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diff --git a/old/68317-0.txt b/old/68317-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 764f715..0000000 --- a/old/68317-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7038 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Cornhill Magazine (Vol. I, No. 4, -April 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. 4, April 1860) - -Author: Various - -Release Date: June 16, 2022 [eBook #68317] - -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. 4, APRIL 1860) *** - - - - - - -THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE. - -APRIL, 1860. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - - LOVEL THE WIDOWER. (With an Illustration.) 385 - CHAPTER IV.—_A Black Sheep._ - - COLOUR BLINDNESS 403 - - SPRING. By THOMAS HOOD 411 - - INSIDE CANTON 412 - - WILLIAM HOGARTH: PAINTER, ENGRAVER, AND PHILOSOPHER. Essays - on the Man, the Work, and the Time 417 - _III.—A long Ladder, and Hard to Climb._ - - STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE 438 - CHAPTER IV.—_An extinct animal recognized by its tooth: how - came this to be possible?—The task of classification—Artificial - and natural methods—Linnæus, and his baptism of the animal - kingdom: his scheme of classification—What is there underlying - all true classification?—The chief groups—What is a - species?—Re-statement of the question respecting the fixity or - variability of species—The two hypotheses—Illustration drawn - from the Romance languages—Caution to disputants._ - - STRANGERS YET! By R. MONCKTON MILNES 448 - - FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. (With an Illustration.) 449 - CHAPTER X.—_Lucy Robarts._ - ” XI.—_Griselda Grantly._ - ” XII.—_The Little Bill._ - - IDEAL HOUSES 475 - - DANTE 483 - - THE LAST SKETCH—EMMA (a fragment of a Story by the late - Charlotte Brontë) 485 - - UNDER CHLOROFORM 499 - - THE HOW AND WHY OF LONG SHOTS AND STRAIGHT SHOTS 505 - - LONDON: - SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL. - - _LEIPZIG: D. TAUCHNITZ. NEW YORK: WILLMER AND ROGERS. - MELBOURNE: G. ROBERTSON._ - - - - -THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE. - - -CONTENTS of No. 1. - -JANUARY, 1860. - - FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. Chaps. 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. Chaps. 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.) - AN ESSAY WITHOUT END. - - -CONTENTS of No. 3. - -MARCH, 1860. - - A FEW WORDS ON JUNIUS AND MACAULAY. - WILLIAM HOGARTH: PAINTER, ENGRAVER, AND PHILOSOPHER. Essays on the Man, - the Work, and the Time.—II. _Mr. Gamble’s Apprentice._ (With an - Illustration.) - MABEL. - STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE. Chapter 3. - FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. Chapters 7, 8 and 9. - SIR JOSHUA AND HOLBEIN. - A CHANGELING. - LOVEL THE WIDOWER. Chapter 3. (With an Illustration.) - THE NATIONAL GALLERY DIFFICULTY SOLVED. - A WINTER WEDDING-PARTY IN THE WILDS. - STUDENT LIFE IN SCOTLAND. - ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.—No. 2. _On Two Children in Black._ - - -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._ - - - - -[Illustration: BESSY’S REFLECTIONS.] - - - - -THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE. - -APRIL, 1860. - - - - -Lovel the Widower. - - -CHAPTER IV. - -A BLACK SHEEP. - -[Illustration] - -The being for whom my friend Dick Bedford seemed to have a special -contempt and aversion, was Mr. Bulkeley, the tall footman in attendance -upon Lovel’s dear mother-in-law. One of the causes of Bedford’s wrath, -the worthy fellow explained to me. In the servants’ hall, Bulkeley was -in the habit of speaking in disrespectful and satirical terms of his -mistress, enlarging upon her many foibles, and describing her pecuniary -difficulties to the many _habitués_ of that second social circle at -Shrublands. The hold which Mr. Bulkeley had over his lady lay in a long -unsettled account of wages, which her ladyship was quite disinclined -to discharge. And, in spite of this insolvency, the footman must have -found his profit in the place, for he continued to hold it from year to -year, and to fatten on his earnings such as they were. My lady’s dignity -did not allow her to travel without this huge personage in her train; -and a great comfort it must have been to her, to reflect that in all the -country houses which she visited (and she would go wherever she could -force an invitation), her attendant freely explained himself regarding -her peculiarities, and made his brother servants aware of his mistress’s -embarrassed condition. And yet the woman, whom I suppose no soul alive -respected (unless, haply, she herself had a hankering delusion that she -was a respectable woman), thought that her position in life forbade her -to move abroad without a maid, and this hulking incumbrance in plush; and -never was seen anywhere in watering-place, country-house, hotel, unless -she was so attended. - -Between Bedford and Bulkeley, then, there was feud and mutual hatred. -Bedford chafed the big man by constant sneers and sarcasms, which -penetrated the other’s dull hide, and caused him frequently to assert -that he would punch Dick’s ugly head off. The housekeeper had frequently -to interpose, and fling her matronly arms between these men of war; and -perhaps Bedford was forced to be still at times, for Bulkeley was nine -inches taller than himself, and was perpetually bragging of his skill -and feats as a bruiser. This sultan may also have wished to fling his -pocket-handkerchief to Miss Mary Pinhorn, who, though she loved Bedford’s -wit and cleverness, might also be not insensible to the magnificent -chest, calves, whiskers, of Mr. Bulkeley. On this delicate subject, -however, I can’t speak. The men hated each other. You have, no doubt, -remarked in your experience of life, that when men _do_ hate each other, -about a woman, or some other cause, the real reason is never assigned. -You say, “The conduct of such and such a man to his grandmother—his -behaviour in selling that horse to Benson—his manner of brushing his hair -down the middle”—or what you will, “makes him so offensive to me that -I can’t endure him.” His verses, therefore, are mediocre; his speeches -in parliament are utter failures; his practice at the bar is dwindling -every year; his powers (always small) are utterly leaving him, and he is -repeating his confounded jokes until they quite nauseate. Why, only about -myself, and within these three days, I read a nice little article—written -in sorrow, you know, not in anger—by our eminent _confrère_ Wiggins,[1] -deploring the decay of, &c. &c. And Wiggins’s little article which was -not found suitable for a certain Magazine?—_Allons donc!_ The drunkard -says the pickled salmon gave him the headache; the man who hates us -gives _a_ reason, but not _the_ reason. Bedford was angry with Bulkeley -for abusing his mistress at the servants’ table? Yes. But for what else -besides? I don’t care—nor possibly does your worship, the exalted reader, -for these low vulgar kitchen quarrels. - -Out of that ground-floor room, then, I would not move in spite of the -utmost efforts of my Lady Baker’s broad shoulder to push me out; and -with many grins that evening, Bedford complimented me on my gallantry -in routing the enemy at luncheon. I think he may possibly have told his -master, for Lovel looked very much alarmed and uneasy when we greeted -each other on his return from the city, but became more composed when -Lady Baker appeared at the second dinner-bell, without a trace on her -fine countenance of that storm which had caused all her waves to heave -with such commotion at noon. How finely some people, by the way, can hang -up quarrels—or pop them into a drawer, as they do their work, when dinner -is announced, and take them out again at a convenient season! Baker was -mild, gentle, a thought sad and sentimental—tenderly interested about her -dear son and daughter, in Ireland, whom she _must_ go and see—quite easy -in hand, in a word, and to the immense relief of all of us. She kissed -Lovel on retiring, and prayed blessings on her Frederick. She pointed to -the picture: nothing could be more melancholy or more gracious. - -“_She_ go!” says Mr. Bedford to me at night—“not she. She knows when -she’s well off; was obliged to turn out of Bakerstown before she came -here: that brute Bulkeley told me so. She’s always quarrelling with her -son and his wife. Angels don’t grow everywhere as they do at Putney, Mr. -B.! You gave it her well to-day at lunch, you did though!” During my stay -at Shrublands, Mr. Bedford paid me a regular evening visit in my room, -set the _carte du pays_ before me, and in his curt way acquainted me with -the characters of the inmates of the house, and the incidents occurring -therein. - -Captain Clarence Baker did not come to Shrublands on the day when his -anxious mother wished to clear out my nest (and expel the amiable bird -in it) for her son’s benefit. I believe an important fight, which was to -come off in the Essex Marshes, and which was postponed in consequence -of the interposition of the county magistrates, was the occasion, or at -any rate, the pretext of the captain’s delay. “He likes seeing fights -better than going to ’em, the captain does,” my major-domo remarked. -“His regiment was ordered to India, and he sold out: climate don’t agree -with his precious health. The captain ain’t been here ever so long, not -since poor Mrs. L.’s time, before Miss P. came here: Captain Clarence and -his sister had a tremendous quarrel together. He was up to all sorts of -pranks, the captain was. Not a good lot, by any means, I should say, Mr. -Batchelor.” And here Bedford begins to laugh. “Did you ever read, sir, a -farce called _Raising the Wind_? There’s plenty of Jeremy Diddlers now, -Captain Jeremy Diddlers and Lady Jeremy Diddlers too. Have you such a -thing as half-a-crown about you? If you have, don’t invest it in some -folks’ pockets—that’s all. Beg your pardon, sir, if I am bothering you -with talking!” - -As long as I was at Shrublands, and ready to partake of breakfast with -my kind host and his children and their governess, Lady Baker had her -own breakfast taken to her room. But when there were no visitors in -the house, she would come groaning out of her bedroom to be present -at the morning meal; and not uncommonly would give the little company -anecdotes of the departed saint, under whose invocation, as it were, we -were assembled, and whose simpering effigy looked down upon us, over her -harp, and from the wall. The eyes of the portrait followed you about, -as portraits’ eyes so painted will; and those glances, as it seemed to -me, still domineered over Lovel, and made him quail as they had done in -life. Yonder, in the corner, was Cecilia’s harp, with its leathern cover. -I likened the skin to that drum which the dying Zisca ordered should be -made out of his hide, to be beaten before the hosts of his people and -inspire terror. _Vous conçevez_, I did not say to Lovel at breakfast, as -I sat before the ghostly musical instrument, “My dear fellow, that skin -of Cordovan leather belonging to your defunct Cecilia’s harp, is like -the hide which,” &c.; but I confess, at first, I used to have a sort -of _crawly_ sensation, as of a sickly genteel ghost flitting about the -place, in an exceedingly peevish humour, trying to scold and command, -and finding her defunct voice couldn’t be heard—trying to re-illume -her extinguished leers and faded smiles and ogles, and finding no one -admired or took note. In the gray of the gloaming, in the twilight corner -where stands the shrouded companion of song—what is that white figure -flickering round the silent harp? Once, as we were assembled in the room -at afternoon tea, a bird, entering at the open window, perched on the -instrument. Popham dashed at it. Lovel was deep in conversation upon the -wine duties with a member of parliament he had brought down to dinner. -Lady Baker, who was, if I may use the expression, “jawing,” as usual, -and telling one of her tremendous stories about the Lord Lieutenant to -Mr. Bonnington, took no note of the incident. Elizabeth did not seem to -remark it: what was a bird on a harp to her, but a sparrow perched on a -bit of leather-casing! All the ghosts in Putney churchyard might rattle -all their bones, and would not frighten that stout spirit! - -I was amused at a precaution which Bedford took, and somewhat alarmed at -the distrust towards Lady Baker which he exhibited, when, one day on my -return from town—whither I had made an excursion of four or five hours—I -found my bedroom door locked, and Dick arrived with the key. “He’s wrote -to say he’s coming this evening, and if he had come when you was away, -Lady B. was capable of turning your things out, and putting his in, and -taking her oath she believed you was going to leave. The long-bows Lady -B. do pull are perfectly awful, Mr. B.! So it was long-bow to long-bow, -Mr. Batchelor; and I said you had took the key in your pocket, not -wishing to have your papers disturbed. She tried the lawn window, but I -had bolted that, and the captain will have the pink room, after all, and -must smoke up the chimney. I should have liked to see him, or you, or any -one do it in poor Mrs. L.’s time—I just should!” - -During my visit to London, I had chanced to meet my friend Captain -Fitzb—dle, who belongs to a dozen clubs, and knows something of every -man in London. “Know anything of Clarence Baker?” “Of course, I do,” -says Fitz; “and if you want any _renseignement_, my dear fellow, I have -the honour to inform you that a blacker little sheep does not trot the -London _pavé_. Wherever that ingenious officer’s name is spoken—at -Tattersall’s, at his clubs, in his late regiments, in men’s society, -in ladies’ society, in that expanding and most agreeable circle which -you may call no society at all—a chorus of maledictions rises up at the -mention of Baker. Know anything of Clarence Baker! My dear fellow, enough -to make your hair turn white, unless (as I sometimes fondly imagine) -nature has already performed that process, when of course I can’t pretend -to act upon more hair-dye.” (The whiskers of the individual who addressed -me, innocent, stared me in the face as he spoke, and were dyed of the -most unblushing purple.) “Clarence Baker, sir, is a young man who would -have been invaluable in Sparta as a warning against drunkenness and -an exemplar of it. He has helped the regimental surgeon to some most -interesting experiments in _delirium tremens_. He is known, and not in -the least trusted, in every billiard-room in Brighton, Canterbury, York, -Sheffield,—on every pavement which has rung with the clink of dragoon -boot-heels. By a wise system of revoking at whist he has lost games which -have caused not only his partners, but his opponents and the whole club -to admire him and to distrust him: long before and since he was of age, -he has written his eminent name to bills which have been dishonoured, and -has nobly pleaded his minority as a reason for declining to pay. From -the garrison towns where he has been quartered, he has carried away not -only the hearts of the milliners, but their gloves, haberdashery, and -perfumery. He has had controversies with Cornet Green, regarding horse -transactions; disputed turf-accounts with Lieutenant Brown; and betting -and backgammon differences with Captain Black. From all I have heard he -is the worthy son of his admirable mother. And I bet you even on the four -events, if you stay three days in a country house with him, which appears -to be your present happy idea,—that he will quarrel with you, insult you, -and apologize; that he will intoxicate himself more than once; that he -will offer to play cards with you, and not pay on losing (if he wins, I -perhaps need not state what his conduct will be); and that he will try to -borrow money from you, and most likely from your servant, before he goes -away.” So saying, the sententious Fitz strutted up the steps of one of -his many club-haunts in Pall Mall, and left me forewarned, and I trust -forearmed against Captain Clarence and all his works. - -The adversary, when at length I came in sight of him, did not seem very -formidable. I beheld a weakly little man with Chinese eyes, and pretty -little feet and hands, whose pallid countenance told of Finishes and -Casinos. His little chest and fingers were decorated with many jewels. A -perfume of tobacco hung round him. His little moustache was twisted with -an elaborate gummy curl. I perceived that the little hand which twirled -the moustache shook woefully: and from the little chest there came a -cough surprisingly loud and dismal. - -He was lying on a sofa as I entered, and the children of the house were -playing round him. “If you are our uncle, why didn’t you come to see us -oftener?” asks Popham. - -“How should I know that you were such uncommonly nice children?” asks the -captain. - -“We’re not nice to you,” says Popham. “Why do you cough so? Mamma used to -cough. And why does your hand shake so?” - -“My hand shakes because I am ill: and I cough because I’m ill. Your -mother died of it, and I daresay I shall too.” - -“I hope you’ll be good, and repent before you die, uncle, and I will lend -you some nice books,” says Cecilia. - -“Oh, bother books!” cries Pop. - -“And I hope _you’ll_ be good, Popham,” and “You hold _your_ tongue, -Miss,” and “I shall,” and “I shan’t,” and “You’re another,” and “I’ll -tell Miss Prior,”—“Go and tell, telltale,”—“Boo”—“Boo”—“Boo”—“Boo”—and -I don’t know what more exclamations came tumultuously and rapidly from -these dear children, as their uncle lay before them, a handkerchief to -his mouth, his little feet high raised on the sofa cushions. - -Captain Baker turned a little eye towards me, as I entered the room, but -did not change his easy and elegant posture. When I came near to the sofa -where he reposed, he was good enough to call out: - -“Glass of sherry!” - -“It’s Mr. Batchelor; it isn’t Bedford, uncle,” says Cissy. - -“Mr. Batchelor ain’t got any sherry in his pocket:—have you, Mr. -Batchelor? You ain’t like old Mrs. Prior, always pocketing things, are -you?” cries Pop, and falls a-laughing at the ludicrous idea of my being -mistaken for Bedford. - -“Beg your pardon. How should I know, you know?” drawls the invalid on the -sofa. “Everybody’s the same now, you see.” - -“Sir!” says I, and “sir” was all I could say. The fact is, I could have -replied with something remarkably neat and cutting, which would have -transfixed the languid little jackanapes who dared to mistake me for a -footman; but, you see, I only thought of my repartee some eight hours -afterwards when I was lying in bed, and I am sorry to own that a great -number of my best _bon mots_ have been made in that way. So, as I had not -the pungent remark ready when wanted, I can’t say I said it to Captain -Baker, but I daresay I turned very red, and said “Sir!” and—and in fact -that was all. - -“You were goin’ to say somethin’?” asked the captain, affably. - -“You know my friend, Mr. Fitzboodle, I believe?” said I; the fact is, I -really did not know what to say. - -“Some mistake—think not.” - -“He is a member of the Flag Club,” I remarked, looking my young fellow -hard in the face. - -“I ain’t. There’s a set of cads in that club that will say anything.” - -“You may not know him, sir, but he seemed to know you very well. Are we -to have any tea, children?” I say, flinging myself down on an easy chair, -taking up a magazine and adopting an easy attitude, though I daresay my -face was as red as a turkey-cock’s, and I was boiling over with rage. - -As we had a very good breakfast and a profuse luncheon at Shrublands, -of course we could not support nature till dinner-time without a -five-o’clock tea; and this was the meal for which I pretended to ask. -Bedford, with his silver kettle, and his buttony satellite, presently -brought in this refection, and of course the children bawled out to him— - -“Bedford—Bedford! uncle mistook Mr. Batchelor for you.” - -“I could not be mistaken for a more honest man, Pop,” said I. And the -bearer of the tea-urn gave me a look of gratitude and kindness which, I -own, went far to restore my ruffled equanimity. - -“Since you are the butler, will you get me a glass of sherry and a -biscuit?” says the captain. And Bedford retiring, returned presently with -the wine. - -The young gentleman’s hand shook so, that, in order to drink his wine, he -had to surprise it, as it were, and seize it with his mouth, when a shake -brought the glass near his lips. He drained the wine, and held out his -hand for another glass. The hand was steadier now. - -“You the man who was here before?” asks the captain. - -“Six years ago, when you were here, sir,” says the butler. - -“What! I ain’t changed, I suppose?” - -“Yes, you are, sir.” - -“Then, how the dooce do you remember me?” - -“You forgot to pay me some money you borrowed of me, one pound five, -sir,” says Bedford, whose eyes slyly turned in my direction. - -And here, according to her wont at this meal, the dark-robed Miss Prior -entered the room. She was coming forward with her ordinarily erect -attitude and firm step, but paused in her walk an instant, and when she -came to us, I thought, looked remarkably pale. She made a slight curtsey, -and it must be confessed that Captain Baker rose up from his sofa for a -moment when she appeared. She then sate down, with her back towards him, -turning towards herself the table and its tea apparatus. - -At this board my Lady Baker found us assembled when she returned from her -afternoon drive. She flew to her darling reprobate of a son. She took -his hand, she smoothed back his hair from his damp forehead. “My darling -child,” cries this fond mother, “what a pulse you have got!” - -“I suppose, because I’ve been drinking,” says the prodigal. - -“Why didn’t you come out driving with me? The afternoon was lovely!” - -“To pay visits at Richmond? Not as I knows on, ma’am,” says the invalid. -“Conversation with elderly ladies about poodles, bible-societies, that -kind of thing? It must be a doocid lovely afternoon that would make me -like that sort of game.” And here comes a fit of coughing, over which -mamma ejaculates her sympathy. - -“Kick—kick—killin’ myself!” gasps out the captain, “know I am. No man -can lead my life, and stand it. Dyin’ by inches! Dyin’ by whole yards, -by Jo—ho—hove, I am!” Indeed, he was as bad in health as in morals, this -graceless captain. - -“That man of Lovel’s seems a d—— insolent beggar,” he presently and -ingenuously remarks. - -“O uncle, you mustn’t say those words!” cries niece Cissy. - -“He’s a man, and may say what he likes, and so will I, when I’m a man. -Yes, and I’ll say it now, too, if I like,” cries Master Popham. - -“Not to give me pain, Popham? Will you?” asks the governess. - -On which the boy says,—“Well, who wants to hurt you, Miss Prior?” - -And our colloquy ends by the arrival of the man of the house from the -city. - -What I have admired in some dear women is their capacity for quarrelling -and for reconciliation. As I saw Lady Baker hanging round her son’s neck, -and fondling his scanty ringlets, I remembered the awful stories with -which in former days she used to entertain us regarding this reprobate. -Her heart was pincushioned with his filial crimes. Under her chesnut -front her ladyship’s real head of hair was grey, in consequence of his -iniquities. His precocious appetite had devoured the greater part of her -jointure. He had treated her many dangerous illnesses with indifference: -had been the worst son, the worst brother, the most ill-conducted -school-boy, the most immoral young man—the terror of households, the -Lovelace of garrison towns, the perverter of young officers; in fact, -Lady Baker did not know how she supported existence at all under the -agony occasioned by his crimes, and it was only from the possession of -a more than ordinarily strong sense of religion that she was enabled to -bear her burden. - -The captain himself explained these alternating maternal caresses and -quarrels in his easy way. - -“Saw how the old lady kissed and fondled me?” says he to his -brother-in-law. “Quite refreshin’, ain’t it? Hang me, I thought she was -goin’ to send me a bit of sweetbread off her own plate. Came up to my -room last night, wanted to tuck me up in bed, and abused my brother to me -for an hour. You see, when I’m in favour, she always abuses Baker; when -_he’s_ in favour she abuses me to him. And my sister-in-law, didn’t she -give it my sister-in-law! Oh! I’ll trouble you! And poor Cecilia—why hang -me, Mr. Batchelor, she used to go on—this bottle’s corked, I’m hanged if -it isn’t—to go on about Cecilia, and call her.... Hullo!” - -Here he was interrupted by our host, who said sternly— - -“Will you please to forget those quarrels, or not mention them here? Will -you have more wine, Batchelor?” - -And Lovel rises, and haughtily stalks out of the room. To do -Lovel justice, he had a great contempt and dislike for his young -brother-in-law, which, with his best magnanimity, he could not at all -times conceal. - -So our host stalks towards the drawing-room, leaving Captain Clarence -sipping wine. - -“Don’t go, too,” says the captain. “He’s a confounded rum fellow, my -brother-in-law is. He’s a confounded ill-conditioned fellow, too. They -always are, you know, these tradesmen fellows, these half-bred ’uns. I -used to tell my sister so; but she _would_ have him, because he had such -lots of money, you know. And she threw over a fellar she was very fond -of; and I told her she’d regret it. I told Lady B. she’d regret it. It -was all Lady B.’s doing. She made Cissy throw the fellar over. He was -a bad match, certainly, Tom Mountain was; and not a clever fellow, you -know, or that sort of thing; but at any rate, he was a gentleman, and -better than a confounded sugar-baking beggar out Ratcliff Highway.” - -“You seem to find that claret very good!” I remark, speaking, I may say, -Socratically, to my young friend, who had been swallowing bumper after -bumper. - -“Claret good! Yes, doosid good!” - -“Well, you see our confounded sugar-baker gives you his best.” - -“And why shouldn’t he, hang him? Why, the fellow chokes with money. What -does it matter to him how much he spends? You’re a poor man, I dare say. -You don’t look as if you were over-flush of money. Well, if _you_ stood -a good dinner, it would be all right—I mean it would show—you understand -me, you know. But a sugar-baker with ten thousand a year, what does it -matter to him, bottle of claret more—less?” - -“Let us go into the ladies,” I say. - -“Go into mother! _I_ don’t want to go into my mother,” cried out the -artless youth. “And I don’t want to go into the sugar-baker, hang him! -and I don’t want to go into the children; and I’d rather have a glass of -brandy-and-water with you, old boy. Here, you! What’s your name? Bedford! -I owe you five-and-twenty shillings, do I, old Bedford? Give us a good -glass of Schnaps, and I’ll pay you! Look here, Batchelor. I hate that -sugar-baker. Two years ago I drew a bill on him, and he wouldn’t pay -it—perhaps he would have paid it, but my sister wouldn’t let him. And, I -say, shall we go and have a cigar in your room? My mother’s been abusing -you to me like fun this morning. She abuses everybody. She used to abuse -Cissy. Cissy used to abuse her—used to fight like two cats....” - -And if I narrate this conversation, dear Spartan youth! if I show thee -this Helot maundering in his cups, it is that from his odious example -thou mayest learn to be moderate in the use of thine own. Has the enemy -who has entered thy mouth ever stolen away thy brains? Has wine ever -caused thee to blab secrets; to utter egotisms and follies? Beware of it. -Has it ever been thy friend at the end of the hard day’s work, the cheery -companion of thy companions, the promoter of harmony, kindness, harmless -social pleasure? be thankful for it. Two years since, when the comet was -blazing in the autumnal sky, I stood on the château-steps of a great -claret proprietor. “_Boirai-je de ton vin, O comète?_” I said, addressing -the luminary with the flaming tail. Shall those generous bunches which -you ripen yield their juices for me _morituro_? It was a solemn thought. -Ah! my dear brethren! who knows the Order of the Fates? When shall we -pass the Gloomy Gates? Which of us goes, which of us waits to drink those -famous Fifty-eights? A sermon, upon my word! And pray why not a little -homily on an autumn eve over a purple cluster?... If that rickety boy had -only drunk claret, I warrant you his tongue would not have blabbed, his -hand would not have shaken, his wretched little brain and body would not -have reeled with fever. - -“’Gad,” said he next day to me, “cut again last night. Have an idea that -I abused Lovel. When I have a little wine on board, always speak my mind, -don’t you know. Last time I was here in my poor sister’s time, said -somethin’ to her, don’t quite know what it was, somethin’ confoundedly -true and unpleasant I daresay. I think it was about a fellow she used -to go on with before she married the sugar-baker. And I got orders to -quit, by Jove, sir—neck and crop, sir, and no mistake! And we gave it -one another over the stairs. O my! we did pitch in!—And that was the -last time I ever saw Cecilia—give you my word. A doosid unforgiving -woman, my poor sister was, and between you and me, Batchelor, as great -a flirt as ever threw a fellar over. You should have heard her and my -Lady B. go on, that’s all!—Well, mamma, are you going out for a drive -in the coachy-poachy?—Not as I knows on, thank you, as I before had the -honour to observe. Mr. Batchelor and me are going to play a little game -at billiards.” We did, and I won; and, from that day to this, have never -been paid my little winnings. - -On the day after the doughty captain’s arrival, Miss Prior, in whose -face I had remarked a great expression of gloom and care, neither made -her appearance at breakfast nor at the children’s dinner. “Miss Prior -was a little unwell,” Lady Baker said, with an air of most perfect -satisfaction. “Mr. Drencher will come to see her this afternoon, and -prescribe for her, I daresay,” adds her ladyship, nodding and winking a -roguish eye at me. I was at a loss to understand what was the point of -humour which amused Lady B., until she herself explained it. - -“My good sir,” she said, “I think Miss Prior is not at all _averse_ to -being ill.” And the nods recommenced. - -“As how?” I ask. - -“To being ill, or at least to calling in the medical man.” - -“Attachment between governess and Sawbones I make bold for to presume?” -says the captain. - -“Precisely, Clarence—a very fitting match. I saw the affair, even before -Miss Prior owned it—that is to say, she has not denied it. She says -she can’t afford to marry, that she has children enough at home in her -brothers and sisters. She is a well-principled young woman, and does -credit, Mr. Batchelor, to your recommendation, and the education she has -received from her uncle, the Master of St. Boniface.” - -“Cissy to school; Pop to Eton; and Miss Whatdyoucall to grind the pestle -in Sawbones’ back-shop: I see!” says Captain Clarence. “He seems a low, -vulgar blackguard, that Sawbones.” - -“Of course, my love; what can you expect from that sort of person?” asks -mamma, whose own father was a small attorney, in a small Irish town. - -“I wish I had his confounded good health,” cries Clarence, coughing. - -“My poor darling!” says mamma. - -I said nothing. And so Elizabeth was engaged to that great, -broad-shouldered, red-whiskered, young surgeon with the huge appetite -and the dubious _h_’s! Well, why not? What was it to me? Why shouldn’t -she marry him? Was he not an honest man, and a fitting match for her? -Yes. Very good. Only if I _do_ love a bird or flower to glad me with its -dark blue eye, it is the first to fade away. If I _have_ a partiality for -a young gazelle it is the first to——paha! What have I to do with this -namby-pamby? Can the heart that has truly loved ever forget, and doesn’t -it as truly love on to the—stuff! I am past the age of such follies. I -might have made a woman happy: I think I should. But the fugacious years -have lapsed, my Posthumus! My waist is now a good bit wider than my -chest, and it is decreed that I shall be alone! - -My tone, then, when next I saw Elizabeth, was sorrowful—not angry. -Drencher, the young doctor, came punctually enough, you may be sure, to -look after his patient. Little Pinhorn, the children’s maid, led the -young practitioner smiling towards the schoolroom regions. His creaking -highlows sprang swiftly up the stairs. I happened to be in the hall, -and surveyed him with a grim pleasure. “Now he is in the schoolroom,” -I thought. “Now he is taking her hand—it is very white—and feeling her -pulse. And so on, and so on. Surely, surely Pinhorn remains in the room?” -I am sitting on a hall-table as I muse plaintively on these things, and -gaze up the stairs by which the Hakeem (great, carroty-whiskered cad!) -has passed into the sacred precincts of the harem. As I gaze up the -stair, another door opens into the hall; a scowling face peeps through -that door, and looks up the stair, too. ’Tis Bedford, who has slid out of -his pantry, and watches the doctor. And thou, too, my poor Bedford! Oh! -the whole world throbs with vain heart-pangs, and tosses and heaves with -longing, unfulfilled desires! All night, and all over the world, bitter -tears are dropping as regular as the dew, and cruel memories are haunting -the pillow. Close my hot eyes, kind Sleep! Do not visit it, dear delusive -images out of the Past! Often your figure shimmers through my dreams, -Glorvina. Not as you are now, the stout mother of many children—you -always had an alarming likeness to your own mother, Glorvina—but as you -were—slim, black-haired, blue-eyed—when your carnation lips warbled the -_Vale of Avoca_, or the _Angels’ Whisper_. “What!” I say then, looking up -the stair, “am I absolutely growing jealous of yon apothecary?—O fool!” -And at this juncture, out peers Bedford’s face from the pantry, and I see -he is jealous too. I tie my shoe as I sit on the table; I don’t affect to -notice Bedford in the least (who, in fact, pops his own head back again -as soon as he sees mine). I take my wide-awake from the peg, set it on -one side my head, and strut whistling out of the hall door. I stretch -over Putney Heath, and my spirit resumes its tranquillity. - -I sometimes keep a little journal of my proceedings, and on referring to -its pages, the scene rises before me pretty clearly to which the brief -notes allude. On this day I find noted: “_Friday, July, 14.—B. came down -to-day. Seems to require a great deal of attendance from Dr.—Row between -dowagers after dinner._” “B.,” I need not remark, is Bessy. “Dr.,” of -course, you know. “Row between dowagers,” means a battle royal between -Mrs. Bonnington and Lady Baker, such as not unfrequently raged under the -kindly Lovel’s roof. - -Lady Baker’s gigantic menial Bulkeley condescended to wait at the -family dinner at Shrublands, when perforce he had to put himself under -Mr. Bedford’s orders. Bedford would gladly have dispensed with the -London footman, over whose calves, he said, he and his boy were always -tumbling; but Lady Baker’s dignity would not allow her to part from -her own man; and her good-natured son-in-law allowed her, and indeed -almost all other persons, to have their own way. I have reason to fear -Mr. Bulkeley’s morals were loose. Mrs. Bonnington had a special horror -of him; his behaviour in the village public-houses where his powder and -plush were for ever visible—his freedom of behaviour and conversation -before the good lady’s nurse and parlour-maids—provoked her anger and -suspicion. More than once, she whispered to me her loathing of this -flour-besprinkled monster; and, as much as such a gentle creature could, -she showed her dislike to him by her behaviour. The flunkey’s solemn -equanimity was not to be disturbed by any such feeble indications -of displeasure. From his powdered height, he looked down upon Mrs. -Bonnington, and her esteem or her dislike was beneath him. - -Now on this Friday night the 14th, Captain Clarence had gone to pass -the day in town, and our Bessy made her appearance again, the doctor’s -prescriptions having, I suppose, agreed with her. Mr. Bulkeley, who was -handing coffee to the ladies, chose to offer none to Miss Prior, and I -was amused when I saw Bedford’s heel scrunch down on the flunkey’s right -foot, as he pointed towards the governess. The oaths which Bulkeley had -to devour in silence must have been frightful. To do the gallant fellow -justice, I think he would have died rather than speak before company in a -drawing-room. He limped up and offered the refreshment to the young lady, -who bowed and declined it. - -“Frederick,” Mrs. Bonnington begins, when the coffee-ceremony is over, -“now the servants are gone, I must scold you about the waste at your -table, my dear. What was the need of opening that great bottle of -champagne? Lady Baker only takes two glasses. Mr. Batchelor doesn’t touch -it.” (No, thank you, my dear Mrs. Bonnington: too old a stager.) “Why not -have a little bottle instead of that great, large, immense one? Bedford -is a teetotaler. I suppose it is _that London footman who likes it_.” - -“My dear mother, I haven’t really ascertained his tastes,” says Lovel. - -“Then why not tell Bedford to open a pint, dear?” pursues mamma. - -“Oh, Bedford—Bedford, we must not mention _him_, Mrs. Bonnington!” cries -Lady Baker. “Bedford is faultless. Bedford has the keys of everything. -Bedford is not to be controlled in anything. Bedford is to be at liberty -to be rude to my servant.” - -“Bedford was admirably kind in his attendance on your daughter, Lady -Baker,” says Lovel, his brow darkening: “and as for your man, I should -think he was big enough to protect himself from any rudeness of poor -Dick!” The good fellow had been angry for one moment, at the next he was -all for peace and conciliation. - -Lady Baker puts on her superfine air. With that air she had often -awe-stricken good, simple Mrs. Bonnington; and she loved to use it -whenever city folks or humble people were present. You see she thought -herself your superior and mine: as _de par le monde_ there are many -artless Lady Bakers who do. “My dear Frederick!” says Lady B. then, -putting on her best Mayfair manner, “excuse me for saying, but you don’t -know the—the class of servant to which Bulkeley belongs. I had him as -a great favour from Lord Toddleby’s. That—that class of servant is not -generally accustomed to go out single.” - -“Unless they are two behind a carriage-perch they pine away, I suppose,” -remarks Mr. Lovel, “as one love-bird does without his mate.” - -“No doubt—no doubt,” says Lady B., who does not in the least understand -him; “I only say you are not accustomed here—in this kind of -establishment, you understand—to that class of——” - -But here Mrs. Bonnington could contain her wrath no more. “Lady Baker!” -cries that injured mother, “is my son’s establishment not good enough for -any powdered wretch in England? Is the house of a British merchant——” - -“My dear creature—my dear creature!” interposes her ladyship, “it is the -house of a British merchant, and a most comfortable house too.” - -“Yes, _as you find it_,” remarks mamma. - -“Yes, as I find it, when I come to take care of that _departed angel’s -children_, Mrs. Bonnington!” (Lady B. here indicates the Cecilian -effigy)—“of that dear seraph’s orphans, Mrs. Bonnington! _You_ cannot. -You have other duties—other children—a husband, whom you have left at -home in delicate health, and who——” - -“Lady Baker!” exclaims Mrs. Bonnington, “no one shall say I don’t take -care of my dear husband!” - -“My dear Lady Baker!—my dear—dear mother!” cries Lovel, _éploré_, and -whimpers aside to me, “They spar in this way every night, when we’re -alone. It’s too bad, ain’t it, Batch?” - -“I say you _do_ take care of Mr. Bonnington,” Baker blandly resumes (she -has hit Mrs. Bonnington on the raw place, and smilingly proceeds to thong -again): “I say you _do_ take care of your husband, my dear creature, -and that is why you can’t attend to Frederick! And as he is of a very -easy temper,—except sometimes with his poor Cecilia’s mother,—he allows -all his tradesmen to cheat him; all his servants to cheat him; Bedford -to be rude to everybody; and if to me, why not to my servant Bulkeley, -with whom Lord Toddleby’s groom of the chambers gave me the very highest -character?” - -Mrs. Bonnington in a great flurry broke in by saying she was surprised to -hear that noblemen _had_ grooms in their chambers: and she thought they -were much better in the stables: and when they dined with Captain Huff, -you know, Frederick, _his_ man always brought such a dreadful smell of -the stable in with him, that——Here she paused. Baker’s eye was on her; -and that dowager was grinning a cruel triumph. - -“He!—he! You mistake, my good Mrs. Bonnington!” says her ladyship. “Your -poor mother mistakes, my dear Frederick. You have lived in a quiet and -most respectable sphere, but not, you understand, not——” - -“Not what, pray, Lady Baker? We have lived in this neighbourhood twenty -years: in my late husband’s time, when _we saw a great deal of company_, -and this dear Frederick was a boy at Westminster School. And we have -_paid_ for everything we have had for twenty years; and we have not owed -a penny to any _tradesman_. And we may not have had _powdered footmen_, -six feet high, impertinent beasts, who were rude to all the maids in the -place. Don’t—I _will_ speak, Frederick! But servants who loved us, and -who were _paid their wages_, and who—o—ho—ho—ho!” - -Wipe your eyes, dear friends! out with all your pocket-handkerchiefs. I -protest I cannot bear to see a woman in distress. Of course Fred Lovel -runs to console his dear old mother, and vows Lady Baker meant no harm. - -“Meant harm! My dear Frederick, what harm can I mean? I only said your -poor mother did not seem to know what a groom of the chambers was! How -should she?” - -“Come—come,” says Frederick, “enough of this! Miss Prior, will you be so -kind as to give us a little music?” - -Miss Prior was playing Beethoven at the piano, very solemnly and finely, -when our Black Sheep returned to this quiet fold, and, I am sorry to say, -in a very riotous condition. The brilliancy of his eye, the purple flush -on his nose, the unsteady gait, and uncertain tone of voice, told tales -of Captain Clarence, who stumbled over more than one chair before he -found a seat near me. - -“Quite right, old boy,” says he, winking at me. “Cut again—dooshid good -fellosh. Better than being along with you shtoopid-old-fogish.” And he -began to warble wild “Fol-de-rol-lolls” in an insane accompaniment to the -music. - -“By heavens, this is too bad!” growls Lovel. “Lady Baker, let your big -man carry your son to bed. Thank you, Miss Prior!” - -At a final yell, which the unlucky young scapegrace gave, Elizabeth -stopped, and rose from the piano, looking very pale. She made her -curtsey, and was departing when the wretched young captain sprang up, -looked at her, and sank back on the sofa with another wild laugh. Bessy -fled away scared, and white as a sheet. - -“TAKE THE BRUTE TO BED!” roars the master of the house, in great wrath. -And scapegrace was conducted to his apartment, whither he went laughing -wildly, and calling out, “Come on, old sh-sh-shugarbaker!” - -The morning after this fine exhibition, Captain Clarence Baker’s mamma -announced to us that her poor dear suffering boy was too ill to come to -breakfast, and I believe he prescribed for himself devilled drum-stick -and soda-water, of which he partook in his bedroom. Lovel, seldom angry, -was violently wrath with his brother-in-law; and, almost always polite, -was at breakfast scarcely civil to Lady Baker. I am bound to say that -female abused her position. She appealed to Cecilia’s picture a great -deal too much during the course of breakfast. She hinted, she sighed, -she waggled her head at me, and spoke about “that angel” in the most -tragic manner. Angel is all very well: but your angel brought in _à -tout propos_; your departed blessing called out of her grave ever so -many times a day; when grandmamma wants to carry a point of her own; -when the children are naughty, or noisy; when papa betrays a flickering -inclination to dine at his club, or to bring home a bachelor friend or -two to Shrublands;—I say your angel always dragged in by the wings into -the conversation loses her effect. No man’s heart put on wider crape -than Lovel’s at Cecilia’s loss. Considering the circumstances, his grief -was most creditable to him: but at breakfast, at lunch, about Bulkeley -the footman, about the barouche or the phaeton, or any trumpery domestic -perplexity, to have a _Deus intersit_ was too much. And I observed, with -some inward satisfaction, that when Baker uttered her pompous funereal -phrases, rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, and appealed to that quarter, -the children ate their jam and quarrelled and kicked their little shins -under the table, Lovel read his paper and looked at his watch to see if -it was omnibus time; and Bessy made the tea, quite undisturbed by the old -lady’s tragical prattle. - -When Baker described her son’s fearful cough and dreadfully feverish -state, I said, “Surely, Lady Baker, _Mr. Drencher_ had better be sent -for;” and I suppose I uttered the disgusting dissyllable Drencher with -a fine sarcastic accent; for once, just once, Bessy’s grey eyes rose -through the spectacles and met mine with a glance of unutterable sadness, -then calmly settled down on to the slop-basin again, or the urn in which -her pale features, of course, were odiously distorted. - -“You will not bring anybody home to dinner, Frederick, in my poor boy’s -state?” asks Lady B. - -“He may stay in his bedroom, I suppose?” replies Lovel. - -“He is Cecilia’s brother, Frederick!” cries the lady. - -“Conf——” Lovel was beginning. What was he about to say? - -“If you are going to confound your angel in heaven, I have nothing to -say, sir!” cries the mother of Clarence. - -“_Parbleu, madame!_” cried Lovel, in French; “if he were not my wife’s -brother, do you think I would let him stay here?” - -“_Parly Français? Oui, oui, oui!_” cries Pop. “I know what Pa means!” - -“And so do _I_ know. And I shall lend uncle Clarence some books which Mr. -Bonnington gave me, and——” - -“Hold your tongue all!” shouts Lovel, with a stamp of his foot. - -“You will, perhaps, have the great kindness to allow me the use of your -carriage—or, at least, to wait here until my poor suffering boy can be -moved, Mr. Lovel?” says Lady B., with the airs of a martyr. - -Lovel rang the bell. “The carriage for Lady Baker—at her ladyship’s hour, -Bedford: and the cart for her luggage. Her ladyship and Captain Baker are -going away.” - -“I have lost one child, Mr. Lovel, whom some people seem to forget. I am -not going to murder another! I will not leave this house, sir, _unless -you drive me from it by force_, until the medical man has seen my boy!” -And here she and sorrow sat down again. She was always giving warning. -She was always fitting the halter and traversing the cart, was Lady B., -but she for ever declined to drop the handkerchief and have the business -over. I saw by a little shrug in Bessy’s shoulders, what the governess’s -views were of the matter: and, in a word, Lady B. no more went away on -this day, than she had done on forty previous days when she announced -her intention of going. She would accept benefits, you see, but then she -insulted her benefactors, and so squared accounts. - -That great healthy, florid, scarlet-whiskered, medical wretch came at -about twelve, saw Mr. Baker and prescribed for him: and _of course_ he -must have a few words with Miss Prior, and inquire into the state of her -health. Just as on the previous occasion, I happened to be in the hall -when Drencher went upstairs; Bedford happened to be looking out of his -pantry-door: I burst into a yell of laughter when I saw Dick’s livid -face—the sight somehow suited my savage soul. - -No sooner was Medicus gone, when Bessy, grave and pale, in bonnet and -spectacles, came sliding downstairs. I do not mean down the banister, -which was Pop’s favourite method of descent, but slim, tall, noiseless, -in a nunlike calm, she swept down the steps. Of course, I followed her. -And there was Master Bedford’s nose peeping through the pantry-door at -us, as we went out with the children. Pray, what business of _his_ was it -to be always watching anybody who walked with Miss Prior? - -“So, Bessy,” I said, “what report does Mr.—hem!—Mr. Drencher—give of the -interesting invalid?” - -“Oh, the most horrid! He says that Captain Baker has several times had a -dreadful disease brought on by drinking, and that he is mad when he has -it. He has delusions, sees demons, when he is in this state—wants to be -watched.” - -“Drencher tells you everything.” - -She says meekly: “He attends us when we are ill.” - -I remark, with fine irony: “He attends the whole family: he is always -coming to Shrublands!” - -“He comes very often,” Miss Prior says, gravely. - -“And do you mean to say, Bessy,” I cry, madly cutting off two or three -heads of yellow broom with my stick—“do you mean to say a fellow like -that, who drops his _h_’s about the room, is a welcome visitor?” - -“I should be very ungrateful if he were not welcome, Mr. Batchelor,” says -Miss Prior. “And call me by my surname, please—and he has taken care of -all my family—and——” - -“And of course, of course, of course, Miss Prior!” say I, brutally; “and -this is the way the world wags; and this is the way we are ill, and are -cured; and we are grateful to the doctor that cures us!” - -She nods her grave head. “You used to be kinder to me once, Mr. -Batchelor, in old days—in your—in my time of trouble! Yes, my dear, that -is a beautiful bit of broom! Oh, what a fine butterfly!” (Cecilia scours -the plain after the butterfly.) “You used to be kinder to me once—when we -were both unhappy.” - -“I was unhappy,” I say, “but I survived. I was ill, but I am now pretty -well, thank you. I was jilted by a false, heartless woman. Do you suppose -there are no other heartless women in the world?” And I am confident, if -Bessy’s breast had not been steel, the daggers which darted out from my -eyes would have bored frightful stabs in it. - -But she shook her head, and looked at me so sadly that my eye-daggers -tumbled down to the ground at once; for you see, though I am a jealous -Turk, I am a very easily appeased jealous Turk; and if I had been -Bluebeard, and my wife, just as I was going to decapitate her, had lifted -up her head from the block and cried a little, I should have dropped -my scimitar, and said, “Come, come, Fatima, never mind for the present -about that key and closet business, and I’ll chop your head off some -other morning.” I say, Bessy disarmed me. Pooh! I say. Women will make a -fool of me to the end. Ah! ye gracious Fates! Cut my thread of life ere -it grow too long. Suppose I were to live till seventy, and some little -wretch of a woman were to set her cap at me? She would catch me—I know -she would. All the males of our family have been spoony and soft, to a -degree perfectly ludicrous and despicable to contemplate——Well, Bessy -Prior, putting a hand out, looked at me, and said,— - -“You are the oldest and best friend I have ever had, Mr. Batchelor—the -only friend.” - -“Am I, Elizabeth?” I gasp, with a beating heart. - -“Cissy is running back with a butterfly.” (Our hands unlock.) “Don’t you -see the difficulties of my position? Don’t you know that ladies are often -jealous of governesses; and that unless—unless they imagined I was—I -was favourable to Mr. Drencher, who is very good and kind—the ladies at -Shrublands might not like my remaining alone in the house with—with—you -understand?” A moment the eyes look over the spectacles: at the next, the -meek bonnet bows down towards the ground. - -I wonder did she hear the bump—bumping of my heart? O heart!—O wounded -heart! did I ever think thou wouldst bump—bump again? “Egl—Egl—izabeth,” -I say, choking with emotion, “do, do, do you—te—tell me—you -don’t—don’t—don’t—lo—love that apothecary?” - -She shrugs her shoulder—her charming shoulder. - -“And if,” I hotly continue, “if a gentleman—if a man of mature age -certainly, but who has a kind heart and four hundred a-year of his -own—were to say to you, ‘Elizabeth! will you bid the flowers of a -blighted life to bloom again?—Elizabeth! will you soothe a wounded -heart?’”—— - -“Oh, Mr. Batchelor!” she sighed, and then added quickly, “Please, don’t -take my hand. Here’s Pop.” - -And that dear child (bless him!) came up at the moment, saying, “Oh, -Miss Prior! look here! I’ve got such a jolly big toadstool!” And next -came Cissy, with a confounded butterfly. O Richard the Third! Haven’t -you been maligned because you smothered two little nuisances in a Tower? -What is to prove to me that you did not serve the little brutes right, -and that you weren’t a most humane man? Darling Cissy coming up, then, in -her dear, charming way, says, “You shan’t take Mr. Batchelor’s hand, you -shall take _my_ hand!” And she tosses up her little head, and walks with -the instructress of her youth. - -“_Ces enfans ne comprennent guère le Français_,” says Miss Prior, -speaking very rapidly. - -“_Après lonche?_” I whisper. The fact is, I was so agitated, I hardly -knew what the French for lunch was. And then our conversation dropped: -and the beating of my own heart was all the sound I heard. - -Lunch came. I couldn’t eat a bit: I should have choked. Bessy ate -plenty, and drank a glass of beer. It was her dinner, to be sure. Young -_Blacksheep_ did not appear. We did not miss him. When Lady Baker began -to tell her story of George IV. at Slane Castle, I went into my own room. -I took a book. Books? Paha! I went into the garden. I took out a cigar. -But no, I would not smoke it. Perhaps she——many people don’t like smoking. - -I went into the garden. “Come into the garden, Maud.” I sate by a large -lilac bush. I waited. Perhaps, she would come. The morning-room windows -were wide open on to the lawn. Will she never come? Ah! what is that tall -form advancing? gliding—gliding into the chamber like a beauteous ghost? -Who most does like an angel show, you may be sure ’tis she. She comes -up to the glass. She lays her spectacles down on the mantel-piece. She -puts a slim white hand over her auburn hair and looks into the mirror. -Elizabeth, Elizabeth! I come! - -As I came up, I saw a horrid little grinning, debauched face surge over -the back of a great arm-chair and look towards Elizabeth. It was Captain -Blacksheep, of course. He laid his elbows over the chair. He looked -keenly and with a diabolical smile at the unconscious girl; and just as I -reached the window, he cried out, “_Betsy Bellenden, by Jove!_” - -Elizabeth turned round, gave a little cry, and——but what happened I shall -tell in the ensuing chapter. - - -FOOTNOTES - -[1] To another celebrated critic. Dear Sir—You think I mean you, but upon -my honour I don’t. - - - - -Colour Blindness. - - -If there is one infirmity or defect of those five senses with which we -are most of us blest, which more than any other attracts sympathy and -claims compassionate consideration, it is blindness—an inability to -know what is beautiful in form or in colour, to appreciate light, or -to recognize and comprehend the varying features of our fellow-men—a -perpetual darkness in the midst of a world of light—a total exclusion -from the readiest, pleasantest, and most available means of acquiring -ideas. - -And yet who would suppose that there exists, and is tolerably common, -a partial blindness, which has hardly been described as a defect for -more than half a century, and of which it may be said even now that -most of those who suffer from it are not only themselves ignorant of -the fact, but that those about them can hardly be induced to believe -it. The unhappy victims of this partial blindness (which is real and -physical, not moral) are at great pains in learning what to them are -minute distinctions of tint, although to the rest of the world they are -differences of colour of the most marked kind, and, after all, they only -obtain the credit of unusual stupidity or careless inattention in reward -for their exertions and in sympathy for their visual defect. We allude -to a peculiarity of vision which first attracted notice in the case of -the celebrated propounder of the atomic theory in chemistry, the late Dr. -Dalton, of Manchester, who on endeavouring to find some object to compare -in colour with his scarlet robe of doctor of laws, when at Cambridge, -could hit on nothing which better agreed with it than the foliage of the -adjacent trees, and who to match his drab coat—for our learned doctor -was of the Society of Friends—might possibly have selected crimson -continuations as the quietest and nearest match the pattern-book of his -tailor exhibited. - -An explanation of this curious defect will be worth listening to, the -more so as one of our most eminent philosophers, Sir John Herschel, has -recently made a few remarks on the subject, directing attention at the -same time to other little known but not unimportant phenomena of colour, -which bear upon and help to explain it. - -It is known that white light consists of the admixture of coloured rays -in certain proportions, and that the beautiful prismatic colours seen in -the rainbow are produced by the different degree in which the various -rays of colour are bent when passing from one transparent substance into -another of different density. Thus, when a small group of colour-rays, -forming a single pencil or beam of white sunlight, passes into and -through the atmosphere during a partial shower, and falls on a drop of -rain, it is first bent aside on entering the drop, then reflected from -the inside surface at the back of the drop, and ultimately emerges in an -opposite direction to its original one. During these changes, however, -although all the colour-rays forming the white pencil have been bent, -each has been bent at a different angle—the red most, and the blue -least. When therefore they come out of the drop, the red rays are quite -separated from the blue, and when the beam reaches its destination, the -various colours enter the eye separately, forming a line of variously -coloured light, the upper part red and the lower part blue, instead of a -mere point of white light, as the ray would have appeared if seen before -it entered the drop. The eye naturally refers each part of the ray to the -place from whence it appears to come, and thus, with a number of drops -falling and the sun not obscured, a rainbow is seen, which represents -part of a number of concentric circular lines of colour, the outermost -of which is red, the innermost violet, and the intermediate ones we -respectively name orange, yellow, green, blue, and indigo. - -It has also been found by careful experiment, that these are not all -pure colours, most of them being mixtures of some few that are really -primitive and pure, and necessarily belong to solar light. It is these -mixed in due proportion which make up ordinary white light, which is -the only kind seen when the sun’s rays have not undergone this sort of -decomposition or separation into elements. The actual primitive colours -are generally supposed to be red, yellow, and blue, and much theoretical -as well as practical discussion has arisen as to how these require to -be mixed, what proportion they bear to each other in their power of -impressing the human eye, and many other matters for which we must refer -to Mr. Field, Mr. Owen Jones, and others, who have studied the subject -and applied it. - -In a general way it is found convenient to remember, or rather to assume, -that three parts of red, five parts of yellow, and eight parts of blue -form together white, and, therefore, that the pencil of white light -contains three rays of red, five of yellow, and eight of blue. To produce -the other prismatic colours, we must mix red with a little yellow to form -orange; yellow with some blue to form green; much blue with a little -red to form indigo, and a little blue with some red to form violet. In -performing experiments on colour it is convenient, instead of a drop of -water, to substitute a prism of glass in decomposing the rays of light. -We may thus produce at will a convenient image, called a _prismatic -spectrum_, which, when thrown on a wall, is a broad band of coloured -lights, having all the tints of the rainbow in the same order. Looking -at this image, the red is at the top and the violet at the bottom, and -it may be asked, How does the red get amongst the blue to form violet, -if the red rays are bent up to the top of the spectrum? The answer is, -that a quantity of white light not decomposed, and a part of all the -colour rays, reach all parts of the spectrum, however carefully it is -sheltered, but that so many more red rays get to the top, so many more -of the yellow to the middle, and so many more blue to where that colour -appears most brilliant, that these are seen nearly pure, whilst where -the red and yellow or yellow and blue mix they produce distinct kinds of -colour, and where the blue at the bottom is faint, and some of those red -rays fall that do not reach the red part of the spectrum, the violet is -produced. In point of fact, therefore, all the colours of the spectrum, -as seen, are mixtures of pure colour with white light, while all but red -are mixtures of other pure colours with some red and some yellow as well -as white. Primitive and pure colours, therefore, are not obtained in the -spectrum, and a question has arisen as to which really deserve to be -called pure, Dr. Young upholding green against yellow, and even regarding -violet as primitive, and blue a mixed colour. A consideration of the -results of this theory would lead us farther than is necessary for the -purpose we have now in view. - -We also find philosophers now-a-days calmly discussing a question which -most people considered settled very long ago, namely, whether blue and -yellow together really make green. - -It is of no use for the artist to lift up his eyes with astonishment at -any one being so insane as to question so generally admitted a statement. -In vain does he point to his pictures, in which his greens have been -actually so produced. The strict photologist at once puts him down, by -informing him that he knows little or nothing of the real state of the -case: his (the artist’s) colours are _negative_, or hues of more or -less complete darkness; whereas in nature, the colour question is to be -decided by _positive_ colours, or hues in which all the light used is of -one kind. The meaning of this will be best understood by an example: When -a ray of white light falls on a green leaf, part of the ray is absorbed -and part reflected, and the object is therefore only seen with the part -that is reflected. That which is absorbed consists of some of each of -the colour rays, and the resulting reflected light is nothing more than -a mixture of what remains after this partial absorption. The green we -see consists of the original white light deprived of a portion of its -rays. It is not a pure and absolute green, but only a residual group of -coloured rays, and thus in so far the green colour is _negative_, or -consists of rays not absorbed. It is therefore _partial darkness_, and -not absolute light. If, however, on the other hand, a ray of white light -is passed through a transparent medium (_e. g._ some chemical salt) -which has the property of entirely absorbing all but one or more of the -colour rays, and no part of the remainder, then all the light that passes -through this medium is of the one colour, or a mixture of the several -colours that pass: and if such light is thrown on a _white_ ground, the -reflected colour will be _positive_, and not negative, and is far purer -as well as brighter than the colour obtained in the other way. It has -been found by actual experiment, that when positive blue, thus obtained, -is thrown on positive yellow, the resulting reflected colour bears no -resemblance to green. Sir John Herschel considers, that whether green is -a primitive colour—in other words, whether we really have three or four -primitive colours—remains yet an open question. - -It was necessary to explain these matters about colour before directly -referring to the subject of this paper, namely, blindness to certain -colour rays. It should also be clearly understood that the persons -subject to this peculiar condition of vision have not necessarily any -mechanical or optical defect in the eye as an optical instrument, which -may be strong or weak, long-sighted or short-sighted, quite independently -of it. Colour blindness does not in any way interfere with the ordinary -requirements of vision, nor is there the smallest reason to imagine that -it can get worse by neglect, or admit of any improvement by education or -treatment. - -Assuming that persons of ordinary vision see three simple colours, red, -yellow, and blue, and that all the rest of the colours are mixtures of -these with each other and with white light, let us try to picture to -ourselves what must be the visual condition of a person who is unable -to recognize certain rays; and as it appears that there is but one kind -of colour-blindness known, we will assume that the person is unable to -recognize those rays of white light which consist of pure red and nothing -else. In other words, let us investigate the sensations of a person blind -so far only as pure red is concerned. - -All visible objects either reflect the same kind of light as that which -falls on them, absorbing part and reflecting the rest, or else they -absorb more of some colour rays than others, and reflect only a negative -tint, made up of a mixture of all the colour-rays not absorbed. To a -colour-blind person, the mixed light, as it proceeds from the sun, is -probably white, as seen by those having perfect vision; for, as we have -explained already, positive blue and yellow (the colour rays when red is -excluded) do not make green, and the absence of the red ray is likely -to produce only a slight darkening effect. So far, then, there is no -difference. But how must it be with regard to colour. - -Bearing in mind what has been said above, it is evident that in -withdrawing the red rays from the spectrum, we affect all the colours. -The orange is no longer red and yellow, but darkened yellow; the yellow -is purer, the green is quite distinct, the blue purer, and the indigo -and violet no longer red and blue, but blue mingled with more or less -of darkness, the violet being the darkest, as containing least blue -in proportion to red, while the red part itself, though not seen as a -colour, is not absolutely black, inasmuch as its part of the spectrum is -faintly coloured with the few mixed rays of blue and yellow and white -that escape from their proper place. The red then ought to be seen as -a gray neutral tint, the orange a dingy yellow, the indigo a dirty -indigo, and the violet a sickly, disagreeable tint of pale blue, darkened -considerably with black and gray. - -Next let us take the case of an intelligent person affected with colour -blindness, but who is not yet aware of the fact. He has been taught from -childhood that certain shades, some darker and some brighter, but all -of neutral tint, and not really presenting to him colour at all, are to -be called by various names—scarlet, crimson, pale red, dark red, bright -red, dark green, dark purple, brown, and others. With all these he can -only associate an idea of gray; nor can he possibly know that any one -else sees more than he does. Having been taught the names they are called -by, he remembers the names, with more or less accuracy, and thus passes -muster. There is a real difference of tint, because each of these colours -consists of more or less blue, yellow, and white, mixed with the red; and -our friend is enabled to recognize and name them, more or less correctly, -according to his acuteness of perception and accuracy of memory. - -If we desire to experiment on such a person, we must ask no names -whatever, but simply place before him a number of similar objects -differently coloured. Taking, for example, skeins of coloured wools, let -us select a complete series of shades of tint, from red, through yellow, -green, and blue, to violet, and request him to arrange them as well as -he is able, placing the darkest shades first, and putting those tints -together that are most like each other. It is curious then to watch the -progress of the arrangement. In a case lately tried by the writer of this -article, the colour-blind person first threw aside at once a particular -shade of pale green as undoubted white, and then several dark blues, dark -reds, dark greens, and browns, were put together as black. The yellows -and pure blues were placed correctly, as far as name was concerned, by -arranging several shades in order of brightness—but the order was very -different from that which another person would have selected. The greens -were grouped, some with yellows, and some with blues. - -The colours in this experiment were all negative and impure, but we -may also obtain something like the same result with positive colour, -transmitted by the aid of polarized light through plates of mica. In a -case of this kind described by Sir J. Herschel, the only colours seen -were blue and yellow, while pale pinks and greens were regarded as cloudy -white, fine pink as very pale blue, and crimson as blue; white red, ruddy -pink, and brick red were all yellows, and fine pink blue, with much -yellow. Dark shades of red, blue, or brown, were considered as merely -dark, no colour being recognized. - -The account of Dr. Dalton’s own peculiarity of vision by himself, offers -considerable interest. He says, speaking of flowers: “With respect to -colours that were white, yellow, or green, I readily assented to the -appropriate term; blue, purple, pink, and crimson appeared rather less -distinguishable, being, according to my idea, all referable to blue. I -have often seriously asked a person whether a flower was blue or pink, -but was generally considered to be in jest.” He goes on further to say, -as the result of his experience: “1st. In the solar spectrum three -colours appear, yellow, blue, and purple. The two former make a contrast; -the two latter seem to differ more in degree than in kind. 2nd. Pink -appears by daylight to be sky-blue a little faded; by candlelight it -assumes an orange or yellowish appearance, which forms a strong contrast -to blue. 3rd. Crimson appears muddy blue by day, and crimson woollen yarn -is much the same as dark blue. 4th. Red and scarlet have a more vivid and -flaming appearance by candlelight than by daylight” (owing probably to -the quantity of yellow light thrown upon them). - -As anecdotes concerning this curious defect of colour vision, we may -quote also the following: “All crimsons appeared to me (Dr. Dalton) to -be chiefly of dark blue, but many of them have a strong tinge of dark -brown. I have seen specimens of _crimson claret_ and _mud_ which were -very nearly alike. Crimson has a grave appearance, being the reverse -of every showy or splendid colour.” Again: “The colour of a florid -complexion appears to me that of a dull, opaque, blackish blue upon -a white ground. Dilute black ink upon white paper gives a colour much -resembling that of a florid complexion. It has no resemblance to the -colour of blood.” We have a detailed account of the case of a young -Swiss, who did not perceive any great difference between the colour of -the leaf and that of the ripe fruit of the cherry, and who confounded the -colour of a sea-green paper with the scarlet of a riband placed close -to it. The flower of the rose seemed to him greenish blue, and the ash -gray colour of quick-lime light green. On a very careful comparison of -polarized light by the same individual, the blue, white, and yellow were -seen correctly, but the purple, lilac, and brown were confounded with -red and blue. There was in this case a remarkable difference noticed -according to the nature and quantity of light employed; and as the lad -seemed a remarkably favourable example of the defect, the following -curious experiment was tried. A human head was painted, and shown to -the colour-blind person, the hair and eyebrows being white, the flesh -brownish, the lips and cheeks green. When asked what he thought of this -head? the reply was, that it appeared natural, but that the hair was -covered with a nearly white cap, and the carnation of the cheeks was that -of a person heated by a long walk. - -There is an interesting account in the _Philosophical Transactions for -1859_ (p. 325), which well illustrates the ideas entertained by persons -in this condition with regard to their own state. The author, Mr. W. -Pole, a well-known civil engineer, thus describes his case:—“I was about -eight years old when the mistaking of a piece of red cloth for a green -leaf betrayed the existence of some peculiarity in my ideas of colour; -and as I grew older, continued errors of a similar kind led my friends to -suspect that my eyesight was defective; but I myself could not comprehend -this, insisting that I saw colours clearly enough, and only mistook their -names. - -“I was articled to a civil engineer, and had to go through many years’ -practice in making drawings of the kind connected with this profession. -These are frequently coloured, and I recollect often being obliged to ask -in copying a drawing what colours I ought to use; but these difficulties -left no permanent impression, and up to a mature age I had no suspicion -that my vision was different from that of other people. I frequently made -mistakes, and noticed many circumstances in regard to colours, which -temporarily perplexed me. I recollect, in particular, having wondered -why the beautiful rose light of sunset on the Alps, which threw my -friends into raptures, seemed all a delusion to me. I still, however, -adhered to my first opinion, that I was only at fault in regard to the -names of colours, and not as to the ideas of them; and this opinion was -strengthened by observing that the persons who were attempting to point -out my mistakes, often disputed among themselves as to what certain hues -of colour ought to be called.” Mr. Pole adds that he was nearly thirty -years of age when a glaring blunder obliged him to investigate his case -closely, and led to the conclusion that he was really colour-blind. - -All colour-blind persons do not seem to make exactly the same mistakes, -or see colours in the same way; and there are, no doubt, many minor -defects in appreciating, remembering, or comparing colours which are -sufficiently common, and which may be superadded to the true defect—that -of the optic nerve being insensible to the stimulus of pure red light. -It has been asserted by Dr. Wilson, the author of an elaborate work -on the subject, that as large a proportion as one person in every -eighteen is colour-blind in some marked degree, and that one in every -fifty-five confounds red with green. Certainly the number is large, -for every inquiry brings out several cases; but, as Sir John Herschel -remarks, were the average anything like this, it seems inconceivable -that the existence of the defect should not be one of vulgar notoriety, -or that it should strike almost all uneducated persons, when told of -it, as something approaching to absurdity. He also remarks, that if one -soldier out of every fifty-five was unable to distinguish a scarlet coat -from green grass, the result would involve grave inconveniences that -must have attracted notice. Perhaps the fact that a difference of tint -is recognized, although the eye of the colour-blind person does not -appreciate any difference of colour, when red, green, and other colours -are compared together, and that every one is educated to call certain -things by certain names, whether he understands the true meaning of the -name or not, may help to explain both the slowness of the defective sight -to discover its own peculiarity, and the unwillingness of the person of -ordinary vision to admit that his neighbour really does not see as red -what he agrees to call red. - -There is, however, another consideration that this curious subject leads -to. It is known that out of every 10,000 rays issuing from the sun, and -penetrating space at the calculated rate of 200,000 miles in each second -of time, about one-fifth part is altogether lost and absorbed in passing -through the atmosphere, and never reaches the outer envelope of the human -eye. It is also known that of the rays that proceed from the sun, some -produce light, some heat, and some a peculiar kind of chemical action to -which the marvels of photography are due. Of these only the light rays -are appreciated specially by the eye, although the others are certainly -quite as important in preserving life and carrying on the business of the -world. Who can tell whether, in addition to the rays of coloured light -that together form a beam of white light, four-fifths of which only pass -through the atmosphere, there may not have emanated from the sun other -rays altogether absorbed and lost? or whether in entering the human eye, -or being received on the retina at the back of the eye, or made sensitive -by the optic nerve, there may not have been losses and absorptions -sufficient to shut out from us, who enjoy what we call perfect vision, -some other sources of information. How, in a word, do we who see clearly -only three or four colours, and their various combinations, together -with their combined white light—how do we know that to beings otherwise -organized, the heat, or chemical rays, or others we are not aware of, may -not give distinct optical impressions? We may meet one person whose sense -of hearing is sufficiently acute to enable him to hear plainly the shrill -night-cry of the bat, often totally inaudible, while his friend and daily -companion cannot perhaps distinguish the noise of the grasshopper, or -the croaking of frogs, and yet neither of these differs sufficiently from -the generality of mankind to attract attention, and both may pass through -life without finding out their differences in organization, or knowing -that the sense of hearing of either is peculiar. So undoubtedly it is -with light. There may be some endowed with visual powers extraordinarily -acute, seeing clearly what is generally altogether invisible; and this -may have reference to light generally, or to any of the various parts of -which a complete sunbeam is composed. Such persons may habitually see -what few others ever see, and yet be altogether unaware of their powers, -as the rest of the world would be of their own deficiency. - -The case of the colour-blind person is the converse. He sees, it is true, -no green in the fields, or on the trees, no shade of pink mantling in -the countenance, no brilliant scarlet in the geranium flower, but still -he talks of these things as if he saw them, _and he believes he does see -them_, until by a long process of investigation he finds out that the -idea he receives from them is very different from that received by his -fellows. He often, however, lives on for years, and many have certainly -lived out their lives without guessing at their deficiency. - -These results of physical defects of certain kinds remaining totally -unknown, either to the subject of them or his friends, even when all -are educated and intelligent, are certainly very curious; but it will -readily be seen that they are inevitable in the present development of -our faculties. In almost everything, whether moral or intellectual, we -measure our fellows by our own standard. He whose faculties are powerful, -and whose intellect is clear, looks over the cloud that hovers over lower -natures, and wonders why they, too, will not see truth and right as he -sees them. Those, on the other hand, who dwell below among the mists -of error and the trammels of prejudice, will not believe that their -neighbour, intellectually loftier, sees clearly over the fog and malaria -of their daily atmosphere. - -In taking leave of the question of colour blindness, it should be -mentioned that hitherto no case has been recorded in which this defect -extends to any other ray than the red. - -There seems no reason for this, and possibly, if they were looked for, -cases might be found in which the insensibility of the optic nerve had -reference to the blue instead of the red ray—the least instead of the -most refrangible part of the beam of light. It would also be well worth -the trial if those who have any reason to suppose that they enjoy a -superiority of vision would determine by actual experiment the extent -of their unusual powers, and learn whether they refer to an optical -appreciation of the chemical or heat rays, or show any modification of -the solar spectrum by enlargement or otherwise. - -Lastly, it would be well, when children show an unusual difficulty in -describing colours, to try by some such experiments as those here related -whether any defect of colour blindness exists or not. It would clearly be -undesirable that such children as have this defect should waste time in -learning accomplishments or professions which they must always be unable -to practise. They, their parents and teachers, may thus be saved some of -that disappointment which is always experienced when presumed tastes and -talents are cultivated or forced contrary to the natural powers of the -individual. It must clearly be hopeless to endeavour to obtain good taste -in colours, when most of the colours themselves are not seen at all, or -are so recognized as to present appearances altogether different from -those seen by the rest of the world. - - - - -Spring. - - - Here, where the tall plantation firs - Slope to the river, down the hill, - Strange impulses—like vernal stirs— - Have made me wander at their will. - - I see, with half-attentive eyes, - The buds and flowers that mark the Spring, - And Nature’s myriad prophecies - Of what the Summer suns will bring. - - For every sense I find delight— - The new-wed cushat’s murmurous tones, - Young blossoms bursting into light, - And the rich odour of the cones. - - The larch, with tassels purple-pink, - Whispers like distant falling brooks; - And sun-forgotten dewdrops wink - Amid the grass, in shady nooks. - - The breeze, that hangs round every bush, - Steals sweetness from the tender shoots, - With, here and there, a perfumed gush - From violets among the roots. - - See—where behind the ivied rock - Grow drifts of white anemonies, - As if the Spring—in Winter’s mock— - Were mimicking his snows with these. - - The single bloom yon furzes bear - Gleams like the fiery planet Mars:— - The creamy primroses appear - In galaxies of vernal stars;— - - And, grouped in Pleiad clusters round, - Lent-lilies blow—some six or seven;— - With blossom-constellations crown’d, - This quiet nook resembles Heaven. - - THOMAS HOOD. - - - - -Inside Canton. - - -The mere notion that I was in possession of a room _inside Canton_—with -freedom to wander through every quarter of that hitherto mysterious city, -of which former travellers had only conveyed a notion from glances taken -from the White Cloud Mountain, revealing nothing but an expanse of tiles -and trees, with a pagoda-top or two, and a few mandarin flag-poles—was -sufficient to banish anything like sleep. And apart from this constant -wondering at perpetually finding myself where I was—the sharp “_tung_” of -the mosquitoes before settling down for their gory banquet, the calls of -the French and English bugles answering each other from the five-storied -pagoda to the joss-house barracks, the terribly breathless atmosphere, -and the grim, gigantic Chinese gods, who sat in the moonlight like -pantomime ogres round my chamber, were quite enough to have kept one -awake, and would have done so even if a genius had descended to read a -paper on Art, which they might have discussed with him afterwards. - -At last the quickly-rising tropical sun fired a ray like a shell into -my eyes through a broken pane in the mother-of-pearl window of my -joss-haunted room. This drove me out of bed, or, rather, off my matting, -as quickly as though a real shrapnell had hissed its intention of -immediately exploding beneath me. For this fearful sun of a Canton summer -falls in red-hot death upon the European whose brain it can reach. Our -soldiers were struck down before it in the White Cloud expedition as -though a crane had dropped a woolsack on their heads. - -We have all of us, at some time or another, said, “I never felt so hot -in my life!” This has been less with relation to actual caloric than to -a sudden flush of awkwardness attendant upon having asked people after -their dead relations, or uncomfortable family affairs; or in expectation -of some accidental and unintentional revelation of a circumstance in our -own lives, of which we were not remarkably proud. Or, more especially, -on being introduced by a gushing man to an enemy you had long since cut, -with the assurance that you ought both to know each other. But I find -this morning that I feel hotter still. The wind blows against me as from -the door of a glasshouse; and the sun comes straight down like a red-hot -nail, even through my double umbrella (which I am careful to put up -before I venture out on the terrace), and my light but thick pith hat. At -such times your claret is self-mulled, and butter becomes thick oil. You -cannot find a cool place on your hard-stuffed pillow. The sun apparently -_twists_ its rays—sends them round corners, and through venetians, -and under porticos; the light being so vivid that its mere reflection -banishes shade. The swinging punkah—which A-wa, whose picture you have -seen on cheap grocers’ tea-papers, pulls night and day, awake and asleep, -as though he were a slightly vitalized lever-escapement—this flounced -and flirting terror of all bilious people gets up a delusive breeze, and -when it stops the heat comes rushing back with double force. Everything -you wear clings to you; or, if flannel, fetches out the “prickly heat” -until you are beside yourself. In every draught, one side is chilled -whilst the other is burned, as happens at the fireplace of an old country -house, where one side is roasted, whilst on the other you are nearly -blown up the chimney. And when you are actually out and about, you appear -to live and move in the focus of one large burning-glass. It is a dead -thick heat, that you fancy might be cut into blocks, and stored in Arctic -ships for gradual distribution. - -The kindness of General Straubenzee had consigned me to a Buddhist temple -for my residence. It was the last costly work of Yeh, on Magazine Hill, -and was barely finished when we took the city. An elaborate bell, yet -unhung, stood sentinel at my door. I afterwards watched its departure -to be taken to England, by Captain Maguire, in the _Sanspareil_, and -it may now be seen in the Crystal Palace. Magazine Hill is to Canton -what Montmartre is to Paris, and is covered with joss-houses, now all -used as barracks for our men. It is to the extreme north of the city, -which it commands, as well as the country outside, and is the only -high ground within the walls, which here come close to it. Gazing from -this on the open country, one is reminded of the view from the walls -of our own Chester, near the jail, looking over the Roodee towards the -Welsh mountains. To continue the comparison with places which may be -familiar to my readers, the look-out towards the south, comprising the -entire city, is marvellously like the eye-stretch over Lyons from the -Fourvières, when the air is too hazy to see the Alps. There is, however, -one localized object—a tall pagoda, rising high above the expanse of red -roofs. One involuntary thought of Kew Gardens brings one back, for the -moment, to home; and as this pagoda is not considered safe to ascend—on -the authority of Major Luard, who gallantly tried it—and as it promises -at some future time, if not taken down, to form a gigantic accident (as -all columns and pagodas must do one of these days) the likeness is more -perfect. - -I found a sturdy little unshod pony waiting for me at the foot of the -hill, with a tidy little pigtailed boy to guide him. The pony was for -sale for seven dollars—it sounded cheap, but the expense of keep was the -great question. My little friend made a speech:—“Chin-chin! my talkee -A No. 1 Inglis, all a plopper (proper).” But I found his vocabulary of -even the scanty “Canton English” very limited. I made out, however, -that he was going to London to learn “all sort pigeon;” and he was very -much delighted at pointing out to me some signboards over a few little -shops, edging a pond, and reading:—“Best Wash from Hong Kong,” “A No. 1, -Washsoap,” &c. And when we passed two culprits, tied together by their -pigtails, and lying full-length upon the ground, guarded by an Irishman -in front of a _baraque_, inscribed “Paddy-goose” (a favourite _sobriquet_ -at the dram-shops), he roared with laughter, and said:—“Soger hab catchee -two piecey pilat, too muchee drunkee—wanchee chokee-pigeon: no loast -duck.” This interpreted expressing, with the Chinese substitution of the -_l_ for the _r_, that two pirates had been captured by the police in an -extreme state of intoxication, and that they would go to prison, where -roast duck would be a novelty. - -After passing over a desert of brick rubbish—the remains of houses -destroyed because they formed ambuscades from which the lurking braves -captured or shot at stragglers on the walls, I was fairly inside Canton. -Here the streets are all so exactly alike, that in endeavouring to give -a notion of one, I may describe all. The majority appeared to vary -from seven to ten feet in breadth—the crowded Cranbourn Passage, which -runs from St. Martin’s Lane to Castle Street could be soon transformed -into one, by a handful of theatrical mechanics. The houses are two or -three stories high, and their signboards, in gaudy paint or gilding, -either hang in front of them, or are set up in stone sockets, and all at -right angles to the houses, so that, as the China character is written -perpendicularly, they can be read going up or down the street. The -manner in which they intrude on the thoroughfare braves all notices of -Commissioners and Boards. The streets are all paved with granite in large -flags, and this has acquired a peculiarly polished appearance from the -absence of all wheel and quadrupedal traffic, and the constant shuffling -along of the soft soles or naked feet of the natives. For the Cantonese -do not appear to understand the use of wheels, or beasts of burden; -everything is carried on bamboo poles by the intensely hard-working -coolie population. Where they can do it, the streets are shaded with -matting. - -And now it was that all my childish associations connected with China -were on the point of realization. For in the “pigeon” of Lord Elgin and -Sir Michael Seymour—who must shake hands, and understand how much and how -honestly both are respected by all of us—in the _China Mail_ information -that Patna opium is at 770 dollars, Malwa dull, and for Turkey no demand; -and that Bank bills are 4_s._ 9_d._; Sycee silver, 5½ per cent. premium, -and Shanghai green-tea quotations are unchanged—in a whirl of treaties, -and Peiho forts, and conferences totally misunderstood on either side, -from the dismal ignorance of the practical Chinese language amongst our -professed Chinese students (who could translate the great metaphysical -work of Fo, but would be sadly bothered to decide a simple police -“row”);—in all this, there is nothing in common with _our_ old China. -But here these associations crowded on us. Men ran along with slung -tea-packages, as they did on the gaily-varnished canisters of the “Canton -T Company,” in the High Street of my boyhood. Women with their bismuthed -faces peered from windows, as they did on the fans and plates from which -I formed my earliest notions of what was then called “the Celestial -Empire.” And then came another memory, clinging to that delightful time -when a belief in the reality of everything was our principal mental -characteristic, extending even to “Bogey” in the cellar, and the dustman -who threw sand in the eyes of sleepy little boys on the staircase, and -the black dog in the passage; nay, even to that celebrated silver spade -with which the doctor dug up our little baby brother or sister from out -of the parsley-bed—when story-books had that astonishing hold on me that, -out of our town, I perfectly established the field along which Christian -ran with his fingers in his ears when his neighbours tried to call him -back. (And if ever there was a case for the parochial authorities of a -man deserting his wife and children, Christian’s was one.) In this happy -time I had associations with China, and they now come back from one -of the most charming of the attractive stories in the _Arabian Nights -Entertainments_. I was now looking—practically, with my own eyes—on a -Chinese town, and a group of idle boys playing. A grave stranger of -a foreign and travelled aspect was watching them. I should not have -been at all surprised if he had recognized, in one of the urchins, -the son of his dead brother—had clothed him at a ready-made tailor’s, -and then introduced him, by lifting up a stone with a ring in it, to -those wonderful nursery grounds of Hunt and Roskill, and Phillips, and -Garrard, where the dew was all diamonds, and the wall-fruit all stones. -And was it not likely that, in this very street, the stranger might have -subsequently passed when anxious to exchange his new moderator lamps for -any old argands, or solars, or camphines that might be dust-collecting -about the house? Here again was an open space of ground, on which that -palace might have stood, which went away one night in such a hurry. And -strange to say, there _was_ a palace here, and it did disappear one early -January morning. It belonged to that old miscreant Yeh, and its sudden -absence was owing rather to the sponging of practical guns than the -rubbing of wonderful lamps. And although I heard nothing, both here and -at Hong Kong, but of Hall of the _Calcutta_, and Mr. Oliphant; Telesio’s -pale ale “_chop_” (or boat store); John Dent’s French cook’s chow-chow; -the arrival of the Fei-man steamer; Colonel Stevenson’s bamboo balcony -on the hill: the 59th; Sir John Bowring and Mr. Chisholm Anstey: and -innumerable “shaves:” yet _my_ thoughts ran upon Confucius and pagodas, -nodding mandarins, chop-sticks, and the feast of lanterns, and above all, -on Aladdin. - -I was to join Mr. Parkes at the yamun of the Allied Commissioners, and -go with him to pay a visit to Peh-kwei, the Governor of Canton. This -yamun had been the palace of the Tartar general, but was now filled with -English and French officials, soldiers, marines, compradors, coolies, -and Chinese rabble, attending the police cases. We here formed a small -procession, and our revolvers came into show; for Mr. Parkes was the -most unpopular man in the city with the Cantonese. They called him “the -red-bristled barbarian,” and had let fly various jingals at him, at -different times, in the streets. But he had the courage of the——anybody -you please; and the more they annoyed him, the more he would ride them -down, and bang them back into their ambuscades. We were all on ponies or -in chairs, with the exception of our guards; and we rode so fast along -the narrow streets, and through the bustling crowds of passengers, and -almost over the wares displayed out of doors, that a fire-engine going -through the Lowther Arcade in a hurry could not have created greater -confusion. On entering the first court of Peh-kwei’s yamun, we were -saluted with guns, and standards were hoisted on the mandarin poles. -These courts are large paved areas, with a very broad flag-path up the -middle, and fine trees at the sides; they are divided from each other by -vast wooden buildings, like barns, with Chinese roofs, and stone lions -guarding them. The patient ingenuity of the makers is shown in these -animals; they have a large ball in their mouths, which you can turn round -behind the teeth, but cannot take out; it has evidently been cut from -the solid. We rode through the centre of these barns, up the stairs, to -a higher court beyond, but our attendants filed off round the sides; and -then we dismounted, and were introduced to Peh-kwei. I had often seen -him wagging his head, and tongue, and hands, in old china-shops; but now -he stood upright, in a long, white silk _peignoir_: and then he and Mr. -Parkes began bowing to one another in such continuity, that they looked -wound up, and minutes elapsed before either of them would take a seat. -Then tea was brought in, and for a little time the talk was exactly like -the twaddle that passes at a morning call in England between people who -don’t care a straw about each other, never have, and are never likely to. -But Mr. Parkes began to pull some Chinese documents from his pocket; and -as I had been introduced as “a mandarin on his travels,” Peh-kwei made a -very lucky suggestion that I should see his grounds. - -This was just what I wanted—liberty to invade what would have been deemed -a privacy even by the Cantonese; but the acres of unkept, overgrown -wilderness, with its rotting pavilions, tumble-down temples, dried-up -lakes, crumbling rockwork, and broken seats and tables, formed the -spring of all the impressions I afterwards received in and about Canton. -Nothing so dreary—not even Vauxhall on a wet Christmas Day—ever could be -imagined. It was not the breakdown of acute organic lesion, but the decay -of long, long-continued atrophy: and I formed a theory at the moment, -which the appearance of every other yamun, or temple, strengthened, -that the Chinese had for ages so jealously shut up their vaunted city, -not from any terror of the barbarians becoming acquainted with their -secrets of trade, government, or manufacture, but from a positive idea -of shame that any one should see the mouldering neglected “lions” of -their southern capital. True to the estimated value of their _curios_, -everything was in a state of “crackle.” Combine all you can call to mind -of dreary places—Miss Linwood’s old room in Leicester Square, and the -present aspect of the Square itself; the gaunt, cheerless show-rooms -of palaces generally: the “Moated Grange” and “Haunted House;” the old -pavilion on Monkey Island, and indeed “pavilions” generally, from that -in Hans Place to any damp ceiling-stained summer-house, dedicated to -friendship or nature, that you know of—mix them together, and extract -their essence, and then you will not have the least idea of the general -rot and ruin that is spreading, like an ulcer, throughout Canton. - - - - -William Hogarth: - -PAINTER, ENGRAVER, AND PHILOSOPHER. - -_Essays on the Man, the Work, and the Time._ - - -III.—A LONG LADDER, AND HARD TO CLIMB. - -When a cathedral chapter have received their _congé d’élire_—so runs -the popular and perfectly erroneous tradition—and have made choice of a -Bishop, the pastor elect simpers, blushes, and says that really he is -much obliged, but that he would rather not accept the proffered dignity. -“_Nolo episcopari_,” he urges in graceful deprecation. Nobody in or -out of the chapter believes in his reluctance, and nobody now-a-days -believes in the harmless legend. Thus, too, when the Commons elect a -Speaker, a tradition with little more foundation assumes that the right -honourable gentleman approaches the foot of the Throne, hints in the -most delicate manner that he, the chosen of the Commons, is a blockhead -and an impostor, declares that he shall make but an indifferent Speaker, -and seeks to be relieved from his onerous charge. At that same moment, -perhaps, Messrs. Adams and Ede are embroidering Mr. Speaker’s gold robe; -and experienced tonsors near Lincoln’s Inn are finishing the last row of -curls on the ambrosial horse-hair which to-morrow will be a wig. When you -ask a young lady to take a little more _Mayonnaise de homard_, or entreat -her to oblige the company with “_Entends tu les gondoles?_”—that charming -Venetian barcarole—does she not ordinarily, and up to a certain degree of -pressure, refuse—say that she would rather not, or that she has a cold? -Whose health is proposed and drunk amid repeated cheers, but he rises, -and assures the assembled guests that he is about the last person in the -world who should have been toasted; that he never felt so embarrassed -in his life—he leads at the common law bar, and on breaches of promise -is immense—and that he wants words to, &c. &c.? At the bar mess he is -known as “Talking Smith,” and at school his comrades used to call him -“Captain Jaw.” My friends, we do not place any faith in these denials; -and forthwith clap the mitre on the Prelate’s head, bow to the Speaker, -help the young lady to arrange the music stool, and intone nine times -nine with one cheer more. - -It is strange—it is vexatious; but I cannot persuade the ladies and -gentlemen who peruse these papers to believe that I am not writing the -Life of William Hogarth, and that these are merely discursive Essays on -the Man, the Work, and the Time. People persist in thinking that it is -with him who is now writing a case of _nolo episcopari_. Indeed it is -no such thing. I should dearly wish to write myself Biographer. “Fain -would I climb, but that I fear to fall.” I told you in the outset that -this Endeavour was no Life. I disclaimed any possession of exclusive -information. I claimed a liberal benefit-of-clergy as to names and dates. -I have had no access to muniment rooms. I have explored the contents of -no charter chests. I have disentombed no dusty records, and rescued no -parish registers from the degrading fate of serving to singe a goose. I -am timorous, and seek not to be heard as one speaking with authority. -I am anonymous, and risk no fame. But the north country won’t believe -me, and the south and the midland shake their heads incredulously when -I say this is not Hogarth’s Life, but only so much gossip about him -and his pictures and times. I say so again; and if the public won’t be -enlightened—_si vult decipi_—all I can add is, _Decipiatur_. - -Now as to the exact date of the expiration of Hogarth’s -apprenticeship—when was it? I have but an impression. I cannot speak -from any certain knowledge, and assume, therefore, that the expiry was -_circa_ 1720. Ireland opines that it was in 1718, William having then -attained his twenty-first year. The registers of the Goldsmiths’ Company -might be more explicit, or, better still, Mr. Scott, the chamberlain of -London, might enlighten us all, to a month, and to a day. For of old the -chamberlain was the official Nemesis to the ofttimes unruly ’prentices -of London. The idle, or rebellious, or truant novice, was arraigned -before this dread functionary. He had power to relegate the offender to -the _carcere duro_ of Bridewell, there to suffer the penance of stripes -and a bread-and-water diet. For aught I know, the ministrations of the -chamberlain may to this day be occasionally invoked; but it is in his -capacity of a recording official, and as having formerly drawn some fees -from the attestation and registration of indentures, that his assistance -would be useful to me. William Hogarth’s art-and-mystery-parchment -may be in the city archives. What other strange and curiously quaint -things those archives contain we had an inkling the other day, when the -_Liber Albus_ was published. But I have not the pleasure of Mr. Scott’s -acquaintance, and he might say me nay. - -Hogarth, I presume, was released from silver servitude in 1718-20. April -29th, 1720, is, as I have elsewhere noted, the date affixed to the -shop-card he executed for himself, setting up in business, I hope in -friendly rivalry to Ellis Gamble in Little Cranbourn Alley, hard by the -“Golden Angel.” I stood and mused in Little Cranbourn Alley lately, and -tried to conjure up Hogarthian recollections from that well-nigh blind -passage. But no ghosts rose from a coffee-shop and a French barber’s, and -a murky little den full of tobacco-pipes and penny valentines; so, taking -nothing by my motion, I sped my slowest to the Sablonière in Leicester -Square. Here even my senses became troubled with the odours of French -soups, and I could make nothing Hogarthian out of the hostelry, a wing of -which was once Hogarth’s house. - -It is my wish to tell as succinctly as is feasible the story of -seven years in Hogarth’s progress; seven years during which he was -slowly, painfully, but always steadily and courageously, climbing that -precipitous ladder which we have all in some sort or another striven -to climb. At the top sits Fame kicking her heels, carrying her trumpet -mincingly, making sometimes a feint to put it to her lips and sound it, -more frequently looking down superciliously with eyes half closed, and -pretending to be unaware of the panting wretch toiling up the weary rungs -beneath. Some swarm up this ladder as boys up a pole, hand over hand, a -good grip with the knees, a confident, saucy, upward look. Others stop -_in medio_, look round, sigh, or are satisfied, and gravely descend -to refresh themselves with bread and cheese for life. Some stagger -up, wildly, and tumbling off, are borne, mutilated, to the hospital -accident-ward to die. Others there are who indeed obtain the ladder’s -summit, but are doomed to crawl perpetually up and down the degrees. -These are the unfortunates who carry hods to those master bricklayers -who have bounded up the ladder with airy strides, or better still, _have -been born at the top of the ladder_. Poor hodmen! they make dictionaries, -draw acts of parliament, cram the boy-senator for his maiden speech, -form Phidias’ rough clay-sketch into a shapely, polished marble bust, -shade with Indian ink Archimedes’ rough draught for the new pump or the -tubular bridge, and fill in Sir Joshua’s backgrounds. Some there are who -go to sleep at the ladder’s foot, and some, the few, the felicitous, who -reach the summit, breathless but triumphant, boldly bidding Fame blow -her loudest blast. Forthwith the venal quean makes the clarion to sound, -and all the world is amazed. Lowliness, our Shakspeare says, is “young -ambition’s ladder:” - - “Whereto the climber upward turns his face; - But when he once attains the upmost round, - He then unto the ladder turns his back, - Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees - By which he did ascend: so Cæsar may. - Then——” - -But so did not William Hogarth. He was self-confident and self-conscious -enough,[2] when, after many years of toilsome struggling he turned up -the trump-card, and his name was bruited about with loud _fanfares_ to -the crowd. He attained the desired end: this Fame, this renown; and to -vulgarize the allegory, he managed to snatch that comfortable shoulder -of mutton which surmounts the greasy pole, and which, although we feign -to covet it not, we _must_ have. But he never attempted to conceal the -smallness of his beginnings, to assert that his ancestors came over -with the Conqueror, or to deny that his father came up to London by -the waggon. He sets down in his own black and white, how he fought the -battle for bread, how he engraved plates, and painted portraits and -conversations and assemblies, in order to obtain the necessary bite and -sup; how, with no money, he has often “gone moping into the city,” but -there receiving “ten guineas for a plate,” has come home, jubilant, “put -on his sword,” and swaggered, I doubt it not, with the most dashing bucks -in the coffee-house or on the Mall. I think they are happy traits in the -character of this good fellow and honest man, that he should have had -the courage to accomplish ten guineas’ worth of graver’s work, without -drawing money on account, and that he should have had a sword at home -for the red-letter days and sunshiny hours. You, brave young student and -fellow-labourer! draw on your corduroys, shoulder your pick and shovel, -be off to the diggings; do your work, get paid; and then come home, put -on your sword and be a gentleman. One sees Mr. Beverly or Mr. Telbin -slashing away with a large whitewasher’s brush in a scene-painting room, -fagging away in canvas jackets and over-alls, covered with parti-coloured -splashes. Then, the work done, they wash their hands and come forth -spruce and radiant, in peg-tops and kid-gloves. When our Prime Minister -is at Broadlands, I hear that he stands up writing at a high desk, not -seated like a clerk, working away bravely at the affairs of the _chose -publique_, as for a wage of five-and-twenty shillings a week, and -afterwards enjoys the relaxation of pruning his trees, or riding over his -estate. Keep then your swords at home, and don’t wear them in working -hours; but, the labour done, come out into the open and claim your rank. - -I daresay that for a long time twenty-five shillings a week would have -been a very handsome income to William the engraver. He covered many -silver salvers and tankards with heraldic devices, but I don’t think he -had any “_argenterie, bagues et bijouxs_,” or other precious stock of -his own on sale. Most probable is it, that his old master gave him work -to do after he had left his service. I wonder if Mr. Gamble, in after -days, when his apprentice had become a great man, would ever hold forth -to tavern coteries on the share he had had in guiding the early efforts -of that facile hand! I hope and think so; and seem to hear him saying -over his tankard: “Yes, sir, I taught the lad. He was bound to me, sir, -by his worthy father, who was as full of book learning as the Cockpit -is of Hanover rats. He could not draw a stroke when he came to me, sir. -He was good at his graving work, but too quick, too quick, and somewhat -rough. Never could manage the delicate tintos or the proper reticulations -of scroll-foliage. But he was always drawing. He drew the dog. He drew -the cat. He drew Dick, his fellow ’prentice, and Molly the maid, and -Robin Barelegs the shoeblack at the corner of Cranbourn Street. He drew -a pretty configurement of Mistress Gamble, my wife deceased, in her -Oudenarde tire, and lapels of Mechlin point, and Sunday sack. But there -was ever a leaning towards the caricatura in him, sir. Sure never mortal -since Jacques Callot the Frenchman (whose ‘Habits and Beggars’ he was -much given to study) ever drew such hideous, leering satyrs. And he had -a way too, of making the griffins laugh and the lions dance gambadoes, -so to speak, on their hind legs in the escocheons he graved, which would -never have passed the College of Arms. Sir, the tankard out: what! -drawer, there.” - -Thus Ellis Gamble mythically seen and heard. But to the realities. In -1720 or ’21, Hogarth’s father, the poor old dominie, was removed to a -land where no grammar disputations are heard, and where one dictionary -is as good as another. Hogarth’s sisters had previously kept a “frock -shop” in the city; they removed westward after the old man’s death, and -probably occupied their brother’s place of business in Little Cranbourn -Alley, when, giving up a perhaps momentary essay in the vocation of a -working tradesman, he elected to be, instead, a working artist. For Mary -and Ann Hogarth he engraved a shop-card, representing the interior of a -somewhat spacious warehouse with sellers and customers, and surmounted by -the king’s arms. The sisters could not have possessed much capital; and -there have not been wanting malevolent spirits—chiefly of the Wilkite way -of thinking—to hint that the Misses Hogarths’ “old frock-shop” was indeed -but a very old slop-, not to say rag-shop, and that the proper insignia -for their warehouse would have been not the royal arms, but a certain -image, sable, pendent, clad in a brief white garment: a black doll of the -genuine Aunt Sally proportions. - -William Hogarth out of his apprenticeship is, I take it, a sturdy, -ruddy-complexioned, clear-eyed, rather round-shouldered young fellow, who -as yet wears his own hair, but has that sword at home—a silver-hilted or -a prince’s metal one—and is not averse to giving his hat a smart cock, -ay, and bordering it with a narrow rim of orrice when Fortune smiles on -him. Not yet was the ἨΘΟΣ developed in him. It was there, yet latent. -But, instead, that quality with which he was also so abundantly gifted, -and which combined so well with his sterner faculties—I mean the quality -of humorous observation—must have begun to assert itself. “Engraving on -copper was at twenty years of age my utmost ambition,” he writes himself. -Yes, William, and naturally so. The monsters and chimeras of heraldry -and Mr. Gamble’s back-shop had by that time probably thoroughly palled -on him. Fortunate if a landscape, or building, or portrait had sometimes -to be engraved on a silver snuff-box or a golden fan-mount. The rest was -a wilderness of apocryphal natural history, a bewildering phantasmagoria -of strange devices from St. Benet’s Hill, expressed in crambo, in jargon, -and in heraldic romany: compony, gobony, and chequy; lions erased and -tigers couped; bucks trippant and bucks vulnèd; eagles segreiant, and -dogs sciant; bezants, plates, torteaux, pomeis, golps, sanguiny-guzes, -tawny and saltire.[3] The revulsion was but to be expected—was indeed -inevitable, from the disgust caused by the seven years’ transcription of -these catalogues of lying wonders, to the contemplation of the real life -that surged about Cranbourn Alley, and its infinite variety of humours, -comic and tragic. “Engraving on copper” at twenty might be the utmost -ambition to a young man mortally sick of silver salvers; but how was it -at twenty-one and twenty-two? - -“As a child,” writes William, “shows of all kind gave me pleasure.” To a -lad of his keen eye and swift perception, all London must have been full -of shows. Not only was there Bartlemy, opened by solemn procession and -proclamation of Lord Mayor—Bartlemy with its black-puddings, pantomimes, -motions of puppets, rope-dancers emulating the achievements of Jacob -Hall, sword-swallowing women, fire-eating salamanders, high Dutch -conjurors, Alsatian and Savoyard-Dulcamara quacks selling eye-waters, -worm-powders, love-philters, specifics against chincough, tympany, -tissick, chrisoms, head-mould-shot, horse-shoe-head, and other strange -ailments, of which the Registrar-general makes no mention in his Returns, -now-a-days;[4] not only did Southwark, Tottenham and Mayfair flourish, -but likewise Hornfair by Charlton, in Kent, easy of access by Gravesend -tilt-boat, which brought to at Deptford Yard, and Hospital Stairs at -Greenwich. There were two patent playhouses, Lincoln’s Inn and Drury -Lane; and there were Mr. Powell’s puppets at the old Tennis-court, in -James Street, Haymarket—mysterious edifice, it lingers yet! looking -older than ever, inexplicable, obsolete, elbowed by casinos, poses -plastiques, cafés, and American bowling-alleys, yet refusing to budge -an inch before the encroachments of Time, who destroys all things, -even tennis-courts. It was “old,” we hear, in 1720; I have been told -that tennis is still played there. Gramercy! by whom? Surely at night, -when the wicked neighbourhood is snatching a short feverish sleep, the -“old tennis-courts” must be haunted by sallow, periwigged phantoms of -Charles’s time, cadaverous beaux in laced bands, puffed sleeves, and -flapped, plumed hats. Bats of spectral wire strike the cobweb-balls; the -moonlight can make them cast no shadows on the old brick-wall. And in the -gallery sits the harsh-visaged, cynic king, Portsmouth at his side, his -little spaniels mumbling the rosettes in his royal shoes. - -In a kind of copartnership with Mr. Powell’s puppets—formerly of -the Piazza, Covent Garden, was the famous Faux, the legerdemain, or -sleight-of-hand conjuror—the Wiljalba Frikell of his day, and whom -Hogarth mentions in one of his earliest pictorial satires. But Faux did -that which the Russian magician, to his credit, does not do: he puffed -himself perpetually, and was at immense pains to assure the public -through the newspapers that he was _not_ robbed returning from the -Duchess of Buckingham’s at Chelsea. From Faux’s show at the “Long-room,” -Hogarth might have stepped to Heidegger’s—hideous Heidegger’s masquerades -at the King’s Theatre in the Haymarket, where also were held “_ridotti_,” -and “_veglioni_”—junketings of an ultra Italian character, and all -presented in 1722 by the Middlesex grand jury as intolerable nuisances. -Many times, also, did the stern Sir John Gonson (_the Harlot’s Progress_ -Gonson), justice of peace, much feared by the Phrynes of the hundreds -of Drury, inveigh in his sessions-charges against the sinful _ridotti_ -and the disorderly _veglioni_. Other performances took place at the -King’s Theatre. There was struggling for its first grasp on the English -taste and the English pocket—a grasp which it has never since lost—that -anomalous, inconsistent, delightful entertainment, the Italian Opera. -Hogarth, as a true-born Briton, hated the harmonious exotic; and from his -earliest plates to the grand series of the _Rake’s Progress_, indulges -in frequent flings at Handel (in his _Ptolomeo_, and before his immortal -Oratorio stage), Farinelli, Cuzzoni, Senesino, Faustina, Barrenstadt, and -other “soft simpering whiblins.” Yet the sturdiest hater of this “new -taste of the town” could not refrain from admiring and applauding to the -echo that which was called the “miraculously dignified exit of Senesino.” -This celebrated _sortita_ must have resembled in the almost electrical -effect it produced, the elder Kean’s “Villain, be sure thou prove,” &c. -in _Othello_; John Kemble’s “Mother of the world—” in _Coriolanus_; -Madame Pasta’s “Io,” in _Medea_; and Ristori’s world-known “_Tu_,” in -the Italian version of the same dread trilogy. One of the pleasantest -accusations brought against the Italian Opera was preferred some years -before 1720, in the _Spectator_, when it was pointed out that the -principal man or woman singer sang in Italian, while the responses were -given, and the choruses chanted by Britons. _Judices_, in these latter -days, I have “assisted” at the performance of the _Barber of Seville_ -at one of our large theatres, when _Figaro_ warbled in Italian with a -strong Spanish accent, when Susanna was a Frenchwoman, Doctor Bartolo an -Irishman, and the chorus sang in English, and without any H’s. - -More shows remain for Hogarth to take delight in. The quacks, out of -Bartlemy time, set up their standings in Moorfields by the madhouse -(illustrated by Hogarth in the _Rake’s Progress_), and in Covent Garden -Market (W. H. in the plate of _Morning_), by Inigo Jones’s rustic church, -which he built for the Earl of Bedford: “Build me a barn,” quoth the -earl. “You shall have the bravest barn in England,” returned Inigo, and -his lordship had it. There were quacks too, though the loud-voiced -beggars interfered with them, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and on Tower Hill, -where the sailors and river-side Bohemians were wont to indulge in their -favourite diversion of “whipping the snake.” There were grand shows when -a commoner was raised to the peerage or promoted in grade therein—a -common occurrence in the midst of all the corruption entailed by the -Scottish union and Walpole’s wholesale bribery. On these occasions, -deputations of the heralds came from their dusty old college in Doctors’ -Commons, and in full costume, to congratulate the new peer, the viscount -made an earl, or the marquis elevated to a dukedom, and to claim by the -way a snug amount of fees from the newly-blown dignitary. Strange figures -they must have cut, those old kings-at-arms, heralds, and pursuivants! -Everybody remembers the anecdote, since twisted into an allusion to -Lord Thurlow’s grotesque appearance, of a servant on such an occasion -as I have alluded to, saying to his master, “Please, my lord, there’s a -gentleman in a coach at the door would speak with your lordship; and, -saving your presence, _I think he’s the knave of spades_.” I burst out in -unseemly cachinnation the other day at the opening of Parliament, when I -saw Rougecroix trotting along the royal gallery of the peers, with those -table-napkins stiff with gold embroidery pendent back and front of him -like heraldic advertisements. The astonishing equipment was terminated -by the black dress pantaloons and patent-leather boots of ordinary life. -_Je crevais de rire_: the Lord Chamberlain walking backwards was nothing -to it; yet I daresay Rougecroix looked not a whit more absurd than did -Bluemantle and Portcullis in 1720 with red heels and paste buckles to -their Cordovan shoon, and curly periwigs flowing from beneath their -cocked hats. - -Shows, more shows, and William Hogarth walking London streets to take -stock of them all, to lay them up in his memory’s ample store-house. He -will turn all he has seen to good account some day. There is a show at -the museum of the Royal Society, then sitting at Gresham College. The -queer, almost silly things, exhibited there! queer and silly, at least -to us, with our magnificent museums in Great Russell Street, Lincoln’s -Inn Fields and Brompton. I am turning over the Royal Society catalogue -as I write: the rarities all set down with a ponderous, simple-minded -solemnity. “Dr. Grews” is the conscientious editor. Here shall you find -the “sceptre of an Indian king, a dog without a mouth; a Pegue hat and -organ; a bird of paradise; a Jewish phylactery; a model of the Temple -of Jerusalem; a burning-glass contrived by that excellent philosopher -and mathematician Sir Isaac Newton” (hats off); “three landskips and -a catcoptrick paint given by Bishop Wilkins; a gun which discharges -seven times one after the other presently” (was this a revolver?); “a -perspective instrument by the ingenious Sir Christopher Wren” (hats -off again); “a pair of Iceland gloves, a pot of Macassar poison” (oh! -Rowland); “the tail of an Indian cow worshipped on the banks of the -river Ganges; a tuft of coralline; the cramp fish which by some humour -or vapour benumbs the fisherman’s arms,” and so forth. Hogarth will -make use of all these “curios” in the fourth scene of the _Marriage à la -Mede_, and presently, for the studio of Sidrophel in his illustrations to -_Hudibras_. - -And there are shows of a sterner and crueler order. Now a pick-pocket -yelling under a pump; now a half-naked wretch coming along Whitehall at -the tail of a slow-plodding cart, howling under the hangman’s lash (that -functionary has ceased to be called “Gregory,” from the great executioner -G. Brandon, and is now, but I have not been able to discover for what -reason, “Jack Ketch”).[5] Now it is a libeller or a perjurer in the -pillory at Charing in Eastcheap or at the Royal Exchange. According to -his political opinions do the mob—the mob are chiefly of the Jacobite -persuasion—pelt the sufferer with eggs and ordure, or cheer him, and fill -the hat which lies at his foot on the scaffold with halfpence and even -silver. And the sheriffs’ men, if duly fee’d, do not object to a mug of -purl or mum, or even punch, being held by kind hands to the sufferer’s -lips. So, in Hugo’s deathless romance does Esmeralda give Quasimodo on -the _carcan_ to drink from her flask. Mercy is as old as the hills, -and will never die. Sometimes in front of “England’s Burse,” or in Old -Palace Yard, an odd, futile, much-laughed-at ceremony takes place: and -after solemn proclamation, the common hangman makes a bonfire of such -proscribed books as _Pretenders no Pretence, A sober Reply to Mr. Higgs’s -Tri-theistical Doctrine_. Well would it be if the vindictiveness of the -government stopped here; but alas! king’s messengers are in hot pursuit -of the unhappy authors, trace them to the tripe-shop in Hanging Sword -Alley, or the cock-loft in Honey Lane Market, where they lie three in a -bed; and the poor scribbling wretches are cast into jail, and delivered -over to the tormentors, losing sometimes their unlucky ears. There is -the great sport and show every market morning, known as “bull banking,” -a sweet succursal to his Majesty’s bear-garden and Hockley in the hole. -The game is of the simplest; take your bull in a narrow thoroughfare, -say, Cock Hill, by Smithfield; have a crowd of _hommes de bonne volonté_; -overturn a couple of hackney coaches at one end of the street, a brewer’s -dray at the other: then harry your bull up and down, goad him, pelt him, -twist his tail, till he roar and is rabid. This is “bull-banking,” and -oh! for the sports of merry England! William Hogarth looks on sternly and -wrathfully. He will remember the brutal amusements of the populace when -he comes to engrave the _Four Stages of Cruelty_. But I lead him away now -to other scenes and shows. There are the wooden horses before Sadler’s -Hall; and westward there stands an uncomfortable “wooden horse” for the -punishment of soldiers who are picketed thereon for one and two hours. -This wooden horse is on St. James’s Mall, over against the gun-house. The -torture is one of Dutch William’s legacies to the subjects, and has been -retained and improved on by the slothfully cruel Hanoverian kings. Years -afterwards (1745-6), when Hogarth shall send his picture of the _March to -Finchley_ to St. James’s for the inspection of his sacred Majesty King -George the Second, that potentate will fly into a guard-room rage at -the truthful humour of the scene, and will express an opinion that the -audacious painter who has caricatured his Foot Guards, should properly -suffer the punishment of the picket on the “wooden horse” of the Mall. - -Further afield. There are literally thousands of shop-signs to be read -or stared at. There are prize-fights—predecessors of Fig and Broughton -contests—gladiatorial exhibitions, in which decayed Life-guardsmen and -Irish captains trade-fallen, hack and hew one another with broadsword -and backsword on public platforms. Then the “French prophets,” whom -John Wesley knew, are working sham miracles in Soho, emulating—the -impostors!—the marvels done at the tomb of the Abbé, Diacre or Chanoine, -Paris, and positively holding exhibitions in which fanatics suffer -themselves to be trampled, jumped upon, and beaten with clubs, for the -greater glory of Molinism;[6] even holding academies, where the youth of -both sexes are instructed in the arts of foaming at the mouth, falling -into convulsions, discoursing in unknown tongues, revealing stigmata -produced by the aid of lunar caustic, and other moon-struck madnesses -and cheats. Such is revivalism in 1720. William Hogarth is there, -observant. He will not forget the French prophets when he executes -almost the last and noblest of his plates—albeit, it is directed against -English revivalists, _Credulity, Superstition and Fanaticism_. He leaves -Soho, and wanders eastward and westward. He reads Madam Godfrey’s -six hundred challenges to the female sex in the newspapers; sitting, -perhaps, at the “Rose,” without Temple Bar; at the “Diapente,” whither -the beaux, feeble as Lord Fanny, who could not “eat beef, or horse, or -any of those things,” come to recruit their exhausted digestions with -jelly-broth. He may look in at mug-houses, where stum, ’quest ales, -Protestant masch-beer, and Derby stingo are sold. He may drop in at Owen -Swan’s, at the “Black Swan” Tavern in St. Martin’s Lane, and listen to -the hack-writers girding at Mr. Pope, and at the enormous amount of -eating and drinking in Harry Higden’s comedies. He may see the virtuosi -at Childs’s, and dozens of other auctions (Edward Mellington was the -George Robins of the preceding age; the famous Cobb was his successor -in auction-room eloquence and pomposity), buying china monsters. He may -refect himself with hot furmity at the “Rainbow” or at “Nando’s,” mingle -(keeping his surtout well buttoned) with the pickpockets in Paul’s, -avoid the Scotch walk on ’Change, watch the garish damsels alight from -their coaches at the chocolate-houses, mark the gamesters rushing in, -at as early an hour as eleven in the morning, to shake their elbows at -the “Young Man’s;” gaze at the barristers as they bargain for wherries -at the Temple Stairs to take water for Westminster—a pair of sculls -being much cheaper than a hackney coach—meet the half-pay officers at -Whitehall, garrulously discussing the King of Spain’s last treaty, as the -shoeblacks polish their footgear with oil and soot—Day and Martin are yet -in embryo: stand by, on Holborn Hill, about half-past eleven, as Jack -Hall, the chimney sweep, winds his sad way in Newgate cart, his coffin -before him, and the ordinary with his book and nosegay by his side, -towards St. Giles’s Pound, and the ultimate bourne, Tyburn. Jack Hall -has a nosegay, too, and wears a white ribbon in his hat to announce his -innocence. The fellow has committed a hundred robberies. And Jack Hall is -very far gone in burnt brandy. Hogarth marks—does not forget him. Jack -Hall—who seems to have been a kind of mediocre Jack Sheppard, although -his escape from Newgate was well-nigh as dexterous, and quite as bold as -the prison-breaking feat of the arch rascal, Blueskin’s friend—will soon -reappear in one of the first of the Hogarthian squibs; and the dismal -procession to Tyburn will form the _dénoûment_ to the lamentable career -of Tom Idle. - -Hogarth must have become _poco a poco_ saturated with such impressions -of street life. From 1730 the tide of reproduction sets in without -cessation; but I strive to catch and to retain the fleeting image of this -dead London, and it baulks and mocks me:—the sham bail, “duffers” and -“mounters,” skulking with straws in their shoes about Westminster Hall; -the law offices in Chancery Lane and the “devil’s gap” between Great -Queen Street and Lincoln’s Inn Fields; the Templars, the moot-men, and -those who are keeping their terms in Lincoln’s and Gray’s Inn, dining in -their halls at noon, eating off wooden trenchers, drinking from green -earthenware jugs, and summoned to commons by horn-blow;—the furious -stockjobbers at Jonathan’s and Garraway’s, at the sign of the “Fifteen -Shillings,” and in Threadneedle Row; the fine ladies buying perfumery -at the “Civet Cat,” in Shire Lane, by Temple Bar—perfumery, now-a-days, -is much wanted in that unsavoury _locale_; the Jacobite ballad-singers -growling sedition in Seven Dials; the Hanoverian troubadours crooning, -on their side, worn-out scandal touching “Italian Molly” (James the -Second’s Mary of Modena) and “St. James’s warming-pan” in the most -frequented streets; riots and tumults, spy-hunting, foreigner mobbing, of -not unfrequent occurrence, all over the town;—gangs of riotous soldiers -crowding about Marlborough House, and casting shirts into the great -duke’s garden, that his grace may see of what rascally stuff—filthy -dowlas instead of good calico—the contractors have made them. Alas! a -wheezing, drivelling, almost idiotic dotard is all that remains of the -great duke, all that is left of John Churchill. He had just strength -enough at the Bath the season before to crawl home in the dark night, -in order to avoid the expense of a chair. There are fights in the -streets, and skirmishes on the river, where revenue cutters, custom-house -jerkers, and the “Tartar pink,” make retributive raids on the fresh-water -pirates: light and heavy horsemen, cope-men, scuffle-hunters, lumpers, -and game-watermen. There are salt-water as well as fresh-water thieves; -and a notable show of the period is the execution of a pirate, and his -hanging in chains at Execution dock. All which notwithstanding, it is a -consolation to learn that “Captain Hunt, of the _Delight_,” is tried at -Justice Hall for piracy, and “honourably acquitted.” I know not why, but -I rejoice at the captain’s escape. He seems a bold, dashing spirit; and, -when captured, was “drinking orvietan with a horse-officer.” But when I -come to reperuse the evidence adduced on the trial, I confess that the -weight of testimony bears strongly against Captain Hunt, and that in -reality it would seem that he _did_ scuttle the “_Protestant Betsey_,” -cause the boatswain and “one Skeggs, a chaplain, transporting himself to -the plantations”—at the request of a judge and jury, I wonder?—to walk -the plank, and did also carbonado the captain with lighted matches and -Burgundy pitch, prior to blowing his (the captain’s) brains out. Hunt -goes free, but pirates are cast, and sometimes swing. Hogarth notes, -comments on, remembers them. The gibbeted corsairs by the river’s side -shall find a place in the third chapter of the history of Thomas Idle. - -So wags the world in 1720. Hogarth practising on copper in the intervals -of arms and crest engraving, and hearing of Thornhill and Laguerre’s -staircase-and-ceiling-painting renown, inwardly longing to be a Painter. -Sir George Thorold is lord mayor. Comet Halley is astronomer royal, vice -Flamsteed, deceased the preceding year. Clement XI. is dying, and the -Jews of Ferrara deny that they have sacrificed a child at Easter, _à la_ -Hugh of Lincoln. The great King Louis is dead, and a child reigns in -his stead. The Regent and the Abbé Dubois are making history one long -scandal in Paris. Bernard Lens is miniature painter to the king, in lieu -of Benjamin Acland, dead. Mr. Colley Cibber’s works are printed on royal -paper. Sheffield, Duke of Bucks, erects a plain tablet to the memory of -John Dryden in Westminster Abbey: his own name in very large letters, -Dryden’s in more moderately-sized capitals. Madam Crisp sets a lieutenant -to kill a black man, who has stolen her lapdog. Captain Dawson bullies -half the world, and half the world bullies Captain Dawson: and bullies or -is so bullied still to this day. - -In disjointed language, but with a very earnest purpose, I have -endeavoured to trace our painter’s Prelude,—the growth of his artistic -mind, the ripening of his perceptive faculties under the influence of -the life he saw. Now, for the operation of observation, distilled in -the retort of his quaint humour. I record the work he did; and first, -in 1720, mention “four drawings in Indian ink” of the characters at -Button’s coffee-house.[7] In these were sketches of Arbuthnot, Addison, -Pope (as it is conjectured), and a certain Count Viviani, identified -years afterwards by Horace Walpole, when the drawings came under his -notice. They subsequently came into Ireland’s possession. Next Hogarth -executed an etching, whose subject was of more national importance. In -1720-21, as all men know, England went mad, and was drawn, jumping for -joy, into the Maëlstrom of the South Sea bubble. France had been already -desperately insane, in 1719, and Philip, the Regent, with John Law of -Lauriston, the Edinburgh silversmith’s son, who had been rake, bully, and -soldier, and had stood his trial for killing Beau Wilson in a duel, had -between them gotten up a remarkable mammon-saturnalia in the Palais Royal -and the Rue Quincampoix. Law lived _en prince_ in the Place Vendôme. -They show the window now whence he used to look down upon his dupes. He -died, a few years after the bursting of his bubble, a miserable bankrupt -adventurer at Venice. And yet there really was something tangible in -his schemes, wild as they were. The credit of the Royal Bank averted -a national bankruptcy in France, and some substantial advantage might -have been derived from the Mississippi trade. At all events, there -actually was such a place as Louisiana. In this country, the geographical -actualities were very little consulted. The English South Sea scheme -was a swindle, _pur et simple_. Almost everybody in the country caught -this cholera-morbus of avarice. Pope dabbled in S. S. S. (South Sea -Stock): Lady Mary Wortley Montague was accused of cheating Ruremonde, the -French wit, out of 500_l._ worth of stock. Ladies laid aside ombre and -basset to haunt ’Change Alley. Gay “stood to win” enormous sums—at one -time imagined himself, as did Pope also, to be the “lord of thousands,” -but characteristically refused to follow a friend’s advice to realize -at least sufficient to secure himself a “clean shirt and a shoulder of -mutton every day for life.” He persisted in holding, and lost all. Mr. -Aislabie, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, was deeply implicated in S. -S. S. transactions, as were also many peers and members of parliament. -The amiable and accomplished Craggs, the postmaster-general, the friend -of all the wits, and for whose tomb Pope wrote so touching an epitaph, -tarnished his reputation indelibly by unscrupulous jobbery. He died of -the small-pox, just in time to avoid disgrace and ruin; but his poor -old father was sold up, and was borne to the grave shortly afterward, -broken-hearted. Lord Stanhope ruptured a blood-vessel in replying to a -furious speech of the Duke of Wharton (who lived a profligate and died -a monk) against S. S., and did not long survive. Samuel Chandler, the -eminent Nonconformist divine, was ruined, and had to keep a book-stall -for bread. Hudson, known as “Tom of Ten Thousand,” went stark mad, and -moved about ’Change just as the “Woman in Black” and the “Woman in -White” (the son of the one, and the brother of the other were hanged for -forgery), used to haunt the avenues of the Bank of England. The South -Sea Company bribed the Government, bribed the two Houses, and bribed -the Court ladies, both of fair and of light fame. Erengard Melusina -Schuylenberg, Princess von Eberstein, Duchess of Munster (1715), and -Duchess of Kendal (1729)—Hogarth engraved the High Dutch hussey’s -arms—the Countess of Platen, and her two nieces, and Lady Sunderland, -with Craggs and Aislabie, got the major part of the fictitious stock of -574,000_l._ created by the company. The stock rose to thirteen hundred -and fifty pounds premium! Beggars on horseback tore through the streets. -There were S. S. coaches with _Auri sacra fames_ painted on the panels. -Hundreds of companies were projected, and “took the town” immensely. -Steele’s (Sir Richard’s) Fishpool Company, for bringing the finny -denizens of the deep by sea to London—Puckle’s Defence Gun—the Bottomree, -the Coral-fishery, the Wreck-fishing companies, were highly spoken of. -Stogden’s remittances created great excitement in the market. There -were companies for insurance against bad servants, against thefts and -robberies, against fire and shipwreck. There were companies for importing -jack-asses from Spain (coals to Newcastle!); for trading in human hair -(started by a clergyman); for fattening pigs; for making pantiles, -Joppa and Castile soap; for manufacturing lutestring; “for the wheel of -a perpetual motion;” and for extracting stearine from sunflower-seed. -There were Dutch bubbles, and oil bubbles, and water bubbles—bubbles of -timber, and bubbles of glass. There were the “sail cloth,” or “Globe -permits”—mere cards with the seal of the “Globe” tavern impressed on -them, and “permitting” the fortunate holders to acquire shares at some -indefinite period in some misty sailcloth factory. These sold for sixty -guineas a piece. There was Jezreel Jones’s trade to Barbary, too, for -which the permits could not be sold fast enough. Welsh copper and York -Buildings’ shares rose to cent. per cent. premium. Sir John Blunt, the -scrivener, rose from a mean estate to prodigious wealth, prospered, and -“whale directors ate up all.” There was an S. S. literature—an S. S. -anthology. - - “Meantime, secure on Garrway’s cliffs, - A savage race, by shipwreck fed, - Lie waiting for the founder’d skiffs, - And strip the bodies of the dead.” - -Pshaw! have we not Mr. Ward’s capital picture in the Vernon collection, -and hundreds of pamphlets on S. S. in the British Museum? The end came, -and was, of course, irrevocable and immortal smash. Ithuriel’s spear, -in the shape of a _scire facias_ in the _London Gazette_, pierced this -foully iridescent bubble through and through, producing precisely the -same effect as the publication of Mr. Sparkman’s inexorable railway -statistics in a supplement to _The Times_ newspaper, A.D. 1845. The city -woke up one morning and found itself ruined. The Sword-blade company went -bankrupt. Knight, the S.S. cashier, fled, but was captured at Tirlemont -in Flanders, at the instance of the British resident in Brussels, and -thrown into the citadel of Antwerp, from which he presently managed -to escape. In an age when almost every one had committed more or less -heinous acts of roguery, great sympathy was evinced for rogues. At home, -however, there were some thoughts of vengeance. Honest men began, for -the first time these many months, to show their heads, and talked of -Nemesis and Newgate. Aislabie resigned. The end of the Craggses you have -heard. Parliament-men were impeached and expelled the House. Patriots -inveighed against the injuries which corrupt ministers may inflict -on the sovereigns they serve, and quoted the history of Claudian and -Sejanus. The directors—such as had not vanished—were examined by secret -committees, and what effects of theirs could be laid hold of were -confiscated for the benefit of the thousands of innocent sufferers. I -have waded through many hundred pages of the parliamentary reports of -the period, and have remarked, with a grim chuckle, the similarities of -swindling between this fraud and later ones. Cooked accounts, torn-out -leaves, erasures, _and a small green ledger with a brass lock_—these -are among the flowers of evidence strewn on the heads of the secret -committees. Knight took the key away with him, forgetting the ledger, I -presume. The lock was forced, and there came floating out a bubble of -fictitious stock. The old story, gentles and simples. “_Comme Charles -Dix, comme Charles Dix_,” muttered wretched, wigless, Smithified old -Louis Philippe, as he fled in a _fiacre_ from the Tuileries in ’48; and -this S.S. swindle of 1720 was only “_Comme Charles Dix_,”—the elder -brother of 1825 and 1845 manias, of Milk Companies, Washing Companies, -Poyais Loans, Ball’s Pond Railways, Great Diddlesex Junctions, Borough, -British, and Eastern Banks, and other thieveries which this age has seen. - -Did William Hogarth hold any stock? Did he ever bid for a “Globe permit?” -Did he hanker after human hair? Did he cast covetous eyes towards the -gigantic jack-asses of Iberia? _Ignoramus_: but we know at least that -he made a dash at the bubble with his sharp pencil. In 1721 appeared an -etching of _The South Sea, an Allegory_. It was sold at the price of -one shilling by Mrs. Chilcot, in Westminster Hall, and B. Caldwell, in -Newgate Street. The allegory is laboured, but there is a humorous element -diffused throughout the work. The comparatively mechanical nature of the -pursuits from which Hogarth was but just emancipated shows itself in the -careful drawing of the architecture and the comparative insignificance -of the figures. The Enemy of mankind is cutting Fortune into collops -before a craving audience of rich and poor speculators. There is a huge -“roundabout,” with “who’ll ride?” as a legend, and a throng of people of -all degrees revolving on their wooden hobbies. In the foreground a wretch -is being broken on the wheel—perhaps a reminiscence of the terrible fate -of Count Horn, in Paris. L. H., a ruffian, is scourging a poor fellow who -is turning his great toes up in agony. These are to represent Honour and -Honesty punished by Interest and Villany. In the background widows and -spinsters are crowding up a staircase to a “raffle for husbands,” and -in the right-hand corner a Jewish high-priest, a Catholic priest, and -a Dissenting minister, are gambling with frenzied avidity. Near them a -poor, miserable starveling lies a-dying, and to the left there looms a -huge pillar, with this inscription on the base—“This monument was erected -in memory of the destruction of the city by South Sea, 1720.” It is to -be observed that the figure of the demon hacking at Fortune, and the -lame swash buckler, half baboon, half imp, that keeps guard over the -flagellated man, are copied, pretty literally, from Callot. - -You know that I incline towards coincidences. It is surely a not -unremarkable one that Callot, a Hogarthian man in many aspects, but more -inclined towards the grotesque-terrible than to the humorous-observant, -should have been also in his youth a martyr to heraldry. His father was -a grave, dusty old king-at-arms, in the service of the Duke of Lorraine, -at Nancy. He believed heraldry, next to alchemy, to be the most glorious -science in the world, and would fain have had his son devote himself to -tabard and escocheon work; but the boy, after many unavailing efforts to -wrestle with these Ephesian wild beasts, with their impossible attitudes -and preposterous proportions, fairly ran away and turned gipsy, stroller, -beggar, picaroon—all kinds of wild Bohemian things. Had Hogarth been a -French boy, he, too, might have run away from Ellis Gamble’s griffins -and gargoyles. He must have been a great admirer of Callot, and have -studied his works attentively, as one can see, not only from this South -Sea plate, but from many of the earlier Hogarthian performances, in -which, not quite trusting himself yet to run alone, he has had recourse -to the Lorrain’s strong arm. Many other sympathetic traits are to be -found in the worthy pair. In both a little too much swagger and proneness -to denounce things that might have had some little sincerity in them. -The one a thorough foreigner, the other as thorough a foreigner. The -herald’s son of Nancy was always “the noble Jacques Callot;” the heraldic -engraver’s apprentice of Cranbourn Alley was, I wince to learn, sometimes -called “Bill Hogarth.” - -One of Hogarth’s earliest employers was a Mr. Bowles, at the “Black -Horse in Cornhill,” who is stated to have bought his etched works by -weight—at the munificent rate of half-a-crown a pound. This is the same -Mr. Bowles who, when Major the engraver was going to France to study, and -wished to dispose of some landscapes he had engraved that he might raise -something in aid of his travelling expenses, offered him a bright, new, -burnished, untouched copper-plate for every engraved one he had by him. -This Black Horse Bowles, if the story be true, must have been ancestor -to the theatrical manager who asked the author _how much he would give -him_ if he produced his five-act tragedy; but I am inclined to think the -anecdote a bit of gossip _tant soit peu_ spiteful of the eldest Nicholls. -Moreover, the offer is stated to have been made “over a bottle.” ’Twas -under the same incentive to liberality that an early patron of the -present writer once pressed him to write “a good poem, in the Byron -style—you know,” and offered him a guinea for it, down. Copper, fit for -engraving purposes, was at least two shillings a pound in Bowles’s time. -The half-crown legend, then, may be apocryphal; although we have some odd -records of the mode of payment for art and letters in those days, and in -the preceding time:—Thornhill painting Greenwich Hall for forty shillings -the Flemish ell; Dryden contracting with Left-legged Jacob to write so -many thousand lines for so many unclipped pieces of money; and Milton -selling the manuscript of _Paradise Lost_ to Samuel Simmons for five -pounds. - -Mr. Philip Overton at the Golden Buck, over against St. Dunstan’s Church, -in Fleet Street, also published Hogarth’s early plates. He was the -purchaser, too, but not yet, of the eighteen illustrations to _Hudibras_. -Ere these appeared, W. H. etched the _Taste of the Town_, the _Small -Masquerade Ticket_; the _Lottery_—a very confused and obscure allegory, -perhaps a sly parody on one of Laguerre or Thornhill’s floundering -pictorial parables. Fortune and Wantonness are drawing lucky numbers, -Fraud tempts Despair, Sloth hides his head behind a curtain; all very -interesting probably at the time, from the number of contemporary -portraits the plate may have contained, but almost inexplicable and -thoroughly uninteresting to us now. The _Taste of the Town_, which is -otherwise the _first_ Burlington Gate satire (not the Pope and Chandos -one) created a sensation, and its author paid the first per-centage on -notoriety, by seeing his work pirated by the varlets who did for art that -which Edmund Curll, bookseller and scoundrel, did for literature. - -[Illustration] - -_Burlington Gate_, No. 1, was published in 1723. Hogarth seems to have -admired Lord Burlington’s love for art, though he might have paid him -a better compliment than to have placarded the gate of his palace with -an orthographical blunder. There is in the engraving “accademy” for -academy. The execution is far superior to that of the _South Sea_, and -the figures are drawn with much _verve_ and decision. In the centre stand -three little figures, said to represent Lord Burlington, Campbell, the -architect, and his lordship’s “postilion.” This is evidently a blunder -on the part of the first commentator. The figure is in cocked hat, -wide cuffs, and buckled shoes, and is no more like a postilion than I -to Hercules. Is it the earl’s “poet,” and not his “postilion,” that is -meant? To the right (using showman’s language), sentinels in the peaked -shakoes of the time, and with oh! such clumsy, big-stocked brown-besses -in their hands, guard the entrance to the fane where the pantomime of -_Doctor Faustus_ is being performed. From the balcony above Harlequin -looks out. _Faustus_ was first brought out at the theatre, Lincoln’s Inn -Fields, in ’23. It had so prodigious a run, and came into such vogue, -that after much grumbling about the “legitimate” and invocations of -“Ben Jonson’s ghost” (Hogarth calls him Ben Johnson), the rival Covent -Garden managers were compelled to follow suit, and in ’25 came out with -their _Doctor Faustus_—a kind of saraband of infernal persons contrived -by Thurmond the dancing-master. He, too, was the deviser of “_Harleykin -Sheppard_” (or Shepherd), in which the dauntless thief who escaped from -the Middle Stone-room at Newgate in so remarkable a manner received a -pantomimic apotheosis. Quick-witted Hogarth satirized this felony-mania -in the caricature of Wilks, Booth, and Cibber, conjuring up “Scaramouch -Jack Hall.” To return to Burlington Gate. In the centre, Shakspeare and -Jonson’s works are being carted away for waste paper. To the left you see -a huge projecting sign or show-cloth, containing portraits of his sacred -Majesty George the Second in the act of presenting the management of the -Italian Opera with one thousand pounds; also of the famous Mordaunt Earl -of Peterborough and sometime general of the armies in Spain. He kneels, -and in the handsomest manner, to Signora Cuzzoni the singer, saying -(in a long apothecary’s label), “Please accept eight thousand pounds!” -but the Cuzzoni spurns at him. Beneath is the entrance to the Opera. -Infernal persons with very long tails are entering thereto with joyful -countenances. The infernal persons are unmistakeable reminiscences of -Callot’s demons in the _Tentation de St. Antoine_. There is likewise a -placard relating to “Faux’s Long-room,” and his “dexterity of hand.” - -In 1724, Hogarth produced another allegory called the _Inhabitants of -the Moon_, in which there are some covert and not very complimentary -allusions to the “dummy” character of royalty, and a whimsical fancy of -inanimate objects, songs, hammers, pieces of money, and the like, being -built up into imitation of human beings, all very ingeniously worked out. -By this time, Hogarth, too, had begun to work, not only for the ephemeral -pictorial squib-vendors of Westminster Hall—those squibs came in with -him, culminated in Gillray, and went out with H. B.; or were rather -absorbed and amalgamated into the admirable _Punch_ cartoons of Mr. -Leech—but also for the regular booksellers. For Aubry de la Mottraye’s -_Travels_ (a dull, pretentious book) he executed some engravings, among -which I note _A woman of Smyrna in the habit of the country_—the woman’s -face very graceful, and the _Dance_, the Pyrrhic dance of the Greek -islands, and the oddest fandango that ever was seen. One commentator -says that the term “as merry as a grig” came from the fondness of the -inhabitants of those isles of eternal summer for dancing, and that it -should be properly “as merry as a Greek.” _Quien sabe?_ I know that -lately in the Sessions papers I stumbled over the examination of one -Levi Solomon, _alias_ Cockleput, who stated that he lived in Sweet Apple -Court, and that he “went a-grigging for his living.” I have no _Lexicon -Balatronicum_ at hand; but from early researches into the vocabulary -of the “High Mung” I have an indistinct impression that “griggers” -were agile vagabonds who danced, and went through elementary feats of -posture-mastery in taverns. - -In ’24, Hogarth illustrated a translation of the _Golden Ass of -Apuleius_. The plates are coarse and clumsy; show no humour; were mere -pot-boilers, _gagne-pains_, thrusts with the burin at the wolf looking -in at the Hogarthian door, I imagine. Then came five frontispieces -for a translation of _Cassandra_. These I have not seen. Then fifteen -head-pieces for Beaver’s _Military Punishments of the Ancients_, narrow -little slips full of figures in chiaroscuro, many drawn from Callot’s -curious martyrology, _Les Saincts et Sainctes de l’Année_, about -three hundred graphic illustrations of human torture! There was also -a frontispiece to the _Happy Ascetic_, and one to the Oxford squib of -_Terræ Filius_, in 1724, but of the joyous recluse in question I have no -cognizance. - -In 1722 (you see I am wandering up and down the years as well as the -streets), London saw a show—and Hogarth doubtless was there to see—which -merits some lines of mention. The drivelling, avaricious dotard, who, -crossing a room and looking at himself in a mirror, sighed and mumbled, -“That was once a man:”—this poor wreck of mortality died, and became -in an instant, and once more, John the great Duke of Marlborough. On -the 9th of August, 1722, he was buried with extraordinary pomp in -Westminster Abbey. The saloons of Marlborough House, where the corpse -lay in state, were hung with fine black cloth, and garnished with bays -and cypress. In the death-chamber was a chair of state surmounted by a -“majesty scutcheon.” The coffin was on a bed of state, covered with a -“fine holland sheet,” over that a complete suit of armour, gilt, _but -empty_. Twenty years before, there would have been a waxen image in -the dead man’s likeness within the armour, but this hideous fantasy of -Tussaud-tombstone effigies had in 1722 fallen into desuetude.[8] The -garter was buckled round the steel leg of this suit of war-harness; one -listless gauntlet held a general’s truncheon; above the vacuous helmet -with its unstirred plumes was the cap of a Prince of the Empire. The -procession, lengthy and splendid, passed from Marlborough House through -St. James’s Park to Hyde Park Corner, then through Piccadilly, down -St. James’s Street, along Pall Mall, and by King Street, Westminster, -to the Abbey. Fifteen pieces of cannon rambled in this show. Chelsea -pensioners, to the number of the years of the age of the deceased, -preceded the car. The colours were wreathed in crape and cypress. Guidon -was there, and the great standard, and many bannerols and achievements -of arms. “The mourning horse with trophies and plumades” was gorgeous. -There was a horse of state and a mourning horse, sadly led by the dead -duke’s equerries. And pray note: the minutest details of the procession -were copied from the programme of the Duke of Albemarle’s funeral -(Monk); which, again, was a copy of Oliver Cromwell’s—which, again, -was a reproduction, on a more splendid scale, of the obsequies of Sir -Philip Sidney, killed at Zutphen. Who among us saw not the great scarlet -and black show of 1852, the funeral of the Duke of Wellington? Don’t -you remember the eighty-four tottering old Pensioners, corresponding -in number with the years of our heroic brother departed? When gentle -Philip Sidney was borne to the tomb, _thirty-one_ poor men followed the -hearse. The brave soldier, the gallant gentleman, the ripe scholar, the -accomplished writer was so young. Arthur and Philip! And so century -shakes hand with century, and the new is ever old, and the last novelty -is the earliest fashion, and old Egypt leers from a glass-case, or a four -thousand year old fresco, and whispers to Sir Plume, “I, too, wore a -curled periwig, and used tweezers to remove superfluous hairs.” - -In 1726, Hogarth executed a series of plates for _Blackwell’s Military -Figures_, representing the drill and manœuvres of the Honourable -Artillery Company. The pike and half-pike exercise are very carefully -and curiously illustrated; the figures evidently drawn from life; -the attitudes very easy. The young man was improving in his drawing; -for in 1724, Thornhill had started an academy for studying from -the round and from life at his own house, in Covent Garden Piazza; -and Hogarth—who himself tells us that his head was filled with the -paintings at Greenwich and St. Paul’s, and to whose utmost ambition of -scratching copper, there was now probably added the secret longing to -be a historico-allegorico-scriptural painter I have hinted at, and who -hoped some day to make Angels sprawl on coved ceilings, and Fames blast -their trumpets on grand staircases—was one of the earliest students at -the academy of the king’s sergeant painter, and member of parliament -for Weymouth. Already William had ventured an opinion, _bien tranchée_, -on high art. In those days there flourished—yes, flourished is the -word—a now forgotten celebrity, Kent the architect, gardener, painter, -decorator, upholsterer, friend of the great, and a hundred things -besides. This artistic jack-of-all-trades became so outrageously popular, -and gained such a reputation for taste—if a man have strong lungs, -and persists in crying out that he is a genius, the public are sure -to believe him at last—that he was consulted on almost every tasteful -topic, and was teased to furnish designs for the most incongruous -objects. He was consulted for picture-frames, drinking-glasses, barges, -dining-room tables, garden-chairs, cradles, and birth-day gowns. One lady -he dressed in a petticoat ornamented with columns of the five orders; -to another he prescribed a copper-coloured skirt, with gold ornaments. -The man was at best but a wretched sciolist; but he for a long period -directed the “taste of the town.” He had at last the presumption to -paint an altar-piece for the church of St. Clement Danes. The worthy -parishioners, men of no taste at all, burst into a yell of derision and -horror at this astounding _croûte_. Forthwith, irreverent young Mr. -Hogarth lunged full butt with his graver at the daub. He produced an -engraving of _Kent’s Masterpiece_, which was generally considered to be -an unmerciful caricature; but which he himself declared to be an accurate -representation of the picture. ’Twas the first declaration of his _guerra -al cuchillo_ against the connoisseurs. The caricature, or copy, whichever -it was, made a noise; the tasteless parishioners grew more vehement, and, -at last, Gibson, Bishop of London (whose brother, by the way, had paid -his first visit to London in the company of Dominie Hogarth), interfered, -and ordered the removal of the obnoxious canvas. “Kent’s masterpiece” -subsided into an ornament for a tavern-room. For many years it was to be -seen (together with the landlord’s portrait, I presume) at the “Crown -and Anchor,” in the Strand. Then it disappeared, and faded away from the -visible things extant. - -With another bookseller’s commission, I arrive at another halting-place -in the career of William Hogarth. In 1726-7 appeared his eighteen -illustrations to Butler’s _Hudibras_. They are of considerable size, -broadly and vigorously executed, and display a liberal instalment of -the _vis comica_, of which William was subsequently to be so lavish. -Ralpho is smug and sanctified to a nicety. Hudibras is a marvellously -droll-looking figure, but he is not human, is generally execrably drawn, -and has a head preternaturally small, and so pressed down between -the clavicles, that you might imagine him to be of the family of the -anthropophagi, whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. There is a -rare constable, the perfection of Dogberryism-_cum_-Bumbledom, in the -tableau of Hudibras in the stocks. The widow is graceful and beautiful -to look at. Unlike Wilkie, Hogarth _could_ draw pretty women;[9] the -rogue who chucks the widow’s attendant under the chin is incomparable, -and Trulla is a most truculent brimstone. The “committee” is a character -full study of sour faces. The procession of the “Skimmington” is full of -life and animation; and the concluding tableau, “Burning rumps at Temple -Bar,” is a wondrous street-scene, worthy of the ripe Hogarthian epoch -of _The Progresses_, _The Election_, _Beer Street_ and _Gin Lane_. This -edition of Butler’s immortal satire had a great run; and the artist often -regretted that he had parted absolutely, and at once, with his property -in the plates. - -So now then, William Hogarth, we part once more, but soon to meet again. -Next shall the moderns know thee—student at Thornhill’s Academy—as a -painter as well as an engraver. A philosopher—_quoique tu n’en doutais -guère_—thou hast been all along. - - -FOOTNOTES - -[2] To me there is something candid, naïve, and often something -noble in this personal consciousness and confidence, this moderate -self-trumpeting. “_Questi sono miri!_” cried Napoleon, when, at the -sack of Milan, the MS. treatises of Leonardo da Vinci were discovered; -and he bore them in triumph to his hotel, suffering no meaner hand to -touch them. _He_ knew—the Conquering Thinker—that he alone was worthy -to possess those priceless papers. So too, Honoré de Balzac calmly -remarking that there were only three men in France who could speak French -correctly: himself, Victor Hugo, and “Théophile” (T. Gautier). So, too, -Elliston, when the little ballet-girl complained of having been hissed: -“They have hissed _me_,” said the awful manager, and the dancing girl -was dumb. Who can forget the words that Milton wrote concerning things -of his “that posteritie would not willingly let die?” and that Bacon -left, commending his fame to “foreign nations and to the next age?” And -Turner, simply directing in his will that he should be buried in St. -Paul’s Cathedral? That sepulchre, the painter knew, was his of right. And -innocent Gainsborough, dying: “We are all going to heaven, and Vandyke is -of the company.” And Fontenelle, calmly expiring at a hundred years of -age: “_Je n’ai jamais dit la moindre chose centre la plus petite vertu._” -’Tis true, that my specious little argument falls dolefully to the ground -when I remember that which the wisest man who ever lived said concerning -a child gathering shells and pebbles on the sea-shore, when the great -ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before him. - -[3] The bezant (from Byzantium) was a round knob on the scutcheon, -blazoned yellow. “Golp” was purple, _the colour of an old black eye_, so -defined by the heralds. “Sanguine” or “guzes” were to be congested red, -like bloodshot eyes; “torteaux” were of another kind of red, like “Simnel -cakes.” “Pomeis” were to be green like apples. “Tawny” was orange. There -were also “hurts” to be blazoned blue, as bruises are.—_New View of -London_, 1712. - -[4] I believe Pope’s sneer against poor Elkanah Settle (who died very -comfortably in the Charterhouse, 1724, ætat. 76: he was alive in 1720, -and succeeded Rowe as laureate), that he was reduced in his latter days -to compass a motion of St. George and the Dragon at Bartholomew fair, and -himself enacted the dragon in a peculiar suit of green leather, his own -invention, to have been a purely malicious and mendacious bit of spite. -Moreover, Settle died years after Pope assumed him to have expired. - -[5] 1720. The horrible room in Newgate Prison where in cauldrons of -boiling pitch the hangman seethed the dissevered limbs of those executed -for high treason, and whose quarters were to be exposed, was called “Jack -Ketch’s kitchen.” - -[6] Compare these voluntary torments with the description of the _Dosèh_, -or horse-trampling ceremonial of the Sheik El Bekree, over the bodies of -the faithful, in Lane’s _Modern Egyptians_. - -[7] Daniel Button’s well-known coffee-house was on the south side of -Russell Street, Covent Garden, nearly opposite Tom’s. Button had been a -servant of the Countess of Warwick, and so was patronized by her spouse, -the Right Hon. Joseph Addison. Sir Robert Walpole’s creature, Giles -Earl, a trading justice of the peace (compare Fielding and “300_l._ a -year of the dirtiest money in the world”) used to examine criminals, -for the amusement of the company, in the public room at Button’s. Here, -too, was a lion’s head letter-box, into which communications for the -_Guardian_ were dropped. At Button’s, Pope is reported to have said of -Patrick, the lexicographer, who made pretensions to criticism, that “a -dictionary-maker might know the meaning of one word, but not of two put -together.” - -[8] Not, however, to forget that another Duchess, Marlborough’s daughter, -who loved Congreve so, had after his death a waxen image made in his -effigy, and used to weep over it, and anoint the gouty feet. - -[9] “They said he could not colour,” said old Mrs. Hogarth one day to -John Thomas Smith, showing him a sketch of a girl’s head. “It’s a lie; -look there: there’s flesh and blood for you, my man.” - - - - -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 IV. - - An extinct animal recognized by its tooth: how came this - to be possible?—The task of classification.—Artificial and - natural methods.—Linnæus, and his baptism of the animal - kingdom: his scheme of classification.—What is there underlying - all true classification?—The chief groups.—What is a - species?—Re-statement of the question respecting the fixity or - variability of species.—The two hypotheses.—Illustration drawn - from the Romance languages.—Caution to disputants. - -I was one day talking with Professor Owen in the Hunterian Museum, when -a gentleman approached with a request to be informed respecting the -nature of a curious fossil, which had been dug up by one of his workmen. -As he drew the fossil from a small bag, and was about to hand it for -examination, Owen quietly remarked:—“That is the third molar of the -under-jaw of an extinct species of rhinoceros.” The astonishment of the -gentleman at this precise and confident description of the fossil, before -even it had quitted his hands, was doubtless very great. I know that mine -was; until the reflection occurred that if some one, little acquainted -with editions, had drawn a volume from his pocket, declaring he had found -it in an old chest, any bibliophile would have been able to say at a -glance: “That is an Elzevir;” or, “That is one of the Tauchnitz classics, -stereotyped at Leipzig.” Owen is as familiar with the aspect of the -teeth of animals, living and extinct, as a student is with the aspect of -editions. Yet before that knowledge could have been acquired, before he -could say thus confidently that the tooth belonged to an extinct species -of rhinoceros, the united labours of thousands of diligent inquirers must -have been directed to the classification of animals. How could he know -that the rhinoceros was of that particular species rather than another? -and what is meant by species? To trace the history of this confidence -would be to tell the long story of zoological investigation: a story -too long for narration here, though we may pause awhile to consider its -difficulties. - -To make a classified catalogue of the books in the British Museum would -be a gigantic task; but imagine what that task would be if all the -title-pages and other external indications were destroyed! The first -attempts would necessarily be of a rough approximative kind, merely -endeavouring to make a sort of provisional order amid the chaos, after -which succeeding labours might introduce better and better arrangements. -The books might first be grouped according to size; but having got them -together, it would soon be discovered that size was no indication of -their contents: quarto poems and duodecimo histories, octavo grammars -and folio dictionaries, would immediately give warning that some other -arrangement was needed. Nor would it be better to separate the books -according to the languages in which they were written. The presence or -absence of “illustrations” would furnish no better guide; while the -bindings would soon be found to follow no rule. Indeed, one by one all -the external characters would prove unsatisfactory, and the labourers -would finally have to decide upon some internal characters. Having read -enough of each book to ascertain whether it was poetry or prose: and -if poetry, whether dramatic, epic, lyric, or satiric; and if prose, -whether history, philosophy, theology, philology, science, fiction, or -essay: a rough classification could be made; but even then there would -be many difficulties, such as where to place a work on the philosophy -of history—or the history of science,—or theology under the guise of -science—or essays on very different subjects; while some works would defy -classification. - -Gigantic as this labour would be, it would be trifling compared with -the labour of classifying all the animals now living (not to mention -extinct species), so that the place of any one might be securely and -rapidly determined; yet the persistent zeal and sagacity of zoologists -have done for the animal kingdom what has not yet been done for the -library of the Museum, although the titles of the books are not absent. -It has been done by patient _reading_ of the contents—by anatomical -investigation of the internal structure of animals. Except on a basis of -comparative anatomy, there could have been no better a classification -of animals than a classification of books according to size, language, -binding, &c. An unscientific Pliny might group animals according to their -habitat; but when it was known that whales, though living in the water -and swimming like fishes, were in reality constructed like air-breathing -quadrupeds—when it was known that animals differing so widely as bees, -birds, bats, and flying squirrels, or as otters, seals, and cuttle-fish, -lived together in the same element, it became obvious that such a -principle of arrangement could lead to no practical result. Nor would -it suffice to class animals according to their modes of feeding; since -in all classes there are samples of each mode. Equally unsatisfactory -would be external form—the seal and the whale resembling fishes, the worm -resembling the eel, and the eel the serpent. - -Two things were necessary: first, that the structure of various animals -should be minutely studied, and described—which is equivalent to reading -the books to be classified;—and secondly, that some artificial method -should be devised of so arranging the immense mass of details as to -enable them to be remembered, and also to enable fresh discoveries -readily to find a place in the system. We may be perfectly familiar -with the contents of a book, yet wholly at a loss where to place it. If -we have to catalogue Hegel’s _Philosophy of History_, for example, it -becomes a difficult question whether to place it under the rubric of -philosophy, or under that of history. To decide this point, we must have -some system of classification. - -In the attempts to construct a system, naturalists are commonly said -to have followed two methods: the artificial and the natural. The -_artificial method_ seizes some one prominent characteristic, and groups -all the individuals together which agree in this one respect. In -Botany the artificial method classes plants according to the organs of -reproduction; but this has been found so very imperfect that it has been -abandoned, and the _natural method_ has been substituted, according to -which the whole structure of the plant determines its place. If flying -were taken as the artificial basis for the grouping of some animals, -we should find insects and birds, bats and flying squirrels, grouped -together; but the natural method, taking into consideration not one -character, but all the essential characters, finds that insects, birds, -and bats differ profoundly in their organization: the insect has wings, -but its wings are not formed like those of the bird, nor are those of the -bird formed like those of the bat. The insect does not breathe by lungs, -like the bird and the bat; it has no internal skeleton, like the bird and -the bat; and the bird, although it has many points in common with the -bat, does not, like it, suckle its young; and thus we may run over the -characters of each organization, and find that the three animals belong -to widely different groups. - -It is to Linnæus that we are indebted for the most ingenious and -comprehensive of the many schemes invented for the cataloguing of animal -forms; and modern attempts at classification are only improvements on -the plan he laid down. First we may notice his admirable invention of -the double names. It had been the custom to designate plants and animals -according to some name common to a large group, to which was added a -description more or less characteristic. An idea may be formed of the -necessity of a reform, by conceiving what a laborious and uncertain -process it would be if our friends spoke to us of having seen a dog -in the garden, and on our asking what kind of dog, instead of their -saying “a terrier, a bull-terrier, or a skye-terrier,” they were to -attempt a description of the dog. Something of this kind was the labour -of understanding the nature of an animal from the vague description of -it given by naturalists. Linnæus rebaptized the whole animal kingdom -upon one intelligible principle. He continued to employ the name common -to each group, such as that of _Felis_ for the cats, which became the -_generic_ name; and in lieu of the _description_ which was given of each -different kind, to indicate that it was a lion, a tiger, a leopard, or a -domestic cat, he affixed a _specific_ name: thus the animal bearing the -description of a lion became _Felis leo_; the tiger, _Felis tigris_; the -leopard, _Felis leopardus_; and our domestic friend, _Felis catus_. These -double names, as Vogt remarks, are like the Christian- and sur-names by -which we distinguish the various members of one family; and instead of -speaking of Tomkinson with the flabby face, and Tomkinson with the square -forehead, we simply say John and William Tomkinson. - -Linnæus did more than this. He not only fixed definite conceptions -of Species and Genera, but introduced those of Orders and Classes. -Cuvier added Families to Genera, and Sub-kingdoms (_embranchements_) to -Classes. Thus a scheme was elaborated by which the whole animal kingdom -was arranged in subordinate groups: the sub-kingdoms were divided into -classes, the classes into orders, the orders into families, the families -into genera, the genera into species, and the species into varieties. -The guiding principle of anatomical resemblance determined each of these -divisions. Those largest groups, which resemble each other only in having -what is called the typical character in common, are brought together -under the first head. Thus all the groups which agree in possessing a -backbone and internal skeleton, although they differ widely in form, -structure, and habitat, do nevertheless resemble each other more than -they resemble the groups which have no backbone. This great division -having been formed, it is seen to arrange itself in very obvious minor -divisions, or Classes—the mammalia, birds, reptiles, and fishes. All -mammals resemble each other more than they resemble birds; all reptiles -resemble each other more than they resemble fishes (in spite of the -superficial resemblance between serpents and eels or lampreys). Each -Class again falls into the minor groups of Orders; and on the same -principles: the monkeys being obviously distinguished from rodents, and -the carnivora from the ruminating animals; and so of the rest. In each -Order there are generally Families, and the Families fall into Genera, -which differ from each other only in fewer and less important characters. -The Genera include groups which have still fewer differences, and are -called Species; and these again include groups which have only minute and -unimportant differences of colour, size, and the like, and are called -Sub-species, or Varieties. - -Whoever looks at the immensity of the animal kingdom, and observes -how intelligibly and systematically it is arranged in these various -divisions, will admit that, however imperfect, the scheme is a -magnificent product of human ingenuity and labour. It is not an -arbitrary arrangement, like the grouping of the stars in constellations; -it expresses, though obscurely, the real order of Nature. All true -Classification should be to forms what laws are to phenomena: the one -reducing varieties to systematic order, as the other reduces phenomena -to their relation of sequence. Now if it be true that the classification -expresses the real order of nature, and not simply the order which we -may find convenient, there will be something more than mere resemblance -indicated in the various groups; or, rather let me say, this resemblance -itself is the consequence of some community in the things compared, and -will therefore be the mark of some deeper cause. What is this cause? -Mr. Darwin holds that “propinquity of descent—the only known cause -of the similarity of organic beings—is the bond, hidden as it is by -various degrees of modification, which is partially revealed to us by -our classifications”[10]—“that the characters which naturalists consider -as showing true affinity between any two or more species are those -which have been inherited from a common parent, and in so far all true -classification is genealogical; that community of descent is the hidden -bond which naturalists have been unconsciously seeking, and not some -unknown plan of creation, or the enunciation of general propositions, -and the mere putting together and separating objects more or less -alike.”[11] - -Before proceeding to open the philosophical discussion which inevitably -arises on the mention of Mr. Darwin’s book, I will here set down the -chief groups, according to Cuvier’s classification, for the benefit of -the tyro in natural history, who will easily remember them, and will find -the knowledge constantly invoked. - -There are four Sub-kingdoms, or Branches:—1. Vertebrata. 2. Mollusca. 3. -Articulata. 4. Radiata. - -The VERTEBRATA consist of four classes:—Mammalia, Birds, Reptiles, and -Fishes. - -The MOLLUSCA consist of six classes:—Cephalopoda (cuttlefish), Pteropoda, -Gasteropoda (snails, &c.), Acephala (oysters, &c.), Brachiopoda, and -Cirrhopoda (barnacles).—N.B. This last class is now removed from the -Molluscs and placed among the Crustaceans. - -The ARTICULATA are composed of four classes:—Annelids (worms), Crustacea -(lobsters, crabs, &c.), Arachnida (spiders), and Insecta. - -The RADIATA embrace all the remaining forms; but this group has been so -altered since Cuvier’s time, that I will not burden your memory just now -with an enumeration of the details. - -The reader is now in a condition to appreciate the general line of -argument adopted in the discussion of Mr. Darwin’s book, which is at -present exciting very great attention, and which will, at any rate, aid -in general culture by opening to many minds new tracts of thought. The -benefit in this direction is, however, considerably lessened by the -extreme vagueness which is commonly attached to the word “species,” as -well as by the great want of philosophic culture which impoverishes -the majority of our naturalists. I have heard, or read, few arguments -on this subject which have not impressed me with the sense that the -disputants really attached no distinct ideas to many of the phrases they -were uttering. Yet it is obvious that we must first settle what are the -facts grouped together and indicated by the word “species,” before we can -carry on any discussion as to the origin of species. To be battling about -the fixity or variability of species, without having rigorously settled -_what_ species is, can lead to no edifying result. - -It is notorious that if you ask even a zoologist, _What_ is a species? -you will almost always find that he has only a very vague answer to give; -and if his answer be precise, it will be the precision of error, and will -vanish into contradictions directly it is examined. The consequence of -this is, that even the ablest zoologists are constantly at variance as to -specific characters, and often cannot agree whether an animal shall be -considered of a new species, or only a variety. There could be no such -disagreements if specific characters were definite: if we knew _what_ -species meant, once and for all. Ask a chemist, What is a salt? What -an acid? and his reply will be definite, and uniformly the same: what -he says, all chemists will repeat. Not so the zoologist. Sometimes he -will class two animals as of different species, when they only differ in -colour, in size, or in the numbers of tentacles, &c.; at other times he -will class animals as belonging to the same species, although they differ -in size, colour, shape, instincts, habits, &c. The dog, for example, is -said to be one species with many varieties, or races. But contrast the -pug-dog with the greyhound, the spaniel with the mastiff, the bulldog -with the Newfoundland, the setter with the terrier, the sheepdog with -the pointer: note the striking differences in their structure and their -instincts: and you will find that they differ as widely as some genera, -and as most species. If these varieties inhabited different countries—if -the pug were peculiar to Australia, and the mastiff to Spain—there is -not a naturalist but would class them as of different species. The same -remark applies to pigeons and ducks, oxen and sheep. - -The reason of this uncertainty is that the _thing_ Species does not -exist: the term expresses an _abstraction_, like Virtue, or Whiteness; -not a definite concrete reality, which can be separated from other -things, and always be found the same. Nature produces individuals; these -individuals resemble each other in varying degrees; according to their -resemblances we group them together as classes, orders, genera, and -species; but these terms only express the _relations of resemblance_, -they do not indicate the existence of such _things_ as classes, orders, -genera, or species.[12] There is a reality indicated by each term—that -is to say, a real relation; but there is no objective existence of -which we could say, This is variable, This is immutable. Precisely as -there is a real relation indicated by the term Goodness, but there is -no Goodness apart from the virtuous actions and feelings which we group -together under this term. It is true that metaphysicians in past ages -angrily debated respecting the Immutability of Virtue, and had no more -suspicion of their absurdity, than moderns have who debate respecting the -Fixity of Species. Yet no sooner do we understand that Species means a -relation of resemblance between animals, than the question of the Fixity, -or Variability, of Species resolves itself into this: Can there be any -_variation in the resemblances_ of closely allied animals? A question -which would never be asked. - -No one has thought of raising the question of the fixity of varieties, -yet it is as legitimate as that of the fixity of species; and we might -also argue for the fixity of genera, orders, classes; the fixity of all -these being implied in the very terms; since no sooner does any departure -from the type present itself, than _by_ that it is excluded from the -category; no sooner does a white object become gray, or yellow, than it -is excluded from the class of white objects. Here, therefore, is a sense -in which the phrase “fixity of species” is indisputable; but in this -sense the phrase has never been disputed. When zoologists have maintained -that species are variable, they have meant that _animal forms are -variable_; and these variations, gradually accumulating, result at last -in such differences as are called specific. Although some zoologists, and -speculators who were not zoologists, have believed that the possibility -of variation is so great that one species may actually be _transmuted_ -into another, _i.e._, that an ass may be developed into a horse,—yet most -thinkers are now agreed that such violent changes are impossible; and -that every new form becomes established only through the long and gradual -accumulation of minute differences in divergent directions. - -It is clear, from what has just been said, that the many angry -discussions respecting the fixity of species, which, since the days -of Lamarck, have disturbed the amity of zoologists and speculative -philosophers, would have been considerably abbreviated, had men -distinctly appreciated the equivoque which rendered their arguments hazy. -I am far from implying that the battle was purely a verbal one. I believe -there was a real and important distinction in the doctrines of the two -camps; but it seems to me that had a clear understanding of the fact that -Species was an abstract term, been uniformly present to their minds, they -would have sooner come to an agreement. Instead of the confusing disputes -as to whether one Species could ever become another Species, the question -would have been, Are animal forms changeable? Can the descendants of -animals become so _unlike their ancestors_, in certain peculiarities of -structure or instinct, as to be classed by naturalists as a different -species? - -No sooner is the question thus disengaged from equivoque, than its -discussion becomes narrowed within well-marked limits. That animal -forms _are_ variable, is disputed by no zoologist. The only question -which remains is this: _To what extent_ are animal forms variable? The -answers given have been two: one school declaring that the extent of -variability is limited to those trifling characteristics which mark the -different Varieties of each Species; the other school declaring that the -variability is indefinite, and that all animal forms may have arisen from -successive modifications of a very few types, or even of one type. - -Now, I would call your attention to one point in this discussion, which -ought to be remembered when antagonists are growing angry and bitter -over the subject: it is, that both these opinions are necessarily -hypothetical—there can be nothing like positive proof adduced on either -side. The utmost that either hypothesis can claim is, that it is more -consistent with general analogies, and better serves to bring our -knowledge of various points into harmony. Neither of them can claim to be -a truth which warrants dogmatic decision. - -Of these two hypotheses, the first has the weight and majority of -authoritative adherents. It declares that all the different kinds of -Cats, for example, were distinct and independent creations, each species -being originally what we see it to be now, and what it will continue -to be as long as it exists: lions, panthers, pumas, leopards, tigers, -jaguars, ocelots, and domestic cats, being so many _original stocks_, -and not so many _divergent forms of one original stock_. The second -hypothesis declares that all these kinds of cats represent divergencies -of the original stock, precisely as the Varieties of each kind represent -the divergencies of each Species. It is true that each species, when once -formed, only admits of limited variations; any cause which should push -the variation _beyond_ certain limits would destroy the species,—because -by species is meant the group of animals contained _within_ those limits. -Let us suppose the original stock from which all these kinds of cats have -sprung, to have become modified into lions, leopards, and tigers—in other -words, that the gradual accumulation of divergencies has resulted in the -whole family of cats existing under these three forms. The lions will -form a distinct species; this species varies, and in the course of long -variation a new species, the puma, rises by the side of it. The leopards -also vary, and let us suppose their variation at length assumes so marked -a form,—in the ocelot,—that we class it as a new species. There is -nothing in this hypothesis but what is strictly consonant with analogies; -it is only extending to Species what we know to be the fact with respect -to Varieties; and these Varieties which we know to have been produced -from one and the same Species are often more widely separated from each -other than the lion is from the puma, or the leopard from the ocelot. Mr. -Darwin remarks that “at least a score of pigeons might be chosen, which, -if shown to an ornithologist, and he were told that they were wild birds, -would certainly, I think, be ranked by him as well-defined species. -Moreover, I do not believe that any ornithologist would place the English -carrier, the short-faced tumbler, the runt, the barb, the pouter and -fantail in the same genus! more especially as in each of these breeds -several truly-inherited sub-breeds or species, as he might have called -them, could be shown him.” - -The development of numerous specific forms, widely distinguished from -each other, out of one common stock, is not a whit more improbable than -the development of numerous distinct languages out of a common parent -language, which modern philologists have proved to be indubitably the -case. Indeed, there is a very remarkable analogy between philology and -zoology in this respect: just as the comparative anatomist traces the -existence of similar organs, and similar connections of these organs, -throughout the various animals classed under one type, so does the -comparative philologist detect the family likeness in the various -languages scattered from China to the Basque provinces, and from Cape -Comorin across the Caucasus to Lapland—a likeness which assures him -that the Teutonic, Celtic, Windic, Italic, Hellenic, Iranic, and Indic -languages are of common origin, and separated from the Arabian, Aramean, -and Hebrew languages, which have another origin. Let us bring together -a Frenchman, a Spaniard, an Italian, a Portuguese, a Wallachian, and -a Rhætian, and we shall hear six very different languages spoken, -the speakers severally unintelligible to each other, their languages -differing so widely that one cannot be regarded as the modification of -the other; yet we know most positively that all these languages are -offshoots from the Latin, which was once a living language, but which is -now, so to speak, a fossil. The various species of cats do not differ -more than these six languages differ: and yet the resemblances point -in each case to a common origin. Max Müller, in his brilliant essay on -_Comparative Mythology_,[13] has said:— - -“If we knew nothing of the existence of Latin—if all historical documents -previous to the fifteenth century had been lost—if tradition, even, was -silent as to the former existence of a Roman empire, a mere comparison -of the six Roman dialects would enable us to say, that at some time -there must have been a language from which all these modern dialects -derived their origin in common; for without this supposition it would be -impossible to account for the facts exhibited by these dialects. Let us -look at the auxiliary verb. We find:— - - _Italian._ _Rhætian._ _Portuguese._ - _Wallachian._ _Spanish._ _French._ - I am sono sum sunt sunt soy sou suis - Thou art sei es eis eres es es - He is e é (este) ei es he est - We are siamo súntemu essen somos somos sommes - You are siete súnteti esses sois sois êtes (estes) - They are sono súnt eân (sun) son são sont. - -It is clear, even from a short consideration of these forms, first, that -all are but varieties of one common type; secondly, that it is impossible -to consider any one of these six paradigms as the original from which -the others had been borrowed. To this we may add, thirdly, that in none -of the languages to which these verbal forms belong, do we find the -elements of which they could have been composed. If we find such forms -as _j’ai aimé_, we can explain them by a mere reference to the radical -means which French has still at its command, and the same may be said -even of compounds like _j’aimerai_, i.e. _je-aimer-ai_, I have to love, -I shall love. But a change from _je suis_ to _tu es_ is inexplicable by -the light of French grammar. These forms could not have grown, so to -speak, on French soil, but must have been handed down as relics from a -former period—must have existed in some language antecedent to any of -the Roman dialects. Now, fortunately, in this case, we are not left to -a mere inference, but as we possess the Latin verb, we can prove how, -by phonetic corruption, and by mistaken analogies, every one of the six -paradigms is but a national metamorphosis of the Latin original. - -“Let us now look at another set of paradigms:— - - _Sanskrit._ _Zend._ _Old Slavonic._ _Gothic._ - _Lithuanian._ _Doric._ _Latin._ _Armen._ - I am ásmi esmi ahmi ἐμμι yesmě sum im em - Thou art ási essi ahi ἐσσὶ yesi es is es - He is ásti esti asti ἐστί yestǒ est ist ê - We (two) are ’svás esva yesva siju - You (two) are ’sthás esta stho? ἕστόν yesta sijuts - They (two) are ’stás (esti) sto? ἐστόν yesta - We are ’smás esmi hmahi ἐσμές yesmǒ sumus sijum emq - You are ’sthá este stha ἐστέ yeste estis sijup êq - They are sánti (esti) hěnti ἐντί somtě sunt sind en - -“From a careful consideration of these forms, we ought to draw exactly -the same conclusions; firstly, that all are but varieties of one common -type; secondly, that it is impossible to consider any of them as the -original from which the others have been borrowed; and thirdly, that here -again, none of the languages in which these verbal forms occur possess -the elements of which they are composed.” - -All these languages resemble each other so closely that they point to -some more ancient language which was to them what Latin was to the six -Romance languages; and in the same way we are justified in supposing that -all the classes of the vertebrate animals point to the existence of some -elder type, now extinct, from which they were all developed. - -I have thus stated what are the two hypotheses on this question. There is -only one more preliminary which it is needful to notice here, and that -is, to caution the reader against the tendency, unhappily too common, -of supposing that an adversary holds opinions which are transparently -absurd. When we hear an hypothesis which is either novel, or unacceptable -to us, we are apt to draw some very ridiculous conclusion from it, and to -assume that this conclusion is seriously held by its upholders. Thus the -zoologists who maintain the variability of species are sometimes asked -if they believe a goose was developed out of an oyster, or a rhinoceros -from a mouse? the questioner apparently having no misgiving as to the -candour of his ridicule. There are three modes of combating a doctrine. -The first is to point out its strongest positions, and then show them to -be erroneous or incomplete; but this plan is generally difficult, and -sometimes impossible; it is not, therefore, much in vogue. The second is -to render the doctrine ridiculous, by pretending that it includes certain -extravagant propositions, of which it is entirely innocent. The third -is to render the doctrine odious, by forcing on it certain conclusions, -which it would repudiate, but which are declared to be “the inevitable -consequences” of such a doctrine. Now it is undoubtedly true that men -frequently maintain very absurd opinions; but it is neither candid, nor -wise, to assume that men who otherwise are certainly not fools, hold -opinions the absurdity of which is transparent. - -Let us not, therefore, tax the followers of Lamarck, Geoffroy St. -Hilaire, or Mr. Darwin with absurdities they have not advocated; but -rather endeavour to see what solid argument they have for the basis of -their hypothesis. - - -FOOTNOTES - -[10] DARWIN: _Origin of Species_, p. 414. - -[11] DARWIN: _Origin of Species_, p. 420. - -[12] CUVIER says, in so many words, that classes, orders, and genera, are -abstractions, _et rien de pareil n’existe dans la nature_; but species is -_not_ an abstraction!—See _Lettres à Pfaff_, p. 179. - -[13] See _Oxford Essays_, 1856. - - - - -Strangers Yet! - - - Strangers yet! - After years of life together, - After fair and stormy weather, - After travel in far lands, - After touch of wedded hands,— - Why thus joined? why ever met? - If they must be strangers yet. - - Strangers yet! - After childhood’s winning ways, - After care, and blame, and praise, - Counsel asked, and wisdom given, - After mutual prayers to Heaven, - Child and parent scarce regret - When they part—are strangers yet - - Strangers yet! - After strife for common ends, - After title of old friends, - After passion fierce and tender, - After cheerful self-surrender, - Hearts may beat and eyes be wet, - And the souls be strangers yet. - - Strangers yet! - Strange and bitter thought to scan - All the loneliness of man! - Nature by magnetic laws - Circle unto circle draws; - Circles only touch when met, - Never mingle—strangers yet. - - Strangers yet! - Will it evermore be thus— - Spirits still impervious? - Shall we ever fairly stand - Soul to soul, as hand to hand? - Are the bounds eternal set - To retain us strangers yet? - - Strangers yet! - Tell not love it must aspire - Unto something other—higher: - God himself were loved the best, - Were man’s sympathies at rest; - Rest above the strain and fret - Of the world of strangers yet! - Strangers yet! - - R. MONCKTON MILNES. - - - - -Framley Parsonage. - - -CHAPTER X. - -LUCY ROBARTS. - -[Illustration: LORD LUFTON AND LUCY ROBARTS.] - -And now how was he to tell his wife? That was the consideration heavy on -Mark Robarts’ mind when last we left him; and he turned the matter often -in his thoughts before he could bring himself to a resolution. At last he -did do so, and one may say that it was not altogether a bad one, if only -he could carry it out. - -He would ascertain in what bank that bill of his had been discounted. He -would ask Sowerby, and if he could not learn from him, he would go to the -three banks in Barchester. That it had been taken to one of them he felt -tolerably certain. He would explain to the manager his conviction that he -would have to make good the amount, his inability to do so at the end of -the three months, and the whole state of his income; and then the banker -would explain to him how the matter might be arranged. He thought that he -could pay 50_l._ every three months with interest. As soon as this should -have been concerted with the banker, he would let his wife know all about -it. Were he to tell her at the present moment, while the matter was all -unsettled, the intelligence would frighten her into illness. - -But on the next morning there came to him tidings by the hands of -Robin postman, which for a long while upset all his plans. The letter -was from Exeter. His father had been taken ill, and had very quickly -been pronounced to be in danger. That evening—the evening on which his -sister wrote—the old man was much worse, and it was desirable that -Mark should go off to Exeter as quickly as possible. Of course he went -to Exeter—again leaving the Framley souls at the mercy of the Welsh -low Churchman. Framley is only four miles from Silverbridge, and at -Silverbridge he was on the direct road to the west. He was therefore at -Exeter before nightfall on that day. - -But nevertheless he arrived there too late to see his father again alive. -The old man’s illness had been sudden and rapid, and he expired without -again seeing his eldest son. Mark arrived at the house of mourning just -as they were learning to realize the full change in their position. - -The doctor’s career had been on the whole successful, but nevertheless -he did not leave behind him as much money as the world had given him -credit for possessing. Who ever does? Dr. Robarts had educated a large -family, had always lived with every comfort, and had never possessed a -shilling but what he had earned himself. A physician’s fees come in, -no doubt, with comfortable rapidity as soon as rich old gentlemen and -middle-aged ladies begin to put their faith in him; but fees run out -almost with equal rapidity when a wife and seven children are treated to -everything that the world considers most desirable. Mark, we have seen, -had been educated at Harrow and Oxford, and it may be said, therefore, -that he had received his patrimony early in life. For Gerald Robarts, -the second brother, a commission had been bought in a crack regiment. He -also had been lucky, having lived and become a captain in the Crimea; and -the purchase-money was lodged for his majority. And John Robarts, the -youngest, was a clerk in the Petty Bag Office, and was already assistant -private secretary to the Lord Petty Bag himself—a place of considerable -trust, if not hitherto of large emolument; and on his education money -had been spent freely, for in these days a young man cannot get into the -Petty Bag Office without knowing at least three modern languages; and he -must be well up in trigonometry too, in bible theology, or in one dead -language—at his option. - -And the doctor had four daughters. The two elder were married, including -that Blanche with whom Lord Lufton was to have fallen in love at the -vicar’s wedding. A Devonshire squire had done this in the lord’s place; -but on marrying her it was necessary that he should have a few thousand -pounds, two or three perhaps, and the old doctor had managed that they -should be forthcoming. The elder also had not been sent away from the -paternal mansion quite empty-handed. There were therefore at the time of -the doctor’s death two children left at home, of whom one only, Lucy, the -younger, will come much across us in the course of our story. - -Mark stayed for ten days at Exeter, he and the Devonshire squire having -been named as executors in the will. In this document it was explained -that the doctor trusted that provision had been made for most of his -children. As for his dear son Mark, he said, he was aware that he need -be under no uneasiness. On hearing this read Mark smiled sweetly, and -looked very gracious; but, nevertheless, his heart did sink somewhat -within him, for there had been a hope that a small windfall, coming now -so opportunely, might enable him to rid himself at once of that dreadful -Sowerby incubus. And then the will went on to declare that Mary, and -Gerald, and Blanche, had also, by God’s providence, been placed beyond -want. And here, looking into the squire’s face, one might have thought -that his heart fell a little also; for he had not so full a command of -his feelings as his brother-in-law, who had been so much more before the -world. To John, the assistant private secretary, was left a legacy of a -thousand pounds; and to Jane and Lucy certain sums in certain four per -cents., which were quite sufficient to add an efficient value to the -hands of those young ladies in the eyes of most prudent young would-be -Benedicts. Over and beyond this there was nothing but the furniture, -which he desired might be sold, and the proceeds divided among them all. -It might come to sixty or seventy pounds a piece, and pay the expenses -incidental on his death. - -And then all men and women there and thereabouts said that old Dr. -Robarts had done well. His life had been good and prosperous, and his -will was just. And Mark, among others, so declared,—and was so convinced -in spite of his own little disappointment. And on the third morning after -the reading of the will Squire Crowdy, of Creamclotted Hall, altogether -got over his grief, and said that it was all right. And then it was -decided that Jane should go home with him,—for there was a brother squire -who, it was thought, might have an eye to Jane;—and Lucy, the younger, -should be taken to Framley Parsonage. In a fortnight from the receipt of -that letter Mark arrived at his own house with his sister Lucy under his -wing. - -All this interfered greatly with Mark’s wise resolution as to the -Sowerby-bill incubus. In the first place he could not get to Barchester -as soon as he had intended, and then an idea came across him that -possibly it might be well that he should borrow the money of his brother -John, explaining the circumstances of course, and paying him due -interest. But he had not liked to broach the subject when they were there -in Exeter, standing, as it were, over their father’s grave, and so the -matter was postponed. There was still ample time for arrangement before -the bill would come due, and he would not tell Fanny till he had made -up his mind what that arrangement would be. It would kill her, he said -to himself over and over again, were he to tell her of it without being -able to tell her also that the means of liquidating the debt were to be -forthcoming. - -And now I must say a word about Lucy Robarts. If one might only go on -without those descriptions, how pleasant it would all be! But Lucy -Robarts has to play a forward part in this little drama, and those who -care for such matters must be made to understand something of her form -and likeness. When last we mentioned her as appearing, though not in any -prominent position, at her brother’s wedding—she was only sixteen; but -now, at the time of her father’s death, somewhat over two years having -since elapsed, she was nearly nineteen. Laying aside for the sake of -clearness that indefinite term of girl—for girls are girls from the age -of three up to forty-three, if not previously married—dropping that -generic word, we may say that then, at that wedding of her brother, she -was a child; and now, at the death of her father, she was a woman. - -Nothing, perhaps, adds so much to womanhood, turns the child so quickly -into a woman, as such death-bed scenes as these. Hitherto but little had -fallen to Lucy to do in the way of woman’s duties. Of money transactions -she had known nothing, beyond a jocose attempt to make her annual -allowance of twenty-five pounds cover all her personal wants—an attempt -which was made jocose by the loving bounty of her father. Her sister, who -was three years her elder—for John came in between them—had managed the -house; that is, she had made the tea and talked to the housekeeper about -the dinners. But Lucy had sat at her father’s elbow, had read to him of -evenings when he went to sleep, had brought him his slippers and looked -after the comforts of his easy-chair. All this she had done as a child; -but when she stood at the coffin head, and knelt at the coffin side, then -she was a woman. - -She was smaller in stature than either of her three sisters, to all of -whom had been acceded the praise of being fine women—a eulogy which the -people of Exeter, looking back at the elder sisters, and the general -remembrance of them which pervaded the city, were not willing to extend -to Lucy. “Dear—dear!” had been said of her; “poor Lucy is not like a -Robarts at all; is she, now, Mrs. Pole?”—for as the daughters had become -fine women, so had the sons grown into stalwart men. And then Mrs. Pole -had answered: “Not a bit; is she, now? Only think what Blanche was at -her age. But she has fine eyes, for all that; and they do say she is the -cleverest of them all.” - -And that, too, is so true a description of her, that I do not know that -I can add much to it. She was not like Blanche; for Blanche had a bright -complexion, and a fine neck, and a noble bust, _et vera incessu patuit -Dea_—a true goddess, that is, as far as the eye went. She had a grand -idea, moreover, of an apple-pie, and had not reigned eighteen months at -Creamclotted Hall before she knew all the mysteries of pigs and milk, and -most of those appertaining to cider and green geese. Lucy had no neck at -all worth speaking of,—no neck, I mean, that ever produced eloquence; she -was brown, too, and had addicted herself in nowise, as she undoubtedly -should have done, to larder utility. In regard to the neck and colour, -poor girl, she could not help herself; but in that other respect she must -be held as having wasted her opportunities. - -But then what eyes she had! Mrs. Pole was right there. They flashed upon -you—not always softly; indeed not often softly, if you were a stranger to -her; but whether softly or savagely, with a brilliancy that dazzled you -as you looked at them. And who shall say of what colour they were? Green -probably, for most eyes are green—green or grey, if green be thought -uncomely for an eye-colour. But it was not their colour, but their fire, -which struck one with such surprise. - -Lucy Robarts was thoroughly a brunette. Sometimes the dark tint of her -cheek was exquisitely rich and lovely, and the fringes of her eyes were -long and soft, and her small teeth, which one so seldom saw, were white -as pearls, and her hair, though short, was beautifully soft—by no means -black, but yet of so dark a shade of brown. Blanche, too, was noted for -fine teeth. They were white and regular and lofty as a new row of houses -in a French city. But then when she laughed she was all teeth; as she was -all neck when she sat at the piano. But Lucy’s teeth!—it was only now and -again, when in some sudden burst of wonder she would sit for a moment -with her lips apart, that the fine finished lines and dainty pearl-white -colour of that perfect set of ivory could be seen. Mrs. Pole would have -said a word of her teeth also but that to her they had never been made -visible. - -“But they do say that she is the cleverest of them all,” Mrs. Pole had -added, very properly. The people of Exeter had expressed such an opinion, -and had been quite just in doing so. I do not know how it happens, but -it always does happen, that everybody in every small town knows which is -the brightest-witted in every family. In this respect Mrs. Pole had only -expressed public opinion, and public opinion was right. Lucy Robarts was -blessed with an intelligence keener than that of her brothers or sisters. - -“To tell the truth, Mark, I admire Lucy more than I do Blanche.” This had -been said by Mrs. Robarts within a few hours of her having assumed that -name. “She’s not a beauty I know, but yet I do.” - -“My dearest Fanny!” Mark had answered in a tone of surprise. - -“I do then; of course people won’t think so; but I never seem to care -about regular beauties. Perhaps I envy them too much.” - -What Mark said next need not be repeated, but everybody may be sure that -it contained some gross flattery for his young bride. He remembered -this, however, and had always called Lucy his wife’s pet. Neither of the -sisters had since that been at Framley; and though Fanny had spent a -week at Exeter on the occasion of Blanche’s marriage, it could hardly be -said that she was very intimate with them. Nevertheless, when it became -expedient that one of them should go to Framley, the remembrance of what -his wife had said immediately induced Mark to make the offer to Lucy; -and Jane, who was of a kindred soul with Blanche, was delighted to go to -Creamclotted Hall. The acres of Heavybed House, down in that fat Totnes -country, adjoined those of Creamclotted Hall, and Heavybed House still -wanted a mistress. - -Fanny was delighted when the news reached her. It would of course -be proper that one of his sisters should live with Mark under their -present circumstances, and she was happy to think that that quiet little -bright-eyed creature was to come and nestle with her under the same roof. -The children should so love her—only not quite so much as they loved -mamma; and the snug little room that looks out over the porch, in which -the chimney never smokes, should be made ready for her; and she should be -allowed her share of driving the pony—which was a great sacrifice of self -on the part of Mrs. Robarts, and Lady Lufton’s best good-will should be -bespoken. In fact Lucy was not unfortunate in the destination that was -laid out for her. - -Lady Lufton had of course heard of the doctor’s death, and had sent all -manner of kind messages to Mark, advising him not to hurry home by any -means until everything was settled at Exeter. And then she was told of -the new-comer that was expected in the parish. When she heard that it was -Lucy, the younger, she also was satisfied; for Blanche’s charms, though -indisputable, had not been altogether to her taste. If a second Blanche -were to arrive there what danger might there not be for young Lord Lufton! - -“Quite right,” said her ladyship, “just what he ought to do. I think I -remember the young lady; rather small, is she not, and very retiring?” - -“Rather small and very retiring. What a description!” said Lord Lufton. - -“Never mind, Ludovic; some young ladies must be small, and some at least -ought to be retiring. We shall be delighted to make her acquaintance.” - -“I remember your other sister-in-law very well,” said Lord Lufton. “She -was a beautiful woman.” - -“I don’t think you will consider Lucy a beauty,” said Mrs. Robarts. - -“Small, retiring, and—” so far Lord Lufton had gone, when Mrs. Robarts -finished by the word, “plain.” She had liked Lucy’s face, but she had -thought that others probably did not do so. - -“Upon my word,” said Lady Lufton, “you don’t deserve to have a -sister-in-law. I remember her very well, and can say that she is not -plain. I was very much taken with her manner at your wedding, my dear; -and thought more of her than I did of the beauty, I can tell you.” - -“I must confess I do not remember her at all,” said his lordship. And so -the conversation ended. - -And then at the end of the fortnight Mark arrived with his sister. They -did not reach Framley till long after dark—somewhere between six and -seven, and by this time it was December. There was snow on the ground, -and frost in the air, and no moon, and cautious men when they went on the -roads had their horses’ shoes cocked. Such being the state of the weather -Mark’s gig had been nearly filled with cloaks and shawls when it was sent -over to Silverbridge. And a cart was sent for Lucy’s luggage, and all -manner of preparations had been made. Three times had Fanny gone herself -to see that the fire burned brightly in the little room over the porch, -and at the moment that the sound of the wheels was heard she was engaged -in opening her son’s mind as to the nature of an aunt. Hitherto papa and -mamma and Lady Lufton were all that he had known, excepting, of course, -the satellites of the nursery. - -And then in three minutes Lucy was standing by the fire. Those three -minutes had been taken up in embraces between the husband and the wife. -Let who would be brought as a visitor to the house, after a fortnight’s -absence, she would kiss him before she welcomed any one else. But then -she turned to Lucy, and began to assist her with her cloaks. - -“Oh, thank you,” said Lucy; “I’m not cold,—not very at least. Don’t -trouble yourself: I can do it.” But here she had made a false boast, for -her fingers had been so numbed that she could do nor undo anything. - -They were all in black, of course; but the sombreness of Lucy’s clothes -struck Fanny much more than her own. They seemed to have swallowed her up -in their blackness, and to have made her almost an emblem of death. She -did not look up, but kept her face turned towards the fire, and seemed -almost afraid of her position. - -“She may say what she likes, Fanny,” said Mark, “but she is very cold. -And so am I,—cold enough. You had better go up with her to her room. We -won’t do much in the dressing way to-night; eh, Lucy?” - -In the bedroom Lucy thawed a little, and Fanny, as she kissed her, said -to herself that she had been wrong as to that word “plain.” Lucy, at any -rate, was not plain. - -“You will be used to us soon,” said Fanny, “and then I hope we shall make -you comfortable.” And she took her sister-in-law’s hand and pressed it. - -Lucy looked up at her, and her eyes then were tender enough. “I am sure I -shall be happy here,” she said, “with you. But—but—dear papa!” And then -they got into each other’s arms, and had a great bout of kissing and -crying. “Plain,” said Fanny to herself, as at last she got her guest’s -hair smoothed and the tears washed from her eyes—“plain! She has the -loveliest countenance that I ever looked at in my life!” - -“Your sister is quite beautiful,” she said to Mark, as they talked her -over alone before they went to sleep that night. - -“No, she’s not beautiful; but she’s a very good girl, and clever enough -too, in her sort of way.” - -“I think her perfectly lovely. I never saw such eyes in my life before.” - -“I’ll leave her in your hands then; you shall get her a husband.” - -“That mayn’t be so easy. I don’t think she’d marry anybody.” - -“Well, I hope not. But she seems to me to be exactly cut out for an old -maid;—to be aunt Lucy for ever and ever to your bairns.” - -“And so she shall, with all my heart. But I don’t think she will, very -long. I have no doubt she will be hard to please; but if I were a man I -should fall in love with her at once. Did you ever observe her teeth, -Mark?” - -“I don’t think I ever did.” - -“You wouldn’t know whether any one had a tooth in their head, I believe.” - -“No one, except you, my dear; and I know all yours by heart.” - -“You are a goose.” - -“And a very sleepy one; so, if you please, I’ll go to roost.” And thus -there was nothing more said about Lucy’s beauty on that occasion. - -For the first two days Mrs. Robarts did not make much of her -sister-in-law. Lucy, indeed, was not demonstrative; and she was, -moreover, one of those few persons—for they are very few—who are -contented to go on with their existence without making themselves the -centre of any special outward circle. To the ordinary run of minds it is -impossible not to do this. A man’s own dinner is to himself so important -that he cannot bring himself to believe that it is a matter utterly -indifferent to every one else. A lady’s collection of baby-clothes, in -early years, and of house linen and curtain-fringes in later life, is -so very interesting to her own eyes, that she cannot believe but what -other people will rejoice to behold it. I would not, however, be held as -regarding this tendency as evil. It leads to conversation of some sort -among people, and perhaps to a kind of sympathy. Mrs. Jones will look at -Mrs. White’s linen-chest, hoping that Mrs. White may be induced to look -at hers. One can only pour out of a jug that which is in it. For the most -of us, if we do not talk of ourselves, or at any rate of the individual -circles of which we are the centres, we can talk of nothing. I cannot -hold with those who wish to put down the insignificant chatter of the -world. As for myself, I am always happy to look at Mrs. Jones’s linen, -and never omit an opportunity of giving her the details of my own dinners. - -But Lucy Robarts had not this gift. She had come there as a stranger into -her sister-in-law’s house, and at first seemed as though she would be -contented in simply having her corner in the drawing-room and her place -at the parlour table. She did not seem to need the comforts of condolence -and open-hearted talking. I do not mean to say that she was moody, that -she did not answer when she was spoken to, or that she took no notice of -the children; but she did not at once throw herself and all her hopes and -sorrows into Fanny’s heart, as Fanny would have had her do. - -Mrs. Robarts herself was what we call demonstrative. When she was angry -with Lady Lufton she showed it. And as since that time her love and -admiration for Lady Lufton had increased, she showed that also. When she -was in any way displeased with her husband, she could not hide it, even -though she tried to do so, and fancied herself successful;—no more than -she could hide her warm, constant, overflowing woman’s love. She could -not walk through a room hanging on her husband’s arm without seeming to -proclaim to every one there that she thought him the best man in it. She -was demonstrative, and therefore she was the more disappointed in that -Lucy did not rush at once with all her cares into her open heart. - -“She is so quiet,” Fanny said to her husband. - -“That’s her nature,” said Mark. “She always was quiet as a child. While -we were smashing everything, she would never crack a teacup.” - -“I wish she would break something now,” said Fanny, “and then perhaps -we should get to talk about it.” But she did not on this account give -over loving her sister-in-law. She probably valued her the more, -unconsciously, for not having those aptitudes with which she herself was -endowed. - -And then after two days Lady Lufton called; of course it may be supposed -that Fanny had said a good deal to her new inmate about Lady Lufton. A -neighbour of that kind in the country exercises so large an influence -upon the whole tenor of one’s life, that to abstain from such talk is -out of the question. Mrs. Robarts had been brought up almost under the -dowager’s wing, and of course she regarded her as being worthy of much -talking. Do not let persons on this account suppose that Mrs. Robarts was -a tuft-hunter, or a toadeater. If they do not see the difference they -have yet got to study the earliest principles of human nature. - -Lady Lufton called, and Lucy was struck dumb. Fanny was particularly -anxious that her ladyship’s first impression should be favourable, and -to effect this, she especially endeavoured to throw the two together -during that visit. But in this she was unwise. Lady Lufton, however, -had woman-craft enough not to be led into any egregious error by Lucy’s -silence. - -“And what day will you come and dine with us?” said Lady Lufton, turning -expressly to her old friend Fanny. - -“Oh, do you name the day. We never have many engagements, you know.” - -“Will Thursday do, Miss Robarts? You will meet nobody you know, only my -son; so you need not regard it as going out. Fanny here will tell you -that stepping over to Framley Court is no more going out, than when you -go from one room to another in the parsonage. Is it, Fanny?” - -Fanny laughed and said that that stepping over to Framley Court certainly -was done so often that perhaps they did not think so much about it as -they ought to do. - -“We consider ourselves a sort of happy family here, Miss Robarts, and are -delighted to have the opportunity of including you in the ménage.” - -Lucy gave her ladyship one of her sweetest smiles, but what she said at -that moment was inaudible. It was plain, however, that she could not -bring herself even to go as far as Framley Court for her dinner just at -present. “It was very kind of Lady Lufton,” she said to Fanny; “but it -was so very soon, and—and—and if they would only go without her, she -would be so happy.” But as the object was to go with her—expressly to -take her there—the dinner was adjourned for a short time—_sine die_. - - -CHAPTER XI. - -GRISELDA GRANTLY. - -It was nearly a month after this that Lucy was first introduced to Lord -Lufton, and then it was brought about only by accident. During that -time Lady Lufton had been often at the parsonage, and had in a certain -degree learned to know Lucy; but the stranger in the parish had never -yet plucked up courage to accept one of the numerous invitations that -had reached her. Mr. Robarts and his wife had frequently been at Framley -Court, but the dreaded day of Lucy’s initiation had not yet arrived. - -She had seen Lord Lufton in church, but hardly so as to know him, and -beyond that she had not seen him at all. One day, however—or rather, one -evening, for it was already dusk—he overtook her and Mrs. Robarts on the -road walking towards the vicarage. He had his gun on his shoulder, three -pointers were at his heels, and a gamekeeper followed a little in the -rear. - -“How are you, Mrs. Robarts?” he said, almost before he had overtaken -them. “I have been chasing you along the road for the last half mile. I -never knew ladies walk so fast.” - -“We should be frozen if we were to dawdle about as you gentlemen do,” and -then she stopped and shook hands with him. She forgot at the moment that -Lucy and he had not met, and therefore she did not introduce them. - -“Won’t you make me known to your sister-in-law?” said he, taking off his -hat, and bowing to Lucy. “I have never yet had the pleasure of meeting -her, though we have been neighbours for a month and more.” - -Fanny made her excuses and introduced them, and then they went on till -they came to Framley Gate, Lord Lufton talking to them both, and Fanny -answering for the two, and there they stopped for a moment. - -“I am surprised to see you alone,” Mrs. Robarts had just said; “I thought -that Captain Culpepper was with you.” - -“The captain has left me for this one day. If you’ll whisper I’ll tell -you where he has gone. I dare not speak it out loud, even to the woods.” - -“To what terrible place can he have taken himself? I’ll have no -whisperings about such horrors.” - -“He has gone to—to—but you’ll promise not to tell my mother?” - -“Not tell your mother! Well now you have excited my curiosity! where can -he be?” - -“Do you promise, then?” - -“Oh, yes! I will promise, because I’m sure Lady Lufton won’t ask me as to -Captain Culpepper’s whereabouts. We won’t tell; will we, Lucy?” - -“He has gone to Gatherum Castle for a day’s pheasant-shooting. Now, mind -you must not betray us. Her ladyship supposes that he is shut up in his -room with a toothache. We did not dare to mention the name to her.” - -And then it appeared that Mrs. Robarts had some engagement which made it -necessary that she should go up and see Lady Lufton, whereas Lucy was -intending to walk on to the parsonage alone. - -“And I have promised to go to your husband,” said Lord Lufton; “or rather -to your husband’s dog, Ponto. And I will do two other good things, I will -carry a brace of pheasants with me, and protect Miss Robarts from the -evil spirits of the Framley roads.” And so Mrs. Robarts turned in at the -gate, and Lucy and his lordship walked off together. - -Lord Lufton, though he had never before spoken to Miss Robarts, had -already found out that she was by no means plain. Though he had hardly -seen her except at church, he had already made himself certain that the -owner of that face must be worth knowing, and was not sorry to have the -present opportunity of speaking to her. “So you have an unknown damsel -shut up in your castle,” he had once said to Mrs. Robarts. “If she be -kept a prisoner much longer, I shall find it my duty to come and release -her by force of arms.” He had been there twice with the object of seeing -her, but on both occasions Lucy had managed to escape. Now we may say she -was fairly caught, and Lord Lufton, taking a pair of pheasants from the -gamekeeper, and swinging them over his shoulder, walked off with his prey. - -“You have been here a long time,” he said, “without our having had the -pleasure of seeing you.” - -“Yes, my lord,” said Lucy. Lords had not been frequent among her -acquaintance hitherto. - -“I tell Mrs. Robarts that she has been confining you illegally, and that -we shall release you by force or stratagem.” - -“I—I—I have had a great sorrow lately.” - -“Yes, Miss Robarts; I know you have; and I am only joking, you know. But -I do hope that now you will be able to come amongst us. My mother is so -anxious that you should do so.” - -“I am sure she is very kind, and you also—my lord.” - -“I never knew my own father,” said Lord Lufton, speaking gravely. “But I -can well understand what a loss you have had.” And then, after pausing a -moment, he continued, “I remember Dr. Robarts well.” - -“Do you, indeed?” said Lucy, turning sharply towards him, and speaking -now with some animation in her voice. Nobody had yet spoken to her about -her father since she had been at Framley. It had been as though the -subject were a forbidden one. And how frequently is this the case! When -those we love are dead, our friends dread to mention them, though to us -who are bereaved no subject would be so pleasant as their names. But we -rarely understand how to treat our own sorrow or those of others. - -There was once a people in some land—and they may be still there for -what I know—who thought it sacrilegious to stay the course of a raging -fire. If a house were being burned, burn it must, even though there were -facilities for saving it. For who would dare to interfere with the course -of the god? Our idea of sorrow is much the same. We think it wicked, or -at any rate heartless, to put it out. If a man’s wife be dead, he should -go about lugubrious, with long face, for at least two years, or perhaps -with full length for eighteen months, decreasing gradually during the -other six. If he be a man who can quench his sorrow—put out his fire as -it were—in less time than that, let him at any rate not show his power! - -“Yes: I remember him,” continued Lord Lufton. “He came twice to -Framley while I was a boy, consulting with my mother about Mark and -myself,—whether the Eton floggings were not more efficacious than those -at Harrow. He was very kind to me, foreboding all manner of good things -on my behalf.” - -“He was very kind to every one,” said Lucy. - -“I should think he would have been—a kind, good, genial man—just the man -to be adored by his own family.” - -“Exactly; and so he was. I do not remember that I ever heard an -unkind word from him. There was not a harsh tone in his voice. And -he was generous as the day.” Lucy, we have said, was not generally -demonstrative, but now, on this subject, and with this absolute stranger, -she became almost eloquent. - -“I do not wonder that you should feel his loss, Miss Robarts.” - -“Oh, I do feel it. Mark is the best of brothers, and, as for Fanny, -she is too kind and too good to me. But I had always been specially my -father’s friend. For the last year or two we had lived so much together!” - -“He was an old man when he died, was he not?” - -“Just seventy, my lord.” - -“Ah, then he was old. My mother is only fifty, and we sometimes call her -the old woman. Do you think she looks older than that? We all say that -she makes herself out to be so much more ancient than she need do.” - -“Lady Lufton does not dress young.” - -“That is it. She never has, in my memory. She always used to wear black -when I first recollect her. She has given that up now; but she is still -very sombre; is she not?” - -“I do not like ladies to dress very young, that is, ladies of—of——” - -“Ladies of fifty, we will say?” - -“Very well; ladies of fifty, if you like it.” - -“Then I am sure you will like my mother.” - -They had now turned up through the parsonage wicket, a little gate that -opened into the garden at a point on the road nearer than the chief -entrance. - -“I suppose I shall find Mark up at the house?” said he. - -“I daresay you will, my lord.” - -“Well, I’ll go round this way, for my business is partly in the stable. -You see I am quite at home here, though you never have seen me before. -But, Miss Robarts, now that the ice is broken, I hope that we may be -friends.” He then put out his hand, and when she gave him hers he pressed -it almost as an old friend might have done. - -And, indeed, Lucy had talked to him almost as though he were an old -friend. For a minute or two she had forgotten that he was a lord and a -stranger—had forgotten also to be stiff and guarded as was her wont. -Lord Lufton had spoken to her as though he had really cared to know her; -and she, unconsciously, had been taken by the compliment. Lord Lufton, -indeed, had not thought much about it—excepting as thus, that he liked -the glance of a pair of bright eyes, as most other young men do like it. -But, on this occasion, the evening had been so dark, that he had hardly -seen Lucy’s eyes at all. - -“Well, Lucy, I hope you liked your companion,” Mrs. Robarts said, as the -three of them clustered round the drawing-room fire before dinner. - -“Oh, yes; pretty well,” said Lucy. - -“That is not at all complimentary to his lordship.” - -“I did not mean to be complimentary, Fanny.” - -“Lucy is a great deal too matter-of-fact for compliments,” said Mark. - -“What I meant was, that I had no great opportunity for judging, seeing -that I was only with Lord Lufton for about ten minutes.” - -“Ah! but there are girls here who would give their eyes for ten minutes -of Lord Lufton to themselves. You do not know how he’s valued. He has the -character of being always able to make himself agreeable to ladies at -half a minute’s warning.” - -“Perhaps he had not the half minute’s warning in this case,” said -Lucy,—hypocrite that she was. - -“Poor Lucy,” said her brother; “he was coming up to see Ponto’s shoulder, -and I am afraid he was thinking more about the dog than you.” - -“Very likely,” said Lucy; and then they went into dinner. - -Lucy had been a hypocrite, for she had confessed to herself, while -dressing, that Lord Lufton had been very pleasant; but then it is allowed -to young ladies to be hypocrites when the subject under discussion is the -character of a young gentleman. - -Soon after that, Lucy did dine at Framley Court. Captain Culpepper, -in spite of his enormity with reference to Gatherum Castle, was still -staying there, as was also a clergyman from the neighbourhood of -Barchester with his wife and daughter. This was Archdeacon Grantly, a -gentleman whom we have mentioned before, and who was as well known in the -diocese as the bishop himself,—and more thought about by many clergymen -than even that illustrious prelate. - -Miss Grantly was a young lady not much older than Lucy Robarts, and -she also was quiet, and not given to much talking in open company. She -was decidedly a beauty, but somewhat statuesque in her loveliness. Her -forehead was high and white, but perhaps too like marble to gratify the -taste of those who are fond of flesh and blood. Her eyes were large and -exquisitely formed, but they seldom showed much emotion. She, indeed, -was impassive herself, and betrayed but little of her feelings. Her nose -was nearly Grecian, not coming absolutely in a straight line from her -forehead, but doing so nearly enough to entitle it to be considered as -classical. Her mouth, too, was very fine—artists, at least, said so, -and connoisseurs in beauty; but to me she always seemed as though she -wanted fulness of lip. But the exquisite symmetry of her cheek and chin -and lower face no man could deny. Her hair was light, and being always -dressed with considerable care, did not detract from her appearance; -but it lacked that richness which gives such luxuriance to feminine -loveliness. She was tall and slight, and very graceful in her movements; -but there were those who thought that she wanted the ease and _abandon_ -of youth. They said that she was too composed and stiff for her age, and -that she gave but little to society beyond the beauty of her form and -face. - -There can be no doubt, however, that she was considered by most men -and women to be the beauty of Barsetshire, and that gentlemen from -neighbouring counties would come many miles through dirty roads on the -mere hope of being able to dance with her. Whatever attractions she may -have lacked, she had at any rate created for herself a great reputation. -She had spent two months of the last spring in London, and even there -she had made a sensation; and people had said that Lord Dumbello, Lady -Hartletop’s eldest son, had been peculiarly struck with her. - -It may be imagined that the archdeacon was proud of her, and so indeed -was Mrs. Grantly—more proud, perhaps, of her daughter’s beauty, than so -excellent a woman should have allowed herself to be of such an attribute. -Griselda—that was her name—was now an only daughter. One sister she had -had, but that sister had died. There were two brothers also left, one -in the church and the other in the army. That was the extent of the -archdeacon’s family, and as the archdeacon was a very rich man—he was the -only child of his father, who had been Bishop of Barchester for a great -many years; and in those years it had been worth a man’s while to be -Bishop of Barchester—it was supposed that Miss Grantly would have a large -fortune. Mrs. Grantly, however, had been heard to say, that she was in no -hurry to see her daughter established in the world;—ordinary young ladies -are merely married, but those of real importance are established:—and -this, if anything, added to the value of the prize. Mothers sometimes -depreciate their wares by an undue solicitude to dispose of them. - -But to tell the truth openly and at once—a virtue for which a novelist -does not receive very much commendation—Griselda Grantly was, to a -certain extent, already given away. Not that she, Griselda, knew anything -about it, or that the thrice happy gentleman had been made aware of his -good fortune; nor even had the archdeacon been told. But Mrs. Grantly -and Lady Lufton had been closeted together more than once, and terms had -been signed and sealed between them. Not signed on parchment, and sealed -with wax, as is the case with treaties made by kings and diplomats,—to be -broken by the same; but signed with little words, and sealed with certain -pressings of the hand,—a treaty which between two such contracting -parties would be binding enough. And by the terms of this treaty Griselda -Grantly was to become Lady Lufton. - -Lady Lufton had hitherto been fortunate in her matrimonial speculations. -She had selected Sir George for her daughter, and Sir George, with the -utmost good nature, had fallen in with her views. She had selected Fanny -Monsell for Mr. Robarts, and Fanny Monsell had not rebelled against her -for a moment. There was a prestige of success about her doings, and she -felt almost confident that her dear son Ludovic must fall in love with -Griselda. - -As to the lady herself, nothing, Lady Lufton thought, could be much -better than such a match for her son. Lady Lufton, I have said, was a -good churchwoman, and the archdeacon was the very type of that branch -of the church which she venerated. The Grantlys, too, were of a good -family,—not noble indeed; but in such matters Lady Lufton did not want -everything. She was one of those persons who, in placing their hopes at -a moderate pitch, may fairly trust to see them realized. She would fain -that her son’s wife should be handsome; this she wished for his sake, -that he might be proud of his wife, and because men love to look on -beauty. But she was afraid of vivacious beauty, of those soft, sparkling -feminine charms which are spread out as lures for all the world, soft -dimples, laughing eyes, luscious lips, conscious smiles, and easy -whispers. What if her son should bring her home a rattling, rapid-spoken, -painted piece of Eve’s flesh such as this? Would not the glory and joy -of her life be over, even though such child of their first mother should -have come forth to the present day ennobled by the blood of two dozen -successive British peers? - -And then, too, Griselda’s money would not be useless. Lady Lufton, with -all her high-flown ideas, was not an imprudent woman. She knew that her -son had been extravagant, though she did not believe that he had been -reckless; and she was well content to think that some balsam from the old -bishop’s coffers should be made to cure the slight wounds which his early -imprudence might have inflicted on the carcase of the family property. -And thus, in this way, and for these reasons, Griselda Grantly had been -chosen out from all the world to be the future Lady Lufton. - -Lord Lufton had met Griselda more than once already; had met her before -these high contracting parties had come to any terms whatsoever, and -had evidently admired her. Lord Dumbello had remained silent one whole -evening in London with ineffable disgust, because Lord Lufton had been -rather particular in his attentions; but then Lord Dumbello’s muteness -was his most eloquent mode of expression. Both Lady Hartletop and Mrs. -Grantly, when they saw him, knew very well what he meant. But that match -would not exactly have suited Mrs. Grantly’s views. The Hartletop people -were not in her line. They belonged altogether to another set, being -connected, as we have heard before, with the Omnium interest—“those -_horrid_ Gatherum people,” as Lady Lufton would say to her, raising her -hands and eyebrows, and shaking her head. Lady Lufton probably thought -that they ate babies in pies during their midnight orgies at Gatherum -Castle; and that widows were kept in cells, and occasionally put on racks -for the amusement of the duke’s guests. - -When the Robarts’s party entered the drawing-room the Grantlys were -already there, and the archdeacon’s voice sounded loud and imposing in -Lucy’s ears, as she heard him speaking while she was yet on the threshold -of the door. - -“My dear Lady Lufton, I would believe anything on earth about -her—anything. There is nothing too outrageous for her. Had she insisted -on going there with the bishop’s apron on, I should not have been -surprised.” And then they all knew that the archdeacon was talking about -Mrs. Proudie, for Mrs. Proudie was his bugbear. - -Lady Lufton after receiving her guests introduced Lucy to Griselda -Grantly. Miss Grantly smiled graciously, bowed slightly, and then -remarked in the lowest voice possible that it was exceedingly cold. A low -voice, we know, is an excellent thing in woman. - -Lucy, who thought that she was bound to speak, said that it was cold, but -that she did not mind it when she was walking. And then Griselda smiled -again, somewhat less graciously than before, and so the conversation -ended. Miss Grantly was the elder of the two, and having seen most of the -world, should have been the best able to talk, but perhaps she was not -very anxious for a conversation with Miss Robarts. - -“So, Robarts, I hear that you have been preaching at Chaldicotes,” said -the archdeacon, still rather loudly. “I saw Sowerby the other day, and he -told me that you gave them the fag end of Mrs. Proudie’s lecture.” - -“It was ill-natured of Sowerby to say the fag end,” said Robarts. “We -divided the matter into thirds. Harold Smith took the first part, I the -last——” - -“And the lady the intervening portion. You have electrified the county -between you; but I am told that she had the best of it.” - -“I was so sorry that Mr. Robarts went there,” said Lady Lufton, as she -walked into the dining-room leaning on the archdeacon’s arm. - -“I am inclined to think he could not very well have helped himself,” -said the archdeacon, who was never willing to lean heavily on a brother -parson, unless on one who had utterly and irrevocably gone away from his -side of the church. - -“Do you think not, archdeacon?” - -“Why, no: Sowerby is a friend of Lufton’s——” - -“Not particularly,” said poor Lady Lufton, in a deprecating tone. - -“Well, they have been intimate; and Robarts, when he was asked to preach -at Chaldicotes, could not well refuse.” - -“But then he went afterwards to Gatherum Castle. Not that I am vexed with -him at all now, you understand. But it is such a dangerous house, you -know.” - -“So it is.—But the very fact of the duke’s wishing to have a clergyman -there, should always be taken as a sign of grace, Lady Lufton. The air -was impure, no doubt; but it was less impure with Robarts there than it -would have been without him. But, gracious heavens! what blasphemy have I -been saying about impure air? Why, the bishop was there!” - -“Yes, the bishop was there,” said Lady Lufton, and they both understood -each other thoroughly. - -Lord Lufton took out Mrs. Grantly to dinner, and matters were so managed -that Miss Grantly sat on his other side. There was no management -apparent in this to anybody; but there she was, while Lucy was placed -between her brother and Captain Culpepper. Captain Culpepper was a man -with an enormous moustache, and a great aptitude for slaughtering game; -but as he had no other strong characteristics, it was not probable that -he would make himself very agreeable to poor Lucy. - -She had seen Lord Lufton once, for two minutes, since the day of that -walk, and then he had addressed her quite like an old friend. It had been -in the parsonage drawing-room, and Fanny had been there. Fanny now was so -well accustomed to his lordship, that she thought but little of this, but -to Lucy it had been very pleasant. He was not forward or familiar, but -kind, and gentle, and pleasant; and Lucy did feel that she liked him. - -Now, on this evening, he had hitherto hardly spoken to her; but then she -knew that there were other people in the company to whom he was bound to -speak. She was not exactly humble-minded in the usual sense of the word; -but she did recognize the fact that her position was less important than -that of other people there, and that therefore it was probable that to a -certain extent she would be overlooked. But not the less would she have -liked to occupy the seat to which Miss Grantly had found her way. She did -not want to flirt with Lord Lufton; she was not such a fool as that; but -she would have liked to have heard the sound of his voice close to her -ear, instead of that of Captain Culpepper’s knife and fork. - -This was the first occasion on which she had endeavoured to dress herself -with care since her father had died; and now sombre though she was in her -deep mourning, she did look very well. - -“There is an expression about her forehead that is full of poetry,” Fanny -had said to her husband. - -“Don’t you turn her head, Fanny, and make her believe that she is a -beauty,” Mark had answered. - -“I doubt it is not so easy to turn her head, Mark. There is more in Lucy -than you imagine, and so you will find out before long.” It was thus that -Mrs. Robarts prophesied about her sister-in-law. Had she been asked she -might perhaps have said that Lucy’s presence would be dangerous to the -Grantly interest at Framley Court. - -Lord Lufton’s voice was audible enough as he went on talking to Miss -Grantly—his voice but not his words. He talked in such a way that there -was no appearance of whispering, and yet the person to whom he spoke, -and she only, could hear what he said. Mrs. Grantly the while conversed -constantly with Lucy’s brother, who sat at Lucy’s left hand. She never -lacked for subjects on which to speak to a country clergyman of the right -sort, and thus Griselda was left quite uninterrupted. - -But Lucy could not but observe that Griselda herself seemed to have -very little to say,—or at any rate to say very little. Every now and -then she did open her mouth, and some word or brace of words would fall -from it. But for the most part she seemed to be content in the fact -that Lord Lufton was paying her attention. She showed no animation, but -sat there still and graceful, composed and classical, as she always -was. Lucy, who could not keep her ears from listening or her eyes from -looking, thought that had she been there she would have endeavoured to -take a more prominent part in the conversation. But then Griselda Grantly -probably knew much better than Lucy did how to comport herself in such a -situation. Perhaps it might be that young men, such as Lord Lufton, liked -to hear the sound of their own voices. - -“Immense deal of game about here,” Captain Culpepper said to her towards -the end of the dinner. It was the second attempt he had made; on the -former he had asked her whether site knew any of the fellows of the 9th. - -“Is there?” said Lucy. “Oh! I saw Lord Lufton the other day with a great -armful of pheasants.” - -“An armful! Why we had seven cartloads the other day at Gatherum.” - -“Seven carts full of pheasants!” said Lucy, amazed. - -“That’s not so much. We had eight guns, you know. Eight guns will do a -deal of work when the game has been well got together. They manage all -that capitally at Gatherum. Been at the duke’s, eh?” - -Lucy had heard the Framley report as to Gatherum Castle, and said with -a sort of shudder that she had never been at that place. After this, -Captain Culpepper troubled her no further. - -When the ladies had taken themselves to the drawing-room Lucy found -herself hardly better off than she had been at the dinner table. Lady -Lufton and Mrs. Grantly got themselves on to a sofa together, and -there chatted confidentially into each other’s ears. Her ladyship had -introduced Lucy and Miss Grantly, and then she naturally thought that -the young people might do very well together. Mrs. Robarts did attempt -to bring about a joint conversation, which should include the three, and -for ten minutes or so she worked hard at it. But it did not thrive. Miss -Grantly was monosyllabic, smiling however at every monosyllable; and Lucy -found that nothing would occur to her at that moment worthy of being -spoken. There she sat still and motionless, afraid to take up a book, -and thinking in her heart how much happier she would have been at home -at the parsonage. She was not made for society; she felt sure of that; -and another time site would let Mark and Fanny come to Framley Court by -themselves. - -And then the gentlemen came in, and there was another stir in the room. -Lady Lufton got up and bustled about; she poked the fire and shifted -the candles, spoke a few words to Dr. Grantly, whispered something to -her son, patted Lucy on the cheek, told Fanny, who was a musician, that -they would have a little music; and ended by putting her two hands on -Griselda’s shoulders and telling her that the fit of her frock was -perfect. For Lady Lufton, though she did dress old herself, as Lucy had -said, delighted to see those around her neat and pretty, jaunty and -graceful. - -“Dear Lady Lufton!” said Griselda, putting up her hand so as to press the -end of her ladyship’s fingers. It was the first piece of animation she -had shown, and Lucy Robarts watched it all. - -And then there was music. Lucy neither played nor sang; Fanny did both, -and for an amateur did both well. Griselda did not sing, but she played; -and did so in a manner that showed that neither her own labour nor her -father’s money had been spared in her instruction. Lord Lufton sang also, -a little, and Captain Culpepper a very little; so that they got up a -concert among them. In the meantime the doctor and Mark stood talking -together on the rug before the fire; the two mothers sat contented, -watching the billings and the cooings of their offspring—and Lucy sat -alone, turning over the leaves of a book of pictures. She made up her -mind fully, then and there, that she was quite unfitted by disposition -for such work as this. She cared for no one, and no one cared for her. -Well, she must go through with it now; but another time she would know -better. With her own book and a fireside she never felt herself to be -miserable as she was now. - -She had turned her back to the music, for she was sick of seeing Lord -Lufton watch the artistic motion of Miss Grantly’s fingers, and was -sitting at a small table as far away from the piano as a long room would -permit, when she was suddenly roused from a reverie of self-reproach by a -voice close behind her: “Miss Robarts,” said the voice, “why have you cut -us all?” and Lucy felt that though she heard the words plainly, nobody -else did. Lord Lufton was now speaking to her as he had before spoken to -Miss Grantly. - -“I don’t play, my lord,” said Lucy, “nor yet sing.” - -“That would have made your company so much more valuable to us, for we -are terribly badly off for listeners. Perhaps you don’t like music?” - -“I do like it,—sometimes very much.” - -“And when are the sometimes? But we shall find it all out in time. We -shall have unravelled all your mysteries, and read all your riddles, -by—when shall I say?—by the end of the winter. Shall we not?” - -“I do not know that I have got any mysteries.” - -“Oh, but you have! It is very mysterious in you to come and sit here, -with your back to us all——” - -“Oh, Lord Lufton; if I have done wrong——!” and poor Lucy almost started -from her chair, and a deep flush came across her dark cheek. - -“No—no; you have done no wrong. I was only joking. It is we who have done -wrong in leaving you to yourself—you who are the greatest stranger among -us.” - -“I have been very well, thank you. I don’t care about being left alone. I -have always been used to it.” - -“Ah! but we must break you of the habit. We won’t allow you to make a -hermit of yourself. But the truth is, Miss Robarts, you don’t know us -yet, and therefore you are not quite happy among us.” - -“Oh! yes, I am; you are all very good to me.” - -“You must let us be good to you. At any rate, you must let me be so. You -know, don’t you, that Mark and I have been dear friends since we were -seven years old. His wife has been my sister’s dearest friend almost as -long; and now that you are with them, you must be a dear friend too. You -won’t refuse the offer; will you?” - -“Oh, no,” she said, quite in a whisper; and, indeed, she could hardly -raise her voice above a whisper, fearing that tears would fall from her -tell-tale eyes. - -“Dr. and Mrs. Grantly will have gone in a couple of days, and then we -must get you down here. Miss Grantly is to remain for Christmas, and you -two must become bosom friends.” - -Lucy smiled, and tried to look pleased, but she felt that she and -Griselda Grantly could never be bosom friends—could never have anything -in common between them. She felt sure that Griselda despised her, little, -brown, plain, and unimportant as she was. She herself could not despise -Griselda in turn; indeed she could not but admire Miss Grantly’s great -beauty and dignity of demeanour; but she knew that she could never love -her. It is hardly possible that the proud-hearted should love those who -despise them; and Lucy Robarts was very proud-hearted. - -“Don’t you think she is very handsome?” said Lord Lufton. - -“Oh, very,” said Lucy. “Nobody can doubt that.” - -“Ludovic,” said Lady Lufton—not quite approving of her son’s remaining -so long at the back of Lucy’s chair—“won’t you give us another song—Mrs. -Robarts and Miss Grantly are still at the piano?” - -“I have sung away all that I knew, mother. There’s Culpepper has not had -a chance yet. He has got to give us his dream—how he ‘dreamt that he -dwelt in marble halls!’” - -“I sang that an hour ago,” said the captain, not over pleased. - -“But you certainly have not told us how ‘your little lovers came!’” - -The captain, however, would not sing any more. And then the party was -broken up, and the Robarts’s went home to their parsonage. - - -CHAPTER XII. - -THE LITTLE BILL. - -Lucy, during those last fifteen minutes of her sojourn in the Framley -Court drawing-room, somewhat modified the very strong opinion she had -before formed as to her unfitness for such society. It was very pleasant -sitting there in that easy chair, while Lord Lufton stood at the back -of it saying nice, soft, good-natured words to her. She was sure that -in a little time she could feel a true friendship for him, and that she -could do so without any risk of falling in love with him. But then she -had a glimmering of an idea that such a friendship would be open to -all manner of remarks, and would hardly be compatible with the world’s -ordinary ways. At any rate it would be pleasant to be at Framley Court, -if he would come and occasionally notice her. But she did not admit to -herself that such a visit would be intolerable if his whole time were -devoted to Griselda Grantly. She neither admitted it, nor thought it; -but nevertheless, in a strange unconscious way, such a feeling did find -entrance in her bosom. - -And then the Christmas holidays passed away. How much of this enjoyment -fell to her share, and how much of this suffering she endured, we will -not attempt accurately to describe. Miss Grantly remained at Framley -Court up to Twelfth Night, and the Robarts’s also spent most of the -season at the house. Lady Lufton, no doubt, had hoped that everything -might have been arranged on this occasion in accordance with her wishes, -but such had not been the case. Lord Lufton had evidently admired Miss -Grantly very much; indeed, he had said so to his mother half-a-dozen -times; but it may almost be questioned whether the pleasure Lady Lufton -derived from this was not more than neutralized by an opinion he once put -forward that Griselda Grantly wanted some of the fire of Lucy Robarts. - -“Surely, Ludovic, you would never compare the two girls,” said Lady -Lufton. - -“Of course not. They are the very antipodes to each other. Miss Grantly -would probably be more to my taste; but then I am wise enough to know -that it is so because my taste is a bad taste.” - -“I know no man with a more accurate or refined taste in such matters,” -said Lady Lufton. Beyond this she did not dare to go. She knew very -well that her strategy would be vain should her son once learn that she -had a strategy. To tell the truth, Lady Lufton was becoming somewhat -indifferent to Lucy Robarts. She had been very kind to the little -girl; but the little girl seemed hardly to appreciate the kindness as -she should do—and then Lord Lufton would talk to Lucy, “which was so -unnecessary, you know;” and Lucy had got into a way of talking quite -freely with Lord Lufton, having completely dropped that short, spasmodic, -ugly exclamation of “my lord.” - -And so the Christmas festivities were at an end, and January wore itself -away. During the greater part of this month Lord Lufton did not remain -at Framley, but was nevertheless in the county, hunting with the hounds -of both divisions, and staying at various houses. Two or three nights he -spent at Chaldicotes; and one—let it only be told in an under voice—at -Gatherum Castle! Of this he said nothing to Lady Lufton. “Why make her -unhappy?” as he said to Mark. But Lady Lufton knew it, though she said -not a word to him—knew it, and was unhappy. “If he would only marry -Griselda, there would be an end of that danger,” she said to herself. - -But now we must go back for a while to the vicar and his little bill. It -will be remembered, that his first idea with reference to that trouble, -after the reading of his father’s will, was to borrow the money from his -brother John. John was down at Exeter at the time, and was to stay one -night at the parsonage on his way to London. Mark would broach the matter -to him on the journey, painful though it would be to him to tell the -story of his own folly to a brother so much younger than himself, and who -had always looked up to him, clergyman and full-blown vicar as he was, -with a deference greater than that which such difference in age required. - -The story was told, however; but was told all in vain, as Mark found out -before he reached Framley. His brother John immediately declared that he -would lend him the money, of course—eight hundred, if his brother wanted -it. He, John, confessed that, as regarded the remaining two, he should -like to feel the pleasure of immediate possession. As for interest, he -would not take any—take interest from a brother! of course not. Well, if -Mark made such a fuss about it, he supposed he must take it; but would -rather not. Mark should have his own way, and do just what he liked. - -This was all very well, and Mark had fully made up his mind that his -brother should not be kept long out of his money. But then arose the -question, how was that money to be reached? He, Mark, was executor, or -one of the executors under his father’s will, and, therefore, no doubt, -could put his hand upon it; but his brother wanted five months of being -of age, and could not therefore as yet be put legally in possession of -the legacy. - -“That’s a bore,” said the assistant private secretary to the Lord Petty -Bag, thinking, perhaps, as much of his own immediate wish for ready cash -as he did of his brother’s necessities. Mark felt that it was a bore, but -there was nothing more to be done in that direction. He must now find out -how far the bankers could assist him. - -Some week or two after his return to Framley he went over to Barchester, -and called there on a certain Mr. Forrest, the manager of one of the -banks, with whom he was acquainted; and with many injunctions as to -secrecy told this manager the whole of his story. At first, he concealed -the name of his friend Sowerby, but it soon appeared that no such -concealment was of any avail. “That’s Sowerby, of course,” said Mr. -Forrest. “I know you are intimate with him; and all his friends go -through that, sooner or later.” - -It seemed to Mark as though Mr. Forrest made very light of the whole -transaction. - -“I cannot possibly pay the bill when it falls due,” said Mark. - -“Oh, no, of course not,” said Mr. Forrest. “It’s never very convenient -to hand out four hundred pounds at a blow. Nobody will expect you to pay -it!” - -“But I suppose I shall have to do it sooner or later?” - -“Well, that’s as may be. It will depend partly on how you manage with -Sowerby, and partly on the hands it gets into. As the bill has your name -on it, they’ll have patience as long as the interest is paid, and the -commissions on renewal. But no doubt it will have to be met some day by -somebody.” - -Mr. Forrest said that he was sure that the bill was not in Barchester; -Mr. Sowerby would not, he thought, have brought it to a Barchester -bank. The bill was probably in London, but, doubtless, would be sent to -Barchester for collection. “If it comes in my way,” said Mr. Forrest, “I -will give you plenty of time, so that you may manage about the renewal -with Sowerby. I suppose he’ll pay the expense of doing that.” - -Mark’s heart was somewhat lighter as he left the bank. Mr. Forrest had -made so little of the whole transaction that he felt himself justified in -making little of it also. “It may be as well,” said he to himself, as he -drove home, “not to tell Fanny anything about it till the three months -have run round. I must make some arrangement then.” And in this way his -mind was easier during the last of those three months than it had been -during the two former. That feeling of over-due bills, of bills coming -due, of accounts overdrawn, of tradesmen unpaid, of general money cares, -is very dreadful at first; but it is astonishing how soon men get used to -it. A load which would crush a man at first becomes, by habit, not only -endurable, but easy and comfortable to the bearer. The habitual debtor -goes along jaunty and with elastic step, almost enjoying the excitement -of his embarrassments. There was Mr. Sowerby himself; who ever saw a -cloud on his brow? It made one almost in love with ruin to be in his -company. And even now, already, Mark Robarts was thinking to himself -quite comfortably about this bill;—how very pleasantly those bankers -managed these things. Pay it! No; no one will be so unreasonable as to -expect you to do that! And then Mr. Sowerby certainly was a pleasant -fellow, and gave a man something in return for his money. It was still a -question with Mark whether Lord Lufton had not been too hard on Sowerby. -Had that gentleman fallen across his clerical friend at the present -moment, he might no doubt have gotten from him an acceptance for another -four hundred pounds. - -One is almost inclined to believe that there is something pleasurable in -the excitement of such embarrassments, as there is also in the excitement -of drink. But then, at last, the time does come when the excitement is -over, and when nothing but the misery is left. If there be an existence -of wretchedness on earth it must be that of the elderly, worn-out -_roué_, who has run this race of debt and bills of accommodation and -acceptances,—of what, if we were not in these days somewhat afraid of -good broad English, we might call lying and swindling, falsehood and -fraud—and who, having ruined all whom he should have loved, having -burnt up every one who would trust him much, and scorched all who would -trust him a little, is at last left to finish his life with such bread -and water as these men get, without one honest thought to strengthen his -sinking heart, or one honest friend to hold his shivering hand! If a man -could only think of that, as he puts his name to the first little bill, -as to which he is so good-naturedly assured that it can easily be renewed! - -When the three months had nearly run out, it so happened that Robarts met -his friend Sowerby. Mark had once or twice ridden with Lord Lufton as far -as the meet of the hounds, and may, perhaps, have gone a field or two -farther on some occasions. The reader must not think that he had taken -to hunting, as some parsons do; and it is singular enough that whenever -they do so they always show a special aptitude for the pursuit, as though -hunting were an employment peculiarly congenial with a cure of souls in -the country. Such a thought would do our vicar injustice. But when Lord -Lufton would ask him what on earth could be the harm of riding along -the roads to look at the hounds, he hardly knew what sensible answer -to give his lordship. It would be absurd to say that his time would be -better employed at home in clerical matters, for it was notorious that -he had not clerical pursuits for the employment of half his time. In -this way, therefore, he had got into a habit of looking at the hounds, -and keeping up his acquaintance in the county, meeting Lord Dumbello, -Mr. Green Walker, Harold Smith, and other such like sinners; and on one -such occasion, as the three months were nearly closing, he did meet Mr. -Sowerby. - -“Look here, Sowerby; I want to speak to you for half a moment. What are -you doing about that bill?” - -“Bill—bill! what bill?—which bill? The whole bill, and nothing but the -bill. That seems to be the conversation now-a-days of all men, morning, -noon, and night.” - -“Don’t you know the bill I signed for you for four hundred pounds?” - -“Did you, though? Was not that rather green of you?” - -This did seem strange to Mark. Could it really be the fact that Mr. -Sowerby had so many bills flying about that he had absolutely forgotten -that occurrence in the Gatherum Castle bedroom. And then to be called -green by the very man whom he had obliged! - -“Perhaps I was,” said Mark, in a tone that showed that he was somewhat -piqued. “But all the same I should be glad to know how it will be taken -up.” - -“Oh, Mark, what a ruffian you are to spoil my day’s sport in this way. -Any man but a parson would be too good a Christian for such intense -cruelty. But let me see—four hundred pounds? Oh, yes—Tozer has it.” - -“And what will Tozer do with it?” - -“Make money of it; whatever way he may go to work he will do that.” - -“But will Tozer bring it to me on the 20th?” - -“Oh, Lord, no! Upon my word, Mark, you are deliciously green. A cat would -as soon think of killing a mouse directly she got it into her claws. But, -joking apart, you need not trouble yourself. Maybe you will hear no more -about it; or, perhaps, which no doubt is more probable, I may have to -send it to you to be renewed. But you need do nothing till you hear from -me or somebody else.” - -“Only do not let any one come down upon me for the money.” - -“There is not the slightest fear of that. Tally-ho, old fellow! He’s -away. Tally-ho! right over by Gossetts’ barn. Come along, and never mind -Tozer—‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’” And away they both -went together, parson and member of parliament. - -And then again on that occasion Mark went home with a sort of feeling -that the bill did not matter. Tozer would manage it somehow; and it was -quite clear that it would not do to tell his wife of it just at present. - -On the 21st of that month of February, however, he did receive a reminder -that the bill and all concerning it had not merely been a farce. This was -a letter from Mr. Sowerby, dated from Chaldicotes, though not bearing the -Barchester post-mark, in which that gentleman suggested a renewal—not -exactly of the old bill, but of a new one. It seemed to Mark that the -letter had been posted in London. If I give it entire, I shall, perhaps, -most quickly explain its purport: - - “Chaldicotes,—20th February, 185—. - - “MY DEAR MARK,—”‘Lend not thy name to the money-dealers, for - the same is a destruction and a snare.’ If that be not in the - Proverbs, it ought to be. Tozer has given me certain signs of - his being alive and strong this cold weather. As we can neither - of us take up that bill for 400_l_. at the moment, we must - renew it, and pay him his commission and interest, with all the - rest of his perquisites, and pickings, and stealings—from all - which, I can assure you, Tozer does not keep his hands as he - should do. - - “To cover this and some other little outstanding trifles, I - have filled in the new bill for 500_l._, making it due 23rd of - May next. Before that time, a certain accident will, I trust, - have occurred to your impoverished friend. By-the-by, I never - told you how she went off from Gatherum Castle, the morning - after you left us, with the Greshams. Cart-ropes would not hold - her, even though the duke held them; which he did, with all the - strength of his ducal hands. She would go to meet some doctor - of theirs, and so I was put off for that time; but I think that - the matter stands in a good train. - - “Do not lose a post in sending back the bill accepted, as Tozer - may annoy you—nay, undoubtedly will, if the matter be not in - his hand, duly signed by both of us, the day after to-morrow. - He is an ungrateful brute; he has lived on me for these eight - years, and would not let me off a single squeeze now to save my - life. But I am specially anxious to save you from the annoyance - and cost of lawyers’ letters; and if delayed, it might get into - the papers. - - “Put it under cover to me, at No. 7, Duke Street, St. James’s. - I shall be in town by that time. - - “Good-bye, old fellow. That was a decent brush we had the other - day from Cobbold’s Ashes. I wish I could get that brown horse - from you. I would not mind going to a hundred and thirty. - - “Yours ever, - - “N. SOWERBY.” - -When Mark had read it through he looked down on his table to see whether -the old bill had fallen from the letter; but no, there was no enclosure, -and had been no enclosure but the new bill. And then he read the letter -through again, and found that there was no word about the old bill,—not a -syllable, at least, as to its whereabouts. Sowerby did not even say that -it would remain in his own hands. - -Mark did not in truth know much about such things. It might be that the -very fact of his signing this second document would render that first -document null and void; and from Sowerby’s silence on the subject, it -might be argued that this was so well known to be the case, that he had -not thought of explaining it. But yet Mark could not see how this should -be so. - -But what was he to do? That threat of cost and lawyers, and specially of -the newspapers, did have its effect upon him—as no doubt it was intended -to do. And then he was utterly dumfounded by Sowerby’s impudence in -drawing on him for 500_l._ instead of 400_l._, “covering,” as Sowerby so -good-humouredly said, “sundry little outstanding trifles.” - -But at last he did sign the bill, and sent it off, as Sowerby had -directed. What else was he to do? - -Fool that he was. A man always can do right, even though he has done -wrong before. But that previous wrong adds so much difficulty to the -path—a difficulty which increases in tremendous ratio, till a man at last -is choked in his struggling, and is drowned beneath the waters. - -And then he put away Sowerby’s letter carefully, locking it up from -his wife’s sight. It was a letter that no parish clergyman should have -received. So much he acknowledged to himself. But nevertheless it was -necessary that he should keep it. And now again for a few hours this -affair made him very miserable. - - - - -Ideal Houses. - - -Wandering one morning into the Lowther Arcade, I found myself behind an -old man and a little girl. The man was very feeble and tottering in his -steps, and the child was very young. It was near the Christmas season, -and many children, richly dressed, in the care of mothers, sisters, and -nursery governesses, were loading themselves with all kinds of amusing -and expensive toys. The vaulted roof re-echoed with the sounds of young -voices, shrill whistles, wiry tinklings of musical gocarts, the rustling -of paper, and the notes of cornopeans or pianos. It was the Exhibition of -1851 repeated, in miniature; the toys of manhood being exchanged for the -toys of youth. - -My old man and my little girl were not amongst the happy buyers, or the -richly dressed, for they were evidently very poor. They had wandered -into the bazaar to feast upon its sights, and it was difficult to say -which was the more entranced of the two. The old man gazed about him, -with a vacant, gratified smile upon his face, and the child was too young -to know that any barrier existed to prevent her plucking the tempting -fruit which she saw hanging in clusters on every side. This barrier—the -old, thick, black, impassable barrier of poverty—though invisible to the -child, was not invisible to me; and I blamed the old man for turning her -steps into such a glittering enchanted cavern, whose walls were really -lined, to her, with bitterness and despair. - -“Why don’t we live here, gran’da?” asked the child. The old man gave no -other answer than a weak laugh. - -“Why don’t I have a house like that?” continued the child, pointing to -a bright doll’s-house displayed upon a stall, and trying to drag her -guardian towards it. - -The old man still only laughed feebly, as he shuffled past the -attraction, and before the thought had struck me that I might have -purchased a cheap pleasure by giving this house to the child, they were -both lost in the pushing, laughing crowd. - -This incident naturally set me thinking about toys, and their effect -in increasing the amount of human happiness. I asked myself if I, ——, -a respectable, middle-aged man of moderate means, was free from the -influence of these powerful trifles. I was compelled, in all the cheap -honesty of self-examination, to answer “No.” I felt, upon reflection, -that I was even weaker than the poor child I had just seen. The chief -toy that I was seeking for was an ideal house that I had never been -able to find. I was led away by a vague sentiment about the poetry of -neighbourhoods—a secret consuming passion for red-brick—a something -that could hardly be weighed or spanned; the echo of an old song; the -mists of a picture; the shadow of a dream. She was led away by no -such unsubstantial phantoms. Her eyes had suddenly rested, for a few -moments, upon her childish paradise, and a few shillings would have made -her happy. I, on the contrary, had exhausted years in searching for my -paradise, but without a prospect of success. - -The fact is, I have got an unfortunate habit of looking back. I am fond -of the past, though only in a dreamy, unsystematic way. My history is -a little out of order, and I am no authority upon dates; but I like to -hover about places. I cannot tell the day, the hour, or even the year in -which the battle of Sedgemoor occurred; but I have gloated over the old -roadside mill from which the Duke of Monmouth watched his losing contest, -and the old houses at Bridgewater, whose roofs were then probably crowded -with women and children. I have even been through the straggling village -of Weston Zoyland, and into the sanded tavern where the late Lord -Macaulay resided for weeks while he wrote this portion of his history. I -have heard the landlord’s proud account of his distinguished guest, and -how “he worrited about the neighbourhood.” This interesting fact, so I am -informed, is duly recorded, upon my authority, in the latest edition of -_Men of the Time_. My only objection to the late Lord Macaulay is, that -he was one of these men of the time—of my own time. If Gibbon had been -the careful historian of Sedgemoor, the village pothouse would have had -a finer old crusted flavour, to my taste. The sentiment that governs me -scarcely blooms under a hundred years, neither more nor less. I cannot -learn to love the Elizabethan times—they are too remote. I have no more -real sympathy with fifteen hundred and fifty, than with eighteen hundred -and fifty. I can tolerate the seventeenth century; but the eighteenth -always “stirs my heart, like a trumpet.” - -Notwithstanding all this, I am not an obstructive man; I am not a -“fogey.” I take the good the gods provide me. I have no prejudices -against gas; though I wish it could be supplied without so much parochial -quarrelling. It may generate poison, as certain chemists assert; but -it certainly generates too many pamphlets and public meetings. I use -the electric telegraph; I travel by the railway; and I am thankful -to their inventors and originators. The moment, however, I leave the -railway, I plunge rapidly into the past. I never linger, for a moment, -at the bright, new, damp, lofty railway hotel (I hate the name of hotel, -although I know it springs from hostelry); nor amongst the mushroom -houses that rally round the station. My course is always through the -distant trees, beyond the dwarfish, crumbling church, whose broad low -windows seem to have taken root amongst the flat, uneven tombstones, -into the old town or village, into its very heart—its market-place—and -up to the brown old door of its oldest inn. I know everything that can -be said against such places. They are very yellow; they have too strong -a flavour of stale tobacco-smoke; their roofs are low, and their floors -have a leaning either to one side or the other. Their passages are dark, -and often built on various levels; so that you may tumble down into your -bed-chamber, or tumble up into your sitting-room, shaking every tooth in -your head, or possibly biting your tongue. These may be serious drawbacks -to some people, but they are not so serious to me, and I am able to -find many compensating advantages. The last vestige of the real old -able-bodied port lingers only in such nooks and corners, and is served -out by matronly servants, like housekeepers in ancient families. I know -one inn of the kind where the very “boots” looks positively venerable. He -wears a velvet skull-cap that Cardinal Wolsey might have been proud of; -he has saved ten thousand pounds in his humble servitude, and is a large -landed proprietor in the county. Prosperity has not made him inattentive. -No one will give your shoes such an enduring polish, or call you up for -an early train with such unerring punctuality. - -With these sentiments, fancies, and prejudices in favour of the past, -joined to a fastidious, quaintly luxurious taste, and limited funds, it -is hardly to be wondered at that I have searched long and vainly for my -ideal dwelling. I might, perhaps, have found it readily enough in the -country, but my habits only allowed me to seek it in town. I am a London -man—London born and London bred—a genuine cockney, I hope, of the school -of Dr. Johnson and Charles Lamb. I cannot tear myself away from old -taverns, old courts and alleys, old suburbs (now standing in the very -centre of the town), old print-shops, old mansions, old archways, and old -churches. I must hear the London chimes at midnight, or life would not be -worth a jot. I hear them, as they were heard a century and more ago, for -they are the last things to change; but forty or fifty years have played -sad havoc with land, and brick, and stone. Fire has done something; -metropolitan improvements have done more. Not only do I mourn over what -is lost, but what is gained. The town grows newer every day that it -grows older. I know it must be so; I know it ought to be so; I know it -is a sign of increased prosperity and strength. I see this with one half -of my mind, while I abhor it with the other. I cannot love New Oxford -Street, while St. Giles’s Church and old Holborn still remain. I have -no affection for Bayswater and Notting-hill, but a tender remembrance -of Tyburn Gate. I feel no sensation of delight when I hear the name of -St. John’s Wood or the Regent’s Park; and Camden Town is a thing of -yesterday that I treat with utter contempt. If I allow my footsteps to -wander along Piccadilly and through Knightsbridge, they turn down, on one -side, into Chelsea, or up, on the other side, into Kensington, leaving -Brompton unvisited in the middle. I am never tired of sitting under the -trees in Cheyne Walk; of walking round the red bricks and trim gravel -pathways of Chelsea Hospital; of peeping through the railings at Gough -House, or watching the old Physic Garden from a boat on the river. I am -never weary of roaming hand-in-hand with an amiable, gossiping companion, -like Leigh Hunt, listening to stories at every doorstep in the old town, -and repeopling faded, half-deserted streets with the great and little -celebrities of the past. I never consider a day ill spent that has ended -in plucking daisies upon Kew Green, or in wasting an hour or two in -the cathedral stillness of Charter-House Square. I am fond of tracing -resemblances, perhaps imaginary, between Mark Lane and Old Highgate, and -of visiting old merchants’ decayed mansions far away in tarry Poplar. I -could add a chapter to Leigh Hunt’s pleasant essay upon City trees,[14] -and tell of many fountains and flower-gardens that stand under the -windows of dusky counting-houses. - -Humanizing as such harmless wandering ought to be, it seems only to make -me break a commandment. I am sorely afraid that I covet my neighbour’s -house. When I find the nearest approach to my ideal—my day-dream—my toy -dwelling—it is always in the occupation of steady, unshifting people. -Such habitations, in or near London, seem to descend as heirlooms from -generation to generation. They are never to be let; they are seldom -offered for sale; and the house agent—the showman of “eligible villas”—is -not familiar with them. I will describe the rarity. - -It must be built of red brick, not earlier than 1650, not later than -1750, picked out at the edges with slabs of yellow stone. It must not -be too lofty, and must be equally balanced on each side of its doorway. -It must stand detached, walled in on about an acre of ground, well -surrounded by large old trees. Its roof must be sloping, and if crowned -with a bell-turret, so much the better. Its outer entrance must be a -lofty gate of flowered ironwork, supported on each side by purple-red -brick columns, each one surmounted by a globe of stone. Looking through -the tracery of this iron gate, you must see a few broad white steps -leading up to the entrance-hall. The doorway of this hall must be dark -and massive, the lower half wood and the upper half window-framed -glass. Over the top must be a projecting hood-porch filled with nests -of wood-carving, representing fruit, flowers, and figures, brown with -age. Looking through the glass of the hall-door, you must see more -carving like this along the lofty walls; and a broad staircase with -banisters, dark as ebony, leading up to a long narrow window, shaded by -the rich wings of a spreading cedar-tree. The rooms of this mansion will -necessarily be in keeping with its external features, presenting many -unexpected, irregular closets and corners, with, perhaps, a mysterious -double staircase leading down to the cellars, to which a romantic, -unauthenticated story is attached. Such houses are none the worse for -being filled with legends; for having one apartment, at least, with a -reputed murder-stain upon its floor; and for being generally alluded to -as Queen Elizabeth’s palaces, although probably not built for nearly a -century after that strong-minded monarch’s death. The window-shutters are -none the worse for being studded with alarm-bells, as thick as grapes -upon a fruitful vine; as an additional comfort is derived from the -security of the present, when we are made to reflect upon the dangers of -the past. A few rooks will give an additional charm to the place; and it -will be pleasant, when a few crumbs are thrown upon the gravel, to see a -fluttering cloud of sparrows dropping down from the sheltering eaves. - -With regard to the neighbourhood in which such a house should stand, -it must be essentially _ripe_. Better that it should be a little faded; -a little deserted; a little unpopular, and very unfashionable; than so -dreadfully raw and new. It should have a flavour of old literature, -old politics, and old art. If it is just a little obstructive and High -Tory—inclined to stand upon the ancient ways—no sensible man of progress -should blame it, but smile blandly and pass on. It will, at least, -possess the merit, in his eyes, of being self-supporting; asking for, or -obtaining no government aid. While Boards of Works are freely supplied -with funds to construct the new, there is no board but unorganized -sentiment to maintain the old. - -This house and this neighbourhood should not be far from London—from the -old centre of the old town. They should stand in Soho, or in Lincoln’s -Inn Fields, or in Westminster, like Queen’s Square, near St. James’s -Park; or even in Lambeth, like the Archbishop’s Palace. Better still if -in the Strand, like Northumberland House; or in Fleet Street, like the -Temple Gardens. What luxury would there be, almost equal to anything we -read of in the _Arabian Nights_, in turning on one side from the busy -crowd, unlocking a dingy door that promised to lead to nothing but a -miserable court, and passing, at once, into a secret, secluded garden! -What pleasures would be equal to those of hearing the splash of cool -fountains; the sighing of the wind through lofty elms and broad beeches; -of standing amongst the scent and colours of a hundred growing flowers; -of sitting in an oaken room with a tiled fireplace, surrounded by old -china in cabinets, old folios upon carved tables, old portraits of men -and women in the costume of a bygone time, and looking out over a lawn -of grass into a winding vista of trees, so contrived as to shut out all -signs of city life, while the mellow hum of traffic came in at the open -window, or through the walls, and you felt that you were within a stone’s -throw of Temple Bar! - -In such a house, on such a spot, a man might live, and his life be -something more than a weary round of food and sleep. His nature would -become subdued to what it rested in: the clay would happily take the -shape of the mould. I believe more in the influence of dwellings upon -human character, than in the influence of authority on matters of -opinion. The man may seek the house; or the house may form the man; but -in either case the result is the same. A few yards of earth, even on this -side of the grave, will make all the difference between life and death. -If our dear old friend Charles Lamb was now alive (and we all must wish -he was, if only that he might see how every day is bringing him nearer -the crown that belongs only to the Prince of British Essayists), there -would be something singularly jarring to the human nerves in finding -him at Dalston; but not so jarring in finding him a little farther off, -at Hackney. He would still have drawn nourishment in the Temple and in -Covent Garden; but he must surely have perished if transplanted to New -Tyburnia. I cannot imagine him living at Pentonville (I cannot, in my -uninquiring ignorance, imagine who Penton was that he should name a -_ville_!), but I can see a certain appropriate oddity in his cottage -at Colebrook Row, Islington. In the first place, we may agree that -this London suburb is very old, without going into the vexed question -of whether it was really very “merry.” In the second place, this same -Colebrook Row was built a few years before our dear old friend was born—I -believe, in seventeen hundred and seventy. In the third place, it was -called a “Row,” though “Lane” or “Walk” would have been as old and as -good; but “Terrace” or “Crescent” would have rendered it unbearable. -The New River flowed calmly past, the cottage walls—as poor George Dyer -found to his cost—bringing with it fair memories of Izaak Walton and -the last two centuries. The house itself had also certain peculiarities -to recommend it. The door was so constructed that it opened into the -chief sitting-room; and this, though promising much annoyance, was -really a source of fun and enjoyment to our dear old friend. He was -never so delighted as when he stood on the hearthrug receiving many -congenial visitors, as they came to him on the muddiest-boot, and the -wettest-of-umbrella days. His immediate neighbourhood was also peculiar. -It was there that weary wanderers came to seek the waters of oblivion. -Suicide could pitch upon no spot so favourable for its sacrifices as the -gateway leading into the river enclosure before Charles Lamb’s cottage. -Waterloo Bridge had not long been built, and was not then a fashionable -theatre for self-destruction. The drags were always kept ready in -Colebrook Row, and are still so kept at a small tavern a few doors from -the cottage. The landlord’s ear, according to his own account, had -become so sensitive by repeated practice, that when aroused at night by -a heavy splash in the water, he could tell by the sound whether it was -an accident, or a wilful plunge. He never believed that poor George Dyer -tumbled in from carelessness, though it was no business of his to express -an opinion on the matter. After the eighth suicide, within a short -period, Charles Lamb began to grow restless. - -“Mary,” he said to his sister, “I think it’s high time we left this -place;” and so they went to Edmonton. Those who are painfully familiar -with the unfortunate mental infirmity under which they both laboured, -will see a sorrowful meaning in words like these. Those who, like me, can -see an odd harmony between our dear old friend and Colebrook Row, will -lament, the sad necessity which compelled them to part company. - -Without wishing for a moment to erect my eccentric taste in houses as an -unerring guide for my fellow-creatures (especially as the ancient London -dwellings are growing fewer every day, and I am still seeking my ideal -toy), I must still be allowed to wonder at that condition of mind which -can settle down, with seeming delight, in the new raw buildings that -I see springing up on every side. I am not speaking of those who are -compelled to practise economy (I am compelled to practise it myself), -nor of those whose business arrangements require them to keep within a -particular circle; but of those who have the power, to a certain extent, -of choosing their ground, and choose it upon some principle that I am -unable to understand. - -I have a sensitive horror of regularity, of uniformity, of straight -lines, of obtrusive geometrical forms. I prefer a winding alley to a -direct street. I detest a modern, well-advertised building estate. The -water-colour sketch of such a place is meant to be very fascinating -and attractive as it hangs in the great house-agent’s office or -window, but it has no charms for me. My theory is that a man must be -perpetually struggling if he wishes to preserve his individuality in -such a settlement. The water may be pure; the soil may be gravelly; -the neighbourhood may be well supplied with all kinds of churches -and chapels; the “red book” may not pass it by as being out of the -fashionable circle; blue books may refer to it approvingly as a model -of perfect drainage; it may be warmed up by thorough occupation; -perambulators may be seen in its bare new squares; broughams may stand by -the side of its bright level kerbstones; but the demon of sameness, in my -eyes, would always be brooding over it. I should feel that when I retired -to rest, perhaps eight hundred masters of households were slumbering -in eight hundred bedchambers exactly the same size and the same shape -as my own. When I took a bath, or lingered over the breakfast-table, -I should be haunted by the knowledge that eight hundred people might -probably be taking similar baths and similar breakfasts in precisely -similar apartments. My library, my dining-room, and my drawing-room would -correspond in shape and size with eight hundred other receptacles devoted -to study, refreshment, and recreation. If I gazed from a window, or stood -at a doorway, I should see hundreds of other windows, and hundreds of -other doorways, that matched mine in relative position and design. I -should look down upon the same infant shrubs, and the same even, level -walls, or up at the same long, level parapets, without break, the same -regular army of chimney-pots, without variety,—until I should feel as if -I had settled in a fashionable penitentiary, to feed upon monotony for -the rest of my days. My dreams at night would probably be a mixture of -the past and the present, of my old tastes and my new sufferings. The -builder, whose trowel seemed ever ringing in my ears, would dance over -me in hoops and patches; and the whitewasher, whose brush seemed always -flopping above my head, would be mixing his composition in my favourite -punch-bowl. My old books, my old prints, my old china, my old furniture, -my old servants, would pine away in such a habitation; and I should have -to surround myself with fresh faces and fresh voices, according to the -latest model. Finally, I should die of a surfeit of stucco, and be the -first lodger entered in the records of the adjoining bleak, unfinished -cemetery. - -If I have little sympathy with those people who dwell in such tents as -these,—who neither belong to the town nor the country,—who hang upon -the skirts of London in mushroom suburbs that blend as inharmoniously -with the great old city as a Wandsworth villa would blend with Rochester -Castle,—I am totally unable to understand the character of those other -people whose love for the modern carries them even farther than this, -and who take a pride in planting damp and comfortless homes in the very -centre of wild, unfinished neighbourhoods. Who are they? Have they -human form and shape, with minds and hearts; or are they, as I have -often suspected, merely window-blinds? If they are not policemen and -laundresses in charge of bare walls and echoing passages; if they are not -hired housekeepers put in to bait the trap, and catch unwary tenants; if -they are not restless spirits, who, for an abatement of rent, are always -willing to lead the advanced posts in suburban colonization,—whence -springs that singular ambition which is always anxious to be literally -first in the field, and the oldest inhabitant in a settlement of -yesterday? Surely, there can be little pleasure in living, for months, -amongst heaps of brick-dust, shavings, mortar and wet clay; in staring -at hollow shops that are boarded up for years until they are wanted, -and at undecided mansions which may turn out to be public-houses; or -in being stared at, in a tenfold degree, by rows of spectral carcases -and yawning cellars? There can be little pleasure in contemplating cold -stucco porticos of a mongrel Greek type, that crack and fall to pieces -in rain and frost; or gaping gravel-pits; or stagnant ponds; or lines of -oven-like foundations waiting for more capital and more enterprise to -cover them with houses. There can be just as little pleasure in seeing -your scanty pavement breaking suddenly off before your door, and your -muddy, hilly road tapering away in a few rotten planks that lead into a -marshy, grassless field, where you may stand and easily fancy yourself -the last man at the end of a melancholy, unsuccessful, deserted world, -looking into space, with no one person or thing behind you. - -The old places that I shall always cling to are unhappily often visited -by decay; but it is the decay of ripe old age, which is always venerable. -My ideal toy-house—the nearest approach to it that I can find—may become -uninhabitable in the fulness of years, but it will still be picturesque; -and those who may despise it as a dwelling will admire it upon canvas. -In this form it is often brought within my humble reach, and I secure -the shadow if I cannot obtain the substance. I still, however, look -longingly at the reality, as my little girl looked at her toy-house in -her morning’s walk; and, like her, I shall doubtless be swept past it, -still looking back, until I am sucked into that countless crowd from -which there is no returning. - - -FOOTNOTES - -[14] _The Town: its Memorable Characters and Events._ - - - - -Dante. - - - I wait, in patience, and in trembling hope, - The last sands in my glass; a few brief grains - Divide me from the Angel in yon cope, - Whose studded azure never sheltered pains - Keener than mine! But, from my mount of years, - I look on my past life, as one whose chains - Have fall’n, saint-touched; and thro’ the mist of tears - Sweet glimmerings of the Empyrean come - Athwart the troubled vale of doubts and fears; - And as a child, who, wandered from his home, - Sees, suddenly, with speechless joy, his cot, - Thus seems the hour, when I no more shall roam, - But, in a blessed, and abiding lot, - Merge my long exile. Florence! when these eyes, - So long athirst! shall gaze upon the spot, - This atom-earth, in space, with ken more wise - Than erring nature would permit to clay, - Methinks that sorrow, for thy destinies, - Will yet pursue me to the realms of day; - For, wert not thou the life-hope of my breast? - Altho’, my grief-schooled spirit gave not way - To its deep yearning, so, at thy behest, - To tread thy streets once more: I could not bend - Truth to the shameless compromise! Unrest, - Want, banishment, were better, than to lend - Myself to falsehood! More thou neededst me - Than I thee. So, I know, unto the end, - How hard ’tis to climb others’ stairs; to see - Anarchy’s gory reign; to beg my bread - In alien courts, midst lewd society; - At times without a shelter for the head - A price was set on! Centuries follow this, - When thou shalt think upon thy Dante dead, - And his poor tomb; which ever the abyss - Of waves shall moan to: Yes, my Florence, then, - When bright Italia, ’neath the brutal kiss - Of the barbarian ravishers, shall plain, - In useless struggles, growing faint to death! - How shalt thou wish thy Dante back again! - But, even then, an echo of my breath - Through the long years, with trumpet inspiration, - Shall lead thy Best to victory, or death! - And, if no more they may be called a Nation, - Shall teach them how to fall with Samson-wrath; - Yea! fall in triumph, midst the desolation - Of throne, and rostrum, altar, and of hearth! - Nor, where the blessed corn-crop fail, to leave - To poisonous weeds the heirship of the earth. - Oh! well these tried and aged eyes may grieve, - To read, in spirit, this fore-acted doom; - Which others neither _can_ see, nor believe! - But laugh upon the threshold of the tomb; - As sports the summer-fly, whilst spiders weave - Their fateful nets! Well, let the earth resume - This failing garment of my flesh; I feel - My present life has not been without bloom, - Or fruits: Due time their flavour will reveal! - And if the Statesman’s sole reward hath been - Long years of wandering, seeking to conceal - A forfeit life: If spoken words, like wind - Have passed away! My fame seared, in its green; - I leave, at least, _one_ testament behind, - Of which my Florence shall not say, I ween - (However callous, and unjustly blind), - It dies, along with the old Ghibelline! - No: with Italia’s land my Book shall live; - Her thoughts, and very language be of mine! - Yes, what my _City_ was too false to give, - A _world_ will yet award me! So, I end: - My strength hath been in patience, whose close sieve, - Well-used, the Garner’s labour will befriend. - Florence, my mighty wrongs I can forgive! - Honour me in my ashes; this thou _must_! - Now, Sainted Name, in whose pure memories live - The all, that shall make glorious my—dust; - My sole thoughts turn with speechless love to thee! - Thou wert my Alpha and Omega: First - And Last! Let me return to liberty; - I found it but in Paradise—with Thee! - - - - -The Last Sketch. - - -Not many days since I went to visit a house where in former years I -had received many a friendly welcome. We went in to the owner’s—an -artist’s—studio. Prints, pictures, and sketches hung on the walls as -I had last seen and remembered them. The implements of the painter’s -art were there. The light which had shone upon so many, many hours of -patient and cheerful toil, poured through the northern window upon print -and bust, lay figure and sketch, and upon the easel before which the -good, the gentle, the beloved Leslie laboured. In this room the busy -brain had devised, and the skilful hand executed, I know not how many -of the noble works which have delighted the world with their beauty and -charming humour. Here the poet called up into pictorial presence, and -informed with life, grace, beauty, infinite friendly mirth and wondrous -naturalness of expression, the people of whom his dear books told him -the stories,—his Shakspeare, his Cervantes, his Molière, his Le Sage. -There was his last work on the easel—a beautiful fresh smiling shape -of Titania, such as his sweet guileless fancy imagined the _Midsummer -Night’s_ queen to be. Gracious, and pure, and bright, the sweet smiling -image glimmers on the canvas. Fairy elves, no doubt, were to have been -grouped around their mistress in laughing clusters. Honest Bottom’s -grotesque head and form are indicated as reposing by the side of the -consummate beauty. The darkling forest would have grown around them, with -the stars glittering from the midsummer sky: the flowers at the queen’s -feet, and the boughs and foliage about her, would have been peopled -with gambolling sprites and fays. They were dwelling in the artist’s -mind no doubt, and would have been developed by that patient, faithful, -admirable genius: but the busy brain stopped working, the skilful hand -fell lifeless, the loving, honest heart ceased to beat. What was she to -have been—that fair Titania—when perfected by the patient skill of the -poet, who in imagination saw the sweet innocent figure, and with tender -courtesy and caresses, as it were, posed and shaped and traced the fair -form? Is there record kept anywhere of fancies conceived, beautiful, -unborn? Some day will they assume form in some yet undeveloped light? -If our bad unspoken thoughts are registered against us, and are written -in the awful account, will not the good thoughts unspoken, the love and -tenderness, the pity, beauty, charity, which pass through the breast, and -cause the heart to throb with silent good, find a remembrance, too? A few -weeks more, and this lovely offspring of the poet’s conception would have -been complete—to charm the world with its beautiful mirth. May there not -be some sphere unknown to us where it may have an existence? They say our -words, once out of our lips, go travelling in _omne ærum_, reverberating -for ever and ever. If our words, why not our thoughts? If the Has Been, -why not the Might Have Been? - -Some day our spirits may be permitted to walk in galleries of fancies -more wondrous and beautiful than any achieved works which at present we -see, and our minds to behold and delight in masterpieces which poets’ and -artists’ minds have fathered and conceived only. - -With a feeling much akin to that with which I looked upon the -friend’s—the admirable artist’s—unfinished work, I can fancy many readers -turning to these—the last pages which were traced by Charlotte Brontë’s -hand. Of the multitude that has read her books, who has not known and -deplored the tragedy of her family, her own most sad and untimely fate? -Which of her readers has not become her friend? Who that has known her -books has not admired the artist’s noble English, the burning love of -truth, the bravery, the simplicity, the indignation at wrong, the eager -sympathy, the pious love and reverence, the passionate honour, so to -speak, of the woman! What a story is that of that family of poets in -their solitude yonder on the gloomy northern moors! At nine o’clock at -night, Mrs. Gaskell tells, after evening prayers, when their guardian -and relative had gone to bed, the three poetesses—the three maidens, -Charlotte, and Emily, and Anne—Charlotte being the “motherly friend and -guardian to the other two”—“began, like restless wild animals, to pace -up and down their parlour, “making out” their wonderful stories, talking -over plans and projects, and thoughts of what was to be their future -life.” - -One evening, at the close of 1854, as Charlotte Nicholls sat with her -husband by the fire, listening to the howling of the wind about the -house, she suddenly said to her husband, “If you had not been with me, -I must have been writing now.” She then ran upstairs, and brought down, -and read aloud, the beginning of a new tale. When she had finished, -her husband remarked, “The critics will accuse you of repetition.” -She replied, “Oh! I shall alter that. I always begin two or three -times before I can please myself.” But it was not to be. The trembling -little hand was to write no more. The heart, newly awakened to love and -happiness, and throbbing with maternal hope, was soon to cease to beat; -that intrepid outspeaker and champion of truth, that eager, impetuous -redresser of wrong, was to be called out of the world’s fight and -struggle, to lay down the shining arms, and to be removed to a sphere -where even a noble indignation _cor ulterius nequit lacerare_, and where -truth complete, and right triumphant, no longer need to wage war. - -I can only say of this lady, _vidi tantum_. I saw her first just as I -rose out of an illness from which I had never thought to recover. I -remember the trembling little frame, the little hand, the great honest -eyes. An impetuous honesty seemed to me to characterize the woman. -Twice I recollect she took me to task for what she held to be errors in -doctrine. Once about Fielding we had a disputation. She spoke her mind -out. She jumped too rapidly to conclusions. (I have smiled at one or two -passages in the _Biography_, in which my own disposition or behaviour -forms the subject of talk.) She formed conclusions that might be wrong, -and built up whole theories of character upon them. New to the London -world, she entered it with an independent, indomitable spirit of her -own; and judged of contemporaries, and especially spied out arrogance or -affectation, with extraordinary keenness of vision. She was angry with -her favourites if their conduct or conversation fell below her ideal. -Often she seemed to me to be judging the London folk prematurely: but -perhaps the city is rather angry at being judged. I fancied an austere -little Joan of Arc marching in upon us, and rebuking our easy lives, our -easy morals. She gave me the impression of being a very pure, and lofty, -and high-minded person. A great and holy reverence of right and truth -seemed to be with her always. Such, in our brief interview, she appeared -to me. As one thinks of that life so noble, so lonely—of that passion -for truth—of those nights and nights of eager study, swarming fancies, -invention, depression, elation, prayer; as one reads the necessarily -incomplete, though most touching and admirable history of the heart that -throbbed in this one little frame—of this one amongst the myriads of -souls that have lived and died on this great earth—this great earth?—this -little speck in the infinite universe of God,—with what wonder do we -think of to-day, with what awe await to-morrow, when that which is now -but darkly seen shall be clear! As I read this little fragmentary sketch, -I think of the rest. Is it? And where is it? Will not the leaf be turned -some day, and the story be told? Shall the deviser of the tale somewhere -perfect the history of little EMMA’S griefs and troubles? Shall TITANIA -come forth complete with her sportive court, with the flowers at her -feet, the forest around her, and all the stars of summer glittering -overhead? - -How well I remember the delight, and wonder, and pleasure with which I -read _Jane Eyre_, sent to me by an author whose name and sex were then -alike unknown to me; the strange fascinations of the book; and how with -my own work pressing upon me, I could not, having taken the volumes up, -lay them down until they were read through! Hundreds of those who, like -myself, recognized and admired that master-work of a great genius, will -look with a mournful interest and regard and curiosity upon this, the -last fragmentary sketch from the noble hand which wrote _Jane Eyre_. - - W. M. T. - - -Emma. - -(A FRAGMENT OF A STORY BY THE LATE CHARLOTTE BRONTË.) - - -CHAPTER I. - -We all seek an ideal in life. A pleasant fancy began to visit me in a -certain year, that perhaps the number of human beings is few who do not -find their quest at some era of life for some space more or less brief. -I had certainly not found mine in youth, though the strong belief I held -of its existence sufficed through all my brightest and freshest time to -keep me hopeful. I had not found it in maturity. I was become resigned -never to find it. I had lived certain dim years entirely tranquil and -unexpectant. And now I was not sure but something was hovering round my -hearth which pleased me wonderfully. - -Look at it, reader. Come into my parlour and judge for yourself whether I -do right to care for this thing. First, you may scan me, if you please. -We shall go on better together after a satisfactory introduction and due -apprehension of identity. My name is Mrs. Chalfont. I am a widow. My -house is good, and my income such as need not check the impulse either -of charity or a moderate hospitality. I am not young, nor yet old. There -is no silver yet in my hair, but its yellow lustre is gone. In my face -wrinkles are yet to come, but I have almost forgotten the days when it -wore any bloom. I married when I was very young. I lived for fifteen -years a life which, whatever its trials, could not be called stagnant. -Then for five years I was alone, and, having no children, desolate. -Lately Fortune, by a somewhat curious turn of her wheel, placed in my way -an interest and a companion. - -The neighbourhood where I live is pleasant enough, its scenery agreeable, -and its society civilized, though not numerous. About a mile from -my house there is a ladies’ school, established but lately—not more -than three years since. The conductresses of this school were of my -acquaintances; and though I cannot say that they occupied the very -highest place in my opinion—for they had brought back from some months’ -residence abroad, for finishing purposes, a good deal that was fantastic, -affected, and pretentious—yet I awarded them some portion of that respect -which seems the fair due of all women who face life bravely, and try to -make their own way by their own efforts. - -About a year after the Misses Wilcox opened their school, when the number -of their pupils was as yet exceedingly limited, and when, no doubt, they -were looking out anxiously enough for augmentation, the entrance-gate to -their little drive was one day thrown back to admit a carriage—“a very -handsome, fashionable carriage,” Miss Mabel Wilcox said, in narrating -the circumstance afterwards—and drawn by a pair of really splendid -horses. The sweep up the drive, the loud ring at the door-bell, the -bustling entrance into the house, the ceremonious admission to the bright -drawing-room, roused excitement enough in Fuchsia Lodge. Miss Wilcox -repaired to the reception-room in a pair of new gloves, and carrying in -her hand a handkerchief of French cambric. - -She found a gentleman seated on the sofa, who, as he rose up, appeared a -tall, fine-looking personage; at least she thought him so, as he stood -with his back to the light. He introduced himself as Mr. Fitzgibbon, -inquired if Miss Wilcox had a vacancy, and intimated that he wished to -intrust to her care a new pupil in the shape of his daughter. This was -welcome news, for there was many a vacancy in Miss Wilcox’s schoolroom; -indeed, her establishment was as yet limited to the select number of -three, and she and her sisters were looking forward with anything but -confidence to the balancing of accounts at the close of their first -half-year. Few objects could have been more agreeable to her then, than -that to which, by a wave of the hand, Mr. Fitzgibbon now directed her -attention—the figure of a child standing near the drawing-room window. - -Had Miss Wilcox’s establishment boasted fuller ranks—had she indeed -entered well on that course of prosperity which in after years an -undeviating attention to externals enabled her so triumphantly to -realize—an early thought with her would have been to judge whether the -acquisition now offered was likely to answer well as a show-pupil. She -would have instantly marked her look, dress, &c., and inferred her value -from these indicia. In those anxious commencing times, however, Miss -Wilcox could scarce afford herself the luxury of such appreciation: a -new pupil represented 40_l._ a year, independently of masters’ terms—and -40_l._ a year was a sum Miss Wilcox needed and was glad to secure; -besides, the fine carriage, the fine gentleman, and the fine name -gave gratifying assurance, enough and to spare, of eligibility in the -proffered connection. It was admitted, then, that there were vacancies -in Fuchsia Lodge; that Miss Fitzgibbon could be received at once; that -she was to learn all that the school prospectus proposed to teach; to be -liable to every extra; in short, to be as expensive, and consequently -as profitable a pupil, as any directress’s heart could wish. All this -was arranged as upon velvet, smoothly and liberally. Mr. Fitzgibbon -showed in the transaction none of the hardness of the bargain-making man -of business, and as little of the penurious anxiety of the straitened -professional man. Miss Wilcox felt him to be “quite the gentleman.” -Everything disposed her to be partially inclined towards the little girl -whom he, on taking leave, formally committed to her guardianship; and as -if no circumstance should be wanting to complete her happy impression, -the address left written on a card served to fill up the measure of Miss -Wilcox’s satisfaction—Conway Fitzgibbon, Esq., May Park, Midland County. -That very day three decrees were passed in the new-comer’s favour:— - -1st. That she was to be Miss Wilcox’s bed-fellow. - -2nd. To sit next her at table. - -3rd. To walk out with her. - -In a few days it became evident that a fourth secret clause had been -added to these, viz. that Miss Fitzgibbon was to be favoured, petted, and -screened on all possible occasions. - -An ill-conditioned pupil, who before coming to Fuchsia Lodge had passed -a year under the care of certain old-fashioned Misses Sterling, of -Hartwood, and from them had picked up unpractical notions of justice, -took it upon her to utter an opinion on this system of favouritism. - -“The Misses Sterling,” she injudiciously said, “never distinguished -any girl because she was richer or better dressed than the rest. They -would have scorned to do so. _They_ always rewarded girls according as -they behaved well to their school-fellows and minded their lessons, -not according to the number of their silk dresses, and fine laces and -feathers.” - -For it must not be forgotten that Miss Fitzgibbon’s trunks, when opened, -disclosed a splendid wardrobe; so fine were the various articles of -apparel, indeed, that instead of assigning for their accommodation the -painted deal drawers of the school bedroom, Miss Wilcox had them arranged -in a mahogany bureau in her own room. With her own hands, too, she would -on Sundays array the little favourite in her quilted silk pelisse, her -hat and feathers, her ermine boa, and little French boots and gloves. And -very self-complacent she felt when she led the young heiress (a letter -from Mr. Fitzgibbon, received since his first visit, had communicated the -additional particulars that his daughter was his only child, and would be -the inheritress of his estates, including May Park, Midland County)—when -she led her, I say, into the church, and seated her stately by her side -at the top of the gallery-pew. Unbiassed observers might, indeed, have -wondered what there was to be proud of, and puzzled their heads to detect -the special merits of this little woman in silk—for, to speak truth, Miss -Fitzgibbon was far from being the beauty of the school: there were two or -three blooming little faces amongst her companions lovelier than hers. -Had she been a poor child, Miss Wilcox herself would not have liked her -physiognomy at all: rather, indeed, would it have repelled than attracted -her; and, moreover—though Miss Wilcox hardly confessed the circumstance -to herself, but, on the contrary, strove hard not to be conscious of -it—there were moments when she became sensible of a certain strange -weariness in continuing her system of partiality. It hardly came natural -to her to show this special distinction in this particular instance. An -undefined wonder would smite her sometimes that she did not take more -real satisfaction in flattering and caressing this embryo heiress—that -she did not like better to have her always at her side, under her special -charge. On principle Miss Wilcox continued the plan she had begun. On -_principle_, for she argued with herself: This is the most aristocratic -and richest of my pupils; she brings me the most credit and the most -profit: therefore, I ought in justice to show her a special indulgence; -which she did—but with a gradually increasing peculiarity of feeling. - -Certainly, the undue favours showered on little Miss Fitzgibbon brought -their object no real benefit. Unfitted for the character of playfellow -by her position of favourite, her fellow-pupils rejected her company as -decidedly as they dared. Active rejection was not long necessary; it was -soon seen that passive avoidance would suffice; the pet was not social. -No: even Miss Wilcox never thought her social. When she sent for her to -show her fine clothes in the drawing-room when there was company, and -especially when she had her into her parlour of an evening to be her own -companion, Miss Wilcox used to feel curiously perplexed. She would try -to talk affably to the young heiress, to draw her out, to amuse her. -To herself the governess could render no reason why her efforts soon -flagged; but this was invariably the case. However, Miss Wilcox was a -woman of courage; and be the _protégée_ what she might, the patroness did -not fail to continue on _principle_ her system of preference. - -A favourite has no friends; and the observation of a gentleman, who about -this time called at the Lodge and chanced to see Miss Fitzgibbon, was, -“That child looks consummately unhappy:” he was watching Miss Fitzgibbon, -as she walked, by herself, fine and solitary, while her school-fellows -were merrily playing. - -“Who is the miserable little wight?” he asked. - -He was told her name and dignity. - -“Wretched little soul!” he repeated; and he watched her pace down the -walk and back again; marching upright, her hands in her ermine muff, her -fine pelisse showing a gay sheen to the winter’s sun, her large Leghorn -hat shading such a face as fortunately had not its parallel on the -premises. - -“Wretched little soul!” reiterated this gentleman. He opened the -drawing-room window, watched the bearer of the muff till he caught her -eye, and then summoned her with his finger. She came; he stooped his head -down to her; she lifted her face up to him. - -“Don’t you play, little girl?” - -“No, sir.” - -“No! why not? Do you think yourself better than other children?” - -No answer. - -“Is it because people tell you you are rich, you won’t play?” - -The young lady was gone. He stretched his hand to arrest her, but she -wheeled beyond his reach, and ran quickly out of sight. - -“An only child,” pleaded Miss Wilcox; “possibly spoiled by her papa, you -know; we must excuse a little pettishness.” - -“Humph! I am afraid there is not a little to excuse.” - - -CHAPTER II. - -Mr. Ellin—the gentleman mentioned in the last chapter—was a man who went -where he liked, and being a gossiping, leisurely person, he liked to go -almost anywhere. He could not be rich, he lived so quietly; and yet he -must have had some money, for, without apparent profession, he continued -to keep a house and a servant. He always spoke of himself as having once -been a worker; but if so, that could not have been very long since, for -he still looked far from old. Sometimes of an evening, under a little -social conversational excitement, he would look quite young; but he was -changeable in mood, and complexion, and expression, and had chamelion -eyes, sometimes blue and merry, sometimes grey and dark, and anon green -and gleaming. On the whole he might be called a fair man, of average -height, rather thin and rather wiry. He had not resided more than two -years in the present neighbourhood; his antecedents were unknown there; -but as the Rector, a man of good family and standing, and of undoubted -scrupulousness in the choice of acquaintance, had introduced him, he -found everywhere a prompt reception, of which nothing in his conduct had -yet seemed to prove him unworthy. Some people, indeed, dubbed him “a -character,” and fancied him “eccentric;” but others could not see the -appropriateness of the epithets. He always seemed to them very harmless -and quiet, not always perhaps so perfectly unreserved and comprehensible -as might be wished. He had a discomposing expression in his eye; and -sometimes in conversation an ambiguous diction; but still they believed -he meant no harm. - -Mr. Ellin often called on the Misses Wilcox; he sometimes took tea with -them; he appeared to like tea and muffins, and not to dislike the kind -of conversation which usually accompanies that refreshment; he was -said to be a good shot, a good angler.—He proved himself an excellent -gossip—he liked gossip well. On the whole he liked women’s society, and -did not seem to be particular in requiring difficult accomplishments -or rare endowments in his female acquaintance. The Misses Wilcox, for -instance, were not much less shallow than the china saucer which held -their teacups; yet Mr. Ellin got on perfectly well with them, and had -apparently great pleasure in hearing them discuss all the details of -their school. He knew the names of all their young ladies too, and -would shake hands with them if he met them walking out; he knew their -examination days and gala days, and more than once accompanied Mr. Cecil, -the curate, when he went to examine in ecclesiastical history. - -This ceremony took place weekly, on Wednesday afternoons, after which -Mr. Cecil sometimes stayed to tea, and usually found two or three lady -parishioners invited to meet him. Mr. Ellin was also pretty sure to be -there. Rumour gave one of the Misses Wilcox in anticipated wedlock to -the curate, and furnished his friend with a second in the same tender -relation; so that it is to be conjectured they made a social, pleasant -party under such interesting circumstances. Their evenings rarely passed -without Miss Fitzgibbon being introduced—all worked muslin and streaming -sash and elaborated ringlets; others of the pupils would also be called -in, perhaps to sing, to show off a little at the piano, or sometimes to -repeat poetry. Miss Wilcox conscientiously cultivated display in her -young ladies, thinking she thus fulfilled a duty to herself and to them, -at once spreading her own fame and giving the children self-possessed -manners. - -It was curious to note how, on these occasions, good, genuine natural -qualities still vindicated their superiority to counterfeit, artificial -advantages. While “dear Miss Fitzgibbon,” dressed up and flattered as she -was, could only sidle round the circle with the crestfallen air which -seemed natural to her, just giving her hand to the guests, then almost -snatching it away, and sneaking in unmannerly haste to the place allotted -to her at Miss Wilcox’s side, which place she filled like a piece of -furniture, neither smiling nor speaking the evening through—while such -was _her_ deportment, certain of her companions, as Mary Franks, Jessy -Newton, &c., handsome, open-countenanced little damsels—fearless because -harmless—would enter with a smile of salutation and a blush of pleasure, -make their pretty reverence at the drawing-room door, stretch a friendly -little hand to such visitors as they knew, and sit down to the piano to -play their well-practised duet with an innocent, obliging readiness which -won all hearts. - -There was a girl called Diana—the girl alluded to before as having -once been Miss Sterling’s pupil—a daring, brave girl, much loved and -a little feared by her comrades. She had good faculties, both physical -and mental—was clever, honest, and dauntless. In the schoolroom she set -her young brow like a rock against Miss Fitzgibbon’s pretensions; she -found also heart and spirit to withstand them in the drawing-room. One -evening, when the curate had been summoned away by some piece of duty -directly after tea, and there was no stranger present but Mr. Ellin, -Diana had been called in to play a long, difficult piece of music -which she could execute like a master. She was still in the midst of -her performance, when—Mr. Ellin having for the first time, perhaps, -recognized the existence of the heiress by asking if she was cold—Miss -Wilcox took the opportunity of launching into a strain of commendation on -Miss Fitzgibbon’s inanimate behaviour, terming it lady-like, modest, and -exemplary. Whether Miss Wilcox’s constrained tone betrayed how far she -was from really feeling the approbation she expressed, how entirely she -spoke from a sense of duty, and not because she felt it possible to be in -any degree charmed by the personage she praised—or whether Diana, who was -by nature hasty, had a sudden fit of irritability—is not quite certain, -but she turned on her music-stool:— - -“Ma’am,” said she to Miss Wilcox, “that girl does not deserve so much -praise. Her behaviour is not at all exemplary. In the schoolroom she is -insolently distant. For my part I denounce her airs; there is not one of -us but is as good or better than she, though we may not be as rich.” - -And Diana shut up the piano, took her music-book under her arm, curtsied, -and vanished. - -Strange to relate, Miss Wilcox said not a word at the time; nor was Diana -subsequently reprimanded for this outbreak. Miss Fitzgibbon had now been -three months in the school, and probably the governess had had leisure to -wear out her early raptures of partiality. - -Indeed, as time advanced, this evil often seemed likely to right itself; -again and again it seemed that Miss Fitzgibbon was about to fall to her -proper level, but then, somewhat provokingly to the lovers of reason and -justice, some little incident would occur to invest her insignificance -with artificial interest. Once it was the arrival of a great basket of -hothouse fruit—melons, grapes, and pines—as a present to Miss Wilcox in -Miss Fitzgibbon’s name. Whether it was that a share of these luscious -productions was imparted too freely to the nominal donor, or whether she -had had a surfeit of cake on Miss Mabel Wilcox’s birthday, it so befel, -that in some disturbed state of the digestive organs Miss Fitzgibbon took -to sleep-walking. She one night terrified the school into a panic by -passing through the bedrooms, all white in her night-dress, moaning and -holding out her hands as she went. - -Dr. Percy was then sent for; his medicines, probably, did not suit the -case; for within a fortnight after the somnambulistic feat, Miss Wilcox -going upstairs in the dark, trod on something which she thought was the -cat, and on calling for a light, found her darling Matilda Fitzgibbon -curled round on the landing, blue, cold, and stiff, without any light in -her half-open eyes, or any colour in her lips, or movement in her limbs. -She was not soon roused from this fit; her senses seemed half scattered; -and Miss Wilcox had now an undeniable excuse for keeping her all day on -the drawing-room sofa, and making more of her than ever. - -There comes a day of reckoning both for petted heiresses and partial -governesses. - -One clear winter morning, as Mr. Ellin was seated at breakfast, enjoying -his bachelor’s easy chair and damp, fresh London newspaper, a note was -brought to him marked “private,” and “in haste.” The last injunction was -vain, for William Ellin did nothing in haste—he had no haste in him; he -wondered anybody should be so foolish as to hurry; life was short enough -without it. He looked at the little note—three-cornered, scented, and -feminine. He knew the handwriting; it came from the very lady Rumour had -so often assigned him as his own. The bachelor took out a morocco case, -selected from a variety of little instruments a pair of tiny scissors, -cut round the seal, and read:—“Miss Wilcox’s compliments to Mr. Ellin, -and she should be truly glad to see him for a few minutes, if at leisure. -Miss W. requires a little advice. She will reserve explanations till she -sees Mr. E.” - -Mr. Ellin very quietly finished his breakfast; then, as it was a very -fine December day—hoar and crisp, but serene, and not bitter—he carefully -prepared himself for the cold, took his cane, and set out. He liked -the walk; the air was still; the sun not wholly ineffectual; the path -firm, and but lightly powdered with snow. He made his journey as long -as he could by going round through many fields, and through winding, -unfrequented lanes. When there was a tree in the way conveniently placed -for support, he would sometimes stop, lean his back against the trunk, -fold his arms, and muse. If Rumour could have seen him, she would have -affirmed that he was thinking about Miss Wilcox; perhaps when he arrives -at the Lodge his demeanour will inform us whether such an idea be -warranted. - -At last he stands at the door and rings the bell; he is admitted, -and shown into the parlour—a smaller and a more private room than -the drawing-room. Miss Wilcox occupies it; she is seated at her -writing-table; she rises—not without air and grace—to receive her -visitor. This air and grace she learnt in France; for she was in a -Parisian school for six months, and learnt there a little French, and -a stock of gestures and courtesies. No: it is certainly not impossible -that Mr. Ellin may admire Miss Wilcox. She is not without prettiness, -any more than are her sisters; and she and they are one and all smart -and showy. Bright stone-blue is a colour they like in dress; a crimson -bow rarely fails to be pinned on somewhere to give contrast; positive -colours generally—grass-greens, red violets, deep yellows—are in favour -with them; all harmonies are at a discount. Many people would think -Miss Wilcox, standing there in her blue merino dress and pomegranate -ribbon, a very agreeable woman. She has regular features; the nose is -a little sharp, the lips a little thin, good complexion, light red -hair. She is very business-like, very practical; she never in her life -knew a refinement of feeling or of thought; she is entirely limited, -respectable, and self-satisfied. She has a cool, prominent eye; sharp and -shallow pupil, unshrinking and inexpansive; pale irid; light eyelashes, -light brow. Miss Wilcox is a very proper and decorous person; but she -could not be delicate or modest, because she is naturally destitute of -sensitiveness. Her voice, when she speaks, has no vibration; her face no -expression; her manner no emotion. Blush or tremor she never knew. - -“What can I do for you, Miss Wilcox?” says Mr. Ellin, approaching the -writing-table, and taking a chair beside it. - -“Perhaps you can advise me,” was the answer; “or perhaps you can give me -some information. I feel so thoroughly puzzled, and really fear all is -not right.” - -“Where? and how?” - -“I will have redress if it be possible,” pursued the lady; “but how to -set about obtaining it! Draw to the fire, Mr. Ellin; it is a cold day.” - -They both drew to the fire. She continued:— - -“You know the Christmas holidays are near?” - -He nodded. - -“Well, about a fortnight since, I wrote, as is customary, to the friends -of my pupils, notifying the day when we break up, and requesting that, if -it was desired that any girl should stay the vacation, intimation should -be sent accordingly. Satisfactory and prompt answers came to all the -notes except one—that addressed to Conway Fitzgibbon, Esquire, May Park, -Midland County—Matilda Fitzgibbon’s father, you know.” - -“What? won’t he let her go home?” - -“Let her go home, my dear sir! you shall hear. Two weeks elapsed, during -which I daily expected an answer; none came. I felt annoyed at the delay, -as I had particularly requested a speedy reply. This very morning I had -made up my mind to write again, when—what do you think the post brought -me?” - -“I should like to know.” - -“My own letter—actually my own—returned from the post-office, with an -intimation—such an intimation!—but read for yourself.” - -She handed to Mr. Ellin an envelope; he took from it the returned note -and a paper—the paper bore a hastily-scrawled line or two. It said, -in brief terms, that there was no such place in Midland County as May -Park, and that no such person had ever been heard of there as Conway -Fitzgibbon, Esquire. - -On reading this, Mr. Ellin slightly opened his eyes. - -“I hardly thought it was so bad as this,” said he. - -“What? you did think it was bad then? You suspected that something was -wrong?” - -“Really! I scarcely knew what I thought or suspected. How very odd, no -such place as May Park! The grand mansion, the grounds, the oaks, the -deer, vanished clean away. And then Fitzgibbon himself! But you saw -Fitzgibbon—he came in his carriage?” - -“In his carriage!” echoed Miss Wilcox; “a most stylish equipage, and -himself a most distinguished person. Do you think, after all, there is -some mistake?” - -“Certainly, a mistake; but when it is rectified I don’t think Fitzgibbon -or May Park will be forthcoming. Shall I run down to Midland County and -look after these two precious objects?” - -“Oh! would you be so good, Mr. Ellin? I knew you would be so kind; -personal inquiry, you know—there’s nothing like it.” - -“Nothing at all. Meantime, what shall you do with the child—the -pseudo-heiress, if pseudo she be? Shall you correct her—let her know her -place?” - -“I think,” responded Miss Wilcox, reflectively—“I think not exactly as -yet; my plan is to do nothing in a hurry; we will inquire first. If after -all she should turn out to be connected as was at first supposed, one had -better not do anything which one might afterwards regret. No; I shall -make no difference with her till I hear from you again.” - -“Very good. As you please,” said Mr. Ellin, with that coolness which -made him so convenient a counsellor in Miss Wilcox’s opinion. In his dry -laconism she found the response suited to her outer worldliness. She -thought he said enough if he did not oppose her. The comment he stinted -so avariciously she did not want. - -Mr. Ellin “ran down,” as he said, to Midland County. It was an errand -that seemed to suit him; for he had curious predilections as well as -peculiar methods of his own. Any secret quest was to his taste; perhaps -there was something of the amateur detective in him. He could conduct an -inquiry and draw no attention. His quiet face never looked inquisitive, -nor did his sleepless eye betray vigilance. - -He was away about a week. The day after his return, he appeared in -Miss Wilcox’s presence as cool as if he had seen her but yesterday. -Confronting her with that fathomless face he liked to show her, he first -told her he had done nothing. - -Let Mr. Ellin be as enigmatical as he would, he never puzzled Miss -Wilcox. She never saw enigma in the man. Some people feared, because -they did not understand, him; to her it had not yet occurred to begin -to spell his nature or analyze his character. If she had an impression -about him, it was, that he was an idle but obliging man, not aggressive, -of few words, but often convenient. Whether he were clever and deep, -or deficient and shallow, close or open, odd or ordinary, she saw no -practical end to be answered by inquiry, and therefore did not inquire. - -“Why had he done nothing?” she now asked. - -“Chiefly because there was nothing to do.” - -“Then he could give her no information?” - -“Not much: only this, indeed—Conway Fitzgibbon was a man of straw; May -Park a house of cards. There was no vestige of such man or mansion in -Midland County, or in any other shire in England. Tradition herself had -nothing to say about either the name or the place. The Oracle of old -deeds and registers, when consulted, had not responded. - -“Who can he be, then, that came here, and who is this child?” - -“That’s just what I can’t tell you:—an incapacity which makes me say I -have done nothing.” - -“And how am I to get paid?” - -“Can’t tell you that either.” - -“A quarter’s board and education owing, and masters’ terms besides,” -pursued Miss Wilcox. “How infamous! I can’t afford the loss.” - -“And if we were only in the good old times,” said Mr. Ellin, “where we -ought to be, you might just send Miss Matilda out to the plantations in -Virginia, sell her for what she is worth, and pay yourself.” - -“Matilda, indeed, and Fitzgibbon! A little impostor! I wonder what her -real name is?” - -“Betty Hodge? Poll Smith? Hannah Jones?” suggested Mr. Ellin. - -“Now,” cried Miss Wilcox, “give me credit for sagacity! It’s very odd, -but try as I would—and I made every effort—I never could really like that -child. She has had every indulgence in this house; and I am sure I made -great sacrifice of feeling to principle in showing her much attention; -for I could not make any one believe the degree of antipathy I have all -along felt towards her.” - -“Yes. I can believe it. I saw it.” - -“Did you? Well—it proves that my discernment is rarely at fault. Her game -is up now, however; and time it was. I have said nothing to her yet; but -now—” - -“Have her in whilst I am here,” said Mr. Ellin. “Has she known of this -business? Is she in the secret? Is she herself an accomplice, or a mere -tool? Have her in.” - -Miss Wilcox rang the bell, demanded Matilda Fitzgibbon, and the false -heiress soon appeared. She came in her ringlets, her sash, and her -furbelowed dress adornments—alas! no longer acceptable. - -“Stand there!” said Miss Wilcox, sternly, checking her as she approached -the hearth. “Stand there on the farther side of the table. I have a few -questions to put to you, and your business will be to answer them. And -mind—let us have the truth. _We will not endure lies._” - -Ever since Miss Fitzgibbon had been found in the fit, her face had -retained a peculiar paleness and her eyes a dark orbit. When thus -addressed, she began to shake and blanch like conscious guilt personified. - -“Who are you?” demanded Miss Wilcox. “What do you know about yourself?” - -A sort of half-interjection escaped the girl’s lips; it was a sound -expressing partly fear, and partly the shock the nerves feel when an -evil, very long expected, at last and suddenly arrives. - -“Keep yourself still, and reply, if you please,” said Miss Wilcox, whom -nobody should blame for lacking pity, because nature had not made her -compassionate. “What is your name? We know you have no right to that of -Matilda Fitzgibbon.” - -She gave no answer. - -“I do insist upon a reply. Speak you shall, sooner or later. So you had -better do it at once.” - -This inquisition had evidently a very strong effect upon the subject -of it. She stood as if palsied, trying to speak, but apparently not -competent to articulate. - -Miss Wilcox did not fly into a passion, but she grew very stern and -urgent; spoke a little loud; and there was a dry clamour in her raised -voice which seemed to beat upon the ear and bewilder the brain. Her -interest had been injured—her pocket wounded—she was vindicating her -rights—and she had no eye to see, and no nerve to feel, but for the point -in hand. Mr. Ellin appeared to consider himself strictly a looker-on; he -stood on the hearth very quiet. - -At last the culprit spoke. A low voice escaped her lips. “Oh, my head!” -she cried, lifting her hands to her forehead. She staggered, but caught -the door and did not fall. Some accusers might have been startled by -such a cry—even silenced; not so Miss Wilcox. She was neither cruel -nor violent; but she was coarse, because insensible. Having just drawn -breath, she went on, harsh as ever. - -Mr. Ellin, leaving the hearth, deliberately paced up the room as if he -were tired of standing still, and would walk a little for a change. In -returning and passing near the door and the criminal, a faint breath -seemed to seek his ear, whispering his name— - -“Oh, Mr. Ellin!” - -The child dropped as she spoke. A curious voice—not like Mr. Ellin’s, -though it came from his lips—asked Miss Wilcox to cease speaking, and say -no more. He gathered from the floor what had fallen on it. She seemed -overcome, but not unconscious. Resting beside Mr. Ellin, in a few minutes -she again drew breath. She raised her eyes to him. - -“Come, my little one; have no fear,” said he. - -Reposing her head against him, she gradually became reassured. It did -not cost him another word to bring her round; even that strong trembling -was calmed by the mere effects of his protection. He told Miss Wilcox, -with remarkable tranquillity, but still with a certain decision, that the -little girl must be put to bed. He carried her upstairs, and saw her laid -there himself. Returning to Miss Wilcox, he said: - -“Say no more to her. Beware, or you will do more mischief than you think -or wish. That kind of nature is very different from yours. It is not -possible that you should like it; but let it alone. We will talk more on -the subject to-morrow. Let me question her.” - - - - -Under Chloroform. - - -Most people take an interest in any authentic account of the mode -in which important surgical operations are performed, whenever -opportunity is offered of gratifying their very natural curiosity. Such -opportunities are however somewhat rare. The columns of the newspaper -press not unfrequently supply brief, and sometimes curiously incorrect, -particulars of the injuries resulting from “an appalling accident” of -the night previous, to some unfortunate workman who has fallen from a -scaffold, or been mutilated by a railway train. Scraps of hearsay are -eagerly gathered up by the penny-a-liner, who, like the fireman’s dog -of notorious ubiquity, is always first on the spot after the occurrence -of a catastrophe; and a remarkable combination of technical phrases -culled from the brief remarks of the surgeon in attendance, and from the -slender stock which has accumulated in the reporter’s brain from previous -experiences, makes its appearance in to-morrow’s daily journals, and is -certain to be reproduced in all the weeklies of Saturday next. Then it -is the great public learns with profound horror that some poor victim’s -shoulder-joint has been dislocated in three places, that the carotid -artery was pronounced (surgeons are invariably said to “pronounce”) to -be fractured, or that there was great contusion and ecchymosis (always -a trying word for the compositor) about the spine, and that amputation -would probably be necessary. - -But sometimes it happens that an over-prying public, with a curiosity -not much in this instance to be commended, peeps within the pages of the -medical press, hoping to unravel some of the mysteries of professional -craft. Ten to one that it gets nothing but error for its pains. The -technicalities which medical men must necessarily employ when writing -for each other, are instructive only to the initiated, and are pregnant -with blunders for the simple reader. And few people make more mistakes -than our medical amateur who, on the strength of a weekly perusal of _The -Lancet_ at his club, sets up as an authority in the social circle on -questions of physiology and physic. - -Occasionally, moreover, after dinner, when the ladies have left the -table, and the men alone remain to empty decanters and derange a dessert, -one has the gratification of meeting some very young gentleman, who, the -week before last, presented his proud father with the diploma of “the -college,” elegantly framed and glazed, in return for an education which -has cost five years and a thousand pounds, and who astonishes his elderly -associates with a highly-tinted sketch of some operative achievement, in -which perchance he assisted at the hospital. As he surveys the auditory, -silent and absorbed by his heart-stirring description, and complacently -witnesses the admiration which such evidence of his own familiarity with -harrowing scenes, and of his apparent absence of emotion, elicits, it -is to be feared that its influence, associated with that of the port, -a beverage appreciated by our young friend, if one may judge by the -quantity he imbibes, tends to render the information obtained, as one may -say almost at first hand, not so absolutely trustworthy as a man of fact -is accustomed to desire. - -After a due survey then of the varied sources from which most people -obtain information respecting the topics in question, and after some -observation of the character and quality of the knowledge so acquired, we -have formed the deliberate conclusion that they possess very erroneous, -and very inadequate notions about the nature of a surgical operation. -No doubt all admire the _sang-froid_ and skill, possession of which -is necessary to make a good surgical operator—qualities, by the way, -which are perhaps more frequently developed by training, than found -already existing as a natural inheritance. But it is germane to our -purpose to remember that everybody has a direct practical concern in -the existence of an available supply of the necessary talent to meet a -certain demand on the part of the body politic, for no one knows how -soon his own personal necessities may not be such as to give him the -strongest possible interest in its exercise: a demand that is absolutely -inevitable;—for be assured that, without any wish to alarm you, gentle -reader, Mr Neison will, if requested to make the calculation, inform us -at once what the numerical chances are that your own well-proportioned -nether limb will, or will not, fall before the surgeon’s knife, or -that that undoubtedly hard and well-developed cranium may not yet be -scientifically explored by “trepan” or “trephine.” He will estimate -with unerring certainty the probability (to nine places of decimals, if -you demand it) that your own fair person may become the subject of some -unpleasing excrescence; and also what the chances are that you must seek -the surgeon’s aid to remove it. While Mr. Buckle will stoutly maintain, -and you will find it hard to gainsay him, that, given the present -conditions of existence, a certain ascertainable number of tumours, -broken legs, and natural-born deformities will regularly make their -appearance every year among the human family. And he will probably add, -that it is perfectly within the province of possibility to calculate, -if we had all the required data, the exact number of individuals who -have the requisite courage to submit to operation; as of those who will -not have heart to do so, and who will inevitably die without benefit of -surgery; together with the exact per-centage to the population of those -who will, and who will not, put faith in the blessed boon of chloroform. - -It is a blessed boon; and in olden times the possessor of such a secret -would have been the most potent wizard of which the earth has yet heard -tell. What miracles might not have been performed by it! What dogmas -might not have been made divine and true by its influence! Happy was it -that those great powers, the magic of chemical and electrical discovery, -have been brought to light in a time when they can be used mainly to -enlighten and bless, and not to darken and oppress mankind! - -But that word chloroform is happily significant that it is to no scene -of suffering that we would introduce our readers. There is no need -to shrink, or to question the taste which exhibits the details of -a surgical operation to the vulgar eye. It is not designed, even in -this stirring time, after the fashion of ancient Rome, to deaden our -sensibilities, or to accustom our youth to witness deeds of blood and -violence without shrinking. No trace of suffering will be visible in the -picture which shall pass before us. So great is the triumph which modern -surgical art displays, so great the boon which it has conferred upon -humanity! It is this which we propose to illustrate, by describing the -single and simple process involved in cutting off a leg. - -Permit us first, however, to cast a passing glance, by way of contrast, -to the established and orthodox fashion of performing that operation -some centuries ago. Bear with us but a moment, and in imagination hope -that then, when painless surgery was unknown, no patient lacked support -in his hour of trial (long _hours_ then, in truth!) from that great and -never-failing source which flows, unmeasured and unfathomable, for all -humanity, alike in every age. - -Until the last three or four hundred years, amputation of a limb was very -rarely performed, except when, from injury or disease, its extremity had -begun to mortify; and then, few surgeons ventured to make incisions in -the sound portion, but limited themselves to an operation through the -tissues which had already lost their vitality. This timidity was due to -the fact that they were unacquainted with any effectual means of stopping -the bleeding from the larger arteries divided by the knife. Certain -and easy as is the control of such bleeding now, by the simple process -of tying a piece of thread or silk round the extremity of the bleeding -vessel (as we shall hereafter see), it was unknown, at all events as -applicable to amputation, to any surgical writer from Hippocrates, 400 -B.C., or from Celsus, who flourished in the first Christian century, -to the fifteenth. Consequently, the numerous instances of injury and -disease, in which life is now saved by a timely resort to amputation, -were then always fatal. Hence, also, arose the various expedients which -the more adventurous operators of the time resorted to, in order to -stop fatal bleeding, with the effect only of increasing the patient’s -torture, and with the attainment of no good result. Thus the incisions -were performed with a red-hot knife, that the divided vessels, seared -and charred by the horrible contact, might contract, or become plugged, -and so be prevented from bleeding (Albucasis, 11th century). Effective -for the instant, the force of the circulation quickly overpowered the -slender obstruction, and fatal hæmorrhage, sooner or later, took place. -Yet this plan continued more or less in vogue down to the discovery of -the ligature in the 16th century, and was practised even later in Germany -by the celebrated Hildanus (1641); although he subsequently adopted the -new method. According to another fashion, the surgeon, after making a -tedious division of the flesh down to the bone, with studied endeavour -not to divide the arteries until the last moment, relied on applications -of red-hot irons, or of some styptic fluid, usually a powerful acid or -astringent, to arrest the bleeding. If these were not successful, a -vessel of boiling pitch was at hand, ready prepared, into which the -bleeding stump was plunged. Between Scylla and Charybdis, the patient -rarely escaped with life; either he died from loss of blood in a few -hours, or less; or if the dreadful remedies succeeded, he survived a day -or two, to die of fever or exhaustion. After an earlier method, that of -Guido di Caulico (1363), a bandage of plaster was made to encircle the -member so tightly that mortification attacked all the parts below, which -then, after the lapse of months, dropped off, a horribly loathsome and -offensive mass. Another surgeon, Botalli (1560), invented a machine to -sever the limb in an instant by a single stroke; and it was not uncommon -at this period to effect the same purpose by the hatchet, or by a -powerful mallet and chisel. - -It is to Ambrose Paré, the great French surgeon, who flourished in the -16th century, that we owe the application of the ligature (used long -before in ordinary wounds) to the bleeding arteries in amputation. He -discarded the use of the red-hot cautery, and of all the frightful -adjuncts already described; and accomplished his purpose by carrying the -thread round the vessel by means of a needle passed through the soft -parts adjacent—a method of adjustment which, although still in use, is -now employed only in exceptional instances. Richard Wiseman, sometimes -styled the father of English surgery, who practised about the middle -of the 17th century, is believed to have been the first to employ the -ligature in our own country, and to relinquish the application of heated -irons. At this era also, the circulation of the blood was discovered by -the renowned Harvey, and the distinction between arteries and veins being -thenceforth clearly understood, the value of the ligature was rendered -more than ever obvious. - -But enough of this: let us soothe our ruffled nerves by seeing how the -thing is done to-day. We will take a quiet post of observation in the -area of the operating theatre at one of our metropolitan hospitals, in -this year of our Lord 1860. Notice is posted that amputation of the thigh -will be performed at 2 o’clock P.M., and we occupy our seat ten minutes -before the hour. - -The area itself is small, of a horse-shoe form, and surrounded by seats -rising on a steep incline one above another, to the number of eight -or nine tiers. From 100 to 150 students occupy these, and pack pretty -closely, especially on the lower rows, whence the best view is obtained. -For an assemblage of youths between eighteen and twenty-five years, -who have nothing to do but to wait, they are tolerably well-behaved -and quiet. Three or four practical jokers, however, it is evident, are -distributed among them, and so the time passes all the quicker for the -rest. The clock has not long struck two, when the folding-doors open, and -in walk two or three of the leading surgeons of the hospital, followed -by a staff of dressers, and a few professional lookers-on; the latter -being confined to seats reserved for them on the lowest and innermost -tier. A small table, covered with instruments, occupies a place on one -side of the area; water, sponges, towels, and lint, are placed on the -opposite. The surgeon who is about to operate, rapidly glances over the -table, and sees that his instruments are all there, and in readiness. -He requests a colleague to take charge of the tourniquet, and with a -word deputes one assistant to “take the flaps,” another to hold the -limb, a third to hand the instruments, and the last to take charge of -the sponges. This done, and while the patient is inhaling chloroform in -an adjoining apartment, under the care of a gentleman who makes that -his special duty, the operator gives to the now hushed and listening -auditory, a brief history of the circumstances which led to an incurable -disease of the left knee-joint, and the reasons why he decides on the -operation about to be performed. He has scarcely closed, when the -unconscious patient is brought in by a couple of sturdy porters, and -laid upon the operating table, a small, but strong and steady erection, -four feet long by two feet wide, which stands in the centre of the area. -The left being the doomed leg, the right is fastened by a bandage to one -of the supports of the table, so as to be out of harm’s way; while the -dresser, who has special charge of the case, is seated on a low stool at -the foot of the table, and supports the left. The surgeon who assists, -encircles the upper part of the thigh with the tourniquet, placing its -pad over the femoral artery, the chief vessel which supplies the limb -with blood, and prepares to screw up the instrument, thus to make sure -that no considerable amount of the vital fluid can be lost. The operator, -standing on the left side of the corresponding leg, and holding in his -right hand a narrow, straight knife, of which the blade is at least ten -inches long, and looks marvellously bright and sharp, directs his eye to -him who gives the chloroform, and awaits the signal that the patient has -become perfectly insensible. All is silence profound: every assistant -stands in his place, which is carefully arranged so as not to intercept -the view of those around. - -The words “quite ready” are no sooner whispered, than the operator, -grasping firmly with his left hand the flesh which forms the front part -of the patient’s thigh, thrusts quietly and deliberately the sharp blade -horizontally through the limb, from its outer to its inner side, so that -the thigh is transfixed a little above its central axis, and in front -of the bone. He next cuts directly downwards, in the plane of the limb, -for about four inches, and then obliquely outwards, so as to form a -flap, which is seized and turned upwards out of the way by the appointed -assistant. A similar transfixion is again made, commencing at the same -spot, but the knife is this time carried behind the bone; a similar -incision follows, and another flap is formed and held away as before. -Lastly, with a rapid circular sweep round the bone he divides all left -uncut; and handing the knife to an assistant, who takes it, and gives -a saw in return, the operator divides the bone with a few workmanlike -strokes, and the limb is severed from the body. A rustling sound of -general movement and deeper breathing is heard among the lookers-on, -who have followed with straining and critical eyes every act which has -contributed to the accomplishment of the task; and some one of the -younger students is heard to whisper to his neighbour, “Five and thirty -seconds: not bad, by Jove!” - -The operator now seats himself on the stool just vacated by the dresser, -who has carried away the leg, and seeks in the cut surfaces before him -the end of the main artery on which to place a ligature. There is no flow -of blood, only a little oozing, for the tourniquet holds life’s current -hard and fast. Only five minutes’ uncontrolled flow of the current from -that great artery now so perfectly compressed, and our patient’s career -in this world would be closed for ever. How is it permanently held in -check? and what have we to substitute now for the hissing, sparkling, and -sputtering iron, and the boiling pitch? The operator takes hold of the -cut end of the artery with a slender, delicately made pair of forceps, -and draws it out a little, while an assistant passes round the end so -drawn out a ligature of exceedingly fine whipcord, fine but strong, and -carefully ties it there with double knot, and so effectually closes the -vessel. A similar process is applied to perhaps six or seven other but -smaller vessels, the tourniquet is removed, and no bleeding ensues. -Altogether the patient has lost little more than half-a-pint of blood! -The flaps are placed in apposition, the bone is well covered by them, a -few stitches are put through their edges, some cool wet lint is applied -all around the stump, and the patient, slumbering peacefully, is carried -off to a comfortable bed ready prepared in some adjacent ward. Half an -hour hence that patient will regain consciousness, and probably the first -observation he makes will be, “I am quite ready for the operation, when -is it going to begin?” And it takes no little repetition of the assurance -that all is over to make him realize the happy truth. - -So it is that he who loses the limb knows less about the process than -any one concerned; infinitely less, my gentle reader, than you who -have shared with us the quiet corner, and have seen all without losing -consciousness, or fainting. It was an early day in the medical session, -and many new men were there; one at least was observed to become -very—very pale, and then slowly disappear: no one knows how or where, for -neither we in the area nor those elsewhere had leisure or care to inquire. - -What might have happened to somebody else had he been witness before -these blessed days of chloroform, can, in the nature of things, be only -a matter for speculation. It may even be surmised by some theorist, and -without hazarding a very improbable guess, that a similar catastrophe -might, perhaps, under such aggravating circumstances, and at a greener -age, have rendered utterly futile, on his part, any attempt to describe -what modern skill and science now accomplish in cutting off the leg of a -patient Under Chloroform. - - - - -The How and Why of Long Shots and Straight Shots. - - -On a windy, unpleasant day in 1746, a great mathematician and philosopher -was exhibiting to a select company in the gardens of the Charterhouse -his skill in shooting round a corner with a bent gun-barrel. If he had -requested the editor of the _Cornhill Magazine_ of the day to publish his -experiments, it is probable that he would have been refused. Now, when -every morning paper informs us at breakfast, in its best type, of how far -off we may be killed, and the evening papers analyze the same with the -commencement of a hot debate on the French Treaty, to give us a pleasing -subject for our dreams, we think that perhaps our unprofessional readers -may like to know _the how_ and _the why_ of these far-reaching organs of -peace on earth and good-will among faithful allies. - -Supposing, then, reader—for it is to such that this article is -addressed—that you are wholly ignorant of the science of gunnery, and -of its principal establisher, Benjamin Robins, and have, therefore, -been laughing at him, the poor silly philosopher,—if you will read the -following extract from his work on Gunnery, you will see that if he did -a foolish thing, he certainly sometimes wrote a wise one:—“I shall, -therefore, close this paper with predicting that whatever State shall -thoroughly comprehend the nature and advantages of rifled-barrel pieces, -and, having facilitated and completed their construction, shall introduce -into their armies their general use, with a dexterity in the management -of them, they will by this means acquire a superiority which will -almost equal anything that has been done at any time by the particular -excellence of any one kind of arms; and will, perhaps, fall but little -short of the wonderful effects which histories relate to have been -formerly produced by the first inventors of fire-arms.” - -Now to our distinguished countryman, Mr. Benjamin Robins, is due the -credit of having first pointed out the reasons why _smooth bores_—and -smooth bore is now almost as great a term of reproach with us rifle -volunteers as dog is with a Turk—were constantly, in fact, universally, -in the habit of shooting round corners, and the experiment mentioned -was only a means of bringing the fact more strikingly before the obtuse -faculties of the Royal Society, whom we may imagine to have been intense -admirers of brown-bess—also now a term of reproach in constant use. -Mr. Robins did more; he pointed out the advantage of elongated rifle -bullets; showed us how to determine—and partially, as far as his limited -means permitted, himself determined—the enormous resistance of the -atmosphere to the motion of projectiles; in fact, smoothed the way for -all our present _discoveries_; and, treason though it be to say so, left -the science of gunnery much as we have it now. Though principally from -increased mechanical powers of construction, better material and improved -machinery, we have advanced considerably in the Art or practice of -destruction. - -Let us endeavour, first, to understand something of the movement of -gun-shots in their simplest form. A gun-barrel, consisting of a bar of -metal thicker at one end (where it has to withstand the first shock of -the gunpowder) than at the other, is bored out throughout its length -into a smooth hollow cylinder; this cylinder is closed at one end by the -breech, which has a small opening in it, through which the charge is -ignited. A charge of powder is placed in the closed end, and on the top -of this the ball, say, a spherical one, such as our ancestors in their -simplicity considered the best. The powder being ignited, rapidly, though -not instantaneously, becomes converted into gas, and the _permanent_ -gases generated will, at the temperature estimated to be produced by the -combustion (3,000° Fahr.), occupy a volume under the pressure of the -atmosphere alone of over 2,000 times that of the bulk of the powder. This -point, as well as the elasticity of the gases, both of the permanent ones -and of the vapour of water or steam from the moisture in the powder, has -never been accurately determined,[15] and various estimates have been -formed; but if we take Dr. Hutton’s—a rather low one, viz.—that the first -force of fired gunpowder was equal to 2,000 atmospheres (30,000 lbs. -on the square inch), and that, as Mr. Robins computed, the velocity of -expansion was about 7,000 feet per second, we shall have some idea of -the enormous force which is exerted in the direction of the bullet to -move it, of the breech of the gun to make it kick, and of the sides of -the barrel to burst it. Notwithstanding Mr. Robins’ advice, we certainly -never, till very lately, made the most of the power of committing -homicide supplied by this powerful agent; but we used it in the most -wasteful and vicious manner. All improvements—and many were suggested -at different times to remedy defects, which he principally pointed out, -like the inventions of printing and of gunpowder itself—lay fallow for -long before they were taken up. They were premature. If our fathers had -killed men clumsily, why should we not do the same? No one cared much, -except the professionals, whether it required 100 or 1,000 bullets, on an -average, to kill a man at 100 yards’ distance. Now we take more interest -in such amusements; every one’s attention is turned to the best means of -thinning his fellow-creatures; and we are not at all content with the -glorious uncertainty which formerly prevailed when every bullet found its -own billet: we like to kill our particular man, not his next neighbour, -or one thirty yards off. - -In order to see why we are so much more certain with our Whitworth, or -Enfield, or Armstrong, of hitting the man we aim at, let us first examine -how a bullet flies; and then by understanding how (badly) our fathers -applied the force we have described to make it fly, we shall be able to -appreciate how well we do it ourselves. - -In consequence of the sudden generation of this enormous quantity of gas, -then, in the confined space of the barrel, the bullet is projected into -the air, and if it were not acted on by any other force, would proceed -for ever in the line in which it started; gravity, however, at once -asserts its sway, and keeps pulling it down towards the earth. These two -forces together would make it describe a curve, known as the parabola. -There is, however, another retarding influence, the air; and though -Galileo, and Newton in particular, pointed out the great effect it would -have, several philosophers, in fact the majority, still believed that a -parabola was the curve described by the path of a shot. It remained for -Mr. Robins to establish this point and to prove the great resistance the -air offered: to this we shall have to recur again presently. Let us first -see _how_ a shot is projected. If the bullet fitted the bore of the gun -perfectly, the whole force in that direction would be exerted on it; -but in order that the gun might be more easily loaded—and this was more -especially the case with cannon—the bullet was made somewhat smaller than -the bore or interior cylinder; a space was therefore left between the -two, termed windage, and through this windage a great deal of gas rushed -out, and was wasted; but the bad effect did not stop there: rushing over -the top of the bullet, as it rested on the bottom of the bore, it pressed -it down hard—hard enough in guns of soft metal, as brass, after a few -rounds to make a very perceptible dint—and forcing it along at the same -time made it rebound first against one side and then the other of the -bore, and hence the direction in which it left the bore was not the axis -or central line of the cylinder, but varied according to the side it -struck last. This was one cause of inaccuracy, and could, of course, be -obviated to a great extent, though at the cost of difficulty in loading, -by making the bullet fit tight; but another and more important cause -of deflection was the various rotatory or spinning motions the bullet -received from friction against the sides of the bore, and also from its -often not being a homogeneous sphere; that is, the density of the metal -not being the same throughout, the centre of gravity did not coincide -with the centre of the sphere as it should have done. - -[Illustration: No. 1. - -Looking down upon the spinning bullet.] - -Let us try to understand the effect of this rotation. A bullet in moving -rapidly through the air, separates it; and if its velocity is at all -greater than the velocity with which the air can refill the space from -which it has been cleared behind it, it must create a more or less -complete vacuum. Now when the barometer stands at thirty inches, air -will rush into a vacuum at the rate of 1,344 feet per second; and if the -bullet is moving at a greater velocity than this, there will be a total -vacuum behind it. But it can be easily understood that even when moving -with a less velocity, there will be a greater density of air before than -behind. If the bullet be rotating on a vertical axis—that is, spinning -like a top, point downwards, as in the diagram No. 1, from left to right, -in the direction indicated by the crooked arrow, at the same time that -it is moving forward (sideways it would be in the top) as indicated by -the straight arrow,—it is evident that the left half rotates _with_ the -general motion of translation of the bullet, and the right half backwards -_against_ this motion, and therefore that on the left side it is moving -quicker relatively to the air through which it is passing than on the -right side. And its rough surface preventing the air escaping round it on -that side, while it, as it were, assists it on the other side, the air -becomes denser where shown by the dark lines, and tends to deflect the -bullet in the other direction, that is, in the direction in which the -anterior or front surface is moving.[16] - -[Illustration: No. 2. - -Looking at the bullet sideways.] - -If the bullet rotate on a horizontal axis at right angles to the -direction of its motion of translation (that is, like a top thrown -spinning with its point sideways, when it would strike the object thrown -at with its side), shown in the diagram No. 2; if the anterior portion -be moving, as shown by the arrow, from above downwards, it is evident, -for the same reasons, that the air will become denser, as shown, and -assist the action of gravity in bringing the ball to the ground—that is, -decrease the range. A spherical bullet resting on the bottom of the bore -of a gun would always have a greater tendency to rotate in this manner -than in a contrary direction; for the friction against the bore would be -augmented by the weight of the ball in striking against the bottom, and -diminished by it when striking against the top. - -Shot were constructed in 1851 to try the effect of rotation in the -above-mentioned and in the opposite directions. They were made excentric, -that is, lop-sided, by taking out a portion of the metal on one side, and -replacing it either with a heavier or lighter body. The manner in which -they would rotate was, therefore, known; for, not to use too scientific -language, the light side moved first, and according to the relative -positions of the heavy and light side when placed against the charge so -the rotation took place. Thus, when the light side was resting against -the bore of the gun, the rotation was exactly contrary to the direction -shown in diagram No. 2; and a range of 5,566 yards was obtained from a -10-inch gun, being 916 yards farther than with a concentric shot from -the same gun. The deflections to the right and left were proportionately -large, according as the light side was placed to the left or right. - -We need not specify further; this will be sufficient to show the reason -why the smooth bore with a spherical bullet never made a straight long -shot, for it was not only that the bullet did not go in the direction in -which it was aimed, but it did not even follow the direction in which it -started. This was well shown by Mr. Robins in the experiment we commenced -with. He bent the end of a gun barrel to the _left_, and aimed by the -straight part. As would be naturally expected, the shot passed through -the first tissue-paper screen 1½ inches to the left of the track of a -bullet, which had been previously fired from a straight barrel in the -same line with which the crooked barrel had been aimed, and 3 inches -to the left on the second screen; but as he had predicted, and as the -company could hardly have expected, on the wall which was behind, the -bullet struck 14 inches to the right of the track, showing that though it -had gone at first as directed by the bent portion of the barrel, yet as -the bullet in being turned had _rolled against_ the right-hand side of -this portion of the barrel, it had a rotatory motion impressed upon it, -by which the anterior portion moved from left to right, and the bullet, -after moving away from, turned back and crossed the track of the other -bullet again, or was _incurvated_ to the right. - -We now see why spherical bullets from a smooth bore, though they may fly -almost perfectly accurately a short distance, cannot be depended on in -the least for a long distance, as the bullet which might strike within -1 inch at 100 yards would not strike within 2 inches at 200 yards, and -still less within 3 inches at 300 yards of the mark at which it was fired. - -The cause of these deflections we have seen is almost wholly rotation -or _spin_. The object of the _rifle_ is to place this rotation under -our control, and if the bullet must spin, to make it spin always in -the same direction, and in the way which will suit our purpose best. -With this object the interior of the cylindrical bore which we have -been considering as smooth, is scored or indented with spiral grooves -or furrows. As we are merely concerned with the principles, and not -with the constructive details, we need only mention that the number of -these grooves varies in different rifles from two to forty; that their -shape and size, though dependent on certain conditions, is, we might -almost say, a matter of fashion; and that Mr. Whitworth, in his almost -perfect rifle, uses a hexagonal bore, and Mr. Lancaster makes a smooth -oval-bored rifle; but that in all, the deviations from the circle of the -interior cylinder do not pass straight from end to end of the barrel, -but _spirally_, and constitute, in fact, a female screw. The bullet, -fitting tight and entering the grooves, is constrained to rotate while -being forced out of the barrel by the gunpowder, in the same manner -that a screw is necessarily twisted while being drawn out of a hole -or nut; and this rotation or spin being impressed upon it by the same -force which projects it from the barrel, continues during the flight. -This spin is different in direction from those we have been considering -previously; it is like the spin of a top thrown point foremost, the axis -of rotation coincident with the line of flight. While it remains in this -position (coinciding with the line of flight) none of the deflecting -effects of the air we have mentioned can come into operation, as the -resistance is equal on all sides; and not only that, but if there are any -irregularities on the surface of the ball, as they are brought rapidly -first on one side and then on the other of the point or pole of rotation, -they can have no effect in deflecting it to one side more than to the -other. Hence the accuracy, or straight shooting, of our modern gun, the -rifle. - -We have before mentioned that Robins pointed out the enormous effect -of the resistance of the atmosphere to the passage of a shot; and -“because,” as he says, “I am fully satisfied that the resistance of -the air is almost the only source of the numerous difficulties which -have hitherto embarrassed that science,” viz. gunnery, he considered it -above all things necessary to determine its amount; for which purpose he -invented the Ballistic Pendulum and Whirling Machine. His experiments -were made principally with small bullets; but a more extended series of -experiments was made by Dr. Hutton with the same machines, and on the -Continent and in America by Major Mordecai, with a ballistic pendulum -of improved construction. It appears from these that when a ball of -two inches diameter is moving with a great velocity, it meets with a -resistance of which the following examples will give an idea: at a -velocity of 1,800 feet per second the resistance is 85½ lbs., and at a -velocity of 2,000 feet, 102 lbs. If we wish to increase the range, then, -we must overcome this resistance in some way. As the resistance is nearly -proportionate to the surface, that is, twice as great on a surface of -two square inches as on a surface of one square inch, we must do so by -increasing the weight of the shot. For it is evident that if two shot of -different weights start with the same velocity, and meet with the same -resistance, the heavier one, having the greater momentum, will maintain -its velocity the longest. Throw a cork and a stone of the same size with -the same force—the cork will only go a few yards, while the stone will -go perhaps ten times as far. In the smooth-bored cannon this could only -be effected _partially_ by increasing the size of the shot, when the -surface exposed to the resistance of the air increased only as the square -of the diameter, while the weight increased in a greater ratio, as the -cube of the diameter. Hence the longer range and greater penetration of -heavy guns. As, however, with a rotating body the tendency is always for -the axis of rotation to remain parallel to its original direction—thus a -top while spinning may move about the floor, but remains upright on its -point, and does not fall till the spin is exhausted—we have with rifles -a means by which we can keep a bullet always in the same direction. In -order to comply with the condition, then, of exposing a small surface -to the resistance of the air while the bullet’s weight is increased, we -reject the spherical form, and make it a long cylinder; and to make it -the more easily cut through the air, we terminate it with a conical point. - -Thus compare Mr. Whitworth’s 3-pounder with the ordinary or old -3-pounder; the shot weigh the same, but the diameter of Mr. Whitworth’s -3-pounder shot is 1·5 or 1½ inches, while the diameter of the old -3-pounder shot is 2·91 inches, or nearly three inches; and the surfaces -they expose to the resistance of the air are 2·25, or 2¼ square inches, -and 8·47 nearly, or nearly 8½ square inches; that is, Mr. Whitworth’s -bullet, with the same weight to overcome it, meets with a resistance of -a little more than a quarter that which the old bullet met with, and -has the advantage of a sharp point to boot. Hence the enormous range -attained,—9,688 yards. - -The very same causes which make the fire of a rifle accurate, tend also -to make it inaccurate, paradoxical as it may seem; but this inaccuracy -being to a certain extent regular and known beforehand, is not of so much -consequence, though it is a decided disadvantage. It may—not to be too -mathematical—be explained thus:—The axis of rotation having, as we said, -a tendency always to remain parallel to its original direction, when a -rifle bullet or picket (the long projectile we have described) is fired -at a high angle of elevation—that is, slanting upwards into the air, in -order that before it fells it may reach a distant object,—it is evident -from the diagram, that if the direction of the axis of rotation remains, -as shown by the lines _p_ _p_ _p_, which represent the shot at different -portions of the range parallel to the original direction in the gun, the -bullet or picket will not always remain with its point only presented -in the direction in which it is moving, but one side of the bullet will -be partially opposed to the resistance of the air. The air on that side -(in front) will be denser than behind, and the disturbing or deflecting -influences before described will come into operation, the two opposite -tendencies described in the text and the note to a certain extent -counteracting one another. While at the same time the resistance of the -air has a tendency to turn the bullet from the sideways position in which -it is moving with respect to the line of flight (and the effect of this -is the greater the less spin the bullet has to constrain it to keep its -original direction), the result of which force, conspiring with the force -described in the note, is to give it a slight angular rotation round -another axis, and deflect the bullet by constantly changing its general -direction (this second axis of rotation) to the side to which the rifling -turns. This was exemplified in the late practice with Mr. Whitworth’s -gun. When firing at the very long range of 9,000 yards the 3-pounder -threw constantly to the right from 32 to 89 yards. - -[Illustration: No. 3.] - -The rotation of the earth about its axis tends to throw the projectile -always to the right of the object aimed at. Space will not permit of our -entering on this subject; but the principle is the same as that which in -M. Foucault's experiment with the vibrating pendulum caused its plane of -vibration apparently to constantly deviate to the right. - -The time of flight of the shot from Mr. Whitworth’s 3-pounder gun is -unknown to us; we are unable, therefore, to calculate the deflection due -on this account, but as an illustration we may give this deflection, -calculated for the long range attained with the 10-inch gun (5,600 -yards), from Captain Boxer’s, R.A., _Treatise on Artillery_. He finds it -to be very nearly 11 yards. - -Windage, one of the faults of the spherical bullet, permitting a great -escape of the gas, and therefore wasting the force of the powder, has -been overcome in various ways in the cylindro-conical picket. The Minié -principle consists in hollowing out the base of the ball conically, -placing in this hollow an iron cup or piece of wood, which being driven -forward by the explosion of the charge further into the conical hollow, -enlarges or expands the ball, and makes it fit tight and take the -impression of the grooves, though the bullet, when put into the gun, is -small enough to be easily rammed down. It is now found that the conical -hollow alone, without the cup or plug, is almost equally effective in -expanding the ball. We have termed this the Minié principle; Captain -Norton, however, undoubtedly has a prior claim (which has been allowed by -the British Government, we believe) to this invention. He was before his -time. There was no cause for, and therefore the shooting mania was not -strong upon us. - -With breech-loaders, doing away with windage and making the bullet take -the rifling, is an easy matter. The breech into which the bullet is -put at once, without being passed through the muzzle, is made slightly -larger than the rest of the bore; the bullet on being pushed forward -by the force of the powder is squeezed into the narrower portion, and -effectually prevents all escape of gas. It is thus with the Armstrong -gun. Robins said of the breech-loaders of his day, “And, perhaps, -somewhat of this kind, though not in the manner now practised, would be, -of all others, the most perfect method for the construction of these -barrels.” Mr. Whitworth, on the other hand, uses—well, we have avoided -details thus far, and every newspaper has described them so fully, that -our readers must be thoroughly acquainted with them. Let us conclude, -as we began, with Robins, and hope that his prediction that “they,” the -armies of the enlightened nations which perfect rifles, “will by this -means acquire a superiority which will almost equal anything that has -been done at any time.” - - -FOOTNOTES - -[15] It is not at all certain whether Marriott’s law of the elasticity -being as the density is true, when the gases are so highly condensed. - -[16] This tendency is found in practice to overcome the tendency that -there is for the ball to be deflected in the opposite direction, from the -greater friction arising from the greater density of the air pressing -against the anterior surface than against the posterior surface. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE (VOL. 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