wilmot in
one of the many letters that Marian
was much too judicious to remark
upon. If the girl had dared to do
so, if she had not feared wounding
the kind heart that so evidently pre-
ferred feeding upon itself, she would
liked to have given her uncle the
assurance that his wife never strove
in the slightest degree to turn her
into any dubious path. But after
that one emphatic caution to her
Mark Sutton had resolutely held his
peace, and had given her no excuse
for touching on the topic. Accord-
ingly Ellen nursed her notions
respecting the absolute freedom of
her will in secresy, and Mrs. Sutton
marked the girl's sense of security
in her own integrity of purpose, and
took care not to disturb it. Mean-
while Ellen was becoming an ardent
student of colour and form, and an
untiring illustrator, on her own per-
son, of her increase of knowledge on
such matters, under the auspices of
the clever dressmaker to whom
Marian owed so much, in more ways
than one.
CHAPTER XII.
DOWN AT HALDON.
Mr. Lionel Talbot's picture was
hung in the middle room in such a
situation that it could be seen even
on the first of May, when a rap-
turous sense of art and a few other
:v'-2
Playiwj fur ITi/jh St'tkes.
iv< -; urges every one in London
to go to 1 my. ' The
le of tlii* Bards' ba 1 1" i n rc-
l ; an 1 ' Venus on Borsel ' was
unfinished, in consequence of the
artist having tired of tint type of
I j . ince the day the <l iphne
.v 1 up. So Mr. Bathurst
was n-it repi il I at that year's
exhibition— a thing lie had set his
t up in 1 1 ing. The dii appoint-
ment may ;- hi to those \\ ho
read of it ; hut in n ality it was strong
tgh to make him take a 1i i
dislike to the Bcenes in which it
had e ime up n him, and th<
re it was well known. ]Ie
wanted to go into tlio country, and
be wanted Lionel to go with him.
llf owned a place away in a far-off
that had been left
to him by old Mr. Lyon; and ho
nt upon its delights one
ning at : I , inter-
Bp rsing his narrative concerning it
with soft regrets and gentle re-
in >i - having n< glected it so
long. ' I have never i n it
since it has been my own, 1 he i
1 Now I wa LOQ t i hide my
dim : in al in, I remember
there i i " no place like
I ha I a full month to
go ;;• I J the works of his
-a eupht in: -I for
goii ■• day and gazing
Ibndly at his own pictun i
his insatiable vanity mi ; atis-
fied, so I .shall drag him with
mc'
Tiie faces of all his auditors un-
pen! considerable changes of
expi '!;c. They w< re
still— though going out more than
they had done at firsl It iding a
quiet life. Tb pre-
■ young mi li had
i c r 1 1 - i . l < k i the brightest
element in it.
' II >w we Bhall miss yon, Lion
umi '1, quickly.
' And 1,'.
bothl' i
tily.
' I wish someone would drag as
all away for a w< i k or ten d
, i| put in, w« inl\ . June
fraught to him with n ) In
of i I murmur of gurgling
streams, but only with much a
tional dust and lassitude. 'I never
felt anything like the heat in the
city to-day ; you fellows are lucky
to be able t i get out of it.'
' Lucky indeed, Mr. Talbot' Mrs.
Lyon Bpoke with a sort of ill-n I
—an expo ■ ion of lu ing de-
barred by pi rveree late from all
such deli;:l the country in
June
' Why c;in you not ad come and
stay with us?' Frank Bathur
animatedly of the whole group.
' Miss Talbot ! do say yon would
like it; your rosi wanl r» novating.
1 speak as an artist, not as a man,
you know! (lit your brother to
e to it ; the change would do
i all good— wouldn't it, Lionel? 1
' I hardly know,' Lionel an i
abstractedly. lie hail caught Miss
Lyon's eager, hopeful glance, ns it
rushed out to search for acquiescent
looks. ' it's not that she caresmuch
for Frank's society,' he thought;
'perhaps she wishes to seethe placo
of which she might have been mis-
tress— of which she may he mistress
still, if she pie i i .-•. Do yon cure to
go, Miss LyonV he asked aloud,
abruptly.
She had let her hands and her
work fall into her hi]), in the ( \
incut that post es edbi t v. hile Prank
Bathurst was wording his invita-
ti mi. She could n >i i ncci ed in
r ing them and going on unti
blingl; i she put her work on the
table and rose up, i ay ing —
' Care to go! y< s, more than I can
if the v, hole ]'M t \ can go. I
don't care to si e the circle broken —
do you, Trixy'.''
'o]i no, we must all go,' Trixy
reptii d, almost D oils of what
t he was bb~j ing, by p d son of her
thinking at the same time, '
OS I rank.' Simultfl J l'.d-
Dalbot wa thinking ' She means
me ;' ai.d Lionel was thinking her
' v< n lovely.'
'Talbot! we wait your decision,'
Mr. Bathurst said, anxiously. ' Let
us go all down and take possession
of Baldon to-morrow; or Lionel
1 would go to-morrow and pr< pare
all things for the rec pi on ol the
b umi you the 'lay after; say —
oV
' Why, we are going to the Opera
Playing for High Stakes.
303
the night after,' Mrs. Lyon sug-
gested, in accents in which tho
mingling of many feelings might bo
detected. The poor lady disliked
packing, and liked being a martyr,
and was therefore ' pleased, yet sad,'
to find that fate had again inter-
posed that slight obstacle the Opera.
But Mr. Talbot swept it away : it
was enough for him that Blanche
wished for the country, and wished
for his presence there. She should
havo both.
' We will go if the rest like the
plan as well as I do,' he said, cheer-
fully; and after that there was no
mistake about it. Blanche Lyon
was very charming and kind to him
for the rest of the evening. Assur-
ance as to her having no other in-
terest than himself in the projected
visit was made doubly sure by his
saying to her, ' What if Trixy should
come away from Haldon pledged to
go back as its mistress ?' and her re-
plying, ' I hope she will — I should
like it of all things.'
' Beally ?' he asked, searchingly.
' Beally and truly,' she answered,
honestly ; * it is one of the dearest
wishes of my heart that my cousin
should marry your sister.'
'Will you hold the same language
when j t ou have seen Haldon?'
' How can I tell ? I shall think
the same thought — whether or not
I shall word it so is more than I
can answer for.'
4 Don't you think that it's just
probable that you may regret that
you did not follow the plan old Mr.
Lyon chalked out for you ?'
She shook her head decidedly.
' Never — never a bit. If I had
done so I should never have
known ' She almost stopped,
but seemed to think better of the
weakness, and added the words ' any
of you,' blushing warmly. It was a
very unexpected move to him on her
part, this lrank confession that in
knowing him there was full com-
pensation for any loss of riches and
power. An unexpected — a daring
move. He had always heard, and
always thought, that there was
something nnfeminine in a girl
meeting a man half way in a decla-
ration of love. But now, though it
seemed to him that she was meeting
him half way, he could not accuse
her of anything nnfeminine. It
made his heart beat higher with a
better hope than he had ever known
before, this thought, that in a few
days he might be wandering through
some sunlit forest glade with this
lovely woman by his side, and no
stern necessity for going into the
city before him. He almost pitied
Lionel for being the only one who
would be without a special object
down at Haldon.
The following morning, while they
were busy in preparations for their
ten days' stay iu the country, Mrs.
Sutton came to see Trixy, and learnt
the move that was to be made the
following day. The two girls, Blanche
and Beatrix, had, under the influ-
ence of the sudden excitement of
this unexpected break in their rou-
tine, come to rather a fairer under-
standing than was usual with them.
It had flashed upon Trixy with an
almost blinding light that Blanche
was truthful in the sort of affection-
ate indifference she professed for
Frank Bathurst. They both guarded
their respective secrets jealously ;
and so neither liked to speak openly
to the other about that which was
nearest to the other's heart. Still,
though this reserve was maintained,
Blanche had spoken of her cousin
to Miss Talhot, and had, in a way,
seemed to withdraw from any claim
on his attention. In short, Blanche
had perceived, at last, that her frank
friendliness of demeanour towards
her cousin was being misinterpreted
by Miss Talbot into a flirtation, and
that this misinterpretation was caus-
ing Miss Talhot much misery. So
she had held aloof from Mr. Ba-
thurst, and by this means bad got
much nearer to Beatrix, who was
consequently ill-disposed tow r ards
having Miss Lyon's motives and
manners underrated by Marian.
' I am not surprised at anything
Edgar does,' Mrs. Sutton said,
sweetly. • It may suit him to be
considered eccentric— madmen never
do get such hard measures t'ealt to
themas sane ones when their schemes
fail and look black ; but you ! what
makes you anxious to adorn Miss
Lyon's train when she goes hus-
band-hunting ?'
864
Playing/ 01 Wjh > s ''
' B< illy, Marian, I cannot Agree to
id of Blanche-
yon quite misjui
' Do I?' M d, ini-
mi' ' r's earn I
'Perl ps ] m 1 her when ]
il( ntly with uiv
husband in the < Ira rd( n '!--
asking him " to ti k< 1 • r port
bis wife," and fooling '
io i i to
fool '
'I e it of h r.'
' V. ■■,' Mrs. Sutl i\ id,
. ' I only hope that wh< n
a husband she won't quite
I bis mind against you ; but
those frank women who <x]
liking th< j ' iveso v( ry < penly,
" there can be no guile in it,"
innocents think, — don't I know
tin m well ? arc they not dai
ik Bathurst is just a bit of wax
in her hands, to be moulded as
' Wis y intere I in tl
d you think so badly of tl
I, bitterly. Mrs.
n !■ id the girl
in with the bar l< I
human heart can know— doubt
of the one Iov< I.
' My u : you are
my sister, an 1 I don't want to
lurch either
Tall Mb ! ithurst, through
I ; j a's in ichinations. I
I | t \v|i it I !
whi nl! I her talking
of me to Mark— actually
■ i my o vn husb ind !'
; improvi d this i pic
it ii I, ( ach time she
to it.) ' Think what it
i been, Trixy, if J
' I p illy can't think, Mar,
• I mq
i of th.it bout it ; and l< I
her take Mi
nami ld( d, suddenly ; ' 1 want
DOO •!•'
' Exalt I that yon will
rt, it stril i me, if " one ol
th< 111 '' '• i y ; if 1
you I would
I about mi . v. ith
ly blui ind th. ir
{•>f falling in love with every
i, marry him, and make
■ of it !'
' I i should if I were y<
Trixy replied, and thru Mrs. Sutton
up to g ■ away, n marking
sw i tly, that, ' It was no won l< r
Trixy got i about it — why
t she hi ike a Btand against that
I n ipanionship at once and
\ * r I'
'Because ] have nothing t i
st h< r.' Trixy a , pluck-
ing uj) a small spirit at p irting;
I really do like in r \< ry
muoh— so much that I hat to I
1: r as you always succeed inmak-
i ; me, Marian, and— come now
i iuse I think she likes my bro-
ther as well as he likes i
' Then, good-bye,' Mrs. Sutton re-
plied, with a shrug and a smile;
me to Baldon in i^.r autumn,
Mr. Bathurst to concentrate
his en irgies on another picture, that
it may be ready to be d next
', while I am there ; his att n-
tions rather bore me, good-bye-
come back with brigl ter roa a in
your cheeks, Trixy— pallor ma
you look old.'
So I i and pari' I,
Mi lis Sutton was
kindly c aployed in making things
ant by 1 ■■ r j tupatby and sis-
terly a I-, ice to B it rix, Mr. Ba1 hurst
and l. i •■ on their
w iy to FJald »n. It was not an
itful journey, theri fore the
of it aeed aol be chronicled.
For the first hour of the jom
two men amusi 1 th< id elv< a
r ' Punch ' an ! the morning
Then thej tried to talk to
oth< r, and fill' d h; >n of
nothing p irticular to say,
and ( a ih ha ■ ing much to think
I ; then they tii' l to sli ep a
futile prooft lit, clear
June morning. Then they n m d
don, and cbang id iul ta carriage
v. here they were fn •• to sm
be happy for the remainder of the
journey. At six o'olock in the
oing they ran into tl tion
to Ilaldmi ; and
at ! i'ii a By, pi sun I
in, rnmbled up to
the i door of Haldon ll"
It was a boil i fust eight,
qi ! wanting in oompari on with
Playing for High Stakes.
the grounds through which they
had driven to gain it. The broad
stone-bastioned gates, surmounted
by the Lyons' crest, a hand holding
a hatchet, admitted them into a
wide turf-bordered drive. Far back
on either side thick woods un-
dulated up and down the hills
through which the drive was deftly
made to turn and bend in a way
that deceived the stranger as to the
extent of the park in the most
honourable and picturesque manner.
Gradually this drive lost its open
character ; the woods on either side
thickened and contracted them-
selves upon it, and presently it took
a bold turn round a precipitous
bank, down the slope of which an
impetuous little rill gurgled, and
passed under, along up to the prin-
cipal front of the house, between
two fine rows of beech-trees, through
whose foliage the sinking sun had
a hard struggle to cast even so
much as the reflection of one ruddy
ray upou the ground.
The chief front was not imposing.
The entrance door was a small
Gothic mistake in tho flat, plain,
grey surface of that side of the
house. The windows were narrow
and unornamented, and there was
nothing bat arid gravel immediately
under them. From the right end
of the house a rolling sweep of
lawn led the eye away to a silver
lake, whose banks were fringed
heavily with a great variety of
flowering shrubs and drooping trees,
every graceful twig and flower of
which was reflected vividly in the
limpid water below. To the left,
a high-wall, running out straight
from the house to a length of about
one hundred feet, enclosed the fruit
and vegetables. And farther away
still, on the same side, a winding
path, bordered with blocks of stone
and huge trunks of trees, whose
rugged surfaces were rendered beau-
tiful by being covered with creeping
plants, led away to the stables and
out-buildings. In spite of that
severely plain, sombre-looking front,
there was both beauty and grandeur
in this house, to which Mr. Bathurst
brought his friend for the first
time — the house that might have
been Blanche Lyon's.
He had never been to Haldon
since it had been his own, and now
he was surprised to find how dif-
ferent an aspect it assumed to that
it had ever had before. The sense
of possession brought out all his
powers of appreciation as he drove
along the avenue and finally stopped
at the door. Feeling elated, it was
only natural to Frank Bathurst to
give voice to his elation. ' I wish
1 had let you come alone to prepare
for them, Lionel,' he exclaimed, as
he got out and turned his eyes on
the lake. ' I should like to have
come down with them. I should
like to see what they will think of
it all as they come up.'
' Can't you do that as it is ? Go
to meet them,' Lionel suggested.
' No, no, that wont do ; I should
have to go in a station cab — an ig-
nominious way of going out to wel-
come them.' Then the door was
opened, and their portmanteaus and
themselves taken into the hall ; a
small band of much-startled ser-
vants, headed by a housekeeper who
would have felt more pleasure at
the sight of them if she had been
prepared for it, came to meet them.
' The serfs are not glad through
Lara's wide domain,' Frank Bathurst
said, laughing, as he went with
Lionel into a room that the house-
keeper declared to be the only one
fit for use. ' It will do very well,'
he added, turning to that potentate.
' Mr. Talbot and I want nothing
better until to-morrow ; to-morrow
we have a large party coming down,
and then I should like the house to
be in order.'
This expression of his hopes
brought a terribly long explanation
upon him ; but Frank Bathurst was
one of those good-natured men who
can listeuto an ' o'er-long tale ' with
a smile and a certain air of interest,
even satisfaction. Mrs. Kennet had
few servants, as he knew ; the estab-
lishment had been greatly reduced
at her old master's death. ' It was
fortunate— she would venture to say
that it was very fortunate— that she
should happen to have her sister in
the house just at present : her sister
had lived cook in more than one
place where they was that particular
that she saw no fear of the dinners
S66
Playing for ITigh Stairs.
g satisfactory.' Then another
fortunate fact male itself known —
her ' .1 ohano L to be
there too— and (a still more pro-
vi lential oh be ohao I
e a bntlet In
, 1 ted to be v< ry much
in Mr. Bathuret's path, for
ho ': down without nol
warning, fate was on his side;
the two '1 1 K( !i!!i t's
■ !-, both of them housem
both, by ;i Btrange freak of fortune,
• mt rls of ;. i
price, v.-. re ' h< re in the very house,
might, no doubt, be per aad d
to remain.'
Indeed, the whole family were per-
suaded to remain, and Mr. Bathurst
had every reason to take them at
their relative's valuation, and be
fu! for the boon of th( ir services.
1 >n was quite far enough re-
moved G im every other imman
itation for an unexpected raid,
i as its owner had made upon it,
to bean inconvenience— more than
.a difficulty— to the ono who
had to cater for him. Mrs. Eennet
was to i : with dignified sense
of her own unspotted character as a
manager, to make a sign that might
indicate a doubt before her yo
r. After putting the state of
iliehouseh >1 1 b ifore him impartially,
I b • him feel the full fon
the ol :i ho owed to fate and
>r the latl c b ing there
— shi Lit her inventive
faculties I a dinner for the two
I travel li rs. It was all very well
.- 'anything will
do for us t •, Mi.-. Rennet ;'
but I y, and
nothing in the house for him,
' to the village '
iflf) she con! 1 nol com I
I was
:' >r it but to rise to the oc-
f ho
supper she I
ana ' to the hungry, un-
■ and un ! '. . Phis
■ Qder
th it b ''li M. i. Kenni t and her
r, who i ■ in
raid
have lost their »ver the
chicken and rabbit thi y reep
I curie 1— or that the
butler should have sighed over tho
vanity of earthly hopes as ho wa I
ordered away to the land-bailiffs
house to f( tch the key of tho cellar,
in order that the vian Is which
been designed for him might ho •
washed down with generous
wine by his ma
' Thoywill have to work to get the
place as I mean it to bo by to-morrow
night, won't tiny.'' Frank Bathurst
to ; il, as they b trolled al» rat
from room to room, and mark< d the
ilation and >'
■ everything. 'The library's
good,' ho continued, opening the
door of a dark, finely-proportioned
room that was literally lined from
floor to ceiling with books ; 'bui it's
too dull to venture in tonight,
there's a small attempt at an ances-
tral portrait gallery in the corridors;
shall we go and look at it, and see if
Blanche is like any of them ?'
'If you like,' Lionel answered,
turning round sharply, and com-
mencing the ascent of the stairs at
once. Mr. Bathurst followed more
slowly, still talking.
'I wondi i' what she will think of
it all, Lai ? it will b I
to Ciime hi re and fi el that she might
have had it all if she hadn't bei a such
a chivalrous little thing that she
p to em to fawn and
r the ] oorold '• How. Nol much
—these pictures, are they ? might ho
hotter lighted to >, eh? Ev< ry one of
i got in Wardonr 8tn et,' ho
inued, lo along in f. i
of them with his bands in his i
giving a careless glance at i ■'• as
1 ■ | ■ i 1 ; ' it's utterly impossible
that Lely could hav< pai ted every
one's great-gri at yon
know ; no, nol one ol them a bit like
Blanche 1 shall get her to sit I
me wh< d Bhi down, and give
her portrait the place of honour in
the ■-■ illery ; in fact, [ have a gi *
mind to clear out all tin i and b
tl e Battleofthe Bar till the
ry with my own works. I'm
not a Lyon, i o I'm rand to
[11 hear what
• it'
i out a few of them
willii ly, I in \ ,' I mel replied,
ok Bathur I ceased
king at last ; ' hut only transpe-
Playing for Ilir/li Slakes.
367
rent shams— any that arc good she
will give tho benefit of the doubt.'
'That's a good pose,' Frank said,
suddenly stopping before the por-
trait of a lady, and then stepping
back to get a better light on it.
'Look, Lai! there is something in
that ! — throe blues — fillet, dress, and
shawl all different shades — yet har-
monising perfectly; I should like
Blanche to sit to me in such a velvet
dress. Why, she has a bit of daphne
in her hand !'
' And what of it ?' Lionel asked,
iudiffuently. Ho thought the
picture superb in colouring and
composition; but he was tired of
hearing Mr. Batburst's artistic plans
relative to ' Blanche,' and the daphne
said nothing to him.
' It's about the most extraordinary
coincidence I ever heard of,' Frank
muttered, as he tore himself away
from the contemplation of the
picture at last. Then he went on to
wonder what Blanche would think
when he showed her the picture, and
her bright glance fell on the flower
the lady held. Would it speak
tonchingly, thrillingly to her, as it
did to him? Then there darted
through his mind a conviction that
everything was tending towards the
desirable end of Miss Lyon having
what would have been her own if
she had not been obstinate. He —
die happy possessor— was magnani-
mously ready to love and marry the
woman who pleased his taste better
than any other whom he had ever
seen. She, judging from the daphne
incident, was equally ready to love
and marry him. Even the weather
seemed likely to favour the wooing
— how could the latter but speed
fast and favourably in such leafy
glades as were around on every side,
under the clear blue sky and the
warm, bright sun of June ?
So he thought, as he walked lightly
along, whistling a waltz, to join
Lionel, who was standing looking
rather dull at the end window, it
struck Mr. Frank Bathurst as he
came up that there was something
rather inconsiderate and ill-timed in
Lionel looking dull or feeling dull,
when he (Frank) was just realizing
how very happy and prosperous he
was. The view of his own pleasant
lands — tho prospect of his own
future bliss— tho thought of the rich
reward he was contemplating be-
stowing upon worthy beauty — were
one and all such enlivening conside-
rations that he felt Lionel to be
wanting, in that he remained unin-
fluenced by them. A friend who
showed himself slow to rejoice,
whether he saw cause for it or not,
when Mr. Frank Bathurst rejoiced,
was not a friend exactly after Mr.
Frank Batburst's heart. ' What's
the matter with you, Lai ?' he asked,
languidly, as Lionel continued to
gaze gloomily out of the window ;
'are you thinking that this part of
the country will do as well as Wales
for the sketching tour in August ?
I am.' •
' No,' Lionel replied ; ' I was think-
ing that perhaps wc all work tho
same mine, rich as it is, too freely ;
I shall leave Wales to men who have
something to tie them near home,
and go to Algeria.'
'Has anything gone wrong with
you, Lai ?' asked Mr. Bathurst, with
a wistful look in his blue eyes, and a
most unusual hesitation in his tones.
But Lionel shook bis bead, and
laughed so cheerily at the supposi-
tion, and met Frank's wistful eyes so
dauntlessly, that Mr. Bathurst i^was
quite reassured. ' Let us go down
by the lake, and smoke a cigar in the
moonlight/ the master of Haldon
said, taking his guest by the arm
and leading him back along the
corridor ; ' you frightened me for a
minute, Lai, by talking of Algeria;
whatever comes to me, old boy, I
can't spare you.'
Then they neither of them spoke
again for some time, not indeed until
they had reached the border of the
lake and sent up several light
wreaths of smoke. Then Lionel
Talbot looked back at the massive
pile, the finest side of which fronted
them now, and said —
' Whatever the autumn sees me
doing,- Frank, you ought to give up
roaming ; such a place as this de-
serves to be inhabited.'
' Ye — es,' Frank answered, lazily.
The rippling lake at his feet, tho
star-studded sky, the beauty of the
moon-lighted scenery around, were
all sheddirig their soft influences
368
Playing for 11! -jh Stake*.
upon hi aoric softy
days b 1 nights and i ra
skies, bj ' ■ •!• i aily
ting. It p ; to
him to think an I n m< ml i
wenl on thinkin jai ; i memb iring,
and . ao manner of hi e i to
live speech. It
form - a harml
-of to be rather
ioattentn • t i anything that did
3l him at the moment.
• Who was the fellow who wi
ib mt a lake?' he asked,
I • ly.
iwh have wrjtl n
something abont a lake/ Lion 1
i. laughing; and Frank with-
drew his • from his lips for a
-nt, and said, a tany
]i irfecl rings of ircling away
the air, 'I meant Moore. I was
thinking of —
" |: . whose gloomy shore
Skylark never warbles o'
alatiug myself npon my
lake bein i cial
to my I ''it-' Then he
lied on a few . ntoabroa
it on to remark
i 'small
wonder that the o le for whom
I
• hi r waiting so long, -inco
. plant bier in a
l shriek' I in
mouldering wail ( i
and brob □ i b ds and oth( r
marks of de olation and decay
abound) d.'
1 It's JM-t p issible that Mariana
been worth the bra i
all i ' hi' nei
i | i tin me.
• No, no; the m of the
led Gran been an
untidy w >r1 of Mia Bavi-
Of thing m
or 1 i place c ml
li iv(* pot m! an old
\l ,r . i h( c chi 1 1 s falli ii in
thin, and a
.ill I- r. b; :
her d H
• » ; : one r< 'ii ••' I the
and j i it.'
• Don '.' i • ■ 1 i' pi
' Well, hi . not hkely to,' Frank
; then ! I, rather inoonse-
quently, ' bui I was lo iking at that
i ! in 1 there, and thinking what
a i illy Bort of prison the Lady of
Shalot had—
•• Four irr. y wall - an 1 four grey towers
Ov
An I ih ■
i Lady "i SI
There we have- it all. That laurel
risi like a 1 iwt c in id. All
we want — '
■ is the lady,' Lion< 1 interrupted.
* And i her 1 i-mor-
row m'ght,' Fran I; h
thinking ind I ; of b >th the
t i 1 1'n 1 women v. ! .
Bui Lionel fancie t thai Iris fj
thought only of Blanch) , P( ih ips it
was that his fraternal pride
j< ilous about Beatrix. At any rate,
he made no response to 1 rank's
remark abont her being thi t
complete the picture t6-moiTow
m'ght; and so the conversation
flagged, and tb 6 11 that it
would l>e well to go in.
* To-morrow nigl t i lie will ho
here.' This was the << xt on which
! mel Tali. : ' rief, bit-
fa t !mi le sermon to himself, a
' a window looking
oul ovi r Frank Bathurst's lawn and
' To-morrow oij ! I will
be hi re; Bhe, with I i ej i fbz
itifnl, will I over
gla le and alley, fa od turf,
; all will be Bp
out bi fore b( r, and she will remetn-
that all might have \u i □ b< t
orally, si
■ ii, her heart will warm bo
the man i b fited ; and
nt will ar t it may
d by tho time Ihc
thought and tl the love
on feel fori lized
—well, 1 shall be in Algeria.'
It, wearied, worried, tantalized,
I i rplezed him through all the
of the m'ght. ' To-morrow
t Bhe will 1 1 that bright,
brave, I intiful, young gentle-
woman born, who b I on the
wearing stril llantly, who I ad
r dinchi .1 I to
whom it would now co i atly
and easilj to be ri -h and happy at
troke! It led to Li ael
Playing for Uhjh Stakes.
309
Talbot that Frank was just the man
to win any untouched heart. 'He
had pretty well fathomed poor
Trlxy's feelings on the subject, but
Blanche's wore beyond him. Love
was often born of expediency, he re-
flected. On the other hand, Blanche
was scarcely the sort of woman to
create a sentiment out of an- obliga-
tion. ' God bless her ! however it
goes,' he thought, as the grey dawn
chased the languid June night
away ; and he lell asleep from sheer
weariness.
Frank had remained awake a very
little time, thinking so affably and
kindly of every one of whom he
thought at all. He was delighted
with himself, for instance, for having
thought of coming down and of col-
lecting such a pleasant party as it
promised to be. He was enchanted
with Haldon! Of old it had never
possessed half the charm and im-
portance it now held for him. He
had often suspected that there was
a rich vein of humbug in that
phrase that 'the poor man who
walks through a beautiful park has
as much pleasure in the same as
the noble lord who owns it.' Now his
suspicions were verified, and he was
very sure, from the most agreeable
experience, that he preferred being
the noble lord. He was satisfied
with Mrs. Kennot, and with his good
fortune in coming into undisputed
possession of such excellent ser-
vants, and with the prospect of the
companionship of the twa girls who
were coming th following day, and
with his own iatentions respecting
one of them, and with everything,
indeed, save Lionel Talbot's resolve
to go to Algeria.
'That won't do at all,' he mut-
tered, sleepily ; ' we must all talk
him out of that.' Here his amiable
intentions grew vague and unde-
fined, and he slept the sleop that
waits on sound digestion and an un-
troubled conscience.
The empire of the night was peace
down at Haldon, but up in Victoria
Street it was tribulation and woe
for one of the members of one house-
hold. Edgar Talbot had been at
home the greater part of the day.
It was astonishing, he said himself,
how greatly the necessity lessened
VOL. XI.— NO. LXIV.
for being present at the centro of
business action when a man de-
cided upon putting himself beyond
the possibility of attending it for
some time. He had been happy
and cheerful and 'young,' Tnxy
declare), during the whole of the
day Very much to their surpri.se,
he had attended the two girls on a
little shopping expedition they
made, and, still more to his own
surprise, he found himself liking it,
for.! Blanche Lyon consulted his taste
several times, declaring that Mr.
Lionel Talbot's brother must know
better than she did which colour
would go well with another. It was
very flattering to him, Edgar Talbot
felt, that Blanche should think so
highly of his brother. It made
him think more kindly than ever of
Lionel, and he always had thought
kindly of and been affectionately
disposed towards Lionel, be it re-
membered. He bought his sister a
wonderful hat to wear down at
Haldon, and exchanged significant
glances with Blanche when the
latter said that ' it was just the
shaped hat Frank liked— no feather
tumbling over the brim to spoil that
perfect outline.' Then he had gone
gaily home with them rather earlier
than he wished, because they both
declared that they had a great deal
of packing to do, which must be
done by daylight. ' You don't con-
sider what time muslins take,. Mr.
Talbot/ Blanche said to him, with a
laugh, when he pleaded that they
' should go into the park now.'
' There's a sad want of proportion
between the dresses we are going to
take and the trunks we are going to
put them in.'
' Why not go just as you are — you
couldn't look nicer — and not trouble
yourselves about packing?' he said,
looking at their clear, crisp muslin
robes.
' Ah, you don't know what mighty
efforts are requisite to obtain even
such small results. I should be
sorry to answer for the effect on Mr.
Bathurst's nerves if we appeared
before him to-morrow in the damp
of the evening in these dresses that
now strike you as all-sufficient for
the whole time of our stay. No, we
must go home.'
2 B
370
CI,an<jrs.
accordingly bewenl with them,
n 1 foun i Mr. Button waiting for
him in a little room with a window
in tlio roof, thai whs dedicated to
business interrii I ne glance at
i.is brotl ar-in-law's face ahowi <1
i . I _- 1 r Talbot that there was Bome-
Von have got rid of those ?'
Sutton said, interrogatively,
mentioning bohm Bharea in a pro-
jected railway from one little-known
i orner of the earth to anottu r evil n
more n mote and lees frequented.
Nbtexactly: tlmt is' — Edgar Tal-
bot stammered, hesitated, stopped,
tlmi cried out, 'you don't nieun to
tell me it's too late '
■ Bead that,' Mr. Sutton answered;
aid Bdgai sat and nad— in what
words it math r- not— it is suffi-
oient to say that they told him that
one of his harks of fortunes was
wrecked in port; one of his golden
dreams hid milted away, leaving
him a very much poorer man, not
only in reality lmt m the knowledge
of the world that knew of his in-
tments.
lie lilt himself to be considerably
Crippled in his resources, and when
he was able to realize it he confi aa d
to M uk Sutton that he was so crip-
and that he regretted ha\ bag
the ' millstone of this establish-
ment' alxiut his neck. ' You'll light
yourself in time if you're prudent,'
Murk rejoined; 'meantime,' he
added, feelingly, ' it's a good thing,
a \i ry happy thing, thai you're not
married. Let Beatrix come to her
r; that will he a fair i XCUSe for
'ii-peus-ing with Mrs Lyon.'
'Thanks; lmt I cau't do that
weir replied.
•Whs not?'
' Oh, 1 can't do it well.' BdgBI iv-
i. He could not bear the
thought of loosening any link that
might l>e formed between Blanche
and himself. In the midst of Hi"
sharp pain he felt at having lost a
fortune, there was alleviation in the
thought of Blanche I, yon. The
\ ision of her in her bright, bonnie
beauty, as she had walked by his
si le that day, made him feel this
life worth baring, the eternal battle
of it worth fighting. She was a
good motive power, other fortunes
were to be won, and should be won
for her. His was not by any means
a nature to turn to pleasure and
shirk pain Still, now he could not
help feeling that to-morrow was very
n- ar, and that then he would l>e on
his way to flowery glades and forests
green with Blanche Lyon. For a
while at least he would banish his
business and turn his back upon
trouble: for a while June and
Blanche and (lowers and fresh air
should have all his heart and soul.
Mark Sutton marvelled to see the
ambitious young man War the first
bad blow the first sharp reverse he
had ever met with — SO Well. It
touched the man, whose heart had
ached sadly with sorrowful fore-
boding, when called nnon to tell the
tidings, that Edgar should rec
them so steadily. Jt touched Mr.
Sutton more to hear Edgar's parting
word-, 'Good-bye, old fellow; I'm
glad I haven't crippled you, any
way !'
CHANGES.
* II m ii I -'Mi t i im IU w meb ody.'
ON, Alice ! what are yon doing,
Sitting alone in your room ?
The other- downstairs an danch
You must no! Btay in the gloom.
What b 1 darling ?
Four roice if husk] with tears ;
\nd your d t win n I hissed it —
There -whisper nobod] b
Changes. 371
No answer — must I conjecture ?
Is some one you love to blame ?
Has somebody cross'd or vex'd you ?
Husb, dearest, I use no name !
There's no need to Hush so crimson,
For what bave I said or done ?
Isn't somebody some one's darling ?
Each heart has its Number One !
Come, lift up those drooping lashes,
And give me your hand to hold ;
Look for a moment at me, dear —
Am I not wrinkled and old ?
Nay, smile not, I mean it, Alice ;
There's reason in what I said.
I know how the world regards me—
I'm only a poor old maid.
Oh, Alice ! I'm weak in crying ;
But the mere touch of your arms,
Which circle my neck in pity,
Calls up the old past, and warms
My spirit with bygone visions.
I see, in a far review,
The days when somebody loved me,
And I was a girl like you.
Perhaps you will scarce believe it,
But, a long long time ago,
I'd a face that was not uncomely,
And I'd friends who told me so.
This wrinkled skin then was polish'd,
These dim eyes were clear and bright,
My hair had a shade as golden
As yours when you face the light.
And thus — but it seems a fable
When you cannot even trace
A remnant of youth and beauty
On my sorrow-graven face ;
When scarcely a friend about me
Knows even my Christian name-
Well, all I can hope is, Alice,
Your lot will not prove the same !
It was not my fault entirely ;
Yet somehow I learnt too late
Brotherly love and sympathies
To nurture and cultivate.
Perhaps if I'd done so sooner
I might not be standing here,
With never a friend but you, love,
To yield to my tale a tear.
Listen ! I'll tell you what happen'd—
The same happens ev'ry day;
Somebody told me he loved me,
And I gave my heart away !
We parted — he named a twelvemonth ;
He vow'd to be true and trust.
Ah, well ! — I will put it briefly—
His vows were written in dust!
2 B a
372 (Jlianges.
Wo parted — ami wane than distanco
W is tlic world that crept between;
Tin' glowing lights of the present,
\\ hirh deadened what onoe had been.
He fargol me when I was absent*
Mr went after aomething new —
Alice, don't look ao indignant,
1 is what hundreds of people do!
I varied— oh, how I waited ! —
I never would lend an i;ir
To evil reports thai reached me;
I waited with Boaroe a (ear.
I wondered about his silence,
But never about bia faith ,•
If I had not heard far certain,
I had waited unto death.
I waited — the tide of pleasure
Flowed soft to my weary foet ;
And suitors and friends pressed round me
With tnurmurings fond and sweet;
But I pass'd them all l>y unheeded.
Their friendship would never do
For one who was waiting for somebody —
For one who was firm and true.
It came, after months of waiting—-
That signal of dark despair—
Men spoke of my friend as married,
And said that his wife was fair.
Oh! far, fax the bitterest trial
The tidings could afford
Was not that his low was lost to me,
But that he broke his word
Now long years of toil and trouble
I tave oast a tremulous -hade
Over that moment ,,| anguish ;
Old Time has made sorrow fade.
1 can tell my Alice aboul it.
Which 1 could not have done before;
But when Time has acted as plast t
We may venture to touch a sore.
iM\ heart is as whole as ever—
I on smile as yon wipe that tear;
But, AhCe. it only gathered
At siL'ht of your sorrow, dear!
H just what I meant to tell you J
No trouble is sent in vain.
H I had i o\ suffered mj
I'd not midi rstiMHl your pain.
Come, if you misdouht my meaning,
I'll tell you what chanced to-night
Did yon see that old man downstairs,
R ho • hair we N thin and uhito?
It I remember properly,
in the corridor
^ hen, m the throng of . sta.
Ho came through the entrain, -door.
**&0m
Draxon by J. D. Watson.]
CHANGES.
374 Changes.
Do you remember our meeting;'
Our hands how quietly clasped:
The long, calm gaze in each other's eyes;
And the silence that elapsed,
Before our hearts recovered speech?
Well, people would aever have thought
That he had once heon m\ Somebody;
Even t/ow disco \ en d nought
Yes, it is just as I tell you —
After man] bitter years
We met, with no show of feeling,
No sighings, reproaches, tears.
We met but as mere acquaintance,
With greetings constrained and cold ;
' Only a glance of wonder
That each should have grown so old.
He spoke— but lu's very accents
Were changed from their former tone,
That querulous voice was never
The voice of my love— my own ;
Twas the voice of the gouty husband
Of her in maroon and lace,
Who sat by Sir John at dinner,
And grew so red in the face.
Well, Alice, this world of ours
Is made up of changing things;
We, too, are part of its changes,
For we, too, are horn with wings.
We're changing our nature daily,
And worms will be by-and-by
Transformed into ahining angels,
Which neither can change nor dio.
So, Alice, don't sit here moping
And sighing for some one's sake;
When the world is made up of changes
There's no fear your hi art will break;
For even the loved and injured
Get over the pain at last,
Grow wiser, calmer, and better
For lessons learnt in the past.
And, Alice, one thing is certain —
Whene'er we are grieved by change
We return with renewed affection
To One whom no years estrange,
Tis comfort to mete' 1 1 is kindness,
And feel it can never end ;
Oh, Alice!— I've proved it daily-
God is the old maid's friend.
**SJ^H
I irawn by ■'. A. Pa iquier. |
IM.Y'S LOSS.
the 8ton
375
LILY'S LOSS.
CHAPTER I.
MR. BRAMWELL was a Bristol
merchant, and he owned a
charming house and grounds within
a stone's throw of the Durdham
Down.
One fine July evening several
people were collected together in Mr.
Bramwell's garden, sitting in a group
on the lawn under a laurel hedge.
Two ladies, strikingly alike in fea-
tures, but with a sufficient disparity
of age to show their relationship,
were in the centre of the group, on a
garden seat. Around them were
several gentlemen, Mr. Bramwell's
particular friends, and most of them,
like himself, merchants in the good
old city of Bristol. They had all been
invited to celebrate the wedding-
day of their host and hostess, the
latter of whom, who was the eldest
of the two ladies on the garden seat,
was in the highest possible spirits,
and, by her gaiety and unaffected
manner, completely fascinated the
little group collected around her.
Lily Bramwell, who sat by her
mother's side, was unusually quiet
and reserved, and by no means
shared her mother's flow of spirits,
or joined in the animated conversa-
tion in which her father's friends
were engaged.
She kept turning her eyes every
now and then towards the garden-
gate, as if expecting that some
one would put in an appearance
from that quarter, whose presence
she either particularly desired or
dreaded. It might have been either
the one or the other.
Each time that the wheels of a car-
riage were heard, she seemed to trem-
ble!; an d as each fresh visitor arrived,
a cloud of annoyance or disappoint-
ment stole over her face. She re-
ceived their congratulations awk-
wardly ; and, having replied to their
pretty little compliments with some
ordinary set speech, she turned away
her head and the old melancholy
expression came back. There was
but one sentence to be read in those
soft blue eyes, now quite misty with
scarcely-restrained tears —
' Will he neVer come ?'
A lively conversation was still
kept up among Mr. Bramwell's
guests, several of whom had noticed
Lily's reserved manner, though of
course without making the slightest
allusion to it. The conversation
ran from business matters to politics,
from politics to the ordinary gossip
of the day; and when once fairly
started on tbis always-engrossing
topic, one of the guests alluded to
the sudden appearance in Bristol
of a young lady of extraordinary
beauty. She was of Italian extrac-
tion, he said, and reported to be of
very good family, and to possess a
large fortune. She had only been
in England a very few days ; and
on the afternoon of the previous
day she had been seen for the first
time on her brother's arm at a
flower fete in the Clifton Zoological
Gardens. Her brother, Luigi Amato,
was well known in Bristol.
Every one who had seen the beauti-
ful foreigner was especially loud in
her praise on this occasion. Still,
Lily Bramwell took no interest in
the conversation and did not appear
to hear what they were talking
about. The name, which was being
repeated again and again, was not
unfamiliar to her.
Luigi Amato had been in Bristol
fur more than a year, and Lily had
heard him constantly alluded to.
Young, rich, and gifted with a lively
imagination, and unusually charming
manner, he had made a decided, and
by no means an unfavourable im-
pression at all the houses to which
he had been invited. But what did
Lily care about young Amato, and
his taste for music, and soft tenor
voice, and powers of fascination,
when her mind at this moment
was absolutely on the rack, all for
a certain somebody who was in-
vited and expected, but who had
never come.
37G
Lily's Lo8i>.
It was nowvory close upon dinner-
time, and Lily's uneasiness was
mil g mote and mora apparent
All tin guests but one bad arrive d.
The desi it. t was Arthur Dayrell, a
young Bristol d i rcbant, and the
of Lily BramwelL What
could possibly be the meaning of
Arthur's forge ttulnees? It' unwell,
why bad no message Km re-
ceived?
On Buch nn occasion it mi I be
business of the ntmost importance,
or neglect of the most unwarrant-
able nature, which could keep
Arthur away from Mr. Bramwells
house, and his pretty daughti i's
side. No wonder, then, that Lily
mwell was reserved, and that
she » unusually Bad.
Dinner was announced, and they
all left the garden and walked to-
wards the dining-room. Just he-
fore entering, a Bervanl put a note
into Mr. Bramwell's laid, lie just
glanced at it, and addressing his
wife said —
• I am sorry to tell you that
Arthur Dayrell can't come to-day.
lie is detain/ d in the city by sudden
and most urgent busini bb, and begs
me to convej to yon all sorts of
apn 1 i is.'
Lily Bramwell looked sadder Minn
y mil, had it not been that
•v that all eyes Wl re tr.ua .1
towards her, some of the b are which
cauic wi lling to ber eyes must have
in spite of all" her efforts to
restrain them.
• By-tbe-by/ said an <>ld grey-
headed gentleman, 'before 1 left
mmercial Booms this after-
rifx>ii, an ugly rumour was abroad.
Bep • Dayroll's house
been « Dgagi 1 in a ruinous
dation.'
raral <>f the guests here added
of Dl WS bo the rumour,
which ti ey all appean d to havo
la ard in the city.
' I'm afraid DayreTI'fl house won't
stand such sbockl B tin I ,' -aid Mr.
Bramwell ; ' fve hi ird bis credit is
not over good, as it is.'
' Lei's hope he'll tide ovi r it,' ml
the old g< Dtleman, iri a tone of ••
which implied that, in his opinion,
there Waf DO chance whatever of
such a contingency.
'Ruined!' said Lily to herself.
'I never elpected such a blow as
this.'
The diniar was not altogether B
success. They had go1 upon dis-
agreeable topics. Lily's melancholy
was infectious; and soon Mr. and
Mrs. Bramwefl were attacked with
the same malady. The evening
passed away wearily, and at a tole-
rably early hour the parti was broken
up. The day, which hadcommi need
undi r such bappy auspioes, had
hut a miserable termination.
Day after day passed away, and
still Arthur Dayrell never came
mar the bramwells' house. Lily
lived upon ber sorrow in rilenoe,
waited patiently for her lover's
arrival, longed anxiously to hear
from him, or some tidings of him,
—but Arthur Dayrell kept away,
and Lily received no comforting
news.
The day after the little party on
Mrs. Bramwell's wedding-day, ber
husband had to hurry up to London
on business, and so it was impossible
for him to go and look Arthur up,
a lie had intended to have done.
When Mr. Bramwell came back, he
thought Arthur's conduct mtbl r
Btrange in not having come near any
of them, ami, to tell the truth, felt
a little annoyed at his extraordinary
neglect as regarded Lily. And so he
wrote. The answer was stitl and
formal ; business was pleaded as an
excuse for not coming to call on the
Bramwells. There was no mention
whatever in this letter of Lily. Mr.
Bramwell talked tho matter over
with his wife, and it was ultimately
decided between them that the sub-
ject should be allowed to rest for B
few weeks. The DayrellS wen;, no
doubt, in an awkward predicament
as far as business was concerned ;
and Mr. Bramwell had no wish,
howev< r much pained be was, to
intrude upon his old friends with
another disagreeable subject As
for Lily, she did not unite look at
Arthur's conduct in this matter of-
lact light
There; had bun passages of love
between them de< p and tender,
and, its she had thought, p >or
girl, very true. There had been
wild moments when, hand- in-hand,
Lily's Loss.
377
they had talked of a bright and
happy future, and had alluded
to separation as an utter impos-
sibility. Would business, then, de-
tain him from her side, unless there
were some other and far more en-
grossing cause? Would business
be of so urgent a nature as to pre-
vent his writing a few lines to say
that he was, as he had ever been,
true to his own love? What a
comfort such a short note would
have been to the poor girl, heart-
broken at the very idea of having
to believe her own suspicions. She
had heard of these quiet separations
before from girl-friends of hers.
She had been told of men — men
with affection, but of a weak and
vacillating temperament, who had
stolen away from their engagement
and honour, in the very night, as it
were, making long absence and deep
silence tell the tale of their untruth.
That Arthur Dayrell had a heart
she knew; that he was wild and
impressionable, she feared. And
this was to be the end of her ro-
mance ! This was the man she
had bowed down to and almost
worshipped ; a man who had taken
her many times to his heart ; a man
to whom she had disclosed the
secrets of her young life ; a man
whose comforts and happiness she
had prayed on her knees that she
might study; a man who had re-
paid this devotion by turning his
back upon her — who had left her
with her tears, heartbroken and
alone in the world.
About six weeks after the dinner-
party, as they were sitting down at
breakfast, the servant as usual
brought in Mr. Bramwell's letters
and the local morning paper. It
was Lily's duty to cut this for her
father while he was reading his
letters. He was rather longer
than usual over them on this
morning, and Lily employed her-
self during the interval with
glancing over the contents of the
paper.
Suddenly the paper dropped from
her hands, and the poor girl burst
into a violent fit of hysterical weep-
ing. She turned towards her mother,
who had come over to her, and
sobbed out —
'Oh, mamma! it is really all
over now !'
'What is it, "my child?' asked
Mrs. Bramwell.
' Eead it, mamma ; read it. I
really cannot speak any more.'
Lily handed her mother the paper,
and left the room.
Mrs. Bramwell read the announce-
ment of the marriage of the sister
of Luigi Amato with Arthur Day-
rell.
A fortnight after this little scene
in the breakfast-room, a very large
public ball was given in the Vic-
toria Booms, in honour of some
event of general interest.
Lily Bramwell had expressed a
particular wish to go, and her
parents had no wish to prevent her.
Everybody would, of course, be
there; and there seemed every
chance that, on this occasion, the
newly-married couple would, for
the first time, meet Lily Bramwell
face to face. It is a harmless curi-
osity to wish to see your rival ; and
Lily was certainly not proof against
this. Her parents knew their child
well enough to be quite sure as to
how she would behave on such an
occasion, and had quite sufficient
confidence in her to know that her
good-breeding would triurqph over
and be superior to any natural feel-
ings of spite or annoyance which
might possibly be lying in her
bosom. There was certainly no
danger or likelihood of a scene.
Lily's grief was too deep to be vul-
garized. It was a trying ordeal, of
course, for her to go through ; and
her father and mother could not
quite make out why she should insist
on making herself a martyr, which
she certainly intended to do. It
is a pleasant sort of a pain, though,
this meeting after a great defeat ;
and though it makes our hearts
bleed, we all go through it, and
would go on taking draught after
draught of the nauseous dose with-
out a moment's hesitation.
When Lily Bramwell appeared
in the ball-room, all eyes were in-
stinctively turned towards her. The
story had flown from mouth to
mouth, and the sympathies of the
room were most certainly with
Lily Bramwell.
878
Lily 8 Loss.
She looked charmingly. Hex
di'i B8, winch was of pure wliito,
unrelieved by any colour except the
B I cauielia which glowed in her
fair hair, accorded exactly with her
pore and innocent face, she looked
what she was, a perfect lady; ami
as she sat by the side of her still
handsome mother people looked in
vain tor some remaining traces of
the great grief which she had en-
dured. There were certainly none
in her face. They were all buried
away in her heart of hearts, and no
one had any key to this but bersel£
All novice as she was in the art of
dissimulation, she so entirely put
people off their guard by her cheer-
ful looks and sweet demeanour that
they most of them maele up their
minds that the past was quite
effaced from her memory. She was
the object* of universal attention
and admiration when Arthur Day-
rell and his wife entered the hall-
room. It was so late when they
came that Lily had almost made up
her mind to lie disappointed. And
now a cold shiver ran through all
her veins, and her heart heat
quickly.
The arrival of the Dayrells made
rather a sensation in the hall-room.
CHAPTER II.
Mrs. Dayrell's striking b auty.tho
easy, seductive grace of her manner,
and her commanding figure made a
great effect in the room. She had
hardly time to make her entrance
re she was literally surrounded.
Her card was full in less than five
minutes, and she had given suffi-
cient promises for extra dances to
fill many more cards. In the ge-
neral movement which took place
on Mrs. Dayrell's arrival the little
group round the Bramwella was
dis] i !-■ I. The orchestra ourst into
life apiin, and the tir.-t few bars of
a quadrille were played. Lily re-
mained sitting by her mother's ride.
It seemed the work of a moment.
Somebody was brought up to h< r
and introduced ; and m two seconds
she was standing by the ride of
Luigi Amato in a quadrille, with
Mrs. Arthur I>a\rell as I ■ ■
The courage of which Lily Bram-
weU had boasted, and which she
had steeled herself into maintaining,
was very nearly giving way at this
point. She bad longed to see her
rival, and now she was dancing
opposite to her. Luckily Arthur
was not with his wife ; had he been
there the shock would have lieen too
much for Lily. lie had left the
ha 11 -room soon after his first ap-
pearance with his wile, and was now
busily engaged in the card-room.
Perhaps, under all the circum-
stances, this was the best thing he
could have done.
The set in which Mrs. Arthur
Dayrell and Lily BramweU were no
inconsiderable items was soon made
up. Women can take in a great
deal at a glance. There was one of
these sharp, searching glances, so
peculiar to women, and which are
nearly in every case so particularly
accurate, which came from both the
women on this particular occasion.
One look seemed quite sufficient
for both of them. Their eyes met
once, and then only for a second.
They never met again.
aba. Arthur Dayrell's toilette was
extremely rich, but in the most per-
fect taste. She had cameo ornaments,
from the antique, and of priceless
value, as ornaments for her neck,
In ad, and arms. Every attitude was a
picture, every movement displayed
grace and on. There was a kind
of dreamy l^tlessness about this
beautiful Italian woman which con-
trasted Btrangely with the fire in
her eyes and the proud curl of her
scarlet lips. She was certainly a
gloriously handsome woman. No
one could avoid noticing the extra-
ordinary contrast between these two
women. As far as beauty went of
course there could bo no comparison.
But there were many, no doubt, in
the room who would have valued
one smile from simple-looking Lily
BramweU more than teli thousand
from this superb creature.
After this famous quadrille, Lily
BramweU was never allowed to rest.
valsed exquisitely, and was
secured by all the beet dancers in
the room. She could have had half
a dozen partners for every dance if
she had cared for them. Mrs. Arthur
DayreU did not valso, and aeemed
Lihjs Loss.
379
somewhat annoyed at the unusual
attention which was being paid to
Lily. She left the ball-room early,
and Lily had the entire possession
of the field. Luigi Amato remained,
but he did not dance again.
He took a seat next to Mrs.
Bramwell, and with great tact led
the conversation towards that sub-
ject which is invariably welcome to
a mother's ears — her daughter's
beauty. From this he began with
equal tact to express regret at
having been so long in Bristol, and
intimate with so many friends of
the Bramwells, without ever having
had any opportunity of knowing
them intimately. He had heard,
about them frequently, of course,
but by some strange coincidence or
fatality they had never met so as to
secure an introduction before this
happy occasion.
Mrs. Bramwell could not, under
these circumstances, fail to say how
delighted she would be for him to
call and know them better ; but she
could not help thinking when she
got home about the strange impe-
tuosity of his manner and the burst
of enthusiasm with which the in-
vitation was received.
Luigi Amato was not long in
availing himself of Mrs. Bram well's
invitation.
No one knew better than he how
to ingratiate himself with strange
people, and few were more successful
in the art of pleasing. His first visit
led to another and another, and on
each occasion he received a warmer
welcome than the last.
It was not very long before Lily
Bramwell's name began to be
coupled with that of the handsome
young foreigner. We who live in
the world know that people are apt
to chatter soon enough about these
things. Strange to say, Lily Bram-
well did not repel the attentions
paid to her by Luigi. Perhaps she
was piqued at the bad treatment
she had received at the hands of
Arthur Dayrell, and it was, no
doubt, a not unpleasant kind of re-
venge to be seen everywhere with a
man who had been his rival, and to
have her name connected with his
by all their mutual friends.
Girls who have been badly treated
don't, as a rule, like the idea of
going through the world with that
ugly word ' jilted ' pasted on their
backs ; and it is some poor conso-
lation to them, in the event of their
being served in the shameful way
that Lily Bramwell was by Arthur
Dayrell, to show the conscious world
that there are as good men to be
found any day in the week as those
who by their conduct seem to say
that they have so far gained in-
fluence over a woman that they can
behave as badly to her as can be
without incurring any feeling of
remorse or shame.
Lily Bramwell was, as far as the
world's eyes were concerned, very
much flattered with the attentions
that were being paid to her. What
was passing in her heart it is not
our province to say.
Luigi Amato was not slow in per-
ceiving the favourable impression
he had made, and he followed up his
advantage like a skilled tactician.
His attentions became more and
more marked, and every day he in-
gratiated himself more and more
with Lily Bramwell and her parents.
The wounded heart needs con-
solation, and in the sweet art of
consoling the dark foreigner was
an adept. The tender ivy clings to
the rugged elm, and just in the
same way poor heartbroken Lily
got to enjoy the society of her new
friend, in whose hands she seemed
almost powerless. She never ac-
tually loved him, perhaps, certainly
not in the same way that she had
loved Arthur Dayrell, but she liked
the petting and attention of the big
dog in whose presence — delicate
little kitten as she was— she knew
she was free from all possible kind
of danger.
Under his care, and acting up to
his advice, she met and shook hands
with Arthur Dayrell. It was best
that they should not be bad friends
any more he had said, and so Lily
steeled herself for the ordeal, and
under all the circumstances got over
it very creditably.
Of course it was a terrible meet-
ing, but Lily had made up her
mind before she undertook the task
that there should be no faltering on
her side.
380
Lily's Loss*
They mot, shook hands, and past I
on ; and after that moment Arthur
Dayrell became an ordinary friend
and no more to Lily l'.riunwell.
The pr esence Of mind of women
when they aro ' put to it ' is pro-
verbial, and Lily was every inch a
woman in this respect
It was nut long IxToro Luigi
Amato went privately to Lily's father
and asked his formal consent to a
marriage with his daughter.
1 As regards this most important
snbji d Mr. Bramwell, ' Lily
is entirely her own mistress. I
should never interfere on this point
with my children, unless, of course,
I saw anything positively distasteful
or ohjectionahle in the person con-
cerned. I need hardly say that I
have no fault to find with you. Go
then to Lily herself, and learn from
her lips what she has to say in the
matter. If she consents I can only
say that I shall consider you a very
lucky fellow, and wish you joy with
all my heart. My daughter Lily,
though her father says it, is not
the kind of wife that a young man
picks up any day in the week, par-
ticularly in this degraded and sordid
match-making age.'
Lily Bramwell looked np into tho
eyes of her rough protector, and, in
the mostartlessand ohildlike manner
possible, said she would bo Luigi
Amato's wifo.
Luigi was most anxious there
should bo no delay in the marriage.
It was his express wish, too, that
there should ha no 'fuss' at tho
wedding, and extracted a promise
from Mrs. Bramwell that it should
be as quiet as it possibly could bo.
The young couple were to shirt
for Italy as soon as they were mar-
ried ; for at < lenoa Luigi Amato had
somopressingbusiiie<s, which would
very probably occupy him for some
time to come. Tho young Italian
anticipated some pride in intro-
ducing his charming little English
wifo to his friends and relations
over in his native country.
Though Lily Bramwell had gono
through the ordeal of meeting and
shaking hands with Arthur iJriyroll,
she had hitherto ' fought shy,' as it
is called, of Arthur's wifo.
Of courso it was not probable that
these women could possibly be great
friends, and it was eminently natural
that they should mutually put off
as long as possible the inevitable
meeting.
Mrs. Dayrell, nee Euphrosyne
Amato, know very well what her
husband had been once upon a time
to her brother's intended bride;
and Lily had a woman's natural re-
pugnance to a woman who had sup-
planted her, as it were, in the affec-
tions of tho man she had idolized.
And so they had eyed ono another
at a distance for some time past,
but said nothing. In their hearts,
however, they knew well enough
that there would never be any very
violent friendship between them.
Lily, like the sweet-tempered girl
that she was, arranged plans in her
mind to avoid any open breach.
Now, however, that she was to
become Luigi Amato's wife the evil
day could no longer be postponed ;
for it was requisite that Mrs. Arthur
Dayrell, nde Euphrosyne Amato,
should be introduced into tho family
of which her brother was soon to bo
so conspicuous a meml>er.
Mrs. I5ramwell arranged a littlo
garden party — for it was summer
time — and collected together a few
friends, in order that the introduc-
tion might be as littlo formal and
painful as circumstances would
permit.
When Mrs. Arthur Dayrell arrived
both Mrs. Bramwell and her daugh-
ter wont across tho garden to meet
her, and their greeting was at least
unaffected and sincere. Mrs. Arthur
Dayrell was stiff and formal, and
received their congratulations with
very littlo warmth. This lino of
conduct she continued throughout
the afternoon, joining but littlo in
the amusements that were going on,
making herself as little ag reea ble as
possible, and, in a most marked
manner, sitting by herself on the
window-sill of the library window,
which opened out on to tho lawn.
Her eyes were constantly fixed upon
Lily, and tho look which she gave
bei from time to time was by no
means an agre e able ono. Luigi
noticed, in common with many of
tho other guests, his sister's extra-
ordinary conduct, and went towards
Lily's Loss.
881
the spot she had selected for her-
self!
1 1 hardly think you are behaving
very well to our hosts or their
guests,' he said. ' Is it absolutely
necessary that you should isolate
yourself from them, and treat us all
with such very marked contempt?'
' You know me well enough, I
should thiuk, Luigi, to guess the
reason,' she replied. ' 1 don't intend
to act civility where I don't feel it.
I absolutely detest that simpering
girl.'
' I will not allow you to speak
like this to me.'
' Then why did you begin the
conversation ? I am very comfort-
able where I am, and do not feel in
the mood for indulging in wild
panegyrics on Miss Lily Bramwell.'
' You are talking absurdly now,
Euphrosyne. I don't wish you to
put yourself more than ordinarily
out of the way ; but I think, for my
sake, you might behave civilly to
poor Lily.'
Mrs. Arthur Dayrell was not a
badhearted woman, although her
temper was none of the best, and
she idolized her brother. She felt
that she had gone a little too far
now, and was really sorry when she
saw that Luigi was pained.
' Well, never mind, Luigi/ she
said, soothingly. ' I will go with
you, and make pretty speeches to
your flaxen-haired doll.'
When she turned to take Luigi's
arm, in order to gain the croquet
party on the lawn, she met Lily
Bramwell face to face.
Lily had crept slily up when
Luigi was talking to his sister, de-
termined to surprise him with her,
and to show him that there should
be no animosity on her part towards
Mrs. Arthur Dayrell. She came at
an unfortunate time, and unavoid-
ably overheard a greater part of
their conversation. When she
turned to go it was too late, and a
dull kind of stupor stole over her.
Luigi was uuaware that Lily had
overheard his sister's remarks.
' My sister is very anxious to have
a turn with you in the garden,' he
said. ' I shall be so glad, Lily, if
you turn out to be capital friends.'
Lily, still stupefied, heard nothing
until Luigi had repeated what he
had said two or three times. Luigi
concluded that he had another re-
fractory spirit to deal with, and that
he would have to go through the
same amount of persuasion over
again. He had not anticipated that
he would have any difficulty with
Lily.
When Lily recovered herself, and
was aware that she was being ad-
dressed, she stared at them both
vacantly, and said nothing. This
made matters worse than they
were before. Luigi Amato was an-
noyed, and he did not disguise his
annoyance.
' Perhaps I was wrong,' said he,
in rather a sarcastic tone, ' to have
interrupted the delightful reverie
you were in, and which you seemed
to enjoy so thoroughly. I will take
a turn or two with my sister myself,
if you wish to continue your dream,
and don't desire to be disturbed.
Any other time will do as well for
my sister.'
Lily blushed deeply. She could
not get Mrs. Arthur Dayrell's cruel
words out of her head ; and now to
these were added the first unkind
speech she had heard from Luigi
himself. There was a lump in her
throat in an instant, and, despite of
all her efforts, the tears would come
welling to her eyes. Luigi Amato
regretted in an instant the harsh-
ness of his tone, and was really
grieved to see that poor sensitive
Lily was pained.
' Lily, darling, I am so sorry,' he
said. ' It was cruel of me to speak
as I did. You know I would not
hurt you for the world.'
' Never mind his sarcasms, lily,
dear — I must call you so now,' said
Mrs. Dayrell, with as much ease as
she could muster; ' he thinks it
clever, but he never means what he
says.'
Touched with the frankness of
Luigi's apology and the kind and
unusual tone in which his sister
spoke, Lily was all smiles again in
an instant, and, notwithstanding
what she had overheard, she con-
soled herself inwardly with the old
and uncomfortable adage; that 'list-
eners never hear any good of them-
selves,' and took the desired turn
:1S2
Lily s Loss.
round tli. garden with Arthur Day-
rell'a wife.
■ Well, my worthy brother,' said
Mrs. Arthur Dayrell, later on in the
evening, when be Was conducting
her to the carriage, to go home tor
Arthur had found Borne exonse, n >t
altogether relishing the idea of a
garden party at that house cinder
altered arcnmstanoes, - ' how do
you think I have behaved on the
whole? [don't think so very badly I
But I warn you,' she added, not
giving him time for a reply, ' I don't
honestly like her, and you must not
expect me to go through tin's kind
of thing every day in the week when
you come back, for I can't stand it.'
A fortnight afterwards Idly Bram-
well became tho wife of Luigi
Amato; and within a very few hours
of their welding the happy couple
were on their way to Florence.
CHAPTER in.
Six months passed away, and still
Luigi Amato and his wile gavj no
signs of returning to Bristol, in
tact there wen; whispers that in all
probability Amato would remain for
some time longer where he was. To
the initiated it became known that
be had been engaged in some v< ry
daring speculations, which had not
turned on' quite so well as he had
anticipated ; an 1, indeed, there was
a report that the Italian house would
hardly weather the storm, The
various communications were made
to Arthur Dayrell by foreign cor-
respondentB, and through him they
ihed the ( ;ms of Lily Bramwell's
father. Mr. l.iamweU was naturally
nervous on his danghb r's account,
and he wrote to her, in order to
elicit, if possible, some confirmation
or denial of the rumours. However,
the fears of all W( W alleviated by tho
Midden reappearance at Bristol of
Luigi Amato and his wife, at the end
Of a y ar from the time they bad
• piitt- d I ' commercial capital
ol the peal of England.
I.ily bad l" • d b pi quite in the
d trk on the subject of her hu
commercial trarj and th<
I ii. nla r go 1 1 oor be 1
news for her father. With a woman's
net, however, she had
gnessed that matters were not going
quite smoothly ; but, with a woman's
natural good sense, she said nothing.
trusting if it were as she anticipated,
that there would he a favourable
turn of tho wheel of fortune, and
that all would eventually go well.
The A mates had been hack in
England about a month when one
morning Lily was disturbed in her
morning's work by the appearance
of a servant who handed hera letter.
It was in tho handwriting of her
sister-in-law. She opened the letter.
She had hardly read the first few
lines before her eyes swam and her
lips became pale. She trembled
violently, but making an effort to
command herself, she rang the bell
aud ordered the carriage round im-
mediately. She gave the coachman
orders to drive to Mr. Arthur Day-
rell's house, which was charmingly
situated in the picturesque village
of Erenchay, a few miles out of
Bristol. Arthur Dayrell was alone
in the room to which Lily was con-
ducted. She could see by his face
that he was as much agitated as she
was. He had got on what she used
playfully to call his 'business face'
m tho old days. But became to-
wards her and li d her to a seat.
She sat down, but ho remained
standing, leaning one arm against
the mantelpii oe.
'lean guess by your face what
you would say,' said he, in an agi-
tated voico, 'but you must not ask
impossibilities. I have little power
to save your husband. 1 have re-
ceived intelligence, private intelli-
gence, remember, from Florence
that Amato's trick) ry has been dis-
covered. The particulars of tho
case have been telegraphed over
here, and at this very moment ho
may be in tho hands of justice.'
' But if he has not been arrested
you can save him ?'
'I don't think I would if 1 could.'
Lily Bramwell covered her face
with her bands, and shrank from the
touch of Arthur Dayrell when ho
came towards her to give her com-
fort.
'Oh ! Arthur,' she said, ' I did not
think so badly of yon. You havo
wronged me enough, heaven knows,
without bringing iurthor disgiaco
Lilys Loss.
3s:J
not only upon me but upon the man
I havo married.'
1 1 have wronged you, Lily, I
know it, and am suffering for my
sin by a life of utter misery. I
would go to the end of the world to
save you further pain, but this man,
what shall I say of him? Can I
spare him, coward and traitor as he
is, now that I have got him in my
grasp ?'
' My husband ! How can he have
injured you ?'
' Injured me ? that is a mild term,
Lily, for the wrongs your husband
has inflicted on me. I have kept
my secret until now, and have suf-
fered tortures heaven knows how
terrible. I can keep the secret no
longer; you must hear everything.'
Lily uncovered her face and looked
wonderingly towards Arthur, who
had gone back again to the mantel-
piece, where he remained pale and
immovable as a statue.
' You cannot have forgotten, Lily,
that terrible time when the story of
the impending ruin of my father's
house was in everybody's mouth
here in Bristol— that time when I
kept away from you because I was
in disgrace, and because I had no
wish to burden you with my sorrow.
It was true that we were very nearly
ruined. It was true that had ruin
and disgrace fallen upon us it would
have been all through me. Mine
would have been the hand to bring
dishonour upon my old faiher and
his children. Would that I had
never listened to the treacherous
voice of this disgraceful man! But
I did listen to him, and forged the
very fetters of a life-long despair.
At the time to which I am alluding
Luigi Amato was a comparative
stranger to me. We had met occa-
sionally, but merely as very distant
acquaintances. But this man had
seen you, Lily, and he loved you
with all the wild fury of his southern
nature. He dogged my footsteps,
and I could not free myself of him.
Ho took me entirely off my guard,
and, like a fool that I was, I believed
him to be sincere. I took his ad-
vice and engaged the house in a
ruinous speculation. Step by step
he dragged me down merely to lift
me up with his own hands. He
had but one object in view, and that
was to prevent my marriage with
you. When he knew I was on the
verge of a precipice he came and
offered me assistance. I was en-
tirely in his hands, and he knew it.
He could ruin me and us all. He
saved us, for I accepted his offer,
but the security I gave for his filthy
loan was the happiness of my life.
I promised him I would marry his
sister, and then he knew that he was
safe. You know the re^t.'
' Oh ! Arthur, say no more,' sobbed
Lily, ' I cannot, cannot bear it.'
'And this is the man,' he conti-
nued, bitterly, ' that you would have
me save. If you only knew the lifo
I have led these years past.'
' You have suffered terribly in-
deed, and I hardly dare beg your
forgiveness for him; but, Arthur,
he is my husband, and I must stand
by him to the last.'
' What would you have me do ?'
'Save him and me!'
' Oh ! Lily, what would I not do
for you, my first, last love. For
your sake the prize must slip through
my fingers, and the hour of venge-
ance I have prayed for must reap
no fruit. I will save you, Lily, and
your husband must cling to your
skirts.'
Arthur Dayrell's voice was quite
softened now. He sat down by Lily
Bramwell's side, and taking her
hand in his he said, ' There is a ship
in port which is just free of her
cargo of sugar. She sails at day-
break for the West Indies. I know
the captain of the vessel well, and
whatever favour I ask of him he
will perform. If I beg him to take
your husband on board and assist
him to escape he will do so.'
' And you will do this ?'
'If I facilitate your husband's
escape would you follow him ?'
' Is it not my duty to be ever at
his side ?'
' Not when a husband has behaved
as yours has done. He is unworthy
of you.'
' I will not go with him.'
' Then part of the debt is paid off.'
Arthur Dayrell went to a writing-
table, and wrote out the instructions
which Luigi Amato was to follow.
When he had finished he gave them
384
Lihfx I.
to Lily, promising that he would
himself go down to Bristol and give
directions to the captain of the
'Santa Pi
• Bemembi r, ho must l>o on board
to-night'
' lif shall. Thank you, and God
bless yon for what yon have done!'
When Lily arrived at borne she
waited in anxiety fur her hnsband's
return. Hour after hour passe I
away, and still she .-at motionlt ss,
lur eyes fixed on the clock in her
little sitting-room.
At last she beard his footstep-,
and knew that he was so far safe.
II. came into the room and threw
himself into a chair.
' Oh ! Luigi, I am so glad you aro
Safe.'
'Safe! Do you know all, then?
I thought I might have spared you
this pain. But there is no time to
be lost. The news has already been
telegraphed to London, and I am
not safe for an instant. The worst
of it is that I don't see there is a
chance of escape. What shall we do?'
'There is one chance for yon,'
said Lily, bravely. ' Bead what is
written here.'
'It is Arthur Dayrell's hand-
writing I You don't know all. That
man would kill me if he could.'
• He has promised me to save you,
and he will keep bis word.'
' Promise 1 son to save me! And
on what terms, may I ask? II i
Ken here in my absence bargaining
with yon? Has be dared to speak
thus to you 7'
'Arthur Dayrcll has not been
I have been to him.'
' I will receive no favour at his
haii'
'Are you mad. Luigi? 1 said lib
wife, with energy, 'to speak like
this at such a time? Heaven know-
that man has suffered sufficiently at
your hands. Come, let us both for-
gel the past, Four wife shall not
upbraid you in your hour of sorrow.
For my sake yon will obey these
instructions, will you not? It is
better perhaps that we should
pari*
'Part! Lily, that is an awful
word. My love for you has made
me sin as I have done ; is there ni
repentance? May 1 never hope thai
you will follow mo ami sweeten my
exile V
'I can promise nothing.'
' But you will forgive mo?'
' Women have forgiven who have
suffered more terribly than I— more
terribly than I shall suffer. God
grant that you will sincerely repent,
and that he will be merciful to you
during the life that is before you.'
They parted ; and when the 'Santa
I' was being towed out of the Avon
Lily was still tossing in her bed
alone with the first deep grief she
ha 1 known. She got to Bleep at
last, and then the sails of the ship
were unfurled, and Luigi Amato
wis safe from the hands of his pur-
suers.
* • » »
The good ship 'Santa Fe' never
put into barb >ur again. Some
months afterwards a bottle
picked up i>y a peasant on the coast
of Inland. In it was a slip ot
paper on which the following words
were written. 'Ship sinking fast.
No chance of escape, (.lod have
mercy on us all !— L. A.'
i !
I I
I Iraw H( nl'v.j
JIOW I SET ABOUT PA VINO MV DBBTB
\\ OXFORD 5T0K1
LONDON SOCIETY.
MAY, 1867.
HOW I SET ABOUT PAYING MY DEBTS.
<3n e&jrfortr §?tav\j.
r 0W my dear Frank,' said my
father, replenishing his glass
the while with some very particular
port the old butler had brought out
that evening in my honour, ' as you
start for Oxford early to-morrow, I
may as well say now what little I
wish to say to you respecting the
important step you are about taking
in entering university life.'
1 took some filberts and listened
attentively.
' The social advantages of the
university,' continued my father,
'are, I hold, of very great import-
ance ; but I do not wish you to
sacrifice its educational advantages
to — to — it's ahem ! '
'Oh, no! certainly not,' I inter-
posed (somewhat vaguely, perhaps).
' So I shall expect you to take
your degree in the usual course :
if as a mere pass-man, well and
good ; if with honours, all the better.
Although you will not have to earn
your bread (in the accepted use of
the term), you will find such ad-
vantages of use.'
I assented to all this, inwardly
deriving no small consolation from
the fact that I should not be obliged
to encounter any examination at
once, as my matriculation had al-
ready been triumphantly accom-
plished.
' I shall allow you 500?. a year
and the expanses of a horse,' added
my father ; ' and I shall give orders
for you to be kept supplied with
sound and wholesome port. On
this I shall expect you to live with-
out incurring any debts. If you do
run into debt, you must discharge
VOL. XI. — NO. LXV.-
all such liabilities out of your own
earnings.'
One of my father's great charac-
teristics was firmness. His was
genuine firmness, and it had no-
thing to do with its weak counter-
feit, obstinacy. I knew that he
meant what he had said about my
paying all debts by my own earn-
ings, and that it had not been added
merely for the purpose of giving
weight to his warning, or season-
ing his advice with the condiment
called ' solemn chaff.' Of course I
had no intention then of incurring
debts ; but I felt that I should have
to accept the alternative if I did.
A few words shall dismiss my
university experiences. Five hun-
dred a year, with the expenses of
a horse (to this a servant was added),
and a gratuitous supply of port
wine, seemed in contemplation a
mine of wealth that would be fully
equal to all my necessities. So,
relying on the plenitude of my
resources, I started a second horse,
and even a third during the hunting-
season. I liked (in common with
all other Oxonians I ever made ac-
quaintance with) easy-chairs and
luxurious furniture. I was fond of
looking at handsomely-bound books,
if I did not read them very care-
fully; and good pictures I had
quite a passion for. In music I took
great delight ; so a grand pianoforte,
hired at a rate that would have
paid its price once a year, formed a
conspicuous feature in my rooms.
All these likings (and many others
of an expensive nature might be
added), together with a great taste
2
886
Dote I set about Paying my Dtb(3.
for pleesanl and genial society, Buf-
i to render my can er an expi n-
thing 1 can con-
•;ti< >nsl_v ;i\ ( r: if money was
ted thought!* ssly on capricious
whims and pli osun b, it was not
wasted on an; thai could he
is. The result
of nil this liture may lie
I \ ...- i ■ l ; but in
• i with
the examin( rs the university rules
nbligi '1 me to engage in I may say
that the formi r always 'lit '1 game.
I I irgel those lust final
rounds, cond - that awful
n table, when all one's mental
pugilistic sci< ace was brought into
play to make a very partial know-
ledge reach the whole length of a
subject; while enthusiastic friends,
with mistaken kindness, looked on in
bn athl< sil< ace, and i ucouraged
me with smiling or ima-
ginary pats on the lack, as 1 tiu
towards them with a sickly smile of
recognition, and hollow pretence of
Bui ; ■ ome wh< n all th<
ordi ale bad been eafelj and
I was going to 'pul on my gown '
next > I sent round
t i: j •.;:, ious Mils, deter-
mining to 1 i l to
arrive al an exa my
(ion. .' o< persuasion,
the i in th( ir bills,
not to ask for paj mi nt, bu1 |
their confidence in my
ency. After two or
tin-, e efforts in addition i compound)
thai broughl each time varying re-
.1 an iv< 1 at thi sion
that 1 owed nearly iool. 31y Gather's
red to
first time, and I set
If to v di ring how I could
i .un it l. ' ■ i ■ ■■
n m
ii the whole m by
the tii •
as 1 I • my
oth< ' circum
1 di thought as imj
ble. A brightei rled.
I would ' I my
aoquain
go. Certainly the..
honours mi a, and not heirs to
baronetcii b and ten or twenty thou-
sand a year. But I might si ek oni
in the guise of an ordinary B.A., and
none need know thai my prospects
in life pointi d to the po si ssion of a
very old in!'', and far-spreading
ti s in two v. i tern counties, not
to mention a stn el in Mayfair and
a 1 use in Belgian i i.
• But you will wanl testimonials,
and • t. of thing, yon know/
said Hatfield, of B iliol, with whom
[ was disi mj pi in i over a
i ar.
'Grantham, my coach, will
manage thai for mo, I have no
douht,' I answere 1.
' Well, if you gi t any decent
thing, or keep it for two months,
I'm in for a plough,' he observed.
B aring these words in mind, it
was with a fi i »f justifiable
pride that, a few mornings after, 1
carried some half-a-dozen letters in
my hand to w bere I was
going to I'll akfast. I had called at
tin I mi ii on in> way, to look at the
letter-rack; and I must confei
g of considerable surj
u I 1 1 laid there sundry mis-
sives bearing the mystic initials I
had adopted in my odvertia ment
in the ' < luardian.'
• By return o too!' I in-
wardly exclaimed. 'Parents must
take the bait vi t tutors
must 1> .' I hurried av
as I was late, without opening them,
; lis pli asing ta^k for
Hatfii Id's rooms and presi ace.
' Is it a dun that I see before
me?' crii d thai gentleman, as i
i nil red, li tters in band.
• Behold the triumphs of ad>
g and ( ducation !' I rejoined,
showing the Ii tti i in triumph.
Alas ! tin all circulars
from who would be happy to
place \. Q.'i oami i n their ri
I looked rati er 1 1 had
no fa i uting my bi arch
after employmi nt in this manner.
' Tin re i no barm in it, you
know,' Baid Elatfii Id ; ' but, ot i on
unli BS B II all honours I i
and you
i take what they send you, or
nothing at all.'
How £ set about Paying my Debts.
387
But I was not reduced to this;
for Grantham, to whom I had con-
tided my plan, called at my rooms
during the day, and offered a so-
lution of the difficulty.
' If you are really in earnest about
this, I think I kuow of a thing that
will exactly suit you. It is to pre-
pare a young fellow for Oxford.
They want a man who is a gentle-
man, up to the work, and fond of
country sports, hunting, &c. But
what would your father say to your
taking a private tutorship ? Boes
he know of your plan ?'
' It is the result of an agreement
between us respecting my running
into debt,' I explained. 'I shall
write and tell him what I have done
when I have undertaken an engage-
ment.'
'But, if Sir Grahame objects,
would you throw a place up '?'
'He would not allow me to act
dishonourably/ I answered; 'and
were I engaged I must accept the
consequences.'
' Very well : if you are determined
to risk it, I can offer you a tutor-
ship in the family of a General
Gawston, of Gawston Flats, Norfolk,
where you will have one pupil to
look after, be resident in the house,
and receive a salary at the rate of
i sol. a year. They are in want of
a man immediately.'
I caught at the bait, and in return
it caught me. My father, to whom
I wrote at once, to communicate
my having entered into this engage-
ment, replied that, had he been
consulted prior to my biudirjg my-
self, he would not have consented
to such a plan ; but that now, as the
engagement was already formed, I
must fulfil it; at all events, until
another tutor could be found. I
bad been imprudent in accepting a
situation not befitting my station ;
but I must now abide by my im-
prudence, &c.
There was one thing in favour ot
my concealing my real position in
life while at Gaw.-don Flats. My
father, once Sir Grahame Luxton,
had several years before assumed
the additional name of Benreston on
coming into a large property, left
by a distant relative, on the con-
dition ot his taking tlie name. This
condition did not bind the children,
however ; and so my sisters and
myself were Luxtons, as we pre-
ferred retaining the name of our
ancestors, a more ancient and honou li-
able one too, by-the-by, as my father
always took care to impress on us.
I determined not to visit Luxton
Court before leaving for Gawston
Flats, as I must confess that, now
my plan of getting a tutorship was
accomplished, I felt an unacknow-
ledged regret that I had so easily
succeeded ; and I sometimes wished
I had set about paying my debts
in a different way. Feeling that
the home air and style at Luxton
would hardly suit me under the
circumstances, and possibly fearing
some banter from my father, I left
Oxford as soon as I could ; and in a
few days I was driving across the
country (flat and uninteresting to
my western eyes) that led from
Mudhole Station to Gawston Flats.
On my arrival about half-past five
in the evening, I was ushered at
once to my bedroom', and I sat down
by the acceptable fire to have a
good warm. All at once the thought
came into my mind, ' How about
going down to dinner ? Is the tutor
usually there ? Boes he wear full
dress ? The servant said nothing
about dinner time.' Solving these
questions by the reflection that a
tutor was still a gentleman, and
feeling hungry, I determined to
dress and go down. So I rang for
my portmanteau, and found that
Colonel Gawston dined at seven.
It was dark when I had arrived,
but a hurried glance had shown me
that the place was evidently a gentle-
man's ; and this impression was
confirmed when I wandered down
about a quarter to seven, and beat
about among some doors in the hall
for that one which belonged to the
drawing-room. Taking a lucky shot
at one with a white handle, I entered
a large, well-lighted room. A lady,
not unpleasant looking, but dressed
very severely in black velvet, rose
from a chair near the fire.
'Mr. Luxton, I presume,' she
said, rising.
I bowed, deriving some comfort
from the fact that she betrayed no
surprise at seeing me.
2 C 2
388
If tr I st i about Paying my D<U*.
• C ' Iims only just
■ ■ in, or be would have seen yon
continn shaking
1 1 ■ i : i ■ i s with mi'. ' Jfou in
liiul a col •■ y take that
ol air by tl i fire.'
1 did bo, and we cbatted on v< ry
f the l
. c was mi-
ll.' gre< ted me very
just a little
Btifflj and thi a l gave Mrs.
t law -ton my arm, and we went in
to dinner. I cai . I Felt quite
at my n my i ew positi »n; but
it interfere with my
app 1 dinni r i ass< '1 off with
sufficient com on
betwe in the com
• Mr. Luxton, you will take some
more porl ?' said Colonel Gawston,
i filled his glass, and drew his
■ near the fire, on the departure
of his wife for the drawing-n
I follow,. I in-, example in each
'We have never bad a resident
tutor before,' be continued : ' and
we are anxious to make you as
as we can. We Bhall
a! a; ipany at
dinni r al b< vi n, if you prefer dii
but we hope you will quite
ilt your own inclination al
that Vour pupil you will Bee when
we t.'o to tin' drawing-r n, I
llf remaim d out longer than
1 did. To-moi row we can an
further details, b
I never forg< t my first
morning over tl e books with my
new pupil. He was a veryniceboy,
but with a i c nversational
fa ndei j . 1 thought, as I tried bard
to I*' ■ p liis mind (and my own
fixed "ii thi work in hand,
would br< ik off suddenly from some
if I had kepi at
ird, or if the proctors had i
.ii on me. Once or tv. i I
ion i i f tripping, and onlj
i. dy to run on into the nnclassical
■: such qui lioi sog-
I, while Hoi i Euri]
but forgotfa n l" '
• Plon :
morning about a w
Inding
the placo (always b long husincps),
re commencing to translate.
' Who? 1 ask,, I.
'I my sister, you know.
Tt is always jollier when she is here.
You ought to see her ride. Most
girls i al muffs, I think ; but
Isn't a bit.'
1 heard a little more of Florence,
i did not see her until dinner-
time. We bad taken our si ats wl en
she i ntered, and hurrii My took a
chair opposite inc. Mrs. ( lawston
murmure 1 the customary words,
and we bowed acn bs the table. I
com, ri ation was ■. i di ral, as our
partj - Bmall. Miss < iawston,
who I found was grown up and not
the e i\ hoydenisfa young lady
her brothers description 1; id led
me to exi ned in ii fn i ly, and
we found Beveral things to say to
another across the table. I
thought her extremely pleasant, I
remember, and remarkably pretty.
Bhe I about nineteen, and bad
jusl r, turned, 1 found, to my horror,
from a visit to some iri< nds in the .
' My daughter tells me she met
some Miss Luxtons while Bhe was
away. Are they ai 9 of
ton. I
may Bay tt al thai lady and 1 ■
on very | rms ; but I bad
every evening lunter the
. ity of black velvet ( I used to
wonder whether Bhe had but ■
md to feel my teeth on edg
if by any chance mj hand touched
marched in to
dinner.
' The daughtei ■ t Qrahame
Penreston/ explained Mies (iawston.
I fell very n da [explained that
they ' being really my Bisti i (
and tin n I made a
vigorous effort to change the con-
V( I- it loll.
the Colonel and I entered the
draw eated
at the pianoforte, w ing the
vnai i, ft
1 inata. ' < '. pray
do not stop,' I cm, ,1, as Bhe ps
on our ( ntrance ; 'thai movement
is more ti an beautiful.' Tims
continued, then on to
and la ti\ the brilliant Hondo
lid Btj le. 1 was dellghfa ,i.
How I set about Paying my Debts.
389
' You are fond of music,' sho said.
'Very.'
'You play, perhaps, or sing?'
'I play the violin, and I sing to a
certain extent.' I was longing for
her to ask me to bring my violin
down. I saw a music-volume close
by labelled 'Violin and Pianoforte.'
Mrs. Gawston sat funereal, sta-
tuesque, and immovable. Colonel
Gawston was asleep, and his son
reading Mayne Eeid's something or
other. Miss Gawston was trifling
with the keys, possibly sho feared
asking the tutor such a thing. I
was desperate. 'Shall I fetch my
violin and music,' I said. Without
waiting for an answer I went. The
next moment we had commenced,
and during the evening we played
together, and then, emboldened by
this beginning, we sang together.
What happens once usually hap-
pens twice, and the next evening we
occupied ourselves in the same way.
Not always only in the evening
though, but many a stray half-hour
during the day we found time for a
little music. Then, also, she rode
very well ; and as her brother and I
rode almost daily, we often found
ourselves taking the same direction ;
so altogether I saw a good deal of
Miss Gawston. Need I tell the re-
sult ? Before a fortnight was over
I was deeply in love, and my inten-
tion of recommending Colonel Gaw-
ston to look out for another tutor
was unfulfilled. We often met be-
fore dinner in the library, where
there was a large Japanese screen
that shut out the door. Moving
very slowly towards the room one
evening near dinner time, I over-
heard some words that made me
pause before entering, and cough
violently, if not affectedly, in order
that my presence might be known.
' Ahem ! my dear ' — the voice was
Colonel Gawstoii's — 'don't you think,
my dear, that Mr. Luxton is— ahem
— rather, just a little, perhaps not
prudently, intimate with Florence?'
' I have thought so, certainly,' re-
sponded his wife ; ' and I was very
ghid this morning to receive an in-
\itation from Lady Fitz-Pedigry for
her, as it will take her away at once.
1 have accepted it for her, and I
thought of going with her to town
to-morrow or the day after to see
Madame Valenciennes, as she '
At this moment 1 interrupted the
good lady by entering the room, dis-
concerting her rather by my sudden
appearance.
The words I had overheard deter-
mined me to learn my fate from
Miss Gawston before she left, as I
felt that, under any circumstances,
it was impossible for me to stay
much longer at Gawston Flats in
my present false position. If I
could not gain a personal interview
I determined to write to her; and
that night I wrote a candid letter,
which I purposed sending her if no
opportunity for private conversation
presented itself. But fate was kind,
and the next morning I met Miss
Gawston accidentally in the garden
about an hour before breakfast-time.
The result was that she did not ap-
pear at breakfast, and that when we
rose from that meal I requested a
few minutes' private conversation
with the Colonel. Never shall I for-
get his look of indignant amazement
when he learnt that his son's tutor
had proposed to his daughter, and
that with success.
' Mr. Luxton, when I engaged
you,' he said, ' there was one thing
I was assured of most emphatically,
and that was that you were a gen-
tleman. This is not the conduct of
a gentleman to enter my house, to
undermine the affections of my
daughter, to entrap her into an en-
gagement! Sir, you should have
thrown up your situation here rather
than have done this.'
I felt he had justice on his side.
As far as he knew, I was nothing
but a penniless suitor who had
abused his peculiar position by using
the many opportunities it afforded
him of making love to a young lady,
a reputed heiress of apparently
superior social rank. I could not
help being amused, nevertheless, as
I reflected how different his tone
would have been had he known all.
Something prompted me not to tell
him yet, but to go on pressing my
suit without advancing at once the
real claims I had to back it. We
were still in the midst of the dis-
cussion, the matter was seemingly
going hopelessly against me, when
390
*
lioxc 1 set about faying my Dtl>ts.
a sharp kimck at the dooi inter-
rupted our debate. ' < tome in,* said
• tolonel, impatiently. \ • rvanl
red Willi ;i 11 >te. It was a 1
gram calling thi i I at once to
t iwn on important business, mili-
tary. I think be Baid.
' Mr. I.uxt li. I must p
matter tint il my return, he said,
ly, looking at his watch. ' I
n it more th in t< □ minutes to
spara I app al to yout bonour not
to make any untair use Oi this un-
fortunate interruption/ lit passed
out of the room. A mv, ■ ruck
me, and 1 followed quickly.
• I had thought oi going to town
this afternoon for the night, ami
Rupert expressed a wish to accom-
pany me,' 1 Baid; 'will you allow
him to dc SO? 1
'Certainly; said the Colonel, look-
ing relieved. 'It you wish it, you
iit remain away longer, not ne-
trily in town ot course, merely
Letting -Mrs. Gawston know where
Rupert is.
' Rupert, do you mind just coming
with me to Belgrave Square first,' 1
: to my pupil asw< alighted from
tin: train.
• i Hi, i the i'' ply, and so we
were Boon rattling away in a li
som to my lather's town house,
' Surely that's you,' said Rupert,
ing at a photograph lying on
the bible in the drawing-room, where
were waiting tor my lather to
appear.
' Vi -, T am friendly here,' I rc-
plied, getting red. ' It' you will hike
a b i >k for five minutes I shall havo
tran i my bn with Sir
< rrahame.' I mov< -l toward a the
I, andthi
of t ■ ■ walk il in.
' My dear Frank, I hardly exp ch d
•;i.' he said, as he < nt< red.
1 You are lookh well indi
in Bpite ot your teaching Labours.
I hope yOU have throw ii that foolish
■ up.' Be Btopp d .
caught sight of Ru]
' Let me introduce my pupil to
I said.
■ You will both dine h< re to-night,
of course, an I
shaking hands with Rupert ' I am
going to Luxton to-morrow by tho
i 1.4s tram ; couldn't yon CO 06 I
A change will do you good, and
your .-1 ters will be delighted to
you. They are under the impression
that you are abroad, and I have not
undeceived them. You will join us
too, 1 hope, Mr. < rawston.'
It was so arranged, and the next
day we started tor Luxton. In the
mi anwhili Ru| erl , w ith somi
wondex bul 1 e was too well-bred a
DOJ to make many remi
il Sir I Irabame Pi ori Bton was
my lather, and I saw him writing ■
1 that evening, probably to his
mother or sister. 1 felt very much
disposed to write to the latter, hut I
rmined to wait until w<
Luxton. It is hardly necessary to
that, without abusing the Co-
lonel s appeal to my honour, I had
managed to let Florence know before
1 left that the obstacles in our way
were not as insuperable as they ap-
p ( an d.
Arrived at Luxton Court, I wrote
to Mrs. Gawston, having previously
enlightened my lather as to the true
state ol affairs. The Gawstons, it
not as ancient a family as ours, were
einiiu ntlj n i" ctable,and my Lai
who could make no objecti
■< d to be unmerciful in the way
ol banter. 'A fine way to pay your
debts mdi ed ! be concludi a bj
ing. 'I called on my lather in
town, 1 wrote in my letter to Mrs.
(law-ton, 'and he gave US an invita-
tion down here, WtUCh I took the
liberty to acci pt hup' it and I
prop in- in re two nights be-
fore returning again to the Flats.
ter to Miss Gawston,
which 1 hope you will not object
to hand over to her, and I trust
that you will all pardon the slight
di eeption 1 have practised on you/
A>\ The li tter was given to Miss
Gawston, and, as the reader may
conclude, no furthi r objecti
made to our engagemi at Before
three months were over wo were
mat 1
' And how about the debts?' does
any one ask.
Well, my father paid them.
D.N.
w
w
e-<
Eh
W
En
M
a
w
Q
O
O
391
GOLDSMITH AT THE TEMPLE GATE.
GOLDSMITH, returned to Temple Gate,
"Waits till the drowsy porter opens.
The night is cold, the hour is late —
His wealth no pounds, no shillings, no pence!
Weary, he seeks his lone abode —
But now the butt of wits at dinner —
And his last guinea has bestowed
Upon some straying, starving sinner !
"What docs he ponder, standing there
At midnight dark, and cold, and stilly ? —
That life is but a highway bare —
Bleak, bitter, desolate, and chilly ;
That while the busy, thoughtless rout
Bush this way — that way— twenty more ways,
Poor feeble wretches, falling out,
Die all unheeded in the doorways.
That Genius oft must 'pad the hoof/
While Dulness soars on banknote pinions
(That — scarce affords to hire a rocf,
This — is the heir of vast dominions) ;
That, when a quarrel is begun,
It is not always Wrong begins it ;
That, when the fight is fought and won,
It is not always Bight that wins it ;
That Virtue oft is punished sore,
And Vice struts off with stars and garters ;
That man by Truth sets little store,
And Sham can boast a crowd of martyrs;
Yet that — howe'er our life is cast —
One solacing, unfailing trust is
That restitution comes at last —
The end is God's eternal justice !
And therefore that our steps are led
When most it seems they're straying blindly !-
Such thoughts perchance are in his head,
Sprang of a gentle heart, and kindly.
That head will throb— that heart will ache
Its last ere long ; and Goldsmith's mourners
Their tearful way shall hither make
From twenty different nooks and corners.
For when at length life's tether broke —
(How many men might wish it their case !)—
A crowd of simple, loving folk
Sat sobbing on the gusty staircase :
392 Goldsmith at the Temple Gale.
And Reynolds, Johnson, Burke — the men
From whom the times their glory borrow—
Laid by the brash -flung down the pen,
And wept turn with a genuine sorrow.
That was an giant wits,
Who as a child wen- wont to hold him:
But now, ' poor Goldy,' where he sits
Must smile to see how we've enrolled him.
We crown the hi roes of his days,
Bui in tlic midst of them we place him,
And while to them our hats wo raise,
for him!— our open arms embrace him I
So Goldsmith died :— and with him died
The pensions of sod retainers.
For whom he oft himself denied —
Toor ragged, wretched Drury Lancrs!
He died in debt! But left mankind
The heirs to an abundant treasure,
The writings of a master mind,
A gcDius gifted past all measure !
They say he owed two thousand, quite!
3 1 i who ahout the sum w r ould bicker?
More than a living was his right,
"Who gave us the immortal Vicar!
How can we count a price thai paya
For the enchantment that bewitched us?
How can we worthily appraise
The lavish fancy that enriched us?
The sighs and laughter, tears and smiles,
The which his cunning way to win is —
His gentle je.-ts, his pleasant v\iles,
All goiDg for two thousand guineas!
What churl would C r their songs begrudgo
Fruit to the blackbirds and the thrushes?
Goldsmith a debtor! Nay— adjudge
How much we owo to him— with blushes!
Pi ace to your i little Noll/
You ' like an angel ' talk, not writo, now.*
Gn al Hi- n of i, 1 1 . is to extol —
Not satiri all unite now.
on a dl ftthl) B8 liaiilO—
tendi c ii collection.
! i the tame,
I'd only ask fur the affection!
T. n.
• ' WLo irreU 1 like poor Poll.' — Gar; ' iph,
393
VISITS IN COUNTRY HOUSES.
No. III.
AFTER having mutually fol-
lowed their own devices, Mrs.
D aud her son Arthur agreed
to meet at Hornby Castle, where
the Duke of Broadlands entertained
a large party, to celebrate the
coming of ago of his eldest son,
Lord Proudacre.
Hornby Castle well represented
the family to whom it had belonged
for so many years. It was a stately,
turreted castle, which had been
built about a century ago, on the
site of an old house which, for many
generations, had satisfied the more
mode-rate requirements of those who
were then lords of the manor of
Hornby ; for ' Hornby Manor ' had
not then developed into ' Hornby
Castle.' It was left to after gene-
rations to form alliances, and accu-
mulate wealth and land, which
placed the Duke of Broadlands on
a level with the most noble and
wealthy. By a marriage with the
greatest heiress of her day, and the
sole representative of an ancient
house, whose alliance had been
universally courted for many pre-
ceding generations, thoy took the
name of ' Goldust ;' and after adding
field to field, and enlarging their
borders, they pulled down the old
house, which had sheltered them
and theirs with its ancient respec-
tabjlity for so long a time, and
whose walls had resounded with
the merry voices of all the children
who had grown up under its roof,
and built a gorgeous castle, which,
as we have already said, well repre-
sented the estate of its noble occu-
piers. It was a handsome building,
if turrets and towers, and a huge
mass of masonry, covering a con-
siderable area, constitute beauty of
any kind. All who appreciate what
is genuine, and hate pretension,
turned away from it, if not with
disgust, at all events with dissatis-
faction at there being so little to
interest them. It was impossible
to help being attracted by its im-
mensity. It overawed the beholder
as it stretched itself out along the
valley, occupying, with its stablesand
outbuildings, which were all built
in the same massive and imposing
style, with its gardens, and lawns,
and pleasure-grounds, a vast extent
of land, infinitely greater than any
one would suppose from merely
looking down upon it from the
heights above. Nature had proved
herself a kind friend to Hornby
Castle, for nothing could surpass
the beauty of the park and its sur-
rounding scenery. Wood and water,
fern, heather, and gorse, undulating
ground, well-wooded hills protecting
it from the cruel north winds ; and
on the southern side an extensive
view over a rich and beautifully-
wooded country, which melted away
into the blue distance of the far
horizon. Such a prospect could
rarely be seen, and many an eye
rested on it in silent pleasure, glad
to turn away from the castle itself,
which afforded so little interest. All
that wealth could accomplish had
been done to adorn the castle. In-
side and out it told of money, but,
great and imposing as it was, it
sunk into less than insignificance in
the presence of Nature.
Hornby Castle now appeared in
its most attractive form; for so
large a house, filled as it was
throughout, from top to bottom,
and in every nook, with a goodly
assemblage of persons of all ages,
bent upon enjoying themselves, and
doing all possible honour to the
occasion which called them together,
could not fail in affording amuse-
ment and pleasure to its guests. It
was so large that, when fully in-
habited, it seemed almost to contain
the population of a small town ; and
this circumstance in itself was a
security for success, because every
one was sure to find some congenial
society. The young are easily
pleased, and ready to find some
good in everything. To them every
cloud has a silver lining; and no-
thing is wholly evil in their eyes.
But their elders are neither so
easily satisfied nor so well disposed.
304
Visits in Count ri/ 11
They arc moro critical, and moro
■ — inure somi thing Which
hrtei with Um ir i njoymi nt of
life. Bui at Hornbj he most
bave in i n very crabbed and hard to
please who could opt find something
pleasant and congenial in the vai
ty w hich was now eoll< cted in
honour of Lord Proudacre'a ha\ ing
attained his majority. Bfothi rs with
loy< ly daughb re- -and of course all
mothers think th< ir daughters lovely
— were in a flutter of delight, fox
who could tell that the young mil-
lionaire might not be epri» with ono
dt them? At all events, it was not
impossible, and, to many minds,
what is not absolutely impossible
S "in In com< s hop lul. It hail 1h in
a profitable lime lor the milliners,
for no expense was spared by tho
' chaperons ' to emb illish the ap-
ince of their lovely charges.
Everything that could set off their
wares to the best advantage on
important an occasion was
universally voted to l»o money
well spent, which might, possibly,
return a bigh inten t. Thi re was
vulgar Lady < !h< Bterford with
her daughter, no longer young, lmt
i i the gift
:l youth, and who always
: the lasl and mosl popular
friend,' as if
all the ii il v.i iv 1 ild t i lv her
companions, she was always, like
1m r mother, dressed in the most
fa hi'iii : and it was said, and
lieved, that po ir Lord
■I'd, who had nothing lmt
ln's pension as a retired and now
dated chancellor, found
liiin : ly Bwamp d by the cost-
ly of Hi' i ■!'
wife aial danghb r. Ee wi
somewl ' man, bul could t. 11
well ; aid hi.- ting
ibtained for him a
imount • Ii- was
ono of tin- Duke of Broadlands'
political IV
i to n •
to settle the affairs of the al
which, if the i »n of t
solemnity of their
manner might l ■ mw indi-
m <ii its condition, it might be
inferred that the country was on
the very verge of ruin. Then tl
was lady I Hardy and lier
daughter, who is one ot the beauties
Of the day, hut who, for Some iliex-
plicable reason, is not popular.
Whether she is dull or ill-tempi re i
it is impossible to say, hi cause
opinion is divided, lmt she has not
the Buccess to which her beauty
entitles lnr. Her mother was a
oelebrated beauty, but not over-
wise; audit was always said that
lnr husband was not sorry to die,
and used to --ay, with a
enU if/,-' in his words, that he had
prayed for many years for his re-
i. Mr. and Ladj Barbara Bucket
and their son and daughter con-
tributed their share to the enter-
tainment of the e impany at Hornby
Castle. She was an ambitious
woman, who was always aiming at
being tho grand of the county
in which sho livid. She was a
di creel woman, for she never let
any one know the inside of her
mind. It wa possible it had no
inside; lmt if it had she guarded it
well, so that no one should look
into it. She had an < ternal smile,
of a peculiar hind, in which the
thin upper lip sei mi d Lost in teeth;
and say what you would, of sorrow
or joy, you w< re sun- )■. he
ly the : one inexpret rive smile.
||< r sole object in life was to 1m come
the reigning queen of Swampshire.
Her husband was a man who
lived upon the news he gl< am d
from otb< r mi n, and he had a
peculiar way of cri i ping up to
people who were « Dgaged in con-
versation, thai he might Nam the
Subject of it. Mis thirst for inform-
ation was unbounded, and he was
gem rally known as ' the Swamp-
shire Ik i-.' He would l
made an admirable reporter had
his lot in life be isl differently.
As it was, he was always welcomed
hy tho e who live upon other p ople's
affairs, and room wa always made
for him in ei rtain coteries of b a-
drinking eld< rly women, w ho in-
variably greeted him hy faying,
' Ah, here's Mr. Buc is sun!
to know all about it He w ill tell
< >h, Mr. Bucket, we are so glad
i. Have you heard wl eth< t
it is true thai I '. Jon< I called
her husband Sir H< ury un oM fool,
Visits in Country Houses.
395
because ho lost thirty shillings at
whist to Sir Ralph Gambler? And
do you know whether it is true that
Lord and Lady Goosey are going to
be separated because they are al-
ready tired of each other ? You are
sure to know, because you know
everything.' Then Mr. Bucket
would twiddle his watch-key, and
would say that he 'did not know,
but had heard,' &c. All these
people furnished a fund of amuse-
ment to those who appreciated their
propensities, or liked to play them
off for the entertainment of others.
Mrs. D- and her son were such
pleasant, cheery, and unpretentious
people that they were always well
received ; besides which they were
so pleasant to themselves and one
another, that they were, without any
effort on their part, agreeable com-
pany generally. Mrs. D , who
had a natural gift for private
theatricals, was in great request;
and as she loved burnt cork, foot-
lights, and everything connected
with the stage, she was in her
element at once, ready to give a help-
ing hand wherever it was wanted.
She could improvise a dress out of
very scanty materials, and could
compose the most successful pro-
logue on the shortest notice. She
could arrange a tableau with true
artistic skill; and as tableaux and
private theatricals were a part of
the programme of the festivities,
she was in hourly requisition — the
referee on all disputed points, who
could, with her consummate tact,
make people do exactly what they
were required to do. She and her
son Arthur, in the meanwhile, enter-
tained themselves each day by
comparing notes, and commenting
on the events as they occurred ;
and the daily reunions between
mother and son were the best com-
mentary of the proceedings which
took place on the momentous occa-
sion of Lord Proudacre's attaining
his majority.
Not only in the immediate neigh-
bourhood of Hornby Castle, but
throughout the length and breadth
of the county of Tuftunshire the
Duke of Broad lands was held in
great awe and respect. His word
was Jaw; his disapproval a grave
calamity. Surrounded by small
squires and self-important clergy,
he reigned like a king over the
whole county ; aud they who were
so fortunate as to be admitted
within the gracious precincts ot
Hornby Castle, and into the Duke's
confidence, were the envy of all
their neighbours, and themselves
elated at the notice that was taken
of them. It was quite a tradition
in the county that the mind of his
Grace, on all local politics, should
be taken before any one would
venture to move in any matter;
and when, on a certaia memorable
occasion, one of the squires of
Tuftuntshire presumed to have an
opinion of his own, and to endeavour
to maintain it against the Duke
of Broad lands, the whole of that
deferential county was aghast at
his presumption, and was in haste
to propitiate the favour of the
Duke, and assure him that it was
but an isolated instance of a man
daring to think for himself. The
clergy and the gentry were, in fact,
more or less dependents of the great
man. They who were in favour
were flattered by it to their very
bent, and they who were not lived
on hoping, even against hope, that
their turn might come some day.
The submissiveness and deference
of these good people, their anxiety
to propitiate the rising sun, and to
do all honour to the Goldust family,
was a source of great amusement
to Mrs. D and her son, who
commented on the flunkeyism of
these country folk in no measured
terms.
' Mother,' said Arthur D one
day, as he sat in Mrs. D 's room,
in the interval before dressing- time,
talking over the events of the day,
and canvassing the various guests
who had arrived, — 'Mother, did you
see what a fix that poor Mr. Luvtin
was in when the " great man " called
on him to repeat what he was saying
to that young liberal, Harry Phree-
think V How he stammered and
spluttered; and how sold he was
when Harry, enjoying the fun, said
that Mr. Laivtin was agreeing with
him in thinking that there should
be an extension of the franchise, but
that they had only as yet agreed
39G
Visits in Country Hbu$e$.
that a l>ill should l>o introduced,
hut had led the details.'
'Oh! 1 il was it. then, thai made
the Duke give one of his oruiuous
" All's !'"
■ V. - ; and <li'l y.»u poo how it
shut up i r old I.uvtin ? I ]i
tlic man. He wonl b1( p it wink
while he is in the hou i, bi cause he
will has regularly put his
foot into it. How I did enjoy it.
though!*
' I: though, my dear
Arthur, of your friend Harry to
maki so much 11
' Mischief, mother ! v hy, bless you,
it will blow over in no time.'
' Never, Arthur. The Duke never
allows ti . to think for tin m-
. if I mistake not,
Mr. Luvtin has one of the Duke's
livin
Arthur pave no reply, pave a pro-
longed whistle.
' What are you going to do,
■I r, al out that ; I
He'll Di vi r know his part, and ho
is such an awful stick. In that
ne with Eva Robarts (by
Jove, mother, what a pretty
she i provokes mo out of all
patii i;
' No doubt, my hoy; I can well
Would you like i i I
his |
•fi 'I don't mean that.
I am no t such a fool as that. Why,
the girl has not a pennj . moth, i'.'
'1 admire your philosophy, Ar-
thur; ami, after all, '' her la se ifi her
fortune," a- the oldsoi • s.'
' I want to tother, who
ir,th it n ems to
bo such an authority in arranging
soiiK- of tin' tab
'J pt that ho is a
the Daohess's — her
own pet doctor th it n ars by,
an 1 who S6i DM to have the run of
the 1, ,',
• 1 b ite i he man !'
'Sodo I."
'Did 3 be tool hold of
Emily Fitzgibbon's chin, an 1
"A little more tl
moi Mil. Tl
; that will do. Now |
a little thrown lack; thank you.
Allow mo,''' and again the fellow
took hold of her elun to arrango
her as ho liked. I had no
patience with him.'
' And how did Emily Fitzgibbon
like it ''.'
'Like it! She looked as if she
could have knocked him down.
Did yon h< ar thai after it was over
she wtid up to Lady Lavinia Gol-
dust, and said she must decline
taking any further part in the
tableaux?'
'No: did She thotigh ! I wonder
whether that is really true, bees
. Proudacre Be ims rather taken
with her, and I don't somehow
think she would like to affront
them.'
'Perhaps not; but I can tell you
she was awfully put out; and when
that little doctor came forward after-
wards, to assure her that it was the
tableau of the evening, she
■•ely vouchsafed him any reply.
but gave him a look expressive of
ineffable contempt I think it was,
after all, your fault, mother.'
'Mine! How could it bo mine?
What could I have to do with that
man ?'
'Ton could have prevented his
inter!', ri
' Lady Lavinia and her moi
Q( d to us our prop r p'
and, as you know, I am mistress of
the i M l have to arrange all
about tl 1 am the gi nius
thai pi over calico, co
velvet, and the rouge-pot. Bui
there the dr< ssing-b II, and if
you don't hurry off I shall Dot be in
f.r dinner, and shall again
ud against the laws of Hornby
' le, Of which punctuality is one.'
' I ther, what a pompous,
stiff old prig he is.'
' Ye- ; ln;t a mosl kindle irte.l
man. I have known him do the
di rous acts, in spite of his
chara iter for stint and screw.'
' Well, I must he I shall
ad his mightim
ery day they sat down fifty h.
dime r. l mre was a magnifies nt
t.capal om-
modating avast number, and even
this large parly was not oul of pro-
portion to it. It wa buill of stone,
with richly groined roof, and hand-
some oak panelling i I one-
third of the walls. A huge fireplace
Visits in Country Houses.
397
and richly-carved stone- chimney-
piece filled up the centre of the
room, reaching almost up to the
ceiling ; while a large oriel window
opposite the fireplace, and another
of the same character, only larger
still, at right angles to it, added to
its appearance, It was one of those
rooms which strike the beholder
with awe. It require;! numbers to
be able to grapple with its oppres-
sive magnificence, and a smaller
party would have been silenced by
it. As it was, the room resounded
with the sound of merry voices,
and there was no lull in the laughter
and merriment that prevailed. The
first day the Duke of Broad lands
seemed bewildered by the unwonted
sounds, and, had he dared, would
have been tempted to read the Eiot
Act ; but his astonishment gave
way before the resolute determina-
tion of every one to enjoy himself,
and he w r as carried away by the
strong current, and found himself
at last taking part in the surround-
ing revelry.
As the Duchess left the dining-
room, she went up to the Duke and
begged him not to remain there
long, as so much had to be done in
the way of entertainment for the
large company of neighbours who
were expected to arrive for the
tableaux and ball which was to
succeed them.
The tenantry had been already
regaled in the most sumptuous
manner. The preceding day, which
was the important one in Lord
Proudacre's life, had been devoted
to feasting the tenants and the poor
on the estate. Each poor family
had beef and bread, plum-pudding
and beer, and a week's wages ; and
every cottage bore ample testimony
to the unwonted generosity and
liberality of the Duke of Broad-
lands. The tenants had been as-
sembled in a large iron room which
had been erected for the occasion,
and all the company at the Castle
dined with them, and it was gene-
rally voted to have been great fun.
The Duke relaxed somewhat from
bis wonted dignity of manner, and
actually condescended to some play-
ful witticisms in his intercourse
with his tenants. Lord Proudacre
acquitted himself moro than credit-
ably ; and there were tome who were
malicious enough to say that there
were indications of his views be-
coming more liberal than any which
bad hitherto prevailed at Hornby
Castle— a suspicion which never en-
tered the Duke's head, happily both
for himself and Lord Proudacre ; for
if such an idea had suggested itself
to him as a possibility, it must have
led to distrust and estrangement, as
the Duke looked upon political con-
sistency as the greatest of moral
virtues, and would have preferred
any esdandre to the abandonment
of the family tradition.
No sooner had the gentlemen left
the dining-room, than Mrs. D
was hurried off to her green-room,
where, with rouge-pot, paint, and
powder, she was soon busily em-
ployed in putting the finishing
touches to those who were to figure
in the tableaux. Dr. Medlar was
busy on the stage, in front of which
a large gold frame was fastened,
across the inside of which some
crape had been strained. But the
little doctor was the presiding
genius, giving offence to all save
the Duchess, who could see no fault
in her 'dear Doctor Medlar.' He
was a little man, with bright eyes,
a hook-nose, and brilliant com-
plexion; not unlike a Jew, very
unlike a gentleman, with effemi-
nate, would-be-insinuating manners.
Mrs. D was referred to very
often, because the spirit of rebellion
against the doctor was very general,
and none of the ladies, young or
old, liked to be twisted and twirled
about at his pleasure, as if they were
nothing better than lay figures.
There was the scene between
Jeanie and Effie Deans in prison ;
between Sir Henry Lee and Alice,
where she kneels at his feet, while
he sat in a wicker arm-chair, listen-
ing to a respectable old man whose
dilapidated dress showed something
of the clerical habit ; and another
in which the Fair Maid of Perth
listens, in an attitude of devout
attention, to the instructions of a
Carthusian monk. But one of the
happiest of all was a Dutch picture,
in which a family group was repre-
sented, some engaged in needle-
no?
Via&U t» Country Houses.
work, others playing at cards, while
some young< t on( b playe I with
on llif flu >r, as their
is sl< pt soundly in th< ir arm-
chairs, with half-emptied glasses l»y
their Bii I aping, the vi
dress* s. nil the tries t< >Kl so
well thai it took everj one bj but-
■ .1 ( licit* (1 the most enthu-
siastic appl se. After thi
ov< r, tin y adjourni d to the draw-
ing-rooms, and then reassembled
in the Baloon, where dancing was
kepi up until a late hour.
The ii' ll ii. nil: ng, Arthur 1)
felt disinclined to join the party in
rack* t-court, and, yawning from
sin er fatigue (for he had b< en in
gr< at requ< st for the tableaux, and
was an inveti rate dancer , be saun-
tered l( into his mother's
room, saj u g—
• Well, mother, will you bet ? Is
Proi Dg to many Emily
Fitzgibbon?'
'.Many Emily Fitzgibbon !— not
he. Why, no < roldusi ever married
;• Whig. The I luke would dieol it.'
' But, mothi r, t Uows Bometimi s
think for themselves on such mat-
'I' but that will nev< t
i e. I ahould pity her it thai v.
to take plac . foi Bhe would
have a comfortable berth ol it.'
' Why l
'Because the Duke takes upon
himself th< i bilitj of think-
all his family, and he would
r forgive the intrusion ol such
thorough Whig blood into his
he such a bigot in politics?'
' Y< s, indi i 'I i in politics, in reli-
gion, in i vi rything. Don't yon
in v. 1 .it awe beld by all
the county-] how they bow
and i crape wh< n they come within
a bundr< d yards ol him?'
1 By-the-by, di I you Bee what a
M, W III II
he di arlj i : over
with t
Mrs. »wi II ? Be Btammi red
his apol a - if bis losrt hope of
on the m ry \
an
awful fright.'
' Who is it you i king of,
Arthur? Ls it that round, chubby-
faced youth who asked you, when
you were iii tin 1 green-room, what
sort of tap they kepi at Hornby
' Vi s. fcher, the same. He was
the fellow you padded so nicely
for the sleepy Dutchman in the
•• Familj < rroup." '
1 1 remember ; and who has been
making such violent love to Blanche
( lien ford. 1
■ Exactly ; whenever, at least,
Mrs. Net rdowell will lei him.'
' By-the by, Arthur, \\ ho is that
Mrs. No rdow< 11 ? She is vi ry
pretty; but rather dangerous, isn'1
ahi
' \V< II, tin re arc all sorts ofstories
about her. Some say she is a widow ;
others that she is a div
'What? b at Hornby
Castle! Why, the very walls would
fall upon us it such a thing \
even Buspected. Bui what is she.-''
' I cannot tell : I have been try-
ing to find out. ' She came with
those Merewethers that the Duke
Was so ci\ il to.'
' And she is determined to I
our tat I lutchman l>y storm ; and
he, foolish fellow ! is flat < n d bj it
Arthur, you men are Billy fellows.'
' Because, dear mother, you wo-
men arc bo pleaeanl Isn't that it?'
' I don'1 know why it ie : only
that there is no man that
woman cannot make a fool of. S*on
rem< mb< r Samson ?'
Arthur lo< ked grave, and then
asked his mother when she intended
to Ii ave Hornby < lastle.
' J am rather tired of all this row.
DOl We take a small COl
somewhere, and rusticate a little
w Inlc 7 I don'1 care \\ In re it is. We
mighl get down some books I
Mudio's, and read and be qui I ; for
■ me that, whi rever one
\ i its in the country, one i .. sun to
find B8 much row and racl el as
tin n is in London with fewer op-
poi tumtii b ol escaping from if and
oi di ting w hat one lil
' But, my di ar Arthur, you
quit* \ it does it all mean ?
You did nol bud I at, \\ hen
came hi re for this special occa ion,
we should find the house i mpty, or
do nothing bul twiddle flng< r and
thumb from morning to night i
Visits in Country Houses.
399
was hero once, some years ago, when
there was scarcely any one hero but
ourselves, and I never shall forget
the pompous solemnity of it all.
Oh, no! take my word for it that
Hornby Castle is only bearable when
there is what you call a "row"
going on.'
' Ah, my dear mother, you are so
fond of society.'
' Fond of my own kind ? Yes,
and so will you be when you are as
old as T am. It is only the young
who think it a happiness to sit at
home and live upon themselves.'
'Not at all: I do not wish for
that. But just remember where we
have been. You found row and
racket at the Garringtons; I found
the same at Garzirjgton. And then
at Filey with the Splashfords, and
at Danesford with the Neverests ;
and now here there is not a mo-
ment's quiet. Morning, noon, and
night the top is made to spin.'
' But you were not any more con-
tented with your life in the High-
lands.'
'No; but that was for a dif-
ferent reason : because there was no
guiding hand to direct and arrange
what was to be done.'
' My dear boy, you are, like the
rest of your sex, never contented.'
'Indeed, no. I am not discon-
tented ; but I own that I like to sit
here with you, and '
« Grumble.'
' No, mother ; you are wrong.'
'What, then, do you call it? and
why should you be so weary ? I can
remember when you never could
have enough of it ; when I had to
run after Lady This, and Mrs. That,
to get invitations for you, and spent
a iortuno in note-paper to get you
into all the row and racket you now
profess to dislike.'
'Well, mother, it was so; and I
suppose that I have had enough of
it. " All work, and no play, makes
Jack a dull bey;" but I suspect,
all play would make him very sick.
But tell me — was it like this in your
day, when you were quite young ?'
'I am amused at the delicate way
in which you say quite young, as if
you wished to let me down easy.
No; things were very different in
my young days. We used to pay
longer visits than are now paid, and
visited at fewer houses. Travelling
was a more difficult and expensive
affair. We had more friends and
fewer acquaintances then. Now the
tables are turned, and friendships
are comparatively rare. It is all
owing to the facility of travelling,
which has made us more restless,
and more dependent upon excite-
ment.'
Mrs. D was not far wrong.
Steam has set society in motion ; and
go where we will, we find everything
in a state of progress. It is only
in such places as Hornby Castle,
weighted as it is by the pompous
old Duke of Broadlands, that things
seem to stand still ; and yet even
there, as w r e have lately seen, cir-
cumstances have proved too strong
for him ; and Hornby Castle will
live in Arthur D 's memory as a
place in which there was as little
quiet as could be found in other
places which are avowedly given up
to pleasure.
'&&
^>
400
TIIE LAST RUN WITH TIIE ITARRTERS.
IT was tlio very day after last
Christmas, when all England
had a bilious 1 . and Napo-
but known the pi
time, might have come oyer, landi d,
d, and diotati <1 a nero
■;n w indeor Castle, that Mr.
md himself the •
>r of 4000/. a year. I paw it in
his face. Hitherto, it must be Baid,
Mr. Felix ha 1 never be □ an inte-
resting person. Be had a poor wit.
Be had neither a good wine-cellar
nor a pretty sister, ami how there-
fore was he to win the respect of
his fellow men? But on this morn-
ing his dull, dry countenance under-
• a sort of transfiguration. When
he told me of his good fortune ho
became quito lovely in my 1 yes: ho
no more plain Mr. Felix, of
! c Strei 1, but a npbleand
handsome gentleman, whom any
one might be proud to know.
With a gushing gei • of con-
I e flew intoa n cital of what
he was about to his ni v. ly-
disc 1 ire. Be would buy
a hou-e in Ken1 ; he would go off to
a v. rchant'fl that very' day;
he would take in ' I Fii Id ;' lio
would purchase a stud, hut would
in by buying a flrst-rate bunt r.
ing in which an
unwary man may he so easily Bwin-
in buying a horse, and so,
out 1 pun good-nature, l old him
of mine.
Mr. Felix assume 1 the <"' of a
country gentleman with aoharming
tj ; I"-.' pressure of li
■ ra pre-
ted hi. '-"ing out witli
would i
I !l i ol I isl
ver, I i I intima-
I 1 mighl Bend down the
l had him, for thai
Swifc
•
anol at, he
Now as II money
by Mr. F< Lis mer
d th" purchfl
.
a good deal 1m -th . r— there was no
difficulty about the mount ; an
at an early hour on that fresh
March morning, 1 rode pnst Mr.
Felix's lodge and up to the hall-
do a- of the Ui 1 '•!.(. My friend
showed me over the house with a
cefol and blushing mo testy, for
as yet I - iiBtomed
to t! leur of the place, and at
ten ordered
to hi! brought round.
The meet was at half-past ten.
Mr. Felix, with a bran-new whip in
his hand, went out to look at the
hunter, and pretended to regard
him with a calmly critical air.
'Good long pasti rn,' he said, with
a judicious nod of approval.
Bobby tin and, with that
big, black, full eye of his, to look at
his new master, and it seemed to
mo then that my friend was a little
nervous. Be Wi nt forward and pat-
ted the animal':- ne sk,and called turn
a poor old man and old man,
while the groom Bto id I atlj
wondering at t : Mr. F< lix
looki d all "Vi r tl 'ain ; he
i patti d his horse's neck and
a idressi d him as ' po »r old Bobby ;'
tlnn he discovered something \\ t
with of his whip.
A though! struck me. Had Mr.
Felix nevi r riddi n ' or was
1 to nt cause of his
death? Be began to caress the
animal in quite a hysterical way,
with a vi ■ d bis agi-
tation. I'i rba] I thought,
Mr. Felix h id not made his will,
and at this niniiK til .Mr. . F. lix, a
ly, came to the window
re.vi [1 to tier lord. -I
' I turm 1 away : I d
not Io >k thai -lure in the
Hut at length 1" 'i to
stru nd away
( Iyer the hill and down
again, and Io! tx fore as, I
Dumber
of minute dark ■ tb it mov< d
r and thither in the yi Uow
mist of sunshine. As we drew
we whip flourishing his
The Last Run with the Harriers.
401
white leather thong, and keeping
guard over that straying cluster of
spreckled dogs which, in despite of
him, would sniff about the common,
to the amazement of certain long-
necked snowy geese. The sight
inspired Mr. Felix. He seemed to
forget the uncomfortable bobbing
iu the saddle which he was enduring.
He became quite radiant and enthu-
siastic.
' What a morning !' he cried, with
an incautious flourish of his whip,
which made Bobby swerve, to my
friend's evident terror. ' Look at
the light along these hills! And
the hedges, how green they are!
By Jove! 1 believe I could smell
these wild flowers half a mile off.
See! that is Lord Switchem, he
with the green coat, on the roan.
And there are his two daughters, in
front of that old squire. Isn't the
youngest a splendid-looking gell —
full, fine-blown, pink English face,
such as you see in magazines, you
know ; and how she sits her horse,
to be sure ! And do you think this
old Bobby 11 go well ?'
My friend's garrulous simplicity
was making him forgetful. Bobby
threw up his head at a bit of news-
paper lying in the road, and, but
for a lucky snatch at the mane, Mr.
Felix would have been in the road
also. As he shoved himself back in
his saddle, he threw a hasty glance
towards the ladies to see if they had
witnessed the mishap — the ridicu-
lous old fop that he was.
Brisk and lively indeed was the
scene in front of the inn — gentlemen
dismounting from their dog-carts;
two or three rather fresh horses
prancing on their hind legs and
spattering about the turf of the
common; the master saluting his
friends as they arrived; the ladies
walking their horses up and down
to show the full sweep of their gored
skirts ; one or two thirsty or timo-
rous riders passing into the inn for
a thimbleful of 'junxping-powder ;'
the whip flicking at this or that
stray hound which had so little
self-respect as to claim acquaintance
with a ragged and forlorn-looking
cur that had come out to see the
show. Mr. Felix rode up to shake
hands with Lord Switchem, the tall,
VOL. XI.— NO. LXV.
thin, spare man with the keen grey
eye and eagle beak. His lordship
made a little joke, and Mr. Felix in
vain attempted to smile, his face
being filled with alarm at a certain
friskiness which Bobby was begin-
ning to exhibit. My friend then
lifted his hat in a graceful manner
to the two ladies, and came back
in happy unconsciousness of the
singular appearance of his elbows
and legs.
Then away we went up the nearest
lane, the whip still keeping in sore
restraint these dappled heads and
flickering sterns, uutil the master
abruptly rode his horse up a bank
on the left, the dogs following him
into a long undulating turnip -field.
When we were all in the field I no-
ticed that on Mr. Felix's face there
dwelt a singular solemnity. Pre-
sently he rode over to me and said —
' If I see a hare what must I do ?'
' Keep with the hounds, and they'll
see her as soon as you will. And
mind, if you ride down any of the
dogs, Lord Switchem may perhaps
use discourteous language.'
I lost sight of Mr. Felix then;
but in a few moments I had my
attention recalled to him by hearing
an unearthly halloo.
' There she goes !' he shrieked,
pointing to a rabbit which one of
the dogs, having unearthed, seemed
inclined to follow.
The pack wheeled round in obe-
dience to the cry, and doubtless he
thought he had done something
fine, when a frightful torrent of
execration was heard, and Lord
Switchem, in a furious passion, rode
by. The whip, too, quite as in-
censed, but only grumbling the
oaths his master uttered, rode at
the hound which had led astray the
others, and, coming down with the
full force of his arm, curled the
lithe leather thong round her body.
Then there was a yell.
* Why, what do you mean ?' cried
Felix, shocked at such cruelty.
• Didn't you see it was a rabbit ?
and you set the whole pack astray,'
said another rider, in accents of bit-
ter scorn, the whip being too angry,
or too prudent, to reply.
' It was the dog's fault, not mine,'
grumbled Felix to me; but there
2 D
402
Th> Lad Hun with thr Han
i his
. anil he willingly fell to the v. a,
Ti • .:r. ing i illed to
their duty, began to bcout the field
n I in ;i very few mo-
BimuItaDeoo8ly lifte 1 up
tin ir voice and bi d! forth the J- ►>" fi 1 1
cry. Moved by a sudddn instinct,
Dom-
pacl b dy, and darted off with that
sharp, plaintive lioul. li
thei a instantaneous ly
mad with the piping of the shrill
musio, i his rider headlong
down the slo e which
tainly oj
rterrani an turnips; while the
I are, running almost in a straight
line, ■ be road at the Boot of
the inclim and went straight up tho
opposite ln.'l. H' re I lost sight of
Mr. Felix. There was a nasty bit
of fa the toot of the turnip-
field, which the two lad:
itifully; but I knew that Mr.
Felix, it' be bad the least n gard for
I if Bobby would allow
him, would find some other mi I
An 1 how well the dogs ran! You
I them with abl in-
portu
Bui
don' ill and mac
tin- road a. 'iid
ting by her r<
Now wl, Mr. Felix ?
,r Bobby was within right,
ly there had been notion
prevent Ins at least gaining upon
tho dogs on thei: a. On
1 the pack suddenly
• fault ; the
i a sharp turn to tho
! rrun the SO lit,
hut J ding th< in-
t, they worl
their noses 1" uid
' in
and oul the tbic , while tho
iirst
trail. And, a
happ ii' d, a ei rtain B - y again
•
commendstii
■ off in pursuit.
d'l i uvid. ntly made for
turnip -fi
found her; and just
in lull cry, were struggling up
hank and leaping the hedge, what
should jump clean into the
hut Bob
Ee was riderl< bs. Thi re wa
littli ;hter oong the
men, for pr< Mr. Felix walked
np to the hedge and lo
'Make him jump back,' said he,
g that the other
rid( is x half way up the
tun
• i ' i aloi g, and take your
hor
• l can't, 1 he said, a] par* ntly al-
dy to cry ; • I shall lose the
• my whip diopp d ; I
am Bure it was here. And 1 si
try to ride again over these tun
• Arc you going home, then?'
Tic quietly disappeared, l< ai ing
me in charge of Bobby. Suddenly,
howevi r, I In ard a shout from him.
'Oh! by J re thi y c
straight down on me— what am I
toe.
The cry of the hounds was coming
neap r and still nearer, until, a few
other side of thi
tie i
care being kille 1. I left
by to his fate, and rode up tho
1 through the neai
lh re .' pretty pictun
it- If. Mr. Felix, half-d( d with
id not daring to a
the in iddei ' ould fly at
him.
ing the hare from mouth
di, while Ford Su itchi m,
riding down the hill, and folio
by the •■, hole field, was shouting
him the killed bare from
the hounds, [ndet d, by thi tim< I
had 1 the bleeding can
there was littli; in id for tin- ma
to CUt i p' n.
' Shall we si ad t! e hare round
your house, Mr. Felix . I lord
Switcl • c i ly, wbil
I t laughter from
1 ;' and, u. li > d. a i.
pitiabli • bji ct than my friend, stand-
ing then among the ho was
ir l"t t"
' Why didn't JOU tell me who I
OUgl d" lie'/' sail Felix,
quid Ight Bol
and I. 'YOU if nt e.\
that one learns to hunt ban in
I .
Tlie Last Hun with the Harriers.
403
It was useless to point out the
fact that I had never undertaken to
be his preceptor in these matters,
for now every one was hastening to
overtake the hounds, which were
already drawing a low piece of mea-
dow some five hundred yards off.
Before we could reach the ground
the hounds were in cry ; but as the
hare went straight away over several
tracts of meadow land, we were ere
long up with the crowd. She led
the dogs down to a long, low clump
of alders lying beside a broad but
not very deep stream, and here the
scent was lost. There ensued five
minutes of painful uncertainty.
Part of the field kept hovering
about the corner of the meadow,
the others crossed the stream by a
ford and struggled through the
alders to the opposite corner of the
cover. Now, Lord Switchem was in
the former grouj), and we distinctly
saw him pass, without recognition,
a tall, fair-moustachioed young gen-
tleman who stood by a stile, a shot-
belt over his shoulder, a gun in his
hand, and a large brown retriever
at his feet. Not dreaming that we
were likely to intrude upon a pri-
vate conversation, Mr. Felix and I
rode up to reconnoitre the ford, and,
in doing so, found that we were
closely followed by Lord Switchem's
youngest daughter, who, drawing
near to the young gentleman who
was leaning against the stile, said
rapidly to him —
' Und gehst du heute Abend fort ?'
'Ja wohl, Liebschen,' said this
person, in an under tone ; ' komme
aber um neun Uhr.'
'Hier?'
He nodded in reply, and she
turned to look after her sister, as
though she had been diligently ob-
serving the water.
' I say,' said Felix, ' what did that
fellow say to her just now ?'
'He remarked that elderly gen-
tlemen had no business to pry into
lovers' secrets.'
' That's your fun,' said Felix, with
a sneer; 'but hark! there go the
dogs again; and see! they're making
across the field yonder.'
So there was nothing for it but a
simultaneous rush to the ford. The
younger lady, gracefully lifting up
the skirt of her habit, and not even
looking at the young gentleman,
urged her horse into the stream,
notwithstanding that it tried to
stand and paw tho water with its
tore foot.
' Now, Mr. Felix,' said some one,
' come along.'
But a slight cry escaped the lips
of my friend, and, turning, I just
caught sight of him slipping off the
saddle, as Bobby, right in the middle
of the stream, began to rear up on
his hind legs. The next moment
Mr. Felix was in the water, whence
he emerged puffing and snorting
like a hippopotamus ; while Bobby,
tempted by the current, was rapidly
making his way down the bed of the
river. With two or three furious
plungos Felix succeeded in over-
taking him and laying hold of the
bridle.
'You ought to be ashamed of
yourself,' he cried, in a magnificent
rage, ' sitting laughing there, when
it is all owing to your having sold
me a horse which no one could ride.
Perhaps you think it fun. I don't ;
and in the City we would call the
transaction by a harder name.'
'My dear sir,' I observed, ' I did
not bargain to teach you riding, as
well as give you a horse, for sixty
guineas ; and as you don't seem to
want my looking after you, I'll bid
you good-day.'
'Oh! I say,' cried Mr. Felix, in
despair, ' wait a minute ! Wouldn't
I do as much tor you? You've no
more conscience than a wild bear ;
and it is all owing to your con-
founded horse.'
Unfortunately, when he did ma-
nage to lay hold of the bridle, there
was no place on either side of the
stream for him to Jand, and he was
therefore under the necessity of
walking against the current, Bobby
very unwillingly following. I soon
discovered that my friend's tone of
plaintive entreaty was but a guise ;
for so soon as he was again mounted
he began ' nagging' as before.
'Serves me right for buying a
horse without having tried him first.
I dare say you fellows think it
rather fine to palm off a vicious
horse. Hem! I don't. Men of
principle don't. And now, you see,
2 D 2
•104
The Last Run irith the Harrier*.
they're all away l>. fore qb: and I've
ma li f ridiculous before the
whole t'a Id.'
• Tin re I quite agree with you.'
■ l i yon '.' Do yon m< an to
that one man of tin- lot COOld ride
this hor
• \\'h\ . a baby could ride him.'
' Bui I'm not a baby : and now
I suppose, as they're two or t ;
miles away, we bad better go
home.'
Mr. Felix was interrupted by the
long, yelping whine of the di
which were clearly coming down
the alders, and two minutes
tin reafter - we standing in pei
stilln. Be the hare leaped from a
low bank and took the water gal-
lantly. Louder and louder grew
the cry of the hounds in the resonant
wood, nearer and nearer came the
sound of crackling branches ami
trampled haves, and now the hare
had just reached, the opposite hank.
'Oh! by Jove, Bhe'U escape T
shouted Felix, as, oblivious of con-
Bequi □ see, he Bpurred Bobby for-
ward and made a great cut at the
hare with his long whip.
1 Bold hard!' I yelled to him;
and the next moment the dogs had
simultaneously dashed into the
-. splutter* d or swam across,
and W( re up the oppoi ifc hank and
through the dri( d, white rn
The hare took to the open, the
I i - some thirty yards behind, and
W,' I eried to Felix, 'there is a
ace tor you. 1
We v.. re sevi ral seconds in ad-
vance of the others, who were as
ing through the Bwamp
to reach the ford, and Mr. Felix
fairly laughed out with pleasure.
Bow he managi d to Btick on I know
not ; r Bobby, warming to tho
work, was determined to have a
run, whether with a rid' r or with-
out. ' Hurrah I' I Felix, as
ntly leaped a small drain
about i le, and a
11 1 -■_' . d on his mad e in er. Several
,,i thi bad novi ovi rl
him, hoi nd pretty much in
a line they w< re approaching a ditch
which wa hi- el i oooj b and di ep
igfa to mak( ' vi i'i ol the older
look out for a '• place.
nger of the two ladies was
thi' tirst to make tho attempt, and
her horse refused.
' Shall I give you a lead 7' I
.. who was close behind her.
Was he suddenly grown insane?
Bad the dip ill the river, and the
subsi queni reaction, produced a
r? Whether he shut his .
or not I cannot say ; hut he i
full tilt at theditcht Bobby landed
with his fore-feet well planted, hut
his hind-feet slipped in the soft
mud. and my friend went straight
as an anOW Over his head, tunii d a
somersault, and found himself lying
iii the field on his back. Felii
up, looked about him for a second
in a bewildered manner, and tho
next second was again in the saddle.
Had he heeil It SS da'/ed, he would
have noticed, on rising, that hvo of
his fellow-creatures had similarly
come to grief, and that a smaller hoy,
who had been riding a small pony,
was just then creeping out of the
water like a half-drowned rat.
The hounds baring overrun tho
scent near the hordcr of a small
plantation allowed Hie riders to
ther a.L'ain.
'I was not the only one,' said
w comin.Lr proudly np.
' BOW the onl\ one'/'
■ There wt iv several tumbled oil',
and I was the t el mounted
again,' he i aid, with a tine enthu-
siasm mantling in his cheek ; ' and,
] sa\ , this horse you sold i
wonderfully. B< s a perfect jewel.
You know I. don't ft el quite at home
on a horse while he's trotting; hut
in full gallop I sit a- i asilj as in an
arm-chair; and you just see when
we id run again !'
Mr. Felix was certainly in a state
of considi rable excitement It was
clear to me that he was quite
forgetful of Mrs. Felix venator /•-
lain conjugis immemai and deter-
mined, irres] i otive of results, to
signalise himself in the last run of
the m ason. Not to spi ak of Lord
Bwitchem— whose acquaintance he
had siiin t dt d with considerable
difficulty in making there were the
whole of his neighbours whom he
wished to hnpn ss with a sen i
his equestrian proficiency; and it is
hard to say how much a man will
risk in endeavouring to prove him-
Tlie Last Bun with the Harriers.
405
self a grand cavalier. Mr. Felix
kept flourishing his hunting-whip ;
he patted Bobby's neck and spoke
to him encouragingly ; he began to
talk scientifically about the state of
the weather being adverse to the
lying of the scent. One would have
thought that Mr. Felix had become
a 'thistle-whipper' immediately on
leaving his cradle.
The hounds at length started
another hare, and were presently in
full cry after her across the mea-
dows. Mr. Felix was now deter-
mined to show fight. His misfor-
tune at the ditch having terminated
without breakage of bone was only
an additional incentive, and Bobby
very soon replied to his admonitions
of whip and spur by putting on full
steam. Away they went, over the
fine level ground, until it seemed to
me that Bobby was exercising his
own choice of speed and path some-
what markedly. Away they went,
by stream, and ditch, and field, while
Mr. Felix, ahead of all his compa-
nions, was close upon the hounds.
It was a beautiful run. If my friend
had purposely come out to astonish
his bucolic acquaintances w r ith the
spirit of a City man, he could not
have led off more brilliantly, every-
thing being in his favour. At the
same time it must be confessed that
Mr. Felix, leaning back in the saddle,
seemed making futile but vigorous
efforts to restrain his steed, though
the distance he speedily put between
himself and me soon prevented the
possibility of my judging.
The dogs were now going down
hill, Mr. Felix being far ahead of
the rest of the field. I caught a
glimpse of the spreckled heads and
legs struggling through or jumping
over a low quickset hedge, and at
the same moment saw Bobby rise
high into the air. The next mo-
ment the whole disappeared ; there
was a shrill shriek above the cry of
the dogs ; that cry ceased, and there
was nothing heard but the clatter-
ing of hoof's on the damp meadow
land.
And what was this next sound?
Surely it could not be Lord Switchem
who was using such horrible lan-
guage, denouncing Mr. Felix, and
himself, and everybody and every-
thing in terms which might have
made a prizefighter turn pale.
As I arrived at the hedge and
looked over, a singular tableau was
spread out before me. Mr. Felix
was on foot, disconsolately wiping
the mud off his new coat; Bobby
was half a mile off, at full gallop ;
Lord Switchem's favourite hound,
Bessy, lay dead on the bank; and
his lordship was in a passion which
made his thin, dry face as hot as
fire. Let me draw a veil over that
sad consummation of the day's
sport : the hare had been killed and
the field were willing to return
home.
When Bobby had been caught
and restored to his rider, Mr. Felix
observed to me —
' I consider Lord Switchem a most
ungentlemanly man. I say he is
no gentleman. But let him rave as
he likes; it is the last day of the
season, and what should I care ? I
will avoid, however, for the future,
one who has as little command over
his tongue as over his temper.'
When Mr. Felix returned home
he was quite triumphant in his tone.
He informed the rosy little lady that
they had killed two hares, and that
he had witnessed the death of both.
Mrs. Felix was quite charmed with
this new proof of the grandeur and
power of her husband.
' And that horse of yours,' said
Felix, ' is quite a trump. And, I
say, which champagne do you pre-
fer—Clicquot, or Collin, or Moet?'
W. B.
^e§b^
106
TLAVINC I'OK IIKIII STAKES.
CHAPTEB XIII.
v.i:\\ in.; THE SPELL.
PAST! IBAL pleasun have I
sung in ev« ry key, and w
circumstances render it d< Birablo
that we Bhonld leave London, it is
and well to remember that
'God made the country, and man
the town.' The greenwood glade,
and the rippling river, the dark
purple moor, and the sky undefiled
by smoke, the peace, the purity, and
the other privileges of the rural dis-
tricts, have a good deal in them for
which we ought to he grateful.
But there is a reverse to the shield.
It may do intelligent human beings
good to ho socially 'desolate' at
times. It does do them good in-
de< 1, for it throws them back upon
themselves, and ohli^es them to
luously cultivate their own best
for distraction's sake. But it does
not improve them to he 'dumb' be-
cannot without inter-
mission 'speak in the congregation
Baldon Hall stood well in the
midst of what was generally desig-
l a • very good m igl bourb
A fair numb r of county families
had centuries ago b en planted in
surrounding the Ih-ldon
i -had taken rool in tin' same,
and in ( a had flourished
edingly. Additionally there
itt n d about several more
or less favourable specimens of
' new men ' v, ho had in iome
or other b< t their mark upon the
tin-' in a remunerative waj . More-
instances the cleri-
cal i lied by Bcholarlj di-
vines men who had an apt < In ek
quotation to nit. r .
was mention* 'I h fore them,
but who for all that wen "nly one
shade less dull than devout
Notwithsl inding all thi e advan-
. n u icknow-
Ledged at once that il dull
tibourhood — a neighbourhood
■ was by do mi i to re-
ceive d< w im] -. howi
much it mij ht res mbli marble in
its power oi rotaining them It had
nev< r eoiih. illy approvi d of Mr.
Bathursfs I aued unbroken
ace It could not cordially ap-
prove of bis presence now 'under
the circumstance
The • circumstance
a stumbling-block in Mr. Bathursfs
path to inst intaneous popularity
were Blanche Lyon and Beatrix
Talbot, and his open devotion to the
pair— devotion that was shown so
gladly, frankly, and impartially,
that Blanche quickly (ana' to take
it as much for granted as - he did
the sunshine, and Trixy to feel
alternately gladdened and sadden* I
by it as she bad nev< r been before
by anything
From the hour of Edgar Talbot's
first appi arance at I [aldon it had
been apparent to some of thi m that
all was not well with him. Bee »uld
Dot conoi ntrate himself upon
nt, casting all bnsiness cares
behind him, as entirely as was to be
■t. d, ci raid* ring be bad I
the mainspring of the move t' ej
had mad.- into the country. The
holiday for which 1" lily
d was evidently little mori
'i an empty perio l in which be
had a fri 6T opp irtiinity for the in-
dulgence of ondisturbed anxious
thought than was his portion to
have m London. Those who thou
of him at all in the first daj of the
Arcadian intoxication which d
them find the mi re act of living all-
sufficient, felt that ' a vague unrest,
and a nameli ss longing filli d his
hi-, a t.' But ev< n they did not
to question the c a <■ of it. Bi atrix
was sorry for him, but was not
sufficiently intimate with her < I
brother to tell him that she cva
She rj that he alone at
party should be drawn in by BO
stein si en t neo »sity from the lawn
and the ri\< r and the v, r« al
of June, to answer lit'
-
s i p| . -0:
Drawn by W. Small.]
A PASTORAL EPISODE.
fSee " Flaying for High .Stakes."
Playing for High Slakes.
407
which had arrived during breakfast
and spoilt the same for him. ' For all
the good Talbot gets out of all this
he might as well be listening to
the last quotations in the City/
Frank Bathurst said one morning,
as, together with Lionel and the two
girls, he sat on the bank of the lake.
They had left Mr. Talbot in the
library writing quickly and ner-
vously, and there had been that in
his manner of replying to their
solicitations that he would 'come
out and do nothing with them all
the morning,' which showed that
his correspondence was of very,
genuine interest and importance to
him. •
' For my part, I believe Mr. Tal-
bot enjoys it quite as much as we
do/ Blanche Lyon said, smiling.
' The sun and the scent of the roses
both manage to gtt in at the win-
dow, so he can enjoy them, and
ruake money, and despise us for
wasting time simultaneously.'
' And they are three pure and un-
deniable sources of pleasure ; let
us all count up our joys, and see if
we are in a position to pity him for
not being " one of us," ' Frank Ba-
thurst replied.
' There shall be no reserves ; we
must set down each item of pleasure
fairly. I wonder if we can do it !'
Blanche said, with a blush begin-
ning to rise on her face. ' You
commence, Miss Talbot.'
Trixy shook her head. 'No!
what moral is there in being fair?
What is the use of trying to ana-
lyse happiness ? We can t do it —
no one can do it ; can we, Lionel ?'
'Any how we can try/ Frank
Bathurst interrupted before Lionel
could reply, and Blanche encou-
raged him by saying,
' Hear the laughing philosopher !
I believe you do know, Frank!
I believe that you are the excep-
tional being who is neither above
being happy or saying what makes
him so. You don't vainly sigh after
perfect elements that are never at-
tained. We will hear your list first,
it will nerve the rest. Now begin.
You are happy because '
' That sounds like the answer to
a conundrum, or the commence-
ment of a game, " I love my love
with an 'S/ because he is stupid
and not psychological." My list of
joys do you want? It is a short
but all-sufficient one. I am with
you in idleness and June!'
' The reasons we have assigned
for Mr. Talbot's content are sounder/
Blanche Lyon replied, coolly. ' Now
for yours, Miss Talbot !'
Trixy had grown pale as Mr.
Bathurst spoke — pale with the
pained consciousness that the man
she loved was speaking words of
flattery that were still words of
truth to the careless winner of all
his kindest thoughts. ' I am with
you in idleness and June/ he had
said, writing himself down by the
utterance as much his own lover as
Blanche's. ' He was a selfish Syba-
rite/ Trixy told herself as she looked
at him lying there on the sward
that was warmed by the sun — the
sun that followed the fashion of
sublunary things, and, as it seemed,
touched Frank Bathurst more ten-
derly than it did aught else. Far
more tenderly than it did the girl
who was gazing on him with the
yearning gaze of genuine affection
— it dazzled, bewildered, scorched
her ; for when the heart is hot and
restless externals are potent, then
pleasure is a pain. Those words
that he had said to Blanche Lyon
were soft and sweet, gallant and
gentle in themselves, and so only
were what a man's utterance ought
to be to a woman, but they sounded
harshly and horribly in Trixy's ears.
' I am with you in idleness and
June.' His list of the joys that
rnaele his life so pleasant a thing at
this juncture began and ended in
that one sentence. Trixy's heart
ached as she took this truth home
to it — but she went on loving him
just as well as before.
' Now for your list, Miss Talbot/
Blanche repeated; and Trixy replied,
' I have none to give/ impatiently.
She was not at all well inclined to
make a study of her own sensations,
for she more than suspecteel that
when too curiously inspected there
would be seen the ' little rift ' which
should by-and-by ' make all music
mute ' in her soul. The request that
she would name the causes which
conduced to her happiness, made
408
Playing for Ili'jh Stairs.
hex think, and when she came to
think Bhe knew tl. . • not
r happy
-. feaxfoJ and
hop fill at tl J] about
Hi who told • that
it was Bnfficu d1 him to be
' with h< r in id lent ss and .1'
' Wl " th wake it i
.
Trixy resolved that ahewotdd not
mon 1 1 d the tl
■ irmentingherby
invi _- tin m. - n d,
'II ithi r more
y than suited the nature of
n ; and Blai
flashed rath, r painfully ondi t the
. being thought fri-
volous by Lionel Talbofs sister.
'Have you l.one to give cither,
Lai?* Frank Bathurst
a half inch further away from
trix and nearer to Blanche and
a bi i as he spoke.
led him
a little. His ear was very finely
attuned, and Trixy 1
ly anti • st< i Dni ss. The poor
girl was in swcdi terril di st
that she could not t
and
hell. i
might havi Frank
u a sweet voice
falter; it told him a tale' usually of
i with difficulty,
and called into b ing by him. Bat
ward I v,
mad( id out of that partly in-
raght ' a
whi !i hide the dart
ahe
■rt, and her tone
rn, ' uth i ly di void of
thai mpathetic infle
whi 1 to
himself wl ". Lyon bai
:.■ 1 liv saying —
' Will I to
. Mi. I ' r" And Lionel's
OS
lie
replii d—
'Will t I am ni' :
tk'a happy thought,
-
:n and am
.ough— for I
*.' Blanche said quickly. 'At
any rate they aro the ■ s I
should have given if I had
' 1
it and no more; but youwould
ut more than " idleness and
Jun
' S*ou are n >1 quoting me fairly/
Frank Bathurst exclaimed. ' Vou
say i would Boon want more,
as it he w< re v< rj Buperior in his
r< quiremi nte to me. I also ahould
soon want more than you i
. have left out the
chief ingn dient 1 named.'
' I not utter false coin
/ her
i gaily towards Miss Talbot
In a moment the quick, kindly,
anly instinct made hi r glance
away again, for Trixy, though she
out In r - Vt -. very,' gallantly,
had the tell-tale look of terrible
earnestness upon her, and super-
added to that i ami was the
id that tl i coin might he real in
which the il.it 1 1 r\ was paid.
' I have anotl
Frank Bathurst n Bumi '1. ' The
down upon
us overwhelmingly yet; 1 am be-
ing to hope that I have found
the Bpot of earth where civilization
• nough advanced for a man
ted with tl ible
prefi r dining in comfort in
own house rather than forgoing
in disc imfoxi to his neighbour'
1 We have only been hero one
.' Miss Lyon remark* d.
• And howwemighl have suffered
in that time— not from dinni re, bat
i the anticipation of them]
Women are never properly grateful
for being ■•■ I. For my part,
'• Time's sand- may f to low,
re I for-
itudethisneigh-
1 ell 111'
lettu ' ' n.i 'V mysi If in
■
' I am quite as alive to the nega-
•ur shown as you i
hut I cannot forget that we have
only 1 < 1 ii hi re a Wl • B ; this is
Saturday. I prophl 9y that after
md ap] ' in church
to-morrow, < "'k
to London for all the peace w< shall
w.'
Playing for High StaJces.
409
'Do you mean that the native
hordes will pour themselves into
our Haldon? Cease to exercise
your prophetic gift, sybil, if you
can foreshadow nothing pleasanter
concerning our future. " Trained
to the chase, my eagle eye " discerns
unmanageable bodies of bores in
the distance. You have made me
very miserable, Miss Lyon : cast a
further spell around me, and soothe
me back to bliss again.'
Mr. Bathurst gathered himself up
from his recumbent position at his
cousin's side as he spoke, and went
iuto a half-kneeling posture at her
feet, and she, falliug into his humour
for the moment, said, as she plucked
a gorgeous crimson poppy from the
bank at her side —
• Yours shall be " the Childe's
destiny." I will bind this flower
(it induces oblivion, you know) on
your brow.
■ " I'll sign you with a sign :
No woman's love shall light on thee,
No woman's heart be thine.'* '
' How can you say such things,
even in what you call fun ?' Trixy
asked, in a low tone.
' I defy such spells/ Mr. Bathurst
said as he bent his head lower be-
fore, the lady who was fixing the
poppy in his glengarry. And Lionel
Talbot chanted —
* " No mistress of the hidden skill,
No wizard gaunt and grim,
Went up by night to heath or hill,
To read the stars for hiin." '
'What are you talking about?'
Frank asked, impatiently.
' Showing Miss Lyon that I knew
the source from whence she is
drawing her spell — or the words of
it rather/ Lionel replied. ' Are you
going to promise him the " brightest
smiles that ever beauty wore, and
the friendship which is only not
love," Miss Lyon ?'
' No/ she said, throwing her head
back a little, and holding her hand
up to command attention still. ' No
— the last verse fits him best. Be
grateful to me, Frank, for —
• " I charm thee from the agony
Which others feel or feign,
From anger and from jealousy,
From doubt and from disdain.
• ■' I bid thee wear the scorn of years
Upon the cheek of youth.
And curl the lip at passion's tears,
And shake the head at truth.
' "While there is bliss in revelry,
Forgetfulncss in wine.
Be tliou from woman's love as free
As woman is from thine !" '
' Good !' he cried, jumping up,
' while there is, and " only " while
there is bliss in those things. Now
you shall see me defy my bright
fate. I will take weapons from the
same armoury, and tell you that the
web of indifference you have woven
for me shall be rent —
' " For I have learnt to watch and wake,
And swear by earth and sky,
And I am very bold to take " —
Do you believe me?'
' Yes, thoroughly ; but you must
alter before you will be able to take
anything worth having. " The lips
are lightly begged or bought — the
heart may not be thine," unless you
alter and grow earnest/ Blanche
replied.
' We shall see. It would be against
your own interest, as successful pro-
phetess, to teach me to be earnest,
I suppose ?'
' I never could be in earnest with
you/ she said distinctly, and as she
said so a doubt as to the real destiny
of the Daphne crossed his mind for
the first time. Circumstantial evi-
dence was strongly in favour of
Blanche having gathered in the
bloom he had wasted ; but circum-
stantial evidence is false frequently,
and ' women are rum animals ' he
reflected as he remembered all
Blanche's past sweetness to him,
and all her present cool assumption
of the possibility of his never really
loving or being loved.
He did incline to this brilliant-
plumaged bird very kindly indeed.
Perhaps his reasons for doing so were
not altogether above reproach ; but
at any rate, as reasons go, they are
all-sufficient for the purposes of this
story. It was quite upon the cards
that he should surrender his own
judgment to her, if she would accept
the charge, and feel no shame, but
rather a conscientious satisfaction in
so doing. He felt intuitively, with-
out working out the problem, ' why
it was so/ that she was as good as
11"
Playing for High Stake*.
• an angel, far
removed from anything of that sort,
but a v t ry woman, good and gr
ful • ids evi r ao little
dis| v that she was both
tiling without effort.
• Good, 1 and ' gra leful,' and gifted
•with the power of putting herself
in i all men.
athursl prid< d himself much
on the . which led tho
in he ' - ing ind who
doubtlesfi admiring him to
mat If 'charming' to L;
• y 1 op to the
It may be that, if he had
l what the pair under con-
sax ing, his appre-
>n of Blanc' might have
n I( 58 p rf< of than it was.
■ ^ to be well acquainted
•with Praed, Miss Lyon; what cha-
it that has so won your
approval '.''
• I think it's his E ity.' she
answered, quickly; ' I never thought
,t why 1 liked him until you
i me: his rhyn* - .-ill tall in, in
itiful order, and tfa it pit asi - my
. but l.t's alv.
kindly is towards us
he lilts the lay
of t ; Be " never will up-
nd that l- - i nice, because
he had it in him to upbraid so
rly. I » > yon know that poem
'I know it.' he said. Tiny Wl
some way ah> ad of Frank and Trixy
now. and B up face
1 towards him eagerly, in-
y the inten si she felt in the
■a of ti J merit
Pra- oa He ta n at
about the f-rirl in a minute.
He 1 much that she had
and wa He n a
that life truth of
iphorism tl devil ta
the hindmost' in i ame
home to him. He was thrown off
I >oko
too soon, and he said too bti
• V -. I know | It ;" my
favonns at this at is
the fourth —
' •' i think that you will HO,
\ -ly thrill
i sirangtrs ask i
•• • M | I] be yniir heme
\\ Inn il,
If ihii in- ail u Idle dream,
It i> my last . ; " '
There was interrogation— mean-
ing di ■ p and into nse in the tone
in which he uttered the w.
Par a few minutes tho woman's
weak onquered the woman's
will, and Blanche Lyon, d< p. rate
in love, was feeble in action and
insincere in word.
'If I dared, if I dared,' she
stuttered: and while he WB8 think-
ing that she dared not 'love him
still,' and 'proudly thrill' to his
praise, because of some prior claim
on her— while he was thinking still,
and she was hesitating only bee
he did not bid her not to hesitate,
the others came up. and the oppor-
tunity was gone.
He had spoken too soon. He felt
that he had spoken too soon as h.
looked at the home 1 heV W< le
Hearing, and knew that it might be
Blanche Lyon's if no one int. rv< ned
between her and Frank. And she
felt bitterly that he had said too
little, and thought hard things of
the social bonds which prevented
her inciting him to say a little more,
and found Prank Bathurst's ani-
mation oppressive, an 1 v.
er mdis] e in tho
silver lining to this temporary cloud.
• •• Misfortunes rarely come singly:"
listen,' she quoted irrelevantly (for-
Qgthat the others wi re igm .
Of Wl at she deemed a misfortUJ
then they all follow, d h< r example,
and paused to listi n to the sound of
wheels, and presently a ponderous
round the curve of
the drivi . and thi j knew that tho
Bo d-gatoa of Bocii ty w< re opened,
and that their happy lotus-eating
days were over.
• l grateful for that it has
ht ' 11 but a brief infliction,' Frank
.-aid. win ii the visitor a lady who
bad come in kindliness to ask them
to an archer;. ' -had depai
a, feeling verj dissatisfii d with
Mrs. Lyon's Btness for the pari of
chaperone,and very much she g< r» d
at the perfect propriety which
ked the demi anourofthe daring
in. who ' had rel'i
fatbi '. and her un
Playing for High Stalces.
411
fortune, and after all had now come
down to try and catch Mr. Bathurst,
so people said.'
' I think her most pleasant/ Mrs.
Lyon interposed, hastily; 'most
pleasant and agreeable,' she repeated,
emphatically; and Frank replied—
'So did I ; but you will under-
stand that—
' "It was frightful here to see
A lady ricbly clad as she"
when 1 came in, conscious of grass-
seeds in my moustache, and dead
leaves on the back of my coat, and
an all-pervading sensation of disin-
clination to speak to uninteresting
people. Miss Lyon shared my sen-
timents. I could see by her face
that she was bored — that we were
sympathetic again, in fact.'
He spoke half laughingly, half
tenderly ; looking at her the* while
with a clear, full gaze, that seemed
to make sure of being kindly met,
and answered. He had often looked
at her so of late, and Blanche had
accepted the frank offering frankly.
But to-day another had gone deeper
into her soul than Frank, with all
his bright - heartedness, and easy
satisfaction with himself, could ever
go. She moved impatiently under
his observation: she resented his
declaration as to the sympathy be-
tween them. 'Miss Lyon did no-
thing of the sort; she was bored
about something else,' she said,
wearily. ' Sympathetic ! you are far
away from knowing the meaning of
the word if you think I was that
with you just now.'
'You are growing quite earnest
in your denial ! And don't I know
the meaning of the word ?' He was
a vain young fellow, but there was
something winning in his vanity at
most times, to most women— some-
thing specially winning in it to
Blanche. But to-day she lacked
patience for it among other things.
She had known him for a butterfly
all along, she told herself; and she
had thought that a butterfly must
ever be a pleasing and welcome
object about one's path, whatever
the weather. Now she found that
sunshine was a chief condition : the
butterfly was out of place now a
cloud had arisen on her horizon. It
irritated her that he should seek to
put her in the position of under-
standing him more clearly than the
others did, when she did not desire
to understand him better. It roused
her esprit de corpt when he rept ated,
in his merry, vaunting, successful
manner, ' Don't I know the meaning
of the word ? More women have
been sympathetic with me than I
would care to count.' Affectionately
fond as she was of him, she could
not resist replying, when he said
that —
' Leporello sings the list of names :
a genuine Don Juan would scorn
to proclaim his own doughty deeds.'
' I was not boasting,' he exclaimed,
quickly, and his fair face coloured
like a girl's as he spoke.
' Were you not ?' Blanche replied,
carelessly ; ' there was a tone about
the speech that we may be forgiven
for having mistaken for boasting ;
may we not, Miss Talbot ?'
' A tone you have never been hard
upon before,' Trixy replied. She
saw his faults too ; but she would
have touched them so tenderly her-
self, that it almost pained her to see
them roughly torn into the light by
another : especially did she dislike
seeing them torn into the light by
Blanche Lyon. It was hard, woe-
fully hard, to Trixy to see the man
she loved laying himself open to the
feminine sarcasms of her rival ; to
see him accepting rebukes, rather
than nothing, at Miss Lyon's hands ;
hard to mark him as so willing to
put himself at Miss Lyon's feet; and
perhaps harder still to mark that
Miss Lyon did not deem it a price-
less boon that he should be there.
To be rivalled at all is horrible : to
be rivalled by one who does not
even deign to seem to care to rival
is humiliating. So Trixy Talbot said
that Blanche ' had never been hard
upon that tone before ;' and Frank's
blue eyes sought his cousin's, and
seemed to implore her to endorse
the statement.
CHAPTEE XIV.
AN H0UB OF BLISS.
They had all— she, the woman he
loved, amongst the number— spoken
of him and his possible occupation
U2
Playing for High 8taket.
> lightly and i y down by
the 1 dee, and in very truth be bad
b 1 11 knowing much bitterness. The
shadow of the blow thai bad fallen
was upon him, even when he c
down i" Ealdon ; but the blow it-
self bad not descended until this
ning, when l al the bn
fasl table thai the i ipany in
which he had b< en well wai rant d,
by mo ' • xemplarj example, to have
trust, had engulfed itself, and all
who had faith, or al least money, in
it, in unqualified ruin.
Ed nol endoi
with the that enables a man
ip buoyantly und( c a a use
of uii. r i omm< r.-ial discomfiture.
P< rhaps the men who can do this
about in the world somewhi re,
but it has never been my lot to
mi el them oul of print ; and as I
to paint from the life, 1 will tell
of that I have Been alone. While
his sister, and his friends, and, al
all, the woman be loved, were down
by the lake,'gathi ring' the odorous
- of love and youth, of idleness
and June— while they were doing
this, according t > thi ir diff< r< at
degn • , I id ir Talbot was going
through ral p a of well-
di vi l< i] ed agony and despair.
date at which he com-
menced thinking about life, and the
n jp i ubilitiee of life at all, he had
congenial task <>f
/ BUCh a fortune as should
maki unily (that is, himself)
important and o ble. In the
fulrilmi nt of this resolve he had
dnt and di oial of
DO meaj I many years, lie
had ri orously ordered his course,
i much that was
pro-
little that was
.a ! not harm-
i li -1 t'. his en 'lit.
He I ad I • M aloof from Bociety,
women, w I,,. . and othi r i zpensive
an. I he hid his reward for
n being well rep
rich at an age wh( n many of
w. ]■ I
fur l- ing such i i l>e
bn ii'-h. It had 1
Vi ry well with him, in fact, when
he first saw Blanche Lyon, Thi d
ho oommi oat d pi rpi bating a si i
uf mistakes. First he fell in love
with a • toeherless ' lass with a long
pedigree; thi d he made resolutions
concerning her which he had not
the power to ki ep ; ami, finally, he
played higher than ever for fortune's
favours, in order that he might
afford SUCb a luxury as Miss Lyon
for a wife without cost to his own
COnSCienoe. And now the < nd had
come
The end! Such a black, hitter,
hard, ruinous end as it was, too.
He had lost all that was his own,
and much that was nut Ins <<\\ n
be knew that all would call him a
fool, and some might call him a
Swindler. He had advised others to
act as he had done, and the others
would not now be slow to remember
that he had SO advised them. lie
had impoverished one sister, and left
anothi r penniless, lie had no hope,
reasonable or the reverse, of cm c
entering upon that exciting career
which had been as the breath of
to him. His life, as it would
ami must bo, Btretched itself out
before him in vivid col. mis and
clearly-cut lines; and he looked at
it, and saw it B B hie of
toil and obscurity - and knew that
he must live it. lbs eaiv. r — that
which LS to a man what love is t >
a woman— was dead, and he stood
at its bier knowing that thi re would
he no resuscitation, A - thi- know-
e was driven da p t and di eper
into his mind, bo went through
sonic of the hardest pains of the
t horrible Inferno. Therewasno
compensation to him in any probable
combination of circumstances that
might befall him. Had be I
able to reali.-e it at once he would
not have accepted the love of the
woman for whom he had a pa ion
part payment lor what he had
lost. In one way it was all 0V6T
with him, and he laid no flattering
unction to his s-ml mi the
subji
Still, devoid aS he was of that MU't
of half-poetic, balf-wi akly si osibility
which makes some gi atli -natured
]>• .pie turn tearfully to friendship
and love in all troubles thai a
them— devoid as he W88 of tl:i~. In*
did think once or twice, as he wrote
i the notes of ruin which
Playing for High StaJces.
413
had sounded in his ears this morn-
ins, °f Blanche Lyon. He did not
tell himself that he should turn
from ambition to love — find conso-
lation in her caresses, and an incen-
tive to ignominiously obscure indus-
try in her wifely smiles and womanly
satisfaction, with the poor lot he
could offer her instead of the rich
one he might have offered her. But
he told himself that come what
would she should be his wife if he
could get her. He was a practical
man, barren of all poetical feeling
to a degree that may or may not be
rare, but that at any rate was great.
He was also a passionate man,
and his passion for Blanche was of
the sort that made him feel that
any fate which could be endured by
him could be endured by her. She
came into the consideration of his
plans, which may be accepted as a
proof that he loved her. Whether
that love was selfish or not is a
hard question for a third person to
answer.
' Talbot looks as if he had had a
tight time of it,' Frank Bathurst
muttered to Lionel when Mr. Tal-
bot came and joined them at the
luncheon table at last, and Lionel,
looking at his brother's face, read
there that it was even so as Frank
said, for the signs of the warfare in
which he had been worsted were
about him still, visibly about him ;
even the ladies saw the signs and
were more subdued than the day
deserved they should be.
' We're almost by way of being
strangers some way or other/ Frank
Bathurst said, in continuation of the
subject, later in the day, when he
and Lionel were alone together ;
' otherwise if anything is a little off
the line it might be righted again ;
but a fellow doesn't care to broach
the business with a reserved man
like Talbot.'
' I am afraid something is more
than a little off the line,' Lionel re-
plied. ' Edgar is not a man to be
beaten by a trifle, and he is beaten
now; I'll give him a chance of tell-
ing me if he likes by-and-by ; but I
will not press him.'
' Give him to understand that if
I can help him, and he does not
take my help, it will be a slight on
your feeling for and interest in him,
for you'll advise him to Lai won't
you?'
' Advise him what ?'
' To let me help him.'
' If he is beaten, as I fear, it would
be snatching at a straw simply to
take such help as you could give
him, Frank ; however, I shall hear.'
He did hear in time, but not that
clay ; there could be no good gained,
Edgar Talbot argued, by talking
about tilings before he was com-
pelled to talk about them. Lionel
would know quite soon enough that
his own 5000Z. had gone the way of
the bulk of his father's property.
Trixy would play the cards she
held in her hand better while her
mind was undisturbed by the know-
ledge of the utter ruin in which her
guardian brother was steeped. As
Mr. Talbot thought this he seemed
to see light in the darkness. His
sister did hold good cards in her
hand if she only played them pro-
perly. With Frank Bathurst for
a brother-in-law, he might even
yet '
' Do you know what Bathurst has
a year?' he asked abruptly of Lionel,
and Lionel replied —
' About twelve thousand, I be-
lieve,' and fell into a reverie on the
subject of whether or not it would
be shared by Blanche Lyon.
They never sat long over their
wine after the ladies had left them
in this arcadian Bohemia of Haldon.
The daylight was but just dying off
the sky w r hen Lionel, followed by
Frank Bathurst, came to the two
girls in the drawing-room and asked
' which was to reign to-night, moon-
light or melody ?'
' Put the alternatives more clearly
before us, Mr. Talbot,' Blanche an-
swered, moving a little nearer to the
window, .which was open, as she
spoke.
'Well, shall we go out on the
lawn, or shall we sit by the piano,
and hear Trixy and you sing ?'
' You won't hear Trixy sing to-
night, Lionel,' that young lady put
in hurriedly.
• What does Miss Lyon say ?'
' The lawn is so much sweeter
than my own voice that I am going
out to enjoy it,' Blanche replied,
ill
Plmjini] for High Stakes.
walking through the win, low as she
so. Lionel followed hear wil-
lingly i aongh, l it c une to
- that 1: iinl h< rw If alone
with Frank Bathurst, or as . i id as
alone, Mrs. Lyon I the far
■ I'-
Bhe was very fond 01 him— so
I ol liim that she forgave him
all his little attentions to Blanche
and all his little inattentions to lur-
■ both were vi ry patent
to i : n] t»f him thai she was
ly, ay r, ady, to hear the faint
. .'1 of em m< nt which her
: Ik art off red to 1 • Bhe
mark< d that be did not si em v< ry
anxious to i follow
Blanche. Certainly he did
• Do yon not care for the law 1
night?' hut when she shoo!; h< r
i in the negative, and seated
If on the window-sill, he drew
a low chair close opposite to In r,
and plaoi '1 himself upon it, and
looked qnite ready to resume his
fi rvent admiration for her hair
' Why will you not sing to-night V
m.
' I on not in tm
' N 1 ill I sat down
. al you. T am Bym-
• r Blanche may say
rary i your low Bpirits
I now that you I
ie.'
trix felt hex brow burning.
ions tl
I at 1 : • when he planted
him-, If opposite to h< r, and now it
■ - manner
of hi i1 her —a gaze in which
tin r little apj • al and
idmiring audacity— thai
■ ii' 'I in the fa
thrown offher guard,
it w. • oatural that mid
• 1 : 11 1 1 lam, a it w
poke Of la r rival, alal B]
injudiciously.
* Miss Lyon : ov< r you.
gotten a T Bh<
atly; and I the
don': ted
\y bj Baying, langbin
with the f|,
vanity which so ( mim ntly chai
• I him —
tten 1 . I
myself a glorious task, Miss
Tali"!, to make the proph<
prow the falsity of her own pro-
phecy.'
'Glorious, indeed,' Trixy an-
swered.
•shall I find it "love's labour
l"-i " d" yon think ?' he
ing forward and low, ring his
voice, and intensi ly appn dating
the grac< ful bend of Miss Talbofs
at with h, r c
Ing on her hand before him. It
pli ased his t.i Ie to have the
friendship and companionship and
interest of lovely women, that he al-
most fell inclined to take Miss Tal-
bot into his confidence concerning
his feelings for Blanche. Hut he
forp>t this inclination, or, at any
rate, forbore to gratify it, when for
■ er to his last question Trixy
a little angry sigh, and cov
her eyes with her hand.
lie loved beauty, softness, a nti-
iii' nt with all his heart and sail.
If Blanche bad been before him
there would have been a counter-
acting influence in her brilliant
: bul as it was, the Bi
softness of that lifu]
made him forget everj thing in
the world but Trixy for a tin e. It
so v, ry much a habit of his
t all be could out of lif<
gather every flower, to listen to
ind, to push i\, ry
feeling to the v. 1 at
all times to l,t his fanci, ,, lightly
turn to thoughts of [ove; it
Very much a habit of his to do all
things, that it never occurred
to him that he might be playing
with tiro. So now, in accord
with the dictates of this gaj Bi end
nature of his. he l>, nt towards
rix, and asks d her very tenderly
if he had annoyed her.
• No,' she snd, ' not annoyed me.'
' What is it then ?' he v. bispi red.
I kupal me and tell me that I
not unwittingly '•aid 1 omi thing
that pains you.' And thi n she
■ d him ; dropped hi r hands
down, rind glanced Ojp at lain with
la r gT( at lo\ ing violet , \nd
the beauty worshipper could but
look lovingly and , ami Btly into 1
in return, and feel v<r\ sorry that
the lamp and fa a would come in
Playing for High Stakes.
415
presently, and dispel tho soft light
and softer sensations — looked at
her so lovingly and earnestly, in-
deed, that she trembled at being so
near (as she believed) to the bliss
she craved, and so said she would
'go and look for Edgar,' and made
as though she would rise as she
spoke.
But he stopped her by patting
his hand down on hers, and saying,
' " No, no, stay with me lady while you may,
For life's so sad— this hour 's so sweet." '
Then silence reigned, and as his
clasp grew closer she forgot that
' life is sad' in the sweetness of that
hour.
' What a howling wilderness tips
will be to Lai and me when you all
go,' he said at length, and his speech
slackened the spell, and Trixy felt
herself able to command her feelings
and release her hand.
' Oh, you will get on very well
without us,' she said, uttering a
commonplace truth because it was
the easiest thing to utter at the
moment. Then the lamp and tea
did come in, and Frank sprang up
and offered her his arm, and pro-
posed ' that they should go and call
the others in.'
She accepted his proposal with a
shy delight that was born of the
hope she had that when once he
got her into the garden he would
forget the nominal object of their
being there, and think of her alone.
But as soon as they were outside he
proved himself to be very much in
earnest in the search by giving a
series of call whistles, which were
soon answered by Lionel. Then
they all met, and the two young
men sang a German student's song
with an hilarious refrain, and ro-
mance was over for that night as
far as Beatrix and Mr. Bathurst
were concerned.
CHAPTER XV.
MISUNDERSTANDING.
There had been nothing definite
said either by Lionel Talbot or Miss
Lyon during that stroll they had
taken about on the lawn. But some-
•how or other it came to them both
to have a great feeling of satisfac-
tion and security about each other
and the future before they came
in to tea. The strain of the morn-
ing was not resumed; nevertheless
Blanche cou'd not make any com-
plaint of there being a lack of har-
mony. For the first time Lionel
Talbot spoke to her of his future,
assumed that she felt an interest in
his hopes and prospects, and ' for
the first time also/ lie said, he ' be-
gan to take an interest in these
latter himself.'
' I shall never sacrifice the means
to the end, or practise my art less
worthily for being animated by the
hope of mere commercial success
attending it,' he had said to her,
and she had replied —
'■ I thoroughly believe you. I
feel that it will always be impos-
sible for you to seek any reward for
the mere sake of the reward; but
what has come to you that you
should even think of " success," Mr.
Talbot ? I " don't own you," as old
women say, when you utter such
sentiments.'
' Do they seem ignoble to you ?'
' No, indeed, no ; but the others,
the ones I heard from you, or rather
heard attributed to you, at first were
so very different. I thought you
were the sort of man to go on work-
ing for ever, and to be very careless
as to whether the work was ever
known, or seen, or valued, or paid
for, so long as you yourself had the
satisfaction of knowing it to be good
and true work.'
'You must have thought me an
unpractical idiot,' Lionel said, laugh-
ing, ' yet, to a certain degree, you
judged rightly. I did love my art,
with a perfect love that cast out
every other consideration than its
honour from my mind ; now I know
another love, and it shall ennoble
my art, and my art shall exalt it.
Do I still seem inconsistent? do
you still refuse "to own me?" or do
you understand me?'
' I think I do — I hope I do,' she
had answered, hurriedly: and then
Frank Bathurst's whistle sounded
in their ears, and the talk about the
translation of some of Lionel's theo-
ries came to an end. But Blanche
had heard enough to make her feel
sisterly and sympathetic towards
116
Playing for High Stakes.
\'< atrix and Edj r. ' Poor Mr.
Talbot, he has tx en by him
writing letters, all day,' she said ;
ought i" take him a cup
ol t< ile bim back amongst
as. JTon look tired, Miss Talbot ;
shall ! i
Bh i for an answ< r from
Lionel, and be gave it quick!) , re-
memh ring, with a i I was
: i < i time this day thai Blanche
had remarked en his brother's ab>
Was 1 is i Lionel's) claim
anon her a \ icarious one, after all ?
Was the interesl she expressed for
him bnl the offspring of il e regard
she i. li for Edgar ?
' It would be very kind of you to
do it — very kind, indeed. 1 Then lie
ir open for her, ami
Blanche sailed away to the library
with a cup of tea in her hand, ami
the comforting thoughl inher head
was on Hi,- way to show a
'. womanly attention to a,
man who was much to be pitied
v. h re othi rs were bo full of the
joy of loving and b ing loved, in
that he I to b! ind outside it
all.
It was a speciality of hers to
p about softly, howevi c
and freely she walked. II. r
I I, oor 'lid her
silk d l 1 cracks as
wiftly mov( I ab rot. B< r sti p
b'ght and true, her \
. ; ; : :l>i it r< -
I unCOl lUB of his solitude
1 broken in upon until she
gaii • 1 : I sp ike.
' Mr. Talbot, I have brought you
i, and I am charged with a
d comrni sion from the n t to
take k with )i
I got up from the chair
in which he had been a it< d, with
his lit down toward the
nd in in: thought
— got up, and I p from
- wrists
in his ' ■
him, which she did, I ingly.
• Son i .
stay with n.
■ lh re? in ' ■■■• .' I 'h.
if I can help yon at all.'
• Vnii can't help : P plil d,
tly. The id< ■■•. ol any
nice would have seemed
against conceit at the brightest
time ; at present it Beemed a sug-
gestion fraught with the must con-
temptible lolly. Still he was in love
with the woman who had made it,
so he © mtented himself with say-
ing, ' You can't help me at all ;' and
then adding, 'except by staying
w ith me, and I w hat I have
to say. I have had news for you—
very had news.' Thi n i e released
one of her hands, and picked up a
r-knife, which be balanced
clevt rly on his finger, as an aid to
eloquence, apparently, for when he
had got it into perfect swing, he went
on, '1 have had news for you. I am
not wrong in thinking that the tale
of my ruin— of the ruin of all con-
nected with mi — will sound harshly
in your ( ars?'
''Harshly! Oh! Mr.Talbot, hor-
ribly, horribly!' There was no
aversion manifested in the horror
she expressed, no falling away from
him. lh r face grew pale, and lur
I. hut not unto tears, as
sho moved ' under the
blow he dealt. Then she gave his
hand a g 1 hearty grip— a sort of
lissorynote of friendship, should
! it and went on ' It
would sound lid wui
that I am sorry, and the words
would not tell you half that I am ;
women's words, an l ways, and wills
aro so wealc when it con to
point.' n : be paused, out of ■
h, with sympathy, and the re-
flection that he had said ' all eon-
lii cte 1 with him ' Bhared his misery ;
and she r< membereel that it n
be la rs to have to <■ imforl Lionel ;
and her heart rose: freelj to the
task.
' Your words are not w< ak ; I
shall soon know whether your will
is equally Btrong or not. Many a
man I mid try to
work on your tend, rn< • by telling
you be was a beggar. I do not tell
yon this, for I never could be a
ir, and I don't like the figUTl "I
Bp< i ch ; but the h.t I have to offer a
woman will be little b tt< r than a
i in i ility— will you share
In very truth, v< rs< d as i he wa,s
in all the of m< a's love, this
Upon her as a surprise -usiir-
Playing for Ilijh Slakes.
417
prise that wounded, shamed, hurt
her in some way apparently, for she
bowed her head under it in no co-
quetish fashion.
' I would not have had you say
such words for the world,' she
whispered, presently ; ' forget them
— forget that I have heard them.
Oh ! Mr. Talbot, you have made
me so miserable ! — and I have liked
you so.'
She spoke as one who was bitterly
disappointed— as one whohad steeled
herself to bear ill news, but not
such news as this. Edgar Talbot
had never realized before that it is
possible to put a woman to very
painful confusion by proposing to
her. He told himself that his
cousin, Frank Bathurst, had been
in the field before him, and he did,
for a minute or two, hate his host
very heartily.
' You have seemed to like me,' he
said.
' And I have liked you, and I do
like you so much — so very, very
much — but not in that way.'
•If I had said these words to you
down at the Grange, when I knew
you first —when I first loved you — ■
your answer would have been dif-
ferent ?'
'Yes, it would,' she answered,
frankly, 'for I hadn't the feeling,
the liking for you had not come
then to give me pain.'
' And I was a rich man then.'
'You do not believe what you
imply,' she said, indignantly. ' Ah!
my words are weak, indeed, for I
feel that if I spoke for ever you
would not understand me : you do
wrong me when you hint at your
change of fortune influencing my
feelings about you — you do, but you
will never believe it.'
She spoke seriously, standing be-
fore him with her fingers interlaced
and her hands held down low before
her. She had been humiliated at
first by the feeling of self-reproach
which assailed her for not having
seen and stopped this before the
words were spoken. But now she
asked herself why should she suffer
delicate scruples on behalf of a man
who could misjudge her so meanly
as Edgar Talbot was doing? His
brother would not have done so;
VOL. XL— NO. LXV.
and at the thought of his brother
she softened towards him again, and
looked up to see if she might obey
the womanly instinct to comfort him
without being misunderstood.
It is a fact that a woman cannot
for long think hardly of a man who
either tells or shows her that he
loves her, however lowly she may
rate his regard. ' Affection never is
wasted,' for if it enrich not the giver,
it decidedly elevates the recipient in
her own estimation, which is a read-
ing of his verse never intended by
Longfellow. In this case, though
Blanche Lyon was honestly sorry
'that it should be so,' her sorrow
was qualified by a certain pleasur-
able feeling of increased appreci-
ation for the man who caused it. A
woman is always sure to discover a
few more commendable or admirable
tonches in the character of a man
who avows that he loves her. So
now Blanche remembered all that
she knew of Mr. Talbot's best, and
looked up and longed to comfort
him.
He was standing, still carefully
balancing the paper-cutter on his
finger, still resolutely making it
keep from falling a hair's breadth
too much on either side. His pre-
sent occupation contrasted forcibly
with the experiences he had but
lately gone through — this was so
little, and they were so large. Yet
she knew that he was not frivolous.
It must be that what he willed to
do he would do. And he had willed
to love and marry her.
A sudden, irrepressible, intense
belief in the magnitude of a man's
mind and the strength of a man's
will swept across her soul, and her
desire to comfort him was merged
in a desire that he would not oppose
or quell her in any way, or, as she
worded it to herself, that ' he should
let ner alone.' She felt very ner-
vous before this man, -who had of-
fered her marriage and accused her
of mercenary motives. If he held
to his course, and assumed her past
interest in him to have been a sen-
timent which would have ripened
into love had his fortune not
changed, where should she be with
Lionel when he came to hear of it ?
She would be regarded as a common-
2 K
•118
Playing for Hvjh Stdket.
place, flirting, false, vain, inten
tture by i£{ >!, . | as one wii'> had
angled in every stream for any kind
of Hah. The dread of being bo made
h> r miai rabk and brave a1 the aame
time, and ahe spoke earnestly and
well.
' Mr. Talbot, will you l
merciful in your stn ngth? will yon
forgel what yon have said, and let me
forget it to<>, ami be a friend to me?'
■ Fhat is the trashy cant of school-
girl! and virtuous heroines in
he interrupted, impatiently.
An 1 she felt that if she would have
her appeal heard sbo must make it
very short.
' Well, then, will you keep this
rase, if it were known, it
would prevent the man 1 love loving
me :'
' By Jove ! you're candid.'
Tin more than candid, I'm au-
dacious ; and I know it. But I ask
it of yon ; will yon keep my secret :
' Bloat men would call it theirs.'
' Most nun would be wrong, th< n.
Kb mine, inasmuch as the betrayal
of it would harm mo more than it
w.mld hurt you ; some of my friends
would find it impossible to believe
that I had not been to blame for
more than blindness in the matter.'
' You are great at making mis-
takes,' he said, quietly; 'now yon
nro attributing all manner of tine
feeling, which he does not possess,
to tl you fancy you love. I
know him better.'
' Son ought to know him better,
but you know nothing of him if you
can s iy that.'
' lie will always seek what other
men seek, and strive to win what
other men want,' Edgar Talbot
went on, disregarding her; 'his
love ifl not worth the name ; it will
always How in the COUrPes other
. op< n np to his vision ; he's
acting an unworthy part now to-
you and towards ' II
; I, and Blnncl c cried —
■ i ■ •■.-, u la w hom .''
' I mother woman. I will
not mention In t i BUM ; you will
know it in tiin. . I !■
and impi . i prefer
him to m
• i : too long/
turning to go; and th< D he
followed her, and stood so that he
barred her egress from the door.
'I have more to Bay, bliss Lyon,
and you must hear it.'
she bowed her head acquiescently,
and then stood, resting her chin in
her left hand, and holding the sup-
porting elbow in her right hand, in
that attitude of mingled resignation
and impatience which is familiar to
Women.
' You shall hear it, and you shall
not forget it You will follow yOnr
own path now; mine seems too
dreary for you to tread. You will
marry; you will be happy for a
time; then bo will neglect you, and
you will remember my love, and —
turn to it.'
' Heaven forgive you these words!'
She shuddered, and looked as though
she could not be kind, as she prayed
heaven might be.
' Whether or not, they nro spoken,
and you will think of them by-and-
by; you will realize then that there
is a difference between the man who
feigns a passion far every woman
ainl the man who feels it for one;
and you will feel then that yon have
not been guiltless in this matter.'
He spoke as if he were v< ry much
in earnest. She was woman enough
to feel sorry for the sorrow that
would be worded; she was also
woman enough to feel eorrj forh< r-
s< If. ' J.o ■ turned to gall' in
bosom of Lionel Talbot's brother
might prove a bitter i lement in her
life.
' At hast believe that I have not
been guilty in design,' she pleaded ;
'it never seemed to me to be pos-
sible that you could be thinking ol
me in the way you have done mo
the honour to think of me.'
lb- shook hi head in disbelief.
' What reason had you for think-
ing me so blind or so cold as not to
: I e your b, .iiity and be torn lied by
your sympathy ? You have i ei med
to like me; you have shown bo
mai ki d a pn for my society,
and ao unmistakable an interest in
my prosp eta, that I am justified to
myself in having exp< eti d ad iff rent
• t from you. I had discovered
nothing in your characu ror manner
i appost i weak,
vain, <>r fal.-e woman '
Playing for High Stahe*.
419
'And you are not justified in
judging me to be either of these
things now.'
' I will not judge you— at least I
will not word my judgment of you,
but I will ask you to judge yourself
when I have put your conduct
before you plainly.'
' Mr. Talbot— not even the honour
you have done me entitles you to
take up the position of my accuser
in this way: conscience free as I
am, I am still bitterly sorry that I
should have been the means of
leading you to make a mistake :
that is all 1 can say— i am bitterly
sorry.'
' Not so bitterly sorry as I am,
not that I should nave " made a
mistake," as that it should " be a
mistake ;" you are the first woman
on whom I have set my heart — you
will be the last, yet you can calmly
tell me " 1 have made a mistake,
and that you are conscience free."
Miss Lyon, men do not " make mis-
takes " nor are women " conscience
free," in such cases ; we call acts cri-
minal that do not carry such a train
ot evil consequences with them as
this ot yours.'
He looked so quelled, so misera-
ble, so hopeless, and reckless as he
said this, that she longed to soothe
nim back to better feeling, both for
his own sake and another's. But
she dared not do it. The man had
charged her plainly with having
before this shown signs of love for
him which she had not felt, and she
could not tell him that the love had
been not tor him but for his brother.
She must be content to be reviled
and rebuked, maligned, and mis-
understood for a time. So she ac-
cepted his last harsh words in
silence, and when he ceased speak-
ing she tried to pass by him quietly
once more.
' Don't go yet,' he entreated in
softer tones than he had used here-
tofore ; ' trom this night mine will
be a black, barren road ; bear with
me patiently now.'
The altered t ne broke clown her
hardly-sustained resolution. She
turned to him with all a woman's
tender pitifulness in her blushing
face and tear-filled eyes.
' Mr. Talbot, you will break my
heart unless you tell me you forgive
me for having added to your trou-
bles. I shall never be happy again
if you do not promise me to go out
to meet your altered fortune brightly
and bravely as a man should ?'
' Such going out is easy in theory.'
' And in practice too ! ah ! you
smile ; but I am not speaking as a
fool entirely without experience.'
' You speak as a woman.'
• I grant that — as a woman should
speak who has fought a long mono-
tonous fight without hope of glory,
and who feels that she can fight it
over again on the same, or even
harder terms, without repining or
regret.'
' Fight it with me ; the terms
will be harder, but you have the
heart to fulfil them gallantly.'
' It cannot be now. I wish it
could. I think it would if I had
known you as I know you now,
before I had got to love some one
else better than my life. " Hard
terms!" I'd fulfil the hardest wil-
lingly with the man I loved who
had the courage to say the hard
truths to me that you have said.'
' Do you mean that for consola-
tion ? because if you do, I must tell
you that it falls short of your in-
tention.'
' I scarcely know what I intend
it for— yes I do; I intend you to
understand through it that I un-
derstand and sympathise, and, to
a certain degree, regard you very
warmly — hard as you have been on
me— cuttingly as you have tried to
make me feel that I have been weak,
and vain, and false.' Then she
paused, came down from her im-
passioned height, and added, ' What
will they think of us in the draw-
ing-room'?'
' They will " think "—naturally
enough — that the one who came to
seek stayed to comfort me; they
will " know" nothing more, unless
you tell them.'
' You do think very poorly of me.'
* No ; but I think it more than
possible that in some unguarded
moment you may utter the truth
concerning me; not in the spirit
of a vaunt ; you will not boast, but
the day will come, surely, when you
will feel proud of having gained my
2 S a
-
I 11 '.
"•a. you will toll that
.
- rue
thtrii the
again v
I 1 not
•
uiy cur
may
r own room if .
ured qi
_htly
• - -
-
her,
was a
• sure of
that ' -
it as ti
had l*en pleasa past
per .and regretted,
and We I ->uld K
ter
T . sure that we part in
kir ^he ask
■If II . • • •
lit mind, or con-
acit:
to n my account, no
ease wh ame to reflect on it ;
kindnes- the
hear an when he fin
: turn:
being . -tone when one
ask read to be offer'
I want... I —
r from y
W • at in jnst the
game tone in which be had pre-
■ •
irered no longer,
■
j_-..l-- :.• r • r- -*- «r :• . .• r :
anx
■ e «••; | \ n y ca I
conskk r
1 ranee
•
— that head o:
use, was a ruined man!
CHAPTER XYI.
Bl '."NSEL.
in to speculate
silently in their own minds as to
what could be detaining Blanche
long Mr. TV.
which he d: ft x>n
- Lyon left him.
' Wfea I hoped
would h ' - 08 e f me
•,' he raid as he came near
le round which they wen
.•
!, • Why, Edgar! wethoi
sne 'the library •
irheulty which Miss Lyon
forest-en as to w!
thought of her in the draw
room ' w - _ • ■ - • .- ward
seeming further remark was
• r in the evening she
came back to them, and then Mrs.
Lyon u m their all being
with the fact of Blanche
- though she had a r
ach. ".: .
ler to himself to the effect I
ipidity even the .
Mr Talbot : 1 1 ^one through a
this night He
earnestly— ardently for him
man in the
face of fortune . ired pre-
else. The
hail been very hard to .him,
.1 entertd upon it
much d so n<>w he
-reppiachful th<v
in which he had per-
t. Wl .s of
or mortification in the i
1 was with
He * been !
er man-
ke him,'
r him, since it
«"»n the whole, d>
I her, and d< > as
• was :
-
-
and
re, and feigned ink:
Pitying for High Stfiket.
i.:
so he thought, and die had used
these despicable means for the more
despicable end of luring him into a
false position. As she sat before
him trying to be as she had been
hitherto to him and to them all, and
he thought these things, he felt
pitiless towards her, and towards
that lai modern code which sc:
a woman to pursue such a co:.
and still considers her pure.
It was a he ber to
be weighted with, this knowle _
which he had imparted to her I
commercially his career had come
to a close It made her feel most
pitifully tender towards the rest, and
specially pitifu. - im, the
luckless head of the house who had
wrought its ruin. Her heart ached
as she glanced furtively at him, and
guessed what some of his hopes had
been, and fathomed a good deal of
the hopelessness that was his por-
tion now. But she dared make no
of such tenderness and pity, for
she knew that did she do so, the
rs would fall to wondering about
the reason why she came to be br
informed than they were, and he
would misconstrue her again. So
she sat and glanced furtively at him
now and again, and wondered when
he would be frank with the rest, and
sir - .::'. : : r :; .- : -,---: - — .-.- :
the sympathy she felt
The following day, long before he
intended being lei into it, the dis-
cussion of the subject was forced
upon Edgar Talbot by circum-
stances. Contrary to bis usual cus-
tom, he went away to the stable
with the other two young men im-
mediately after breakfast, instead of,
as usual, shaninz himself in the
library, when Mr. Bathurst occupied
himsplf, and strove to intr
guests, by enlarging on, and show-
ing off, the beauties and excellen-
cies of three new riding horses. Soon
Mr. Bathurst was away on one
which was reputed to be a famous
rr, along a slip of turf whereon
a few hurdles were put up for prac-
tice; and the two brothers, as :
sauntered after him nominal!;
watch his progress, suddenly found
themselves on the topic which had a
fatal fascination for them both.
' That mare is too slight for Ba-
thnr " observed, as
. A on a space of ma.
turf, and Lionel replied—
' He has an idea of giving ha
Miss Lvon.'
'Has he that? Then Trixy's
chance ; :or Mi- will
accept the mare first, and then the
man. She has played with a most
shameful cleverness ; until last night
she did not know which of us s-
to win ; then i frankly pat m;
re her as a ruined man, and she
enacted surprise and confusion, and
made the usual plea of misconcep-
tion of my intentions.' Then he
grew more bitter under the sting of
being so soon superseded, as he
imagined, by a man whom he
garded as something infir .iter
and less worthy than himself, and
added, 'Blanche Lyon is a c-1
woman, but her tactics are trans-
- :...: ::■ :_r a^i .-_-.- —.'.'. :- .1:
them.'
■' God bless and prosper her, what-
. thev are,' L: :rrpo>ed,
heartily. 'But _ What
do you mean by placing ;
before Mss L;- on as a ruined man f
' That I did it— that I am one;'
and then Lionel uttered t:
_ : \ .1 . iz. i \l-.z. '.':.-. ~ ':.:'.- -' :. ""
least as much of it as could be told,
and was necessary to be known, was
narrated by Mr. Talbot
Eh 1 brother did not put
himself in the position of one who
has erred, and repented before
-rl, ■ I did what I thought was
''■-'■'■-.
merit has been proved faulty.' He
said when be had finfehel. ' If I sne-
1 would all have bene-
. as largely as myself by my
success; as 1 have failed, I shall be
the greatest sufferer. I wish I could
be the only one.'
'Don't feel that lam a ~zf r--TT in.
::r 1 _: 1: :-.'. L :i:". -.n:. :■-. . .
that he was called upon to
something. 'Such pla&s as I
made will carry themsefres oat
- :'.'. :".-. .-: : . .:: i: :_ :': 11 "._: ;
business, save so far Eefag ■«■*•
cerned.'
Trixy will still be my donee
very much the head of the house soil
as he spoke. -~^y will be my
422
Playing for High Stales.
charge. I shall begin at the fi>ot of
tin l.iMi r, mil she must be
to take hex stand there with
I could have wish) d that she
bad marrii d Bathnrst As it is, the
l can do for hex I will do ; Miss
it it out of the questi >n
that an j wife of mine can interfere
with n. j 8ti r.' When he Baid that
he smiled with a sort of cruel
triumph over himself, and Li 1
knew that bis brother was sorely
wound* '1 by this woman whom they
both 1"'
• Sou think Miss Lyon has -i\. n
you reason to f< el wrongi d bj her
:' he ash I.
' 1 have not a doubt of it — not a
doubt of it. 1 am not a man to
falsely construe every little feminine
artifice into a special flatten formy-
. she iih nit me to behove what
1 did believe.'
' S; very gracious manner/
Lionel sai i ; and at thai gentle pro-
b inst further censure of either
Miss Lyon's motives or manner,
i r Talbot grew irritable
• 1 ti 11 you,' he said, ' that she
.• me to believe what I did be-
lies ' she would marry me if
I tied her; she spurns thu notion
of I* M g considered m< ro nary : but
i terse* ming to like me as n >
other woman has Buffi re i herself to
i within my experienoi aft< r
this Bhe has r< fuse I me, pli a ling
love for a richer man as a rea-
son why she cannot marry me.
"Gracious!" Such graciousness is
in.'
did give you that n a son?'
e did gave it out with what
I re f rightly called in i
inaii candour.'
\\ hen his brother said that, Lionel
Tall - >t dice more deb rmined that
I i ■ his sketching-
ground during the ensuing autumn.
For - his habit to
d r tl t . nything was owe.; to
him<
he's. 15 it t a hi brother!
that if
I
'i aught ill Ilialiee, he had I'll
wrong) d by ti m man, whom
I Dei could still only pray might
know many hi and much
pi nty.
CHATTER XVII.
A DAY-DIM' \M.
' Bo sner or later they must know
it all, so the sooner we come to an
understanding with the women
about all this the better/ Edgar
Talbot said to his brother when they
found themselves at the extreme end
oftl e slip, with Mr. Bathnrst so for
in advance of them as to justify
them in no longer feigning an in-
i. n -t in his performana s with the
hay mare he designed tor his cousin.
Mr. Talbot, as it will be st en, did
in no way seek to involve any other
than himself in the tangle of
wricked fortune and strained re-
sponsibility in which hewas caught.
still he did find it a Blight ' some-
thing to lean upon,' that knowle
In had that in the coming explana-
tion Lionel would be near to aid
him verbally, at any rate
• s. , tner or later the) must know
it all, therefore the sooner the better/
Lionel answered, and in thatansw< r
there was a touch mole of poetical
ing than of sound common s<
For a time sa\ only for a few da\s
— matters migtrl with safety I
stood where they were No
could l>e benefited by any m-
mediate and absolute declaration of
the nets -shy for a compli te change,
and it was well w ithin the bounds
of possibility that some might be
worsted by it. ' Trixy will be my
charge still — that, of course; hut
she must rough it. When Bhec
to me I hoped to give her a good
establishment until she gained one
for herself. Now all that is at an
end; still' she is my charge, and I
shall fulfil it.'
' You will let me help you?' the
youngi r brother ask< d.
' No. As things have turned out,
I can take no man's help with re-
g mi to Trixy. I, who have done
her the injury through my over
Zl al, must Ih' the one to make her
nd- ; besides, she would still l>o
within sound and Bight of that fel-
low, if she cast in her lot with you,
and she, like me, will be tx tter away
from them altogether.'
Tin ii the I. rot In re Spoke of Trixy 's
tiii . ident love lor the man who
Playing for High Stakes.
423
loved Blanche Lyon better than
their sister — spoke of it delicately
and with reserve, and in a way that
proved to each that the other felt the
common family honour to be his very
tender care, and finally came to the
conclusion that, since nothing better
could be devised, it would be well
to leave Haldon without delay.
But not to go back to London.
The man who had lived in luxury
there shrank from taking his s-ister
back to some draughty suburb to
live in cheap obscurity. 'If it
were not for this about Blanche, I
could desire nothing safer and better
for Trixy than to live on with Mrs.
Lyon; but that will hardly do now
— Trixy could not stand it.'
' Neither of the girls could stand
it if Miss Lyon marries Bafhurst/
Lionel suggested. ' Miss Lyon is a
quicksighted woman, and a tender-
hearted woman ; she would never
agree to testing poor Trixy cruelly ;
but we are, after all, arguing on in-
sufficient grounds ; we do not know
that Blanche cares for Frank ; that
gracious manner of hers is shown to
us all alike.'
' She made no secret of caring for
him,' Edgar replied, emphatically;
' she spoke as plainly as a woman
can speak ; far more plainly than a
woman ought to speak.' Then he
bent his head down and brooded
over the words she had uttered, and
was as sick at heart in his angry
outspoken love and wrath, as was
Lionel, whose hopes had been raised
with far more cause. There was no
unselfish consolation to Mr. Talbot
in the thought that the woman he
loved was escaping a black, barren-
looking fate by refusing to marry
him. He had a theory that snch
love as was his to give was all-suffi-
cient to brighten the darkest road
to any woman. Therefore now he
girded against Blanche for leaving
him to travel it alone.
' She made no secret of caring for
him — she spoke more plainly than
a woman ought to speak.' Lionel
listened to these words with a deep
conviction that they were ringing
the knell of happiness for him.
Last night that sweet graciousness
of hers made his future seem so
bright, his work so noble, his aim
fo lofty, his prospects so many !
Now he knew that it had been
shown to him because he was Frank
Bathurst's friend. Many women
being imbued with tho amiable,
though weak notion, that it recom-
mends them to Damon to be agree-
able to Pythias.
' Have you thought of letting
Trixy go to Marian for a time'!''
Lionel asked.
' Not while I'm alive and in au-
thority ; moreover, Marian will not
be too likely to stretch out a help-
ing hand just now, for this last
business has dipped Sutton consider-
ably, and she will be sure to attri-
bute his reverses to me ; no ! until
her daughter's altered prospects
causes Mrs. Lyon to take a gorgeous
tone I shall take it for granted that
she remains Trixy's chaperone. I
shall get into harness at once myself,
and then I shall know what arrange-
ments I can make for them.'
Then Lionel urged once more that
they should stand or fall together,
bringing forward, in support of his
claim to help, that the mistress he
served rewarded her honest votaries
ia a right royal way; and still the
head of the house refused the cadet's
claim, and declared his intention
manfully of sufficing to himself and
his sister.
But although Mr. Talbot would
share this actual practical responsi-
bility with no man, so long as it could
be considered his property, he still
did shrink from the more puerile
duty of telling his sister that he had
been shortsighted or luckless rather.
To Blanche Lyon he bad told it out
boldly— not being altogether un-
conscious that there was something
inspiring and touching in the man-
ner of his telling it. Blanche Lyon
was very much endowed with the
love of all that is chivalric and
daring, and there was something
very daring in Mr. Talbot's tale and
the tone in which he had told it.
As she had said to him, if she had
not already loved another man
better she could have found it in her
heart to love him very well indeed.
She was sympathetic to that power
he possessed of bearing the worst,
and bearing it buoyantly not sto-
lidly, and he knew that she .was
121
Playinij for Ilijli Skike*.
thus sympathetic, mil so ho was
able h> speak out to hex as became
ii man.
But with Trixy ho felt very dif-
f. rently. Tratfa to till, he knew
of ins sstex than that
she had lovely wol< t eyes, and a
■ Inxnrions figure, and a lady-
like bearing that entitled him to
that she wonld marry very
well. He was proad of in r, to a
a rtain .1 . i' e be was fond of if r,
hut lie was ii"t at all acquainted
with the tone "f ber character or
the turn of ber mind. She hail been
a delightful Risto r to him while lie
BF, and hoping to be
still better off lint whether or not
she had it in h<r to hear of such a
reverse as he ha<l to tell her of
without looking Crushed and re-
proachful he did not know.
it was bi ruo in npon him, '
partly by reason of his selfishness,
and partly out of that natural dis-
like to the Bight of tears which most
men have, that it would l>e well
for him to so far avail himself of
that offer of fraternal service which
Lionel had made, as to make the
latter the in. i of evil toTrixy.
'As you were saying, the sooner
they all know it now th. ' ho
remarked. ' I don't mind jour
telling Trixy this momin( Nail
not go back to Victoria Street; if
she has a preference for any par-
ticular part of the country it will ho
as w.ll that I should know it \> foM
we have hcii-, and then 1 may ma-
i it for her/
• The telling will como better
from you, I fancy,' Lionel replii I,
in all simplicity, not because he
shirked tic- unpleasant duty, hut
I e really thought that it
would I- i Idgar to rea
the solace of Trixy's Borrow and
sympathy with him at first hand.
Mr. Talhot, being too proud
and Btobborn to ask a second tune
din ctly for what he had in din
attempted to bring a
• Perhaps you are right, 1 and went
hack to Haldon in no pleasant
mood.
II" left Lionel still l< aning against
the hurdle at one ind of the Blip,
dreaming a day dream —a dream
that was Incongruous in such a
place at such a time. For the
glories of summer were over the
land now. The odours of wild thyme
and roses, of mignonette from many
a* sheltered garden, of clover from
many a shelving field, of meadow*
bw( t from the banks of the purling
stream, the ever-SOUndJng ripples
of which permeated everything; all
these fragrances mingled and inten-
sified themselves in the golden sun-
fraught air. and wen wafted around
and about him by a sighing western
wind. And the grass under his
feet was green, thick, and spring} ;
and the sky above him was bright
and decked graciously for the eyes
with fleecy clouds of silver prey;
and the bee hummed an accompa-
niment to the air the stream sang;
and the world was as full of beauty
BS the man's heart was full of care.
So in the bosom of that gorgeous
mother, at the shrine of the god
whom all artists adore, at the feet
of that royal mistress who never
spurns a loving slave, so here alone
with Nature, Li ml Talhot dreamt
his day dream, and it was Something
after this wise.
' The spell she wove in idleness
for Frank, she has w rought in reality
and bitterness tor me.
■"No \m, in. m's love ihaVJ light on me,
No iroman'i bi arl !>• mine." '
Tho sun shone on still, and tho
lark sang, and the bee hummel,
atal the river rippled just as though
God's grandest creation man, had not
been making man's most unnatural
vow. In the utterance of those
two knee, Lionel was binding him-
self to celibacy in the event of
Blanche Lyon marrying an] othez
than himself. Meanwhile Blanche
Lyon and Frank Bathurat were
coming to an understanding!
' fler
i
425
BOATING LIFE AT OXFORD.
CHAPTER III.
A BUMP SUrPER.
OXFORD suppers in general are
of a very festive character.
Breakfasts, even with the addition
of champagne, arc tlull in Oxford,
as everywhere else; 'wines' are
solemn festivals, usually unfestive ;
but suppers are thoroughly enjoy-
able. At supper stiffness and re-
straint vanish in the steam of whisky
punch, and joviality and good feel-
ing are spread around with the
fumes of the tobacco. Take an il-
lustration. Two men of different
Colleges meet, we will suppose at
wine ; they have known each other
by sight for two or three years, and
have perhaps met once or twice
before on similar occasions. They
find themselves seated close together
with a bottle of port between them.
Now watch their behaviour. They
eye one another furtively for the
first fivo minutes, then one ventures
a remark; very gradually they enter
into conversation, and as the port
circulates discuss the merits of the
'Varsity and the Derby favourites
with tolerable warmth and freedom.
But next day they will probably
meet and pass one another with the
same furtive glance with which they
met the evening before. Now let
those men face each other at the
supper table ; let them applaud the
same speeches, join in the same
choruses, drink of the same liquor,
and smoke the same tobacco, and
you will see them presently hob-
nobbing together, proposing each
other's health, and shaking hands
over ' Auld Lang Syne,' as if they
had been ' chums' from their youth
up ; and if they meet next day, there
will be a greeting between them of
some sort, not perhaps a cordial
'Hail-fellow-well-met,' but a quiet
nod of recognition at any rate.
So suppers alone deserve to be
called festive, and therefore, to cele-
brate a College success and express
College joy, what so proper and
so effective as a College supper?
Such was always the feeling in St.
Anthony's, and now that our Torpid
had so far distinguished itself as to
make three bumps, and rise to the
second place on the river, a Bump
Supper was a matter of course.
However we always did these
things in a constitutional way at
St. Anthony's; so Hallett called a
meeting, and proposed that the Col-
lege should do honour to the Torpid
crew by giving them a supper,
which was unanimously agreed to.
' I propose, then,' said Hallett,
' that we ask Mr. Macleane it he will
be good enough to cater for us ; he
knows what a good supper means
better than most of us, and we shall
be sure to have our liquors of the
right sort if Mr. Macleane has the
choosing of them.'
Macleane expressed his willing-
ness to accept the honourable task,
and intimated privately to his im-
mediate neighbours that he would
back himself at evens to name the
vintage of any wine they liked to
put before him, and that champagne
and Moselle "were his peculiar forte.
' We must leave the amount of
expenditure to Mr. Macleane,' went
on Hallett, 'and when we know
what it is, share it amongst us. I
hope every one in the College will
subscribe, and come to the supper,
and help to make it as jolly a one
as possible.'
So the matter was settled, and
Macleane set to work to make ar-
rangements with great gusto.
St. Anthony's was not a largo
College ; we had rather over sixty
men, and some four or five of these
belonged to the species known iu
Oxford by the name of ' smugs,' a
race of wdiich specimens exist in
every College in Oxford, and which
is not likely at present to become
extinct.
They are a race who live apart,
as far as Oxford life permits, and
appear to take an interest in nothing
particular, and certainly not in
things in general. They have not f
426
Ilnati.t'i Ufa <il Oxford.
as far as can be ifoertained, any
object in liff, nor can it be ooi
tared « bat obj o1 thi y were intended
to serve, r-]> cially in ( Ixford They
observi I usually to herd to-
• i r, to wear hair and i>< ard
an eccentric pattern, and attin
an uncertain period, varying in tint
t n mi black to snuff colour. Bt
Anthony's, I say, was blest with
fair OX fiW Of these curious ena-
tores, and of oonrse bumps and
bump supp ra wn re things of no
interest to them. However, Hallett
ight that on such an occasion
they onght at least to be invite i
Macleane went round and asked
them. He came back to Hallett in
it. of great disgust
'Confound those fellows!' ho
said ' Why the douce did you send
me to BUCh infernal holes f>r? I
never was in any of them before, or
I wouldn't have gone. Why I've
just been to that fellow Daniels,
and there he is sitting, Daniel in
the dl n of lions, that is, of 00
there are no lions, but there's a
monkey, and an owl, and two mon-
grel puppil B, and the den's a pi
copy of the original, and ugh! the
IP
• Well, he's the worst, 1 replii d
I I illett ; ' they're not all as had as
thai; but what did lie say?— is he
coming? 1
'Coming? No, of course ho
i -n't . I rapped out the invitation
i could, for 1 couldn't
Btand the monkey; but be said
" .Much obliged, but lie didn't go to
suppers, and be didn't take an in-
to rest in boating." So I
' I hank you," and l.olted, and J'll
lay | | | e n '■< : .<: in
the doorway again '
' Well, you've done your duty at
anj id Hallett with a quiet
chuckle.
' Yes, and some works of super —
what d'ye call 'em into the bargain.
I'll tell you wl 1 Macli ane,
they ] mj opin on that
the existence of Smugs throws con-
fable light on the qu< Btion of
the origin of they*n
much better link l*tween man and
lirute than I la '
It was at :, that leav<
hhuiild be asked to have tb
in the hall ; but as the Smugs were
not coming, and as four or five m< n
who had failed two or three times'
before in ' Smalls,' being anxious to
avoid a similar mishap again, had
reluctantly declined to be pre-
Macleane thoughl that, on the
whole, the thing would he more
i ujoyable if held in his own rooms,
largest in Qpllege.
Accordingly, on the appointed
evening a little before nine o'clock
about fifty men wended their way
to Mr. Macleane's rooms, prepared
to ' make a night of it.'
The room in which wo wen to be
entertained was large, but not lofty j
the walls panelled with oak, with
two bayed and mullioned windows
OH two Bides of the room, curtained
with red. On the walls were some
of the popular prints of the day,
with several of a sporting character,
and a portrait of Mr. Macleane's
favourite hunter, with that gentle-
man, in unexceptionable pink and
tops, on his back. At one did of tho
room over the mantelpiece was a
huge mirror ; at the other end was
a sort of trophy of the (diase, con-
sisting of a fox's mask and two
brushes, surmounting a hup' pair
of bison's horns, about which whips,
hunting-crops, spur-. & c . gracefully
dangled. Tables were Btretched
along the four sides of the room,
le i\ ing room at two corners for the
'scouts' in attendance to pass to
and fro between the outer <l ©1 and
the inner room. Just inside the
latter was posted the bind, vari-
y known as Tyrol* se, Polish,
and i terman, under the direction oi
tin' renowned SchlappoffskL Oys-
ters, lobsters, beef, pies, fowls, and
all sorts of cold eatables of a sub-
stantial nature covered tbl
an i bottles of champagne and Mo-
Belle stood Bentry over every dish
ready to let fly and announce that
the attack had begun.
' ( 'Hue up here, my lad,' BUng out
Baxter, as I entered the room, and
pi ■ ling to lake a bumble
place among some other freshmen;
' all the Torpid sit up In re, and I
Wan* Voll by Inc.' lie WBS Seat' d
on llalli tt r . iit in the middle 01
the longest table, which was the
j 'lace of honour. ' It's the first
Boallwj Life at Oxford.
427
supper you've been at, isn't it?'
said Baxter. ' Well, I'll give you a
bit of advice. Don't drink too much
porter with your oysters, beware of
punch, and stick to the " fiz." '
' " Fiz ?" ' I said, inquiringly.
' Yes, fizzing liquors, you know ;
they don't leave headache and " hot
coppers" behind, which punch
does.'
* " Hot coppers ?" ' I said again.
' Well, my infant, as the French
say, you arc fresh. Don't you know
liow your mouth feels in the morn-
ing after a little too much smoke
and liquor the night before? No,
of course you don't, but you will
to-morrow, I dare say. You smoke,
don't you?'
' Yes, a little.'
' Ah ! well, make the most of your
weed: you'd be uncomfortable if
you didn't smoke at all, and you'll
be still more uncomfortable if you
smoke too much.'
I could see that Wingfield, who
sat a little way down the other side
of the table, was taking in these
observations of Baxter's with all his
ears, and evidently determining to
make the most of them for his own
use.
'Are all the Torpid here?' in-
quired Hallett. ' We won't wait
for anybody else.'
'All here now,' replied Vere, as
he entered, as usual the last man.
' Well,' exclaimed Tip, ' I thought
Mr. Vere would be in time to-night
for once.'
' Yes, I am Fere-y late,' returned
Vere, quietly, ' but you see '
' Well, gentlemen,' interposed
Hallett, ' as everybody's here, we
may as well fall to.'
The hint was taken at once, and
oysters, lobsters, &c, began to vanish
at a marvellous rate. Then com-
menced the popping of corks, much
resembling the ' file-firing from the
right of companies' with which
Volunteers are familiar. The band
struck up, and so did chaff and
laughter from all sides, and between
that and the clatter of knives and
forks, the jingling of glasses, and
the firing of corks, the table was
soon in something like a roar.
' Robert !' shouted Baxter to one
of the scouts who was rushing about
with champagne in a state of the
most gleeful excitement, '-Robert,
you old duffer, come here.'
' Yes, sir,' returned Robert, pit-
ting his hand to his ear to catch the
order in the midst of the din.
' Ask Mr. Percy to take wine with
me,' shouted Baxter.
Off went old Robert with another
grin.
' Mr. Percy, sir,— Mr. Baxter —
pleasure of a glass of wine, sir.'
'All right,' said Tip, filling his
glass ; ' health, old fellow !'
Thereupon the rest of the room
followed suit ; everybody drank to
everybody else, and, ' Pleasure of a
glass of wine,' ' Looks towards you,'
' Health, old fellow,' ' Here's to
you,' &c., w r ent across the tables in
every direction for the next ten
minutes. By this time we hod
nearly appeased our appetites, and
were ready for a song, so, while the
relics of the feast were being cleared
away, Schlappoffski, or as he was
familiarly called, ' Slap,' came for-
ward, and sang, in broken English,
one of the popular comic songs of
the day, wdhch was vociferously ap-
plauded, chiefly because everybody
wanted an opportunity to make as
much noise as possible. By the
time it was over, the punch was on
the table, steaming hot, and spread-
ing that soothing and delicious
fragrance which makes it the most
seductive of all liquors that rejoice
the heart of man. Boxes of cigars,
pipes, and jars of tobacco also made
thuir appearance ; and when each
man had lit his pipe or his weed,
and filled his glass, Hallett rose to
propose the first toast of the evening.
' Gentlemen,' said Hallett, ' I take
it for granted that we all wish good
health to the Queen and her royal
family [hear, hear], so I shall pro-
ceed forthwith to propose the prin-
cipal toast of the evening, I mean
our gallant Torpid [cheers and
energetic rattling of glasses on the
table, and heels on the floor, con-
tinued for some minutes]. I've
seen a good many Torpids in my
time,' said Hallett, ' but I never
saw any for pluck and perseverance
and real good training to beat the
St. Anthony's Torpid of this year
[ Renewed cheers, rattling of glasses,
428
•ihj l.ije at Oxford.
and thunder of in < Is]. We had
our usual " St. Ant);.>u\ 's lurk " at
the beginning of term, We lost
Borne of the nun we had reokoned
(Hi. and had to put new nun into
the boat ; bat by dial of their own
bard grind, the crew came to be
one ox the beet on, and you've all
m • ii the resell [eheen and noisea
n^ before . I'm buk noone who aaw
thoae tin. a bumps, i ape dally that
gloriooe one on the first daj Bur-
r:i1 1 and tremendoua cheering]! will
H : I shall not for one.
We shall never forget Bow's form,
ln's straight back, and bis easy
finish; he's the pretties! oar ['ve
a eo, i icepl dear old Thornbill
Load bear, bear, daring which
Bow was smitten on the bach by
6V< ryhody within reach ; and we
won't forget old " Two" [bear,
1 • ar], how he was always late, [" II a,
ha," all round and a quiet smile
from Vere], and how, when we did
get him into the boat, he did his
work from end to end, and was
never known to shirk' rlu .
and we won't forget how " Thl
tried for a month to get bis back
straight, and did it at last " Bravo
Three I"] ; and how " Four" was
rather lazy in training, bat came
out strong in the rao 3 cha re, and
" So you did, Four, my boy"]; and
we won't forget how " Five's" oar
same through with a " rag" that
made the water foam [greal cheer-
ing]; and " Six " looked as if he
:.t to pull the boat by himself,
and " Seven," with his long hack
broad cheat, reaching out, and
flicking up the tune like clockwork
and, if we forgi t every-
■ ere' one man we'll
n mi ruber, and that's •• Stroke' 1
and heele at it
.n, while Baxter patted me on
sk with such warmth that I
I to n monstrste . He
iimaii this term,' con-
tinaed Qall< tt, ' but I don't mind
iij_ r , that Ins ite id ■ rowing and
plucky tpurti would have done
en .lit to the old< it oar in Oxford,
and J hope to m s trim aome da] in
the winning boat i n the Putney
water loud hear, h< ir, and " Well
rowed, Stro aid now.
u.i n, though l.x>t, and I'm bound
to say, least, wo won't forget our
pox Cheers, at which Wingfleld
did not attempt to conceal his grati-
fication]. He's a freshman, too,
mil I think for the first month, as
usual with a new COX., he pit, so
peak, " more kicks than half-
pence:" however, he stuck to it,
and I'll sav, with all due deference
to Mr. Percy |" All right, old fel-
low," from Tip;, that in six months'
time he'll he as well able to take a
boat from Putney Bridge bo the
Shi]) at Mortlnke as any BOX < n
the Oxford river I Hear, bear, and
cheers]. And now, gentlemen,
that we've Cheered them all sepa-
rately, lefa oheer them all in a
lump. Here's to the St Anthony's
Torpid and the three bumpa.'
All stood up,glass in hand, exOBpt
the heroes of the toast: the hand
struck up and everybody sang "For
they are jolly pood fellows," Arc,
which was Succeeded bj tremendous
volleysof cheers, in which the scouts,
headed by old Robert, joined with
all their lungs. Then everybody
tossed off his punch, and ' No heel-
taps,' was the ery all round. 'Stroke,
my hoy, your health,' ' Stroke,
health, old fellow,' ' Five, vour
health,' ' Cox.,' ' Wingfleld,'
' Stroke,' ' Maynard,' 'Bow, health,
old hoy,' ami so on till the men
dropped dow n one by one into their
s. ats, and there was something like
a calm one.- more.
' Beg to call on Mr. Maeleano for
a song,' said Hallott, rising imme-
diately.
1 Bear, hear,' from all side?, and
Ma tleane, after a good deal of en-
couragement from his immediate
neighbours, and pulls at the punch,
gave us 'A hunting we will go'
with great vigour, warming up, as
we joined him in the chorus, nou-
rishing his glass in one hand, and
his pipe in the other, and shouting
■ Fore banting we will go, my '«i\ s,
a hunting we will go,' in a atate of
\\if greatest enthusiasm, finishing
up at last with a ' Ya wdiolloa ' of
the most rigorous description.
After that I found I had to return
thanks, which turned out easier
than I had expected, and then
rybo ly called out ' Now then,
M.e'l- ana, it's your call.'
Boating Life at Oxford.
429
' I know,' said Macleane ; ' I
thiDk I can't do better than call on
the celebrated comic singer, Mr.
Vere, for a song.'
' Hear, hear,' shouted Baxter ;
' he's awfully good,' he added aside
to me, ' beats Mackney and those
fellows all to nothiDg. Now then,
Vere, strike up, old man.'
So Vere, with a very dismal face,
began an extremely comic song,
which sent me into fits of laughter,
and gave Baxter inexpressible de-
light. I forget what the song was,
but I know there were some imita-
tions of a grandmother and four or
five children that were intensely
amusing. As soon as it was over
we struck up the inevitable chorus
well known to every Oxford man —
'Jolly good song, jolly well sung,
Jolly companions every one;
Put on your nightcaps, keep yourselves warm,
A little more liquor will do you no harm.'
Then more toasts were proposed,
and more songs sung. ' The Cricket
Club,' ' The Eight/ ' The Hunting
Interest,' • The Volunteers,' ' The
men who had taken honours in the
Schools,' all had their turn. At
last Baxter gave ' The Ladies,' in
terms of the highest gallantry,
which was greeted with ' Here's a
health to all good lasses,' &c.
Before it was over, Macleane, who
had had rather more punch than his
head would carry, was on his legs
to return thanks. ' Gentlemen,'
said Macleane, in an impressive
tone, ' being — I venture to think —
a general favourite with the fair
sex.'
• Sit down, you old ass,' said Tip,
who sat near him ; ' who asked you
to return thanks ?'
' Mr. Tip,' rejoined Macleane, in
a tone of serious rebuke, ' your con-
duct is un-ladylike, I mean un — '
' Now do go to bed, there's a good
fellow.'
' Gentlemen !' continued Mac-
leane, ignoring the last remonstrance,
' Mr. Tip— considers, that I ought
not— to return— to return to the
subject : but, gentlemen, the ladies
— being — if I may sho speak, our
own— our guiding stars, will — do —
can — '
At this point the door opened,
and % head wearing a long nose,
and sharp, though fishy eyes, was
thrust in. It was Dick Harris, the
College messenger. The head was
immediately assailed with missiles
from all parts of the room.
' Get out, Dick, what the deuce
do you want ?'
' Oh, let's have him in,' said Bax-
ter. ' Here, Dick, have some grog.'
' Thankee, sir,' and Dick po-
lished off a tumbler of strong punch,
in a way that showed that it was no
new beverage to him.
' Now then, Dick,' said Baxter,
' let's see if you know the article on
Predestination.'
' No, no,' interposed Hallett, ' let's
have a bit of Cicero. Go on ; let's
hear you pitch into Catiline.'
Dick began at once, with great
emphasis and volubility, ' How
long, Catiline, will you abuse our
patience?' &c, and went on for
about half a page.
' That's enough, Dick ; now let's
see if you can return thanks for
the ladies ; Mr. Macleane can't quite
manage it.'
' All right, sir. Gentlemen, when-
ever I hear speak of returning
thanks for the ladies, I always think
as how I ought to return thanks
for my old woman at home. She's
a sort of a Rebecca to me, you know,
gentlemen, and I hope I aint a bad
Isaac; whenever she knows as
there's going to be a festive meet-
ing, like this 'ere, in CoMege, says
she to me, " Dick," she says, " I hope
you won't go to forget yourself."'
[• And you never do,' ironically from
Baxter.] ' And I never do, sir, and
when 1 go home, as it might be
now you know, sir, she says, " Ah,
Dick," she says, " what a blessin '
it is as you always come 'ome
sober. " [Oh, oh, and laughter : for
' Dick was generally ' overcome '
twice a week at least] ; and so you
see, gentlemen, I know the valyer
of the ladies, and, as the ladies
stands up for me, I stands up for
them, and— beg pardon, gentlemen,'
said Dick, changing his tone, ' the
Dean sends his comjdiments, and
he hopes you won't keep it up n«
longer, for it's near two o'clock, and
he can't get to sleep, he says.'
' Oh, hang the Dean.' ' Ask him
in.' ' Tell him to put another
130
Watching u \\'m<i<,ir.
nightcap on,' wero tho exclamations
all round,
' Well. I suppose it's about time
we broke np,' said Ballett ; ' we'll
haye one more jolly good chorus,
and then stop. What shall it
■ \ hunting wo will go,' said
Bfaoleane.
• No, no, can't do letter than
" Auld lang Sync,'' as usual,' said
Baxter. • Come on; "Should auld
[uaintance he forgot?"'
An 1 off wo went at tho top of
our voices, while Biacleane, with his
accompaniment of tumbler an 1 pipe,
Btuck manfully to 'A hunting w*
will
And then we all retired, some
Btraighl and some by rather crooked
paths, to our respective rooms. I
believe my footsfa ps wavered a littlo
when 1 got into tho cold night
air; but 1 walked up stairs, lit my
candle, and wound up my watch
without much difficulty, so I sup-
pose my head was not particularly
muddled But next morning I
knew the meaning of-' Hoi copp
and had no reason to regret that
Bump .Suppers were a comparative
rarity.
WATCHING A WINDOW.
TFIE bar of red in the amber west
Burns to ashes, and all is prey,
Though a sickle-moon is glittering out
Through the haze of the dying day.
There is no light from the sickle-moon,
And fast the pearly greys grow dead,
And the trees grow black, and the flowers dim,
Till the beauty of all has fled.
And the passion-flower.' that — moonlight :;iod-
Tangle and twine, with starry grace,
About a window on which I gaze,
Even theso will the night efface.
Already the wine-red curtains drawn,
Hide the room with their ruddj glow,
And the face is gone that white!. I
At the sunset an hour ;
Gone! Ah, no; as I speak thex us
A haft of light athwart the gloom ;
The dew-wet laurels beneath it gleam,
And the flow rs, returning, bloom.
had come again, and with eitbej tud
silken damask holds apart,
And full in tho streaming light she stau Is,
i ibl< d ol : heart
Full in • ning light, that l
A ; round her, like a saint,
[ see tin :i thai i \
I u'nt
J
V
Drawn by Adelaide Claxton.J
WATCHING A WINDOW.
[See the Poem.
Watching a Window.
She watches and waits for one who stajs,
For one beloved she looks in vain ;
And the big black eyes are full of tears,
And the child-month quivers with pain.
Passionful longing, and not reproach,
Steals the blood from her rounded cheek ;
And sadness, born of the hungering heart
That suffers, and dare not speak.
' The hours drag on, oh, love of my he art !
Wearily on, and you are not here :
A hundred terrors oppress my brain ;
I am sick to swooning with fear.
' It is not doubt, oh, life of my life !
Oh, truest, and fondest, and best ;
But I am a woman, and womanly fears
Tear and distract my breast.'
So I fancy her murmuring low ;
Yet the while with her wistful eye3
She gazes into the garden's gloom,
And up at the darkening skies.
The sickle-moon has the gleam of gold
In the deepening blue above ;
She thinks, ' It shines not for me alone;
It is shining on him I love.'
But hark ! What echo the silence breaks ?
What sound, when all sound seemed dead ?
Her cheek is changing from red to white, ■
And flushing from white to red ;
And the big eyes glisten. Yet these alone
Are the sounds on my ears that grate, —
Hasty footsteps spurning the road,
And a hand on the garden gate.
431
W. S.
•132
MR. FAIKWKATIIERS YACIITLNG.
J'.y iiik Ann B Of ' Yachting BOOK) tiik West of ENGLAND.'
CHAPTEB III.
ONE morning, about a week aft. t
our arrival, I was surprised to
od entering the sitting-room,
• the cloth was not laid for break-
fast, and my wife booo after <al U-< I mo
:y that ahe bad been ringing for
Bimpkins to come to her, without
. ;..r tin- last half-hour. I >n
this, I determined to try
awakening power of the sitting-
room bell, ami plied it so vigorously,
that no one within a hundred yards
of the house could have had tho "
to assert they had not
1 it. The appeal was too
:t t" 1><' neglected, and pro-
duced Bimpkins, who came running
up breathless, and big with intelli-
gence. She expressed herself some-
what incoherently.
'Oh! ma'am, 1 U>g your pardon,
— I beg your pardon for keeping
you waiting— but— it has given me
such a turn— I really could not
(Mine befon
II. re she pressed hex hand on her
, looked as though she were
about to fall, or •
' What is it, Nmpkins?' cried
my wife, in alarm. 'Speak! Axe-
thusa ?'
' No, it isn't her, ma'am. Miss
An thusa's all right — it's Louise—
1 rise, the maid— her as attends on
you hen
' What of her?' asked my wife —
relieved, but int. pi ti I.
' Well, ma'am, I may as 'well
begin fr.>m the beginning. As I
wen the di • r< n
o'clock tins morning, — it might
have bei d ten mh ven,
for I was a little late, I gi n<
up uh< n 1 hi ;ir the clock strike
six, hut I didn't i ear it this morn-
ing. I don't hold much to th. m
Fn i ch . — '
• Never mind the clocks,' I inter-
• l. • What 'i
• Well, sir, it '.. d t. n
minutes ait. r a v. d, as I wi
ntting-room door, 1 6aw
it open. So says I to myself,
" What! lias master left the sittings
room door open ?" and I just went
to look in, when, who should I
but Louise, lying in an arm-chair
with her broom beside her. < >h !
but she did look dreadful had, sir,
all like a corpse a'most, and I felt
the cold shivers come over mo.
"Louise!" says I, and she; opened
her eyes, "whatever is the matter?"
She shook her head but made no
answer. I was so (Tightened, and I
thought of the cholera, which is
about the town; so I runs and
calls Mons., Madame Clement, and
Madame Clement's mother, and
Marie, and Adolphe, and they car-
ries her up to bed; and we've been
rubbing her with brandy, and now
b doctor's sent for.'
My wife, somewhat uneasy at
Simpsons' suggestion of the ohok ra,
s. nt for Madame Clement im:
diately after breakfast, it was same
time before she and hex husband
arrived, but when they did, they at
once satisti. d us that the illness was
not infectious ; and the mistress in
a few words e plained to my wife
the nal cause of the poor girl's
wretched condition.
But what had become of the in-
fant? That was the next question;
and it was one at which the mast, rof
the house became li\ id. He be(
us to he silent, and to keep tho
matter quiet. He knew that tho
French p >!ieo wexe inexorable.
Were any suspicion raised they
would search every cranny and
i'T, t< ar down the fin -pi.
turn out the wine-cellar uproot
th. bouse to its v. ry found itions.
He saw nothing before him hut
public exposure, and his gn
migrating from his hotel •
Se bemoaned trima If as the most
unf ot landlords, and tho
mi-.ri. s of Louise ap] h • him
to i • lost iii his own impending
ruin.
Mr. Fair weather" 's Yachting.
433
Louise would give no information
about the infant. In vain the old
grandmother exhausted her softest
blandishments, by tho bed-side ; in
vain tho landlord gesticulated at tho
door. Chance, fortunately, brought
to light what entreaty could not
elicit. One of the housemaids, on
opening a china-closet adjoining our
sitting- room, discovered the little
object of search wrapped up in one
of our dinner-napkins. The good
news spread like wildfire ; every
one felt relieved, especially the
master of the house. The only cir-
cumstance which marred his satis-
faction was, that the child was not
found alive. This entailed two dif-
ficulties; the first was soon dis-
posed of, for the family doctor gave
a certificate to say that death oc-
curred from natural causes imme-
diately after birth. The second was
of a religious nature; it was neces-
sary that the child should have been
baptized to entitle it to Christian
burial. The same rule holds good
in the English Church, but, whereas
the Romanists enforce it strictly and
to the letter, our ministers chari-
tably refrain from asking questions,
out of consideration for the feelings
of parents and relations. The Soman
Church, however, while it renders
the rite obligatory, affords greater
facilities for its administration. Lay-
men are allowed to officiate, and in
this case a visitor in the hotel who
had accidentally become acquainted
with the circumstances, threw some
water over the infant, and certified
to the authorities that it had been
duly baptized. The priests arrived
the next morning and removed the
body, chanting the solemn services,
and preceded by white robed torch-
bearers; and this little traveller was
conducted to his last resting-place
with as much ceremony, and with
the same offices of the Church, as if
he had lived to a ripe old age and
died full of years and honours.
There was only one difference:
there were no mourners ; poor little
Louis Fleury had no one to follow
him to his long home. He had but
one to lament him, and she could
not be present; but she followed
him in heart though not in person,
and was a more sincere mourner
VOL. XI.— NO. LXV.
than any he would have had though
he had died a patriot and his bier
had been borne by senators, and
crowned with tho garlands of
glory.
All cause for anxiety seemed now
removed, and Louise was attended
with unremitting care. Butimagino
what a shock our feelings received
when, three days afterwards, the
little coffin reappeared accompanied
by a file of police. They marched
into the hotel, choked up the hall
and gateway, through which all the
visitors j)asscd, with their long
swords and cocked- hats. M. Clement
could not believe that they were not
intentionally prominent. Such an
exhibition would have brought dis-
grace on a private house— to a hotel
it threatened ruin. The gens darmes,
however, would listen to no remon-
strances, but two of them demanded
to be shown into Louise's room,
while the remainder were left to
keep guard at the door. Louise
was, of course, in a very feeble state,
and the poor thing trembled like an
aspen leaf on hearing the dreadful
tidings. But the emissaries of the
law seemed to possess neither com-
passion nor delicacy. They clanked
up the stairs, stalked into the middle
of the room, demanded whether her
name was that in their warrant, and
then ordered her to rise instantly
and prepare to accompany them. In
vain she, and kind Madame Clement,
prayed that she might at least be
allowed to dress herself in private,
promising to be ready in a few
minutes. They refused to make
any concession ; and it was through
such humiliation as this that she
was rudely borne to prison. What
could she expect from a police who
bad treated even their own queen
with similar brutality?
I happened to bo standing in the
passage when she was brought down,
and I never saw her look more
noble. Her complexion seemed as
white and her features as sharply
cut as though she had been marble,
and the indignities she had suffered
had given her a dauntless, almost a
defiant expre?sion. I could not
avoid addressing a word of comfort
to her, as she stood between thoso
grim, hard-looking officials.
2 V
;.".l
Mr. Fair weather's Yachting.
'Lot T Otidj 'may God pro-
• you !'
I, made no reply,
but, burj ni ifl in her bands,
\ word of kind-
i h the heart, which no
I r.
Lfter hot > : . p u tore, ami afl
• ding my wifi >w for i
I.uu. indignation at the brutal
e h 1 1 mel with, evi d
admitting her guilt, I Bought our
landlord to in [uire what had bo n
tli-' oause '>:' this visit of the police.
Be said ! a I ir 1 tin' servants in
the house had i'< en talking about
tin: affair outside, and the carpi ntet
who made the coffin, and perhaps
some of the female neighbours, bad
. and BO the iin-
fortunateoo mrrencehad come round
t't the knowledge of the authorities.
We ♦ " >k so much interest in the
fate of I. ng, in the pride
of youth and strength, on the very
brink of death, I ol a crime
which might lead her to execution,
and that by the guillotine, with all its
i dations, that my wife
applied for 1 i mi ion to visit her
in prison. This, after some forma-
lities bad l tplie 1 with, was
I and the day and hour :i
1 ippo I iould have been
allow. I v. her, although
my name w.i ted per-
mit ; but I I was mi-
stringi nt ap m the Bubj< ct, Emily
felt, ; ■ .oils at the
thought of tra the dark,
alone with her grim
; t, hut she determined nut to
i in r charitable un-
| I p .Wee are
il mi n, ami
pp tty ways
n 1 m ' bine ' so
■
:• They
in common
with the i, t uf mankind ; ami my
• an involuntary chill i
her : I ' their
hardened, ii
thought how l' ration
poor Lou ' from thi m
in hi r d< t .1 it' I i. i appalln - |
'
While thoughts Buch aw th
were passing through lier mind, sho
found herself in a small chamber or
rather closi t. into which a littlt
aperture near the ceiling scarcely
admitted the light of day. <>n ono
Bide was a double-grating, so con-
trived by mi ans of the close inl
lacing of the b irs, and the distance
between the two Iron barrierR, that
it would have in en almost impos-
sible to transmit any article through
it. Emily gave an involuntary
shudder as the gaoli r pro seeded to
shut and dou the i
behind her. She felt almost de-
prived of breath in such a narrow,
dismal cell, and begged that it
bt not he « ntirely closed. The
functionary merely replied that lie
must obey his order-, and shot the
ive bolts. Then pa-sing round
to the other side of the grating, he
unlocked a gate, which, as it LTuancd
upon its binges, discovered a yard
beyond, secured at every point of
access by heavy iron gratings.
Within this ill-omened precinct sat
i ih I, repulsive-looking
■women, in moody silence or fitful
COnvori ation, and at one side my
wife rec ignisi d l ionise, standing
f from the ri t, and easily dis-
tinguishable by her superior mien,
by the : of la r dress, and
the whiteness of her country cap.
she was motionless, and looked in-
expressibly sad, as if overa ime by
ni' her I ition. It is
surprising v, h it an effi cl is pro-
duced by the mi isnessol
being in pris >n, even upon 11
who are so undeservedly. There
must be something in its mere at-
mosphere which seems to convey a
taint
Th like girl started with
ik uf ti rror as i! ar thnn-
1 not from the iron door,
1 Louise Floury.' She came forward
tn mhlirg ; but as she < i,t. red Mm
my wile en the
other Bide of the grating, aed
• ared ; but, nnable to n tram
paroxysm "i
and t. ars. My v. .|, in
• le terms, that the obji ct ut her
■ t . aggrs ate I r or-
row, but to bring consolation ; to
hope that her llr ol the foul
ge might he proved, a-ni to
Mr. Fairweather'8 Yachting.
435
know what she wished to have in
the way of clothes, or such little
gifts as were allowed to the untried
prisoners. Poor Louise was very
anxious that her mistress should
take charge of her box, in which
were some little trinkets she valued,
and also that her thimble and
needles and thread should be sent
to her, as though the prison autho-
rities provided work, they did not
provide the means of doing it.
Emily then asked her whether since
her imprisonment she had heard
from the individual who had been
the cause of all her misery.
Her face flu she I with indignation
as she emphatically replied, ' No ; be
has never written nor inquired since.'
'Does he know the position in
which you are placed ?'
' He knows it, but does not care,
provided he is not troubled.'
She spoke with so much emotion,
and at the same time so much re-
serve on this subject, that my wife
refrained from making further in-
quiries as to any marriage having
taken place. On one point Louise
was inflexible : suffer what she might,
she would never betray the name of
the unworthy individual she had
once loved so devotedly.
'You have parents?' continued
Emily. ' They have written to you?'
' No,' she said ; ' they do not know
where I am. I left my place, and
came to Calais unknown to my
friends. What will become of me !'
she exclaimed. ' If the worst does
not happen, they will send me to
the prison for women at Rennes for
five years, and I shall then be cast
forth without a home, or a cha-
racter to procure me one.'
My wife was greatly affected ; she
reminded her that she should place
her trust above. Moreover, that she
had a good friend in Monsieur
Clement, the master of the hotel, and
that she herself would not forget her.
At last Emily was reminded that
the time allowed for the interview
was past, and bade a sad farewell
(perhaps for the last time) to one
who, at the commencement of our
short sojourn at Calais, had seemed,
in the bloom and confidence of youth,
to be looking forward to a long and
happy life.
Our stay in Franco was now draw-
ing to a close ; but before leaving
we added our mite to a subscription
which had been set on foot for poor
Louise in the hotel, that she should
not be entirely penniless when dis-
charged from prison. It amounted
to about three hundred francs, and
had to be put in trust for her, and
her box of clothes to be inscribed
with M. Clement's name to jorevent
its being appropriated by the au-
thorities. My wife wrote a strong
testimonial in her favour, to be
presented on her trial, in addi-
tion to the evidence of the master
and mistress of the house on her
behalf.
I must here digress a little from
the order of events to add, that
during the winter the welcome intel-
ligence arrived that Louise had been
acquitted, and that she had been
received back by the master of the
hotel, partly fr<;rn charitable motives,
partly because he could nowhere
find a more willing or efficient ser-
vant. Our stay in France had
proved so agreeable that we pro-
posed to visit Paris early next spring,
and as we had to pass through
Calais we determined to stop for the
night, and take the opportunity of
seeing Louise again. Emily ob-
served to me, however, that she
should treat her distantly, and not
make a pet of one who had laid her-
self open to so grave a suspicion.
Alas! we were never called upon
to exercise our reserve. She had,
indeed, returned to the hotel, but
she could not undertake her former
duties, for she shunned the light
and the face of human kind. Her
mistress kindly employed her in
needlework in a back room into
which no one else was allowed to
enter, and where for several weeks
she worked indefatigably. But the
cold and damp of the prison had, in
her then feeble state, laid the seeds
of an incurable disease. She gradu-
ally drooped and languished, until
she was unequal to any exertion,
and although Madame Clement pro-
vided her with every comfort, she
could not bear to be a burden, and
requested to be removed to the hos-
pital. There, after thre9 days, she
breathed her last, without a relation
2 f a
43G
Mr. raincctithcr't Yachting.
to attend ber, with no one beside
hex l>ut the mistress of the hotel,
whose heart bad been touched by
her misfortunes, and i>y the patienoe
with winch she had borne them.
She s.mk back into ■ sweet sleep
with bet hopes fixed on heaven, and
her expression, I was told, was as
p iceful and serene as though she
had i'i en aire i ly an angel of light
It was perhaps for the best that Bhe
was removed from this censorious
d. she is now beyond the reach
of the Blights and reproaches of
man, and is gone to a mure merciful
Judge than any she would have had
upon earth. Hood teaches us most
beautifully how to bid farewell to
such a child of sorrow : —
•Cross her lun.l^ humbly
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breul ;
Owning her weakness,
Hi', ih ihavlonr,
And leaving, with n.'"l;ness,
II' r oins lo her Saviour.'
But to return to our narrative.
At \ ngtb the timo of our departure
arriv.- 1; everything was arranged,
and thirty francs pai 1 to Ihe harbour
authorities, in exchange for which I
: a sheet of paper so embel-
l with crowns an 1 eagles that
I might have supposed 1 bad re-
ceived a patent of nuhiiity. There
is iii the yachtsman's m ivements a
nit uncertainty, as they depend
np in the 1 1 1 « > - 1 variable of all things,
wind and weather. Hut <>n this oc-
ii we wire fortunate, for on
the day proposed the breeze- WAS
from tlie west, and the morning
bright a d genial. All was hustle
as we p issed out of the hai bour, for
the fishing boats — quaint- looking,
thn rs, manned by
in- 1 most demonstrative
•A' re also preparing t<>
Lge of the tide. As tho
little fl • I on its way under
the bra tkwater, the rough Beami n
d j pa i-. •! ; evi Vj voice ■
bushi I, en ry capdoffi d. A pi
easily distinguishable by his broad
hat and voluminous gown, had ad-
vanced to t! r ; and,
ing with outstretched amis,
vm invoking ing on the ex-
i tion. 'l was moat im-
I , and it was pleasing to
observe these men, whose lives were
so often in their hands, recognizing
the power by which they were pro-
si rved.
The sea continued calm until we
opened Cape Griznez which lies
to the weal of Calais, and acts as a
breakwater against the waves of tho
Channel. Outside this point we
hi to pitch and roll very con-
siderably. When we were near
mid-channel we pera ivi d a cloud
and fall of rain darkening the western
horizon, and the captain bide us
prepare forashower. As the squall
'approached nearer we found our-
selves in a calm. The wind dropped
completely, so that the sails (lapped
to and fro, and tho topsail was
ordered to he laced. The cloud,
however, soon relieved us by passing
off towards the coast of France. I
had never scon the proverb that 'a
lull precedes a storm ' so strikingly
illustrated. The breeze was soon
as fresh as ever, and the water be-
came rougher as we proceeded. Tho
wind, moreover, had veered round
towards the north, BO that it was
impossible to make Dover, and wo
shaped our course in the din ction
of the Downs, shortly before reach-
ing them the captain pointed to a
little white line on the eastern hori-
zon, which be said was tho surf
breaking on the Goodwin Sands.
' The Goo Iwin Sands'' Emily ex-
claimed in terror. 'The Goodwin
Sands! That I should ever havo
ventured upon such an expedition.
It is tempting Providence, Joseph.
We shall never see our home again,
and there is Axethusa standing in
the wet in her thin boots. Simp-
kins, where are Miss Arethusa's
clumps? How often havo I '
'Itaint my fault, ma'am,' hiccuped
Simpkins. ' Bliss — '
' Not a word, Simpkins— not ano-
ther word. Oh those dreadful
Goodwin Sands! I see tho sea
breaking mercilessly npon them.
We shall all be drowned. Now,
Joseph, mind what I say. Anthusi
is to be saved first, then you, then
Simpkins, an 1 I last of all.'
' but, in y dear '
' Now don't gainsay mo. Simp-
Ions, obey my orders. You are to
bo saved before mo. She has somo
Mr. Fairweather's Yachting.
437
to lament her — a sister in California.
No one will care for my loss.'
In vain I endeavoured to alter my
wife's resolution. At the same time
our means of safety, under Emily's
supposition that vessel and boat were
lost, were of the slenderest descrip-
tion. They consisted of a hamper
and bucket, the boathook and the
mop : there was nothing else. Ac-
cording to my wife's arrangement,
the mop would fall to her share. I
endeavoured to persuade her to take
the bucket or the boathook. I
argued that her life was valuable on
many accounts, and that it was her
duty to preserve it. But all was of
no avail. I could not shake her
noble determination, so I resigned
the boathook to Simpkins.
The line in the horizon was very
soon out of sight. We had passed
the South Foreland, and were enter-
ing the smoother water of the Downs.
In two hours more we anchored
at Ramsgate, and the custom-house
authorities were again alongside.
' You have had a rough passage,
sir,' said the spokesman ; ' but you
have had a good wholesome craft
under you; not so fast as some,
perhaps,' glancing at the bow, 'but
one that stands the sea ; not a strip
of a thing like a man's coffin.'
It was delightful to meet with
civility where we expected rude in-
quiries and investigations. They
offered to take us on shore in their
boat, and paid us so many compli-
ments on our vessel and seamanship
that I felt quite ashamed at offering
them only rive shillings. The cus-
tom-house officials seldom examine
yachts, and I believe the confidence
they thus repose in the honour of
owners is generally well founded.
Thus ended the grand expedition
of our summer. We made several
little excursions afterwards, but we
look upon this as our most im-
portant and hazardous enterprise.
Among the results which accrued
from it was the unfortunate one of
attaching a nickname to our boy
Harry. It appears that James, dur-
ing his stay in Calais, had, although
a thorough British tar, been guilty
of acquiring several French words,
which he was constantly airing, and
at the same time of betraying an
unmistakable affection for wines and
liquors manufactured in France.
One of his words was tire-bouckon,
and as he was invariably in want of
the corkscrew, he was constantly
searching and asking for it both in
French and English. On Harry's
returning home to the little old
village in Essex, all the neighbours
were feign to hear of his adventures
in foreign lands, and he gratified their
curiosity to such an extent in re-
lating all he had seen and done, that
he came to be looked upon as the
most wonderful boy that had ever
lived. Among other things he said
he could speak French, but when-
ever he was called upon to give a
specimen of the language, he could
remember no word but tirc-bouclwn.
The other little village boys whose
wits were sharpened by jealousy
were quick enough to discover this,
and they gave him the name of Tire-
bouchon Smith, which he has borne
ever since, and is likely to carry all
his days.
The yacht was laid up for the
winter at Gravesend, the rigging and
stores were safely housed on shore,
and the captain alone remained in
charge. As spring approached, I
consulted him about the forthcoming
season, and observed that I intended
to undertake more adventurous ex-
peditions than heretofore. I could
not have anticipated any difficulty
in the way, for the seller of the yacht
had assured me she had weathered
gales in which steamers had been
disabled, and Brown himself had
avowed his willingness to sail in her
to the West Indies and bring back a
cargo of sugar. But, to my sur-
prise, he looked very serious at my
communication, said she was not
large enough for the more exposed
parts of the Channel, and that for
such voyages as I contemplated I
ought to have a vessel ' as big again.'
I had already discovered that she
scarcely afforded sufficient accommo-
dation to be comfortable for any
long period, and that she necessitated
our sleeping on shore during our ex-
peditions, thus entailing a double
expense. Besides this, several re-
novations and additions were desira-
ble in her, and it would be better to
expend money on a vessel more per-
438
Mr. Fair weather's Yachting.
nmncntly useful. I determini I,
therefore, to sell the Zephyrina, and
WM I i 1 I hi 1 taken BO much
trouble in selecting b< r, as il was
dow likely to be repaid. I forth-
with inserted the following in ' I lull's
Life:'—
■ Fagot roaSiiA A twenty-five
ton outfa r, eight yean old. Is
strongly built, copper-fastened, and
ii ti •. Stove, b
Hinl cabin fittings new last year.
Price moderate. Address "Nep-
tnnus," care of Mr. Salt, & ■.'
I considered this to bo a very
taking advertisement, although I
was convinced that so good a craft
would be easily disposed of without
any such expedient I received live
answers to it. Two wero from
one of whom thought it
Ij probable ho might obtain a
purchaser, and inquired whether 1
■t to paving the usual
commission; the other, a man of
more experience, had, at that very
moment, a gentleman requiring just
Booh a vesa I as I deacribi d, and re-
• particulars mipht bo
forwarded immediately. Of the
three remaining answers, ono was
from a country squire, residing at
Greenfield Park, Shropshire, who
bad drawn Dp B most elahorato
cattehism for my benefit, requiring
a detail* dace int of the yacht from
time that her keel was [aid
;. an i adding t lint if these ques-
tions were answered satisfactorily,
he would undertake the journey to
inspect ber. The other two replies
i of only a few lines, rcrpn >t-
permissioo to view. I returned
to all. and fearing that tho
low price might excite suspicion,
rved that I ha 1 nami d it from a
nd an immediate pur-
■ r. The sum I fixe 1 was fifty
■v what she bad cost mo,
and as I bad been inform* d that she
was worth double what I bad given,
tred to me nnusually
moderate terms. The inquiries of
my Arcadian friend I did wet,
for the good reasoD that l was un-
able to afford tl I informa-
I should, ]>' rhaps, have I
more ciroumstantial, but that I i np-
jioh d the vesa I would I I at
once, but, as it was, merely sent
him references, and never heard
from him again.
Agent No. .' wrote after some de-
lay to state that lie bad insp I l
Zephyrina, but that Bhe was quite
unsuitable for the gentleman to
whom he had attended. He added
that he had Bold such a vessel tho
week before for half the price; but
still, that there were a class of
rs, an entirely differ* nt class,
v bi >m she might suit. No. 4 wrote the
d iy after a \er\ curt n ply, tosay he
did doI require an old v« ssel. I was
at a loss to understand these letters.
Such gratuitous impertinence must
emanate from some senseless wags
who were playing off on me their
miserable pit asantrii b, or, which was
more likely, from some designing
lies who imagined a yachtsman
could be easily imposed upon. I
did not condescend to reply to
either. No. 5 sent mo an oiler, but
his terms were somewhat remarkable
with regard to payment I was to
receive, as an equivalent, a promis-
sory note and a group of dancing
figures. Tho note had been given
by a gentleman whose property was
in ( ihancery, but the work of art
had been exhibited at the Great Ex-
hibition, and valued by tho sculptor
at 500/. Now, distance does not,
unfortunately, in the case of money,
' hud 1 Qchantment to the \ few,' and
I knew too much about ' the law's de-
lays ' to look very favourably upon a
si runty depend) nt upon a suit in
Chancery. But with regard to tho
group, 1 own to having a little Weak*
ness for statuary, and 1 thought it
would give a classics air to the stair*
caso window; but on showing a
sketch of it to my wife, sho de-
clared she had never seen an) thing
so indelicate, and that such a thing
should never como into li< r house.
I was, therefore, compelled to rel'uso
this ell gant consideration.
Another advertisement was now
inserted, but although I recived
ral answers, there was no offer,
and one of my correspondents had
the incivility to write to 1110 that ho
would not take a present of sutdi a
!. But meanwhile, a gentle-
man who had not K ell the adver-
tisement, had been inspecting her,
and sent mo an offer within twenty
Mr. Fairweather 8 Yachting.
439
pounds of tlio price I liad named.
It came from a/ gentleman who,
the captain informed me, had been
to visit the Zephyrina several times,
and seemed highly pleased with
her. He was, he added, a young
gentleman, a rather wild-looking-
gentleman, and when he went on
board, he ran up and down the
rigging, and worked away at the
pumps, and, in short, carried on his
examination with so much energy,
that only for himself he would have
been overboard more than once. I
wrote in answer to his letter to say
that I considered the price I had
fixed very low, but that as he had
offered a sum still smaller, our
simplest plan would be to split the
difference. His reply appeared to
me somewhat evasive ; he agreed to
the terms, but did not wish to com-
plete the purchase for six months.
The letter, of which this was the
purport, happened to be dated from
the house of one of my old college
friends, so I wrote to make a few
inquiries about this somewhat in-
comprehensible customer. I found
that he was a man of good social
standing, but that he was negotia-
ting with me under a false name,
and it was generally supposed that
his affairs were a little embarrassed.
By the next post I received a note
from him begging to be allowed to
withdraw his offer altogether, a
request to which, as it may be
imagined, I made little difficulty in
consenting.
By degrees I became tired of carry-
ing on fruitless negotiations, and,
indeed, I soon had no farther means
of proceeding. I had advertised so
long in 'Bell's Life,' that every
reader of it who required a yacht
must have seen that mine was for
sale, and I knew that it would be
useless to try the ' Times/ or any
other medium. The season was now
advancing, and it was necessary for
me to commence the more agreeable
business of purchasing, unless I was
prepared to lose it, or to content
myself with a craft refused by earlier
birds. So I placed the Zephyrina
on an agent's books, and according
to his advice, had her moved to the
West India Docks, as he considered
it indispensable that she should be
within easy reach of London. I had
also to engage a Bhipkeeper to take
charge of her, as 1 was obliged to
employ Brown in my search for ano-
ther vessel.
On turning my attention in the
other direction I found that my task
was not so easy as I had anticipated.
There were few yachts in the mar-
ket of the size I required, and al-
though I had extended my limits,
their prices were still beyond me.
Brown rejected narrow vessels as
not suitable for ' pleasuring,' either
with regard to safety or accommo-
dation, and iron craft he considered
objectionable, as never being per-
fectly dry inside, and requiring
to have their bottoms constantly
cleaned. The proposal which ap-
peared, under the circumstances,
most eligible came from an agent,
who offered to take the Zephyrina
in part payment; but the price
of his yacht appeared exorbitantly
high, and on my inquiring what
allowance he intended to make for
mine, he informed me that after I
had paid him for the one he had
to sell, he would put mine up to
auction, and refund me whatever
she realised. Of course the only
effect this proposition had upon me
was to suggest another means of
disposing of my vessel. I proceeded
forthwith to one of the principal
shipping auctioneers and requested
him to put her up for sale. He
asked for permission to print hand-
bills and advertise, which I readily
granted, rejoicing in the prospect of
recovering even a small amount.
The day was fixed, and I repaired
to the appointed place to witness
the competition, but was somewhat
surprised at being ushered on my
arrival into a large gloomy hall con-
taining a dozen small tables, at two
of which four or five weather-beaten
mariners were having their lunch
or sipping their 'grog.' I seated
myself in this desolate apartment,
wondering when the bidders would
arrive and the business commence,
but to my dismay no person came
in but the auctioneer, who marched
up to the farther end of the room
and began to read out a long cata-
logue of vessels. Most of them were
wrecks, and were disposed of at
410
Mr. Fiiinccalho's Yiichting.
nominal sums to tlio lunchera At
th the Zephyrii put up,
and the aocl ■■ ry flou-
rishing account of her, nn<i pxe-
a bidding of
seventy pounds, and Boon after an-
other "i eighty, and ao on up to a
hundred. At this point he stopped,
am), notwithstanding all nay nods
and Bigns to let her go, observed
that as there was no higher offer he
should pare the lot 1 felt naturally
indignant at Buoh conduct, and the
moment busim bs was ov» r made my
way u|> to him and demanded why
he refused the hundred pounds, as,
although it was a miserably small
price, 1 would have been willing to
take; it. He replied that there had
been no real bidders, and that tho
contest he had carried on so warmly
was only between imaginary com-
petitors. Hi re i lie ii I was no further
meed than before, and seven
pounds out of pocket.
Things now, with regard to the
Zephyrina, began to settle into a
chronic Btata 1 ally in-
d an advertisement, but no re-
sult followed < iccept in one or two
r stating that the writer
had ht i n onahli n board or
ichfc These complaints
implii d ll at the Bhipki i per was not
duty, and lt-il to my
visiting the docks to satisfy myself
on the Bubject J think that I mny
■ that the West India
is is tl eetest spot about
London, for tl e 1 Oj of sugar
aro so numerous there that the
Quays are almost impassable, and
■ in* lit is so thickly bestrewn
with the rich cot modity that, in
w. t weathi r, Buch as thai in which
It ; i my visit, it is v< ry
difficult to avoid slipping down
into tii' - ine slush. I had to
wan ' boat, in which
i ■ i do/t n navvies
lound for diffi n nt vessels, and
di gained the Ze-
phyrina, found everything locked
up bhipk< eper abet nt. A
man in a ti el aloi de told mo
thai to tea with a
• ■iiitiy, I. ut tl is
was no! tisfactory, and l n -
solved to try a few days later whether
tha .as still with him. < m
this occasion T had to ferry myself
over in an unmanageable boat, like
an old barge, and, being unaccus-
tomed to such craft,] arrow ly escaped
falling overboard into the reeking
pool. The Bhipkeeper was again
absent) and 1 made my way, much
incensed, to the recreant's house to
upbraid him for his neglect, hut
before I bad time to commence, ho
expressed his happiness at my
arrival, as he hud b en for some
time desirous m resigning his situa-
tion. Of course 1 at once relieved
him of his charge, but was obliged
to engage another man at an in-
eri ased Balary.
I heard nothing more of her for
two months. Thcro she lay, as
many of her sex hud douc before,
neglected and forgotten, while a
more attractive rival had usurped
her place. I could not even bear
to hear her mention* d, for I never
could think of her, nor indeed of
any ship, as a m< re inanimate thing,
without sense or feeling. These
is something in the form and in the
fortunes of a daughter of the seas,
and in the dangi is and difficul
lias to contend with, that seems
to give her a life and personality.
The next time I heard of her it
was from an old Beft-Captain, who
had been to inapt el b< r, and brought
the unwelcome intellig< nee that be
had found the ram pouring through
bet decks, the cabins alive u ith rats,
and everything about her fast fall-
ing to decay. What was I to do?
Was I to spi nd a considerable sum
in ke. ping a vessel in repair which
was of no use to me, and for which
I could not obtain a .sixpence?
' Noi' I replied —I felt like a mur-
derer—'] will destroy her, break
hex up; her materials will bring
soiin thing.'
' I ; i . ak hex up, sir? You'll find
that a very expensive undertaking,
with wages at six shillings a day —
\> ry si rioua thing, but.'
'Confound it all, then!' I ex-
claimi d, impatiently ; 'I'll - I'll sink
her.'
'Sink her, sir? You would bo
liable to prosecution by the Thames
» "!.-• rvancy. 1
' wen, then, 1 I i 1. rede-
ly. ' I'll burn her.'
TJie Playgrounds of Europe.
441
'Burn her, sir?' ho replied, in
horror, 'you would not ho allowed
to do that; you might set some
other ship on tire.'
'What, then,' I demanded, fiercely,
'is it that I and my descendants are
bound always to pay a man to live
in this vessel, and aro to keep her
in repair for ever ? Have I saddled
myself with a perpetual annuity?
A man should think well before ho
buys a yacht!'
'Well, sir,' ho returned, after
some reflection, ' I think that I have
a friend who would give something
for her; and although it may not
be much, perhaps it will be your
best way to lake it, and rid yourself
of farther liubilitks.'
And so I did. I disposed of her
to this 'friend' for next to nothing,
and I understand he has been exe-
crating mo ever since for selling him
such a bad bargain. She proved
to be twenty- two j cars old, and to
have been lengthened by the bow.
Her timbers were rotten, her mast
sprung, and the peculiar cut of her
mainsail was owing to its having
belonged to another vessel.
THE PLAYGEOUNDS OF EUROPE.
(EIjc gmttl>
NUMBERS of our fellow-country-
men, multitudes of our fellow-
Europeans, a few perhaps of our
fellow- Americans, are migrating to-
wards 'the sweet South,' if they have
not already arrived there. I too have
been in the South in my youth, and
I have been there in, say, my ma-
turity.
But how immense the difference
in the means of getting there, and
how slight the change in what you
see when you get there ! I am not
speaking of mere political scene-
sliif tings — of Nice and Mentone an-
nexed to France — of liberated Venetia
and United Italy— questions for tax-
gatherers, diplomatic agents, and
foreign secretaries— but of the gene-
ral aspect of a country, the natural
history of its inhabitants and their
ways. Some grand social regenera-
tion may be coming over Italy ; but
it is not come yet. The same sights
strike your eye, the same smells
meet your nose.
How delightful to find the first
■ drops from a bottle— or still more
surely from a flask— of wine cleverly
dashed out upon the floor, exactly
as they were thirty and probably
three thousand years ago — a libation
to the household gods, and a protest
against northern housemaids' neat-
ness! A genuine Italian cameriere
has a soul above sawdust, sand, or
soap. What is a floor made for but
to receive and keep what falls upon
it, without the intervention of any
foreign substance? How refreshing
to be again met at every turn with
entreaties for charity, for the love of
God! Italy has not yet forgotten
either the way to hold out her hand
or to ask for more. It would be a
curious statistical problem to ascer-
tain how many of Victor Emma-
nuel's subjects aic beggars. Cynics
aver that nine out of every ten are
such.
Beggary is a southern institution,
which is only restrained within fron-
tier bounds. The new line which
separates France from Italy is a
purely artificial limit. It is marked
by a couple of posts on each side of
the road, one of which hears the
warning notice, ' Mendicity is for-
bidden in the Departement of the
Maritime Alps.' A recent traveller
saw two Italian beggars, one stand-
ing at the foot of each post, just
within the territory where they had
the right to beg, ready to attack the
wayfarer immediately he set foot in
their country. The spirit with
which they asserted their ancient
privilege received, as it deserved,
substantial alms.
The same traveller, in a public
garden at Milan, accidentally let
fall a few pieces of money. A well-
dressed passenger in a white cravat
picked them up, restored them to
their owner, and then held out his
hand for a charitable contribution.
142
The Playgroundt of Europe.
It was considered a Rood lesson of
his hand and
shaki i of tipping it. Ee
I at the friendly sot bn1 did
not blush. Evidently he would
have pn fern d a l< 39 01 remonions
form of acknon le Igmi nt It will
ire b bard push and a considi r-
able lapse of time to bring the Booth
up to the mark of the North, it
being simply fifty yean behindhand.
Tab ir instance, a busy
• which it is the custom to ad-
od it is difficult to look at it
without admiration, aa a monument
of olden time Bui insti ad of call-
Sup ri>, we might
st\ le it ( i> ooa the ' Ibsolete. Its
palaces belong to bygone days as
pletelyasthe I'\ ramidi of Egypt
They try hard to conform to modern
wants and nsagi b. A
ght-stori< d without
lifts is not iii unison with the Latter
half of the nineteenth century.
I n aoa is 1 lion of edificial
antiquities, in which gas, in enor-
mous medieval lanterns, is an in-
ncy and an incongruity;
while railways an; absolute nui-
sanci 3, rendering narrow Btreets still
narrow< r, and Btopping the circula-
tion of man and 1 east by their □
ruth As the am
nito itself has vanished, although
n main, so
the prin si Ij buildi rs of 1 1 aro
either extinct or arc shadows merely
0/ their rs.
Out of such palaces you mako
and what is the consequence?
To get a 1 11 have to
1 hundn d Bteps (tho
l< r ha I an altitude
of ono hundn d and fortj ; or,
at a low. r i<
to climb to the
dining-room, an 1 lifts, I repeat, are
things unknown. At the udh 1 t\c
la \ die the dining-room is— my
y will : able for
/' 11 or so, hut I do not
think that — sorno
1 oificent,
too vast— lias a lofl than
many a church. After dusk, al-
though you 1 nt your ' tho
•
li^jlit overlu a I, Vat ball itsell
darkness visible. And, not from the
cornice, but from something mora
than half-way belou it, is suspended
a hell-pull — a bell-pull in middle-
I ktn 1 1 ! Why not a knocker at
the entrance to the Coloseum at
Etomi 'l he onlj way ti> modernise
such cities ;.s Genoa, as tar as its
material condition is concerned, is
to do as has bet n done at Edinburgh
and elsewhere— build a new town
In bj I one. The moral />r<>-
of the pe 'pic must depend on
the result of the struggle now going
on betwi en the powers of light and
darkni sa tl ighout the wholo
length and bn adth of the land.
At Turin, till lately the capital of
the foremost sovereign of Italy, illu-
minated by the highest Intel
wo find installed La Sonnambula
Ida, who gives (no doubt for as
much as they are worth, although
sho maj in quite so much as
Miss I'atti Sonnambula) Coneulta-
announcing the
fact all ov< r the town by notices
bearing a postage-stamp, like all
other lulls, placards, and announce-
ments, whether manuscript or not,
the playbill posted to the
walls, down to 'Apartments to let,
in |uirc within ;' for Italy wants
i'( venue, ami would < reel a statue
to any ( Jbanci [lor of the Exchequer
who COUld invent a new tax and
gailn r it, without peo] ling
it. or grumbling if they felt it. Italy,
howevi r, may he pardoned a littlo
oredulity and superstition if, as is
i tod "it g< 1 1 1 authority, the daily
receipt of the French railways falls
off considi rably on Fridays!
Turin is pr >bably the most regu-
larly built of Italian tOW] . Evi ry-
thing there except the To (which
flow on its own ) . rverse oir-
cumbendibus way, and is only made
navigahlo for boats bj barrages
across the Btr< am at Bhort distances)
i- n ctiiiin sarond n itangular. This
extreme regularity gives a marked
physiogn >my to the to vn, but it
d< privi b the ■' <■■ U of tl eir indivi-
dual phj iogn imy ; while in Btreets
With ar le Of them
the I live no phj riognomy at
all. Nothiii- 1 1 • ;■ than to inis-
or to ki] to use any
a hoUSC. «
The Playgrounds of Europe.
443
The houses of Turin are lofty,
most of them being five stories high,
besides entresols and other inter-
stices, which is imposing but incon-
venient. In the hotels, for a mode-
rate-priced room, you will have to
mount at least to the third story
(piano). Mine was reached by only
eighty-nine steps. All over the
town is an overflow of photography ;
and to arrive at a photographer's
laboratory you must climb to the
fourth or fifth. In houses inhabited
by different families you may find
a hen taking her walks and enjoying
the air from the elevation of the
third outside gallery, and dahlias
in boxes flowering on the roof. All
the shops are dark and dingy, many
looking as if the inmates slept under
the counter or on the shelves. The
smartest and best- furnished are
under the arcades which encircle
the Piazza di Castello.
Where do the poor contrive to
find a habitation in these palatial
blocks of buildings? Some are
forced up to the chimney-tops by
the pressure of their wealthier fel-
low-townsmen ; others are sent out
to the faubourgs to lodge. Still,
these vast edifices contain nooks
and crannies in which small folk,
like the rats and the mice, manage
to hide their heads and even to
make merry. Asking for a glass of
wine at a humble shop where work-
ing men were frolicking and feast-
ing, I was shown upstairs to a suite
of little chambers, such as might be
stolen from between floors and ceil-
ings, beneath balks and joists, under
gable-ends and corners. Human
insects had wormed their hidden
way into the interstices of aristo-
cratic mansions.
In Genoa it is different, so far as
that, there, the labouring world has
an openly-assigned habitat. The
steep, narrow, dark, straight, and
house-bound vico, or lane, swarms
with life, which may neither be very
unhappy nor unhealthy in a climate
where, for months together, shade
and gloom are luxuries.
Turin streets are primitively paved
with water-worn pebbles from the
river's bed ; but the central road has
a double row of flagstone rails for
the wheels of carriages going up
and down in contrary directions,
enabling at least the omnibuses to
drag enormous loads. As to gar-
dens, you are not yet come to the
glorious evergreens of Florence or
the orange-trees and palms of the
Mediterranean coast, while you have
left behind you the trim and luxu-
riant parterres of Paris. There is a
piece of ground covered with patches
of ordinary shrubs (snowberriesand
other like rarities) badly planted, in
wretched health. You are prayed
not to walk upon the grass, but you
ask where the grass is to walk upon,
as you cannot mistake for it plan-
tains and weeds. You are requested
not to touch anything, but you may
inquire where there is anything that
anybody would think of touching.
Pedestrian travel is much less
understood south of the Alps than
amidst them and north of them.
The natives seem to consider that
the man who goes on foot, however
decent in his appearance and prompt
and just in his expenditure, can, at
bottom, be no other than a member
of the grand 'Tramp' family, or at
best an offshoot of the 'Pedlar'
branch. To travel on foot, in the
South, without annoyance, your
papers had best be forthcoming and
en regie, and even that is not always
sufficient to avert suspicion and
sidelong glances, particularly in the
neighbourhood of a frontier line.
* Who would go on foot,' they think,
if they do not say, ' who could go in
any other way?' Therefore, it is
believed there must be some mo-
tive, some reason for concealment,
some desire to sneak away stealthily
under the cover of by-paths and un-
frequented hours of the day, some
avoidance of the numberless honest
native folk who wouldn't walk a
mile unless to save their lives. On
foot! Amidst worshippers of the
dolce far niente, indulgers in noon-
day napping, starvers six days in
the week for the sake of a drive on
the seventh ! No, indeed ! Footing
it may do very well for people in
training for travaux forces, or for
gentlemen indifferent to penal servi-
tude ; but it is only a cause of won-
der in latitudes where, at certain
seasons and hours of the day, none
Ill
Tlic Playgrounds of Europe.
but dops mid Englishmen arc to bo
: id.
Railway i now in execu-
tion, will, wh< n com pi ( t< d, permit
the accomp I of ran Iry i«ka-
• and inviti: g tripe, in about as
many days as, thirty years ago, it
was customary I »y w< i is in
pli tii g them. Porta ns of tho
anoan eoasi can now be pot
at oi I rted by rail ; It dy can be
appi • to within an inconsider-
able distance by rail ; and in Italy
f there arc railways which aro
and will be on tho increase. True,
you do not see Eomnch by rail as
you did while posting, or even by
diligence; p r contra, you arc so
mnch less i at if, and you do
fee j .hid), in old times, busy
people bod little chance of visiting
at all.
Still, there is enough variety on
marv( lions rail to make it worth
while to keep your eyes open— un-
on some l nes southward,
rything is shut out by envious
acacia I
Thus, you change railways for
- /■, after cro ring a
herring-pond called the English
' one! ; and you quit th . by
tr.r.-i reiog a r e of
rock, foi ■ 'I
And tho change involves Fome-
thing more then a mere alteration of
name.
Sf< d b I thi qualities of multi-
farious beds, by measuring your
1< ngth in them night alter nif
re aro sj rin y 1 1 Is and non-
< la-* . beds Of wool and hoi
I t< ia) and
straw; beds of indiaU-COm husks;
high beds requiring a ladder to
i which
cannot sit v p in
yoni i , down beds
irrow 1>< ii not
oe, and brood
in which tl pass tho
night ; fi atl nndi r yon, and
r-down i r yon ; -evi ry
bed, except the be-curtaii
t tuur p t bed you left at
Tl.i D tl" re are your tr.iv. !'
com] in r.tilv.
at table - thel 'n neb
lady, With I • grt y huir
B turquoise ring, who travels with
two tall daughters ai d a tiny lap-
There are people who travel
with birds; with bo kets as big 01
No ih's arks ; with plants in ]
of slight money value, but doubt-
ridi in recollections. There is
the stout burly man, with dirty
hands and B ruby ling Bet round
w nli diamonds, who abu i i ranch
railways, holding up for tho
Prussian; who bullies the officials
if anything goes wrong on t
ports, telling them truly that the
railway has no mercy if
commits the slightest error.
There is the diner who sulks at
his dinner, complains to the waiter,
and won't tat it, although ho |
for it all the same. There is tho
little French lady, eleven years of
ape (inoro at homo at the tablc-
d'hote than she would bo in her
nursery), who docs quite the con-
trary, helping herself to wino into
which her papa prudently dashes
water, ami ' going into' every <lish
as it comes round to her with a
n .li it ion worthy of a nobler cai
Then there are tic DnaccnstoUK 'I
eatabli s, the foreign viands, the novel
to he tasted ami tried. Br I
in ide \\ ith leaven insto ad ol
barbel, highly prized, and |
elevati d to the rank of a da
dish ; h g of mutton, not aam I
with currant jelly, but seasoned
with a dove of garlic; i
or snails in the shell ; </
ginieura (Mont Cenis), thrushes
whose natural flavour is improved
by feeding on the berrios of tho
junipi r bush Foolish thrushes, not
to abbtain from everything apper-
taining to gin! Foolish gourmands,
not to abstain from thrushes which
devour the devourers of your vims
and th. ir produce ' ' Monsieur does
not like little birds '.' whi n a dozen
robins on a spit are brought
me, is littered by the can; ,n with
tho Mine wondei ment ;> a I ndon
dining-n oma waiter would < xclaim,
' Tho gent do, a not like a cut of
the haunch ! — tho gent do i not
like a mealy potato 1' No, I don't
like them (the dickey-birds). Take
thi m avi
'I b( n is the landlord who i -ti-
i by your luggage. Trunks,
The Playgrounds of Europe.
445
with him, aro the test of merit ;
your virtues lie in your baggage
and boxes. With six largo port-
manteaus, you will get a first-floor
lodging; with five of moderate size,
you may have to mount no higher
than the second ; with four or three,
you may possibly gain admittance
to the third or fourth ; while with
one little one, in the height of the
season, you imiy possibly have to
sleep in the street.
There is the 'cuter landlord who
apprises your worth by the portable
property which adorns your person.
With the koen glauce of a pawn-
broker he reckons up, ' Watch-
chain, so much ; stock-pin, so much ;
rings, so much; studs, so much;
decoration (if any), so much ; total,
so much. I think I may take him
in.' And there is the hotel-keeper
who, having received you as a
squeezable consignment, coolly in-
sists on passing you on to another
of the fraternity with whom an
understanding exists. It is an
exchange of prisoners, on terms
settled beforehand. They may keep
between them, for aught I know,
a debtor and creditor account of
guests delivered and received. Your
itinerary is made out for you ; you
are sent away in charge of your
driver, very much like a lamb driven
off to be shorn, after undergoing a
searching interrogatory —
'Monsieur is going next to ?'
' Bellolido ; where I intend sleep-
ing at the Albergo del Sole.'
' Monsieur cannot do that. He
will rather push on to Cattivo-
monte, and descend at the Hotel des
Ecorcheurs.'
' I must stop at Bellolido. I ex-
pect letters at the Poste Restante
there.'
' At least Monsieur cannot go to
the Alliergo del Sole. Low people,
bad kitchen, dirty beds. Nobody
of Monsieur's ra"nk ever goes there ;
nothing but pig-jobbers, pedlars,
and calf-merchants. Luckily there
is also at Bellolido an excellent
Hotel des Ecorcheurs. Monsieur
has only to present this card — " Par-
ticularly recommended by Louis
Leloup to the distinguished atten-
tion of Ludwig Derwolf." Guiseppe,
you will take good care to conduct
Monsieur straight to the Hotel des
Ecorcheurs. Bon voyage, Monsieur.
Servitorc umilissimo.'
Guiseppe knows it is all his placo
is worth to allow Monsieur to give
him the slip. Be -ides, Guiseppe
gets his own little pickings, in the
shape of a supper and the regulation
tip.
There is the waiter who persists
in calling you ' Milor,' though you
tell him you are no more a Mi lor
than he is. How can you travel at
your ease, he think-:, and live at
hotels, and do nothing but sight-see
all day and all night too, unless in-
deed you are a Milor? There is
the polyglot courier, who does not
speak, but who beautifully breaks
on the wheel of his tongue four or
five different languages, his own in-
cluded ; for the Piedmontese dialect
is to pure Italian, what French of
Stratforcl-lc-Bow is to French of
Paris, only separated, if anything,
by a wider interval.
There are Savoyard cheesemakers
— a railway carriage is often an Ex-
change, a Cornhill, a Bourse, a
place of business— bargaining with
a cheese-buyer, as hard as if their
very lives were in question. You
expect they are going to pitch each
other out of the window. They do
no such thing. Talk of comic actors !
There are few to equal these. At
the next station, they get out, all
indignant. Their conscience is
shocked ; their moral sense upset.
They will have nothing to do with
such a price!— nothing whatever!
They depart; they return. They
haggle, refuse, frown, • turn their
backs, and again go away. The
train is in motion ; they come and
hang on to it. Just before danger-
speed is attained, they conclude the
bargain, with smiles, nods, and
friendly hand-shakings.
There is the transition between
plain and mountain, the unac-
customed produce of the land, tho
pear-shaped haystacks, the golden
bunches of Indian corn, the fes-
tooned vines. There is the change
of costume, the contrast of races —
tho high-coloured French com-
plexion, the sallow Savoyard, tha
cheese-faced Swiss, the cleanly,
fresh-looking English countenance.
■lie,
The Phi groundi of Bin
There wo ioles— without
pi' nti Ding railway carriages, of
which thero is a sufficient variety,
in tin irarrangemi uts and their
administrati >n from the one-h
pill-box, with a little hull's-, ye in
the had:, to the monster tl
• 1 dilig* nee, drawn by seven
bur abreast in front i for the
purpose of running ov< r nanghty
little b >ys and girls, and happily
ing hall and lame old nun
and women), to ho increaa d to
tw« Ire wht n the mountain steepens.
I l Bateman, to console his re-
1 bride, said —
' S! • I hoiM and pillion ;
aid tliree.'
Mont (\ liis would tell her—
i it ■ walk with a dozen (nnp«);
Bhe shall go down at a gallop with two,'
ami think herself lucky, if she reach
tlic bottom without breaking her
neck. 7 prefer walking down Mont
s, unless with my eyes ban-
d, i r in a pitch-dark night. It
(the diligence) is a moving mass,
some twelve yards long without
the additional b ofty out of
all proportion to its l< ngth, covered
with a Mark leather coat that might
been tfie Bhell Of AD ante-
diluvian armadillo, enabling
Polyphemus in having for its
one big lantern, which would n it
race itself if it bad to do duty
as a lighthouse. This world op m
with its population and thi ir
property, pushes before it downhill
a Bingle pair of hones, which just
help it to turn the eon
Should the driver have a sun-
■ r a drop too much ; should
it upset, th< re are posts by the
which, by catching a
win i I, may I it from going
ovi 06. Well, say w] at
I r walking down
nis. We shall whisk through
it by rail, < ne of th< e daj The
tunnel i hall d ; which
•■ r than ' well begun.'
t thi ii • rmous
difi' out
and ' iin homeward Hills
which ap| i ir oh a you
!■ or approach tl i but
fewat ing
•
tho picturesque and the novel, as
surely as thi re does of mat rial
■ ing. Even an accident, a run-
ning off the rails, and a good scratch-
ing in an acacia hedge, it' no wi
is ii gardi d less as a romantic stimu-
lant than an untoward delay in
your r< tching home.
But v ■ are still on our way to-
wards the S rtlth, and may gloi
yet untin d, at what we I in-
dulge in a brief inquisitive halt or
two. .\ you may ridge of a work-
man by his chips, so you maj gu< ss
at a country by its fuel. At Macon
-Mi nt buffet for supping or
dining), faggots of vine-twigs are
hawked ab rat the streets, to light
tin' fires and make the pot boil.
1 ncy lard: d quails, barded with
vine Leaves, and roasted over a vine-
wool firel The morning milk-de-
livery is a remnant of the practice
of falconry. Earthen milkpots, co-
vered with round pieces of wood,
arc carried suspended with sti
like h ioded hawks -and there ter-
minates all analogy between the
bland fluid and the bloodthj
bird. After Amberieux station, the
villa in their char
ir. < 'oiivex tiled, ruddy-brown,
litly-sloping root's, with broad-
tie I amidst clumps
of chesnut ami walnut tn es, attest
the relationship of Savoy with
peninsula. The incomplete shelter
ami imperfect closing I by
tho houses ami their doors and
windows, are a proofof the warmth
of the climate during the greater
part of the y< ar.
for tho e who hai i r se< d a
lake, and even for those who have,
there is the ex [uiaitely blue Lac de
l; i trget, with it -; sk irting c b I and
sional tunnels ; the emergi nee
from i ach of which pr< sents you
with a different picture of rock- ami
water, and the vines hang garlands
from tn i' to tree. '
Chambery is a toad in a hole.
At it < inner • dge, the hole ma;
n and ph asant, aed with
and bristling with maize;
hut t!i" outer wall of mountains is
and ne. thr
rj constraini I p «ition
ami confined
in a in Icy prison. It i a place
The Playgrounds of Europe.
447
that had stood still for scores of
years past— until the railway made
one change, and annexation to
France another — with two or three
old, grey, respectable streets, and
sundry winding, narrow lanes, more
Italian than French in the cut of
their jib. The dwellings of tho
lower class are dark and dingy,
with earthen floors or paved with
pebbles.
French is the language, Roman
Catholicism the religion. The Sa-
voyards appear to have little affinity
with the Swiss, by whom indeed
they are despised. Very likely,
absorption by their great neighbour
may turn out to suit them in the
end. One of the most surprising
feats of railing, is that fresh oysters
should bo offered at Chambery.
During the reigns of the Dukes of
Savoy, Chambery could know none
but, fossil oysters.
The great point, now, for the tra-
veller whose leave of absence (and
perhaps whose travelling purse) is
limited is, that the gaps still ex-
isting in the iron road should be
filled up as soon as possible.
The two grand obstacles which
rear themselves in the course of
our steeple- chasing after southern
sunshine, have been stuck in our
way by the hand of Nature; and
we cannot take them at a leap, as
the high-mettled rider clears his
brook, his hedge and ditch, or his
dry stone wall. For a time we roll
onwards, smoothly enough, and at
as reasonable expense as man can
hope for, with little or no interrup-
tion or privation of needful repose
and ordinary meals; seeing that a
person who cannot breakfast and
lunch in a railway carriage (or even
sup) will hardly get elected by the
Rational Tourists' Club, much less
by the Alpine.
There is no need to exchange a
good night's rest in bed for feverish
slumbers on the line ; nor do I re-
commend the sacrifice. Man makes
locomotives to expedite his person
with greater speed ; but he is not
nimself a locomotive. He requires
something more than to be oiled, and
cleaned, and liberally fed with coals
and water. Jh cannot, like his
watch, be wound up in half a minute.
Eis re-windings up, reparations,
and rehttings require a given lupf:e
of time for their due performance.
To get interest for your money, you
must let ifc lie quiet for a while ;
and if you draw on the capital of
strength which is lying to your
credit in your corporeal bank (by
devoting night to spending instead
of accumulating it), your balance
will be so much diminished, and
will have to be made up for by-and-
by. Therefore, never travel all
night, — if you can help it, or unless
you like it best.
By leaving Boulogne-sur-Mer at
9 a.m. and sleeping in Paris; leav-
ing Paris at 6*40, sleeping at Macon ;
and leaving Macon at 5*10, you
reach St. Michel, the railway's end,
in the afternoon, in three easy days,
passing every night between the
sheets, at an expense of 79 fr. 55c,
second class, and 37 fr. 15 c, third
class, should the tourist be of frugal
mii:d — as many tourists of late
have the hardihood to be. The
third-class traveller must halt at
the above-named sleeping-places ;
because, were he to push on to
Montereau (as he might, by leaving
Boulogne at 6 a. m.), the direct train
(25) by which he leaves Paris will
not give him third-class tickets on-
wards until 9-50, to reach Macon
so uncomfortably late as 9*3 3. The
second-class passenger may lay out
his stages as he pleases, sleeping at
Montereau, if he will, to leave it at
8 1 3 5 a.m. It is needless to insist
on the difference between being
gifted with eyesight by day, and
being blind by night, while skim-
ming over foreign lands of such im-
portance and interest as France and
Savoy.
At St. Michel, a giant steps into
^our way, demanding a toll— black-
mail of both your time and your
money ; which latter two Mr. Grove
ought to include in his next dis-
course on Correlative Forces. The
giant is of lofty stature, very square
built, hard-hearted, of unknown age.
His head is covered with patches
of hoariness. He is considerably
given to brawling; and when he
threatens, it is unwise to despise
his threats, for they arc warnings of
coming commotion and trouble. To
413
The Playground* of Europe*
movo him is next to impossible;
where ho takes bis stand, there ho
remains. But notwithstanding the
firmness <>F his character, he is in-
curably given to constant weeping,
of which interested people take a<i-
vantago, turning his own weaki
against himself and usin: it to t
(by water-worked machinery), di-
rectly through and across his do-
mains, | he very passage which ho
reftu pant Nevertheless, ho
is ft handsome giant, with whom
any lady might Tall in love without
blushing, it' approached at proper
times and seasons, no ono can com-
plain of tlio recontj >n he gives them.
He : i of hospitality, and
i tme is Mont I 'kms.
Before the final ascenl of Mont
Cenis, on this side, is n village
Lanslebourg, which thinks no small
beer of itself. In cookery, it rivals
Btodare's performances. It makes
ever] p dish out of mutton.
I ip, mutton - broth, calt's-
bead tortue, Bh< op's trotters in
disguise, Fillot of beef— loin of
mutton, boned. Pine-flavoured
venison— excellent ram; genuine
chamois — tender owe \i<
shouldor of v< al (so sm ill that it
must have been roe ted before the
calf was born), eaten with relish,
i rase we recognize it as blade-
l of mutton, mily wanting tho
kidney beans or the onion sauce to
pleto the identification. Calf's
hoop's foot idem; kid
gloves — lamb-skin idem.
At lost the blissful moment ar-
rives when you enter tho olive
proves, the forests of dreamland.
J i ] ave n achi <1 the South. You
i in actuality under a
iky, in mi atmopphi re, and amidst
a vegetation winch you had
faintly in pictures, had figured
> from pa try, or caught tran-
Of 'twixt sli Sp and
awake.
with si adowy folia king, in
in lights, like glitl< ring ma
of micacioti nd< d by
i :e in the air, in olhi r.^ like olus-
h snow hover-
ing by attraction ubout the out
strotohed branches. Greyish, not
grey, is the fitting cpithi t ; for in-
definite as grey is asa colour, the
tint of olive leaves, hanging on the
free, is still lees definable, it is
neither gn en. white, nor brown, hut
a neutral something, approaching
rest to glaucous, which har-
monists with everything contrasted
to it.
Then, ymi think of the eastern
ma, ' What if i' . In e. all whose
1. i\( a are lighl ii i oneside and dark
on the other r" an. I decide that tho
answer might as well and justly he
An I >live Tree, as T <e Year.
So old are many olive trees, that
their age is quite unguessable ; only
you arc sure that the head-; of tllO
great-great-graiidfalhers of thoso
who planted them must have long
since ceased to ache. Their aspect,
as compared with other cultivated
trees, is that of Stonehenpe com-
pared with other ruins. They aro
still adolescent when other trees aro
old. At the ago of maturity for
ordinary fruit trees, tiny an; still
immature and unpen luctive. There
at Temi, olive trees under which
tradition says that Pliny walked.
After gazing at them attentively,
you can easily hi oil,' younelf to
believe that they are nut real lives,
but elves, hamadryad*, unyielding
nymphs, imprisoned out of revenge
in a dungeon of bark under tho
firm of a veg table. Tl ey are cap-
tive spii its e mfii e i in a living
coffin which has grown into and
become part of tin msolves. In tho
weird hours of night, they must
surely shake off their encircling
panoply, and frolic mid gambol
over ravine and rock, until the
cock's shrill clarion warns them to
retiro to tin ilment of their
sylvan disguise.
Of La < 'orniche, wh< DC l you may
behold distant Corsica; of Mentone,
where you may mu-e over tho
Mediterranean waves; of Monaco,
where you may gamble away your
lost napoli on ; ".' Nice, where you
may dance gaily into your coffin, I
have not u word to wiy at present.
419
THE TAMAR AND THE TAVY.
HAVE you ever been at Ply-
mouth, my dear Achates ? I
think I know your answer— you
have intimated as much to me be-
fore — ' Only passed through.' A
vague answer, conveying the notion
of only an infinitesimal knowledge
of Plymouth. Perhaps while you
were waiting for the train, like Mr.
Tennyson at Coventry, you lounged
about with grooms and porters.
Perhaps you did as I did when I
first ' passed through ' Plymouth,
timed yourself and ran up to see the
Hoe. How you must have been
astonished when the magnificent
Sound first stretched before you!
Had you ever before seen such an
extent of natural loveliness in con-
junction with the highest product of
our civilization, the escarped rocks,
the prodigious breakwater, the
stately war vessels with their dor-
mant thunders? You ought to
allow yourself at least three days.
And if it is the fallow time of the
year, and you are at leisure to follow
the guidance of your own sweet will,
your three days may advantageously
be expanded into at least three
weeks. For let me tell you can-
didly, Achates, that Plymouth is an
extraordinary p'ace. It is not ex-
traordinary even as other places are
accounted extraordinary. In going
through the wilderness of this world
I have seen a great deal of our great
semi-metropolitan cities, Manches-
ter, Liverpool, Birmingham, Shef-
field, Glasgow, Belfast, Bristol. And
an Englishman hardly knows his
country unless he knows these, for
they most materially help to make
up England. But they have failed
to impress me, although I tried to
keep my eyes and my mind fairly
open, in the same way that Plymouth
has impressed me. Because at Ply-
mouth you have, more than else-
where, a perfect combination of
supreme natural beauty with the
highest achievements of modern
art. I grant you that this requires
a great deal of faith in the first in-
stance. As you move along the
streets, where you will observe quan-
tities of Devonshire girls with very
VOL. XL— NO. LXV.
pretty complexions, allowing for a
certain stir and picturesquenesB
you will still think that your ex-
licctations have received only a very
limited gratification. I am pre-
pared for that. But let the place
grow upon you and it will. 1 met
a Goth once who said he thought
nothing of the Sound when he first
saw it. But that same amiable
Goth admitted that before his pro-
menades on the Hoe had ceased ho
had learned to discern a thousand
beauties in the Sound. You will
remember that Sir Francis Drake
and his sea-captains were playing at
bowls on the Hoe when the news of
the Armada was brought to them.
But set about your investigations
in an orderly way with map and
' Murray.' There is a fine history
of the British navy which you may
work out in the three towns, Ply-
mouth, Stonehouse, and Devonport,
the whole of them being called
Plymouth for short. If you under-
stand docks and dockyards, gunnery
and machinery, factories and forti-
fications, victualling, cooperage, and
storage, smithering and engineering
— I am paying an undeserved com-
pliment to your understanding in
supposing for a moment that you
do — you will derive a great deal of
instructive enjoyment. But if your
enjoyment is of a mitigated descrip-
tion, and mainly made up of wonder-
ment, your eye will hardly be suffi-
ciently sated with the beauty of the
neighbouring shores and the inland
scenery.
Then again Plymouth is a very
social place. The people there are
not particularly rich people. Mil-
lionaires and territorial lords do not
abound in Plymouth society. The
chief nobility are, in fact, non-resi-
dent. But there is a wonderful
gathering of army men and navy
men, to my mind the most interest-
ing people in the world, and abun-
dance of acute professional men, and
merchants enow ; and if it were my
object to improve your mind, I
would explain to you the very con-
siderable things which the sons ot
Plymouth have achieved in art and
2 G
450
Tlie Tamar and the Tavy.
Boience but I am afraid, Achates,
that iii i arlj life yon bore only a
blance to Lord
Mac inlay's ' intelligent Bcho ilboy.'
Ie g( 11- rally en-
ui very chi rail views about
things. p nation Bold their
rish church thai is lo Bay,
in order to raise funds
to build a tin atro Chen ■
:1 points al out Plymouth
much ' ' nm ct< l with the swells as
with the raob-ility, which struck
me, t 1 e i oli| htened tourist, as being
\, i j e is an enter-
ing in in there who 1 n ral
sit .mi-' < e ■ !s for pie i jure < icur-
b in the summi r 02 tl ■■ Ply-
mouth waters Several of these are
expressly arranged for the conveni-
ence of i ii re* n- who will be confined
by business during theday. There are
Early Dawn Excur ions and Moon-
light Excursions, right roi
and to Cawsand Bay, or
out into the open sea, round the Ed-
dysb . i i htl and back ag tin.
< in a fine afterno in or ev< ning the
boats will be throngf d, and on many
I, worn fares tin re will 1
happy ' \| r don of pl< asure and
n pose a M ry favourite excursion
is up tl » thi W*( ir-1 i
bul thai is b and re-
I the day.
h > i> al Plymouth
on a iii.' to tab the
ferry and go •■• r to Mount Edgi -
cuml the Earl
•
• i the p ;
M< t pl< ml il i to Bee the people
ymg th( amid lawns and
Iks, and l< afy av< nueu,
il- lis, and on lofty
clifi
Bui
rly in t' or in the
when tl d of
portion
: 1 1 1 1 m nt of the i '•' in'.
But tl •
ly (liimi.i d. Sfou can v< ry wi 11
nndi
whi ii 1 1 Ply-
it Mom '
of the ful
!s. 'Mi i down t
painti d bis first portrait on an
old Bail, and before youia the broad
■r\ of the Bamoaze, with many
u man-of-war resting peacefully in
its shadows, where many confluent
ni!- pour their waters, i
among them the Tamar and the
Tav;
I will, as you request, g\\o you
my note on tl ese rivers, not only
1 1 c i:ir I visited th< m from Ply-
mouth, lint because I bave repi at-
edly ii. t t tin m in my tours, and tl
i interested me that i have
r» ad op any information which I
could pro ui r. p. cting them. My
: p isses b) nt atli tl c wonderful
tube of th' All i it Bridge, Brunei's
achievemi nt. From the
river that tube I as
Blondin's tight-rope to the flooring
of fans below. It is simply a rail-
way tight-rope, and a nervous pas-
er would be startled if he could
realize I ii position as I am able to
realize it for him. Th< n yon pace
Saltash, the crazy old bouses piled
one upon another, balconied :ui<l
balustradi d. At thi
is a vasl all > i of water, a lake sha-
dow! d by p ndant i I ti re, on
the left side, is the conflui i ce of tho
Tamar ami the Tavy, amid the
famous woods ol Warleigh and with
I lartmoi r as a disl ground,
Tavy is a regular Dartinqpr
• givi B its name to Tavi-
k, a frontier town of the Mi
In Browne's ' Pastorals' there is a
pn tty st.ry of ' i i i Lovi b of the
Walla and the Tavy,' perhaps thu
pn ttii si of all. Brow ne v\.:s con-
temporary with B axe and
Spenser. The Tamar is nut a
Dartmooi river. As far as its
course goes, some sixty miles to the
it E< rvi s as the border betv
l>i von and Cornwall, and where it
fails, not far from the Bristol Chan-
its place as a boundary is
taken by a much more diminutive
■in.
V. the
its own pi to I' »th in
bisfc ry and Ii i □ I. There is a
ll, hold roc 1 War!
ii Is the < n-
Irai In the gr» at
hall of the man ion, Ii with
, axe old
Tlie Tamar and the Tavy.
451
portraits which ought to be com-
pared with the old monuments in
Tamerton church. Tamerton church
is close by the little creek of the
same name, where it is pleasant to
row about on a summer evening ;
and not long ago there was to be
seen here — but it is now blown
down— the fatal oak of Coplestone.
Here Coplestone of Warleigh, in the
time of Queen Elizabeth, in a fit of
passion threw a dagger at his godson,
which slew him beneath the oak,
and he had to purchase the avari-
cious queen's pardon with thirteen
of his manors in Cornwall. There
is a hamlet of Coplestone, in the
parish of Crediton, which hamlet
has a station on the North Devon
line, boasting of a strange cross, to
which no one has ever yet been able
to assigu date or meaning, but which
the distinguished Bishop Coplestone
caused to be exactly reproduced on
his own lands. If I were a novelist,
I should suppose that this curious
cross had some connection with the
' angered ' but repentant godfather
who acted, to say the least of it,
with such extreme imprudence. But
I must not now linger in Tamerton
Creek, as I intend to make a push
for the Weir-head. The Plymouth
boats often promise to take you to
the Weir-head, but they frequently
fall short of performance. Let me
make honourable mention of the
occasion when I achieved my object.
It was a boat chartered by a most
amiable set of people belonging to a
church which was called 'Kitual-
istic' I remember knowing a simi-
lar set of people who used to dine
together at the Crystal Palace. I
speak as a perfectly unprejudiced
individual ; and I consider that these
innovations on the traditional tea-
parties of another ecclesiastical type
are of a very praiseworthy descrip-
tion. The profits were to be devoted
to the schools or something of that
sort ; and I believe the treasurer
exhibited a decisive balance of five-
pence, which caused great triumph,
a deficit being the more ordinary
result. Under their auspices I did
the twenty-two miles of river to the
Weir-head, which I had previously
failed to do under any other auspices.
The river scenery is really very re-
markable, and the expedition ought
to be done more than once. In order
properly to appreciate river scenery,
here and elsewhere, you should tra-
verse high grounds near the river,
where you can obtain views com-
manding the windings of the stream.
There is one such view on the
right bank of the Tamar, which is
considered by competent authority
as commanding the most impressive
and beautiful view in Cornwall.
So we piss up the river ai miring
the opening and closing shores, here
the beautiful curve, there the dense
masses of foliage shallowing the
water-side, now the glimpses of
pastoral scenery, presently the views
of manor-house and mansion. You
will not fail to notice a modern
castle called Pentillie, beneath a
tower-crowned hill called Mount
Ararat. The worthy who possessed
this estate at the beginning of the
last century ' expressed a desire that
after death he should be placed
in this tower, seated in a chair in
his customary dress, and before a
table furnished with the appliances
of drinking and smoking.' Then
the Tamar below the woods of Cot-
hcle are very pretty. The river
skirts the embowered hollow of
Danescombe, and close by a dense
rock shadows the water, crowned by
a small chapel, which has its legend.
When the boat does not go further
than Calstock, the passengers break
up into parties for rambles in the
woods— oak, elm, and chestuut. The
embattled mansion of Cothele, the
third seat of the Mount-Edgecumbe
family, which you may visit in a
day, must be passed over in despair
of hoping to do it justice. The Queen
and the Prince Consort came up the
Tamar in their steam-yacht, and
visited Cothele and slept there a
night. They also went to the Weir-
head, and from thence made a call
at Endsleigh — and I propose to do
the same. By-and-by you come to
the Morwell rocks. The river is
girt on either hand by lofty rocks,
but the Morwell rock is so superb
that people might well come from
remote parts of the country in order
to revel in such scenery. A seem-
ingly perilous path skirts it, called
the Duke of Bedford's road, having
2 G 2
152
The Tamar and the Tavij.
been laid out l>y the reigning duke
of the period, ion pass into some
Krivate ground hard by the Wcir-
ead, into winch yon are admitted
n the payment of the ?< ry mod. -
any. The weir of
pat an 1 11 1 to nil further
navigation The multitude of weirs
is becoming more and more a
fteriooe matter, and no weir ought
to be permitted when a Balmon-
ladder, properly approved, is not
!. I fell in!" conversation
with a gentleman who told me that
he need t<> n nt tin.- port on of the
river, many yean before, as a
fishery. That part of the pleasure
offifching winch consists in the en-
joyment of scenery cannot be found
in greater perfection than npon the
-ant turf, l»y the Bparkling
ri' . r, beneath the shadow of the
Morwell rock. But fishing in the
Tamar is not now what it need to
be. The mines have spoilt all that.
There is a ('anions mine which goes
under the bed of the river. Many
streams in Devon and Cornwall,
winch used to yield excellent trout
mid salmon fishing, have been
I joned by tin and copper. The
streams which flow from the Dart-
moor watershed are comparatively
untainted; hut near Dartmoor the
trout are small, and the salmon too
far from the mouths of rivers to be
in good condition. Our old friend
rehearsed the delights of an Indian
idise by renewing his old sports
and n hauling the captured booty.
Be Congratulates himself on having
had tic best of things when things
w< j' ii tl so bad. Properly spi ak-
you ought now to return back
with your excursion party to Ply-
mouth Von have probably met
with gome niee people, and you
improve your acquaint
with them at biinh in the inn or
din il 'roll in the wo > Is. Hut
if : • to ( xplore the
Tan, .ir and tl.. T.i'.y, you must
■ ir adieni at aforwellham,
and m die acton country to Borne
Othi r p niit It ia a difficult thine;,
, to make your eli ction
..ill that chei i ful pai ty and a
aolitarj ramblo, I know some
w ho would aban ion any
programme from maid ra-
tions; hut what is the uso of a
programme unless yon mean to
cany it out? Our business for tho
present must lie with those twin
sister-streams of the Tamar and
Tavy.
I Will tell VOU Something, sug-
gested b\ an incident the other day,
which you can work into a story
ii yon like. At Salisbury a young
gentleman is lounging on the plat-
form of the railway station, waiting
for the arrival of the London train.
Now this young gentleman has
only got a dozen miles to go to some
neighbouring station, and for that
purpose he is duly provided with a
second-class ticket. But it so hap-
pens that, as the train draws up by
the platform, he catches an enticing
view of a very nieedooking girl, with
lively eyes, seated in a compart-
ment of a first-class carriage. He
commits error number one by enter-
ing the carriage, and taking his seat
opposite the young lady. They aro
alone, but she does not brandish a
dagger or display a pistol, with the
statement that she is prepared to
protect herself from insult, which, I
believe, has happened to i>c the case
with elderly or excited females. <)n
the contrary, the liveliness of her
conversation corresponds with the
liveliness of her eyes. By-and-by
the train halts at the petty station,
but the gentleman traveller, charmed
with this pleasant companionship,
madly goes on. Error number two.
It was very nice while tliey were
discussing halls and rides, novels
and news, Paris and the Highlands;
but when they are not very far from
London, tickets are in due course
demanded Now tins is very awk-
ward lor the young y< n'l' man, fust,
because he has no money in his
pocket to paj for the extra dial
lie has travt Hi d ; and BecOUdlj , I <-
cause he is travi lling in a first-)
i uii.iL'e with only a BeCOnd class
ticket in his pocket That youi g
man deserves a moral lesson on the
proprietj of adhering to an original
intention. What shall be our <lr-
', Achates ? shall we l< ave
tl at youth on the platform, ( xp
to the just scorn of the young lady,
and in the custody of the station-
master? or shall wo be liberal, my
TJie Tamar and the Tavy.
453
friend — the notion will cost us
nothing— and make that young lady
produce her purso, and the gentle-
man procure her name and address
for the purpose of repaying the loan,
and so lay the foundation for a
marriage and a life of happiness?
We only return so far as Mor-
welhani Quay, and then we go by
the side of the canal to Tavistock.
This walk is remarkable as giving
some of the prettiest canal scenery
in existence, and also for the con-
siderable distance which the canal
traverses underground. The scenery
by the towing-path is fully equal to
much fine river scenery. Here and
there you will see the engine-house
of a mine" peeping through foliage,
and will own that even this very
utilitarian object can be made to
look picturesque. Here, too, you
will catch a gleam of the Tavy,
rushing through a defile of wooded
hills, which we last saw by Tamerton
Creek, in its juncture with the Tamar.
Tamar and Tavy are etymologically
connected, the one meaning the
'great Taw,' and the other the
' little Taw.' You will pass Crown-
dale, the birthplace of that great
Devonshire worthy, Sir Francis
Drake. At Tavistock I come to an
anchor for a day or two at the Bed-
ford. Charles the Second, who,
when Prince of Wales, spent some
very wet days here during the
civil wars, used to say that, however
fair it might be elsewhere, he was
sure it was raining at Tavistock. I
had nothing to complain of, however,
beyond a series of passing showers,
that left bright weather in the in-
terval. As, however, I have arrived
at the fair town which derives its
name from the Tavy, I will now give
my few words of discourse respect-
ing the river itself.
The source of the Tavy lies on one
of the loftiest parts ot the moor, one
ot the most sequestered and unap-
proachable parts of the western
wilderness of Dartmoor. ' Vast
tracts of morass, bog, and heath
stretch away on every side. Besides
Furtor, lew tors appear to break
the deep-felt monotony of the dreary
wilds around. Not a sheep-path or
peat- stack gives token of the pre-
sence of man or beast; and the
heathfowl which may occasionally
spring from the heather only prove
that this, one of their last retreats,
is seldom invaded by the sportsman.'
Lower down the Tavy receives a
stream, which is considered to form
the northward boundary of the
forest, and is appropriately called
Rattlebrook. Lower still we reach
Tavy Cleave, a range of tors to
which a castellated character has
been ascribed, swept by the Tavy
as if by a moat. Below the Cleave
the river-bed flows over a solid
rocky surface. A bold eminence,
called Gertor, or Great Tor, beetles
down upon the stream, and so
we get on to Mary Tavy. There
are two picturesque hamlets, called
respectively Mary Tavy and Peter
Tavy, easily accessible from Tavis-
tock. And there is another spot
of especial beauty which ought to
be visited, where the river Walk-
ham meets the Tavy. Keep up
the Tavy till you come to the
Walkham, and keep along the
Walkham as long as you can, and
you will not regret it. Both the
valley of the Tavy and the valley of
the Walkham are far-famed. If you
only go far enough up the Walkham
you will skirt Mist Tor, perhaps the
finest, and be able to puzzle your-
self with some of the most remark-
able Celtic remains. There are
especially some curious stone
avenues, respecting which the tra-
dition 'runs that they were erected
when wolves haunted the valleys,
and winged serpents the hills.
Where the Tavy and Walkham meet
is called the Double Water. At this
point there is, or was, a bridge of a
peculiar and perilous kind, and
common enough in the Dartmoor
region. A single plank is flung
across the stream from rock to rock,
with only a frail handrail for sup-
port. The depth generally is not
great, except, as frequently happens,
the river is swollen with rains ; but
then the current is exceedingly ra-
pid, and you may be carried away
in a moment to some deep pool
where you are out of your depth.
I confess that I ingloriously drew
back, but not unwisely so, for the
ascertained number of deaths by
accidents at such bridges is not in-
(54
Tin Tamm and the Tavy.
iderable. It is the Dartmoor
tradition that every; • Tamar
i life, and if any year should
n itliout a death, i.> claims two
• j i ar.
The Tavj dm rrily courses along in
the re ir of yonr hotel. The Bed
- a |i irtion of the site i ■' the
ibtx y. I would make grateful
. of another portion of the
abbey, which is convi rted into ns
li nt a public library as 1 have
■ D in a -mall provincial town.
I happily beg* I d there
of those Bhowery hours of
which Prirjco Clinks complained.
Other portions of the abbey are
amicably shared between thevicar-
and a dissi uting chapel. Sensi-
ble fellows those < » 1 « I monks, in
site sheltered by sur-
rounding hills with this sparkling
riv< r, richer, doubtless, in ash thca
than now. I noticed various fisher-
inc n, howev< r, in the snmmer ev< n-
ingBJ and that walk hard l>y the
y, where a bridge is arched
Etscade, is to my mind about
prettii si thing in Tai istock,
ravistock claims to be the fruit-
ful mother of many distinguished
men, and its roll is certainly re-
markable, including the great law-
\i r. • Mam ill, whose monument is in
church. Its localitii s are be-
lovi I by po ts an 1 artists, and few
on pictun que than
. lUrite h units by tho Tavy.
At . k the i iver is of some
little breadth ; and the gnarled ti
whose roots are deep among the
water flags, almo I overshadow the
channel.
The finest point on the Tamar is
within a manageable distance of
k. Milt n Abbot, mx miles
1 1. Only
do i by the guide-
on inn
old tamblodown littlu
pub d« erv< the □ one ;
but either return to I •
pushonwai
i is the sc it of tiio untitled Mr.
II, who is tin' heir t" ti.. duke-
dom Iford. I v many
.li.nl
ond measure deli^ hted by a
view, which she obtaini d di ar Mil-
U.l-ot, of lb ir. And
well Bhe might bo, for the scene is
thoroughly Swiss— as noblj Swiss
as any scene of pure English beauty
can become. For the silv< r lint b of
the river Bow through n\\ me and
gorge, and thick woods cover their
abrupt slopes, Bave where, close by
ids of the water, there aro
lawns and pastures lor cattle, aiuf
purling brooks from the highest
grounds p iut down intothe Tamar ;
a' d rocks are not wanting, nor any-
thing which can lend either softness,
or sublimity, or lovelini ss to tho
pro pact. The duchi ss v. ith a cl< ar
cted the marvellotu i Kcel-
I. uce of the site. This Duo!
Georgiana was one of those great
I.e.], |,., Achates, who, mmch moro
easily than you or I, could have a
romantic wish accomplished. Sho
cln se the site, and her husband, tho
Duke John, built her a cottage, and
her four sons laid the first stone. It
is a cottage, you understand, not for
a cottager but for a duchess. I
have been in some lovely Italian
villa?, embowered cottages over-
looking tho waters of C and
Ij gano, bat, in its way, End sleigh
is as pretty as anything of the kind.
The cottage was built by Wyatt,
who restored Windsor for George
the Fourth, and got knighted in
■ noe, and then elongated bis
name to Wyatville, l Bup] suit
his new honours better. There was
some difficult; at first aboul going
to Endsleigb, as Earl Ku-.m1I was
Btaying there with bis kinsman ; lmt
t1 ok the first opportunity of doing
this part of the Tamar. < Ine of tho
first obj cts which met my view was
one on which I felt sure that tho
noble earl's gaze had also lingered.
'1 his was a statuette, in an external
s, of Karl Grey engaged in
r. adrng the Reform Act. But you
have no buaini ss to think of politics
at Endsleigh; you should rather
think of in o cottage ;' a cot-
admirably contrived that, as
p tverty cannot come in at the d
.ii ma] hope that love will not
fly out of the window. You 1
lav. n ami partem terrace and
dell, grotto and arlioiir, rosary and
. ry ; and that QOble Tamar,
fiashiog gemlika is quite the gom
of tl You pass through
County Courts.
455
the park to the shore of tlio rapid
transparent stream, and then you
see a boat moored, and your call
will soon summon the woodman
from his cottage, and then you may
ramble at your will. Only, as tho
late Duke of Bedford was once heard
to say that he had cut forty miles of
rides through the woods, you had
better not wander too far from the
house and grounds, unless you are
acting on a pre-arranged plan. I
will venture to transcribe for your
edification, Achates, a remark which
I have made on one of the features
of this sequestered and wonderfully
pretty place. ' The constant pre-
sence of water, and the admirable
way in which it is managed, form a
peculiar feature of Eudtdeigh. A
fountain faces the orange andltmon
trees blossoming in the open air ; a
taller fountain rises amid the flower
and fern-covered rocks near the con-
servatories. From the high grounds
above the cottage little streams
run down towards the river, or
the small shadowed lake ; a stream
in a granite basin skirts the garden;
there are continual spoutings from
granite lips ; and on the cushioned
seat of tho verandah you are well-
nigh lulled to sleep by the sound of
flowing or falling water.'
You will hardly match this Ends-
high scenery with an) thing else
either on the Tamar or Tavy. My
limits will only allow mo to take a
final glance at the source of the
Tamar. That lies in a very different
kind of country, near the rock-
bound coast of the north of the
peninsula of Cornwall and Devon.
Here the Tamar drains from a dreary
morass amid bleak hills, 'divided
into fuzzy crofts and rnsh-covered
swamps.' But you will find near
here what you would lea^t expect —
fine examples of the ecclesiastic and
domestic architecture of Mr. G. G.
Scott. Having come to the source,
you may either go east to Clovelly,
or westward to 'wild Dundagil, by
the Cornish sea;' wonderful locali-
ties, both of them, Achates ; but the
Tamar and Tavy, less visited by
travellers, are in their way equally
deserving of exploration ; and if you
will go there Ibis summer, I will
with pleasure go over the ground
again with you.
COUNTY COUETS.
A COUNTY-COURT summons is
not by any means a pleasant
thing to find lying on one's break-
fast-table, amongst the ham and
eggs; nor a pleasant thing to re-
ceive from the wife of one's bosom
on returning from a nice little tour
in search of health or business ; in
fact, it is not a pleasant thing to be
acquainted with under any circum-
stances. It comes generally as the
climax to a whole series of an-
noyances. Dunning letters from
Threaclneedle, a tailor on scientific
principles, who has pressing bills
to meet in the course of a few days,
are moderately unwelcome, as every-
body who has grazed the edges of
debt must be perfectly aware; and
the matter becomes an absolute
nuisance as soon as Threadneedle's
lawyer begins to have a baud in it,
and sends little reminders via the
Post Office in St. Martin s-le-Grand.
But the County Court summons is
a culmination. The appointment
of some definite limit for the pay-
ment of Threadneedle's account is
painfully destructive of that beau-
tiful vagueness which characterizes
the earlier stages of pecuniary
liability. One always means to pay,
as a matter of course ; but the
poetry of debt is knocked on the
head the moment that a elate is
fixed. There is something so shabby
in being honest on compulsion.
Our own acquaintance with County
Courts is entirely casual; and we
state the fact in order that the
reader may acquit us of having
derived any experience of them in
the character of a defendant. There
are about sixty of them scattered
through England and Wales; and
they are all so much alike that, if
you have seen one, depend upon it
the other fifty-nine are not worth
456
Count)/ Court*.
the trouble of a visit hi Middli
Chore an i I metropolitan dis-
trict -~ ; Webtminster, Brompton,
Mh_. [i • ! isbury, Clerken-
well, Bbor< ditch, Bow, and White-
obap 1 < 'ii the Sum y side of
Ion, Wandsworth is the only
t njoye the luxury of a
I atj i <"ii t. \\ .• !i ive only looked
in ut one of tin bo n doubtable esta-
blish] ' the name of which '
the penny-a-liners put it ' for
obvious r< asons we conceal. 1 It is
II .t without b Blight feeling of
i • rvous awe thai the freest and
moel independent Briton enters a
san rtuary w lu re the practice of the
law is carried on; but we soon shake
and leave the tusk of wincing
to the galled jade, in the full confi-
dence that our own withers are
unwruhg. Our acute sense of the
ridiculous gradually assumes a mas-
tery over our veneration for justice.
We begin to notice things, and
everytbmg that we notice makes
us laugh. Our companion, who is
e\i n more utterly destitute of shame
than ourselves, produces a small
note-book, and commences making
sk. tohi b probably with a distanl
v iew of ' London Society ' in his
mind's eye. Ho caricatures the
judge, to begin with; and we also
nit an to have a fling at the judge.
His life must be rather a hard
one; there is ip >t much dignity in
deciding these paltry County Court
squabbles. Probably, the most equit-
able method would o insist in taking
n popper roin of the realm, tossing
it gracefully into the air. ami leaving
the rights of the case to chance.
b< ad oi Q een Victoria might
blifch the justice of the plaintiff's
claim, and the Bgure of Britannia
might • i def( adant I me
can b< i|i btm i-uiatiiig upon
the private financial habits of a
funcUonar] who is calli d upon to
l» cting
debl and credit Could a judge
I in his own court
him, Bupp i ing thai be
■ \ ing a I airdn • r for
• i fficia] wig? This c
trophe i occur, we
worthii b
twelve hun-
dred pounds a year for their labours.
The office is a freehold for life,
inability or misbehavj ur consti-
tuting the only liabilities to n movaL
May we venture to Buggest, by the
way, that the eause of justice Would
lose nothing (and mighl pain a
little by having the County Court
judges occasionally shifted from one
district into another? It is just
possible that, through constantly
bearing the same attorneys and
barristers, the hearer mighl imbibe
just the least prejudice in the world ;
he mighl now and then weigh the
"/ merits of a connsel i' whom
be i.iimv. perl tlj rather than the
purtictUar merits or a case (of which
hi i.nows nothing beforehand), and
County Courts.
457
give judgment accordingly. If this
reason is not a sufficient one, we can
give another; the change of scene
would render a judge's work less
monotonous, and consequently more
endurable.
The usher is very solemn, and
very imposing. He rather reminds
us of the immortal footmen that
poor John Leech drew by the dozen.
Leech's footmen were always large,
raw-boned men, with full whiskers;
this description applies exactly to
the County Court usher. He is
getting baid in the service of jus-
tice, and his remaining hairs are
slightly silvered ; but he is proud of
the fact, and would rather dye than
wear a wig. From a long and un-
varied career spent in the County
Court line of business, the usher
seems to have imbibed a profound
contempt for money ; he looks upon
it simply as the root of all sum-
monses. We should like to see
anybody offer him a half-crown ; he
would probably treat it as con-
temptuously as Julius C«3sar treated
a whole one, putting it by with the
back of his hand, in the good old
traditional manner. Doubtless, the
usher is a man of tolerable sub-
stance, who pays his way regularly,
and has no dealings with the bailiff,
save amicable ones ; but even grey
locks cannot ensure him against
being caricatured.
We have been lucky enough— or
sufficiently unlucky— to see the
softer sex engaged in pecuniary
disputes. Ladies are tenacious in
these matters; much more tena-
cious, we fancy, than the lords of
creation. Convince one of these
gentle creatures that she owes
another of these gentle creatures
money, and she will pay it; but
the difficulty of convincing her
almost amounts to an impossibility.
If Mrs. Lockstitch sells Mrs. Hem-
ming a sewing machine, it is the
obvious duty of the latter lady to pay
for it. Well and good ; but, suppose
that the instrument should prove
to be deficient in every quality that
makes a sewing machine respectable
— what then ? The elements of liti-
gation are at once let loose. Mrs L.
wants the money, and Mrs. H. does
not want the goods ; but the goods
have been bought, and it is urged,
with some faint shadow of propriety,
that they ought consequently to be
paid for. The difference of opinion
is referred, very properly, to a
County Court, where the plaintiff
and the defendant indulge in mutual
recriminations, of a class which it
458
County Courts.
would be gross Baifa iy I i call inv-
lovant. Judgment is probably given
in favour of the plaintiff, in which
case the defi d lant will go down to
bat grave with a hrw belief in
the n:il administration of justice
throughout I In a1 Britain. Should
i ictory be de ided for the de-
fendant, the plaintiff will d< a end
into the vale of years with a griev-
1
\
ance upon her mind; that County The shopkeeper figure largely in
Court business will figure as a pro- County Courts. Whenever he can
ut topic at neighbouring tea- spare a moment from his labours at
for the remainder of her the counter, he appears to spend it
natural life. in issuing 6uinuiunsts. Chemists
are great sinners in this n |
tbey seem to physic Um ir ouBtomeri
into a state of rode health on
purpose to persecute them about
money immediately afterwards, josl
as the cam Is t':itt< n their pri-
ra for eating. Every bottlo is
a mu&ked battery, and every pill a
County Courts.
459
pitfall. Tailors and wino merchants
are also in the habit of getting very
troublesome about their accounts.
Shopkeepers who appeal to the law
are generally short, and generally
stout. They have a confident manner
about them; for where is tho trades-
man who dares to appear as plaintiff
without having right upon his side?
It requires a man of some imagin-
ation to do that, and imagination is whenever he makes his appearance
an utter stranger to trade. The shop- in a County Court. He never seems
keeper speaks very softly, 'with bated to demand his money, but merely to
breath and whispering humbleness/ suggest that he should rather like
to have it than otherwise. "We need entertains the strongest possible
scarcely remark that he generally opinions on the subject of Eeform,
succeeds in getting it. occasionally get? into difficulties
The working man, who reads his that require the interference of a
morning papers with assiduity, and County Court for their solution. He
•160
County Court*.
is just clover enough to get paid for
his work beforehand now and then,
and the possession of laere some-
times makes liiiu too proud or too
lazy to finish it. As a defendant lie
requires a g Ideal of oonvincing;
having probably studii <l Mr. John
Btnarl Mill more as a politician than
a teacher of abstract logic. In the
pp sent nstance be is tall and thin ;
and the latter peculiarity is perhaps
accounted for by the foot of his
having walked a considerable dis-
tance in every procession that has
been organized by theBi form League
since the commencement of the agi-
tation. One is lather sorry to see
him in a County Court, on con-
sideration of his highly probable
Wife and family.
The attorney swarms at County
Courts; ho is, of course, well up in
every possible description of claim,
and ready with every possible de-
scription of defence. Defences are,
of course, multitudinous; the most
usual ones being —
i. Set-off.
2. Infancy.
3. Coverture.
4. Statute of Limitations.
5. Bankruptcy.
6. Insolvency.
'Set-off' implies a COS6 of mutual
debt between plaintiff and defendant.
The other grounds of defence men-
tioned need no explanation. Some-
times the attorney engages a bar-
rister as counsel, but more frequently
acts himself for ono of the parties
in tho suit. His appearance is as
a rule semi-legal, and semi-military :
ho is bald-headed, and wears a
moustache.
It is impossihlo to convey much
information about County Court
practico without growing tedious.
Allow us, in conclusion, to suggest
that tho reader had better l>o con-
tent with what we have told him
than seek actual experience for
himself, either as plaintiff or de-
fendant, especially avoiding the
latter position.
\&s4k*
461
ANECDOTE AND GOSSIP ABOUT CLUBS.
PART III.
rpHE ' Spectator ' seems to have
J. issued secret commissions for the
discovery of clubs of an unusual or
piquant character; and by the re-
searches of his spies was made aware
of the existence of a Club of Parish
Clerks, which met that its members
might concoct in comfort their bills
of mortality, and drink to the
memory of the departed. A Law-
yers' Club, also, was unearthed,
whose practice it was to meet
stealthily for the purpose of dis-
cussing the respective cases which
each member happened to have on
hand. The object of this Club is
unhandsomely represented to have
been the furtherance of fraud and
deceit— an object which we happily
know to have been impossible.
There existed a Club of poor crea-
tures who could only meet by the
sufferance of their wives, or as they
furtively evaded their jurisdiction.
But the Club of the Henpecked has
been long defunct ; that is, it expired
just a month before the marriage of
the most exemplary matron who
reads this article, and shows no
symptoms of revival so long as her
daughters are inclined so well as at
present to follow in her footsteps.
The Henpecked Club was chiefly
worthy of notice because it served
to introduce an association in which
the ladies are brought into con-
siderable prominence ; and so helps
us over the chasm which would
otherwise separate male and female
societies. We owe to the 'Spec-
tator' the registration of a few
Ladies' Clubs, only one or two of
which, as his account of them was
evidently written at a time when he
ought to have been better employed,
we intend to honour with a momen-
tary notice. The Club of She-
Romps pretty sufficiently indicates
its objects, which were to play high,
to quarrel, to break fans, tear petti-
coats, flounces, furbelows, and to
destroy all other, even the most
sacred, curiosities of female apparel ;
and once a month to demolish a
prude, inveigled for that purpose
into their place of meeting. The
' Spectator' was invited to pay them
a visit, any rule forbidding the ad-
mission of a gentleman notwith-
standing ; but from a mingled feeling
of fear and gallantry he forbore to
avail himself of the flattering invi-
tation.
The Widow Club consisted, on the
30th June, 1 7 14, of nine experienced
dames, who took their places once
a week about a large oval table. It
may be described generally as an
association of Wives of Duth, bent
on contracting matrimony as often
as they commodiously and profitably
could. Ex una disce omncs; Mrs.
President was a person who had
successfully disposed of six hus-
bands, and was determined forth-
with to take a seventh, being of
opinion that there was as much
virtue in the touch of a seventh
husband as of a seventh son. The
great object of each member, in
short, was to achieve her own dis-
qualification.
Manchester men are nearly as
celebrated as are ancient mariners
for spinning a yarn. A particular
one which came into our hands a
few months ago seems to have got
a double twist in it— the twist first
of falsity, and second of ill-nature.
It is the manufacture of the London
correspondent of the ' Manchester
Examiner,' and is entirely apropos
of Ladies' Clubs of the very last year
in this very city of London. ' We
have,' he gravely informed his Lan-
cashire clientele last April, 'as you
know, been getting tolerably fast in
our manners at the West-End. The
present season has witnessed a fur-
ther development of feminine inde-
pendence. " Ladies' Clubs " are this
year the "go" in the most fashion-
able circles. The young and un-
married ladies do not tako part in
them to any great extent ; the
" frisky matrons " there reign su-
preme. Although these assemblies,
which are held, as a general rule, in
the afternoon, at the houses of tho
members, are called " Ladies' Clubs,"
462
Auecdt t< and GotUp about ClvJbt.
tlemi n are not excludi d. \
ti.k. t to the "Scuffli ts." or bo the
" Jollj Dogs," —those are the names
of two of the mosl e —is
reckoned a ^ r r< at favour, and con
only lie obi I by those who are
in nigh favour with presiding autho-
rities, amongst \\ horn inure than one
duel prominent |
tion Ch amti mi nts o msisl of
<■< >n ■ i and Bmoking, the ladies
doing their part manfully with their
l > give you some idea
lom of manners which
ire intend) il to pro-
mote, I may Btate that the" Scufflere"
are so called because at their gather-
• chairs and tables arc banished
from the room, and the membt rs sit
or lounge on the floor or on low
divans."
We can fancy ' Our London Cor-
m lenl ' cottoning with some
inebriated footman, who, out of
gratitude for the half-pint of porter
which lie owed to the eorresp in-
di at's munifici nee, told biai a si cr< I
which he did not know himself. \\ e
at least d ) nol intend to believe the
paragraph, until tho writer of it can
produce <■ ■ idi nee that he has him-
self been " scuffled" out of some
one or other of the meeting-rooms
of the Club, been smoked by Ins
; lie duchesses, or demo-
lished <t la mod* des She-Romps, by
the mo t able-bodied of the sister-
ho kL
I ■ • re is one club of the kind
which Mr. Timbs has the temerity
E icentric,' which claims
"tir hands, because
p trticnlars about it were far-
ed to the '( ruardian,' June 16,
1713, by one of the I of the
ii which it r< cruiti d itsell
lei I ipe, to wit. We
allude t<> the Club of - ' l. o,
which v. i on theshoi
of the \' ar, and the inauguration
of which in* moi
annually over s d i of
Meml i rs w< five
and tin y v., re re-
fill! ii. rather th m !
I
A fill
t.ll j • lul), III.
unanimous belief of tho wholo of its
in imbera was, that as the human
ra •<■ has c mstantlj been de sreasing
m Btature from the beginning until
n >w, it is obviously the design of
Nature that men should be httlo;
'and we believe, 1 says I >• >i » Short,
whom Pope p irs mates in his e pi
t i Nestor I ronside, Esq., ' that all
hum in kind shall at last grow down
rfe ition, that is to say, bs rc-
dua d to <>ur ow n measure.'
In spite of the very obvious
Boun Inesa of this the >ry, bovi ral
infatuated giants took it into their
in a Is to open an opp isition Club of
Till Men. Phis club Boon num-
I some thirty members; and
met ninler the presidi ncy of a Scotch
Highlander, whose stature brought
him ' within an inch of a show.'
The smallest m m in the club, mea-
suring only six feet and a half, was,
on account of his diminutiveness,
appointed to officiate as secretary.
' If you saw OS all together/ boasts
this worthy, 'you would take us
for the suns of inalc < fur meetings
are held, like tlie old Gothic parlia-
ments, sub dio, in open air; but we
shall make an interest, if we can,
that we may hold our assemblies in
Westmin ter Sail, whi n it is not
term time. I must add, to the
iur of our club, that it is one of
OUT society who is now finding out
the Longitude. The device ol our
public seal is a crane grasping a ,
pigmy in his right fo >t.'
The laureate of the Club of Little
Men is said to 1 ave been one Mr.
Distich ; and if he presumed to
attack the Anakim in pentameb I .
lie and his whole fraternity were to
be demolished by tfu ir poel m
undrini ,
other clubs distinguished by the
■ ' . tordion ' are the Sili nt i Hub and
the Terrible Club. The mi ml
Of the latter m iv shiewdly sus-
I oi v< iling their natural
oowor lice behind an air of bwoj
and fury. The following are t;
' .1/ ticlet to b '"/" d upon by il«
Club:
• i . Th it the club do m
at midnight, in the ^r. at armoury
hall in the Cower, it Ii ave can I e
di d, the iii I Monday in every
month.
Anecdote and Gossip about Clubs.
463
'II. That the president bo seated
upon a drum at the upper end of
the table, accoutred with a helmet,
a basket-hilt sword, and a buff belt.
' III. That the president be always
obliged to provide, for the first and
standing dish of the club, a pasty
of bull-beef, baked in a target made
for that purpose.
'IV. That the members do cut
their meat with bayonets instead of
knives.
' V. That every member do sit to
the table, and eat with his hat, his
sword, and his gloves on.
' VI. That there be no liquor
drunk but rack- punch, quickened
with brandy and gunpowder.
' VII. That a large mortar be
made use of for a punch-bowl.'
The suoee-sors of the Mohock
Club, and other like associations for
the cultivation of outlawry, took up
a position of more cold-blooded op-
position to whatever was reputable
in morals, decent in manners, and
venerable in religion. Clubs, of
which blasphemy and licentious-
ness were the avowed bonds, were
institutetl in alarming numbers by
men whose ambition it seemed to be
to set up on earth a "visible kingdom
of the devil. One of these infamous
societies was known by the name of
the Hell- fire Club, and boasted the
brilliant, unprincipled, and ill-fated
Duke of Wharton amongst its badly-
pre-eminent members. But we are
not going to rake up the volcanic
ashes of such clubs as these. Their
archives may be left, for us, to rest
in the fondly-regretful memory of
their departed and unsainted mem-
bers.
Before we bid a long farewell,
however, to the Clubs which sprang
up and died about the time of the
' Spectator,' we ought to devote a
few words to those peculiar po-
litical associations known as Mug-
House Clubs, the parent society of
which met in a great hall in Long
Acre during the winter season on
the evenings of Wednesday and
Saturday. The Club consisted of
gentlemen, lawyers, and politicians,
to the number of over a hundred,
and was named from the fact that
the members imbibed their liquor
— which was limited to ale — out of
separate mugs, which, it is said,
were fashioned on the model of
Lord Shaftesbury's face, vulgariter,
' ugly mug.' Hence the euphonious
designation.
Early in the eighteenth century
the president of the Club is de-
scribed as a grave old gentleman,
in his own grey hair, and armed
with the reverence due to nearly
ninety years of life. His seat was an
arm-chair raised above the level of
those of the other members, whom
it was his duty to keep in order and
decorum. At the lower end of the
room a harp discoursed its eloquent
music, which was occasionally in-
termitted for the songs of various
individuals of the company. Al-
though at this epoch the Club were
such exclusive devotees of harmony
and good fellowship that politics
seemed to be proscribed by their
mere non-necessity, the Mug- House
by-and-by became, in consequence
of the change of dynasty and the
different sentiments thereupon, ' a
ral lying-place for the most virulent
political antagonism.' The Tories
had it all their own way with the
mob, and it seemed advisable for the
friends of the Hanoverian succes-
sion to establish meeting-places
throughout the metropolis, where
loyal and well - affected citizens
might assemble to keep each other
in countenance, and serve as centres
for the diffusion of their principles.
Hence it came to pass that London
was colonised by numbers of Mng-
House Clubs, which were established
as affiliated societies in St. John's
Lane; at the Eoebuck, in Cheap-
side; at Mrs. Bead's, in Salisbury
Court, Fleet Street; at the Harp, in
Tower Street ; and the Roebuck, in
Whitechapel. Besides theee, others
were instituted in less central lo-
calities—at the Ship, in Tavistock
Street, Covent Garden ; at the Black
Horse, in Queen Street, near Lin-
coln's Inn Fields ; at the Nag's
Head, in James Street, Covent Gar-
den; at the Fleece, in Burleigh
Street, near Exeter Change; at the
Hand and Tench, near the Seven
Dials. There were several in Spital-
fields, frequented by French re-
fugees ; one in South war k Park ;
one in the Artillery Ground ; and
4G4
Anecdote and Gossip about Clubs.
another at the Magpie, now the
Magpie and Stomp, in the <>id
Bailey. 'At all these houses,' we
arc informed by Mr. Timbs, 'it waa
customer] in the forenoon to exhibit
the wl ole of the mugs belonging to
the establishment ins row in front
of tho lion The members of
these Bocieti< - offered their services
to k& p in ordi r the mob, who
nightlj took | ionof the Btn eta
in a must die irderly and seditious
manner; ami the collisions of the
•bite rabble with tho loyal ir-
i of the Mug-Houses occupy
a l»y no means inconsiderable por-
tion of the politieo-soeial records of
tho time.
In the autumn of 171 5 the Loyal
Club, in session at the Roebuck, in
Cheapside, burnt the Pretender in
effigy ; and on the 4th of November
in the same year the Jacobite rabble
repaid the insult in kind by burn-
ing King William III. in the Old
Jewry. The Mug-House gentry
came to the rescue, cudgelled the
disaffected, and bore off tho image
of Maoaulay's hero in triumph to
their bead-quarters, the Roebuck
( )f course the return compliment
was paid on the morrow, November
5th, a day sacred to political and
religious dissensions. The riot of
Guy Fawkes* Day being quieted,
there was peace for nearly a fort-
night, when other and wide-spread
riots arose in consequence of tho
Loyal Society meeting at the Roe-
buck to oel( brate the accession of
■ n Elizabeth, and of tho mob
moling in St. Martin'sde-Grand
for the purpose of burning the effi-
of King William, King Gcorgo,
and the Duke of Marlborough. A
1.1I c illisiou of forces super-
1 ; and this, the principal dis-
turbance of that year, was quelled
bi tin Lord Mayor, who caused the
dispi 1 - ii of the rabble with the loss
of one of their men done to death by
a gun-shot wound as be was bead-
a party in an attack upon the
Roebuck
1 • saw a re-
newal of boetilitii i. '1 be loyalty of
the Mug-House Clubs waa Btimu-
l by tb ir poets, and their eongs
w.re extensively circulated. M ir-
rowbonei and oleavera gave forth
their exhilarating strains, in order
to keep up the enthusiasm of tho
Jacobites; and the fight was further
emphasized on eitb< r side by oaken
cudgels and bludgeons, pokers,
tongB, ami lire-shovels.
Some- cold water was thrown on
tho courage of the seditions un-
washed when five of their number
we re eMn\ ioted of 1 iol and rebellion,
and sentenced tube put to death at
Tyburn; ami a few years saw Lon-
don completely released from the
factious outrages with which its
ts had been infested. The
Mug-House Clubs, with this restor-
ation of order, lost their significance
and their occupation, and became
no longer venerable e.r worthy of a
chronicle.
We come now to a knot of Clubs
whoso lustre is still fresh in the
memories of contemporary men —
Clubs which, founded em a basis of
political or fashionable affinities,
find their most distinctive glory in
the traditions of their colossal gam-
bling transactions.
The Cocoa Tree, which was tho
Tory Chocolate- 1 louse' of the days
of Queen Anne, fust appears as a
Club about the time e>f the attempt
of the young Pretender to recover
the throne of bis ancestors. It was
In re that Qibbon, in 176;. encoun-
tered ' twenty e.r thirty of perhaps
the first men in the king loin in
point of fashion and lord me supping
at little tables covered w ith a Dap-
kin, in the middle of a coffee-room,
upon a bit of cold meat, or a sand-
wich, and drinking a glass of punch.'
Walpole, writing to Mann, February
6, 17S0, records a then recent in-
stance of high play. ' Within this
Week,' ho says, 'there has In en a
cast at ha/ai«l at the Cocoa-Tree (in
st. James's Btn el , the difference of
which amounted to one hundred
and fourscore thousand pounds.
Mr. < » lhrne, an Irish g im< ster, had
wem one: hundred thousand pounds
of a young Mr. Barvey, ofChigwell,
just started into an estate by his
elder broth. r*a death. < I'Dirne said,
" Vou can never pay me." " I can,*
aid the vouth ; " my estate will sell
for the debt" •• No," said O.; "I
will win the thousand you shall
throw for the od«l ninety."*' Harvey
Anecdote and Gossip about Clubs.
466
was fortunate enough to come off
■winner.
Almack's Club was established in
Pall Mall, in 1764, 'by twenty-
seven noblemen and gentlemen, in-
cluding the Duke of Eoxbnrghe,
the Duke of Portland, the Earl of
Strathmore, Mr. Crewe (afterwards
Lord Crewe), and Mr. C. J. Fox.'
The following are half-a-dozen culled
from the original Eules of the
Club :—
' No gaming in the eating-room,
except tossing up for reckonings, on
penalty of paying the whole bill of
the members present.
'Dinner shall be served up ex-
actly at half-past four o'clock, and
the bill shall be brought in at
seven.
'Almack shall sell no wines in
bottles, that the Club approves of,
out of the house.
' Any member of this Society that
shall become a candidate for any
other Club (old White's excepted),
shall be, ipso facto, excluded, and
his name struck out of the book.
' That every person play ins; at the
new guinea table do keep fifty gui-
neas before him.
' That every person playing at
the twenty guinea table do not keep
less than twenty guineas before
him.'
Walpole, in a letter to Mann,
February 2, 1770, says that 'the
gaming at Almack's, which has
taken the pas of White's, is worthy
the decline of our empire, or com-
monwealth — which you please. The
young men of the age lose ten, fif-
teen, twenty thousand pounds in an
evening there. Lord Stavordale, not
one-and-twenty, .lost 11,000/. there
last Tuesday, but recovered it by
one great hand at hazard. He
swore a great oath, " Now, if I
had been playing deep, I might
have won millions." His cousin,
Charles Fox, shines equally there
and in the House of Commons.
He was twenty - one yesterday
se'nnight, and is already one of our
best speakers. Yesterday he was
made a Lord of the Admiralty.'
'The play,' remarks Mr. Timbs,
' was certainly high — only for rou-
leaus of 50?. each, and generally
there was 10,000/. in specie on the
VOL. XI.— NO. LXV.
table. The gamesters began by
pulling off their embroidered clothes,
and put on frieze greatcoats, or
turned their coats inside outwards
for luck. They put on pieces of
leather (such as are worn by foot-
men when they clean the knives) to
save their laced ruffles; and to
guard their eyes from the light, and
to prevent tumbling their hair, wore
high-crowned straw hats with broad
brims, and adorned with flowers
and ribbons ; masks to conceal their
emotions when they played at
quinz. Each gamester had a small,
neat stand by him, to hold his tea,
or a wooden bowl, with an edge of
ormulu, to hold the rouleaus.'
' Almack's was subsequently
Goosetree's. Tn the year 1780, Pitt
was then an habitual frequenter,
and here his personal adherents
mustered strongly.' Pitt entered
into the gaming at Goosetree's with-
out reservation ; his friend Wilber-
force, after a very slight experience
of the losses and gains of the faro-
table, soon bade adieu to such vain
pursuits.
Almack's Assembly Eooms were
opened the year after the Club just
adverted to — that is, in 1765 — in
King Street, St. James's. Here, ' in
three very elegant new-built rooms,'
as Gilly Williams records, in a letter
to George Selwyn, ' there was opened
a ten-guinea subscription, for which
you have a ball and supper once a
week for ten weeks. You may
imagine by the sum the company is
chosen; though, refined as it is, it
will be scarce able to put old Soho
(Mrs. Corneby's) out of countenance.
The men's tickets are not transfer-
able, so, if the ladies do not like us,
they have no opportunity of chang-
ing us, but must see the same per-
sons for ever.' And again: 'Our
fpmale Almack's flourishes beyond
description. Almack's Scotch face,
in a bag- wig, waiting at supper,
would divert you, as would his lady,
in a sack, making tea and curtsey-
ing to the duchesses.' This assem-
bly is characterized by Walpole,
five years after, as ' a Club of loth
sexes,' of which the foundresses were
Mrs. Fitzroy, Lady Pembroke, Mrs.
Meynell, Lady Molyneux, Miss Pel-
ham, and Miss Lloyd. And the
2 H
465
Anecil'le iin<l Gossip about Clubs.
vrtrr.m Horace proceeds to confess,
with a Mashing candour, that he
was weak enough to be of them,
ig rather to l>o idlo than
morose. '1 oan go,' says he, 'to a
jfoong nipper without forgetting
how much sand is rua out of tho
hour-gl
T! ty, everybody knows,
was tolerably exclusive. 'Ladies
Rochforl, Harrington, and Holder-
ness were black-balled, as was the
Duchessof Bedford, who was subse-
quently admitted.' Play here was
p; BOOieswere ruined, and units
amassed large fortunes on the down-
fall of their friends.
Early in tho present century, Al-
mack's was, on the testimony of
Captain Gronow,' the seventh heaven
of tho fashionable world.' 'Many
diplomatic arts, much finesse, and a
host of intrigues, were set in motion
to get an invitation to Almack's,
V. ry often persons, whose rank and
fortunes entitled them to the entree
any where, were excluded by the
cliqueism of the lady patroness
for the female government of Al-
ii 's was a pare despotism, and
subject to all theoaprioesof deep
rule: it is needli Id that, like
• very other despotism, it was not
innocent of ah ^<s. The fair ladies
who ruled supreme over this little
ing and gossiping world, issued
a solemn proclamation, thai i-" :■ a-
tleman should appear at tin- assem-
without bemg dressed in knee-
breeches, whih' cravat, and chaj
( hi one occasion the I lake "t
Wellington wasaboul to ascend the
staircase of the ball-room dressed in
I trousers, when the vigilsnl
lira Willis, tin: gnardiao of tin
tabliahment, stepped forward, and
said, " V<Mir ( Irace cannot be ad-
mitfe l in tro ■ ■ I i n upon the
Duke, who ' peel for
' regulations, quietly
walked away.'
The ro m i now almi
exch. Willis's Rooms, I
1 imed to i»' l< I for halls,
blic in« stings, and
i pur] iar-
•
Of Almiek's the dying out of that
feeling of ezclni which for-
merly reigned fan Loudon society.
'In 183 1 was published "Almack's,"
a novel, in which the leaders of
fashion were sketched with much
freedom, and identified in a " Key to
Almack's," by Benjamin Disraeli'
But the allusions to Almack's in
polite fiction are, as all our readers
may know, well nigh innumerable.
JJrookes's Club was originally a
gaming Club, 'farmed at first by
Alniack,' then taken by Brook
wine-merohant ami money-lender,
di scribed hj liokell as—
'Liberal Brookes, whose speculative skin,
[s lusty < :• dit, ami a di-t ml liill ;
Who, Qursed in 1 lubs, disdains a vulgar traile,
lis tii trust, and blushes t.i be paid.'
Tho Clnb was removed in 1778
from Pall Mall to St James's Street,
but it did not answer well enough
to prevent Mr. Brookes from dying
poor about four years after. The
list of members of this Club is a
brilliant one, and is graced by the
names of Sir Joshua Reynolds,
Burke, Chxrrick, Hume, Horace Wal-
pole, Gibbon, Sheridan, and Wilber-
force. Tickell, in 'Lines from tho
Hon. Charles Fox to tin Bon. John
Townsheiid, cruising,' thus invites
Townshend to share in the pleasanl
dissipations of the Club:—
d a, t-> Brookes*! thence thy footsteps
bond.
What gratulatlons thy approach attend I
■ llbbon tap bia box— auspicious
menl and et ii 1 ombme.
See Beauclerk'a cheek, a t jmk'' "i n 1 mrpriar,
And ri i>ii- 1 -ii 1 1 > gives what crnel health di n
Important Townihend ! what can thee with-
stand }
'I'h" lingering black lull lags in Boothb
band,
Even I iii" sentimental sigh ;
Ani Smith, without an oath, suspends the
die.'
Endless wou'd he the record of
memorable sayings and doings that
gather around this Club, if we had
room to indulge in anything like an
enumeration, lb re is al leas! an
epigram of Sheridan's, whose gen-
tlemanly friend, the Prince "I Wales,
was an habitud of I '.1 Whit-
bo ad, the great brewer, wa com-
plaining al the club of the conduct
of ministers in levying a war-tax on
m, ilt, and he hid 1 ciliated the sym-
pathy of the entire company. Sheri-
dan attempted ooni olatios by in-
diting upon tho bach of a letter,
Anecdote and Gossip about Clubs.
467
which he handed to Whitbread, the
following lines : —
'They've raised the price of table drink;
What is the reason, do you think ?
The tax on malt 's the cause, I hear, —
But what has malt to do with beer?'
Fox, whether at Brookes's or else-
where, was a desperate gamester;
and Lord Tankerville assured Mr.
Rogers that Fox once played cards
with Fitzpatrick at Brookes's from
ten o'clock at night till near six
o'clock the next afternoon, a waiter
standing by to tell them ' whose deal
it was,' they being too sleepy to
know. Fox once won about eight
thousand pounds, and one of his
bond- creditors, who soon heard of
his good luck, presented himself and
asked for payment. ' Impossible,
sir,' replied Fox ; ' I must first dis-
charge my debts of honour.' The
bond-creditor remonstrated. ' "Well,
sir, give me your bond.' It was de-
livered to Fox, who tore it in pieces
and threw them into the fire. ' Now,
sir,' said Fox, ' my debt to you is a
debt of honour,' and immediately
paid him.
The manoeuvre by which Sheri-
dan, in collusion with the Prince of
Wales, was, after being black-balled
by George Selwyn and Lord Bess-
borough, at length admitted of
Brookes's, is a little history, of which
one version or other — for details vary
and are hard to fix — is known to
most people. Equally familiar, and
equally varying in details, is the
story of the admission of ' Fighting
Fitzgerald ;' but this story has lately
been cruelly questioned by the scep-
tics of the ' Athena3um.' According
to the received legend, ' Admiral
Keith Stewart proposed Fitzgerald
as a member of Brookes's Club, be-
cause he knew such a candidate
would not be elected. All the balls
in the ballot-box proved to be black ;
but Admiral Stewart is represented
as stooping to a falsehood through
fear of the great bully and duellist,
and sending him a message that, as
there was one black ball against
him, he was not elected. Fitzgerald
affected to suppose that an error
had occurred, and refused to believe
otherwise, when successive messages
reached him that two, and, finally,
a totality of black balls had rejected
his candidateship. Fitzgerald, prince
of ruffians, rushed into the club-
room, asked each gentleman there if
he had voted against him, and we
[' Athemeum,' March 3, 1866] are
required to believe that some of the
noblest men in the land told a lie,
and answered "No!" out of fear
of a man whom, on taking pos-
session of a seat as if he were a
member, they treated with the
greatest contempt, and against whose
future attempts to enter they pro-
vided stringent means ! The whole
story is incredible.'
Arthur's Club, established more
than a century since, is another of
kindred character. It was located
in St. James's Street, and named
after 'Mr. Arthur, the master of
White's Chocolate-House in the
same street.' He died in 1761, and
the establishment passed into the
hands of Mr. Mackreth, who had
married Arthur's only child. Mack-
reth had the honour of representing
Castle Rising in parliament, and
afterwards achieved the distinction
of knighthood. White's Club, ori-
ginally established as White's Choco-
late-House, on the west side of St.
James's Street, dates from 1698, and
in 1733 was kept by Mr. Arthur,
mentioned above. On the 28th of
April of this year the house was
consumed by fire, when young Ar-
thur's wife distinguished herself by
leaping out of a second-floor window
upon a feather bed, without sustain-
ing material injury. Hogarth bor-
rowed the idea of this fire to give
eclat to some of the plates of his
' Rake's Progress.' White's enjoyed
rather an evil reputation. Early in
its history dashing highwaymen had
there sipped their chocolate or
thrown their main, before proceed-
ing to exercise the more technical
branch of their profession on Bag-
shot Heath. And later, when from
an open chocolate-house it had be-
come a club-house, it was notorious
for its excessive indulgence in the
most reckless play. ' I have heard,'
says Swift, 'that the late Earl of
Oxford, in the time of his ministry,
never passed by White's Chocolate-
House (the common rendezvous of
infamous sharpers and noble cullies)
2 h 2
168
Anecdote and Gossip about Clubs.
without bestowing a curse upon that
famous Academy as the bane of half
the English nobility.'
■ Colley Cibber,' to quote Davies's
'life of Garrick,' ' had the honour
t.i be a member i»f the great Club at
White's; and bo, I Buppose, mudit
any other man who wore good clothes
and pud his money whon he lost it.
But on what terms did Cibber live
■with this Bociety? Why, he feasted
most sumptuously, as I have heard
his friend victor Bay, with an air of
triumphant exultation, with Mr.
Arthur and his wife, and gave a
trifle for bis dinner. After he had
dined, when the club-room door was
opened, and the Laureate was in-
troduced, he was saluted with loud
and joyous acclamations of "0 King
Cole! Come in, King Cole!" and
•■ Welcome, welcome, King Colley!"
And this kind of gratulation, Mr.
Victor thought, was very gracious
and very honourable.'
Bets were made at White's on the
most trivial or the most momentous
of events— which out of two ladies
would first present her hushand
with an heir, or leave him a widow, ir,
and upon the contingency of the
said widower marrying again.
• One of the youth at White's,'
Walpole informs Mann, 'has com-
mitted a murder, and intends to
repeat it. lie betted i wo/, that a
man could live twelve hours under
water; hind a desperate fellow,
sunk him in a ship, by way of expe-
riment, and both ship and man have
Another man
and ship are to be tri( d for their
lives, instead of Mr. Blake, the as-
sassin.'
Walpole found at White's a very
; irkable entry in their wagi r-
k, which is still preserved. ' Lord
intford r John Bland
aty guineas thai Nash outlives
Cibber.' ' Qow odd/ Bays Wal]
' thatthesotwoold ci . selected
for thi ir antiquitic , should live to
see both th' ir wag< rers put an end
to their own 1 1 v< : I ber is within
a i i of eighty-four, still
, !;. , airl Cl( ar, and WelL I told
him l was glad to n e him look so
L " Faith," .-aid he, "it is wry
well that I look at all." ' A it
turned out, the bet would have I
in Mountford's favour. CilaVrdied
in 1757, while Nash lived till tho
\ear 1761.
A man dropped down at tho door
of White's: he was carried into tho
house. Was he dead or not? Tho
odds were immediately given and
taken for and against. It was pro-
posed to bleed him. Those who had
taken the "dds the man was dead
protested thai the use of a lancet
would affect the fairness of the bet.
Walpole gives some of these nar-
ratives a> good stories 'made on
White's.' A parson coming into the
Club on the morning of the 1 arth-
quake of 1750, and hearing bets laid
whether the shock was caused by an
earthquake or by blowing-up of
powder-mills, went away in horror,
protesting they were such an im-
pious set that he believed that if the
last trump were to sound they would
bel puppet-show against judgment.
But the Club is now, as, happily,
most modern institutions are, com-
paratively in the odour of sanctity.
'Boodle's Club, originally the
" Bavoir vivre," which,' Bays Mr.
Timbs, ' with Brookes'sand White's,
(onus a trio of nearly coeval date,
and each of which takes the present
name of its founder, is Nb.,a8, St.
James's street. In its early records
it was noted for its costly gaieties,
and the " Heroic Epistle to Sir Wil-
liam Chambers, 1773," commemo-
rate- ts epicurism:
••r, abut I Efature? Ring her changes round,
ll.r three ii.it notes an' water, plants, and
1 1 ng the i" a), j ill your i latter,
The tedious chime Is Btlll ground, plant*, and
water;
l .. h. 11 tome John Ms dull Inw ntion i
1 .. ' -. ,1 1: odl '« dinners or Alrnai
'I hrec uni outh legs "i mutton ahot k our •
'1 L : ■
'Boodle's is chiefly frequented by
country gentlemen, whose status
has been thus satirically insinuated
by b contemporary. " Ev< ry sir
John belongs to Boodle's, as you
may see, for when a waiter comes
into the room and Bays to some aged
student of the 'Morning Herald,'
'Sir John, your Bervanl is come/
. in ad is mechanically thrown
up in answer to the addr»
Captain Gronow relates that some
Anecdote and Gossip about Clubs.
469
gentlemen of both "White's and
Brookes's had on one occasion the
honour to dine with the Prince Re-
gent. Compassionating the mem-
bers of these clubs for the monotony
of their fare at dinner, Ins Royal
Highness summoned his cook, Wa-
tier, on the spot, to ask him if he
would take a house and organise a
dinner Club. Watier assented, and
hence the Club which bore his
name. Macao was played at Watier's
to a ruinous extent, and ' the Club,'
according to Mr. Raikes, 'did not
endure for twelve years altogether:
the pace was too quick to last ; it
died a natural death in 1819 from
the paralysed state of its members ;
the house was then taken by a set
of blacklegs, who instituted a com-
mon bank for gambling. To form
an idea of the ruin produced by this
short-lived establishment among
men whom I have so intimately
known, a cursory glance to the past
suggests a melancholy list, which
only forms a part of its deplorable
results. None of the dead reached
the average age of man.
' One evening at the Macao table,
when the play was very deep, Brum-
mell, having lost a considerable
stake, affected, in his farcical way,
a very tragic air, and cried out,
" Waiter, bring me a flat candlestick
and a pistol!" Upon which Bligh
(a notorious madman, and one of the
members of Watier's), who was sit-
ting opposite to him, calmly pro-
duced two loaded pistols from his
coat-pocket, which he placed on the
table, and said, " Mr. Brummell, if
you are really desirous to put a
period to your existence, I am ex-
tremely happy to offer you the
means, without troubling the waiter."
The effect upon those present may
easily be imagined, at finding them-
selves in the company of a known
madman who had loaded weapons
about him.'
Crockford's Club, also noted for
its devotion to play, was instituted
in 1827, in the house No. 20, on the
west side of St. James's Street.
Crockford had begun life with a
fish-basket, and ended with the
* most colossal fortune that was ever
made by play. He began,' accord-
ing to the ' Edinburgh Review/ ' by
taking Watier's old club-house, in
partnership with a man named
Taylor. They set up a hazard-
bank, and won a great deal of money,
but quarrelled and separated at the
end of the first year. Taylor con-
tinued where he was, had a bad
year, and failed. Crockford re-
moved to St. James's Street, had a
good year, and immediately set
about building the magnificent club-
house which bears his name. It
rose like a creation of Aladdin's
lamp, and the genii themselves could
hardly have surpassed the beauty of
the internal decoration, or furnished
a more accomplished maitre tflwtel
than Ude. To make the company
as select as possible, the establish-
ment was regularly organised as a
Club, and the election of members
vested in a committee. "Crock-
ford's" became the rage, and the
votaries of fashion, whether they
liked play or not, hastened to enrol
themselyes. The Duke of Welling-
ton was an original member, though
(unlike Blucher, who repeatedly lost
everything he had at play) the Great
Captain was never known to play
deep at any game but war or poli-
tics. Card-tables were regularly
placed, and whist was played occa-
sionally ; but the aim, end, and final
cause of the whole, was the hazard-
bank, at which the proprietor took
his nightly stand, prepared for all
comers. Le Wellington des Joueurs
lost 23,000?. at a sitting, beginning
at twelve at night and ending at
seven the following evening. He
and three other noblemen could not
have lost less, sooner or later, than
ioo,oooZ. apiece. Others lost in
proportion (or out of proportion) to
their means ; but we leave it to less-
occupied moralists and better cal-
culators to say how many ruined
families went to make Mr. Crockford
a millionaire, for a millionaire he
was in the English sense of the
term, after making the largest pos-
sible allowance for bad debts. A
vast sum, perhaps half a million,
was sometimes due to him ; but as
he won, all his debtors were able to
raise, and easy credit was the most
fatal of his lures. He retired in
1840, much as an Indian chief re-
tires from a hunting country when
•170
Artists' Notes from Choice Pictures.
there Is not gamo enough left for
his trilH).'
Tl Rook, Whom,AE a Oluh-
man, wo may have occasion again
to i. • . v. i accustomed to in -
qu< ■ ' -a in re play did
begin till late. Ee would often,
after going the round of the Clubs,
wind up with ' half an hour ' at
in ordi r tu avoid the
ni.L'lit air, against which he had been
cautioned by hie medical attendant,
he was accustomed not to leave the
gaming-house for Fulham, where
he r< -id. il, till about four or fivi
«sk in the morning. After
Crock ford's death, the Huh house
was Bold by hie executors for 2900'.,
held on lease, of which thirty-two
years were unexpired, Bubject to a
yearly rent of 1400'. It is said that
the decorations alone cost 94,000/.
The interior was redecorated in
1849. and "]>' aed for the Military,
Nival, and County Service Club.
hut was closed again in 1851. It
has i>. en fox si viral years a dining-
house— the ' Wellington.'
ARTISTS' NOTES FROM CHOICE PICTURES.
Dtrttita.
IX the Catalogue of the Shecp-
slianks Collection this picture
is entitled 'Florizel and Perdita.'
But Leslie himself called it simply
' Perdita '—nothing more: and the
painter may be supp » rj to have
known the purpose of his picture
better than the catalogue-maker. I,
for one, should certainly leave the
matter to him in every case. In the
tance the catalogue-
maker's alteration is assuredly not
an improvement, but very much the
oppoc ite. Perdita is not merely the
i figure of the composition
DUt the whole interest of it is 01 n-
tred on her. The cynosure of
bbourin she is yel under
1 p linter has set liim-
to shadow forth the two ph
of her existence —the visible sun-
blancc, the veiled reality. Beeming
hut a shepherd's, she is truly a
Icing's daugl
• • v. r
IUn on the gwn-sward : nothing |]
■ mi
'.lug greater than her?/ If;
'.r ttils j«l 1
:tun : but so is
Polixenee and Ca-
mil! the (lowers
are there ; \ ry would be in-
thout them It , Per-
the picture, and
paint* r knew \. irng
when be entitled it ' Perdita.'
Bul t! m -maker ba :
Leslie a further involuntary injus-
tice, and is likely to mislead the
visitor, by quoting, as the motive of
the painting, the lines —
' ! Proserpina,
>\v, that frighted, thou letf>( f.ill
From Dis's waggon ....
.... th.-sc I lack.
To make yon garlande of j and, my sweet friend,
To strew him o'er 'and o'er.'
' Winter's TaU: Act IV., Scene 3.
Looking at the arrangement of
the picture and the action of the
several personages, and especially
of Perdita, the spi ctator who
only tin se lines in the catalogue to
guide him, must have a wondrously
keen perception if he could discern
the appropriateness of the painter's
treatment of his subject, OT appre-
ciate the subtler touches of his
genius. The passage which Leslie
had in his mind, and that which be
quoted for the Academy Catalog
occurs earlier in these, lie, and R
to an ant. <■, ,\ v u\ circumstance, and
quite another turn of thought : it is
that where, welcoming the gm
she presents them With (lowers —
she is holding the marigold between
her fingers her mind the while
running into dreamy musings:—
■II. re's flowers tor JOB ;
n t larender, mints, savory, marjoram ;
; i tint p--> t'. bed with titt -un,
And "in. bun rises weeping : thi ran
i ii'- rammer, and, I think, thi y
i are v. ry welcome,'
Pictures of the order of that now
before us may l>e arranged under
tt'.l~/- J Y.OA-r.4S Sc
■>oin the Paipting by C. R. Leslie.]
PERDITA.
[See " Artists' Notes from Choice Pictures.
Artists' Notes from Choice Pictures.
471
two broad divisions : those in which
the painter invents his story ; and
those in which he derives it from
the pages of the poet or novelist.
Hogarth or Wilkie may stand as the
type of the painters who invent,
Leslie of those who borrow their
topics. _ It is not often that an artist
adopts in differently either method.
Mu tread y has, however, done so,
and done so successfully. Scarcely
an instance, on the other hand, can
be cited where Leslie has not chosen
his text from some famous writer.
Even pictures like his ' May Day in
the reign of Elizabeth,' or the
' Fairlop Fair,' would hardly on ex-
amination be pronounced excep-
tions. That which looks most
strictly an original subject, ' Who
can this be from?' (No. 112 in the
Sheepshanks Collection) has so
much the air of a passage from an
essayist that on seeing it you invo-
luntarily try to recollect the sug-
gestion in the 'Tatler' or 'Spec-
tator.'
This practice of borrowing the in-
cident of a picture has sometimes
been regarded as the result of de-
ficiency of imagination or want of
originality, and as stamping the
work therefore with a mark of infe-
riority. There can be no doubt that
a certain native impulse or inventive
talent is required in order to devise
an original theme for a picture, and
that the same talent is not called
into exercise when a subject is taken
ready made from a book. If the
subject so taken is described in de-
tail and followed implicitly there
may indeed be little more invention
required in representing it than in a
piece of" mechanical copying. But
this is not the procedure of the true
artist. He goes to his author for
suggestion rather than for informa-
tion, and embodies in form and
colour just those fugitive hints
which to the ordinary reader convey
the least definite impression.
And if this latter kind of painting
should on analysis be found to fall
short in some ujeasure in its claims
on the imaginative faculty as com-
pared with the former, it must be
admitted that it makes greater de-
mands on the artist's acquired know-
ledge and tact. The spectator, if
the subject be taken from a familiar
passage in some favourite author,
has a notion of his own respecting
it, which he by no means wishes to
undo, and is not very ready to
exchange for another's. If the
painter's conception accords with
that he has formed, well : the
painter is a man of taste and shall
have his verdict. If not, the painter
— however great he may be in other
works — has blundered now. This is
not the Jew that Shakspeare drew.
Tennj son could never have dreamed
of such a Mariana. Mulready's fine
lady is not the homely Deborah of
Goldsmith's 'Vicar;' and so on
through the whole cycle of memories.
But whatever be the exact degree
of merit assignable to the respective
classes of productions, we must be
cautious in denying the possession
of original power to either. Else we
might find ourselves landed on very
untenable ground. Even the very
play from which Leslie has drawn
the inspiration for the picture before
lis would have to be deposed from
its acknowledged rank ; for Shak-
speare, in ' The Winter's Tale,' has
followed pretty closely the plot of
Bobert Greene's forgotten novel
' Bandosto.' And did not Tennyson
find both title and suggestion of his
' Moated Grange,' and catch its
mournful tone, from the famous
passage in ' Measure for Measure/
where our great dramatist tells that
' at the moated grange resides the
dejected Mariana?'
In truth nearly all depends on
how the purpose is effected; in
other words, on the genius of the
artist. The illustration of the idea
of a great poet by a man of mediocre
ability is a thing not to be endured. A
living embodiment of the same idea
by a man of congenial mind adds a
new value to it. And it is the in-
trinsic quality of Leslie's genius
that he always seizes the inner
spirit, and renders palpable the
special flavour and subtlest essence
of his author's conception. This,
and his clear, keen appreciation of
character, are the distinctive mental
qualities of his works. His range
of perception was limited. He could
not grasp the sublime ; he had no
sympathy with the farcical. But no
472
Artitilx' Note$finm Choice Pictures.
man had a truer sense of quiet
humour, none a mora hearty love
of whatever wai gentle and gene-
ions and beantifal. And within
his limits his sympathies were suf-
ficiently rjomprahensive. Hia tastes
wero mora literary than is common
among artists. He read and illus-
trated with equal geniality tho
works of Shakspean and Moliere,
of Fielding and Cervantes, Smollett
and Qoldamith, of Addison and
Sterne. And if you bad not his
delightful 'Autobiography' to as-
Bure you of the fact, yon could have
little doubt, after even a cursory
examination of his pictures, that he
had read ami enjoyed the authors
be illustrated, and did not merely
turn over their pages to find sub-
jects for his pencil. This it was
that made him, what all who have
really studied bis pictures, along
With those of his fellow- workers in
tho same line, will readily allow
him to be, the greatesl illustrative
painter of the English School.
For tho realization of a certain
range of Shaksperian imaginings his
pencil was eminently fitted. With
humour he had polish. His &
of beauty was innate and his taste
]> rfi Ct In till he touched are I
genuine Pa lingan I finished
grace. He knew perfectly how to
hleiid poetry With reality.
Anions the most marvellous of
even Sbakspeare'a wonderful crea-
tions are his female characters.
Numerous as they are each has a
distinct individuality ; each is true
to oature, or what we f« el to be
possible in nature ; and each is the
tj pe Of B No writer has eon-
oeived so wide a variety, each in
bet WWy an almost faultless ex-
ample 6f the union of excellence
in mind and person. And of all of
i Burely Perdita is one of the
loveliest Not much is bo d Of her,
but nothing she does and not a
ible that she utters is out of
k< i ping with her posil ion, or con-
tradicts the simplicity and purity of
her nature. i... n i stranger pro-
• ret sight ' the ran I
of nil WOBM ti ;'
'II li, I tliink,
1 bat e'er the hi I ;ght on.'
Whilst tho enraptured Florizel de-
clan
• Wh.it.Vr you do
Still beaten what ki doue. When yon tpttk,
IM ii.i\ a you 'l" ii ever ....
.... When yon .1.. dance, I wish yon
\ wei •■ o' ii m. tint you tiM^in ever do
Nothing bat that.'
It was no light task Leslio under-
took in giving visible form to so
( xquisite B creature ; and he was
evidently conscious of the difficulty,
and put forth all his powers, lie
lias painted many beautiful women,
hut this is the loveliest of all Even
our artist, who is so skilful in ren-
dering female beauty, has not ex-
pressed fully her exquisite grace and
delicacy. Yet L< she, whilst he has
endowed her with tint rarest love-
liness, has preserved her proper
personality. She is tho Perdita of
Shakspeare, as rich in worth as
beauty. Sweet as is the expression
of her countenance, there is yet an
air of tender sadness in it that tells
at once of the depth of her affection,
and the foreboding that some evil
is impending which must shortly
blight it. Leslie is not often pa-
thetic, hut there is true pathos In re.
Curiously enough, this sad expres-
sion in Perdita's lace is what seems
first to arrest the attention of most
casual observers, stand by the pic-
ture awhile on a public day, and
you will hear, as group after group
clusters round it. the inquiry' What
is the story ?' constantly rep ated,
and as constantly the ready answer,
' Disappointed Love.' But it needs
only a moment's steady gaze to ho
satisfied that there is no trace of
disappointment in that gentle face.
Tin re is deep feeling, sadness verg-
ing on tears, hut it is the sndiii iSSdue
to ft sense of Ul certainty and mys-
tery; to the feeling that the present
is hut a blissful dream from which
there must k ion he a dreary awakl n-
ing. 'lis hut just now she has said
• bat, -ir,
Vi.nr reeotntion oronol bold, when 'tli
Oppoo'd,ei ii iini-i be, by the power o* the Ung{
two oioei !«■ i i
Which then "ill apeak; tint yon must change
thi- pnrp
0i i ay
!.• I ii- look now for a moment at
Artists Notc8from Choice Pictures.
473
the picture as a picture. It is but
of small dimensions— Leslie seldom
employed a large canvas— low in
colour, quiet in tone ; altogether
temperate and singularly unobtru-
sive. Originally there was percep-
tible in it something of that 'chalki-
ness ' which was charged with jus-
tice against Leslie's later pictures,
and, from which those of his middle,
and on the whole, best, period were
not entirely free. But thirty years
have passed since it was painted,
and Time has touched it with a
gentle finger. In no respect has it
worsened by age, and in most it has
improved. The colour is mellower,
the contrast of light and shadow
somewhat more subdued, whilst the
flesh tints retain all their freshness
and purity, and have acquired by
comparison more warmth and bril-
liancy. Especially is it so with the
face of Perdita. Nothing can well
surpass the natural red and white
of her complexion, the pearly hue of
her neck, or the soft round truthful-
ness of the modelling. This clear
unsunned complexion, however,
whilst it adds to the delicacy and
refinement of her appearance, may
seem a little at variance with her
present condition as the shepherd's
daughter, one who has been used to
' milk her ewes and weep.' Yet
Leslie had the highest authority for
painting her skin so fair. Florizel
says to her —
' i take thy hand ; this hand
As soft as dove's down, and as white as it ;
Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow,
That's bolted by the northern blasts twice o'er.'
In point of execution the head and
arms of Perdita are worthy the
closest study of the young painter,
and mightcause the oldest to despair.
The colours are laid in broadly and
with a touch light and facile as
gossamer ; and though a practised
eye can see that the details have
been executed with a small pencil,
hardly a trace of the^pencil is any
more visible than there is in the
flesh-painting of Titian ; and the last
thing that any one would think of
in looking at it would be the manner
in which it was executed. There is
in truth consummate art, but it is
the art which conceals its opera-
tions.
Perdita is the centre of the pic-
ture by position as well as in virtue
of being queen of the feast. The
sun streams through the open lat-
tice full upon her. It is the festival
of the sheep-shearing, and she as its
queen is dressed up in ' borrow'd
flaunts,' blushing to see herself so
disguised, till Florizel assures her
that
' These your unusual weeds to each part of you
Do give a life: no shepherdess ; but Flora,
Peering in April's front.'
Of these unusual weeds, however,
Leslie has been chary in the display.
She has an amber- coloured silk
scarf fastened across her shoulders,
and her hair is garlanded with a
wreath of the little wild convolvu-
lus, but besides these there is none
of that finery with which she
* Poor lowly maid
Most goddess-like's prankt up.'
Her dress is of the plainest cut, and
of a blue so dark as hardly to be
distinguished from black. Leslie
disliked fantastic clothing ; but
some seems so evidently required
here that its absence can only be
explained by supposing that as the
least of two evils he preferred de-
parting from the strict letter of the
text to incurring the risk of marring
the tender grace and simplicity of
Perdita's countenance. But his re-
serve in regard to Perdita's costume
rendered necessary a like reserve with
reference to the other characters.
The Florizel of the 'Winter's Tale'
we know whilst 'obscured with a
swain's wearing,' was, like his mis-
tress, so transformed that, as she
tells him —
' But that our feasts
In every mess have foil}', and the feeders
Digest it with a custom, I should blush
To see you so attir'd; sworn, I think,
To show myself a glass.'
Yet he, in truth, in the picture
serves as a glass by the very plain-
ness of his attiring. Florizel, in-
deed, is not one of Leslie's most
successful personages. Like most
gentlemen lovers he is rather in-
sipid, or appears so to a looker-on.
But he is a necessity in the picture,
and he serves one good purpose
there : he is an excellent foil to
Perdita. He is plainly habited in a
•174
ArtUtt* Not cs from Cltoice Pictuns.
tunic of a deep red-brown, which
s« rvt s will to increase the brilliancy
of liis mistiTss's complexion.
Dorcas, who stands by Perdit&'e
right band the Catalogue Bays it is
Bfopsa, but tin's is a mistake, as tin-
writer would have Been if he bad
read the earlier part of Perdita's
address), is also of great value in
the picture as a contrast to her
mistress. She is not vulgar, for
Leslie never made the meanest
female vulgar; 1 >nt there is a ruddy
BUnbumt homeliness in her fece ami
t i pression strikingly opposed to the
grace and refinement of Perdita's.
ie seems to have found it a dif-
ficult face to paint, for there aro
traces of labour and even of repeti-
tion in it; and our artist appears to
have experienced a like difficulty in
copying it ; for as something of tho
loveliness of Perdiia has escaped in
the engraving, so some new refine-
ment and beauty have been given
to Dorcas.
The disguised king, Polizenes, and
his friend Oamillo, aro the least
satisfactory figures in the picture.
They are too much like the dis-
guised princes of the stage. Leslie
was evidently at a loss how to deal
with them. Happily they are not
obtrusive, but, oddly enough, the
whole of tho ' borrow '<1 Haunts ' are
their disguisings. Camillo's ver-
milion hat and cock's feather are
plainly masquerade properties.
The scene is the interior of the
shepherd's but A plain plastered
wall is the simple background. A
pair of shepherd's shears, the lea-
thern wallet, a shelf with a few
01 dinary household articles, an un-
painted thai table, are the fitting
accessories, a feebler painter would
have elaborated the furniture, and
given us minute imitations of all
sorts of nick-nackeries that could
possibly bo brought together in a
shepherd's shieling. Leslie was hap-
pily free from all such coxcombry.
He felt the poetry of the scene ho
was ] tainting, and makes us feel it.
His attention was fixed on sentiment
and character, and we, in looking at
the picture, no more think of the
room and its garnishings than we
should if we hail witnessed such a
;.e in actual life. Enough is it. as
Camillo declares, to gaze on that
fair face,
'And only live by gazing.'
H
475
A STEANGE COUKTSHIP.
E comes, you say, to-morrow ?'
' Yes ; he comes
With the next sun that smiles.— Shall you be glad ?'
' O, more than glad ! — My one, own brother ! He
I never saw ; so soon to take his way
To far Ionia. — And his tutor, too,
I think you said, comes with him ? Eead, read all ;
Dear governess, the letter is to you.'
' I pass, dear Laura, a few flattering words
Your father writes — they praise me over-much ;
Sir John is ever kind, most kind to me,
Me, your poor governess. I pass those words ;
The rest runs thus : — " Pray let my children meet,
And be as much together as they will ;
It is not well that children of one house
Should be bred up at distance. Soon my son
Starts for the old Greek Isles, where he shall take
His little sister's picture in his mind ;
To live, a pleasant thought, in after years
When only they are left of all their house.
As for his tutor, a grave moody man,
As savage as a yet unmuzzled bear,
Show him, I pray, what courtesy you can,
The while my children romp beside the sea.
He has much learning : you well love old lore ;
Perhaps he may prove less niggard of his speech
Than my son still reports him" '
' How I wish
The horrid man would stay at Brasenose !'
' Nay, let us make the best we can of him.
A diamond sometimes shows but in the rough
A sorry gem at first.'
' How dull for you !
I and my brother playing on the beach,
My poor old aunt for ever wheeled about,
And you no one to talk to but this bear.'
' A little discipline may do me good.
You know you spoil me all, till I forget —
Almost, not quite, — that I am but a stray,
A weed on this great ocean of the world
Set floating early, tangled in the drift
That bears me on, close clinging here and there,
Where'er I find a gentle holding, dear : —
A little staff, like Laura, is enough
For me to cling to.'
Saying which, her arms
She wound about the light form of the girl,
And sealed a silent, life-long bond of love.
4.76 A Strange Courtship.
There stands an old grey castle by tlio sea
Perched on a chalk-cliff hill, where tomarfok trees
Wave to the wind, showing the bright waves through
Their rosy stems, — like youthful fingers hold.
Hi fore the sun,— to sen • n the fairer face
Of nature blooming amid flower-bed lawns
Thai lie within the decked old court and keep.
It is a place for spring-time, when the halls
Of amber-flowered japonica drop down
The ruined wall, like orbs from sceptred hands.
It is a spot for lovers, and yet more
For those denied of love. The place is rich
With many memories of our English land :
The lone may pause up >n its antique ground
And muse of battles, kings, and ' dusty death.'
Day after day, in arhouragc so rich,
W< ek after week, and month on rolling month,
The woman-teacher and all-learned man
Took counse' of the waters, rocks, and skit s.
And some Blight sparring, too, Of wits was theirs —
A salt that savoured mucb the too stale bread.
So duly served, of every-day discourse.
One eve, when they were resting 'mid the bowers,
Lo ikinfr ahmad up >n the motley- crowd,
Some bitter words of woman-hating Bpleen
Broke from the man. To which she calm replied:
' We are, I think, sir, what you make of us.'
' Must we, then, answer for your every freak
Of fashion? Do we trick you out, now this
Now thai way; with B Btiffeued rohe to-day,
To-morrow with a garment limp as nets
Son car. less fisher-boy drags through the brine!
.\ simile thai holds in more than thai ;
For all your earmentS are but meshes tine
To catch unwary '
' Fishes ? They're cunning, too ;
But over busy in their own high way.
The sun that breaks upon their glittering scales
Perchance may dazzle them. For our poor robes,
Moel women thai I know makesweel appeal
Into the lords who rule them in their homes.
The answer is: "Still wear what others wear;
Make nol yourself a mock for gaping eyes.''
This '■ do a i others do," so lightly said,
Tia this which mars us all. It m ems to mo
Women are leas like (locks of sheep than men.'
* You're complimentary.'
' I'm true, I hope:
That truth is sharp, pray lay not to my charge.'
'Would yon could all be true in higher things 1'
'Why, then- again, yon cavil without causa
Give D| the chanco: th- D i 6 what we may bo.'
A Strange Courtship. 477
' Of course ; permit you to go lecturing forth
To grinning students.'
' Not so ; lecture us
The rather. Give us of your wealth of mind:
Teach us in gentleness, and we will learn,
And bless the hand that led ns gently up
The weary steep we cannot climb alone.'
' You're gentle now. You have as many moods
As yonder deep. Mark how it surges up,
Then breaks in foam-wreaths on the enamoured shore
That draws it, sparkling, to his wide embrace!
The very sands seem all a-glow with life !
The changefulness of ocean— is't not sweet ?'
' Sweet as t-he constant face of heaven, that looks
Upon the sea, as mother on her child,
And, seeing her own image in its face,
Feels keenly it is hers. See ! bending, breaks
The sky in smiles the sea gives back again.
Mark where the clouds glide floating far away,
Like angry passions from a child's first kiss !'
' You're fond of children ?'
' Yes ; but knew it not
Till I knew Laura. Do you love them too ?'
' Not I Yes, Laura ; just as I should love
A little sister, had I one.'
' You are '
' Alone in all this bitter, biting world.'
' Not now— not now ! Not since you came to us.
I think that Laura loves yon; for I note
That while the child plays busy on the shore,
And gives her idle brother tasks to do,
She often lifts her face to where you brood,
So sorrowfully musing. AVhen you chance
To smile upon her, she breaks out in smiles,
As though a dearer brother were in you
Than nature gave her in the youth you teach
To be the pride and honour of his house.'
' That is no sign of love. You do as much
Yourself, who hate me and my bearish ways.
If I but langh, you catch the simple trick
Of giving back my mood. A lunatic
Is treated thus, one dare not differ from
Lest he should seize us in his sudden arms
And leap with us a crag into the sea !
If I am black in melancholy, then
You grow as miserably like myself
As my twin-spirit. "lis a sign of hate.'
' Most grieved am I that so you should mistake
An honest wish to see you more at ease.
If I knew how ' ,
' Then smile when I am sad.'
' I cannot.'
-17fi A Strange Courtship.
'When I inn in 006397 mood,
I pray you look B little sullen on mo.'
' I cannot, for my life] Your smiles infect
The happy world about you. Dancing lights
Play all about the Bowers, till they stir
Their petals and grow winged with innocent joy.
The airy BOOpe Of nature makes tlio most
« if that most seldom gladness, as tho skies
Bend to a bow of beauty after storm.'
' I shall be better hence. I will go hack, —
Not to my home; 1 have none: hack to college,
And take a fellowship in place of Wife.'
'A wife, though hut a shrew, would help you most.
Hard men have done their host to harden you.'
'Am I so hard?'
' Hard to yourself, I mean.'
' Not hard to you ?'
1 1 think not of myself:
I, too, am used to cuffs and huffefings —
Or was, at least, until I sheltered here.
All love me here '
' Including lteginald?'
' I hope to make him friend to mo, as well
As his young sister and the good Sir John.'
' And nothing more ?'
' I understand you not.'
'I ma] ':i rude: but— might it not ho well
To cultivate a Bofter feeling still?
\ baronel is not amiss, though poor.'
' I should he angry. Yet I can hut smilo
To think in all this time how little way
I must have made in your esteem. Were thi re
Bui one man in the world, and marriage meant
For i ne, love, safety, honour, and - a home,
l could not owe them to my master's son.
Win ee h< art so noble to believe me truo
ith to myself and him? What though 1 loved
Him, as 1 could love some far other man
1 ne'er have set n -perchance may neve r see —
What warrant could I give that all my love-
W( i show ■- a bribe— to win a pi
nev( r m< ant for mo? What I m?
A poor return for such a warm n gard
A. d me hi re a house-child in his homo.'
' You, t old like him well, if things were other V
' He seems a youth of prom • in that
Which . i i W( II learru d,
But somewhat cold, I think. Ho does not I
A Strange Courtship. 479
His sister Laura as she should be loved.
Impatient is ho ever when the child
Entreats him to some pastime at her hand —
You never do so— never !'
' True ; I like
The child : one must love something '
' Good or bad,
It not much matters which. All the great joy
Of love is iu the giving '
' There you miss
The truth ! All my love given is nothing ; — less :
I must have your love— have it now — have all,
Given up to me in bond to have and hold !
Give — give it me! Nay, do not rise, in doubt
If I am sane or mad. Your love I'll have,
Ay, though I die for it!'
' A merry jest.
I fain would smile at it.'
'It is no jest;
'Tis fateful, fearful earnest. I'll have love —
Your love — its full assurance, given as free
As the free winds that kiss that rosing cheek
Which sets my wild heart throbbing with a hope.
Tell me it is the rose -hue of the west
That comes to say my life's sun is not dead
Though night and darkness draw upon the world !
Before I slip my secret to the winds
That round you cannot blow and hold deceit,
Answer me — here at once — with all your soul,
My Marian, do you love me ?'
'Hold, a little;
My eyes are dim. You're sudden. I am weak.
Is it the sun between the tamarisk boughs—
Or see I but the waving of the stems.
A bird seems fluttering in my breast. My heart
Beats as it never beat— will ne'er beat more
If now you should forsake me.'
' Call me yours,
And trust your sweet head on my guardian breast.'
' My friend— nay more — my love, for life — for death,
And oh, beyond— for ever and for ever!'
'Your Keginald.'
' My Beginald ?'
' Your own ;
The son of good Sir John. Pardon the plot —
Pardon, for love's sweet sake !'
• It was not well.'
' It was most shameful — hateful. I could curse
Myself for putting such a cheat on you.
Yet, this believe : whatever be my sin
•480 A 8tnmge Gmrtskip.
In changing places thus with yonder <lo!t,
Twas lesa my Bcbeme than mj good father's plan
To biud you to as, t-pite of your sweet Belt'
' I Bee it all. Yon did it but to make
M\ h.art and conscience light. My pardon, llien;
As full as I can speak it. Nay, my cheek-
Well, -take it from my lips, then: they arc yours.'
El.KANOKA L. HEBVJ V.
tf*
(iordin I bom«
MV ESCAPK from HXDBOPATHY.
till >!■.! \ .
LONDON SOCIETY.
JUNE, 1867.
MY ESCAPE FROM HYDROPATHY;
or, eimijat (Co.u matzx oitr for mc.
i y |.i i
til
WHEN our troubles are such as little right to seek, nnrl still less to
we could by no means have expect, much sympathy. The writer
averted or avoided, kind friends of the few following pages accord-
sometimes feel for us; but when we ingly looks not for one word of pity,
suffer for our own foily we have not a sympathizing thought from
VOL. XI. — NO. LXVI. 2 I
182
My E$cap< from Hydropathy; or t
those who read them, for he freely
admits his to have been the latter
, be having delil Bub-
mitt ■ >orge that
him so 6
By do means out of health, yet
rdone w ith study Borne few y< are
back, l resolvi d to put my b
y. ;in 1 to combine a little change
■ with a short but thorough
holiday. The question was, Whi-
ther should I b itake myself? It
3 the depth of winter; the very
■ii when of all othi re there is
iiu- place like home, I e eaeide
would be dreary. For amusement
there would of course be nothing
like London; but then I wanted
freshening, and I had my doubts
whether the atmosphere of town
was the best for that purpose. I
was a town bird myself, and ha 1 a
notion that country air would be
the tiling for me; but just fancy a
ring in a . or at a
i-house in a meadow, at such a
time of year !
In the midst of my difficulty a
nd called.
• l have it.' said he. ' Eave yon
h en to ?'
'No, I have not,' was my reply;
• but tb old-water i
] ut nt , is it not '.•''
■ l >:i, r 'i mind that 5
are not obligi d I patient
nnl< like. I go there some-
times when I want a i, simply
as a visitor, ami am taken u
It is a capital place. The
situation is most healthy. You faro
plainly but well, and the hout
generally full in winter. Take my
advice and try it, for it o ictly
what yon want -country air with-
out the attcndanl drawbacks which
much <ln el '
I di e led n > more urging. I
thanked my friend for his
ti m, and b< fore 1 was tw< nty-four
ilder I 1 up my
l and "ii my way
— .
One always font rod
of p ip o and i
All t I bad i
If, and of
i t l
i :
usual, quite unlike the n ality ; and
I eonfi is I felt mosl '> disap-
pointed as I drove through the well-
kepi gr 'im is up to the do >r of the
Mishnient.
No-dig nal to flrmary- looking build-
in:; was this, l>nt a hands itne and
imposing mansion whinh many a
nobleman might be p ird med covet-
ing. I alighti d, an I as I enl
the spacious hall r< seiv< d a hi artj
welcome from the hydropathic host,
who concluded his salutations by
expressing his conviction thai a few
weeks of the treatment would re-
move the pymptom8 from which I
was Buffering. This was probably
a cut anil-ilr ed speeoh wherewith
every fresh patient was gre< ted, by
way of inspiring confidence; but
having no wish to be regarded as
an invalid, or 'treated' with ©old
water, I deemed it well to set the
worthy doctor rigid at once, and
told him i thought be must 1
mi-taken me for some one else, as I
had come merely as a visitor, and
Bhould not trouble him at present
to prescribe for me.
'Oh, I beg your pardon,' r. plied
he, 'you are Mr. >, who wrote
to me from ; I remember now-
all about it. How is Mr. - — ?'
alluding to my friend who had
amended my coming to the
place.
II iving been shown my room up-
stairs, a plainly hut comfortably-
furaisl i 1 ■ me, the win. low of which
Commanded a view which in sum-
mer inn- 1 have he* n e\ | lisite, I
was taken and intro luced as the
arrival to the inmates of the
i itablishment.
The patients numbered b tween
thirtj aul forty, of both sexes, of
divers ami of doubtful Bgi B, for the
■ pari bachelors and Bin
Of 1 me were invalids
and no i hut otic is io il
quite hale aid lc ally. I hail
lloWeVer, that all Were Ull'l
the treatment, so that I should h
the solitary Io ,ke> IQ The |
vailing t >pii
■ the which was expa-
1 upon well-nigh incessantly
ami with more or ii > ontb
irding to the d
>li riv< i. Tin re \\> •■ who,
What Cold Wetter did for me*
483
having pursued other systems with-
out avail, liar] wound up here as a
derniw ressort. Tiny had tried al-
lopathy and homoeopathy, and I
know not what other pathy, and
now hydropathy was taking its turn
— expected to accomplish the up-
hill work of undoing all the mis-
chief which preceding systems had
effected. And one or two had
already tried hydropathy elsewhere.
Past txperience had, it is true, not
been very encouraging, but then
they had heard there was a special
virtue in the water of , and
Dr. was such a clever man !
So judicious too ! He knew exactly
how to suit his treatment to the
strength of his patients. They
never felt so hopeful of recovery as
they did now; they only regretted
not having come to sooner.
With scarcely an exception, all
spoke in a similar strain, a feeling
of unbounded confidence in the
system they were at that moment
pursuing pervading the party. To
me, who never had been initiated
into the mysteries or the techni-
calities of hydropathy, the whole
process seemed unintelligible, and
as I sat and listened to the patients
descanting on the merits and effects
peculiar to the ' douche,' and the
' lamp,' and the ' packing,' I fairly
w 7 ondered what it all could mean.
I know not whether I felt the more
amazed or amused at the learned
and elaborate disquisitions upon pa-
thology, which some of these ama-
teurs in physic entered into; and
certainly, to judge from the fami-
liarity with which medical terms
were quoted, and the readiness
wherewith the anatomical vocabu-
lary was appealed to, one might
have supposed some even of the
gentler portion of the company had
had the advantage of promenading
it at Guy's. In fact, I learnt more
about cutaneous action and reaction,
about circulation and respiration,
congestion and digestion, from sim-
ply listening to what passed than
I had ever succeeded in taking in
during my whole life before. I
made no secret of my ignorance, for
which no doubt I was much com-
miserated, especially by one of the
patients, a matronly lady who kindly
undertook to make me for the mo-
ment her pupil.
'You sec, sir,' she began, 'the
great advantage of the hydropathic
treatment is that it assists nature.'
' Indeed, ma'am. I presume when
nature needs assistance ?'
' Precisely. There is in nature a
great principle which physicians of
the old school failed to recognise,
the principle of self- restoration. By
that is meant the tendency in nature
to labour for its own cure, and that
is what hydropathy seeks, and seeks
so successfully to encourage and de-
velop.'
' I have heard of that property of
nature before which you refer to,
and I do so thoroughly believe in it
that I am convinced we should often
do much better did we leave her
alone to work a cure for herself.'
' Sometimes, I grant, that may be
so; but suppose nature labouring
to a disadvantage with enfeebled
organs, it may be unable to develop
those symptoms which are, in fact,
the safety-valves for the escape of
disease.'
' I dare say I am very stupid, but
it seems to me, in the absence of
symptoms, we ought not to concern
ourselves about disease.'
' You do not understand me quite.
Suppose there to be indications of a
disposition on the part of nature to
expel disease through the cuticle,
but only partially succeeding, do
you not think we should take a hint,
and seek to develop her external
action to the full ?'
I began to fear my learned in-
structress was getting far beyond
me ; however, I replied, ' Perhaps
so.'
'And in case nature should be
unwilling so to act at all, to originate
such action?'
' Well, I am not so sure about
that. I think we are going a little
too fast when we set about originat-
ing symptoms and suggesting to
Dame Nature a course which may
be far from her purpose.'
' So many, like yourself, have
thought, but the results in multi-
tudes of cases have proved the cor-
rectness of the theory, and one, I
may say, the chief aim of hydro-
pathy is to encourage such action —
2 I 2
481
I from llij<h-t>i ni hy ; or,
rnalj ns will tend to cx-
pel dia
• l should be afraid of it.'
' I 'ii. there 48 1 . to ftar in it.
It Lb the Bafesl of all Bystems ; and
most interesting is it to watch its
working either in one's own case or
in others', from the commencement
of its op< ration to tin i BE cting of
its crisis.'
■ i beg your pardon, 1 did not
quite catch thai word.'
ir; a crisis.'
'Then matters come to a crisis,
«1> they? ( 'i' what nature is thai
crisis, may I asi ''.'
• Why, it varies. Sometimes it
manifi Bte itself in an acute attack of
tin' patient's present complaint, or
■ iir former period, which,
it was Bupposi (1, hnl disappeared
] >ng ago : somi times in violent sick-
oess; fn quently in a cutaneous
eruption which lasts for several
, and occasionally a mild form
ty will ;ip]ii ar ; hut. iinli . d.
ilnrc is do 'I I irmining beforehand
v.h.it form the ei i-js i:i iy assuu
■ Wh it a dreadful state of appre-
ion the patienl must be in w
anticipating any such seizures!
Maj l , do ail pass through :
'No, 1 ill; but 1
exp rience it.
Now, 1 am < x | >< cting to pa j1 ro igb
this tage, ] ma \ say, duily, an I I
do hope I shall i ipappoi'ite I.
i have been quite longing tor an
ae e 'ft or other to con-
"^ in.- ctive working of
I 'ire in my ci
' And why is this termed a ci isis?'
■r it is the ci itical
I I n atm< nt. It is the turn
i • ant, which i
■ 'i.'
' But the cm nplainl might happen
turn the v. rong
d mmmat
ach a thing
' Whl thi r BUCh a II suit as you
BUggi M known, I can-
no! tell VOII . the (|]l-
! of the crisis, the tr< atim nt
illy at an < nd, an I
ht quits the establuhmi nt.'
' I should s iy it w.i tin n ij
'I perceive you are w n sceptical ;
hut 1 don't despair of se< ingyou y< t
a convert before leaving us, and per-
haps submitting to the tn atm< nt.'
• No, 1 think not. The proepi ot
of some terrible crisis, such as you
have ih scribed, would of itself deb r
me from meddling with hydropathy.'
' Pray don'1 allow anything I I
said to alarm you. Perhaps I have
unduly n presents il the formidable
n dure of the crisis. ]f is ly no
means Buch a dr< adful thing. Now
thai gentleman there i pointing to
i>iie of the pati( nts on a sofa c
by) has just passed through it, and
is going home to-morrow.'
It may lie w, II to state hero that
the individual referred to was the
picture of an invalid. Bis body was
bo thin that his clotbt-s seemed to
ii|"i!i him. His face was fear-
fully covered with blotches, as
though he hinl recently n
from tho Bmall-pox. What skin
there was was deadly pale,
gether his aspect was truly deplor-
able.
• He looks dreadfully ill, poor fel-
low/ I remarked.
• Do you think so? Why, that is
of our show ca . . Flydrop
lias done WOnd( ra for that
mill. I . limit tell you what a
change il has effi cted in him. When
lie first came In re he was quite of a
corpulent habit. His ch< eks \\< re
unnaturally full ami high-coloured,
and it was plain his wa aeed-
ing strong treatment Dr. paid
I e would soon alter all that, i
him time. Ami Mire eno
after praiseworthy )
two months, the welcome crisis su-
pervene |. He awoke up one morn-
with an infinity of boils.
I '< i- a fortnight or so he buI
jly, finding ease in no p
tion. But he i> n iw getting rid of
this inconvenii nee, and fn si n gain-
ing his In alth. I am sure Dr. -
rvefi gT( at en dil for the i
having wroughl such a change in
him that his friends will Ecat
• i b I can quite believe. At the
same time, I must tell you he is
aboul the la-t p; rson I Bhould l
thought of . i Bhow*patii nt ;
and I'M" my part, w< re i ;
Wind Cold Wafer did for me.
485
I would go and hide myself some-
where till I had regained some of
my good looks. Why, the man will
prove an antidote to hydropathy
wherever he exhibits himself.'
I was fortunate iii witnessing this
case, for, as it happened, no similar
one occurred, nor did any crisis
transpire, while I was at the esta-
blishment, at least, none came to my
knowledge ; but I was told such
effects were by no means iincommon,
and the simple view which I, as a
plain man, would have taken of such
a condition was, that by dint of con-
stant external and internal applica-
tion of water, the blood of the suf-
ferer had become so thoroughly
impoverished or diluted, that results
had followed exactly similar to those
that arise from a long course of poor
or insufficient diet.
To do them justice, the patients
appeared to go through the system
in right earnest. All seemed to per-
sist in it with a zeal worthy of the
best of causes. I detected no eva-
sion of the discipline, or departure
from the prescribed regimen. The
stated number of baths, and the
specified number of libations to be
taken in the day, were rigidly ad-
hered to, in spite of any amount of
inconvenience or disinclination.
The hours of the establishment
were early. The place was all astir
at six o'clock, soon after which hour
nearly all the inmates took their
first bath, and vain was it for any
light sleeper like myself to court
slumber after business had begun.
I could hear my neighbours over-
head, or alongside of me, hard at
their elaborate aquatic exercises
every morning. The same routine
of sounds was gone through day
after day. First would come the
pouring and splashing of water into
the various tin reservoirs, then a
slight pause, and one heard the un-
mistakable plunge in of the patient,
not un frequently accompanied by a
faint yell on encountering the first
shock of the cold element; then
came a distinct thud upon the floor,
the patient was out again; and
lastly, you heard the voices of pa-
tients and attendants in conversa-
tion while the former were being
rubbed down by the latter. The
process of dressing being completed,
a walk of half an hour or so was the
next thing, unless the elements posi-
tively forbad such a proceeding ; so
an interval would succeed, during
which the house was empty and
quiet until the clock struck eight,
when the patients rallied to the
breakfast room.
A walk before breakfast in the
depth of winter is a cheerless thing,
especially when that meal is at eight,
and the sun does not rise much be-
fore that hour. Still, although some
mornings it was almost dark, even
ladies turned out to take their early
airing in the gloom, and snatch, it
was hoped, the pearl of health from
Nature while she lay but half awake.
The result, however, of this preface
to the day was beyond all question :
it made itself evident at the break-
fast table in the unmistakable avidity
— not to use a stronger word — where-
with all met their meal whose appe-
tites had had the benefit of ventila-
tion. The fare was plain, but good.
You had the choice of two beverages
— tea or cocoa, coffee being a for-
bidden thing ; choice of two breads
also — white or brown — both of yes-
terday's baking, if not the day's be-
fore ; you might, besides, have cold
meat or eggs ; both if you liked, for
there was, as far as I could see, no
restriction laid upon the patients as
to the amount to be taken in. The
facility with which the well-covered
table was relieved of its morning
burden fairly amazed me ; and as I
found my own power of appropria-
tion sadly inferior to that of my fel-
low-breakfasters, I confess I longed
to pick up somewhat of this hydro-
pathic hunger.
How is it? thought T; these folks
are invalids, while I am supposed to
be in health; still they can eat a
hearty meal at eight o'clock, and I
can't!
Truth to tell, I felt envious of
their appetite ; my feelings probably
resembling those of a young lady in
a ball-room who, having never
learnt to dance, is fain to be content
with looking on at her companions
tfhile they trip it on the light fan-
tastic toe.
So far all was very well. Thus
much of the system was highly be-
186
My Eieapejrom Hydropathy ; or,
Ida,]. Ti ■ v, ry few, I fee]
in© 1. w bo would not find them-
selvi • gainers in the way of
ih if t h. y would but tal e to
j li^inj: and a n gular cold bath
through the y< ar, not omitting
i of a quick walk in the
fresh air till bn akfasl time. We
Bhould have I implaints of
is in the morning if this
were more generally re*
and many who suffer
from dyspepsia might, I believe,
thus wash off the first half of it in
their dressing-room, and blowaway
the other half outside. But, as it is,
m>. lie dine late, others rap late ; bed
ir the most part, not forsaken
moment ; there is an
rt to oram tho toilet into the
It st possible space of time and
folks hurry to the breakfast room
fresh from the land of dreams,
gh anything but fresh as n gards
physii al and digest] re ■ aergies ;
then they wonder that they are not
hungry for their morning meal.
Whi wondi r? The Btomach
is probably still contemplating the
tribute ol the night before, and is
just yet looking for another
windfall. Perha] 9, like its own r,
it, too, has boi H napping in the
t, and has hl't its work to si
.: morning ; and scarcely
tonishmi nl if t
is an indisposition to take in ano-
ther job while there is still a hi
one nil band. Too much can hardly,
then, be said in praise of that por-
tion of the hydi code which
knocks such habits on the head :
nri'l though I was a Bufferi r, as will
I • ii, from tho OOld
I pin rally, I will
lltti r a syllable in dispaz
• of the free-breakfast part of
• m.
An 1 1 .'its I found two
or tin. e of Dial spirit, with
whom I :
just
me from the ( Irian and
■ in addition to his med ils, had
brought away a more effectual,
though It as w. I mem< nto of
ape of
chronic rbeum >• r winch hu
ought a n in. ily.
With thi
feet health, ami win n free from pain
could take his ten <>r twelve miles
walk as well as any man. I >aw a
goo 1 (leal of him, an. I v.
tired <>f listening to ins Crimean
an. -I itl , hut we ehat'i i| mi uthi r
subjects besides the Russian war,
ami I think our convi rsation .
rally drifted into a discussion of the
hydropathic system.
' Have you been long at I
tablishment ?' 1 one da] asked him,
at the beginning of .air acquaint-
ance.
'I have nearly spent a month
here. I came, I think, thi
week in 1 tecember. 1
' And w hat do ymi think of the
treatment? Are you deriving any
benefit from it ?'
' Well, my gen< ral health is cer-
tainly improved; not that 1 was
much amiss before ; hut in a p i
way 1 fe. 1 invigorated. As regards
my rheumatis u, howev< p, winch
was the cause of my comii g lure, I
must confess to fueling somewhat of
di- ippointmi lit. l'ei haps my at-
tacks of i a::, are not ipu't.
quent as they U6< I to be; but w
the pain- do con e '"i. t 1 very
Lit as violent b w< re In fore,
how do yon like the place ? you
are not under the treatment, are
you r"
' No, I am not undergoing tlio
ire, as I scarcely ii It suffi-
tly out df sorts h> warrant my
subjecting myself to it. I a n, how-
evi r, pai ticipating so far in the
tem that I rise and take my cold
hath two hours earlier than 1 am in
the habit of doing. I am also hying
the ( \p riiin nt of a walk hi
breakfast, which is quite a novelty
to llle.'
1 Whit a pity to stop there I Take
my advice, and i >> in for a Ct)U]
the tr< at iin nt. \dc the doctor to
prescribe for yon I • be
me, and I am sure it will do you
good.'
' \o ; 1 think i nt. I
shall content myself with the change
of air, and of hours, and of diet, and
. hat that will do for me. I 'I
e thing I m dn ad fully,
and that is a gla - of wine or a drop
of beer; something i
during diuncr.'
Wliat Cold Water did for me.
487
' Ab ! I felt just the same. For
some days I was very good, and
tried hard to gulp down the cold
water, but it was no go, my stomach
wouldn't stand it, so I gave it up,
and have since consoled myself with
a substitute upstairs.'
' How do jou manage that?'
' Oh, very simply. I never leave
home, that is to say, without a tra-
velling-companion in the shape of a
portable canteen. It looks like a
large dressing-case, but it is capable
of carrying naif a dozen bottles of
wine. On coming down here I
brought my companion with me;
and really it is a most fortunate
thing I did so, for without a little
stimulant I find I cannot get on.'
' But does not drinking wine
rather interfere with the treatment?
I have always heard that it does.'
'Quite a mistake, I assure you,
quite a mistake. The fact is, under
hydropathy you need stimulants
more than at any other time, for it
has a lowering tendency. The doc-
tor, deluded man, supposes I drink
water; but, should he cure me, I
intend to tell him that I have had a
glass or two of wine every day.'
' Would he be much annoyed if
he knew it ?'
' Oh, I expect he would drop on
to me pretty sharply. He would say
I had been deceiving him, and we
should probably have a scene. I
wish to avoid this ; so when he re-
minds me to drink water at intervals
during the day, I say nothing, but
mentally I label his decanters "For
external application only." '
' Yo\i amuse me with your dodg-
ing of the doctor; but, I suppose,
in other matters you conform '{'
' Yes, rigidly. I take my three
baths daily; and though I brought
a lot of medicine with me, I flung
it all away, for fear I should be
tempted to violate the rule that pro-
hibits everything but hydropathic
remedies.'
' And are you one of the anxious
expectants of a crisis, may I ask ?'
'Not I. Mine, the doctor tells
me, is no case for crisis. The fact is,
such things only come on when the
blood is in a very bad state, or there
is a malignant disease of some sort
in the constitution. But tell me,
what have you heard about the
crisis?'
' Oh ! enough to terrify me from
having anything to do with hydro-
pathy.'
' What nonsense ! And has that
been the only thing to hinder you
from trying it ? You may depend
on it you would never have expe-
rienced a crisis, unless, indeed, there
is far more the matter with you than
I take there to be. But you have
never told me what brought you to
this place.'
' Why, you see, I read and write
a good deal, which confines me
mostly to the house. I have led a
sedentary life for some time now
without a break ; but latterly I be-
gan to feel I must shut up. I could
not sleep at nights, and my appe-
tite fell off completely; so I came
off here for change and perfect
rest.'
' Is that all? Why, yours is the
very case to be benefited by the
treatment. Do be prevailed upon
to try it. You'll lay in a stock of
health, and go home a new man.'
Thus my friend resumed his
pleading for hydropathy. Much
more passed upon the subject, he
arguing strongly in its favour, and
endeavouring to dissipate my pre-
judices, and I stoutly resisting his
entreaties that I should give it a
trial, till at length — will it be cre-
dited?— I gave in. In an evil mo-
ment I was persuaded to vote my-
self a patient, and go before the
doctor next morning.
Dr. had a stated time for
seeing patients after nine o'clock.
At the stated hour in I turned to
the consultation-room. A victim
had that moment come away. The
doctor motioned me to the chair but
just vacated— a chair in which some
hundreds, probably, had sat before
me— a chair which, could it but have
spoken, might have related many a
sad case of suffering. Some droll
tales, too, it might have told, it may
be, for no doubt hypochondriacs
had sat there also. Into that f-aiue
chair I dropped, the doctor assum-
ing his regular consultation look —
all gravity and mute attention —
while I explained my case.
' Doctor,' said I, ' I am going to
•188
Etcapefrom Hydropathy; or,
try a 001 itmenl n c
all.'
■ l think you are verj w ise. Save
you anything particular thai wants
atti tiding to '. Anything aboul the
in nol working weU ? Is your
I '.'
■ Well, I don't think there is
much v. rong with nic; l»ut I am
anxious t.> give hydropathy a trial,
they t.'i] me it bi raefita the
healthy ami the strong as well as
in\
• S ■, unquestionably, it doi s. Bui
would you just lit me feel your
pulse, and look at your tongue, for
we doctors frequently discover in-
dications <>i' innrl.nl action wl ( n all
is supposed to he going on well.
Indeed it was only yesterday I de-
tected symptoms of a latent disorder
in a gentleman who quite ridiculed
the notion of being oul of health— an
affection which was insidiously un-
dermining bis constitution, and
which, bad it been neglected, must
ultimately have assumed a fatal
form.'
I own I did not quite like this
style of talk. Thu thoughl of b ing
preyed upon by some oono I
i-' which you do not f( el is dis-
'e. /, too, might possibly
the victim of some hidden ma-
lady, to 1. • discover) d tin re and
then. I made no answer, but just
held my tongue in check till his
was quit t, w hen out I shot it to its
ntmost It ngth. 1 know not what
>. iw thereon, or what he gathered
from my throbbing vein ; bul he
answered with a physician's ' Bum!'
and asked me if my appetite was
i. I admitb d that it was at
fault
• I on n,t surprised,' said he, 'to
hen- i' i i mid have been bup-
it Ik ■ ii otherwise. Your
■ii is •evidently oul of order.
II' nee, too the Kit i Dights which you
complain of. Four pul te i-- lull and
sluggish; you are suffering from
lh re. inspin I man, he v,. q\ into
an • of my i
I ttiog I" . • i of
medical jargon, pla :ing me,
were, nndi i »wer-bath
while he pnlli d t ; • ati ing, an I
• d I lie ' ' pll\S|o-
.. til > Ii .:.i a ,:. I
at length emerged very little the
wiser tor the inrJiction. ' But, 1 added
he, ' 1 am happy to tell you, I can
discover no trace of anything like
organic disease aboul you. 1
J'h;s was consoling, and the relief
to me was great For to one liko
myself, unversed in medical ph raoo
ology, it seemed as if something
awful must result from such a com-
bination of verbal prodigies ; and
how it came to pass -unli bs on the
principle that one ailment combats
another that so formidable a train
of anatomical mechanism could all
be out of order and yel produce, I
may say, nothing, will remain a
mystery with me to the end.
' We'd, doctor, what do you re-
commend me to do?' said I, anxious
to come to something practical.
' 1 am writing some instructions
for you. Eere they are. Hang
them up on a hook you will si e
over your bed- room mantelpiece. In
the morning, fust thing, take a glass
of water— two if you like— then a
tepid hath, the temperature to bo
gradually reduced till quite cold.
Then walk till break fast-time.
Another half-pint of water towards
• n o'clock, followed by a lamp-
hath and another walk. Take about
a pint at four o'clock and a sitz-
bath after it. Let the cold *
lie applied to the hack of the in ck
and allowed to trickle down the
spine. Mind, a walk after every
hath. Keep that up till 1 E66 yOU
again in a few days' time. 1 shall
soon cure you.'
I departed with my watery pre-
scription, pr< pned to carry it out
to the very letter. I eonfei l
dreaded those unpalatable draughts,
hut they should go down with all
their tastelesBness, and not even my
friend the captain should induce me
to omit them, or touch a drop of
something stronger. An attendant,
One .lack Smart, was .-eh cled to put
me through my hydropathic « 1 1 ill.
II" was a capil d fellow m his way,
who had not f pent time yeai
tablishm< nl in vain, lh'
knew all about the treatim nt, and
has probably, by this time, set up
on lus own account. ( M the tv. I
preferred .lack infinitely to his
master, becauai he did not seek to
What Cold Water did for me.
489
mystify mo with scientific bosh.
His distortions of his master's terms
were sometimes most amusing. Ho
had a patient in the room below, he
informed me, a source of much
anxiety to him; and almost daily
was I wicked enough to inquire
what it was that ailed the gentleman
in order to elicit the same descrip-
tive answer — ' Conjecture of the
liver, sir, conjecture of the liver.'
His notions of the action of water on
the human frame were, to himself,
quite satisfactory, whilst to me they
were as unanswerable as they were
entertaining.
' I hope, sir, you drink plenty of
water,' said he one day, while rub-
bing mo down.
'Why, Smart?' said I.
' Because, sir, you needs it on ac-
count of all this here perspiration.
That's how 'tis, sir, as many of our
patients don't derive no good. The
bath drains off, like, what you drinks
in. But if so be as you takes the
bath only, and don't take in liquid
accordin', why, don't you see, sir,
'tis just like workin' the pump
when there aint no water in the
well ; and that's it as does the mis-
chief to the constitution. But by
keepin' up a good supply inside,
and workin' itoutcontinelly through
the pores of the skin, there's a con-
stant flowin' always kept a goin' as
draws off all them things the master
calls the acrid rumours.'
Far were it from me to dispute
this admirable theory. Why should
I, with no better to replace it by ?
He had others in abundance, equally
conclusive and amusing, to which,
by dint of strong effort, I was gene-
rally a smileless listener.
But few will care to study Smart
upon hydropathy ; so on I pass, to
specify a sample or two of the pro-
cesses to which I was subjected.
And of all the inventions for bring-
ing a man down commend me to
the lamp- bath. This, it will be
borne in mind, was to constitute my
midday operation. Accordingly, at
the hour named, acting under Jack
Smart's guidance, I proceeded to
unrobe. A kitchen chair — one with
a wooden seat — was ready to receive
me. I sat therein in wonderment
at what was coming; but as I be-
held my attendant deliberately place
a light upon the floor beneath me, 1
was just as well content that there
was something denser than cane
wicker-work between me and tho
flame. No sooner was I seated than
my hydropathic valet wrapped a
blanket round my quivering frame,
inclosing chair and light as he
folded it around me. He then ap-
plied a second in like manner, and
a third, taking care to leave no aper-
ture by which the cold air from
without might gain access to the
heated air within. There I sat,
enveloped to the chin, my head
alone emerging, Sphjnx-like, at the
vertex of the woollen pyramid. I
never before knew how simple a
thing it is to get warm, nay hot, in
the coldest winter's day ; but soon
I made the discovery that none
need shiver long who can command
a blanket or two, a farthing rush-
light, and a wooden chair.
I may have sat some fifteen
minutes, to me it seemed much
more, when I was led to feel that all
below my chin was gradually being
baked. At first the warmth was
pleasant, and I was led to think the
lamp-bath not a bad thing, after
all ; but the temperature rose, and
rapidly became oppressive. Mois-
ture oozed from every pore, then
it literally flowed, fumes of thick hot
vapour forced a passage through the
blankets, enveloping me in a
cloud of steam. I felt I could not
stand it any longer, and appealed to
Smart to set me free. He urged
me to submit a little longer, but
I said, ' No, not another moment.'
He said the bath was just beginning
to work beautifully; that 1 should
spoil its operation if I stopped just
then. I replied, 'I didn't care.
Take off these blankets instantly, or
I will rise and fling them from me.'
A slight movement on my part
convinced the man I was in earnest,
so he reluctantly complied. A word
or two of something like respectful
remonstrance at my impatience
escaped my well-meaning attendant
as he proceeded rapidly to uncover
me, bidding me at the same time
to lose not an instant on emerging
from my wrapping, but to plunge
forthwith into a cold bath that
490
M / Eteapefrom Hydropathy ; or,
awaited me in the cornt r. Quick
as thought I did bo I kipping and
Bmoking as I was, i hurriedly lay
■ a in the oold wau r r« gardlesa or
a! | \cd DOtiOQBOf the risk of
checking perspiration and bo forth.
But how n freshing was that
plunge ! How delicious the sensa-
tion of that instantaneous chill !
M\ Bufferings while under distilla-
tion were all forgotten in the luxury
that moment iry dip. Nay, the
relief was bo delightful that it inert'
tl an compensated for all my baking
in the chair, and 1 resolved to
through the ordeal more patiently
next time. But little nunc than a
ad was allowed me — two at
the vn-y outside; .lack Smart was
waiting with a rough bathing sheet,
ii. tn which be summoned me with-
out delay. Ami then he set to
rubbing me. What a famous rub-
l' r tint man was ! Had I been a
horse, what a coat he would have
given me ! He se< mi d to throw his
whole strength into this part of the
operation. As he rubbed in- pn aa <l,
or rather leant, against me; while I,
like John < iilpin's horse, ' who m
in that sort had bandied tx i a
re,' had hard work to hold my
ground against the ona ts of my
tilant ; till at length, l* ginning
himself to j ant under the effort
told me be thought that would do,
and 1 might re-attire. So . nd< d
lamp-bath, an appliance of
which l had beard the pati
talk BO much, and ol which hithl
I knew BO little The whole pro-
nsually lasted about three-
quarters of an hour, a period of
physical md one in
winch oota httlc was effected. The
;t of a • BUCfa hath
low< in.. ,soi chausting to the frame,
must he obvioua to the most ordi-
nary thinker. Two or three may
n with impunity, though
know d a strong man Bwoon
j undV r the third ; hut tin r.
m i \ 1 who can l» ar to
have their strength day after day
thus distill* I out of them without
giving way before iuoh treatment.
H i with mysi If. After my I
lamp-bath, l hit much refr< Bhed.
1 I a 1 I I
weight ; I felt lit.' ry«
where. In place of losing strength,
1 felt myself altogeth< r more elastic,
and my sensations generally Wi re
itisl ictory, that l in came en-
thusiastic in praise of the hath in
question. Alter, however, my
third, 1 think it was, l imagined
I had grown weaker. I i
from my seat anything but reno-
vated ; and after coming out of the
cold water, 1 felt more inclined to
go to bed than to take < ser-
cise. I tried hard to r> rsi
myself 'twas fancy. I thought to
walk it off, but it wouldn't do; the
walk I used to take with ease now
knocked me up, and I was fain to
bo satisfied with half the distance.
I told the doctor I was losing
strength. He did not Bay at once
the lamp-bath hid done it, but
tacitly he recognised the fact, for he
bade rue suspend them for the pre-
sent. I was to continue the morn-
ing and evening bath 'as before/
but at midday my attendant was
to 'pack' me until further orders.
I ought here to mention, in jus-
tice to the system, that the only
points in Which there was a symp-
tom of falling off were muscu-
lar energy and superfluous h
i, perhaps, will think these
quite sufficient to awaken appre-
hension ; but in other respects tl
was improvement I slept like a
top. My digestion had mended, for
my appetite approached the raven-
I sat down feeling what 1 had
so eagerly longed to feel hungry far
br< akfast, and my performance at
the table dnl high credit to the
treatment My fellow-patients af-
firmed the} perceived imp]
ment in my looks - my complexion
was clearer, said they. It may I
been so. Neverth less, I was
w< aki r. ' You will soon n
your strength ' was the consoling
.!!:■■ I mi t with on all ai
1 hoped I Should
I have abstaii ich-
ing on thu patience of the reader
with a wearisome di acription of tho
sitz-bath, for then- is reall) nothing
in it to describe, but perba]
ought to say a word or two mi
long,' for the t. mi is by no
Hi' .hi • self-explanatory.
My t'u :ii this damp divi r-
WJiat Cold Water did for me.
491
sion I shall bear in mind for some
time to come, having, through the
Carelessness of my attendant, had a
slight mishap while undergoing it,
which has served to impress it rather
vividly upon my memory. Un-
happily for me, my regular bath
man was absent fur the day, and
I was handed over to the tender
mercies of another of the fraternity,
who proved but a sorry substitute
for the efficient Jack Smart. 1 per-
ceived this before the fallow had
been five minutes in the room with
me. He was dull and unenergetic —
two faults fatal in a hydropathic
attendant. At his bidding, how-
ever, I undressed and turned in
between the blankets, while he was
slowly wringing out a sheet in the
big bath already referred to. I was
to he packed in that sheet. I
awaited the man with an instinct-
ive shudder; and what a shock it
gave me when my flesh first came in
contact with the cold wet linen !
What misery did I endure whilst
being plastered with the icy
shroud ! How horridly it held me
in its clammy folds ! Over and
over was I rolled, while the attend-
ant coiled the chilly wrapper round
my quivering frame. Arms and
all went in, everything except my
head being bound up or packed
inside the sheet. In short, I was
literally bandaged like a mummy,
and lay as helpless on my back as
any Egyptian specimen. Then, as
in the case of the lamp bath, came
blankets in profusion, not merely
laid upon me, but tucked well in at
the sides, depriving me still more of
any motive power. And now the
' packing ' process was complete.
As far as I can remember, twenty
minutes was the time prescribed by
the doctor for remaining in a state
of ' pack ;' so I ordered the man to
hang my watch up by me, and then
bade him leave me to my thoughts,
telling him to be sure and make his
reappearance in a quarter of an
hour's time. I heard the door shut,
I knew I was alone and powerless to
raise a finger ; but it was winter time,
and so I congratulated myself that
there was no fear of a gnat settlirjg
on my nose. The shiver which I
felt at first subsided very quickly,
the sheet soon acquiring the heat of
the enveloped animal, an 1 in less
than ten minutes' time I was letting
off steam like a boiled rolly-poly.
There I lay puffing on my back,
oppressed with the superincumbent
weight of bedclothes, longing for
my liberation. What wretched-
ness it was! The lamp bath,
thought I, was bad enough, but
packing beats it into fits. What-
ever I endure, here I must lie and
bear it. How eagerly I watched the
hands of my chronometer ! What a
comfort to feel that five minutes
more would see me out of misery !
But how was this? It was
past the quarter, and the man had
not come back. I'll wait till the
time is up before I call ; he is sure
to be outside the door. I kept my
eye upon the minute haul as it
sluggishly approached the longed-
for point upon the dial. At last it
reached it — the time was up. ' Hallo
there!' shouted I; 'come in — the
time's up.' But it was like shouting
to the winds, the fellow was out of
hearing. I shouted louder, in the
hope that, though he heard me not,
some one else would, to whom I
might communicate my plight; but,
though I fancied I heard sounds in
the adjoining room, no one seemed
to hear my bawling. I had better
lie still and submit patiently to my
fate. No, I could not. The feeling of
restraint alone had grown insupport-
able, to say nothing of the stifling
heat which was increasing with
every effort I made. I never knew
what desperation was till then.
Five-and-twenty minutes had I lain
thus tied and bound, and motion-
less, fixed in a position which
seemed hopelessly unchangeable.
Describe my feelings I cannot,
but I remember self-reproach and
rage entered largely into them.
What a fool I was ever to have let
the fellow go! Was he coming back
at all, or should I have to wait till
night to be released from this state
of thraldom? I felt I should be
dead by then. I was getting ex-
cited. I thought I could not
breathe. How I escaped an apo-
plectic fit I know not. How I
struggled to get loose! But my
struggles were not wholly ineffec-
192
31;/ F.tcafefirom Hjjdropa&jfi or,
tual. I founl T could bend my < 1-
s Bufficu otlj to rest apon them ;
thai by a violent effort I could
draw myself up it might be an inch.
This was a grand discovery. I perr
red in the effort, delighted to
.'m1 I was Blowly worming my way
oul of my co soon oi l>< dclothes, lill,
by dint ol Btrain hl' and forcing, nut
I tell apon tin' Boor, I tad foremost,
completely exhausted with my ex-
1 ppose I made con-
siderable ooise in falling, for an
attendant who bappem d to he pass-
ing, judgiug there was something
wrong, tapped and came in. Po >r
man -he appeared much concerned
at seeing me, and when he learned
the n itnre of my mishap, he seemed
to share in some degree I be indig-
nation which 1 felt with Smart'*
Btnpid deputy. It turned out, as 1
. ct. d, that the go id-for-nothing
fellow, who had other patients to
attend to, had forgotten all about
in'-, his ill-fated supernumerary.
Most richly would he have de-
. d his conge\ and his master
was for turning him adrift the mo-
ment he heard of his negligence,
hut I intero ded tor him, pleading
extenuating circumstances, and so
the man was kept on, to perpetuate,
it may be, similar acts of forgetful-
- upon su'isc [uent victims.
The recital of my misfortune
elicited much merriment from the
uts, who thoi ghi it a capital
joke, at the same tunc one which
they appeared to prefer avoiding,
Lotions being taken there and
then not to give an attendant leave
of absence whilst lying in the help-
lessness of 'pick.' 1 need hardly
I subscribe 1 hi artily to that
i ut ion, and in after packings, of
which I undi rwent a lew, I kept
my man in the room with me till
tin- op. rat on was quite concluded.
1 had DOW I m the treat-
ment for some | ■ in- in turn
Bubji cted to most, it D »l all. of the
■ lis. n hydropathic applianct - in
ue nt the ( Btablishment With
the ( xception of that awful 11
the dou he, tbOSe to which I i
rred w< re probably amongst the
• .• an I told most Upon
the frame. At lea-t. BO I found
-i. I was manifestly losu
and that fast. Had my loss l>cen
computed by the pound 1 feel as-
sured it would have shocked Hie.
These pounds had mostly, I sup-
i, gone off in vap mr, though no
doubt something should hi' put
down to .laclc Smart's rubbing.
But it mattered little how they had
vanished, the facl was i> yond ques-
tion. To this my cloth* B DOW wit-
It was cl< ar they ha I In en
made to tit a bigger man than my
present self. When 1 first came to
the place my garments were in
close contact with my | erson, but
now m\ pi rson was retreating from
them inwardly, leaving a chilly
passage betwixt me and m\ clothing;
a sort of c 'Id air flue, through
which a constant vi ntilation was
maintained that ill assorted with
the season. This diminution of ray
form would perhaps have signified
little hail it not been accompanied
by weakness; increasing weakness.
1 felt it chietls in my limbs, from
the hips downwards. .My ambu-
latory powers were evidently ori the
decrease. I could not walk any
distance without wanting to sit
down and rest. It seemed as if a
hundred weight had been attached
t -h foot. Buob a labour was it to
drag them alter me. I dreaded
going upstairs. When cm ning came
on 1 found myself regularly done
up, and glad was I to recline full
length upon a couch, longing as 1
lay for bedtime to an i.e. I was
now beginning to feel some anxiety
about mj case, not because I had
grown thinner, hut because I was
losing strength. There could not
now he any doubt t 1 at there was
something wrong, or "hat could oc-
casion tin- debility? That the treat-
ment had re lucid me, I never for
a moment doubted, hut that did not
distn ss me, as I thought I had some
-paie flesh which I might conve-
iiu ntly dispense with. But thai
the system 1 was going through
COntributi d In any measure to my
wi aknoss never enb n d my
gination. Of OOUrse I told the
<i a-tor all about it. According to
his opinion it was my liver which
at the root ol my trouble.
II- affirmed, as doctors always do,
that mine Wfll quite a common I
What Cold Water did for me.
493
that he had seen hundreds such,
that symptoms like mine were the
general result of inactivity of liver.
' You njay consider yourself for-
tunate/ said he, ' in having come
here when you did. Had you
placed yourself under some allopath
he would have dosed you with ca-
lomel and damaged your constitu-
tion, whereas you'll see we shall set
you to rights without any mercury
or any drugs at all.'
' Well hut, doctor/ T replied,
' can you give me an idea of the
time which it may take for the
treatment to work a cure in my
case, because I have now been six
weeks at it, and am certainly far
worse than when I came here.'
• Oh, don't say so. I really think
you better. I see the greatest im-
provement in your appearance ;
perhaps it may be some weeks yet
before you are quite yourself. Only
persevere in the treatment and don't
distress yourself about a little tem-
porary debility.'
The prospect was not cheering.
Some weeks yet! and then only
' perhaps.' I had half a mind to
take a dose of calomel on the sly,
but I knew not how hydropathy
and calomel might suit one another,
and I feared I might take cold, so I
submissively adhered to the treat-
ment, living on from day to day in
hope, anxious hope, for symptoms
of returning strength. But vainly
did I watch for any indication of
improvement. On the contrary, I
was growing worse. Perceiving
this, I became unhappy. I believed
I w r as in for a long period of invalid-
hood, and began to have my doubts
as to whether I should recover at
all. I longed to be at home. A
cold water establishment is, after
all, a heartless place for one really
out of health, and I had had quite
enough of it, so I resolved, weak as
I was, to come away. I commu-
nicated my determination to the
doctor, who, after trying in vain to
induce me to stay on, implored me
not to consult an allopath, but to
persist in the treatment after I
reached home. But how altered
was I! How different did I feel
myself as I crawled with difficulty
up the steps to my hall door to
what I was when I left home some
two months ago ! What benefit had
I gotten by that two months' change'.''
That it never should have occurred
to me to connect the treatment with
my debility seems to myself amaz-
ing. I was content to believe my
weakness in the limbs arose from
some complaint or other, if not an
affection of the liver, of something
equally serious, for which the best,
if not the only, cure was hydro-
pathy.
Whilst at the establishment I had
caught the mania from the other
patieuts, and had become as enthu-
siastic a believer in itsefficacyasany
of its most ardent devotees. I would
not listen to a word in its disparage-
ment, but was wont to wax hot in
its defence. Accordingly, on my
return home, I immediately pro-
ceeded to set myself up with the
various hydropathic paraphernalia,
resolved to carry out the system to
the best of my ability. I embarked
a small fortune in baths, bathing-
sheets, and water-cans, not forget-
ting the article with the wooden
seat for the lamp-bath operation.
Two difficulties, however, met me
in my attempt to set up a private
water cure, — one was the erection
of a douche, the other the supply-
ing an equivalent to Jack Smart.
But I was not to be discouraged,
and contented myself with approxi-
mations to both as near as I could
accomplish. To set up a veritable
douche I found out of the question.
It involved letting in a pipe through
the ceiling of my room and a reser-
voir somewhere on the roof of my
house, so I abandoned the project.
But I had my douche all the same,
such as it was. I procured a huge
syringe, and taught my servant how
to work it, and with practice he be-
came quite expert in handling this
weapon, taking an excellent shut
with the jet and maintaining a steady
fire at the spot selected as a target
for the time being. But when he
came to rub me, how I missed Jack
Smart ! Oh ! there is an art in rub-
bing which not many understand.
It is, in fact, a talent possessed by
but a few, of whom my servant evi-
dently was not one. I used to dread
rubbing-time with him. I felt as
404
My l\s<;ij, j'r, hi Hyilmj ■otliy ; or,
though I had been Bcraped all over
with Band paper, my skin being ina
bnl one n move from raw ness
when thia process wa - concludi d.
I b »re it \\iili a go "1
. onlj thinning myself lucks in
bavi oe 1 bo fair on imitation
of the model I bad come from. I
thus kepi np tbese hydropathic
practices .'ill through the winter and
well into the spring, watching with
in the constant inert ase of de-
bility, and wondering whatever could
have come t > me. I had in my
youth be in much given to gymnas-
tics. 1 had thought nothing of
- by my heels and doing
other inverted ( ccenl ricities on the
horizontal bar. The muscle9 of my
limbs had by these exercises ac-
quire!, when I was young, a hard-
ness and a tightness which they had
retained. But now, all thia firmness
was gone. My thighs bad grown
M>it and flabby, and were growing
more so every day.
Paralysis must, thought I, Booner
or later come upon me. What a
c my case was to the doctoral
J consulted not a few, but not ono
could d< b d physical disorder, or a
symptom indicative of di-< ase, func-
tion ii or organic ; 1 was sound, Baid
they, in t, and with one
■ nt they gave their d< cidi I
opinion against my having any liver
affe ition. As my object was merely
to discover what was the seal of my
ailment, I thought it desirable to
con ■■ al from the physicians I con-
sulted the remedies I was resorting
to. Probably any one of them would,
had I told bim, have said sufficient
to make me drop the water-cure for
But I kepi my 1 1 oret
and paid well for it. How long I
might thus have gone on, or to what
I might at the end of a few
iced myself,
it were difficult to Raj , but as the
. 1 re-
solved to ti
air would do.
:< nd or Othl r, '
bracing place bj : : ■ ' I
h d i ; . 1 1 a bracing place
enough in April in all
But bj i down
with me; it was only to 1 1
a single day the da; I
sp.-nt upon the journey. My port-
able douche an 1 baths, all, I think,
Wire stowed away in (he van, for
fear 1 could pet no baths at Llams-
every thing except the kitchen
r, which I supposed would be
procurable anywhi re, the article
with thevi lenseal being, I knew,
in universal vogue. Bere again I
tmence I devoting myself to my
aquatic remedies, lx lie? ing, like a
fool, that the water-cure would yet
real tilings for me.
But hi re, at Ram gate, providen-
tially for me, the mystery of mj
bee one at last unravel le I, and 1 was
rel< as< d from thedelusion by which
J had so long In i n hound as by a
spell. So hi after my arrival I had
recourse to one more physician, I
should be afraid to allix a numb r
to him, I had consult' d so many. I
anticipated nothing new from him,
but when ill-health has set in and
there is no symptom of amen lun ut
one is glad to consult everybody;
And I shall never forgel that con-
sultation. After submitting to the
same examination with which I had
grown so painfully familiar, my new
me lical adviser remarke I,
• There is no di • ase about you
that 1 can discover, but your C
r< m ml'les that of one who lia- la 1 a
re chill. Are you conscious of
anything of the kind ?'
Not being able to call to mind
having suffered from a violent cold
at the time my troubles first 1 1
I replied in the negative.
1 STou are sure you have bad no
rheumatic affection at any pei
say within the last twelve months?'
■ Not that I can remember.'
• Well, my impression is. your de-
bility proceeds entirely from the
spine. Vou may perhaps on a
-ion have Blept in a damp bed.
Or el-e you ha\ e made B 06 of
putting on damp linen. I am con-
vine | tl k pine in your c
somehow i everely chilled.
Ion cannot account for it in any
way r
\ Btrange tion came o
he said these words. I
truth darted in upon my mind lor
the first time. I |i It all in a glow,
while my ch< 1 1 one flu
with the surprise ol one who has
What Cold Water did for me.
495
mado a startling discovery. The
man appeared to perceive it, though
I said nothing, for in a tone of
eagerness he quickly asked me —
' ' Why, what— what is the matter?'
'Doctor/ said T, ' I believe you
have hit upon the truth, and dis-
covered the source of all my trouble.
I have been for months, and am
still, undergoing the cold-water
treatment. Since December last I
have been at it. Sometimes twice,
sometimes thrice daily' have I un-
dergone the regimen, ringing
changes on the hydropathic roster.
I have taken sitz-baths and lamp-
baths. I have been packed and
douched. Compresses and bandages
have been applied to me here and
there and everywhere, added to
which, the amount I have taken in
in cold potations would, I believe, i
go far to fill a small reservoir.'
He smiled, I suppose a smile of
self-satisfaction, and replied, ' Then
I do not at all wonder to see you as
you are.'
He then proceeded to make some
further inquiries, and I went more
into a detail of what I had been
doing. He was bitter in his con-
demnation of the lamp-bath, and
further assured me, as many other
practitioners have subsequently
done, that the practice of sitting in
cold water, and allowing cold water
to be trickled down the spine, would
take the strength out of a Hercules.
'But tell me candidly,' I pro-
ceeded, ' what is your opinion as to
my recovering my strength? Do
you think there is any prospect of
the muscles regaining their firm-
ness, so that I may be able to walk
as I did formerly ?'
' Well, to tell you the truth, you
have let matters proceed rather far,
and your efforts to induce paralysis
of the limbs have been well-nigh
successful ; at the same time, I see
no reason why you should not re-
cover. You will excuse my speaking
more positively. What you have
now to do is, of course, to drop the
cold-water treatment, and take
every means to neutralize its effects
upon your frame. I think, for the
present, you had better discontinue
it even as a beverage, and take three
or four glasses of good port wine
instead every day. And, if I were
you, I would proceed to one or other
of the German watering-places, and
take a course of the natural warm-
baths.'
I think I never paid a fee with so
much satisfaction, for I felt the man
was right in his opinion. Bat, how
I blasphemed hydropathy! .Howl
loathed the very sight ofeverytliinp;
connected with the system ! I was
far too weak for any act of violence,
otherwise it is probable I should
have spent half an hour or so in
giving vent to my exasperation, and
smashing up my whole apparatus,
wooden chair included, with the
poker. How I now rated myself for
my own folly, simpleton that I had
been! I could blame no one el-e,
for I was a free agent, and had
yielded to the force only of per-
suasion.
Yet I was still far from being
sanguine of recovery. What, thought
I, could bring back strength to
limbs that had once lost it? What
possibly could impart firmness to
muscles that had once grown flabby ?
How r ever, I resolved nothing should
remain untried which my last ad-
viser had recommended, and I made
up my mind to start for some Ger-
man Bad. Which of them all was
it to be ? For some days, Granville,
on the Waters of Germany, was my
study ; and after a careful perusal
of this work — the only one upon
the subject — I came to the conclu-
sion that Wildbad would be the
place for me. To Wildbad, accord-
ingly, I hastened ; and ere a week
had expired I was dipping in its
waters. Before doing so, however,
I called in one more doctor, a Ger-
man this* time, by name Haussman.
I was told it was not safe to bathe
without advice. He struck me as
being a sensible and intelligent
fellow ; the only thing he said which
shook my faith in his opinion being
his confident assertion that I should
leave Wildbad quite strong, and
able to walk about with ease.
The springs of Wildbad are very
warm — considerably, if I mistake
not, over the temperature of the
blood — yet I was to commence by
remaining half an hour immersed in
them to the chin, increasing by de-
T ■ Utter-University Qame».
I ■] of imm< reion, till I
s|« nt a whole hour in the water.
1 bad always held the notion that
uarin hathii ■.: induced weakm
but this woe to f.' ! 1
to thia new sysh m
with Mni.«' misgiving.
I coul. I, of course, pet no port
wine, Hht 1 Btrove to c □ sole my-
pcli with Bparkling Mo» lie instead,
which 1 da i ■< ry bit as
strengthening a b for an
invalid, whilst many times mort re-
freshing.
I sta; I at d hotel, where the fare
was » \'i ll< ut, though anything but
plain ; a first-ruta
being serve i up every day, to which
J, notwithstanding my infirmit
did ample justice. Here I abode
some weeks, bathing, eating, and
drinking, thinking all the while
what a jolly life this was, if I were.
well, though willingly would 1
Mos-elle and the
French co< iking for a mutton chop
ami a glass of water, with the
stn ngth I formerly i
At the end of m\ t. ek I
foui d ii . ii >r, in li
at the expiration of a fortnight ;
and I was in desp tir ; but wreo
three weeks had passed, 1 imagined
1 felt somewh it less exhaustion after
trj ing t » take exercise. It niigl
my fancy ; but it encouraged me to
]m rsevere, and I did so, and at the
end of a few weeks more there w< re
evident symptoms of returning
strength.
JTi -, 1 could now man ige a mile,
and even walk up stairs w ithout the
si osation oflifting a hundred-weight
•h Btep. w nh what delight did
1 hail thi -c indications of returning
Btrengthl I believed that 1 had
turned the conn r, and that my re-
c iv< ry was only a qui stii n ol tune.
And so it proved. 1 l< it Wildba I
a diffi rent man. Health hemp my
Bole object, 1 Bpenl Borne months in
travelling, getting daily better, till
1 grew quite str rag.
All this happi d< d a few ye u -
ago, and I know not thai I am now
any the worse for what 1 went
through. I*< rhaps 1 am the better)
for I have learnt from my experience,
a - a get i ral rule, to avoid pi tying
tricks with my constitution, and in
particular to give a wile berth to
hydropathy.
Till: INTER UNIVERSITY GAMES.
TRULY the amah ur i in,
athli i gymnast have no
favourite pi last
few years, and particularly during
the j
i ere held on the
i • round f r the third
I j ) in t r we 1
mpion n
and an i xtraoi nt mb r of
club l me. t-
iu all
if an;
|U 'I
h that v.
for ' rth tin. tort
II am Ore* I rath
\ pril. i ford
and < Iambi dge athli tic It
thiir
lor this
nt and
the course thronged by i ager si
tators (by far the great* r number
I liming their p n t isanship by
b well as demeano
w ho hi ard the re-< choing shouts ol
1 Pitman, Michell, Long, Scott, and
Pell ' \ It hough we are oi
tho e who hope that in future yi
ii be held at the
Duivi rsities themselvi b, yet the
Bight wis one which was worth
ig mill 3 to i to wit!
one half of the conh sta which I
place, and of which we can i
hope to give some faint idi a, woul i
: i j ■ l \ repaid a visit to th<
i d.
Since we left the Christ church
ground on th< March, i
(when the bo inds of ' Laing ' and
• I ng' w< p .-' I in oiii red
chungi s have taki n pla ■<■ in the
atli i itioDS of both DnheT-
Tlie Inter- University Games.
497
sities. At Oxford an University
Athletic Club has been formed simi-
lar to that founded in 1865 at Cam-
bridge; and already, we think, 11m
fruits of united action may be traced.
The frequency of contests, and the
opportunities for practice which the
foundation of such a club affords,
cannot fail to bring out talent which
otherwise would have remained
quite unexercised.
At both Universities running paths
have been laid down, each one-third
of a mile in length ; that at Cain-
bridge being in the form of a flat-
tened oval, and that at Oxford of a
rectangle with rounded angles. The
style which running on a path
usually produces is not at present
so apparent as might have been ex-
pected, there being still a good deal
of flat-footed running, but this will
doubtless vanish in time. Very fast
races indeed have been run during
the last year on the Cambridge path
(which is a faster path by a good
deal than the Oxford j ; and, in fact,
it may be taken to be one of the
easiest and best running paths in the
kingdom. We think if some of the
old light blues who once donned
flannels in the old pavilion, and
afterwards subscribed to build the
new one, could seeFermers on a fine
afternoon in the end of March, they
would indeed wonder at the energy
and go-a-head spirit displayed by
young Cambridge. The Oxonians,
too, are waking up, but they will,
we are sure, pardon an old hand for
saying that it was not before the
time had come for so doing. We
must not, however, delay too long
at the post, for the starter has given
the word ' get ready ;' and we have
a long though very pleasant task-
before us in attempting to give to
those who could not be present a
brief account of the Inter- University
Games in 1867.
The nine events included in the
programme were the same as those
of last year, but they were arranged
in a different order, so that Maitland
and Little, who represented their
respective Universities in both jump-
ing and running, might have their
lighter work first.
At a quarter -past two there
emerged from the black ring of spec-
VOL. XI. — NO. LXVI
tators, who, in ranks four and five
deep, thronged nearly the whole
course, four figures, all equally keen
to score first blood for their own
side. The light blue was repre-
sented by T. G. Little, of St. Peters,
whose name is enough to frighten
any ordinary jumper out of the field,
and who has lately striven, 'but not
with equal success, on the running
path, and C. E Green, of Trinity,
well known to all 'Varsity cricketers.
Oxford were supported by F. W.
Parsons, of Magdalen, who jumped
so pluckily for them last year, and
F. S. O'Grady, of St. John's, a young
one, who will, to all appearances,
make a very good one as time goes
on. The bar was placed at 4 ft.
10 in., which, I need hardly say,
they all cleared ; and it was raised
two inches at a time up to 5 ft. 6 in.,
and one inch afterwards. At 5 ft.
7 in. Parsons went out, and the
last hope of Oxford died away
when O'Grady failed in clearing
5 ft. 8 in. Green and Little now
held a short conference, and ulti-
mately decided to jump once more.
The bar was accordingly raised to
5 ft. 9 in., which Little cleared,
but Green could not. Thus the
Can tabs scored one two for the
first event, a result which was truly
foreshadowed by the results of the
two University Games, in which
Green jumped 5 ft. i\ in., and
the Oxonians tied at 5 ft. 4 in.
Little has somewhat lost the cer-
tainty of his jumping, as he
knocked the bar down several times,
whereas formerly he seldom jumped
more than once at each height.
Green jumped with great steadi-
ness, never failing until 5 ft. 7 in.
O'Grady is a very good and likely
jumper, tucking his legs well un-
derneath him, and making sure of
each try ; and the light blue will
find in him an awkward customer
next year if he continues to improve
on his present as much as he has
done on his old form. There is
nothing that astonishes outsiders,
and those who have not seen much
of athletic games, more than good
height jumping. The effort, or
rather the force required to raise
from eleven to thirteen stone over a
bar 5 ft. 9 in. high can be better
a E
198
The Lid r-l'iilmsitif Gam<s.
imagined than appreciated, and
cially wlii'ii it is r, Hi. ml.! p .1
that the spring is made fr m ono
foot alone. In years gone by 5 ft
j in. was thought a wonderful jump,
and tli.' idea of a man jumping 5 it.
8 in. or 5 ft 9 in. from ordinary
tnrf was [reamed o£ These
heights will perhaps 1"' in their
turn bt it' n ; but we think that
Ro p II. Little, and Green will long
be the mythical heroes of jumpers.
When the four starters trotted
down to the post for the 100 yards,
one could sic iii tlu) demeanour of
the Oxford partisans a perceptible
1 of confidence, and, ind< < d, it
was not misplaced, for they ran J. M.
Colmore, of Brasenose, who was so
nnmistakeably the hundred-yard
runner of 1866, when he won the
Oxford University, Inter-University,
ami Amateur Champion 100 yards.
His fellow champion was ,1. Somer-
vell, of St. John's College, who
proved himfelf a first-class man.
Cambridge, however, seem at last to
have brought out a sprint runner in
the person of E. A. Pitman, of 8t
John's, to whom we shall have again
to allude in this brief history. The
light blue was also worn l>y C. C.
Corfe, of Jesus College, who, al-
though not second in the University
Games, challenged the Be* 1 man,
M. Templeton, Of Trinity, and
having defeated him was cl
After several false
Btarts and breaks away they got off,
n >< • iily, whi n < lolmore first
Bhot out : at fifty yards Pitman was
decidedly in the rear, Somervell and
ire apparently shutting him
out; but atabout fifteen yards from
home he came with a rush such as
Idom seen in 10 short a race,
and landed the light Hue by about
•• . n inohl 9. Colmore was ee-
1, but not much in front of
■ 11, and the time of the win-
1 1 1 was 1 ecoi ds. This per-
forn tamp Pitman at quite in
the iii-: sprint runn< rs, and
lie I j miproM d since he ran
in 1865, win n he was l» aten in the
• for the 100 by Pelbam
II" d.
\\. could not !
the wmd M htZOngl] M the wi:
• d to us to di< away in
the last fifteen yards, and Corfe, of
whom much was expected, did not
so. in in his best form. Whem
the f>iir men meet again a wonder-
ful race may he expected, hut cer-
tainly at pivsi nt Pitman must be
stamped the best, from the way in
which he caught his men in the, last
fifty yards.
The m \t event on the card was
the Broad .lump, and it produced a
most exciting contest, the result
being in doubt np to the very last
jump. The Oxford representatives
were \V. P. Maitland and W. G. Ed-
wards, both of Christchurch ; the
Cambridge, C A.. Absolom, of Tri-
nity, and the inevitable Little. The
Cantabs were the favourites, as
their broad jump was twenty inches
better than that at < Ixford ; hut good
judges knew it would be no walk
over, as Maitland last year covered
19 ft. 11 in., and Little has not been
jumping up to his old form. Each
competitor was, as usual, allowed
six jumps, taken in order, hut the
man who has made the best jump
reserves his tries until he is beaten.
At his third jump Maitland covered
19 ft. 10 in , and the two ( 'an
did all they knew to heat it, but
w i 'out success, until Absolom,
with his very last Iry, made tho
oificent jump of 20 tt. 2 in.
.Maitland, who had been i like Little
last year) calmly observing their
efforts to reach him, now had his
three v, si rvt d ' tries,' and at his
fifth attempt he <•]< and 30 ft. 1 in.,
but one inch behind Absolom ; no
further, however, could he get, and
so the light blue scored the third
win in succession.
It seems rather presumptive for
any one (even an old hand 1 to pre*
ti nd to advise such adepts in jump-
ing, hut it did strike me. in marking
how often these first-class m< d
faded to jump nearly their best,
' they di 1 not run to the ' take
in what used to he con iidl red
the scientific manm t : they so fre-
quently path r, '. '., tal e \ery short
-, when nearing the mark.
Now I have always ob» rved that
the best jumps arc made win n a
man gets thoroughly into his stride,
and comes down to the mark at his
top speed, which no man can do if,
The Inter-University Games.
499
instead of striding out, ho is pal-
pably shortening his step. Of
course much must depend on a
man's power of judging his dis-
tance, but I am convinced that much
is sacrificed to the idea of taking
very short steps, in order to get
nearer to the take off; it is quite as
easy to judge the distance for long
strides.
The competitors for the Broad
Jump had hardly left the ground
when the four hurdle champions
entered it. In this contest the light
blue was worn by Mr. Fitzherbert,
of St. John's, who last year won the
Amateur Champion Broad Jump,
and by H. M. Thompson, of Trinity,
who in the years 1865 and 1866 ran
in the final heat of the hurdles at
Cambridge, being beaten by the
great Tiffany, Milvain, and Hood.
In this year he fell and was beaten
in the first heats, but on public form
he should have won. For Oxford
there appeared A. Hillyard, of Pem-
broke, and C. N. Jackson, of Mag-
dalen ; the former of whom ran
without success in the Oxford Uni-
versity hurdles in 1866. After a
very level start they ran almost to-
gether to the third hurdle, Thomp-
son being then in the rear. Jackson,
the Oxford second horse, now came
out,and runningwith great strength,
led all the rest of the way, and won
by two feet from Thompson, who
jame up very well in the last five
hurdles. The style of all four was
good, and the time also, considering
the wind. Oxford thus scored their
first win, and their spirits revived
again. We think that it is a very
near thing between Jackson and
Thompson, and if they were to run
four or five times the results might
be strangely variable.
In Putting the Weight all the
competitors were new hands except
R. Waltham, of St. Peter's, who wore
the light blue last year, and was then
second to Elliott, also of Cambridge.
His fellow competitor was Absolom,
the winner of the Broad Jump ; and
for Oxford there appeared T. Batson,
of Lincoln, and W. Burgess, of
Queen's. Waltham, at his very first
attempt, put the shot the 'really
great' distance of 34 ft. 7 in., and
then stood out whilst the three
others made their eighteen attempts
to beat it, Batson, of Oxford, suc-
ceeding in reaching 31 ft. 11 in ,
and Absolom was close up. When
Waltham had been declared the
winner, he took his five remaining
tries, and with one of them, the
fourth, he put 34 ft. 9 in., which
was the put of the day. Since this
competition was first introduced
each year has shown an improve-
ment, but we fancy that it will be
some time before Waltham's per-
formance is surpassed.
The next race, the One Mile, has
always been considered as one of
the events of these meetings, and
both sides anxiously hoped for a win.
I wish I had space to do more than
briefly enumerate the names of the
starters, and give some idea of what
they each have done previously;
but anything like a correct account
of their performances would take
long indeed. There started for Ox-
ford S. G. Scott, of Magdalen, and
T. W. Fletcher, of Pembroke. Scott
ran second to Laing in the Oxford
University Mile, being beaten by
five yards in 4 min. 46 sec, Fletcher
being third; the latter, it will also
be remembered, ran for Oxford in
the Mile last year. The Cambridge
men were W. C. Gibbs, of Jesus
College, E. Eoyds, of Trinity Hall,
and T. G. Little. Gibbs, who ran
for Cambridge last year, has been
but little before the world of late,
as he sprained his foot some few
weeks since, and was unable to com-
pete in his University Games, but he
won a mile handicap at Cambridge
in the spring in 4 min. 36 sec.
Eoyds is 'the same which was'
second to Garnett (and a very good
second to a very good man) in the
four-mile Amateur Champion Race
at Beaufort House last year ; he also
won the Cambridge Mile this year
from Long in 4 min. 36 sec. Little
we all know as a jumper, and as a
runner he has been doing a good
deal of late, and is doubtless best
known by his defeating several men
in the Trinity Hall open half mile
this year, and by his performance in
the two miles against Oxford in
1866. As will have been seen from
the above statistics, the race looked
on paper a good thing for Cam-
2 K 2
Ti Inter-V .. G
bridj Laing, who lias
wonders al • very dis-
I in 1 unable t . > start.
e itself i •* admit of
much description, as after the first
lap t! tx mg three in all ) Sc >M
t mk tl and, running with
won by >ix yards
from Royds. The latter spurted
lely in the last lap. bnt wo
think he should have made more
• • .-r to his opponent.
time was 4 min. 41 se •. Scott
runner of ver; eal prom
he has a very good and steady style,
without any greal Bhowiness, but a
wonderful amount of strength ; and
that if the running was
•r him through the first
three quarters of a mile he would
do it in first-rate time. Royds has
vn himself a very good man,
but he is very weak at the end of
his
And now tln % attention of all was
turned towards what may be justly
• bird blue ribbon of the
ting, the '1>.
Quarter, decidedly b ing the
- in which most I is cen-
. and the 1 nt, viz., the
. produced one of the 1
and gamest
0. The Cambridge
■ ■ . t ; • <:■ ■ .na 'I P. 1 r.
am, of Trinity, who has for two
»rne bar coloun fore,
I'.. A. Pitman, the 100 yards
winnor. These two ran first and
ad in the Cambridge i. r
ii Pelham gained a decisive vic-
tory, although Pitman ran a most
det< The < >xford were
W. F. Maitland, who was beaten by
yards only by W. < J Knight, of
■ be ' btford champion in
•., ami W. .F. Frere, of
n, who was third in the
The tini» s at the two
, 1! ; but the confidence in
the aln hie P( Iham cai I
hot fa-
P 'man
ordinary
mai
1 ;o yard - b id ■ lead of 1 yar Is.
•
Maitland, and after* u I Fn re,
np to him, and fifty ;
from home they were all together,
and Pelham began to show in frout.
Shouts of ' Pelham,' ' Maitland,'
' Pitman 1 resounded on all sides ; but
mi awaj . as he
•hi. at about tifti 1 n yard 3 from
the tape, Pelham falh n d, v.
Pitman, coming with the
I ible rush, won by two yai
Maitland, Pelham, and Frere ••
all together, but the judges gave it
by a head to Maitland, This de-
cision did not give universal satis-
faction, as some thought Pelham
pullttl off st cond place ; hut W6 h -
lieve the majority upheld the deci-
sion. The time was just under 52
mds, ai d, considering the w
was indeed fast Pitman has, ai we
have already said, proved himself
one of the tamest and best runners
in England, and we are sure both
la and Maitland will pardon us for
s.i\ ii g that they had a Btroke of
luck m defeating Pelham. It is
very seldom Pelham dies away in
last fifty yards, and our own
idi a is that he was weak on the
day. Idcre also both proved him-
self quite first-class; in fact, v,
all are so good it seems unfair to
particular • The contest itself
was I -t race lor a quarter wo
r saw.
The eighth event in the :
gramme was Throwing the Hammer,
which is, to our minds, one of the
;n g and gra •< fnl con-
tests. Oxford had W. 11. Croker, of
nity, who in 1S65 repTes nted
his University at Putting the
Weight, and in 1866 was with
Morgan, in Throwing the Hammer;
the a cond representative was W.
Ii. adley, of University. Cambridge
were lepn Bented by Q. !!. Thorn-
ton, of Jesus, the winner of last
• .1 .1. I;. Eyre, ol 1 The
Cambridge nan bave much im-
proved in this 6 since last
year, wh< 11 Thornton won with
Fox tin Brsl fi w ti ies the
was fairly e [nal, Eyre and
Croker having the lx Bt of it, v.
with his third try, the foi
liurh d the ' ponderous missile' 98
ft. 10 in. This was a really splendid
throw, and was remarkable I" c
it was in a dead Btraight line from
the centre ol itch, and at right
The Inter-University Games.
501
angles to it, whereas many of the
others were, to say the least, erratic.
Thornton was second, with an almost
equally good throw of 97 ft. 3 in.;
Croker being first for Oxford with
90 ft. 10 in. We were surprised
to see that the university autho-
rities still kept to their old way
of measuring the length of the
throws, viz., from the centre of the
scratch, because at so many meet-
ings the fairer way of measuring by
parallel lines, or from the footstep
of the thrower, has been adopted,
owing to the manifest advantages
gained by crooked throws in the
old method. This victory made the
light blue's sixth win, which, as
may be imagined, caused the Oxo-
nians no small disappointment.
After waiting but a very few
minutes, the eyes of all were turned
to the six athletes who were starting
for the last and greatest contest,
the Two Miles. The /lark blue
jersey was worn by E. L. N. Mi-
chell, of Christchurch (brother of
E. B. Michell, of Magdalen— the
Diamond Sculler — who in 1865 ran
for Oxford in the Mile), the winner
of the two miles race at Oxford
this year, by J. H. Morgan, of
Christchurch, and J. W. Fletcher,
of Pembroke. Fletcher we already
know ; Morgan is a young one, but
likely to be a good one some day.
The light blue sent out G. G. Ken-
nedy and C. H. Long, both of Trinity,
and A. E. R. .Micklefield, of St.
John's. Kennedy defeated Long in
the Cambridge University two
miles this year, but only by two
yards, in 10 min. 10 sec. Long,
we need hardly say, is the same
that ran such a gallant race with
Laing, of Christchurch, last year.
The Oxford University time was
1030, so that, on public form,
Kennedy or Long ought to have
won, even taking into account the
difference of the respective paths at
Oxford and Cambridge. At starting,
Micklefield went off at a great pace,
followed by Michell and Long; but
after half a mile Morgan passed the
two latter and raced with Mickle-
field until the end of the first mile,
which was done in 5 min. 3 sec.
Through the beginning of the second
mile Morgan led, with Long and
Michell not far behind, and Ken-
nedy, who was slightly outpaced,
15 yards in the rear. Entering the
last quarter, Long drew rapidly
ahead, and at 250 yards from the
finish was 11 yards in front of
Michell. Then again the dark blue
crept up, and, on entering the 150
yards straight, a most determined
set-to took place. Each was loudly
cheered and called on by their
friends; and after running together
for the last 60 yards, Michell threw
himself in front of the post, and
won by a bare foot. The time was
10 minutes. Morgan was third ;
and Kennedy, who would have
finished very fast, was knocked over
by the crowd. We never saw a
more magnificent struggle ; in fact,
the pluck which has always cha-
racterized these races, and especially
the long-distance races, almost sur-
passes that displayed in any other
pedestrian contests, amateur or
professional. For Laing, Long, and
Michell to have run two such races
as the Two Miles in 1866 and 1867,
the one a dead-heat, the other won
by a foot, speaks for itself. Michell
is as game a runner as ever stepped,
and has a very lasting style. He,
moreover, ran with great judg-
ment in not endeavouring to race
with Long, when he went ahead at
the beginning of the ' last quarter;'
and we certainly think that Long
was wrong in doing so, for had he
left it later, and made the effort in
the last 150 yards, we think the
result might have been reversed.
These, however, are idle specula-
tions: Michell won, and won well.
So ended the Inter-University
Athletic Sports in 1867 ; and while
the crowd are clearing away, and
the excitement is subsiding, let us
look a little at the respective merits
of the competing parties and their
champions.
In this year Cambridge were first
in the Quarter Mile, the Hundred
Yards, the High Jump, the Broad
Jump, Putting the Weight, and
Throwing the Hammer. Oxford
were first in the Two Miles, One
Mile, and Hurdles. Cambridge were
second in the Two Miles, One Mile,
Hurdles; Hi^h Jump, and Hammer ;
Oxford in the Quarter, Hundred,
502
Tic Tuter-UnivartUjf Oamet.
Bi 'il Jump, and Weight In all,
Cambridge gained 6 Bret, and 5
■ - . and I Oxford 3 fust
ai.'l 4 BeooncL
1 ib ing back through tho v -
• retiring years, we re-
nit mix r that, in 1 s*'>4. Cambridge
lii l 4 first and - b» cond, against
Oxford's 4 first and 1 Becond; in-
, Cambridge 6 first and 6
m (Mil. 1. 1 first and j second ;
and 111 [866, Cambridge 5 first and
j second, against Oxford j tirst and
■ Mini ; and there was one d< ad-
bi it. I lark blue, take care ! Cain-
bridge an- well ahead again this
and from what we hear, mean
to do better still.
We always feel it an invidious
task to Bpeak <>f individual merit,
where all are so g tod; and, strangely
enough, there were so many cham-
pions in 1867 who took part in more
than one contest, which makes the
of selection even more difficult
Little appeared in three, Pitman,
Blaitland, Absolom, and Fletcher in
two each; bat in looking for the
' vict ir lu-loruin,' it" one there be, we
thai the nominal honour which
was in 1864, by s-'i neial consent,
d to Derbyshire, in 1865 to
Webster, and in r866 to Laing,
must in [867 tall on E. A. I'itm m,
the w inner of the Quart c and the
Hundred Tarda ; and none will, we
think, deny that he has fairly earned
the title.
It is curious to notice that in
iSf>4 tho Oxonians and Cantabs
won respectively exactly what they
have in this year lost, and the
victory has been secured l>y the
new contests introduced in the Utter
1 bj on, hnrdli -race baring
bet d struck out from tho pro-
gramme
11 1 .1 adges were :— for Oxford,
I; A. II. Mitchell, of Balliol, 1
. an 1 I;. 1:. Webster,
• l r mty. and lateol : s ; both
: Bfl are BUfficii nt gua-
rantee of their suitability for the
p isf i 1 ft G ice wai the h'> \ .
T. II. T. Hopkins, of Magdalen,
a w bom do h It r could
be (bun 1, for he is one u ho t'.r yi
n a lirely interest in ull
athletic pursuits.
Three men there were of I
year's champions whose absence
we— and not only we, hut all except
]i rhaps those who would have had
to run against them regretb d ;
they were, Laing, of Cbristchuroh,
Nolan, of St. John's. Oxford, and
Cheatham, of Trinity Hall. It needs
no words of ours to r, call bow
ably they, in [866, wore the (lark
blue and the light; and doubtleBS
on a future occasion they will, in
racing Blang, 'l>o heard of again.'
Laing was lamed, we 1m ar, from
running on the path ; Nolan has
b en prohibited from running for a
time : and T. II. < 'lieetham sprained
his knee, and it was thought unwise
for him to try it by training.
We tried again this year to ti
the educational pedigrees <>f tb<
winners and competitors, hut as it
seemed rather peculiar for an elderly
Btranger to ask them all where
' tin \ were raised,' we had to he
content wi'h hut scanty gleanings.
This, however, is the result of tl en.
II iiTOW claims Long, Maitlaml,
K't inn dy, and Somervell ; Eton,
Pelham, Thompson, and R«
Green hails from Uppingham, Col-
more from Rugby, fMirady from
Charterhouse, and Gibhs lro:n .Marl-
borough, whilst Brighton 1
trained the young id* as of Pitman.
Turning, however, to colleges, where
(thank the LritS the cards
Bpeak for them that
Christchurch claims the lion share
of the Oxford champions, and Mag-
dalen the iuxt. At Cambrid
though Triliitv leads t 1 e \au. Ji t
Jesus maintains the athletic fame
that a Thornton firsl gave it, and
St. John's claims Pitman and two
others.
We ate SOrry that some of the
changes proposed bj man] who take
interest in these games have not
lien this year visible in the pro-
mine. First ami foremost we
would m> otion the introduction of
a walking race, which we still think
would produce such an admirable
contest and always an exciting 1
We bave been told, and have no
■n to doubt it, th st the m \i n
mile walking 1
this Mar won by a compar
novice, and that many who ebt
: wed had only pracl
TJie Inter-University Games.
503
for a few weeks. Oxford, too, now
has walking races in some of her
college sports, and we can see no
reason for longer delay in introduc-
ing one at the Inter - University
Games. Another change which we
think would be for the better is the
proposed substitution of a four mile
tor the two mile race for reasons
which are obvious. One point more
suggests itself to us : why is not the
High Pole Jump included in the
programme ? It is a most admirable
exercise, and when well done about
the most graceful and exciting thing
possible. A friend, to whom we
are indebted for much valuable in-
formation, informs us that both at
Oxford and Cambridge it is but
little practised : we can only say we
are sorry to' hear it, for in days gone
by it was a favourite amnseinent
of many.
Before closing our brief and hur-
ried memoir we feel tempted to say
something about the removal to
London of these annual festivals.
Looking at the question from the
point of view of outsiders, and not
regarding 'dons' with the eyes of
an undergraduate or even through
the medium of the ideas with which
the undergraduates of the present
day endeavour to imbue us, we do
feel that those most respected func-
tionaries (' dons') have been guilty
of shortsighted policy. The meet-
ing has to us, even as outsiders,
lost half its charm— the run to
Oxford or Cambridge the night
before, when the majority of the
competitors met together, and with
friendly chaff talked over the
chances of the morrow ; in London
they are scattered far and wide, and
have no chance of all or even many
of them seeing one another. Be-
sides, we do most assuredly believe
that the mutual visits to either Uni-
versity were engendering a liberal
spirit towards each other, and, in
their quiet way, working much
good. Of course the arguments on
the other side can be readily ima-
gined — the discipline and quiet of
the University is for one night set
totally aside, and indulgence and,
in some cases, excess are the con-
sequences. Now this may be all
perfectly true, though we ourselves
doubt it; but our experience of
University men is, that putting a
stop to what was, in its worst
form, but the superabundance of
youth and animal spirits is not the
best way to make men more ame-
nable to discipline and rule at other
times. We have stated before, and
we can only repeat it, that, looked
upon from an outsider's point of
view, athletic games, both at and be-
tween the Universities, have worked
a vast amount of good, more perhaps
than often falls to the share of other
more worthy schemes of mental
or bodily improvement; and we
believe that to dwell upon the abuse
of them, or upon the evils connected
with them, is not the way to coun-
teract the abuses. In short, if, as
we are told, the games are to be
permanently removed to London
because of the excitement and dis-
turbance which prevailed on the
former occasions on which they have
been held, we believe that they wdl
soon lose their character, and, it
may be, decline both in interest and
importance.
For another year, dark and light
blue, we wish you farewell, and be
sure that, whether your next
' Olympia' are held in London, at
Oxford, or Cambridge, we, old and
rheumatic though we be, hope to
be there to witness, to admire, and
it may be to record your efforts.
D. D. B.
r.nl
THE last RON Wi I'll TIIH 8TA.GHOUH
r PIIK infatuation of woman! No
T
ner was Mrs. F< lix a I •
l ' r husband's prowess in
the field than Bhe insist i on his
bunting book thing betb r than a
p i ir little hare. She began to read
upencyclopse liaa on all matt* rs con-
oerning the ancient Bp irta of Eng-
laii I busi< | herself with the
history of the Henries to find how
d they wi nt royally chasing 1 ho
8 e co apelled Felix t<i order
I set her eli
girl th it ]> i »r little mite of a thing
with a chirping i unlike the
nanl organ of her mother— to
sing 'Old Towler.' She was indig-
nant at the pusillanimity of her
husban l in not adding his uncertain
to the chorus,
' I hi- .l.iy ■ stag most "li<- ;'
lmt lie escaped by observing that
the air was set rathi r high for
him.
Felix, on the other hand, was by
ii ans loth to 01 a -■■ ln's connec-
with the ' thistle- whippers.'
r having killed Lord S« itchem's
honnd, he had n i particular
i ither the pack or his
lordship again ; and as a keen, bar-
baric desire to hunt and kill was
■ up in bis respectable citizen
soul, my fri< ad turni '1 his attention
to the Btaghonnda He b came ac-
quainted with some gentlemen of
D( 0X681 hunt ; he talked of a
big subscription ; he m ide, with "it
ing my adi ice, l u ge auditions
to his r! circumstance which
had la arlj sundered our fri< ndship ;
th, having h en ask< d to
a bn akfasl which was to celebrate
t in the Boutfa of Kent,
it Mr. Whi at. ai to include me
in the invitation, and togi ther we
A.
The mi bout
from the !'■• < ches ;
and ' 'id our I
lown to the
i noopp irtunity
o! ci iti i ng in a fri< ndlj manner
tew purchase which Mr. Felix
proposed to ride. Next morn
however, saw my friends wago-
nette drive round to the door of his
bouse; and I bad the pleasur
witnessing Mrs. Felix, in the utmost
j of her attire, superin-
tend the disposition of the whole of
her children inside the vehicle, she
bad come forth to witness the
achievements of her lord. She had
just discovered thai Ann d th< I in at
was a famous hunter, and that Ed-
ward tin' Confes ;. loved to
follow a pack of hounds; and she
was striving to determine whether
would liken Mr. Felix to Sir
Walter Tyrrell when her husband
took the reins in his right hand, the
whip in his left, the groom let the
horse's head go free, and away we
Wellt.
But we had not gone *■ mis
wh< n Mr. Felix, fumbling with the
reins, had taken the off wheels of
the wagom fcte on to the lawn. He
v. r< nched at the horse's mouth ;
down t! i in with a I
upon the path ; the her- I iod up-
right on his hind Ii ps for eev< ral
nds, and had ne u ly thrown Mrs.
Felix out ; tin n h- •' with a
I clatter aloi g the gravelled
avenue. Felix flung the whip into
the road, and held on by the reins
with Uith hands ; but the m i\ m >-
mi nt ill, ■ i rific crash, the
w len posl of the ( a hurled
down, Mrs. Felix was tilted ov< c
upon lii r tour children, while her
lu.-i.and, Buddi nl\ resoh ing to sa-
le his dig aity in order to secure
the Mi!et\ ol i is a< ck, b ought
to add 1 1 iy si n ngth to his in holding
the r< ins. Kur the I orse was in
'■ r, although Mrs.
Fel o 'on as he w h d,
hysterically in I npon her hus-
band selling him off-hand for twenty
pounds; while the kept her arms
I in a fiuth i ' uiier
over her children Felix, with his
white lips and trembling Mm
lool- he would have
parted with him for ten ; and with
and r.ithi r comical < ffbrt to
ir solf-p • I, as! id if I
Would ' take tla B bit until ho
The Last Run with the Sta(jhounds<,
505
lit a cigar.' I took the reins, and
he lit the cigar; but as he showed
no signs of eagerness to have them
back again I changed seats with
him, and we placidly drove down
the long, quiet, undulating, and not
unpicturesque road which here cuts
Kent into east and west.
f Oh,' he suddenly cried, 'what
have I done with the whip?'
' The last I saw of it,' I replied,
'was the crop sticking out of a
laurel-hush. People generally do
find a whip held in the left hand
rather in the way.'
' Of course,' he said, with a look
of indifference, but with a rosy
blush — ' of course I held it there
until I should settle in my seat, only
that ugly brute broke away without
giving me a chance.'
And as we passed through the
quaint little villages and along the
pleasant country lanes, symptoms
of the coming hunt began to show
themselves. It was to be a very
fine affair, and all the country-side
had come out to see the show.
Vehicles of every description crept
up hill and rumbled down dale in
the one direction; people came out
from the cottages and houses and
took the same way ; gentlemen on
horseback trotted peacefully by,
taking as little as possible out of
their animals. Then the morning,
which had been rather dismal, gave
promise of better weather ; and as a
few faint shafts of misty light broke
through the dense dull gray of the
south, Mrs. Felix brightened up
wonderfully, and vowed the scenery
was liner than any photographs of
Switzerland she had ever seen.
Felix did not seem so enthu-
siastic.
' How many people would be on
horseback, did you say?' he asked.
' Probably over two hundred.'
' And many spectators ?'
' Half a mile of them: every one
a keen critic, from the ladies in their
carriages to the clodhoppers along
the hedges.'
' Well,' said he, almost savagely,
'you may talk of the fun of putting
up hurdles v for people to jump in
presence of all that crowd; but I
don't see it. I say there are plenty
of hedges and ditches and streams
to bo jumped without adding arti-
ficial dangers to the hunt.'
' But a baby could jump them.'
'I told you before I wasn't a haby,
and if a baby could jump them
what's the use of putting them up?'
'For the amu.-ement of the spec-
tators.'
' What you call amusement I
suppose means a lot of the riders —
perhaps fathers of families— turn-
tiling and breaking their necks.
That may lie amusement; but I
shouldn't think it was for the chil-
dren who were left orphans.'
Mr. Felix spoke quite bitterly,
addressing me as if I had been busy
all night m putting up these trad
lines of fences. Indeed his wife was
shocked by this exhibition of a mor-
bid dread, and rebuked him severely.
' When the Norman princes went
out hunting/ she observed, 'they
not only risked a fall from their
horse, but also being attacked by a
hart at bay, and being shot by an
arrow into the bargain.'
' But I'm not a Norman prince,'
said he, sulkily. ' The Norman
princes were a lot of thieves, and I
wish they had stayed at home.'
Now this was a cruel blow to
Mrs. Felix ; for not only had she a
strong liking for all sportsman-
princes, but some friend of hers had
further assured her that the name
of Felix was an old and honourable
one, and that an application to
Heralds' College would certainly
secure to her husbmd the posses-
sion of a noble ancestry and a neat
crest — perhaps with the motto, 'Fe-
lix, qui potuit.' The discussion,
however, was lost in our approach
to Mr. Wheatear's house— a tall,
peaked building of red brick which
stood some distance down a by-
road. At the point where this road
joined the main road stood a large
inn ; and here were congregated such
clusters of carriages waiting for
sheds, hor-es waiting for stabling,
servants waiting for their masters,
and idlers of all descriptions as to
wholly block up the thoroughfare.
In vain Mr. Felix looked out for his
man. Horses there were of every
shape and colour, and grooms of all
sizes and ages ; but there was no trace
of the right groom and the ri^ht
606
The Lust Run with the Stui/hoitmls.
bora s. Finally it wa - ai 1 1
thai I abould drive Mrs. Felu bo
i ) n >-i t i< >n on the bj road,
wbeuce she mighl Bee her husband's
first il ish awaj a fb r the houn Is,
while he went 111 < ] u*'st i>t his sUi .1.
A In ;i«ly half a mile <>f this ri a 1
occupied hy carriages placed
and overlooking
the course * biota had been chalked,
out for the deer. Thicker clusters,
however, were around those posi-
- win me a good view of the
jumping oould be obtained ; f"< >r
Mr. VVheatear'8 meadows
stretched two long, low lines of
hurdles, over which all intending
huntsmen were expected to leap.
Presently Mr. Felix, coming up,
l >r. nij.' li t with him his groom, who
DOW appointed to look after the
wagonette horse, lest Mis. Felix
should he Frightened during the in-
terval in which her husband would
t break fa 4.
As we slowly wriggled between
iage-whet Is and horses' legs, on
our way hack to Mr. Wheatear's
■ . it was plain that 1 < lil was
\ • i > nervous and not a little angry.
• li'> al! \i ry w< !1,' said he ; ' hut
I don't believe in gentlemen being
iiit like circus-riders tor the
benefit of a lot of ploughmen. I
H isn't sport at all. I wmiiler
they haven't two or three clowns to
maki : and it's a pity the
• lows an n't laid with sawdust.'
■ Ami would you have those ladies
drive nil this way for nothing?
OUght to see a little hit
<>: tin' run.'
'I v, . h the ladies would stay at
home and mind their own business,'
he. snappishly. ' A woman
• look »h iter sitting al a sewing-
hine, making ridiculous cotton
piw i ing in an opt n car-
■ l fool at what
q'1 understand.'
I oould not account for this sud-
den y on the put of the
..•■il. B it cold fowl and
temper won-
illy. A- we w.ii mi d Our way
i igh tin crowd thai I a I pathi red
in Mr. Win ten, and
into plao - at
the i t-table, l rved 1
a milder inlluence began to dawn
upon my friend's lace. He was par-
ticularly polite in passing things to
the master of the hounds, who was
within arm's-length of him lie
Ixughed merrilj at Mr. Wheatear's
joke about tin' spotless scarlet of his
■ ■lit a joke that had done service
in welcoming strangers when Mr.
Wbeatear was a gawky lad who
hung about the doors of his father's
big room on occasions like the pre-
sent. There was another gentleman
to whom Mr. Felix was profusely
civil, handing him all manner of un-
necesparj condiments and superflu-
ous dishes, which the Btranger was
courteous enough to pretend to use.
He, m_\ friend afterwards, with an
awe-struck air, informed me, was
the Due do , who never in,
Mr. Wheatear's meet.
As the champagne flowed more
and more freely Mr. F< Liz grew
more and more courageous. He
said that, after all, there was some-
thing noble in hunting a stag —some-
thing finer than in prowling about
hedges for a misi rable bare. As the
gentlemen rose in turn to propose the
health of the master of the hounds,
the giver of the hii aktast, ami e\i \\ -
body and everything connected with
the hunt, Mr. F< bx applauded the
: pi iidies in a \< ry vehement man-
ner, and informed me privately that
'if it wasn't for fear of the short-
hand-writer who was taking nods,
he Would like to propose the health
of Mr. Wbeatear a second time on
behalf of the strangers prea nt .'
it si eiut d to me that Felix, ill
company with several others, was
rather unsteady in his movem< eta
in going out ofdoors; hut in the
univ( rsal scrimmage of looking for
1 mo s and mounting, this may have
in i n caused by excitement.
' How do yon like my coat ?' he
said, with a watery smile. ' Isn't it
.id shade? oh, there are out
horses. That's my new horse, the
white one. C come hero.
i rliel'
Charlie wa- a white animal, with
a highly-curved Deck, a singular
tail, and sli en;, i y< s. Ik I ki
though the shafts of a cart would ho
no unfamiliar object to him.
'What do you think 1 guvo for
him?' he a.sked.
Tlie Last Bun with the Slaghounds.
507
' Twenty-five pounds.'
' That's all you know about horses,'
he said, contemptuously, as he
struggled into the saddle.
At length the deer-cart, which
had slowly come along the road,
was driven through a gap in the
hedge into the meadow fronting
Wheatear's house ; and immediately
thereafter a dense stream of horse-
men poured through the same
passage. The latter arranged them-
selves in two irregular rows, stretch-
ing across the whole breadth of the
meadow, and waited to see the stag
turned out of that cumbrous, prison-
van-looking vehicle. We heard the
heavy cates being swung open, and
presently a timid little light-grey
creature leaped gently out, and,
turning completely round, first
looked quietly into the cart, and
then calmly regarded us.
' There he is ! there he is !' shouted
everybody.
' Where? where?' cried Felix,
gazing wildly around.
' There, in front of you,' I said to
him.
' That's a donkey,' said he, peer-
ing with half-shut eyes, ' that isn't a
stag.'
'It's all the stag you'll get, sir,'
said his neighbour on the other side,
apparently offended by Felix's con-
temptuous observations.
' Where are his horns, then ?'
The man turned away his head.
He evidently thought that a person
who asked for the sawn-off antlers of
a stag was not worthy of an auswer.
Meanwhile the pretty little animal
which was the object of so much
attention turned his head away from
us, and took a peep at the long line
of carriages and people on the road.
Then he looked at the other side of
the meadow, which was bounded by
a row of trees; and finally, having
made up his mind to quit this
brilliant company, he composedly
trotted away westward. Lightly
and gracefully he hopptd over the
first hurdle, with a fine artistic ab-
sence of effort, and continued his
course. The second hurdle was
passed in the same manner, and
then he broke into a little canter.
Suddenly he stopped and turned
round.
' He's waiting to give the dogs a
chance,' said one.
' He's wondering why we don't
follow,' said another.
The crowd roared and cheered,
some out of derision, others to hasten
him on his course; and as he heard
this unmusical bray of human voices
he set off at a light gallop, and with
a fine, high leap cleared a rather
broad stream which crossed his
path. We could now but catch
glimpses of his grey fur shooting
past avenues among the distant
trees, appearing for a moment on
high ground, and then dipping into
some hollow, until he seemed to
alter his line of route and go away
to the south. At this moment a
large number of renegades, wishing
to shirk the hurdles and overtake
the hounds by a cross-cut, retired
from the meadow and took to the
main road, which led pretty much
in the direction the stag was sup-
posed to have taken.
'Don't you think we should go
with them ?' said Felix to me, very
timidly.
' But what would Mrs. Felix think
of you ?' I said.
' True,' he replied, rather mourn-
fully ; ' I had forgotten her.'
Then he "burst into a somewhat
forced laugh.
' What's a tumble, after all !' he
cried.
' Oh, nothing.'
' Besides, Charlie is said to be a
nice easy jumper — comes clown with
all his feet at once on the other side.
I say, haven't these ten minutes ex-
pired yet ? I don't consider it proper
to give the deer so great a start ; it is
cruelty to the horses to put such a
strain upon them.'
The ten minutes had just expired
when the dogs were turned into the
meadow. Almost immediately they
hit off the scent, and, with a joyful
cry, were across the field and clam-
bering over the first hurdle, whither
the two lines of horsemen straight-
way followed them. Felix cast one
look in the direction of Iris wife and
children, and, with his teeth set
hard, pressed into the heart of the
great, rushing, noisy throng that
now went full tilt at the artificial
fence. Over they went, one here
508
V ■ Lnxt Hun with lii> Slagliounds.
and there striking heavily
top Bpar.two ortl ree coming lightly
n I, and it t ». » 1 1 1 half a
dozen undergoing the pleasant ex-
peri* i. x of a i' fusal, to the no small
delight "!' tli.' crowd. Among t'
last was Mr Felix, whose Bleepy-
eyed animal had rushed straight at
tlif hnrdli -. and, wheeling round,
had several) bruised Ins rid< r's fool
against the ■ p
'At .1 ,_ i ii, old mi !' shoute 1 a
lot of little boys, with that i asy
• i p l( strians when
u boreemai] gets into trouble.
.Mr. Felix, clenching his teeth
still harder, did goat it again, riding
fairly at tin; hurdles; then, jus! as
liis horse was about to swerve, he
wri nchi 1 :it Irs head and simply
drovi ■ through the S] ars,
while he himself was seen the n<'xt.
moment to : ed ungracefully
on t • animal, which
with trembling legs
among the splintered wood. Mad-
d< ip d v je, Felix struggled
ward into I I cut
int.! his rcely with spur and
whip, i Felix was
posted near t [ i I Sight of
hurd i there still rem tine l a
chance for her husband to distin-
■ ; 3. How
he did this second Ii ap I
had nol an opportunit; ing ;
• ilij afterwards thai
s hi of Mrs. Felix, who
• for joy, he rose well and
jump gallautly at I e
! Id be aided,
al.-o, t * . : 1 1 my frien«l's triumph was
enh meed by t' ' thai two or
thn •■ r repeated refusals,
thi r from the
! riders.
i ing tal<< n a pretty
straight rather
■•i thinned tho
men ; and for a
: Felij was to b
witl iml 'i r Of ■-•
en up. At the
wi re not
•
hundred who I to be
with thi I about
i k of Mr. ]
and li, :
By-and-by it 1 1 vident that
the stag had tun ed his head ( ast-
ward ; and ' Bj Joi I »me
• he must b iv< ight
through Tonbridge l 1 The surmise
turned out to be correct ; the d
■ r once, taking to id, had
straight through a d< use dou-
ble line of carriages and nobulous
horsi men, who, ha\ h g tried toovi r-
the hunt by this near cut, had
almost tilled the main thoroughfare
(if the town. A> the i iders who hud
really followed the hounds ndw
came cantering up, covered with
perspiration and blowing like por-
poises, the pood villagl IS eh i r d
them on their way, and s l out( d
with derisive laughter after r
who unhlushingly joined them.
Among tic latter was a gentleman
who had been quietly drinking a
glass of ale in front of t lie ' Bull;' .nA
no sooner did this person i" rot ive
me than he rode up to mj sido.
' Fou'vea fri< nd on a white hoi
he asked.
' Who sat next yon at breakfast
1 Yes.' I repli( d. with sni,.. alarm,
fearing to hear of Mr. Felix's Budden
(hath.
' Well,' he said. With n smile, ' ho
was with me a l< w m mites npo
when t! came up the st
ai.d, in spite of all 1 could do, he
Btarted off io pursuit IK' wouldn't
wait for the hounds ; lie BSJ I they
would nvi i take him in plenty of
time. I ir frit nd been out
befoi
' Not with the staghounds/ 7 said.
' I thought so,' he a. Med, w ith a
1 1 aliar look, ' for 1 never saw a
man BO d( t. rmined to have the
Chasing of the deer llll to himself.
lie 1 1 1 ins to considi r hounds a nui-
sam
Mr. Felix, however, was BOOD for-
gotten in the universal clamour and
hurry. Ti e day wa ■ d< •■Ian d, with
many an nnn< i ejaculation,
to be the lint st of th( i. for the
• hail Dever taki n to the road
pt during his la iel \ isit to Ton-
b] i ge, and the iod, and
the hounds ran famoUi ly, and the
■, | y thinned, so
to avoid thi ty of being
riddt n over, and evi r ly (who
The Lad Run with the Staghouuds.
509
could keep up with the paco) was
jubilant with a strange ami tingling
jny. The course was singularly
straight, leading almost in a direct
lino over garden -land and meadow,
down into moist, deep glades anil
up the sides of trying hills, through
park, and wood, and field and fal-
low, until we had returned to our
starting-point, passed it, and were
away far to the north. At length
the hounds, running by the side of
a house, led us down a valley, to
get into which we had to ride along
a narrow by-path. As we rounded
the corner we saw that the main
road led up and over the tall hill on
the other side of the hollow; and
on this road, a considerable distance
ahead of the hounds, stood a man
in a scarlet coat. He set up a joy-
fid halloo upou seeing us, and,
breaking through the hedge, pro-
ceeded to come down the steep in-
cline at a pace dangerous for even
an expeiienced rider.
' Why, that's your friend,' said
the man who had formerly spoken
to me ; ' he is in luck's w r ay to-day.'
The hounds had just time to pass
when Felix arrived at the bottom of
the hollow ; and, as we came up, it
was evident that this down-hill pace
had been none of his making. His
white horse had, on hearing the
bounds, taken him away in spite of
himself, and now went crash into a
small hedge which the others were
about to jump. The brute stuck
there; but Felix, scarcely a second
afterwards, found himself lying on
the bank of a ditch on the other
side of the hedge, his hat smashed,
his whip gone, and scarcely power
left within him to open his eyes.
' Give me some sherry,' he gasped,
as I got down ; ' I'm afraid this is
my last jump.'
His face was deadly pale, and
from the utterly I elpless way in
which he lay extended on the car-
peting of matted primroses, wild
hyacinths, and dandelions, I fancied
that he had really injured himself
internally.
' Tell my wife she's provided for,'
he moaned, after having gulped
down some sherry.
* Why, get up !' I said to him ;
' you're not hurt, are you ?'
'You'll look after my children; I
know you will,' he said, faintly,
shutting his eyes; 'and don't let
Jade #o out on the pony any more.'
' Where are you hurt?'
'All over,' he said, in a sort of
ghastly whisper.
In order to inspire him with some
sort of courage, I insisted that he
could not be hurt, having fallen
on this soft and opportune bank ;
and fiually helped or dragged him
to his feet despite his repeated
moans. I persuaded him to use his
limbs one by one, and made him
confess that no bones were broken.
'But what are bones?' he said,
plaintively ; ' it isn't the breakage
of bones that kills men, but injury
to the lungs, or heart, or liver, or
something. And I feel as if I was
shaken to pieces inside.'
' Mr. Felix,' said I, ' you know
how much I esteem you. At the
same time I can't w 7 ait any longer,
and cut off my chance of ever seeing
the bounds again. If you get on
your horse — he waits for you quietly
enough— you will find jourself all
right, and you may yet distinguish
yourself.'
'No,' he said, shaking his head
sadly ; ' I have had enough for to-
day. I shall have to ride home now ;
but if I find myself growing weak,
I shall call at Graham's and stay
there for the night.'
He mounted his horse in a melan-
choly manner, and very slowly and
very carefully walked the animal up
the hill down which he had come so
rapidly. As he disappeared round
the corner of the road, he waved his
fingers with a frail hilarity, and I
saw him no more.
But as it is the fortune of Mr.
Felix with which we are chiefly
concerned, it may be better to
follow him and look at the stag-
hunt from his point of view. The
house in which he proposed, in case
of feeling very ill, to pass the night,
w r as about a dozen miles from the
scene of his mishap ; and by the
tin e he had reached it the long
solitary ride had greatly depressed
his spirits. He resolved, at least,
to enter and rest himself, leaving
the question of his night's lodging
for further consideration. Fortu-
510
Thr Last Run irith ihr Slaghounda.
Dately >Tr. Graham was at home;
mi. I ill liis fraud's dining room Mr.
\, with the help of a little wine,
; himself again. Doris
was coming on ; and our hero be-
guiled the I issitudeof the afterno in
i.\ a hist >rj of Ms morning's advi n-
ture.
Soddenly a terrific crush was
heard outside; a succession of
shrill screams followed ; and the
next moment there was a pattering
of hoots across the lawn, an I the
of a tailing traj in Mr. Gra-
ham's hall. The whole party started
up and rnshed to the win low, where
they beheld an awful scene of devas-
tation. The glass frame-work of a
fine conservatory was smashed to
pieces, and lay in splinters and
fragmi nts ap m t e path, while
trailing stem- of vines, potted g< ra-
liiiims and azaleas, and innumerable
gri en-honse plants lay heaped to-
il C ami i shreds of earth) nwaro.
Mrs. ( iraham was the Aral to dart to
the door ; and she had SCarCi Is done
bo when, with a loud Bhrii k, she
tnmbli l hack into the room
' Oh, George ! she cried, ' there's
— there's some creaturt m the hall !'
< :. orge, rushing to the door, and
expi cting to meet a vision of some
horrible being with eyes of fire and
cloven hoofs, found himself con-
fronted by the very Btag which
Mr. Felix had vainly attempted to
follow ; while at tile S One moment
there came the cry of the hounds
which m ie now coursing along the
garden-path. Mr. Graham's hall
would soon have tw come a slaughter-
house, had not the gardener, alarmed
by the crash of the conservatory,
come running forward from the out-
side, and at once comprehending the
■•ion, darted to the ball-door
nnd shut iii t ■• deer. But wdiat to
do with the frightened animal which
was so eucagi d '.' Had it lx < 1 1 a
ished tiger at hay, the pi ople
ill the house colli I 001 have In on
more alarmed ; and for a time Mr.
Felix and Iih fl nt. nted
then ping round t l e
corner of the dr wm door at
the unfbrtun ite hco I , n Inch i\ I
panting and trembling by the
ot the nmbrella ttana. In time,
.- r, the garden r came to the
ie, and, with the assistance of a
■hi, threw ■ rope over the stag'd
hi ad and secured him.
Such was the position of affairs
whi n I again came in view of Mr.
Felix, who now pass. d outside to
meet the members of the hunt. 1 1 ■
had taken care to put on his hat ;
and doubtless most of us fancied
him a terrible fellow to have beaten
the very hounds in the run.
• All right, gentlemen,' he said,
blandly, ' he's safe and sound, and
ready for another day as soon as
\ ii want him '
But Mr. » iraham, comin.tr forward,
and discovering who was the masti r
of the hounds, began to -make a
grievous complaint about the demo-
lition of his conservatory. He be-
came quite aiiKry. He vowed that
no money could recompense him for
the loss of rare plants he had sus-
tained ; and that, for the mere break-
age of glass and so forth, five gun
were the least he would take
' And unless I get the five guineas/
said he, 'you don't get your stag ;
that's all.'
Now the master did not happen
to have any money at all with him ;
and it was with tic t diffi-
culty that he was enabli d to gather
by subscription the sum of 4/. roa.
' I don't believe the whole pi
is worth five pounds/ said the
master, with a great oath ; ' hut
here, sir, as you bring your shop
with you from London down into
the country, I'll give yoa +2. 10*.
for the article, and if you're not
satisfied '
1 Then I shall 1x3 reapon ible for
the rest,' observed Mr. Felix, with a
grand air.
As we rode off to the ni arest inn
to order some dinner, Mr. Felix
came to me, an 1 said, coaxingly —
' You'll come home wiih me and
stay Over the night at our place?
And, you know, yon needn't say
anything to Mrs. Felix ah ml my
being in the house w hen the di 1 r
was taken. Lei her Buppose I rode
all the way with the hounds -she
will like it, 1 know. Women do
feel gratified by such trifles; and
what's the harm of B little hit of
innocent deception '.'
.V. B.
Iti'Mi '1 I
CHERED IN HOSES.
[ >i e id'' I'oei
J
w
511
SMOTHERED IN ROSES,
YES ; charity, T know, may hide
A multitude of sins ;
But there's a proverb to decide
Where charity begins.
Should mine in future contemplate
A journey anywhere,
Twill be a ball — a play — a fete —
And not a Fancy Fair.
The girls are all so very bold —
'J he men so very rash —
So many trifles must be sold,
And all for ready cash.
You* 11 find, when once .vou come to coiuri
The gruneas here and there,
It costs a pretty large amount
To see a Fancy Fair.
Three-quarters of the things they sell
Are not a bit of good—
(One can't refuse, though, very well,
And wouldn't, if one could).
They have such voices and such curls,
And such a winning air —
About a dozen pretty girls
May work a Fancy Fair.
They hunt a fellow round and round,
They track him up and down ;
They sell him portraits at a pound,
And roses at a crown ;
Scent, purses, pocket-books, and rings-
Pomatum for the hair —
And fifty other little things
That stock a Fancy Fair.
I'm not particularly shy,
As even bo ly knows, —
And yet I am obliged to buy
Whatever they propose.
I've been so often overcome,
That now 1 only dare
To take a very modest sum
To any Fancy Fair.
They little know, or little feel
What injuries they do:
A wound upon the purse may heal,
But hearts are wounded too.
This damage done by lips and eyes
Is more than I can bear ;
So, charity, take any guise
Except a Fancy Fair. H. S. Leigh.
51 2
WHAT'S IX THE PAPERS?
. Tin-: i viK c. II. Bennett.)
\\ ' 9 fir as matt i- of in-
u • arecon-
tirelj depoo is upon yoar
own pecaliar hobbj : but, if you
arc men ly anxious to learn the c
i : - Daily I
graph,' 'Standard, Morning
Star,' as a matter of statistics in
journalism, I can sum them up and
dive you the result in a twinkling.
ling articli s, t p >rts, critiques ;
intelligi nee on milita d, 8p >rt-
an 1 mercantile i
c 'it 3| on lence, adv< nts, and
padding. If you c in find not!
whatever to amuse you in any of
these departmei m ij just as
well give up the study of news-
pap re for ever, ami stick to the
sal iif fiction for the remainder
■ in- days. I am fully convinced,
for my own part, that a belief in
reality is fatal to the ■ xercise of the
fancy: [ only put my faith n things
thai cannot by any possibility
provi I, and I am cons* quently
I oked upon (l>y ])c iple who don't
kn >\v any bi tier) as an eth<
<ln amer tureof wild imagin-
ings - a lnii . aspiratii
ther than a
practical and well-conducted young
•n. It is not, h . the
wish of in to imi
Lor l Bj r >n, and wi a irmous
amoui . hair. 'I lie pre*i nt
in its own doings c >n-
how it
hence the enormous de-
mand for in w.-i apers.
I always make a point of reading
ticular organ of opinion
in bed ; and, having perused it
ry cnrefully,
I throw it down and give mys< If up
to a luxnrion • criticism on all that
■ much in
my line, as 1 I tted ;
but S raid
know Bomi thing ol •. on
in the wi irld . and I d
II with To-night,
]n rli ip- during the inti
the mazy waltz or tin I ning
p I shall find mysell m want
of a subj( rt on which to breathe
soft nothings to ray delightful
partner. 1 shall probably dine this
■ \' ninir. in th" most intellectual
company, and I wish to be particu-
larly terse and aminatio on
curnnt events. . gp ip, r
obviously supplies me with mate-
rials for the exhibition of my con-
versational acquirements; and 1 am
enabled, by perusing it in bed, fully
to digesl its vari< d
hoily's repose is propitlOUS to tllO
mind's exertion ; and I have long
discovered thai my brain is
nev< r so active as win n re timing
on my downy pillow. Try t > i
a paper during breakfast, in tho
train, or mi the omni >ns : you can-
not concent rite your intellect upon
the task. It is merely one dufy
amongst the many that you have to
perform during the day. Peruse
it in bed, and it become s y hit
pation — the only interval be-
tween real and labour,— the neutral
mil that separates dreaming
from doing. Never tell me i ; at you
cannot afford tl - I Let
the servant wake you half an hoUJ
ire yon me in to]
The read( rs of a newspaper are
as various in th ir choice of topic- as
the topics theiiisch
to ) heavy for some of them, and
nothing too light for others. There
are people in this world. I In I.
who t ike a f< rvid in ten st in the
precise time of high water at Lon-
don Bridge; yet htgh water and
low are ta ith rs of profound indif-
ference to most of ur. The m neral
n adi i can s very little about ships
that have arrived and ships that
have sailed ; yi t the departure o
i \eiy Bhip I i in my
people very anxious unci the arrival
of every ship n: i I many
people m y\ happy. The advei
ments that begin with ' Wan 1
have never en B i I much iiii rot in
the ba mi of your humble orvanl ;
they are do our< d with con-
I'V p ior folks
out of employment. It i- not at all
Druum hy the lute 0. U. Bauwtt.
VOL. aI. —NO. LXVI.
WHAT'S IN THE PAPERS ?
s L
514
W7tif* iu (ke Paper* f
a common thing for the rea ler of a
newspaper to occupy the ceutre of
indifference on every subject con-
tained in it
\\V all pr >fe8S to entertain strong
opinions on the question of politics
and those whocultivate
the most moderate principles ap-
I" a- t<> be the most outrageous in
their talk. I always fig il i itremely
shy of u in m who tells me tlmt he
is a Lib ral-Conser native, because
I feel certain thai he intends to
net npon his bind legs and argue.
Ee reminds me of Mr. Facing-both-
way>. in the ' Pilgrim's Progress.' 1
like ;i Btanch I ' mservative, anil I
lore an enthusiastic Liberal. Only
1, t a man be black or white ; this
whitey-brown school of politics is
more, than I ean bear. The num-
ber of respectable householders in
London who firmly believe that
the' British Empire would go to
smithereens unless they had fre-
quent opportunities of stating their
private impressions respecting its
■ must lie something ab-
solutely enormous. They deliver
themselves of their pet theories on
all possible occasions, and very
ofb a l-arn a considerable portion of
previ his night's Parliamentary
debab - by heart. The conduct of
Lord Stanley in the ' Tornado' busi-
,iii I the behaviour of Mr. W'al-
pole respecting the demonstration
in il, le Park, must have Bel folks
disputing in very nearly everj c i
room anil eating-house in town.
newspaper, Btudent who reads
tics for their own sake, gene-
rally contrives to make himself
thoroughly master of his facts. His
deductions, l need scarcely tell yon,
ar. illy erroneous ; but the
opponent who rashly attempts to
confute his logic is generally suffer-
ing from a loose Bcrew in his own
tements. When one party in an
argument can only ri .anil the
r can mi!.. m, aconsi lerable
amount of p Lib ly to
Ikj lost in talk.
The gentleman who pays the Kino
.\i ( - the gra leful compliment of
,.,,:•. couple of them
[tent, gives Ins first
glance to the critiques. The Royal
Academy, ami the French and
Flemish Exhibition are absorbing
topics for him : he is quite capable
of forming his own opinion on pic-
tures, but he is nevertheless rather
anxious to discover what the verdict
of a professional critic may happen
to be. lb- likes to find himself sup-
ported by authority, and so he
Btudies the daily papers as well as
the weekly reviews. He welcomes
with joy the latest news regarding
operas and c tnoerts. The not
of new plays have a singular fasci-
nation for him, whether he believes
or not in the decline of the drama.
It gives him huge gratification to
be told that Miss T. performed with
her usual tenderness and {.'race m
the three-act comedy produced
somewhere last night, or that Miss
F. was the life and soul of Mr.
s imebodys latest burlesque. He is
perhaps acquainted personally with
a popular actor — in which case he
possesses a strong qualification for
becoming a consummate bore, both
amongst those who are acquainted
with several popular actors, and
amongst those who are acquainted
with none at all. Whenever his
friend happens to be spoken well of
in the papers he announces the fact
with immense triumph in every
circle that he pervades, to the un-
bounded joy of his listeners, lie
succeeds now and then in picking
up very small pieces of green-room
gossip. A certain aotresa is going
to Ikj married; or a certain actor
appears before the public under an
assumed name (his proper one h
Smith or Jones, probably); and
these infinitesimal scandals are
whispered about with every demon-
stration of profound sagacity, until
their garrulous chronicler has gra-
dually come to be looked upon by
tho weak-min led as an oracle in
dramatic affairs. His interest in tho
papers is greatly heightened by his
knowledge of the names of the
critics, if you are ever unlucky
enough to go to the theatre in his
company on the first night of a new
piece, he will point you out ' The
Tunes,' ' Telegraph/ and ' star,'
knowingly.
The mercantile gentleman turns
at once to the money article of his
favourite organ. He is an eminently
practical man, sir, and hits been
occupied during several years of his
What's in the Papers ?
51-'
life in trying to spell some pretty
word out of the three letters L, S,
and D. He reads his paper in an
omnibus or a railway carriage (first
class) on his way to his place of
business. The B.C. postal district
is to him a garden in which he
gathers money all the day, like a
busy bee. Politics interest him in-
asmuch as they influence the funds.
He is at present a Conservative, if
anything : in the days of his clerk-
ship, a long time ago, his tendency
was towards the most pronounced
Eadicalism. On seventy or eighty
pounds per annum, one must be a
Eadical, you see ; Conservative prin-
ciples cannot be nourished at the
price. Except the City intelligence,
there is very little in the paper to
amuse our commercial friend ; but
he glances at the police reports
when he gets to his chop-house, in
the middle of the day, because read-
ing is favourable to the process of
digestion. He likes to hear about
fraudulent bankrupts; and a go id
big forgery is meat and drink to
him for several clays.
To the lounger, pur et simple, the
most seductive portion of a daily
paper is its padding. This is the
technical word made use of to
describe those little scraps of general
information, and odds and ends
which are introduced at the foot of
a column in order to fill it up.
They are almost endless in their
variety ; and some such headings
as the following may generally be
looked for amongst them : —
Singular Discovery of Human
Remains in a Chalk Fit.
Tlie Bombay Mails.
Daring Robbery in the South of
France.
Progress of the Metropolitan Im-
provements,
Fatal Termination to a Practical
Joke.
Remarkable Atmospheric Pheno-
menon in Devonshire.
These entertaining morsels very
often go the round of the London
papers, and end by going out starring
in the provinces. They are exceed-
ingly useful as topics for small-
talk; and I should advise all diners-
out who feel their intellects insuf-
ficient for grappling with questions
of importance to devote a con-
siderable quantity of their spare
time to the study of padding. Plenty
of amusement can also be obtained
from the perusal of those mysterious
advertisements which entreat some-
body to return to his disconsolate
wife, or treat of 'an elderly man
who left his home last week in
a blue coat with brass buttons, a
wide-awake hat, and a pair of patent-
leather boots He was last seen at
the British Museum, and is sup-
posed to be insane ' It is interest-
ing, too, to know that ' X received
the 5?., and will be happy to hear
from Z again ;' or that some in-
curable maniac has been sending
money to the Chancellor of the
Exchequer on account of unpaid
income-tax. The cynic will find
food for conversation in the an-
nouncement headed, 'Wanted a
Governess.' The immense prices
given for education just now are
amongst the most encouraging signs
of the times.
But it is quite impossible to ex-
haust the types of people who take
delight in the newspajjer — from
the Minister of the Crown who is
anxious to see whether his oration
of last night in Parliament is cor-
rectly reported, to the sympathetic
burglar who desires to know how
his bosom friend conducted himself
yesterday before the Bow Street
' beak.' \ have only tried to sketch
three or four of the most earnest
readers, and I must leave you to
exercise your own powers of obser-
vation upon the rest.
H. S. L.
-«?
a L a
616
i:.\i'i:i;ii.nci:s on dartmoor.
ri^EEB other day I Baw in a ma-
1 gazine the narrative of ii chi-
valrous gentleman who, one lino
rnoon, walked straight across
Dartmoor, and forthwith worked
np hi- advi ntnree into an articles of
fifteen pagi a I waa not surprised
to hear thai narrative rather severely
criticized, when I have been out on
the moor; and I am bound to say
that Dartmoor can hardly be ap-
pn dated or understood by a single
peiegrination. I have been fchew
..nioiis occasions, and, so far as
we may venture to speak of future
I 08, I intend to go on various
aons mora I will veuturo to
some of my < speriencea, so far
as they have gone, premising that,
whatever they may be worth, they
bond fide, and acquired with
sane little oosl and care, and I will
take them in their order.
A large proportion of my readers
rmist have I ravelled npon the South
ay. 1 1, inll> :iiy hue of
rail presents the traveller with scenes
tefa variety and beauty. When
you have left Bxminster behind yon
the estuary I'.xe bl into a
wide arm of the sea on the left, and
on the right you have Powderh«m
md the broad park oi
Karl of I levon. A tittle further on,
line directly skirts the Bhore
Looking out of the window on the
you might fancy yourself on
I railway to Y< nice, or on tho
i icross Klorecombe Bay. Sou
presently come to a fine 1 ouse, to
which a curious story belongs,
re was a g< ntli man who, irri-
I 1 beyon I expression by railway
expansion, sought out i I
glade in I h vonshire near the pn
ol Dawlish. Bui this
; i ii- cut straight be-
n his windon - and the - i, and
j-ii i ipaodi d into a fashion-
able wah iin. | • i
story, tinuly believed in the neigh-
: hood, i- the g< ntleman
died of a broken heart x*bu take
• i before you arrive
fewton Juncti in, but betwi i u
i Plymouth you |
; igfa bod y pretty com
Yon will not fail to bo particular!)
impressed by the viaduct of perilous
altitude which spans the deep gli U
of Ivy bridge, as 1 Burveyed the
mass of preen foliage below, with
the shady walks cut between, and
saw the silvery gleam of the stream
rushing downwards to the mill, I
thought that the s -cue fully n i
ull that I had heard of Devonian
beauty, and I registered an inten-
tion of making it a visit one of these
days. Here I was told the lino
had really reached Dartmoor, and
it skirted, like a terrace, at a con-
siderate elevation, the high moor-
land region. The wild, barren moor
is everywhere girdled by a region
of peculiar beauty, and the deep,
romantic, valley, spumed by the
viaduct, Is one of its outposts, and
may be claimed as belonging to the
moor itself.
I subsequently made a visit to
[vybridge from Plymouth, which
is chiefly memorable to me as form-
ing the beginning of my exporii
on Dartmoor. The glen was every
whit as beautiful on a morethoro gh
acquaintance as when I contem-
plated it from the railway. It is
curious to & mtemplate the r til way
from the glen, which seems
pended between tho h< awn and the
earth on BO airy a heighl and BO
narrow a causeway that it is al-
I a wonder that the Si rce moor-
land wind has not blown it away.
The imp tuoue Btn am. 1 discovered,
was calli d the Ernie, and the n i
of Ivybj i from an old bridge
that spans it, once embowered in
ivy, and remarkable as being situ-
ated in four parishes. There is
quite a little town here, and B
considerable paper-mills, txith of
which yon are glad to leave behind
yon to explore the glen of the Ernie.
it was a still siiuiiinr evening, and
beyond encountering a in le pair
of lovers, I was entire!) solitary in
■.nods. There wen some lovely
walks cut Miit, the same that ar-
I m\ longing ga/.e from the
stuffy rail svay c . and it was
a COU t.i'ii aiuii eiiient to try and
ford the Brine by the rod.: and
Experiences on Dartmoor.
517
stones ngiinst which its current is
constant ly chafing. Near the village
the glen is laid out almost with the
regularity of a park, but as yon
explore the river it gradually loses
this character. It became lonely
and romantic, wild and pathless.
You find dwarfed oak trees clustered
with golden moss on the rocky
slopes, and on one side of the stream
there is a dreary hill ' the haunt
of a lazy echo.' You come to an-
cient rings of stones and granite
tors, and are soon out on the wild
moor. I have been vehemently
urged to perform the journey be-
tween Princeton and Ivybridge,
and I verily believe that this is the
proper thing to do. But I ap-
proached Princeton on another oc-
casion and in a different way.
I must, however, first record a
preliminary failure. I became a
me nber of a local association which
was a kind of British Association on
a reduced scale, It had a meeting
at Tavistock, where Earl Russell read
the inaugural address, and thesociety
broke itself up into alphabetical sec-
tions, ate, drank, and speechified, and
finally proposed to send out an ex-
ploring party to investigate a district
of the moor. But the weather was
un propitious, and the association
only attended to such parts of its
programme as could be transacted
within doors. Undaunted by this
failure, a week or two later I at-
tempted an exploration single-
handed. I now believe, though I
did not think of it at the time, that
I incurred some little risk.
I loitered on the bridge over the
Tavy at Tavistock, admiring the
sparkling and shadowed river, which
here forms a cascade and skirts
the old Abbey walk. It was four
or five o'clock in a September
afternoon, and I calculated that I
could easily walk from Tavistock
to Prineetown. I was unacquainted
with the difficult character of the
road, and had also left out of the
calculation that I had been wauder-
ing for miles that morning among
the lawns and groves of Eudsleigh,
and had also had a long drive, and
so my powers of endurance had
already been rather heavily taxed. I
started, however, with good courage,
through the pleasant countryside on
the east of Tavistock. Gradually
the cultivated ground faded off into
the moorland. On one side of the
road cultivation was pushed further
than on the other ; but agricultural
efforts became sparse, less and le-s
satisfactory, and presently ceased.
I felt fatigued ; and the few speci-
mens of gigmanity which I en-
countered were travelling in a direc-
tion contrary to my own. The road
was good, however. I felt als > the
invigorating effects of Dartmoor air
and water- Wonderful air and
water! I had no notion that these
common blessings could attain to so
rare a quality. As for the air, they
say that no one brought up in Dart-
moor air was ever known to die of
a consumption ; and the water more
than rivalled my favourite draughts
at Loch Katrine. A canopy of misty
cloud was over me ; but below and
beyond the cloud I saw in the dis-
tance the red sunlight illuming the
villas and meadows of Tavistock I
came presently to a rude little way-
side hostel, where it was grateful to
rest for a few minutes. A few
minutes was all that I could allow
myself, for I must not be benighted
on the moor. As I left the lonely
inn, a person who may be con-
ventionally described as a ' rough-
looking customer' volunteered his
company, and I, not being proud,
consented. It is quite upon my
conscience that I have not shown a
proper sense of gratitude to that
' rough -looking customer.' He com-
bined, I discovered, the professional
character of a mason, with the Bo-
hemian tastes of a tramp He had
tramped, he told me, from Penz nee
to London, and he evinced a very
keen sense of the varied character of
the scenery which he had traversed.
But he especially interested me with
his account of the road over which
we were passing ; and, so far as I
have been able to test his state-
ments, I have found them perfectly
correct.
1 It was a dangerous road,' he
said. The straight path and the
firm road— so different from the
average Devonshire lane, which is as
dirty as it is picturesque, — hardly
seemed to confirm the assertion.
r,i8
E.i [nru ncex ON DortmOOfk
'Only ft twelvemonth ago, on nn
evening as might be this, only
darker, later, and dirti< r, a school-
master of Princetown, who knew
every inoh of the way, fell down,
baffled and exhausted, and died
win iv he Ml. I'll' re were some
-t. 'ii- 9oldiers too, who came down
i Plymouth, and made rare that
they could march all night. They
were overwhelmed in a snow-drift
and perished. It was in the winter
ih it all the horrible things hap-
1' ni '1 ; ami there was scarcely ever
a winter without them. In the
summer, if you were lost on tlio
moor, it was but t«> lie down and
p till morning. IK' had done BO
ral timea, and had been nothing
the worse for it.' We hinted to the
friendly tramp that lie had probably
been the worse for liqnor. Friendly
tramp, in a burst of confidence, ad-
mitted flat this ha I been the case.
II- rememtx nil, a number of years
og a very affecting sight at
that little inn. ' It was a dreary
winter, and the mow lay deep on
tin- ground, and the mads were
simply impassable The man who
hid tin- gov< rnment contract for
meat to supply Dartmoor prison
id hiwiBftif unable to deliver the
stores. Ih' a-1.' d the governor
whether, if he oould bring them as
far as tins wayside inn, the governor
would let a detachment of convicts
I him at the inn and convey the
provisions to the prison. The
1 1 r coi -• nted : and at tho
appointed time about a dozen con-
victs w< re there under a guard.
'They Bet about then- work uncom-
d well. Well, sir, he was a good-
natured chap, that butcher, and lie
1 the governor whether ho
ive the fellows some liquor,
they were working bo hard and
the we il r. I'- rbaps
it was wh.it had iicvi r hap]'
the governor said that
might have balf-a-pint of 1" at
Lor, sir! it would have
done your heart g i d
the poor f< Hows o
hadn't .-• ■ n BUCfa B
thing !"i' man;, a I r. X*OU
■ ild just n how thoy
tasi I • i I over il
le quite a piece of business with
the half-pint. Big blaokguards tlum
convicts, sir. Bui there was a sad
business only last night A poor
woman came all the waj from Liver-
pool to see her Inisli.ind ; an I when
she came she found that onl\ a few
days before he had been drafted off
into some other convict establish-
ment She was liked t-> have gone
Btraight Off. They comforted her
up a hit, and there was a sum of
money subscribed fur her. You may
see the convicts anywhere almost
working about the roads. Some-
times the] escape; bul there's very
little chance for them. Tiny are
lost upon the moor, and haven't
a notion what to do with then selves.
Besides, I'm told that there's a
tower within the prison, where con-
stantly there's one or two men
■watching all the country round to
see if there's any escape attempted.
And what would tin' poor fell<
do in a wild country like this? They
wouldn't know where to go to.
They've wandered about until they
have surrendered to the tirst child
or old man who would take tlum.
Thi re's a pood reward offered by
government for any escaped con-
vict, and any one would be glad to
(am it. The only chaii !e the poor
fellows have is to gi t t-> e garden
where clothes are banging out, and
manage to sh al something that will
conceal thi' yellow clothes.' tie pro-
ceedi d to complain that the con-
victs had less labour and better fare
than labourers, an. I were allowed t"
leave off work ami go under sheds
if it rained. Here, however, my
tramping friend was guilty of an
anachronism. The t i i good diet
was very much the pa e a few y< ars
ago ; but since then a';, rations I
been made which go, 1 think, into
the ot! er i streme. When l ask, ,i
■ Sunday ev< ning what the con-
' had bad during tin daj , 1 W8I
told th.it it h id onlj I", n hi' ad and
water, and a little clu < ■< . As for
the consideration shown them in bad
weather, which I did no! hear much
of afterwards, it is I ioll< cted
that Dartmoor is a . natorium for
invalid pri many of them
chest-cases, and it would not do to
' cpose them to what might Ikj a
real peril. My friend told me a
Experiences on Dartmoor*
519
marvellous story which exactly re-
peated Hogarth's Two Apprentices:
— Two young fellows had been work-
men together, and lived in the same
room. They separated, and, after
the lapse of years, they met again ;
one of them as the governor of the
prison, and the other as one of the
convicts within its walls. More
probable were cases of which he
told me where convicts, within a
very short time after their rehase,
had been brought back again, wholly
bent upon denying their identity.
That is not so easily done, as there
is a regular photographic institution
at the prison, and each convict has
his portrait taken twice, of which
one copy is left in the prison, and
the other is sent to the locality
where the released criminal is sup-
posed to be about to proceed.
Thus, with various discourse, we
beguiled the way. The last hues of
sunset vanished much earlier than
I had calculated ; a heavy mist
came down. My companion pro-
posed a short cut, to which, not
without trepidation, I consented,
but which brought us all right.
It was quite dark before we entered
Princeton, so dark, indeed, that one
could hardly see the way ; most easy
would it have been for any traveller
to miss the high road. When we
got to the inn I requested my friend
to take his beer into the tap-room
to my score ; but on looking back
on that dark evening, the heavy
mist, the unknown path, my state
of thorough fatigue, I wonder very
much what I should have done
without his friendly aid, and am by
no means sure that I did not incur
some risk. I wish I had asked that
fellow to have had some supper,
and given him something hot, and
cultivated his better acquaintance.
But, singularly enough, I believed
it occurred to neither of us at the
time that anything more had hap-
pened than casual companionship
on a dark, tiring road.
At my hostel I found my carpet
bag, which had gone on a day be-
fore, and which contained my ' Mur-
ray.' I found that Murray had got
quite a sensation sentence about
Prince's Town. 'It is situated at
least 1400 feet above the level of the
sea, at the foot of N. Hessary Tor
(alt. 1730 feet), and is surrounded
on all sides by the moor, which
comes in unbroken wildness to the
very door of the inn. With such
dismal scenery the hotel is in keep-
ing ; its granite walls are grim and
cheerless, but the windows com-
maiid an imposing sweep of the
waste, and this w ill be an attraction
to many travellers. It is truly im-
pressive to gaze upon this desolate
region when the wind is howling
through the lonely village and the
moon fitfully shining.' I am bound
to say that, however cheerless the
exterior, within doors things weie
paiticularly bright and cheerful,
and my account for the four days I
sojourned there quite moderate. It
was certainly a drawback that the
rain came down with such sullen
pertinacity; but being of a cheerful,
hopeful temperament, with a strong
leaning towards optimism, I found
consoling thoughts. A great lady
who visited Pome in the summer
told me that it was a great thing to
see Italy in its own climate ; so I
suppose it was a great thing to see
Dartmoor in its proper climate.
There is, perhaps, much to be
said in favour of the theory of see-
ing Dartmoor weather. I had not
the moial courage to venture out
into mist and tempest; but mist
and tempest once or twice overtook
me in my rambles. There is some-
thing very weird and solemn in a
Dartmoor mist. You feel yourself
draped in its sombre folds ; the im-
palpable seems to grow palpable ;
every near object looms larger than
human ; the tors expand into gigan-
tic masses ; a stray sheep almost
assumes elephantine proportions.
These thick mists are formed by the
condensation of the Atlantic vapours
on the chilly heights. If you are
really lost, it is best to listen for the
hoarse roar of some stream. When
you have found your way to some
torrent, it is your best chance of
safety to follow the downward
course till you come to some habi-
tation of man. The rivers them-
selves are often sources of danger.
There is a moorland rhyme—
' River of Dart, river of Dart,
Every year thou claimest a heart.'
n'encea on Dartmoor,
! ■ i iy \. rt some one is drowned
in ih" river, adding to the number
oi nit'ii who have Ik en losl on Dart*
tuoor. They Bay thai the I tori al-
most gives mi intelligible human
• cry.' It has an awful sound in the
stillness. 'Dart came down last
night,' is a common expression of
the mo irsmen, when there has been
a swollen Btxeam and Budden inun-
dation. There is Bomething very
sturdy and independent in the char
■ v of the tnoorsmi a. Mounted
on tin ir Bturdy I tortmoor ponies,
fleet and Btrong beyond all compa-
rison with their size, the men and
their animals harmonise very well
togetb r, and afford a picture of pri-
mitive manners of which the coun-
ti -part is not often to be found. I
was ta king to one of them by the
side of the Teign, and he told me
that his Inline was close by the
Bonroe of the river, and he could
r with his hat the bubbling
spring from which it (lowed. To
those who know Teignmouth and
Dartmouth, the Teign and I tort of
the moors, lucid streams transpa-
rently covering their bed, give a
striking contrast; here a bubbling
fountain, and there a mighty estuary
w here a navy m ly ride in security.
The fertility and loveliness of 8outh
Devon are materially owing to this
ed background of Dartmoor.
irden shores, smiling meads,
and bowery hollows are dne to the
ited granite i which shield
them from the northern Mast ; and
on Dartmoor some fifty or sixty
streams take their rise, many of
which lose themselves in the ( liaii-
nol, and Bcatb r bi auty and plenty
On their coin-. .
1 thus approach) d l tortmoor on
its western Bide, varying mj route
l •> returnii wild
from Princeton to Horra-
hridga < 'n my next i xpeditiorj I
appi i it on the ea-ti rn fide
1 i ' ford. I.
Sidne; ilphin was killed in the
civil svurs, ' l< aving,' 13 I <ord < !la-
rendon, ' the misfortuneoi hied* atfa
npoa a place which conld never
Otln : tda mention in the
world.' Ch-fg'ord, however, is very
n « ii. .i favourite and < ren a
. . place of r> -i ii i c Ln f .
summer to those who want to 'do*
the moor country. ' In winter,'
writes a visitor, ' Chagford is desolate
and almost unapproachab e ; and if
an inhabitant he asked at this 1 1 a-
Bon concerning his locality, he calls
it, in sad tones, " Chagiord, g 1
J. ord." In summer it is picturesque
and accessible, and then the exult-
ing designation is " Chaggiford, and
what dye think?" ' There is i.n-
i- pic !e winch is call d ■ \\ idde-
combe in the Dartmoors, or ' Wid-
decombe in the cold country, good
Lord.' In Widdecombe Church,
the tower of winch may be Com-
pared with the famous tower of
Magdalen College, is an inscription
recording a terrible storm which
happened two hundied years ago,
when a ball of fire dashed through
a window into the midst of the con-
gregation, killing a few people and
wounding scores more. 1 1 you come
from London you should approach
the moor by way of Fingle Hi
and the gorge of the Teign. I'io-
] erly speaking, I bis wonderful hit
of Swiss Scenery, lor such it really
is, beyond any other in the west of
England, does not belong to i'art-
nioor, unless indeed, which their is
no authority lor assertm/, it once
1 elonged to the moor bi
much of it was reclaimed. The
bridge si rv< b to centralize the
bc< aery ; a very pretty bridge over
a rapid brawling stream, on either
side of which rise most precipitous
hills. There is a mountain path
along the heights, over which the
racing breezes are always coursing,
which gives perhaps the most won*
derful walk of two miles with which
1 am acquainted in the wist of
England. I oonsi lerably aston
Bouie i ■> ople in the neighbourhood
by Btating, <>n the authority of the
very learned Roman history pub-
lished by the Chaplain to tin- Ih.use
oi Commons, that the camps mi the
opposing mountains marked the
List conflicts between the Ron
and the native Damnonu and it was
somewhere about here that Titus
r.\ i d the life of his fatllCT, Yespit-
sinn. It was verj curious to them,
thus bringing Titus ami \ i
■ connection with the localities
in the neighbourhood of Dartmoor
8
\
STILL UNCOM'KHM'il)
Sl>ll Unmarried,
521
I must fay of these localities that
scenery of many of them is
• varied and striking than that
of Dartmoor itself. Yon may linger
on at Chagford for many d
ring the surrounding country
Wonderfully pretty is the river Teign
■boat a mile from Chagford, un pre-
served and with wonderful trout-
fishing. I met in February a man
with rod and line, ant. 1 am ah aid
to mention the va.st nnmicrut trout
which he had caught in a very few
hours. You should secure the ser-
vices of Mr. Perrot, who is the
• guide for Dartmoor. You
would not wi.-h for letter accom-
modation than the Three Crowns at
_'ford : and in the visitors' book
I read qui'e a !:" n Chag-
urch, by Charles Kingsley,
and noted among many interesting
Lames that of A. H. Clough.
At Dartmoor you may hear stories
dries and pixies, stories of rob-
Ijers and outlaws, stories of bards
There is a learned
literature on Dartmoor subjects
which is really of c .m-i ierable im-
portance. There are papers and
transactions of tbe Archa
•ind the
Bray has given nearly all the
• volume of her ' . ire Le-
gends' to these subjects; t.
poem on Dartmoor by Carrirjgton,
which jou don't appreci.
much in jour own rooin, but ar
ciate mightily on the moor;
a most worth v ig] iaan at
Crouton wrote a ' Perambuk
of Dartmoor/ which will always be
.ndard volume on the sut I
The Druidical r- re the most
perplexed and important snb
^ in their way as those
of Avebury and ... erge. But
the moor itself will be your best
der. Only leave fj - or
four roads whied set it, and in
remote glen or gorge, by mist;
or rushing strean bed on
velvet moss by t. golden
furze, which made L
down on his knees and God
for making so beautiful a thing., you
may reascend the stream
and snrround yourself with the un-
charge d rights ~h:ch once belo .
to Druidical Britain.
STILL UNMARRIED.
AGLOPJOUS September evening
in Scotland.
Tall hills dipt in purple gloom,
and from behind their ma-si ve lines
toe dazzling light of sunset.
Gold— red amber — with sharp-
cut lines of crimson cloudlet.
Far below, in the narrow valley,
a pearl-white tarn, set in a ring of
dark fir trees. Above the little lake
shelving steep tanks, broken, and
birch clad, leading up to the terrace
dwork of flowers— scarlet, g
and green and to the vehetlawn all
aglow in the sunshine
Even the grim walls of the castle
wore a poetic pallor over the streaky-
whitewash of their unsymmetrical
outline, and the small, unkindly
windows were transfigured by the
diamond blaze with which they
answered the evening sun. The
shadow lay all across the lawn, by
the great lime trees and the grand
silver fir. Tj the right, and where
the light met the shade, a brig] -
:r — bine, red, and : ::
~ls and cosh - tossed
I s, and two -vomen. I
:ning on them, in pale ga
. -• -
Blanche Evers'ey. the fair k
two, was one I -e women «"! m
men worship, and women *
who are not jealou> call a 'darling/
9 te gave you the idea of being
'little.' She had crazing ws
never r*->red yom She flirted a good
deal, and wa* devoted to Jack
husband. Shedressed charmingly
an imitation of her generally proved a
failure ; for the beads, trink-. be
of lace, ari :nnumerabl
that she wore, looked tawdry on acj
other, while they fitted her pro^ k-
ing. delicate style of prettiness
perfection.
She wa= given to dp, and
the object of to-day was her c -
panion, Georgiana Rimer, a young
.12
Still Unmarried,
lady of some four years hex senior,
but whom tlic little matron was
chaperoning at Castle Gloom, with
the avowed intention of making a
match between hex ami Frank
their host.
It i- impossible todcscribe Georgie
r in. r.
she was beantifu] ; becanse when
bad I'" ii nuiler the influence of
her eyes and voice for a day, yon
said to yonrself she was beautiful,
hut you could not describe her. she
had brown hair that was sometimes
fair, sometimes dark; she was tall
and graceful : ami Frank Fxasez
was as much in love, with her as
heart could wish.
'"Tirra Lirra on the River."
When will these good people eoine
home and let us have tea'.'" said
Blanche, plucking the daisies and
throwing them about idly. ' I amso
fond of that poem, hut I never can
make out what it means, can you'.-''
•she was boxed, poor dear woman
— small Maine to her— with that
everlasting spinning; and then
somebody came, and she — . By-the-
by, what did she do? I forget'
'So do I ; only I know it is all
very Ba I and pretty. 1
' The best of all receipts for making
one do evil deeds— "to be boxed.
What terrible moments the author
must have undergone before he
could describe it bo well — do you
recollect, in "Mariana?" Onlj he
should have said it was a si aside
lodging-house, with a horsehair sofa,
and a smell of dinner, to make the
situation pi rf< ct.'
■ Ah! to be sure.' replii d Blanche;
'only! don't know "Mariana." I
• r can r< member things, at
1< ast only ci itain ones. It is all
c Wonderful how
vividly some little things stick in
on- 's mi niory,' she added, after a
and tried to
lect something trii al, yel t< rri-
ble, that should stick ever in hex
memory, but tor the life of hex she
could ii call nothing but what was
I • rfi ctly bright and pleasant, and
so only looked [« iimvc, for thi
ipp arai i
■ l lon't yon think- we might en-
snare Sandy into ghring ni tea out
here?' Georgie said, presently; 'or
would the Blake's wrath be too
great?"
'I don't care if she is angry.
< leorgie darling ; when you arc M ra
Frank', I trust you will do away
with Lady Blake. 1 know he hates
her, and to my mind she is the
greatest nuisance alive, except hei
daughter. Mow nice it will be, dear,
when it is all settled! I will come
and see yon every .Mar, and you
shall stay with me in London. .Inst
fancy, how delicious! 1 do wish
you would let him say his little
Bpeech soon, dear. I see him coni-
posing it all day long, and then you
shut him up when he is just ready.'
'Far better for him not to Bay it
at all, my dear,' Georgie replied
Lady Blanche sat up, and was
quite red and energetic. 'Georgie,
you must — you said you would.
Dear Gee, you really will not refuse
him after all. I shall he too angry :
and, dear, you don't know how I
wish it; and Jack — Jack wishes it,
too, he says, and we l>oth think it
will he bo very, very — . How! it
will—.'
'Ah— yes— I understand; it will
improve me, and bring out my pood
qualities. 1 am perfectly liappy
with my present had lot. I should
lint know 9 hat to do with pond ones.
I should have to put on my Sunday
gown for them every day of the
Week. Of Course I shall accept him.
Lady Blake says a woman will
marry anything bftex she is ti\< and-
twenty, and / am about a hiindr. d.
I only pity him, poor dear! You
see, Blanche, matrimony shows it-
self to yon in a pink light You arc
young. The universe is a mirror
that reflects only your .lack. It is
all tuned to the pitch of his fiddle —
violin, I mean. That is all quite
natural and charming. Jack's
moustache is a poem in itself, and
he plays like an angel I'-ut with me
it is different I am too old for
grand passions. Frank's whb
aiv tuo curly ; he is t<x> plump to
ure one. lie IS Iliad'' to be
bullied by women. I want some one
to bully in', I think. A master —
not a lava'
I ady Blanche held her tongue,
being shrewd enough to detect
Still Unmarried.
523
spinster inexperience in tho latter
clause of her friend's speech.
The argument was not recom-
menced. Footsteps on the gravel
announced the rest of the party —
three ladies in stout boots, linsey
gowns, and the air of self-satisfaction
that always pervades the conscien-
tious takers of exercise after a long
walk.
There is a certain class of young
ladies to be met with in every
country house, be the party great or
small.
Not specially pretty, not specially
young, not specially well dressed,
but tidy, very. Generally short and
slim, with smooth dark hair, good
feet, and very strong boots.
They are good-natured, but capa-
ble of taking good care of them-
selves.
Very pleasant to talk to, but not
dangerously fascinating. They do
bead work ; they have good teeth ;
and flirt with any disengaged object,
but never attempt rivalry or inspire
jealousy.
They waltz with the tallest men
at the county ball, and are apt to
marry officers, or well-to-do parsons ;
and, for the rest, they make capital
wives.
Of this class or type Julia Gort
was a perfect specimen. She was
Lucy Blake's friend, and had come
to Castle Gloom with her and her
mother, and she was as cheery as a
bird, even after the tallest of the
Berties had deliberately abandoned
her colours on the arrival of Blanche
Everstly. Lucy Blake confided her
religious opinions, and made her
play the bass of her duets. Miss
Blake was devoted to Mendelssohn,
as she told you shortly after you
were introduced ; and she required
of every one, before bestowing on
them her good opinion, or, indeed,
her smallest consideration, that they
should ' appreciate the classical com-
posers,' and prefer Mozart to Meyer-
beer, Weber to Verdi.
She was excellent, and slightly
obstinate; had solemn blue eyes,
reddish hands, and a quantity of hair
which she scorned to dress in any
but the plainest fashion, and she
was really and truly in love with
Frank Fraser. Lady Blake was like
tho dame in the epitaph, ' bland,
passionate, and deeply religious.'
She had large features, and was
(erroneously) supposed to have
been handsome in her youth, in con-
sequence of which she wore high
top-knots by night, and wonderful
bonnets by day.
She exhausted herself in trying to
believe, and make other people be-
lieve, that she was a clever woman,
and she really did think she was
logical.
She had faith in long walks, go-
loshes, early rising, and her own
opinions, and she made worse tea
than any one in the kingdom ; but
she was really kind hearted, and
capable of unselfish acts, with, how-
ever, a sense of appreciation of such
acts in herself as diminished their
grace.
'Had such a delightful walk,'
they exclaimed in chorus.
' How horribly tired you must be,'
was the unsympathetic rejoinder.
Miss Gort added that the gentle-
men were just behind them, to which
fact a banging of guns close to the
castle bore testimony.
' Who was that tall man that
walked with Mr. Bertie?' Lady Blake
asked of her mother: 'one of the
Grants ?'
' No ; I did not know his face. He
is too tall for a Gordon. He might
be a keeper.'
' Oh, mamma ! Oh, Lady Blake !
He was not a keeper; he has come
back with the others, besides. He
must be some new gutst.'
' Impossible,' said Lady Blake.
' Frank would scarcely have failed
in savoir fdire so completely as to
omit telling me, his aunt, if he had
invited more people.'
Miss Gort looked sorry for having
spoken ; and Miss Filmer, taking no
interest in the matter, got up from
her cushions and dawdled towards
the castle, whither the others fol-
lowed her almost directly.
Most of the rooms in the castle
were still — as they had been in the
old knight's time — unlovely, and
scant of comfort.
The high narrow passages could
not be altered ; the stone stair had
still its Fraser tartan carpeting ; the
saloon was a dreary waste ; and the
5J!
Still Unmarrird.
gaunt, grey, nn-1 chilly * m m
in rammer; bat our room in tin*
tower Frank bad altered for hie
special behoof, and bad agonised
architectural symmetry by throwing
"it a b »w-winaow tl at opened with
• on to the lawn.
It was the d< art at little octagi n
room yon ever saw, with soft, wide
j, dark-red velvet at d big brass
t ail- at the chimneypieo . anil Mark
liearakin rag before the deep
hearth.
i inning arm-chairs, low and
spring-stuffed, and fat square foot-
Btools, that did not lose their ba-
lance every time you passed them,
did e,i tain evil-disposed ones,
with gilt claws, in the drawing-
room.
On one of these stools Miss Fil-
mer Beated herself, close to the
window; while Blanche possessed
herself of the key to the tea-table,
bj squeezing past its three curve l
legs, and adr itly gaining the tea-
pot, before Lady Blake had divested
her feet of the goloshes she was
wont to w< ar in the finest weather.
outside the window, the sports-
bled — the two I'erties,
immensely piutnresqne in their. tall
'!\: its— Jack Eversley, with
grimy I I hands deep in the
P tcknta of his old shooting-coat,
an aming of a sonata— and Frank
with the unknown petting Brown
Bess, the pet Bettor, in the back-
ground ; and Major Fitzwigram
(the 'Court Journal' they called
him, for his ;,!.i odotos and gene-
ral veracity) had come- into the
boudoir, and was being charming
• and Lucy Blake al>out
r walking powers, which, he
said, rr ; him so exactly of the
I '•■ l i. Lutifnl worn* d
of t ike of— hem
— hem yon know, when they were
girli sat bj the window,
with the daffodil sky behind the
P' arl-ahad »wi d outline of her figure,
with the light lingering on the
y welled locket at her throat, and
touching her hair with a golden
caret G Tgifl half-dreamt, half-
thoupht, of a day long ago, when a
• , onboard now foe ton long
years, had bean SOOBdfng in her
ears. i ' ,, »- 1 1 and it now |
How Btrange that was, that feeling
of the past, that rlid sometimes ao
vividly n turn to her — only in little
scenes though — only in one or two
scenes -l>y the garden wall, near
the walnut tree: the leaves had
fallen with thai peculiar trickling
faint noise, and there had Ken a
bird that sang oat suddenly. He
had said, 'My own for ever!' and
Bhe had said, ' For ever— your true
lovt for ever!' she had b en
thin, then; how she had longod for
plenty of gloves and a new bonnet!
Who was this stranger— this new
man? What did it matter? How
would it be, if he came hack again ?
Ho would come hack suddenly —
and what should she aay? It was
so impossible to realize, that her
thoughts changed all quickly — ' tea,
yes, please, a cup of tea.'
There was a clatter of teaspoons
and talking between the tea-drinkers
within and those outside the win-
dow. Frank Eraser came and knelt
at Georgie Filmer's Bide in hope of
a word, but she did not even look
at him, and he was obliged to pro-
tend he was petitioning for 'the cup
that cheers.'
' ll" Bhonld have only one lump,'
Lady Blanche said, ' unless he in-
stantly told the name of the man
in grey. Nobody could tell her who
be was,— not even the " < lonrt Jour-
nal "and she was dying to know. 1
The ' < krart Journal ' protested he
had not been a-ked. and Frank,
springing to his feet, said, ' By all
us Lady Blanche should know :
he would bring him to be introduced
in form.'
'Why do you not embrace your
kinsman, Miss Blake? 1 Tom Bertie
asked, ' He is a cousin come h >me
from the wars ; no end of a hero.'
Miss Blake was at some pains to
explain, that though she was n ' •"■ d
to Frank, yet all bi i ins were
not hers; and Fitzwigram was
struck l>y the justness of her argu-
ment, and related a case in point,
where a count ss's sister had it en
no sort of relation to a marchio-
mra's stopmothi r,
Frank led tin new comer up hy
the arm, and present! d him as ' Our
welhlielovrd Simon Krasor. colonel
of her Majesty's Kegiujcnf, and
Still Unmarried.
625
our most trusty kinsman, sweet
lady, — candidate for tea and your
favour.' Lady Blake, further, was
mollified by the courteous explana-
tion that Colonwl Eraser gave her of
his suddtn and unlooked-for appear-
ance. He had \ entnred to make sure
for a welcome, and had written & let-
ter, that would arrive that evening,
but had been met by Frank on the
hill-side, as he was making his way
on foot to Glen Talloch, where he
had purposed awaiting the reply to
his letter.
After he had spoken to Lady
Blake, and the introduction of the
other ladies hail been gone through,
there occurred a little pause in the
talking; and suddenly there was a
crash of broken glass, and the mirror
fa small oval one framed in curious
ebony carving, over the mantel-
piece) fell to the ground Happily,
no one was near it, and only itself
was injured ; but the violent noise
startled and discomposed every one,
and after the first shrieking and ex-
claiming, came the wonder how it
could have happened ; there was no
apparent cause.
' I can remember that glass there
as long as I can remember any-
thing,' said Frank, with much re-
gret, as he picked up the fragments.
4 Can't you, Simon ?'
' Yes,' said Simon, gravely. ' It
is an evil omen that it should fall
as I enter the house. It must be
an omen. It is a ghostly, horrible
thing, to happen' (the ladies all
* agreed). ' And, by-the-by, was not
the ghost room just above, in the
tower?'
'What ghost room?' asked Mi*- s
Gort.
'Oh! didn't she know? — the
"doom chamber," that had never
been opened, since — oh! nobody
knew how long ago -that never
must be opened. If I were you I
would open it at once, old fellow —
you may find a treasure,' said Arthur
Bertie. But his proposition brought
such a chorus of horrified remon-
strance from the Blakts, and the
General, that he was quite over-
powered.
' What would happen if you did
open it?' Julia asked at leugth.
' Well, thty say I should meet my
death,' Frank replied, laughing un-
easily. 'Of course it is only a tra-
dition; but no Fraser has dared to
open it yet. I dare say Simon here
would not object to nry trying ; eh,
Simon? Give you a chance, old
boy.'
Colonel Fraser laughed, but would
not speak about it. lie said he
was afraid of ghosts, and believed
all the stories he had ever heard.
Blanche Eversley went out again
to look at the tower, to find out
the window of the ' doom chamber,'
as they called it; and oddly enough,
the moonlight, just risen on a cloud,
was reflected with a cold grey sheen
on the narrow pants of one window
in the tower.
A shudder passed through the
little lady, and she ran back to the
boudoir, declaring she had seen the
ghost itself. Whereupon they all
sallied out, and the light having
disappeared, great mystery was
pronounced upon the event, and it
was voted highly terrible that such
a room should exist in tl e vicinity
of a tea-table and tea-drinking Chris-
tians.
' Georgie looks as pale as pos-
sible,' Blanche declared ; ' and she
was sure she must be pale too. Sup-
pose they were all to go and dre^s
now?'
Ten years ago Simon Fraser had
been quartered at Devon port, an
ensign with broad shoulders, slim
waist, and inflammable heart. A
half-pay captain dwelt in a certain
villa near the town, very poor, and
father to three daughters, of whom
the youngest was beautiful, slender,
and just seventeen Simon met the
girls at garrison balls, and fell in
love with this beautiful youngest.
Every day in the High Street, ou
Saturday when the band played,
and most evenings of the week, in
the little villa garden, Smion was
dawdling beside tiie Miss Fil-
mers. Georgie made him muffetees,
and book-marks; he gave her new-
waltzes, and boxes of chocolate.
They were well-born foik, but
poverty-stricken, addicted to shifts
and pinches unbecoming their po-
sition, and given to dyed silks and
bad gloves. There was an impul-
sive confidence, a dreamy budding
526
Si ill Unmarried.
nn in tlir girl, that touched
i ¥< ry fibre of Simon Praser'a heart ;
she told him be was her ' only
now and for ever.'
The balf-p*y papa looked apOaatle
r in • Burke,' and the cockles
of his heart were warmed by its
nds of its wealth and dignity.
II, ■ mode just one little mistake-
Sim m's father being seeond, not
i. son ol Sir An Irew, as he, the
papa, assured himself. The eldesl
s ,n, iii f.i »t, married Borne years
after the birth of his nephew Simon,
and bad died shortly after, leaving
Frank, onr hero, a small eurly-
1 fag at Charter House, at the
vi ry moment when Captain Filiner
appropriated his inheritance to his
cousin Simon.
The r giment was ordered to
India. Sim >n asked, ' Blight he not
her with him?' He offered to
exchange and Btayat home— leave
the army he could not, he was too
p (or. Of tin Becret donbt and dis-
may this word canscd lio knew
nothing. Georgie wept, and said
• it was very, very hard, bnt she
would bear it for his sake: he must
to India and in a year he should
el dm her. No n ed to try an Isofh n
papa's heart - inexorable papa ; let
them submit an 1 be true, true, true
I , each oth< r.' S i he went ; and at
first she wrote every day, then every
., id, M by the monthly mail —
not much in the letters— she had no
time, i i land mamma had come, and
being bury godmother, had taken
<;, orgia to London. Oh! if only he
were to ho there ! she had □ w
bonnets and lemon C 'loured gloves.
Then London was delightful— only
she did d il half enjoy it as she
might have dm
■ Heir to Castle Fraser !' said
grandmamma. ' Go tdnees gracionsl
he was only a Becond son ; not a
birthing; half a dozen brothers and
sist. : oh >•' ft marching regi-
nn nt '.'
i ,, orgie held her !>• ace, wrote her
letters still, but kept hi r ey< land
i well op n to all that grand-
ldj) ct of mar-
matrimony.
* Irandmamma wrote to I tovonport
' she COUld not take all the :
but she would keep G< orgie, and
should marry her well, she had i rary
hop,', before the end of th i season.
Somebody went out to India— a
new aide-de-camp to thegovernoi-
g< neral, an 1 brought all the gossip,
photos of the pretty girls, on dits of
tho mat. 'lies. Georgie had a letter
from her fit , telling her he felt
he had done ill to leave her BX-
posed to the temptations and trials
Of London He could, besides, not
hear life without, her. His father
had purchased his step, an I he was
on his way home to claim her. Be
should be with her almost as soon
as his letter. Would she write one
line, to M tlta, to welcome him ?
Georgie received the letter after
bn akfast. She was going toa Rich-
mond pic-nic, and wanted to get a
new bonnet for the occasion: she
was ready in a hurry, hut after a
moment's deliberation she gave up
the bonnet, and sat down to answer.
The letter was posted beforetwelve,
and Miss Fihner went to the pic-
nic, which was a very pleasant one.
Simon Fraser turned very pale when
ho read his love's letter at the poste
restante ; he said never a word, hut
his passage back to India in
tho vessel that sailed that night, and
lie rejoined his regiment in the hot
plains at once.
Miss Kilmer wondered whet la r
next mail would bring her let-
ters ; looked up and down the street
when the carriage Btopped, with half
an expectation of a reproachful face.
But lar mind was set at 6880 by the
list of passengers to Bombay, nnl *
she knew that her ' true love for
ever' had taken his dismissal as he
ought.
Why Georgie did not marry tho
middle-aged baronet, the small vis-
count, or any of the eligible*, as
confidently expected by grand'
mamma, deponent saith not ; she
flew too high, some .-aid, and she
liked Birting After two seasons
grandmamma had the had taste bo
die. The Belgrave Street house was
shut up
' Famille Filmer' w< nt abroad
to some small Qt rmnn court ;
there was a storj afloat about a
prince of i are ,a t, a Russian some
I otbi rs gavt him a principality
in Nai an ; pi Ople shrugged their
Still Unmarried.
527
shoulders, and said she had always
been the greatest flirt. Georgie
came back to England handsomer
than ever and well dressed ; money
had been left by the grandmamma,
at least sufficient for good gloves.
In summer she lived with a married
sister, a quiet dowdy M.P.'s wife ;
in autumn and winter she reigned
at watering places and hunting par-
ties; she had jewels on hand and
wrist; she had a suite of young
Life-guardsmen in the fever stage
of ad miration, and she had lots of
dear friends ; but though she did not
look five-and-twenty, it was quite
ten years since she was seventeen,
and she was still Georgie Filmer.
All these years neither by word
spoken or written had news ever
reached her of Simon Fraser; the
recollection of that first love was to
her memory like an old-fashion
plate. Only she used to say to her-
self, * When he does come back,' and
brace herself as if for an encounter.
He had come back ; she had met his
eye and touched his hand again, and
had seen ancf known by instinct that
she was a stranger, and less than a
stranger, to him. Did he even
know who she was? sh a wondered.
For the next days it seemed unlikely
that the question of recognition
should be solved, so completely was
his manner to Miss Filmer devoid
of consciousness of their past posi-
tion with regard to each other.
Only there was thus much of sign
that in place of the attraction
Georgie exercised on every other
man in the house, she met with an
indifference from him that verged
on discourtesy. She had prepared
sundry speeches, above all, sundry
feelings for this meeting— in case
of reproach and recrimination; in
case of infatuation and entreaty —
preparations entirely needless, as it
would appear. Had he also pre-
pared feelings? Apparently he had
none at all, and on her mind, accus-
tomed to look on men's hearts as so
many notes on which her fingers
had the special art of playing what
tunes she chose for them to dance
to, it began to dawn that the posi-
tion was changed, and that her
heart must tread a measure to the
tune that he should play. This
both perplexed and amazed Misfl
Filmer.
From the first hour of Colonel
Fraser's arrival the whole party had
voted him charming. His voice
was sympathetic, he had good teeth,
keen, rather cold eyes, a short red
moustache, still shorter dark-brown
hair, broad shoulders, and beautiful
feet and hands.
His manner was perfect ; he was
quiet and a little sarcastic, which
the ladies liked ; the men thought
hiin a wonderful shot and a tho-
roughly good fellow. Lady Blake
was quite ejn-ise ; she wore unwonted
top- knots and clean gloves for his
benefit, and was quite tame in his
preseuce.
Blanche — fickle fair one ! — medi-
tated deposing the dear Berties from
their post, and electing him prime
favourite; he would be such a big
dog to lead about, only query, would
he follow?
That even his cousin should re-
flect some of Franks charms was to
Lucy Blake matter of course, and
she treated him with according com-
placency.
On that simple damsel Colonel
Simon bestowed more attention and
kindliness than on the other ladies,
from a quick perception of the state
of her affections and their probable
fate, and a consequent chivalrous
compassion.
He will tell Frank all about it, and
adieu to Castle Gloom, adieu to my
intrigues, thought Georgie, and she
told herself so with a certain scornful
indifference; but he did not, and
she was angry because he cared too
little to tell.
A sort of impatience so possessed
her that she could scarce control it.
His presence stirred in her an emo-
tion she could not explain, and for
which she found no vent.
One evening they went out on the
lawn after dinner — all but Simon
Fraser. Georgie was restless, heard
nothing that was said, snubbed
Frank, pretended she was catching
cold, and went in-doors by herself.
Colonel Fraser was writing at a
little table — she went up to him—
they were alone in the room, and
laid her hand on the ba:di of his
chair; he must have seen the agita-
528
Still Unmarried.
tion in her face. Ho louki . I u]> at
her, raid stiffly,' Am I in your way?'
and ii. ado u movement as if to rise.
she walked away from bim without
a woid. A knot gathered in her
throat, something clutched at her
heart bo that she could not bieathe,
and her limbs sho >k bo thai .she hail
il down. She oould have utten d
a bitter cry, bat b1 i was quite silent
He got op, folded tho note be ha<l
written, and stepped out of the
window to join tho rest of tho
party.
Tiny used to dance in the even-
ing; tho neighboursdined; Mrs. John
Gordon played waltzes; tho Fol-
loweses sent their ^irls: one night
they had a little cotillion.
' Rose or butterfly ?' Frank Fraser
asked, leading Lady Blanche and
Mi.-s Kilmer to his cousin.
■ Butterfly,' Baid Simon, looking
at Lady Blanche.
.She laughed, and dai ced off with
Frank. He had not asked Georgie
to dance one | ; now he merely
took one turn of the waltz, and then
with a slight bow left her at her
seat.
( ieor.Lric mot tho austere gaze <>(
Bliss Lucy as Bhe >t 1 there.
'Flirting with iiim now!' tho
young lady was mentally exclaim-
Georgie smiled, tanghed, and
danced beautifully all the evening)
but she felt as a wild animal •:
when balki d of its sprii
On Saturday night there was no
ill_' ; the IVIloWe-es dined, stll-
pid people; the Berties, bored by
Btrangers, inveigled .lark Eversley
and Simon into the lul liard- room
stlj alter dinner. Blanche, l>o-
reftof her little court, became un«
. and announce l a headache.
BIr.l I bard to keep awake,
and conld not. Lady Bl il e talked
mnly over the ore— it was very
slon . F( Howes ha 1 brought
a niece with n d arms and a wreath,
. bom Prank bad to do c >nv< na-
tion.
Am-i!. the doomed
chambi r ve | by the helpful
Julia < Jort. 1 he wreathed i
evinced curiosity and interest, and
tion,
M iss B 1
tion unscriptural and wicked, so did
M>a Gort, but she would give any-
thing to see what would happen it
the door were opened; and Gtorgie
Filmer asked Frank if he would
n ally scruple to o] en it - r< ally and
truly. At fust he laughed it off,
and tin n confi Bsed he should not
like to do it Lady Blake joined in
with tho laudable motive of snub-
bing Miss Filmer, and the delicate
sarcasm of that) oung lady provi
the worthy woman into phrases in-
volved and emphatic on the subject
Diversion was happily effected bj a
pathetic entreaty from the General
— the peaceful General— for some
music, an I as Miss I.ucy scored 0U6
with her Mendelssohn, Lady Blake
was calmed, and Mrs. Fallowed re-
marked that of all misfortunes it
wastbe greatest when a man who
loved music married a woman who
was not a musician, an aprop B
which fitted Miss Filmer and Frank,
and quite mollified her ladyship.
Sunday being at no time tie most
propitious daj tor a Highland shoot-
ing P'irty, it (diose on rti.it particular
SuLdaj to rain in torrents; outside
the house reigned dreariness inde-
scribable ; in side discordant t leu.
threatened to disturb the ^< neral
harmonj ; ev« rj bodj 'a tempi t d
or less cris-cross that morning. In
the first place, every one was late
for breakfast t set pi Lady Bl
who revi iiL-( 1 in r-t If by scold
In r daughter openly, and drav
moral lessons out of unpunctuality
for tho benefit of tie oth r delin-
quents. Ih r ladyship announot d
that she never suffered anything to
prevent In r going to church, and
when no one 1—]; up the intended
gauntlet, made pertinent inquii
of the oth< r ladii s ; wondered if
Flunk drove to I lee side, or wa
to the parish church. Arthur Bertie
voted Sunday a mistake every where
except in London. ( 'tie could
to Maidi nln ad, and there was ' 1m ll's
Lite,' his brother ezplaim d to Misi
Gort'squerj astoafavouritepri acber,
and .lack |v„. itoii Hllggesfc d they
shoul K" to I" d again till dinner-
time.
Not only did it rain, hut to make
had worse, it pretended to clear just
in time to ]
Still Unmarried.
529
church- going, but too late for the
morning service at the English
chapel of Dee side.
Lady Blake in goloshes and water-
proof cloak came to beat up recruits
for the Presbyterian service, and
Lady Blanche, out of opposition,
became violently High Church. The
rain came on again, and nobody did
go; but a battle of churches was
waged between the two ladies ; the
one carrying about ostentatious
little books that she did not read,
with dangling crosses and crimson
and gold ribbons to mark special
prayers, and the other piling the
table with commentaries and limp
tracts, and pouncing on all novels
and newspapers to hide them.
General Fitzwigram, trying to
trim his little bark between the two
tides, was much buffeted by both.
Blanche snubbed him, and Lady
Blake compelled him to attend a
private and impromptu ceremony in
the dining-room, where she preached
to her daughter, Miss Gort, and a
few of the servants.
Before luncheon, when the ladies
were all together in the library, the
poor man further put his foot into
it by asking, cheerfully, * By-the-
by, how had the discussion ended
last night — that romantic colloquy
over the haunted chamber ? Which
of the fair ladies had gained the
day? Was Miss Filmer's behest to
be obeyed, or did Lady Blake reign
paramount over their host ?'
Lady Blake turned a piercing
glance on the company in general.
' My nephew has far too much
sense to think of such folly ; he
was only laughing at Miss Filmer.
The room will, of course, not be
opened.'
Georgie Filmer looked up at Mr.
Fitzwigram and smiled, but would
not be provoked into answering.
'Are you "Superstitious, Lady
Blake?' inquired Miss Gort, inno-
cently ; ' do you dread the curse ?'
'No,' emphatically and with se-
verity, 'I am not superstitious; I
hold all superstition to be mere
weakness, and weakness I abhor, as
I do the mere desire of power un-
less for a great and good end.'
'Ah, then you will let the fair
lady's behest be done ?' the ' Court
VOL. XI. — NO. XLVI.
Journal' interrupted in his most
fascinating manner.
' But the folly of granting an idle
whim is a different thing,' Lady
Blake continued, sternly, transfixing
Mr. Fitzwigram with her eagle
glance; 'and Miss Filmer, even if
she supposed Mr. Fraser meant to
obey her behest' (this was said with
a delightful emphasis) ' would never
think of asking for anything so ab-
surd and unreasonable.'
A dead pause followed these
words. Lady Blake felt herself
monarch of all she surveyed. The
gong for lunch sounded, and she
rustled with dignity into the dining-
room.
* Miss Filmer eats nothing,' Jack
Eversley remarked, and it was quite
true; with some satisfaction Lucy
had seen that her rival was pale and
languid all day. Well might she
be pale.
Two spirits were fighting over
her soul, and she had lost the power,
or the will, to bid them cease and be
still. Was it love, indeed, the wild
throbbing that shook her, the doubt
that held her in thrall ?
To have him, to give up all for
him, one moment — then— no, no,
not give up the wealth, the name ;
she sickened at the thought of
poverty, of insignificance. She had
only the world, and could she let it
slip?
And yet — to lay her heart in his
hand — a hundred times she had said
it to herself during the past night ;
to bid him hold her, take her, keep
her — he was her master, already
she felt it. If — if — yes, if, after all,
the doom were true— and why not ?
— if the room were opened, and it
were true — he would have all— she
need not lose it, an evil, evil voice
spoke in her ear— why should she
be tempted, she was tired of resist-
ing and losing. That he had ceased
to care for her, that only his com-
plete indifference prevented his
hating or despising her, she never
told herself; it made no matter to
her that he had never addressed
one word to her, never seemed con-
scious of her very presence since
they had met again. She was not
used to defeat, she did not even con-
template it.
2 M
530
Still Unmarried,
If she bad do appetite, do more
had Prank; he hud divined. as those
do who l"vc, thai some cloud had
c mi. betw< in his love and him,
tliut aome Bubtle influence was work-
ing to her disquiet Uneasy, half
jealous, he was ready to put his
neck under her foot if she would
but step on it.
II, bov< i. '1 about till he found a
chair close to her, in the window of
the boudoir, and while her eves
Bought the tall figure that paced up
and dowo outside, he murmured
lus unhappiness at her evident
avoidance of him. ' Had he offended
h< r.' She turned her eves (in his;
he did not read that wistful look
aright; it served only to drown his
senses. Pressing his forehead with
his two hot hands he poured forth
foolish words from his very heart,
incoherent, mad words of love and
of entreaty. Be scarcely knew what
he said or whether she replied.
' it is only the fancy of the mo-
ment,' she said, slowly, and hi .1
voice that sounded gjxange to her-
self. ' Son would not grant me one
boon, one little thing, if 1 were to
ask it of yoUj and yet you say you
could die for ma Men are so,' .she
pursued, dreamily, not heeding his
c< nt di Dial
'They would love us, and hold
aa lully paid for giving our whole
Belves for their fancy. To test the
hold 00 their love one has but to
l.if^n a caprice and it is enough to
shake it.'
'You want my heart, my life, all
my love.'
She turned her face to him, and
his colour went and came under the
wild mystery of her eyes. Her hand
dropped from her lap and hi r fingers
touched lus palm.
' fry ni' , try me ; ask anything
you like,' he slid, vainly trying to
control hi. voice. ' ll' you could
if l could Bhow you how I
would give my life, if that would
win your love, tell me if by any
in, mj word
she looked anoth< t moment in
his face, and with aoompli I
' Your aunt w.i
this morning, imagining that you
would listen to i ■ i i of to what
called common sense, bej
she meant, most likely. 1 U'lieve
she fancied 1 meant to arrogate to
myself undue power to make my-. If
mistress. We had been talking
ahout that doomed chamber. 1 be-
li \e she was quite ricjit, though
hftW such superstition should come
under the name of common sense I
hardly know; hut she was so em-
phatic and fierce that it almost made
me believe my own power.'
'So you are mistress, By <h O]
she is past bearing: she shall never
enter tin; house again. Did she
fancy 1 should listen to her SOOni r
than to you, idiot that she is? If
you hid me, J would open the room
against the will of twenty such as
she I'
' Would you do it? I can see her
dismay. That would he a proof in-
deed, if you would do such a tiling
at my request.'
She stopped. '"What a fool I am
to fancy it!'
'If you wish it it shall be dope;
only say, say'— his voice Bhook
that he could scarcely form the
words ' tell me, if it is done, will
you give me the answer I asked for.
shall 1 win you ?' Be held b< t
hand convulsively.
' I may fairly say yes,' she replied,
' for you will never do it.' Frank
rose ; he was deadly pale, and Btum-
bl( I. in his agitation, half Galling as
ho left the r
< lutside, in the misty rain, Simon
I'ia-er paceO Up and down. < ie.
waited till Frank's step died away
in the passage, and then she went
into the hall, openi d the front door,
and stood there. < lolonel Frasi c
had turned to come in; he was
6 to her. She stood half ill
half out of the doorway ; holding
the handle in her left hand, she put
out the right to touch his arm.
Simon had been looking straight bi -
fore him as he walked, and win n he
|i. rceived who stood there, no cha
passed over his expression. Per-
.id and impassive his face
was, making no Bign, save that i
fill step that court y demand
lest his dam]) plaid should come in
contact with hi r dress.
Imploringly her eye Bought his;
she uttered his name softly, but be
did DOt hear, and w hen she turn, d
Still Unmarried.
531
to follow him he had already loft
the hall.
Georgie went to her own room.
'How pale I am,' going up to the
glass; and then she sat hefore it,
gazing at herself, till she lost the
consciousness of the person whose
white face and deep dark eyes looked
at her from the mirror.
She was still sitting there when a
voice said outside the door, ' Dar-
ling, are you there?' and some one
opened gently and came in.
' Blanche, have you any rouge ?'
* Rouge, dear ? yes — no — yes.
Why rouge, dear ?'
' I am so awfully haggard ; T must
do something to make myself lovely.'
'You are pale,' Blanche said, in
some awe.
' Oh, darling, they are in such a
state of mind downstairs about that
stupid room, you know; and 1
thought I'd come to you, as you are
all powerful, to see if you would say
a word to him, darling.'
' Who is downstairs and what is
the matter ?' Georgie asked, leaving
the toilet-table. 'Blanche, dear, it's
too cold for you in here; we will go
to your room, and you shall rouge
me.'
' Just tell me, dear, has he pro-
posed ?'
' Yes, Blanche, the deed is done.'
'Oh, darling, I'm so glad.' Kiss-
ing ensued, and then the little cha-
perone said, coaxingly, 'Dear, you
will tell him not to open the door,
won't you ? Think, if anything hap-
pened.'
Georgie replied scornfully that
she wondered people could be such
geese as to believe in ghosts ; that
being now the person most inte-
rested in Frank's well-being, she
hoped she might be trusted not to
endanger it wilfully. It was just
like Lady Blake to believe in bogies,
she herself being one. . ' On the
contrary, my dear, I have told him
that I only say "yes" if it is opened.
I am not going to be defeated by
Goody Blake. No ; if he will not do
so small a thing because I ask it I
should not feel safe for my future.
I despise superstition, and I hate
being thwarted, so he is to choose
between the bogie and me.'
Lady Blanche then basely aban-
doned the cause she had come to
plead, and vowed it would be charm-
ing to see what a rage Goody would
be in when she found who was to
gain the day, and Georgie was now
in no need of rouge. A bright flush
succeeded her former pallor. Only
Colonel Fraser, Lucy Blake, and
Miss Gort down stairs, Blanche re-
ported ; the colonel seemed a little
touched with gentle Lucy ; rather a
good thing would it not be ? Georgie
must patronise the chastes amours
of the future cousins. On pretence
of letters Georgie left her friend and
went down stairs. General Fitz-
wigram was doing the civil thing to
Sunday by reading a book of reli-
gious poetry, and quoting aloud the
favourite passages of a dear, departed,
and highly evangelical duchess, Miss
Gort being his audience. At the
piano Lucy Blake sat playing the
most beautiful of Mozart's masses.
Colonel Fraser, his chin resting on
his hands, sat near her, a rapt and
silent listener, speaking only now
and then to ask for favourite pieces
of music. Georgie stood by the
window; the yellow sky faded into
pale daffodil; purple-grey shadows
stole, into the room; the music
rose and fell in measured cadence ;
the stately sweetness of Mozart
suited well with the peaceful even-
ing time; the rain had cleared off
suddenly, and left a calm, lovely
stillness, that seemed all unconscious
of the dreariness that but now had
clouded the outer world. When
the gong rang noisily outside it was
as if a spell had been broken. ' It is
too late now to go back,' she said,
half aloud, as they all rose and took
their candles.
' When Frank Fraser told the old
butler, Sandy, that he wanted to
speak to the carpenter — Laing must
come up with his tools ; the turret
door was to he opened— Sandy flatly
refused to deliver the message : his
usual respect made the present dis-
courtesy more marked. ' It were no
possible,' the old man said, * that
he should go against the Word, and
break the Sabbath-day. And as re-
garded the door, it was a maist
fuleish thocht to remove a naeba's
landmark, and tempt the Lord.'
Of course his master said he was
2 Ma
532
Si ill Unmcumed.
not going to break tlio Sabbath
11k had dean forgotten toe fact),
but Laing must oomeand speak to
him all the same. Band; bad ro-
monatranoeBoa the tipof bis tongue,
but his master left bun without an-
other word.
The resolve to Open the dOOX was
known throughout the house. Frank
had no easy timo of it, and every-
thing; was in a storm.
His aunt Bashed terrible glances,
mi'l •■vi<li ntly portended a remon-
strance. The gentlemen were way-
laid, and compelled to have private
interviews, which had no result, for
who could interfero with Frank in
his own house?
I.ury was tearful, and haunted
the staircase, manifestly with a view
to adjuring Frank. Simon Fraser
did Btop, and her woeful voice
and white face touched him. He
said Bhe need not be in such fear.
Tins.' old tales were superstitious.
Nfo harm would come to Prank.
Besides, why did not she lay her
c tmmands on him ? It was so kind
of her to care. Be turned it off with
a pretty speech, a little galanterie
about the impossibility of refusing
her r. [nests. But she had no op-
portunity of making one. Frank
was not to 1"- Bp ''■' n to.
Frank was Hu rfb d, ready
to be defiant it' occasion should offer;
would not meet the tearful ga/.o
I on him ; would not take any
notice of her at all. Poor Lucy !
Into Julia Gort's kind bosom she
poured her grief after dinner,
ing mournfully in one
corner. Ihr mother, twinkling
dy in countless bugles, read
I M-. Cumming'amoei prophetic work
in the middle <>f the room, and
Blanche sat on I and had pri-
ll ith bi t friend the cul-
prit.
The culprit was moai charming,
drew her little chap rone into a
talk half mysterious, wholly -
tisti • her om i bints
of repulsed lovers, baffled admin re,
OOnfidei 'i ,' and small
half con:
\o Oni ' T than
She bad helpful words,
like pins, t the disjoint I
a of her vague little companion.
She had delicate sarcasms where-
with to ticket the 'enemy,' and just
sufficient — not t<x> much— apprecia-
tion of the ' objects.'
A good confidttntt must not be too
sympathetic in admiration, or she
diminishes the sense of nmn ipoly
•that is so essential to happiness in
the contider.
The group at the fireplace looto d
so cosy, that no wonder the nun,
one and all, came to join them.
'Suppose we all sit on the floor,'
Frank said; and BO they did, for tin
most part. After some persuasion,
the sad Lucy and her friend cam.
too, and were established on low
chairs; Lucy's feelings would not
allow her quite to sit on the rug.
Lady Blake, on a high hard <■
set a manifest example of pood Sun-
day behaviour in the background.
' We have never heard the story
of the doom-chamber, Frank,' said
Lady Blanche; 'you promised we
should.'
' Yes, yes ; let's have the story,'
the Unties and Mr. Fitzwigram
voted ; ' by all means the Btorj .'
' I can't tell it,' Frank said. 'Simon
shall, lie's A i at telling stories.
Simon, begin.' Frank nestled quite
close to the corner where* r< i
but she leant her chin on her hand,
and took no notice of him.
' Now Colonel Eraser, do begin,'
said l.ady Blanche.
she had forgotten her gloomy and
prophetic views, and Mas disp
now to patrouiso the whole |
ceeding.
'You shall tell it yourself, Lady
I'.lanche,' he said, 'and we will nil
sit Bpell-bound to hear it.'
' No, no ; you must begin. \\ .
r- ally do want to hear it ; don't we,
everybody ?'
I ,i rybody said they did.
• Now, begin. Once upon a timo
theiv was a lady '
'<)r— In looking over some old
DISS., I stiimMi d upon '
' That's the proper way to begin;
and t. II plenty of details.'
' The fact 18, I am afraid that
old MSS l f>r mo to stumble
OH ; but all I know of the story I
beard from an old neighbour <>t
ours, a Mr. Gordon, a great poker
into family history, and who knew
Still Unmarried.
533
most of the stories 'current in days
of old. I dare say Frank beard him
tell it, too. Well, if not, so much
the better ; I shall not be brought to
book if I make mistakes. I will in-
vent as many details as Lady Blanche
pleases ; but I was told the story
very long ago, and I forget all but
the main facts.
' Moreover, I forget the dates and
names ; but, anyhow, it happened a
long time ago.
1 You must know that Castle
Gloom came into the family some
generations ago. It was not always
a Fraser possession ; it belonged to
a certain Grant of Gloom, who, I
fancy, was not a very reputable
character. This Grant had a
daughter— daughter and only child.
' There was a match made be-
tween her and a Fraser, nephew to
the then Lord Lovat. This Fraser
seems not to have been a bad fellow,
but the lady did not care for him ;
in fact, she had a lover of her own —
a cousin, who ought, or fancied he
ought, to have had the property—
a most particular blackguard.'
' Can't you tell us what she was
like ?' interrupted Lady Blanche.
' She had the new colour of hair,
all frizzly, you know; a low fore-'
head, and no crinoline,' Arthur
Bertie explained.
' They were married,' Simon went
on— 'Fraser of Lovat and Miss
Grant. The cousin was a constant
guest. He and Fraser used to play,
and play high, the fond wife looking
over her husband's hand, no doubt,
and the cousin winning always.
They used to sit in the room in the
tower, which was my lady's boudoir.
Fraser seems to have lost more and
more. His wife urged him to throw
yet higher stakes, and win it all
back. One night he staked the
castle and lands, and lost all. He
left the room. His wife came up to
Grant, and bade him hold to the
last part of their bargain, to do for
Fraser with a quick draught, and
fly with her. He laughed in her
face, and asked what for he should
tangle himself with a wild wife
when he had got the house and
lands. Let her bide by her man.
She was furious, and struck him
with a dagger. Fraser came in as he
fell. She denounced him as a traitor
and false loon, and bade her husband
despatch him, and Grant died curs-
ing them, and cursing the room in
which they were, and the thresh-
hold that he had crossed to enter it.
Men were lords of their own houses
in those days. No one seems to
have asked indiscreet questions as
to what he did or wherefore. The
room was shut up from that day,
and the tradition held thenceforth
that, when it should be opened, evil
would befall the Lord of Gloom.
' What became of the lady is not
told. One can fancy the menage
not being the pleasantest in the
world, my own belief is that she
went mad.'
There was a horrified pause. Miss
Gort drew a long breath at last and
said, if the door had never been
opened since, they would be sure to
find all sorts of funny things just as
they were left.
' By George ! so we shall,' said
Arthur Bertie ; ' old what's-his-
name's skeleton, and the dagger and
all.'
'These old families have often
curious stories,' Mr. Fitzwigram re-
marked. 'Apropos to dagger, did
you ever see that dagger that they
show at Blakely, the Lord B 's
house in Wales? Most curious.
Lady B always makes me tell
the story. I remember one day her
saying to the duchess — her sister,
you know — " Now, Frances, Mr.
Fitzwigram shall tell you that
story." To be sure, what a charm-
ing person she was. Did you ever
meet her, Lady Blake?'
' No,' said Lady Blake, sternly. She
was turning over in her mind how to
comment on the story in such man-
ner as to deliver a home thrust to
the culprit, Miss Filmer, whom she
had invested with all the qualities
described in the Lady of Gloom.
Finding no speech sufficiently cut-
ting, she rose, and begged Frank to
light the candles.
' We are going to stay up,' Lady
Blanche said, looking up from her
lowly seat with a wicked smile, 'till
Monday morning allows us to open
the door.'
' I could not answer to my con-
science, Lady Blanche,' Lady Blake
534
Still Unmarried.
replied, twitching hex face into a
BiuiU- ; 'I oonld not answer to my
oonsoienoe it' I sanotioni d Bach a pro-
log bj nay presence.'
'Lucj -MissGorl -mydear,Bhall
we go Dow? Those whose con-
BoieDoee allow them will, of coarse,
doI be Raided bj my opinion.'
I rank brought the candles with a
Bweet Bmile, and hopes that they
would Bleep well.
• Von had much better stay, Miss
i tort,' Ladj Blanche called oul ; 'it
will be great fan.' And all tlio
gentlemen joined in choros.
■ \\ h\ do you go to bed?' Colonel
Fraser said to Lucy as she left the
room. ' We want you to protect us
nst the evil spirit You ought
to stay.'
Lucy had not a word to say.
What woman but longs to B6< a
lucked door unclosed? and it is
human nature to hate being sent to
bed.
It was nearly midnight then.
' You are not really going to do it,
are you?' Jack Ev< rsley said, quietly ,
win n the Blakes had gone.
Be had made no comment before;
and wl <n Jack spoke it was gene-
rally to the purpose.
Blanche looked guilty and fright-
eiH .1 ; the men exchanged glai
frank looked at Mi-s Kilmer, on
whose face a Bmile, half scornful,
half amused, was playing.
' To be sure I am,' Frank replied,
lightly ; ' I have made my will, and
paid my tailor's bill, and it's all
right.'
The lugubrious lace of Sandy an-
il atilie door. • The carpenter
is ben , sir.'
'Hurra!' exclaimed Blanche,
ling In r friend's arm ; ' now for
the eton. Boo! 1 ! I loesn't
it make you creep, Gn orgie? Come
and gel a shawl.'
Frank helped to put on the
■■ Is.
' I shall hold you to your word,'
kid tp ( >■ and something
m bis I < r a f< 'in
hall r, that was quite
new.
' What if he mal.t - me love him
all ?' she said to hi
It era • a low narrow do ir placi 1
in a littli US the wall, hall way
np a stone staircase thai led up to
the tower, and from which br inched,
a little way above the closed door,
the main passage for the lx droom,
to which the principal stair asc also
led at the other end. Tin re was
a narrow step or ledge 1m t w< en the
do r and the stair, and on t 1 is ledge,
baing, the carpenter, knelt with bis
screws and saw, to undo the nail 8
and the plaster that held the door;
tin re was no handle at all, and the
keyhole bad been stopped up. The
others sat or stood above and helow
the doorway on the stair ; the maids
crept from the passage, and the
man-servants from below, to look
on. Julia (iort joint d tin m, ha\ ing
escaped from the indignation of
Lady Blake and the tears of Lucy.
Small jokes and whispers wenl on
while the carpenter worked ; no one
seemed to like to Bpeak out loud,
At last he turned round and signi-
t'u d that a push would open the
door— all obstacles were removi d.
blank's voice Bounded loud and
hollow in the vaulted Btone stair-
way, as he called for the lamp, and
in breathless silence the group be-
hind him waih d while hean I Simon
|l ant their should* rs against
wood-work: there was a low crunch-
ing of the pla h r, and then the door
fell backward with a dull thud.
ry head was bent f irward ; tin-
two bra-, rs and the carpi ut. r stood
in the doorway, when a Blight figure
like a ghost in its whitedrapt ry and
pale face passed between them and
Btepp '1 tir-st into the ' doom cham-
ber.' It was Lucy Blake
' 'bake care,' Colonel Prfl I t ex-
claimed," catching at hi r si.
' there may be nails and boles.'
lbs voice broke the spell that lay
on all the otht rs. Lucy, trembling
and overwrought, was unnoticed;
she scarcely knew that Sin on Fii
drew her gently back, an I u ode b( c
sit down on the stair outside.
Poor Lucy I Frank did no! even
what she had meant to i ISB foi
his sake. Be ba 1 tin Di I B 300n as
be had put his foot within th( room,
and read his answer in G( orgie'B
I h< n was no skeleton, bul ti •
Was dUSl 'bit and still. tl, death-
Ill,.- clost iilss. A worn-oul colour-
Still Unmarried.
535
less rug, in the middle of the worm-
eaten boards, a ricketty table with
curved legs leaning against the wall,
a few chairs gnawed and rotten, a
black wooden seat under the win-
dow and round one side of the room,
cobwebs everywhere, a faded bit of
tartan hauging by one nail at the
side of the narrow, dimmed whidow,
a cupboard-door half open — was all
they saw ; a dead mouse lay in the
empty cupboard; but on lifting the
fallen door they found a pistol of
clumsy shape but curiously- wrought
inlaid handle and tied to it a knot
of ribbon, still' and stained — so stiff
that it broke into little bits, like
wood, at the first touch.
After the first moment every one
had crowded into the room. There
were exclamations of disappoint-
ment — no skeleton, no glove, no torn
letter, no ghost nor trace of ghost —
only the most abominable smell of
dead mouse — of dust-dom. After
due poking about and much laugh-
ter, they all went down stairs, and
drank to Frank's health.
Lucy went to her room and cried
bitterly. Her mother came in to
hear all about it.
' He is safe, quite safe ! But, <jh !
mamma, I saw him speak to her
afterwards; and it is all settled — I
know it. Oh! Frank, Frank— she
is not worthy of him— she does not
care for him ! I saw his face while
he spoke to her. When they all
went down again he and she went
away into the hall, and then he came
in, and took Lady Blanche's hands,
and I heard him thanking her so for
something, and saying he was the
happiest fool in England ; and she
called her husband, and they both
shook hands with him ; and she
said she had been so hoping and
praying for it, and she was so glad
'■ for you both," she said. I came
away then — I could not stay. Oh !
mamma, mamma, if only she were
good and nice, I should not mind so
much !' And Lucy went to bed, and
was very miserable.
Save for dust and dirt on the
stairs, no sign made itself evident
that the ' doom chamber ' had been
opened, and the fate of the Frasers
defied. At breakfast Frank was in
wild spirits ; so was Lady Blanche.
Georgie did not come down till late.
When she came in she was quite
beautiful in a white gown with
peach-coloured ribbon at her throat
and tying her hair. She blushed
when the Berties and Jack Eversley
shook hands warmly with her, and
she squeezed Blanche's hand, and
smiled at the Blakes, with a smile
that ought to have disarmed them.
Frank followed her after breakfast,
and she let him walk with her under
the great lime trees, where he would
have knelt down and kissed her foot-
prints on the moss, had she not given
her hand to be kissed instead. He
might tell every one — he might do all
he pleased, now, she said ; and he be-
came so wildly happy that she told
him, laughing, he was to remember
the sun had not gone down on the
day yet since he had defied the curse,
and that one must not count one's
chickens too soon.
When the gentlemen started to
shoot, Simon Fraser went up to his
cousin and asked if he might have
the dogcart to take him to the sta-
tion. He must go by the one o'clock
train.
Frank, greatly surprised, made
remonstrance. ' What in the world
made him go ? It was too shabby a
visit. Had anything occurred, or
was he only in joke? Of course rte
could have the dogcart, but must he
go?'
Simon protested he had always
meant to go that day ; he had busi-
ness — letters ; in short, he must bid
him good-bye.
The manner of both cousins had
a shade of embarrassment— possibly
unconscious to themselves, and
neither looked the other in the face
as he spoke.
' I will not go with these fellows/
Frank said. ' They shall shoot the
hill, and meet me and the young
ladies at the White Haugh for
luncheon. I will stay and see you
off.'
But Colonel Fraser would not
hear of this ; and, after a few more
words and a warm grasp of the
hand, he parted from his cousin,
promising a speedy though vague
renewal of their friendship. Not a
word of Frank's engagement ; not a
sign that he guessed, as he did, what
536
Still Unmarried.
bad been tho fruit of last night's
.1. I .1.
Prom the window c. orgie Filmcr
nw the parting, and saw Bimoa
walk back to the boose with his
wonfa '1 < asy tn ad and » ' expres-
sion He pass d the w indow close,
and saw her, but without any si- n
aition, and Bhe left the room
• ■ mi 1 1 linn when he should
enter the fronl hall. The servants
rearranging tho plaids
and great-coats, and she heard him
give the order to have the dogcart
al the dooral twelve; then Bhe went
hark to the library, and remained
alone Bar an hour waiting for the
iKxt move in the game.
Before twelve the ladies met in
the hall, equipped for the walk that
they had planned to take to the
White Haugh to pic-nio with the
sportsmen. 'Was Miss Kilmer not
ready?' Nobody knew. Creaking
hoots told her of Lady Blake's ap-
proach in time. Georgie was mi tho
sofa wit li a Bmelling-bottle when the
lihrary-door opened.
' dh ! here ahe is, dear. Are yon
not well? Are you not coming?'
Miss Filmi r sniffed delicately at
her od said she was so sorry
—so very. Nobody musi Btop with
' We are all waiting,' Lady Bl \i
i 1 from behind tho door.
• P< rhaps you will follow :'
' You will say all sorts of pretty
things tor me, .1 ar Miss <h>rt, 1
know yon will. I really have such
ry ha l In adache, I don't think J
could walk. Thank's SO very lnueli
— ten thousand thanks! It will be
r ]ifi sently I dare say.'
She watched with all her powers
of hearing, till she knew they must
he .put, and then ran up to
In r ro im. How pale Bhe was —
bow old she io iked. Bitterly she
tunn d from the glass, twi ted a
scarf round hi r, look her hat and
look, I again, and then left the
a.
They • (king the dogcart
was on the steps.
Wellt Op to llill, jef—
' \\ ill you walk over tho lawn
with me? Vou can mi • t the
at ihi b ittom of the hill. i
huvi to you, 1 she
added aloud, so that in courtesy he
should beobhged not to refuse hex
request
l'rao r bowed BtirSy.
• i lertainly— if you wish it.'
He followed her down the steps,
and they walked across the lawn
together.
she was no had actress io tn >d
so slowly and daintily hy him, tor
her la art was ht ating, as it seldom
did, w ith her fear, distrust of her
uu n powi r, and a linn determination
not to fail, at least to have her say,
all fighting in her.
To reach the lower terrace they
had to go down a rough step or two,
half stone, half turf. Neither had
spoken till then. < leorgie Btumbled,
ami he gave her his hand to In Ip
her in regaining firm footing. Bhe
stopped for one moment, holding it,
and then, as they walked on, said.
gently, ' Does it remind you of old
times?' — adding, almosl under her
breatb • as it reminds mi' ; or have
you forgotten ?'
'The place is so little alter, d,' ho
replied, in an unmoved VO
'everything is exactly as 1 left it,
that, save tor missing the dear old
lit, I could fane \ it was still old
tiic
' 1 Hi' ant - hut you are a man —
you can forget what 1 must re-
member for my life. All these days
you have not Bpoken to Hie oil.'
word — not one word. 1 am a fool,
hut l felt I must speak once to yon
again.'
There was a moment's silence,
and then he said, gravely, ' It was
yourself that bade ait forget, Miss
Pilmer. Vou wrote to me, so that
I had no alternative. I do not
quite understand what it is that
yOU would have of me DOW. It was
of my doing, < Sod knows!' lie
spoke with calm bj , with no
trace of emotion.
Clasping her hands together, she
spoke. ' Ah ! how hard you are ;
how hard. Do yOU not know how
it was with me, so young, hit II
in such hands? Werel bej my own
word .do you think, that I m
,ii suppose it wat mj doing '
l.o ,|; at all those .Mars, how I I
waited. Should I he In re now
am if— if— . l»o. a one >l,, oevex a
Still Unmarried.
537
deed that one repents ? Do you not
think I have wept and wopt over
what I did — what they made me do?'
' Are you not now engaged to
Frank — to my cousin? What can
you expect me to say to you?'
' Who has been telling evil things
of me ? Who has said that to you ?
Ah ! I know whose doing it is/ she
exclaimed, bitterly.
'Is it not true?' Colonel Fraser
asked, in his ordinary quiet tone.
' He at any rate seems to believe his
dream.'
Georgie put her hand to her
throat, and drew a long, sobbing
breath. ' I will tell you the truth,'
she cried. 'I was so tempted— to
show you that I was at least not
unsought— I was in despair almost,
seeing you — seeing the one love I
craved withheld. Can you not un-
derstand? Do you think I cared
for him : do you think I could
listen to his voice while I heard
yours ? Did you think it was mere
caprice that made me bid him open
that door ?' She stopped again for
breath.
He shook his head. 'I do not
know how to answer you. Perhaps
I am grown hard and cold. I think
not; but I cannot dig up again
what I buried so deep underground.
You were wrong to do it/ he said.
' I would have been true and tender
to you, Georgie. But it is all over
now: no need for reproaches and
bitter words.'
' You are hard — hard,' she re-
peated. ' It is just and right ; I
must submit. But tell me you
forgive me — tell me. — Oh, I cannot
bear you to say you forgive me;
that is what they say when it is all
over : it is heaping turf on the
grave. What am I to do with my
life now-? It is thrown back on me.
You could always lead me with a
thread.' She passed her hand
timidly within his arm, and he let
it lie there.
'How fast you walk/ she said;
'are you so anxious to get away,
while I feel as if it were my last
moment — as if I could not let it
slip ?'
He replied hastily, ' No, no ; you
must not think I want to get away.
I wish I knew what to say to you.
I do not wish to say I forgive you ;
it is all so entirely past and gone.
I would have you forget it and be
at peace. I have no wish but for
your happiness — for your entire
happiness and good. You have so
much in your hand — ' He hesitated
a little. ' You have a life to make
or mar. If it were so indeed that
I could lead you, I would bid you
think well what is before you. I
would ask you— ' he stopped; and
they stood opposite each other, she
with clasped hands and her eyes on
the ground.
' Why not let this be the turning
in your life ?' he said. ' There is
great good before you, if you have
the will for it.'
As he looked at her he could not
but be moved with her exceeding
beauty — the wistful tenderness in
her large eyes, so dark and soft with
unshed tears.
'I know you will/ he said, and
took her hands in his, and held
them.
Georgie looked up in his face.
' I know you can never love me/
she said, very low; 'but give me
one kiss— it is the last time.'
Something in her look, in her
tone, moved him strangely. Had
he been hard indeed — too hard ?
She stood resting a moment, and
then, as the flush that her own
words had called to her face faded
into paleness, he stooped and kissed
her.
* * * *
Towards afternoon the day clouded
over. A grey mist hung over the
hills, and gradually descended on
the valley. The birds were silent ;
the flowers closed their petals, as if
it were nightfall; yellow leaves
fluttered to the ground in the Lime-
walk; a sudden chill and silence
filled the air ; and the distant rush
of the river sounded strangely near
and dull.
About four o'clock the whole
party came home. The gentlemen
could not shoot in the mist. All
were quiet, somewhat cross, and
cold. Nobody was in the boudoir
when they entered.
' I thought,' the General said, ' we
should have found the interesting
couple together here.'
>38
Still Unman ',• J.
The fire had j-ron* > out: Blanche
shuddered, and exclaimed peevishly,
at the chillini SB ol tlif room,' Where
Prank bi ?' A small joke was
made some stupidity about nut
ling any flame but that of love
to keep A//// Mann, but nobofly
laughed. - Gort— who had
rather deserted her friend Lucy
since the las! night's events pointed
1 . ( , I ilmi t a- Future 1. idy
in - dow came in, saying sh<-
had '■< eo t>> Miss Filmer's room, and
had found her then' : she was
coming down directly. • she Lad
not said a word about Frank.
The footman came in with sticks,
and lit the fire ; h a was brought ;
rything became brighi and cosy.
came down, with brilliant,
nd a rod flush on
She talked, laimhed,
made te i : and when at last Jack
i sley said, ' And where have you
hid Frank?' Bhe looked amazed,
and said, ' Frank ! was he not with
i have not si en him !'
Frank ba I Left them at tin- White
Haugh. Frank had gone back as
he had found she was Hot
with the other ladii
They all looked at each other, and
Mr. Ev< rsli j broke the silenci
.savin.' he must liavo OOUie in: ho
must have fallen asleep in hi- room,
an I w. nt up to look lor him.
TI lit , dim aln ad] , died
at last altogi ther: no i . hut
damp and thick. Frank
di 1 not come homo : ha 1 not ba n
I [e hid t>. rn sho >t ing capi-
tally all tin' morning ; a little
n rvous, ]» rhapa, i"'t in exc<
form altogether— in .such spirits
both h' ton- lunch, and at lunch,
V ha I told him ho was
1 [e bad i at< a a ithing, but
drunk champagne, to
■ !i thanks for bis he ilth that
l.a 1 h. . ii I • I "- |' Ift I. He I .el throw ii
nl I ad laughed at
the R]aB( . ii-- it fell
on I and th. n they bad
. • I rank, yon an He
hud not hut
after drink,. 1 a I
ired be must go borne and
c,ie '■'• Filmer ir hi
I by him
ide him
lose his way. 'Had he his gun?'
ono asked. Fee, he bad his .mm.
And Miss I lort said, ' Don't yon
reliielnl'i r We hi Bid llilll si t JUst
afterwards; and you said, Mr. Bertie,
that Frank was baying a private
chusse of his own V
Miss Blake was frightfully pale
Her lips were so dry and parched,
poor child, that she could hardly
form l.er words ; hut she managed
to say to Mr. Bertie, 'Something
must have happened: do go and
look for him!'
(if course sin- had hut given
words to what each one was think-
ing, hut tin re was a chorus of
li'i '.nation that nothing could have
happened, 'It was the mist;' 'ho
was at the keeper's; anything you
please. But Jack Eversley got up,
and left the room quietly; and then
the Kilties Went, and the (iellelal
found himself assailed by all the
ladies, and obliged to invent reasons
for his non-appearance, and Boothe
their fears. Georgia said not!
and sat close to the lire, holding
Blanche's hand, while tin; little
lad\ declared alternately that she
was dying of fright, and hit quite
taint, and that ho WOUld walk in,
dressed for dinner whin the j
rui: .
Hut tho gong did not ring, and
only a shutting and opening of the
hall-door was heard alter some half-
hour or so'.s nervous listening.
( It .t up quietly, walked to
the do ir ol the boudoir, and opening
it, looked out and listened, a step
was coming along the | . and
old Sainiv , di adlj pale, came up to
la r.
• What is it. Sandj ?' a ked M
Filmer, steadily.
lie only moved his head, and
seemed unable to speak ; she pushed
hiin aside, and went dow n the p. -
mto the hall. Hearing b< t
ik, and seeing her have the
1" 'in, all the other ladles hi
in i e iniing evil.
Blanche Bhrieked and rushi d aft r
hi r. Lucy Blake caught bold of
her mother, and shook all 0V( r. an 1
' ■! i lort ran on tiptoe to the
door. 'Ill'', ll followed lii r.
All was dark ami quiet in the hall.
'1 i.i front door was ajar, and Georgie
Still Unmarried.
539
opened it and stood there listening.
The dull tramp of men's feet came
nearer and nearer ; the General and
both the ladies whispered together
in the hall.
' Can you not be quiet ?' Georgie
said, turning round suddenly on
them. Then she made a step out
on to the gravel, and met those
whose steps were now close to her.
A hand took hers in the darkness,
and Arthur Bertie said ' You had
better go in/ and led her into the
house. ' You had better go in,' he
repeated to the group that rushed
up to him with eager exclamations;
and struck with horror at they knew
not what dread, they all retreated
except Georgie, who stood back in
the shadow of the doorway.
' I am alone now/ she said, half
aloud ; ' I am alone, and may stand
by myself/ and yet she scarcely
knew what she meant by her words.
She saw them carry in their burden,
and lay it gently down on the great
stone slab in the hall, and she saw
in the grey pallor of the faces round
her what had happened. Scarcely
a word was spoken, but when four
of them made a movement to take
up the body and carry it elsewhere,
she came up and said ' Let me see
him/ and they fell back without a
word and let her look.
He was quite dead, with the s'tiff
sweet smile of death fixed on his
face.
' How was it ?' she asked of the
nearest to her. The man shook his
head, and did not speak.
' His gun must have gone off and
shot him/ Jack Eversley said, in a
low voice ; ' his foot must have
slipped, we think/
There was silence for a moment
or two, and then Georgie turned
away. Arthur Bertie came back
from the boudoir, and found her
holding on to the balustrade of the
staircase, and he gave her his arm
to help her up-stairs, but neither of
them spoke a word till they reached
her room; then he said, 'Shall I
send any one to you ?' She shook
her head, and he added, ' We have
telegraphed for Simon/
Georgie had been quite calm, but
as he said the last words a convul-
sive shudder passed through her,
and putting out her hands, she
would have fallen if he had not
caught her, and ringing for her
maid left her in her room.
The doom had fallen: it must
have been just twelve hours after
the room had been opened that poor
Frank had met his death. He was
lying there on his back in the
heather, not far from where he had
left the luncheon party, just in view
of the castle tower. His gun lay
near him, discharged, and the shut
had gone straight to the heart, and
the broken, bruised heather above
showed where he had missed his
footing, and stumbled.
* * * *
Simon Fraper came back. The
party was broken up.
The party that had met in such
high spirits dispersed in grief and
horror.
Simon came back, and with Jack
Eversley looked over all poor Frank's
papers.
' Will you give her this ?' he said,
after glancing at a half-folded sheet
of note-paper that was on the top of
the desk.
' Why not give it yourself?'
Fraser shook his head.
' It has struck me more than once,
Simon — perhaps I am doing her in-
justice — but it did strike me, and
does so still, that poor Frank was
ill-advised in his attachment to Miss
Filmer. That is not what I meant
to say when I began my sentence/
he added, as his companion did not
reply. ' Do you know much of her ?
— I think you do/
' Yes,' said Simon, quietly ; ' I
knew her some years ago very in-
timately.'
' So 1 fancied/
Both were silent, and Eversley
stood with the folded paper irreso-
lutely by the door.
1 1 have no right to ask/ he said,
presently, and then paused again.
Colonel Fraser had finished his
inspection of the desk, and as he
locked it he looked in his com-
panion's face, and said, ' I suppose I
know what you mean. Georgians
Filmer is the last woman I should
think of askiug to be my wife. Do
not let me give you any prejudice
against her ; poor girl ! she needs a
510
Still Unmarried.
friend, and she has lost a true ono
in thi> p ' r I
The paper bad been written on
the Sunday night when Prank had
promised thai the '1" aa chamber
should be unci"-. !. Ee had written
it evidently jost after leaving Georgie
in the boudoir, and on the outside
was Bcrawled ' it' I die.'
'Yon a thai I c id give ray life
f>r your smallest wish,' he bad
written. ' I have only pain in think-
ing that yon may regret what you
: : do not regret ; do not dream
but that I love you too much not
gladly to die, only grant me ono
thing— kiss me before they shut my
collin. I shall know it. Sometimes
I have thought you < I i . 1 not care for
me; I love you so intensely that I
am jealous; when 1 am gone, think
of me with affection.'
Tin' paper was hastily 'written,
and had but those few words, and
I them with a blanched
chei k, but with a slight bitter smile
on her (ace.
' Will you take me to the room?'
- lid when she had finished read-
ing it, and she and Bversley went
•ho-, and he stool musing sadly
and strangely by the window while
Bhe touched the 'had lips with hers.
There was a look of hard misery on
her lace whi n f be turned to l< ave
tin' room, and .lark Bversley pitied
her, knowing, as ho did, all that
might be in her mind. Ee took her
Land whi d they were in the j
and held it kindly as ho said, ' One
has many a bitter lesson to learn in
this life, Qeorgie, hut it is no cue
looking hack on evil days.'
She made no reply, but a -udden
colour came over her face ; she l>ent
and kissed the hand that held I
then turned into her own r i and
shut her door. Lady Blanche wept
herself into quite a little illness ; she
and .lack went the week alter to
Kelso, and she told every one at the
('ah .Ionian hall that her oharming
Mack and white dress was worn for
that dear, dear Mr. Eraser ; and when
the next season she met the I leneral,
and he asked her where was her
charming and most interesting friend
Miss Kilmer, the fair lady said, ' I >h,
Miss Filmerl really it was the
greatest shame, but she was such a
had correspondent, Bhe had not an-
swered her last letter, and she really
did not now know where she was.
Yes, she had been very nice, hadn't
she? and so handsome!'
The General found himself un-
usually popular as a side dish that
winter, and told the 'sad story'
with remarkable pathos and many
annotations; and Miss Lucy, who
wt at to Tan with her mother fox
chiin ■■■He, inarrie 1 a consump-
tive young clergyman the following
spring, and plays her 'Leiderohne
Worte ' as a voluntary on the har-
monium of his pretty little Lincoln-
shire church to this day.
Simon Eraser left the army, lie
is still unmarried.
w
541
BOATING LIFE AT OXFOED.
CHAPTER IV.
HOW WINGFIELD STEERED THE OXFOED EIGHT AND BAXTER ROWED 'FIVE.'
ON the morning after the bump-
supper above described I was
loafing round the Quadrangle, not
feeling inclined, after the excitement
of the previous evening, to do any-
thing particular, when I met Hallett
walking rapidly from the direction
of the College-gate, and looking as
if he were on some rather important
business.
' Oh, Maynard,' he said, ' have you
seen Baxter this morning? I dare
say the lazy beggar's in bed.'
' Ob, no,' I replied, ' I met him
just now going to breakfast with
Vere on . a red-herring and soda
water. He said he smoked a little
too much last night, and a red-her-
ring and tea, with soda-water to
follow, always set him up better
than anything else.'
' HallETT,' shouted a voice, which
could belong to none but Baxter;
and at the same moment a soda-
water cork hit me smartly on the
shoulder. We looked up and be-
held Baxter and Vere, leaning, each
with his elbows resting on a red
cushion, from a window on the first
floor above us.
' Oh, you're there, are you ?' said
Hallett; 'I've got some news for
you.'
' Come up here and tell it, then.
Come along, Maynard; you want
some soda-water awfully, I can see.'
Up we went accordingly. Vere
produced some more tumblers and
soda-water, which we proceeded to
uncork.
'Well, now, old man,' inquired
Baxter, ' what's up?'
' The soda-water for one,' put in
Vere, as the cork of the bottle he
held flew up to the ceiling, followed
by the contents.
' Why,' returned Hallett, with a
passing smile at Vere's little joke,
'I've just been strolling round the
parks, and met the gallant president
of the 0. U. B. C.* He said he was
just coming to speak to me about
* Oxford University Boat Club.
you. He wants to try you in the
'Varsity to-day instead of Pnlteney.'
' By — Jove ! you don't mean that,
old fellow?'
' Yes ; he says Pulteney's no more
use than a corpse : they were loth
to give him up, because he's a big
man and rows in fair form ; but
they've come to the conclusion at
last that he doesn't pull much more
than the weight of his boots.'
' Ah, Tip told me the same thing
after he steered them yesterday.
Hang it, I wish I hadn't drunk so
much soda-water ; I shall be as weak
as a baby when I get into the boat.
Vere, you treacherous old serpent,
it's your fault. Here Ive had a
chance given me of aquatic distinc-
tion, and your soda-water, sir, has
robbed me of the golden prospect.'
' Yes,' said Vere, in a tone of deep
contrition, 'and has even gone so
far as to take away your " coppers." '
' Well, I'm going off to grind,'
said Hallett ; ' you'll be down at the
river by half-past two, Baxter?'
' All right, my lad, I'll be there,
and if I don't pull the weight of my
boots — double-soled clumps, mind —
and a pound or two over, I'll shoot
myself to death with soda-water
corks.'
So Baxter rowed 'Five' that day,
and though his style was a little
rough, and the debauch of the night
before had, to use his own expres-
sion, 'played old Harry with his
internal arrangements,' Singleton,
the president, saw that, when the
day of the race came, the new ' Five'
would do good service for the dark-
blue. The Eight had been already
a few days in training, but it still
wanted more than a month to the
race-day, so that there was plenty
of time for minor improvements of
style ; and, as Baxter went into train-
ing with a determination to do all
he knew for his 'Varsity, it was not
long before his ' feather' came down
to the level of the rest of the crew,
and his time was pronounced right
542
11 i ■ilimj Life 'it Oxford.
as clockwork; and we of St. An-
thony's felt v. ry proud of our man,
;i< v.. \ iiim with !n's great
iming down between his
knees for the Btroke,and going back
with a long swing like a sledge-
hammer, for myself, I know that
when I heard an old University oar
Bay t > a friend on the bank, ' By
Jove I that man Five does more
work than the rest of the boat put
together,' I walked firmer on tho
ground for a week, and felt thai to
be a St Anthony's man was among
the highest privileges of this life.
Tom P. ivy, alias ' T. P.,' often
' Tippj .' rip,' had, as I men-
tioned before, Bteered tho Oxford
crew of the previous year; and as
he I Jed more than
three or four pounds in weight, it
was a matter of COUT86 that he
should be the coxswain for this year
also. < >ne Saturday, when the Eight
been in training aboul a fort-
night, Tip, who was a gnat lover
of rac |uets, and liked to test the
skill of every freshman who knew
anything of Ehe game, invited me
to play with him. Winn we had
playi d > : \' games, four of which I
lost, and wi re pi rforming ablul i
after the i si rcise, Tip said in his
sharp way,' What are you going to
do now? Come and ride: the Eight
don't want me this afternoon, tl oy've
to Bteer them : it's
last holiday I shall have, too,
• bey go into the racing-boal on
Monday, and 1 shall l>o wanted
;. day then. There, no humbug
aboul grinding for smalls,' be con-
tinued, putting on his coal and
his arm into mine, ' we'll
uple of i. a " i J " Tollitt's,
and I'll show von Bome of the coun-
try: he's got a little brown mare
that suite me to a hair.'
Accordingly after lunch to .Too
Tollitt's we went. Tip was much
chagrined to find thai the little
lirown m out ; howevi r, I
wi re plenty live anin
to pick from, and we w. |
mount' d on two of i ; ish-
lonking, stick-at-notbing that
( ixford kno* » so well. I 'ion
of showing the country was to 1 ep
i^li
roads and ne?er to ride f< r d
than ten minutes in tlie same direc-
tion. By carrying out this plan,
what with interesting fences and
exciting gallops, we bo in lost all
count of time; and it was not till
Percy's horse had refused three
fences in succession that we began
to think of returning.
•I say,' said Tip, suddenly, 'it
strikes me we ought to be getting
hack, the naps have had enough: I
wonder where the deuce we are.'
"•Oxford six miles," ' replied I,
quoting the finger-post, as we came
out at four cross roads.
' I have to dine with the Eight nt
six,' said Tip, 'and it's a quarter
pasl five now, and wo have, to tako
the horses hack and dress: touch
your mare up a bit; wemusl quicken
the pace; we shall bo awfully lato
as it is.'
By dint of constant stimulus wo
managed to put our hora a along at
something like the required p
and were beginning to think we
should not be very late after all,
when, coming sharply round a
corner, Percy's horse stumbled and
fell, throwing his rider as hi au'ly as
seven Btone ten can fall, into tho
void. By pulling my male on to
her haunches I barely avoided
riding over him. Tip's horse was
up directly; perhaps it was not his
first a Ivi nture of the bind ; bul not
so Tip, He lay perfectly still on
his face for a minute or BO, and I
thought wo should never hear our
wain's sharp little voice again;
bul he came to directly, and then I
asked him if he was much hurt.
' Cracked my arm,' he replied ; '
me to some farm-house, if you can,
my lad.' Though he spoke in some-
thing like his old authoritative tone,
I could see he was faint with pain.
What was I to do? It would not
do to Bel off with the little man in
my arm- in search of B hospitable
farmi r, l< a ■■ ing the two horses to
their own devices : BO at last I
fain to lay Tip with his Baddle ondi r
him against the hank at the road-
side, and sel off on my own hor
fetch ' mce. i was not ion- in
finding a couple of farm-labou
to help ni". mid between us wo
brought both Percy and th<
to a comfortable homi 1 1< ad in the
Boating Life at Oxford.
513
neighbourhood. In less than an
hour we had found a surgeon ; the
arm was set, the head bandaged up,
and Tip declared himself to bo ' as
right as ninepence.' ' This knocks
my steering on the head, though,'
he continued, in a doleful tone.
'Come,' interposed the surgeon,
' you'll have the goodness to go to
sleep, sir, and don't talk about steer-
ing till I've steered you through
this little business; and, Mr. May-
nard, I'll thank you to be off and
tell the story to your friends at St.
Anthony's.'
It was past eight when I reached
the College. I went first to Baxter's
rooms, and found him just returned
from dining with the Eight, and
lighting his lamp in preparation for
the severest of grinds.
' I'm afraid I'm disturbing you,'
said I.
' Oh, no, young un, come in ; I'm
just preparing for an enlightened
study of the Nicomachean Ethics by
tbe help of Mr. Browne's transla-
tion; a regular Browne study, in
fact, as "Vere would say ; but I'm
not in harness yet— coat to change,
slippers, and general derangement
of dress to come ; so sit down : take
the easy chair.'
'Thanks; I won't stay five mi-
nutes, but I've got something to
tell you. I've been out for a ride
with Percy.'
' And got spilt, eh ?' said Baxter.
' I thought by your look there was
something up.'
' No, not exactly,' I replied, ' but
Percy has come rather to grief —
broken his arm.'
' You don't mean that ; poor dear
little Tip ! Where is he now ?'
' I've left him in good bands at a
farmer's three miles off on the Ban-
bury road. He didn't seem to care
much, excepting that, as he said, it's
all up with his steering for this year.'
' Yes, by Jove !' exclaimed Baxter,
' and I don't know where the 'Varsity
will find another cox. The men
who steered the trial Eights are no
good ; neither of them knows even
how to keep his lines taut, much
less steer on a broad water like the
Thames. I tell you what, I shouldn't
wonder if our little Tom Thumb,
what's his name ?'
' Wingfield ?' said I.
'Yes, to be sure, Wingfield..
Ever since that little ducking he
got he's steered splendidly. I'll
speak to Singleton to-morrow, and
get him tried at any rate. Now,
young un, I think I must trouble
you to be off, for it's time I tackled
the venerable Stagirite. You'd
better let Hallett know all about
poor Tip.'
' Yes ; I'll go to him at once.'
'Ah, do. Good-night.'
' Good-night.'
Next day Wingfield was tried as
coxswain, as well as one or two
others, who were considered likely
men; and for three or four days it
was not settled who should fill the
vacant seat in the stern of the boat.
Wingfield, meantime, was fluttering
between exultation at having steered
the 'Varsity even for a day, and
the fear lest he should be rejected
after all. At last, after steering the
Eight over the long course one day,
he said to me, ' Tell you what,
Maynard, they really ought to have
me after my steering to-day : don't
laugh ; I tell you I know Tom Percy
couldn't have taken them better.
What are you grinning at? You
old duffer, you don't know good
steering when you see it. Here's
Baxter ; I'll just ask him. Now,
Baxter, wasn't my steering first-rate
to-day ?'
' Well, I suppose it must have
been,' returned Baxter, 'for I've
just had orders to tell you you're to
be cox. of the Eight.'
'Hurrah! I told you so, May-
nard. I knew I steered well.
Hurrah !' And off the small man
went, in a joyous trot, that expressed
better than any words the height of
his glee and exultation.
Having Jived in the country all
my life till I came to St. Anthony's,
and my interest in the Oxford and
Cambridge race never having gone
beyond betting '3 to 2 in tizzies '
with my chums at school, I had
never yet had the luck to witness
what tbe daily papers always call
' the struggle for the blue riband of
the Thames.' Now, however, I felt
that to see Tbe Bace was one of the
necessaries of life; and accordingly,
I availed myself of a general invita-
Ml
ling Life at Oxford.
tion, given mo long iiL'n by one of
my uncles, to Bpend the week hut
b» fore Easter at his house at
ton.
Th< • had been three days
on tin.' London water wh< d I reached
town, "ii the Monday before the
no ' 'V 1 ran down to
Putney to see how things were
going on, and saw our boat <-onio
in, after rowing the whole course.
ewas a little knot of men wait-
ing to Bee tin' crew step ashore —
two or three newspaper corre-
Bp indents, University m in, water-
men, and a few oilier-. It was
curious to see the different ways
the men had of getting out of tho
boat. Stroke and Bow tried, without
much success, to look as if a four-
mile row were to them a mere baga-
telle; 'Three' and ' Four,' on the
other hand, sit for B minute or two
with their heads sunk down to their
knees, as though thej never me ml
iw again, and then rose slowly,
and walked off with the air of
martyrs who felt thai they were
sacrificing their lives by inches on
the altar of patriotism. As for
Baxh r, he hitched np his troti
in a Bubdued way, and tumbled out
anyhow, with two or three puffs
and snorts, and without the
while Wing-
field displayed in every motion a
deep ' his dignity and resp Ri-
sibility, as Coxswain of the Oxford
Eight
■ Hallo, young *un !' exclaimed
er, suddenly, as his eye fell
• ire you there? C 'mo to
your friends perform, eh ?'
' yes,' said 1; 'how do you got
on?
' All right as fir ns I'm con-
d ni' 'I : Three and Fpur have bi an
rati v the lit day or two;
hut they'll I i 'Uu'li bj Satur-
day.'
'Anl what about Oambridg
I inqnin
■ i lit, : ; ie to to fcer-
day : you'll si o them come in
d i. ctly; th' tingly
this y< ar. I .• tin ir Stro
a man of undying pluck — so's our
m hi, for that matter ; hud as n tils,
and the CO0l( -t oar out. It will Iks
a ve-ry tOUgfa r.
'Maj I ask, sir, what your time
was to-day ?' said one of the gentle*
men of tho IV as, a Idressing Baxter,
DOte-book in land.
'Fifteen minutes twenty seconds,
on a slack tide," replied Baxter,
promptly, with a scarcely per-
ceptible wink at me.
' Indeed, Bir ; thank you. And
what should yon rMiisi [ei to he the
betting now, sir?'
'Throe to one on ( i.xford.'
'Indeed, sir; thank you; mnofa
obliged. < tood-day, sir.'
' We shall see all that in one of
tho penny papers to-morrow morn-
ing,' said Baxter: 'you wouldn't
think ho could take all that in,
would you? Jusl shows how much
those ! fellows' information is pood
for: tluy gel crammed np with
some startling particulars now and
then.'
Wingfield, who had been super-
intending, as he thought himself in
duty hound, the removal of tho
b< >at to its shelter for the night, now
joined us.
'How do, Maynard?' he said,
with a lively nod. ' Baxter,
away and Wash; don't stand tin re,
catching your death of cold ; I'll
tell Maynard all about everything,
Now go mi, there's a good fi How.'
• All right, Tommy; I'm off. By-
by, nr. lad,' t<> me; and Ba
Went Off to wash, a- he was hid. It
was clear that a change had taken
place in the relations of the small
to the hie man : the former had
■ •— at least iii hi- nH ii estima-
tion—an absolute hut beneficent
ruler; tho lath r a sober-minded
and sulnnissive subject Alter some
conversation with Wingfield, during
which he off red me a t icket for the
Umpire's boat, and re< intended
me to go to Evans's either the night
before or the night alter the race, on
account of the Bplendid row there
was sure to he, as if la' knew all
about it from the experii nee oi a
lifetime, wo parted, breathing de-
vout wishes for the success of tho
dark-blue colours on tho coming
Saturday morning.
Friday evening found me, for tho
first tune m my lite, at l',\ai
under the protection of V*< re, whom
I had happened to meet a < lay or
Boating Life at Oxford,
545
two before at a cigar-shop in tho
Strand, buying what ho called
' Berba Nicotiana, vulgo appellata
Tobacco.' Most people ki»0W what
Evaus's supper-rooms are like. The
room being filled almost entirely with
Oxford and Cambridge men, all
having their thoughts fixed on the
coming race, the excitement soon ran
liigh ; and when a well-known singer
came forward and gave us a spirited
stave, appropriate to the occasion,
extolling alternately the dark and
light, blue, party enthusiasm reached
its highest pitch. I was greatly
excited myself, and sowasVere; I
shall not, therefore, attempt to
describe all the events of the-
evening. My impression is, that a
great deal of glass was smashed;
that several appeals were made by
at least two proprietors (Vere said
there was only one) ; that the
waiters had a very bad time of it
altogether ; and that my hat, when I
got out into the street after a severe
vStruggle, had assumed the contour
of the ' shocking bad ' article which
adorns the head of the Irish car-
man.
Fortunately I was not obliged to
rise very early next morning, as the
race was to start a little before
eleven, and I had not far to go.
Vere had engaged a horse to ride
along the towing-path; so I started
by myself, got on board the steamer
early, and man-iged to secure a good
pla-e to view the race.
It w r as a clear sunshiny day, with
a light breeze blowing rather cool
from the west, and the attendance of
spectators, both on land and water,
was enormous. Not to mention the
steamers, of which there were five
or six, mostly crammed almost to
sinking point, the river from Putney
bridge to Simmons' boat-house was
gay with small craft of all descrip-
tions, cockney crews with the live-
liest uniforms and the worst pos-
sible styles of rowing, pale govern-
ment clerks adventuring their lives,
and , still worse, their unexceptionable
straw hats in skiffs of frail con-
struction, young tradesmen in their
shirt-sleeves and shiny hats toiling
in heavy tubs to the admiration of
their sweethearts in the stern. Here
and there the bright blue of the
VOL. XI.— NO. LXVI.
London Rowing Club or the scarlet
of Kingston might bo seen in a
graceful outiigged four, and one
boat, that I particularly noticed,
was rowed by four young ladies in
blue jackets, straw hats, and white
kid gloves, who looked very charm-
ing and excited much admiration.
The banks were lively too, though
not so gay as at some other parts
nearer the finish; the ladies were
not so numerous here or so well
dressed, but the bright faces of the
crowd, the bits of colour here and
there lighting up the dark masses,
as men in various uniforms moved
in and out among the throng
with the clear sunlight brighten-
ing up the whole, gave things a
cheery, holiday look, that calmed to
some extent the intense anxiety I
was beginning to feel about the issue
of the coming race. I could hear
from time to time the shouts on the
bank, as we dodged about trying to
get into our proper po-ition. 'Ox-
ford or Cambridge colours three-
pence.'—' I'll give 5 to 4 on Oxford ;
will any gentleman take 5 to 4?'—
'Boat, sir? Here you are, sir — take
the three on yer for 'arf-a-crown.' —
' Want to see the start, sir ?— try ray
little boat, sir.' — ' Will any gentle-
man take 5 to 4 ?' &c.
The two boats came out a little
after the appointed time, looking
very stately and beautiful, as they
paddled quietly to their starting-
rafts, with cheers rising to greet
them on all sides as they moved
along. While the usual manoeuvring
of the refractory steamers was going
on, my eyes were fixed on my two
friends in the Oxford boat. Baxter
looked in splendid condition, but, as
time went on, and the start was still
delayed, he grew uncomfortable,
gripping his oar nervously, hitching
up his trousers, and settling himself
on his thwart in a May that showed
he was far from easy in his mind.
Wingfield, on the other hand, sat
with his legs tucked in, and his
hands tightly grasping the rudder-
lines, pale, but looking as though
his whole soul and body were bent
up to one object, and seeming quite
insensible to everything beside. At
last ' those confounded steamers '
were got into something like order,,
2 N
1",
J: i ting I.i/r ai Chf rd.
■ I '>: ■'< ■ v low- lived i
: \ lay in shore Bome •
. ••: the rest, and was utterly
ictable. I'. ich man in the two
crews took i las! look round, w ttled
him ■ the last time on hie
ing himselfnp, and i
t irwnrd tends for the stroke : the
t : i' word arid
li iate BpraDg off togetl er. The roar
thai broke forth at once fiom all
• legraphed far up the river
that the race had 1" gnn ; the cr iwd
mi the hank stood still for a mo-
ment, and then began I in
nu ■ direction ; the smal ci be-
aim( lly excited ; the st< a mere
groam d and snorh il ; \\ hile, ah
all, the cries of 'Cambridge !' ' Ox-
I 'I'd !' rose into the air, i ometimes
rp ami clear, sometimes blend-
in one dull surging roar. And
so tin race swepl two slender
boats with their earning <
forging on in the midst, and lioli
]• conrse in ppite oi her
■ rs, insolent steamers, and
ney wherries. For the lirsl dozen
strokes tin j 1 1 almost dead
level, th( the
c stroke, b< g in to iwly
I. 'I
was the cr; I bj ' Now,
( Ixford !' ' " ford !' in a re-
in-'!. But our s'i
[uicki n, and still th< lue
to 1
Roap woi lea they w< re hal ' a l< 1
1 1, and we !.■ ire I Bami
smith they h id drawn cl<
' I'll give 6 to 4 0:1 ( ' irnbrid
ne one near D
' 111 t ' n plied a voice that
T knew well. I lo 'k: d round
saw, fur t 1 e t'n-t time, thai II.
• ding within a few yards oi
mi'. \Y' I nods, and 'hen
tun.' 1 to, and shouted ' I Ixfor 1 !'
Then I saw 1 nr s!
his In a 1 an I t ike a look B
hi« ' ■■ , and th< a hi broa ! <
rami- forward in quicker time, and
1 oar Bashed fasti r over the w it< 1 ;
mi d t 1 tart into fn !i
lite, nrid inch by inch the lost
ihd was mad up. an 1, a 1
< tnltii ■-' cri( t of ' < m I m 11 row< d,
our 1 w ap h -. ■ 1
' Will jfOU do that 6 to t <>• . , 1
again, sir?' said Ballot! to the man
mar him.
' Not just now, sir,' returned the
other in a rather sinh tone. ' Now
' ibrid'^e!' Cambridgi answer d
the call l>\ another p rt, and began
more to F»ho it alu a I amid tre-
meDclous cheering but our men
were □ »t tob denic I.Bpnrt answi
Bpurt, and each boa! altera I
headed the other, while the roarn
and yells and even shrieks tin'
rose from land and water swelled
into a perfect storm. The. boats
shot Barnes bridge together; l< ss
than a mile and the race would he
over. Which would wm? It was
a splendid fight, but the anxiety
was almost past bearins. At last
tin' final 1 fforl came. The steamers
were by this time a g 1 way in
the rear, but through a gla
could Bee that the dark-blue was
once more going to the fore: •
were gaining bteadily every stroke;
they musl v. in,
' oxford wins!' shouted Ballett,
now close beside me. 'Oxford I —
hurrah ' Balloa! look th< re -what's
that ? Tin re's a bargi coming right
across them they 11 be swam]
Why the devil dm .-n't Wiugfii Id
'em round? Ob, d — 11 it,
they'll lose the raci ' Chi re they
must be — no, by J<
they're just in time hurrah ! it's
all right ! <>h well sti , 1, 1. sir —
judge 1 it beautifully -well •■ n I
— ( ixford wins I'
It had bi • n a very Dear thin.";, but
the race was safe dom , and with c
of ' Oxford!' ' 1 >x t ird !' rising loud* t
and louder from every aide the dark-
blue hoi p i-t the flag at Mortlake,
winner- by three lengths.
' ( Ixford colours threepence, Cam-
bridge colours one penny ' wen
first words Ballett and I heard, as
W( ■■ pp d ashore a! Putni y ; and
il dn'l I wear my colours proudly
all that glorious aft rno >n ! I shall
never forget that 1,1 ■, . and I don't
think anybodj who saw it will
■ it either, in st. An-
thony's at leas! d 1- ' freshly re-
nieml.i re I ,' and if you want to -t ir
the sun] 01 an old rowing man ot
Bt Anthony's, ask hiiu if he re-
members the y< ar « h< a Wlngfield
ci l an 1 Baxti r rowed I- ive.
.
.« n
'^;X^W:
A 1:1 U I N [S< IENCE
il< I 'mi M,
547
THE HEART HATH A WORLD OF ITS OWN.
(With an Illustration.)
THOUGH the sapphire sides be studded ;
Though the night bo crowned with the moon ;
If th<; soul be chained to December,
What boots it to speak of June?
Doth the month command the summer ?
Can a word bring warmth at will ? —
Add heat to the nickering firelight?
For my laily's heart is chill.
Can the songs that reposing Nature
Softly repeats in her dreams ;
The nightingale's lay in the thicket,
And the tinkling flow of the streams;
The manifold voice of the ocean,
When his ripples are loud as his roar,
Whilst with this he washes the headland,
And with those he kisses the shore :
Can the rest of the sighing breezes,
As they breathe their sweet last in the bowers,
Or lull, on the calm-lying moorlands,
The scented sleep of the flowers :
Can the spirit of beauty that mirrors
The sprite like stars in the seas :
Can the mystical silence of Heaven,
Or the hush of the world, bring peace ?
They may, if the heart be at qtiiet ;
They may, if the soul be at rest ;
If not. they are lightning and thunder,
And tempest and turmoil unblest
Let these wage their uttermost riot ;
So the heart with its thoughts be at one,
It laughs at their vain-sounding fury ;
For the heart hath a world of its own.
Is there peace in the heart of my lady ?
Is there peace in the words we may trace
As we peer o'er the ivory shoulder,
Or read off the eloquent face ?
Alas ! that so radiant a beauty
Should be bound to so grave concern ;
That the flush that was meant for affection
To the shadow of shame should turn !
Yet she reads not a line of upbraiding.
Though she hath misused her might;
And, where she meant but to trifle,
Hath crushed, in her own despite.
Ah ! fairest of ladies, take comfort,
Though the phrase be measured and strange,
He, loving thee once, loves for ever ;
Loves ever, and knows not change.
Yet cannot he love the unlovely ;
And his words must be fettered and cold,
Till thou hast recovered thy nature,
And frankly hast smiled as of old :
For the outraged heart must shelter,
And the wounded and yearning soul
Must hide even tropical passion
'Neath the outer ice of the pole.
A. H.G.
IS1
648
PLAYING FOR HIGH STAKES.
CIIArTER XVIII.
BY THE LAKE.
'PIIF. mare which Mr. Talbot had
1 declan d to be ' too Blight for
urst ' had carried that gentle-
. Ear away from the brother* long
before the conversation which baa
just been recorded had corno to
■ close. She had visibly flagged, as
has been narrated, on a piece of
shy, Bpongyturf, and then she
had got herself together, and gal-
lantly borne him over a hurdle and
away on a slightly sloping piece of
ground into the extreme edge of the
Haldon parkland. Then he had
pulled np, quoting to himself tho
Hue 'This is the place— stand still,
i:;\ steed. Let me review the most
ible way of getting hack to the
h rase without falling in with those
fellows again. 1 don't want that
This he said to himself
breathlessly, looking about him for a
Bhort cut hack to the house. Pre-
twone that looked pro-
an elm-tree avenue in full
foliage, through which he could
p unobserved by any one who
it be "ii the high lands adjoin-
' Oh, ride aa though you w
flying !' Be Bang out the refrain of
the brilliant Irish ballad heartily as
the mare bounded into her stride,
and the goal he Bought was brought
D( art r to him each instant. As he
went along, conscious of looking
well in the blue unclouded weather,
Bwingiog easily and gracefully to
mov< ment of the marc's, ho
felt rather Borry that Blanche was
- e him ; and the feeling
rfraordinarily con-
I one under the circumstances,
with bia Qlei garry bent down
low ov< r In- brow,hia handsome fair
:h the BUH and the
. and I I blue I
brilliant with excitement, hi
unworthy object men |y from the
artistic point of view.
A groom came out as be clati
.ly into the yard, and U the
mare was led off with heaving
and seething flanks, ho turned to go
towards the house, and met Bias
' What a mad rider you ore,
Frank!' she said, reproachfully;
' why such haste when the very air
18 languid? How you have heated
that ]><) >r horse !'
' 1 was anxious to get hack,' he
su'd. And then Blanche tried to
pass on nearer to the horse, and he
offered her his arm to stop her pro-
gress. ' Never mind the marc now ;
she has been on probation to-day.
I have been putting her through all
her paces, in order to see whether
she will suit you or not. I have
decided that she will suit you — so
she is yours.'
She shook her head.
' You are really gorgeous in your
generosity, Frank— a sort of man
who would order round "inure car-
riages" with as grand a grace as
the Irish magnate did. 8he must
not 1x3 mine, however, the pretty
darling. I should have a Blight
difficulty in keeping her in lur-
nished lodgings in town.'
They had sauntered slowly out of
the yard while she had be D speak-
ing; and now they had reached a
bend in the drive from whence two
paths— one leading direct to the
house, the other bearingaway to thi
lake— diverged. She half inclined to
to the former path, but he whis-
pered—
'No, no! come down by the
lake.'
' I am afraid of a sun-stroke,' she
said, putting her hand up to her ban
la ad as Bhe Bpoke. ' I rushed out
without a hat togetafew flow<
and then I saw you, and forgot my
flowers in the agitation your
furious riding caused n
' There's a depth ol Bhade under
that old ilex that will secure yon
, all fear of Bun-strokd. Do
come, Blanche. '
lie moved on with his h ft hand
clasping hers as it rented on ha
Playing for High Stakes,
549
right arm, and she was constrained
to go with him.
'What have you done with the
Talbots ?' she asked.
' Oh ! never mind the Talbots,'
he replied.
4 But I do mind about thorn par-
ticularly/ and then — she could only
think it, she dared not speak as one
who knew — she went on: 'I am
afraid things are not going as well
with Mr. Talbot as his friends could
wish.'
' I am afraid that there is some-
thing wrong frith Master Edgar,'
he replied, carelessly, ' but he's
such a queer, close fellow, one can
never make out what he's after;
however, as our thinking about it
won't help him, we had better not
think about it, eh ?'
* Frank, you are so funnily selfish,'
she said, laughing ; ' there is a grain
of truth and honesty at the bottom
of every selfish remark you make
which causes me to regard it more
leniently than I should otherwise
do, sir ; still you are selfish, and it
is a pity.'
' 1 will take the rest of your re-
bukes sitting down, if you will allow
me,' he replied, smiling ; ' there is
a place for you, here on this mound
by the roots— the light falls on
your chignon in a most marvellous
manner, and your face will be in
shade ; so ! may I sit here ?'
He seated himself close by her
side, even as he asked it ; leant on
his elbow, and looked up very lov-
ingly into her face. ' I wish you
would let me go and get my hat,'
she exclaimed, turning her face
slightly away from his bent, earnest
gaze.
' No, no, no!'
' There you are ! selfish again ! it
pleases you that I should sit here
and scorch my brains because the
light falls, as it seems good to you
that it should fall, on my chignon.'
' Blanche ! not for that only.'
His tone was a little more serious
than any she had ever heard from
him betore. She looked round at
bim quickly and scrutinisingly, and
then she said —
' For some equally frivolous reason,
then, I am sure!' Then, 'Forgive
me, Frank, for saying that. I really
beg your pardon, but you are so
much what a brother would be to
me that I cannot help talking to
you as if you were my brother.'
' I don't seem to care to see that
sentiment strengthened,' he said,
drily.
' I am sorry for that, for it has
been strengthening daily from the
day I saw you first'
' What did you think of me when
you saw me first ?'
' I almost forget — no, I do not— 1
liked you, and felt as well disposed
towards you as one does towards
the majority of people. Natural
affection does not develop in an in-
stant, you know.'
' I don't care what natural affec-
tion does, but the immortals love
each other at first sight, and love is
of them.'
' I am sure I shall get a sun-
stroke,' Blanche said, hurriedly ; ' if
you would only let me go and get
my hat I should like you so much?'
' Perhaps you would not come
back?'
1 Yes, I would.'
' Perhaps you would not come
back alone ?'
' Well, it may occur to you to
remember that Miss Talbot may
find it dull alone with mamma.'
' Not a bit of it ; she will find it
delightful with mamma; at any
rate, I find it delightful that she
should be up there with mamma
while I am here with you. Come,
Blanche, don't be so restless : you
give your society for hours to Talbot
or to Lai, and you grudge me a few
minutes. I want to talk to you
about '
' About what?' she interrupted,
laughing. ' I can tell you, without
your taking any trouble : you want
me to speak to you of " Tann-
hauser," without waiting for any re-
plies from you ; you wish to enjoy the
sun in silence, and as you know that
I am well contented to hear myself
speak, you will condescend to listen '
to me.' She tried to rattle on, with-
out giving him the opportunity of
saying a word ; but he divined her
motive, and frustrated it.
' Quite the reverse,' he said. ' As a
rule, you are right in supposing that
while you spoke I could desire no
550
Plni/imj for High 8teJu§,
better occupation than to bear yon;
but on this occasion I want to speak,
and you must listen.'
■ Bow well the bouse looks from
lure' the said.
• Y. - ; the n mark is peculiarly
relevant to the point I was discos*
I , is it nol ?' heansw* re I, Broiling.
■ ex it is that we should be b t-
ting bere looking at the house that
would 1 ii your own if you
had not been over-proud and oyer-
ions to me.'
• Not over-generous to you. I
knew nothing of you: you were a
mum' to me " Bathursfs boy " papa
used to call you.' Then the remem-
brance of the proposition that had
d made with regard to ' Ba-
thursfs boy' by herself about ber-
solf shot across her mind, and she
blushed and laughed.
' The man is very grateful for the
good you gave the boy,' he .said,
softly; ' I almost feel as if I owed
myself to you, Blanche What an
ore fellow I should have been
if jroo had seen and conquered old
Mr. Lyon!'
■ PoV( ity. or. at any rate, want of
wealth is Dot necessarily "obscu-
rity,* ' she replii d.
He shrugged his shoulders, as if
be rather doubted the truth of that
aphorism.
' Von would have been an equally
good, and perhaps a fax greater,
man if you had been left to yonr
own -. Frank, than yon will
be now; yon have nothing to
!>e grateful to me for.'
' Give me something to be grate-
ful for,' he said, winningly ; and he
put his white, W( !l- map* d hand on
3 as he spoke. ' Will you give
me something to be grateful for?
will you, Blai
1 Fee ; I will give yon t xcellent
advice - do not n sent it. I;. member
what I .-.iid to you the other day
when we were all down here— recall
pell I n |" ati 'I, and the remark
I made about it.'
• I
' V
' Why do yon offer
' Why, in<l " iid, with an
imption of a c air. ' 1
think I can give yon a i
I Dould lib ;
you grow earnest, for, as I told you.
" the heart may not Ihj thine" until
you do bo; and it is a pitj to wait
over long for it, for Trixy's heart
Would l>e well Worth having.'
1 Is that yOUX ad\ 108 that I
should endeavour to gain Bliss Tal-
bot's hi ii t :' he asked, aud if he had
not been Frank Bathuxst be would
have looked mortified. Being him-
self, he merely tbxew an additionally
imploring expression into hiseyi
an expression which Blanche steadily
resisted, fox n axons that have been
already assigned.
' Indeed I do— if you can.'
lie threw himself back with an
air of confidence on the subject that
was not quite pleasing to the woman
who loved Trixy Talbot's brother.
' Frank, you are woefully conceited,
I am afraid,' she said, reproachfully ;
' an<l 1 feel rather guilty, for I
know that I have aided in making
you so.'
' No. i;..t at all; your conscience
is quite clear on that score,' he re-
plied, almost bitterly; 'you have
been kind to me; but this morning
yon are determined, for some p
or other, to make your manner
counterbalance all that kindness.
1 f< el verj much rebuffed.'
' Now yon make me feel guilty
of injustice, folly, and ruck
Why Bhould I rebuff you? To me
you are all that the kindest brother
could he ; let me p gard you as
such, Frank ; it w'ill he suoh a com-
fort to me.'
' but it will be no comfort to
me,' he replied. ' It is all very
well, Blanche, but platonio affection
breaks down betwi en fri< ads, and
fraternal affection will not answer
betuvi n cousins, win n I am one and
you the other party concerned ; if I
had never m ( n you, I should have
fallen in love with Trixy Talbot ; but
I have seen you, and I'm a gOXJfl
n.'
She Would ]:ot t.:
ration ; sin- would not allow him to
Suppose that she Could for one mo-
mi nt think he inn oded it to be
■ Bsive of a i to marry her.
sin- did not belong to that or I. i of
ten who look- upon every w
■ vi n of avowed affi ction, a
towards the altar. So now
Playing fur llitjh Stakes.
551
began to sing out, sweetly and
blithely, the words :
Thy words of comily flattery, such fall like
morning dew ;
For oh ! love takes another turn, the tender and
the true.
Liking light as ours was never meant to last ;
It was a moment's phantasy, and as such it lias
passed.'
And when she sang that, Frank very
wisely resolved to cease from further
tender treatment of his subject that
day.
But he was very far from giving
up his point; for all his gay, light
manner, for all that habit of seem-
ing never to rare for one thing long,
he had great tenacity of purpose,
especially when, as in this casp,
obstacles arose where least they had
been expected. The hare that
doubled most frequently was the
one he most cared to course; the
deer that gave the hounds a hard
run was the one he loved 1o follow;
find the woman ' who warned the
touch while winning the sense' was
the one he wished to woo, and win,
and wed.
' Is she afraid of being seriously
regarded too soon ?' he said, coax-
ingly, when Blanche had quite
finished her little strain. 'Melo-
dious Mentor! tell me the way to
be tender and true according to
your song.'
'Lite "the Douglas,"' she ex-
claimed, eagerly changing the
topic. '" Doug las, Douglas tender
and true!" Oh! those dear old
boider ballads. Why have we no
bard to sing likewise in these days?
In place of those genuine rhythms
we get verses of society that small
critics are good enough to call
" Praedesque." Poor, maligned
Fraed! why should he be made to
father such folly?'
'As what?'
' As the tinkling lines that choke
the magazines. We have lost our
gallantry — our good gallantry, I
mean ; the "idea" flourishes still.
We have lost our guileless belief
in the " brave and noble," and so
none are found to sing it. We have
lost our genuineness iu most things,
and specially in the artistic part of
our nationality, have we not, Frank ?'
' I have not given my mind to
the subject very seriously,' he re-
plied, demurely; 'but I do not
think that we have lost our "go"
in poetry or in any other branch of
art; there is an immense amount of
fervid trash written and published,
but a few young lights are rising up
whose Maze is hot and clear.'
' But no one to be compared with
Scott, or Byron, or Shelley— whom
I don't half understand.'
'Scott, whom \ou mention now
with such wholesome awe, was
named less reverently by lus com-
peer in " English Bards and Scotch
Reviewers" : —
" And Shakespeare, Milton, Drydcn, all forgot.
Resign their hallowed bays to Walter Scott."
" Time tries all," you know. A few
of those whom you now look upon
as producers of mere " tinkling
lines " may be found to have good
metal in them before the century is
old.'
' I wonder whether there is any-
thing in it all ?' she said, in a low
voice. ' Sometimes it all seems
such vanity and vexation of spirit,
and nothing is worth anything, and
all is emptiness. Were the mighty
men of old happy, I wonder ? Homer
did not enjoy life a bit more for his
works living on through all the ages.
Do you think he was happy?'
' I should i ot be surpi ised to hear
•he was not,' Frank answered, lazily.
' The fellow uho wrote the " Art of
Love " (from experience, let us sup-
pose), must have had a jolly time of
it; but the knowledge that he is to
be learnt a few hundred ytars hence
by little boys who object to you can
hardly add to any man's happi-
ness.'
' Frank,' Blanche Lyon said, sud-
denly turning her head towards him
as he *lounged at her side, 'you're,
nice, and witty, and shallow — fright-
fully shallow. I am sure if I had
been a mau I would have done
something good with my life, for I
have a horror of hearing the little
things that we say in joke about the
mighty things that have been. I
lack veneration for many things, I
know that, but I do respect so many
things that you treat facetiously be-
cause you fail to understand them.'
' That's all Lionel Talbot talk—
552
Playing /or High Stales.
I r Hngly,' he - lid, laugh*
iii_ r . 'I.al is a charming fellow,
with an immense fond of faith in
the true and the b< antiful, ami all
t 1 things that 'illy written
with capital initial l tt< rs ; and you
have picki •! up in- notions.
' I >■ me something: good with your
life if you had been a man," would
yon ? What a boon it is to the real
■ if us that you an- only a woman, and
k i Hi* th it <• 'lo-sal bore, a shilling
( x imp'. ! Here's a chance for yonr
ameliorating the mental condition
of your Buffering fellow-creatures
still— do so mi thing good with my
litV. 1 am quite n a ly to place it in
yonr hands.'
• Were my l>rnin steady I might
think of accepting the charge,
Prank, but the nun has been too
much for mc "Oh! ilex tree— oh!
i . \ tree, how faithless are thy
branc Tiny hive let the rays
in upon m>', s i that, if yon would
not see m« grow red and unbe-
coming, yon will let me go in out
way of them.'
'It is a mi-'ake to pay "man
never it bnt al ways to b blessed :"
that applies especially to women,'
Frank wu'd, itly. ' I thought
• rj happy j > of
curse you find it to > hot Well, I
am your sla 1 ■ . i • , we will go
in if you like. I will always do
• yon lil
Ih' ! ad t.i i n b ith her hands, and
lifting her up from her sitting
posture as he spoke, and she was
looking up gladly and gratefully
into hi* face gladly and gratefully !
ai 'l he fully deserved that she
should Bhower such glances uj>on
him, for he had I een very generous
in saying no more when she had
given him to uii'l- nttand thai he had
said ■ I yba need
■ I sti odily npon hex
f. 1 1, Lionel came ov< r the en -t of
the hank that rose up from the
■ r.and Blanche blushed with the
miserable consc s that l
1 1 r of seeming oth< r than she was ;
the two mi n felt thai the trip to
winch Lionel had contem-
I, would )>c a desirable thing
after all.
OHAPTEB XTX.
' TII0U AHT SO NEAR, AND YET
Ml.'
When Mr. Talbot went hack- to
Haldon, leaving Lionel leaning
againsl a hurdle, he Edgar was,
as has been told, in no pleasanl
mood, lie had suggested that his
brother should hear the burden of
the bad news to his sister, and his
brother had, in all Miigh-minded-
ness, p inted out to him that to do
so was his, the elder's, part. Mr.
Talbot was far from feeling con-
vinced thai this was the case; at
the Bame time he was equally far
from being capable of again hinting
his desires on the subject. Accord-
ingly, he went back to the house
just about the time that Frank
Bathurst and Blanche emerged from
the yard, and the glimpse he caught
of that pair lazih sauntering away
towards the water did not brighten
his ti mpez or his bearu
He found Beatrix sitting by
the open window, down on the
threshold of it, in fact, in the sami
position she had occupied on the
previous night, when Frank !'•<-
thnr.-t had faced her looking elo
qnently all his fervent admiration
for her hair and < yi s. She had a
little work-basket on her lap, and
an open book on a chair imme-
diately b\ her side. ]!llt she \\;is
neither reading nor working actively
— she was thinking. ami her thoughts
interfered with her ex< eutive power.
' Can I speak to yon lure, without
being liable to Mrs. I. you at any
moment ?' he asked, lilting up tho
open hook and placing himself on
the chair by her side. ' If not,
COmfl away so'in where , Ise, Trixy.'
' I can account for Mis. I.\. o for
the next hour ; she has gone down
to the village, to look at a cottage
that is to let.'
* What on earth for?'
' Blanche Miss Lyon told her
this morning thai a friend of hers
might DOSSibly want a small coun-
try house so 'ti ; and Mrs. I. yon, it
gbts in house-hunting.
So she made inquirii s of the ser-
vant-, beard of this cottage, and has
gone oil to look at it.'
Playing for High Stakes.
563
' And can you accouut for the
others?' he asked, carelessly; but
he watched her with furtive keen-
ness as she began trifling with the
contents of her work-basket, and
answered —
' Miss Lyon has gone out to
gather flowers— the others went out
with you, did they not?'
' She is gathering flowers that
bloom unseen by us, then, for I saw
her going down to the lake with
Bathurst as I came in. However,
that is not what I wanted to tell
you, Trixy.. The truth is, things
have gone very badly with me, and
it is time you should know it, as
you will be a sufferer.'
She looked up, startled and af-
fected as much by the tenderness
with which he addressed her, as by
the tidings his words conveyed ; but
before she had said anything he
went on in a peevish tone —
' Don't go white and red about it.
Of all things I hate a scene. The
less said about my business the
better, since no amount of talking
can po-sibly set it straight. I have
been unfortunate to an extraordi-
nary degree, having lost not only
my own money but all Lionel's and
a good deal of Mark Sutton's into
the bargain '
She interrupted him here by hold-
ing her face up to kiss him ; as he
bent down to her he saw that her
eyes were full of tears.
' For mercy's sake don't cry,
Beatrix,' he muttered. ' I can stand
anything better than women's tears.
It is hard on you — very hard on
you, I allow that, but you shall
feel the change as little as possible ;
that I swear.'
' Oh! Edgar, do you believe that
I am thinking of myself?' she asked,
reproachfully.
' Of course I do —it is only natural
and human that you should think
of yourself. It is a bad thing for
you ; a very bad thing. In a little
time, had I been able to hold on,
you would probably have been in-
dependent of me. Is that chance
over, Trixy ? — tell me honestly.'
' What chance?' she asked, crim-
soning painfully.
' We have come to such a pass
that it is feeble of you to attempt
to evade my natural anxiety about
you out of false delicacy. How do
you stand with Bathurst ?'
' Edgar! how can you ask me?
If I stood in any other relation to
him than is apparent to all the world
should I not have told you ? or
rather, would he not have told you
so?'
' I am not so sure of that — about
him, at least,' Edgar Talbot said,
shaking his head. ' Now, look here,
Trixy — you like him ; of that I am
sure. I shall more bitterly regret
my loss of fortune on your account
than I do already if it were the
means of separating you from him.
I have been very plain-spoken with
you- far more so than 1 should have
been if I did not feel that, even at
some cost of fine feeling to you, I
am bound to make you all the re-
paration I can make. Be equally
candid with me. Would it not be
agreeable to your wishes to live
down here for a time with the
Lyons, rather than to return to a
less comfortable home in London
than you have known hitherto ?'
'To live down here! — no, no, no !'
' Not here at Haldon, but in the
village. I am the one Miss Lyon
had in her mind when she spoke of
some friend of hers possibly soon
requiring country quarters.'
' How did she know ?'
' Because I told her last night.'
'How you all rely on her judg-
ment,' Trixy cried out, bitterly. ' I
thought till now that it was only
Lionel and Mr. Bathurst who turned
to her on all occasions, as if she
were the best guide, philosopher,
and friend they could possibly
have. Now I find you give her
your confidence before you give it
to me.'
' Circumstances compelled me to
give her my confidence. I want
her mother to contiuue with you
still,' he answered, evasively. 'And
now tell me — what objection have
you to remaining down in this
neighbourhood, provided a suitable
house can be found ? Victoria Street
must go — I tell you that fairly ; and
I do not think it will be to your
interest or to mine to take you into
an inferior metropolitan locality;
besides, it will be cheaper here.'
55-1
Playing for Wyh Stake*.
■ Why not some other neighbour-
hood ?' Bbe urged.
• And whj Bome other neigh-
bourhood V he replied. ' It will
time, (rouble, and money if I
can < BtaW b yon hi re with tho
Lyons; Bhould any change arise it
will be easy to take yon away.'
• What change are you contem-
plating?'
' Well, to put it broadly, and in
Buch a way that we may both fully
understand the other— should Ba-
thursl marrj Blanche Lyon, I can
quite feel with you that the village
would be do fitting residence for
you; but we do not know that this
Lb likely to be ; and therefore, unless
plan is positively painful to
you, I shall ask you for my sake to
agree to it.' '
'I submit entirely to your judg-
ment,' Bbe .slid, coldly. It see lii' d
to her that her brother was betray-
ing a callousness as to her feelings
in the matter which lessened his
claims on her affection, however it
might be abont her obedience, Ee
was ■ 11 id( utlj di t< rmined to play her
—his last c ird, how< vi t much she
might suffer in the publicity of such
staking, and however keenly she
might be wounded if he lost. Plainly
as he ha 1 Bp 'ken to her, she had
not been able to bring herself to
speak with equal plainness to him
in return. He had assumed that
she was in love with Mr. Bathurst,
and shi bad not denied the assump-
tion. On the other hand, she had
not acquit bci d in it even when ho
had said that he 'could quite feel
with he r that the village would he
DO fitting residence for her in the
it of Bathnrsfs marrying Blanche
Lyon.'
In I t as it may app
atn r thi cool manner of hi r Bub-
mission having l" a commented
upon, Beatrix Talbot was conscious
Of 1 id that she was not to
1m- entirely r< m >ved from the society
of the man she lov< d. 1 he incon-
sj-n i tted, and the artistic
it d> f< nd< d, for in ri d
lif.- the great majority ai
only in inconsisti QCy of feeling, if
ii. Bome suhtle ad
at of hi r * ntimi nl
ik BathUTSt made her glad that
she was ndl to he taken away from
his atmosphere altogether ; at the
same time, she was Borry that any
other than himself should have pro-
posed her remaining in it. .'dor, -
over, she was partial!} rejoiced and
partial 1] grieved, in some intricate
was . that this social coir, iilsinii was
coming about Math rs resettle
themselves differently after such
throes and dissolvings of former
hahits; and she argued, after the
manner of women, that the worst
which certainly might ensue would
be better than this unquiet in which
her heart now dwelt. So she
thought, comforting herself for a
few moments after berlast speech
to her brother, and then she be-
gan to stab herself again by picturing
what she should do, and how she
should feel if, after she was safely
settled in the cottage with the Lyon*,
Mr. Bathurst came and fa ok OU(
the inhabitants then of away, leav-
ing 1 er (Trixy to solace Mrs. Lyon's
declining years. It was not a pleas-
ing pii lire, but it did not last
longer, fortiu atelj , than such pain-
ful mental paintings are wont to do.
A Bweefa r Bubje t. in more glowing
hues, spo ad itself over the canvas
of her mind pi< ?< ntlj ,a» Bhe thought
of the night hi fore, and how be had
looked at her w hen he had declan I
himself to ' be sympathetic, what-
ever Blanche might saj to the con-
trary .'
• Edgar, I will live wherever you
wish me to live, and be as happj as
possible,' Bhe said, suddenly, in
ijuite a different tone to the one m
which she had previous!] agreed to
his desire. Then he got np and
went away, thinking that it was
impossible she could have looked so
absurdly hopeful all in a moi
if she had not some r< a.-onahle foun-
dation for I- ieving that Bathurst
was in can iut hi r.
' if Blanche Lyon should elect to
go away,' he 88 d to himself, ' Tnxy
would earrj the daj : be i
st nt the " i ' Bofl influence.'
Then he despised Mr. Bathurst very
rtily for th it powi r of loving all
that was lovely, which emi-
nently characteristic of him, and
at the same time made up his mind
to a lopt all the mi nis he knew, iu
Playing for High Stakes.
555
order to compass the desirable end
of getting Frank Bathurst for a
brother-in-law.
Meanwhile, the trio who were left
a short time since on the sloping
bank, looking at each other, and
each wishing that the other was
not there to be looked at, had met
and spoken as civility dictated, and
had withal done these things with a
degree of embarrassment that gave
a false appearance to what was
really an innocent situation. It may
fairly be questioned whether any-
body ever came abruptly upon a
pair of human beiDgs without the
surprised and the surpriser looking
as if something untoward had oc-
curred. In reality, Blanche Lyon
was very glad to see Lionel ; his
presence relieved her from the ne-
cessity of continuing that flow of
words without meaning, which she
had let loose in order to save Frank
from going too far and putting an
end to their cordial relations as at
prtsent existing. Perhaps there is
no greater bore to the woman who
does not want to marry him, than
that a man she likes should persist
in hovering perilously near the
brink of that precipice— a proposal.
His attentions, his devotion, his
warm regard, are all such pleasant
things that she cannot help wishing
to keep them on as they are. But
the serious offer of his hand and
heart is quite another matter, one
that intensifies the poetry of the
proceeding only to kill it the more
effectually. For I hold it true that
as it is impossible for a woman to
think other than warmly and kindly
of a man who has let her know that
he loves her, so it is impossible for
a man to think other than harshly
of a woman who has suffered him
to drift into the declaration when
she can make him no fitting return.
In the court of love there is no ap-
peal against love turned to hate,
wounded vanity, and the sense of
having been lured into a false posi-
tion. Blanche Lyon recognised
these truths, and so, as she did care
very much for Frank Bathurst's
liking and regard, she was glad that,
though he had very distinctly given
her to understand that he loved her,
he had not put her in the place of
either having to reject or accept his
love as a thing which must last her
ail-sufficiently through time.
Still, though she was glad the
interruption had come, she wished
it had come in another form than in
the person of Lionel Talbot. She
knew very well that he was not at
all the sort of man who sighs for
that which ought not in honour to
be his ; he had not at all the order
of mind which covets his neigh-
bour's possessions. For some men's
minds, the fact of there being a
soupgon of doubt as to the ultimate
end of their endeavours to create
interest in the breasts of the women
who most interest them, has a fatal
fascination. For Lionel Talbot
Blanche Lyon feared it would have
none. He was not one to sigh to
prove himself a stronger man than
the one already in occupation of
that citadel which, according to his
creed, could only be fairly rendered
up once — a woman's heart. He
would be incapable of running a
race for any favour with any man,
more especially with his old friend,
Blanche thought, sadly, even as she
talked brightly to both the men as
they walked one on either side of
her up to the house.
Without being deceitful or despe-
rately wicked, Blanche's heart was
made of the material that never
suffeis its owner to say die while a
possibility of living exists. Even
when she was miserable she would
seem to be happy, partly out of
pride for herself, and partly out of
good feeling for others. ' 1 cannot
bear to be pitied for being depressed,
or to depress others by looking
downhearted,' was the reason she
had once given when rebuked for an
external air of joyousness that did
not accord with what her mamma
declared she ought to be feeling on
some melancholy subject. So now,
in accordance with the dictates of
this considerate creed, she seemed
to be very much at ease, very gay
and full of vivacity, when she was
in reality restless, nervous, and un-
happy.
One of the chief causes of her dis-
quiet was that, after this, her rela-
tions with Frank would of necessity
be altered. She thought that it
556
Playing for H'njh Stakes.
would be impossible for him to l>o
.is be bad Ken before with her.
Though lie had Bared himself from
actually asking her such a direct
question as would have involved lier
giving him a direct answer, he had
Buffered such a tone to creep into
the conversation as could have left
no re a so n able doubt in the mind of
either as to the other having per-
fectly uinl. iM.> h! the position. And
Bhe was sorry for this, more sorry
than she would have been had
Bhe more clearly fathomed Frank
Bathursfs mind and feelings. It
was not in him to give serious
thought to what was over or to what
was inevitable; it was not in him to
regret anything for long, or to be-
moan himself for having wandered
into any sort of error, provided he
could get out of it gracefully. On
this occasion ho told himself, with
some truth, that he had got out of
it gracefully. The sweet things ho
had said to Blanche would never be
regretted by him; he was far too
gallant to repent him of tho utter-
ance of tender words to a woman.
Moreover, as he walked on by her
side, looking down upon her baro
head as she moved it in its mi-
nd glory from side to side,
alternately addressing Lionel and
himself, as she did this, and he was
struck afresh by the beauty of* her
rounded cheek and dearly cut pro-
tile, he f( it far from sure that he had
made a mistake after all. Blanche
was just the Sbrl Of woman to exact
a considerable amount of wooing
before she would show herself ready
to be won; she would never make
a mistake and show that she ex-
pect -i something seriouc when there
was nothing i riou coming; she
would 11 ■' i iii]\ prerogative
to the full ; fn ely as she might flirt,
would nol go "ut meekly half-
way to in- 1 1 an offer of marriage.
All tin se things he told himself,
• meet perfectly
during the telling, waxing more
charming and i >ry to him-
and hie companions ai be be-
came more charmed and satisfied
i ach instant with the view of the
which he was offering for bis
own tion. Be bani hi d all
memory ot the advice Blanche hud
given him, the advice thai lie should
gain Miss Talbot's heart if he could.
At hast he only remembered it as
a BUperflU0U8 sort of thing, re-
minding himself as he did bo that
signs were not wanting to prove
that the ' endeavour' would be I
work of supererogation, since Trixy's
heart was already manifestly well-
disposed towards him. Trixy Tal-
bot had it nol in her to carry on
the war against an intruder's sus-
picion Of his intrusion on a secluded
scene being an untoward event, in
the way Blanche was doing it now.
Be could but admire her, and her
perfect acting of a pari for which
she would never have been cast if
the choice had been given her.
One grand condition of woman's
success was always hers ; Bhe dressed
with a perfect taste that always
gave her a feeling of security and
ease. She never permitted herself
to be liable to tho weakening influ-
ence of tho knowledge that her
effort was marred by an ungraceful
line or an unbecoming colour. It
is next to impossible for a woman
to be anything but awkward in a
costume that violates the harmony
of either proportion OT hue. blanche
never did herself JO much injustice
as to lei herself be put at such a
id vantage.
So now she moved along secure
in the primary condition of eas< —
she knew thai from every point of
View she looked well. Her luxuriant
rippling hair was banded with fillets
of the palest clearest mauve ribbon;
her transparent floating <ln 38 W8S
of the same colour; her waist was
Well d( lint d by a satin band, and
the lace round her throat and wrists
was narrow, neat, and straight
enough to satisfy the most rigidly
tidy. As she walked she raised her
dress a little in front, and then com-
ing out from under the white drapery
wire seen a pair of small, highly-
arched feet cased in black-ribbed
silk shoes. Both these men who
looked upon hi r were artists, and
though one pn ferred punting wild
waves to women, it was hard to pay
whose taste she most thoroughly
Batisfii d.
* Did you ride far, Frank?' Lionel
asked, as they got themselves ur
Playing for High Stakes.
557
lino and turned towards the house.
Then ho remembered that his ques-
tion might seem to them to savour
of a desire to know how long they
had been together, and he was has-
tening to add, ' I mean how did she
carry you?' when Blanche calmly
answered —
'He could not havo ridden far,
for he has been back with me a long
time. I went out to the stable-yard
to meet him, and then was gracious
enough to come on here, risking a
sun-stroke without my hat; you
never can be sufficiently grateful to'
me, Frank.'
She said this by way of proving
to Lionel that there really was no-
thing behind this outward show
which had evidently rather discom-
posed him when he came upon
them by the lake. He will under-
stand that if there were anything
particular to me in Frank's having
come back to me soon, that I should
not have mentioned, she thought,
and simultaneously Lionel was
thinking, She is honest, at least ;
she wishes me to at once under-
stand the terms they stand on with
each other.
'I rode far enough to find the
mare perfect, worthy even of the
one for whom I design her.'
' What a conventional expression,
Frank; I hope the one for whom
you design her will give more of
her attention to the gift than to the
maimer of the giving unless you
strike out some more original form
of words.'
' You are the best judge of that.'
' Of what ? How vague you are ;
well, never mind your meaning
now ; I want to say something to
Mr". Talbot while I remember it;
how very few people speak closely
— say just what they mean, and no
more.'
' Edgar does, I think,' Lionel re-
plied.
' Yes, Edgar, Mr. Talbot, does in-
deed; he says out his meaning a
little more plainly than is well at
all times ; Frank never does, of
course not; he flatters, don't you,
Frank ?' she questioned, laughingly.
' You say so.'
'And yours is not close to your
meaning conversation, Mr. Talbot,'
she continued ; ' it's suggestive talk
— the best of all.'
' Now that you come to critically
analyse the nature of my conversa-
tion, I remember that I say very
little,' Lionel replied.
' Shows what an attentive listener
you have in Miss Lyon that that
little has made such an impression
on her,' Frank Bathurst put in,
good-humoured ly. There was an
utter lack of jealousy, and of all
the littlenesses that proceed from
jealousy, about this man that was
infinitely taking.
'I like suggestive talk and sug-
gestive verse,' Blanche went on,
stoutly disregarding Frank's impli-
cation ; ' that is why I like " The
Wanderer," and all the rest of his
books.'
'All the rest of whose books?
"The Wanderer's?" I don't know
him.'
' No, Owen Meredith's.'
Frank laughed, and affected to
shiver.
' Save me from suggestions of
early loves with primrose faces who
suddenly start up from graves under
cypress trees to disturb a man's
peace of mind when he is enjoying
" Trovatore " in Paris ; you have a
ghoulish taste if you incline to him
— I am not with you there.'
' Are you not with me in my ad-
miration—no, not my admiration —
my love for that poem, Mr. Talbot?'
He shook his head.
' I don't think I either love or ad-
mire the mixture of the very com-
monplace and the impossible.'
' But then nothing commonplace
has a place in that poem; it's all
love, and luxury, and light.
Lionel laughed.
' The love of Paris, and the light
of gas, and the luxury an uphol-
sterer's apprentice can catalogue ;
no, no, it's garish; you will feel it
to be so if you compare it with the
supernatural element that comes
out so gravely in " Faust," for in-
stance ; there is a noble suggestive-
ness about that which all who run
cannot read, unfortunately.'
' Say fortunately, rather. " Faust "
is not for the masses,' Blanche said,
letting her head go up haughtily.
' Pardon me, it is for all humanity;
558
Playing for High Staler*.
it is like one of the greal Bible
stories to me -a thing to be read
humbly and solemnlj .'
■ Fancy reading anything that a
mnii wrote who was addicted to
heartrending flirtations between high
well-oovi red pe i sticks,
with plnmp German maidens, hum-
bly and solemnly!' Frank said,
Bcoffingly.
• Be waa i wentially human,'
y,l,u: I apologi ricallj ; ' for
nil In-; great genius our can get n< in-
to him after reading that wonderful
biography - he was so very human.'
' Be was essentially selfish,' Frank
in, warmly, ' and rather mean
about it, I can't help thinking, aft< r
reading thai wonderful biography
which has turned your brain a
little, Blanche: whenever distracted
lens or prudent parents sou-lit
to bring him to book, he took refuge
in the clouds, us it were, Boared up
to Parnassus, an 1 roosted there
until the storm blew over.'
' Bis shortcomings ought to be
r, oughl they not, Mr.
'falb ked.
• I think not/ he replied; 'em
• r ," you dor '
that ; but regarded at ei idenct
how the mighty may fall, and as
■ al res • l< i' "lies to
continually praj againsl being led
into temptation.'
• a t ti r all, geni tl fblli Ban readily
given,' Fi i with an ahropt
of feelh ga ab mi the robji ct
under discussion.
• Yes, by those who do not Buffer
from tli. : , Blai che said, hoping
that the amendment would find
favour in I
■ An I ev( ii !•:■ those who do suffer
from tin in ; thi y blamed not the
i, though he did them most
fitfully amiss,' Frank put in,
bly ; ' be waa hia own id< al man,
and he rnakt the ideal woman wail
him in her dying agony -those
worl ii being born
to have h< ard th< m.'
' Lust will-!-! how grand i
Buch utt. rancea have been ! " More
light." i nt< noe is a poem in
• The craving for fuller intellec-
tual atiafa :tion, tor clearer mi
ii- to you,' Lionel said
to Blanche, 'Do yon remember
some that are equally Btriking in a
simpler way?- thelasl wordsofthe
Christian gentleman who paid in his
dying hour to his son«in-law, " Be
good, my dear!" I like them better
than any others I have ev< r beard ;
they are m tin mselvesa full, per
ami sufficient rule of life it's all
summed up in those four simple
words.'
'After all, it is easy enough,'
Frank said, in his softest tones, and
with his suavest smile; ' it is my
opinion that the temptations to go
astray are extraordinary. 1 '
rarely Leave undone what 1 ought to
do, and 1 don't think I sigh to do
what I ought not, and 1 am not
exceptional.'
1 You are exceptionally well satis-
fied with your own succt 88 in doing
right,' Blanche replied, ' and that is
B fault to start with.'
'Never mind, T mean well,' Frank
answered ;' we all mean well, i
cially your mamma, Blanche.'
Blanche smiled and frowned.
'I wish we all meant as well as
mamma,' she sail, soberly; 'we
should not, in I! mystlfi
another painfully for long '
1 Are we any of us mystifying
each other painfully now, may 1
ask?' Mr. l'.athurst interrupted. ' I
think that at least] am free of that
charge. 1 am open as the day; no
one could long hi' in doubt as to my
intentions about anything.'
• You are advancing your claim
to the sili of conceil ev< rj mom< nt,
is he not, Mr. Talbot? Now I will
name another of your faults for
your penitential consideration you
are lazy, otherwise the second sult-
ject fro*. ii " Tannhaiiscr " would he
finish) d hy this '
' Which I deny. I am acting on
the advice of the disinti rested art-
eritios, who so strenuously recom-
mend* d me to lie fallow for a time.
By .love! if the law of compensation
works at all, what warm quart is
will he awarded l.y-andd.y to some
of those fellows who bave moat per*
aisti nti.\ thrown col I water on
aspiring art and literature.'
' We shall be bett< r for it in the
future,' tiom I aid, including hmi-
;. by the speech in thecasttgation
Playing for High Stakes.
559
which Frank implied that he had
received at critical hands.
' You need not - / Blanche said,
quickly and unadvisedly.
He iookcl gratefully at her; hut
at the same tune he gave her back
her flattery by saying—
'If you could make me believe
that, Miss Lyon, you would rob me
of the aim that is best worth living
for— the desire and the hope of ad-
vancing. 1 shall have lived my life,
and lived it to miserable purpose,
when I shall sit clown satisfied with
what I haw done!'
' You will be satisfied with what
you have done, if, two years hence,
you can get ten thousand pounds
ior one picture, for the central figure
of which your wife has sat for a
model,' Frank said, going round
and leaning his arm on his friend's
shoulder.
' That is your low view of it. Mr.
Talbot will want more, and will_ get
more than you can realize or ima-
gine.'
' You are a nice sybil when you
peer into the future for him. From
my low and sordid point of view-
ten thousand pound- is not so des-
picable, and 1 can p rfectly realize
its delights.'
' Mercenary-minded man ! You
to set up a claim for being an es-
thetic artist, and not to hope for
something far above gold for your
friend!'
'The smiles and approbation of
Miss Lyon!'
' He has them already,' Blanche
said, coldly.
' " And woman's smile for ever hath
A spell to make ambition sleep,"
somebody has said. Avoid the
danger, Lai !'
' No woman's smile will make his
ambition sleep,' Blanche answered,
interlacing her fingers, and putting
them up before her eyes to make a
more complete screen from the sun,
as they came out on to the open
' lawn close to the house, ' because
any woman whose smile he could
care for would wake his ambition
even more if possible ; would it not
be so, Mr. Talbot?'
' It she cared to do so.' he replied.
' But 1 think some mistake was made
in the incantation yesterday. The
spell you tried to throw over Frank
has fallen on me instead.'
' What portion of it ?' she asked,
with a glowing face.
'No woman's love shall light on thee,
No woman's heart bo thine.'
She trembled in every nerve as
he spoke, and had she been alone
with him she would have spoken
some words then that would have
broken the ice between them, dis-
solved the spell he named, and
brought a kinder one into being.
But Frank was round by her side
again, and so she could only hope
that silence would indeed be golden.'
So she stood for a few moments,
wishing and willing, with all the
force of her soul and mind, that
something would occur to take
Frank away from them, if only for
a minute. This opportunity passed,
the passion which possessed her
might pass into a phase of fear of
results from which she was strangely
free at this moment. It seemed to
her that a crisis had come now when
she might fairly give some un-
mistakeable sign of her love for
Lionel, without compromising her
feminine delicacy and dignity But
she could not do it with Frank
standing by; and Frank looked so
well inclined to stand by the whole
time.
' Thou art so near, and yet so far,'
she half sang. ' Do you know that
song, Mr. Talbot?'
' Yes ; Frank sings it,' he replied ;
and Frank, on this, began—
' Beloved eye, beloved star,
Thou art so near, and yet so far,'
in a voice that, Orpheus-like, might
have softened the rocks and trees ;
but that, as evidencing the probabi-
lity of Ids remaining longer with
them, hardened Miss Lyon's heart
against him yet more and more.
CHAPTER XX.
CAUSE FOR DOUBT
Given certain conditions, and every
woman, however little of a diplo-
matist she may be naturally, will
make a subtle scheme, and carry it
with a bold stroke. Blanche Lyon
560
riaying for W<jh Stakrg.
tl e restraint until Bhe could
it do longer, and then, the con-
ditions I- it* d, Bhe developed
an>l executed hi r scheme in an in-
stant.
• Prank/ Bhe exclaimed, suddenly,
' will yon do me a great favour?'
■ Will 1 not? What is it?'
'Go and io >k for a copy of that
s rag tbal is a I for two void a yon
will tin l it in the leather oase on the
pi mo and persuade -Miss Tall) >1
t ) come out here and sing it with
me.'
Flank lounged forward a few
Is the door. Then lio
I ved a b tter plan, as ho thought,
and loun i again.
•You had better come in; it re-
quires the accompaniment ?'
Sh< bi ttted herself on the base of
a hnge stone vase, full of geraniums.
' I have in lie up my mind to sinjj; it
out her.,' she sail, resolutely. ' No.
Mr. Tall. »t. don't you go, please. I
le up my mind to exer-
cise so much cousinly authority as
to make Frank fetch mo one little
song when I ask- him.'
• 1'ian'; resigns himself entirely
to your c raunands. Being a gone
'coon, I have no app
'Fultil the whole of your mission,
now,' Blanche cried af er him. ' Per-
suade Miss Talbot to come, or the
copy for two voices will he no □
'I ily,' he shouted has;, laugh-
ingly ; and then he went on into the
'I I,; inel and Blanche •■■
alone at last. She was mistress of
the position, and still she could
•ei/.c it.
If only he would have looked at
her! Bui he did n »t. He Bto I
j into tin- distance, with
a quiet, t arnesl i zpression of
tint made her far that she was not
in his thoughts— -a far-off look, an
nbed la I Prank won! I
1. ■ siirr to h.' back in a minute.
• Mr ralbot!'
Ih i round at her now, as
tat leaning forward, her arms foldi 1
on her lap, her b< B I thrown np,
and her at upon
him. \ h;i;
of one thin;.', and that was
thai i it bad been a momont
re, Bhe much in his
t IV.
' You have been with your brother'
(she could not dash at her sub
and give him the word that should
bo a Blgn of her low. as she in-
tended '. ' and you have heard '
she paused. She meant that he
had heard of Edgar's ruin; and the
thought of that ruin, and nil the
evil train of consequences it might
bring upon the T dbots, choked her.
He attributed her emoti in to the
wromr cause; he thought she meant
to offer some explanation to him, aa
Eidgar Talbot's brotbi r,as to her re-
jection of Edgar Talbot's offer. Bo
when she paused he said—
' Yes, he told me, and I am very
sorry for him. I feel for him \< ry
deeply ami truly.'
'And not for yourself at all ?'
lie coloured fast and furiously,
np evt n to his brow, at her question;
it seemed to him such a strange one
to come from Blanche on such a
subject as he believed her to he
sji. aking of.
' For myself, I can bear the hard-
est things.'
'I know that; and bear them
beautifully. As I said to your
brother, when - whin ho was sp
ing to me the other night, worn- n's
words, and ways, aid wills, an
weak, when we would give our life
■ rve, we can do nothing but
sorrow.'
He bepan to understand her now,
and to feel that she was more di-
rectly referring to their loss of
worldly wealth, and to the possible
blighl it might he on his career.
"Sorrow and you should not bo
named on the same day. Miss Lyon ;
but }our sympathy is very sweet to
me.'
'Sorrow and I havo clasped hands
.' .-ho answered soberly. ' You
do not quid' realize that I have had
all my life to take most earnest ha d
and thought for myself and otb
i eem to you to be - just what I
seem, in feet.'
• And you can be nothing betb
• ■ was no idle Battering tone in
words, she knew that ho meant
them thoroughly, and her hi
a, ' Vou can G el that, and
it of me? Then l have not
lived, an 1 striven, and endeavoured
to ' i." in vain.'
Playing for High Slides.
561
' Nor would it have been in vain
even if I had not felt that truth and
worded it,' he said, kindly. ' My
approbation would have been a mean
guerdon to strive for.'
'The best I could have.' Then
she rose up, and temptation never
came to a man in a fairer guise than
it did to Lionel Talbot then, to speak
out and tell her that he loved her.
But he wrestled with it for two or
three reasons ; amongst others, this
lately- born one, t hat, while his sisters
needed his aid, he must not charge
himself with a wife, even if the
woman he wanted was willing to be
that wife. So he struggled to seem
indifferent to that which almost up-
set his judgment, as Blanche made
a step or two towards him, telling
him that his approbation was the
best guerdon she could have— and
meaning it too ; of that he felt con-
vinced.
' Oh, gentle time, give back to me
one hour which thou hast taken!
Blanche often thought in after days,
when she recalled this hour, and the
poor use she had been enabled to
make of it. For at this juncture
Frank and Beatrix came out to them,
Frank hilariously carolling, as be-
came one who was never defeated,
never heart- sick, never doubtful as
to the blooming issue of all his
brightest hopes. And Beatrix, with
the unsatisfied look on her face that
is indicativeof feeling aggrieved with
oneself for one's weakness in grant-
ing the small requests of the loved
one who abstains from making large
demands. It was impossible for
Beatrix to refuse any favour or
concession asked of her by Frank;
and she knew that it was, and was
indignant with herself for its being
so ; and still she could not help her-
self, but went whithersoever, and
did whatsoever he asked of her. It
was stinging to her, this being
looked up and required at the last,
when Frank had been away for a
whole sunny hour (perfectly obli-
vious of her) by the lake with
Blanche. It came even to the true-
hearted, noble-natured Trixy to
hate Blanche, as she came upon
the latter 'standing and charming
Lionel,' as Trixy worded the situa-
tion to herself,' when Mr. Bathurst
VOL. XI.— NO. Xl.VI.
was not by. She did n>>t suppose
for one instant that Blanche was in
an equally evil ease with herself.
Our own private grit f is always the
mightiest in the world, before which
all others dwarf themselves to the
meanest prop< irtions.
' I am not very much in the mood
for singing, but I came out, as you
sent for me,' Trixy said, as she came
up to them ; and then Blanche, who
really could afford to be generous
and tolerant towards Trixy, put her
hands kindly on the girl's shoulders
and said, almost in a whisper—
' Please don't think me heartless
and thoughtless, dear, but your
brother will not bear this bad blow
the better for seeing you depressed
by it ; forgive me if I seem to think
less sorrowfully of it than I have
thought— will you. will you?'
She was so strangely winning as
she spoke in her earnest, pleading
tones, with all the force of her tar-
nest, winning beauty, that Trixy
felt much happier.
'I think I could forgive you al-
most anything,' she said, affection-
ately, and Blanche laughed, and
replied —
' Tn that one little speech you
made a couple of provisos ; however,
forgive me for having sent for you
now, and let me sing second to you.'
They song the song ' gloriously,'
as Frank declared, and again he
found himself very strongly directed
towards Miss Talbot. At any rate,
there was time enough, he told
himself, to make resolutions and
carry them when the glorious sum-
mer, during which one should only
feel and exist, was over. So the
sybarite snatched the hour, and
pleased himself according to his
wont in being very pleasant to them
both. And Blanche's heart ached
horribly because she saw that Lionel
fancied she overrated her gay
cousin's devotion.
By-and-by Mis. Lyon came home
from her tour of inspection over the
cottage that was to let in the vil-
lage. ' It was the very thing she
should like for herself,' she said,
' and she was almost sorry that any-
body else should be going to live
there; the garden was the very
style of garden that was most plcas-
2 O
5G2
ritiyitnj /<»■ llitjh Stakes.
iog to her, and the greenhouse
would be lov< Ij « ben repaired ; aa
to the ! onee, well, she never ha i
hk, ,1 i.di .I. hi bouses, and she should
like tilelli 1K»\V less than eVi V : give
her ii place in the country ulu ro
you were not overlooked, that was
all L'
'1 think I should like it too/
trix said, demurely.
•Gel your brother to take it for
your autumn quarters, MissTalb >t,'
Frank exclaimed. Be bad jet to
1, urn thai some such change of re-
ace would i>e a master of neces-
sity, not choice, with the Talbots.
■in yon know,' Blanche whis-
pered to Beatrix, 'that it will ho
[usl as well to manage all this with-
out telling the truth to mamma?
I know ev< rything, Trixy dear, and
I thought of sending mamma to
look at thai house for an imaginary
friend ; the concealment is harmless
enough. l><> you ague to letting
her think that her wishes weigh in
the matter?'
' if tint plan is decided upon,'
Trixj Faid, dubiously ; and as iho
other three were all speaking aili-
, -illy at onee on the BUD* nor ad-
vantages of the country over the
t i \n, the conversation between to
two tills was unheard.
' Why should it not l e decided
upon ?' Blanche questioned, eagerly.
' li you like it, why should von not
May hi re where yon can have human
c Hupunionhhip when you feel in-
clined? Mr. Talbot wishes my
nioiln r to live with you still ; it
would he very dull for you in a
Grange country place with her
alone ; here you will have my cousin
and your brothl r Lionel otic n '
• And you always?' Trixy trad
to say it joyfully.
• \ ,|, me but very rarely;
I hail go nut in the world again.'
Trixy's < yes questioned ' v\ by 7
,t only men who must
work in these oineh i nth century
days,' Blan - ; e said, Bmiling ; ' 1
rather like the neo »ity, too I
believe 1 have more ol the Ikjo than
the butterfly in me.'
' Then 1 shall lose you,' Trixy
said.
Blanche look d grate.
• Wnl you promiee nan r to loso
your liking for nic?— I am very
grei dj oi that.'
' There is nothing that could ba| -
pen that could m ike me not like
you, 1 think,' B< at i ix rep ied, and
she did not quite mean what slio
said.
' there can nothing happen to
give yon cause lor liking me Li
i.lai che answered, heartily ; and
di.l mean what she said, and did
wish to give Beatrix foiuc comfort-
ing assurance respecting Frank at
the same time. Then tiny all pot,
tl eiiiM'lves top th< r a.ain, ami
talked about the cottage in the vil-
lage, which, to use Mrs. Lyon's
words, ' was the very place she
wishi d to live and (lie in.' And
pitsently Edgar came out to join
them, and it was proposed and
Carried by universal consent that
th, y should all drive rlo« d after
luncheon and judge <»t the merits
oi' the dwelling for themselves.
'I have heard from Marian to-
day,' Edgnr Tall ot said, wh< n lun-
cheon was n arly over. ' She pre-
tends to be in great distress about
her husband's niece; tin re was
Borne sort of understanding or en-
gagement between the girl and some
}oung fellow in the country , and, as
usual, Mrs. Sutton has mailed tho
harmony.'
' \\ hat has she done?' they all
asked, eagerly. The tale of how tho
course ot true love has Ik i n made
to run roughly always meetd with
an attentive audien
'Oh, she Bpeaks as the injured
one — a sure Blgn with Marian that,
she has been v« ry much to blame.
Even Murk is angry, ami that is a
state of things that does not at all
agree with Mrs. Sutton*
' Your sister is one of tlio most
fascinating women I ever met,'
Frank Uathnrst said, good-natur-
edly.
'So I have luard,' Edgar replied.
' \Y( II, Ik r latest fascinations have
]h( n i \eiiiM ,i in making a good,
honest, foolish young fellow un-
happy, iiml in proving to him that
"eveij woman is a rake at heart;"
we have i very n a*on to be proud
of our sister's genius tor making
people miserable.
Ho spok, very bitterly, for
Playing for High Stakes.
CG3
Marian's letter had been very bitter
to him. She had reviled him tor
that which he could not help, his
own ruin, namely, and she had up-
braided him for having wasted her
husband's and her husband's sister's
money. After a pago or two of this
matter she had j>one on to tell him
how a misunderstanding had arisen
between her niece Ellen and the
young man to whom Ellen was en-
gaged, and she had appended to
this statement a sentence which had
grated more harshly than all her
revilings upon her brother's feel-
ings.
'He came up to town a day or
two ago to reproach me, I believe ;
but unwittingly I gave a sop to
Cerberus, and now he would under-
go the tortures of a row with his
ladylove every week, provided the
reconcilialion scene may take placo
under ray auspices ; he is really a
perfect Apollo, and only wants
polishing to make him the most
perfect cavalier in the row.'
This was the paragraph in her
letter that mo-t sorely wounded her
brother; these were the sentiments
that made him say bitterly that they
had every reason to be proud of
Marian. It seemed good to Lionel
to change the topic, which he did
by asking—
'How shall we divide ourselves
to go down to the village ?'
VOL XI. — NO. XLVI.
564
LEAVING THE CONFESSIONAL.
III! HEATED FKOM THE PAINTING BY TlSSOT.)
II - , In these days of blaze and gold,
When streugth is wed to all things fair;
When Bowers and promh-ed fruit enfold
The first » I primehood of the y< ar ;
Whi n lusty June .-talks largi Ij t..rth
With bright defiant step that spurns,
Crusl.inu the creatures of the north,
Ami all the vanquished east o'ertums:
If, whilst he walks the earth, begirt
With iris' jewelled wonders seven,
Beauty dropped from his shining skirt,
Then rose to float, twixt < arili and heaven:
If, for the young god's lonely state
A pagan pity turned to thee,
Worship would name his lining mate—
Thyself, as pure and grand as he.
If, in some nndimmed Paradise,
Virgin of blight and cloud and storm,
A glorious vision mei our eyes.
The vision of thy peerless form ;
Our reverent tongue bad straight confessed
I angi l-spirit of the place,
That, win re ii Bitted, all things bl< ss< '1
Wiih Btaiuli sa pi ace and spotless grace.
i if, within a low< r world,
Where in their vain ami painted pride
Th" ins. cts of an Imiir were burled
Mow here, no* lb re, by Fashion's t i«lo ;
Wliere brighte I eyes were wild witli praise;
Whi re eurs on fabled ]> issions hung ;
Feigned raptures sprang at beauty's gaze,
Ami Battery was the vulgar tongue :
Tin rr, where the '..amis of pli asm
Time's gilded shuttle to and fro ;
Wliere changing lights the labric crossed—
Lights ot'th ■■ Btall, the rout, the Row;
Wl at wondet it' our voire we lift
( luntasfious lo the wild acclaims
That before judgment gave thee shrift,
An 1 ranked thee with the Baiutliest names?
We think thee pi rfi ct ; bul the thought,
\\. know, is a eulur and profane;
Ami tliou, by conflict better taught,
1 1. . meal our random Eancii a vain.
l i thou hast commum <1 with Iby heart,
Mourning thy slow and alten will;
A i e l from ii" glare of life apart,
n,-i ponder* I pensive, sad, and stflL
We would not ash whal sins to heaven
* j 1 1 • > 1 1 li;i-t in pi nitenoe deplored ;
Content to trust thi e fully inrivt d
( I fault, of deed, intent, or word.
1 r nfa ' we cannot choose but trust
The In ait thai pardon mi ekly beany
In the High < loort Is counted jtut
Ami pun as are un nugel's tears.
F. S
b'roui the PaiutiiiiC by
PENITENCE.
[See the Poem,
565
ENGAGED
INTERUUl'TED I
ENGAGED! Oh, indeed! And
pray wh it then, sir ?'
'What then, sir? Why, then
there is no more insufferable con-
dition for other people than to have
to stand by and be spectators of their
happiness!'
There is something, after all, in
what my friend sa,\s, though it can
scarcely be supposed he is abso-
lutely serious, considering tbe ad-
vantageous match his daughter,
Miss Lucy, has really made of it.
That fact being assured, however,
he sticks to his point about the
discomfort he experiences in being
a compulsory witness to ' their ex-
travagant affection.' ' My good
friend, jou forget. So many things
have occupied your attention since
tbe day when you were first ad-
mitted to the family circle as the
"engaged" of dear Amelia— you
seem almost to forget that "dear
Amelia" and your excellent wife,
"a joyful mother of children, 1 ' are
one and the same person — that you
forget both the joy that was yours,
and the "insufferable condition"
that joy occasioned to the nu mbers
of your innainorata's family, who
received you so kindly. Pray let us
r.GG
Ewjnged t
r no more al>out "extravagant
affe tion." I am ns ol.l as yon we,
and remember well —for was I not,
at the very time, in a green and
yellow melaaol <ily, Bigliing for tho
affeotions of your dear Amelia's
r Mary, who jilted me in favour
of .' ick Hornby, the mnstacb
and bearded nan of war? I re-
member how eminently ridiculous
yon \vi re wont to appi ar to us, u ho
saw not w ith 3 our . yes, upon almost
overy occasion when yon and dear
Amelia figured in public. I will
not harrow your feelings by de-
scribing what indications of " extra-
vagant aft" ction" you pave when I
came unawares, and assuredly with-
out intending it, upon a certain
arbour in the garden, where you
and yours had sole possession, one
Sunday evening in tho summer,
as 1 returned from a solitary, un-
lovely walk. Shall I remind you of
the many shift-;, mure or [ess flimsy
and transparent, with which, many
a time and oft, you tried to make
your oocup iti >n appear other than it
bad Imn before you wen; inter-
rupt d by the unwelcome enti
of a third person into the roan?
( lann »t your memory carry you
lurk bo far as to tl c time when you
si riously 1 1 jpoeed to chalK age my
cousin Tom, because he, all ignorant
of your engagemt nt, dan d to take
your dear Amelia from under your
very eyes, and lo walfz with I er as
he might have done with any young
lady whatever? I can remind you,
if la 1 (1 bo, of the timo wl m _\..u
pound out your soul in grief to me,
l*.rauM' you were not oftener Kit
alone with your cariasima, and l>e-
cause her worthy latin r, a thousand
tinn s more ami ible than you are,
Incon*id< rate < nough occa-
sionally to require llio use of his
own Btudy, which, fur 1 l>< st
known to you and Ann I a, was your
favourite billing and 00 ',m. r plai
L01 < lhai li a Lamb rai 1 d
his voice 1 gainst! the pn h osions of
the m wly marri( >l, and held them
u|) to acorn 01 various ways, in
r< turn for iudignitii - « hich he l ad
si.ff> n d at their bands ; hut the
:.s ;iu I Bel of the
would-be married have got • on
ui. cheeked since long hefore Lamb's
time until now. With the single
1 zception of the bard who Bon
Qaultier bight, and who sang in
moving v< rse the miserii s ot
lover's fr '« ad an 1 confid mt, no one
lias vi ntured to handle the delicate
subject of the e induct of engaged
people, eithi r towards each other
or towards other people. It is a
delicate subject, to be sure, and a
man might be excused for refraining
to bring in the mirth-makers, who
haply might select himself for the
immediate subject of th< ir langhter.
There are BO few who can afford to
raise a laugh on this subject, so few
who have not, once at least iu their
lives, to pass through the love-
making Btage, an 1 so to appear, as
they say, ridiculous in the eyes ol
oilier people. It is a privi
which only old bachelors like my-
self—I never recovered the blow
my young affections received wlieu
the beauteous Mary, sister of 'dear
Amelia,' threw me overbo ird for tho
mustachioed and heaidod man of
war aforesaid — enjoy. \\'e have a
fee simple in the follies and extra-
vagancies both of those who aro
mat ried,and of those who are about
to t ike up ui them the holy e
of matrimony; we can with im-
punity ht 'our jest among our
friends be fri e,' and in the matter of
courtship as they used to call it in
my young days - we have u rigl
comment upon it as we like, beca
of the completeness with which we
are excluded from the joys of it. l
hold that my friend, who grnml
at tho 'insufferable condition' in
which be ia place, I, is (pillu out of
court. Eedoes but see the reflection
of his former self; it is an instance
of the tiling that hath been being
the same that shall he ; and, BO far
as he is concei ned by it, there i 1
no new t liiiiLr und< r th 1 sum With
me it is different '1 hough once in
my life, as 1 have already hinted, 1
1 sat like patii Dee on a monumi nt.'
smiling at the grief which the m
tachioi d and 1 1 ard< d man of war
■ d me in the matu r of Mary,
si-ti r to ' d. ar Ana 1 a,' I sigh) d to
myself only, without declaring my
ion, and bad not, then ore, to
go through any p iblio i ihinii i
of ' ■ ii,' BUOh as,
Eu'jrijed t
5G7
doubtless, T should have done had
I been admitted to pratique, and
had the Fates been kinder to mc
than they were. Thus, you see,
gentle readers, I am at liberty to
make any remarks I please upon
the situation. No one can meet me
with a tu quoque, or declare me
estopped from using as freely as I
like the gleanings of my expe-
rience. Let my friend therefore,
for decency's sake, stand aside, and
let mc take his place. I am vain
enough to think I shall treit the
matter with a hand more tender
and more sympathetic than his,
while I shall not the less expose
what he would in his unamiability
tear to tatters.
There is, then, to be noticed in
the carriage and deportment of
engaged persons an amount of
awkwardness and restraint in the
presence of other people, which not
only stamp them for what they are,
but tend to make the whole party
amongst whom they find themselves
perfectly uncomfortable. Strangers
— that is to say, any people but the
two who are interested in main-
taining the monopoly of mutual
' extravagant affection'— feel almost
guilty at being the occasion of so
much discomfort. They do not
want to obtrude themselves on the
attention of the loving pair; and
assuredly, if their own personal
comfort were alone concerned, they
would get far out of sight of the
enamoured; hut circumstances will
not admit of it; there must be cer-
tain rooms in common at certain
times— under no circumstances, for
instance, do lovers, love they never
so lovingly, quite dispense with the
service of the dining-room. Common
civility, moreover, requires that
occasionally they should be in the
drawing-room, or other place where
the other members of the family are
assembled ; and it is on each and all
of these occasions that the charac-
teristics above mentioned are notice-
able. There is in the manner and
on the face of Amandus an ex-
pression half of listlessness, half of
anxiety to be agreeable in spite of
himself, which strikes a disin-
terested observer rather curiously.
He begins to think that Amandus is
unwell, that he is a genius pondering
abstruse questions 'even in the
presence;' or may be the thought
crosses his * brain, as he sees the
continuousness of Amandus's ab-
sence of mind, that pei chance he
may have committed sonic crime
which makes him ill at ease. Only
one who is cognizant of the true
state of the cat-e can rightly inter-
pret the meaning of that shifting
glance of the e\es, that perpetual
wandering to and fro t'e beloved
object, who sits uncomfortably upon
some neighbouring chair or sofa,
aud tries to play the hypocrite,
though with as poor a result as
Amandus. As plainly as the ex-
pression on an intelligent being's
countenance can convey a meaning,
so plainly is it apparent to the
disinterested unappropriated that
Amandus is chafing on the bit
which good manners have forced into
his mouth, and that he is wishing
with all his heart he had wings like
a bird, that he might fly into the
study or the break fast- room, where
he would be with Amanda. What
pleasure, what satisfaction there can
be in thus secluding himself with
Amanda I do not pretend to say.
Would it not seem more glorious to
stay in the midst of the family
circle, and triumph openly and
continuously in the conquest you
have won? Or are there sweet
mysteries, solemn rites of courtship,
which none but the initiated may
know, and which must be performed
in so private a manner, that the
sudden entry of a Philistine into the
room is enough to scare the votaries
of Cupid from their vow-making,
and to cause a trepidation that is
observable long after the invader
has entered ? I prdsume it must be
so, ebe there could not be so great,
so manifest a desire on the part of
Amandus and Amanda, and on the
part of Amanda's father before
them, as I have already testified, to
get away to some covert from the
common gaze.
'Not that room! TJiey are in
there !'
' Confound them ! Suppose they
are? My "Encyclopaedia Eritan-
nica " is in there too ; and surely I
may go and fetch it !'
>G8
Engaged I
' My de ir sir, you aro too violent,
ami too ineonsiderate as well. At
all events, make a noise with t ho
door-handle, 90 as to give Borne
warning of your oomio
My in, iid reels the awkwardness
of having his own study as effectually
d Against him as if the Customs
officers bad foun I out that lie bad
an illicit distill* rv in it : be n si nts
what be calls an encroachment on
his liii 1 1 \ ; but the noise ho has
made in stumbling over the door-
mat, and in fumbling with the door-
handle, has put ' the pair' suffi-
ciently "ii the qui viue to allow of
their quitting the celebration of
those 1 : - unknown to all but the
initiated, and my friend enters his
study t» find his large easy chair
\ a ant, but lo (king as if it had not
long been bo, drawn up in a com-
fortable ] isition on one side of the
fireplace, while Amandus, who might
h • Busp cte 1 of h iving sat therein,
is busy si eing ' why tin lamp burns
s> dimly/ and Amanda, at t ho
r ei d of the room, is so osten-
islj 1 1 - ige 1 in looking over
some music, that one is hound
to BUpp • ■ with Longfi How that
' tin: not what tiny Beem.'
It does not re |uire one thoroughly
acquaint I with the rites of 1 'an
('lipid t 1 conjt ctnre thai Amandus
and Amanda had been differently
oc jupi I er< that fumbling with tli 1
door-han lie warn* d them of tho
that a Philistine was ap-
pro ichii g.
'Two are company, three none,'
1. win n it is proposed
ball go with Amandus
and \- la to tho croquet party
at Mr- Chingumby's. ' You are
quite right, m\ dear;' only there is
slightest possible tinge of dis-
satisfaction in your t me thai you
art ol ' three, and not of the
two, winch leads one to doubt
or rem trie is pr impted
BO 11. a di Bire to let tho
• of the only har-
monions eh ments, as by a wish to
I I uncoml irtably towar I Ihe
compositi »n of the company in order
t 1 j • a ret If by enjoj mi' tin ir
imfort. If the tour he rightly
interprt ted, I will past 03 your
: - merely cynical ; if
not, I humbly beg your pardon,
an I oordi illy end ffSS the truism
you have uttered. Engaged folk
</<i, as a matter of fart, dislike the
se of a third pen in, almost
a- much, perhaps more, than that
of a large party. 'A great company
is a great a riitude, 1 and in it
'engaged' can he, comparatively
Bpeakiug, free, almost unnoticed;
whereas, in narrower limits they
both causo and are required to
give a greater attention. I am far
Iron being certain that tho cou-
dition of the third person who is
tacked on to tho ' happy pair' is
not much more 'insufferable' than
theirs. If they so far consider him
or hi r as not to talk about them-
■ s, it will bo in so forced and
artificial a manner as to make tin ir
e ■ :\( rsation less tolerable than
their silence, or their mutual self-
appropriation. With what unblush-
ing selfishness do an engaged couple
walk off together, with a
tang n expression on their laces, as
though they had a monopoly of tho
earth on which they walk, an 1
would resent any intrusion as the
infringement of a patent right
Whilst they oho >-,• to walk they
aiv as scarecrows to the timid and
the good nature I, who avoid them
i and " Bh al away
i guilty like,' if perchance tiny
sturnbli up >n tin m in the course of
th. ir |- . igrinations. My friend,
the father of Amanda, speaks i
feelingly on this subject He says
his favourite part of the garden is
no longer one of his pleasant plo
the ivy-grown summer-hou e, where
he was wont to read and smoke a
lazy pip i, is no longer available for
him D he was foolishly led t >
sanction the mad engagement which
brings his Am in It and In r Amandti -
s ) much in his way.
He complains, too— and hen ',n.
a • a eal n, d mate observer, 1
am compelled to join with him
the dein nstrativeness of the ' < n
I.' ' Positively, sir, I have
si < ii them sitting knee to I
almost, with their hands clasped,
their ton Bill mi as thi
their i yes refit cting all sort- of
lion i n e from one to the other, and
looking like tho moat perfect fools
Engaged !
5G9
that can be met with out of Bed-
lam.'
Gently, my friend. This fault,
this unshamefaced glorying, if you
will, is very reprehensible. If it
does nothing else it asserts to all
present, more plainly than is agree-
able, that they are not happy as the
engaged are; but there is no need
for you to break out into a fury on
the subject. I will mention the
circumstance in a dou't-do-it-again
sort of way through the various
circles of London Society, and I
doubt not you will cease to be
troubled by demonstrations of 'ex-
travagant affection.'
Did the captain take Amanda
down to dinner ? "Well, it was very
gauche in the hostess not to have
arranged differently ; but there is
no reason why you, A mandus, should
sit savagely all dinner-time, faying
nothing whatever to the amiable
lady by your side, who is ignorant
of your misfortune, and is tryiDg to
enlist your sympathies in the last
report of the Society for procuiiug
a change in the colour of the Ethio-
pian's skin. Do not venture to
press Amanda's foot, though you
may think it to be within reach,
under the table. You can assure
her of your sentiments towards her
as well as of those you entertain
towards the captain afterwards.
Meantime, though you may think
to touch Amanda's foot with your
own, it may happen you light ac-
cidentally on the captain's, and
some embarrassment may ensue.
Why should you be angry be-
cause an old friend of Amanda's
chooses to talk to her longer than
you like ? Is it not enough for you
that Amanda has preferred you to
the old friend, to all her old friends,
and only wishes not to make them
feel the preference too keenly ? Go
to ; you are unreasonable !
Again, while I recommend you
not to wear your heart on jour
sleeve for daws to peck at, or,
in other words, not to flaunt your
engagement in everybody's face,
be particularly careful how you
inflict upon your friends the
story ' How you did thrive in
this fair lady's love, and she in
yours.' Your lady friends will per-
haps welcome the recital, for their
tender, loving natures incline them
to listen to a tale of love; but your
male friends, glad enough to know
that you are happy, will vote you a
bore if you give them too many
details of your happiness. They
will he sure to discount your de-
scription of your ladylove ; it is ten
to one they will make fun of jou
and of her too, the ungenerous
brutes, in the next conversation they
have with a mutual friend; they
will think but simply of jou for
talking of that which you should
keep as private as possible; and
they will wish you at Jericho if you
take up much of their time with a
matter in which they can have but
a specially limited interest.
•It is the most egrrgwus boro
Of all the bores I knotf.
To hive a friend who hist his heart
A short time ago.'
This will be the burden of their
song, this will be the true expression
of their inmost feelings ; and though
good nature may prompt them to
bear and forbear, they will assuredly
feel aggrieved if you draw, as the
custom of lovers is, upon their
patience ad libitum.
As for Amanda, it would be
almost presumptuous in me to offer
her any counsel, yet, at the risk of
offending so charming a young lady,
I will venture to suggest that she
should be very chary of confiding
too much to her 'dearest Jane' or
Lucy. The chances are she will
say more than she intended, and
there will be some additions made
by lively imaginations. Let her re-
member she has some one else's
confidence to keep besides her own.
Let not the love of triumph, the
communicative springs of happiness,
still less the mere love of 'hearing
or telling some new thing,' lead
her into imparting thoughts which
are already 'engaged.' Let her not
exult by word or action, as I have
seen some do, over her compeers
who are unattached ; ' there is many
a slip/ &c. Above all, let her con-
sider very tenderly the abnormal
position in which she and all about
her are placed during the term of
her engagement— let not that be
570
Engaged !
long— and let her try to arcommo-
dato herself to the convenience —
ay, even to the prejudices of those
whom Bhe is soon to leave, ami to
whom she will thereafter be glad
that Bhe Bhowed so much considera-
tiuii and self-denial. Finally, let
lit r Dot 00 any account forget to
ask me to the wedding. She may
rely upon my services in the matter
of giving away, of speech-making,
of flinging the slipper, Of 'Irving
the tears of the respective mothers-
in-law, of anything, in short, which
may properly and fairly be con-
sidered as forming part of the
office and duty of tho devoted ad-
mirer of all Amandas.
F. W. R.
r*Mopit»ii I'M-.; o HouonroK »kd ooi
s
\
12.P.M
•
^1
■
A| PI
-
A
m
-
■
TWENTY-FOUR
[See the Verses
LONDON SOCIETY.
JULY, 18(37.
A TALE OF < THE DEEBY.'
THE ' Flaunters ' had arrived in
the Royal Barracks, Dublin.
The 'Flaunters' were a crack
corps ; more so than many dragoon
regiments of the second order;
much more so than any flying bat-
tery of the gunners, and infinitely
more so than the • Old Slows/
whom they had relieved, and who
had been consigned to the congenial
dreariness of the Mediterranean.
The 'Flaunters' had publicly
announced that they were going to
be very gay. They purposed ope ning
the campaign with a grand fancy
ball, to be followed by a scries of
pic-nics. and concluded, at the com-
mencement of the leave season, by
amateur theatricals. So the upper
ten — or shall we say one?— thou-
sand of the good city of Dublin wtre
considerably elated or depressed,
and rejoiced or mourned according
to their various temperaments.
Papas groaned over the tightness
of the money-market, and took an-
other glass of the ' fine old port,'
as they execrated the Fenians, whose
sad escapades had so materially
affected the value of landed pro-
perty ; clever mammas mentally
ran up the amounts of milliners'
bills already due, and framed lists
of those wlio would stand further
addition to their outstanding ac-
counts, and of others who might be
induced to dispose of their silken
wares without prospect of imme-
diate payment; fair daughters with
brilliant complexions and dazzling
eyes revelled in unbounded spirits
at the thoughts of all the fuu and
jollity before them. Georgina in
her first season, thinking that, no
VOL. XII.— NO. LXV1I.
doubt, her pretty face, and merry,
witty manner would at once procure
for her a capital match ; Mary Anne,
verging thirty wards, determining
that now or never was her oppor-
tunity of netting an eligible hus-
band; while the handsome, big,
lounging sons, who lived and dressed
well (the eighth wonder of the
world) on apparently ' nothing a
year and no allowances,' looked
eagerly forward to pleasant dinners
at the 'Flaunters" mess, with a
little ' Van-John ' or Loo, and a
broiled bone or so, as an appropriate
finish.
The ' Flaunters ' were as good as
their word ; and in due course all
Merrion Square, Stephen's Green,
and the adjacent aristocratic streets
were worked up to a state oi nervous
excitement concerning the invita-
tions to the fancy bail, which were
distributed with groat impartiality,
and with a total disregard for the
injunctions of the Castle-yard clique ;
which latter was thereby mortally
offended, and tried to pooh-pooh
the gallant ' Flaunters ;' but with-
out effect, for their neat pink cards
— signed by Captains Ralph Moss-
croft and Halse-Lynden— were as
eagerly sought after as if Lords
Lieutenant, gentlemen-at- large, and
so forth, had never existed.
Captain Halse-Ljndtn was a
handsome man. A very handsome
man— of that type which we call
Saxon, for want of a better term.
Clean-cut features of a very light-
brown complexion, bright blue,
laughing eyes, long brown whiskers,
and a silky, golden moustache, fall-
ing naturally, and free from the
A T,d, of 'The Derby.
greasy abominations of tbe Burling-
ton Arcade. And as we see him
now, when getting into 'mufti/
after morning parade, we must < •
i' al h< i as I nr a sp< cimon of
the English swell, as aii\ other gen-
tl( n an of o ir acquaintance.
' Gili b, a co far do, nol that ;
Of the i ■ W dies — that's it.
Now Lru-h inv hat— and, Giles 1'
'Tea, Mr.'
■ Stepovi r. w ith my compliments,
to the colonel's quarters, and ask if
he has any more frie (Is lor the ball-
hst. I'm going down to the » lastle
i oinplete it with Captain
Mosscroft.'
• All right, sir.' And the faithful
Giles kit the room.
• And, Gili
' Fes, nr,' answered the servant,
nrning.
' Ess thi mpanv been paid yet?'
■ Not jet, sir.'
' Well, take this '* fiver" to Mr.
' t, with my compliments, and ask
him to pay it.'
' Right, sir.'
The captain went on with his
t pinning a necktie— scruti-
nising tie lull-list, trying various
ts and waistcoats, looking over
not, < and i' I cards that
littered the table — muttering at
linns to himself, the while he
■ Bern -odd the Carti rearn't down
— Larkins? that long, hunting fel-
low? — x*es, besl have him. Hem —
h, two daughters-
with ladies already — Eang that
fellow ! He's crush d this coal
that it's not lit to be -''en. Let me
list -cigar-case ; that's
all right ;' as he felt his pocl
'Nowthi nuisance
tiny are. II G ivernor's wi ekly
sermon - Dun, dun, don ;' as he
sort- d the n I of the morning's
t that wi ; on his di
' Amy | her bosh — I
wondi i i " • girl • can rub-
bish— Hem Hi m < larstein I
to i' min I cursed bill il his for
2,o'.- holM •- it will
ruon Irs.
• r compliuii nts and
would be glad if iy you
would, old girl, but really can't—
06? Who the dev '
'Colonel's compliments, sir, and
as no more names for your list. 1
• Ha! -well. Run and f< tch me
an " outside," Gile .'
And Captain ll rise- Lyndon lit
h o gar, put on hi hat and
flesh-coloured gloves, and jaunty
in hand, tool, u furewell glance
of himself in the glass i re he com-
mi nci d to descend from hiselevi
quarters.
' I say, Lynden, can yon let mo
have an invite for < loornbi 3?' a
Sydnoy Dalton, coming out of the
mess-house, at the door of which
HaLse-Lynden was waiting for his
car.
' Now, my d< ar fellow, pray be
reasonable! The list is quite filled
up. and besides your young grazier
is hardly '
• Yes, and that's the fellow that
Montresor heard discoursing
fi'i ely about " pupa of i " at
the Brady's " hop," ' interrupted a
gallant young standard-bearer of the
' I 'launt rs.'
' Is he? Oh well, never mind
then. We'll have pupa enough,
without " pu| s of graziers." '
' I >h, l.y nd< n, have you arrangi d
with the messman for the pic-nio
I Monday?" asked the colonel as
■ I the group.
• Ingram is to nun iut
colonel. I must be off t > the
1 ruard-room n w. Any of
;■ fellows be at the club this
■ on ? I'm going t<> play Jarvis
le "Plungers" at billiards, for a
couple of " fivers," at thr. a. I 'a,
Now, jarvi y, :• am ahi ad !' and
lain Halsi -I j tid< d tucki d his
I leg under him in t 1 e most ap-
proved style, and le.mt on the centre
ion as the carman wl tried him
'f the barrack square, and down
the Liffi .. quay, at a most a ton-
ishing pace.
The guard-room in the I Ippi r
le Vanl is a dirty, frowzy hole ;
it least, said Captain Ralph
oofl , its pic-( nt occupier, i
inly had a right I an
opinion on the subject, if < . i
ol all the guard roou i d
lorn v.. nt C r And
I'tain is leaning
on that tin i -hoi ouxi d, ci im
ni bion that has, beyond the me-
A Tale of ' The Derby:
3
mory of man, occupied a conspi-
cuous position on the sill of the
window that looks out on the Hiber-
nian Batik and Cork Hill, and mus-
ing on the hardness of the lines that
confines him to duty on such a
glorious May day, we will just run
over such little prominences of his
character as are most apparent. He
was an enthusiastic carpet-knight,
and nothing could ever uiduce him
to venture his precious person be-
yond the limits of Great Britain and
Ireland, a well-managed series of
exchanges always keeping him on
home service. He was master of a
tolerable income, which he warily
added to with the aid of his billiard-
cue, and a judicious use of the
' flats '—cards and men —and with
1 knowing' bets, picked up, for the
most part, when men's blood was
inflamed with wine. He was a ca-
pital fellow to have in a regiment,
as he promoted and managed balls,
pic-nics, and such-like with a skill
almost equal to that of a professed
M. C. He was a tolerable shot, a
tolerable rider to hounds, a tolerable
flirt — and, in short, one of those
mild 'admirable Crichtons' that
are so very useful, and somewhat
ornamental, in garrison life. One
spark of feeling of any sort— save
for himself — he had never dis-
played; and therein lay his
strength.
As Captain Mosseroft leaned out
of the guard-room window, he spied
Halse-Lynden, who had dismissed
his car, standing at the bottom of
Cork Hill in conversation w r ith one
of the aides-de-camp; and the su-
balterns of the guard, "Wilton and
Montresor, coming in at that mo-
ment from visiting their sentries,
the trio forthwith full to discussing
their brother officer, as is the wont
of men under similar circum-
stances.
' How does Lynden stand for the
Derby, do you knoyv, Mosseroft'?'
asked Wilton.
' Badly, I imagine. In fact he
almost told me that the reason he
exchanged into us last March was
because he had made an awful
muddle of his betting-book, and
wanted to have the tin ready to
clear himself; Loysc gave him a
whole pot of money for the ex-
change.'
' Odd, wasn't it, to exchange so
long before the race? Couldn't he
hedge?'
1 No, my boy. He couldn't get
the bets he wanted — he was too
deep in the mud for that. Besides,
he found the " Plungers " a deuced
sight too expensive.'
' Pooh ! his governor is as rich as
a Jew, is he not, Montresor? 5
'Yes; he's one of the wealthiest
men in the City, but rather a screw,
I fancy, and not very fond of open-
ing his money-bags to Master Halse.
All his people are awfully rich, but
all quite as close as he is extrava-
gant,' answered Paul Montresor, who
was distantly connected with the
Lyndens.
'Ah! well,' sighed Wilton, fling-
ing himself on a couch, ' as long as
a fellah has monied people at his
back, his kites are sure to fly, so it's
all the same. I wish I had a jolly
old aunt, rolling in money, and very
fond and proud of me, and all that
sort of thing, wouldn't I go it!'
'Lynden has an old aunt — Mrs.
Halse — rolling in money, but she is
not exactly jolly, too religious and
May-meetingish for that. She used
to tip Lynden heavily until he took
to keeping racehorses, when she
threw him over altogether.' And
Montresor lounged on the cushion
in the window beside his revered
captain.
' Hang it all ! I wish he'd come
up. What on earth can he be say-
ing to that fool all this time? I
say, Wilton, tell a corporal to go
down and call him, will you, like a
good fellow ?'
'Oh, bother!' yawned the lazy
Wilton.
' Ah, never mind ; he's coming
now,' continued Mosseroft, as he
perceived Halse-Lyndt n making his
way towards the guard-house.
' 'Morning, Mosseroft. We must
finish off those invites at once,' said
Lynden, as he entered the room.
' What a lazy beggar jou are, Wil-
ton, on the sofa at this time of day !
Oh, Montresor, Hervey wants you
to play in the Garrison v. I Zingari
to-morrow week. Can you?'
' I suppose I must ; but it will be
B 2
A TaUo/'The Derby:
awfal •.•rind, coming between our
first pio-nic and the ball.'
' Let me a e; this ia the ist ;
Monday, the 7th, tho pic-nic; and
hall's not til! the 1 ttb. Pooh!
jou will have a day's test between
« ich event 1
■ Wash "ut your month, Lynden?'
'Sh< rrj and selt-
. or Bod 1 and B ?'
3 da, please, with ".j< si a Bketch
|x rrits through it," as they say
hi re. \\ e wi re up awfully late last
nighl at Morris's— played lansque-
t till all was blu(
• How did you come off?'
' ( »li. pn tty wi II. Landed a dozen
skivs," and I deuced
lucky.'
' 1 like lansqui net,' remarked Wil-
tonj ' there's no bother about it.
Vou stakes jour money, and you
iur '
• ' ' lance. Right ; it's aa simple
pitch an 1 tos -." and so exactly
suits your mental incapacity, Wil-
ton,' int* rrupti d Mosscroft.
• You be hanged !' was the only
rer vouchsaii d by the occupant
■ he sofa.
■ iw look h< iv. Lynden. Let ua
h otT these I ist invitations, and
li iv. ■ done with the job. Give me
list ; and do you fill in the cards. '
»; let BJ write them.
I'm too shaky until I've had my 1
• Well, ring the bell. Now, Monty,
those c tr Is and fire away, b I
' the Jiann B,' said MosSCFOft ;
and the two set 1 y to work while
1 1 ils< -I..N ndi li c ireful ly measured
hah' a glass of brandy into a
I irge tumbler, and t tk in lt a bottle
1 1 h da- water from the hands
■ r, undid the fastenings,
an 1 waited \\ itti thirsty eyes until
forced the cork up to the
<•■-' with u loud - pop,' and the
fizzii ■ - ed into thetum-
« hence ihe d< icious compound
it once ti Hi- ■■ 1 red to the 1 spec-
throat, 1 hich it crackled
and 1 I watei thrown
•
' Ilah! th 1 ■ Ily better,'
I Ljn l< r this ' pick-
: the front
with \'» ill mi, an 1 amused
• 1 1 \>\ c
d oi 1. ity that 1
np Cork Hill, and In superintending
the labours of the < rovernment clerks
in the opposite building, who were
busily engaged in managing the
gossip of the country and noting
the contents of the newspapers of
the day.
\\\ two o'clock the cards were all
finished and despatched and after a
light Inn -h, l.\ Udell found it
time to start for tl e club in
pheu's ( In en, and strolled leisurely
down the Lower Castle Yard, re-
galing himself with a cigar, an I,
between the pun's, gently humming
the opening bars of the Guards'
Waltz.
'The Flauntere' had on tho nth
— Black Friday as it has been called
— was a grand success, and was luit
little affected by the stunning tele-
graphic news of the awful panic in
the City; for your Dublin merchant
is not of a speculative \ ature, and
keeps what little money he Ins in
tolerably safe in estmenta, so while
the prinot s of London commi rce
were plunged in die id an 1 dismay .
tin ir br< thren on t'other sidi
Channel were revelling, with t
wives and daughters, at the ' Flaun-
ters' ' expenE I the d< lights of
gorgeous fancy balL All enter-
tainments of this - ut are, I take it,
much the same in their .
, and only vary in the gre iter
or lesser degrees of splendour which
they exhibit. Suffice it then to
that the unanimous verdict passe 1
upon tin- one given bj the ' Flaun-
t> re' was, that it outshone anything
of the same kind evi r Been before in
1 lublin, and Was a BUCO
When ( 'aptain Halse-Lj n !i n arose
at a late hour the follow ing morn-
ing he was Buffering from a head-
ache, which was not dim i
when he found amongst his let!
one from 1 larsfa in tic Jew who
hi Id his bill for 250/. — in w hich the
wily I 1 used to 1 □ ertain an
application for a rene val, and in-
■ be bill should hi taki n
np when due on Monday the 21st
instant Halse Lynden curved I
C, which, no doubt, had iullu-
enced the monej -lender in hi- deci-
I, over t\>.. .1 tho .
set fa to i omy
A Tale of ' Hie Derby.'
position of his affairs, and to ham-
mer out a plan whereby they might
be righted. The proceeds of his
exchange from his old 'Plunger'
regiment to the 'Flaunters' had
been carefully laid by to meet the
inevitable losses on his muddled
Derby butting- book, and as 'settling
day' was rapidly approaching, that
money could not be touched. Mrs.
Halse, the wealthy and childless
aunt, whom Montresor spoke of in
the guard-room, would not assist
him with one shilling since her
morality had been shocked by Lyn-
deu's horse-racing escapades. Old
Mr. Lyndeu was not that easy-going
sort of governor with which some
fellows are blessed, and was likely,
in spite of his great wealth, to cut
up excessively rough if asked by his
son for any further help, more par-
ticularly as he allowed that young
gentleman a considerable animal
income, and had already twice paid
his debts; so matters altogether
looked very 'fishy/ and the gallant
captain was, as he said to himself,
'in a hole.' Thinking over his
affairs did not make them appear
one bit brighter, so with a sigh
Halse-Lynden at length arose from
his dismal reverie, having come to
the conclusion that there was
nothing for it but to run over to
London and make a humiliating
personal application to his father.
This was Saturday ; Monday, the
14th, was the day for the second
picnic, and that he couldn't miss;
so our hero determined to avail him-
self of the ' Derby leave,' which a
paternal Horse Guards grants to all
those who wish to attend our annual
saturnalia, and start by the early
boat on Tuesday morning en route
for town.
Monday the 14th was a glorious
summer day, and the sun shone on
the revellers at the 'Flaunters'
second pic-nic to the Glen of the
Downs, as if its services had been
especially hired for the occasion. At
two the numerous throng of hosts
and guests sat down under the shade
of the magnificent oak trees, and im-
mediately afeudejoie of champagne
corks proclaimed the event to the
rooks and beggars who were hang-
ing on the outskirts of the fete, in
eager anticipation of sharing the
relics of the banquet. It was in-
deed a brilliant scene; the gay
colours of the la lies' dresses, the
more sober costume of the men, the
glitter of the polished plate and
glass, the mingled show of china,
flowers, .and ice-misted silver-necked
Mozel flasks, and long snowy table-
cloth, contrasting well with the
great, gnarled stems of the mighty
oaks, and the bright-green of the
summer grass -and all was fun and
joviality, sparkling conversation,
jokes, and pleasant merriment.
Halse-Lynden was in his natural
element, aud was the life and soul
of the party, while his brother officers
acted up to their well- won reputa-
tion of being the pleasantest hosts
in all the service.
The fun was at its height when
an outside car was perceived driving
rapidly along the road from Dublin,
and our hero saw, with undefined
uneasiness, that it bore his servant,
Giles, who jumped off and came
over to seek his master with a yel-
lowish letter in his baud.
'What is it, Giles?' eagerly ques-
tioned Lynden, in an undertone.
' Telegram, sir, marked " imme-
diate." '
He opened the envelope. It con-
tained but one line — 'Lynden aud
Co. stopped payment at noon' — and
had been sent by his father's con-
fidential clerk.
'Good God!' gasped Halse-Lyn-
den, as he turned ghastly pale, but
almost immediately his present situa-
tion recurred to his mind, and gulp-
ing down a glass of champagne to
hide his confusion, he collected his
thoughts for a moment, and then
whispered to Giles—
' Go back to barracks at once.
Pack a portmanteau with everything
for a few days; take it down to
Kingstown, aud meet me there in
time for the seven o'clock Holyhead
boat. Look sharp, now!' And
Giles made the best of his way back
to carry out his master's directions.
'Anything amiss, Lynden'?' asked
Mosscroft, who alone had marked
our hero's discomposure at lunch,
as they lounged apart from the la-
dies.
'No, nothing particular,' preva-
A Tale of'Tke Derby:
rioated Lyndon ; ' tlio governor's
rather seedy. I think 111 cross the
Channel to-night, and not wait far
yon fellows to morrow morning. I
supp ee the col 'in l won't object ?*
' nli, ] l( ,t lie. We'll meet at Ep-
som. I supp
'Of course. Xbu're safe to land
■■ a pot " on that b< ast Lord Lyon.'
' Vis, I fancy so,' answered Moss-
croft, an. I the two strolled up and
down until it was time to rejoin the
fair Bi x. when, in spite of his aching
rt, Lyndeo was the gayest of the
. ami danced on the smooth turf
and tinted with greater assiduity
and apparently) higher spirits than
any of his compeers. Towards six
o'clock Halse-Lynden slipped away
from the fe-tive scene, and, calling
Biontresor, hurriedly explained mat-
ters to him, and hi gging him not to
mention them, asked him to drive
li tck the drai,' which he himself hail
' tooled ' down with such /-A" 1 ; and
thi n chartering the Bwiftest-looking
'outsile* which lie could find, drove
at a break-neck pace into Kings-
town, win iv he picked np Giles and
his portmanteau just in time to
e itch the boat.
* * * *
Mr. Garstein sat in tho back
drawing-room of a lions.' in New
i Street that called him master,
at elevt n o'clock in the morning of
the day preceding the Derby, and
drearily conned his bill-book. At
half-past, a Hansom drew up at his
door, and Captain J Jalsc-Lynden
came bounding up the staircase,
thru '■ steps at a time.
'Well, Garstein, you know tho
if course ?'
'Mosesl 1 do, Captain Lyndon;
and vat will you do now?'
• Do? I'm d (1 if I know. I'vo
the pom governor— he's
in an awful Btate ; and I thought I
t ;i> m on, .md have it
out with you. We are all utterly
ruined ['
■ \nd von't yon pay my little bill,
. ipt.un '.' whined out 1 1 1< .lew.
: Pay your little hill ! Hang it all,
don't 1 tell you I'm ruined! —
utterly ruined, man I'
' but yonr commission, captain ;
might give me a ohequeon your
. 'inn.
'Sell my commission !— and what
the deuce am 1 to live on then? No,
no, my little usurer; you must
renew; it's your only chance of
getting your money.'
• Ki new! Blein GoM ! Renew de
bill of a man d it is quite broken !
No, captain -Hut,' he asked, aid t a
pause, ' hut, could you give me de
name of a broder officer in de new
bill/'
'Item — well, perhaps I might:
but don't think I can take up that
curs d j^o/. without. The price of
my commission wouldn't half coves
my debts: and I m \st have time to
lo .k al» iut me. I'm not going to
sell f ft your d d convenience.'
' Well, captain, my goot sar, don't
be in a passion ; take a glass of i bit
goot sherry wine, and we will talk
it over wit a cigar.'
Tho results of tho consultation
over the 'goot slurry wine' and
cigar may he briefly stated, though
tiny were not arrived at without a
considerable amount of mutual ob-
jurgation. Halse-Lynden was to be
present at the Derby the next day,
a> if nothing bad happened, and < n-
deavour to promulgate such a \< r-
sion of his father's bus pension as
WOUld induce the belli f that his
difficulty a were men ly of a tempo-
rary nature; and on the Thursday
was to try and procure the name of
a brother officer — numbers ol whom
would be in town— to a renewal
bill for Garstein, on the grounds
that his Derby losses were bes
than he had anticipated. Tailing
in this attempt, our hero was id
'send in his papers,' giving the Jew
a first cheque on the price of his
commission. Poor Lyndon's mind
was in such a state of excitement
that he failed to si e the turpitude of
this conduct, ami he willingly hut
himself to the plans of the wily
usurer, whose only object, of course,
WBS his own security.
• • ♦ •
'Lord Lyon! Lord Lyon!' was
screamed, and shouted again from
the top of a drag on which a num-
ber of the ' Flan nt« re' wore crowded,
as that noble horse rushed past like
a whirlwind to his triumphant goal,
on the memorable i ^> t h May and
A Tale of ' The Derby.'
'Lord Lyon's number! Lord Lyon
wins!' was re-echoed, and repeated
with a wild yell from the same
shaky elevation, as the telegraph
proclaimed him the victor.
Halse-Lynden, though a heavy
loser, partly from excitement, and
partly from the copious draughts of
'fizz' in which he had indulged to
drown the thoughts of his dreary
prospects, shouted and yelled with
the best, and was as gay and jolly
over the subsequent wine-crowned
lunch as if he had been the winner
of thousands, iustead of the loser of
many more hundreds than he could
afford, and seemed in such bounding
high spirits, that even those who
knew most about his father's mis-
hap were quite deceived. On the
road home— at the bacchanalian
dinner at Lane's hotel — in the wild
orgies of Cremorne, prolonged until
the insulted sunlight drove the
pallid revellers home, Ilalse-Ljn-
den shone pre-eminent, and outdid
all his fellows in the riotous ex-
uberance of his conduct.
Late in the afternoon of the follow-
ing day our hero awoke with a fearful
headache that braudyand soJa-water
was utterly powerless to allay —
awoke to find conscience and the
Jew 'tapping at his chamber-door.'
The latter cautious son ofMammon
had no intention of letting his victim
slip through his fingers, and was
quite determined to keep a very
close watch on him until his claim
was satisfied ; so poor Lynden had
the pleasure of going through the
refreshing operations of the bath,
the toilet-table, and breakfast under
the inspection of Mr. Garstein, who
talked so uninterruptedly, and made
so many suggestions as to his mone-
tary welfare, that our hero's atten-
tion was diverted, and he hardly
noticed the impudence of the intru-
sion.
Before soliciting his brother
officers' assistance, which he was
very loth to ask, Lynden determined
to have ' one more shot,' as he
phrased it, at Mrs. Halse: but on
presenting himself and his shadow
— indeed they were driving in that
gentleman's natty cabriolet— at his
aunt's house, he was refused admit-
tance. So that chance was gone ;
and the pair, hoping against hope,
proceeded to Kensington, where
they learned that Mr. L\n len, sen.,
with his daughter, had left the pre-
vious evening for France; and our
— now thoroughly dejected — hero
was further informed by a confi-
dential old servant of his father,
that the means for the journey had
been supplied ! >y Mrs. Halse, who ba< I
driven down and soothed and com-
forted the unhappy old nun and his
only girl, and had insisted on their
accepting a certain fixed allowance
until matters could he cleared up;
but that on Miss Amy mentioning
her brother's name, the good lady
had flown into a violent; passion,
and loudly declared that she would
have nothing further to say to
' such a disreputable horse-jockey !'
This was pleasant news, with a
vengeance! And Atra Cura swung
triumphantly on the foot-hoard be-
side Mr. Gaivtein's small 'tiger/
as the cabriolet left the house in
Kensington, and was driven at a
furious pace in the direction of
Lane's.
In this world-renowned caravan-
serai, and the adjacent military
haunts, lay Lynden's last hope of
obtaining assistance in his dire need ;
and here, shaking off, for a time, his
Jewish blood-sucker, he commenced
his fruitless quest Poor Halse-
Lynden ! Could any of his former
gay companions conceive him fallen
to the low pitch in which we now
find him, as he goes from hotel to
hotel, from room to room, abased
and humiliated to the very earth, as
refusal after refusal meets his half
shame-deadened ear, would they
not at once step forward, to help for
a little while, one wh > had ever
been most free and generous to
them wdten in trouble of any kind ?
No : not one of them.
Such is ' fast' life. Let a man but
show the slightest symptoms of
sinking, and his former boon com-
panions turn away fr mi him, and
eject him from their herd, even as
the wild deer do when one of their
flock is stricken with some dread
forest plague. So when poor Lyn-
den, half heartbroken, drearily gave
up his endeavour, and returned to
the snug smoking-room at Lane's,
.1 in < "/ ' The J> >hij.'
ho felt that it was nil oyer with
him. mi I that in vain -for who had
not heard of the awful smash of
Lyndon and Co.?— might he seek
amongst his fine-weatht r assoc
for one helping hand. JJut stay —
there was one humble, but true-
hearted man ; our who had at
for n. anj in the various oapa-
cities ot : . father, doctor, p iy-
master, and nurse to many a world*
1 young gentleman-at-arms ;
one who, in this time of sore dis-
i, eame to our po »r hero as ho
was drearily Rucking his last lonely
r, and clu ered him, ami gave
him good and Bound advice. This
was John, the time-honoured pro-
• ' >r of many a distressed sulnl-
tern, and the excellent head waiter
at Lam
'I'm sorry to hear of your mis-
fortune, Gapta n L; nit n,' said John,
in a quiet, respectful tone, as ho
entered the room, 'but I hope it's
not quit* Whi n will you
pl( ase to have dinner, sir?'
' 1 tinm r! Ugh !— I h tven't much
appetite lefl for dinner, John. Never
mind it just now ; but ^et me some
brandy and soda. I'm regularly
up.'
'I wouldn't drink brandy, sir.
Shall I J or two of
champagne h st< a i ; it'snot so h
iu^: ?' 81 I John.
• Y. a \ wi ■ ipa it will Ikj
betfa r. And, I say, John, is Captain
BiosscroH in yel ?'
'Captain alosserofs, sir? Ho
went down to the country to-day,
and rejoins on Saturday without
coming through town.'
' The devil I w ' What an
unlucky beggar I am! He is
my last hop-. I don't know what
ml'
' Wouldn't it be 1 1 at to rej u'n
regiment at once, sir?' quietly
insinuafa d John. ' Sou would be
■ r able I your way there,
and the col >nel might be able to
put yon in the way of letting
••is right. I'd try it, sir, if I
you. L 'ii ion is a dangerous
place when it-.'
'By Jove [Ik »u're right,
John ! '1 1 l staying
* i ■ bullied by duns, and
; and pointed al by a i
of d d fellows. I'll be off by
to-night's mail.'
' That is the beat plan, dep i 1
upon it, sir ; and I'll toll the C
to have u cotnf irtable dinner for yon
ran— and, sir —an I < sense me,
I u'n Lyn it n — but it ten ox
twenty pounds or so— to go on
with- — '
'Thanks, John, thanks; but I'm
amply supplied for the present.
Though God only kno ra how 1 may
be in a few days!' And as tho
kind-hearted waiter left the room
poor Lyndt □ w is quite overcome,
and aotu illy sobbed in the bitten
of his heart, as I e o ntrasted the
g< nerous offer that had just been
made him, with the coolness and
contempt of th >-c whom he called
his • intimate friends.'
Haggard, pah, ghastly, sick in
mind and bo ly, Halse-Lj nden drove
up the following morning to the
Royal Barracks, and going straight
to his quarters, Bent bis servant to
ask Mr. Biontresor to Btep over.
' Look here, M >ntj .' he eagerly
. as Paul cut red the room ;
'don't think I'm gomgto ask you
to help me '
' I wish I could, old tellow,
but '
' I know, T know. I don't want
you h>— but 1 do want your ad I
In a is are better than one. I I
show you exactly how I stand, and
then you can tt- 1 1 me what yOU
think I ought to do '
The liabilities, when set down in
plain figures, pres nted a formid
array ; for in addition to the 250/. of
beta's, then- wi re oth< r hi
- which wire nrgentl] put
forward for payment now that tho
failure of Lj nden and I So. was pub-
hcly known. In fact, the price of
Lyndon's commission would only
. 1 r the total amount ; and
Montre^or thought it most liki ly
thai the creditors would press mat-
to b, nd force his fr end to sell out,
link- line so|> could once
thrown them, in the -hape ot a ]« r
(•/■lit ige on th« ir bc eral accounts.
( larstein, for one. would bi
to 1 bill protested, if it could
not be n n iwi d with fintt-rate names
on it* back.
as tho rock on which tho
A Tale of ' The Derby.'
9
ship would founder, unless it could
be tided over by some unforeseen
wave of good fortune.
Montresor was a very poor man,
and barely managed to ' hold on ' in
the 'Flaunters' with his small
means; and, besides, was engaged
to a Miss liranston— a great friend,
by the way, of Mrs. Halse — and the
only money lie had, was laid by to
purchase his company.
' But, Mosscroft ? He'll renew
the bill for me, I'm sure. I've often
and often helped him at a pinch.'
Montresor shook his head. ' Moss-
croft is a very good sort of fellow in
his way, but you might as well try
to pump h tney out of a dunghill
as to persuade him to risk a half-
penny for jou, or any other living
being.'
' Well, I'll try him, anyhow, when
he arrives,' said Lynden, in a dogged
tone; 'and now, Monty, I must lie
down. I'm fairly dead beat, and
must have some sleep.'
Captain Mosscroft did not arrive
in Dublin until late on Saturday
night, and went almost immediately
to bed.
The next morning a tap came at
his door, and Halse-Lynden walked
m.
' I want to ask you, Mosscroft, to
lend me your name to renew a bill
of mine that Garstein holds.'
' Phew — my dear fellow — but how
much is it ?' asked Mosscroft, who
pretended ignorance for reasons of
his own.
' Only two hundred and fifty — for
three months. I'll make it all right
then or sell.'
'Two hundred and fifty! My
dear Lynden, — if it was fifty, now,
or even one hundred, I could, per-
haps, lend jou the money; but a
bill for such — really I '
' Will you do it for me or not ?'
asked Lynden. passionately.
' I really can't, Lynden ; but '
' But you won't. Pah !' snorted
Lynden, in disgust, as he turned
short round and walked out of the
room, slamming the door violently
behind him, and made for his own
quarters.
In his rooms he found Garstein
sitting, who had lost no time in
following our hero — and closely
examining tho numerous duns that
strewed the table.
1 All up with me, my little skin-
flint !' said poor Lynden, who was
now rendered quite reckless by his
troubles ; ' Mosscroft won't do it,
and so there's nothing left for it
but to send in my papers, and give
you a cheque on my commission
for your infernal bill, and then go
to the devil my own way.'
• Mein Gjtt, Captain Lynden, don't
speak so. Berhaps in time all may
be right. I vant de money, but
only begause de money market '
'D n the money-market, and
you too! I don't want any of your
humbug now. Shove over that
foolscap, and I'll send in my papers
at once, and then write you a
cheque. I suppose you wouldn't
be satisfied unle-s you saw the
letter actually go to the colonel?'
' Well, you see. Mr. Lynden '
' Oh, don't bother me with your
cursed nonsense ! Here go^s !' And
Halse-Lynden wildly began to write
a formal application ' to be allowed
to retire from the service by the
sale of his commission.' This
finished, he called in Giles, and
despatched him with the papers to
the adjutant.
' And now, how shall I word the
cheque for you ? " Gentlemen,
please pay Louis Garsh in " '
' " Out of de proceeds of my com-
mission," ' the Jew was interrupting,
when the door of the room was
thrown open, and Paul Montresor
came in.
' What the deuce are you. doing,
Lynden ?'
' Oh, I've sent in my papers, and
am giving this beggar a cheque
for his money;' and Lynden con-
tinued writing.
' But, stay — stay a moment. Look
here, Lynden ; I dare say I shan't
want that purcha c e-money of mine
that is lying at Cox's,' paid Mont-
resor, 'at least yet awhile, so you
can have the use of it.'
' Oh, no, Monty ; 1 couldn't think
of it. Heavens, man, it would ruin
your prospects !'
' Not a bit of it. Look here, now.
I'll give this fellow a cheque at
once, and we'll talk over paying the
others afterwards. Now don't be a
10
A Tale of ' Tlic Derby:
fool, Lynden. If the worst comes
to tin- worst, there is plenty of time
to Bell when I want the money. 1
• < »li. Monty, in y dear fellow, I
oonldn'l - 1 can't, 1 and ilio tears
fairly came to poor Lj nden's eyes.
• Oh, bother. It'll Till be right, I
Bay. Now you, but,' continui d
Paul, addn B&ing the Jew, ' here's a
cheque for your mon< y. Now give
me the bill, and take yourself off
out of this.'
Garstein eagerly clutched the
cheque, and baying satisfied him-
self as to its correctness, handed
over Ealse Lynden's original ac-
ceptan se, and departed from the
room with much more glee than, he
bad experienced when entering.
* » * *
'My dear, how pale you are.
And I declare your eyes are as red
as if you had been crying 1' said
Mis. Halse, as Mi.-s Branston pot
into her carriage for a drive in Eyde
Park, towards the latter end of
July. " What's the matter, dear?'
continued the kind old lady, as she
observed tears in the eyes of her
young fiiend.
'It's nothing, dear Mrs. ITalse;
but Paul — Paul — Mr. Montresor — '
1 So thai young man has 1m . n
getting into a scrape, las he? I
declare its quite dreadful the way
young mill j- r o on in that soul-
destroying, horrid regiment There's
that fccapegiace nephew of mine — '
'Paul is in no Bcrape, dear
Mrs. Halse,' earnestly pleaded Bliss
Branston ; 'only Major Quintin is
going to sell out, an 1 l'.ml can't
purchase his company because —
because '
'Because, I suppose, he's Bpenl
all liis money. Foolish fellow! I
declare I'm quite disgusted with
Dim!'
'Oh, my dear Mrs. Ealse, in-
deed, indeed it's not his fault —
and '
And then the whole story of how
the greater portion of Montresor's-
money was spent came out, and Mrs.
liaise was dreadfully ind'gn mt, and
opened all the phials Of her wrath,
and may we say it of sn h a tine
lady ?— abuse, on her unfortunate
nephew's head.
however, the result of it all was
good ; and Mrs. liaise took care
that Paul Montresor should not loso
his chance of purchasing his Btep;
and farther, paid Off all the claims
against her graceless nephew, only
insisting that ho should exchange
from the ' Flaunteis,' who were, a.
she informed the fair Lizzie Bran-
i, 'a sadly dissipated set, my
dear.'
Halse-Lynden is now in India,
where he em cultivate his taste for
horse-racing without very much
detriment — in a pecuniary b< nse at
least— to his prospects.
J. L.
■
l»ni» ii i.v Adelaide ' llaxton.J
ACADEMY BELLES.
the !'• i ni.
11
ACADEMY BELLES.
IT really is hard on the critic
(Whoso work is completely cut out
In the shape of review analytic
Of what every picture's about),
To have — when he gravely would ponder
The story each canvas there tells —
His thoughts ever tempted to wander
By groups of Academy Belles.
In vain ' composition ' and ' colour '
To judge-of he laudably tries,
Till he wishes his feelings were duller,
Or girls had not loadstones for eyes.
On ' drawing ' and ' chiaroscuro '
His mind for a moment scarce dwells,
Ere it wanders to watch the demure row
Of dainty Academy Belles.
Oh, happy young Captain McCupid —
Yes, happy and blest as a king !
He votes the Academy stupid,
But ' does ' it because it's ' the thing.'
No thought about ' method ' or ' model '
Disturbs him, serenest of swells, —
There's room in his weak, honest noddlo
For all the Academy Belles.
Young Eeredos, the citrate, looks sainted,—
On the nape of Ins neck rests his hat —
He comes to see how they have painted
The Bishop of This or of That.
In winning the smiles of the ladies
'Tis strange how a parson excels : —
An idol our Mend, I'm afraid, is —
Yes, e'en of Academy Belles.
While Stabber, that rising young artist,
With genius, a beard, and long hair,
Quite fails — and no joke of a smart is't —
In winning a glance from the fair.
They think has 'Hypatia' delightful —
That head, there, with ears like pink shells-
But, not knowing him, think S. is frightful,
These haughty Academy Belles.
The rooms they pervade with their presence,
With rustle of silks, and the glow
Of gold-braided tresses, and essence
Of sweetness wherever they go.
Of Bond Street discourses the bonnet—
Of Bimmel's the handkerchief smells —
The face— is there powder upon it,
Deceptive Academy Belles ?
12 Acaihmy Belles.
In i if children they rev
Hnyllar a iluck and a dear,
- (when down to tlair level)
t of all painters this year.
Tl:- j look i pom V washy,'
Think GoodalTs large earn Is, 1
Brats exquisite fh !«»hy'
With si ■ gj Academy Belles.
Or and art they come pat in;
With i ide in each cast : —
IV on Sanl and on satin,
Ai t and la
T py talk about Phillip and fl tun &
On winsies, and Walker an 1 Wi
Wi1 umces
Academy Belli
Of harmony, colour, and keep
Tl nt — joking apart;
And a j »it nre of Baby when sleeping
bink is the highest of art.
2so Brail stive or dm-
Their pleasant illusion dispels;
N 'pis ng' or 'pshawing'
Iru] - - Academy Belles.
To endeavour to change their opinions
Lb n t ';. a ibsurd
A- I talk off their chignons,
< k stiivin. • • the last word.
ThHr taste* are superior to I res;
Their ardour no argumi lis;
Of they know all about pictun -.
These darling Academy Belles.
Q, let them : f.r who could l>e hard on
b beautiful judges a> t!.
W< ion
That in such charming array.
• such loTeliness chatt
W( j l ow to
Art— truth— pshaw ! now what can they matter
Compared with Academy Bell
t. n.
13
A PRACTICAL WORD ABOUT SWITZERLAND.
Principalis aTJoTrssca" to ^ts'itorS tD the ID.iris erhirjition.
PEOPLE who have spent all their
lives on a plain in the country,
or in towns and cities, have yet a
new sensati' >n to experience, namely,
the first sight of a mountain. By
'plain' I mean all which is not real
mountain; it includes undulating
ground, picturesque scenery, downs,
and even the humbler hills. All
these may be charming in their way ;
they wil those who have seen
nothing grander, they will pi •
those who have visited sublimer
landscapes, but they are not moun-
tains. The mountain still remains
a thing to be seen. Prints, pictures,
stage dt . give only a faint
of what it is ; there is as much
difference between them and the
ty as tl ere is between a photo-
graph and its original in warm flesh
and blood. I have seen, even in
dreams, more beautiful mountains —
not in any way the images of those
beheld in waking hours — than any
which pictorial representation ever
produced.
There is this difference between a
merely picturesque and a truly
mountainous countrj — let us say, for
instance, between the prettiest parts
of Devonshire and the grandest fea-
tures of the Grampians— that the
former lend - ■ s to the skcteher,
the latter d>fy him. The former
invite and encourage the artisl -
efforts, the latter overwhelm his
powers and mike him confess his
weakness. The lamented Stanfield
and other great painters have won-
derfully well caught the distant
aspect of the granite crag, the bur-
nished area of the lake, and the
showery curtain veiling the shrouded
peaks. But, as a rule, painters are
obliged to give us the details, the
accidents, the anecdotes [so to speak)
of mountain scenery ; the
I will not say beyond then- grasp
(because poets grasp it, and every
great painter is a poet at heart), but
beyond their means of representa-
tion.
"We have fine mountain scenery
in Great Britain and Ireland. Erom
the top even of Snowdon there is a
grand spectacle to be gazed at.
Argyleshireand Inverntss-shirehave
magnificent masses to show, which
sometimes enj'>y the great a 1 van-
tage of displaying their full stature
at once, from the level of the sea to
their I - innacle. The com-
position of Highland scenery is often
perfect — put together to satisfy the
must ciitical taste ; and though the
burns run bottled porter, the pecu-
liarity is compensated for by the
lakes, without which no mountain
region is complete in beauty. Wit-
ness the Pyrenees, whose lacustrine
wealth is lim ted to a few small up-
lani tarns. The gavts and rivulets
flow with liquid diamond, but the
traveller searches in vain for the
lake.
In the Permanent Exhibition
which our planet has opened there
is, however, something still more
striking than an ordinary mountain,
be it ever so majestic and coloss
videlicet, a mountain crowned with
eternal snow and surrounded with
t e conseqneuocS of eternal snow.
These the United Kingdom does not
p tssess. And we are better without
them, as far as our material welfare
is concerned. With our dense and
increasing population, taxing the
. nuity of agricultural e -
td it, we no more want _
and avalanches than we want lions,
tigers, and bears. We have no room
for them ; we can't afford to keep
them. They are things worth be-
coming acquainted with, neverthe-
•
'And the practical word?' the
reader will ask.
Here it is. at once forthcoming.
If your means are limited to the
supply of your daily bread and your
half- clothing, you must go
on and on, where j on are, thankful
for your Sunday walk in the fields
and your every-day ecjoyment of
Go l*s air an i s mshine. The birds
warble and the spring-flowers bloom
for you as well . ir wealthier
brethren. But if yon earn or pos-
14
A Practical Word about Switzerland.
more than will afford thoso
Decenary supplies, you have two
lines <>t" con luct open to yon. 3Ton
may po on patiently plodding in
business or i ntirely given up to
l Qorioas raving, adding more to
more, heaping op riches in igno<
ce of who will come to spend
them, increasing your connections,
harnessing a second horse to your
carriage, supplementing your page
with a footman or your footman
with a bnth r, gradually mixing col
with people really above yon but)
with people living in more and more
showy style, and so on until tho
end. Tins maybe your beau-i
of life ns you ^ ish it to and as it
should be.
in the other course which you
are permitted to choose, if you can
earn or economise a margin to your
outlay, you may remember that
there is intellectual as well as social
life to bo enjoyed; that there are
books to he read besides day-hooks
and ledgers ; things to be considered
les balanced accounts; haunts
to be frequi nted besides thoso of
business or fashion; that if man
made the town, God made the coun-
try, and not i nly the country hut
the wide, wide world ; that if Art is
long, Nature is eternal. In short,
it may SCUT to you that, in tho
brief drama of life, in which the
men and women are. but play< re,
marvels, bt auties, and mj Bb
oi Nature may afford a few improv-
ing and agn i able inb rludes.
• And the occasion?'
Now.
'And the m
Quite within your reed,. If you
can afford to go to Paris, you can
afford to go 1" see a mountain. If
can contrive to visit a moun-
tain, mi man ige to reach a
ippcd mountain.
' And the 1J it?'
Son ' 1 admit. Ii y to
command than mon< y ; bul whi re
a will there's oft* n a way.
rail, without actually acnihi-
■ I I". th
Bpace and time. And pei haps yon
can shorten your Bojourn in Paris,
• unwillingly, and without n gret
ttrical shows mid i. uit
dinners both pall on the appetite
when made our daily bread. A
general glance at the Exhibition fa
soon obtained ; to study il thoroughly
would require a lifi tiim ; and i>< fore
your allotted term is up, yon are
likely to confess to yourself, ill se-
cret, that your cash is going East,
that your bead is in a whirl, that
you have had enough Of it and will
not be sorry to gel away, if only for
the sake of a change.
' Such a state of things is vi ry
possible to arrive.'
I take you, then, at your word.
Write home to your subordinates
that you are likely to be absenl
(through unavoidable and most im-
portant business) a little longer than
you had expected, and that they
must keep things properly going
meanwhile. After dinner, instead
of going to the play or improving
your mind at a eaiV- ehantant, call
for your hotel bill and pay it up to
to-morrow morning. Pack in a
basket a cold roast fowl, a pinch of
salt, a loaf of bread, and a bottle full
of half water and half viu ordinaire.
So (although by no means eschew-
ing them you will be independ* nl
of railway refreshments. Then,
early to bed, with the comforting
ction thai you are making your
pe from the Parisian maelstrom.
What a relii fl No more eddy ing
round and round the monst r [ aso-
rl Fresh air, lair fields, bright
vineyards instead !
It would be a waste of space, on
the present occasion, to discuss tho
advantages and disadvantages of
railways; they possess both in an
eminent degree, and the former
might be greatly increased to the
:it of the public if thi mpa-
nies did not fear that their inter* sis
would be thereby affected. We
therefore take them as th< j are. < >f
course yon, a tourist pressed for
time, cannot trav< rse long d
otherwise than by rail. If is Bob-
choice as to the m< ans of con-
Now, by rail, the most
direct, as well as the most Bti iking
way of entering Switz* rland, is from
Paris to N< ucl &tel, by Dijon, I
and Pontarlier, taking care to do
the bit betwi en l idle or Pontarlier
and Neuch&tel by daylight.
In Trench railway travelling your
A Practical Word about Switzerland.
15
choice lies, practically, between
going first class and going third
class ; for, in express trains, there
are none but first-class carriages.
If, to save that expense, you travel
second class, you are compelled to
go by the ordinary omnibus trains,
which, stop at every little station ;
and as in that case you renounce
the saving of time, you may as well
make the further economy of travel-
ling third class. The difference of
expense, when wide areas have to
be swept over, is considerable.
Thus, the difference between the
first and third-class fares from Paris
to Marseilles for one individual only
amounts to 43 francs 60 centimes,
or six days' board and lodging. [At
Marseilles, and at Lyons also, you
can be well lodged and fed, ordinary
wine included, in respectable and
comfortable, though not stylish, ho-
tels for 62 francs per day.] It
therefore becomes a matter of se-
rious consideration for persons to
whom expense is not utterly indif-
ferent, and who care less to take
their ease on the road than to ex-
tend both the sweep and the dura-
tion of their tour, by which class
they shall travel. Young men in
company, with limited purses, will
at once appreciate our sugges-
tion.
For economical reasons, the pre-
sent writer mostly travels long dis-
tances on the Continent third class,
unless accompanied by ladies. Your
travelling companions are no doubt
a ' mixture,' which implies that you
often meet, amongst them, well-
informed, well-behaved, and agree-
able people, particularly persons,
both men and women, engaged in
commercial pursuits. Kudeness is
very rare; but is immediately put
down by public protest. Tipsy men
are less rare, but they are held in
check by the same restraint. On
the other hand, you get a capital in-
sight into popular manners and
ideas (supposing you understand
the language) which you might have
a difficulty in acquiring elsewhere.
The great nuisance of French third-
class railway carriages is the abomi-
nable pipes and the still more abo-
minable lucifer matches. For this
there is no remedy ; it must be borne.
It is useless to attempt to stop it by
appealing to authority. Smoking
in third-class carriages, though con-
trary to regulation, is an admitted,
tolerated, established fact. You
might as well beg your fellow-tra-
veller not to breathe as not to smoke.
' If you can't bear smoke, why don't
you go second or first class ?' is the
remark, spoken or unspoken, your
request would give rise to. It is in
the north of France, however, that
the smoking mania attains its fullest
development. The further you go
south the less you are annoyed by
the filthy fumes of foul tobacco.
It is understood that nothing
short of necessity will induce you
to pass a night, or even great part
of one, iu a third-class carriage ;
but night-travelling in any class
does not enter into our system.
There are, however, what are
called ' direct ' trains, intermediate
in speed between the express and
the omnibus trains, but going more
nearly at the rate of the former than
the latter, which do take second and
third class passengers, . but under
conditions so confined and trouble-
some as to render them of little use
to the general traveller. To avail
yourself of them, otherwise than by
first class, you must take your ticket
from Paris for enormous distances.
At most stations along the road you
cannot get into them except at the
higher rates of payment. Moreover,
during the present summer, ' direct'
trains are fewer than they were last
year. So that, in fact, it comes, as
just stated, to the choice between an
omnibus (all three classes) and an
express (first class only) train.
If you follow our advice, you will
avoid cheap excursion trains, and
confine yourself to the ordinary
trains of the time tables. True, the
saving is sometimes enormous ; but
so also are the discomfort and the
fatigue. For instance, this season,
excursion trains for the Exhibition
have run from Marseilles to Paris, for
thirty francs there and back, third
class, the regular payment for the
same distance being io6f. 10c. there
and back. But fancy going all the
way from Marseilles to Paris (five
hundred and forty English miles)
by the slowest of trains, without
16
A Practical Word ub<>ut Ojicitzt rland.
stopping, day and night, closi ly
packed in an oven mi wheels, com-
pelled lo b1< i p in a sitting posture,
with hard boards Fur your easy chaix
and no pillow hut yo ir neighbour's
shoulder! A pr< tty pleasure train
to take your place in ! And then,
after this, the sight-se< ing in Paris :
nii< I • • r. tn ii home in exactly
the same style, not on the day or at
the hour yon would choose, but
when the knell sounds for the train
i ry you off pi', cisely as a demon
carrii s ofl a purcl as< d \ ictim win n
bis time is up! It is enough to kill,
not a horse, but a creature gifted
with tl e Btrength of fifty hoi
We also ad\ ice you to resist the
temptation of circular tickets, avail-
able for a month or bo, issued at
professedly reduced prices, with a
giv< n itinerary at any point of which
you may stop. The offer is plaus-
ible, and the scheme far pr< ferable
t > the preceding , but we have cal-
culated the difference between seve-
ral of these preh ii'li 1 cheap tours
and the price of ordinary trams, and
reduction n very trifling
.pan. d with th< loss of freedom it
A. b. With j ' ; r route so laid
; n you and jour time so limit* d,
it is very like tl \ in a stiait-
ja k' by a keep- r.
of tin < ujoj Ha n's of
travel is tl • of lit* rty it
tion th
I excursions and branchings-
off made on the spur of the mo-
it But w,th one of tin 86 !
tickets stink in your sid* -pocket,
yon are constantly reminded tl at
yon are not your own master ; you
are giv< n in charge to ti«
.ay officers. / ■ still
d 3 i i' doctor
told you t'» leave all care on the
I the wan r. Better far
is it to < ■ in some oth< r
L to I dow, mi going t . bed
i iw morning
' the world is all i win re
■
On the Hi lei ing
lv.
F< r de Lyon, Boulevard M izas) an
omnibus train \< ven
in the i. arnviu. u at
in the afternoon. An ■ x]
i . a in the
morning, arriving at 5.30. It is a
question "i 1 arly rising 1 xpea-
diture. The difference between the
tirst and second class tan b is si. 85c,
or the price ol a go id dintK r ami a
bed ; that Ik t we. n the lir-t and third
is 1 5 f . 90c. or the cost ot a day to be
spent at Dijon or elsewh< re r.\ con-
sulting the hitest publisl ed numbers
of the ' Indicateur des ( ' emm
her '(tile had for fouri ei ce at the
principal French stations ti
can calculate the diff( n UC6 i' will
make to his pocket i.y travelling
Qd or thirl clB68 along ev< r\
other portion ol his ro ite. With
the savings, be will be abl< to make
more than one piea-ant t xcursion in
the course of his ti ip."
At Dijon, the rail divides. Instead
of gomg on tu Lyons, you branch oti
to the left, passing Aexoi ne (a for-
tified town;, I in!,', and l'ontai
at either of whi h you can gi t a
very supportable supper and bed.
At Dole there is a quiet little inn
rving u favourable mention,
within a stone's-throw of the sta-
tion, which i< just the place to g
bait and a sleep in, and continue
your journey fresh in xt morning.
Pontarliex i- also convi 1 ii nt, but
chilly ; it is the most elevab d town
in France, 1 eing ni ai ly three thou-
:l;e || v, 1 of thi
If the earth were suddenly removed
from under your fi et, \\ hat a |
drop into the m a tin re would he !
Noun after It aving l'ontai Ii' r, you
cross the front:- r. Tl 1 hid
decides the territory. Where the
brook trickles to the north, it s'ill is
France; whin it runs to the south,
it is Switzerland. We heartily wish
you a bright, clear morning, to make
the desci lit down t! e Yal de i
vers ; hut whethi r Be< n for the first
time in storm or Bunsliine, it
thing not to he forgotfa n during
on.'s life : and win n at
catch the Lake, backed by the snowy
chain of th' the picture
1 di died in your memory in
can ne\
\i uchah I n, with its.
lovely walks skirling lie water's
. You breathe an as if
* ! irthei hii I
.' in ' London
A Practical Word ahonl Switzerland.
17
you were strolling along a seashore
filled with gardens; and you there
witness some of the changes wrouu lit
by the progress of modern civiliza-
tion. In New Zealand, the native
Maori saying is, 'As the white man's
rat has driven away the native rat ;
as the European fly drives away the
native bluebottle; and as the Bri-
tish clover kills the indigenous fern,
so will the Maories disappear before
the white men.' In Switzerland, the
native inhabitants are not likely to
recede before any other invading
race ; but as the steamer superseded
the row boat and the sailing vessel
on the lake, so is the railway super-
seding the steamer. The little port
of Neuchatel is all but, if not quite
(when this is written) disused.
And no one need regret the
change. The rail is safer and surer
than the steamer, not to mention
pleasanter. Loss of life on the
Swiss lakes was not unfrequent;
the times of transit always uncer-
tain ; and on the larger lakes, as
those of Constance, Geneva, and the
one we are now admiring, persons
subject to sickness at sea are just as
sick wdien the waves run high.
The steamers still plying on cer-
tain lakes, as those of Thun and
Brienz, not yet skirted by railway,
may be regarded as temporary expe-
dients whose days are numbered,
although we may not be able to
count the reckoning. It is a ques-
tion of engineering, time, and money,
not a question of possibility, when
Switzerland is to be riddled
through and through by rails.
But as Switzerland must become
every year more and more the Play-
ground of the World, and as there
is nothing of the kind in the world
to equal it as a harmonious and
accessible whole, we must accept as
inevitable the consequences of the
change of locomotion recently ef-
fected.
Per contra, if we gain much in
convenience, we lose something in
romance. The Castle of Chillon
shaved by frequent trains, its dun-
geons re-echoing with the locomo-
tive's beat, and its hails hurried
through by throngs of excursionists
as tast as the showman can manage
to drive them, are profanations that
VOL. XII. — NO. I.XVII.
never entered into poor Lord Byron's
poetical philosophy.
At Neuchatel, there are two or
three things which well deserve to
receive your attention. One is the
trip to La Chaux-de-Fonds by a rail-
way which had the steepest gradient
in the world — and may have still,
but it is not likely, for one marvel
so speedily outdoes another. Yes-
terday's discoveries are so ridicu-
lously easy; to-morrow's only are
difficult. There is a comfortable inn
at Chaux-de-Fonds which was (and
may still be) a phenomenon of
cheapness. The staple of the town
is the manufacture of the delicate
parts of watches, which are made at
high elevations where the cooler
temperature allows the workmen to
handle them with non-perspiring
fingers. But the American civil
war was a cruel blow to the Swiss
watch and trinket trade.
Neuchatel also offers you an op-
portunity of trying your legs and
exercising your connoisseurship in
Swiss panoramas, by ascending the
Chaumont, a nice little walk that is
well worth your undertaking.
Tourists often ask the question
' Which points of view are the best
to visit ?' But about tastes, even in
Alpine scenery, there is no rule to
lay down, and no disputing. Some
like one thing, some another; and
every one has a right to stand up
for his own favourite mountain.
Some points of view owe much of
their reputation to their partisans
having visited little else. Those who
have mounted no other eminence
than the Rigi, will naturally believe
the Kulm panorama uniivalled. The
fairest way, therefore, would be to
see them all. But even if a holiday
lasted all summer, still summer is
short, and Switzerland is long.
Unfortunately, many of the finest
views you may go to many times
and yet not see, even in weather
that would be called fine on the plain.
On Keller's map, heights com-
manding remarkable views are
marked with a star, thus *. But
to render the indication yet more
complete, he ought to have made
t.vo kinds of stars; one denoting
panoramas with an immense, almost
a boundless horizon and in which
18
A Pmctlcdl Word ahoitt Switzerland,
tho grand objects of interest nro
very distant; others, commanding an
sive but c imperatively limited
ana. wherein, mon over, the leading
ties lie it hand, within
i r ' yeshot.
The practical value of this distinc-
tion is, the know led] e thai the first
v>, to show themselves
propi rly, n quire a peculiarly trans-
p m ut Btate of the atmospl
not often occur. Too
dry, it is hazy, and even becomes
rue w h< ii a certain mass of air
is interposed betw< ( n the eye and
the object Too moist, it may l>o
Buddenly curdled into mist or
broken up into showers or storms.
For this reason, the Chaumont and
the Weissenstein views— tl e i ne
just behind Neuchitel, tlio other
mar Soleure or Solothurn, which is
within easy reach from Neuchatel
by rail- are too far Off for everyday
display — much too distant for you
ever to be sure of them. Indistinctly
b 1 11, they arc temptations to further
travel ; incitement ti i i tb ad your
itinerary ; alluremi nts to attract you
onwards. When you can see them,
and cannot go on to the < Iberian d,
they make the water come into your
mouth most criii lly.
'1 he I'etli, mar Zurich, is open to
the same obs< rvation. The immi n-
embraced by the pano-
rama makes it all the more pre-
carious. In Switzi rland, the un
taint y of a view ii in
proportion to the distance. The
Berne view Bom< timi ; r< mains for
weeks unseen. The Qetli lias a
reputation (<>v clear sunrises; but
■ I we bap] ened to be al Zurich,
the hazy v< il v. so thick as
worth the trouble of
Che on which tho
and thi ' itein
vi< ws are w< II b& a, arc far from
numerous in th< of the y< ir.
In short, views like those arc a lot-
: but wbi ii . '. q prize, it
i prize.
In • as, all the Iug-
■ • h( r a small
which will indi
your ezpendJtt
an I an introduction to
t b< \p you to get
re chi aplj lodged in di az onea.
Up tlio Chaumont is a capital
test-walk for youi :■ pedestrians. If
they cannot do that without b
blown at the tunc and feeling w< ak
in the hams thn e or four dayj al
wards, they had better not v. nture
on any higher climbs. But the great
seen it m| avoiding both those incon-
veniences is to walk very slowly,
p irticularly at starting. You may
i de up tn the inn on horseback ;
but by pr< ferring that method to the
ten-toe can i ige, you incur an ex-
pi nseoi twelve or fifteen francs, and
you lose the training.
When we walki d up tlio Chau-
mont, the weather was line —much
too tine. The air was so dry that
tho distant snowy mountains were
veiled with blue baze to such an
nt that Mont Blanc was sup-
pressed from the horizon. The
of the panorama was composed of
shadowy forms with no more dis-
tinctness than black profile portraits
or the ill-defin< d imag< s of a dn am.
The details of the picture being thus
ci aled, the impri seion ol its
vastness was much diminished.
This and the Weissenstein are
afternoon views. To see them well
you must wait till the sun
round, to throw its glare on
sin.wy flanks ol the A.lp8, which
face yoll. ( nlhi qui lit J \ , ill hotll
thesi hunting is quite
a mistal
A bn akfast for two, up the < !hau-
mont, costing er $£ ioc,
consisted of om . one
cold fowl, one plate "I ham, one
plate oi preserved melon, butterand
Bread, conee, and one small glass of
cognac.
From the above it will ap]
that the Chaumont is quite worth
trying, when you are mi mar it as
Neuchatel is. bJven without a guide
yon can hardly miss your way.
ting from tho old clocic-b
gate of Neucl &b I, there is a narrow
i lane, call* I the Rue de St.
• Ii in. h. twi i n two walls. follow
■ upward g,when
you rea I be high road to La
i Fonds, and following a
lane or path still upwards. It will
take yon without fail to the ( IhlVU-
mont, whi re you will find an un-
pretending but comfortable inn
A Practical Word about Switzerland.
19
•within a quarter of an hour's walk
of the top. As to what you see
when you get there, you must take
your chance like other travellers.
You will at least have enjoyed the
air and the exercise. But all hill
climbing, great and small, is a game
of chance, in which prudence and
forethought will sometimes have
their influence, though hazard will
olten be the ruling power. No one
can command or foresee the weather,
however shrewdly he may guess ;
and success, and even safety, in
really Alpine expeditions, depend
upon very slight variations of the
weather rather than upon the abili-
ties of the adventurers who engage
in them. A young, light walker of
no great pedestrian pretensions may
on Monday easily ascend a mountain
which on Tuesday will be altogether
inaccessible to the ablest moun-
taineers. Eminences commanding
views within limited range are often
covered by a day— or night — cap of
mist, which will come on in half an
hour, and take itself off when it
pleases. How many hundreds and
thousands have been up the Rigi,
and come down again without seeing
more than the hotels at the top, and
the respective pathways leading to
them.
Nevertheless, the Rigi is a delec-
table hill, in spite of its uncertainty,
its mendicants, and its extortioners.
It is no more hacknied, worn out,
or used up than is the seabeach in
autumn or the forest in spring. A
pleasant way of mounting is to start
from Art, at the lower extremity of
the lake of Zug ; you will be shaded
from the afternoon sun. Be not
astonished if at Rigi Dachsi they
charge you a franc and a half for
naif a bottle of wine, and try hard
to induce you to sleep there, alleging
as an inducement that you can easily
start at two next morning. From
this path you look down on the site
of the village of Goldau, buried by
an earthslip so suddenly that it
crushed members of the same tra-
velling party, sparing others. A
bridegroom and his bride walked
into Goldau ; one was taken, the
other left. A tutor and his pupil
tried to enter the village ; ono was
taken, the other left.
But Nature soon hides her evil
(kids, and covers her cruel catas-
trophes. The sea smiles brightly
over the sunken ship; the earth-
deluge of Goldau and the dead it
covers will soon be hidden by a
vigorous joiuig pine-forest, sown
over them as a winding-sheet by the
pitying winds.
From Rigi Staffel there is a de-
lightful walk along the ridge of tie
mountain to Rigi Scheideck. You
keep always up; up, up, up, with
magnificent views on either side,
and gentians by armfuls, and ferns
by cartloads. If a shower comes on,
it gives you a rainbow lying flan
below on the mountain side, instead
of spanning the upper heavens.
The Rigi, you note, is an extremely
Catholic hill, abounding with chapels
full of graven (and horribly painted)
images, and profusely sprinkled
with crosses, great and small, at
every point and on every eminence.
At Rigi Scheideck is a good and
reasonable hotel, where you may
linger a while pleasantly, by night or
by day, before stooping from your
airy height.
You descend to Gersau, at the
water's edge of the Lake of Lucerne,
by a most rapid slope, an intermi-
nable staircase, excessively trying to
the crural muscles. But for the
open space in front, it is like crawl-
ing clown a chimney, or walking to
the bottom of a well with one side
open. The elevation of Scheideck
being greater than that of Staffel,
the dip down to the level of the lake
is consequently deeper.
Gersau, once the smallest republic
in the world, but now ' annexed ' to
the canton in which it is situated,
is a village without streets and roads,
and therefore without carriages. The
houses communicate with each other
by paths resembling garden- walks.
A few horses are kept as curiosities,
and to carry travellers up to Schei-
deck ; but the principal means of
access to the outer world are beats
and steamers. There are two hotels,
an old established and a new one,
at which the steamers call on alter-
nate weeks; bat as you are always
at liberty to make your choice, we
counsel you to try the new one.
Gersau is one of the last retreats
a
20
A Pni'-liral ]V<,nl nhuut Strilzt rltind.
of \ He ringing, fur those who
it. Tl . and probably
still is, a fellow there giving uta de
—upper ( "s from the chest
—that would make an opera tenor's
fortune. He has a ?oi ■<■ perfi ctly
it to crack a church bell ;
I:;- performance is n i more
: ' tlrnn were the s< ren
of the Jew's cats apostrophised by
c Pindar as ■ s ■ gi 1 3 of Israel,
(i ye singers swei t.'
But we have slippcl away some-
how from Neuchatel, and must now
f!i|> back again, to leave it in prop r
form, i. ., by rail, which carries you
smoothh and pictures [uelj to B
where th< re is plenty to see and do.
Mi re instinct will guide you to the
platform where the < lathedral stands,
and other sights; but we particularly
1 you to the Museum, fi r
sake of its models of mountain
tracts in relief, and its specimens of
ran creatures found in the country ;
such as the Lammergeier or lamb-
vulture, the bearded Qypaetos bar-
batus 'all the ] rs have
a tuft under the chin); the lynx of
the < angallantly styli d thi re
an A.lt< s \\'eil», or 01 1 Woman in
winter, but in summer a W< ib
merely ; at three months old a !
d< ■■ 1! ; at eight months a i»
>n ; and tli it frightful fish the
Silurns glanis, from the Lake of
Mor it, but white Beshed, n ally
and attaining a w< ight
of seventy pounds, which there has
acclimatising here.
From Berne you gl 'dly
irds to Thun, the prettii si of
little lacustrine 1 >wns, where you
maj eitl pictures me r< I
men! or watch the world as it goes,
111. • 1 n. ! l< ' 18 prot( et
it and the rain .
, tripedblin » out
the of the sun ;
drap< d w itli \ ; en eper lend
•
ind in mul-
titudinous w indi
the fair! a opportunit;
coming for* ar l to pick off di I
• rj ■ :• • ' d coi
is n. . tch-tower —
a si hted look out, tn I
wi tl I'd
N
appears poor in Tbun, though we
are assured there .-. r in the
secluded valli ys. The Chun
is the view from the c< meti rj . to
which you mount bj a long coven d
staircase, compo ed of I iw Bteps lit
for children's feet. Ealf way up is
a landing- pi tee, the <• ntre of live
divi r. ing e me running
up and some down.
Before a id below you lies the
lake, in one of the loveliest frame-
works to be found on 1 arth. al-
though bo high above thi level ot
the si a \ ineyards ;
sunny Blopi notwithstam
the immensity of it- Bcale, the
itiy has all the ne itness of a
or a well wati 1
garden. All is bright. The la
bright bine, the foot of the moun-
tain bright green, the Vlpine 1
bright white. Softer hui sol utl
rieln "ii from thi
and the f »m' n pine-wo
A Bti ami r still runs from Tliun
to Qnterse n ; but one of thi
a railway will skirt the rocky b!
This steamer is a sort of moving
tn- ; only instead of mechanists
to change the scenery, the 1
actii jsi hifti rs are the men at
■ ogine and the helm. The deck
di' the b ' >v< m d ■ .''1 1 gular
■me lookii g forwards and
rsaft, w itha back in the middle.
It is an opera pit, with a striped
awning msb ad of a p iinb d <•• ilxng,
BJ 1 the gfo] i' >iis sun huii": o\< r-
head to fulfil the office of a
light* d lustre. Theattr iction 1
• this is crowd' d each morning
v. ith a fashionable audience, mo
lish. The clock' strikes on< .
bell rings, and the performance
ins Passing a
of archib cture, we
drink tuty with our eyes. How
did 1 1 nil to harmoni
well the forms of their build
with the cl aracti r of 1 h ry ?
Towards the hi id ol Ihe laki I
of the
mous that the clusters of cot-
il their fo ii I" >l< lib I
dwi ' f insects. Ami so you
ares. dels I," d-d at Neiihaus, w hi
omnibusi i to fjnti rseen
and h.ti rlacki n.theshelten d c< ntr
of a'
21
HOUSE HUNTING.
r p\VO months to quarter-day —
JL should we give our landlord
notice to quit? Oar house had
some faults, our ideal house had
none — this decided the matter. We
required a small detached house
with gardens, stable and coach-
house, two or three acres of grazing
land, and near a town — above all
things it must be a cheerful house.
Ours was a town of some note : in-
deed the house agent called himself
the ' East of England House and
Estate Agency Office.' Photographs
of desiraMe residences adorned his
walls; maps of the surrounding
neighbourhood were spread before
us. Whatever house we took he
would extend to us the blessings of
insurance. He proved that our
town was the healthiest in England,
except one, its advantages were set
forth in a printed letter. Ho con-
sidered the world divided into two
classes— those who wanted houses
and those who wanted to let houses.
The printed list dwindled down to
some five or six apparently suitable.
House No. i was a good bouse but
low and dull. Our experience leads
us to believe people go out of their
way to build country houses in dull
22
House Bunting.
situations. Tlic next wo saw was
inhabit* <l by a genth man who was
al daggers drawn with hi< landlord-
incy. Th< h nancj was most un-
f-atistaCory : lie bad four land
— the two It pilars and the two
sisti re" husbau Is, an I w bat one
l uiscd the oth< sted to.
re were tbr< e Btacks of cbim-
wo outer bad fallen down
:m i ■ built, I tre .-tack
had n il falN n down ;< t. The plas-
ter of bis bedr • iig had come
(1 >wn, and « hit day , do you think,
1 sent workmen to r< pair
it? The very day bis childn n (Mine
home fr im school. At our n< xt at-
pt we found the busl and and
wife persiste 1 in talkii together.
II. ' Thi was occupied by
Mr. Joi o left because
W. ' Here is a cistern containing
hundred gallons of water '
H. 'He often says be wishes '
W. ' You may think the neigh-
bourhood of the cemetery an ob-
"ii ' H. ' Thai his busi-
1 ' W. ' But the
m vi r pass the door— — '
II. ' Him to c mtjnue t i reside '
VV. ' Ju the kitch( n garden '
II. ' But be found that his e irly
business hours ' W. ' Which
-.' &c, &c. Why
diil U friend Bend us some dis-
to & e a house which was not
t » let ? A tenant of an appor* ntlj
ble house, in n ply to cur in-
quiry it' it was dry, said 'somi til
( >ni i cover the damp-
; of the whole i ide of the bouse,
employed a workna in to wet it all,
morning of the appoinb d in-
y, on tl e pret( uce of
putting up new i ap< r. w e I
run < r U t In r ; the 'East of
: md Hou e and Estate agi
rther. < lur
plan b i . and with it oui
, its. < lur difficulties
1 10m dimly 1 1 Fore us. W<
op Da'l y Din torj .'
write t«> the bo uts of t be
as county towns. S »me do
y have UO-
/ of the • it, one only
it any hope. In inspi cling
t hot we find our i
bare I
i to met ; us at pp -arran i
its in our propross and bring to
our notice all theadvanl Tin's
was a very good house but the
land offered with it ! In ti
of first-rate pasture land ; n by, oh !
why, dees our landlord take i
I \\ iter privileges with
islan Is i es at ui certain inb r-
vals? We will no Ionizer trust to
country agents, we will write to
London men. The owners of the
c »untry houa s recommi nd< d by the
l.' >m I'U ... uts do not answer our
letters. What can we d > . failure
upon failure heaped! Give us
• Bradshaw'— we will take a tour.
We ai rive at a bouse in the suburbs
of a town. VVe waive minor obji c-
tions : after all the spring in the
cellar 1 as been drained off; we talk
to the landlord in the paddock about
terms, whi u suddenly the
trembl s, we look round to find our-
selvi s ( Qvetopi d in st< am a rail-
way pass* s iinim diatelj at the hack
.of the premises. In another house
we hear voices in the drawing-ro >m
ns the front door is opened ; we like
the houi i and we go to the drawing-
room to see the ow m r ; the vn
ore our approach and die
away as we enter the room. .Mas !
Mr. Knox has just taken the house.
In our next essay the land
limps. We feel convinced bis lame-
lr in i heumatism caught
mi the pr< mises. At the n< xt town
we see two houn s, one damp with
no view, the other i ear a fad
We are advia d to advertise in the
local ) a] ' is. We return home to
do so : —
' Want* .1, in the Eastern Counties
ml. a detached linfiii nj.d.i d
■ DCl , draw ing room n it
than id x if>, coach-bouse and t
fruit and kit. -In n gardens, w ith thr< e
or four urn s I or tber< about E
; low land orchard not obji i
to. 'i he in ighbourhood of a town
■ m d. -Address, A. J:., 27, V.
Street 1
VVe receiv* 1 ; the
I reab r number arc from otb« r I
pap 1 - giving us their ti rms for ad-
V( 1 Im iii. nt ; BOme C >;.t mi Uol
of hou.-( h we have aln ad) .'ten.
mmunications. < Ine of
the most promising, am r n questing
r< N n D< e, &c, intonus us be cannot
A Commemoration Dirge.
23
unfurnish unless ho finds tho tenant
suitable. Are we expected to go to
the north of England to see if we
are considered suitable? Why was
our advertisement answered if the
house was furnished? Why do
people exchange letters and then
inform me they only want to sell?
What is to bo done? We have
spent thirteen pounds in travelling
and advertisements. Our pride
must have a fall. Perish visions of
cows, pigs, and poultry! for us no
carriage will wander in shady coun-
try lanes, no fruit or kitchen gar-
dens will repay our care — the apple-
trees will blossom, but not for us
their garnered store. — We live in a
semi-detached villa at a watering-
place. P. D.
A COMMEMOEATION DIEGE.
IT is strange how slow my fancies
Tangibility assume,
As my eye throws restless glances
Ou each fraction of the room.
Faintly come the wonted sallies ;
My ideas are void and rank ;
In my hand a goosequill dallies,
And the sheet beneath is blank.
'Tis in vain that from the pewter
Copious draughts I'm gulping down;
For my sorrow grows acuter,
And my woes refuse to drown.
Dvr ary is each recollection,
From the Sunday evening when
All the Broad, in its perfection,
Was a crawling mass of men.
Drear the memory of that session
On a blister'd barge's summit,
When I watched the boats' procession
O'er the silver Isis come it.
Drear the thoughts of those sarcastic
Shouts which all my voice exerted,
When a crew, enthusiastic,
Softly, boat and all, inverted.
And, with nonchalance assumed,
But with total dearth of hats,
Out the crew shirks, black and humid,
Like to Muses nine — or rats.
Then the Theatre, resounding
To commemorate the story
Of the ancient founders founding,
Sainted now in ' ghastly glory !'
And the cheers — and cheers additional;
And the screaming with delight ;
And the jokes, that were traditional,
At the man whose hat was white.
21 A Coin mi monition Dinje.
Deeper lies my Borrow. Deeper,
per far bl e canto r lurks:
Would 1 were Borne tranced sleeper!
(As tli. y say among the Turks.)
• * * •
It was at a ball. Her dancing
^ m i Every charm —
Supple waist, and smile entrancing,
I an arm, oh! such an arm!
Ami intoxicate emotions
Through my manly soul did pour;
And the champagne Bowed in oceans,
And intoxicated more.
Thus it was that when the morrow,
Breaking oV r whate'er alive is,
To the poor man brought his sorrow;
And his soda unto Divi
And to scouts, the crafty chuckles
Of the youths who chapels shun,;
And to sported oak the knuckles
Of the unacknowledged 'dun.'
Thus, I say, when morning chilly
■\Voko my spirit in my bri ast,
Unto me there came a billet,
In my tranquil place of rest.
'Sir, your future father, Mo
Has the honour to address you.
Maj your path be one ,
May yon both be happy! Bless youl*
* • * *
Kow, alone, beside my li.pior,
With my hands in either pocket,
Do I watch the night lamp flicker,
Suicidal hi its socket,
Till its fate is consummated ;
And, like Noah in the ark—
As authentically stated —
1 m deserted in the .lark.
Draw the moral— and the curtain.
Neri r drink, and never choose
I Q( ra when their forte is tinting,
And their ancestors arc Jews,
**'\
F^fe^
25
ILFRACOMBE.
IT was not at all pleasant, my last
visit to Ilfracombe, last year. It
was a Friday evening, I recollect,
when I arrived, with the torturing
reflection that I had only a couple
of hours of the summer twilight to
survey the place, and that having an
unavoidable engagement at Pen-
zance for Saturday afternoon I could
only find time for this hurried
glimpse, and the brief .pleasure I
could allow myself would necessi-
tate my travelling all night. But
what wonderful glimpses those were
which I obtained! The first burst
of the vast lonely sea, the Lilliputian
harbour, the shadowy combes, the
sweet embowered country lanes,
where the air was almost languid
with the perfume of roses and honey-
suckle. A gentle rain came on,
what time the shadows cloud it
more deeply, and I sought my hotel,
decent enough according to its
lights but with a pervading element
of horsehair. Eleven o'clock came
and twelve ; I was sleepy and we iry,
but it was written in the fates that
I was not to sleep that night. I was
to pay dearly for the stolen joys of
Ilfracombe, the flying visit, when
time for visiting there was none.
The steamer from Bristol to Hoyle
was coming down that night, and I
was to be a passenger therein, and
1 calculated that I should be able to
reach Penzance by noon next day.
But I had quite failed to compre-
hend the horrors of the situation. It
happened thus. Half an hour past
midnight a sailor came from the
pier and announced that it was time
to go off to meet the steamer. A
man took a lamp and preceded me
down the rough slippery steps cut
in the rock to the water's edge. A
boat was waiting. Then we put out,
some half-mile perhaps, into the
sea. There was a frightful swell at
the time. The situation was more
picturesque and dramatic than often
happens in a commonplace and con-
ventional life; but still to be boxing
about on a dark drizzly night, off a
rocky coast, in a lonely boat, in a
heavy sea, at about one o'clock in
the morning, is, erede erperto, some-
thing of a very peculiar kind, and
likely to make one ever afterwards
vote in favour of the conventionali-
ties. Soon the great lights of the
steamer were visible ; she seemed to
be ferociously bearing down with
the intention of sailing over us;
presently the boat was dancing about
like a cork in the wash of her
waves. By -and- by I found myself
on the deck of the steamer ; and a
man who was -tranquilly smoking a
cigar philosophically observed to
me, ' The last time I saw that sort
of thing the boat was cut in half.' I
have since seen a paragraph in some
local paper saying that this very
boat, or one just like it, actually was
swamped in going off to this or
some other steamer. I am glad it
was not my case, in that heavy sea,
that dark night. I kept my engage-
ment at Penzance on the Saturday,
but so far from the hac olim mami-
nisse juvabit theory being correct I
always look upon that night's voyage
off the North Devon and North
Cornwall coast with intenst st horror.
I resolved to revisit Ilfracombe,
and to revisit it at my leisure.
Lately a lady descanted to me, most
eloquently, of the beauty of the North
Devon shores. She had been there,
she told me, on her bridal tour, and
in these cases I fear it is rather dif-
ficult to discriminate between the
faithful rendering of the artist and
the emotional reminiscences of the
bride. But common fame and one's
own impressions are enough without
the heart-coloured descriptions of
bridal pairs such as numerously
wander along this noble shore. So
I am taking things leisure!}, and all
the mornings 1 have enjoyed the
luxury of lounging on sofas, reading
a novel, taking brandy and seltzer
water, listening to pretty girls talk-
ing about sea-anemones, shells, ro-
mantic walks, and ritualism, and
hearing an amusing card tell of his
experiences at Heidelburg, — how Ba-
varian beer beats all other beer, how
an old professor never lectured on
anything else but Goethe's ' Faust/
2G
Ilfracombe.
and how tho students with their
blonted rap rallj contrived
to slash the human nose. It was b
I mistake to do nfracoi
otherwise than thoronghly. As a
future rule in life, lei me always
aim at d that) doing
I much, and let no peripat
philosophy t be so nnphilosopbical
as to think that he can 'do'Ilfra-
combe in a couple of hours. Let
him wait till he can do it leisurely.
I am glad to find mya If here again,
ami with plenty of tunc on hand. It
does not very often happen in this
brief, hurried life, that Yarrow he-
corncs Yarrow Revisited. Also let
mo say that my surroundings arc
agreeable. Since I was lure last a
vast li »tel has sprung up like an
Aladdin's ]>alace. It is one of the
: magnificent of its kind, anil of
an imposing magnitude for a littlo
town like Ilfracombe, but Iprcsumo
its promoters have taken the mea-
sure of the growing popularity of
tin' watering-place. Its dining-room
vasl hall, as large as the re-
nown, d - a manger of the Louvre
H6tel or the Grand BdteL Tho
drawing-room is as delightful a e
favourably remembered
by most of ns in South Switzerland
and Ita'y. Our insular stiffness
and angularity has given place to
that nee which some
of our latest large hotels have bor-
rowed from the Continent. There
are more than two hundred rooms
in all, good grounds, and a delight-
ful marine prospect from the win-
dows. The list of prices, as com-
pared with most hotel tariffs is
in- 1. rata When the' hotel is tilled
with guests it will hold a very la
proportion of the visitors in Ilfra-
linarj drawback ofan
I i lisfa watering-place is the i
tion of vi.-it' want of cheerful
intercourse and . ty; butif
the hotel plans attain their merit* d
:< t of Ilfra-
combe will have changed for tho
better, and it will not only I
tin : hit one of the
ful ol water-
Jt mu ' that in itsell '
t >\\ n of Ilfracombe i
cheering and attractive kind. Its
main street realizes the 'long, un-
lovely Btrei t ' of Tennyson, many
second-rate inns, Bhopa moderately
l 10 I. and building8 in the equally
repellant positions of construction
and destruction. There are a few
public edifices; markets built ter-
race-wise on the hills that climb
from the sea to the town; public
ing-ro mi not over well supplied
with periodicals ; public baths; all
of which put together would not
make up the size of the new hotel.
There are also two churches, and
chapels in great abundance; tho
Ilfracombe mind has manifestly a
gnat proclivity towards ecclesias-
tical distinctions Ilfracombe is not
a gem set in a rude casket, but it is
something rude and unformed set in
tho loveliest and most glorious of
ts. There is hide, d something
very well worth observation in the
local and provincial notes of tho
little market town; the animated
country groups; the fishermen; the
unwonted apparition of a mail
coach; tho gay promenadings of the
visitors and local gentry. Otherwise
the place is dull. The main occupa-
tion of the inhabitants is to let lodg-
ings, and those wh<> don't let lodg-
ings themselves turn house a{
tli ise who do. 'l he charm ol I Ifra-
coinhe lies in its environs, which in
some respects are unique* We will
first take a remoter and next a n<
view, honking over the northern
waters yon will he aide to discern
tho line of the south coast ofWa
There is the great opposite rook of
the Mumbles, and there the smoke
that belong8 to the town of Swansea.
Eight, en miles off is Lundy Isle;
and if you like boating and do not
mind the In lavj groundswell of these
waters, it will iut< r< .-t you to explore
one of the smallest, most secluded,
and most inacci Bsible "four islands.
It is nearly surrounded by Inch and
inaccessible rocks, and in rough
wi ither it is not always p issible to
effect a landing. We have hi ml
some curious st to the diffi-
culty of. lecuting li^^ i -out
here. It was Btrongly fortifii d in
lie Stuart times, and long held out
for Km/ ( sp irtsmen go
over on Suud iy (arly in tic
on account of tho snipo and wood-
H/racombe.
27
cocks, and it is a favourite resort of
the gannet. In the breeding season
the cliffs aro covered with peafowl,
and to take gulls and pluck their
feathers is a regular occupation of
the summer. The island is bur-
rowed with rabbits, and there is a
little islam! on the south famous for
rats. ' Eat Island ' has the old
aboriginal black rat, which once was
the prevailing rat in this country,
before the Hanoverian rats came
over in the ship which brought
King George from Hanover and
conquered all other rats save such
few as still linger out here.
A curious event happened to
Luudy iu the French wars of Wil-
liam III., which properly belongs to
English history, but from the insig-
nificance of the locality is generally
omitted. It will be interesting to
quote the story. A ship of war,
under Dutch colours, anchored in
the roadstead, and sent ashore for
some milk, pretending that the
captain was sick. The islanders
supplied the milk for several days,
when at length the crew informed
them that their captain was dead,
and asked permission to bury him
in consecrated ground. This was
immediately granted, and the in-
habitants assisted in carrying the
coffin to the grave. It appeared to
them rather htavy, but they never
for a moment suspected the nature
of its contents. The Frenchmen
then requested the islanders to leave
the church, as it was the custom of
their country that foreigners should
absent themselves during a part of
the ceremony, but informed them
that they should be admitted to see
the body interred. They were not,
however, kept long in suspense ;
the doors were suddenly flung open,
and the Frenchmen, armed from the
pretended receptacle of the dead,
rushed with triumphant shouts upon
the astonished inhabitants, and made
them prisoners. They then quickly
proceeded to desolate the island.
They hamstrung the horses and
bullocks, threw the sheep and goats
into the sea, tossed the guns over
the cliffs, and stripped the inhabi-
tants even of their clothes. When
satisfied with plunder and mischief,
the) lctt the poor islanders in a con-
dition most truly disconsolate. This
incident deserves to be more widely
known than it is: rarely even in the
annals of warfare do we hear ol
such sacrilege, perfidy, and gra-
tuitous cruelty.
It is woith while yachting over to
Liuicly, if only to gam acquaintance
with what w r e are told is its especial
charm— its perfect purity and fresh-
ness of colour. ' In few other places
does one see such delicate purples
and creamy whites such pure greens
and yellows.' Yachting off Ilfra-
combe must be pleasant enough for
those who like it: there is also a
remarkable number of steamers
working to, fro, and across the
British Channel. 1 have just heard
at the table d'hote a most absurd
story of a yachtsman, which, though
grotesque, is worth while mentioning
as veracious. Some man, who had
been out on a jachting cruise, gave
himself the libeities of a tar who
had come on shore, and having
drunk quite as much wine at dinner
as was good for him, retired to
some room within car- shot, w r here
he audibly continued in a state of
uproarious merriment till a late
hour. I forget whether he was
staying at an inn or a country house,
but, anyhow, he was greeted next
morning by a pretty, laughing-eyed
girl with the simple but astonishing
speech, ' J guess you had hot coppers
last night!' As 1 do not know that
she was a Devonshire girl, perhaps
we had better assume that she was
an American. The effect upon the
yachtsman was immense. He took
a deep breath, and then he made a
deep resolve. Pie made up his
mind that he was bound to marry
that girl, and he accordingly married
her within six weeks. She has
made a good mother to a lot of
children, and altogether came out
of it much better from — in fact, from
such au exceedingly vapid speech.
Now, in speaking of the Ilfra-
combe localitits, which really make
up Hfracombe, it will be necessary
to draw the line somewhere, and
not go off into a tempting general
disquisition on the coast of North
Devon. I take the places within
tho easy compass of a day's walk or
ride ; such places as arc included
28
Ufracouth,'.
within a useful little map and plan
of tin' neighbourhood, published in
the town, and which the tourist
should get We will first take the
da If you are going to
or from Barnstaple there are two
Is, and if you have the oppor-
tunity you Bhould t ike both ; but if
you are in a hurry come on by the
hotel omnibus; but it' you are at
leisure, take the mail coach, which
to Ilfracombe by way of
Bi innton, for the Bake of delivering
the bags ; mul this is the i
picturesque road of tho two, and
you Bweep through a wild, lovely
valley, which suits very well with
the story of an awful murder which
- committed here many years ago.
From Barnstaple, if it is perm
you by the 1 do the remarkable
l>it of railway that will take you to
Bideford, drop down to Clovelly,
wind round Hartland, and do the
Cornish coast to Boscastle and Tin-
L But, French
postilions say ; curb your aspiring
notions, my tin rary friend, and con-
■ within the comparative
limits of Ilfracombe. Then take
lane south of the church, and
■ to the valley of Lee, Morthoe,
Barricane Cove, and Woolla sombe
Is ; we will call it five m
and a half or six miles. Morthoe
of evil omen. Just off
the Point is the Morte or D
b, where y( ar by year some
:• other is wrecked : in the
winter of 1S52 no les five
h- re. It is a
Devonshire li gend that if a lot of
womi :i could be brought togethi r
who have their husbands utter
Slaves to their wills, they and they
Only would Ikj able to remove this
l-fraught rock. 'I'm iv 1
tam- from the Warren, at
north - od of Morte Baj . Morte
church is very anci( nt, part of it
■ 1 the Early English date.
ll'!" fti d Tj e , j , the mur!. rer of
Thomas a In ld< d in a
i n. and fi d by his d t for
a fortnight He was banish d out
• : ■ iry long v\< nt •
on stormy nights bis voice might !»■
I wailing • Wbolla-
<'ond>e 1 Cove is
• lly a favourite retort, I
beach being almost entirely made
up of shells; li, to 1
undue expectation, it Bhould be
added that the shells for the m .d
part have been broken bj the force
of the waves. J[. re Mr. ( I
enumerates some very rare sp, ci-
mens. The ' beautiful blue
snail ' — Ianthina communis is some-
times worked up alive in '.
quantity b, tog< ther with the r.
limbosa, on which the ianthina is
supp >sed to feed during its 703
1 must here remark that it is I
very much use in coming to Ilfra-
combe unless you have some little
taste for natural history. Socially
it is everything here. You are
hardly lit to live unless you know
everything about an- mones. Nearly
every house, I suppose, has gol
aquarium. You are at any moment
liable to remarks about zoophytes
like the madrepore and p 1
v.i d flowers like the fen lavender
and wild balm, seaweed like the
lavt /• and p Ivu iniata. The
poorest people are learned about
1 1 d. 1 n< y gather and cook
the laver and the other thing, al-
though the youth Devon p ople will
nit eat the laver as th< North I >i von
pe pie do. Man;, people like it vi ry
much ; her gracious Maj< Bty is
accredited with a Bpecial taste for
it ; and though it does n it lo >k v< ry
tempting wh, n cooked, and the
brilliant green colour is lost, yet it
xivy well with condiments.
1/ t me strongly ad\ ise my frii
to bring down with them a Bel "I
natural history books if they would
fully enjoy this marvellous coast,
an I, v. 1 important,
' !»■ in the fashion.' You should of
course procure Mr. 1 1 I levon-
Bhire book, for it was at llfraoomhe
that he made many of his most
striking discoverii -. Another b ok
>mmend( d 'A Natural
Gambles on the I Devonshire < '•
there an' a c i tain br ah, r and
r, Charl I Mrs.
Chanter, who have done a great
deal tor the natural history of tins
'U. Mi . I lhanti r insci ibes ner
itiful little work ' lei DJ I 'one
to her par. ids, the Bev. Charles
Ringsley Hate rector of Chelsea)
and Mrs. KingSley, ' as ;i small
Hfracombe.
29
token of the gratitude due to them
for awakening and fostering in their
children a love of nature and
beauty.' Her little work, as indi-
cated by the title, is chiefly devoted
to ferns, but has some charming
descriptions of scenery. Mr. Charles
Kingsley's 'Glaucas,' as far as lo-
cality goes, is rather concerned with
Torbay than with the north coast,
but his book, as well as his sister's,
Mrs. Chanter's (whose ' Over the
Cliffs ' is a good seaside novel), are
admirably adapted for awakening
an initial taste in these matters.
Mr. Chanter, the vicar of Hfracombe,
has a name held in deserved respect
and repute in the western country.
His ancient parish church, though
on high ground, and inconveniently
removed from the town, is a most
picturesque object in every way, and
has lately been restored, though
perhaps not so perfectly as might
be wished.
We have come back from our
eastward rambles, and before we
start for the west, like the wise men,
we will rest and be thankful a while
in our quarters. My window in the
hotel overlooks Wildersmouth, at
the distance of a few yards, the
estuary of the sparkling little brook
the Wilder. At low water it is a
diminutive valley of rocks, and at
high water the imperious tide, vio-
lently chafing against them, throws
up fountains of foam. Close by is
the sea-walk round Copston Hill,
the public promenade, which is the
joy and delight of the people of
Ilford's Combe. It is a marvellous
piece of natural masonry, a path
escarped in the rock, which form
seats sheltered by the hill behind
you with the waves dashing against
the rocks, the path being perfectly
safe though apparently perilous.
It is a most cheerful sight to see
the natives and visitors flocking to
this wonderful walk, a never-failing
source of health and enjoyment.
Then you make your way down
into the harbour, a recess that must
originally have been of a most ro-
mantic character, and is protected
by its natural ramparts of rock.
This little port has a consequence
of its own entirely independent of
the caprices of tashion. In the wars
of Edward III. it sent out six times
more ships than the Mersey; that
is to say, Hfracombe furnished six
ships and Liverpool only one ; the
relative position is now much more
than inverted. Thirty years ago, a
sailor told us this morning, Hfra-
combe was a great place for fishing,
but now the fishing has altogether
fallen off; Mr. Bertram would pro-
bably say that the waters had been
overfished. A number of pots is set
for crabs and lobsters, but not much
is done this way. Just above the
harbour is Tantern Hill, and the
guardian chapel of St. Nicholas
used to look down from it and keep
watch and ward on the little port,
exhibiting from time immemorial a
beacon light to avert the dangers of
this rock-bound coast. You may
still trace the outlines of the chapel;
it has a quaint lighthouse, and is
now used as a reading-room. Now
for a few words on the bathing,
always a most important considera-
tion in a watering-place. A most
convenient tunnel pierces enormous
rocks and conducts you into twin
coves, that on the right forming the
bathing-place for ladies. This is a
most remarkable spot, fit for Diana
and her nymphs. The background
consists of stupendous cliffs, and
across the yellow sands is an almost
circular basin, whei'e art has cun-
ningly helped nature, where the
water never fails, but permits of
bathing at the ebb of tide. Mrs.
Trollope, the mother of the king of
the circulating libraries, says : ' I was
wont, though no sea -bather, to repair
to it early and late with some favourite
volume in my hand, which rarely,
however, succeeded for ten minutes
together in withdrawing my eyes
from the deep-green ^ea, with all its
battery of rocks surrounding the
delicious basin for ever ready for
the bather's use.' The green to the
left leads to the bathing-place for
the unworthy sex, and iu various
other quarters they will also find
facilities. The people of Hfracombe
think that all their arrangements
would be perfect if they could only
get a railway, which has been con-
stantly before their eyes and baffling
them for many years past; but I
confess I shall not be disappointed
30
Hfraeombe,
if they are cheated of their hop
i I y.
The llfracorabians are very anx-
ious to establish th( ir town as a
place of winter resort 1 am sure
I have no obj cti >n. I am nol sore,
however, that they do so on proper
Mhls, and that they fully under-
stand the b of their own
l> -sition. The dim ite may be ad-
mitted to be delightful. It is, I am
told, unusu illy equ ible in its o >]
summers and warm winters. It
b lys Charles Kingsley,
' tho soft warmth of South Devon
with the bracing freshness of tho
Welsh mount, mis, wherein winter
has slipped out of the list of scisnn-'.'
More than anywhere else you may
observe at [Ifracombe bouses trel-
lise 1 with v< r micas, laurustinas,
and the more delicate roses. ' During
the absence of high winds,' to quote
a paper put forth by the Town
Improvement Committee of 1 1 Ira -
combe, 'the climate is doubl
il, and in some respects supe-
rior, to that of Torquay in cases of
pulmonary diseases.' Now it is
Hisly true that the winter which
is just over has been more favour-
at [Ifracombe than at Torquay.
They have had an astonishing quan-
tity of snow and Btorm at Torquay,
and very little ai l Ifracombe. But
this is b t abnormal, and on
the whole Torquay lias a very dif-
..t and a much milder dim
The n al argum< nt for Ilfracoi
is that its climate is v< ry different
from Torquay, and that the difference
is in its favour. Instead of d< |
dating ' the high win Is,' [Ifracombe
o ipital out of them.
Some time ago 1 travelled up to
Ion with a \i ry cl< ver physician
who : ired from practice, and
he gave mi- \n- c »nviction that a
ing climate and not a mild cli-
mate is tic prop i' so Hi fa - an
invalid. II 1, instano d \ i of
v, ho bad
for t I met a i'
5 to winter in I ind
north* 1 1: ad, and
with frightful symptoms. I was in
the gr< atest alarm on I .nut,
and implored him to think of the
s rath of Europe, lie however p r-
1 in hifl iu.-.ano design— and rc-
c >vere 1. So far as T cv.t make out,
having given some in- tion
to the Bubjeot, Torqu ly gives the
mo-t r< i\ and reliel in a bop
: but 'whe i tic pulmonary
ution is only appn I I or
incipient, the m »re bracing cliu
of I li'ia :ombe would in sill pro-
bability ho i r for an invalid
It would not a" a 1 ! surprise m i
then i >re if Ilfrac >inbe became a
winter an itoriuin, and I heard in-
ddentally in the c lurse ol
winter th it B6v< ral medical men
w.re rec tmmen ling it as such. It
lias all the ad van tag' s o! an 00
climate, the ozone, ana partial*
saline.
But we must look eastwards afti r
lunch. I have jus! aske I the waiter
what lie had for my lunch, and he
Buggeste I c 'M salt be if. < Observing
that I looked rather despondent,
the thoughtful creature, from the
unprompted workings ot his own
conscience, b is just sent me in cold
duck, lobster salad, aid ne.v pota-
toes. Refreshed with this light re-
past, and some capital St Emilien,
I invite my r. aders to a -company
mo on donkey or pony, in a trap,
or only in imagination. Just a milo
from the town is Watermouth,
where a Gothic i I by
rocks ; a vale is shut in ly much
□ lid timber, while a rivulet
sparkles through the grass to tho
wild cavernous cove, where it finds
■;it. Close by is Small Mouth,
with its two caverns, where yon
get a pretty view of the little bay of
Combe Morten. This bay is so shut
in by rocks that it might easily be
l mto a harbour, hut tho
• hough continually entertain d,
has never taken definite shape.
These romantic Boots oughl also to
be looked a' from the >< a. \\v will
not mi this i Tile r than
the Hanging Stone, whicb is the
boundary mark of St Marl
parish, and e pially BO of OUT |
Ben! i [t is so c illed ' from
a thief who, having stolen a she* p,
and t lb ait his ni ck to e
it on bis back, rested himself tor a
time upon this rock, until thesbeep,
BtrUggling, slid Over the side and
strangled the man.' The legend,
however, is not peculiar to this
Tlic Death of Lysis. 31
region. In all very remarkable- masses of rock, sullen and heavy ;
scenery you will rind a ■ Devil's presently a streamlet sparkles
Bridge, a Lover's Leap, or a Hang- through the turf to some deep re-
man's Stono; the legends belong to cess of satidy beach. Now the land
a cycle and do not admit of much breaks into undulations or rises into
variation. The general character of wooded hills, presently changing
the Ilfracombe coast gives you an into valleys or shadowy combes.
incessant variety of scene. There ' So the dark coast rims whimsically
is no long succession of mural pre- eastwards, passing from one shape
cipices, although every now and to another like a Proteus, until it
then you encounter a commanding unites with the massive sea-front of
cliff. The ever-changeful aspect Exmoor.' Of Exmoor Ave have
arises from a succession of eleva- something to say, but the subject is
tions and depressions. Here a rocky so important that wo reserve it for
headland rises; here a deeply-cleft a separate paper,
ravine subsides. Then you get
THE DEATH OF LYSIS.
' Wealthy, beautiful, and young, he wearied of life, and died.'
I WOULD pass away from out these stifling regions
Into the golden galleries of the gods ; —
All unencompassed by the woes, in regions
That clothe and trammel me with earthly sods.
I look my last up to the purple hill,
And see the vine-leaves glisten in the sun;
Whispering voices seem my ears to fill,
And the world is growing drear and dun.
I cannot bear these hateful flickering shadows
That curl into my hair, and on my cheek;
Have they no words in which to speak their message ?
Why will they witch me with their wanton freak V
I cannot bear this shifting blinding sunlight
The wild uncurtaiued west throws over me ;
I long to dwell in the calm silent twilight,
The solemn temples where the great gods be.
My life has burdened me with many pleasures ;
They haunt, as sorrow now, my fleeting peace:
Shall death let me prize again my treasures?
Shall death make sickness of the heart to cease ?
A strange voice from the night is near— I feel it
Thrill through my veins and quicken my slow heart;
Turn my dead face to the melodious twilight,
The world and I do very well to part.
32
MR. FELIX GOES TROUT-FISH I X<;.
" yr neuen Oii rn lookt ein neuer
'a Tap." Mr. Felii began to grow
wear; of bis horses, and bang* re 1
for a new amusement Be rebelled,
Bometimea with savage emphasis,
nj.';tiii--t that process of idealization
by which Mrs. Felii would trans-
form liini into a royal hunter of the
and hint d, in no gentle man-
i r. that Bhe bad i» 1 1 < r burn her
ii-li history, and not mal i
fool <if herself. vacil-
lation with profound grief. Her
highest hopes bad )><'ii realized by
the brilliant exploit of her husl
in being in .it the taking of the
deer: although it seeme I to her very
shameful that sin' Bhould not have
been allowed to bang ap a pair of
antlers in 1 1n- hall.
' There's no more di er to run
after,' he said, with nngrammatioal
force : 'and what's Ihe use of i
ging? I tell you my Dame is Samuel
Felix, and not William Rufus ; and
whafa more, t'm going to frytrout-
fishu i far more sensible thing
than galloping over muddj fields
after a lot < •
Accordii gly, Mr. Felii came np
to tuw ii, and tb( re I iunch< <l into
boundless extravagance in the pur-
Mr. Felix goes Trout-Fishing.
33
chase of such a collection of rods,
lines, reels, flies, and treatises on
the art of fishing, as purely never
before threatened the instant clear-
ance of all English rivers. Nothing
which human ingenuity, or the
fishing-tackle maker's art could de-
vise, was wanting in my friend's
superb list of preparations; and,
burdened by this armful of miscel-
laneous implements, he made his
way back again into Kent.
For a week I heard nothing of
him. At the end of that time I
found him, one warm afternoon,
busily engaged in throwing a fly-
line across the lawn in front of the
Beeches.
'Everybody thinks he can throw
a fly until he tries,' said he. ' Now,
do you see that bit of paper lying
there?'
He swept the rod forward from
his left shoulder, and the point of
the line drorjped within two inches
of the mark. I was surprised at his
proficiency.
' It has taken me a week's constant
practice to do that/ said he, proudly ;
' and to-morrow, as you know, I'm
going to put my skill to the test.'
'But what have you got at the
end of the line ?' I asked, noticing
one or two small black specks.
' Oh/ he said, ' these are two or
three split shot, just to steady the
line as it falls, you know. I wasn't
told to do so by any book ; but
you've no idea how it guides the line
against the wind and weather, and
enables you to drop the fly precisely
where you want/
' It is a beautiful arrangement/ I
said to him, 'for fishing on the
lawn ; and doubtless to-morrow the
trout will be grateful to you for
giving them such plain notice of the
arrival of an artificial fly/
' You'll see/ he replied, confi-
dently, ' how gently I shall drop
lead and hook and all over their
noses.'
In-doors, Mrs. Felix was in a mood
of mingled melancholy and sulks.
As we entered, she asked her hus-
band, with some asperity, when he
was going to take his trash off the
table, to allow tea to be brought in.
The ' trash ' turned out to be Mr.
Felix's splendid collection of flies,
VOL. XII. — NO. LXV1I.
which, for purposes of comparison,
he had taken out of his book, and
arranged side by side on large sheets
of white paper.
'There!' said he; 'there is only
one maker in Great Britain who
can produce a Durham Ranger like
that. What do you think of my
Spey Dog ? — do you think there's a
salmon in the world could resist
that teal hackle at the shoulder, and
that glittering line of tinsel ? Now
I'll wager you haven't in your book
an O'Donoghue to be compared
with this one — let us see/
I informed Mr. Felix that, in pre-
paring to fish in Kent, I did not
provide myself with flies for all the
rivers in Europe ; a piece of intel-
ligence which seemed rather to
annoy him.
'How can you call yourself a
fisher unless you are ready to fish
any water ?' said he : ' if I go to the
Spey, or the Usk, or the Dee, or the
Erne, I am prepared at all points.
Besides, I consider that, as mere
triumphs of art, these flies are worth
having. Look at them ! — look at the
Green Drake!— was there ever any-
thing so like nature ? Look at this
Parson, and this March brown, and
this Soldier Palmer!'
Mr. Felix lifted a solitary fly, and
held it out with a slight bashfulness
appearing on his face.
' This is a fly,' he said, ' which I
think ought to kill. I propose to
call it Count Bismark. Black silk
body, you see, claret hackle, and
silver thread : don't you think it is
adapted for those lurid afternoons
when everything gets a sultry, cop-
pery tinge? Perhaps #old thread
would be better; but the first time
I go trout-fishing on a lake, I mean
to try my Bismark, and I have every
hope of its success.'
' It's more than I have of yours,
Mr. Felix/ said my friend's wife,
scornfully; 'there, you've had the
whole house packed with your rods
and flies for a week, and you haven't
brought home a minnow. Why, the
children can do better. Jack brought
us a fine trout last night which he
caught with a bit of stick, and string,
and a worm.'
'If I find any of the children
fishing down in that stream, Mrs.
34
Mr. Felix goes Trout-Fishing.
Felix,' said her husband, firmly, ' I
will give them as goo I a ducking as
( \t r they go1 in their life.'
Mrs. Felix smiled disdainfully.
was no! terrifii -I by her hus-
band's flourish of rbetoi
I think it was this taunt which
made Mr. Felix ordi r, in rather a
mptory way, that tea should be
tponed for an liour, to admit of
ln's trying an experiment on tlio
trout inhabiting a null-head Borne
five minutes' walk from the Be< chea,
M> Erii ii-l. th' refore, disappeared,
and in a few moments returned in a
full suit of fishing costume. Ho was
resplendent. Ee Beemed to bristle
all over with hooks and other im-
plements nt" piscatorial warfare. His
white, waterproof fishing-stockings
were secured at the bottom by a
pair of thick scarlet socks, which
again rose from a pair of large and
plicab d boots, spare Lengths
of gut curled round his beaver hat
in innumerable rings, [none hand
he held a handsome rod, in the other
a shiny landing-net: from top to
toe he was fearfully and wonderfully
made.
To give him a fair chance, I re-
solved to leave him all the wato t to
himself; and thereupon we departed
for the mill-head. It was a beau-
tiful evening in the beginning of
June; the air was moist and warm,
some rain having fallen half an hour
: out ; and a alight v. ind
just ruffled the surface of the great
1 which Mr. Felix proposed to
fish. Nervously, perhaps, but still
with some confidence, be approached
margin of the water at the point
furthest from the mill, where thero
urn nt coming from
und< rneatb a Bmall bridge.
At the opposite side, a few inches
from a low grassy bank, and under
shadow of some bushes, lay a
trout, Bleepily motion-
l . uol deign i to look- at
t i Hits dancing above him. Mr.
Felix grasp I mj aim eoni uteii
• Don'1 stir! (.'an you i a
glimpscof him ovi r yonder ? — you'll
how I shall drop a fly
him'.'
With fine or two | Lory
• the line out, Mr. Felix
at length succeeded in fulfilling his
promise. As was to be expected,
tlio 'flop' of his cut shot on the
water startled the trout, which with
a quick shoot vanished from sight,
leaving only a Long wave in its
wake. It was some time In lore Mr.
Felix could realize tho fact of his
having been so bitterly disappoints L
"When he did, ho made a iew un-
called-for remarks relating to no-
thing in particular.
'1 suppose I must take the shot
oil", after all,' said he, disconsolately ;
'but 1 don't think thero will bo
much difficulty in throwing a fly on
a night like this.'
With a clear line, he now pro-
ceeded to try a few casts. The first
throw brought all the lino curling
down upon the water, some half-
dozen yards in front of him. Amaze-
ment seized him; and then I saw
him clench his teeth. Up went the
rod ; back went the long, fine streak,
and then, with a splendid swoop,
ho threw his right hand forward.
There was a sharp crack above his
bead, as if Felix was urging on a
f< am of coach-horses ; and tho next
moment tho lithe gut, in a rather
uncertain mama r, alit upon the
surface not an inch further out.
1 You needn't throw again, in tho
meantime,' I remarked to bin .
'Why?' he asked, fiercely; for a
tine trout had risen opposite us, in
the middle of the water.
' Bi cause the crack nipped tlio fly
off.'
I thought tears of vexation would
have come into the eyes of t la-
gentle angler, so downcast did he
look-, so thunderstruck, bo annoyed.
Mechanically ho took out bis splen-
did assortment of impossible insects,
and selected a tly which would
oertainlj hive produced instant ver-
tigo in any trout ooming n< ar it.
' The evening is rather dull,' sal. I
be, ' and tiny want colour to attract
them. Hut what's the use of my
throwing and throwing, if this
wretched gut won't go out? I till
you there's something wrong. I've
pt pie fishing in this very mill*
head who did not take half the care
I do, and their line, because it
a good line, fell mo I beautifully
and lightly, the tly dropping on tho
water like the wing 01 a gnat, and
Mr. Felix goes Trout-Fishing.
35
not the least ripple to be seen. I'll
tell you what III do: I'll write to
the papers and say that and
Sons are no better than a lot of
impostors, and that their rods and
lines are not lit to put beforo swine.*
So saying, Mr. Felix proceeded
once more to lash the water, the line
almost invariably curling itself into
rings as it fell about a rod's length
from thi' bank. In every position he
stood ; every sweep of the arm he
tried ; but "his attempts were un-
availing ; while, to add to the misery
of the situation, the trout were
rising everywhere around biin.
'The wind is somehow in the
way,' said he, at length, with a great
effort to conceal his anger ; ' let us
try down by the mill there.'
Passing over a sluice-gate, we
found ourselves in front of a new
sphere of action ; and Mr. Felix was
about to recommence his painful
labours, when an unlucky accident
befell him. Concealed beneath a
group of willows hard by, a swan,
as we afterwards learned, was hatch-
ing; and no sooner had we appeared
in the neighbourhood, than the male
swan — a remarkably large, hand-
some bird — took our approach to
mean an attack upon his prospec-
tive progeny. Dashing through the
water towards Mr. Felix, who was
nearest him, he struggled up and on
the bank, and made a furious charge
upon my friend, who, fortunately
for himself, involuntarily retreated.
In the first paroxysm of his terror,
however, he had not noticed that
immediately behind him was a deep
ditch, filled with green, stagnant
water, the leakings from the mill-
head. At the first blow aimed at
his leg by the wing of the swan,
Mr. Felix jumped back, an 1, there- -
fore, disappeared suddenly from the
light of day, leaving the swan
master of the situation. As the
unhappy sportsman crept up the
opposite bank of the ditch, a mass
of mud and tangled weeds, his plight
was surely sad enough ; but to add to
his horror, he found that the mishap
had included the breaking of his
best trout- rod.
'Can you see a boy about?' he
asked of me, with a strange look,
when he had wiped his lips. 'I'll
give him a sovereign to run up to
my house.'
'What for?'
' For my revolver.'
'Do you mean to shoot that
swan?'
' I do.'
' You'll miss it, and kill somebody
about the mill, if you try.'
Eventually Mr. Felix was per-
suaded to remove as much of the
mud from his clothes as was pos-
sible, and to wend his disconsolate
way homeward. I do not mean to
lift the veil of domestic privacy,
and say anything of the sarcasms
which my poor hero bore, during
the evening, with more than his
accustomed equanimity.
At an early hour next morning,
the wagonette was at the door,
and Mr. Felix, once again radiant
with hope, ready to jump in. An
enormous hamper was safely stowed
away ; and when the remaining room
was pretty well occupied by spare
rods, landing-nets, and what not,
there arrived, to complete the party,
a Mr. Mearns, an aged Waltonian
of short stature, silvery hair, and
thin, nervous, brown fingers, which
had many a time lured a four-
pounder to his doom.
'Hasn't Lord Switchem some
rayther gude fishing about here?'
he asked, knowing nothing of the
little incident which had broken the
intimacy between his lordship and
Mr. Felix.
' Nothing to speak of,' said Felix,
contemptuously ; * besides, he's a
coarse, ungentlemanly man, fit only
for hanging about stables, and talk-
ing about dogs and horses. When
I made it all right with Sir Harry
about our going to-day, nothing
could exceed his courte>y : and Sir
Harry has something like fishing,
as you'll see.'
A drive of half an hour or so
brought us to the outskirts of Sir
Harry's grounds; and the wa-
gonette having been left at the
nearest inn, we soon found our way
to the river. The water was in
prime condition, as it came circling
and flowing down through the low
rich meadows, which were yellow
with buttercups; and already in
the deep pools, whither the rush
D 2
30
Mr. Felix goes Trout-Fishing.
of the stream Bent mnltitn tin
drowned flies, there could be seen
the quick ' Bop 'of the rising trout,
followed by Blowly winding circles
• in the dull Burfaee. Our fishitig-
gronnd extended from these mea-
dows. where theconreeof the stream
was marked by a f< w polled willows,
or a line of low alders, to the lawn
in fr 'lit of Sir Harry's bouse, which
was perhaps two miles off. II' re,
therefore, was pli nty of Bcope for
Mr. Felix'strial ofskilL The morn-
ing, besides, was cloudy, with here
and there a shafl of sunlighl br
imr through: Hie air was warm,
the Btream was not very clear,
e was ii" wind hut such as
simply to take tlie minor off the
surface of the water; and what
more could the piscatorial student
want?
I observed, however, that Mr.
Felix, while preparing for his first
effort, kept away from his Scotch
ad, and threw his fly in a furtive
manner upon a pool where no one
could see how it droppe I.
• Maister Felix,' cried the latter,
'what sort o' flee will ye pit on?'
' I'm trying the Red Palmer/ he
replied with a critical glance up
and down the river.
' i.osh me!' sai I Mr. Mearas/the
Red Pawmer on a morning like
this? Dinna y< the M ly-flee
com in' down by the dizzon?
The words were scarcely uttered
when the old man, with a quick
•,"ii of the wri>t, struck sharply
■ firmly, and a tine trout leapt
.1 of the water. A little run
no in am, with the line gripping
him stiffly, Boon i zhausted hit
Btinacy, and prea ntly he was being
quietly drawn towards the hank-.
Mr. 1 ' Mian came running for-
ward with the landing-]
' Now. my man, he carefu'. Dinna
_\e br< ak my line, or I'll pit ye in
the water aft< r the j
Bui no -'■ ' accident < rred;
and Mr. Felix, ally,
)t , rhaps, c ime up t'» I I the
first capture, which v pood
Ironl of aboul two pound w< ighr.
' \ thai with the May-fly,
did yon
,', and taking onl bis po ;k< t-
ik.
But alas for the vanity of human
hopes! The May-ihes were coming
down in ' dizzens '—hovering upon
the water in the most tempting
manner ; hut the gr< it, b1( i DJ ,
grey monsters underneath would
li'it look at them. Win n they ab-
solutely allowed the natural Hies to
glide over their nose, how was it
possible to force upon them an
artificial one? So the old Scotch-
man set to work to try a Beries of
experiments, and the longer he tried
the more astonished did be b< c >me.
They would not look- at his flies, let
alone rise to them; and in vain we
both whipped and lashed away at
the water. All the time, likewise,
that these rather mournful efl
were being made, we could hear the
muttered anathemas of Mr. Felix,
as he curled his line down upon the
water, or hooked a weed, or hung up
his fly upon a willow. At times we
could see him on his knees, stretch-
ing his hand over the wati r to extri-
cate the hook; at another he was
half-way up a trei .breaking branches
and tugging at the elusive put.
Perspiration was streaming over his
: but as yet the fish-hap held
Only one captive.
And now the sun came out in its
full strength, until the long green
meadows and the great chestnuts in
I Iain's park scene d to quiver
in the lambent heat. We w< re
forced to have this part of the
stream and seek another portion,
where the overhanging trees on the
Bouthern side Bhelteri d the wat< r
from rthe fiero glare. Here, how-
( vi r, we had no held r luck. The
trout were plentiful, and rose tole-
rably well; but no fly which we
Could throw them would they look
Deep di Bpair \ oi
fall upon the party, w hen it
proposed to relieve the wretched
tedium of the day by taking
lunch' on. With a si D86 of glad
relief which he could I !( al,
Mr. \'< lix laid aside in- rod, and pro-
ed to open the gr< at hamper
which his man, I by a hoy,
had brought np into tl e mi a low.
The champagne was put into a cr< ek
of th< river, the white doth was
laid on the ■
foil ad what not were
Mr. Felix goes Trout-Fishing.
37
forthcoming, and soon tho air was
redolent of mint sauce, and lamb,
and tongue, and crisp, cool lettuco.
Mr. Felix's spirits revived. He
talked of the delights of angling ;
he jocularly pointed out to Mr.
Mearns that he was only one ahead ;
he vowed that, fortified by this
luncheon, we should return and do
wonders.
The old Scotchman, on the other
hand, was restrained and silent. A
whole collection of artificial flies was
evidently whirling about in his brain.
Mentally he was arguing strenu-
ously with these incomprehensible
and abominable trout.
At this moment Sir Harry's keeper
came up, and was persuaded, without
much persuasion, to take a plateful
ot cold lamb and salad. He like-
wise had some other less material
dainties, all of which he consumed
some little distance apart, occasion-
ally returning to us to speak of the
water and of the fish. Finally, he
had some champagne out of a silver
mug, and this proved to be the key
to unlock the secret chambers of his
heart. Cold lamb and pastry he
had withstood; but champagne in
a silver mug overcame him. He
came over for the last time, and told
us that Sir Harry had recently tried
almost every fly — even the May-fly
— without getting a rise ; but so
soon as he showed the alder- fly the
trout rose, and were slaughtered in
hosts.
Mearns jumped to his feet, and
was quickly out of sight.
' I think I have got some alder-
flies,' said Mr. Felix ; ' but I don't
know which they are. I shall label
my book as soon as I get home.'
Alder- flies were soon upon every
rod ; and before half an hour was
over eight good fish had been landed.
The ease with which the trout took
the bait maddened Mr. Felix, who
had not yet caught one, his chief
performances having been those
excursions up trees which I pre-
viously mentioned. The stream was
in most parts so narrow that there
was no difficulty about his dropping
the fly on the proper place; but
unfortunately he invariably dropped
on the same place two or three
yards of curling line, which either
made the trout shoot out of sight,
or caused him to lie still with con-
temptuous indifference.
'It's a gran' water to fish,' said
the old Scotchman; 'I never saw
the like o't. But what's wrang wi'
ye, Maister Felix? Ye seem unco
doon-speerited.'
' It's all this confounded rod !'
said Felix, grinding bis teeth ; ' a
man might have the strength of
Samson and not be able to throw a
yard of line with it. All it can do
is to pin the fly upon alder branches.'
'Dear me!' said Mearns, com-
passionately; 'and ye liae na brocht
a single trout to land. Here, tak'
my rod, and I'll play the pairt o'
Samson for a while.'
So the old man took Mr. Felix's
rod, and deftly, with those long,
thin fingers of his, dropped the fly
over the head of one of the trout
that lay beneath the opposite bank.
There was a slight movement in tlie
water, the fly was sucked in, and
then the line grew suddenly tight
as the gleaming side of the fish cut
through the quiet stream.
' It's a wee bit thing, but better
than nane,' was the remark, as
another pound and a half was added
to the general stock.
Suddenly Mr. Felix uttered a loud
cry ; and turning, we saw him, with
an ashen pallor of face, tugging at
the line, and attempting to lift out
of the water afish which had at length
bten enticed into taking his fly.
'Losh bless me, man!' cried the
old Scotchman ; ' ye'll break my rod
to bits ! Dinna pu' like that !'
' What am I to do, then ?' cried
Felix, in the greatest possible ex-
citement ; 'he's a monster I He'll
get off! He's a dozen pound weight !
I believe he's a s-almon!'
The next unconscious prompting
of his intense desire to secure this
leviathan was to let the reel run,
lest the line should be broken and
he escape. The consequence may
be imagined. The efforts of the fish
ceased, and Mr. Felix found it im-
possible by any amount of pulling
to dislodge him from his retreat in
the bed of the river. Slowly my
friend proceeded up the bank of the
stream, winding in the line as he
went, until it was clearly demon-
38
Mr, Felix goes Ti-out-Fishing.
started Hint Mr. Felix's captive had
taken rofage in a bed of green weed
half way across. What wis to Ix)
done? Tin' fish would not stir.
Stones oonld Dover n acta him. Then
Mr. Felix, moved by the sarcasms of
his wife, wore DO longer his water-
proofs of the day before; he bad
been taunt, d into dressing himself
like a human being.
' I'm not going to lose such a fish
for a pair of wet feet,' said he, va-
liantly, as he jumped into the river.
There, however, progress was no
matter; fur the current was
strong, the water considerably more
than knee-deep, and the bed of tho
iiu matted with the-e tangled
weeds. Carefully Mr. Felix took
the line in his hand, and began to
tnee the fish to his lair. He kicked
away the weeds as he went farther
out ; and yet there were no signs of
the dislodgment of the line. Kick-
ing and tagging in equal propor-
tions, lie had at length reached tho
middle of the stream, when ho
ottered a slight cry: there was a
flash of something cutting through
the water ; either excitement or a
d fiire to seize the fish caused him
to stomble forward, and then our
In ro went down, face first, into tho
stream, while the broken line floated
lightly hark to the rod, which Mr.
Mearnfl held in his hand. Snorting
like a young whale, Mr. Felix stru.u'-
gled to Ins feel again. He glared
wildly around: bad he caught his
man laughing, instant dismissal
would have rewarded his presump-
tion.
'As it is,' said he, boldly, as ho
came dripping to the side, ' I hooked
the biggest fish of the day.'
' '1 he day's no' oweryet,' said Mr.
Utarns, quietly, watching with his
< ye for the first rise : then, as
he saw Mr. Felil was about to
depart, he added, ' le're no' ganging
back ' Hoots, man ' in the buh out
there we'll i*- a- drj as a red herrin'
in twenty minutes I'
'I have no amhition to l>e as dry
a- a red herring,' replied Mr. Felix,
with a sneer; 'and I'm not going
to catch a cold for the biggest
basket of trout that ever was filled.
But I shall take my rod and landing-
net with me; and perhaps when
you find me at the inn on your
return 1 may have one or two fish
to add to your store.'
So saying he departed— a mourn-
ful spectacle, lie had not. however,
passed out of sight when I saw
him crouching down by the side of
tho river, apparently going through
a singular performance with his
landing-net Whenlagain looked
lie was gone : and the circumstance
had passed from my mind when we
found him, in the evening, seated
in the parlour of the inn, comfort-
ably smoking and reading tho news-
papers.
' Did you catch anything as yon
returned ''.' I aske I.
'Look in the landing-net, 1 said ho,
proudly; ' it's in the cornt r.'
And there, sure enough, was a
fine trout, carefully wrapped UP in
sedge-leavea Mr. Mean, carefully
scanned it.
'What Ike did ye catch it wff
lie asked.
'The alder-flv, of course,' n plied
Felix.
' That's maist • linar'?' said
the old Scotchman.
'Why?* demanded Felix, not with-
out a certain fierceness in his tone.
B.
the fidn/'s hi
' And can't a Mind trout swallow
a fly?' asked Mr. Felix, grown sud-
denly angry, 'or how in all tho
earth could it remain alive ?'
- 1 dinna ken,' n plied the Scotch-
man, 'as I never tried to make a
I'lm' tish si e a flea'
But, as Mr. Felix pointed out to
me, there was no d< cessity for tell-
ing Mrs. Felix that the trout was
blind, women having many peculiar
and unreasonable prejud
W. B.
89
TWENTY-FOUE HOURS OF THE SEASON.
By My Lady's Watch.
OF society's life the first dawning
Begins with the letters— and yawning !
Your orders you give, while you're sipping
Your tea ; then your wrapper on-slipping,
You submit to the toils of the morning —
Your lady's-maid does your adorning;
While you skim, during ornamentation,
The latest three-volume ' sensation.'
Next, when you the breakfast-room turn-in,
The children are brought — with the urn — in;
And papa, on the ' Times ' intent, drily
Doesn't see that they look at you shily.
Babes— and breakfast— disposed of, your jewels
From Hancock's, your dresses from Seweil's,
Your bonnet, your boots, and your chignon
Claim full sixty minutes' dominion.
Then off, like a shot from a cannon ! —
To horse, and away, the Eow's tan on !
Just pausing at times in your canter
Your friends at the railings to banter.
In your brougham soon shopping you're hieing—
Inspecting — electing — and buying :
Then home, with a cargo of treasures,
For the next in the list of your pleasures.
You then, for a couple of hours, show
Your tasteful toilette at a flow'r show,
Displaying, 'mid roses and orchids,
Light muslins and pale three- and- four kids.
Then, the Royal Academy in, it's
The thing to appear for rive minutes.
The merits of Millais and Leighton
It enables you glibly to prate on.
But somehow you must be contriving
By six in the Park to be driving.
Your daughter (the eldest, you know,) sits
Beside you— in front of you Flo sits.
Soon homeward you're wearily pressing
W T ith prospects of dinner and dressing.
Faint — aching in every bone— you
Your maid have to eau-de-Cologne you.
Till you meet— the first time since you brake fast-
The being four parsons did make fast
Your slave, at St. George's,— poor sinner ! —
And your husband and you have your dinner.
10.
She awake th,
10-30.
Dressetb,
11.
Breaketh htr
fast
Noon— 1 p.m.
Eeceivethhei
tradesfolk.
P.M.
1—2-30.
Taketh horse
exercise.
3.
Goeth a-
shoiiping.
3—5.
V isiteth the
Botanical.
5—5-10.
Glanceih at
the Academy.
6.
Taketh car-
riage exer-
cise.
6—6-30.
Goeth to her
tiring-roorrj.
7—9.
Hath her
dinner.
Hi
Twenty-four Ilours of the Season.
r.M.
9-95.
tU her
93-
0— 10.
Till
11.
ih her
i : p tf.- 12-30.
Showetb hi r
i.
r.i.v. ih
ige to
..ty.
2—230.
'!i to a
1UU.
3.
|ii-|H,ru.'th
hi r =*.- 1 f .
4— in.
Ihto
.est.
Pish, s u]>, entries, meats, Bweets, and ohi ese are
Brought mi and discussed by degrees arc;
Which leaves you five minutes, it may be,
To take just a peep at the baby : —
When your maid com< s, observing, 'My teddy,
Mast* c Bays, please, the kerridge ua n ady ;'
And you're off, Covent Garden- wards < —
Lamps Hashing, wheels splashing and en
Ami now you display your ecstatic
1 levotion for things operatic : —
But the music, you talk bo much stuff of,
You fiuil half an hour quite enough
Yet a whole one find scarcely suffices
For the various arts and dot ices,
Which deck you in satin or moire,
Lace, jewels, and plumes for the Boiree,
To which you are speedily rushing —
To find there much squeezing and crushing.
The crowd is so great, to get in it's
A matter of quite ninety luiuutes!
But then, though the struggle dismays you,
The end of it more than repays youl
A sinilr np >n lips that arc royal
Rewards your activity loyal.
Sou return to your brougham enchanted,
Yet glad of the respite that's grant* d
For a rest on the cai cushion,
To the Countess's Bali while you* push on.
But to ff, soon alter arriving,
Your weariness you are contriving,
and Tinneyyour feet quickly winning
To a waltz-measure, merrily spinning.
When at last you get home it just four is!
Ev< ry bone of you aching and sore is —
STou feel that existences bore is —
Bo i- going to bed up three stories; —
While the husband you always ignore is
Returned from supporting the Tories
i lie m.i\ for land-owners ga
And, forgetting the Souse's uproar, is
Asleep —sound as nail in a door is: —
Bo your greefau I only a snore i ;
And you sleep until ten it once moi< T. II.
41
HAUNTS FOR THOSE IN SEARCH OF HEALTH.
fficam JEtaljj to the ©Kflairttw.
ALL roads, they say, lead to Borne,
but ours, iu the spring of 1866,
led from it, not by the easy, rapid
travelling of railroads, but by short
stages and long lingerings in old
towns, ' where, amidst new scenes
and fresh sources of interest, we
hoped to banish the sadness, that all
who live any time in the ' Eternal
City ' invariably experience on leav-
ing it.
It was not until we reached Ve-
nice that this feeling wholly passed
away. That fairy-like city, to reach
which had been a dream of early
youtb, was not only all our wildest
romance had painted her, but in the
delight afforded to our artistic tastes,
and in the poetic sympathies around,
she became something more — a city
of consolation. Here, for a time, we
forgot Rome. The very entrance
by railway — in other capitals so un-
promising, and in our own so de-
pressing — has at Venice its charm.
It was late when we arrived from
Padua. The somewhat handsome
station was like any other, light and
noisy and bustling ; but passing
from it into the open air, instead of
the tumult of a town, silence and
night came suddenly upon us. Our
luggage was lowered, with few
words, into a gondola, and soon we
were gliding away, indescribably
soothed by the sound of the oars
and soft ripple of the waters, and
almost awed by the calm and repose
of all around us after the noise and
hurry of the journey. The sudden-
ness of the change from light to
darkness ; from noise to silence ;
from the rattle of a carriage to the
soft, gliding motion of a gondola, is
infinitely more striking than the
old, tedious approach through the
Lagunes, so graphically described
by a modern writer, could ever have
been. It was the most delicious
weather in this enchanting city ; and
although rumours of war were
abroad, and Austrian troops were
on the move along the road we had
traversed after crossing the Po,
there was little as yet to show that
Venice was preparing for the coming
struggle. We took up our abode
on the Grand Canal, almost imme-
diately opposite the beautiful church
of Santa Maria del Salute ; and how
varied were the pictures enjoyed
from the balcony of our temporary
home!
In the afternoon the Grand Canal
was the scene of a noiseless anima-
tion which Venice, and Venice alone,
can present. How grateful to the
wearied traveller is that repose, that
silence which there is not dullness
Vessels and boats came to load and
unload at the Dogana in front of us ;
and turning towards the red- towered
island of St. Giorgio we could feel
the fresh sea-breezes as we watched
bark and gondola pass and repass ;
could trace the long line of the Riva
Schiavone till terminated by the
green of the Public Gardens, and,
far beyond that, the grey outline of
the distant Lido. All was still,
calm, and enjoyable. We could sit
tranquil and w r atch twilight deepen-
ing, and wonder at the rich, full
colour of water and sky, which in
Venice the absence of light scarce
seems to destroy, listening to soft
strains of music from some match-
less Austrian band on the Piazza
San Marco, or to the barcaroles and
serenades from the boat's crew of
some passing gondola. But these
bright scenes were soon to lose their
brilliancy. One of those rumours
that so often precede real trouble
caused a sudden panic; strangers
and travellers fled in haste, and in
two days eighty people had left
Daniell's hotel alone, followed by
many of the wealthy Venetians ; and
as events went on, and war became
a certainty, the town and its waters
were deserted by all but those whom
necessity detained.
Secure in our private information,
we lingered on, noting daily the in-
crease of soldiers and decrease of
civilians. Austrian uniforms seemed
to multiply in colour as well as in
number, and a sort of death-like
stillness pervaded the air, like the
42
Haunts for those in Search of Health.
cnlm before a storm. In those try-
ing days of loag suspense, it was
impossible not to admire the digni-
fied bearing of the whole Austrian
garrison, and perhaps, too, the Belf-
control <it" the impatient, over-san-
gnine Italian population.
One day B tiny steum r Appeared
in front of oor windows. The arch-
doke bed be n visiting the forts.
All was in readiness. One train
only oonnecti d Venice with the outer
world. At any moment this com-
munication might l>o cut off, and
i'vi 11 onr despairing landlord almost
oonnselled our departure. So re-
luctantly we sped away as far as
railroads could take us, to Botzenin
the Italian Tyrol.
Here, whilst the Venetians had
to endure their agony of suspense
another month, we remained, revel-
ling in the exquisite scenery which
Borroonds the town, then enlivened
by the constant ] >assage of troops —
(Jerman regiments from the north
going south, and Italian regiments
from the south going— alas for Be-
lli d( k! — north.
\A\; to(,k up our abode, after a few
days passed at the clean, excellent,
and moderate hotel of the Kaiser
Krone, in a little villa just outside
the town, surrounded by vineyards,
Which are train' d at Botzeo on
trellis-work, and form leafy roofs
over endless green walks ; and hi re,
luxuriating in a wealth of roses,
Bowers, and fruit, we waited uncon-
oerned the issue of events. This
part of Tyrol combines all that is
attractive ma northern and southern
land. It is made an of harmonious
Contrasts. The rich, warm colour-
ing of Italy lingers there amid snow-
oapped mountains not inferior to
the Swiss in grandeur. Picturesque
ruins are perched on the rugged
height! around, whilst the gardens
of the plain are fragrant with the
Hue of the orange and lemon
The people have the active
industry of the Germans — whoso
language the] sp ak —with the com-
fil don and want of personal clcan-
iin ■ of tho We Ich, as they < on-
temptuOUSly Call the Italian. If
they are ignorant and bu] i rstitious,
tin y are, al an; rate, loyal and reli-
, | ; and as at this time tin y laid
warmly espoused their emperor's
quarrel, it was spirit-stirring to
bands of fine young fellows inarch-
ing in from the mountains to tho
sound of music, in obedience to the
tocsin, which sounded for the firsl
levy shortly after our arrival. They
are soldiers to the mama r horn, and
even their festivities have a martial
character.
One morning we wereronsed from
our sleep by what sounded liko the
boomiug of distant cannon. Again
and again the ominous sounds were
heard prolonged by the reverbera-
tion amongst the hills, the n a sharp,
quick, continued tiring. An engage-
ment somewhere! and we jumped
up alarmed. No; it was only a
saint's day which these Tyroleans
invariably celebrate in this noisy
manner, beginning by a salute at
sunrise, which is repeated at six
o'clock, at twelve, again at four, ter-
minating at six in the evening by a
regular feu de joic. ' We tire in
honour of our Emperor; wo ought
to fire a great deal more for God
and his saints,' is their view of the
matter and homely way of express-
ing it. We have dwelt a little upon
the attractions of Botzen because it
seems to us so desirable a halting-
place for those who, having pass I
the winter m Italy, turn thi ir fl
north tor cooler breezes, and may
wish for some change from the well-
known routes to Switzerland. Tho
on for Botzen and oferan is
properly the autumn, when tho
grapes attract those who are ordi red
' the cure ;' but in Ma; and early in
June the climate is still delightful.
Alter that, the beat becomes unen-
durable, and even the inhabitants
fly to the mountains. Every I5ot-
zaner pi a obftlet or \ ilia on
the hills. The poorest tradesman
rents a few rooms in somi peasant's
house, whither he sends his wife
and children, with a Btore of pro-
vi.-ioiis and needle-work, tor two
long months, escaping whenever he
can himself from the stifling heat of
the plain.
Even the monks of the large
establishment at Qries,a neighbour*
log village, havo their mountain
dance, and scandalized us by
iging our excellent cook, with
Haunts for those in Search of Health.
43
half a dozen female assistants to
cook for them during their stay.
She added to her repertoire various
French and English dishes whilst
with us, which she thought the
' Geistlichen Herrn ' would appre-
ciate, and only laughed at our con-
sidering their arrangments ques-
tionable. According to all accounts
they enjoyed themselves not a little
on the mountains ; but as they are a
numerous body, and their hill ac-
commodation not great, many of
them do not get more than ten days'
fresh air in all.
This year all available space was
being prepared for the wounded
who were expected. Hospital-room
for seven hundred soldiers was al-
ready arranged in Botzen, the first
batch of invalids arriving the night
before we left. Not the wounded, as
yet, but the fever-stricken, the suf-
ferers from sunstroke, &c.
The most delicious of all the sur-
rounding mountain retreats is Upper
Botzen, 2,000 feet immediately above
the town, reached by a zigzag road
through shady woods, in a continued
ascent for two hours. The village
is but a collection of small white
houses or chalets, without any pre-
tensions to architectural arrange-
ment, but scattered about in what
can only be compared to a lordly
English park, with noble trees and
meadows of loveliest turf, but mea-
dows bright, as no English meadows
can be, with flowers of brilliant
mountain hues, on whose mossy and
shady banks one could sit, cool even
beneath a hot June sun, and enjoy
views, in one direction of the fan-
tastic and grand dolomite moun-
tains, in the other of Botzen, its
rivers and gardens, with the valley
of the Adige stretching south, and
carrying one in imagination to Italy
till lost in the blue distance. There
is none of that keenness in the air
here that characterizes most of the
mountain retreats in Switzerland; it
is soft and mild whilst bracing, and
no place could be better adapted for
the consumptive patient or those
enervated by Italian heat. Unfor-
tunately there is no sort of accom-
modation for the stranger at Upper
Botzen, not even an inn. He must
proceed to Bitten, a place about an
hour's walk beyond, where there is
a very fair hotel, and where the
sketcher, the botanist, the geologist,
may pass his time, and not find it
dull, even if no ' Times,' no ' Gali-
gnani,' be procurable. In point of
living, he will be better off than in
any mountain pension in Switzer-
land. He will have a more interest-
ing, though less advanced people to
deal with, moderate charges, and
very few of his own countrymen — if
that be an advantage — to disturb
the even tenour of his life.
We should have transported our-
selves bag and baggage to these
delicious heights for the rest of the
summer could we have foreseen
the speedy close of the coming
war. Surrounded by a brave and
determined people, Austria seemed
to us formidable and a general
European war imminent; so we
deemed it prudent to turn our
faces towards Switzerland, and on
the very morning of the declaration
of war quitted Botzen with regret,
leaving behind us all the old linen
we had for the expected wounded,
and carrying away with us beautiful
nosegays which, according to the
graceful custom of the country, our
servants presented us with at part-
ing. They carry this pretty custom
still further. We observed a car-
riage arrive one day at the hotel
completely decked with flowers, and
concluded it contained a bridal pair.
But no; it was a family who had
passed the wdiole winter in one of
the hotels at Meran, and on leaving
this little compliment was paid them.
It is about two hours' drive from
Botzen to Meran, which place we
reached at nine o'clock in the morn-
ing, the heat being even then in-
tense; for although mountains
capped with snow surround the
valley in which this little town is
situated, its sheltered position and
warm aspect give to its climate a
mildness which in winter causes it
to be as much resorted to by Ger-
mans from the north as Mentone
and Cannes are by the delicate
among our countrymen. Its natu-
ral beauties are great, but at this
time not a visitor remained; the
war and the heat had frightened
them all away.
44
Haunts for those in Search <•( Health.
We resumed our journey in tlio
cool of tlio evening, having taken
an open carriage as , itra poet, onr
Inggage being placed on one of the
two postwagen immediately pr< -
ct ding
Th< iy on the road offered
i v. rything thai could delight the
eye or r< fresh tin si :.-
The Adige or Etsch flowed beside
OUT way. now a rapid torrent tum-
bling over rocks in tiny waterfalls,
now broad, deep, and languid as
some English river. Long shadows
were Btealing over the meadows of
the plain, the sweet p< rfunie of
newly-made hay scented tho even-
ing air, whilst mountain, rock,
ruins, and villages were disposed in
ry combination of beauty.
It was midnight when we reached
Mais and delivered op our passport
to .1 non-commissioned (.Hirer of the
Kaisi r Jager (Imperial Hides), who
1 gretted that the exigencies of the
moment called for his interference.
This little place, like every other
village or town we had pat I
through, was full of Rifles and
Schutzen, as the aimed peasantry
are called; but we must not dwell
npon this, nor opon our visit to the
• ]" Pass, which the order of
the offia r commanding the district
enabled us to enter, nor detail how
we aso adi d as far as the snow
! mitted us, and saw the pre]
iions made by the Austrian* for
nding this important passage
into Tyrol, wo and the soldiers
in the lad cantonment being per-
haps the sole spectators of. two
oifta ni avalanches rolling down
side of the ( Irtler. We must
hurry on our readers, as we were
hurried on, to Naudei small
and miserable hamlet at the mouth
of the Finstermunz Pass, where we
were to take leave of Tyrol and
enter Switzerland by passing over
low ridge Which divides the
formi r from the valley of the Enga-
dil.e.
Wn - I 1 and dirty as the inn at
Nanders is, an archdnke bad Blept
there the night before, and w
to wait a short time and e him
Come out and I nt. r bil cur-
The Archduke Leopold, a tall,
finedooking young man, was on a
tour of inspection, visiting the forts
and passi b ol Tyrol : he was on his
way to Mais and the Stelvio. His
presence seemed to excite little
curiosity and no enthusiasm amongst
the very small group of pi asanta
and travellers round the inn door,
who simply raisi d their hats m
silence when he appeared, which
salutation he acknowledged l>y a
few stitl bows.
At Nanders the traveller may, if
he pl< ases, continue his road through
the magnificent di file of the Fins-
termunz till he reaches the valley of
the Upper Inn at Landeck.and then
turn td the right towards Innspruck
or to the left to Lake Constance, or
Ik may branch off as we did, de-
ling a rough char road to Mar-
tiusbruck, in the Engadine. Which-
ever route he may take, the whole
road from Botzcn to Finstermunz
is so full of beauty th.it he is amply
compensated by its attractions for
the very indifferent accommodation
he must put up with after leaving
Meran.
The descent into the valley of tho
idine is also extremely beau-
tiful. The road from Nanders to
the summit of the ridge dividing
Tyrol from Switzi rland is a narrow
rough cart-road, only tit f>r the
einspanners into winch we and our
luggage were deposited (although
adventurous lohnkuttcfo rt from
Meron do drive a carriage down it),
and so Lipid m its descent on tho
Swiss Bide BS to make the timid
much prefer walking; but this en-
ables them to enjoy the view over
the long, narrow valley of the Enga-
dine, with its pine-wo ids and grand
but savage hills, the wild, impetuous
Inn dashing through it with Bashes
of light like the of a silver
at. At the fool of the hill this
I torrent is en ssed by a bridge
winch gives its name to the inn and
few houses clustere I round it. At
Biartinsbruck commences an excel'
lent carriage-road, Buch as Switzer-
land is everywhere offering to her
guests; and one of her comfortable
■ ns conv< yed as and our
Inggage to the new and spl< odid
iblishmenl of Tarasp-Schuls. •
Whilst the bath- and Kurhai.
ol the I'ppi i l.i gadine have lor
Haunts for those in Search of Health.
45
many years been much frequented,
and latterly St. Moritz has been in
special favour with English medical
men, the mineral springs of Tarasp-
Schuls are comparatively little
known ; and had they been more so,
the very limited and simple accom-
modation to be obtained there would
probably have deterred many who
might have gone from remaining, for
the scenery, though very fine, has not
the engrossing loveliness of the
Bernese Oberlaud; its savage gran-
deur can only be well explored by
the strong and hardy, who must
first mount the steeps on either side
the Inn. Schuls itself, a poor little
uninteresting village, situated nearly
at the end of this long Rhsetian val-
ley, which forms at Marti nsbruck a
natural cul de sac, is disconnected
and literally quite out of the world.
Nevertheless its mineral springs,
which extend over a distance of
nearly three miles in a straight line,
are very important; and now that
for the last three years accommoda-
tion on a splendid scale has been
provided for visitors in the new
Kurhaus at Tarasp, they seem likely
to become some of the most fre-
quented and important in Switzer-
land.
About a mile from Schuls, imme-
diately below the little hamlet of
Tarasp, which with its ruined castle,
its tiny lake and monastery, is one
of the most picturesque spots in the
neighbourhood, the ground on the
left bank of the Inn recedes some-
what in the form of an amphitheatre,
leaving a large level space between
the high road and the river, upon
which the new hotel has been built.
It is a handsome structure five hun-
dred feet long and fifty feet high,
capable of accommodating three
hundred people with ease: the
ground between the house and river
is laid out in walks and flower-beds;
but little can be done for a garden
in that rude climate, and few trees
beyond pines and stunted alders
flourish in this part of Switzerland.
The plan of the house is simple, a
central building with two wings.
The ground floor contains breakfast
or coffee-room, billiard and drawing-
rooms, offices and baths; the first,
second, and third floors, traversed
by wide corridors, are divided into
bedrooms and private sitting-rooms.
A magnificent dining-room is also
provided on the first floor.
The house, in short, is well suited
to its purpose. In hot weather— and
it w r as extremely hot during our so-
journ at the baths— these wide corri-
dors were always cool and airy, and
in wet weather patients may pace
up and down them to procure the
amount of exercise prescribed, which
in some cases forms part of the cure.
The bedrooms, with the exception
of two or three suites with private
sitting-rooms attached to them, are
all furnished alike, simply but suffi-
ciently, and are far more comfort-
able than those of any other bath
in Switzerland. Each room con-
tains a single bed, and the price is
four francs for those on the first
floor and three francs for those on
the second and third. Private sit-
ting-rooms are clear, but there are
very few pensions or hotels where
a sitting-room may be so well dis-
pensed with as at Tarasp. A bil-
liard and reading-room adjoins the
breakfast or coffee-room on the
ground floor for gentlemen, whilst
ladies are provided with two large
and handsome drawing-rooms ; and
dinuer, which is at half-past one, is,
when a sufficient number of guests
have arrived, served in one of those
spacious and much-decorated salons
which the fashion of the day seems
to consider indispensable to a great
hotel. Everything is well cooked
and well served, but not, it must be
owned, very abundant; but as there
is another table-d'hote at seven,
called supper, nearly the same as
the dinner, it is quite possible to
manage upon these two meals,
which, with a breakfast of tea or
coffee and bread and butter, are
given for six francs a head, so that
each person's daily expenses, in-
cluding wine and service, would be
from twelve to fourteen francs, and
rather more if coffee or tea is taken
m the afternoon.
This, of course, is a much higher
rate than the generality of pensions
in Switzerland ; but it is not dear,
when it is considered that every-
thing must be brought from a dis-
tance to that sterile region. Attached
46
Hi 'nits for those in Search of Ileal ih.
to tin- hotel Ea ■ kitchen-garden,
where a few vegetables are raised
with difficulty, the Boil being poor
an 1 unproductive; there is al
dairy, poultry-yard, <Sfcc, Meal is the
only thing procured from the neigh-
bourhood. s>> much for the hotel,
which is directed with great order
and system by a manager, and is
thf speculation of a company, who
commenced operations in 1864.
The mineral springs in the
immediate vicinity of the hotel
tie chiefly on the right bank of
the Inn, and the two most in
use are saline in character, and
called the St. Lucius and St. Erne-
iita springs. The former huhbles
up bright and cl< ar, in ' consequence
of a considerable development of
carbonic acid gas,' and has by no
means an unpleasant taste, when
quite fresh resembling very much
what the peasants on the Nassau
banks of the llhino called 'sour
Mater.'
These arc the two favourito
springs. There aro various others,
both saline and chalybeate; and
some approximating so nearly to
those of Vichy, that they arc con-
sidered as efficacious as the French
water 11: a rtain ailments. But the
saline Bprings — for the chemical an-
alysis of which we refer the reader
to the pamphl< t published at the
baths— are said to have wonderful
tsin bracing the languid, stimu-
lating sluggish livers, and hear,
oh Banting! reducing the corpu-
lent. If indulged in too freely
without advice they may affed the
1 ; but taken under proper
guidance, they really seem to do
much towards n Btoring health and
spirits. A patient who had been
but a few daj a there said, ' This
water is like wine to me. 1 feci like
a bird!'
A similar spring, but less powi r-
fnl, is used for lathing in, with
! lit, in cat* 3 of rheuii atism and
skin disease. The result, gentle
reader, of six weeks 1 daily immer-
sion in this wah r is not a becoming
one ; the f kin b a n ddiah-
brown hue, win-
off like tan "r burning.
Tbi ' nty
:.s when we arrived at the Kur-
haus, and of these nearly half w, re
Danes ; nice friendly | 1 pie; a
diplomatist and his wile; a widow
with two single si-tt re, who had
courageously pas., d thro igh the
Prussian lines, and saw the rails
torn up behind by the Boldiei -
the train rolled on to Frank
The willow spoke English in a
fashion of ber .. n : ' Wills you,'
said she, with her pl< a ant smile,
' like to walk with us to the willage?
— the doctor will show us the way.'
Wo accepted ; for although we had
been to the ' willage' and the Cat
the doctor, we knew, was a great
botanist, and the fields on the
plateau of Tarasp are richer than
any other place I know in floral
treasures.
We assembled at three o'clock,
after our early dinner, and started
on our walk. Our way lay across
the river, and up the heights oppo-
site. Our widow felt the In at and
the ascent; but, as she confided to
us that she had undertaken the
cure in order to get thin, we en-
COUraged her to proceed, and con-
versation was carried on chiefly in
English, which all the Danes spoke
more or les.>, whilst none of them,
pt the diplomatist, were
quainted with French. Our party
was increased by a German, who
had only arrived that morning.
lie too spoke English; and our
talk was natural)} of the coming
struggle between North and South.
The Danes, with little cause to love
either party, were Austrian in their
sympathies. Our German wfb evi-
dently Prussian ; \i t he annonno l
himself as from the South.
' Then,' we remarked to him, ' you
aro probably from Baden; for wo
met with someagn 1 I'lc last
year from linden, who Ik bl precisely
the same views as yourself.
1 Indeed ; from Baden '.'
' Yes; from F - g.'
'What? from V-
joined, with int.
g? he re-
' Yes ; a Baron von B — , v. ith
his family : v, e pa Bed some W<
topethi t m the same hon
Fpon which the Btranger smiled,
stopped short, aii I, making a low-
bow, aaid, ' I am bis eldesl 1
How small is tho world alter all!
Haunts for those «» Search of Health.
47
Here, on the top of a mountain in a
remote part of Helvetia, we had
met with one who knew all about
us, whose brother we had parted
with but a short time before in
Borne, and whose parents we had
fallen in with during the previous
summer !
Our new acquaintance had come,
he told us, for the ' cure,' sent by
his colonel, and was to remain six
weeks. He was an officer in the
Baden troops of the Bund ; and, but
for this arrangement, might shortly
have found himself face to face with
his own brother; for he, aide-de-
camp to a German prince who had
espoused the cause of Prussia, was
now fighting for those preten-
sions which Baden openly declared
against, but secretly sympathized
with.
The routine of life for those under-
going the ' cure ' at Tarasp seemed
much the same for all patients.
Most of them were at the springs
by six o'clock. Beginning with two
or three glasses, taken at intervals
of ten and fifteen minutes, the
patient gradually increases the
number to six. Two hours are
occupied in walking and drinking;
and then breakfast, consisting of
tea or coffee, with bread and butter,
may be taken.
After breakfast, rest for an hour
is enjoined, before proceeding to
the bath, which is warmed to a
temperature of 25 — 28 Cent., and
where the patient remains a short
half-hour. After the bath, rest
again until dinner-time, at one
o'clock, after which the ' cure guest '
may consider the rest of the day
his own, drinking perhaps one
or two glasses of water in the
evening. Those who are not strong
enough for lengthened walks and
excursions must find their amuse-
ment in the society of friends, or in
studying the manners of the mixed
society around them, Tarasp itself,
not offering much in the way of
amusement. Enclosed between lofty
mountains, the views become mono-
tonous. There is but one road to
drive upon ; and one must drive to
a distance for change of scene, the
long narrow valley of Lower Enga-
dine presenting for miles the same
features ; but those who can ascend
its rugged sides will be repaid by
grand views, curious geological for-
mations, wild flowers, in a profusion
and a brilliancy of colour unsur-
passed by any other land, and a
character of country differing alto-
gether from any other part of Swit-
zerland.
Visitors from England have at
Chur the choice of two routes : the
one over the St. Julier Pass to
Samaden ; and the road recently
made, shorter and more direct, over
the Albula Pass to Ponte. This
road, which can only be kept open
during three months of the year,
is not too safe, and in places so
narrow that, if two postwagens
meet, they have much difficulty in
passing each other; but Swiss
post-horses are wonderfully steady,
and Swiss postilions have cool
heads, and seldom meet with an
accident. The road in one place
traverses what the Germans have
well named a Trii turner feld. A
vast field of rocks, as if some
gigantic mountain had been over-
thrown and broken into pieces.
In another place it winds round
the face of steep cliffs, at a dizzy
height. Every inch of the road has
been gained by blasting; and this
narrow romantic defile equals the
Via Mala in grandeur and beauty.
Half-way between Chur and
Tarasp is the pretty angler's vil-
lage of Tiefenkasten, the point from
which several roads diverge; and
here the traveller, if the weather be
bad and he feels nervous about
crossing the Albula, may proceed
by the less interesting but more
secure pass of St. Julier.
4fi
SHADOWS IN OUTLINE.
Jftata an Oft, OUi s-urtrh linalt.
Ei THI Adthob or ' BiTTBB Sweets' and 'The Tai.lants of I'ui n
INTRODUCTION.
DEPEND upon it life is a grim
joke— a fantastic admixture of
the sublime ami ridiculous. Look
back upon your own career, my
friei d, and see what a Btrange tan-
gled weft it is. Wbal smudges and
blotches and patches there are in
it! Every now and then, it is true,
you see a gorgeous bit of pattern,
full of graceful lines and curves;
but do they not run into ridiculous
twists aiul twirls and fantastic angles
that burlesque the beautiful and
travesty the sublime?
I offer you these three rough
ings of my own life by way of
illustration. Limned from nature,
you may take them as untouched
studies. They tell their own story,
and leave something to tho imagi-
nation besides.
DA7BBBAK.
A long straggling crooked street
with the shadow of the Elizabethan
upon it ; a streei with old gabled
hpU8es in it, and (lark alleys ; a
- t to wander aboul and ponder
about Nearly every Bhop wa
museum of curiosities. The brokers
of the city— tho fine old city of
had si i tied down in
• [ike a Rwarm of birds,
and had made their nests in a line,
few antique
Bwallows which hail visited Tick
.•t from time immemorial
The broki i ' i ■ Is wen varied by
a few gre ngroo rs, who were I
1 becan I re useful in
plying tl
and cabbagi s.dried fish and cucum-
I'.ut no other Cur. the
tribe wi re permitted, exc< pi t Jew
■ an, who took np his station
in a dark coi i er d( spite the i
op] • n; and I ques-
tion whether ' Sloshes,' as he
called in derision, would have tri-
umphed but for the tripl< -ball< d
banner,whiohhada8trangecharm for
the greengrocers' wives of the quar-
ter, and other slatternly women from
distant streets, who visited the Jew
at all seasons with something under
their aprons.
The brokers were a proud race
and a curious; but, strai 51 to say,
they were under petticoat govern-
ment, and, Btrange to say, pj
spinsterial government. Miss Whil-
elmena .links was the chief of tho
race, and next to her came Miss
chalks. Loth ladies were artists in
their way, and supple Q( nti d bro-
kering with artistic employment
Miss Jinks made wax figures and
' tablows,' as she called i bem, and
Miss chalks stuffed birds.
Miss .links, who wore n 1 ribb
in her cap, rejoiced in a pale yi t
t" r i ti nt moustache, and giv< n
to bursting the hooks of her d
behind, did a fair amount of busi-
ness in all those misa Ham
articles of furniture which an .
to be picked up ch< ap al sales by
auction by the professional bidder
who bids and bides his time; who
is the first to put in an appear-
ance beneath the shadow of the auo- «
tioneer's rostrum, and the last to
have the place. Miss Jinks had a
t'n ret-, quick way of biddii . too,
which Mas said to be highly buc-
Ful, and which w a loo! cd u]
wonderful gift by In r numerous
colleagues. Some of tin m wenl »
fax as to say that In r i
had been a fortune to her, but I
r wc nt into any detaile i
lor tin's assi iti .in
The truth is, Miss Jinka bad a
masculine, domineering way with
Inr, and was an energy I ic woman,
continually fighting an i ting
herself. She wa i illy an-
nouncing her birth nnd pari nt -
Prawn \<y Lionel C. Henley.]
SHADOWS IN OUTLINE.
[!»ee the Storv.
Shadows in Outline.
40
and demonstrating her superiority
botli in learning and wealth.
' My father, ath I have thaid be-
fore, wath a merchant, and a mer-
chant in thitli very city, and a
boarding-school education was mine
from a child, with nee of the globes
and wool-work; and when I came
to years of discretin, I copied his
contracts, and kep his ledger, and
it is not for those who have been
brought up otherwise to compete
with one that has.'
There was no gainsaying this
from a woman of forty, who looked
at you with a pair of fierce grey
eyes, and who flourished a br.iwny
arm, that conld easily have struck
you to the earth if you had.
' It's all very well for your
Chalkses and others to set them-
selves up, and make out that they
have real genteel ideas, but they
are not to be had for twopence
a week at a charity school, no more
than real mahogany is to be bought
for the price of deal. Your Chalkses
may think it elevating to stuff birds
and put glass eyes in their poor
weak little heads ; but it's for them
as knows what true art is to snap
their fingers at such rubbish. What
do you say, Arthur ?'
That was your humble servant.
i was Arthur; I, Arthur Westwood.
When this little outbi eak of temper
on the part of Miss Jinks occurred,
1 had been engaged for more than a
week to assist in painting her wax
figures. My father and mother
were 'poor but industrious,' as the
story books put it, and my five
shillings a week formed an impor-
tant addition to the general stock.
Miss Jinks had three rooms set
apart for her ' Gallery of Arts/ her
' Wonders in Wax,' to which her
customers were admitted without
charge, and which she contemplated
removing at some future day to the
great metropolis. Her figures were
about the size of the ordinary Punch
puppets, and they were all her own
manufacture. There were amongst
them kings and queens and princes
of all climes; poets and generals,
pickpockets and murderers; and a
model of every bird, beast, and rep-
tile, copied from a large folio edition
of 'Goldsmith's Animated Nature.'
VOL. XII. — NO. LXVU.
Some of the figures were grouped in
tableaux, and otheis were stuck up
in single file. There was Daniel in
the lion's den, and Moses holding
up the serpent; Napoleon at St.
Helena; the coronation of Queen
Victoria; the trial of a bandit chief;
the capture of a negro; and Byron
bidding adieu to his native bills.
Some of these groups were en-
closed in glass cases. Miss Jinks
set most value upon the Scripture
pieces; and she had succeeled, by
means of a pair of old clock-wheels,
a piece of string, and a handle, in
making Daniel nod his head at an
apoplectic lion, and by the same
appliances the snake was made to
spin round and round ; but Miss
Jinks explained to her friends and
admirers that she soared above
mere tricks of this sort: she had
only introduced mechanism just to
show what might be done; her
great object was to imitate nature
in all its beauteous forms and
colours; and she hoped she had
succeeded— to say nothing of the
correct costumes of the pt riods.
When persons of more than ordi-
nary position, after making a pur-
chase, were induced to visit the
gallery, Miss Jinks would quietly
slip behind a curtain in the third
room, and perform sundry well-
known airs on an old square piano,
which she had bought at the sale of
the boarding-school establishment
where she was educated, and upon
which she had ltarnt the five-
fingered exercise. Miss Jinks was
a lover of order and harmony. She
liked all things to be in keeping,
she said, and so, when her visitors
w f ere looking at Daniel, she struck
up the Old Hundredth with impos-
sible variations; 'Rob Roy' accom-
panied the bandit scene, and 'God
save the Queen ' the coronation.
The figures were marvt Is in the
way of eyes and arms. The former
were always very wide open, and
the latter usually fixed in a pain-
ful assertion of assumed authority.
Napoleon was looking through his
glass at a soldier, who was close to
him ; and Queen Victoria was sitting
very jauntily on a pasteboard throne,
nursing her sceptre in a very
maudlin fashion, amongst a crowd
E
50
Shadows in Outline.
of ricketty, drunken, Bpooney-look-
ing lords, Mid dukos, and generals,
and bishops ; Borne with drawn
swords, pthera with their hands
upon their Lips, Btriking magni-
ficent attitudes. Byron was sitting
up iii a I oal all alone, with his Bhirt-
collar rtndoue, an I his native lulls
\. i iv rising up a few inches from
the shore, and in a very threatening
attitude; whilst in the lions' di n,
at the coronation, at St. Selena,
ami in the wilderness, l>inls and
1 1 asts and reptiles were flying ami
ping and prowling about in all
the glory of blue, and red, and
• i. . li, and yellow, with goldi a heads,
and tails, and eyes, and legs, and
feet, of the most varied and gor-
• is hno.
Miss Jinks loved plenty of colour.
'Nature lias Dot stinted it, and no
more will we, Arthur; so just give
that peacock another touch of blue,
and give the lizard a green top-
ping.'
And in that little room where flic
figures received their final touches
of colour, 1, Arthur Westwood,
r, ccived tin is spinster's in-
structions, and carried them out.
Few fellows would believe that this
was my first introduction to art.
My instructress bad, as 1 have said.
, tremendous eye for colour, and
slw was always anxious that it
ild I*- nndi rstood she was an
amateur. Art was not her pro-
ion, neithi r was it a necessity to
l . r on the score of money ; it was
1 1 r hobby, her recr< ation, and she
■ r failed to explain all this upon
all occasioi
^our Chalkses and such like
may pretend to be brokers and
furniture dealers and connisi i n of
of virtue, but it is one thing
t i do that as a profession, and live
' it, and nnothi r to stuff birds and
al! sorts of filthy things and r< ally
your l'p ad and che< se by that ;
iugh why I Bhoul i say bn ad and
w h( n it is well know n that
Cb di.- Off the
• of th' 1 birds and I which
. stuff the p is will
known ; but it is not for d
linst my i mrs, and
m m t mind that, Arthur, but
to 1 IT, and don't l>c
afraid of your blues and reds. It
nature makes a thing blue, why
nature means it to be real blue, and
so make it us blue- as you can.
Arthur.'
It was a strange world, this new
world which opened up to me at
Jinks's; quite a world of wonder
and romance. To he allowed to
revel in Goldsmith's book, and the
history of England, a book of fairy
tales, eastern legends, and I'.yron's
poems ; and not Only to look at the
pictures, hut to paint models from
them, and have leal paints an i
brushes! This was something be-
yond all my childish dreams; and
to have five shillings a week for
such glorious amusement] Then
was .something so marvellously
romantic about the whole thins;
that half my tiiuo I could II >t help
believing that Miss Whilelmena
.links was an eccentric geni whe
lavished favours upon mo from
pure good-nature.
A room all to myself, and paints
all to m\.si If. and all Hie contents Ot
a Noah's ark done np in wax to
paint and fash n fi at hers upon, and
rows of dolls waiting for their ch( ' k
t i he lollged ! It Was i|llite a little
paradise. When I went home to
iiimi. r i m rj day, I walk< d along the
ts with my studio and paints
ai d pictun - continually in my poor
little noddle. All very ridiculous :
and \et that made me a paint* r.
Ay, and more ; my being an artist
was the means of introduc
to her who made such a chongi
the tangled weft of my tangled life,
that I may exhibit it fairly, in prooi
of the grim, ridiculous blending of
pain and pleasure, and j_'na'
and littleness in the web which We
COmpll h at la-t.
The time bo n came, you may
nre. win n I dis sovered that my
• I was anj thing but
a g idd< s. i was I rrdlj twelve
rs Old Wl I 'iiln I that I was
living in a fool's i and that
all the visitors made fun of Miss
.links and her r lit art : t. < Hi, that
I o »uld have -nit'' on in my igno-
rance, blissfully painting pupp
When my father l» came well oil' I
went 1 '. and learnt to be
b imed of the name of Jinks,
Shadows in Outline.
51
though I imbibed my love of art at
that muddy source in Tick Street,
where the morning of my life fir.st
broke in such glories of blue, and
carmine, and amber.
II.
TWILIGHT.
No, I would not part with that
palette for a hundred pounds. I am
not rich either, heaven knows that!
I have painted for years and years,
and old Tandy, the dealer, takes a
sufficient number of pictures from
me to make my income enough for
an old bachelor. But a hundred
pounds, no, not a thousand, would
buy that poor little palette, with the
dried-up patches of colour upon it —
her palette.
I was a young fellow when first I
knew her. She was a member of
that drawing-class which I esta-
blished in the northern city. You
don't know the city ? A quaint old
monkish place to dream away a life
in ; a city with a cathedral and castle
which the sun lights up in a thou-
sand strangely beautiful ways; a
city fully represented by those eccle-
siastical and feudal buildings, which
stand on a high hill overlooking the
Wear. Mr. Beverley has put many
a bit of the banks of this same water
into his magnificent Drury Lane
scenery. But how I wander! Let
me see, I was talking about that
palette of Edith's.
She was an orphan, and lived with
a maiden aunt in the college yard.
Such eyes! That sketch of mine
which hangs by the fireplace does
not come within a thousand miles
of their sparkling depth. And her
brown hair deftly twined over her
forehead. I fancy I can see her now,
bending over her work and strug-
gling at it in her childish desperation.
' I shall never be able to draw
any better,' she said, her pretty lips
pouting, and a tear trickling down
her fair cheek ; ' but I really think
I have an eye lor colour.'
' Au eye for colour !' I remember
saying to myself; 'an eye for love —
an eye to make a man happy all his'
days.'
But I was a young fellow then,
susceptible and enthusiastic, and I
fell in love with Edith Yincr almost
tho first moment I saw ht r.
'And I am determined I will do
something; I feel that I could make
such a picture if I only knew how
to convey my own ideas and im-
pressions.'
' Make a picture ! Yes, as pretty
a one as ever adorned canvas,' I
said, on the impulse of the moment.
'Now you are laughing at me,'
she said, sadly, not taking my com-
pliment, nor noticing the flush on
my face. ' Everybody laughs at me.
Aunt calls me stupid, and the girls
in the class nudge each o'her and
titter at what they call my impos-
sible trees and eccentric animals.'
' I was not laughing, I assure 3 ou.
Miss Viner,' I said, seriously; 'I
should be the last to laugh at jou,
I who admire you ;;o much, and '
She had remained behind after
the class had broken up, and her
sweet, confiding manner to me was
irresistible. I fear I forgot my posi-
tion as tutor entire ly. 1 stammered
out some hurried, silly declaration
of love, and felt as if my very exist-
ence depended upon the effect it
would make. I cm remember the
sensation now, grey old bachelor as
I am ; and I have not forgotten the
awful feeling of chagrin and disap-
pointment at th) ringing laugh
which greeted my outburst of ro-
mance.
'Why, what a silly young man
you must be, Mr. Westwood ! It is
really too absurd. Here am I
anxious that you should teach me
how to paint, and you actually begin
to talk about love ; like Bon Quixote,
or a person in a play.'
And the lively, arch, round, sup-
ple, bright-eyed girl laughed again
with intense amusement. I was
piqued; she had made me look
foolish ; she had ridiculed my ten-
derest hopes. I had pictured some-
thing quite different to this, and hail
seen myself, by her desire, suing for
her hand at the feet of that old
griffin, her aunt, in the cathedral
Close.
'Now don't be so silly any more,
Mr. Westwood, and I will promise
never to mention what has occurred.
It is too absurd., you know.'
' Well, perhaps it is,' I said, with-
E 2
-•»
Shadows in Outline.
out understanding her, 1>ut with an
intense Eense of being absurdly
foolish.
' There,' slio said, passing from
the subject with the snpremesl in-
dififi n nee, ' please to lo >k al lliiit,
and tell mo it' jou think I shall ev< r
point, an I will you t< ach me? I
have;! ked aunt, ami she is willing
n e up a studio of my own.'
From beneath her cloak she pro-
duced a bit of oil colour -a p <>i
g the drooping branch* b of
ech trie. It was an autumn
Bketch.full of rough unstudied < fleets
of lijjlii ,-hhI shade thai for the mo-
ment astonished me mightily. There
was evidence of the amateur; but
the vigour, the depth of lono of
the unstudied touches were almost
startling.
' This is yours?' I said, coldly.
' Yes,' she said, bending her head,
and lo »king confused.
'It is very clever; you will paint,'
I said.
' Oh, thank you, thank yon, Mr.
W< stwood,' she said, lo iMng up
with great earnestness. '1 was
afraid you would laugh at it; aunt
called it a red and yellow daub.'
Here is hi rsecret.then, I thought.
![• r g( nius I
er : she is under its pi t i-*elit
influence.
■ I would give the world to paint.
1 U succeed, and you must help
me.'
I did help her, during many a
happy, happy hour, in tl at si
ovi rlooking the river, ai d in the
old < Ireta wood . and on I <■
dale m fc. That bit
ih 'i [to by the fireplace is a
study she made under mj eve in
Lm .1 of the T< Notice iho
i i, I ■ ath the water, the
r ! renin, which Sir
Walter Scott sung about. Somc-
tln'i [ ilour, ti
l better than her tutor,
who 1" fore hall thai time had | i
lave in i I
and watched hi r, and loved h< r
like a young fellow can love, and
r it Buti ■ r then was
: t< si alt. mpl at point* 'I ho-
. on mj part, s ; e would pooh-
the whole thing with an u
ference to my f which often
struck- me as | , : u c e ex-
treme S >m< limi s 1 went !
half mad w th rage and worn
pride, and determined to 1> ave the
place forevi r; bul nun n nghl
hope, and longing 1- I ih,
inir to be at her eide, to I
her ■■ peak, ay, if only to wince at
her cynical laugh, and her
rep attd • aj ing, thai ' love was the
greati ! not ense she had •
heard of— painting the grandest of
the arts.'
1 never could comprehend her.
By degn i I i ime to think of her in
the light of a sort of intellectual
Undine, l efore the human soul tem-
pered the waj wardncss of the fairy,
she seemi d to possess hing
that make- worn, m lovely and lov-
able, but the one thing above all
others most essential— a woman's
heart.
One morning T received a note
from her aunt, in which I was in-
formed thai the li ons nm t cease,
as Miss Viner was going to leave tho
northern city.
I hurried to tho house, and met
on the do irsti p a big, moustached,
dark fellow I n k< d f r Miss Vi
as usual. She came running down
stairs; and at her call of ' Edward!
Edward, dear!' ihe gentleman
tnrm d round and followed her into
the drawing-room.
'i 'Mine iii, Mr. Westwood ; pray
come in,' Bhe a lid. ' Let me intro-
you to ''ap'. 'in Howard, of tho
1 > ; • \ ArtiHi ry Mr. Westwood
( lap tain II iward.'
We i' ' vi d b1 (By to each other,
and I look, d ■ xplanation.
' I see you are puzzled, Mr. \\ i
I itain Howard
is to be my hu in I we li
fol [ni lay.'
I shall my
; they wi re n
very apparent at the Ume. Anger
an I conti m] t bad, Bun ly, some
share in the < xpri ssion of my i
stupid face on thai i; but I
coni l only . indiflerence on
Edith's.
I turned to go away, but Mitt
Vini r pn vented
1 Here,' Bhe said, ' is a little pre*
Bent hi fore I go. I >u will
Shadows in Outline.
W
treasure it—my palette. 1 shall
never paint again.'
There was something peculiarly
sad in the tone of voice in which
she said ' I shall never paint again.'
The next day she had left the old
city with her husband. How I
wished myself a boy again, painting
puppets in that little back room
in the western city ! I have
painted many a one since, for that
matter.
By the way, I have lately learnt
that when Miss Jinks died, the
Chalkses purchased the ' Gallery of
Arts,' and combined the two esta-
blishments. How little we know who
will step into our shoes when wo
are gone! Perhaps our greatest
enemy may quietly seat himself in
our own chair in the favourite fire-
side comer. Thank heaven! science
cannot penetrate the future. We
look upon the tangled welt as we
spin it ; but we know nothing of the
lines, and curves, and broken threads
to come.
m.
EVENING.
A jilted old bachelor, am I?
Well, if you like, that is my cha-
racter. And I am silly enough to
hang on to the garment of memory,
and make a fool of m\self over au
old palette that belonged to a school-
girl.
I often wondered if she saw the
notices of my works in the papers.
Of course she did. They got all
the journals at Bombay. Hard
work is a good thing when you are
in trouble. Some fellows labour
away on claret; some work, as they
say, on beer only ; some on a dry
pipe. I worked on a dry, heart-
breaking sorrow. I had rilled my
very soul with one face; and, all at
once, the image was not only gone
for ever, bat I had discovered its
utter worthlessness.
Edith was to me a narrow, selfish,
heartless woman ; a syren, who had
tempted me to wreck and ruin. My
soul had yearned to her, not only in
love, but in admiration. She was a
genius, born with a specialty for art.
She was the sublime thing which
seemed all at once to spring up out
of a ridiculous past. All my vague
romantic passions encircled her, and
I loved her like — well, like an artist
who is young and poor will love.
And I could not help treasuring
that palette for the sake of our
happy days, aud in memory of that
one sad look which came into her
eyes and voice at parting. Did she
really regret her choice? Could she
have been unduly influenced ? Had
she any choice iu the matter ?
Many a long year afterwards,
when I had made my mark, and got
beyond Tandy, the dealer (perhaps
you remember his place behind the
Haymarket ?), a young lady called
up n me. There w T as a dark old
Indian woman with her, who curt-
sied very low.
' Mr. Westwood, I believe,' said
the young lady, a fine well-grown
woman of about twenty, and dressed
in deep mourning.
' Yes,' I said, offering a seat.
' My name is Howard,' she said.
' I have recently arrived from Bom-
bay.'
I felt my heart beating strangely,
and the blood rushing int.* my stupid
old face. I could seethe likeness to
Edith; it was particularly notice-
able in the full grey eyes.
' My mother said I was to tell
you '
'Is she still living?' I ventured
to ask, for the suspense was awful.
The girl shook her head, and the
tears came into her eyes as she said,
' I am an orphan.'
Something brought 1he little
palette to my mind, and its poor
faded patches of colour, and I think
there were tears in my own eyes
too.
'I was to give you this packet,
and tell you that I was christened
Edith Westwood.'
'God bless you!' I exclaimed;
and she came and nestled in the
trembling old arms which I
stretched towards her.
She knew the story of my life.
Edith Yiner had really loved the
poor painter. (How all the sunshine
of the northern city came back to
me in a moment!) But she had
been engaged to Capt. Howard
before she saw me— engaged almost
from childhood, and their hands had
54
Shadows in Onllinp.
b 1 11 joined at lior father's bedside
wh< n i e lay d\ tag.
she had steeled her heart to lior
fate; but whilst she was free my
iy had a fascination for her
which Bhe conld not overcome. \t
l : -t she Btrove to make me hate
her; and that morning's encounter
when last I saw her was to give
the tin il Mow to my liking. She
rly broke her own heart in deal-
ing it, hut the die was east.
True to hi t last words, she had
m ver painted again. Alas! she,
I >. had known no happiness. Her
husband, I gleaned afterwards, in
quiet interviews with the daughter,
was a pay, selfish fellow, who met
with a dishonourable death.
So our two lives were blighted ;
now you understand what a
big Borrow it was which I bad been
doing battle with by hard work. And
if you like to call me a jilted old
bachelor, you may ; but 1 still cling
to that i" Hi palette and the memo-
tbat Burround it.
In the hands of Fate we are
all as mnch puppets as were those
absurd wax figures in the hands of
Jinks, whose idols fell into the
I ■ i Bsion of her deadliest i'oes.
Edith Westwood Howard was my
ward, Ideas her la art ! And she
appeared like an angel at my fire-
side for a few Bhort months, she is
Mrs. Lloyd (haven now, and a
mother too ; and her t-1 1 i lil r» n call
great grandpa in fun, laugh
at my wheel - chair, and call it
great- grandpa's little perambula-
tor.
Have not the ridiculous anil the
sublime been strangely mixed up in
m\ life ? Hast Dight 1 dn aint 1 was
one of the Tick Street pupp
very white and ver) cold, with an
old palette by my side with faded
spots of yello v and red an I brown
upon it. And when I awoke I was
sitting in my perambulator, as the
children call it, with several people
round me; and somebody said, ' Ho
is a very old man.' and another said,
' Ah, he'll never paint any more.'
And then I was in the northern
city again, where; the said she
would never paint Bgain. It. seemed
as it' memory was kind to me, and
I pot up and went to my room,
and asked for her palette; and there
I sit in the evenings, and smoke and
<hat with Lloyd Craven, who is at
the top of the tree, they say. He is
engnged upon a great picture now,
called ' Ev< ning.' There is a bit of
Bhingly river in it, an old man, a
grey cathedral tower amongst somo
trees, and the sun is sitting in the
vest. It is pleasant to talk to
Craven about the twilight and the
evening, and 1 want him to paint
an unused palette by the side of
the old man, and an ease 1 with a
half-finished picture upon it ; then
Edith, his wife, peeps in and laughs
at us, and we nod at her and go on
smoking; and so the evening pa
and the long daik night comes
on.
■
*v<
Drawn l>i M. Ellen Kdwai I- |
ONLY A YEAH AGO.
■■' r ./■<
5< ■ ill.- Poem.
£5
ONLY A TEAR AGO.
ONLY a year ago, you say !
How wearily time goes by,
With a sigh at the birth of every clay,
And a tear of every sigh !
The bill-top peeps from clouds of mist,
The fields forget the snow,
The garden sings where we have kissed,
And only a year ago.
Only a year ago,— one week
From the dust of the year he kept:
He said thit the roses left my cheek
When my hand to his ringers crept.
The time was brief, but the love w r as long-
At least he told me so
In the f irewell notes of the farewell song
He sang me a year ago.
Song.
Let us cli^g to love, and never
From our hearts its ringers sever,
Though the cry rings on for ever,
Loved and lost, loved and lost :
Summer's rain and winter's frost ;
Sigh of days we've loved and lost.
Grief too deep for human feeling
Happy hearts are oft concealing;
Foi they hear the echoes stealing,
Loved and lost, loved and lost.
When on cruel seas we're tost,
Then our cry is loved and lost.
Eyes are weary soon of weeping,
And we're longing for the sleeping,
But the cry is ever creeping,
Loved and lost, loved and lest.
Wait the melting of the frost
All who whisper, loved and lost
There's a ray of sunlight gleaming ;
Lake-blue eyes, once sad, are beaming ;
Lefs awaken from our dreaming,
Loved and lost, loved and lost:
Life was pitiless at most
When its joys were loved and lost !
To the spar we're wildly clinging,
Which the ocean — love, is bringing:
On the shore are voices singing
Never lost, never lost :
On the waves our bark was tost ;
Oft in danger— never lost !
"Beautiful Miss Johnson,
Only a year ago, I strovo
To live when he left my Bight ;
His eyes the dn amy enchantment wove,
1 losl himself in the night
I lived on hope, bnl he lefl me brave,
And he had a hearl to show :
Tlir loses died with the love he gavo
I ■ . i Iher a year ago.
Only a year ago, yon say;
He's luarrie I, I hear, Bince then :
"1'is a capital thing to have one's way,
As well for women as men !
Shall I just whispi r Into her ear
And tell her all 1 know?
I'll keep the Been t, don't you fear,
Entrust* d a Mar ago!
C. W. S.
BEAUTIFUL MISS JOHNSON.
Cljr (Frperunuol of a (SusrUman.
CHAPTER I.
HOW did you come, my dear?'
This question was addn
by my 'Aunt Georgie 1 (a venerable
relative, ov< r whoa Ful head
some two-and-twinty sumi
might have w.txc d and i and
how charming a joung aunt is, by-
the-by) to a Bingularly beautifnJ
girl in full evening toilette, whom
the butler had just announced as
above.
I beg pardon for the slip — not
7"//. a-s abovo. The respectable
dignitary in whose service my uncle,
the Hon. and Bey. ReginaldjGwynne,
then ImiiL', was not so far gone
in aesthetics as such an enthusiastic
announcement on his part might
the reader to imply.
• .Mi-s Johnson,' was all he said, to
herald the appearance of the most
dazzling vfcion that ever glai
like a Bhool r into the quiet
centre <>t' a family eircli Med
to do honour to the gnests,ol \\ horn
beautiful Btrangi t the first
to arrive - Btrangi r, at U ast, ai Ear
as I was conoi i ii' 'I. although i
<li ntly on Bufflcii ntly intimate terms
with ' Aunt G whom
l strongly Buspt ctod ol I ry in
the matter, when I paw tlie mis-
chievous smile which played about
her mouth as she advanced with
both hands extended, and as the
question quote I above came muti-
lated into tlm e sections by the
heartiness of a Feminine embrace.
' How did'— a ki.-s up >n one cheek
— 'you come'— a ki>s upon thu
other— 'my dear?- a seal upon the
exquisite lips, which, when they
weri I from the tender hin-
drance, proceeded to scatter pe
as follows.
'Just cantered over a la Baby
Blake, without even the attendant
" gossoon." I rode all alone bymy-
r Stonecross Mo *r, in the
dark, on the Mack mare : and I shall
ride luck again thi
by moonlight to-nighl romantic
i :i tor you, ' ■( orgie, I
take It.'
' Georgie!' There had tx en 1 1 •
ry, tia n. as 1 had BUSpectl d, on
the part ol ' my aunt.' I could |
iint, and account vers satisfac-
torily, as tar as 1 was < C< rued, tor
the roguish twinkle which I had
detect d in thi! < ye of that
matron thu Hon. Mrs. Reginald
Beautiful Miss Johnson.
57
Gwynno, as she had gratuitously in-
formed mo that ' there was nothing
very striking in the beauty line' in
the quiet neighbourhood which her
dutiful nephew was then introduced
to for the first time — nothing, at
least, that 'a London swell/ as she
saucily dubbed me, • would care to
look at twice.' 'You are so blase,
you know, my dear,' she had gone
on to say, ' and we are all so much
too slow for you, down here at
Tower Moor.'
I saw through it all. It was an
attempt at revenge on the part of '
my spriteish aunt, for some imper-
tinent remarks which I had mule
with regard to the excitement which
pervaded the establishment, from
attic to cellar, on the score of ' the
party.' So Aunt Georgie her-elf in-
sisted upon calling the circle of
friends and neighbours to be assem-
bled at Tower Moor rectory on a
certain day, in honour of its being
the anniversary of the one in which
she came home to it as mistress and
bride.
The fact of so juvenile an aunt as
I had the good fortune to possess is
thus explained.
My good uncle Reginald had
married at the mature (and to me
venerable) age of forty, the orphaned
daughter of an old college friend,
who, after bringing up his only
child in every luxury, had died ;
leaving her in distressed circum-
stances to the care of a world whose
tender mercies, in a case of such ex-
ceptionable innocence and beauty,
would probably have been more
cruel than its coldest indifference or
neglect.
It was to this seemingly adverse
crisis of circumstance that my
Aunt Georgie was indebted for the
happiness of her life. Uncle Re-
ginald, staid and reverend as he
was, was the only man that the
bright-faced, light-hearted girl had
ever loved; but this fact would
never have dawned upon the per-
ception of that true-hearted gentle-
man himself, but for the passionate
burst of tears with which she re-
jected his purposely-made unim-
passioned proposal, and but for the
heartbreaking sob which accom-
panied the words, ' You are taking
me out of pity, and I have nothing
left but you. If you had only loved
me, Reginald, how happy we miglit
have been !'
From that moment they under-
stood one another, and the happiest
menage, into the domestic; core of
which it has been my fa'e to pene-
trate, is that over which Aunt
Georgie presides (with a strand or
two of silver now amidst the nut-
brown tresses which are as abun-
dant as ever) amid the beloved sur-
roundings of her cherished home.
Those silver threads* are indeed her
proudest boast. ' Who dare say
now that I am young enough for
my husband's daughter?' she exult-
ing ly asks : ' why, Reginald has not
a grey hair.'
She keeps to herself the fact, of
which she must be well aware, that
the snow-blossoms scattered upon
her own head are but the white
angel-watchers ever standing about
a little grave, which tbe sun kisses
and the dew waters in the quiet old
churchyard at Tower Moor.
I am aware that I have digressed,
but Aunt Georgie is worthy of a
digression; and thinking of her
helps me to recall more vividly to
mind, the fun that sparkled in her
cloudless eyes that night, as she
took in with a rapid side-glance the
effect which the appeal ance of so
dazzling a vision had made upon
the blase 'London swell," who had
derided the idea of what she had
been pleased to call ' a party,' in the
wilds of her North Devon home.
'Rode!' she exclaimed, in answer
to her friend Miss Johnson's start-
ling assertion with regard to her
means of transit across the wild
moor, with the dangers and difficul-
ties of which I, as a Londoner, had
made myself well acquainted before
trusting myself to explore it by day-
light — 'rode, child, what can you
mean? Why, you look as if you
had just come out of a bandbox,
does she not, Harry?' and as my
Aunt Georgie appealed to me thus
personally for confirmation of her
verdict, she touched lovinply with
her hand the folds of the rich white
satin, which draped the faultless
form in pure classical folds, and
which certainly looked guiltless of
53
Beautiful Mu$ Johnson.
the wild flight across Stonecro88
M ..>r, of which Mi^s Johnson had
laughingly b lash d.
I could only bow, in answer to
my aunt s Rppeal, for the young
lady took the, words that I was
about to utter out of nay mouth, as
ahe rattled on.
• X"ou d m'l suppose that I rodo
in white •-a , m ov< r the moor, you
unsophisticated darling? I sent
'• my things " as the maids say. on
an hour ' efore, and there I found
i ly laid out, and a lire
lighted m tin' s | >a re room for me to
dress by, I v tint excellent woman,
.Mrs s mpson, whom I have deeply
uded now, I fear, and perhaps
made an enemy tor lite.'
' How d.d you manage that, my
dear?
' Simply by declining to let her
have any Bnger in the pie of my
'hack haii,' - as she is pleased to
call it. Heaven forfend! 1 said;
make your own mistress as great an
outrage against nature as you like
t a ( !uy, you know, I should
have said to you), luit keep your
rilegioii8 bands off my hack hair
it" you please. She is now most
probably solacing her wounded
feelings bj proclaiming to all whom
it might concern below stairs, that
the Btrange young lady wean a wig.
Perhaps I do ' added this modern
1 1, \'n II. ii. suddenly flasliing her
line eyes tor the first time upon me,
' l.ut it is a very K"od one, is it not,
Mr. Gwynne? 1 '
' Inimitable!' I answered, without,
as I felt, that aplomb and selt-pos-
ion, win h I had been so confi-
dent <>i' . ihih ting before the be-
iiti d ecu. try folk, whom 1 had
been taught to believe were, as a
--■, deficient in those shining and
town-bred qual ties
■ An iiiim table imitation,' Miss
.I.>hn-oii answer d |ui skly ; ' hut the
worst of it is that it does not
match.'
' Match! what with 9 ' ask< d Aunt
identlj . r amused
with the o id in s of this wild girl of
the WOOds, a- she chose to call her,
although fiom the moment in which
I first felt at a disadvantage with
..f manner, and
of goo l breeding, with the
beautiful stranger, T put it down as
a tact in my own mind that sin- was
ii' it country bn cL
' Why, witli my eyes, to bo sure ;
what else OUght a woman's hair to
go With, if not with her own I J
Mrs <• e?'
• \ contrast is sometimes bettor
than a match/ was the i-( ady reply.
' What makes people look twice at
you, is the contrast of your black
eyes with your flaxen wig: it is a
little out of the common, you know,
that's all.'
' Well, as long as I am not con-
demn d to wear my yellow locks,
padded out with (had men's hair,
or with a knotted net strained
tightly over it, giving it the appear-
ance of the inflated hall that L used
to play with in my early childhood,
I am content/ Miss Johnson re-
torted, shaking the lovely head as
she did so, crowned with the silky
locks of pale gold,— which did, in-
dei d. offer a remarkable contrast to
the dark, gazelle- lil e eyes, and which
were arranged with a stu.licd neg-
ligence, or, as Mis. Simpson criti-
cally expressed it, 'no how.'
' Sou need not be so severe, Nelly/
said my aunt, preh nding to he of-
fend* d, and whose own thick auburn
tresw b did certainly seem to i. be!
against the confinement of the
gold net in Which Mrs. Simpson's
nimble fingers had imprisoned
them that night ' A coiffure a la
gooseberry-bush would not becomo
ever? body as it does you.'
' The language is getting deci-
dedly persona] and unparliamen-
tary, and Mr. Gwynne looks quite
scandalized at our naughty beha-
viour. Here are your guests arriv-
ing, so do let us t>o proper, Mrs.
Gwynne/ Miss Johnson here re-
marked, putting me down again, in
that perfectly civil yet profoundly
humiliating manner, at which only
a well-bred woman can arrive; a
proceeding which amused my mis-
cbievoUS aunt to such an extent,
that she had some difficulty in com-
posing her features into the gravity
and de.orum expected from the
mistn n ol the hona , by the grave
country squires and dames, who now
began to arrive- at the rectory; in
some cases with striiiL'-i of daugtt-
Beautiful Miss Johnson.
59
ters or holdile-de-hoy sons in their
wake, ' following them in rotation
like a string of ponies to a fair.
' The party,' indeed, as my aunt
called it, in heir dear unsophisticated
country way, was, with the excep-
tion of ' beautiful Miss Johnson,'
tame and humdrum enough, as
parties in which the bumpkin ele-
ment predominates (I maintain it
in spite of Aunt Georgie's frown) are
apt to be.
There were the standing dishes of
Sir John and Lady Bull, and Squire
and Mrs Applegarde, with the
Masters and Misses Bull, and the bud-
ding beauty apple-blossom with her
innocent airs and graces, and the bat-
tery of her laughing blue eyes,
directed full at the promising young
calf, the hopeful scion of the house
of Bull. Then there was the curate
from the next parish, (looking much
more hungry and careworn than
the curate of my uncle's parish
would have looked, had he pos-
sessessed so cheap a luxury), and
the curate's wife, and the curate's
sister, whose home-made gowns
proved highly provocative of mirth
on the part of the Misses Bull, and
the beauty apple-blossom, who set-
tled it with many shrugs and giggles
between them, that they must have
been fashioned in the ' year one.'
* And did you ever see any one's
hair done such a figure, my dear ?'
asked the latter of the two grand
young ladies, whom this touch of
ill-nature had made ' kin ' with the
beauty apple-blossom for the nonce,
whom they, as a general rule, rather
affected to despise.
It was a strange voice which an-
swered the question after the Irish
fashion, by asking another in a tone
of abrupt and rather cynical in-
quiry. ' As whose?'
'Why, as Mrs. Suckling's to be
sure. But la ! Miss Johnson, how
you do make one jump!'
' If you, or [, had hair like that
Lucy Applegarde, we could afford
to dress it a la Suckling,' returned
the young lady so apostrophised;
and the rebuke aimed at the ill-
nature of the self-satisfied critic
■was the more telling because it was
made within hearing of one or two
of ' the gentlemen ' (as Miss Apple-
garde would have expressed her-
self), whom that young lb-bo num-
bered among her adherents.
' How odd she is!' she contented
herself with murmuring under her
breath to her two late allies, who
having, however, witnessed her hu-
miliation and defeat, blushed in their
noses, as it was their unfortunate
propensity to do ; and who, as they
shook out their lace pocket-hand-
kerchiefs, and folded their chubby
hands, in gloves too short at the
wrists, tried to look stonily uncon-
scious of the heretical remark.
They did not particularly care to
make an enemy of ' that clever Miss
Johnson,' as the county ladies
called her. Her beauty they pro-
nounced 'overrated;' but her ta-
lents they were all ready to acknow-
ledge as of a shining kind. From
this fact we may deduce another,
viz., that the young lady whom they
thus described was both clever and
beautiful ; but that her beauty gave
her the gift of power over the oppo-
site sex, which is the only gift that
one woman ever covets of another:
consequently their depreciation of
Miss Johnson's superlative charms.
It fell to my turn next to be
startled out of a reverie into which
I had fallen — 'an outrage against
society,' and a reflection upon my
' town breeding,' as Aunt Georgie
afterwards reminded me, by a sil-
very whisper close to my tar, which
surprised me into a blush, to the
eternal detriment of the boasted
savoir /aire of two-and-twenty: a
blush of pleasure, however, for it
said —
' Take me in to dinner, if you
please, Mr. Gwynne, — it is your
aunt's particular request.'
This last clause was added with a
little saucy inflection of the voice,
which confirmed me with regard to
the suspected conspiracy between
my aunt and her brilliant guest;
having for its object the defeat and
overthrow of a young disciple in the
nil admirari school, to be made to
surrender at discretion, under the
fire of those basilisk eyes. This
coquettish assumption of authority
over me, a nephew, her own senior
by some months, was one of my
pretty young aunt's most piquant,
GO
Beautiful Mist Johnson.
I, in my eyes, most winning a
tations.
Tin re was little fear of my tam-
ing rebel, in thi in point l
jus I as mucb afraid ol the b!
mj companion's wit, and ol hex
u\iii' nt pow< is ol rt part i, as a v< ry
young man hi • I, win. d tlio
object of liis ad iral on is a year ox
two older than himsi If, and when
hex very snubs implj a b iri of pxo-
Lng appropriation, which axe as
sweet as hi 'in \ to his aspiring soul.
There ia a gr< at deal too much of
ridiculous solemnity about the rites
tu liu ol •served at a 'dinner party,'
especially when that party happ ns
to be ass4 uibled in the remote and
savage wilds of a country, where a
thick-headed baronel is a sort of
king, and a worthy and honourable
rector, like my uncle Reginald,
iter than Wolsey, on bis own
If we bad been called upon to
tst at the awful celebration of
some Dr'iidical ceremony, or even
to pile the i ugged altars w ith living
victims, selected from the centre of
our domes ic hearth, a stillness more
urn could not have fallen upon
our bo lis than Ibllowe 1 upon the
dchral announcemi nt of the
rificing high priest, the butler, —
r is si rved.'
My ancle, whose duty lay clear
•re him, broke the charmed circle
of maidens an I matrons, by g
off at a l.a; i he always
did when nervous) with bustling,
important, led Lady JJull
upon bis arm. Hi- mi; had
the satisfacti in o ling like an
isol ited k ng, checkmab 'I by a vin-
dictive quern, in green velvel and
Bpectaclcs, for full five minutes, at
the lit a<l of his own tab! the
□ filed Blowlj in ;
my Auii' | indexoUB
baronet driving it before them like
a flock of impracticable sheep.
Fire, ox no fire ? was the question
which now bui lusly
rom i ach < mancip ited male lipj and
the question implii d a rapid
ion between the cold of the
arctic ami the licit of tl.
there intervened in n
oth< r pa ' he fin d
able, winch Left us btandwg
solemnly standing in our pis
awaiting the rectorial grace. To
one more interruption, howev< r, we
wen- doomed cau ■•■ i i>. the d<
• transit of B mild and shaine-
d youth to a more eligible
position than the one he had ch
peremptorily forced upon him i»y
the inevitable busybody, who is an
institutional country dinner parties),
and who, alter < ntangling bin
hopelessly in crinolines, and coming
in \ iolenl contact w ith an indignant
butler, who looked inc ini dto knock
him down with a table-napkin,
suddi nly foundi n d bi twe< n two
crinolines, In his endeavour to obey
the pompous injunction ' Divide the
ladies, my hoy— divide the la
Can't have two ladies sitting to-
gether: never do— invt I
Then my uncle, after a furtive
glance round the table, proceeded
to apply the torch to the funereal
pile, by tl e pronunciation of a
mi blessing, which was utb red
in the conventional voice, which the
mosi excellent and reverend of nun
si e lit to assume on the celebration
of the important religious ceremony
of ' dining out.'
' It always strikes me that it is a
little ill-timed. 1
These words were muttered by
my beautiful neighbour in so Iowa
voice that the \ scarcely mum d to
be addn Bsed to an] individual ear ;
but 1 gathered up the pearls
I bey slipped rather than
tell from her lips, and replied —
' You mean what childn n call
" saying our grace " It i- OUJ
thai the verj same ide i '•• as pa sing
through my mind. 1 call it con-
ventionalism not religion.'
' I suppose few would dignify it
by that name. Tin | I dislike
the custom is, that I think it some-
times savours of the ri liculous. It
is like anotli' t v< rj absurd custom
men h ive— that of lo iking into
their hats for a moment ox so when
they t nter a church. Thi y think it
looks devout, l>ut to mi ex-
actly the contrary eff< ot. I know 1
think about w hen thi y do it is
n it will he tini" tor them to
look out of them again.'
' You are very severe, Mi— Julm-
fcon.'
Beautiful Miss Johnson.
CI
' No, I am not, indeed ; but I hate
shams ; and in anything to do with
religion I hate them more than in
common things. Your uncle said
grace, now, just as if he thought \vc
were all naughty children, not likely
to be thankful for our food. Not that
h shams— dear, good man that he is
—I don't mean that tor an instant:
but why give the opportunity of
doing so, all about a question of
meat and drink ? Do you suppose
Sir John thought of anything else
all the time but what was under the
dish-cover before him? Turbotand
lobster sauce, " Amen." Depend
upon it, that was his grace, Mr.
Gwynne.'
' 1 don't doubt it,' I replied. ' I
wonder how many of us thought of
what we were supposed to be think-
ing of.'
' I can tell you for my own part
to a nicety. I was wondering
whether Britomart (that's the black
mare, you know) had been turned
out of the middle stall, to make
room for tho e two mammoths of
Sir John's, that he calls carriage
horses. She'll do herself, or some
one else, a mischief, if she is over-
crowded or fidgeted, and there's no
trusting to grooms.'
'Shall I send to inquire?'
'Oh, no! pray don't; it would
look like impertinence. Britomart,
like her namesake, can take care of
herself.'
'She is high-couraged, I suppose,
like the " martial mayd." Is Spenser
a favourite poet of yours ?'
'I have not set up a favourite
poet. I think in most instances it
is a reflection on the poet, when
young ladies make that avowal. I
always pity Longfellow.'
'On the contrary, I think him
greatly to be envied. No Poet's
Corner would be complete without
him, in the estimation of the fair e ex.'
' I am afraid I despise mere pretti-
nespes ; and I am not of the gushing
school. What did Georgie— your
'aunt,' I mean— tell you about me?'
The question was so abrupt, and
the flash of those wonderful eyes
so simultaneous, that I was com-
pletely taken by surprise; and I
could only stammer out with school-
boy awkwardness of manner, '"Why,
to tell you the truth, she told me
nothing.'
' She kept her own counsel,
then?'
' I conclude so.'
' I thought she would let you
into the secret, and then tell you to
be sure and seem surprised. That
is how clear simple souls like her
generally negotiate a secret.'
' Surprised at what ?'
'At me. Please do not think of
paying me a compliment. I know
quite well what they say about me
down here. I have all sorts of
detractors as well as adherents in
these wilds, and the worst that the
first can say of me is that, " She's
odd, my dear, you know— decidedly
odd."'
The verdict of Miss Johnson's
detractors was given by her with
such a wonderful imitation of the
cracked, feeble voice of a very old
lady, that I looked quickly round
at her, to satisfy myself that it was
only, as she had said of h< r hair, a
joke ; an ' inimitable imitation,' after
all.
' Why did you look at me in that
curious way?' she immediately ob-
served. 'Did it happen to come
across you that you had seen me
before?'
4 1 looked to see if it was yourself,
as an Irishman would say : you
startled me by your powers of
mimicry.'
' And you were not thinking that
you had seen me before ?' she per-
sisted.
'Certainly not. I could hardly
have been oblivious of the circum-
stance if I had.'
' Oh, dear !' she sighed rather than
uttered, after this unfledged remark
of mine, of which I was, indeed,
ashamed the moment I had made it.
' You are all alike. What fools you
must think us— or, saving your
presence,' she added, with a merry
laugh, ' what fools you must be.
There is no getting you to ride
straight, if there is a gap or a gate
in the shape of a compliment within
a mile of you. I only asked you the
question because you have seen me
before, and I have, seen you: so
what becomes of your compliment
now ?'
C2
Beautiful Miss Johnson.
' Impounder I exclaimed, tin's
timo spontaneously, ' I could not
have forgotten it it" I hud too you
before.'
' That's better/ Miss Johnson
coolly retnrne l ; ' more " from ye
quicke,' as the pre-Raphaelites Bay.
l ilon*t like compliments, Mr.
( Iwyune.'
■ l!i. n yon do not like the truth ;
for truth must take the form of a
compliment when il deals with you.'
' ] like g "".I, wholi some flattery ;
tliat's quite a different thing. If yon
had simply paid, " I think you the
in tst beautiful creature [ever saw,"
] shouM have taken it, and swallo
it, as a child does a sugarplum ; hut
men: compliments arc stale: ami
unprofitable: there is nothing racy
or to the ]> lint about them.'
'I must apologize most humbly
for the transgression ; and in return,
will yon he so good as to enlighb o
me? How. when, and where did
i see you before T
'I am not going to tell you that :
I will only tell you that I have not
lived in North Devon all my life.'
' That fact speaks tor itself. Aunt
rcrie's triumph is but a short-
lived mi'', after all.'
* What triumph are you speaking
of, Mr. i twynne ?'
'Her triumph over me with
advanl country
Over town life. 1 know In r S(
now: she meant to play you as her
trump raid, ti j ing to pass you off
upon l: ;ll girl of the
wo ids." l'n »r, <h ar, inno lent Aunt
[t must have been in
town that I hav< yon that we
met in lore. Miss Johnson.'
' Possibly. Y" i aii' a ( ruards-
man ?'
1 bowed, and a saucy smile pla;
round th< c in hi r mouth,
Whic I. to my anli lit m.
nation, to imply, ' and you are I
very, very youn
• Vmu are to death down
here in these will n.
all she sai I ; but till n w
look in In r dam
my L'ii ii.l
:, • Not a* all : I i DJoy it for
I mid
to think i condi n
ate here fur hie ; that's all.'
'You would not like to l»e me
then,' my companion answered; and
I thought Hie tone of her voici
mellowed into sadness as she 1 1 -
peated to herself absently, as it
seemed to me, my words ' I'm- life.'
1 That will not lie your
' It will - at least,' she added with
a feverish fervour both in Ik r i yes
and voice, '1 hope and pray that it
will.'
' Do you not feel yourself wast 1.
thrown away, down here— you who
are so piv-em ' Here I remem-
bered myself in time, and broke ofl
in the middle of the word.
'I am glad you pulled up. T
should so like to fei 1 that tin re was
one man in the world who could
talk to me, as if my sex -and my
In auty, if you like for I am SO vain
you see that compliments are thrown
away upon me '. dill not put me be-
yond the pale ol ('1)11111101! sense. It
was bad enough before, but it i
exaggerated down here. 1 will show
you what I mi an. Sir John,' she
said.abruptly turning to the baronet,
who had hardly uttered since the
torch bad been applied to the Druidi-
cal altar, and the sacrificing high
priest, the butler, had p »un d out
his libations, like hlo "I. ' what c 1 i < 1
vim think of the chesnnt I bad out
with the Btaghounds the othl r day ;
was he up to the mark, or not ''.'
■ Every horse lo >ks up to the
mark that you ride, Mi- Johnson,
tinlj when you are ..n his hack-
he stands a chance of being over-
looked ; that's the truth of the mat-
ter, I take it. Siiiin t ing b
worth lo iking at there, i h?
'That's the sort of thing T mean,'
she said, turning coolly t i me ' it
is hard, isn t it '{ I n ally want to
an opinion about that chesnut,
and Sir John's is as gi o I
aboul here, that
would ere it Now I'll try some-
thii g i Which of the rival can-
didates is likely to he returned for
sd\t rton, Mr. Applepardi I I
been canvassing all the farmers lor
the true blue.'
' Yon don't wear it iii your
that's the worst of it don't
I to your own colours. You'd
1 1 hrn fustible if you did. like the
Duchess ot -Devonshire in old times,
Beautiful Miss Johnson.
(B
who gave a ki> & to a butcher for his
vote.'
' Thank you, squire, for the hint ;
I will leave the butchers of North
Devon to their fate rather than run
such risks. You would hardly be-
lieve now,' she said, again addressing
me, ' that the squire is a hard headed,
practical man in his vocation, and
that his heart is with the Conserva-
tive candidate. This is what 1 have
to bear With, and I do so stand in
need of a friend— a practical, sen-
sible friend, for I am very much
alone down here.'
It might have been a fancy, but
I thought that those large lustrous
orbs moistened for a moment, and
that there was a slight, tremor in
her voice, as the last sentence es-
caped her, and I answered, lowering
my voice instinctively, 'too much
alone, perhaps. Have you read that
book, Miss Johnson ?'
' I have read every book, I be-
lieve, that has come out within the
last two years. I have twenty vo-
lumes from Mudie's at a time, and I
change them every month.'
I noticed that she used the singu-
lar personal pronoun with reference
to her life and actions. Was it pos-
sible that this young and beautiful
girl actually lived alone on these
wild moors, among this semi-bar-
barous race, who evidently, to use
her own words, 'bored her to death'
with their platitude's and their
clumsy idolatry? The idea was
preposterous, and I ventured on a
leading question to clear up my
doubts on the subject.
' You do not mean to imply that
you live alone, Miss Johnson?
Society down here of course there is
none ; but you do not mean to say
that you live by yourself?'
'Virtually I do,' was the reply.
' Mrs. Gwyime w ill tell you all about
me— it is part of our conspiracy,
you must know; she w T ill tell you
also how much I stand in need of a
friend— in a man of the world, I
mean, who would not be likely to
misinterpret any plain speaking or
plain dealing on my part; such a
friend, indeed, as it would be impos-
sible for me to make here.'
I thought I detected a sparkle of
fun in her eyes as she raised them
steadily to my face, when her voice
gravely pronounced the flattering
insinuation with regard to my
boasted knowledge of the world ;
and I immediately scored one to
my mischievous aunt's account, for
1 knew that she had be< n at work
here, and left her dainty footprints
to betray her place of ambush to
the foe.
' If I should ever be so happy,' I
had begun, when at a nod from my
aunt the whole body feminine rose
en masse, and were translated from
our sight in clouds of crinoline and
gauze, a signal on the part of my
uncle enlightening me as to the
fact that I was expected to take the
baronet under my peculiar adminis-
tration, which meant pljing him
with excellent port, and listening
patiently to his ponderous twaddle,
until the distant notes of the piano
shovdd sound the welcome signal of
alarm, to summon us, as my uncle
reminded us, with a liitlc nervous
flutter of his napkin, ' to the ladies.'
He hated tho>e long sittings as
cordially as myself, and the long-
winded talk of his country neigh-
bours over his good wine. Not that
he grudged them the wine, he was
as hospitable and as open-handed as
the day ; but since he had married
his charming little wife the prattle
of feminine tongues was sweeter to
him than the magisterial and poli-
tical discussions of which he had
enough on the bench and at the
cover-side.
' Let us have some music, Georgie,'
he said at once, going up to his
wife — a request on his part which
led, in the first instance, to an extra-
ordinary athletic display and feat of
arms on the part of Miss Althea
Bull, who thundered through a
wonderful composition, which she
ingenuously called ' her piece,' when
called upon, asamatUr of course,
on the conclusion of the perform-
ance to render up the name of the
composer who had hit upon the
conception of noise, unadulterated
by the slightest admixture of har-
mony or air.
' Thank you so much ; I am sure
you must be tired.' said my uncle,
innocent of the under current of
satire which some thought they had
G4
't if ul Miss Johnton,
1 in his remark; and as ho
hastened to ply her with tea be
whisper* d to his w i e as he ] assed,
'I hopo Misa Johnson is going to
Bing, r.'
• Jol as ■: -' Bing,' my
am ■ I ; 'yon go to h< r from
]i e ai 1 tell In r that I will take no
refusal ; she ia wonderfully qoiet to-
night,' she added, thinking Bhe was
addressj g her husband who, how-
I l< t h< r side.
When she d 1 her mistake
intrusted in r message to me,
an 1 1 hastei e I in quest oi the lovely
og( r, Ihe tl"\\ of wl ose white
- I bad already detected,
half-hi I den by t lie heavy silk cur-
: which portioned off my Aunt
'8 Imndoir from thedrawing-
;u. in which they did not often
Bit when aluno.
e was alone, hut within ear-
• df the (■■ nversation which was
being carried on between Sir John
. Mr. Applegarde, his brother
n the bench at Silvcr-
■ • nint.v town of tlie neigh-
bourhood; and 1 caught the words
'pom •-. 1 1 re in hiding,' ' detective
down,' 'think they've got a chic,'
which account d to me for the ab-
a'li i nt air with which .Miss
w is stroking the head of
aunt'.- little t. rri( r Spot, looking
a, and not pi i mj i q-
uutil I had had ampleoppor-
tunity ! i ing the fall and
ard curl of the most
in the world.
she was very pale, very sad, I
first ; but then her own
expression recurred to me in all its
mournful significance, and 1 came
tot) n thai she was only
'bored to death' from living, as she
had ■ ban hinted, ' too much
», or amidst minds and nati
i ; . ■ _ ■ t v. hi -h hex
must once have I" i ii cast.'
Shi • l me with a Bmile, and
ued hi r head gra towards
h ur at hi r side— a tacit invi-
m winch I gladlj j ing,
■ I rer ol a
ige, Mist Ji ho an, b req
('Jo be con
from my aunt that you will sing —
she dl '•lines to take any n fusal.'
' I shall he very happy,' she re-
plied, immediately rising, and leav-
ing the recess; then looking i
her ph< ulder with a queenly gesture,
that became her right will, she said.
' My fan, if von , Air. Gwynne,
it is on the wori I your right'
There I found it at last ; but it
v. ithin the slnets of a paper
h I h id brought that day from
Silvi rton, whither I I ad bei n sent
late on a mission which had tor its
object that same turbot which, ac-
• ' ' Johnson, bad formed
of the baronet's gra©
'Thank you,' she said as [gave her
the Ian; '1 must have left it there
when 1 was Looking for the ma
As she piaa d in rself at the piano
y one ceasi d talking, and my
unci nuine lover of music,
looked across a* me, as much as to
say, 'Prepare* yourself for a rich
A.'
Indeed, I was prepared already;
for tin re waa music m every inl
tion ol her voice, in every har-
i ious line of I ; and assho
I a prelude, winch i
l.ii ath of win I stirring the
surface of a lonely mountain lake,
Bhe perfi ct mastery
over the instrument, which, under
In r bed like the tuneful
reed of Pan. Twice 1 struck
rd, as though about to
launch her voice, like a skiff upon
-■, and t"
thi s i inds had died upon her lips
failure which she artistically
! by bn airing again into
impi d snatchi s of melody,
which v. isite in tnemsel
but which, J fi ar, were only ap]
ciati d aa harhinj era of her voice.
In vain we i i it ; the s'
lip Ii still ; and, as wo
wait. I in anxious, spell-bound 1 1-
i ed Ito-
nd ii i > uncle, with a Buddi n
exclamation, darted to tie side ol
ii • mi sician, v. ; ing like
iw-drift from her bi at to tho
■.
d.)
65
WATER DERBIES.
' AB OIUGINE.'
WE are all mad, argues Daraa-
sippus, each in his own way,
the maniac by the judgment of the
■world, the wise man in the estima-
tion of the fool ; and in some such
light may each generation view the
rages and fashions of its ancestors
and successors. Sportsmen of the
moor or the hunting field would not
now tolerate the ' walking after
hounds' from sunrise, the slow evo-
lutions of a lumbering Spanish
pointer that delighted our ancestral
squires; and they, in turn, would
stand aghast at the prodigality of
sport condensed or squandered in
an hour by us, when the fox is
raced down in forty minutes be-
tween midday an 1 afternoon tea, or
the cover that has been nursed and
watched for months is sacked in
one short hour to gratify the pride
of a grand battue.
Nor could they who thought no
shame in daily drunkenness and the
pride of three-bottle prestige, led on
by early daylight dinntr and fos-
tered by supper at unnatural
hours, who cried content with the
present continental standard of ab-
lution, relieved in aristocratic in-
stances by the Saturday's warm
bath, appreciate the early supper,
so construed dinner now a days,
moderate potations, early retire-
ment, and daily ' tub' that charac-
terises the life of nine-tenths of our
• upper ten.'
Change of regime of body must
perforce include change of habits
and exercise, and example once set
all follow suit readily to the new
doctrine. Hence, now that the
soberer and more wholesome line of
life of the new generation has given
new impulse to the physique and
lengthened the rates of life assur-
ance, what wonder that we seek to
test in rivalry physical develop-
ments no longer crippled by ap-
petite or fashion; that athletic
sports, in all sorts and shapes, have
taken such hold upon the mind of
our British youth? The furore
VOL. XII.— NO. LXVII.
did not develop itself in one year,
or even in a decade. More than
half a century was required to de-
velop the time-honoured Ilamble-
don and Chislehurst clubs into
the all legislative M. C. C. It was
years before grown * men ' of Uni-
versities and public clubs conde-
scended to practice in after life the
sports of foot-racing, football, &c,
that they had learnt and enjoyed
at school, but for so long taboo'd
as childish when they changed their
scene of action ; and last in me n f on,
yet greatest in existence and oldc-t
in date, has been the ever-increasing
furore for aquatics, rowing and
sculling, pur et simple, and not the
mongrel unhealthiness of ' canoe-
ing.' One race, par excellence, from
the purity of its aim and excellence
of its end, the prestige of its per-
formers, the publicity of its date
and of its locality, has gained the
title of the ' Water-Derby.'
Ten years agone scarcely a para-
graph in the daily papers heralded
the advent to Putney of the Oxford
and Cambridge crews ; their week
of sojourn was passed in silence;
and a quarter-column sketch, at a
' penny a line,' told sufficient for the
hour of the struggle when past.
And now the * Thunderer ' itself
thinks no scorn to devote two co-
lumns of description and a ' leader '
to boot on the day of battle ; and
the cheap press and its satellites
have fattened for days past upon
the jottings and pickings of Putney
practice. Barnes Terrace and Ham-
mersmith Bridge rival the 'Bow'
and the ' drive,' in fashion for our
afternoon lounger as the race draws
near ; and the Saturday half-holiday
brings down a larger throng of spec-
tators for the practice of dark and
light blue than came to see the
race itself in the great days of
Chitty and Meade King.
We hear so much of late that the
Cam is a ' mere ditch,' upon which
no decent boat can row and train,
that few will credit the fact that,
G6
Water Derhic$.
for some fortuitous reason, rowing
was a popular pastime al Cambridge
ev< n earlier than at ( Ixford ; but
tliis is going back to the 'dark
:' in those times as now tho
Cam was easy of access over open
and common ground; lmt the (sis,
bounded by Christchurch meadows,
did nol lie in a thoroughfare, and
boat-builders bad no licence to Bel
np ahop as m>w, alongside of the
walks. But Oxford soon caught
the infection, and within half a
generation the first University raeo
took place upon tho Thames from
Hambledon to Henley. There
Stanilbith for Oxford, still a iialo
and hearty squire on the shores of
Windermere, backed upbyGarnier
and Wordsworth of the future epis-
copate, won tho toss tor sides, no
small pain, and tho rare with ease,
while Snow, the Cambridge stroke,
bad behind him the present Bishop
Selwyn of New Zealand, so early
were tho doctrines of ' muscular
Christianity ' inaugurated. ' Light '
and 'dark blue were not then
established; Oxford wore blue
roa tt( s i'< nerally — Cambridge took
pink. In those days it was often
the custom for the ' bead ' College
Eight of each river, Cam and Isis, to
meet by mutual con i nl at the end
ol summer term as representatives
of their Universities, This accounts
for the non-continuance of the
match by Cambridge. No rec<
of these early days are preserved,
but we lnar thai Queen s College
headed Oxford, Christchurch hav-
ing ' taken off' from the head, in
equence of the opposition of
their dean, in 1837, and as the re-
cord saith, ' went as usual' to row
head boat oi Cambridge, St.
John's, on the lb nicy reach, and
t thi 11 ■ if ny.' The n run,
of these matches, and the rivalry
nl other clubs to com-
wiih the ( ni'
1 gentry ol li< nley to give
the far-fami d ' < Irand ( lhalli 1
Cop,' "i 1 11 to the world, in 1
this, with sn Iditional
formi d Hi 11!' ; B atta.
r, in 183^ Oxford and
Cambri ge 1 ad met again ; this
time from '> Putni j
was the comse, \\\c and a liulf
miles, and Cambridge won with
ease.
A little-Water, we fancy in 1S3S,
Cambridge, unable to get a 1
with Oxford, cl alii m ed the world,
and made a match with thi tn< n great
' Leander' Club. The rowing world
thought thai Cantab enthusiasm
had overshot the mark; lmt Cam-
bridge won gallantly— each bad
'professional' coxswains. In 1839
abridge again m ide an example
of Oxford from Westminster up; in
1840 they beal them again, lmt
Oxford were clo a op, 30 teet only
astern, and nol disgraced; lmt in
1 84 1 they fell oft, and lost by half a
minute. In 1842 Oxford had a re-
vival ; some scientific men, whose
names are still a household word —
sir I;. Menzii s,and a. Sbadwell, and
G. Hughes, brother ol the Lamiieth
M I'., turned the tide and won the
first race tor Oxford on London
water. In 1843 there was no race,
but the 0. U. i'.. C. went to Henley,
and the episode ol the ' seven oars'
came off. The ' Cambridge Sub-
scription [looms' held the Cup; in
their crew were all the HiU of
abridge oarsmen of 1 84 1 and
1842, some left, some still resident
at Cambridge. Oxford won
trial beats, bul in waiting for the
start fur the final In at the: Oxonian
Btroke, \\. Mi nzies, who had tx 1 n
for some days in a weak state ol
health, fainted in No. 5's arms. His
recovery was impossible, and Cam-
bridge with ju ' ■ 1 < Ixford
the use of any ouh mbez of
their club who might bo present,
but granted an hour'.- delay for the
stroke's convali Meantime
Oxford, infm lated at Hie idea of
losing victorj when apparently
within their grasp, determined to
t with sevon oars, and to the
posl they went, putting 7 at stroke;
how at 7, and how 1 ..nt.
rowi 1 tn tho Stewards'
Stand 1 ml proti Btcd 1 ! the
incom cl Dumb t 1 but the
executive 1 air them surrender tho
Cup or row. At the start they
11I to r< vi rse th< ir refusal and
.• < ixford anj • they liked
from the 1 ank ; bul I hi latter in
turn rein 1 !. and tin illy won a good
race by a clear length amidst an
Wafer Derbies.
67
uproar unparalleled. But this feat,
though a gn at one, cannot rank as
a ' University match.' Of this
' glorious seven,' all but tlie lato
Colonel Brewster of the Inns of
Court Volunteers, are still alive,
and for posterity the name of the
rest were, F. Menzies (brother of
the stroke who broke down), E.
Boyds, G. Boarne, J. C. Cox, B.
Lowndes, G. Hughes; steered by
A. Shad well. This crew with a new
bow, Stapj lton, again beat the
Cambridge crew, and also the Le-
ander Club, a few days later, for the
Gold Cup at the Thames Regatta.
In 1844 no match again ; but at the
Thames Begatta the 0. U. B. C. again
beat Leander, and this time also a
bond fide C. U. B. C. crew, by a long
distance. In 1845 Cambridge came
forward and beat Oxford, both at
London in a match and for the
Grand Cup at Henley. This time
the course, in consequence of the
increase of steamer traffic, was from
Putney to Mortlake. In 1846 Cam-
bridge again won; this time' a hard
race. In 1847 there was no match,
but Oxford beat Cambridge at Hen-
ley easily. In 1849 there were two
races, of which each won one, Ox-
ford the later one, by a foul, but
were plainly, by all accounts, the
best crew. In 1848, 1850, and 1851
there were no matches, but the
results of the Grand Challenge Cup,
won each of these years at Henley
by Oxford, and on the latter occa-
sion to the discomfiture of a Cam-
bridge University crew, seems to
point to their superiority. In 1852
the celebrated Chitty's crew beat
Cambridge in a match, and Meade
King's crew did the same with equal
ease in 1854. In 1853 there had
been no race, but both clubs met at
Henley, and Oxford won; they won,
however, by six inches only, and had
the best station of the two, so that
Cambridge, even if defeated, bore
no disgrace. In 1855, the • long-
frost ' stopped an impending match,
but at Henley Cambridge beat Ox-
ford easily. They did the same in
a London match in 1856, bat in
1857 Oxford won again, with a cele-
brated crew.
In 1858 Cambridge won at Lon-
don, but the Oxford stroke damaged
his rowlock at the start, so that he
could hardly use it. However,
Cambridge won the Cup at Henley
that summer, unopposed by Oxford.
In 1859 Cambridge sank in the
London match, but were fairly
beaten at the time. In t86o, Cam-
bridge won a hard race, and since
then Oxonian victory has lu.cn uni-
form; but the hard-fought races of
the last two years, in each of which
Cambridge has held the had for
three miles, yet lost the ra^e in the
fourth mile, have increased rather
than diminished the interest at-
tached to the affair. Nearer and
nearer have Cambridge come each
year to victory; in 1864 they led
for a few hundred yards, in 1865
for three miles, in 1866 for three
miles and a half, and on Apiil 13th
last they rowed the most wondrous
neck-and-neck race on record, de-
feated only at the last by three-
quarters of a length. Who, then,
can say that the tide of the last
seven years is not turning, even
now?
II.
HOW WE SAW THE LATEST.
Time - honoured ' Evans's,' re-
stricted to a 'half-crown benefit'
entrance fee, fell far short of the
Pandemonium that usually ushers
in the early morn of a 'Varsity race.
No crush, no shattered tables or
torn rails (for the latter had been
with foretaught wisdom removed
beforehand), no Bedlam, no Babel,
but a muttered hum from moving
groups that idly lounged around
the area.
Thither had ' we three ' strayed —
A, B, and C, your humble servant
whichever you please— a light blue,
a dark blue, and a waif from Alder-
shot. The Cantab, A, had no wish
to display patriotism at the expenses
of pocket, and agreeing with the
other two, much to his disgust, that,
barring accidents, Oxford must win
on the morrow, had joined us in an
endeavour to lay a few mutual 6 to
4's as our opinion. Somehow or
other speculation was a dead letter
at Evans's this year; diminished
numbers and increasing confidence
f 2
68
Water Derbiea,
in Oxford made the quoted* 6 to 4'
the evening papers a complete
myth, and though 1 to 1 was cur-
rently quoted there was little or
nothing to l>e done even for that
price. We heard from late arrivals
of 6 and - to 4 greedily taken at
the 'Oxford,' but a visit there was
too late. Conv< ration, chaff, and
ndy and Boda killed half an hour,
ami as the clock approached the
first small hour we wearily paused
: breath of air in the colonnade
side. Breakfast at the star and
t< r al - .\ m. wis the first fixture
our council of war ; then came
assion how we should kill the
time. The hours seemed too short
to make it worth while to seek tlio
'downy.' 'We should scarce be in
cur lirst (1< ep sl< ep before it be
time to rouse and bitt.' 'What is
worth doing at all is worth doing
well,' argued a Becorid; and 'no
good slci p can be got in four
lmurs.' • A soci il rubber till daylight,'
proposed the third, with a reservation
in favour of ' unlimited loo' as two
othi r i ii dn d splits lounged lazily
np to join the confabulation. But
the objection to slumber was more
in bravado than otl and we
should have in I'll sorry to be taken
le our h< arts
failed ur, and the m ighbouring
Tavistock n ceiv< d as.
A splash and plunge in an inade-
quate ' tumbj ' by mongrel twilight
and candlelight, and a hottle of soda
dashed with V. 0. P., soon washi d
away jnrched '( oppers,' the penalty
of late hours and heat d atmosphi re.
A dismal drive through drizzling
rain in the wmst of night ' gTO* li
t 1 Putney Bridge braced tho ap] e-
tite for 1 ven a - a.m. breakfast.
ad,' at l( ast through Ful-
1 mi, in the earlj hours, fell short
yean. The
tn aming river-
as but scanty ; •■ les, ex-
rival cabs, wi re few and far
between, nnd horsemen at a dis-
■:t ; hut we wi re ah( ad of the
tide, both of land ai d wad r. An
hour lab t Even as
iulliiin the '■■
mi to turn out in full panoply,
and Mm s of inair. , while
hero and there aiav l off in
muslin dresses trimmed with the
rival shades. I'>ut the rain was
pitiless, and the beauties soon were
draggletailed ere they reached the
Bcene of action.
Putney displayed a sort of dreary,
dripping excitement; the White
Lion and Star and (Jailer, the two
head-quarters, were thronged inside
with compatriots, outside with Bah l-
lites.
A heavy breakfast of substantia
everything thoroughly 'devilled,'
brightened us up and sent us to
stroll through the rain in quest of
go sip. We left tl e Star and its
denizens despondent, and found
those of the Lion triumphant, in
that for the a xth sure, s sive time
1 i 1 y had won the toss for Btatio
and in the streel the crowd and
crush grew denser and the rain
more pitiless. Jehus and their
freights entangled in the narrow
turns at the ' Bells' expostul
and vociferated ; a dense mass of
dripping umbrellas blocked the
footway. ( 'ne by one the steamers
surged through the Putney piles,
heavily laden, Bwaying sluggishly
from side to side, ami as the very
third-rate neap tide dn di d dreamily
up the ]> ach, ami the hour for de-
parture drew ii arer, all eyes
turned to the boat-housi s. We had
charten d a wh< rry, and r< ached our
Bt< ami r ' iff the pier. In gi iod time
Oxford were afloat, and closely were
Cambridge following when two
offending steamers broke the lino
laid down by or ler and lay to off
the Bishop's Creek to secure a self-
ish start. The ]ui e di nts were
firm, and he of the light blue spoke
his mind in person and finally with
suei'i ss. Then, when all obstach a
n moved, they came to the
starting-post, as near as possib
match in height and weight, at an
a- erage of 1 lb. a man in favour of
( ixford, about 1 in 170.
1 u 1 ourse i>ii t\ ii eling rose high,
and h ipes and fears still higher;
but tl ere was a sort ol d< spondency
among li^ht blue, a sort of faith in
the run of ill-luck, that conl ra ted
strongly with the nervous yet l>ois-
terous confidi net of the opposition.
And so wi' Btraini d and gazed over
each Other's shoulders till Scarlo
Water Derbies.
69
bade the men go, and with an in-
stantaneous shout the race had
begun. Each rather wild at start-
ing as they shot by us, Oxford a
trifle ahead, Cambridge gradually
quickening its stroke and coming
nearer, but not quite leading as they
rapidly left us and swept on towards
Craven Point. We could see each
crew settle down to its work and
row more evenly, but the contrast
between the two was something
wondrous. An ei>ht half way
through training might often row
a faster stroke than the Oxonians at
this juncture, infinitely slower than
their practice of the past wtek ; and
Cambridge, though approximating
nearer to a racing stroke, were yet
doing far less in the minute than
even Mr Brown in his celebrated
'waiting' race of 1865. The ' neu-
tral' of Aldershot times each stroke
as they pass Eose Bauk, and we
make them out Oxford 34 and Cam-
bridge 37 a minute They steer
wide of each other here, aud Cam-
bridge appears to be going by, to
the intense exultation of A; but
as they come nearer together off the
Crab Tree we can see the ripples of
the oars as near as possible abreast,
Oxford if anything in front (subse-
quent reports say half a length, but
it does not look so much). Each is
now rowing better than at the start,
and quite as strong, but Oxford still
keep on the same slow stroke, and
Cambridge are gradually quickening
theirs. The styles are very distinct,
Oxford very slow forward, and with
a long reach, yet driving their oars
through the water at double the
pace of Cambridge, while their boat
seems to spring half out of water at
each stroke. Cambridge are beau-
tifully together, but faster forward
proportionately, and even slower in
bringing the oar through the water,
though rowing the faster stroke,
and there is no such perceptible lift
in their boat. We held our breaths
for fear of afoul, as Cambridge, who
had been appirently going for the
Surrey arch of Hammersmith Bridge,
steered out suddenly, and Oxford
had, by mutual agieement of tho
course, to make room for them.
But all was safe, and they shot the
bridge in safety. Every chain and
bolt of the Suspenr-ion was black
with human beings swarming up
feet and claws one above the other;
a block of carriages choked all traffic
for half a mile back into Kensington
and right to Barnes. There was an
alarm of ' hats' and ' heads,' for thoi-e
who stood on our pad lie-boxes, as
our funnel dropped and we charged
through the bridge, the rest of the
steam fleet crowding recklessly be-
hind us and jostling each other's
timbers as they shoved through
nearly ten abreast. The cheering
crowd told us of Cambridge ahead,
aud true enough, as we cleared a
view through the cloud of smoke of
a dirty 'tug' that led the whole
fleet, we could see the light blue
oars sweeping round the curve of
Chiswick on the inside, apparently
a length in front; yet still not for
one moment did Oxford deviate from
their stolid, massive stioke, and the
second-hand of C's watch again
timed them at 34. There was a
head wind for the next mile, and
but for the weak flow of the tide
there would have been a strong
' sea ;' as it was, there was consider-
able swell, but each boat went
through it as evenly as if on a mill-
pond. B's Oxonian syinpithies
came in for chaff, for he still stuck
to his colours, and C consoled the
failure of his prophecy by declaring
himself 'devilish glad that Cam-
bridge had a turn of luck — they
deserved it.' Certainly the loss of
the lead, after having held it for
two miles, looked ominous for Ox-
ford. To all appearances Cambridge
still led as they entered Corney
Keach and crossed to the Middlesex
shore; and it was not till they
passed the Bull's Hea 1 and neared
Barnes Bridge that we could see
that Oxford once more had a slight
lead. We heard afterwards that
Oxford really went in front again at
Chiswick Church, so deceptive is a
stern view in perspective. From
Barnes Bridge we could see that a
tremendous race was going on, Cam-
bridge now rowing a terrific stroke
of any number, and even Oxford
doing nearly 37 a minute. Past the
White Hart and Mortlako Brewery
Cambridge were coming nearer and
nearer, till beyond tho 'Ship/ the
70
Boating Life at Oxford.
old winning-post, within a hundred
yards oi the end, Oxford Buddenly
woke op ami rushed in winners by
Dearly a length. We oonld Bee that
they had won, though not by how
much. It is hard to say which came
in for most chi ering, but Cambi idge
bad all the sympathy; and while
Oxonians Bwore that their men won
with something to spare, even they
could not di ny a foriim i the ma d
of prais( to the Cantab Btroke for
having made such a race with what
was, by confession of detractors, the
inferior crew, a black cloud settled
on all who wore light blue; it
seemed bo bard to all of us that vic-
tory should como so near, nearer
than ever, yet just elude the grasp —
an iqiiis fatuus.
The common impression of spec-
tators lower down the river seemed
to he that Cambridge had won, and
it took many assurances from return-
ing Bbamers to convince them to
the contrary. Then came the land-
ing, the crush of congratulation and
condolence, comparison of notes and
of opinions, and speculation as to
other possible results, iiut tho
race was won and lost; won, un-
doubtedly, by the sup nor science
and Bwing of the Oxford style, lost
by the quicker recovery yet less
powerful Btroke that year l>y year
comes from the ('am. Thai the
diss Ivantages of the latter river for
the acquisition of the ait of light-
■ rowing an- palpable compared
with those of the fsis we all agreed
when on the Sunday evening, freed
from the hurly-burly and dreary
Bpeeuhifying of the public dinner of
the evening before, we discussed the
race and Burgundy at Francatelli's.
Yet we, Who had Been and known
w h.it goo 1 teaching and theory
could do for Eton schoolboys under
Warn could not understand how
that the art one acquired should
become corrupt by being trans-
planted to the Fens for but ono
short year; while juniors of lower
boats, who in school -days had sat at
the feet of future emigrants to tho
Cain, should, when engrafted into
the bis school of rowing, learn to
beat their former leaders at their
own game. Misfortune surely could
not be inseparable from fault.
COATING LIFE AT OXFORD.
CHATTER V.
THE MAY RACES. — 'ST. ANTHONY'S LUCK.'
NEARLY two years had gone by
since the race described in the
last chapter, and two years bring
great changt B in College life. Senior
men pi - away, and humble mem-
of the Torpid, and tho second
I to be the hading spirits
of the Colli ge. And on these leading
spirits a great deal depends. The
reputation of the College on tho
r, in the cricket-field, perhaps
evi n in the Bobools, and certainly in
mor ii t me, real real extl nt,
with the |ui sident of the b tat club
and the cap! tin of the Eleven. At
N tat it wa BO in St Anthony's. The
College tutors help d u to win fJni-
ity prizi b, and to gi I ' tii
but tia real ter oi the Col
as a whole rose and fell with tho
character of tho senior men. And
now, having prepared you, gcutlo
reader, to expect some changes in
St. Anthony's, I shall go on with
my story, if I may bo call theso
rough and rambling sketches.
Dallett has got bis ' first,' and left
the College. IIo is ordained, and
married to a young heiress some-
where in Devonshire. Tip has be-
taken himself to the law, and is in
Chambers in the Temple, v. here ho
practises forensic oratory npon his
clerk, a youth of fourtei n years. I
> d him one day, and the elerk
having mislaid the lemon intended
for our punch, gave .in opportunity
for the display of Tip's rhetoric.
* May it please your Ludship,' ho
began, with a deferential bow to ine
Boating Life at Oxford.
71
then turning to«the chair intended
tor tho reception of clients, as jet in
perspective, ' Gentlemen of the jury,
the prisoner who stands cowering
and conscience-stricken in the dock
before you, hus pleaded guilty to a
crime that is, I may truly say, with-
out parallel in the annals of the law
— a crime so heinous that it is not
provided against by any statute nor
even by any precedent in the com-
mon law of this realm. This cri-
minal of tender years has poisoned,
so to speak, the social glass, for he
has robbed it of half its charm. He
has roused malignant and vindictive
feelings in the breast of his indul-
gent employer ; for what has he
done? He has mislaid that em-
ployer's lemon. Whether his Lord-
ship will consider this, gentlemen,
as a felony, or a petty larceny, or as
criminal negligeuce merely, I cannot
tell; but I am sure you will agree
with me that it is a gross misde-
meanour, and one which would
justify his Lordship in visiting the
prisoner with the utmost ligour of
the law. Get another lemon, you
young dog, or I'll sentence you to
penal servitude in the coal-hole for
the term of your natural life.' So
much for Tip.
Baxter having been, to the grief
of himself and his friends, floored
by the examiners for ' greats/ is still
a member of the College, and since
Hallett left, has been captain of the
boat club, with Vere for secretary.
To Wingfield aud myself nothing
particular has happened, except that
we have fallen in love and out again
more than once, and our zeal for
boating has grown with our whisk-
ers. It is February now, and row-
ing is going on in tho same business-
like way as heretofore. One even-
ing, at the beginning of the month,
Baxter gave a wine to certain of his
intimate friends, myself among the
number. In the middle of the even-
ing Dick Harris appeared— no very
uncommon circumstance at a con-
vivial meeting in College.
'A letter tor you, sir,' said Dick,
addressing Baxter, 'from India's
coral strand, where Greenland's icy
mountains roll down their golden
sand, you know, sir/
' What d'ye mean ?' said Baxter ;
'you're not screwed at this early
period, I hope. It's a prccr >us shaky
fist/ he continued, glancing at the
letter. 'Hallo! "Via Marseilles."
Why, it can't bo, yes, by Jove ! it is ;
it's Charlie Thornhill.'
'Hurrah!' said Vere; 'let's hear
what the dear old. boy says.'
' Well, he's been ill— fever or dy-
sentery, or something — so he's got
leave for a year, and he's coming
home. I'll read you a bit of what
he says : "I shall be in Kngland at
the end of February, and can't make
up my mind whether to go home
straight, or to run up to Oxford, and
see you all first."'
' Just like the jolly old brick/ said
Vere.
' " I've managed to keep up my
rowing a little,"' Baxter read on;
' " and if I'm not quite out of form,
perhaps you could find me a humble
place in the Eight once more." '
'Yoicks! Hark to him there!'
broke in Macleane. ' That ought to
put the steam into you E ghtsraen.
Won't the St. Anthony's colours cut
down the field, and go in winners
by any number of lengths after this !
I'll lay an even pony we go head of
the river this year/
' Hear, 'ear !' responded Dick
Harris, who, not having been yet in-
vited to take his usual glass, was
lingering wistfully near the table.
• Hallo, Dick, what are you wait-
ing for ?'
' Oh, just give him a glass of port/
' There you are, Dick. Now then,
your sentiment.'
"Ere's the 'ealth of the St.
Anthony's Eight/ replied Dick,
promptly, 'coupling with it the
name of Mr. Thornhill, who is now
returning from sojourning in a
foreign land to the arms of this ve-
nerable College, founded by the
pious and munificent Anthony Bar-
nard o' blessed memory, in anno
Domini 1495.' And with that down
went tho port, and Dick vanished.
'By George!' exclaimed Baxter,
'only let's see Charlie Thornhill's
straight back in the boat once more,
and I rather think we'll make the
ship travel, eh Maynard ?'
'I believe you, my boy!' was my
fervent reply, as I left the room.
The summer term came round.
Boating Life at Oxford.
Have you ever seen Oxford, reader?
jon Bp lit a day there in the
autumn; it was a damp, dull day,
very likely, with perhaps a quiet
drizzle mi and off. lou thought
! ice striking, certainly, and
unlike any you had seen before, but
dreary, dingy, dismal to a degree.
Ah, well! come again in May, when
the skies ore blue and the trees in
their bright young green ; when the
sun throws 1 ghtsand shadows about
the prey old towers ai.d quadrai
and gleama and glitters oq the broad,
calm river; then, if you don't own
yourself enraptured, you're a— well
I'd rather not say what 1 think of
you. Of coarse Edinburgh is more
romantic. London is grander, Paris
is more gloriously gay ; but for calm,
stately beauty, give me Oxford in
the month of May.
Ah! but none but an Oxford man
knows all the bliss of an Oxford
May; that time when you dream
over your hook under the chestnuts
in the College garden, or lie on big
cushions in a punt moored in a
shady creek of the Cherwell, dressed
in easy flannels and straw hat, with
a mellow Lopez in your mouth ;
when, in tie cool evening, you stroll
with the friend of your bosom under
the elms along the Broad Walk, and
watch the moonlight falling on
Magdalen tower, and talk rom
it that girl with the velvel eyes,
that yon led in love with in the
Easter vac. Yes, none but an Ox-
ford man knows all thoso blissful
momeuts. And then there are other
pleasures still, that are only known
to the lowing man. It is pleasant,
certainly, to l>e well in at the
wickets, to hit fivers to long-oil', and
make scientific 'draws' to leg, and
then to rev< 1 in strawberries, and
cider-cap, and Bherry-cobbler, and
Otto r delicious luxuries that
forbiddi n to the member of a
Col 1 ' I it ; but, for rial enjoy-
m< nt of life, put me m training.
I • DM rise bright and early to a
cool tub and a fresh walk round the
park my juicy Bteak, brown
with nit, i.i-y withm, with a rial
British app lite. Let ■ sharp-trot-
ting pony draw me, in the sultry
afternoon, to t ; . Magdalen Qround,
to watch ' Oxford v. M CO ;' and
when the sun gets Mow give me my
daily row with a crew that know
their work and do it; let me come
in to my frugal supper and my pint
food ale With a sense of having
ed it, and go to bed iii the
scionsnessof full and p rfl Ot health,
and you may offer me all the Ha-
vannabs that i ?er wt re smoked, and
all tho beverages that ever were
brewed, from Moselle-cup to gin-
sling, and 1 won't so much as cast
a look of love on them. Yes, Ox-
ford, in the May Term, is a paradise
of man] pit asures ; but, to my mind,
to be in perfect training is thehigh-
I them all.
Well, the summer term ca
round. Our Eight was in practice,
and we were to go into training in a
few days; but Thornhill had notyet
appeared. He had reach I England
rather later than was I Sp ted, and
when he arrived at home his family
would not hear of his going to Ox-
ford till after Easter; but ho had
promised to con.e and row in tho
Eight, and we knew he would, fa-
mily entreaties and every other ob-
stacle notwithstai ding. And sure
enough, one morning as Baxter and
I wne at lunch togethi r, the door
• P i e 1 and Tl oi ohill stood before
us. We both ottered a shout of
ht, and Baxter rushed to tho
'Aha, ha, my dear old skipper,
how are you? Shake hands, old
man, ha, ha!' laughed Baxter, fairly
hugging Thornhill in the i cstasy of
his joy. 'Bj Jove! I'm so glad to
you. Ha, ha, how are you? 1 I
had never seen Baxter so excited be-
fore.
'Oh! all rigid,' returned Thorn-
hill, as so ii a he could s|n ak, for
this greeting of Baxter's had touched
him not a little ' How are you,
Maynardf 4 he added, shaking mo
warmly by the hand. ' 1 am so jolly
glad to see you again, Baxter, old
fellow. You've grown some moro
whisker, eh ? And you're in splen-
did' condition nil round, too; it's a
■ to look at you.'
' Well, 1 believe I'm pretty well ;
but yon look rather pnlli d down.'
• Do ] '.' Well, two or three fen
one on top of mi it her, do take off a
little of one's extra flesh. You seo
Boating Life at Oxford.
73
it was touch and go with mo once
or twice. However, I'm sound as a
bell now, and ready for anything.
What about the Eight?'
' Well, I think it will do now
we've got our old skipper back.
We've not quite settled t lie stroke-
oar yet. Maynard, there, has been
performing hitherto; but we agreed
that if you felt up to the work, we'd
ask you to take it.'
' You do me great honour, Baxter,
I'm sure,' said Thornhill, seriously,
but evidently highly pleased ; • but
I've no doubt Maynard is a much
better stroke than I should be now.
Of course I'm well enough, but
then,' he added, reluctantly, ' I've
not had much practice lately, and — '
' Oh,' I interrupted, ' do let's have
you stroke. We shall all row twice
as well behind you.'
' Yes,' said Baxter, ' you must try
it, old man, at all events.'
' Very well,' said Thornhill, highly
pleased. ' I suppose it won't do for
a freshman like me to ditobey my
captain.'
' Of course not. Well, that's
settled ; and now walk into the lunch.
Help yourself to sherry.'
Thornhill turned out to be as
good in a boat as ever ; and with his
long, dashing stroke, we improved
so much that by the day the races
began we were justly considered
•Jus best boat on, and our going head
of the river was held, on all hands,
to be 'a moral.'
' I don't see how you can help it,'
said an old 'Varsity oar to Thorn-
hill. ' Oriel is fishy for head boat ;
Exeter is only so so; BN.O* must
come down; and Trinity will drop
into your mouth the first night : you
must go head.'
'I should say so, too,' replied
Thornhill, 'if it were not for our
confounded luck. However, we'll
see if St. Anthony's pluck can't beat
St. Anthony's luck for once. Good-
bye, old fellow.'
Wednesday, the 21st of May, was
the first day of the races, and a
magnificent day it was ; hot, bright
sunshine all the morning, and then,
as the sun fell, a cool breeze spring-
ing up and making the perfection of
a summer evening. Towaids seven
* Brasenose College.
o'clock crowds of spectators began
to pour down to the river, and lined
the bank on either side. The barges,
with their various tings flying, and
filled with ladies in bright and airy
costumes, shone gaily in the setting
sun, while the brass band of the
Volunteers did its best to put every-
body in spirits by executing lively
music in the liveliest possible man-
ner. Most conspicuous for its array
of beauty was the University barge,
and conspicuous among that array
was a group of four ladies, in whom
Thornhill had a particular interest.
The group consisted of his mother,
his two sisters, and another young
and lovely lady, whom Thornhill
was to carry with him to India at
the end of the year, as his ' bright
and beauteous bride.' They were
early at the river ; and while the
crews hung about, waiting for the
time to start, Thornhill introduced
Baxter and me to his party on the
barge. Baxter, who was quite equal
to the task of amusing two ladies, at
least, devoted himself to Mrs. Thorn-
hill and her eldest daughter, while
I did my best to win the good graces
of Miss Florence Thornhill. After
we had exchanged some preliminary
remarks about Oxford, the river, &c,
she said, in an abrupt way that I
found was natural to her, ' Don't
you feel very nervous about the
race? I do, though I know you'll
do well; but Charlie's so made up
his mind that you'll be head of the
river this year ; I do hope he won't
be disappointed.'
' You can't hope so more than I
do, Miss Thornhill ; but we've had
such bad luck over and over again
that there's no knowing where we
shall be at the end of the races.'
' Head of the river, I say/ replied
Florence Thornhill, as proudly as if
she were announcing a triumph
already achieved. ' I'm sure if you
all row as hard as my brother, you
can do it ; and you will— won't you ?'
' I will for one,' replied I ; and I
meant what I said.
'Of course you like Charlie —
everybody does ; he's so kind-
hearted, isn't he? and so — " plucky,"
don't you call it ?'
'Yes, that's right, Miss Thorn-
hill; he's all pluck every inch of
74
Buulimj Life at Oxford.
liim, and if tlicvo ever was a stroke
lit to row bead of tho river, he's tho
' res, yes,' said Florence. Thorn-
lull, eagerly, 'and be wiD, row bead,
you'll sic; 1 know be will.'
' Maynard, my boy, 1 interrupted
Baxter, 'we must bo off— it wants
fourteen minutea to seven. 4
■ All right, I in ready. Good-bye,
Miss Thornhill 1'
'Good bye, Mr. Maynard! Mind
you row bard and make your bump
to-night '
'It won't be bis fault if we don't,
Bliss Thornhill,' said Baxter; and in
my own mind I hugged him for
those words.
Baxter had managed to inveiglo
Mrs. Thori lull and her eldest d LUgh-
ter out ofa glove i ach on the preb xt
that they (the gloves), especially
Mrs. Thornhill's, would, if worn in
his hat during the race, put the
:u into him beyond ev« rything.
And so he aft( rwarda declared they
did, albeit both bat and gloves lay
at tho bottom of the boat through-
out the i
That first night everything went
well ; we got a splendid start, and,
whether it was the gloves, or Flo-
se Thornhill's words, or Charlie
Thornhill' a dashing pluck, or all
lial did it, ccit, tin it
is that ih it Dight our boat ' walked
the water like a thing of life,' over-
fa rali l Trinity in the Br t four hun-
dred yarda, and in three minutes
after starting the bump was made
and we were floating quietly under
the bank, watching the struggle of
the other boats as they tugged past,
with a feeling of calm triumphant
joy uot to be described in words— it
can only be compared to the bliss of
the lover, newly a to pte 1 by tho
1 1 ly of his love; at hast I think
tl at aearer to it than auy-
thing i Nevertheli I must
own I found my happiness capable
of addition, win u Florence Thorn-
hill said, her eyes flashing with ex-
m< nt —
' oh. Mr. Mi;. aard, isnl it plen-
did? Only three more bumps to
iid you'll Ikj head of tho
river.'
' You told us to row hard/ said I,
' and we did.'
' Was it because I told you?
V< s, I do believe it was. I'm so
glad, so gla 1 for Charlie 1 you
know -and foryours too,' she added,
and her eyes Beemed to k<> right
through me an 1 como out on the
r Bide : from thai mo aent I felt
it would bo a privilege to dio for
her at any minute, in other words, I
was in love with Florence Thorn-
hill. But of that hereafter. Lovo
is quite against the rules of training,
so whatever I maj feel I shall say
no more about it till the races aro
over.
We, tho St. Anthony's crew, walked
down arm-in-arm to the next even-
ing's race, full of confidence and
high spirits. All our friends seemed
to smile on us, and we smiled on
our friends and on each other, and
tried to look friendly at the crews
above us, and tried not to look tri-
umphant over those below. Our
preliminary paddle promised well;
We were all BOUnd, wind and limb,
and, as Baxter cheerily remarked,
never hal we been in better fettle
all round than we were by seven
o'clock that evening.
•Give us a pood start, old fellow,'
said Thornhill to Ma who
held our s'.ii'ii rope, a we lay under
the shore waiting for tho signal-
gun.
' All right, my boy, don't fret
yourself, we'll eff< Ci B capital start ;
and, toll you what, just you n
tho running; cut out the paco at
first, stick olo e to their quarters,
and frighten 'em; that's the plan;
you'll catch '« in in the Gut.'
The minutes went by, told aloud
by tho titni k< i \« r, and then the
inds, first by tins -then by lives
— then one bj one, and then — tho
gun, and we W( re off. It was a
capital starl ; the b tat draj I
nigh the wal <t for the firs! two
strokes, and then Bprangoff like a
At once the shouts on
the bank told as that we were going
into Bras a oe hand ov< r l
Never had till TO been such a CTOWd
t > cheer as as there was that night*
an I the I'm u*a of triumph boarsi
loud were '•■ htfal. ' Anthon ■
' Anthony 'h I ' Well rowed!' 'Go
on, you i< llowaF ' Hurrah 1' ' Well
ro-o owed!'
Boating Life at Oxford.
75
On we dashed : our boat was toss-
ing in the wash of Brasenose ; I con Id
hear their whistle, as the cox. called
on his men; we were close upon
them,— now for it . Suddenly
there was a great lurch through the
boat, a shout of horror on the bank,
and we seemed to stand still. In a
second we knew tho reason : Thorn-
hill's oar had snapped. ' Throw
your weight on the bow oars/ I
heard him say to Wingfield, and in
another instant he had dived into
the water. The boat heeled over,
and then righted, and we tried to
get together once more. It was a
desperate case, but we set our teeth,
and swore deeply— at least I did —
that Trinity should not catch us :
they were a long way off, but they
began to gain fast now.
' Steady now, and stick to it/ sung
out Wingfield: and so we did, but
still Trinity came on and their nose
got nearer and nearer. Saunders's
Bridge, they were still a length off.
' Steady, Anthony's, and you'll do
it ' — * Well rowed, Seven !' — ' Keep
her steady.' And then came the
shouts close behind, 'Trinity!' —
'Now Trinity!' — 'Quicken up!'
Trinity spurted hard, and came up
like lightning. Our Seven spurted,
too, like a man, but the sudden
change of stroke threw us all abroad
—the boat lurched and staggered
horribly, the Trinity bows ran up
our stern, Wingfield held up his
hand, and it was all over with us.
I did not see Florence Thornhill
at all that evening. She was dis-
tressed, I heard, almost to tears at
the result of the race, so I was glad
on the whole that we did not meet.
All the next day the crew were in a
state of gloomy ferocity, thirsting
for vengeance, and we went down
to the start in the evening much in
the frame of mind of savages start-
ing on a scalping expedition. Short
work we made with Trinity, but it
was a very stern joy that we felt in
bumping them now — the joy of re-
gaining a lost right, not at all like
the serene delight that followed the
first bump.
Five races more to come, and
three bumps to make.
Saturday evening came, and
brought a very tough race; but
our minds wero made up,— the
black and yellow colours of Brase-
noso came down at last, and we
rowed in third on tho river. Now
for Oriel, and then the last tussle of
all with those big brawny Exeter
fellows, and then the headship of
the river, and the smiks of Florence
Thornhill. So I prophesied to
myself that Saturday night; but
Monday evening came and went,
and we were no higher than before.
We were desperate, and at supper
that night there was a council of
war, which ended with Baxter say-
ing—
' My dear fellows, if we don't get
Oriel to-morrow, I'll put my head
in a bag for the rest of my life.'
And we did get them; it was
tough work, but we did it, and felt
like giants refreshed with wine after
it was done.
Next evening I walked down to
the river with the Thornhills, and
Florence said —
' Isn't it the happiest thing in
the world to make a bump? It
must be so splendid to feel that
you've done something for the ho-
nour of your College. I do so wish
I could row like you. Can't I do
something to help the boat on? Do
tell me !'
I should like to have replied, that,
if she would then and there intimate
that she cared two straws about me,
I would undertake to bump Exeter
by the prowess of my single arm.
What I actually said, however, was
stupid and quite inadequate to the
occasion —
' If we have your good wishes, as
I believe we have, nothing could
help us better.'
' Oh, you know you have all the
good wishes I can think of, but I
want to do something. Will a vinai-
grette be any use? — it might refresh
you just before the race, you know ;
— or, stop, — I'll put some of this
eau de Cologne on your handker-
chief—that will do you good I
know.'
' Dear me ! what on earth have I
done with my handkerchief ?' said I,
searching diligently every pocket
but the one in which I knew it
to be.
'Oh! never mind/ replied Flo-
78
Boating Life at Oxford.
roncc Tlmrnhill, ' anything will do.
Here, I'll put some on mine, and
• ad n t" you. I lo yon mind?'
As may be supposed, I did not
'mini,' and received the handker-
chief with all reverence and grati-
tude, like a knight of olden time.
oli, and it was a potenl Bpell, that
little scented handkerchief, — the
iharm worked well.
shall I describe the race of tint
evening? No, I have described too
many already ; lit I'lort ire Thorn-
liill tell it, as she saw it, and as she
told it to me afterwards, for I was
in the boat, you know, and saw
nothing all the time Imt a bit of
ironmould on the jersey of the man
in front of me.
'Oh, I thought that starting-gun
nevt r going to lire,' she began ;
• I'm sure it was late. I thought
how nervous you must all be, waiting
nip in the boat : several times I
thought I heard it, and horrified
mamma once by Saying " Now
they're (,ftl" quite loud. At last I
could see the men on tho bank a
long way off beginning to run, and
directly came the crack of the gun,
and a low sound of shouts far away.
We could onlj si e the crowd at first,
winding in and out along the hank,
just like a long serpent , mid then
sounds gn w loud* r and loud< r,
though i couldn't see the boats,
I felt sure ours was gaining. Then
1 saw the rowels' heads above the
bank, and then Exeter camo round
the corner, and then our boat close
upon them I thought, and I .-aid
iuite loud again, " They'll bump
them, I'm sure tiny will '." and a
in ar me, not at all a young
lady, was very angry, and said, " I'm
sure they'll do no sueh thing .'" Oh,
I could have beaten her! I could
see everything plainly now, and I
saw you getting nearer and ntaivr;
I knew Charlie was putting on a
spurt, and I said," Well done, Char-
lie, that's right, I know you'll bump
them," just to spite tin- old lady.
( >h, how those Ex< ter iii< n did shout
to their boat I and they did row hard
I'm certain, for I saw the oars go
dipping in and out all together like
Wings moving faster and faster, and
tin \ kept away from you bravely.
oh, what terrible shouts there were
then, mad yells they were; 1 trem-
bled all over; there you were almost
close to us, and all but touching
Exeter. I saw Charlie tugging with
all his might; I thought he would
have killed himself, and Mr. Wing-
field blowing that shrieking whistle
in his face all the time, oh, it was
fearfully exciting. I felt as if I
should like to jump into the water,
and I called to Charlie with all my
might. I don't think any one heard
me, there was such a noise, but
Charlie looked as if he did, for he
rowed faster still, and then, just as
you got close below us, I saw our
boat run right against the rudder of
Exeter, and then I knew it was all
right, and I really jumped for joy.
.Mamma says I Bhouted " Hurrah !"
J dare say I did — I don't know.
And now you're head of the river,
don't you feel proud, Mr. Maynard ¥
I had felt proud In-fore, but 1 was
far prouder then, as I met Flon
Thoinhiii's bright eyes, and thought
that in them 1 could
• I ■ ., .,'. , r,
She felt that I was not unrturtLi}- to love ber."
^W*
77
PLAYING FOR HIGII STAKES.
CHAPTER XXL
' THE STRONGER WILL !'
BLANCHE LYON suffered the
others to advance propositions
respecting the manner and the
means to be employed in getting
down to the village to look at the
cottage that was to let. It was not
at all in her way to seek to add con-
fusion to chaos by opposing what
was not even half established, and
pointing out the weakness that
would immediately assert itself.
' The distance is nothing— let us
walk. I have walked it in comfort
once already to-day/ Mrs. Lyon
said, leaning back in her chair alter
a comfortable luncheon, and fan-
ning herself in a way that was ex-
pressive of fatigue.
' Let us have the waggonette and
all go together,' Frank Bathurst
proposed. He felt that there would
be a difficulty about getting to be
alone with Blanche, and he did not
care about being alone with any one
else jnst then.
' 1 don't see that there is any
necessity for your all putting your-
selves out of the way to go down,'
Edgar Talbot said ; ' Trixy and Miss
Lyon will perhaps walk down with
me, and you could wait here for us
to come back and fall in with your
plans, whatever they are, for the
afternoon.'
' I should like to go down again and
point out one or two little things,'
Mrs. Lyon said in the tone of one
who felt that whatever she did the
others would not sufficiently appre-
ciate her excellence in doing it — ' I
should like to go down again and
point out one or two little things
that are not as I should like them
to be in the house.' She looked
from one to the other appeal ingly
as she spoke, as if she rather ex-
pected them to deny her even this
small boon of tiring herself, for no
good end, more completely than she
was already.
' "Walking is out of the question for
you, mamma,' Blanche said, firmly.
' Then my waggonette plan is
the best/ Mr. Bathurst said, with a
sort of ' that settles it' smile.
' You drive, I suppose ?' Blanche
said, persuasively, looking at him
as he pushed his chair back and
got up.
• Yes. I will drive.'
* And Miss Talbot will have the
place of lmnour by your side, and —
you are letting me arrange it all —
intending to coincide with my ar-
rangement, are you not ?'
' Unquestionably/ he replied.
' And mamma and Mr. Talbot
will sit just behind you. I shall
ride : you will lend me the mare you
offered to give me ?'
Her accents were very seductive
in their subtle sweetness as she ad-
dressed him ; but for all that subtle
sweetness they grated on his ears.
She had portioned out the places
of all save Lionel Talbot ; and she
designed to ride, and Lionel Talbot
would be free to go with her.
' Of course I let you arrange it
all. I must propose one alteration,
however, which is far from being
an amendment/ he said, gallantly ;
' the mare gave my wrist an awk-
ward jerk this morning. I doubt
whether I could hold those young
horses together or not. Lai had
better drive them, and I will ride
with you.'
He came nearer to her as he
spoke, his fair face flushed, and his
blue eyes dancing with the con-
sciousness that they were all per-
fectly alive to the root of his desire
for this change. His infatuation for
Blanche amused himself so much
that he had not the smallest objec-
tion to its amusing other people in
a lesser degree. He was as wilful
as a weman about carrying his own
point, but Blanche opposed him
with a still deeper wilfulness.
' Let me look at your wrist/ she
said, and then when he came close
and extended his hand, she laid her
slender white fingers firmly on the
part which he had declared had
78
Playing for Ili<jh Stake$.
been given an awkward jerk. 'I
will strengthen it for you,' she said
in a low voice, binding her handker-
chief tightly round il as ahe bo >ke;
' please do nol frustrate my polil
wn itever they may be ; drive as you
proniia
o spoke very hurriedly in fear
of bi ing overheard by tin
who, a^ is usual in qjosI tnis-
undi rstood her mann ran i moti res,
and believed her to be flirting at
him, her cousin host, with vigour
an i d( t( rmination. Bui though
she spoke li rriedly she Bpoke for-
cibly, and Frank felt that it be-
hoved him to attend to her
'Come nearer to the light, that
you ra iy si i to tie my bandage be-
lingly,' he said, laughing, draw-
ing her after him to the window.
' That's wed! Now Blanche,* he
muttered, ' what is it? you mean
e ?'
• I do nol mean going with you at
any rate. Behave yourself, Frank;
i ands that are app ndages to
epraim d wrists ought not to bav<
the pow< r ol pressing bo p linfully ;
let my hand go, sir; and pro]
me you dri -
• 1 pr ; shrugging
his sl ouldi rs, • anyl
J will order the hor
A he left the room tin re was a
■ nn n! made, a Borl ol
I among the party ol going to
ready, and it chano ithal Liom I
Talbol i i. I Blanche w< re brought
• r.
'Tie blunder Of narrow door-
ways,' I i as Ldoni I
sti I'pi d ha ik for her to pass him,
and pped back courteously
I . :t-]i
• l their d< tention in the room
alone af er the I I l< fl it
' Am I to i Mr. Talbol ?'
she said, sud!' nly.
'1 cd to i>r groom's
k's,' he n plii d.
'Ldid the Kind, and
the groom
Will you ride with mi ?
That is a plain and aid
way of putting it.'
'] precious ns the
office of takii f you, if <
short time, would be to me —
i I l tttcr not.'
' Why ?' she- said. And then she
linked her fingers togethi r, and let
hi t hands fall down in front of hi r.
She was holding her head up proudly,
hut her ey< a were down-cast, hidden
by their lashes. -'Why?' she re-
ted, as he looked at her most
lovingly, but Bpoke no word.
' Why?' he i i. ' Because—
will you have it— my n asonV
'Yes, l will have it -l will hear
it. r"ou shall tell me so plainly
that there can be no mistake about
it,' she said, excitedly.
' 1 had hetti r not take charge of
you, 1m cause the office is too pre-
cious to ho held with impunity to
the holder for only a short time.
Forgive me, .Mi^s Lyon, you almost
forced the truth from me.'
Even as be asked for her forgive-
ness in broken, Bubdued tones, she
came nearer to him, with a Boft,
loving triumph, that was mi xpres-
Bibly thrilling to turn, in her lace
and bearing.
'I have forced the truth Irom
you for no low, vain end,' she said ;
and her bands were extended to
him— were taken— were pressed to
bis heart, before Lionel Talbot re-
membered that he was acting a very
imprudent part
'Because! love you so,' he said,
passionately — ' b you
so, it would i>e better thai l should
never be with you acain, unless I
maj be with you for • -.
• And is there anything to prevent
that hemp; the case?' Bhe whis-
pered. And then— she was, tor all
the bright bravery ol hi r mind
manner, a woman endowed with
that infinitely caressing way that
cannot l>e withstood - thi n Bhe tow-
en d her head n little, and sighingly
ht it find a resting-place on his
sbouldi r.
' Sou feared your fate too much,
Lionel,' she i
' it wa too brighl a one for me to
dare to hope to touch it. Bl
be wise in time, my darling; think
ol \\ hat yon are relinquishing before
you snller me to let my whole hi
ro out to you in so full a way that
I ■: j never gel it back and live. I
have so little to off r you besides
that iicart, sweet child Frank has
to much.'
Playing for High Stakes.
79
'Which will be surrendered to
Trixy before long. Perhaps you
will submit to my loss of Baldon
with a better grace if it is Trixy's
gam?' Sbo asked this in a light
tone ; but she added, soberly enough,
an instant alter, • Never regret your
want of anything lor my sake,
.Lionel ; it poor Edgar had suc-
ceeded as he believed and hoped ho
should succeed in his ventures, it
would have come to 1his between
you and me, and I should have basked
idly in the sun of that success, and
been very happy. As it is — well, I
have it in me to fight for fortune
with you against the world.'
She looked so joyously confident,
so radiantly satisfied with the exist-
ing state of thiugs, so bewitching ly
hopeful about the future, that
.Lionel felt that
' Poor wisdom's chance
Against a glance '
was weaker than ever. However
much more brilliant her fate would
have been if she had given her heart
to his friend instead of to himself,
the intoxicating truth that her heart
was entirely his now came home to
him unalloyed by a shadow of doubt.
Still he strove to render his grasp
upon her looser, less that of ' lord
and lover' for a moment, as he
said —
'Take care, Blanche! lean give
you up now, and never blame you
in word or thought for having got
me to tell you that it will be death
to me to do so ; but five minutes of
this, and no earthly power shall
make me give you up— you hear
me?'
' And mark you, too/ she said,
holding her head- far back, and
shaking it winningly, with an air of
satisfied acquiescence in Ids decision
that was strangely sootliing to him.
' You shall have the rive minutes :
as for the opportunity of defying
earthly powers, I am alraid your
tenacity will not be put to the test,
v unless mamma intervenes.' And
then they both laughed.
' Mamma's intervention may pos-
sibly listen the union ot the prin-
cipal powers,' he said.
' Mamma is sate to be funny about
it,' Blanche said, gravely, 'it goes
without saying that she will be
that; she will view the matter from
the melancholy point of view if not
from the lachrymose for a while,
but it will all come right by-and-
by.'
' Yes, of course it will, if we make
our own arrangements and abide by
them, without suffering let or hin-
drance from others.'
' I hear them coming down stairs,'
Blanche exclaimed, starting and
blushing ; ' do let me go and put
my habit on— and ride with me,
will you ?'
'Will I not?' he answered, very
fondly, as she got herself away
through the doorway which she
had declared just now 'to be a
blunder.'
' We don't need a groom ; I am
going to ride with Miss Lyon,'
Lionel said to Frank Bathurst, when
Blanche came down and joined
them just outside the hall-door,
where the waggonette and a couple
of saddle - hor-es were waiting.
Lionel said it with that assumption
of intense indifference which gene-
rally first betrays to others the fact
of a man having utterly surrendered
to the one of whom he does not
speak as he feels.
'Are you so? very well,' Frank
said, rather coldly ; and then he
turned away without offering to help
Blanche on to her horse. The men
were friends, in the be st sense of the
word ; but it is a hard thing for
both, when friends love the same
woman.
'Earthly power number one is
unpropitious,' Blanche said, in a low
tone, as Lionel stooped for her to
put her foot in his hand; 'believe
me, though, Lionel, I would not
speak of it if I were not sure that
with him it isa passing cloud. Frank
will not be angry with us long.'
' I hope not. How sweet you
look in your riding-gear!' Lionel
replied. Friendship stands such a
poor chance of being ably con-
sidered, when love puts in his
claim.
It was hard upon Mr. Bathurst;
it was very hard upon Mr. Bathurst
to have to see that pair go off to-
gether, and to be doomed himself
to play the part of charioteer to
80
"Playing fat Wigh Stair*.
Mrs. I .yon, Fdpnr, and Beatrix; f<>r
a fact i! at q woman in love,i d
at the same time Bme thai the one
she lows lov< b Bomebody else, is v< ry
much at ii disadvantage. The whole
of that liitli - < ne of Btartiog got
stamped in vividly up m po »r Trixj 'a
mind. Blanche's absolute power
b >th the man who loved her
nnd the man she loved, were painf d
ts to the u'i 1 who hail DO appa-
I per over any one just at the
Miss I.\ n's plan of making
man radi intly happy by riding
with him, on I auother man dolefully
dull by not driving with him, was
a gift that, not all mxy's Christian
ity could compel her to think
1. The brother would have
□ Burn odered with a pood grace
to the brilliant rival; but human
ire must c< i e to be itself before
a lo\-( r can be given up graciously.
Their way lay through such
n lanes ; 1 etween such high-
banked, ii li, garden-like hedges. It
was the time of roses, and, conse-
quently, the time for most of our
fairest wild flowers to bloom. The
nty i f the uncultivated Blopi ig
part* m - through which they pas - I
made math r for talk for them for a
time; but preseutly, when the fast
; carrii d the wag-
gonette e ■ tar ahead of them that it
to sp ak, and i v. n to look,
light pressure on the near rein
bronghl Li ni l's horse closer to
. and he said—
' Conceal m< ni is always had : if
fairly understand each other,
ii g, it m ems to me to ho only
to ti e oth< i - that they should
understand us too.'
'Hurried disclosures are aa had
a< conc< almi said. ' Wo ilo
1 1 a -h other, Lionel ;
our e we do ; but why make
talk about that be-
f »re it is ni i dful ? ' lircum I
a mighty monarch ; about ourselves
and we only, have to consult
: mi anwhile we I ad better not
• ult oth( r | ' pl< I think.'
. f |>e lifte l up in r
i to switch the air with I,' r
whip. I ■ uight the hand
it.
'I could have pone on suffering
nee to reign as to my feelings
about you, if yon had not let mo
speak to you as I havo Bpokl q this
morning; hut now that courso is
clo>td to mo. I cannot look upon
you as my future wile in secret. My
love has gone out to you as l never
thought it could go to any woman.
^ mi li:e e B icepte I the love: you
must mi ih" show of it.'
'Submit! as far as I am con-
cerned. I accepl all show of it with
pride and gladm as,' she s till, softly ;
'but for you, Lionel, a/vowed cn-
eraents fetter a man who is
fighting wiih the world. People
will not ovi rlooh the t ict of sue
being essential to him hi cause he is
going to be married; and so, often
the hand that is playing honestly
and lovingly for fortune's favours,
is rendered unsteady or weak by the
too keen observation bent aponit
play freely, dearest, for a time, at
kast.'
' Freely, hut not secretly,' he said.
' You have it in you to he very
rash.'
'I have, when I am very fond.
Bash, do you say? No, Blanche, in
this case the rashness would he in
concealmi i t. If I shrank from pro-
claiming that you had promised to
be my own, you would be the Brat
to condemn my weakni ss in thus
shrinking; and yet, women are so
consistently inconsistent that you
urge me to do so.'
'For our mutual good, I am
sure.'
' How would it be for our mutual
good that wo should be held in
sk — cut off from the confidence
that shouM cheer us?'
' My cowardice is not for myself,'
she answered, blushing brightly.
'I only fi el that for you it might
better not to be supposed to l
the oblij ' on laid upon you of
having to make money enough to
support a wife for a time; hut
if you will ri.sk the drawbacks,
Lionel '
' If on will agree to fair all know-
ing that you are going bo be my*
wife,' he interrupted ; ' and the
sooner they know it. and the sooner
it is, the '» tti r. Be i ore of one
thing—] am not going to let you
out into the world again without me.
she look d up at him gratefuyii,
Pfayintj for Iliyh Stakes.
81
proudly, fondly. ' Oh, Lai, it was
only for your sake I counselled con-
cealment for a time ; for my own I
thank you lor your decision, and
accept it, as I will every one you
make henceforth without appeal.'
As she finished her sentence they
turned into the one little crooked
street of the village in which the
cottage that was to let was situated,
and fell under the observation of
the party in the waggonette, which
was pulled up to wait for them.
' I wish Blanche would not lag be-
hind in that way,' Mrs. Lyon said,
rather peevishly. It seemed to the
good old lady a wicked waste of
a golden opportunity that her
daughter should linger behind with
a comparatively poor artist, when a
rich landowner was ahead. Before
any one could reply to her the pair
on horseback came up at a sharp
trot, and something in Blanche's
manner told Frank Bathurst that
the ' game was gone.'
Need it be said that as soon as this
conviction smote him he accepted
the situation with the blithe amia-
bility that characterized him, and
became on the spot their warmest
ally. From the bottom of his bright,
warm, wide heart he had wished for
Miss Lyon for his wife ; but, since
he could not have her through some
distortion of her own judgment, he
was admirably well contented that
his friend should be successful. At
any rate she would not drop out of
his orbit, and be lost to his beauty-
loving sight. It would still be
within his power to hear her talk,
to see her move about with that
subtle seductiveness of movement
which no other woman possessed.
The link of friendship should never
be broken between the two families,
and Blanche would still be free to
charm him, as only so clever, fasci-
nating, and beautiful a woman could
charm him. He watched her as
Lionel helped her from her horse,
and when she reached the ground
he managed to make her eyes meet
his. For a moment or two they
looked unflinchingly, and when each
slowly turned away from the other's
gaze the understanding between
them was as honourable and com-
plete as if it had been legally drawn
VOL. XII. — no. Lxvn.
up and ratified. They were to bo
friends free and unfettered in man-
ner and in mind, without a back
thought or regret about anything
between them.
' One moment/ he muttered, as
they were passing into the cottage
garden in the rear of the rest, and
he put his hand upon hers as he
spoke — 'one moment. My wrist is
strong enough now, you see; it
does not tremble as I tell you I see
what has happened, and rejoice in
it, dear Blanche, for my old friends.
God bless you both ! You will be
very happy.'
'And so will you,- Frank?' she
half asserted, half interrogated.
' Yes,' he said, gaily ; ' I don't
think it is in me to be a despairing
swain.'
' If you did despair, I should say
you were blind and void of all taste,'
she answered, hurriedly, as the others
looked back at them from the al-
ready opened door, and they had to
hasten their steps to rejoin them.
It was a charming cottage. The
'two or three little drawbacks'
which Mrs. Lyon had anxiously vo-
lunteered to point out were no
drawbacks at all in the eyes of the
young people. When looked upon
in cold blood it must be acknow-
ledged that it was an irregular and
defective abode ; for the drawing and
dining rooms had been added to the
original structure, and the original
structure had the air of disapprov-
ing of the additions and of holding
itself aloof from them as much as
possible. The ceilings had given
way in one or two of the rooms, and
the kitchen range was a monstrous
rusty enigma to Mrs. Lyon ; but de-
spite these trifles the cottage was
charming, for it was prettily papered
and it had French windows, and its
walls were festooned by roses, and
its garden sloped away in privacy
to the woods.
' It's a perfect little paradise/
Beatrix said aloud ; and the thought
how sweet it would be to share such
a paradise with Frank Bathurst.
' It is just the house for a pair
bf artistic-minded young manied
people/ Frank himself said, gravely.
' Well, Mrs. Lyon, what is your
verdict ? Edgar Talbot asked.
82
Playing for Wjli Stnhrg.
'I only wish it was going to bi
my home,' tlufr lady answered, with
the bright admiration that came
from her f< elingow r- confident abonl
it's nev< r being her home
' Tin n 1 may as well tell yon at
nnoe wlmt 1 Bhonld shortly have
1 1 in compelled to bell yon in any
case: 1 am going to break np my
l, oinimi establishment — why 1 n< i d
hardly tell yon - and I Bhonld be
glad if you will continue to afford
my sister the same countenance and
protection lure which yon consented
t<> give her in London. May I hope
that it will be BO, Mrs. Lyon?'
' Live here !' Bhe exclaimed.
'Yes; live here for a time at
Last'
' Mamma, you can have no better
plan to propose,' Blanche said re-
proachfully; and then Mrs. Lyon
shook her head dolorously, and said
'Oh, no; of course not!' adding
suddenly —
' Would it not be far letter to po
into nice, quiet, convenient lodgings
in London, where every comfort
would be Bupplied to us, than to
live here i consider the butcher.'
4 1 naiiy must confess to consider-
ing my own and my sister's conve-
nience, before the butcher/ Edgar
said, laughing.
' 1 mean, think of the distance wo
are from him; not bu1 what 1 shall
he \i iry happy to stay here, if you
all wish me to do it; but how are
we to manage; there is no furni-
ture!' and Mrs. Lyon, as she spoke,
looked from one to the other as if
Bhe would ask their pardon for
mildly appealing ago n-t that want
insideration of them which made
them expect her to joyously acqui-
in the prospi et of living in an
pty house.
• 1 he furniture shall he sent down
from Victoria Street, if you will
• to live here |',,r at least a y< u
alter it is furnished,' Mr. Talbol re-
plied.
' Then it will not lit,' Mr-. Lyon
sad. hi;,' a woman.
' Nevermind its fitting the hot]
Ldgar replied, like a man, ' we will
utile it when it OOtni
' \\ hat am I to do about tho
Mrs. Lyon said, dej ctedly.
• I am rare I shall !*.■ delighted to
remain with Miss Talh>t here, or
anywhere else, for a year; but 1
could wish that range altered, or]
shall never have a moment's peace ;
" r it forayoung married couple, with
artistic minds! "—well, it may be tit
for such ; hut I know what the
cooking will bo if that range isn't
looked to.'
' Let us take tho house, and ask
Trixy to stay with us,' Lionel whis-
per- d ; 'and let your mother go
hack to the delightful London lodg-
ings, where she can be free from the
burden of that range.' But Miss
Lyon turned a deaf ear to this sug-
gestion. She was not made of the
materials to marry in haste, with
the possibility before her that cir-
cumstances might cause the man
she married to repent at leisure.
Accordingly, she only shook her
head in reply to him; and then
said —
' The greater good of the greater
number is the point to be con -i !• red
by all of us; Mamma, this will he
the best place for you to live in
with Trixy.'
' Where shall we all find room?'
Mrs. Lyon said, querulously.
'I may not lie at home for Ion g,'
Blanche replied.
'I will have no more governi
ing,' Mrs. Lyon said emphatically.
' Yon shall not go out in that way
n.'
blanche laughed, and shook her
head.
' I promise you I will not attempt
to do it,' she said. ' 1 am more
ambitious in th< Be days ; yon shall
know in what way if I BUCCei d.'
'And you will tell me«evi n if you
fail, will you, my own blanche?'
Lionel whispered, as tiny went out
ther, and he prepared to put
hi r "ii her horse, but Blanche in
reply to this only bent her brow
with that look of raddi D Btedi
ne^s which had a babil of coming
over her face, as she replied —
' 1 won'1 promise that, Lionel ;
failures are not line things to talk
about.'
' Why venture anything on your
own account? why not trust your-
self wholly an d BOlely to me? there
p al d( d wanting in your lovo
while yon p fust to do this.'
Egeria.
83
She was stung to quick speech by
his supposition. ' You know — you
must know that T would brave any-
thing, relinquish anything, do any-
thing, for the sake of being your
wife/ she said ; ' but I won't consent
to fetter you: to impoverish and
lessen you in any way would be
frightful to me. Lionel, I would
rather crush my love than do it. I
will crush my love, if it comes to
that : do you believe me ?'
' No/ he said, as he slung himself
up on his horse.
' No, Lionel !'
'I do not believe that my own
love for you is so weak as to be
incapable of overcoming such scru-
ples. Oh, child ! you are mine now
to have, and to hold against the
world: even against yourself. Don't
let me hear any more about your
" fettering," or " impoverishing," or
"lessening" me. When you are
my wife I will teach you that your
being that is ample compensation
for everything else.'
She began conning the lesson he
was willing to teach her, with such
a pleased, happy look on her face
as she turned it toward him.
'Oh, Lionel! after all my wise,
prudent speeches, what will you
think of me, when I tell you that I
love you desperately, darling, des-
perately ?'
* Think ! that I am surer of you
than I was before you gave yourself
out to speak the truth/ he said,
fondly ; • there must be no going
back from this, Blanche ; we are
bound to play for fortune's fa-
vours : to
together/
fight the battle of life
EGERIA : AN ACROSTIC.
Egeria Diva : pure as morn, sweet as eve.
E choes that people with a lute's lorn breath
G ray walls, mute-mouldering in wave-washed death;
E xquisite dreams, sighing through tranced sea-shells,
K ich memories breathing of the quiet deeps ;
I n shadowy bay, the ripple of star-sown seas ;
A utumn's low stir of noonday-laden bees ;
D rip of charmed oars, when every nigh sound sleeps
I n the still ocean, lulled by sprite-like spells.
V ain strife ! Eare lips, your heavenly melody
A 11 emulous Nature's strains doth matchlessly outvie.
T. S. 0.
03
8-i Two Colour 8,
TWO COLOXJBa
IITTLE Lily, toll me how
J Tin's change lias come about.
Prithee! stay a whilie now
And say bow it fell out.
Say bow it was you ever came
In this bad place to bo?
Say why you're Btarting at your name?
Why you're afraid of me?
Not Lily now, but Hose, she .-aid —
A little change from white to red.
Now tell me who it was, poor child,
(It hardly can be true)
Who from your father's roof beguil
His only hope, in you.
Oh! Lily — it is passing sad
To see you in this silken glare,
You used to be so simply clad,
Your linen frock so clean and ;.iir.
Tis but a little change, she said —
A little change from white to red.
I remember, when a little ono,
Your mother thought you pale ;
Half is earnest, half in fun,
Said your name should tell the tale.
That kindly mother never thought
Those tiny cheeks that met her gaze
Would e'ei be willingly distort
With such a painted blaze.
Again a little change, she said —
A little change from white to red
So she passed me, ono of many
Stories, walking to and fro.
And it's surely oseless any
Mm.- of this our tale to know.
By-and-bj th< re'll come anothi r
I nige to Lily, as to you ;
Then will Death, a second mother,
Wipe away the guilty hue.
Oh! far less pitiful that sight, —
That little change from red to white.
85
HALF AN HOUR IN A SERVANTS' REGISTRY OFFICE.
HAYING occasion recently to re-
pair, by appointment, to one of
those places which have of late be-
come quite 'institutions' in this
country, a * Servants' Registry Office,'
I was let in for half an hour's enter-
tainment in what passed within my
hearing, though it presented pro-
bably but a sample of the daily pro-
ceedings in an establishment of the
kind.
I had come to meet a young per-
son whose services I was anxious to
secure from the strong terms iu
which she had been recommended
to me ; but as I was before the time
appointed, and she was considerably
after, 1 was placed in the position of
au unintentional witness of what
transpired in the interval.
Let me, first of all, observe that
the ' office ' in question was kept by
a female, a married woman of well-
merited reputation for respectability
and judgment, who had now been
doing business for years in that line,
and, it was said, had made a good
thing of it. She had her stated
hours of business, and did nothing
else. Formerly she had kept a shop,
a greengrocer's on a small scale,
carrying on the two businesses to-
gether ; but she found that the two
lines did not somehow suit one
another; that the supplying her
customers with apples and cabbages
interfered so with her 'domestic'
transactions that, favouring no
doubt the one that was most lucra-
tive, she disposed of her stock-in-
trade, converted her shop into what
she termed her office, with an ante
or waiting-room, pulled down the
old sign-board, and replaced it by
another which proclaimed to the
passing world, in gilt and blue, that
the undivided attention of the pro-
prietress was devoted to her ' re-
gistry.'
She was a person eminently
adapted for the calling she had se-
lected. In her dress she was fault-
lessly neat and simple. Never did
you see upon her — at least in busi-
ness hours — so much as a super-
fluous bit of ribbon, far less any-
thing approaching the gay or flashy.
Her manner, without being dry, was
thoroughly business-like and the
same to all her customers. Whether
it were peeress or poor curate's wife,
whether it were the employer of a
dozen servants or only of one of all
work, she preserved consistently
the same civil demeanour to every
one, so that all came away with a
correspondingly good opinion of
Mrs. Prim worthy.
The young woman whom I ex-
pected not having arrived, Mrs.
Primworthy begged that I would
take a seat in the ante-room already
referred to, which accordingly I did,
hoping, as I did so, that my deten-
tion might not be long.
This apartment evidently served
as Mrs Primworthy's sitting-room
when she was not pursuing her pro-
fessional avocations. There was a
convenient window in the dividing-
wall through which, when seated,
you could take a panoramic view of
the so-called office. This interme-
diate window had been left op<m ; so
that not only could I see, if I wished,
those in the next room, but I could
also hear — in fact I could not help
hearing — their conversation.
Having accordingly taken a chair,
I readily accepted also the offer of
a newspaper, and for a few moments
it engaged my attention ; but I soon
found reading to be impossible,
owing to the distractions of the ad-
jacent audienco chamber, so I gave
up the attempt.
My attention was first drawn off
on the arrival of a lady in her car-
riage and pair, who, having alighted,
proceeded to relate to Mrs. Prim-
worthy her pitiable case. Her coun-
tenance, I fancied, bore a look of
harassment ; and as I heard her dis-
close the plight that she was in,
I certainly did not wonder that
she should evince something like
anxiety.
'Well, Mrs. Primworthy,' she be-
gan, 'I am in great trouble. My
servants are all leaving me, and I can-
not imagine the reason why. When
I say all, I mean all excepting my
cook, who came to me about a fort-
night ago. 1 do hope she will stay,
8G
77 i Ij an Bow in a Servants' Registry Office.
for really she is invaluable. Cut all
the reel have given me notice, and
that within a day or two of one
another. They seem, without any
cause, to have taken a whim into
their hi ads to leave me in less than
a month from now. I feel it so I
cannot tell you. When I think of
the ingratitude of their behaviour,
say nothing of the perplexity
have placed me in, it almost
overcomes me; and then we have
visitors coming to stay with us. Oh,
Bin. Primworthy, I am quite bewil-
dered at the prospect'
' Well, ma'am, I'm exceedingly
sorry to hear it: hut you surely
don't mean to say that all your ser-
vants have given warning?'
'Yes, indeed I do. Now you
knnvour old nurse who has been
with us for years, and who I rap-
p cod was -' > attached to the family
that she could not have endured tho
thought of leaving us. Well, she
was the very first, positively, to give
me notice. That I thought bad
enough. Then, one by one, the
others followed her example. My
lady's-maid, who suits me to a
nicety, and my bousen aid, and even
thai steady yonng man Jones, whom
I was so thankful to you for find-
I t me, he Bays be mmt
another stoation too. 1
"Tie <■< rtainly very trying, ma'am,
i>ift it? I wonder whatever can be,
the i it all. Has the re been
nothing unpleasant with them that
you can think of, ma'am ? Si rvants
are really getting so high and
mighty in their notions now, that
they'll scarce bear being spoke to.'
' ( >h dear no. Thi re has been no
d for fault-finding lately.
And it seems BO strange, they all
- iy they are bo sorry to go, and
ikol the tdndni ssof their master
. yet they cannot think
■ .;. ing, I have qu< Btiom d them,
and i otn ated thi m to tell me what
is thi matter ; but the only answi r
[can get is : " Things i thi y
i to be." But l a a not awai
any i We tn ictly
the same as W6 always have, and
thej have no compl tints to make. I
have only one' comt"l t B nid>t it all,
and • , my new cook, who is
the best, I think, I have ever had,
says sho is quite comfortable, and
has expressed no wish tO leave me.
She tells me also she has known of
servants elsewhere being Beized with
a similar freak, and all giving notice
together. 1 think, she said, in one
of the places where she was before,
they all did BO one morning. But it
is fortunate she is not going too, is
it not, Mrs. Primworthj f
But Mrs Primworthy, I noticed,
made no answer to this remark ; and
a peculiar look she put on made mo
fancy some suspicion had occurred
to her. ' Do you know, ma'am/ sin-
replied, 'I should much like to talk
a bit to your footman Jones, lie
knows mew-ell. and 1 will reason
with him, arid tell him what 1 think
of his conduct. It can do no harm,
ma'am.'
'Oh, you are quite at liberty to do
so: but I am sure it will be no sort
of use. Foolish fellow, he is quite
resolved to be gone as much as any
of them. You may try what you
can do. Ibre, Jones,' said the la Iy,
stooping forward to beckon the man
in.
' Excuse me, ma'am,' interposed
Mrs. Primworthy,' I must ask you
to be so kind as to step into the
l ext room, as I think he won't like
B] i aking out before yon ; bo if yo i
don't mind, ma'am, just taking a
hi hi re—' (opening the dooi Ol
the room I was in).
Mrs. Primworthy did not finish
bl : sentence, but showed the lady
in, and closing the door again, sum-
moned Jones into her presence.
I own I felt by no means comfort-
able on being discovered in my re-
treat, especially when its facilities
fur overhearing became appan
The lady e\ inced a little surprise at
seemg me, and perhaps felt some-
thing more; but We Doth remained
Si it. d, still and silent, listening to
the convi rs ition between the I
man and the r< gistfl BS. And now
W6 had an opportunity of admiring
the shrewd tact of Mis. Primworthy.
Instead of opening a din ct firo
op 'ii the man with the straightfor-
ward inquiry why it was be had
given notid lopted the mas-
terly Hank movemi al of expressing
a deep interi Bt in the cook who had
lately left the place, and alter cnu-
Half ait Hour in a Servants Registry Office.
87
merating her various excellencies,
all of which Jones endorsed to the
lull, she observed :—
'Yes indeed, she was what wo
may call a good servant, and no
mistake ; and what's more, she was
a comfortable sort of a person to
live with ; and I'm quite certain,
Jones, if she'd a remained you never
would have wanted to leave the
same as you are.'
'No, mum, nor none on us
wouldn't, and so that's the truth,'
admitted Jones, falling at once into
the trap.
' It makes such a deal of differ-
ence, duesn't it, Jones, when a cook
makes things agreeable in the
kitchen. I knew it was so. Ser-
vants as has a kind master and mis-
tress don't all give warning that way
without there being a cause for it.'
* That they don't, mum, and ac-
cordin' to my notions servants did
ought to be all of a equality like,
and not one set over the rest on 'em.
It makes a place beyond all bearin',
that it do.'
I stole a glance across at the lady,
and it was really painful to witness
the evident discomfort which this
observation of the footman occa-
sioned her. She started as if to rise
from her chair and stop further dis-
cussion ; but on Mrs. Primworthy
resuming, she sat still.
' And then, Jones,' added the lat-
ter, ' I've always found when a cook
do treat her fellow servants bad, it's
a thing she can't be cured of, so it
isn't any use arguing with her on
it.'
' That's just where it is, mum ;
and as I says, 'tain't no good any on
us a tryin' to remain. Her temper
be so bad, and she be that there
violent, as no one can't 'bide in sight
of her. I'm sure I've always a
wished to live peaceable like with
every one; but that there woman
she won't leave none on us alone.
Tis her natur, I expects; and so
sometimes she'll be abusin' one,
sometimes t'other, and sometimes
abusin' us all round. Such a time
as I've had these here last ten days !
I'd sooner list for a soldier. I'd
sooner — '
Here Mrs. Primworthy inter-
rupted him. ' Your mistress is sadly
put about, Jones. Don't you think
you could manage to stay on till she
was suited? and you might havo
moro time, perhaps, to look out lor
a good place.'
' No, mum ; I'm very sorry for
missus, but I couldn't stay : I be-
lieve as it would be the death o' mo.
I was going to say as I'd sooner
break stones from mornin' to night,
and get my vittles where I could,
than I'd bido in a place where that
there woman was. If we was a lot
of dogs, she couldn't treat us no
worse nor she do. 'Tain't me only,
cither: every one as comes to the
kitchen catches it from her just tho
same. If it's the baker or tho
grocer's man, she do fly at 'em as if
she was a tiger, axing them what
brings 'em there, and such like, till
some on 'em declares as they won't
come no more. 'Twas only last
night as the butcher's boy said some
one else might come for orders, 'cos
he shouldn't come again. Never did
see such a woman in all my life:
she must be abusin' or a scolding
summut. Why, one day, if she
didn't take and beat the poor cat
with the bastin' spoon, 'cos she hap-
pened to come nigh the hastener
when she was a roastin', till the
poor animal went liinpin' off under
the dresser.'
The amazement and consterna-
tion of the lady, which had been
fast fomenting, here reached a
climax, and completely got the
better of her. Unable to sit quiet
any longer, she quickly rose from
her chair, and, presenting 'herself
again in the office, put an end to
the discussion.
The appearance of his mistress
Jones took as a signal for him to
withdraw ; whereupon the lady re-
commenced.
' Well, Mrs. Primworthy, I have
overheard all. I really do not know
how I feel ! I am amazed ! I am
mortified too. How I have been
taktn in with that woinau ! To me
she is perfectly respectful, appearing
to know her place most thoroughly ;
and yet amongst the servants she
must be a regular virago. Still, I
feel relieved greatly, disappeiuted
though I am. I am sure I have to
thank you for the way in which you
es
Half an Hour in a 8 ' >nnif*' Registry (
elicited the truth from Jones, and
naliy you d< serve great credit for
being bo clever. '
Mrs. Primworfhy smiled, with a
look of modest satisfaction, and re-
plied—
1 Why, ma'am, when you told me
what the cool? had said to you, I
suspected at oiiee what was the
matter.'
'Well, I say, I think it was very
clever of you. Bat / am greatly to
Maine, for, do you know, I entirely
forgot to make any inquiry respect
illg tie woman's temper, BO 1 am
justly punished for my own stupid
forgetfulness.'
' Well, ma'am, T don't know. Yon
might not perhaps hive heard the
truth, even it' you had made that
inquiry. You see, some mistresses
makes it a sort of rule Dover to say
a single word to harm a servant that
applies to them for a character;
and 1 know one lady, for example,
who, though she has had really all
sorts in service, gives the same cha-
fer to every one. They are all
good-tempi red, all cleanly, all sober,
and soon; when I know, as a fact,
some of them have been quite dif-
t> rent. And tin n, you see, ma'am,
this woman is a knowing one; she
never si owa her temper to you :
most likely her former mistresses
have foun I her, like you have, quite
civil and respectful, though in other
kitchens she has gone on as she has
in yours, it i> seldom, too, we can get
servants to speak out of one another.
I assure you, ma'am, they'll leave D
Booner. 1 d m't know
when I've heard one speak out like
that footman of yours did : and it is
a great pity they don't ; for how are
you or 1 to know — how's anyone to
know— the real characters, when
t it re's an agrei n d1 like to keep
the truth hack from us? I suppose,
ma'am, you intend giving the cook
ootid '.'
' Indeed I shall,' replied the lady.
' I shall hurry home and give her
warning at once ; and I do hope, by
doing so, I shall get my othei
lo stop on. Do yon think
they will, Mrs Prim worthy ?'
• Really, m k'ara, I hope they maj ,
l.ut [ cannot undertake to say. Ser-
vant /"t such queer obstii
notions sometimi B. But I think if
you can Bend the cook away, with-
out letting her fancy anj one has
i' • n t< Iling of her, it is the i>< -t
thing you can do, ma'am.'
'Good morning, tin n. Mrs. Trim-
worthy: I must hurry home. I
shall call again to-morrow; for in
any case you will have to help me.
1 only trust that it may he one ser-
vant, and not the, tint 1 shall re-
quire you to tin 1 for me.'
The laly now re-entered hex
carriage, and the footman closed tho
door after her. Before, however,
driving away, she bi emed to have
remembered something more, for
Jones was sent back with a message
relative to the hour of the morrow's
visit ; having delivered which, the
nrin seized the opportunity of add-
ing just a word, as if in self-vindica-
tion —
' You see, mum, wc never likes
tellin'on oiks another; hut when a
woman like that cook do forget
herself, and come to treat berfellow-
si rvants as if they were all her in-
I riors, why then, I don't think the
likes of her don't deserve no oon-
s .ration, hut only to he treat, d
ac iordinY
• Quite right, Jones ; yi n need
rj( ver mind telling the real truth in
such a case as that.'
1 here was now a short pause ;
Mrs. Primworthy taking advantage
of the vacant interval to put on her
spectacles and cast her eye through
a handful of papers u In di she dr. w
from her desk. Thinks 1 to my-
self, as I mused over the interview
just conclude I, such, ] dare say, is
hut a revelation of w hat takes pi
frequently in a kitchen, without
ever reaching the ear of master or
mistress. Probably many a mys-
terious warning, which has sorely
perplexed the hi ad of an establish-
in. nt, is tr ic. able to Borne such
cause as that just divulged. While
other reasons an- alleged, tho truth
is thai there is gome cross graineil.
cantankerous spirit below stairs,
who embitters kitchen life to one, if
not more of its occupants, till further
endurance of it becomi i uni>ear-
able.
I was about to resume my news-
r, when a a oond lady uteppi d
Half an Hour in a Servants' Registry Office.
89
in by appointment, like myself, to
meet a young woman who, fortu-
nately for her, was already await-
ing her arrival in another 'Salle
d'Attente,' and had only to be sum-
moned. One glance at the lady con-
vinced me that, although she might
be mistress of an establishment, she
was not blest with a family. That
somewhat antiquated bonnet; that
rather short adhesive skirt, which
evidently gave shelter to no crino-
line, and that quaintly- pinned shawl,
all conspired to bespeak unmistak-
ably the old maid. She spoke de-
liberately, yet somewhat deter-
minedly ; her features seemed to
take no interest in the remarks that
escaped her, appearing incapable of
evincing pleasure, pain, or anima-
tion.
' You see,' she began, with a slow-
ness bordering on solemnity, that
would almost justify the following
specimen of punctuation, ' Mrs.
Prirn worthy ; I require, a person, of
more than ordinary, respectability.
Situated, as I am ; and there being
only females, in my house; it is
necessary to avoid, the slightest
cause, for scandal ; or even, remark.
You know; I keep, but the two.
I require them, to be as correct, as
myself, in every way.'
' Of course, ma'am ; naturally you
do,' replied the ever-coinciding Mrs.
Primworthy, probably thinking all
the while she did not see why
respectable attendants were more
indispensable in the case of this
unprotected female than with any-
body else, and adding, ' Perhaps
you'll allow me to call the young
woman, as she is waiting, and then
you can speak to her yourself.'
The summons resulted in the
entree of a good-looking girl of
about two-and-twenty ; well, but
certainly not gaily dressed, whose
bright eyes and animated look pre-
sented a marked contrast with the
unimpassioned aspect of her possible
future mistress. Scarcely possible,
too, thought I ; surely this cautious
maiden lady seeks something far
more demure than this damsel. The
girl having dropped a propitiatory
curtsey, the lady commenced as fol-
lows, each word weighed with con-
sistent deliberation.
' You have been in service before,
I understand ?'
1 Yes, ma'am ; I was housemaid
and parlour-maid at my last place.'
' What sort of place was it ?— a
quiet place?'
' Oh yes, ma'am ; 'twas a very
quiet place, and very little com-
pany.'
'.Did they keep any men-ser-
vants there?' A decided stress
upon that awful word of three
letters being perceptible.
' No, ma'am, they d du't keep no
man-servants. They had used to
keep a footman afore I come ; but as
I could wait a,t table, master said
as he shouldn't want a man no
more.'
' And did you and the cook do all
the work of the house ?'
' Not quite all, we didn't, ma'am.
There was, besides us two, a boy as
used to clean the boots and knives,
and run of a errand, and sometimes
help wait at table.'
' Oh, indeed ! there was a boy,
was there? — and pray what age
was the boy ?'
' Well, ma'am, I think he said as
he was just turned sixteen.'
' As much as that? Was he a big
boy or a little boy ? because, you
know, some boys at sixteen are
almost men, and quite as objection-
able.'
At this the girl could not sup-
press a smile, nor could I: not in
the least disconcerted, however, she
replied—
' Why, he wasn't very big nor yet
very little, but I never knowed as
there was ever anything against the
boy.'
Despairing, I conclude, of elicit-
ing further information touching
this interesting youth of sixteen, the
lady who, I noticed, had been scruti-
nizing the young woman's attire
from head to foot, next went into
the matter of dress, on which sub-
ject she appeared to hold decided
views.
' In ca~e of your entering my ser-
vice, I must tell you I should re-
quire you to dress very simply.'
'Oh yes, ma'am, certainly. I've
always been 'customed to dress
plain.'
' Yes, but,' resumed the lady, ' I
90
Htilfan Hour in a Sen-tints' Registry Office.
cannot Bay 1 consider your dress to-
day at all suit* d to a » rvant.'
As I glanced at the girl's clothing,
1 confess I could discover nothing
with which even a fastidious mis-
tress could find fault. The bonnet
certainly was trimmed with broad
green ribbon and the gown, a clean
print, appeared to owe its expansion
to ono of those contrivances held
evidently in virtuous horror l>y hex
punctilious criticiser.
' You may depend upon it,' she
continued, ' it is very niucli more
becoming that the dress of a female
should ail close to her person than
that it should he spread out away
from it in that maniK r.'
I wondered at tho moment in
what sense the word ' becoming '
i
'Dili Till V Kill- ANY MIN-MU\ VNT-
pagc -ii
was to be taken, whether the i n-
mahle lady was and c the im]
sion that a skirl which Bal ac hers
did tended most to show the Bgnre
to advantage. Some further allu-
Bion, however, which she made re-
lative to the proverbial ansuitable-
ncss of crinoline for going up-stairs
i eon\ inced me that her oh
lion to the article arose solely from
her notions of propriety.
After some i'urth( t observations
on the part of the lady, in which
Bhe pointed out the impossibility of
the girl's doing ber work properly
while encumbered with the up-
Half an Hour in a Servants' Registry Office.
91
pendnge in question, the latter
yielded so far as to consent to lay it
. aside and appear sleek and slim
during working hours. This point
gained, the lady next inquired —
'Have you been in the habit of
wearing a cap ?'
' Yts, ma'am, I've always been
used to wear a cap.'
* 1 wonder whether it is what I
should call a cap. Some servants
of mine have told me before I en-
gaged them that they wore caps, but
on coming to me they have had
nothing on their heads but a tiny
bit of net which you could not
even see unless you stood behind
them. Before engaging you, I think
I should like to see one of your
caps.'
' Very well, ma'am.'
' You tell me you have been ac-
customed to optn the door. I hope
your manner to visitors is respectful
and modest, especially when a gen-
tleman calls. 1 have not many gen-
tlemen visitors ; but you know, to
a gentleman you cannot be too
guarded and reserved in your
manner. Never say a word more
than you can help, and never be
seen to smile or look pleased as
some servants do.'
The next inquiry on the part of
the lady had reference to her leaving
her last place— the reason why. To
which the girl with, as I thought,
great candour gave an answer well-
nigh fatal to her present prospect of
engagement.
' Well, ma'am, missus always said
asshewas quite satisfied with the way
I did my work, and I shouldn't have
had to leave only she thought as I
had an acquaintance.'
' A what ?'
' An acquaintance, ma'am.'
' An acquaintance !' exclaimed the
maiden lady, her hitherto inflexible
features being for the first time
summoned to participate in the
horrified amazement with which the
disclosure was received — f an ac-
quaintance ! Oh, I do not wonder
that you should have had notice. I
never would keep a servant in my
house who was capable of such an
impropriety. A place soon loses its
name for respectability if acquaint-
ances are tolerated.'
' But, if you please, ma'am,' re-
plied the young woman, ' it wasn't
true, only missus suspected so.'
'Ah! but I should he afraid she
had some ground for her suspicion.
Servants are so foolish. They re-
quire so much watching to keep
them proper and respectable that it
causes ladies a great deal of trouble
and anxiety. It shall never be said
that I fail to look after mine. Even
on the Sunday, when they must
of course go to church, I keep them
within my own observation. I al-
ways make them walk close behind
me and sit near my pew where I
can see them, so that no one can
even speak to them without my
being aware of it ; besides that, I
consider it my duty to see all the
letters that my servants receive, so
as to prevent anything like an im-
proper correspondence.'
On the disclosure of so com-
plete a system of espionage, the idea
seemed to occur to the young
woman that the situation might not
be quite so desirable as she had sup-
posed, and for the first time there
were symptoms of non-acquiescence
in the lady's mode of dealing with
her domestics ; so she replied, still
quite respectfully —
' Please, ma'am, I've always been
used to have an hour or two to my-
self of a Sunday afternoon, and Iaint
never been 'customed to show any-
body the letters as I gets.'
' Well, 1 could not alter my rules
for any servant. I only act in ac-
cordance with what I conceive to be
my duty. If you think my ways
too strict, yon had better not think
of my place.'
There was a few moments' pause,
during which the girl looked down,
as if to collect from off the floor her
thoughts or words wherein to ex-
press them, the result being, as I
quite anticipated, her final answer —
• I'm 'most afeard, ma'am, I
shouldn't give you satisfaction.'
An exchange of ' good-mornings '
now terminated tnis interesting
though abortive interview ; and Mrs.
Primworthy and the lady being left
in sole occupation of the office, the
latter re-commenced.
' I scarcely thought that person
would answer for me when she
99
IT a 1 f an TT*mr in a St mints' Registry Office,
came into your office. She is evi-
dently fond of drees, and altogether
tin re was a stj le ab ut bar that I do
not like in a servant,'
■ Well, ma'am,' replied Mm Prim-
worthy, 'as regards (be matter of
why you & 6, ma'am, si rvants
is apt to gi t a bit dn say now-a days,
aid to lell yon the truth, ma'am. I
shouldn't really have 'considered
that girl at all gaily dressed as the
times go. Things is a good deal
changed now in comparison as they
used bo be ; and the tad is, yon can't
rvants to dress themselves the
Bameasthej did twentyor thirty years
with large caps tied under the
chin and bonnets with scarcely any
ribbon, and short skimpy skirts and
such like. The times is altered, anil
we Bhan't have servants the same as
osed to be never again no more.
Besides, ma'am, mistress) a is so dif-
!it. 1 know some that takes a
sort of pride in the appearance of
their servant-, and wouldn't have
them dressed in the old-fashio
style on do account whatever.'
•How Btrange that does seem!
Perhaps you had better try and tind
me a more elderly person. Have
yon any one on your list at present
who you think would suit me V
1 No, ma'am, not at present, I'm
sorry to say, n > one at all ; ami I'm
really afraid I thai! have some dif-
ficulty in meeting with the kind of
in yon 11 quire.'
' S i I should fancy,' Boliloquized
I, as on the d( part u re of this model
mistress 1 indulged in speculations
as to whence the good lady had
derivi d her notions of 'dom< Btie '
1i< stm< nt ; whether she had hi rself
in earlier years been budj eted to
anything pondent in the way
of supervision and restraint, and
whi ther, if bo, how it bad answered
in her own ease Wbethi r, for ex-
amp - had been taken to im-
press up n her youthful mind the
impropriety of | ing an ' ac-
quaintance,' ami all such objection-
able superfluities had 1* • n judi-
ciously ki pt aloof. Who knows hut
what hex present freedom I
marital encumbrance may be dn
tla- nl adoption of this
t« m ''. She may pi rhapi I
ot blissful c, libacy 1 1 the
praiseworthy intervention of parents
or others who clucked every ten-
dency to cultivate an acquaintance,
and, thanks to their efforts, life re-
mains to her one eontiniu d game of
Put, he it even bo, I began
to have my doubts whether the plan
on which this respected lady acted
was the right one. I could not
brinp myself to see the propriety of
tn ating servants like young school-
girls, to say nothing of the practi-
cable impossibility of doing so. It
is, no doubt, a great nuisance to
know that one or more young men
are hovering over an equal number
of your female attendants, and a
still greater one when, on the rip n-
ing of the acquaintance into some-
thing more, a pood servant like
Betsy takes herself off 'for better
for worse,' leaving you as pood as
cookkss, or nurseless, or housemaid-
less; and it is not to be wonder* d at
if, after such painful experii nee, the
mistress of a house should insert a
clause in her resolutions prohibiting
henceforth all followers; Put this
does not answer, nor ever will while
the law of nature continues npainst
it ; ami so singular am I, that I now
prefer engaging a servant who has a
respectable well-defined Joseph on
the horizon with who n she is per-
mitted to 'keep company' at inter-
vals, rather than a younp woman
who, I know, will he on the watch
to take in tow the first Dick, Tom,
or Harry— perhaps all three, whom
she may succeed in signalising.
But the time was passing, and my
younp woman had not come. Weary
of waiting, 1 rose to depart, when Mrs.
Primworthy, knowing I had corao
some distance, prevailed upon me
to ' wait a little longer.' I was about
to speak to lur about the person
whom the maiden lady had sent
adrift, and who,' I thought, might
have suited me, when she was again
siiniiiioiu d hack to her office. A
young man with light hair and fair
complexion, about five-and-twenty,
well pot-up in a suit of lipht-
colonred garments ami an Albert
chain dangling gracefully from a
buttonhole, had come to tran
bnsini as with the accommodating
Mrs. Primworthy. He has come in
ijui si of a valet 'k»- ohambre, was my
Half an Hour in a Servants' Registry Office.
93
conclusion; or, maybe, he is a mar-
ried man and is deputed by his wife
to negotiate for some female servant
or other. It was then with un-
feigned surprise that 1 heard Mrs.
Primwortliy address him familiarly
as ' Thomas/ inquiring interestedly,
at the same time, after his parents
and family. Greater still was my
amazement when, on proceeding to
business, I heard the question asked
him, ' What made you leave your
last situation?' Yes indeed, how-
ever hard to credit it, this was a
footman out of place ! He had come
to see if Mrs. Primworthy could find
him another berth.
' Why did I leave my last situa-
tion '?' he answered, echoing Mrs.
Prim worthy's question — 'I left it
because my feelings would not allow
me to remain any loDger; and when
you hear all particulars, you'll only
wonder how I put up with it so
long.'
'Indeed, Thomas. I'm sorry to
hear that. Let me see— you was
only there four months — was not
that all?'
' Six months, Mrs. Primworthy,
such a six months as I hope never
to pass in any other situation, and
I'll take care I don't if I can help it.
Why, they don't know how to treat
a respectable man ; and then, the
things I was expected to do there,
it brings up all my indignation to
think of them. First of all, I wasn't
even given a room to myself, but was
forced to share a bedroom with the
groom, a common fellow who used
to snore so loud I had to lie awake
for hours listening to him. To think
of this, after what I had been accus-
tomed to ! and then, this low chap,
he knew so little of his place, and
all that was due to me, that he re-
fused to clean my boots the very
first morning after I came, saying I
was just as much a servant as he
was ; so that I had actually to do
my own boot cleaning during the
whole of those blessed six months.'
' Well but, Thomas, I don't think
such little annoyances as those suf-
ficient cause for leaving a good situ-
ation.'
' You wouldn't call it a good
situation if you knew all the rest I
had to put up with. A good situa-
tion indeed ! That is just what I
was told it was before I went there.
I expected they were good stylish
sort of people, who knew what a man
in my position would, and what he
would not, stand. Such unfashion-
able hours, too, as they kept I never
heard of before! If they didn't
breakfast at eight o'clock, and then
expect me to be all dressed and
ready to attend table at such a time
of day as that. Of course I told
them at once I couldn't do it ; they
must get the parlour maid to wait
at breakfast, and answer the bells,
too, and not expect me anywhere
upstairs till after twelve o'clock.'
' That was making rather bold, I
think, Thomas. You'll find very few
places indeed where you'll be left
to yourself till twelve in the day.'
' Well, Mrs. Primworthy, that is
my resolution, and I intend keeping
to it. They required nothing more
at my former situation, because they
knew better what a man like me
was entitled to. But there was lots
of other things they wanted me to
submit to. When I engaged for the
place, it was understood that I
should have a suit of clothes at the
end of every six months, making two
suits in the year ; but after I had
been there about two months, the
gentleman sends for me and says he,
" Thomas, there are two suits of
clothes of mine on the drawers in
my dressing-room which you can
have ; they are not at all worn out ;
take and get them altered to fit you
as they are well worth it." I felt my
pride hurt at this, and no wonder,
so says I to him, " No, sir, I'm much
obliged to you, I don't wear other
people's cast-off clothing, but I don't
mind carrying them down stairs and
giving them to Bill the groom. I
dare say they will be useful to him,
and perhaps he wont mind wearing
them as they are without even alter-
ing!" And what do you think
Mr.
■ says to me because I men-
tioned this about Bill and the old
clothes? Why, he calls me an inso-
lent fellow, and tells me to be off
down stairs. So, when my time was
up, at the end of the six months, I
received my wages right enough,
and quite naturally I looked for the
suit of clothes according to agree-
'.'1
rial/ an IJour in a Servants' Registry OJJice.
raent; thinking how nice it would
be fox me to have Borne good new
things to come away with, when
Mr. tarns and l»t-j^itis abnsing
d e like anj thing, Baj ing he had
done more than evei he waa bonnd
to do in ofT .-ring mo those old tilings
of his, bo I Bhonldn't get anything
more out of him, and it was qo ose
For me trying to. It' that wasn't be-
having shabby !'
• I think, Thomas,' interposed
Mrs Primworthy, ' yon was wrong
in refusing the cloth b. Perhaps if
it was not specified that theclol
should l>e new dins, Mr. con-
Bidered lie was acting up to the
terms lie engagi d you on in offering
you what lie did. I know Mr.
has always been represented to me
as a thorough gentleman, ami the
last young man as was there said it
was a nice comfortahle place and ho
was sorry to leave. To tell you the
truth, Thomas, I'm afraid you was
a little bit spoiled, as the saying is,at
the place where you was before.'
' Well, you do astonish me to
think how any man of proper feel-
ings could call that a comfortable
place; but it showed the sort of
men they had before me when they
h el actually been in the habit of
carrying the coals upstairs. They
tried this 00 with me when first I
came, expecting 1 was going to carry
two or three great scuttlefuls ot
a-day all the way from the
coal-cellar op to the drawing-room.
But, as I told them, my hands are
made for that sort of work, and
what's more. I understood my place
much too wi II to submit to it if they
had been. I never nia'le any ob-
jection to lift the coals on to the tiro
when the coal-In. x stood ready be-
side the chimneypiece, so as to snvo
the ladies the trouble; and as 1 was
anxious to i>e accommodating, I told
them if they would get a sort of
coal-cupboard built on the landing
outside the drawing-room door, as
Lady — — did, to hold two or thi'i 6
daw' coal. 1 shouldn't ev< n ma!
difficulty about filling the ooal-boi
from there : hut as to carrying the
c al-boz op-stairs, I shouldn't do it.'
' And did they actually let you off
carrying the coals'/ inquired theasto-
i Mrs. Primworthy, becoming,
like myself, more and more amn/ed
at Thomas's presumption. ' It they
did, I think you «< re treat) d with
gr< at indulgence there altogether.'
1 Indulgence 1' exclaimed the man,
'don't speak of indulgence in that
house. 1 might as well have gone
for six months to gaol at once for all
the indulgl Dee that was allowed us
there, <>l course, a min like me
when he has done his work, likes to
spend his evenings now ami then
with his friends oral his club, l'.ut
Iievel COUld I get out ot a night
without first asking leave, and then
it was always, " What do you want
to go out for, Thomas?" or " Where
do you want to go to, Thomas?" or
" How long shall you he gone, Tho-
mas?" making me feel more like as
if 1 was n ticket-of-leave man than
a man bearing the respectable cha-
racter I did. And would you be-
lieve, though I ottered to put a lock-
on the back door and stand the ex-
pense myself, so as I might come in
any hour of the night without dis-
turbing the family, the gentleman
he wouldn't allow it, saying he won-
dered only however I could ask such
a thing. That doesn't much look
like indulgence, 1 should say, should
you ?'
' As to the matter of going out at
nights, Thomas,- replied Mrs. 1'rim-
worthy, ' 1 know ot many places
where that is not allowed tor a
habit, and yet the master and mis-
tress, 1 should say, quite as indul-
ged as lit i .1 be. but now, what do
you wish me to do tor you ? because,
you see, lure is some one else como
to do business witti me and i daro
say her time is precious, the same as
mine is.'
' Why, what 1 want is a regular
first-class situation; and i think a
butler's place tho one to suit mo
Lest, because people always treat a
butler with gri ater respect and con-
sideration than they do a footman.
It seems to me a butler holds a situ-
ation sort of hall-way in a family be-
tween the parlour and the kitchen.
He is not exactly master nor he isnt
looked upon quite like a servant;
and thin, too, his having chargo
of the wine, and the silver and
such-like things, of itself makes his
place ot importance ; and to tell you
Half an Hour in a Servants' Registry Office.
95
the truth, Mrs. Primworthy, it is
not every oin' that is qualified for it,
but alter the experience I have
had '
Thomas was not permitted to
finish tbc proclamation of his com-
petency for the office newly aspired
to, Mrs. Primworthy making so ma-
nifest a transfer of her attention to
the new arrival that he male his
bow, signifying at the same time his
intention of calling again in a day
or two. What was effected at the
threatened interview 1 did not learn,
hut T remember thinking at the time,
had I been Mrs. Primworthy, I
should be somewhat cautious about
helping this airified gentleman into
a first-class family, even in the new
form of butler. Curiosity tempted
me to ask the woman something
about him, when she told me she
had known him for years ; that lie
had been taken by the hand out of a
hovel by some one or other who had
given him a decent education and
provided him with two or three suc-
cessive situations. Till lately, none
knew his place better than did Tho-
mas, but he had recently held a situa-
tion at a Lady 's, who had, in
fa-jt, as Mrs. Primworthy expressed
it, completely spoiled him. This
lady, under the by no means rare
delusion that she had got a treasure,
was persuaded that she could not do
enough for Thomas nor require too
little from him, coupled with a su-
perstitious dread of the awfulness of
the calamity, should Thomas ever
leave her. Under the combined influ-
ence of these joint impressions, it
was no wonder if Thomas's indul-
{rt nces increased both in number and
in magnitude. What he liked be did,
and what he liked not he left alone or
did by deputy, till it had grown hard
to define exactly the nature of the
position which he held in this
Lady 's establishment ; and
there, no doubt, it was he had con-
ceived the happy notion of a neutral
office between upstairs rule and
downstairs servitude for which he
deemed himself so admirably suited.
But in an evil day for him,
Lady took ill and died, died
most unexpectedly. Poor Thomas,
of course, participated in the general
dispersion of her retinue that en-
sued, winding up in the service of
this Mr. , six months' experience
of which had quite satisfied him.
It was now my turn, the last
96
Half an ll>ur in a Servant? Regiatry Office,
oomer already alluded to being the
individual whom I was expecting,
and whose appearance was verily a
relief to me; for although l confess
to have been somewhat entertained
by lniicli 1 bad been fain to listen to,
I. in truth, desired to bear no n
My own bnsinesswas ofa very ordi-
nary nature and speedily concluded.
Sad anything passed worth jotting
down, it should have been recordi d
for the benefit of the r< ader ; l>ut I
refrain from inflicting the recital of
my oomn on place transaction upon
others who, like myself, have pro-
bably bad enougb of the subject.
My admission behind the scenes, if
I may BO term it, went, I think, to
strengthen tbe notions I bad already
held as to the correct raoile of deal-
ing with domestic servants. I had
always l>een under the impression
thai tin re were two errors to guard
uyuinst if vou desire to be satisfac-
torily served. One is, the mistake
of being over strict, and the other
that of being too indulgent. To
Bteer evenly a midway course be-
tween these two v. pj common ten-
dencies, while it forms one of the
si crets of successful management, is
an art oi Which few arc master. And
a third notion of mile is tin's— that
lor the kitchen, the happiest and
most successful form ol government
is the republican. If cook be presi-
dent, let her be nothing more. A
monarchy below-stairs never an-
swers, if cook is permitted to wield
the reins, she will very soon assume
the whip, and the community will
be subject to periodical disruption.
Being already prepossessed with the
correctness of my theory, I came
away with existing impressions
deepened by what 1 was constrained
to hear during my hall-hour's, de-
tention in the Seivanlrf Registry.
E.U.H.
THE LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
Santa Barbara
THIS HOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE
STAMPED BELOW.
Miui S h ni T . H i ERN REGIOfw L LIBRARY FACIL
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