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 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. 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 ]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 anour. There is, indi id, scarcely any end which two men may have in omnium which nifty not give ri.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 Antrgsij> 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 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 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
  • 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 irng 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 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 ■ 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 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 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 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 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 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* 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 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 - ■ 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. 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 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 >rre 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 Gus 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 il (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] it" 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 an 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.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 r High 8take$t sympathetic, with ft catholicity of sentiment respecting the lovable, and, us l.i<>n 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 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 * >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 liap> 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. - == -_ - r - - — - t- - - - - - s T. O ► - w co fc> O a i M P .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 * • 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 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 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 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( cd. 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 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 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 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,ane 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 somopressingbusiiieer. 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 Dts. 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 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 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 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 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 he 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 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 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 \\'mn 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 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 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 an 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 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 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 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 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 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 iino 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 ^ 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 !■.! \ . 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 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 lliji 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 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 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 Gamy 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 »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< 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 -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 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( 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 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 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 ■ 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, 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, ine 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■ 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 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 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 -,• 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* 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 <'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< 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 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, > 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 \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 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
  • 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. 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, 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 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 Ilike; ' 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 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 ITY A A 000 262 989 7 •