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diff --git a/old/68316-0.txt b/old/68316-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3e2eff2..0000000 --- a/old/68316-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7083 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Cornhill Magazine (Vol. I, No. 3, -March 1860), by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Cornhill Magazine (Vol. I, No. 3, March 1860) - -Author: Various - -Release Date: June 14, 2022 [eBook #68316] - -Language: English - -Produced by: hekula03 and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images - made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE (VOL. -I, NO. 3, MARCH 1860) *** - - - - - - - =EUROPEAN AND COLONIAL - WINE COMPANY,= - - =No. 122, PALL MALL, LONDON.= - -The above COMPANY has been formed for the purpose of supplying the -Nobility, Gentry, and Private Families with PURE WINES of the highest -character, at a saving of at least 30 Per Cent. - - =SOUTH AFRICAN SHERRY= =20s. & 24s. per doz.= - =SOUTH AFRICAN PORT= =20s. & 24s. ”= - -=THE FINEST EVER INTRODUCED INTO THIS COUNTRY.= - - ROYAL VICTORIA SHERRY 32s. per doz. - (A truly Excellent and Natural Wine) - SPLENDID OLD PORT 42s. - (Ten years in the wood.) - PALE COGNAC BRANDY 52s. and 60s. - SPARKLING EPERNAY CHAMPAGNE, 38s. - (Equal to that usually charged 60s. per doz.) - ST. JULIEN CLARET 28s. - (Pure and without acidity.) - - Bottles and Packages included. - - Delivered free to any London Railway Station. Terms, Cash, or - Reference. - -Country Orders to be accompanied with a Remittance. Price Lists sent Free -on application. Cheques to be crossed BARCLAY & CO.; and Post Office -Orders made payable to - - WILLIAM REID TIPPING, Manager. - - * * * * * - - BY ROYAL COMMAND. - - [Illustration] - - =METALLIC PENMAKER= - TO THE QUEEN. - - =JOSEPH GILLOTT= - - Respectfully invites the attention of the Public to the - following Numbers of his - - PATENT METALLIC PENS, - -which, for Quality of Material, Easy Action, and Great Durability, will -ensure universal preference. - - =For General Use.=—Nos. 2, 164, 166, 168, 604. In FINE POINTS. - - =For Bold Free Writing.=—Nos. 8, 164, 166, 168, 604. In MEDIUM - POINTS. - - =For Gentlemen’s Use.=—FOR LARGE, FREE, BOLD WRITING.—The Black - Swan Quill, Large Barrel Pen, No. 808. The Patent Magnum Bonum, - No. 263. In MEDIUM and BROAD POINTS. - - =For General Writing.=—No. 263. In EXTRA-FINE and FINE POINTS. - No. 262. In FINE POINTS. Small Barrel. No. 810. New Bank Pen. - No. 840. The Autograph Pen. - - =For Commercial Purposes.=—The celebrated Three-hole - Correspondence Pen, No. 382. The celebrated Four-hole - Correspondence Pen, No. 202. The Public Pen, No. 292. The - Public Pen, with Bead, No. 404. Small Barrel Pens, fine and - free, Nos. 392, 405, 603. - - _To be had of every respectable Stationer in the World._ - - WHOLESALE AND FOR EXPORTATION, AT THE - =Manufactory: Victoria Works, Graham-street; and at 99, New-street, - Birmingham; 91, John-street, New York; and of= - WILLIAM DAVIS, at the London Depôt, 37, Gracechurch-street, E.C. - - - - -THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE. - -MARCH, 1860. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - - A FEW WORDS ON JUNIUS AND MACAULAY 257 - - WILLIAM HOGARTH: PAINTER, ENGRAVER, AND PHILOSOPHER. Essays - on the Man, the Work, and the Time. 264 - _II.—Mr. Gamble’s Apprentice._ (With an Illustration.) - - MABEL 282 - - STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE 283 - CHAPTER III.—_A garden wall, and its traces of past life—Not - a breath perishes—A bit of dry moss and its inhabitants—The - “Wheel-bearers”—Resuscitation of Rotifers: drowned into - life—Current belief that animals can be revived after complete - desiccation—Experiments contradicting the belief—Spallanzani’s - testimony—Value of biology as a means of culture—Classification - of animals: the five great types—Criticism of Cuvier’s - arrangement._ - - FRAMLEY PARSONAGE 296 - CHAPTER VII.—_Sunday Morning._ - ” VIII.—_Gatherum Castle._ - ” IX.—_The Vicar’s Return._ - - SIR JOSHUA AND HOLBEIN 322 - - A CHANGELING 329 - - LOVEL THE WIDOWER 330 - CHAPTER III.—_In which I play the Spy._ (With an Illustration.) - - THE NATIONAL GALLERY DIFFICULTY SOLVED 346 - - A WINTER WEDDING-PARTY IN THE WILDS 356 - - STUDENT LIFE IN SCOTLAND 366 - - ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.—NO. 2 380 - _On Two Children in Black._ - - LONDON: SMITH, ELDER AND CO., - 65, CORNHILL. - - - - -THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE. - - -CONTENTS of No. 1. - -JANUARY, 1860. - - FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. Chapters 1, 2 and 3. - THE CHINESE AND THE “OUTER BARBARIANS.” - LOVEL THE WIDOWER. Chapter 1. (With an Illustration.) - STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE. Chapter 1. - FATHER PROUT’S INAUGURATIVE ODE TO THE AUTHOR OF “VANITY FAIR.” - OUR VOLUNTEERS. - A MAN OF LETTERS OF THE LAST GENERATION. - THE SEARCH FOR SIR JOHN FRANKLIN (from the Private Journal of an - Officer of the _Fox_). (With an Illustration and Map.) - THE FIRST MORNING OF 1860. - ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.—No. 1. - _On a Lazy Idle Boy._ - - -CONTENTS of No. 2. - -FEBRUARY, 1860. - - NIL NISI BONUM. - INVASION PANICS. - TO GOLDENHAIR (FROM HORACE). By THOMAS HOOD. - FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. Chapters 4, 5 and 6. - TITHONUS. By ALFRED TENNYSON. - WILLIAM HOGARTH: PAINTER, ENGRAVER, AND PHILOSOPHER. Essays on the Man, - the Work, and the Time.—_I. Little Boy Hogarth._ - UNSPOKEN DIALOGUE. By R. MONCKTON MILNES. (With an Illustration.) - STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE. Chapter 2. - CURIOUS IF TRUE. (Extract from a Letter from Richard Whittingham, Esq.) - LIFE AMONG THE LIGHTHOUSES. - LOVEL THE WIDOWER. Chapter 2. (With an Illustration.) - AS ESSAY WITHOUT END. - - -NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS. - -⁂ _Communications for the Editor should be addressed to the care of -Messrs. SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, Cornhill, and not to the Editor’s -private residence. The Editor cannot be responsible for the return of -rejected contributions._ - - - - -THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE. - -MARCH, 1860. - - - - -A Few Words on Junius and Macaulay. - - -The “secret of Junius” has been kept until, like over-ripe wines, the -subject has lost its flavour. Languid indeed is the disposition of mind -in which any, except a few veterans who still prefer the old post-road to -the modern railway, take up an essay or an article professing to throw -new light on that wearisome mystery, or to add some hitherto unknown -name to the ghostly crowd of candidates for that antiquated prize. And -yet there is a deep interest about the inquiry, after all, to those -who, from any special cause, are induced to overcome the feeling of -satiety which it at first excites, and plunge into the controversy with -the energy of their grandfathers. The real force and virulence of those -powerful writings, unrivalled then, and scarcely equalled since, let -critics say what they may; the strangeness of the fact that none of the -quick-sighted, unscrupulous, revengeful men who surrounded Junius at the -time of his writing, who brushed past him in the street, drank with him -at dinner, sat opposite him in the office, could ever attain to even a -probable conjecture of his identity; the irresistible character of the -external evidence which fixes the authorship on Francis, contrasted with -those startling internal improbabilities which make the Franciscan theory -to this day the least popular, although the learned regard it as all -but established—the eccentric, repulsive, “dour” character of Francis -himself, and the kind of pertinacious longing which besets us to know -the interior of a man who shuts himself up against his fellow-men in -fixed disdain and silence:—these are powerful incentives, and produce -an attraction, of which we are sometimes ourselves ashamed, towards the -occupation of treading over and over again this often beaten ground of -literary curiosity. - -Never have I felt this more strongly, than when accident led me, a few -years ago, into Leigh and Sotheby’s sale-room, when the library of Sir -Philip Francis was on view previous to auction. I know not whether any -reader will sympathize with me in what I am about to say: but to me -there is a solemn and rather oppressive feeling, which attends these -exposures of books for sale, where the death is recent, and where the -owner and collector was a man of this world, taking an interest in the -everyday literature which occupies myself and those around me. There -stands his copy of a memoir of some one whom both he and I knew well—he -had just had time to read it, as I see by the date, and with interest, -as I judge by the pencil marks—in what mysteriously separate relation do -he and I now respectively stand towards that common acquaintance? There -is his copy of the latest volume of Travels—he had only accompanied the -adventurer, I see, as far as the First Cataract—what matters now to -him the problem of the Source of the Nile? There is his last unbound -number of the _Quarterly_—he had studied it for many a year: at such a -page, the paper-cutter rested from its work, the marginal notes ended, -the influx of knowledge stopped, the chain of thought was snapped, the -mental perceptions darkened. Can it be, that the active mind of our -fellow-worker ceased then and there from that continuous exertion of -so many years, and became that we wot not of—a living Intelligence, -it may be, but removed into another sphere, with which its habitual -region of labour—the cycle in which it moved and had its being—had no -connection whatever? Must it be (as Charles Lamb so quaintly expresses -it) that “knowledge now comes to him, if it comes at all, by some awkward -experiment of intuition, and no longer by this familiar process of -reading?” - -But I do not wish to dally, here and now, with fancies like these. I -only introduced the subject, because Sir Philip Francis’ library was a -good deal calculated to suggest this class of thoughts. He was a great -marginal note-maker. He criticized all that came under his eye, and -especially what related to political events, even to his latest hour. -And—singular enough, yet in accordance with much that we know of him, and -with all that we must suppose, if Junius he was—he had avoided keeping -up, in this way, his connection with the time in which his sinister -and anonymous fame was achieved. So far as I remember, his books of -the Junian period were little noted. He seemed to have exercised his -memory and judgment on the records of Warren Hastings’ trial, the French -Revolution, the revolutionary war—not on those of Burke and Chatham. - -This, however, is all by the way, and I must crave pardon for the -digression. I lost myself, and wandered off, it seems, just when I -was reminding the reader that the subsidiary features of the Junian -controversy have now become much more interesting than the old question -of authorship itself, and that it is an admirable exercise for the -intellectual faculties to trace the way in which different lines of -reasoning, wholly distinct and yet severally complete, converge towards -the “Franciscan” conclusion. It was in this light, especially, that the -subject appeared to captivate the mind of that great historical genius -whom we have lost: whom we have just seen in the ample enjoyment of most -rare faculties, the fulness of fame, and the height of fortune, committed -to the soft arms of an euthanasia such as has rarely waited on man. The -“Junian controversy” was with Macaulay an endless subject of ingenious -talk. It suited certain peculiarities of his mind. As he was the very -clearest of writers, so he was also, in a special sense and manner, -the most acute of reasoners. In limited, close historical argument—in -the power to infer a third proposition from a second, a second from a -first—the power to expand a fact, either proved or assumed as a trifling -postulate, into a series of facts, with undeniable cogency—I think we -must go far to find his equal. - -If you gave Cuvier a tarsal bone, he constructed you, with unerring -certainty, a humming-bird or an elephant. If you gave Macaulay a casual -passage from a letter, he would divine, with strange precision, the -circumstances of that letter: the occasion of its writing, the reason -of its publication or non-publication, the way in which the writer was -connected with some great event of the time, and in which the letter bore -on that event. But his judgment of the character of the man, or character -of the event, was another matter altogether, and tasked a different order -of faculties, with which we are not now concerned. If we were to seek a -rival to Macaulay in this peculiar province of clear and cogent reasoning -from fact A to fact X, imparting to conjecture the force of truth, we -should probably find him rather among lawyers than writers. In truth, the -historian always retained, and to his great advantage, many of the mental -habits, as well as many of the tastes and joyous recollections of the -bar. He was at once the most Paleyan and the most forensic of historical -inquirers. When he entered the arena of controversy, you might doubt -whether he had donned his armour in the Senate House of Cambridge or the -Assize Court of Lancaster. We may assume (as Coke assumed, lamentingly, -of Bacon) that had he only stuck to the law he would have made a great -lawyer. But it is open to doubt whether, as a judge, he would have done -more of service by the marvellous lucidity with which he would have drawn -out a series of circumstantial evidence before a jury, or more of harm by -his tendency to force the various considerations attending a complicated -case into conformity with his own too complete and too vivid ideal of -that case. - -There is no better way towards appreciating the intensity of this -peculiar faculty in Macaulay, than to study the various controversies -into which his essays and his history led him: both the few in which he -vouchsafed a reply, and the many more in which he rested contented with -his first statement—his issues with Dixon, Paget, the High Churchmen, -the Scotch, the Quakers, and the like—and to contrast his method with -that of his antagonists. They all beat the bush, more or less, and -flounder in every variety of historical fallacy. They beg the question, -frame “vicious processes” from their premisses, “pole” themselves on -self-created dilemmas, commit, in short, every error which logicians -denounce in their fantastic terminology—in Macaulay’s reasoning, simply -as such, you will never detect a flaw. His conclusion follows his -premisses as surely and safely as “the night the day.” You may agree -with his antagonist, and not with him; but you will find that what you -consider to be his error lies quite in another direction, and consists, -not in misusing his own facts, but in ignoring or neglecting true and -material facts adduced by his opponents. And beware, O young and ardent -Reader, too readily pleased with seeing a hole picked in a great man’s -coat, lest the triumphant crow, with which these opponents invariably -trumpet their supposed victory, seduce you into premature acquiescence. -By-and-by, when cooler and steadier, you may be inclined to conjecture -that Macaulay’s piercing instinct was right after all, and that the facts -evoked against him are in reality either doubtful or immaterial to the -argument. - -It was, as I have said, this fondness and aptitude for following up with -accuracy converging lines of evidence, which gave Macaulay so great an -interest in the Junian controversy, and made him so ready to allude to it -incidentally both in writing and conversation. He contributed, himself, -two, at least, of the most remarkable collateral proofs which tend to fix -the authorship on Francis—the curious error of the English War-office -clerk about the rules of Irish pensions, in the correspondence with Sir -William Draper—the personal hostility of the Francis family towards the -Luttrells, which accounts for the savage treatment by Junius of such -obscure offenders. And now, having used the great historian’s name, -somewhat unfairly, by way of shoeing-horn, to draw on a fresh chapter on -the old controversy, let me place before you another singular instance -of this class of collateral proofs, which, I believe, has not been made -public before, but which greatly excited the curiosity of Macaulay, and -which he would have followed out—if ever he had taken up the question -again—with all the force of his inductive mind. - -In one of the early letters of Woodfall’s collection, under the signature -“Bifrons” (April 23, 1768: vol. ii. p. 175, of Bohn’s Edition), the -writer, after accusing the Duke of Grafton of being a ‘casuist,’ proceeds -as follows:— - -“I am not deeply read in authors of that professed title: but _I remember -seeing_ Busenbaum, Suares, Molina, and a score of other Jesuitical books, -burnt at Paris, for their sound casuistry, by the hand of the common -hangman.” - -I shall assume at once that Bifrons was the same writer as Junius. The -general reasons for the assumption are familiar to those versed in the -controversy. And even were those general grounds of identity less strong -than they are, every one would allow that to prove that Francis was -Bifrons, would go a long way towards proving him Junius. - -A passage so pregnant with suggestion has of course provoked abundant -comment: but all of the loosest description. No one seems to have taken -the pains to follow out for himself a hint pointing to conclusions of so -much importance, both negative and affirmative. - -Mr. W. H. Smith, the recent editor of the _Grenville Papers_, thus -presses it into the service of his theory, attributing the authorship of -Junius to Lord Temple: - -“The ceremony here alluded to _probably_ took place in or about the year -1732, when the disputes between the King of France and his parliaments, -relative to the Jesuits, had arrived at the highest point of acrimony. -Several burnings of obnoxious and prohibited books and writings -are described by cotemporary authorities at this time; and as Lord -Temple, then Richard Grenville, was in France, and chiefly at Paris, -from the autumn of 1731 to the spring of 1733, he had, consequently, -many opportunities of witnessing the ceremonies of the burning of -‘scores of Jesuitical books’ by the common hangman, as described by -Junius.”—(_Introductory notes relating to the authorship of Junius_, p. -cxliv.) - -Mr. Smith is scarcely so familiar with the details of French as of -English history. No doubt books were publicly burnt in Paris about the -time he mentions: but the books were Jansenist, not Jesuit: the letters -concerning the Miracles of M. de Paris, the Nouvelles Ecclésiastiques, -and the like—not the works of the Casuists. In 1732, the Jesuits were the -executioners: their turn, as victims, came a generation later. - -A writer, who endeavours to establish a claim for Lord Lyttelton, is -nearer the mark: but, unluckily, just misses it:—— - -“We may assume,” says he, “that this burning took place in 1764, as it -was in that year that Choiseul suppressed the Jesuits. Thomas Lyttelton -was on the continent during the whole of 1764, and for part of the time -resided at Paris.” - -The burning of books, so accurately described by Bifrons, took place, -beyond a doubt, as we shall presently see, on August the 7th, 1761. Now -this date raises a curious question, which is indicated, but in a very -careless manner, by Mr. Wade (in his notes to Junius, Bohn’s edition):—— - -“It may be doubted, indeed, whether Bifrons was an Englishman, or _even_ -an Irishman: _he certainly could not have been a British subject in -1761, unless he was a prisoner of war: for in that year we were at war -with France_. But if a prisoner of war, how unlikely that he could be at -Paris to witness an _auto-da-fé_ of heretical works: he would have been -confined in the interior of the kingdom, not left at large to indulge his -curiosity in the capital.” - -Now, assuming (as all these writers do), that Bifrons-Junius actually saw -what he says he saw, how does the circumstance bear on the claims of the -several candidates? - -What was Lyttelton in August, 1761? An Eton boy, enjoying his holidays. - -Where was Lord Temple? At Stowe (see the _Grenville Letters_) caballing -with Pitt. - -Where was Burke? At Battersea, preparing to join Gerard Hamilton in -Ireland. - -Where were Burke the younger, Lord George Sackville, and the rest of the -illustrious persons implicated in some people’s suspicions? Not in Paris, -we may safely answer, without pursuing our inquiry farther. - -But it is undoubtedly possible that Bifrons-Junius, after all, did not -himself see the _auto-da-fé_ in question: he may have heard of it, or -read of it, and may have described himself as a witness for effect, by -way of a flourish, or even by way of false lure to throw inquirers off -the scent. - -It would then only remain to inquire, in what way, by what association of -ideas, Bifrons-Junius came to give so circumstantial a description, and -in so prominent a manner, of an occurrence which had passed in a time -of war, almost unmarked by the English public, and which had excited in -England but very little attention or interest since? - -Now let us see how either supposition bears on the “Franciscan theory.” - -Francis was a very young clerk in Mr. Pitt’s department (which answered -to the Foreign Office of these days) in 1759. In that year he accompanied -Lord Kinnoul on his special mission to Portugal. His lordship returned -in November, 1760, with all his staff, and the youthful Francis (in all -probability) returned to his desk at the same time. - -He was certainly at work in the same office between October, 1761, and -August 1768; for he says of himself (_Parl. Debates_, xxii. 97), that he -“possessed Lord Egremont’s favour in the Secretary of State’s Office.” -That nobleman came into office in October, 1761, and died in August, -1763. In the latter year Francis was removed to the War Office, where he -remained until 1772. - -Where was he in August, 1761? - -According to all reasonable presumption, at work in Pitt’s department. - -And yet Lady Francis, in that biographical account of her husband which -was published by Lord Campbell—an account evidently incorrect in some -details, yet authentic in striking particulars, as might be expected from -a lady’s reminiscences of what she heard from an older man—says, “_He was -at the Court of France in Louis XV.’s time, when the Jesuits were driven -out by Madame de Pompadour_.” - -This, it will be at once allowed, is a strange instance of coincidence -between Bifrons and the lady. The more striking, because the particulars -of disagreement show that the two stories do not come from the same -source. But how can we account for either story? How came Francis to be -in Paris—if in Paris he were—in time of war? - -With a view to solve this question to my own satisfaction, I once -consulted the State Paper Office. It happens that during the summer -of 1761, Mr. Hans Stanley was in Paris, on a diplomatic mission, to -negotiate terms of peace with Choiseul. He failed in that object—some -folks thought Mr. Pitt never meant he should succeed—and returned home -in _September_ of that year. His correspondence with Pitt, as Secretary -of State, is preserved in the office aforesaid. He seems to have had the -ordinary staff of assistants from Pitt’s department: but I could not find -any record of their names. His despatches are entirely confined to the -subject of the negotiation on which he was engaged, _with one exception_. -He seems, for some reason or other, to have taken much interest in the -affair of the Jesuits. On August 10, he writes at length on the whole -of that matter. To his despatch is annexed a careful _précis_, in -Downing Street language, of the history of the Jesuits’ quarrel with the -parliament: evidently drawn up by one of his subordinates. Enclosed in -this _précis_ is the original printed _Arrêt de la Cour du Parlement, -du 6 Août_, 1761, condemning _Molina_, _de Justitiâ et Jure_; _Suares_, -_Defensio Fidei Catholicæ_; _Busenbaum_, _Theologia Moralis_; and several -other books of the same class, to be _lacérés et brûlés en la cour du -Palais_. And a MS. note at the foot of the _Arrêt_ states that the books -were burnt on the 7th accordingly. - -Thus much, therefore, is all but certain; some member of Mr. Stanley’s -mission, or other confidential subordinate, was present in the _Cour du -Palais_ when that _arrêt_ was executed, and reported it to his principal, -who reported it to Mr. Pitt: and Francis was at that time a clerk in -Pitt’s office, which was in constant communication with Stanley’s -mission. We do not know the names of the individual clerks who were -attached to that mission, or passed backwards and forwards between Paris -and London in connection with it. But we do know that Francis had been -twice employed in a similar way (to accompany General Bligh’s expedition -to Cherbourg, and Lord Kinnoul’s mission to Portugal). Evidently, -therefore, he was very likely to be thus employed again. He may then -assuredly have witnessed with his own bodily eyes what no Englishman, -unconnected with that mission, could well have witnessed: may have stood -on the steps of the _Palais de Justice_, watched the absurd execution -taking place in the courtyard below, and treasured up the details as food -for his sarcastic spirit; or (to take the other supposition) he may have -read at his desk in the office that curious despatch of Mr. Stanley’s; -may have retained it in his tenacious memory; and, writing a few years -afterwards, may have thought proper, for the sake of effect, to represent -himself as an eye-witness of what he only knew by reading. - -All this I once detailed to Macaulay, who, as I have said, was much -interested by the argument, and took an eager part in discussing it. But -one circumstance (I said) perplexed me, and seemed to interfere with -the probabilities of the case. How came Junius, whose excessive fear -of detection betrays itself throughout so much of his correspondence, -and led him to employ all manner of shifts and devices for the sake of -concealment, to give the public, as if in mere bravado, such a key to his -identity as this little piece of autobiography affords? - -The answer is plain, replied Macaulay on the instant, with one of those -electric flashes of rapid perception which seemed in him to pass direct -from the brain to the eye. The letter of Bifrons is one of Junius’s -earliest productions—its date, half-a-year before the formidable -signature of Junius was adopted at all. The first letter so signed is -dated in _November, 1768_. In _April_, the writer had neither earned -his fame, nor incurred his personal danger. A mere unknown scatterer -of abuse, he could have little or no fear of directing inquiry towards -himself. - -But (he added) I much prefer your first supposition to your second. It is -not only the most picturesque, but it is really the most probable. And -unless the contrary can be shown, I shall believe in the actual presence -of the writer at the burning of the books. Remember, this fact explains -what otherwise seems inexplicable, Lady Francis’s imperfect story, that -her husband “_was at the court of France when Madame de Pompadour drove -out the Jesuits_.” Depend on it, you have caught Junius in the fact. -Francis was _there_. - - - - -William Hogarth: - -PAINTER, ENGRAVER, AND PHILOSOPHER. - -_Essays on the Man, the Work, and the Time._ - - -II.—MR. GAMBLE’S APPRENTICE. - -How often have I envied those who—were not my envy dead and buried—would -now be sixty years old! I mean the persons who were born at the -commencement of the present century, and who saw its glories evolved -each year with a more astonishing grandeur and brilliance, till they -culminated in that universal “transformation scene” of ’15. For the -appreciation of things began to dawn on me only in an era of internecine -frays and feuds:—theological controversies, reform agitations, -corporation squabbles, boroughmongering debates, and the like: a time -of sad seditions and unwholesome social misunderstandings; Captain Rock -shooting tithe-proctors in Ireland yonder; Captain Swing burning hayricks -here; Captains Ignorance and Starvation wandering up and down, smashing -machinery, demolishing toll-bars, screeching out “Bread or blood!” at the -carriage-windows of the nobility and gentry going to the drawing-room, -and otherwise proceeding the wretchedest of ways for the redress of their -grievances. Surely, I thought, when I began to think at all, I was born -in the worst of times. Could that stern nobleman, whom the mob hated, -and hooted, and pelted—could the detested “Nosey,” who was beset by a -furious crowd in the Minories, and would have been torn off his horse, -perchance slain, but for the timely aid of Chelsea Pensioners and City -Marshalmen,—and who was compelled to screen his palace windows with iron -shutters from onslaughts of Radical macadamites—could _he_ be that grand -Duke Arthur, Conqueror and Captain, who had lived through so much glory, -and had been so much adored an idol? Oh, to have been born in 1800! At -six, I might just have remembered the mingled exultation and passionate -grief of Trafalgar; have seen the lying in state at Greenwich, the great -procession, and the trophied car that bore the mighty admiral’s remains -to his last home beneath the dome of Paul’s. I might have heard of the -crowning of the great usurper of Gaul: of his putting away his Creole -wife, and taking an emperor’s daughter; of his congress at Erfurt,—and -Talma, his tragedian, playing to a pit full of kings, of his triumphal -march to Moscow, and dismal melting away—he and his hosts—therefrom; of -his last defeat and spectral appearance among us—a wan, fat, captive -man, in a battered cocked hat, on the poop of an English war-ship in -Plymouth Sound—just before his transportation to the rock appointed to -him to eat his heart upon. I envied the nurse who told upon her fingers -the names of the famous victories of the British army under WELLINGTON in -Spain; Vimieira, Talavera, Vittoria, Salamanca, Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajos, -Fuentes d’Onore,—_mille e tre_; in fine—at last, WATERLOO. Why had I not -lived in that grand time, when the very history itself was acting? Strong -men there were who lived before Agamemnon; but for the accident of a few -years, I might have seen, at least, Agamemnon in the flesh. ’Tis true, -I knew then only about the rejoicings and fireworks, the bell-ringings, -and thanksgiving sermons, the Extraordinary Gazettes, and peerages and -ribbons bestowed in reward for those deeds of valour. I do not remember -that I was told anything about Walcheren, or about New Orleans; about -the trade driven by the cutters of gravestones, or the furnishers of -funeral urns, broken columns, and extinguished torches; about the sore -taxes, and the swollen national debt. So I envied; and much disdained the -piping times of peace descended to me; and wondered if the same soldiers -I saw or heard about, with scarcely anything more to do than lounge on -Brighton Cliff, hunt up surreptitious whisky-stills, expectorate over -bridges, and now and then be lapidated at a contested election, could -be the descendants of the heroes who had swarmed into the bloody breach -at Badajos, and died, shoulder to shoulder, on the plateau of Mont St. -Jean. - -[Illustration: MR. GAMBLE’S APPRENTICE.] - -Came 1848, with its revolutions, barricades, states of siege, movements -of vast armies, great battles and victories, with their multiplied -hecatombs of slain even; but they did not belong to us; victors and -vanquished were aliens; and I went on envying the people who had heard -the Tower guns fire, and joybells ring, who had seen the fireworks, -and read the Extraordinary Gazettes during the first fifteen years of -the century! Was I never to live in the history of England? Then, as -you all remember, came the great millennium or peace year ’51. Did not -sages deliberate as to whether it would not be better to exclude warlike -weapons from the congress of industry in Hyde Park? By the side of Joseph -Paxton with his crystal verge there seemed to stand a more angelic -figure, waving wide her myrtle wand, and striking universal peace through -sea and land. It was to be, we fondly imagined, as the immortal blind man -of Cripplegate sang:— - - “No war or battle’s sound - Was heard the world around: - The idle spear and shield were high uphung, - The hookèd chariot stood - Unstain’d with hostile blood, - The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng; - And kings sate still with awful eye, - As if they sorely knew their Sovereign Lord was by.” - -O blind man! it was but for an instant. The trodden grass had scarcely -begun to grow again where nave and transept had been, when the wicked -world was all in a blaze; and then the very minstrels of peace began to -sharpen swords and heat shot red-hot about the Holy Places; and then the -Guards went to Gallipoli, and farther on to Bulgaria, and farther on to -Old Fort; and the news of the Alma, Inkermann, Balaklava, the Redan, the -Tchernaya, the Mamelon, the Malakhoff came to us, hot and hot, and we -were all living in the history of England. And lo! it was very much like -the history of any other day in the year—or in the years that had gone -before. The movements of the allied forces were discussed at breakfast, -over the sipping of coffee, the munching of muffins, and the chipping -of eggs. Newspaper-writers, parliament-men, club-orators took official -bungling or military mismanagement as their cue for the smart leader of -the morrow, the stinging query to Mr. Secretary at the evening sitting, -or the bow-window exordium in the afternoon; and then everything went on -pretty much as usual. We had plenty of time and interest to spare for the -petty police case, the silly scandal, the sniggering joke of the day. The -cut of the coat and the roasting of the mutton, the non-adhesiveness of -the postage-stamp, or the misdemeanors of the servant-maid, were matters -of as relative importance to us as the great and gloomy news of battle -and pestilence from beyond sea. At least I lived in actual history, and -my envy was cured for ever. - -I have often thought that next to Asclepiades, the comic cynic,[1] -Buonaparte Smith was the greatest philosopher that ever existed. B. -Smith was by some thought to have been the original of Jeremy Diddler. -He was an inveterate borrower of small sums. On a certain Wednesday in -1821, _un sien-ami_ accosted him. Says the friend: “Smith, have you heard -that Buonaparte is dead?” To which retorts the philosopher: “Buonaparte -be ——!” but I disdain to quote his irreverent expletive—“Buonaparte -be somethinged. _Can you lend me ninepence?_” What was the history of -Europe or its eventualities to Buonaparte Smith? The immediate possession -of three-fourths of a shilling was of far more importance to him than -the death of that tremendous exile in his eyrie in the Atlantic Ocean, -thousands of miles away. Thus, too, I daresay it was with a certain -small philosopher, who lived through a very exciting epoch of the -history of England: I mean LITTLE BOY HOGARTH. It was his fortune to see -the first famous fifteen years of the eighteenth century, when there -were victories as immense as Salamanca or Waterloo; when there was a -magnificent parallel to Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, existent, -in the person of John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough. I once knew a -man who had lived in Paris, and throughout the Reign of Terror, in a -second floor of the Rue St. Honoré. “What did you do?” I asked, almost -breathlessly, thinking to hear of tumbrils, Carmagnoles, gibbet-lanterns, -conventions, _poissarde_-revolts, and the like. “_Eh! parbleu_,” he -answered, “_je m’occupais d’ornithologie_.” This philosopher had been -quietly birdstuffing while royalty’s head was rolling in the gutter, and -Carrier was drowning his hundreds at Nantes. To this young Hogarth of -mine, what may Marlborough and his great victories, Anne and her “silver -age” of poets, statesmen, and essayists, have been? Would the War of -the Succession assist young William in learning his accidence? Would -their High Mightinesses of the States-General of the United Provinces -supply him with that fourpence he required for purchases of marbles or -sweetmeats? What had Marshal Tallard to do with his negotiations with -the old woman who kept the apple-stall at the corner of Ship Court? -What was the Marquis de Guiscard’s murderous penknife compared with -that horn-handled, three-bladed one, which the Hebrew youth in Duke’s -Place offered him at the price of twentypence, and which he could not -purchase, _faute de quoi_? At most, the rejoicings consequent on the -battles of Blenheim or Ramillies, or Oudenarde or Malplaquet, might have -saved William from a whipping promised him for the morrow; yet, even -under those circumstances, it is painful to reflect that staying out -too late to see the fireworks, or singeing his clothes at some blazing -fagot, might have brought upon him on that very morrow a castigation more -unmerciful than the one from which he had been prospectively spared. - -Every biographer of Hogarth that I have consulted—and I take this -opportunity to return my warmest thanks to the courteous book distributor -at the British Museum who, so soon as he sees me enter the Reading -Room, proceeds, knowing my errand, to overwhelm me with folios, and -heap up barricades of eighteenth century lore round me—every one of the -biographers, Nichols, Steevens, Ireland, Trusler, Phillips, Cunningham, -the author of the article “Thornhill,” in the _Biographia Britannica_—the -rest are mainly copyists from one another, often handing down blunders -and perpetuating errors—every Hogarthian Dryasdust makes a clean leap -from the hero’s birth and little schoolboy noviciate to the period of -his apprenticeship to Ellis Gamble the silversmith. Refined Mr. Walpole, -otherwise very appreciative of Hogarth, flirting over the papers he -got from Vertue’s widow, indites some delicate manuscript for the -typographers of his private press at Strawberry Hill, and tells us that -the artist, whom he condescends to introduce into his _Anecdotes of -Painting_, was bound apprentice to a “mean engraver of arms upon plate.” -I see nothing mean in the calling which Benvenuto Cellini (they say), -and Marc Antonio Raimondi (it is certain), perhaps Albert Durer, too, -followed for a time. I have heard of great artists who did not disdain -to paint dinner plates, soup tureens, and apothecary’s jars. Not quite -unknown to the world is one Rafaelle Sanzio d’Urbino, who designed -tapestry for the Flemish weavers, or a certain Flaxman, who was of great -service to Mr. Wedgwood, when he began to think that platters and -pipkins might be brought to serve some very noble uses. Horace Walpole, -cleverest and most refined of _dilettanti_—who could, and did say the -coarsest of things in the most elegant of language—you were not fit to be -an Englishman. Fribble, your place was in France. Putative son of Orford, -there seems sad ground for the scandal that some of Lord Fanny’s blood -flowed in your veins; and that Carr, Lord Hervey, was your real papa. You -might have made a collection of the great King Louis’s shoes, the heels -and soles of which were painted by Vandermeulen with pictures of Rhenish -and Palatinate victories. _Mignon_ of arts and letters, you should have -had a _petite maison_ at Monçeaux or at the Roule. Surrounded by your -_abbés au petit collet_, teacups of _pâte tendre_, fans of chicken-skin -painted by Leleux or Lantara, jewelled snuff-boxes, handsome chocolate -girls, gems and intaglios, the brothers to those in the Museo Borbonico -at Naples, _che non si mostrano alle donne_, you might have been happy. -You were good enough to admire Hogarth, but you didn’t quite understand -him. He was too vigorous, downright, virile for you; and upon my word, -Horace Walpole, I don’t think you understood anything belonging to -England—nor her customs, nor her character, nor her constitution, nor -her laws. I don’t think that you would have been anywhere more in your -element than in France, to make epigrams and orange-flower water, and to -have your head cut off in that unsparing harvest of ’93, with many more -noble heads of corn as clever and as worthless for any purpose of human -beneficence as yours, Horace. - -For you see, this poor Old Bailey schoolmaster’s son—this scion of a -line of north-country peasants and swineherds, had in him pre-eminently -that which scholiast Warton called the “ἩΘΟΣ,” the strong sledgehammer -force of Morality, not given to Walpole—not given to you, fribbles of -the present as of the past—to understand. He was scarcely aware of the -possession of this quality himself, Hogarth; and when Warton talked -pompously of the _Ethos_ in his works, the painter went about with a -blank, bewildered face, asking his friends what the doctor meant, and -half-inclined to be angry lest the learned scholiast should be quizzing -him. It is in the probabilities, however, that William had some little -Latin. The dominie in Ship Court did manage to drum some of his grammar -disputations into him, and to the end of his life William Hogarth -preserved a seemly reverence for classical learning. Often has his -etching-needle scratched out some old Roman motto or wise saw upon the -gleaming copper. A man need not flout and sneer at the classics because -he knows them not. He need not declare Parnassus to be a molehill, -because he has lost his alpenstock and cannot pay guides to assist him -in that tremendous ascent. There is no necessity to gird at Pyrrha, and -declare her to be a worthless jade, because she has never braided her -golden hair for you. Of Greek I imagine W. H. to have been destitute; -unless, with that ingenious special pleading, which has been made use of -to prove that Shakspeare was a lawyer, apothecary, Scotchman, conjuror, -poacher, scrivener, courtier—what you please—we assume that Hogarth -was a Hellenist because he once sent, as a dinner invite to a friend, a -card on which he had sketched a knife, fork, and pasty, and these words, -“Come and Eta Beta Pi.” No wonder the ἩΘΟΣ puzzled him. He was not deeply -learned in anything save human nature, and of this knowledge even he -may have been half unconscious, thinking himself to be more historical -painter than philosopher. He never was a connoisseur. He was shamefully -disrespectful to the darkened daubs which the picture-quacks palmed on -the curious of the period as genuine works of the old masters. He painted -“Time smoking a picture,” and did not think much of the collection of -Sir Luke Schaub. His knowledge of books was defective; although another -scholiast (not Warton) proved, in a most learned pamphlet, that he had -illustrated, _sans le savoir_, above five hundred passages in Horace, -Virgil, Juvenal, and Ovid. He had read Swift. He had illustrated and -evidently understood Hudibras. He was afraid of Pope, and only made a -timid, bird-like, solitary dash at him in one of his earliest _charges_; -and, curiously, Alexander the Great of Twickenham seemed to be afraid of -Hogarth, and shook not the slightest drop of his gall vial over him. What -a quarrel it might have been between the acrimonious little scorpion of -“Twitnam,” and the sturdy bluebottle of Leicester Fields! Imagine Pope -_versus_ Hogarth, pencil against pen; not when the painter was old and -feeble, half but not quite doting indeed, as when he warred with Wilkes -and Churchill, but in the strength and pride of his swingeing satire. -Perhaps William and Alexander respected one another; but I think there -must have been some tacit “hit me and I’ll hit you” kind of rivalry -between them, as between two cocks of two different schools who meet now -and then on the public promenades—meet with a significant half-smile and -a clenching of the fist under the cuff of the jacket. - -To the end of his life Hogarth could not spell; at least, his was not -the orthography expected from educated persons in a polite age. In -almost the last plate he engraved, the famous portrait of Churchill as -a Bear, the “lies,” with which the knots of Bruin’s club are inscribed, -are all “lyes.” This may be passed over, considering how very lax and -vague were our orthographical canons not more than a century ago, and -how many ministers, divines, poets—nay, princes, and crowned heads, -and nabobs—permitted themselves greater liberties than “lye” for “lie” -in the Georgian era. At this I have elsewhere hinted, and I think the -biographers of Hogarth are somewhat harsh in accusing him of crass -ignorance, when he only wrote as My Lord Keeper, or as Lady Betty, or -as his grace the Archbishop was wont to write. Hogarth, too, was an -author. He published a book—to say nothing of the manuscript notes of his -life he left. The whole structure, soul, and strength of the _Analysis -of Beauty_ are undoubtedly his; although he very probably profited by -the assistance—grammatical as well as critical—of some of the clerical -dignitaries who loved the good man. That he did so has been positively -asserted; but it is forestalling matters to trot out an old man’s hobby, -when our beardless lad is not bound ’prentice yet. I cannot, however, -defend him from the charges of writing “militia,” “milicia,” “Prussia,” -“Prusia”—why didn’t he hazard “Prooshia” at once?[2]—“knuckles,” -“nuckles”—oh, fie!—“Chalcedonians,” “Calcidonians;” “pity,” “pitty;” -and “volumes,” “volumns.” It is somewhat strange that Hogarth himself -tells us that his first graphic exercise was to “draw the alphabet with -great correctness.” I am afraid that he never succeeded in writing it -very correctly. He hated the French too sincerely to care to learn -_their_ language; and it is not surprising that in the first shop card -he engraved for his master there should be in the French translation of -Mr. Gamble’s style and titles a trifling pleonasm: “bijouxs,” instead of -“bijoux.” - -No date of the apprenticeship of Hogarth is anywhere given. We must -fix it by internal evidence. He was out of his time in the South Sea -Bubble year, 1720. On the 29th of April[3] in the same year, he started -in business for himself. The neatness and dexterity of the shop card -he executed for his master forbid us to assume that he was aught but -the most industrious of apprentices. The freedom of handling, the bold -sweep of line, the honest incisive play of the graver manifested in -this performance could have been attained by no Thomas Idle; and we -must, therefore, in justice grant him his full seven years of ’prentice -servitude. Say then that William Hogarth was bound apprentice to Mr. -Ellis Gamble,[4] at the Golden Angel, in Cranbourn Street, Leicester -Fields, in the winter of the year of our Lord, Seventeen hundred and -twelve. He began to engrave arms and cyphers on tankards, salvers, and -spoons, at just about the time that it occurred to a sapient legislature -to cause certain heraldic hieroglyphics surmounted by the Queen’s -crown, and encircled by the words “One halfpenny,” to be engraven on -a metal die, the which being the first newspaper stamp ever known to -our grateful British nation, was forthwith impressed on every single -half-sheet of printed matter issued as a newspaper or a periodical. “Have -you seen the new red stamp?” writes his reverence Doctor Swift. Grub -Street is forthwith laid desolate. Down go _Observators_, _Examiners_, -_Medleys_, _Flying Posts_, and other diurnals, and the undertakers of -the _Spectator_ are compelled to raise the price of their entertaining -miscellany. - -One of the last head Assay Masters at Goldsmith Hall told one of -Hogarth’s biographers, when a very—very old man, that he himself had -been ’prentice in Cranbourn Street, and that he remembered very well -William serving his time to Mr. Gamble. The register of the boy’s -indenture should also surely be among the archives of that sumptuous -structure behind the Post Office, where the worthy goldsmiths have such -a sideboard of massy plate, and give such jovial banquets to ministers -and city magnates. And, doubt it not, Ellis Gamble was a freeman, albeit, -ultimately, a dweller at the West-end, and dined with his Company when -the goldsmiths entertained the ministers and magnates of those days. -Yes, gentles; ministers, magnates, kings, czars, and princes were their -guests, and King Charles the Second did not disdain to get tipsy with -Sir Robert Viner, Lord Mayor and Alderman, at Guildhall. The monarch’s -boon companion got so fond of him as to lend him, _dit-on_, enormous sums -of money. More than that, he set up a brazen statue of the royal toper -in the Stocks flower-market at the meeting of Lombard Street and the -Poultry. Although it must be confessed that the effigy had originally -been cast for John Sobieski trampling on the Turk. The Polish hero had a -Carlovingian periwig given to him, and the prostrate and miscreant Moslem -was “improved” into Oliver Cromwell. [Mem.:—A pair of correctional stocks -having given their name to the flower-market; on the other hand, may not -the market have given _its_ name to the pretty, pale, red flowers, very -dear to Cockneys, and called “stocks?”] - -How was William’s premium paid when he was bound ’prentice? Be it -remembered that silver-plate engraving, albeit Mr. Walpole of Strawberry -Hill calls it “mean,” was a great and cunning art and mystery. These -engravers claimed to descend in right line from the old ciseleurs and -workers in niello of the middle ages. Benvenuto, as I have hinted, -graved as well as modelled. Marc Antonio flourished many a cardinal’s -hat and tassels on a _bicchiére_ before he began to cut from Rafaelle -and Giulio Romano’s pictures. The engraver of arms on plate was the same -artist who executed delightful arabesques and damascenings on suits of -armour of silver and Milan steel. They had cabalistic secrets, these -workers of the precious, these producers of the beautiful. With the -smiths, “back-hammering” and “boss-beating” were secrets;—parcel-gilding -an especial mystery; the bluish-black composition for niello a recipe -only to be imparted to adepts. With the engravers, the “cross-hatch” and -the “double cypher,” as I cursorily mentioned at the end of the last -chapter, were secrets. A certain kind of cross-hatching went out with -Albert Durer, and had since been as undiscoverable as the art of making -the _real_ ruby tint in glass. No beggar’s brat, no parish _protégé_, -could be apprenticed to this delicate, artistic, and responsible -calling. For in graving deep, tiny spirals of gold and silver curl away -from the trenchant tool, and there is precious ullage in chasing and -burnishing—spirals and ullage worth money in the market. Ask the Jews -in Duke’s Place, who sweat the guineas in horsehair bags, and clip the -Jacobuses, and rasp the new-milled money with tiny files, if there be not -profit to be had from the minutest surplusage of gold and silver. - -Goldsmiths and silversmiths were proud folk. They pointed to George -Heriot, King James’s friend, and the great things he did. They pointed -to the peerage. Did not a Duke of Beaufort, in 1683, marry a daughter of -Sir Josiah Child, goldsmith and banker? Was not Earl Tylney, his son, -half-brother to Dame Elizabeth Howland, mother of a Duchess of Bedford, -one of whose daughters married the Duke of Bridgewater, another, the -Earl of Essex? Was not Sir William Ward, goldsmith, father to Humble -Ward, created Baron Ward by Charles I.? and from him springs there -not the present Lord Dudley and Ward?[5] O you grand people who came -over with the Conqueror, where would you be now without your snug city -marriages, your comfortable alliances with Cornhill and Chepe? Leigh -of Stoneleigh comes from a lord mayor of Queen Bess’s time. Fulke -Greville, Lord Brooke, married an alderman’s daughter two years ere -Hogarth was apprenticed. The ancestor to the Lords Clifton was agent -to the London Adventurers in Oliver’s time, and acquired his estate -in their service. George the Second’s Earl of Rockingham married the -daughter of Sir Henry Furnese, the money-lender and stock-jobber. The -great Duke of Argyll and Greenwich married a lord mayor’s niece. The -Earl of Denbigh’s ancestor married the daughter of Basil Firebrace, the -wine merchant. Brewers, money-scriveners, Turkey merchants, Burgomasters -of Utrecht’s daughters,—all these married blithely into the _haute -pairie_. If I am wrong in my genealogies, ’tis Daniel Defoe who is to -blame, not I; for that immortal drudge of literature is my informant. -Of course such marriages never take place now. Alliances between the -_sacs et parchemins_ are never heard of. Mayfair never meets the Mansion -House, nor Botolph Lane Belgravia, save at a Ninth of November banquet. -I question if I am not inopportune, and impertinent even, in hinting at -the dukes and belted earls who married the rich citizens’ daughters, were -it not that by and by ’prentice Hogarth will paint some scenes from a -great life drama full of Warton’s ἩΘΟΣ, called _Marriage à la Mode_. Ah! -those two perspectives seen through the open windows! In the first, the -courtyard of the proud noble’s mansion; in the last, busy, mercantile -London Bridge: court and city, city and court, and which the saddest -picture! - -Dominie Hogarth had but a hard time of it, and must have been pinched -in a gruesome manner to make both ends meet. That dictionary of his, -painfully compiled, and at last with infinite care and labour completed, -brought no grist to the mill in Ship Court. The manuscript was placed -in the hands of a bookseller, who did what booksellers often do when one -places manuscripts in their hands. He let it drop. “The booksellers,” -writes Hogarth himself, “used my father with great cruelty.” In his -loving simplicity he tells us that many of the most eminent and learned -persons in England, Ireland, and Scotland, wrote encomiastic notices of -the erudition and diligence displayed in the work, but all to no purpose. -I suppose the bookseller’s final answer was similar to that Hogarth has -scribbled in the Manager Rich’s reply to Tom Rakewell, in the prison -scene:—“Sir, I have read your play, and it will not _doo_.” A dreadful, -heartrending trade was average authorship, even in the “silver age” of -Anna Augusta. A lottery, if you will: the prizeholders secretaries of -state, ambassadors, hangers-on to dukes and duchesses, gentlemen ushers -to baby princesses, commissioners of hackney coaches or plantations; -but innumerable possessors of blanks. Walla Billa! they were in evil -case. For them the garret in Grub or Monmouth Street, or in Moorfields; -for them the Welshwoman dunning for the milkscore; for them the dirty -bread flung disdainfully by bookselling wretches like Curll. For them -the shrewish landlady, the broker’s man, the catchpole, the dedication -addressed to my lord, and which seldom got beyond his lacquey;—hold! let -me mind my Hogarth and his silver-plate engraving. Only a little may I -touch on literary woes when I come to the picture of the _Distressed -Poet_. For the rest, the calamities of authors have been food for the -commentaries of the wisest and most eloquent of their more modern -brethren, and my bald philosophizings thereupon can well be spared. - -But this premium, this indenture money, this ’prentice fee for young -William: _unde derivatur_? In the beginning, as you should know, this -same ’prentice fee was but a sort of “sweetener,” peace-offering, or -_pot de vin_ to the tradesman’s wife. The ’prentice’s mother slipped a -few pieces into madam’s hand when the boy put his finger on the blue -seal. The money was given that mistresses should be kind to the little -lads; that they should see that the trenchers they scraped were not quite -bare, nor the blackjacks they licked quite empty; that they should give -an eye to the due combing and soaping of those young heads, and now and -then extend a matronly ægis, lest Tommy or Billy should have somewhat -more cuffing and cudgelling than was quite good for them. By degree this -gift money grew to be demanded as a right; and by-and-by comes thrifty -Master Tradesman, and pops the broad pieces into his till, calling -them premium. Poor little shopkeepers in this “silver age” will take a -’prentice from the parish for five pounds, or from an acquaintance that -is broken, for nothing perhaps, and will teach him the great arts and -mysteries of sweeping out the shop, sleeping under the counter, fetching -his master from the tavern or the mughouse when a customer comes in, -or waiting at table; but a rich silversmith or mercer will have as -much as a thousand pounds with an apprentice. There is value received -on either side. The master is, and generally feels, bound to teach his -apprentice _everything_ he knows, else, as worthy Master Defoe puts it, -it is “somewhat like Laban’s usage to Jacob, viz. keeping back the -beloved Rachel, whom he served seven years for, and putting him off with -a blear-eyed Leah in her stead;” and again, it is “sending him into the -world like a man out of a ship set ashore among savages, who, instead -of feeding him, are indeed more ready to eat him up and devour him.” -You have little idea of the state, pomp, and circumstance of a rich -tradesman, when the eighteenth century was young. Now-a-days, when he -becomes affluent, he sells his stock and good-will, emigrates from the -shop-world, takes a palace in Tyburnia or a villa at Florence, and denies -that he has ever been in trade at all. Retired tailors become country -squires, living at “Places” and “Priories.” Enriched ironmongers and -their families saunter about Pau, and Hombourg, and Nice, passing for -British Brahmins, from whose foreheads the yellow streak has never been -absent since the earth first stood on the elephant, and the elephant on -the tortoise, and the tortoise on nothing that I am aware of, save the -primeval mud from which you and I, and the Great Mogul, and the legless -beggar trundling himself along in a gocart, and all humanity, sprang. But -then, Anna D. G., it was different. The tradesman was nothing away from -his shop. In it he was a hundred times more ostentatious. He may have -had his country box at Hampstead, Highgate, Edmonton, Edgeware; but his -home was in the city. Behind the hovel stuffed with rich merchandise, -sheltered by a huge timber bulk, and heralded to passers by an enormous -sheet of iron and painters’ work—his Sign—he built often a stately -mansion, with painted ceilings, with carved wainscoting or rich tapestry -and gilt leather-work, with cupboards full of rich plate, with wide -staircases, and furniture of velvet and brocade. To the entrance of the -noisome _cul-de-sac_, leading to the carved and panelled door (with -its tall flight of steps) of the rich tradesman’s mansion, came his -coach—yes, madam, his coach, with the Flanders mares, to take his wife -and daughters for an airing. In that same mansion, behind the hovel of -merchandise, uncompromising Daniel Defoe accuses the tradesman of keeping -servants in blue liveries richly laced, like unto the nobility’s. In that -same mansion the tradesman holds his Christmas and Shrovetide feasts, -the anniversaries of his birthday and his wedding-day, all with much -merrymaking and junketing, and an enormous amount of eating and drinking. -In that same mansion, in the fulness of time and trade, he dies; and in -that same mansion, upon my word, _he lies in state_,—yes, in state: on a -_lit de parade_, under a plumed tester, with flambeaux and sconces, with -blacks and weepers, with the walls hung with sable cloth, et cætera, et -cætera, et cætera.[6] ’Tis not only “Vulture Hopkins” whom a “thousand -lights attend” to the tomb, but very many wealthy tradesmen are so -buried, and with such pomp and ceremony. Not till the mid-reign of George -the Third did this custom expire. - -[I should properly in a footnote, but prefer in brackets, to qualify the -expression “hovel,” as applied to London tradesmen’s shops at this time, -1712-20. The majority, indeed, merit no better appellation: the windows -oft-times are not glazed, albeit the sign may be an elaborate and even -artistic performance, framed in curious scroll-work, and costing not -unfrequently a hundred pounds. The exceptions to the structural poverty -of the shops themselves are to be found in the toymen’s—mostly in Fleet -Street,—and the pastrycooks’—mainly in Leadenhall. There is a mania for -toys; and the toyshop people realize fortunes. Horace Walpole bought -his toy-villa at Strawberry Hill—which he afterwards improved into a -Gothic doll’s-house—of a retired _Marchand de Joujoux_. The toy-merchants -dealt in other wares besides playthings. They dealt in cogged dice. -They dealt in assignations and _billet-doux_. They dealt in masks and -dominos. Counsellor Silvertongue may have called at the toyshop coming -from the Temple, and have there learnt what hour the countess would -be at Heidegger’s masquerade. Woe to the wicked city! Thank Heaven we -can go and purchase Noah’s arks and flexible acrobats for our children -now, without rubbing shoulders with Counsellor Silvertongue or Lord -Fanny Sporus, on their bad errands. Frequented as they were by rank and -fashion, the toyshops threw themselves into outward decoration. Many -of these shops were kept by Frenchmen and Frenchwomen, and it has ever -been the custom of that fantastic nation to gild the outside of pills, -be the inside ever so nauseous. Next in splendour to the toyshops were -the pastrycooks. Such a bill as can be seen of the charges for fresh -furnishing one of these establishments about Twelfth Night time! “Sash -windows, all of looking-glass plates; the walls of the shop lined up with -galley-tiles in panels, finely painted in forest-work and figures; two -large branches of candlesticks; three great glass lanterns; twenty-five -sconces against the wall; fine large silver salvers to serve sweetmeats; -large high stands of rings for jellies; painting the ceiling, and gilding -the lanterns, the sashes, and the carved work!” Think of this, Master -Brook! What be your _Cafés des Mille Colonnes_, your Véfours, your Vérys, -your _Maisons-dorées_, after this magnificence? And at what sum, think -you, does the stern censor, crying out against it meanwhile as wicked -luxury and extravagance, estimate this Arabian Nights’ pastrycookery? At -three hundred pounds sterling! Grant that the sum represents six hundred -of our money. The Lorenzos the Magnificent, of Cornhill and Regent -Street, would think little of as many thousands for the building and -ornamentation of their palaces of trade. Not for selling tarts or toys -though. The tide has taken a turn; yet some comfortable reminiscences of -the old celebrity of the city toy and tart shops linger between Temple -Bar and Leadenhall. Farley, you yet delight the young. Holt, Birch, -Button, Purssell, at your sober warehouses the most urbane and beautiful -young ladies—how pale the pasty exhalations make them!—yet dispense the -most delightful of indigestions.] - -So he must have scraped this apprenticeship money together, Dominie -Hogarth: laid it by, by cheeseparing from his meagre school fees, -borrowed it from some rich scholar who pitied his learning and his -poverty, or perhaps become acquainted with Ellis Gamble, who may have -frequented the club held at the “Eagle and Child,” in the little Old -Bailey. “A wonderful turn for limning has my son,” I think I hear Dominie -Hogarth cry, holding up some precocious cartoon of William’s. “I doubt -not, sir, that were he to study the humanities of the Italian bustos, -and the just rules of Jesuit’s perspective, and the anatomies of the -learned Albinus, that he would paint as well as Signor Verrio, who hath -lately done that noble piece in the new hall Sir Christopher hath built -for the blue-coat children in Newgate Street.” “Plague on the Jesuits,” -answers honest (and supposititious) Mr. Ellis Gamble. “Plague on all -foreigners and papists, goodman Hogarth. If you will have your lad draw -bustos and paint ceilings, forsooth, you must get one of the great court -lords to be his patron, and send him to Italy, where he shall learn -not only the cunningness of limning, but to dance, and to dice, and to -break all the commandments, and to play on the viol-di-gamby. But if you -want to make an honest man and a fair tradesman of him, Master Hogarth, -and one who will be a loyal subject to the Queen, and hate the French, -you shall e’en bind him ’prentice to me; and I will be answerable for -all his concernments, and send him to church and catechize, and all at -small charges to you.” Might not such a conversation have taken place? I -think so. Is it not very probable that the lad Hogarth being then some -fourteen years old, was forthwith combed his straightest, and brushed -his neatest, and his bundle or his box of needments being made up by the -hands of his loving mother and sisters, despatched westward, and with -all due solemnity of parchment and blue seal, bound ’prentice to Mr. -Ellis Gamble? I am sure, by the way in which he talks of the poor old -Dominie and the dictionary, that he was a loving son. I know he was a -tender brother. Good Ellis Gamble—the lad being industrious, quick, and -dexterous of hand—must have allowed him to earn some journeyman’s wages -during his ’prentice-time; for that probation being out, he set not only -himself, but his two sisters, Mary and Ann, up in business. They were in -some small hosiery line, and William engraved a shop-card for them, which -did not, I am afraid, prosper with these unsubstantial spinsters any more -than did the celebrated lollipop emporium established in _The House with -the Seven Gables_. One sister survived him, and to her, by his will, he -left an annuity of eighty pounds. - -Already have I spoken of the Leicester Square gold and silver smith’s -style and titles. It is meet that you should peruse them in full:— - -[Illustration] - -So to Cranbourn Street, Leicester Fields, is William Hogarth bound for -seven long years. Very curious is it to mark how old trades and old types -of inhabitants linger about localities. They were obliged to pull old -Cranbourn Street and Cranbourn Alley quite down before they could get rid -of the silversmiths, and even now I see them sprouting forth again round -about the familiar haunt; the latest ensample thereof being in the shop -of a pawnbroker—of immense wealth, I presume, who, gorged and fevered by -multitudes of unredeemed pledges, has suddenly astonished New Cranbourn -Street with plate-glass windows, overflowing with plate, jewellery, and -trinkets; buhl cabinets, gilt consoles, suits of armour, antique china, -Pompadour clocks, bronze monsters, and other articles of _virtù_. But -don’t you remember Hamlet’s in the dear old Dædalean, bonnet-building -Cranbourn Alley days?—that long low shop whose windows seemed to have -no end, and not to have been dusted for centuries; those dim vistas of -dish-covers, coffee biggins and centre-pieces. You must think of Crœsus -when you speak of the reputed wealth of Hamlet. His stock was said to be -worth millions. Seven watchmen kept guard over it every night. Half the -aristocracy were in his debt. Royalty itself had gone credit for plate -and jewellery at Hamlet’s. Rest his bones, poor old gentleman, if he be -departed. He took to building and came to grief. His shop is no more, and -his name is but a noise. - -In our time, Cranbourn Street and Cranbourn Alley were dingy labyrinths -of dish-covers, bonnets, boots, coffee-shops, and cutlers; but what must -the place have been like in Hogarth’s time? We can have no realizable -conception; for late in George the Third’s reign, or early in George the -Fourth’s, the whole _pâté_ of lanes and courts between Leicester Square -and St. Martin’s Lane had become so shamefully rotten and decayed, that -they half tumbled, and were half pulled down. The labyrinth was rebuilt; -but, to the shame of the surveyors and architects of the noble landlord, -on the same labyrinthine principle of mean and shabby tenements. You -see, rents are rents, little fishes eat sweet, and many a little makes a -mickle. Since that period, however, better ideas of architectural economy -have prevailed; and, although part of the labyrinth remains, there has -still been erected a really handsome thoroughfare from Leicester Square -to Long Acre. As a sad and natural consequence, the shops don’t let, -while the little tenements in the alleys that remain are crowded; but let -us hope that the example of the feverish pawnbroker who has burst out in -an eruption of jewellery and art fabrics, may be speedily followed by -other professors of _bricabrac_. - -Gay’s _Trivia_, in miniature, must have been manifest every hour in the -day in Hogarth’s Cranbourn Alley. Fights for the wall must have taken -place between fops. Sweeps and small coalmen must have interfered with -the “nice conduct of a clouded cane.” The beggars must have swarmed here: -the blind beggar, and the lame beggar, the stump-in-the-bowl, and the -woman bent double: the beggar who blew a trumpet—the impudent varlet!—to -announce his destitution;—the beggar with a beard like unto Belisarius, -the beggar who couldn’t eat cold meat, the beggar who had been to Ireland -and the Seven United Provinces—was this “Philip in the tub” that W. H. -afterwards drew?—the beggar in the blue apron, the leathern cap, and the -wen on his forehead, who was supposed to be so like the late Monsieur de -St. Evremonde, Governor of Duck Island; not forgetting the beggar in the -ragged red coat and the black patch over his eye, who by his own showing -had been one of the army that swore so terribly in Flanders, and howled -Tom D’Urfey’s song, “The Queene’s old souldiers, and the ould souldiers -of the Queene.” Then there was the day watchman, who cried the hour -when nobody wanted to hear it, and to whose “half-past one,” the muddy -goose that waddled after him, cried “quack.” And then there must have -been the silent mendicant, of whom Mr. _Spectator_ says (1712), “He has -nothing to sell, but very gravely receives the bounty of the people for -no other merit than the homage due to his manner of signifying to them -that he wants a subsidy.”[7] Said I not truly that the old types _will_ -linger in the old localities? What is this silent mendicant but the -“serious poor young man” we have all seen standing mute on the edge of -the kerb, his head downcast, his hands meekly folded before him, himself -attired in speckless but shabby black, and a spotless though frayed white -neckerchief? - -Mixed up among the beggars, among the costermongers and hucksters who -lounge or brawl on the pavement, undeterred by fear of barrow-impounding -policemen; among the varlets who have “young lambs to sell”—they have -sold those sweet cakes since Elizabeth’s time;—among the descendants -and progenitors of hundreds of “Tiddy Dolls,” and “Colly Molly Puffs;” -among bailiffs prowling for their prey, and ruffian cheats and -gamesters from the back-waters of Covent Garden; among the fellows -with hares-and-tabors, the matchsellers, the masksellers—for in this -inconceivable period ladies and gentlemen wanted vizors at twelve o’clock -at noon—be it admitted, nevertheless, that the real “quality” ceased -to wear them about the end of William’s reign—among the tradesmen, -wigs awry, and apron-girt, darting out from their shops to swallow -their matutinal pint of wine, or dram of strong waters; among all this -_tohu-bohu_, this Galimatias of small industries and small vices, -chairmen come swaggering and jolting along with the gilded sedans between -poles; and lo! the periwigged, Mechlin-laced, gold-embroidered beau hands -out Belinda, radiant, charming, powdered, patched, fanned, perfumed, who -is come to Cranbourn Alley to choose new diamonds. And more beaux’ shins -are wounded by more whalebone petticoats, and Sir Fopling Flutter treads -on Aramanta’s brocaded _queue_; and the heavens above are almost shut out -by the great projecting, clattering signs. Conspicuous among them is the -“Golden Angel,” kept by Ellis Gamble. - -Mark, too, that Leicester Fields were then as now the favourite resort -of foreigners. Green Street, Bear Street, Castle Street, Panton Street, -formed a district called, as was a purlieu in Westminster too, by the -Sanctuary, “Petty France.” Theodore Gardelle, the murderer, lived about -Leicester Fields. Legions of high-dried Mounseers, not so criminal as he, -but peaceable, honest, industrious folk enough, peered out of the garret -windows of Petty France with their blue, bristly gills, red nightcaps, -and filthy indoor gear. They were always cooking hideous messes, and -made the already unwholesome atmosphere intolerable with garlic. They -wrought at water-gilding, clock-making, sign-painting, engraving for book -illustrations—although in this department the Germans and Dutch were -dangerous rivals. A very few offshoots from the great Huguenot colony -in Spitalfields were silk-weavers. There were then as now many savoury, -tasting and unsavoury-smelling French ordinaries; and again, then as now, -some French washerwomen and clearstarchers. But the dwellers in Leicester -Fields slums and in Soho were mainly Catholics frequenting the Sardinian -ambassador’s chapel in Duke Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields. French -hairdressers and perfumers lived mostly under Covent Garden Piazza, in -Bow Street and in Long Acre. Very few contrived to pass Temple Bar. The -citizens appeared to have as great a horror of them as of the players, -and so far as they could, by law, banished them their bounds, rigorously. -French dancing, fencing, and posture masters, and quack doctors, lived -at the court end of the town, and kept, many of them, their coaches. -Not a few of the grinning, fantastic French community were spies of -the magnificent King Louis. Sunday was the Frenchmen’s great day, and -the Mall in St. James’s park their favourite resort and fashionable -promenade. It answered for them all the purposes which the old colonnade -of the Quadrant was wont to serve, and which the flags of Regent Street -serve now. On Sunday the blue, bristly gills were clean shaven, the -red nightcaps replaced by full-bottomed wigs, superlatively curled and -powdered. The filthy indoor gear gave way to embroidered coats of gay -colours, with prodigious cuffs, and the skirts stiffened with buckram. -Lacquer-hilted swords stuck out behind them. Paste buckles glittered -in their shoon. Glass rings bedecked their lean paws. They held their -_tricornes_ beneath their arms, flourished their canes and inhaled their -snuff with the best beaux on town. We are apt to laugh at the popular old -caricatures of the French Mounseer, and think those engravings unkind, -unnatural, and overdrawn; but just shave me this bearded, moustached, -braided and be-ringed Jules, Gustave, or Adolphe who comes swaggering -to-day from the back of Sherrard Street or Marylebone Street, round by -the County Fire Office into Regent Street; shave me the modern Mounseer -quite clean, clap a periwig on his head, a _chapeau bras_ beneath his -arm, a sword by his side; clothe his shrunken limbs in eighteenth century -costume; or better, see the French comedian in some old comedy at the -_Français_ or the _Odéon_, and you will cry out at once: “There is the -Mounseer whom Hogarth, Gilray, Bunbury, and Rowlandson drew.” And yet -I owe an apology, here, to the Mounseers; for it was very likely some -courteous, albeit grimacing denizen of Petty France who supplied our -Hogarth with the necessary French translation of the gold and silver -smith’s style and titles to engrave on his shop-card. - -I am to be pardoned, I hope, for lingering long in Leicester Fields. -I shall have to return to the place often, for William Hogarth much -affected it. In Leicester Fields he lived years afterwards when he was -celebrated and prosperous. Where Pagliano’s Hotel is now, had he his -house, the sign, the “Golden Head,” and not the “Painter’s Head,” -as I have elsewhere put it. There he died. There his widow lived for -many—many years afterwards, always loving and lamenting the great artist -and good man, her husband. It was about Leicester Fields too—nay, -unless I mistake, in Cranbourn Alley itself, that old nutcracker-faced -Nollekens the sculptor pointed out William to Northcote the painter. -“There,” he cried, “see, there’s Hogarth.” He pointed to where stood a -little stout-faced sturdy man in a sky-blue coat, who was attentively -watching a quarrel between two street boys. It was Mr. Mulready’s “Wolf -and the Lamb” story a little before its time. The bigger boy oppressed -the smaller; whereupon Hogarth patted the diminutive victim on the head, -and gave him a coin, and said with something like a naughty word that he -wouldn’t stand it, if he was the small boy: no, not he. - -Seven years at cross-hatch and double cypher. Seven years turning and -re-turning salvers and tankards on the leathern pad, and every month -and every year wielding the graver and burnisher with greater strength -and dexterity. What legions of alphabets, in double cypher, he must -have “drawn with great correctness;” what dictionary loads of Latin and -Norman-French mottoes he must have flourished beneath the coats of arms! -Oh, the scutcheons he must have blazoned in the symbolism of lines! -Blank for argent, dots for or, horizontal for azure, vertical for gules, -close-chequer for sable. The griffins, the lions, the dragons, rampant, -couchant, regardant, langued, gorged, he must have drawn! The chevrons, -the fesses, the sinoples of the first! He himself confesses that his -just notions of natural history were for a time vitiated by the constant -contemplation and delineation of these fabulous monsters, and that when -he was out of his time he was compelled to unlearn all his heraldic -zoology. To the end his dogs were very much in the “supporter” style, and -the horses in the illustrations in Hudibras strongly resemble hippogriffs. - -He must have been studying, and studying hard, too, at drawing, from the -round and plane during his ’prentice years. Sir Godfrey Kneller had a -kind of academy at his own house in 1711; but Sir James Thornhill did -not establish his till long after Hogarth had left the service of Ellis -Gamble. Hogarth tells us that as a boy he had access to the studio of a -neighbouring painter. Who may this have been? Francis Hoffmann; Hubertz; -Hulzberg, the warden of the Lutheran Church in the Savoy; Samuel Moore -of the Custom House? Perhaps his earliest instructor was some High Dutch -etcher of illustrations living eastwards to be near the booksellers in -Paternoster Row; or perhaps the “neighbouring painter” was an artist in -tavern and shop signs. Men of no mean proficiency wrought in that humble -but lucrative line of emblematic art in Anna’s “silver age.” - -That Hogarth possessed considerable graphic powers when he engraved Ellis -Gamble’s shop-card, you have only to glance at the angel holding the -palm above the commercial announcement, to be at once convinced. This -figure, however admirably posed and draped, _may_ have been copied from -some foreign frontispiece. The engraving, however, as an example of pure -line, is excellent. We are left to wonder whether it was by accident or -by design of quaint conceit that the right hand of the angel has a finger -too many. - -Of Hogarth’s adventures during his apprenticeship, with the single -exception of his holiday excursion to Highgate, when there was a -battle-royal in a suburban public-house, and when he drew a capital -portrait of one of the enraged combatants, the Muse is dumb. He led, very -probably, the life of nineteen-twentieths of the London ’prentices of -that period: only he must have worked harder and more zealously than the -majority of his fellows. Concerning the next epoch of his life the Muse -deigns to be far more explicit, and, I trust, will prove more eloquent on -your worships’ behalf. I have done with the mists and fogs that envelop -the early part of my hero’s career, and shall be able to trace it now -year by year until his death. - - -FOOTNOTES - -[1] According to Tertullian, Asclepiades, the comic cynic, advocated -riding on cow-back as the most healthful, and especially the most -independent means of locomotion in the world; for, said he, she goes so -slowly that she can never get tired. Wherever there is a field, there is -her banquet; _and you may live on her milk all the way_. But I think that -the most economical and the merriest traveller on record was the Giant -Hurtali (though the Rabbins will have that it was Og, King of Basan), who -sat astride the roof of Noah’s ark _à la_ cockhorse, steering that great -galleon with his gigantic legs, getting his washing for nothing, and -having his victuals handed up to him through the chimney.—See _Menage_ -and _Le Pelletier_; _l’Arche de Noé_, c. 25. - -[2] This “Prusia” occurred in the dedication of the “March to Finchley” -to Frederick the Great. His friends quizzed him a good deal about the -error, and he undertook to correct it by hand in every proof of the -plate sold. But he soon grew tired of making the mark ~ with a pen over -the single s, and at last had the offensive “Prusia” burnished out -of the copper, and the orthodox “Prussia” substituted. But even then -the quizzers were not tired, and showed him a Prussian thaler bearing -Frederick’s effigy, and the legend of which spoke of him as _Borussiæ -Rex_. ’Twas the story of the old man and his donkey over again. - -[3] Till the legislature deprives the people of their “eleven days,” I am -using the old-style calendar. - -[4] I have seen it somewhere stated that Gamble was a “silversmith of -eminence,” residing on or near Snow Hill. “_Cela n’empêche pas_,” as the -Hanoverian Queen on her death-bed said to her repentant husband. I see no -reason why Gamble should not have been originally of Snow Hill, and have -emigrated before 1720 to the Court end of the town. - -[5] “The Complete English Tradesman,” i. 234. - -[6] “Let it be interred after the manner of the country, and the laws -of the place, and the _dignity of the person_. And Ælian tells us that -excellent persons were buried in purple, and men of an ordinary fortune -had their graves only trimmed with branches of olive and mourning -flowers.” So Bishop Taylor in _Holy Dying_. The tide of feeling in this -age of ours sets strongly against mortuary pomp; yet should we remember -that with the old pomps and obsequies of our forefathers much real -charity was mingled. All the money was not spent in wax-tapers and grim -feastings. At the death of a wealthy citizen, hundreds of poor men and -women had complete suits of mourning given to them, and the fragments -of the “funeral baked meats” furnished forth scores of pauper tables -before evensong. Lazarus had his portion when Dives passed away. Now, who -profits by a funeral beyond half a dozen lacqueys, and Messrs. Tressel -and Hatchment, the undertakers? - -[7] I can’t resist the opportunity here to tell a story of a Beggar, -the more so, that it made me laugh, and was told me by an Austrian -officer; and Austrian officers are not the most laughter-compelling -people in the world. My informant happened to alight one day at some -post town in Italy, and was at once surrounded by the usual swarm -of beggars, who, of course, fought for the honour (and profit) of -carrying his baggage. Equally, of course, each beggar took a separate -portion of the _impedimenta_—one a hat-box, one an umbrella, and so -on—so that each would claim a separate reward. At the expenditure of -much patience, and some small change, the traveller had at last paid -each extortionate impostor that which was not due to him; when there -approached a reverend, but ragged-looking man, with a long white beard, -and who, with an indescribable look of dirty dignity, held out his hand -like the rest. The traveller had remarked that this patriarch had stood -aloof during the squabble for the luggage, and had moved neither hand -nor foot in pretending to carry it. Naturally, before the traveller -disbursed more coin, he briefly desired the man with the white beard -to define his claim. The reply was, I think, incomparable for cool and -dignified impudence. The patriarch drew himself up to his full height, -placed his right hand on his breast, and in slow and solemn accents made -answer:—“_Ed anche io sono stato presente._” “I, too, was present!” -Sublime beggar! - - - - -Mabel. - - - I. - - In the sunlight:— - Little Mab, the keeper’s daughter, singing by the brooklet’s side, - With her playmates singing carols of the gracious Easter-tide; - And the violet and the primrose make sweet incense for the quire, - In the springlight, when the rosebuds hide the thorns upon the briar. - - II. - - In the lamplight:— - With a proud defiant beauty, Mab, the fallen, flaunts along, - Speaking sin’s words, wildly laughing, she who sang that Paschal song, - And a mother lies a-dying in the cottage far away, - And a father cries to Heaven, “THOU hast said, ‘_I will repay_.’” - - III. - - In the moonlight:— - By the gravestone in the churchyard, Mabel, where her mother sleeps, - Like the tearful saint of Magdala, an Easter vigil keeps:— - There, trailing cruel thorns, storm-drenched, plaining with piteous - bleat, - The lost lamb (so her mother prayed) and the Good Shepherd meet. - - S. R. H. - - - - -Studies in Animal Life. - - “Authentic tidings of invisible things; - Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power, - And central peace subsisting at the heart - Of endless agitation.”—THE EXCURSION. - - -CHAPTER III. - - A garden wall, and its traces of past life—Not a breath - perishes—A bit of dry moss and its inhabitants—The - “Wheel-bearers”—Resuscitation of Rotifers: drowned into - life—Current belief that animals can be revived after complete - desiccation—Experiments contradicting the belief—Spallanzani’s - testimony—Value of biology as a means of culture—Classification - of animals: the five great types—Criticism of Cuvier’s - arrangement. - -Pleasant, both to eye and mind, is an old garden wall, dark with age, -gray with lichens, green with mosses of beautiful hues and fairy elegance -of form: a wall shutting in some sequestered home, far from “the din of -murmurous cities vast:” a home where, as we fondly, foolishly think, -Life must needs throb placidly, and all its tragedies and pettinesses be -unknown. As we pass alongside this wall, the sight of the overhanging -branches suggests an image of some charming nook; or our thoughts wander -about the wall itself, calling up the years during which it has been -warmed by the sun, chilled by the night airs and the dews, and dashed -against by the wild winds of March: all of which have made it quite -another wall from what it was when the trowel first settled its bricks. -The old wall has a past, a life, a story; as Wordsworth finely says of -the mountain, it is “familiar with forgotten years.” Not only are there -obvious traces of age in the crumbling mortar and the battered brick, but -there are traces, not obvious, except to the inner eye, left by every ray -of light, every raindrop, every gust. Nothing perishes. In the wondrous -metamorphosis momently going on everywhere in the universe, there is -_change_, but no _loss_. - -Lest you should imagine this to be poetry, and not science, I will touch -on the evidence that every beam of light, or every breath of air, which -falls upon an object, permanently affects it. In photography we see the -effect of light very strikingly exhibited; but perhaps you will object -that this proves nothing more than that light acts upon an iodized -surface. Yet in truth light acts upon, and more or less alters, the -structure of every object on which it falls. Nor is this all. If a wafer -be laid on a surface of polished metal, which is then breathed upon, and -if, when the moisture of the breath has evaporated, the wafer be shaken -off, we shall find that the whole polished surface is not as it was -before, although our senses can detect no difference; for if we breathe -again upon it, the surface will be moist everywhere except on the spot -previously sheltered by the wafer, which will now appear as a spectral -image on the surface. Again and again we breathe, and the moisture -evaporates, but still the spectral wafer reappears. This experiment -succeeds after a lapse of many months, if the metal be carefully put -aside where its surface cannot be disturbed. If a sheet of paper, on -which a key has been laid, be exposed for some minutes to the sunshine, -and then instantaneously viewed in the dark, the key being removed, a -fading spectre of the key will be visible. Let this paper be put aside -for many months where nothing can disturb it, and then in darkness be -laid on a plate of hot metal, the spectre of the key will again appear. -In the case of bodies more highly phosphorescent than paper, the spectres -of many different objects which may have been laid on in succession will, -on warming, emerge in their proper order.[8] - -This is equally true of our bodies, and our minds. We are involved in the -universal metamorphosis. Nothing leaves us wholly as it found us. Every -man we meet, every book we read, every picture or landscape we see, every -word or tone we hear, mingles with our being and modifies it. There are -cases on record of ignorant women, in states of insanity, uttering Greek -and Hebrew phrases, which in past years they had heard their masters -utter, without of course comprehending them. These tones had long been -forgotten: the traces were so faint that under ordinary conditions they -were invisible; but the traces were there, and in the intense light of -cerebral excitement they started into prominence, just as the spectral -image of the key started into sight on the application of heat. It is -thus with all the influences to which we are subjected. - -If a garden wall can lead our vagabond thoughts into such speculations -as these, surely it may also furnish us with matter for our Studies in -Animal Life? Those patches of moss must be colonies. Suppose we examine -them? I pull away a small bit, which is so dry that the dust crumbles at -a touch; this may be wrapped in a piece of paper—dirt and all—and carried -home. Get the microscope ready, and now attend. - -I moisten a fragment of this moss with distilled water. Any water will do -as well, but the use of distilled water prevents your supposing that the -animals you are about to watch were brought in it, and were not already -in the moss. I now squeeze the bit between my fingers, and a drop of -the contained water—somewhat turbid with dirt—falls on the glass slide, -which we may now put on the microscope stage. A rapid survey assures us -that there is no animal visible. The moss is squeezed again; and this -time little yellowish bodies of an irregular oval are noticeable among -the particles of dust and moss. Watch one of these, and presently you -will observe a slow bulging at one end, and then a bulging at the other -end. The oval has elongated itself into a form not unlike that of a fat -caterpillar, except that there is a tapering at one end. Now a forked -tail is visible; this fixes on to the glass, while the body sways to and -fro. Now the head is drawn in—as if it were swallowed—and, suddenly, -in its place are unfolded two broad membranes, having each a circle of -waving _cilia_. The lifeless oval has become a living animal! You have -assisted at a resuscitation, not from death by drowning, but by drying: -the animal has been drowned into life! The unfolded membranes, with -their cilia, have so much the appearance of wheels that the name of -“Wheel-bearer” (_Rotifera_) or “Wheel Animalcule” has been given to the -animal. - -The Rotifera (also—and more correctly—called _Rotatoria_) form an -interesting study. Let us glance at their organization:— - -[Illustration: Fig. 16. - -ROTIFER VULGARIS. A, with the wheels drawn in (at _c_). B, with wheels -expanded; _b_, eye spots; _c_, jaws and teeth; _f_, alimentary canal; -_g_, embryo; _h_, embryo further developed; _i_, water-vascular system; -_k_, vent.] - -There are many different kinds of Rotifers, varying very materially in -size and shape; the males, as was stated in the last chapter, being -more imperfectly organized than the females. They may be seen either -swimming rapidly through the water by means of the vibratile cilia -called “wheels,” because the optical effect is very much that of a -toothed-wheel; or crawling along the side of the glass, fastening to it -by the head, and then curving the body till the tail is brought up to the -spot, which is then fastened on by the tail, and the head is set free. -They may also be seen fastened to a weed, or the glass, by the tail, the -body waving to and fro, or thrusting itself straight out, and setting -the wheels in active motion. In this attitude the aspect of the jaws is -very striking. Leuwenhoek mistook it for the pulsation of a heart, which -its incessant rhythm much resembles. The tail, and the upper part of -the body, have a singular power of being drawn out, or drawn in, like -the tube of a telescope. There is sometimes a shell, or carapace, but -often the body is covered only with a smooth firm skin, which, however, -presents decided indications of being segmented. - -The first person who described these Rotifers was the excellent old -Leuwenhoek;[9] and his animals were got from the gutter of a house-top. -Since then, they have been minutely studied, and have been shown to -be, not Infusoria, as Ehrenberg imagined, but Crustacea.[10] Your -attention is requested to the one point which has most contributed to the -celebrity of these creatures—their power of resuscitation. Leuwenhoek -described—what you have just witnessed, namely—the slow resuscitation of -the animal (which seemed as dry as dust, and might have been blown about -like any particle of dust,) directly a little moisture was brought to it. -Spallanzani startled the world with the announcement that this process of -drying and moistening—of killing and reviving—could be repeated fifteen -times in succession; so that the Rotifer, whose natural term of life is -about eighteen days, might, it was said, be dried and kept for years, -and at any time revived by moisture. That which seems now no better than -a grain of dust will suddenly awaken to the energetic life of a complex -organism, and may again be made as dust by evaporation of the water. - -This is very marvellous: so marvellous that a mind, trained in the -cultivated caution of science, will demand the evidence on which it -is based. Two months ago I should have dismissed the doubt with the -assurance that the evidence was ample and rigorous, and the fact -indisputable. For not only had the fact been confirmed by the united -experience of several investigators: it had stood the test of very severe -experiment. Thus in 1842, M. Doyère published experiments which seemed to -place it beyond scepticism. Under the air-pump he set some moss, together -with vessels containing sulphuric acid, which would absorb every trace of -moisture. After leaving the moss thus for a week, he removed it into an -oven, the temperature of which was raised to 300° Fahrenheit. Yet even -this treatment did not prevent the animals from resuscitating when water -was added. - -In presence of testimony like this, doubt will seem next to impossible. -Nevertheless, my own experiments leave me no choice but to doubt. Not -having witnessed M. Doyère’s experiment, I am not prepared to say wherein -its fallacy lies; but that there _is_ a fallacy, seems to me capable of -decisive proof. In M. Pouchet’s recent work[11] I first read a distinct -denial of the pretended resuscitation of the Rotifers; this denial was -the more startling to me, because I had myself often witnessed the -reawakening of these dried animals. Nevertheless, whenever a doubt is -fairly started, we have not done justice to it until we have brought it -to the test of experiment; accordingly I tested this, and quickly came -upon what seems to me the source of the general misconception. Day after -day experiments were repeated, varied, and controlled, and with results -so unvarying that hesitation vanished; and as some of these experiments -are of extreme simplicity, you may verify what I say with little trouble. -Squeeze a drop from the moss, taking care that there is scarcely -any dirt in it; and, having ascertained that it contains Rotifers, -or Tardigrades,[12] alive and moving, place the glass-slide under a -bell-glass, to shield it from currents of air, and there allow the water -to evaporate slowly, but completely, by means of chloride of calcium, or -sulphuric acid, placed under the bell-glass; or, what is still simpler, -place a slide with the live animals on the mantelpiece when a fire is -burning in the grate. If on the day following you examine this perfectly -dry glass, you will see the contracted bodies of the Rotifers, presenting -the aspect of yellowish oval bodies; but attempt to resuscitate them by -the addition of a little fresh water, and you will find that they do not -revive, as they revived when dried in the moss: they sometimes swell a -little, and elongate themselves, and you imagine this is a commencement -of resuscitation; but continue watching for two or three days, and you -will find it goes no further. Never do these oval bodies become active -crawling Rotifers; never do they expand their wheels, and set the -œsophagus at work. No: the Rotifer once _dried_ is dead, and dead for -ever. - -But if, like a cautious experimenter, you vary and control the -experiment, and beside the glass-slide place a watch-glass containing -Rotifers with dirt, or moss, you will find that the addition of water -to the contents of the watch-glass will often (not always) revive the -animals. What you cannot effect on a glass-slide without dirt, or with -very little, you easily effect in a watch-glass with dirt, or moss; -and if you give due attention you will find that in each case the -result depends upon the quantity of the dirt. And this leads to a clear -understanding of the whole mystery; this reconciles the conflicting -statements. The reason why Rotifers ever revive is, because they have -not been _dried_—they have not lost by evaporation that small quantity -of water which forms _an integral constituent of their tissues_; and -it is the presence of dirt, or moss, which prevents this complete -evaporation. No one, I suppose, believes that the Rotifer actually -revives after once being dead. If it has a power of remaining in a state -of suspended animation, like that of a frozen frog, it can do so only -on the condition that its _organism_ is not destroyed; and destroyed it -would be, if the water were removed from its tissues: for, strange as -it may seem, water is not an _accessory_, but a _constituent element_ -of every tissue; and this cannot be replaced _mechanically_—it can only -be replaced by _vital processes_. Every one who has made microscopic -preparations must be aware that when once a tissue is desiccated, it is -spoiled: it will not recover its form and properties on the application -of water; because the water was not originally worked into the web by -a mere process of imbibition—like water in a sponge—but by a molecular -process of assimilation, like albumen in a muscle. Therefore, I say, that -desiccation is necessarily death; and the Rotifer which revives cannot -have been desiccated. This being granted, we have only to ask, What -prevents the Rotifer from becoming completely dried? Experiment shows -that it is the presence of dirt, or moss, which does this. The whole -marvel of the Rotifer’s resuscitation, therefore, amounts to this:—that -if the water in which it lives be evaporated, the animal passes into a -state of suspended animation, and remains so, as long as its _own water_ -is protected from evaporation. - -I am aware that this is not easily to be reconciled with M. Doyère’s -experiments, since the application of a temperature so high as 300° -Fahr. (nearly a hundred degrees above boiling water) must, one would -imagine, have completely desiccated the animals, in spite of any amount -of protecting dirt. It is possible that M. Doyère may have mistaken -that previously-noted swelling-up of the bodies, on the application -of water, for a return to vital activity. If not, I am at a loss to -explain the contradiction; for certainly in my experience a much more -moderate desiccation—namely, that obtained by simple evaporation over a -mantelpiece, or under a large bell-glass—_always_ destroyed the animals, -if little or no dirt were present. - -The subject has recently been brought before the French Academy of -Sciences by M. Davaine, whose experiments[13] lead him to the conclusion -that those Rotifers which habitually live in ponds will not revive after -desiccation: whereas those which live in moss always do so. I believe the -explanation to be this: the Rotifers living in ponds are dried without -any protecting dirt, or moss, and that is the reason they do not revive. - -After having satisfied myself on this point, I did what perhaps would -have saved me some trouble if thought of before. I took down Spallanzani, -and read his account of his celebrated experiments. To my surprise and -satisfaction, it appeared that he had accurately observed the same facts, -but curiously missed their real significance. Nothing can be plainer -than the following passage: “But there is one condition indispensable -to the resurrection of wheel-animals: it is absolutely necessary that -there should be a certain quantity of sand; without it they will not -revive. One day I had two wheel-animals traversing a drop of water -about to evaporate, which contained very little sand. Three quarters of -an hour after evaporation, they were dry and motionless. I moistened -them with water to revive them; but in vain, notwithstanding that they -were immersed in water many hours. Their members swelled to thrice the -original size, but they remained motionless. To ascertain whether the -fact was accidental, I spread a portion of sand, containing animals, on a -glass slide, and waited till it became dry in order to wet it anew. The -sand was carelessly scattered on the glass, so as to be a thin covering -on some parts, and on others in a very small quantity: here the animals -did not revive: but all that were in those parts with abundance of sand -revived.”[14] He further says that if sand be spread out in considerable -quantities in some places, much less in others, and very little in the -rest, on moistening it the revived animals will be numerous in the first, -less numerous in the second, and none at all in the third. - -It is not a little remarkable that observations so precise as these -should have for many years passed unregarded, and not led to the true -explanation of the mystery. Perhaps an inherent love of the marvellous -made men greedily accept the idea of resuscitation, and indisposed them -to attempt an explanation of it. Spallanzani’s own attempt is certainly -not felicitous. He supposes that the dust prevents the lacerating -influence of the air from irritating and injuring the animals. And this -explanation is accepted by his Translator. - -[Since the foregoing remarks were in type, M. Gavarret has published -(_Annales des Sciences Naturelles_, 1859, xi. p. 315) the account of his -experiments on Rotifers and Tardigrades, in which he found that after -subjecting the _moss_ to a desiccation the most complete according to our -present means, the _animals_ revived after twenty-four hours’ immersion -of the moss in water. This result seems flatly to contradict the result -I arrived at; but only _seems_ to contradict it, for in my experiments -the _animals_, not the moss, were subjected to desiccation. Nevertheless, -I confess that my confidence was shaken by experiments so precise, and -performed by so distinguished an investigator, and I once more resumed -the experiments, feeling persuaded that the detection of the fallacy, -wherever it might be, would be well worth the trouble. The results of -these controlling experiments are all I can find room for here:—_Whenever -the animals were completely separated from the dirt, they perished_; in -two cases there was a very little dirt—a mere film, so to speak—in the -watch-glass, and glass-cell, and this, slight as it was, sufficed to -protect two out of eight, and three out of ten Rotifers, which revived -on the second day; the others did not revive even on the third day after -their immersion. In one instance, a thin covering-glass was placed over -the water on the slide, and the evaporation of the water seemed complete, -yet this glass-cover sufficed to protect a Rotifer, which revived in -three hours. - -If we compare these results with those obtained by M. Davaine, we can -scarcely avoid the conclusion that it is only when the desiccation of -the Rotifers is prevented by the presence of a small quantity of moss, -or of dirt—between the particles of which they find shelter—that they -revive on the application of water. And even in the severe experiments -of M. Doyère and M. Gavarret, _some_ of the animals must have been thus -protected; and I call particular attention to the fact that, although -some animals revived, others always perished. But if the organization of -the Rotifer, or Tardigrade, is such that it can withstand desiccation—if -it only needs the fresh applications of moisture to restore its -activity—all, or almost all, the animals experimented on ought to revive; -and the fact that only some revive leads us to suspect that these have -not been desiccated—a suspicion which is warranted by direct experiments. -I believe, then, that the discrepancy amounts to this: investigators who -have desiccated the moss containing animals, find some of the animals -revive on the application of moisture; but those who desiccate the -animals themselves, will find no instances of revival.] - -The time spent on these Rotifers will not have been misspent if it -has taught us the necessity of caution in all experimental inquiries. -Although Experiment is valuable—nay, indispensable—as a means of -interrogating Nature, it is constantly liable to mislead us into the -idea that we have rightly interrogated, and rightly interpreted the -replies; and this danger arises from the complexity of the cases with -which we are dealing, and our proneness to overlook, or disregard, some -seemingly trifling condition—a trifle which may turn out of the utmost -importance. The one reason why the study of Science is valuable as a -means of culture, over and above its own immediate objects, is that in -it the mind learns to _submit_ to realities, instead of thrusting its -figments in the place of realities—endeavours to ascertain accurately -what the order of Nature _is_, and not what it ought to be, or might be. -The one reason why, of all sciences, Biology is pre-eminent as a means -of culture, is, that owing to the great complexity of all the cases it -investigates, it familiarizes the mind with the necessity of attending -to _all_ the conditions, and it thus keeps the mind alert. It cultivates -caution, which, considering the tendency there is in men to “anticipate -Nature,” is a mental tonic of inestimable worth. I am far from asserting -that biologists are more accurate reasoners than other men; indeed, the -mass of crude hypothesis which passes unchallenged by them, is against -such an idea. But whether its advantages be used or neglected, the truth -nevertheless is, that Biology, from the complexity of its problems, and -the necessity of incessant verification of its details, offers greater -advantages for culture than any other branch of science. - -I have once or twice mentioned the words Mollusc and Crustacean, to -which the reader unfamiliar with the language of Natural History will -have attached but vague ideas; and although I wanted to explain these, -and convey a distinct conception of the general facts of Classification, -it would have then been too great an interruption. So I will here -make an opportunity, and finish the chapter with an indication of the -five Types, or plans of structure, under one of which every animal is -classed. Without being versed in science, you discern at once whether -the book before you is mathematical, physical, chemical, botanical, -or physiological. In like manner, without being versed in Natural -History, you ought to know whether the animal before you belongs to the -Vertebrata, Mollusca, Articulata, Radiata, or Protozoa. - -[Illustration: Fig. 17. - -MALE TRITON, or WATER-NEWT.] - -A glance at the contents of our glass vases will yield us samples of each -of these five divisions of the animal kingdom. We begin with this Triton. -It is a representative of the VERTEBRATE division, or sub-kingdom. You -have merely to remember that it possesses a backbone and an internal -skeleton, and you will at once recognize the cardinal character which -makes this Triton range under the same general head as men, elephants, -whales, birds, reptiles, or fishes. All these, in spite of their manifold -differences, have this one character in common:—they are all backboned; -they have all an internal skeleton; they are all formed according to -one general type. In all vertebrate animals the skeleton is found -to be identical in plan. Every bone in the body of a triton has its -corresponding bone in the body of a man, or of a mouse; and every bone -preserves the same connection with other bones, no matter how unlike may -be the various limbs in which we detect its presence. Thus, widely as -the arm of a man differs from the fin of a whale, or the wing of a bird, -or the wing of a bat, or the leg of a horse, the same number of bones, -and the same connections of the bones, are found in each. A fin is one -modified form of the typical limb; an arm is another; a wing another. -That which is true of the limbs, is also true of all the organs; and it -is on this ground that we speak of the vertebrate type. From fish to man -one common plan of structure prevails; and the presence of a backbone is -the index by which to recognize this plan. - -The Triton has been wriggling grotesquely in our grasp while we have -made him our text, and, now he is restored to his vase, plunges to the -bottom with great satisfaction at his escape. This water-snail, crawling -slowly up the side of the vase, and cleaning it of the green growth of -microscopic plants, which he devours, shall be our representative of -the second great division—the MOLLUSCA. I cannot suggest any obvious -character so distinctive as a backbone, by which the word Mollusc may -at once call up an idea of the type which prevails in the group. It -won’t do to say “shell-fish,” because many molluscs have no shells, -and many animals which have shells are not molluscs. The name was -originally bestowed on account of the softness of the animals. But they -are not softer than worms, and much less so than jelly-fish. You may -know that snails and slugs, oysters and cuttlefish, are molluscs; but -if you want some one character by which the type may be remembered, -you must fix on the imperfect symmetry of the mollusc’s organs. I say -_imperfect_ symmetry, because it is an error, though a common one, to -speak of the mollusc’s body not being _bilateral_—that is to say, of its -not being composed of two symmetrical halves. A vertebrate animal may -be divided lengthwise, and each half will closely resemble the other; -the backbone forms, as it were, an axis, on either side of which the -organs are disposed; but the mollusc is said to have no such axis, no -such symmetry. I admit the absence of an axis, but I deny the total -absence of symmetry. Many of its organs are as symmetrical as those -of a vertebrate animal—_i.e._ the eyes, the feelers, the jaws—and the -gills in Cuttlefish, Eolids, and Pteropods; while, on the other hand, -several organs in the vertebrate animal are as _un_symmetrical as any of -those in the mollusc, _i.e._ the liver, spleen, pancreas, stomach, and -intestines.[15] As regards bilateral structure, therefore, it is only a -question of degree. The vertebrate animal is not entirely symmetrical, -nor is the mollusc entirely unsymmetrical. But there is a characteristic -disposition of the nervous system peculiar to molluscs: it neither forms -an _axis_ for the body—as it does in the Vertebrata and Articulata—nor -a _centre_—as it does in the Radiata—but is altogether irregular and -unsymmetrical. This will be intelligible from the following diagram of -the nervous systems of a Mollusc and an insect, with which that of a -Star-fish may be compared (Fig. 18). Here you perceive how the nervous -centres, and the nerves which issue from them, are irregularly disposed -in the molluscs, and symmetrically in the insect. - -But the recognition of a mollusc will be easier when you have learned -to distinguish it from one of the ARTICULATA, forming the third great -division,—the third animal Type. Of these, our vases present numerous -representatives: prawns, beetles, water-spiders, insect-larvæ, -entomostraca, and worms. There is a very obvious character by which -these may be recognized: they have all bodies composed of numerous -_segments_, and their limbs are _jointed_, and they have mostly an -_external_ skeleton from which their limbs are developed. Sometimes the -segments of their bodies are numerous, as in the centipede, lobster, -&c.; sometimes several segments are fused together, as in the crab; -and sometimes, as in worms, they are indicated by slight markings or -depressions of the skin, which give the appearance of little rings, and -hence the worms have been named _Annelida_, or _Annulata_, or _Annulosa_. -In these last-named cases the segmental nature of the type is detected in -the fact that the worms grow, segment by segment; and also in the fact -that in most of them each segment has its own nerves, heart, stomach, -&c.—each segment is, in fact, a zöoid.[16] - -[Illustration: Fig. 18. - -NERVOUS SYSTEM OF SEA-HARE (A) and CENTIPEDE (B).] - -Just as we recognize a vertebrate by the presence of a backbone and -internal skeleton, we recognize an articulate by its jointed body -and external skeleton. In both, the nervous system forms the axis of -the body. The Mollusc, on the contrary, has no skeleton, internal -or external;[17] and its nervous system does not form an axis. As a -rule, both vertebrates and articulates have limbs—although there are -exceptions in serpents, fishes, and worms. The Molluscs have no limbs. -Backboned,—jointed,—and non-jointed,—therefore, are the three leading -characteristics of the three types. - -Let us now glance at the fourth division—the RADIATA,—so called because -of the disposition of the organs round a centre, which is the mouth. Our -fresh-water vases afford us only _one_ representative of this type—the -_Hydra_, or fresh-water Polype, whose capture was recorded in the last -chapter. Is it not strange that while _all_ the Radiata are aquatic, not -a single terrestrial representative having been discovered, only one -should be found in fresh water? Think of the richness of the seas, with -their hosts of Polypes, Actiniæ, Jelly-fish, Star-fishes, Sea-urchins, -Sea-pens (_Pennatulæ_), Lily-stars (_Comatulæ_), and Sea-cucumbers -(_Holothuriæ_), and then compare the poverty of rivers, lakes, and -ponds, reduced to their single representative, the _Hydra_. The radiate -structure may best be exhibited by this diagram of the nervous system of -the Star-fish.[18] - -[Illustration: Fig. 19. - -NERVOUS SYSTEM OF STAR-FISH.] - -Cuvier, to whom we owe this classification of the animal kingdom into -four great divisions, would have been the first to recognize the chaotic -condition in which he left this last division, and would have acquiesced -in the separation of the PROTOZOA, which has since been made. This fifth -division includes many of the microscopic animals known as _Infusoria_; -and receives its name from the idea that these simplest of all animals -represent, as it were, the beginnings of life.[19] - -But Cuvier’s arrangement is open to a more serious objection. The state -of science in his day excused the imperfection of classing the Infusoria -and parasites under the Radiata; but it was owing, I conceive, to an -unphilosophical view of morphology, that he placed the molluscs next to -the Vertebrata, instead of placing the Articulata in that position. He -was secretly determined by the desire to show that there are four very -distinct types, or plans of structure, which cannot by any transitions -be brought under one law of development. Lamarck and Geoffroy St. -Hilaire maintained the idea of unity of composition throughout the -animal kingdom;—in other words, that all the varieties of animal forms -were produced by successive modifications: and several of the German -naturalists maintained that the vertebrata in their embryonic stages -passed through forms which were permanent in the lower animals. This -idea Cuvier always opposed. He held that the four types were altogether -distinct; and by his arrangement of them, their distinctness certainly -appears much greater than would be the case on another arrangement. But -without discussing this question here, it is enough to point out the -fact of the enormous superiority in intelligence, in sociality, and in -complexity of animal functions, which insects and spiders exhibit, when -compared with the highest of the molluscs, to justify the removal of the -mollusca, and the elevation of the articulata to the second place in the -animal hierarchy. Nor is this all. If we divide animals into four groups, -these four naturally dispose themselves into two larger groups: the -first of these, comprising Vertebrata and Articulata, is characterized -by a _nervous axis_ and a _skeleton_; the second, comprising Mollusca -and Radiata, is characterized by the absence of both nervous axis -and skeleton. It is obvious that a bee much more closely resembles a -bird, than any mollusc resembles any vertebrate. If there are many and -important differences between the vertebrate and articulate types, there -are also many and important resemblances; if the nervous axis is _above_ -the viscera, and forms the dorsal line of the vertebrate, whereas it is -_underneath_ the viscera, and forms the ventral line in the articulate, -it is, nevertheless, in both, the axis of the body, and in both it sends -off nerves to supply symmetrical limbs; in both it has similar functions. -And while the articulata thus approach in structure the vertebrate type, -the mollusca are not only removed from that type by many diversities, but -a number of them have such affinities with the Radiate type, that it is -only in quite recent days that the whole class of Polyzoa (or Bryozoa, as -they are also called) has been removed from the Radiata, and ranged under -the Mollusca. - -To quit this topic, and recur once more to the five divisions, we -have only the broad outlines of the picture in Vertebrata, Mollusca, -Articulata, Radiata, and Protozoa; but this is a good beginning, and -we can now proceed to the further sub-divisions. Each of these five -sub-kingdoms is divided into Classes; these again into Orders; these -into Families; these into Genera; these into Species; and these finally -into Varieties. Thus suppose a dwarf terrier is presented to us with -a request that we should indicate its various titles in the scheme of -classification: we begin by calling it a vertebrate; we proceed to assign -its Class as the mammalian; its Order is obviously that of the carnivora; -its Family is that of the fox, wolf, jackal, &c., named _Canidæ_; its -Genus is, of course, that of _Canis_; its Species, terrier; its Variety, -dwarf-terrier. Inasmuch as all these denominations are the expressions of -scientific research, and not at all arbitrary or fanciful, they imply an -immense amount of labour and sagacity in their establishment; and when we -remember that naturalists have thus classed upwards of half a million of -distinct species, it becomes an interesting inquiry,—What has been the -guiding principle of this successful labour? on what basis is so large a -superstructure raised? This question we shall answer in the next chapter. - - -FOOTNOTES - -[8] DRAPER: _Human Physiology_, p. 288. - -[9] LEUWENHOEK: _Select Works_, ii. p. 210. His figures, however, are -very incorrect. - -[10] See LEYDIG: _Ueber den Bau und die systematische Stellung der -Räderthiere_, in SIEBOLD _und_ KÖLLIKER’S _Zeitschrift_, vi., and _Ueber -Hydatina Senta_, in MÜLLER’S _Archiv_: 1857. - -[11] POUCHET: _Hétérogénie, ou Traité de la Génération Spontanée_, 1859, -p. 453. - -[12] The _Tardigrade_, or microscopic _Sloth_, belongs to the order of -_Arachnida_, and is occasionally found in moss, stagnant ponds, &c. I -have only met with four specimens in all my investigations, and they were -all found in moss. SPALLANZANI described and figured it (very badly), and -M. DOYÈRE has given a fuller description in the _Annales des Sciences_, -2nd series, vols. xiv. xvii. and xviii. - -[13] DAVAINE in _Annales des Sciences Naturelles_, 1858, x. p. 335. - -[14] SPALLANZANI: _Tracts on the Natural History of Animals and -Vegetables_: Translated by Dalyell, ii. p. 129. - -[15] In some cases of monstrosity, these organs are transposed, the liver -being on the left, and the pancreas on the right side. It was in allusion -to a case of this kind, then occupying the attention of Paris, that -MOLIÈRE made his _Médecin malgré Lui_ describe the heart as on the right -side, the liver on the left; on the mistake being noticed, he replies: -“_Oui, autrefois; mais nous avons changé tout cela._” - -[16] The term zöoid was explained in our last. - -[17] In the cuttlefish there is the commencement of an internal skeleton -in the cartilage-plates protecting the brain. - -[18] It is right to add, that there are serious doubts entertained -respecting the claim of a star-fish to the possession of a nervous system -at all; but the radiate structure is represented in the diagram; as it -also is, very clearly, in a Sea-anemone. - -[19] Protozoa, from _proton_, first, and _zoon_, animal. - - - - -Framley Parsonage. - - -CHAPTER VII. - -SUNDAY MORNING. - -It was, perhaps, quite as well on the whole for Mark Robarts, that he did -not go to that supper party. It was eleven o’clock before they sat down, -and nearly two before the gentlemen were in bed. It must be remembered -that he had to preach, on the coming Sunday morning, a charity sermon on -behalf of a mission to Mr. Harold Smith’s islanders; and, to tell the -truth, it was a task for which he had now very little inclination. - -When first invited to do this, he had regarded the task seriously enough, -as he always did regard such work, and he completed his sermon for the -occasion before he left Framley; but, since that, an air of ridicule had -been thrown over the whole affair, in which he had joined without much -thinking of his own sermon, and this made him now heartily wish that he -could choose a discourse upon any other subject. - -He knew well that the very points on which he had most insisted, were -those which had drawn most mirth from Miss Dunstable and Mrs. Smith, and -had oftenest provoked his own laughter; and how was he now to preach on -those matters in a fitting mood, knowing, as he would know, that those -two ladies would be looking at him, would endeavour to catch his eye, and -would turn him into ridicule as they had already turned the lecturer? - -In this he did injustice to one of the ladies, unconsciously. Miss -Dunstable, with all her aptitude for mirth, and we may almost fairly say -for frolic, was in no way inclined to ridicule religion or anything which -she thought to appertain to it. It may be presumed that among such things -she did not include Mrs. Proudie, as she was willing enough to laugh at -that lady; but Mark, had he known her better, might have been sure that -she would have sat out his sermon with perfect propriety. - -As it was, however, he did feel considerable uneasiness; and in the -morning he got up early with the view of seeing what might be done in the -way of emendation. He cut out those parts which referred most specially -to the islands,—he rejected altogether those names over which they had -all laughed together so heartily,—and he inserted a string of general -remarks, very useful, no doubt, which he flattered himself would rob his -sermon of all similarity to Harold Smith’s lecture. He had, perhaps, -hoped, when writing it, to create some little sensation; but now he would -be quite satisfied if it passed without remark. - -But his troubles for that Sunday were destined to be many. It had been -arranged that the party at the hotel should breakfast at eight and start -at half-past eight punctually, so as to enable them to reach Chaldicotes -in ample time to arrange their dresses before they went to church. -The church stood in the grounds, close to that long formal avenue of -lime-trees, but within the front gates. Their walk therefore, after -reaching Mr. Sowerby’s house, would not be long. - -Mrs. Proudie, who was herself an early body, would not hear of her -guest—and he a clergyman—going out to the inn for his breakfast on a -Sunday morning. As regarded that Sabbath-day journey to Chaldicotes, to -that she had given her assent, no doubt with much uneasiness of mind; but -let them have as little desecration as possible. It was, therefore, an -understood thing that he was to return with his friends; but he should -not go without the advantage of family prayers and family breakfast. And -so Mrs. Proudie on retiring to rest gave the necessary orders, to the -great annoyance of her household. - -To the great annoyance, at least, of her servants! The bishop himself -did not make his appearance till a much later hour. He in all things -now supported his wife’s rule; in all things now, I say; for there had -been a moment, when in the first flush and pride of his episcopacy other -ideas had filled his mind. Now, however, he gave no opposition to that -good woman with whom Providence had blessed him; and in return for such -conduct that good woman administered in all things to his little personal -comforts. With what surprise did the bishop now look back upon that -unholy war which he had once been tempted to wage against the wife of his -bosom? - -Nor did any of the Miss Proudies show themselves at that early hour. -They, perhaps, were absent on a different ground. With them Mrs. Proudie -had not been so successful as with the bishop. They had wills of their -own which became stronger and stronger every day. Of the three with -whom Mrs. Proudie was blessed one was already in a position to exercise -that will in a legitimate way over a very excellent young clergyman in -the diocese, the Rev. Optimus Grey; but the other two, having as yet no -such opening for their powers of command, were perhaps a little too much -inclined to keep themselves in practice at home. - -But at half-past seven punctually Mrs. Proudie was there, and so was -the domestic chaplain; so was Mr. Robarts, and so were the household -servants,—all excepting one lazy recreant. “Where is Thomas?” said she of -the Argus eyes, standing up with her book of family prayers in her hand. -“So please you, ma’am, Tummas be bad with the tooth-ache.” “Tooth-ache!” -exclaimed Mrs. Proudie; but her eye said more terrible things than -that. “Let Thomas come to me before church.” And then they proceeded to -prayers. These were read by the chaplain, as it was proper and decent -that they should be; but I cannot but think that Mrs. Proudie a little -exceeded her office in taking upon herself to pronounce the blessing when -the prayers were over. She did it, however, in a clear, sonorous voice, -and perhaps with more personal dignity than was within the chaplain’s -compass. - -Mrs. Proudie was rather stern at breakfast, and the vicar of Framley felt -an unaccountable desire to get out of the house. In the first place she -was not dressed with her usual punctilious attention to the proprieties -of her high situation. It was evident that there was to be a further -toilet before she sailed up the middle of the cathedral choir. She had -on a large loose cap with no other strings than those which were wanted -for tying it beneath her chin, a cap with which the household and the -chaplain were well acquainted, but which seemed ungracious in the eyes of -Mr. Robarts after all the well-dressed holiday doings of the last week. -She wore also a large, loose, dark-coloured wrapper, which came well up -round her neck, and which was not buoyed out, as were her dresses in -general, with an under mechanism of petticoats. It clung to her closely, -and added to the inflexibility of her general appearance. And then she -had encased her feet in large carpet slippers, which no doubt were -comfortable, but which struck her visitor as being strange and unsightly. - -“Do you find a difficulty in getting your people together for early -morning-prayers?” she said, as she commenced her operations with the -teapot. - -“I can’t say that I do,” said Mark. “But then we are seldom so early as -this.” - -“Parish clergymen should be early, I think,” said she. “It sets a good -example in the village.” - -“I am thinking of having morning prayers in the church,” said Mr. Robarts. - -“That’s nonsense,” said Mrs. Proudie, “and usually means worse than -nonsense. I know what that comes to. If you have three services on Sunday -and domestic prayers at home, you do very well.” And so saying she handed -him his cup. - -“But I have not three services on Sunday, Mrs. Proudie.” - -“Then I think you should have. Where can the poor people be so well off -on Sundays as in church? The bishop intends to express a very strong -opinion on this subject in his next charge; and then I am sure you will -attend to his wishes.” - -To this Mark made no answer, but devoted himself to his egg. - -“I suppose you have not a very large establishment at Framley?” asked -Mrs. Proudie. - -“What, at the parsonage?” - -“Yes; you live at the parsonage, don’t you?” - -“Certainly—well; not very large, Mrs. Proudie; just enough to do the -work, make things comfortable, and look after the children.” - -“It is a very fine living,” said she; “very fine. I don’t remember -that we have anything so good ourselves,—except it is Plumstead, the -archdeacon’s place. He has managed to butter his bread pretty well.” - -“His father was bishop of Barchester.” - -“Oh, yes, I know all about him. Only for that he would barely have risen -to be an archdeacon, I suspect. Let me see; yours is 800_l._, is it not, -Mr. Robarts? And you such a young man! I suppose you have insured your -life highly.” - -“Pretty well, Mrs. Proudie.” - -“And then, too, your wife had some little fortune, had she not? We cannot -all fall on our feet like that; can we, Mr. White?” and Mrs. Proudie in -her playful way appealed to the chaplain. - -Mrs. Proudie was an imperious woman; but then so also was Lady Lufton; -and it may therefore be said that Mr. Robarts ought to have been -accustomed to feminine domination; but as he sat there munching his -toast he could not but make a comparison between the two. Lady Lufton -in her little attempts sometimes angered him; but he certainly thought, -comparing the lay lady and the clerical together, that the rule of the -former was the lighter and the pleasanter. But then Lady Lufton had given -him a living and a wife, and Mrs. Proudie had given him nothing. - -Immediately after breakfast Mr. Robarts escaped to the Dragon of Wantly, -partly because he had had enough of the matutinal Mrs. Proudie, and -partly also in order that he might hurry his friends there. He was -already becoming fidgety about the time, as Harold Smith had been on -the preceding evening, and he did not give Mrs. Smith credit for much -punctuality. When he arrived at the inn he asked if they had done -breakfast, and was immediately told that not one of them was yet down. It -was already half-past eight, and they ought to be now under weigh on the -road. - -He immediately went to Mr. Sowerby’s room, and found that gentleman -shaving himself. “Don’t be a bit uneasy,” said Mr. Sowerby. “You and -Smith shall have my phaeton, and those horses will take you there in an -hour. Not, however, but what we shall all be in time. We’ll send round to -the whole party and ferret them out.” And then Mr. Sowerby having evoked -manifold aid with various peals of the bell sent messengers, male and -female, flying to all the different rooms. - -“I think I’ll hire a gig and go over at once,” said Mark. “It would not -do for me to be late, you know.” - -“It won’t do for any of us to be late; and it’s all nonsense about hiring -a gig. It would be just throwing a sovereign away, and we should pass you -on the road. Go down and see that the tea is made, and all that; and make -them have the bill ready; and, Robarts, you may pay it too, if you like -it. But I believe we may as well leave that to Baron Borneo—eh?” - -And then Mark did go down and make the tea, and he did order the bill; -and then he walked about the room, looking at his watch, and nervously -waiting for the footsteps of his friends. And as he was so employed, -he bethought himself whether it was fit that he should be so doing on -a Sunday morning; whether it was good that he should be waiting there, -in painful anxiety, to gallop over a dozen miles in order that he might -not be too late with his sermon; whether his own snug room at home, with -Fanny opposite to him, and his bairns crawling on the floor, with his own -preparations for his own quiet service, and the warm pressure of Lady -Lufton’s hand when that service should be over, was not better than all -this. - -He could not afford not to know Harold Smith, and Mr. Sowerby, and the -Duke of Omnium, he had said to himself. He had to look to rise in the -world, as other men did. But what pleasure had come to him as yet from -these intimacies? How much had he hitherto done towards his rising? To -speak the truth he was not over well pleased with himself, as he made -Mrs. Harold Smith’s tea and ordered Mr. Sowerby’s mutton chops on that -Sunday morning. - -At a little after nine they all assembled; but even then he could not -make the ladies understand that there was any cause for hurry; at least -Mrs. Smith, who was the leader of the party, would not understand it. -When Mark again talked of hiring a gig, Miss Dunstable indeed said that -she would join him; and seemed to be so far earnest in the matter that -Mr. Sowerby hurried through his second egg in order to prevent such -a catastrophe. And then Mark absolutely did order the gig; whereupon -Mrs. Smith remarked that in such case she need not hurry herself; but -the waiter brought up word that all the horses of the hotel were out, -excepting one pair neither of which could go in single harness. Indeed, -half of their stable establishment was already secured by Mr. Sowerby’s -own party. - -“Then let me have the pair,” said Mark, almost frantic with delay. - -“Nonsense, Robarts; we are ready now. He won’t want them, James. Come, -Supplehouse, have you done?” - -“Then I am to hurry myself, am I?” said Mrs. Harold Smith. “What -changeable creatures you men are! May I be allowed half a cup more tea, -Mr. Robarts?” - -Mark, who was now really angry, turned away to the window. There was no -charity in these people, he said to himself. They knew the nature of his -distress, and yet they only laughed at him. He did not, perhaps, reflect -that he had assisted in the joke against Harold Smith on the previous -evening. - -“James,” said he, turning to the waiter, “let me have that pair of horses -immediately, if you please.” - -“Yes, sir; round in fifteen minutes, sir: only Ned, sir, the post-boy, -sir; I fear he’s at his breakfast, sir; but we’ll have him here in less -than no time, sir!” - -But before Ned and the pair were there, Mrs. Smith had absolutely got -her bonnet on, and at ten they started. Mark did share the phaeton with -Harold Smith, but the phaeton did not go any faster than the other -carriages. They led the way, indeed, but that was all; and when the -vicar’s watch told him that it was eleven, they were still a mile from -Chaldicotes’ gate, although the horses were in a lather of steam; and -they had only just entered the village when the church bells ceased to be -heard. - -“Come, you are in time, after all,” said Harold Smith. “Better time than -I was last night.” Robarts could not explain to him that the entry of -a clergyman into church, of a clergyman who is going to assist in the -service, should not be made at the last minute, that it should be staid -and decorous, and not done in scrambling haste, with running feet and -scant breath. - -“I suppose we’ll stop here, sir,” said the postilion, as he pulled up -his horses short at the church-door, in the midst of the people who were -congregated together ready for the service. But Mark had not anticipated -being so late, and said at first that it was necessary that he should -go on to the house; then, when the horses had again begun to move, he -remembered that he could send for his gown, and as he got out of the -carriage he gave his orders accordingly. And now the other two carriages -were there, and so there was a noise and confusion at the door—very -unseemly, as Mark felt it; and the gentlemen spoke in loud voices, and -Mrs. Harold Smith declared that she had no prayer-book, and was much too -tired to go in at present;—she would go home and rest herself, she said. -And two other ladies of the party did so also, leaving Miss Dunstable to -go alone;—for which, however, she did not care one button. And then one -of the party, who had a nasty habit of swearing, cursed at something as -he walked in close to Mark’s elbow; and so they made their way up the -church as the absolution was being read, and Mark Robarts felt thoroughly -ashamed of himself. If his rising in the world brought him in contact -with such things as these, would it not be better for him that he should -do without rising? - -His sermon went off without any special notice. Mrs. Harold Smith was not -there, much to his satisfaction; and the others who were did not seem to -pay any special attention to it. The subject had lost its novelty, except -with the ordinary church congregation, the farmers and labourers of the -parish; and the “quality” in the squire’s great pew were content to show -their sympathy by a moderate subscription. Miss Dunstable, however, -gave a ten-pound note, which swelled up the sum total to a respectable -amount—for such a place as Chaldicotes. - -“And now I hope I may never hear another word about New Guinea,” said Mr. -Sowerby, as they all clustered round the drawing-room fire after church. -“That subject may be regarded as having been killed and buried; eh, -Harold?” - -“Certainly murdered last night,” said Mrs. Harold, “by that awful woman, -Mrs. Proudie.” - -“I wonder you did not make a dash at her and pull her out of the -arm-chair,” said Miss Dunstable. “I was expecting it, and thought that I -should come to grief in the scrimmage.” - -“I never knew a lady do such a brazen-faced thing before,” said Miss -Kerrigy, a travelling friend of Miss Dunstable’s. - -“Nor I—never; in a public place, too,” said Dr. Easyman, a medical -gentleman, who also often accompanied her. - -“As for brass,” said Mr. Supplehouse, “she would never stop at anything -for want of that. It is well that she has enough, for the poor bishop is -but badly provided.” - -“I hardly heard what it was she did say,” said Harold Smith; “so I could -not answer her, you know. Something about Sundays, I believe.” - -“She hoped you would not put the South Sea islanders up to Sabbath -travelling,” said Mr. Sowerby. - -“And specially begged that you would establish Lord’s-day schools,” said -Mrs. Smith; and then they all went to work and picked Mrs. Proudie to -pieces, from the top ribbon of her cap down to the sole of her slipper. - -“And then she expects the poor parsons to fall in love with her -daughters. That’s the hardest thing of all,” said Miss Dunstable. - -But, on the whole, when our vicar went to bed he did not feel that he had -spent a profitable Sunday. - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -GATHERUM CASTLE. - -On the Tuesday morning Mark did receive his wife’s letter and the -ten-pound note, whereby a strong proof was given of the honesty of the -post-office people in Barsetshire. That letter, written as it had been in -a hurry, while Robin post-boy was drinking a single mug of beer,—well, -what of it if it was half filled a second time?—was nevertheless eloquent -of his wife’s love and of her great triumph. - -“I have only half a moment to send you the money,” she said, “for the -postman is here waiting. When I see you I’ll explain why I am so hurried. -Let me know that you get it safe. It is all right now, and Lady Lufton -was here not a minute ago. She did not quite like it; about Gatherum -Castle I mean; but you’ll hear _nothing about it_. Only remember that -_you must dine_ at Framley Court on Wednesday week. _I have promised for -you._ You will: won’t you, dearest? I shall come and fetch you away if -you attempt to stay longer than you have said. But I’m sure you won’t. -God bless you, my own one! Mr. Jones gave us the same sermon he preached -the second Sunday after Easter. Twice in the same year is too often. God -bless you! The children _are quite well_. Mark sends a big kiss.—Your own -F.” - -Robarts, as he read this letter and crumpled the note up into his pocket, -felt that it was much more satisfactory than he deserved. He knew that -there must have been a fight, and that his wife, fighting loyally on -his behalf, had got the best of it; and he knew also that her victory -had not been owing to the goodness of her cause. He frequently declared -to himself that he would not be afraid of Lady Lufton; but nevertheless -these tidings that no reproaches were to be made to him afforded him -great relief. - -On the following Friday they all went to the duke’s, and found that the -bishop and Mrs. Proudie were there before them; as were also sundry other -people, mostly of some note, either in the estimation of the world at -large or of that of West Barsetshire. Lord Boanerges was there, an old -man who would have his own way in everything, and who was regarded by -all men—apparently even by the duke himself—as an intellectual king, -by no means of the constitutional kind,—as an intellectual emperor -rather, who took upon himself to rule all questions of mind without the -assistance of any ministers whatever. And Baron Brawl was of the party, -one of her Majesty’s puisne judges, as jovial a guest as ever entered a -country house; but given to be rather sharp withal in his jovialities. -And there was Mr. Green Walker, a young but rising man, the same who -lectured not long since on a popular subject to his constituents at the -Crewe Junction. Mr. Green Walker was a nephew of the Marchioness of -Hartletop, and the Marchioness of Hartletop was a friend of the Duke of -Omnium’s. Mr. Mark Robarts was certainly elated when he ascertained who -composed the company of which he had been so earnestly pressed to make a -portion. Would it have been wise in him to forego this on account of the -prejudices of Lady Lufton? - -As the guests were so many and so great the huge front portals of -Gatherum Castle were thrown open, and the vast hall adorned with -trophies—with marble busts from Italy and armour from Wardour Street,—was -thronged with gentlemen and ladies, and gave forth unwonted echoes to -many a footstep. His grace himself, when Mark arrived there with Sowerby -and Miss Dunstable—for in this instance Miss Dunstable did travel in the -phaeton while Mark occupied a seat in the dicky—his grace himself was at -this moment in the drawing-room, and nothing could exceed his urbanity. - -“O Miss Dunstable,” he said, taking that lady by the hand, and leading -her up to the fire, “now I feel for the first time that Gatherum Castle -has not been built for nothing.” - -“Nobody ever supposed it was, your grace,” said Miss Dunstable. “I -am sure the architect did not think so when his bill was paid.” And -Miss Dunstable put her toes up on the fender to warm them with as much -self-possession as though her father had been a duke also, instead of a -quack doctor. - -“We have given the strictest orders about the parrot,” said the duke— - -“Ah! but I have not brought him after all,” said Miss Dunstable. - -“And I have had an aviary built on purpose,—just such as parrots are used -to in their own country. Well, Miss Dunstable, I do call that unkind. Is -it too late to send for him?” - -“He and Dr. Easyman are travelling together. The truth was, I could not -rob the doctor of his companion.” - -“Why? I have had another aviary built for him. I declare, Miss Dunstable, -the honour you are doing me is shorn of half its glory. But the poodle—I -still trust in the poodle.” - -“And your grace’s trust shall not in that respect be in vain. Where is -he, I wonder?” And Miss Dunstable looked round as though she expected -that somebody would certainly have brought her dog in after her. “I -declare I must go and look for him,—only think if they were to put him -among your grace’s dogs,—how his morals would be destroyed!” - -“Miss Dunstable, is that intended to be personal?” But the lady had -turned away from the fire, and the duke was able to welcome his other -guests. - -This he did with much courtesy. “Sowerby,” he said, “I am glad to find -that you have survived the lecture. I can assure you I had fears for you.” - -“I was brought back to life after considerable delay by the -administration of tonics at the Dragon of Wantly. Will your grace allow -me to present to you Mr. Robarts, who on that occasion was not so -fortunate. It was found necessary to carry him off to the palace, where -he was obliged to undergo very vigorous treatment.” - -And then the duke shook hands with Mr. Robarts, assuring him that he was -most happy to make his acquaintance. He had often heard of him since he -came into the county; and then he asked after Lord Lufton, regretting -that he had been unable to induce his lordship to come to Gatherum Castle. - -“But you had a diversion at the lecture, I am told,” continued the duke. -“There was a second performer, was there not, who almost eclipsed poor -Harold Smith?” And then Mr. Sowerby gave an amusing sketch of the little -Proudie episode. - -“It has, of course, ruined your brother-in-law for ever as a lecturer,” -said the duke, laughing. - -“If so we shall feel ourselves under the deepest obligations to Mrs. -Proudie,” said Mr. Sowerby. And then Harold Smith himself came up, and -received the duke’s sincere and hearty congratulations on the success of -his enterprise at Barchester. - -Mark Robarts had now turned away, and his attention was suddenly arrested -by the loud voice of Miss Dunstable who had stumbled across some very -dear friends in her passage through the rooms, and who by no means hid -from the public her delight upon the occasion. - -“Well—well—well!” she exclaimed, and then she seized upon a very -quiet-looking, well-dressed, attractive young woman who was walking -towards her, in company with a gentleman. The gentleman and lady, -as it turned out, were husband and wife. “Well—well—well! I hardly -hoped for this.” And then she took hold of the lady and kissed her -enthusiastically, and after that grasped both the gentleman’s hands, -shaking them stoutly. - -“And what a deal I shall have to say to you!” she went on. “You’ll upset -all my other plans. But, Mary my dear, how long are you going to stay -here? I go—let me see—I forget when, but it’s all put down in a book -upstairs. But the next stage is at Mrs. Proudie’s. I shan’t meet you -there, I suppose. And now, Frank, how’s the governor?” - -The gentleman called Frank declared that the governor was all right—“mad -about the hounds, of course, you know.” - -“Well, my dear, that’s better than the hounds being mad about him, like -the poor gentleman they’ve put into a statue. But talking of hounds, -Frank, how badly they manage their foxes at Chaldicotes! I was out -hunting all one day——” - -“You out hunting!” said the lady called Mary. - -“And why shouldn’t I go out hunting? I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Proudie was -out hunting, too. But they didn’t catch a single fox; and, if you must -have the truth, it seemed to me to be rather slow.” - -“You were in the wrong division of the county,” said the gentleman called -Frank. - -“Of course I was. When I really want to practise hunting I’ll go to -Greshamsbury; not a doubt about that.” - -“Or to Boxall hill,” said the lady; “you’ll find quite as much zeal there -as at Greshamsbury.” - -“And more discretion, you should add,” said the gentleman. - -“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Miss Dunstable; “your discretion indeed! But you -have not told me a word about Lady Arabella.” - -“My mother is quite well,” said the gentleman. - -“And the doctor? By-the-by, my dear, I’ve had such a letter from the -doctor; only two days ago. I’ll show it you upstairs to-morrow. But mind, -it must be a positive secret. If he goes on in this way he’ll get himself -into the Tower, or Coventry, or a blue-book, or some dreadful place.” - -“Why; what has he said?” - -“Never you mind, Master Frank: I don’t mean to show you the letter, you -may be sure of that. But if your wife will swear three times on a poker -and tongs that she won’t reveal, I’ll show it to her. And so you’re quite -settled at Boxall hill, are you?” - -“Frank’s horses are settled; and the dogs nearly so,” said Frank’s wife; -“but I can’t boast much of anything else yet.” - -“Well, there’s a good time coming. I must go and change my things now. -But Mary, mind you get near me this evening; I have such a deal to say to -you.” And then Miss Dunstable marched out of the room. - -All this had been said in so loud a voice that it was, as a matter of -course, overheard by Mark Robarts—that part of the conversation of course -I mean which had come from Miss Dunstable. And then Mark learned that -this was young Frank Gresham of Boxall hill, son of old Mr. Gresham -of Greshamsbury. Frank had lately married a great heiress; a greater -heiress, men said, even than Miss Dunstable; and as the marriage was -hardly as yet more than six months old the Barsetshire world was still -full of it. - -“The two heiresses seem to be very loving, don’t they?” said Mr. -Supplehouse. “Birds of a feather flock together, you know. But they did -say some little time ago that young Gresham was to have married Miss -Dunstable himself.” - -“Miss Dunstable! why she might almost be his mother,” said Mark. - -“That makes but little difference. He was obliged to marry money, and -I believe there is no doubt that he did at one time propose to Miss -Dunstable.” - -“I have had a letter from Lufton,” Mr. Sowerby said to him the next -morning. “He declares that the delay was all your fault. You were to have -told Lady Lufton before he did anything, and he was waiting to write -about it till he heard from you. It seems that you never said a word to -her ladyship on the subject.” - -“I never did, certainly. My commission from Lufton was to break the -matter to her when I found her in a proper humour for receiving it. If -you knew Lady Lufton as well as I do, you would know that it is not every -day that she would be in a humour for such tidings.” - -“And so I was to be kept waiting indefinitely because you two between you -were afraid of an old woman! However I have not a word to say against -her, and the matter is settled now.” - -“Has the farm been sold?” - -“Not a bit of it. The dowager could not bring her mind to suffer such -profanation for the Lufton acres, and so she sold five thousand pounds -out of the funds and sent the money to Lufton as a present;—sent it to -him without saying a word, only hoping that it would suffice for his -wants. I wish I had a mother I know.” - -Mark found it impossible at the moment to make any remark upon what had -been told him, but he felt a sudden qualm of conscience and a wish that -he was at Framley instead of at Gatherum Castle at the present moment. He -knew a good deal respecting Lady Lufton’s income and the manner in which -it was spent. It was very handsome for a single lady, but then she lived -in a free and open-handed style; her charities were noble; there was -no reason why she should save money, and her annual income was usually -spent within the year. Mark knew this, and he knew also that nothing -short of an impossibility to maintain them would induce her to lessen -her charities. She had now given away a portion of her principal to -save the property of her son—her son, who was so much more opulent than -herself,—upon whose means, too, the world made fewer effectual claims. - -And Mark knew, too, something of the purpose for which this money had -gone. There had been unsettled gambling claims between Sowerby and -Lord Lufton, originating in affairs of the turf. It had now been going -on for four years, almost from the period when Lord Lufton had become -of age. He had before now spoken to Robarts on the matter with much -bitter anger, alleging that Mr. Sowerby was treating him unfairly, nay, -dishonestly—that he was claiming money that was not due to him; and then -he declared more than once that he would bring the matter before the -Jockey Club. But Mark, knowing that Lord Lufton was not clear-sighted -in these matters, and believing it to be impossible that Mr. Sowerby -should actually endeavour to defraud his friend, had smoothed down the -young lord’s anger, and recommended him to get the case referred to some -private arbiter. All this had afterwards been discussed between Robarts -and Mr. Sowerby himself, and hence had originated their intimacy. The -matter was so referred, Mr. Sowerby naming the referee; and Lord Lufton, -when the matter was given against him, took it easily. His anger was -over by that time. “I’ve been clean done among them,” he said to Mark, -laughing; “but it does not signify; a man must pay for his experience. -Of course, Sowerby thinks it all right; I am bound to suppose so.” And -then there had been some further delay as to the amount, and part of the -money had been paid to a third person, and a bill had been given, and -heaven and the Jews only know how much money Lord Lufton had paid in all; -and now it was ended by his handing over to some wretched villain of a -money-dealer, on behalf of Mr. Sowerby, the enormous sum of five thousand -pounds, which had been deducted from the means of his mother, Lady Lufton! - -Mark, as he thought of all this, could not but feel a certain animosity -against Mr. Sowerby—could not but suspect that he was a bad man. Nay, -must he not have known that he was very bad? And yet he continued walking -with him through the duke’s grounds, still talking about Lord Lufton’s -affairs, and still listening with interest to what Sowerby told him of -his own. - -“No man was ever robbed as I have been,” said he. “But I shall win -through yet, in spite of them all. But those Jews, Mark”—he had become -very intimate with him in these latter days—“whatever you do, keep clear -of them. Why, I could paper a room with their signatures; and yet I never -had a claim upon one of them, though they always have claims on me!” - -I have said above that this affair of Lord Lufton’s was ended; but it -now appeared to Mark that it was not _quite_ ended. “Tell Lufton, you -know,” said Sowerby, “that every bit of paper with his name has been -taken up, except what that ruffian Tozer has. Tozer may have one bill, I -believe,—something that was not given up when it was renewed. But I’ll -make my lawyer Gumption get that up. It may cost ten pounds or twenty -pounds, not more. You’ll remember that when you see Lufton, will you?” - -“You’ll see Lufton in all probability before I shall.” - -“Oh, did I not tell you? He’s going to Framley Court at once; you’ll find -him there when you return.” - -“Find him at Framley!” - -“Yes; this little _cadeau_ from his mother has touched his filial heart. -He is rushing home to Framley to pay back the dowager’s hard moidores in -soft caresses. I wish I had a mother; I know that.” - -And Mark still felt that he feared Mr. Sowerby, but he could not make up -his mind to break away from him. - -And there was much talk of politics just then at the castle. Not that the -duke joined in it with any enthusiasm. He was a whig—a huge mountain of -a colossal whig—all the world knew that. No opponent would have dreamed -of tampering with his whiggery, nor would any brother whig have dreamed -of doubting it. But he was a whig who gave very little practical support -to any set of men, and very little practical opposition to any other set. -He was above troubling himself with such sublunar matters. At election -time he supported, and always carried, whig candidates; and in return he -had been appointed lord lieutenant of the county by one whig minister, -and had received the Garter from another. But these things were matters -of course to a Duke of Omnium. He was born to be a lord lieutenant and a -knight of the Garter. - -But not the less on account of his apathy, or rather quiescence, was it -thought that Gatherum Castle was a fitting place in which politicians -might express to each other their present hopes and future aims, and -concoct together little plots in a half-serious and half-mocking way. -Indeed it was hinted that Mr. Supplehouse and Harold Smith, with one or -two others, were at Gatherum for this express purpose. Mr. Fothergill, -too, was a noted politician, and was supposed to know the duke’s mind -well; and Mr. Green Walker, the nephew of the marchioness, was a young -man whom the duke desired to have brought forward. Mr. Sowerby also -was the duke’s own member, and so the occasion suited well for the -interchange of a few ideas. - -The then prime minister, angry as many men were with him, had not been -altogether unsuccessful. He had brought the Russian war to a close, -which, if not glorious, was at any rate much more so than Englishmen at -one time had ventured to hope. And he had had wonderful luck in that -Indian mutiny. It is true that many of those even who voted with him -would declare that this was in no way attributable to him. Great men had -risen in India and done all that. Even his minister there, the governor -whom he had sent out, was not allowed in those days any credit for the -success which was achieved under his orders. There was great reason to -doubt the man at the helm. But nevertheless he had been lucky. There is -no merit in a public man like success! - -But now, when the evil days were well nigh over, came the question -whether he had not been too successful. When a man has nailed fortune to -his chariot-wheels he is apt to travel about in rather a proud fashion. -There are servants who think that their masters cannot do without them; -and the public also may occasionally have some such servant. What if this -too successful minister were one of them! - -And then a discreet, commonplace, zealous member of the Lower House does -not like to be jeered at, when he does his duty by his constituents -and asks a few questions. An all-successful minister who cannot keep -his triumph to himself, but must needs drive about in a proud fashion, -laughing at commonplace zealous members—laughing even occasionally at -members who are by no means commonplace, which is outrageous!—may it not -be as well to ostracize him for awhile? - -“Had we not better throw in our shells against him?” says Mr. Harold -Smith. - -“Let us throw in our shells, by all means,” says Mr. Supplehouse, mindful -as Juno of his despised charms. And when Mr. Supplehouse declares himself -an enemy, men know how much it means. They know that that much-belaboured -head of affairs must succumb to the terrible blows which are now in -store for him. “Yes, we will throw in our shells.” And Mr. Supplehouse -rises from his chair with gleaming eyes. “Has not Greece as noble sons -as him? ay, and much nobler, traitor that he is. We must judge a man by -his friends,” says Mr. Supplehouse; and he points away to the East, where -our dear allies the French are supposed to live, and where our head of -affairs is supposed to have too close an intimacy. - -They all understand this, even Mr. Green Walker. “I don’t know that he -is any good to any of us at all, now,” says the talented member for the -Crewe Junction. “He’s a great deal too uppish to suit my book; and I know -a great many people that think so too. There’s my uncle——” - -“He’s the best fellow in the world,” said Mr. Fothergill, who felt, -perhaps, that that coming revelation about Mr. Green Walker’s uncle might -not be of use to them; “but the fact is one gets tired of the same man -always. One does not like partridge every day. As for me, I have nothing -to do with it myself; but I would certainly like to change the dish.” - -“If we’re merely to do as we are bid, and have no voice of our own, I -don’t see what’s the good of going to the shop at all,” said Mr. Sowerby. - -“Not the least use,” said Mr. Supplehouse. “We are false to our -constituents in submitting to such a dominion.” - -“Let’s have a change, then,” said Mr. Sowerby. “The matter’s pretty much -in our own hands.” - -“Altogether,” said Mr. Green Walker. “That’s what my uncle always says.” - -“The Manchester men will only be too happy for the chance,” said Harold -Smith. - -“And as for the high and dry gentlemen,” said Mr. Sowerby, “it’s not very -likely that they will object to pick up the fruit when we shake the tree.” - -“As to picking up the fruit, that’s as may be,” said Mr. Supplehouse. -Was he not the man to save the nation; and if so, why should he not -pick up the fruit himself? Had not the greatest power in the country -pointed him out as such a saviour? What though the country at the present -moment needed no more saving, might there not nevertheless be a good -time coming? Were there not rumours of other wars still prevalent—if -indeed the actual war then going on was being brought to a close without -his assistance, by some other species of salvation? He thought of that -country to which he had pointed, and of that friend of his enemies, and -remembered that there might be still work for a mighty saviour. The -public mind was now awake, and understood what it was about. When a man -gets into his head an idea that the public voice calls for him, it is -astonishing how great becomes his trust in the wisdom of the public. -_Vox populi vox Dei_. “Has it not been so always?” he says to himself, -as he gets up and as he goes to bed. And then Mr. Supplehouse felt -that he was the master mind there at Gatherum Castle, and that those -there were all puppets in his hand. It is such a pleasant thing to feel -that one’s friends are puppets, and that the strings are in one’s own -possession. But what if Mr. Supplehouse himself were a puppet? - -Some months afterwards, when the much-belaboured head of affairs was in -very truth made to retire, when unkind shells were thrown in against -him in great numbers, when he exclaimed, “_Et tu, Brute!_” till the -words were stereotyped upon his lips, all men in all places talked much -about the great Gatherum Castle confederation. The Duke of Omnium, the -world said, had taken into his high consideration the state of affairs, -and seeing with his eagle’s eye that the welfare of his countrymen at -large required that some great step should be initiated, he had at once -summoned to his mansion many members of the Lower House, and some also of -the House of Lords,—mention was here especially made of the all-venerable -and all-wise Lord Boanerges; and men went on to say that there, in deep -conclave, he had made known to them his views. It was thus agreed that -the head of affairs, whig as he was, must fall. The country required -it, and the duke did his duty. This was the beginning, the world said, -of that celebrated confederation, by which the ministry was overturned, -and—as the _Goody Twoshoes_ added,—the country saved. But the _Jupiter_ -took all the credit to itself; and the _Jupiter_ was not far wrong. All -the credit was due to the _Jupiter_—in that, as in everything else. - -In the meantime the Duke of Omnium entertained his guests in the quiet -princely style, but did not condescend to have much conversation on -politics either with Mr. Supplehouse or with Mr. Harold Smith. And as -for Lord Boanerges, he spent the morning on which the above-described -conversation took place in teaching Miss Dunstable to blow soap-bubbles -on scientific principles. - -“Dear, dear!” said Miss Dunstable, as sparks of knowledge came flying in -upon her mind. “I always thought that a soap-bubble was a soap-bubble, -and I never asked the reason why. One doesn’t, you know, my lord.” - -“Pardon me, Miss Dunstable,” said the old lord, “one does; but nine -hundred and ninety-nine do not.” - -“And the nine hundred and ninety-nine have the best of it,” said Miss -Dunstable. “What pleasure can one have in a ghost after one has seen the -phosphorus rubbed on?” - -“Quite true, my dear lady. ‘If ignorance be bliss, ’tis folly to be -wise.’ It all lies in the ‘if.’” - -Then Miss Dunstable began to sing:— - - “‘What tho’ I trace each herb and flower - That sips the morning dew—’ - -—you know the rest, my lord.” - -Lord Boanerges did know almost everything, but he did not know that; and -so Miss Dunstable went on:— - - “‘Did I not own Jehovah’s power - How vain were all I know.’” - -“Exactly, exactly, Miss Dunstable,” said his lordship; “but why not own -the power and trace the flower as well? perhaps one might help the other.” - -Upon the whole I am afraid that Lord Boanerges got the best of it. But -then that is his line. He has been getting the best of it all his life. - -It was observed by all that the duke was especially attentive to young -Mr. Frank Gresham, the gentleman on whom and on whose wife Miss Dunstable -had seized so vehemently. This Mr. Gresham was the richest commoner in -the county, and it was rumoured that at the next election he would be one -of the members for the East Riding. Now the duke had little or nothing -to do with the East Riding, and it was well known that young Gresham -would be brought forward as a strong conservative. But nevertheless, his -acres were so extensive and his money so plentiful that he was worth a -duke’s notice. Mr. Sowerby also was almost more than civil to him, as was -natural, seeing that this very young man by a mere scratch of his pen -could turn a scrap of paper into a bank-note of almost fabulous value. - -“So you have the East Barsetshire hounds at Boxall hill; have you not?” -said the duke. - -“The hounds are there,” said Frank. “But I am not the master.” - -“Oh! I understood——” - -“My father has them. But he finds Boxall hill more centrical than -Greshamsbury. The dogs and horses have to go shorter distances.” - -“Boxall hill is very centrical.” - -“Oh, exactly!” - -“And your young gorse coverts are doing well?” - -“Pretty well—gorse won’t thrive everywhere I find. I wish it would.” - -“That’s just what I say to Fothergill; and then where there’s much -woodland you can’t get the vermin to leave it.” - -“But we haven’t a tree at Boxall hill,” said Mrs. Gresham. - -“Ah, yes; you’re new there, certainly; you’ve enough of it at -Greshamsbury in all conscience. There’s a larger extent of wood there -than we have; isn’t there, Fothergill?” - -Mr. Fothergill said that the Greshamsbury woods were very extensive, but -that, perhaps, he thought—— - -“Oh, ah! I know,” said the duke. “The Black Forest in its old days -was nothing to Gatherum woods, according to Fothergill. And then -again, nothing in East Barsetshire could be equal to anything in West -Barsetshire. Isn’t that it; eh, Fothergill?” - -Mr. Fothergill professed that he had been brought up in that faith and -intended to die in it. - -“Your exotics at Boxall hill are very fine, magnificent!” said Mr. -Sowerby. - -“I’d sooner have one full-grown oak standing in its pride alone,” said -young Gresham, rather grandiloquently, “than all the exotics in the -world.” - -“They’ll come in due time,” said the duke. - -“But the due time won’t be in my days. And so they’re going to cut down -Chaldicotes forest; are they, Mr. Sowerby?” - -“Well, I can’t tell you that. They are going to disforest it. I have been -ranger since I was twenty-two, and I don’t yet know whether that means -cutting down.” - -“Not only cutting down, but rooting up,” said Mr. Fothergill. - -“It’s a murderous shame,” said Frank Gresham; “and I will say one thing, -I don’t think any but a whig government would do it.” - -“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed his grace. “At any rate I’m sure of this,” he said, -“that if a conservative government did do so, the whigs would be just as -indignant as you are now.” - -“I’ll tell you what you ought to do, Mr. Gresham,” said Sowerby: “put in -an offer for the whole of the West Barsetshire crown property; they will -be very glad to sell it.” - -“And we should be delighted to welcome you on this side of the border,” -said the duke. - -Young Gresham did feel rather flattered. There were not many men in the -county to whom such an offer could be made without an absurdity. It -might be doubted whether the duke himself could purchase the Chase of -Chaldicotes with ready money; but that he, Gresham, could do so—he and -his wife between them—no man did doubt. And then Mr. Gresham thought -of a former day when he had once been at Gatherum Castle. He had been -poor enough then, and the duke had not treated him in the most courteous -manner in the world. How hard it is for a rich man not to lean upon his -riches! harder, indeed, than for a camel to go through the eye of a -needle. - -All Barsetshire knew—at any rate all West Barsetshire—that Miss Dunstable -had been brought down in those parts in order that Mr. Sowerby might -marry her. It was not surmised that Miss Dunstable herself had had any -previous notice of this arrangement, but it was supposed that the thing -would turn out as a matter of course. Mr. Sowerby had no money, but then -he was witty, clever, good-looking, and a member of parliament. He lived -before the world, represented an old family, and had an old place. How -could Miss Dunstable possibly do better? She was not so young now, and it -was time that she should look about her. - -The suggestion as regarded Mr. Sowerby was certainly true, and was not -the less so as regarded some of Mr. Sowerby’s friends. His sister, Mrs. -Harold Smith, had devoted herself to the work, and with this view had -run up a dear friendship with Miss Dunstable. The bishop had intimated, -nodding his head knowingly, that it would be a very good thing. Mrs. -Proudie had given in her adherence. Mr. Supplehouse had been made to -understand that it must be a case of “Paws off” with him, as long as he -remained in that part of the world; and even the duke himself had desired -Fothergill to manage it. - -“He owes me an enormous sum of money,” said the duke who held all -Mr. Sowerby’s title-deeds, “and I doubt whether the security will be -sufficient.” - -“Your grace will find the security quite sufficient,” said Mr. -Fothergill; “but nevertheless it would be a good match.” - -“Very good,” said the duke. And then it became Mr. Fothergill’s duty to -see that Mr. Sowerby and Miss Dunstable became man and wife as speedily -as possible. - -Some of the party, who were more wide awake than others, declared that he -had made the offer; others, that he was just going to do so; and one very -knowing lady went so far at one time as to say that he was making it at -that moment. Bets also were laid as to the lady’s answer, as to the terms -of the settlement, and as to the period of the marriage,—of all which -poor Miss Dunstable of course knew nothing. - -Mr. Sowerby, in spite of the publicity of his proceedings, proceeded in -the matter very well. He said little about it to those who joked with -him, but carried on the fight with what best knowledge he had in such -matters. But so much it is given to us to declare with certainty, that -he had not proposed on the evening previous to the morning fixed for the -departure of Mark Robarts. - -During the last two days Mr. Sowerby’s intimacy with Mark had grown -warmer and warmer. He had talked to the vicar confidentially about the -doings of these bigwigs now present at the castle, as though there were -no other guest there with whom he could speak in so free a manner. He -confided, it seemed, much more in Mark than in his brother-in-law, Harold -Smith, or in any of his brother members of parliament, and had altogether -opened his heart to him in this affair of his anticipated marriage. Now -Mr. Sowerby was a man of mark in the world, and all this flattered our -young clergyman not a little. - -On that evening before Robarts went away Sowerby asked him to come up -into his bedroom when the whole party was breaking up, and there got him -into an easy-chair while he, Sowerby, walked up and down the room. - -“You can hardly tell, my dear fellow,” said he, “the state of nervous -anxiety in which this puts me.” - -“Why don’t you ask her and have done with it? She seems to me to be fond -of your society.” - -“Ah, it is not that only; there are wheels within wheels;” and then he -walked once or twice up and down the room, during which Mark thought that -he might as well go to bed. - -“Not that I mind telling you everything,” said Sowerby. “I am infernally -hard up for a little ready money just at the present moment. It may be, -and indeed I think it will be, the case that I shall be ruined in this -matter for the want of it.” - -“Could not Harold Smith give it you?” - -“Ha, ha, ha! you don’t know Harold Smith. Did you ever hear of his -lending a man a shilling in his life?” - -“Or Supplehouse?” - -“Lord love you! You see me and Supplehouse together here, and he comes -and stays at my house, and all that; but Supplehouse and I are no -friends. Look you here, Mark. I would do more for your little finger than -for his whole hand, including the pen which he holds in it. Fothergill -indeed might—but then I know Fothergill is pressed himself at the present -moment. It is deuced hard, isn’t it? I must give up the whole game if I -can’t put my hand upon 400_l._ within the next two days.” - -“Ask her for it, herself.” - -“What, the woman I wish to marry! No, Mark, I’m not quite come to that. I -would sooner lose her than that.” - -Mark sat silent, gazing at the fire and wishing that he was in his own -bedroom. He had an idea that Mr. Sowerby wished him to produce this -400_l._; and he knew also that he had not 400_l._ in the world, and that -if he had he would be acting very foolishly to give it to Mr. Sowerby. -But nevertheless he felt half fascinated by the man, and half afraid of -him. - -“Lufton owes it to me to do more than this,” continued Mr. Sowerby; “but -then Lufton is not here?” - -“Why, he has just paid five thousand pounds for you.” - -“Paid five thousand pounds for me! Indeed he has done no such thing: not -a sixpence of it came into my hands. Believe me, Mark, you don’t know -the whole of that yet. Not that I mean to say a word against Lufton. He -is the soul of honour; though so deucedly dilatory in money matters. He -thought he was right all through that affair, but no man was ever so -confoundedly wrong. Why, don’t you remember that that was the very view -you took of it yourself?” - -“I remember saying that I thought he was mistaken.” - -“Of course he was mistaken. And dearly the mistake cost me. I had to make -good the money for two or three years. And my property is not like his. I -wish it were.” - -“Marry Miss Dunstable, and that will set it all right for you.” - -“Ah! so I would if I had this money. At any rate I would bring it to the -point. Now, I tell you what, Mark; if you’ll assist me at this strait -I’ll never forget it. And the time will come round when I may be able to -do something for you.” - -“I have not got a hundred, no, not fifty pounds by me in the world.” - -“Of course you’ve not. Men don’t walk about the streets with 400_l._ in -their pockets. I don’t suppose there’s a single man here in the house -with such a sum at his bankers’, unless it be the duke.” - -“What is it you want then?” - -“Why, your name to be sure. Believe me, my dear follow, I would not ask -you really to put your hand into your pocket to such a tune as that. -Allow me to draw on you for that amount at three months. Long before that -time I shall be flush enough.” And then, before Mark could answer, he had -a bill stamp and pen and ink out on the table before him, and was filling -in the bill as though his friend had already given his consent. - -“Upon my word, Sowerby, I had rather not do that.” - -“Why! what are you afraid of?”—Mr. Sowerby asked this very sharply. “Did -you ever hear of my having neglected to take up a bill when it fell due?” -Robarts thought that he had heard of such a thing; but in his confusion -he was not exactly sure, and so he said nothing. - -“No, my boy; I have not come to that. Look here: just you write, -‘Accepted, Mark Robarts,’ across that, and then you shall never hear of -the transaction again;—and you will have obliged me for ever.” - -“As a clergyman it would be wrong of me,” said Robarts. - -“As a clergyman! Come, Mark! If you don’t like to do as much as that for -a friend, say so; but don’t let us have that sort of humbug. If there be -one class of men whose names would be found more frequent on the backs -of bills in the provincial banks than another, clergymen are that class. -Come, old fellow, you won’t throw me over when I am so hard pushed.” - -Mark Robarts took the pen and signed the bill. It was the first time -in his life that he had ever done such an act. Sowerby then shook him -cordially by the hand, and he walked off to his own bedroom a wretched -man. - - -CHAPTER IX. - -THE VICAR’S RETURN. - -The next morning Mr. Robarts took leave of all his grand friends with a -heavy heart. He had lain awake half the night thinking of what he had -done and trying to reconcile himself to his position. He had not well -left Mr. Sowerby’s room before he felt certain that at the end of three -months he would again be troubled about that 400_l._ As he went along the -passage all the man’s known antecedents crowded upon him much quicker -than he could remember them when seated in that armchair with the bill -stamp before him, and the pen and ink ready to his hand. He remembered -what Lord Lufton had told him—how he had complained of having been left -in the lurch; he thought of all the stories current through the entire -county as to the impossibility of getting money from Chaldicotes; he -brought to mind the known character of the man, and then he knew that -he must prepare himself to make good a portion at least of that heavy -payment. - -Why had he come to this horrid place? Had he not everything at home at -Framley which the heart of man could desire? No; the heart of man can -desire deaneries—the heart, that is, of the man vicar; and the heart of -the man dean can desire bishoprics; and before the eyes of the man bishop -does there not loom the transcendental glory of Lambeth? He had owned to -himself that he was ambitious; but he had to own to himself now also that -he had hitherto taken but a sorry path towards the object of his ambition. - -On the next morning at breakfast-time, before his horse and gig arrived -for him, no one was so bright as his friend Sowerby. “So you are off, are -you?” said he. - -“Yes, I shall go this morning.” - -“Say everything that’s kind from me to Lufton. I may possibly see him -out hunting; otherwise we shan’t meet till the spring. As to my going to -Framley, that’s out of the question. Her ladyship would look for my tail, -and swear that she smelt brimstone. By-bye, old fellow!” - -The German student when he first made his bargain with the devil felt -an indescribable attraction to his new friend; and such was the case -now with Robarts. He shook Sowerby’s hand very warmly, said that he -hoped he should meet him soon somewhere, and professed himself specially -anxious to hear how that affair with the lady came off. As he had made -his bargain—as he had undertaken to pay nearly half-a-year’s income for -his dear friend, ought he not to have as much value as possible for his -money? If the dear friendship of this flash member of Parliament did not -represent that value, what else did do so? But then he felt, or fancied -that he felt, that Mr. Sowerby did not care for him so much this morning -as he had done on the previous evening. “By-bye,” said Mr. Sowerby, but -he spoke no word as to such future meetings, nor did he even promise to -write. Mr. Sowerby probably had many things on his mind; and it might be -that it behoved him, having finished one piece of business, immediately -to look to another. - -The sum for which Robarts had made himself responsible—which he so much -feared that he would be called upon to pay, was very nearly half-a-year’s -income; and as yet he had not put by one shilling since he had been -married. When he found himself settled in his parsonage, he found also -that all the world regarded him as a rich man. He had taken the dictum of -all the world as true, and had set himself to work to live comfortably. -He had no absolute need of a curate; but he could afford the 70_l._—as -Lady Lufton had said rather injudiciously; and by keeping Jones in the -parish he would be acting charitably to a brother clergyman, and would -also place himself in a more independent position. Lady Lufton had wished -to see her pet clergyman well-to-do and comfortable; but now, as matters -had turned out, she much regretted this affair of the curate. Mr. Jones, -she said to herself, more than once, must be made to depart from Framley. - -He had given his wife a pony-carriage, and for himself he had a -saddle-horse, and a second horse for his gig. A man in his position, -well-to-do as he was, required as much as that. He had a footman also, -and a gardener, and a groom. The two latter were absolutely necessary, -but about the former there had been a question. His wife had been -decidedly hostile to the footman; but, in all such matters as that, to -doubt is to be lost. When the footman had been discussed for a week it -became quite clear to the master that he also was a necessary. - -As he drove home that morning he pronounced to himself the doom of that -footman, and the doom also of that saddle-horse. They at any rate should -go. And then he would spend no more money in trips to Scotland; and -above all, he would keep out of the bedrooms of impoverished members of -parliament at the witching hour of midnight. Such resolves did he make to -himself as he drove home; and bethought himself wearily how that 400l. -might be made to be forthcoming. As to any assistance in the matter from -Sowerby,—of that he gave himself no promise. - -But he almost felt himself happy again as his wife came out into the -porch to meet him, with a silk shawl over her head, and pretending to -shiver as she watched him descending from his gig. - -“My dear old man,” she said, as she led him into the warm drawing-room -with all his wrappings still about him, “you must be starved.” But Mark -during the whole drive had been thinking too much of that transaction -in Mr. Sowerby’s bedroom to remember that the air was cold. Now he had -his arm round his own dear Fanny’s waist; but was he to tell her of that -transaction? At any rate he would not do it now, while his two boys were -in his arms, rubbing the moisture from his whiskers with their kisses. -After all, what is there equal to that coming home? - -“And so Lufton is here. I say, Frank, gently old boy,”—Frank was his -eldest son—“you’ll have baby into the fender.” - -“Let me take baby; it’s impossible to hold the two of them, they are so -strong,” said the proud mother. “Oh, yes, he came home early yesterday.” - -“Have you seen him?” - -“He was here yesterday, with her ladyship; and I lunched there to-day. -The letter came, you know, in time to stop the Merediths. They don’t go -till to-morrow, so you will meet them after all. Sir George is wild about -it, but Lady Lufton would have her way. You never saw her in such a state -as she is.” - -“Good spirits, eh?” - -“I should think so. All Lord Lufton’s horses are coming and he’s to be -here till March.” - -“Till March!” - -“So her ladyship whispered to me. She could not conceal her triumph at -his coming. He’s going to give up Leicestershire this year altogether. -I wonder what has brought it all about?” Mark knew very well what had -brought it about; he had been made acquainted, as the reader has also, -with the price at which Lady Lufton had purchased her son’s visit. But no -one had told Mrs. Robarts that the mother had made her son a present of -five thousand pounds. - -“She’s in a good humour about everything now,” continued Fanny; “so you -need say nothing at all about Gatherum Castle.” - -“But she was very angry when she first heard it; was she not?” - -“Well, Mark, to tell the truth she was; and we had quite a scene there up -in her own room up-stairs,—Justinia and I. She had heard something else -that she did not like at the same time; and then—but you know her way. -She blazed up quite hot.” - -“And said all manner of horrid things about me.” - -“About the duke she did. You know she never did like the duke; and for -the matter of that, neither do I. I tell you that fairly, Master Mark!” - -“The duke is not so bad as he’s painted.” - -“Ah, that’s what you say about another great person. However, he won’t -come here to trouble us, I suppose. And then I left her, not in the best -temper in the world; for I blazed up too, you must know.” - -“I am sure you did,” said Mark, pressing his arm round her waist. - -“And then we were going to have a dreadful war, I thought; and I came -home and wrote such a doleful letter to you. But what should happen when -I had just closed it, but in came her ladyship—all alone, and——. But -I can’t tell you what she did or said, only she behaved beautifully; -just like herself too; so full of love and truth and honesty. There’s -nobody like her, Mark; and she’s better than all the dukes that ever -wore—whatever dukes do wear.” - -“Horns and hoofs; that’s their usual apparel, according to you and Lady -Lufton,” said he, remembering what Mr. Sowerby had said of himself. - -“You may say what you like about me, Mark, but you shan’t abuse Lady -Lufton. And if horns and hoofs mean wickedness and dissipation, I -believe it’s not far wrong. But get off your big coat and make yourself -comfortable.” And that was all the scolding that Mark Robarts got from -his wife on the occasion of his great iniquity. - -“I will certainly tell her about this bill transaction,” he said to -himself; “but not to-day; not till after I have seen Lufton.” - -That evening they dined at Framley Court, and there they met the young -lord; they found also Lady Lufton still in high good humour. Lord Lufton -himself was a fine bright-looking young man; not so tall as Mark Robarts, -and with perhaps less intelligence marked on his face; but his features -were finer, and there was in his countenance a thorough appearance of -good humour and sweet temper. It was, indeed, a pleasant face to look -upon, and dearly Lady Lufton loved to gaze at it. - -“Well, Mark, so you have been among the Philistines?” that was his -lordship’s first remark. Robarts laughed as he took his friend’s hands, -and bethought himself how truly that was the case; that he was, in very -truth, already “himself in bonds under Philistian yoke.” Alas, alas, it -is very hard to break asunder the bonds of the latter-day Philistines. -When a Samson does now and then pull a temple down about their ears, is -he not sure to be engulfed in the ruin with them? There is no horseleech -that sticks so fast as your latter-day Philistine. - -“So you have caught Sir George, after all,” said Lady Lufton, and -that was nearly all she did say in allusion to his absence. There was -afterwards some conversation about the lecture, and from her ladyship’s -remarks, it certainly was apparent that she did not like the people among -whom the vicar had been lately staying; but she said no word that was -personal to him himself, or that could be taken as a reproach. The little -episode of Mrs. Proudie’s address in the lecture-room had already reached -Framley, and it was only to be expected that Lady Lufton should enjoy -the joke. She would affect to believe that the body of the lecture had -been given by the bishop’s wife; and afterwards when Mark described her -costume at that Sunday morning breakfast-table, Lady Lufton would assume -that such had been the dress in which she had exercised her faculties in -public. - -“I would have given a five-pound note to have heard it,” said Sir George. - -“So would not I,” said Lady Lufton. “When one hears of such things -described so graphically as Mr. Robarts now tells it, one can hardly help -laughing. But it would give me great pain to see the wife of one of our -bishops place herself in such a situation. For he is a bishop after all.” - -“Well, upon my word, my lady, I agree with Meredith,” said Lord -Lufton.—“It must have been good fun. As it did happen, you know,—as the -church was doomed to the disgrace, I should like to have heard it.” - -“I know you would have been shocked, Ludovic.” - -“I should have got over that in time, mother. It would have been -like a bull fight I suppose, horrible to see no doubt, but extremely -interesting—And Harold Smith, Mark; what did he do all the while?” - -“It didn’t take so very long, you know,” said Robarts. - -“And the poor bishop,” said Lady Meredith; “how did he look? I really do -pity him.” - -“Well, he was asleep, I think.” - -“What, slept through it all?” said Sir George. - -“It awakened him; and then he jumped up and said something.” - -“What, out loud too?” - -“Only one word or so.” - -“What a disgraceful scene!” said Lady Lufton. “To those who remember the -good old man who was in the diocese before him it is perfectly shocking. -He confirmed you, Ludovic, and you ought to remember him. It was over at -Barchester, and you went and lunched with him afterwards.” - -“I do remember; and especially this, that I never ate such tarts in my -life, before or since. The old man particularly called my attention to -them, and seemed remarkably pleased that I concurred in his sentiments. -There are no such tarts as those going in the palace now, I’ll be bound.” - -“Mrs. Proudie will be very happy to do her best for you if you will go -and try,” said Sir George. - -“I beg that he will do no such thing,” said Lady Lufton, and that was the -only severe word she said about any of Mark’s visitings. - -As Sir George Meredith was there, Robarts could say nothing then to Lord -Lufton about Mr. Sowerby and Mr. Sowerby’s money affairs; but he did make -an appointment for a _tête-à-tête_ on the next morning. - -“You must come down and see my nags, Mark; they came to-day. The -Merediths will be off at twelve, and then we can have an hour together.” -Mark said he would, and then went home with his wife under his arm. - -“Well, now, is not she kind?” said Fanny, as soon as they were out on the -gravel together. - -“She is kind; kinder than I can tell you just at present. But did you -ever know anything so bitter as she is to the poor bishop? And really the -bishop is not so bad.” - -“Yes; I know something much more bitter; and that is what she thinks of -the bishop’s wife. And you know, Mark, it was so unladylike, her getting -up in that way. What must the people of Barchester think of her?” - -“As far as I could see the people of Barchester liked it.” - -“Nonsense, Mark; they could not. But never mind that now. I want you -to own that she is good.” And then Mrs. Robarts went on with another -long eulogy on the dowager. Since that affair of the pardon-begging at -the parsonage Mrs. Robarts hardly knew how to think well enough of her -friend. And the evening had been so pleasant after the dreadful storm and -threatenings of hurricanes; her husband had been so well received after -his lapse of judgment; the wounds that had looked so sore had been so -thoroughly healed, and everything was so pleasant. How all of this would -have been changed had she had known of that little bill! - -At twelve the next morning the lord and the vicar were walking through -the Framley stables together. Quite a commotion had been made there, -for the larger portion of these buildings had of late years seldom been -used. But now all was crowding and activity. Seven or eight very precious -animals had followed Lord Lufton from Leicestershire, and all of them -required dimensions that were thought to be rather excessive by the -Framley old-fashioned groom. My lord, however, had a head man of his own -who took the matter quite into his own hands. - -Mark, priest as he was, was quite worldly enough to be fond of a good -horse; and for some little time allowed Lord Lufton to descant on the -merit of this four-year-old filly, and that magnificent Rattlebones colt, -out of a Mousetrap mare; but he had other things that lay heavy on his -mind, and after bestowing half an hour on the stud, he contrived to get -his friend away to the shrubbery walks. - -“So you have settled with Sowerby,” Robarts began by saying. - -“Settled with him; yes, but do you know the price?” - -“I believe that you have paid five thousand pounds.” - -“Yes, and about three before; and that in a matter in which I did not -really owe one shilling. Whatever I do in future, I’ll keep out of -Sowerby’s grip.” - -“But you don’t think he has been unfair to you.” - -“Mark, to tell you the truth I have banished the affair from my mind, and -don’t wish to take it up again. My mother has paid the money to save the -property, and of course I must pay her back. But I think I may promise -that I will not have any more money dealings with Sowerby. I will not say -that he is dishonest, but at any rate he is sharp.” - -“Well, Lufton; what will you say when I tell you that I have put my name -to a bill for him, for four hundred pounds.” - -“Say; why I should say——; but you’re joking; a man in your position would -never do such a thing.” - -“But I have done it.” - -Lord Lufton gave a long low whistle. - -“He asked me the last night that I was there, making a great favour of -it, and declaring that no bill of his had ever yet been dishonoured.” - -Lord Lufton whistled again. “No bill of his dishonoured! Why the -pocket-books of the Jews are stuffed full of his dishonoured papers! And -you have really given him your name for four hundred pounds?” - -“I have certainly.” - -“At what date?” - -“Three months.” - -“And have you thought where you are to get the money?” - -“I know very well that I can’t get it; not at least by that time. The -bankers must renew it for me, and I must pay it by degrees. That is, if -Sowerby really does not take it up.” - -“It is just as likely that he will take up the national debt.” - -Robarts then told him about the projected marriage with Miss Dunstable, -giving it as his opinion that the lady would probably accept the -gentleman. - -“Not at all improbable,” said his lordship, “for Sowerby is an agreeable -fellow; and if it be so, he will have all that he wants for life. But -his creditors will gain nothing. The duke, who has his title-deeds, will -doubtless get his money, and the estate will in fact belong to the wife. -But the small fry, such as you, will not get a shilling.” - -Poor Mark! He had had an inkling of this before; but it had hardly -presented itself to him in such certain terms. It was, then, a positive -fact, that in punishment for his weakness in having signed that bill he -would have to pay, not only four hundred pounds, but four hundred pounds -with interest, and expenses of renewal, and commission, and bill stamps. -Yes; he had certainly got among the Philistines during that visit of -his to the duke. It began to appear to him pretty clearly that it would -have been better for him to have relinquished altogether the glories of -Chaldicotes and Gatherum Castle. - -And now, how was he to tell his wife? - - - - -Sir Joshua and Holbein. - - -Long ago discarded from our National Gallery, with the contempt logically -due to national or English pictures,—lost to sight and memory for many a -year in the Ogygian seclusions of Marlborough House—there have reappeared -at last, in more honourable exile at Kensington, two great pictures by -Sir Joshua Reynolds. Two, with others; but these alone worth many an -entanglement among the cross-roads of the West, to see for half-an-hour -by spring sunshine:—the _Holy Family_, and the _Graces_, side by side -now in the principal room. Great, as ever was work wrought by man. In -placid strength, and subtlest science, unsurpassed;—in sweet felicity, -incomparable. - -If you truly want to know what good work of painter’s hand is, study -those two pictures from side to side, and miss no inch of them (you will -hardly, eventually, be inclined to miss one): in some respects there is -no execution like it; none so open in the magic. For the work of other -great men is hidden in its wonderfulness—you cannot see how it was -done. But in Sir Joshua’s there is no mystery: it is all amazement. No -question but that the touch was so laid; only that it _could_ have been -so laid, is a marvel for ever. So also there is no painting so majestic -in sweetness. He is lily-sceptred: his power blossoms, but burdens not. -All other men of equal dignity paint more slowly; all others of equal -force paint less lightly. Tintoret lays his line like a king marking the -boundaries of conquered lands; but Sir Joshua leaves it as a summer wind -its trace on a lake; he could have painted on a silken veil, where it -fell free, and not bent it. - -Such at least is his touch when it is life that he paints: for things -lifeless he has a severer hand. If you examine that picture of the -_Graces_ you will find it reverses all the ordinary ideas of expedient -treatment. By other men flesh is firmly painted, but accessories lightly. -Sir Joshua paints accessories firmly,[20] flesh lightly;—nay, flesh not -at all, but spirit. The wreath of flowers he feels to be material; and -gleam by gleam strikes fearlessly the silver and violet leaves out of the -darkness. But the three maidens are less substantial than rose petals. No -flushed nor frosted tissue that ever faded in night wind is so tender as -they; no hue may reach, no line measure, what is in them so gracious and -so fair. Let the hand move softly—itself as a spirit; for this is Life, -of which it touches the imagery. - -“And yet——” - -Yes: you do well to pause. There is a “yet” to be thought of. I did not -bring you to these pictures to see wonderful work merely, or womanly -beauty merely. I brought you chiefly to look at that Madonna, believing -that you might remember other Madonnas, unlike her; and might think it -desirable to consider wherein the difference lay:—other Madonnas not by -Sir Joshua, who painted Madonnas but seldom. Who perhaps, if truth must -be told, painted them never: for surely this dearest pet of an English -girl, with the little curl of lovely hair under her ear, is _not_ one. - -Why did not Sir Joshua—or could not—or would not Sir Joshua—paint -Madonnas? neither he, nor his great rival-friend Gainsborough? Both of -them painters of women, such as since Giorgione and Correggio had not -been; both painters of men, such as had not been since Titian. How is it -that these English friends can so brightly paint that particular order of -humanity which we call “gentlemen and ladies,” but neither heroes, nor -saints, nor angels? Can it be because they were both country-bred boys, -and for ever after strangely sensitive to courtliness? Why, Giotto also -was a country-bred boy. Allegri’s native Correggio, Titian’s Cadore, -were but hill villages; yet these men painted, not the court, nor the -drawing-room, but the Earth: and not a little of Heaven besides: while -our good Sir Joshua never trusts himself outside the park palings. -He could not even have drawn the strawberry girl, unless she had got -through a gap in them—or rather, I think, she must have been let in at -the porter’s lodge, for her strawberries are in a pottle, ready for the -ladies at the Hall. Giorgione would have set them, wild and fragrant, -among their leaves, in her hand. Between his fairness, and Sir Joshua’s -May-fairness, there is a strange, impassable limit—as of the white reef -that in Pacific isles encircles their inner lakelets, and shuts them from -the surf and sound of sea. Clear and calm they rest, reflecting fringed -shadows of the palm-trees, and the passing of fretted clouds across their -own sweet circle of blue sky. But beyond, and round and round their coral -bar, lies the blue of sea and heaven together—blue of eternal deep. - -You will find it a pregnant question, if you follow it forth, and leading -to many others, not trivial, Why it is, that in Sir Joshua’s girl, or -Gainsborough’s, we always think first of the Ladyhood; but in Giotto’s, -of the Womanhood? Why, in Sir Joshua’s hero, or Vandyck’s, it is always -the Prince or the Sir whom we see first; but in Titian’s, the man. - -Not that Titian’s gentlemen are less finished than Sir Joshua’s; but -their gentlemanliness[21] is not the principal thing about them; their -manhood absorbs, conquers, wears it as a despised thing. Nor—and this -is another stern ground of separation—will Titian make a gentleman of -every one he paints. He will make him so if he is so, not otherwise; -and this not merely in general servitude to truth, but because in his -sympathy with deeper humanity, the courtier is not more interesting to -him than any one else. “You have learned to dance and fence; you can -speak with clearness, and think with precision; your hands are small, -your senses acute, and your features well-shaped. Yes: I see all this -in you, and will do it justice. You shall stand as none but a well-bred -man could stand; and your fingers shall fall on the sword-hilt as no -fingers could but those that knew the grasp of it. But for the rest, -this grisly fisherman, with rusty cheek and rope-frayed hand, is a man -as well as you, and might possibly make several of you, if souls were -divisible. His bronze colour is quite as interesting to me, Titian, as -your paleness, and his hoary spray of stormy hair takes the light as well -as your waving curls. Him also I will paint, with such picturesqueness -as he may have; yet not putting the picturesqueness first in him, as in -you I have not put the gentlemanliness first. In him I see a strong human -creature, contending with all hardship: in you also a human creature, -uncontending, and possibly not strong. Contention or strength, weakness -or picturesqueness, and all other such accidents in either, shall have -due place. But the immortality and miracle of you—this clay that burns, -this colour that changes—are in truth the awful things in both: these -shall be first painted—and last.” - -With which question respecting treatment of character we have to connect -also this further one: How is it that the attempts of so great painters -as Reynolds and Gainsborough are, beyond portraiture, limited almost like -children’s. No domestic drama—no history—no noble natural scenes, far -less any religious subject:—only market carts; girls with pigs; woodmen -going home to supper; watering-places; grey cart-horses in fields, and -such like. Reynolds, indeed, once or twice touched higher themes,—“among -the chords his fingers laid,” and recoiled: wisely; for, strange to say, -his very sensibility deserts him when he leaves his courtly quiet. The -horror of the subjects he chose (Cardinal Beaufort and Ugolino) showed -inherent apathy: had he felt deeply, he would not have sought for this -strongest possible excitement of feeling,—would not willingly have -dwelt on the worst conditions of despair—the despair of the ignoble. -His religious subjects are conceived even with less care than these. -Beautiful as it is, this Holy Family by which we stand has neither -dignity nor sacredness, other than those which attach to every group -of gentle mother and ruddy babe; while his Faiths, Charities or other -well-ordered and emblem-fitted virtues are even less lovely than his -ordinary portraits of women. - -It was a faultful temper, which, having so mighty a power of realization -at command, never became so much interested in any fact of human history -as to spend one touch of heartfelt skill upon it;—which, yielding -momentarily to indolent imagination, ended, at best, in a Puck, or a -Thais; a Mercury as Thief, or a Cupid as Linkboy. How wide the interval -between this gently trivial humour, guided by the wave of a feather, or -arrested by the enchantment of a smile,—and the habitual dwelling of the -thoughts of the great Greeks and Florentines among the beings and the -interests of the eternal world! - -In some degree it may indeed be true that the modesty and sense of the -English painters are the causes of their simple practice. All that -they did, they did well, and attempted nothing over which conquest was -doubtful. They knew they could paint men and women: it did not follow -that they could paint angels. Their own gifts never appeared to them so -great as to call for serious question as to the use to be made of them. -“They could mix colours and catch likeness—yes; but were they therefore -able to teach religion, or reform the world? To support themselves -honourably, pass the hours of life happily, please their friends, and -leave no enemies, was not this all that duty could require, or prudence -recommend? Their own art was, it seemed, difficult enough to employ all -their genius: was it reasonable to hope also to be poets or theologians? -Such men had, indeed, existed; but the age of miracles and prophets was -long past; nor, because they could seize the trick of an expression, -or the turn of a head, had they any right to think themselves able to -conceive heroes with Homer, or gods with Michael Angelo.” - -Such was, in the main, their feeling: wise, modest, unenvious, and -unambitious. Meaner men, their contemporaries or successors, raved -of high art with incoherent passion; arrogated to themselves an -equality with the masters of elder time, and declaimed against the -degenerate tastes of a public which acknowledged not the return of the -Heraclidæ. But the two great—the two only painters of their age—happy -in a reputation founded as deeply in the heart as in the judgment of -mankind, demanded no higher function than that of soothing the domestic -affections; and achieved for themselves at last an immortality not the -less noble, because in their lifetime they had concerned themselves less -to claim it than to bestow. - -Yet, while we acknowledge the discretion and simple-heartedness of these -men, honouring them for both: and the more when we compare their tranquil -powers with the hot egotism and hollow ambition of their inferiors: we -have to remember, on the other hand, that the measure they thus set to -their aims was, if a just, yet a narrow one; that amiable discretion is -not the highest virtue, nor to please the frivolous, the best success. -There is probably some strange weakness in the painter, and some fatal -error in the age, when in thinking over the examples of their greatest -work, for some type of culminating loveliness or veracity, we remember -no expression either of religion or heroism, and instead of reverently -naming a Madonna di San Sisto, can only whisper, modestly, “Mrs. Pelham -feeding chickens.” - -The nature of the fault, so far as it exists in the painters themselves, -may perhaps best be discerned by comparing them with a man who went not -far beyond them in his general range of effort, but who did all his work -in a wholly different temper—Hans Holbein. - -The first great difference between them is of course in completeness -of execution. Sir Joshua’s and Gainsborough’s work, at its best, is -only magnificent sketching; giving indeed, in places, a perfection of -result unattainable by other methods, and possessing always a charm of -grace and power exclusively its own: yet, in its slightness addressing -itself, purposefully, to the casual glance, and common thought—eager to -arrest the passer-by, but careless to detain him; or detaining him, if -at all, by an unexplained enchantment, not by continuance of teaching, -or development of idea. But the work of Holbein is true and thorough; -accomplished, in the highest as the most literal sense, with a calm -entireness of unaffected resolution, which sacrifices nothing, forgets -nothing, and fears nothing. - -In the portrait of the Hausmann George Gyzen,[22] every accessory is -perfect with a fine perfection: the carnations in the glass vase by his -side—the ball of gold, chased with blue enamel, suspended on the wall—the -books—the steelyard—the papers on the table, the seal-ring, with its -quartered bearings,—all intensely there, and there in beauty of which no -one could have dreamed that even flowers or gold were capable, far less -parchment or steel. But every change of shade is felt, every rich and -rubied line of petal followed; every subdued gleam in the soft blue of -the enamel and bending of the gold touched with a hand whose patience of -regard creates rather than paints. The jewel itself was not so precious -as the rays of enduring light which form it, and flash from it, beneath -that errorless hand. The man himself, what he was—not more; but to all -conceivable proof of sight—in all aspect of life or thought—not less. He -sits alone in his accustomed room, his common work laid out before him; -he is conscious of no presence, assumes no dignity, bears no sudden or -superficial look of care or interest, lives only as he lived—but for ever. - -The time occupied in painting this portrait was probably twenty times -greater than Sir Joshua ever spent on a single picture, however large. -The result is, to the general spectator, less attractive. In some -qualities of force and grace it is absolutely inferior. But it is -inexhaustible. Every detail of it wins, retains, rewards the attention -with a continually increasing sense of wonderfulness. It is also wholly -true. So far as it reaches, it contains the absolute facts of colour, -form, and character, rendered with an unaccuseable faithfulness. There -is no question respecting things which it is best worth while to know, -or things which it is unnecessary to state, or which might be overlooked -with advantage. What of this man and his house were visible to Holbein, -are visible to us: we may despise if we will; deny or doubt, we shall -not; if we care to know anything concerning them, great or small, -so much as may by the eye be known is for ever knowable, reliable, -indisputable. - -Respecting the advantage, or the contrary, of so great earnestness in -drawing a portrait of an uncelebrated person, we raise at present no -debate: I only wish the reader to note this quality of earnestness, as -entirely separating Holbein from Sir Joshua,—raising him into another -sphere of intellect. For here is no question of mere difference in -style or in power, none of minuteness or largeness. It is a question of -Entireness. Holbein is _complete_ in intellect: what he sees, he sees -with his whole soul: what he paints, he paints with his whole might. Sir -Joshua sees partially, slightly, tenderly—catches the flying lights of -things, the momentary glooms: paints also partially, tenderly, never with -half his strength; content with uncertain visions, insecure delights; -the truth not precious nor significant to him, only pleasing; falsehood -also pleasureable, even useful on occasion—must, however, be discreetly -touched, just enough to make all men noble, all women lovely: “we do -not need this flattery often, most of those we know being such; and it -is a pleasant world, and with diligence—for nothing can be done without -diligence—every day till four” (says Sir Joshua)—“a painter’s is a happy -life.” - -Yes: and the Isis, with her swans, and shadows of Windsor Forest, is -a sweet stream, touching her shores softly. The Rhine at Basle is of -another temper, stern and deep, as strong, however bright its face: -winding far through the solemn plain, beneath the slopes of Jura, tufted -and steep: sweeping away into its regardless calm of current the waves of -that little brook of St. Jakob, that bathe the Swiss Thermopylæ;[23] the -low village nestling beneath a little bank of sloping fields—its spire -seen white against the deep blue shadows of the Jura pines. - -Gazing on that scene day by day, Holbein went his own way, with the -earnestness and silent swell of the strong river—not unconscious of the -awe, nor of the sanctities of its life. The snows of the eternal Alps -giving forth their strength to it; the blood of the St. Jakob brook -poured into it as it passes by—not in vain. He also could feel his -strength coming from white snows far off in heaven. He also bore upon him -the purple stain of the earth sorrow. A grave man, knowing what steps -of men keep truest time to the chanting of Death. Having grave friends -also;—the same singing heard far off, it seems to me, or, perhaps, even -low in the room, by that family of Sir Thomas More; or mingling with the -hum of bees in the meadows outside the towered wall of Basle; or making -the words of the book more tuneable, which meditative Erasmus looks -upon. Nay, that same soft Death-music is on the lips even of Holbein’s -Madonna. Who, among many, is the Virgin you had best compare with the -one before whose image we have stood so long. - -Holbein’s is at Dresden, companioned by the Madonna di San Sisto; but -both are visible enough to you here, for, by a strange coincidence, they -are (at least so far as I know) the only two great pictures in the world -which have been faultlessly engraved. - -The received tradition respecting the Holbein Madonna is beautiful; and I -believe the interpretation to be true. A father and mother have prayed to -her for the life of their sick child. She appears to them, her own Christ -in her arms. She puts down her Christ beside them—takes their child into -her arms instead. It lies down upon her bosom, and stretches its hand to -its father and mother, saying farewell. - -This interpretation of the picture has been doubted, as nearly all the -most precious truths of pictures have been doubted, and forgotten. But -even supposing it erroneous, the design is not less characteristic of -Holbein. For that there are signs of suffering on the features of the -child in the arms of the Virgin, is beyond question; and if this child -be intended for the Christ, it would not be doubtful to my mind, that, -of the two—Raphael and Holbein—the latter had given the truest aspect -and deepest reading of the early life of the Redeemer. Raphael sought to -express His power only; but Holbein His labour and sorrow. - -There are two other pictures which you should remember together with -this (attributed, indeed, but with no semblance of probability, to the -elder Holbein, none of whose work, preserved at Basle, or elsewhere, -approaches in the slightest degree to their power), the St. Barbara and -St. Elizabeth.[24] I do not know among the pictures of the great sacred -schools any at once so powerful, so simple, so pathetically expressive -of the need of the heart that conceived them. Not ascetic, nor quaint, -nor feverishly or fondly passionate, nor wrapt in withdrawn solemnities -of thought. Only entirely true—entirely pure. No depth of glowing heaven -beyond them—but the clear sharp sweetness of the northern air: no -splendour of rich colour, striving to adorn them with better brightness -than of the day: a gray glory, as of moonlight without mist, dwelling on -face and fold of dress;—all faultless-fair. Creatures they are, humble -by nature, not by self-condemnation; merciful by habit, not by tearful -impulse; lofty without consciousness; gentle without weakness; wholly -in this present world, doing its work calmly; beautiful with all that -holiest life can reach—yet already freed from all that holiest death can -cast away. - - -FOOTNOTES - -[20] As showing gigantic power of hand, joined with utmost accuracy -and rapidity, the folds of drapery under the breast of the Virgin are, -perhaps, as marvellous a piece of work as could be found in any picture, -of whatever time or master. - -[21] The reader must observe that I use the word here in a limited -sense, as meaning only the effect of careful education, good society, -and refined habits of life, on average temper and character. Of deep and -true gentlemanliness—based as it is on intense sensibility and sincerity, -perfected by courage, and other qualities of race; as well as of that -union of insensibility with cunning, which is the essence of vulgarity, I -shall have to speak at length in another place. - -[22] Museum of Berlin. - -[23] Of 1,200 Swiss, who fought by that brookside, ten only returned. The -battle checked the attack of the French, led by Louis XI. (then Dauphin) -in 1444; and was the first of the great series of efforts and victories -which were closed at Nancy by the death of Charles of Burgundy. - -[24] Pinacothek of Munich. - - - - -A Changeling. - - - A little changeling Spirit - Crept to my arms one day. - I had no heart or courage - To drive the child away. - - So all day long I soothed her - And hushed her on my breast; - And all night long her wailing - Would never let me rest. - - I dug a grave to hold her, - A grave both dark and deep: - I covered her with violets, - And laid her there to sleep. - - I used to go and watch there, - Both night and morning too; - It was my tears, I fancy, - That kept the violets blue. - - I took her up: and once more - I felt the clinging hold, - And heard the ceaseless wailing - That wearied me of old. - - I wandered and I wandered - With my burden on my breast, - Till I saw a church door open, - And entered in to rest. - - In the dim, dying daylight, - Set in a flowery shrine, - I saw the kings and shepherds - Adore a Child divine. - - I knelt down there in silence; - And on the Altar-stone - I laid my wailing burden, - And came away,—alone. - - And now that little Spirit - That sobbed so all day long, - Is grown a shining Angel, - With wings both wide and strong. - - She watches me from heaven, - With loving, tender care, - And one day, she has promised - That I shall find her there. - - A. A. P. - - - - -Lovel the Widower. - - -CHAPTER III. - -IN WHICH I PLAY THE SPY. - -[Illustration] - -The room to which Bedford conducted me I hold to be the very pleasantest -chamber in all the mansion of Shrublands. To lie on that comfortable, -cool bachelor’s bed there, and see the birds hopping about on the lawn; -to peep out of the French window at early morning, inhale the sweet -air, mark the dewy bloom on the grass, listen to the little warblers -performing their chorus, step forth in your dressing-gown and slippers, -pick a strawberry from the bed, or an apricot in its season; blow one, -two, three, just half-a-dozen puffs of a cigarette, hear the venerable -towers of Putney toll the hour of six (three hours from breakfast, by -consequence), and pop back into bed again with a favourite novel, or -review, to set you off (you see I am not malicious, or I could easily -insert here the name of some twaddler against whom I have a grudgekin): -to pop back into bed again, I say, with a book which sets you off into -that dear invaluable second sleep, by which health, spirits, appetite -are so prodigiously improved:—all these I hold to be most cheerful -and harmless pleasures, and have partaken of them often at Shrublands -with a grateful heart. That heart may have had its griefs, but is yet -susceptible of enjoyment and consolation. That bosom may have been -lacerated, but is not therefore and henceforward a stranger to comfort. -After a certain affair in Dublin—nay, very soon after, three months -after—I recollect remarking to myself: “Well, thank my stars, I still -have a relish for 34 claret.” Once at Shrublands I heard steps pacing -overhead at night, and the feeble but continued wail of an infant. I -wakened from my sleep, was sulky, but turned and slept again. Biddlecombe -the barrister I knew was the occupant of the upper chamber. He came -down the next morning looking wretchedly yellow about the cheeks, and -livid round the eyes. His teething infant had kept him on the march all -night, and Mrs. Biddlecombe, I am told, scolds him frightfully besides. -He munched a shred of toast, and was off by the omnibus to chambers. -I chipped a second egg; I may have tried one or two other nice little -things on the table (Strasbourg pâté I know I never can resist, and am -convinced it is perfectly wholesome). I could see my own sweet face in -the mirror opposite, and my gills were as rosy as any broiled salmon. -“Well—well!” I thought, as the barrister disappeared on the roof of -the coach, “he has _domus_ and _placens uxor_—but is she _placens_? -_Placetne_ to walk about all night with a roaring baby? Is it pleasing to -go to bed after a long hard day’s work, and have your wife nagnagging you -because she has not been invited to the Lady Chancelloress’s _soirée_, -or what not? Suppose the Glorvina whom you loved so had been yours? -Her eyebrows looked as if they could scowl; her eyes as if they could -flash with anger. Remember what a slap she gave the little knife-boy -for upsetting the butter-boat over her tabinet. Suppose _parvulus -aulâ_, a little Batchelor, your son, who had the toothache all night -in your bedroom?” These thoughts passed rapidly through my mind as I -helped myself to the comfortable meal before me. “I say, what a lot of -muffins you’re eating!” cried innocent Master Lovel. Now the married, -the wealthy, the prosperous Biddlecombe only took his wretched scrap -of dry toast. “Aha!” you say, “this man is consoling himself after his -misfortune.” O churl! and do you grudge me consolation? “Thank you, dear -Miss Prior. Another cup, and plenty of cream, if you please.” Of course, -Lady Baker was not at table when I said, “Dear Miss Prior,” at breakfast. -Before her ladyship I was as mum as a mouse. Elizabeth found occasion -to whisper to me during the day in her demure way: “This is a very rare -occasion. Lady B. never allows me to breakfast alone with Mr. Lovel, -but has taken her extra nap, I suppose, because you and Mr. and Mrs. -Biddlecombe were here.” - -[Illustration: “WHERE THE SUGAR GOES.”] - -Now it may be that one of the double doors of the room which I inhabited -was occasionally open, and that Mr. Batchelor’s eyes and ears are -uncommonly quick, and note a number of things which less observant -persons would never regard or discover; but out of this room, which I -occupied for some few days, now and subsequently, I looked out as from a -little ambush upon the proceedings of the house, and got a queer little -insight into the history and characters of the personages round about -me. The two grandmothers of Lovel’s children were domineering over that -easy gentleman, as women—not grandmothers merely, but sisters, wives, -aunts, daughters, when the chance is given them—will domineer. Ah! -Glorvina, what a grey mare you might have become had you chosen Mr. -Batchelor for your consort! (But this I only remark with a parenthetic -sigh.) The two children had taken each the side of a grandmamma, and -whilst Master Pop was declared by his maternal grandmother to be a Baker -all over, and taught to despise sugar-baking and trade, little Cecilia -was Mrs. Bonnington’s favourite, repeated Watts’s hymns with fervent -precocity, declared that she would marry none but a clergyman; preached -infantine sermons to her brother and maid about worldliness; and somewhat -wearied me, if the truth must be told, by the intense self-respect with -which she regarded her own virtues. The old ladies had that love for -each other, which one may imagine that their relative positions would -engender. Over the bleeding and helpless bodies of Lovel and his worthy -and kind stepfather, Mr. Bonnington, they skirmished, and fired shots at -each other. Lady B. would give hints about second marriages, and second -families, and so forth, which of course made Mrs. Bonnington wince. -Mrs. B. had the better of Lady Baker, in consequence of the latter’s -notorious pecuniary irregularities. _She_ had never had recourse to -her son’s purse, she could thank Heaven. She was not afraid of meeting -any tradesman in Putney or London: she had never been ordered out of -the house in the late Cecilia’s lifetime: _she_ could go to Boulogne -and enjoy the _fresh air_ there. This was the terrific whip she had -over Baker. Lady B., I regret to say, in consequence of the failure -of remittances, had been locked up in prison, just at a time when she -was in a state of violent quarrel with her late daughter, and good Mr. -Bonnington had helped her out of durance. How did I know this? Bedford, -Lovel’s factotum, told me: and how the old ladies were fighting like two -cats. - -There was one point on which the two ladies agreed. A very wealthy -widower, young still, good-looking and good-tempered, we know can -sometimes find a dear woman to console his loneliness, and protect -his motherless children. From the neighbouring Heath, from Wimbledon, -Roehampton, Barnes, Mortlake, Richmond, Esher, Walton, Windsor, nay, -Reading, Bath, Exeter, and Penzance itself, or from any other quarter -of Britain, over which your fancy may please to travel, families would -have come ready with dear young girls to take charge of that man’s future -happiness: but it is a fact that these two dragons kept all women off -from their ward. An unmarried woman, with decent good looks, was scarce -ever allowed to enter Shrublands gate. If such an one appeared, Lovel’s -two mothers sallied out, and crunched her hapless bones. Once or twice -he dared to dine with his neighbours, but the ladies led him such a -life that the poor creature gave up the practice, and faintly announced -his preference for home. “My dear Batch,” says he, “what do I care for -the dinners of the people round about? Has any one of them got a better -cook or better wine than mine? When I come home from business, it is an -intolerable nuisance to have to dress and go out seven or eight miles -to cold _entrées_, and loaded claret, and sweet port. I can’t stand it, -sir. I _won’t_ stand it” (and he stamps his foot in a resolute manner). -“Give me an easy life, a wine-merchant I can trust, and my own friends, -by my own fireside. Shall we have some more? We can manage another bottle -between us three, Mr. Bonnington?” - -“Well,” says Mr. Bonnington, winking at the ruby goblet, “I am sure I -have no objection, Frederick, to another bo——” - -“Coffee is served, sir,” cries Bedford, entering. - -“Well—well, perhaps we have had enough,” says worthy Bonnington. - -“We _have_ had enough; we all drink too much,” says Lovel, briskly. “Come -into coffee?” - -We go to the drawing-room. Fred and I, and the two ladies, sit down to a -rubber, whilst Miss Prior plays a piece of Beethoven to a slight warbling -accompaniment from Mr. Bonnington’s handsome nose, who has fallen asleep -over the newspaper. During our play, Bessy glides out of the room—a grey -shadow. Bonnington wakens up when the tray is brought in. Lady Baker -likes that good old custom: it was always the fashion at the Castle, -and she takes a good glass of negus too; and so do we all; and the -conversation is pretty merry, and Fred Lovel hopes I shall sleep better -to-night, and is very facetious about poor Biddlecombe, and the way in -which that eminent Q.C. is henpecked by his wife. - -From my bachelor’s room, then, on the ground floor; or from my solitary -walks in the garden, whence I could oversee many things in the house; or -from Bedford’s communications to me, which were very friendly, curious, -and unreserved; or from my own observation, which I promise you can see -as far into the mill-stones of life as most folks’, I grew to find the -mysteries of Shrublands no longer mysterious to me; and like another -_Diable Boiteux_, had the roofs of a pretty number of the Shrublands -rooms taken off for me. - -For instance, on that very first day of my stay, whilst the family were -attiring themselves for dinner, I chanced to find two secret cupboards -of the house unlocked, and the contents unveiled to me. Pinhorn, the -children’s maid, a giddy little flirting thing in a pink ribbon, brought -some articles of the toilette into my worship’s apartment, and as she -retired did not shut the door behind her. I might have thought that -pert little head had never been made to ache by any care; but ah! black -care sits behind the horseman, as Horace remarks, and not only behind -the horseman, but behind the footman; and not only on the footman, but -on the buxom shoulders of the lady’s maid. So with Pinhorn. You surely -have remarked respecting domestic servants that they address you in a -tone utterly affected and unnatural—adopting, when they are amongst -each other, voices and gestures entirely different to those which their -employers see and hear. Now, this little Pinhorn, in her occasional -intercourse with your humble servant, had a brisk, quick, fluttering -toss of the head, and a frisky manner, no doubt capable of charming -some persons. As for me, ancillary allurements have, I own, had but -small temptations. If Venus brought me a bedroom candle, and a jug of -hot-water—I should give her sixpence, and no more. Having, you see, -given my all to one wom—— Psha! never mind _that_ old story.—Well, I -daresay this little creature may have been a flirt, but I took no more -notice of her than if she had been a coal-scuttle. - -Now, suppose she _was_ a flirt. Suppose, under a mask of levity, she hid -a profound sorrow. Do you suppose she was the first woman who ever has -done so? Do you suppose because she has fifteen pounds a year, her tea, -sugar, and beer, and told fibs to her masters and mistresses, she had -not a heart? She went out of the room, absolutely coaxing and leering -at me as she departed, with a great counterpane over her arm; but in -the next apartment I heard her voice quite changed, and another changed -voice too—though not so much altered—interrogating her. My friend Dick -Bedford’s voice, in addressing those whom Fortune had pleased to make -his superiors, was gruff and brief. He seemed to be anxious to deliver -himself of his speech to you as quickly as possible; and his tone always -seemed to hint, “There—there is my message, and I have delivered it; -but you know perfectly well that I am as good as you.” And so he was, -and so I always admitted: so even the trembling, believing, flustering, -suspicious Lady Baker herself admitted, when she came into communication -with this man. I have thought of this little Dick as of Swift at Sheen -hard by, with Sir William Temple: or Spartacus when he was as yet the -servant of the fortunate Roman gentleman who owned him. Now if Dick was -intelligent, obedient, useful, only not rebellious, with his superiors, I -should fancy that amongst his equals he was by no means pleasant company, -and that most of them hated him for his arrogance, his honesty, and his -scorn of them all. - -But women do not always hate a man for scorning and despising them. -Women do not revolt at the rudeness and arrogance of us their natural -superiors. Women, if properly trained, come down to heel at the master’s -bidding, and lick the hand that has been often raised to hit them. I do -not say the brave little Dick Bedford ever raised an actual hand to this -poor serving girl, but his tongue whipped her, his behaviour trampled on -her, and she cried, and came to him whenever he lifted a finger. Psha! -Don’t tell _me_. If you want a quiet, contented, orderly home, and things -comfortable about you, that is the way you must manage your women. - -Well, Bedford happens to be in the next room. It is the morning-room at -Shrublands. You enter the dining-room from it, and they are in the habit -of laying out the dessert there, before taking it in for dinner. Bedford -is laying out his dessert as Pinhorn enters from my chamber, and he -begins upon her with a sarcastic sort of grunt, and a “Ho! suppose you’ve -been making up to B., have you?” - -“Oh, Mr. Bedford, _you_ know very well who it is I cares for!” she says, -with a sigh. - -“Bother!” Mr. B. remarks. - -“Well, Richard then!” (here she weeps.) - -“Leave go my ’and!—leave go my a-hand, I say!” (What _could_ she have -been doing to cause this exclamation?) - -“Oh, Richard, it’s not your ’_and_ I want—it’s your ah-ah-art, Richard!” - -“Mary Pinhorn,” exclaims the other, “what’s the use of going on with this -game? You know we couldn’t be a-happy together—you know your ideers ain’t -no good, Mary. It ain’t your fault. _I_ don’t blame you for it, my dear. -Some people are born clever, some are born tall: I ain’t tall.” - -“Oh, you’re tall enough for me, Richard!” - -Here Richard again found occasion to cry out: “_Don’t_, I say! Suppose -Baker was to come in and find you squeezing of my hand in this way? I -say, some people are born with big brains, Miss Pinhorn, and some with -big figures. Look at that ass Bulkeley, Lady B.’s man! He is as big as a -Life-guardsman, and he has no more education, nor no more ideas, than the -beef he feeds on.” - -“La! Richard, whathever do you mean?” - -“Pooh! How should _you_ know what I mean? Lay them books straight. Put -the volumes together, stupid! and the papers, and get the table ready for -nussery tea, and don’t go on there mopping your eyes and making a fool of -yourself, Mary Pinhorn!” - -“Oh, your heart is a stone—a stone—a stone!” cries Mary, in a burst of -tears. “And I wish it was hung round my neck, and I was at the bottom of -the well, and—there’s the hupstairs bell!” with which signal I suppose -Mary disappeared, for I only heard a sort of grunt from Mr. Bedford; -then the clatter of a dish or two, the wheeling of chairs and furniture, -and then came a brief silence, which lasted until the entry of Dick’s -subordinate Buttons, who laid the table for the children’s and Miss -Prior’s tea. - -So here was an old story told over again. Here was love unrequited, and -a little passionate heart wounded and unhappy. My poor little Mary! As I -am a sinner, I will give thee a crown when I go away, and not a couple -of shillings, as my wont has been. Five shillings will not console thee -much, but they will console thee a little. Thou wilt not imagine that I -bribe thee with any privy thought of evil? Away! _Ich habe genossen das -irdische Glück—ich habe—geliebt!_ - -At this juncture I suppose Mrs. Prior must have entered the apartment, -for though I could not hear her noiseless step, her little cracked voice -came pretty clearly to me with a “Good afternoon, Mr. Bedford! O dear me! -what a many—many years we have been acquainted. To think of the pretty -little printer’s boy who used to come to Mr. Batchelor, and see you grown -such a fine man!” - -_Bedford._ “How? I’m only five foot four.” - -_Mrs. P._ “But such a fine figure, Bedford! You are—now indeed you are! -Well, you are strong and I am weak. You are well, and I am weary and -faint.” - -_Bedford._ “The tea’s a-coming directly, Mrs. Prior.” - -_Mrs. P._ “Could you give me a glass of water first—and perhaps a -little sherry in it, please. Oh, thank you. How good it is! How it -revives a poor old wretch!—And your cough, Bedford? How is your cough? -I have brought you some lozenges for it—some of Sir Henry Halford’s own -prescribing for my dear husband, and——” - -_Bedford_ (abruptly). “I must go—never mind the cough now, Mrs. P.” - -_Mrs. Prior._ “What’s here? almonds and raisins, macaroons, preserved -apricots, biscuits for dessert—and—la bless the man! how you sta—artled -me!” - -_Bedford._ “DONT! Mrs. Prior: I beg and implore of you, keep your ’ands -out of the dessert. I can’t stand it. I _must_ tell the governor if this -game goes on.” - -_Mrs. P._ “Ah! Mr. Bedford, it is for my poor—poor child at home: the -doctor recommended her apricots. Ay, indeed, dear Bedford; he did, for -her poor chest!” - -_Bedford._ “And I’m blest if you haven’t been at the sherry-bottle again! -Oh, Mrs. P., you drive me wild—you do. I can’t see Lovel put upon in this -way. You know it’s only last week I whopped the boy for stealing the -sherry, and ’twas you done it.” - -_Mrs. Prior_ (passionately). “For a sick child, Bedford. What won’t a -mother do for her sick child!” - -_Bedford._ “Your children’s always sick. You’re always taking things for -’em. I tell you, by the laws, I won’t and mustn’t stand it, Mrs. P.” - -_Mrs. Prior_ (with much spirit). “Go and tell your master, Bedford! Go -and tell tales of me, sir. Go and have me dismissed out of this house. -Go and have my daughter dismissed out of this house, and her poor mother -brought to disgrace.” - -_Bedford._ “Mrs. Prior—Mrs. Prior! you _have_ been a-taking the sherry. A -glass I don’t mind: but you’ve been a-bringing that bottle again.” - -_Mrs. P._ (whimpering). “It’s for Charlotte, Bedford! my poor delicate -angel of a Shatty! she’s ordered it, indeed she is!” - -_Bedford._ “Confound your Shatty! I can’t stand it, I mustn’t, and won’t, -Mrs. P!” - -Here a noise and clatter of other persons arriving interrupted the -conversation between Lovel’s major-domo and the mother of the children’s -governess, and I presently heard master Pop’s voice saying, “You’re going -to tea with us, Mrs. Prior?” - -_Mrs. P._ “Your kind dear grandmammas have asked me, dear Master Popham.” - -_Pop._ “But you’d like to go to dinner best, wouldn’t you? I daresay you -have doocid bad dinners at your house. Haven’t you, Mrs. Prior?” - -_Cissy._ “Don’t say doocid. Its a naughty word, Popham!” - -_Pop._ “I _will_ say doocid. Doo-oo-oocid! There! And I’ll say worse -words too, if I please, and you hold _your_ tongue. What’s there for -tea? jam for tea? strawberries for tea? muffins for tea? That’s it: -strawberries and muffins for tea! And we’ll go into dessert besides: -that’s prime. I say, Miss Prior?” - -_Miss Prior._ “What do you say, Popham?” - -_Pop._ “Shouldn’t you like to go into dessert?—there’s lots of good -things there,—and have wine? Only when grandmamma tells her story -about—about my grandfather and King George the what-d’ye-call-’em: King -George the Fourth——” - -_Cis._ “Ascended the throne 1820; died at Windsor 1830.” - -_Pop._ “Bother Windsor! Well, when she tells that story, I can tell you -_that_ ain’t very good fun.” - -_Cis._ “And it’s rude of you to speak in that way of your grandmamma, -Pop!” - -_Pop._ “And you’ll hold _your_ tongue, Miss! And I shall speak as I like. -And I’m a man, and I don’t want any of your stuff and nonsense. I say, -Mary, give us the marmalade!” - -_Cis._ “You have had plenty to eat, and boys oughtn’t to have so much.” - -_Pop._ “Boys may have what they like. Boys can eat twice as much as -women. There, I don’t want any more. Anybody may have the rest.” - -_Mrs. Prior._ “What nice marmalade! I know some children, my dears, who——” - -_Miss P._ (imploringly). “Mamma, I beseech you——” - -_Mrs. P._ “I know three dear children who very—very seldom have nice -marmalade and delicious cake.” - -_Pop._ “I know whom you mean: you mean Augustus, and Frederick, and -Fanny—your children? Well, they shall have marmalade and cake.” - -_Cis._ “Oh, yes, I will give them all mine.” - -_Pop._ (who speaks, I think, as if his mouth was full). “I won’t give -’em mine: but they can have another pot, you know. You have always got a -basket with you; you know you have, Mrs. Prior. You had it the day you -took the cold fowl.” - -_Mrs. P._ “For the poor blind black man! Oh, how thankful he was to his -dear young benefactors! He is a man and a brother, and to help him was -most kind of you, dear Master Popham!” - -_Pop._ “That black beggar my brother? He ain’t my brother!” - -_Mrs. P._ “No, dears, you have both the most lovely complexions in the -world.” - -_Pop._ “Bother complexions! I say, Mary, another pot of marmalade.” - -_Mary._ “I don’t know, Master Pop——” - -_Pop._ “I _will_ have it, I say. If you don’t, I’ll smash everything, I -will.” - -_Cis._ “Oh, you naughty, rude boy!” - -_Pop._ “Hold your tongue, stupid! I will have it, I say.” - -_Mrs. P._ “Do humour him, Mary, please. And I’m sure my dear children at -home will be better for it.” - -_Pop._ “There’s your basket. Now put this cake in, and this bit of -butter, and this sugar on the top of the butter. Hurray! hurray! Oh, what -jolly fun! Here’s some cake—no, I think I’ll keep that; and, Mrs. Prior, -tell Gus, and Fanny, and Fred, I sent it to ’em, and they shall never -want for anything, as long as Frederick Popham Baker Lovel, Esquire, can -give it them. Did Gus like my gray greatcoat that I didn’t want?” - -_Miss P._ “You did not give him your new greatcoat?” - -_Pop._ “It was beastly ugly, and I did give it him; and I’ll give him -this if I choose. And don’t you speak to me; I’m going to school, and I -ain’t going to have no governesses soon.” - -_Mrs. Prior._ “Ah, dear child! what a nice coat it is; and how well my -poor boy looks in it!” - -_Miss Prior._ “Mother, mother! I implore you—mother!” - -_Mr. Lovel enters._ “So the children at high tea! How d’ye do, Mrs. -Prior? I think we shall be able to manage that little matter for your -second boy, Mrs. Prior.” - -_Mrs. Prior._ “Heaven bless you,—bless you, my dear, kind benefactor! -Don’t prevent me, Elizabeth: I _must_ kiss his hand. There!” - -And here the second bell rings, and I enter the morning-room, and can see -Mrs. Prior’s great basket popped cunningly under the table-cloth. Her -basket?—her _porte-manteau_, her _porte-bouteille_, her _porte-gâteau_, -her _porte-pantalon_, her _porte-butin_ in general. Thus I could see -that every day Mrs. Prior visited Shrublands she gleaned greedily of the -harvest. Well, Boaz was rich, and this ruthless Ruth was hungry and poor. - -At the welcome summons of the second bell, Mr. and Mrs. Bonnington also -made their appearance; the latter in the new cap which Mrs. Prior had -admired, and which she saluted with a nod of smiling recognition: “Dear -madam, it _is_ lovely—I told you it was,” whispers Mrs. P., and the -wearer of the blue ribbons turned her bonny, good-natured face towards -the looking-glass, and I hope saw no reason to doubt Mrs. Prior’s -sincerity. As for Bonnington, I could perceive that he had been taking a -little nap before dinner,—a practice by which the appetite is improved, I -think, and the intellect prepared for the bland prandial conversation. - -“Have the children been quite good?” asks papa, of the governess. - -“There are worse children, sir,” says Miss Prior, meekly. - -“Make haste and have your dinner; we are coming into dessert!” cries Pop. - -“You would not have us go to dine without your grandmother?” papa asks. -Dine without Lady Baker, indeed! I should have liked to see him go to -dinner without Lady Baker. - -Pending her ladyship’s arrival, papa and Mr. Bonnington walk to the open -window, and gaze on the lawn and the towers of Putney rising over the -wall. - -“Ah, my good Mrs. Prior,” cries Mrs. Bonnington, “those grandchildren of -mine are sadly spoiled.” - -“Not by _you_, dear madam,” says Mrs. Prior, with a look of -commiseration. “Your dear children at home are, I am sure, perfect models -of goodness. Is Master Edward well, ma’am? and Master Robert, and Master -Richard, and dear, funny little Master William? Ah, what blessings those -children are to you! If a certain wilful little nephew of theirs took -after them!” - -“The little naughty wretch!” cried Mrs. Bonnington; “do you know, Prior, -my grandson Frederick—(I don’t know why they call him Popham in this -house, or why he should be ashamed of his father’s name)—do you know that -Popham spilt the ink over my dear husband’s bands, which he keeps in his -great dictionary, and fought with my Richard, who is three years older -than Popham, and actually beat his own uncle!” - -“Gracious goodness!” I cried; “you don’t mean to say, ma’am, that Pop has -been laying violent hands upon his venerable relative?” I feel ever so -gentle a pull at my coat. Was it Miss Prior who warned me not to indulge -in the sarcastic method with good Mrs. Bonnington? - -“I don’t know why you call my poor child a venerable relative,” Mrs. -B. remarks. “I know that Popham was very rude to him; and then Robert -came to his brother, and that graceless little Popham took a stick, -and my husband came out, and do you know Popham Lovel actually kicked -Mr. Bonnington on the shins, and butted him like a little naughty ram; -and if you think such conduct is a subject for ridicule—I _don’t_, Mr. -Batchelor!” - -“My dear—dear lady!” I cried, seizing her hand; for she was going to -cry, and in woman’s eye the unanswerable tear always raises a deuce of a -commotion in my mind. “I would not for the world say a word that should -willingly vex you; and as for Popham, I give you my honour, I think -nothing would do that child so much good as a good whipping.” - -“He is spoiled, madam; we know by _whom_,” says Mrs. Prior. “Dear Lady -Baker! how that red does become your ladyship.” In fact, Lady B. sailed -in at this juncture, arrayed in ribbons of scarlet; with many brooches, -bangles, and other gimcracks ornamenting her plenteous person. And now -her ladyship having arrived, Bedford announced that dinner was served, -and Lovel gave his mother-in-law an arm, whilst I offered mine to Mrs. -Bonnington to lead her to the adjoining dining-room. And the pacable kind -soul speedily made peace with me. And we ate and drank of Lovel’s best. -And Lady Baker told us her celebrated anecdote of George the Fourth’s -compliment to her late dear husband, Sir George, when his Majesty visited -Ireland. Mrs. Prior and her basket were gone when we repaired to the -drawing-room: having been hunting all day, the hungry mother had returned -with her prey to her wide-mouthed birdikins. Elizabeth looked very pale -and handsome, reading at her lamp. And whist and the little tray finished -the second day at Shrublands. - -I paced the moonlit walk alone when the family had gone to rest; and -smoked my cigar under the tranquil stars. I had been some thirty hours -in the house, and what a queer little drama was unfolding itself before -me! What struggles and passions were going on here—what _certamina_ and -_motus animorum_! Here was Lovel, this willing horse; and what a crowd -of relations, what a heap of luggage had the honest fellow to carry! -How that little Mrs. Prior was working, and scheming, and tacking, and -flattering, and fawning, and plundering, to be sure! And that serene -Elizabeth, with what consummate skill, art, and prudence, had she to act, -to keep her place with two such rivals reigning over her. And Elizabeth -not only kept her place, but she actually was liked by those two women! -Why, Elizabeth Prior, my wonder and respect for thee increase with every -hour during which I contemplate thy character! How is it that you live -with those lionesses, and are not torn to pieces? What sops of flattery -do you cast to them to appease them? Perhaps I do not think my Elizabeth -brings up her two children very well, and, indeed, have seldom become -acquainted with young people more odious. But is the fault hers, or -is it Fortune’s spite? How, with these two grandmothers spoiling the -children alternately, can the governess do better than she does? How -has she managed to lull their natural jealousy? I will work out that -intricate problem, that I will, ere many days are over. And there are -other mysteries which I perceive. There is poor Mary breaking her heart -for the butler. That butler, why does he connive at the rogueries of Mrs. -Prior? Ha! herein lies a mystery, too; and I vow I will penetrate it ere -long. So saying, I fling away the butt-end of the fragrant companion -of my solitude, and enter into my room by the open French window just -as Bedford walks in at the door. I had heard the voice of that worthy -domestic warbling a grave melody from his pantry window as I paced the -lawn. When the family goes to rest, Bedford passes a couple of hours -in study in his pantry, perusing the newspapers and the new works, and -forming his opinion on books and politics. Indeed I have reason to -believe that the letters in the _Putney Herald_ and _Mortlake Monitor_, -signed “A Voice from the Basement,” were Mr. Bedford’s composition. - -“Come to see all safe for the night, sir, and the windows closed before -you turn in,” Mr. Dick remarks. “Best not leave ’em open, even if you -are asleep inside—catch cold—many bad people about. Remember Bromley -murder!—Enter at French windows—you cry out—cut your throat—and there’s a -fine paragraph for papers next morning!” - -“What a good voice you have, Bedford,” I say; “I heard you warbling just -now—a famous bass, on my word!” - -“Always fond of music—sing when I’m cleaning my plate—learned in Old Beak -Street. _She_ used to teach me,” and he points towards the upper floors. - -“What a little chap you were then!—when you came for my proofs for the -_Museum_,” I remark. - -“I ain’t a very big one now, sir; but it ain’t the big ones that do the -best work,” remarks the butler. - -“I remember Miss Prior saying that you were as old as she was.” - -“Hm! and I scarce came up to her—eh—elbow.” (Bedford had constantly to do -battle with the aspirates. He conquered them, but you could see there was -a struggle.) - -“And it was Miss Prior taught you to sing?” I say, looking him full in -the face. - -He dropped his eyes—he could not bear my scrutiny. I knew the whole story -now. - -“When Mrs. Lovel died at Naples, Miss Prior brought home the children, -and you acted as courier to the whole party?” - -“Yes, sir,” says Bedford. “We had the carriage, and of course poor Mrs. -L. was sent home by sea, and I brought home the young ones, and—and -the rest of the family. I could say, _Avanti! avanti!_ to the Italian -postilions, and ask for _des chevaux_ when we crossed the Halps—the -Alps,—I beg your pardon, sir.” - -“And you used to see the party to their rooms at the inns, and call them -up in the morning, and you had a blunderbuss in the rumble to shoot the -robbers?” - -“Yes,” says Bedford. - -“And it was a pleasant time?” - -“Yes,” says Bedford, groaning, and hanging down his miserable head. “Oh, -yes, it was a pleasant time.” - -He turned away; he stamped his foot; he gave a sort of imprecation; he -pretended to look at some books, and dust them with a napkin which he -carried. I saw the matter at once. “Poor Dick!” says I. - -“It’s the old—old story,” says Dick. “It’s you and the Hirish girl over -again, sir. I’m only a servant, I know; but I’m a——. Confound it!” And -here he stuck his fists into his eyes. - -“And this is the reason you allow old Mrs. Prior to steal the sherry and -the sugar?” I ask. - -“How do you know that?—you remember how she prigged in Beak Street?” asks -Bedford, fiercely. - -“I overheard you and her just before dinner,” I said. - -“You had better go and tell Lovel—have me turned out of the house. That’s -the best thing that can be done,” cries Bedford again, fiercely, stamping -his feet. - -“It is always my custom to do as much mischief as I possibly can, Dick -Bedford,” I say, with fine irony. - -He seizes my hand. “No, you’re a trump—everybody knows that; beg pardon, -sir; but you see I’m so—so—dash!—miserable, that I hardly know whether -I’m walking on my head or my heels.” - -“You haven’t succeeded in touching her heart, then, my poor Dick?” I said. - -Dick shook his head. “She has no heart,” he said. “If she ever had any, -that fellar in India took it away with him. She don’t care for anybody -alive. She likes me as well as any one. I think she appreciates me, you -see, sir; she can’t ’elp it—I’m blest if she can. She knows I am a -better man than most of the chaps that come down here,—I am, if I wasn’t -a servant. If I were only an apothecary—like that grinning jackass who -comes here from Barnes in his gig, and wants to marry her—she’d have me. -She keeps him on, and encourages him—she can do that cleverly enough. And -the old dragon fancies she is fond of him. Psha! Why am I making a fool -of myself?—I am only a servant. Mary’s good enough for me; _she’ll_ have -me fast enough. I beg your pardon, sir; I am making a fool of myself; -I ain’t the first, sir. Good-night, sir; hope you’ll sleep well.” And -Dick departs to his pantry and his private cares, and I think, “Here -is another victim who is writhing under the merciless arrows of the -universal torturer.” - -“He is a very singular person,” Miss Prior remarked to me, as, next -day, I happened to be walking on Putney Heath by her side, while her -young charges trotted on and quarrelled in the distance. “I wonder where -the world will stop next, dear Mr. Batchelor, and how far the march of -intellect will proceed! Any one so free, and easy, and cool, as this Mr. -Bedford I never saw. When we were abroad with poor Mrs. Lovel, he picked -up French and Italian in quite a surprising way. He takes books down from -the library now: the most abstruse works—works that _I_ couldn’t pretend -to read, I’m sure. Mr. Bonnington says he has taught himself history, and -Horace in Latin, and algebra, and I don’t know what besides. He talked -to the servants and tradespeople at Naples much better than _I_ could, -I assure you.” And Elizabeth tosses up her head heavenwards, as if she -would ask of yonder skies how such a man could possibly be as good as -herself. - -She stepped along the Heath—slim, stately, healthy, tall—her firm, neat -foot treading swiftly over the grass. She wore her blue spectacles, -but I think she could have looked at the sun without the glasses and -without wincing. That sun was playing with her tawny, wavy ringlets, and -scattering gold-dust over them. - -“It is wonderful,” said I, admiring her, “how these people give -themselves airs, and try to imitate their betters!” - -“Most extraordinary!” says Bessy. She had not one particle of humour -in all her composition. I think Dick Bedford was right; and she had no -heart. Well, she had famous lungs, health, appetite, and with these one -may get through life not uncomfortably. - -“You and Saint Cecilia got on pretty well, Bessy?” I ask. - -“Saint who?” - -“The late Mrs. L.” - -“Oh, Mrs. Lovel:—yes. What an odd person you are! I did not understand -whom you meant,” says Elizabeth the downright. - -“Not a good temper, I should think? She and Fred fought?” - -“_He_ never fought.” - -“I think a little bird has told me that she was not averse to the -admiration of our sex?” - -“I don’t speak ill of my friends, Mr. Batchelor!” replies Elizabeth the -prudent. - -“You must have difficult work with the two old ladies at Shrublands?” - -Bessy shrugs her shoulders. “A little management is necessary in all -families,” she says. “The ladies are naturally a little jealous one of -the other; but they are both of them not unkind to me in the main; and -I have to bear no more than other women in my situation. It was not all -pleasure at Saint Boniface, Mr. Batchelor, with my uncle and aunt. I -suppose all governesses have their difficulties; and I must get over mine -as best I can, and be thankful for the liberal salary which your kindness -procured for me, and which enables me to help my poor mother and my -brothers and sisters.” - -“I suppose you give all your money to her?” - -“Nearly all. They must have it; poor mamma has so many mouths to feed.” - -“And _notre petit cœur_, Bessy?” I ask, looking in her fresh face. “Have -we replaced the Indian officer?” - -Another shrug of the shoulder. “I suppose we all get over those follies, -Mr. Batchelor. I remember somebody else was in a sad way too,”—and she -looks askance at the victim of Glorvina. “_My_ folly is dead and buried -long ago. I have to work so hard for mamma, and my brothers and sisters, -that I have no time for such nonsense.” - -Here a gentleman in a natty gig, with a high-trotting horse, came -spanking towards us over the common, and with my profound knowledge of -human nature, I saw at once that the servant by the driver’s side was -a little doctor’s boy, and the gentleman himself was a neat and trim -general practitioner. - -He stared at me grimly, as he made a bow to Miss Bessy. I saw jealousy -and suspicion in his aspect. - -“Thank you, dear Mr. Drencher,” says Bessy, “for your kindness to mamma -and our children. You are going to call at Shrublands? Lady Baker was -indisposed this morning. She says when she can’t have Dr. Piper, there’s -nobody like you.” And this artful one smiles blandly on Mr. Drencher. - -“I have got the workhouse, and a case at Roehampton, and I shall be at -Shrublands _about two_, Miss Prior,” says that young doctor, whom Bedford -had called a grinning jackass. He laid an eager emphasis on the _two_. Go -to! I know what two and two mean as well as most people, Mr. Drencher! -Glances of rage, he shot at me from out his gig. The serpents of that -miserable Æsculapius unwound themselves from his rod, and were gnawing at -his swollen heart! - -“He has a good practice, Mr. Drencher?” I ask, sly rogue as I am. - -“He is very good to mamma and our children. His practice with _them_ does -not profit him much,” says Bessy. - -“And I suppose our walk will be over before two o’clock?” remarks that -slyboots who is walking with Miss Prior. - -“I hope so. Why, it is our dinner-time; and this walk on the Heath does -make one so hungry!” cries the governess. - -“Bessy Prior,” I said, “it is my belief that you no more want spectacles -than a cat in the twilight.” To which she replied, that I was such a -strange, odd man, she really could not understand me. - -We were back at Shrublands at two. Of course we must not keep the -children’s dinner waiting: and of course Mr. Drencher drove up at five -minutes past two, with his gig-horse all in a lather. I who knew the -secrets of the house was amused to see the furious glances which Bedford -darted from the sideboard, or as he served the doctor with cutlets. -Drencher, for his part, scowled at me. I, for my part, was easy, witty, -pleasant, and I trust profoundly wicked and malicious. I bragged about -my aristocratic friends to Lady Baker. I trumped her old-world stories -about George the Fourth at Dublin with the latest dandified intelligence -I had learned at the club. That the young doctor should be dazzled and -disgusted was, I own, my wish; and I enjoyed his rage as I saw him -choking with jealousy over his victuals. - -But why was Lady Baker sulky with me? How came it, my fashionable stories -had no effect upon that polite matron? Yesterday at dinner she had been -gracious enough: and turning her back upon those poor simple Bonningtons, -who knew nothing of the _beau monde_ at all, had condescended to address -herself specially to me several times with an “I need not tell _you_, Mr. -Batchelor, that the Duchess of Dorsetshire’s maiden name was De Bobus;” -or, “You know very well that the etiquette at the Lord Lieutenant’s -balls, at Dublin Castle, is for the wives of baronets to—” &c. &c. - -Now whence, I say, did it arise that Lady Baker, who had been kind and -familiar with me on Sunday, should on Monday turn me a shoulder as cold -as that lamb which I offered to carve for the family, and which remained -from yesterday’s quarter? I had thought of staying but two days at -Shrublands. I generally am bored at country-houses. I was going away on -the Monday morning, but Lovel, when he and I and the children and Miss -Prior breakfasted together before he went to business, pressed me to stay -so heartily and sincerely that I agreed, gladly enough, to remain. I -could finish a scene or two of my tragedy at my leisure; besides, there -were one or two little comedies going on in the house which inspired me -with no little curiosity. - -Lady Baker growled at me, then, during lunch-time. She addressed herself -in whispers and hints to Mr. Drencher. She had in her own man Bulkeley, -and bullied him. She desired to know whether she was to have the barouche -or not: and when informed that it was at her ladyship’s service, said -it was a great deal too cold for the open carriage, and that she would -have the brougham. When she was told that Mr. and Mrs. Bonnington had -impounded the brougham, she said she had no idea of people taking other -people’s carriages: and when Mr. Bedford remarked that her ladyship had -her choice that morning, and had chosen the barouche, she said, “I -didn’t speak to you, sir; and I will thank you not to address me until -you are spoken to!” She made the place so hot that I began to wish I had -quitted it. - -“And pray, Miss Prior, where is Captain Baker to sleep,” she asked, “now -that the ground-floor room is engaged?” - -Miss Prior meekly said, “Captain Baker would have the pink room.” - -“The room on my landing-place, without double doors? Impossible! Clarence -is always smoking. Clarence will fill the whole house with his smoke. -He shall _not_ sleep in the pink room. I expected the ground-floor room -for him, which—a—this gentleman persists in not vacating.” And the dear -creature looked me full in the face. - -“This gentleman smokes, too, and is so comfortable where he is, that he -proposes to remain there,” I say, with a bland smile. - -“Haspic of plovers’ eggs, sir,” says Bedford, handing a dish over my -back. And he actually gave me a little dig, and growled, “Go it—give it -her.” - -“There is a capital inn on the Heath,” I continue, peeling one of my opal -favourites. “If Captain Baker must smoke, he may have a room there.” - -“Sir! my son does not live at inns,” cries Lady Baker. - -“Oh, grandma! Don’t he though? And wasn’t there a row at the Star and -Garter; and didn’t Pa pay uncle Clarence’s bill there, though?” - -“Silence, Popham. Little boys should be seen and not heard,” says Cissy. -“Shouldn’t little boys be seen and not heard, Miss Prior?” - -“They shouldn’t insult their grandmothers. O my Cecilia—my Cecilia!” -cries Lady Baker, lifting her hand. - -“You shan’t hit me! I say, you shan’t hit me!” roars Pop, starting back, -and beginning to square at his enraged ancestress. The scene was growing -painful. And there was that rascal of a Bedford choking with suppressed -laughter at the sideboard. Bulkeley, her ladyship’s man, stood calm as -fate; but young Buttons burst out in a guffaw; on which, I assure you, -Lady Baker looked as savage as Lady Macbeth. - -“Am I to be insulted by my daughter’s servants?” cries Lady Baker. “I -will leave the house this instant.” - -“At what hour will your ladyship have the barouche?” says Bedford, with -perfect gravity. - -If Mr. Drencher had whipped out a lancet and bled Lady B. on the spot, -he would have done her good. I shall draw the curtain over this sad—this -humiliating scene. Drop, little curtain! on this absurd little act. - - - - -The National Gallery Difficulty Solved. - - -Just half a century ago, the pictures now in the Dulwich Gallery were -offered to the Government as the commencement of a National Gallery, by -Sir Francis Bourgeois, who had been a soldier, but became a painter, and -was subsequently elected Royal Academician. He inherited these pictures, -which Stanislaus, king of Poland, had purposed to form the nucleus of -a national collection in that country. But the Government refused the -proffered gift. The thoughts of England were then turned not to pictures, -but in very different directions. The little four-paged broad-sheets of -_The Times_ brought their morning news of the victories of Wellington -in Spain and Napoleon’s invasion of Russia; of war declared against -England by America; of the Prime Minister’s assassination in the House of -Commons; of bread riots, when corn was not to be bought until landlords -had secured their eighty shillings a quarter; of the insanity of George -the Third and the regency of his unpopular son. There was no inclination -in such times to think of National Galleries of Art. - -After ten years of peace, with Napoleon at St. Helena, Peterloo riots -suppressed, and Thistlewood hanged, George the Fourth was making his -investments in Dutch paintings, Goutier cabinets and Sèvres porcelain, -and the government (Sir Charles Long says), prompted by the king, induced -the House of Commons, in 1824, to vote fifty-seven thousand pounds for -the purchase of thirty-eight pictures collected by Mr. Angerstein, the -banker. Thus began our National Collection of Pictures. These were shown -to the public in a small, dingy, ill-lighted house on the south side of -Pall Mall, until 1833, when it was proposed to erect a special building -for them. The site chosen was in Trafalgar Square, on which had stood -the “King’s Mews,” where, from the days of the Plantagenets, the royal -falcons had been kept and “mewed” or moulted their feathers. In our own -time, Mr. Cross’s lions and wild beasts from Exeter ’Change have been -lodged there; there, also, the first exhibitions of machinery were held, -and the public records were eaten by rats in these “Mews,” which were -pulled down to make way for the present National Gallery. - -From its first conception to the present time, no building has ever been -a more lively subject for public criticism than this unlucky National -Gallery. Poor Mr. Wilkins, the architect, was sorely perplexed with -conditions. The building was not to intercept the view of St. Martin’s -portico; it must not infringe on the barrack space in the rear; the -public must have one right of way through it, and the Guards another; -the old columns of Carlton House were to be used up; and true faith in -architecture insisted on having porticos, dome, and cupolas; moreover, -the building, by no means too large for a National Gallery, was to be -shared with the Royal Academy. With such instructions, Mr. Wilkins -prepared his plans and estimates. The building was to cost 50,000_l._, -but no architect is to be bound by his estimate; and judging from late -instances, the public got well out of this job in having to pay only -76,867_l._ - -The structure was scarcely occupied before it was discovered to be much -too small. The National Gallery had no space to display its additional -purchases and bequests, and the Royal Academy found itself obliged to -close its schools of art whenever its annual exhibition was open. For -these inconveniences parliaments and governments have been for nearly -twenty years trying to find a remedy. In 1848, Lord John Russell, Sir -Robert Peel, Mr. Hume, and others, forming _one_ House of Commons -Committee, “after careful deliberation, unanimously concurred in the -opinion” that the present National Gallery should be enlarged and -improved. In 1850, Lord John Russell, Sir Robert Peel, Mr. Hume, and -others, constituting _another_ Commons Committee, reported that they -could not “recommend that any expenditure should be at present incurred -for the purpose of increasing the accommodation of a National Gallery on -the present site,” and “were not prepared to state that the preservation -of the pictures and convenient access for the purpose of study and -improvement of taste would not be better secured in a gallery farther -removed from the smoke and dust of London.” - -The result of this recommendation was to instigate architects and -_dilettanti_ to bore an ungrateful public, year after year, with -different solutions of the vexed question. A few specimens of them may be -amusing. One suggestion was to put a third story on the top of the Greek -porticos and columns of the British Museum, and invite the public to -climb a hundred stairs to get to the picture gallery; another was to pull -down Burlington House, which Sir William Chambers characterizes as “one -of the finest pieces of architecture in Europe,” and turn out the Royal -Society. The “ring” in Hyde Park, and the inner circle of the Regent’s -Park, were in turn recommended as eligible sites for a picture gallery; -it was proposed to convert Marlborough House and St James’s Palace into a -great National Gallery; also to pull down Kensington Palace—a favourite -idea with _The Times_ and “H. B.” My Lord Elcho proposed to build on the -site of the Exhibition of 1851 in Hyde Park, and the Duke of Somerset, -when First Commissioner of Works, caused one plan to be prepared for -appropriating a part of Kensington Gardens in the Bayswater Road, and a -second for erecting a building opposite the Kensington Road. Finally, the -House of Commons voted 167,000_l._, and the Prince Consort added to that -sum the surplus of the Exhibition of 1851, with which was bought the land -opposite and outside Hyde Park, at Kensington Gore,—a site the government -had previously commenced negotiations for with the same object, and -failed to secure. The House of Commons, however, rejected the plan for -removing the National Gallery to this site; and the present conclusion -seems to be that the pictures will remain where they are. - -Is it possible to render the structure in Trafalgar Square suitable for -a National Picture Gallery? And, if so, how is this desirable object to -be effected? We submit, for the consideration of our readers, a very -practical answer to these questions. - -But first, let us take a view of the extent of the national possessions -in pictures. Since the nation acquired the thirty-eight pictures of Mr. -Angerstein, its possessions have increased above twenty-five fold: and -they would probably have been even much larger, had suitable arrangements -been made to exhibit them. To Sir George Beaumont, the Rev. Holwell -Carr, Mr. Coningham, and others, the nation is indebted for many fine -pictures of the older masters; whilst to Sir John Soane, Mr. Vernon, Mr. -Jacob Bell, and Mr. Sheepshanks the country owes its numerous and choice -selection of the works of British artists. The collection of his own -paintings and drawings bequeathed by the great landscape painter, J. M. -W. Turner, would fill a gallery of itself; and in a few years, Chantrey’s -bequest of 2,000_l._ a year to buy modern works will come into operation. - -It would be a misappropriation of these artistic treasures to accumulate -them all in one gallery, fatiguing the visitor with acres of painted -canvas. As national possessions, it would be out of all reason that the -metropolis alone should monopolize the enjoyment of them. Since the -formation of the National Gallery, the State has aided in the erection -of picture-galleries in Dublin and Edinburgh. Even if the principle of -centralization were admitted, it would be impossible to find any centre -of London equally accessible to its three millions of inhabitants. In the -abstract, _the_ central spot would be Smithfield; but no one would be -bold enough to say that the public would frequent that spot in greater -numbers than they do Trafalgar Square. - -The wise and liberal course of dealing with the national pictures would -be to render them as useful as possible _to the whole of the United -Kingdom_; to retain in the metropolis a selection, and to circulate the -others wherever localities shall provide suitable accommodation for -the reception and exhibition of pictures. It would be more useful and -interesting that there should be a change of pictures in the provincial -localities than fixed collections.[25] The idea of circulation is not -new. The public, of its own accord, brings together exhibitions of -modern pictures every year in the large towns; and choice works of the -old masters, lent by their possessors, and sent from mansions in all -parts of the kingdom, are every year entrusted to the managers of the -British Institution in Pall Mall. There could be no real administrative -difficulties in the State’s dealing with the national pictures in the -same way. Of course, legislative powers to remove antiquated obstructions -must be obtained, and a proper authority, directly responsible to -Parliament, instead of being screened through different Boards of -Trustees, would have to be created. - -In the metropolis, the head-quarters for the old masters should be at -the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The British School might -remain where it is now well displayed, at South Kensington. On the -South of London, there is already the Dulwich Gallery; whilst on the -north side in Finsbury or Islington, and on the east in Victoria Park, -suitable suburban galleries, with accommodation for schools of Art, -might be erected at a cost not exceeding 3,000_l._ each. Besides the two -metropolitan galleries of Dublin and Edinburgh, excellent accommodation -for exhibiting and receiving pictures is provided in connection with -the Schools of Art at Manchester, Sheffield, Liverpool, Bristol, -Wolverhampton, &c. And in all future buildings for schools of Art, -towards the cost of which the State is asked to contribute, such aid will -only be given upon the condition that provision is made for a suitable -exhibiting room. - -With these views, the first practical point is to decide what shall be -done to supply the present deficiencies of the building in Trafalgar -Square. Although Parliament and various administrations have often -changed their minds about the locality of the National Gallery, it may be -assumed that the present decision is to retain it in Trafalgar Square. -Proposals have been discussed for gaining more space by turning out the -Royal Academy;[26] which, from its creation, has been housed at the -public expense:—not a very large contribution towards its gratuitous -teaching of young artists. Last year Mr. Disraeli invited the Royal -Academy to transport itself to Burlington House; but it is said that the -present government have not renewed the offer of that site. If it can be -shown that much better as well as increased accommodation, can be found -for the National Pictures, without displacing the Royal Academy, and -without necessitating the expenditure of 200,000_l._ for the purchase -of ground and St. Martin’s workhouse, or incurring the cost of removing -the barracks, it would seem to be a waste of public money to adopt such -measures. Besides, it would not be very convenient for art-students to -attend the schools of the Royal Academy in Piccadilly, nor for the public -to visit its exhibitions there. Nor should the advantage to the students -of their contiguity to the pictures of the old masters be overlooked. - -Our proposal, therefore, is to keep both National Gallery and Royal -Academy where they now are, and to demonstrate, with the aid of the -ingenious constructor of the new Gallery at South Kensington—which for -its lighting both by day and night may fairly challenge any other gallery -in Europe—how this may be done. The reader, if sufficiently curious, may -find on the votes of the House of Commons of last year, in the month -of March, a notice as follows:—“22º die Martis 1859:—9. Mr. Adderley. -National Gallery. Address for copies of plans and estimates for the -alteration of the National Gallery, prepared by Captain Fowke, R.E., and -submitted to the Lords of the Committee of Council on Education.” - -Owing to a change of Ministry, or some other cause, these plans were not -published, but only talked about. The _Cornhill Magazine_, in laying them -before the public, invites discussion and consideration of their merits. - -The defects of the present building are many, and are thus summed up by -Captain Fowke: “The first object of the building ought to be the proper -exhibition of pictures, but by its present arrangements the valuable -top-lighted space (_the_ picture space _par excellence_) to the extent -of 8,000 square feet, out of the entire area of 22,000 square feet, is -thrown away upon the central hall and passages. The tinted portion on -the plan (Fig. 2) shows at a glance the wasted space. The interior of -the building is not worthy of the purposes to which it is applied, the -entrance-hall being large and unimposing, whilst the approach to the -galleries, up a dark stair enclosed between two walls, is singularly -wanting in dignity. The communications from room to room are small, -and unfitted for the reception of great crowds. There is no space of -sufficient dimensions for the proper exhibition of the largest class of -pictures. Another point, which must strike every one who has visited -continental galleries, is the want of any _tribune_, or great central -point for the reception of the choicest works. The absence of this gives -the National Gallery the air of a mere set of rooms, which seem to -require to be in some way connected with one another, and with one grand -focussing point to give them the unity of a great gallery.” - -[Illustration: [_To face_ p. 351.] - -PROPOSED PLAN OF THE FIRST OR PRINCIPAL FLOOR OF THE GALLERY. Fig. 1. - -PRESENT PLAN OF GALLERY. Fig. 2] - -The two accompanying plans of the first-floors show how the existing -building may, at a comparatively small cost, be altered so as to remove -the objections stated, while at the same time its accommodation will be -largely increased (Figs. 1 and 2). To begin with the entrance. It will -be seen from the section (Fig. 3), that the floor of the present picture -galleries is 23 feet 6 inches above the foot pavement of the street. If -the floor of the central hall then be _raised_ to this level, there will -be sufficient height for an entrance-hall under the additional gallery; -that is, keeping the floor of the entrance-hall three inches above the -pavement, and allowing one foot for the thickness of the floor of the -gallery above, there will be a clear height of 22 feet 3 inches for a -noble entrance-hall. By removing the present external steps, the entrance -from the street will be at each side under the present portico floor, the -flagging of which will be replaced by a light glass and iron ceiling, so -constructed as not to be seen from the square in front; the space under -the portico will then form a well-lighted vestibule to the hall. The hall -will be carried back into the present Royal Academy sculpture-room, from -the enlarged skylight of which, and from a series of windows over the -floor of the portico in front, it would be amply lighted. The apsidal end -under the skylight would afford a good position for the few pieces of -sculpture belonging to the National Collection. By this arrangement the -visitor may at once step from a carriage across the pavement into a warm -hall, instead of having to ascend a flight of steps, and in rainy weather -get wet _before_ he reaches even the portico. - -Four staircases, each stair eight feet wide, will lead from either side -of this hall to the galleries above; of which the central one would -consist of a tribune, or _salon carré_, of nobler proportions than -that at the Louvre. From a deep recess at the sides of this tribune, -openings would lead each way into an uninterrupted series of rooms, and -by bringing the doorways of these rooms into one line, and increasing -them to twelve feet in width, an effective vista the entire length of -the building (450 feet) would be obtained, which might be decorated -with columns and arches, as in similar openings in the galleries of the -Vatican. (See Fig. 5.) - -By bringing the retired portion of the wings forward to the line of their -projecting front, and throwing each wing into two good rooms in line -with those above named, it will then be seen that the entire top-lighted -area of the building is made available, with the exception of the small -spaces actually occupied by the stairs. The saving in space, in square -feet, will be apparent from the following table of the floor areas of -the top-lighted part of the building as it is at present, and as now -proposed:— - - Total Picture space Space - area. top-lighted. lost. - - As at present (including Royal Academy) 22,540 14,090 8,450 - As proposed 23,560 22,488 1,071 - -From which it appears that while at present the lost space is -three-fifths of that reserved for exhibition, in the proposed plan the -loss would be reduced to one twenty-second part of the available space; -the exhibition area being increased by more than one-half its present -quantity. - -[Illustration: VIEW OF INTERIOR OF NATIONAL GALLERY AS PROPOSED. Fig. 5.] - -In measuring the superficial contents of wall space for hanging pictures -in the present and proposed galleries, the same proportion holds good. -The hanging space in the present National Gallery is 10,000 square feet, -which would be increased to 20,000 square feet, whilst the 10,000 square -feet of the Royal Academy would be increased 10,194 square feet. - -On the lower floor, the only room now available for exhibition is that in -which the Turner drawings are stored away—a room containing 900 square -feet of floor area; and from the unfortunate circumstance, not to say -absurd arrangement of the entrance _being down a descending_ and dark -stair, the public impression has been that the lower rooms were merely a -superior kind of cellars. The public will recollect the dismal impression -which the Vernon pictures made in these rooms. - -[Illustration: [_To face_ p. 352.] - -LONGITUDINAL SECTION THROUGH CENTRAL HALL. Fig. 3. - -*PRESENT LEVEL OF FLOOR OF CENTRAL HALL. - -REVISED ELEVATION. Fig. 4.] - -By the arrangement proposed, a space of 3,300 square feet will be -available for exhibiting drawings of the old masters; and these rooms -will be entered at once from the entrance-hall, by an _ascending_ -staircase, by which the disagreeable impression above alluded to would be -avoided. - -The proposed changes would also greatly benefit both the exhibitions -and the schools of the Royal Academy. They would increase and improve -the exhibiting space; giving five large rooms, instead of seven small -ones, as at present: two large rooms being obtained by the suppression -of four small ones. (See Figs. 1 and 2.) The Royal Academy, at present, -has a room appropriated to sculpture, which has long been designated “the -Cellar,” and in which works are deposited, rather than exhibited: the -loss of such a room is almost a gain. Next, it would lose the dark little -octagon room; which, after many efforts to make it a room for exhibition, -has lapsed into the condition of an ante-room, containing a few prints. -The other two rooms suppressed by the new plan are the two small side -rooms at present appropriated to the architectural drawings and the -miniatures; though they are confessedly far too small for their purpose. - -The distribution of the increased space available for the exhibitions of -the Royal Academy might be as follows:—The first great room at the top of -the new staircase might be devoted to the sculptors; visitors would then -pass through it, and examine the works of sculpture, instead of having -to diverge to a “cellar,” as at present, or quitting the Exhibition -without seeing the sculpture, as many do. As the entrance would be in the -centre of the building, and lighted from the top, the sculpture might -be arranged in two noble semicircles, forming a grand art entrance into -the collections, and giving that importance to the sculpture which it -deserves. The sculptors would thus at least double the number of their -visitors. From this room the visitors would proceed into the next, -where the space on the left might be devoted to architectural drawings, -and that on the right to miniatures and water-colour paintings. These -works, especially the architectural, would be appropriately placed, and -the miniatures and pictures in water-colours would gain in richness -by being viewed after the colourless marbles, and before the eye had -become accustomed to the fuller richness of the paintings in oil. After -thus greatly improving the exhibitions of sculpture, architecture, and -water-colour paintings, there would still remain the same amount of -exhibiting space as at present for oil pictures. Thus far the change is -clearly a great gain to all the exhibitors. - -The advantages that would accrue to the students of the Royal Academy -have now to be considered, and are, perhaps, even still more important. -It is hardly known to the world outside that in the schools of the -Royal Academy almost all the rising artists of the country receive -a _free_ education in art. At present, however, the schools are -subject to the disadvantage of being closed during the months when the -exhibition is open. This has long been deplored, equally by the students -and academicians, but it was unavoidable, since the rooms used for -exhibition are those also used as schools of art. By the new arrangements -of the plan of the lower story, three excellent rooms may be provided -which could be used _throughout the year_ without interruption: the -first as an antique school, the second as a life school, the third -as a painting school; and thus there would be no necessity to close -these schools during nearly five months in the year. In order to give -the schools the advantage of an uninterrupted north light, it would -be desirable that the Royal Academy should occupy the west end of the -building, and the National Gallery the east. The National Gallery would -not be prejudiced in the least by this change, as all the galleries are -lighted from the top. The rooms below, if used for the exhibition of -the drawings of the old masters, as proposed, would be lighted quite -sufficiently from windows at the side, as the best authorities prescribe -a light not too glaring, since drawings are liable to fade, if exposed to -too much light. - -As will be seen from the elevation (Fig. 4), the alterations of the -exterior of the building are of no great extent, the principal being -(in addition to that already described in the wings) the removal of the -central and two secondary domes, and the substitution of an attic story, -carried over the central portion of the building; the general effect of -which would be improved by the removal of the small secondary four-column -porticos. If any one will stand in the front of the building, which is -only 450 feet in length, he will be able to count no less than thirteen -different fronts, none of them differing much in extent; the composition -is thus broken up, the unity and mass of the building are lost, and the -repose and dignity which should characterize an important public edifice -are entirely wanting. By the proposed arrangement, the whole façade would -be thrown into an imposing centre, with two massive wings connected with -it by unbroken curtains. That impression of meanness and want of height, -produced by the puny and meagre dome and insignificant cupolas, would be -removed by the substitution of the attic, which would have the effect of -elevating the entire mass of the building. - -In the proposed alterations it is presumed that there would be no -difficulty in closing up the two passages which lead from the square to -Duke’s Court and to the barracks; though if it were thought desirable, -one or both of these could be retained. The entrance to these passages -is now effected by an ascending flight of ten steps; by simply reversing -this arrangement and substituting a descending flight, the passages could -be carried through the building below the floor of the present lower -rooms. - -The estimated cost of the entire alteration is under 34,000_l._, which -has been verified by a responsible builder; but to provide for additional -decorations and contingencies a sum of (say) 50,000_l._ might be allowed; -and even this, to accomplish the objects proposed, would be a moderate -and justifiable outlay, which the public would scarcely grudge for such -results; and the Royal Academy might not object to share the expense, as -they would participate in the advantages of the improvements. - -These alterations and improvements, moreover, could be effected without -closing the Gallery for a day. - -By using the entrance under the western side portico as a temporary -entrance for the public, the centre part could be finished without -interfering with the National Gallery, and by moving the pictures into -the portion completed (a work of a few hours) the wing might be in -like manner finished, the public being then admitted through the new -entrance-hall. - - * * * * * - -Briefly to sum up, the advantages to be gained are— - -1. The whole of the top-lighted space will be utilized. - -2. The lower floors will also be made available for exhibition and -schools. - -3. The means of access and of internal communication will be improved. - -4. The picture space for the National Gallery will be doubled, without -disturbing the Royal Academy. - -5. The space available for exhibiting drawings, &c. will be increased -about fourfold. - -6. The appearance of the building both externally and internally will be -improved. - -7. The whole alteration can be completed within six months, and without -moving a single picture out of the building, or closing the National -Gallery to the public for a single day. - -8. The cost of the entire work would not exceed 50,000_l._ - - * * * * * - -Any other plan than the above will delay the settlement of this vexed -question interminably, and will lead to an expenditure of hundreds of -thousands of pounds; whereas the adoption of the present proposal, -coupled with the principle of local circulation rather than metropolitan -centralization, will promote a taste for art throughout the United -Kingdom, and enlist the sympathies and assistance of all in the -conservation and extension of a National Collection of Pictures, thus -rendered accessible to the population of the most remote districts. - - -FOOTNOTES - -[25] Mr. T. Fairbairn is usefully striving to establish a public Gallery -of Art at Manchester; but however rich it may become in local resources, -specimens of Beato Angelicos, Raffaelles, and the like, successively -introduced, for a season, from time to time, would have a very beneficial -influence on the tastes of the visitors. - -[26] So much doubt and ignorance exists on the subject of the tenure by -which the Royal Academy holds its premises, that the official answer of -Henry Howard, the Keeper, has been exhumed from parliamentary records to -remove them. Mr. Howard says:— - -“There are no expressed conditions on which the apartments at Somerset -House were originally bestowed on the Royal Academy. The Royal Academy -of Arts took possession of the apartments which they occupy in Somerset -House, in April 1780, by virtue of a letter from the Lords Commissioners -of the Treasury to the Surveyor General, directing him to deliver over to -the Treasurer of the Royal Academy, all the apartments allotted to his -Majesty’s said Academy in the new buildings at Somerset House, which are -to be appropriated to the uses specified in the several plans of the same -heretofore settled.” - -“The Royal Academy received these apartments as a gift from their -munificent founder, George the Third; and it has always been understood -by the members that his Majesty, when he gave up to the government his -palace of old Somerset House (where the Royal Academy was originally -established), stipulated that apartments should be erected for that -establishment in the new building. The Royal Academy remained in the old -palace till those rooms were completed which had been destined for their -occupation; plans of which had been submitted to their approval, and -signed by the president, council, and officers.” - - - - -A Winter Wedding-Party in the Wilds. - - -“I’m sorry for the lasses’ disappointment, wife, but they _can’t_ go. It -would be madness to think of it. The phaeton would be broken to bits, if -the grey mare could do the distance, in such weather, which she couldn’t; -and if we were to send into Winton to ask, there’s not one of the inns -would let a chaise go out of the yard after last night’s fall of snow.” - -For two or three minutes there was a blank silence round the breakfast -table; Anne’s eyes grew tearfully bright, Sophy looked rebellious, and I -began to experience a painful difficulty in swallowing as I stared out -of the window at the hopeless prospect of a great drift, which levelled -the garden hedge with the fields beyond, and went sloping up in a snowy -undulation to the brow of the Langhill. - -“If a phaeton can’t pull through the snow, how will Cousin Mary get to -church to be married?” proposed Sophy. - -“She’ll ride as your father and mother did on the same occasion, Miss.” - -“I wore a plum-coloured cloth habit, faced with velvet, and sugar-loaf -buttons, and a hat with a gold band on it,” said Mrs. Preston. “I -believe, father, it was a morning to the full as bad as this, was our -wedding; and yet didn’t all the folks come over from Appley Moor? To be -sure they did, every one of them!” - -“And the road from Appley Moor to Rookwood Grange is worse than the road -we should have to go, isn’t it, mother?” insinuated Sophy. - -“Couldn’t be worse than Binks’ Wold,” replied her father; and to -spare himself any further aggravation from our faces of reproach and -mortification, he marched away, after his ample breakfast, out of the -room, and out of the house. Mrs. Preston disappeared also, and we three -young ones were left alone to bewail our disappointment. - -And a cruel disappointment it was; perhaps more cruel to me than to my -school-friends, for I was a town-bred girl, only staying my Christmas -holidays at Ripstone Farm, and never in my life had I been to any -entertainment more exciting than a breaking-up dance all of girls. The -wedding at the Grange was known of before I came, and so I had been sent -from home provided with crisp white muslin, tucked ever so high, with -rose-coloured bows and sash; and only the Saturday previous, Anne’s and -Sophy’s new frocks had come from the dressmaker’s, by the Winton carrier, -and had been pronounced, with their sky-blue trimmings, so pretty, so -_sweetly_ pretty! When Mr. Preston had said we could not go to the -wedding-party, my first thought had been of my frock, and when we came to -compare notes, Anne’s and Sophy’s regrets proved to have taken the same -direction. With one consent we adjourned up-stairs, to indulge the luxury -of woe over our sacrificed finery, but that mournful exercise palling -upon us fast, Sophy and I found our way, by a swept foot-path, into the -garden, where the two boys of the family were constructing a snow-man -of grand proportions. Shovels were proposed to us to help, and we were -cavalierly dismissed to find them in the tool-house for ourselves, when -we unexpectedly met the foreman at the door. Sophia told him how that, on -account of the snow, we could not go to the wedding-party at the Grange, -and appealed to him if it were really and truly out of the question to -attempt it. - -“Unpossible, Miss Sophy, quite unpossible for the pheyton an’ grey mear, -but _I_ could get yo there,” replied foreman, with a confidential wag of -his head. - -“How, John, how?” - -“Why, Miss, I’ll tell ’ee. I’ th’ broad-wheeled wagon wi’ fower hosses, -an’ a tilt ower-head. Put a mattruss an’ plenty o’ rugs iv’ th’ insoide, -an’ yo’d goa as cosy as cosy could be. Long Tom to lead, an’ me to -foller.” - -“I’ll ask father if we mayn’t?” cried Sophy, and away she flew in search -of him. - -In a few minutes she came speeding back, clapping her hands, and -announcing that he would see about it; so in we ran to tell Anne. - -“When father says he’ll see about anything he means it shall be done,” -replied Anne; “let us go and begin packing our frocks!” - -And so it was decided that we should go to the wedding-party after all! -We were in exuberant spirits at our early dinner, for at two o’clock we -were to start. John and Tom were fixing the tilt upon the wagon then, -and the horses were eating double feeds of corn in preparation for the -work that was before them. We had full ten miles to go, and Mr. Preston -thought it might be done by six o’clock, when we should have plenty of -time to get warmed, and make ourselves grand before tea, at seven. - -“And I expect you’ll bring us word you’ve each found a beau; you too, -Miss Poppy,” said the farmer, addressing me. - -“I think Cousin Joseph will just suit her,” cried Sophy. - -“As you lasses always go by the rule of contraries, perhaps he will. He’s -as tall as a house-end, and as thin as a whipping-post, Miss Poppy. Do -you think you’ll match?” - -I did not like the allusion to my own brevity of stature, and determined -to hate the lanky Joseph on the spot. - -Dinner was a mere fiction for us that day, and when we were free to quit -the table, away we scampered to be swathed up. About Sophy and Anne I -cannot undertake to speak; but for myself, I know I could not stir a limb -for weight of cloaks, skirts, boots, and comforters, when I was finished -off in the hall, and yet I was in a breathless state of eagerness to -be in the wagon, and experiencing the delicious sensations of actually -setting off. There were, of course, twenty little things to be done at -the last—the lanterns to be fitted with fresh candles, the great wooden -mallets to be found, to stop the wheels from slipping down hill when the -horses had to rest going up, and a bottle of rum-and-water, to be mixed -for the refreshment of John and Long Tom on the way. - -The wagon looked quite pictorial, as I remember it, standing in the -slanting, winterly sunshine, with the team of ponderous black horses -which no other farmer in the district could match, and the water-proof -tilt used to cover the loads of corn when they were carried to the miller -at Winton, set upon an arched framework, and closed like curtains, back -and front. Inside, the wagon was made comfortable with a mattress and a -supply of pillows and blankets, amongst which we were charged to go to -sleep as we were returning home in the morning. Sophy was the first to -set foot on the step, but her father stopt her. - -“Let’s have you in dry-shod, at all events—lift them in at the back, -John;” and accordingly, like three bundles of hay, we were hoisted under -the tilt, received our final messages, cautions, and counsels; after -which all was made secure in the rear, to shut out the wind, only a -peep-hole being allowed us in front, over the horses’ broad backs. Then -wagoner cracked his long whip, uttered a hoarse gee-whoa, and the heavy -procession moved slowly off across the home-pastures. - -What a merry trio we were under the tilt; how we laughed, and chattered, -and sang! and only a dozen years ago! Lord! what a change a dozen years -can make amongst the liveliest of us! - -It was, I cannot deny it, a cold and tedious journey. Before one-half -of it was accomplished the pale sunshine had faded from the snow, and -the gray twilight was coming down upon the hills under a leaden vault of -sky which promised another storm before the morning. Long Tom plodded -patiently on at the leader’s head, now cracking his whip, now cheering -his horses forward with a gruff encouragement, but never vouchsafing a -word to anybody else. Foreman was more sociably disposed; he took brief -rides on the shafts and the front of the wagon, and from time to time put -his broad brown face in at the opening of the tilt, and inquired how we -were getting on. Before it grew dark, there was a pretty long stoppage -for a consultation, and Anne and Sophy were taken into council. John was -spokesman, and addressed himself to Sophy, who was the imperative mood -of the Preston family, and ruled many things both in-doors and out at -Ripstone Farm, though she was only the younger daughter. - -“We’ve split, Long Tom and me, Miss Sophy, and I want to know what you -says, and Miss Anne. There’s two ways to Rookwood, and Tom’s for going -by t’ Scaur, but I votes for Binks’ Wold:—it’s a stiffish pull, but it’s -safest. Now, if we goes by t’ Scaur, an’ we finds a drift across t’ -hollow, as most likelings we should, turn back we must; we couldn’t haul -through it nohow—an’ there’s Dimple Quarries—I never likes passing them -quarries after dark.” - -“Binks’ Wold, John,” pronounced Sophy, imperially; “we’ll have nothing to -say to the Scaur or the Quarries after daylight. We should not be worth -picking up, Tom, if you drove us over the cliff.” - -Long Tom did not attempt to argue the point, but cracked his whip -sharply, and again the horses moved on; more slowly now than before, for -the road, such as it was, wound circuitously up-hill for nearly half a -mile. Four times during the ascent we stopped to breathe the horses, but -at last John, looking in on us, announced in mysterious terms that “we -had brokken t’ neck o’ t’ journey, an’ should be at the Grange i’ no -time.” I could not resist the temptation to crawl to the opening, and -look out; Anne and Sophy joining me. There we were on the crest of Binks’ -Wold: far as eye could see, one undulation of snow; the black horses, -with their heads a little turned from the road, smoking in the frosty -air, like four masked furnaces. Long Tom, with his lantern, stood at the -leader’s head, throwing a grotesque shadow across the whitened road, and -John clumped up and down, with his pipe in his mouth, to warm his nose, -as he said. - -Foreman’s “no time” proved to be full an hour and a half; and in that -dusky interval, spite of our excited anticipations, we all began to -feel drowsy. At last, Sophy declared, yawning, that we must be nearly -there; and, looking out, she announced the tower of Rookwood Church, -where Cousin Mary was married in the morning; upon which, we all brisked -up, and became excessively wide-awake. The Grange was only a mile and a -quarter further, and as Sophy held the tilt open, by-and-by we could see -it; three long ruddy shining windows on the ground floor, and two in the -chamber story, peeping out from amongst the great white trees. Another -ten minutes, and we stopped at the gate; but before we stopped, we saw -the house door opened, and, against the bright glow within, half a dozen -or more dark figures appeared coming out to meet us. - -“Capital, lasses! we were beginning to think Uncle Preston wouldn’t let -you come!” cried a jolly voice. - -“He would have had hard work to keep some of us, Cousin David,” responded -Sophy, and, having extricated her limbs from some of her most cumbrous -swathements, she proffered herself to be lifted out first. - -I thought I was going to be forgotten, and carted away to the stables, -for when Sophy and Anne were gone, the noisy group marched back to the -house in double quick time, and the door was just being shut when Sophy -shrieked out, “Cousin David, you’ve not brought in Poppy!” and the young -giant tore down the path, pulled me out of the wagon, much bedazed and -on the verge of tears, carried me roughly off, and plumped me down on my -feet in the midst of the sonorous gathering, crying, in a voice enough to -blow a house-roof off, “Who’s this little body?” - -The Babel that ensued for the next ten minutes, when everybody spoke at -once to everybody else, each in a voice big enough for ten, united to -the pricking sensation which I now began to experience in coming out of -the frost into a thoroughly heated house, finished the prostration of my -faculties, and I remember nothing more until I found myself with Anne, -Sophy, and two strangers in a large bedroom, where a fire of logs blazed -in the grate, and a wide-mouthed damsel was unpacking our white frocks. -“Well, Cousin Mary, good luck to you!” cried Sophy, kissing the taller -of the two strangers very heartily; “and you got all safely married this -morning, I suppose?” - -I looked, and beheld the bride. Never, to my recollection, had I seen -a bride before, and I romantically anticipated a glorified vision, -quite distinct in appearance from all other womankind; but I only -beheld a large young person, plump, fair, and ruddy, with eyes of a -soft expression as she stood on the hearth with the light shining up -into them, and a quantity of very wavy dark hair, which the wind in -the hall had blown all off her face: an uncommonly pretty, attractive, -loveable face it was; but it was only a woman’s after all, and she talked -something about tea-cakes! I believe I was disappointed. - -The bride’s sister was Kate; younger and livelier, at present, than -Mary, though not so handsome. She was Sophy’s peculiar friend amongst -the cousins, and the pair now betook themselves for private conversation -and the decorative process to Kate’s room. Mary and Anne had some -low-voiced chat apart, to which I was carefully deaf; but, when their -secrets were told, Mary, chancing to look round, saw me fumbling, with -benumbed fingers, at buttons and hooks and eyes, and took me under hand -immediately, hugging me up in her warm arms, with the exclamation, that -the little mite was half frozen. I found her very nice and comfortable -then; better by far than anything more angelic and exalted. - -We were not long in arranging ourselves, and then Sophy and Kate being -routed out from their retreat, we formed a procession downstairs; Mary -and Anne arm-in-arm, and I under Mary’s other wing, and Sophy and Kate in -an affectionate feminine entanglement behind. All the cousins got up and -roared at us again, in those big voices of theirs, chorussed by various -guests, and put us into the warmest seats; mine being a footstool by Mary -at one side of the fire-place, where I felt most cosily arranged for -getting toasted, and seeing everybody. And there were plenty of people -to see. It was a very long room in which we were, having on one side -the three windows which we had seen shining from the road, and seats in -them where the girls had stowed themselves in knots, the red curtains -making a background for their figures, which was as pictorial as need -be. The men folk were mostly young, and mostly sons of Anak, like the -cousins, but there were a few elders, contemporaries of Mary’s father, -who was a white-haired, handsome old man; and there were also several -matronly women, mothers of the occupants of the window-seats, and of the -young men their brothers. Everybody called everybody else by his or her -Christian name in the most friendly way, and it was not until the evening -was half over that I began to find out who was who, for such a ceremony -as introduction seemed quite unheard of. To be sure, Sophy brought up a -long rail of a boy to me who seemed to have a difficulty with his arms, -and said significantly, “Poppy, this is Cousin Joseph; now, Joseph, -you are to be polite to Miss Poppy;” but no civilities ensued, and my -attention was called away by hearing Mary say in a soft, half-laughing -tone, “George, look at your boots.” She must have meant something else, -for glancing at the person whom she addressed, I saw that he had turned -his trousers up to come out into the snow when we arrived, and that he -was now sitting with them stretched out before him in that inappropriate -arrangement. He coolly stooped and put them right, and then looked at -Mary, and smiled. - -“Who is it?” whispered I. - -“It’s George!” said she, and blushed a little, from which I guessed -George must be the bridegroom—George Standish, whose name and description -Sophy had given me before we came; and given very accurately. He was -tall, but not so tall as the cousins, and broad-shouldered, but he would -never carry anything like their weight. Then he had blue-black hair, -beard, and brows, and a clever-looking face; very broad and white as to -the forehead, and very brown as to all below it. I had heard him praised -as a most kind and skilful country surgeon, and the best rider ’cross -country in that or any ten parishes of the Wolds, and he looked as if -both encomiums must be true. It was quite a love-match, everybody said. -Mary might have married more money, but she preferred George, like a wise -woman. Two of her ancient aspirants were present and pointed out to me by -Sophy: old Mr. Jewson, of Harghill Farm, who was rich enough to have kept -her a carriage if she would have taken him for that; and young Philip -Murgatroyd, a man with a fierce face, who might have been a melodramatic -villain, but was not—only a young farmer with innovating ideas. - -The unsuppressed noise did not cease for a moment, and I saw the -wide-mouthed damsel at the door thrice announce tea as ready before she -made herself heard by her mistress; but once heard, a simultaneous hungry -movement took place, and Cousin David came and roared at me, “Now, little -Miss Poppy, we will go in together, and you shall sit by me.” So I rose -up, proposing to stiffen my back and lay my hand lightly on the young -giant’s arm, as we had been laboriously taught to do at dancing-school, -when I felt that powerful masculine member encircling me behind, and I -saw the biggest boots that had ever met my eyes break into an uncouth -step to which I was perforce compelled to keep a measure with my own toes -in the air; they only alighted once, and that was on one of the boots -aforesaid, which they would have delighted to crush into mummy if they -had been able. - -Finally I was landed breathless and shaken, like a kitten that a terrier -has had in its mouth for frolic rather than mischief, in a chair very -broad in the beam, which I was expected to share in part with my big -cavalier, for, long as was the table, each individual of the company took -up so much room that hardly was there found accommodation for all. But at -last everybody was shaken into place, and the business of the hour began. -And a most weighty business it was. My eyes have never since beheld such -a tea; a cold sirloin of beef, ham boiled and ham frizzled, game pie and -game roast, and every kind of tart and cake that the ingenuity of cook -with unlimited materials could devise. Cousin David swiftly supplied me -with provisions for a week, and then Cousin Joseph, who happened to be -on the other side of me, hospitably wished to add more, on which Cousin -David leant across and said, “No poaching on my manor, Master Joseph; -attend you to your left-hand neighbour. Now, Miss Poppy, I am going to -give you a pretty little wing of this partridge,”—which he did, and then -took the rest of the bird to his own share. - -It vanished quickly, as did an extensive miscellaneous collection of -the other good things, and notwithstanding continuous relays from the -kitchen, the table presently showed signs of devastation. The bride and -bridegroom, Anne, and Sophy, were out of my sight, but directly opposite, -with Cousin Kate dividing them, were two young men, one fair, florid, -and with curly pate, called Dick, the other dark, with long, straight, -black hair, and a most lugubrious countenance, called Bob Link. Yet if -that lugubrious countenance had not much signs of mirth in itself, it was -the cause of mirth in others, for he never opened his lips but all those -within hearing of him laughed. Bob Link was a medical student with Mr. -Standish, and, as Cousin David explained, a regular wag. - -Tea was a prolonged ceremony, and was only ended by the shrill sound of -a violin, when somebody cried, “Come!” and again Cousin David executed -his _pas de terrier_, with me in his hand, down the broad stone passage -until we came to the Grange kitchen, which was a vast place with an open -raftered roof, now hidden under garlands of Christmas green, and a white -flagged floor which was cleared for a dance. It looked so bright and gay! -Such a mighty fire of logs roared in the chimney, wide as an ordinary -room, with cushioned settles in its arched recess; the great dresser -glittered with metal trenchers and tankards, glinting back sparkles of -light from the little oil lamps which had been ingeniously mixed amongst -the evergreens where they shone like glowworms. - -My young toes tingled to begin, and when the fiddles and other -instruments of music tuned up in a frolicsome country dance, the swains -began to pick out favourite partners. The bride and bridegroom stood -top couple, and I don’t know who came next, for while I was hoping and -fearing whether anybody would ask me, Cousin David arrived and spun me -up to the end of a long rank of girls. The fiddles started, and Sophy -shrieked out franticly, “Now, Poppy, Poppy, be ready! It’s hands across -and back again, down the middle and up again—Cousin Mary and David, and -you and George Standish!” and then away we went! - -We shall never dance a country dance like that again! Cousin David -emulated his royal Hebrew namesake, and I should have thought him a -delightful partner if he would not quite so often have made me do my -steps on nothing. That was glorious exercise for a frosty winter’s -evening, and made all our cheeks rosy and all our eyes bright. - -When that set was finished, curly Mr. Dick came and asked me to dance the -next with him, which I did, and then to the tune of “Merrily danced the -Quaker’s wife, and merrily danced the Quaker,” Bob Link was my partner. -That medical youth had missed his vocation in not going as clown to a -circus, for the grotesquerie of his actions, and the inimitable solemnity -of his visage, kept everybody in roars of laughter all through his -performance, and we never had to meet and take hold of hands that he did -not address me with some absurd speech that made me peal out just like -the rest. I never sat out once. It was great fun. We had the “Lancers,” -in which everybody was perfect, and common quadrilles, and sarabandes, -and one or two tried a waltz, but country dances were the favourites, -and there the elders joined in. Uncle and Aunt Preston danced, and old -Mr. Jewson, who chose me for his partner, and took snuff at intervals, -through the set, and nodded his wig at me, but never spoke. - -Just before supper somebody called out for a game of forfeits, and “My -Lady’s Toilet” was fixed upon. Do you know how to play “Lady’s Toilet?” -It is an old-fashioned game that all our revered grandmothers played at, -though exploded in polite society now, but I daresay it still survives -at wold weddings. And this is the way of it. Each person in the company -chooses the name of some article of a lady’s dress, and all sit round the -room in order except one, who stands in the middle with a trencher which -he begins to spin on the floor, singing out monotonously— - - “My lady went to her toilet, - In her chamber so pretty and neat, - And said to her damsel Oyclet, - ‘Bring me my _bracelet_, sweet.’” - -And then the person called Bracelet must dash in and catch the trencher -before it ceases to spin, on the penalty of a forfeit, which may be -glove, handkerchief or what not. All the forfeits are kept until the -close of the game, and then the penalties are exacted. - -This part of the game is generally considered the most amusing, for the -penalties, as at Rookwood Grange, are generally the most whimsical and -ridiculous that can be devised. Bob Link was elected to the office of -sentencer on this occasion, and when I saw what he inflicted, I began -to quake for myself, as I remembered the one white glove of mine that -lay in the confiscated heap before him. He took up a silk handkerchief -and began—“Here is a thing, and a very pretty thing, whose, let me know, -is this pretty thing?” Curly Mr. Dick acknowledged it, whereupon he was -ordered to lie flat on the floor and repeat the following absurd lines:— - - “Here lies the length of a long, lazy lubber, - And here must he lie - Till the lass he loves best comes and kisses him.” - -There seemed every chance of his continuing to decorate the floor all -night, for in spite of his touching and laughable appeals, of course no -one went near him; so, at last, up he sprang, and catching Cousin Kate, -he kissed her; Kate not testifying any reliable signs of wrath, but only -knitting her brows, while her eyes and lips laughed. Then lanky Cousin -Joseph was ordered to “bow to the wittiest, kneel to the prettiest, and -kiss the lass _he_ loved best,” all of which ceremonies he performed -before one and the same person—namely, Cousin Sophy, who was unfeignedly -indignant thereat—Cousin Joseph always testified for her a loutish but -most sincere and humble admiration. Another young man had to sing a -song, which he did in the dolefulest manner, ending each verse with an -unsupported chorus of “If we fall, we’ll get up again, we always did -yet!” which was every word of the ditty that I could distinguish. Then I -saw my own poor little glove drawn out, and Mr. Bob Link repeated his -incantation—“Here is a thing, and a very pretty thing, whose, let me -know, is this pretty thing?” and when I quivered out that it was mine, -he said, “Oh! little Miss Poppy, it is yours, is it? Well, then, you -must stand in the middle of the kitchen, under that green bush you see -hanging down, and spell _opportunity_ with Mr. David——” I thought I could -do _that_, being well up in dictation-class at school, so when Cousin -David laughing took me off to the public station, where the penalty was -to be performed, I began breathlessly—“O-p op, p-o-r por;” when he cried, -“No, no, that’s wrong; I must teach you,” and bending down his face, he -was actually proposing to kiss me between each syllable, when I flung up -one of my little paws and clutched his hair, ducked my own head down, -finished the word, broke loose, and scurried back to my place in much -less time than it has taken me to record the feat, while Cousin David, in -the midst of a shout of laughter, cried out: “You little vixen!” while I -asseverated vehemently, “I spelt it, I spelt it, I spelt it!” in answer -to an outcry, that it would not do, and I must go back again. I would not -do that, however, and Cousin David came and sat down by me feeling his -nose reproachfully, and saying, “She _scratches_!” and I had scratched -him, and I was glad of it; but Curly Dick said it was all for love, and -that he had seen me hide the handful of hair I had torn off David’s pate, -that I might carry it off home to have it made into a locket. - -Before the forfeits were well paid, supper was ready, and in spite -of my ill-usage, Cousin David would be my cavalier again; he was a -good-humoured young giant, very like his sister Mary, and I began to -feel a little triumphant over him, in spite of his size, after my recent -exploit, and when he talked, I talked again in my little way, except -when I was listening to the healths being drunk, and thanks returned, -after the country fashion at marriage festivities. Cousin Mary was in her -place, with George Standish beside her, and I saw her give a little start -and blush when “Mr. and Mrs. George Standish” were coupled together, -but of all the fun to me old Mr. Jewson was now the greatest. He never -raised his glass to his lips, which he did pretty frequently, without -giving utterance to a _sentiment_: “May the man never grow fat who wears -two faces under one hat!” or something of a similar character, and on -the name of an individual, who was not popular in the district, being -mentioned, he drunk again, prefacing it with, “Here’s a porcupine saddle -and a high trotting horse to that fellow!” to which several responded -with gruff “Amens!” - -Supper did not last so long as tea, and when it was over, some one -said Cousin Mary and George Standish were going home, and when most of -us returned to the kitchen and parlour, they disappeared; Mary going -upstairs with her mother, sister, and cousins to make ready. But we -watched the start from one of the windows, where we had drawn the -curtains back. The moon was up, and the wind had broken and scattered the -clouds, so we saw them mount their horses, for they had three miles to -ride, and David and Joseph were to set them part of the way. In the midst -of a chorus of “good-byes,” and “God bless you, Marys,” they rode away, -Mary never looking up, that I could see, from the moment her husband had -lifted her into the saddle; but I don’t think she was crying. Her mother -cried, though, but not long; the duties of hostess soon dried her tears, -and she was busy trying to set us all dancing again, while Curly Dick -marched up and down the room, trolling out a love-song in the mellowest -voice I ever remember to have heard. - -There were more dances, and more games, and then the cousins returned -frosty-faced and livelier than ever to join us, and so we went on and on, -the hours slipping by uncounted, until a message came from Long Tom that -our time was up, and he was wanting to take his horses home. - -So there was the re-swathing against the cold to be done, and then our -grand team came creaking to the gate, and the dark figures poured out -into the snow again; our hands were shaken, and the cousins all kissed in -a cousinly way, as good-nights were said. Then Cousin Joseph lifted Sophy -into the wagon, and somebody else, who had been very constant all night -at Anne’s elbow, did the same kindness for her, and Cousin David, before -I was aware, had hold of me. - -“Now, Miss Poppy, you’re going to give me a kiss, I know,” said he -persuasively, to which I responded, “No, I was not.” “Then I shan’t let -you go without;” and immediately he took unfair advantage of his strength -to the extortion of half-a-dozen, and then put me carefully into the -wagon. - -“Are you cross, Poppy? If you don’t like to keep Cousin David’s kisses, -give him them back again,” said Sophy, and then foreman looked to see -that all was right, Long Tom cracked his whip, and away we went through -the dark and frosty morning. Three struck by Rookwood church clock just -as we passed it. - -After a little gossip over the events of the evening, we began to be -drowsy, and dropt off, one by one, into the sound sleep of youth and -health, waking no more until Mr. Preston’s jolly voice greeted us from -his bedroom window, with “All safe and sound, lasses?” Then we were -bundled in-doors, and set down to hot coffee, and an early breakfast -by the kitchen fire, after which we pronounced ourselves as fresh as -daisies; had a good ducking, re-dressed, and were ready to help in -finishing off the great snow-man, when the boys came down. Ah! we can’t -dance six hours on end now, take a nap in a wagon, and make a snow-man -after it with unwearied zest! That trio under the tilt, that merry trio, -will never in this world meet again. Lively Sophy is under the sod, and -quiet Anne with father and mother, brothers, and husband, is far away -over the seas, leading a new life in a new country; and, as for Miss -Poppy, in recalling the merry days when she was young, she sees so many -shadows amongst the living figures, that if the winter wedding in the -wolds could come again, half the dancers on the floor would be only dim -and doleful ghosts,—’Tis a dozen years ago! - - - - -Student Life in Scotland. - - -I fear that this paper will sadly resemble the well-known chapter on the -snakes of Iceland. There are no snakes in that ill-at-ease island, and -there is little student life in Scotland. It may smack of the emerald -phraseology of our Irish friends to say, that in a country abounding in -students, and not backward in study, there is little of student life; -but that is because, in common parlance, life is used to signify one of -the forms of life—society. It shows clearly enough how thoughts run, -when the name of student life is not given to the solitary turning of -pages and wasting of midnight oil—to the mastering of Greek particles -and the working of the differential calculus, but to the amusements of -young men when they have thrown aside their books, to the alliances which -they form, to the conversations they start, to their hunting, to their -boating, to their fencing, to their drinking, to their love-making,—in -a word, to their social ways. Read any account of student life in -England, in Ireland, or in Germany, and tell me whether the studies -of the young fellows are not the least part of what is regarded in a -university education. It is very sad to hear of a pluck; and a novelist -is a cruel-hearted wretch who will introduce that incident, after -showing us to our content how debts should be incurred, how foxes are -run down, how wine-parties are conducted, how Julia loses her heart, -and how the proctor loses his temper; but it is only in this way—it is -only by introducing the academical guillotine upon the stage, that we -discover the university, as it appears in a novel, to be the sacred -haunts of the Muses. Shall we go to Germany? It is not the subjective -and the objective—it is not the identity of the identical and the -non-identical—it is not lexicons and commentaries that we hear of. The -song of the Burschen is in our ears; we move in a world that is made up -of but two elements—beer and smoke; duels are fought for our edification; -riots are raised for the express purpose of amusing us; the girl at the -beerhouse is of more account than Herr Professor; and, on the whole, it -seems as if the university were a glorious institution, to teach young -men the true art of merrymaking. Nor are the novelists altogether wrong -in declaring that these doings are a fair sample of university life. -What is it that draws men to the university? The chance of a fellowship, -and the other prizes of a successful university career, will no doubt -attract some men; but we know that independently of prizes and honours, -a university education has a very high value in this country. And why? -Is it because of the knowledge of books acquired? Is it because a young -man cannot coach for his degree in Manchester, or in the Isle of Wight, -or in the Isle of Dogs, as well as in Oxford or Cambridge? Is there -no balm save in Gilead? Are mathematics confined to the reeds of Cam, -and classics to the willows of Isis? May we not read but in Balliol or -Trinity? Doubtless, the education provided in these ancient seminaries -is of the very highest quality; but learning may be obtained elsewhere -than at college. For that matter, indeed, most men are self-educated. -What they acquire from a teacher is as nothing to what they acquire -from their own researches. What a university or a great public school -gives, that cannot be obtained elsewhere, is society—the society of equal -minds. A boy is taken from under the parental wing, is sent to school -and thrown upon his own resources. He can no longer sing out when he is -worsted—“I’ll tell mamma;” he has to hold his own in a little world that -is made up entirely of boys; he must learn independence; he must fight -his way: he must study the arts of society before he has well laid aside -his petticoats. So at college—it is in the clash of wit and the pulling -of rival oars, it is in the public life and the social habit, it is in -the free-and-easy measuring of man with man, that the chief value of a -residence in the university lies. The system no doubt has its drawbacks. -We must take the bad with the good; and no man who has had experience of -it will deny that almost nothing in after life can make up for the want -of that early discipline, which is to be obtained only in the rough usage -of a school and the wild play of a university. Society, in these haunts, -may exist chiefly in its barbaric elements, but they are elements that -bring out the man; and the great glory of our universities is not so much -that they make us scholars (though they have this also to boast of), as -that they make us men. - -To Englishmen these are truisms, but in Scotland they are scarcely -recognized even as truths. A great deal of nonsense has been talked on -both sides of the Tweed about the defects of the Scottish universities. -It has been said that they do not turn out scholars. One might as well -blame the University of Oxford for not turning out mathematicians. -Prominence is given in every university to certain branches of learning; -and in Scotland there has always been a greater admiration of thinkers -than either of scholars or mathematicians. We all value most what -we ourselves have learnt; but where no line of study is absolutely -neglected, probably it does not much matter which one receives the most -attention. We are apt to overrate the importance of the thing acquired, -and to underrate the most important point of all—the mental discipline. -The real defect of the Scottish universities is that they have no student -life. They have an immense number of students, and nowhere is the higher -sort of education more valued; but just in proportion as it has been -valued and rendered accessible to all classes, no matter how poor, it -has lost its finer qualities—it has lost—and especially in the greater -universities—the student life. Suppose a young man at Islington, another -at St. John’s Wood, a third at Bayswater, a fourth in Pimlico, and a -fifth at Brixton, studying at University College: what sort of feeling -exists among them? what are the ties that bind them together? what -society do they form? what student life can they enjoy? All the better -for their studies, the genius of grinding and cramming will say; and it -may be so; but the loosening of the social ties among students may also -be an irreparable injury to qualities that are even more important than -a thirst for knowledge. The college in Gower Street is in this respect -a type of the Scottish university system. The students attend lectures -every day in a certain venerable building, but they live in their own -homes; they live where they choose; it may be several miles away from the -college. Nobody knows in what strange out-of-the-way places some of them -build their nests. One poor fellow who makes a very decent appearance in -the class lives in a garret raised thirteen stories over the Cowgate, -while the man who sits next to him comes out clean cut, and beautifully -polished every day from a palace in the West End. When the lecture is -over all these students disperse, and they have no more cohesion than the -congregation of a favourite preacher after the sermon is finished. They -go off into back streets, and into queer alleys; they are lost round the -corner; they go a little way into the country; they rush to the seaside; -they burst into pieces like a shell. Nor is it very long since this -unsociable system superseded the old plan of living together and dining -at a common table. Perhaps Lord Campbell could give a very pretty picture -of college life in his days, when at the university of St. Andrew’s the -students dined in common hall. He was a fellow student of Dr. Chalmers, -and only a few years ago Tom Chalmers’ room within St. Salvator’s College -was shown to visitors, while the janitor, with a peculiar chuckle, -described the wild pranks in which the youthful divine employed his -leisure moments, to the terror of the townspeople. - -This state of things, although so recent, is almost forgotten in -Scotland. There is no such thing as opposition between town and gown. In -Edinburgh, indeed, there is no gown—no badge of studentship whatever. -Worse than this, the student, after he has gone through his academical -course, has nothing further to do with the university. Why should he -take a degree? It is a bootless honour. It gives him no privileges. -A.M. after a man’s name on a title-page may look very pretty, but who -is going to write books? “Not I,” says the student; “and why should I -run the chance of a pluck, besides going to the expense of the fees, -when the certainty of success can bring me no advantage?”[27] Thus the -bond between the student and the university, has been weakened to the -utmost. What else are we to expect, when a great university, with all -its venerable associations, is planned on the model of a day-school? In -Scotland all schools are day-schools, from the very highest to the very -lowest. The parental and domestic influence is esteemed so much, that no -boy is allowed to escape from it, and the young man is kept under it as -long as possible. The boy who is at school all day returns home in the -evening to be kissed by his mamma and to be questioned by his papa. The -student who has all the morning been dissecting dead bodies or devouring -dissertations on the Epistles of Phalaris, returns to dine with his -sisters and to kneel down at evening prayer with his grey-haired sire. -The system has its advantages (filial reverence, for example, being much -stronger in Scotland than it is in England, just as in England it is -much stronger than in America, where early independence is the ideal of -life)—but the advantages are purchased at the cost of the student life, -and ultimately at the cost of the university. Alas! for the university -which does not make its students feel that they are sons, which does -not nurse the corporate feeling, which loses its hold on the students -after they have gone into the world! It is mainly through neglect of -this kind that the Scottish universities have drooped in public esteem. -The education afforded is not poor, and the examinations are not easy, -as some imagine, going quite off the scent, in their endeavour to -account for such a falling-off. The real reason is, that men leaving the -university are cut adrift; they are not associated with it in any way; -they forget it; they are in no way called upon to support it. Not so in -England. In Pall Mall we have two clubs, which clearly enough illustrate -the abiding influence of Oxford and Cambridge upon their graduates, an -influence that reacts upon the universities, building up and continually -enhancing the reputation of Alma Mater. A Scottish university club in -Pall Mall would be almost an impossibility, and the reputation of Alma -Mater languishes because she sends forth into the world no bands of men -who cherish her memory, and by right of living membership have a vested -interest in her good name. - -Lord Stanhope tells a story of a Scotchman who, in the good old days of -gambling and hard drinking, was heard to say,—“I tell you what, sir, -I just think that conversation is the bane of society.” The story is -intended as a commentary on the supposed jollity of wine-bibbing. It -shows how little the social arts were understood by the honest gentleman -who spoke it. Perhaps, even in the present day the arts of society are -not much better understood. With all their warmth of heart, Scotchmen -have an astonishing reserve, which, if not fatal, is at least injurious -to society. They pride themselves on their firmness in friendship; and, -it is wonderful to see how they stick to each other. But has not this -tenacity its weak side as well as its strong? Is not the adhesion to old -alliances accompanied with disinclination or inability to form new ones? -And is not this a social defect? The Germans and the French speak of -Englishmen as reserved, but the Scotch are worse than the English—they -are the most reserved people in Europe. And this brings me to the point -at which I have been driving. The most reserved people in Europe, the -people that of all others require most to cultivate the social habit, are -singular in refusing to give their youth the opportunity of learning the -arts of society. The student life is as much as possible repressed, in -order that the family life may be sustained. The family is a very noble -institution—but it is not everything, and certainly it is not society. -The young man longs to leave his home and to be his own master in a -little world peopled only with young men like himself. Even the small -boy who has but newly attained the honour of breeches-pockets, longs to -be free; he runs up to another boy, as dogs run to nose each other; he -sneers at “these girls,” as he calls his sisters; he will quit father, -mother, and all for the dear delights of school. In a country where the -puritan feeling predominates, it is feared that these social instincts -may lead to harm; and for the better preservation of his morals the youth -is not allowed that free mingling with his fellows, and with them alone, -which he most ardently desires. He is systematically taught to be chary -of his companions, whether at school or college. There are men sitting -daily on the same benches who would not think of speaking to each other -without a formal introduction. And I suppose it is owing to these social -distances by which they are separated that they _Mister_ each other as -they do. A little urchin of fifteen is called _Mr._ Milligan; and when -Jack wants Sandy to lend him a penknife, he says, “Will you lend me your -knife, Mr. Ramsay?” Sandy replying, “There it is, Mr. Frazer; but I have -blunted it with cutting a portrait of the Professor on the desk, which -the old boy has painted with a solution of sand for the express purpose -of blunting knives and discouraging art.” To hear young men who are in -the wood-carving stage of existence, some of them mere boys, addressing -each other in this formal way, reminds one strangely of Sir Harry and My -Lord Duke in the servants’ hall. - -Which is cause and which effect? Is it from natural reserve and deficient -sociability that the Scotch came to undervalue the student life and to -abolish it? or is it the want of the student life and school life, such -as it exists in England, that has produced reserve? There is something -in both views; but if we are looking for causes, there are others that -could be given for the decay of student life. One of these I have already -indicated in speaking of the puritanic distrust of society, or, as it -is called, “the world.” A worthy elder of the Kirk has got a son, who -is the greatest little rascal of his age, the admiration of the parish -dogs, the terror of the parish cats, curiously acquainted with the nature -of the fruit in all the gardens and orchards around, impudent as a -monkey, and idle as a fly, but who, in consequence of sundry floggings, -carries himself so demurely in the presence of his fond parent, that he -is supposed to be a chosen vessel—not far from the kingdom of heaven—a -child of grace. The pious Mr. Alister Macalister feels that in sending -forth his gracious young sinner into a mixed society of boys at a public -school, or young men at college—he is sending his precious one into a -den of thieves who will rob him of his innocence, is ushering him into -the world and the things of the world, is imperilling his immortal -interests. And while the puritanic tendencies of the Scotch have gone -thus far to undermine the student life by degrading it in public esteem, -another influence, even more important, has been at work in the same -direction—poverty. Nowhere, I have said, has a good education been -so highly prized as in Scotland; but in the attempt to place a good -education within reach of every man, however poor, it has been necessary -to cheapen it. The cheapness of it has not lowered the character of the -education as far as mere learning goes, but has effectually stript it of -the social life which ought to accompany it. “_Tenui musam meditamur -avenâ_,” the Scottish student may say with Jeffrey and Sydney Smith. But -if it is possible to cultivate letters on a little oatmeal, it is not -possible to cultivate society on such attenuated resources. Society, -even when it is laid out on the most thrifty principles, costs a good -deal more than some men can afford. How would it be possible for the -poor fellow who hopes to get through his terms for 30_l._ a year to dine -at the same table with the student who could afford four or five times -the sum? The college year generally consists of about five months, and I -have known men cover all the expenses of this period with 22_l._ It is -true that this was in St. Andrew’s, where a hundred fresh herrings used -to go for sixpence, and a splendid dinner of fish might be purchased for -a penny; but if it is remembered that the sum I have mentioned covered -the fees for the various classes, amounting to about 10_l._, and that it -was upon the balance of 12_l._ that the student continued to subsist for -these dreary five months, the feat will appear sufficiently marvellous. -It is the students who live in this sort of way that are the most -interesting characters in the Scottish universities, and it is their -necessities that have gone to extinguish the student life. This will be -evident if we consider their position a little minutely. - -I suppose that fully one-third of the Scottish students are steeped -in poverty. The struggle of some of these men upwards, in the face of -terrific odds, is almost sublime. When we look at the struggle in cold -blood, we say that it is a mistake, that these men ought never to have -dreamt of the university, that theirs is a false ambition, and that -it would have been better if they had never left the plough or the -smithy, if they had gone into the grocery line, or had taken kindly to -confectionery. But has not every form of ambition its weak side?—and are -we to stop sympathizing in a man’s honest endeavours when we discover -that he might be doing much better in a different fashion? Are we not -to admire the man wrestling with the waves, because he has no business -to be in the water? One of the 22-pounders I have mentioned was a -very humble individual; but he fought like a hero, and his life was a -constant marvel. He was so poor, indeed, that before one came near the -question—How on earth does this man keep soul and body together, besides -paying his college fees, with so small a sum?—the previous question -presented itself as even more difficult—Where did he get his 22_l._? -He had been a carpenter; he had curtailed his hours in order to devote -them to study; he got the cast-off clothes of the parish minister, -and somebody else made him the present of an old gown, St. Andrew’s -delighting in red gowns. At the commencement of his first session, -several small exhibitions, or, as they are called, bursaries, the value -of each being only 10_l._, were to be competed for, and he had the skill -to obtain one. It was a little fortune to him—an annuity of 10_l._ -for four years to come. When he saw his name on the list of winners, -he made such queer faces to conceal his emotions that all eyes were -turned upon him, and it was ever afterwards a joke against him. For the -remaining 12_l._ he managed in this way: He worked four hours a day in a -carpenter’s shop, at 3_d._ an hour, and thus earned from 6_l._ to 7_l._ -during his residence at the university, to which he was able to add 5_l._ -from previous savings. He got friends to lend him books; and I have an -idea that he earned something on Sundays by acting as precentor in one of -the city churches. I happened to call upon him one day. It was his dinner -hour, and his landlady came in to him with something on an old black -rusty tray. “Not just yet, Mrs. Todd,” he said, in great embarrassment, -and that lady forthwith departed. “Don’t go away,” he then said to me; -“now, don’t; my dinner is never done enough, and, if you stay a little, -I’ll get it properly done to-day.” I left him three minutes afterwards, -and outside his door there was his dinner getting cold—a herring and -three potatoes. He lived in a box of a room, his bed being in one corner -of it; and this accommodation he shared with another man, who worked even -harder than he. This man earned a few shillings by teaching. He went out -to assist boys in learning their lessons for the following day at school; -and the price which he and all such teachers charged was half-a-guinea a -month for an hour every night. As the pay was at the rate of about 5_d._ -an hour, it would seem that the teacher had an advantage over our friend -the carpenter; but it must be remembered that the pay of the latter was -obtained by physical labour,—therefore, by a healthy relief from mental -toil,—while that of the former was earned by the continued and unhealthy -strain of the mind. In Edinburgh there are men who work at bookbinding -or printing, who make pills and potions in druggists’ shops, who are -copying-clerks in lawyers’ offices, who report for the newspapers, who -keep the butterman’s books,—in order to maintain themselves at college. - -Men in these narrow circumstances go naturally in pairs—divide the -same potato, and share the same bed. They unite without ever having -previously known each other, and, for the sake of a small saving, are -chained together while the session lasts. In the desperate struggle -of existence and pinch of poverty, these necessitated marriages are -often embittered with rivalry and hatred. There are cases in which a -nail has been driven into the middle of the chimney-piece, a string -tied to it, drawn across the room, and attached to the middle of the -opposite wall, so as to divide the chamber into two equal parts. “This -is my territory—that shall be yours. _Nemo me impune lacessit_—that’s -what I say.” “And I say, _Noli me tangere_—that’s all.” The fellows sit -on opposite aides of their diminutive fire, “glowering” at each other -over their books—the one smoking and the other snuffing the strongest -tobacco procurable, to keep their hunger down while forcing the brain -through the weary night-watches. The professors make a point of inviting -them to breakfast or supper as often as they can, and give them a great -feed. It is their only chance of a hearty meal during the whole of the -session. And yet, in spite of all that they have to contend with, they -make a very creditable appearance in the class, even by the side of men -who have been well coached the night before by competent tutors. The -odds, however, are dead against them, and they suffer for it in the -end. They have very seldom been regularly educated, and when they go to -college they devote much of that energy which ought to be given to their -studies to earning their daily bread by teaching or by manual labour. -Overworked and underfed, many of them go home, at the end of the session, -shadows of their former selves, and death written in their faces—almost -all of them have made acquaintance with disease. The number of men at -the Scottish universities who run the course of Henry Kirke White is -prodigious. Friends write their biographies; their college essays and -school poems are published; their fellow-students are told to beware, -and everybody takes an interest in their fate, about which a certain air -of romance hangs. Year after year, however, one hears of so many cases -that, at last, one becomes callous and feels inclined to ask—Why did not -this young Kirke White remain in the butcher’s shop? It would have been -better for him to have slaughtered oxen, sold mutton-chops, and ridden -the little pony all his life, giving such leisure as he could really -afford to books, than die in the vain endeavour to take the position of -a gentleman and a clergyman. Most of these men, if they survive their -period of study, go into the Church, and the result is that the Scottish -clergy are notorious for their ill-health. How can it be otherwise? -The fearful struggle which they have to maintain at college has to be -kept up for eight long years before a licence to preach the Gospel can -be obtained. Eight years of the university is an exorbitant demand, -and it would be impossible to satisfy it, save, in the first place, -by cheapening the course of study as much as possible, and secondly, -by permitting the students to enter at a comparatively early age. The -average age of students in Scotland is not less than in England; but if -in the one country the ordinary course of study is extended over four -years, while in the other it is limited to three, the freshmen must -evidently in the former be a year younger than in the latter, in order -to be of the same age at the time of graduating. If after graduating, -another four years must be devoted to the Divinity Hall before one can -have the chance of a living, it is clear that the student destined for -the Church must begin his studies even earlier. He must, therefore, at -the most critical period of his life, when most he requires physical -strength, enter upon his suicidal course, and keep it up without -intermission for eight long years. His only relief occurs in the vacation -which fortunately for him lasts seven months. Then he recruits a little, -while the student who went up to College better prepared both by previous -education, and with the means of living, chafes at the delay, and longs -for the introduction of a system, which, by the expedient of a summer -session, would reduce the compulsory period of study, as in the English -universities, to three years. - -The effect of these arrangements on the student life may easily be -conceived. A society formed on these conditions must evidently be a -very mixed society; therefore, a society extremely suspicious of its -members; therefore, also a society which has little cohesion and tends -to destroy itself. What becomes of student life, where so many men must -toil like slaves to keep the wolf from the door—must sit up half the -night poring over their books, and plunging their heads every hour into -cold water to keep away sleep? These give the tone to the university till -it is no longer regarded as the centre of certain social influences, -and becomes a mere mill for grinding gerunds and chopping logic. It is -because Englishmen have criticized chiefly the art of gerund-grinding -and the method of logic-chopping pursued in the Scottish universities, -that hitherto their criticisms have fallen flat. It is not so much -the educational as the social element of the universities that is at -fault. To all the statistics of competitive examinations, and to all -the sneers about their having produced no great scholar, the Scotch -have a ready answer. It is thought more than scholarship; it is the -power of reasoning, more than that of acquiring facts, that the Scottish -universities foster; and English candidates, passing before Scotch -examiners, would be as certainly floored as Scottish candidates now are -before English examiners. This is what the Scotch reply to an attack -upon their educational system; but they will confess at once the social -deficiencies of their universities. It is a bad system, defensible only -by disparaging the importance of the student life and overlooking the -advantages of society. - -Bad though the system be, it has its compensations. Among these may be -reckoned the fact that a university education is within reach of all -classes, and covers a much larger area of the population in Scotland than -it does in England. This is the poor man’s view of the case. Those who -are in good circumstances think little of such an advantage. They are -more impressed with the disadvantages of making a university education -too cheap. They are alarmed, in the first place, by the influx of the -humbler classes, which of itself must tend to lower the tone of society, -and to disintegrate the student life. Then it appears that in order -to favour these humbler classes, the time given in each year to the -university is shortened as much as possible, and the curriculum of study -is unnaturally lengthened. From this it follows, that if a house were -started in Edinburgh, attached to the university, on the model of one of -the English colleges, for the benefit of those students who can afford -it, the scheme would be unprofitable. The house would be vacant seven -months of the year, and would have to be maintained for the twelve months -on the proceeds of the five during which the yearly session lasts. The -thing would be impossible unless such an extravagant rate were charged -for these five months as would effectually deter the undergraduates from -residence. This is the rich man’s view of the case; and admitting it -fully, there is still this to be said, that if the Scottish universities -are too cheap, the English universities are too dear. If Scottish -students do not get much congenial society, it is possible for almost any -man to be a student. Whether a university is intended for the peasantry I -do not pretend to say; but, at all events, there is the fact, which may -be taken for whatever it is worth, that a Scottish university education -is open to the peasant not less than to the peer, and that both peasant -and peer take advantage of it. The benefits of a good education thus -penetrate to a much lower class in Scotland than in England. There is -not a small tradesman, or farmer, or gamekeeper in Scotland who, if his -son displays any symptoms of “book-learning,” does not think of the -university as the proper field for the lad, and does not look forward -to the day when he shall call his son “Doctor,” or see him in a pulpit -thumping the gospel out of the Bible. - -It is another redeeming point of the system, that it does not crush the -individuality of the student by too much contact with his fellows; only, -as this advantage is so negative that it might be still better secured -by not going to the university at all, it would be absurd to make too -much of it. Rather let us dwell on whatever social good is to be found in -the system. When 1,500 young men are congregated together with a common -object, they will break up into knots and clusters, and form themselves -as they can into something that may pass for society, although it more -strongly resembles the town life of young men than what is understood -by student life. It is less as students than as young men with time -upon their hands, with no prospect of chapel in the morning, and with -no fear of being shut out at night, that these herd together: and if -I were to describe their doings it would be the description of what -youths generally are who live in lodgings by themselves—with this only -difference, that the talk would be rather argumentative and the anecdotes -rather erudite. A certain amount of social intercourse is organized -in this way for those who wish it or can afford it; but that species -of society which we call public life is scarcely possible save in the -debating clubs. These are legion. There are speculative societies, and -diagnostic societies, and critical societies, and dialectic societies, -and historical societies; and if with these I class innumerable -missionary societies and prayer unions, it is because they are all more -or less calculated for rhetorical display. It is in these associations, -to which a student may belong or not just as he pleases, that the public -life and the best student life of the Scottish universities are to be -found. The society meets weekly, fortnightly, or monthly, as the case -may be. An essay is read by some one appointed to do so, and the members -of the society criticize it freely. Or a debate is started, the two men -who are to lead in the affirmative and the negative having previously -been named; the members take part in it as they please; the speaker who -commenced has the right of reply; the chairman sums up, and the question -is put to the vote. Any one who consults a certain quarto volume in the -British Museum, devoted to the transactions of the Speculative Society -of Edinburgh, will find it recorded, that on the evening on which Lord -Lansdowne, then Lord Henry Petty, attained to the dignity of honorary -membership, the youthful debaters decreed, by a majority of eleven -over eight, that suicide is not justifiable! This was in 1798, when -Brougham, Jeffrey, and Walter Scott, were among the leading members; and -one would like to have some statistics of the eight who voted suicide -to be justifiable. The Archbishop of Dublin, some years ago, wrote a -letter to W. Cooke Taylor, in which he criticized very severely the -habits of such societies, condemning them in the most emphatic manner, -as fostering an absurd spirit of pride and dogmatism in youthful minds. -If his views are sound, and if that vote of the Speculative Society -may be taken as a specimen of the rest, then it must be confessed that -the Scottish students are in a very bad way, for they work in these -societies more perhaps than the students of any other country. Through -the want of society they form societies, and sedulously set themselves to -cultivate the great social faculties of speaking and writing. Perhaps Dr. -Whately overrates the amount of dogmatism and precipitancy which come of -these youthful debates, while he most certainly undervalues the mental -stimulus and the advantage of early training in the art of expression. -His remarks, moreover, had no special reference to Scotland; and even he -would probably admit, that considering the unsatisfied craving of the -Scottish undergraduate for student life, these debating societies render -an important service which may well cover a multitude of faults. - -In the educational system itself, however, there will be found -compensations for the defects of the social system. Here I refer to -the study of the human mind, which is pursued with great ardour in the -Scottish universities. It is supposed in England, that Scotch students -are fed on metaphysics, and the mistake receives a colour from the -fact that there are so many professors of metaphysics. The title is a -misnomer. The whole of Scotch philosophy is a protest against metaphysics -as an impossible, or at least a useless study. What a professor, in the -chair of metaphysics, teaches, is simply psychology—that is to say, the -natural history of the human mind, the delineation of human character. -All the processes of thought, all the motives to action are examined -in turn. Ideas are traced to their origin, feelings are carefully -scrutinized, words are weighed, character is dissected, and in its -theory the whole of human life and of the human heart is laid bare to -the student. Call this philosophy, if you please—just as a discussion -on guano is called the philosophy of manure—but what is it in reality? -It is generalized biography. It is a means of supplying in theory what -the Scottish students have, at their time of life, few opportunities -of acquiring in practice—a knowledge of men. Not enjoying the social -advantages of English students, they have, as a compensation, educational -advantages which are not to be found in the English universities. It is -useless to inquire which is better—a knowledge of men obtained in the -contact of society, or a knowledge of men obtained in the scientific -analysis of the class-room. Neither the one nor the other is complete in -itself; but the great advantage of studying character systematically in -early life is this—that it is putting a key into a young man’s hand by -which afterwards, when he mixes with men, he will more easily understand -them, and unlock the secrets of their hearts. Without that key, he will -long knock about amongst his fellows, mistaking motives, misinterpreting -acts, confounding affections, and failing to form a correct estimate of -the persons he meets—until, at last, after much experience and many -errors, he learns to hit the mark without knowing how he does it. The -study of the human mind, as pursued in the Scottish universities, has -such an effect, that in after life it is an object of incessant interest -to all Scotchmen. The average Scotchman will give a shrewder guess than -the average Englishman as to a man’s character, and a better description -of it. He has studied the anatomy of character so minutely that he -delights in portraiture and excels in biography. The proper study of -mankind is man—everybody admits. Whether the best way of prosecuting -that study is in reading through the classics, and piling up algebraic -formulas, I do not know; but, at all events, the Scottish universities -have something to say for themselves, not if they neglect the classics -and the mathematics, but if they simply elevate above these branches -of knowledge a direct acquaintance with the mysteries of human nature, -in thought and in feeling, in expression and in act. Apart from all -comparison between English and Scottish university life, the psychology -and moral philosophy of the North are at least worthy of the highest -praise, as an antidote and recompence for the evil that is felt in the -absence of student life. - -Yet another compensation for the defects of the social system will be -found in the professorial method of teaching, when it is conducted with -spirit. The common idea of a professor is, that of a man wearing a gown, -and reading dull lectures every day for an hour to students, some of whom -are taking notes, while the rest are dozing. Professor Blackie, Professor -Aytoun, Professor Ferrier, and the late Sir William Hamilton would give -to any one entering their class-rooms a very different idea of what a -professor ought to be. Sir William Hamilton’s class was perhaps the most -marvellously conducted class in any university. About 150 students were -ranged on seats before the professor, who lectured three days in the -week, and on two days held a sort of open conference with his pupils, -which was conducted in this wise:—Sir William dipped his hand into an -urn and took out a letter of the alphabet—say M. Any student whose -name began with M was then at liberty to stand up and comment on the -professor’s lectures—attack them—illustrate them—report them—say almost -anything, however far-fetched, which had any relation to them. A couple -of Macs get up at once. The first merely raises a laugh by topping one -of his William’s philosophical anecdotes with another which he fancies -to be still better. The second gets up, and has a regular tussle with -his master about the action of the mind in sleep, and in a state of -semi-consciousness. It is all over in five minutes, the student at length -sitting down in a state of profuse perspiration, highly complimented by -Sir William for his ingenuity, and feeling that he has done a plucky -thing which thoroughly deserves the cheers of 149 fellow-students. These -exhibitions are quite voluntary, and it appears that among the M’s there -is no more heart to get up and speak. The letter C is therefore next -taken out of the urn, but the C’s give no response to the call. The -next letter that turns up is R, and hereupon Mr. Rowan, who has been -fidgeting from the commencement of the hour, rises up to give a quotation -from Bishop Berkeley, illustrating a passage in one of Sir William’s -lectures. The sly fellow fancies that he has detected the professor in a -plagiarism, but quotes the passage ostensibly as confirming the lecture. -When he has sat down, Sir W. Hamilton, who sees distinctly through the -youngster’s game, directs his attention to a dozen passages in a dozen -different authors, where he will find statements to the same effect, -which he might equally have quoted. So the hour passes, each letter of -the alphabet being presented in turn, and all the students who desire -it, having a chance of speaking. Sometimes the exercise was varied by -essays being read, or by Sir William Hamilton suddenly propounding a -difficult question as to the use of a term—say the term dialectic, among -the Platonists,—or as to some definition of Aristotle’s in the Posterior -Analytics. Anybody might answer that knew. No written account was taken -of these answers and other displays, but gradually a public opinion was -formed as to the best man in the class, and at the end of the sessions -the honours went by vote, the professor voting in perfect equality with -his students, and almost always finding that the general voice coincided -with his own opinions as to the order in which the ten best men should -stand. The system perfectly succeeded. Never was there a class in which -so much enthusiasm manifested itself. An immense interest was excited in -the lectures, but the chief thing to be observed here is, that by turning -his class two days a week into a sort of authoritative debating club, he -established a public life, which, if it is not society, is at least the -scaffolding of society. So it is more or less in all the classes that -are conducted with spirit. It was not so much felt in the class-room of -Professor Wilson, who kept all the talk to himself; and surely it was -quite enough to hear such a man discourse on human life in his own way. -What Christopher North knew of human nature he told to his pupils in the -most glowing terms; but literally the students sat down before him day -after day without knowing each other’s names, and without having an idea -as to the amount of work performed by each in prospect of a place in -the class list. He was a splendid lecturer—but he was only a lecturer; -and lecturing is little more than half the work of a professorship. To -succeed in that work requires peculiar tact and knowledge of men who are -in what Mr. Disraeli has described as the “curly” period of life. Very -soon “the curled darlings of our nation” find out the weak places of the -professor. He may implore silence, but the more noise prevails. If he -threatens, revenge follows the next day, for suddenly and unaccountably -half the students in the class turn lame, and hobble into the -lecture-room leaning on bludgeons, with which, knocked against the seats, -they interrupt the speaker until his voice is drowned in the uproar. One -poor old professor (who, by the way, lived in continual terror of a very -painful disease) had so completely lost the control of his students, -that he had to sit before them in mute despair, and had the pleasure -of hearing one of them invite him by his Christian name, “Sandy,” to -lay himself upon the table, in order that he—the curled darling—might -attempt a little lithotomy. Generally, however, these uproars are got up -good-humouredly to bring out the professor, who perfectly understands -what the students want. They are tired of the hypothenuse, the sine and -the cosine, and they want a little fun. There never was a better hand at -this sort of work than the late Dr. Thomas Gillespie, a brother-in-law of -Lord Campbell. He was not only professor of Latin, but a devotee of the -fishing-rod, a poet of much pathos, a minister of much eloquence, and a -talker boiling over with jest and anecdote. He would lay down his Horace, -which he knew by heart, and joke with the students till the tears rolled -down their cheeks. Regularly every year he told the same pet anecdotes, -and they knew what was coming; but his manner was always irresistible. -One of his anecdotes was about a dial. He had a dial in his garden which -required mending. He got a mason to do the job, and the bill of charge -ran as follows: “For mending the deil—1_s._” The old fellow enjoyed it -more and more every time he told the story, and after five minutes of -this kind of play he would return to his Latin sapphics, and stand over -the stream of poetry with all the patient gravity of an angler. - -How long the present system will last, nobody knows. The Scotch are not -satisfied with their universities, but scarcely know what it is that is -in fault. In the view of some, their chief fault is, that they are not -faulty enough; and in this view it is supposed that if there were less -of study and more of scandal in them, they would be greatly improved. -That is an ugly way of stating the case, which we desire to avoid, -though probably it means nothing more than this—that scandal is one of -the necessary evils of society, and that it would be well if there were -more of society in the Scottish universities, even at the expense of -occasional excesses. It is boasted that the Scottish students are very -good—almost irreproachable in their lives. This may be only seeming, -and if they led a more public life perhaps their good conduct would -be more frequently called in question. But granting that such praise -is thoroughly deserved, is it not possible that it may signify the -stagnation of life even more than a victory over Apollyon? Heaven forbid -that we in Cornhill should glorify wild-oats! they are an unprofitable -kind of grain, which are not admitted into our granary. Strange to say, -however, people don’t dislike to see a little innocent crop of wild-oats -sown by young men, as showing that the social life is fully enjoyed; -and it is worth considering whether the Scottish students might not do -well if in this sense they found a new reading in the motto suggested by -Sydney Smith,—“_Tenui musam meditamur avenâ_.” With Lord Brougham and Mr. -Gladstone at the head of the University of Edinburgh, it is hoped that a -good deal may be compassed in the way of University Reform. It ought to -be remembered, however, that the arts of reading and lecturing, cramming -and examining, are not the only things to be comprised in a University -Reform: but that the art of living requires just as much regulation as -the art of learning. - - -FOOTNOTES - -[27] There are about 1,500 students at the Edinburgh University; of these -only about eleven take the Bachelor’s degree every year, about nine take -the Master’s degree, and about sixty are capped as medical doctors. It is -expected, however, that the new regulations will increase the number of -graduates. - - - - -Roundabout Papers.—No. II. - -ON TWO CHILDREN IN BLACK. - - -Montaigne and Howel’s Letters are my bedside books. If I wake at night, -I have one or other of them to prattle me to sleep again. They talk -about themselves for ever, and don’t weary me. I like to hear them tell -their old stories over and over again. I read them in the dozy hours, -and only half remember them. I am informed that both of them tell coarse -stories. I don’t heed them. It was the custom of their time, as it is of -Highlanders and Hottentots, to dispense with a part of dress which we -all wear in cities. But people can’t afford to be shocked either at Cape -Town or at Inverness every time they meet an individual who wears his -national airy raiment. I never knew the _Arabian Nights_ was an improper -book until I happened once to read it in a “family edition.” Well, _qui -s’excuse_.... Who, pray, has accused me as yet? Here am I smothering -dear good old Mrs. Grundy’s objections, before she has opened her mouth. -I love, I say, and scarce ever tire of hearing, the artless prattle of -those two dear old friends, the Perigourdin gentleman and the priggish -little Clerk of King Charles’s Council. Their egotism in nowise disgusts -me. I hope I shall always like to hear men, in reason, talk about -themselves. What subject does a man know better? If I stamp on a friend’s -corn, his outcry is genuine,—he confounds my clumsiness in the accents of -truth. He is speaking about himself, and expressing his emotion of grief -or pain in a manner perfectly authentic and veracious. I have a story of -my own, of a wrong done to me by somebody, as far back as the year 1838: -whenever I think of it, and have had a couple glasses of wine, I _cannot_ -help telling it. The toe is stamped upon: the pain is just as keen as -ever: I cry out, and perhaps utter imprecatory language. I told the story -only last Wednesday at dinner:— - -“Mr. Roundabout,” says a lady sitting by me, “how comes it that in your -books there is a certain class (it may be of men, or it may be of women, -but that is not the question in point)—how comes it, dear sir, there is -a certain class of persons whom you always attack in your writings, and -savagely rush at, goad, poke, toss up in the air, kick, and trample on?” - -I couldn’t help myself. I knew I ought not to do it. I told her the whole -story, between the entrées and the roast. The wound began to bleed again. -The horrid pang was there, as keen and as fresh as ever. If I live half -as long as Tithonus, that crack across my heart can never be cured. There -are wrongs and griefs that _can’t_ be mended. It is all very well of you, -my dear Mrs. G., to say that this spirit is unchristian, and that we -ought to forgive and forget, and so forth. How can I forget at will? How -forgive? I can forgive the occasional waiter, who broke my beautiful old -decanter at that very dinner. I am not going to do him any injury. But -all the powers on earth can’t make that claretjug whole. - -So, you see, I told the lady the inevitable story. I was egotistical. -I was selfish, no doubt; but I was natural, and was telling the truth. -You say you are angry with a man for talking about himself. It is -because you yourself are selfish, that that other person’s Self does -not interest you. Be interested by other people and with their affairs. -Let them prattle and talk to you, as I do my dear old egotists just -mentioned. When you have had enough of them, and sudden hazes come -over your eyes, lay down the volume; pop out the candle, and _dormez -bien_. I should like to write a nightcap book—a book that you can muse -over, that you can smile over, that you can yawn over—a book of which -you can say, “Well, this man is so and so and so and so; but he has a -friendly heart (although some wiseacres have painted him as black as -Bogey), and you may trust what he says.” I should like to touch you -sometimes with a reminiscence that shall waken your sympathy, and make -you say, _Io anche_ have so thought, felt, smiled, suffered. Now, how -is this to be done except by egotism? _Linea recta brevissima._ That -right line “I” is the very shortest, simplest, straightforwardest means -of communication between us, and stands for what it is worth and no -more. Sometimes authors say, “The present writer has often remarked;” -or, “The undersigned has observed;” or, “Mr. Roundabout presents his -compliments to the gentle reader, and begs to state,” &c.: but “I” is -better and straighter than all these grimaces of modesty: and although -these are Roundabout Papers, and may wander who knows whither, I shall -ask leave to maintain the upright and simple perpendicular. When this -bundle of egotisms is bound up together, as they may be one day, if no -accident prevents this tongue from wagging, or this ink from running, -they will bore you very likely; so it would to read through Howel’s -Letters from beginning to end, or to eat up the whole of a ham: but a -slice on occasion may have a relish: a dip into the volume at random and -so on for a page or two: and now and then a smile; and presently a gape; -and the book drops out of your hand; and so, _bon soir_, and pleasant -dreams to you. I have frequently seen men at clubs asleep over their -humble servant’s works, and am always pleased. Even at a lecture I don’t -mind, if they don’t snore. Only the other day when my friend A. said, -“You’ve left off that Roundabout business, I see; very glad you have,” I -joined in the general roar of laughter at the table. I don’t care a fig -whether Archilochus likes the papers or no. You don’t like partridge, -Archilochus, or porridge, or what not? Try some other dish. I am not -going to force mine down your throat, or quarrel with you if you refuse -it. Once in America a clever and candid woman said to me, at the close of -a dinner, during which I had been sitting beside her, “Mr. Roundabout, I -was told I should not like you; and I don’t.” “Well, ma’am,” says I, in a -tone of the most unfeigned simplicity, “I don’t care.” And we became good -friends immediately, and esteemed each other ever after. - -So, my dear Archilochus, if you come upon this paper, and say, “Fudge!” -and pass on to another, I for one shall not be in the least mortified. -If you say, “What does he mean by calling this paper _On Two Children -in Black_, when there’s nothing about people in black at all, unless the -ladies he met (and evidently bored) at dinner, were black women. What is -all this egotistical pother? A plague on his I’s!” My dear fellow, if you -read Montaigne’s Essays, you must own that he might call almost any one -by the name of any other, and that an essay on the Moon or an essay on -Green Cheese would be as appropriate a title as one of his on Coaches, -on the Art of Discoursing, or Experience, or what you will. Besides, if -I _have_ a subject (and I have), I claim to approach it in a roundabout -manner. - -You remember Balzac’s tale of the _Peau de Chagrin_, and how every time -the possessor used it for the accomplishment of some wish the fairy -_Peau_ shrank a little and the owner’s life correspondingly shortened? I -have such a desire to be well with my public that I am actually giving -up my favourite story. I am killing my goose, I know I am. I can’t tell -my story of the children in black after this; after printing it, and -sending it through the country. On the first of March next, these little -things become public property. I take their hands. I bless them. I say, -“Good-bye, my little dears.” I am quite sorry to part with them: but the -fact is, I have told all my friends about them already, and don’t dare to -take them about with me any more. - -Now every word is true of this little anecdote, and I submit that there -lies in it a most curious and exciting little mystery. I am like a man -who gives you the last bottle of his 25 claret. It is the pride of his -cellar; he knows it, and he has a right to praise it. He takes up the -bottle, fashioned so slenderly—takes it up tenderly, cants it with care, -places it before his friends, declares how good it is, with honest pride, -and wishes he had a hundred dozen bottles more of the same wine in his -cellar. _Si quid novisti_, &c., I shall be very glad to hear from you. I -protest and vow I am giving you the best I have. - -Well, who those little boys in black were, I shall never probably know -to my dying day. They were very pretty little men, with pale faces, and -large, melancholy eyes; and they had beautiful little hands, and little -boots, and the finest little shirts, and black paletots lined with the -richest silk; and they had picture-books in several languages, English, -and French, and German, I remember. Two more aristocratic-looking little -men I never set eyes on. They were travelling with a very handsome, -pale lady in mourning, and a maid-servant dressed in black, too; -and on the lady’s face there was the deepest grief. The little boys -clambered and played about the carriage, and she sate watching. It was a -railway-carriage from Frankfort to Heidelberg. - -I saw at once that she was the mother of those children, and going to -part from them. Perhaps I have tried parting with my own, and not found -the business very pleasant. Perhaps I recollect driving down (with a -certain trunk and carpet-bag on the box) with my own mother to the end of -the avenue, where we waited—only a few minutes—until the whirring wheels -of that “Defiance” coach were heard rolling towards us as certain as -death. Twang goes the horn; up goes the trunk; down come the steps. Bah! -I see the autumn evening: I hear the wheels now: I smart the cruel smart -again: and, boy or man, have never been able to bear the sight of people -parting from their children. - -I thought these little men might be going to school for the first time -in their lives; and mamma might be taking them to the doctor, and would -leave them with many fond charges, and little wistful secrets of love, -bidding the elder to protect his younger brother, and the younger to be -gentle, and to remember to pray God always for his mother, who would pray -for her boy too. Our party made friends with these young ones during the -little journey; but the poor lady was too sad to talk except to the boys -now and again, and sate in her corner, pale, and silently looking at them. - -The next day, we saw the lady and her maid driving in the direction of -the railway station, _without the boys_. The parting had taken place, -then. That night they would sleep among strangers. The little beds at -home were vacant, and poor mother might go and look at them. Well, -tears flow, and friends part, and mothers pray every night all over the -world. I daresay we went to see Heidelberg Castle, and admired the vast -shattered walls, and quaint gables; and the Neckar running its bright -course through that charming scene of peace and beauty; and ate our -dinner, and drank our wine with relish. The poor mother would eat but -little _Abendessen_ that night; and, as for the children—that first night -at school—hard bed, hard words, strange boys bullying, and laughing, and -jarring you with their hateful merriment—as for the first night at a -strange school, we most of us remember what _that_ is. And the first is -not the _worst_, my boys, there’s the rub. But each man has his share of -troubles, and, I suppose, you must have yours. - -From Heidelberg we went to Baden-Baden: and I daresay, saw Madame de -Schlangenbad and Madame dela Cruchecassée, and Count Punter, and honest -Captain Blackball. And whom should we see in the evening, but our two -little boys, walking on each side of a fierce, yellow-faced, bearded -man! We wanted to renew our acquaintance with them, and they were coming -forward quite pleased to greet us. But the father pulled back one of the -little men by his paletot, gave a grim scowl, and walked away. I can -see the children now looking rather frightened away from us and up into -the father’s face, or the cruel uncle’s—which was he? I think he was -the father. So this was the end of them. Not School as I at first had -imagined. The mother was gone, who had given them the heaps of pretty -books, and the pretty studs in the shirts, and the pretty silken clothes, -and the tender—tender cares; and they were handed to this scowling -practitioner of Trente et Quarante. Ah! this is worse than school. Poor -little men! poor mother sitting by the vacant little beds! We saw the -children once or twice after, always in Scowler’s company; but we did not -dare to give each other any marks of recognition. - -From Baden we went to Bale, and thence to Lucerne, and so over the St. -Gothard into Italy. From Milan we went to Venice; and now comes the -singular part of my story. In Venice there is a little court of which -I forget the name: but there is an apothecary’s shop there, whither I -went to buy some remedy for the bites of certain animals which abound in -Venice. Crawling animals, skipping animals, and humming, flying animals; -all three will have at you at once; and one night nearly drove me into a -strait-waistcoat. Well, as I was coming out of the apothecary’s with the -bottle of spirits of hartshorn in my hand (it really _does_ do the bites -a great deal of good), whom should I light upon but one of my little -Heidelberg-Baden boys! - -I have said how handsomely they were dressed as long as they were with -their mother. When I saw the boy at Venice, who perfectly recognized -me, his only garb was a wretched yellow cotton gown. His little feet, -on which I had admired the little shiny boots, were _without shoe or -stocking_. He looked at me, ran to an old hag of a woman, who seized his -hand; and with her he disappeared down one of the thronged lanes of the -city. - -From Venice we went to Trieste (the Vienna railway at that time was -only opened as far as Laybach, and the magnificent Semmering Pass was -not quite completed). At a station between Laybach and Graetz, one of -my companions alighted for refreshment, and came back to the carriage -saying:— - -“There’s that horrible man from Baden, with the two little boys.” - -Of course, we had talked about the appearance of the little boy at -Venice, and his strange altered garb. My companion said they were pale, -wretched-looking, and _dressed quite shabbily_. - -I got out at several stations, and looked at all the carriages. I could -not see my little men. From that day to this I have never set eyes on -them. That is all my story. Who were they? What could they be? How can -you explain that mystery of the mother giving them up; of the remarkable -splendour and elegance of their appearance while under her care; or -their bare-footed squalor in Venice, a month afterwards; of their -shabby habiliments at Laybach? Had the father gambled away his money, -and sold their clothes? How came they to have passed out of the hands -of a refined lady (as she evidently was, with whom I first saw them) -into the charge of quite a common woman like her with whom I saw one of -the boys at Venice? Here is but one chapter of the story. Can any man -write the next, or that preceding the strange one on which I happened -to light? Who knows: the mystery may have some quite simple solution. I -saw two children, attired like little princes, taken from their mother -and consigned to other care; and a fortnight afterwards, one of them -bare-footed and like a beggar. 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