SEVEN STORIES. 
 
Miss Helene Gingold has received from 
 the Prince of Wales the expression of his 
 thanks for the volume of her latest work, 
 entitled u Seven Stories," which he has 
 accepted with much pleasure. 
 
SEVEN STORIES. 
 
 BY 
 
 HELENE E. A. GINGOLD. 
 
 The world's all title page : there's no contents ; 
 The world's all face : the man who shows his heart 
 Is hooted for his nudities, and scorn'd. 
 
 Young's Night Thoughts. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 REMINGTON AND CO., LIMITED, 
 
 LONDON AND SYDNEY. 
 
 MDCCCXCIII. 
 
 All Rights Reserved* 
 
TO MY UNCLE, 
 
 BARON NICOLA NISCO OF SAINT 
 GIORGIO LA MONTAGNA, 
 
 Senator, Deputy, and Historian Royal of Italy, 
 
 THIS HUMBLE VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY AND 
 RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
NOTE. 
 
 The subjoined letter, a translation of which 
 appears on the page next following, is one of 
 which I may claim to be justly gratified. In ex- 
 pressing gratification at being the recipient of 
 such flattering sentiments, let me also hasten to 
 add that it is not because they emanate from a 
 Royal personage, but because they are the thoughts 
 of one who has gained a world-wide reputation in 
 the field of Art and Literature. 
 
<3eb.*0abtnet 
 fr. T^olKttfc 
 
 faon 
 S. COBURG GOTHA. 
 
 ffiobutg, 
 
 3m ^ocfeften Sluftrag beefyre id? mid) 3faen 
 mttjutbeilcn, ban Seine $ofyeit bet 4>^og t>on 3^^ n 
 anjtcbenfcen 25id)tungen mit freunt>lid)em Sntereffe 
 Jtenntnijj genommen l)at unb namenfUd) fca Salent 
 anerfennt, ba in ben realiftifd) ^ebalienen Sitter 
 fd)ilberun^en SbreS Sloman^ 511 Sage tritr Seine 
 MKft if} S^nen fur bie Itcben^iviircige S^ rr ^^ in ber 
 te tie ericiigniffe ^ijm 3Wufe 4>5cbjiDemfclben bar* 
 gebotcn baben, aufrid)tig banfbar, unb ali ein 3<i*n 
 Seiner rcofylgeneigten eftnnung 3 l ) ncn bie beiliegenbe 
 l)ie Seiner ^>ol)ett ju iiberfenben. 
 
 DR. TEMPLET^Y. 
 
(TRANSLATION.) 
 
 GEH. -CABINET 
 SR. HOHEIT DES HERZOGS 
 
 VON COBURG. 
 
 S. COBURG GOTHA. 
 
 HIGHLY ESTEEMED Miss GINGOLD, 
 
 By command of H.H. the Duke of Saxe Coburg 
 Gotha, I have much pleasure in informing you that 
 H.H. has accepted and read with the greatest 
 interest your charming book of poems. H.H. 
 especially and fully recognises the descriptive and 
 highly realistic talent evinced in your novel. 
 
 Further H.H. sincerely and gratefully thanks 
 you for the charming manner with which your 
 works were tendered to him. 
 
 I am further commissioned by H.H. to send you 
 his accompanying photograph and autograph as a 
 mark of the high esteem and consideration evinced 
 by H.H. for your works. 
 
 Pray accept the marks of my highest 
 consideration. 
 
 DR. TEMPLETEY. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 So often have I had the pleasure of addressing 
 my friends, the Public, that it would appear that 
 I am well used to it. But indeed such is not 
 entirely the case. For, although an actor may, 
 after a while, play a certain role with assurance, 
 hey presto ! his courage all flies when he^ is 
 facing a critical audience for the first time in a 
 new character. My former works have had such a 
 favourable reception that I have been emboldened 
 to take a novel departure (for me) and publish a 
 series of what I call " SEVEN STORIES." Thus I 
 stand before the curtain, the apprehensive actor 
 in a new play, not yet knowing how my efforts 
 will be received. It has been the custom since 
 time immemorial for authors to say something of 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 their work in the Preface, and from this time- 
 honoured usage I shall not depart, although I 
 intend my remarks shall be as brief as possible. 
 One of my reasons for publishing this volume is, 
 that it has appeared to me that short stories are 
 required just as much as long ones. There is 
 many a hard-worked man, aye, and woman too, 
 who, on being asked if they have read this or 
 that novel, answer deprecatingly (of themselves) 
 " Well, no ! The story is not a short one, and I 
 haven't the time." These are people busy in the 
 world of " Kunst und Wissenschaft," Members of 
 Parliament, Doctors, Lawyers, Theologians, etc. 
 Stories are written for the children of men, novels 
 are written for those who have much time on 
 their hands. But what of those sons and 
 daughters of Earth whose every hour is precious, 
 and who have little to spend on novel reading ? 
 For these especially I have written my Seven 
 Short Stories, seeing that they are neglected by 
 the rest of writers. It may be argued that my 
 intentions are better than my work. To this I 
 reply that I did my best, and that not to instruct 
 and enlighten, but to amuse, and if I succeed in 
 diverting the work-harrassed brain, be it but 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 for one short hour, I well know that these 
 humble stories have not been written in vain. 
 I claim no especial distinction or inspiration 
 for my book, only that I wrote more with Nature 
 than with Art. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 1. THE RABBI OF Moscow. (A Story of 
 
 Two Religions.) - 3 
 
 2. VERITAS. (A Metaphysical Story,) - 29 
 
 3. How TOM BELLAMY WON MY LORD 
 
 HERTFORD'S WAGER. (An Olden- 
 Time Sporting Story.) - 61 
 
 4. THE WHITE PRIEST. (A Ghost Story.) 93 
 
 5. WHOSE WAS THE GUILT? (The Story 
 
 of a Social Problem.) - 133 
 
 6. THE DYING PROFESSOR. (A True 
 
 Story.) - 147 
 
 7. THE Two BROTHERS. (A Story of the 
 
 Crusades.) - - 155 
 
THE RABBI OF MOSCOW. 
 
 I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes ? hath not a Jew 
 hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions ? 
 fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject 
 to the same diseases, warmed and cooled by the same winter 
 and summer, as a Christian is ? 
 
 Merchant of Venice. 
 
THE RABBI OF MOSCOW. 
 
 A STORY OF LONG AGO, BUT WHICH MAY 
 DO FOR TO-DAY. 
 
 " Trim the lamp, my Leah ; and prythee, my 
 clearly beloved grandchild, bring thy lute hither, for 
 my heart to-night is fraught with some strange 
 foreboding of impending ill, which thy sweet 
 voice alone may serve to dispel." 
 
 The speaker was an old man of reverend aspect, 
 whose snowy beard swept his breast, as did his 
 locks his broad but slightly stooping shoulders. 
 His countenance, at once noble and benign, was 
 such as not years of oppression and suffering 
 could alter in expression. All that remained of 
 the fire of his youth, showed itself in his black, 
 penetrating eyes, which also bore somewhat of the 
 look of the hunted animal in their rapid glances. 
 
4 THE RAnrii OF Moscow. 
 
 No small wonder this, for he was one of the 
 accursed race, without the power of following hi:> 
 belief, as even the idol worshipper may. He had 
 been driven he and his community from place 
 to place, and now he feared to be exiled again, for 
 he wished to end his days in peace, where he had 
 already been permitted to dwell for five years. 
 His grand-daughter was all that remained 'of his 
 family. His wife had died years before, leaving 
 him an only daughter, and this one had married 
 an honourable and wealthy Jew. But wealth and 
 honour were nought he was a Jew, and that was 
 enough to brand him. The fiat went forth. The 
 Jews must fly the country. Leah's mother 
 succumbed in the snow with many others, and her 
 husband shortly afterwards followed her to the 
 grave a poor heartbroken exile. For he had 
 not been allowed time to collect his property. But 
 the iron-built Rabbi remained to take charge of 
 the infant grandchild, and he reared her as gently 
 as the clove, yet instilling also into -her mind the 
 pride and lofty aspirations of the young eaglet. 
 Beautiful, and full of affection for her old kinsman, 
 the 3'outhful Jewess exerted herself to render the 
 thorny path of the Rabbi less hard and bitter. 
 
THE RABBI OF Moscow. 5 
 
 This it was in her power to do, by singing to him 
 such melodies as seemed the echoes of lost 
 Jerusalem, and which were like a healing salve to 
 his wounded spirit. 
 
 That night Leah seemed, too, in a sorrowful 
 frame of mind ; for, as she sat on a silken cushion 
 at the old man's feet, she sang the following : 
 
 LEAH'S SONG. 
 I. 
 
 By the rivers of Babylon, captives, we wept, 
 
 As a child by its mother forgot ; 
 And grief, like an ocean, o'er us swept, 
 
 For Zion, lov'd Zion, was not ! 
 
 II. 
 
 We hang'd our harps on the willow-tree boughs, 
 
 They bid us to sing, but in vain, 
 For who, unto song, their hearts can arouse, 
 
 When bound in captivity's chain. 
 
 III. 
 
 Driven like brutes, from strand unto strand, 
 
 Our minds e'en as fetter'd as we, 
 O ! give back the land, we call our dear land, 
 
 Where we may still reverence thee ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 These climes our lov'd melodies ne'er shall know, 
 Their words were not writ for the slave, 
 
 For us, hapless Israel, remains but below, 
 Rememb'rance tears and the grave ! 
 
6 THE RABBI OF Moscow. 
 
 The last notes of the plaintive melody fell 
 tremblingly from the singer's lips, nor was her 
 grandfather less moved than she, as he tenderly 
 placed a hand on her dark tresses, for in the 
 blessing that he uttered, fell tears of sorrow, too. 
 
 "Was that a new song, my child ? " asked the 
 Rabbi Solomon, for such was his name. " I have 
 never heard thee sing it before ? " 
 
 " Nay, grandfather," answered the fair creature, 
 a faint blush mantling her cheek, which was of 
 the hue of ivory, " I composed it, even as I sang 
 it, for the Spirit came over me." 
 
 " May the Spirit come over me, as well," said 
 the old man, with strange earnestness, " so that I 
 may save the righteous from the hand of the 
 evil-doer." 
 
 Now let us leave the Rabbi and his grand- 
 daughter for awhile and learn the cause of their 
 anxiety. In Moscow, where the Jews had then 
 settled after having been torn from their homes, 
 their property destroyed, and their very 
 privileges as human creatures laughed to scorn 
 lived an avaricious minister, who did all in his 
 power to have them expelled from the country. 
 In vain he looked for a reason to have them 
 
THE RABBI OF Moscow. 7 
 
 dismissed, he could find nothing against them ; for 
 they were peaceable, harmless, and the most 
 industrious portion of the community. This 
 Minister, Radamoff by name, was a great 
 favourite with the Czar, who, though not so 
 black-hearted as his servant, yet cordially 
 disliked the Israelites on account of their being 
 thrifty, hardworking and saving, whereas his 
 subjects were lazy, and given to spending their all 
 on Vodka. Besides, Czar as he was, he was not 
 above wishing to replenish his impoverished 
 coffers with the Jews' honest savings. 
 
 It so happened on the night Leah sang to 
 her grandfather that it was the night before the 
 eve of Passover ; and, knowing this, Radamoff 
 thought it a fitting time to work a plot he had 
 planned against the Jews. On the night in 
 question he feigned to be sad and downcast, as 
 though a sudden misfortune had befallen him ; so 
 well indeed was his misery acted that the Czar 
 was struck by it, and kindly asked the reason of 
 his discomfiture. 
 
 "Whataileth thee, Radamoff?" he asked of 
 his favourite. 
 
 The conversation took place in an apartment 
 
8 THE RABBI OF Moscow. 
 
 in the Imperial Palace, where the Emperor and 
 his minister some times sat together discussing 
 the affairs of state and other things which come 
 not under the heading of politics. 
 
 " My Lord is too good and great," returned the 
 other, " for him to heed the grief of one of his 
 most miserable servants." 
 
 " Nay ; I insist on knowing the cause of thy 
 sorrow," cried the Czar, on whose weak heart the 
 broken tones of his favourite had a visible effect. 
 4i And if it be in my power I will help thee." 
 
 " I mourn for my country I mourn for the 
 Christians," cried the wily Radamoff, as though 
 the confession were wrung from him. 
 
 " How ? " demanded the Monarch completely 
 mystified, " doth aught threaten my subjects of 
 which I know naught ? " 
 
 " The Jews ! the Jews ! " ejaculated Radamoff, 
 falling on his knees before his Sovereign, as 
 though in an agony of supplication. " He bites," 
 he thought, as he watched between his fingers the 
 rapid changes pass over the Czar's face. 
 
 "What is it with these Jews?" exclaimed he, 
 wrath fully. " Am I destined never to hear the 
 end of them ? They are always doing some 
 
THE RABEI OF Moscow. 9 
 
 mischief which none can find out. I command 
 thee to tell me instantly what new devilment they 
 have perpetrated." 
 
 " The day after to-morrow is their Passover," 
 rapidly answered Radamoff, " and to-morrow 
 night a Christian will be slain to supply them 
 with blood for their unholy rite." 
 
 The ruler rose from his seat and strode up and 
 down the magnificent chamber in a great 
 wrath. 
 
 " If this be true," he cried between his 
 clenched teeth, showing them in all ferocity, as 
 one of his own Siberian wolves might, " then i 
 swear to Heaven that those who take part in the 
 murder shall be flayed alive, and every other Jew 
 driven out of the Empire." 
 
 This arrangement suited the avaricious 
 Minister admirably, for many of the Israelites, 
 reaping the reward of their indefatigable industry, 
 had become exceedingly wealthy. 
 
 M Now," thought he, " I shall not only satisfy 
 my hatred of them, but I shall be able to seize on 
 most of their valuable possessions." 
 
 " Remember," observed the Czar, as his 
 precious minister was leaving the apartment, 
 
io THE RABBI OF Moscow. 
 
 " we must have proof positive of the Jews' guilt, 
 otherwise the people will condemn thee if thou 
 seek'st to slay the innocent." 
 
 Without having been told at the beginning of 
 this tale, my reader will know I am writing of 
 that which happened long ago, when even the 
 Russian people were like the rest of humanity, 
 and would not see a wrong done with impunity. 
 To-day ah ! to-day they have changed ! 
 
 11 Fear not, Sire," answered Radamoff, " their 
 guilt shall be proved so indisputably that the 
 people themselves shall wish to tear them in 
 pieces." 
 
 And it came to pass that on the same night 
 that this transpired in the Imperial Palace, the 
 good old Rabbi Solomon, retiring to rest in his 
 humble dwelling, had a wondrous vision. He 
 thought he had fallen asleep, and this sleep might 
 have lasted for two hours, when he was awakened 
 by the sound of sweet music, the like of which he 
 had never heard in all his days before. He sat 
 up, entranced and bewildered ; when lo and behold ! 
 it seemed as though the ceiling of his room was 
 lifted up up up, he knew not whither, and, 
 instead, his awestruck eyes rested on a dazzling 
 
THE RABBI OF Moscow. 1 1 
 
 throng of lovely forms, whom he knew to be 
 angels. Then he saw them divide themselves 
 into two groups one to the right and one to the left 
 and in the centre appeared a long, long flight 
 of steps, as though reaching from the blue em- 
 pyrean, as white as alabaster, and shining like the 
 sun, and down this flight of stairs he saw a figure 
 descend, with looks of divine love and beatitude 
 on his countenance. Nearer and nearer ap- 
 proached this glorious form, which was that of 
 an old and a young man harmoniously blended 
 together, until it stood at the last step, leaning 
 on a staff that had the appearance of a sunbeam. 
 
 " Dost thou know me, my son ? " asked the 
 vision. 
 
 "Thou art Father Abraham," answered the 
 Rabbi in Hebrew, with a blessing ; " on whose 
 bosom is life for evermore. Blessed art thou to 
 eternity." 
 
 " Dost thou fear me ? " said the vision, gently. 
 
 "Were my love less, oh Father, my fears 
 would be great indeed. But I love thee," he 
 added simply. 
 
 A smile of infinite loving-kindness overspread 
 his face. 
 
12 THE RABBI OF Moscow. 
 
 "Ask me what thou wilt," said the vision 
 again. 
 
 " Nay ; speak thou, thy son heareth," returned 
 the Rabbi. " Oh ! tell me why thou hast come to 
 me, and not I to thee, seeing that I am not 
 dead." 
 
 "Thy people are threatened with destruction, 
 my son." 
 
 "Alas ! I know it. How how can I avert the 
 calamity ? " 
 
 " I will show thee," said the vision ; and forth- 
 with he made signs, and spoke in a tongue which 
 the good Rabbi, learned as he was, could not 
 understand. 
 
 However, he uttered a fervent and pious prayer, 
 and soon after fell asleep, and was only awakened 
 by the appearance of the warm morning sun 
 peering into his room. 
 
 He told no one of his wonderful visitation, 
 although he marvelled much to know the mean- 
 ing of the strange words and signs which the 
 vision of Abraham had uttered and made. About 
 mid-day he was shocked and pained to find that 
 many of his congregation had been grievously 
 insulted by their Christian neighbours. 
 
THE RABBI OF Moscow. 13 
 
 They complained to him how they had been 
 hooted, chased, and even beaten in the public 
 streets ; and how they had been called " mur- 
 derers/' and that no official would interfere in 
 their behalf. The Rabbi Solomon was at a loss 
 to know from which quarter those cruel 
 annoyances sprung, and sorrowed much that he 
 had not been able to understand the signs of the 
 vision of the night before. Towards eventide his 
 granddaughter, Leah, who had been out walking 
 with her old nurse, returned home with her 
 great eyes humid with tears, and her raven 
 tresses disordered with running. 
 
 " Oh, my grandfather ! " she sobbed out. 
 " God's people are indeed undone, for they now 
 accuse us in the town of having stolen a 
 Christian child, to use her blood for our 
 Passover." 
 
 " God hath never deserted His beloved, nor will 
 He now," murmured the Rabbi, softly. " Heed 
 them not, my Leah, the hour of deliverance is at 
 hand, when we shall weep no more." 
 
 What the young maiden had said was too true. 
 Radamoff had ordered one of his servants to 
 steal a Christian child, and his hirelings had 
 
14 THE RABBI OF Moscow. 
 
 bruited the story abroad that the Jews had stolen 
 a child for her blood. The child's parents ran 
 about the city with their story of woe, and 
 demanded their little one. Already the foolish 
 and cruel falsehood had found credence with the 
 wisest and best citizens. 
 
 It was with a sad heart that the Rabbi on the 
 Eve of Passover sought his bed, and long and 
 fervently he prayed that he might be directed in 
 what manner he might save his people from the 
 clanger that threatened them. 
 
 In the middle of the night, lo and behold he 
 heard a voice which said to him : 
 
 " Art thou there, Solomon, my son ? " 
 
 And he answered after the manner of the 
 Prophet of old : 
 
 " Speak, thou man of God, for His servant 
 heareth." 
 
 And he opened his eyes, and the vision of 
 Abraham, as on the preceding night, was before 
 him. Then his heart leaped with a great joy, 
 and he blessed God exceedingly. 
 
 Again he saw the long, long flight of stairs of 
 dazzling whiteness, and once more he saw the 
 form, as that of an old and young man harmoniously 
 
THE RABBI OF Moscow. 1 5 
 
 blended, leaning on the staff like a sunbeam. 
 Myriads of beautiful forms thronged each side 
 of the stairs, as though waiting on him. 
 
 "Yet a little while, and I shall be with you 
 again," said the vision of Abraham to the Angels, 
 and then the Rabbi Solomon saw the seraphs 
 and the snow-white steps disappear, and the form 
 of Abraham, shrouded in light, stood alone in the 
 room. 
 
 "Thou didst not understand me yesternight, 
 my son, and I forgot that the language spoken on 
 high is not understood by mortals. See, I am 
 come now to rectify my error." 
 
 " O, my God ! " cried the Rabbi, whilst a great 
 wave of joy spread over his heart, clearing his 
 fears away. " How shall I extol thee, thou who 
 hast lifted up my soul from the grave, so that thy 
 servant and his flock go not down into the 
 bottomless pit ? Holy, holy, holy is Thy name, 
 O ! Lord of Hosts, and blessed art Thou for 
 evermore." 
 
 The vision of Abraham looked upwards as the 
 other spoke, as though to bless him silently. 
 
 "Come now, my son, and follow me," spoke 
 Abraham, "and I will show thee what is to 
 
16 .TiiE RABBI OF Moscow. 
 
 be done to baulk the designs of Israel's 
 enemies." 
 
 Then, beckoning the Rabbi to follow him, the 
 vision went from the room, and the Rabbi 
 Solomon found he was leading him out of the 
 house into the silent streets. 
 
 " Fear not," said the vision, as though he 
 divined something that was passing in the other's 
 mind. " None shall see thee, and thy grandchild 
 is as safe in the house as though, indeed, she 
 were amidst the Blessed. For she is guarded by 
 angels." 
 
 A few yards from the Rabbi's dwelling stood 
 the synagogue, which was a very large, albeit, 
 unpretending structure. 
 
 Ungainly and poor though the building was, 
 3^et, I wot, God listened to the prayers of the 
 worshippers in that humble place as much, aye, 
 and more, than the orizons of those who thronged 
 the magnificent Cathedrals in the fashionable 
 quarters. 
 
 The Rabbi Solomon, felt not the cold, although 
 his feet were bare and his body clad but in one 
 thin garment. The watch passed him crying : 
 
THE RABBI OF Moscow. 17 
 
 The clock has stricken three, 
 
 But the City is free 
 From sin and harm. 
 
 Then be ye calm, 
 
 Good citizens. 
 
 The man's rough jacket touched the Rabbi, and 
 the former trembled as though suddenly stricken 
 with ague. But the man saw him not, because he 
 walked with the servant of God. 
 
 The vision and the Rabbi entered the sacred 
 building, and the former led his follower up to 
 that part of the building where the ark stood. 
 Now the ark is the repository of the tables of the 
 covenant amongst the Jews. Here were also 
 vessels which, according to custom, had been 
 filled by the Rabbi. 
 
 " With what hast thou filled the vessels, nry 
 son ? " asked the vision, mildly. 
 
 " With wine, oh, thou blessed servant of the 
 Lord," answered the Priest, a little surprised at 
 the question, "according to the law of the 
 Israelites." 
 
 " See what they contain now ! " 
 
 The Priest did as he was bidden, and a cry of 
 
 c 
 
1 8 THE RABBI OF Moscow. 
 
 horror arose from his lips as in a hoarse voice he 
 called out : 
 
 " It is blood ! human blood ! Oh, God 1 " 
 
 Although dark everywhere else, just where 
 they stood fell a strong ray of light, more 
 powerful even than the sun, which clearly showed 
 to the Priest that it was indeed what he said, had 
 any doubts arisen in his mind. 
 
 " All the vessels contain blood," spoke the 
 vision sadly. 
 
 " Command me what to do with them," said the 
 Rabbi tremblingly ; " for the blood of a human 
 being is too holy a thing that I should pour it 
 away as water." 
 
 The angel looked at the old man, and his 
 glance was so full of holy radiance and divine 
 love that he was dazzled, and closed his eyes, and 
 lo and behold 1 when he opened them again the 
 vessels stood in their accustomed places full of 
 wine, nor was there a sign or trace of blood 
 about them or anywhere else. The Rabbi 
 questioned not as to how this miracle came about, 
 but accepted what his Maker sent him with 
 silent and devout gratitude. 
 
 " Who did this cruel thing, Father Abraham, 
 
THE RABBI OF Moscow. 19 
 
 so that thy descendants and that of Isaac and 
 Israel should die ?" asked the Rabbi, at last, in 
 tones, where reverence td that which he addressed, 
 .and anger of whom he spoke, were strongly mingled. 
 
 " The Czar's Minister, Radamoff. But return 
 my son, it waxeth late, and I must away." 
 
 Then they left the Synagogue, and returned 
 to the Rabbi's house in the same way as 
 they had come from it. The good old man 
 lay down on his bed, and as he saw the vision 
 of Abraham fade away with the same look of 
 divine love and beatitude as when he first saw it, 
 he felt as though he would depart with him. He 
 mourned that he should leave him, so much did 
 his soul cleave to the servant of the Most High. 
 However, he sunk into a deep slumber, and was 
 only awakened by hearing a clamouring as of 
 many voices in anger outside his house. He rose, 
 .and hastily throwing a white mantle, fashioned 
 like a toga, round him, went to the casement to 
 ascertain the meaning of the extraordinary oc- 
 currence. What was his astonishment to see 
 the street crowded with people who seemed full 
 of rage, judging by the terrible execrations that 
 filled the air with unholy music. 
 
 c 2 
 
2O THE RABBI OF Moscow. 
 
 Amidst that wild din of many blasphemous and 
 angry tongues, he could hear that the populace 
 accused him him the God-fearing and loving, 
 gentle priest of murder ! But a strange, holy calm 
 pervaded his heart, even when he heard them 
 threaten to raze his house to the ground, for he 
 was armed without by possessing that aegis 
 shield within a quiet and good conscience. 
 
 " Open, in the Czar's name ! " thundered one at 
 the head of a body of soldiers. 
 
 The Rabbi hastened to his door, and, opening 
 it, stood like a picture of some old Saint, with 
 his snowy locks falling over his shoulders, and 
 his white beard sweeping over the folds of his* 
 mantle. 
 
 He confronted Radamoff and the Czar. 
 
 He made an obeisance, and mildly asked what 
 they wished of him. 
 
 " Thou hast slain a Christian child for thy vile 
 rites," boldly said Radamoff. " Come with us 
 unto thy Tabernacle, for it is there where we 
 shall find the blood of the unfortunate creature.'' 
 
 " Be it as you wish, but the Lord will judge 
 between us," answered the Rabbi. 
 
 " Come with us now, wretch," cried Radamoff,, 
 
Tin: RABBI OF Moscow. 21 
 
 " and presume not to stand here parleying before 
 the Czar." 
 
 They forced him to lead the way to the Syna- 
 gogue, the crowds behind shouting maledictions 
 on the priest's head, and threatening to tear him 
 limb from limb. The guards, at a sign from the 
 cruel minister, broke open the doors of the sacred 
 edifice, at which insult the Rabbi's eyes flashed, 
 and his blood surged within him as with the 
 indignation of youth. 
 
 " Respect this place," he cried out, with a 
 mighty voice, so all did hear him. " For it is not 
 dedicated to a false God, or a graven image, but 
 one Universal God your God as well as our 
 God. The Lord of Mercy, as he shall be the 
 Lord of Wrath." 
 
 These words, spoken in sonorous tones, coupled 
 with the majestic and dignified bearing of the old 
 man, had great effect. The crowds thronged the 
 place of worship in silence ; whilst the Czar, 
 Radamoff, and the guards who surrounded the 
 former, walked towards the Ark, led by the 
 Rabbi. 
 
 "Ay, 'tis here where you keep your vessels,'* 
 said the relentless Radamoff, exultantly. " For 
 
22 THE RABBI OF Moscow. 
 
 I have been a witness of your Jewish rites, before 
 to-day. Bring forth the cups, and lay them at 
 the feet of His Imperial Majesty the Czar. 19 
 
 The Czar stood a little way oft* partially 
 surrounded by his guards with folded arms look- 
 ing at the Jewish priest ; for something, he knew 
 not what, rivetted his eyes and attention on his 
 person. Near him stood Radamoff, triumph 
 glistening in his Tartar eyes, although his 
 countenance was hypocritically mournful, as 
 though he were shocked to be present at so 
 horrible an occasion. Silence reigned as deep as 
 Eternity, and the people who thronged the 
 Synagogue seemed to have hushed their breaths. 
 
 The Rabbi, with an unsung hymn of praise and 
 rejoicing in his heart, brought forth the vessels, 
 and set them at the feet of the Czar, who, how- 
 ever, still remained as though transfixed, his eyes 
 still resting on the Jew. 
 
 Then the sun burst forth and a great stream of 
 light shone full upon the old priest's face, and his 
 lips wore a smile of loving recollection, for had 
 not yesternight the vision of Abraham trod in 
 the very same spot where he, Solomon, now 
 stood ? 
 
THE RABBI OF Moscow. 23 
 
 A murmur arose amidst the people, as though 
 they whispered : 
 
 " Look, look, he is a man of God, although he 
 be a Jew." 
 
 But he heard them not, for his thoughts were 
 elsewhere, and it seemed as though the vision of 
 Abraham had left a strange glory on his face, 
 even as Moses had when he descended from 
 Mount Sinai after he had communed with God. 
 
 " See ! see, Sire 1" cried Radamoff, growing 
 uneasy and anxious to have the affair at an end. 
 " These vessels are full of blood." 
 
 " Nay, your sight misgives you," mildly spoke 
 the Rabbi, suddenly called back by the voice of 
 his cruel enemy. " They are full of wine." 
 
 " 'Tis blood I say," cried. Radamoff, fiercely, 
 blinding himself to the fact. " If 'tis wine," he 
 added, with a satanic laugh, " drink Jew." 
 
 " Right willingly, Christian," answered the 
 Rabbi, and taking one of the cups at the Czar's 
 feet, he quaffed from the vessel many times. 
 
 At this act the autocrat with an effort seized 
 two of the vessels and examined them closely, 
 After a little time he tasted of them. 
 
 " The Rabbi says truly," he observed, gravely, 
 
24 THE RABBI OF Moscow. 
 
 yet with a slight ring of disappointment in his 
 voice. " These vessels contain wine, and that of 
 the best." 
 
 " 'Tis false, false, false !" almost shrieked 
 Radamoff in a frenzy. 
 
 An angry frown gathered over the despot's 
 brow. 
 
 " The Lord hath judged between thee and me," 
 the old priest said, devoutly. " And His people 
 are saved this day, as they were saved in years 
 gone by from the devices of the wicked Haman. 
 The blood these vessels once contained was of 
 thy shedding. Christians! a Christian hath slain 
 a child amongst you !" 
 
 " Who told thee ?" shrieked Radamoff, cower- 
 ing before the priest. 
 
 " Abraham/' solemnly answered the Israelite. 
 " He descended even from Heaven to warn me." 
 
 The Minister, had, indeed, committed the 
 horrid crime of slaying the child stolen by one of 
 his servants, and putting her blood into the 
 vessels, so that the Jews should be annihilated. 
 
 At this answer a terrible yell burst from the 
 throat of the wretched Minister, and he fell prone 
 to the ground in a pool of blood. When they 
 
THE RABBI OF Moscow. 25 
 
 went to raise him, according to the Czar's com- 
 mand, their warm, living hands touched a cold, 
 lifeless corpse. 
 
 " Oh, God ! " prayed the Jewish priest over his 
 fallen Christian foe, " show compassion to the 
 wicked. They need thy mercy most who have 
 sinned most. The good have already been 
 blessed by Thee in being good." 
 
 Then the people, recognising the hand of 
 God in the awful punishment that befel the 
 Minister, knelt down they that had come to 
 slay and worshipped with the priest of Israel in 
 his place of worship. For in great calamities, or 
 in great triumphs, especially those concerning the 
 mind, men must fly to that which is infinite. 
 
 Seek not for this brief story in the hope to 
 find it recorded in the annals of history ; and 
 seek for it not in the worm-eaten chronicles of 
 the scribe, for it was but written in the hearts of 
 men at the time it happened ; and when these 
 hearts became dust it was forgotten, like all that 
 is good and noble too often is. 
 
 But of this thing I am certain. When the 
 Day of Reckoning comes, when nations shall be 
 gathered together, and barbaric rulers weighed 
 
26 THE RABBI OF Moscow. 
 
 in the balance with the poorest beggar ; then, for 
 each groan of anguish wrung from the hearts of 
 an unoffending and industrious race, a just and 
 merciful God shall claim indemnity a thousand- 
 fold. 
 
VERITAS. 
 
 Oh, Virtue ! I have followed you through life and fine? 
 you but a Shade. 
 
 Euripides. 
 
 Oh, Earth ! all bathed with blood and tears ; yet never 
 Hast thou ceased putting forth thy fruit and flowers ! 
 Corinnc (Mme. dc Stael) Translated.- 
 
VERITAS. 
 
 Mavorel was a writer. He was one of those 
 kindly natured people who are always performing 
 better acts for humanity than humanity does for 
 them. In a word, he was a handsome and generous 
 fellow, and one also at times impecunious. When he 
 made an extra amount of money he would spend 
 it royally in one night, in the company of one or 
 more convivial friends. With gold in his pocket, 
 nothing but the finest dinner, flanked by the 
 finest wine, would suit him. The next day, in all 
 probability, he would not have sufficient where- 
 with to buy a meal. However, this did not 
 matter much, as his numerous friends idolised 
 him, and willingly would have shared with him 
 the proverbial crust, although, possibly, they 
 would not have been quite so generous with their 
 purses. Of course, Mavorel had his light-o'- 
 loves for what man, whether writer or other- 
 
30 VERITAS. 
 
 wise, hath not but even in these his nobler feelings 
 asserted themselves and no word of love ever 
 escaped him to delude earth's most unfortunate 
 -creatures. He respected innocence, and no 
 young girl had ever been tempted from the path 
 of virtue by him. He argued within himself that 
 there was plenty of sin in the world and that he 
 had no desire to add to it. 
 
 One night he found himself landed high and dry 
 in his modest lodgings with a very vacant feeling 
 in his stomach, and only a modest silver coin to 
 satisfy it in his pocket. There was no food in the 
 house and nothing ordered, and he found after deep 
 ^cogitation that he would have to seek a meal out 
 of doors. He thought, with his mouth watering, 
 how famously he had supped the night before on 
 hare soup, on soles cooked in white wine, on 
 .grilled crab, on roast partridges with cream 
 sauce and oysters stewed in champagne, and he 
 cursed himself for not having had a less 
 Lucullus-like feast, so he should have had at 
 least a sovereign in his pocket to-night. But he 
 was always doing the same thing, and all his 
 resolutions to save came to nothing. Besides, if 
 he only dined sumptuously himself it would not 
 
VERITAS. 3 1 
 
 be so bad ; it would not make such a big hole in 
 his pocket. But he had no appetite to dine 
 alone. He must bring one or more friends with 
 him. That was what emptied this good-for- 
 nothing's pocket. This good-for-nothing, for whom 
 even the crustiest and most austere of beings had 
 a good word to say. Mavorel, full of hunger and 
 philosophy for it is curious how hunger will 
 make some men philosophical put on his hat and 
 coat, and was soon one amidst the hurrying 
 pedestrians in the street 
 
 " Now what shall I do ? " he thought. " Shall 
 I get a dish of meat, bread, potatoes with my 
 money or what now ? " 
 
 This last ejaculation was caused by the fact of 
 an old pedlar falling heavily against him, pushed 
 by a thoughtless member of the moving throng. 
 
 " How now ? " exclaimed Mavorel again, 
 " What's the matter, old man ? " 
 
 The man addressed seemed in a sort of 
 stupor, and, seeing this, the writer hastily 
 dragged him into a side street, for the sight of 
 the cadaverous face, with the long, white beard, 
 tattered garments, and sunken eyes of the old 
 man touched his compassionate heart. 
 
32 VERITAS. 
 
 " I am starving ! " faltered the old man, opening 
 his eyes, and straightening himself with an effort, 
 " I have not eaten a crust of bread since the day 
 before yesterday, and I cannot sell my wares." 
 
 " Here, my poor friend ; your wants are greater 
 than mine/' said Mavorel, unconsciously adopting 
 a great and gentle courtier's famous speech, and 
 casting his last piece of silver hastily in the 
 trembling hand of the beggar, he left him, and 
 was soon lost in the street again, which was 
 like a restless ocean with human waves. 
 
 Mavorel remembered suddenly that he had an 
 important article to write, and, finding he would 
 have no more time to wander about or to seek 
 his friends, returned home, and, filling his 
 pipe, smoked placidly for a few moments. 
 Finding this conducive to writing, he sat himself 
 down to work in earnest. Scarcely had he been 
 seated for a few moments than he heard a knock 
 at his door, which he followed up by a cheery 
 invitation for his visitor to enter. 
 
 The door opened, and, before he was aware, 
 the old pedlar whom he had assisted in the street, 
 stood before him. 
 
 " Old man, you walk quickly," exclaimed 
 
VERITAS. 33 
 
 Mavorel, not best pleased to find who his visitor 
 was. 
 
 " Are you ashamed of your charity ? " asked 
 the visitor. "Am I not flesh and blood like 
 yourself? Do you think that money is all a 
 beggar wants ? Have they no human feelings 
 like yourself? Do you think that the heart of 
 the beggar yearns only for earthly food ? Young 
 man, I tell you that you know not humanity ! " 
 
 " How so ? " asked Mavorel, intensely 
 surprised to hear the pedlar talk in this 
 fashion. 
 
 " How so ? " reiterated the stranger, " I shall 
 tell you. After you helped me with your money 
 you treat me with scorn because of my tattered 
 garments. This shows your want, not of heart, 
 but of knowledge of humankind. Do you think 
 because my coat is torn and soiled that my soul 
 cannot be immortal and clean ? Are you better 
 than a beggar ? You who have to bow to earn 
 your bread before men who are more foolish than 
 you ? Is a politician better than a beggar who 
 cringes before a monarch for a place and sinecure? 
 Is a king better than a beggar, when he is forced 
 to pray God that his life may not be undone by a 
 
34 VERITAS. 
 
 traitor's hand, and his throne unshaken by 
 sedition ? All men are beggars, and God the 
 only Benefactor." 
 
 Mavorel recoiled from the old man half in fear, 
 half in astonishment. 
 
 " You speak truly, old man," he observed at 
 last, pensively. 
 
 41 1 do hey ? " chuckled the beggar, " for in 
 truth, if I speak not truly, none can. But 
 begging is after all but a sorry business. Last 
 night as I was traversing a fashionable quarter I 
 stopped in front of a fine mansion. Presently the 
 portals of this mansion opened, and a young man 
 with a frank face came out, and a handsome 
 woman, with a shawl thrown over her head, 
 kissed her hand to him from the window. ' I 
 shall be back soon/ he said fondly. He was 
 her husband. 4 1 shall count the hours, love, till 
 you return/ she called back. The gates were 
 closed, and he passed me and gave me a coin. 
 He had scarcely turned the corner of the street 
 when a carriage swiftly and silently came from 
 another direction. A handsome and sinister man 
 descended at the gates of the mansion, and opened 
 them with a key of his own. Three hours after- 
 
VERITAS. 35 
 
 wards he left the mansion, laughing. It was the 
 old, old tale of the false friend, the false wife, and 
 the unsuspicious and loving husband. The 
 wicked man in passing me threw me a gold piece. 
 Oh, how it weighs me down to accept the 
 wages of the unrighteous ; begging is indeed a 
 sorry business." 
 
 " But who are you ?" asked Mavorel. " You 
 who are attired as a beggar, and talk like a 
 philosopher." 
 
 " I am a magician," returned the old fellow, 
 his eyes twinkling with a strange light. 
 
 " Some travelling charlatan," observed the 
 writer, shrugging his shoulders. " I have met 
 many of them before." 
 
 " You do not believe me then, when I tell you* 
 that I am a real enchanter ?" 
 
 " Certainly not !" answered Mavorel, as con- 
 temptuously as possible. " Do you take me for 
 a dolt ?" 
 
 The old beggar did not respond to his younger 
 companion's scornful interrogatory, but laughed 
 softly to himself. 
 
 " Thou art by no means a good host, my 
 son," said the old man, " and since thou wilt not 
 
 D 2 
 
36 VERITAS. 
 
 offer it I will help myself to thy excellent 
 wine." 
 
 " In truth I have nothing," exclaimed Mavorel, 
 ruefully. 
 
 " But I tell thee that thou hast/' returned the 
 stranger ; and stepping to the sideboard he 
 opened the cupboard thereof, and from thence 
 sure enough drew two bottles which appeared 
 full of wine. 
 
 " Here, drink !" he continued, pouring out a 
 huge bumper for the young man. " It is the 
 finest stuff that mortal ever tasted. The grapes- 
 from which it is made come from a portion of the 
 vine grown in the Garden of Eden before 
 man's fall." 
 
 The writer laughed incredulously, and took up 
 the bumper. How the wine, yellow as gold r 
 danced and foamed in the glass. It seemed as 
 though fairy-like forms flitted upwards with 
 the thousand bubbles that rose and broke on the 
 surface. 
 
 " I drink to thy health, most noble magician !" 
 Mavorel said, and tossed off the wine with a 
 half mocking smile. " By the Gods, it is famous," 
 he added, as he set down the glass, empty. 
 
VERITAS. 37 
 
 " Greybeard, give me more, whether 'tis grown 
 in Hell or Heaven, it matters not. Thy wine is 
 most excellent." 
 
 Chuckling quietly, the old man filled the writer's 
 glass again, and yet again ; until, indeed no more 
 remained in the bottles. " Would'st thou have 
 more ; art thou hungry ?" asked the stranger. 
 
 " I neither hunger or thirst for meat or drink ; 
 though I thirst indeed to know who you are ?" 
 cried the writer. The wine surged into his 
 young blood, and heated him. " Tell me indeed 
 who thou art, old quack !" he laughed boisterously, 
 sand seized him by the hand. 
 
 " Know then, I am that spirit which men call 
 ''Truth,' " responded the stranger, in deep and 
 sonorous tones, freeing himself from the young 
 man's now awe-stricken clasp. " I have 
 wandered over the earth for thousands of years. 
 Young and beautiful I dwelt in the Garden of 
 Eden ere Adam and Eve lied to Heaven's 
 mighty King. Then I grew suddenly old, and 
 thus wander ever. Men have eternally outraged 
 my mandates, thus it is that I have clad myself 
 in these tattered garments, for when the soul 
 is in mourning, gay clothes are cast aside. Since 
 
38 VERITAS. 
 
 men are liars, Truth must a beggar be ; and 1 
 beg eternally for truth. Yes, I am the spirit 
 called Veritas 1" 
 
 Mavorel bent humbry before the Spirit, and 
 said in a low, sad voice 
 
 " I too have outraged thee, Veritas ; pardon 
 me, oh, pardon me !" 
 
 " Away with fear/' answered Veritas, " you 
 shall be my pupil, and I will teach thee some 
 lessons ; and show thee marvellous things." 
 
 Encouraged by the wine as much as by the 
 reassuring words of the Spirit, Mavorel sprang 
 to his feet, full of life and energy. Instead, 
 however, of seeing before him a decrepit beggar, 
 he beheld a handsome old man, of majestic 
 aspect, wrapped in a mantle of some strange 
 material, the texture of which mortal eye never 
 beheld before. 
 
 " Come with me to my house," spake Veritas. 
 11 It is so narrow here." 
 
 They left Mavorel's lodgings then, and 
 descended into the street. They walked together 
 some distance, and at last approached a 
 magnificent mansion, which Mavorel did not 
 remember having seen before, although he was. 
 
VERITAS. 39 
 
 thoroughly acquainted with all parts of the 
 city. 
 
 Veritas stopped before the gates of the 
 mansion, and drawing forth a key, inserted it in 
 the lock, which opened instantly. They entered, 
 and the gates closed voluntarily behind them. 
 The spirit Veritas led the way into the house, and 
 passing some spacious corridors and ascending 
 a marble staircase, the balustrades of which were 
 of gold, inlaid with precious stones, at last opened 
 the door of a chamber, into which he invited 
 Mavorel to enter. Mavorel did so, and was 
 astonished at the magnificence of which even the 
 wildest dream of an Eastern, under the influence 
 of hashish, could not picture forth. Overcome 
 with wonder and excitement the young man sank 
 in a divan, and exclaimed : " If this unparalleled 
 splendour is the reward of Truth and Virtue, then 
 I henceforth shall evermore be their disciple." 
 
 11 Virtue and goodness lie but in the hearts of 
 men," said Veritas. "They are least virtuous who 
 strive to appear so. The followers of Truth often 
 starve, and vice walks abroad in broadcloth. But 
 what then ? Is virtue only to be practised like a 
 craft ? " 
 
40 VERITAS. 
 
 " I swear by Heaven, I shall be thy apostle 
 evermore, Veritas !" the young man cried 
 ardently. 
 
 " Alas, stripling !" the Spirit spake mournfully. 
 4t I know too well the sons of man." 
 
 " But I am different. In good truth I am !" 
 Mavorel said, quickly and warmly. " I am 
 different to others ! I can be noble and virtuous 
 if I chose." 
 
 Veritas answered not, but sat beside the 
 writer as though wrapped in deep meditation. 
 Ever and anon he glanced at Mavorel, as though 
 in pity, and then his eyes would lose that 
 sorrowful look, and appear lost in speculation, of 
 which Mavorel knew the world had no part. 
 " But come !" he said abruptly, after a long pause, 
 in which Mavorel examined the marvellous apart- 
 ment, and each second bringing a fresh beauty 
 to sight. " I have promised to show you some 
 things, and I must perform what I have declared 
 to you I would." 
 
 With these words Veritas raised his right 
 hand, in which he held a short golden wand, and 
 lo and behold ! Mavorel perceived, at a little 
 distance, a curtain as though made of crystal, 
 
VERITAS. 41 
 
 flashing with jewels, and stretching from the 
 lofty ceiling to the floor. Presently the curtain 
 was drawn aside by an invisible agency, and he 
 saw stretched before him another great and noble 
 apartment in which was a throne, and on this 
 throne sat a monarch. Round about him were 
 courtiers and sycophants, lords of high degree 
 and prelates the least amidst them. And all 
 seemed well with the king, and his throne on a 
 firm basis. But suddenly it appeared as though 
 a veil fell from Mavorel's eyes. He saw that the 
 King, though to all outward appearance magnani- 
 mous and splendid, was a poltroon and coward, 
 and that the sword of Damocles hung over his 
 head suspended by a hair. 
 
 " Why doth the potentate fear and tremble ?" 
 asked Mavorel. 
 
 " Because he uses his power to crush an 
 industrious race ; and he feels that the hour of 
 retribution is always nigh. The wicked, how- 
 ever powerful, walk in dread, nor is that dread 
 without foundation." 
 
 " I pray thee, Veritas, show me another scene, 
 for in truth I meddle not with the fate of kings 
 or countries," observed the writer, smiling, as 
 
42 VERITAS. 
 
 the scene faded away, and the jewelled 
 curtain fell once more. 
 
 " So, ho !" laughed the Spirit, softly. " Be it 
 as you wish," and again he raised his wand, and 
 once more the crystal curtain was drawn aside. 
 
 This time, the scene which presented itself 
 troubled Mavorel sorely. For stretched before 
 him was a marvellous garden of flowers and 
 shrubs, growing in rich profusion. There were 
 fountains whose perfumed waters spouted up 
 high, and fell sprinkling the jasmine, the roses, 
 and magnolias. There was a stream whose 
 waters were like molten gold rippling over pebbles 
 of marble, on whose surface water-lilies lightly 
 rested. The nightingales had already commenced 
 their song, for the night had come, and the stars 
 bedecked Heaven's blue canopy. In the midst of 
 this beautiful garden and it was this that 
 troubled Mavorel greatly was a bank of rare 
 exotics ; flowers whose faces were like human 
 beings, some sad, some jo}^ous, and some pensive, 
 and seated on this bank was a personage of such 
 dazzling beauty, the like of whom Mavorel had 
 never dreamed of in his wildest dreams. A robe 
 of samite was twisted about her in serpentine 
 
VERITAS. 43 
 
 coils, and each coil seemed to have another colour. 
 Her face, although beautiful in the extreme, wore 
 a discontented expression, and her fair white 
 hands were clasped nervously together. She 
 wore but one jewel, and that was a diamond 
 cross, the stones of which were so large and 
 brilliant that it made the young man's eyes close 
 involuntarily. 
 
 His breath came short and quickly. He 
 wanted to rush forward, and throw himself at her 
 feet, and beg a flower from her hand. 
 
 A strong grasp held him back. 
 
 " What are you doing ?" asked Veritas, sternly, 
 " Stay here." 
 
 The beautiful woman here rose from the bank 
 of flowers, and stretched forth her arms 
 imploringly to Mavorel. 
 
 " Take me, oh, take me ! " she cried in a 
 beseeching voice. 
 
 The young man rose again, and was again held 
 back by Veritas. 
 
 " Let me go," he cried, in a choking voice. 
 
 " Stay ! I command thee !" 
 
 "Take, oh, take me with thee," the woman cried 
 again, in a voice of stronger entreaty. 
 
44 VERITAS. 
 
 " Dost hear me, greybeard ? Let go, I say ! " 
 -exclaimed the young man, overcome by the 
 beauty of the woman, and forgetting who 
 Veritas was. 
 
 " Thou shalt remain here/' the Spirit said 
 calmly. 
 
 "Take me, oh, take me!" the woman said 
 again, coming forward and upsetting what little 
 reason still remained in Mavorel's brain. 
 
 "This diamond cross will buy all we want. Let 
 us fly from here." 
 
 " Mavorel, stay ! " Veritas said, holding him 
 back. 
 
 " Take me ! " the woman cried again. 
 
 Seeing the old man would not free him from 
 his powerful grasp, Mavorel seized a poniard, 
 which, curiously enough, lay in close proximity, 
 and, without another thought, plunged it into the 
 old man's heart. He, with a groan of anguish, fell 
 to the ground, dead ! 
 
 Scarcely had Mavorel done this terrible deed 
 than the whole air seemed to resound with cries 
 of " Take me, take me ! " until the place spun 
 round him. 
 
 "Now come with me," the young man said in a 
 
VERITAS. 45 
 
 voice he scarce recognised as his own. " We will 
 fly from here together." 
 
 The beautiful creature, for whom he had com- 
 mitted the fell act, advanced, and they both sought 
 to find an exit from the room. But they looked in 
 vain. The crystal curtain had fallen, closing the 
 garden from view, so they could not search 
 there. 
 
 Presently, as Mavorel walked hurriedly about,, 
 his foot struck the lifeless corpse of Veritas. Now 
 he looked like the old beggar to whom he had 
 given alms in the street, and then, his heat 
 and passion being over, Mavorel felt his heart 
 overcome with pity and remorse. He looked at 
 the beautiful woman, and shuddered, wondering 
 how his hand could have stricken down the 
 gentle Spirit for her sake. 
 
 Tears of grief fell from his eyes, as he leant 
 over the corpse, and, with a sudden desperate 
 resolve, he plucked the poniard from Veritas" 
 heart, and was just about to plunge it into his- 
 own, when his hand was stayed by a stronger 
 one than his, and a known voice said : 
 
 "Thou see'st, Mavorel, it is n)t so easy to be 
 virtuous." 
 
46 VERITAS. 
 
 The young writer turned, and beheld Veritas 
 standing before him, majestic and benign as 
 heretofore. 
 
 Mavorel fell on his knees to the Spirit, crying : 
 
 " Judge me as thou wilt. However severe 
 the punishment, it cannot be as great as my 
 crime ! " 
 
 " Arise, poor youth!" Veritas spake com- 
 passionately. " Thy heart is good although thy 
 principles are not strong. For yonder woman, 
 who hath but outward beauty and no inward 
 grace, thou wouldst have slain me ; and so 
 stained for ever thy immortal soul." 
 
 " Pardon me ! " murmured Mavorel sorrowfully. 
 
 " I have pardoned thee. Go from here, and 
 take with thee that creature for whom thou hadst 
 committed a crime." 
 
 " I pray thee, most gentle Veritas ! " the young 
 man said falteringly. "Grant me yet another 
 request ere I leave thee to spend in penance the 
 rest of my days." 
 
 " Name thy wish," Veritas returned gently. 
 
 " That she whose face and words erst tempted 
 me to sin may never come again before mine 
 eyes," Mavorel answered, in a low tone, with 
 
VERITAS. 47 
 
 his eyes bent and his arms folded across his 
 breast. 
 
 " We love not then the companions of sin when 
 sin has left us ? " the Spirit said with half-jesting, 
 half-kindly voice. " So be it then." 
 
 And lo, when the young man raised his eyes 
 the beautiful woman had vanished, and he and 
 Veritas stood alone in the room. 
 
 " Come Mavorel ; ponder no more over thy sin. 
 'Twas but the fleeting poison of thy youth's 
 young blood ; and I have pardoned thee," 
 Veritas said pityingly, touching the young man's 
 hand. 
 
 " Would that I could forgive myself, as thou 
 dost me ! " answered Mavorel, " and that the 
 memory of my deed need never come before 
 me." 
 
 " Nay 1 " the Spirit made answer. " Even God 
 is deprived of making that which is past never to 
 have been. But thou shalt not leave me yet. I 
 have more marvels still to show thee." 
 
 So saying, the spirit left Mavorel alone for a 
 little while, and, when he returned, brought with 
 him three urns of curious and fantastic workman- 
 ship. These he set down before the young writer, 
 
48 VERITAS. 
 
 and bade him look at the inscription on each of 
 them. Mavorel perceived some strange hiero- 
 glyphics carved on the lids, which he could not 
 decipher, and Veritas said, mournfully shaking his 
 head : 
 
 "Well do I believe, Oh! Son of Man, that 
 canst not read these strange characters. Know, 
 then, that the words inscribed on these vases, are 
 in the language the world spoke ere the Tower of 
 Babel was built. It was the only thing our first 
 parents carried with them from Eden ; and it was 
 lost for evermore in Shinar, through the 
 presumption of man, when he tried to build a 
 tower reaching Heaven's Kingdom. On this 
 one," he continued, pointing to the first urn, " is 
 inscribed a word which meaneth ' Wisdom ;' on 
 the second is inscribed another word, which 
 meaneth 'Virtue/ and on the third is written 
 the word meaning ' Wealth.' Mavorel ! I bid 
 thee now to choose of the three, of which one 
 thou wouldst wish to be possessed. Reflect, and 
 speak, and I will grant it thee ! What is thy 
 desire ? Wisdom, Virtue, or Wealth ! " 
 
 The young man for a few moments was too 
 overcome even to think. The prospect of an 
 
VERITAS. 49 
 
 abundance of either Wisdom or Wealth dazzled 
 his senses. But, on a sudden he became calm, 
 and he spoke as in a soliloquy : 
 
 " If I were wealthy ? Could wealth give me 
 happiness ? I have seen the rich miserable, 
 because they have not wisdom ; and I have seen 
 the wise miserable, because they are not rich. A 
 rich man hath no real friends, and I, a poor one, 
 have. I am richer than the rich man. Shall I 
 buy hypocrisy and flattery ? If I am rich to-day, 
 to-morrow my mind will cry for that which money 
 cannot buy ; therefore, Wealth, I'll none of thee. 
 And, what sayest thou, oh ! Wisdom ? Thou, 
 the only thing that can be taken with us beyond 
 the grave ? If I choose thee, the world will be 
 mine own ; kings will be my courtiers, and the 
 universe my court. Wisdom can purchase 
 riches, and I shall be rich, as well as wise. But 
 stay ! With Wisdom cometh discontent. For, 
 when we are wise, all we know is, how little we 
 know. And then Wisdom destroys love. For to 
 love and be wise is denied even the Gods ! Why 
 should I, to obtain fame and power, renounce the 
 dear friends of my }^outh ? Those friends, who 
 even now, as I stand here in this mystic place, 
 
 E 
 
5<D VERITAS. 
 
 come before me with their endless deeds of 
 kindness ; their tender laughter, and their songs. 
 Wisdom would place me in a sphere beyond 
 them, and never more could I be contented in 
 their loved society. Shall I exchange Love for 
 Wisdom ? Love is the life of man, 'tis better than 
 Fame, Power or Wisdom, therefore Wisdom," the 
 young man continued, huge beads of perspiration 
 dropping from his brow, and a sigh, deep and 
 unutterable, breaking from his overcharged 
 breast, " I renounce thee, and choose for myself, 
 and all the world, Virtue." 
 
 He fell on his knees before the Spirit, tears 
 flowing his eyes, and Veritas gazed at him with 
 deeper compassion and kindliness yet. 
 
 " I pray thee, Spirit of Truth and Love ! " 
 Mavorel said imploringly, raising his tearful 
 eyes to Veritas, "not only implant Virtue 
 in my heart, but in that of every heart of 
 the whole Universe. Hypocrisy and Falsehood 
 have reigned too long. Grant, oh ! Veritas, 
 thy gentle sway, and Virtue now should reign 
 instead." 
 
 "Thy wish, poor dreaming youth, shall be 
 granted," the Spirit made answer, mournfully. 
 
VERITAS. 5 1 
 
 41 Now come with me, we must away, and see the 
 effect of Virtue's sway." 
 
 The writer, Mavorel, rose, at the behest of 
 Veritas, and, following in his footsteps, left the place 
 in the same way as they had entered it. Once out in 
 the street, Veritas stretched out his arms, and 
 murmured an incantation, no word of which the 
 young man understood. The evening sky was 
 studded with thousands of twinkling stars, yet, when 
 the Spirit spoke, it seemed as though they came 
 nearer earth to listen. It was a strange and 
 preternatural hush, followed suddenly by hideous 
 screeching, and other horrible sounds. 
 
 Horror-stricken, Mavorel asked to know 
 whence these terrible noises emanated. 
 
 "They come from the Spirits that prompt murder, 
 theft, lying, treachery, and rapine," answered 
 Veritas. " They are flying to Hell, for Virtue hath 
 begun to rule the world, and they must leave it." 
 
 They walked on, seeing all, but invisible. 
 Presently they came across a man, stealing along 
 in the shadows with a sack on his shoulders. 
 
 " That man is bent on mischief," Mavorel said. 
 " Do not permit him to accomplish his work, dear 
 Veritas." 
 
 E 2 
 
5- VERITAS. 
 
 " Peace, my son/' Veritas spake benevolently, 
 " in that sack he carries stolen goods, which he 
 intends returning to their rightful owner." 
 
 After walking on for a while longer, Mavorel 
 observed, that from a house where noisy 
 characters usually assembled for dancing and 
 drinking, all was still and silent. 
 
 " Where are the inmates of yonder house," he 
 asked, wonderingly. 
 
 " Gone to pray for their past sins," Veritas 
 answered, quietry. 
 
 Then, wandering on still further, they came 
 across a well-known place where Mavorel and his 
 friends assembled to make night merry with their 
 laughter and their songs. They found it without 
 light, and silent as the grave. 
 
 " Where are the friends of my heart ? " cried 
 Mavorel, fearfully, " where are the sounds which 
 gladdened my ears ? Where are the forms 
 that gladdened my sight ? Are they all dead, or 
 whither have they gone ? Tell me, tell me, 
 Veritas." 
 
 "They have gone for ever!" the Spirit 
 answered. " To those of many sins, Death hath 
 come in a terrible shape, for Virtue hath come to 
 
VKRITAS. 53 
 
 them, and they have taken their own lives ; and to 
 those of lesser sins, they, ah ! they have gone into 
 a hermitage or sought a nunnery." 
 
 And they wandered on, Mavorel now filled with 
 grief at the loss of his friends. 
 
 "Am I better than they? " he mused, "that I 
 should not share their fate. Better that I were 
 dead with those with whom I sinned and loved 
 than living and virtuous with those whom I love 
 not ! " 
 
 Presently they came to a house at whose door 
 Mavorel saw a woman weeping bitterly. 
 
 "What aileth her ? " he asked. 
 
 " See yonder," Veritas made answer, " there 
 is a man. They intended to fly together, but the 
 voice of conscience whispered ' Virtue ' and she 
 cannot go ! " 
 
 Mavorel observed a man in the road leaning 
 against a post, with his face buried in his 
 handkerchief. 
 
 "Who is he?" he asked. 
 
 " Her lover ! " returned the Spirit. 
 
 "And who is that man praying by his bedside ?" 
 demanded the young man again. 
 
 " That is her husband." 
 
54 VERITAS. 
 
 They continued their walk, and together they 
 went into the palace of a King. They saw him 
 surrounded by courtiers on a throne, and 
 presently a dignitary, in ermine and purple robes, 
 came forward, and said : 
 
 " Sign this, Sire ; for doing to death a virtuous 
 man, a villain is condemned to die ; this is the 
 document which will seal his doom. The world 
 will be well rid of the monster." 
 
 The King turned pale and trembled. 
 
 " Oh God !" he cried out in a mighty voice. 
 " If I sign the death-warrant of a man who hath 
 caused the death of but one person, what infernal 
 doom shouldst thou not mete out to me, who have 
 done away with a thousand noble men ? " 
 
 And with his hands to his face, the King left 
 the throne-room, and the document was left 
 unsigned. 
 
 Veritas left the palace with the awe-stricken and 
 sorrowful Mavorel, and walked on with him until 
 he came to the strand of a mighty sea. 
 
 The tide was going out, and the waters made a 
 weird sort of music together, accompanied by the 
 clashing of the mjTiads of little stones. Calm, 
 and holy, unlike the once vice perturbed world 
 
VERITAS. 5 5 
 
 the moon shone down serenely on all, but most 
 on the face and form of a drowned young girl. 
 The face was beautiful in death,and the lank, long, 
 golden hair served only as a frame to the sweet 
 lifeless portrait of her spirit. Mavorel shuddered 
 with horror as he saw the poor creature. 
 
 " Why tremblest thou, my son?" asked Veritas. 
 " Death to this poor creature came as comfort, 
 not as terror. Pity those who die yellow and 
 sered in sin, and not those green and young to 
 it." 
 
 " But my father," cried Mavorel, brokenly, 
 11 why should death steal this fair and lovely 
 flower, are there no sapless trees for him to take 
 instead ?" 
 
 11 She loved, and sinned," Veritas answered, 
 "and she knew that death alone could wash 
 that sin away from her stain'd soul. But come 
 away. The watchmen are wending their \vay 
 hither to take the poor inanimate thing away." 
 
 " Unhappy soul, that erstwhile lived in that 
 beautiful cage/' Mavorel exclaimed, brokenly, 
 apostrophising the dead girl. " Wing thy way 
 to Heaven, and in thy prayers for all mankind, 
 remember the pity of one poor sinner too." 
 
56 VERITAS. 
 
 Scarcely had they left the spot, where already 
 some men had lifted up the body of the girl, 
 when they came across a young man standing 
 on a rock, not far distant. The youth's eyes were 
 dry and tearless, though an unnatural pallor was 
 spread over his countenance. Mavorel felt himself 
 curiously drawn towards him. 
 
 " Who is that young man," he asked gently, 
 " tell me, thou who art even more than my 
 father ?" 
 
 " Away, away, from this spot 1" exclaimed 
 Veritas, in a terror-stricken voice. " And weep, 
 Mavorel, that thou belong'st to the unhappy race 
 of man." 
 
 " But father, who, who is this sad-faced 
 youth ?" 
 
 " Draw nearer then, Mavorel, look at that pallid 
 cheek. Once it was coloured with a hue of rose 
 equal to thine own. Look at his emaciated form, 
 his trembling step, his feeble hands ; yet time 
 was, when all were robust and firm, with a soul 
 to dare and an arm to strike against tyranny and 
 wrong. Look into that eye where all spirit and 
 fire is lost, and life too, but that remorse holds 
 its own with fiend-like energy. That man loved that 
 
VERITAS. 57 
 
 dead girl, and in a moment of forgetfulness they 
 sinned against the laws of Heaven. Alas ! that 
 sin is so short ; and remorse so long. Those 
 ears, opened but to hear the voice of pure love 
 and virtue, gave themselves up to listen to levity. 
 Levity is an easy step to inconstancy, and 
 inconstancy to falsehood. Those eyes that 
 shrank from the sight of wrong, now sought to 
 find it, and the heart once free from worldliness 
 and vice, sought both unconsciously. That 
 tongue, once the herald of honesty and affection, 
 became hypocritical and lying. It betrayed his 
 first love, and it betrayed his friend. For a sin 
 that he himself was guilty of, he allowed another 
 to suffer, and then came the terrible night ; the 
 terrible night, Mavorel, when I accorded thee thy 
 wish, my son, that humanity should become 
 virtuous. Behold that unfortunate youth, in a 
 few minutes he will have sought the waters as 
 his grave, for his remorse brings him hither to 
 drown himself ! " 
 
 " Hold him back, Veritas ! " cried Mavorel, his 
 heart nigh bursting with grief. " With all those 
 sins on his soul, a man dare not appear before 
 his Maker." 
 
58 VERITAS. 
 
 " My son ! " spake the Spirit, " my power 
 endeth here. He hath perpetrated the crimes, 
 and he must expiate them. He is but doing that 
 which is virtuous and right." 
 
 " Oh, Father, oh, Father of Truth 1 " cried the 
 young man, throwing himself at his feet, his eyes 
 overflowing with tears. " Be again to mankind 
 as thou wast when I first met thee, a beggar 
 amongst them. Give them back their burden of 
 crime, and take away their gnawing sense of 
 guilt. Give mankind their iniquities again, and 
 take away this cruel remorse. Give give to 
 man his sins again ! " 
 
 Mavorel, the writer, awoke ! Sin reigned 
 supreme. 
 
HOW TOM BELLAMY WON MY 
 LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 
 
 No friend's a friend till he shall prove himself a friend. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 Some friendships are made by Nature ; some by contract ; 
 
 some by interest ; and some by souls. 
 
 Jeremy Taylor. 
 
6i 
 
 HOW TOM BELLAMY WON MY 
 LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER, 
 
 (WRITTEN BY HIMSELF IN FORM OF A LETTER TO A 
 
 FRIEND, JUNE I STH, 1762.) 
 
 London. 
 MY DEAR HARRY, 
 
 In acceding to thy earnest wish, that I should 
 relate to thee in full that episode which is now 
 the talk of the town and White's I feel if I 
 am giving thee that satisfaction I am also guilty 
 of discomfiting thee, for I must either tell thee the 
 incident at length, or not at all. But never shall 
 it be said that I, Thomas Bellamy, turned a deaf 
 ear to a friend's demand, no matter how slight. 
 
 Know then in the first instance, that after 
 I left college, I ran wild about town for a year or 
 so, then finding the life suited neither my purse 
 nor my health, accepted the post of Secretary 
 
62 How TOM BELLAMY WON 
 
 to my Lord Hertford, whom thou knowest as 
 well as I and the world do. I consider him one 
 of the ablest men in this country, one of the 
 handsomest, and one of the most dissolute to boot, 
 yet withal possessing the finest heart in the 
 world. Nature has spoiled him, and he, not to be 
 behindhand, hath spoiled Nature. Gambling, 
 drink, and debauch are ruining him, yet could my 
 hand and soul reform him, they would be sacrificed 
 to save him. Well, to my story ; as I know 
 thou hadst never a mind for platitudes. It 
 happened in this way, my Lord and I set out on 
 a journey to Norfolk, whither he had been invited 
 by a kinswoman, who owns one of the finest 
 estates in the county. It chanced that when the 
 coach had proceeded about a quarter of the 
 journey a wheel came off ; and lo, and behold we 
 were in a sorry predicament. However, as luck 
 would have it, we were near an inn, and 
 some of the attendants, seeing the mishap, 
 rushed out to assist us, then we sought shelter 
 until such a time when the coach should be 
 restored to its former condition. We were 
 shown into an old-fashioned room, the lattices of 
 which were thrown wide open, and the flower- 
 
MY LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 63 
 
 laden, balmy air poured in, replacing with a 
 sweeter fragrance the sweet Virginian tobacco we 
 smoked. For no sooner did the accident happen 
 than my lord lighted his pipe, and I did so too. 
 Where women fly to tears and hysterics, men seek 
 the more magic and more soothing power of 
 tobacco. Cleopatra would never have exercised 
 no, nor Helen of Troy, either such a sway over 
 the hearts of men had tobacco existed in those days. 
 Tobacco divides that affection in the masculine 
 heart which was once woman's alone. Well, we 
 were scarce seated five minutes when, with the 
 blossom and grass perfumed air floated in the sound 
 of human voices in angry discussion, and one, 
 louder than the rest, execrating in a most godless 
 fashion. 
 
 " By G , I'll shoot that horse," cried the 
 
 voice, outside. 
 
 " But master," answered what seemed a 
 groom, " it isn't Diana's fault, she's dead tired, 
 that's what she is, master. The other 'osses have 
 been changed twice, and she not at all !" 
 
 "Hold your tongue ! " cries out the first 
 
 voice, peremptorily. " Go and have this nag put up. 
 I wonder what sort of accommodation they can 
 
64 How TOM BELLAMY WON 
 
 afford a man in this cursed out-of-the-way hole. 
 Look you, if Diana doesn't behave in better 
 fashion to-morrow, Pll let daylight into her, by 
 G , I will ! " 
 
 There was a clank of spurred boots along the 
 stones, and then the horses clattered off, and the 
 voices in the courtyard ceased. 
 
 " I know that voice," presently said my lord, 
 breaking silence. " It belongs to Calvert 
 Cresswell, for a hundred guineas ! " 
 
 I recognised the gentleman's mode of speaking, 
 not his voice. There's not another man about town 
 who swears so extravagantly as Calvert Cresswell 
 doth. Thou knowest him, Harry, well enough. He's 
 a tall, handsome, dark-complexioned fellow, with 
 a swaggering air, and black eyes with a touch of 
 hell fire in them. He is a pretty frequent visitor 
 at my lord's house, and seems a favourite, too, 
 in a way. But there's something about the man 
 I thoroughly mistrust, and I was right, as thou 
 wilt presently see. 
 
 I agreed with my lord that it was Calvert 
 Cresswell, and off he darted to bring him into the 
 parlour, telling me not to go away in the meantime. 
 I was not left alone long for the door was opened, 
 
MY LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 65 
 
 and my lord re-entered, followed by his friend. He 
 greeted me in a manner which showed me that he 
 far preferred my room to my company ; as for me 
 I smiled as blandly and amiably as possible, 
 feeling I should like to meet him behind 
 Montague House, with a couple of friends and a 
 brace of pistols. After we had partaken of some 
 cold viands, he became communicative and 
 rattled off some lively stories, all of which he was 
 the hero, and various lovely females the heroines 
 and victims. 
 
 " By the way, whither are you bound ? " asked 
 my lord, breaking in somewhat impatiently on a 
 particularly aggravating conte d' amour. 
 
 " To the very place where you are ! " answers 
 Mr. Cresswell. " I am going on a visit to your 
 kinswoman, Lady Francis Ravenscroft." 
 
 11 Are you going there ? " asks my lord, raising 
 his finely pencilled eyebrows. 
 
 " Yes ; why not ? " says the other, shrugging 
 his shoulders. " You have the monopoly of most 
 things, my lord, but not all." 
 
 " Methought," observes my patron, coolly, but 
 gravely, " That Othello was jealous of 
 Desdemona." 
 
66 How TOM BELLAMY WON 
 
 "My lord," answers Calvert Cresswell, 
 cynically, "if we were all to heed the idle 
 jealousies of husbands of handsome women, 
 some of us would have to stay at home all our 
 days, I warrant." 
 
 There was a pointedness about this worldly 
 remark which was not lost upon Lord Hertford. 
 He smiled, shrugged his shoulders in his turn, 
 and suggested, with a yawn, that they should have 
 a game of cards. 
 
 I knew it would not be long ere they betted on 
 something ; it seems as natural to the world of 
 fashion as life itself. I couldn't help laughing 
 though when, as quick as thought, both 
 gentlemen drew from their pockets a pack of 
 cards, simultaneously. 
 
 Mr. CresswelFs pack was chosen as it was the 
 cleaner, and my lord shuffled. 
 
 " What shall we play for ? " he asked. 
 
 " My soul 1" says Cresswell, laughingly, cutting 
 the pack. 
 
 "Nay," replies the other, dealing, "your soul's 
 already won." 
 
 "Ay," retorted his friend, "by the very one 
 who hath yours. And," he added sarcastically, 
 
MY LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 67 
 
 4 ' could it be in better keeping than with him who 
 has charge of one so eminent as is my lord's of 
 Hertford ? By the way, the last time we played 
 together it was for a woman. " 
 
 Do you remember the talk, Harry, how Lord 
 Hertford and Mr. Calvert Cress well played for 
 Cresswell's notorious but beautiful mistress, 
 Nellie Flouncewell ? You'll remember, too, that 
 my lord won, and Mistress Nellie turned out to 
 be a spy, besides a courtesan. 
 
 " Yes, and a d d bad one ! " assented my 
 
 patron. 
 
 " Come, now," asks Mr. Cresswell sneeringly. 
 41 Surely you didn't expect to play for a good one, 
 Oh, fie ! " 
 
 "Yes, and I have to thank young Bellamy for 
 finding out what a thoroughly dangerous female 
 pretty Nellie was," remarked my lord, coldly. 
 
 He alluded to some treasonable papers I had 
 found by the merest accident in his mistress's 
 possession, and which was the cause of her 
 dismissal. 
 
 " Oho 1" exclaims Cresswell, laying his cards 
 down, and fixing his insolent black eyes on me ; 
 yet withal with a certain sort of interest. 
 
 F, 2 
 
68 How TOM BELLAMY WON 
 
 " Rather a young sort of champion, is'nt he ?" 
 
 " Youth has nothing to do with it, sir," I 
 responded, somewhat hotly. " And surely a 
 young friend is better than an old traitor." 
 
 Calvert Cresswell . scowled. " Faith, do you 
 imagine you can defend my lord against all his 
 antagonists ?" he asked. 
 
 " Nay, only some of them," I returned, gravely 
 and meaningly. 
 
 " Poor enemies !" he ejaculated, scornfully. 
 " But I suppose my lord can defend himself 
 against his foes without your help." 
 
 " Every man can guard against an open foe, but 
 few against secret ones," I replied, laconically. 
 
 " Hear, hear !" cries out my lord, puffing out 
 huge volumes of smoke, and Calvert Cresswell 
 slightly blushed at my plain speaking. 
 
 He affected to be amused with me, and laughed,, 
 but there w r as something unreal about it, that 
 showed me he was not quite at his ease regarding 
 me. However, as he picked up his cards, every- 
 thing was soon forgotten in the excitement of the 
 game. Higher and higher rose the stakes until 
 even I stood aghast at the sums these two gentle- 
 men lost and won. 
 
MY LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 69 
 
 " Curse it ! You've the devil's luck !" cries out 
 Cresswell, at last throwing down his cards. 
 " Every card is against me, I won't play any 
 more to-night. I don't mind losing, but can't 
 stand against infernal luck as yours. But 
 I'll tell you what it is," he exclaimed, suddenly, 
 as though struck with a bright idea. " Let's 
 bet !" 
 
 " Right willingly," quoth my lord, with that 
 lazy good humour common to a man who is used 
 to victory. " But I warn you before hand that 
 you'll lose." 
 
 " H'm, yes ! men always do against you ; your 
 luck is proverbial." 
 
 " What's the bet you propose ?" questioned 
 my Lord Hertford. 
 
 " Simply this. Let us both start off on our 
 journey to-morrow by two different routes, 
 and the one who reaches the Castle first shall be 
 paid by the one who arrives after him the 
 sum of ten thousand guineas. I'll bet ten 
 thousand ; curse me ! fifteen thousand to your 
 ten !" 
 
 " Nay, as for that," puts in my lord, " we'll 
 have an even wager." 
 
70 How TOM BELLAMY WON 
 
 " Done ! So be 't, then !" answers the 
 other. 
 
 " I accept the bet with pleasure, and I intend," 
 he adds, coolly, " to win." 
 
 " Not this time, not this," grinned Cresswell, 
 showing his white ivories. 
 
 "Ay, this time !" observes his friend, coolly r 
 with the air of a man accustomed to success. 
 " Else Lucifer is not my guardian angel." 
 
 Well, it so turned out that Lucifer was not 
 my lord's guardian angel this time, but another 
 person was. For sure enough whilst they had been 
 playing cards I had an opportunity of watching 
 Calvert Cresswell's face, and, at the end of the 
 examination, was more than ever convinced that 
 it wasn't one a man would pin his trust to. Thou 
 knowest what a fellow I am to believe in 
 first impressions ? Well, when he made the bet 
 with my lord, I swore to myself he meant mis- 
 chief, and thou wilt learn anon, Harry, how right I 
 was. Calvert Cresswell excused himself for a 
 moment, and left the room, but it was not long 
 ere he returned, bearing a tray with two glasses 
 filled with spirits. 
 
 " The d d servants are a-bed," he said, 
 
MY LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 71 
 
 setting one down before my lord, and taking one 
 himself. "So I brought the drink in myself. 
 Here's to success I" 
 
 Raising his glass to his lips, he motioned my 
 lord to follow his example, but ere that gentle- 
 man could act in concert with his companion, I 
 fell stumbling, as though by accident, against my 
 lord's arm. The trick had the desired effect ; 
 the glass fell to the ground in fragments, and the 
 liquor spilled. 
 
 " The devil take you for a d d awkward 
 
 rascal," yelled Cresswell, mad with rage. 
 
 " Take care," I returned, quietly and 
 significantly, " only a glass is broken now ; I 
 may be tempted to break a head." 
 
 " Faith !" laughed my lord, " why, Cresswell, 
 you're as mad as though the lad had spilled a 
 poison instead of mere brandy !" 
 
 Cresswell paled, and forcing a laugh, 
 murmured out an apology to me, and proffered his 
 hand ; I contented myself with bowing, and 
 shortly afterwards withdrew. 
 
 Now, my first act, after I had left my lord and 
 his quondam friend alone, was to seek out mine 
 host, whom I found in the kitchen taking his ease, 
 
72 How TOM BELLAMY WON 
 
 with a huge tankard of ale on a stool close by 
 where he sat. 
 
 " Good evening, master ! " said he, as I entered. 
 " Can I do aught for ye ? " 
 
 "Well, no not precisely, that is, I want to 
 have a gossip with you ; but first, let's have a 
 bottle of good wine." 
 
 "For yourself?" 
 
 " For both." 
 
 " But wine and beer is a bad mixture." 
 
 " Nonsense," I remarked, cajolingly : 
 
 " Beer after wine, that drink is not mine, 
 But wine after beer, is very good cheer ! " 
 
 "Ah! laming is a prodigious fine thing," 
 observed mine host, quite reconciled to the 
 mixture I proposed. " I see you are a scholard, 
 you are." 
 
 He was not slow in bringing the desired bottle, 
 and, sitting down together, I made a very fine 
 show of being vastly interested in every function, 
 social, and otherwise of the village surrounding 
 mine host's roof. The matter of our conversation 
 was by no means thrilling, the fact will be well 
 understood, when I tell you that pigs, cows, and 
 
MY LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 73 
 
 the prospect of the wheat crop, were the principal 
 topics. 
 
 " By the way ! " says I, presently, very coolly, 
 " where am I to sleep to-night ? " 
 
 " Next to his lordship. It's a prodigiously fine 
 room, clean as a whistle, and as comfortable as a 
 forty-year-old widow with a jointure," returned 
 mine host, smoking away, placidly. 
 
 " Couldn't you manage to change it, and give 
 me another," I asked, feeling my way, very 
 gently. 
 
 " Faith, master, with pleasure, I would," 
 responded the plump owner of the inn, heartily. 
 41 But we haven't another bed in the house." 
 
 "H'm ! I'm not sleepy," I observed, " and its just 
 possible I wont lay down, to-night." 
 
 " By 'r lady ! " ejaculated my companion, 
 drinking a long draught of wine. 
 
 " You see, my friend," here I became deeply 
 sympathetic and confidential, " I have a trust 
 imposed upon me. You remember the gentleman 
 who came in late?" 
 
 " Him with the black eyes, and domineering 
 ways ? " 
 
 " The very one." 
 
74 How TOP/I BELLAMY WON 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 "Well, I require you to put me up in a room 
 next to his. Now, don't tell me/' I added, as 
 he appeared about to expostulate, " that you 
 can't ; but do as I tell you. It's for your own 
 good." 
 
 " How's that ? " demanded my fat interlocutor,, 
 crossing himself, and opening his eyes very 
 wide. 
 
 "Well," I answered, carelessly, " altho' he's a 
 particular friend of mine, he hath contracted a 
 very pernicious habit." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " He walks in his sleep 1" 
 
 "Ah ! that's nought," says the proprietor of the 
 Wheatsheaf, as though relieved. 
 
 " So ! you think nothing of a man, who, not 
 only endangers his own life, with wandering 
 about in his sleep, but, also, that of others ? " 
 
 " By the mass, 'tis terrible ! But, how so ? " 
 and again Monsieur le Proprietaire crosses 
 himself repeatedly. 
 
 " My friend has a bad habit," I continued, 
 off-handedly, " of walking in his sleep with a big 
 knife, which he conceals about his person, with 
 
MY LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 75 
 
 that cunning, for which somnambulists and madmen 
 are notorious. He searches/' I added, sinking 
 my voice into a sepulchral whisper, " for the tattest 
 man in the house, to kill him, under the impression 
 that he is slaying a wild boar." 
 
 " Mother of God, save us ! " cried the Papist 
 (for mine host was a Papist, judging by his 
 ejaculations) beads of perspiration dropping from 
 his brow. " What is to be done ? I am inclined 
 to to fattishness, myself." 
 
 "You are just the sort of man my friend 
 would " I began. 
 
 " What is to be done ? " interrupted the other, 
 groaning. 
 
 "Give me a room a cell a garret anything 
 next to him, so I may watch his movements, and 
 
 prevent his committing " once more I dropped 
 
 my voice, and whispered in mine host's ear, 
 " the crime of Murder !" 
 
 " Oh ! " cries he, " dear, kind gentleman, I 
 will do anything. Your kindness deserves all 
 praise, for 'tis a great sin, is murder. Certainly, I 
 shall have the room next the sleep-walking 
 gentleman's ready. I meant it as his dressing 
 room ; but it shall be yours," and, in great haste, 
 
76 How TOM BELLAMY WON 
 
 muttering a variety of blessings on my head, he 
 sped from the kitchen, leaving it entirely for me 
 to enjoy a quiet laugh in. 
 
 After about a quarter of an hour's absence 
 mine host returned, and asking me to follow him, 
 showed me the way up two flights of steep 
 stairs, through a narrow passage, and into the 
 little room meant for my apartment. Mine host 
 was considerably breathed, but whether for fear 
 of having his throat cut by the somnambulist of 
 my fancy, or the exertion of helping to hurriedly 
 prepare the chamber for me, I cannot say. Be 
 this how it may, it certainly was a fact that the 
 space was a diminutive one ; but I inwardly 
 rejoiced at being next door to Mr. Calvert 
 Cresswell. 
 
 " By the way," I said, just when the proprietor 
 of the Wheatsheaf was leaving me, "what is 
 the meaning of those holes up there ? " For I 
 noticed that about three or four feet above my 
 head on the wall where I was standing, were 
 about five or six round holes. 
 
 " Well, sir," answered the corpulent innkeeper, 
 "we had some gay sparks here one night. One 
 of 'em slept in this here room and two in the 
 
MY LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 77 
 
 other. They got pranking or something ; for in the 
 night the gentlemen asleeping in this room ses as- 
 he had a pain in his inside, which no one believed, 
 and wanted to wake the other two. So he said 
 he couldn't get up, and so he jest took his pistol, 
 and sent some bullets thro' the wall, instead of 
 knocking at it to get help. But I'm sure there 
 worn't naught the matter with him, and he did it 
 only for devilry." 
 
 " Ah !" I observed, as though depreciative of 
 the holes, although I thanked Providence for 
 providing me with them, " some people might 
 object to them. I should certainly have them 
 covered up." 
 
 " I'll have it done to-morrow, sir," says my host, 
 going. " Good night ; and may the saints keep 
 you, sleeping and waking." 
 
 "Good night!" 
 
 No sconcr was the door closed than I took the 
 only chair my room boasted, and stood upon it, 
 and put my eye to the biggest of the holes. I 
 could not repress an exclamation of joy. Fortune 
 favoured me, I could plainly see into my 
 neighbour's room, where a candle was burning. 
 After this discovery I lost no time in finding my 
 
78 How TOM BELLAMY WON 
 
 lord again, and bidding him and Mr. Calvert 
 Cresswell " Good-night," went up to my little den 
 and waited. One hour passed on, and I had 
 .almost worked myself into a perfect fever of im- 
 patience, when suddenly the door opened, and 
 in strode my lord's quondam friend. Through 
 the little loophole which had been made by a 
 reckless fellow in a reckless minute, and yet 
 which afforded help to one of a more thoughtful 
 class, which shows that good can and does often 
 spring from evil I espied all that he did. 
 
 I must confess to feeling some pangs of 
 conscience for playing spy ; but when I reflected 
 that this man was capable of doing anything ill, 
 and having the weltare of my patron at heart, 
 I allowed no squeamishness to prevent me 
 from finding out what Mr. Calvert Cresswell 
 intended doing. That it was mischief on which 
 he was bent I had no doubt. My unfailing 
 instinct told me that. 
 
 When he entered his room he went straight to 
 a mirror, and spent a little time in admiring 
 himself; and I must do him the justice to say he 
 was handsome enough to be vain. But he had 
 no coxcomb's or fop's vanity. He was proud, 
 
MY LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 79 
 
 but proud, like Lucifer, of his attainments, pos- 
 sessions, and looks. 
 
 " It's no use," he said at last, " playing against 
 a man who has his master the Devil's luck like 
 Hertford. I believe it is his very confidence that 
 he is certain to win that makes others lose. He 
 thinks he'll win the bet I made to-morrow. I'll 
 take good care he doesn't this time, though. 
 Fancy him finding out that Nellie Flouncewell 
 was a spy. Ah I But it was not he that found 
 her out ; it was Ganymede, his student cupbearer, 
 Jove's cupbearer. A meddling puppy," this was your 
 humble servant, and I was scarcely flattered at the 
 description of myself, " whom I'll run through the 
 body one of these days. Ay, I will as soon as 
 look at him. It is evident that the Devil sent one 
 of his imps in the shape of this secretary of his, 
 or something or other, to look after his beloved. 
 Ha ! but the imp isn't in the way now," he 
 continued, going to one of a number of valises 
 in a corner of the room. " To-morrow at White's 
 the fellows will be saying i My Lord of Hertford 
 has lost a bet at last.' It will knock some of 
 his infernal nonchalance out of him. I would give 
 a couple of thousand guineas for that alone. Some 
 
8o How TOM BELLAMY WON 
 
 fools say there is nothing so sweet as love. I say 
 there is nothing so sweet as revenge. The qualities 
 of revenge are more satisfying than those of 
 love. Yes, my lord/' he went on with a short, 
 brutal laugh, unlocking one of his valises and 
 taking thence a medium sized wooden box, 
 " as sure as there is something to poison a horse 
 so that when you have driven him for half a mile 
 he will drop dead, so surely as my mother taught 
 me to mix some poisons as subtle as those used 
 by Catherine of Medicis, so surely shall you lose 
 your bet, my Lord of Hertford." 
 
 So saying he opened the box, which held four 
 or five bottles, and, selecting one, held it to the 
 light. " There's enough here to do the thing," he 
 went on, " and now for the stables to give my 
 precious lord's horses their dose. Ha ! ha I 
 Bellamy," he laughed sneeringly, " who's the 
 cleverest, the sleeping Solomon or the waking 
 fool, I wonder ? " 
 
 I waited not to hear or see more, but stepped 
 from the chair, and with my shoes in my hand, 
 glided noiselessly out of the room and down the 
 stairs, nor rested till I had gained the outside of 
 the stables where my lord's horses were ; and 
 
MY LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 81 
 
 here I put on my shoes. It was a glorious 
 night, balmy and mild, with the stars shining 
 in the deep sapphire sky, a night that would 
 draw sweet songs from the soul of the poet, 
 and from the hearts of young love. Being 
 neither a poet or a lover just then, I took up a 
 contemplative position, with my arms crossed, 
 waiting with an expression of dreaminess, but 
 with a wildly beating heart for the approach of 
 the enemy. I turned the key which I found 
 sticking of the stable door, after the fashion 
 of a good old time-honoured proverb, and 
 dropped it in my pocket, and presently when 
 I heard footsteps I was aware that in less 
 than two minutes I would be face to face 
 with that false gentleman and friend, Calverf 
 Cresswell. 
 
 He came along, whilst all but he and I seemed 
 sleeping, as though in thought, with his eyes bent 
 to the ground, so that not until he was quite 
 close to me did he perceive that anyone stood 
 there. He did not recognise me at first. 
 
 "Halloa!" says he, roughly, evidently taking 
 me for a groom or stableman, " time you were in 
 bed, my man." 
 
 G 
 
82 How TOM BELLAMY WON 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Cresswell," answers l r 
 courteously. 
 
 " Who the devil are you ? " he asks, angrily. 
 
 " My lord's secretary, at your service, sir." 
 
 " What are you doing here ? " 
 
 " Like yourself, I humbty aspire to be an 
 admirer of Nature as she sleeps. That is why I 
 am here." 
 
 His black brazen eyes, with a flicker of hell's 
 fire in them, look suspiciously at me. But my 
 face is calm and placid I know. Besides, have I 
 not the stable key in my pocket ? Nothing tends to 
 make one so virtuously calm as a feeling of security. 
 
 "You must be tired," says he, presently, a little 
 more pleasantly. " Why are you not in bed ? " 
 
 " If I felt disposed to be impertinent, sir," I 
 answered, not stirring from the door. " I could 
 ask the same question of you." 
 
 " Oh ! I I am here," he returned, laughing 
 uneasily. " To study nature sleeping nature ! " 
 
 " Oh, sir," I said with such a fine affectation 
 of enthusiasm, that I astonished myself. " If I 
 might be so bold, pray allow me to commune 
 with you as to a kindred spirit, altho' mine be 
 but a humble one !" 
 
MY LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 83 
 
 For this speech I fancy he immediately put me 
 down as a species of poetical apprentice, which 
 was just what I wanted. 
 
 " Let me tell you something," he said, with a 
 sudden display of interest. " If you go to my 
 room, on the left hand side of my bed, there is a 
 bag with some wonderful books on Nature in 
 it ; if you like, go and fetch one, and I'll stay 
 here and wait for you." 
 
 " Believe me, Mr. Cresswell," I observed, " I 
 would rather hear knowledge from the lips of a 
 man of sense and experience, than read it in the 
 pages of the greatest writer who ever wrote." 
 And I moved not from the stable door, and I saw 
 him turn his hand in his pocket, as though the 
 bottle were there. 
 
 " Aha ! " thought I, " my fine gentleman, you'll 
 not catch me tripping a measure to the time you 
 play, I warrant ! " 
 
 He did not appear quite at his ease after 
 my answer, and looked at me rather suspi- 
 ciously, but I maintained my assumed poetical 
 demeanour, and was to all appearances star gazing 
 
 " It's a fine night !" he said at last, courteously. 
 " I propose that we walk a little." 
 
 G 2 
 
84 How TOM BELLAMY WON 
 
 44 With all the pleasure in life," I answered, 
 with alacrity. 
 
 I moved from the stable door, and a shade of 
 disappointment passed over his face. He saw 
 that the key was gone. I could not forbear a 
 smile, and we caught each other's eyes, and gazed 
 into each other's faces. 
 
 44 An odd idea struck me," he cried. " Do you 
 know above all things I would like to see Lord 
 Bellamy's horses. The notion is an excusable 
 one you see," he added, with a charming attempt 
 at frankness which would quite have deceived me 
 had I not heard him give utterance to some very 
 bad opinions in the room upstairs. " Because I 
 am an owner of very good and successful horses, 
 although perhaps not so fine as those his Lordship 
 possesses." 
 
 44 See ! the door is locked," says I, turning 
 the handle of the aforesaid, and indeed it was fast. 
 
 44 No !" exclaims he, seizing hold of the handle 
 in his turn, and trying to force the door open with 
 all the strength of his iron wrist. 
 
 " Hold ! " cries I. 4< Is it fair, Mr. Cresswell, 
 that you should break the door which keeps 
 another's cattle safe ? " 
 
MY LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 85 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Why, nothing, but that which I have said." 
 
 Calvert Cresswell remained thoughtful for a 
 minute, and then shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Come, let us walk/' said he. 
 
 And we did walk. I knew his tactics. He in- 
 tended to tire me out, but not one Calvert Cress- 
 well nor fifty such could have done so on that 
 night. We walked and talked. He was bright, 
 animated, and interesting for the first hour, and I 
 tried to keep up with him in quoting from various 
 standard authors, for I had no particular experience 
 as he had to back myself up with. An hour 
 flew by, and still we walked. He told me of his 
 duelling adventures and his successes with the 
 fair sex, which amazed and disgusted me not a 
 little. "Surely," methought, "they must be 
 foolish, indeed, to break their hearts over such 
 splendidly empty, recklessly selfish, brute- 
 hearted gentlemen as C. Cresswell." In after 
 years I learned that women often mistake selfish- 
 ness for resolution, hard-heartedness and brutality 
 for " character." Ah well ! ft is " character " 
 after all, but a very bad one. 
 
 We walked and I talked. A mist had risen, 
 
86 How TOM BELLAMY WON 
 
 through which the trees appeared like gigantic 
 misshapen, shadowy spectres, and the nightin- 
 gale was carolling forth the last notes of her 
 night song. But 1 was not tired. Ever and 
 anon my companion, with impatient looks he 
 no longer took the trouble to disguise, asked me 
 if I was not fatigued. I assured him solemnly that 
 I was not ; and, if I mistake not, he heard my 
 statement with a curse under his breath against 
 my holding out. I heeded not his fretting or his 
 fuming ; but, laughing in my sleeve, I pla}^ed my 
 role of the poetical apprentice to the life. We walked. 
 A hundred times our footsteps turned up and down 
 in the grounds around the stables. The twinkling 
 stars grew tired before we did, and closed their 
 bright eyes and faded away into sleep. We. 
 walked from night into that which is not day 
 or night, and then the moon paled and sickened, 
 and Aurora, rising from the sleep, opened her azure 
 eyes, and smiled. Then lark and linnet began 
 their song of praise, and all the Eastern skies 
 were tinged with lovely blushes. Like the mag- 
 nificent child of some glorious Titan, a new day 
 burst upon us, with all the promise of a 
 splend career. The flowers that had drooped 
 
MY LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 87 
 
 at night lifted their heads, and whispered 
 to eachother in breath so sweet that it per- 
 fumed the earth, that another day had come 
 to them. It was well worth while to have 
 stayed up all night to see the sweet and 
 majestic beauties of nature unfold themselves. 
 We walked, and my heart revelled in fresh 
 breezes and the songs of the birds, and I felt 
 as though I had rested the night through. 
 Calvert Cresswell, however, looked wearied 
 and worn. I called his attention to the lark's 
 song. 
 
 "Oh! d n the lark's song," cries he, 
 
 thoroughly out of humour. 
 
 "The breezes, the flowers," I could not help 
 saying, laughingly. 
 
 " To the devil with both ! " growled my 
 companion, who was really at heart no admirer 
 of nature at all. 
 
 " You are tired," says I, hypocritically sympa- 
 thetic, feeling, oh ! so joyous ; for the morning 
 air was more inspirating than the finest wine. 
 " Why not have a rest ? " 
 
 " Have a rest, yourself, curse you," growls my 
 companion again. 
 
88 How TOM BELLAMY WON 
 
 " Nay," cries I, " not on such a beautiful day. 
 I thank you." 
 
 Seeing there was not the remotest chance of 
 my turning in, Calvert Cresswell gave one last 
 look at the stable door which, curiously enough, 
 I eyed too, and very sharply and, with a peevish 
 laugh, which was short, and half-a-dozen rattling 
 oaths, he left me, to go back to his sleeping 
 apartment. 
 
 No sooner had he taken his departure, than I 
 burst out a-laughing, with such violence and 
 enjoyment, that I startled the lark and the linnet 
 soaring in the air above me. I never remember 
 having laughed so much before. I would not have 
 cared if Calvert Cresswell had heard me. I felt 
 so strong, I could have felled an ox. Yes, triumph 
 makes us all strong, and I was triumphant. I 
 know I could have knocked Cresswell over, for all 
 his boasted muscles and sinews, and his art and 
 his science in that brutal art, called boxing. 
 
 Beneath the hypocrite's mask I had worn in his 
 presence, there was a firm heart underneath read}' 
 to defend to the death my sleeping friend and 
 patron. Cavalier blood, an old Puritan uncle of 
 mine used to say of me. 
 
MY LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 89 
 
 In the midst of my merriment, a casement of 
 the ' * Wheatsheaf " opened, and a head and shoulders 
 came out. What a handsome, dissipated face it 
 was that the fresh morning sun shone upon ! 
 What a mass of black hair fell 'on his shoulders ; 
 blacker still, in contrast to his white night dress, 
 for he was only dressed in his night-gear, and, 
 what is more, seemed to care no jot, who saw him 
 so lightly clad. In his dark eyes, there shone the 
 light of intellectuality, that no dissipation could 
 quench. His forehead was lofty, white, and noble, 
 showing, what the man really was, despite the 
 surface of heedlessness. 
 
 " What the d 1 art thou laughing at, 
 
 Bellamy ? Are these infernal roars thy early 
 matins ? " 
 
 " Just fancy, my Lord Hertford," I cried, "I 
 have this morning caught a hunter in his own 
 snare." 
 
 That same evening, at six o'clock, we arrived 
 safely at the Castle ; and two hours after, this 
 Calvert Cresswell made his appearance in his 
 coach. My lord waited for him on the steps to 
 the entrance of the Castle, and gracefully extended 
 his hand, in a sort of mock welcome. 
 
90 LORD HERTFORD'S WAGER. 
 
 "I told thee thou wouldst lose thy bet," he 
 said. 
 
 The wager was paid, and then I told my lord 
 what I had heard in the little room adjoining 
 Calvert Cresswell's ; now I am richer for five 
 thousand pounds, and White's has expelled a 
 member in the person of Calvert Cresswell. 
 
 This, my dear Harry, is the incident of which 
 it pleases the fashionable world to talk so hugely 
 about. After all, when matters of moment are 
 sifted, they do not amount to much, do they ? 
 
 From thine own, affectionate, and familiar 
 friend, 
 
 TOM BELLAMY. 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth unseen, both 
 
 when we wake and when we sleep. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 f A healthy body is good ; but a soul in right health, it is 
 
 the thing beyond all others to be prayed for. 
 
 Carlyle. 
 
93 
 
 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 When Lady Fotheringay invited me to spend a 
 few weeks at Fotheringay Castle in the autumn 
 of 1 8 I accepted with pleasure, being over- 
 worked and brain weary, and lost no time in 
 packing a few traps, and was soon on my way to 
 the hospitable roof of my hostess, who was also, 
 by-the-bye, a distant relative of mine. I arrived a 
 good hour before dinner-time, and was shown to 
 my room there was always one kept in readiness 
 for me by an old butler, who had known me as 
 a boy. This servitor was quite a character in 
 his way, and was accepted by the servants as a 
 sort of superior being. He was a cold, severe- 
 looking man, with a clean-shaven face and hair 
 austerely brushed ; but he had a soft spot in his 
 heart for one I knew not for me particularly, 
 
94 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 but another. Whilst he unpacked my clothes I 
 leisurely began the operation of shaving by the 
 waning light. 
 
 " Is my lady well ? " asked I, stropping my 
 razor well, with my face covered with soapsuds. 
 
 " M'lady is well, Mr. Harwood," briefly re- 
 sponded Crisp, for such was his name. 
 
 " Is the house full ? " I enquired again, in that 
 peculiar tone which a man who is shaving can't 
 help. 
 
 " Pretty full I " He began brushing a coat. 
 Then he added, with sudden interest : " Miss 
 Angela is well, and, oh ! Mr. James, the most 
 beautiful lady in the world." 
 
 Miss Angela Fotheringay was the only being 
 in the world the surly old servitor loved. She 
 was his idol and mine. And although I was 
 in holy orders my heart belonged to Angela, my 
 hostess* daughter, and this Mr. Crisp knew 
 very well. He liked to tease me. 
 
 "There isn't a gentleman who isn't in love 
 with her," he said, and then left me to my own 
 meditations. 
 
 When the first dinner-bell rang I descended 
 to the drawing-room, and found Lady Fother- 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 95 
 
 ingay and some ladies and gentlemen whiling 
 away the time before dinner in different ways. 
 She received me, as her wont, with the utmost 
 cordiality, and bade me sit beside her. The 
 company did not impress me particularly. There 
 were the usual languid, pale-faced, listless young 
 men, and the same amount of whalebone-waisted, 
 artificial young ladies to keep them in countenance. 
 In one corner, under a huge palm, stood a bald- 
 headed scientist expounding his doctrines to a 
 tall and handsome man, who every now and 
 again said "Ya-as, ya-as," as though he under- 
 stood it all. One of the palm leaves tickled the 
 scientist's bald pate, and every now and again 
 the scientist's fingers would scratch at his bald 
 pate until it was quite red. 
 
 The hum of conversation was at its loudest, 
 when the door opened, and Angela, clad in 
 white, entered. Never had I seen anyone half 
 so beautiful, and so the rest thought, too, for 
 first there came a hush, followed by a murmur 
 of admiration. For beauty appeals to the 
 dullest, where intellect and genius can appeal in 
 vain. Lady Fotheringay looked with pride on her 
 blooming young daughter, and who knows what 
 
96 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 schemes for her after-life flitted through her 
 ladyship's ambitious brains. Angela laughed 
 merrily as she greeted me. 
 
 " How very solemn you look," said she, as she 
 pointed to my black frock coat and clerical- 
 looking collar. 
 
 " Not so solemn," I returned, " but that your 
 presence and laughter melts my heart into love 
 and joy." Needless to say, this was said in a 
 whisper. 
 
 Angela's beautiful cheek blushed a deeper 
 hue, and I dared to think she thought kindly 
 of me. 
 
 " By-the-bye, James," said her ladyship after- 
 wards, "when you want to do any writing the 
 library is always free. You will scarcely find 
 anyone here now who will trouble the bookcase 
 much." This she added with what may be 
 called "society" sarcasm. Lady Fotheringay 
 was a good-humoured, good-looking, and well- 
 read woman of fifty or thereabouts, and a 
 widow. 
 
 The dinner passed off as most dinners usually 
 do, and the conversation was neither so brilliant 
 nor animated that I need record it. Afterwards 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 97 
 
 the ladies gave us a little music in the drawing- 
 room, and even that little seemed too much. 
 
 Stay ! maybe, the natural beauty of Angela 
 Fotheringay made me draw invidious com- 
 parisons. Her very speaking voice was music 
 methought. Why did those women sing, and so 
 hush her ? But the story of my love is not that 
 which I have sat myself down to write. It is of 
 something stranger something sadder. 
 
 The day following my arrival at Fotheringay 
 Castle, I had the happiness of walking in the 
 grounds alone with Angela, and in her hesitation, 
 her blushes and smiles, read, that her fresh young 
 heart would be mine, if I proved myself worthy 
 of her love. 
 
 The day passed like a glorious dream, so did a 
 
 week after that, and then and then Angela 
 
 caught a feverish cold, and I was in despair, for 
 they would not allow her to leave her room. 
 Crisp (the surly old butler) informed me in so 
 many words, that I had no business to take Miss 
 Angela out in the grounds at such a season, and 
 that it was my fault. I listened to him in gloomy 
 self-reproach, and resolved to absent myself as 
 long as compatible with the common laws of 
 
98 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 politeness, from the rest of the guests, until 
 Angela recovered sufficiently to take her place 
 amidst them. It was at this time that I bethought 
 myself of Lady Fotheringay's invitation to go in the 
 library when I wished to write. It was always 
 free, she said, and the Castle was so full of people, 
 it was really difficult to find a room, where 
 one could have peace. The old library, I 
 recollected, was pleasantly situated, overlooking 
 the finest portion of the grounds, where the 
 ancient trees grew thickest, and where the light 
 laughter of the guests could not penetrate. 
 I felt too nervous and wretched to read and 
 write inmy own room ; the library was just 
 the place. Here, perhaps, Angela would come 
 to see me, when they allowed her to leave 
 her room ; and, here I would tell her, perhaps, 
 how sad and lonely I felt, during the time of her 
 illness. 
 
 It was a dull afternoon, late in October, when I 
 betook myself to the library, for the first time 
 since many a long day. The surly Crisp, taking 
 compassion on me, brought me the news that 
 Angela was better, and might be allowed to come 
 down afterwards, for a little while. I slipped a 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 99 
 
 guinea into his hand, but, to my amazement, he 
 put it back on the table, saying, quite deferen- 
 tially for him : 
 
 " For anything else, Mr. James," he called me 
 Mr. James when he was good-humoured, and Mr. 
 Harwoodwhen he was vexed, "but not for telling 
 jou Miss Angy (Angela) is better. You see, that 
 news to me, was worth twenty pounds," and 
 making a momentary feint of arranging the folds 
 of a curtain, he left me to my own meditations, 
 which were now joyful enough. 
 
 I sat near a table, on which several books lay, 
 and I reached out my hand for one of them, 
 thinking, by reading a little, I would become more 
 composed ; for the anticipation of beholding 
 Angela once more, strangely unnerved me. In a 
 haphazard way I opened the book, not caring 
 whether it was fiction, travel, or science. It proved 
 to be neither. It was the Holy Scriptures. In a 
 dreamy way yet knowing precisely what I read 
 my eyes rested on one of the Psalms of David, 
 " I heard a voice from Heaven, saying unto me, 
 
 Blessed are the dead " I read no more, for 
 
 suddenly I felt my limbs tremble violently, as if 
 stricken with ague, and it was with quite an effort 
 
too THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 that I pulled myself together. " Surely," I 
 thought, " I am not going to be ill." No ; my 
 pulse throbbed regularly and the beating of my 
 heart was normal as its wont. The trembling 
 passed over. I looked out on the dreary land- 
 scape ; the leaves were falling thick and fast, and 
 already the trees began to look bare and black in 
 the cold twilight. I wondered what time it was, 
 and went to the mantel-piece to consult the 
 ancient clock there. But I fell back a step in 
 surprise, for standing near the fire-place with his 
 head resting on his left hand and his elbow 
 leaning on the black marble, stood a handsome 
 young man ! I did not hear him enter the room, 
 and I concluded that my mind was too 
 preoccupied to have heard his footsteps. I 
 noticed with no little surprise that his tall, 
 elegant figure was clad in a cassock of dazzling 
 whiteness, and that in his right hand he held a 
 missal richly jewelled. His face was not only 
 handsome in a pre-eminent degree, but possessed 
 of a fascination and strength'which even I was not 
 proof against. His bright hair waved round his 
 head almost like a golden cloud, and in his deep 
 sapphire eyes beamed a steady light of nobility, 
 
THE WHITF, PRIEST. ib: 
 
 ay, and suffering too, that made me think of the 
 martyrs of old, nor can I tell why I thought so. 
 His mouth was sweet and gentle, yet firm withal, 
 and a peculiar smile hovered round the corners. 
 It seemed to me that he repressed an inward 
 agony ; and yet I cannot assign any reason for 
 thinking this. I wondered silently who he was, 
 and then it struck me that he was a new arrival 
 and his extraordinary dress a fancy one. I forgot 
 to mention that Lady Fotheringay resembled 
 Madame le Brun in her liking for theatricals, 
 masquerades, etc. Charades were going on 
 nearly every night, and it was by no means an 
 uncommon thing to find a zealous " charader " 
 promenading the Castle in his or her " get up " 
 in the afternoon. 
 
 Attracted and fascinated, I bade the new- 
 comer " Good evening," and reseated myself, 
 hoping to have a conversation with him. 
 He gently inclined his head, and seemed to 
 wait for me to address him first. 
 
 "You are a new arrival," I observed, 
 hesitatingly. " I have not hitherto had the 
 pleasure of seeing you here." 
 
 u The Castle is not new to me," he answered, 
 
0? THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 gently, and I never recollect to have heard any 
 voice like his before. 
 
 " Are you staying long ? " I asked, almost 
 timidly ; nor can I account for this either, as I 
 am neither of a timid nor nervous disposition. 
 
 " It depends." 
 
 " Have you been long acquainted with Lady 
 Fotheringay ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Although he answered briefly in words, his 
 manner interested me more and more. 
 
 "You doubtless know Angela Angela 
 Fotheringay," I said, " and admire her ? " 
 
 And I looked at him and thought with a pang 
 of sadness at my heart how Angela must be 
 interested in this handsome and fascinating 
 stranger. How could I have a chance now. She 
 would fall in love with him. I could bear 
 comparison with most young fellows, but not 
 with this extraordinary being. She would not be 
 able to help herself. 
 
 The stranger seemed to read my thoughts, and 
 a strange, sad, smile hovered round his lips, 
 which touched me in an unaccountable way. 
 
 "I have seen Angela Fotheringay," he answered. 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 103 
 
 " But she has not seen me ; and," he added 
 firmly, "she must not. You must prevent 
 her." 
 
 I marvelled more and more. 
 
 " You are vain of your appearance, and, unfor- 
 tunately for me, with reason," I said, bitterly. 
 
 "Vanity has no part of me," he returned, 
 looking at me with his penetrating and suffering 
 eyes, which seemed to read my inmost soul. 
 
 " You are more than mortal, then ? " I asked 
 with something of scorn. 
 
 " I am the White Priest," answered the young 
 man, gently. 
 
 "That may be," I observed, coldly, "and to- 
 night if I were asked to take part in a masque, I 
 should probably be ' King Richard, Cceur de 
 Lion/ or, ' Rameses of Egypt.' " 
 
 " Come," said my companion, in a frank manner, 
 " you look too kindly natured to be bad at heart, 
 I wish to be on good terms with you." 
 
 " I have to ask your pardon," I rejoined, all 
 my ill-humour evaporating under the magic of my 
 companion's gentle and charming address. " I 
 am or was jealous, and with good reason. 
 But one thing strikes me as strange. How is it 
 
IO4 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 you are staying here, and yet do not wish Angela 
 Fotheringay to see you ? And yet again I beg 
 your pardon. I really have no right to pry into 
 your secrets." 
 
 He had not moved from the position by the 
 mantelpiece, his beautiful head leaning on his 
 hand ; and I sat looking at him earnestly. I 
 could not take my eyes off him. 
 
 " You are intended for the Church/' he asked, 
 presently. And when he spoke it was not as if 
 my ears were addressed, but as though he 
 spoke straight to my heart, and that my heart 
 listened. 
 
 I nodded affirmatively. 
 
 " And you will be able to act deeds of charity, 
 love, and patience, and then preach it to man- 
 kind ; oh, fortunate man !" he exclaimed, in tones 
 whose earnestness it would be impossible to 
 describe. 
 
 " You are a born actor " I murmured. 
 
 " In life we all are, " he said. " It is only 
 after death that our spirits, freed from the masque 
 of clay, become real." 
 
 At this conjuncture the dinner bell rang, and 
 remembering that I had not changed my dress I 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 105 
 
 apologised hurriedly and left the room, intending 
 to resume the conversation afterwards, with my 
 handsome companion. At the threshold stood a 
 slight, beautiful figure, which I joyfully recognised 
 as Angela's. 
 
 Seizing her delicate hand, I kissed it warmly, 
 assuring her how more than happy I felt to see 
 her downstairs again. 
 
 " Tell me, tell me/' she cried, in a strangely 
 excited tone, and not noticing my delight at 
 seeing her. " Who is that young man dressed 
 as a Priest, to whom you were speaking ?" 
 
 In her agitation she laid one hand on my 
 breast, and looked into my face with kindling 
 eyes. 
 
 My heart sank, and groaned within me. " I 
 knew how it would be." That accursed stranger 
 had won her heart, by his extraordinary beauty, 
 but seeing that excitement would only harm her, 
 I smothered my own resentment as best I could, 
 and soothed her, and told her he was a new-comer. 
 
 " Probably/' I added, with pardonable sarcasm, 
 " a wolf in sheep's clothing." 
 
 There were to be some tableaux vivants that 
 night, and many guests had been invited besides 
 
IO6 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 those staying under the roof. I sat next to Angela 
 amongst the audience, and never had I seen her 
 look so animated and beautiful. Her cold had 
 left her countenance a trifle thinner, giving it a 
 more spirituelle expression. The curtains that 
 screened the performers from view were drawn 
 aside to some sweet music, and disclosed to the 
 admiration of all beholders, a handsome young 
 man dressed in white, holding in his left hand a 
 jewelled missal, and with his head gently leaning 
 on his right hand, in the same fashion as I had 
 seen him do in the library. The limelight for 
 there was a raised platform, and everything 
 arranged perfectly shone full upon his fair, young 
 face showing it to the best advantage. The 
 pose was excellent, and the figure almost 
 matchless in its grace. Then applause burst 
 forth, and I looked intently at the young man, 
 and then at Angela, for the colour had fled from 
 her cheeks, and she appeared sad and downcast. 
 The clapping of hands, and the murmurs of 
 approbation were at their height when I turned 
 to the fair girl at my side, and said : 
 " What ails you, dear one ; tell me?" 
 " I do not know myself " she answered, sadly. 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 107 
 
 4t But that man, that young man, is not the 
 same one whom I saw speaking to you in the 
 library." Then she added, shivering convulsively, 
 and a hectic flush spreading over her face. 
 " Promise me, promise me, James, that I shall 
 see him again." 
 
 She had fainted, and I bore her from the place 
 in my arms, and carried her to her mother's 
 room, and gently placed her upon a couch. I 
 did not leave till she had regained consciousness, 
 nor was I asked to do so ; and when at last she 
 dropped into a gentle sleep, I whispered, "Lady 
 Fotheringay, what was that tableau supposed to 
 represent, that disturbed Angela so ? " 
 
 "A foolish legend of Fotheringay Castle. A 
 certain Priest is supposed to have committed some 
 offence, and is doomed to wander through ages." 
 
 This is what Lady Fotheringay told me, and of 
 one thing I am convinced and positive and that 
 was that the young man I had met in the library 
 and the young man I had seen in the tableau vivant 
 
 were not one and the same person ! 
 
 ******* 
 
 When I entered my bedroom that night, full 
 of anxious and distracting thoughts, Crisp, the 
 
io8 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 old butler, brushed past me. He threw open the 
 door for me to enter (a most uncommon act of 
 civility on his part) and assisted me to undress, 
 with a sort of gruff sympathy in his manner. 
 
 "Good night, Mr. James," he said, at last, 
 tucking me in, as he had done when I was a 
 boy from college, and had come to the castle to 
 spend my holidays. 
 
 " Good night, and God bless you, my friend/ 
 I answered, sadly. 
 
 " God bless you, and have mercy on this unfor- 
 tunate house ! " he ejaculated. " And have mercy 
 and pity on her so young so young so young ;" 
 and, with tears streaming from his old eyes, he 
 left me to myself, and my night thoughts. 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 109 
 
 PART II. 
 
 During the next three days, I shunned the 
 library, and wandered about the Castle like a 
 restless spirit, in search of I knew not what. 
 
 Angela was once more confined to her room ; 
 not seriously ill, but suffering from nervous 
 prostration. Her medical attendant said she had 
 been allowed to leave her room too soon after her 
 severe cold ; and, that excitement had done her 
 more harm than good. Crisp was my Mercury, 
 and gave me news of my darling, almost every 
 half-hour. I wrote her a little note, which my 
 Lady Fotheringay took herself. When I met her 
 at lunch time, my hostess gave me another, saying, 
 with a smile : 
 
 " Angela is better. She has written you a few 
 words, in answer to your note ; and the naughty 
 child would not let me see what it was. Here 
 it is ! " 
 
1 10 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 She handed me a paper, folded in that intricate 
 way, that only young girls are masters of, and 
 turned to another of her guests, perfectly satisfied 
 that her child was making satisfactory progress 
 towards recovery. I opened the note with a 
 misgiving at my heart, and read : 
 
 4 'Thanks, dear James, for your many kind 
 inquiries. I am better. I shall come down this 
 afternoon. I pray you to find out who that was 
 you spoke to, the night I came downstairs. 
 Believe me, it is not idle curiosity, that prompts 
 me to ask this of you, but some feeling which I 
 cannot account for. I pray you most sincerely 
 and sadly, not to think me heartless, or cruel, or 
 flippant. My whole heart is full of sorrow for you, 
 and the injury I have done you, yet unwittingly. 
 
 ANGELA." 
 
 Crushing the paper in my hands, the room and 
 its occupants swam round me, and I had to catch 
 hold of the table, to save myself from falling. 
 Now Autumn had indeed crept over the Summer 
 sunshine in my heart, and I knew that Angela's 
 love was no longer mine. Had she been other 
 than she was, I could have met her rejection with 
 scorn ; for I am not one who can humbly love, 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 1 1 1 
 
 without being loved in return. But she was so- 
 different to others ! And did she not write : " I 
 pray you most sincerely and sadly, not to think 
 me heartless, cruel, and flippant ? " Some terrible 
 fascination held her soul enthralled ; which, even 
 I, man as I was, could not shake off. I allude, of 
 course, to the young man I met in the library, 
 whose name I did not know. I am happy in 
 thinking now, that I nursed no bitterness against 
 Angela, whose nature was so like her name ; and 
 whose flesh seemed more of air and Heaven, than 
 earthly clay. One thing I was determined to do, 
 and that was : to try and seek out the young man. 
 Composing my feelings as best I could, I even 
 managed to indulge in light conversation at table, 
 wondering, in my heart of hearts, how I could 
 do it. 
 
 At about three o'clock that afternoon, Angela, 
 in a long white gown, trimmed with some airy 
 lace, made her appearance in the morning-room, 
 where her mother, and a few of the guests were 
 sitting. She entered, leaning on the arm of 
 Crisp, and followed by the maid, bearing a heap 
 of white shawls. When she sat/or rather, sank into 
 a large arm-chair, she was surrounded by a bevy 
 
112 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 of admiring sympathisers. She smiled, but, ah 
 me, I noticed, not in her old, glad way ; and 
 although appearing to listen with interest, her 
 large eyes continually turned towards me in a 
 mournful way, quite unlike her former self. How 
 bright and dilated her eyes seemed, and I remarked, 
 with pain, that they were surrounded with black 
 circles. 
 
 " Come here and join us, James," she cried at 
 last. " Why are you sitting so far away ? Have 
 I a fever that you are afraid of catching it ? " she 
 added this with childish petulance, which would 
 have sounded harsh in another but was charming 
 in her. 
 
 I did not answer, but drew my chair nearer. 
 
 " Mother," she said to Lady Fotheringay, when 
 the conversation had become pretty general, " I 
 am going to claim that privilege always accorded 
 to invalids, and ask one of you to read to me, 
 and the rest to leave me. I am not amusing 
 when I'm ill." 
 
 " But, darling ! " interposed her fond 
 
 mother. 
 
 " Don't please think me disagreeable ; but I 
 want James to read t to me," said Angela, "and, 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 113 
 
 mother dear, look after our friends. Besides, I 
 want to talk secrets," she added, laughingly. 
 
 She was a spoiled child, but as innocent and 
 pure-minded as one of her namesakes. Alas ! 
 how soon the purest-minded are affected with 
 deceit. Her light laugh deceived her mother, 
 but not me ; and, followed by the rest of the 
 company, the good-natured mother withdrew, 
 exacting a promise from me that I would not 
 allow Angela to excite herself. 
 
 " You had my note ? " she asked, timidly, when 
 we were alone. 
 
 I answered "Yes," quietly; and she did .not 
 know how pained I was at the recollection 
 of it. 
 
 " Have you nothing to say to me further ? " 
 she continued, hesitatingly. 
 
 " Nothing, Angela, nothing," I returned, with a 
 little bitterness. "You have chosen an entire 
 stranger to one who has known and loved you 
 as a boy. So what should remain for me to say. 
 All the words in the world will not alter it. All 
 the love I offer will not make you return me any, 
 since you love another." 
 
 " Oh ! why do you not reproach me ? " she 
 
U4 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 cried. " I led you to believe that I loved you, 
 and and I did until that evening. Heaven 
 alone knows what has come over me. Before I 
 saw him I felt so young, and now I feel so 
 old/' she added, half to herself, with a shudder. 
 11 James," she went on, earnestly, " listen to me. 
 I feel I have not long to live ; but before I die let 
 me see him again." 
 
 She rose from her seat, and carne towards me, 
 with clasped hands, and a face whose expression 
 I never can forget. It was illuminated in ecstatic 
 recollection, and from her dilated eyes tears 
 fell. 
 
 "Child! child! child!" I cried, sorrowfully. 
 " You know not whom you love. He may be 
 one utterly unworthy." 
 
 " It is not necessary to know those we love/' 
 she replied, hastily, through her tears. "For if he 
 be unworthy, then my love shall raise him ; and if 
 he be more than worthy, why then then he will 
 raise me ! " 
 
 How could I argue with this sweet 
 unreason, even though every word she spoke 
 stabbed me to the heart? I reminded her, 
 noticing her increasing agitation, that I had 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 115 
 
 promised Lady Fotheringay not to allow her to 
 excite herself. Leading her back to her arm- 
 chair, I assured her that if she left it again I 
 would not stay longer. I eventually succeeded in 
 soothing her, and promised that she should see 
 the stranger again if I could arrange it. Half 
 an hour passed away, and then Crisp re-appeared 
 with an attendant sprite in the shape of Angela's 
 young maid, with " strict orders " that Miss 
 Angela must return to her room, as the doctor's in- 
 structions were that she must not remain up long. 
 Of course, such infallible authority was not to be 
 disputed ; so, consigning her to the old servant's 
 hands, we parted she to bed and I to the 
 library. 
 
 It was even a duller afternoon than the one 
 when I had last paid a visit there. The old trees 
 outside looked more like skeletons than ever, and 
 the earth was melancholy and dark with the 
 numbers of dead leaves which had fallen from 
 them. "So fall all my hopes," I thought; "and 
 the leaden sky is like my heart ; and the only 
 change it presages is winter and deeper sorrow 
 yet." 
 
 I sat down, and took up the old Bible this 
 
n6 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 time knowing full well what I did and 
 sought comfort and solace in King David's 
 Psalms. : " Then thou shalt light my light. 
 The Lord my God shall make my darkness to 
 the light." 
 
 I had scarcely perused this beautiful verse, when 
 a strange inner feeling told me of a presence in 
 front of, and gazing at me. I became conscious 
 of this even before I looked up. I knew the 
 figure was near the mantel-piece facing me. I 
 instinctively saw it was he, standing with his 
 beautiful head inclining on his left hand, his 
 elbow resting on the black marble, and holding 
 a jewelled missal in his right hand. I felt 
 that his eyes, with their steady light of nobility 
 and suffering, that reminded me of the martyrs 
 of old, were upon me. A smile hovered round 
 his sweet and gentle mouth, which, yet withal, 
 seemed to express an inward agony. I knew all 
 this long ere I raised my eyes and met his look 
 with mine. Then it was I noticed how different 
 the other White Priest was in comparison to the 
 one who stood before me. I allude to the 
 tableau vivant of the White Priest, impersonated 
 by Lord Walbrook. 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 117 
 
 No salutation passed ; we dumbly recognised 
 each other at least, I did him. For there was 
 something in his presence that drove all thoughts 
 of jealousy away. There was an immeasurable 
 distance between us, and I recognised and felt 
 my inferiority. 
 
 I was the first to break silence. I did so 
 brutally, humanly, and to the point. 
 
 " Angela has seen you, and she loves you/' I 
 said. 
 
 " Alas ! " he returned in that voice I can 
 never describe, and though the smile remained on 
 his lips the expression of agony was more 
 pronounced than ever. 
 
 " Something told me that I should meet you 
 here again/' I went on, doggedly. " And I came, 
 without any intention of asking you who you are, 
 to beg you to see Angela. If her love is fruit- 
 less, tell her so. She is young and beautiful, and 
 could charm an anchorite from his cell." 
 
 " I may not see her ; and I warned you to 
 prevent her," the young man said, sadly. 
 
 " I am not God," I returned, sternly and 
 abruptly. " She saw you without my help, and 
 ere I could prevent her from doing so." 
 
n8 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 "Alas ! unfortunate child," he exclaimed 
 again, in a tone of anguish that saddened me, 
 and made me in some strange manner pity him, 
 as much as I did my lost love. 
 
 A pause ensued during which I felt myself 
 attracted and fascinated towards this stranger in 
 a way impossible to account for. 
 
 " I do not ask you who you are, nor from what 
 place you come ?" I observed at last, and 
 instinctively I placed my hand on the Bible, with 
 a prayer in my heart. " But tell me, can I help 
 you in any way, that you seek me out, and not 
 the others ?" 
 
 " I was once a man of God, even as you are 
 now," he answered me. " But youth and folly 
 made me break a sacred vow I had sworn never 
 to violate. My punishment," he added, " has 
 even been greater than my crime." 
 
 There was something so awe-inspiring in his 
 words and the manner of delivering them, that I 
 dared not ask the nature of his sin. But of one 
 thing I felt certain. He had expiated his crime, 
 whatever it was. His face was not that of a 
 damned, but of a blessed soul. 
 
 " Many years ago," he went on, and again I felt 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 119 
 
 as though my heart and not my ears were listening to 
 him, "as I was going out one morning, a messenger 
 came to me and told me a young, beautiful 
 woman was on her deathbed, and wished to 
 confess a great sin to me, and receive absolution 
 and comfort. I had promised to make one of a 
 pleasure party ; yes, and I, a Priest, refused to attend 
 the last dying moments of a woman, and perform 
 the rite of anointing her in her last moments ! I 
 told the messenger I would attend her, when I 
 returned. When I did return the woman was dead ; 
 but previous to her death she had written her 
 confession, and sent it to me by the same 
 messenger, who advised me of her departing soul. 
 I looked for the manuscript written by the woman's 
 trembling hands, but in vain. I searched every- 
 where, and enquired of the messenger where he 
 had placed the confession. He told me that 
 he had put it into this jewelled missal, which 
 was laid in this room. I looked into the missal, 
 but it was not there. Some invisible agency 
 had taken it away, and since then I am doomed to 
 search for it, but still I have not found it. Now 
 you know my offence, and my punishment." 
 " I shall find it for you," I said, at last, in a 
 
I2O THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 voice so hollow that I could not recognise it as 
 my own. 
 
 " I thank you, my friend," said my companion 
 gently, and looking at me with his mild eyes 
 beaming with almost a divine love. I do not 
 know how it came to pass, but I rose and went to 
 the door, for I did not wish to see in what 
 manner he left the apartment, and lo, and behold, 
 a light figure came to me with a cry of " I have 
 seen him again, and oh, how fairer than a king's 
 son is my love." 
 
 It was Angela ! 
 
 She laughed a light rippling laugh, but it was 
 terrible. Her eyes shone with a sort of fever, 
 and her cheeks burned as though a fire consumed 
 them. She followed me back into the library. 
 The White Priest was gone. 
 
 " Why did you leave your room," I asked, 
 almost sternly ; " and how comes it that you in 
 your ill health should be permitted to do so ?" 
 
 " I sent Janette away," she made answer wearily, 
 disappointed to find the stranger gone " I sent 
 Janette on an errand." 
 
 " A pretended one," I interposed, ruthlessly. 
 
 " So be it then ! " she continued, sadly. " I do 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 12 1 
 
 not know why I love this man, but I love him ; 
 and loving him, I cannot exist without seeing him. 
 God nor Heaven can be angry at the pretext love 
 makes to see those we love." 
 
 Then I recollected one of Rochefoucauld's 
 maxims, as I watched the poor child in her love 
 delirium. " In their first passion, women love 
 their lovers ; in all others they love love." 
 
 I saw that her affection for me had been but a 
 girlish fancy. 
 
 If Angela thought her absence would be 
 unnoticed for any length of time, she was 
 mistaken. She was presently fetched away by 
 Janette and Crisp, who assured me, they had been 
 searching half the Castle for her. She retired 
 with them, reluctantly enough. 
 
 I was no sooner left to myself, than 1 began a 
 search for the lost confession, that my strange 
 visitor had told me about. Filled with a vague 
 belief, that it was my lot and destiny to find the 
 lost document, I began to look about me, with 
 unabated zeal. But, cupboard, bookcase, shelves, 
 and desks were ransacked in vain ; there was no 
 sign, even, of anything approaching a confession. 
 After another hunt, equally unsuccessful, I began 
 
122 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 to give it up almost in despair, but for an unforeseen 
 incident. In violently opening the drawer of a 
 little desk, near the oak wainscoting, my elbow 
 came sharply in contact with what seemed to be 
 the head of a nail. Stopping in my efforts, to 
 rub the injured arm, what was my surprise and 
 amazement to behold, that the head of the nail 
 was really a spring, and a part about a foot of 
 the wainscoting had flown open, disclosing to 
 view, a very dusty interior, like a small cupboard. 
 The Castle was an old one, and at the time when 
 it was built centuries ago secret doors, traps, 
 etc., had been the fashion ; these, in later years, 
 had been fastened down, and, I suppose this little 
 one had been overlooked. With a presentiment 
 that I had gained the object of my search, I 
 thrust my hand into the darkness, and, 
 thence, drew forth, amidst some ashes and rubbish, 
 a roll of parchment. Regaining my composure, 
 after some moments (for the find made me giddy 
 and trembling) I unrolled the top of the scroll. 
 It was headed thus, word for word : 
 
 "Ye Dyeing Confessiones of Mary, Ladye Huds- 
 pethe, inne ye yeare of oure Lorde, A.D. 1053." 
 
 I dared to read no more. Curiosity, before this 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 123 
 
 terrible mystery, retreated abashed. I know not, 
 what inexplicable and inevitable power brought 
 me to find this manuscript. I accepted it without 
 desiring to dive deeper into that, which was 
 beyond human power to understand. I have 
 merely undertaken to state facts. I do not 
 pretend to solve the occult. 
 
 Crisp reminded me, when I retired to my room 
 to dress, that there were to be another series of 
 tableaux vivants that night. I had forgotten the 
 fact. It seemed as though I were walking about 
 in a dream. Indeed, I would have thought so, 
 since the occurrence in the library ; but the 
 parchment with the confession was real enough. 
 I folded it and put it in my breast pocket. When 
 I joined the company in the drawing-room, my 
 hostess anxiously inquired about my health. She 
 remarked : 
 
 " How pale and worn you look, James." 
 
 I assured her my health was never better, to 
 which she added : 
 
 4 'Ah I you mustn't worry about Angela. The 
 doctor says she has only a protracted cold, and 
 will soon be well again." 
 
124 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 There was a larger audience than ever to 
 witness the night's tableaux. The fame of the 
 last had spread, and all who were honoured with 
 invitations, came with alacrity. The principal 
 feature was Lord Walbrook's impersonation of the 
 " White Priest." Everyone was talking about it, 
 and now everyone of distinction (and some without 
 any) came to witness it. Distinction came (for a 
 wonder) early, so as not to miss this particular 
 tableau. Distinction rustled to their places amid 
 a cascade of laces, perfume, and the glitter of 
 jewels. Distinction came with a pleasurable 
 flutter of excitement, dying it murmured to 
 see the dear, the charming man, "Lord Walbrook." 
 Distinction was not disappointed. It rarely ever 
 is. Ruined hopes, and the like, are the portion 
 more or less of the commoner herd. Distinction 
 lifts up her dainty dress, and trips lightly o'er 
 those snares and pitfalls, which her humbler 
 brothers and sisters fall headlong into. But I 
 digress. I am not writing a dissertation ; therefore 
 let me finish the episode, which is the saddest in 
 my life. 
 
 The room in which the tableaux were given 
 was, as I said before, crowded to excess. It was 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 125 
 
 a particularly large chamber, with a gallery and 
 a stage, and formerly kings had been entertained 
 there. It was, in fact, the finest apartment in 
 the Castle, and held upwards of eight hundred 
 people. Soft music played a prelude to the 
 tableaux, and on the tiptoe of expectation, amidst 
 a universal hush and darkness, the curtains were 
 drawn aside, and disclosed to view the figure of 
 the " White Priest." There he stood, in his 
 usual pose, holding the jewelled missal, and his 
 head gently inclined in a thoughtful attitude on 
 his hand. Yet there was something in his face that 
 held my heart and soul spellbound. I gave a 
 hurried glance at the audience. Those nearest me 
 had paled, and the laughing, glittering mass of 
 humanity might have been dead people for the 
 movement and sound that they emitted. It was 
 the silence, not of a listening public, but like 
 death. The suffering on the priest's young face 
 was strongly marked, and it seemed to me that 
 he repressed an inward agony, even as when I 
 had first seen him in the library. The same 
 steady light beamed from his deep sapphire eyes, 
 that same light of nobility and suffering, which 
 made me think of the martyrs of old. Something, 
 
126 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 I know not what to this day, seized me. Like 
 one who walks in a dream, I found myself near 
 the platform, and, drawing forth the confession 
 from my breast pocket, held it to the White 
 Priest. It was taken how I know not and my 
 lips murmured : 
 
 " Thou art not the false priest. Take this, and 
 may the Lord remember no more the sins and 
 offences of thy youth. 1 ' 
 
 And lo ! a look of loving kindness swept over 
 the stranger's face. The smile of agony was 
 cleared away, and supplanted by one such as 1 
 think the happy immortals wear, and the anguish 
 passed away from his eyes, as he answered and 
 said : 
 
 "We shall meet again 1" 
 
 11 We shall meet again in Eternity," my heart 
 responded. 
 
 Just then I heard the light step of a woman 
 and the rustle of silk and lace. I looked, now 
 bereft of the power to move or to cry out. The 
 rustling garments and light step were Angela's. 
 How had she come there ? Who allowed her 
 to come on the platform ? I know not to this 
 day save that she was magnetised there as I. 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 127 
 
 She moved like a beautiful somnambulist towards 
 the figure of the young White Priest. An in- 
 describable beatitude beamed from her face, and 
 her eyes were wide open, intense and heavenly. 
 She appeared to be almost transparent in her 
 etherealism. When she stood within a yard of 
 the stranger she stretched forth her arms, as 
 though to clasp him. Then, with a sigh like 
 that of a grieved child, she exclaimed, still as 
 if she were asleep : " I come ! Yes, I come, oh, 
 my beloved ! " and fell forward to the ground 
 
 with scarce a sound, so light had she become. 
 
 * * # # * # 
 
 A noise awoke me from my stupor. I heard a 
 voice saying : 
 
 " Who has been taking my part ? I've just 
 come, and find someone else has been filling it." 
 
 It was Lord Walbrook, who had arrived late, 
 dressed for the tableau vivant as the " White 
 
 Priest." 
 
 * * * _'.,*.-. 
 
 There is a grave, over which stands a broken 
 marble column, indicative of one cut off in youth 
 and loveliness. At the base of the column is 
 chiselled the single name of Angela. If tears and 
 
128 THE WHITE PRIEST. 
 
 deepest sorrow could have called her back she 
 had been here on earth again, as fair, as sweet 
 as ever. 
 
 She sleeps undisturbed by sorrow and un- 
 availing love not in the dark mausoleum of 
 the Fotheringays, where even death assumes a 
 chillier aspect, but in the softer bosom of Mother 
 Earth. Ay, softer than many hearts beating 
 with life above it. Winter and summer, fresh 
 flowers are placed there by loving hands, and 
 I visit the spot even as pilgrims visit the 
 shrines of their saints. When oppressed by 
 the world, its vanities, and vain glories, I come 
 hither, and, over the tomb of this once lovely 
 child, learn the mutability of all things, and my 
 heart is softened by thoughts of the past. For- 
 tune otherwise has favoured me, because, merely 
 to forget, I worked with patience and perseve- 
 rance, which led to success, as it always must. 
 I am a bishop now, and shall go to my grave 
 with no other recollection of a woman's love but 
 that of Angela's. Far away I may meet her and 
 him, as he promised me. 
 
 But one word more and I am done. One 
 warm evening in June, as I went to her 
 
THE WHITE PRIEST. 129 
 
 grave with a bunch of white lilies, I was 
 surprised to see an old man asleep on the ground, 
 near the base of the broken column. His face 
 was hidden by his arm, and his hair was quite 
 white. I knelt down by his side, intending to 
 minister such consolation as his condition de- 
 manded and my calling and humanity gave. I 
 could get no answer to my questions, so I gently 
 moved his arm. It was Crisp, the old butler, 
 and he was dead. In life divided from his fair 
 child-mistress, he thought in death to be united. 
 Farewell I 
 
WHOSE WAS THE GUILT? 
 
 A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. 
 
 Robes and furr'd gowns hide all. Plate Sin with gold, 
 And the strong lance of Justice hurtless breaks. 
 
 "King Lear." 
 
 Few . . have virtue to withstand the highest bidder. 
 
 George Washington. 
 
 The progress of rivers to the ocean is not so rapid as that 
 of a man to sin. 
 
 Voltaire. 
 
133 
 
 WHOSE WAS THE GUILT ? 
 
 A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. 
 
 Mrs. Farquahar sat in a reverie, awaiting the 
 arrival of her lord and dinner. Judging by the 
 contraction of her brows, she was troubled, and 
 judging again by the pursing up of her small red 
 mouth, she was angry, aye, contemptuously so. 
 But, troubled or angry, there could be no doubt 
 in the mind of even a casual observer, that she 
 was a very handsome young woman. Handsome, 
 with that peculiar beauty belonging to Cleopatra, 
 when she was called "The Serpent of Old Nile." 
 In form, she was long, lithe, and fairly well-covered 
 and her hair was of a peculiar shade of russet 
 brown, with more than a dash of red in it. Good 
 natured people said that it was dyed : but those 
 same sweet-natured people could not detract from 
 the beauty of her face ; every feature of which 
 seemed chiselled. Like many other handsome 
 
134 WHOSE WAS THE GUILT? 
 
 people, her profile was infinitely better than her 
 full face, and the former she always preferred to 
 show ; knowing like a clever woman her " good 
 points." 
 
 " He's always late ! " she said, presently, 
 apostrophising her absent spouse. " I am getting, 
 oh, so tired of him ! Oh ! that I were not tied to 
 the fool ! He'll never make his way, like other 
 men. If I were free, I believe Lord Fetherhed 
 would marry " 
 
 Her, soliloquy was at an end ; for her husband 
 entered, and soon after, dinner was served. 
 
 Farquahar seemed a good sort of fellow in his 
 way, and handsome too, but he was a man's man, 
 and his wife looked down upon him with scorn. 
 She was a woman whose nature demanded 
 worship, and he was a man whose caresses, two 
 years after marriage, filled her thirsty soul with 
 loathing. He kissed her as a child does a pretty toy, 
 and her whole heart rebelled against it. She had 
 wished to be all, and found herself but a quarter. 
 She wished to be treated like an idol, or an 
 Empress, and she found herself treated only like a 
 superior sort of animal. 
 
 They had now been married eight years, and 
 
WHOSE WAS THE GUILT? 135 
 
 each day they drifted farther and farther apart. 
 When they met, they sparred at each other like 
 cat and dog. They had neither, any sympathy 
 for the other. They stayed together, because the 
 law ordained that they must. Oh ! wise law, that 
 makes two people, united but in hate, to live 
 together. Oh ! noble law of an enlightened 
 country, that forces two hearts to beat together 
 the tune of agony and discord, until either death 
 or dishonour part them. 
 
 It is said that people should not marry, unless 
 they love each other. But, granted they do love 
 each other when they wed, neither knows how 
 the other will turn out after the ceremony. The 
 gentle girl is often a Xantippe in disguise ; the kind, 
 good-humoured man is often nothing but a 
 libertine and brute. And finding each other out' 
 too late, those two unhappy beings must eke out 
 their miserable existence together ; knowing no 
 hope of freedom exists for them, but crime or 
 death ! It is horrible, and it is narrow, to know 
 that there is no way out of a luckless marriage 
 but disgrace, or the tomb. Oh ! sage Law-givers, 
 when ye deal with Mankind and Morals, know, 
 that half the cause of vice and crime is naught 
 
136 WHOSE WAS THE GUILT? 
 
 but your own doing. Repeal the Laws, and 
 cleaner and happier cities will be yours, to rule. 
 
 But to return. 
 
 " By the way, Jenny ! " observed her husband 
 as he put on his Inverness cape, preparatory to 
 starting for his club. " You might put the brake 
 on, regarding young Fetherhed. The fellows at the 
 club are beginning to talk about it. It looks so 
 d bad for " 
 
 " You, eh ? " sneered his wife. 
 
 " No, both of us," he answered, good 
 humouredly. 
 
 " Well ! " she responded, " do I tell you what 
 the women tell me, about you and Dolly Varcoe, 
 the music hall girl ? " 
 
 The man coloured ever so slightly, and answered, 
 hotly : 
 
 41 She's honest as the day, would you were half 
 as pure ! " 
 
 " You idiot ! " cried Mrs. Farquahar, bursting 
 into a strident laugh. " Don't I know you men ? 
 Why, you are all ready to swear to any woman, 
 no matter how bad, as long as she has conferred 
 her favours on you." 
 
 He left the house with a curse, his wife's shrill 
 
 
WHOSE WAS THE GUILT? 137 
 
 laughter echoing in his ears, as he banged the 
 street door. 
 
 Mrs. Farquahar returned to her little boudoir, 
 and, changing her attire to one of spotless white, 
 (emblematic of her own lost innocence) stood in 
 front of her glass, arranging her hair, so that it 
 should look negligent, without appearing unkempt. 
 She took an imitation diamond coronet from her 
 wardrobe, and put it on her head ; for, although 
 tolerably well off, and possessed of some diamonds, 
 she had neither riviere nor tiara. 
 
 If she had looked handsome before, cer- 
 tainly, she looked doubly so now, with the 
 shimmering glass in her wealth of lovely hair. 
 She looked in dreamy admiration at her own image, 
 and then the imitation coronet of diamonds 
 melted away, and in its stead, she saw a real 
 tiara, and her little boudoir was exalted into 
 one of purple, gold, and fine linen, instead of 
 the pretty tapestry. 
 
 "Lord Fetherhed 1" a discreet voice spake at the 
 door, and, as the owner of the title entered, Mrs. 
 Farquahar seized the imitation diamond coronet 
 from her hair, and threw it to the corner of the 
 apartment. Her maid ushered the visitor into 
 
138 WHOSE WAS THE GUILT? 
 
 the room, and closed the door quietly upon the 
 two. 
 
 " What have you done ? " cries the new comer 
 with more warmth than one could have imagined 
 from so exquisite a looking personage. For his 
 figure and face were |as expressive as a . tailor's 
 dummy. And this young lord loved this woman 
 of many ways and means. 
 
 "What have I done?" she repeated, taking 
 the two hands held out to her. "Why, I have 
 thrown aside my false diamond coronet as an 
 unworthy thing to see you in ! " 
 
 It was a Machiavellian stroke, and quite worthy 
 of the ambitious and unprincipled woman. 
 
 "You shall have a real one ! " lisped the young 
 man, who had never known what it was to have 
 his own wishes thwarted. " By Jove ! what a shame 
 that you should not have everything you want." 
 
 He was quite moved to pity about it. She 
 followed up her attack. 
 
 " What does it matter a paltry diamond 
 coronet ? " she asked, in deep and earnest tones, 
 with her fine eyes upraised to her companion's 
 face. " I can never have what I really want." 
 
 "What is it?" he asks, magnetised. 
 
WHOSE WAS THE GUILT ? 139 
 
 " How can I tell you that it is your love, true 
 and undying love that I want ? " she returns, as 
 though with an effort. 
 
 " You have it, darling." 
 
 " No, no, no!" she answers. "We must 
 part. To live with you in the sight of God and 
 the world as your mistress would but break my 
 heart ; for the thought would be always haunt- 
 ing me that you would leave me." 
 
 11 If you were but free," groaned out the young 
 dupe. " I would dispel your doubts." 
 
 "Would you marry me?" she asked sud- 
 denly. 
 
 " Heaven is my witness that I would ! " he 
 responded, with the ring of truth and love in his 
 young voice. 
 
 " And you would allow neither your father or 
 family to separate us," she cried, excitedly. 
 
 " No ; nothing in the world, my love ; as there 
 is a God ! " repeated the young man solemnly ; 
 for he had not learned blasphemy, and the name 
 of the Creator still remained for him the holy word 
 before which he had knelt so many times in the 
 chapel at Eton not so very long ago after all, poor 
 lad! 
 
140 WHOSE WAS THE GUILT ? 
 
 Miss Dolly Varcoe, of the Frivolity Theatre, 
 London, was seated at her breakfast at two 
 o'clock in the afternoon, at her house in St. Paul's 
 Glade, when her maid announced that a lady 
 wished to see her. 
 
 "Tell her I'm in bed asleep dead any- 
 thing," says Miss Dolly, with her mouth full of 
 ham and eggs. " I'm not going to see any ladies, 
 you bet." 
 
 " I would, miss, if I were you ! " her Phyllis 
 remarks, with that familiarity for which theatrical 
 ladiesmaids are remarkable. " It might be for 
 your good." 
 
 " Show her up," is all Miss Dolly deigns to 
 say. For she does not pay her maid : although 
 perhaps her visitors do. 
 
 Miss Varcoe hears a light step, and she sees 
 before her a well-dressed woman, with a bright, 
 smiling face. Dolly is good humour personified, 
 and catches the infection, and smiles back. 
 
 " Miss Varcoe ? " says her visitor, interroga- 
 tively. 
 
 " The same ! " returns Dolly, bowing in a 
 burlesque fashion ; for she sees her visitor is 
 accustomed to the usages of polite society. 
 
WHOSK WAS THE GUILT? 141 
 
 " I am Jenny Farquahar Ned Farquahar' s 
 wife," Mrs. Farquahar continues, for it is she. 
 
 " Now for a scene ! " thinks Doll to herself, 
 falling into a chair, preparing to hear vituperations 
 and hysterics. 
 
 But nothing of the sort. Little by little she 
 is won over by the wonderful influence this 
 woman wields, and is prepared to do anything 
 for her. By degrees the hours steal on, and still 
 they chat, but it is in a whisper ; possibly they 
 fear the walls will hear them. 
 
 " He does not allow you much," remarked Mrs. 
 Farquahar, as though pityingly. 
 
 " No," answered her companion, frankly. " I 
 am head over heels in debt." 
 
 " Would fifteen thousand pounds be any good 
 to you ? " demands the visitor in a lower voice. 
 
 11 Would they ? " almost laughs the other. 
 "Try me and see." 
 
 " By the way, does Ned still take chloral ? " 
 queried Mrs. Farquahar. 
 
 " Yes ; when he can't sleep," replies the other, 
 starting. 
 
 " Sometimes more than other times ? " Jenny 
 Farquahar persists. 
 
14- \Viiosi: WAS mi: GTILT? 
 
 11 1 don't understand." 
 
 44 Does he vary his doses ? " 
 
 "Yes 
 
 44 Do you wish to earn fifteen thousand 
 pounds ? " asks Mrs. Farquahar, with a parched 
 throat. 
 
 44 1 do." 
 
 44 Then," says Mrs. Farquahar, sinking her 
 voice into a still lower whisper, 44 the next time 
 Ned takes a dose and does not wake fifteen 
 thousand pounds are yours ! " 
 
 The two women stare into each other's eyes. 
 At last Dolly says, with a bitter laugh : 
 
 44 I'm only a man's plaything. Why shouldn't 
 I be the death of one? For one it was who 
 killed all that is good in me. And one may as 
 well be dead as bad. It shall be done. Now 
 go." 
 
 A week later the following paragraph appeared 
 in the papers : 
 
 44 The body of a well-known member of society 
 was found in the house of Miss Dolly Varcoe, 
 the burlesque artiste. The deceased was in the 
 
WHOSE WAS THE GUILT? 143 
 
 habit of taking chloral, an overdose of which 
 
 killed him." 
 
 # -# * # * * 
 
 Twelve months after Ned Farquahar's death 
 another paragraph appears in the papers, under 
 the heading of fashionable marriages, setting 
 forth how Lord Fetherhed led to the altar Mrs. 
 Jenny Farquahar, widow of Edward Farquahar, 
 Esq. 
 
 Does crime always get punished ? On the 
 stage, yes ; but in real life well, not so often. 
 For Lady Fetherhed is a respected and 
 admired member of the fashionable world, with a 
 blazing tiara of real diamonds in lieu of the 
 paste ones ; and Dolly Varcoe ? Dolly is simply 
 the head of her profession. 
 
 Now that I have recorded these vulgar facts of 
 three vulgar people, there remains one problem I 
 would like to have solved myself. To you, 
 oh 1 grave and reverend seigniors, seated on 
 earth's judgment seats, I apply for justice. I 
 would ask you which of the three sin-workers 
 was the most guilty ? The first sinner is the 
 husband, who, by his reckless conduct and 
 indifference of the sensitive organisation of his 
 
144 WHOSE WAS THE GUILT ? 
 
 wife, killed her heart. The second is the wife, who, 
 driven into the arms of another, instils a crime 
 into another woman's ears ; and the third is the 
 young woman, whose soul at an early age was 
 trampled into dust by man, and who, to avenge 
 and enrich herself at one time, slew one of her 
 destroyers. Who was the guiltiest ? Rulers 
 and magistrates, ye can determine causes and 
 administer justice on actions ; but the inward 
 workings are lost on you. These are things 
 beyond your power beyond that of earth's wisest 
 men. But there is One who judges, not the evil 
 act alone, but that which caused its existence ; 
 who judges not the surface of things,but that which 
 is hidden from man. That judge is God ! 
 
THE DYING PROFESSOR. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 " He shall not die, by God ! " cried he. The Accusing Spirit 
 which flew up to Heaven's chancery with the oath blushed as 
 he gave it in! and the Recording Angel as he wrote it down 
 dropped a tear upon the word and blotted it out for ever. 
 Sterne "TRISTRAM SHANDY." 
 
 The world's a bubble, and the life a man 
 Less than a span. 
 
 Bacon 
 
THE DYING PROFESSOR. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 When Dr. Claudius Fruhling, the most eminent 
 professor in the whole City of Berlin, entered the 
 great hall to deliver his lecture, the vast concourse 
 which thronged the building, rose as one man, 
 and greeted him with enthusiasm. He was young 
 indeed to be so learned and popular a man ; barely 
 thirty years of age, and possessed of a weird intel- 
 lectual handsomeness, far more striking than mere 
 physical beauty. His black hair was brushed away 
 from his lofty forehead, and contrasted strangely 
 with the extreme pallor of his face. His steely 
 blue eyes seemed to emit sparks, or, as one of the 
 students said, had a touch of " helPs fire " in their 
 abnormal brightness. Even the long lashes 
 that surmounted them, cast no shadows over 
 their brilliancy. When he stood on the platform, 
 
148 THE DYING PROFESSOR. 
 
 and they had shouted themselves hoarse, they 
 noticed that he was paler and thinner than 
 usual. 
 
 "He is overworking himself," they said, care- 
 lessly among themselves, then, in breathless 
 silence, waited for the young master to begin. 
 
 Dr. Claudius Fruhling, standing on the platform, 
 looked hurriedly about him. Ere he commenced, 
 a young giant, over six feet in height, with the 
 golden, curly head of an Apollo, and the swelling 
 neck of an ox, approached him. 
 
 " Are you suffering ? " he asked imploringly, in 
 a low voice, touching the Professor's wrist, blue- 
 veined and delicate, with his mighty hand. The 
 touch was as gentle as that of a child. 
 
 " I am well, Karl, I am well," responded Dr. 
 Fruhling, testily. " Sit down, cannot you see the 
 people are waiting for me to begin ? " 
 
 So the student returned to his seat, wondering 
 much at the master's querulous tones. Karl was 
 a wild admirer of the Professor's. Like him of 
 old, his love for his friend surpassed that of 
 women. It was the triumph of mind over matter : 
 of mental power over physical. Had it been a 
 question of strength he would have stolen fire 
 
THE DYING PROFESSOR. 149 
 
 from Heaven, like Prometheus, to lay at the 
 shrine of his idol. That man in the glorious 
 pride and intoxication of youth, whose muscles 
 were powerful enough to have broken iron bars 
 like daisy chains, had the mental capacity of a 
 child. The Professor's learning completely 
 quelled the power and desires in the body of 
 the Herculean student. When the students 
 assembled at their " Kneipe," drinking their 
 " bocks," Karl, with his strident voice, would shout 
 " Dr. Claudius Friihling " as a toast, and woe 
 betide any student who left heel-taps, or was tardy 
 in responding ! The Professor had an affection 
 for this student. He loved to walk into the forests 
 with him, and watch him break huge boughs off 
 the trees as though they were twigs. Sapient men . 
 shook their heads, and wondered why Dr. Claudius 
 had not chosen one of them to be his friend. But 
 the Professor loved Nature as well as Science, 
 and admired the glow of health on Karl's hand- 
 some face, his well-knit form and sunny hair. 
 
 To-night the young man, quick to notice every 
 change in Dr. FrUhling, was seized with some 
 vague alarm, which did not diminish even when 
 the master began his lecture. 
 
150 THE DYING PROFESSOR. 
 
 ' My friends," said he, " I am here to-night 
 to discourse to you on the Heavenly bodies. Now 
 I am about to tell you of a wonderful one which 
 I discovered last night/' 
 
 How eagerly all ears strained to catch each 
 sound so that not a word should be lost. Wonder 
 upon wonder. Dr. Claudius Fruhling had dis- 
 covered a new world, perhar- 
 
 'Last night/' continued the learned Doctor, 
 passing his delicate fingers across his b 
 which was wet with an icy perspiration, " ere I 
 went to my bed I gazed from my open window 
 into the blue sky above me. How cloudless, 
 clear, and serenely beautiful it was ! It seemed 
 as though the world were dead, and the Heavens 
 were in mourning for it. Ay, and the many 
 stars were the tears shed by Angels for this 
 Universal Death. Oh, my friends ! How rr ; 
 and how strange were the thoughts that beset me ! 
 Then it was that my eyes rested on a planet that 
 I had never seen before. So bright and beautiful 
 it was that I could but stand in silent ver 
 
 its brilliancy. Suddenly it grew larger and 
 larger, it seemed to open, and I saw " 
 
 Here the Professor paused, overcome with 
 
THE DYING PROFESSOR. 151 
 
 emotion. His audience listened with admiration 
 that was not unmixed with surprise ; and the 
 student Karl sat as though frozen to his seat. 
 
 " I saw," continued Dr. Claudius Friihling, in a 
 low, earnest voice, " I saw a new world open 
 before me. A new world, my friends, of wisdom 
 and beauty, compared to which mundane arts 
 and sciences are as nothing." 
 
 The audience looked more astonished than 
 ever. Was the Doctor laughing at them, or was 
 he really in earnest ? But hush ! he spoke 
 again : 
 
 " My friends," and now his voice sounded 
 faint and beautiful as melody borne upon the 
 summer wind from distant hills, " in that star 
 exists another world. I am convinced that 
 the only perfect wisdom is there. Oh, my 
 beloved ! How dark and unfathomable all was 
 to me before. How plain and clear all is to me 
 now. We are all children, and the only great 
 teacher is Death !" 
 
 He gasped tottered then fell into the 
 student's outstretched arms, for Karl had leaped 
 on to the platform to save him. 
 
 " I will hold thee to earth. Heaven shall not 
 
152 THE DYING PROFESSOR. 
 
 steal thee from me," cried the student in a hoarse 
 strong voice, as though he defied Heaven's might. 
 
 Then with a smile of deep content, the 
 Professor's soul shook off its tenement of clay, and 
 soared into the realms of eternal light. 
 
 Yes, Dr. Claudius Friihling, the most eminent 
 master of Art and Knowledge in the whole City 
 of Berlin, was dead. Dead, as any ordinary and 
 unlearned person might be. 
 
 So it happened whilst the City throbbed with 
 excitement at losing so great a personage at so 
 brief a notice ; the herculean student, Karl, 
 wept his maiden tears for the loss of an adored 
 friend. 
 
 Right in the heart of the town, Berlin has 
 erected a cold marble monument to the memory 
 of her learned doctor. By this, men will re- 
 member him, till the stone falls to pieces with 
 rot and decay. But the student needs no 
 monument to remind him of his lost master, 
 for right in the centre of his warm young heart, 
 love has erected a cenotaph that crumbles not 
 with Time, nor fades with Death. 
 
THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 Revenge, at first though sweet, 
 Bitter ere long back on itself recoils. 
 
 " Paradise Lost.' 
 
 Forty thousand brothers 
 
 Could not, with all their quantity of love, 
 
 Make up my sum. 
 
 "Hamlet. 1 
 
155 
 
 THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 A TRUE AND TRAGIC HISTORY WRITTEN BY ME, NOW 
 FATHER BERTRAM, SOMETIME COUNT BASILIUS 
 OF ALTENBOURG. IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD, 
 I4O5. THE FAITHFULNESS OF WHOSE STATE- 
 MENT, W1TNESSETH MY IMMORTAL SOUL. 
 
 Right willingly did I consecrate my life to 
 devotion and prayer, yet, oh my soul ! not ere I 
 had found out how bitter life was beyond the 
 cloister walls ; how full of shattered hopes, and 
 how poor and fruitless the highest ambitions were ! 
 I saw life once, and loved it as a child would 
 worship the appearance of Dead Sea Fruit. Then, 
 deluded by its false loveliness, I tasted of it (how 
 I pity myself for it, now) and lo ! naught 
 but bitterness, even as of myrrh and aloes, 
 remained in my heart. Once I was surrounded 
 by gay companions, libertines, and courtesans, and 
 
156 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 they painted the Monastery as a place to be 
 shunned. A living tomb of dust and ashes. Yet, 
 I say now, better it is to live in dust and ashes, 
 than die in brightness and beauty, that hath no 
 depth, no truth, and no stability in it. 
 
 The outside world is like the Dead Sea Fruit ; 
 and the Cloisters are its ashes. There is fair 
 falseness in one, and grey truth in the other. 
 Yet hold! 'tis not of myself that I wish to write now. 
 Sometimes in my meditations and fastings come 
 the thoughts of past times so powerfully upon 
 me, that I think it would ease my mind in no 
 small measure to write down that thing which so 
 sorely troubleth me. Yet again, 'tis not of myself 
 that I wish to write. My former self is buried 
 with my past ; and so long hath it been dead that 
 I could no more disturb it than the ashes of the 
 dead. 
 
 It was in summer time some years ago 
 that I first came to this cloister. The fame of its 
 Superior had penetrated Altenbourg, the place 
 from whence I came, and I, wearied of a life of 
 so-called pleasure, shook off my courtiers and 
 lemans, and freed myself Ay ! freed myself, as 
 I had never been freed before, in this little narrow 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 157 
 
 cell. No more would I hear their hated flattery. 
 No more could they, Judas-like, betray me with 
 their tainted kisses. In this narrow cell I sank 
 on my knees I, the once-powerful Count 
 Bertram and thanked Heaven for having given 
 me strength to gain my freedom ; for, indeed, 
 rulers have none. The greater the despot the 
 bigger the slave. For he who worketh most 
 iniquity and injustice against people must neces- 
 sarily be a servant to fear and mistrust, and also 
 a prey to a tormenting conscience. He who is 
 allowed to do what he lists must naturally do 
 wrong sometimes. Without being wickedly in- 
 clined, I had sinned much, and right glad was I to 
 be able to devote myself to something new prayer 
 and inability to do wrong. The Superior, Father 
 Anselm, was a kind but stern man. He soon 
 evinced a liking to me, and I became one of his 
 favourites. After I had been there for six months 
 he sent for me, and asked me how I should 
 like to have a pupil. I told him I should like 
 to teach a lad very much, particularly if he 
 were to become the head of a people. " For," 
 said I, " I would teach him to learn what I 
 had learnt too tardily, to rule myself in all 
 
158 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 things first, and then to govern my people after- 
 wards." 
 
 The Superior approved of my answer, but said, 
 shaking his head, 
 
 "The stripling I would have thee teach, my 
 . son, is, indeed, destined to command, and yet, 
 and yet, I fear me, that he is a lad who will not 
 so easily be led." 
 
 Two or three days after my conversation with 
 the Superior, I was introduced to my pupil, whom 
 I will now describe. In stature he was tall and 
 lithe, yet well-knit withal, with a countenance at 
 once striking and handsome. His black hair hung 
 down each side of his cheeks, and fell in natural 
 curls past his shoulders, affording a striking 
 contrast with the pallor of his skin. His eyes 
 were black and flashed already his passions forth 
 like one twice his age. His eyebrows were long, 
 and of a raven hue, and by a curious freak of 
 nature, seemed to be as one black mark across 
 his open and commanding brow. Yet this seemed 
 rather to add than detract from a certain 
 mysterious beauty. His nose was of the shape of an 
 eagle's beak, and the nostrils dilated and distended 
 like those of a high-spirited horse, when he 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 159 
 
 became angry. This, as his preceptor, he never 
 was with me. His name was Lord Achillas Vilmao 
 Falcondale, the only child of noble parents, both 
 living, at the time he came to me. He was 
 haughty and cold at first, and treated me 
 although I was, or rather had been, of a finer 
 family than he as though I were his menial. As 
 he grew to know me better and when I had 
 explained the most difficult parts of Euclid to him, 
 and initiated him into the mysteries of many dead 
 languages, he respected and esteemed me for my 
 knowledge, which was not mean, even amidst 
 scholars. Ultimately he looked upon me in the 
 light of a friend ; aye, and as a loved and only one 
 to boot. With friendship came confidence, and 
 he imparted to me many things concerning his 
 parents. 
 
 " My sire is stern and warlike/' he said, " but, 
 my mother is a wondrously gentle lady." 
 
 More than once I saw the haughty Lord of 
 Perilous Castle pass the cloister on his charger, 
 followed by a train of goodly knights. He 
 was a man of about forty years, and his son 
 strongly resembled him ; but youth softened the 
 lad's countenance, whereas, the other's prime had 
 
160 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 hardened it. More than once, too, in going to 
 visit the sick of body and mind, I had met the 
 litter of the fair Lady Falcondale. She had each 
 time stopped to thank me for my instructing her son, 
 and ordered her servants to give me money for 
 my poor. Pale, and beautiful, and sad, she was 
 ever. The gossips said she had married her lord 
 to please her father, altho' she loved another at the 
 time. Ah me ! 'neath her sweet smiling lips and 
 tender eyes, I knew a heart was breaking ; I knew 
 the son was rarely at his mother's side. " It 
 fatigues me to sit amidst her ladies," he told 
 me once, "they are wearisome with their eternal 
 spinning and tapestry making, or they giggle 
 and chatter like senseless magpies. When I 
 sit alone with my mother, she weeps, and I 
 pity her, but cannot understand her grief. Some- 
 times she looks at me with her blue eyes, oh ! 
 so pitiful, and then they fill with tears, and 
 lo ! she hastily leaves me. Women are strange 
 creatures," added the boy, unconsciously repeat- 
 ing a truism. " I prefer to hunt with my hawk 
 kestrels and herons. Would that I were old enough 
 to go to the wars, and add lustre to our 
 honoured name, as my father says I must." 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 161 
 
 Companionless, save for me, the dark young 
 lord went his ways, and so wondrous were they 
 that the foolish folk would say that he had learned 
 to commune with the Evil One, and that I had 
 taught him. 
 
 In truth he was a strange lad to those that knew 
 him not. Sometimes, in my goings and comings 
 from and to the cloister, and my vocation called 
 me out in all sorts of weather, I would catch sight 
 of a tall, lithe figure on the top of a huge boulder 
 of rock, in the midst of a wild scenery, whilst 
 the elements were at war with each other ; and 
 this figure I knew to be that of the young Achillas. 
 He would watch the angry sea dash against the 
 foot of the rugged mass of stone whereon he 
 stood with his arms crossed, as though he were 
 indeed some dark spirit defying the mighty 
 powers. 
 
 The peasants coming from the market crossed 
 themselves when they saw him, and fled 
 precipitately. 
 
 " He holdeth communion with the Devil," they 
 said amongst themselves, and allowed him a wide 
 space accordingly. Once he moored a barge that 
 let water, and when it was sinking, although the 
 
1 62 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 waves were running high, he threw himself 
 amongst them, and only succeeded after great 
 difficulty in reaching land. In vain I besought 
 him to seek less dangerous pastimes, he listened 
 to me gravely and respectfully, and asked : 
 
 " Was there not a time, oh my father, when 
 thou wert even so wild a creature as I ? " 
 
 "Aye," I made answer, " but in truth, my very 
 dear son, experience hath taught me how foolish 
 I have been." 
 
 "Then, my father," returned the young lord, 
 laying his big, strong hand protectingly and 
 lovingly on mine, "let experience teach me too, 
 as it did thee. Alas ! save of thy wisdom, I 
 know my turbulent heart cannot learn aught 
 else." 
 
 He learned much, and so well, that I could see 
 the time not far distant when I should be able to 
 impart no more book-lore to him. His favourite 
 hero was Alexander the Great, and him, he said, 
 he would emulate, although I told him his 
 passions were too strong to be a disciple of that 
 justly celebrated leader. 
 
 One day when he came as usual to take a 
 lesson from me, and we both walked along in a 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 163 
 
 grove after the manner of the Greek teachers r 
 taking all species as subjects for discussion and 
 dissection, I noticed my pupil, instead of being 
 attentive as his wont, was distracted and gloomy. 
 In vain I waited his erudite or enquiring remarks. 
 They came not. 
 
 " What aileth my son to-day ? " I asked with 
 surprise. 
 
 " Nothing, my father, nothing," he replied. 
 "Thou, with thy knowledge, wouldst laugh did I 
 tell thee." 
 
 "Nay, neither as thy instructor or friend 
 would I do so," I observed. 
 
 Seeing how earnestly I wished him to 
 unburden himself to me, Achillas spake : 
 
 "This morning when I came down betimes, 
 Althea, my mother's favourite lady, came to me 
 with a smile on her saucy lips, telling me my 
 mother would speak to me in her chamber. i I 
 will attend her this moment,' quoth I, nor could I 
 restrain myself from adding disdainfully at her 
 wanton manner, ' Would that my lady mother did 
 not love such foolish creatures as thyself/ 
 4 Ungallant ! ' replies the Lady Althea. ' Better 
 'tis to be foolish like I, than heartless and austere 
 
 M 2 
 
164 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 like thee/ and away she went, this time with 
 no smile upon her lips. I was not slow in going 
 to my mother, whom I found in her chamber 
 on her prie-dieu alone. My spurs and sword 
 clanked as I entered, and she turned, almost 
 with a shudder, towards me. I kissed her hand 
 and she saluted my brow, yet with something, 
 methought, of fear in her manner. Presently she 
 fell to weeping hysterically, and threw herself 
 at my feet, bathing them with her tears. 
 Alarmed and horror-stricken at seeing my mother 
 thus, I raised her, and tenderly placing her 
 on a couch, implored her on my knees to tell 
 me the cause of her grief. * Promise me/ she 
 moaned, 'swear to me, my son, by the Blessed 
 Virgin, not to kill that which is born to me.' 
 These astounding words first made me doubt her 
 reason, but, after awhile, when she became 
 calmer, she told me that a saying ran through her 
 family that 
 
 1 Vaska's last, a woman fair, 
 Will a Cain and Abel bear.' 
 
 My mother is an Italian, and of a noble family, 
 called Vaska. She was taken to England when 
 but six years old, and is the last of that line. I 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 165 
 
 left her to come to you, father, quieting her by 
 saying I should ever cherish either a brother or a 
 sister if I had one. This is the cause of my 
 uneasiness and distraction, for, as I left, labour 
 pains were upon her." 
 
 " Poor lady !" I observed, when he had con- 
 cluded, and he looked moodily before him. " But 
 take heart of grace, women in her condition have 
 always strange fancies. Thy gentle mother is 
 no exception, so fret not thy soul, my son, with- 
 out any cause/' 
 
 " But tell me," I asked, as a sudden thought 
 struck me. " Could'st thou love a brother or a 
 sister ?" 
 
 " Aye !" answered the young lord. " With 
 all my soul. More than aught else." 
 
 Even as we spoke, we had wended our way 
 towards the end of the grove which led to 
 the Castle. It was a lovely spring day, and the 
 flowers yet glistened with the morning dew. 
 Every wind that fairy-like danced over the 
 trees and grasses teemed with a fresher life, and 
 breathed on the world like a new Creator warming 
 all into life from the chaos of winter. Even as 
 we wandered on, a messenger with a troupe of 
 
1 66 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 pretty damsels at his heels came towards us. He 
 and they were breathless with running. 
 
 " Jy jy 1" ne cried. " The lady Falcondale 
 hath a son, my lord, and you a brother !" 
 
 " Jy 1" repeated the young lord Achillas, 
 taking his plumed hat from his head, and looking 
 towards the heavens. " May God grant it so !" 
 
 They heeded not this strange answer, but with 
 bows and curtsies passed on to bring the news 
 elsewhere. The words of my pupil were echoed 
 by me in my innermost heart, and I prayed long 
 and deeply for the house of Falcondale that 
 night. 
 
 Time passed on with swift wings, and 
 some months passed ere I saw my pupil again ; he 
 was in deep mourning, but a light shone in his 
 bright eagle eyes I had never seen there before. 
 He told me in a low voice that the gentle 
 lady of Falcondale had died two hours after the 
 birth of her son, but that the child lived and 
 throve, and that he had been christened Angelo, 
 in memory of his mother, whose name was 
 Angela. I asked my pupil if he loved the little 
 one, not from curiosity, but because I yearned 
 that he should do so. Strange to say the old 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 167 
 
 doggerel of a couplet concerning the last of the 
 Vaskas had haunted me. My doubts were 
 speedily dispelled ; now I knew what that new 
 light meant in his eyes, it was love, for his voice 
 was full of joy as he said : 
 
 " Ay, for once, forgive me, father, I am 
 sincerely thankful to God for sending this angel 
 to me. Now I have something I can and do 
 truly love. My mother with her dying breath 
 commended him to my care and affection, for my 
 father is at the Holy Wars, and I promised her 
 departing soul to protect and love him ever. Ah, 
 my father, you must see him, for he shall be your 
 pupil too when he is older. You must see his 
 blue eyes, like those forget-me-nots that grow in 
 the brooks, and his locks of hair as golden as the 
 daffodillies in the woods. I know he will be 
 sweet and obedient, and never, like I, cause you 
 a sigh and a prayer. Already he knows me, 
 and when I enter his room he holds out his little 
 arms, and makes as though he would come to me." 
 
 I could scarcely believe my senses ! Was this 
 the stern, dark young lord who spoke ? His whole 
 countenance seemed changed, as he discoursed of 
 his young kinsman. Time went on, months and 
 
1 68 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 years flew by, I saw my former pupil less and less 
 frequently. His father, the old lord, had received 
 his death wound in the Holy Wars, and sent a 
 message to his son, as the eldest, that he should 
 uphold the honour of his race, and war too against 
 the infidel, who would desecrate all that which is 
 most holy. 
 
 I heard strange tales of the Lord Achillas' 
 doings. He was sterner than ever, and his dark 
 doings filled all with awe. His retainers and 
 people held him in terror, all but the young 
 Angelo. For the lightest offence he would have 
 them dreadfully punished ; although on the 
 other hand, he was insolently generous ; and 
 would scatter gold amongst them like chaff. 
 His austerity was remarkable, and he was obeyed 
 in fear and trembling. 
 
 Once he sentenced a poor vagrant to be 
 scourged, and afterward to have his right hand 
 cut off for stealing a measure of corn, because 
 his sick wife was starving. Then, ere the 
 sentence was carried out, a little lad, with blue 
 eyes and golden locks, who had been listening, 
 threw himself on his knees before his stern 
 kinsman, and, with streaming tears, begged 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 169- 
 
 mere}' for the unfortunate mortal Like Saul of 
 old, the evil spirit was charmed away at the sight 
 of his beloved, and raising him in alarm that 
 his beautiful eyes should be dimmed with tears, 
 not only promised to revoke the sentence, but 
 gave him money to give to the hapless man. He 
 so loved this fair young brother, that at night, the 
 lad's old nurse averred, that she saw the dark 
 Lord of Falcondale lean over his bed his black 
 hair mingling with the other's golden curls 
 murmuring words of love, like a mother to her 
 sleeping infant. 
 
 It was not long before Angelo became my pupil, 
 and, as his brother had prophecied in the early 
 days, he was docile, obedient, and lovable always. 
 It is true he had not the abnormal gifts of Achillas,, 
 but he was a pleasant scholar, and I could find 
 no fault in him. He excelled more in the lighter 
 arts, and charmed all by his sweet singing, and 
 playing on the lute ; his brother disdained these 
 accomplishments for himself, as effeminate, but in 
 Angelo he thought them glorious and beautiful. 
 Although the younger of the two brothers often 
 stayed the elder's hand from wrong-doing, he was 
 not always present to prevent the ills which 
 
170 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 accrued from Lord Achillas' austerity. The 
 younger was as much loved as the elder was 
 feared, and the invitations which the surrounding 
 noble houses dared not extend towards the elder, 
 were sent to the young Angelo. This made him 
 absent sometimes, and when he returned he 
 would invariably find someone suffering for in- 
 curring the wrath of his brother. 
 
 Still, the lord was magnificently generous, 
 and his people and retainers were better housed 
 and fed than any other lord's. Not one of the 
 passions possessed by Achillas belonged to the 
 blue-eyed Angelo. I heard that not one, but 
 many hearths had been ruined by the Lord 
 Falcondale. Neither the name of wife or maid 
 bore any holiness for him. The one that for an 
 instant his eye rested on was ruined. Some 
 said it was the fascination of a dove for a serpent. 
 The title of libertine was not his. His victims 
 were more to blame than he, seeing how they 
 sought him, and he not them. Some whispered 
 he worked terrible spells, learned of the Devil to 
 bewitch women. Be this how it may, nothing on 
 earth was so prized and loved as Angelo by 
 his brother. When Angelo was eighteen, the 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 171 
 
 Lord Achillas was about thirty-four or five, and 
 acceding to his younger brother's earnest desires 
 (who thought to calm the elder's roving and rest- 
 less spirit), he wedded a lady of beauty, wealth, 
 and title in London, then brought her to Castle 
 Perilous. 
 
 I was present with many other ecclesiastics 
 on the occasion of the arrival of the bride 
 and bridegroom to their home. How well 
 I remember that day ! All was made as 
 gay and beautiful as possible to greet them. 
 For, on a feast day, what rigour will not be 
 forgotten by the peasantry ? Grievances were 
 put aside, and men and women donned their best 
 attire to welcome their lord's home-coming. Every- 
 thing was propitious and smiling, save the 
 weather, and that was dull, and moreover it 
 drizzled a fine, disagreeable rain. The priests 
 and Angelo waited on the covered terrace. 
 The young man was greatly elated, and the 
 excitement added a new lustre to his eyes, and 
 new colour to his cheeks. We looked at him in 
 amazement, for his beauty was God-like. Amidst 
 acclamations and shouts the Lord Achillas 
 Falcondale arrived, and helped his bride to alight 
 
172 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 from her litter, and led her to the terrace 
 where Angelo stood. He embraced his brother 
 with passionate eagerness, and I saw at a glance 
 all the love and devotion of his wayward heart 
 belonged only to the fair-haired stripling. 
 
 " And how doth my boy fare," asked the lord, 
 fondly, stroking the shining locks of the younger, 
 for he had doffed his hat, and awaited to greet 
 his sister-in-law. " Ah ! the air of Norfolk, and 
 the hunt here hath given thee a rare colour, and 
 thine eye is so bright that it will raise havoc in 
 the heart of every dame." 
 
 Thus spoke the haughty heir of Falcondale, but 
 only Angelo and I heard him ; for by reason of my 
 long acquaintance I was the only one who closely 
 followed my younger pupil in greeting the elder. 
 Then came the introduction. She was beautiful 
 indeed, this new-made bride, with her black 
 tresses and bright brown eyes that looked as 
 though they could love and hate with equal 
 intensity. Indeed, she was not unlike, as far as 
 feminine softness would allow, her husband him- 
 self. When she gave her hand to Angelo he 
 looked at her and started. The colour faded 
 from his cheeks, and she she paled too. The 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 173 
 
 lord noticed this in his brother though not in his 
 bride. 
 
 " Ho ! " he cried in his deep sounding voice, 
 "a flagon of wine here, my brother is faint. 
 Lean on me, dear one," he added in a low voice, 
 giving his arm to Angelo. " I see well that these 
 accursed merry-makings have made thee ill. 
 Thou hast worked too hard. That flush and now 
 that pallor. I will have the leech for thee 
 instantly." 
 
 " Nay, 'tis nothing, dearest, kindest brother," 
 gently said Angelo. " Look to thy wife the 
 Lady Sabine." 
 
 But the wayward elder almost carried the 
 other within, leaving his bride standing mortified 
 with her attendants on the terrace. She was 
 fain to accept my escort, and she and her ladies 
 were shown to their new home by me. 
 
 " A strange home-coming, father," said Lord 
 Falcondale's wife to me, sadly. " Rain on a bride 
 denotes misfortune. Pray for me, my father." 
 She knelt on the threshold, and I gave her my 
 blessing. But there were presentiments in my 
 heart that filled me with sorrow for the house of 
 Falcondale. 
 
174 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 Two or three months afterwards, during which 
 I had heard or seen nothing of Lord Falcondale 
 or Angelo, strange stories came to my ears 
 concerning them. It was whispered that a day after 
 the marriage, Angelo had begun to shun the 
 society of his brother and his bride, and so 
 marked was this that he rose before anyone else 
 of the household and returned late when all were 
 abed. They said, too, that the Lord Achillas 
 Falcondale was sterner and gloomier than ever ; 
 for he grieved about his brother, and his young 
 bride wandered neglected in the Castle and over 
 its grounds. 
 
 One day, as I sat alone, someone entered in on 
 my solitude, and I glanced up from the weighty 
 tome I perused, to see Angelo ! His fair face 
 was thinner than when I saw it last, and the 
 colour had fled his cheeks. His eyes were 
 strange and wild-looking. Altogether unlike my 
 beloved pupil's mien was this. 
 
 " What is it with thee ? " I asked, surprised and 
 grieved at what I saw. 
 
 " Father," exclaimed the young man, clasp- 
 ing his hands and speaking as though he 
 were choking, " listen to me, or I shall go 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 175 
 
 mad, and advise me ere I lay rash hands on 
 myself!" 
 
 I besought him to calm himself, nor would I 
 listen until he sat down, and could tell me his 
 sorrow more rationally. This I did for his good, 
 seeing how enfevered his young blood was. Ah, 
 me, as I saw him thus, my life's blood, too, leaped 
 into something like action neath my solemn 
 cassock. He told me the following in such a 
 mournful voice that it seemed no longer that of 
 the gay Angelo. 
 
 " You know, father, that ever since I first set 
 mine eyes on my brother's bride, I have avoided 
 her, ay, and him, too. For, according to thy 
 teaching, beloved and honoured instructor, I 
 would not cast mine eyes longingly on another's 
 treasure, and that other's that of my noble brother. 
 For this reason I have risen earlier than the lark 
 every morning, and have gone away so I should 
 not return till late at night, when all should be in 
 bed. O ! turn not your sainted eyes from me," 
 (here the lad's voice faltered, and I quailed as the 
 noble youth bent his knee to me, as though 
 acknowledging my superiority, which, in truth, I 
 was far from feeling), " for I love the Lady 
 
176 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 Falcondale as my very soul ! Yester-morn I 
 rose to flee away so early from the Castle that the 
 sun had scarce begun to rise when I trod clown 
 the stairs. Scarcely, however, had my hand 
 touched the bolt of the gates when I felt my 
 nervous fingers in the iron clasp of someone. Ay, 
 it was my brother ! He looked worn and grieved. 
 ' Why dost thou fly me thus, my Angelo ? ' he 
 said in gentle tones, which made me feel doubly 
 how great a villain I was. ' If I have wedded, 'tis 
 not because I love thee less, for my love for thee is 
 above the love of woman. What more can I tell 
 thee ? What can I do to show thee that my 
 wife hath not usurped thy place in my heart ? ' 
 How, after these words could I tell him the 
 truth ? I had rather have killed myself than done 
 so. And he said he had been watching my 
 comings and goings, till he could bear no longer. 
 How unworthy his noble love I felt when he 
 grieved over my changed condition. He caught 
 my hands in his, and, for the first time in his life 
 I know, he wept. Yes, the dark, stern Lord of 
 Falcondale wept silently over me, and said : 
 4 My brother, oh, my brother ! * Never was there 
 a love like his ! Never a devotion to compare to it 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 177 
 
 so pure and selfless. He prevailed on me to 
 return to the Castle. 'Thou shalt want for 
 nought/ were his words. ' Sabine shall sing to 
 thee in thy hours of weariness, and I will read to 
 my boy/ Sabine, father, is his wife, and noted 
 for her beautiful voice, as well as for her personal 
 beauty. Release me, my father, from these fetters 
 of roses that will lead me to crime, advise me 
 how to act/' concluded the young man, "or I must 
 die." 
 
 I spoke to him for some time, and succeeded in 
 cheering him, and he left me with a lighter step, 
 promising to quell the passion. Alas 1 I had heard 
 such vows before. Had they been kept ? But 
 few, I fear me. 
 
 A month after the foregoing, I was summoned 
 to the castle by Lord Falcondale, who stated that 
 he wished me to guard a treasure of his, whilst 
 he went to the Holy War in pursuance of his 
 dead father's wish. 
 
 I arrived at the Castle, and saw my lord on the 
 terrace. He was sitting in a great chair, with his 
 head leaning on his left hand, in a thoughtful 
 attitude, and his right hand in his favourite 
 position, on the hilt of his sword. By his side, on 
 
 N 
 
178 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 a lower chair sat Angelo with his lute. I greeted 
 them both, and Lord Falcondale said : 
 
 " Father, in my absence, will you, in your 
 unfailing watchfulness, guard my treasure 
 well ? " 
 
 " Where is the treasure, my son ? " I asked. 
 
 " My golden one, here," answered the future 
 Crusader, pointing to his brother. The latter 
 started, and seized the elder's hand. 
 
 " Let me go with thee," he pleaded, earnestly. 
 " I will do anything, and obey thee in all. Take 
 me as thy foot-page. I will groom thy horse, and 
 nurse thee if but Heaven forbid it ! thou 
 should'st be wounded." 
 
 The elder smiled. 
 
 " Think'st thou," he cried, " that thy white 
 tapered hands were meant for aught but to touch 
 the lute and write madrigals for women ? Nay 
 thou must stay at home and look after it, and 
 take heed," this grimly, "that my wife goeth not a- 
 gadding ; " adding earnestly : " I would not have 
 thee exposed to danger, for all the honours that 
 are in this world." 
 
 I promised to do all I could for Angelo, and not 
 many days after, the Lord of Falcondale took his 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 179 
 
 departure with a goodly train of knights for 
 
 Palestine. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Six years elapsed, and the fame of the Lord 
 of Falcondale's valour in the war against the 
 Infidels spread through many lands. In a cer- 
 tain triumphal entry into a besieged city, and 
 whilst he rode at the head of a great army, with 
 his countenance so severe and stern, even in its 
 handsomeness, that the inhabitants all fell back 
 awed and afraid to look upon it, a fair-haired 
 lad chanced to stand in front of a crowd. The 
 Crusader's eagle glance fell upon him, and in a 
 strange voice he bade him stand forward. 
 Blushing and confused the youth obeyed. 
 
 " Here is gold for thee, boy," said the Crusader,- 
 and turning in his saddle to his troops he spoke 
 in a mighty voice, so sonorous that all did hear. 
 
 " Give ear unto me, gentlemen and hirelings, if 
 either of ye despoil one person or one 
 single dwelling in this city, that one man or 
 band shall instantly suffer a terrible death." 
 
 Then a great shout of joy arose from the 
 multitude, and they blessed their noble conqueror. 
 " Noble chief," said the lad who had received the 
 
 N 3 
 
i8o THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 Crusader's gold, and emboldened by the curiosity 
 of youth, " would that I knew why you have so 
 mercifully spared us and our city, when your 
 hand is said to be so merciless and cruel ?" 
 
 "It was for one Angelo's sake, boy,'* the Lord 
 of Falcondale made answer, a smile flitting across 
 his proud countenance, and as quickly dying away. 
 " For thou resemblest him much in person. May 
 thou be pure and spotless like him in mind. 
 Adieu." 
 
 This incident in a terrible and tumultuous 
 career was told me by an eye witness. 
 
 Six years passed away, as I have written 
 before, and still the Lord of Falcondale had not 
 returned, but in truth I saw but less and less of 
 Angelo, who appeared now as he would avoid 
 me altogether. He spent much time away from 
 the Castle, and I often marked the Lady Sabine 
 alone on the terrace, surrounded by her ladies, 
 they at work and she idle, but with a smile of 
 contentment on her face. What had produced 
 this strange happiness in her ? However, I 
 neither heard or saw anything wrong going on 
 between Angelo and the Lady Sabine, and I 
 was lulled into the belief that all was as fair as 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 181 
 
 it appeared. At last a day came, and oh ! my 
 soul is full of horror at the recollection of it ! It 
 was in this wise. At four o'clock in the morning 
 as I was returning from sitting watch at the 
 bedside of a poor dead woman, I saw a bronzed 
 knight on a charger, unattended, walking his 
 horse slowly along the road. 
 
 " God bless thee, my son !" I cried, as I noticed 
 the red cross on his arm, and saw in whose loved 
 cause he had fought. 
 
 " I thank thee, dear father Bertram, but tell me 
 how fares my golden treasure," said the Crusader. 
 
 " Welcome ! " I exclaimed, joyously, " I see now 
 that thou art my pupil, the Lord of Falcondale. 
 I knew ye not at first." 
 
 He was of a certainty, pleased to see me 
 again, but a heavy cloud hung over his brow. 
 
 " 1 have disbanded my train, and am going 
 home alone," he told me, " but thrice has my horse 
 stumbled in coming, and my heart misgives me 
 sorely. My steed hath never failed me before. 
 All the time I have been away, my heart hath not 
 fallen once, save when thinking of my forsaken 
 Angelo. Tell me that he is well ? " he asked 
 eagerly. 
 
1 82 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 I assured him he was so, and, pressing me 
 sorely, I at length yielded in accompanying him 
 to the Castle. If I had followed my inclinations r 
 and some strange foreboding in my own heart, 
 I would have said to him prophetically, " do not 
 go." 
 
 The Castle looked as though it were wrapped, 
 like the inmates, in slumber. He had a secret 
 way in which to enter, without disturbing the 
 servants, and together, we presently stood on the 
 threshold of his noble halls ; previously having 
 taken his steed to the stables. 
 
 " Now, I pray you, let me return," I said, for 
 some strange fear took possession of me, but 
 he would not hear of it, and besought me to 
 remain. 
 
 " Come," he whispered, " 'tis to Angelo's room 
 we will go. His lips shall be the first to press 
 mine." 
 
 With hurried tread he led me on, through 
 rooms and corridors, whose rich furniture re- 
 minded me of my Castle of Altenbourg. But 
 I knew that happiness dwelt not there any more 
 than it did here, and it was with an unmoved mind 
 that I saw the greatest splendours that taste and 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 183 
 
 wealth could purchase so lavishly distributed in 
 every nook and corner. We passed silently through 
 the picture gallery, where hung the portraits 
 of the Falcondales. Here, on giving an involun- 
 tary glance at his mother's picture, Lord 
 Falconclale paled and trembled violently. 
 
 " Look ! " he cried. "Is it my fancy, or is it 
 true ? It seems as though she would weep ! " 
 
 " Mine eyes see naught but a handsome picture," 
 I 'returned. " Thou art weary, my dear son, and 
 thy enfevered fancy gives life to that which in 
 truth hath none." 
 
 "Come then!" he exclaimed, "it may be 
 so!" 
 
 Leaving the gallery, we saw two cloaks, a man 
 and a woman's, thrown together on an arm-chain 
 This time I shuddered. But he did not notice it, 
 and hurried on in a feverish haste. At last, we 
 gained Angelo's room. He entered on tiptoe, I 
 following. He went to the bed, and turned to 
 me, pallid to the lips. 
 
 " He is not here, father ! Is he dead ? Tell 
 me the truth ! " he exclaimed, hoarsely. 
 
 The bed was empty. Angelo was not there. 
 
 " Mayhap he hath gone to London, my son," I 
 
1 84 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 observed, gently. " I have told thee he is not 
 dead." 
 
 He breathed a sigh of relief, whilst my heart 
 sank lower and lower. 
 
 We departed from his younger brother's 
 chamber, and descended to the corridor where his 
 wife's apartment was situated. I would have left 
 him there, but he detained me with a strange 
 force, which I had no power to resist. A greater 
 force impelled me to stay, nor can I attribute this 
 to anything earthly. As we advanced he 
 always as leader he hesitated as he drew very 
 gently aside a heavy curtain that served as a 
 door to the room. We both stood frozen in our 
 places, he with his eagle eyes flashing terrible 
 wrath, and a sardonic smile on his lips, I half 
 forgetting my priestly vocation and transfixed 
 with horror and amaze. From the darkened 
 room came a voice, voluptuous and soft, but 
 distinct and clear. 
 
 " Oh, how I love thee, my beloved," said the 
 voice, " thou art so constant in thy kindness, so 
 changeless in thy love. How far above all 
 other men thou art ! How can my heart compare 
 thee, my loved and loving soul, to that cold, hard 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 185 
 
 tyrant now happily away from us ? Tis false to 
 say that women love those that are most harsh to 
 them ! It may be for the soulless. But I I had 
 a soul, my own, ere thou didst take it away from me. 
 In thine eyes-light my heart expands, as the 
 flowers do in the sun. I breathe, I live, I feel, 
 yet all my senses are thine. I am not more my- 
 self, and thou, oh, thou hast a double being- 
 mine and thine together ! " 
 
 As in a dream, it appeared that the Lord of 
 Falcondale's hand was on his sword's hilt, and 
 I rushed forward and clasped his arm. 
 
 " Stay, stay," I cried, hoarsely, " not murder for 
 that dear God's sake. It is " 
 
 He shook me oft" ere I could utter the name, 
 and rushed in the apartment with his sword 
 drawn. 
 
 Words are too feeble to describe that terrible 
 moment. His unerring arm, accustomed to do 
 deadly work, failed not this time. 
 
 When I followed him I entered into the 
 .apartment of the dead. 
 
1 86 THE Two BROTHERS. 
 
 Not I not he, spoke a word. The silence must 
 have lasted nearly a quarter of an hour. 
 
 He was the first to say, sternly and without 
 emotion, 
 
 " Mine honour is avenged, for which not God, 
 the King, nor England will blame me." 
 
 " But whom have you slain ? " 
 
 " My wife ! " he answered, " and her accursed 
 paramour." 
 
 I drew aside one of the heavy curtains that 
 shut out my God's light from that room of- blood, 
 with a dire presentiment in my heart. 
 
 A terrible cry burst from the dark Lord of 
 Falcondale's lips, such a one as will make me 
 shudder in my grave. For the sun shone in on 
 the love of Achillas' life. A fair, young, upturned 
 face met his gaze that would smile on him m> 
 more. The floor was stained with a crimson 
 stream, one drop of which the Lord of Falcondale 
 would not willingly have shed to save his own life. 
 
 The prophecy was fulfilled, the last of the 
 Vaskas had borne a Cain ! Angelo was dead ! 
 Slain by the hand of him who loved him dearer 
 than life. 
 
THE Two BROTHERS. 187 
 
 Years after, a messenger brought me a letter 
 from a foreign land. From this letter, I take but 
 a few lines. 
 
 " I am dying, dying, ere I have thoroughly 
 expiated my crime. My spirit, I know, cannot 
 rest in peace. Commend my erring heart unto 
 Heaven, oh, my father ! this from 
 
 " Thy dying son, 
 
 ACHILLAS. " 
 
 How long, how long, oh, my soul ! will he 
 wander restless o'er the earth ? For, methought 
 I saw him yesterday not not in the flesh. His 
 eyes, were the eyes of one who hath solved 
 the mystery of Life and Death, and drunk deeply 
 of the cup of sorrow. I pray most fervently on 
 earth, oh, my Lord God ! for his salvation and 
 peace. And, should I once go to Heaven, there 
 will I intercede for my poor son, for evermore, until 
 he shall come. 
 
 And the truth of what I have told, witnesseth 
 my undying soul, and, if I have lied, perdition will 
 seize me in eternity. 
 
 (Signed) FATHER BERTRAM, 
 The Cl6ister of St. John, in the Year of Grace, 
 1405. 
 
Some Press Opinions 
 
 ON THE FIRST EDITION OF 
 
 SEVEN STORIES, 
 
 BY HELENE E. A. GINGOLD 
 
 ' VANITY FAIR," 24th August, 1893. 
 
 Miss Gingold here faces the public in a new character, 
 telling us seven delightful stories. The art of writing a 
 good short story is given to few, but Miss Gingold has 
 proved seven times that it is her's. We have noted her 
 work in these columns before, and we have now to record 
 fresh talent displayed in new fields. The author's apology 
 for the short story, that it ministers to the needs of those 
 busy people who have no time to read long books, is not 
 altogether needed; for the general reader wants both short 
 and long tales to charm his various moods, and the greatest 
 abundance of the one ill supplies the absence of the other. 
 Shortness is the lustre of story-telling, for in a short story 
 the matter less obscures the manner, and art is the more 
 obvious. We see this in these stories. Throughout the 
 book the personality of the writer is never apparent. " The 
 Rabbi of Moscow " is full of that poetic mysticism which 
 belongs only to the Jews. To attempt to bring Father 
 Abraham down a flight of shining steps in a vision is to 
 run no mean risk. But the author succeeds, and produces a 
 tale that is at once strong, simple, and beautiful in pathetic 
 truth. " Veritas " is a metaphysical story, wherein the 
 human mind and passions are exposed with originality and 
 insight. Its end, where the man who has prayed that 
 Virtue may be universal grows fearful and wants to undo his 
 granted wish, is really clever. " The White Priest " is 
 
among the best ghost stories we have read. Then we have 
 a sporting tale of the last century, the narrator of which, 
 one Tom Bellamy, a man of sound old English character, 
 tells his tale with the sturdy, honest ring of that stiff- 
 necked, wholesome time. 'Tis an olden-time sporting 
 story, and a good one. 
 
 In this tale, however, the reader is struck by two pieces 
 of carelessness, which, no doubt, will be remedied in future 
 editions. Calvert Cresswell, the villain of the story , is described 
 as being " a pretty frequent visitor at my Lord's house " ; 
 while he has been expelled from White's for his endeavour 
 to swindle "my Lord." And although Tom Bellamy is re- 
 counting an obviously recent event, he says that " in after 
 years " he learned to alter an opinion formed during the 
 happening of that event which is described as " now the 
 talk of the town." These are but small faults slips 
 rather yet can we find no greater errors in this volume ; 
 wherefore to point them out is, in itself, to highly commend 
 Miss Gingold's newest book. 
 
 Besides a short but strong German character-sketch, we 
 have also Whose was the Guilt ? " wherein is set forth one 
 of the mest serious questions of the day, that of the mar- 
 riage-tie ; which forms the basis of a tragic story. " The 
 Two Brothers " concludes the book, and is a mediaeval tale 
 of much importance, both in character painting and in por- 
 trayal of powerful passions. Our author is a strong enough 
 local colourist to be able to bring her scenes, with no dis- 
 coverable effort, forcibly before the reader. 
 
 To conclude, we cannot help wishing that in the next 
 book of stories that Miss Gingold writes we may find some 
 that are told by female characters. Her avowed object is to 
 amuse, and in this she has certainly succeeded. So far as 
 we are aware, this author has done nothing better than these 
 Seven Stories. 
 
 " MANCHESTER COURIER," 2nd September 1893. 
 
 This young authoress has already secured such warm 
 admiration for her former works, consisting more especially 
 of poems, that she scarcely needs the approbation of the 
 critic But the " Seven Stories " are most powerful and 
 original, artistic and charming. That the late Duke of 
 Saxe-Coburg-Gotha expressed through his secretary the 
 
profound interest and appreciation with which H.H. read both 
 the novel and the verses of this lady is not astonishing. For 
 he was well able to enjoy the clever descriptions and highly 
 realistic talent possessed by the writer of the " Seven 
 Stories," each of which presents remarkable originality, 
 each of which is so condensed and so striking in its manner 
 of narration. I should single out the " White Priest " as 
 the most dramatic and extraordinary of the series. But all 
 are good, and Miss Gingold thoroughly understands the art 
 of producing the now very popular " short story," which is 
 either very bad and unsatisfactory, or, as in the present case, 
 quite a work of art, full of interest arid suggestion, and well 
 furnished with " local colour," not long enough to weary, 
 and not short enough to balk the appetite of the cultivated 
 reader. 
 
 THE JEWISH WOBLD," 18th August, 1893. 
 
 Miss H61ene Gingold had no pretentious object in view in 
 giving her latest work to the public ; nevertheless, we are 
 much mistaken, if its humility be not forgotten in the enter- 
 tainment it provides. " I did my best," she says, " not to 
 instruct and enlighten, but to amuse, and if I succeed in 
 diverting the work-harassed brain, be it but for one short 
 hour, I well know that these humble stories have not been 
 written in vain.' We would not Hatter ourselves so much 
 as to claim a prominent place among the work-harassed 
 brains, but certainly these stories have afforded us a certain 
 amount of relief. 
 
 " Seven Stories " traverses considerable ground and treats 
 of manners, whose existence were separated by centuries. 
 " The Kabbi of Moscow " is a story of long ago ; 
 " Veritas " will suit all time ; then we have a story of last 
 century. Hurriedly, then, we are brought from the realms 
 of gross vibrating humanity into the world of mysticism ; 
 and hardly less rapid is the transition from these regions to 
 surroundings in which " The Dying Professor " once lived 
 and breathed. Again we are taken on the wings of the wind 
 and find ourselves partaking of the life of the Crusaders, 
 silently philosophising on their acts and their temptations. 
 Throughout all these tales, however, as we read we detected 
 a pervading strain of sadness and there is betrayed on the part 
 of the writer an inclination to dwell upon the wickedness of 
 human kind, and its misery, especially that which comes of 
 love betrayed. We speak not here of the love of man and 
 
woman only. For Miss Gingold speaks of the love of man 
 for man, of Jonathan for David love which passeth that of 
 a woman. 
 
 Only one story, the first, is of special Jewish interest, and 
 that deals with an episode all too common in our history 
 the Blood Accusation. Nevertheless, there is added to its 
 recital the charm of the writer, and that alone would suffice 
 to relieve it of its platitude and commonplace, The key- 
 note is rung upon trust in the guardian power of Providence, 
 for in this instance the fell machinations of the Czar's 
 favourite Kadamoff are defeated by the interposition of 
 Father Abraham himself. Kabbi Solomon is a loveable 
 character, such as we Jews delight to let our memory rest upon, 
 to recall the meekness and the charity which fear no be- 
 trayal and are never betrayed. And there is, too, his grand- 
 daughter, who plays but a small part in this small story, 
 and she sings a song which we take pleasure in quoting for 
 our readers] : 
 
 By the rivers of Babylon, captives, we wept, 
 
 As a child by its mother forgot ; 
 And grief, like an ocean, o'er us swept, 
 
 For Zion, lov'd Zion, was not ! 
 
 We hanged our harps on the willow tree boughs, 
 
 They bid us to sing, but in vain, 
 For who, unto song, their hearts can arouse, 
 
 When bound in Captivity's chain. 
 
 Driven like brutes, from strand unto strand, 
 
 Our minds e'en as fettered as we, 
 O give back the land we call our dear land, 
 
 Where we may still reverence thee ! 
 
 These climes our loved melodies ne'er shall know, 
 Their words were not writ for the slave, 
 
 For us, hapless Israel, remains but below, 
 Rememb'rance tears and the grave ! 
 
 Of the remaining six stories the last appears by far the 
 best. It treats of the love which " the dark young lord, 
 who, companionless, went his ways, and so wondrous were 
 they that the foolish folk would say that he had learned to 
 commune with the evil one," bore for his brother, " whose 
 tapered hands were meant for naught but to touch the lute 
 and write madrigals for women." The Lord of Falcondale 
 was already a man when this brother was born, yet to his 
 tutor's questioning, " Could'st thou love a brother or a 
 sister ? " he could reply, " Aye ! with all my soul. More 
 than aught else." He kept his word. Upon that brother 
 
he lavished all the absorbing love of a proud absorbed 
 nature. The Lord of Falcondale brought home a wife, and 
 with her came death and destruction. Let the younger lord 
 tell his story as he told it to his instructor : 
 
 You know, father, that ever since I first set mine eyes on 
 my brother's bride, I have avoided her, ay, and him, too. 
 For, according to thy teaching, beloved and honoured in- 
 structor, I would not cast mine eyes lovingly on another s 
 treasure, and that other's that of my noble brother. For 
 this reason I have risen earlier than the lark every morning, 
 and have gone away so I should not return till late at night, 
 when all should be in bed. I love the Lady Falcondale as my 
 very soul ! Yester-morn, I rose to flee away so early from 
 the castle that the sun had scarce begun to rise when I trod 
 down the stairs. Scarcely, however, had my hand touched the 
 bolt of the gates when I felt my nervous fingers in the iron 
 clasp of someone. Ay, it was my brother ! He looked worn 
 and grieved. " Why dost thou fly me thus, my Angelo ? " 
 he said in gentle tones, which made me feel doubly, how 
 great a villain I was. " If I have wedded 'tis not because I 
 love thee less, for my love for tliee is above the love of 
 woman. What more can I tell thee?" How, after these 
 words, could I tell him the truth ? And he said he had been 
 watching my comings and goings, till he could bear no 
 longer. How unworthy his noble love I felt when he grieved 
 over my changed condition. He caught my hands in his, and 
 for the first time in his life I know he wept. Yes, the dark, 
 stern Lord of Falcondale wept silently over me, and said, 
 " My brother, oh, my brother ! " 
 
 The Lord of Falcondale went away to the Crusades ; and 
 during the six years he was away he thought often of his 
 brother. Once he delivered a town from pillage because his 
 eye fell upon one boy who bore a great likeness to his 
 brother. He returned to his castle, he entered by a secret 
 door. His first steps were bent to his brother's chamber, 
 whom he found not. Two cloaks he found in his wife's 
 ante-chamber. Then " words are too feeble to describe that 
 terrible moment. His unerring arm, accustomed to do 
 deadly work, failed not this time." 
 
 All the stories have high merit, but the quotations we 
 have given will suffice to convince our readers how readable 
 they are. 
 
 " SCOTSMAN," 21st August, 1893. 
 
 Seven Stories, by Helene E. A. Gingold, is a volume of 
 seven short tales of a very fanciful character. 
 
1 MANCHESTER EXAMINER," 21st August, 1893. 
 
 The Seven Stories of Helene E. A, Gingold are the work of 
 a lady who has won some popularity in poetry, and has now 
 made a departure into the paths of fiction. As a poet Miss 
 Gingold received a certificate of merit from the Duke of 
 Saxe-Coburg Gotha, and as a novelist she seeks the indul- 
 gence of the public with somewhat the same feeling that a 
 well-graced actor finds himself before a critical audience in a 
 new part. That, at all events, is the way Miss Gingold puts 
 her own case. I may say that we had not a poet the fewer 
 through this book ; only a novelist the more. 
 
 " SUNDAY TIMES," August 27th, 1893. 
 
 Seven Stories, by Miss Helene Gingold, has just been pub- 
 lished by Messrs. Kemington. The authoress, in producing 
 this book, has broken comparatively new ground. Hitherto 
 she has been chiefly known as a poetess of considerable 
 merit, although her other prose works must not be ignored. 
 Her verses have attracted not only the attention of the 
 Press, but also are interesting as having been favourite 
 reading of the late Duke of Saxe-Ccburg-Gotha. Miss 
 Helene Gingold is naturally proud of the commendation of 
 so illustrious a reader, and, in a note at the commencement 
 of her volume, makes the following graceful acknowledgment, 
 referring to some flattering sentiments which had been con- 
 veyed to her by the late Duke through his private 
 secretary : 
 
 "It is not because they emanate from a royal personage 
 that I value them, but because they are the thoughts of one 
 who has gained a world- wide reputation in the field of art 
 and literature." 
 
 The stories, as might be expected from a poetess, are 
 fanciful. Several of them are weird, and all can lay claim 
 to a fair share of originality. 
 
 " LEICESTER DAILY POST," 29th August, 1893. 
 
 Seven Stories by Helene E. A. Gingold is a most pro- 
 mising " new departure " by a lady who has already won 
 some thoroughly deserved laurels in the realm of verse. The 
 present series of short tales is nothing if not diversified. One 
 is a story of two religions, another metaphysical, a third an 
 
old-time sporting sketch, the fourth a short story, the fifth 
 the story of a social problem, while the sixth and seventh 
 are respectively a true story and a story of the crusades. As 
 a whole, moreover, their distinguishing fundamental ideas 
 are clearly conceived and effectively marked out. The 
 result is that the interest of the reader is speedily aroused 
 and fully sustained to the close. The new venture of the 
 authoress, in short, is fully justified by its encouraging 
 success. 
 
 " BELFAST NEWS LETTEB," 31st August, 1893. 
 
 The authoress, Helene E. A. Gingold, takes a new 
 departure in this book. She writes for those persons whose 
 every hour is precious, and who have little time to spend on 
 novel reading. Short stories were never in such demand as 
 the present day, and the writing of good ones is a high art. 
 Those before us are entitled, " The Rnbbi of Moscow " (a 
 story of two religions) ; " Veritas " (a metaphysical story) ; 
 " How Tom Bellamy won my Lord Hertford's Wager " (an 
 olden-time sporting story) ; " Whose was the guilt? " (the 
 story of a social problem) ; " The dying Professor: " (a true 
 story) ; and " The two Brothers " (a story of the Crusades). 
 The book is well written, and promises to have a wide 
 circulation. 
 
 " NEWCASTLE LEADER," 31st August, 1893. 
 
 This is the title of a volume of short stories, which, even 
 if they had not, as a sort of prefatory letter informs us, re- 
 ceived the approbation of the late Duke of Saxe-Coburg- 
 Gotha, would have had a claim to attention on their own ac- 
 count. The author writes in English, which has occa- 
 sionally a foreign flavour, but which is, on the whole, 
 remarkable for its easy grace and its lucidity. The first 
 of the stories, " The Rabbi of Moscow," is based upon the 
 the persecution of the Jews in Russia, and although the 
 period assigned to it is ancient, the motives which enter into 
 it are avowedly modern. It is a powerful and sympathetic 
 study picturesque and imaginative in its treatment of inci- 
 dent, and artistically weird in its presentation of character. 
 " Veritas," described as a metaphysical story, deserves the 
 
description. The author allows herself the advantage of 
 supernatural machinery, " Veritas " being the spirit of truth, 
 who presents himself to a writer of wayward genius named 
 Mavorel, and who undoubtedly subjects him to strange ex- 
 periences. It is a mystic but poetic conception. In a diffe- 
 rent order is " How Tom Bellamy Won my Lord Hertford's 
 Wager," an essay in quaint fiction, which is certainly 
 clever and interesting. These " seven stories" are fresh 
 and original. 
 
 " LIVERPOOL MERCURY," 30th August, 1898. 
 
 Pleasant reading and fairly- well flavoured with sentiment. 
 There is an attempt at the ideal which Cervantes thought 
 to show in his "Exemplary Novels"; but he found too 
 much Human nature for caring to keep to the * Exemplary," 
 and here in " The Ghost Story," " The Metaphysical 
 Story," and such like, there is not the moralising and the 
 rigidity one might expect, but just good, pleasant reading 
 for the young-hearted and for old folk who like to look 
 back. 
 
 " THE MORNING," 25th August, 1893. 
 
 Messrs. Remington have issued a volume of seven stories 
 by Helene E. A. Gingold, a favourite author, by the way, of 
 the late Duke of Coburg. They are light and pleasant read- 
 ing, and one or two of them are something more than 
 interesting. 
 
 " THE NEWSAGENT," 26th August, 1893. 
 
 Here is another typical volume of tales of the kind we have 
 referred to, and although it is only just to hand we desire 
 to give it a preliminary notice, and hold it over for further 
 review. Miss Helene E. A. Gingold, previously made her 
 mark with a volume of poems, which was graciously 
 accepted in flattering terms by H.H. the Duke of Saxe- 
 Coburg, who has just passed away, and her former works 
 have been widely appreciated by English and Continental 
 readers. The authoress says in her prefatory notes, " One 
 of my reasons for publishing this volume is that it has ap- 
 peared to me that short stories are required just as much as 
 long ones. There is many a hard-worked man, aye, and 
 woman too, who, on being asked if they have read this or 
 
that novel, answer deprecatingly (of themselves), ' Well, no ; 
 the story is not a short one, and I have not the time.' .... 
 But what of those sons and daughters of earth whose every 
 hour is precious, and who have little time to spend on 
 novel reading? For these especially I have written my 
 seven short stories, seeing that they are neglected by the 
 rest of writers." Well, they are not all neglected now, 
 but we agree with Miss Gingold, and will turn to her work 
 again. It is beautifully bound in brown cover, gilt lettered, 
 and printed on antique paper, with wide margins. 
 
 " THE PEOPLE," 27th August, 1893. 
 
 Miss Helene E. A. Gingold has achieved some reputation 
 as a writer of verse. She now comes before the world as the 
 author of Seven Stories, in prose. The stories are short, 
 but many people like short stories better than long ones, 
 and these of Miss Gingold's are fresh and interesting. 
 
 " The sensational element is not altogether absent from 
 Seven Stories." Saturday Review. 
 
 " There is in them a wealth of earnestness which may suc- 
 ceed in diverting the work-harassed brain." National Observer. 
 
 " They are well- written, and will be found exceedingly 
 pleasant reading. They reflect great credit upon the authoress, 
 who is already well known in literary circles." Financier. 
 
 " Characterised by variety." Glasgow Herald. 
 
 " This bold tale has its characteristic touches ; the strongest 
 at the end. The anti-climax, resulting from the sentence, 
 4 Sin reigned supreme,' shows the skilful hand and the 
 poetic touch." Commerce. 
 
 " Miss Gingold has already written half a dozen successful 
 novels, ail of which show wonderful maturity of style." 
 Princess. 
 
 11 Miss Gingold, the authoress of Seven Stories, Denyse, 
 Steyneville, and other works, can claim the honour of being 
 one of the youngest writers of to-day and to have written 
 half a dozen works, some of which have passed through as 
 many as six editions." Weekly Sun. 
 
STEYNEVILLE," 
 
 BY HELENE E. A. GINGOLD. 
 
 "SUNDAY TIMES," gth August, 1885. 
 
 " Steyneville," by Helene E. A. Gingold (Remington), 
 is a clever novel, written in the main extremely well, in 
 imitation of the style in vogue in the time of Queen Anne. 
 This feature is particularly noticeable in the first volume, but 
 less so in the second, and most of all in the third, where the 
 authoress degenerates into decidedly modern English in 
 many and many a page, and this mars an otherwise good 
 book. Then, too, the writing bristles with word anachron- 
 isms, such as " cad " and other like expressions, which 
 belong to a later civilisation. The plot of this novel is well 
 conceived and powerfully described ; especially is this the 
 case in the tragic scenes, of which there are many. The 
 death of Mr. Steyneville, father of the hero, Harold Steyne- 
 ville, is exceptionally well told, with much pathos. Most 
 touching is the finding of Almyra Marlande, a young child, 
 lying asleep on the dead body of her kind and generous 
 guardian a striking contrast and then her being gently 
 lifted up and carried downstairs by the cold, worldly Lord 
 Alingdale another striking contrast. What a picture does 
 it not bring before one's eyes ! Again worthy of all praise 
 is the love Harold Steyneville bears his dear father when 
 living and when dead the ever-living desire on his part to 
 carefully and well respect the wishes of his deceased parent. 
 What a difference from what is now only too prevalent ! want 
 of respect for parents and impatience at all parental control. 
 The character of Almyra, the heroine, is well depicted. She 
 is a beautiful girl, loved by all with whom she comes in contact, 
 but hard, worldly, ambitious, heartless, and vain of her 
 personal attractions. She inflames with love, and throws her 
 lovers aside more thoughtlessly than a pair of gloves ; never- 
 theless, we cannot help liking her, and hoping that her end 
 may be peaceful, the opposite of which is foreshadowed by 
 many expressions. Valerian de Crispigne is a fine character ; 
 he is the half-brother and " double " of Harold. His love 
 for his Italian wife and her death are very tragic items. A 
 curious idea is introduced ; it is this, that a man, Walter 
 Stanford Hurleham, " the eldest son of the noble house of 
 Carisbrooke," a former lover of Almyra's, enters her 
 husband's service as a valet, and it is on this man that a 
 
thrilling part of the narrative turns the elopement. The 
 likeness of the spy, de la Motte, is well painted, but this 
 character does not deserve much notice. He is useful in the 
 book, however, in several ways. Annie Marlande, though 
 plain, and a great contrast to her beautiful sister, is a very 
 charming girl, and wins our sympathy from the very first. 
 There is too much embracing of one man by another man, 
 too much kissing cor am populo, and too many tragic speeches 
 to be quite natural, but for all that the book is decidedly 
 above the average of modern fiction, and though the plot is 
 woven in variegated colours, they harmonise and produce no 
 flimsy, worthless article, through which one can see at a 
 glance, but the product is more than usually good, and 
 creates a desire to read to the end, which is very much more 
 than can truly be said of most novels of the present day. 
 
 " DAILY TELGRAPH," i8th August, 1885. 
 
 By far the most conspicuous literary merit of " Steyne- 
 ville ; or Fated Fortunes " by Helene E. A. Gingold, is the 
 briskness and vivacity of narrative and dialogue which 
 characterise every part of the three volumes. The story is 
 crowded perhaps it might be said overcrowded 
 with incident, and a very considerable number of 
 characters move across the scene, but intricacy of plot is 
 avoided and the interest never flags. Steyneville tells the 
 story of his own life " the memoirs of an unextraordinary 
 man," they are called carrying the reader back to the early 
 part of last century, and giving, more or less vividly, a 
 picture of society in those days. The most important 
 personage is Almyra Marlande, a beauty who, after wrecking 
 the happiness of several admirers, marries the Marquis de 
 Sansgene, whom she ultimately dishonours by an elopement. 
 In her career the heartlessness of frivolous beauty and gaiety 
 is powerfully depicted. Lord Alingdale, Colonel Death, 
 and Lord Stapleton are also well drawn characters. The 
 strong feature, however, of the novel, and that which will 
 probably make it a favourite, is its vigorous action, which 
 sustains the reader's interest and attention throughout, com- 
 bined with pointed epigrammatic dialogue. 
 
 "VANITY FAIR," yth November, 1885. 
 
 This story depends upon characterisation rather than plot. 
 Certain of the incidents are powerful ; others are natural and 
 pathetic ; but no especial purpose, no complicated story 
 
requiring much development runs through the pages. In 
 dealing with people, however, Miss Gingold shows capacity, 
 insight, and a nice discrimination ; the characters that she 
 desires we should love are often nobly drawn, while even 
 with the reckless, misguided, and unfortunate heroine we 
 cannot but feel the most keen spmpathy. " Steyneville " is 
 admitted to be only a first attempt. It contains much that 
 places it above the hackneyed productions of more practised 
 lady novelists ; and the next effort of the authoress, especially 
 if she departs into a fresh and original field, will be awaited 
 with interest and curiosity. 
 
 " MONEY MARKET REVIEW," August isth, 1885. 
 
 As financial journalists, we may be rightly considered to be 
 going far beyond the limits of our proper literary sphere in 
 taking public notice of the productions of the novelist ; but 
 in drawing attention to the volumes now before us, we have 
 the less hesitation in going outside our usual functions, 
 firstly, because they are the maiden efforts of a young 
 authoress, and, secondly, because they disclose in almost 
 every page a force of imagination, a subtle insight into 
 character, a culture and grace of style, and power of keeping 
 up a sustained interest in the persons and fortunes of her 
 actors.that warrant a belief that a new writer has come 
 forward who is destined to take a high position in the ranks 
 of the modern school of novelists. It is not our purpose to 
 retell Miss Gingold's story. The service thus rendered is at 
 best an ungrateful one to the author, as to the intending 
 reader, inasmuch as it deprives a perusal of its original 
 charm. The plot is compact in form, and unhampered by a 
 redundancy of subordinate incidents, all of which the 
 authoress keeps in a justly-balanced relation to the principal 
 motive. The characters are drawn with distinctness and pre- 
 cision, and their individualities are preserved from the 
 opening to the finish. Among them is one, Colonel Death, 
 whose fine courage and manly tenderness at once enlist 
 sympathy and make us wish to renew his acquaintance. The 
 heroine Almyra, by turns selfish and self-sacrificing, way- 
 ward and firm of purpose, is a clever study, the light and 
 shade of which are, from their depth, in striking contrast 
 with the gentle and even tones that make up the character of 
 her sister Annie. Nor has Miss Gingold failed to draw her 
 hero, Steyneville, in a way to make him throughout an 
 object of pleasant interest. Unity of action, a prime 
 
requisite in a good novel, is well maintained in " Steyne- 
 ville," a story which we have little hesitation in saying will 
 reward the perusal of all who find pleasure in a romance 
 that is free from vulgar, adventitious sensationalism, and is 
 told with an admirable grace and spirit. 
 
 " BRITISH AUSTRALASIAN," August 27, 1885. 
 
 We have in this novel a first effort by an authoress who 
 has evidently from the text imbibed continental rather than 
 English modes of reasoning, and also occasionally modes of 
 expression. Yet she has chosen a most difficult period for 
 the action of the story, which takes the form of a memoir by 
 a man who, living at the commencement of the last century, 
 rubbed up against Pope and Lady Mary Wortley Montague, and 
 other celebrities of that day. The hero, if we may call Lord 
 Alingdale the hero, is undoubtedly an Atheist ; the heroine is 
 altogether a lovely, unloveable creature, and they and the 
 narrator are surrounded by a large concourse of people fast 
 and slow, and the former are free to express themselves, and 
 the latter are allowed to be shocked at what the former say, 
 Taking the time in which the story is supposed to be written 
 into consideration, there are, we think, many expressions 
 used which were then hardly current, but it would give a very 
 false idea of the work if we stopped here. The various 
 characters stand out well upon the page ; the action is sus- 
 tained ; there is certainly interest attached to the story, and 
 the writer undoubtedly is at her best in the most difficult 
 situations. There are many portions of the book that rise 
 above the ordinary level ; and here are some paragraphs 
 which will serve to show how the writer can express her 
 views: " I tell thee young men and boys, profligates and 
 fools, seek the flowers they would wear in hothouses, where 
 false heat hath produced false fragrance and false beauty ; 
 wise men and old men, true men and hermits, seek their blos- 
 soms by the mountain side, where the natural air of Heaven 
 hath made real fragrance and real beauty." Or here again, 
 in describing a man utterly bewitched by the heroine, we 
 read : " This love, I think, is the most teasing while it 
 
 lasts, and the most short-lived and ephemeral to boot 
 
 The great art is not to win that's easy enough but to keep 
 what is won. Here the whole secret lies. One need not be 
 divinely beautiful or extraordinarily clever to do this, but one 
 must have tact diplomacy in a man, tact in a woman a 
 little hypocrisy, and a vast amount of Christian forbearance." 
 We should like to see a second and revised edition. 
 
'LADY," 12th November, 1885. 
 
 In a very graceful preface it is admitted that this is a first 
 attempt, but even had it not been so the book would on its 
 merits fairly command attention. The story flows naturally 
 enough, and it has its genuine dramatic episodes and climaxes. 
 As the plot, or rather memoir, advances, so the tone deepens 
 and gathers strength, and even if a certain sadness pervades 
 the chapters, it must be conceded that by adversity, the great 
 nobility of some characters and the lingerind truth and good- 
 ness of others, is finally and very naturally made manifest. 
 The authoress depicts perhaps a somewhat over-emotional 
 hero ; but Lord Halifax Allingford, the Colonel, and Almyra 
 are all powerfully drawn and impressive portraits. It is an 
 error perhaps rather than a fault, but the one awkward and 
 inartistic portion of the book is that which deals with the 
 extracts from this or that person's diary. The use of the first 
 person in telling a story offers certain temptations, but, as in 
 the present case, its presents insuperable obstacles when the 
 author is compelled to indicate definitely what is passing in 
 the mind of some person other than the narrator. Helene 
 Gingold's next effort will be awaited with considerable 
 curiosity. 
 
 " MORNING POST," igth August, 1885. 
 
 The author's clever little 4 ' Apologue," in which.under the veil 
 of an allegory she tries to foresee the fate that awaits her book, 
 would of itself dispose both reader and critic to indulgence. Her 
 tale is, however, good enough to stand on its own merits. 
 These " memoirs of an unextraordinary man " are full of 
 movement, the action never lags, and there is much variety 
 of incident. The period of the story is that of the last 
 century, naturally, therefore, Jacobinism plays a part, but riot 
 a prominent one in it. Many of the characters are graphic 
 portraits, and, despite a certain exaggeration of style, there is 
 much promise in the author's work. 
 
 " OBSERVER," January loth, 1886. 
 
 Alike in subject and in treatment, Miss Gingold's novel 
 departs with successful boldness from the beaten paths of 
 young ladies' romance. Its style is thoroughly fresh, if 
 occasionally somewhat incorrect ; much care has been taken 
 to suggest the tone of the period the reign of Queen Anne 
 in which the scene of the action is laid, and the character- 
 drawing, though fanciful, and sometimes exaggerated, has 
 plenty of spirit and individuality. 
 
 The hero of " Steyneville," described in its title page as an 
 
* ' unextraordinary man, ' ' is brought up as page-in-waiting to the 
 Lady Olympia Norton, a post which he obtains through the 
 patronage of Halifax Lord Alingdale, a notorious gallant of 
 the day. His story is told in the form of an autobiography, 
 interspersed here and there with quotations from the diaries 
 of other people, and especially from that kept by his pretty 
 cousin, Almyra Marlande. Almyra is a terrible flirt from her 
 childhood upwards, and she gives Harold Steyneville, who is 
 left her guardian, all sorts of trouble. In the first place her 
 beauty leads him to fall head over ears in love with her, he 
 in his turn being the object of her less attractive sister's 
 devotion- Almyra, on her side, never seriously regards her 
 worthy but somewhat priggish cousin as a lover, but goes 
 heart-whole on her way, trying to turn the head of every man 
 she comes across. One of her many admirers is that same 
 Lord Alingdale who gave Harold Steyneville his first start in 
 life, and a very undesirable match his lordship seems for any 
 self-respecting young woman. Lord Alingdale is introduced 
 to the reader in a passage intended, no doubt, to explain the 
 strong influence which he exerts over the character of the 
 writer. 
 
 " Amongst our visitors of note was a certain Lord Halifax 
 Alingdale handsome, opulent and young. Possessing these 
 advantages, one would have supposed an ordinary man to be 
 content with his lot ; but my lord was not. Impatient and 
 restless, he had already from early youth plunged into the 
 wildest excesses and debaucheries ; and now almost tired of 
 every pleasure that life and wealth could give, he cursed his 
 fate incessantly. My father, indeed, was the only person 
 whose counsel made any impression on him. He believed in 
 nothing, and sneered at everything and everybody himself 
 most of all. As he plays an important part in this history, I 
 will endeavour to describe his person. 
 
 " In stature, he was tall and lithe. His countenance was at 
 once striking and repelling ; being perfectly clean shaven, his 
 finely-chiselled" features were clear and handsome as a cameo's. 
 His eyes, of some dark, nameless hue, more elongated than 
 wide, and rather deeply sunk into his head, were surrounded 
 by long black eyebrows. His mouth was exceptionally small, 
 indeed, almost effeminate, but for the strange expression it 
 invariably wore. The corners were curved upwards into a 
 half-smile, inexpressibly bitter and dark. His fine chesnut- 
 coloured hair fell in natural curls over his shoulders ; although 
 Mr. Harley, or St. John, I forget which, had made ribands very 
 modish, my lord preferred, though in every other way fastid- 
 ious in his dress, to be old-fashioned in this one particular 
 style. Although always habited with neatness and excellent 
 
taste, rather than be considered a coxcomb or a fop,. I think 
 he would have sooner erred the other way. His tolerance 
 and utter indifference passed for good humour ; so that he 
 was extremely popular with almost all. His conversation 
 was mostly clever, though often caustic and bitter. His sar- 
 casm, indeed, could be so barbed and pointed that his 
 enemies and he had many scarcely cared to come within 
 the range of his poisoned shafts." 
 
 When a man's eyes are of a " dark, nameless hue," he is 
 generally one of the heroes of a lady novelist, and in other 
 respects Lord Alingdale is typical of his tribe. Years of 
 vicious excess fail to cause any serious degeneration of his 
 nature if one is to judge by his recorded acts, and not by his 
 conversation. A blatant atheist, a selfish voluptuary, and a 
 man given over to reckless excess of every kind, Lord 
 Alingdale is yet represented as behaving at every crisis of the 
 story like a gallant gentleman, not only without fear, but 
 without reproach. He is just the kind of extraordinary 
 character that we should expect to fascinate a girl like 
 Almyra Marlande, especially if she had drunk deep of 
 the romance of her day ; and, indeed, he is so delightfully 
 wicked that if Mistress Marlande' s pride had allowed it she 
 would readily become his wife. But she takes it into her 
 pretty head that she is being wooed out of pity, and that his 
 lordship is not quite in earnest in his protestations ; so in 
 spite of the doubtful advice of her relations and friends she 
 declines to become Lady Alingdale, and becomes the Marquise 
 de Sansgene instead. From this elderly husband she runs 
 away with " the eldest son of the house of Carisbrooke," who 
 in order to be near her has entered her service as a footman. 
 In her flight she is pursued by not only her faithful kinsman, 
 Steyneville, but by her rejected suitor, Alingdale, and by his 
 honest ally, Colonel Death. How and where she is found, 
 the manner of her repentance, and the eftect of her death in 
 effecting Alingdale' s reformation these things are romanti- 
 cally told and supply the main plot of the novel. 
 
 ; HERTS GUARDIAN," 8th September, 1885. 
 
 The authoress of this novel is a new aspirant to literary 
 fame, which she bids fair to attain. The period of action is 
 laid during the early part of the last century. The language 
 is for the most part appropriate to the period we say 
 advisedly for the most part, as here and there the characters 
 use expressions quite unknown during the Georgian era. To 
 give even an outline of the somewhat intricate plot would be 
 
a difficult task indeed it would be unfair to the reader to in- 
 dicate how the final denouement is brought about. Suffice it 
 to say that the tangled skein is unwound with singular skill. 
 There is an individuality in the characters which is rarely 
 met with in modern novels. The role of the hero, Harold 
 Steyneville, is really subservient to that of Almyra, a 
 haughty, heartless, self-willed beauty ; this character is 
 powerfully drawn ; although she is by no means all bad, 
 she fails to obtain the sympathy of the reader, though 
 interest in her fortunes is unflaggingly maintained. Annie, 
 Almyra' s sister, is an excellent foil to the impetuous heroine. 
 Each and every of the other personages is delineated with 
 breadth and vigour by a masterly hand. In Steyneville, Miss 
 Gingold not only affords evidence of originality of ideas and 
 keen perception of character, but also of her ability of 
 describing her thoughts in clear and forcible language. 
 
 WHITEHALL REVIEW, August 6th, 1886, 
 
 The story runs very evenly, and the author's style is a 
 particularly good one. 
 
 "JEWISH WORLD," September 25th, 1885. 
 
 The evidence of skill, power, and imagination, promises 
 ultimately to secure for the writer a first rank amongst the 
 sisterhood of novelists. 
 
A CYCLE OF VERSE," 
 
 BY HELENE E. A. GINGOLD. 
 
 "NEW YORK HERALD," April 8, 1889. 
 
 This is a neat, carefully-printed volume of poetry, evi- 
 dently from the pen of a young woman of accomplishments 
 and feeling. In a preface we are informed that many of 
 the poems were written in youth, some before the 
 age of fifteen. In this respect Miss Gingold recalls Lord 
 Byron ; and in another respect likewise, as she dedicates her 
 volume to his memory, as indicative of her " deepest admira- 
 tion and humblest respect." We might expect from this 
 inspiration a Byronic influence, as most young writers are 
 apt to follow his lordship in communing with despair and 
 dark imaginings. Miss Gingold does not permit admiration 
 to become imitation. Her poetic style shows no trace of the 
 Giaours or the Laras ; but, on the contrary, is clear, direct, 
 and true altogether her own. Here, for instance, where a 
 simple thought is told, as in a sonnet, with the simplicity^of 
 Wordsworth : 
 
 There are two books I love to read, 
 
 So fair are they, so deep indeed, 
 
 And strangely true, that when I dare 
 
 View from 'neath their covers fair 
 
 What to me is plain by writ, 
 
 I feel unworthy, little fit, 
 
 To be the one to recognise 
 
 The mystic lore that in them lies 
 
 I of all ! For never a sage 
 
 Of these dear works could solve a page, 
 
 Or guess their aim, or ever tell, 
 
 As I one-hundredth part as well 
 
 The boundless love and trust that lies 
 
 In those two books my dearest's eyes. 
 
 Miss Gingold's distinguishing trait is sincerity. The 
 tendency of most modern verse, especially under the influ- 
 ence of Mr. Swinburne, has been to submerge sense and 
 sentiment in a confusion of sounds. And as no one since 
 Shelley has been so completely the master of rhythm as Swin- 
 burne, the reader is constantly troubled to know what he 
 means. To euphony Miss Gingold apparently gives negative or 
 relative consideration. It is not the form of saying it, but what 
 
she has to say. Carlyle was wont to regard this as an objection 
 to poetry in general, holding that if anybody had a message 
 for the world he should say it and not sing it. 
 
 This, however, is only partly true, like much of Mr. 
 Carlyle's philosophy. The spirit of poetry will be found in 
 euphony and form. And if Miss Gingold continues in her 
 poetic career with the promise which these admirable verses 
 show, she will learn that the masters were those who study 
 the melody of the tongue. There are lines in Virgil which, 
 as mere sounds, have a meaning to those who do not know 
 Latin. Lord Tennyson, like Mr. Browning, has put aside 
 form whenever it took his fancy, and said the rudest things 
 in the crudest way ; but no writer has ever so refined again 
 and again until his verses ring and sing. A startling thought 
 from Mr. Browning will fall upon the reader like an aerolite, 
 with no regard to prosody or even grammar, and in its 
 deep meaning we forget its lawlessness. But the same 
 thought could have come from Shakespeare like the music 
 of the spheres or the infinite harmonies of the forest and the 
 sea. 
 
 Miss Gingold will find, if she pursues her work in this 
 spirit, that there are mysteries in this noble English tongue 
 which will well repay the labour of those who search. It must be 
 labour however, of those who seek for the diamond and quartz, 
 working through clay and sand to the perfect beauty within. 
 The blending of the feeling, sentiment, high thoughts, and 
 womanly aspirations which pervade her writings, with the 
 harmony of sound which belongs to true poetry, should give 
 us a work in time which will hold no mean place in the 
 literature of England. 
 
 Miss Gingold acknowledges in some weighty lines her 
 indebtedness to Congreve, and, indeed, her principal poem, 
 41 Belcanto," is spoken of as an imperfect tribute to Con- 
 greve's memory. Here are four lines called " An Answer," 
 which Congreve might have written : 
 
 Oh, call me what thou wilt, dear fair, 
 
 I all to thee resign ; 
 God or fiend I do not care, 
 
 So but you call me thine ! 
 
 Here are other lines which might have been written in the 
 seventeenth century : 
 
 TEMPORI PARENDUM. 
 
 Oh, I have read of golden days, 
 In times that speak in mortals' praise, 
 That truth once in the land did dwell, 
 And ladies loved both long and well ; 
 
And knights were led ah, blessed clime 
 
 Had I existed in that time 
 
 I would have lived to love, I vow, 
 
 And not have loved to live like now ! 
 
 Oh, I have read of later age 
 
 In history's unromantic page 
 
 That ladies' love endures not long, 
 
 The truth is weak, and scorn is strong. 
 
 So for constant love and for courtly ways, 
 
 Give me the life in those olden days. 
 
 In some respects the " Ballade of Belle," an imitation of a 
 poem in the Percy collection, is the best in the volume. The 
 spirit of the old ballad is maintained, and the stories told 
 with the quaintness of Chaucer. 
 
 How far Miss Gingold will confine her manifest gifts to 
 poetry it would be rash to assume in so young a writer. 
 Poetry is generally the overture to serious work in literature, 
 as was seen in the writings of Scott, Swift, and Addison. 
 Whether she continues to invoke the Muses or seeks the 
 humble and more expansive method of prose for whatever 
 message she may have for the world, we may safely con- 
 gratulate her from the promise contained in this volume 
 upon a notable and useful career. 
 
 " THE DAILY TELEGRAPH," 27th June, 1889. 
 
 Apparently a keen appreciation of Lord Byron's poems and 
 a lively fancy are responsible for Miss Helene E. A Gingold' s 
 modest volume, "A Cycle of Verse " (Remington). Here is a 
 young poetess who felt herself touched by the divine fire at a 
 very early age, and we must believe, without seeking the 
 advice or guidance of some experienced friends, plunged at 
 once into the dangerous intoxication of poetry. At fifteen she 
 was grappling with subjects which a poet of four times the 
 experience would have approached with hesitation, and at 
 twenty she seems to have been sighing, like Alexander, for 
 more poetic worlds to conquer. Miss Gingold, if we may 
 judge by her portrait at the commencement of the booklet, is 
 still young, and what is also hopeful is that her verses appear 
 to improve in the order of their chronological sequence. It 
 would have been better if she had not put her earliest efforts 
 so prominently forward, but in many of the lines which come 
 after these there is much poetic feeling, and an easily recog- 
 nisable appreciation the safest ground-work for a young 
 ambition of some of our master bards. 
 
"QUEEN," ist JUNE, 1889. 
 
 To this volume is prefixed a portrait of the author, from 
 which we infer that she is still young and fair, but she tells 
 us in her preface that some of these pieces were written 
 before she was fifteen. It is apparent that her genius was 
 precocious, and that while pursuing her early studies she 
 exercised herself in writing verse, This collection is more 
 gay and lively than grave and solemn, and many of the pieces 
 are slight and fanciful. At the same time we find interpersed 
 among the rest some which are well considered and thought- 
 ful as a whole, they will afford pleasant reading to those who 
 like new poetry. Moreover, the volume is quite nicely 
 got up. 
 
 " SUNDAY TIMES," MAY 1889. 
 
 This very interesting little volume, which is embellished 
 with a portrait of the fair author peeping through a lyre, is a 
 kind of literary survival. 
 
 ' SHEFFIELD TELEGRAPH," 22nd August, 1889. 
 
 " A CYCLE or VERSE," by Helene E. A. Gingold, has 
 reached a second edition within a very short time of its 
 publication, a great success to be obtain c 1. by what is practi- 
 cally the author's debut in verse. ^Vllen the authoress 
 informs us that many of the verses were written before the 
 age of 15, we are prepared to make every allowance, " on the 
 tender ground of extreme youth," yet a perusal of the verses 
 shows that they need no such excuse. 
 
 "CORK EXAMINER," I4th June, 1889. 
 
 If we were to be asked what was the special feature in this 
 volume which is calculated to arrest attention and cause it to 
 be singled out from rivals, we should be inclined to say its 
 unconventionality. The writer is evidently young, and if we 
 may judge from the portrait prefixed, is also fair ; and it 
 would seem to us as if in her poetry she took, not only the 
 poet's license, but the license which is accorded everywhere 
 to a pretty woman. She pours out her thoughts and feelings 
 with a spontaneity which makes itself felt, and which exer- 
 cises a charm of its own upon the reader. Her moods are 
 varied, grave and gay, lively, and often very severe. Some 
 of her poems have touches of that airy, delicate satire we 
 associate with Praed ; now and then we come upon one of 
 
those surprising turns which remind us of Heine. The 
 poem " Belcanto " is a striking picture of the sentimental 
 egotist, the singer who enchains the female heart while his 
 own remains dull to any consideration but that of what 
 " pays ; " and it is in the very best manner of society verses. 
 A pathetic German story is very movingly told, and in 
 musical accents, in " The Wanderer's Farewell." Its apos- 
 trophes to the Rhine are very effective even in ears which 
 have been familiar with the thousand strains in which the 
 majestic flood has been sung. There is passion mingled 
 with that painful humour of the German poet in the follow- 
 ing, addressed to " Madelon of Smyrna : " 
 
 Whene'er thou wear'st thy mirthful mien, 
 
 I say thou art bright laughter's queen ; . 
 When from thy lids the teardrops flow, 
 
 I say that thine 1 s the height of woe ; 
 When anger flashes from thine eyes, 
 
 'Tis fierce as lightning in the skies ; 
 And when thou tun'st thy lute to sing, 
 
 Methinks I hear the lark on wing. 
 But when thou say'st in accents low, 
 
 " My heart's sole light I love thee so," 
 That phrase so short, those words so brief, 
 
 Make me weep in bitter grief. 
 
 It is but turning a page and we find the writer thus capable 
 of being melted rising into the fiercest scorn and denouncing 
 cynicism with all the eloquent intolerance of youth and 
 enthusiasm. Throughout the volume this characteristic of 
 variety runs, and the reader is carried, a willing captive, 
 through pretty love songs, melodious narrative, stinging 
 epigram, and pleasant satire. The little book is full of 
 interest, and can scarcely fail to reach a wide popularity. 
 
 " FOLKESTONE OBSERVER," 27th July, 1889. 
 
 A dainty little volume, happily named " A Cycle of Verse." 
 The authoress is young, and, what is of more importance, 
 talented. The verses are bright, cleverly written, and redo- 
 lent of true rhythm. Miss Gingold appears to have taken 
 Spencer and Chaucer as models of style and metre, and has 
 boldly, and, we may add, successfully worked on original 
 lines of her own. Particularly good are the "Lines to my 
 Nephew " and " To Idylline." The " Cycle " has passed into 
 a third edition, and this fact speaks for itself. We under- 
 stand that Miss Gingold has in hand a sensational novel, 
 which will shortly be published. 
 
" FOLKESTONE JOURNAL," 3ist July, 1889. 
 
 " A CYCLE OF VERSE," demands special notice on several 
 grounds. The poetry is by Miss Helene Gingold, a young 
 lady whose portrait, fittingly framed in a lyre, forms the 
 frontispiece. From this portrait it is evident that Nature has 
 been kind to the young authoress both with respect to mental 
 and physical gifts. 
 
 " THE JEWISH WORLD," 2 6th April, 1889. 
 
 " A CYCLE OF VERSE." This is the title of a dainty little 
 volume of poems which has just been published by Messrs. 
 Remington & Co., and of which Miss Helene Gingold is the 
 author. Miss Gingold is already favourably known by her 
 novels ; and her reputation can only be enhanced by these 
 musical efforts in verse, although many of them were written 
 before the age of fiteen. The range of subjects and style is 
 exceedingly wide for so youthful a writer. "The Hebrew 
 Maiden's Lament " is a passionate embodiment of the genius 
 of Jewish History, while in the " Ballade of Belle " the 
 quaint spirit of the old Percy ballads is caught with hardly 
 less truth. Miss Gin gold's poetical genius seems, however, 
 to have been principally nourished by Congreve and the 
 writers of his time. Her opening poem, " Belcanto," is 
 intended as a tribute to this dominating influence, traces of 
 which may be detected throughout her volume. Miss Gin- 
 gold shows undeniable poetic gifts, which it is to be hoped 
 she will assiduously cultivate. A caieer of no small dis- 
 tinction is open to her if she fulfils the promise of her first 
 11 Cycle of Verse." 
 
 " LADY," I2th November, 18: 
 
 "A CYCLE OF VERSE, by Helene E. A. Gingold. In the 
 preface to her prettily got up work, the writer says that she 
 wrote many of the poems therein contained at a very early 
 age, " at a time when the heart is unsubdued by the weight 
 of years, responsibility, and sorrowful experience." We 
 detect youth in many of the lines, which lack the cunning of 
 construction, which age and experience brings. But none the 
 ess welcome do we find them. 
 
"LA ILLUSTRACION ESPANOLA Y AMERICANA," 8th 
 February, 1890. 
 
 Pocos meses hace llego a nuestras manos un elegante libro, 
 asi titulado : "A Cycle of Verse," by Helene E. A. Gingold, 
 Author of ' Steyneville,' ' Denyse,' " etc. : era una coleccion de 
 poesias inglesas, dedicada "a la memoria de lord Byron, 
 aquel luminar de la literatura britanica," y leyendo el indice, 
 observamos que algunas composiciones tenian por titulo un 
 nombre espanol, como Angclay Bcnita; pertenecia a la segunda 
 edicion (porque la primera fue agotada en breves dias), y 
 figuraban al final de la obra, segun practica editorial en el 
 extranjero, los diversos juicios criticos del libro publicados 
 por numerosos periodicos de Inglaterra, Francia, Italia, 
 Grecia y por nuestro distinguido colega La Epoca, de 
 Madrid. 
 
 Uno de esos juicios es debido al afamado critico sir Edwin 
 Arnold, en The Daily Telegraph, y termina deestemodo : " Pa- 
 rece que miss Helene Gingcld aspira a los veinte anos, 
 cual otro Alejandro, a conquistar nuevos mundos para la 
 poesia." 
 
 Miss Elena Gingold, cuyo retrato publicamos en la pag. 84, 
 nacio en Londres el 17 de Marzo de 1867, y tiene, por consi- 
 guiente, la edad de veintitres anos, aun no cumplidos ; sus 
 padres, ricos negociantes de la City, la dieron esmerada 
 educacion, en consonancia con sus aptitudes, pudiendo sin 
 ascrupulos dedicarla, a los doce anos, al estudio de los autores 
 clasicos de Inglaterra, Grecia y Francia; a los diezsiete anos, 
 miss Elena publico sn primera novela, intitulada Steyneville, 
 y la critica, al ocuparse en ella, teniendo en cuenta la 
 temprana edad de la autora, y tolerando ciertas audacias pro- 
 sodicas que censuraron los puristas, incluyo el nombre' de 
 miss Gingold en la lista de los buenos novelistas ingleses, 
 llegando a decir un periodico (quenobrillapor suindulgencia), 
 al dar cuenta de la aparicion de Steyneville : " Es 
 simplemento maravilloso que una nina haya escrito novela 
 tan notable." 
 
 A esta obra siguio Denyse, novela mas pensada y mejor 
 conducida que la primera, pero no menos moral ni mas in- 
 genua, y al exito extraordinario que obtuvo debio su joven 
 autora que editores importantes de ambos continentes solici- 
 taran su colaboracion en revistas de arte, ciencias y literatura; 
 y los trabajos de esta naturaleza que miss Gingold ha dado 
 la estampa durante dos anos son muestra evidente 
 a mas de su inspiracion y su talento, de su pasmosa 
 laboriosidad. 
 
 Cuando el publico y los editores esperaban una tercera 
 
novela que consolidase el titulo de distinguida novelista que 
 tan facilmente habia conquistado, miss Gingold sorprendio d 
 unos y otros revelandose poetisa de gran vuelo con la pnbli- 
 cacion de su libro A Cycle of Verse, obra muy severamente 
 analizada por la critica, y en 1 a cual su autora sigue las 
 huellas de lord Byron ; las dos primeras ediciones fueron 
 agotadas en pocos meses y la tercera, recientemente publi- 
 cada, esta ya en vias de tener igual afortunada suerte que las 
 anteriores. 
 
 Si el tiempo no malogra la esperanza que han hecho con- 
 cebir las criticas severas y las entusiastas alabanzas dedica- 
 das a las obras de miss Gingold, la dormida poesia inglesa 
 debera su resurrection al purisimo aliento de una nina, 
 dotada por Dios de los bellos encantos de la mujer y de la 
 audaz conception de un inspiradisimo vate. 
 
 " EVENING NEWS," April 5th, 1889. 
 
 Miss Helene Gingold, who is known to the public as the 
 author of " Steyneville " and " Denyse," now appears as a 
 poetess with her lyre on the frontispiece of "A Cycle of 
 Verse," which shows marvellous versatility of style. " To 
 Idylline " is tenderly gay. " The Greatest Books " is deeply 
 passionate. " Thoughts to a Patriot Friend " are philo- 
 sophic beyond the seeming of the fair girlish face in the 
 portrait. On the other hand, "O Lady, ask not," is pathos 
 itself. In a different vein could anything be better than Miss 
 Gingold's description of cramming for an examination in 
 " The Land of Learning ?" 
 
 Hamm'ring as the hours sped 
 (They never slept, but read and read) 
 In their minds, like countless tin-tacks, 
 Dates of wars, and rules of syntax. 
 
 The author ranges over the whole gamut of the emotions, 
 besides touching on many a topic of light laughter, which 
 throws into the better relief the artistic despondency of the 
 little poem called " When," which would most musically 
 wed itself to some tender theme for piano or guitar. 
 
 " BIRMINGHAM DAILY GAZETTE," April 22nd, 1889. 
 
 Her songs are really songs that suggest their own music, 
 and there is an undercurrent of real passionate feeling in 
 iuch pieces as " When," " To a Withered Flower," &c. In 
 the narrative poems the author displays the requisite talent 
 of being simple and concise. The best of the pieces of this 
 class is probably her rendering in verse of the " Legend of 
 Die Frauenkirche, Munich." 
 
' LIFE," April i8th, 18 
 
 Young and beautiful, endowed with a poetic spirit and 
 appreciation, Miss Helene Gingold appeals to the public for 
 gentle judgment on her verse, much of which was written at 
 a very early age. 
 
 Earnestness of thought and feeling are distinctly present 
 in Miss Gingold's poems, and in the present volume there is 
 so much promise that there is every reason to believe that in 
 future we shall hear more of the author of " A Cycle of 
 Verse." 
 
 " FOLKESTONE NEWS," 27th July, 1889. 
 
 We have just received from Messrs. Remington & Co., a book 
 of poems, entitled " A Cycle of Verse," by Helene A. Gingold. 
 This lady is already known as the author of " Steyneville " 
 and " Denyse," and this her latest venture will, we feel sure, 
 serve to considerably increase her reputation. The portrait 
 of Miss Gingold on the frontispiece would of itself give one 
 the idea that she was a person endowed with rare poetic feel- 
 ing, and a perusal of the volume (very beautifully got up, by 
 the way) would afford abundant evidence that she is gifted 
 with great powers of expression. When we say that some of 
 the poems were written at a very early age it will account for 
 one or two slight blemishes ; but further research shows that 
 as she has advanced in age her poetical powers have become 
 more fully developed. We would draw particular attention 
 to " Ages Ago," " Thoughts to a Patriot Friend," and " The 
 Greatest Books." Some of the songs, too, are very pretty, and 
 set to music would, we doubt not, in a short time be in great 
 favour with vocalists. " A Cycle of Verse " will be sure to 
 meet with a good deal of appreciation from a large circle of 
 readers. The volume has already reached a second edition, 
 and the third will shortly be issued. 
 
 "THE SEASON," August, 1889. 
 
 There has lately been published by Remington and Co., 
 under the title of " A Cycle of Verse," a graceful little collec- 
 tion of poems by Helene Gingold, already known as the 
 author of " Steyneville " snd "Denyse." Owing to a diver- 
 sity in their period of production (some having been written 
 before the age of fifteen), the poems difter widely in merit, 
 but many amongst them show marked poetic talent, suffi- 
 ciently strong to encourage future efforts. Conspicuously 
 charming amongst the varied selection are " The Land of 
 Learning," "To a Withered Flower," and the quaint 
 original lines, headed " The Greatest Books." 
 
1 IL POPOLO ROMAN," 23rd September, 1890. 
 
 E' un elegantissimo volume di poesie inglesi, assai pregevoli. 
 L' autrice, imita qua e la felice mente la causticita 
 byroniana, ed il suo verso e armonioso e lo stile chiaro e piano. 
 La Signora Gingold, che non e alia sua prima prova, essendo 
 favorevolmente conosciuta per altri lavori letterari, ha qualita 
 rare di poetessa e 1' accoglienza fatta dal pubblico a quest! 
 suoi versi, che sono gia arrivati alia terza edizione, la 
 dimostra. 
 
 " LA PERSEVERANZA di GIOVEDI MILANO," 
 ist August, 1889. 
 
 Questo elegante volumetto dove sur tranche contiene una 
 raccolta di poesi che non mancano di pregi. L 1 autrice s' e 
 nutrita di Byron e talvolta ne imita felicemente il tono caustico 
 e satirico. Non v' e grande pretesa d'invenzione, ma il verso e 
 armonioso, lo stile chiaro e piano ; vi si vorrebbe pero trovare 
 piu di quella qualita che gli inglesi chiamano raciness, ossia 
 robustezza e sapore piccante. Nella prefazione la Signora 
 Gingold (che non e nuova alia letterautra, avendo gia 
 pubblicato altri lavori d'imaginazione) chiede venia della sua 
 audacia nell' esporsi al pubblico come poetessa. Le si puo 
 rispondere con 1' Alceste di Moliere : 
 
 Quel besoin si pressant avez-vous de rimer ? 
 
 Et qui diantre vous pousse a vous fair imprimer ? 
 
 Veramente la Signora Gingold puo aspettarsi dal pubblico 
 un giudizio piu favorevole di quello proferito dal misantropo 
 di Moliere, poiche, ripetiamo, i suoi versi hanno pregi reali 
 non comuni. 
 
 "LA EPOCA," loth August, 1889. 
 
 Asi modestamente se intitula un tomo de poestas publicado 
 por los editores Remington Remington and Ca., de 
 Londres. 
 
 Su autor, mis Helena E. A. Gingold, muy conocida en la 
 republica de las letras por sus novelas Steyneville, Denyse y 
 otras de un valor literario indiscutible, dice en el prologo que 
 muchas de las composiciones poeticas que da al publico las 
 compuso cuando apenas contaba quince anos. Leidas estas, 
 si no se tratara de miss Gingold, cuya ingenua sinceridaa 
 supera tan solo su hermosura, podria el lector muy bien 
 dispensarse de creer que una niiia de quince anos, sid 
 experiencia del mundo, sin pesadumbres, sin pasiones, puenp 
 haber escrito poesias de tan levantado vuelo. 
 
 A Byron dedica miss Gingold sus versos, y a f e que si no 
 
imita al gran poeta, le sigue bien de cerca y le alcanza algunas 
 veces. 
 
 La primera composicion que presenta el libro, titulada 
 Belcanto, basta ella sola para re velar un poeta de primera 
 fuerza. Ternura, vigor, atrevidas concepciones ante las 
 cuales un hombre vacilara, imagenes verdaderamente 
 esculturales, profundos conceptos fiilosoficos, sentimiento, 
 idealismo, nobles vias, amor de todo lo bello y grande que el 
 poeta suena en sus dulces horas de apacible inspiration, 
 encierra en sus paginas el libro A Cycle of Verse. 
 
 Fortuna y grande ha sido para la decadente poesia inglesa 
 que miss Helena E. A. Gingold se haya decidido a dar a la 
 publicidad con sus conposiciones de nina sus concepciones 
 de mujer. El favor, inusitado en esta clase de obras, que el 
 publico ha despensado al libro que nos ocupa servira quizas 
 de fecundo estimulo para que otros desconocidos u olvidados 
 poetas, que han trocado el arpa por la arida pluma del 
 periodistao por el escudrinadorescalpelodelanovela, vuelvan 
 de nuevo al palenque a probar fortuna Miss Gingold les ha 
 dado el grito dealer ta : dudamos que la alcancen, pero en 
 seguir sus huellas habra gloria bastante para no desesperar 
 de que vuelva a ser la poesia la inseparable companera del 
 home en Inglaterra. 
 
 " LA EPOCA," 20th February, 1890 
 
 El ultimo mimero de La Illustration Espanola y Americana 
 ofrece un testimonio mas de que tan importante publicaci6n 
 es una verdadera y completisima cronica illustrada, 6 
 ilustrada por varios conceptos, de la vida espanola y de la de 
 Madrid principalmente. 
 
 En el texto figuran notables trabajos que llevan las firmas 
 de los Sres. Fernandez Bremen, Conde de Coello, Fontaura y 
 Monreal, y entre los grabados los retratos del nuevo M inistro 
 de Fomento, Sr. Duque de Veragua, del illustre 6 inolvidable 
 Conde de Toreno, y del veterano actor Mariano Fernandez ; 
 las reproducciones de un Undo cuadro de Diaz Carreno, " El 
 primer desengano," y de un precioso dibujo de Alcazar, " Al 
 baile," y ostros representando el interior del nuevo local del 
 Circulo de Bellas Aries ; el ultimo responso ante el cadaver del 
 Conde de Toreno, y los pabellones construidos en el Observa- 
 torio de San Fernando para las operaciones astro f otograficas, 
 en virtud de las cuales se proponen hoy los hombres de ciencia 
 levantar el piano del cielo. 
 
 Por circunstancias especiales descuellan en el mismo 
 mimero la continuation de la obra En Marruecos, recuerdos de 
 viaje, una de las producciones mas hermosas de Pierre Lotj 
 (LuisMaria Julian Viauj, elcelebre autor de Pecheurde Islande 
 
y el retrato de una joven poetisa inglesa, miss Elena E. A. 
 Gingold, que es muy notable como artista y bellisima como 
 mujer. 
 
 Miss Gingold, hija de unos ricos negociantes de la City, en 
 Londres, que apenas cuenta veinte anos, es autora de dos 
 novelas, Steyneville y Denysse, y de un tomo de poesias, A Cycle 
 of Verse, que le ban conquistado en su paisgrandeyverdadera 
 celebridad. 
 
 " LE COURIER DE LONDRES ET DE L'EUROPE," 
 2ist April, 1889. 
 
 LES LIVRES EN ANGLETERRE. 
 
 La librairie Remington & Co. vient de publier un recueil 
 de poesies auquel on peut predire des aujourd'hui le plus 
 legitime succes. Le livre est d'une debutante, il est vrai, car 
 Miss Helene Gingold, son auteur, oftre aujourd'hui au 
 public ses premieres poesies, dont plusieurs dit la preface 
 furent composees alors qu'elle n'avait point encore 15 ans. 
 
 Miss Gingold rappelle par plus d'un cote Lord Byron, a 
 la memoire de qui elle dedie son O3uvre. Pourtant, si elle 
 I'admire, elle ne 1'imite pas servilement. Sa langue est 
 claire, simple et frappee au coin du naturel et de la 
 sincerite. 
 
 Miss Gingold, en effet, ne tombe point comme Shelley et 
 Swinburne dans la recherche exageree du rhytme et ne 
 s'attache pas seulement a faire des vers harmonieux ou 
 cadences. Elle se souvient du reproche que Carlyle faisait 
 a la poesie et de ce mot du philosophe : "Si vous avez quel- 
 que chose a dire, dites-le, mais ne le chantez pas." 
 
 Bien que cette opinion ne soit exacte qu'a moitie, it faut 
 savoir gre a Miss Gingold d'avoir exprime de tres belles 
 idees en beaux vers et d'avoir joint ici, selon un dicton 
 populaire, 1'utile a 1'agr cable. 
 
 Qu'elle cherche encore, qu'elle poursuive son oeuvre, et 
 elle trouvera que la langue qu'ella manie si bien possede des 
 tresors ignores, dont la decouverte la recompensera de ses 
 peines. Elle arrivera ainsi a reunir les " vastes pensees," la 
 delicatesse de sentiment, les aspirations elevees qui rem- 
 plissent son osuvre a 1'harmonie de la forme, et creera ainsi 
 une ceuvre qui occupera bientot une place importante dans la 
 literature anglaise. 
 
 Nous voudrions citer tout au long quelques-uns de ces jolis 
 poemes quelques-uns de ces vers charmantsquel'on rencontre 
 a chaque page du livre. La place nous manque malheu- 
 
reusment, et nous devons nous borner a signaler au lecture 
 le poeme principal, " Belcanto," que Congreve n'aurait pas 
 desavoue; la ballade de la " Belle," naive et simple comme 
 un chant de Chaucer. 
 
 Miss Helene Gingold a passe plusieurs annees a Paris ; 
 elle y compte de nombreux amis dans les lettres et les arts, 
 
 et nous sommes heureux de pouvoir lui apporter a elle qui 
 sait si bien apprecier notre litterature notre modeste part 
 d'eloges et de felicitations. 
 
 " LE TELEPHONE," ist July, 1889. 
 
 C'est du Nord aujourd'hui que nous vient la lumiere. 
 
 Autrement dit, nous recevons d'Angleterre un recueil de 
 poesies, public par la librairie Remington et Cie a Londres, 
 qui nous parait appele au plus grand succes, s'il procure au 
 public la dixieme partie du plaisir que nous avons eprouve a 
 sa lecture. 
 
 L'auteur, Mile. Helene Gingold, est une debutante, 
 croyons-nous, et plusieurs de ses poesies ont ete composees, 
 nou dit la preface, alors qu'elle avait a peine quinze ans. 
 On ne s'en douterait nullement : ces poesies ont en effet toute 
 la fraicheur et la naivete de la jeunesse, mais ne trahissent 
 pas 1'inexperience du debut ; la langue en est claire, simple, et 
 surtout pleine de naturel et de simplicite. 
 
 Nous voudrions citer tout au long quelques-uns de ces jolis 
 poemes, de ces vers charmants que Ton rencontre a chaque 
 page, et qui ne permettent de deposer livre qu'apres 1'avoir 
 achieve. Mais nous devons nous borner a signaler au passage 
 a nos lecteurs quelques poesies : Idyline, d'une douce et 
 tendre gaite, Oh I ne demandes pas, La Complainte, La Vie et la 
 mort, Lamentation, Homo homini lupus, Une reponse, Belcanto, et 
 la ballade de la Belle, naive et simple comme un chant de 
 Chaucer. 
 
 Mile. Helene Gingold a passe plusieurs annees a Paris, ou 
 elle a laisse de nombreux amis dans les arts et dans les lettres ; 
 son livre rencontrera, non seulement aupres d'eux, mais 
 aupres du public, le plus sympathique accueil, le plus 
 legitime succes. 
 
Eni9Ef2PHSIS. 
 
 A Cycle of Verse. By Helene A. Gingold. (London 
 Eemington and Co.) 
 
 'E/c AovStVou l(TTd\rj(Tav rjyiiv v Xa/r?rpa 
 KOL vij/LTrcTf) iroifjjjiaTa. T}S /cvpt'as Helene Gingold VTTO TOV 
 TtrXov. 'Avayvoi/rcs avra KaTeyorjrevOrjfjiev' lav Sc 
 IK T^S i/ dp^T? ct/coVos T^S TTOtT/Tpttts, 6 ayyAiKOS 
 s a.7TKTrj(T \LIQV irtpiirXtov wpat'av 'A/>ta8pvaSa cv rats 
 /cat dt^aAO"tv avrou Xdp^/xat?. 'fis 97 dp^at'a ^/AWV 
 OVT<I) /cat ^ dyyXtKi} 8cv orcpctrat TOJV ^air^v nqs. 
 wpata Ttyyri, rjv /XCTOL ^dptTO? (e^tStaa/xevov TOVTO 
 7rpOTp7//xa TOT; wpatov c/>vXoi>) KaXXtcpyouo-i yuvatKes cTvat 17 
 ts TT)V /xovo't/c^i/. cts ^v TrXctcrTat yedVtSes 
 ovScv a^tov Xdyov Traprjyayov iv avy/cptcrct Trpos 
 TO TpaxyTtpov c/>9Xov. 
 
 'Ei/ rots TTot^/xacrt r^s Kvptas Gingold Travra^oi) Stac/jatvcrat 
 Katrot TO ctSos -njs Trot^crcws 8v cti/at 
 
 IloXXa^ov Sia/3XTTOjJiV rrjv Bvpcovctov o^oX^v, 
 a.va.p.Lp.vrio'KOfjif.Oa TWI/ fjfLercptov IVto/Ai/coiv Trot^Toiv* /catrot TO 
 Old Poet /cat Frauenkirche torws 6a r](rav Trepuro-oTtpov at home 
 VTTO yeppaviKov yXwcro-t/coi/ eV8v/xa. 
 
 Ba6*tat ^>tXoo~o^>tKat Traparr/prjcrets a)S Tt/jta 
 otovet yKaTeo~7rap/xi/ot CTTI Sta^puo'ou SaTreSov. *H aT 
 To a C3 r nic Trcptc^ct /3a6vTa,T7)V c/>tXoo"oc/>t/c^i/ dX^etav. TOVTO 
 8e rocrovTO) /xaXXov /xa? eKTrX^TTet, KaOocrov o c/>iXo(roc/>iKos OVTOS 
 OI;T pvTt'Sas e^et ovT /jiapacr/xaTcoSets Trap eta?, dXXa 
 
 Ta TO Soc/>d/cXctov e/cetvo " cv /xaXaKats Trapctats vedi'tSos 
 cv^^evet TOIOVTOV c/>tXocroc/)tKOj/ Trvev^a.^ 
 
 Ilpowpto-fteVT/ OTTOJS KCLracrrrj f) tSia di/rtKet/xcvov dor/xaT(ov, 17 
 Gingold TrpovTLfjirjcrev avTTJ va \l/d\\y' TO Se dv^c/xdcv TroirjTLKOV 
 o"T/x/xa, OTrep TOO^OUTOV cvTrpCTrto? eTTt/coo'/xet r^v 
 etKova avT^s, TrpcTrci va 6/xoXoy^cr<i)//,V, oTt 
 Kat VTTO TOV TrXe'ov avvrripov 6/xtXoi) 
 
 A. 
 
(Translation.) 
 
 SPECTATOR, ATHENS, Oct., 1889. 
 
 A very handsome little book of graceful and ambitious 
 poetry bearing the above title has been sent to us from 
 London. We have been greatly charmed by its perusal, and 
 if one may judge from the portrait of the authoress, prefixed 
 to the volume, the English Parnassus can boast of at least 
 one more fair Hamadryad in its dewy evergreen thickets. 
 In English, as well as in our own ancient literature, Sapphos 
 have flourished and still flourish. The art of poetry is 
 perhaps the only fine art cultivated successfully, and with 
 peculiar grace (that special appanage of the fair sex), by 
 women ; for in music, although it is almost universally studied 
 by them, they have produced nothing to rival the work of 
 the stronger sex. In Miss Gingold's work there is every- 
 where noticeable a most enchanting grace of manne^ 
 although her poetry is not all of the Sapphic school. In 
 places we discern the influence of Byron, and also here and 
 there we are reminded of our own standard singers, while 
 " The Old Poet " and the " Legend of the Frauenkirche '> 
 bear unmistakable evidences of German style and German 
 influences. We find profound philosophical thoughts 
 scattered through these poems like precious stones set in 
 gold. The apostrophe "To a Cynic " enshrines a deep 
 truth, deeper than we expect to find in the work of a 
 poetess whose cheeks are as yet untouched by the wrinkles 
 of age; and we are forcibly reminded of that verse of 
 Sophocles 
 
 " Oft in the rosy cheek of a young girl, 
 There lurks deep wisdom " 
 
 Destined herself to become an object of song, Miss Gin gold 
 has preferred to sing, and we must own that the severest of 
 critics would not deny her right to the wreath that fittingly 
 
greie 
 
 1. gebruar 1890. 
 
 3m englif^en S3ud$anbel iji sor $urjem ein SJfinbs 
 djen e b i d) t e erfcfyienen, welcfyeS beweiji, bag e unter 
 unferer praftifcfy angefywcbten Sugenb bocfy nod) ent&us 
 jiajltfcfye eelen gibt, roelcfyen ein 3& ea f tforfcfytoebt, bag 
 jic im 5Rei^)c bet $oefte ju crlanflen l)offen. $ e I e n e 
 i n g o I b ^eit bie jugcnbUc^e Didjterin, bcren Iprifc^e 
 efangc bie brittc 3luflage erlebt ^aben. SSon Seiwmber* 
 ung fiir bie 2)i^)tun9 afier giinber erfiillt, ifi fte iiberaU 
 jii aufe unb befingt mit g(etd)er 23etoe unb gleic^em 
 <5cfytt>ung il)te eigenen Sanbleute, ben Otyein, ba freie 
 8eben ber 3ifl^ner unb ilberbaupt alle toa if)r in ben 
 SBurf fommt. (58 ip interejfant, 311 beoba^ten, nrie ji^ 
 bie teelle ffiBelt im eifte eine3 swanjtgiciljtigen 3Befen3 
 fpiegelt. Unter ben 9JZabd)en toirb e3 ber neuepen 
 nic^t an greunbinnen fe^ten. 
 
 5. Sunf 1889. 
 
 C< A Cycle of Verse ifl ber SSitel eineS S3ud()e3, beffen 
 S3erfaff etin ^elene e. 2(. i n 9 o 1 b in gonbon ftd() bereit 
 burd) SeroffentHc^ung anberer SBerfe befannt Qemacfyt ^at. 
 'Da^ S3u* bietet Die! 2in$tef)enbe$ unb obwpl)l in englifdjer 
 pra^e gef^rieben, auc^ SKanc^e^, toa fiir beutfc^e efet 
 befonberS an&tefyenb if}. 93ei ber giille be ebotenen unb 
 ber gleganj ber pracfye wirb ba 9Berf eine wiaiommene 
 abe fein fiir 3 e ben, ber an poetif^)4iterarifcl)en Slrbeiten 
 Sntcreffe jeigt. 2113 bie ?)erlen ber Sammlung erft^einen 
 unS " The Wanderer's Farewell to the Rhine/' " The 
 Legend of the Frauenkirche in Munchen." 35er 2tnfang 
 "Bolcanto^ ijl eine 2lrbeit tooll guten ^umora. i)a 
 Sttetblatt nrirb bur(^ ba lieblt^e portrait ber juflenb* 
 
" D E N Y SE," 
 
 A S h etch in Neutral Tints, 
 BY HELENE E. A. GINGOLD. 
 
 1 GLASGOW HERALD," ist March, 1883. 
 
 This strange but powerful sketch. 
 
 " NATAL MERCURY," nth February, 1890. 
 
 Of " Denyse," it may be said that it is a bright, somewhat 
 sentimental, and, on the whole, forcibly-written story. The 
 plot is a common one. A young, passionate and uncon- 
 ventional girl attracts the fancy of a man whose doings are 
 the scandal of the talk, but who is himself the country's idol. 
 Both Denyse and Everard are well-drawn characters, as also 
 is the faithful and dog-like Harold, and the book will 
 pleasantly wile away a spare hour. Its writer will probably 
 make a mark as a tale-writer. 
 
 "JEWISH WORLD," 3rd February, 1888. 
 
 Her characters are sketched with a light pencil, and with so 
 much vivacity and entrain that the reader regrets that the 
 story is brought so soon to a close. 
 
 " LONDON AND BRIGHTON," 4th January 1888. 
 
 Instead of providing paving material for a future subter- 
 sranean residence or indulging in senseless toasts, I spent the 
 last hours of the old and the first of the new year in reading 
 
" Denyse," and "Denyse" haunts me still. It may have 
 been the time chosen for reading it, or the unconventionally 
 of the writer, but the book fastens on my mind. Described 
 as a sketch in neutral tints "Denyse " is worth getting by that 
 large class of busy men who like something fresh, but are 
 sick of the orthodox three-volume novel. A Goethe-like 
 Dialolus, by Lib on the frontispiece, illustrates the nineteenth 
 chapter, which alone is worth reading. The book is excel- 
 lently got up, and published by Remington and Co. 
 
 " BULLIONIST," 7th January, 1888. 
 
 This is a charming volume, brimful of- vivacity, and dis- 
 closing a rare IE sight into natural life its motives and its 
 developments. Denyse Erskyne, the heroine, is an artist of 
 great talent, and distinguished by the inspiration of genius. 
 
 " VANITY FAIR," 24th December, 1887. 
 
 More of the story we will not tell. Readers are recom- 
 mended to go for it to the pages of Miss Gingold's very read- 
 able novel. 
 
MA 
 
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