THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE OUTCAST 
 
 BY 
 
 WINWOOD READE 
 
 3L o n D o n 
 CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY
 
 fK 
 
 9-11 
 
 LETTER T. 
 
 My dear Frank, — I welcome you back to 
 your native land, and take it for granted 
 that you and Ellen are tired enough of 
 travelling. Life in a strange country is 
 always artificial — it seems to me like being 
 at a play — and constant change becomes 
 monotonous after a time. I bear from 
 Ellen tbat she intends to stop in London 
 a week before joining you at home ; and 1 
 shall reserve till then my latest budget of 
 news about the tenants, and the harvest, 
 and the pets, and the penny readings, &c. 
 Just now I can think of little else but the 
 tragedy at Dr. Scott's, some account of 
 
 A 
 
 653232
 
 2 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 which no doubt you have seen in the 
 papers. But I will tell you the whole 
 story. 
 
 Arthur Elliott was the only son of a 
 wealthy landed proprietor, one of my 
 nearest neighbours, and a brother magis- 
 trate. Arthur had a most amiable nature, 
 and was tenderly loved, not only by his 
 parents, but by all who knew him inti- 
 mately. His attainments were remarkable, 
 as I can testify ; for we read much together. 
 He was an excellent classical scholar, but 
 his favourite study was that of metaphysics, 
 from which he was led to the study of 
 natural science. But religion was the 
 poetry and passion of his life ; and though 
 of a different belief, it afforded me pleasure 
 to hear him discourse on the grandeur and 
 benevolence of God. Sometimes when we
 
 THE OUTCAST 3 
 
 were together in a deep green wood on a 
 sultry summer afternoon ; or sometimes 
 walking at night beneath the glorious star- 
 lit sky ; or sometimes, when reading the 
 dialogues of Plato, some divine thought 
 rose from the book like an immortal spirit 
 from the grave, and passed into his soul, 
 then the tears would stream from his eyes, 
 and falling on his knees he would utter 
 praises or prayers in words of surpassing 
 eloquence, and with a voice of the sweetest 
 melody. And often — how well I remem- 
 ber it now — often at such times his gestures 
 grew wild and almost furious, his utterance 
 was choked, and a strange bubbling sound 
 came from his mouth. Dr. Scott, who was 
 present on one of these occasions, watched 
 him, I thought, with an air of anxiety; 
 and I heard that he advised the Elliotts to
 
 4 THE 0U1CAST. 
 
 take away their son from his books and 
 send him abroad with a travelling tutor. 
 But Arthur disliked the idea of leaving 
 home, and his parents did not urge him 
 to go, believing that the danger was im- 
 aginary. So he remained, and things went 
 on as before. 
 
 One day he came to me in trouble. He 
 had been reading the great work of Malthus 
 — the Essay on Population — and said that 
 it made him doubt the goodness of God. 
 I replied with the usual commonplace 
 remarks ; he listened to me attentively, 
 then sighed, shook his head, and went 
 away. A little while afterwards he read 
 The Origin of Species, which had just 
 come out, and which proves that the Law 
 of Population is the chief agent by which 
 Evolution has been produced. From that
 
 THE OUTCAST. 5 
 
 time he b.egan to show symptoms of in- 
 sanity — which disease it is thought he 
 inherited from one of his progenitors. He 
 dressed always in black, and said that he 
 was in mourning for mankind. The works 
 of Malthus and Darwin, bound in sombre 
 covers, were placed on a table in his room ; 
 the first was lettered outside, The Book of 
 Doubt, and the second, The Book of 
 Despair. He took long solitary walks in 
 the most secluded parts of the estate, and 
 was sometimes seen gesticulating to the 
 heavens, sometimes seated by the wayside 
 plucking grass and casting it from him with 
 a strange, tremulous movement of the 
 hands. It was in vain that his good 
 parents and the rector attempted to soothe 
 his troubled mind with the hopes and con- 
 solations of a future life. He said that a
 
 6 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 wrong was always a wrong, and that no 
 reward could atone for unmerited punish- 
 ment. It was then I thought it right to 
 express my own opinions on the subject of 
 theology. But though Arthur could cease 
 to love and revere, he could not cease to 
 believe. I have often observed that men 
 of powerful intellect, especially those of the 
 poetic constitution, find it almost impossible 
 to shake off the faith which has been taught 
 them in their childhood. In Arthur's case 
 the boldest spirit of inquiry, and a remorse- 
 less power of induction, was allied to a 
 rigid habit of belief. If he could have 
 closed his eyes in common with so many 
 inquirers to the barbarous element in 
 nature, or simply dismissed it from his 
 mind after a brief period of discomfort, he 
 might have continued to believe in the God
 
 THE OUTCAST. 7 
 
 of his imagination, and preserved his happi- 
 ness. If, on the other hand, unable to 
 escape from positive fact, he could have 
 given up, or doubted ever so little the 
 dogma of a Personal Creator, he would, I 
 believe, have finally found repose. As it 
 was, he fell into a most deplorable condition 
 His God had never been an abstraction, 
 but a Father and a Friend; and now, by 
 ever brooding on the subject, by ever 
 directing his thoughts towards this Ima- 
 ginary Person, lie actually felt its presence, 
 as the hermit in the desert after months of 
 contemplation, as the cenobite in the soli- 
 tary cell ; but with him it was not love and 
 devotion, it was anger and hatred which 
 kindled the dangerous fire in the brain, 
 inspired the vision, and forced him to com- 
 mune with the shadow of his mind
 
 8 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 He spent much of his time with me, and 
 at last I wearied of his complaints. I told 
 him that it was useless to repine against 
 the Inexorable ; that after all there was 
 more good than evil in the world if we 
 went the right way to find it ; and that if 
 he sympathised so much with the miseries 
 of men he should try to mitigate them, 
 instead of pouring forth idle lamentations. 
 He looked at me sadly, and embraced me, 
 resting his head upon my shoulder; he 
 never spoke of his troubles again, and I 
 often repented of my harshness. But not 
 long afterwards we all thought that he was 
 saved. He became betrothed to a lovely 
 and charming girl, Miss Lilian Moore, who 
 was visiting at the rectory. She seemed 
 to possess some tranquillising power ; her 
 eyes were calm and deep, and goodness was
 
 THE OUTCAST. g 
 
 written in every feature of her face. She 
 saw that Arthur required occupation, and 
 asked him to compose some stories to amuse 
 her. He complied, and wrote a number of 
 tales, in which the trees, and flowers, and 
 rocks, and animals were his characters and 
 heroes. These stories were fanciful, quaint, 
 and humorous ; and several being pub- 
 lished in the magazines, attracted notice 
 from the press. Arthur received more than 
 one nattering offer from London publishing 
 firms, and began to show himself ambitious 
 of literary fame. He had now quite re- 
 covered his health and happiness ; he saw 
 Lilian every day ; but ah, Frank, how shall 
 I tell you, the dear girl caught an infectious 
 fever from nursing a sick child in the 
 village, and died. Arthur went to the 
 funeral but sat a little way off on the tomb-
 
 io THE OUTCAST. 
 
 stone plucking the grass and casting it from 
 him with the strange movement of the hands 
 I mentioned before. As the service was 
 ended, the clock struck twelve. He got up 
 and said, " The wedding will be late ! " and 
 approached the grave which had just been 
 filled up. Then he flung himself upon it 
 with fearful shrieks and curses against the 
 supposed Author of the world. When people 
 attempted to lead him away, he dashed 
 them to the ground with superhuman 
 strength. Yet even in this fearful attack of 
 mania he seemed to recognise his father, 
 and only shrank back from the aged hands 
 caressingly placed upon his arm. He was 
 taken to Dr Scott's private asylum, which 
 was but a little way from the church, and 
 in a few days ceased to be violent, asked 
 for his papers and books, and having ob-
 
 THE OUTCAST it 
 
 tained them, studied from morning to night. 
 He appeared perfectly quiet and contented ; 
 but every night when the church clock 
 struck twelve, he opened the window of his 
 room, which was on the ground floor, mur- 
 mured the name of Lilian, folded his arms 
 upon his breast, as if he had embraced her, 
 and kissed the air. Then, with the conniv- 
 ance of his servant, he sprang out of the 
 window, and walked to the churchyard, 
 followed by the man who at least never 
 let him go out of his sight. Ail the while 
 he conversed (as if with Lilian) in the most 
 animated manner, and having reached the 
 grave, made movements with his hands as 
 if covering her up ; after which he said, 
 "Good-night" in a cheerful voice, and re- 
 turned. These promenades were of course 
 discovered in time. Arthur was carefullv
 
 12 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 watched, the servant was dismissed, the 
 windows were barred. Nothing else could 
 have been done, yet there is too much 
 reason to fear that this restraint proved 
 injurious. When the hour of midnight 
 drew near, he became uneasy and restless ; 
 and when prevented from going to the win- 
 dow fell into a state of dejection. He no 
 longer slept well, and was often troubled 
 with visions and dreams. One morning 
 when he awoke, he sat up in bed, and 
 laughed till the tears ran out of his eyes. 
 He sent for the Doctor, and told him he 
 had " found it all out," and when asked to 
 explain what he meant, replied that it was 
 an original idea — a most important dis- 
 covery — and that he should send it to a 
 magazine. " If I told you what it was," he 
 continued, "you would keep me here all
 
 THE OUTCAST. 13 
 
 my life, and pass off my idea on a deluded 
 public as your own." The Doctor, to humour 
 him, replied that he was incapable of such 
 malpractices. " Ah, well ! " replied Arthur, 
 " at ordinary times, and in ordinary 
 cases, no doubt you are an honest man ; 
 but here the temptation would be too 
 strong. But I don't mind telling you my 
 title. It's 'A New Thing under the 
 Moon.' " He then burst out laughing again, 
 and rubbed his hands together with glee. 
 In the afternoon he became violent, said he 
 should " throw up his part," and tried to 
 spring out of window, dashing himself 
 against the bars. He was placed in a 
 padded room. The next day he was quiet 
 as usual, and asked for paper and ink ; but 
 as the doctor wished to get him to sleep, 
 of which he stood in much need, this
 
 14 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 request was refused. At first lie seemed 
 angry, then shrugged his shoulders and 
 smiled. It was afterwards found that he 
 had a note-book and pencil in his pocket. 
 At ten o'clock p.m. he appeared drowsy, 
 but said that he could not sleep with people 
 in the room ; and Dr. Scott told the 
 attendants to go outside, but to look in 
 from time to time. In an hour or so he 
 seemed to fall into a sleep, which was 
 probably assumed, and the vigilance of the 
 watchers was relaxed. But in the grey 
 hour of the dawn they heard a struggle in 
 the room, and a choked kind of cry. 
 They pushed the door, but it had been 
 secured from within by a small piece of 
 wood wedged in underneath. They forced 
 it open at last, and the body of the unfor- 
 tunate young man was found hanging from
 
 THE OUTCAST. 15 
 
 the window bar. Life was extinct. On 
 the table was a note-book in which he had 
 been writing. Dr, Scott has just sent it 
 over, and advises me to read it ; so in my 
 next letter I may give you an account of 
 its contents. Such, dear son-in-law, is the 
 sad history of Arthur Elliott.
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 My dear Fra.nk, — I enclose you a copy 
 of Elliott's last production, written in a 
 state of insanity, just before lie committed 
 suicide. It will reach you, I hope, before 
 Ellen's return, as 1 suppose you would not 
 wish her to see it. You make it a rule, I 
 know, not to discuss theology with women, 
 and I am much of your opinion. When 
 Ellen was a girl I carefully attended to 
 the culture of her mind, and encouraged 
 her to read works of philosophy and science. 
 But though I saw that she possessed a 
 vigorous intellect, I did not dare to carry 
 her beyond the limits of Theism. I feared 
 that for her my faith would be bus a
 
 THE OUTCAST. 17 
 
 system of cold and comfortless philosophy, 
 and that if at some future time, in adver- 
 sity or suffering, a religion became neces- 
 sary to her, she would run no slight risk 
 of falling into Superstition. I saved her 
 from that danger, by teaching her to believe 
 in a God, compared with whom the God 
 of the Bible is a very indifferent character. 
 But I need not say that my God, though 
 a nobler conception, is just as much a 
 creature of fiction as the other. They are 
 both made by human heads, as idols are 
 made by human hands ; only, while the 
 people of the churches and the chapels 
 worship an idol of brass, I gave my 
 daughter an idol of gold. I formed her a 
 God of the purest and noblest ideas, and she 
 still believes it to be real. Of course, some 
 day or other she may discover the decep- 
 
 B
 
 1 8 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 tion ; and were she to read the enclosed 
 manuscript, she would, I think, cease to 
 believe in the Divine benevolence, and next 
 would begin to suspect that the Being 
 called God is as much a fabulous crea- 
 ture as Jupiter, Mars, or Apollo. And 
 then comes the great question, " Would she 
 be able to accept our religion, which de- 
 mands such an utter abnegation of self? 
 Would she even understand it ? ' : I fear 
 that she would lapse into that state of 
 scepticism and indifference which, in a 
 woman at least, is more odious and harm- 
 ful than superstition. 
 
 I therefore advise you not to show her 
 this manuscript. But read it yourself 
 without delay, for you will be able to 
 enjoy it. It will not make you tremble 
 in your shoes. You have climbed above
 
 THE OUTCAST. ig 
 
 theology, as the Alpine mountaineer above 
 the clouds. 
 
 A NEW THING UNDER THE MOON. 
 
 The habit of reading in bed is delight- 
 ful, but the books used for that purpose 
 should be carefully selected. It was most 
 imprudent of me to read, and, at Dr. 
 Scott's of all places in the world, the " Con- 
 fessions of an Opium Eater," just after 
 three chapters of Butler's Analogy. I 
 might have known that it would give 
 me mental indigestion. Needless to say 
 that I had a dream, and such a dream ! 
 or rather such a series of dreams! Yet, 
 though I spent a bad night, it is some 
 consolation to reflect it was so ordained for 
 the good of mankind. I am willing indeed 
 to admit that the system of Cosmogony
 
 20 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 set forth in my dream may possibly not 
 be true, and I shall not claim for it the 
 name of Revelation as other dreamers have 
 done; I merely assert that my theory of 
 Cause and Creation is the best that has 
 ever been propounded. It explains all the 
 facts of history and nature, is in harmony 
 with science, and is supported by analogy. 
 Above all, it is quite original ; nothing like 
 it has ever been imagined before ; and 
 though Solomon wisely observes that there 
 is no new thing under the Sun, there may 
 be a new thing under the Moon ; and 
 dreams are exceptions to every rule. How- 
 ever, my readers shall judge for themselves. 
 I dreamt, first of all, I was standing, as 
 it seemed to me, in Space, and I had a 
 curious kind of impression that the Infinite 
 was not too large, but just the right size
 
 THE OUTCAST. 21 
 
 for a person of my dimensions. I observed 
 something in the distance of a dark and 
 shadowy appearance, in form like a pro- 
 montory, of 'vhich I could plainly perceive 
 the extremity or point, but not the base 
 and middle parts, although as the point was 
 exactly opposite my range of vision, and 
 was turned away from me, it was clear that 
 the bulk of the promontory must be situ- 
 ated between me and the extremity in ques- 
 tion. This puzzled me much, and after 
 staring some time, I closed my left eye in 
 order to see more distinctly. Then up shot 
 a huge wall to the left of my right and 
 still open eye. If you look at your nose 
 with both eyes open, and then look at it 
 with one eye shut, you will understand 
 what I mean. I had, in fact, been survey 
 iuo- the tip of my own nose, which wa&
 
 22 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 distant many thousand miles from the 
 middle of my face. I glanced at my shoul- 
 ders, but they extended indefinitely into 
 space ; I could not see either of my hands, 
 they were too far off; and when I lifted 
 one up, it seemed like a huge flesh-coloured 
 mountain sailing towards me through the 
 air, and threatening to crush me if I did 
 not pull it back. Then I thought what a 
 dreadful thing it was to have such a nose, 
 and a body which could only be measured 
 by means of a trigonometrical survey. A cold 
 perspiration broke out on my forehead, and 
 I calculated that each drop was about the 
 size of the Atlantic Ocean. This woke me 
 with a start. I sat up in bed, felt my nose, 
 and then cursing all opium-eaters, lay down 
 and fell asleep again. 
 
 I next dreamt that I was seated in an
 
 THE OUTCAST. 23 
 
 amphitheatre or circus, in the midst of a 
 large audience. I was conscious that I had 
 the same body as before, and that all the 
 persons present were equally enormous ; yet 
 I could see the ends of my shoulders, and 
 my nose did not seem to be long ; the rea- 
 son of which I suppose to be this — that in 
 my previous dream I was in a transitional 
 state ; my body had become that of the 
 Demigods, whose kingdom I had entered, 
 while my eyesight remained in the human 
 condition. But now my vision had also 
 been enlarged, and I soon found that it pos- 
 sessed extraordinary powers. 
 
 The arena of the circus must have been 
 many millions of miles in extent, and was a 
 bottomless pit of pure ether, traversed by a 
 bright shining ball, round which sailed a 
 number of dark little beads attending its
 
 24 THE OUTCAST 
 
 course. Now I fancied I had seen them 
 somewhere before. I looked at them again 
 more attentively, — there could be no doubt 
 at all about the matter, — it was the Solar 
 System. 
 
 My mind was still that of a mortal ; so, 
 instead of looking down on our little uni- 
 verse with the calm curiosity of a superior 
 being, I had the injured feeling of an in- 
 habitant, and rose to go, saying, " It is only 
 an orrery after all." 
 
 However, I observed that the eyes of the 
 spectators were all turned in the direction 
 of the Earth ; so I looked at it too ; and 
 then, Oh wonder of wonders ! what did I 
 behold ! 
 
 I could see the whole globe, and every- 
 thing upon it, even worlds of animalcules 
 too minute to be distinguished with the best
 
 THE OUTCAST. 25 
 
 microscopes ; even the waves of light, in- 
 visible to mortals which break upon the 
 surface of the Earth like the waves of the 
 sea upon the shore. I could see every man, 
 woman, and child, and study their actions 
 without effort or confusion. I could view, 
 at the same time, numberless dramas of 
 domestic life, which were being performed 
 within the dramas of the nations ; while 
 these were only parts of the great drama of 
 the Earth. It is of course difficult to ex- 
 plain how so many different objects could 
 be at the same time gathered by the eye, 
 transmitted to the brain, and assimilated by 
 the intellect. It would be difficult to ex- 
 plain to a maggot how the eye of a man can 
 take in a landscape at a glance. Yet these 
 powers of vision will not seem excessive 
 when the size of the eye is taken into con-
 
 26 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 sideration. I should say that the pupil of 
 a demigod's eye is about double the sun's 
 diameter, and no doubt, if dissected, would 
 be found to contain lenses of extraordi- 
 nary structure. But I have merely to 
 record facts, and am not called upon to offer 
 explanations. 
 
 The pleasure I derived at first from look- 
 ing at the Earth was soon marred by the 
 fearful tragedies which I saw everywhere 
 enacted. It was nearly all blood and tears ; 
 and unable to gaze any longer on the torture 
 of my kind, I rose to leave the theatre. At 
 the same time one of the audience went out, 
 followed by a titter from the crowd, and I 
 recognised in him the likeness of an his- 
 torical personage ; or rather, the historical 
 personage was a likeness of him. Then I 
 understood that this earth-life of ours is
 
 THE OUTCAST. 27 
 
 only a satirical play, that our great men are 
 caricatures of famous demigods, their vicissi- 
 tudes and actions, ingenious lampoons. And 
 is this all? thought I to myself. Are we 
 with our proud aspirations only as puppets 
 in a show ? Are love, ambition, and reli- 
 gious sentiment — the tremulous passion, the 
 desire of fame, the divine yearnings of the 
 soul — are these but as the jerkings of a wire 
 cunningly contrived ? Are the terrible com- 
 bats of life as gladiator-games to make the 
 demigods a holiday ? Ah, then it is sad ! 
 and yet do not men as it is often martyr 
 their lives to make a noise in the world, 
 and gain the plaudits of a human audience ? 
 And should not we who aspire to greatness 
 rejoice that we play before the Immortals, 
 and may hope to achieve celestial fame ? 
 Thus I tried to console my suffering heart ;
 
 28 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 but alas ! it was in vain. I had a hope — 
 one last hope — and now it was destroyed. 
 For I saw that the dead cannot be united, 
 since we are but as shadows that vanish 
 away. All is lost, all is done ; farewell for 
 ever, Lilian : farewell my only love for ever- 
 more. 
 
 I fled into Space. But I found that the 
 senses of hearing and smell were endowed 
 with powers not less marvellous than those 
 of the sight. Though now far away, I could 
 smell the Earth, which gave forth a carrion 
 stench not only from its body but its soul. 
 Each vice had its horrible odour. It is true 
 that each virtue had its fragrance as well, 
 and sometimes, though rarely, a breath of 
 perfume floated through the air. And now 
 strange sounds arose. I heard the humming 
 of the earth as it span, and the roaring of
 
 THE OUTCAST. 29 
 
 the fire in its innermost depths. I heard the 
 whispers of conscience and the eludings of 
 remorse, the sighs of unrequited love, the 
 cries of many agonies. At the same time I 
 heard the audience hooting and shouting, 
 Off! off! Shame! Apologise! Where 
 is the Lord Chamherlain ? But in the 
 midst of this turmoil the cries of anguish 
 were hushed, a sweet balmy smell was 
 diffused through space, the voices of the 
 earth rose in a strain of enchanting melody, 
 and thunders of applause seemed to indicate 
 that the drama was concluded. Then I 
 woke up and found my cheeks all wet with 
 tears which I had shed. 
 
 • • > • 
 
 My servant, who is very attentive — 
 perhaps a little over-attentive — has taken 
 my lamp away, but there is a splendid
 
 3 o THE OUTCAST. 
 
 nioon, and I am writing near the window 
 by its light. I do not understand why, 
 the day after my dream, they put me 
 into this room, which is not so large as my 
 own, and furnished in very bad taste, the 
 walls being stuffed like a first-class carriage 
 on a railway. Where are my books ? 
 What mean those sentinel footsteps outside, 
 the door stealthily opened, and the cold 
 grey eyes which search into my soul ? Ha ! 
 ha ! ha I Look at those little black imps 
 dancing in the moonlight on the floor! 
 Patter, patter, patter ! pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat ! 
 Ah ! Lilian, my dear, you should not come 
 out at night in that thin white shroud, and 
 it's no use your coming here any more. The 
 windows are barred, and I can't take you 
 home to the quiet churchyard and put you 
 to bed in your cosy little grave. We can
 
 THE OUTCAST. 31 
 
 meet no niDre by the light of the moon. 
 Besides, it is but a play ; we should only be 
 amusing the people up there. ! cruel 
 Author, why did you kill her ? — in the first 
 act, too ; very inartistic. At least I don't 
 know. As this life is a penny-gaff sort of 
 performance, it was more effective to do it 
 when she was young, for if she was old and 
 ugly no one would care. But who could 
 see her die then with the beauty of girlhood 
 still blushing upon her, and her death caught 
 nursing the poor sick child ; who could see 
 her die then without being smitten to the 
 heart? It must have brought down the 
 house. Weep, ye gods, weep your oceanic 
 tears, and waft your sighs in gentle gales to 
 mourn poor Lilian. And her lover lying on 
 the grave, digging at «the ground with his 
 nails and teeth, seized, bound hand and foot,
 
 32 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 and then brought here. Oh, no doubt it 
 was a fine stroke of art — most charmingly 
 devised. Well, it's a hard world, and we 
 cannot all be kings and queens-; to one is 
 the part of the villain — he is hissed ; to 
 another the maiden in distress ; and poor 
 Mad Tom must be played too. 
 
 • • • • 
 
 I kept myself awake, for I feared 
 another dream ; but the odours of the earth 
 lingered in my nostrils, and its horrible cries 
 still sounded in my ears. After all, I thought 
 it was best to sleep if I could. Luckily, the 
 last number of the Quarterly Review hap- 
 pened to be in the room, and I knew that 
 Dr Scott recommends this publication in 
 cases of sleeplessness and nervous excitement. 
 The article I selected was a perfect soporific 
 — an essay on the Darwinian Theory, and
 
 THE OUTCAST 33 
 
 before I had finished the preamble, it had 
 sent me to sleep. But on that fatal night, 
 even the Quarterly Review could not prevent 
 me from dreaming ; and, in fact, I dreamt 
 of a review, for my third dream took me to 
 a Demigod club where I found the following 
 critique in a periodical lying on the table. I 
 wrote it from memory as soon as I awoke. 
 
 THE REVIEW. 
 
 The custom of creating worlds, and of 
 peopling them with animated beings who 
 reflect the vices or follies of the day, or offer 
 an example of ideal virtues and moral 
 excellence, has of late become popular 
 in art ; and, though it may be a fashion, 
 which, like others of its kind, will soon 
 pass away, it is, in the meantime for 
 us, who are critics and censors, to pass
 
 34 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 judgment on all such works as succeed in 
 obtaining the attention of the public. The 
 monymous drama which has just been per- 
 formed, is said to be a first attempt ; and 
 this we should have inferred from internal 
 evidence. For though the work is by no 
 means deficient in power, and contains some 
 original ideas, there is a want of symmetry 
 in form, and of finish in detail, a prodigal 
 tvaste of raw material, a roughness of style 
 and execution which bear the stamp of in- 
 experience. However, as will be shown, it 
 is chiefly on moral grounds we think this 
 production ought to be condemned. 
 
 The work is simple in conception, and 
 modest in design. We have not here as 
 in some ambitious compositions, a num- 
 ber of inhabited worlds contributing each its 
 part to the story. One system only is placed
 
 THE OUTCAST. 35 
 
 upon the stage, and the action is confined to 
 one planet of that system. 
 
 At first the world was presented to our 
 view as a fiery cloud. It became com- 
 pressed to a Sun, which advanced through 
 Space, rotating on its axis, and cast off 
 certain pieces from itself like tires from a 
 wheel. These cooled into planetary bodies, 
 and one of them, called by its inhabitants 
 The Earth, was the scene of the drama 
 which we shall now endeavour to describe. 
 We observed with unmixed pleasure the 
 gradual growth of the planet from a cinder 
 enveloped in cloud to a globe covered with 
 water; the sun-rays causing the origin of 
 life ; the floating animalcules and one-celled 
 plants ; the rise of the land from the 
 deep, and its naked skin being clothed with 
 a green mantle of palm and fern vegetation.
 
 36 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 Monstrous reptiles and ungainly quadru- 
 peds inhabited the primeval marshes of the 
 earth ; and at night the croaking of enor- 
 mous frogs rose like thunder in the air. 
 But as time flowed on the face of the earth 
 assumed a more gentle and benignant ex- 
 pression ; flowers blossomed in the forest, and 
 the voices of singing birds were heard ; the 
 quadrupeds became less gigantic in size, but 
 more graceful and varied in their forms ; 
 and finally Men appeared upon the scene, 
 roaming in herds through the forest, clam- 
 bering the trees, jabbering semi-articulate 
 sounds. But as language formed upon 
 their lips, the erect posture was assumed, 
 the fore-foot was used as a hand, weapons 
 were invented, fire was discovered, caverns 
 in the rock, burrows in the ground, and 
 platforms on the trees, were exchanged for
 
 THE OUTCAST. 37 
 
 huts surrounded by gardens. "Wild animals 
 were tamed, the seed-bearing grasses were 
 cultured into grain, canoes glided on the 
 Avaters, commerce became the rival of war, 
 which, once incessant, was now occa- 
 sional. The tribes were united into nations, 
 the nations into empires, great cities flour- 
 ished on the banks of rivers, and by har- 
 bours on the sea-shore ; classes were divided, 
 the arts and sciences arose. At first these 
 were kept as state secrets, and often per- 
 ished with the state. At first wealth, 
 culture, and power belonged exclusively 
 to the dominant caste, while the masses 
 laboured in subjection. But by means of 
 useful inventions knowledge was widely 
 diffused, and the passion for liberty entered 
 the bosom of the people. One nation after 
 another shook itself free from the tyranny
 
 38 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 of kings and the tyranny of priests. When 
 class restrictions were removed, all could 
 hope by honest labour to better their con- 
 dition, and all striving for their own ends 
 assisted the onward movement of the world. 
 At a later period the social equality of men 
 extinguished personal ambition, and the 
 Welfare of the Eace was the aim of those 
 who laboured for distinction. Fame could 
 only be obtained by adding something to 
 the knowledge or the happiness of men. 
 Finally war ceased ; the malignant forces 
 of Nature were subdued, vice and disease 
 were eradicated, the earth became a plea- 
 sure garden, and men learnt to bear without 
 repining a painless death in extreme old 
 age. 
 
 We suppose that the moral purpose of 
 this drama is to teach the doctrine of Im-
 
 THE OUTCAST. 39 
 
 provement, and to illustrate that tendency 
 to Progress which pervades the universe. 
 The evolution of mind from matter, by 
 means of natural law, shows the innate 
 power of that tendency or force, and the 
 efforts by which Man achieves his own 
 comparative perfection, are no doubt in- 
 tended as a protest against that habit of 
 quiescence and content which is perhaps 
 the natural failing of Immortals. We 
 think that the satire on theology is whole- 
 some and just. Nothing could be more 
 ludicrous than to see these ephemeral 
 beings, these creatures of a moment, build- 
 ing little houses in honour of the First 
 Cause, and glibly explaining mysteries 
 which we do not profess to understand. 
 This may serve as a warning to certain 
 presumptuous philosophers who fabricate
 
 40 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 theories respecting the Supreme ; for how 
 can we know that we are not in the same 
 relative position to beings of a higher race 
 as those pigmies we create to ourselves ? 
 At least it is certain that our intellects, 
 great as they are, or great as we think 
 them to be, are unable to explain primary 
 phenomena, or to solve the problems of 
 Cause, Existence, arid Futurity. So far 
 then we go with our author ; and in num- 
 berless ways he has justly derided the 
 follies of our race. We can afford to for- 
 give him for creating human reviewers to 
 parody our profession, the more so as coarse 
 caricature fails of its effect ; but we must 
 object to the introduction of personal por- 
 traits ; it was settled long ago as a dogma 
 in art that mere copies should have no 
 place in a creation. This, however, is not
 
 THE OUTCAST. 41 
 
 a defect on which we shall dwell, for 
 though in itself serious enough, it is light 
 and trivial when compared with the faults 
 it is now our duty to expose. 
 
 In the first place, it is most degrading 
 that these men who are made in our image, 
 who in their exterior form and mental facul- 
 ties partly resemble ourselves, should be 
 suffered to retain both in body and mind so 
 much of the lower animals. The Creator 
 may, perhaps, reply, that he laid down the 
 law of gradual transition, and that all traces 
 of the beast in man could not be expelled 
 except by departing from the law. But 
 since he transformed by gradual transition, 
 the muzzle or snout to the lips of beauty 
 radiant with smiles, the hairy paw to the 
 skilful and delicate hand, he might surely 
 have found some way to obliterate by change
 
 42 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 the instincts and actions of which we com- 
 plain. No one can deny- that he is ingenious 
 enough when he chooses ; the shark's jaw 
 and the serpent's fang are models of dexter- 
 ous contrivance, though we do not envy 
 him these inventions. In any case, the diffi- 
 culty is one of his own making, and if he 
 could have devised no other plan, he should 
 have modified his law of evolution. It might 
 have been less philosophical, but it would 
 have been more decent ; and we must own 
 that we prefer an error in art to an outrage 
 on decorum. 
 
 Secondly, the development of matter to 
 mind, of quadruped to man, of savage to 
 civilized nations, is laudable enough as an 
 idea ; but how has it been carried out ? As 
 regards the first stage of the progress, we 
 have only to praise and admire ; but how
 
 THE OUTCAST. 43 
 
 has progress been produced in the animated 
 world ? We are almost ashamed to explain 
 a law, which, in its recklessness of life and 
 prodigality of pain almost amounts to a 
 crime. In cold forethought, the Creator so 
 disposed the forces of nature that more ani- 
 mated beings were born than could possibly 
 obtain subsistence on the earth. This caused 
 a struggle for existence, a desperate and 
 universal war ; the best and improved ani- 
 mals were alone able to survive, and so in 
 time, Evolution was produced. We shall not 
 deny that there is a kind of perverted ingen- 
 uity in the composition of this law ; but the 
 waste of life is not less clumsy than it is 
 cruel. By means of this same struggle for 
 existence, man was raised from the bestial 
 state, and his early discoveries were made. 
 Afterwards, ambition of fame, and later still,
 
 44 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 more noble motives came into force, but that 
 was towards the conclusion of the drama. 
 At hrst, every step in the human progress 
 was won by conflict, and every invention 
 resulted from calamity. The most odious 
 vices and crimes were at one time useful to 
 humanity, while war, tyranny, and supersti- 
 tion assisted the development of man. 
 
 Evil unhappily exists, and we do not 
 condemn its employment in art. We are 
 not in favour of those impossible dramas in 
 which only the virtues are displayed. But 
 we do condemn this confusion of evil and 
 good, and maintain that nothing can be 
 more immoral than to make crime the 
 assistant of progress, and vice the seed of 
 which virtue is the fruit. 
 
 Again, Death is a useful and perhaps 
 indispensable appliance in works of this
 
 THE OUTCAST. 45 
 
 kind, but so potent a means of exciting 
 sympathy should be employed with modera- 
 tion. Now what do we find here ? The 
 law of evolution is the law of death. Mas- 
 sacre is incessant ; flowers, animals, and 
 men die at every moment ; the earth is a 
 vast slaughter-house, and the ocean red- 
 dened with blood. Nor, incredible as it 
 may seem, is that the worst. With a 
 talent for torture which rouses our wonder 
 only next to our disgust, the Creator has 
 smitten the animated world, even to the 
 insects, with numerous painful and linger- 
 ing diseases, while the intellect is also 
 afflicted with maladies peculiar to itself. 
 The affections which at first would appear 
 to afford some meagre consolation in the 
 martyrdom of man are themselves too often 
 the cause of mental pain and incurable
 
 46 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 despair. What can be said for such a 
 world ? What kind of defence or excuse 
 can there be for its Creator ? It is true that 
 he made men himself, but that does not 
 justify his cruelty. The Supreme has 
 endowed us with the power of producing 
 and destroying animated forms, but so 
 terrible a gift should not be abused. We 
 should never forget that though these little 
 creatures live only for a moment, they are 
 yet sentient beings, and their torments while 
 they last are real and intense. Who could 
 view that melancholy Earth, and those 
 writhing masses of humanity, who could 
 hear those agonising cries without a shudder 
 of pain and a glow of honest indignation 
 against the Author of such woes and 
 wrongs ? Many of the audience withdrew, 
 while others hooted the Creator, and at one
 
 THE OUTCAST. 47 
 
 time we thought his planet would be 
 damned. But, all's well that ends well, is 
 the easy maxim of a pleasure seeking world, 
 and the public, fickle and easily impressed, 
 applauded the virtuous finale, and forgot 
 the horrors that had gone before. We were 
 unable to do so, and declare that it seemed 
 to us a most cruel and immoral exhibition. 
 That is what we have to say. We know 
 nothing of the Author, but if we should meet 
 him at a future time shall be happy to hear 
 what he can say to exonerate himself. We 
 do not wish to be too hard upon a young 
 beginner whose talents cannot be disputed, 
 and we trust that this critique, which is not 
 unkindly meant, in spite of its severity, will 
 induce him to reform. When next he pro- 
 duces a world let it be one which we can 
 take our wives and daughters to see, which
 
 48 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 will excite in the audience none but the 
 nobler sentiments, and which also, we must 
 add, will give us a more favourable impres- 
 sion of the personal character of its Creator.
 
 LETTEE III. 
 
 So, Ellen, you have been into Bluebeard's 
 chamber ; you have read the manuscript ; 
 and these ravings of a lunatic have made 
 you doubt the existence of a Personal God. 
 You suspect that I doubt it too. My 
 dear, you are wrong ; I disbelieve it. There 
 is no doubt in my mind about the matter. 
 
 I Daughter of Eve, an apple from the 
 Tree of Knowledge was hidden in a drawer ; 
 then came the serpent Curiosity ; and now, 
 having eaten, you are banished from the 
 Eden of belief. You wish me to tell you 
 the whole truth, or what I believe to be the 
 truth. Well, it can do you no harm in the 
 present condition of your mind, and may do 
 
 D
 
 So THE OUTCAST. 
 
 you good — though as to that I am not very 
 sanguine. But I will not merely expound 
 my religious opinions ; I will describe their 
 birth and growth in my mind. I will tell 
 you the story of my life. 
 
 Ah ! the story of my life. . . . Apart 
 from all matters of religion it will deeply, 
 too deej)ly interest you. I fear, my darling, 
 it will give you much pain ; yet it is right 
 that you should hear it; and you will be in- 
 clined more than ever, I believe, to pity and 
 succour the unfortunate when you learn in 
 what misery your childhood was passed. 
 
 You tell me that sometimes when you ap- 
 proach anything that is dead, a strange and 
 horrible scene rises like a picture to your 
 mind. You see a bare and squalid room — 
 the walls blackened with dirt, the broken 
 window-panes stuffed with rags. On the
 
 THE OUTCAST. 51 
 
 floor a woman with long yellow hair ; beside 
 her a man on his knees dressed in a ragged 
 black coat ; behind him some men and 
 women of coarse and evil countenance, yet 
 grave and sad, whispering together. 
 
 You shall now learn what was this scene 
 which your memory has faithfully though 
 fitfully retained. You shall learn how your 
 father was an outcast, reduced to the ex- 
 tremity of sorrow, to the brink of despair ; 
 how his misfortunes resembled, but exceeded 
 those of the unhappy Elliott, and how 
 narrowly he escaped a similar fate.
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 In the last century an East India nabob 
 named Mordaunt returned to England with 
 an immense fortune, said to have been 
 obtained in no very creditable manner from 
 the treasury of a Rajah in Bengal, at whose 
 court he was Resident. My father, his 
 only son, inherited several landed estates, 
 and a large sum of money in the funds. 
 He was sent to Eton and Christchurch, at 
 which latter place of education he chiefly 
 distinguished himself as an athlete ; he also 
 rode hard across country, was a noted 
 skittle-player, and had gained much aca- 
 demic fame by successfully bruising with 
 bargees. But all this came to an end
 
 THE OUTCAST. 53 
 
 before he left the university, for he went 
 to hear a noted field-preacher, intending to 
 create a disturbance, and was converted 
 on the spot. He gave up his old habits 
 and companions, read hard for his degree, 
 went into orders, and took the living of 
 Harborne-in-the- Moors, which was in his 
 own presentation. Such is the account of 
 his youth, which I received from the excel- 
 lent Bishop of T , who was his cok 
 
 temporary. There was nothing in my 
 father's appearance to show that he had 
 ever been inclined to dissipation, or even 
 to innocent pleasure. His features were 
 inexpressibly severe ; his eyes were cold 
 and hard, and overhung with thick, bushy 
 eyebrows; his lips were thin and closely 
 compressed. His strength was great, as I, 
 when a boy, knew to my cost ; and even
 
 54 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 his hands had a stern aspect, being broad 
 and powerful, the spaces between the 
 knuckles covered with long, black hairs. 
 He did not send me to school, but taught 
 me Greek, Latin, mathematics and divin- 
 ity himself; and seldom, I believe, has 
 any apprentice been more harshly treated 
 by his master. However, I ought to 
 remind you that I was born in a flogging, 
 cudgelling age, and that humanity to 
 schoolboys is a virtue of recent growth. 
 Moreover, my father was not indulgent 
 to himself, and no paid tutor, however 
 conscientious, would have toiled as he did 
 with me. His day's work was almost 
 incredible. He rose at daybreak, and 
 read Hebrew and theology till breakfast : 
 if it was winter, he laid and lighted his 
 own fire. The forenoon and afternoon he
 
 THE OUTCAST. 55 
 
 devoted to me, except at two intervals 
 which I spent in amusement, he in attend- 
 ing to the duties of his parish. He allowed 
 me to pass the evenings with my mother 
 while he corrected my exercises, and studied 
 the lessons of the next day in Homer, 
 Aristotle, Virgil, or Tacitus, comparing the 
 various readings, and referring to the Ger- 
 man commentators and critics, as if he 
 were preparing an exhaustive treatise ou 
 the subject. His religion was of the lowest 
 Calvinistic type, but at least it was sincere. 
 He allowed himself no pleasures of any 
 kind, and though less strict with my 
 mother and myself, we lived in a very 
 frugal manner. After his death, I was 
 informed by the family lawyer that he 
 spent immense sums in anonymous dona- 
 tions for religious and charitable purposes.
 
 5 6 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 My mother died in the belief that he was 
 a miser, and had never done a benevolent 
 action in his life. He thought it right to 
 conceal from her this giving of alms, and 
 perhaps also he loved her more than he 
 allowed her to suppose. But he did not 
 make her very happy. Ah, what would 
 have been my life without her ! How often 
 she caught me in her arms as I fled from 
 the chamber of torture, and kissed my 
 bruised and bleeding hands ! How often 
 she soothed my wounded spirit with words 
 of the tenderest love, and persuaded me to 
 endure with patience the trials of my child- 
 ish life! I did not then know that she 
 suffered more than myself. She was ardent 
 and romantic, fond of intellectual society, 
 and not indifferent to admiration, possessed 
 of remarkable beauty and many elegant
 
 THE OUTCAST. 57 
 
 accomplishments. But Harborne was a 
 lone and sequestered village in the moors, 
 and my father objected to social pleasures ; 
 so we received no visitors. 
 
 She had a heart which pined for affec- 
 tion ; and he was a man of stone. She 
 once told me that my birth had saved her 
 from absolute despair : thenceforth she had 
 something to live for, something to love. 
 Often, as she pressed me to her bosom, 
 she would gaze into my face with a timid, 
 searching, craving look ; and when with 
 some cold words I tried to shake myself 
 free, her deep, dark eyes would fill with 
 tears. So it was also in your case, dear 
 Ellen, and so no doubt you have found it 
 with your little girl. Children cannot love 
 us as we love them ; and when they become 
 old enough to return our affection, they
 
 5S THE OUTCAST. 
 
 leave us to marry or to make their way in 
 the world. Happily it is good for us to 
 love as it is good for us to labour, even 
 when the reward is slight and inadequate. 
 
 My mother was a sad invalid, being 
 afflicted with a pulmonary complaint which 
 required constant attendance. The parish 
 doctor saw her nearly every day, and 
 received a fixed fee or salary per annum. 
 Herbert Chalmers, whose name is yet re- 
 membered in science, was a student of pro- 
 mise and repute who had taken the cure 
 of bodies in the parish of Harborne, partly 
 for the sake of daily bread, and partly to 
 study that particular phase of the profes- 
 sion. He had not been there more than 
 a year when his friends obtained him a 
 lucrative appointment. He thanked them 
 and declined it, saying he was not ambi-
 
 THE OUTCAST. 59 
 
 tious, and preferred living in the country. 
 Now as the duties of a parish doctor com- 
 bine in themselves all that is most unplea- 
 sant in the life of an apothecary's appren- 
 tice and the chequered existence of a 
 post-boy, namely the rolling and pinching 
 of innumerable pills, and long night-rides 
 in the hardest of weather, his friends 
 thought him out of his wits ; but they could 
 not change his resolution. Some time after- 
 wards a relation died and left him a fortune. 
 He built a mansion with a laboratory, hot- 
 houses, and rooms suitable for collections 
 and experiments, engaged a medical assist- 
 ant, and devoted his time to scientific 
 researches on the physiology and chem- 
 istry of the vegetable kingdom. But he 
 still remained the doctor of the parish, and 
 attended all difficult cases himself. He
 
 60 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 reversed the usual order of tilings, for when 
 he left a poor patient he slipped a guinea 
 into his hand : that was the good doctor's 
 idea of being humorous. His skill and 
 unremitting care certainly prolonged my 
 dear mother's life, though it could not save 
 her from death at the early age of forty- 
 three. 
 
 I had always been told from my boy- 
 hood that I was to be a clergyman ; my 
 lather and mother both wished it ; and I 
 had no desire for any other profession. My 
 college life was quite uneventful. I joined 
 no set, indulged in none of the popular 
 amusements, such as boating or cricket ; 
 and, living for the most part in my rooms, 
 made neither enemies nor friends. I took 
 a first class in Great Go, and the Bishop of 
 T , who ordained me, wrote a most
 
 THE OUTCAST. 61 
 
 kind letter to congratulate my father on 
 the good examination I had passed in 
 divinity. I preached my first sermon in 
 Harborne Church ; and though no one was 
 there but our tenants and servants, my 
 parents and the doctor, I did not dare raise 
 my eyes from the book, and felt myself 
 blushing two or three times as I read out 
 some eloquent passages which I had com- 
 posed in a state of exaltation, but which 
 now seemed rather too fine for the occasion. 
 However, my mother was delighted with 
 this maiden composition, and felt very 
 proud that I was ordained. 
 
 On Sundays, Dr Chalmers always dined 
 with us in the middle of the day ; and that 
 same afternoon we were strolling together in 
 the garden — my mother, the doctor and I — 
 when she said, " Well, doctor, you have
 
 62 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 not quite wasted your life in this dismal 
 place ; for you have made me live long 
 enough to enjoy one day of perfect happi- 
 ness." He made some reply, which I do 
 not remember, and then she said, "But 
 tell me, dear doctor, I do not understand; 
 why do you stay here, when you might 
 go to London and become the intimate 
 friend of Davy, and Buckland, and the 
 other great men with whom you corre- 
 spond ? " He answered, " That is my 
 secret ; and female curiosity cannot always 
 be indulged." " Well, then, tell me some- 
 thing else," she said. " Is it true you are 
 going to be married ? " He smiled and 
 shook his head, and replied that it was not 
 true. He was now forty-six years of age, 
 and his day was gone. " Oh doctor," she 
 said, "you musn't say that. Have you for-
 
 THE OUTCAST. 63 
 
 gotten I am forty-three ? Is my day gone 
 too?" She drew herself up and looked very 
 beautiful. Then she said, "you are still 
 young enough, why do you not marry ? 
 Are you a woman hater?" Again he smiled, 
 but this time I thought rather sadly, and 
 said, he was far from being that. "And do 
 you not find it very lonely living in that 
 great house by yourself?" "Yes," he said, 
 '•'it is very lonely." "And do you not 
 sometimes feel unhappy ? " " Yes, some- 
 times I feel very unhappy indeed." "And 
 you do not think that if you were to 
 marry ....'?" "I cannot" he replied. 
 "Is it for the same reason that prevented 
 you from taking that appointment?" "Yes," 
 he replied in a sharp voice, " it is the same 
 reason." "Will you not tell me what it 
 is?" (He shook his head.) "Ah, my
 
 64 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 dear friend, it would be better. You have 
 something on your mind ; will you not 
 trust it to me ? You have saved my life 
 again and again ; will you not let me 
 prove my gratitude? Oh, disburden your 
 heart, I beseech you. Edward, dear, leave 
 us alone." 
 
 " No, sir," said he with emphasis, " do 
 not go away." My mother thought that 
 he was angry, and laid her hand upon his 
 arm. I saw his lips turn pale, but he said 
 in a firm voice, " Ellen Mordaunt, I thank 
 you for your sympathy, but I cannot tell 
 you this secret of my life ; it would make 
 you unhappy, and would give me no re- 
 lief, but quite the contrary." He then 
 shook hands with us both, and saying he 
 was wanted at home, walked quickly to- 
 wards the garden gate.
 
 THE OUTCAST. 65 
 
 My mother looked after him, her eyes 
 wide open with astonishment. I said there 
 was a skeleton in every house. " Oh I " she 
 cried, "Edward, what do you mean? He 
 cannot have done anything wrong ; that is 
 impossible." 
 
 I did not reply, and we walked up and 
 down the gravel walk. My mother seemed 
 buried in thought. Suddenly she gave an 
 exclamation, and put her hand to her heart. 
 She turned round and went a few steps as 
 if to overtake the doctor, who had just 
 reached the gate and paused there to look 
 at us as he passed through. "Are you 
 in pain, mother ? " said I ; "let me run 
 after Dr Chalmers ? " " No," she cried 
 earnestly, " do not call him back ; " and 
 seizing my hand she pressed it with con- 
 vulsive force. I remained silent and lost
 
 66 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 in wonder, as she had been a moment 
 before. 
 
 Then she said in her own quiet voice, "It 
 was only a passing spasm, and Dr Chalmers 
 has other patients to attend. It is getting 
 rather cold ; I think we had better go in." 
 
 We went indoors, and my mother com- 
 plaining of a headache, retired to her room. 
 The next morning I was awoke by the sun- 
 beams streaming through the window. It 
 was a fine spring morning, the birds in the 
 garden were singing merrily. I felt in 
 glorious health ; the blood seemed to dance 
 in my veins. Hitherto I had known no 
 serious cares, and the troubles of childhood 
 were past. A bright calm life was before 
 me, and as I reflected on my happy condition 
 my heart was filled with the love of God, 
 and with gratitude for his goodness.
 
 THE OUTCAST. 67 
 
 One of the servants came in, gave me a 
 letter, and hastened from the room. The 
 letter was from my father. I have it before 
 me now, yellow and crumpled and stained 
 — written more than thirty years ago — yet 
 still I weep as I read it. 
 
 "My son, I cannot see you to-day. It 
 has pleased the Lord to chasten us with a 
 heavy and sore affliction. Last night when 
 I went to bed at a late hour your mother 
 was asleep, but seemed to be dreaming. 
 She turned from side to side, and was 
 whispering something under her breath. I 
 stooped down and listened, and heard her say 
 the doctor's name. Then I feared that she 
 was ill. Still sleeping, she flung her arms 
 round my neck, and awoke. When she saw 
 me she gave a scream, and shrank to the 
 farther side of the bed. Wife, I said, you
 
 68 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 have a fever ; your face is flushed, aud your 
 hands are burning hot ; I will send James 
 for the doctor at once. I moved towards 
 the bell, but she sprang from the bed and 
 exclaimed, It is nothing, I am quite well, 
 indeed I am; you must not send for him. 
 Oh, do not send for him ! I saw that she 
 was delirious, and rang the bell in spite of 
 her feeble efforts to prevent me. Then she 
 gave a great cry ; the blood rushed from her 
 lips, and she fell to the floor. When I 
 raised her in my arms she was dead."
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 I remained three months at home, and my 
 father was very gentle and kind. One 
 Sunday, as we stood side by side in the 
 churchyard looking at the grave, he put 
 his hand on my shoulder and said, "You 
 were a good son to her." I noticed that 
 his sermons were more humane, his mien 
 and manners less austere ; and I heard the 
 coachman (an old servant) declare that 
 " master was quite a changed man." But 
 before I left home, his old severity seemed 
 to be returning. 
 
 The Bishop of T gave me a small 
 
 living at Stilbroke in shire. The 
 
 rectory being out of repair, I was invited
 
 7© THE OUTCAST. 
 
 by Mr Jameson, apparently the squire, for 
 his letter was dated Stilbroke Court, to 
 stay at his house until my own was habit- 
 able. I accepted this invitation. A talk- 
 ative neighbour on the coach told me that 
 Mr Jameson was a London tradesman re- 
 tired from business, who about ten years 
 ago had bought the manor of Stilbroke, 
 and set up as a country gentleman. " But," 
 added my informant with a grin, and sink- 
 ing his voice to a whisper, " the gentry 
 don't call upon him, and he's not in the 
 commission of the peace." He then went 
 on to inform me that Mr Jameson had 
 one son, a lieutenant and captain in the 
 Guards, and one daughter, who was lady 
 of the house, her mother being dead. He 
 said, " You'll find the bishop there spending 
 the day ; he's come down to consecrate a
 
 THE OUTCAST. 71 
 
 church." My companion then proceeded 
 to elicit from me as much information 
 respecting myself as I felt disposed to give 
 him, and got down at a village near Stil- 
 broke. I supposed he was a lawyer, or 
 land agent, or something of that kind. I 
 found Stilbroke Court a fine specimen of 
 the old English manor-house, and Mr Jame- 
 son, who came out of doors to welcome me, 
 certainly seemed at first sight a fine speci- 
 men of the old English country gentleman. 
 He wore a blue coat with brass buttons, 
 and a buff-coloured waistcoat, and a snowy 
 neckcloth swathed round his throat. He 
 had also a full-blooded, country-looking 
 complexion ; but when he spoke there was 
 beneath a false accent of rusticity, a certain 
 intonation which savoured of the counter. 
 I also observed in our first interview that
 
 72 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 he spoke with much hesitation, and made 
 long stops between every phrase, the reason 
 being, as I was afterwards able to infer, 
 that on account of the bishop's presence he 
 was leaving out the expletives with which 
 he usually garnished his discourse. For 
 when lie first came down to Stilbroke, 
 supposing that every country gentleman 
 swore, he assiduously practised the habit ; 
 and by the time he had discovered his 
 mistake, the habit was acquired, and could 
 not be shaken off. 
 
 I felt some little trepidation when I 
 found myself in the same room with the 
 bishop. But Dr. Lambton came forward 
 to meet me, and shook me warmly by the 
 hand. Mr Jameson asked me what I 
 would have to eat, and resting his hands 
 in a peculiar manner on the table, described
 
 THE OUTCAST. 73 
 
 the various dainties before him as if they 
 were articles he wanted to sell. He was 
 . . . that is . . . very glad to see me. 
 Hoped I had a pleasant journey. Heard 
 that the roads were . . . extremely bad 
 and heavy after the rain. Then I heard 
 him mutter to himself, " Damn the damns, 
 can't keep them down." 
 
 The Bishop took me out for a walk in 
 the grounds after lunch. He talked about 
 my father and his own college days, de 
 scribed Oxford as it was in the last genera- 
 tion, gave me many practical hints respect- 
 ing my parochial duties, and made me 
 promise I would write to him as a friend if 
 ever I required his advice. 
 
 He was to go away that afternoon, and 
 we now saw the carriage driving round the 
 sweep. Bidding me good-bye, he hastened
 
 74 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 to the bouse, and I walked along the gravel 
 path, darkened by rain, to the end of the 
 garden, where I found a little iron gate 
 opening into a wood. But it was not an 
 ordinary wood, being planted with many 
 foreign trees, and bright with crimson rhodo- 
 dendrons. In other parts of the "wilderness," 
 as it was called, nature was left undisturbed ; 
 tiny little pathlets marked the " runs " of 
 hares, and in thick patches of bramble were 
 their "forms." The beech mast of last year, 
 brown twigs and dry leaves littered the 
 ground, which was carpeted with moss 
 and ribbed with the roots of trees. One 
 charming little dell that I discovered, was 
 filled with blue bells, more beautiful in col- 
 our, I thought, than the flowers of the Him- 
 alaya shrub. 
 
 Brought up as I had been amidst desolate
 
 THE OUTCAST. 75 
 
 moors, it gave me an exquisite pleasure to 
 walk in the shade of trees, to inhale their 
 delicate fragrance, to view their dark pillar- 
 like trunks and fair edifice of foliasre. I 
 
 O 
 
 stood on the brink of the dell and gazed 
 down on the flowers like a blue lake lying 
 in its depths. A few others of these wild 
 hyacinths were growing singly or in clusters 
 on the sides of the dell mingled with young 
 ferns of the tenderest green, and one flower 
 was growing at my feet. I had almost 
 stepped upon it. A little way off, the sun- 
 light descending through a window in the 
 leafy roof flowed through the wood like a 
 silvery stream, while around me the trunks 
 of trees were flecked with patches of light. 
 I heard a chirrup overhead, and saw a squir- 
 rel leaping nimbly from branch to branch 
 running home to its young in the dusky
 
 76 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 dray. Sometimes the wind rustled faintly 
 in the branches overhead, and cast down 
 raindrops shining like pearls as they fell. I 
 was softened by these sweet influences. A 
 tender melancholy stole upon me. A me- 
 mory never long absent returned to my heart 
 which was its home. Mine eyes streaming 
 with tears fell on the hyacinth growing 
 at my feet. I stooped down and caressed it 
 with my hand. " delicate flower," I said, 
 "your life is short enough, and I will not 
 pluck it from you ; but if I could plant you 
 in a garden where death and decay were un- 
 known, then I would gather you at once. 
 Thus God gathers beautiful souls ; he loves 
 them and takes them to himself. Dear 
 mother, I weep not for you, but for myself ; 
 I know that you are happy, it is I — it is 
 I who am forlorn."
 
 THE OUTCAST. 77 
 
 I put my hand in my bosom and drew 
 forth a locket, and pressed it to my lips. 
 Mother, I said, send a ray of your love for 
 me into some woman's heart that resembles 
 your own, and so brighten my solitary life. 
 
 Then I lifted up my eyes and saw stand- 
 ing beside me a young lady of surpassing 
 loveliness. She wore a white muslin dress 
 of the kind which my mother used to wear ; 
 and from under her broad garden hat, long 
 tresses of golden hair fell upon her shoulders. 
 Her face had a grave and gentle expression 
 which I know not how to describe, her com- 
 plexion was pale, her eyes of a soft and 
 liquid blue. Such was your mother when I 
 first looked upon her. She was then only 
 seventeen, the purest, the most affectionate 
 of women, and one of the most unfortunate. 
 
 I rose and bowed ; she shook hands as if
 
 78 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 we were friends. " Papa," she said, " sent 
 me to call you." 
 
 We went towards the house ; she made 
 room for me in the narrow path to walk by 
 her side. I furtively wiped the tears from 
 my eyes. She blushed and said, " I fear, 
 Mr Mordaunt, that you are in much 
 trouble ? " 
 
 "My mother is dead," I replied; "and 
 she was my only friend." 
 
 " Your only friend," she said timidly, 
 " and your father ? " 
 
 " I cannot love him," I answered, " so 
 much as I wish ; " and I gave a sigh. She 
 sighed too. " Our parents," she said, "are 
 
 our best friends, but sometimes ." 
 
 Then she checked herself, and said, 
 " Have you a sister ? " " Ah, no," I re- 
 plied, "if I had a sister then I should be
 
 THE OUTCAST. 79 
 
 liapp}^, for I would make her live with me 
 here." 
 
 " And what," she said a little more gaily, 
 " what would you make your sister do — 
 besides keeping house ? " 
 
 " I would make her go with me to visit 
 the poor and the sick — to tell you the truth, 
 I am rather afraid of them — and she would 
 teach me what to do. And then there 
 would be some one who cared for me. It 
 is hard to be alone in the world." 
 
 She did not reply. Her father took me 
 over the village, and gave me an account of 
 my parish, prosing and swearing dreadfully. 
 The next morning Miss Jameson came to 
 me in the garden, followed by a maid carry- 
 ins: a covered basket on her arm. " Would 
 you like," she said, "to be introduced to 
 some of your parishioners ? " I assented, of
 
 80 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 course, and enjoyed my second visit to the 
 village more than the first. Margaret and 
 I soon became intimate friends, and indeed 
 almost like brother and sister. I staid a 
 month in the house, and when I went to 
 live at the rectory our companionship was 
 not interrupted. We were together all the 
 day ; and I almost reproached myself for 
 being so happy a few months after my 
 mother's death. 
 
 But about the middle of August the 
 house was filled with guests, and Margaret's 
 time was so taken up that we seldom saw 
 each other alone. At the end of the month 
 her brother came down with the Honourable 
 William Fitzclarence, his friend. Captain 
 Jameson was a sodden-faced dissolute-look- 
 ing young man, with a carefully cultivated 
 lisp and a vulgar laugh. He never pro-
 
 THE OUTCAST. 81 
 
 nounced the letter "r" except by inad- 
 vertence, and never replied to a question 
 without screwing an eye-glass into his orbit, 
 and surveying the other person through it 
 with an air of mild astonishment, as if he 
 had never seen him before. In short, he 
 had taken the part of the dandy as his 
 father had taken that of the country gen- 
 tleman. In each case the impersonation 
 was clever, which is all that can be said. 
 Fitzclarence was a character. The heir to a 
 peerage and a vast fortune, he was what 
 was then called a " Philosophical Radical." 
 He sat at the feet of James Mill, dined 
 tete-a-tete with the famous Jeremy, and 
 wrote for the Westminster Review. He 
 was one of the agitators for Reform, and 
 was also reputed to be a violent hater of 
 the Bible and the Church, a second Tom
 
 82 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 Paine. In those clays a Kadical aristo- 
 crat was almost unknown, and I really 
 think he was the first of the species. 
 The popular theory was that his head was 
 turned, and certainly his manners were 
 singular, and his language often extrava- 
 gant. As soon as he became excited in 
 conversation he wriggled and writhed in his 
 chair, and when he finished what he had to 
 say, snapped his jaws sharply together like 
 a dog at a fly. Though he disapproved of 
 the game-laws he had a passion for shooting, 
 and having quarrelled with all his relations, 
 was induced by the fame of the Stilbroke 
 turnip fields to accept young Jameson's 
 invitation. The other guests were mostly 
 city people, and among them was an heiress 
 to whom Mr Jameson anxiously directed the 
 attention of his son; for he was not
 
 THE OUTCAST. 83 
 
 enormously rich, and the Captain was 
 enormously extravagant. 
 
 One day when I was dining at the house 
 the conversation turned at dessert, after the 
 ladies had left the table, upon the recent 
 discoveries in geology, which revealed the 
 earth's antiquity and the creation of fish, 
 reptiles, and quadrupeds in epochs separated 
 by vast intervals of time. Fitzclarence ex- 
 pounded the matter with much lucidity, 
 and each guest was apparently drawing his 
 own conclusions for himself when Captain 
 Jameson blurted out ; 
 
 "Then the world was not made in six 
 days after all." 
 
 There was a dead silence, and all eyes 
 were turned upon me. I said that the 
 geologists must be mistaken if such was 
 their theory, because it was clearly stated in
 
 84 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 the Bible that God had made the world in 
 six days. 
 
 "Well then, Mr Mordaunt," said Fitz- 
 clarence, "you do not agree with those of 
 your brethren who declare that the six days 
 in question were not actual days, but 
 geological periods ? " 
 
 " How can they say that," I replied, 
 " when each day is described as having an 
 evening and morning, and when it is also 
 said that God ' blessed the seventh day and 
 sanctified it ? ' " 
 
 " Nothing," answered Fitzclarence, "could 
 be proved more completely and concisely. 
 We may, therefore, take it for granted that 
 the six days of Genesis are not geological 
 periods 1 " He looked at me with a ques- 
 tioning air. I bowed and smiled, and was 
 going to change the conversation, when he
 
 THE OUTCAST. 85 
 
 said ; " But now, if it were proved as an 
 actual fact, beyond the shadow of a doubt, 
 by the same kind of evidence as that which 
 proves that the earth revolves round the 
 sun — supposing, I say, it could be proved 
 that the world was not made in six days, 
 but that thousands and thousands of years 
 intervened between (for example), the fish 
 and birds of the fifth day, and man who 
 was created on the sixth, what may I ask 
 would you say then 1 " 
 
 "My dear sir," I replied, "you might as 
 well ask what I would say if it could be 
 proved that a circle is square." 
 
 " But supposing it could be proved — 
 please to answer for my argument's sake 
 —what then ? " 
 
 "Then," I replied, "of course it would be 
 proved that the Bible was not inspired."
 
 86 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 "Good," said Fitzclarence, rising from the 
 table. " Well now, I will tell you this. It 
 has been proved," And he walked out of 
 the room. 
 
 Mr Jameson poured forth a volley of 
 oaths at his son for having set Fitz. upon his 
 hobby. The next day Fitzclarence wrote 
 me a letter apologising for his rudeness, and 
 begging me not to think of what he had said. 
 The advice was kindly meant, but quite un- 
 necessary ; what he said seemed to me in- 
 credible, and it soon passed away from my 
 mind. Not so, however, with the man. I 
 observed that he gave up shooting and passed 
 all the day at the house. Mr Jameson, who 
 knew my father to be rich, had always en- 
 couraged my visits, but now his manner was 
 changed, and whenever we had any business 
 to discuss, he was careful to make the ap-
 
 THE OUTCAST. tfj 
 
 pointment at the Kectory. An infallible 
 instinct warned me that Fitzclarence was my 
 rival, and a gossipping servant confirmed it. 
 My rival, I say, for now I discovered that I 
 loved Margaret. So long as we were con- 
 stantly together I was contented with her 
 friendship ; the days passed happily ; I did 
 not attempt to analyse my feelings ; I did 
 not reflect on the future. But, as soon as 
 we were separated, my affection forced back 
 upon itself, became craving and intense. 
 Unable to see her or speak with her as 
 before, she became the constant companion 
 of my thoughts. And now came the fear 
 that I should lose her altogether. From 
 my library window, I could see into the 
 Stilbroke grounds. Every day at the same 
 hour, they walked together on the terrace, he 
 speaking with animated gestures, she listen-
 
 88 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 ing with attention — no doubt with admira- 
 tion. He was a noted orator, how could she 
 resist his eloquence ? Besides, he was heir 
 to a peerage, and her father was a trades- 
 man. 
 
 Soon it was all over the village that 
 they were engaged. A farmer told me the 
 news, and declared Mr Jameson himself had 
 hinted as much to him, saying, that before 
 very long they'd hear wedding bells. 
 Strange as it may seem, from that time I 
 became more easy in my mind. It was a 
 relief to be out of suspense, and now my 
 duty lay clear before me ; silence, self-con- 
 quest, resignation. I even smiled at the 
 thought, that perhaps I might have to marry 
 them. At this time I read for the first time 
 the Imitation of Jesus Christ, and became 
 enamoured of the spiritual life. I resolved
 
 THE OUTCAST. 89 
 
 to place my happiness no more in earthly 
 pleasures and human affections, but to seek 
 only the divine love by purification of the 
 soul, and fasting, and prayer, and exclusion 
 of mundane thoughts. I resolved to banish 
 Margaret from my mind and memory ; 
 when her vision forced itself upon me, 
 I took up the Imitation or the Bible. In 
 the solitude of the night, I found it hard 
 to abstain from thinking of her, and I kept 
 a taper burning opposite the bed to remind 
 me of my resolution. I tied myself down 
 in the chair to be prevented from going to 
 the window at the time when she walked 
 upon the terrace. In church I forbade my- 
 self to glance at the pew where she sat. 
 My whole time was passed in idle devotion, 
 and selfish cares for the wellbeing of my soul. 
 I almost ceased to visit my parishioners,
 
 9° THE OUTCAST. 
 
 and yearned to seclude myself wholly from 
 the world. 
 
 A few months more and my ruin would 
 have been complete. I should have become 
 a mere God-fawning devotee. But this was 
 not to be. Mr Jameson called upon me 
 one morning and said : " Come, parson, I 
 say, you have dropped us. Won't you call 
 over to day and have a bit of lunch % " 
 
 I declined. "Ah," said he, "I know 
 what it is. You don't like that infidel 
 fellow ; but he's gone away, and young 
 Hopeful's gone with him. They had one 
 day at the pheasants, that's all." 
 
 " What," said I, " Mr Fitzclarence gone 
 away ! but, I thought " 
 
 "Ah, yes, you thought, and so did a good 
 many more. But I'd never let my girl 
 marry a damned infidel."
 
 THE OUTCAST. 91 
 
 " Oh please, Mr Jameson, do not swear," 
 said I. 
 
 "I am not swearing," said he. ''I use the 
 word ecclesiastically, just as you might in 
 the pulpit ; though it's enough to make- 
 anybody swear the way those fellows go on 
 with their cursed atheism. Well, they'll 
 find out their mistake some day. But 
 you'll come, won't you ? Let me tell Mar- 
 garet you will." 
 
 I looked up at him. His little keen eyes 
 were diving into mine. " My daughter," 
 he said with emphasis, "will be very glad 
 to see you ; very glad to see you." 
 
 "I will come," said I. He went out, and I 
 heard him chuckle as he went down stairs. 
 There was little attempt at disguise in his 
 words or his manner. Margaret was mine! 
 At this thought the blood rushed from my
 
 92 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 heart and flamed on my pale ascetic face. 
 I tore the hair shirt from my bosom. I 
 dashed Thomas a Kempis on the flames. I 
 knelt down and prayed. I jumped up and 
 danced, exclaiming, " She is mine ! She 
 refused him for me ! " As rivers, released 
 from their bonds of ice, pour down swift 
 torrents from the hills, so the natural feel- 
 ings of my heart, so long held down by 
 frozen piety, coursed swiftly through my 
 frame, and made me drunk with excitement 
 and joy. However, I calmed down, and 
 felt rather foolish as I took the ' Imitation,' 
 all charred and smoking, from the fire. I 
 remembered that, after all, nothing was 
 certain as yet ; and soon I became just as 
 anxious as I had before been confident. It 
 wanted an hour of the time, but I could not 
 wait any longer, and went up to the house.
 
 THE OUTCAST. 93 
 
 She was in the drawing room alone. As 
 I entered at the door 1 felt a strange faint- 
 ness and fluttering within me. In a few 
 minutes my fate would be decided. Her 
 look reassured me, and the gentle pressure 
 of her hand, and the tone in which she 
 said, "It is so long since I have seen 
 
 you." 
 
 We conversed for some time. I feared to 
 speak, and yet for my own peace of mind I 
 knew it must be done that day, and that 
 hour. At last I said with a bantering air, 
 "Margaret, I hear that you have had an 
 offer of marriage ? " " Yes," she said with a 
 smile, " and poor papa was so disappointed." 
 "And why did you not marry him?" I asked. 
 She blushed and turned her head aside. I 
 took her hand in mine. "Tell me, dear 
 Margaret," I whispered. She looked up, and
 
 94 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 told me with her eyes. Then I clasped her 
 in my arms ; I strained her to my breast ; I 
 pressed my lips to hers, and fondled her 
 long golden hair. raptures of a first and 
 innocent love, who can describe them ? 
 What power have words to express the 
 deep inner feelings of the heart ? I 
 can only tell you I was happy — that 
 is all.
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 My father approved of the match, and pro- 
 mised me a liberal allowance. The marriage 
 was to take place in a twelvemonth. Cap- 
 tain Jameson did not deign to give us his 
 blessing, being deeply offended with his 
 sister for her refusal of Fitzclarence, for he 
 preferred a brother-in-law with a handle to 
 his name. His father's sentiments were not 
 dissimilar, but he took the trouble to conceal 
 them, having come to the conclusion that it 
 would be foolish to refuse the heir to a large 
 fortune because the heir to a still larger 
 fortune and a peerage had been lost. So he 
 was always loud and boisterous with me to 
 shew his cordiality. One day, at luncheon, 
 he winked and said, "The Bishop has a good
 
 96 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 opinion of you, Master Ned, a deuced good 
 opinion of you." 
 
 I said I was glad to hear that I was so 
 honoured. No prelate was more loved in his 
 diocese, or more distinguished on the bench. 
 
 " Cannot you remember what he said, 
 dear papa ? " asked Magaret, blushing with 
 pleasure. 
 
 " I should rather think I could," he re- 
 plied. " Mr Jameson," said my Lord, " Mr 
 Jameson," said he, " our young friend did 
 well at college, damned well, and, by Jove, 
 he'll do the right thing by your parish." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! ' : exclaimed Margaret, " he 
 could not have said that." 
 
 "Well, my dear," said her father some- 
 what confused, " I don't mean to say he 
 used those very words, but that was the 
 general sense."
 
 THE OUTCAST. 97 
 
 A servant came in with the letters of the 
 afternoon post. Mr Jameson's face fell as 
 he examined the blue envelopes. "Ah ! " 
 muttered he, " I know what these are well 
 enough. Eeform — reform is all the cry. I 
 wish they could pass a bill for reforming 
 extravagant sons." 
 
 " You know, dearest Edward," said Mar- 
 garet, as we walked to the Rectory together, 
 " Eobert spends a great deal of money — papa 
 would send him into the Guards — and we 
 have heard that he gambles at Crockford's. 
 And he is so dreadfully conceited ; he 
 would not even look at Miss Brown when 
 she was here. His wife, he says, must have 
 three things — birth, beauty, and money (or 
 blunt, as he calls it). Now as he has neither 
 of the three to offer in return " 
 
 "But your father is rich?" said I. Mar- 
 
 G
 
 98 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 garet shook her head. "Papa," she said, 
 "was in such a hurry to be a country gentle- 
 man that he gave up his business too soon, 
 and though he is an excellent manager, and 
 spends very little money on himself, he does 
 not seem able to refuse Robert anything. 
 The rents of the farms on the estate just 
 cover our expenses down here, and I fear 
 that papa's other money is going very fast. 
 When he asked me to marry Fitzclarence, 
 he said, My girl, you must not marry a 
 poor man, for if at any future time you 
 should want money, God only knows 
 whether I should be able to assist you." 
 
 Dear Margaret, thought I, as I went up 
 to my library, when we are married you 
 will not need any money from your father. 
 None of these sordid cares shall trouble 
 your life.
 
 THE OUTCAST. 99 
 
 I sat down in my arm-chair and aban- 
 doned myself to reverie. I had now found 
 in love — chaste, secure, requited love — that 
 calm of mind which I had sought in 
 monkish devotion. No passion disturbed 
 me ; no disquietude alarmed me ; no sad 
 experience made me doubt my future happi- 
 ness. I knew not the dangers of life. I 
 pictured myself the rector of a large parish, 
 and Margaret the queen of our world, dis- 
 tributing her bounty to the poor, alleviat- 
 ing their miserable lot. Often we had 
 planned and plotted together how we could 
 do good. And I saw her seated by my side 
 after the labours of the day, and rosy- 
 cheeked children clambered on my knees. 
 And the love of my children unborn filled 
 my heart, and I revelled in anticipated 
 
 joys.
 
 ioo THE OUTCAST. 
 
 While thus I was wrapped in sweet 
 meditation, I observed lying on the table 
 before me a large brown paper parcel, which 
 must have come down by the London coach 
 that afternoon. I found that it contained 
 LyelTs Principles of Geology, and some 
 other works upon that science. I supposed 
 these were sent by the disappointed rival, 
 and with no good intent ; and as I turned 
 over the books a letter dropped out. It 
 was without an envelope, and as follows : — 
 " Dear Youth, — Here are the books you ask 
 for, viz., the grand work of Lyell, and the 
 orthodox attempts at a reply. Why on 
 earth do you want them ? Are you going to 
 study these problems ? If so, it would be 
 better than some of your other occupations. 
 I hear that you go very often to the top of 
 St. James Street. Ah, beware !
 
 THE OUTCAST. 101 
 
 " Impossible to accept your invitation. 
 I only go to Eeform dinners now-a-days. 
 I talk, think, dream of nothing else. All 
 is going on well : we are certain to succeed. 
 
 " Lastly, oblige me, once for all, by not 
 writing as you do about a certain young 
 lady. I admire her, I esteem her, I love 
 her ; it was my fault that she could not love 
 me ; but it eases my vanity to know that 
 there was a prior attachment. Fitz." 
 
 It was now evident that the books came 
 from the Captain, who had mislaid the letter 
 in the parcel. I thought I could best dis- 
 appoint his benevolent intentions by read- 
 ing them carefully through ; in fact, I had 
 intended to order from London the latest 
 works upon geology, as I considered it my 
 duty to study the enemy's arguments in 
 order to be able to refute them. I began to
 
 102 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 read the " Principles " at once, and was soon 
 captivated by the beauty of the style, the 
 modesty of the author, and the wondrous 
 world he opened to my view. There was 
 not an allusion to theology in the book, 
 which I read all through like a novel, with 
 no sensation but that of enjoyment. But 
 when I remembered afterwards the duration 
 of time and absence of catastrophe on 
 which it insisted, I was seriously troubled, 
 and I read it again, now well on my guard, 
 and in a hostile attitude of mind. But I 
 could discern no flaw in the reasoning, and 
 could only venture to hope that the facts 
 were not to be relied on. Having spent a 
 week upon the "Principles," taking many 
 notes, and honestly forcing my brain to 
 receive ideas it did not like (which I 
 found at first very difficult), I took from
 
 THE OUTCAST. 103 
 
 the parcel an orthodox work, which was 
 then of much repute in the religious 
 world. This book settled the matter in 
 my mind : it was not unfairly written, 
 admitted the facts which science had esta- 
 blished, and tried to reconcile them with 
 the Mosaic account of the creation. It was 
 most ingenious — a perfect specimen of 
 special pleading — but nevertheless could 
 only deceive those who wished to be de- 
 ceived : no doubt the author was among 
 that number; I do not question his sin- 
 cerity. There was also a pamphlet in the 
 parcel, written by a clergyman, who al- 
 lowed that the first chapter of Genesis 
 could not be accepted as a literal truth, but 
 argued that it was of no consequence, as 
 the Bible was intended to teach us religion, 
 not to teach us geology. For me it was
 
 io4 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 enough that there was one mistake in the 
 Bible ; that proved it could not have been 
 written by God. 
 
 The next six months I devoted to biblical 
 studies. I read the Bible all through, with 
 no commentary but that of common sense, 
 and the scales fell from my eyes. Never 
 did I more keenly appreciate the beauties 
 of the book as a literary production ; but I 
 found proofs in every page that it was 
 written by men, and by men immersed in 
 superstition. I passed many unhappy hours, 
 for old beliefs are not torn up without a 
 pang ; but my chief feeling was one of 
 burning shame, that I could ever have 
 credited the many profane and ridiculous 
 fables contained in the Bible. It seemed to 
 me an awful blasphemy to assert that the 
 great God of heaven clothed himself in the
 
 THE OUTCAST. 105 
 
 body of a man, and I prayed him to forgive 
 me for having believed it. My conception 
 of the Creator was ennobled, my devotion 
 was increased, a pure and sublime Theism 
 reconciled me for the loss of some illusions. 
 Thus I did not suffer as much as might 
 have been anticipated. 
 
 But I was a clergyman. I was the priest 
 of what I now believed to be a pagan reli- 
 gion, and received money to teach what I 
 knew to be false. I felt it incumbent upon 
 me at once to leave the Church, and to 
 enter some other profession. Mr Watson, 
 the rector of the neighbouring parish, fre- 
 quently visited Stilbroke Court ; his wife 
 was a friend of Margaret's, and he, I knew, 
 was a man of temperate views, who would 
 patiently hear what I had to say, and 
 advise me how to carry out my resolution.
 
 LETTER VU. 
 
 Mr Watson had a large family, as was 
 shown by the number of small caps and 
 coats hanging up in the hall. I was 
 ushered into an apartment which, like a 
 desert island, bore no traces of human habi- 
 tation. Everything remained as it had 
 come from the hands of the upholsterer. 
 The atmosphere was damp and cold, as if 
 no fire had ever been lighted in the polished 
 grate. The chairs and sofas looked as if 
 they were in a shop window ; the gorgeous 
 books on the central table had perhaps 
 never been opened, certainly never been 
 read. All feudal castles contained a dun- 
 geon in which malefactors were cast ; and 

 
 THE OUTCAST. 107 
 
 in many old-fashioned houses a desert cham- 
 ber is set apart for the reception of guests. 
 I did not like to sit down for fear I should 
 crease something, and did not dare to walk 
 about for fear of soiling the carpet ; as it was, 
 I could see a bootmark which the lady of the 
 house would view with no less horror than 
 Robinson Crusoe the footprint in the sand. 
 I therefore remained in a most uncomfort- 
 able attitude, while the door was constantly 
 opened by small children who peeped in and 
 made faces at me, and then shut it with a 
 bang and a shout of exultation. At last the 
 rustle of a silk dress announced that the 
 change of toilet was completed, and Mrs 
 Watson came into the room, round which 
 she glanced with an air of evident pride. 
 She begged me to sit down ; but I said I 
 was anxious to see Mr Watson at once, so
 
 io8 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 she led the way into his study, having made 
 me promise that I would take a dish of 
 tea before I went home. Soon afterwards I 
 heard, not without satisfaction, the sound of 
 manual punishment, accompanied by shouts 
 which were not of a gleeful character. 
 
 Mr Watson was seated in his study, read- 
 ing Paley's Natural Theology, and smoking 
 a long clay pipe. When I had explained 
 the object of my visit, he did not seem sur- 
 prised, but asked me a number of questions 
 which showed that he was well acquainted 
 with works of science and philosophy. Hav- 
 ing received my replies, ne reflected a little, 
 and then said, laying down his pipe, "I see 
 you have thought out this matter for 
 yourself, and have not taken it at second- 
 hand. It would be useless for me to try and 
 move you out of your position. I shall
 
 THE OUTCAST. 109 
 
 therefore place myself in that position ; I 
 shall admit (for argument's sake, you under- 
 stand) that you have found out the truth. 
 We shall, therefore, discuss what is best for 
 you to do." 
 
 " Surely," I said, " there can be no doubt 
 about that. I ought to act according to the 
 truth." 
 
 " You think it is your duty to withdraw 
 from the church ? " 
 
 "Most certainly," I answered, "and I have 
 come here to ask your advice as to how to 
 proceed in this difficult matter. I do not 
 wish to cause scandal, or to give unnecessary 
 pain. But remaining in the church is out 
 of the question altogether." 
 
 "Gently, gently," he replied, "allow me to 
 ask you what are your circumstances? What 
 have you to live upon when you are married?"
 
 i to THE OUTCAST. 
 
 "I inherit a sum of money from my 
 mother, the interest of which is £150 a-year. 
 That is my own. Besides that, my father 
 has promised me a liberal allowance, and 
 then there is the money I shall make." 
 
 " Perhaps your father may refuse to give 
 you an allowance when he finds that you 
 have left the church. Is that quite im- 
 possible ? " 
 
 A little reflection forced me to admit that 
 it was not quite impossible ; but, on the 
 contrary, rather probable than otherwise. 
 " However," said I, " that matters little ; I am 
 young, I will enter another profession, I will 
 make my way in the world." 
 
 "You are not then aware," said Mr 
 Watson, "that clergymen are forbidden by 
 law to enter any other profession ? " 
 
 * This law has since been repealed. 
 
 *
 
 THE OUTCAST. in 
 
 " Then," said I, nothing daunted, " I will 
 get work from publishers and editors. I 
 shall easily get on." 
 
 "Excuse me," he replied, "I have lived 
 some years in London, and have written for 
 the press. Hundreds of indigent clergymen, 
 many of whom are fine scholars, seek in vain 
 for employment of that kind. The supply 
 far exceeds the demand. No ; look at the 
 future fairly in the face, and don't stir up a 
 vague mist of hopes and illusions. If you 
 leave the church, you cannot marry Mar- 
 garet." 
 
 I was stupefied. Strange to say, I had 
 never thought of this. 
 
 Mr Watson did not interrupt my medita- 
 tions, but quietly filled another pipe and 
 began to smoke again. I said, " What do 
 you advise \ "
 
 ii2 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 "I think," said he in a kind voice, "that 
 I can show you are not bound by the moral 
 law to give up the church." 
 
 " Ah, sir," said I, " duty speaks to me 
 (dearly enough, though I have not, I feel it, 
 the strength to obey its commands. I can- 
 not part from Margaret. But I know that 
 I ought." 
 
 "All moralists are agreed," he replied, 
 " that the welfare of mankind is the test of 
 the Right. The virtues so called are virtues 
 because they contribute to human happiness. 
 If they become injurious they cease to be 
 virtues. Now life is so constituted that 
 no positive dogma, no undeviating rule can 
 be laid down for the guidance of the con- 
 duct. In a broad sense, we may say it is 
 for the welfare of mankind that every one 
 should speak the truth, but there are many
 
 THE OUTCAST. 113 
 
 exceptions to the rule. No one would 
 hesitate to tell a lie in order to save the life 
 of an innocent man. Here, as often hap- 
 pens, there is a choice between two evils, 
 and the lesser evil is selected. It is wrong 
 to tell a lie, but it is more wrong to partici- 
 pate in murder. Or if you please, we may 
 put it another way. Here is a choice 
 between two virtues. It is good to tell the 
 truth, but far better to save an innocent 
 life from destruction, while the struggle it 
 costs the good man to lie adds to the noble- 
 ness of the deed. 
 
 " Having thus proved, as, I think you will 
 allow, that there can be a case in which 
 falsehood is a virtue, I will take a case 
 which, from what I know of the clergy, 
 happens, I imagine, very often. A parson 
 with a wife and family of children entirely 
 
 H
 
 ii4 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 dependent upon him ceases to believe in the 
 doctrines of the Anglican Church. His 
 first impulse is to obey the voice of his con- 
 science, and to leave the church, but a little 
 reflection warns him that if he did so his wife 
 and children would starve. Of two evils he 
 chooses the least. He becomes, if you will, 
 a hypocrite — (here the pipe fell and broke 
 into splinters on the hearth) — that he may 
 not violate the sacred duties of the husband 
 and the father. 
 
 " And now, my dear Edward (if you will 
 allow me so to call you), which, in your 
 case, is the greater evil, and which is the 
 less ? If you were a man living alone and 
 bound by no ties to another human heart ; 
 if your leaving the church would only 
 involve loss of money and social position, I 
 would say, Be honest, be free ! live on bread
 
 THE OUTCAST. 115 
 
 and water, work with your hands, break 
 stones upon the road, rather than be un- 
 true. But you are not alone ; a life is 
 entwined round yours like the ivy round 
 that larch over there on the lawn. Margaret 
 loves you. And consider how much harm 
 you will do to others if you proclaim your- 
 self an infidel ; consider how much good 
 you may do if you remain in the church. 
 You need never preach a doctrinal sermon ; 
 in the New Testament you will find maxims 
 of the purest morality and precepts of the 
 tenderest love. Let these be your texts. 
 What does it matter, after all, if your 
 parishioners believe in some fabulous legends 
 of the East and some Greek definitions of the 
 Undefinable ? These are only intellectual 
 errors. You are not surely like those theolo- 
 gians who maintain that an incorrect theory
 
 n6 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 of the Universe involves eternal perdition. 
 You believe in a life of future rewards and 
 punishments, and it is in your power, as a 
 clergyman, to convert men and women from 
 a life of brutality and vice. Outside the 
 church you could do little ; but clothed 
 with its authority, how much sin you might 
 destroy, how much misery you might 
 alleviate ! Let this be your atonement, and it 
 will not be refused — it will not be refused." 
 
 The good man's eyes were filled with 
 tears, and he said as he pressed my hand ; 
 " Let us not speak of this again, unless it 
 is necessary for you. It is a painful subject 
 for me." 
 
 We are easily won over by argu- 
 ments to that which we secretly wish. 
 That same evening I wrote to inform Mr 
 Watson that I had determined to take his
 
 THE OUTCAST. 117 
 
 advice, and, as he desired, would not allude 
 to the matter again. I read no theological 
 books, increased my devotional exercises, 
 and spent the greater part of the day 
 with the sick and the poor. Practising the 
 strictest economy, I was able to give away 
 in charity all the money I received from the 
 church. Thus I quieted my conscience for 
 a time — but only for a time. It was not 
 with me a question of the moral law, and 
 of the duty of man to man. I was deeply, 
 fervidly religious ; and when I knelt down 
 by my bed-side at night to confess myself 
 to God, when I reviewed my conduct of 
 the day, I could not believe that it was 
 pleasing in His sight. I felt myself a 
 traitor to Him — a coward, who paid out- 
 ward allegiance to a false God, and wor- 
 shipped the true God in secret as if it were
 
 u& THE OUTCAST. 
 
 a sin. 1 felt that I was doing wrong. My 
 conscience spoke in no uncertain voice. I 
 could only sigh, and weep, and pray God 
 to have mercy on my weakness and forgive 
 me. 
 
 But I knew my own guilt in which I 
 persevered, and I knew that I did not 
 deserve to be forgiven. And in time there 
 came upon me in these nightly prayers 
 — often prolonged till the dawn — a 
 conviction that God had turned His 
 face away. For when I offered up my 
 supplications, no response came back to my 
 heart ; that wondrous feeling of relief and 
 consolation, the reflex action of the soul 
 which rewards those who pray with in- 
 tensity and faith, ceased to exist for me, 
 and I rose from my knees unrefreshed. 
 Yet when I thought of proclaiming the
 
 THE OUTCAST. 119 
 
 truth, of parting for ever from my love, 
 I cried, " It is impossible ! " 
 
 Now I began to suffer the most horrible 
 torments. As I lay in bed unable to sleep, 
 I saw lights dancing in the room, and 
 shadows passing to and fro ; I heard groans 
 and sobs, mingled with bursts of smothered 
 laughter. One night I beheld my mother 
 and Margaret in heaven, whilst I was borne 
 past them by demons, and a voice cried 
 aloud, " They believed in the false, but 
 they were sincere. To you the truth was 
 revealed, and you hid it in your heart." 
 
 The Sunday I dreaded as a day of doom. 
 The tolling of the bell seemed to summon 
 me to the tortures of the rack. Often, 
 when I was reading the lessons, I felt an 
 almost incontrollable impulse to throw 
 down the Book, and proclaim it a lie.
 
 i2o THE OUTCAST. 
 
 Often, as I was preaching, voices whispered 
 in my ear all kinds of blasphemous things, 
 and sometimes I thought that I had re- 
 peated them, and stopping short, would 
 question the faces of the congregation to 
 see if it were so. Ah, terrible days ! even 
 now it would give me pain to enter that 
 church. I see it before me as if it were 
 only yesterday — the white-washed walls, 
 with texts in many-coloured letters — the 
 plain, open pews, and the people ranged 
 in long rows — the window of crimson glass, 
 and the sun-rays lying like blood streaks 
 on the floor. 
 
 Margaret saw that I was ill, and begged 
 me to go to the seaside. She thought I had 
 overworked myself among the poor ; and, 
 indeed, my labours were prodigious — 
 but they had been a kind of relief. I did
 
 THE OUTCAST. 121 
 
 not take her advice, for I felt that I must 
 make an end. Mr Watson's arguments might 
 be perfectly just, but in every great crisis of 
 the mind, it is feeling, not reason that de- 
 cides. Convinced that if I continued my life 
 of falsehood and silence, I should forfeit my 
 eternal happiness, I resolved to seek security 
 — even at the cost of Margaret. Again, 
 and again I sought her to tell the sad news, 
 but when I came within the charm of her 
 presence, I felt as if I could suffer anything, 
 even the torments of the damned, rather than 
 relinquish her love. Then, again, when I 
 returned to my house, haunted by demons, I 
 cursed my cowardice, and swore that next 
 time should be the last. But my confession 
 was wrung from me by an accident. 
 
 One evening, Margaret and I strolled out 
 after dinner to the wilderness. We went to
 
 122 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 the hyacinth dell ; the flowers were as beau- 
 tiful as ever ; it was the same time of year. 
 We stood on the spot where then we had 
 met. I told her I thought at first she was 
 an angel from my mother in heaven; and 
 she said with a blush that she loved me from 
 the first because I looked so pale and sad ; 
 pity made her take me to her heart. We 
 spoke yet more of the past, and revived 
 tender memories ; for a brief space I forgot 
 the troubles that menaced our life. 
 
 We saw Margaret's maid tripping down 
 the path which led from the village to 
 the house. She held a letter in her hand, 
 and said that as she was passing the post- 
 office, a gentleman's groom rode up and in- 
 quired the way to the Rectory. When she 
 found that he had a letter for me, she took 
 charge of it, thinking I would like to see it 
 at once.
 
 THE OUTCAST. 123 
 
 Margaret took the letter from her hand. 
 " thank you, Jane," she said, " it is im- 
 portant indeed ! " And she showed me the 
 episcopal seal. Jane smiled and curtseyed, 
 and went on to the house. 
 
 I opened the letter, and we read it together. 
 The Bishop had heard of my labours, and 
 was glad to say, it was now in his power to 
 give me a wider field. He offered me a 
 parish in the county town, with a salary 
 of £800 a-year. 
 
 Margaret clapped her hands. "Oh," she 
 said, " this is the high road to fortune. You 
 will be as great as you are good." 
 
 Then she stopped and looked at me in 
 wonder. " I cannot take it," I said ; " I am 
 an infidel." 
 
 She started back in horror, clasping her 
 hands. She thought that I was mad.
 
 124 • THE OUTCAST. 
 
 " I have long concealed it from you," I 
 said. " It is all over now. Dear Margaret, 
 we must part — for ever." 
 
 She turned ashy pale and trembled all 
 over. 
 
 " Thou Divine Ruler," I cried, " eternal 
 Spirit of Truth, for Thee I have wounded 
 this heart that I love more than all that 
 is on earth. Give her strength to bear this 
 affliction." 
 
 She sank on my breast, and flung her 
 arms round my neck. " Edward," she said, 
 as she raised her haggard face towards 
 mine, " Edward, I cannot give you up. I am 
 still your betrothed. I will be your wife for 
 better for worse, rich or poor, sinner or saint — 
 what do I care ? Without you I shall 
 die." 
 
 "My child," I said, " the Almighty God
 
 THE OUTCAST 125 
 
 has sent us here for a few short and unhappy 
 years, not to do that which is pleasant, but 
 that which is good, and to prepare for the 
 life beyond the grave. You must not 
 disobey your father ; and he will never 
 consent to our marriage. From this day I 
 cease to be a clergyman." 
 
 " You do not love me," she cried. 
 
 " I do not love you, Margaret ! Look at 
 these sunken cheeks, these hollow eyes, 
 these emaciated hands. Love and religion, 
 love and honour have daily contended 
 within me ; see, have I not suffered ? ' 
 
 " And love has lost ! love has lost ! " she 
 cried, and clung to me with her despairing 
 arms. Not a tear dimmed her eyes, which 
 were filled with arid woe. " Edward," she 
 whispered, "let us be silent ; let us keep this 
 dangerous secret for a time. Ah, I have a
 
 126 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 way. You are too ill to take a large parish. 
 You are forced to travel for your health ; 
 but before you go we shall be married. 
 Then we will live abroad for a Ions;, long 
 time ; and then " 
 
 " God ! " I cried in a loud voice, "pre- 
 serve me ! " 
 
 Her head drooped upon her bosom. 
 
 " Preserve us," I said, " from sin and 
 hypocrisy." 
 
 She drew back, and folded her trembling 
 hands, pallid from violent emotion. " Com- 
 mand me," she said, "and I obey." 
 
 " Dear love," I said, "let us suffer on earth 
 that we may be united hereafter, to part no 
 more." 
 
 " Then, life, pass quickly," she said ; " and 
 come death, to make us meet again." 
 
 "As a perishable day," I said, "life will
 
 THE OUTCAST. 127 
 
 pass, and death will soon come to herald in 
 the dawn." 
 
 I pressed her to my heart. The shades 
 of evening descended, and the voices of the 
 wilderness were hushed. The pale moou 
 arose ; the hours passed by. Twice, thrice, 
 the great bell rang from the house ; again 
 and again we said farewell, again and again 
 we flew back to each other's arms. At 
 length we saw torches gleaming through 
 the trees. One last kiss, and she ran down 
 the path to the house. I returned to the 
 spot where first we had met, and gathered 
 some flowers, and put them in my breast.
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 When I returned home, I told the servants 
 that particular business called me to London 
 at once, and that I might perhaps not return 
 for some little time. The whole night I 
 was engaged in writing letters ; to Margaret 
 a long farewell ; to Mr Jameson, a short note 
 explaining my departure. I wrote to my 
 father, gave my reasons for quitting the 
 church, and promised to write again as soon 
 as I had a fixed address. I sent my cheque 
 book to Mr Watson, and begged him to pay 
 the tradesmen, servants, &c, and to send my 
 personal effects to an address which I would 
 afterwards communicate. I also asked him 
 to permit his curate to take my duty till
 
 THE OUTCAST. 129 
 
 some one should be sent by the bishop in 
 my place. Having packed a small valise, 
 which I carried in my hand, I walked down 
 into the village a little before day-break 
 and posted the letters. Then I waited for 
 the coach. The grey streaks of dawn were 
 flushing into pink, the birds were beginning 
 to twitter, and to shake the dew from their 
 plumage, labouring men were going to their 
 work, when the horn sounded, and the 
 horses' hoofs rang sharply on the road. 
 In a few minutes more I was borne swiftly 
 away, looking back on a vanishing scene, 
 and lamenting the joys that were gone. 
 
 I took lodgings for a week at a market- 
 town twenty miles from Stilbroke, on the 
 London road. Thence I wrote two letters 
 to the Bishop of T ; the first was a 
 
 formal resignation of my living ; in the 
 
 1
 
 i 3 o THE OUTCAST. 
 
 other, which I marked "private," I thanked 
 him for his great kindness, and related at 
 length the process of thought which had led 
 to the change of my belief. 
 
 He wrote back the kindest letter possible, 
 and told me how he himself, when at my 
 age, had also passed through a period of 
 sceptical gloom, and had all but given up 
 his profession. However, his doubts soon 
 passed away and never returned to trouble 
 him again. He advised me to travel on 
 
 o 
 
 the Continent for a year, and before the 
 twelvemonth was ended he had little doubt 
 that I should have returned to my belief. 
 In the meantime my interests should not 
 suffer ; he should consider my absence as 
 sick leave ; for he was sure that my brain 
 was overworked, and that this attack of 
 infidelity resulted from physical disease.
 
 TEE OUTCAST. 131 
 
 Eeturn to my belief I As well might a 
 river return to its source. My reply was 
 respectfully, gratefully expressed ; but it 
 was conclusive. 
 
 This correspondence being ended, and Mr 
 Watson having sent me my clothes and 
 books, nothing detained me in the town ; 
 and now I felt a yearning for home. I 
 remembered what Margaret had said, that 
 " our parents are our best friends." I 
 remembered my father's kindness when last 
 I was at Harborne, and the promptness 
 with which he had consented to mv mar- 
 riage. I believed that, in spite of his cold 
 exterior, he really loved me tenderly ; and 
 it w r as my duty to consult him before I 
 began my new life. I thought of going to 
 London ; but if he wished me to stay with 
 him. I would obey.
 
 t 3 2 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 As soon as I had made up my mind to 
 go home, I felt too impatient to wait for a 
 reply, and wrote word to say that I was 
 coming by the next day's coach. 
 
 Harborne was not on the coaching road ; 
 and I alighted as usual at a way-side inn, 
 about five miles from the village. The 
 ostler took down my luggage, and greeted 
 me in the accents of the north, which 
 sounded home-like to my ears. Presently 
 [ saw the dog- cart in the distance, and 
 James drove up to the door. The horse 
 had his water and hay, James had his beer, 
 and I was just stepping up when he sud- 
 denly said, " Beg pardon, Master Eddarcl, I 
 nearly forgot this here ;" and he took a 
 handkerchief out of his hat, and a letter 
 out of the handkerchief. I read it with one 
 foot still upon the step. It was from my
 
 THE OUTCAST. 133 
 
 father, who said that he could not receive 
 in his house a hardened infidel ; and that 
 if I came in spite of his letter, he would 
 turn me out in the presence of the 
 servants. 
 
 I ordered the ostler to take out the 
 luggage and carry it in- doors. James 
 became red in the face. " Baint you com- 
 ing home, sir?" said he. "No, James," 
 said I ; " my father and I have a quarrel it 
 seems ; but I daresay we shall make it up 
 by -and -by." He touched his hat and 
 slowly drove off. I inquired if a coach 
 would again pass the house that day. 
 They said that none would pass either way 
 till the next morning at eight o'clock. I 
 ordered a bed and some dinner, and then 
 going up to my room locked the door. 
 I tried to eat something at dinner, for I
 
 i 3 4 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 knew that I had need of bodily strength ; 
 but it was impossible. The sight of food 
 disgusted me. Feeling restless and excited, 
 I went out of doors and walked quickly 
 along a familiar path. A strong wind 
 was blowing from the north ; and across 
 the moon sailed the clouds, tinged by its 
 tawny halo, and pierced by its cold white 
 rays. Around me lay the moors like a 
 wide black sea. On, on I walked, wailing 
 aloud. At length I could give vent to my 
 grief. Nobody could hear me. miser- 
 able man ! two sorrows had stricken me at 
 once. I had lost my love ; I had lost my 
 home. I was an Outcast ; alone and deso- 
 late. Then my blood boiled and my tears 
 dried up ; and I cursed my hard-hearted 
 father, who had put me to shame that day. 
 Lights twinkled in the distance. Har-
 
 THE OUTCAST. 135 
 
 borne was before me. I skirted the village, 
 and climbed a steep hill lying on the left. 
 The sky was now covered with clouds, and 
 the wind was boisterous. A storm was com- 
 ing up. 
 
 The church loomed before me mistily on 
 the summit of the hill. I found that the 
 gate was not locked, and entered the grave- 
 yard. Above the grass mounds and small 
 stone slabs, a white obelisk rose ; I fell on 
 my knees before it, as before an altar, and 
 prayed to God. I summoned the spirit of my 
 mother from the past, and she to my memory 
 vividly returned. Again I saw her face so 
 loving and resigned ; again I heard her sweet 
 sad voice. And as I thought of the long 
 years she had passed with a loveless man in a 
 lonely house, and what she must have suf- 
 fered, and how she had endured, I repented
 
 136 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 of my own poor rage, and resolved that her 
 life should be my example, and that never 
 would I cherish an unkind thought against 
 my father any more. For what pleasure 
 had I left but that of being good ? 
 
 The black night deepened, and still I re- 
 mained kneeling by the tomb. But now, 
 the storm which had long been gathering, 
 burst forth ; in a few minutes, I was drenched 
 to the skin, and the moist wind penetrated 
 to my bones. I tried to shelter myself 
 beneath the yew, but it creaked, and groaned, 
 and swayed to and fro, as if about to be torn 
 from its roots. Then I crouched under the 
 wall, and fell into a stupefied sleep. 
 
 When I awoke, the storm had ceased, 
 the sky had cleared, the moon, dull and 
 red, was near the horizon. I knew that the 
 dawn must be near, and that I must go
 
 THE OUTCAST. 137 
 
 back to the inn. But my limbs were 
 cramped, I could scarcely stir, and my 
 whole body was racked with pain. I 
 dragged myself along on my hands and 
 knees, and this movement partly restored 
 my circulation. But to walk five miles ! 
 It seemed hardly possible. Yet, done it 
 must be, somehow or another. 
 
 At that moment I heard the sound of 
 wheels. A man driving a gig stopped at the 
 churchyard gate, and having fastened the 
 horses' reins to the post, walked slowly to 
 my mother's tomb. 
 
 He bared his head and stood with his 
 arms folded on his breast, gazing intently on 
 the crave. Then he said in a low voice, 
 Ellen ! and turned to go away. I cried out 
 his name and staggered towards him. He 
 bore me in his arms to the gate, put me be-
 
 138 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 side him in the gig, and drove at full gallop 
 to his house. Having given me some brandy, 
 he called two men and made them rub me 
 with flesh-gloves from head to foot. But 
 the next day I was delirious with fever.
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 An overworked brain, a troubled heart, 
 days of incessant anxiety, and nights with- 
 out sleep were the true elements of my 
 illness, and exposure to the storm but its 
 proximate cause. Sooner or later it must 
 have come ; and I was fortunate in being cast 
 like a waif by the winds into the house of 
 Dr Chalmers. He restored me to health ; 
 but I was in bed some weeks, and my con- 
 valescence was slow, though not tedious. For 
 many it is a happy time, that period which 
 lies between sickness and health. It has its 
 own delicate enjoyments, such as the sing- 
 ino- of a bird, the scent of a flower, the 
 prospect of the blue sky, the mere sensation
 
 i 4 o HIE OUTCAST. 
 
 of being in the bright open air. The brain 
 soon becomes weary, but a calm and sooth- 
 ing sleep at once relieves its fatigue. The 
 selfishness of suffering is past ; gratitude 
 and love, which too often cease with conva- 
 lescence, then at least animate even the cold- 
 est dispositions. 
 
 I used to sit for hours in an easy chaii 
 watching the doctor as he performed chemi- 
 cal experiments, or made microscopic obser- 
 vations. When I had regained my health, 
 I began the study of physical science ; and 
 in six months had made considerable pro- 
 gress, not only in the literature, but also in 
 the practice, if I may use the expression, of 
 astronomy, chemistry, botany, geology, and 
 comparative anatomy. 
 
 But could Dr Chalmers teach me all this ? 
 Was he a universal genius ? The fact is,
 
 THE OUTCAST. 14* 
 
 that his house was a College of the Sciences. 
 Since I had left home he had taken to live 
 with him, besides his medical assistant, three 
 scientific men, whom he called his Profes- 
 sors. They were an astronomer, a geologist, 
 and a comparative anatomist — all men of 
 mature years, who, having given up their 
 lives to pure science, had found it diffi- 
 cult to live. Dr Chalmers had plucked 
 them out of poverty and had given 
 them a home, only stipulating in return 
 that they should work, and regularly pub- 
 lish the results of their researches. They 
 were all delighted when I was presented to 
 them as a pupil, and spared no pains to 
 make me a proficient, each in turn privately 
 assuring me that his science was the most 
 important and the most interesting. I spent 
 an hour or two with each of them every day.
 
 142 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 The Anatomist inhabited a room built 
 over the stables. On a large marble table 
 usually lay some quaint-looking animal, 
 which he was dissecting ; and round the 
 room were arranged, in systematic order, 
 the skeletons of the animal kingdom, culmi- 
 nating with a chimpanzee and a man, 
 standing side-by-side, their arms affection- 
 ately interlocked. The Anatomist told me 
 that his parents, who were poor, had sent 
 him to Guy's Hospital. He had passed a 
 good examination, and had taken his 
 diploma ; but a visit to the Museum of the 
 College of Surgeons sent him out of his 
 senses ; from that time he could think of 
 nothing else but comparative anatomy ; 
 and Dr Chalmers saved him from starva- 
 tion. 
 
 The Geologist resided in a fine library,
 
 THE OUTCAST. 143 
 
 furnished with works on his science in 
 English, German, and French, and coloured 
 maps and diagrams hung from the walls. 
 He had a large cabinet filled with specimens 
 of rocks, and of precious minerals in nests of 
 cotton wool ; and promised, that when I had 
 mastered these, and read up the text-books, 
 he would give me lessons in field geology, 
 and show me nature at work, and take me 
 where I could study the " dip " of strata, 
 and "faults," and other phenomena, which 
 could be but imperfectly learnt from books. 
 Tlie Geologist had once been a labourer, 
 and had taught himself to read and write. 
 The finding some fossils in a quarry " set 
 him on to geology," which he studied after 
 his day's work was done ; and the rector of 
 the parish having a taste for the science, ob- 
 tained him a situation in a small country
 
 t 4 4 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 museum. There he educated himself, and 
 continued his favourite pursuit; and there 
 he was found by Dr Chalmers, who offered 
 him bed and board, and all his time to him- 
 self, and as much pocket-money as he might 
 require. 
 
 The Astronomer had been an optician. 
 He studied the sun and the moon and the 
 stars from a tower at the end of the garden, 
 with a small chamber at the top almost 
 rilled by an enormous telescope. The roof 
 of the observatory was a dome in which 
 was a fissure, or window-like opening. The 
 telescope being pointed towards that part 
 of the sky which was to be the field of ob- 
 servation, a crank was turned, and the 
 dome, which rested on cannon-balls in 
 grooves, turned round till the window came 
 opposite the telescope. Ou a table v/ere
 
 THE OUTCAST. 145 
 
 papers covered with abstruse mathematical 
 calculations. 
 
 The Professors met at dinner in the even- 
 ing, and I found their conversation delight- 
 ful and instructive. After dinner they went 
 to the Common-room, as it was called, where 
 they read the papers and the scientific per- 
 iodicals. To these they contributed, but 
 each Professor was also preparing a book, 
 the labour of years, and the summary of a 
 life's investigations. The Volcanoes of the 
 Moon — the Natural Arrangement of Fossils 
 — the Homologies of the Animal Kingdom, 
 were the titles of these forthcoming works. 
 Dr Chalmers had already published a book 
 on the chemistry of plants. He maintained 
 that it was the duty of every student in 
 science, history, and all other provinces of 
 knowledge, to place on record in a perma-
 
 146 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 Bent and accessible form the result of his 
 research and experience. To amass know- 
 ledge, and to take it to the grave, was to be 
 a miser of that which was to mankind more 
 precious than gold. Such a person, how 
 ever learned he might be, was utterly use- 
 less to his" species ; and the modesty which 
 shrank from publication was in most cases 
 an excessive vanity resembling disease. 
 
 He advised me to continue my general 
 studies for some months more, and then to 
 select one science. He had little doubt that 
 I would fix upon geology, in which case 
 sone knowledge of botany and comparative 
 anatomy would be indispensable ; and there- 
 fore my present work would not be thrown 
 away. 
 
 I followed his advice and utilised my op- 
 portunities. But you must not think that
 
 THE OUTCAST. 147 
 
 Margaret was forgotten. If the virulence 
 of my grief had abated, the dull aching 
 pain yet remained. I told Dr Chalmers 
 how the ardour of the spiritual life had 
 once enabled me to drive Margaret from my 
 mind, and I asked him if he thought that de- 
 votion to science would have a similar effect. 
 
 " Why," said he, " do you wish to forget 
 her ? I should say, rather hallow and pre- 
 serve her memory, place her image on the 
 altar of your heart ; believe that she is the 
 witness and judge of your actions and youi 
 thoughts ; then your life will be noble and • 
 pure. Love without hope, then your love 
 will be to you as a religion, for none so 
 nearly approaches the love that is divine." 
 
 These words, extravagant as they may 
 seem, touched me deeply, for I knew that he 
 had given up his life to a hopeless love which
 
 148 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 he had kept during long years chained down 
 within his breast, as in a dungeon, and had 
 fed it only with the bread of affliction and 
 the water of tears. 
 
 However, I must proceed more quickly 
 with my narrative. It was tacitly settled 
 between the doctor and myself, that I was 
 always to stay at his house, and he also pro- 
 jected visits to London, geological excursions, 
 and so forth. One day as I was passing 
 through a shrubbery near the stable-yard 
 (which overlooked the road), I heard James, 
 who was in the dog- cart, talking, with one of 
 the doctor's grooms, and as they spoke very 
 loud, I soon discovered that my father was 
 the subject of the conversation. He was 
 like a mad dog, James said, when he heard 
 that I was living with the doctor. He had 
 taken the latter to task, James being pre-
 
 THE OUTCAST. 149 
 
 sent, and " had got as good as he gave, with 
 sommat to spare ; and he was that furious 
 he'd ride over the moors and leap the stone 
 walls rather than pass the doctor's house." 
 This seemed to afford satisfaction to the ser- 
 vants, for my father was not universally be- 
 loved ; but it was a sad blow for me, I felt 
 that I must go. When I announced tjiis 
 resolution to my friend, he said, I owed my 
 father no duty since he had cast me off. I 
 replied that, still he was my father. He 
 had brought me up, I had lived upon his 
 bread, he had loved me so far as was in him 
 to love, he had sacrificed to me many long 
 hours, and had placed all his hopes in my 
 gaming glory, or at least doing my duty in 
 the church. Those hopes I had shattered ; 
 the last half of his life I had embittered. 
 It could not be helped ; it was not my fault ;
 
 ISO THE OUTCAST. 
 
 but still so it was, and at least I ought not 
 to cause him unnecessary pain. It would cost 
 me much to go away, for I was very happy 
 there ; but my conscience left me no choice. 
 
 " Do you love your father ?" inquired the 
 doctor. 
 
 I answered without hesitation, " No." 
 
 "I," he said, "made a sacrifice for one 
 whom I loved. But you can sacrifice your- 
 self for one whom you do not love, and 
 yet you say you are not a Christian." 
 
 " Because I have ceased to be a Christian," 
 I replied, "that is to say, because I have 
 ceased to believe in the Divinity of Christ, 
 is that a reason for me to reject what is good 
 in the teaching of a good man ? " 
 
 Dr Chalmers was much depressed by this 
 determination ; he loved me for myself, 
 and not only for myself. Often I had
 
 THE OUTCAST. 151 
 
 observed his eyes fixed sadly and fondly on 
 my face, in which he saw the features of 
 one who was no more. However, in a few 
 days, something occurred which gave an- 
 other channel to his thoughts. 
 
 He received a letter from my father, to 
 the following effect : It was ail over the 
 country, that on the night of my arrival, he 
 (my father) had discovered in a secret drawer, 
 a packet of letters from Dr Chalmers to my 
 mother. Having read these letters, he showed 
 them to me, and turned me out of doors ; 
 and I, of course, was adopted by the Doctor. 
 My father said that this mischievous tale 
 would be kept alive so long as I remained 
 where I was ; he made no appeal to me whom 
 he looked upon as "lost," but if Dr Chalmers 
 cared for the reputation of a lady who could 
 no longer defend herself, he would prove it
 
 152 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 by sending me away. He must see for him- 
 self that this abominable scandal had arisen 
 wholly and solely from the fact of my being 
 harboured in his house. 
 
 Dr Chalmers at first declared that the story 
 was a trick, but that I could not allow, for 
 I knew that my father would never tell a lie. 
 A few inquiries made through a trustworthy 
 servant brought ample confirmation of the 
 fact. It made a sad impression on the 
 Doctor's mind. " For a quarter of a century," 
 he said, " I have lived with these people, and 
 there is not one amongst them who has not 
 received a personal kindness at my hands. 
 She also was good to them all, and this is 
 how they speak of us. Oh, poor human 
 nature, — poor human nature ! " 
 
 He resolved to leave Harborne and never 
 to see it again. Having placed the estab-
 
 THE OUTCAST. 153 
 
 lishment under the charge of his house- 
 keeper till he could make some permanent 
 arrangements for the professors, he went 
 with me up to London. He declared that 
 he would travel aDd explore the wild 
 countries of the world, and seek in savage 
 life that gratitude of which civilized men 
 merely possess a shadowy remnant — the 
 relic of primitive times. I may as well say 
 at once that he was not very successful. 
 At Mozambique he bought and set free a 
 negro slave, who stole his gold watch and 
 decamped with a slave-hunting expedition 
 into the interior. In Patagonia he rescued 
 a wife from being half - murdered by her 
 eiant of a husband — in return for which she 
 assisted with a hearty good- will her lord and 
 master to belabour him. Lastly, he took 
 up his abode in Brazil with a tribe of Bush
 
 i 5 4 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 Indians, who, having begged from him all 
 that he had in his possession, stripped him 
 of his clothes and turned him out of their 
 camp as an idle vagabond who knew nothing 
 of hunting or fishing, and was not able to 
 pay for his keep.
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 Before Dr Chalmers left England he saw 
 me embarked in my new profession — if such 
 it can be called. He begged me to accept 
 from him a small annuity, but 1 said my 
 £150 a year was almost sufficient for my 
 wants, and the rest I ought to earn for 
 myself. He then introduced me to his 
 publishers, Jansen and Haines, in Pater- 
 noster Row. This firm, now extinct, was 
 famous in its day for the publication of the 
 classics ; of original scientific works ; of 
 translations from the German ; of lexicons, 
 encyclopsedias, annotated catalogues, and so 
 forth. Now, my father had taught me 
 German, on account of its value in "dog-
 
 156 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 matik," and the doctor had made me take it 
 up again on account of its value in geology. 
 French, and a little Italian, I had learnt 
 from my mother. I had a general smatter- 
 ing of science, while the 'prima classis 
 before my name in the University Calendar 
 incontestably proved my classical learning, 
 and made a profound impression on the 
 firm. Having first tested my capacity for 
 work, they set me on their Paternoster 
 Cyclopcedia, which was rather out of date, 
 to correct its errors, and insert the latest 
 additions to knowledge. As change of 
 work is a species of repose, I was also 
 employed to enlarge and improve a Greek 
 lexicon which they had published "for the use 
 of colleges and schools." I agreed to pro- 
 duce a stated quantity of " copy " per week, 
 and they to pay me the sum of £3 for the
 
 THE OUTCAST. 157 
 
 same. Thus I had now £300 a-year, and 
 was perfectly content. I took lodgings 
 near the British Museum, in the reading- 
 room of which my days were passed. 
 It was not the magnificent hall I once 
 took you to see — the paradise of learned 
 loungers and spectacled flirts — but a dingy 
 apartment frequented by none but genuine 
 students. 
 
 At first I was obliged to work very hard, 
 and had not an hour to myself ; but when I 
 had hit upon a system, and learnt the art of 
 reference, I was able to complete my 
 appointed task at the Museum, and could 
 study in the evening for my own pleasure 
 and improvement. I must own that often 
 I felt my existence lonely and monotonous. 
 The days followed one another, and all, 
 except Sundays, were the same. One even-
 
 158 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 ing, as I sat by my fire, I said to myself, 
 "What a poor life is this, drudging from 
 morning to night just to earn food, and 
 lodgings, and clothes ! You have no one to 
 care for you, no one to converse with, no 
 friend, not even an acquaintance. You say 
 'Good morning' to your landlady at the 
 lodgings, and you make some remark about 
 the weather to the man who takes charge of 
 your umbrella at the Museum. You go 
 once a week to Paternoster Eow, hand your 
 roll of manuscript across the counter, and 
 receive three sovereigns in an envelope. 
 Such are the social pleasures you enjoy; 
 there is no place for you in the human 
 family ; years will pass, and your life will 
 not change, and at length you will become 
 an old man, and, unloved, unpitied, will go 
 down with sorrow to the grave."
 
 THE OUTCAST. 159 
 
 Then I felt sick at heart, and the tears 
 rose to my eyes, and I thought of the happi- 
 ness I had lost. " Oh ! Margaret, dear 
 Margaret ! " I cried, " do you still remem- 
 ber? do you still lament? Do you weep 
 for me as I weep for you ? Does a vision 
 haunt you sleeping and awake — by night a 
 dream, by day a memory ? " 
 
 "Past are the joys of love, the thirsty 
 kisses, and the long embrace ; past are the 
 hours of chaste converse and tender confi- 
 dence ; past are the hopes that once were 
 all assured. None but Margaret can be my 
 wife, and she for me is dead and buried in 
 the grave. I must go through life solitary 
 and alone ; no pretty children will clamber 
 on my knee. Alone — alone — alone. 
 God, my Father, and my Friend, you have 
 poured love into my heart, and my nature
 
 160 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 is affectionate. Must I be lonely and child- 
 less ? Is that, indeed, my destiny ? Then, 
 I pray you, assist me to bear life with 
 patience to the end." 
 
 At that moment the servant brought in a 
 copy of Mrs Carter's Epictetus, which I had 
 ordered at a book-shop that day as I was 
 coming home. I opened it at hazard and 
 began to read ; and soon, as if by a magic 
 spel4, my pains were charmed away, my 
 mind was filled with serene and elevated 
 thoughts. Ah, what a divine gift is that 
 which, by scattering some ink drops on 
 paper, can, after two thousand years, still 
 give solace to hearts in sickness and adver- 
 sity ! It is said that the ancient Egyptians 
 placed over their public library this inscrip- 
 tion, The medicine of the soul ; and in all 
 such melancholy hours as that I have de
 
 THE OUTCAST x6i 
 
 scribed, I used to take up a great writer of 
 the past or present time, and in half an 
 hour my troubles were forgotten. It was 
 this antidote to sorrow, and also my disci- 
 pline of daily work, which saved me from 
 brooding on my woes. I do not think that 
 I loved Margaret less than she loved me ; 
 but I certainly suffered less, as I was soon 
 to learn. 
 
 One day I met Mr Jameson in New 
 Oxford Street. To my surprise his face 
 brightened up when he saw me, and he said, 
 " Ah, here you are ! I've been looking for 
 you everywhere." 
 
 " Looking for me, Mr Jameson," I re- 
 peated. 
 
 " Well, no," said he, " not exactly that ; 
 but I've been in London some time (Stil- 
 broke is let), and I've been always expect-
 
 1 62 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 ing to see you in the theatre saloons, or 
 larking about at the Finish, or some of 
 those places." 
 
 " And pray, sir," I asked, " why should 
 you expect to find me in such scenes of 
 dissipation ? " 
 
 " Why, aint you an infidel ? " he said. 
 "And don't they always knock about town? 
 But there, I didn't mean to offend you. 
 Why, you're as red as a turkey-cock ! Is 
 there any place handy where we can have a 
 quiet bit of chat ? " 
 
 I took him to my lodgings, which were 
 small but comfortable. " Well," said he, 
 " this is a snug little crib ; and the Gover- 
 nor aint cut up rough after all ? " 
 
 I explained to him what my circum- 
 stances were, and said that, " Thank God, I 
 had as much money as I wanted."
 
 THE OUTCAST. 163 
 
 " Thank God ! " said he. " Then you do 
 believe there's a God, after all ? " 
 
 " Certainly, I do." 
 
 " Well, then, you believe in the Bible, too?" 
 
 " No," said I ; " not all of it." 
 
 " My dear fellow," he said, " you contra- 
 dict yourself ; for how can you believe in 
 God and not believe in God's word 1 But, 
 then, never mind — that's not the point — 
 that's not the point." 
 
 He walked up and down the room, mut- 
 tering according to his wont, when excited 
 or disturbed. " Three hundred a year isn't 
 much — but it's bread — it's bread. Will 
 your father disinherit you, Mr Edward, do 
 you think ? " 
 
 " That, I should say, was certain," I re- 
 plied. 
 
 He went on, walking backwards and for-
 
 r6 4 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 wards, saying, " Bad, sir, bad ; but it must 
 be done ; there's no choice — no choice." 
 
 I was much puzzled by this strange be- 
 haviour, and the questions he asked, and 
 his evident anxiety, as he waited for my 
 answers. Something rose within me, too 
 vague to be called hope ; a kind of expec- 
 tation. Finally, Mr Jameson put on his 
 gloves, and said, " I want to see you on 
 
 particular business ; will you call at 's 
 
 Private Hotel in Half Moon Street, at nine 
 o'clock this evening." 
 
 I went there at nine o'clock, and was 
 shown into a large, dimly-lighted drawing- 
 room. A young woman came in, and ad- 
 vanced hastily towards me. It was Mar- 
 garet's maid. "Please to sit down," said 
 she, pointing to the sofa near which I was 
 standing. "Jane," I said, "tell me ."
 
 THE OUTCAST. 165 
 
 " Sit down. Sir/' said she. I sat down. " It 
 is all right," she said with emphasis, " and 
 Miss Margaret will be down directly." My 
 head swam round and fell back on the pillow 
 of the sofa. " So I thought," muttered the 
 girl. "No, Jane," I said, "I have not 
 fainted, but it was very near." " Bear up, 
 Sir," she said, and be calm. Do not agitate 
 
 my mistress ; she is still very ill ." 
 
 "What has happened?" I asked. "What 
 has happened! she said bitterly. Why, 
 what else could have happened ! When you 
 ran off like a thief in the night, Miss 
 Margaret took ill ; and since that day she 
 has never laughed nor cried ; and she never 
 said a word, but just pined and pined away. 
 And then the Doctor and Mrs Watson told 
 her father that he must find you for her 
 ao-ain, or she would die. And he promised
 
 1 66 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 he would, and that made her hearten up a 
 little. Oh ! Sir, be kind to her, for she's 
 the best young lady in the world, and 
 she's going to send me away because you 
 can't afford, her a maid ; and my old 
 mother's got only my wages to live on, or 
 I'd serve her gladly for nothing. dear ! " 
 
 I put a sovereign into her hand, and said, 
 " There, Jane, give that to your mother, or 
 buy something pretty for yourself ; and you 
 must not mind leaving your mistress, for 
 you will get married yourself before very 
 long, I dare say." 
 
 This vulgar panacea for the woes of the 
 lower classes seldom fails of its effect ; and 
 Jane wiped her eyes, smiled, dropped 
 me a curtsey, and saying, " I wish you all 
 happiness, Sir, and many of them," went 
 out of the room.
 
 THE OUTCAST. 167 
 
 I waited. The moments seemed hours, 
 and she did not come. The lamp burned 
 dimly, and cast vague shadows on the 
 ceilinf overhead. The fire crackled in the 
 
 o 
 
 grate ; the furniture creaked ; hasty foot- 
 steps passed along the street; Piccadilly 
 murmured in the distance. Why did she 
 not come ? Presentiments assailed me. 
 Her father had changed his mind ; she had 
 fallen ill. A misfortune had happened. I 
 cast myself in a chair by the fire, and 
 resigned myself to melancholy thoughts. 
 Then suddenly something quivered through 
 me like a flame. I felt that she was stand- 
 ing by my side. 
 
 But was this my beautiful Margaret ? 
 Pale and hollow were her cheeks, and the 
 dress hung loosely on her wasted form. She 
 looked at me sadly with her sweet blue
 
 1 68 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 eyes. I drew her towards me, and kissed 
 her pale and trembling iips. I took her on 
 my knees, and laid her head upon my breast. 
 Tims she remained — sometimes uttering a 
 sigh, sometimes nestling her head more 
 closely to my bosom, as one who had been 
 long weary and would sleep. Two hours 
 glided by ; the girl came in to take her to 
 bed. I rose and said, " To-morrow" No 
 other word passed between us in this meet- 
 ing sad as a farewell
 
 LETTER XL 
 
 Axd this same sadness at first underlay our 
 married life. I was perfectly content so far 
 as my own lot was concerned ; for me our 
 marriage was all pure gain ; I did my work 
 as usual, and then, instead of the gloomy 
 parlour of my bachelor days, I returned to a 
 love-bright home. But it pained me to see 
 that my wife was not happy ; and yet how 
 could it be otherwise ? This was not the 
 life of which we had spoken in the days of 
 our betrothal ; this lodging-house parlour 
 and bedroom ; this solitude and separation, 
 I at the museum, she in utter loneliness. 
 This it was which troubled her, not our 
 poverty. She did not care for books, and
 
 17© THE OUTCAST 
 
 was not a musician : she had no intellectual 
 resources, and could not amuse herself when 
 she was alone. As the wife of a curate she 
 would have been in her proper sphere. She 
 loved the sick and the poor, and all old 
 people and children. She loved all who 
 were helpless and in want, and spent much 
 of her time by cottage bedsides, and by the 
 arm-chairs of the aged placed out in the 
 sun. But in London none of these kindly 
 occupations came within her life ; and she 
 had no gossip with female acquaintances, 
 none of those little gregarious pleasures 
 which women think more of than men per- 
 haps can understand. Then her health 
 was shattered, and often I saw her 
 looking mournfully on her thin neck and 
 emaciated arms. Once only I alluded to 
 her illness. She blushed, and hid her head
 
 THE OUTCAST. 171 
 
 in my breast, and said that "only women 
 knew how to love." Then she burst into 
 tears. But save on this occasion I never 
 saw her give way to sadness. I inferred 
 rather than perceived the sorrow at her 
 heart, for in my presence she was cheerful 
 and vivacious. I gave up my book-hours, 
 and read only now and then at odd 
 moments : my evenings belonged to Mar- 
 garet, and were spent in playing at chess, 
 draughts, &c, or in conversation. 
 
 When you were born, my dear child, we 
 found our lodgings rather small, for a baby 
 takes up a good deal of room. But we de- 
 termined not to increase our expenses, for 
 we had no expectations from my father 
 (who had not answered the letter in which 
 I informed him of my marriage), nor from 
 hers. The Guardsman continued his extra-
 
 172 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 vagance, till at last Mr Jameson summoned 
 up courage to declare that he should not 
 have another farthing unless he sold out. 
 Captain Jameson asked his father what a 
 damned tradesman like him meant talking 
 that way to an officer in Her Majesty's 
 Guards, but finally the matter was compro- 
 mised by his exchanging into a cavalry 
 regiment. 
 
 I must now beg you to suppose that four 
 years had elapsed since our marriage. I 
 was engaged by Jansen and Haines in com- 
 piling notices of the " obscure names "in a 
 Classical Dictionary, which was intended to 
 supersede Lempriere, at that time alone in 
 the field. Margaret was also engaged on a 
 work of education. The arrival of Miss 
 Ellen Mordaunt into our social circle was a 
 most fortunate event : my dear wife had
 
 THE OUTCAST. 173 
 
 now all that she wished for ; she was never 
 lonely, being never alone ; and was perfectly 
 happy and contented. She often said if our 
 life had few pleasures it had also few cares : 
 and that if we were rich we should always 
 be anxious and fretful about some trifle or 
 another. And we had one very great plea- 
 sure. Every summer we spent a fortnight 
 at Limmerleigh, on the East Coast. A law- 
 yer from that little town, with his wife and 
 daughter, once took the drawing-room floor 
 in the house where we lodged, and we hap- 
 pened to make their acquaintance. They 
 saw that Margaret was in delicate health, 
 and suggested a trip to the sea-side, and 
 placed their house at our disposal for a fort- 
 night, saying they should be glad to have 
 some one there who would take care of the 
 furniture, garden, &c. This same arrange-
 
 174 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 ment was repeated the next year and the 
 next : the Irvines always went away for two 
 or three weeks in the summer, and then we 
 took our holiday. 
 
 One Sunday, Margaret came to me with 
 her eyes cast down, and said, blushing a 
 little, that she had a favour to ask : would 
 I go to church with her that morning ? I 
 said that I would go to church with her as 
 often as she pleased, and we always went 
 together after that. Dear Margaret! she 
 had secret hopes that I might be converted, 
 and used to glance anxiously at me when 
 the preacher alluded to infidelity. She was 
 much perplexed by my long and fervent de- 
 votions in the morning and the evening; 
 for she could not understand how one could 
 worship God, and yet not be a Christian. 
 But we never discussed matters of religion.
 
 THE OUTCAST. 175 
 
 Well, as I said, we had been four years 
 married, and Margaret was happy. Then 
 came the great calamity. Captain Jameson 
 had soon obtained an evil reputation in his 
 regiment. The passion for gambling of the 
 last generation was already in its decline ; 
 and a man was looked upon with disfavour 
 who carried dice in his pocket, and held out 
 a pack of cards like a pistol to every one who 
 called upon him at his quarters. Moreover, 
 ugly stories got afloat ; the colonel warned 
 young cornets against him, and he withdrew 
 from the Guards' club, not, it was said, with- 
 out pressure from within. In fact, Captain 
 Jameson was not only a thoroughly unscrup- 
 ulous gambler, but also " tout " or agent to 
 a famous west-end usurer, into whose toils 
 he decoyed many a young officer, receiving 
 a commission on his ruin. This commission
 
 i/6 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 was so small, and the destruction of future 
 prospects and happiness so great, that it was 
 really like burning down a friend's house to 
 roast an apple. But what did he care % He 
 was one of those men who are quite insen- 
 sible to the suffering they cause, and are 
 never troubled with qualms of any kind 
 either before or after an event. However, 
 his career was suddenly brought to a 
 close, and he involved others in his fall. 
 A young subaltern was heavily in debt, and 
 wished to raise a large sum of money. His 
 father was immensely rich, and Jameson 
 having reported the case by letter to his 
 principal, received his instructions. He told 
 Lieutenant Smith (as I will call him) that he 
 could have the £8000 whenever he pleased ; 
 his note of hand would be sufficient ; but, as 
 it was pure speculation on the part of the
 
 THE OUTCAST. 177 
 
 people in London, it would have to be paid 
 for accordingly. This, of course, the man of 
 great expectations did not mind in the least, 
 and asked Captain Jameson to go up to town 
 and arrange the " transaction," giving him 
 the note of hand, and full authority to act 
 on his behalf. Captain Jameson obtained 
 the £8000 and his commission, went to 
 Crockford's to gamble with the latter, and 
 lost it, and then lost the eight thousand 
 pounds. Lieutenant Smith wisely wrote to 
 his father, and confessed all, in consequence 
 of which Captain Jameson shortly afterwards 
 wrote to his father and informed him that 
 unless £8000 were produced within a few 
 days, the matter would go to the C. C. C. 
 In other words, he would be charged with 
 felony, arrested, tried, and no doubt trans- 
 ported for the same. 
 
 M
 
 178 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 Mr Jameson's late foreman, and the family 
 lawyer, and myself held council together. It 
 was found that Stilbroke had been sold; that 
 Mr Jameson no longer possessed eight thou- 
 sand pounds, that the sale of his son's commis- 
 sion was not a sufficient addition, and that 
 to make up that sum, it would be necessary for 
 me to contribute my stock of money in the 
 funds. I did not hesitate for a moment, my 
 wife's family was mine, and the sacrifice was 
 made. A few days afterwards, the Jame- 
 sons, father and son, the foreman and I met 
 together at the lawyer's in Lincoln's-Inn- 
 Fields. It had been made a stipulation with 
 the captain, that he should emigrate, and 
 measures had been taken tu prevent him 
 from evading this arrangement. The lawyer 
 read out the accounts. 
 
 " Then there is nothing left over," said the
 
 THE OUTCAST. 179 
 
 foreman ? " Only this twenty pound note 
 which will pay for Captain Jameson's pass- 
 age to Australia, and buy him a rope when 
 he gets there," said the lawyer. " Or perhaps 
 the colony will save him that expense." 
 
 Captain Jameson took the money and 
 retired. Mr Jameson looked from one to 
 another with a bewildered air. " Did you 
 say there was nothing left, Mr Lawyer ; 
 nothing left of all that money I earned ? 
 I worked hard for it, gentlemen. I was up 
 early and late. I never wasted an hour. I 
 was honest in all my dealings. Yes, yes ; poor 
 Bob has spent it all." Then he looked round 
 at us again. "How," said he, "am I to live?" 
 
 I was, of course, prepared with an answer 
 to this question, and had taken a bedroom 
 for him at home. But the foreman said, 
 " Come, my dear, kind, old master ; come
 
 180 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 and live with me." Then he turned to me 
 and said, " Excuse me, sir, for taking your 
 place ; but you have done enough." He 
 rose and went out, and my poor father-in- 
 law tottered after him, holding his hand. 
 He died in a few months ; and Captain 
 Jameson was shot in a gambling-house in 
 Sydney, soon after his arrival, for something 
 equivalent to what is called " welching " on 
 the Turf. 
 
 It would have been better, perhaps, to 
 have kept our money and left him to his 
 fate ; and yet, I am sure, we acted on the 
 right principle. For he might have re- 
 formed ; he might have become an honest, 
 hard-working man, and even acquired a 
 fortune. In novels, the air of Australia 
 has a wonderfully restorative effect on the 
 characters of emigrants ; and sometimes, no
 
 THE OUTCAST. 181 
 
 doubt, it is so in real life. Margaret said 
 that he had great natural ability, and he 
 must have had some qualities to make him 
 the friend of Fitzclarence. But the passion 
 for play quickly depraves a man ; what are 
 the pleasures of society or culture to those 
 who have sat knee- deep in cards, and 
 played night and day without intermission ? 
 Gambling is the most dangerous of vices, 
 because its excitements are incomparable, 
 and are followed by no reaction ; it ruins, 
 but it does not satiate. 
 
 We now lived from hand to mouth, but 
 I was not alarmed ; and there seemed 
 no reason for alarm. Thousands of mar- 
 ried persons were in a position not less 
 precarious ; it was, in fact, the ordinary 
 lot. I was earning £150 a year, and knew 
 I could get copying and translating to do,
 
 1 82 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 for such work had been offered to me by- 
 other readers at the Museum. And, in 
 fact, before long I was fully employed. 
 But the work was miserably paid, and was 
 often required in haste. My evenings were 
 no longer devoted to Margaret. I had to 
 write — write — write from morning to mid- 
 night, or even to the following dawn. Thus, 
 by immense efforts, I was able to make two 
 pounds a- week. When job-work was slack, 
 I tried my hand at literary composition, 
 and wrote about twenty essays on social 
 and literary subjects, which I dropped into 
 Editor's boxes ; but none of them ever 
 appeared in print, so I confined myself to 
 the manual labour of the scribe. We were 
 still fifty pounds short of our previous 
 income, and Margaret had to practise the 
 mean little arts of economy, the saving and
 
 THE OUTCAST. 183 
 
 hashing the scraps of one meal for another, 
 and so forth. I hate extravagance and 
 waste ; but it seems to me that this kind of 
 thrift is apt to make the mind sordid, 
 and money paramount. " My dear," said 
 I to her one day, " there are two kinds 
 of poverty. When we had £300 a-year, if 
 we had taken a house, we should have found 
 it difficult to make both ends meet. But 
 you were content with these bachelor lodg- 
 ings, and money never troubled us. In one 
 sense of the word we were poor ; but, as a 
 matter of fact, we lived easily on a small 
 scale. Well, now we are poor ; our regular 
 expenses are too much for our income, and so 
 we have to scrape and stint in little matters, 
 and think of pennies at every hour of the 
 day. We have lost £50 a-year, and ought 
 to reduce our expenses by living in a more
 
 1 84 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 humble way. At first we may find it hard 
 to give up those little comforts to which we 
 have been long accustomed ; but habit will 
 soon make us happy without them, and 
 there will be an end to all this petty trouble 
 and anxiety." 
 
 Margaret had grown fond of our dingy 
 rooms, and was sorry to leave them. It was 
 there we had spent our honeymoon, and there 
 you were born. However, she assented at 
 once, as she did to all that I proposed ; but 
 a misfortune postponed our departure, and 
 then rendered it no longer a question of 
 choice and free-will. Alas ! I had said there 
 were two kinds of poverty. We had soon 
 to learn by terrible experience that there 
 were other kinds, the horrors of which may 
 not be, cannot be, fully described. A part- 
 only of the truth I shall unfold.
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 As I told you, I read and wrote all day, and 
 the greater part of the night as well. My 
 night- work was mostly copying, and I made 
 the mistake of writing on white paper, which 
 is very trying to the eyes ; I was also em- 
 ployed for some time copying manuscripts in 
 a private library, and this work taxed my eye- 
 sight severely. I found that when I woke 
 up in the morning, my eyelids were glued 
 together, and a young doctor, whose ac- 
 quaintance I had made at the reading room, 
 observing them to be watery and bloodshot, 
 advised me to give them rest for a month. 
 But how could I pass a month without doing 
 any work, unless we could pass it without
 
 1 86 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 eating any food ? I hoped for the best and 
 worked on as before ; and the consequences 
 may be imagined. The next time I caught 
 cold, it flew to my eyes, inflammation set in, 
 and a few days afterwards I was sightless. 
 
 My employers were exceedingly kind. 
 They sent me ten pounds on account, and 
 begged me not to be anxious. I always did 
 my work honestly and well, and they would 
 not lose me on any account. They would 
 find a substitute while I was ill, and as soon 
 as I had recovered my health, there was my 
 place ready for me. Unluckily, I twice 
 returned to my work too soon (money was so 
 needful to us), and twice I relapsed. This 
 caused the firm much inconvenience, and 
 threw my eyes into a bad state. The disease 
 assumed a chronic form, and a great oculist 
 whom I consulted, said that time, rest,
 
 THE OUTCAST. 187 
 
 country air, nourishing food, and attention 
 to the general health were the only medicines 
 he could recommend. 
 
 Margaret had a good deal of jewellery, 
 chiefly presents from her father. This we 
 were now forced to sell, and obtained what 
 we thought a considerable sum. We felt 
 quite confident, that before it was spent, my 
 health would be restored, and went to live 
 near Hampstead Heath, where we found 
 board and lodging at a very reasonable rate. 
 But my eyes became worse, and returning 
 to London, we took a bedroom near the hos- 
 pital at Charing Cross, for which I had pro- 
 cured an out-patient's ticket. There my 
 case received every attention ; but as the 
 oculist had predicted, medicines did me no 
 good. Our money being now nearly at an 
 end, we migrated to the neighbourhood of
 
 1 88 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 Islington, where we took a garret at four 
 shillings a-week. We spent little money, 
 but none came in ; and, slowly, slowly our 
 store decreased, till at last it was finished 
 altogether. Hitherto, my dearest wife had 
 alleviated the sorrows of my blindness, by 
 reading to me from my favourite books, but 
 now they had to go too. I got very little 
 for them, but we lived on the money two 
 weeks. 
 
 "Dear Edward," said my wife, "you 
 must let me write to your father, or our 
 poor little Elly will starve." I gave my 
 consent, of course, and she wrote ; but no 
 answer was received. We made inquiries 
 about Dr Chalmers. He had gone on a 
 canoe voyage up the Amazon, and had not 
 been heard of for a year. 
 
 On my left hand I wore a gold ring,
 
 THE OUTCAST. 89 
 
 which my mother had made me promise 
 always to wear in memory of her ; but I 
 thought that our destitution released me 
 from this promise to the dead. However, I 
 would not sell it ; I would only pawn it, 
 and within a year's time I should surely be 
 able to redeem it. 
 
 One evening at dusk I went out and 
 walked backwards and forwards before 
 several pawnbrokers' shops ; but they were 
 all too public — too near the crowded 
 thoroughfare. At last I saw some way off, 
 down a narrow side-street, the three golden 
 balls branching out from the wall of a house. 
 This I thought was the place for me; so 
 taking off my green shade, for fear of being 
 conspicuous, and looking anxiously around 
 me, though I only knew two or three per- 
 sons in London, I slipped in at the door,
 
 190 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 which was invitingly ajar. I found inside 
 three small doors, which opened into cells or 
 private boxes with partitions on either side, 
 so that those who stood before the counter 
 could not see one another. 
 
 The shopman was talking in a jocular 
 manner to a woman in the box on my left ; 
 and having tied up her bundle of linen, put 
 it on a shelf, pinned a ticket to it, and 
 handed her the duplicate, he wished her 
 good-day, and came to me. I handed him the 
 ring, and he took it to the light, examined 
 it carefully, and offered to advance me two 
 pounds. I said that would do very well, as I 
 only wanted the money for a few days. As 
 I made this very foolish speech a tall thin 
 young man in the box on my right stretched 
 himself half over the counter, and looked 
 round into my box with a derisive expres-
 
 THE OUTCAST. 191 
 
 sion on his face. The next evening I saw 
 him talking to some girls before a public- 
 house, with his white hat cocked on one side, 
 and a cigar in his mouth. There, thought 
 I, is a Captain Jameson of low degree, and 
 perhaps he too has ruined his relations. 
 
 I learnt before long to go to the pawn- 
 brokers without shame, and even to bargain 
 with the shopman. Little by little every- 
 thing went — our boxes, our clothes — nearly 
 all we had except what we w T ore. For the 
 first time we were in debt; we owed a 
 week's rent. The landlady came to us, and 
 said " she saw we couldn't pay the rent, and 
 she wouldn't demand it. But she'd got an 
 old lodger come back who wanted our room, 
 and so out we must go. There was his 
 portmantle down-stairs, and him waiting in 
 her parlour. We must foot it at once."
 
 192 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 The little we had was soon made into a 
 bundle, which I tied to a stick, as I had 
 seen tramps do in the country. Your 
 mother took you in her arms, and so we 
 went out into the street. 
 
 It was the month of November. A fine 
 drizzly rain filled the air, and covered the 
 pavement with a layer of damp in which the 
 gaslights were reflected. We walked east- 
 ward, keeping close to the houses on thu 
 right hand side, for the street was thronged 
 with men going home from the city. What 
 a heartless crowd it seemed to us poor 
 exiles of happiness, outcasts from humanity. 
 There was scarcely a woman among them. 
 They had pale resolute faces, and walked as 
 fast as they were able, looking neither to 
 the right nor to the left. Weary of being 
 jolted and pushed, we sank under a door-
 
 THE OUTCAST. 193 
 
 vray and watched them go by. An elderly 
 man, poorly but neatly dressed, noticed us 
 as he passed ; he went on a few steps, 
 paused, hesitated, then returned, put a 
 penny in my hand, and went quickly away. 
 We bought a roll, which we divided into 
 three equal parts. It was the first time we 
 had eaten that day. 
 
 The street grew empty, as it seemed, of a 
 sudden, and we continued our journey. 
 We made you walk a little now and then, 
 and carried you by turns. Margaret insisted 
 on this, though scarcely able to bear your 
 weight. For a long time past she had been 
 in failing health, and I knew she must be 
 feeling very ill ; but she said not a word in 
 complaint. Sometimes she gently pressed 
 my hand ; sometimes I put my arm round 
 
 N
 
 i 9 4 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 her waist and gave her a kiss. Our love 
 was greater than our misery. 
 
 We were now in the heart of the city, and 
 it resembled a city of the dead. The streets 
 that in day teemed with human beings were 
 silent and deserted. 
 
 In the midst of these vast solitudes we 
 felt like travellers lost in a wilderness of 
 stone. We sat down and rested for a while. 
 Then Margaret said, "Dear Edward, my 
 courage faints. Will you pray with 
 me I 
 
 " No. Margaret," I answered, "I pray no 
 more. God is hard-hearted." 
 
 " Edward ! Edward 1 " she cried with a 
 gesture of affright, "do not put such 
 thoughts into my heart ; they come there 
 often, and I drive them away. Oh ! my 
 dear husband, make me good ; help me to
 
 THE OUTCAST. 195 
 
 place my trust in God, and to love him, 
 and to ." 
 
 Her words ended in sobs. 
 
 I embraced her, and kn<ilt on the cold 
 stones. But I did it only of my love for 
 her. I was sullen and rebellious. She 
 knelt also, and prayed aloud with the sleep- 
 ing child in her arms. 
 
 A policeman came up while thus we were 
 engaged, and told us to move on. I 
 laughed a mocking laugh to myself. Yet 
 my wife was cheered by this hasty prayer, 
 and her eyes brightened up. When we 
 had gone a little way she stopped and said, 
 " Edward, it is useless to walk about like 
 this ; we can sleep in the work-house, and 
 that is better than being out of doors." 
 
 I had thought of this, and feared to pro- 
 pose it, but it was no time for sentiment
 
 196 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 and pride. I saw a man coming towards 
 us, and when lie drew near it was plain 
 that he belonged to the class who could 
 give poof vagrants information and advice. 
 He wore a fur cap on his head, and a white 
 comforter round his throat ; he slouched 
 along with his hands in the pockets of his 
 corduroy trousers, and was whistling a tune. 
 I asked him if he could direct us to the 
 nearest work-house, where we might sleep. 
 " Well," said he, " you won't get much sleep 
 in them institutions. Why won't you go to 
 a model lodging-house ? It's only a penny 
 a-night, and every luxury of the season." I 
 replied that we had not so much as a penny. 
 " God strike me dead ! " said he, catching 
 up my hand, and feeling the tips of my 
 fingers ; " you're gentlefolk, too, by your 
 hand." "We were," said I, "a long time
 
 THE OUTCAST. 197 
 
 ago." "I dare say now," said lie in a coax- 
 ing voice, "as you were a clerk, or some- 
 thing of that?" "Yes;" said I, "not 
 exactly a clerk, but doing the same kind of 
 work." " And when your eyes went bad," 
 he said, glancing at my green shade, they 
 gave you the sack ? " I nodded. " And 
 then you spouted all you'd got, except what's 
 there in your bundle, and I don't think it's 
 much, and you got behind-hand with your 
 rent, and they turned you out into the 
 streets ? " 
 
 I told him he had guessed right. 
 
 "Guessed!" said this man learned in 
 misery, "it ain't guessing at all. Can't I 
 see it before me just as plain as a play-bill 
 on the wall ? Now come along with me, 
 and I'll give you a night's lodging, and a 
 bit of hot supper into the bargain. I'm
 
 i9» THE OUTCAST. 
 
 flush, for I've just done a good bit of work. 
 Don't trouble, Sir, I'll carry the young un." 
 
 "I suppose," said I, "that you are a 
 skilled working-man." 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " there ain't a skilleder 
 man than me in my own line — bar one. I 
 began life as a policeman, but I saw the 
 error of my ways, and left off making war 
 on my fellow creatures what never done me 
 any harm." 
 
 I asked several other questions, and he 
 returned answers which I did not always 
 understand, and which seemed intended 
 chiefly for his own amusement, as he chuckled 
 to himself after he had made them. He 
 took us beyond the Bank, into a part of 
 London where I had never been before. I 
 saw to my astonishment, a great wide street 
 lined on both sides of the way with innu-
 
 THE OUTCAST. 199 
 
 merable trays or trucks of fruit, fish and 
 other edibles, each truck being lighted by a 
 a ndle in a glass shade. The pavement 
 was crowded with people, all of the lower 
 class, and the bustle was extraordinary. 
 Our companion told us that this was the 
 WHiitechapel Eoad, and seeing that Margaret 
 and I were both very weak, he bought us a 
 p nny cup of coffee. This gave us new 
 stx ength, and we were able to keep up with 
 him, though he walked very quickly, glanc- 
 iu< from side to side, and sometimes looking 
 back over his shoulder. He said that it was 
 agr inst his principles, as a respectable work- 
 ing man, to dawdle in the streets ; then he 
 had such a large acquaintance in the Force, 
 lie feared he might perhaps be detained if he 
 m t any of them. 
 
 " Lor' bless you," said he, " they wouldn't
 
 200 THE OUTCAST 
 
 let me go. I might tell 'em I'd got par- 
 ticular business, or that my old mother was 
 anxious if I stopped out late, or that I was 
 taking home friends to supper — they 
 wouldn't listen to a word. They're so wery 
 pressing in their invitations, are my old 
 pals, they won't take no refusal, not at any 
 price whatever." He now left the "White- 
 chapel Eoad, and turning to the right, 
 plunged us into a perfect labyrinth of bye- 
 streets and alleys. Some of these streets 
 were deserted like those in the city, and we 
 passed two large buildings, each of which 
 perfumed the air for a considerable distance ; 
 the first was a sugar bakery, the second a 
 brewery, which last our guide sniffed with 
 much satisfaction. One street we entered, 
 was devoted to festivity. Nearly every 
 house was brilliantly lighted, and from half-
 
 THE OUTCAST. 201 
 
 open doors proceeded the sounds of harp and 
 fiddle, and thumping of feet; or laughter, 
 clamour, and song. Women without any 
 bonnets strolled to and fro, and half-drunken 
 sailors rollicked merrily along. Not far from 
 this street, we came to another, in which the 
 houses were all more or less dilapidated, and 
 most of them seemed to be empty. The man 
 told us we were " nearly there," and giving a 
 long shrill whistle, stopped to listen as if for 
 a reply. Two whistles responded from the 
 bottom of the street. He then pushed 
 quickly on, passed under an arch into a small 
 court, and knocking at the door of a house 
 within, called for a light. An old woman 
 opened the door with a farthing dip in her 
 hand, and the man having chucked her 
 under the chin, and asked her if she felt 
 pretty bobbish, led us up to a room on the
 
 202 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 second floor. It was a poor bare room 
 enough, the walls blackened with dirt, the 
 broken window-panes stuffed with rags ; but 
 it was a sweet refuge to us that night after 
 our weary wanderings. Our host told lis 
 the old woman was his mother, and we 
 musn't mind her being cross, she being a 
 real good sort all the same. He went out 
 and talked with her some time. At first her 
 voice sounded keen and shrill, but it softened 
 down, and she came in with a mattress and 
 blanket, which she laid on the floor, then 
 served us some sausages, with potatoes baked 
 in their skins. 
 
 After we had supped, our host came in 
 and sat with us, smoking a short clay pipe. 
 I was now able to study his appearance. 
 On his right hand was a fresh red scar which 
 he tried to keep covered with his left. It
 
 THE OUTCAST. 203 
 
 seemed like the bite of a dog. The expres- 
 sion of his face was not prepossessing. His 
 look was kind, but it was askant, and there 
 was something cunning in his smile. "When 
 he paid us little acts of attention, such as 
 arranging the mattress, or making up the 
 fire, it was done, so I thought, in an under- 
 handed kind of way. However, I stopped 
 myself in the midst of these reflections, 
 which were not very grateful, and thanked 
 him warmly for having saved us from the 
 miseries of the street. He mumbled some- 
 tiling about a workhouse being no place for 
 her — pointing at my wife with his thumb. 
 
 I observed a heap of tools in the corner 
 of the room, and made some remark about 
 them. He at once became vivacious and 
 talkative as he was in the street, and his 
 eyes twinkled in a most singular manner as
 
 2o 4 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 he spoke. " You see," said he, " I'm in the 
 patent lock and key line. Now, here is a 
 little inwention of my own." He showed 
 me a leaden hammer capped with leather. 
 " What d'ye think it's for ? I'll tell you. 
 Gentlemen often loses the keys of their 
 patent safes, and then they send to the 
 shop and ask for a man to open 'em. Of 
 course they don't send the safe, 'cos it's full 
 of gold and bank notes. Well, it's no good 
 trying to pick a patent lock ; so the safe 
 has to be opened by force with a wedge and 
 a hammer. Now, I needn't tell you, gen- 
 tlemen don't like a noise being made in 
 their house like a blacksmith's shop ; it 
 wakes up the baby, sets the dogs barking, 
 and alarms the neighbourhood. So I in- 
 wents this leather cap hammer, and it drives 
 the wedge in without making any noise."
 
 THE OUTCAST. 205 
 
 " I suppose you have taken out a 
 patent ? " said I. 
 
 " Well, no," said he, " I aint done that — 
 not ex-act-ly. But it's been the means of 
 putting money in my pocket all the same. 
 There's Jem Black what works with me, he 
 goes to the Hall of Science and cultiwates 
 his mind ; and he says to me, ' Thomas, 
 that's a beautiful inwention ; Thomas, I'm 
 proud of you ; Thomas, you're a benefactor 
 of our specie. '" 
 
 He now left us to ourselves, taking the 
 tools with him, and in the morning gave us 
 a breakfast of tea, and bacon, and eggs. 
 In the midst of the meal a man rushed into 
 the room and whispered something in his 
 ear. I heard the word "peached." Our 
 host sprang up, wrung me by the hand, and 
 hastened out followed by his friend. In
 
 206 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 the afternoon the old woman came in. She 
 was crying. She said, " We should never 
 see her son any more." I asked her why. 
 She only shook her head, and covered her 
 face with her apron, and rocked herself to 
 and fro. After a time she went out. 
 
 A sergeant of police came in with two 
 constables, and searched the room. I now 
 began to understand, and asked if the man 
 who lived there had been taken up. The 
 sergeant looked at me with some surprise 
 and said, " Yes ; burglary with violence." 
 
 The old woman left the house, and no 
 one disturbed us in our occupation of the 
 room. We lived chiefly on dry bread, 
 which I begged from servants and at 
 bakers' shops. I never begged for money, 
 at Margaret's earnest request. Thus we 
 were kept from actual starvation ; but
 
 THE OUTCAST. 207 
 
 my poor wife became weaker and weaker 
 every day. Then came a hard frost. We 
 had no fire, and when I felt the keen air 
 streaming; in at the window, I knew that 
 it would kill her. She lay with her eyes 
 fixed upon me, trembling and shivering, yet 
 pressing you to her bosom, chafing your 
 hands and bare feet, while you cried in a 
 weak, plaintive voice, " Poor Elly ! so 
 hungry, so cold ! " 
 
 " Oh, Edward," she said, " if I could only 
 have some tea ; I think it would save 
 me." 
 
 I went first to a large coal-yard, and 
 picked up the pieces which were lying in 
 the street near the gate, and put them in a 
 cloth I had brought with me for that pur- 
 pose. A gentleman who was coming out of 
 the yard stopped and said, "Are you so
 
 2o3 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 poor that you can't afford to buy coals this 
 terrible weather ? " 
 
 " I cannot even buy food," I answered ; 
 " and my wife is dying." 
 
 " You have a gentleman's voice," said he. 
 
 " I was once a clergyman." 
 
 " I have known niany cases of this kind," 
 he replied, " and excuse my saying so ; the 
 cause has been always the same — drink" 
 
 " In my case," said I, " it was something 
 you may think worse — Infidelity. Then 
 followed sickness from overwork, doubtless 
 a judgment you would call it. These eyes 
 failed me, and they fail me still, or I should 
 be at work." 
 
 " Well," said he, " I dare say I can find 
 you something to do which won't try your 
 eyes. Meet we here to-morrow at the same 
 hour, and in the meantime take this for
 
 THE OUTCAST. 209 
 
 immediate necessities." He gave me a five 
 pound note and stepped into a brougham, 
 which was out of sight before I had re- 
 covered from my astonishment. It causes 
 me a pang even now when I think of that 
 broken appointment. Why it was broken 
 he never could know, and must have sup- 
 posed I was drinking the money. Perhaps 
 (who can tell ?) it may have set him against 
 being charitable any more. 
 
 I went to a grocer's and changed the 
 note. I almost feared he would say it was 
 a bad one, for the luck seemed too great to 
 be true. I bought some tea and some coals 
 and wood, and borrowed a tea-pot and mug 
 from the people in the house. Margaret 
 seemed to be asleep. I would not wake her 
 till the tea was quite ready ; then I would 
 
 put the mattress close down by the fire ; 
 
 o
 
 2io THE OUTCAST. 
 
 and when she had finished her tea, I would 
 go to the cook-shop and buy her some good 
 strong soup. 
 
 Her eyes opened ; I sat down beside her 
 on the floor, and told her the good news. 
 She smiled ; then her face changed in a 
 curious manner ; she put up her lips to be 
 kissed like a child before it goes to sleep, 
 and expired. 
 
 I sat there without moving. The dusky 
 shadows were falling on the floor when a 
 hand was placed upon my shoulder. 1 
 looked round. It was a City Missionary 
 whom I had often seen passing from house 
 to house ; but he had never been to my 
 room before. " My brother," he said, " you 
 are in affliction." 
 
 I started to my feet. " There has been 
 murder done here," I cried.
 
 THE OUTCAST. 211 
 
 « 
 
 What," said he, turning pale, " do you 
 suspect " 
 
 " God has murdered her," I said. rt The 
 God who made her, the God whom she 
 loved and faithfully obeyed." 
 
 He looked softly into my furious eyes 
 and said, " Do you think, then, that she is 
 dead ? No, dear friend, she is but released 
 from this poor tenement of clay, and now 
 lives with God in paradise." 
 
 " And could not/' I cried, " could not this 
 benevolent God make her happy in another 
 world without inflicting these horrible tor- 
 tures upon her ? Look at that body, once 
 so beautiful, battered and beaten by its 
 maker. And it is not only her body he 
 has wounded. If her soul could be made 
 visible, it would show the marks of many a 
 cruel and savage blow."
 
 2i2 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 " Oh, silence these angry thoughts," he 
 said, " and be resigned to the will of God. 
 For he is our sovereign and our Lord ; it is 
 he who has made us and not we ourselves ; we 
 are his people, and the sheep of his pasture. 
 My friend, let me implore you to humble your 
 heart and kneel with me before the throne." 
 
 " What," I cried, with anger redoubled, 
 " pray to that monster, that demon, that 
 fiend 1 Think you that I, like a grovelling 
 hound, will lick the hand that strikes without 
 mercy and without provocation ? Think you 
 I am as the base Oriental slave, who presses 
 the bowstring to his lips and to his brow 1 
 Think you that I fear his malignant rage ? 
 Hear me, blood-thirsty tyrant of the skies, 
 you have power, and can rack me with 
 everlasting pains. But I curse you, I defy 
 you . . . murderer . . . fiend ..."
 
 THE OUTCAST. 213 
 
 The foam fell from my moutli on my 
 hands. I saw the missionary running from 
 the room. Then I swooned and fell senseless 
 to the ground. 
 
 When I came to myself I was still alone. 
 I went to the window and looked out. 
 Snow was falling heavily, and already the 
 roofs of the houses were white. I listened 
 to the roar of the streets. I pondered on 
 my misery ; and I thought of the black 
 river which T had once crossed on such a 
 night. The bridge was lonely I remembered. 
 Few people passed by, and their footsteps 
 could be heard from afar. But a^ain 
 fierce wrath rose within me ; and I cried 
 with a loud voice, "God, you shall not 
 conquer me ; I will fight out my life to its 
 natural end." 
 
 Then a tiny little hand was put into mine,
 
 2i 4 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 and a little voice said in a pleading tone, 
 " Papa, why do you talk so angry and loud ? 
 you will wake up mamma. And you 
 never look at Elly to-day. Poor Elly! so 
 hungry, so cold ! " 
 
 Then I was stricken with shame and self- 
 disgust. I had let my poor child starve 
 whilst I was ranting idly at the clouds. 
 
 I took out a handful of coins. " thou 
 vile dross ! " I cried, " thou canst not give 
 true happiness, yet without thee is misery 
 and death. See, Elly, here is some money 
 to play with, and I will soon go out and buy 
 you something nice." 
 
 Your eyes sparkled — we all love money 
 by instinct — and you took the silver in your 
 lap. I knelt down beside the inanimate 
 body, and asked it in a whisper to forgive 
 me, for I felt that with my foolish rage I
 
 THE OUTCAST. 215 
 
 had profaned the presence of the dead. 
 Presently you ran to me with a frightened 
 face, and pushed the money into my hands. 
 A number of men and women were stand- 
 ing behind me, looking sadly on the corpse. 
 Then they led me away to another room. 
 Thieves and prostitutes did the last offices of 
 love for the body of my poor Margaret.
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 
 When I awoke from sleep — a sleep, as I 
 thought, of many dreams — I was in the 
 room where Margaret had died. But her 
 body was not there. The sun was shining 
 brightly, the window was open, and the air 
 that came in was balmy and warm. I sat 
 up and looked out ; there was no snow on 
 the ground ; flowers were blooming in a box 
 on the sill, and a lark was singing in a cage 
 fastened to the wall outside. 
 
 This I could not understand ; besides, I 
 was lying in a bed placed under the window. 
 How had it come there ? I glanced round 
 the room. It was furnished. There was a 
 plain deal table and several rush -bottomed
 
 THE OUTCAST. 217 
 
 chairs, and cups and saucers, dishes and 
 plates in shelves, and a kitchen dresser ; and 
 signs of cooking in the grate. I lay back in 
 bed, and tried to collect my thoughts. 
 
 The door opened, and two young women 
 came in. 
 
 " If you please," said I. 
 
 " Hark, Sal, he speaks ! " said one of 
 them. " Lord ! I feel 'most afraid." 
 
 " Oh, you fool ! " said the other ; and 
 coming towards me she drew a chair up to 
 the bed-side. " Well, Sir ? " she said. 
 
 " Where is the . Where is Margaret?" 
 
 I asked. 
 
 " She was buried long ago," said the girl. 
 
 "Long ago ! it was only last night that it 
 happened. How can you talk to me like 
 that ? " 
 
 " Hush, hush," she said, in a soft soothing
 
 2i8 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 voice, " listen to me while I tell you. That 
 was three months gone by, and all that time 
 you've been very ill. Then it was winter — 
 cold, snowy winter. Don't you remember ? 
 And now it is the spring. Feel the warm 
 air coming in at the window ; hear the lark 
 singing, smell the sweet flowers, see the blue 
 sky." 
 
 Then those were not dreams after all, those 
 days and nights that had followed one 
 another, those faces I had seen, those voices 
 I had heard. 
 
 " Where is she buried ? " I asked. 
 
 She held up her finger. " You must not. 
 speak of that or your illness will come back." 
 
 " Tell me then, who are you \ " I said, 
 " and who is that girl over there ? " 
 
 " We belong to him as brought you here. 
 She is my sister, and we live in this and iu
 
 THE OUTCAST. 219 
 
 another room. But now you're well, you 
 shall have this one to yourself." 
 
 " I believe," said I, " that you have saved 
 my life." Her eyes became full of tender- 
 ness. " Yes," she said, " I have saved your 
 life." Then she put her hand in her pocket. 
 " The parson gave me this for you as soon 
 as you got well." 
 
 It was a New Testament. " But I cannot 
 read," said I. "Try it," said she smiling. 
 I opened and read without difficulty ; my 
 sight was restored ! One malady had de- 
 stroyed the other. I uttered an exclamation 
 of delight. At the same moment the other 
 girl who had gone out of the room a few 
 moments before, brought you in, very nicely 
 dressed, and your golden hair carefully 
 combed out. " Kiss your papa, Elly," said 
 the girl named Sarah, " he knows you now.
 
 220 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 Then, as she turned to go, she said, " If you 
 think you owe me anything, please do not 
 fret yourself ill, and ask me no questions 
 about myself or my sister." 
 
 In a few days I was able to walk about, 
 and tried to obtain some employment. But 
 my appearance did not recommend me, for 
 I was in rags, and my toes protruded from 
 my boots. However, I called upon a law- 
 stationer, who was attracted rather than re- 
 pelled by my evident poverty. This worthy 
 man, as his shopman afterwards informed 
 me, employed by preference persons in a 
 state of utter destitution, as he usually found 
 them not only grateful for his kindness, but 
 also willing to work ou very moderate terms. 
 Having inspected my calligraphy (I had 
 learned to write clerk s hand), he feared it 
 would not do, but just as I was going from
 
 THE OUTCAST. 221 
 
 the shop, called me back and offered to pay 
 me so much a folio — half the regulation 
 price — which I accepted gladly enough. I 
 wrote to Jansen and Haines, and said that 
 my eyesight being now perfectly restored, I 
 hoped they would allow me to resume my 
 connection with the firm. I gave the law- 
 stationer's as an address, and the publishers 
 replied by return of post, that they had made 
 arrangements with another gentleman in re- 
 spect to the Classical Dictionary, but as soon 
 as they had an opportunity, they would 
 gladly avail themselves of my valuable ser- 
 vices, and would lose no time in communi- 
 cating with me. 
 
 No One would tell me where Margaret was 
 buried, for they feared it might cause a 
 relapse if I went to her grave. And I never 
 found it out, for we changed our name when
 
 222 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 we went to live at the thief's house. Mar- 
 garet was buried under the name we had 
 assumed, and I could not remember it after 
 my illness. On the day of my recovery, I 
 told Sarah that my name was Mordaunt, and 
 this trifling circumstance shaped out my 
 future destiny by giving a clue to those who 
 were in search. 
 
 I will tell you a strange thing. My illness 
 caused by the passion of grief had swallowed 
 up and absorbed that grief to itself. I did 
 not mourn for Margaret, and almost rejoiced 
 that she was taken from a life so full of 
 suffering and pain. Now, the object of my 
 life was to save you from such trials as she 
 had undergone. I would work hard, and 
 restore you to that position in which your 
 parents had been born. 
 
 The day after I received the letter from
 
 THE OUTCAST. 223 
 
 Jansen and Haines, as I was standing near 
 the door of the house, three whistles 
 sounded, or rather shrieked, in the street 
 outside. At once there was great commo- 
 tion in the court. Several men dashed into 
 their houses, and then emerging through the 
 skylights, ran nimbly over the roofs. Those 
 who were not frightened were inquisitive, 
 and crowded to the windows and doors. 
 The cause of all this stir was a middle-aged 
 man with a fresh-coloured face and yellowish 
 whiskers streaked with grey. As he came 
 into the court an old man (who had pro- 
 bably retired from business) went up to him 
 and said, " Is anybody wanted ? " 
 
 "No," said the other; "private inquiry." 
 Then he glanced at my face, and gave me a 
 letter addressed Edward Mordaunt, Esq. 
 " That is for you, sir, T think," said he.
 
 224 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 This letter was from my father's lawyer, 
 who informed me that Mr Mordaunt was 
 travelling abroad when my wife's letter was 
 written : he replied to it when he came 
 back, and as we had changed our address, 
 his reply was returned by the Dead Letter 
 Post Office. Mr Mordaunt had then in- 
 structed him (the lawyer) to find out where 
 I was, but all inquiries had failed, till at 
 last a detective had heard of a person named 
 Mordaunt living in the thieves' quarter, 
 Whitechapel, and ascertained that the per- 
 son in question was a gentleman by birth, 
 and answered to my description. Mr Mor- 
 daunt, on receiving this information, was 
 grieved, but not surprised to find that my 
 infidel opinions had led me to adopt a career 
 of crime, and that having defied the laws of 
 God, I should now set myself in opposition
 
 THE OUTCAST. 225 
 
 to the laws of man. In order to save a soul 
 from perdition lie was willing to adopt his 
 grandchild, on the understanding that I 
 made no attempt to see her again ; and so 
 long as I adhered to this condition he would 
 pay me an annuity equal to that which I 
 had squandered. 
 
 I said that I would consider the matter, 
 and send a reply in a few days. I felt it 
 was my duty to think of nothing else but 
 your own welfare and happiness. 1 should 
 endeavour to silence my affection for you 
 since that affection would be a vice if it 
 persuaded me to sacrifice your future. In 
 my hands was your fate ; what a terrible 
 responsibility! If I could earn for myself 
 a respectable position you would, I thought, 
 have a happier childhood, and grow up a 
 better woman than if educated by that
 
 226 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 austere old man. But was it in my power 
 to escape from this kennel of crime ? That 
 morning the state of my eyes had given me 
 cause for alarm, and in my weak state of 
 health overwork might soon set them wrong 
 again. Breathing a pestiferous air, living 
 on insufficient food, it was not likely that I 
 should regain my full strength, and without 
 it I was doomed to remain in my prison- 
 house. Before I went free I had debts 
 to pay — debts which would never be 
 claimed, and could never be forgotten. 
 After much thought I came to this determi- 
 nation. The next morning I would call 
 upon the publishers, and tell them how I 
 was situated, and ask them for pity's sake 
 to give me a helping hand, not in the way 
 of charity, but of employment. If they re- 
 fused, then you should go ; and though I
 
 THE OUTCAST. 227 
 
 feared your life would not be a happy one, 
 at least you would not be brought up in a 
 den of thieves. 
 
 I obtained on hire a suit of black clothes, 
 which, though threadbare and worm-eaten, 
 were better than the rags I usually 
 wore. 
 
 As I stooped down to kiss you before I 
 left the house, I could not refrain from tears. 
 "Oh, my beloved child," I said, "they will 
 take you from me, and I shall never see you 
 again. They will tell you that I am a 
 wicked man, and teach you to hate and 
 despise me. My darling, it is hard to give 
 you up ; but I must — I must — if it is for 
 your good." 
 
 The tears rolled down my cheeks, and 
 you took out your little handkerchief and 
 wiped them away. I put on my hat. Then
 
 228 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 you said you would go too, aud without 
 waiting for an answer put on your things, 
 and thrust your hand into mine. "And 
 why," thought I, " should I not take her ? 
 It may be our last day together." So off 
 we went, through alleys and bye-ways, into 
 the Whitechapel Road, and past the Bank 
 towards St Paul's. It was a bright sunny 
 morning, and the streets, I thought, were 
 even more crowded than usual. Many a 
 hard-featured man of business turned back 
 to look at the pretty child perched upon my 
 arm, her blue eyes bright with excitement, 
 her hair shining like gold in the sun. I en- 
 tered the well-known shop in Paternoster 
 Row, and said I wished to see Mr Haines 
 on particular business. The clerk gave a 
 start of recognition, then coldly said he 
 feared Mr Haines was out, but would go and
 
 THE OUTCAST. 229 
 
 see. My heart sank. Perhaps I might not 
 be able to obtain an interview. 
 
 At that moment I saw the Bishop of 
 
 T at the other end of the shop, turning 
 
 over the pages of a new book. I felt my 
 lips quiver. You observed it, and said in a 
 clear shrill voice, "Do not cry again, dear 
 papa, do not cry again." The Bishop looked 
 up from his book, and then bending over 
 the counter asked a question of the clerk. 
 I heard the words, " poor scholar . . . used 
 to do work for the firm." The Bishop came 
 towards me with a face full of benevolence 
 and compassion. "When our eyes met he 
 cried, " What ! Do I see Mr Mordaunt ? " 
 
 " Yes, my lord," I replied, "I am that un- 
 fortunate man." 
 
 He took me by the hand, and, pressing it 
 kindly in his, led me to the chair where he
 
 2 3 o THE OUTCAST. 
 
 had been seated ; but the clerk, with an ob- 
 sequious bow, showed us into an office like 
 an old-fashioned pew ; a kind of box with 
 wooden sides, and a railing round the top ; 
 inside, a desk and two stools. I told the 
 good Bishop all that had happened since I 
 left Stilbroke. He listened attentively to 
 my narrative, and said, " Wait here a little 
 while, and I will see Mr Haines : I am sure 
 he will give you something to do." Then, 
 having paused for a moment, he said, " Un- 
 derstand, Mr Mordaunt, I do not sympathise 
 with your opinions ; they are most hateful 
 
 to me ; but your distress " He put 
 
 his hand to his heart, and said, " it has gone 
 in here." He stooped down and kissed you, 
 and hurried from the office. That was the 
 last time we met, for in after-days he al- 
 ways avoided me, and I did not force myself
 
 THE OUTCAST. 231 
 
 upon him; but often I have gone to the 
 House of Lords to have the pleasure of look- 
 ing on the face of my dear benefactor. 
 
 In a quarter of an hour I was called up to 
 Mr Haines' room. He appeared rather con- 
 fused, but I did not think him to blame for 
 his answer to my last letter. A publisher's 
 is a house of business, not a charitable insti- 
 tution. "Mr Mordaunt," he said, "His 
 Lordship has just asked me to provide you 
 with some literary work, and I am happy to 
 say that it is in my power to do so. We 
 have been commissioned by a client of ours, 
 who is something of a connoisseur in the 
 classics, to bring out an edition of Thucy- 
 dides, with critical notes. He wishes it put 
 into good hands, and the Bishop assures us 
 that you have the requisite scholarship ; 
 besides, we know that you took a first- class
 
 232 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 at Oxford, a fact which speaks for itself. 
 The editor is to receive three hundred 
 pounds, and here (handing me a cheque) is 
 a hundred in advance. But we make this 
 stipulation, that you go into the country for 
 the full space of three months, and take a 
 complete rest, that your system may recover 
 its tone. It is easy to see that you are still 
 far from being well, and if you begin work 
 too soon we shall have the old trouble over 
 again. So we make this condition on behalf 
 
 of the , of our client. At the end of 
 
 three months we shall expect you to return 
 and prepare the work for the following 
 book-season. And now I wish you a pleas- 
 ant holiday, and shall be glad to hear how 
 you are getting on whenever you are abie to 
 write me a line." 
 
 It was of course easy enough to under-
 
 THE OUTCAST. 233 
 
 stand whence came this shower of gold ; but 
 I did not trouble the Bishop with a letter of 
 thanks. I thought that the best way of 
 showing ray gratitude was to follow his 
 instructions, and to edit the work in such a 
 manner as to give him satisfaction. 
 
 Having cashed the cheque, I went back 
 with you to the court in Whitechapel. 
 Sarah was seated by the fire in my room 
 cooking our dinner. I told her I was going, 
 and had come back with Ellen to wish her 
 good-bye. At the same time I gave her 
 some money to repay her for what she had 
 spent during my illness, and also wrote down 
 an address to which she could apply when- 
 ever she was in need of anv more. She 
 took the notes with an air of indifference, 
 and thrust them into the bosom of her 
 dress.
 
 234 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 " Sarah," said I, " you saved me from 
 death, and now I can save you from some- 
 thing as bad. Will you come with me and 
 take care of Elly, and be a good girl ? " 
 
 Her eyes brightened for a moment. Then 
 she turned to the fire. "No," said she, "I 
 musn't leave Jem ; it's only me keeps him 
 from the drink." 
 
 She would not speak another word, or 
 even shake hands ; and when you kissed her 
 she turned her head impatiently aside. 
 
 Ah ! who can understand a woman's heart ? 
 Who could tell by that cold set face what 
 feelings were surging in her bosom ? I 
 have not said much about this girl, for there 
 was bad in her as well as good, as many a 
 robbed, half-murdered sailor had discovered 
 to his cost ; and I knew that any attempt to 
 reclaim her would probably fail. But I also
 
 THE OUTCAST. 235 
 
 knew she would never do you any harm ; 
 that I could judge of from the past. 
 
 I have not described her character in full ; 
 nor have I described in full the horrible life 
 of that Whitechapel court. But I have 
 shown — for it was my duty in justice and 
 gratitude to show — that even in that sink 
 of iniquity, even amongst those degraded 
 and ferocious beings there were hearts full 
 of compassion, and eager to succour the 
 distressed. 
 
 That same afternoon I bought from the 
 clothesman a suit of the most gentlemanly 
 garments he possessed ; they had rather a 
 marine aspect, but that did not so much 
 matter, as we were going to the sea-side. I 
 redeemed my mother's ring, and some 
 trifles that had belonged to Margaret, and 
 bought back some of my books (dear old
 
 2 36 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 companions and friends) which had not been 
 disposed of. I also had you dressed out 
 like a fine little lady, and started for 
 Lirnmerleigh that same afternoon. 
 
 Thus ended the days of my adversity.
 
 LETTER XIV. 
 
 My first month at Limmerleigh was spent 
 in a state of unalloyed delight. To see in- 
 nocent faces, to breathe the fresh air, was 
 pleasure enough for one who had been im- 
 prisoned so long in a den of crime, a dun- 
 geon of disease. My strength was rapidly 
 restored, and new blood flowed through my 
 veins, as sap in dry trees when the winter 
 is past. But my brain having recovered its 
 vigour, forced me to remember and reflect. 
 I was in the midst of scenes hallowed and 
 endeared by the memory of Margaret. I 
 thought of all her virtues, her piety, and 
 love. I had never known her to be angry 
 or cold, and she bore the most terrible
 
 238 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 calamities with cheerfulness and courage. 
 When I came home to our hideous garret in 
 Whitechapel, I found the same affectionate 
 welcome as in the days of our prosperity ; 
 and when I gave her the scraps of dry bread 
 which I had begged, she took them joyfully 
 and jestingly, as if it were a feast. She 
 once said that she thought Jesus and his 
 disciples must have lived like ourselves, 
 because it was in the Lord's Prayer, " Give 
 us this day our daily bread ; " and this fancy 
 invested for her with a halo of romance our 
 miserable lives. Her trust in God seldom 
 wavered, but seemed to be strengthened by 
 affliction, and the more she suffered the 
 more she loved. My nature was not so 
 submissive, and though now the spirit of 
 foolish and impotent wrath had passed 
 away — though now the old habit of devo-
 
 THE OUTCAST. 239 
 
 tion was knocking at the door of my heart 
 — though now I longed to worship God, it 
 was necessary first I should be able to revere 
 him. I considered that if he were omni- 
 potent, the death of Margaret was a crime ; 
 but from this painful conclusion I took re- 
 fuge in a theory I had seen somewhere sug- 
 gested, that God was perfectly benevolent, 
 and had made the world as well as he was 
 able ; but that his power was contracted 
 and controlled by the evil nature of the 
 material with which he had to deal. This 
 gave me comfort for a time, but I soon saw 
 through the fallacy. For since men have 
 been upon the earth they have made it 
 better ; and therefore, before they came upon 
 the earth, God could have made it better 
 had he pleased. If not, man is more power- 
 ful than God, which is contrary to reason.
 
 2 4 o THE OUTCAST. 
 
 But the opposite theory brought me to 
 an equally ludicrous dilemma. For no man, 
 if endowed with miraculous power, his 
 moral nature being left unchanged, would 
 be guilty of making a world in which mur- 
 der is as the mainspring to a watch. There- 
 fore, man is more good than God ; which 
 again is absurd. 
 
 I now began to suspect that our concep- 
 tion of God was entirely erroneous. For 
 what is the definition of God ? A Perfect 
 Mind. And what is Mind ? It is a product 
 of the earth, a created tiling, existing within 
 the lower animals in a rudimentary condi- 
 tion, and in truth not less human than the 
 body. Mind cannot create; it can only 
 arrange and dispose, as Shelley remarked 
 long ago. Even a perfect mind could 
 not create a grain of sand. We suppose
 
 THE OUTCAST. 241 
 
 that God is a mind, or has a mind, be- 
 cause mind is the highest species of force 
 with which we are acquainted ; and if we 
 must define God, it is the best definition of 
 which the human intellect is capable. But 
 is it for man to define God ? Is it probable 
 that we who are but as animalcules crawling 
 on a speck of matter floating in space — an 
 infinitesimal fraction of the Universe — is it 
 probable that we should be able to form 
 from our minds a correct image of the 
 Creator 1 
 
 At this time I happened to read the well- 
 known passage in Bacon's ' Advancement of 
 Learning' — "Certain it is that God worketh 
 nothing in nature except by second causes ;" 
 and this set me thinking on all that I had 
 read in scientific works about natural law 
 
 governing physical phenomena ; and thence 
 
 Q
 
 2 42 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 I was taken on to the conclusion that all 
 moral phenomena and events are also sub- 
 ject to fixed and invariable law ; that God 
 has no personal relations with the earth; 
 and that his entity or being is higher than 
 a perfect mind, and far beyond human com- 
 prehension. But perhaps some clue might 
 be obtained to the intentions of God in re- 
 gard to ourselves by a careful study of the 
 natural laws which govern the earth, as 
 these laws, which for brevity's sake I shall 
 sometimes call Nature, may fairly be con- 
 sidered the expression of his Will. 
 
 My friends, the Irvines, had left Limmer- 
 leigh, and their villa was for sale. One day 
 I entered the garden, where I had passed so 
 many delightful hours. It was now quite 
 neglected. The lawn was strewed with 
 brown and yellow leaves ; the shrubberies
 
 THE OUTCAST. 243 
 
 were rasped and wild : weeds covered the 
 gravel-paths and the well-known flower- 
 beds, which once were splendid with colour 
 and delicious with perfume. Everything 
 bore the impress of decay. I went to Mar- 
 garet's favourite rose-bush ; it was dead ! 
 Alas ! thought I, the same cruel law per- 
 vades the whole animated kingdom. Trees 
 and flowers, insects and birds, the fish of 
 the sea, the beasts oi the earth — all must 
 die, as men die, after a life of combat and 
 pain. 
 
 Then I considered this fact from another 
 point of view. Was it not strange that Man, 
 who is God's " noblest work," should be sub- 
 ject to the same law as the lower animals, 
 to the same law even as the flower ? Was 
 it not strange that Nature should treat the 
 greatest men with the same unconcern as
 
 244 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 the meanest creatures of the soil, slaying 
 with a breath of pestilence a genius over his 
 noble work, as she sweeps away with a 
 breath of wind a spicier spinning in its web? 
 The injustice of this law, and its imperfec- 
 tion, troubled me exceedingly. After much 
 thought, I found the solution of the problem; 
 but it was a sad discovery. 
 
 We are not sent upon the earth to pass 
 through an ordeal, and to be rewarded or 
 punished in another world, after death, ac- 
 cording to our actions. We are sent upon 
 the earth for the sake of the earth. In 
 common with the atoms of water and air, 
 we are part of the material with which the 
 Creator, through secondary laws, carries 
 out his scheme, whatever it may be. Those 
 laws are evil and imperfect to us as they are 
 to the insects and the flowers, but they were
 
 THE OUTCAST. 245 
 
 not arranged for our approval and conveni- 
 ence, and are no doubt perfect as regards 
 the purpose for which they were designed. 
 
 This made me very sad. I reasoned with 
 myself that it was but a theory ; yet I felt it 
 was the truth, and it forced itself upon me 
 in spite of the aversion it provoked. I was 
 humbled and mortified. So then we were 
 merely as slaves, merely as lower animals, 
 merely as potters' clay ! And where now was 
 the hope of a life beyond the grave \ It 
 is the best argument in favour of a future 
 life that man deserves compensation for un- 
 merited suffering ; but if man is only raw 
 material that hope falls to the ground. 
 Then again the spirit of science spoke 
 within me. "It is probable that in death 
 the mind is decomposed (nothing is ever 
 destroyed), and that its elements are recom-
 
 246 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 bined into other forms of mental life, so that 
 though the individual intellect perishes, 
 nothing is lost to the race. If this supposi- 
 tion be correct, great men bequeath not only 
 their works but their minds to Humanitv." 
 
 One soft June night I went out and sat 
 on a cliff overhanging the sea-shore. The 
 voices of the hay-reapers working by moon- 
 light, mingled with the sound of the waves 
 breaking on the beach. On the west, dark 
 pine woods lined the horizon ; on the east 
 lay the gray ocean ; above was a cloud- 
 less sky, shining with innumerable stars, 
 each star a sun, the centre and sovereign of 
 a system. My head swam as, gazing up- 
 wards, I beheld worlds lying as thickly 
 together as leaves in a forest — at least so it 
 seemed ; we know that in reality vast
 
 THE OUTCAST. 247 
 
 distances divide them. 0, prodigious uni- 
 verse ! I sighed. And 0, poor, vain, 
 ignorant man, that could believe all these 
 were made for him. Low indeed is our true 
 condition in this wondrous galaxy of worlds. 
 We call ourselves God's "noblest work," 
 but perhaps there are in those distant orbs, 
 or rather in the planets by which they are 
 attended, beings who would look upon us as 
 we look upon the ants and the bees ; to 
 whom our highest efforts of mind would 
 seem but as curious instincts or faint gleams 
 of rudimentary intelligence. 
 
 At that moment a gun was fired from the 
 sea ; the reapers came running to the brink 
 of the cliff ; and a great ship passed, gliding 
 through the waters against wind and tide, 
 its chimney of flame casting sparks into the 
 air. It was the first steamer I had seen,
 
 248 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 and I rejoiced at this triumph of Art over 
 Nature. Ha ! ha ! thought I, if man is 
 small in relation to the Universe, he is great 
 in relation to the Earth. He abbreviates 
 distance and time, and brings the nations 
 together. He covers the wilderness with 
 cities, and cornfields, and gardens. He 
 modifies climate and dispels disease. In 
 every generation he makes the world happier 
 and better than it was before. 
 
 I sprang to my feet and walked quickly 
 to and fro. My brain was in a whirl. I 
 saw the light again, the blessed light of 
 hope and joy. "If we," I exclaimed, "are 
 fellow-slaves with the humblest creatures of 
 the earth, and even with the elements, we 
 are also fellow - workers with God, and 
 assistants of his inscrutable designs. For it 
 is plain that one part of the Divine Scheme
 
 THE OUTCAST. 249 
 
 is the progress of the earth from a lair of 
 wild beasts and savages to a paradise of 
 happiness and virtue ; and that Man has 
 been selected to represent the good, to ex- 
 tinguish the evil ; to be the Ormuzd that 
 shall conquer Ahriman ; to master by the 
 powers of his intellect those laws of 
 which he is now the subject and the 
 slave." 
 
 And I believed that when Man fully 
 understood and realised his mission, a new 
 religion would animate his life. It would 
 be a religious duty to battle with the evil in 
 Nature, and to labour for the glory of the 
 planet, since for that purpose men were 
 placed by God upon the earth. The 
 intellect would be carefully trained ; idle- 
 ness and ignorance would be stigmatised as 
 sins. The social affections would be
 
 250 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 developed to the fullest extent, and all men 
 would abandon the hopes of personal 
 immortality as a selfish craving at vari- 
 ance with the general welfare of the race. 
 Having cast aside these personal desires, 
 they would labour for posterity, and look 
 forward with chivalrous delight to the bliss 
 that others would enjoy. 
 
 Then I cast aside all thought for the 
 future fate of my own soul. To labour and 
 love without hope of requital or reward, 
 what religion could be more pure and more 
 sublime? Hitherto I had looked on the 
 Earth as a strange country, and life as the 
 journey of a traveller. But now the Earth 
 became my fatherland, and all mankind my 
 fellow-countrymen. I kissed the grass and 
 flowers growing on the brink of the cliff; I 
 sang to the waters, and the winds, and the
 
 THE OUTCAST. 251 
 
 beasts, and the birds, saying, " Together we 
 accomplish the work of the Creator." And 
 then — smile at me Ellen if you will — I felt 
 a rapture of love for the whole human race. 
 I resolved to preach the New Gospel far 
 and wide, and proclaim the glorious mission 
 of mankind. 
 
 This dream of prophecy did not last 
 beyond the night. However, I had dis- 
 covered a religion for myself; never since 
 have I been distressed by the problems of 
 existence ; and I then laid down a rule 
 of life, to which I have always rigidly 
 adhered. 
 
 My time at Limmerleigh being now at an 
 end, I returned to London, and worked at 
 the Thucydides, which was received with 
 much favour at both Universities. Hence- 
 forth I was a known man, and Mr Haines,
 
 2 52 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 who was alone in the firm, and advanced in 
 years, offered me a situation, with a fair pro- 
 spect of becoming junior partner. Then Dr 
 Chalmers returned from the uttermost ends 
 of the earth, took up his abode in town, 
 and made me live with him. He published 
 his notes on the Flora of the countries 
 he had visited, and was made a Fellow of 
 the Royal Society. He gave Sunday even- 
 ing receptions, at which I had the pleasure 
 of meeting nearly all the great men of 
 science, and many distinguished authors and 
 artists. All urged him to prepare his 
 Narrative for publication ; but he had 
 begun to travel too late in life ; the book 
 was beyond his strength ; and the dear 
 noble-hearted man died in my arms only 
 three years after his return. 
 
 Shortly afterwards my father also died.
 
 THE OUTCAST. 253 
 
 He left the bulk of his fortune to various 
 Christian missions for the conversion of India, 
 as some conmensation to the natives of that 
 country for the exactions and oppressions 
 of his father, the Nabob, when Eesident at 
 the court of Goruckpore. My name was not 
 mentioned in the will ; but the Hollywood 
 estate was entailed, and therefore came into 
 my hands. Had I known this, Margaret's 
 life would have been saved ; but I did not 
 even know that there was such an estate in 
 existence. I was informed by James, whom 
 I now took into my service (or rather I gave 
 him a pension), that my father's health, in 
 spite of his iron constitution, had quite 
 broken down of late years. Something 
 seemed to be preying on his mind, and ten 
 years before his death he left Harborne 
 altogether. I believe that he loved me in
 
 254 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 his heart, and suffered like another Brutus. 
 But what else could he have done? He 
 acted rightly according to his barbarous 
 Calvinistic creed. In his eyes I was a 
 servant of Satan ; and he refused me admis- 
 sion to his house, as he believed that God 
 would refuse me admission to heaven when 
 I died. Such is Faith ! It is not only 
 opposed to Reason, but to Charity ; and 
 with an unnatural piety can tear the fibres 
 of a father's heart, and leave him wounded 
 to languish and to die. It was the perfec- 
 tion of his belief that led to so much 
 misery. 
 
 If I were a young man endowed with 
 literary powers, and about to begin my 
 career, I should adopt as the work of my 
 life the Diffusion of Doubt ; for doubt dis- 
 sipates superstition, and softens the rancour
 
 THE OUTCAST. 255 
 
 of religious life. "Without doubt there can 
 be no tolerance, and the history of tolerance 
 is the history of doubt. The scepticism 
 spread by Voltaire humanised the dogmas 
 of the Roman Church ; and we ourselves are 
 passing through a silent, gradual, but 
 momentous doubting revolution. What is 
 it that has made the clergymen of all 
 denominations in these later days so tem- 
 perate in their views, so considerate for the 
 opinions of others ? It is Doubt arising from 
 discoveries in science, and from numberless 
 works in which religious topics have been 
 treated with freedom of spirit. Certainly 
 there has been a wonderful change within 
 the last twenty years. When I lived 
 with Dr Chalmers in London, men spoke 
 of these matters under their breath, but 
 now ladies discuss them freely enough :
 
 256 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 and I have heard a clergyman of the 
 Church of England say things in the pulpit 
 which in my younger days very few lay- 
 men would have dared to say at a dinner 
 party. Yet in spite of all this progress 
 much religious persecution goes on, and 
 bigotry abounds. The diffusion of Doubt is 
 the only remedy for these evils ; and though 
 the hacking and hewing of old beliefs must 
 cause much suffering, it is better that a 
 thousand should suffer rather than that 
 one crime of intolerance should be com- 
 mitted. 
 
 I now withdrew from the firm, and 
 adopted the pleasant life of the country 
 gentleman, retaining, however, the habits of 
 the scholar. I had determined when I left 
 Limmerleigh never to pass a day without 
 doing a kind action ; and also to contribute
 
 THE OUTCAST. 257 
 
 something every day to the general know- 
 ledge of mankind. Having no special talents, 
 I was at first puzzled what to do. However, 
 I thought it might be of use if I translated 
 into popular English some of the great 
 writers of antiquity. This, as you know, 
 has been my daily task for many years, and 
 the works already published attest my 
 industry. 
 
 And now a last word about my religion. 
 It has been with me very many years. We 
 are no longer strangers to each other. It 
 has given me peace. It has made me 
 content. It has taught me to value and 
 enjoy life, yet not to dread annihilation. 
 
 I believe in God the Incomprehensible, 
 whose nature man can never ascertain. To 
 adore this extraordinary Power would be 
 irrational ; nor do I allow myself to specu-
 
 258 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 late upon the mystery ; for it is wrong 
 to waste the powers of the brain, which 
 might otherwise be usefully employed, in 
 reflecting on problems which cannot be 
 solved. 
 
 I continue to gather knowledge, and shall 
 do so to my last hour. I endeavour to be 
 good, and rigidly watch my temper and my 
 thoughts. I seek the happiness of others. 
 I will own that often in these twenty- 
 five years I have sighed for my old be- 
 lief, when to me God was semi-human, 
 and man was semi-divine ; and after life, 
 death began, and happiness never ceased ; 
 and my mother, my Margaret, would be 
 joined to me again. And also sometimes 
 my heart has rebelled against the fate of 
 the human race, doomed to work like the 
 coral insects of the sea. But I learnt
 
 THE OUTCAST. 259 
 
 how to stifle such repinings and regrets ; 
 and now I have attained the perfection 
 of unselfishness as regards the disposition 
 of my soul. Last year, when I was given 
 up by the doctors, and expected to die 
 every hour, I had no desire whatever to 
 begin a new state of existence ; and it even 
 seemed ludicrous to me, the }dea of my 
 feeble imperfect mind being transplanted to 
 another world. It was, I thought, just 
 and natural that I should go back to the 
 Earth whence I came. 
 
 I have little more to say. I think you 
 will admit, my dear Ellen, that one may 
 cease to believe in a Personal God, and 
 in the Immortality of the Soul, and yet not 
 cease to be a good and even a religious man ; 
 indeed, I think I have proved something 
 more, namely, that this Religion of tinsel-
 
 i'6o THE OUTCAST. 
 
 fishness, for those who are able to embrace 
 it, is far more ennobling than any religion 
 which holds out the hope of celestial re- 
 wards. It may be that precisely on account 
 of its unselfishness and purity it can make 
 but few converts in the present condition of 
 the human mind ; and certainly long ages 
 must elapse before it can become the Keli- 
 gion of the World. But I believe that 
 year by year the power of this religion 
 will increase, and that more and more, 
 as time goes on, it will give rest to 
 troubled hearts, as it did to mine at Lim 
 merleigh. 
 
 Lastly, there is one thing you ought to 
 understand. I disbelieve in a future life ; 
 and this disbelief amounts to a positive con- 
 viction. But I may be mistaken. It is 
 impossible to know. The doctrine or theory
 
 THE OUTCAST. 261 
 
 of a future life is not contrary to reason like 
 that of a Personal Creator. We can show it 
 to be most improbable ; but on the other 
 hand we must allow that it is a possible 
 contingency. 
 
 Well now, you might say, " Suppose that 
 a good man, converted by your arguments, 
 gave up the belief in his own immortality, 
 loved others, laboured for others, strove to 
 purify his heart, but took no heed for his 
 own soul, and died believing in annihilation 
 and there should be a future life after all — 
 what then ? " Why, then he would be 
 perfectly prepared for the life which he did 
 not anticipate. For this is a beautiful 
 quality of our religion. We disbelieve in 
 future rewards, and so eradicate all selfish 
 longings from our hearts ; but if, contrary 
 to our expectations, there should be a
 
 262 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 future life with rewards, none will be able 
 to rank with ourselves. For what life is 
 so highly deserving of reward as that which 
 is spent in doing good without the hope or 
 desire of reward % 
 
 TURNBULL AND SPKARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
 
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