THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA GIFT OF Mary Randall Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation littp://www.arcliive.org/details/aboutmoneyothertOOcrairich ABOUT MONEY AND OTHER THINGS a ®ift-13ook BY THE AUTHOR OP "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN" NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 1887 MISS MULOCK'S WORKS. ABOUT MONEY AND OTHER THINGS. I'Jmo, Cloth, 90 cents. A BRAVE LADY. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. A FRENCH COUNTRY FAMILY. Trans- lated. Illustrated. 12ino, Cloth, $1.50. AGATHA'S HUSBAND. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents ; 121110, Cloth, 90 cents. A HERO, &c. 12mo, Clotb, 90 cents. A LEGACY: The Life and Remains of John Martin. 12ino, Cloth, 90 cents. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents ; 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. A NOBLE LIFE. 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. AVILLION, &c. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents. CHRISTIAN'S MISTAKE. 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. FAIR FRANCE. 12mo, Cloth, $1.50. HANNAH. Illustrated. 3vo, Papir, 35 cents; 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. 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I HAVE been often asked to reprint these papers, by those who believe the public will still listen to one who even now counts near- ly two generations of readers. This little volume may give, to a few more, a laugh — which is good ; a tear — which is sometimes better ; a serious thought or two — which is best of all. Therefore I offer it as a Christmas remembrance from an old friend, who has lived for sixtj^, and writ- ten books for forty yeara Si854165 CONTENTS. Page About Money 1 Six Happy Days . 27 Life and its Worth 57 The Stoky of a Little Pig 76 Genius . . ^ 89 My Sister's Grapes . , ... . . . , . 109 On Sisterhoods. . , ; . ♦ 130 Facing the World /.....,... 157 A Paris Atelier ...•,. ^ ., , 183 Kiss and be Friends ^ ....... 198 ABOUT MONEY. We are apparently passing through — let us hope only passing through — a cycle of very hard times. From the large landowner, who has to reduce his rents twenty or thirty per cent., to the dock-laborer, glad to get a charity breakfast, price one penny, all of us, Avorkers and non- workers, are suffering. The list of the unemployed extends through every class, beginning with those who are the purveyors of luxuries rather than neces- saries. The artist cannot sell his pictures; the author finds publishers disinclined for new books; while, with some striking ex- ceptions, during the past season concert- j rooms have been painfully empty, and the- atres difficult to keep open except at serious risk. Meanwhile, business men say that 1 2 ABOUT MONEY." never has trade been so bad or its prospects so gloomy. Is this only a temporary crisis? or a warii- inc: of that decadence which comes to all na- tions "When wealth accumulates, and men decay " — the beginning of the end, which is gradually to make of London a Nineveh — a city of desolation? Who can say? Or is it, as some say, " the struggle between labor and capital" — whatsoever that may mean, and to whatever it may tend ? I have lately been rereading, with una- bated admiration, that ^vonderful novel, Thackeray's " Newcomes," and, closing it, I was struck by the fact that the keynote of the book is Money — its use and abuse, the want of it, the craving for it, the carelessness or contempt of it. From the outset, when the Newcome family originated by allying itself to a w^ealthy widow, to the last chap- ter, when Ethel uses Lady Kew's hoards to repay the not quite imaginaiy wrong done ABOUT MONEY. 3 by her uncle to the Campaigner — money is at the core of everything; the root of all evil, the source of all good. Ethel's pitiful voluntary slavery to her worldly old grand- mother, her own sacrifice of Clive, and that of Lady Clara to her brother Barnes — in fact, the general victimization of good peo- ple by bad, which is the leading 7}iotif of the stoiy, all originate in money. Nay, the dear old colonel himself, with his childish carelessness and culpable ignorance in the matter of L. S. D., is, in spite of his virtues, really the cause of half the misery of the book. He allows himself to be fleeced by his contemptible broth^^r-in-law ; he helps, not honest folk only, but those lovable prodigals, F. Bayham and Jack Belsize ; he tries to win Ethel for Clive by pecuniary chicanery which no honest son ought ever to have accepted, and no true-hearted girl have been influenced by; and, finally, in the afl'air of the Bundelcund Bank, he reck- lessly squanders, not only his own property. 4 ABOUT MONEY. but that of other people, whose ruin he most assuredly causes by his innocent idiocy, just- as much as if he had been the greatest swin- dler alive. Yet he is exalted into a hero — we weep over him, and never think of condemn- ing him ; and I know I shall be considered the most hard-hearted wretch alive if I dare to say that I would not for the world have had Colonel Newcome as father, uncle, husband, or confidential friend ! And why ? Because he was deficient in the one point, the pivot upon which society turns — the right use and conscientious appreciation of money. In this he is not alone. It may seem an- other piece of heresy to promulgate, but very few men know how properly to use money. They can earn it, lavish it, hoard it, waste it; but to deal with it wisely, as a means to an end, and also as a sacred trust, to be made the best of for others as well as themselves, is an education difficult of ac- quirement by the masculine mind ; so diffi- cult that one is led to doubt whether they ABOUT MONEY. 5 were meant to acquire it at all, and whether in the just distribution of duties between the sexes it was not intended that the man should earn, the woman keep — he accumu- late, and she expend ; especially as most women have by nature a quality in which men are often fatally deficient — " the infinite capacity for taking trouble." The nobler sex "can't be bothered" with minutiae. " What is a paltry five pounds to me?" I have heard said in excuse of its quite unnecessary expenditure, " when every day I have to deal with hundreds and thou- sands." Or, "Why keep daily accounts? My clerks do that. For me, I just put two or three pounds in my pocket, spend them till they are gone — and then put in two or three more." I appeal to the candid mascu- line mind if this is not the ordinary way of thinking, at least of those to whom ftite has kindly given the "two or three pounds" al- ways in pocket, without need to beg, bor- row, or steal ? Q ABOUT MONEY. But this paper is no criticism of the oppo- site sex ; I only wisli to say a few words to my own, on a subject which, especially at the present crisis, concerns them most near- ly — the subject of money. Unsentimental, unheroic, some will say unchristian, as it may sound, our right or wrong use of money is the utmost test of character, as well as the root of happiness or misery, throughout our whole lives. And this secret lies not so much with men as with us women. Instead of strivino; to make ourselves their rivals, would it not be wiser to educate ourselves into being their help- mates ? Not merely as wives, but as daugh- ters, sisters — every relation in which a capa- ble woman can help a man, and an incapable one bring him to ruin ? Especially on that particular point — money. I know that I shall excite the wrath or contempt of the advocates of the higher edu- cation of women, when I say that it is not necessary for every woman to be an accom- ABOUT MONEY. 7 pUsbed musician, an art-student, a thor- oughly educated Girton girl; but it is necessary that she should be a woman of business. From the day when her baby fingers begin to handle pence and shillings, and her infant mind is roused to laudable ambition by the possession of the enormous income of threepence a week, she ought to be taught the true value and wise expendi- ture of money; to keep accounts and bal- ance them; to repay the minutest debt, or, still better, to avoid incurring it ; to observe the just proportions of having and spending, and, above all^the golden rule for every one of us, whether our income be sixpence a week or twenty thousand a year — waste notliing. May not the growing disinclination of our young men to marriage arise partly from their dread, nay, conviction — alas, too true ! — that so few of our young women have been thus educated, and that far from being helpmeets to the men they marry, they will be an expense, a hinderance, and a continual 8 ABOUT MONEY. burden? Without wishing to defend the selfish young bachelor who waits till he is " in a position to marry " which means till he has had enough of the pleasures of free- dom, and finds them begin to pall — I have often seen with pity a young fellow who has never had occasion to think of anybody but himself — and never has done it — learning by hard experience the endless self-sacrifices de- manded of a pater-fiimilias; good for him, no doubt, but none the less painful. Often when going out of London about 9 a. ivi., and meetinsr whole trainfuls — is there such a word ? — of busy, anxious-looking men hur- lying into London, I have said to myself, " I w^onder how many of these poor, hard- worked I'ello^vs have waves or sisters or daughters who really help them, take the weight of life a little oflf their shoulders, ex- pend their substance wisely, keep from them domestic worries, and, above all, who take care of the money ? " But for my wife I should have been in the workhouse," is the ABOUT MONEY, 9 secret consciousness of many a man ; and it is a curious fact that while many a woman makes the best of a not too estimable hus- band, no power on earth can save from ruin a man who has got an unworthy or even a foolish wife. He cannot raise her, and be himself will gradually "Lower to her level day by day, What is fine ■within him growing coarse, to sympathize w ith clay." Or even if she means well, but is by nature or education what I may term "incapable," he finds himself saddled with not only his own share of the life-burden, but hers. The more generous and tender-hearted he is, the more he is made a victim, both to her and to his children, till he sinks into the mere bread-winner of the family ; wdio has his work to do, and does it, through pride, or duty, or love, or a combination of all three, usually without a word of complaint — does it till he drops. Men have a great deal of error to answer for, but the silent endurance 1* 10 ABOUT MONEY. of many middle-aged " family men," to ^vhom — often, alas ! through the wife's fault — do- mestic life has been made a burden rather than a blessing, ought to be chronicled by the Recording Angel with a tear — not of compassion, but admiration — enough to blot out many a youthful sin. It is to prevent this — to try and make of our girls the sort of wives that are likened unto Lemuel's mother: ^'Tlie heart of her husband doth safely trust in her; she will do him good and not evil all the days of her life" — that I would urs^e their beincc given, from earliest childhood, some knowl- edge of business, especially about money. Ten years old is not too soon to begin this, or to intrust them with the responsibility of an income, however small, which will prepare them forlarger responsibilities in time to come. For I hold, as the wise legislators of the Married Women's Property Act must have held, that every woman who has any money at all, either earned or inherited, ought to ABOUT MONEY. H keep it in her own hands, and learn to man- age it herself, exactly as a man does. There is no earthly reason why she should not. A girl can learn arithmetic just as well as a boy. Ordinary business knowledge and busi- ness habits are just as attainable by her as by him. To be able to keep accounts, to write a brief, intelligent " business letter," and to accustom herself to exactitude and punctuality, is as easy and as valuable to a girl in her teens as to a youth in an office or a young man at college. Only, everybody expects it of him — nobody of her; and no- body attempts to teach her how to do it. What is the result? She enters life as an " unprotected female," neither forewarned nor forearmed. "While single and young, even if deprived of father, uncle, or brother, she rare- ly lacks some kindly male adviser, to wdiom she gives no end of trouble, hanging helpless on his hands, and constantly asking him to do for her what she oucrht to have learned to do for lierself A position interesting, of 12 ABOUT MONEY. course, but a trifle humiliating, as well as un- wise. For, with the best intentions, a man gets tired of being perpetually " bothered " by an ignorant and feeble woman ; like the unjust judge, he will do anything to get rid of her and her " much speaking." He gives hasty or rash advice; she follows, or half follows it, and sometimes lives bitterly to re- gret that she did so. Or else, trying to think and act for herself, and haviner neither knowl- edge nor capacity to do so, she falls into irre- trievable muddle, if not absolute ruin. What pitiful stories do we hear of single women, young or old, who have lost their all "throuo^h too much faith in man" — some relative or friend, perhaps a knave, but more commonly only a fool, to whom they have lent money ; or some trustee from whom they have innocently received a yearly income, never making the slightest inquiry as to where it came from, or whether the invest- ments were safe, until some sudden col- lapse shows it to have vanished entirely. ABOUT MONEY. 13 Such cases are as endless as the misery they cause. Yet hearing of them, one ahnost ceases to pity the victims, in condemning their egre- gious folly. Every girl who is not entirely dependent on her male relations — a position which, con- sidering all the ups and downs of life, the sooner she gets out of the better — ought, by the time she is old enough to possess any money, to know exactly how much she has, where it is invested, and what ifc ought year- ly to bring in. By this time also she should have acquired some knowledge of business : bank business, referring to checks, dividends, and so on, and as much of ordinary business as she can. To her, information of a practical kind never comes amiss, especially the three golden rules, which have very rare exceptions — No investment of over five per cent, is really safe; Trust no one with your money without security, which ought to be as strict between the nearest and dearest friends as between strangers; and, lastly. Keep all your affairs 14 ABOUT MONEY. from day to clay in as accurate order as if you had to die to-morrow. The mention of dying suggests another necessity — as soon as you are twenty-one years of age, make your will. You will not die a day the sooner; you can alter it whenever you like; while the ease of mind it will give to yourself, and the trouble it may save to those that come after you, are beyond telling. It cannot be too strongly impressed u])on every girl who has or expects that not unde- sirable thing, " a little income of her own," what a fortunate responsibility this is, and how useful she may make it to others. Hap- pier than the lot of many married women is that of the " unappropriated blessing," as I have heard an old maid called, who has her money, less or more, in her own hands, and can use it as she chooses, generously as wise- ly, without asking anybody's leave, and be- ino; accountable for it to no one. But then she must have learned from her youth up- ward how to use it, she must not spare any ABOUT MONEY. 15 amount of. trouble in the using of it, and she must console herself for many a lonely re- gret — we are but human, all of us ! — with the thou2:ht that she has been intrusted with it, as a faithful steward of the Great Master. Such an old maid often does as much good in her generation as twenty married women. And if she does marry — what then ? The old notion was that man being the superior animal, when a woman married she became absorbed in her husband, and everything she possessed was his, unless guarded from him by a cumbrous machineiy of settlements, which, presupposing him to be a bad man, were, if he happened to be a good one, rather irksome. Gradually society discovered that men and women, though different, are equal, and that tlierefore it was desirable to recog- nize their separate identity, and to make mar- riage, financially, a partnership with limited liability. By I'ecent laws a married woman is, as regards her property and a good many of her rights, just as free as if she were single. 16 ABOUT MONEY. And no honest, honorable man, no wise and tender husband, would wish it otherwise. It makes no difference at all to those who truly love and trust each other, w-hile to those who do not it is a certain protection on botli sides. No real union can be affected by it ; while in those marriao;es where the sentimental no- tion of "one flesh" is a mere sham, to keep up the pretence of union is w^orse than folly. When the ship is going down we trouble ourselves little enough about the style of the cabin furniture. Therefore, nowadays, when a man marries a woman with money — and wdiy should he not, since love is more precious than gold ?— ^ he has only to leave it, as the law leaves it, entirely in her owai hands, thereby saving his pride, and removing all questions as ta his motive in choosins; her. That saddest lot of a Avoman of property, to be sought by fortune-hunters, wdiile honest, proud men stand aloof, is thus safely avoided. But a step below heiresses are many wom- ABOUT MONEY. I7 en who either have or earn a moderate in- come, which is an exceeding help to their husbands, if the waives are left free to man- age and expend it, and really know how to do so. — That they so seldom do know is the great curse of social life. A single woman, however incapable, careless, extravagant, can only harm herself; a married w^oman can be the ruin of a whole family. Far more so even than a man, against w^hom a sensible woman can sometimes stand as a barricade, counteracting his folly — nay, often his erroi's. But a man has no barricade a2:ainsthis wife. She can drag him down with her to the very depths of misery and humiliation, and he will let himself sink — and sink silently, out of either honor or pride, or both, rather than blame her, or let the w^orld see how bitterly he blames himself for marrying her. I can imagine nothing more pitiable than the waking -up of an honest, true-hearted young fellow, who finds his angel a common- place, silly, helpless woman, w^hom he can 18 ABOUT MONEY. neither trust nor control, yet is obliged to make the nominal mistress of his household, secretly taking all its burdens on himself in addition to his own. Not perhaps that she is a bad woman, but simply an ignorant and thoughtless one, of the tribe of " careless vir- gins," who, as wives, are the destruction of men. And one of the worst of women, not being actually criminal, is she who has no sense of the value and use of money, which when she gets it "burns a hole in her pock- et ;" wdio never keeps accounts, having " no head for fiixures," or findiner it "too much trouble." Consequently, even wnth the best intentions, she wastes as much as she spends, consoling herself on the easy principle that it doesn't matter; Mr. So-and-So pays for everything." As he does, God help him ! and chiefly for that one fuhe step which made him tie himself for life to a charming, agreeable, perhaps even lovable, fool ! But if she is not a fool, and he really can trust her, he had better do so, not only with ABOUT MONEY. 19 lier own money, but his. I do not mean that he should become the proverbially good husband, whose wife every Monday morning puts a sovereign in his jijocket, " with strict injunctions never to change it;" but that he sliould trust her with his affairs, and above all tell her exactly w^hat income he has, and how he thinks it ought to be spent. If she is a sensible woman, the chances are she will spend it fiir more wisely and economically than he will. Very few men have the time or the patience to make a shilling go as fiw as it can ; w^omen have. Especially a wom- an whose one thought is to save her husband from carrying burdens greater than he can bear; to help him by that quiet carefulness in money matters which alone gives an easy mind and a real enjoyment of life ; to take care of the pennies, in short, that he may have the pounds free for all his lawful needs, and lawful pleasures too. Surely there can be no sharper pang to a lovinoj wife than to see her husband stasrcf^r- 20 ABOUT MONEY. ing under the weiglit of family cares ; worked almost to deatli in order to dodi^e "the wolf at the door;" joyless in the present, terrified at the future; and yet all this might have been averted if the wife had only known the value and use of money, and been able to keep what her husband earned; to "cut Iier coat according to her cloth," for any income is "limited" unless you can teach yourself to live within it; to "waste not," and therefore to " want not." But this is not always the woman's fault. Many men insist blindly on a style of living which their means will not allow ; and many a wife has been cruelly blamed for living at a rate of expenditure unwarranted by her husband's means, and which his pecuniary condition made absolutely dishonest, had she known it. But she did not know it; he being too careless or too cowardly to tell her, and she not havins: the sense or courao-e to inquire or to find out. Every mistress of a household — especially every mother — oncjlit ABOUT MONEY. 21 to find out how much the money is, and where it comes from; and thereby prevent all needless extra vacjance. Half the miser- able or disgraceful bankruptcies that happen never would happen if the wives had stood firm, and insisted on knowing enough about the family income to be able to expend it pro- portionately; to restrain, as every wife should, a too-lavish husband ; or, failing that, to stop herself out of all luxuries which she cannot righteously afford. Above all, to teach her children a tender carefulness that refuses to mulct "the governor " out of one unnecessary halfpenny, or to waste the money he works so hard for in their own thoun^htless amusements. If the past genei'ation was too severe upon its offspring, and often killed off the weakest of them by a mistaken system of "harden- ing," the present one errs in an opposite di- rection. Pater-familias, whose father put him in an oflSce at sixteen, and kej^t him there with only a fortnight's holiday per annum, now sends his boys to school till eighteen. 22 ABOUT MONEY. and then to college; gives them ^^achting, cricketing, walking tours, and Continental travels; denies nothing to either them or their sisters, but works for them till he drops; and then — where are they? It is to prevent this — to counteract the creed of feminine subservience and blind obedience, to make the woman man's help and not his hinderance — that I would have our girls taught to claim their real "rights" and exercise their best " female franchise " — freedom to stand on their own feet, and, be they single or married, to take their aflfairs into their own hands, especially their finan- cial affairs. A person who is careless about money is careless about everything, and un- trustworthy in everything. It is your de- spised prudent folk to whom the rashly gen- erous, indifferent, and thoughtless come in the end for all th^it makes life worth having, and plead: "Give us of your oil, for our lamps are gone out." But why were they allowed to go out? ABOUT MONEY. 23 Yet there is such a tliin^: as iornoble econo- my, as well as noble extravagance. She who stints her servants in wages and food ; who goes shabbily clad when her station and her means require her to please the world and her family by being dressed at all points like a lady; who worries herself and her friends by trying always to save when she can w^ell afford to spend, is deserving of the severest blame. Money is meant not for hoarding, but for using; the aim of life should be to use it in the right way — to spend as much as we can lawfully spend, both upon ourselves and others. And some- times it is better to do this in our lifetime, when we can see that it is well spent, than to leave it to the chance spending of those that come after us. Above all, let us guard against the two crying errors of the female nature — a prudence which degenerates into mere " worrying," and an economy which be- comes culpable narrowness. To teach the girls of the generation — alas! 24 ABOUT MONEY. the gl•o^vn women are beyond teaching ! — I liave written these pages, trying to put the question of money in its true light; tliat it is not the root of all evil (unless planted by evil hands), but, wisely dealt with, the source of all good — at least, the helper in all good ; bringing, when rightly used, an easy mind, a quiet conscience, the power of benefiting others, and, at any rate, of saving one's self from being a burden to others. To be able to earn money, or, failing that, to know how to keep it, and to use it wisely and well, is one of the greatest blessings that can happen to any woman, as well as to the man, be he fother, brother, or husband, with whom her lot may be cast. Single or mar- I'ied, she will always have the power in her hands — that divinest power a woman can possess — to make those about her happy. Her husband, if she has one, will be " praised in the gates," for he is saved half the troubles and humiliations of other men. He never wants money, or has to work himself to ABOUT MONEY. 25 death to earn it, for whatever he earns she keeps and makes the best of. Be their in- come large or small, she has the strength and self denial to limit their expenses accord- ingly. She never shrinks from saying to every member of her family — husband in- cluded — and to the world outside as well — "We cannot afford it." Therefore that hor- rible incubus of " keeping up appearances " is forever removed both from her and from him. The ideal household is that wdiich is exactly what it seems. And for the woman that has no husband — no one either to help her or control her — well, the advantages and disadvantages often balance each other. She can do as she likes with her own ; if she has no sympathizer, at least she has no hinderer, either in her pleas- ures or her duties — most of all in her chari- ties. Her money, which otherwise might have been only a pang, can thus be made into a blessing. And if she must go down to the grave alone — what woman is ever quite 2 26 ABOUT MONEY. alone who Las the will and the power to do good wherever she goes? whose strength is in' herself, and whose aim it is to die as she has lived — a help to all and a trouble to no one ? SIX HAPPY DAYS IN A HOUSE-BOAT. I HAD long heard of the house-boat, and had once seen it. It lies, summer after sum- mer, moored in a tiny bay on our river Thames; and twice it had been offered to me for a week's occupation by its kindly owner, but I never was able to go. When at last I found I could go, I was as ready to "jump for joy" — had that feat been possi- ble — as any of you young people. To live in a house-boat on the broad riv- er, with a safe barricade of water betw^een yoji and the outside world — to fish out of your parlor door, and, if you wanted to wash your hands, to let dow^n jugs with a string from your bedroom window; more- over, to enjoy unlimited sunrises and sun- sets, to sleep w ith the " lap-lap " of a flowing 28 SIX HAPPY DAYS stream in your ears, to waken with the songs of birds from the trees of the shore — what could be more delightful ? Nothing, except perhaps "camping out" under the stars, which might also be a trifle damp and un- comfortable. But there was no dampness here. And there was more than comfort — actual beauty. When I went down to look at it, in early spring, and the kind owner showed it with pride — pardonable pride — I found the house- boat adorned w^ith Walter Crane's drawinojs and William Morris's furniture; most aes- thetic in its decorations, and as convenient as a well-appointed yacht. Also, there was a feeling about it as if the possessor loved it, and loved to make people happy in it. Mottoes from Shakespeare, Shelley, Keats, Milton, were in every room, and tiny pict- ures outside — a gallery of ever -changing loveliness. I came home full of enthusiasm, and im- mediately set about choosing "a lot of girls," IN A HOUSEBOAT. 29 as many as the boat would Lokl, to share it with me. Only girls ; any elderly person, except the inevitable one, myself, would, we agreed, have spoiled all. I did not choose my girls for outside qualities, though some of them were pretty enough too — but for good-temper, good-sense, and a cheerful spir- it; determined to make the best of every- thing, and fiice the worst — if necessary. These were the qualities I looked for — and found. I shall not paint their portraits nor tell their names, except to mention the curious fact that three out of the six were Kather- ines. We had, therefore, to distinguish them as Kitty, Kath, and Katie, the latter being our little maid-ofall-work — our coachman's daughter. The other three were our young artist, whose name is public property, and two others, neither literary nor artistic — but, for reasons needless to explain, specially my girls — whom I shall accordingly designate as Meum and Tuum. All were between fif 80 SIX HAPPY DAYS teen and twenty-five — l^appy age! and all still walked "in maiden meditation fimcj free," so we had not a man among us ! — ex- cept our sole protector, Katie's father, whom I shall call Adam, after Shakespeare's Adam in " As You Like It," whom he resembles in everything but age. Six girls afloat! And very much afloat they were, swimming like ducks — no, let us say swans — on a sea of sunshiny felicity. As we drove from our last railway station — Maidenhead — our open omnibus, filled with bright-fiiced damsels, seemed quite to inter- est the inhabitants. Reaching the open country, that lovely Thames valley which all English artists know, our ringing laugh- ter at every small joke startled the still July afternoon, and made the birds dart quickly out of the hedgerows. Such hedgerows they were ! full of wild roses, pink and deep red, honeysuckle, traveller's joy, and countless other flowers. " There it is ! There is the house-boat !" IN A HOUSE-BOAT. 31 cried Kitty, who had seen it before, having been with me when we investisrated it do- mestically a few weeks before. " Hurrah ! w^e have nearly reached it — our 'appy 'ome," exclaimed Meum and Tu- um, standing up in the carriage together. Two of the Katherines followed their exam- ple ; indeed, w^e must have looked a most ill- behaved party, only, fortunately, there was no one to see us, except one laborer lazily sitting on a mowing-machine which was slowly cutting down all the pride of the flowery meadow through which we drove to the river- side. There she lay, the Pinafore^ and beside her the Bih^ a little boat, w^hich w^as to be our sole link between the Pinafore and the outside world. In it sat the owner, w^ho had patiently awaited us there two hours, and w^hose portrait I should like to paint, if only to show you a bachelor — an old bachelor you girls would call him — who has neither grown selfish nor cynical, who knows how to 32 SIX HAPPY DAYS use bis money without abusing it, and who does use a good part of it in making other people happy. The Pinafore is his hobby. He built it on the top of a barge, under his own direc- tions, and from his own design. It consists of a saloon at one end, combination kitchen and dining-room at the other, and four cab- ins between, with two berths in each. A real little house, and well mi2:ht we call it our happy home — for six days. Our host showed us all over it once more, pointed out every possible arrangement for our comfort, partook of a hasty cup of tea, and then drove back in our empty omnibus Londonwards, deeply commiserated by us whom he left behind in his little Paradise. The first meal! Its liveliness was only equalled by the celerity with which it was despatched, for we were frightfully — no, wholesomely — hungry. And then came sev- eral important questions. " Business before pleasure ! Choose your IN A HOUSEBOAT. 33 room-mates, girls, and then arrange your rooms. It is the fashion on board the Pin- afore to do everything for yourselves. When all is ready we will take a row in the sun- set, and then come back to bed." Which would have been a pleasant busi- ness if some of them had had to sleep in beds of their own making ! " Ma'am," said Katie, who was beside me when I peeped into one cabin, which was one confused heap of mattresses, blankets, pillows, and sheets, "hadn't I better do the rooms myself? The young ladies don't quite understand the way of it." Katie, the best of little housemaids, was heartily thanked, and her offer accepted. " But, girls, remember it is for the first and last time. After to-night you must learn to do your rooms yourselves." So we threw overboard the practical for the poetical, and, like Hiawatha, went sail- ing towards the sunset in dreamy delight. What a sunset it was! The river, with 2* 34 SIX HAPPY DAYS its flowery banks, rushy islands, and tree- fringed back-waters, was dyed all colors, ac- cording to the changing color of the sky. Such green mounds of trees, dark woods on either side ! everything full of rich summer life, from the stately pair of swans sailing about, wnth their six gray cygnets after them, to the w^ater-hen scuttling among the reeds, the willow -wren singing among the bushes, and the wary rat darting into his hole as we passed. All was beauty and peace. "The cares that infest the day Did fold their tents, like the Arabs, And silently steal away." My five girls could all handle an oar, and how they did enjoy their row! The two youngest took it by turns, and at least suc- ceeded in "catchino; crabs" with much dex- terity and hilarity. On and on, till w^e were stopped by a lock — the three evils of the Thames are locks, weirs, and lashers. So we turned, and let ourselves drift back with the current. Now IN A HOUSE BOAT. 35 and then we " hugged " the bank, and gath- ered thence a huge handful of purple loose- strife, blue and white bugloss, meadow-sweet, and forget-me-not; or we floated over great beds of water-lilies, yellow or white, which grew on a quiet little back-water, where we nearly got stranded in a shoal and pierced with a snag. But " a miss is as good as a mile," said we, and were more careful another time. The sun had long set, and the moon was setting — the young moon, like a silver boat — when we re-entered our "happy home" for supper and bed ; the second speedily follow- ing the first for various excellent reasons, one being that the supper-table was required •for Adam's couch. We gave him his choice whether to sleep on it or under it, and he preferred the latter, as being " more like a four-poster." Adam is by nature almost as silent as his horses, but his few remarks — terse, dry, and shrewd — often pass into fam- ily pi'ovei'bs. 36 SIX HAPPY DAYS So all the Pinaforeh crew sank into re- pose, except one, who has an occasional bad habit of lying awake " till the day breaks and the shadows flee away." How glorious- ly it did break, that dawn on the Thames ! and how strange were the river sounds — tlie chirping of birds and the lowing of cattle mingling with other mysterious noises, after- wards discovered to be the tapping of swans' beaks against the barge, and the clatter of the water-rats careering about underneath it. Nevertheless at last sleep came, and with it the power to face and enjoy another new day. A holiday is never the worse when there runs through it a stratum — a very thin stra- tum — of work. So the two working -bees, author and artist, decided to be put ashore after breakfast and left under two trees, with their several tasks, while the others enjoyed themselves, till dinner-time, when we ex- pected friends who were to row about ten miles to spend the day with us. Dinner reminds me of our domestic com- IN A HOUSE-BOAT. 37 missariat — ^vLich, considering th:ifc food for eight or ten hungry people does not grow on every bush, was important. Groceries and other stores we brought with us, but bread, milk, butter, fruit, and vegetables, we had to get from the inn opposite, which also sent us our meat ready-cooked, it being impossible to roast a joint on board the Pivxxfore, Fresh water, too, we had to get from the inn pump, river water not being wholesome for drink- ing. Great fun were those voyages to and fro, for we were all thirsty souls, and all, even Adam, teetotallers. The amount of water and milk we got through was such that some one suggested it would save trouble to fetch the cow on board. The kindly landlady bade us " gather our fruit for ourselves," so we often brought home a boat-load of valuable food — potatoes, pease, crisp lettuces pulled up by the roots and eaten as rabbits eat them ; also raspberries, cherries, and currants. It was almost as good as shooting or fishing one's dinnei*. And, 38 SIX HAPPY DAYS presently, the siglit of tbe fish jumping up round the boat bronsrht a sad look to Adam's amiable countenance. " If I had but a rod and line, ma'am, I'd catch them for dinner." And very nasty they might have been — river fish generally are — yet politeness would have obliged us to eat them, so perhaps it was all for the best that we had no materials for the piscatory art. Adam could but watch the poor little fishes swimming innocently about, and sigh that fate prevented him from catching them. After a mirthful day our guests departed, and, to rest their arms, my ^ve girls decided to stretch their legs and take a walk on shore. "Let's have a race," said the biggest and the most beautiful. As she tucked up her skirts she looked a real Atalanta. The second in height, and only a trifle less in grace and activity, did the same, and off they started, up what seemed a solitary road, when lo ! sud- denly appeared two young Oxford men, book IN A HOUSE-BOAT. 39 in hand ! What they thought of the appari- tion of these two fair athletes, and the three other girls behind, all of whom collapsed suddenly into decorum, will never be known. But I doubt if they read much for the next ten minutes. The race thus stopped, we thought we would go into the village churchyard, where two old men were soberly making hay of the grass cut over the graves. Thence we passed into a quiet wood, and finally came home — hungry, as usual — to supper. And so concluded our second day. No, not concluded. About eleven p. m. there happened a most dramatic incident. A sudden and violent bump caused the Pin- afore to shake from stem to stern. We all woke up. Some declared they heard a voice exclaim, " Hallo, Bill ! where are you going to V and others vowed tliere was a mysteri- ous rattlins: at what w^e entitled our " front door." Adam was vehemently called, and he and his mistress, in rather hasty toilets, care- 40 SIX HAPPY DAYS fully examined every corner; but all was safe. Then we looked out, in case there had been an accident, but nothing could be seen. The river flowed on, empty, dark, and still. Quiet being a little restored, I entered the cabin, where five maidens, all in nocturnal white, stood congregated together, in a group not unlike the daughters of Niobe, and took their evidence. However, as the mystery, whatever it was, could not be solved, we all went to bed. And Adam, having, with his usual cautious fidelity, poked into every place that a thief, or even a fly, could enter, made the brief remark, " Pirates," and retired again to his — table. The only result of this remarkable episode was that about eisjht the next mornins:, find- ins: a solemn silence in the cabins instead of the usual tremendous chatter,! went to look at my girls, and found them all ^ve lying fast asleep, "like tops." As it was a pelting wet mornino:, with the wind blowini^ after a fash- ion which required all one's imagination to IN A HOUSEBOAT. 41 make believe that our dwelling was quite steady, this infringement of my Mede-and- Per- sian rule — eioflit o'clock breakfast — was less important. But I said, remorselessly, "My dears, this must never happen again." Nor did it. Their laziness lost my girls the great ex- citement of the day. A sudden outcry from Adam of" The boat ! the boat !" revealed the alarming sight of our little Bih having got unmoored, drifting away calmly at her own sweet will down stream ! For a moment Adam looked as if he intended to swim after her, then changed his mind and halloaed with all his strength. Female voices despairingly joined the chorus ; for at this hour, and on such a wet morning, there was not a soul to be seen at the hotel garden or the ferry. What Avould become of us, moored helplessly a good distance from the shore, and our boat away? A last agonizing shout we made, and then saw a man rush out, evidently thinking somebody w^as drowning. He caught the 42 SIX HAPPY DAYS position — and the boat, wliicli in another minute or two would have drifted past the little pier, jumped into her, and brought her back to us in triumph. After this we settled down, thankful that things were no worse — thou2;h there bec^an a dreary downpour and a wind that rattled every door and window of our frail dwelling. The girls' countenances fell. Now, though the happiest days of my life are spent among young people, I have ahvays found that a certain amount of law and or- der is as good for them as for myself, else we get demoralized. So instead of mournfully hancrinQ: about wonderins^ when it would clear up, and what we should do if it didn't clear up, I set everybody to do something. Two cleaned the bedrooms and exulted over the dust they swept away, another wrote home letters, and a fourth gave us delightful music on the harmonium. The artist had, of course, her own proper work, which filled her whole morning. And when about noon the IN A HOUSE BOAT. 43 sky cleared, and grew into a lovely July day, breezy and bright, with white clouds careering about, we felt we had really earned our felicity. Still it was too stormy to row much, so we landed, and investigated the shore on either side. First the Abbey, beside which was the hotel and its farmyard, splendid haystacks almost touching the ancient ruins, which date from the time of King John. Then, after the important interval of tea, came a long walk on the opposite bank, where, protected from the wind by three umbrellas, the party sat admiring the scene, and themselves making a charming picture, nc^^ painted at present. And lastly, as if to reward our cheerful patience, after sunset the wind sank, and lo ! high up in the clear west, in the midst of a brilliant sunset, sat the crescent moon. " We must have another row !" And so we had, until twilight melted into dark, and, quite tired out, we went to bed content. The third morning came, and by eight o'clock the house-boat was as noisy as a 44 SIX HAPPY DAYS magpie's nest. We bad arranged for a long expedition, with a boatman who knew each lock, weir, lasher — every danger on the livei*. Leaving to him all the care of the voyage, we determined to enjoy ourselves thoroughly. Our morning row was delightful, but brief, since the girls and the boat had to sit for their portraits, the young artist afterwards putting in herself — from memory — sitting at the bow. But w^e had scarcely reached home wdaen down came the rain in torrents. I had w^arned my girls of this, having read in the Times that a "depression" w^as travelling over from America — all our bad w^eather does come from America — but of course they didn't believe it. Even now, though the sky was a leaden gray, and the river too, bub- blins: all over with the sheets of rain which pelted on our flat roof; though our "front garden " and " back garden " — as we called the spaces at the two ends of the bai'ge — were soaking with w^et, my five girls would hardly believe in their hard lot. IN A HOUSEBOAT. 45 " It musfc, it will clear !" persisted they ; but it did not clear — for six mortal hours. We soon ceased to lament, and rejoiced that we were safe under cover. We made the best of our afternoon^ — we read, we drew, we played games; then we took to music, and sang or tried to sing, some catches and rounds. Finally our eldest girl gave us Mendelssohn on the little harmonium, and our youngest, in her clear, fresh, pathetic voice, sans: us Schubert's sonsrs from Wilhelin Meistei% till a boat-load of soaked, white- jacketed youths was seen to stop under the opposite bank, listening to the Lurlei-like strains. (N.B. — I hope we did not cause their deaths from rheumatic fever.) But the worst times come to an end, if you can only wait long enough. B>y seven p. jm. we looked out on a cloudless sky and a shin- ing river. Ere we started for another sunset row, Adam said, briefly, "There^'s fish for supper, ma'am." He too had utilized the wet day, and behold ! a dozen small dace. 46 SIX HAPPY DAYS caught by some fishing-tackle he had bor- rowed, were swiinraing in a bucket, alike in- different to the hook they had swallowed and the prospect of being speedily fried. Adam's pride in his piscatory exploit was a little lessened an hour after, when we found him, with mingled laughter and anxiety, gaz- ing after a majestic swan, which had swal- lowed the baited hook, and then swam away, carrying rod and line away also. It took a long chase to recover both, but they ^vere recovered; and so, we concluded, was tlie swan, for he reappeared shortly after as live- ly as ever, and ate the food we threw out to him with his usual dignity and grace. These swans are the pride and ornament of the Thames. They belong to the Thames Conservancy Corporation, and no one is al- lowed to molest or destroy them. They sail about like kings and queens, followed by their families, and are petted and fed and admired till they become quite tame. It was our great amusement to collect them round IN A HOUSEBOAT. 47 the boat, and get them to eat out of our hands, and their graceful motions were a de- light to behold. The last of our six happy days had now come, at least our last whole day — Friday. We resolved to make the most of it, by gO: ing up the river in the forenoon and down in the afternoon, taking with us a frugal meal of bread and butter, milk and cherries, also the towing rope, in case rowing up stream should be too difficult and too long a busi- ness. There is a towing-path all the way along the Thames, at one side or other, and we used often to see a young man, or even a gir], or sometimes both, amicably harnessed together, pulling along a whole boatful of people with the greatest ease. We thought the towing, if necessary, would be great fun for the after-dinner row. Our morning row was a failure, being much too "genteel." The river flowed be- tween civilized shores, dotted with splendid villas. Its banks were elegantly boarded in 48 SIX HAPPY DAYS for jiromenades, its very boat-houses weve palatial residences. No osiers, rushes, and lovely water-plants; the very water-lilies looked cultivated. We ac^reed that our own bit of river was much the best, and that not a single house-boat — we passed half a dozen at least — was half so pretty or so commodi- ous as our Pinafore. Content and hungry, we came back to it, determined to eat our dinner in ten minutes, and be off again ; but fate intervened. " Listen ! that's surely thunder ! And how black the river looks ! It is bubbling, too, all over! Hark!" Crash, crash, and down came the rain, reg- ular thunder rain, continuing without a mo- ment's pause for three hours. Drenched boat-loads of unlucky pleasure-seekers kept passing our windows, struggling for the hos- pitable inn opposite. " Still, yesterday evening was lovely ; this evening may be the same," said the girls, determined to keep up their spirits. And IN A HOUSE-BOAT. 49 when at last the rain did actually cease, and a bit of blue sky appeared — " enough to make a sailor's jacket " — they set to work bal- ing out and drying the boat, protesting the while that the occupation was " delightful." Fortune favors the brave. The little Bib had been so thoroughly soaked that, work as we might, it was seven o'clock before we were able to start; but that last row was the loveliest we had. Such a sunset! such views! of osier beds, and islands of tall rushes, and masses of woodland, and smooth, green parks with huge century-old trees, and noisy weirs, and dark, silent locks ! We had now grown fearless, or desperate, and deter- mined to go through two locks, which was accomplished without any accident. On — on we rowed. Some of us would have liked to row oil forever, drifting contentedly down the rapid stream. But motherly wisdom, seeing the sun fast sinking and the twilight darkening, insisted on turning homewards, and was obeyed. 50 SIX HAPPY DAYS Only once, when the crimson sunset, re- fleeted in the river from behind a frino;e of low trees, made a picture too lovely to resist, our artist implored to be " dropped," as was her habit when she saw anything desirable to sketch ; which being impossible at that hour, we compromised by "lying to," for half an hour, while she painted, or tried to paint, in the dim light. She worked, and we sang; a quantity of old songs, duets, and glees. In the pauses the corncrake put in his note from the shore, and one or two other birds wakened up with a sleepy chirp; then all sank into silence, and there were only the quiet river and the quiet sky, up which the crescent moon was sailing, brighter and brighter. I think, however long my girls may live, and whatever vicissitudes they may go through, they will never forget that nicrht. For it was not evening, but actual night, when we reached our " 'appy 'ome." Adam was anxiously watching — since besides his IN A HOUSEBOAT. 5I mistress and her girls, his own young daugh- ter was on board with us. "Did you think anything had happened — that we were all drowned ?" " Yes, ma'am, I did," said he, briefl}'. Poor Adam, shut up in his floating pris- on, had evidently not spent the happiest of evenings. But we had ; and — it was our last. About eleven or so, when the magpie's nest had all sunk into silence, I saw the loveliest moon-set. The large, bright crescent close upon the horizon shone in a cloudless west- ern sky, and was reflected in the river, with a gulf of darkness between. After watching it for several minutes, determined not to go to bed till I had seen the last of it, I went back into my cabin, and took up a book — "Essays," by Miss Thackeray. One, "On Friendship," interested and touched me so much that I read on to the end — tlien started up and rushed to the window. It was too late. My moon had set ! Only a faint cir- 52 SIX HAPPY DAYS cle of light in the sky, and another, fainter still on the river, showed where she had been. So I went to bed, a little sad at heart and vexed with myself for having missed the lovely sight by about a minute, after having sat up an hour on purpose to watch it. Too late, too late! Why cannot one always do, not only the right thing, but at the right time? My girls had apparently discovered this secret. Long before I was stirring, though we old birds are usually early birds, I heard a great clatter and chatter in the i:)arlor or saloon. It was our two " little ones," broom in hand, with their dresses tucked up, cleaning and sweeping, throwing about tea leaves, taking up rugs, dusting tables and chairs, washing china, and, in short, fairly turning the house, or house -boat, out of the windows. The delio-hted laucjhter with which they watched the dirt and debris sail down the river, a floating island of IN A HOUSE-BOAT. 53 rubbish, was quite infectious. Even when I summoned them to breakfast, they de- clined to come. "No, no, we can't eat anything till we have done our w^ork. AVe are determined to leave the house-boat as clean and tidy as Ave found it." With which noble sentiment I entirely coincided. After breakfast there were the cabins to be put in order, and all the packing to be done. It was eleven before we felt free to enjoy ourselves, and then the sky looked so threatening that I protested against the long expedition which had been planned. Sup- pose it rained— in fact it had rained a little — and w^e all got w^et through, and had to start for our long railway journey in damp clothes, without any possibility of drying ourselves. So, in deference to the prudent mother, wdio never denied them anything she could help, the good girls cheerfully gave up their expedition, and we spent a 54 SIX HAPPY DAYS cleliglitful hour or two in paddling abont close at home and gathering water-lilies. This last proceeding was not so easy as it looked. Water-lilies have such thick, strong stalks, and grow in such deep water, that in plucking them one is a23t to overbalance the boat, especially if fully laden. We had to land half of our crew on an osier island, •while the others floated about, cjuidins: them- selves with the boat-hook, and cautiously grasping at the dazzling white blossoms and platelike leaves which covered the surface of the water for many yards. A risky pro- ceeding it always is — gathering water-lil- ies; but, when gathered, what a handful, nay, armful — of beauty and perfume they are ! We got back not a minute too soon ; and liad scarcely sat down to dinner, our last dinner — at which w^e laughed much, perhaps to keep up our spirits — when flash ! crack ! the storm was upon us — and a more fearful thunderstorm I never saw. The river was IN A HOUSE-BOAT. 55 one boiling sheet of splashing rain ; the clouds were black as night; between them and the water the forked lightning danced ; and once, when, after a loud clap of thunder, a column of white smoke burst out from the wood opposite, we felt sure the bolt had Mien. For two whole hours the storm raided ; and then, just as we Avere wondering if the wagonet Avould venture to come for us, and how we should accomplish our seven miles' drive without beinsj drenched to the skin, the rain ceased, the blue sky appeared, and the world looked and felt — as the world feels after the thunderstorm in Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. And so, with contented, thankful hearts, although a little melancholy, and with the very tune of the reapers' Thanksgiving song out of the said symphony ringing in our ears, we left our sweet little house-boat and our beautiful Thames — and went our several ways homeward. 56 SIX HAPPY DAYS. " We may never in all our lives liave six such happy days," said one of the girls, mournfully. Which is very possible ; but ought we not. to be glad that we ever had them at all? LIFE AND ITS WORTH, A LAY SERMON. Lately, 'wandering alone on a wild sea- shore, I was overtaken by a benevolent-look- ing elderly gentleman, who addressed me with great politeness^ "Maara, I have been watching you some time; you walk very feebly." (I owned placidly the sad but long-expected fact.) "Will you take this? A free gift— like salvation." It was a tract, of which the title, " Home, Sweet Home," touched me in a half comical, half pathetic way ; so I. accepted it, and we walked on amicably together, discussing the scenery, the weather, and so on, exclusively mundane and commonplace topics, for I felt that on other points we should wholly dis- agree. At first I had thought my friend belonged to the Salvation Army ; after- s' 53 LIFE AND ITS WORTH, wards I concluded he was only an oi'dinary religious enthusiast, and we parted with mu- tual good wishes. Some days after, finding his tract in my pocket, I read it. It proved to be a highly imaginative and sentimental description of that Home divine of which, as it truly observed, "were we in- dulged with a sensible display, all the duties of life would come to an end." Whence it argued, with a somewhat hazy non seqidtm% " though it is too plain that earth acts too powerfully on our souls," we ought to do our best to ignore the said "vain world," and as- pire to tlie " world of light and love." But I need not quote further from a style of ]ihraseology which is well known to every one, and, being dear to some, should be treated Avith respect by all. The point therein which chiefly struck me was its contrast — or, rather, its similarity in dilTerence — to ceviam pronunciamenti of the 1 ationalistic and materialistic scliools, whicli make heterodoxy as illiberal and dogmatic as A LAY SERMON. 59 orthodoxy, and cause the pessimism of " Eat and drink, for to-morrow we die," to arrive at much the same result as that ascetic or mys- tic optimism which, ignoring entirely " this poor, dying world," looks solely to the next world for its satisfaction and reward. Thus the un-Christlike Christian and the resigned or indifferent sceptic meet on much the same plane, so far as this present existence is con- cerned, and ask each other, consciously or unconsciously, the same question — "Is life worth livinoj?" One answer comes from a set of " unbe- lievers," as orthodox church-goers would call them, but whose unfaith is of the most pathetic kind. It is not that they will not, they can- not believe. The spiritual sense has not been developed in them. They can no more take in the doctrines of revelation, or the possi- bility of any revelation at all, than a short- sighted man could see the Alps at a hundred miles off. Yet they are people of pure lives and high aspirations — Christians in spite of QQ LIFE AND ITS WORTH. themselves ; and it is with a sad regret rather tlian an angry contempt that they set aside the Christian dogmas as untenable. Life to them is an unsolvable mystery. They cannot explain what it is, whence it comes and whither it goes ; but they think it should be accepted and made the best of; used nobly, and laid down calmly, each individual being merely one of a series, like the insects of a coral island, appearing and disappearing for the progressive development of the species. There is a melancholy heroism in this the- ory, and yet human nature rebels against it. We long to keep our identity, and not become mere atoms in the general mass. To most of us this present life is worth little un- less we can in some way assert and maintain our individuality ; and in speculating on the life to come I think the secret cry of all of ■us would be, "Let me remain myself — able to meet and recoo^nize those I love as them- selves, else — in plain truth— I would not care for any after-life at all." A LAY SERMON. gl Therefore, tliough life may seem worth living, on scientific grounds, to those who be- lieve that each generation drops, like leaves from a tree, in its decay nourishing and ad- vantaging the generation which follows it, most of us are incapable of such philosophic self immolation. The old-fashioned belief in heaven and hell — reward and punishment for each individual — suits the ordinary mind much better. But do any of these — either believers or unbelievers — fairly answer the question, " Is life worth living?" A question which, strange to say, is as often asked by those who have scarcely begun to live, as by those who have exhausted life and all its pleasures, to no one's benefit, not even their own. Those who have longest borne its burden, and upon whom that burden has lain heaviest, seldom ask any such question. They have no need, for in tacitly accepting life, such as it is, and trying to make the best of it, they have found out its true worth. To them has 52 LIFE AND ITS WORTH, been revealed the great secret, tauglit by the Divine Master himself: "The kingdom of heaven is witliin youP It is this " kingdom of heaven," the spirit- ual land of perpetual calm, with its atmos- phere of love, peace, and purity lying far be- low or above all the tempestuous currents of this world, which, to my thinking, alone makes life worth living. I have seen it in people of all creeds ; and, not seldom, in people of no creed at all ; dear, blind souls, who lived and walked on earth in such an unconscious Christlike fashion, hopeless of the life im- mortal, that we could imagine how they will, one day, " Wake np in glad surprise, And in their Saviour's image rise." For he is their Saviour still, without their knowing it. I ought to explain that by " the kingdom of heaven " I do not mean what is ordinarily termed " salvation," or the search after it. *' Seek ye the kingdom of God and his right- A LAY SERMON. 63 eousness" is tlie command — and that only. For a man to seek instead his own " salva- tion," as he calls it — to spend his whole earth- ly life in trying for the next life how to keep out of hell and get into heaven, has always seemed to me one of the meanest creeds that any mortal creature could hold. The '^king- dom of heaven," which w^e are to enter upon in this ivorldj I take to Le the seeking, not after one's personal salvation at all, but after God and his will, as expressed in nature, human nature, revelation ; and the accepting and obeying of it, so as to carry out, to the utmost limit that our short life allows, the good of man for the love of God. This creed alone, if clearly understood and devoutly ac- cepted, will make life worth living, under almost any circumstances, that the human mind can conceive, except, perhaps, a com- plete mental overthrow. And yet I have heard some foolish young people say, " they did not wish to live after five-and-twenty," and others still more madly 64 LIFE AND ITS WORTH, protest that they would not live to be miser- able, but, whenever fate denied them the hap- piness they felt to be their right, would them- selves take the law into their own hands, and plunge unbidden into the — to them — im- penetrable dark. With such as these it is impossible to argue. They, poor sceptics! mistake the true aim of existence as com- pletely as the religious egotist who imagines that the whole theogony of the universe is set in motion for the saving of his own par- ticular soul. But Avhen one has passed noonday with its dazzle and glare, and the silent twilight shadows are gathering around, more and more does the conviction force itself upon us that the worth of life is — what we ourselves choose to make it. Youth resents, as a kind of wrong, anything short of perfect felicity ; and is forever attributing its ill-luck to man- kind. Providence, everything and everybody but itself ,v Age, looking on life with larger and calmer eyes, generally sees that in most A LAY SERMON. (55 cases where it is said to be " not worth hav- ing," it is because the recipient has not de- served to possess it. "Is life worth living?" "That depends upon the liver^^ answers the punster — which is only too true. How many a miserable sceptic, a ruined genius, a social nuisance, or a domestic brute, has been made out of a man who, by neglecting the" laws of health, literally destroyed himself and all belonging to him. The origin of evil — let divines say what they will — is absolutely hidden from the sight of mortal eyes. This, however, we can see plain enough, if only we choose to see, that most evils (not all, but most), which at first appear the result of blind chance (I can- not believe in "chastisements" specially in- flicted upon the finite by the Infinite), may, soon or late, be traced to our infractions of those divine laws of morality, health, com- mon-sense, and justice which have been laid down for our preservation, bodily and spirit- (56 LIFE AND ITS WORTH, iial, during our sojourn in tliis world. He who breaks these laws goes against the will of God, and God can no more shield him, or, alas ! his — for no one suffers alone — from the consequence of this sin, than you, if you have told your child not to put his hand into the fire, can prevent its being burned. And he who best fulfils them is most likely to under- stand the worth of life, inasmuch as the one aim of his existence is — without irreverence be it spoken — the humble cry — " Lo, I come to do thy will, O God." Yes. To do God's will, so far as we are able to discern it, seems, to all truly Chris- tian souls — and I number among these many who are unconscious Christians — sufficient reason for our being put into life at all, and the doino* of it alone makes life worth livinc^. I can imagine a human being, who had lost all personal joys, to whom existence might yet be dear, and even pleasurable, simply from the sense of beino^ still the servant of God — of obeying and liaving obeyed his A LAY SERMON. 67 commands — being content to live as long as he ordains life, or to die, which may be "ftir better;" but in noways either ignoring or despising life, and determined not only to endure but to enjoy it, to the last limit of mortal breath. It is for this reason, perhaps — tlie reason somewhat hazily put forward by the author of the tract ^^ Home, Sweet Home" — that the Father of us all has so closely shut the gates between this world and the next. Much as we may crave for it, we are not meant to look beyond the grave. Haply, the vision would blind us to all the interests and duties of this life, which might thus appear to so many of us — especially those to whom it has been a long walking in darkness, weariness, and pain — as truly not worth living. But it is worth living, and we are meant to live it. Why or wherefore, is altogether beside the (question. I once heard a good and wise man, a cler- gyman, too, reprove a little girl who was (38 LIFE AND ITS WORTH, craving after something in the future, some- thing different from what she had. "My child," he said, " you are like many people I know ; you are always wanting to live next door." We elder folk, who have learned what a mere shadow life is — "so soon passeth it away audit is gone"— often look with deep sadness at the young who are perpetually throwing away its blessings, wasting time, health, love, happiness, by always fancying that to-morrow will be better than to-day. Equally sad, I hold, is it to observe certain sects of stern and yet fearful Christians, who think that Christianity consists in abolishing every pleasure of this life for the sake of the life to come ; making of the Infinite Love a cruel taskmaster who insists upon our loving and serving himself alone, and regarding our present existence as altogether miserable, evil, and wretched, a mere stepping-stone to the "joys of heaven," whatever or wherever that may be. Such people generally look A LAY SERMON. 69 forward to a heaven of their own inventing, which others would not wish to inhabit on any pretext whatever. I would that clergymen, like the good man I have referred to, would cease a little to preach about *' next door " — which is as much shut to them as it is to us, except in their own imagination — and tell us more about this present existence : its value, its blessedness, its duties, to ourselves and to our neiglibors. They should try to teach us, not how to die, but how to live; " with God in the world" (not without him), but in the world still. Not dwelling too much upon " another and a better world " — which, for all we know, may not be a better to many. And how good this world is, if we have only eyes to see it as such, and hearts that help to make it so ! If we could eliminate from it one thing, sin, our own and others', how well we could bear all else — sorrow, sickness, even death ! Except death, almost everything evil in our lives can be traced to 70 LIFE AND ITS WORTH, sill — sins of omission or of commission ; and liaving discovered this, there we are obliged to leave it — the long chain of sequences into whose mysteiy we can never pierce. Only as far as our own life goes can we learn tlie inevitable truth that "as a man soweth so shall he reap." Is life worth living? Surely it is, if only for the beauty of the external world, that visible perfection of Nature which we oft^n cling to as a token of the perfection, invisible and divine, to which we all aspire. More and more so, I think, as the years narrow in which we shall rejoice in the one, and bring us nearer to that mysterious day when we shall find out the secret of the other. There is something pathetic and yet hopeful in the sight of an old lady tottering round her gar- den, delighting in her flowers as if she had fifty summers to enjoy them in, and yet she may not have another week ; or an old man, looking with dim but contented eyes on the lovely landscape which he will never walk in A LAY SERMON. 71 more. We are passing away, and we know it; but the beauty we adore as our nearest and most tano^ible evidence of the divine perfection behind it must, in some shape or other, be as eternal as divinity itself. Happy they who can see it thus ! it will help them to find life worth living to the very last. I remember, during another soli- tary wander in that lovely island to which I have referred, toiling up a steep brae; when there came up after me a lady, unknown to me as I to her, but we both turned I'ound and smiled. "It is very steep," she said. From her face I should have supposed her to be some years nearer even than I was to that "Home, Sweet Home," of which my other elderly friend had reminded me ; and it was a face that had surely known trouble, yet had a peaceful and sunshiny look that somehow warmed one's heart. "Yes," I said, "these hills are steep — I find them so — but how beautiful they are!" 72 LIFE AND ITS WORTH, " It is the clear shining after j'ain. Did you notice the rainbows? I think I never saw so many rainbows as I did this morning. And the mountains, just look at them! I like to watch them. They remind me oi His lover It was said with the utmost simplicity — a mere chance word, yet I never forgot it. All through that peaceful time, on golden mornings, when the little island lay like a jewel set in an azure sea; of stormy after- noons, when the hilltops grew dark purple against the cloudy sky ; and more than once, in a gorgeous midnight, when every living creature was asleep, and I and the harvest moon had the world all to ourselves, in a warmth like June and a stillness so deep that the murmur of the burn, a quarter of a mile off, was distinctly heard — there used to come back upon my mind the saying of that simple woman, and I felt " Ilis love." Nothino; can come out of nothin^f. Whether one always sees it or not, and sometimes life A LAY SERMON. 73 is SO dark that one cannot see it, His love must — so long as there is any sweetness, any loveliness, any joy in the world — be there. No one, at least no one who has lived as long as I have, -would attempt to ignore the agonies of life: its bitter disappointments, its cruel losses, its sufferings of mind and body; griefs that come direct from God; and others, harder to bear, that seem to come throu2[h man — ancjuishes needless and avoidable. We all know them. Each one has his own burden to carry; the only dif- ference is liow he carries it; "whether it crushes him, that is, whether he allows it to crush him, or not. Therefore I hold, and I repeat it once more, that the worth of life lies in a man's own hands; and, knowing this, it is piteous to see the young throwing life away, w^asting time, health, love, happi- ness ; squandering madly all these blessings which will never return, and then accusing Providence of making life not worth living. Not long since I sat by the bedside of one 4 74 LIFE AND ITS WORTH, who had long passed the threescore years and ten of the Psalmist, and was waiting in much weariness and pain, but calmly and content- edly, for that passing " out of one room into the next " which our great preacher as well as poet, Alfred Tennyson, speaks of She and I were discussing this sad question of the present day, " Is life worth living V and I told her how I meant to try and write some answer to it; in fact I gave her a brief out- line of this, ray lay sermon. She listened with deep interest to all I said, and was tenderly eager that I should write this paper, which we both knew she raic^ht never live to read. "You and I," I said, " have felt more than raost how hard life is; but we also feel that it is worth living." " Yes," she answered, lifting herself up in bed and speaking with her own firm, clear voice, while her faded eyes shone as with the Yv^ht of the unseen world, to which she was fast hastening — " yes, quite." A LAY SERMON. 75 And ill these feeble words of mine — which she never did read — I put forward my solemn affirmation that her faith was true. THE STORY OF A LITTLE PIG. He was the sweetest lamb — no, pig — that ever perished in infant bloom. As he lay on my kitchen table, white as milk from head to tail, his poor little pink eyes half- open, and his tiny feet — let us say at once his pettitoes — stretched out as if in helpless submission to destiny, my heart melted. So did the hearts of all my women servants, who gathered round him, contemplating him with an air of mild melancholy. " He does look so like a baby !" said one. (So he did — the Duchess's baby in " Alice's Adventures," which is by turns an infant and a little pig.) " I don't think I could cook him," remarked the cook, a matronly and tender-hearted per- son, who had had a good deal to do with babies. THE STORY OF A LITTLE PIG. 77 "And I'm sure I wouldn't eat him," add- ed, with dignity, the parlor-maid. " We none of us could eat Lim," was the general cliorus. And they all looked at me as if I were a sort of female Herod. Evi- dently tliey had never read Charles Lamb, and were unappreciative of their gustatory blessings. As for me, I slowly took in the diflSculties of the position, and as I gazed down on the martyred innocent lying on the table — to quote a line from an old drama — I "knew how murderers feel." Yet I was only an accessory after the fact. I did not kill the helpless innocent; his death happened thus : A much-valued friend, who is always ready to do a kindness to anybody, one day offered my husband a sucking-pig, which he refused, and the dainty was given to somebody else. Immediately afterwards I happened to say I was sorry for this, as I liked pig. "Then," answered the friend, "you shall 78 THE STORY OF A LITTLE PIG. have one — out of the very next litter. I shall not forget. It is a promise." Which, after an interv^al of several months, during which I myself had entirely forgotten it, he thus faithfully kept. A special messenger brought the present to ray door, with the injunction that he was to be cooked that day for dinner (the pig, not the messenger). And — there he lay ! with my sympathetic domestic circle admir- ing- and lamentinsr him. I went and gathered the collective opinion of the drawino:-room. It was much the same as that of the kitchen. Several other mem- bers of the family protested that they "didn't care for pig," and one even w^ent so far as to say that if poor piggie-wiggie appeared on our table, she should be obliged to dine out. Was ever a mistress of a family in such a quandary ! What was I to do ! Even though — (in common with Elia — I must own to the soft impeachment!) — even THE STORY OF A LITTLE PIG. 79 though I like pig — how could I have one cooked exclusively for my own eating? and, further, how could I eat him up myself alone? And he required, like all sucking- pigs, to be cooked and eaten immediately. Between the dread of annoying my whole family, or the kindly friend who had wished to give me pleasure, I was in despair, till a brisjht idea struck me. Near at hand was a household of mutual acquaintances — a large liousehold, who could easily consume even two pigs, and to whom my friend would, I knew, have been as glad to give pleasure as to myself. . " Pack the pig up again very carefully," said I, "and let him be taken at once to Eden Cottage. They are sure to enjoy him." " Oh, yes, ma'am." And a smile of relief overspread the countenances of all my do- mestics, as piggie disappeared in great dig- nity, since, to save time, I sent him away in the carriage. So he departed, followed by 30 THE STORY OF A LITTLE PIG. much admiration but i)o regrets — save, per- haps, mine. But I had reckoned without my host. Half an hour afterwards my parlor-maid presented herself with a long face. " He has come back, ma'am." " Who ?" " The little pig. They say they are very much obliged, but none of the family like pork." "He is not pork," I cried, indignantl}^ A sweet, tender, lovely sucking-pig, em- balmed in all classic memories, to call him common " pork !" It was profanity. Still something must be done, for the mo- ments were flying. I turned to a benevolent lady visitor and told her my grief. She laughed, but sympathized. " Will you take him ?" I said, hopefully. "Indeed, he is a great beauty, and I am sor- vy to part with him, but if you would take him—" "I don't think my brother cares for pig; THE STORY OF A LITTLE PIG. gl however, some of the rest might like it," an- swered the benign woman. " So, if you are quite sure you don't want him — " *^If I wanted him ever so, I couldn't keep him. Do take him. And I hope that at least your visitors will enjoy him." And not until they had departed — ^little pig and all — did I recollect, and felt hot to the veiy end of my fingers, that to the re- mote ancestors of these, my dear and excel- lent friends, the ancestors of my little pig must have been the most obnoxious of food ! But when one has "put one's foot into it," the best thing is to let it stop there, without any attempt to draw it out. So I rested con- tent. My pig was safely disposed of. At his usual hour my husband entered, much amused. "So you've got your little pig at last. M was so pleased about it, and so kind. It was kept on purpose for you. He put it in his carriasre, drove to town with it him- self, and sent it by messenger in full time to 4* g2 THE STORY OF A LITTLE PIG. be cooked for dinner to-day. And tlie last word he said to me was, *Now be sure there's plenty of apple-sauce, and tell me to- morrow morning how you all liked your pig; " I listened in blank dismay. Then I told the whole storv. My husband's countenance was a sight to behold. ^' Given him away! Given away your little pig ! What will M say, af- ter all his kindness and the trouble he took ! How shall I ever face him to-morrow morn- ing?" In truth it was a most perplexing position. "There is only one thing to be done," said my husband, decisively. " You must send and fetch the pig back immediately." I explained with great contrition that this was difficult, if not impossible, as he was probably just then in the very act of being roasted six miles off. "But can we not get him somehow or other? We 7niist eat him, or at least be THE STORY OF A LITTLE PIG. §3 able to say we have eaten liirn. M will l)e so disappointed, quite hurt in -his feel- ings, and no wonder. How could you do such a thino;?" I felt very guilty ; but still, if I had had to do it all over again, I did not see that I could have done differently. And the pig was sure to be eaten and enjoyed — by somebody. " But not by you ; which was what M especially wished. Couldn't you manage it somehow ? Why not invite yourself to dine with your friends — and the pig^" Alas? it was, as I said, six miles off, and there was only half an hour to spare, and we had a houseful of friends ourselves that day. " But the day after ? Couldn't we drive over, fetch him back — at least what remains of him — and eat him cold to-morrow ?" This w\as too bright an idea to lose. But still one diflBculty remained. What was to be said to our kindly friend when he asked how we had enjoyed our pig next morning ? "I declare I don't know how to face him " 84 THE STORY OF A LITTLE PIG. said my husband, mournfully. "After all his kindness, and the trouble he took, and the pleasure he had in pleasing you. The first question he is sure to ask is, ' How did your wife like her pig V What in the world am I to say to him V \ Crushed with remorse, I yet suggested that " the plain truth," as people call it, is usually found not only the right thing, but the most convenient. However, this merely feminine wisdom was negatived by the high- er powers, and it was agreed that our donor should only be told that the pig was not to be eaten till to-morrow ; on which to-mor- row we should drive over and fetch what remained of him, so as to be able to say, with accuracy, that we had eaten him, and found him uncommonly good. This was accordingly done. The fatal moment passed — how, I did not venture to inquire — my husband reappeared at home, and we took a pleasant drive, and presented ourselves for afternoon tea at our friends' THE STORY OF A LITTLE PIG. 85 house. They were too hospitable to show surprise, or to wonder what we had come for. After a few minutes' polite conversation, we looked at one another to see which of us should make the confession and put the re- quest. "The— the little pig?" said I at last, in great humility. " Oh, the little pig has been cooked and eaten. He turned out a great success. Some of the family enjoyed him immensely." "Then — is he quite finished?" I asked, with meek despondency. "I will ring and inquire. No, I think there is a fragment left of him, because my brother thought you ought to be asked to dinner to-day to eat it." " Perhaps I might take it home w^ith me, were it only a few mouthful s. We have a special reason. My husband will ex- plain." Which he did, pouring out the whole story of my sins; first, in being so foolish as 8(5 THE STORY OF A LITTLE PIG. to say I liked a pig, then in accepting it, and, lastly, in giving it away. " And if you had seen how pleased M was, and the trouble he took about it all," was always the burden of the story, till I felt as if I could never lift my head again. But my friends only saw the comic phase of the thing. They burst into a chorus of laughter. " It is as good as a play. You ought to write a second ^ Essay on Roast Pig,' to transcend Elia's. Comfort yourself. You shall still have your pig, or, at least, what is left of him." She rang the bell, and gave her orders to the politely astonished footman, ^vho, after a few minutes, brought back a most Medea- like messacje. " Please, ma'am, cook says there's his head left, and one of his legs, and a small portion of him still remains uncooked, if the lady would like to take that home — " "No, no, no," said my husband, hastily. THE STORY OF A LITTLE PIG. 37 "The least little bit will do — a mere frag- ment, just to enable her to say she has eaten it. She likes it; she was once heard to say that a little pig tasted exactly like a baby !" Under the shout of laughter Avhich fol- lowed this unlucky communication, which was, alas! quite true, I made my retreat. But just as I was getting into the carriage, one of the family came running hastily out. " Stop a minute ; you have forgotten some- thing. You have left behind you your little pig." What a narrow escape ! Not until the basket was safely deposited at my feet did I feel that I had conquered fate, gained my end and my pig ; and, what was the most impor- tant element in the matter, liad avoided wounding the feelings of my friend. So we ate him — the pig, I mean — at least one of his members. Very delicious he was, fully justifying Elia's commendation of him, or, rather, of his race. He was also fully appreciated by a mutual friend of the donor 88 THE STORY OF A LITTLE PIG. and ourselv^es, who happened to dine with us that da}^, and upon whom we impressed the necessity of stating publicly that she had eaten this identical pig in our house. Peace to his manes ! Let him not perish unchronicled, for he was a beauty ; but let his history be recorded here — a story with- out a plot, or a purpose, or a moral. Except, perhaps, the trite one, that truth is best. How much or how little of it has reached my friend I know not, but when he reads this in print perhaps he will feel that his kindly gift was not altogether thrown away. GENIUS, ITS ABERRATIONS AND ITS RESPONSIBILITIES. There Las been of late, thanks to the want of reticence of some people, and the omnivo- rous curiosity of others, a perfect avalanche of talk, earnest argument and frivolous gos- sip, newspaper articles and dinner - table fights, on the subject of genius — its rights and its immunities, its errors and their ex- cuses, its aberrations and their results. Of course, every person has a different opinion ; therefore it can do no harm to advance one more, rather contrary to the opinions gener- ally promulgated. We may premise, and, I suppose, take for granted, that there is such a thing as genius ; that inherent and inexplicable quality which here and there distinguishes one human be- ins: from the common herd. Talent is the 90 GENIUS. successful use of certain capacities, possessed iu more or less degree by us all; but genius is original, unique; and in whatever form it may develop itself is the greatest gift that can be given to man, the strongest known link between the material life we have and the spiritual life that we can only guess at. Every great poet, painter, or musician — every inventor or man of science, every fine actor or orator, comes to us as the exponent of something: diviner than we know. We can- not understand it, but we feel it, and ac- knowledoje it. And, in our ignorance, we are prone to consider it as a thing apart ; and its posses- sor as a creature apart, not to be judged by the same laws, or treated in the same man- ner, as other human beings. A city set on a^ hill cannot be hid. Once let a man be rec- ognized as a man of genius, and the world is apt to regard him as something exceptional — either a divinity or a fool. His virtues, his vices, are attributed, not to the human GENIUS. 91 nature which he shares in common with us all, but to that something which he possesses beyond us all — his genius. Let us instance a late lamentable case, over which society has fought and howled, like dogs over garbage. Two people, man and wife, of whom one was supposed to be, and both really were, wonderfully gifted, succeed in making one another thoroughly miserable. Why ? Because the woman mar- ried, out of wounded feminine pride or (she owned) for " ambition," a self absorbed, ego- tistical, ill-tempered man, who had ruined his constitution by his persistent breaking of every law of health. Disappointed, neg- lected, she does her wifely duty in a literal sense, but she seasons it with incessant com- plaints and the cruel use of that weapon which is a gentlewoman's instinctive defence against a boor — sarcasm. He too lives a life unimpeachable externally, but within full of rancor, malice, and a selfishness which ap- proaches absolute cruelty, his peasant nat- 92 GENIUS. lire perpetually blinding him to the suffer- ings of his wife, more gently born and gently bred ; while her morbid sensitiveness exag- gerates trivial vexations into great misfor- tunes, and mere follies into actual crimes. All this wretchedness sprang, not from the man's genius, but from his bad qualities, which, had he been a brainless ass, would have made his wife's life and his own just as miserable. Yet society moans out the moral, " Never marry a genius 1" or the worse one, " if you do marry a genius you must condone all his shortcomings, lay yourself down as a mat for him to rub his shoes on, give him everything and expect from him nothing, not even the commonest rules of domestic cour- tesy and social morality." Another example — perhaps worse, for the hero of it broke throu^^h more than the limits of mere social morality. Take away the glamour which enthusiastic adorers have thrown over the great idol of Weimar, and what is he? A modern imitation of the GENIUS. 93 pre-Christian Greek, who knew no worship but that of beauty, and beauty in its lowest form, nnallied with good — a Sybarite, whose god was himself, and who did not hesitate to sacrifice to his supposed artistic culture manly honor and womanly happiness, for all his love-affairs served him as mere " experi- ences." Yet there are those who declare that this breaker of women's hearts, this artistic ex- perimentalist, confusing hopelessly right and wrong, was but exercising the prerogative of all men of genius, who " learn in sufi'eriug '' — generally the suffering of others — "what they teach in song " But had he never sung at all, what a culpable life, execrated by all good men and poor women, ^vould have been that of Wolfgang von Goethe ! More instances. May not many a young Scottish exciseman, not being also a poet, have sunk lower and lower, through tempta- tions which he was too weak to resist, to find the drunkard's early and dishonored 94 GENIUS. grave, unextenuated by all the picturesque apologies that have been made for Kobert Burns? Was Richard Brinsley Sheridan the only improvident Irishman, charming, but utterly unreliable, to whom debt is a mere joke, and a lie only a poetical imagination? Yet in both cases the blame is laid, not upon the men themselves and their innate errors, but upon the only redeeming quality they possessed — their genius. For which also, by a curious contradiction, the world excuses them everything, declaring that — " The light which led astray Was light from heaven ;" as if any light which led astray could come from heaven ! No! A man's temptations spring, not from his genius — the divine thing in him — but from "the w^orld, the flesh, and the devil," with which he, and we all, are forever bat- tling our whole lives long. If he succumbs, it is himself he has to blame — his poor, miser- GENIUS. 95 able mortal nature, and not that immortal part of him, which came, he knows not how, and goes, whither he cannot tell. In truth, no one can tell anything at all about it, ex- cept that it is a possession apart, giving keener sorrows and more ecstatic joys — mak- ing men of genius in a sense more responsi- ble than other men, but not exempting them from the common lot of humanity. It is no excuse for the selfish lover and faithless husband of " Bonny Jean " that he wrote some of the sweetest love-songs in ex- istence. It is little glory to the worshipped moral teacher of the last half-century that, after bein^: his wife's torment for the most of that time (except for a few beautiful let- ters — it is so easy to write letters !), he la- mented her with a pathetic remorse, the re- ality of which no one can doubt, except it came too late to convert words into deeds. How sad a thins: it is when a man of genius has to intrench himself behind his works, as being so much better than his 95 GEJSIUS. personality ! With a. woman of genius it is even worse. Can any writings of tLe two greatest female novelists of the a^-e — French and English — and one, the Englishwoman, full of most noble qualities — atone for the lack in both of that crown of stainless ma- tronhood which should have adorned either brow, making the life a consecration of the books, instead of the books being a piteous apology for the life ? The question stands thus: Does genius absolve either man or woman from ordinary moral and social laws, and every-day duties? Is it grand and noble, or w^eak and cow- ardly, that any one should hide behind the shelter of his brains, saying,/' This is me. You must not expect me to be like you common mortals, to eat, drink, and sleep as you do, to pay my debts and control my passions, to be a decent son, husband, father, and citizen. I have only myself— that is, my genius — to think of. Everything must be subservient to this. If I break all sani- GENIUS. 97 tary laws, and my health gives way, it is not I who am accountable, it is my genius, the sword wearing away the scabbard. If I am irregular, lazy, unbusiness - like, and, consequently, always behindhand with the world, it is the world's neglect, not my own improvidence, which has made me poor. If I run counter to all the decorums of society, all the doctrines of moral right, it is not my fault; I was not made like other people, and I am not to be judged by the same laws as they are." This, put into plain English, is the creed of half the world concerning genius, and of genius concerning itself. It is time that a word should be said on the other side. Granted that a man does possess great capacity, if (like one over whose newly- closed grave condemnation melts into pity) he persists in sleeping all day and sitting up all night, in stupefying himself with to- bacco, and maddening himself with chloral, in leading a life wherein all moral obliga- 5 98 GENIUS. tions, all requirements of common-sense, are deliberately set aside — what can he expect ? Only to end his career like that poor soul departed, who, but for his genius, would be utterly condemned. But was it his genius that destroyed him ? Was it not his sensu- ous, or, rather, his sensual nature? his want of resistance to all that honest, honorable men resist ? his eo:otistical indifference to all the laws of right and wrong that most other men obey ? Therefore there came upon him the inevitable end — the same retribution that would have come to Tom Smith or Richard Jones, without any genius at all. Had they lived the life he did, they would have died as he did, and society would have said, "Serve them right f' Why should so- ciety be less severe unto those to whom so much more is given, and from whom, in common justice, so much more should be re- quired ? In speaking of the aberrations of genius I only use a mere phrase. I believe the GENIUS. 99 highest form of genius would have, and has, no aberrations at all. It is a li^ht so di- vine that no refraction of its rays is possible. So far from holding itself superior to the common laws and duties of human nature, it will, I believe, obey and fulfil them all more rigorously and perfectly than any in- ferior organization. The greatest man is also the best man. He not only sees the right much clearer than his neighbors, but Iw does it If, seeing it, he fails to do it, he merits condemnation as sharply as his neigh- bors. Nay, more so; in that he had eyes and would not see; ears, and would not hear. "Narrow is the way that leadeth unto life," is as true of genius as of religion. Its temptations and sorrows — like its rewards and joys — are keener than those of ordinary humanity, and the sympathy given to it should be in larger proportion. But only sympathy, never extenuation. We degrade and humiliate genius when we make for it 100 GENIUS. those allowances wliicli we refuse to make for our fellow-creatures in cjeneral. The line between a good man and a bad should be drawn just as clearly, whether or not he be a man of brains. He must earn his honest bread, fulfil his social and domes- tic duties, and carry on his life with due regard to common-sense and prudence, or retribution will assuredly follow him. Ay, and he will deserve it, as surely as the la- borer who drinks instead of working; the tradesman who neglects his shop; the pro- fessional man who lives up to the last half- penny of his income, and having brought up his family in idle luxury, dies, and leaves them to starvation or to the charity of the public. The " moods " of genius, so far from being its honor, are its disgrace, its weakness, its reproach. So are its neglects of the duties and beauties of ordinary life. Happily, the day is gone by when one's ideal portrait of a poet was with bare throat, Byronic tie, GENIUS. 101 and eye " in a fine frenzy rolling ;" or of a literary lady with uncombed hair, torn or ragged gown, and slippers down at heel, courting the Muses with upraised pen in a rather dirty hand. Experience has proved that a man of the highest genius may be also a good man of business, accurate, me- thodical, conscientious; as well as an excel- lent husband and father, citizen and friend. Even with women — as the world has found out — it is possible both to write a book and make a pudding; to study deeply art or science, and yet understand that not inferior art and science how to keep house with economy, skill, and grace. Incredible as it might appear to the last generation, some of our best modern authoresses have been also the best of wives and mothers ; or, failing this natural and highest vocation, have led a most useful single life, deficient in none of the characteristics of genius, except its eccen- tricities and follies. That a man of genius ought never to X02 GENIUS. many is a very common creed, and a true one if his intellect is held to exempt him from all the duties of humanity ; that if he be a poet, that great stronghold of virtuous youth — the " maiden passion for a maid " — may allowably be frittered away into half a hundred passions for half a hundred maids; that if he marries, and Heaven gives him children — the blessed arrows in the quiver of all other men — they should be to him only arrows that wound his own flesh, per- petual worries, burdens, and plagues, who hinder the development of his genius. So do his butcher and baker^ who are so un- reasonable as to expect to be paid; so does his wife, if she dares to insist that he shall not victimize the household — keep dinner waiting indefinitely while he finishes a son- net ; or, for want of the commonest self con- trol — which we ordinary folk have to exer- cise every day of our lives — appear in the bosom of his family moody, irritable, in- tolerable; until the hapless mistress of the GENIUS. 103 house requires to hint to perplexed guests, as a great man's spouse is said always to whisper, "Don't contradict him- — we never do." Such a man may be a genius, but he is also an ill-tempered, conceited egotist, who deserves to be shown no mercy. For these aberrations of his generally arise, not from his genius at all, but from something much more commonplace. It is curious how much a man's brains are affected by his stomach. Even as many a sentimental young woman has died, not of a broken heart, but a squeezed liver, so many a promising young man — author, artist, or musician — has "per- ished in his pride," not of over- work, which alone rarely kills anybody, but of over- smoking, over-dancing, or over-dining. Yet — while refusing to acknowledge black as white, to condone weakness, and pander to error — let us speak the truth in love, and never deny for one moment that genius, with all its shortcomings, is the one heavenly 104 GENIUS. leaven of human life, without which the whole lump w^ould grow corrupt, worthless, and abominable. It deserves from us the utmost sympathy, the warmest tenderness, the largest allowance compatible with jus- tice. It is entitled to all reverence, nay, worship; but this should be a clear- eyed, rational worship. That one man may do things which it were culpable and contempt- ible for other men to do; that one woman may set herself against the laws of God and man, and yet be admired and loved while other M^omen are condemned, is a creed which all just and righteous people hold to be utterly false and untenable. The divine right of genius is as true as the divine right of kings. But how do we know that it is a divine right unless he who claims it proves it by his life? And, thank God, in all times a noble mul- titude have proved and are proving it. It is invidious to name names — those hitherto named or indicated have been exclusively GENIUS. 205 among the number passed ad majores ; leav- ing to the world open records by which they may and must be judged. But when this living generation has become the dead, I think posterity will find many instances to establish the law that greatness and good- ness are, and ought to be, identical. That is, no fool was ever a truly good man ; and no bad man, be his genius ever so wonder- ful, was ever a really great man. If we sep- arate what a man does from what he is, we grievously and dangerously err. Finally, I would say to all who consider themselves "born to greatness," or who by unwise friends " have greatness thrust upon them " — Be a man first, a genius afterwards. Make your life as complete as you can ; fuL fil all its duties ; deny yourself none of its lawful joys. Your brains — be thankful if you have got them, and make much of them ! — were meant, not as n shield to crouch b,e^ hind, but as a weapon to fight with against the temptations and difficulties common to log GENIUS. all. And you possess something which is not common to all — a Holy Grail, which can only be carried by those of pure heart and stainless life. Genius is the utmost defence which man or woman can have, not only against sin, but also against sorrow ; since it is, for all mortal ills, strength and consolation. And according as its possessor is greater than his fellows, so much the more should he take care that he loses no inch of moral stature — that the light which he bears is kept burning clear and bright ; that he neither apologizes for himself, nor asks others to apologize for him, more than for other men. He is at once too humble and too proud. A man of genius is born to be both prophet, priest, and king; but if he casts his crown to the ground, if he prefers the Circe-sty to the temple, if he allies himself to those who prophesy one thing and act another, he deserves no pity, and should be shown none; at least none greater than we GENIUS. 107 would show to any other miserable sinner who had not only wandered from the right road himself, but helped to lead othei's astray. It is this which forces us into sternness, and compels the plain-spoken justice which seems so cruel. We cannot exaggerate the danger it is to the young to teach them that genius is an excuse for error, that an author's books are the condonation of his life ; that what is moral turpitude in a small man is in a great man only a venial error, nay, per- haps (I have heard it thus argued), that if he had been a better man he would not have been so great a genius ! To such confound- ers of right and wrong what can one answer? except to suggest that the well-known Mil- tonic Personage who decided, " Evil, be tliou my good!" would probably be to them the most satisfactory type of transcendent ge- nius. But we, who humbly try to walk in the lio-ht as followers of Him " with whom is no darkness at all;" we, believing that genius 108 GENIUS. comes direct from Him, and is the exponent of Him, exact from it not a lower but a liigher standard than that of ordinary men. We feel that we are exalting, not low^ering it, when we urge upon all who possess it to live up to this standard, rather than accept the pity which humiliates and the excuses which degrade. Since for a man or woman of genius more than for any of us is written that saying, mysterious, apparently impossi- ble, and yet to be believed in until death shall make it divinely possible : " Be ye per- fect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect." MY SISTEE'S GEAPES. A STORY FOR OLD AND YOUNG. Perhaps you might not tbink Uncle Dick a gentleman. Aunt Emma did not, I know, thougli she kept her mind to herself, being his brother's widow, and the prudent mother of many children, who were Uncle Dick's nearest of kin. He lived with them, that is, if he could be said to live anywhere, being always on the move, never liking to stay long in one place, and somewhat restless- minded, as those are who have passed all their life in rambling about the world. A " rolling stone " he certainly was, though he could scarcely be said to have gathered no moss, as he had amassed two fortunes, one after the other; had lost the first, and was now enjoying the second in his own harm- less but rather eccentric way. IIQ MY SISTER'S GRAPES. I doubt if Aunt Emma really liked him ; but she was always very civil to him ; her chief complaint being, that he never would *' take his position in the world." That is, he avoided her balls, made himself scarce at her dinner-parties, and no persuasion could ever induce him to exhibit his long, thin, gaunt figure, his brown hands and face, in evening clothes. What a "guy" he would have looked ! as we boys always agreed ; and sympathized with Uncle Dick rather than with Aunt Emma. But in his own costume we admired him immensely. His shooting- jacket, knickerbockers, and Panama hat were to us the perfection of comfort and elegance. As to his cleverness, that also was a dis- puted point — with some folk. But we had never any doubt at all. And perhaps we were right. *^A fool and his money are soon parted," says the proverb. Neverthe- less, w^hen they part to meet again, that is, when a man can bear the loss of one fort- •ane, and set to work and make another, the A STORY FOR OLD AND TOUNG. m chances are (without any exaggerated mam- mon- woi'ship I express it) that he is not a fool. "Yes, I have really made two fortunes," said Uncle Dick, as we sat by him, beguiling a dull day, when the fish refused to bite, with innumerable questions, till at last he " rose " — like a trout at a fly. "How old was I when I lost the first one ? Well, about twenty- five — just twenty-five — for I remember it happened on my birthday, Michaelmas Day." "Happened all in one day?" some of us inquired. "Ay, in a day, an hour, a minute," said Uncle Dick, with his peculiar smile, half sad, half droll, as if he saw at once all the fun and all the pathos of life. " But it was not in the day either, it was in the middle of the night. I went to sleep a rich man ; by daylight I was a beggar. Any more questions, boys?" Of course w^e rained them upon him by the dozen. He sat composedly watching his float swim down the stream, and answered 112 MY SISTER'S GRAPES. none of us ; Uncle Dick had, when he chose, an unlimited capacity for silence. "Yes" he said at leno-th. "It was one night, in the middle of the Atlantic, on the deck of a sinking ship. There's a saying, boys, about gaining the whole world and losing one's own soul. Well, I gained my soul, though I lost my fortune. And it was then that that happened about my sister's grapes." Now Uncle Dick was in the habit of talk- ing nonsense, at least Aunt Emma considered it such. In his lonc!: solitude he was accus- tomed to let his thoughts run underground, as it were, for a good while, when they would suddenly crop up again, and he would make a remark, apropos of nothing, which greatly puzzled matter-offact people, or those who liked elegant small-talk, of which he had ab- solutely none. " Your sister's grapes V repeated one of us, with great astonishment. " Then you had a sister? Where is she now?" A STORY FOR OLD AND YOUNa 113 Uncle Dick looked up at the blue sky — intensely blue it was that day, as deep and measureless as infinity. " Where is she ? I — don't — know. I wish I did ! But He knows; and I shall find out some time." Then he added briefly, " My sister Lily died of consumption when she was fifteen, and I about ten years old." "And what about her grapes? Is it a story — a true story ?" " Quite true — to me, though all might not believe it. Some might even laugh at it, and I don't like to be laucrhed at. No — I don't mind — ^lau^hino- can't harm me. I'll tell you, boys, if you fimcy to hear. It may be a good lesson for some of you." We didn't much care for "lessons," but we liked a story, so we begged Uncle Dick to tell us this one "from the very begin- ninsr." " No, not from the beginning, which could benefit neither you nor me," said Uncle Dick, gravely. " I'll take up my tale from the point 114 MY SISTER'S GRAPES. I mentioned, when I found myself at mid- night on tlie deck of the Colorado^ Australian steamer, bound for London, fast going down. And she went dow^i." "You with her?'' "Not exactly, or how should I be here, sitting quietly fishing — w^hich seems odd, when I think of the hurly-burly of that night. It had come quite suddenly, after a long spell of fair weather, wdiich we found so dull that we began drinking, smoking, gambling, and even fighting now and then; for w^e ^vere a rough lot, mostly ^diggers.' These, like myself, had w^orked a ' claim,' or half a claim, at Ballarat; worked it so w^ell that they soon found they had made a fort- une, so determined to go to England and spend it. "I thought I w^ould do the same. I w\as quite young, yet I had amassed as much money as many a poor fellow, a clergyman, or a soldier, or an author, can scrape together in a lifetime. And I wanted to spend it in A STORY FOR OLD AND YOUNG. II5 seeing life. Hitherto I had seen nothing at all — in civilization, that is — having never had the least bit of fun till I ran away from home, seven years ago, and very little fun after; it was all hard Avork. Now, having been so lucky as to amass a fortune, I meant to enjoy myself. "I had never enjoyed home very much. My people, good as they ^vere, were rather dull people — or at least I thought them so. They always bothered me about ^ duty,' till I hated the very sound of the word. They called my fun mischief, my mischief they con- sidered a crime. So I slipped away from them, and after a letter or two I gradually let them go, or fancied they were letting me go, and forgot almost their very existence. I might have been a -waif, or a stray drifted ashore, or dropped from the clouds, so little did I feel as if I had any one belonging to me. My people all melted out of my mind ; sometimes for weeks I never once thouGfht of them, never remembered that I liad a 115 MY SISTER'S GRAPES. father, or mother, or brothers — Lily had been my only sister, and she died." Uncle Dick stopped a moment, then con- tinued. " I don't wish, boys, to put myself forward as worse than I was, or better. People find their level pretty well in this world. It's no good either to puff yourself up as a saint, or go about crying yourself down as a miser- able sinner. In either case you think a great deal too much about yourself, which is as harmful a thing as can happen to any human beino^. " Certainly I was no w^orse than my neigh- bors, and no better. I liked ev^erybody, and most people liked me; I troubled nobody, and nobody troubled me. I meant to go on that principle when I got back into civiliza- tion — to spend my money and have my fling. Possibly I might run down to see ^ the old folks at home,' whom we diggers were rather fond of singing about, but we seldom thought about them — at least I did not. But they A STORY FOR OLD AND YOUNG. II7 formed no part of my motives for coming to England. I came simply and solely to amuse myself. "I had just turned in with the rest, not drunk, as a good many of us were that night, but ^ merry.' An hour after we turned out, and stood facing one another, and facing death. A sudden hurricane had risen, some of our masts had gone overboard ; w^e had sprung a leak, and, work as we might, the captain said he believed we should go to pieces before morning. He had been drunk, too, which perhaps accounted for our disaster in a good, sound ship and the safe open sea; but he was sober enough now. He did his best, and, when hope was over, said he should *go to the bottom with his ship.' And he went. I took his watch to his widow; he gave it me just before he jumped overboard, poor fellow ! " Well, boys, and what was I going to tell you?" said Uncle Dick, drawing his long brown hand across his forehead. " Oh, about 118 MY SISTER'S GRAPES. the ship Colorado going down, and all the poor wretches fighting for their lives, in the boats or out of them, which w^as about an equal chance. "We could just see one another by tlie starlight, or the white gleam of the waves; groups of struggling men — happily there was not a woman on board — some paralyzed and silent, others shrieking with terror; some sobbing and praying, others only waiting. For heaven, to wdiich we all were straight going, seemed to be the last thing we ever thought of. We only thought of life — dear life! — our own lives, nobody else's. "People say that a sliipwreck brings out human nature as nothing else does — ghastly human nature in all its brutality ; every man for himself, and God — no, not God, but the devil, for us all. I found it so. It was horrible to see those men, old, young, and middle-aged ; some clothed, some half naked, but all clinging to their bags full of nuggets, which they had tied round their waists, or A STORY FOR OLD AND YOUNG. II9 held in their hands, eager to save their gold, until it gradually dawned upon some of the feebler among them that they would hardly save themselves. Then they no longer tried to conceal their money, but offered a quarter, a half, two thirds of it, to anybody who would help them. Nobody did. Everybody had but one person to think of — himself. "For me, I was a young fellow — young and strong. I had never faced death before, and it felt — well, strange ! I was not exact- ly frightened, but I was awed. ... I turned from the selfish, brutal, cowardly wretches around me; they had shown themselves in their true colors, and I was disgusted at my- self for having put up with them so long. I didn't like even to go to the bottom with such a miserable lot. In truth, it felt hard enough to go to the bottom at all. " The biggest of my nuggets I always car- ried in a belt round my waist, but the rest of my ^ fortune ' was in my bag. Most of us had these bags, and tried to get with them 120 MY SISTER'S GRAPES. into the boats, whicli was impossible. So some had to let them go overboard, but oth- ers, shrieking and praying, refused to be parted from their ' luggage,' as they called it. They were not parted, for both soon went to the bottom together. I was not inclined for that exactly, and so, after a few minutes' thought, I left my bag behind." "How much was there in it?" some one asked. "I don't know exactly, but I guess" — he still used a Yankee phrase here and there — "somewhere about seven or eight thousand pounds." We boys drew a long breath. " What a lot of money ! And it all went to the bot- tom of the sea ?" " Yes. But, as the Bible says, what will not a man give "in exchange for his soul"? Or his life — for my soul troubled me mighty little just then; I hardly knew I had one till I lost my money. So, you see, it was a good riddance, perhaps." A STORY FOR OLD AND YOUNG. 121 We stared — Uncle Dick talked so very oddly sometimes. And then we begged him to continue his story. '^ Well, I was standing quiet, waiting my turn to jump into the boat — the last boat — for two had been filled and swamped. Be- ing young, it seemed but right to let the older fellows go first, and, besides, I wanted to stick by the captain as long as I could. He, I told you, determined to stick by his ship, and went down with her. He had just given me his watch and his last message to his wife, and I was trying, as I said, to keep quiet, with all my wits about me. But I seemed to be half dreaming, or as if 1 saw myself like another person and felt rather sorry for myself, to be drowned on my twenty-fifth birthday — drowned just when I had made my fortune, and was going home to spend it. " Home ! The word, even, had not crossed my lips or mind for years. As I said it, or thought it — I can't remember 6 122 ^Y SISTER'S GRAPES. which — all of a sudden I seemed to hear my mother's voice, clear and distinct through all the noise of the storm. Boys, what do you think she said? ^ Hicliard^ how could you take your sister'' s grapes V " It flashed upon me like lightning — some- thing that happened when I was only ten years old, and yet I remembered it like yes- terday. I saw myself, young wretch ! with the bunch of grapes in my hand, and my mother with her grave, sad eyes, as, passing through the dressing-room into my sister's bedroom, she caught me in the act of steal- ino: them, I could almost hear throudi the open door poor Lily's short, feeble cough — she died two days after. The grapes had been sent her by some friend — she had so many friends. I knew where they were kept; I had climbed up to the shelf, and eaten them all. "Many a selfish thing had I done, both before I left home and afterwards; why should this little thing, long forgotten, come A STORY FOR OLD AND YOUNG. 123 back now ? Perhaps, because I was never punished for it ; my mother, who at another time might have boxed my ears or taken me to father to be whipped, did nothing, said nothing, except those few words of sad re- proach, ^ How could you tahe your sister'' s grapes r "I heard them through the horrible tu- mult of winds and waves and poor souls struggling for life. My life, what had I made of it ? If I went to the bottom of the sea, I and all my money, who would miss me? Avho would care? Hardly even my mother. If she ever heard of my death — this terrible death to-night — she might drop a tear or two, but nothing like the tears she shed over my sister, who, in her short life, had been everybody's comfort and joy. While I— "^Mother,' I cried out loud, as if she could hear me there, many thousand miles off, * Mother, forgive me, and I'll never do it any more.' 124 ^^Y SISTER'S GRAPES. "I had not said this when I was ten years old and took the grapes, but I said it — sobbed it — at twenty - five, when the ^ it ' implied many a selfishness, many a sin, that my mother never knew. Yet the mere words seemed to relieve me, and when, directly af- terwards, some one called out from the boat, ^ Jump in, Dick; now's your turn !' I jumped in to take my chance of life with the rest. " It was given me. I was among the eighteen that held on till we were picked up, almost skin and bone, and one of us rav- ing mad from thirst, by a homeward-bound ship, and laiided safely in England. No, boys, don't question me, I won't tell you about that week; I cari'tr It was not often Uncle Dick said "I can't ;" indeed, it was one of his queer say- ings that canH was a word no honest or brave lad ought to have in his dictionary. We turned away our eyes from him — he seemed not to like being looked at — and were silent. A STORY FOR OLD AND YOUNG. 125 " Well, I landed, and found nayself walk- ing London streets, not the rich, healthy, jol- ly young fellow who had come to have his fling there, but a poor, shattered wretch, al- most in rags, and just ^ a bag of bones.' All that remained of my fortune were the few nuggets which I had sewed into my belt. I turned them, not without some difficulty, into food and cjothing of the commonest kind, to make my money last as long as I could. I did not want to come home quite a beggar; if I had been, I should certainly never have come home at all. "By mere chance, for I had altogether for- gotten times and seasons, the day I came home was a Christmas mornins:. The bells were ringing, and all the good folk going to church — my mother, too, of course. We met at the garden gate. She didn't know me, not the least in the world, but just bowed, thinking it was a stranger coming to call, till I said ^ Mother,' and then — " Well, boys, that's neither here nor there. 126 ^Y SISTER'S GRAPES. It's a commonplace saying, but one can't hear it too often, or remember it too well — that, whatever else we have, we never can have but one mother. If she's a good one, make the most of her; if a middling one, put up with her ; if a bad one, let her alone, and hold your tongue. You know whether I have any need to hold my tongue about your grandmother. " But I can't talk about her, or about that Christmas Day. We did not go to church, and I doubt if we ate much Christmas din- ner; but we talked and talked, straight on, up to ten o'clock at night, when she put me to bed, and tucked me in, just as if I had been a little baby. Oh, how pleasant it was to sleep in sheets again — clean, fresh sheets — and have one's mother — one's very own mother — settling the pillow and taking away the candle ! "My room happened to be that same dressing-room behind the nursery where Lily died. I could see the shelf where the A STORY FOR OLD AND YOUNG. 127 grapes had stood, and the chair I climbed to reach them ; with a sort of childish awe I recalled everything. "^Mother/ I said, catching her by the gown as she said good-night and kissed me, *tell me one thing. What were you doing on my last birthday ? That is, if you re- membered it at all.' " She smiled. * As if mothers ever forget their boys' birthdays !' and then a very gfave look came into her face. "'My dear, I w^as clearing out this room, turning it into a bedroom for any stray vis- itor, little thinking the first would be you. But I did think of you, for I called to mind a naughty thing you once did here, in this very room.* " ' And you said, over again, Hoxo could I take my sister'' s grapes ? I heard it, mother, heard it in the middle of the Atlantic' And then I told her my story. "Now, boys, I ask nobody to believe it, but I believe it myself, and my mother be- 128 ^lY SISTER'S GRAPES. lieved it to the day of her death. It made her happy to think that in some mysterious way she had helped to save me, as mothers never know how, when, and where some word of theirs may save their wandering sons. " For I was a wanderer still. I stayed with her only a month, while my nuggets lasted, and then I worked my passage back to Australia, and began again in the same way, and yet a new way. New in one thing, at least, that every Sunday of my life I wrote to my mother. And when at length I came home, too late for her ! it was not quite too late for the rest of you. Bad is the best, maybe, but I've tried to do my best for you all." " Oh, Uncle Dick !" For he had been as good as a father to some of us, sent us to school and to college, and, what we liked a great deal better, taken us fishing and shoot- ing, and given us no i end of fun. " So, boys," said he, smiling at our demon- A STORY FOR OLD AND YOUNG. 129 stratious of affection — and yet he liked to be loved, we were sure of tliat — " you Lave a sneakino; kindness for me after all ? And you don't think nie altogether a villain, even though I did once take my sister's grapes?" Note. — It may interest readers to know that this story is really " founded on foct ;'' one of those inexplicable facts that we sometimes meet with, and which arc stranger than anything we authors invent in our fictions. 6* ON SISTERHOODS. "I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty; I woke, and found that life was Duty." This couplet was the favorite axiom of a dear old friend of mine, and the keynote of her noble and sorely-tried life of over eighty years. As I sit writing, watching the same hills and the same beautiful river that she watched until she died, it seems a fitting motto for a few words I have lonsr wished to say, and which a chance incident has lately revived in my mind. A young lady, who had been for some time a probationer (or whatever the term may be) in one of those Anglican Sisterhoods which their friends so much admire, their foes so sharply condemn, wrote to me that she was about to make her "profession" there, and wished me to be present at the " service." ON SISTERHOODS. 131 These two words were my only clew as to what kind of ceremony it would be, and what sort of " profession " the girl was about to make. A *' girl " she still was to me, for I had held her in my arms w^hen only a day old ; but in truth she was a woman of thirty, quite capable of judging, deciding, and act- ing for herself. She had had a hard life, was claimed by no very near ties or duties, and I felt a satisfaction in thinking she had the courage to choose a decided vocation ; which would be to her at once a refuge and an oc- cupation, for the Sisterhood bore the name of the Orphanage of Mercy. Whatever her life there might be, it could not be an idle life. I had a certain sympathy with it, which prompted me at once to say I would go ; and I went. It was one of those gray, wet summer days which always strike one with a melan- choly nn naturalness, like a human existence lost or wasted. As I stood in the soaking rain before a large monastic building, the 132 ^N SISTERHOODS. door of wliicli was opened by a nunlike portress, I was conscious ofasligLt sensation of pain at the difference between this home and a bright, haj)py English home. But not all homes are bright and happy, and not all — nay, very few — wives and mothers have the placid, contented smile of the Sister who came to w^elcome me in the parlor — a regular convent-parlor or "parloir," which is what the word originally came from. She explained that Sister — — (iny girl) was "in retreat," and could see no one till after the service ; and then we stood talking for several minutes about her and about the Orphanage. The Sister's dress, manner, and, indeed, the whole atmosphere of the place, were so essentially monastical, that I in- voluntarily put the question, "Are you a Catholic?" " Not a Roman Catholic," she answered, after a slight hesitation. " We belong to the Catholic Church — the Church of Eng- land." ON SISTERHOODS. I33 Verily — and I will add happily — our mother Church of England shelters under her broad wings so many diverse broods ! — would that they could keep from pecking one another ! When I found myself in the chapel, it seemed at first exactly like one of those chapels that we see in Norman cathedrals. The high altar was brilliantly lighted, and adorned w^ith white lilies, the faint, sweet smell of which penetrated everywhere and mingled with that of incense. But there w^ere none of those paltry or puei'ile images that abound in Roman Catholic churches; nothing except the large crucifix, the sign of all Christians, to which no good Christian ought to object. Protestant — in the sense of Luther and Calvin, and of modern Low Church and Presbyterianism — the place cer- tainly was not; but no unbiassed eye-wit- ness could have seen any tokens of Mariola- try or saint-worship in it or in the service held there. 134 ON SISTERHOODS. Gradually the whole chapel became filled with Sisters, who I saw were divided into three classes — the black -veiled, the white- veiled, and the novices, or probationers. These latter wore the dress of ordinary young ladies, while the Sisters were undeniably nuns; in their plain black gowns and white or black veils of some soft - falling, close-fit- ting material — a costume as becoming and comfortable as any woman can wear. It seemed to suit all the faces, young and old, and some were quite elderly and not over- beautiful; but every one had that peculiar expression of mingled sweetness and peace which — let the contemptuous world say what it will — I have found oftener on the faces of nuns — Catholic Petites Soeurs des Pauvres or Protestant Sisters of Charity — than among any other body of women that I know; a fact which I neither attempt to account for nor argue from, but merely state it as such. After a somewhat long pause of waiting, ON SISTERHOODS. 135 and reading of the printed service which was given us, there was a slight stir and turning of heads. A distant chanting of female voices (some, I own, a trifle out of tune) announced the procession — very like the pro- cessions w^ith which we are familiar in for- eign churches, save that there were only two priests and no acolytes. The rest were Sis- ters ; except two young ladies dressed in full bridal costume, who, with a motherly nun behind them, came and knelt before the al- tar. Neither looked excited nor agitated; and when the service began there followed a series of solemn questions, asked and an- swered, just like a marriage ceremony, in which I recognized the voice of m/y girl, per- fectly natui'al, collected, and firm. The chaplain, or priest — his vestments were very like a Koman Catholic priest's, but every word he uttered might liave come from an evangelical pulpit — calling each by her Christian name — I, as her godmother, had given my girl hers, and would liave been 136 ^N SISTERHOODS. loatli she should change it — asked "if she were joining this community of her own free will, if she would endow it with her worldly goods, and take the vow of obedience to its rules?" I heard no other vow except that something was said about chastity as "the spouse of Christ." To all these was an- swered distinctly, "I will, God being my helper." Afterwards the dress of each — gown, veil, and cross — was brought to the altar and blessed in a few simple words, and the two girls went out, during the singing of a hymn, to reappear presently in another procession, with their secular dress forever laid aside. There was no cutting-off of hair, or prostration under a black pall, as in Cath- olic countries — merely the change of dress. But that was very great. In the young nun who walked up to the altar, taper in hand, I hardly recognized my girl, so spirit- ualized was her honest face by the pict- uresqueness of the close white veil, and by lier expression of entire content — as sweet ON SISTERHOODS. I37 as that I have seeu on some young brides' features as they went down the aisle to the church door. " Are you content ?" I said, as, when ser- vice was ended, she came to me, in a large room, where Sisters, clergy, and friends Avere standing about, taking tea or coffee, and chattins: in a most mundane and secular fashion. "Are you really satisfied?" " Perfectly," she answered ; and kissed me and her other friends and kindred, not with- out emotion, but with no excitement or ex- altation ; indeed, she was the last person in the world to be what the French call exaltee^ or to give way to romantic impulses of any kind. "But you must come to speak to the Mother. I do so want you to see our Mother. It is she who has done it all." By which was meant the Orphanage — es- tablished almost entirely by this lady, as I afterwards learned. And when I saw the Mother I was not surprised. Some people strike you at once with their 138 ON SISTERHOODS. ' personality, physical and mental, which car- ries with it an influence that, you feel, must affect every one within their reach. I have never seen any one in whom this individual- ity was more strong, except perhaps Cardi- nal Newman, of whom the Mother vividly reminded me. Tall, stately, and beautiful — the beauty of middle age just becoming old age — of few words, but with a clasp of the hand and a smile beyond all speaking, I could understand how the Mother was just the woman to be head of a community like this, ruling it as much by her influence as her authority. I had some talk with her, and also with the officiating priest — chaplain, "spiritual director," the anti-Ritualists would call him; but, if a wolf in sheep's clothing, he looked the most harmless of vulpine foes, as he stood sipping liis coffee and chatting to his cheerful flock, who fluttered around as wom- en always will round a clergyman, even in "the world." This, though inside a quasi- ON SISTERHOODS. 139 nunnery, seemed a very merry world, and all the nuns went about conversing much as people do at afternoon teas and garden-par- ties, except that there was not one who had that jaded, bored, or cross look so often seen on the faces of the rich and prosperous Mdio have nothing to do. "And now you must come and see our orphans. We have over two hundred. We take them in from anywhere or anybody; no recommendation needed except that they are orphans, and destitute. We feed, clothe, and educate them until they are old enough to work, and then we find them work, chief- ly as domestic servants. Come and look at them." Oi'phanages are at best a sad sight: the poor little souls seem such automatons, brought up by line and rule, just No. 1, No. 2, No. 3 — of no importance to anybody. But this class — a sewing- class, I think it was, chiefly of big girls, who rose with bright faces and showed their work with intelli- 140 ^N SISTERHOODS. gent pride — was something quite differ- ent. More different still was the long pro- cession of " little ones " which we met as it was going out of the chapel to supper and bed. " Children, don't you know me?' said the new-made Sister, stopping the three smallest — such tiny dots ! — and calling them by their Christian names. They hesitated a minute, then, with a cry of delight, sprang right into her arms. She held them there: one over her shoulder, the other two clinging to her gown> Three orphans and a solitary w^oman, husbandless, childless, laughing and toying together, kissing and kissed — they made a group so pretty, so happy, so full of God's great mercy, compensation, that it brought the tears to one's eyes. I Avent away after having gone over the whole establishment ; w'ent away feeling that there w^as a great deal to be said — much more than we Protestants till lately had any idea of — on behalf of Sisterhoods. ON SISTERHOODS. 141 " I slept, and dreamed tliat life was Beauty ; I woke, and found that life was Duty." Alas ! this is the experience of almost every woman who has any womanly qualities in her at all, long before she reaches old age ! Hov/ to combine the two — how to arrange her life so that duty shall not draw all the beauty out of it, while mere beauty shall al- ways be held subservient to duty — this is the crucial test, the great secret which must be learned during those years — most painful years they often are! — between the first passing away of youth and the quiet accept- ance of inevitable old age. Should age come and find the lesson unlearned, it is too late. Marriage is supposed to be the great end of a woman's being, and so it is. Few will deny that the perfect life is the married life — the happy married life — though I have heard people say that " any husband is better than none." Perhaps so ; in the sense of his being a sort of domestic Attila, a " scourge of God" to "whip the offending Adam" out 142 ON SISTERHOODS. of a woman and turn her into an angel, as the wives of some bad husbands seem to be- come. But, in truth, any wife whose hus- band is not altogether vicious has a better chance of being educated into perfection, through that necessary altruism which it is the mystery of marriage to teach, than a woman sunk in luxurious single-blessedness, who has no work to do, and nobody to do it for, and so seems almost compelled into that fatal selfism which is at the root of half the evils and miseries of existence. Thus we come back to the great question, becoming more difficult as we advance in — shall we call it civilization ? Those women who do not marry, what are they to do with their lives ? For some of them Fate decides, often se- verely enough, laying on them the sacred burden of aged parents, or helpless brothers and sisters, or orphan nephews and nieces. Others, left without natural duties or ties, have the strength to make such for them- ON SISTERHOODS. 143 selves. I know no position more happy, more useful (and therefore happy), than that of a single woman who, having inherited or earned sufficient money and position, has courage to assume the status and responsi- bilities of a married woman. She has, ex- cept the husband, all the advantages of the matronly position, and almost none of its drawbacks. So much lies in her power to do unhindered, especially the power of doing good. She can be a friend to the friendless and a mother to the orphan ; she can fill her house with happy guests, after the true Christian type — the guests that cannot re- pay her for her kindness. Being free to dis- pose of her time and her labor, she can be a good neighbor, a good citizen — whether or not she ever attains the doubtful privilege of female sufi*rage. Her worldly goods, her time, and her afi*ections are exclusively her own to bestow wisely and well. Solitary, to a certain extent, her life must always be; but it need never be a morbid, selfish, 144 ON SISTERHOODS. or dreary life. I think it miglit be all the better for our girls of this generation, which understands the duties and destinies of wom- en a little better than the last one, if we were to hold up to them — since they cannot all be wives and mothers — this ideal of a happy single life, which lies before any girl who either inhei'its an independence, or has the courage and ability to earn one. But such cases are, and must always be, exceptional. The great bulk of unmarried w^omen are a very helpless race, either ham- pered with duties, or seeking feebly for duties that do not come ; miserably overwoiked, or disgracefully idle; piteously dependent on male relations, or else angrily vituperating the opposite sex for their denied rights or perhaps not undeserved wrongs. Between these two lies a medium class, silent and suf- fering, who has just enough money to save them from the necessity of earning it, just enoucfh brains and heart to make them feel the blankness of their life without strength ON SISTERHOODS. 145 to obviate it — to strike out a career for them- selves, and cheat Fate by making it neither a sad nor useless one. It is for these stray sheep, sure to wander if left alone, but safe enough in a flock with a steady shepherd to guide them, that I open up for consideration the question of Sisterhoods. Not that I defend the medisGval system of nunneries, where, from a combination of motives, good and bad, religious and w^orld- ly, girls were separated from all family ties and dedicated to the service of God. It can- not be too strongly insisted that the family life is the first and most blessed life, and that family duties, in whatever shape they come, ousrht never to be set aside. Also that the service of God is also best fulfilled throu2:li the service of man — the utilizincj of an aim- less existence for the good of others. It is this which constitutes the strength and the charm of a community, for such work can best be done in communities. The mass of w^omen are not clever enougli, or brave 7 146 ON SISTERHOODS. enough, to cany out anything single-handed. Like sheep, they follow the leader; they will do excellent work if any one will find it for them, but they cannot find it for themselves. How continually do we hear the cry, "I want something to do;" "Tell, me what to do, and I'll do it !" as she very likely would if shown how. Of course, a really strong woman would never need this; she would under no circum- stances be idle — if she could not find work, she would make it. But for one like this, capable of organizing, guiding, ruling, there are hundreds and thousands of women fitted only to obey ; to whom the mere act of obe- dience is a relief, because it saves them from responsibility. To them a corporate institu- tion, headed by such a one as the Mother of that Orphanage of Mercy I visited, is an actual boon. It protects them from them- selves — their weak, vacillating, uncertain selves — puts them under line and rule, gives them the shelter of numbers and the strencrth ON SISTERHOODS. 147 of a common interest. It is astonishing what good can be done by a combined body, who, as individuals, would have done no good at all. An institution Avhich would absorb the w\iifs and strays of — let us coin a word, and say gentlewomanhood — ladies of limited income and equally limited capacity, yet very good women so far as they go ; which could take possession of them, income and all, sav- ing and utilizing both it and themselves — would be a real boon to society. For what does not society suffer from these helpless excrescences upon it — women w^ith no ties, no duties, no ambition — who drone away a hopeless, selfish existence, generally ending in qpnfirmed invalidism, or hypochondria, or actual insanity ! — for diseased self-absorption is the very root of madness. It is a strange thing to say — yet I dare to say it, for I be- lieve it to be true — that entering a Sisterhood, almost any sort of Sisterhood where there was work to do, authority to compel the do- 148 ON SISTERHOODS. ing of it, and companionsLip to sweeten the same, would have saved many a woman from a lunatic asylum. But it must be the ideal Sisterhood, not that corruption of it as seen in foreign coun- tries which rouses the British ire at the very name of " nun." It must be exactly opposite in many things to the Roman* Catholic idea of a girl giving up " the world " and becom- ing "the spouse of Christ." Many a wife and mother belono^inc: to and living: in the world is just as much the spouse of Christ — if that means devoting herself to good works for the love of Him — as any vowed nun. Besides, the Sisterhood ought not to be composed at all of girls, but of women old enough to choose their own lot, or submit to Fate's choosing it for them ; who either can- not or wnll not marry; who have no near ties, but need the support and sweetness of adopted affections and extraneous duties. It may be very pleasant to escape from the irk- someness of tending a crabbed parent's de- ON SISTERHOODS. 149 cliiiing years, or enduring the ill-humors of an invalid brotlier or sister, in order to ded- icate one's self to general philanthropy, to put on a picturesque dress and devote one's days to good deeds and choral services; but this ought not to be allowed. Family ties should always come first, and any Sisterhood which attempts to break them merits severe repro- bation. In the heroic life of Sister Dora one is painfully conscious of this, both in herself and in the fact, if it be a fact, that she was prohibited from going to tlie deathbed of her own father, and sent off to nurse some other person, by order of her superior. I was glad to hear my girl say that immediately after her "profession" she was to go away for a month to be with a young married sister in her hour of trial. And in answer to another question of mine she said, " Oh, yes, even though you do not agree with us, our Mother will let me come and see you whenever you please." 150 ON SISTERHOODS. This, the liberty of visiting friends, ought — subject to fit regulations — to be an es- sential element in all Sisterhoods. So also should be the right of returning entirely to " the world," if they so choose. Some sort of vow, or promise, must be made — else the community would dwindle into a mere re- lio-ious boardino-'house. But the vow oucrht to be, like that of marriage, absolutely bind- ing while it lasts, and intended to last in permanence, yet with the possibility of dis- solution did inevitable circumstances require this; a possibility which is practically a cer- tainty, since by our English laws no con- ventual establishment can detain its inmates for life, or against their own will. And besides beincy women of an asre to exercise their own discretion, they ought to be allo\ved full time to do so. Two or three years, at least, my girl had been resident with the Sisterhood before she made her "profession" — that is, assumed the white veil ; and three or four years more, she told ON SISTERHOODS. 151 me, must pass before she was allowed to take the black one. " And then ?" I said. " Even then we could break our vows; but," with a quiet smile, " I think none of us ever do so." Which is common-sense also. After seven years' trial of their vocation, and being al- ready past middle age, most women would feel that their lot was finally settled, and have no mind to change it. Another absolute law of the ideal Sister- hood must be work. In this nineteenth century we cannot go back to the medisDval notions of ecstatic mysticism or corporeal penitences. I am sure that the respectable Sisters of the Orphanage of Mercy neither flagellate themselves, nor wear hair shirts, nor sleep on cold stones, nor rise at one in the morning to chant litanies. So far as I could see, these ladies live a simple, comfort- able, wholesome life; such as will best main- tain their own health, that they may use it for the good of others. And truly this ought to be the primary 152 ON SISTERHOODS. object of Sisterhoods. They should never be merely religious bodies — and yet I doubt if a purely secular Sisterhood would long ex- ist. A hospital nurse once said to me, " To do our work well, we must do it for the love of God." Tlie same may be said of all work. But it must be done, also, for the love of man ; that " enthusiasm of humanity " which prompts w^omen to devote themselves to charitable labors, such as teaching the young, or nursing the old and sick. Every religious community ought to have distinct and con- tinuous secular work; and a community of women contains so many diflScult elements that nothing but work and plenty of it, guided by a head Avhich is competent to keep the machine perpetually going, will save it from collapse. Therefore it should combine, if possible, beauty with duty. I was glad to see that this particular Sisterhood had made their own dress, and that of their orphans, as picturesque as possible; that their building ON SISTERHOODS. I53 within and without was not only convenient but elegant, and their chapel and its service as beautiful as God's house should be. And why not? Lives devoted to duty cannot afford to have any beauty taken out of them. And no one can look round on this lovely outside world without feelino^ that its Creator meant us to love beauty, to crave after it, and to attain it whenever possible. The Low-Church Bible-woman who goes about in her rusty black, with a bundle of tracts in one hand and a basket in the other, is a most useful and honorable person; but the lady in a nun's dress, or with the white cross of the hospital nurse, carries with her a certain atmosphere of grace which cannot be without its influence even upon the rough- est natures. In our ardent jDursuit of the Good, we are apt to forget, especially as we grow older, that its power is doubled when it is allied to the Beautiful. Of course, if every woman were strong enough to live and work alone, to carry out 154 ^^ SISTERHOODS. her own individual life and make tlie best of it, without leaning on any one else, there would be no need for Sisterhoods. But it is not so. Very few women can take care of themselves, to say nothing of other peo- ple. Some say this is. the fault of nature, some of education — a centuries-Ion 2: educa- tlon into helpless subservience. Whichever theory is right, or, perhaps, half right and half w^rong, the result is the same. For such women the life in community is eminently desirable. It provides shelter, un- der the guardianship of a capable head ; com- panionship, for only the strong and selfde- l)endent can endure, permanently, their own company — and, perhaps, even for them this is not always good ; sympathy, something on which to expend their barren and shut-up affections ; and, lastly, it supplies work, that definite and regular Avork which is the best solace of sorrow, the best safeguard against temptation, the only efficient help to that ideal condition of a "sound mind in a sound ON SISTERHOODS. 155 body " \Yhicli all women, however feeble tlieir minds and ugly their bodies, should strive for to the very end of life. These advantages — not small, even though weighed against many disadvantages — were no doubt the reason why, for so many cen- turies, conventual establishments existed, and still do exist, in Catholic countries. When our Protestant horror of them has a little subsided, we may learn — indeed, in many in- stances we are already learning — to eliminate the good from the evil, and make use of, with- out abusing it, Hamlet's not altogether un- wise advice to Ophelia, " Go, get thee to a nunnery — go — go — go !" And some of us, who set sail so gayly for the natural port but never found it, and now drift hither and thither, helmless and hope- less, upon the world's desolate sea — some of us would, perhaps, be not sorry to go, and none the worse for going, into some quiet shelter, where we might take up our daily burden, and grow stronger in the carrying of 156 C>N SISTERHOODS. it, knowing we did not carry it alone. It is the old fable of the bundle of sticks ; in which the feeble stick, the crooked stick, the broken stick can bind itself up with the stronger ones, and by association with oth- ers be able to cure its own deficiencies and do good service to the end of its days. For w^hich purpose I sa}^ these few ^vords about Sisterhoods. FACING THE WORLD. A STORY FOR BOYS. "Mother, I think I'm almost glad the holidays are done. It's quite different, going back to school again Avhen one goes to be captain, as I'm sure to be. Isn't it jolly?" Mrs. Boyd's face, as she smiled back at Donald, was not exactly "jolly." Still she did smile, and then there came out the strong likeness often seen between mother and son, even when, as in this case, the features are very dissimilar. Mrs. Boyd was a pretty, delicate little Englishwoman; and Donald took after his father, a big, brawny Scotsman, certainly not "pretty," and not always sweet. Poor man ! he had of late years had only too much to make him sour. Though she tried to smile, and succeeded, 158 FACING THE WORLD. tlie tears were in Mrs. Boyd's eyes, and her mouth was quivering. But she set it tightly together, and then she looked more than ever like her son — or, rather, her son looked like her. He was too eac^er in his delio;ht to notice her much. "It is so jolly, isn't it, mother? I never thought I'd get to the top of the school at all, for I'm not near so clever as some of the fellows. But now I've got my place, I like it, and I mean to keep it. You'll be pleased at that, mother ?" "I should have been — if — if — " Mrs. Boyd tried to get the words out, and failed, closed her eyes as tight as her mouth for a minute — then opened them, and looked her boy in the face gravely and sadly. "It goes to my heart to tell you — I've been 'waiting to say it all morning — but, Donald, my dear, you will never go back to school at all." "Not go back ! when I'm captain, and you and fatlier both said tliat if I got to be that A STORY FOR BOYS. 159 I should stop till I was seventeen, and now I'm only fifteen and a half! Oh, mother, you don't mean it ! Father would not break his word. I may go back ?" Mrs. Boyd shook her head sadly, and then explained, as briefly and calmly as she could, the heavy blow which had fallen upon the father, and, indeed, upon the whole family. Mr. Boyd had long been in weak health — about as serious a trouble as could have be- fallen a man in his profession — an account- ant, as they call it in Scotland. Lately he had made some serious blundei's in his ^^- ures, and his memory had become so uncer- tain that his wife persuaded him to consuljb a first-rate Edinburgh physician, whose opin- ion, given only yesterday, after many days of anxious suspense, was that he must give up work altogether, or sink into that most hope- less of illnesses — creeping paralysis — which, indeed, had already begun. " Poor father, poor father !" Donald put his hand before his eyes. He was too big a 150 FACING THE WORLD. boy to cry, or, at any rate, to be seen crying, but it was with a choking voice that he spoke next. "I'll take care of you all; I'm old enough." "Yes, in many ways you are, my son," said Mrs. Boyd, who had had a day and a night to face her sorrow, and knew she must do so calmly. " But you are not old enough to manage the business. Your father will require to take a partner immediately, which will reduce our income one half. Therefore we cannot possibly afford to send you to school again. The little ones must go; they are not nearly educated yet, but you are. You will have to face the world, and earn your own living as soon as ever you can, my poor boy !" "Don't call me poor, mother. I've got you and father, and the rest. And, as you say, I've had a good education, so far. And I'm fifteen and a half — no, fifteen and three quarters — almost a man. I'm not afraid." "Nor I," said his mother, who had waited A STORY FOR BOYS. 1^1 a full minute before Donald could find voice to say all this, and it was stammered out awkwardly and at random. " No, I'm not afraid because my boy has to earn his bread. I had earned mine for years, as a governess, when father mari'ied me. I began work be- fore I was sixteen. My son will have to do the same — that is all." That day the mother and son spoke no more together. It was as much as they could do to bear their trouble, without talk- ing about it, and besides Donald was not a boy to " make a fuss " over things. He could meet sorrow when it came; that is, the little of it he had ever known, but he disliked speaking of it, and perhaps he was riojht. So he just " made himself scarce " till bed- time, and never said a word to anybody, un- til his mother came into the boys' room to bid them good-night. There were three of them, but all were asleep except Donald. As his mother bent down to kiss him, he 1(32 FACING THE WORLD. put both arms round her neck, which he did not often do. " Mother, I'm going to begin to-morrow." " Begin what, my son V "Facing the world, as you said I must. I can't go to school again, so I mean to try and earn my own living." "How?" " I don't quite know, but I'll try. There are several things I could be — a clerk, or even a message-boy. I shouldn't like it, but I'd do anything rather than do nothing." Mrs. Boyd sat down on the side of the bed. If she felt inclined to cry, she had too much sense to show it; she only took firm hold of her boy's hand, and waited for him to speak on. " I've been thinking, mother, I was to have a new^ suit at Christmas; will you give it now ? And let it be a coat, not a jacket ; I'm tall enough — five feet seven last month, and growing still. I should look almost a man. Then I would go round to every of- A STORY FOR BOYS. 1^3 fice in Edinburgh and ask if tbey wanted a clerk or anything — I wouldn't mind taking amjtiiing — to begin with. And I can write a decent hand, and I'm not bad at figures. As for my Latin and Greek — " Here Donald gulped down a sigh, for he was a capital classic, and it had been sug- gested that he should go to Glasgow Uni- versity and try for "the Snell," which has taken so many clever young Scotsmen to Balliol College, Oxford, and thence on to fame and prosperity. But, alas ! no college career was now possible for Donald Boyd. The best he could hope for was to earn a few shillings a week as a common clerk. He knew this, and so did his motheiv But they never complained. It was no fault of theirs, or of anybody's. It was just, as they de- voutly called it, " the will of God." " Your Latin and Greek may come in some day, my boy," said Mrs. Boyd, cheerfully. " Good work is never lost. In the meantime your plan is a very good one, and you shall 164 FACING THE WORLD. liave your new clothes at once. Then do as you think best." "All right; good-night, mother," said Don- ald, and in ^ve minutes more was fast asleep. But though he was much given to sleep- ing of nights — indeed, he never remembered lying awake for a single hour in his life — during daytime there never was a more " wide-awake " boy than Donald Boyd. He kept his eyes open to everything, and never let the "golden minute" slip by him. He never idled about; play he didn't consider idling (nor do I!). And I am bound to confess that every day until the new clothes came home was scrupulously spent in crick- et, football, and all the other amusements which he was as good at as he was at his lessons. He wanted to "make the best of his holidays," he said, knowing Avell that for him holiday-time, as well as school-time, was now done, and the work of the world had begun in earnest. The clothes came home on Saturday night. A STORY FOR BOYS. 105 and lie went to eliurcli in them on Sunday, to his little sisters' great admiration. Still greater was their w^onder when, on Monday morning, he appeared in the same suit, look- ing "quite a man," as they unanimously agreed, and, almost before breakfast was done, started off, not saying a word of where he was going. He did not come back till the younger ones were all away to bed, so there was no one to question him, which was fortunate, for they might not have got very smooth answers. His mother saw this, and she like- wise forbore. She w^as not surprised that the bright, brave face of the morning looked dull and tired, and that evidently Donald had nothinor to tell her. " I think ril go to bed," was all he said. " Mother, will you give me a * piece ' in my pocket to-morrow? One can walk better when one isn't so desperately hungry." " Yes, my boy." She kissed him, saw that he was warmed and fed — he had evidently IQQ FACING THE WORLD. been on his legs the whole day; then sent him off to his bed, where she soon heard him delightfully snoring, oblivious of all his cares. The same thing went on, day after day, for seven days. Sometimes he told his mother what had happened to him and where he had been, sometimes not. What was the good of telling ? it was always the same story. Nobody wanted a bo}^, or a man, for Donald, trusting to his inches and his coat, had applied for man's work also, but in vain. Mrs. Boyd was not astonished. She knew how hard it is to get one's foot into ever so small a corner in this busy world, where ten are always struggling for the place of one. Still, she also knew that it never does to give in, that one must leave no stone un- turned if one wished to get work at all. Also, she still believed in an axiom of her youth, "nothing is denied to well-directed labor." But it must be real, hard labor, A STORY FOR BOYS. 1(37 and it must also be *^ well-directed." So, though her heart ached sorely, as only a mother's can, she never betrayed it, but each morning sent her boy away with a cheerful face, and each evening received him with one, which, if less cheerful, was not less sym- pathetic. But she never said a word. At the week's end — in fact, on Sunday morning as they were walking to church — Donald said to her, " Mother, my new clothes haven't been of the slightest good. I've been all over Edinburgh, to every place I could think of — writers' offices, merchants' offices, wharves, railway-stations, but it's no good. Everybody wants to know where I've been before, and I've been nowhere, ex- cept to school. I said I was willing to learn, but nobody w^ill teach me; they say they can't aftbrd it — it is like keeping a dog and barking yourself — which is only too true," added Donald, with a heavy sigh. " Maybe," said Mrs. Boyd ; yet as she looked up at her son — she really did look up 108 FACING THE WORLD. at him, be was so tall — she felt that if his honest, intelligent face and manly bearing did not win somethino- at last, what was the world coming to? "My boy" she said, " things are very hard for you, but not harder than for others. I remember once, when I was only a few years older than you, finding myself with only half a crown in my pocket. To be sure, it was a whole half crown, for I had paid every halfpenny I owed that morn- ing, but I had no idea when the next half crown would come. However, it did come. I earned two pounds ten the very next day." "Did you really, motherr said Donald, his eyes brightening. " Then I'll go on, and ril not ^gang awa' back to my mither,' as that old gentleman advised me, a queer, crabbed old fellow he was too, but he was the only otie who asked my name and ad- dress. The rest of them — well, mother, I've stood a good deal these seven days," Donald added, gulping down something between a "fuif " of wrath and a sob. A STORY FOR BOYS. 169 "I am sure you have, my boy." " But ril hold on ; only you'll have to get my boots mended, and, meantime, I should like to try a new dodge. My bicycle — it lies in the washing-house — you remember I broke it, and you didn't wish it mended, lest I should break something worse than a wheel. Perhaps! It wasn't worth while risking my life for mere pleasure, but I want my bicycle now for use. If you'll let me have it mended, I can go up and down the country for fifty miles in search of work, to Falkirk, Linlithgow, or even Glasgow — and I'll cost you nothing for travelling expenses. Isn't that a bright idea, mother ?" She had not the heart to say no, or to - suggest that a boy on a bicycle applying for work was a thing too novel to be eminently successful. But to get work was at once so essential and so hopeless that she would not throw any cold water on Donald's eagerness and pluck. She hoped, too, that spite of the eccentricity of the notion, some shrewd, 8 170 FACING THE WORLD. kind-hearted gentleman might have sense enough to see the honest purpose of the poor lad, who had only himself to depend upon. For his father had now fallen into a state of depression which made all application to him for either advice or help worse than useless. And as both himself and Mrs. Boyd had been orphans, without brother or sister, there were no relatives to come to the res- cue. Donald knew, and his mother knew too, that he must shift for himself, to sink or swim. So after two days' rest, which he much needed, the boy went off again " on his own hook," and his bicycle, which was a degree better than his legs, he said, as it saved shoe- leather. Also he was able to come home pretty regularly at the same hour, which was a great relief to his mother. But he came home nearly as tired as evei", and with a de- spondent look which deepened every day. Evidently it was just the same story — no work to be had, or if there was work, it \Yas A STORY FOR BOYS. 171 struggled for by a score of fellows, with age, character, experience, to back them; and Donald had none of the three. But he had one quality, the root of all success, and al- most certain of success in the end — dogged perseverance. There is a saying that we British gain our victories, not because we are never beaten, but because we never will see that w^e are beaten, and so go on fighting till we win. " Never say die," w^as Donald's word to his mother, night after night. But she knew that those who never say die, sometimes do die, quite quietly ; and she watched with an anxious heart her boy growing thinner and more worn, even though brown as a berry, with constant exposure all day long to wind and weather, which was now becoming less autumn than winter. After a fortnight Mrs. Boyd made up her mind that this could not go on any longer, and said so. "Very well," Donald answered, accepting 172 FACING THE WORLD. her decision, as he had been in the habit of doing all his life. Mrs. Boyd's children knew well that whatever her will was, it was sure to be a just will, and for them, not herself, who was the last person she ever thought of. "Yes, I'll give in, if you think I ought, for it's only wearing out myself and my clothes to no good. Only let me have one day more, and I'll go as far as ever I can, perhaps to Dunfermline, or even Glasgow." She would not forbid, and once more she started him off, with a cheerful face, in the twilight of the wet October morning, and sat all day long in the empty house — for the younger ones were now all going to school again — thinking sorrowfully of her eldest, whose meny schooldays were done forever. In the dusk of the afternoon a card was brought up to her, with the message that an old gentleman was waiting below, wishing to see her. A shudder ran through the poor mother, A STORY FOR BOYS. 173 wLo, like many another mother, hated bi- cycles, and never had an easy mind when Donald was away on his. The stranger's first word was anything but reassuring. " Beg pardon, ma'am, but is your name Boyd, and have you a son called Donald, who went out on a bicycle this morning?" " Yes, yes — has anything happened ? Tell me quick." "I'm not aware, ma'am, that anything has happened," said the old gentleman ; " I saw the lad at eio-ht this morninsr. He seemed to be managing his machine uncommonly well. I met him at the foot of a brae near the Dean Bridge; he had got off and was w^alking, so he saw me and took off his cap. I like politeness in a young fellow towards an old one." " Did he know you ? for I have not that pleasure," said Mrs. Boyd, polite though puzzled; for the man did not look quite a gentleman, and spoke with the strong accent of an uneducated person ; yet he had a kind- 17 J: FACING THE WORLD. ly exjDression, and seemed honest and well- meaning, tboiigh decidedly " canny." '^ I canna say lie knew me, but he remem- bered me, which was civil of him. And then I minded the lad as one that had come to ask me for work a week or two ago, and I took his name and address. That's your son's writing ?" — he fumbled out and showed a scrap of paper. "It's hona jide^ isn't it?" " Certainly." " And he really is in search of work ? He hasn't run away from home, or been turned out by his father for misconduct, or anything of that sort? He isn't a scamp or a ne'er-do- weel ?" "I hope he does not look like it!" said Mrs. Boyd, proudly. " No, ma'am, you're right, he doesn't. He carries his character in his face, which, may- be, is better than in his pocket. It was that which made me ask his name and address, though I could do nothing for him." " You were the gentleman who told him A STORY FOR BOYS. 175 you couldn't keep a clog and bark yourself," said Mrs. Boyd, amused and just a shade hopeful. "Precisely, nor can I. It would have been cool impudence in a lad to come and ask to be tau2:ht his work first and then paid for it, if he hadn't been so very much in earnest that I was rather sorry for him. I'm inclined to believe, from the talk I had with him at the foot of the brae to-day, that he would bark with uncommon little teach- ing. Material, ma'am, is what we want. I don't care for it's being raw, if it's only the right material. I've made tip my mind to try your boy." "Thank God!". " What did you say, ma'am ? But — I beg your pardon." For he saw Mrs. Boyd had quite broken down. In truth, the strain had been so long and so great that this sudden relief was quite too much for her. " I ought to beg your pardon," she said, at last, "for being so foolish; but we have 176 FACING THE WORLD. had hard times of late." And then in a few simple words she told Donald's whole story. The old man listened to it in silence. Sometimes he nodded his head, or bent his chin on his stout stick as he sat, but he made no comments whatever except a brief " Thank you, ma'am. Now to business," con- tinued he, taking out his watch, " for I'm due at dinner, and I always keep my appoint- ments, even with myself. I hope your lad's a punctual lad ?" "Yes, he promised to be back by dark, and I am sure he will be." " I can't wait, though. I never wait for anybody, but I keep nobody waiting for me. I'm Bethune & Co., Leith, merchants — practically, old John Bethune, who began life as a message-boy, and has done pretty well, considering." He had, as Mrs. Boyd was well aware. Bethune & Co. was a name so well known that she could hardly believe in her boy's A STORY FOR BOYS. 177 good-luck in getting into the house in any capacity whatever. " So that's settled," said Mr. Bethune, ris- ing. "Let him come to me on Monday morning, and I'll see what he is fit for. He'll have to begin at the very bottom, sweep the ofBce, perhaps — I did it myself once. And I'll give him — let me see — ten shillino-s a week to hemn with." "To begin with," repeated Mrs. Boyd, gently but firmly. "But he will soon be worth more. I know my boy." "Very well. When I see what stuff lie is made of, he shall have a rise. But I never do things at haphazard, and it's easier going up than coming down. I'm not a benevoleift man, Mrs. Boyd, and you needn't think it. But I've fouo-ht the world pretty hard myself, and I like to see those that are fio-htinsr it. Good-eveuinsr. Isn't that your son coming round the cor. ner? Well, he's back exact to his time, at any rate. Tell him I hope lie'll be as 8* 178 FACING THE WORLD. punctual on Monday morning. Good-even- ing, ma'am." Now, if this were an imaginary story, I migbt wind it up by a delightful denouement of Mr. Bethune's turning out an old friend of the family, or developing into a new one, and taking such a fancy to Donald that he i.nmediately gave him a clerkship with a large salary, and the promise of a partner- ship on coming of age; or this worthy gen- tleman should be an eccentric old bachelor who immediately adopted that wonderful boy, and befriended the whole Boyd family. But neither of these things, nor anything else remarkable, happened in the real story: which, as it is literally tiiie, though told Avith certain necessary disguises, I prefer to keep to as closely as I can. Such wonder- ful bits of "luck" do not happen in real life; or happen so rarely that one inclines at hist to believe very little in either good or ill fortune, as a matter of chance. There is A STORY FOR BOYS. J 79 always something at the back of it wliicli furnishes a key to the whole. Practically, a man's lot is of his own making. He may fail, for a while, imcleservedly; or he may succeed, equally undeservedly; but, in the lono; run, Time brino-s both its revenc^es and its rewards. As it did to Donald Boyd. He has not been taken into Bethune & Co. as a partner; and it was lono; before he became even a clerk, at least with anything like a high salary. For Mr. Bethune, so far from being an old bachelor, has a large family to pro- vide for, and is bringing up several of his sons to his own business, so there is little room for a stranger. But a young man who deserves to find room generally does find it — or make it; and though Donald started at the lowest rung of the ladder, he may climb to the top yet. He had "a foir field and no favor;" in- deed he neither wished nor asked for favor. He determined to stand on his own feet 180 FACING THE WORLD. from the first. He had hard work and few holidays; made mistakes, found them out and corrected them ; got sharp words and bore them ; learned his own weak points, and, not so easily, his strong ones. Still he did learn them; for unless you can trust yourself, be sure nobody else will trust you. This was Donald's great point. He was trusted. People soon found out that they might trust him; that he always told the truth, and never pretended to do more than he could do; but that what he could do, they might depend upon his doing jiunc- tually, accurately, carefully, and never leav- incr off till it was done. Therefore, though others might be quicker, sharper, more " up to things " than he, there was no one so re- liable ; and it soon got to be a proverb in the office of Bethune & Co. — and other offices too — ^' If you wish a thing done, go to Boyd." I am bound to say this, for I am paint- ing no imaginary portrait, but describing an A STORY FOR BOYS. Igl individual who really exists, and who may be met any day walking about Edinburgh, though his name is not Donald Boyd, and there is no such firm as Bethune & Co. But the house he does belong to value the young fellow so highly that there is little doubt he will rise in it — rise in every ^vay, probably to the very top of the tree — and tell his children and grandchildren the story, which in the main features I have recorded here, of how he first began Facing the World. POSTSCRIPTUM. This story, written some years ago, was, for various reasons, left unpublished. Alas! there is no need to keep silence now, for the boy has passed into " the land where all things are foi-gotten." But none who knew him will ever forget the brave, brief young life, and all the promise that it gave. " Donald Boyd" — I will not give his real name — died a few months ago, still only a boy, but leaving behind him the honorable 182 FACING THE WORLD. memory of a reliable and lovable man. He was followed to the grave by the heads of his firm, and all his fellow-clerks, as well as by a crowd of devoted friends. Out of that too early grave — into the mystery of which we dare not look, for God knows best — let the dear dead boy speak to other boys, bid- ding them grow up like him, and fill the place in the world that he would have filled — but the Father called him home. A PARIS ATELIER. Some generations since it was considered unnecessary, not to say impossible, for women to work ; in the last generation it was often necessary, but never quite *^ respectable ;" in our generation it Las become, not only nec- essary, but essential; nay, even desirable. Whatever be the cause, undoubtedly in this nineteenth century a large proportion of our women, old and young, have either no mas- culine protectors at all, or such as are prac- tically useless, if not worse than useless. And though nothing will ever abrogate the natural law, that women's work should be within the home, if possible ; still, when im- possible, tlie work must be accepted and done outside. Working women in all ranks, from our queen downwards, are, and ought to be, objects of respect to the entire community. 184 ^ PARIS ATELIER. Feeling this strongly, I started, one bright Marcli morning, to investigate an atelier for female students on the south side of Paiis. It was somewhat difficult to find, Init at last I was directed, to a courtyard, where, emerging from among some stunted, mel- ancholy-looking shrubs, a woman pointed to a wooden stair, leading, she said, to " Vat& I mounted, and boldly knocked at the door. It opened, disclosing a large room, full of artists — all feminine — not working, but scattered in groups, and chattering in several tongues, English preponderating, as only women, and young women, can chat- ter. They did not look particularly tidy, having on their working-clothes — an apron and sleeves grimed with chalk, charcoal, and paint — but all looked intelligent, busy, and happy. The room was as full of easels as it would hold ; and in the centre was a rostrum, wliere the model, a picturesque old woman, sat placidly eating her morning A PARIS ATELIER I35 bread and — I Lope not garlic, but it looked only too like it. The working woman may have a few un- desirable characteristics, such as indifference to fashion, a tendency to rough hair and not over-clean cuffs and collars, but, take her for all in all, she is a much more interesting person than your idle butterfly, the fashion- able young lady. These girls, for none seemed much past girlhood — were of all na- tionalities — English, American, French, Ger- man; and of all conditions in life. Some were pretty, some plain, some just ordinary; but I did not see one stupid face, or one bad face, among them all, and all appeared cheer- ful, busy, and in earnest. I went round the room, examining the work, and politely hoping my presence did not interrupt it. " Oh, no ! madame does not disturb us at all. We have been working^ ever since ei^ht this morning. We are glad of a rest. So is Angela" (the model, to whom they all 185 ^ PARIS ATELIER seemed very kind). " We have the draped model in forenoons, the nude of afternoons. Monsieur" (naming the artist-head of the atelier) 'Ogives us instruction; perhaps two minutes each, but we learn most by experi- ence and practice, and by criticising one an- other's work." This work seemed to me much above the average. A little rough, perhaps, being rapidly done, with broad effects rather than delicate finishing; but there was nothing of the lady-amateur about it. So far as it went it was real Art. The model, an old woman with a book on her lap, seemed as much in- terested in it as the artists themselves. ^'She is a good old soul — Angela — ^and she sits capitally, but none of us can speak much to her. She is Italian." At wdiich I w^ent up and said a few words to her in her own tong;ue. The old woman, who, having finished munching her crust, was just settling herself, steady as a statue, with her book on her lap. A PARIS ATELIER. 187 started up, her two black eyes gleaming, and her yellow, leathery face growing all alive with more than pleasure — ecstasy — " The siguora speaks Italian ! The signora is go- ing direct to Kome !" And in a perfect tor- rent of Italian Angela poured out her his- tory ; how she was over eighty, and had chil- dren and grandchildren in Eome, which she had left four years ago, and only hoped she might live to go iDack to it again. ^'Eoma, bella Koma! And the signora is going there! Soon — soon?" added she, clasping her skinny, clawlike fingers on my arm, and looking at me with a passionate pathos. Then, seeing the circle of easels already formed, she at once remounted to her place, reopened her book, and was again the mere model. Poor old Anc^ela! There are other models at the atelier — women only — as the students are exclusive- ly women. But, as private models are ex- pensive, the young ladies often sit to one an- other. Igg A PARIS ATELIER. " If you will come home with me," said the student I knew best, " I can show you a portrait which w^e all think extremely good. We hope it may get into the Salon. Miss ■ and I live in the same pension. While painting this picture she found she w\as spending her money too fast, so w^ent up higher and higher, to the very top of the pen- sion. There she finished it, in a tiny room you could scarcely turn round in, so I brought it down to my room to be on view." " Dow^n " was only au quatrieme^ and " my room" not more than twelve feet square; but we found the picture a very clever one. It leaned against the wall, upon the brick floor, wdiich was covered by a scrap or two of carpet. The other furniture of my young friend's "home," as she had affectionately called ifc, consisted of a bed, a table, four chairs, and a small washing - stand and toilet ap^^aratus. There was also a shelf, whereon stood a tea- pot, a cup and saucer, one or two plates, a A PARIS ATELIER. 189 vase with primroses and ivy-leaves, and a second saucer filled with earth, where the tiniest of cowslip roots was trying to put out a leaf or two. *^ I hope it will grow. I dug it up in our country walk last Sunday," said the mistress of the place. " Yes, when I light the fire the room is very cosey. I had a tea-party of six here last night. When we give tea-parties we generally bring our own teacups and chairs. At our ])en%ion we are all very friendly, being chiefly English and Ameri- cans. One girl is lucky enough to have her mother with her, the rest of us are mostly alone. As you say, if we were ill, it would be rather dreary, but we seldom are ill; we have no time for it. If we were, I am sure we should all be very kind to one another." I asked if they ever made acquaintance with the young men of the same atelier, or at least studying under the same artist. "No; our work is quite separate. We seldom meet them, and if we did, we are too 290 ^ PARIS ATELIER. busy for any nonsense. Still, we girls find amusement in our own quiet way. Now and then we go to the theatre, when we can afford it, which is not too often. But you must admire the portrait; isn't it clever? and my view — the two towers of St. Sulpice — which I mean to paint some day. And look at my kettle and my frying-pan, and my two presses, one for provisions, the other fur clothes. Yes, indeed, I am exceedingly com- fortable." And the girl, still only a girl, who not long before had been a rich man's daughter, surrounded by every luxury, stood, with mingled dignity and independence, pointing out all the good things she had, and main- taining a stoical silence on what she had not. A common story, doubtless only too com- mon in that atelier. But the workinc: w^om- an, if not compelled to w^ork too late in life, has a far happier life than that of the rich idler, who possesses everything and enjoys nothins:. A PARIS ATELIER. 191 However, better than any words of mine, will be what one of these girl -students says herself, in some notes which I asked her to make for me. I give them just as they are. "For any girls coming to study art in Paris, to live as we do, in a quiet penstotij is far better and more economical than to board with a French family, unless we wish to master the language. Nothing can be more simple than our habits. We have one room, which is both sitting-room and bed- room, and we descend to dinner when we choose, not otherwise. We cook our own breakfast over a spirit-lamp at eight a.m., and go straight to the atelier, where we work till twelve. Then dejeuner, and work again till five p.m. Returning to our peii- sion, we can go down to dinner in the salle- a-manger if we like, but more often we boil our own kettle, have tea and an ^.gg, and spend the evening over a book. It does sound rather a monotonous life foi* us, and 192 ^ PARIS ATELIER. yet we all find it so very attractive that the weeks slip Ly only too fast. " Even the regular morning walk is pleas- ant. At this hour the Quartier Latin is filled with street-sellers wheelinsr their stalls about, housewives marketing in their white caps, and little children in black pinafores being taken to school by their honne or gar- go7i ; streams of men, too, on their way to business, a newspaper in one hand, and a roll in the other. Hard- working Paris is waking up to its daily life. "Our atelier gives us every opportunity for the study of character, for in daily work together most people's natures are clearly displayed. There is the elderly spinster, prevented from study in her youth, and al- ways envying the younger students who have their life before them. Beside her is a patient artist who has been toiling for years without making any visible progress, but who still hopes to succeed on-e day. Another, equally industrious, with her whole A PARIS ATELIER. I93 soul in ber work, scorns such a small thing as outward appearance, and her dress, once aesthetic, looks like a worn-out o'ohe de chara- hre^ slowly melting into a bundle of rags. "But a fevv^, who combine the love of fashion with the love of art, come here in costumes more suited to the Champs Elysees than to our crowded studio, where they are always in serious danger of rubbing against the palettes, knocking down the easels, etc. " Then, of course, no atelier would be com- plete without its bore. She is generally elderly, and makes a practice of coming in late, and sitting down in the front rank, or before it, ingeniously contriving to conceal the model from the view of earlier-comers, who naturally protest. Then the obscuring easel is removed by its owner with an air of long-suifering politeness, a few inches, no more, still annoying another victim, who, de- spairing of justice, moves away, and begins work afresh, leaving the bore in triumphant possession of the best place in the room. 9 194 ^ PARIS ATELIER. "We have some interesting groups of friends. One pair might almost rival the Ladies of Llangollen. For seven years they have never been separated, and seem quite indispensable to each other. It is the clever one who is the most devoted, who carries the canvas, washes the brushes, arranges the easel, and, in short, does everything for her companion. "But companionship is one of the pleas- antest bits of our student life. Our frugal tea-parties are delightful. The hostess boils the kettle and sets the table, and we all sit round the fire and discuss the last exhibi- tion, especially our own professor's work therein, or the success of one of us in getting into the Salon, which is held as a universal triumph to all. Conversation never flags, for some of us have lived at the ends of the earth, and can describe them well ; and oth- ers are political spirits, who belong to a de- bating society, and wish to reconstruct the world after their own pattern, which the rest A PARIS ATELIER 195 good-naturedly but resolutely disapprove. Then where to spend our Sunday afternoons is always an important consideration. Near- ly always we go out of town by road or rail, and after six days spent in the atelier and its close atmosphere, reeking with oil and turpentine, the smells, sights, and sounds of the country are only too delightful. '^Such are our pleasures; but, after all, the most interesting thing is our work. Ev- ery Monday we have the excitement of posing the new model. We begin enthusiastically; but on Tuesday, after the professor has wit- nessed our drawings, our high spirits sink a little. Lower still they get on Wednesday and Thursday; by Friday, when the second professor comes, they are usually down to zero. Saturday finds us in deepest despair, only comforted by the resolution to do bet- ter next week; and that day is generally devoted to water - color, or pen - and - ink sketches, or portraits of some picturesque fellow -student — usually kept as a souvenir 190 A PARIS ATELIER. when the time for leaving the atelier comes, and the girls who have been working to- gether all winter go their several ways — to meet again, when and where, who knows? Probably never." But still they have done good work, poor girls, and mingled it with a great deal of in- nocent enjoyment. And though Paris is not a desirable place for a girl to live and study alone, still necessity has no law, and in com- munity is much safety. These young students seem to go through the ordeal unscathed, and, so far as I could judge, without being unfemininized; for they are working women, and, as they honestly say, have " no time " for anything but work. It is idleness which breeds the follies, or worse than follies, of many young people; teaches tliem to sub- stitute flirtation for love, and the craving after mere admiration for that devotedness which, however sad, is at least more noble than the selfish vanity of a conquering beau- ty. The busy life of a working woman may A PARIS ATELIER. 197 harden her a little, but it is not likely either to degrade or deteriorate her. And very often, in good time, " If Love comes, be will enter And soon find out the way."' But, should he never come, she learns to do without him, and will be all the happier and better woman for having put her life to use- ful account. Therefore, as a help to the many girls who must work, and do work, I have given this simple, truthful, and faithful picture of how they work in a Paris atelier. KISS AND BE FEIENDS, A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER. Part I. — Dublin. Whither should we go ? That was the question. I meekly suggested " To Ireland." Now, " she's Irish " has long been my family's tender excuse for certain failings of mine, which, let us hope, like some of my poor country's, lean to virtue's side. Espe- cially a foolish habit of liking to be happy rather than miserable ; and of fraternizing and sympathizing with my fellow-creatures, believing them all friends till I find them out to be foes. Also — is this Irish too ? — an irresistible impulse to say a good word for the losing side. So we decided to follow the Prince of Wales's example, and his foot- steps, to that forlorn and much-abused land of Hibernia. KISS AND BE FRIENDS. 199 Our English friends regarded us with won- dering pity. Whether they expected us to be blown up with dynamite, or shot at from behind a hedge, I cannot tell, but they warned us of a cyclone that was coming — whence many other bad things for poor old Ireland do come — fi-om America, and wished us safe back with impressive earnestness. It did come, that cyclone. We heard it howling in the roofs of Chester Cathedral, we saw it shaking the apple-blossoms in the quaint old gardens by the walls, and bend- ing the trees by the river-side; finally, we had to take refusre from it in the shelterinoj *'rows." But by the time the Wild Irish- man had swept us through the pretty Welsh country to Holyhead, the sun shone so bright, and the steamer looked so large and steady, that we felt it would be cowardly to linger. "Faint heart never won," or de- served to win, anything. We risked the voyage — and Ireland, and have never re- pented. 200 KISS AND BE FRIENDS. Had the Princess of Wales set her foot on Kingstown pier, and driven through Dublin streets in such a downpour as we did, she might have doubted that extraordinaiy phys- iological fact, " Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes." For it was no accidental tear, but a veritable influenza. Yet not an hour afterwards, when the warm Irish wel- come had quite neutralized the unkindness of the Irish skies, they too cleared, and melted into the most lovely sunset; delicate aquamarine, with a pale -yellow glow, such as no artist could paint, and-* very few ever see, except in Ireland. But the cyclone was not spent. We woke to the wettest of wet Sundays, which mat- tered little, as I had resolved to spend it in St. Patrick's Cathedral, of which, and the music, I had heard so much. Not untruly. Many years before I had seen it in its mel- ancholy, neglected decay, before it was " re- built with porter bottles," as Irish wit chron- icles its munificent restoration by one of the A WUITSUNTIDE WANDER. 201 Guinness family. I half expected to find, as often happens, that restoration had been ru- ination. But it was not so; all had been done in excellent taste. And as to the mu- sic, even after having heard the finest cathe- dral services in England and France, and the various funzioni of two Easters at Eome, I found it beautiful. Beethoven's "Hallelu- jah," from the "Mount of Olives," part of Spohr's " Last Judgment, " and Handel's " Lift up your heads, O ye gates," were given with rare perfection. Indeed, for refinement and even balance of voices, accuracy and pu- rity of singing, any music lover would find the choir of St. Patrick's worth crossing the Channel to listen to, which is saying a good deal. And as for the sermons. Irish preaching is popularly supposed to be "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." But Dean Reichel has added depth and solidity to his native force. Brief, terse, vivid, a clear skel- eton of thouglit, clothed with the bone and 9* 202 I^ISS AND BE FRIENDS. muscle of language — very muscular language too; no mincing of matters in the smallest degree — the two sermons we heard from him that Sunday were a treat to listen to. Only, was it wise, was it necessary, in a semi-Cath- olic country, while explaining his own inter- pretation of the mysterious text, Christ's preaching " to the spirits in prison," that the dean should abuse so vehemently the doc- trine of purgatory, for which at least equal arguments may be found by its defenders? And in his afternoon discourse upon the text, " Remove from among you the accursed thing" — which was listened to by an enor- mous and dead -silent crowd, such as might have gathered under Luther or Savonarola — could not the preacher's passionate denun- ciations of sin have been followed by as pas- sionate an entreaty to sinners — " Why will ye die, O House of Israel ?" Can any human soul be driven out of hell and into heaven with a cat o' nine tails ? w^as ever any doctrine enforced wholesomely by A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER. 203 the blows of a sledge-hammer? I believe not. Yet unquestionably it was a most powerful sermon. And when, finally de- scribing the state of a man, God-forsaken, in whom conscience itself is dead — which the dean held to be the mysterious sin against the Holy Ghost — he lowered his voice and said, after a solemn pause, " For this there is no repentance, either in this world or in the world to come," the hush of awed silence which came over the dense congregation was something never to be forgotten. All the more so that they were, I grieve to say, by no means a well-behaved con- gregation. Before service they chattered, stared about, and smiled in a most objec- tionable way. Two ladies especially, whose age should have taught them better — I hope they will read this paper and remem- ber the indiejnant rebuke of another old lady, who hates the desecration, by chatter- ing, of any house of muvsic; doubly so when it is also the house of God. 204 ^ISS AND BE FRIENDS. Two more ladies evoked a little harmless moralizing. One was a regular type of the "untidy Irishwoman," her handsome, ill- made sealskin jacket hanging on her broad back like a sack; her bonnet, all flowers, feathers, and jet beads, stuck on the top of a mass of hair, soft, fine, with scarcely a gray thread in it, but looking as if it had not been combed for a week. Her clothes altogether seemed to have been "thrown on with a pitchfork" — and yet her large, fat, foolish face wore a look of contented enjoyment. Very different was the face beside her — clear-cut, worn, and rather sad, the silvery hair laid smoothly over the forehead. Her bonnet, close and comfortable, and her mantle, of very common materials, but well- fitting, neat, and whole, completed the pict- ure of the "tidy Irishwoman." — Some of the very tidiest women I have ever known have been Irishwomen! I speculated on these two, and thought what a curse one must be, and what a blessing the other, in some un- known home! A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER 205 An Irish home ! Novelists of a past gen- eration — Miss Edge worth, Lever, Lover — have painted it for English amusement, pity, or contempt. And more than one modern writer, notably the author of "Hogan,M.P.," has done the same, using the wonderful power of Irish wit and Irish pathos to make error funny, and evoke sympathy, not mere- ly with sorrow, but w^ith actual sin. All may be true enough, the recklessness and the poverty, the outward gaudiness and in- ward squaloi*. But is Ireland the only coun- try where exists that miserable habit of put- ting the best on the outside, and living for show, not reality? where everything is al- lowed, morally and physically, to go to rack and ruin for want of that " stitch in time " which " saves nine " — that systematic order, economy, punctuality, which form the very keystone of all home honor and home hap- piness ? I have seen in wealthy England and prudent Scotland homes which answered to 206 KISS AND BE FRIENDS. this wretched picture, and in Ireland homes just the contrary. Not rich, it is true — no- body is rich in Ireland — but where a noble economy makes all needful comforts attain- able, where to dress simply and live care- fully are things neither to shrink from nor be ashamed of, while to spend time, thought, and all available money upon the poor and needy is a self-sacrifice so natural that none regard it as such ; where the heads of the household are its guides and helpers as well as its rulers, and the servants would almost die for " the family ;" where Catholic and Protestant live together in harmony, the landlord going among his tenants, needing no protection from policeman or revolver, and the mistress taking her rounds of charity at any hour of the day or night, as safe and as honored as any Catholic nun. I am paint- ing no ideal picture. Such homes exist, and while they do there is hope for poor old Ireland. But to our wanderings. We seemed des- A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER. 207 tilled to end them in despair. Eain, rain, nothing but rain. It swept alike down the wide, handsome Dublin streets and the miser- able Dublin slums, where the prince and his son won everybody — as we heai'd on all sides — by the kindly word and smile which, to the warm Irish heart, is better than gold. One expedition we made — to Phoenix Park — perhaps the finest, as it is much the largest, park of any European city. We looked first at the Viceregal Lodge, hidden in its trees, and then, within sight and hearing of it, at the tiny cross marked with pebbles in the roadway, which records one of the darkest trao:edies of modern times — the murder of Cavendish and Burke. Truly our English nobles must have some- thing intrinsically noble about them to go about day by day face to face with possible death ; for months the lord-lieutenant never stirred out without a military escort, each with a drawn sword in his hand and a re- volver in his pocket Why should be leave 208 ^ISS ^^^ ^^ FRIENDS. his safe;, wealthy home and easy life, if not for the sake of duty? No one can look in the viceroy's face, so full of care and yet full of kindness, without feeling that whatever the disloyal may say, it is the face of an honest, generous, and kindly man. His ad- versaries should at least give him the benefit of the doubt. Despite of rain, hail, and bitter cold, more like January than the near-approaching June, we determined to pursue our Whitsuntide wander. It is the heart, not the weather, which makes the holidav. And so we left Dublin, and started for a country place, where our welcome was sure. Ireland's picturesqueness lies in its coast- scenery. Its centre is mostly a dead level of bog or pasture-land. There are few or none of the smiling harvest fields which make England so pretty; the climate refuses to grow cereals, and, alas ! the people have not the persistent industry required for cul- tivated farming. Neat hedgerows, well-kept A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER 209 woodlands, good roads, and, above all, the sweet, contented-looking villages and hamlets that one sees continually in England, must not be looked for here. Yet it was a green and pleasant country that we swept through — no, crawled through — Irish railways al- ways crawl — and, reaching our station at last, we mounted the familiar outside car with its lively Irish pony. Excellent ani- mal ! that day he did forty miles in sixteen hours. Does any one know how delightful it is to drive across country in an outside car, with just enough necessity for holding on to keep your mind, amused, and just enough jolting and shaking to give you " the least taste in life" of horse exercise? How pleasant to feel the wind in your face, and see the rain- clouds drifting behind you — to catch in pass- ing the sights and scents of moorland gorse, of ditch-bank primroses, and hidden hya- cinths, and the yellow gleam of whole acres of cowslips ! I never did see so many cow- 210 KISS AND BE FRIENDS. slips ! a sign, alas ! of poor laud. When the soil improves the cowslips disappear. And for birds — there seemed a blackbird in every tall tree, and a dozen larks singing madly over every bit of common. But of human habitations there were very few. Now and then a group of little Kerry cows — mostly black — or a family of happy pigs, often black too, dotted the pastures, implying another family close by, who turned out to gaze at us from w^hat might be either cabin or cow-shed, or both — half clad boys or girls, one could hardly tell which, with wild shocks of hair and splendid Irish eyes, full of fun and intelli^-ence. And sometimes we passed a woman with a shawl over her head, Irish fashion, carrying a huge bundle and perhaps a child as well, w^ho looked at us an instant, then looked away. Thin, poverty-pinched faces they often were, but neither coarse, sullen, nor degraded, nothing like the type of low Irish that one sees in towns. Much to be pitied truly, but cer- A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER 211 tainly not to be despised. Some, perbaps, dropped a courtesy to "the quality," but, generally, they just looked at us with a dull curiosity, and passed on. Little enough have " the quality " done for thera, poor souls ! Every two or three miles we came upon handsome lodge-gates and lodges, marking the entrance to beautiful parks, and saw, gleaming through the trees, the " big house," deserted and going to ruin. Two thirds of the landlords in this county are absentees. " Sometimes," we were told, " they spend a few weeks here — we meet them at dinner- parties, but they always come protected, and very often it is only the ladies of the family who venture out at all. In the bad times, generally our carriage was the only one that was waiting without a policeman on it." What a picture! Whose fault is it? That of the ignorant masses, or the educated aristocracy? — the "fathers and mothers" of the land, who might as well expect to bring up their children " with a kiss and a blow," 212 KISS AND BE FRIENDS. alternating with the indifference of total ab- sence, as think to find Ireland a prosperous country when landowners thus forsake it. I am no Home- ruler, no Parnellite. I loathe the agitators who, chiefly for their own ends, and for the love of excitement and notoriety, play upon the affectionate, impul- sive Irish heart to its destruction. But I own, when I looked at these grand mansions, or pleasant country-houses, slowly dropping to decay, and thought of what such are in England — the centre of that educating inter- course and generous sympathy between rich and poor which is an inestimable benefit to both — I felt that "the finest peasantry on earth," as I once heard their champion O'Connell call them, have a good deal to complain of. Not all. Not in that oasis of the desert, that haven of peace where we took up our brief rest. But this trenches on the sanctity of private life, so I will pass it over. A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER. 213 Part IT. — Killarney. And only the most persistently punctual of people could ever have got there! To start at 7.30 a.m. from a brio-ht breakfast- table, drive ten Irish miles in pouring rain, and wait anxiously at a small, comfortless station, where, of course, the train was late — and it took a frantic struG^G^le to catch the Killarney train at all — was an expendi- ture of more courage and strength than one could well spare. But it was done. And though we laughed at our own folly in call- ing this a "pleasure" excursion, and repeated inwardly the old Scotch song, " Why left I my hame f — (why, indeed !) still there we were, and we must make the best of it. We did; and were rewarded. About Limerick Junction the clouds began to break, and by the time we had passed through the dull, dreary, level country which lies between it and Killarney, the skies had cleared, and burst into that passionate mingling of storm 214 KISS AND BE FRIENDS. aud sunshine which is the charm of a moun- tainous country, especially when that coun- try is Ireland. Tourist raptures are always objectionable, but when one has seen the Swiss, Italian, Scotch, and English lakes and still finds Killarney lovely — there must be something in it. "Lovely" is the right word — not grand, or startling, or gloomily sublime, but full of a lovable loveliness, that warms and soothes the spirit more than I can express. "When, after a pleasant walk, through masses of yellow gorse, among orchises and prin> roses, and under avenues of stately trees, we sat down on the soft, dry sand of the lake shore, and looked across at the Toomies and Purple Mountain — truly purple, of the deep- est hue of hills after rain — it seemed as if we had left the world behind us at an immeas- urable distance, and that this was a place where all life's storms would cease, " And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace." And yet it is only a day and a half^ easy A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER. 215 journeying, from London ! Would that many a tired London-dweller, needing a brief re- pose, and dreading the worry and discom- fort of going abroad, would try it. There are three excellent hotels at Killar- ney. The Lake, the Eailway, and the Vic- toria, which latter we cliose, as it was farther out of the town. Nor did we ever regret our choice. As this paper is meant to exemplify its title, and as nothing makes one love a coun- try like knowing it, also because the simplest means of civilizing a country is to plant on it, at intervals, comfortable hotels, where travellers can " rest and be thankful," as at this one at Killarney — I do not hesitate to say a good w^ord for the Victoria. It is built on Lord Kenmare's land, and its visitors have the privilege of going any- where about the Kenmare grounds. Beauti- ful architecturally it is not. Outside it looks something like a barrack, but inside its ar- rangements are admirable. " Most un-Irish," 216 KISS AND BE FRIENDS. sarcastic Saxons would say, in its order, clean- liness, punctuality; but in the essentially Irish qualities of kindliness, politeness, and pleasantness, it may favorably compare with any hostelry we ever visited. It has, too, most of its resources within itself. The dear little Kerry cows feeding in the twilight fields implied milk, cream, and butter ad libitum J the hens clucking at early dawn awoke a hope of new-laid eggs; and we watched our future dinner carried past the windows in the shape of an enormous newly-caught salmon. Unpoetical facts these, but they greatly add to the advantages of a holiday wander. "We shall be almost as comfortable as at home," said we. And we were. We had only two days to " do" Killarney, so we set about it systematically. Day the first — Tore Waterfall, Mucross Abbey, and woods, the middle and lower lake with its islands. Day the second — the Gap of Dunloe, the upper lake, the Long Eange, and A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER. 217 back to the lower lake, on whose shore was our hotel. This programme covered most of what we wished to see, and the intelligent landlord arranged it for us — as he will for any tourist — with cars, boats, boatmen, lunch, everything most easy and compara- tively inexpensive, for there was no bargain- insr and no extortion. A slight shower fell as we drove through Killarney town, with its shabby dreariness, and its groups of idle chatterers standing at street corners. Oh, if Irish men — and women — would only spend in working the time they waste in talking, what a different coun- try theirs might be ! Tore Waterfall was — ^^vell ! not grand, but very pretty. And Mucross Abbey was like most old abbeys, except for a stately yew- tree in the cloisters, which, with a peculiarity rare among yew-trees, had refused to shoot out a single branch till fairly above the walls, and then spread out into a splendid tree. An omen, may it be, of poor old Ireland, if 10 218 KISS AND BE FRIENDS. •ever she can attain God's free air and liglit, unencumbered by prejudice on one side and superstition on the other. Hope seemed to dawn, as we noticed the exceeding neatness and aspect of cultivation in the Mucross property, and heard what good landlords the Herberts were, how "the masther" knew every tenant on his estate, and how his mother and sister used to visit all the sick and poor. And though he was then in Amei'ica, Mr. Herbert never foi'got anybody, and everybody looked and longed for his coming back. If he had only been there wdien the princess came ! and could have shown her the old abbey, and got her to plant trees as the queen did for his fjithei*, when she was little more than a girl — six flourishing young oaks, that promise to last a thousand years. The princess planted nothing, but she seemed to admire the place extremely. "And she gave me a I'eal gold sovereign, bless her purty fi\ce !" added the guide. Her giving it herself A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER. 219 seemed to toucli his old heart as much as the sovereicrn. Everywhere we found that the sweet looks of the princess, the kindly geniality of the prince, had left a vivid impression; and while driving through Mucross Woods, and rowino: to the Wine-cellars and the Colleen Bawn island, where, as London play -goers know, Danny Mann tried to drown Eily O'Connor, it was pleasant to think how our royalties must have enjoyed it all, and how it possibly taught them that the sad face of Ireland could be made to smile. And will — when landowners learn to live, though never so simply and economically, upon their own land and among their own people, in- stead of leaving their tenantry to the mercy of any mischievous agitator, who tries to persuade them that all their misfortunes are wrongs, and tliat English misgovernment is at the bottom of it all. Possibly; yet neither a human being nor a country ever falls under the curse of misgovernment if it knows how to govern itself. 220 KISS AND BE FRIENDS. We shared in the universal opinion that the best thing which could happen to Ire- land would be a royal residence, such as was spoken of for Prince Albert Victor, and where, if he imitates his parents at Sand- ringham, his example would prevent more evil and do more good than any Crimes Act, for it would shame back tlie absentee land- lords, cause them to spend in Ireland the money now w^asted in London, Paris, and Heaven knows where, so that in course of years — the evil of generations cannot be remedied in a day — the desert might rejoice and blossom as the rose. Killarney does. Though decidedly " nat- ure with her hair combed " — it is combed so skilfully as to be almost imperceptible. The magnolias, hydrangeas, and eucalyptus trees, and especially the great woods of self- sown arbutus, look as if they had sprung up of their own accord. AVe glided past them softly as upon a summer sea, till suddenly one of our boatmen threw a rug over us to A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER. 221 keep out the spray, and then we found our- selves tossing like a cockle-shell upon waves which needed experienced oarsmen to face at all. It is often so. Sudden storms come down from the mountains, making navigation so riskv that sailino-'boats are never allowed on the lakes of Killarney ; but the boatmen are equal to all other emergencies. They are a very fine race; our two, an old man and a young one, were as handsome as Venetian gondoliers, and as courteous. We did not wonder that the stroke-oar had been chosen to row the piincess's boat, and was among the fortunate number for whom the prince had left twenty pounds. Many a bit of pleasant and funny gossip did they indulge us with as they pulled us into smooth water and landed us, nothing loath, upon " sweet Innisfallen," Moore's " fairy isle." It is, indeed, a fairy isle. That May even- ing, which might well have been preceded 222 KISS AND BE FRIENDS. by the lovely May morning when the O'Don- ohue rides across the lake, with his ghostly train — shall we ever forget it! Beautiful Innisfallen ! in its total solitude and silence, except for the sheep browsing on the green turf, and the thrushes singing in the great ash-trees, what a dream of deliii^ht it was ! and always will be — like that "bower of roses by Bendemeer's sti'eam." For we all have, or have had, sonle "calm Bendemeer;" some paradise, realized or not, where the nightingales sing "all the day long," and will sing until the brief day of life is over and done. Sweet Innisfallen ! the old monks did well to set up their rest here. In the time when the Angelus was rung, and the mass was sung, in these now ruined^ walls, how civilizing, if nothing more, must have been the influence of these men, who kept the flame of learning alight amid pitchy dark- ness and did such exquisite work as the Book of Kells, ^vhich we saw in Trinity A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER. 223 College, Dublin — strange remnant of so many nameless, long-forgotten lives, which yet must have been useful in their gener- ation. As I took the bit of " real Irish sham- rock" which our old boatman (who remem- bered Daniel O'Connell, and so did I) brought me as a votive offering from In- nisfallen, how I wished that when orange despises green, and Catholic abhors Protes- tant, both parties would recall the fact that they spring from one common ancestor — the ancient church, which for several hundred years was Ireland's only defence against to- tal barbarism. The Gap of Dunloe had yet to be done. It was, I own, rather heavy on our minds. Nine miles on an outside car, five miles on the back of a pony, fourteen miles through the lakes in a boat, were a serious trial to quiet folk decidedly past their youth. Had tlie weather been doubtful we might have meanly shirked the expedition, but the May 224 KISS AND BE FRIENDS. morning rose gloriously ; we could but wish ourselves well through the day, and start. An intelligent American at the tahle dlwte — many Americans take Killarney en Toute from Queenstown — warned us of the nui- sance of beggars. And, sure enough, as soon as we reached Kate Kearney's cottage — that lovely young woman " who lived by the banks of Killarney" has much to answer for! — they bore down upon us in shoals, offering stockings, milk, " potheen," and tben entreating shillings and sixpences with the most shameless persistency; for they were not ragged beggars, but very respectably clad. It was easy to believe the American's story, that yesterday, when he said he had not got a sixpence, they offered to change his half sovereis^n ! Determined to be rid of them, I tried first moral suasion, which signally failed, then a volley of rapid French, which so amazed them that they retired for the moment; then to a woman, who had run after the ponies A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER. 225 for about half a mile, an indignant reproach, " I am Irish, and you make me ashamed of my country. What would my husband say to me if I went gadding about like this, in- stead of doing my work in-doors ? Go home, and do your work." " 'Deed, ma'am, and maybe you're right," was the good-humored answer, and whether from conviction, or because they saw no chance of getting out of me a single half- penny, the beggars stopped. But as long as silly tourists amuse themselves with the weaknesses of the lazy Celtic nature, so long will Irish beggars exist, to the disgrace of themselves and their patrons, who first en- courage and then abuse them. The Gap is fine, though not finer than many a Scottish glen ; but the upper lake is very picturesque, and the Long Range, a river ^xe miles long, into which you pass by an all but invisible outlet, is most beautiful. It ends at the old Weir Bridge, in a rapid which is shot so skilfully that you never 226 KISS AND BE FRIENDS. notice the clanger till it is past; yet a few inches of swerving on either side, and the boat would be dashed to pieces, and the strongest swimmer whirled hopelessly in the current, as has more than once hap- pened. When the prince was here, they told us, he was entreated to get out and walk past the rapids; it would, indeed, have been a woful catastrophe for the future king of England to be drowned at Killarney. He must have seen a good deal, and thought it over a good deal — our sensible, practical, kindly Prince of Wales — but I doubt if he ever saw a sis^ht like that which met our eyes next morning when, after look- ins^ our last on the lake with a sore heart, and thinking how sad more hearts must be who have to leave "the sod" forever, we found the station filled with a croAvd of peo- ple, come to bid good-bye to some emigrants, bound to Queenstown by the same train as the one by which we were just leaving Kil- larney. A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER. 227 Those departing Avere chiefly women, a dozen or so, probably sent for by their friends; the amount of money which reaches Ireland yearly, to bring out friends and kindred to America, is, we were told, enor- mous. They all seemed tolerably cheerful, and were extremely well-dressed — in fashion- able jackets, hats, earrings, and, above all, new kid gloves, with which they shook the bare, rough hands of everybody they came near. But the friends had the ordinary dress of the south of Ireland peasant, with shawl or cloak drawn over their heads ; many of the faces, men's as well as women's, were swollen with crying, and every few minutes some one or other fell on the necks of the emigrants, sobbing broken-heartedly. The Saxon nature never can understand the unrestrained emotion of the Irish, who weep, not silently, but out loud, like children. Hodge, now, would have said good-bye with a sh^ke of the hand, or, perhaps, one shame- faced kiss, and so parted in the most com- 228 ^ISS AND BE FRIENDS. monplace way — forever. But Paddy wails aloud, and never thinks of hiding his poor tear-trodden face. His quick sympathies ex- tend far and wide ; for miles, at every cot- tage whence the train was visible, stood groups waving some poor rag of a handker- chief And the platform of Killarney Station was literally crammed. What stories one mi^-ht have imaojined! There was one farmer -looking lad, who, hid in a corner with his lass, was beseeching her to be faithful ; the tears ran down his cheeks in streams, but hers were quite dry, and she seemed much occupied with her brown vel- veteen "costume" dress, and her hat covered with spangles : I have my doubts as to that young woman's fidelity. There was only one family group — a woman, carrying a huge bundle on one arm and a baby on the other, while an elder boy staggered under a little sister, scarcely smaller than himself The mother had a quiet, sad, determined face, and, with her shawl over her head, might have sat for a Mater Dolorosa. A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER. 229 Indeed, the whole type of face among these poor people was very fine, indicating infinite possibilities for the race. Nor was there any squalid poverty or actual dirt. The young men were stalwart, honest-look- ing fellows, and the girls had a decency and modesty of manner which not all their exu- berant grief could take away. Watching them, I quite believed what I had lately been told by one who had had large ex- perience among the Irish poor, that, as is proved by the registrar's records, the Irish girl's standard of moral purity is far high- er than that of her Scottish or Ens^lish sisters. True, in Ireland there are no end of early, imprudent mari'iages, boys and girls scarce- ly out of their teens hastening to flood the country with helpless little paupers; but they are virtuous and healthy paupers, far less harmful than those wretched abortions of vice and misery which we see, not only in our town streets, but in our agricultural dis- 230 I^ISS AND BE FRIENDS. tricts. These hapless Irish peasants who, thouG-h starving: in miserable mud cabins, manage to lead pure lives, keep the rash marriage -tie unbroken, and bring up their girls and boys as honest as themselves, might they not be made into the strength and de- fence of the country, instead of being drained out of it, carrying its best blood to enrich another land? In truth, the saddest thing to see in Ire- land is the enormous waste of valuable ma- terial, and the misapplication of it to base uses. Many a worse man than that half- civilized savage, Myles Joyce of Maani- trassma, may live unhung; and perhaps more than one of those poor fellows, for whom wives and mothers knelt praying out- side Kilmainham Jail, while the black flag was floating? inside it, mio:ht have been an honest, good fellow at heart, and died in his bed, a decent, valuable citizen, if only he had not been exposed to those malific influences which are always at work in Ireland, and A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER. 231 which to the impressionable Celtic nature are especially dangerous. Irishmen are, in their good points and their bad, exceedingly like children; and they need to be guided and governed like children ; but it should be the loving control of a parent, not the despotic rule of a hard taskmaster, as has so often been the case. And, above all, they should be taught — woe betide all parents if they do not teach this to their children ! — to control and govern themselves. May Ireland's future ruler, who has lately seen with his own honest, parental eyes of what it is capable, lay this maxim to heart ! I may be accused of painting couleur de rose, but I do so intentionally. There are enough writers ready to put into the picture the very blackest hues, or worse, those glar- ing eccentric colors that are at once so funny and so Mse. I know all Ireland's faults; the laugh which, God help the poor souls ! is heard in the midst of misery, and gives 032 KISS AND BE FRIENDS. the impression that this misery is iinfelt; the reckless improvidence, the almost child- ish habit of lying, for it is often more like puerile imaginativeness than deliberate un- truth ; the vehement prejudices, the ridicu- lous pride, and love of outside show, which lias ruined thousands of families. But I also know Ireland's virtues ; its strong purity, its stanch fidelity, its quiet endurance of liard fortunes, its self-respect and self denial. The possibilities of good in it are infinitely greater than its proclivities to what is bad. If any happy future is to come, the reform ought to be social, not political, and to spring from the upper, not the lower class. The Prince of Wales's visit has done more to turn the heart of Ireland towards England than all the legislation of the last twenty years. Why should not the heart of England turn towards Ireland ? Why should not tourists go and investigate it, and by demand create supply, so as to bring English gold into its poverty-stricken districts ? Nay, might not A WHITSUNTIDE WANDER. 233 adventurous capitalists risk a little, both in coin and comfort, by buying land there and starting some useful industries? The great complaint of the people is that there is abso- lutely no work to do. They are obliged to leave their country, because if they stayed in it they would starve. Why not keep them there — they are safer in Ireland than in America — by offering them the practical, sisterly help of wealthy, orderly, industrious England, given in a kindly way, with a cool head, warm heart, and wisely open hand ? In the hope of this, a day which we may never see, but perhaps our children may, I have written ray paper, and called it " Kiss and be Friends." I end it with a few words of advice to Protestants and Catholics, Gov- ernment Officials, and Home-rulers, Nation- alists, Conservatives, Fenians, Parnellites, and the whole set of demagogues, small and great, who trade upon both the vices and the virtues of the Ii'ish character. Those words are written by their own Tommy 234 KISS AND BE FRIENDS. Moore, who, amidst all his foolishness, some- times said a wise thing or two, and. Irish- like, always said it in the most charming way : "Erin, tliy silent tear never shall cease, Erin, tliy languid smile ne'er shall increase, Till like the rainbow's light, Thy various tints unite. And form in Heaven's sight One arch of peace." THE END. CONSTANCE F. WOOLSON'S NOVELS. EAST ANGELS. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25. ANNE. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, U 25. FOR THE MAJOR. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. CASTLE NOWHERE. IGmo, Cloth, |1 00. {A Mw Edition,) RODMAN THE KEEPER. Southern Sketches. IGmo, Cloth, 81 00. {A Neio Edition.) There is a certain bright cheerfulness in Miss Woolson's writing which invests all her characters with lovable qualities. — Jewisli Advocate^ N. Y. Miss Woolson is among our few successful writers of interesting mag- azine stories, and her skill and power are perceptible in the delineation of her heroines no less than in the suggestive pictures of local life. — Jewish Messenger, N. Y. Constance Fenimore Woolson may easily become the novelist laureate. — Boston Globe. Miss Woolson has a graceful fancy, a ready wit, a polished style, and conspicuous dramatic power; while her skill in the development of a story is very remarkable. — London Life. Miss Woolson never once follows the beaten track of the orthodox nov- elist, but strikes a new and richly loaded vein which, so far, 43 all her own ; and thus we feel, on reading one of her works, a fresh sensation, and we put down the book with a sigh to think our pleasant task of read- ing it is finished. The author's lines must have fallen to her in very pleasant places ; or she has, perhaps, within herself the wealth of woman- ly love and tenderness she pours so freely into all she writes. Such books as hers do much to elevate the moral tone of the day — a quality sadly wanting in novels of the time. — Whitehall Review, London. Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. ^3^ IIarpkr «& Brothers will send the above works by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price. VIRGINIA W. JOHNSON'S WOllKS. A SACK OF GOLD. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents. JOSEPH THE JEW. The Story of an Old House. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents. MISS NANCY'S PILGRIMAGE. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, . 40 cents. THE CALDEPvWOOD SECRET. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents. THE NEPTUNE VASE. A Novel. 4to, Paper, 20 cents. TULIP PLACE. A Novel. 16mo, Paper, 25 cents. TWO OLD CATS. A Novel. 4to, Paper, 15 cents. THE CATSKILL FAIRIES. Illustrated by Alfred Fred- ericks. Square 8vo, Illuminated Clotli, Gilt Edges, $3 00. Her novels are replete with dramatic incident; the style is clear and simple narration, with true insight into character. — Brookipi Times. " The Catskill Fairies " is a really charming collection of little stories, in which an attempt, and a successful one at that, is made to open up a vein of national fairy lore. There are twelve' stories in all, told with much force and delicacy of style, togetlier with a qualntness and a sim- plicity that are equally attractive and delightful. There is a playful humor, too, in the manner of telling these pretty tales that is not the least of their claims to attention. . . . The book is copiously and admirably illustrated by Alfred Fredericks, who here fully makes good his title to be considered the best book illustrator in the country. His pictures are not only fine in drawing and rich in effect, but they abound in character, thought, and originality. — Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston. One of the most exquisitely appropriate volumes for the young that could be devised — exquisite in its paper, binding, typography, and illus- trations, and equally so in the graceful, eventful, half- mysterious tales which it contains. Miss Johnson tells a fairy story to perfection — as if Bhe believed it herself — and with a wealth of tricksome and frolic fancy that will delight the young and old alike. . . . Nor could anything be de- vised more apposite to the holidays, or more appropriate for a gift, than this charming book. — Christian. Intelligencer, N. Y. It is handriome in make-up, is beautifully illustrated, and is as interest- ing as could be desired. . . . Miss Johnson evidently understands juvenile literary needs. — Brooklyn Eagle. Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 1^^ The above works sent ty mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the Unitpd States or Ccinada, on receipt of the price. WILL CARLETOFS POETICAL WORKS. CITY BALLADS. By \Yill Cakleton. Illustrated. pp. 180. Square 8vo, Ornamental Cloth, $2 00; Gilt Edges, $2 60. A book of delightful interest for general reading. — Boston Herald. He lias written nothing that so searches the heart as this volume of citj ballads. — Hartford Post. FAKM BALLADS. By Will Carleton. Illustrated, pp. 160. Square Svo, Ornamental Cloth, $2 00 ; Gilt Edges, $2 50. Will Carleton's Ballads exhibit an originality of conception and power of execution Avhich entitle the author to claim rank as a master in this field of poetic literature. — iV. Y. Evening Post. FAEM LEGENDS. By Will Carleton. Illustrated, pp. 132. Square Svo, Ornamental Cloth, $2 00; Gilt Edges, $2 50. Ilonest and faithful and graphic. — Lidependent, N. Y, The " Legends " are tender, true, and infused with that genuine humor which lies near to the pathetic, and is at once softening and strengthening in its influences. There is something veiy genial and unaffected in all these ballads. — Christian Intellif/enccr, N. Y. FAEM FESTIVALS. By AVill Carleton. Illustrat- ed, pp. 168. Square Svo, Illuminated Cloth, $2 00 ; Gilt Edges, $2 50. "Will Carleton has a place in the popular heart. The naivete and hu- mor, the wit and wisdom, of his sojigs are of the sort tliat appeals to the emotions, and every one, whatever his station or knowledge of the scenes with which they deal, can recognize their faithful, hearty eloquence. — Boston Traveller. YOUNG FOLKS' CENTENNIAL KHYMES. By Will Carletox. Illustrated, pp. 124. Post Svo, Cloth, $1 50. Homely Revolutionary incidents done into easily flowing verse, and can- not fail to please and profit the boys and girls for whose benefit they have been written. — iV. Y. Evening Post. Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. t^^" Tlie above works sent, carriage paid, to an;/ part 0/ the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price. OATS OR WILD OATSf Common-sense for Young Men. By J. M. Buckley, LL.D. pp. xiv., 306. 12rao, Clotb, |1 50. It is a good book, which ought to do good on a large scale. . . . Such passages as those headed Tact, Observation, Reflection, Self-command, and tlic like, may be read and re-read many times with advantage. — Brooklyn Union. A book which should be recommended to the consideration of every young man who is preparing to go into a business career or any other iu which he may aspire to become an honorable, useful, and prosperous citi- zen. ... Dr. Buckley knows the trials and the temptations to which young men are exposed, and his book, while written in most agreeable iiinguage, is full of excellent counsel, and illustrations arc given by an- ecdotes and by examples which the author has observed or heard of in his own experience. Besides general advice, there are especial chapters relating to professional, commercial, and other occupations. So good a book should be widely distributed, and it will tell on the next generation. — Philadelphia Bulletin. It is a model manual, and will be as interesting to a bright, go-ahead boy as a novel. — Philadelphia Record. The scheme of the book is to assist young men in the choice of a profession or life pursuit by explaining the leading principles and char- acteristics of different branches of business, so that the reader may see what his experiences are likely to be, and thus be enabled to make an intelligent selection among the many avenues of labor. In order to make liis work accurate and comprehensive. Dr. Buckley has consulted mer- chants, lawj'crs, statesmen, farmers, manufacturers, men in all walks of life, and specialists of every description, visiting and examining their es- tablishments, offices, and studios. From the knowledge thus gained he has prepared the greater part of his book The remainder is given to general advice, and contains the old maxims familiar to all young men from the time of Poor Richard. Success is won by good behavior, intelli- gence, and industry. These are the " Oats." The " Wild Oats " of lazi- ness, carelessness, and dissipation bring ruin, disaster, and misery. The Avork is likely to attract readers fiom its practical value as a compendium of facts relating to the various departments of labor rather than on ac- count of its moral injunctions. It cannot help being very useful to the class of young men for whom it is intended, as also to parents who have boys to start out into the world. — N. Y. Times, Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. tST" IIaupek & BitoTiiKRS will send the abnve work &// vinil, pn/^fajc prepaid, tc any part of the United States or Canada, en receipt of the price. BOOTS AND SADDLES; Or, Life in Dakota with General Custer. By Mrs. Eliz- abeth B. Custer. With Portrait of General Custer, pp. 312. 12nio, Cloth, $1 50. A book of adventure is interesting readinj:^, especially when it is all true, as is the case with " Boots and Saddles," * * * She does not obtrude the fact that sunshine and solace went with her to tent and fort, but it in- heres in her narrative none the less, and as a consequence " these simple annals of our daily life," as she calls them, are never dull nor uninterest- ing. — Evangelut^ N. Y. Mrs. Custer's book is in reality a bright and sunny sketch of the life of her late husband, who fell at the battle of "Little Big Horn."*** After the war, when General Custer was sent to the Indian frontier, his wife was of the part}', and she is able to give the minute story of her husband's varied career, since she was almost always near the scene of his adventures. — Brooklyn Union. We have no hesitation in saying that no better or more satisfactory life of General Custer could have been written. Indeed, we may as well speak the thought that is in us, and say plainly that we know of no bio- graphical work anywhere which we count better than this. * * * Surely the record of such experiences as these will be read with that keen interest which attaches only to strenuous human doings ; as surely we are right in saying that such a story of truth and heroism as that here told will take a deeper hold upon the popular mind and heart than any work of fiction can. For the rest, the narrative is as vivacious and as lightly and trippingly given as that of any novel. It is enriched in every chapter with illustrative anecdotes and incidents, and here and there a little life story of pathetic interest is told as an episode. — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. It is a plain, straightforward story of the author's life on the plains of Dakota. Every member of a "Western garrison will want to read this book ; every person in the East who is interested in Western life will want to read it, too ; and every boy or girl who has a healthy appetite for adventure will be sure to get it. It is bound to have an army of read- ers that few authors can expect. — Philaddphia Preas. These annals of daily life in the army arc simple, yet interesting, and underneath all is discerned the love of a true woman ready for any sacri- fice. She touches on themes little canvassed by the civilian, and makes a volume equally redolent of a loving devotion to an honored husband, and attractive as a picture of necessary duty by the soldier. — Commonweallh^ Boston. Published by HARPER