the bertrams. a novel. by anthony trollope author of "barchester towers," "doctor thorne," etc. in three volumes vol. i. london: chapman & hall, piccadilly. . [the right of translation is reserved.] london: printed by w. clowes and sons, stamford street. contents of vol. i. i. vÆ victis! ii. breakfast and lunch. iii. the new vicar. iv. our prima donna. v. the choice of a profession. vi. jerusalem. vii. the mount of olives. viii. sir lionel bertram. ix. miss todd's picnic. x. the effects of miss todd's picnic. xi. vale valete. xii. george bertram decides in favour of the bar. xiii. littlebath. xiv. ways and means. xv. mr. harcourt's visit to littlebath. the bertrams. chapter i. vÆ victis! this is undoubtedly the age of humanity--as far, at least, as england is concerned. a man who beats his wife is shocking to us, and a colonel who cannot manage his soldiers without having them beaten is nearly equally so. we are not very fond of hanging; and some of us go so far as to recoil under any circumstances from taking the blood of life. we perform our operations under chloroform; and it has even been suggested that those schoolmasters who insist on adhering in some sort to the doctrines of solomon should perform their operations in the same guarded manner. if the disgrace be absolutely necessary, let it be inflicted; but not the bodily pain. so far as regards the low externals of humanity, this is doubtless a humane age. let men, women, and children have bread; let them have if possible no blows, or, at least, as few as may be; let them also be decently clothed; and let the pestilence be kept out of their way. in venturing to call these low, i have done so in no contemptuous spirit; they are comparatively low if the body be lower than the mind. the humanity of the age is doubtless suited to its material wants, and such wants are those which demand the promptest remedy. but in the inner feelings of men to men, and of one man's mind to another man's mind, is it not an age of extremest cruelty? there is sympathy for the hungry man; but there is no sympathy for the unsuccessful man who is not hungry. if a fellow mortal be ragged, humanity will subscribe to mend his clothes; but humanity will subscribe nothing to mend his ragged hopes so long as his outside coat shall be whole and decent. to him that hath shall be given; and from him that hath not shall be taken even that which he hath. this is the special text that we delight to follow, and success is the god that we delight to worship. "ah! pity me. i have struggled and fallen--struggled so manfully, yet fallen so utterly--help me up this time that i may yet push forward once again!" who listens to such a plea as this? "fallen! do you want bread?" "not bread, but a kind heart and a kind hand." "my friend, i cannot stay by you; i myself am in a hurry; there is that fiend of a rival there even now gaining a step on me. i beg your pardon; but i will put my foot on your shoulder--only for one moment. _occupet extremum scabies._" yes. let the devil take the hindmost; the three or four hindmost if you will; nay, all but those strong-running horses who can force themselves into noticeable places under the judge's eye. this is the noble shibboleth with which the english youth are now spurred on to deeds of--what shall we say?--money-making activity. let every place in which a man can hold up his head be the reward of some antagonistic struggle, of some grand competitive examination. let us get rid of the fault of past ages. with us, let the race be ever to the swift; the victory always to the strong. and let us always be racing, so that the swift and strong shall ever be known among us. but what, then, for those who are not swift, not strong? _væ victis!_ let them go to the wall. they can hew wood probably; or, at any rate, draw water. were we to ask lord derby, or lord palmerston, or to consult the shade of lord george bentinck--or to go to those greater authorities on the subject, mr. scott, for instance, and the family of the days--we should, i believe, be informed that the race-horse requires a very peculiar condition. it is not to be obtained quickly, and, when obtained, will fit the beast for no other than that one purpose of running races. crucifix was never good at going in a cab; ilione never took her noble owner down to the house of parliament; nor has toxopholite been useful in leicestershire. but, nevertheless, let all our work be done by race-horses; all, at least, that shall be considered honourable. let us have strength and speed. and how shall we know who are strong and swift if we do not train our horses to run against each other? but this early racing will hardly produce that humanity of spirit of which we now deplore the want. "the devil take the hindmost" is the very essence of the young man's book of proverbs. the devil assuredly will take all the hindmost. none but the very foremost can enter the present heaven of good things. therefore, oh my brother, my friend, thou companion of my youth! may the devil take thee; thee quickly, since it needs must be thee or me. _væ victis_--alas! for these hindmost ones; there are so many of them! the skim-milk will always be so much more in quantity than the cream. with us at present cream is required for everything; nothing can be well done now unless it be done by cream of some sort. that milk has been skimmed; the cream has been taken away. no matter; skim it again. there shall be something yet which we will call cream. competitive examination will produce something that shall look to be strong; that shall be swift, if it be only for a start of twenty yards. this is the experiment of the present day. wise men say that when nothing but cream is accepted, all mankind, all boykind rather, will prepare itself for a skimming of some sort; and that the quantity of cream produced will be immense. it is only done as an instigation to education. much may be said in opposition to this; but nothing shall be said here. it is merely of the cruelty of spirit that is thus engendered that we now speak. success is the only test of merit. words have lost their old significance, and to deserve only is not meritorious. _væ victis!_ there are so many of them! "thompson," says johnson, the young poet, when he has at last succeeded in getting the bosomest of his friends alone into his chamber with him, "have you happened to look at my iphigenia yet?" thompson can't say that he has. he has been busy; has had so many water-parties; and then, somehow, he doesn't think that he is very partial to modern poetry on subjects of old mythology. of course, however, he means to read it--some of these days. "i wish you would," says johnson, tendering a copy of the thin volume. "i really wish you would; and let me have your candid opinion. the press certainly have not noticed it much, and what they have said has been very luke-warm." "i am sorry for that," says thompson, looking grave. "and i did my best with it too. you would hardly believe how hard i worked at it. there is not a line that has not been weighed and written, perhaps, three times over. i do not think i am conceited; but i cannot but believe that there is something in it. the reviewers are so jealous! if a man has not a name, they will give him credit for nothing; and it is so hard to begin." "i am sure it is," says thompson. "i don't expect fame; and as for money, of course i don't think of that. but i should like to know that it had been read by one or two persons who could understand it. i have given to it the best of my time, the best of my labour. i cannot but think that there is something in it." thus pleads the unsuccessful one for mercy. and thus answers to him the successful one, with no grain of mercy in his composition:--"my dear johnson, my maxim is this, that in this world every man gets in the long run exactly what he deserves--" "did milton get what he deserved?" "these are not the days of milton. i don't want to hurt your feelings; but old friends as we are, i should not forgive myself if i didn't tell you what i really think. poetry is all very well; but you can't create a taste for it if it doesn't exist. nobody that i know of cares a d---- for iphigenia." "you think i should change my subject, then?" "to tell you the truth, i think you should change your trade. this is the third attempt, you know. i dare say they are very good in their way; but if the world liked them, the world would have found it out by this time. '_vox populi, vox dei_'--that is my motto--i don't trust my own judgment; i trust that of the public. if you will take my advice, you will give up iphigenia and the rest of them. you see you are doing nothing whatever at the bar," &c., &c. and thus johnson is left, without a scrap of comfort, a word of consolation, a spark of sympathy; and yet he had given to that iphigenia of his the best that was in him to give. had his publisher sold ten thousand copies of it, how thompson would have admired it! how he would have pressed the poet in his arms, and have given him champagne up at richmond! but who now has sympathy for failure? to fail is to be disgraced. _væ victis!_ there is something very painful in these races, which we english are always running, to one who has tenderness enough to think of the nine beaten horses instead of the one who has conquered. look at that list which has just come out after our grand national struggle at cambridge. how many wranglers are there? thirty, shall we say? and it is always glorious to be a wrangler. out of that thirty there is probably but one who has not failed, who is not called on to submit to the inward grief of having been beaten. the youth who is second, who has thus shown himself to be possessed of a mass of erudition sufficient to crush an ordinary mind to the earth, is ready to eat his heart with true bitterness of spirit. after all his labour, his midnight oil, his many sleepless nights, his deserted pleasures, his racking headaches, amaryllis abandoned, and neæra seen in the arms of another--! after all this, to be beaten by jones! had it been green or smith he could have borne it. would it not have been better to do as others had done? he could have been contented to have gone out in the crowd; but there is nothing so base as to be second--and then second to jones! out of the whole lot, jones alone is contented; and he is told by his physician that he must spend his next two winters at cairo. the intensity of his application has put his lungs into very serious jeopardy. it was at oxford, in the year --, that a young man sat in his college-rooms at balliol a wretched victim to unsuccessful competition. it had been everything to him to come out as a first in classics, and he had dared to dream even of a double-first. but he had failed in both. the lists had just appeared, and he was only a second-class man. now, a second-class man is not much thought of at balliol, and he had lost his chance of an immediate fellowship. but this was perhaps hardly the worst of it. arthur wilkinson, for such was this gentleman's name, had hitherto run his race in life alongside a friend and rival named george bertram; and in almost every phase of life had hitherto been beaten. the same moment that had told wilkinson of his failure had told him also that bertram had obtained the place he had so desired. bertram was the only double-first man of his year. as these two young men will play the foremost parts in the following pages, i will endeavour to explain, in as few words as possible, who each of them was. as bertram seems to have been the favourite with fortune, i will begin with him. his father at the time alluded to was still alive, but his son george had seen but little of him. sir lionel bertram had been a soldier of fortune, which generally, i believe, means a soldier without a fortune, and in that capacity he was still in some sort fighting his country's battles. at the present moment he held a quasi-military position in persia, where he had been for the last five years, and previously to that he had served in canada, india, the cape of good hope, and on some special mission at monte video. he had, therefore, seen a good deal of the world; but very little of his only child. mrs. bertram, george's mother, had died early in life, and mr. (afterwards sir lionel) bertram had roamed the world free from all encumbrances. the rev. arthur wilkinson, vicar of hurst staple, on the borders of hampshire and berkshire, had married a first-cousin of mrs. bertram's; and when young george bertram, at the age of nine, was tossing about the world rather in want of a fixed home, mr. wilkinson undertook to give him that home, and to educate him with his own eldest child till they should both be sent to some school. for three years george bertram lived at hurst staple, and was educated accordingly. during these years he used to go annually for one month to the house of an uncle, who in due time will also be introduced to the reader; and therefore, not unnaturally, this month was regarded by the boy as his holidays. now, it may as well be explained in this place that sir lionel bertram, though a very gallant man, and peculiarly well adapted to do business with outlandish people, had never succumbed to a habit of punctuality in pecuniary matters. an arrangement had been perhaps rather named than made, that one hundred and thirty pounds per annum should be paid for young bertram's needs; and as this was to include pocket-money, clothing, and washing, as well as such trifles as the boy's maintenance and education, perhaps the bargain was not a very hard one as regarded sir lionel. the first seventy-five pounds were paid; but after that, up to the end of the second year, mr. wilkinson had received no more. as he was a poor man, with six children of his own, and little besides his living, he then thought it better to mention the matter to sir lionel's brother in london. the balance was instantly paid, and mr. wilkinson had no further trouble on that head. nor had he much trouble on any other head as regarded young bertram. the lad was perhaps not fit to be sainted, and gave mrs. wilkinson the usual amount of trouble as regarded his jackets and pantaloons; but, on the whole, he was a good boy, free and generous in his temper, quick in his parts, affectionate in disposition, and full of humour. those who examined him most closely (among whom, perhaps, mr. wilkinson was not included) might have observed that he was hardly as steady as he might have been in his likings and dislikings; that he made too little of the tasks which he learnt without trouble; and that, in fact, he was not sufficiently solicitous about anything. he was, however, undoubtedly a lad of great promise, and one of whom any father might have been proud. he was not a handsome boy, nor did he become a handsome man. his face was too solid, his cheeks too square, and his forehead too heavy; but his eyes, though small, were bright, and his mouth was wonderfully marked by intelligence. when he grew to be a man, he wore no beard, not even the slightest apology for a whisker, and this perhaps added to the apparent heaviness of his face; but he probably best understood his own appearance, for in those days no face bore on it more legible marks of an acute mind. at the age of twelve, he was sent to winchester, and as his holidays were still passed with his uncle, he then ceased to regard hurst staple as his home. twice a year, as he went up to town, he stayed there for a couple of days; but he was soon looked on as a visitor, and the little wilkinsons no longer regarded him as half a brother in reality and quite a brother in love. arthur wilkinson was very nearly of the same age. he was just older than young bertram--by three months or so; just sufficiently to give to wilkinson a feeling of seniority when they first met, and a consciousness that as he was the senior in age, he should be the senior in scholastic lore. but this consciousness wilkinson was not able to attain; and during all the early years of his life, he was making a vain struggle to be as good a man as his cousin; that is, as good in scholarship, as good in fighting, as good in play, and as good in spirit. in looks, at any rate, arthur was superior to george; and much consolation did his mother receive from this conviction. young wilkinson was a very handsome lad, and grew up to be a handsome man; but his beauty was of that regular sort which is more pleasing in a boy than in a man. he also was an excellent lad, and no parent could be so thankless as to be other than proud of him. all men said all good things of him, so that mr. wilkinson could not but be contented. nevertheless, one would always wish to see one's own son not less bright than one's friend's son. arthur wilkinson was also sent to winchester. perhaps it would have been better for the cousins that they should have gone to different schools. the matter, however, had been left to mr. wilkinson, and as he thought winchester good for his own son, he naturally thought the same school good for sir lionel's son. but bertram was entered as a commoner, whereas wilkinson was in the college. those who know winchester will understand, that though, as regarded school business and school hours, they were at the same establishment, they were not together at the much more important hours of eating, sleeping, and playing. they did not cease to be friends, but they did cease to live together as friends generally do live when educated at the same school. at winchester they both did fairly well; but bertram did much the best. he got the prizes, whereas his cousin did but nearly get them. he went up from class to class above the other, and when the last tussle for pride of place came on at the close of their boyish career, bertram was the victor. he stood forth to spout out latin hexameters, and to receive the golden medal, while wilkinson had no other privilege but to sit still and listen to them. i believe masters but seldom recognize the agony of spirit with which boys endure being beaten in these contests. boys on such subjects are very reticent; they hardly understand their own feelings enough to speak of them, and are too much accustomed both to ridicule and censure to look anywhere for sympathy. a favourite sister may perhaps be told of the hard struggle and the bitter failure, but not a word is said to any one else. his father, so thinks the boy, is angry at his failure; and even his mother's kisses will hardly be warmed by such a subject. we are too apt to think that if our children eat pudding and make a noise they require no sympathy. a boy may fail at school, and afterwards eat much pudding, and make much noise; but, ah! how his young heart may sigh for some one to grieve with him over his failures! wilkinson was unfortunate at school. it was a great object with his father that he should get a scholarship at new college, to which, as all the world knows, his path lay through the college of winchester. when his time came, he was all but successful--but he was not successful. the vacancies in his year were few in number, only three, and of these two were preoccupied, according to the then rule of the place, by those heaven-born wykamists, called founder's kin he was only the second best on the list, and lost the prize. bertram, having been a commoner, had had no right to think of new college; but at the time when he was to be removed to oxford, his uncle gave him to understand that money was a great object to him. his father's mind was still too fully absorbed in the affairs of his country to enable him to think much of his son's expenditure, and his uncle at this period took a fit of disgust on the subject. "very well," said george, "i will give up oxford if i cannot do something for myself." he went up, however, to trinity, and became a candidate for a scholarship there. this he obtained to the great surprise of all the wilkinsons and of himself. in those days, a lad of eighteen who could get a scholarship at trinity was considered to be nearly safe in his career. i do not know how far this may be altered now. the uncle, when he heard of his nephew's success, immediately allowed him what would have been amply sufficient for him had he been in possession of no income from his scholarship. bertram, therefore, had been almost a rich man during his residence at oxford. young wilkinson, though he lost new college, received a small scholarship from winchester, and he also was sent by his father to oxford. to enable him to do this, mr. wilkinson was forced to make a great struggle. he had five other children--four daughters, and one younger son, and it was with difficulty that he could make up the necessary allowance to carry arthur through the university. but he did do so, and the disappointed wykamist went up to balliol with an income amounting to about half that which his cousin enjoyed. we need not follow them very accurately through their college careers. they both became prizemen--one by force of intellect, and the other by force of industry. they both went through their little goes and other goes with sufficient zeal, up to that important day on which the great go of all was to be undergone. they both belonged to the same debating society at oxford, and though they thought very differently on most important subjects, they remained, with some few temporary interruptions, fast friends through their four years of oxford residence. there were periods when the balliol man was considered by his friends to run a better chance of academical success than his brighter cousin at trinity. wilkinson worked hard during his three first years, and bertram did not. the style of mind, too, of the former was the more adapted to win friends at oxford. in those days the tracts were new, and read by everybody, and what has since been called puseyism was in its robust infancy. wilkinson proclaimed himself, while yet little more than a boy, to be an admirer of poor froude and a follower of newman. bertram, on the other hand, was unsparing in his ridicule of the "remains," set himself in full opposition to the sewells, and came out as a poet--successfully, as far as the newdegate was concerned--in direct opposition to keble and faber. for three years wilkinson worked hard and regularly; but the _éclat_ attending on his success somewhat injured him. in his fourth year, or, at any rate, in the earlier part of it, he talked more than he read, and gave way too much to the delights of society--too much, at least, for one who was so poor, and to whom work was so necessary. he could not keep his position by dint of genius, as bertram might do; consequently, though he was held to have taken honours in taking his degree, he missed the high position at which he had aimed; and on the day which enabled him to write himself bachelor of arts, he was in debt to the amount of a couple of hundred pounds, a sum which it was of course utterly out of his power to pay, and nearly as far out of the power of his father. it had always been bertram's delight to study in such a manner that men should think he did not study. there was an affectation in this, perhaps not uncommon to men of genius, but which was deleterious to his character--as all affectations are. it was, however, the fact, that during the last year before his examination, he did study hard. there was a set round him at his college among whom he was esteemed as a great man--a little sect of worshippers, who looked for their idol to do great things; and it was a point of honour with them to assist this pretence of his. they gloried in bertram's idleness; told stories, not quite veracious, of his doings at wine-parties; and proved, to the satisfaction of admiring freshmen, that he thought of nothing but his horse and his boating. he could do without study more than any other man could do with it; and as for that plodding balliol hero, he might look to be beaten out of the field without an effort. the balliol men had been very confident in their hero up to the last half-year; but then they began to doubt. poor wilkinson was beaten by his rival out of the field, though, probably, not without an effort. we may say that no man ever gets a double-first in anything without an effort. but be that as it may, wilkinson was sitting alone, a very unhappy man, in his rooms at balliol, while bertram was being fêted to his heart's content at trinity. it is a grievous thing to have to write home to one's father, and to say that one has failed when that father has so anxiously longed for success. arthur wilkinson would have been a made man for life--made according to the making which both his father and himself at that time thought the most desirable--if his name had but appeared in that first-class list. a double-first his father had not hoped for; but, in resolving not to hope for it, he had consoled himself with thinking that the hopes which he did form were the more certain of success;--and then there would always be that further chance of happiness in store. but now arthur wilkinson had to tell his father that he was neither first nor double-first. his degree was very respectable for a man who had not looked for much, for one who had not been talked of in high places; but it was not respectable for wilkinson of balliol. væ victis! he was indeed unhappy as he sat there alone, meditating how he would frame his letter. there were no telegraphs or telegrams in those days, and it behoved him to write. if he did not, his father would be at oxford before the next night was over. how should he write? would it not be better to write to his mother? and then what should he do, or what should he say, about that accursed debt? his pen and ink and paper were on the table, and he had got into his chair for the purpose. there he had been for some half-hour, but still not a word was written; and his chair had somehow got itself dragged round to the fire. he was thus sitting when he heard a loud knock at his outer door. "come; open the door," said bertram's voice, "i know you are there." wilkinson still sat silent. he had not seen bertram since the lists had come out, and he could hardly make up his mind whether he could speak to him or no. "i know you're there, and i'll have the door down if you don't open it. there's nobody with me," shouted the manly voice of his triumphant friend. slowly wilkinson got up and undid the lock. he tried to smile as he opened the door; but the attempt was a failure. however, he could still speak a few words, heavy as his heart was. "i have to congratulate you," said he to bertram, "and i do it with all my heart." there was very little heart in the tone in which this was spoken; but then, what could be expected? "thank'ee, old fellow, i'm sure you do. come, wilkinson, give us your hand. it's better to have it all out at once. i wish you'd had more luck, and there's an end of it. it's all luck, you know." "no, it's not," said wilkinson, barely able to suppress the tears. "every bit of it. if a chap gets a headache, or a fit of the colic, it's all up with him. or if he happens to have been loose as to some pet point of the examiners, it's all up with him. or if he has taken a fad into his head, and had a pet point of his own, it's all up with him then, too, generally. but it will never do, wilkinson, to boody over these things. come, let you and i be seen walking together; you'll get over it best in that way. we'll go over to parker's, and i'll stand a lunch. we'll find gerard, and madden, and twisleton there. twisleton's so disgusted at getting a fourth. he says he won't take it, and swears he'll make them let him go out in the ruck." "he's got as much as he thought he'd get, at any rate, and therefore he can't be unhappy." "unhappy! who's unhappy? nonsense, my dear fellow. shy all that to the dogs. come, let's go over to parker's; we shall find harcourt there. you know he's up, don't you?" "no; and i had rather not meet him just at present." "my dear fellow, you must get over that." "that's all very well for you, who have got nothing to get over." "and have i never had anything to get over? i'll tell you what it is; i've come here to prevent you from moping, and i don't mean to leave you. so, you see, you may as well come with me at first." with some little hesitation, wilkinson made his friend understand that he had not yet written home, and that he could not go out till he had done so. "then i'll give you ten minutes to write your letter; it can't possibly take you more, not even if you put into it my love to my aunt and cousins." "i cannot do it while you are here." "nonsense! gammon! you shall do it while i'm here. i'll not allow you to make yourself a miserable ass all for nothing. come, write. if it's not written in ten minutes, i'll write it;" and so saying, he took up a play of aristophanes wherewith to amuse himself, by way of light reading, after the heavy work of the week. poor wilkinson again drew his chair to the table, but his heart was very heavy. væ victis! chapter ii. breakfast and lunch. wilkinson took the pen in his hand and bent himself over the paper as though he were going to write; but not an ink-mark fell upon the paper. how should he write it? the task might have been comparatively light to him but for that dreadful debt. bertram in the meantime tossed over the pages of his book, looking every now and then at his watch; and then turning sharply round, he exclaimed, "well!" "i wish you'd leave me," said wilkinson; "i'd rather be alone." "may i be doomed to live and die a don if i do; which style of life, next to that of an english bishop, i look on as the most contemptible in the world. the queen's royal beef-eaters come next; but that, i think, i could endure, as their state of do-nothingness is not so absolute a quantity. come; how far have you got? give me the paper, and i'll write you a letter in no time." "thank you; i'd rather write my own letter." "that's just what i want you to do, but you won't;" and then again he turned for two minutes to the "frogs." "well--you see you don't write. come, we'll both have a try at it, and see who'll have done first. i wonder whether my father is expecting a letter from me?" and, so saying, he seized hold of pen and paper and began to write. my dearest father, this weary affair is over at last. you will be sorry to hear that the event is not quite as well as it might have been as far as i am concerned. i had intended to be a first, and, lo! i am only a second. if my ambition had been confined to the second class, probably i might have come out a first. i am very sorry for it, chiefly for your sake; but in these days no man can count on the highest honours as a certainty. as i shall be home on tuesday, i won't say any more. i can't give you any tidings about the fellowships yet. bertram has had his old luck again. he sends his love to mamma and the girls. your very affectionate son, arthur wilkinson. "there, scribble that off; it will do just as well as anything else." poor wilkinson took the paper, and having read it, to see that it contained no absurdity, mechanically copied the writing. he merely added one phrase, to say that his friend's "better luck" consisted in his being the only double-first of his year, and one short postscript, which he took good care that bertram should not see; and then he fastened his letter and sent it to the post. "tell mamma not to be very unhappy." that was the postscript which he added. that letter was very anxiously expected at the vicarage of hurst staple. the father was prepared to be proud of his successful son; and the mother, who had over and over again cautioned him not to overwork himself, was anxious to know that his health was good. she had but little fear as to his success; her fear was that he should come home thin, pale, and wan. just at breakfast-time the postman brought the letter, and the youngest girl running out on to the gravel brought it up to her expectant father. "it is from arthur," said she; "isn't it, papa? i'm sure i know his handwriting." the vicar, with a little nervousness, opened it, and in half a minute the mother knew that all was not right. "is he ill?" said she; "do tell me at once." "ill! no; he's not ill." "well, what is it? he has not lost his degree?" "he has not been plucked, papa, has he?" said sophia. "oh, no; he has got his degree--a second in classics!--that's all;" and he threw the letter over to his wife as he went on buttering his toast. "he'll be home on tuesday," said mary, the eldest girl, looking over her mother's shoulder. "and so george is a double-first," said mrs. wilkinson. "yes," said the vicar, with his mouth full of toast; not evincing any great satisfaction at the success of his late pupil. when the mother read the short postscript her heart was touched, and she put her handkerchief up to her face. "poor arthur! i am sure it has not been his own fault." "mamma, has george done better than arthur?" said one of the younger girls. "george always does do better, i think; doesn't he?" "he has made himself too sure of it," said the father, in almost an angry tone. not that he was angry; he was vexed, rather, as he would be if his wheat crop failed, or his potatoes did not come up properly. but he felt no sympathy with his son. it never occurred to him to think of the agony with which those few lines had been written; of the wretchedness of the young heart which had hoped so much and failed so greatly; of the misery which the son felt in disappointing the father. he was a good, kind parent, who spent his long days and longer nights in thinking of his family and their welfare; he would, too, have greatly triumphed in the triumph of his son; but it went beyond his power of heart to sympathize with him in his misery. "do not seem to be vexed with him when he comes home," said the mother. "vexed with him! you mean angry. of course, i'm not angry. he has done his best, i suppose. it's unlucky, that's all." and then the breakfast was continued in silence. "i don't know what he's to do," said the father, after awhile; "he'll have to take a curacy, i suppose." "i thought he meant to stop up at oxford and take pupils," said mary. "i don't know that he can get pupils now. besides, he'll not have a fellowship to help him." "won't he get a fellowship at all, papa?" "very probably not, i should think." and then the family finished their meal in silence. it certainly is not pleasant to have one's hopes disappointed; but mr. wilkinson was hardly just in allowing himself to be so extremely put about by his son's failure in getting the highest honours. did he remember what other fathers feel when their sons are plucked? or, did he reflect that arthur had, at any rate, done much better than nineteen out of every twenty young men that go up to oxford? but then mr. wilkinson had a double cause for grief. had george bertram failed also, he might perhaps have borne it better. as soon as the letter had been written and made up, wilkinson suffered himself to be led out of the room. "and now for parker's," said bertram; "you will be glad to see harcourt." "indeed, i shall not. harcourt's all very well; but just at present, i would much rather see nobody." "well, then, he'll be glad to see you; and that will be quite the same thing. come along." mr. harcourt was a young barrister but lately called to the bar, who had been at oxford spending his last year when bertram and wilkinson were freshmen; and having been at bertram's college, he had been intimate with both of them. he was now beginning to practise, and men said that he was to rise in the world. in london he was still a very young man; but at oxford he was held to be one who, from his three years' life in town, had become well versed in the world's ways. he was much in the habit of coming to oxford, and when there usually spent a good deal of his time with george bertram. and so wilkinson walked forth into the street arm and arm with his cousin. it was a grievous trial to him; but he had a feeling within him that the sooner the sorrow was encountered the sooner it would be over. they turned into the high street, and as they went they met crowds of men who knew them both. of course it was to be expected that bertram's friends should congratulate him. but this was not the worst; some of them were so ill advised as to condole with wilkinson. "get it over at once," whispered bertram to him, "and then it will be over, now and for ever." and then they arrived at parker's, and there found all those whom bertram had named, and many others. mr. parker was, it is believed, a pastrycook by trade; but he very commonly dabbled in more piquant luxuries than jam tarts or bath buns. men who knew what was what, and who were willing to pay--or to promise to pay--for their knowledge, were in the habit of breakfasting there, and lunching. now a breakfast or a lunch at parker's generally meant champagne. harcourt was seated on the table when they got into the back room, and the other men were standing. "sound the timbrels, beat the drums; see the conqu'ring hero comes," he sung out as bertram entered the room. "make way for the double-first--the hero of the age, gentlemen! i am told that they mean to put up an alabaster statue to him in the common room at trinity. however, i will vote for nothing more expensive than marble." "make it in pie-crust," said bertram, "and let parker be the artist." "yes; and we'll celebrate the installation with champagne and _paté de foie gras_," said twisleton. "and afterwards devour the object of our idolatry, to show how short-lived is the fame for which we work so hard," said madden. "i should be delighted at such tokens of your regard, gentlemen. harcourt, you haven't seen wilkinson." harcourt turned round and shook hands warmly with his other friend. "upon my word, i did not see you, master wilkinson. you have such a habit of hiding yourself under a bushel that one always misses you. well; so the great day is over, and the great deed done. it's a bore out of the way, trampled under foot and got rid of; that's my idea of a degree." wilkinson merely smiled; but harcourt saw at once that he was a deeply-disappointed man. the barrister, however, was too much a man of the world either to congratulate him or condole with him. "there are fewer firsts this year than there have been for the last nine years," said gerard, thinking to soften the asperity of wilkinson's position. "that may be because the examiners required more, or because the men had less to give," said madden, forgetting all about wilkinson. "why, what noodles you are," said bertram, "not to know that it's all settled by chance at roulette the night before the lists come down! if it's not, it ought to be. the average result would be just as fair. come, harcourt, i know that you, with your temple experiences, won't drink oxford wine; but your good nature will condescend to see the children feeding. wilkinson, sit opposite there and give twisleton some of that pie that he was talking of." and so they sat down to their banquet; and harcourt, in spite of the refinement which london had doubtless given to his taste, seemed perfectly able to appreciate the flavour of the university vintage. "gentlemen, silence for one moment," said harcourt, when the graver work of eating began to lull, and men torpidly peeled their pears, and then cut them up into shapes instead of eating them. "it is always said at all the breakfasts i go to--" "this is not a breakfast," said bertram, "it's a lunch." "well, all the lunches, then; and god bless you. it's always said at these matutinal meals--which, by-the-by, would be the nicest things in the world, only one doesn't know what on earth to do when they're over." "it's time to go to dinner then," said twisleton. "that may do for the '_dura ilia_' of a freshman, but now that you're a b.a., you'll find that that power fails you greatly. but, for heaven's sake, let me go on with my speech, or you'll not get away either to dinner or to supper. it is commonly declared, i say, that there should be no speaking at these delicious little morning repasts." "do you call that a little repast?" said madden, who was lying back in his chair with a cigar in his mouth, of which he hardly had strength enough left to puff out the smoke. "i mean no offence to the feed, which, of its kind, has been only too good. if i'm to be allowed to go on, i'll say, that this rule, which is always laid down, is always broken; and therefore i feel no hesitation in breaking it on this occasion. a long speech is a long bore, and a little speech is a little bore; but bores must be endured. we can't do very well without them. now my bore shall be a very short bore if i'm allowed to make an end of it without interruption." "all right, harcourt," said bertram. "go ahead; we're only too delighted to hear you. it isn't every day we have a london barrister here." "no; and it isn't every day that we have a double-first at old trinity. gentlemen, there are, i think, five, six trinity men here including myself. it will be a point of honour with you to drink health and prosperity to our friend bertram with all the honours. we have many men of whom we can boast at trinity; but if i have any insight into character, any power of judging what a man will do"--it must be remembered that mr. harcourt, though a very young man in london, was by no means a young man at oxford--"there have been very few before him who have achieved a higher place than will fall to his lot, or whose name will be more in men's mouths than his. there are also here four gentlemen of other colleges; they will not, i am sure, begrudge us our triumph; they are his old friends, and will be as proud of the oxford man as we are of the trinity man. gentlemen, here is prosperity to our friend the double-first, and health to enjoy the fruits of his labour." whereupon the toast was drunk with a great deal of fervour. it was astonishing that ten men should make so much uproar; even wilkinson, whose heart the wine had just touched sufficiently to raise it a little from the depth to which it had fallen--even he cheered; and madden, overcoming by degrees his not unnatural repugnance to rise, produced from certain vast depths a double-bass hurrah. "bertram," said he, when the voices and glasses were once more silent, "you're a credit to your college, and i've a regard for you; so i don't mind running the risk for once. but i must beg that i may not be asked to repeat it." bertram of course returned thanks to his guests with all the mawkish modesty which usually marks such speeches--or, rather, with modesty which would be mawkish were it not so completely a matter of course. and then he sat down; and then, with a face rather heightened in colour, he got upon his legs again. "in spite of madden's difficulty of utterance," said he, "and his very visible disinclination to move--" "i'm not going to do any more shouting," said madden, "even though you propose the health of the chancellor, vice-chancellor, and two members." "not even though he throws the proctor's into the bargain," said twisleton. "you may shout or not as you like; but at the risk of giving some temporary pain to as good a friend as i have in the world, i will ask you to drink the health of one whom on this occasion fortune has not favoured--i mean my cousin, arthur wilkinson. the lists as they come down are, i dare say, made out with tolerable fairness. it is not at any rate for me to grumble at them. but of this i am quite sure, that did there exist some infallible test for finding out the best man, no man's name in this year would have been placed before his. he is not so jovial as the rest of us now, because he has partly failed; but the time will come when he will not fail." and then arthur wilkinson's health was toasted with a somewhat bated enthusiasm, but still with sufficient _éclat_ to make every glass in mr. parker's house ring on its shelf. poor wilkinson's ears tingled when he heard his name pronounced; and he would at the moment have given anything to be allowed to be quiet. but it may be doubted whether he would not have been more hurt had he been left there without any notice. it is very hard to tune oneself aright to a disappointed man. "i'll break the ice for him, at any rate," said bertram to himself. "when he's used to talk about it, he will suffer less." wilkinson had been accounted a good hand at speaking in the debating society, and though rather more prolix than bertram, and not quite so vivacious, had been considered almost more than a match for his cousin on account of his superior erudition and more practised delivery; but now his voluble gift of words deserted him. "he was much obliged to them," he said; "though perhaps, on the whole, it was better that men who placed themselves in a mediocre condition should be left to their mediocrity. he had no doubt himself of the justness of the lists. it would be useless for him to say that he had not aspired; all the world"--it was all the world to him--"knew too well that he had aspired. but he had received a lesson which might probably be useful to him for the rest of his life. as for failing, or not failing, that depended on the hopes which a man might form for himself. he trusted that his would henceforth be so moderate in their nature as to admit of a probability of their being realized." having uttered these very lugubrious words, and almost succeeded in throwing a wet blanket over the party, he sat down. "now, you're not going to do anybody else, are you?" said madden. "only twisleton, and gerard, and hopgood," answered bertram; "and fortescue looks as if he expected it. perhaps, however, he'll let us off till the day after to-morrow." and then, with a round of milk punch, another cigar apiece, and a little more chat, the party broke up. bertram and harcourt remained together, and bertram endeavoured to induce wilkinson to stay with them. he, however, wished to be alone, and got home to his college by himself. "you always overrated that man," said harcourt. "i think not; but time will show. after all, a good degree is not everything in the world. who in london cares about senior wranglers and double-firsts? when all is done, i don't see the use of it." "nobody cares much about wranglers and double-firsts; but these are the men, nevertheless, who get the best of what's going. wood that will swim in one water will swim in all waters." "you'll find wilkinson will swim yet." "that is, he won't sink. i don't say he will. nine-tenths of the men in the world neither swim nor sink; they just go along with their bows above the wave, but dreadfully water-logged, barely able to carry the burdens thrown on them; but yet not absolutely sinking; fighting a hard fight for little more than mere bread, and forgetting all other desires in their great desire to get that. when such a man does get bread, he can't be said to sink." "ah! wilkinson will do more than that." "something more, or something less, as the case may be. but, believe me, he is not the man to make other men fall before him. industry alone never does that, and certainly not that sort of industry which breaks down once in every six months. but come, mr. parker's champagne makes my head buzz: let us take a walk up the river; twisleton's idea of going to dinner requires far too much pluck for me." and so they walked out along the towing-path, discussing many things of much importance to them. "there is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune." in nine cases out of ten, this flood-tide comes _but_ once in life, and then in early years. a man may have a second or a third chance for decent maintenance, but hardly a second chance for fortune's brighter favours. the horse that is to win the race needs not make all his best running at once; but he that starts badly will rarely do so. when a young man discusses what shall be his future walk in life, he is talking of all that concerns his success as far as this world is concerned. and it is so hard for a youth to know, to make even a fair guess, as to what his own capacities are! the right man is wanted in the right place; but how is a lad of two and twenty to surmise what place will be right for him? and yet, if he surmises wrong, he fails in taking his tide at its single flood. how many lawyers are there who should have been soldiers! how many clergymen who should have been lawyers! how many unsuccessful doctors who might have done well on 'change, or in capel court! bertram had an inkling of this; and harcourt had more than an inkling. his path in life was chosen, and he had much self-confidence that he had chosen it well. he had never doubted much, and since he had once determined had never doubted at all. he had worked hard, and was prepared to work hard; not trusting over much in his own talents, but trusting greatly in his own industry. but bertram, with double his friend's genius, had, at any rate as yet, but little of his friend's stability. to him the world was all before him where to choose; but he was sadly in want of something that should guide his choice. he had a high, but at the same time a vague ambition. the law, the church, letters, art, and politics all enticed him; but he could not decide of which mistress the blandishments were the sweetest. "well, when shall we have you up in london?" said harcourt. "in london! i don't know that i shall go to london. i shall go down to hadley for a few weeks of course"--bertram's uncle lived at the village of that name, in the close vicinity of barnet--"but what i shall do then, i don't in the least know." "but i know you'll come to london and begin to keep your terms." "what, at the middle temple?" "at some temple or some inn: of course you won't go where anybody else goes; so probably it will be gray's inn." "no, i shall probably do a much more commonplace thing; come back here and take orders." "take orders! you! you can no more swallow the thirty-nine articles than i can eat twisleton's dinner." "a man never knows what he can do till he tries. a great deal of good may be done by a clergyman if he be in earnest and not too much wedded to the church of england. i should have no doubt about it if the voluntary principle were in vogue." "a voluntary fiddlestick!" "well, even a voluntary fiddlestick--if it be voluntary and well used." "of course you'll be a barrister. it is what you are cut out for, and what you always intended." "it is the most alluring trade going, i own;--but then they are all such rogues. of course you will be an exception." "i shall do at rome as romans do--i hope always. my doctrine is, that we have no immutable law of right and wrong." "a very comfortable code. i wish i could share it." "well, you will some of these days; indeed, you do now practically. but the subject is too long to talk of here. but as i know you won't go into the church, i expect to see you settled in london before christmas." "what am i to live on, my dear fellow?" "like all good nephews, live on your uncle. besides, you will have your fellowship; live on that, as i do." "you have more than your fellowship; and as for my uncle, to tell you the truth, i have no fancy for living on him. i am not quite sure that he doesn't mean me to think that it's charity. however, i shall have the matter out with him now." "have the matter out with him!--and charity! what an ass you are! an uncle is just the same as a father." "my uncle is not the same to me as my father." "no; and by all accounts it's lucky for you that he is not. stick to your uncle, my dear fellow, and come up to london. the ball will be at your foot." "did you ever read marryat's novel, harcourt?" "what, peter simple?" "no, that other one: i think of going out as another japhet in search of a father. i have a great anxiety to know what mine's like. it's fourteen years now since i saw him." "he is at teheran, isn't he?" "at hong kong, i think, just at present; but i might probably catch him at panama; he has something to do with the isthmus there." "you wouldn't have half the chance that japhet had, and would only lose a great deal of time. besides, if you talk of means, that would want money." they were now walking back towards oxford, and had been talking about fifty indifferent subjects, when bertram again began. "after all, there's only one decent career for a man in england." "and what is the one decent career?" "politics and parliament. it's all very well belonging to a free nation, and ruling oneself, if one can be one of the rulers. otherwise, as far as i can see, a man will suffer less from the stings of pride under an absolute monarch. there, only one man has beaten you in life; here, some seven hundred and fifty do so,--not to talk of the peers." "yes, but then a fellow has some chance of being one of the seven hundred and fifty." "i shall go in for that, i think; only who the deuce will return me? how does a man begin? shall i send my compliments to the electors of marylebone, and tell them that i am a very clever fellow?" "exactly; only do something first to show that you are so. i mean also to look to that; but i shall be well contented if i find myself in the house in twenty years' time,--or perhaps in thirty." "ah, you mean as a lawyer." "how else should a man without property get into parliament?" "that's just what i want to know. but i have no idea, harcourt, of waiting twenty years before i make my start in life. a man at any rate may write a book without any electors." "yes, but not have it read. the author who does any good must be elected by suffrages at least as honestly obtained as those of a member of parliament." chapter iii. the new vicar. poor arthur wilkinson was in a very unhappy frame of mind when he left the party at parker's, and, indeed, as he went to bed that night he was in a state not to be envied; but, nevertheless, when the end of the week came, he was able to enter the parsonage with a cheerful step, and to receive his mother's embrace with a smiling face. god is good to us, and heals those wounds with a rapidity which seems to us impossible when we look forward, but which is regarded with very insufficient wonder when we look backward. before he left oxford he had seen the head of his college and the tutor; and had also felt himself bound to visit the tradesmen in whose black books he was written down as a debtor. none of these august persons made themselves so dreadful to him as he had expected. the master, indeed, was more than civil--was almost paternally kind, and gave him all manner of hope, which came as balm poured into his sick heart. though he had failed, his reputation and known acquirements would undoubtedly get him pupils; and then, if he resided, he might probably even yet have a college fellowship, though, no doubt, not quite immediately. the master advised him to take orders, and to remain within the college as long as the rules permitted. if he should get his fellowship, they would all be delighted to have him as one of their body; there could--so thought the master--be no doubt that he might in the meantime maintain himself at the university by his pupils. the tutor was perhaps not quite so encouraging. he was a working man himself, and of a harder temperament than his head. he thought that wilkinson should have got a first, that he had owed it to his college to do so, and that, having failed to pay his debt, he should not be received with open arms--at any rate just at first. he was therefore cool, but not generous. "yes; i am sorry too; it is a pity," was all he said when wilkinson expressed his own grief. but even this was not so bad as arthur had expected, and on the whole he left his college with a lightened heart. nor were his creditors very obdurate. they did not smile so sweetly on him as they would have done had his name been bruited down the high street as that of a successful university pet. had such been his condition, they would have begged him not to distress their ears by anything so unnecessarily mundane as the mention of his very small account. all that they would have wanted of him would have been the continuation of his favours. as it was, they were very civil. six months would do very well. oh! he could not quite undertake to pay it in six months, but would certainly do so by instalments in two years. two years was a long time, certainly; would not mr. wilkinson senior prefer some quicker arrangement? oh! mr. wilkinson senior could do nothing! ah! that was unfortunate! and so the arrangement for two years--with interest, of course--was accepted. and thus mr. wilkinson junior began the swimming-match of life, as so many others do, with a slight millstone round his neck. well; it may be questioned whether even that is not better than an air-puffed swimming-belt. when he got home, his mother and sisters hung about him as they always had done, and protected him in some measure from the cold serenity of the vicar. to his father he said little on the subject, and his father said as little to him. they talked, indeed, by the hour as to the future; and arthur, in spite of his having resolved not to do so, told the whole story of his debts, and of his arrangement for their payment. "perhaps i could do something in the spring," said mr. wilkinson. "indeed, father, you shall do nothing," said the son. "i had enough, and should have lived on it; as i did not, i must live the closer now." and so that matter was settled. in a very few days arthur found himself going into society with quite a gay heart. his sisters laughed at him because he would not dance; but he had now made up his mind for the church, and it would, he thought, be well for him to begin to look to those amusements which would be befitting his future sacerdotal life. he practised singing, therefore, fasted on fridays, and learnt to make chessmen with a lathe. but though his sisters laughed at him, adela gauntlet, the daughter of the neighbouring vicar at west putford, did not laugh. she so far approved that by degrees she almost gave over dancing herself. waltzes and polkas she utterly abandoned; and though she did occasionally stand up for a quadrille, she did it in a very lack-a-daisical way, as though she would have refused that also had she dared to make herself so peculiar. and thus on the whole arthur wilkinson enjoyed himself that winter, in spite of his blighted prospects, almost as well as he had on any previous winter that he remembered. now and again, as he walked along the little river bank that ran with so many turnings from hurst staple down to west putford, he would think of his past hopes, and lament that he could talk of them to no one. his father was very good to him; but he was too cold for sympathy. his mother was all affection, and kindly suggested that, perhaps, what had happened was for the best: she kindly suggested this more than once, but her imagination carried her no further. had she not four daughters, hitherto without husbands, and also, alas! without portions? was it not enough for her to sympathize with them? as for his sisters--his sisters were well enough--excellent girls; but they were so gay, so light-hearted, so full of fun and laughter, that he could not talk to them of his sorrows. they were never pensive, nor given to that sober sadness which is prone to sympathy. if, indeed, adela gauntlet had been his sister--! and so he walked along the river to west putford. he had now fully made up his mind to go into the church. while yet thinking of high academical honours, and the brighter paths of ambition, he also had dreamed of the bar. all young men i believe do, who have high abilities, a taste for labour, and scanty fortune. senior wranglers and double-firsts, when not possessed of means for political life, usually find their way to the bar. it is on the bench of judges, not on the bench of bishops, that we must look for them in after life. arthur, therefore, had thought of the joys of a chancery wig, and had looked forward eagerly to fourteen hours' daily labour in the purlieus of lincoln's inn. but when, like many another, he found himself disappointed in his earliest hopes, he consoled himself by thinking that after all the church was the safer haven. and when he walked down to west putford there was one there who told him that it was so. but we cannot follow him too closely in these early days. he did go into the church. he did take pupils at oxford, and went abroad with two of them in the long vacation. after the lapse of the year, he did get his fellowship; and had by that time, with great exertion, paid half of that moiety of his debt which he had promised to liquidate. this lapse in his purposed performance sat heavy on his clerical conscience; but now that he had his fellowship he would do better. and so somewhat more than a year passed away, during which he was but little at hurst staple, and very little at west putford. but still he remembered the sweetly-pensive brow that had suited so well with his own feelings; and ever and again, he heard from one of the girls at home, that that little fool, adela gauntlet, was as bad as a parson herself, and that now she had gone so far that nothing would induce her to dance at all. so matters stood when young wilkinson received at oxford a letter desiring his instant presence at home. his father had been stricken by paralysis, and the house was in despair. he rushed off, of course, and arrived only in time to see his father alive. within twenty-four hours after his return he found himself the head of a wailing family, of whom it would be difficult to say whether their wants or their griefs were most heartrending. mr. wilkinson's life had been insured for six hundred pounds; and that, with one hundred a year which had been settled on the widow, was now the sole means left for the maintenance of her and her five children;--the sole means excepting such aid as arthur might give. "let us thank god that i have got the fellowship," said he to his mother. "it is not much, but it will keep us from starving." but it was not destined that the wilkinsons should be reduced even to such poverty as this. the vicarage of hurst staple was in the gift of the noble family of stapledean. the late vicar had been first tutor and then chaplain to the marquis, and the vicarage had been conferred on him by his patron. in late years none of the wilkinsons had seen anything of the stapledean family. the marquis, though not an old man, was reported to be very eccentric, and very cross. though he had a beautiful seat in the neighbourhood--not in the parish of hurst staple, but in that of deans staple, which adjoins, and which was chiefly his property--he never came to it, but lived at a much less inviting mansion in the north of yorkshire. here he was said to reside quite alone, having been separated from his wife; whereas, his children had separated themselves from him. his daughters were married, and his son, lord stanmore, might more probably be found under any roof in the country than that of his father. the living had now to be given away by the marquis, and the wilkinson family, who of late years had had no communication with him, did not even think of thinking of it. but a fortnight after the funeral, arthur received a letter with the postmark of bowes on it, which, on being opened, was found to be from lord stapledean, and which very curtly requested his attendance at bowes lodge. now bowes lodge was some three hundred miles from hurst staple, and a journey thither at the present moment would be both expensive and troublesome. but marquises are usually obeyed; especially when they have livings to give away, and when their orders are given to young clergymen. so arthur wilkinson went off to the north of england. it was the middle of march, and the east wind was blowing bitterly. but at twenty-four the east wind does not penetrate deep, the trachea is all but invulnerable, and the left shoulder knows no twinges. arthur arrived at the cold, cheerless village of bowes with a red nose, but with eager hopes. he found a little inn there, but he hardly knew whether to leave his bag or no. lord stapledean had said nothing of entertaining him at the lodge--had only begged him, if it were not too much trouble, to do him the honour of calling on him. he, living on the northern borders of westmoreland, had asked a man in hampshire to call on him, as though their houses were in adjacent streets; but he had said nothing about a dinner, a bed, or given any of those comfortable hints which seem to betoken hospitality. "it will do no harm if i put my bag into the gig," said arthur; and so, having wisely provided for contingencies, he started for bowes lodge. wisely, as regarded probabilities, but quite uselessly as regarded the event! hardy as he was, that drive in the gig from bowes did affect him unpleasantly. that appleby road has few sheltered spots, and when about three miles from bowes he turned off to the right, the country did not improve. bowes lodge he found to be six miles from the village, and when he drove in at the gate he was colder than he had been since he left hurst staple. there was very little that was attractive about the house or grounds. they were dark and sombre, and dull and dingy. the trees were all stunted, and the house, of which half the windows were closed, was green with the effects of damp. it was large enough for the residence of a nobleman of moderate pretensions; but it had about it none of that spruce, clean, well-cared-for appearance which is common to the country-houses of the wealthy in england. when he descended from the gig he thought that he might as well leave his bag there. the sombre-looking servant in black clothes who opened the door made no inquiry on the subject; and, therefore, he merely told his jehu to drive into the yard and wait for further orders. his lordship was at home, said the sombre, dingy servant, and in half a minute arthur found himself in the marquis's study and in the marquis's presence, with his nose all red and moist, his feet in an agony of cold, his fingers benumbed, and his teeth chattering. he was barely allowed time to take off his greatcoat, and, as he did so, he felt almost disinclined to part with so good a friend. "how do you do, mr. wilkinson?" said the marquis, rising from his chair behind the study table, and putting out the ends of his fingers so as to touch the young clergyman's hand. "pray take a seat." and arthur seated himself--as, indeed, he had no alternative--on a straight-backed old horsehair-bottomed chair which stood immediately under a tall black book-case. he was miles asunder from the fire; and had he been nearer to it, it would have availed him but little; for the grate was one of those which our grandfathers cleverly invented for transmitting all the heat up the chimney. the marquis was tall, thin, and gray-haired. he was, in fact, about fifty; but he looked to be at least fifteen years older. it was evident from his face that he was a discontented, moody, unhappy man. he was one who had not used the world over well; but who was quite self-assured that the world had used him shamefully. he was not without good instincts, and had been just and honest in his dealings--except in those with his wife and children. but he believed in the justness and honesty of no one else, and regarded all men as his enemies--especially those of his own flesh and blood. for the last ten years he had shut himself up, and rarely appeared in the world, unless to make some statement, generally personal to himself, in the house of lords, or to proffer, in a plaintive whine to his brother peers, some complaint as to his neighbour magistrates, to which no one cared to listen, and which in latter years the newspapers had declined to publish. arthur, who had always heard of the marquis as his father's old pupil, was astonished to see before him a man so aged. his father had been only fifty-five when he died, and had appeared to be a hale, strong man. the marquis seemed to be worn out with care and years, and to be one whose death might be yearly expected. his father, however, was gone; but the marquis was destined to undergo yet many more days of misery. "i was very sorry to hear of your father's sudden death," said lord stapledean, in his cold, thin voice. "it was very sudden, my lord," said arthur, shuddering. "ah--yes; he was not a prudent man;--always too fond of strong wine." "he was always a temperate man," said the son, rather disgusted. "that is, he never got drunk. i dare say not. as a parish clergyman, it was not likely that he should. but he was an imprudent man in his manner of living--very." arthur remained silent, thinking it better to say nothing further on the subject. "i suppose he has not left his family well provided for?" "not very well, my lord. there is something--and i have a fellowship." "something!" said the marquis, with almost a sneer. "how much is this something?" whereupon arthur told his lordship exactly the extent of his mother's means. "ah, i thought as much. that is beggary, you know. your father was a very imprudent man. and you have a fellowship? i thought you broke down in your degree." whereupon arthur again had to explain the facts of the case. "well, well, well. now, mr. wilkinson, you must be aware that your family have not the slightest claim upon me." "your lordship is also aware that we have made none." "of course you have not. it would have been very improper on your part, or on your mother's, had you done so--very. people make claims upon me who have been my enemies through life, who have injured me to the utmost of their power, who have never ceased striving to make me wretched. yes, these very people make claims on me. here--here is a clergyman asking for this living because he is a friend of lord stanmore--because he went up the pyramids with him, and encouraged him in all manner of stupidity. i'd sooner--well, never mind. i shan't trouble myself to answer this letter." now, as it happened that lord stanmore was a promising young nobleman, already much thought of in parliament, and as the clergyman alluded to was known by arthur to be a gentleman very highly reputed, he considered it best to hold his tongue. "no one has a claim on me; i allow no one to have such claims. what i want i pay for, and am indebted for nothing. but i must put some one into this living." "yes; your lordship must of course nominate some one." wilkinson said so much, as the marquis had stopped, expecting an answer. "i can only say this: if the clergymen in hampshire do their duty as badly as they do here, the parish would be better off without a parson." "i think my father did his duty well." "perhaps so. he had very little to do; and as it never suited me to reside there, there was never any one to look after him. however, i make no complaint. here they are intolerable--intolerable, self-sufficient, impertinent upstarts, full of crotchets of their own; and the bishop is a weak, timid fool; as for me, i never go inside a church. i can't; i should be insulted if i did. it has however gone so far now that i shall take permission to bring the matter before the house of lords." what could wilkinson say? nothing. so he sat still and tried to drive the cold out of his toes by pressing them against the floor. "your father certainly ought to have made some better provision," continued lord stapledean. "but he has not done so; and it seems to me, that unless something is arranged, your mother and her children will starve. now, you are a clergyman?" "yes, i am in orders." "and can hold a living? you distinctly understand that your mother has no claim on me." "surely none has been put forward, lord stapledean?" "i don't say it has; but you may perhaps fancy by what i say that i myself admit that there is a claim. mind; i do no such thing. not in the least." "i quite understand what you mean." "it is well that you should. under these circumstances, if i had the power, i would put in a curate, and pay over the extra proceeds of the living for your mother's maintenance. but i have no such power." arthur could not but think that it was very well his lordship had no such power. if patrons in general were so privileged there would be, he thought, but little chance for clergymen. "as the law stands i cannot do that. but as you are luckily in orders, i can put you in--on this understanding, that you shall regard the income as belonging rather to your mother and to your sisters than to yourself." "if your lordship shall see fit to present me to the living, my mother and sisters will of course want nothing that i can give them." "ah--h--h--h, my young friend! but that will not be sufficient for me. i must have a pledge from you--your word as a gentleman and a clergyman, that you take the living on an understanding that the income is to go to your father's widow. why should i give you five hundred pounds a year? eh? tell me that. why should i nominate a young man like you to such a living? you, whom i never saw in my life? tell me that." arthur wilkinson was a man sufficiently meek in spirit, as ordinary meekness goes--the ordinary meekness, that is, of a young clergyman of the church of england--but he was not quite inclined to put up with this. "i am obliged, my lord, to say again that i have not asked for so great a favour from you. indeed, till i received your letter desiring me to come here, i had no other thought of the living than that of vacating the house whenever your nominee should present himself." "that's all very well," said lord stapledean; "but you must be a very unnatural son if on that account you refuse to be the means of providing for your unfortunate mother and sisters." "i refuse! why, my lord, i regard it as much my duty to keep my mother and sisters from want as my father did. whether i am to have this living or no, we shall live together; and whatever i have will be theirs." "that's all very well, mr. wilkinson; but the question i ask you is this: if i make you vicar of hurst staple, will you, after deducting a fair stipend for yourself as curate--say one hundred and fifty pounds a year if you will--will you make over the rest of the income to your mother as long as she lives?" this was a question to which wilkinson found it very difficult to give a direct answer. he hardly knew whether he would not be guilty of simony in making such a promise, and he felt that at any rate the arrangement would be an improper one. "if you knew," said he, at last, "the terms on which my mother and i live together, you would perceive that such a promise is not needed." "i shall not the less think it necessary to exact it. i am putting great trust in you as it is, very great trust; more so perhaps than i am justified in doing." his lordship here alluded merely to the disposition of the vicarial tithes, and not at all to the care of souls which he was going to put into the young man's hands. arthur wilkinson again sat silent for awhile. "one would think," said his lordship, "that you would be glad to have the means of securing your mother from beggary. i imagined that you would have been in some measure gratified by my--my--my good intentions towards your family." "so i am, my lord; so i am. but i doubt whether i should be justified in giving such a pledge." "justified! you will make me almost doubt, mr. wilkinson, whether i shall be justified in putting the living into your hands; but, at any rate, i must have an answer." "what time can you allow me to consider my answer?" "what time! it never struck me that you could require time. well; you can let me have your decision to-morrow morning. send it me in writing, so that i may have it before ten. the post goes out at twelve. if i do not hear from you before ten, i shall conclude that you have refused my offer." and so speaking the marquis got up from his chair. arthur also got up, and promised that he would send a letter over from bowes the first thing on the following morning. "and tell the messenger to wait for an answer," said his lordship; "and pray express yourself definitely, so that there may be no doubt." and then, muttering something as to his hope that the inn was comfortable, and saying that the state of his health prohibited him from entertaining visitors, the marquis again put out his fingers, and arthur soon found himself in the gig on his journey to bowes. he intended returning to town on the following day by the twelve-o'clock mail, of which lord stapledean had spoken. but before that he had a difficult task to perform. he had no friend to consult, no one of whom he could ask advice, nothing to rely on but his own head and his own heart. that suggestion as to simony perplexed him. had he the right, or could he have it, to appropriate the income of the living according to terms laid down by the lay impropriator? at one time he thought of calling on the old clergyman of the parish and asking him; but then he remembered what the marquis had said of the neighbouring parsons, and felt that he could not well consult one of them on any matter in which his lordship was concerned. in the evening he considered the matter long and painfully, sitting over a cup of some exquisitely detestable concoction called tea by the bowesian landlady. "if he had only left me to myself," thought arthur, "i should do at least as much as that for them. it is for them that i want it; as for myself, i should be more comfortable at oxford." and then he thought of west putford, and adela gauntlet. this arrangement of lord stapledean's would entirely prevent the possibility of his marrying; but then, the burden of his mother and sisters would prevent that equally under any circumstances. it would be a great thing for his mother to be left in her old house, among her old friends, in possession of her old income. as regarded money, they would all be sufficiently well provided for. for himself, his fellowship and his prescribed stipend would be more than enough. but there was something in the proposition that was very distasteful to him. he did not begrudge the money to his mother; but he did begrudge her the right of having it from any one but himself. but yet the matter was of such vital moment. where else was he to look for a living? from his college in the course of years he might get one; but he could get none that would be equal in value to this of hurst staple, and to his fellowship combined. if he should refuse it, all those whom he loved would in truth suffer great privation; and that privation would not be rendered more endurable by the knowledge that such an offer had been refused. thus turning the matter over painfully in his mind, he resolved at last to accept the offer of the marquis. the payment after all was to be made to his own mother. the funds of the living were not to be alienated--were not, in truth, to be appropriated otherwise than they would have been had no such conditions as these been insisted on. and how would he be able to endure his mother's poverty if he should throw away on her behalf so comfortable a provision? he determined, therefore, to accept the goods the gods had provided him, clogged though they were with alloy, like so many other gifts of fortune; and accordingly he wrote a letter to lord stapledean, in which he stated "that he would accept the living, subject to the stipulations named--namely, the payment to his mother, during her life, of three hundred and fifty pounds per annum out of the tithes." to this he received an answer from the marquis, very short and very cold, but nevertheless satisfactory. the presentation to the living was, in fact, made in his favour, and he returned home to his family laden with good news. the dear old vicarage would still be their own; the trees which they had planted, the flower-beds which they had shaped, the hives which they had put up, would not go into the hands of strangers. and more than this, want no longer stared them in the face. arthur was welcomed back with a thousand fond caresses, as one is welcomed who bringeth glad tidings. but yet his heart was sad. what should he now say to adela gauntlet? chapter iv. our prima donna. when arthur first explained to his mother the terms on which the living had been given to him, she refused to receive the income. no such promise with reference to money matters between mother and son could be binding. were they not, moreover, one and the same household? would it not be in the end the same if arthur should keep the money himself? if it were paid to her, she should only pay it back again; and so on. but the vicar declared that he would adhere strictly to his promised engagement; and the mother soon fell into the way of thinking the arrangement not altogether a bad one. she had received intimation through the lord's man of business of the exact steps which had been taken for the relief of her great pecuniary distress--so the letter was worded--and it was not long before she regarded the income as fairly her own. we are so apt to be generous in the hot moments of impulse; but so equally apt to be only coldly just, even if coldly just, in the long years of our ordinary existence. and so the family again settled down; the commenced packings were again unpacked; the preliminary arrangements for living on a very small income were thrown to the winds; the pony that was to have been sold, and which with that object was being fattened up on boiled barley, was put on his accustomed rations; the old housekeeper's warning was revoked, as was also that of the old gardener. it was astonishing how soon the new vicar seemed to fill the old vicar's shoes in the eyes and minds of the people of hurst staple. had mr. wilkinson come up from his grave at the end of three months, he would hardly have found that he was missed. a very elegant little tablet had been placed to his memory; and there apparently was an end of him. the widow's cap did make some change in the appearance of the family circle; but it is astonishing how soon we get used even to a widow's cap! there had of course been visits of condolence between west putford and hurst staple, and the hurst staple girls and adela had been as much, or perhaps more, together than usual. but arthur's walks along the river had not been frequent. this, however, was not thought of by any one. he had had new duties to assume, and old duties to put off. he had been a fortnight up at oxford; and when at home, had been calling on all his parishioners. he had been attending to the dilapidations of the vicarage, and rearranging the books in the book-room. the dingy volumes of thirty years since had been made to give way to the new and brighter bindings which he had brought from college. and therefore no one had remarked that he had but once been at west putford. but he thought of it himself. he often longed to go thither, and as often feared to do so. when he next went, it must be to tell adela, not that he loved her, but that such love was forbidden to him. the family at west putford consisted only of the vicar and his daughter. mrs. gauntlet had been long dead, and there had been no other child. a maiden sister of mr. gauntlet's occasionally visited them, and had, indeed, lived there altogether while adela's education had required it; but this lady preferred her own lodgings at littlebath, and adela, therefore, was in general the sole mistress of the parsonage. i beg my reader not to imagine that there had been love-passages between arthur wilkinson and adela gauntlet: nothing of the sort had occurred. they had known and loved each other as children together, and now that they were no longer children, they still knew and loved each other--that was all. it is true that arthur, when he had wished to talk of his own disappointments, had found a better listener at west putford than any that he could find at hurst staple. it is true that adela had always been glad to listen to him; that she had had pleasure in cheering his fainting heart, and telling him that the work of a soldier of christ was worthier of a man than the bickerings of a statesman or the quibbles of a lawyer; that she had gravely, yet withal so sweetly, spoken to him of the comforts of a rural life, and made him almost in love with his own failure. such passages there had been between them; but arthur had never taken her hand and sworn that it must be his own, nor had adela ever blushed while half refusing to give him all he asked. why then need he trouble himself about west putford? why not let matters rest as they were? miss gauntlet would still be his friend; though seeing that she could never be more, it might not be well for him to walk so often along that river. as there had been no love-passages, one would say that nothing else was necessary. but he could not content himself that this should be so. adela would think him strange if he should say nothing to her of his future prospects. true, he had spoken no word of love, but had he not looked at her as though it was in his mind to speak such? was it not incumbent on him to make her understand why he threw from him such golden hopes? and then, as to her, he did not flatter himself that she loved him--at least, not much; but yet it might be well to let her know that she was now at liberty to love any other swain. so at last he once more went his way to west putford. adela gauntlet was-- no; for once i will venture to have a heroine without describing her. let each reader make what he will of her; fancy her of any outward shape and colour that he please, and endow her with any amount of divine beauty. but for her inner character, let him take that from me as i go on, if so be that i can succeed in making clear to others that which is clear enough to my own mind's eye. i have called her a heroine; it is the novelist's customary name for his prima donna, and so i use it. but many opera companies have more than one prima donna. there is the donna prima, and if one may so say, the donna primissima. now adela guantlet is no more than my donna prima. my donna primissima will be another guess sort of lady altogether. arthur, as he walked along, communed with himself as to what he was going to say. "at any rate, she shall know it all; we shall be more comfortable when we meet afterwards. not that it will make any difference to her;" and then he sighed deeply, and cut at the river rushes with his walking-stick. he found her as usual alone in the drawing-room, and, as usual, she smiled sweetly when she saw him. since the day on which he had first gone up to oxford, she had always called him "mr. wilkinson"--so instructed by aunt penelope; but in other respects her manner to him was almost that of a sister, only that it was softer, and more gracious. "i declare, i thought we were never to see you again, mr. wilkinson." ah, adela! whom did the _we_ mean? but is it possible that any girl should live fairly before the world without some little insincerities? "i have been so occupied, adela. there is so much to do in taking up a parish. even though i know all the people so well, there has been so much to do." "yes, yes, i am sure of it. but now that you are settled, i do so hope that you will be comfortable. i saw mary the other day, and she told me that your mother was quite well again." "yes, she is pretty well. we are all very well now, i think." "i do so love that old lord for giving you the living, though they say he is such a turk. it was such a good thing in him to do; so considerate to everybody." "yes; it has made my mother and the girls comfortable; that, of course, is what i had first to think of." "as for yourself, i have no doubt you would have done better at oxford. but you could have got no home for them like their old home; could you?" "no, of course not," said arthur, answering almost at random, and thinking how best he might explain the sacrifice which he had made without taking too much credit to himself. "and then, if you had remained up there, you would only have become a musty old don. i don't think you would have been happy, not so happy as in a parish. and when a man is a clergyman"--this she said in a lower and somewhat a solemn voice--"surely he cannot be so well placed as in charge of a parish. don't you think so, mr. wilkinson?" "certainly. it is the life for which he is intended; for which he should have intended himself." "and i am sure it is a happy life: look at papa; i do not know any happier man--only that poor mamma died." and upon this hint he spake. "yes, your father i am sure has been a happy man, and he is an excellent clergyman." "is he not? even still so active! and he is so glad now to have you near him." "i wish i had received my living as he did his; not that it would make any real difference." "he got his, you know, from the bishop. but do you dislike being lord stapledean's nominee?" "it would be ungrateful to say that; but i certainly do not like lord stapledean. however, i have taken his living, and should not complain." "i did not know that there was anything disagreeable." "there is this, adela. i had rather tell you; and i came over to-day in part to do so: but you will see that the matter is one that should not be talked about," and he looked down on the floor, poking about on the carpet pattern with his stick, being unable any longer to meet the clear gaze of her soft eye. "oh, i am sorry if there is anything to distress you." "not exactly to distress me, perhaps; but i will tell you. when the marquis offered me the living, he did it on the stipulation that i should pay over to my mother three hundred and fifty pounds a year during her life. i doubt whether it was right to accept it on these conditions; but i did so. the living, therefore, is rather hers than mine." "oh, arthur, how good of you!" in spite of all aunt penelope's lessons, old habits would sometimes get the better of her. "i don't know; i am afraid that it was not good." "why? i can't understand? surely it must be good to give up your time, your labour, your hopes"--adela did not say his heart--"for your mother and sisters' good! why, how can it be else than good? i think it good, and shall think so." "at any rate, adela, i could not withstand the offer when it was made to me." "i am sure you could not." "so i am little more than a curate in the parish as far as the income is concerned; with this difference, that i can't change my curacy for a living should a chance offer." adela had never before known him to be solicitous about money for himself, and now she felt that she did not understand him. "but you have got your fellowship," said she. "yes, i have got my fellowship: oh, as far as that is concerned, i am better off than i could ever have expected to be. but, nevertheless, one feels--feels crippled by such an arrangement. it is quite impossible, you know, for instance, that--that--that i should do a great many things." his courage failed him as he was about to make the fatal announcement. "what things?" said adela, with all the boldness of innocence. it was necessary that he should say it. "why, for instance," he continued, "it is quite impossible, though perhaps that does not make much matter; but it is quite impossible--that i should ever marry." and still looking down upon the ground, he poked sedulously among the patterns with his stick. "oh!" said adela, with a tremour in her voice, and her eye was no longer able to rest upon his face. there was a pause during which neither of them said a word, or saw each other. as far as adela was concerned, immediate speech was impossible. she neither cried, nor sighed, nor sobbed, nor became hysterical. she was simply dumb. she could not answer this little announcement of her neighbour's. heretofore, when he had come to her with his sorrows, she had sympathized with him, and poured balm into his wounds. but she had no balm for him now--and no sympathy. there they sat, mute; he poking the while at the carpet, while she did not even move a limb. and then it gradually came home to both of them that this utter silence, this prostration of all power of self-management, told to each the secret of the other. each felt that every moment of prolonged silence committed both of them the deeper. why should not adela be able to speak when thus informed of her neighbour's intended celibacy? why should he sit like a fool before her merely because he had told her that on which he had long decided? but it was clearly wilkinson's duty to have disembarrassed the lady as soon as possible. it was almost unmanly in him to be put thus beyond the power of speech or action. but still he poked the carpet and said nothing. it was adela who first broke that tell-tale silence; and grievous was the effort which it cost her to do so. "but you will have your mother and sisters with you, mr. wilkinson; and so, perhaps, you won't mind that." "yes, i shall have them," said he; and then there was another silence, which seemed about to be equally dangerous and equally difficult. but adela, who was fully aware of the error which she had already committed, strove hard to save herself from repeating it. "you will have a family round you; and if, as you say"--but the ground that she approached was so hot that she could not walk on it. she could not get further in that direction, and therefore merely added: "i am sure i hope you will always be happy." at length arthur shook himself, positively shook himself, as though that were the only mode by which he could collect his faculties; and then getting up from his chair, and standing with his back against the wall, he spoke out as follows:-- "perhaps, adela, there was no necessity for me to have mentioned this subject. at least, i am sure there was no necessity. but you have ever been such a friend to me, have so understood my feelings when no one else seemed to do so, that i could not but tell you this as i have told you everything else. i hope i have not annoyed you by doing so." "oh, no; not at all." "it does make me a little sad to think that i shall never be my own master." "never, mr. wilkinson!" had arthur but known it, there was balm, there was sympathy in this word. had his intellect been as sharp as his feelings, he would have known it. but it passed him unperceived, as it had fallen from her unawares: and she said no other word that could encourage him. if he was cold, she at least would be equally so. "certainly not during my mother's life; and you know how good ground we have for hoping that her life will be long. and then there are my sisters. my duty to them will be the same as to my mother, even though, as regards them, i may not be tied down as i am with regard to her." "we cannot have everything here," said adela, trying to smile. "but i am sure i need not teach you that." "no, we cannot have everything." and arthur thought that, in spite of the clerical austerity which he was about to assume, he should very much like to have adela gauntlet. "it will make you happy to know that you are making your mother happy, and the dear girls--and--and i have no doubt you will very soon get used to it. many clergymen, you know, think that they ought not to marry." "yes; but i never made up my mind to that." "no, perhaps not; but now perhaps you will think of it more seriously." "indeed, i used to have an idea that a parish clergyman should be a married man. there are so many things which he can do better when he has a woman to assist him who thinks exactly as he thinks." "you will have your sisters, you know. both mary and sophia were always active in the parish, and jane and fanny have their school." "yes;" and he uttered a gentle sigh as he paused before he answered her. "but it is not quite the same thing, adela. i love my sisters dearly; but one always longs to have one heart that shall be entirely one's own." and had he come over to tell her this in the same breath with which he informed her that marriage was a privilege quite beyond his reach? what did he think of her, or of what did he imagine that she was made? there was cruelty in it, of which adela became immediately conscious, and which she could hardly help wishing to resent. he had performed the object of his visit; why did he not leave her? he had made himself thoroughly understood; why did he not go? his former many sweet visits had created hopes which were all but certain. he had said nothing of love; but coming there as he had come, and gazing at her as he had gazed, adela could not doubt but that she was loved. that was all now set at rest; but why should he remain there, breaking her heart with allusions to his own past tenderness? "you must put up with the world as you find it, mr. wilkinson." "oh, yes; of course. but when one has had such happy dreams, the waking reality, you know, does make one sad." "you are too happy in your friends and your position to be an object of pity. how many clergymen are there of your age who would look upon your lot as almost beyond their ambition! how many men are there with mothers and sisters for whom they cannot provide! how many who have made rash marriages which have led to no happiness! surely, mr. wilkinson, with you there is more cause for thankfulness than for complaint!" and thus, as it was necessary that she should say something, she moralized to him--very wisely. "it is all true," said he; "and perhaps it is for the best. i might probably have been made more wretched in another way." "yes; very likely." oh, adela, adela! "i begin to know that a man should not be sanguine. i have always hoped for more than i have had a right to expect, and, therefore, i have always been disappointed. it was so at school, and at oxford, and it is so now: it shows how true it is that a man should not look for his happiness here. well; good-bye, adela. i see that you think i am wrong to have any regrets." "useless regrets are always foolish: we laugh at children who cry for what is quite out of their reach." "yes; and you laugh at me. i dare say you are right." "no; do not say that, mr. wilkinson. i have never laughed at you. but--" she did not wish to be actually unkind to him, though he had been so cruel to her. at last he went. they shook hands with each other in their accustomed manner, but wilkinson felt that he missed something from her touch, some warmth from the soft pressure, some scintillation of sympathy which such last moments of his visits had usually communicated to him. yes; there was much to miss. as he went back along the river his heart was sad within him. he had made up his mind to give up adela gauntlet, but he had not made up his mind to discover that she did not care for him--that she was indifferent to his happiness, and unable to sympathize with his feelings. the fact was, that though he had resolved that duty and his circumstances required him to remain single, nevertheless, he had at the bottom of his heart a sort of wish that adela should be in love with him. he had his wish; but he was not sharp enough to discover that he had it. "i never thought her unfeeling before," said he to himself. "but all the world is alike. well; as it is, it does not signify; but it might have been that i should have half broken my heart to find her so unfeeling.--more cause for thankfulness than complaint! yes; that is true of us all. but it was unfriendly, nay unfeminine in her to say so when she must have known how much i was giving up." and so he walked on complaining; understanding perhaps accurately the wants of his own heart, but being quite in the dark as to the wants of that other heart. but his grief, his discontent was mild in comparison with hers. she shook hands with him when he went, and endeavoured to say her last word of farewell in her usual tone; nay, for a few minutes after his departure she retained her seat calmly, fearing that he possibly might return; but then, when the door had closed on him, and she had seen him from her window passing across the lawn, then her spirits gave way, and bitterly she made her moan. what was this that he had said to her? he would not marry because he had his mother and sisters to support. would not she have helped to support them? would not she have thrown in her lot with his for better or for worse, let that lot have been ever so poor? and could it be possible that he had not known this--had not read her heart as she had read his? could it be that he had come there day after day, looking to her for love, and sympathy, and kindness--that sort of kindness which a man demands from no one but her he loves, and which no one can give him unless she loves him? could it be that he had done this and then thought that it all meant nothing? that the interchange of such feelings had no further signification? money! had she asked about his money in those days when his father still lived, when there was no question of this living belonging to him? she would have waited for him for years had years been necessary, even though they should be counted by tens and tens. nay, she would have been contented to wait, even though that waiting should never have been rewarded, had he given her the privilege of regarding herself as his. money! she would have been contented to live on potato-parings could he have been contented to live with her on potatoes. she had over and over again questioned herself as to her love, and reminded herself that as yet he had said nothing to her to justify it: but as often she had answered herself that with him she could have no doubt. it was impossible that he should so look into her eyes and so speak to her if he did not love her. and so she had resolved to risk all her happiness upon her conviction of his faithfulness. she had so risked it all; and now he came to her, telling her coldly that he could not afford to marry. he, to tell her of his happy dreams and his waking reality! he who had not the courage to realize the bliss of his dreams when that bliss was within his reach! he, to talk of sympathy, of a woman thinking with him exactly as he thought! he who was so timid of the world that he feared to love less perchance his supplies of bread and meat should fail him! what could heart wounds signify to him, or hurt feelings? had he not his arms sound and his head clear? if, having them, he would not venture for his love's sake to meet the world and its burdens, he could hardly have heart enough to know what love really meant. flinging herself on her sofa with outstretched arms, thus adela made her moan; not in these words, for she spake none: but such were the thoughts which ran through her mind as she bewailed all that she had risked and all that she had lost. "what would i not have done for him!" she suddenly exclaimed aloud, as, rising from the sofa, she stood erect upon the ground, pressing her hand upon her heart. "fool that i have been--fool, fool, fool!" and then, with her hand still close to her side, she walked up and down the room with quick step. and she had been a fool according to the world's wisdom. of what use had been aunt penelope's teaching, strictly enacting as it did all the nice proprieties of young-lady life, seeing that it had not sufficed to guard her heart against the first comer? unasked she had given it all away, had poured it out to the last drop of its warm flood; and now she was told that it was not wanted, that the article was one not exactly in the gentleman's walk of life! she might well call herself a fool:--but what was she to call him? "it is quite impossible, you know, that i should ever marry!" why had he not asked her whether or no it were possible; if not now, then in ten years' time--if not in ten years, then in twenty? had he not been as faithless to her, was he not as much man-sworn, as though a thousand oaths had passed between them? oaths between lovers are but cupid's phrases, made to enable them to talk of love. they are the playthings of love, as kisses are. when lovers trust each other they are sweet bonds; but they will never bind those who do not trust. when he had told her that she, and she only, understood his feelings, that she, and she only, knew his moods, and when she had answered him by the encouragement of her soft smile, could it be that more was necessary between them? ah! yes, adela, much more! never know a gentleman's moods, never understand his feelings till, in the plain language of his mother-tongue, he has asked you to be mistress of them. when her father came in before dinner, she was still pacing up and down the room. but she had not spent the two hours since arthur had left her in vain sorrow or in vainer anger. she had felt that it behoved her to resolve how she would act, and what she would do; and in those two hours she had resolved. a great misfortune, a stunning blow had fallen on her; but the fault had been with her rather than with him. she would school herself to bear the punishment, to see him occasionally, and bear with him as she would have done had he never taken those walks along the river; she would still love his sisters; still go when needs was to the hurst staple parsonage. as for him, she would wish him no evil, rather every good. as for herself, she would check her rebel heart if she could; but, at any rate, she would learn to check the rising blood which would otherwise tell her tale. "arthur wilkinson has been here to-day, papa," she was able to say, with composed voice; "they are quite settled again at the parsonage." "ah! he is a lucky fellow," said the old vicar; "he'll be wanting a wife now before the year's out." chapter v. the choice of a profession. we must now go back to our other hero, or, rather, to another of our heroes. arthur wilkinson is our melancholy love-lorn tenor, george bertram our eager, excitable barytone, and mr. harcourt--henry harcourt--our bass, wide awake to the world's good things, impervious to sentimentality, and not over-scrupulous--as is always the case with your true deep-mouthed opera bass. our present business is with the excitable barytone, whom we left some year and a half ago in not a very clear state of mind as to the walk in life which would be best suited for his peculiar legs. harcourt, who was himself a lawyer, recommended the law. selfish as was the general tone of harcourt's heart, still he had within him a high, if not a generous feeling, which made him wish to have near him in his coming life a friend of such promise as george bertram. bertram might beat him in his career; nay, probably would do so; but, nevertheless, harcourt wished to see him keeping his terms in london. he was convinced that he should gain more than he should lose by such a friend. but bertram's own mind was not so easily made up. his personal possessions in life may be thus catalogued. he had come of a good family; he had received the best education which england could give him; he was quick in speech and ready in thought; he had a double-first degree, and would at once have a fellowship; he had also an uncle who was very rich and occasionally very disagreeable, and a father who was very poor, and of whom he heard all men say that he was one of the most agreeable fellows that ever lived. such being his stock in trade, how was he to take it to the best market? and what market would be the best? in thinking over his markets, it must not be supposed that his only object, or his chief object, was the making of money. that was a rock, rather, of which it behoved him to be very careful. the money-making part of every profession was, according to his present views, a necessary incidental evil. to enable a poor man like him to carry on his work some money must be made; for some sorts of work, perhaps for that very sort which he would most willingly choose, much money must be made. but the making of it should never be his triumph. it could be but a disagreeable means to a desirable end. at the age of twenty-two so thought our excitable barytone hero on that point. two ends appeared to him to be desirable. but which of the two was the most desirable--that to him was the difficult question. to do good to others, and to have his own name in men's mouths--these were the fitting objects of a man's life. but whether he would attempt the former in order to achieve the latter; or obtain, if he did obtain, the latter by seeking success in the former: on this point his character was not sufficiently fixed, nor his principles sufficiently high to enable him fitly to resolve. but the necessity of seeing his uncle before he took any actual steps secured him from the necessity of coming to any absolutely immediate decision. he and harcourt were together for three or four days, and he listened not unmoved to his friend's eloquence in favour of public life in london. not unmoved, indeed, but always with a spirit of antagonism. when harcourt told of forensic triumphs, bertram spoke of the joy of some rustic soul saved to heaven in the quiet nook of a distant parish. when his friend promised to him parliament, and the later glories of the ermine, he sighed after literary fame, to be enjoyed among the beauties of nature. but harcourt understood all this: he did not wish to convince his friend, but only to lead him. mr. george bertram senior was a notable man in the city of london. i am not prepared to say what was his trade, or even whether he had one properly so called. but there was no doubt about his being a moneyed man, and one well thought of on 'change. at the time of which i write, he was a director of the bank of england, chairman of a large insurance company, was deep in water, far gone in gas, and an illustrious potentate in railway interests. i imagine that he had neither counting-house, shop, nor ware-rooms: but he was not on that account at a loss whither to direct his steps; and those who knew city ways knew very well where to meet mr. george bertram senior between the hours of eleven and five. he was ten years older than his brother, sir lionel, and at the time of which i write might be about seventy. he was still unmarried, and in this respect had always been regarded by sir lionel as a fountain from whence his own son might fairly expect such waters as were necessary for his present maintenance and future well-being. but mr. george bertram senior had regarded the matter in a different light. he had paid no shilling on account of his nephew, or on other accounts appertaining to his brother, which he had not scored down as so much debt against sir lionel, duly debiting the amount with current interest; and statements of this account were periodically sent to sir lionel by mr. bertram's man of business,--and periodically thrown aside by sir lionel, as being of no moment whatsoever. when mr. bertram had paid the bill due by his brother to mr. wilkinson, there was outstanding some family unsettled claim from which the two brothers might, or might not, obtain some small sums of money. sir lionel, when much pressed by the city croesus, had begged him to look to this claim, and pay himself from the funds which would be therefrom accruing. the city croesus had done so: a trifle of two or three hundred pounds had fallen to sir lionel's lot, and had of course been duly credited to his account. but it went a very little way towards squaring matters, and the old man of business went on sending his half-yearly statements, which became anything but "small by degrees." mr. bertram had never absolutely told george of this debt, or complained of his not being repaid the advances which he had made; but little hints dropped from him, which were sometimes understood for more than they were worth, and which made the young oxonian feel that he would rather not be quite so much in his uncle's hands. the old man gave him to understand that he must not look on himself as an heir to wealth, or imagine that another lot was his than that ordinary to mortals--the necessity, namely, of eating his bread in the sweat of his brow. old mr. bertram ordinarily lived at hadley, a village about a mile beyond barnet, just on the border of what used to be called enfield chase. here he had an establishment very fit for a quiet old gentleman, but perhaps not quite adequate to his reputed wealth. by my use of the word reputed, the reader must not be led to think that mr. bertram's money-bags were unreal. they were solid, and true as the coffers of the bank of england. he was no colonel waugh, rich only by means of his rich impudence. it is not destined that he shall fall brilliantly, bringing down with him a world of ruins. he will not levant to spain or elsewhere. his wealth is of the old-fashioned sort, and will abide at any rate such touch of time as it may encounter in our pages. but none of the hadleyites, or, indeed, any other ites--not even, probably, the bank-of-englandites, or the city-of-london-widows'-fundites--knew very well what his means were; and when, therefore, people at hadley spoke of his modest household, they were apt to speak of it as being very insufficient for such a millionaire. hitherto george had always passed some part of his vacations at hadley. the amusements there were not of a very exciting nature; but london was close, and even at hadley there were pretty girls with whom he could walk and flirt, and the means of keeping a horse and a couple of pointers, even if the hunting and shooting were not conveniently to be had. a few days after the glories of his degree, when his name was still great on the high street of oxford, and had even been touched by true fame in a very flattering manner in the columns of the "daily jupiter," he came home to hadley. his uncle never encouraged visits from him in the city, and they met, therefore, for the first time in the old man's drawing-room just before dinner. "how are you, george?" said the uncle, putting out his hand to his nephew, and then instantly turning round and poking the fire. "what sort of a journey have you had from oxford? yes, these railways make it all easy. which line do you use? didcot, eh? that's wrong. you'll have a smash some of these days with one of those great western express trains"--mr. bertram held shares in the opposition line by which oxford may be reached, and never omitted an opportunity of doing a little business. "i'm ready for dinner; i don't know whether you are. you eat lunch, i suppose. john, it's two minutes past the half-hour. why don't we have dinner?" not a word was said about the degree--at least, not then. indeed mr. bertram did not think very much about degrees. he had taken no degree himself, except a high degree in wealth, and could not understand that he ought to congratulate a young man of twenty-two as to a successful termination of his school-lessons. he himself at that age had been, if not on 'change, at any rate seated on the steps of 'change. he had been then doing a man's work; beginning to harden together the nucleus of that snowball of money which he had since rolled onwards till it had become so huge a lump--destined, probably, to be thawed and to run away into muddy water in some much shorter space of time. he could not blame his nephew: he could not call him idle, as he would have delighted to do had occasion permitted; but he would not condescend to congratulate him on being great in greek or mighty in abstract mathematics. "well, george," said he, pushing him the bottle as soon as the cloth was gone, "i suppose you have done with oxford now?" "not quite, sir; i have my fellowship to receive." "some beggarly two hundred pounds a year, i suppose. not that i mean to say you should not be glad to have it," he added, thus correcting the impression which his words might otherwise have made. "as you have been so long getting it, it will be better to have that than nothing. but your fellowship won't make it necessary for you to live at oxford, will it?" "oh, no. but then i may perhaps go into the church." "oh, the church, eh? well, it is a respectable profession; only men have to work for nothing in it." "i wish they did, sir. if we had the voluntary system--" "you can have that if you like. i know that the independent ministers--" "i should not think of leaving the church of england on any account." "you have decided, then, to be a clergyman?" "oh, no; not decided. indeed, i really think that if a man will work, he may do better at the bar." "very well, indeed--if he have the peculiar kind of talent necessary." "but then, i doubt whether a practising barrister can ever really be an honest man." "what?" "they have such dirty work to do. they spend their days in making out that black is white; or, worse still, that white is black." "pshaw! have a little more charity, master george, and do not be so over-righteous. some of the greatest men of your country have been lawyers." "but their being great men won't alter the fact; nor will my being charitable. when two clear-headed men take money to advocate the different sides of a case, each cannot think that his side is true." "fiddlestick! but mind, i do not want you to be a lawyer. you must choose for yourself. if you don't like that way of earning your bread, there are others." "a man may be a doctor, to be sure; but i have no taste that way." "and is that the end of the list?" "there is literature. but literature, though the grandest occupation in the world for a man's leisure, is, i take it, a slavish profession." "grub street, eh? yes, i should think so. you never heard of commerce, i suppose?" "commerce. yes, i have heard of it. but i doubt whether i have the necessary genius." the old man looked at him as though he doubted whether or no he were being laughed at. "the necessary kind of genius, i mean," continued george. "very likely not. your genius is adapted to dispersing, perhaps, rather than collecting." "i dare say it is, sir." "and i suppose you never heard of a man with a--what is it you call your degree? a double-first--going behind a counter. what sort of men are the double-lasts, i wonder!" "it is they, i rather think, who go behind the counters," said george, who had no idea of allowing his uncle to have all the raillery on his side. "is it, sir? but i rather think they don't come out last when the pudding is to be proved by the eating. success in life is not to be won by writing greek verses; not though you write ever so many. a ship-load of them would not fetch you the value of this glass of wine at any market in the world." "commerce is a grand thing," said george, with an air of conviction. "it is the proper work for men," said his uncle, proudly. "but i have always heard," replied the nephew, "that a man in this country has no right to look to commerce as a profession unless he possesses capital." mr. bertram, feeling that the tables had been turned against him, finished his glass of wine and poked the fire. a few days afterwards the same subject was again raised between them. "you must choose for yourself, george," said the old man; "and you should choose quickly." "if i could choose for myself--which i am aware that i cannot do; for circumstances, after all, will have the decision--but, if i could choose, i would go into parliament." "go where?" said mr. bertram, who would have thought it as reasonable if his nephew had proposed to take a house in belgrave square with the view of earning a livelihood. "into parliament, sir." "is parliament a profession? i never knew it before." "perhaps not, ordinarily, a money-making profession; nor would i wish to make it so." "and what county, or what borough do you intend to honour by representing it? perhaps the university will return you." "perhaps it may some of these days." "and, in the meantime, you mean to live on your fellowship, i suppose?" "on that and anything else that i can get." mr. bertram sat quiet for some time without speaking, and george also seemed inclined to muse awhile upon the subject. "george," said the uncle, at last, "i think it will be better that we should thoroughly understand each other. you are a good fellow in your way, and i like you well enough. but you must not get into your head any idea that you are to be my heir." "no, sir; i won't." "because it would only ruin you. my idea is that a man should make his own way in the world as i made mine. if you were my son, it may be presumed that i should do as other men do, and give you my money. and, most probably, you would make no better use of it than the sons of other men who, like me, have made money. but you are not my son." "quite true, sir; and therefore i shall be saved the danger. at any rate, i shall not be the victim of disappointment." "i am very glad to hear it," said mr. bertram, who, however, did not give any proof of his gladness, seeing that he evinced some little addition of acerbity in his temper and asperity in his manner. it was hard to have to deal with a nephew with whom he could find so little ground for complaint. "but i have thought it right to warn you," he continued, "you are aware that up to the present moment the expense of your education has been borne by me." "no, sir; not my education." "not your education! how, then, has it been borne?" "i speak of my residence at oxford. i have had a great many indulgences there, and you have paid for them. the expenses of my education i could have paid myself." this was fair on george's part. he had not asked his uncle for a liberal allowance, and was hardly open to blame for having taken it. "i only know i have paid regularly one hundred and fifty pounds a year to your order, and i find from pritchett"--pritchett was his man of business--"that i am paying it still." "he sent me the last quarter the other day; but i have not touched it." "never mind; let that pass. i don't know what your father's views are about you, and never could find out." "i'll ask him. i mean to go and see him." "go and see him! why, he's at bagdad." "yes. if i start at once i shall just catch him there, or perhaps meet him at damascus." "then you'll be a great fool for your pains--a greater fool almost than i take you to be. what do you expect your father can do for you? my belief is, that if four hundred pounds would take him to heaven, he couldn't make up the money. i don't think he could raise it either in europe or asia. i'm sure of this; i wouldn't lend it him." "in such a case as that, sir, his personal security would go for so little." "his personal security has always gone for little. but, as i was saying, i have consented ever since you went to wilkinson's to allow your father to throw the burthen of your expenses on my shoulders. i thought it a pity that you should not have the chance of a decent education. mind, i claim no gratitude, as i shall expect your father to pay me what i have advanced." "how on earth can he do that, sir? but perhaps i can." "can you? very well; then you can settle it with him. but listen to me." "listen to me for a moment, uncle george. i think you are hard on my father, and certainly hard on me. when i went to wilkinson's, what did i know of who paid the bill?" "who says you knew anything, sir?" "and, counting on from that time, at what period ought i to have begun to know it? when should i have first learnt to feel that i was a burden to any one?" "who has talked about a burden?" "you say i am not to be your heir?" "certainly not." "i never thought of being your heir. i don't care a straw about being anybody's heir. what you have given freely, i have taken freely. as for my father, if you felt so harshly towards him, why did you let him incur this debt?" "i was to see you kicked out of wilkinson's house and starve in the ditch, i suppose? but now, if you can control your fine feelings for one moment, will you listen to me? i have never blamed you in the matter at all, and don't blame you now--at least not yet." "i hope you never will--that is about money matters." "now do listen to me. it seems to me that you are quite astray about a profession. you don't like commerce, and what you said the other day about capital is quite true. i count a man a knave who goes into trade without capital. in a small way we might, perhaps, have managed it. but in a very small way you would not have liked it." "neither small nor great, sir." "very well. you need not be afraid that anything very great will be thrust upon you. but it seems to me that what you are most fitted for is a lawyer." young bertram paused a moment. "uncle, i really hardly know. sometimes i have a strange desire to go into orders." "very strange indeed! but now, if you will listen to me--i have been speaking to mr. dry. messrs. dry and stickatit have done business for me for the last forty years. now, george, i will advance you three thousand pounds at four per cent.--" "what should i want with three thousand pounds?" "you don't suppose you can get into a house like that without money, do you?" "and be an attorney?" said george, with a look of horror which almost penetrated the thick skin of the old man's feelings. what! had he taken a double-first, been the leading man of his year, spouted at the debating club, and driven himself nearly dizzy with aristotle for this--for a desk in the office of messrs. dry and stickatit, attorneys of old bucklersbury! no, not for all the uncles! not for any uncle! "they net four thousand pounds a year," said mr. bertram; "and in process of time you would be the working partner, and have, at any rate, a full half of the business." but, no! george was not to be talked into such a scheme as that by the offer of any loan, by the mention of any number of thousands. he positively refused to consider the proposition; and his uncle, with equal positiveness, refused to hold any further converse with him on the subject of a profession. "pritchett will pay you your present allowance," said he, "for two years longer--that is, if i live." "i can do without it, sir," said george. "pritchett will pay that amount for two years," said the uncle, with great positiveness; "after that it will be discontinued. and for the next three months i shall be happy to see you here as my guest." it will be readily believed that george bertram did not overstay the three months. chapter vi. jerusalem. but there was no quarrel between george bertram uncle and george bertram nephew: though in such conversations as they had about business they were not over civil to each other, still they went on together as good friends, at any rate as they ever had been. indeed, after the last scene which has been reported, the old man became more courteous to his nephew, and before the three months were over was almost cordial. there was that about george the younger which made the old uncle respect him, despite himself. the london merchant had a thorough contempt for his brother, the soldier of fortune: he had acted as he had done on behalf of that brother's son almost more with the view of showing his contempt, and getting thereby an opportunity for expressing it, than with any fixed idea of doing a kindness. he had counted also on despising the son as he had despised the father; but here he found himself foiled. george had taken all that he had given, as any youth would take what an uncle gave; but he had never asked for more: he had done as well as it was possible for him to do in that line of education which had been tendered to him; and now, though he would not become an attorney or a merchant, was prepared to earn his own bread, and professed that he was able to support himself without further assistance from any one. before the three months were over, his uncle had more than once asked him to prolong his visit; but george had made up his mind to leave hadley. his purpose was to spend three or four months in going out to his father, and then to settle in london. in the meantime, he employed himself with studying the law of nations, and amused his leisure hours with coke and blackstone. "you'll never find your father," said mr. bertram. "at any rate, i'll try; and if i miss him, i shall see something of the world." "you'll see more in london in three months than you will there in twelve; and, moreover, you would not lose your time." but george was inexorable, and before the three months were over he had started on his trip. "i beg your pardon, mr. george," said mr. pritchett to him the day before he went (his uncle had requested him to call on pritchett in the city)--"i beg your pardon, mr. george, but if i may be allowed to speak a word or so, i do hope you'll write a line now and then to the old gentleman while you are away." now george had never written a line to his uncle in his life; all his communications as to his journeys and proposed arrivals had, by his uncle's special direction, been made to the housekeeper, and he had no present intention of commencing a correspondence. "write to him, mr. pritchett! no, i don't suppose i shall. i take it, my uncle does not much care for such letters as i should write." "ah! but he would, mr. george. you shouldn't be too quick to take persons by their appearances. it's half a million of money, you know, mr. george; half--a--million--of--money!" and mr. pritchett put great stress on the numeration of his patron's presumed wealth. "half a million, is it? well, that's a great deal, no doubt; and i fully see the force of your excellent argument. but i fear there is nothing to be done in that line: i'm not born to be the heir to half a million of money; you might see that in my face." mr. pritchett stared at him very hard. "well, i can't say that i do, mr. george; but take my word for it, the old gentleman is very fond of you." "very fond! that's a little too strong, isn't it?" "that is, if he's very fond of anything. now, he said to me yesterday, 'pritchett,' says he, 'that boy's going to bagdad.' 'what! mr. george?' says i. 'yes,' says he; 'and to hong kong too, i suppose, before he comes back: he's going after his father;' and then he gave one of those bitter looks, you know. 'that's a pity,' says i, for you know one must humour him. 'he is a fool,' says your uncle, 'and always will be.'" "i'm sure, mr. pritchett, i'm very much obliged for the trouble you are at in telling me." "oh! i think nothing of the trouble. 'and he knows no more about money,' says your uncle, 'than an ostrich. he can't go to bagdad out of his allowance.' 'of course he can't,' said i. 'you had better put three hundred pounds to his credit,' said the old gentleman; and so, mr. george, i have." "i could have done very well without it, mr. pritchett." "perhaps so; but three hundred pounds never hurt anybody--never, mr. george; and i can tell you this: if you play your cards well, you may be the old gentleman's heir, in spite of all he says to the contrary." "at any rate, mr. pritchett, i'm very much obliged to you:" and so they parted. "he'll throw that three hundred pounds in my teeth the next time i see him," said george to himself. good as mr. pritchett's advice undoubtedly was, bertram did not take it; and his uncle received no line from him during the whole period of his absence. our hero's search after his father was not quite of so intricate a nature as was supposed by his uncle, nor so difficult as that made by japhet under similar circumstances. his route was to be by paris, marseilles, malta, alexandria, jaffa, jerusalem, and damascus, and he had written to sir lionel, requesting him to write to either or all of those addresses. neither in france, nor malta, nor egypt did he receive any letters; but in the little town of jaffa, where he first put his foot on asiatic soil, a despatch from his father was awaiting him. sir lionel was about to leave persia, and was proceeding to constantinople on public service; but he would go out of his course to meet his son at jerusalem. the tone of sir lionel's letter was very unlike that of mr. bertram's conversation. he heartily congratulated his son on the splendid success of his degree; predicted for him a future career both brilliant and rich; declared that it was the dearest wish of his heart to embrace his son, and spoke of their spending a few weeks together at jerusalem almost with rapture. this letter very much delighted george. he had a natural anxiety to think well of his father, and had not altogether believed the evil that had been rather hinted than spoken of him by mr. bertram. the colonel had certainly not hitherto paid him very much parental attention, and had generally omitted to answer the few letters which george had written to him. but a son is not ill inclined to accept acts of new grace from a father; and there was something so delightful in the tone and manner of sir lionel's letter, it was so friendly as well as affectionate, so perfectly devoid of the dull, monotonous, lecture-giving asperity with which ordinary fathers too often season their ordinary epistles, that he was in raptures with his newly-found correspondent. "i would not miss seeing you for worlds," wrote sir lionel; "and although i have been ordered to constantinople with all the _immediate haste_ which your civil-service grandees always use in addressing us military slaves, it shall go hard with me but i will steal a fortnight from them in order to pass it with you at jerusalem. i suppose i shall scarce know you, or you me; but when you see an old gentleman in a military frock, with a bald head, a hook nose, and a rather short allowance of teeth, you may then be sure that you look upon your father. however, i will be at z----'s hotel--i believe they honour the caravansary with that name--as soon as possible after the th." his uncle had at any rate been quite wrong in predicting that his father would keep out of his way. so far was this from being the case, that sir lionel was going to put himself to considerable inconvenience to meet him. it might be, and no doubt was the case, that mr. bertram the merchant had put together a great deal more money than colonel bertram the soldier; but the putting together of money was no virtue in george's eyes; and if sir lionel had not remitted a portion of his pay as regularly as he perhaps should have done, that should not now be counted as a vice. it may perhaps be surmised that had george bertram suffered much in consequence of his father's negligence in remitting, he might have been disposed to look at the matter in a different light. he had brought but one servant with him, a dragoman whom he had picked up at malta, and with him he started on his ride from the city of oranges. oranges grow plentifully enough in spain, in malta, in egypt, in jamaica, and other places, but within five miles of jaffa nothing else is grown--if we except the hedges of prickly pear which divide the gardens. orange garden succeeds to orange garden till one finds oneself on the broad open desert that leads away to jerusalem. there is something enticing to an englishman in the idea of riding off through the desert with a pistol girt about his waist, a portmanteau strapped on one horse before him, and an only attendant seated on another behind him. there is a _soupçon_ of danger in the journey just sufficient to give it excitement; and then it is so un-english, oriental, and inconvenient; so opposed to the accustomed haste and comfort of a railway; so out of his hitherto beaten way of life, that he is delighted to get into the saddle. but it may be a question whether he is not generally more delighted to get out of it; particularly if that saddle be a turkish one. george had heard of arab horses, and the clouds of dust which rise from their winged feet. when first he got beyond the hedges of the orange gardens, he expected to gallop forth till he found himself beneath the walls of jerusalem. but he had before him many an hour of tedious labour ere those walls were seen. his pace was about four miles an hour. during the early day he strove frequently to mend it; but as the sun became hot in the heavens, his efforts after speed were gradually reduced, and long before evening he had begun to think that jerusalem was a myth, his dragoman an impostor, and his arab steed the sorriest of jades. "it is the longest journey i ever took in my life," said george. "longest; yes. a top of two mountain more, and two go-down, and then there; yes," said the dragoman, among whose various accomplishments that of speaking english could hardly be reckoned as the most prominent. at last the two mountains more and the two go-downs were performed, and george was informed that the wall he saw rising sharp from the rocky ground was jerusalem. there is something very peculiar in the first appearance of a walled city that has no suburbs or extramural adjuncts. it is like that of a fortress of cards built craftily on a table. with us in england it is always difficult to say where the country ends and where the town begins; and even with the walled towns of the continent, one rarely comes upon them so as to see the sharp angles of a gray stone wall shining in the sun, as they do in the old pictures of the cities in "pilgrim's progress." but so it is with jerusalem. one rides up to the gate feeling that one is still in the desert; and yet a moment more, with the permission of those very dirty-looking turkish soldiers at the gate, will place one in the city. one rides up to the gate, and as every one now has a matured opinion as to the taking of casemated batteries and the inefficiency of granite bastions, one's first idea is how delightfully easy it would be to take jerusalem. it is at any rate easy enough to enter it, for the dirty turkish soldiers do not even look at you, and you soon become pleasantly aware that you are beyond the region of passports. george bertram had promised himself that the moment in which he first saw jerusalem should be one of intense mental interest; and when, riding away from the orange gardens at jaffa, he had endeavoured to urge his arab steed into that enduring gallop which was to carry him up to the city of the sepulchre, his heart was ready to melt into ecstatic pathos as soon as that gallop should have been achieved. but the time for ecstatic pathos had altogether passed away before he rode in at that portal. he was then swearing vehemently at his floundering jade, and giving up to all the fiends of tartarus the accursed saddle which had been specially contrived with the view of lacerating the nether christian man. "where on earth is this d---- hotel?" said he, when he and his dragoman and portmanteau had been floundering for about five minutes down a steep, narrow, ill-paved lane, with a half-formed gully in the middle, very slippery with orange-peel and old vegetables, and crowded with the turbans of all the eastern races. "do you call this a street?" after all his sentiment, all his emotions, all his pious resolves, it was thus that our hero entered jerusalem! but what piety can withstand the wear and tear of twelve hours in a turkish saddle? "is this a street?" said he. it was the main street in jerusalem. the first, or among the first in grandeur of those sacred ways which he had intended hardly to venture to pass with shoes on his feet. his horse turning a corner as he followed the dragoman again slipped and almost fell. whereupon bertram again cursed. but then he was not only tired and sore, but very hungry also. our finer emotions should always be encouraged with a stomach moderately full. at last they stopped at a door in a wall, which the dragoman pronounced to be the entrance of z----'s hotel. in fact they had not yet been full ten minutes within the town; but the streets certainly were not well paved. in five minutes more, george was in his room, strewing sofas and chairs with the contents of his portmanteau, and inquiring with much energy what was the hour fixed for the table d'hôte. he found, with much inward satisfaction, that he had just twenty minutes to prepare himself. at jerusalem, as elsewhere, these after all are the traveller's first main questions. when is the table d'hôte? where is the cathedral? at what hour does the train start to-morrow morning? it will be some years yet, but not very many, before the latter question is asked at jerusalem. bertram had arrived about a fortnight before easter, and the town was already full of pilgrims, congregated for that ceremony, and of english and americans who had come to look at the pilgrims. the inn was nearly full, and george, when he entered the public room, heard such a babel of english voices, and such a clatter of english spoons that he might have fancied himself at the top of the _righi_ or in a rhine steamboat. but the subjects under discussion all savoured of the holy land. "mrs. rose, we are going to have a picnic on monday in the valley of jehoshaphat; will you and your young ladies join us? we shall send the hampers to the tomb of zachariah." "thank you, miss todd; we should have been so happy; but we have only three days to do bethlehem, the dead sea, and jericho. we must be off to-morrow." "mamma, i lost my parasol somewhere coming down the mount of offence. those nasty arab children must have stolen it." "they say the people in siloam are the greatest thieves in syria; and nobody dares to meddle with them." "but i saw it in your hand, my dear, at the well of enrogel." "what, no potatoes! there were potatoes yesterday. waiter, waiter; who ever heard of setting people down to dinner without potatoes?" "well, i didn't know what to say to it. if that is the tomb of nicodemus, that seems to settle the question. may i trouble you for the salt?" "mr. pott, i won't have anything more to say to you; you have no faith. i believe it all." "what, all? from calvary upstairs in the gallery down to the dark corner where the cock crew?" "yes, all, mr. pott. why should not a cock crow there as well as anywhere else? it is so beautiful to believe." george bertram found himself seated next to a lady-like well-dressed englishwoman of the middle age, whom he heard called miss baker; and next to her again sat--an angel! whom miss baker called caroline, and whom an odious man sitting on the other side of her called miss waddington. all my readers will probably at different times have made part of a table-d'hôte assemblage; and most of them, especially those who have travelled with small parties, will know how essential it is to one's comfort to get near to pleasant neighbours. the young man's idea of a pleasant neighbour is of course a pretty girl. what the young ladies' idea may be i don't pretend to say. but it certainly does seem to be happily arranged by providence that the musty fusty people, and the nicy spicy people, and the witty pretty people do severally assemble and get together as they ought to do. bertram's next-door neighbour was certainly of the nicy spicy order; but this did not satisfy him. he would have been very well pleased to talk to miss baker had it not been for the close contiguity of miss waddington; and even her once-removed vicinity would not have made him unhappy had not that odious man on her left had so much to say about the village of emmaus and the valley of ajalon. now, be it known to all men that caroline waddington is our donna primissima--the personage of most importance in these pages. it is for her that you are to weep, with her that you are to sympathize, and at her that you are to wonder. i would that i could find it compatible with my duty to introduce her to this circle without any minute details of her bodily and mental charms; but i have already been idle in the case of adela gauntlet, and i feel that a donna primissima has claims to description which i cannot get over. only not exactly now; in a few chapters hence we shall have miss waddington actively engaged upon the scene, and then she shall be described. it must suffice now to say that she was an orphan; that since her father's death she had lived with her aunt, miss baker, chiefly at littlebath; that miss baker had, at her niece's instance, been to egypt, up the nile, across the short desert--(short!) having travelled from cairo to jerusalem,--and that now, thoroughly sick of the oriental world, she was anxious only to get back to littlebath; while caroline, more enthusiastic, and much younger, urged her to go on to damascus and lebanon, to beyrout and smyrna, and thence home, merely visiting constantinople and athens on the way. had bertram heard the terms in which miss waddington spoke of the youth who was so great about ajalon when she and her aunt were in their own room, and also the words in which that aunt spoke of him, perhaps he might have been less provoked. "aunt, that mr. m'gabbery is an ass. i am sure he has ears if one could only see them. i am so tired of him. don't you think we could get on to damascus to-morrow?" "if we did i have no doubt he'd come too." mr. m'gabbery had been one of the party who crossed the desert with them from cairo. "impossible, aunt. the hunters are ready to start to-morrow, or, if not, the day after, and i know they would not have him." "but, my dear, i really am not equal to damascus. a few more days on a camel--" "but, aunt, you'll have a horse." "that's worse, i'm sure. and, moreover, i've found an old friend, and one that you will like very much." "what, that exceedingly ugly young man that sat next to you?" "yes. that exceedingly ugly young man i remember as the prettiest baby in the world--not that i think he is ugly. he is, however, no other than the nephew of mr. bertram." "what, papa's mr. bertram?" "yes; your father's mr. bertram. therefore, if old mr. bertram should die, and this young man should be his heir, he would have the charge of all your money. you'd better be gracious to him." "how odd! but what is he like?" "he is one of the cleverest young men of the day. i had heard that he had distinguished himself very much at oxford; and he certainly is a most agreeable companion." and so it was arranged between them that they would not start to damascus as yet, in spite of any evil that mr. m'gabbery might inflict on them. on the next morning at breakfast, bertram managed to separate the aunt from the niece by sitting between them. it was long, however, before mr. m'gabbery gave up the battle. when he found that an interloper was interfering with his peculiar property, he began to tax his conversational powers to the utmost. he was greater than ever about ajalon, and propounded some very startling theories with reference to emmaus. he recalled over and over again the interesting bits of their past journey; how tired they had been at gaza, where he had worked for the ladies like a slave--how terribly miss baker had been frightened in the neighbourhood of arimathea, where he, mr. m'gabbery, had specially looked to his pistols with the view of waging war on three or four supposed bedouins who were seen to be hovering on the hill-sides. but all would not do. miss waddington was almost tired of gaza and arimathea, and miss baker seemed to have a decided preference for london news. so at last mr. m'gabbery became silent and grand, and betook himself to his associations and a map of palestine in a corner. bertram, when fortified with a night's rest and a good breakfast, was able to recover his high-toned feeling, and, thus armed, proceeded alone to make his first visit to the church of the holy sepulchre. it was a sunday, the last sunday in lent; and he determined to hear mass in the greek church, and ascertain for himself how much devotion an english protestant could experience in the midst of this foreign worship. but one mass was over and another not begun when he reached the building, and he had thus time to follow his dragoman to the various wonders of that very wonderful building. it is now generally known in england of what the church of the holy places consists; but no one who has not seen it, and none, indeed, who have not seen it at easter-time, can fully realize all the absurdity which it contains and all the devotion which it occasions. bertram was first carried to the five different churches which have crowded themselves together under the same roof. the greeks have by far the best of it. their shrine is gaudy and glittering, and their temple is large and in some degree imposing. the latins, whom we call roman catholics, are much less handsomely lodged, and their tinsel is by far more dingy. the greeks, too, possess the hole in which stood--so they say--the cross of our saviour; while the latins are obliged to put up with the sites on which the two thieves were crucified. then the church of the armenians, for which you have to descend almost into the bowels of the earth, is still less grand in its pretensions, is more sombre, more dark, more dirty; but it is as the nave of st. peter's when compared to the poor wooden-cased altar of the abyssinians, or the dark unfurnished gloomy cave in which the syrian christians worship, so dark that the eye cannot at first discover its only ornament--a small ill-made figure of the crucified redeemer. we who are accustomed to roman catholic gorgeousness in italy and france can hardly at first understand why the pope here should playso decidedly a second fiddle. but as he is held to be god's viceregent among the people of south-western europe, so is the russian emperor among the christians of the east. he, the russian, is still by far the greatest pope in jerusalem, and is treated with a much greater respect, a much truer belief, than is his brother of rome, even among romans. five or six times bertram had attempted to get into the tabernacle of the holy sepulchre; but so great had been the rush of pilgrims, that he had hitherto failed. at last his dragoman espied a lull, and went again to the battle. to get into the little outside chapel, which forms, as it were, a vestibule to the cell of the sepulchre, and from which on easter saturday issue the miraculous flames, was a thing to be achieved by moderate patience. his close contiguity to candiotes and copts, to armenians and abyssinians was not agreeable to our hero, for the contiguity was very close, and christians of these nations are not very cleanly. but this was nothing to the task of entering the sanctum sanctorum. to this there is but one aperture, and that is but four feet high; men entering it go in head foremost, and those retreating come out in the other direction; and as it is impossible that two should pass, and as two or three are always trying to come out, and ten or twelve equally anxious to get in, the struggle to an englishman is disagreeably warm, though to an oriental it is probably matter of interesting excitement. but for his dragoman, bertram would never have succeeded. he, however, so pulled and hauled these anxious devotees, so thrust in those who endeavoured to come out, and clawed back those who strove to get in, that the passage became for a moment clear, and our hero, having bent low his head, found himself standing with his hand on the marble slab of the tomb. those who were there around him seemed to be the outcasts of the world, exactly those whom he would have objected to meet, unarmed, on the roads of greece or among the hills of armenia; cut-throat-looking wretches, with close-shaven heads, dirty beards, and angry eyes; men clothed in skins, or huge skin-like-looking cloaks, filthy, foul, alive with vermin, reeking with garlic,--abominable to an englishman. there was about them a certain dignity of demeanour, a natural aptitude to carry themselves with ease, and even a not impure taste for colour among their dirt. but these christians of the russian church hardly appeared to him to be brothers of his own creed. but he did put his hand on the slab of the tomb; and as he did so, two young greeks, brothers by blood--greeks by their creed, though of what actual nation bertram was quite unable say--pressed their lips vehemently to the marble. they were dirty, shorn about the head, dangerous looking, and skin-clothed, as we have described; men very low in the scale of humanity when compared with their fellow-pilgrim; but, nevertheless, they were to him at that moment objects of envy. they believed: so much at any rate was clear to him. by whatever code of morals they might be able to govern their lives, whether by any, or as, alas! might be too likely, by none, at least they possessed a faith. christ to them was an actual living truth, though they knew how to worship him no better than by thus kissing a stone, which had in fact no closer reference to the saviour than any other stone they might have kissed in their own country. they believed; and as they reverently pressed their foreheads, lips, and hands to the top and sides and edges of the sepulchre, their faith became ecstatic. it was thus that bertram would fain have entered that little chapel, thus that he would have felt, thus that he would have acted had he been able. so had he thought to feel--in such an agony of faith had he been minded there to kneel. but he did not kneel at all. he remarked to himself that the place was inordinately close, that his contiguity to his religious neighbours was disagreeable; and then, stooping low his head, not in reverence, but with a view to backing himself out from the small enclosure, with some delay and much precaution, and, to speak truth, with various expressions of anger against those who with their heads continued to push him the way he did not wish to go, he retreated from the chapel. nor while he was at jerusalem did he feel sufficient interest in the matter again to enter it. he had done that deed, he had killed that lion, and, ticking it off from his list of celebrities as one celebrity disposed of, he thought but little more about it. such, we believe, are the visits of most english christians to the so-called holy sepulchre. and then he killed the other lions there: calvary up in the gallery; the garden, so called, in which the risen saviour addressed the women running from the sepulchre; the place where peter's cock crew; the tomb of nicodemus--all within the same church, all under the one roof--all at least under what should be a roof, only now it has fallen into ruin, so that these sacred places are open to the rain of heaven, and greeks and latins having quarrelled about the repairs, the turks, now lords of the holy sepulchre, have taken the matter into their own hands, and declared that no repairs shall be done by any of them. and then he attended the greek mass--at least, he partly believed that he did so, somewhat doubting, for the mass was not said as are those of the romans, out at an open altar before the people, but in a holy of holies; very holy, it may be imagined, from the manner in which the worshippers rubbed their foreheads against certain gratings, through which a tantalizing glimpse might be had of the fine things that were going on within. had they but known it, it might all have been seen, holy of holies, head-wagging priest, idle yawning assistant, with legs stretched out, half asleep, mumblement, jumblement and all, from a little back window in a passage opening from that calvary gallery upstairs. from thence at least did these profane eyes look down and see all the mumblement and jumblement, which after all was little enough; but saw especially the idle clerical apprentice who, had that screen been down, and had he been called on to do his altar work before the public eye, would not have been so nearly asleep, as may perhaps be said of other clerical performers nearer home. but bertram's attention was mainly occupied with watching the devotions of a single woman. she was a female of one of those strange nations, decently clad, about thirty years of age, pleasant to the eye were she not so dirty, and had she not that wild look, half way between the sallow sublime and the dangerously murderous, which seems common to oriental christians, whether men or women. heaven might know of what sins she came there to leave the burden: heaven did know, doubtless; but from the length of her manoeuvres in quitting herself of their weight, one would say that they were heavy; and yet she went through her task with composed dignity, with an alacrity that was almost joyous, and certainly with no intentional self-abasement. entering the church with a quick step, she took up a position as though she had selected a special stone on which to stand. there, with head erect, but bowing between each ceremony, she crossed herself three times; then sinking on her knees, thrice she pressed her forehead to the floor; then rising again, again she crossed herself. having so done somewhat to the right of the church, but near the altar-screen, she did the same on the corresponding stone towards the left, and then again the same on a stone behind the others, but in the centre. after this she retreated further back, and did three more such worshippings, always choosing her stone with an eye to architectural regularity; then again, getting to the backward, she did three more, thus completing her appointed task, having crossed herself thirty-six times, and pressed her head with twenty-seven pressures upon the floor. and so, having finished, she quickly withdrew. did any slightest prayer, any idea of praying, any thought of a god giving grace and pardon if only asked to give, once enter that bowing bosom? "why do those turks sit there?" said bertram, as he left the building. why, indeed? it was strange to see five or six stately turks, strict children of the prophet doubtless, sitting there within the door of this temple dedicated to the nazarene god, sitting there and looking as though they of all men had the most right so to sit, and were most at home in so sitting; nay, they had a divan there, were drinking coffee there out of little double cups, as is the manner of these people; were not smoking, certainly, as is their manner also in all other places. "dem guard de keys," said the dragoman. "guard the keys!" "yes, yes; open de lock, and not let de christian fight." so it is. in such manner is proper, fitting, peaceable conduct maintained within the thrice christian walls of the church of the holy sepulchre. on his return to the hotel, bertram accepted an invitation to join miss todd's picnic in the valley of jehoshaphat, and then towards evening strolled up alone on to the mount of olives. chapter vii. the mount of olives. if there be one place told of in holy writ, the name of which gives rise to more sacred feelings than any other, it is that of the mount of olives; and if there be a spot in that land of wondrous memories which does bring home to the believer in christ some individualized remembrance of his saviour's earthly pilgrimage, that certainly is it. there is no doubting there, no question there whether or no the ground on which you tread was not first called "the mount" by some byzantine sophia; whether tradition respecting it can go back further than constantine; whether, in real truth, that was the hill over which jesus walked when he travelled from the house of lazarus at bethany to fulfil his mission in the temple. no: let me take any ordinary believing protestant christian to that spot, and i will as broadly defy him to doubt there as i will defy him to believe in that filthy church of the holy places. the garden of gethsemane near the city, "over the brook cedron," where he left his disciples resting while he went yonder to pray; the hill-side on which the angel appeared unto him, strengthening him, and whither judas and the multitude came out to take him; bethany, the town of mary and martha, "fifteen furlongs from jerusalem," where lazarus was raised from the dead; the spot from whence he sent for the ass and the ass's colt; the path from thence to the city by which he rode when the multitude "cried, saying, hosanna to the son of david!" the same multitude which afterwards came out against him with staves: these places are there, now as they were in his day, very credible--nay, more, impossible not to be believed. these are the true holy places of jerusalem, places for which greeks and latins do not fight, guarded by no sedate, coffee-drinking turks, open there to all men under the fair heavens, and desolate enough, too, even in these pilgrim weeks, for any one or two who will sit there alone and ponder over the wondrous history of the city that still lies over against him. but what is the so strong evidence of the actual identity of these places? what is it that makes me so sure that this is the mount of olives, and that water-channel there the brook cedron, and the hamlet on the other side the veritable bethany? why is one to be so sure of these, and yet feel such an infinity of doubt as to that village of emmaus, that valley of ajalon, that supposed arimathea, and the rest of them? nay, i cannot well say, at any rate not in these light novel pages. dr. stanley, with considerable distinctness does say. but go and see: with the ordinary protestant christian seeing here will be believing, as seeing over in that church of the holy places most indisputably will be disbelieving. hither bertram strolled, and, seated on the brow of the hill, looked over to jerusalem till the short twilight of the syrian evening had left him, and he could no longer discern the wondrous spots on which his eye still rested. wondrous, indeed! there before him were the walls of jerusalem, standing up erect from the hill-side--for the city is still all fenced up--stretching from hill to hill in varying but ever continued line: on the left was the hill of sion, david's hill, a hill still inhabited, and mainly by jews. here is still the jews' quarters, and the jews' hospital too, tended by english doctors, nurtured also by english money; and here, too, close to david's gate, close also to that new huge armenian convent, shall one, somewhat closely scrutinizing among heaps of rubbish, come upon a colony of lepers. in the town, but not of it, within the walls, but forbidden all ingress to the streets, there they dwell, a race of mournfullest pariahs. from father to son, from mother to daughter, dire disease, horrid, polluting, is handed down, a certain legacy, making the body loathsome, and likening the divine face of man to a melancholy ape. oh! the silent sadness, the inexpressible melancholy of those wan, thoughtless, shapeless, boneless, leaden faces! to them no happy daily labour brings rest and appetite; their lot forbids them work, as it forbids all other blessings. no; on their dunghills outside their cabins there they sit in the sun, the mournfullest sight one might look on, the leper parents with their leper children, beggars by inheritance, paupers, outcasts, mutilated victims,--but still with souls, if they or any round them did but know it. there also, directly facing him, was the mount moriah, also inside the walls, where solomon built the house of the lord, "where the lord appeared unto david his father, in the place that david had prepared, in the threshing-floor of ornan the jebusite." for this city, jerusalem, had, in still more ancient days, before the thought of that temple had come into men's minds, been the city jebus, a city even then fenced up, and here had been the threshing-floor which ornan tendered to david without price, but which the king bought for six hundred shekels of gold. yes; here before him as he sat was the site of that temple, solomon's temple, "exceeding magnificent, of fame and glory throughout all countries," of which david had been worthy only to collect the materials. the site! nay, but there were the very stones themselves. seen from that hill, the city seems so close that you may lay your hand upon it. between you and it (you, if ever you should happily come to sit there) lies that valley of jehoshaphat, in which miss todd is going to celebrate her picnic. this is the valley in which the jews most love to have themselves buried; as there, according to them, is the chosen site of the resurrection: and thus they who painfully journeying thither in their old age, and dying there can there be buried, will have no frightful, moles'-work, underground pilgrimage to detain them when that awful trumpet shall once more summon them to the upper world. the air, in syria there, is thin and clear, clouded by no fogs; and the lines of the wall and the minarets of the mosque are distinct and bright and sharp against the sky, as in the evening light one looks across from one hill to the other. the huge stones of the wall now standing, stones which made part of that ancient temple, can be counted, one above another, across the valley. measured by a rough estimate, some of them may be two and twenty feet in length, seven in depth, and five in height, single blocks of hewn rock, cut certainly by no turkish enterprise, by no mediæval empire, by no roman labour. it is here, and here only, at the base of the temple, that these huge stones are to be found, at the base of what was the temple, forming part of the wall that now runs along the side of mount moriah, but still some forty feet above the ground. over them now is the mosque of omar--a spot to be desecrated no more by christian step. on the threshing-floor of ornan, the children of mahomet now read the koran and sing to allah with monotonous howl. oh, what a history! from the treading of the jebusite's oxen down to the first cry of the mussulman! yes; no christian may now enter here, may hardly look into the walled court round the building. but dignified turks, drinking coffee on their divan within the building, keep the keys of the christian church--keep also the peace, lest latin and greek should too enthusiastically worship their strange gods. there can be few spots on the world's surface more sacred to any christian than that on which bertram sat. coming up from bethany, over a spur on the southern side of the mount of olives, towards jerusalem, the traveller, as he rises on the hill, soon catches a sight of the city, and soon again loses it. but going onward along his path, the natural road which convenience would take, he comes at length to the brow of the hill, looking downwards, and there has mount sion, moriah, and the site of the temple full before him. no one travelling such a road could do other than pause at such a spot. 'twas here that jesus "sat upon the mount, over against the temple." there is no possibility of mistaking the place. "and as he went, one of the disciples saith unto him, 'master, see what manner of stones and what buildings are here.' and jesus answering, said unto him, 'seest thou these great buildings? there shall not be left one stone upon another that shall not be thrown down.'" there are the stones, the very stones, thrown down indeed from the temple, but now standing erect as a wall, supporting omar's mosque. "and when he was come near, he beheld the city, and wept over it." yes, walk up from bethany, my reader, and thou, too, shalt behold it, even yet; a matter to be wept over even now. 'tis hard to sit there and not weep, if a man have any heart within him, any memory of those histories. "if thou hadst known, even, then, at least in this thy day, the things which belong unto thy peace!" but thou wouldest not know. and where art thou now, o jew? and who is it that sittest in thy high place, howling there to allah most unmusically? "o, jerusalem, jerusalem!" not silently, and in thought only, but with outspoken words and outstretched hands, so then spake our young english friend, sitting there all alone, gazing on the city. what man familiar with that history could be there and not so speak? "o, jerusalem, jerusalem! thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would i have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not! behold, your house is left unto you desolate." when talking over the matter with harcourt at oxford, and afterwards with his uncle at hadley, bertram had expressed a sort of half-formed wish to go into the church; not, indeed, in such a manner as to leave on the minds of either of his counsellors an idea that he would really do so; but this profession of being a parson had been one of those of which he had spoken as being in some sort desirable for himself. now, as he sat there, looking at the once holy city, it seemed to him to be the only profession in any way desirable. he resolved that he would be a clergyman; thanked his god in that he had brought him there to this spot before it was too late; acknowledged that, doubting as he had done, he had now at length found a divine counsellor--one whose leading his spirit did not disdain. there he devoted himself to the ministry, declared that he, too, would give what little strength he had towards bringing the scattered chickens of the new house of israel to that only wing which could give them the warmth of life. he would be one of the smallest, one of the least of those who would fight the good fight; but, though smallest and least, he would do it with what earnestness was in him. reader! you may already, perhaps, surmise that george bertram does not become a clergyman. it is too true. that enthusiasm, strong, true, real as it was, did not last him much longer than his last walk round jerusalem; at least, did not bide by him till he found himself once more walking on the high street of oxford. very contemptible this, you will say. yes, contemptible enough, as humanity so often is. who amongst us have not made such resolves--some resolve of self-devotion, at the sound of the preacher's voice--and forgotten it before our foot was well over the threshold? it is so natural, that wish to do a great thing; so hard, that daily task of bathing in jordan. when the bright day had disappeared, all but suddenly, and he could no longer see the minarets of the mosque, bertram descended the hill. it is but a short walk thence to jerusalem--thence even into the centre of jerusalem. but what a walk! to the left is the valley-side--that valley of the resurrection--covered with tombs--flat, sturdy, short stones, each bearing a semblance, at least, of some short hebraic epitaph, unmoved through heaven knows how many centuries! apparently immovable; the place, in this respect, being very unlike our more ornamental cemeteries. on his right was the mount of olives; a mount still of olives, sprinkled over with olive-trees quite sufficiently to make it properly so called, even to this day. then he passed by the garden of gethsemane, now a walled-in garden, in which grow rue and other herbs; in which, also, is one fine, aged olive-tree, as to which tradition of course tells wondrous tales. this garden is now in charge of an old latin monk--a spaniard, if i remember well--who, at least, has all a spaniard's courtesy. it was here, or near to this, just above, on the hill-side, if our topography be reliable, that jesus asked them whether they could not watch one hour. bertram, as he passed, did not take the question to himself; but he well might have done so. turning round the wall of the garden, on his pathway up to stephen's gate, the so-called tomb of the virgin was on his right hand, with its singular, low, subterranean chapel. a very singular chapel, especially when filled to the very choking with pilgrims from those strange retreats of oriental christendom, and when the mass is being said--inaudible, indeed, and not to be seen, at the furthest end of that dense, underground crowd, but testified to by the lighting of a thousand tapers, and by the strong desire for some flicker of the holy flame. and then he ascended to the city, up the steep hill, the side of mount moriah, to st. stephen's gate; and there, on his left, was the entrance to omar's mosque, guarded by fierce dervishes against pollution from stray christian foot. hence to his hotel every footstep was over ground sacred in some sense, but now desecrated by traditionary falsehoods. every action of our saviour's passion has its spot assigned to it; of every noted word the _locale_ is given. when once you are again within the walls, all is again unbelievable, fabulous, miraculous; nay, all but blasphemous. some will say quite so. but, nevertheless, in passing by this way, should you, o reader! ever make such passage, forget not to mount to the top of pilate's house. it is now a turkish barrack; whether it ever were pilate's house, or, rather, whether it stands on what was ever the site of pilate's house or no. from hence you see down into the court of the mosque, see whatever a christian can see of that temple's site, and see also across them gloriously to those hills of jerusalem, scopus, and the hill of the men of galilee, and the mount of olives, and the mount of offence--so called because there "did solomon build an high place for chemosh, the abomination of moab, on the hill that is before jerusalem." on his return to his inn, bertram at once found that there had been an arrival of some importance during his absence. waiters and boots were all busy--for there are waiters and boots at jerusalem, much the same as at the "saracen's head," or "white lion;" there is no chambermaid, however, only a chamberman. colonel sir lionel bertram was there. chapter viii. sir lionel bertram. the personal peculiarities which sir lionel had mentioned in his letter to his son as being characteristic of himself were certainly true. he was an old, or, perhaps, rather an elderly gentleman, in a military frock, with a bald head, a hook nose, and a short allowance of teeth. but he was more than this: though elderly he was tall and upright; he was distinguished looking, and, for an old man, handsome in spite of his lost teeth; and though bald as to the top of his head, had yet enough hair to merit considerable attention, and to be the cause of considerable pride. his whiskers, also, and mustache, though iron-gray, were excellent in their way. had his baldness been of an uglier description, or his want of teeth more disagreeably visible, he probably might not have alluded to them himself. in truth, sir lionel was not a little vain of his personal appearance, and thought that in the matter of nose, he was quite equal to the duke in aristocratic firmness, and superior to sir charles napier in expression and general design. but though a vain man, sir lionel was too clever to let his vanity show itself in an offensive manner. the "ars celare artem" was his forte; and he was able to live before the world as though he never cast a thought on his coat and pantaloons, or ever did more than brush and smooth his iron-gray locks with due attention to cleanliness. i was going to say that sir lionel's appearance was the best thing about him; but in saying so i should belie his manner, with which it was certainly difficult for any one to find fault. it was what the world calls happy, meaning thereby, that so great was the possessor's luck that he was able to make it pleasant to all men, and to all women--for a while. mrs. bertram--she had not lived to be my lady--had, i believe, not always found it so. these, joined to a readiness in the use of one or two languages besides his own, were the qualifications which had given sir lionel his title, and had caused him to be employed in so many missions in so many countries; and on duty, too, which could not be said to be of a military nature. he never made difficulties or enemies of his own, and could generally smooth down the difficulties and enemies left behind them by others, perhaps of a more sturdy temperament. but now the catalogue of his virtues is complete. he was not a man of genius, or even a man of talent. he had performed no great service for his country; had neither proposed nor carried through any valuable project of diplomacy; nor had he shown any close insight into the habits and feelings of the people among whom he had lived. but he had been useful as a great oil-jar, from whence oil for the quiescence of troubled waters might ever and anon be forthcoming. expediency was his god, and he had hitherto worshipped it with a successful devotion. that he had not been a good husband has been hinted; that he had been a very indifferent father has been made apparent. but at the moment of his meeting with his son, he atoned for all his past sins in this respect by the excellence of his manner; and before the evening was over, george liked his father, who had owed him everything and given him nothing, ten times better than he had ever liked his uncle who had given him everything though he had owed him nothing. "it's an odd place for us to have met in at last, is it not, sir?" said george. they were sitting after supper very close together on one of those stationary sofas which are found affixed to the wall in every room in the east, and the son was half holding, half caressing his father's arm. sir lionel, to tell the truth, did not much care for such caresses, but under the peculiar circumstances of this present interview he permitted it. "you see, i'm always in odd places, george." "you've been in jerusalem before?" "no, never. it's not on the road anywhere, or on any road at all, as one may well see. i never knew such a place to get to. now there are roads of some sort even about bagdad." "and damascus?" "oh, damascus is a highway; but nobody comes to jerusalem except the pilgrims, and those who like to look after the pilgrims. we are just in the thick of them now, i believe." "yes, sir. there are thirteen thousand here. i am sure you'll like the place. i am delighted with it, although i have been here as yet only two days." "perhaps more so than you will be when you have been ten." "i don't think it. but it is not the city itself." "no; that seems poor and dirty enough." "i would not mind the dirt if the place were but true." sir lionel did not quite understand him, but he said nothing. "it is the country round, the immediate vicinity of jerusalem that fascinates so wonderfully." "ah! the scenery is good, is it?" "well, in one way it is; but i do not mean that. i cannot explain it; but to-morrow you will go to the mount of olives with me." "mount of olives, eh? i'm not very good at climbing up a hill, master george; you must remember the difference between twenty-three and sixty-three. what is there to see there?" what was there to see there! this was said in a tone which made george feel rather indisposed to describe, if describe he could, what there was there to be seen. he had quite wit enough to perceive that his father was not enthusiastic about bible history. and then they changed the conversation, and began to talk about george bertram the elder. "it's eighteen years since i've seen my brother," said sir lionel. "he was usually cross enough then. i suppose he has hardly improved?" "i can't exactly call him cross. he has been very kind to me, you know." "kind--well. if you are contented, i am; but, considering that you are his natural heir, i don't think he has done so very much. if he means to be kind, why does he bother me every other month with a long account, of which the postage comes to heaven knows how much?" "ah! but, sir, i am not his heir." "not his heir!" said sir lionel, with more of sharpness in his tone than was at all usual with him; with a little sharpness also in his eye, as george quickly observed. "not his heir--who is his heir then?" "ah, that i do not know. some corporation, perhaps, or some hospital. all i know is, that i am not. that he has told me quite plainly. and he was very right to do so," added george, after a pause. sir lionel repressed the exclamation of anger against his brother which was in his heart, and had all but risen to his tongue. he had not been wandering for thirty years on foreign missions for nothing. he must find out more of this lad's disposition and feelings before he spoke out plainly before him what he thought. he had intended not only that his son should be the rich uncle's heir, but the rich uncle's adopted child also; so that some portion of that vast wealth might be made use of, certainly by george, perhaps even in some modest degree by himself, without the unnecessary delay of waiting for his brother's death. it would be bad enough to wait, seeing how probable it was that that brother might outlive himself. but now to be told not only that his hopes in this respect were vain, but that the old miser had absolutely repudiated his connection with his nephew! this was almost too much for his diplomatic equanimity. almost, i say; for in fact he did restrain himself. "and did he say, george, in so many words that he meant to give you nothing?" "yes, very plainly--in so many words. and i told him as plainly, and in as many, that i wanted nothing from him." "was that prudent, my boy?" "it was the truth, sir. but i must tell you the whole. he offered me a loan of three thousand pounds--" "well, you took that?" "indeed, no. he offered it on the condition that i should be an attorney." "an attorney! and you with a double-first?" "ah, he does not much value double-firsts. of course, i was not going to make myself an attorney." "of course not. but what is he doing about an allowance for you?" "he has been very liberal. he has given me a hundred and fifty a year--" "yes; and sent me the bill of it--with great regularity." the son did not remind the father that all regularity in the matter had ended there, and that the bills so sent had never been paid; but he could not help thinking that in justice he might do so. "but that expense will soon be over, sir, as regards either you or him. the allowance will be discontinued next year." "what! he is going to stop even that school-boy's pittance?" "why not, sir? i have no claim on him. and as he has not forgotten to tell me so once or twice--" "he was always a vulgar fellow," said sir lionel. "how he came to have such a spirit of trade in his very blood, i can't conceive. god knows i have none of it." "nor i either, sir." "well, i hope not. but does he expect you to live upon air? this is bad news, george--very bad." "of course i have always intended to go into a profession. i have never looked at it in the same light as you do. i have always intended to make my own way, and have no doubt that i shall do so. i have quite made up my mind about it now." "about what, george?" "i shall go into orders, and take a college living." "orders!" said sir lionel; and he expressed more surprise and almost more disgust at this idea than at that other one respecting the attorney scheme. "yes; i have been long doubting; but i think i have made up my mind." "do you mean that you wish to be a parson, and that after taking a double-first?" "i don't see what the double-first has to do with it, sir. the only objection i have is the system of the establishment. i do not like the established church." "then why go into it?" said sir lionel, not at all understanding the nature of his son's objection. "i love our liturgy, and i like the ritual; but what we want is the voluntary principle. i do not like to put myself in a position which i can, in fact, hold whether i do the duties of it or no. nor do i wish--" "well; i understand very little about all that; but, george, i had hoped something better for you. now, the army is a beggarly profession unless a man has a private fortune; but, upon my word, i look on the church as the worst of the two. a man _may_ be a bishop of course; but i take it he has to eat a deal of dirt first." "i don't mean to eat any dirt," said the son. "nor to be a bishop, perhaps," replied the father. they were quite unable to understand each other on this subject. in sir lionel's view of the matter, a profession was--a profession. the word was understood well enough throughout the known world. it signified a calling by which a gentleman, not born to the inheritance of a gentleman's allowance of good things, might ingeniously obtain the same by some exercise of his abilities. the more of these good things that might be obtained, the better the profession; the easier the labour also, the better the profession; the less restriction that might be laid on a man in his pleasurable enjoyment of the world, the better the profession. this was sir lionel's view of a profession, and it must be acknowledged that, though his view was commonplace, it was also common sense; that he looked at the matter as a great many people look at it; and that his ideas were at any rate sufficiently intelligible. but george bertram's view was different, and much less easy of explanation. he had an idea that in choosing a profession he should consider, not so much how he should get the means of spending his life, but how he should in fact spend it. he would have, in making this choice, to select the pursuit to which he would devote that amount of power and that amount of life which god should allot to him. fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts, guardians and grandfathers, was not this a singular view for a young man to take in looking at such a subject? but in truth george was somewhat afflicted by a _tête monté_ in this matter. i say afflicted, because, having imagination and ideality to lead him to high views, he had not a sufficient counterbalance in his firmness of character. if his father was too mundane, he was too transcendental. as for instance, he approved at the present moment, in theory, of the life of a parish clergyman; but could he have commenced the life to-morrow, he would at once have shrunk from its drudgery. they did not understand each other; perceiving which, sir lionel gave up the subject. he was determined not to make himself disagreeable to his son. he, at any rate, intended to make him no allowance, to give him no fortune, and was aware, therefore, that he had no right to interfere otherwise than as his advice might be asked. nor indeed had he any wish to do so, if he could only instil into the young man's mind a few--not precepts; precepts are harsh and disagreeable--a few comfortable friendly hints as to the tremendous importance of the game which might be played with mr. george bertram senior. if he could only do this pleasantly, and without offence to his son, he would attempt nothing further. he turned the conversation, and they talked agreeably on other matters--of oxford, of the wilkinsons, of harcourt, and by degrees also a little of uncle george. "what sort of a house does my brother keep at hadley--eh, george? dull enough it used to be." "well; it is dull. not that he is dull himself; i can always talk to my uncle when he will talk to me." "sees no company, i suppose?" "not much." "never goes into society?" "he dines out in london sometimes; and sometimes gives dinners too." "what! at taverns?" "yes; at blackwall, or greenwich, or some of those places. i have been at his dinners, and he never spares anything." "he doesn't feel his years, then? he's not infirm? no rheumatism or anything of that sort--strong on his legs, eh?" "as strong as you are, sir." "he's ten years my senior, you know." "yes, i know he is. he's not nearly so young a man as you are; but i really think he is as strong. he's a wonderful man for his years, certainly." "i'm delighted to hear it," said sir lionel. a keen judge of character, however, scrutinizing the colonel's face closely, would not then have read much warm delight therein depicted. "you rather like him on the whole, then--eh, george?" "well; i really think i do. i am sure i ought to like him. but--" "well, george; speak out. you and i need have no secrets." "secrets, no; i've no secret. my uncle has a way of saying too much himself about what he does for one." "sends in the bill too often--eh, george?" "if it is to be a bill, let him say so. i for one shall not blame him. there is no reason he should give me anything. but situated as i have been at oxford, it would have been almost absurd in me to refuse his allowance--" "quite absurd." "when he knew i was coming out to you, he made pritchett--you know pritchett?" "and his handwriting--very well indeed." "he made pritchett put three hundred pounds to my credit; that was over and above my allowance. well, i did almost make up my mind to return that; as it is, i have not touched it, and i think i shall repay it." "for heaven's sake do no such thing. it would be an offence which he would never forgive." sir lionel did say so much with something of parental energy in his tone and manner. "yes, sir; but to be told of it!" "but he does not ask you to pay it him back again?" "if he asks you;--is not that the same thing? but you hardly understand me, or him either." "i think i understand him, george. i wonder whether they could give us a cup of coffee here?" "of course they can:" and george rang the bell. "perhaps so; but as far as my experience goes, wherever englishmen frequent, there the coffee is spoilt. englishmen, as far as i can see, have a partiality for chicory, but none at all for coffee." "what i mean, sir, is this. connected as i and my uncle are together, seeing that he has all my life--" here george paused a moment, for what he was about to say might have seemed to imply a censure on his father. "paid your school-bills, and all that sort of thing," filled in sir lionel. "yes; as he has always done that, it seemed so natural that i should take what he gave me." "quite natural. you could have done nothing else." "and now he speaks of it as though--as though;--of course i am under an obligation to him--a very deep obligation. i understand that, and should not fret at it. but he thinks of it as though i had been to blame in spending his money. when i see him next, he'll say something of the same sort about that three hundred pounds. all i can do is to remind him that i did not ask for it, and tell him that he may have it back again." "do nothing of the kind, george," said sir lionel, who regarded as little less than lunacy on his son's part this declared intention to refund money to a rich man. "i know very well what you mean. it is disagreeable to be reminded of money that you have spent." "but i haven't spent it." "well, of money that you have received. but what can you do? it is not your fault. as you truly say, it would be absurd and ungrateful too if you were to decline to take such trifles from your own uncle; especially seeing what he has done for you. it is his manner, and that was always disagreeable; especially in money matters." and so having given to his son the best advice he had to offer, sir lionel sipped his coffee. "very bad--very bad, indeed; it always is at these english places. if i could have my own way, i would always keep out of english haunts." in this respect sir lionel had had his own way during the greater portion of his life. before they parted for the evening, george communicated to his father the great fact of miss todd's picnic as settled for the next day; and sir lionel expressed himself as willing to make one of the party if miss todd could be induced to extend to him the light of her countenance. on this head young bertram, though his own acquaintance had certainly been short, thought that he might take on himself to answer. people soon get intimate with each other at such places as jerusalem. when you have been up the great pyramid with a lady, the chances are you know more about her than you would do from a year's acquaintance fostered by a dozen london parties; and a journey up the nile with a man may be considered quite equal to three years spent together at the same college,--that is, if the fellow-travellers be young. after a certain age, men never become really intimate, let their relations with each other be ever so close. "there will be a miss baker there, sir, who says she knows you; and a miss waddington, a very fine girl, who at any rate knows my name." "what! caroline waddington?" "yes, caroline waddington." "she is a ward of your uncle." "so miss baker tells me; but i never heard my uncle mention them. indeed, he never mentions anything." "it will be very desirable that you should know miss waddington. there is no saying what your uncle may do with his money. yes, i'll go to the picnic; only i hope the place is not distant." so that matter was settled. chapter ix. miss todd's picnic. that matter of obtaining permission for sir lionel to join the picnic was not found difficult of arrangement. good-looking, pleasant-mannered sir lionels, who bear the queen's commission, and have pleasant military ways with them, are welcome enough at such parties as these, even though they be sixty years of age. when george mentioned the matter to miss todd, that lady declared herself delighted. she had heard, she said, of the distinguished arrival at the hotel, but she had been almost afraid to ask such a man as sir lionel to join their foolish little party. then miss baker, who in this affair bore the next authority to miss todd, declared that she had intended to ask him, taking upon herself the freedom of an old acquaintance; and so that matter was arranged. the party was not to be a large one. there was miss todd, the compounder of it, a maiden lady, fat, fair, and perhaps almost forty; a jolly jovial lady, intent on seeing the world, and indifferent to many of its prejudices and formal restraints. "if she threw herself in sir lionel's way, people would of course say that she wanted to marry him; but she did not care a straw what people said; if she found sir lionel agreeable, she would throw herself in his way." so she told miss baker--with perhaps more courage than the occasion required. then there was mrs. and miss jones. miss jones was the young lady who lost her parasol on the mount of offence, and so recklessly charged the arab children of siloam with the theft. mr. jones was also in jerusalem, but could not be persuaded to attend at miss todd's behest. he was steadily engaged in antiquarian researches, being minded to bring out to the world some startling new theory as to certain points in bible chronology and topography. he always went about the city with a trowel and a big set of tablets; and certain among the more enthusiastic of the visitors to jerusalem had put him down as an infidel. there were also mr. and mrs. hunter--a bridegroom and bride, now on their wedding trip; a somewhat fashionable couple, who were both got up with considerable attention as to oriental costume. mrs. hunter seemed to think a good deal about her trousers, and mr. hunter's mind was equally taken up with the fact that he had ceased to wear any. they had a knowing way of putting on their turbans, and carried their sashes gracefully; those, however, who had seen mr. hunter roll himself into his sash, were of opinion that sooner or later he would suffer from vertigo in his head. miss baker and her niece had fallen in with these people, and were considered to be of the same party. there was a clergyman to be there, one mr. cruse, the gentleman who had been so keenly annoyed at the absence of potatoes from the dinner board. he was travelling in charge of a young gentleman of fortune, a mr. pott, by whose fond parents the joint expense of the excursion was defrayed. mr. cruse was a university man, of course; had been educated at trinity college cambridge, and piqued himself much on being far removed from the dangers of puseyism. he was a man not of a happy frame of mind, and seemed to find that from dan to beersheba everything in truth was barren. he was good-looking, unmarried, not without some talent, and seemed to receive from the ladies there assembled more attention than his merits altogether deserved. mr. m'gabbery had talked of not going, but had been over-persuaded by the good-natured miss todd. he had become almost overwhelmed by the intensity of his feelings in regard to the sacred associations of the place, since george bertram had contrived to seat himself between miss baker and miss waddington. up to that moment, no one had been merrier than he. he had, so he had flattered himself, altogether cut out mr. cruse in that special quarter, the good graces namely of those two ladies, and had been prepared to take on his own shoulders all the hard work of the picnic. but now things were altered with him; he had some doubts whether the sacredness of the valley would not be desecrated by such a proceeding, and consulted mr. cruse on the matter. hitherto these gentlemen had not been close friends; but now they allied themselves as against a common enemy. mr. cruse did not care much for associations, seemed indeed to think that any special attention to sacred places savoured of idolatry, and professed himself willing to eat his dinner on any of the hills or in any of the valleys round jerusalem. fortified with so good an opinion, and relying on the excellence of his purpose, mr. m'gabbery gave way, and renewed his offers of assistance to miss todd. there was also mr. pott, mr. cruse's young charge, the son of a man largely engaged in the linen trade; a youth against whom very little can be alleged. his time at present was chiefly given up to waiting on miss jones; and, luckier in this respect than his tutor, mr. cruse, he had no rival to interfere with his bliss. miss baker and miss waddington made up the party. of the former, little more need be said, and that little should be all in her praise. she was a lady-like, soft-mannered, easy-tempered woman, devoted to her niece, but not strongly addicted to personal exertions on her own part. the fact that she was now at jerusalem, so far away from her own comfortable drawing-room, sufficiently proved that she _was_ devoted to her niece. and now for caroline waddington, our donna primissima. her qualities, attributes, and virtues must be given more in detail than those of her companions at the picnic, seeing that she is destined to fill a prominent place upon our canvas. at the time of which we are speaking, she might perhaps be twenty years of age; but her general appearance, her figure, and especially the strong character marked in her face, would have led one to suspect that she was older. she was certainly at that time a beautiful girl--very beautiful, handsome in the outline of her face, graceful and dignified in her mien, nay, sometimes almost majestic--a juno rather than a venus. but any paris who might reject her, awed by the rigour of her dignity, would know at the time that he was wrong in his judgment. she was tall, but not so tall as to be unfeminine in her height. her head stood nobly on her shoulders, giving to her bust that ease and grace of which sculptors are so fond, and of which tight-laced stays are so utterly subversive. her hair was very dark--not black, but the darkest shade of brown, and was worn in simple rolls on the side of her face. it was very long and very glossy, soft as the richest silk, and gifted apparently with a delightful aptitude to keep itself in order. no stray jagged ends would show themselves if by chance she removed her bonnet, nor did it even look as though it had been prematurely crushed and required to be afresh puffed out by some head-dresser's mechanism. she had the forehead of a juno; white, broad, and straight; not shining as are some foreheads, which seem as though an insufficient allowance of skin had been vouchsafed for their covering. it was a forehead on which an angel might long to press his lips--if angels have lips, and if, as we have been told, they do occasionally descend from their starry heights to love the daughters of men. nor would an angel with a shade of human passion in his temperament have been contented with her forehead. her mouth had all the richness of youth, and the full enticing curves and ruby colour of anglo-saxon beauty. caroline waddington was no pale, passionless goddess; her graces and perfections were human, and in being so were the more dangerous to humanity. her forehead we have said, or should have said, was perfect; we dare not affirm quite so much in praise of her mouth: there was sometimes a hardness there, not in the lines of the feature itself, but in the expression which it conveyed, a want of tenderness, perhaps of trust, and too much self-confidence, it may be, for a woman's character. the teeth within it, however, were never excelled by any that ever graced the face of a woman. her nose was not quite grecian; had it been so, her face might have been fairer, but it would certainly have been less expressive. nor could it be called _retroussé_, but it had the slightest possible tendency in that direction; and the nostrils were more open, more ready to breathe forth flashes of indignation than is ever the case with a truly grecian nose. the contour of her face was admirable: nothing could exceed in beauty the lines of her cheeks or the shape and softness of her chin. those who were fastidious in their requirements might object to them that they bore no dimple; but after all, it is only prettiness that requires a dimple: full-blown beauty wants no such adventitious aid. but her eyes! miss waddington's eyes! the eyes are the poet's strongest fortress; it is for their description that he most gathers up his forces and puts forth all his strength. what of her eyes? well, her eyes were bright enough, large enough, well set in her head. they were clever eyes too--nay, honest eyes also, which is better. but they were not softly feminine eyes. they never hid themselves beneath their soft fringes when too curiously looked into, as a young girl at her window half hides herself behind her curtain. they were bold eyes, i was going to say, but the word would signify too much in their dispraise; daring eyes, i would rather say, courageous, expressive, never shrinking, sometimes also suspicious. they were fit rather for a man than for so beautiful a girl as our caroline waddington. but perhaps the most wonderful grace about her was her walk. "vera incessu patuit dea." alas! how few women can walk! how many are wilfully averse to attempting any such motion! they scuffle, they trip, they trot, they amble, they waddle, they crawl, they drag themselves on painfully, as though the flounces and furbelows around them were a burden too heavy for easy, graceful motion; but, except in spain, they rarely walk. in this respect our heroine was equal to an andalusian. such and so great were miss waddington's outward graces. some attempt must also be made to tell of those inner stores with which this gallant vessel was freighted; for, after all, the outward bravery is not everything with a woman. it may be that a man in selecting his wife rarely looks for much else;--for that in addition, of course, to money; but though he has looked for little else, some other things do frequently force themselves on his attention soon after the knot is tied; and as caroline waddington will appear in these pages as wife as well as maid, as a man's companion as well as his plaything, it may be well to say now something as to her fitness for such occupation. we will say, then, that she was perhaps even more remarkable for her strength of mind than for her beauty of person. at present, she was a girl of twenty, and hardly knew her own power; but the time was to come when she should know it and should use it. she was possessed of a stubborn, enduring, manly will; capable of conquering much, and not to be conquered easily. she had a mind which, if rightly directed, might achieve great and good things, but of which it might be predicted that it would certainly achieve something, and that if not directed for good, it might not improbably direct itself for evil. it was impossible that she should ever grow into a piece of domestic furniture, contented to adapt itself to such uses as a marital tyrant might think fit to require of it. if destined to fall into good hands, she might become a happy, loving wife; but it was quite as possible that she should be neither happy nor loving. like most other girls, she no doubt thought much of what might be her lot in love--thought much of loving, though she had never yet loved. it has been said that her turn of mind was manly; but it must not on that account be imagined that her wishes and aspirations were at present other than feminine. her heart and feeling's were those of a girl, at any rate as yet; but her will and disposition were masculine in their firmness. for one so young, she had great and dangerous faults of character--great, as being injurious to her happiness; and dangerous, as being likely to grow with her years. her faults were not young faults. though true herself, she was suspicious of others; though trustworthy, she was not trustful: and what person who is not trustful ever remains trustworthy? who can be fit for confidence who cannot himself confide? she was imperious, too, when occasion offered itself to her proud spirit. with her aunt, whom she loved, she was not so. her she was content to persuade, using a soft voice and a soft eye; but with those whom she could not persuade and wished to rule, her voice was sometimes stern enough, and her eye far from soft. she was a clever girl, capable of talking well, and possessed of more information than most young ladies of the same age. she had been at an excellent school, if any schools are really excellent for young ladies; but there was, nevertheless, something in her style of thought hardly suitable to the softness of girlhood. she could speak of sacred things with a mocking spirit, the mockery of philosophy rather than of youth; she had little or no enthusiasm, though there was passion enough deep seated in her bosom; she suffered from no transcendentalism; she saw nothing through a halo of poetic inspiration: among the various tints of her atmosphere there was no rose colour; she preferred wit to poetry; and her smile was cynical rather than joyous. now i have described my donna primissima, with hardly sufficient detail for my own satisfaction, doubtless with far too much for yours, oh, my reader! it must be added, however, that she was an orphan; that she lived entirely with her aunt, miss baker; that her father had been in early life a sort of partner with mr. george bertram; that mr. george bertram was her guardian, though he had hitherto taken but little trouble in looking after her, whatever trouble he may have taken in looking after her money; and that she was possessed of a moderate fortune, say about four thousand pounds. a picnic undertaken from jerusalem must in some respects be unlike any picnic elsewhere. ladies cannot be carried to it in carriages, because at jerusalem there are no carriages; nor can the provisions be conveyed even in carts, for at jerusalem there are no carts. the stock of comestibles was therefore packed in hampers on a camel's back, and sent off to the valley by one route, whereas miss todd and her friends went on horseback and on donkey-back by another and a longer road. it may as well be mentioned that miss todd was a little ashamed of the magnitude to which her undertaking had attained. her original plan had merely been this:--that she and a few others should ride through the valleys round the city, and send a basket of sandwiches to meet them at some hungry point on the road. now there was a _cortège_ of eleven persons, exclusive of the groom-boys, a boiled ham, sundry chickens, hard-boiled eggs, and champagne. miss todd was somewhat ashamed of this. here, in england, one would hardly inaugurate a picnic to kensal green, or the highgate cemetery, nor select the tombs of our departed great ones as a shelter under which to draw one's corks. but miss todd boasted of high spirits: when this little difficulty had been first suggested to her by mr. m'gabbery, she had scoffed at it, and had enlarged her circle in a spirit of mild bravado. then chance had done more for her; and now she was doomed to preside over a large party of revellers immediately over the ashes of james the just. none but englishmen or englishwomen do such things as this. to other people is wanting sufficient pluck for such enterprises; is wanting also a certain mixture of fun, honest independence, and bad taste. let us go into some church on the continent--in italy, we will say--where the walls of the churches still boast of the great works of the great masters.--look at that man standing on the very altar-step while the priest is saying his mass; look at his gray shooting-coat, his thick shoes, his wide-awake hat stuck under one arm, and his stick under the other, while he holds his opera-glass to his eyes. how he shuffles about to get the best point of sight, quite indifferent as to clergy or laity! all that bell-ringing, incense-flinging, and breast-striking is nothing to him: he has paid dearly to be brought thither; he has paid the guide who is kneeling a little behind him; he is going to pay the sacristan who attends him; he is quite ready to pay the priest himself, if the priest would only signify his wish that way; but he has come there to see that fresco, and see it he will: respecting that he will soon know more than either the priest or his worshippers. perhaps some servant of the church, coming to him with submissive, almost suppliant gesture, begs him to step back just for one moment. the lover of art glares at him with insulted look, and hardly deigns to notice him further: he merely turns his eye to his murray, puts his hat down on the altar-step, and goes on studying his subject. all the world--german, frenchman, italian, spaniard--all men of all nations know that that ugly gray shooting-coat must contain an englishman. he cares for no one. if any one upsets him, he can do much towards righting himself; and if more be wanted, has he not lord malmesbury or lord clarendon at his back? but what would this englishman say if his place of worship were disturbed by some wandering italian? it was somewhat in this way with miss todd. she knew that what she was about to do was rather absurd, but she had the blood of the todds warm at her heart. the todds were a people not easily frightened, and miss todd was not going to disgrace her lineage. true, she had not intended to feed twelve people over a jewish sepulchre, but as the twelve people had assembled, looking to her for food, she was not the woman to send them away fasting: so she gallantly led the way through the gate of jaffa, sir lionel attending her on a donkey. when once out of the town, they turned sharp to the left. their path lay through the valley of gihon, through the valley of hinnom, down among those strange, open sepulchres, deeply excavated in caves on the mountain-sides--sepulchres quite unlike those below in the valley of jehoshaphat. there they are all covered, each stone marking a grave; but here they lie in open catacombs--in caves, at least, of which the entrance is open. the hardy stranger crawling in may lay his hand within the cell--nay, may crawl up into it if he will--in which have mouldered the bones of some former visitor to jerusalem. for this, so saith tradition, is the field purchased with the reward of iniquity. it was the burying-place for strangers, aceldama, the field of blood. but where be these bones now? for the catacombs are mostly empty. mr. pott, descending as far as he could into the deepest of them, did at last bring forth a skull and two parts of a back-bone; did present the former with much grace to miss jones, who, on beholding it, very nearly fell from off her donkey. "for shame, pott," said mr. cruse. "how could you handle anything so disgusting? you are desecrating the grave of some unfortunate mussulman who has probably died within the last fifty years." mr. cruse was always intent on showing that he believed none of the traditions of the country. "it was quite dreadful of you, mr. pott," said miss jones; "quite dreadful! indeed, i don't know what you would not do. but i am quite sure he was never a mahomedan." "he looked like a jew, didn't he?" said pott. "oh! i did not see the face; but he was certainly either a jew or a christian. only think. perhaps those remains have been there for nearly eighteen hundred years. is it not wonderful? mamma, it was just here that i lost my parasol." sir lionel had headed the cavalcade with miss todd, but george bertram was true to his new friends, miss baker and miss waddington. so also, for a time, were mr. m'gabbery and mr. cruse. as the aunt and niece rode beside each other, a great part of this gallant attention fell upon the former. indeed, the easiest way of addressing the beauty was often found to be through the beauty's aunt; and it may be doubted whether mr. m'gabbery would not have retreated long since in despair, but for the scintillations of civility which fell to him from miss baker's good-humour. he had had the good fortune of some previous days' journeying with them on horseback through the desert, and had found that privilege gave him an inestimable advantage over mr. cruse. why should it not also suffice as regarded this new comer? he had held much commune with himself on the subject that morning; had called himself to task for his own pusillanimity, and had then fortified his courage with the old reflection about fair ladies and faint hearts--and also with a glass of brandy. he was therefore disposed to make himself very unpleasant to poor george if occasion should require. "how delighted you must have been to see your father!" said miss baker, who, though her temper would not permit her to be uncivil to mr. m'gabbery, would readily have dispensed with that gentleman's attendance. "indeed, i was. i never saw him before, you know." "never saw him, your father, before, mr. bertram?" said caroline. "why, aunt mary says that i have seen him." "i never saw him to remember him. one doesn't count one's acquaintance before seven or eight years of age." "your memory must be very bad, then," said mr. m'gabbery, "or your childhood's love for your father very slight. i perfectly remember the sweetness of my mother's caresses when i was but three years old. there is nothing, miss waddington, to equal the sweetness of a mother's kisses." "i never knew them," said she. "but i have found an aunt's do nearly as well." "a grandmother's are not bad," said bertram, looking very grave. "i can never think of my mother without emotion," continued mr. m'gabbery. "i remember, as though it were yesterday, when i first stood at her knee, with a picture-book on her lap before me. it is the furthest point to which memory carries me--and the sweetest." "i can remember back much before that," said george; "a great deal before that. listen to this, miss baker. my earliest impression was a hatred of dishonesty." "i hope your views have not altered since," said caroline. "very materially, i fear. but i must tell you about my memory. i was lying once in my cradle--" "you don't mean to tell me you remember that?" said m'gabbery. "perfectly, as you do the picture-book. well, there i was lying, miss baker, with my little eyes wide open. it is astonishing how much babies see, though people never calculate on their having eyes at all. i was lying on my back, staring at the mantelpiece, on which my mother had left her key-basket." "you remember, of course, that it was her key-basket?" said miss waddington, with a smile that made m'gabbery clench his walking-stick in his hand. "perfectly; because she always kept her halfpence there also. well, there was a nursery-girl who used to be about me in those days. i distinctly saw her go to that basket, miss baker, and take out a penny; and i then made up my mind that the first use i would make of my coming speech should be to tell my mother. that, i think, is the furthest point to which my memory carries me." the ladies laughed heartily, but mr. m'gabbery frowned bitterly. "you must have dreamt it," said he. "it is just possible," said george; "but i don't think it. come, miss waddington, let us have your earliest recollections." "ah! mine will not be interesting. they do not go back at all so far. i think they have reference to bread and butter." "i remember being very angry," said miss baker, "because papa prophesied that i should be an old maid. it was very hard on me, for his prophecy no doubt brought about the fact." "but the fact is no fact as yet," said mr. m'gabbery, with a smirking gallantry for which he ought to have been kicked. "i beg your pardon, mr. m'gabbery," said miss waddington. "it is quite an established fact. my aunt will never have my consent to marry; and i am sure she will never dream of such a thing without it." "and so mr. m'gabbery's hopes in that direction are all at an end," said george, who was now able to speak to caroline without being heard by the others. "i declare i think he has entertained some such idea, for he never leaves my aunt alone for a minute. he has been very civil, very; but, mr. bertram, perhaps you know that a very civil man may be a bore." "he always is, i think. no man is really liked who is ever ready to run on messages and tie up parcels. it is generally considered that a man knows his own value, and that, if he be willing to do such work, such work is fit for him." "you never do anything to oblige, then?" "very rarely; at least, not in the little domestic line. if one could have an opportunity of picking a lady out of a fire, or saving her from the clutches of an italian bravo, or getting her a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, one would be inclined to do it. in such cases, there would be no contempt mixed up with the lady's gratitude. but ladies are never really grateful to a man for turning himself into a flunky." "ah! i like to be attended to all the same." "then there is mr. m'gabbery. half a smile will keep him at your feet the whole day." mr. m'gabbery and poor miss baker were now walking behind them, side by side. but his felicity in this respect was not at all sufficient for that gentleman. in their long journey from egypt, he and miss waddington had always been within speaking distance; and who was the stranger of to-day that was thus to come and separate them? "miss waddington," he cried, "do you remember when your horse stumbled in the sand at el arish? ah! what a pleasant day that was!" "but you have not recalled it by a very pleasant incident. i was very nearly being thrown out of my saddle." "and how we had to wait for our dinner at gaza till the camels came up?" and mr. m'gabbery, urging on his horse, brought him up once more abreast with that of miss waddington. "i shall soon have as great a horror of gaza as samson had," said she, _sotto voce_. "i almost feel myself already in bonds under philistian yoke whenever it is mentioned." "talking of recollections, that journey will certainly be among the sunniest of my life's memories," said mr. m'gabbery. "it was sunny, certainly," said miss waddington; for the heat of the desert had been oppressive. "ah! and so sweet! that encamping in your own tent; preparing your own meals; having everything, as it were, within yourself. civilized life has nothing to offer equal to that. a person who has only gone from city to city, or from steamboat to steamboat, knows nothing of oriental life. does he, miss waddington?" this was intended as a blow at bertram, who had got to jerusalem without sleeping under canvas. "what ignorant wretches the natives must be!" said george; "for they apparently sleep as regularly in their own beds as any stupid christian in england." "i am not sure that even mr. m'gabbery would admire the tents so much if he had not some christian comforts along with him." "his brandy-flask and dressing-case, for instance," said george. "yes; and his mattress and blankets," said caroline. "his potted meat and preserved soup." "and especially his pot to boil his potatoes in." "that was mr. cruse," said mr. m'gabbery, quite angrily. "for myself, i do not care a bit about potatoes." "so it was, mr. m'gabbery; and i beg your pardon. it is mr. cruse whose soul is among the potatoes. but, if i remember right, it was you who were so angry when the milk ran out." then mr. m'gabbery again receded, and talked to mrs. jones about his associations. "how thoroughly the turks and arabs beat us in point of costume," said mrs. hunter to mr. cruse. "it will be very hard, at any rate, for any of them to beat you," said the tutor. "since i have been out here, i have seen no one adopt their ways with half as much grace as you do." mrs. hunter looked down well pleased to her ancles, which were covered, and needed to be covered, by no riding-habit. "i was not thinking so much of myself as of mr. hunter. women, you know, mr. cruse, are nothing in this land." "except when imported from christendom, mrs. hunter." "but i was speaking of gentlemen's toilets. don't you think the turkish dress very becoming? i declare, i shall never bear to see charles again in a coat and waistcoat and trousers." "nor he you in an ordinary silk gown, puffed out with crinoline." "well, i suppose we must live in the east altogether then. i am sure i should not object. i know one thing--i shall never endure to put a bonnet on my head again. by-the-by, mr. cruse, who is this sir lionel bertram that has just come? is he a baronet?" "oh dear, no; nothing of that sort, i imagine. i don't quite know who he is; but that young man is his son." "they say he's very clever, don't they?" "he has that sort of boy's cleverness, i dare say, which goes towards taking a good degree." mr. cruse himself had not shone very brightly at the university. "miss waddington seems very much smitten with him; don't you think so?" "miss waddington is a beautiful girl; and variable--as beautiful girls sometimes are." "mr. cruse, don't be satirical." "'praise undeserved is satire in disguise,'" said mr. cruse, not quite understanding, himself, why he made the quotation. but it did exceedingly well. mrs. hunter smiled sweetly on him, said that he was a dangerous man, and that no one would take him to be a clergyman; upon which mr. cruse begged that she would spare his character. and now they had come to the fountain of enrogel, and having dismounted from their steeds, stood clustering about the low wall which surrounds the little pool of water. "this, sir lionel," said miss todd, acting cicerone, "is the fountain of enrogel, which you know so well by name." "ah!" said sir lionel. "it seems rather dirty at present; doesn't it?" "that is because the water is so low. when there has been much rain, there is quite a flood here. those little gardens and fields there are the most fertile spot round jerusalem, because there is so much irrigation here." "that's where the jerusalem artichokes are grown, i suppose." "it is a singular fact, that though there are plenty of artichokes, that special plant is unknown," said mr. m'gabbery. "do you remember, miss waddington--" but miss waddington had craftily slipped round the corner of the wall, and was now admiring mrs. hunter's costume, on the other side of the fountain. "and that is the village of siloam," continued miss todd, pointing to a range of cabins, some of which seemed to be cut out of the rock on the hill-side, on her right hand as she looked up towards the valley of jehoshaphat. "and that is the pool of siloam, sir lionel; we shall go up there." "ah!" said sir lionel again. "is it not interesting?" said miss todd; and a smiling gleam of satisfaction spread itself across her jovial ruddy face. "very," said sir lionel. "but don't you find it rather hot?" "yes, it is warm. but one gets accustomed to that. i do so like to find myself among these names which used to torment me so when i was a child. i had all manner of mysterious ideas about the pool of bethesda and the beautiful gate, about the hill of sion, and gehenna, and the brook cedron. i had a sort of belief that these places were scattered wide over the unknown deserts of asia; and now, sir lionel, i am going to show them all to you in one day." "would they were scattered wider, that the pleasure might last the longer," said sir lionel, taking off his hat as he bowed to miss todd, but putting it on again very quickly, as he felt the heat. "yes; but the mystery, the beautiful mystery, is all gone," said miss jones. "i shall never feel again about these places as i used to do." "nor i either, i hope," said mr. pott. "i always used to catch it for scripture geography." "yes, the mystery of your childhood will be gone, miss jones," said mr. m'gabbery, who, in his present state of hopelessness as regarded miss waddington, was ill-naturedly interfering with young pott. "the mystery of your childhood will be gone; but another mystery, a more matured mystery, will be created in your imagination. your associations will henceforth bear a richer tint." "i don't know that," said miss jones, who did not approve of being interfered with a bit better than did mr. pott. and then they remounted, and the cavalcade moved on. they turned up the rising ground towards the city wall, and leaving on the left the gardens in which jerusalem artichokes did not grow, they came to the pool of siloam. here most of them again descended, and climbed down to the water, which bursts out from its underground channel into a cool, but damp and somewhat dirty ravine. "you are my guide, miss todd, in everything," said sir lionel. "is it necessary that i should study scripture geography down in that hole? if you bid me, i'll do it." "well, sir lionel, i'll let you off; the more especially as i have been down there myself already, and got dreadfully draggled in doing so. oh! i declare, there is miss waddington in the water." miss waddington was in the water. not in such a manner, gentlest of readers, as to occasion the slightest shock to your susceptible nerves; but in such a degree as to be very disagreeable to her boots, and the cause of infinite damage to her stockings. george bertram had handed her down, and when in the act of turning round to give similar assistance to some other adventurous lady, had left her alone on the slippery stones. of course any young lady would take advantage of such an unguarded moment to get into some catastrophe. alas! and again alas! unfortunately, mr. m'gabbery had been the first to descend to the pool. he had calculated, cunningly enough, that in being there, seeing that the space was not very large, the duty must fall to his lot of receiving into his arms any such ladies as chose to come down--miss waddington, who was known to be very adventurous, among the number. he was no sooner there, however, than george bertram jumped in almost upon him, and hitherto he had not had an opportunity of touching miss waddington's glove. but now it seemed that fortune was to reward him. "good heavens!" cried mr. m'gabbery, as he dashed boldly into the flood, thereby splashing the water well up into caroline's face. there was not much occasion for this display, for the gentleman could have assisted the lady quite as effectually without even wetting his toes; but common misfortunes do create common sympathies--or at least they should do. would it not be natural that miss waddington and mr. m'gabbery, when both wet through up to their knees, should hang together in their sufferings, make common cause of it, talk each of what the other felt and understood so well? nay, might it not be probable that, in obedience to the behests of some wise senior, they might be sent back to the city together;--understand, o reader, that the wall of jerusalem had never yet been distant from them half a mile--back, we say, together to get dry stockings? to achieve such an object, mr. m'gabbery would have plunged bodily beneath the wave--had the wave been deep enough to receive his body. as it was, it only just came over the tops of his boots, filling them comfortably with water. "oh, mr. m'gabbery!" exclaimed the ungrateful lady. "now you have drowned me altogether." "i never saw anything so awkward in my life," said m'gabbery, looking up at bertram with a glance that should have frozen his blood. "nor i, either," said caroline. "what had you better do? pray give me your hand, miss waddington. to leave you in such a manner as that! we managed better in the desert, did we not, miss waddington? you really must go back to jerusalem for dry shoes and stockings; you really must. where is miss baker? give me your hand, miss waddington; both hands, you had better." so much said mr. m'gabbery while struggling in the pool of siloam. but in the meantime, miss waddington, turning quickly round, had put out her hand to bertram, who was standing--and i regret to say all but laughing--on the rock above her; and before mr. m'gabbery's eloquence was over, she was safely landed among her friends. "oh, mr. bertram," said she; "you are a horrid man. i'll never forgive you. had i trusted myself to poor mr. m'gabbery, i should have been dry-footed at this moment." and she shook the water from off her dress, making a damp circle around herself as a newfoundland dog sometimes does. "if i served you right, i should make you go to the hotel for a pair of shoes." "do, miss waddington; make him go," said sir lionel. "if he doesn't, i'll go myself." "i shall be delighted," said mr. cruse; "my donkey is very quick;" and the clergyman mounted ready to start. "only i shouldn't know where to find the things." "no, mr. cruse; and i couldn't tell you. besides, there is nothing i like so much as wet feet,--except wet strings to my hat, for which latter i have to thank mr. m'gabbery." "i will go, of course," said m'gabbery, emerging slowly from the pool. "of course it is for me to go; i shall be glad of an opportunity of getting dry boots myself." "i am so sorry you have got wet," said the beauty. "oh! it's nothing; i like it. i was not going to see you in the water without coming to you. pray tell me what i shall fetch. i know all your boxes so well, you know, so i can have no difficulty. will they be in the one with c. w. on it in brass nails? that was the one which fell off the camel near the temple of dagon." poor mr. m'gabbery! that ride through the desert was an oasis in his otherwise somewhat barren life, never to be forgotten. "i am the sinner, miss waddington," said george, at last, "and on me let the punishment fall. i will go back to jerusalem; and in order that you may suffer no inconvenience, i will bring hither all your boxes and all your trunks on the backs of a score of arab porters." "you know you intend to do no such thing," said she. "you have already told me your ideas as to waiting upon young ladies." there was, however, at last some whispering between miss baker and her niece, in which mr. m'gabbery vainly attempted to join, and the matter ended in one of the grooms being sent into the town, laden with a bunch of keys and a written message for miss baker's servant. before dinner-time, miss waddington had comfortably changed her stockings in the upper story of the tomb of st. james, and mr. m'gabbery--but mr. m'gabbery's wet feet did not receive the attention which they deserved. passing on from the pool of siloam, they came to a water-course at which there was being conducted a considerable washing of clothes. the washerwomen--the term is used as being generic to the trade and not to the sex, for some of the performers were men--were divided into two classes, who worked separately; not so separately but what they talked together, and were on friendly terms; but still there was a division. the upper washerwomen, among whom the men were at work, were mahomedans; the lower set were jewesses. as to the men, but little observation was made, except that they seemed expert enough, dabbing their clothes, rubbing in the soap, and then rinsing, very much in the manner of christians. but it was impossible not to look at the women. the female followers of the prophet had, as they always have, some pretence of a veil for their face. in the present instance, they held in their teeth a dirty blue calico rag, which passed over their heads, acting also as a shawl. by this contrivance, intended only to last while the christians were there, they concealed one side of the face and the chin. no one could behold them without wishing that the eclipse had been total. no epithet commonly applied to women in this country could adequately describe their want of comeliness. they kept their faces to their work, and except that they held their rags between their teeth, they gave no sign of knowing that strangers were standing by them. it was different with the jewesses. when they were stared at, they stood up boldly and stared again;--and well worth looking at they were. there were three or four of them, young women all, though already mothers, for their children were playing on the grass behind them. each bore on her head that moon-shaped head-dress which is there the symbol of a jewess; and no more graceful tiara can a woman wear. it was wonderful that the same land should produce women so different as were these close neighbours. the mahomedans were ape-like; but the jewesses were glorious specimens of feminine creation. they were somewhat too bold, perhaps; there was too much daring in their eyes, as, with their naked shoulders and bosoms nearly bare, they met the eyes of the men that were looking at them. but there was nothing immodest in their audacity; it was defiant rather, and scornful. there was one among them, a girl, perhaps of eighteen, who might have been a sculptor's model, not only for form and figure, but for the expression of her countenance and the beautiful turn of her head and shoulders. she was very unlike the jewess that is ordinarily pictured to us. she had no beaky nose, no thin face, no sharp, small, black, bright eyes; she was fair, as esther was fair; her forehead and face were broad, her eyes large and open; yet she was a jewess, plainly a jewess; such a jewess as are many still to be seen--in palestine, at least, if not elsewhere. when they came upon her, she was pressing the dripping water from some large piece of linen, a sheet probably. in doing this she had cunningly placed one end firmly under her foot upon a stone, and then, with her hands raised high above her head, she twisted and retwisted it till the water oozing out fell in heavy drops round her feet. her arms and neck were bare, as were also her feet; and it was clear that she put forth to her work as much strength as usually falls to the lot of a woman in any country. she was very fair to look at, but there was about her no feminine softness. do not laugh, reader, unless you have already stopped to think, and, thinking, have decided that a girl of eighteen, being a washerwoman, must therefore be without feminine softness. i would not myself say that it is so. but here at least there was no feminine softness, no tenderness in the eye, no young shame at being gazed at. she paused for a moment in her work, and gave back to them all the look they gave her; and then, as though they were beneath her notice, she strained once more at her task, and so dropped the linen to the ground. "if i knew how to set about the bargain, i would take that woman home with me, and mould her to be my wife." such was george bertram's outspoken enthusiasm. "moulded wives never answer well," said sir lionel. "i think he would prefer one that had been dipped," whispered miss todd to the colonel; but her allusion to miss waddington's little accident on the water, and to the chandler's wares, was not thoroughly appreciated. it has been said that the hampers were to be sent to the tomb of zachariah; but they agreed to dine immediately opposite to that of st. james the less. this is situated in the middle of the valley of jehoshaphat, in the centre of myriads of jewish tombs, directly opposite to the wall built with those huge temple stones, not many feet over the then dry water-course of the brook cedron. such was the spot chosen by miss todd for her cold chickens and champagne. of course they wandered about a little in pairs and trios while these dainties were being prepared for them. this st. james's tomb is a little temple built on the side of the rock, singularly graceful. the front towards the city is adorned with two or three roman pillars, bearing, if i remember rightly, plain capitals. there is, i think, no pediment above them, or any other adjunct of architectural pretension; but the pillars themselves, so unlike anything else there, so unlike any other sepulchral monument that i, at least, have seen, make the tomb very remarkable. that it was built for a tomb is, i suppose, not to be doubted; though for whose ashes it was in fact erected may perhaps be questioned. i am not aware that any claimant has been named as a rival to st. james. the most conspicuous of these monuments is that which tradition allots to absalom, close to this other which we have just described. it consists of a solid square erection, bearing what, for want of a better name, i must call a spire, with curved sides, the sides curving inwards as they fall from the apex to the base. this spiral roof, too low and dumpy to be properly called a spire, is very strong, built with stones laid in circles flat on each other, the circles becoming smaller as they rise towards the top. why absalom should have had such a tomb, who can say? that his bones were buried there, the jews at least believe; for jewish fathers, as they walk by with their children, bid their boys each cast a stone there to mark their displeasure at the child who rebelled against his parent. it is now nearly full of such stones. while miss waddington was arranging her toilet within the tomb of st. james, her admirers below were not making themselves agreeable to each other. "it was the awkwardest thing i ever saw," said mr. cruse to mr. m'gabbery, in a low tone, but not so low but what bertram was intended to hear it. "very," said mr. m'gabbery. "some men are awkward by nature;--seem, indeed, as though they were never intended for ladies' society." "and then to do nothing but laugh at the mischief he had caused. that may be the way at oxford; but we used to flatter ourselves at cambridge that we had more politeness." "cambridge!" said bertram, turning round and speaking with the most courteous tone he could command. "were you at cambridge? i thought i had understood that you were educated at st. bees." mr. cruse had been at st. bees, but had afterwards gone to the university. "i was a scholar at st. john's, sir," replied mr. cruse, with much dignity. "m'gabbery, shall we take a stroll across the valley till the ladies are ready?" and so, having sufficiently shown their contempt for the awkward oxonian, they moved away. "two very nice fellows, are they not?" said bertram to mr. hunter. "it's a stroke of good fortune to fall in with such men as that at such a place as this." "they're very well in their own way," said mr. hunter, who was lying on the grass, and flattering himself that he looked more turkish than any turk he had yet seen. "but they don't seem to me to be quite at home here in the east. few englishman in fact are. cruse is always wanting boiled vegetables, and m'gabbery can't eat without a regular knife and fork. give me a pilau and a bit of bread, and i can make a capital dinner without anything to help me but my own fingers." "cruse isn't a bad kind of coach," said young pott. "he never interferes with a fellow. his only fault is that he's so spoony about women." "they're gentlemanlike men," said sir lionel; "very. one can't expect, you know, that every one should set the thames on fire." "cruse won't do that, at any rate," put in mr. pott. "but mr. m'gabbery perhaps may," suggested george. "at any rate, he made a little blaze just now at the brook above." and then the ladies came down, and the business of the day commenced; seeing which, the two injured ones returned to their posts. "i am very fond of a picnic," said sir lionel, as, seated on a corner of a tombstone, he stretched out his glass towards miss todd, who had insisted on being his cupbearer for the occasion; "excessively fond. i mean the eating and drinking part, of course. there is only one thing i like better; and that is having my dinner under a roof, upon a table, and with a chair to sit on." "oh, you ungrateful man; after all that i am doing for you!" "i spoke of picnics generally, miss todd. could i always have my nectar filled to me by a goddess, i would be content with no room, but expect to recline on a cloud, and have thunderbolts ready at my right hand." "what a beautiful jupiter your father would make, mr. bertram!" "yes; and what a happy king of gods with such a juno as you, miss todd!" "ha! ha! ha! oh dear, no. i pretend to no _rôle_ higher than that of hebe. mr. m'gabbery, may i thank you for a slice of ham? i declare, these tombs are very nice tables, are they not? only, i suppose it's very improper. mr. cruse, i'm so sorry that we have no potatoes; but there is salad, i know." "talking of chairs," said mr. hunter, "after all there has been no seat yet invented by man equal to a divan, either for ease, dignity, or grace." mr. hunter had long been practising to sit cross-legged, and was now attempting it on on the grass for the first time in public. it had at any rate this inconvenient effect, that he was perfectly useless; for, when once seated, he could neither help himself nor any one else. "the cigar divan is a very nice lounge when one has nothing better to do," suggested mr. pott. "they have capital coffee there." "a divan and a sofa are much the same, i suppose," said george. but to this mr. hunter demurred, and explained at some length what were the true essential qualities of a real turkish divan: long before he had finished, however, george had got up to get a clean plate for miss waddington, and in sitting down had turned his back upon the turk. the unfortunate turk could not revenge himself, as in his present position any motion was very difficult to him. picnic dinners are much the same in all parts of the world, and chickens and salad are devoured at jerusalem very much in the same way as they are at other places--except, indeed, by a few such proficients in turkish manners as mr. hunter. the little arab children stood around them, expectant of scraps, as i have seen children do also in england; and the conversation, which was dull enough at the commencement of the feast, became more animated when a few corks had flown. as the afternoon wore on, mr. m'gabbery became almost bellicose under the continual indifference of his lady-love; and had it not been for the better sense of our hero--such better sense may be expected from gentlemen who are successful--something very like a quarrel would have taken place absolutely in the presence of miss todd. perhaps miss waddington was not free from all blame in the matter. it would be unjust to accuse her of flirting--of flirting, at least, in the objectionable sense of the word. it was not in her nature to flirt. but it was in her nature to please herself without thinking much of the manner in which she did it, and it was in her nature also to be indifferent as to what others thought of her. though she had never before known george bertram, there was between them that sort of family knowledge of each other which justified a greater intimacy than between actual strangers. then, too, he pleased her, while mr. m'gabbery only bored. she had not yet thought enough about the world's inhabitants to have recognized and adjudicated on the difference between those who talk pleasantly and those who do not; but she felt that she was amused by this young double-first oxonian, and she had no idea of giving up amusement when it came in her way. of such amusement, she had hitherto known but little. miss baker herself was, perhaps, rather dull. miss baker's friends at littlebath were not very bright; but caroline had never in her heart accused them of being other than amusing. it is only by knowing his contrast that we recognize a bore when we meet him. it was in this manner that she now began to ascertain that mr. m'gabbery certainly had bored her. ascertaining it, she threw him off at once--perhaps without sufficient compunction. "i'll cut that cock's comb before i have done with him," said m'gabbery to his friend mr. cruse, as they rode up towards st. stephen's gate together, the rest of the cavalcade following them. sir lionel had suggested to miss todd that they might as well return, somewhat early though it was, seeing that there was cause why that feast of reason and that flow of soul should no longer be continued by them round the yet only half-emptied hampers. so the ladies had climbed up into the tomb and there adjusted their hats, and the gentlemen had seen to the steeds; and the forks had been packed up; and when mr. m'gabbery made the state of his mind known to mr. cruse, they were on their way back to jerusalem, close to the garden of gethsemane. "i'll cut that young cock's comb yet before i have done with him," repeated mr. m'gabbery. now mr. cruse, as being a clergyman, was of course not a fighting man. "i shouldn't take any notice of him," said he; "nor, indeed, of her either; i do not think she is worth it." "oh, it isn't about that," said m'gabbery. "they were two women together, and i therefore was inclined to show them some attention. you know how those things go on. from one thing to another it has come to this, that they have depended on me for everything for the last three or four weeks." "you haven't paid any money for them, have you?" "well, no; i can't exactly say that i have paid money for them. that is to say, they have paid their own bills, and i have not lent them anything. but i dare say you know that a man never travels with ladies in that free and easy way without feeling it in his pocket. one is apt to do twenty things for them which one wouldn't do for oneself; nor they for themselves if they had to pay the piper." now here a very useful moral may be deduced. ladies, take care how you permit yourselves to fall into intimacies with unknown gentlemen on your travels. it is not pleasant to be spoken of as this man was speaking of miss baker and her niece. the truth was, that a more punctilious person in her money dealings than miss baker never carried a purse. she had not allowed mr. m'gabbery so much as to lay out on her behalf a single piastre for oranges on the road. nor had he been their sole companion on their journey through the desert. they had come to jerusalem with a gentleman and his wife: mr. m'gabbery had been kindly allowed to join them. "well, if i were you, i should show them a cold shoulder," said mr. cruse; "and as to that intolerable puppy, i should take no further notice of him, except by cutting him dead." mr. m'gabbery at last promised to follow his friend's advice, and so miss todd's picnic came to an end without bloodshed. chapter x. the effects of miss todd's picnic. sir lionel did not participate violently either in his son's disgust at the falsehood of that holy sepulchre church, nor in his enthusiasm as to the mount of olives. in the former, he walked about as he had done in many other foreign churches, looked a little to the right and a little to the left, observed that the roof seemed to be rather out of order, declined entering the sanctum sanctorum, and then asked whether there was anything more to be seen. he did not care, he said, about going upstairs into the gallery; and when george suggested that he should descend into the armenian chapel, he observed that it appeared to be very dark and very crowded. he looked at the turkish janitors without dismay, and could not at all understand why george should not approve of them. he was equally cold and equally complaisant on the mount of olives. he would willingly have avoided the ascent could he have done so without displeasing his son; but george made a point of it. a donkey was therefore got for him, and he rode up. "ah! yes," said he, "a very clear view of the city; oh, that was solomon's temple, was it? and now they have a mosque there, have they? ah! perhaps the brahmins will have a turn at it before the world is done. it's a barren sort of hill after all, is it not?" and then george tried very much in vain to make his father understand why he wished to go into the church. "by-the-by," said sir lionel--they were then sitting exactly on the spot where george had placed himself before, when he made that grand resolve to give up everything belonging to this world for the sake of being one of christ's shepherds--"by-the-by, george, for heaven's sake don't throw your uncle over in choosing a profession. i certainly should be sorry to see you become an attorney." "i have never thought of it for a moment," said george. "because, with your abilities, and at any rate with your chance of money, i think you would be very much thrown away; but, considering his circumstances and yours, were i you, i would really submit almost to anything." "i will not at any rate submit to that," said george, not very well able to reconcile his father's tone to the spot on which they were sitting. "well, it's your own affair, my boy. i have no right to interfere, and shall not attempt to do so; but of course i must be anxious. if you did go into the church, i suppose he'd buy a living for you?" "certainly not; i should take a college living." "at your age any that you could get would be very small. ah, george! if i could only put an old head upon young shoulders, what a hand of cards you would have to play! that old man could leave you half a million of money!" this was certainly not the object with which the son had ascended the mount, and he did not use much eloquence to induce his father to remain long in the place. sir lionel got again on his donkey, and they returned to jerusalem; nor did george ever again talk to him about the mount of olives. and he was not very much more successful with another friend into whose mind he endeavoured to inculcate his own high feelings. he got miss baker up to his favourite seat, and with her miss waddington; and then, before he had left jerusalem, he succeeded in inducing the younger lady to ramble thither with him alone. "i do not know that i think so highly of the church as you do," said caroline. "as far as i have seen them, i cannot find that clergymen are more holy than other men; and yet surely they ought to be so." "at any rate, there is more scope for holiness if a man have it in him to be holy. the heart of a clergyman is more likely to be softened than that of a barrister or an attorney." "i don't exactly know what you mean by heart-softening, mr. bertram." "i mean--" said bertram, and then he paused; he was not quite able, with the words at his command, to explain to this girl what it was that he did mean, nor was he sure that she would appreciate him if he did do so; and, fond as he still was of his idea of a holy life, perhaps at this moment he was fonder still of her. "i think that a man should do the best he can for himself in a profession. you have a noble position within your grasp, and if i were you, i certainly would not bury myself in a country parsonage." what this girl of twenty said to him had much more weight than the time-honoured precepts of his father; and yet both, doubtless, had their weight. each blow told somewhat; and the seed too had been sown upon very stony ground. they sat there some three or four minutes in silence. bertram was looking over to mount moriah, imaging to himself the spot where the tables of the money-changers had been overturned, while miss waddington was gazing at the setting sun. she had an eye to see material beauty, and a taste to love it; but it was not given to her to look back and feel those things as to which her lover would fain have spoken to her. the temple in which jesus had taught was nothing to her. yes, he was her lover now, though he had never spoken to her of love, had never acknowledged to himself that he did love her--as so few men ever do acknowledge till the words that they have said make it necessary that they should ask themselves whether those words are true. they sat there for some minutes in silence, but not as lovers sit. the distance between them was safe and respectful. bertram was stretched upon the ground, with his eyes fixed, not upon her, but on the city opposite; and she sat demurely on a rock, shading herself with her parasol. "i suppose nothing would induce you to marry a clergyman?" said he at last. "why should you suppose that, mr. bertram?" "at any rate, not the parson of a country parish. i am led to suppose it by what you said to me yourself just now." "i was speaking of you, and not of myself. i say that you have a noble career open to you, and i do not look on the ordinary life of a country parson as a noble career. for myself, i do not see any nobility in store. i do not know that there is any fate more probable for myself than that of becoming a respectable vicaress." "and why may not a vicar's career be noble? is it not as noble to have to deal with the soul as with the body?" "i judge by what i see. they are generally fond of eating, very cautious about their money, untidy in their own houses, and apt to go to sleep after dinner." george turned upon the grass, and for a moment or two ceased to look across into the city. he had not strength of character to laugh at her description and yet to be unmoved by it. he must either resent what she said, or laugh and be ruled by it. he must either tell her that she knew nothing of a clergyman's dearest hopes, or else he must yield to the contempt which her words implied. "and could you love, honour, and obey such a man as that, yourself, miss waddington?" he said at last. "i suppose such men do have wives who love, honour, and obey them; either who do or do not. i dare say i should do much the same as others." "you speak of my future, miss waddington, as though it were a subject of interest; but you seem to think nothing of your own." "it is useless for a woman to think of her future; she can do so little towards planning it, or bringing about her plans. besides, i have no right to count on myself as anything out of the ordinary run of women; i have taken no double-first degree in anything." "a double-first is no sign of a true heart or true spirit. many a man born to grovel has taken a double-first." "i don't perhaps know what you mean by grovelling, mr. bertram. i don't like grovellers myself. i like men who can keep their heads up--who, once having them above the water, will never allow them to sink. some men in every age do win distinction and wealth and high place. these are not grovellers. if i were you i would be one of them." "you would not become a clergyman?" "certainly not; no more than i would be a shoemaker." "miss waddington!" "well; and what of miss waddington? look at the clergymen that you know; do they never grovel? you know mr. wilkinson; he is an excellent man, i am sure, but is he conspicuous for highmindedness, for truth and spirit?" it must be remembered that the elder mr. wilkinson was at this time still living. "are they generally men of wide views and enlightened principles? i do not mean to liken them to shoemakers; but were i you, i should think of the one business as soon as the other." "and in my place, what profession would you choose?" "ah, that i cannot say. i do not know your circumstances." "i must earn my bread, like other sons of adam." "well, earn it then in such manner that the eyes of the world shall be upon you; that men and women shall talk of you, and newspapers have your name in their columns. whatever your profession, let it be a wakeful one; not one that you can follow half asleep." again he paused for awhile, and again sat looking at the rock of the temple. still he thought of the tables of the money-changers, and the insufficiency of him who had given as much as half to the poor. but even while so thinking, he was tempted to give less than half himself, to set up on his own account a money-changing table in his own temple. he would fain have worshipped at the two shrines together had he been able. but he was not able; so he fell down before that of mammon. "you can talk to me in this way, urge me to be ambitious, and yet confess that you could give yourself to one of those drones of whom you speak with such scorn." "i speak of no one with scorn; and i am not urging you; and at present am not talking of giving myself to any one. you ask as to the possibility of my ever marrying a clergyman; i say that it is very possible that i may do so some day." "miss waddington," said george; and now he had turned his face absolutely from the city, and was looking upwards to the hill; upwards, full into the beauty of her countenance. "miss waddington!" "well, mr. bertram?" "you speak of me as though i were a being high in the scale of humanity--" "and so i think of you." "listen for a moment--and of yourself as one comparatively low." "no, no, not low; i have too much pride for that; much lower than you, certainly, for i have given no proofs of genius." "well--lower than me. that is what you have said, and i do not believe that you would say so falsely. you would not descend to flatter me?" "certainly not; but--" "believe equally of me that i would not flatter you. i have told you no falsehood as yet, and i have a right to claim your belief. as you look on me, so do i on you. i look up to you as one whose destiny must be high. to me there is that about you which forbids me to think that your path in the world can ever be other than conspicuous. your husband, at least, will have to live before the world." "i shall not have the slightest objection to his doing so; but that, i think, will depend a great deal more on him than on me." bertram was very anxious to say something which might tend towards the commingling of his destiny with hers. he was hardly yet prepared to swear that he loved her, and to ask her in good set terms to be his wife. but he did not like to leave her without learning whether he had at all touched her heart. he was fully sure now that his own was not whole. "come, mr. bertram," said she; "look at the sun, how nearly it is gone. and you know we have no twilight here. let us go down; my aunt will think that we are lost." "one minute, miss waddington; one minute, and then we will go. miss waddington--if you care enough for me to bid me take up any profession, follow any pursuit, i will obey you. you shall choose for me, if you will." she blushed, not deeply, but with a colour sufficiently heightened to make it visible to him, and with a tingling warmth which made her conscious of it herself. she would have given much to keep her countenance, and yet the blush became her greatly. it took away from the premature firmness of her womanly look, and gave her for the moment something of the weakness natural to her age. "you know that is nonsense: on such a subject you must of course choose for yourself." bertram was standing in the path before her, and she could not well go on till he had made way for her. "no," said he; "thinking as i do of you, feeling as i do regarding you, it is not nonsense. it would be absolute nonsense if i said so to your aunt, or to mrs. hunter, or to miss jones. i could not be guided by a person who was indifferent to me. but in this matter i will be guided by you if you will consent to guide me." "of course i shall do no such thing." "you have no personal wish, then, for my welfare?" "yes, i have. your uncle is my guardian, and i may therefore be allowed to look upon you as a friend of a longer standing than merely of yesterday. i do regard you as a friend, and shall be glad of your success." here she paused, and they walked on a few steps together in silence; and then she added, becoming still redder as she did so, but now managing to hide her face from her companion, "were i to answer you in the way that you pretend to wish, i should affect either less friendship than i feel, or much more." "much more!" said bertram, with a shade of despondency in his tone. "yes, much more, mr. bertram. why, what would you have me say?" "ah me! i hardly know. nothing--nothing--i would have you say nothing. you are quite right to say nothing." and then he walked on again for a hundred yards in silence. "nothing, miss waddington, nothing; unless, indeed--" "mr. bertram;" and as she spoke she put out her hand and gently touched his arm. "mr. bertram, stop yourself; think, at any rate, of what you are going to say. it is a pity when such as you speak foolishly." it was singular to see how much more composed she was than he; how much more able to manage the occasion--and yet her feelings were strong too. "nothing; i would have you say nothing--nothing, unless this: that whatever my destiny may be, you will share it with me." as he spoke he did not look towards her, but straight before him down the path. he did not sigh, nor look soft. there was indeed not much capability for soft looks in his square and strongly-featured face. he frowned rather, set his teeth together, and walked on faster than before. caroline did not answer him immediately; and then he repeated his words. "i do not care for you to say anything now, unless you can say this--that whatever your lot may be, i may share it; whatever mine, that you will share it." "mr. bertram." "well--" "now you have spoken foolishly. do you not know that you have spoken foolishly?" "i have spoken truly. do you speak as truly. you should be as much above false girlish petty scruples, as you will be and are above falsehood of another kind. you will never tell a man that you love him if you do not." "no; certainly, i never will." "and do not deny it if it be the truth." "but it is not the truth. how long have we known each other, mr. bertram?" "counting by days and hours, some fortnight. but what does that signify? you do not love a man the better always, the longer you know him. of you, i discern that there is that in you i can love, that would make me happy. i have talent, some sort of talent at least. you have a spirit which would force me to use it. i will not pretend to say that i am suited for you. you must judge that. but i know that you are suited for me. now i will take any answer you will give me." to tell the truth, miss waddington hardly knew what answer to give him. he was one, it seemed, who, having spoken with decision himself, would take any answer as decisive. he was one not to be tampered with, and one also hardly to be rejected without consideration; and certainly not so to be accepted. she had liked him much--very much, considering the little she had known of him. she had even asked herself, half playfully, whether it were not possible that she might learn to love him. he was a gentleman, and that with her was much. he was a man of talent, and that with her was more. he was one whose character and mode of thought she could respect. he was a man whom any woman might probably be able to respect. but caroline waddington wanted much more than this in her future lord. she could talk pleasantly of the probability of her marrying a country parson; but she had, in truth, a much wider ambition for herself. she would never marry--such was the creed which was to govern her own life--without love; but she would not allow herself to love where love would interfere with her high hopes. in her catalogue of human blisses love in a cottage was not entered. she was not avaricious; she did not look to money as the summum bonum;--certainly not to marry for money's sake. but she knew that no figure in the world could be made without means. her own fortune was small, and she did not even rate her beauty high. her birth was the birth of a lady, but that was all; her talents had never been tried, but she thought of them more indifferently than they deserved. she felt, therefore, that she had no just ground to hope for much; but she was determined that no folly on her own part should rob her of any chance that fortune might vouchsafe to her. under such circumstances what answer should she make to bertram? her heart would have bid her not reject him, but she was fearful of her own heart. she dreaded lest she should be betrayed into sacrificing herself to love. ought prudence now to step in and bid her dismiss a suitor whose youth had as yet achieved nothing, whose own means were very small, with whom, if he were accepted, her marriage must be postponed; who, however, was of great talent, who gave such promise of future distinction? bertram, when he made his offer, made it from a full heart; but caroline was able to turn these matters in her mind before she answered him. she will be called cold-hearted, mercenary, and unfeminine. but when a young girl throws prudence to the winds, and allows herself to love where there is nothing to live on, what then is she called? it seems to me that it is sometimes very hard for young girls to be in the right. they certainly should not be mercenary; they certainly should not marry paupers; they certainly should not allow themselves to become old maids. they should not encumber themselves with early, hopeless loves; nor should they callously resolve to care for nothing but a good income and a good house. there should be some handbook of love, to tell young ladies when they may give way to it without censure. as regards our heroine, however, she probably wanted no such handbook. "now i will take any answer you will give me." bertram, when he had said that, remained silent, awaiting her reply. "mr. bertram," she said at last, "i think that you have spoken unwisely; let us agree to forget it. what you have said has come from impulse rather than judgment." "not so, miss waddington. i cannot forget it; nor can you. i would not have it again unsaid if i could. when i once learned that i loved you, it became natural to me to tell you so." "such quick speaking is not perhaps natural to me. but as you demand an immediate answer, i must give you one. i have had much pleasure in your society, but i have never thought of loving you. nor can i love you without thinking of it." it would be hard to say what answer bertram expected; indeed, he had no expectations. he had had no idea of making this offer when he walked up the hill with her. his heart was then turned rather to worship at that other shrine: it had been her own words, her own eloquence in favour of the world's greatness, that had drawn him on. he had previously filled his mind with no expectation; but he had felt an intense desire for success when once he had committed himself to his offer. and now, as he walked down beside her, he hardly knew what to make of her answer. a man, if he be not absolutely rejected, is generally inclined to think that any answer from a lady may be taken as having in it some glimmer of favour. and ladies know this so well, that they almost regard any reply on their own part, short of an absolute refusal, as an acceptance. if a lady bids a gentleman wait awhile for his answer, he thinks himself quite justified in letting all the world know that she is his own. we all know what a reference to a parent's judgment means. a lady must be very decisive--very, if she means to have her "no" taken at its full meaning. now caroline waddington had not been very decisive. whatever bertram's thoughts or his hopes might be, he said nothing more on the present occasion. he walked silently down the hill by her side, somewhat moody-looking, but yet not with the hang-dog aspect of a rejected suitor. there was a fire in his eyes and a play upon his countenance which did not tell of hope altogether extinguished. before they were at the foot of the hill, he had resolved that he would have caroline waddington for his wife, let the difficulties in his way be what they might. but then he was ever so keen to resolve; so often beaten from his resolutions! and caroline also walked silently down the hill. she knew that she had given an ambiguous answer, and was content to let it remain so. in the silence of her chamber, she would think over this thing and make her calculations. she would inquire into her own mind, and learn whether she could afford to love this man whom she could not but acknowledge to be so loveable. as for asking any one else, seeking counsel in the matter from her aunt, that never for a moment suggested itself to caroline waddington. they had left miss baker and miss todd at the bottom of the hill. it was a beautiful evening, and those ladies had consented to sit down and rest there while the more enthusiastic and young lovers of the mount ascended to the spot of which bertram was so fond. but in giving that consent, they had hardly expected that such encroachment would be made on their good-nature. when caroline and bertram again found them, the daylight had almost waned away. chapter xi. vale valete. miss baker was a little querulous at being left so long sitting with miss todd at the corner of the garden wall; but miss todd was never querulous: she was one of those good-humoured persons who never complain, and find some antidote to every ill in life, even in the ill itself. true, she had been kept a couple of hours and more sitting on a stone by the brook cedron; but then she had acquired the privilege of telling how mr. george bertram and miss caroline waddington had passed those hours, _tête-à-tête_ together, on the mountain-side. "why, caroline, we thought you were never coming down again," said miss baker. "it was mr. bertram's fault, aunt; he is immoveable when he gets to a certain rock up there. he has an idea of turning hermit, and constructing a cell for himself in that spot." "if i did turn hermit, it should certainly be for the sake of living there," said he. "but i fear i want the proper spirit for so holy a life." "i hope you have not kept us all this time for nothing: you have had some success, i trust?" said miss todd to bertram, in a laughing whisper. miss todd's face was quite joyous as she whispered; but then her face was always joyous. "i certainly have not done that which i intended to do," said bertram, with mock sententiousness. "and so far i have been unsuccessful." "then she has rejected him," said miss todd to herself. "what a fool the girl must be!" but it was a great comfort to miss todd that she knew all about it. that evening their plans were decided on as to leaving jerusalem--the plans, that is, of those whose fortunes we must follow;--miss baker, namely, and her niece; sir lionel and his son. of miss todd we may here take our leave for awhile. she did not on this occasion marry sir lionel, nor did she even have the satisfaction of knowing that her friends accused her of wishing to do so. miss todd had her weak points, but taking her as a whole, and striking the balance between good and bad, i do not care how soon we may meet her again. to her friends also we may bid adieu. mr. m'gabbery did not die of love. mr. pott did propose to and was accepted by miss jones; but the match was broken off by the parental potts who on the occasion nearly frightened poor mrs. jones out of her life. the hunters sojourned for awhile on the sides of lebanon, but did at last return to the discomforts of european life. mrs. hunter tried the effect of her favourite costume at tenby, but it was not found to answer. of mr. cruse, i can only say that he was dreadfully scolded by mrs. pott, in that he had allowed her son to fall in love; and that mr. pott threatened to stop his salary. an attorney's letter, however, settled that. it must be confessed that miss baker had allowed her plans to be altered by the arrival of the bertrams at jerusalem; and confessed also that miss baker's complaisance in this respect had been brought about by her niece's persuasion. their original intention had been to go on to damascus. then miss baker had begged off this further journey, alleging that her clothes as well as her strength were worn out; and caroline had consented to return home by the shortest route. then came the temptation of going as far as beyrout with the bertrams, and miss baker had been enjoined to have herself patched up externally and internally. she was accordingly being patched up; but now things were altered again. caroline knew that she could not travel with george bertram without engaging herself to be his wife; or that if she did, their journey would not be a happy one. and she did not wish so to engage herself without further thought. she determined, therefore, that they would fall back upon her aunt's plan, and return home by the easier route, by jaffa, that is, and alexandria. her altered mind had to be explained, not only to her aunt, but to the bertrams; and she came to the somewhat singular resolve to explain it in both cases by the simple truth. she would tell her aunt what had happened; and she would make george bertram understand in a few and as kind words as might be, that under the present circumstances it would be better that they should not be thrown into the very close intercourse necessary for fellow-travellers in the east. she was very prudent, was miss waddington; and having freed herself of one lover because she did not like him, she prepared to rid herself of another because she did. the bertrams were to leave jerusalem together in a couple of days' time. george was to go with his father as far as constantinople, and, having seen something of real turks in real turkey, was to return at once to england. after his last visit to the mount of olives, he said nothing further about the church as a profession. that evening caroline settled it all with her aunt. "aunt," said she, as they sat together brushing their hair before they went to bed, "you will think me very fanciful; but after all, i believe we had better go back by alexandria." "oh dear, i shall be so glad, my dear. jane says that i could not possibly get a travelling dress made here that i could wear." "you could get a dress in damascus, i don't doubt, aunt. but--" "and i really am not fit for much more riding. i don't like to disappoint you; but if you really wouldn't mind it--" "well, i should mind it,--and i should not. but let me tell you. you must not think that i am so very changeable, first pressing you to go one way, and then begging you to go another, without a reason." "no; i know you do it for my sake." "not that either, aunt--quite; but do listen. mr. bertram to-day made--" "he has not offered to you, has he?" "yes, aunt; that is just what he has done. and, therefore, perhaps it will not be quite so well that we should travel together." "but, caroline, tell me--pray do tell me; what did he say, and what have you said? oh dear me, this is very sudden." and miss baker sat back in her chair, with her now grayish hair hanging over her shoulders, with her hair-brush still held in one hand, and with the other resting on the toilet-table. "as for what he said, i may skip that, aunt. it was the old story, i suppose, merely signifying that he wanted me to marry him." "well, well." "as you truly say, aunt; it was too sudden. mr. bertram has a great deal to recommend him; a very great deal; one cannot but like him. he is very clever too." "yes, caroline; and will be his uncle's heir--doubtless." "i know nothing of that; to tell the truth, indeed, i never thought of that. but it would have made no difference." "and you refused him." "well, i hardly know. i do know this--that i did more towards refusing him than accepting him; that i must have much more love for any man i do marry than i have for him at present; and that after what has passed, i think we had better not go to damascus together." to this latter proposition aunt mary fully agreed; and thus it was decided that the extra patching for the longer journey need not be accomplished. miss baker would explain the matter to sir lionel in her way; and caroline would do the same to george bertram in hers. on one other point, also, miss baker made up her mind fully; though on this matter she did not think it prudent to make her mind known to her niece. she was very confident that the marriage would take place, and resolved to do all in her power to bring it about. personally, she was fond of george bertram; she admired his talents, she liked his father, and felt very favourably inclined towards his uncle's wealth. she finished her toilet therefore in calm happiness. she had an excellent match in view for her niece--and, after all, she would escape that dreadful horseback journey to damascus. during the next day caroline and george bertram were not together for a moment--that is, they were not together alone; for they breakfasted and dined at the same table, and he sat between the aunt and her niece as he had done continually since he had been at jerusalem. sir lionel told him in the forenoon that they were not to have the pleasure of the ladies' company on their journey, and rallied him as to the heart-breaking tendency of these tidings. but george showed, in his countenance at least, no symptoms of heart-breaking. that evening, as they all parted for the night, george did press miss waddington's hand more warmly than was usual with him; and, as he did so, he did look into her face for one moment to see what encouragement he might find there. i cannot say that there was no encouragement. the pressure was perhaps not met by any similar warmth on her part, but it was submitted to without any touch of resentment: the love which shot from his eye was not returned to him from hers, but hers were soft beneath his glance, softer than was usual with caroline waddington. but on the next morning they did come together. it was the day before the departure of the bertrams, and whatever was to be said must be said then. caroline watched her opportunity, and as soon as breakfast was over--they all breakfasted in the public salon--asked him to come into her aunt's sitting-room. she was quite collected, had fully made up her mind what to say, and was able also to say it without hesitation, and with perfect self-possession. this was more than could be boasted of on the gentleman's behalf. "you know, mr. bertram, that we are not going to travel together?" "yes; my father told me so yesterday." "and you will understand the reason of it, i am sure?" "not exactly, miss waddington. i cannot say i do understand it. i may have been presumptuous in what i said to you the other day; but i do not see why on that account your aunt should be put to the inconvenience of altering her plans. you fear, i suppose, that i should annoy you; but you might trust me--and still may if you will do so." "now, mr. bertram, you are hardly so sincere as you asserted yourself to be, and required me to be on the mount. you are yourself quite aware that nobody has thought you presumptuous. i have nothing to complain of, and much to thank you for--independently of the honour you have now done me;--for from you it is an honour. but i cannot say that i love you. it would not be natural that i should do so." "good heavens! not natural. i love you with the whole strength of my heart. is that unnatural?" "it is the province of men to take the initiative in such matters," said caroline, smiling. "i know nothing as to man's province, or of woman's province either. by province, you mean custom and conventional rule; and conventional rule means falsehood. i have known you but a week or two, and i love you dearly. you, of course, have known me as long, and are at any rate as capable of loving as i am. there would be nothing unnatural in you loving me--though, indeed, it may be very unlikely that you should do so." "well; i will not contradict you in anything if i can help it, except perhaps as to that last little would-be-proud, petulant protest. but putting out of sight all question of likelihood, what ought i to do if i do not love you? what in such a case would you recommend a sister to do? is it not better that we should not be immediately thrown together, as must so certainly be the case in travelling?" "then i am to understand that you positively can never love me?" "i have not said so: but you press me unfairly, mr. bertram." "unfairly. no, by heavens! no pressure in such case can be unfair. i would press the truth out from you--the real truth; the truth that so vitally concerns myself. you will not say that you have an aversion to me?" "aversion! no, certainly not." "or that you cannot love me? then why not let us remain together? you argue that you do not yet know me well enough; will not that be the way to know me better?" "if i were to travel with you now, mr. bertram, it would be tantamount to accepting you. your own sense will certainly tell you that. were i to do so, i should give you the privilege of coming with me as my lover. forgive me for saying that i cannot give you that privilege. i grieve to hurt your feelings for a day even; but i am sure you will ultimately approve of what i am doing." "and are we to meet no more, then?" "of course we shall meet again; at least, in all human probability. my guardian is your uncle." "i never even knew that till i met you the other day." "because you have always been at school or at college; but you know it now. i, at least, shall look forward to meeting you--and so will my aunt." "yes; as acquaintances. it would be impossible for me to meet you in that way. i hardly think you know or realize what my feelings to you are. i can only meet you to tell you again and again that i love you. you are so cold yourself that you cannot understand my--my--my impetuosity, if you choose to call it so." "in three or four months, mr. bertram, you will be laughing at your own impetuosity--when i perhaps shall be grieving over my own coldness." these last words she said with a smile in which there was much archness, and perhaps also a little encouragement. "you will tell me at any rate that i may hope?" "no; certainly not. you will hope enough for anything you really desire without my telling you. but i will not joke, as i believe that you are serious." "oh, you believe so, do you?" "yes; i suppose i must believe so. your declaration the other day took me very much by surprise. i had no conception that you had any feelings towards me of that sort. i certainly had entertained none such towards you. love with me cannot be the birth of a moment. i cannot say that i will love merely because i am asked. you would not wish me to be false even in your own favour. we will part now, mr. bertram; and being apart we shall better learn to know, each of us, how we value the other. on my part i can truly say that i hope we shall meet again--at any rate, as friends." and then she held out her hand to him. "is this to be our farewell?" said he, without at once taking it. "it shall be if you so please. we shall meet again only at the public table." "and you will not tell me that i may hope?" "i will tell you nothing further, mr. bertram. you will shake hands with me as with a friend, will you not?" he then took her hand, and, holding it in his own, gazed for a moment into her face. she bore the weight of his eyes with unabashed front. she showed neither anger nor pleasure; neither disdain nor pride; the same sweet smile was still upon her face, somewhat playful, somewhat hopeful, but capable of no definite construction either for making or marring a man's comfort. "caroline!" he said at last. "good-bye, mr. bertram. i thoroughly hope you may enjoy your journey." "caroline!" she essayed to withdraw her hand from his. feeling this, he raised it to his lips and kissed it, and then left the room. as he closed the door the same smile was on her face. i hope it will be admitted that miss waddington had played her part with skill, and judgment, and good breeding; and not altogether heartlessly either. she had thought much on the subject since george had first thrown himself at her feet, and had concluded, putting the good against the bad, and balancing the affair as accurately as facts would enable her, that the match would be one which she ought to regard as desirable. there were two valid reasons, however, why she should not at once accept his offer. firstly, he might not know his own mind, and it might be serviceable to him to have the option of renewing his proposal or retreating from it after a few months' trial of his own feelings. and secondly, she hardly knew her own mind. she could not in truth say yet whether she did love him, or whether she did not. she was rather inclined to think she did; but it would be well that she should try the matter before she committed herself. the statement made by her aunt that george would doubtless be his uncle's heir certainly had its weight with her. it would be wrong in her to engage herself to a man who was without the means of maintaining her in that rank of life in which she had resolved to live; wrong both on his account and on her own. she felt that she could not be a good poor man's wife. it was not the walk of life for which she had destined herself. she had made up her mind on that point too, and having made it up was not weak enough to be driven from her resolve by any little gust of feeling. she did like bertram--much, very much, better then she had ever liked any other man. he came up in many points to her idea of what a man should be. he was not sufficiently collected, not sufficiently thoughtful, and perhaps almost too enthusiastic: success in life would be easier to a man who put less heart into everything he said and did. but years would teach him much in this respect, and she also might perhaps teach him something. she did like bertram; and what objection could there be to the match if, as appeared so probable, he was to inherit his uncle's money? prudent as she was, she was ready to run some risk in this respect. she did not wish to be a poor man's wife; but neither did she wish to be an idle man's wife. what she did desire was, that her husband should be an earnest, rising, successful man;--one whose name, as she had herself said to bertram, might be frequent in men's mouths, and daily to be read in the columns of newspapers. she would not marry a fool, even though he were also a croesus; she would not marry a fool, even though he were also an earl. in choosing a master, her first necessity was that she should respect him, then that the world should do so also. she could respect talent--talent if needs be alone--but nothing without talent. the world's respect could not be had without wealth. as for love, that was necessary too; but it was only a third necessity. such being our heroine's mind about marriage, i make bold to say that she had behaved with skill and judgment, and not altogether heartlessly either. on the following morning, sir lionel and george left jerusalem together. the colonel had his own servant, as he always had; george was followed by the dragoman, who had now been with him for some time; and each had also an arab groom. on quitting jerusalem, sir lionel had made no objection to having the entire bill settled by his son. "well, george," he had said with a smile, "i know you are in ample funds, and i never am. you, moreover, have a milch cow that will not run dry. the government is my cow, and she is apt to be very chary in her supply; she does run dry with uncommon quickness." george smiled also, and paid the bill readily, protesting that of course he ought to do so, as sir lionel had come there only to see him. the colonel plumed himself at once upon having managed well; but he was greatly mistaken. his calculation in this respect had been made on a false basis. "george," he said to himself, "is a young man; he will think nothing of this: a fellow at his age cares nothing for money." george did care but little for the money, but he did care about his father; and he understood the ways of the world well enough to know that his father ought to have paid his own bill. he began for the first time to experience something of that feeling which his uncle so often expressed. they started, too, with somewhat different ideas as to the purport of their route. sir lionel wished to get to constantinople, and was content, for george's sake, to go by damascus and beyrout; but george had to visit ramah, and gibeon, and luz; to see the well of the woman of samaria at sichem; to climb mount carmel, and to sleep at least for a night within its monastery. mount tabor also, and bethsaida, and capernaum, he must visit; he must bathe in the sea of galilee, as he had already bathed in jordan and the dead sea; gadara he must see, and gergesa, and chorazin; and, above all, he must stand with naked feet in nazareth, and feel within his heart that he was resting on holy ground. sir lionel did not care a straw for bethsaida or chorazin--not a straw even for nazareth. for many reasons he wished to be well with his son. in the first place, a man whose bill is paid for him always makes some concession to the man who pays it. he should do so, at any rate; and on this point sir lionel was willing to be just. and then he had ulterior views, which made it very necessary that george should like him. in this respect he had hitherto played his cards well--well, with the exception of that jerusalem bill. he had made his society very pleasant to his son, had done much towards gaining the young man's heart, and was well inclined to do more--anything, indeed, short of putting himself to real personal inconvenience. we may perhaps add, without doing too much violence to sir lionel's established character, that he himself really liked his son. all this for some days carried him hither and thither, if not with patience, at any rate with perseverance. he went to spots which he was told had a world-wide celebrity, of the names of which he had but a bare distant remembrance, and which he found to be arid, comfortless, and uninteresting. gibeon he did endure, and shiloh, and sichem; gilgal, also, and carmel. but there he broke down: he could not, he said, justify it to himself to be absent longer from his official duties. he found that he was near beyrout: he could ride thither in two days, avoiding damascus altogether. the cookery at mount carmel did not add to his love of the holy land. he found himself to be not very well. he laughingly reminded george that there was a difference between twenty-three and sixty; and ended by declining altogether to go backwards towards the sea of galilee. if george could only be induced to think that he had seen enough of these regions, his father would be so delighted to have his company direct from beyrout to constantinople! george, however, was inexorable about nazareth: and so they parted, agreeing that they would meet again at constantinople. we need not closely follow either on his journey. sir lionel, having had everything paid for him up to the moment of their separation, arrived--let us hope with a full purse--at the bosphorus. george, when left to himself, travelled more slowly, and thought much of these holy places--much also of his love. he could have found it in his heart to rush back, and catch miss baker and caroline at jaffa. he would have done so as soon as he quitted nazareth, only that he was ashamed. about a fortnight after his father's departure, he found himself at damascus, and in another week, he was stepping on board the packet at beyrout. when leaving palestine, that land of such wondrous associations, his feelings were not altogether consolatory. he had at one moment acknowledged what he believed to be a spiritual influence within him, and yielding himself to it, had spoken of devoting his life to a high and holy purpose. he had, indeed, spoken only to himself, and the wound to his pride was therefore the less. but his high and holy purpose had been blown to the winds by a few words from a pair of ruby lips, by one glance of scorn from a pair of bright eyes. and he had so yielded, even though those lips would acknowledge no love for him; though those eyes would not look on him kindly. he could not be proud of his visit to the holy land; and yet he felt a longing to linger there. it might be, that if he would return once more to that mount, look once again on sion and the temple, the spirit might yet get the better of the flesh. but, alas! he had to own to himself that he had now hardly a wish that the spirit should predominate. the things of the world were too bright to be given up. the charms of the flesh were too strong for him. with a sigh, he looked back for the last time from mount hermon, stretched out his arms once more towards jerusalem, said one farewell in his heart as his eye rested for a moment on the distant glassy waters of galilee, and then set his horse's head towards damascus. when a traveller in these railroad days takes leave of florence, or vienna, or munich, or lucerne, he does so without much of the bitterness of a farewell. the places are now comparatively so near that he expects to see them again, or, at any rate, hopes that he may do so. but jerusalem is still distant from us no sabbath-day's journey. a man who, having seen it once, takes his leave, then sees it probably for the last time. and a man's heart must be very cold who can think of palestine exactly as of any other land. it is not therefore surprising that bertram was rather sad as he rode down the further side of mount hermon. at constantinople, sir lionel and george again met, and our hero spent a pleasant month there with his father. it was still spring, the summer heats had hardly commenced, and george was charmed, if not with the city of the sultan, at any rate with the scenery around it. here his father appeared in a new light: they were more intimate with each other than they had been at jerusalem; they were not now living in ladies' society, and sir lionel by degrees threw off what little restraint of governorship, what small amount of parental authority he had hitherto assumed. he seemed anxious to live with his son on terms of perfect equality; began to talk to him rather as young men talk to each other than men of ages so very different, and appeared to court a lack of reverence. in his ordinary habits of life, and, indeed, in his physical vivacity, sir lionel was very young for his time of life. he never pleaded his years in bar of any pleasure, and never pleaded them at all except when desirous of an excuse for escaping something that was disagreeable. there are subjects on which young men talk freely with each other, but on which they hesitate to speak to their elders without restraint. sir lionel did his best to banish any such feeling on the part of his son. of wine and women, of cards and horses, of money comforts and money discomforts, he spoke in a manner which bertram at first did not like, but which after awhile was not distasteful to him. there is always some compliment implied when an old man unbends before a young one, and it is this which makes the viciousness of old men so dangerous. i do not say that sir lionel purposely tempted his son to vice; but he plainly showed that he regarded morality in a man to be as thoroughly the peculiar attribute of a clergyman as a black coat; and that there could be no reason for other men even to pretend to it when there were no women by to be respected and deceived. bertram certainly liked his father, and was at ease in his company; but, in spite of this, he was ashamed of him, and was sometimes very sorrowful. he was young, full of vivacity, and without that strength of character which should have withstood the charm of sir lionel's manner; but he knew well that he would fain have had in his father feelings of a very different nature, and he could not but acknowledge that the severity of his uncle's tone was deserved. it had been george's intention to stay a week only at constantinople, but his father had persuaded him to remain four. he had boasted that when he returned to england he would be in a position to give back to his uncle the three hundred pounds which pritchett had placed to his account. but he would not now be able to do this: his father lived expensively; and even here, where sir lionel was now at home, george paid more than his own share of the expense. one of their chief subjects of conversation, that, indeed, which sir lionel seemed to prefer to any other, was the ultimate disposal of his brother's money. he perceived that george's thoughts on this subject were by far too transcendental, that he was childishly indifferent to his own interests, and that if not brought to a keener sense of his own rights, a stronger feeling as to his position as the only nephew of a very wealthy man, he might let slip through his fingers a magnificent fortune which was absolutely within his reach. so thinking, he detained his son near him for awhile, that he might, if possible, imbue him with some spark of worldly wisdom. he knew how useless it would be to lecture a young man like george as to the best way in which he could play tuft-hunter to his uncle. from such lectures george would have started away in disgust; but something, sir lionel thought, might be done by tact, by _finesse_, and a daily half-scornful badinage, skilfully directed towards the proper subject. by degrees, too, he thought that george did listen to him, that he was learning, that he might be taught to set his eyes greedily on those mountains of wealth. and so sir lionel persevered with diligence to the end. "say everything that is civil from me to my brother," said the colonel, the day before george left him. "uncle george does not care much for civil speeches," said the other, laughing. "no, i know he does not; he'd think more of it if i could send home a remittance by you to pay the bill; eh, george? but as i can't do that, i may as well send a few civil words." uncle george's bill had gradually become a source of joke between the father and son. sir lionel, at least, was accustomed to mention it in such a way that the junior george could not help laughing; and though at first this had gone against the grain of his feelings, by degrees he had become used to it. "he expects, i fancy, neither money nor civil words," said george the younger. "he will not, on that account, be the less pleased at getting either the one or the other. don't you believe everything that everybody tells you in his own praise: when a man says that he does not like flattery, and that he puts no value on soft words, do not on that account be deterred from making any civil speeches you may have ready. he will not be a bit stronger than another because he boasts of his strength." "i really think you would find it difficult to flatter your brother." "perhaps so; and therefore i should set about it with the more care. but, were i in your shoes, i should not attempt flattery; i should be very submissive rather. he always loved to play the tyrant." "and i do not love to play the slave." "an only nephew's slavery would probably be of a very mild description." "yes; no harder than sitting on a clerk's stool in a merchant's counting-house for seven or eight hours a day." "that would be an unendurable bore as a continuance; but take my word for it, george, if you could bring yourself to do it for six months, by the end of that time you would have the game in your own hands." "at any rate, i shall not try it, sir." "well, you are your own master: i can only say that the temptation would be too strong for most men. i have not the slightest doubt that if you would give way to him for six months, two years would see you in parliament." sir lionel had already ascertained that to sit in the house of commons was the dearest object of his son's ambition. on the evening of that day, as they were drinking their coffee and smoking together, sir lionel for the first time spoke to his son on another matter. "george," said he, "i don't know whether there was anything in it, but when we were at jerusalem, i thought you were very sweet on caroline waddington." george blushed deeply, and affected to laugh. "she was certainly a very fine girl," continued his father; "i think as handsome a girl as i have seen these ten years. what a shoulder and neck she had! when you used to be dragging her up the mount of olives, i could not but think there was more in it than mere scripture geography--eh, george?" george merely laughed, and looked rather like a simpleton. "if you were not in love with her, i can only say that you ought to have been. i was, i know." "well, sir, i believe she is free as yet; you can try your chance if you have a mind." "ah! i would i could. if i knew medea's secret, i would have myself chopped and boiled that i might come out young on her behalf; but, george, i can tell you something about her." "well, sir!" "i would have told you then, when we were at jerusalem, but we were not so well acquainted then as we are now, and i did not like to interfere." "it could not be interference from you." "well, but the matter is this: if my brother ever loved any human being--and i am not quite sure he ever did--but if he did, it was that girl's father. had waddington lived, he would now have been my age. your uncle took him early by the hand, and would have made his fortune for him, but the poor fellow died. in my opinion, it would assist your views if your uncle knew that you were going to marry caroline waddington." george said nothing, but sat sucking the mouth-piece of his pipe-stick and blowing out great clouds of smoke. sir lionel said nothing further, but easily changed the conversation. early on the following morning, bertram left constantinople, having received a promise that sir lionel would visit him in england as soon as the exigencies of the public service would permit of his doing so. chapter xii. george bertram decides in favour of the bar. george bertram did not return directly to england. since he had been in turkey, he had made arrangement by letter with his friend harcourt to meet him in the tyrol, and to travel home with him through switzerland. it was about the middle of june when he left constantinople, and harcourt was to be at innspruck on the th august. george might therefore well have remained a week or two longer with his father had either of them so wished; but neither of them did wish it. the living at constantinople was dear, and george's funds would not stand much more of it; and sir lionel, free and easy as he was, still felt his son's presence as some impediment--perhaps in the way of his business, perhaps in that of his pleasures. from constantinople bertram went up across the balkan to the danube, and thence through bucharest into transylvania, travelling, as in those days was necessary, somewhat by permission of the russian authorities. he then again struck the danube at pesth; remained some little time there; again a week or so at vienna; from thence he visited saltzburg, and exactly on the appointed day shook hands with his friend in the hall of the old "golden sun" at innspruck. at first, on leaving his father, george was very glad to be once more alone. men delighted him not; nor women either at that moment--seeing that his thoughts were running on caroline waddington, and that her presence was not to be had. but by the time that he found himself in the tyrol, he was delighted once more to have a companion. he had of course picked up englishmen, and been picked up by them at every town he had passed; one always does; some ladies also he had casually encountered--but he had met with no second caroline. while wandering about the mountains of transylvania, he had been quite contented to be alone: at pesth he had not ceased to congratulate himself on his solitude, though sometimes he found the day a little too long for his purpose in doing so; at vienna he was glad enough to find an old oxonian; though, even while enjoying the treat, he would occasionally say to himself that, after all, society was only a bore. but by the time he had done the saltzburg country, he was heartily sick of himself, somewhat sick also of thinking of his love, and fully able to re-echo all that harcourt had to say in praise of some very fine old wine which that fastidious gentleman caused to be produced for them from the cellars of the "golden sun." innspruck is a beautiful little town. perhaps no town in europe can boast a site more exquisitely picturesque. edinburgh would be equal to it, if it had a river instead of a railroad running through its valley and under its castle-hill. but we sojourned too long in the holy land to permit of our dwelling even for half a chapter in the tyrol. george, however, and his friend remained there for a fortnight. they went over the brenner and looked down into italy; made an excursion to those singular golden-tinted mountains, the dolomites, among which live a race of men who speak neither german nor italian, nor other language known among the hundred dialects of europe, but a patois left to them from the ancient latins; they wandered through the valleys of the inn and its tributaries and wondered at the odd way of living which still prevails in their picturesque castellated mansions. for awhile bertram thought that harcourt was the best companion in the world. he was as agreeable and easy tempered as his father; and was at the same time an educated man, which his father certainly was not. harcourt, though he put his happiness in material things perhaps quite as much as did sir lionel, required that his material things should be of a high flavour. he was a reading man, addicted, in a certain cynical, carping sort of way, even to poetry, was a critic almost by profession, loved pictures, professed to love scenery, certainly loved to watch and scrutinize the different classes of his brother-men. he was gifted pre-eminently with a lawyer's mind, but it was not a lawyer's mind of a vulgar quality. he, too, loved riches, and looked on success in the world as a man's chief, nay, perhaps his only aim; but for him it was necessary that success should be polished. sir lionel wanted money that he might swallow it and consume it, as a shark does its prey; but, like sharks in general, he had always been hungry,--had never had his bellyful of money. harcourt's desire for money was of a different class. it would not suit him to be in debt to any one. a good balance at his banker's was a thing dear to his soul. he aimed at perfect respectability, and also at perfect independence. for awhile, therefore, harcourt's teaching was a great improvement on sir lionel's, and was felt to be so. he preached a love of good things; but the good things were to be corollaries only to good work. sir lionel's summum bonum would have been an unexpected pocketful of money, three months of idleness in which to spend it, and pleasant companions for the time, who should be at any rate as well provided in pocket as himself. harcourt would have required something more. the world's respect and esteem were as necessary to him as the world's pleasures. but nevertheless, after a time, harcourt's morality offended bertram, as bertram's transcendentalism offended harcourt. they admired the same view, but they could not look at it through the same coloured glass. "and so on the whole you liked your governor?" said harcourt to him one day as they were walking across a mountain range from one valley to another. "yes, indeed." "one is apt to be prejudiced in one's father's favour, of course," said harcourt. "that is to say, when one hasn't seen him for twenty years or so. a more common, constant knowledge, perhaps, puts the prejudice the other way." "sir lionel is undoubtedly a very pleasant man; no one, i fancy, could help liking his society." "i understand it all as well as though you had written a book about him. you have none of that great art, bertram, which teaches a man to use his speech to conceal his thoughts." "why should i wish to conceal my thoughts from you?" "i know exactly what you mean about your father: he is no martinet in society, even with his son. he assumes to himself no mysterious unintelligible dignity. he has none of the military grimgruffenuff about him. he takes things easily, and allows other people to do the same." "exactly." "but this was not exactly what you wanted. if he had treated you as though a father and son were necessarily of a different order of beings, had he been a little less familiar, a little colder, perhaps a thought more stern and forbidding in his parental way of pushing the bottle to you, you would have liked him better?" "no, not have liked him better; i might perhaps have thought it more natural." "just so; you went to look for a papa with a boy's feelings, and the papa, who had not been looking for you at all, took you for a man as you are when he found you." "i am sure of this at any rate, that he was delighted to see me." "i am sure he was, and proud of you when he did see you. i never supposed but that the gallant colonel had some feelings in his bowels. have you made any arrangements with him about money?" "no--none." "said not a word about so mundane a subject?" "i don't say that; it is only natural that we should have said something. but as to income, he fights his battle, and i fight mine." "he should now have a large income from his profession." "and large expenses. i suppose there is no dearer place in europe than constantinople." "all places are dear to an englishman exactly in comparison as he knows, or does not know, the ways of the place. a turk, i have no doubt, could live there in a very genteel sort of manner on what you would consider a moderate pittance." "i suppose he could." "and sir lionel by this time should be a turk in turkey, a greek in greece, or a persian in bagdad." "perhaps he is. but i was not. i know i shall be very fairly cleared out by the time i get to london; and yet i had expected to have three hundred pounds untouched there." "such expectations always fall to the ground--always. every quarter i allow myself exactly what i shall want, and then i double it for emergencies." "you are a lucky fellow to have the power to do so." "yes, but then i put my quarterly wants at a _very_ low figure; a figure that would be quite unsuitable--quite unintelligible to the nephew of a croesus." "the nephew of a croesus will have to put his quarterly wants at something about fifty pounds, as far as i can see." "my dear fellow, when i observe that water bubbles up from a certain spot every winter and every spring, and occasionally in the warm weather too, i never think that it has run altogether dry because it may for a while cease to bubble up under the blazing sun of august. nature, of whose laws i know so much, tells me that the water will come again." "yes, water will run in its natural course. but when you have been supplied by an artificial pipe, and have cut that off, it is probable that you may run short." "in such case i would say, that having a due regard to prudence, i would not cut off that very convenient artificial pipe." "one may pay too dear, harcourt, even for one's water." "as far as i am able to judge, you have had yours without paying for it at all; and if you lose it, it will only be by your own obstinacy. i would i had such an uncle to deal with." "i would you had; as for me, i tell you fairly, i do not mean to deal with him at all." "i would i had; i should know then that everything was open to me. now i have everything to do for myself. i do not despair, however. as for you, the ball is at your foot." they talked very freely with each other as to their future hopes and future destinies. harcourt seemed to take it as a settled matter that bertram should enter himself at the bar, and bertram did not any longer contradict him. since he had learnt miss waddington's ideas on the subject, he expressed no further desire to go into the church, and had, in fact, nothing serious to say in favour of any of those other professions of which he had sometimes been accustomed to speak. there was nothing but the bar left for him; and therefore when harcourt at last asked him the question plainly, he said that he supposed that such would be his fate. but on one subject bertram did not speak openly to his friend. he said not a word to him about caroline. harcourt was in many respects an excellent friend; but he had hardly that softness of heart, or that softness of expression which tempts one man to make another a confidant in an affair of love. if harcourt had any such affairs himself, he said nothing of them to bertram, and at the present time bertram said nothing on the subject to him. he kept that care deep in his own bosom. he had as yet neither spoken a word nor written a word concerning it to any one; and even when his friend had once casually asked him whether he had met much in the way of beauty in jerusalem, he had felt himself to wince as though the subject were too painful to be spoken of. they reached london about the middle of october, and harcourt declared that he must immediately put himself again into harness. "ten weeks of idleness," said he, "is more than a man can well afford who has to look to himself for everything; and i have now given myself eleven." "and what are you going to do?" "do! work all day and read all night. take notice of all the dullest cases i can come across, and read the most ponderous volumes that have been written on the delightful subject of law. a sucking barrister who means to earn his bread has something to do--as you will soon know." bertram soon learnt--now for the first time, for harcourt himself had said nothing on the subject--that his friend's name was already favourably known, and that he had begun that career to which he so steadily looked forward. his ice was already broken: he had been employed as junior counsel in the great case of pike _v_ perch; and had distinguished himself not a little by his success in turning white into black. "then you had decidedly the worst of it?" said bertram to him, when the matter was talked over between them. "oh, decidedly; but, nevertheless, we pulled through. my opinion all along was that none of the pikes had a leg to stand upon. there were three of them. but i won't bore you with the case. you'll hear more of it some day, for it will be on again before the lords-justices in the spring." "you were pike's counsel?" "one of them--the junior. i had most of the fag and none of the honour. that's of course." "and you think that perch ought to have succeeded?" "well, talking to you, i really think he ought; but i would not admit that to any one else. sir ricketty giggs led for us, and i know he thought so too at first; though he got so carried away by his own eloquence at last that i believe he changed his mind." "well, if i'd thought that, i wouldn't have held the brief for all the pikes that ever swam." "if a man's case be weak, then, he is to have no advocate? that's your idea of justice." "if it be so weak that no one can be got to think it right, of course he should have no advocate." "and how are you to know till you have taken the matter up and sifted it? but what you propose is quixotic in every way. it will not hold water for a moment. you know as well as i do that no barrister would keep a wig on his head who pretended to such a code of morals in his profession. such a doctrine is a doctrine of puritanism--or purism, which is worse. all this moonshine was very well for you when you talked of being a clergyman, or an author, or a painter. one allows outsiders any amount of nonsense in their criticism, as a matter of course. but it won't do now, bertram. if you mean to put your shoulders to the wheel in the only profession which, to my mind, is worthy of an educated man's energies, you must get rid of those cobwebs." "upon my word, harcourt, when you hit on a subject you like, your eloquence is wonderful. sir ricketty giggs himself could hardly say more to defend his sins of forty years' endurance." harcourt had spoken in earnest. such milk-and-water, unpractical scruples were disgusting to his very soul. in thinking of them to himself, he would call them unmanly. what! was such a fellow as bertram, a boy just fresh from college, to animadvert upon and condemn the practice of the whole bar of england? he had, too, a conviction, clearly fixed in his own mind, though he could hardly explain the grounds of it in words, that in the long run the cause of justice would be better served by the present practice of allowing wrong and right to fight on equal terms; by giving to wrong the same privilege that is given to right; by giving to wrong even a wider privilege, seeing that, being in itself necessarily weak, it needs the more protection. he would declare that you were trampling on the fallen if you told him that wrong could be entitled to no privilege, no protection whatever--to no protection, till it was admitted by itself, admitted by all, to be wrong. bertram had now to establish himself in london; and he was also, as he thought, under the necessity of seeing two persons, his uncle and miss waddington. he could not settle himself well to work before he had done both. one preliminary business he did settle for himself, in order that his uncle, when he saw him, might know that his choice for the bar was made up and past recalling. he selected that great and enduring chancery barrister, mr. neversaye die, as the gamaliel at whose feet he would sit; as the fountain from whence he would draw the coming waters of his own eloquence; as the instructor of his legal infancy and guide of his legal youth. harcourt was at the common law bar, and therefore he recommended the other branch of the profession to his friend. "the common law," said he, "may have the most dash about it; but chancery has the substance." george, after thinking over the matter for some days, gave it as his opinion that chancery barristers were rogues of a dye somewhat less black than the others, and that he would select to be a rogue of that colour. the matter was therefore so settled. his first step, then, was to see his uncle. he told himself--and as he thought, truly--that his doing so was a duty, disagreeable in all respects, to be attended with no pecuniary results, but necessary to be performed. in truth, however, the teaching of sir lionel and harcourt had not been altogether without effect: at this present moment, having just paid to mr. neversaye die his first yearly contribution, he was well-nigh penniless; and, after all, if a rich uncle have money to bestow, why should he not bestow it on a nephew? money, at any rate, was not in itself deleterious. so much george was already prepared to allow. he therefore called on his uncle in the city. "ha! george--what; you're back, are you? well, come and dine at hadley to-morrow. i must be at the bank before three. good-bye, my boy." this was all his uncle said to him at their first meeting. then he saw mr. pritchett for a moment. "oh, mr. george, i am glad to see you back, sir; very glad indeed, sir. i hear you have been to very foreign parts. i hope you have always found the money right, mr. george?" mr. george, shaking hands with him, warmly assured him that the money had always been quite right--as long as it lasted. "a little does not go a long way, i'm sure, in those very foreign parts," said mr. pritchett, oracularly. "but, mr. george, why didn't you write, eh, mr. george?" "you don't mean to say that my uncle expected to hear from me?" "he asked very often whether i had any tidings. ah! mr. george, you don't know an old man's ways yet. it would have been better for you to have been led by me. and so you have seen mr. lionel--sir lionel, i should say now. i hope sir lionel is quite well." george told him that he had found his father in excellent health, and was going away, when mr. pritchett asked another question, or rather made another observation. "and so you saw miss waddington, did you, mr. george?" bertram felt that there was that in his countenance which might again betray him; but he managed to turn away his face as he said, "yes, i did meet her, quite by chance, at jerusalem." "at jerusalem!" said mr. pritchett, with such a look of surprise, with such an awe-struck tone, as might have suited some acquaintance of Æneas's, on hearing that gentleman tell how he had travelled beyond the styx. mr. pritchett was rather fat and wheezy, and the effort made him sigh gently for the next two minutes. bertram had put on his hat and was going, when mr. pritchett, recovering himself, asked yet a further question. "and what did you think of miss waddington, sir?" "think of her!" said george. "a very beautiful young lady; isn't she? and clever, too. i knew her father well, mr. george--very well. isn't she a very handsome young lady? ah, well! she hasn't money enough, mr. george; that's the fact; that's the fact. but"--and mr. pritchett whispered as he continued--"the old gentleman might make it more, mr. george." mr. pritchett had a somewhat melancholy way of speaking of everything. it was more in his tone than in his words. and this tone, which was all but sepulchral, was perhaps owing rather to a short neck and an asthmatic tendency than to any real sorrow or natural lowness of spirits. those who saw mr. pritchett often probably remembered this, and counted on it; but with george there was always a graveyard touch about these little interviews. he could not, therefore, but have some melancholy presentiment when he heard miss waddington spoken of in such a tone. on the following day he went down to hadley, and, as was customary there, found that he was to spend the evening _tête-à-tête_ with his uncle. nothing seemed changed since he had left it: his uncle came in just before dinner, and poked the fire exactly as he had done on the last visit george had paid him after a long absence. "come, john, we're three minutes late! why don't we have dinner?" he asked no question--at least, not at first--either about sir lionel or about jerusalem, and seemed resolute to give the traveller none of that _éclat_, to pay to his adventures none of that deferential awe which had been so well expressed by mr. pritchett in two words. but mr. bertram, though he always began so coldly, did usually improve after a few hours. his tone would gradually become less cynical and harsh; his words would come out more freely; and he would appear somewhat less anxious to wound the _amour propre_ of his companion. "are you much wiser for your travels, george?" he said at last, when john had taken away the dinner, and they were left alone with a bottle of port wine between them. this, too, was asked in a very cynical tone, but still there was some improvement in the very fact of his deigning to allude to the journey. "yes, i think i am rather wiser." "well, i'm glad of that. as you have lost a year in your profession, it is well that you should have gained something. has your accession of wisdom been very extensive?" "somewhat short of solomon's, sir; but probably quite as much as i should have picked up had i remained in london." "that is very probable. i suppose you have not the slightest idea how much it cost you. indeed, that would be a very vulgar way of looking at it." "thanks to your unexpected kindness, i have not been driven to any very close economy." "ah! that was pritchett's doing. he seemed afraid that the land would not flow with milk and honey unless your pocket was fairly provided. but of course it's your own affair, george. it is money borrowed; that's all." george did not quite understand what this meant, and remained silent; but at one moment it was almost on his tongue to say that it ought at least to be admitted that the borrower had not been very pressing in his application. "and i suppose you have come back empty?" continued his uncle. george then explained exactly how he stood with regard to money, saying how he had put himself into the hands of mr. neversaye die, how he had taken chambers in the middle temple, and how a volume of blackstone was already lying open in his dingy sitting-room. "very well, very well. i have no objection whatever. you will perhaps make nothing at the bar, and certainly never the half what you would have done with messrs. dry and stickatit. but that's your affair. the bar is thoroughly respectable. by-the-by, is your father satisfied with it as a profession?" this was the first allusion that mr. bertram had made to his brother. "perfectly so," said george. "because of course you were bound to consult him." if this was intended for irony, it was so well masked that george was not able to be sure of it. "i did consult him, sir," said george, turning red in accordance with that inveterate and stupid habit of his. "that was right. and did you consult him about another thing? did you ask him what you were to live on till such time as you could earn your own bread?" in answer to this, george was obliged to own that he did not. "there was no necessity," said he, "for he knows that i have my fellowship." "oh! ah! yes; and that of course relieves him of any further cause for anxiety in the matter. i forgot that." "uncle george, you are always very hard on my father; much too hard." "am i?" "i think you are. as regards his duty to me, if i do not complain, you need not." "oh! that is it, is it? i did think that up to this, his remissness in doing his duty as a father had fallen rather on my shoulders than on yours. but i suppose i have been mistaken; eh?" "at any rate, if you have to complain, your complaint should be made to him, not to me." "but you see i have not time to run across the world to jerusalem; and were i to do so, the chances are ten to one i should not catch him. if you will ask pritchett too, you will find that your father is not the best correspondent in the world. perhaps he has sent back by you some answer to pritchett's half-yearly letters?" "he has sent nothing by me." "i'll warrant he has not. but come, george, own the truth. did he borrow money from you when he saw you? if he did not, he showed a very low opinion of your finances and my liberality." george might have declared, without any absolute falseness, that his father had borrowed no money of him. but he had not patience at the present moment to distinguish between what would be false and what not false in defending his father's character. he could not but feel that his father had behaved very shabbily to him, and that sir lionel's conduct could not be defended in detail. but he also felt that his uncle was quite unjustifiable in wounding him by such attacks. it was not to him that mr. bertram should have complained of sir lionel's remissness in money matters. he resolved that he would not sit by and hear his father so spoken of; and, therefore, utterly disregardful of what might be the terribly ill effects of his uncle's anger, he thus spoke out in a tone not of the meekest:-- "i will neither defend my father, mr. bertram; nor will i sit still and hear him so spoken of. how far you may have just ground of complaint against him, i do not know, nor will i inquire. he is my father, and that should protect his name in my presence." "hoity, toity!" "i will ask you to hear me if you please, sir. i have received very many good offices from you, for which i heartily thank you. i am aware that i owe to you all my education and support up to this time. this debt i fear i can never pay." "and therefore, like some other people, you are inclined to resent it." "no, by heaven! i would resent nothing said by you to myself; but i will not sit by and hear my father ill spoken of. i will not--no; not for all the money which you could give or leave me. it seems to me that what i spend of your money is added up as a debt against my father--" "pray don't imagine, my boy, that that is any burden to him." "it is a burden to me, and i will endure it no longer. while at school, i knew nothing of these things, and not much while i was at college. now i do know something, and feel something. if you please, sir, i will renounce any further assistance from you whatever; and beg, in return, that you will say nothing further to me as to any quarrel there may be between you and sir lionel." "quarrel!" said his uncle, getting up and standing with his back to the fire. "he has not spirit enough to quarrel with me." "well, i have," said george, who was now walking about the room; and from the fire in his eyes, it certainly appeared that he spoke the truth in this respect. "i know the bitterness of your spirit against your brother," continued george; "but your feelings should teach you not to show it before his son." mr. bertram was still standing with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the mantel-piece, with his coat-tails over his arms. he said nothing further at once, but continued to fix his eyes on his nephew, who was now walking backwards and forwards from one end of the room to the other with great vehemence. "i think," at last said george, "that it will be better that i should go back to town. good-night, sir." "you are an ass," said his uncle. "very likely," said george. "but asses will kick sometimes." "and bray too," said his uncle. there was a certain spirit about them both which made it difficult for either altogether to get the better of the other. "that i may bray no more in your hearing, i will wish you good-night." and again he held out his hand to the old man. his uncle took hold of his hand, but he did not go through the process of shaking it, nor did he at once let it go again. he held it there for a time, looking stedfastly into his nephew's face, and then he dropped it. "you had better sit down and drink your wine," he said at last. "i had rather return to town," said george, stoutly. "and i had rather you stayed here," said his uncle, in a tone of voice that for him was good-humoured. "come, you need not be in a pet, like a child. stay where you are now, and if you don't like to come again, why you can stay away." as this was said in the manner of a request, george did again sit down. "it will be foolish to make a fuss about it," said he to himself; "and what he says is true. i need not come again, and i will not." so he sat down and again sipped his wine. "so you saw caroline at jerusalem?" said the old man, after a pause of about twenty minutes. "yes, i met her with miss baker. but who told you?" "who told me? why, miss baker, of course. they were both here for a week after their return." "here in this house?" "why shouldn't they be here in this house? miss baker is usually here three or four times every year." "is she?" said george, quite startled by the information. why on earth had miss baker not told him of this? "and what did you think of caroline?" asked mr. bertram. "think of her?" said george. "perhaps you did not think anything about her at all. if so, i shall be delighted to punish her vanity by telling her so. she had thought a great deal about you; or, at any rate, she talked as though she had." this surprised george a great deal, and almost made him forgive his uncle the inquiry he had received. "oh, yes, i did think of her," said he. "i thought of her a little at least." "oh, a little!" "well, i mean as much as one does generally think of people one meets--perhaps rather more than of others. she is very handsome and clever, and what i saw of her i liked." "she is a favourite of mine--very much so. only that you are too young, and have not as yet a shilling to depend on, she might have done for a wife for you." and so saying, he drew the candles to him, took up his newspaper, and was very soon fast asleep. george said nothing further that night to his uncle about caroline, but he sat longing that the old man might again broach the subject. he was almost angry with himself for not having told his uncle the whole truth; but then he reflected that caroline had not yet acknowledged that she felt anything like affection for him; and he said to himself, over and over again, that he was sure she would not marry him without loving him for all the rich uncles in christendom; and yet it was a singular coincidence that he and his uncle should have thought of the same marriage. the next morning he was again more surprised. on coming down to the breakfast-parlour, he found his uncle there before him, walking up and down the room with his hands behind his back. as soon as george had entered, his uncle stopped his walk, and bade him shut the door. "george," said he, "perhaps you are not very often right, either in what you do or what you say; but last night you were right." "sir!" "yes, last night you were right. whatever may have been your father's conduct, you were right to defend it; and, bad as it has been, i was wrong to speak of it as it deserved before you. i will not do so again." "thank you, sir," said george, his eyes almost full of tears. "that is what i suppose the people in the army call an ample apology. perhaps, however, it may be made a little more ample." "sir, sir," said george, not quite understanding him; "pray do not say anything more." "no, i won't, for i have got nothing more to say; only this: pritchett wants to see you. be with him at three o'clock to-day." at three o'clock bertram was with pritchett, and learned from that gentleman, in the most frozen tone of which he was capable, and with sundry little, good-humoured, asthmatic chuckles, that he had been desired to make arrangements for paying to mr. george regularly an income of two hundred a year, to be paid in the way of annuity till mr. bertram's death, and to be represented by an adequate sum in the funds whenever that much-to-be-lamented event should take place. "to be sure, sir," said pritchett, "two hundred a year is nothing for you, mr. george; but--" but two hundred a year was a great deal to george. that morning he had been very much puzzled to think how he was to keep himself going till he might be able to open the small end of the law's golden eggs. chapter xiii. littlebath. i abhor a mystery. i would fain, were it possible, have my tale run through from its little prologue to the customary marriage in its last chapter, with all the smoothness incidental to ordinary life. i have no ambition to surprise my reader. castles with unknown passages are not compatible with my homely muse. i would as lief have to do with a giant in my book--a real giant, such as goliath--as with a murdering monk with a scowling eye. the age for such delights is, i think, gone. we may say historically of mrs. radcliffe's time that there were mysterious sorrows in those days. they are now as much out of date as are the giants. i would wish that a serene gratification might flow from my pages, unsullied by a single start. now i am aware that there is that in the last chapter which appears to offend against the spirit of calm recital which i profess. people will begin to think that they are to be kept in the dark as to who is who; that it is intended that their interest in the novel shall depend partly on a guess. i would wish to have no guessing, and therefore i at once proceed to tell all about it. miss caroline waddington was the granddaughter of old mr. george bertram; and was, therefore, speaking with absolute technical propriety, the first-cousin once removed of her lover, young mr. george bertram--a degree of relationship which happily admits of love and matrimony. old mr. bertram has once or twice been alluded to as a bachelor; and most of those who were best acquainted with him had no doubt of his being so. to you, my reader, is permitted the great privilege of knowing that he was married very early in life. he, doubtless, had his reasons for keeping this matter a secret at the time, and the very early death of his wife saved him from the necessity of much talking about it afterwards. his wife had died in giving birth to a daughter, but the child had survived. there was then living a sister of mrs. bertram's, who had been married some few years to a mr. baker, and the infant was received into this family, of which our friend miss baker was a child. miss baker was therefore a niece, by marriage, of mr. bertram. in this family, caroline bertram was educated, and she and mary baker were brought up together as sisters. during this time mr. bertram did his duty by his daughter as regards money, as far as his means then went, and was known in that family to be her father; but elsewhere he was not so known. the bakers lived in france, and the fact of his having any such domestic tie was not suspected among his acquaintance in england. in the course of time his daughter married one mr. waddington, hardly with the full consent of the bakers, for mr. waddington's means were small--but not decidedly in opposition to it; nor had the marriage been opposed by mr. bertram. he of course was asked to assist in supplying money for the young couple. this he refused to give; but he offered to mr. waddington occupation by which an income could be earned. mr. waddington wisely acceded to his views, and, had he lived, would doubtless have lived to become a rich man. he died, however, within four years of his marriage, and it so fell out that his wife did not survive him above a year or two. of this marriage, caroline waddington, our heroine, was the sole offspring. mr. waddington's commercial enterprises had not caused him to live in london, though he had been required to be there frequently. mr. bertram had, therefore, seen more of him than of his own daughter. the infant had been born in the house of the bakers, and there she was brought up. as an orphan of four years old, she had come under the care of mary baker, and under her care she remained. miss baker was therefore not in truth her aunt. what was their exact relationship i leave as a calculation to those conversant with the mysteries of genealogy. i believe myself that she was almost as nearly connected with her lover. when mr. waddington and his daughter were both dead, mr. bertram felt himself to be altogether relieved from family ties. he was not yet an old man, being then about fifty-five; but he was a very rich man. it was of course considered that he would provide liberally for his grandchild. but when asked to do so by miss baker, he had replied that she was provided for; that he had enabled the child's father to leave behind him four thousand pounds, which for a girl was a provision sufficiently liberal; that he would not give rise to false hopes that she would be his heiress; but that if his niece, mary baker, would take the charge of her, he would allow an income for the purpose. this he had done with sufficient liberality. all that is mysterious has now, i believe, been unravelled, and we may go back to our story. of mr. pritchett, we should perhaps say a word. he had been habituated in his sundry money dealings to look on miss baker as his patron's niece, and had always called her as such. indeed, the connection had been so far back that he usually styled her miss mary. but he did not know, nor--though he was very suspicious on the matter--did he quite suspect what was the truth as to miss waddington. she was niece to his patron's niece; he knew no more than that, excepting, of course, that she was the daughter of mr. waddington, and that she was mistress in her own right of four thousand pounds. mr. pritchett was very anxious about his patron's wealth. here was mr. bertram turned seventy years of age--mr. pritchett himself was sixty-six--and no one knew who was to be his heir. as far as he, mr. pritchett, was aware, he had no heir. mr. george would naturally be so--so thought mr. pritchett; and the old man's apparent anxiety respecting his nephew, the habit which he had now given himself for years of paying the cost of that nephew's education, and the income which he now allowed him, all led to such a conclusion. but then the uncle liked so well to lead, and mr. george was so unwilling to be led! had waddington lived, he would have been the heir, doubtless. miss waddington might still be so, or even miss baker. mr. bertram, in his way, was certainly very fond of miss baker. it was thus that mr. pritchett speculated from day to day. george, however, was always regarded by him as the favourite in the race. and now at last we may return to our story. having seen his uncle, george's next business was to see his lady-love. his was a disposition which would not allow him to remain quiet while his hopes were so doubtful and his heart so racked. had he been travelling with miss baker ever since, and living in daily intercourse with caroline, it is probable enough that he might by this time have been half tired of her. but his love had had no such safety-valve, and was now, therefore, bubbling and boiling within his heart in a manner very subversive of legal accuracy and injurious to legal studies. it was absolutely necessary, he said to himself, that he should know on what ground he stood; absolutely necessary, also, that he should be able to talk to some one on the subject. so he wrote to miss baker, saying that he intended to do himself the pleasure of renewing his acquaintance with her at littlebath, and he determined to see arthur wilkinson on his way. these were the days in which wilkinson was taking pupils at oxford, the days in which he used to think so much of adela gauntlet. the meeting of the two friends was sufficiently joyous; for such love sorrows as those which oppressed bertram when sitting in the chambers of mr. neversaye die rarely oppress a young man in moments which would otherwise be jovial. and arthur had at this time gotten over one misery, and not yet fallen into another. he had obtained the fellowship which he had hardly expected, and was commencing the life of a don, with all a don's comforts around him. "well, upon my word, i envy you, arthur; i do, indeed," said bertram, looking round his cousin's room at balliol as they sat down to pass an evening quietly together. "this was what i always looked forward to, as you did also; you have obtained it, i have forsworn it." "your envy cannot be very envious," said wilkinson, laughing, "as all my bliss is still within your own reach. you have still your rooms at oriel if you choose to go into them." for bertram had been elected to a fellowship at that college. "all! that's easily said; but somehow it couldn't be. i don't know why it is, arthur; but i have panted to have the privileges of an ordained priest, and yet it is not to be so. i have looked forward to ordination as the highest ambition of a man, but yet i shall never be ordained." "why not, george?" "it is not my destiny." "on such a subject, do not talk such nonsense." "well, at any rate it will not be my lot. i do not mind telling you, arthur, but there is no one else to whom i could own how weak i am. there have been moments since i have been away in which i have sworn to devote myself to this work, so sworn when every object around me was gifted with some solemn tie which should have made my oath sacred; and yet--" "well--and yet? as yet everything is in your own power." "no, arthur, no, it is not so; i am now one of the myrmidons of that most special of special pleaders, mr. neversaye die. i have given myself over to the glories of a horse-hair wig; 'whereas' and 'heretofore' must now be my gospel; it is my doom to propagate falsehood instead of truth. the struggle is severe at first; there is a little revulsion of feeling; but i shall do it very well after a time; as easily, i have no doubt, as harcourt does." "it is harcourt who has led you to this." "perhaps so, partly; but no--i wrong myself in that. it has not been harcourt. i have been talked over; i have weakly allowed myself to be talked out of my own resolve, but it has not been done by harcourt. i must tell you all: it is for that that i came here." and then he told the history of his love; that history which to men of twenty-four and girls of twenty is of such vital importance. a young man when first he loves, and first knows that his love is frequent in the thoughts of the woman he has chosen, feels himself to be separated from all humanity by an amber-tinted cloud--to be enveloped in a mystery of which common mortals know nothing. he shakes his mane as he walks on with rapid step, and regards himself almost as a god. "and did she object to your taking orders?" asked wilkinson. "object! no, i am nothing to her; nothing on earth. she would not have objected to my being a shoemaker; but she said that she would advise me to think of the one trade as soon as the other." "i cannot say that i think she showed either good feeling or good taste," said wilkinson, stiffly. "ah! my dear fellow, you do not know her. there was no bad taste in it, as she said it. i would defy her to say anything in bad taste. but, arthur, that does not matter. i have told her that i should go to the bar; and, as a man of honour, i must keep my word to her." his cousin had not much inclination to lecture him. wilkinson himself was now a clergyman; but he had become so mainly because he had failed in obtaining the power of following any other profession. he would have gone to the bar had he been able; and felt himself by no means called to rebuke bertram for doing what he would fain have done himself. "but she has not accepted you, you say. why should she be so unwilling that you should take orders? her anxiety on your behalf tells a strong tale in your own favour." "ah! you say that because you do not understand her. she was able to give me advice without giving the least shadow of encouragement. indeed, when she did advise me, i had not even told her that i loved her. but the fact is, i cannot bear this state any longer. i will know the worst at any rate. i wish you could see her, arthur; you would not wonder that i should be uneasy." and so he went on with a lover's customary eloquence till a late hour in the night. wilkinson was all patience; but about one o'clock he began to yawn, and then they went to bed. early on the following morning, bertram started for littlebath. the littlebath world lives mostly in lodgings, and miss baker and caroline lived there as the world mostly does. there are three sets of persons who resort to littlebath: there is the heavy fast, and the lighter fast set; there is also the pious set. of the two fast sets neither is scandalously fast. the pace is never very awful. of the heavies, it may be said that the gentlemen generally wear their coats padded, are frequently seen standing idle about the parades and terraces, that they always keep a horse, and trot about the roads a good deal when the hounds go out. the ladies are addicted to whist and false hair, but pursue their pleasures with a discreet economy. of the lighter fast set, assembly balls are the ruling passion; but even in these there is no wild extravagance. the gentlemen of this division keep usually two horses, on the sale of one of which their mind is much bent. they drink plentifully of cherry-brandy on hunting days; but, as a rule, they do not often misbehave themselves. they are very careful not to be caught in marriage, and talk about women much as a crafty knowing salmon might be presumed to talk about anglers. the ladies are given to dancing, of course, and are none of them nearly so old as you might perhaps be led to imagine. they greatly eschew card-playing; but, nevertheless, now and again one of them may be seen to lapse from her sphere and fall into that below, if we may justly say that the votaries of whist are below the worshippers of terpsichore. of the pious set much needs not be said, as their light has never been hid under a bushel. in spite of hunt-clubs and assembly-rooms, they are the predominant power. they live on the fat of the land. they are a strong, unctuous, moral, uncharitable people. the men never cease making money for themselves, nor the women making slippers for their clergymen. but though the residents at littlebath are thus separated as a rule into three classes, the classes do not always keep themselves accurately to their divisions. there will be some who own a double allegiance. one set will tread upon another. there will be those who can hardly be placed in either. miss baker was among this latter number: on principle, she was an admirer of the great divine on the domestic comfort of whose toes so many fair fingers had employed themselves; but, nevertheless, she was not averse to a rubber in its mildest forms. caroline did not play whist, but she occasionally gave way to the allurement prevalent among the younger female world of littlebath. miss baker lived in lodgings, and bertram therefore went to an hotel. had she been mistress of the largest house in littlebath, he would hardly have ventured to propose himself as a guest. the "plough," however, is a good inn, and he deposited himself there. the hunting season at littlebath had commenced, and bertram soon found that had he so wished he could with but little trouble have provided himself with a stud in the coffee-room of his hotel. he had intended to call on miss baker on the evening of his arrival; but he had not actually told her that he would do so: and though he walked down to the terrace in which she lived, his courage failed him when he got there, and he would not go in. "it may be that evening calls are not the thing at littlebath," he said to himself; and so he walked back to his hotel. and on the following day he did not go before two o'clock. the consequence was, that poor miss baker and her niece were kept at home in a state of miserable suspense. to them his visit was quite as important as to himself; and by one of them, the elder namely, it was regarded with an anxiety quite as nervous. when he did call, he was received with all the hospitality due to an old friend. "why had he not come to tea the night before? tea had been kept for him till eleven o'clock. why, at any rate, had he not come to breakfast? he had been much nicer in jerusalem," miss baker said. bertram answered hardly with the spirit which had marked all that he had said in that far-away land. "he had been afraid to disturb them so late; and had been unwilling to intrude so early." miss waddington looked up at him from the collar she was working, and began to ask herself whether she really did like him so much. "of course you will dine with us," said miss baker. george said he would, but assured her that he had not intended to give so much trouble. could this be the same man, thought caroline, who had snubbed mr. m'gabbery, and had stood by laughing when she slipped into the water? all manner of questions were then asked and answered respecting their different journeys. constantinople was described on one side, and the tyrol; and on the other the perils of the ride to jaffa, the discomforts of the austrian boat to alexandria, and the manners of the ladies from india with whom miss baker and her niece had travelled in their passage from egypt to marseilles. then they said something about uncle george--not that miss baker so called him--and bertram said that he had learnt that miss baker had been staying at hadley. "yes," said she; "when i am in town, i have always money matters to arrange with mr. bertram, or rather to have arranged by mr. pritchett; and i usually stay a day or two at hadley. on this occasion i was there a week." george could not but think that up to the period of their meeting at jerusalem, miss baker had been instructed to be silent about hadley, but that she was now permitted to speak out openly. and so they sat and talked for an hour. caroline had given her aunt strict injunctions not to go out of the room, so as to leave them together during bertram's first visit. "of course it would be palpable that you did so for a purpose," said caroline. "and why not?" said miss baker, innocently. "never mind, aunt; but pray do not. i don't wish it." miss baker of course obeyed, as she always did. and so george sat there, talking about anything or nothing, rather lack-a-daisically, till he got up to take his leave. "you have not a horse here, i suppose?" said miss baker. "no; but why do you ask? i can get one in ten minutes, no doubt." "because caroline will be so glad to have some one to ride with her." "nothing will induce aunt mary to mount a steed since the day she was lifted out of her saddle at jaffa," said caroline. "oh, that journey, mr. bertram! but i am a stronger woman than i ever thought i was to have lived through it." it was soon arranged that george should go back to his inn and hire a horse, and that he and caroline should then ride together. in another hour or so they were cantering up the face of ridgebury hill. but the ride produced very little. caroline here required her attention, and george did not find it practicable to remain close enough to his love, or long enough close to her, to say what he had to say with that emphasis which he felt that the subject demanded. there were some little tender allusions to feats of horsemanship done in syria, some mention of the mount of olives, of miss todd's picnic, and the pool of siloam, which might, if properly handled, have led to much; but they did lead to nothing: and when george helped miss waddington to dismount at miss baker's door, that young lady had almost come to the conclusion that he had thought better of his love, and that it would be well that she should think better of hers. in accordance with our professed attempt at plain speaking, it may be as well explained here that miss baker, with the view of sounding her uncle's views and wishes, had observed to him that george had appeared to her to admire caroline very much. had the old man remarked, as he might so probably have done, that they were two fools, and would probably become two beggars, miss baker would have known that the match would be displeasing to him. but he had not done so. "ah!" he said; "did he? it is singular they should have met." now miss baker in her wisdom had taken this as a strong hint that the match would not be displeasing to him. miss baker had clearly been on george's side from the beginning. perhaps, had she shown a little opposition, caroline's ardour might have been heightened. as it was, she had professed to doubt. she had nothing to say against george; much might doubtless be said in his favour, but--. in fact, miss waddington would have been glad to know what were the intentions of mr. george bertram senior. "i really wish he had stayed away," she said to her aunt as they were getting ready for dinner. "nonsense, caroline; why should he have stayed away? why should you expect him to stay away? had he stayed away, you would have been the first to grumble. don't be missish, my dear." "missish! upon my word, aunt mary, you are becoming severe. what i mean is, that i don't think he cares so very much for me; and on the whole, i am not--not _quite_ sure, whether--well, i won't say anything more; only it does seem to me that you are much more in love with him than i am." bertram came to dinner; and so also did one of the littlebath curates, a very energetic young man, but who had not yet achieved above one or two pairs of worked slippers and a kettle-holder. greater things, however, were no doubt in store for him if he would remain true to his mission. aunt mary had intended to ask no one; but caroline had declared that it was out of the question to expect that mr. bertram should drink his wine by himself. the whole evening was dull enough, and the work of disenchantment on caroline's part was nearly accomplished; but bertram, a few minutes before he went away, as the curate was expatiating to miss baker on the excellence of his rector's last sermon, found an occasion to say one word. "miss waddington, if i call to-morrow, early after breakfast, will you see me?" miss waddington looked as though there were nothing in the proposition to ruffle her serenity, and said that she would. george's words had been tame enough, but there had been something in the fire of his eye that at last reminded her of jerusalem. on the next morning, punctually at ten, his knock was heard at the door. caroline had at first persisted that her aunt should not absent herself; but even miss baker would not obey such an injunction as this. "how do you expect that the poor young man is to behave?" she had said. "i do not much care how he behaves," caroline had replied. but, nevertheless, she did care. she was therefore sitting alone when bertram entered the room. he walked up to her and took her hand, and as he did so he seemed to be altogether a different man from that of yesterday. there was purpose enough in his countenance now, and a purpose, apparently, which he had an intention of pursuing with some energy. "miss waddington," he said, still holding her hand; "caroline! or am i to apologize for calling you so? or is the privilege to be my own?" and then, still holding her hand, he stood as though expectant of an answer that should settle the affair at once. "our connection through your uncle entitles you to the privilege," said caroline, smiling, and using a woman's wiles to get out of the difficulty. "i will take no privilege from you on such a basis. what i have to ask of you must be given on my own account, or on my own refused. caroline, since we parted in that room in jerusalem, i have thought seriously of little else than of you. you could not answer me then; you gave me no answer; you did not know your own heart, you said. you must know it now. absence has taught me much, and it must have taught you something." "and what has it taught you?" said she, with her eyes fixed on the ground. "that the world has but one thing desirable for me, and that i should not take a man's part unless i endeavoured to obtain it. i am here to ask for it. and now, what has absence taught you?" "oh, so many things! i cannot repeat my lesson in one word, as you do." "come, caroline, i look at least for sincerity from you. you are too good, too gracious to indulge a girlish vanity at the cost of a man's suspense." missish and girlish! miss waddington felt that it behoved her to look to her character. these were words which had not usually been applied to her. "indeed, mr. bertram, i should think myself unpardonable to keep you in suspense." "then answer me," said he. he had by this time let go her hand, and was standing at a little distance from her, on the hearth-rug. never had lady been wooed in a sterner manner; but caroline almost felt that she liked him the better for it. he had simpered and said his little nothings so like an ordinary gentleman during their ride, that his present brusqueness was quite a relief to her. but still she did not answer him at once. she essayed to stick her needle into her work, and pricked her finger in lieu of it. "come, caroline; am i wrong in supposing that now at least you must know your own feelings? or shall i tell you again how dearly, how truly i love you?" "no!--no!--no!" "answer me, then. in honest, plain, christian sincerity, answer me; as a true woman should answer a true man. do you love me?" for a moment there was no answer. "well, i will not ask again. i will not torment you." "oh, mr. bertram! what am i to say? what would you have me say? do not be so stern with me." "stern!" "well, are you not stern?" and coming up close to him, she looked into his face. "caroline," said he, "will you be my wife?" "i will." it was a motion of the lips rather than a spoken word; but, nevertheless, he heard it. fool that he was not to have heard it before in the beating of her heart; not to have seen it in the tear in her eye; not to have felt it in the warmth of her hand. on that afternoon miss waddington's ride was much more energetic, and on that evening miss baker did not think it necessary to catch a curate to drink wine with george bertram. he was made quite at home, and given to understand that he had better leave the dining-room when the ladies did so. there was much talked over that evening and the next day: the upshot of which was, that no marriage could take place till next summer; that perhaps it might be expedient to postpone it till the summer twelvemonths. to this george put, or would have put, an absolute veto; but miss baker only shook her head, and smilingly said that she thought it must be so. nothing was to be done before christmas; but as miss baker was to be at hadley very early in january, she undertook to inform mr. bertram, and gave strong hopes that he would be prevailed on to favour the marriage. "it can make no difference to my purpose whether he does or no," said george, very independently. chapter xiv. ways and means. on the following day bertram returned to town. now that he was a successful lover, and about to take upon himself at some future time the responsible duties of a married man, he became very energetic in the chambers of mr. die. he could hardly spare a day during the winter for running down to littlebath, and whenever he did do so, he took coke upon lyttleton down with him. nor did he work in vain. he never had worked in vain. facility of acquiring the special knowledge which he sought had ever been one of his gifts. mr. die was already beginning to prophesy great things; and his friend harcourt, who occasionally wanted his society, declared that he overdid his labours. down at littlebath they did not quite approve of all this industry. caroline naturally thought that more of her lover's hours should be devoted to her; and miss baker, who looked on mr. bertram's money as certainly destined either for caroline or george, considered that he was wasting his time with his fusty books. she had not dared to say much to george on this subject, and he had not taken very well the little that she did say. she could not tell him that caroline was mr. bertram's granddaughter, but she did remind him that he himself was mr. bertram's nephew, and hinted that though a profession might be very eligible for a young man of such brilliant prospects, it could hardly be necessary for him absolutely to make a slave of himself. to this george had answered, somewhat curtly, that he had no reason to expect anything further from his uncle; and that as he looked forward to maintain himself and his wife by his successful exertions as a barrister, it was absolutely necessary that he should at present work very hard. "i have lost a whole year," he said to miss baker; "and nothing but very sharp work can atone for that." he never once saw his uncle after his first visit to littlebath till the next year was far advanced. he felt no desire to see him, and certainly no wish to be the bearer of tidings as to his own engagement. miss baker had undertaken to do this, and might do so if she so pleased. as far as he was concerned, he had no idea of asking permission to marry from any one. "why should i ask him," he had once said to miss baker. "i shall marry just the same, whether he permits it or whether he does not." this was grievous to the ladies at littlebath. very little had been said about money between george and miss baker up to this time; nothing had been said between george and caroline; but the two ladies knew that there could be no marriage till there was an adequate income. the income of the gentleman when stripped of his fellowship would be two hundred pounds a year; that of the lady was about the same. now caroline waddington had no intention whatever of marrying on four hundred pounds a year; and it must be more than three years at the very least before all this profound study would result in golden fees. now that the matter was so far settled--settled as bertram considered it--he did tell harcourt of his love. "harcourt," said he, one day. "i have a piece of news which perhaps i ought to tell you. i am engaged to be married." "are you?" said harcourt, rather too coolly to satisfy his friend's expectation. "i am not joking." "who ever accused you of joking since you took to the law and mr. die? i did not give you credit for a joke; not even for so bad a one as that would be. shall i congratulate or condole with you?" "either or neither. perhaps you had better wait till you see the lady." "and when is it to be?" "well; in this coming summer, i suppose. that is my wish, at least." "and your wish of course will be law. i presume then that i may be justified in surmising that the lady has some considerable fortune?" "no, indeed, she has not. something she has got; about as much, perhaps, as myself. we shall have bread to eat." "and occasionally cheese," said harcourt, who could not understand that any rising man could marry early, unless in doing so he acquired money. "and occasionally cheese," repeated bertram. "this is a state of things that would not suit your book, i know." "not exactly," said harcourt. "but men have very different ideas about women. i could do, and have done, and am doing with a small income myself; but a wife is in some respects like a horse. if a gentleman does keep a horse, it should be well groomed." "you could not endure a woman who was not always got up in satin and velvet?" "not satin and velvet exactly. i do not require a curiously-mounted saddle for my horse. but i don't think i should have much enjoyment with a cheap wife. i like cold mutton and candle-ends myself very well, but i do not love feminine economies. family washing-bills kept at the lowest, a maid-of-all-work with an allowance in lieu of beer, and a dark morning gown for household work, would not, if i know myself, add fuel to the ardour of my conjugal affection. i love women dearly; i like them to be near me; but then i like them to be nice. when a woman is nasty, she is very nasty." bertram said in his heart that harcourt was a beast, an animal without a soul, a creature capable of no other joys than those of a material nature; but he kept this opinion at the present moment to himself. not, however, that he was averse to express himself openly before his friend. he often gave harcourt to understand that he suspected him of being deficient in the article of a soul; and harcourt would take the reproach with perfect good-humour, remarking, perhaps, that he might probably find it possible to get on decently without one. "is the lady's name a secret?" he asked. "no; not to you, at least. i believe it is generally considered advisable that these sort of things should not be talked about quite openly till the consummation of them is nigh at hand. i have no wish for any mystery in the matter. her name is caroline waddington." "what! a daughter of sir augustus?" "no; nothing to sir augustus, that i have heard." "she must, then, be one of the general's family?" "not that either. her only relative, that i know, is a miss baker." "miss baker!" said harcourt; and the tone of his voice was not encouraging. "yes, miss baker," said bertram; and the tone of his voice was hardly conciliatory. "oh--ah--yes. i don't exactly think i know her. miss baker!" "it would be odd if you did, for she lives at littlebath, and hardly ever comes to town. when she does, she stays down at hadley with my uncle." "oh--h! that's a horse of another colour. i beg your pardon entirely, my dear fellow. why did you not tell me at first that this is a match of your uncle's making?" "my uncle's making! it is not a match of my uncle's making." "well, well; one that he approves. i hardly gave you credit for so much prudence. that will be as good as having everything settled exactly as you could wish it." "you are giving me a great deal too much credit," said bertram, laughing. "my uncle knows nothing about my marriage, and i have not the slightest idea of consulting him. i should think it mean to do so, considering everything." "mean to consult the only relative you have who can do anything for you?" "yes. he has told me over and over again that i have no claim on him; and, therefore, i will make none." bertram had said to himself frequently that he cared nothing for this man's judgment in such matters; but, nevertheless, after what had passed, he did desire that harcourt should see caroline. he was aware, judging rather from harcourt's tone than from his words, that that keen-sighted friend of his had but a low opinion of miss waddington; that he thought that she was some ordinary, intriguing girl, who had been baiting a hook for a husband, after the manner which scandal states to be so common among the littlebathians; and bertram longed, therefore, to surprise his eyes and astound his intellect with a view of her charms and a near knowledge of her attributes. nothing should be said of her beauty, and the blaze of it should fall upon him altogether unprepared. george was right in his feelings in this respect. harcourt had formed a very false idea of miss waddington;--had led himself to imagine that she was second-rate and unattractive. in the first place, he had his own ideas about littlebath, and conceived that it was not the place in which the highest beauty of england should be looked for; and in the next place, he knew george bertram, and regarded him as a man peculiarly liable to such dangers as these. "you must come down with me to littlebath. when will you give me a day?" harcourt demurred, as he did not wish to be called on imperiously to praise a woman of whom he knew he should disapprove, and endeavoured to excuse himself from the journey. but bertram persisted, and at last it was settled that he would go down. this did not happen till towards the end of winter. miss baker had, as she promised, seen mr. bertram in the meantime, and the answer returned from the hadley oracle had, like most oracle-answers, been neither favourable nor unfavourable. mr. bertram had expressed no great anger at the tale of love that was told him; but neither had he expressed any gratification. "well," he had said, "it is odd that they should have come together; very odd. he is a clever young man, and i dare say may do well." miss baker had then ventured, but in a very modest way, to ask him his opinion as to the sufficiency of the young people's income. "they must judge of that themselves," he had said, rather sharply. "but i suppose they have no idea of marrying as yet. they mean to wait, don't they, till he begins his profession?" to this miss baker had made no answer, and nothing further had been said at that meeting. early in march, miss baker had again seen the great man. she had then ventured to explain to him that george was working very hard. "ah! you have his word for that, i suppose," said the uncle; "but if so, believe me he will get on at such work as that quicker without a wife than he will with one." but at this interview miss baker did ask him plainly, as had been agreed beforehand between her and her niece that she should do, whether he would on their marriage make any increase to his granddaughter's fortune. "she has a liberal, ladylike provision," said he. "but they will not have enough to live on," said miss baker. "they will have a third more, mary, than i had when i married your aunt. and yet i saved money on my income." "but remember how they have been brought up, sir." "if they will be fine ladies and gentlemen, they must take the penalties of being so. fine ladies and gentlemen cannot marry at a moment's notice, as do ploughboys and milkmaids. if they cannot live on a limited income, they must wait." he did, however, on this occasion go so far as to say, that if they would wait for another twelvemonth, and that if he were then living, he would add two thousand pounds to caroline's fortune. as to george, he had done as much as he intended to do--certainly for the present. "george likes his own way," said the old man, "and as far as i am concerned, he shall have it. it will be well for him to make his own career in the world; he will be happier so than in spending my money." on this occasion miss baker was permitted to tell caroline all the circumstances of her parentage and grandparentage. the same story might now be told to george. but they were both to be cautioned that their relative's displeasure would be incurred by any useless repetition of it. "and, mary," said he, "do not let them mislead themselves. do not let them marry with the idea that by so doing they will inherit between them my money. i wish them both to understand that my views are altogether different." miss baker, when she returned to littlebath, could not think that she had been successful in her mission; and caroline immediately declared that any idea of a marriage for that year, or even for the next, must now be altogether out of the question. she was very much startled at hearing that mr. bertram was her mother's father, but did not pretend to any suddenly intense affection for him. "if that be so," said she, coldly, "if george and i are his only near connections, and if he does not disapprove of our marriage, he ought to give us an income on which we can live." it is astonishing how different are the views of grandfathers and grandchildren on such matters! unfortunately there was no unanimity of opinion on this matter, either between the lovers themselves or between them and their aunt. george was of opinion that they should marry immediately on their present income, and trust to providence and his exertions for a future increase. for one year he would have the income of his fellowship; in two years and a half he would be called; and in the meantime, he could make something by the magazines. if caroline was not afraid, he was not. but caroline was very much afraid. it had by no means formed part of the project of her life to live in london as a married woman on four hundred pounds a year. "she knew," she said to miss baker, "what effect that would have on her husband's affections." she seemed, indeed, to share some of harcourt's opinions on the subject, and to have a dislike to feminine economies, or at least to the use of them under the surveillance of a man's eye. as far as she could see, the marriage must be postponed indefinitely--at any rate, till after george should have been called to the bar. miss baker's voice was for a middle course. she suggested that they should wait for mr. bertram's two thousand pounds and then marry. they would then have an income increased to some extent. they would also show a deference to the old man's views, which would undoubtedly--so miss baker thought--have ultimate results of a most beneficial nature. "after all," as she remarked more than once to her niece, "who else is there?" but the young people were quite as obstinate as the old man. george would make no concession whatever to his uncle. he was ready to marry on love and a small income, and he expected caroline to show an equal warmth. caroline would by no means alter her views, or risk the misery of an ill-provided nursery. it had been the one great resolve of her life, that she would not be a poor man's wife. "she was ready to wait," she said. "if she could trust and wait, surely george might do so. a man, with all the world around him, encountered neither the misery nor the risk in waiting that fell to a girl's lot." the disputes incidental to these different opinions did not ever take place between george and caroline. he, from a feeling of chivalry, abstained from discussing money matters with her; and she, from a feeling of prudence, was equally silent with him. poor miss baker was the medium for it all. george of course would press with a lover's ardour for an early day; and caroline would of course say that an immediate marriage was, she found, impracticable. and then each would refer the other to miss baker. things went on in this way till the middle of may. sometimes george was almost angry, and wrote letters that were somewhat savage; sometimes caroline would be haughty, and then she too could write letters which would tell her mind in good plain set terms. but they were not near enough, or sufficiently often with each other, to quarrel. so matters went on till may; and then, on one fine may-day, harcourt and george together took their places in the train for littlebath. "i wonder what you'll think of her?" said george. "of course you'll tell the truth?" "oh, of course," said harcourt, with his mind duly made up to praise her. "you haven't the pluck to find fault with her," said george; "you would be afraid not to call her handsome, even if you thought her as ugly as hecate." "exactly," said harcourt; "and therefore these little experimentary trips are never of any use." chapter xv. mr. harcourt's visit to littlebath. during the whole of the winter and spring, george's attention to his work had been unremitting. mr. die was always prophesying still greater things, and still greater. once a fortnight, on every other saturday, bertram had gone down to littlebath, but he had always returned to london by the first train on monday morning, and was always up to his elbows in law, even on that morning, before eleven. during the whole of this time, he had not once seen his uncle, although miss baker had softly endeavoured to talk him into visiting hadley. "i never go there without being asked," he had said. "it is quite understood between us." he had made but one excursion out of london, except those to littlebath, and that had been to hurst staple. mr. wilkinson had died very suddenly, as has been told, about the end of the winter, and bertram had of course not been able to see him. arthur wilkinson had then been quickly put into the living, and as soon as he had taken up his residence in the parsonage, bertram had gone down. this visit had been made before the last walk to west putford; but even then the young barrister had found the young vicar in rather a plaintive mood. wilkinson, however, had said nothing of his love, and george was too much occupied with talking of his own heart to think much of his cousin's. miss gauntlet--i hope the reader has not altogether forgotten adela gauntlet--had also an aunt living at littlebath, miss penelope gauntlet; and it so happened, that very shortly after that memorable walk and the little scene that took place in the west putford drawing-room, adela visited her aunt. bertram, who had known her well when they were children together, had not yet seen her there; indeed, her arrival had taken place since his last visit; but there she was, staying with miss penelope gauntlet, when he and harcourt went down to littlebath together. caroline and adela had for years been friends. not bosom friends, perhaps; that is, they did not correspond three times a week, each sending to the other on each occasion three sheets of note paper crossed over on every page from top to bottom. caroline had certainly no such bosom friend, and perhaps neither had adela; but they were friends enough to call each other by their christian names, to lend each other music and patterns, and perhaps to write when they had anything special to say. there had been a sort of quasi-connection between miss baker and the elder miss gauntlet--a connection of a very faint local character--in years gone by. miss baker, by reason of her bertram relations, had been at hurst staple, and miss gauntlet had been at west putford at the same time. they had thus become acquainted, and the acquaintance there had led to a littlebath friendship. friendships in littlebath are not of a very fervid description. miss waddington had now been engaged for six months, and hitherto she had made no confidante. she knew no resident at littlebath whom she would willingly trust with her heart's secret: her aunt, and her aunt's cognizance of the matter were quite another thing. no one could be more affectionate than aunt mary, no one more trustworthy, no one more thoroughly devoted to another than she was to her niece. but then she was not only old, but old-fashioned. she was prudent, and caroline also was prudent; but their prudence was a different kind. there was no dash, no ambition about aunt mary's prudence. she was rather humdrum, caroline thought; and, which was worse, though she liked george bertram, she did not seem to understand his character at all in the same light as that in which caroline regarded it. from these circumstances it came to pass that adela had not been a week at littlebath before she was made acquainted with the grand secret. she also had a secret of her own; but she did not tell that in return. secrets such as caroline's are made to be told; but those other secrets, those which burn up the heart instead of watering it as with a dew from heaven, those secrets for the most part are not made to be told. "and yet, adela, i suppose it will never happen." this had been said on the morning of that saturday which was to bring down not only bertram, but harcourt. caroline knew well that the london friend, the man of the world, was being brought to inspect her, and was by no means afraid of undergoing the inspection. she was not timid by nature; and though, as has been already said, she was hardly yet conscious of her powers of attracting, she was never ashamed of herself. "and why not? i think that is nonsense, caroline. if you really thought that, you would not receive him as you will do, nor his friend neither." "i do think it; that is to say, i think it very probable. i cannot explain to you, adela, all the turns of my mind, or of my heart. i would not for worlds of gold marry a man i did not love." "and do not you love mr. bertram?" "yes, i do; at times very, very much; but i fear the time may come when i may love him less. you will not understand me; but the fact is, i should love him better if he were less worthy of my love--if he were more worldly." "no, i do not understand that," said adela, thinking of her love, and the worldly prudence of him who should have been her lover. "that is it--you do not understand me; and yet it is not selfishness on my part. i would marry a man in the hope of making him happy." "certainly," said adela; "no girl should marry unless she have reasonable hope that she can do that." "he would wish me to go to him now, at once; when we have no sufficient income to support us." "four hundred a year!" said adela, reproachfully. "what would four hundred a year do in london? were i to consent, in a year or two he would be sick of me. he would be a wretched man, unless, indeed, his law-courts and his club kept him from being wretched;--his home would not do so." adela silently compared the matter with her own affairs: her ideas were so absolutely different. "if he could have contented himself to live upon potatoes," she had once thought to herself, "i could have contented myself to live on the parings." she said nothing of this however to caroline. their dispositions she knew were different. after all, it may be that miss waddington had a truer knowledge of human nature. "no, i shall not consent; i will not consent to be the cause of his misery and poverty; and then he will be angry with me, and we shall quarrel. he can be very stern, adela; very." "he is impetuous; but however angry he may be, he forgives immediately. he never bears malice," said adela, remembering her early dealings with the boy-friend of her girlhood. "he can be very stern now. i know it will come to our quarrelling; and when he finds that he cannot have his own way, that i cannot yield to him, his proud heart will revolt from me; i know it will." adela could only say that were she in her friend's place she would not think so much about income; but her gentle speech, the eloquence of which had an inward, rather than an outward tendency, had no effect on caroline. if bertram could not persuade her, it certainly was not probable that adela gauntlet should do so. messrs. harcourt and bertram reached littlebath quite safely. harcourt was to dine with the ladies in montpellier crescent--it was in montpellier crescent that miss baker lived--and as some sort of party was necessary for his honour, the curate was again invited, as were also the two miss gauntlets. "you'll go on first, i suppose?" said harcourt, when they had secured their rooms at the "plough," and were preparing to dress. bertram was well known at the "plough" now, and there was not a boots or chambermaid about the house who did not know why he came to littlebath. "oh, no," said bertram, "i'll wait for you." "i didn't know; i thought there might be some lovers' privileges to be exercised, for which the eyes of the world might be inconvenient." "they shall be postponed on your behalf, my dear fellow." and so the two went off together. they found miss baker in her drawing-room, and with her adela and aunt penelope. "and where is caroline?" said george, when the introductions had been duly performed. he had to make a little effort to say this in a voice that should signify that he was at home there, but which should not savour too much of the lover. on the whole, he succeeded pretty well. "why, to tell the truth," said miss baker, laughing, "she is doing duty at this moment as head butler in the dining-room. if you feel any vocation that way, you may go and help her." "well, i am a fairish good hand at drawing a cork," said bertram, as he left the room. "so the lovers' privileges are all arranged for," thought harcourt to himself. when bertram entered the dining-room, the butler's duties seemed to be complete; at any rate, miss waddington was not engaged in their performance. she was leaning on the mantel-piece, and was apparently engaged in contemplating a bouquet of flowers which bertram had contrived to send to the house since his arrival at littlebath. it was no wonder that the boots should know all about it. let us agree to say nothing about the lovers' privileges. caroline waddington was not a girl to be very liberal of such favours, and on the occasion in question she was not more liberal than usual. "is mr. harcourt here?" said she. "yes, of course he is. he is upstairs." "and i am to go up to be looked at. how vain you men are of your playthings! not that you have anything in this respect of which you ought to be vain." "but a great deal of which i ought to be, and am, very proud. i am proud of you, caroline; proud at this moment that my friend should see how beautiful is the girl that loves me." "tush!" said caroline, putting the back of her nosegay up to his mouth. "what delightful nonsense you can talk. but come, your london friend won't much appreciate my excellence if i keep him waiting for his dinner." and so they went upstairs. but caroline, though she laughed at her lover for showing her off, had not failed to make the best of herself. she was sufficiently anxious that bertram should be proud of her, should have cause to be proud of her; and she seemed to be aware that if she could satisfy mr. harcourt's fastidious judgment, she might probably hope to pass as approved of among his other friends. she determined, therefore, to look her best as she walked into the drawing-room; and she did look her best. "mr. harcourt, my niece, miss waddington," said miss baker. harcourt, as he rose and bowed, was lost in wonder. bertram fell immediately into conversation with miss penelope gauntlet, but even while listening to her enthusiasm as to arthur wilkinson's luck in getting the living of hurst staple, and her praise of lord stapledean, he contrived to keep an eye on his friend harcourt. "yes, indeed, quite fortunate; wasn't it?" but as he thus spoke, his very soul within him was rejoicing at his own triumph. he had said nothing about caroline personally; he had refrained his tongue, and now he had his reward. we have said that harcourt was lost in wonder, and such was literally the case. he had taught himself to believe that caroline waddington was some tall, sharp-nosed dowdy; with bright eyes, probably, and even teeth; with a simpering, would-be-witty smile, and full of little quick answers such as might suit well for the assembly-rooms at littlebath. when he heard that she was engaged in seeing that the sherry-bottles were duly decantered, the standard of her value did not at all rise in his estimation. candle-ends and cold mutton would doubtless be her forte, an economical washing-bill her strong point. so was he thinking, much distressed in mind--for, to do him justice, he was as anxious on behalf of bertram as it was in his nature to be anxious for any one--when a juno entered the room. she did not swim in, or fly in, or glide in, but walked in, as women should walk if they properly understood their parts. she walked in as though she were mistress of her own soul, and afraid to meet no pair of eyes which any human being could bend upon her. he had intended in his good-nature to patronise her; but that other question instantly occurred to him--would she patronise him? bertram he had known long and intimately, and held him therefore somewhat cheap in many respects, as we are all accustomed to hold our dearest friends. but now, at once he rose in his estimation a hundred per cent. what might not be expected of a man whom such a woman would acknowledge that she loved? a juno had entered the room; for her beauty, as we have said before, was that rather of the queen of the gods. george immediately acknowledged to himself that he had never before seen her look so grandly beautiful. her charms have been related, and that relation shall not be repeated; but when first seen by harcourt, their power was more thoroughly acknowledged by him, much more thoroughly than they had been by her lover when he had first met her. then, however, she had been sitting at dinner between her aunt and mr. m'gabbery, quite unconscious that any one was arriving whose existence could be of importance to her. there was no time for conversation then. the surprise arising from her entrance had, on harcourt's part, hardly subsided, when the servant announced dinner, and he was called on to give his arm to miss baker. "i hope you approve your friend's choice," said that lady, smiling. "miss waddington is certainly the most lovely girl i ever beheld," replied he, with enthusiasm. the rev. mr. meek handed down miss penelope gauntlet, and bertram followed with the two girls, happy and high-spirited. he first tendered his arm to adela, who positively refused it; then to caroline, who was equally determined. then, putting a hand behind the waist of each of them, he pushed them through the door before him. there are certainly some privileges which an accepted lover may take in a house, and no one but an accepted lover. george took his seat at the bottom of the table, as though he were quite at home; and harcourt, happy sinner! found himself seated between adela and caroline. he was not good enough for such bliss. but had his virtues been ever so shining, how could they have availed him? neither of his neighbours had a portion of a heart left to call her own. but he was able to perceive that caroline was not only beautiful. she talked to him almost exclusively, for she had capriciously seated herself away from her lover, and next to her aunt. "adela," she had whispered, going downstairs, "i shall look to you to talk to george all the evening, for i mean to make a new conquest." bertram was delighted. it was hardly in him to be jealous, even had there been a shadow of cause. as it was, his love was doing exactly that which he wished her to do. she was vindicating his choice to the man whose judgment on the matter was most vitally essential to him. when the ladies left the dining-room, both bertram and harcourt heartily wished that miss baker had not been so scrupulously hospitable. they hardly knew what to do with mr. meek. mr. meek remarked that miss baker was a very nice person, that miss waddington was a charming person, that miss penelope gauntlet was a very nice person indeed, and that miss adela was a very sweet person; and then it seemed that all conversation was at end. "eh! what! none especially; that is to say, the middle temple." such had been harcourt's reply to mr. meek's inquiry as to what london congregation he frequented; and then the three gentlemen seemed to be much occupied with their wine and biscuits. this invitation to mr. meek had certainly been a mistake on miss baker's part. but the misery did not last long. of the first occasion on which mr. meek's glass was seen to be well empty, george took advantage. "if you don't take any more wine, mr. meek, we may as well go upstairs; eh, harcourt?" and he looked suppliantly at his friend. "oh, i never take any more wine, you know. i'm an anchorite on such occasions as these." and so they went into the drawing-room, long before miss baker had her coffee ready for them. "you see a good deal of arthur now, i suppose?" said bertram, addressing adela. "yes; that is, not a very great deal. he has been busy since he took up the parish. but i see mary frequently." "do you think arthur likes it? he seemed to me to be hardly so much gratified as i should have thought he would have been. the living is a good one, and the marquis was certainly good-natured about it." "oh, yes, he was," said adela. "it will be a long time, i know, before i earn five hundred pounds a year. do you know, he never wrote about it as though he thought he'd been lucky in getting it." "didn't he?" "never; and i thought he was melancholy and out of spirits when i saw him the other day. he ought to marry; that's the fact. a young clergyman with a living should always get a wife." "you are like the fox that lost its tail," said adela, trying hard to show that she joined in the conversation without an effort. "ah! but the case is very different. there can be no doubt that arthur ought to lose his tail. his position in the world is one which especially requires him to lose it." "he has his mother and sisters, you know." "oh, mother and sisters! mother and sisters are all very well, or not very well, as the case may be; but the vicar of a parish should be a married man. if you can't get a wife for him down there in hampshire, i shall have him up to london, and look one out for him there. pray take the matter in hand when you go home, miss gauntlet." adela smiled, and did not blush; nor did she say that she quite agreed with him that the vicar of a parish should be a married man. "well, i shan't ask any questions," said bertram, as soon as he and harcourt were in the street, "or allow you to offer any opinion; because, as we have both agreed, you have not pluck enough to give it impartially." bertram as he said this could hardly preserve himself from a slight tone of triumph. "she is simply the most most lovely woman that my eyes ever beheld," said harcourt. "tush! can't you make it a little more out of the common way than that? but, harcourt, without joke, you need not trouble yourself. i did want you to see her; but i don't care twopence as to your liking her. i shall think much more of your wife liking her--if you ever have a wife." "bertram, upon my word, i never was less in a mood to joke." "that is saying very little, for you are always in a mood to joke." bertram understood it all; saw clearly what impression miss waddington had made, and for the moment was supremely happy. "how ever you had the courage to propose yourself and your two hundred pounds a year to such a woman as that!" "ha! ha! ha! why, harcourt, you are not at all like yourself. if you admire her so much, i shall beg you not to come to littlebath any more." "perhaps i had better not. but, bertram, i beg to congratulate you most heartily. there is this against your future happiness--" "what?" "why, you will never be known as mr. george bertram; but always as mrs. george bertram's husband. with such a bride-elect as that, you cannot expect to stand on your own bottom. if you can count on being lord-chancellor, or secretary of state, you may do so; otherwise, you'll always be known as an appendage." "oh, i'll put up with that misery." this visit of inspection had been very successful, and george went to bed in the highest spirits. in the highest spirits also he walked to church with harcourt, and there met the two ladies. there was something especially rapturous in the touch of his fingers as he shook hands with caroline when the service was over; and miss baker declared that he looked almost handsome when he went home with them to lunch. but that afternoon his bliss was destined to receive something of a check. it was imperative that harcourt should be in town early on the monday morning, and therefore it had been settled that they should return by the latest train that sunday evening. they would just be able to dine with miss baker, and do this afterwards. harcourt had, of course, been anxious to be allowed to return alone; but bertram had declined to appear to be too much in love to leave his mistress, and had persisted that he would accompany him. this having been so decided, he had been invited to a little conference at miss baker's, to be holden upstairs in her private little sitting-room before dinner. he had had one or two chats with miss baker in that same room before now, and therefore did not think so much of the invitation; but on this occasion he also found caroline there. he felt at once that he was to be encountered with opposition. miss baker opened the battle. "george," said she, "caroline has made me promise to speak to you before you go up to town. won't you sit down?" "upon my word," said he, seating himself on a sofa next to caroline; "i hardly know what to say to it. you look so formal both of you. if i am to be condemned, my lord, i hope you'll give me a long day." "that's just it," said miss baker; "it must be a long day, i'm afraid, george." "what do you mean?" "why this; we think the marriage must be put off till after you have been called. you are both young, you know." "nonsense!" said george, rather too imperiously for a lover. "nay, but george, it is not nonsense," said caroline, in her sweetest voice, almost imploringly. "don't be impetuous; don't be angry with us. it is for your sake we say so." "for my sake!" "yes, for your sake; for your sake;" and she put his hand inside her arm, and almost pressed it to her bosom. "for your sake, certainly, george; you of whom we are so much bound to think." "then for my own sake i disdain any such solicitude. i know the world, at any rate, as well as either of you--" "ah! i am not sure of that," said caroline. "and i know well, that our joint income should be ample for the next four or five years. you will have to give up your horse--" "i should think nothing of that, george; nothing." "and that is all. how many thousand married couples are there, do you suppose, in london, who are now living on less than what our income will be?" "many thousands, doubtless. but very few, probably not one, so living happily, when the husband has been brought up in such a manner as has been master george bertram." "caroline, my belief is, that you know nothing about it. some of your would-be-grand friends here in littlebath have been frightening you on the score of income." "i have no friend in littlebath to whom i would condescend to speak on such a matter, except aunt mary." caroline's tone as she said this showed some slight offence; but not more than she had a right to show. "and what do you say, aunt mary?" "well, i really agree with caroline; i really do." "ah, she has talked you over." this was true. "and what is the date, miss waddington, that you are now kind enough to name for our wedding-day?" asked george, in a tone half of anger and half of banter. to caroline's ear, the anger seemed to predominate. "the day after you shall have been called to the bar, mr. bertram. that is, if the press of two such great events together will not be too much for you." "of course you know that that is putting it off for nearly three years?" "for more than two, i believe, certainly." "and you can talk quite coolly about such a delay as that?" "not quite coolly, george; but, at any rate, with a fixed purpose." "and am not i then to have a fixed purpose also?" "certainly, dearest, you can. you can say, if you are cruel enough, that it shall be postponed for two years again, after that. or you can say, if you will do so, that under such circumstances you will not marry me at all. we have each got what you lawyers call a veto. now, george, i put my veto upon poverty for you, and discomfort, and an untidy house, and the perils of a complaining, fretful wife. if i can ever assist you to be happy, and prosperous, and elate before the world, i will try my best to do so; but i will not come to you like a clog round your neck, to impede all your efforts in your first struggle at rising. if i can wait, george, surely you can? an unfulfilled engagement can be no impediment to a man, whatever it may be to a girl." it may have been perceived by this time that miss waddington was not a person easy to be talked over. on this occasion, bertram failed altogether in moving her. even though at one moment aunt mary had almost yielded to him, caroline remained steady as a rock. none of his eloquence--and he was very eloquent on the occasion--changed her at all. she became soft in her tone, and affectionate, almost caressing in her manner; but nothing would induce her to go from her point. bertram got on a very high horse, and spoke of the engagement as being thus practically broken off. she did not become angry, or declare that she took him at his word; but with a low voice she said that she was aware that her determination gave him an option in the matter. he would certainly be justified in so resolving; nay, might do so without the slightest stain upon his faith. she herself would not violate the truth by saying that such a decision would give her pleasure; that it would--would-- here for the first time she became rather agitated, and before she could finish, george was at her feet, swearing that he could not, would not live without her; that she knew that he could not, and would not do so. and so the little conference ended. george had certainly gained nothing. caroline had gained this, that she had made known her resolution, and had, nevertheless, not lost her lover. to all the expressions of her determination not to marry till george should be a barrister, aunt mary had added a little clause--that such decision might at any moment be changed by some new act of liberality on the part of uncle bertram. in aunt mary's mind, the rich uncle, the rich grandfather, was still the god that was to come down upon the stage and relieve them from their great difficulty. as george returned to town with his friend, his love was not quite so triumphant as it had been that morning on his road to church. end of vol. i. * * * * * the bertrams. a novel. by anthony trollope author of "barchester towers," "doctor thorne," etc. in three volumes vol. ii. second editon london: chapman & hall, piccadilly. . [the right of translation is reserved.] london: printed by w. clowes and sons, stamford street. contents of vol. ii. i. the new member for the battersea hamlets. ii. retrospective.--first year. iii. retrospective.--second year. iv. richmond. v. juno. vi. sir lionel in trouble. vii. miss todd's card-party. viii. three letters. ix. bidding high. x. does he know it yet? xi. hurst staple. xii. the wounded doe. xiii. the solicitor-general in love. xiv. mrs. leake of rissbury. xv. marriage-bells. the bertrams. chapter i. the new member for the battersea hamlets. i must now ask my readers to pass over two years with me. it is a terrible gap in a story; but in these days the unities are not much considered, and a hiatus which would formerly have been regarded as a fault utterly fatal is now no more than a slight impropriety. but something must be told of the occurrences of these two years. in the first place, no marriage had taken place--that is, among our personages; nor had their ranks been thinned by any death. in our retrospective view we will give the _pas_ to mr. harcourt, for he had taken the greatest stride in winning that world's success, which is the goal of all our ambition. he had gone on and prospered greatly; and nowadays all men at the bar said all manner of good things of him. he was already in parliament as the honourable member for the battersea hamlets, and was not only there, but listened to when it suited him to speak. but when he did speak, he spoke only as a lawyer. he never allowed himself to be enticed away from his own profession by the meretricious allurements of general politics. on points of law reform, he had an energetic opinion; on matters connected with justice, he had ideas which were very much his own--or which at least were stated in language which was so; being a denizen of the common law, he was loud against the delays and cost of chancery, and was supposed to have supplied the legal details of a very telling tale which was written about this time with the object of upsetting the lord-chancellor as then constituted. but though he worked as a member only in legal matters, of course he was always ready to support his party with his vote in all matters. his party! here had been his great difficulty on first entering the house of commons. what should be his party? he had worked hard as a lawyer. in so doing no party had been necessary to him. honest hard work--honest, that is, as regarded the work itself, if not always so as regarded the object. honest hard work, and some cunning in the method of his eloquence, had at first sufficed him. he was not called upon to have, or at any rate to state, any marked political tenets. but no man can rise to great note as a lawyer without a party. opulence without note would by no means have sufficed with mr. harcourt. when, therefore, he found it expedient in the course of his profession to go into parliament, and with this object presented himself to the inhabitants of the battersea hamlets, it was necessary that he should adopt a party. at that time the political watchword of the day was the repeal of the corn laws. now the electors of the battersea hamlets required especially to know whether mr. harcourt was or was not for free trade in corn. to tell the truth, he did not care two straws about corn. he cared only for law--for that and what was to be got by it. it was necessary that he should assume some care for corn--learn a good deal about it, perhaps, so as to be able, if called on, to talk on the subject by the hour at a stretch; but it was not a matter on which he was personally solicitous a fortnight or so before he began his canvass. the conservatives were at that time in, and were declared foes to free trade in corn. they were committed to the maintenance of a duty on imported wheat--if any men were ever politically committed to anything. indeed, it had latterly been their great shibboleth--latterly; that is, since their other greater shibboleths had been cut from under their feet. at that time men had not learnt thoroughly by experience, as now they have, that no reform, no innovation--experience almost justifies us in saying no revolution--stinks so foully in the nostrils of an english tory politician as to be absolutely irreconcilable to him. when taken in the refreshing waters of office any such pill can be swallowed. this is now a fact recognized in politics; and it is a great point gained in favour of that party that their power of deglutition should be so recognized. let the people want what they will, jew senators, cheap corn, vote by ballot, no property qualification, or anything else, the tories will carry it for them if the whigs cannot. a poor whig premier has none but the liberals to back him; but a reforming tory will be backed by all the world--except those few whom his own dishonesty will personally have disgusted. but at that time--some twelve or fifteen years since--all this was not a part of the political a b c; and harcourt had much doubt in his own mind as to the party which ought to be blessed with his adherence. lord chancellorships and lord chief-justiceships, though not enjoyed till middle life, or, indeed, till the evening of a lawyer's days, must, in fact, be won or lost in the heyday of his career. one false step in his political novitiate may cost him everything. a man when known as a recognized whig may fight battle after battle with mercenary electors, sit yawning year after year till twelve o'clock, ready to attack on every point the tactics of his honourable and learned friend on the treasury seats, and yet see junior after junior rise to the bench before him--and all because at starting he decided wrongly as to his party. if harcourt had predilections, they were with the whigs; but he was not weak enough to let any predilection be a burden to his interests. where was the best opening for him? the tories--i still prefer the name, as being without definite meaning; the direct falsehood implied in the title of conservative amounts almost to a libel--the tories were in; but from the fact of being in, were always liable to be turned out. then, too, they were of course provided with attorneys and solicitors-general, lords-advocate and legal hangers-on of every sort. the coming chances might be better with the whigs. under these circumstances, he went to his old friend mr. die, mr. neversaye die, the rich, quiet, hard-working, old chancery barrister, to whose fostering care he had some time since recommended his friend bertram. every one has some quiet, old, family, confidential friend; a man given to silence, but of undoubted knowledge of the world, whose experience is vast, and who, though he has not risen in the world himself, is always the man to help others to do so. every one has such a friend as this, and mr. neversaye die was harcourt's friend. mr. die himself was supposed to be a tory, quite of the old school, a lord eldon tory; but harcourt knew that this would in no way bias his judgment. the mind of a barrister who has been for fifty years practising in court will never be biassed by his predilections. mr. die soon understood the whole matter. his young friend harcourt was going into parliament with the special object of becoming a solicitor-general as soon as possible. he could so become by means only of two moving powers. he must be solicitor-general either to the whigs or to the tories. to which he should be so was a question mainly indifferent to mr. harcourt himself, and also to mr. die in framing his advice. mr. die himself of course regarded corn-law repeal as an invention of the devil. he had lived long enough to have regarded catholic emancipation and parliamentary reform in the same light. could you have opened his mind, you would probably have found there a settled conviction that the world was slowly coming to an end, that end being brought about by such devilish works as these. but you would also have found a conviction that the three per cents. would last his time, and that his fear for the future might with safety be thrown forward, so as to appertain to the fourth or fifth, or, perhaps, even to the tenth or twelfth coming generation. mr. die was not, therefore, personally wretched under his own political creed. "i should be inclined to support the government if i were going into parliament as a young man," said mr. die. "there are nine seniors of mine in the house who now do so." by seniors, mr. harcourt alluded to his seniors at the bar. "yes; but they like young blood nowadays. i think it's the safest." "i shall never carry the battersea hamlets unless i pledge myself on this corn-law question." "well," said mr. die--"well; a seat is certainly a great thing, and not to be had at any moment. i think i should be inclined to yield to the electors." "and commit myself to the repeal of the corn laws?" "commit yourself!" said mr. die, with a gentle smile. "a public man has to commit himself to many things nowadays. but my opinion is, that--that you may hold the popular opinion about free trade, and be not a whit the less useful to sir robert on that account." mr. harcourt was still a young man, and was, therefore, excusable in not seeing to the depth of mr. die's wisdom. he certainly did not see to the depth of it; but he had come to his oracle with faith, and wisely resolved to be guided by wisdom so much superior to his own. "never bind yourself wantonly to an expiring policy," said mr. die. "the man who does so has surely to unbind himself; and, to say the least of it, that always takes time." so mr. harcourt presented himself to the electors of the battersea hamlets as a man very anxious in their behalf in all things, but anxious in their behalf above all things for free trade in corn. "is it credible, that now, in this year of grace --,--" and so on. such were the eloquent words which he addressed to the electors on this subject, and so taken were they by his enthusiasm that they returned him by a large majority. mr. dod, therefore, in his remarkably useful little parliamentary compendium, put down mr. harcourt as a liberal: this he had an opportunity of doing immediately after mr. harcourt's election: in his next edition, however, he added, "but supports the general policy of sir robert peel's government." mr. harcourt had altogether managed this little affair so well that, despite his youth, despite also those nine political seniors of his, men began to talk of him as one who might shortly hope to fill high places. he made himself very useful in the house, and did so in a quiet, business-like, unexciting manner, very pleasant to the leading politician of the treasury bench. and then there came the irish famine, and all the bindings of all the tories were scattered to the winds like feathers. the irishman's potato-pot ceased to be full, and at once the great territorial magnates of england were convinced that they had clung to the horns of a false altar. they were convinced; or at least had to acknowledge such conviction. the prime minister held short little debates with his underlings--with dukes and marquises, with earls and viscounts; held short debates with them, but allowed to no underling--to no duke, and to no viscount--to have any longer an opinion of his own. the altar had been a false altar: it was enough for them that they were so told. with great wisdom the majority of them considered that this _was_ enough; and so the bill for the repeal of the corn laws was brought before the house, and the world knew that it would be carried. and now there was a great opportunity for mr. harcourt. he could support the prime minister and merit all manner of legal generalships without any self-unbinding. alas! such comfort as this can only belong to the young among politicians! up to this period he had meddled only with law questions. now was the time for him to come out with that great liberal speech, which should merit the eternal gratitude of the tory leader. just at the time at which we recommence our tale he did come out with a very great liberal speech, in which, as an independent member, he vehemently eulogized the daring policy of that great man who, as he said, was brave enough, and wise enough, and good enough to save his country at the expense of his party. whether there were not men who could have saved their country without betraying their friends--who would have done so had not sir robert been ready with his apostacy; who in fact did so by forcing sir robert to his apostacy--as to that, mr. harcourt then said nothing. what might not be expected from the hands of a man so eulogized? of a man who was thus able to keep the votes of the tories and carry the measures of the liberals? of a man of whom it might now be predicated that his political power would end only with his political life? we should be going on too fast were we to declare in how few months after this triumph that great political chieftain was driven from the treasury bench. mr. harcourt's name was now mentioned in all clubs and all dining-rooms. he was an acute and successful lawyer, an eloquent debater, and a young man. the world was at his feet, and mr. die was very proud of him. mr. die was proud of him, and proud also of his own advice. he said nothing about it even to harcourt himself, for to mr. die had been given the gift of reticence; but his old eye twinkled as his wisdom was confessed by the youth at his feet. "in politics one should always look forward," he said, as he held up to the light the glass of old port which he was about to sip; "in real life it is better to look back,--if one has anything to look back at." mr. die had something to look back at. he had sixty thousand pounds in the funds. and now we must say a word of mr. harcourt, with reference to the other persons of our story. he was still very intimate with bertram, but he hardly regarded him in the same light as he had done two years before. bertram had not hitherto justified the expectation of his friends. this must be explained more at length in the next two chapters; but the effect on harcourt had been that he no longer looked up with reverence to his friend's undoubted talents. he had a lower opinion of him than formerly. indeed, he himself had risen so quickly that he had left bertram immeasurably below him, and the difference in their pursuits naturally brought them together less frequently than heretofore. but if harcourt was less concerned than he had been with george bertram junior, he was much more concerned than he had been with george bertram senior. he had in former days known nothing of the old merchant; now he was, within certain bounds, almost intimate with him; occasionally dined down at hadley, and frequently consulted him on money matters of deep import. with miss baker, also, and caroline waddington, mr. harcourt was intimate. between him and miss baker there existed a warm friendship, and with caroline, even, he was on such terms that she often spoke to him as to the deep troubles of her love and engagement. for these were deep troubles, as will be seen also in the coming chapters. george bertram had been told by miss baker that caroline was the granddaughter of old mr. bertram, and george in his confidence with his friend had told him the secret. indeed, there had been hardly any alternative, for george had been driven to consult his friend more than once as to this delay in his marriage; and who can ever consult a friend with advantage on any subject without telling him all the circumstances? it was after this that harcourt and miss baker became so intimate. the ladies at littlebath had many troubles, and during those troubles the famous young barrister was very civil to them. in the latter of those two years that are now gone, circumstances had brought them up to london for a couple of months in the spring; and then they saw much of mr. harcourt, but nothing of george bertram, though george was still the affianced husband of miss waddington. chapter ii. retrospective.--first year. george bertram had returned to town that sunday after the conference in miss baker's little room not in the very best of moods. he had talked glibly enough on his way back, because it had been necessary for him to hide his chagrin; but he had done so in a cynical tone, which had given harcourt to understand that something was wrong. for some ten days after that there had been no intercourse between him and littlebath; and then he had written a letter to caroline, full of argument, full also of tenderness, in which he essayed to move her from her high resolve. he had certainly written strongly, if not well. "he was working," he said, "nearly as hard as a man could work, in order to insure success for her. nothing he was aware but the idea that he was already justified in looking on her as his wife would have induced him to labour so strictly; and for this he was grateful to her. she had given him this great and necessary incitement; and he therefore thanked god that he had on his shoulders the burden, as well as in his heart the blessing, of such an engagement. but the strain would be too great for him if the burden were to remain present to him daily, while the blessing was to be postponed for so long a time. he had already felt his spirits numbed and his energy weakened. it seemed to him in all his daily work that his great hope had been robbed from him. his dreams told him that he was to be happy, but his waking moments brought him back to disappointment. he knew that he could not endure it, that he could not remain there at his post, diligent as he fain would be, if his reward were to be postponed for so long. as being under a holy engagement to you," he wrote, perhaps almost too solemnly, "i have given up that sort of life to which my natural disposition might have led me. do not suppose that i say this with regret. i rejoice to have done so, rejoice to be so doing; but it is for you that i do it. should i not look to you for my reward? granting that there may be risk, shall not i share it? supposing that there may be suffering, shall not i endure it? and if a man with his best efforts may protect a woman from suffering, i will protect you." so he had written, and had ended by imploring her to let them be married that autumn. by return of post he got three lines from her, calling him her dearest, dearest george, and requesting that he would allow her a week to answer his letter at length. it could not be answered without deep thought. this gratified him much, and he wrote another note to her, begging her on no account to hurry herself; that he would wait for her reply with the utmost patience; but again imploring her to be merciful. it was, however, apparent in the tone of his note, apparent at least to caroline, that he judged the eloquence of his letter to be unanswerable, and that he was already counting on her surrender. this lessened the effect of it on caroline's heart;--for when first received it had had a strong effect. on that first morning, when she read it in her bedroom before she went down to breakfast, it certainly had a strong effect on her. she made up her mind that she would say nothing about it to her aunt, at any rate on that day. her aunt would have advised her to yield at once, and she would have preferred some counsellor of a sterner sort. so she put the letter in her pocket, went down tranquilly to breakfast, and after breakfast wrote the note which we have mentioned. all that day she thought about it to herself, and all the next day. on the evening of the second day she had all but brought herself to give in. then came george's note, and the fancied tone of triumph hardened her heart once more. on the evening of that day she was firm to her principles. she had acted hitherto, and would continue to act, according to the course she had laid down for herself. on the fourth day she was sitting in the drawing-room alone--for her aunt had gone out of littlebath for the day--when adela gauntlet came to call on her. adela she knew would counsel her to yield, and therefore she would certainly not have gone to adela for advice. but she was sad at heart; and sitting there with the letter among her threads and needles before her, she gradually found it impossible not to talk of it--to talk of it, and at last to hand it over to be read. there could be no doubt at all as to the nature of adela's advice; but caroline had had no conception of the impetuosity of matured conviction on the subject, of the impassioned eloquence with which that advice would be given. she had been far from thinking that adela had any such power of passion. "well," said she, as adela slowly folded the sheet and put it back into its envelope; "well; what answer shall i make to it?" "can you doubt, caroline?" said adela, and miss gauntlet's eyes shone as caroline had never before seen them shine. "indeed, i do doubt; doubt very much. not that i ought to doubt. what i knew to be wise a week ago, i know also to be wise now. but one is so weak, and it is so hard to refuse those whom we love." "hard, indeed!" said adela. "to my thinking, a woman would have a stone instead of a heart who could refuse such a request as that from a man to whom she has confessed her love." "but because you love a man, would you wish to make a beggar of him?" "we are too much afraid of what we call beggary," said adela. "beggary, caroline, with four hundred pounds a year! you had no right to accept a man if you intended to decline to live with him on such an income as that. he should make no request; it should come from him as a demand." "a demand. no; his time for demands has not yet come." "but it has come if you are true to your word. you should have thought of all this, and no doubt did think of it, before you accepted him. you have no right now to make him wretched." "and, therefore, i will not make him poor." "poor, poor! how fearfully afraid we are of poverty! is there nothing worse than poverty, what you call poverty--poverty that cannot have its gowns starched above once a week?" caroline stared at her, but adela went on. "broken hearts are not half so bad as that; nor daily tears and disappointed hopes, nor dry, dull, dead, listless despondency without one drop of water to refresh it! all that is as nothing to a well-grounded apprehension as to one's larder! never marry till you are sure that will be full, let the heart be ever so empty." "adela!" "for others there may be excuse," she continued, thinking then, as always, of that scene at west putford, and defending to herself him whom to herself she so often accused; "but for you there can be none. if you drive him from you now, whatever evil may befall him will lie like a weight of lead upon your heart. if you refuse him now, he is not the man to take it quietly and wait." "i can live without him." "yes; it is your pride to say so; and i believe you could live without him. but i think too well of you to believe that you could live happily without him; nor will he be happy without you. you will both be proud, and stony-hearted, and wretched--stony-hearted at least in appearance; not fortunate enough to become so in reality." "why, adela, one would think that you yourself were the victim of some passion nipped in its bud by a cruel prudence." "and so i am." as she said this she rose from her seat as though she intended, standing there before her companion, to go on with her impassioned warning. but the effect was too much for her; and falling down on her knees, with her face buried in her hands, she rested them on the sofa, and gave way to sobs and tears. caroline was of course much shocked, and did what she could to relieve her; but adela merely begged that she might be left to herself one minute. "one minute," she said, plaintively, in a voice so different from that she had used just now; "one minute and i shall be well again. i have been very foolish, but never say anything about it; never, never, not to any one; promise me, promise me, caroline. dear caroline, you do promise me? no one knows it; no one must know it." caroline did promise; but with a natural curiosity she wanted to know the whole story. adela, however, would tell her nothing, would say no more about herself. in the agony of her strong feeling she had once pointed to herself as a beacon; but even she herself could not endure to do this again. she would say nothing further about that; but in a more plaintive and softer tone she did not cease to implore her friend not to throw away from her the rich heart which was still within her grasp. a scene such as this could not but have an effect on caroline; but it did not ultimately have that which adela had wished. it was miss waddington's doctrine that she should not under any circumstances of life permit herself to be carried away by passion. why then should she allow adela's passion to convince her? what were the facts? of adela's own case she knew nothing. it might be that she had been cruelly treated. her friends, her lover, or even she herself might have been in fault. but it would surely be the extreme of folly for her, caroline waddington, to allow herself to be actuated by the example of one who had not even shown her of what that example consisted. the upshot of it all was, that at the end of the week she wrote to george, declaring that, grieved as she was to grieve him, she felt herself obliged to adhere to her former resolution. she also wrote strongly, and perhaps with more force of logic than her lover had done. "i trust the time will come," she said, "when you will acknowledge that i have been right. but of this i am quite sure, that were i now to yield to you, the time would come very quickly when you would acknowledge me to have been wrong; and that you should then think me to have been wrong would kill me. i am not, i know, fitted, either by disposition or education, to be a poor man's wife. i say this with no pride; though if you choose to take it for pride, i cannot help myself. nor are you fitted to be the husband of a poor wife. your love and enthusiasm now make you look on want as a slight evil; but have you ever tried want? since you left school, have you not had everything that money could buy you? have you ever been called on to deny yourself any reasonable wish? never, i believe. nor have i. what right have we then to suppose that we can do that for each other which we have never yet done for ourselves? "you talk of the misery of waiting. is it not because you have as yet known no misery? have not all men to wait who look for success in life?--to work, and wait, and bide their time? your present work is, i know, too hard. in whatever you do, you have too much enthusiasm. do not kill yourself by work. for my sake, if i may still plead my own sake, do not do so. you say you have given up that sort of life to which your disposition would have led you. i do not believe your disposition to be bad, and i should be grieved to think that you debar yourself from pleasures that are not bad because you are engaged to me." there was that in the eagerness of bertram's protestations on this point which could not but be flattering to any girl; but caroline, when she thought of it, did not wish to be so flattered. she required less passion in her lover and more judgment. she wanted him to be more awake to the fact that the true meaning of their engagement was this, that they two should join themselves together in their world's battle, in order that together each might fight that battle more successfully than either of them could do apart. "i write this with great grief," she continued, "as i know that what i write will grieve you. but i write it under a conviction that i am doing my duty by you. i am ready, however, to acknowledge that such a delay may not be in consonance with your intentions when you proposed to me. that neither of us have deceived the other wilfully i am quite sure; but it may be that we have misunderstood each other. if so, dear george, let all this be as though it had never been. i do not say this on my own behalf. if you so wish it, i am ready to hold myself as yours, and to wait. ready, i have said! that is a cold word, and you may supply any other that your heart wishes. but if this waiting be contrary to your wishes, be what you are not willing to endure, then consider the matter as altogether in your own hands. i certainly have no right to bind you to my will; all that i ask in such case is, that your decision shall not be delayed." such was miss waddington's letter; a portion of it, at least, for not above the half has been given here. its effect upon bertram had not been exhilarating. in his heart he called her cold and heartless, and at first resolved to take her at her word and break off from her. he would willingly have done so as far as she was concerned; but he could not bring himself to do it on his own part. he could not endure to part with her, though he would willingly have punished her by telling her that she had forfeited her claim to him. as it was, he did nothing. for three weeks he neither answered the letter nor went near her, nor gave her any token that he was thinking about her. then came a note from miss baker, asking him to come to littlebath. it was good-humoured, playful, almost witty; too much so for miss baker's unassisted epistle-craft, and he at once saw that caroline had dictated it. her heart at any rate was light. he answered it by one equally good-humoured and playful, and perhaps more witty, addressed of course to miss baker, in which he excused himself at present in consequence of the multiplicity of his town engagements. it was june, and he could not get away without making himself guilty of all manner of perjuries; but in august he would certainly take littlebath on his way to scotland. he had intended that every light word should be a dagger in caroline's bosom; but there was not a pin's prick in the whole of it. sullen grief on his part would have hurt her. and it would have hurt her had he taken her at her word and annulled their engagement; for she had begun to find that she loved him more than she had thought possible. she had talked in her prudence, and written in her prudence, of giving him up; but when the time came in which she might expect a letter from him, saying that so it should be, her heart did tremble at the postman's knock; she did feel that she had something to fear. but his joyous, clever, laughing answer to her aunt was all that she could wish. though she loved him, she could wait; though she loved him, she did not wish him to be sad when he was away from her. she had reason and measure in her love; but it was love, as she began to find--almost to her own astonishment. george had alluded not untruly to his own engagements. on the day after he received caroline's letter he shut up coke upon lyttleton for that term, and shook the dust off his feet on the threshold of mr. die's chambers. why should he work? why sit there filling his brain with cobwebs, pouring over old fusty rules couched in obscure language, and useful only for assisting mankind to cheat each other? he had had an object; but that was gone. he had wished to prove to one heart, to one soul, that, young as he was, poor as he was, she need not fear to trust herself to his guardianship. despite his musty toils, she did fear. therefore, he would have no more of them. no more of them at any rate then, while the sun was shining so brightly. so he went down to richmond with twisleton and madden, and hopgood and fortescue. heaven knows what they did when they got back to town that night--or, rather, perhaps heaven's enemy. and why not? caroline did not care whether or no he amused himself as other men do. for her sake he had kept himself from these things. as she was indifferent, why need he care? he cared no longer. there was no more law that term; no more eulogy from gratified mr. die; but of jovial days at richmond or elsewhere there were plenty; plenty also of jovial bacchanalian nights in london. miss waddington had been very prudent; but there might perhaps have been a prudence yet more desirable. he did go down to littlebath on his way to scotland, and remained there three days. he made up his mind as he journeyed down to say nothing about their late correspondence to caroline till she should first speak of it; and as she had come to an exactly similar resolution on her part, and as both adhered to their intentions, it so fell out that nothing in the matter was said by either of them. caroline was quite satisfied; but not so bertram. he again said to himself that she was cold and passionless; as cold as she is beautiful, he declared as he walked home to the "plough." how very many young gentlemen have made the same soliloquy when their mistresses have not been so liberal as they would have had them! the lovers passed the three days together at littlebath with apparent satisfaction. they rode together, and walked together, and on one evening danced together; nay, they talked together, and miss baker thought that everything was smooth. but bertram, as he went off to scotland, said to himself that she was very, very cold, and began to question with himself whether she did really love him. "do write to me, and tell me what sport you have," caroline had said when he went away. what a subject for a woman to choose for her lover's letters! she never said, "write, write often; and always when you write, swear that you love me." "oh, yes, i'll write," said bertram, laughing. "i'll give you a succinct account of every brace." "and send some of them too," said miss baker. "certainly," said george; and so he did. he was joined with harcourt and one or two others in this trip to scotland, and it was then that he told his friend how much he was disturbed by miss waddington's obstinacy; and how he doubted, not as to her heart being his, but as to her having a heart to belong to any one. in answer to this, harcourt gave him pretty nearly the same counsel as she had done. "wait, my dear fellow, with a little patience; you'll have lots of time before you for married troubles. what's the use of a man having half-a-score of children round him just when he is beginning to enjoy life? it is that that miss waddington thinks about; though, of course, she can't tell you so." and then, also--that is to say, on some occasion a little subsequent to the conversation above alluded to--bertram also told his friend what he knew of miss waddington's birth. "whew-w-w," whistled harcourt; "is that the case? well, now i am surprised." "it is, indeed." "and he has agreed to the marriage?" "he knows of it, and has not disagreed. indeed, he made some peddling little offer about money." "but what has he said to you about it?" "nothing, not a word. i have only seen him once since christmas, and then i did not speak of it; nor did he." harcourt asked fifty other questions on the matter, all eagerly, as though he considered this newly-learned fact to be of the greatest importance: all of which bertram answered, till at last he was tired of talking of his uncle. "i cannot see that it makes any difference," said he, "whose granddaughter she is." "but it does make the greatest difference. i own that i am surprised now that miss waddington should wish to delay the marriage. i thought i understood her feelings and conduct on the matter, and must say that i regarded them as admirable. but i cannot quite understand her now. it certainly seems to me that with such a guarantee as that she needs be afraid of nothing. whichever of you he selected, it would come to the same thing." "harcourt, if she would marry me to-morrow because by doing so she would make sure of my uncle's money, by heaven, i would not take her! if she will not take me for myself, and what i can do for her, she may let me alone." thus majestically spoke bertram, sitting with his friend on the side of a scottish mountain, with a flask of brandy and a case of sandwiches between them. "then," said harcourt, "you are an ass;" and as he spoke he finished the flask. bertram kept his word, and told his lady-love all particulars as to the game he killed; some particulars also he gave her as to scenery, as to his friends, and as to scotch people. he wrote nice, chatty, amusing letters, such as most people love to get from their friends; but he said little or nothing about love. once or twice he ventured to tell her of some pretty girl that he met, of some adventure with a laird's daughter; nay, insinuated laughingly that he had not escaped from it quite heart-whole. caroline answered his letter in the same tone; told him, with excellent comedy, of the leading facts of life in littlebath; recommended him by all means to go back after the laird's daughter; described the joy of her heart at unexpectedly meeting mr. m'gabbery in the pump-room, and her subsequent disappointment at hearing that there was now a mrs. m'gabbery. he had married that miss jones, of whom the parental potts had so strongly disapproved. all this was very nice, very amusing, and very friendly. but bertram, as a lover, knew that he was not satisfied. when he had done with the grouse and the laird's daughter he went to oxford, but he did not then go again to littlebath. he went to oxford, and from thence to arthur wilkinson's parsonage. here he saw much of adela; and consoled himself by talking with her about caroline. to her he did not conceal his great anger. while he was still writing good-humoured, witty letters to his betrothed, he was saying of her to adela gauntlet things harsh--harsher perhaps in that they were true. "i had devoted myself to her," he said. "i was working for her as a galley-slave works, and was contented to do it. i would have borne anything, risked anything, endured anything, if she would have borne it with me. all that i have should have gone to shield her from discomfort. i love her still, miss gauntlet; it is perhaps my misery that i love her. but i can never love her now as i should have done had she come to me then." "how can i work now?" he said again. "i shall be called to the bar of course; there is no difficulty in that; and may perhaps earn what will make us decently respectable. but the spirit, the high spirit is gone. she is better pleased that it should be so. she is intolerant of enthusiasm. is it not a pity, miss gauntlet, that we should be so different?" what could adela say to him? every word that he uttered was to her a truth--a weary, melancholy truth; a repetition of that truth which was devouring her own heart. she sympathized with him fully, cordially, ardently. she said no word absolutely in dispraise of caroline; but she admitted, and at last admitted so often, that, according to her thinking, caroline was wrong. "wrong!" bertram would shout. "can there be a doubt? can any one with a heart doubt?" adela said, "no; no one with a heart could doubt." "she has no heart," said bertram. "she is lovely, clever, fascinating, elegant. she has everything a woman should have except a heart--except a heart." and then, as he turned away his face, adela could see that he brushed his hand across his eyes. what could she do but weep too? and is it not known to all men--certainly it is to all women--how dangerous are such tears? thus during his stay at hurst staple, bertram was frequently at west putford. but he observed that adela was not often at his cousin's vicarage, and that arthur was very seldom at west putford. the families, it was clear, were on as good terms as ever. adela and mary and sophia would be together, and old mr. gauntlet would dine at hurst staple, and arthur would talk about the old rector freely enough. but bertram rarely saw adela unless he went to the rectory, and though he dined there with the wilkinson girls three or four times, arthur only dined there once. "have you and arthur quarrelled?" said he to adela one day, laughing as he spoke. "oh, no," said she; but she could not keep down her rebellious colour as she answered him, and bertram at once took the hint. to her he said nothing further on that matter. "and why don't you marry, arthur?" he asked the next morning. and arthur also blushed, not thinking then of adela gauntlet, but of that pledge which he had given to lord stapledean--a pledge of which he had repented every day since he had given it. and here it may be explained, that as arthur wilkinson had repented of that pledge, and had felt more strongly from day to day that it had put him in a false and unworthy position, so did his mother from day to day feel with less force the compunction which she had at first expressed as to receiving her son's income. this had become less and less, and now, perhaps, it could no longer boast of an existence. the arrangement seemed to her to be so essentially a good one, her children were provided for in so convenient and so comfortable a manner, it was so natural that she should regard herself as the mistress of that house, that perhaps no blame is due to her in that this compunction ceased. no blame is now heaped upon her, and the fact is merely stated. she had already learned to regard herself as the legal owner of that ecclesiastical income; and seeing that her son deducted a stipend of one hundred and fifty pounds for merely doing the duty--a curate would have only had the half of that sum, as she sometimes said to herself--and seeing also that he had his fellowship, she had no scruple in making him pay fairly for whatever extra accommodation he received at home--exactly as she would have done had poor dear old mr. wilkinson not been out of the way. considering all these comfortable circumstances, poor dear old mr. wilkinson was perhaps not regretted quite so much as might otherwise have been the case. mrs. wilkinson was in the habit of saying many things from day to day in praise of that good lord stapledean, who had so generously thought of her and her widowhood. when she did so arthur would look grim and say nothing, and his mother would know that he was displeased. "surely he cannot begrudge us the income," she had once said to her eldest daughter. "oh, no; i am sure he does not," said mary; "but, somehow, he is not so happy about things as he used to be." "then he must be a very ungrateful boy," said the mother. indeed, what more could a young full-fledged vicar want than to have a comfortable house under his mother's apron-string? "and why don't you marry?" bertram had asked his cousin. it was odd that arthur should not marry, seeing that adela gauntlet lived so near him, and that adela was so very, very beautiful. up to that day, bertram had heard nothing of the circumstances under which the living had been given. then did wilkinson tell him the story, and ended by saying--"you now see that my marriage is quite out of the question." then bertram began to think that he understood why adela also remained unmarried, and he began to ask himself whether all the world were as cold-hearted as his caroline. could it be that adela also had refused to venture till her future husband should have a good, comfortable, disposable income of his own? but, if so, she would not have sympathized so warmly with him; and if so, what reason could there be why she and arthur should not meet each other? could it then be that arthur wilkinson was such a coward? he said nothing on the matter to either of them, for neither of them had confided to him their sorrows--if they had sorrows. he had no wish to penetrate their secrets. what he had said, and what he had learnt, he had said and learnt by accident. he himself had not their gift of reticence, so he talked of his love occasionally to arthur, and he talked of it very often to adela. and the upshot of his talking to adela was always this: "why, oh why, was not his caroline more like to her?" caroline was doubtless the more beautiful, doubtless the more clever, doubtless the more fascinating. but what are beauty and talent and fascination without a heart? he was quite sure that adela's heart was warm. he went to littlebath no more that year. it was well perhaps that he did not. well or ill as the case may be. had he done so, he would, in his then state of mind, most assuredly have broken with miss waddington. in lieu, however, of accepting miss baker's invitation for christmas, he went to hadley and spent two or three days there, uncomfortable himself, and making the old man uncomfortable also. up to this time he had been completely idle--at any rate, as far as the law was concerned--since the day of his great break down on the receipt of miss waddington's letter. he still kept his temple chambers, and when the day came round in october, he made another annual payment to mr. die. on that occasion mr. die had spoken rather seriously to him; but up to that time his period of idleness had mainly been the period of the long vacation, and mr. die was willing to suppose that this continued payment was a sign that he intended to settle again to work. "will it be impertinent to ask," his uncle at hadley had said to him--"will it be impertinent to ask what you and caroline intend to do?" at this time mr. bertram was aware that his nephew knew in what relationship they all stood to each other. "no impertinence at all, sir. but, unfortunately, we have no intentions in common. we are engaged to be married, and i want to keep my engagement." "and she wants to break hers. well, i cannot but say that she is the wiser of the two." "i don't know that her wisdom goes quite so far as that. she is content to abide the evil day; only she would postpone it." "that is to say, she has some prudence. are you aware that i have proposed to make a considerable addition to her fortune--to hers, mind--on condition that she would postpone her marriage till next summer?" "i did hear something about some sum of money--that you had spoken to miss baker about it, i believe; but i quite forget the particulars." "you are very indifferent as to money matters, mr. barrister." "i am indifferent as to the money matters of other people, sir. i had no intention of marrying miss waddington for her money before i knew that she was your granddaughter; nor have i now that i do know it." "for her money! if you marry her for more money than her own fortune, and perhaps a couple of thousands added to it, you are likely to be mistaken." "i shall never make any mistake of that kind. as far as i am concerned, you are quite welcome, for me, to keep your two thousand pounds." "that's kind of you." "i would marry her to-morrow without it. i am not at all sure that i will marry her next year with it. if you exercise any authority over her as her grandfather, i wish you would tell her so, as coming from me." "upon my word you carry it high as a lover." "not too high, i hope, as a man." "well, george, remember this once for all"--and now the old man spoke in a much more serious voice--"i will not interfere at all as her grandfather. nor will i have it known that i am such. do you understand that?" "i understand, sir, that it is not your wish that it should be generally talked of." "and i trust that wish has been, and will be complied with by you." this last speech was not put in the form of a question; but george understood that it was intended to elicit from him a promise for the future and an assurance as to the past. "i have mentioned the circumstance to one intimate friend with whom i was all but obliged to discuss the matter--" "obliged to discuss my private concerns, sir!" "with one friend, sir; with two, indeed; i think--indeed, i fear i have mentioned it to three." "oh! to three! obliged to discuss your own most private concerns as well as mine with three intimate friends! you are lucky, sir, to have so many intimate friends. as my concerns have been made known to them as well as your own, may i ask who they are?" george then gave up the three names. they were those of mr. harcourt, the rev. arthur wilkinson, and miss adela gauntlet. his uncle was very angry. had he utterly denied the fact of his ever having mentioned the matter to any one, and had it been afterwards discovered that such denial was false, mr. bertram would not have been by much so angry. the offence and the lie together, but joined with the fear and deference to which the lie would have testified, would be nothing so black as the offence without the lie, and without the fear, and without the deference. his uncle was very angry, but on that day he said nothing further on the matter; neither on the next day did he; but on the third day, just as george was about to leave hadley, he said, in his usual bantering tone, "don't have any more intimate friends, george, as far as my private matters are concerned." "no, sir, i will not," said george. it was in consequence of what mr. bertram had then learnt that he became acquainted with mr. harcourt. as mr. harcourt had heard this about his grandchild, he thought it better to see that learned gentleman. he did see him; and, as has been before stated, they became intimate with each other. and so ended the first of these two years. chapter iii. retrospective.--second year. the next year passed almost more uncomfortably for george bertram and for the ladies at littlebath than had the latter months of the last year. its occurrences can, i hope, be stated less in detail, so that we may get on without too great delay to the incidents of the period which is to be awhile for us the present existing time. this year was harcourt's great year. in january and february and march he did great things in chancery. in april he came into parliament. in may and june and july, he sat on committees. in august he stuck to his work till london was no longer endurable. in the latter part of autumn there was an extraordinary session, during which he worked like a horse. he studied the corn-law question as well as sundry legal reforms all the christmas week, and in the following spring he came out with his great speech on behalf of sir robert peel. but, nevertheless, he found time to devote to the cares and troubles of miss baker and miss waddington. in the spring bertram paid one or two visits to littlebath; but it may be doubted whether he made himself altogether agreeable there. he stated broadly that he was doing little or nothing at his profession: he was, he said, engaged on other matters; the great excitement to work, under which he had commenced, had been withdrawn from him; and under these circumstances he was not inclined to devote himself exclusively to studies which certainly were not to his taste. he did not condescend again to ask caroline to revoke her sentence; he pressed now for no marriage; but he made it quite apparent that all the changes in himself for the worse--and there had been changes for the worse--were owing to her obstinacy. he was now living a life of dissipation. i do not intend that it should be understood that he utterly gave himself up to pleasures disgraceful in themselves, that he altogether abandoned the reins, and allowed himself to live such a life as is passed by some young men in london. his tastes and appetites were too high for this. he did not sink into a slough of despond. he did not become filthy and vicious, callous and bestial; but he departed very widely astray from those rules which governed him during his first six months in london. all this was well known at littlebath; nor did bertram at all endeavour to conceal the truth. indeed, it may be said of him, that he never concealed anything. in this especial case he took a pride in letting caroline know the full extent of the evil she had done. it was a question with them whether he had not now given up the bar as a profession altogether. he did not say that he had done so, and it was certainly his intention to keep his terms, and to be called; but he had now no longer a legal gamaliel. some time in the april of this year, mr. die had written to him a very kind little note, begging him to call one special morning at the chambers in stone buildings, if not very inconvenient to him. bertram did call, and mr. die, with many professions of regard and regret, honestly returned to him his money paid for that year's tutelage. "it had been," he said, "a pleasure and a pride to him to have mr. bertram in his chambers; and would still be so to have him there again. but he could not take a gentleman's money under a false pretence; as it seemed to be no longer mr. bertram's intention to attend there, he must beg to refund it." and he did refund it accordingly. this also was made known to the ladies at littlebath. he was engaged, he had said, on other matters. this also was true. during the first six months of his anger, he had been content to be idle; but idleness did not suit him, so he sat himself down and wrote a book. he published this book without his name, but he told them at littlebath of his authorship; and some one also told of it at oxford. the book--or bookling, for it consisted but of one small demy-octavo volume--was not such as delighted his friends either at littlebath or at oxford, or even at those two hampshire parsonages. at littlebath it made miss baker's hair stand on end, and at oxford it gave rise to a suggestion in some orthodox quarters that mr. bertram should be requested to resign his fellowship. it has been told how, sitting on the mount of olives, he had been ready to devote himself to the service of the church to which he belonged. could his mind have been known at that time, how proud might one have been of him! his mind was not then known; but now, after a lapse of two years, he made it as it were public, and oriel was by no means proud of him. the name of his little book was a very awful name. it was called the "romance of scripture." he began in his first chapter with an earnest remonstrance against that condemnation which he knew the injustice of the world would pronounce against him. there was nothing in his book, he said, to warrant any man in accusing him of unbelief. let those who were so inclined to accuse him read and judge. he had called things by their true names, and that doubtless by some would be imputed to him as a sin. but it would be found that he had gone no further in impugning the truth of scripture than many other writers before him, some of whom had since been rewarded for their writings by high promotion in the church. the bishops' bench was the reward for orthodoxy; but there had been a taste for liberal deans. he had gone no further, he said, than many deans. it was acknowledged, he went on to say, that all scripture statements could not now be taken as true to the letter; particularly not as true to the letter as now adopted by englishmen. it seemed to him that the generality of his countrymen were of opinion that the inspired writers had themselves written in english. it was forgotten that they were orientals, who wrote in the language natural to them, with the customary grandiloquence of orientalism, with the poetic exaggeration which, in the east, was the breath of life. it was forgotten also that they wrote in ignorance of those natural truths which men had now acquired by experience and induction, and not by revelation. their truth was the truth of heaven, not the truth of earth. no man thought that the sun in those days did rise and set, moving round the earth, because a prolongation of the day had been described by the sun standing still upon gibeon. and then he took the book of job, and measured that by the light of his own candle--and so on. the book was undoubtedly clever, and men read it. women also read it, and began to talk, some of them at least, of the blindness of their mothers who had not had wit to see that these old chronicles were very much as other old chronicles. "the romance of scripture" was to be seen frequently in booksellers' advertisements, and mr. mudie told how he always had two thousand copies of it on his shelves. so our friend did something in the world; but what he did do was unfortunately not applauded by his friends. harcourt very plainly told him that a man who scribbled never did any good at the bar. the two trades, he said, were not compatible. "no," said george, "i believe not. an author must be nothing if he do not love truth; a barrister must be nothing if he do." harcourt was no whit annoyed by the repartee, but having given his warning, went his way to his work. it was very well known that the "romance of scripture" was bertram's work, and there was a comfortable row about it at oxford. the row was all private, of course--as was necessary, the book having been published without the author's name. but much was said, and many letters were written. bertram, in writing to the friend at oriel who took up the cudgels in his defence, made three statements. first, that no one at oxford had a right to suppose that he was the author. second, that he was the author, and that no one at oxford had a right to find fault with what he had written. thirdly, that it was quite a matter of indifference to him who did find fault. to this, however, he added, that he was ready to resign his fellowship to-morrow if the common-room at oriel wished to get rid of him. so the matter rested--for awhile. those who at this time knew bertram best were confident enough that his belief was shaken, in spite of the remonstrance so loudly put forth in his first pages. he had intended to be honest in his remonstrance; but it is not every man who exactly knows what he does believe. every man! is there, one may almost ask, any man who has such knowledge? we all believe in the resurrection of the body; we say so at least, but what do we believe by it? men may be firm believers and yet doubt some bible statements--doubt the letter of such statements. but men who are firm believers will not be those to put forth their doubts with all their eloquence. such men, if they devote their time to scripture history, will not be arrested by the sun's standing on gibeon. if they speak out at all, they will speak out rather as to all they do believe than as to the little that they doubt. it was soon known to bertram's world that those who regarded him as a freethinker did him no great injustice. this and other things made them very unhappy at littlebath. the very fact of george having written such a book nearly scared miss baker out of her wits. she, according to her own lights, would have placed freethinkers in the same category with murderers, regicides, and horrid mysterious sinners who commit crimes too dreadful for women to think of. she would not believe that bertram was one of these; but it was fearful to think that any one should so call him. caroline, perhaps, would not so much have minded this flaw in her future husband's faith if it had not been proof of his unsteadiness, of his unfitness for the world's battle. she remembered what he had said to her two years since on the mount of olives; and then thought of what he was saying now. everything with him was impulse and enthusiasm. all judgment was wanting. how should such as he get on in the world? and had she indissolubly linked her lot to that of one who was so incapable of success? no; indissolubly she had not so linked it; not as yet. one night she opened her mind to her aunt, and spoke very seriously of her position. "i hardly know what i ought to do," she said. "i know how much i owe him; i know how much he has a right to expect from me. and i would pay him all i owe; i would do my duty by him even at the sacrifice of myself if i could plainly see what my duty is." "but, caroline, do you wish to give him up?" "no, not if i could keep him; keep him as he was. my high hopes are done with; my ambition is over; i no longer look for much. but i would fain know that he still loves me before i marry him. i would wish to be sure that he means to live with me. in his present mood, how can i know aught of him? how be sure of anything?" her aunt, after remaining for some half-hour in consideration, at last and with reluctance gave her advice. "it all but breaks my heart to say so; but, caroline, i think i would abandon it: i think i would ask him to release me from my promise." it may well be imagined that miss waddington was not herself when she declared that her high hopes were done with, that her ambition was over. she was not herself. anxiety, sorrow, and doubt--doubt as to the man whom she had pledged herself to love, whom she did love--had made her ill, and she was not herself. she had become thin and pale, and was looking old and wan. she sat silent for awhile, leaning with her head on her hand, and made no answer to her aunt's suggestion. "i really would, caroline; indeed, i would. i know you are not happy as you are." "happy!" "you are looking wretchedly ill, too. i know all this is wearing you. take my advice, caroline, and write to him." "there are two reasons against it, aunt; two strong reasons." "what reasons, love?" "in the first place, i love him." aunt mary sighed. she had no other answer but a sigh to give to this. "and in the next place, i have no right to ask anything of him." "why not, caroline?" "he made his request to me, and i refused it. had i consented to marry him last year, all this would have been different. i intended to do right, and even now i do not think that i was wrong. but i cannot impute fault to him. he does all this in order that i may impute it, and that then he may have his revenge." nothing more was said on the matter at that time, and things went on for awhile again in the same unsatisfactory state. early in the summer, miss waddington and her aunt went up for a few weeks to london. it had been miss baker's habit to spend some days at hadley about this time of the year. she suggested to caroline, that instead of her doing so, they should both go for a week or so to london. she thought that the change would be good for her niece, and she thought also, though of this she said nothing, that caroline would see something of her lover. if he were not to be given up, it would be well--so miss baker thought--that this marriage should be delayed no longer. bertram was determined to prove that marriage was necessary to tame him; he had proved it--at any rate to miss baker's satisfaction. there would now be money enough to live on, as uncle bertram's two thousand pounds had been promised for this summer. on this little scheme miss baker went to work. caroline made no opposition to the london plan. she said nothing about george in connection with it; but her heart was somewhat softened, and she wished to see him. miss baker therefore wrote up for rooms. she would naturally, one would say, have written to george, but there were now little jealousies and commencements of hot blood even between them. george, though still caroline's engaged lover, was known to have some bitter feelings, and was believed perhaps by miss baker to be more bitter than he really was. so the lodgings were taken without any reference to him. when they reached town they found that he was abroad. then miss waddington was really angry. they had no right, it is true, to be annoyed in that he was not there to meet them. they had not given him the opportunity. but it did appear to them that, circumstanced as they were, considering the acknowledged engagement between them, he was wrong to leave the country without letting them have a word to say whither he was going or for how long. it was nearly a fortnight since he had written to caroline, and, for anything they knew, it might be months before she again heard from him. it was then that they sent for harcourt, and at this period that they became so intimate with him. bertram had told him of this foreign trip, but only a day or two before he had taken his departure. it was just at this time that there had been the noise about the "romance of scripture." bertram had defended himself in one or two newspapers, had written his defiant letter to his friend at oxford, and then started to meet his father at paris. he was going no further, and might be back in a week. this however must be uncertain, as his return would depend on that of sir lionel. sir lionel intended to come to london with him. mr. harcourt was very attentive to them--in spite of his being at that time so useful a public man. he was very attentive to both, being almost as civil to the elder lady as he was to the younger, which, for an englishman, showed very good breeding. by degrees they both began to regard him with confidence--with sufficient confidence to talk to him of bertram; with sufficient confidence even to tell him of all their fears. by degrees caroline would talk to him alone, and when once she permitted herself to do so, she concealed nothing. harcourt said not a word against his friend. that friend himself might perhaps have thought that his friend, speaking of him behind his back, might have spoken more warmly in his praise. but it was hard at present to say much that should be true in bertram's praise. he was not living in a wise or prudent manner; not preparing himself in any way to live as a man should live by the sweat of his brow. harcourt could not say much in his favour. that bertram was clever, honest, true, and high-spirited, that miss waddington knew; that miss baker knew: what they wanted to learn was, that he was making prudent use of these high qualities. harcourt could not say that he was doing so. "that he will fall on his legs at last," said harcourt once when he was alone with caroline, "i do not doubt; with his talent, and his high, honest love of virtue, it is all but impossible that he should throw himself away. but the present moment is of such vital importance! it is so hard to make up for the loss even of twelve months!" "i am sure it is," said caroline; "but i would not care for that so much if i thought--" "thought what, miss waddington?" "that his disposition was not altered. he was so frank, so candid, so--so--so affectionate." "it is the manner of men to change in that respect. they become, perhaps, not less affectionate, but less demonstrative." to this miss waddington answered nothing. it might probably be so. it was singular enough that she, with her ideas, should be complaining to a perfect stranger of an uncaressing, unloving manner in her lover; she who had professed to herself that she lived so little for love! had george been even kneeling at her knee, her heart would have been stern enough. it was only by feeling a woman's wrong that she found herself endowed with a woman's privilege. "i do not think that bertram's heart is changed," continued harcourt; "he is doubtless very angry that his requests to you last summer were not complied with." "but how could we have married then, mr. harcourt? think what our income would have been; and he as yet without any profession!" "i am not blaming you. i am not taking his part against you. i only say that he is very angry." "but does he bear malice, mr. harcourt?" "no, he does not bear malice; men may be angry without bearing malice. he thinks that you have shown a want of confidence in him, and are still showing it." "and has he not justified that want of confidence?" to this harcourt answered nothing, but he smiled slightly. "well, has he not? what could i have done? what ought i to have done? tell me, mr. harcourt. it distresses me beyond measure that you should think i have been to blame." "i do not think so; far from it, miss waddington. bertram is my dear friend, and i know his fine qualities; but i cannot but own that he justified you in that temporary want of confidence which you now express." mr. harcourt, though a member of parliament and a learned pundit, was nevertheless a very young man. he was an unmarried man also, and a man not yet engaged to be married. it may be surmised that george bertram would not have been pleased had he known the sort of conversations that were held between his dear friend and his betrothed bride. and yet caroline at this period loved him better than ever she had done. a week or ten days after this three letters arrived from bertram, one for caroline, one for miss baker, and one for harcourt. caroline and her aunt had lingered in london, both doubtless in the hope that bertram would return. there can be little doubt now that had he returned, and had he been anxious for the marriage, miss waddington would have consented. she was becoming ill at ease, dissatisfied, what the world calls heart-broken. now that she was tried, she found herself not to be so strong in her own resolves. she was not sick from love alone; her position was altogether wretched--though she was engaged, and persisted in adhering to her engagement, she felt and often expressed to her aunt a presentiment that she and bertram would never be married. they waited for awhile in the hope that he might return; but instead of himself, there came three letters. harcourt, it seemed, had written to him, and hence arose these epistles. that to miss baker was very civil and friendly. had that come alone it would have created no complaint. he explained to her that had he expected her visit to london, he would have endeavoured to meet her; that he could not now return, as he had promised to remain awhile with his father. sir lionel had been unwell, and the waters of vichy had been recommended. he was going to vichy with sir lionel, and would not be in london till august. his plans after that were altogether unsettled, but he would not be long in london before he came to littlebath. such was his letter to miss baker. to harcourt he wrote very shortly. he was obliged to him for the interest he took in the welfare of miss waddington, and for his attention to miss baker. that was nearly all he said. there was not an angry word in the letter; but, nevertheless, his friend was able to deduce from it, short as it was, that bertram was angry. but on the head of his betrothed he poured out the vial of his wrath. he had never before scolded her, had never written in an angry tone. now in very truth he did so. an angry letter, especially if the writer be well loved, is so much fiercer than any angry speech, so much more unendurable! there the words remain, scorching, not to be explained away, not to be atoned for by a kiss, not to be softened down by the word of love that may follow so quickly upon spoken anger. heaven defend me from angry letters! they should never be written, unless to schoolboys and men at college; and not often to them if they be any way tender hearted. this at least should be a rule through the letter-writing world: that no angry letter be posted till four-and-twenty hours shall have elapsed since it was written. we all know how absurd is that other rule, that of saying the alphabet when you are angry. trash! sit down and write your letter; write it with all the venom in your power; spit out your spleen at the fullest; 'twill do you good; you think you have been injured; say all that you can say with all your poisoned eloquence, and gratify yourself by reading it while your temper is still hot. then put it in your desk; and, as a matter of course, burn it before breakfast the following morning. believe me that you will then have a double gratification. a pleasant letter i hold to be the pleasantest thing that this world has to give. it should be good-humoured; witty it may be, but with a gentle diluted wit. concocted brilliancy will spoil it altogether. not long, so that it be tedious in the reading; nor brief, so that the delight suffice not to make itself felt. it should be written specially for the reader, and should apply altogether to him, and not altogether to any other. it should never flatter. flattery is always odious. but underneath the visible stream of pungent water there may be the slightest under-current of eulogy, so that it be not seen, but only understood. censure it may contain freely, but censure which in arraigning the conduct implies no doubt as to the intellect. it should be legibly written, so that it may be read with comfort; but no more than that. caligraphy betokens caution, and if it be not light in hand it is nothing. that it be fairly grammatical and not ill spelt the writer owes to his schoolmaster; but this should come of habit, not of care. then let its page be soiled by no business; one touch of utility will destroy it all. if you ask for examples, let it be as unlike walpole as may be. if you can so write it that lord byron might have written it, you will not be very far from high excellence. but, above all things, see that it be good-humoured. bertram's letter to the lady that he loved was by no means one of this sort. in the first place, it was not good-humoured; it was very far from being so. had it been so, it would utterly have belied his feelings. harcourt had so written to him as to make him quite clearly understand that all his sins and--which was much more to him--all his loves had been fully discussed between his friend and miss waddington--between his caroline and another man. to the pride of his heart nothing could be more revolting. it was as though his dearest possession had been ransacked in his absence, and rifled and squandered by the very guardian to whom he had left the key. there had been sore misgivings, sore differences between him and caroline; but, nevertheless, she had had all his heart. now, in his absence, she had selected his worldly friend harcourt, and discussed that possession and its flaws with him! there was that in all this of which he could not write with good-humour. nevertheless, had he kept his letter to the second morning, it may probably be said that he would have hesitated to send it. "my dearest caroline," it began. now i put it to all lovers whether, when they wish to please, they ever write in such manner to their sweethearts. is it not always, "my own love?" "dearest love?" "my own sweet pet?" but that use of the christian name, which is so delicious in the speaking during the first days of intimacy, does it not always betoken something stern at the beginning of a lover's letter? ah, it may betoken something very stern! "my dearest jane, i am sorry to say it, but i could not approve of the way in which you danced with major simkins last night." "my dearest lucy, i was at kensington-garden gate yesterday at four, and remained absolutely till five. you really ought--." is not that always the angry lover's tone? i fear that i must give bertram's letter entire to make the matter sufficiently clear. my dearest caroline, i learn from mr. harcourt that you and miss baker are in town, and i am of course sorry to miss you. would it not have been better that i should have heard this from yourself? mr. harcourt tells me that you are dissatisfied; and i understand from his letter that you have explained your dissatisfaction very fully to him. it might have been better, i think, that the explanation should have been made to me; or had you chosen to complain, you might have done so to your aunt, or to your grandfather. i cannot think that you were at liberty to complain of me to mr. harcourt. my wish is, that you have no further conversation with him on our joint concerns. it is not seemly; and, if feminine, is at any rate not ladylike. i am driven to defend myself. what is it of which you complain, or have a right to complain? we became engaged more than twelve months since, certainly with no understanding that the matter was to stand over for three years. my understanding was that we were to be married as soon as it might reasonably be arranged. you then took on yourself to order this delay, and kindly offered to give me up as an alternative. i could not force you to marry me; but i loved you too well, and trusted too much in your love to be able to think that that giving up was necessary. perhaps i was wrong. but the period of this wretched interval is at my own disposal. had you married me, my time would have been yours. it would have been just that you should know how it was spent. each would then have known so much of the other. but you have chosen that this should not be; and, therefore, i deny your right now to make inquiry. if i have departed from any hopes you had formed, you have no one to blame but yourself. you have said that i neglect you. i am ready to marry you to-morrow; i have been ready to do so any day since our engagement. you yourself know how much more than ready i have been. i do not profess to be a very painstaking lover; nay, if you will, the life would bore me, even if in our case the mawkishness of the delay did not do more than bore. at any rate, i will not go through it. i loved, and do love you truly. i told you of it truly when i first knew it myself, and urged my suit till i had a definite answer. you accepted me, and now there needs be nothing further till we are married. but i insist on this, that i will not have my affairs discussed by you with persons to whom you are a stranger. you will see my letter to your aunt. i have told her that i will visit her at littlebath as soon as i have returned to england. yours ever affectionately, g. b. this letter was a terrible blow to caroline. it seemed to her to be almost incredible that she, she, caroline waddington, should be forced to receive such a letter as that under any circumstances and from any gentleman. unseemly, unfeminine, unladylike! these were the epithets her lover used in addressing her. she was told that it bored him to play the lover; that his misconduct was her fault; and then she was accused of mawkishness! he was imperative, too, in laying his orders to her. "i insist on this!" was it incumbent on her to comply with his insistings? of course she showed the letter to her aunt, whose advice resulted in this--that it would be better that she should pocket the affront silently if she were not prepared to give up the engagement altogether. if she were so prepared, the letter doubtless would give her the opportunity. and then mr. harcourt came to her while her anger was yet at the hottest. his manner was so kind, his temper so sweet, his attention so obliging, that she could not but be glad to see him. if george loved her, if he wished to guide her, wished to persuade her, why was not he at her right hand? mr. harcourt was there instead. it did not bore him, multifold as his duties were, to be near her. then she committed the first great fault of which in this history she will be shown as being guilty. she showed her lover's letter to mr. harcourt. of course this was not done without some previous converse; till he had found out that she was wretched, and inquired as to her wretchedness; till she had owned that she was ill with sorrow, beside herself, and perplexed in the extreme. then at last, saying to herself that she cared not now to obey mr. bertram, she showed the letter to mr. harcourt. "it is ungenerous," said harcourt. "it is ungentlemanlike," said caroline. "but it was written in passion, and i shall not notice it." and so she and miss baker went back again to littlebath. it was september before bertram returned, and then sir lionel came with him. we have not space to tell much of what had passed between the father and the son; but they reached london apparently on good terms with each other, and sir lionel settled himself in a bedroom near to his son's chambers, and near also to his own club. there was, however, this great ground of disagreement between them. sir lionel was very anxious that his son should borrow money from mr. bertram, and george very resolutely declined to do so. it was now clear enough to sir lionel that his son could not show his filial disposition by advancing on his own behalf much money to his father, as he was himself by no means in affluent circumstances. he went down to littlebath, and took his father with him. the meeting between the lovers was again unloverlike; but nothing could be more affectionate than sir lionel. he took caroline in his arms and kissed her, called her his dear daughter, and praised her beauty. i believe he kissed miss baker. indeed, i know that he made an attempt to do so; and i think it not at all improbable that in the overflowing of his affectionate heart, he made some overture of the same kind to the exceedingly pretty parlour-maid who waited upon them. whatever might be thought of george, sir lionel soon became popular there, and his popularity was not decreased when he declared that he would spend the remainder of the autumn, and perhaps the winter, at littlebath. he did stay there for the winter. he had a year's furlough, during which he was to remain in england with full pay, and he made it known to the ladies at littlebath that the chief object of his getting this leave was to be present at the nuptials of dear caroline and his son. on one occasion he borrowed thirty pounds from miss baker; a circumstance which their intimacy, perhaps, made excusable. he happened, however, to mention this little occurrence casually to his son, and george at once repaid that debt, poor as he was at the time. "you could have that and whatever more you chose merely for the asking," said sir lionel on that occasion, in a tone almost of reproach. and so the winter passed away. george, however, was not idle. he fully intended to be called to the bar in the following autumn, and did, to a certain extent, renew his legal studies. he did not return to mr. die, prevented possibly by the difficulty he would have in preparing the necessary funds. but his great work through the winter and in the early spring was another small volume, which he published in march, and which he called, "the fallacies of early history." we need not give any minute criticism on this work. it will suffice to say that the orthodox world declared it to be much more heterodox than the last work. heterodox, indeed! it was so bad, they said, that there was not the least glimmer of any doxy whatever left about it. the early history of which he spoke was altogether bible history, and the fallacies to which he alluded were the plainest statements of the book of genesis. nay, he had called the whole story of creation a myth; the whole story as there given: so at least said the rabbis of oxford, and among them outspoke more loudly than any others the outraged and very learned rabbis of oriel. bertram however denied this. he had, he said, not called anything a myth. there was the printed book, and one might have supposed that it would be easy enough to settle this question. but it was far from being so. the words myth and mythical were used half a dozen times, and the rabbis declared that they were applied to the statements of scripture. bertram declared that they were applied to the appearance those statements must have as at present put before the english world. then he said something not complimentary to the translators, and something also very uncivil as to want of intelligence on the part of the oxford rabbis. the war raged warmly, and was taken up by the metropolitan press, till bertram became a lion--a lion, however, without a hide, for in the middle of the dispute he felt himself called on to resign his fellowship. he lost that hide; but he got another in lieu which his friends assured him was of a much warmer texture. his uncle had taken considerable interest in this dispute, alleging all through that the oxford men were long-eared asses and bigoted monks. it may be presumed that his own orthodoxy was not of a high class. he had never liked george's fellowship, and had always ridiculed the income which he received from it. directly he heard that it had been resigned, he gave his nephew a thousand pounds. he said nothing about it; he merely told mr. pritchett to arrange the matter. sir lionel was delighted. as to the question of orthodoxy he was perfectly indifferent. it was nothing to him whether his son called the book of genesis a myth or a gospel; but he had said much, very much as to the folly of risking the fellowship; and more, a great deal more, as to the madness of throwing it away. but now he was quite ready to own himself wrong, and did do so in the most straightforward manner. after all, what was a fellowship to a man just about to be married? in his position bertram had of course been free to speak out. if, indeed, there had been any object in holding to the college, then the expression of such opinions, let alone their publication, would not have been judicious. as it was, however, nothing could have been more lucky. his son had shown his independence. the rich uncle had shown the warm interest which he still took in his nephew, and sir lionel was able to borrow two hundred and fifty pounds, a sum of money which, at the present moment, was very grateful to him. bertram's triumph was gilded on all sides; for the booksellers had paid him handsomely for his infidel manuscript. infidelity that can make itself successful will, at any rate, bring an income. and this brings us to the period at which we may resume our story. one word we must say as to caroline. during the winter she had seen her lover repeatedly, and had written to him repeatedly. their engagement, therefore, had by no means been broken. but their meetings were cold, and their letters equally so. she would have married him at once now if he would ask her. but he would not ask her. he was quite willing to marry her if she would herself say that she was willing so far to recede from her former resolution. but she could not bring herself to do this. each was too proud to make the first concession to the other, and therefore no concession was made by either. sir lionel once attempted to interfere; but he failed. george gave him to understand that he could manage his own affairs himself. when a son is frequently called on to lend money to his father, and that father is never called on to repay it, the parental authority is apt to grow dull. it had become very dull in this case. chapter iv. richmond. it was in the midst of this noise about bertram's new book that the scene is presumed to be re-opened. he had resigned his fellowship, and pocketed his thousand pounds. neither of these events had much depressed his spirits, and he appeared now to his friends to be a happy man in spite of his love troubles. at the same time, harcourt also was sufficiently elate. he had made his great speech with considerable _éclat_, and his sails were full of wind--of wind of a more substantial character than that by which bertram's vessel was wafted. and just now harcourt and bertram were again much together. a few months since it had appeared to harcourt that bertram intended to do nothing in the world, to make no figure. even now there was but little hope of his doing much as a barrister; but it seemed probable that he might at any rate make himself known as an author. such triumphs, as harcourt well knew, were very barren; but still it was well to know men who were in any way triumphant; and therefore the barrister, himself so triumphant, considered it judicious not to drop his friend. it may be said that bertram had given up all idea of practising as a barrister. he still intended to go through the form of being called; but his profession was to be that of an author. he had all manner of works in hand: poems, plays, political pamphlets, infidel essays, histories, and a narrative of his travels in the east. he had made up his mind fully that there were in england only two occupations worthy of an englishman. a man should be known either as a politician or as an author. it behoved a man to speak out what was in him with some audible voice, so that the world might hear. he might do so either by word of mouth, or by pen and paper; by the former in parliament, by the latter at his desk. each form of speech had its own advantage. fate, which had made harcourt a member of parliament, seemed to intend him, bertram, to be an author. harcourt, though overwhelmed by business at this period, took frequent occasion to be with bertram; and when he was with him alone he always made an effort to talk about miss waddington. bertram was rather shy of the subject. he had never blamed harcourt for what had taken place while he was absent in paris, but since that time he had never volunteered to speak of his own engagement. they were together one fine may evening on the banks of the river at richmond. george was fond of the place, and whenever harcourt proposed to spend an evening alone with him, they would go up the river and dine there. on this occasion harcourt seemed determined to talk about miss waddington. bertram, who was not in the best possible humour, had shown, one might say plainly enough, that it was a subject on which he did not wish to speak. one might also say that it was a subject as to talking on which the choice certainly ought to have been left to himself. a man who is engaged may often choose to talk to his friend about his engaged bride; but the friend does not usually select the lady as a topic of conversation except in conformity with the benedict's wishes. on this occasion, however, harcourt would talk about miss waddington, and bertram, who had already given one or two short answers, began to feel that his friend was almost impertinent. they were cracking decayed walnuts and sipping not the very best of wine, and bertram was expatiating on sir robert peel's enormity in having taken the wind out of the sails of the whigs, and rehearsing perhaps a few paragraphs of a new pamphlet that was about to come out, when harcourt again suddenly turned the conversation. "by-the-by," said he, "i believe there is no day absolutely fixed for your marriage." "no," said bertram, sharply enough. "no day has been fixed. could anything on earth have been more base than the manner in which he has endeavoured to leave cobden as a necessary legacy to the new government? would he have put cobden into any place in a government of his own?" "oh, d---- cobden! one has enough of him in the house,--quite." "but i have not that advantage." "you shall have some of these days. i'll make over the battersea hamlets to you as soon as i can get a judge's wig on my head. but i'm thinking of other things now. i wonder whether you and caroline waddington ever will be man and wife?" "probably about the time that you are made a judge." "ha! ha! well, i hope if you do do it, it will come off before that. but i doubt it's coming off at all. each of you is too proud for the other. neither of you can forgive what the other has done." "what do you mean? but to tell you the truth, harcourt, i have no great inclination to discuss that matter just at present. if you please, we will leave miss waddington alone." "what i mean is this," said the embryo judge, perseveringly, "that you are too angry with her on account of this enforced delay, and she is too angry with you because you have dared to be angry with her. i do not think you will ever come together." bertram looked full at harcourt as this was said, and observed that there was not the usual easy, gentlemanlike smile on the barrister's face; and yet the barrister was doing his best to look as usual. the fact was, that harcourt was playing a game, and playing it with considerable skill, but his performance was not altogether that of a garrick. something might have been read in his face had bertram been cunning enough to read it. but bertram was not a cunning man. bertram looked full in the other's face. had he been content to do so and to say nothing, he would have gained his point, and the subject would have been at once dropped. harcourt then could have gone no further. but bertram was now angry, and, being angry, he could not but speak. "harcourt, you have interfered once before between me and miss waddington--" "interfered!" "yes, interfered--in what i then thought and still think to have been a very unwarrantable manner." "it was a pity you did not tell me of it at the time." "it is a pity rather that you should drive me to tell you of it now; but you do so. when i was in paris, you said to miss waddington what you had no right to say." "what did i say?" "or, rather, she said to you--" "ah! that was no fault of mine." "but it was a fault of yours. do you think that i cannot understand? that i cannot see? she would have been silent enough to you but for your encouragement. i do not know that i was ever so vexed as when i received that letter from you. you took upon yourself--" "i know you were angry, very angry. but that was not my fault. i said nothing but what a friend under such circumstances was bound to say." "well, let the matter drop now; and let miss waddington and myself settle our own affairs." "i cannot let the matter drop; you have driven me to defend myself, and i must do it as best i may. i know that you were angry, exceedingly angry-- "exceedingly angry!" he repeated; "but that was no fault of mine. when miss baker sent for me, i could not but go to her. when i was there, i could not but listen to her. when caroline told me that she was wretched--" "miss waddington!" shouted bertram, in a voice that caused the glasses to shake, and made the waiter turn round. and then suddenly recollecting himself, he scowled round the room as he observed that he was noticed. "hush, my dear fellow. it shall be miss waddington; but not quite so loud. and i beg your pardon, but hearing the lady called by her christian name so often, both by yourself and miss baker, i forgot myself. when she spoke to me of her wretched state, what was i to do? was i to say, fie! fie! and take my hat and go away? "she was very wretched," he continued, for bertram merely scowled and said nothing, "and i could not but sympathize with her. she thought that you had neglected her. it was clear that you had gone abroad without telling her. was it to be wondered at that she should be unhappy?" "her telling you that she was so was unexcusable." "at any rate, i am blameless. i myself think that she was also; but that is another question. in what i wrote to you, i did my duty as a friend to both parties. after that, i do confess that i thought your anger too great to allow you ever to stand at the altar with her." "you do not mean to say that she showed you my letter?" said bertram, almost leaping at him. "your letter! what letter?" "you know what letter--my letter from paris? the letter which i wrote to her in reference to the one i received from you? i desire at once to have an answer from you. did caroline show you that letter?" harcourt looked very guilty, extremely guilty; but he did not immediately make any reply. "harcourt, answer me," said bertram, much more coolly. "i have no feeling of anger now with you. did caroline show you that letter?" "miss waddington did show it to me." and thus the successful mr. harcourt had been successful also in this. and now, having narrated this interview in a manner which does not make it redound very much to that gentleman's credit, i must add to the narrative his apology. if even-handed justice were done throughout the world, some apology could be found for most offences. not that the offences would thus be wiped away, and black become white; but much that is now very black would be reduced to that sombre, uninviting shade of ordinary brown which is so customary to humanity. our apology for mr. harcourt will by no means make his conduct white--will leave it, perhaps, of a deeper, dingier brown than that which is quite ordinary among men; nay, will leave it still black, many will say. mr. harcourt had seen that which in his opinion proved that bertram and miss waddington could never be happy with each other. he had seen that which in his opinion led to the conclusion that neither of them really wished that this marriage should take place. but he had seen that also which made him believe that both were too proud to ask for a release. under such circumstances, would he be doing ill if he were to release them? caroline had so spoken, spoken even to him, that it seemed impossible to him that she could wish for the marriage. bertram had so written that it seemed equally impossible that he should wish for it. would it not, therefore, be madness to allow them to marry? he had said as much to miss baker, and miss baker had agreed with him. "he cannot love her," miss baker had said, "or he would not neglect her so shamefully. i am sure he does not love her." but there was a man who did love her, who had felt that he could love her from the first moment that he had seen her as an affianced bride: he had not then courted her for himself; for then it was manifest that she both loved and was loved. but now, now that this was altered, was there good cause why he should not covet her now? mr. harcourt thought that there was no sufficient cause. and then this man, who was not by nature a vain man, who had not made himself apt at believing that young beauties fell readily in love with him, who had not spent his years in basking in ladies' smiles, imagined that he had some ground to think that miss waddington was not averse to him. oh, how she had looked when that part of bertram's letter had been read, in which he professed that he would not be bored by any love-duties for his lady! and then, this man had been kind to her; he had shown that such service would be no bore to him. he had been gentle-mannered to her; and she also, she had been gentle to him: "the woman cannot be of nature's making whom, being kind, her misery makes not kinder." and caroline was kind; at least so he thought, and heaven knows she was miserable also. and thus hopes rose which should never have risen, and schemes were made which, if not absolutely black, were as near it as any shade of brown may be. and then there was the fact that caroline was the granddaughter, and might probably be the heiress, of one of the wealthiest men in the city of london. the consideration of this fact had doubtless its weight also. the lady would at least have six thousand pounds, might have sixty, might have three times sixty. harcourt would probably have found it inexpedient to give way to any love had there been no money to gild the passion. he was notoriously a man of the world; he pretended to be nothing else; he would have thought that he had made himself ludicrous if he had married for love only. with him it was a source of comfort that the lady's pecuniary advantages allowed him the hope that he might indulge his love. so he did indulge it. he had trusted for awhile that circumstances would break off this ill-assorted match, and that then he could step in himself without any previous interference in the matter. but the time was running too close: unless something was done, these two poor young creatures would marry, and make themselves wretched for life. benevolence itself required that he should take the matter in hand. so he did take it in hand, and commenced his operations--not unskilfully, as we have seen. such is our apology for mr. harcourt. a very poor one, the reader will say, turning from that gentleman with disgust. it is a poor one. were we all turned inside out, as is done with ladies and gentlemen in novels, some of us might find some little difficulty in giving good apologies for ourselves. our shade of brown would often be very dark. bertram sat for awhile silent and motionless at the table, and harcourt seeing his look of grief, almost repented what he had done. but, after all, he had only told the truth. the letter had been shown to him. "it is incredible," said bertram, "incredible, incredible!" but, nevertheless, his voice showed plainly enough that the statement to him was not incredible. "let it be so," said harcourt, who purposely misunderstood him. "i do not wish you to believe me. let us leave it so. come, it is time for us to go back to town." but bertram still sat silent, saying nothing. harcourt called the waiter, and paid the bill. he then told bertram what his share was, and commenced smoothing the silk of his hat preparatory to moving. bertram took out his purse, gave him the necessary amount of shillings, and then again sat silent and motionless. "come, bertram, there will be only one train after this, and you know what a crowd there is always for that. let us go." but bertram did not move. "harcourt, if you would not mind it," he said, very gently, "i would rather go back by myself to-day. what you have said has put me out. i shall probably walk." "walk to town!" "oh, yes; the walk will be nothing: i shall like it. don't wait for me, there's a good fellow. i'll see you to-morrow, or next day, or before long." so harcourt, shrugging his shoulders, and expressing some surprise at this singular resolve, put his hat on his head and walked off by himself. what his inward reflections were on his journey back to london we will not inquire; but will accompany our other friend in his walk. hurriedly as it had been written, he remembered almost every word of that letter from paris. he knew that it had been severe, and he had sometimes perhaps regretted its severity. but he knew also that the offence had been great. what right had his affianced bride to speak of him to another man? was it not fit that he should tell her how great was this sin? his ideas on the matter were perhaps too strong, but they certainly are not peculiar. we--speaking for the educated male sex in england--do not like to think that any one should tamper with the ladies whom we love. but what was this to that which she had since done? to talk of him had been bad, but to show his letters! to show such a letter as that! to show such a letter to such a person! to make such a confidence, and with such a confidant! it could not be that she loved him; it could not be but that she must prefer that other man to him. as he thought of this, walking on hurriedly towards london on that soft may night, his bosom swelled, but with anger rather than with sorrow. it must be all over then between them. it could not go on after what he had now been told. she was willing, he presumed, to marry him, having pledged him her word that she would do so; but it was clear that she did not care for him. he would not hold her to her pledge; nor would he take to his bosom one who could have a secret understanding with another man. "miss baker," he said to himself, "had treated him badly; she must have known this; why had she not told him? if it were so that miss waddington liked another better than him, would it not have been miss baker's duty to tell him so? it did not signify however; he had learnt it in time--luckily, luckily, luckily." should he quarrel with harcourt? what mattered it whether he did or no? or what mattered it what part harcourt took in the concern? if that which harcourt had said were true, if caroline had shown him this letter, he, bertram, could never forgive that! if so, they must part! and then, if he did not possess her, what mattered who did? nay, if she loved harcourt, why should he prevent their coming together? but of this he would make himself fully satisfied; he would know whether the letter had truly been shown. harcourt was a barrister; and in bertram's estimation a barrister's word was not always to be taken implicitly. so he still walked on. but what should he first do? how should he act at once? and then it occurred to him that, according to the ideas generally prevalent in the world on such matters, he would not be held to be justified in repudiating his betrothed merely because she had shown a letter of his to another gentleman. he felt in his own mind that the cause was quite sufficient; that the state of mind which such an act disclosed was clearly not that of a loving, trusting wife. but others might think differently: perhaps miss baker might do so; or perhaps miss waddington. but then it was not possible that she could ever wish to marry him after having taken such a course as that. had he not indeed ample cause to think that she did not wish to marry him? she had put it off to the last possible moment. she had yielded nothing to his urgent request. in all her intercourse with him she had been cold and unbending. she had had her moments of confidence, but they were not with him; they were with one whom perhaps she liked better. there was no jealousy in this, not jealousy of the usual kind. his self-respect had been injured, and he could not endure that. he hardly now wished that she should love him. but he would go to littlebath at once and ask her the question. he would ask her all those questions which were now burning inside his heart. she did not like severe letters, and he would write no more such to her. what further communication might of necessity take place between them should be by word of mouth. so he resolved to go down to littlebath on the morrow. and then he reached his chambers, weary and sad at heart. but he was no longer angry. he endeavoured to persuade himself that he was absolutely the reverse of angry. he knelt down and prayed that she might be happy. he swore that he would do anything to make her so. but that anything was not to include any chance of a marriage with himself. chapter v. juno. in spite of his philosophy and his prayers, bertram went to bed not in a very happy state of mind. he was a man essentially of a warm and loving heart. he was exigeant, and perhaps even selfish in his love. most men are so. but he did love, had loved; and having made up his mind to part from that which he had loved, he could not be happy. he had often lain awake, thinking of her faults to him; but now he lay thinking of his faults to her. it was a pity, he said to himself, that their marriage should have been so delayed; she had acted foolishly in that, certainly, had not known him, had not understood his character, or appreciated his affection; but, nevertheless, he might have borne it better. he felt that he had been stern, almost savage to her; that he had resented her refusal to marry him at once too violently: he threw heavy blame on himself. but through all this, he still felt that they could not now marry. was it not clear to him that caroline would be delighted to escape from her engagement if the way to do so were opened to her? he lost no time in carrying out his plans. by an early train on the following day he went down to littlebath, and at once went to his father's lodgings. for sir lionel, in order that he might be near his dear daughter, was still living in littlebath. he had entered the second, or lighter fast set, played a good deal at cards, might constantly be seen walking up and down the assembly-rooms, and did something in horse-flesh. george first went to his father's lodgings, and found him still in bed. the lighter fast set at littlebath do not generally get up early, and sir lionel professed that he had not lately been altogether well. littlebath was fearfully, fearfully cold. it was now may, and he was still obliged to keep a fire. he was in a very good humour however with his son, for the period of the two hundred and fifty pounds' loan was not long passed by. gratitude for that had not yet given way to desire for more. "oh, george! is that you? i am delighted to see you. going up to the terrace, i suppose? i was with caroline for a few minutes last night, and i never saw her looking better--never." george answered by asking his father where he meant to dine. sir lionel was going to dine out. he usually did dine out. he was one of those men who have a knack of getting a succession of gratis dinners; and it must be confessed in his favour--and the admission was generally made in the dining-out world,--that sir lionel was worth his dinner. "then i shall probably return this evening; but i will see you before i go." sir lionel asked why he would not dine as usual in montpellier terrace; but on this subject george at present gave him no answer. he merely said that he thought it very improbable that he should do so, and then went away to his work. it was hard work that he had to do, and he thoroughly wished that it was over. he did not however allow himself a moment to pause. on the contrary, he walked so quick, that when he found himself in miss baker's drawing-room, he was almost out of breath, and partly from that cause, and partly from his agitation, was unable to speak to that lady in his usual unruffled manner. "ah, how do you do, miss baker? i'm very glad to see you. i have run down to-day in a great hurry, and i am very anxious to see caroline. is she out?" miss baker explained that she was not out; and would be down very shortly. "i'm glad she's not away, for i am very anxious to see her--very." miss baker, with her voice also in a tremble, asked if anything was the matter. "no; nothing the matter. but the truth is, i'm tired of this, miss baker, and i want to settle it. i don't know how she may bear it, but it has half killed me." miss baker looked at him almost aghast, for his manner was energetic and almost wild. only that he so frequently was wild, she would have feared that something dreadful was about to happen. she had not, however, time to say anything further, for caroline's step was heard on the stairs. "could you let us be alone for ten minutes," said george. "but i feel the shame of turning you out of your own drawing-room. perhaps caroline will not mind coming down with me into the parlour." but miss baker of course waived this objection, and as she retreated, the two ladies met just at the drawing-room door. caroline was about to speak, but was stopped by the expression on her aunt's face. ladies have little ways of talking to each other, with nods and becks and wreathed smiles, which are quite beyond the reach of men; and in this language aunt mary did say something as she passed which gave her niece to understand that the coming interview would not consist merely of the delights which are common among lovers. caroline, therefore, as she entered the room composed her face for solemn things, and walked slowly, and not without some dignity in her mien, into the presence of him who was to be her lord and master. "we hardly expected you, george," she said. his father had been right. she was looking well, very well. her figure was perhaps not quite so full, nor the colour in her cheek quite so high as when he had first seen her in jerusalem; but, otherwise, she had never seemed to him more lovely. the little effort she had made to collect herself, to assume a certain majesty in her gait, was becoming to her. so also was her plain morning dress, and the simple braid in which her hair was collected. it might certainly be boasted of miss waddington that she was a beauty of the morning rather than of the night; that her complexion was fitted for the sun rather than for gaslight. he was going to give up all this! and why? that which he saw before him, that which he had so often brought himself to believe, that which at this moment he actually did believe to be as perfect a form of feminine beauty as might be found by any search in england, was as yet his own. and he might keep it as his own. he knew, or thought he knew enough of her to be sure that, let her feelings be what they might, she would not condescend to break her word to him. doubtless, she would marry him; and that in but a few months hence if only he would marry her! beautiful as she was, much as she was his own, much as he still loved her, he had come there to reject her! all this flashed through his mind in a moment. he lost no time in idle thoughts. "caroline," he said, stretching out his hand to her--usually when he met her after any absence he had used his hand to draw her nearer to him with more warmth than his present ordinary greeting showed--"caroline, i have come down to have some talk with you. there is that between us which should be settled." "well, what is it?" she said, with the slightest possible smile. "i will not, if i can help it, say any word to show that i am angry--" "but are you angry, george? if so, had you not better show it? concealment will never sit well on you." "i hope not; nor will i conceal anything willingly. it is because i so greatly dislike concealment that i am here." "you could not conceal anything if you tried, george. it is useless for you to say that you will not show that you are angry. you are angry, and you do show it. what is it? i hope my present sin is not a very grievous one. by your banishing poor aunt out of the drawing-room, i fear it must be rather bad." "i was dining with mr. harcourt last night, and it escaped him in conversation that you had shown to him the letter which i wrote to you from paris. was it so, caroline? did you show him that very letter?" certainly, no indifferent listener would have said that there was any tone of anger in bertram's voice; and yet there was that in it which made miss waddington feel that the room was swimming round and round her. she turned ruby red up to her hair. bertram had never before seen her blush like that; for he had never before seen her covered by shame. oh! how she had repented showing that letter! how her soul had grieved over it from the very moment that it had passed out of her hand! she had done so in the hotness of her passion. he had written to her sharp stinging words which had maddened her. up to that moment she had never known how sharp, how stinging, how bitter words might be. the world had hitherto been so soft to her! she was there told that she was unfeminine, unladylike! and then, he that was sitting by her was so smooth, so sympathizing, so anxious to please her! in her anger and her sympathy she had shown it; and from that day to this she had repented in the roughness of sackcloth and the bitterness of ashes. it was possible that caroline waddington should so sin against a woman's sense of propriety; that, alas! had been proved; but it was impossible that she should so sin and not know that she had sinned, not feel the shame of it. she did stand before him red with shame; but at the first moment she made no answer. it was in her heart to kneel at his feet, to kneel in the spirit if not in the body, and ask his pardon; but hitherto she had asked pardon of no human being. there was an effort in the doing of it which she could not at once get over. had his eyes looked tenderly on her for a moment, had one soft tone fallen from his lips, she would have done it. down she would have gone and implored his pardon. and who that he had once loved had ever asked aught in vain from george bertram? ah, that she had done so! how well they might have loved each other! what joy there might have been! but there was nothing tender in his eye, no tender tone softened the words which fell from his mouth. "what!" he said, and in spite of his promise, his voice had never before sounded so stern,--"what! show that letter to another man; show that letter to mr. harcourt! is that true, caroline?" a child asks pardon from his mother because he is scolded. he wishes to avert her wrath in order that he may escape punishment. so also may a servant of his master, or an inferior of his superior. but when one equal asks pardon of another, it is because he acknowledges and regrets the injury he has done. such acknowledgment, such regret will seldom be produced by a stern face and a harsh voice. caroline, as she looked at him and listened to him, did not go down on her knees--not even mentally. instead of doing so, she remembered her dignity, and wretched as she was at heart, she continued to seat herself without betraying her misery. "is that true, caroline? i will believe the charge against you from no other lips than your own." "yes, george; it is true. i did show your letter to mr. harcourt." so stern had he been in his bearing that she could not condescend even to a word of apology. he had hitherto remained standing; but on hearing this he flung himself into a chair and buried his face in his hands. even then she might have been softened, and he might have relented, and all might have been well! "i was very unhappy, george," she said; "that letter had made me very unhappy, and i hardly knew where to turn for relief." "what!" he said, jumping up and flashing before her in a storm of passion to which his former sternness had been as nothing--"what! my letter made you so unhappy that you were obliged to go to mr. harcourt for relief! you appealed for sympathy from me to him! from me who am--no, who was, your affianced husband! had you no idea of the sort of bond that existed between you and me? did you not know that there were matters in which you could not look for sympathy to such as him without being false, nay, almost worse than false? have you ever thought what it is to be the one loved object of a man's heart, and to have accepted that love?" she had been on the point of interrupting him, but the softness of these last words interrupted her for a moment. "such a letter as that! do you remember that letter, caroline?" "yes, i remember it; remember it too well; i would not keep it. i would not feel that such words from you were ever by me." "you mean that it was harsh?" "it was cruel." "harsh or cruel, or what you will--i shall not now stop to defend it--it was one which from the very nature of it should have been sacred between us. it was written to you as to one to whom i had a right to write as my future wife." "no one could have a right to write such a letter as that." "in it, i particularly begged that mr. harcourt might not be made an arbiter between us. i made a special request that to him, at least, you would not talk of what causes of trouble there might be between us; and yet you selected him as your confidant, read it with him, poured over with him the words which had come hot from my heart, discussed with him my love--my--my--my-- bah! i cannot endure it; had not you yourself told me so, i could not have believed it." "george!--" "good god! that you should take my letters and read them over with him! why, caroline, it admits but of one solution; there is but one reading to the riddle; ask all the world." "we sent for him as your friend." "yes, and seem to have soon used him as your own. i have no friend to whom i allow the privilege of going between me and my own heart's love. yes, you were my own heart's love. i have to get over that complaint now as best i may." "i may consider then that all is over between us." "yes; there. you have back your hand. it is again your own to dispose of to whom you will. let you have what confidences you will, they will no longer imply falsehood to me." "then, sir, if such be the case, i think you may cease to scold me with such violence." "i have long felt that i ought to give you this release; for i have known that you have not thoroughly loved me." miss waddington was too proud, too conscious of the necessity to maintain her pride at the present moment to contradict this. but, nevertheless, in her heart she felt that she did love him, that she would fain not give him up, that, in spite of his anger, his bitter railing anger, she would keep him close to her if she only could do so. but now that he spoke of giving her up, she could not speak passionately of her love--she who had never yet shown any passion in her speech to him. "it has grown on me from day to day; and i have been like a child in clinging to a hope when i should have known that there was no hope. i should have known it when you deferred our marriage for three years." "two years, george." "had it been two years, we should now have been married. i should have known it when i learned that you and he were in such close intimacy in london. but now--i know it now. now at least it is all over." "i can only be sorry that you have so long had so much trouble in the matter." "trouble--trouble! but i will not make a fool of myself. i believe at any rate that you understand me." "oh! perfectly, mr. bertram." but she did not understand him; nor perhaps was it very likely that she should understand him. what he had meant her to understand was this: that in giving her up he was sacrificing only himself, and not her; that he did so in the conviction that she did not care for him; and that he did so on this account, strong as his own love still was, in spite of all her offences. this was what he intended her to understand;--but she did not understand the half of it. "and i may now go?" said she, rising from her chair. the blush of shame was over, and mild as her words sounded, she again looked the juno. "and i may now go?" "now go! yes; i suppose so. that is, i may go. that is what you mean. well, i suppose i had better go." not a moment since he was towering with passion, and his voice, if not loud, had been masterful, determined, and imperious. now it was low and gentle enough. even now, could she have been tender to him, he would have relented. but she could not be tender. it was her profession to be a juno. though she knew that when he was gone from her her heart would be breaking, she would not bring herself down to use a woman's softness. she could not say that she had been wrong, wrong because distracted by her misery, wrong because he was away from her, wrong because disturbed in her spirits by the depth of the love she felt for him; she could not confess this, and then, taking his hand, promise him that if he would remain close to her she would not so sin again. ah! if she could have done this, in one moment her head would have been on his shoulder and his arm round her waist; and in twenty minutes more miss baker would have been informed, sitting as she now was up in her bedroom, that the wedding-day had been fixed. but very different news miss baker had to hear. had things turned out so, miss waddington would have been a woman and not a goddess. no; great as was the coming penalty, she could not do that. she had been railed at and scolded as never goddess was scolded before. whatever she threw away, it behoved her to maintain her dignity. she would not bend to a storm that had come blustering over her so uncourteously. bertram had now risen to go. "it would be useless for me to trouble your aunt," he said. "tell her from me that i would not have gone without seeing her had i not wished to spare her pain. good-bye, caroline, and may god bless you;" and, so saying, he put out his hand to her. "good-bye, mr. bertram." she would have said something more, but she feared to trust herself with any word that might have any sound of tenderness. she took his hand, however, and returned the pressure which he gave it. she looked into his eyes, and saw that they were full of tears; but still she did not speak. oh, caroline waddington, caroline waddington! if it had but been given thee to know, even then, how much of womanhood there was in thy bosom, of warm womanhood, how little of goddess-ship, of cold goddess-ship, it might still have been well with thee! but thou didst not know. thou hadst gotten there at any rate thy juno's pedestal; and having that, needs was that thou shouldst stand on it. "god bless you, caroline; good-bye," he repeated again, and turned to the door. "i wish to ask you one question before you go," she said, as his hand was on the handle of the lock; and she spoke in a voice that was almost goddess-like; that hardly betrayed, but yet that did betray, the human effort. bertram paused, and again turned to her. "in your accusation against me just now--" "i made no accusation, caroline." "you not only made it, mr. bertram, but i pleaded guilty to it. but in making it you mentioned mr. harcourt's name. while you were absent in paris, i did talk with that gentleman on our private affairs, yours and mine. i hope i am believed to have done so because i regarded mr. harcourt as your friend?" bertram did not understand her, and he showed that he did not by his look. "it is difficult for me to explain myself"--and now she blushed slightly--very slightly. "what i mean is this; i wish to be acquitted by you of having had recourse to mr. harcourt on my own account--from any partiality of my own." she almost rose in height as she stood there before him, uttering these words in all her cold but beautiful dignity. whatever her sins might have been, he should not accuse her of having dallied with another while her word and her troth had been his. she had been wrong. she could not deny that he had justice on his side--stern, harsh, bare justice--when he came there to her and flung back her love and promises into her teeth. he had the right to do so, and she would not complain. but he should not leave her till he had acquitted her of the vile, missish crime of flirting with another because he was absent. seeing that he still hardly understood her, she made her speech yet plainer. "at the risk of being told again that i am unfeminine, i must explain myself. do you charge me with having allowed mr. harcourt to speak to me as a lover?" "no; i make no such charge. now, i have no right to make any charge on such a matter." "no; should mr. harcourt be my lover now, that is my affair and his, not yours. but had he been so then-- you owe it to me to say whether among other sins, that sin also is charged against me?" "i have charged and do charge nothing against you, but this--that you have ceased to love me. and that charge will be made nowhere but in my own breast. i am not a jealous man, as i think you might know. what i have said to you here to-day has not come of suspicion. i have thought no ill against you, and believed no ill against you beyond that which you have yourself acknowledged. i find that you have ceased to love me, and finding that, i am indifferent to whom your love may be given." and so saying, he opened the door and went out; nor did he ever again see miss waddington at littlebath. some few minutes after he had left the room, miss baker entered it. she had heard the sound of the front door, and having made inquiry of the servant, had learned that their visitor had gone. then she descended to her own drawing-room, and found caroline sitting upright at the table, as though in grief she despised the adventitious aid and every-day solace of a sofa. there was no tear in her eye, none as yet; but it required no tears to tell her aunt that all was not well. judging by the face she looked at, aunt mary was inclined to say that all was as little well as might be. there was still to be seen there the beauty, and the dignity, and still even in part the composure of a juno; but it was such composure as juno might have shown while she devoted to a third destruction the walls of a thrice-built troy; of juno in grief, in jealousy, almost in despair; but of juno still mindful of her pedestal, still remembering that there she stood a mark for the admiration of gods and men. how long shall this juno mood serve to sustain her? ah! how long? "has he gone?" said miss baker, as she looked at her niece. "yes, aunt, he has gone." "when will he return?" "he will not return, aunt. he will not come any more; it is all over at last." miss baker stood for a moment trembling, and then threw herself upon a seat. she had at least had no celestial gift by which she could compose herself. "oh, caroline!" she exclaimed. "yes, aunt mary; it is all over now." "you mean that you have quarrelled?" said she, remembering to her comfort, that there was some old proverb about the quarrels of lovers. miss baker had great faith in proverbs. the reader may find it hard to follow miss baker's mind on the subject of this engagement. some time since she was giving advice that it should be broken off, and now she was _au désespoir_ because that result had been reached. she had one of those minds that are prone to veering, and which show by the way they turn, not any volition of their own, but the direction of some external wind, some external volition. nor can one be angry with, or despise miss baker for this weathercock aptitude. she was the least selfish of human beings, the least opinionative, the most good-natured. she had had her hot fits and her cold fits with regard to bertram; but her hot fits and her cold had all been hot or cold with reference to what she conceived to be her niece's chances of happiness. latterly, she had fancied that caroline did love bertram too well to give him up; and circumstances had led her to believe more strongly than ever that old mr. bertram wished the marriage, and that the two together, if married, would certainly inherit his wealth. so latterly, during the last month or so, miss baker had blown very hot. "no, there has been no quarrel," said caroline, with forced tranquillity of voice and manner. "no such quarrel as you mean. do not deceive yourself, dear aunt; it is over now, over for ever." "for ever, caroline!" "yes, for ever. that has been said which can never be unsaid. do not grieve about it"--aunt mary was now in tears--"it is better so; i am sure it is better. we should not have made each other happy." "but three years, caroline; three years!" said aunt mary through her tears, thinking of the time that had been so sadly lost. aunt mary was widely awake to the fact that three years was a long period in a girl's life, and that to have passed three years as the betrothed of one man and then to leave him was injurious to the matrimonial prospects of a young lady. miss baker was full of these little mundane considerations; but then they were never exercised, never had been exercised, on her own behalf. "yes, three years!" and caroline smiled, even through her grief. "it cannot be helped, aunt. and the rest of it; neither can that be helped. three years! say thirty, aunt." miss baker looked at her, not quite understanding. "and must it be so?" said she. "must! oh, yes, indeed it must. it must now, must--must--must." then they both sat silent for awhile. miss baker was longing to know the cause of this sudden disruption, but she hesitated at first to inquire. it was not, however, to be borne that the matter should be allowed to remain altogether undiscussed. "but what is it he has said?" she at last asked. caroline had never told her aunt that that letter had been shown to mr. harcourt, and had no intention of telling her so now. "i could not tell you, aunt, all that passed. it was not what he said more than what i said. at least--no; that is not true. it did arise from what he said; but i would not answer him as he would have me; and so we agreed to part." "he wished to have the marriage at once?" "no; i think he wished no such thing. you may rest assured he wishes no marriage now; none with me, at least. and rest assured of this, too, that i wish none with him. wish! it is no use wishing. it is now impossible." again there was a silence, and again it was broken by miss baker. "i wonder whether you ever really loved him? sometimes i have thought you never did." "perhaps not," said she, musing on her fate. "if it is never to be, i hope that you did not." "it would be to be hoped--to be hoped for me, and to be hoped also for him." "oh, he loved you. there is no doubt of that; no doubt at all of that. if any man ever loved a girl, he loved you." to this miss waddington answered nothing, nor would she just then talk any further with her aunt upon the subject. they were to dine early on that day, as their custom was when they went out in the evening. on this evening they were going to the house--lodgings rather--of an old friend they had not seen for some time. she had arrived a week or two since at littlebath, and though there had been callings between them, they had not yet succeeded in meeting. when bertram had arrived it was near their dinner hour and before he went that hour was already passed. had his manner been as it ordinarily was, he would of course have been asked to join them; but, as we have seen, that had been no moment for such customary civility. now, however, they went to dinner, and while seated there, miss waddington told her aunt that she did not feel equal to going out that evening. miss baker of course said something in opposition to this, but that something was not much. it might easily be understood that a young lady who had just lost her lover was not in a fit state to go to a littlebath card-party. and thus early in the evening caroline contrived to be alone; and then for the first time she attempted to realize all that had come upon her. hitherto she had had to support herself--herself and her goddess-ship,--first before george bertram, and then with lighter effort before her aunt. but now that she was alone, she could descend to humanity. now that she was alone she had so to descend. yes; she had lost three years. to a mortal goddess, who possessed her divinity but for a short time, this was much. her doctrine had been to make the most of the world. she had early resolved not to throw away either herself or her chances. and now that she was three-and-twenty, how had she kept her resolves? how had her doctrine answered with her? she had lived before the world for the last two years as a girl betrothed to a lover--before such of the world as she knew and as knew her; and now her lover was gone; not dismissed by her, but gone! he had rather dismissed her, and that not in the most courteous manner. but, to do her justice, this was not the grief that burnt most hotly into her heart. she said to herself that it was so, that this was her worst grief; she would fain have felt that it was so; but there was more of humanity in her, of the sweetness of womanly humanity, than she was aware. he had left her, and she knew not how to live without him. that was the thorn that stuck fast in her woman's bosom. she could never again look into those deep, thoughtful eyes; never again feel the pressure of that strong, manly arm; never hear the poetry of that rich voice as she had heard it when he poured words of love and truth into her ear. bertram had many faults, and while he belonged to her, she had thought of them often enough; but he had many virtues also, and now she could think but of them. she had said that he was gone, gone for ever. it was easy enough to say that with composed voice to miss baker. there is nothing so easy as bravado. the wretch who is to be hung can step lightly while multitudes are looking at him. the woman who is about to give up all that her heart most values can declare out loud that the matter is very indifferent to her. but when the victim of the law is lying in his solitary cell, thinking on his doom, the morning before the executioner comes to him; when the poor girl is sitting alone on her bedside, with her heart all empty,--or rather not empty, only hopeless; it is very difficult then to maintain a spirit of bravado! caroline waddington did try it. she had often said to herself, in months now some time past, that she repented of her engagement. if so, now was the time to congratulate herself that she was free from it. but she could not congratulate herself. while he had entirely belonged to her, she had not known how thoroughly she had loved him. when she had only thought of parting with him, she had believed that it would be easy. but now she found that it was not so easy. it was about as easy for her to pluck his image from her heart as to draw one of her limbs from the socket. but the limb had to be drawn from the socket. there was no longer any hope that it could be saved. nay, it had been already given up as far as the expression of the will was concerned, and there was nothing left but to bear the pain. so she sat down and began to draw out the limb. oh, my sensitive reader! have you ever performed the process? it is by no means to be done with rose-water appliances and gentle motherly pressure. the whole force of the hospital has to be brought out to perform this operation. she now discovered, perhaps, for the first time, that she had a strong beating heart, and that she loved this violent capricious man with every strong pulse of it. there was more about him now that was lovable by such a woman as caroline waddington than when he had first spoken of his love on the side of mount olivet. then he had been little more than a boy; a boy indeed with a high feeling, with a poetic nature, and much humour. but these gifts had hardly sufficed to win her heart. now he had added to these a strong will, a power of command, a capability of speaking out to the world with some sort of voice. after all, power and will are the gifts which a woman most loves in a man. and now that caroline had lost her lover, she confessed to herself that she did love him. love him! yes! how could she recover him? that was her first thought. she could not recover him in any way. that was her second thought. as to asking him to come back to her; the wrenching of the limb from the socket would be better than that. that, at least, she knew she could not do. and was it possible that he of his own accord should come back to her? no, it was not possible. the man was tender hearted, and could have been whistled back with the slightest lure while yet they two were standing in the room together. but he was as proud as he was tender. though there might also be some wrenching to be done within his heart, he would never come back again uninvited. and thus, while miss baker was at her old friend's card-party, miss waddington sat in her own bedroom, striving, with bitter tears and violent struggles, to reconcile herself to her loss. chapter vi. sir lionel in trouble. it has been said that miss baker was going to spend the evening with an old friend. i trust that miss todd, umquhile of the valley of jehoshaphat, and now of no. paragon, littlebath, has not been forgotten; miss todd of the free heart and the rosy face. yes, miss todd had come to littlebath, and was intent rather on forming a party of toddites than of joining herself to either of the regular sets. she was perhaps not much given to be pious, and she certainly was but ill inclined to be slow. if fast, however, she chose to be fast in her own line. but before we have the pleasure of attending at her _soirée_, we must say a word or two of one of the most distinguished of the expected guests. sir lionel was to be there. now sir lionel had been leading a pleasant life at littlebath, with one single exception--that he was rather in want of funds. he had capital apartments, four rooms _ensuite_, a man-servant, a groom, three horses, and a phaeton, and no one was more looked up to at littlebath. ladies smiled, young men listened, old gentlemen brought out their best wines, and all was delightful. all but this, that the "res angusta" did occasionally remind him that he was mortal. oh, that sordid brother of his, who could have given him thousands on thousands without feeling the loss of them! we have been unable to see much of old mr. bertram in recapitulating the story of young mr. bertram's latter doings. but it should have been said, that early in the present year he had not been quite as well as his friends could wish. george had gone to see him once or twice, and so also had his niece miss baker, and his granddaughter. he had said but very little to them; but on miss baker's mind an impression had been left that it would please him to see the marriage completed. and at this time likewise his brother, sir lionel, had thought it expedient to see him. there had hitherto been no interview between them since sir lionel's return. the colonel had found out, and had been duly astonished at finding out, the history of miss baker and her niece. that george and caroline would be the heirs to a great portion of his brother's money he could not doubt; that miss baker would have something he thought probable; and then he reflected, that in spite of all that was come and gone, his brother's heart might relent on his death-bed. it might be that he could talk the sick man round; and if that were impracticable, he might at least learn how others stood in his brother's favour. sir lionel was not now a young man himself. ease and a settled life would be good for him. what, if he married miss baker! he first called on pritchett. mr. pritchett told him that his brother was better--considerably better. sir lionel was in raptures. he had hurried up from littlebath in an agony. he had heard most distressing accounts. he would however go down to hadley and see his brother. "i am afraid mr. bertram is not very much up to company just at present," wheezed out mr. pritchett. "but a brother, you know," suggested sir lionel. pritchett knew exactly how the brothers stood with each other; and he himself, though he was very partial to mr. george, had not any warm love for sir lionel. "oh, yes; a brother is a brother, surely. but, mr. bertram, you know, sir--" "you mean," said sir lionel, "that he is a little vexed about the account." "oh, yes, the account; there is the account, sir lionel. if it is to settle that, perhaps i can manage without troubling you to go to hadley. not but what settling the account _will_ make matters smoother." sir lionel could get nothing more from mr. pritchett; but he would not be put off from his intention, and he did go to hadley. he found his brother sitting up in the dining-room, but he would not have known him. and, indeed, many who had seen him lately might have had some difficulty in recognizing him. he was not only lean and lank, and worn and wan, but he spoke with some difficulty, and on close examination it might be seen that his mouth was twisted as it were from the centre of his face. since his relatives had seen him he had suffered what is genteelly called a slight threatening of paralysis. but his mind, if touched at all, had recovered itself; and his spirit was in nowise paralyzed. when sir lionel was shown into the room--he had first of all taken the precaution of sending down his card from the hotel, and saying that he would call in half an hour--the old man put out his hand to him, but did not attempt to rise from his chair. it must be remembered that the brothers had not seen each other for more than fifteen years. sir lionel had tutored himself carefully as to what he would say and what do. "george," he said, and the old man shrank as he heard the unaccustomed name. "when i heard that you were ill, i could not but come and see you." "very good of you, sir lionel; very good of you," growled the old man. "it is fifteen years since we met, and we are both old men now." "i am an old man now, and nearly worn out; too old and far gone to have many wants. you are not in that condition, i suppose." there was an amount of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke, and in his eye also as he looked at his brother, which made sir lionel perfectly understand that his rich relative was not specially anxious to be kind to him. "well, we are neither of us quite so far gone as that, i hope--not quite so far gone as that;" and sir lionel looked very pleasant. "but, speaking for myself, i have not many wants now"--nor had he, pleasant old man that he was; only three or four comfortable rooms for himself and his servant; a phaeton and a pair of horses; and another smaller establishment in a secluded quiet street; nothing more than that, including of course all that was excellent in the eating and drinking line--"speaking for myself, i have not many wants now." and he did look very good-humoured and pleasant as he spoke. mr. bertram senior did not look good-humoured or pleasant. there was that in his old eye which was the very opposite to good-humour and pleasantness. "ah!" said he. "well i am glad of that, for you will be able to do the more for poor george. he will have wants; he is going to take care and trouble on himself. neither he nor his sweetheart have, i take it, been accustomed to do without wants; and their income will be tight enough--forby what you can do for them." the colonel sat and still looked pleasant, but he began to think that it might be as well for him that he was back at littlebath. "poor george! i hope they will be happy. i think they will; my greatest anxiety now is of course for their happiness; and yours is the same, doubtless. it is odd that my child and your child's child should thus come together, is it not?" so spoke the colonel. mr. bertram looked at him; looked through him almost, but he said nothing. "it is odd," continued sir lionel, "but a very happy circumstance. she is certainly the sweetest girl i ever saw; and george is a lucky fellow." "yes, he is a lucky fellow; he will get more than he has any right to expect. first and last she will have six thousand pounds. i have not heard him say what he means to settle on her; but perhaps he was waiting till you had come home." sir lionel's forte during his whole official career had been the making pleasant--by the pleasantness that was innate in him--things which appeared to be going in a very unpleasant manner. but how was he to make things pleasant now? "well, you see, george has been so much knocked about! there was his fellowship. i think they behaved shabbily enough to him." "fellowship! one hundred and seventy pounds a year and the run of his teeth at feast time, or some such thing as that. a man can't marry on his fellowship very well!" "ha! ha! ha! no, he can't exactly do that. on the whole, i think it was quite as well that he threw it up; and so i told him." "did you tell him at the same time what his future income was to be?" "no, upon my soul i did not; but if all i hear be true, i believe you did. you have been exceedingly generous to him, george--and to me also." "then, sir lionel, allow me to tell you that all you hear is not true. anything at all that you may have heard of that kind, if you have heard anything, is perfectly false. i have said nothing to george about his income, and have nothing to say to him." "well, i may have expressed myself wrongly, and perhaps you did say nothing. i was alluding especially to what you have done." "i will tell you exactly what i have done. i thought he showed a high spirit when he threw up his fellowship, and as i had always a great contempt for those oxford fellows, i sent him a thousand pounds. it was a present, and i hope he will make good use of it." "i am sure he will," said sir lionel, who certainly had just cause for such confidence, seeing how large a slice out of the sum had been placed at his own disposal. "i am sure he will," said sir lionel. "indeed, i know that he has." "ah, i'm glad to hear of it; of course you know more about it than i do; of course you are arranging these matters. but that is all he has had from me, and all that he is likely to have." if such were to be the treatment of george, of george who was certainly in some respects a favourite, what hope could sir lionel have for himself? but it was not so much his brother's words which led him to fear that his brother's money-bags were impregnable to him as his brother's voice and his brother's eye. that eye was never off him, and sir lionel did begin to wish that he was at littlebath. "i don't know whether george may have formed any hopes," continued the old man; but here sir lionel interrupted him, and not imprudently: if anything was to be said, it should be said now. "well, if he has formed hopes, george, you cannot but own that it is natural. he has looked on you as a man without any child of your own, and he has been taught so to look by your treating him almost as though he were your son." "you mean that i paid his school debts and his oxford debts when you forgot to do so," growled out the elder brother. "yes, and that you afterwards gave him an income when he came up to live in london. i hope you do not think that i am ungrateful, george?" and sir lionel used his softest and, at the same time, his most expressive tone. "grateful! i seldom look for much gratitude. but i shall be glad to know when it may suit you to settle with me. the account has been running on now for a great many years. probably pritchett may have sent it you." and as he spoke mr. bertram rose from his chair and took an ominous-looking piece of paper from off the mantelpiece. "yes, mr. pritchett is punctuality itself in these matters," said sir lionel, with a gentle laugh, which had not about it all his usual pleasantness. "you have probably checked it, and can say whether or no it be correct," said mr. bertram senior, looking at the paper in his hand. "well, i can't say that i have exactly; but i don't in the least doubt the figures, not in the least; mr. pritchett is always correct, i know." "yes, mr. pritchett is generally correct. and may i ask, sir lionel, what you intend to do in the matter?" it was necessary now that sir lionel should summon up his best courage. he reminded himself that after all his brother was but a feeble old man--impotent in all but money; and as it seemed now clear that no further pecuniary aid was to be expected, why need he fear him on this account? had it been possible for him to get away without further talk, he would have done so; but this was not possible, so he determined to put a good face on it. "i suppose you are joking now, george," said he. i wish i could describe the tone of voice in which the word joking was repeated by the elder mr. bertram. it made the military knight jump in his chair, and confess to himself that the word impotent could not be safely applied to his ancient relative. "well, i dare say it is a joke," the old man went on to say. "if i expect to be paid what i have expended in saving george from being turned loose upon the world without education, i suppose it is a joke. ha! ha! ha! i never thought of laughing at it before, but now i will. i always heard that you were a joker, sir lionel. ha! ha! ha! i dare say you have laughed at it often enough yourself, eh?" "what i mean is this, when you took upon yourself george's education and maintenance, you could hardly have intended to have it paid back again by such a poor devil as i am." "oh, i couldn't, couldn't i?" "at any rate, i don't suppose you did count on having your money back." "well, i must admit this, i did not feel very sure of it; i did think there might be a doubt. but what could i do? i could not let poor wilkinson ruin himself because you would not pay your debts." "i am sorry that you take it up in such a manner," said the colonel, assuming a tone of injured innocence. "i came here because i heard that you were ill--" "thought i was dying, eh?" "i did not exactly think that you were dying, george; but i knew that you were very ill, and old feelings came back on me. the feelings of our early youth, george; and i could not be happy without seeing you." "very kind of you, i am sure. you altogether decline then to settle the account, eh?" "if you desire it, i will--will make arrangements, certainly; you do not want it all at once, i suppose?" "oh, no; half in three months, and other half in six will do for me." "it would take a great deal more than all my income to do that, i fear." "your professional income; yes, i suppose it would. i fear they don't give you five or six thousand a year for staying at home at littlebath. but surely you must have saved money; you must have intended to do something for your son?" "i have looked upon him as provided for by his uncle." "oh!" "and have therefore been satisfied that he would do well." "now, sir lionel, i will tell you how the matter is. i know you will never repay me a shilling of this money, and therefore i shall tell pritchett not to bother himself with sending you any more accounts." "he is a worthy man, and i am sorry he should have had so much trouble." "so am i, very; but that's done. he has had the trouble, and i've paid the money; and, as far as george is concerned, i do not begrudge it." "you would not if you knew what his sentiments are." "i don't care a fig for his sentiments." "his feelings of gratitude to you are very strong." "no, they are not. he is not in the least grateful to me, nor do i wish him to be so. he is an honest lad, with a high spirit, a good heart, and a bad head. sometimes i have thought of making him my heir." "ah!" sighed sir lionel. "but i have now firmly made up my mind to do no such thing. he has no knowledge of the worth of money. he does not value money." "oh, there you mistake him; indeed, you do." "he would do no good with it; and, as regards mine, he won't have it." sir lionel's face again became very doleful. "but who will have it, george? whom else have you got to leave it to?" "when i want to consult you on that subject, i'll send for you; just at present i have no wish to do so. and now, if you please, we'll say no more about money." nothing more was said about money, and very little on any other subject. on what other subject could a pleasant votary of pleasure, such as sir lionel, wish to hold conversation with a worn-out old miser from the city? he had regarded his brother as a very full sponge, from which living water might probably be squeezed. but the sponge, it seemed, was no longer squeezable by him in any way. so he left hadley as quickly as he could, and betook himself to littlebath with a somewhat saddened heart. he consoled himself, however, by reflecting that an old man's whims are seldom very enduring, and that george might yet become a participator in the huge prize; if not on his own account, at least on that of his wife. sir lionel returned to littlebath, resolving that come what might he would not again have personal recourse to his brother. he had tried his diplomatic powers and had failed--failed in that line on being successful in which he so pre-eminently piqued himself. in ireland it is said of any man who is more than ordinarily persuasive, that he can "talk the devil out of the liver wing of a turkey!" sir lionel had always supposed himself to be gifted with this eloquence; but in that discourse at hadley, the devil had been too stout for him, and he had gone away without any wing at all--liver or other. on one point on which he had been very anxious to say a word or two, he had been unable to introduce the slightest hint. he had not dreamt that it would be possible to ask his brother in so many words whether or no miss baker would be made a participator in the great prize; but he had imagined that he might have led the way to some conversation which would have shown what were the old man's feelings with reference to that lady. but, as the reader will have perceived, he had not been able to lead the conversation in any way; and he had left hadley without further light for the guidance of his steps in that matrimonial path in which he had contemplated the expediency of taking a leisurely evening stroll. the wicked old miser had declared that george should not be his heir; and had also said that which was tantamount to a similar declaration regarding caroline. she would have six thousand pounds, first and last. nothing more than a beggarly six thousand pounds, of which two-thirds were already her own without thanks to any one. what a wretched old miser! who then would have his money? it would hardly be possible that he would leave it all to miss baker. and yet he might. it was just possible. anything was possible with a capricious miserly old fool like that. what a catch would it be if he, sir lionel, could become the heir in so deliciously easy a manner! but, in all probability, anything the old man might say was exactly the opposite of that which he intended to do. he probably would leave his money to george--or very probably to caroline; but most probably he would do something for miss baker; something handsome for that soft, obedient handmaid who had never disobeyed any of his commands; and, better still, had never drawn upon him for more than her regular allowance. such were sir lionel's thoughts as he made his way back to littlebath. yes; he would make himself acceptable to miss baker. that george, old george, was not long for this world was very evident to the colonel. he, troublesome old cross-grained churl that he was, would soon be out of the way. such being certain--all but certain--could not sir lionel manage matters in this way? could he not engage himself to the lady while his brother was yet alive, and then marry her afterwards--marry her, or perhaps not marry her, as might then become expedient? he was well sure of this, that if she promised to marry him before her acquisition of fortune, such acquisition would not induce her to break off from the match. "she is too true, too honourable for that," said sir lionel to himself, feeling a warm admiration for the truth of her character, as he resolved how he might himself best back out of such an engagement in the event of its being expedient for him so to do. so passed his thoughts as he made his way back to littlebath. and when there he did not allow idleness to mar his schemes. he immediately began to make himself pleasant--more than ordinarily pleasant to miss baker. he did not make love to her after the manner of his youth. had he done so, he would only have frightened the gentle lady. but he was assiduous in his attentions, soft and sweetly flattering in his speech, and friendly, oh, so friendly, in his manner! he called almost every day at montpellier crescent. to be sure, there was nothing unnatural in this, for was he not about to become the father of his dear caroline? but dear to him as his dear caroline might be, his softest whispers, his most sugared words, were always for her aunt. he had ever some little proposition to make, some kind family suggestion to put forward. he was a man of the world; they were ladies, delicate, unfit for coping with the world, necessarily ignorant of its naughtier, darker ways; he would do everything for them: and by degrees he did almost everything for miss baker. and so that lady was charmed without knowing it. let us do her full justice. she had not the remotest idea of opening a flirtation with sir lionel bertram. she had looked on him as the future father-in-law of her own dear child; never as anything more: no idea of becoming lady bertram had ever for an instant flashed upon her imagination. but, nevertheless, by degrees the warrior's attentions became pleasant to her. she had had no youthful adorers, this poor, good miss baker; never, at least, since she had been merry as other children are, "when her little lovers came." she had advanced to her present nearly mature age without perhaps feeling the want of them. but, nevertheless, even in her bosom was living the usual feminine passion for admiration. she was no "lusus naturæ," but a woman with a heart, and blood in her veins; and not as yet a very old woman either. and therefore, though she had no idea that sir lionel was her lover, she had learned to be fond of him. her little conversations with caroline on this subject were delightful. the younger lady was certainly the sharper of the two; and though she had her own concerns to occupy her, she was able to see that something might perhaps be intended. her liking for sir lionel was by no means a strong passion. something probably had passed between her and george; for george could keep no secret from her. at any rate, she suspected the knight, but she could not say anything to put her aunt on her guard beyond using cold expressions in speaking of her future father. but miss baker, who suspected nothing, who expected nothing, could not be too lavish in her praises. "caroline," she would say, "i do think you are so happy in having such a father-in-law." "oh, certainly," caroline had answered. "but, for myself, i think more of my father-in-law's son." "oh, of course you do; i know that. but sir lionel is such a perfect gentleman. did you ever know a gentleman of his age so attentive to ladies as he is?" "well, perhaps not; except one or two old men whom i have seen making love." "that's a very different sort of thing, you know--that's absurd. but i must say i think sir lionel's behaviour is perfect." what would she have said of sir lionel's behaviour had she known all the secrets of his establishments? and thus, partly on sir lionel's account, miss baker began in these days to have perhaps her hottest fit, her strongest wish with reference to her niece's marriage. and then just at this hottest moment came the blow which has been told of in the last chapter. but miss baker, as she prepared herself for miss todd's party, would not believe that the matter was hopeless. the quarrels of lovers have ever been the renewal of love, since the day when a verb between two nominative cases first became possessed of the power of agreeing with either of them. there is something in this sweet easiness of agreement which seems to tend to such reconciliations. miss baker was too good a grammarian to doubt the fact. she would probably, under existing circumstances, have stayed at home with her niece, but that she knew she should meet sir lionel at miss todd's party. she was very anxious to learn whether sir lionel had heard of this sad interruption to their harmony; anxious to hear what sir lionel would say about it; anxious to concert measures with sir lionel for repairing the breach--that is, if sir lionel should appear to be cognizant that the breach existed. if she should find that he was not cognizant, she would not tell him; at least she thought she would not. circumstances must of course govern her conduct to a certain degree when the moment of meeting should arrive. and so miss baker went to the party, certainly with a saddened heart, but comforted in some degree by the assurance that she would meet sir lionel. "dear sir lionel, what a thing it is to have a friend," she said to herself as she stepped into the fly. yes, indeed, the best thing in the world--the very best. but, dear miss baker, it is of all things the most difficult to acquire--and especially difficult for both ladies and gentlemen after forty years of age. in the meantime, sir lionel had been calling on miss todd--had heard a good deal about miss todd; and was strong at heart, as a man is strong who has two good strings to his bow. chapter vii. miss todd's card-party. yes. the great miss todd had arrived at littlebath, and had already been talked about not a little. being a maiden lady, with no family but her one own maid, she lived in lodgings of course. people at littlebath, indeed, are much given to lodgings. they are mostly a come-and-go class of beings, to whom the possession of furniture and the responsibilities of householding would be burdensome. but then miss todd's lodgings were in the paragon, and all the world knows how much it costs to secure eligible rooms in the paragon: two spacious sitting-rooms, for instance, a bedroom, and a closet for one's own maid. and miss todd had done this in the very best corner of the paragon; in that brazen-faced house which looks out of the paragon right down montpellier avenue as regards the front windows, and from the back fully commands the entrance to the railway station. this was mrs. o'neil's house; and, as mrs. o'neil herself loudly boasted when miss todd came to inspect the premises, she rarely took single ladies, or any ladies that had not handles to their names. her very last lodger had been lady mcguffern, the widow of the medical director of the great indian eyesore district, as mrs. o'neil called it. and lady mcguffern had paid her, oh! ever so much per week; and had always said on every saturday--"mrs. o'neil, your terms for such rooms as these are much too low." it is in such language that the widows of scotch doctors generally speak of their lodgings when they are paying their weekly bills. and these rooms miss todd had secured. she had, moreover, instantly sent for mr. wutsanbeans, who keeps those remarkably neat livery stables at the back of the paragon, and in ten minutes had concluded her bargain for a private brougham and private coachman in demi-livery at so much per week. "and very wide awake she is, is miss todd," said the admiring mr. wutsanbeans, as he stood among his bandy-legged satellites. and then her name was down at the assembly-rooms, and in the pump-room, and the book-room, and in the best of sittings in mr. o'callaghan's fashionable church, in almost less than no time. there were scores of ladies desirous of being promoted from the side walls to the middle avenues in mr. o'callaghan's church; for, after all, what is the use of a french bonnet when stuck under a side wall? but though all these were desirous, and desirous in vain, miss todd at once secured a place where her head was the cynosure of all the eyes of the congregation. such was miss todd's power, and therefore do we call her great. and in a week's time the sound of her loud but yet pleasant voice, and the step of her heavy but yet active foot, and the glow of her red cherry cheek were as well known on the esplanade as though she were a littlebathian of two months' standing. of course she had found friends there, such friends as one always does find at such places--dear delightful people whom she had met some years before for a week at ems, or sat opposite to once at the hotel table at harrowgate for a fortnight. miss todd had a very large circle of such friends; and, to do her justice, we must say that she was always glad to see them, and always treated them well. she was ready to feed them at all times; she was not candid or malicious when backbiting them; she never threw the burden of her pleasures on her friends' shoulders--as ladies at littlebath will sometimes do. she did not boast either of her purse or her acquaintance; and as long as she was allowed to do exactly what she liked she generally kept her temper. she had an excellent digestion, and greatly admired the same quality in other people. she did not much care what she said of others, but dearly liked to have mischief spoken of herself. some one once had said--or very likely no one had said it, but a _soupçon_ of a hint had in some way reached her own ears--that she had left torquay without paying her bills. it was at any rate untrue, but she had sedulously spread the report; and now wherever she ordered goods, she would mysteriously tell the tradesman that he had better inquire about her in devonshire. she had been seen walking one moonlight night with a young lad at bangor: the lad was her nephew; but some one had perhaps jested about miss todd and her beau, and since that time she was always talking of eloping with her own flesh and blood. but miss todd was not a bad woman. she spent much in feeding those who perhaps were not hungry; but she fed the hungry also: she indulged a good deal in silk brocades; but she bought ginghams as well, and calicos for poor women, and flannel petticoats for motherless girls. she did go to sleep sometimes in church, and would sit at a whist-table till two o'clock of a sunday morning; but having been selected from a large family by an uncle as his heir, she had divided her good things with brothers and sisters, and nephews and nieces. and so there were some hearts that blessed her, and some friends who loved her with a love other than that of her friends of littlebath and ems, of jerusalem and harrowgate. and she had loved in her early days, and had been told and had believed that she was loved. but evidence had come to her that her lover was a scamp--a man without morals and without principle; and she had torn herself away from him. and miss todd had offered to him money compensation, which the brute had taken; and since that, for his sake, or rather for her love's sake, she had rejected all further matrimonial tenders, and was still miss todd: and miss todd she intended to remain. being such as she was, the world of littlebath was soon glad to get about her. those who give suppers at their card-parties are not long in littlebath in making up the complement of their guests. she had been there now ten days, and had already once or twice mustered a couple of whist-tables; but this affair was to be on a larger scale. miss baker she had not yet seen, nor miss waddington. the ladies had called on each other, but had missed fire on both occasions; but with sir lionel she had already renewed her intimacy on very affectionate terms. they had been together for perhaps three days at jerusalem, but then three days at jerusalem are worth a twelvemonth in such a dull, slow place as london. and sir lionel, therefore, and miss todd had nearly rushed into each other's arms; and they both, without any intentional falsehood, were talking of each other all over littlebath as old and confidential friends. and now for miss todd's party. assist me, my muse. come down from heaven, o, calliope my queen! and aid me to spin with my pen a long discourse. hark! do you hear? or does some fond delusion mock me? i seem to hear, and to be already wandering through those sacred recesses--the drawing-rooms, namely, at littlebath--which are pervious only to the streams and breezes of good society. miss todd stood at her drawing-room door as her guests were ushered in, not by the greengrocer's assistant, but by the greengrocer himself in person. and she made no quiet little curtsies, whispered no unmeaning welcomes with bated breath. no; as they arrived she seized each littlebathian by the hand, and shook that hand vigorously. she did so to every one that came, rejoiced loudly in the coming of each, and bade them all revel in tea and cake with a voice that demanded and received instant obedience. "ah, lady longspade! this is kind. i am delighted to see you. do you remember dear ems, and the dear kursaal? ah, me! well, do take some tea now, lady longspade. what, miss finesse--well--well--well. i was thinking of ostend only the other day. you'll find flounce there with coffee and cake and all that. you remember my woman, flounce, don't you? mrs. fuzzybell, you really make me proud. but is not mr. fuzzybell to be here? oh, he's behind is he? well--i'm so glad. ha! ha! ha! a slow coach is he? i'll make him faster. but perhaps you won't trust him to me, i'm such a dangerous creature. i'm always eloping with some one. who knows but i might go off with mr. fuzzybell? we were near it you know at the end of that long walk at malvern--only he seemed too tired--ha! ha! ha! there's tea and cake there, mrs. fuzzybell. my dear sir lionel, i am delighted. i declare you are five years younger--we are both five years younger than when we were at jerusalem." and so forth. but sir lionel did not pass on to the tea-tables as did the finesses and the longspades. he remained close at miss todd's elbow, as though his friendship was of a more enduring kind than that of others, as though he were more to miss todd than mrs. fuzzybell, nearer than miss ruff who had just been assured at her entrance that the decks should be made ready for action almost at once. a lion-hearted old warrior was miss ruff,--one who could not stand with patience the modern practice of dallying in the presence of her enemies' guns. she had come there for a rubber of whist--to fight the good fight--to conquer or to die, and her soul longed to be at it. wait but one moment longer, miss ruff, and the greengrocer and i will have done with our usherings, and then the decks shall be cleared. but we must certainly do the honours for our old friend miss baker. miss todd, when she saw her, looked as though she would have fallen on her neck and kissed her; but she doubtless remembered that their respective head-dresses might suffer in the encounter. "at last, dear miss baker; at last! i am so delighted; but where is miss waddington? where is the bride-elect?" these last words were said in a whisper which was not perhaps quite as plainly audible at the other side of the paragon as were the generality of miss todd's speeches. "indisposed! why is she indisposed? you mean that she has love-letters to write. i know that is what you mean." and the roar again became a whisper fit for drury lane. "well, i shall make a point of seeing her to-morrow. do you remember jehoshaphat, dear jehoshaphat?" and then having made her little answers, miss baker also passed on, and left miss todd in the act of welcoming the rev. mr. o'callaghan. miss baker passed on, but she did so slowly. she had to speak to sir lionel, who kept his place near miss todd's shoulder; and perhaps she had some secret hope--no, not hope; some sort of an anticipation--that her dear friend would give her the benefit of his arm for a few moments. but sir lionel did nothing of the kind. he took her hand with his kindest little squeeze, asked with his softest voice after his dear caroline, and then let her pass on by herself. miss baker was a bird easily to be lured to her perch,--or to his. sir lionel felt that he could secure her at any time. therefore, he determined to attach himself to miss todd for the present. and so miss baker walked on alone, perhaps a little piqued at being thus slighted. it was a strange sight to see the rev. mr. o'callaghan among that worldly crowd of pleasure-seeking sinners. there were, as we have said, three sets of people at littlebath. that miss todd, with her commanding genius and great power of will, should have got together portions of two of them was hardly to be considered wonderful. both the fast and heavy set liked good suppers. but it did appear singular to the men and women of both these sets that they should find themselves in the same room with mr. o'callaghan. mr. o'callaghan was not exactly the head and font of piety at littlebath. it was not on his altars, not on his chiefly, that hecatombs of needlework were offered up. he was only senior curate to the great high-priest, to dr. snort himself. but though he was but curate, he was more perhaps to littlebath--to his especial set in littlebath--than most rectors are to their own people. mr. o'callaghan was known to be condescending and mild under the influence of tea and muffins--sweetly so if the cream be plentiful and the muffins soft with butter; but still, as a man and a pastor, he was severe. in season and out of season he was hot in argument against the devil and all his works. he was always fighting the battle with all manner of weapons. he would write letters of killing reproach to persons he had never known, and address them by post to-- "john jones, esq., the sabbath-breaker, paradise terrace, littlebath." or-- "mrs. gambler smith, little paragon, littlebath." nothing was too severe for him. one may say that had he not been a clergyman, and therefore of course justified in any interference, he would have been kicked from littlebath to london and back again long since. how then did it come to pass that he was seen at miss todd's party? the secret lay in miss todd's unbounded power. she was not as other littlebathians. when he unintentionally squeezed her hand, she squeezed his in return with somewhat of a firmer grasp. when, gently whispering, he trusted that she was as well in spirit as in body, she answered aloud--and all the larger paragon heard her--that she was very well in both, thank god. and then, as her guests pressed in, she passed him on rapidly to the tea and cake, and to such generous supplies of cream as mrs. flounce, in her piety, might be pleased to vouchsafe to him. "what, mr. o'callaghan!" said sir lionel into miss todd's ear, in a tone of well-bred wonder and triumphant admiration. "mr. o'callaghan among the sinners! my dear miss todd, how will he like the whist-tables?" "if he does not like them, he must just do the other thing. if i know anything of miss ruff, a whole college of o'callaghans would not keep her from the devil's books for five minutes longer. oh, here is lady ruth revoke, my dear lady ruth, i am charmed to see you. when, i wonder, shall we meet again at baden baden? dear baden baden! flounce, green tea for lady ruth revoke." and so miss todd continued to do her duty. what miss todd had said of her friend was quite true. even then miss ruff was standing over a card-table, with an open pack in her hands, quite regardless of mr. o'callaghan. "come, lady longspade," she said, "we are wasting time sadly. it is ever so much after nine. i know miss todd means us to begin. she told me so. suppose we sit down?" but lady longspade merely muttered something and passed on. in the first place, she was not quite so eager as was miss ruff; and in the next, miss ruff was neither the partner nor the opponent with whom she delighted to co-operate. lady longspade liked to play first-fiddle at her own table; but miss ruff always played first-fiddle at her table, let the others be whom they might; and she very generally played her tunes altogether "con spirito." miss ruff saw how lady longspade passed on, but she was nothing disconcerted. she was used to that, and more than that. "highty-tighty!" was all she said. "well, mrs. garded, i think we can manage without her ladyship, can't we?" mrs. garded said that she thought they might indeed, and stood by the table opposite to miss ruff. this was mrs. king garded, a widow of great littlebathian repute, to whom as a partner over the green table few objected. she was a careful, silent, painstaking player, one who carefully kept her accounts, and knew well that the monthly balance depended mainly, not on her good, but on her bad hands. she was an old friend, and an old enemy of miss ruff's. the two would say very spiteful things to each other, things incredible to persons not accustomed to the card-tables of littlebath. but, nevertheless, they were always willing to sit together at the same rubber. to them came up smirking little mr. fuzzybell. mr. fuzzybell was not great at whist, nor did he much delight in it; but, nevertheless, he constantly played. he was taken about by his wife to the parties, and then he was always caught and impaled, and generally plucked and skinned before he was sent home again. he never disported at the same table with his wife, who did not care to play either with him or against him; but he was generally caught by some miss ruff, or some mrs. king garded, and duly made use of. the ladies of littlebath generally liked to have one black coat at the table with them. it saved them from that air of destitution which always, in their own eyes, attaches to four ladies seated at a table together. "ah, mr. fuzzybell," said miss ruff, "you are the very person we are looking for. mrs. garded always likes to have you at her table. sit down, mr. fuzzybell." mr. fuzzybell did as he was told, and sat down. just at this moment, as miss ruff was looking out with eager eyes for a fourth who would suit her tastes, and had almost succeeded in catching the eye of miss finesse--and miss finesse was a silent, desirable, correct player--who should walk up to the table and absolutely sit down but that odious old woman, lady ruth revoke! it was mrs. garded's great sin, in miss ruff's eye, that she toadied lady ruth to such an extent as to be generally willing to play with her. now it was notorious in littlebath that she had never played well, and that she had long since forgotten all she had ever known. the poor old woman had already had some kind of a fit; she was very shaky and infirm, and ghastly to look at, in spite of her paint and ribbons. she was long in arranging her cards, long in playing them; very long in settling her points, when the points went against her, as they generally did. and yet, in spite of all this, mrs. king garded would encourage her because her father had been lord whitechapel! there was no help for it now. there she was in the chair; and unless miss ruff was prepared to give up her table and do something that would be uncommonly rude even for her, the rubber must go on. she was not prepared at any rate to give up her table, so she took up a card to cut for partners. there were two to one in her favour. if fortune would throw her ladyship and mr. fuzzybell together there might yet be found in the easiness of the prey some consolation for the slowness of the play. they cut the cards, and miss ruff found herself sitting opposite to lady ruth revoke. it was a pity that she should not have been photographed. "and now, mr. fuzzybell," said mrs. king garded, triumphantly. but we must for awhile go to other parts of the room. lady longspade, mrs. fuzzybell, and miss finesse soon followed the daring example of miss ruff, and seated themselves with some worthy fourth compatriot. "did you see miss ruff?" said lady longspade, whose ears had caught the scornful highty-tighty of the rejected lady. "she wanted to get me at her table. but no, i thank you. i like my rubber too, and can play it as well as some other people. but it may cost too dear, eh, mrs. fuzzybell? i have no idea of being scolded by miss ruff." "no, nor i," said mrs. fuzzybell. "i hate that continual scolding. we are playing only for amusement; and why not play in good temper?"--nevertheless mrs. fuzzybell had a rough side to her own tongue. "it is you and i, miss finesse. shillings, i suppose, and--" and then there was a little whispering and a little grinning between lady longspade and mrs. fuzzybell, the meaning of which was, that as the occasion was rather a special one, they would indulge themselves with half-a-crown on the rubber and sixpence each hand on the odd trick. and so the second table went to work. and then there was a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. miss ruff's example was more potent than mr. o'callaghan's presence in that assembly. that gentleman began to feel unhappy as there was no longer round him a crowd of listening ladies sufficient to screen from his now uninquiring eyes the delinquencies of the more eager of the sinners. the snorting of the war-horse and the sound of the trumpet had enticed away every martial bosom, and mr. o'callaghan was left alone in converse with mrs. flounce. he turned to miss todd, who was now seated near enough to the door to do honour to any late arriving guest, but near enough also to the table to help herself easily to cake. his soul burned within him to utter one anathema against the things that he saw. miss todd was still not playing. he might opine that she objected to the practice. sir lionel was still at her back; he also might be a brand that had been rescued from the burning. at a little distance sat miss baker; he knew that she at any rate was not violently attached to cards. could he not say something? could he not lift up his voice, if only for a moment, and speak forth as he so loved to do, as was his wont in the meetings of the saints, his brethren? he looked at miss todd, and he raised his eyes, and he raised his hands, but the courage was not in him to speak. there was about miss todd as she stood, or as she sat, a firmness which showed itself even in her rotundity, a vigour in the very rubicundity of her cheek which was apt to quell the spirit of those who would fain have interfered with her. so mr. o'callaghan, having raised his eyes considerably, and having raised his hands a little, said nothing. "i fear you do not approve of cards?" said miss todd. "approve! oh no, how can i approve of them, miss todd?" "well, i do with all my heart. what are old women like us to do? we haven't eyes to read at night, even if we had minds fit for it. we can't always be saying our prayers. we have nothing to talk about except scandal. it's better than drinking; and we should come to that if we hadn't cards." "oh, miss todd!" "you see you have your excitement in preaching, mr. o'callaghan. these card-tables are our pulpits; we have got none other. we haven't children, and we haven't husbands. that is, the most of us. and we should be in a lunatic asylum in six weeks if you took away our cards. now, will you tell me, mr. o'callaghan, what would you expect miss ruff to do if you persuaded her to give up whist?" "she has the poor with her always, miss todd." "yes, she has; the woman that goes about with a clean apron and four borrowed children; and the dumb man with a bit of chalk and no legs, and the very red nose. she has these, to be sure, and a lot more. but suppose she looks after them all the day, she can't be looking after them all the night too. the mind must be unbent sometimes, mr. o'callaghan." "but to play for money, miss todd! is not that gambling?" "well, i don't know. i can't say what gambling is. but do you sit down and play for love, mr. o'callaghan, and see how soon you'll go to sleep. come, shall we try? i can have a little private bet, just to keep myself awake, with sir lionel, here." but mr. o'callaghan declined the experiment. so he had another cup of tea and another muffin, and then went his way; regretting sorely in his heart that he could not get up into a high pulpit and preach at them all. however, he consoled himself by "improving" the occasion on the following sunday. for the next fifteen minutes sir lionel stood his ground, saying soft nothings to miss todd, and then he also became absorbed among the rubbers. he found that miss todd was not good at having love made to her in public. she was very willing to be confidential, very willing to receive flattery, attentions, hand-pressings, and the like. but she would make her confidences in her usual joyous, loud voice; and when told that she was looking remarkably well, she would reply that she always did look well at littlebath, in a tone that could not fail to attract the attention of the whole room. now sir lionel would fain have been a little more quiet in his proceedings, and was forced to put off somewhat of what he had to say till he could find miss todd alone on the top of a mountain. 'twas thus at least that he expressed his thoughts to himself in his chagrin, as he took his place opposite to mrs. shortpointz at the seventh and last establishment now formed in the rooms. the only idlers present were miss baker and miss todd. miss baker was not quite happy in her mind. it was not only that she was depressed about caroline: her firm belief in the grammatical axiom before alluded to lessened her grief on that score. but the conduct of sir lionel made her uncomfortable; and she began to find, without at all understanding why, that she did not like miss todd as well as she used to do at jerusalem. her heart took mr. o'callaghan's side in that little debate about the cards; and though sir lionel, in leaving miss todd, did not come to her, nevertheless the movement was agreeable to her. she was not therefore in her very highest spirits when miss todd came and sat close to her on the sofa. "i am so sorry you should be out," said miss todd. "but you see, i've had so much to do at the door there, that i couldn't see who was sitting down with who." "i'd rather be out," said miss baker. "i am not quite sure that mr. o'callaghan is not right." this was her revenge. "no; he's not a bit right, my dear. he does--just what the man says in the rhymes--what is it? you know--makes up for his own little peccadilloes by damning yours and mine. i forget how it goes. but there'll be more in by-and-by, and then we'll have another table. those who come late will be more in your line; not so ready to peck your eyes out if you happen to forget a card. that miss ruff is dreadful." here an awful note was heard, for the lady ruth had just put her thirteenth trump on miss ruff's thirteenth heart. what littlebathian female soul could stand that unmoved? "oh, dear! that poor old woman!" continued miss todd. "you know one lives in constant fear of her having a fit. miss ruff is horrible. she has a way of looking with that fixed eye of hers that is almost worse than her voice." the fact was, that miss ruff had one glass eye. "i know she'll be the death of that poor old creature some of these days. lady ruth will play, and she hardly knows one card from another. and then miss ruff, she will scold. good heavens! do you hear that?" "it's just seven minutes since i turned the last trick of the last hand," miss ruff had said, scornfully. "we shall have finished the two rubbers about six in the morning, i take it." "will your ladyship allow me to deal for you?" said mr. fuzzybell, meaning to be civil. "i'll allow you to do no such thing," croaked out lady ruth. "i can deal very well myself; at any rate as well as miss ruff. and i'm not the least in a hurry;" and she went on slobbering out the cards, and counting them over and over again, almost as each card fell. "that's a double and a treble against a single," said lady longspade, cheerfully, from another table; "six points, and five--the other rubber--makes eleven; and the two half-crowns is sixteen, and seven odd tricks is nineteen and six. here's sixpence, mrs. fuzzybell; and now we'll cut again." this was dreadful to miss ruff. here had her rival played two rubbers, won them both, pocketed all but a sovereign, and was again at work; while she, she was still painfully toiling through her second game, the first having been scored against her by her partner's fatuity in having trumped her long heart. was this to be borne with patience? "lady ruth," she said, emitting fire out of her one eye, "do you ever mean to have done dealing those cards?" lady ruth did not condescend to make any answer, but recommenced her leisurely counting; and then miss ruff uttered that terrific screech which had peculiarly excited miss todd's attention. "i declare i don't like it at all," said the tender-hearted miss baker. "i think mr. o'callaghan was quite right." "no, my dear, he was quite wrong, for he blamed the use of cards, not the abuse. and after all, what harm comes of it? i don't suppose miss ruff will actually kill her. i dare say if we were playing ourselves we shouldn't notice it. do you play cribbage? shall we have a little cribbage?" but miss baker did not play cribbage; or, at any rate, she said that she did not. "and do tell me something about dear caroline," continued miss todd. "i am so anxious to see her. but it has been a very long engagement, hasn't it? and there ought to be lots of money, oughtn't there? but i suppose it's all right. you know i was very much in love with young bertram myself; and made all manner of overtures to him, but quite in vain; ha! ha! ha! i always thought him a very fine fellow, and i think her a very lucky girl. and when is it to be? and, do tell me, is she over head and ears in love with him?" what was miss baker to say to this? she had not the slightest intention of making miss todd a confidante in the matter: certainly not now, as that lady was inclined to behave so very improperly with sir lionel; and yet she did not know how to answer it. "i hope it won't be put off much longer," continued miss todd. "is any day fixed yet?" "no; no day is fixed yet," replied miss baker, blushing. miss todd's ear was very quick. "there is nothing the matter, i trust. well, i won't ask any questions, nor say a word to anybody. come, there is a table vacant, and we will cut in." and then she determined that she would get it all out from sir lionel. the parties at some of the tables were now changed, and miss baker and miss todd found themselves playing together. miss baker, too, loved a gentle little rubber, if she could enjoy it quietly, without fear of being gobbled up by any ruff or any longspade; and with miss todd she was in this matter quite safe. she might behave as badly as had the lady ruth, and miss todd would do no worse than laugh at her. miss todd did not care about her points, and at her own house would as soon lose as win; so that miss baker would have been happy had she not still continued to sigh over her friend's very improper flirtation with sir lionel. and thus things went on for an hour or so. every now and again a savage yell was heard from some ill-used angry lady, and low growls, prolonged sometimes through a whole game, came from different parts of the room; but nobody took any notice of them; 'twas the manner at littlebath: and, though a stranger to the place might have thought, on looking at those perturbed faces, and hearing those uncourteous sounds, that there would be a flow of blood--such a flow as angry nails may produce--the denizens of the place knew better. so the rubbers went on with the amount of harmony customary to the place. but the scene would have been an odd one for a non-playing stranger, had a non-playing stranger been there to watch it. every person in the room was engaged at whist except mrs. flounce, who still remained quiescent behind her tea and cakes. it did not happen that the party was made up of a number of exact fours. there were two over; two middle-aged ladies, a maiden and a widow: and they, perhaps more happy than any of the others, certainly more silent for neither of them had a partner to scold, were hard at work at double-dummy in a corner. it was a sight for a stranger! it is generally thought that a sad _ennui_ pervades the life of most of those old ladies in england to whom fate has denied the usual cares and burdens of the world, or whose cares and burdens are done and gone. but there was no _ennui_ here. no stockjobber on 'change could go about his exciting work with more animating eagerness. there were those who scolded, and those who were scolded. those who sat silent, being great of mind, and those who, being weak, could not restrain their notes of triumph or their notes of woe; but they were all of them as animated and intense as a tiger springing at its prey. watch the gleam of joy that lights up the half-dead, sallow countenance of old mrs. shortpointz as she finds the ace of trumps at the back of her hand, the very last card. happy, happy mrs. shortpointz! watch the triumph which illumines even the painted cheeks and half-hidden wrinkles of lady longspade as she brings in at the end of the hand three winning little clubs, and sees kings and queens fall impotent at their call. triumphant, successful lady longspade! was napoleon more triumphant, did a brighter glow of self-satisfied inward power cross his features, when at ulm he succeeded in separating poor mack from all his friends? play on ladies. let us not begrudge you your amusements. we do not hold with pious mr. o'callaghan, that the interchange of a few sixpences is a grievous sin. at other hours ye are still soft, charitable, and tender-hearted; tender-hearted as english old ladies are, and should be. but, dear ladies, would it not be well to remember the amenities of life--even at the whist-table? so things went on for an hour or so, and then miss baker and sir lionel again found themselves separated from the card-tables, a lonely pair. it had been sir lionel's cue this evening to select miss todd for his special attentions; but he had found miss todd at the present moment to be too much a public character for his purposes. she had a sort of way of speaking to all her guests at once, which had doubtless on the whole an extremely hilarious effect, but which was not flattering to the _amour propre_ of a special admirer. so, _faute de mieux_, sir lionel was content to sit down in a corner with miss baker. miss baker was also content; but she was rather uneasy as to how she should treat the subject of caroline's quarrel with her lover. "of course you saw george to-day?" she began. "yes, i did see him; but that was all. he seemed to be in a tremendous hurry, and said he must be back in town to-night. he's not staying, is he?" "no; he's not staying." "i didn't know: when i saw that dear caroline was not with you, i thought she might perhaps have better company at home." "she was not very well. george went back to london before dinner." "nothing wrong, i hope?" "well, no; i hope not. that is--you haven't heard anything about it, have you, sir lionel?" "heard anything! no, i have heard nothing; what is it?" it may be presumed that such a conversation as this had not been carried on in a very loud tone; but, nevertheless, low as miss baker had spoken, low as sir lionel had spoken, it had been too loud. they had chosen their places badly. the table at which lady ruth and her party were sitting--we ought rather to say, miss ruff and her party--was in one corner of the room, and our friends had placed themselves on a cushioned seat fixed against the wall in this very corner. things were still going badly with miss ruff. as sindbad carried the old man, and could not shake him off, so did miss ruff still carry lady ruth revoke; and the weight was too much for her. she manfully struggled on, however--womanfully would perhaps be a stronger and more appropriate word. she had to calculate not only how to play her own hand correctly, but she had also to calculate on her partner's probable errors. this was hard work, and required that all around her should be undisturbed and silent. in the midst of a maze of uncontrollable difficulties, the buzz buzz of miss baker's voice fell upon her ears, and up she rose from her chair. "miss todd," she said, and miss todd, looking round from a neighbouring table, shone upon her with her rosy face. but all the shining was of no avail. "miss todd, if this is to be a conversazione, we had better make it so at once. but if it's whist, then i must say i never heard so much talking in my life!" "it's a little of both," said miss todd, not _sotto voce_. "oh, very well; now i understand," said miss ruff; and then she resumed her work and went on with her calculations. miss baker and sir lionel got up, of course, and going over to the further part of the room continued their conversation. she soon told him all she knew. she had hardly seen george herself, she said. but caroline had had a long interview with him, and on leaving him had said that all--all now was over. "i don't know what to make of it," said miss baker, with her handkerchief to her eyes. "what do you think, sir lionel? you know they say that lovers always do quarrel, and always do make it up again." "george is a very headstrong fellow," said sir lionel. "yes, that is what i have always felt; always. there was no being sure with him. he is so wild, and has such starts." "has this been his doing?" "oh, yes, i think so. not but that caroline is very spirited too: i suppose somehow it came about between them." "he was tired of waiting." "that might have been a reason twelve months ago, but there was to be no more delay now; that is as i understood it. no, it has not been that, sir lionel. it makes me very unhappy, i know;" and miss baker again used her handkerchief. "you mustn't distress yourself, my dearest friend," said lionel. "for my sake, don't. oh, if you knew how it pains me to see you suffering in that way! i think more of you in the matter than even of george; i do indeed." and sir lionel contrived to give a little pinch to the top of one of miss baker's fingers--not, however, without being observed by the sharp eyes of his hostess. "but, caroline!" sobbed miss baker, behind her handkerchief. she was nicely ensconced in the depth of a lounging-chair, so that she could turn her face from the card-tables. it is so sweet to be consoled in one's misery, especially when one really believes that the misery is not incurable. so that on the whole miss baker was not unhappy. "yes, dear caroline," said sir lionel; "of course i can say nothing till i have heard more of the matter. but do you think caroline really loves him? sometimes i have thought--" "so have i, sometimes; that is i used. but she does love him, sir lionel; that is, if i know anything about it." "ah, dearest friend, do you know anything about it? that is the very question i want to ask you. do you know anything about it? sometimes i have thought you knew nothing. and then sometimes i have thought, been bold enough to think--" and sir lionel looked intently at the handkerchief which covered her face; and miss todd looked furtively, ever and anon, at sir lionel. "i declare i think it would do very well," said miss todd to herself good-naturedly. miss baker did not quite understand him, but she felt herself much consoled. sir lionel was a remarkably handsome man; as to that she had made up her mind long since: then he was a peculiarly gentlemanlike man, a very friendly man, and a man who exactly suited all her tastes. she had for some weeks past begun to think the day tedious in which she did not see him; and now it was driven in upon her mind that conversation was a much pleasanter occupation than whist; that is, conversation with so highly-polished a man as sir lionel bertram. but, nevertheless, she did not quite understand what he meant, nor did she know how she ought to answer it. why need she answer him at all? could she not sit there, wiping her eyes softly and comfortably, and listen to what might come next? "i sometimes think that some women never love," said sir lionel. "perhaps they don't," said miss baker. "and yet in the depth of many a heart there may be a fund of passion." "oh, there may, certainly," said miss baker. "and in your own, my friend? is there no such fund there? are there no hidden depths there unexplored, still fresh, but still, perhaps still to be reached?" again miss baker found it easiest to lie well back into her chair, and wipe her eyes comfortably. she was not prepared to say much about the depths of her own heart at so very short a notice. sir lionel was again about to speak--and who can say what might have come next, how far those hidden depths might have been tried?--when he was arrested in the midst of his pathos by seeing mrs. garded and mr. fuzzybell each rush to a shoulder of lady ruth revoke. the colonel quitted his love for the moment, and hurried to the distant table; while miss baker, removing her handkerchief, sat up and gazed at the scene of action. the quarrelling had been going on unabated, but that had caused little surprise. it is astonishing how soon the ear becomes used to incivilities. they were now accustomed to miss ruff's voice, and thought nothing of her exclamations. "well, i declare--what, the ten of spades!--ha! ha! ha! well, it is an excellent joke--if you could have obliged me, lady ruth, by returning my lead of trumps, we should have been out," &c., &c., &c. all this and more attracted no attention, and the general pity for lady ruth had become dead and passive. but at last miss ruff's tongue went faster and faster, and her words became sharper and sharper. lady ruth's countenance became very strange to look at. she bobbed her head about slowly in a manner that frightened mr. fuzzybell, and ceased to make any remark to her partner. then mrs. garded made two direct appeals to miss ruff for mercy. but miss ruff could not be merciful. perhaps on each occasion she refrained for a moment, but it was only for a moment; and mrs. garded and mr. fuzzybell ceased to think of their cards, and looked only at the lady ruth; and then of a sudden they both rose from their seats, the colonel, as we have said, rushed across the room, and all the players at all the tables put down their cards and stood up in alarm. lady ruth was sitting perfectly still, except that she still bobbed her old head up and down in a strange unearthly manner. she had about ten cards in her hand which she held motionless. her eyes seemed to be fixed in one continued stare directly on the face of her foe. her lower jaw had fallen so as to give a monstrous extension to her cadaverous face. there she sat apparently speechless; but still she bobbed her head, and still she held her cards. it was known at littlebath that she had suffered from paralysis, and mrs. garded and mr. fuzzybell thinking that she was having or about to have a fit, naturally rushed to her assistance. "what is the matter with her?" said miss ruff. "is anything the matter with her?" miss todd was now at the old lady's side. "lady ruth," said she, "do you find yourself not well? shall we go into my room? sir lionel, will you help her ladyship?" and between them they raised lady ruth from her chair. but she still clutched the cards, still fixed her eyes on miss ruff, and still bobbed her head. "do you feel yourself ill, lady ruth?" said miss todd. but her ladyship answered nothing. it seemed, however, that her ladyship could walk, for with her two supporters she made her way nearly to the door of the room. there she stood, and having succeeded in shaking off sir lionel's arm, she turned and faced round upon the company. she continued to bob her head at them all, and then made this little speech, uttering each word very slowly. "i wish she had a glass tongue as well, because then perhaps she'd break it." and having so revenged herself, she suffered miss todd to lead her away into the bedroom. it was clear at least that she had no fit, and the company was thankful. sir lionel, seeing how it was, left them at the door of the bedroom, and a few minutes afterwards miss todd, mrs. flounce, and lady ruth's own maid succeeded in getting her into a cab. it is believed that after a day or two she was none the worse for what had happened, and that she made rather a boast of having put down miss ruff. for the moment, miss ruff was rather put down. when miss todd returned to the drawing-room that lady was sitting quite by herself on an ottoman. she was bolt upright, with her hands before her on her lap, striving to look as though she were perfectly indifferent to what had taken place. but there was ever and again a little twitch about her mouth, and an involuntary movement in her eye which betrayed the effort, and showed that for this once lady ruth had conquered. mr. fuzzybell was standing with a frightened look at the fireplace; while mrs. king garded hung sorrowing over her cards, for when the accident happened she had two by honours in her own hand. when miss todd returned some few of her guests were at work again; but most of the tables were broken up. "poor dear old lady," said miss todd, "she has gone home none the worse. she is very old, you know, and a dear good creature." "a sweet dear creature," said mrs. shortpointz, who loved the peerage, and hated miss ruff. "come," said miss todd, "parsnip has got a little supper for us downstairs; shall we go down? miss ruff, you and i will go and call on lady ruth to-morrow. sir lionel, will you give your arm to lady longspade? come, my dear;" and so miss todd took miss baker under her wing, and they all went down to supper. but miss ruff said not another word that night. "ha! ha!" said miss todd, poking her fan at miss baker, "i see all about it, i assure you; and i quite approve." miss baker felt very comfortable, but she did not altogether understand her friend's joke. chapter viii. three letters. george bertram, as we have seen, returned to town after his interview with miss waddington without seeing his father. neither to his mind nor to hers was any comfort brought by that grammatical rule in which miss baker had found so much consolation. for both of them the separation was now a thing completed. each knew enough of the other to feel that that other's pride was too high to admit of his or her making any first fresh advancement. george endeavoured to persuade himself that he was glad of what he had done; but he failed utterly. he had loved her, did love her dearly, and found that he never valued her as he did now. she had behaved shamefully to him. he said that to himself over and over again. but what had that to do with love? he did not love her the less because she had made public his letter, the secrets of his heart, that which should have been as private as the passion of her own bosom. he could not love her less because she talked over these with another man, however much he might feel himself bound to cast her off for doing so. so he shut himself up in his chambers; wrote pages for his new book that were moody, misanthropical, and unbelieving; and on the whole was very unhappy. nor was caroline much better able to bear the shock; though with her there was more propriety of demeanour under the blow, and a better mental control. that was of course, for she was a woman--and being a woman, she had to take care that the world knew nothing of what was going on within her heart. for two days she remained perfectly calm. she allowed herself no vent whatever for her feelings. she made the breakfast; sat close at her tambour frame, or more frequently close at her book; read aloud to her aunt; went out and made calls; and attended minutely to all the ordinary occupations of her life. her aunt never once caught her with a tear in her eye, never saw her sitting thoughtful, unoccupied, with her head leaning on her arm. had she done so, she would have spoken to her about george. as it was, she did not dare to do so. there was during these days, and indeed outwardly for many days afterwards, an iron stubbornness about caroline which frightened miss baker and altogether prevented her from alluding to the possibility of a reconciliation. nothing could be more gentle, nay, more obedient, than caroline's manner and way with her aunt at this time: she yielded to her in everything; but her aunt perceived that all utterance as to the one subject which was nearest to both their hearts was effectually forbidden. caroline allowed two whole days to pass before she would allow herself to think of what had taken place. she read through half the nights, so as to secure sleep for herself when she lay down. but on the third morning she opened her desk in her own room, and sat down and wrote to adela gauntlet. littlebath, friday. dearest adela, an occurrence has taken place of which i have not yet allowed myself to think, and which i shall first realize and bring home to myself in writing to you; and yet before it happened i had thought of it very often--even talked of it with aunt mary; and sometimes thought of it and talked of it as though it were almost desirable. i wish i may teach myself so to think of it now. all is over between me and mr. bertram. he came down here on tuesday and told me so. i do not blame him. nor can i blame him; not at least for what he has done, though his manner in doing it was very harsh. i would tell you all if i could, but it is so hard in a letter. i wish you were here. but no; you would drive me mad by advice which i could not, would not take. last summer, when i was so unhappy in london, aunt and i had some conversation about our affairs with a person there. mr. bertram heard of this while he was in paris. he did not approve of it; and he wrote me, oh! such a letter. i should have thought it impossible for him to have written such words to me. i was mad with grief, and i showed this letter to the same person. there, adela, i must tell you all. it was mr. harcourt, george's intimate friend. george particularly begged me in that letter not to talk to him any more; and yet i did this. but i was half frenzied with grief; and why was i to obey one who had no right to command me, and who made his commands so harsh? his request would have been a law to me. but i know i was wrong, adela. i have known it every minute since i showed the letter. i was sure i was wrong, because i could not tell him that i had done so. it made me afraid of him, and i never before was afraid of any one. well; i did not tell him, and now he has found it out. i would not condescend to ask him how; but i think i know. this at least i know, that he did so in no ignoble way, by no mean little suspicions. he did not seek to discover it. it had come upon him like a great blow, and he came at once to me to learn the truth. i told him the truth, and this has been the end of it. now you know it all; all except his look, his tone, his manner. these i cannot tell you--cannot describe. i seem now to know him better, understand him more thoroughly than ever i did. he is a man for a tender-hearted woman to love to madness. and i-- ah! never mind, dearest; i think--nay, i am sure i can get over it. you never could. yes; he is a man for a woman to worship; but yet he is so rough, so stern, so harsh in his anger. he does not measure his words at all. i don't think he knows the kind of things he says. and yet the while his heart is so tender, so soft; i could see it all. but he gives one no time to acknowledge it--at least, he gave me none. were you ever scolded, upbraided, scorned by a man you loved? and did you ever feel that you loved him the better for all his scorn? i felt so. i could so feel, though it was impossible to confess it. but he was wrong there. he should not have upbraided me unless he intended to forgive. i think i have read that it is not kingly for a king to receive a suppliant for pardon unless he intends to forgive. i can understand that. if his mind was made up to condemn me altogether, he should have written and so have convicted me. but in such matters he considers nothing. he acts altogether from the heart. i am, however, sure of this, dear adela, that it is all better as it is. there; with you, i will scorn all falsehood. for once, and, if possible, only for once, the truth shall stand out plainly. i love him as i never, never can love another man. i love him as i never thought to love any man. i feel at this moment as though i could be content to serve him as his menial. for she who is his wife must so serve him--and how long should i be content to do so? but yet i wrong him in this. he is most imperious, absolutely imperious--must be altogether master in all things; that is what i mean. but to one who loved him well, and would permit this, he would be the tenderest, gentlest, most loving of masters. he would not permit the wind to blow too harshly on his slave. i have loved him well, but i could not permit this. i could not permit it for a whole lifetime; and therefore it is well that we have parted. you will hardly believe this of him, for he seems in general company to be so good-humoured. with people that are indifferent to him, no man is less exacting; but with those near to him in life he never bends, not an inch. it is this that has estranged his uncle from him. but yet how noble, how grand a man he is! to all pecuniary considerations he is absolutely indifferent. a falsehood, even a concealment, is impossible with him. who that either of us knows is equal to or approaches him in talent? he is brave, generous, simple-hearted beyond all that i have ever known. who is like him? and yet--. to you, once for all, i say all this. but, adela, do not take advantage of me. you ought to know that were it not all over, i should not say it. i wish that you had been betrothed to him. oh, how i wish it! you are not worldly, as i am; not stubborn, nor proud of heart. not that you have not pride, a truer, better pride. you could have brought yourself to submit, to be guided, to be a secondary portion of himself--and then how he would have loved you! i have often wondered that he should have thought of me. no two persons were ever less suited for each other. i knew that when i accepted him, foolishly accepted him because i liked him, and now i am rightly punished. but, ah! that he should be punished too! for he is punished. i know he loves me; though i know nothing would now induce him to take me. and i know this also, that nothing--nothing--nothing would induce me to be so taken. not if he were begging--as he never will beg to any woman. i would be too true to him, too true to what i now know to be his happiness. as for me, i dare say i shall marry yet. i have some little money, and that sort of manner which many men think most becoming for the top of their tables and the management of their drawing-rooms. if i do, there shall be no deceit. i certainly shall not marry for love. indeed, from early years i never thought it possible that i should do so. i have floundered unawares into the pitfall, and now i must flounder out. i have always thought that there was much in the world well worth the living for besides love. ambition needs not be a closed book for women, unless they choose to close it. i do not see but that a statesman's wife may stand nearly as high in the world as the statesman stands himself. money, position, rank are worth the having--at any rate, the world thinks so, or why else do they so scramble for them? i will not scramble for them; but if they come in my way, why, i may probably pick them up. this will be odious to you. i know it will. a potato-paring and a true heart are your beau-ideal for this world. i am made of viler stuff. i have had the true heart, and see what i have made of it! you will answer me, of course. i could find it in my heart to beg you not to do so, only now i could not afford to think that you were cold to me. i know you will write to me; but, pray, pray do not advise me to submit myself to him under the idea that a reconciliation is possible. a reconciliation is not possible, and i will not submit myself to him. i know i speak the truth when i say that our marriage is not to be desired. i acknowledge his merits; i confess his superiority: but these very merits, this great superiority, make it impossible that i should suit him as a wife. on that matter i have made up my mind. i will never marry him. i only say this to deter you from wasting your energy in endeavouring to bring us again together. i know very well that i shall not be asked--that his mind is equally firm. and now, good-bye. you know all my heart, and, as far as i can tell them, all my feelings. a long letter from you will give me much delight if you will comply with my earnest request. this letter has been a very selfish one, for it is all about myself. but you will forgive that now. god bless you. your affectionate friend, caroline. p.s. i have said nothing to aunt mary, except to tell her that the match is broken off; and she has kindly--so kindly, abstained from any questions. adela gauntlet was all alone when she received this letter at west putford. in these days she generally was all alone. that she should answer it, answer it at once, was of course certain. but how should she answer it? her mind was soon made up, with many tears, partly for her friend and partly for herself. caroline's happiness had been, nay, probably still was, in her own hands, and she was going to throw it away. for herself, happiness had never been within her own reach. "be his menial servant!" she repeated to herself, as she read and re-read the letter. "yes; of course she should if he required it. it would be for her to make him know that she could be something better to him!" her judgment was soon formed. she condemned caroline altogether on caroline's own showing. in such matters one woman almost always condemns another. she took no notice of the allusion to bertram's harshness; she almost overlooked the generosity with which her friend had written of the lover who had rejected her. she only saw caroline's great fault. how could she have brought herself to talk with mr. harcourt--with a young unmarried man--on such a subject? and, oh! how was it possible that she could have brought herself to show him such a letter? she wrote her answer that same night, as follows:-- west putford, saturday night. dearest caroline, your letter has made me most unhappy. i almost think that i have suffered more in reading it than you did in writing it. you have made a request to me with which i cannot, will not comply. i can only write to you the truth, as i think it. what else can i write? how can i frame my letter in any other way? but i will acknowledge this, that it is useless for me to suggest anything to you as to your own happiness. but there is more than that to be thought of. there is that which you are bound to think of before that. whether you have broken with mr. bertram or not, there has been that between you which makes it your duty in this matter to regard his happiness as your first consideration. dearest, dearest caroline, i fear that you have been wrong throughout in this affair. i do not dread your being angry with me for saying so. in spite of what you say, i know your heart is so warm that you would be angry with me if i blamed him. you were wrong in talking to mr. harcourt; doubly wrong in showing to him that letter. if so, is it not your business to put that wrong right? to remedy if you can the evil that has come of it? i feel quite sure that mr. bertram loves you with all his heart, and that he is one who will be wretched to his heart's core at losing what he loves. it is nothing to say that it is he who has rejected you. you understand his moods; even i understand them well enough to know in what temper that last visit was made. answer this to yourself. had you then asked his pardon, do you not know that he would have given it you with a rapture of joy? do you not feel that he was then at that moment only too anxious to forgive? and are you, you who have sinned against him, are you to let him break his heart against a rock, because you are too proud to own to him the fault which you acknowledge to yourself? is that your return for the love which he has borne you? you wish that he had loved me, you say. do not wish away the sweetest gift which god can give to a woman in this world. it was not possible that i should have loved him. it is quite impossible now that you should not do so. try to think in this affair with severity towards yourself, and ask yourself what justice requires of you. my advice to you is to write to him. tell him, with frank humility and frank affection, that you ask his pardon for the injury that you had done him. say no more than that. if it shall still please him to consider that the engagement between you is at an end, such an acknowledgment from you will in no way constrain him to violate that resolve. but if he relent--and i know that this other "if" will be the true one--the first train that runs will bring him back to you; and he, who i am sure is now wretched, will again be happy; ah! happier than he has been for so long. i implore you to do this, not for your own sake, but for his. you have done wrong, and it is he that should be considered. you will think what will be your sufferings if he does not notice your letter; should he not be softened by your humility. but you have no right to think of that. you have done him wrong, and you owe him reparation. you cannot expect that you should do wrong and not suffer. i fear i have written savagely. dear, dear caroline, come to me here, and i will not talk savagely. i too am not happy. i have not my happiness so much in my own hands as you have. do come to me. papa will be delighted to see you. i am sure miss baker could spare you for a fortnight. do, do come to your true friend, adela. there was much of craft in adela gauntlet's letter; but if craft could ever be pardonable, then was hers pardonable in this case. she had written as though her sole thought was for mr. bertram. she had felt that in this way only could she move her friend. in her mind--adela's mind--it was a settled conviction, firm as rocks, that as caroline and mr. bertram loved each other, neither of them could be happy unless they were brought together. how could she best aid in doing this? that had been her main thought, and so thinking, she had written this letter, filled to overflowing with womanly craft. and her craft was nearly successful; but only nearly; that was all. caroline sat in her solitude and cried over this letter till her eyes were weary with tears. she strove, strove valiantly to take her friend's advice; strove to do so in spite of all her former protestations. she got pen and ink and sat herself down to write the letter of humiliation; but the letter would not be written; it was impossible to her; the words would not form themselves: for two days she strove, and then she abandoned the task as for ever hopeless. and thus this third short epistle must be laid before the reader. "i cannot do it, adela. it is not in my nature. you could do it, because you are good, and high, and pure. do not judge others by yourself. i cannot do it, and will not madden myself by thinking of it again. good-bye; god bless you. if i could cure your grief i would come to you; but i am not fit. god in his own time will cure yours, because you are so pure. i could not help you, nor you me; i had better, therefore, remain where i am. a thousand thousand kisses. i love you so now, because you and you only know my secret. oh, if you should not keep it! but i know you will; you are so true." this was all. there was no more; no signature. "may god help them both!" said adela as she read it. chapter ix. bidding high. i hope to press all the necessary records of the next three or four months into a few pages. a few pages will be needed in order that we may know how old mr. bertram behaved when he heard of this rupture between his nephew and his granddaughter. george, when he found himself back in town, shut himself up in his chambers and went to work upon his manuscript. he, too, recognized the necessity of labour, in order that the sorrow within his heart might thus become dull and deadened. but it was deep, true sorrow--to him at some periods almost overwhelming: he would get up from his desk during the night, and throwing himself on the sofa, lie there writhing in his agony. while he had known that caroline was his own, he had borne his love more patiently than does many a man of less intensity of feeling. he had been much absent from her; had not abridged those periods of absence as he might have done; had, indeed, been but an indifferent lover, if eagerness and _empressement_ are necessary to a lover's character. but this had arisen from two causes, and lukewarmness in his love had not been either of them. he had been compelled to feel that he must wait for the fruition of his love; and therefore had waited. and then he had been utterly devoid of any feeling of doubt in her he loved. she had decided that they should wait. and so he had waited as secure away from her as he could have been with her. but his idea of a woman's love, of the purity and sanctity of her feelings, had been too high. he had left his betrothed to live without him, frequently without seeing him for months, and yet he had thought it utterly impossible that she should hold confidential intercourse with another man. we have seen how things fell out with him. the story need not be repeated. he was shocked, outraged, torn to the heart's core; but he loved as warmly, perhaps more warmly than ever. what he now expected it is impossible to describe; but during that first fortnight of seclusion in the midst of london, he did half expect, half hope that something would turn up. he waited and waited, still assuring himself that his resolve was inviolable, and that nothing should make him renew his engagement: and yet he hoped for something. there was a weight on his heart which then might have been removed. but no sign was made. we have seen how adela, who felt for him, had striven in vain. no sign was made; and at the end of the fortnight he roused himself, shook his mane, and asked himself what he should do. in the first place, there should be no mystery. there were those among his friends to whom he had felt himself bound to speak of his engagement when it was made, and to them he felt himself bound to communicate the fact now that it was unmade. he wrote accordingly to arthur wilkinson; he wrote to harcourt; and determined to go down to hadley. he would have written also to his uncle, but he had never done so, and hardly knew how to commence a correspondence. his letter to harcourt had been a difficult task to him, but at last it was finished in a very few words. he did not at all refer to what had taken place at richmond, or allude in any way to the nature of the cause which had produced this sudden disrupture. he merely said that his engagement with miss waddington was broken off by mutual consent, and that he thought it best to let his friend know this in order that mistakes and consequent annoyance might be spared. this was very short; but, nevertheless, it required no little effort in its accomplishment. on the very next day harcourt came to him at his chambers. this surprised him much. for though he had no intention of absolutely quarrelling with the rising legal luminary, he had taught himself to look upon any renewal of their real intimacy as out of the question. they were sailing on essentially different tacks in their life's voyages. they had become men of different views in everything. their hours, their habits, their friends, their ways were in all things unlike. and then, moreover, bertram no longer liked the successful barrister. it may be said that he had learned positively to dislike him. it was not that harcourt had caused this wound which was tearing his heart to pieces; at least, he thought that it was not that. he declared to himself a dozen times that he did not blame harcourt. he blamed no one but caroline--her and himself. nor was it because the man was so successful. bertram certainly did not envy him. but the one as he advanced in manhood became worldly, false, laborious, exact, polished, rich, and agreeable among casual acquaintances. the other was the very reverse. he was generous and true; but idle--idle at any rate for any good; he was thoughtful, but cloudy in his thoughts, indifferent as to society, poor, much poorer than he had been as a lad at college, and was by no means gifted with the knack of making pretty conversation for the world at large. of late whenever they had met, harcourt had said something which grated painfully on the other's inner sensibilities, and hence had arisen this dislike. but the dislike seemed to be all on one side. harcourt now was a man whose name was frequent in other men's mouths. great changes were impending in the political world, and harcourt was one of the men whom the world regarded as sure to be found swimming on the top of the troubled waters. the people of the battersea hamlets were proud of him, the house of commons listened to him, suitors employed him, and men potent in the treasury chambers, and men also who hoped to be potent there, courted and flattered him. all this made him busy; but, nevertheless, he found time to come to his dear friend. "i am sorry for this; very sorry," he said, as he put out his hand in a manner that seemed to his friend to be almost patronizing. "can nothing be done?" "nothing at all," said bertram, rather curtly. "can i do nothing?" said the cunning, legal man. "nothing at all," said bertram, very curtly. "ah, i wish i could. i should be so happy to rearrange matters if it be at all possible." there are some men who are so specially good at rearranging the domestic disarrangements of others. "it is an affair," said bertram, "which admits of no interference. perhaps it is unnecessary that i should have troubled you on the matter at all, for i know that you are very busy; but--" "my dear fellow--busy, indeed! what business could be more important to me than my friend's happiness?" "but," continued george, "as the affair had been talked over so often between you and me, i thought it right to tell you." "of course--of course; and so nothing can be done. ah, well! it is very sad, very. but i suppose you know best. she is a charming girl. perhaps, rather--" "harcourt, i had rather not hear a word spoken about her in any way; but certainly not a word in her dispraise." "dispraise! no, certainly not. it would be much easier to praise her. i always admired her very much; very much indeed." "well, there's an end of it." "so be it. but i am sorry, very sorry; heartily sorry. you are a little rough now, bertram. of course i see that you are so. every touch goes against the hair with you; every little blow hits you on the raw. i can understand that; and therefore i do not mind your roughness. but we are old friends, you know. each is perhaps the other's oldest friend; and i don't mean to lose such a friend because you have a shade of the misanthrope on you just now. you'll throw the bile off in another essay, rather more bitter than the last, and then you'll be all right." "i'm right enough now, thank you. only a man can't always be in high spirits. at least, some men cannot." "well, god bless you, old fellow! i know you want me gone; so i'll go now. but never talk to me about my business. i do get through a good deal of business, but it shall never stand between you and me." and so the cunning legal man went his way. and then there remained the journey to hadley. after that it was his purpose to go abroad again, to go to paris, and live in dingy lodgings there _au cinquième_, to read french free-thinking books, to study the wild side of politics, to learn if he could, among french theatres and french morals, french freedom of action, and freedom of speech, and freedom of thought--france was a blessed country for freedom in those days, under the paternal monarchy of that paternal monarch, louis philippe--to learn to forget, among these sources of inspiration, all that he had known of the sweets of english life. but there remained the journey to hadley. it had always been his custom to go to mr. pritchett in the city before he went to his uncle's house, and he did so now. everybody who wished to see mr. bertram always went to mr. pritchett first, and mr. pritchett would usually send some _avant-courier_ to warn his patron of the invasion. "ah, mr. george," said pritchett, wheezing, with his most melancholy sigh. "you shouldn't have left the old gentleman so long, sir. indeed you shouldn't." "but he does not want to see me," said george. "think what a sight of money that is!" continued pritchett. "one would really think, mr. george, that you objected to money. there is that gentleman, your particular friend, you know, the member of parliament. he is down there constantly, paying his respects, as he calls it." "what, mr. harcourt?" "yes, mr. harcourt. and he sends grapes in spring, and turkeys in summer, and green peas in winter." "green peas in winter! they must cost something." "of course they do; sprats to catch big fish with, mr. george. and then the old gentleman has got a new lawyer; some sharp new light of mr. harcourt's recommending. oh, mr. george, mr. george! do be careful, do now! could not you go and buy a few ducks, or pigeons, and take them in a basket? the old gentleman does seem to like that kind of thing, though ten years since he was so different. half a million of money, mr. george! it's worth a few grapes and turkeys." and mr. pritchett shook his head and wrung his hands; for he saw that nothing he said produced any effect. george went to hadley at last without ducks or pigeons, grapes or turkeys. he was very much amused however with the perpetual industry of his friend. "_labor omnia vincit improbus_" said he to himself. "it is possible that harcourt will find my uncle's blind side at last." he found the old gentleman considerably changed. there were, occasionally, flashes of his former customary, sarcastic pungency; now and again he would rouse himself to be ill-natured, antagonistic, and self-willed. but old age and illness had sadly told upon him; and he was content for the most part to express his humour by little shrugs, shakes of the head, and an irritable manner he had lately acquired of rubbing his hands quickly together. "well, george," he said, when his nephew shook hands with him and asked after his health. "i hope you are better than you were, sir. i was sorry to hear that you had been again suffering." "suffer, yes; a man looks to suffer when he gets to my age. he's a fool if he doesn't, at least. don't trouble yourself to be sorry about it, george." "i believe you saw my father not long since?" bertram said this, not quite knowing how to set the conversation going, so that he might bring in the tidings he had come there to communicate. "yes, i did," said mr. bertram senior; and his hands went to work as he sat in the arm-chair. "did you find him much altered since you last met? it was a great many years since, i believe?" "not in the least altered. your father will never alter." george now knew enough of his father's character to understand the point of this; so he changed the subject, and did that which a man who has anything to tell should always do at once; he commenced the telling of it forthwith. "i have come down here, to-day, sir, because i think it right to let you know at once that miss waddington and i have agreed that our engagement shall be at an end." mr. bertram turned sharp round in his chair. "what?" said he. "what?" "our engagement is at an end. we are both aware that it is better for us it should be so." "what do you mean? better for you! how can it be better for you? you are two fools." "very likely, sir. we have been two fools; or, at any rate, i have been one." mr. bertram sat still in his chair, silent for a few moments. he still kept rubbing his hands, but in meditation rather than in anger. though his back reached to the back of his chair, his head was brought forward and leaned almost on his chest. his cheeks had fallen in since george had seen him, and his jaw hung low, and gave a sad, thoughtful look to his face, in which also there was an expression of considerable pain. his nephew saw that what he had said had grieved him, and was sorry for it. "george," he said, in a softer voice than had ever been usual with him. "i wish you to marry caroline. go back to her, and make it up. tell her that i wish it, if it be necessary to tell her anything." "ah, sir, i cannot do that. i should not have come to you now if there had been any room for doubt." "there must be no room for doubt. this is nonsense; sheer nonsense. i shall send to mary." george had never before heard him call miss baker by her christian name. "it cannot be helped, sir. miss baker can do nothing in the matter now; nor can any one else. we both know that the marriage would not suit us." "not suit you! nonsense. two babies; two fools! i tell you it will suit you; it will suit me!" now had george bertram junior not been an absolute ass, or a mole rather with no eyesight whatever for things above ground, he would have seen from this that he might not only have got back his love, but have made sure of being his uncle's heir into the bargain. at any rate, there was sufficient in what he said to insure him a very respectable share of those money-bags. how would pritchett have rejoiced had he heard the old man speak so! and then how would he have sighed and wheezed when he saw the young man's indifference! but george would not take the hint. he must have been blind and dull, and dead and senseless. who before had ever heard mr. bertram senior speak out in that way? "it will suit _me_!" and that from an old bachelor, with uncountable money-bags, to his only nephew! and such a request, too, as it conveyed--that he would again make himself agreeable to a beautiful girl whom he thoroughly loved, and by whom also he was thoroughly loved! but george was an ass, as we have said; and a mole, a blind mole; and a mule, a stiff-necked, stubborn mule. he would not yield an inch to his uncle; nor an inch to his own feelings. "i am sorry to vex you, sir," he said, coldly, "but it is impossible." "oh, very well," said the uncle, as he compressed his lips, and moved his hands. "very well." and so they parted. george went back to town and commenced his preparations for paris. but on the following day he received the unwonted honour of a visit from mr. pritchett, and the honour was very pointed; in this wise. mr. pritchett, not finding him at home, had gone to a neighbouring tavern "to get a bit of dinner," as he told the woman at the chambers; and stated, that he should go on calling till he did find mr. george. and in this way, on his third or fourth visit, mr. george was found. mr. pritchett was dressed in his best, and was very sad and solemn. "mr. george," said he, "your uncle wishes to see you at hadley, particular." "why, i was there yesterday." "i know you was, mr. george; and that's just it. your uncle, mr. george, is an old man, and it will be only dutiful you should be with him a good deal now. you'd wish to be a comfort to your uncle in his last days. i know that, mr. george. he's been good to you; and you've your duty to do by him now, mr. george; and you'll do it." so said mr. pritchett, having thoroughly argued the matter in his own mind, and resolved, that as mr. george was a wilful young horse, who would not be driven in one kind of bridle, another must be tried with him. "but has my uncle sent to say that he wants to see me again at once?" "he has, mr. george; sent to say that he wants to see you again at once, particular." there was nothing of course for mr. george to do but to obey, seeing that the order was so particular. on that same evening, therefore, he put his dressing-things into a bag, and again went down to hadley. on his first arrival his uncle shook hands with him with much more than ordinary kindness, and even joked with him. "so pritchett came to you, did he? and sent you down at a moment's notice? ha! ha! he's a solemn old prig, is pritchett; but a good servant; a very good servant. when i am gone, he'll have enough to live on; but he'll want some one to say a word to him now and again. don't forget what i say about him. it's not so easy to find a good servant." george declared that he always had had, and would have, a regard for mr. pritchett; "though i wish he were not quite so sad." "poor pritchett! well; yes, he is sad," said the uncle, laughing; and then george went upstairs to get ready for dinner. the dinner, considering the house in which it was spread, was quite _recherché_. george said to himself that the fat fowls which he saw must have come from harcourt's larder. roast mutton and boiled beef--not together, but one on one day and the other on the next--generally constituted the fare at mr. bertram's house when he did not sit down to dinner alone. but now there was quite a little banquet. during dinner, he made sundry efforts to be agreeable; pressed his nephew to eat, and drank wine with him in the old-fashioned affectionate manner of past days. "your health, george," he said. "you'll find that sherry good, i think. it ought to be, if years can make it so." it was good; and george was very sorry to find that the good wine had been brought out for him. he felt that something would be required in return, and that he could not give that something. after dinner that something was soon asked for. "george," said the old man, "i have been thinking much since you went away the other day about you and caroline. i have taken it into my stupid old head to wish that you two should be married." "ah, sir!" "now listen to me. i do wish it, and what you have said has disturbed me. now i do believe this of you, that you are an honest lad; and though you are so fond of your own way, i don't think you'd wish to grieve me if you could help it." "not if i could help it, sir; not if i could help it, certainly." "you can help it. now listen to me. an old man has no right to have his fancies unless he chooses to pay for them. i know that well enough. i don't want to ask you why you have quarrelled with caroline. it's about money, very likely?" "no, sir, no; not in the least." "well, i don't want to inquire. a small limited income is very likely to lead to misunderstandings. you have at any rate been honest and true to me. you are not a bit like your father." "sir! sir!" "and, and--i'll tell you what i'll do. caroline is to have six thousand pounds, isn't she?" "pray believe me, sir, that money has nothing whatever to do with this matter." "yes, six," continued mr. bertram; "four of her own, and two from me. now i'll tell you what i'll do. let me see. you have two hundred a year; that's settled on you. and you had a thousand pounds the other day. is that all gone yet?" "i am in no want of money, uncle; none whatever." "no, not as a bachelor; but as a married man you would be. now do tell me--how much of that thousand pounds did the colonel get out of you?" "dear uncle, do remember that he is my father." "well, well; two hundred a year, and two thousand pounds, and one, and pritchett's account. i'll tell you what, george, i should like to see you comfortable; and if you and caroline are married before next october, i'll give you--" "i can't tell you how you pain me, sir." "i'll give you-- i wonder how much income you think you'll want?" "none, sir; none. as our marriage is out of the question, we shall want no income. as i am, and am likely to remain unmarried, my present income is sufficient for me." "i'll give you--let me see." and the old miser--for though capable of generosity to a great extent, as he had certainly shown with reference to his nephew's early years, he certainly was a miser--the old miser again recapitulated to himself all that he had already done, and tried to calculate at what smallest figure, at what lowest amount of ready money to be paid down, he could purchase the object which he now desired. "i'll give you four thousand pounds on the day you are married. there, that will be ten thousand beside your own income, and whatever your profession will bring you." "what am i to say, sir? i know how generous you are; but this is not an affair of money." "what is it then?" "we should not be happy together." "not happy together! you shall be happy, i tell you; you will be happy if you have enough to live on. remember, i may leave you something more than that when i die; that is, i may do so if you please me. you will understand, however, that i make no promise." "dear uncle," said george, and as he spoke he rose from his seat, and crossing over to his uncle, took the old man's hand in his own. "you shall be asked for no promise; you shall be asked for nothing. you have been most liberal, most kind to me; too kind, i know, for i have not returned it by that attention which you deserved from me. but, believe me, i cannot do as you ask me. if you will speak to miss waddington, she will tell you the same." "miss waddington! pshaw!" "caroline, i mean. it is impossible, sir. and it adds greatly to my own suffering--for i have suffered in all this--that you also should be grieved." "why, you were so much in love with her the other day! mary told me that you were dying for her." "i cannot explain it all. but she--caroline--doubtless will. however, pray, pray take this for granted: the engagement between us cannot be renewed." old mr. bertram still kept his nephew's hand, and it seemed as though he liked to hold it. he continued to look up into george's face as though striving to read there something different from the words which he heard, something which might yet give him some consolation. he had said that george was honest, and he believed it, as far as he could believe in honesty. but, nevertheless, he was still meditating at what price he could buy over his nephew to his purpose. after such a struggle as that of his whole lifetime, could he have any other faith but that money were omnipotent? no; this of course, this necessarily was his belief. as to the sufficient quantity--on that point it was possible for him to doubt. his nephew's manner to him was very touching; the tone of his voice, the look of his countenance, the grief which sat on his brow, did touch him. but they touched him in this manner; they made him feel that a few thousands were not sufficient. he had at last a desire at his heart, a family domestic warm desire; and he began to feel that if he were not prepared to give up his desire, he must bid high for its fulfilment. "george," said he, "after all, you and caroline are the nearest relatives i have; the nearest and the dearest." "caroline is your own child's child, sir." "she is but a girl; and it would all go to some spendthrift, whose very name would be different. and, i don't know, but i think i like you better than her. look here now. according to my present will, nine-tenths of my property will go to build a hospital that shall bear my name. you'll not repeat that to anybody, will you?" "no, sir; i will not." "if you'll do as i would have you about this marriage, i'll make a new will, and you and your children shall have-- i'll let you say yourself how much you shall have; there--and you shall see the will yourself before the wedding takes place." "what can i say to him? what can i say to him?" said george, turning away his face. "sir, it is quite impossible. is not that enough? money has nothing to do with it; can have nothing to do with it." "you don't think i'd deceive you, do you, and make another will afterwards? it shall be a deed of gift if you like, or a settlement--to take effect of course after my death." on hearing this george turned away his face. "you shall have half, george; there, by g---- you shall have half; settled on you--there--half of it, settled on you." and then only did the uncle drop his nephew's hand. he dropped it, and closing his eyes, began to meditate on the tremendous sacrifice he had made. there was something terrible in this to young bertram. he had almost ceased to think of himself in watching his uncle's struggles. it was dreadful to see how terribly anxious the old man was, and more dreadful still to witness the nature of the thoughts which were running through his mind. he was making lavish tenders of his heaven, his god, his blessings; he was offering to part with his paradise, seeing that nature would soon imperatively demand that he should part with it. but useless as it must soon be to him, he could not bring himself to believe that it was not still all-powerful with others. "mr. bertram, it is clearly necessary that we should understand each other," said george, with a voice that he intended should be firm, but which in truth was stern as well as firm. "i thought it right to come and tell you that this match was broken off. but seeing that that has once been told, there is no longer room for further conversation on the matter. we have made up our minds to part; and, having done so, i can assure you that money can have no effect upon our resolution." "then you want it all--all!" said the uncle, almost weeping. "not all, nor ten times all would move me one inch--not one inch," said george, in a voice that was now loud, and almost angry. mr. bertram turned towards the table, and buried his face in his hands. he did not understand it. he did not know whence came all this opposition. he could not conceive what was the motive power which caused his nephew thus to thwart and throw him over, standing forward as he did with thousands and tens of thousands in his hand. but he knew that his request was refused, and he felt himself degraded and powerless. "do not be angry with me, uncle," said the nephew. "go your own way, sir; go your own way," said the uncle. "i have done with you. i had thought--but never mind--" and he rang the bell violently. "sarah, i will go to bed--are my things ready? woman, is my room ready, i say?" and then he had himself led off, and george saw him no more that night. nor did he see him the next morning; nor for many a long day afterwards. when the morning came, he sent in his love, with a hope that his uncle was better. sarah, coming out with a long face, told george that his uncle had only muttered between his teeth--"that it was nothing to him"--to his nephew, namely--"whether he were better or worse." and so, having received this last message, he went his way, and returned to town. chapter x. does he know it yet? almost immediately after this george bertram did go to paris; but before he went he received a letter from arthur wilkinson, begging him to go down to hurst staple. this was arthur's answer to the letter in which bertram had communicated the last news from littlebath. there were not as many words in the letter as there had been in that from adela to caroline; but they were much to the same effect. "this is an important step, old fellow; very: pray--pray be careful; for your own sake and hers. i am not good at letter-writing, as you know; but come down here and talk it over. i have other things of my own i want to talk about. the spare bedroom is empty." that was nearly the whole of it. in answer to this, bertram had declared his intention of going to paris, but had promised to go down to hurst staple as soon as he returned home. at this time the popularity of louis philippe was on the wane. the grocers of paris were becoming sick of their paternal citizen king, who, in spite of his quiet family costume and citizen umbrella, seemed to think as much as some other kings of crowds of soldiers, of fortifications, and war taxes; who seemed to think also that free-spoken deputies might be judiciously controlled, that a paternally-royal family might be judiciously enriched, and that a good many of the old crown tenets and maxims might again be judiciously brought to bear upon the commonwealth. poor grocers! too much prosperity had made them over-nice. when mr. smith had been about six months gone from them, how gladly would they have had him back again! but they are again satisfied. the grocer interest, which on the whole may perhaps be looked on as predominant in paris, is once more swathed in rose-leaves. the swathings certainly are somewhat tight; and rose-leaves may be twisted till there is no breaking them. but there will still remain the fragrance, the _pot-pourri_ odour which is so delectable to ancient housewives, the oily savour of plenteousness. if a king can so devise that chocolate shall be sold--and paid for--what more can a grocer interest need? what more than this, that having sold its daily quantum of chocolate, it shall have a theatre to go to, a spectacle to look at, ices, coffee, and _eau sucrée!_ since the world began to open its young eyes and look about it with any understanding, what else has been desirable? what does a man and a grocer want? _panem et circenses_; soup that shall not be too maigre; and a seat at the porte st. martin that shall not be too dear. is it not all written in that? england a nation of shopkeepers! no, let us hope not; not as yet, at any rate. there have been nations to whom the buying and selling of bread and honey--especially of honey--has been everything; lost nations--people deadened, whose souls were ever sleeping, whose mouths only and gastric organs attested that life was in them. there were such people in the latter days of ancient rome; there were such also in that of eastern rome upon the bosphorus; rich and thriving people, with large mouths and copious bellies, wanting merely the salt of life. but let us hope that no english people will be such as long as the roads are open to australia, to canada, and new zealand. a young man whose life was to be spent in writing politico-religious pamphlets had much to learn in paris in those days. indeed, paris has ever been a school for such writers since men began to find that something was wrong, even under the reign of the great dubarry. since those days it has been the laboratory of the political alchemist, in which everything hitherto held precious has been reduced to a residuum, in order that from the ashes might be created that great arcanum, a fitting constitution under which thinking men may live contented. the secret had been hardly solved in those latter days of poor louis philippe. much had certainly been done when a citizen king was thought of and set agoing; but even a citizen king required to be wound up, and the alchemist was still at his crucibles. now, indeed, the work has been finished. the laboratory is closed. the philosopher, his task all done, has retired to his needed rest. thinking men, even thinking frenchmen, can live contented. chocolate is sold--and paid for. and a score and a half of daily theatres are open at the most moderate of prices. intent on such things, and on his coming volume, our young broken-hearted philosopher stayed out three months at paris. we need not follow him very closely in his doings there. his name was already sufficiently known to secure his admittance amongst those learned men who, if they had hitherto established little, had at any rate achieved the doubting of much. while he was here the british ministry went out of office. sir robert, having repealed the corn laws, fell to the ground between two stools, and the number of the "daily jupiter" which gave the first authentic list of the members of the new government, contained, among the few new names that were mentioned, that of sir henry harcourt as her majesty's solicitor-general. at the end of the three months bertram returned to england, enriched by many new ideas as to the government of mankind in general. his volume was not yet finished. so he packed up his papers in his portmanteau and took them down with him to hurst staple. he saw no one as he passed through london. the season was then over, and his friend sir henry was refreshing himself with ten days' grouse-shooting after the successful campaign of the last session. but had he been in london, bertram would not have seen him, for he saw no one. he asked no questions about caroline, nor any about his uncle. he did not even call on his sincere friend pritchett. had he done so, he would have learned that miss baker and her niece were both staying at hadley. he might also have learned other news, which, however, was not long in following him. he went down to hurst staple, merely writing a line the day before he started, to prepare his friend for his advent. but when he reached the vicarage, arthur wilkinson was not there. he was at oxford; but had left word that he was to be summoned home as soon as bertram arrived. the ladies, however, expected him, and there would have been nothing for him to remark in the state of the quiet household had there not been another visitor in the house. adela gauntlet was staying there, and she was dressed in the deepest mourning. the story was soon told to him. mr. gauntlet had one morning been found dead in his dressing-room. the good old man had been full of years, and there was nothing frightful in his death but its suddenness. but sudden death is always frightful. overnight he had been talking to his daughter with his usual quiet, very quiet, mirth; and in the morning she was woke with the news that his spirit had fled. his mirth for this world was over. his worldly duties were done. he had received his daughter's last kiss, had closed for the last time the book which had been his life's guide, had whispered to heaven his last prayer, and his soul was now at rest. there was nothing in this that the world need regard as mournful. there was no pain, no mental pangs, no dire remorse. but for adela the suddenness had been very dreadful. among her other miseries had been the great misery of having to seek a home. an englishman's house is his castle. and a rector's parsonage is as much the rector's castle, his own freehold castle, as is the earl's family mansion that of the earl. but it is so with this drawback, that the moment the rector's breath is out of his body, all right and claim to the castle as regards his estate and family cease instantly. if the widow and children remain there one night, they remain there on sufferance. adela's future home would now necessarily be with her aunt, miss penelope gauntlet; but it happened most unfortunately that at the moment of her brother's death, miss gauntlet was absent with other relatives in italy. nor was her address accurately known. her party had been at rome; but it was supposed that they had left the holy city before the end of may: and now, at the end of august, when her presence in england was so necessary, adela had no more than a faint belief that her aunt was at the baths of lucca. in the meantime it was absolutely necessary that she should somewhere find a resting-place for herself. both caroline waddington and miss baker wrote to her at once. unfortunately they were at hadley; but if adela would come to them, they would return to littlebath. they, or at any rate, one of them would do so. there was much that was really generous in this offer, as will be seen when we come in the next page or two to narrate what had lately occurred at hadley. but adela already knew what had occurred; and much as she then longed for a home, she knew that she could not allow either of them to go to littlebath. immediately that mr. gauntlet's death was known at hurst staple--and it was known there two hours after adela knew it herself--mrs. wilkinson went over to bring her to the vicarage. the reader will know that there were reasons why adela should be most unwilling to choose that house as her temporary residence. she was most unwilling; and for a day or two, much to mrs. wilkinson's surprise, she refused to leave west putford. but it was necessary that she should leave it. she could not remain alone in the house on the day that her father's body was carried to his grave; and so at last she submitted, and allowed herself to be taken over to hurst staple. "it is provoking, dear," said mrs. wilkinson to her, "and i am sure you will think it very uncivil, but arthur went off to oxford yesterday. and it was uncivil. i am sure he needs not have gone at this very moment." then adela felt very grateful to her neighbour, and acknowledged in her heart that he had been kind to her. "but he must be back on saturday," continued the widow, "for he could get no clergyman to take his duty. indeed, he has to take the evening service at west putford as well." on the day following this, george bertram arrived at the vicarage. his first evening in the house was not very bright. mrs. wilkinson had never been a bright woman. she had certain motherly good qualities, which had been exerted in george's favour in his earliest years; and on this account she was still able to speak to him in a motherly way. she could talk to him about his breakfasts and dinners, and ask after his buttons and linen, and allude to his bachelor habits. and in such conversation the first evening was chiefly passed. adela said almost nothing. the wilkinson girls, who were generally cheerful themselves, were depressed by adela's sorrow--and depressed also somewhat by what they knew of bertram's affairs. on this matter mrs. wilkinson was burning to speak; but she had made up her mind to leave it in silence for one evening. she confined herself, therefore, to the button question, and to certain allusions to her own griefs. it appeared that she was not quite so happy with reference to arthur as one would have wished her to be. she did not absolutely speak against him; but she said little snubbing things of him, and seemed to think him by no means sufficiently grateful for all the care she took of him. that night, in the privacy of adela's own room, something was said about george bertram. "i am sure he does not know it yet," said sophia. "caroline told me she would write to him," said adela: "she would be very wrong not to do so--very wrong." "you may be sure he has not heard it," repeated the other. "did you not observe the way he spoke of mr. harcourt?" "sir henry harcourt," said mary. "i did not hear it," said adela. "oh, he did speak of him. he said something about his great good fortune. he never would have spoken in that way had he known it." "do you know," said mary, "i do not think he would have come down here had he heard it--not yet, at least." the next morning two letters were laid before george bertram as they were sitting at breakfast. then he did know it; then he did learn it, and not till then. it was now the end of august, and in the coming month of november--about the end of november--sir henry harcourt, her majesty's solicitor-general, and member for the battersea hamlets, was to lead to the hymeneal altar miss caroline waddington, the granddaughter and presumed heiress of the great millionaire, mr. bertram. who so high now on the ladder of fortune as the fortunate sir henry harcourt? in love and politics and the realms of plutus, he carried all before him. yes, sir henry harcourt was the coming man. quidnuncs at the clubs began to say that he would give up the legal side of politics and devote himself to statesmanship. he would be the very man for a home secretary. old bertram, they observed, was known to be dying. old bertram, they also observed, had made a distinct promise to sir henry and his granddaughter. the marriage was to take place at hadley, from the old man's house; the old man was delighted with the match, &c., &c., &c.; who so happy, who so great, who so fortunate as sir henry harcourt? that habit of bringing in letters at the breakfast-table has its good points, certainly. it is well that one should have one's letters before the work or pleasure of the day commences: it is well to be able to discuss the different little subjects of mutual interest as they are mentioned. "eliza's baby has got her first tooth: it's all right. there's nothing like daffy's elixir after all." "my dear, the guano will be here to-day; so the horses will be wanted all the week--remember that." "what a bore, papa; for here's a letter to say that kate carnabie's coming; and we must go over to the poldoodles. frank poldoodle is quite smitten with kate." this is all very convenient; but the plan has its drawbacks. some letters will be in their nature black and brow-compelling. tidings will come from time to time at which men cannot smile. there will be news that ruffles the sweetest temper, and at receipt of which clouds will darken the most kindly face. one would fain receive such letters in private. two such letters bertram received that morning, and read while the eyes of the parsonage breakfast-table were--not fixed on him, but which under such circumstances is much worse--were purposely turned away. he knew well the handwriting of each, and would fain have escaped with them from the room. but this he felt to be cowardly; and so he read them both, sitting there in the family circle. they were from caroline and sir henry. we will give precedence to the lady; but bertram did not so read them. the lady's letter was the most trying to his nerves, and was therefore taken the last. it can hardly be said that their contents surprised him. when they both came into his hands together, he seemed to feel by intuition what was the news which they contained. that from caroline was very fairly written. but how many times had it been rewritten before that fair copy was prepared? hadley, august, --. my dear mr. bertram, i do not know whether i am right in thinking that i ought myself to tell you of the step which i am going to take. if it is unnecessary, i know you will forgive me, and will be certain that i have intended to do what is right. sir henry harcourt has proposed to me, and i have accepted him. i believe we shall be married some time before christmas. we are staying here with grandpapa. i think he approves of what i am doing; but you know that he is not very communicative. at any rate, i shall be married from this house, and i think that he likes sir henry. aunt mary is reconciled to all this now. i do not know that i need say any more, excepting that i shall always--always hope for your welfare; and be so happy if i can hear of your happiness. i pray you also to forgive me what injuries i may have done you. it may be that at some future time we shall meet as friends in london. i hope we may. it is a comfort to me that sir henry harcourt knows exactly all that there has been between us. believe me to be, yours most sincerely, caroline waddington. harcourt's letter was written in faster style, and a more running hand. solicitors-general have hardly time to stop and pick their words. but though the manner of it was free and easy, it seemed to bertram that the freedom and easiness were but affected. my dear bertram, i hope and trust that the news i have to tell you will be no interruption to our friendship. i am sure that it should not be, seeing that i am doing you no injury. caroline waddington and i have agreed to put our fortunes into the same boat. we shall feel much more comfortable on the seas if you will be gracious enough to say, "god save the bark." caroline has of course told me all that has occurred; as, indeed, you had done previously. as far as i am concerned, i must say she has behaved gloriously. i always admired her greatly, as you know; though of course till lately i never thought it possible i should possess what i so much admired. speaking plainly, i think that she will be happier with me than she would have been with you; and that i shall be happier with her than you would have been. we are better adapted to each other. there is a dash of worldliness about us both from which your more ethereal composition is happily free. god bless you, old fellow. pray write a line in answer, saying as much to me. of course, you will let us see you in london. caroline wishes it particularly; and so do i. i believe i shall be turned off in december. such a mill-horse as i am cannot choose my time. i am going to scotland for ten days, and shall then be hard at work till our marriage. i must of course be back when the session commences. we talk of going to nice, and thence to genoa. the old gentleman is very civil; but there has been no word of money, nor will there be a word. however, thank god, i don't want it. always your sincerest friend, henry harcourt. reform club--august, --. these letters did not take long in the reading. within five minutes bertram was spreading the butter on his toast; and within two minutes more he was asking what news there was from arthur--when would he be home? he had received a great blow, a stunning blow; but he was able to postpone the faintness which would follow it till he should be where no eye could see him. the breakfast passed away very silently. they all knew what those two letters contained. one of the girls had had them in her hand, and had known the handwriting of one and guessed that of the other. but even without this they would have known. are not most of our innermost secrets known to all the world? and then bertram skulked off--or endeavoured rather to do so; for mrs. wilkinson detected him in the act, and stopped him. she had said nothing hitherto about his matrimonial or non-matrimonial affairs. she had abstained with wonderful discretion; and she now intended that her discretion should be rewarded. "george, george," she said, as he turned from the breakfast-parlour door to the rack in the hall on which his hat was hanging, "i want you just for a minute." so george returned into the parlour as the girls passed across the hall into the drawing-room. "i'm afraid you'll think me unkind because i've said nothing about this sad affair of yours." "not at all, aunt," he said: though she was no aunt of his, he had always called her so when he had been at hurst staple as a child. "there are some things which had, perhaps, better not be talked about." mrs. wilkinson, however, was not the woman to be deterred by such a faint repulse as this. "exactly so; except among intimate family friends. but i was very sorry to hear about your breaking off the affair with caroline waddington. i was, indeed; very. it would have been so suitable as regards the old gentleman--i know all about that you know--" and the lady nodded her head, as ladies will do sometimes when they flatter themselves that they know more about such things than their neighbours. "it was necessary," said bertram. "necessary--ah, yes: i dare say. i don't in the least mean to blame you, george. i am sure you would not behave badly to any girl--and, from what i have heard, i am quite sure--quite sure it was not your fault. indeed, i know very well--" and in lieu of finishing her speech, mrs. wilkinson again nodded her head. "nobody was to blame, aunt; nobody, and it is much better to say nothing about it." "that is very good of you, george; very. but i always shall say--" "dear aunt, pray say nothing. we had thought when we knew little of each other that it would suit us to live together. as we learnt each other's characters more thoroughly, we found that we had been wrong. it was better for us, therefore, to part; and we did part." "and so now she is going to be lady harcourt?" "yes; it seems so." "well, at any rate, we must all say this: she hasn't lost any time. i don't know what sir henry may think of it; but it certainly does seem to me--" "dear aunt, pray do not talk to me about this. i think miss waddington quite right to accept sir henry harcourt. that is, i think her right under the circumstances. he is a rising man, and she will grace any station in which he can place her. i do not at all blame her, not in the least; it would be monstrous if i did." "oh, of course--we all know that it was you broke off the other match; all the world knows that. but what i want to speak about is this. the old gentleman's money, george! now sir henry of course is looking to that." "he has my permission." "and of course he will get some of it. that's to be expected--she's his grandchild--of course i know that," and mrs. wilkinson again nodded her head. "but, george, you must look very close after the old gentleman. it won't at all do to let harcourt cut you out altogether. i do hope you mean to be a good deal down at hadley. it won't last for long, you know." bertram would not condescend to explain to mrs. wilkinson that he had no intention of going near his uncle again, and that he was sick of the very name of the old man's money. so he hummed and hawed, and changed the conversation by saying that he should be so glad to see arthur on his return. "yes, i am sure you will. but you'll find arthur much changed--very much." and it was clear from the tone of mrs. wilkinson's voice that she did not think that this change in her son was for the better. "he is growing older, i suppose; like the rest of us," said bertram, attempting to laugh. "oh, yes; he's growing older, of course. but people should grow better, george, and more contented; particularly when they have everything about them that they can possibly want." "is not arthur contented? he should get married then. look at adela gauntlet there!" "nonsense, george; pray don't put that into his head. what has he to marry on? and as for adela, if she has fifteen hundred pounds it will be every farthing. and what's that for a family?" "but arthur has a living." "now, george, don't you be talking in that way to him. in one sense he has a living; for, situated as things at present are, of course i cannot hold it in my own hands. but in real truth he has not a living--not of his own. lord stapledean, whom i shall always regard as the very first nobleman in the land, and a credit to the whole peerage, expressly gave the living to me." "to you, aunt?" "yes, expressly to me. and now i fear arthur is discontented because he knows that i choose to remain mistress of my own house. i have done everything i can to make the house pleasant to him. he has the same study his dear father always had; and he has his own separate horse in the stable, which is more than his father had." "but arthur has his fellowship." "and where would his fellowship be if he married adela gauntlet? i do hope you'll say something to him to make him more contented. i say nothing about his conduct to me. i don't suppose he means to be undutiful." and then bertram did manage to escape; and taking his hat he walked away along that same river-path which led to west putford--that same path which arthur wilkinson had used to take when he went fishing in those happy early days before promotion had come to him, and the glories of manhood. but george was not thinking now of arthur or of adela. he had enough of sorrow in his own breast to make his mind selfish for the present--caroline waddington was to be married! to be married so soon after getting quit of her former bondage; to be married to henry harcourt. there was no chance left now, no hope, no possibility that he might regain the rich prize which he had flung away. and did he wish to regain it? was it not now clear enough that she had never loved him? in may, while the fruits were filling, they had separated; and now before they were well ripe she had given herself to another! love him! no, indeed. was it possible that she should love any man?--that she, who could so redeem herself and so bestow herself, should have any heart, any true feeling of what love is? and yet this was not the worst of it. such love as she had to give, had she not given it to this harcourt even before she had rescued herself from her former lover? had she not given this man her preference, such preference as she had to give, then, then when she was discussing with him how best to delay her nuptials with her acknowledged suitor? this successful, noisy, pushing, worldly man had won her by his success and his worldliness. the glitter of the gold had caught her; and so she had been unhappy, and had pined, and worn herself with grief till she could break away from her honest troth, and bind herself to the horn of the golden calf. 'twas thus that he now thought of her, thus that he spoke of her to himself out loud, now that he could wander alone, with no eye to watch him, no ear to hear him. and yet he loved her with a strong love, with a mad passion such as he had never felt before. much as he blamed her, thoroughly as he despised her for being so venal; yet he blamed, nay, scorned, himself more vehemently in that he had let this plausible knave with his silken words rob from him the only treasure worth his having. why had he not toiled? why had he not made a name for himself? why had he not built a throne on which his lady-love might sit and shine before the world? chapter xi. hurst staple. the next three or four days passed by heavily enough, and then arthur wilkinson returned. he returned on a saturday evening; as clergymen always do, so as to be ready for their great day of work. there are no sabbath-breakers to be compared, in the vehemence of their sabbath-breaking, to hard-worked parochial clergymen--unless, indeed, it be sunday-school children, who are forced on that day to learn long dark collects, and stand in dread catechismal row before their spiritual pastors and masters. in the first evening there was that flow of friendship which always exists for the few first hours of meeting between men who are really fond of each other. and these men were fond of each other; the fonder perhaps because each of them had now cause for sorrow. very little was said between arthur and adela. there was not apparently much to alarm the widow in their mutual manner, or to make her think that miss gauntlet was to be put in her place. adela sat among the other girls, taking even less share in the conversation than they did; and arthur, though he talked as became the master of the house, talked but little to her. on the following morning they all went to church, of course. who has courage to remain away from church when staying at the clergyman's house? no one ever; unless it be the clergyman's wife, or perhaps an independent self-willed daughter. at hurst staple, however, on this sunday they all attended. adela was in deepest mourning. her thick black veil was down, so as to hide her tears. the last sunday she had been at church her father had preached his last sermon. bertram, as he entered the door, could not but remember how long it was since he had joined in public worship. months and months had passed over him since he had allowed himself to be told that the scriptures moved him in sundry places to acknowledge and confess his sins. and yet there had been a time when he had earnestly poured forth his frequent prayers to heaven; a time not long removed. it was as yet hardly more than three years since he had sworn within himself on the brow of olivet to devote himself to the service of his saviour. why had that oath been broken? a girl had ridiculed it; a young girl had dissipated all that by the sheen of her beauty, by the sparkle of her eye, by the laughter of her ruddy lip. he had promised himself to his god, but the rustling of silks had betrayed his heart. at her instance, at her first word, that promise had been whistled down the wind. and to what had this brought him now? as for the bright eyes, and the flashing beauty, and the ruddy lips, they were made over in fee-simple to another, who was ready to go further than he had gone in seeking this world's vanities. even the price of his apostasy had vanished from him. but was this all? was this nearly all? was this as anything to that further misery which had come upon him? where was his faith now, his true, youthful, ardent faith; the belief of his inner heart; the conviction of a god and a saviour, which had once been to him the source of joy? had it all vanished when, under the walls of jerusalem, over against that very garden of gethsemane, he had exchanged the aspirations of his soul for the pressure of a soft white hand? no one becomes an infidel at once. a man who has really believed does not lose by a sudden blow the firm convictions of his soul. but when the work has been once commenced, when the first step has been taken, the pace becomes frightfully fast. three years since his belief had been like the ardour of young love, and now what were his feelings? men said that he was an infidel; but he would himself deny it with a frigid precision, with the stiffest accuracy of language; and then argue that his acknowledgment of a superhuman creative power was not infidelity. he had a god of his own, a cold, passionless, prudent god; the same god, he said, to whom others looked; with this only difference, that when others looked with fanatic enthusiasm, he looked with well-balanced reason. but it was the same god, he said. and as to the saviour, he had a good deal also to say on that subject; a good deal which might show that he was not so far from others as others thought. and so he would prove that he was no infidel. but could he thus satisfy himself now that he again heard the psalms of his youth? and remembered as he listened, that he had lost for ever that beauty which had cost him so dear? did he not now begin to think--to feel perhaps rather than to think--that, after all, the sound of the church bells was cheering, that it was sweet to kneel there where others knelt, sweet to hear the voices of those young children as they uttered together the responses of the service? was he so much wiser than others that he could venture on his own judgment to set himself apart, and to throw over as useless all that was to others so precious? such were his feelings as he sat, and knelt, and stood there--mechanically as it were, remembering the old habits. and then he tried to pray. but praying is by no means the easiest work to which a man can set himself. kneeling is easy; the repetition of the well-known word is easy; the putting on of some solemnity of mind is perhaps not difficult. but to remember what you are asking, why you are asking, of whom you are asking; to feel sure that you want what you do ask, and that this asking is the best way to get it;--that on the whole is not easy. on this occasion bertram probably found it utterly beyond his capacity. he declined to go to afternoon church. this is not held to be _de rigueur_ even in a parson's house, unless it be among certain of the strictly low-church clergymen. a very high churchman may ask you to attend at four o'clock of a winter morning, but he will not be grievously offended if, on a sunday afternoon, you prefer your arm-chair, and book--probably of sermons; but that is between you and your conscience. they dined early, and in the evening, bertram and his host walked out. hitherto they had had but little opportunity of conversation, and bertram longed to talk to some one of what was within his breast. on this occasion, however, he failed. conversation will not always go exactly as one would have it. "i was glad to see you at church to-day," said the parson. "to tell you the truth, i did not expect it. i hope it was not intended as a compliment to me." "i rather fear it was, arthur." "you mean that you went because you did not like to displease us by staying away?" "something like it," said bertram, affecting to laugh. "i do not want your mother and sisters, or you either, to regard me as an ogre. in england, at any rate in the country in england, one is an ogre if one doesn't go to church. it does not much matter, i believe, what one does when one is there; so long as one is quiet, and lets the parson have his say." "there is nothing so easy as ridicule, especially in matters of religion." "quite true. but then it is again true that it is very hard to laugh at anything that is not in some point ridiculous." "and god's worship is ridiculous?" "no; but any pretence of worshipping god is so. and as it is but a step from the ridiculous to the sublime, and as the true worship of god is probably the highest sublimity to which man can reach; so, perhaps, is he never so absolutely absurd, in such a bathos of the ridiculous, as when he pretends to do so." "every effort must sometimes fall short of success." "i'll explain what i mean," said bertram, attending more to himself than his companion. "what idea of man can be so magnificent as that which represents him with his hands closed, and his eyes turned to that heaven with which he holds communion? but imagine the man so placed, and holding no such communion! you will at once have run down the whole gamut of humanity from st. paul to pecksniff." "but that has nothing to do with belief. it is for the man to take care that he be, if possible, nearer to st. paul than to pecksniff." "no, it has nothing to do with belief; but it is a gauge, the only gauge we have, of what belief a man has. how many of those who were sitting by silently while you preached really believed?" "all, i hope; all, i trust. i firmly trust that they are all believers; all, including yourself." "i wonder whether there was one; one believer in all that which you called on us to say that we believed? one, for instance, who believes in the communion of saints? one who believes in the resurrection of the body?" "and why should they not believe in the communion of saints? what's the difficulty?" "very little, certainly; as their belief goes--what they and you call belief. rumtunshid gara shushabad gerostophat. that is the shibboleth of some of the caucasian tribes. do you believe in rumtunshid?" "if you will talk gibberish when talking on such a matter, i had rather change the subject." "now you are unreasonable, and want to have all the gibberish to yourself. that you should have it all to yourself in your own pulpit we accede to you; but out here, on the heath, surely i may have my turn. you do not believe in rumtunshid? then why should farmer buttercup be called on to believe in the communion of the saints? what does he believe about it? or why should you make little flora buttercup tell such a huge fib as to say, that she believes in the resurrection of the body?" "it is taught her as a necessary lesson, and will be explained to her at the proper age." "no; there is no proper age for it. it will never be explained to her. neither flora nor her father will ever understand anything about it. but they will always believe it. am i old enough to understand it? explain it to me. no one yet has ever attempted to do so; and yet my education was not neglected." wilkinson had too great a fear of his friend's powers of ridicule to venture on an explanation; so he again suggested that they should change the subject. "that is always the way," said bertram. "i never knew a clergyman who did not want to change the subject when that subject is the one on which he should be ever willing to speak." "if there be anything that you deem holy, you would not be willing to hear it ridiculed." "there is much that i deem holy, and for that i fear no laughter. i am ready to defy ridicule. but if i talk to you of the asceticism of stylites, and tell you that i admire it, and will imitate it, will you not then laugh at me? of course we ridicule what we think is false. but ridicule will run off truth like water from a duck's back. come, explain to me this about the resurrection of the body." "yet, in my flesh, shall i see god," said arthur, in a solemn tone. "but i say, no. it is impossible." "nothing is impossible with god." "yes; it is impossible that his own great laws should change. it is impossible that they should remain, and yet not remain. your body--that which we all call our body--that which flora buttercup believes to be her body (for in this matter she does believe) will turn itself, through the prolific chemistry of nature, into various productive gases by which other bodies will be formed. with which body will you see christ? with that which you now carry, or that you will carry when you die? for, of course, every atom of your body changes." "it little matters which. it is sufficient for me to believe as the scriptures teach me." "yes; if one could believe. a jew, when he drags his dying limbs to the valley of jehoshaphat, he can believe. he, in his darkness, knows nothing of these laws of nature. but we will go to people who are not in darkness. if i ask your mother what she means when she says--'not by confusion of substance; but by unity of person,' what will she answer me?" "it is a subject which it will take her some time to explain." "yes, i think so; and me some time longer to understand." wilkinson was determined not to be led into argument, and so he remained silent. bertram was also silent for awhile, and they walked on, each content with his own thoughts. but yet not content. wilkinson would have been contented to be let alone; to have his mind, and faith, and hopes left in the repose which nature and education had prepared for them. but it was not so with bertram. he was angry with himself for not believing, and angry with others that they did believe. they went on in this way for some ten minutes, and then bertram began again. "ah, that i could believe! if it were a thing to come at, as a man wishes, who would doubt? but you, you, the priest, the teacher of the people, you, who should make it all so easy, you will make it so difficult, so impossible. belief, at any rate, should be easy, though practice may be hard." "you should look to the bible, not to us." "yes; it is there that is our stumbling-block. a book is given to us, not over well translated from various languages, part of which is history hyperbolically told--for all eastern language is hyperbolical; part of which is prophecy, the very meaning of which is lost to us by the loss of those things which are intended to be imaged out; and part of which is thanksgiving uttered in the language of men who knew nothing, and could understand nothing of those rules by which we are to be governed." "you are talking of the old testament?" "it is given to us as one whole. then we have the story of a mystery which is above, or, at least, beyond the utmost stretch of man's comprehension; and the very purport of which is opposed to all our ideas of justice. in the jurisprudence of heaven can that be just which here, on earth, is manifestly unjust?" "is your faith in god so weak then, and your reliance on yourself so firm, that you can believe nothing beyond your own comprehension?" "i believe much that i do not understand. i believe the distance of the earth from the sun. i believe that the seed of a man is carried in a woman, and then brought forth to light, a living being. i do not understand the principle of this wondrous growth. but yet i believe it, and know that it is from god. but i cannot believe that evil is good. i cannot believe that man placed here by god shall receive or not receive future happiness as he may chance to agree or not to agree with certain doctors who, somewhere about the fourth century, or perhaps later, had themselves so much difficulty in coming to any agreement on the disputed subject." "i think, bertram, that you are going into matters which you know are not vital to faith in the christian religion." "what is vital, and what is not? if i could only learn that! but you always argue in a circle. i am to have faith because of the bible; but i am to take the bible through faith. whence is the first spring of my faith to come? where shall i find the fountain-head?" "in prayer to god." "but can i pray without faith? did any man ever kneel before a log, and ask the log that he might believe in the log? had he no faith in the log, could it be possible that he should be seen there kneeling before it?" "has the bible then for you no intrinsic evidence of its truth?" "yes, most irrefragable evidence; evidence that no thinking man can possibly reject. christ's teaching, the words that i have there as coming from his mouth are irresistible evidence of his fitness to teach. but you will permit me to use no such evidence. i must take it all, from the beginning of my career, before i can look into its intrinsic truth. and it must be all true to me: the sun standing still upon gibeon no less than the divine wisdom which showed that cæsar's tribute should be paid to cæsar." "if every man and every child is to select, how shall we ever have a creed? and if no creed, how shall we have a church?" "and if no church, how then parsons? follow it on, and it comes to that. but, in truth, you require too much; and so you get--nothing. your flocks do not believe, do not pray, do not listen to you. they are not in earnest. in earnest! heavens! if a man could believe all this, could be in earnest about it, how possibly could he care for other things? but no; you pride yourselves on faith; but you have no faith. there is no such thing left. in these days men do not know what faith is." in the evening, when the ladies had gone to their rooms, they were again together; and bertram thought that he would speak of caroline. but he was again foiled. there had been some little bickering on the part of mrs. wilkinson. she had been querulous, and had not cared to hide it, though george and adela were sitting there as guests. this had made her son unhappy, and he now spoke of it. "i am sorry you should hear my mother speak in that way, george. i hope i am not harsh to her. i try to refrain from answering her. but unless i go back to my round jackets, and take my food from her hand like a child, i cannot please her." "perhaps you are too careful to please her. i think you should let her know that, to a certain extent, you must be master in your own house." "ah! i have given that up long since. she has an idea that the house is hers. i do not care to thwart her in that. perhaps i should have done it at first; but it is too late now. to-night she was angry with me because i would not read a sermon." "and why then didn't you?" "i have preached two to-day." and the young clergyman yawned somewhat wearily. "she used to read them herself. i did put a stop to that." "why so? why not let her read them?" "the girls used to go to sleep, always--and then the servants slept also, i don't think she has a good voice for sermons. but i am sure of this, george--she has never forgiven me." "and never will." "sometimes, i almost think she would wish to take my place in the pulpit." "the wish is not at all unnatural, my dear fellow." "the truth is, that lord stapledean's message to her, and his conduct about the living, has quite upset her. i cannot blame lord stapledean. what he did was certainly kind. but i do blame myself. i never should have accepted the living on those terms--never, never. i knew it when i did it, and i have never since ceased to repent it." and so saying he got up and walked quickly about the room. "would you believe it now; my mother takes upon herself to tell me in what way i should read the absolution; and feels herself injured because i do not comply?" "i can tell you but of one remedy, arthur; but i can tell you of one." "what remedy?" "take a wife to yourself; one who will not mind in what way you read the absolution to her." "a wife!" said wilkinson, and he uttered a long sigh as he continued his walk. "yes, a wife; why not? people say that a country clergyman should never be without a wife; and as for myself, i firmly think that they are right." "every curate is to marry, then?" "but you are not a curate." "i should only have the income of a curate. and where should i put a wife? the house is full of women already. who would come to such a house as this?" "there is adela; would not she come if you asked her?" "adela!" said the young vicar. and now his walk had brought him to the further end of the table; and there he remained for a minute or two. "adela!" "yes, adela," said bertram. "what a life my mother would lead her! she is fond of her now; very. but in that case i know that she would hate her." "if i were you, i would make my wife the mistress of my house, not my mother." "ah! you do not understand, george." "but perhaps you do not like adela--perhaps you could not teach yourself to love her?" "perhaps not," said wilkinson. "and perhaps she could not teach herself to like me. but, ah! that is out of the question." "there is nothing between you and adela then?" asked bertram. "oh, no; nothing." "on your honour, nothing?" "nothing at all. it is quite out of the question. my marrying, indeed!" and then they took their bedroom candlesticks and went to their own rooms. chapter xii. the wounded doe. it was a weary, melancholy household just then, that of hurst staple, and one may almost wonder that bertram should have remained there; but still he did remain. he had been there a fortnight, when he learnt that in three days' time adela was to go to littlebath. she was to go down with miss baker; and was to remain there with her, or with miss todd if miss baker should go back to hadley, till her own aunt should have returned. "i don't know why you should be in such a hurry to get to littlebath," said mrs. wilkinson. "we have been very glad to have you; and i hope we have shown it." as arthur had evinced no symptoms of making love to miss gauntlet, the good lady had been satisfied, and now she felt somewhat slighted that her hospitality was not more valued. but adela explained in her own soft manner that it would be better for her to leave that neighbourhood; that her heart was sore there; that her sorrow for her father would be lighter if she were away. what hypocrites women are! even ophelia in her madness would pretend that she raved for her murdered father, when it was patent to all the world that she was mad for love for hamlet. and now adela must leave hurst staple because, forsooth, her poor old father lay buried at west putford. would not ten words have quieted that ghost for ever? but then, what is the use of a lady's speech but to conceal her thoughts? bertram had spoken to arthur about caroline's marriage, but he had as yet said no word on the subject to any one else. mrs. wilkinson had tried him once or twice, but in vain. he could not bare his bosom to mrs. wilkinson. "so you are going, adela?" he said the morning he had heard the news. they had all called her adela in that house, and he had learned to do as others did. these intimacies will sometimes grow up in five days, though an acquaintance of twenty years will often not produce them. "yes, mr. bertram. i have been a great trouble to them here, and it is time that i should be gone." "'welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.' had i a house, i should endeavour to act on that principle. i would never endeavour to keep a person who wished to go. but we shall all regret you. and then, littlebath is not the place for you. you will never be happy at littlebath." "why not?" "oh, it is a wretched place; full of horse-jockeys and hags--of card-tables and false hair." "i shall have nothing to do with the card-tables, and i hope not with the false hair--nor yet much, i suppose, with the horse-jockeys." "there will still remain the worst of the four curses." "mr. bertram, how can you be so evil-minded? i have had many happy days at littlebath." and then she paused, for she remembered that her happy days there had all been passed with caroline waddington. "yes, and i also have had happy days there," said he; "very happy. and i am sure of this--that they would have been happy still but for the influence of that wretched place." adela could make no answer to this at the moment, so she went on hemming at her collar. then, after a pause, she said, "i hope it will have no evil influence on me." "i hope not--i hope not. but you are beyond such influences. it seems to me, if i may say so, that you are beyond all influences." "yes; as a fool is," she said, laughing. "no; but as a rock is. i will not say as ice, for ice will always melt." "and do i never melt, mr. bertram? has that which has made you so unhappy not moved me? do you think that i can love caroline as i do, and not grieve, and weep, and groan in the spirit? i do grieve; i have wept for it. i am not stone." and in this also there had been some craft. she had been as it were forced to guard the thoughts of her own heart; and had, therefore, turned the river of the conversation right through the heart of her companion. "for whom do you weep? for which of us do you weep?" he asked. "for both; that, having so much to enjoy, you should between you have thrown it all away." "she will be happy. that at any rate is a consolation to me. though you will hardly believe that." "i hope she will. i hope she will. but, oh! mr. bertram, it is so fearful a risk. what--what if she should not be? what if she shall find, when the time will be too late for finding anything--what if she shall then find that she cannot love him?" "love him!" said the other with a sneer. "you do not know her. what need is there for love?" "ah! do not be harsh to her; do not you be harsh to her." "harsh, no; i will not be harsh to her. i will be all kindness. and being kind, i ask what need is there for love? looking at it in any light, of course she cannot love him." "cannot love him! why not?" "how is it possible? had she loved me, could she have shaken off one lover and taken up another in two months? and if she never loved me; if for three years she could go on, never loving me--then what reason is there to think she should want such excitement now?" "but you--could you love her, and yet cast her from you?" "yes; i could do it. i did do it--and were it to do again, it should be done again. i did love her. if i know what love is, if i can at all understand it, i did love her with all my heart. and yet--i will not say i cast her off; it would be unmanly as well as false; but i let her go." "ah! you did more than that, mr. bertram." "i gave her back her troth; and she accepted it;--as it was her duty to do, seeing that her wishes were then changed. i did no more than that." "women, mr. bertram, well know that when married they must sometimes bear a sharp word. but the sharp word before marriage; that is very hard to be borne." "i measure my words-- but why should i defend myself? of course your verdict will be on your friend's side. i should hate you if it were not so. but, oh! adela, if i have sinned, i have been punished. i have been punished heavily. indeed, indeed, i have been punished." and sitting down, he bowed himself on the table, and hid his face within his hands. this was in the drawing-room, and before adela could venture to speak to him again, one of the girls came into the room. "adela," said she, "we are waiting for you to go down to the school." "i am coming directly," said adela, jumping up, and still hoping that mary would go on, so as to leave her one moment alone with bertram. but mary showed no sign of moving without her friend. instead of doing so, she asked her cousin whether he had a headache? "not at all," said he, looking up; "but i am half asleep. this hurst staple is a sleepy place, i think. where's arthur?" "he's in the study." "well, i'll go into the study also. one can always sleep there without being disturbed." "you're very civil, master george." and then adela followed her friend down to the school. but she could not rest while the matter stood in this way. she felt that she had been both harsh and unjust to bertram. she knew that the fault had been with caroline; and yet she had allowed herself to speak of it as though he, and he only, had been to blame. she felt, moreover, an expressible tenderness for his sorrow. when he declared how cruel was his punishment, she could willingly have given him the sympathy of her tears. for were not their cases in many points the same? she was determined to see him again before she went, and to tell him that she acquitted him;--that she knew the greater fault was not with him. this in itself would not comfort him; but she would endeavour so to put it that he might draw comfort from it. "i must see you for a moment alone, before i go," she said to him that evening in the drawing-room. "i go very early on thursday morning. when can i speak to you? you are never up early, i know." "but i will be to-morrow. will you be afraid to come out with me before breakfast?" "oh no! she would not be at all afraid," she said: and so the appointment was made. "i know you'll think me very foolish for giving this trouble," she began, in rather a confused way, "and making so much about nothing." "no man thinks there is much ado about nothing when the ado is about himself," said bertram, laughing. "well, but i know it is foolish. but i was unjust to you yesterday, and i could not leave you without confessing it." "how unjust, adela?" "i said you had cast caroline off." "ah, no! i certainly did not do that." "she wrote to me, and told me everything. she wrote very truly, i know; and she did not say a word--not a word against you." "did she not? well--no--i know she would not. and remember this, adela: i do not say a word against her. do tell her, not from me, you know, but of your own observation, that i do not say one word against her. i only say she did not love me." "ah! mr. bertram." "that is all; and that is true. adela, i have not much to give; but i would give it all--all--everything to have her back--to have her back as i used to think her. but if i could have her now--as i know her now--by raising this hand, i would not take her. but this imputes no blame to her. she tried to love me, but she could not." "ah! she did love you." "never!" he almost shouted as he said this; and as he did so, he stood across his companion's path. "never! she never loved me. i know it now. what poor vile wretches we are! it is this i think that most torments me." and then they walked on. adela had come there expressly to speak to him, but now she was almost afraid to speak. her heart had been full of what it would utter, but now all utterance seemed to have left her. she had intended to console, but she did not dare to attempt it. there was a depth, almost a sublimity about his grief which kept her silent. "oh! adela," he said, "if you knew what it is to have an empty heart--or rather a heart not empty--that would fain be empty that you might again refill it. dear adela!" and he put out his hand to take her own. she hardly knew why, but she let him take her hand. "dear adela; have you never sighed for the comfort of an empty heart? you probe my wounds to the bottom; may i not search your own?" she did not answer him. was it possible that she should answer such a question? her eyes became suffused with tears, and she was unable to raise them from the ground. she could not recall her hand--not at that moment. she had come there to lecture him, to talk to him, to comfort him; and now she was unable to say a word. did he know the secret of her heart; that secret which once and but once had involuntarily broken from out her lips? had caroline told him? had she been so false to friendship--as false to friendship as she had been to love? "adela! adela! i would that we had met earlier in our lives. yes, you and i." these last words he added after she had quickly rescued her hand from his grasp. very quickly she withdrew it now. as quickly she lifted up her face, all covered as it was with tears, and endured the full weight of his gaze. what! was it possible that he knew how she had loved, and thought that her love had been for him! "yes, you and i," he continued. "even though your eyes flash upon me so sternly. you mean to say that had it been ever so early, that prize would have been impossible for me. speak out, adela. that is what you mean?" "yes; it would have been impossible; impossible every way; impossible, that is, on both sides." "then you have not that empty heart, adela? what else should make it impossible?" "mr. bertram, when i came here, i had no wish, no intention to talk about myself." "why not of yourself as well as of me? i say again, i would we had both met earlier. it might have been that i should have been saved from this shipwreck. i will speak openly to you, adela. why not?" he added, seeing that she shrunk from him, and seemed as though she would move on quickly--away from his words. "mr. bertram, do not say that which it will be useless for you to have said." "it shall not be useless. you are my friend, and friends should understand each other. you know how i have loved caroline. you believe that i have loved her, do you not?" "oh, yes; i do believe that." "well, you may; that at any rate is true. i have loved her. she will now be that man's property, and i must love her no longer." "no; not with that sort of love." "that sort! are there two sorts on which a man may run the changes, as he may from one room to another? i must wipe her out of my mind--out of my heart--or burn her out. i would not wish to love anything that he possesses." "no!" said she, "not his wife." "wife! she will never be his wife. she will never be bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh, as i would have made her. it will be but a partnership between them, to be dissolved when they have made the most of their world's trading." "if you love her, mr. bertram, do not be so bitter in speaking of her." "bitter! i tell you that i think her quite right in what she does. if a woman cannot love, what better can she do than trade upon her beauty? but, there; let her go; i did not wish to speak of her." "i was very wrong in asking you to walk with me this morning." "no, adela, not wrong; but very, very right. there, well, i will not ask you for your hand again, though it was but in friendship." "in friendship i will give it you," and she stretched out her hand to him. it was ungloved, and very white and fair; a prettier hand than even caroline could boast. "i must not take it. i must not lie to you, adela. i am broken-hearted. i have loved; i have loved that woman with all my heart, with my very soul, with the utmost strength of my whole being--and now it has come to this. if i know what a broken heart means, i have it here. but yet--yet--yet. oh, adela! i would fain try yet once again. i can do nothing for myself; nothing. if the world were there at my feet, wealth, power, glory, to be had for the stooping, i would not stoop to pick them, if i could not share them with--a friend. adela, it is so sad to be alone!" "yes, it is sad. is not sadness the lot of many of us?" "yes; but nature bids us seek a cure when a cure is possible." "i do not know what you wish me to understand, mr. bertram?" "yes, adela, you do; i think you do. i think i am honest and open. at any rate, i strive to be so. i think you do understand me." "if i do, then the cure which you seek is impossible." "ah!" "is impossible." "you are not angry with me?" "angry; no, not angry." "and do not be angry now, if i speak openly again. i thought--i thought. but i fear that i shall pain you." "i do not care for pain if any good can come of it." "i thought that you also had been wounded. in the woods, the stricken harts lie down together and lick each other's wounds while the herd roams far away from them." "is it so? why do we hear then 'of the poor sequestered stag, left and abandoned of his velvet friend?' no, mr. bertram, grief, i fear, must still be solitary." "and so, unendurable." "god still tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, now as he has ever done. but there is no sudden cure for these evils. the time will come when all this will be remembered, not without sorrow, but with a calm, quiet mourning that will be endurable; when your heart, now not broken as you say, but tortured, will be able to receive other images. but that time cannot come at once. nor, i think, is it well that we should wish it. those who have courage to love should have courage to suffer." "yes, yes, yes. but if the courage be wanting? if one have it not? one cannot have such courage for the asking." "the first weight of the blow will stun the sufferer. i know that, mr. bertram. but that dull, dead, deathly feeling will wear off at last. you have but to work; to read, to write, to study. in that respect, you men are more fortunate than we are. you have that which must occupy your thoughts." "and you, adela--?" "do not speak of me. if you are generous, you will not do so. if i have in any way seemed to speak of myself, it is because you have made it unavoidable. what god has given me to bear is bearable;--though i would that he could have spared my poor father." and, so saying, adela at last gave way to tears. on that subject she might be allowed to weep. bertram said nothing to disturb her till they were near the house, and then he again held out his hand to her. "as a true friend; i hope as a dear friend. is it not so?" said he. "yes," she answered, in her lowest voice, "as a dear friend. but remember that i expect a friend's generosity and a friend's forbearance." and so she made her way back to her own room, and appeared at breakfast in her usual sober guise, but with eyes that told no tales. on the next morning she took her departure. the nearest station on the railway by which she was to go to littlebath was distant about twelve miles, and it was proposed that she should be sent thither in mrs. wilkinson's phaëton. this, indeed, except the farm-yard cart, was the only vehicle which belonged to the parsonage, and was a low four-wheeled carriage, not very well contrived for the accommodation of two moderate-sized people in front, and of two immoderately-small people on the hind seat. mrs. wilkinson habitually drove it herself, with one of her daughters beside her, and with two others--those two whose legs had been found by measurement to be the shortest--in durance vile behind; but when so packed, it was clear to all men that the capacity of the phaëton was exhausted. now the first arrangement proposed was, that arthur should drive the phaëton, and that sophy should accompany adela to the station. but sophy, in so arranging, had forgotten that her friend had a bag, a trunk, and a bonnet-box, the presence of which at littlebath would be indispensable; and, therefore, at the last moment, when the phaëton came to the door with the luggage fastened on the hinder seat, it was discovered for the first time that sophy must be left behind. arthur wilkinson would willingly have given up his position, and george bertram would willingly have taken it. adela also would have been well pleased at such a change. but though all would have been pleased, it could not be effected. the vicar could not very well proclaim that, as his sister was not to accompany him and shield him, he would not act as charioteer to miss gauntlet; nor could the lady object to be driven by her host. so at last they started from the vicarage door with many farewell kisses, and a large paper of sandwiches. who is it that consumes the large packets of sandwiches with which parting guests are always laden? i imagine that station-masters' dogs are mainly fed upon them. the first half-mile was occupied, on wilkinson's part, in little would-be efforts to make his companion more comfortable. he shifted himself about into the furthest corner so as to give her more room; he pulled his cloak out from under her, and put it over her knees to guard her from the dust; and recommended her three times to put up her parasol. then he had a word or two to say to the neighbours; but that only lasted as long as he was in his own parish. then he came to a hill which gave him an opportunity of walking; and on getting in again he occupied half a minute in taking out his watch, and assuring adela that she would not be too late for the train. but when all this was done, the necessity for conversation still remained. they had hardly been together--thrown for conversation on each other as they now were--since that day when arthur had walked over for the last time to west putford. reader, do you remember it? hardly; for have not all the fortunes and misfortunes of our more prominent hero intervened since that chapter was before you? "i hope you will find yourself comfortable at littlebath," he said at last. "oh, yes; that is, i shall be when my aunt comes home. i shall be at home then, you know." "but that will be some time?" "i fear so; and i dread greatly going to this miss todd, whom i have never seen. but you see, dear miss baker must go back to hadley soon, and miss todd has certainly been very good-natured in offering to take me." then there was another silence, which lasted for about half a mile. "my mother would have been very glad if you would have stayed at the parsonage till your aunt's return; and so would my sisters--and so should i." "you are all very kind--too kind," said adela. then came another pause, perhaps for a quarter of a mile, but it was up-hill work, and the quarter of a mile passed by very slowly. "it seems so odd that you should go away from us, whom you have known so long, to stay with miss todd, whom you never have even seen." "i think change of scene will be good for me, mr. wilkinson." "well, perhaps so." and then the other quarter of a mile made away with itself. "come, get along, dumpling." this was said to the fat steed; for they had now risen to level ground. "our house, i know, must be very stupid for you. it is much changed from what it was; is it not?" "oh, i don't know." "yes, it is. there is neither the same spirit, nor the same good-will. we miss my father greatly." "ah, yes. i can feel for you there. it is a loss; a great loss." "i sometimes think it unfortunate that my mother should have remained at the vicarage after my father's death." "you have been very good to her, i know." "i have done my best, adela." it was the first time she had distinctly heard him call her by her christian name since she had come to stay with them. "but i have failed. she is not happy there; nor, indeed, for that matter, am i." "a man should be happy when he does his duty." "we none of us do that so thoroughly as to require no other source of happiness. go on, dumpling, and do your duty." "i see that you are very careful in doing yours." "perhaps you will hardly believe me, but i wish lord stapledean had never given me the living." "well; it is difficult to believe that. think what it has been for your sisters." "i know we should have been very poor, but we should not have starved. i had my fellowship, and i could have taken pupils. i am sure we should have been happier. and then--" "and then--well?" said adela; and as she spoke, her heart was not quite at rest within her breast. "then i should have been free. since i took that living, i have been a slave." again he paused a moment, and whipped the horse; but it was only now for a moment that he was silent. "yes, a slave. do you not see what a life i live? i could be content to sacrifice myself to my mother if the sacrifice were understood. but you see how it is with her. nothing that i can do will satisfy her; and yet for her i have sacrificed everything--everything." "a sacrifice is no sacrifice if it be agreeable. the sacrifice consists in its being painful." "well, i suppose so. i say that to myself so often. it is the only consolation i have." "not that i think your home should be made uncomfortable to you. there is no reason why it should be. at least, i should think not." she spoke with little spasmodic efforts, which, however, did not betray themselves to her companion, who seemed to her to be almost more engaged with dumpling than with the conversation. it certainly had been through no wish of hers that they were thus talking of his household concerns; but as they were speaking of them, she was forced into a certain amount of hypocrisy. it was a subject on which she could not speak openly. there was then another hill to be walked up, and adela thought there would be no more of it. the matter had come up by accident, and would now, probably, drop away. but no. whether by design, or from chance, or because no other topic presented itself, arthur went back to the subject, and did so now in a manner that was peculiarly startling to miss gauntlet. "do you remember my calling once at west putford, soon after i got the living? it is a long time ago now, and i don't suppose you do remember it." "yes, i do; very well." "and do you remember what i told you then?" "what was it?" said adela. it clearly is the duty of a young lady on very many occasions to be somewhat hypocritical. "if there be any man to whose happiness marriage is more necessary than to that of another, it is a country clergyman." "yes, i can believe that. that is, if there be not ladies of his own family living with him." "i do not know that that makes any difference." "oh, yes; it must make a difference. i think that a man must be very wretched who has no one to look after his house." "and is that your idea of the excellence of a wife? i should have expected something higher from you, adela. i suppose you think, then, that if a man have his linen looked after, and his dinner cooked, that is sufficient." poor adela! it must be acknowledged that this was hard on her. "no, i do not think that sufficient." "it would seem so from what you say." "then what i said belied my thoughts. it seems to me, mr. wilkinson, since you drive me to speak out, that the matter is very much in your own hands. you are certainly a free agent. you know better than i can tell you what your duty to your mother and sisters requires. circumstances have made them dependent on you, and you certainly are not the man to disacknowledge the burden." "certainly not." "no, certainly not. but, having made up my mind to that, i would not, were i you, allow myself to be a slave." "but what can i do?" "you mean that you would be a poor man, were you--were you to give up your fellowship and at the same time take upon yourself other cares as well. do as other poor men do." "i know no other man situated as i am." "but you know men who are much worse situated as regards their worldly means. were you to give your mother the half of your income, you would still, i presume, be richer than mr. young." mr. young was the curate of a neighbouring parish, who had lately married on his curacy. it will be said by my critics, especially by my female critics, that in saying this, adela went a long way towards teaching mr. wilkinson the way to woo. indeed, she brought that accusation against herself, and not lightly. but she was, as she herself had expressed it, driven in the cause of truth to say what she had said. nor did she, in her heart of hearts, believe that mr. wilkinson had any thought of her in saying what she did say. her mind on that matter had been long made up. she knew herself to be "the poor sequestered stag, left and abandoned by his velvet friend." she had no feeling in the matter which amounted to the slightest hope. he had asked her for her counsel, and she had given him the only counsel which she honestly could give. therefore, bear lightly on her, oh my critics! bear lightly on her especially, my critics feminine. to the worst of your wrath and scorn i willingly subject the other lovers with whom my tale is burthened. "yes, i should be better off than young," said wilkinson, as though he were speaking to himself. "but that is not the point. i do not know that i have ever looked at it exactly in that light. there is the house, the parsonage i mean. it is full of women"--'twas thus irreverently that he spoke of his mother and sisters--"what other woman would come among them?" "oh, that is the treasure for which you have to search"--this she said laughingly. the bitterness of the day was over with her; or at least it then seemed so. she was not even thinking of herself when she said this. "would you come to such a house, adela? you, you yourself?" "you mean to ask whether, if, as regards other circumstances, i was minded to marry, i would then be deterred by a mother-in-law and sister-in-law?" "yes, just so," said wilkinson, timidly. "well, that would depend much upon how well i might like the gentleman; something also upon how much i might like the ladies." "a man's wife should always be mistress in his own house." "oh yes, of course." "and my mother is determined to be mistress in that house." "well, i will not recommend you to rebel against your mother. is that the station, mr. wilkinson?" "yes--that's the station. dear me, we have forty minutes to wait yet!" "don't mind me, mr. wilkinson. i shall not in the least dislike waiting by myself." "of course, i shall see you off. dumpling won't run away; you may be sure of that. there is very little of the runaway class to be found at hurst staple parsonage; except you, adela." "you don't call me a runaway, i hope?" "you run away from us just when we are beginning to feel the comfort of your being with us. there, he won't catch cold now;" and so having thrown a rug over dumpling's back, he followed adela into the station. i don't know anything so tedious as waiting at a second-class station for a train. there is the ladies' waiting-room, into which gentlemen may not go, and the gentlemen's waiting-room, in which the porters generally smoke, and the refreshment room, with its dirty counter covered with dirtier cakes. and there is the platform, which you walk up and down till you are tired. you go to the ticket-window half a dozen times for your ticket, having been warned by the company's bills that you must be prepared to start at least ten minutes before the train is due. but the man inside knows better, and does not open the little hole to which you have to stoop your head till two minutes before the time named for your departure. then there are five fat farmers, three old women, and a butcher at the aperture, and not finding yourself equal to struggling among them for a place, you make up your mind to be left behind. at last, however, you do get your ticket just as the train comes up; but hearing that exciting sound, you nervously cram your change into your pocket without counting it, and afterwards feel quite convinced that you have lost a shilling in the transaction. 'twas somewhat in this way that the forty minutes were passed by wilkinson and adela. nothing of any moment was spoken between them till he took her hand for the last time. "adela," he then whispered to her, "i shall think much of what you have said to me, very much. i do so wish you were not leaving us. i wonder whether you would be surprised if i were to write to you?" but the train was gone before she had time to answer. two days afterwards, bertram also left them. "arthur," he said, as he took leave of the vicar, "if i, who have made such a mess of it myself, may give advice on such a subject, i would not leave adela gauntlet long at littlebath if i were you." chapter xiii. the solicitor-general in love. caroline waddington was at hadley when she received and accepted the proposal made to her by sir henry harcourt. it may be conceived that the affair was arranged without any very great amount of romance. sir henry indeed was willing, in a hurried manner, to throw himself at the lady's feet, to swear by her fair hand that he loved her as man never yet had loved, and to go to work in the fashion usually most approved by young ladies. in a hurried manner, i say; for just at this moment he was being made solicitor-general, and had almost too many irons in the fire to permit of a prolonged dallying. but caroline would have none of it, either hurried or not hurried. whatever might be the case with sir henry, she had gone through that phase of life, and now declared to herself that she did not want any more of it. sir henry did not find the task of gaining his bride very difficult. he had succeeded in establishing a sort of intimacy with old mr. bertram, and it appeared that permission to run down to hadley and run back again had already been accorded to him before miss baker and caroline arrived there. he never slept, though he sometimes dined in the house; but he had always something to talk about when an excuse for going to hadley was required. mr. bertram had asked him something about some investment, and he had found out this something; or he wanted to ask mr. bertram's advice on some question as to his political career. at this period he was, or professed to be, very much guided in his public life by mr. bertram's opinion. and thus he fell in with caroline. on the first occasion of his doing so, he contrived to whisper to her his deep sympathy with her sorrow; on his second visit, he spoke more of himself and less of bertram; on his third, he alluded only to her own virtues; on his fourth, he asked her to be lady harcourt. she told him that she would be lady harcourt; and, as far as she was concerned, there was an end of it for the present. then sir henry proposed that the day should be named. on this subject also he found her ready to accommodate him. she had no coy scruples as to the time. he suggested that it should be before christmas. very well; let it be before christmas. christmas is a cold time for marrying; but this was to be a cold marriage. christmas, however, for the fortunate is made warm with pudding, ale, and spiced beef. they intended to be among the fortunate, the fortunate in place, and money, and rank; and they would, as best they might, make themselves warm with the best pudding, ale, and spiced beef which the world could afford them. sir henry was alive to the delight of being the possessor of so many charms, and was somewhat chagrined that for the present he was so cruelly debarred from any part of his legitimate enjoyment. though he was a solicitor-general, he could have been content to sit for ten minutes with his arm round caroline's waist; and--in spite of the energy with which he was preparing a bill for the regulation of county courts, as to which he knew that he should have that terrible demi-god, lord boanerges, down upon his shoulders--still he would fain have stolen a kiss or two. but caroline's waist and caroline's kisses were to be his only after christmas; and to be his only as payment accorded for her new rank, and for her fine new house in eaton square. how is it that girls are so potent to refuse such favours at one time, and so impotent in preventing their exaction at another? sir henry, we may say, had every right to demand some trifling payment in advance; but he could not get a doit. should we be violating secrecy too much if we suggested that george bertram had had some slight partial success even when he had no such positive claim--some success which had of course been in direct opposition to the lady's will? miss baker had now gone back to littlebath, either to receive adela gauntlet, or because she knew that she should be more comfortable in her own rooms than in her uncle's dismal house--or perhaps because sir lionel was there. she had, however, gone back, and caroline remained mistress for the time of her grandfather's household. the old man now seemed to have dropped all mystery in the matter. he generally, indeed, spoke of caroline as miss waddington; but he heard her talked of as his granddaughter without expressing anger, and with sir henry he himself so spoke of her. he appeared to be quite reconciled to the marriage. in spite of all his entreaties to george, all his attempted bribery, his broken-hearted sorrow when he failed, he seemed to be now content. indeed, he had made no opposition to the match. when caroline had freely spoken to him about it, he made some little snappish remark as to the fickleness of women; but he at the same time signified that he would not object. why should he? sir henry harcourt was in every respect a good match for his granddaughter. he had often been angry with george bertram because george had not prospered in the world. sir henry had prospered signally--would probably prosper much more signally. might it not be safely predicated of a man who was solicitor-general before he was thirty, that he would be lord-chancellor or lord chief-justice, or at any rate some very bigwig indeed before he was fifty? so of course mr. bertram did not object. but he had not signified his acquiescence in any very cordial way. rich old men, when they wish to be cordial on such occasions, have but one way of evincing cordiality. it is not by a pressure of the hand, by a kind word, by an approving glance. their embrace conveys no satisfaction; their warmest words, if unsupported, are very cold. an old man, if he intends to be cordial on such an occasion, must speak of _thousands of pounds_. "my dear young fellow, i approve altogether. she shall have _twenty thousand pounds_ the day she becomes yours." then is the hand shaken with true fervour; then is real cordiality expressed and felt. "what a dear old man grandpapa is! is there any one like him? dear old duck! he is going to be so generous to harry." but mr. bertram said nothing about twenty thousand pounds, nothing about ten, nothing about money at all till he was spoken to on the subject. it was sir henry's special object not to be pressing on this point, to show that he was marrying caroline without any sordid views, and that his admiration for mr. bertram had no bearing at all on that gentleman's cash-box. he did certainly make little feints at mr. pritchett; but mr. pritchett merely wheezed and said nothing. mr. pritchett was not fond of the harcourt interest; and seemed to care but little for miss caroline, now that she had transferred her affections. but it was essentially necessary that sir henry harcourt should know what was to be done. if he were to have nothing, it was necessary that he should know that. he had certainly counted on having something, and on having something immediately. he was a thoroughly hard-working man of business, but yet he was not an economical man. a man who lives before the world in london, and lives chiefly among men of fortune, can hardly be economical. he had not therefore any large sum of money in hand. he was certainly in receipt of a large income, but then his expenses were large. he had taken and now had to furnish an expensive house in eaton square, and a few thousand pounds in ready money were almost indispensable to him. one friday--this was after his return to town from the ten days' grouse-shooting, and occurred at the time when he was most busy with the county courts--he wrote to caroline to say that he would go down to hadley on saturday afternoon, stay there over the sunday, and return to town on the monday morning; that is to say, he would do so if perfectly agreeable to mr. bertram. he went down, and found everything prepared for him that was suitable for a solicitor-general. they did not put before him merely roast mutton or boiled beef. he was not put to sleep in the back bedroom without a carpet. such treatment had been good enough for george bertram; but for the solicitor-general all the glories of hadley were put forth. he slept in the best bedroom, which was damp enough no doubt, seeing that it was not used above twice in the year; and went through at dinner a whole course of _entrées_, such as _entrées_ usually are in the suburban districts. this was naturally gratifying to him as a solicitor-general, and fortified him for the struggle he was to make. he had some hope that he should have a _tête-à-tête_ with caroline on the saturday evening. but neither fate nor love would favour him. he came down just before dinner, and there was clearly no time then: infirm as the old man was, he sat at the dinner-table; and though sir henry was solicitor-general, there was no second room, no withdrawing-room prepared for his reception. "grandpapa does not like moving," said caroline, as she got up to leave the room after dinner; "so perhaps, sir henry, you will allow me to come down to tea here? we always sit here of an evening." "i never could bear to live in two rooms," said the old man. "when one is just warm and comfortable, one has to go out into all the draughts of the house. that's the fashion, i know. but i hope you'll excuse me, sir henry, for not liking it." sir henry of course did excuse him. there was nothing he himself liked so much as sitting cosy over a dining-room fire. in about an hour caroline did come down again; and in another hour, before the old man went, she again vanished for the night. sir henry had made up his mind not to speak to mr. bertram about money that evening; so he also soon followed caroline, and sat down to work upon the county courts in his own bedroom. on the next morning sir henry and caroline went to church. all the hadleyians of course knew of the engagement, and were delighted to have an opportunity of staring at the two turtle-doves. a solicitor-general in love is a sight to behold; and the clergyman had certainly no right to be angry if the attention paid to his sermon was something less fixed than usual. before dinner, there was luncheon; and then sir henry asked his betrothed if she would take a walk with him. "oh, certainly, she would be delighted." her church-going bonnet was still on, and she was quite ready. sir henry also was ready; but as he left the room he stooped over mr. bertram's chair and whispered to him, "could i speak to you a few words before dinner, sir; on business? i know i ought to apologize, this being sunday." "oh, i don't care about sunday," said the stubborn-minded old man. "i shall be here till i go to bed, i suppose, if you want me." and then they started on their walk. oh, those lovers' rambles! a man as he grows old can perhaps teach himself to regret but few of the sweets which he is compelled to leave behind him. he can learn to disregard most of his youth's pleasures, and to live contented though he has outlived them. the polka and the waltz were once joyous; but he sees now that the work was warm, and that one was often compelled to perform it in company for which one did not care. those picnics too were nice; but it may be a question whether a good dinner at his own dinner-table is not nicer. though fat and over forty he may still ride to hounds, and as for boating and cricketing, after all they were but boy's play. for those things one's soul does not sigh. but, ah! those lovers' walks, those loving lovers' rambles. tom moore is usually somewhat sugary and mawkish; but in so much he was right. if there be an elysium on earth, it is this. they are done and over for us, oh, my compatriots! never again, unless we are destined to rejoin our houris in heaven, and to saunter over fields of asphodel in another and a greener youth--never again shall those joys be ours! and what can ever equal them? 'twas then, between sweet hedgerows, under green oaks, with our feet rustling on the crisp leaves, that the world's cold reserve was first thrown off, and we found that those we loved were not goddesses made of buckram and brocade, but human beings like ourselves, with blood in their veins, and hearts in their bosoms--veritable children of adam like ourselves. "gin a body meet a body comin' through the rye." ah, how delicious were those meetings! how convinced we were that there was no necessity for loud alarm! how fervently we agreed with the poet! my friends, born together with me in the consulship of lord liverpool, all that is done and over for us. we shall never gang that gait' again. there is a melancholy in this that will tinge our thoughts, let us draw ever so strongly on our philosophy. we can still walk with our wives;--and that is pleasant too, very--of course. but there was more animation in it when we walked with the same ladies under other names. nay, sweet spouse, mother of dear bairns, who hast so well done thy duty; but this was so, let thy brows be knit never so angrily. that lord of thine has been indifferently good to thee, and thou to him has been more than good. up-hill together have ye walked peaceably labouring; and now arm-in-arm ye shall go down the gradual slope which ends below there in the green churchyard. 'tis good and salutary to walk thus. but for the full cup of joy, for the brimming spring-tide of human bliss, oh, give me back, give me back-- -- --! well, well, well; it is nonsense; i know it; but may not a man dream now and again in his evening nap and yet do no harm? _vici puellis nuper idoneus, et militavi._ how well horace knew all about it! but that hanging up of the gittern--. one would fain have put it off, had falling hairs, and marriage-vows, and obesity have permitted it. nay, is it not so, old friend of the grizzled beard? dost thou not envy that smirk young knave with his five lustrums, though it goes hard with him to purchase his kid-gloves? he dines for one-and-twopence at an eating-house; but what cares maria where he dines? he rambles through the rye with his empty pockets, and at the turn of the field-path maria will be there to meet him. envy him not; thou hast had thy walk; but lend him rather that thirty shillings that he asks of thee. so shall maria's heart be glad as she accepts his golden brooch. but for our friend sir henry every joy was present. youth and wealth and love were all his, and his all together. he was but eight-and-twenty, was a member of parliament, solicitor-general, owner of a house in eaton square, and possessor of as much well-trained beauty as was to be found at that time within the magic circle of any circumambient crinoline within the bills of mortality. was it not sweet for him to wander through the rye? had he not fallen upon an elysium, a very paradise of earthly joys? was not his spring-tide at the full flood? and so they started on their walk. it was the first that they had ever taken together. what sir henry may have done before in that line this history says not. a man who is solicitor-general at eight-and-twenty can hardly have had time for much. but the practice which he perhaps wanted, caroline had had. there had been walks as well as rides at littlebath; and walks also, though perhaps of doubtful joy, amidst those graves below the walls of jerusalem. and so they started. there is--or perhaps we should say was; for time and railways, and straggling new suburban villas, may now have destroyed it all; but there is, or was, a pretty woodland lane, running from the back of hadley church, through the last remnants of what once was enfield chase. how many lovers' feet have crushed the leaves that used to lie in autumn along that pretty lane! well, well; there shall not be another word in that strain. i speak solely now of the time here present to sir henry; all former days and former roamings there shall be clean forgotten. the solicitor-general now thither wends his way, and love and beauty attend upon his feet. see how he opens the gate that stands by the churchyard paling? does it stand there yet, i wonder? well, well; we will say it does. "it is a beautiful day for a walk," said sir henry. "yes, very beautiful," said caroline. "there is nothing i am so fond of as a long walk," said the gentleman. "it is very nice," said the lady. "but i do not know that i care for going very far to-day. i am not quite strong at present." "not strong?" and the solicitor-general put on a look of deep alarm. "oh, there is nothing the matter with me; but i am not quite strong for walking. i am out of practice; and my boots are not quite of the right sort." "they don't hurt you, i hope." "oh, no; they don't actually hurt me. they'll do very well for to-day." and then there was a short pause, and they got on the green grass which runs away into the chase in front of the parsonage windows. i wonder whether wickets are ever standing there now on the summer afternoons! they were soon as much alone--or nearly so--as lovers might wish to be; quite enough so for caroline. some curious eyes were still peeping, no doubt, to see how the great lawyer looked when he was walking with the girl of his heart; to see how the rich miser's granddaughter looked when she was walking with the man of her heart. and perhaps some voices were whispering that she had changed her lover; for in these rural seclusions everything is known by everybody. but neither the peepers nor the whisperers interfered with the contentment of the fortunate pair. "i hope you are happy, caroline?" said sir henry, as he gently squeezed the hand that was so gently laid upon his arm. "happy! oh yes--i am happy. i don't believe you know in a great deal of very ecstatic happiness. i never did." "but i hope you are rationally happy--not discontented--at any rate, not regretful? i hope you believe that i shall do my best, my very best, to make you happy?" "oh, yes; i quite believe that. we must each think of the other's comfort. after all, that i take it is the great thing in married life." "i don't expect you to be passionately in love with me--not as yet, caroline." "no. let neither of us expect that, sir henry. passionate love, i take it, rarely lasts long, and is very troublesome while it does last. mutual esteem is very much more valuable." "but, caroline, i would have you believe in my love." "oh, yes; i do believe in it. why else should you wish to marry me? i think too well of myself to feel it strange that you should love me. but love with you, and with me also for the future, will be subordinate to other passions." sir henry did not altogether like that reference to the past which was conveyed in the word future; but, however, he bore it without wincing. "you know so thoroughly the history of the last three years," she continued, "that it would be impossible for me to deceive you if i could. but, if i know myself, under no circumstances would i have done so. i have loved once, and no good has come of it. it was contrary to my nature to do so--to love in that mad passionate self-sacrificing manner. but yet i did. i think i may say with certainty that i never shall be so foolish again." "you have suffered lately, caroline; and as the sore still smarts, you hardly yet know what happiness may be in store for you." "yes; i have suffered," and he felt from the touch on his arm that her whole body shuddered. he walked on in silence for awhile considering within himself. why should he marry this girl, rejected of her former lover, who now hung upon his arm? he was now at the very fullest tide of his prosperity; he had everything to offer which mothers wish for their daughters, and which daughters wish for themselves. he had income, rank, name, youth, and talent. why should he fling his rich treasures at the feet of a proud minx who in taking them swore that she could not love him? would it not be better for him to recede? a word he well knew would do it; for her pride was true pride. he felt in his heart that it was not assumed. he had only to say that he was not contented with this cold lack of love, and she would simply desire him to lead her back to her home and leave her there. it would be easy enough for him to get his head from out the noose. but it was this very easiness, perhaps, which made him hesitate. she knew her own price, and was not at all anxious to dispose of herself a cheap bargain. if you, sir, have a horse to sell, never appear anxious for the sale. that rule is well understood among those who deal in horses. if you, madam, have a daughter to sell, it will be well for you also to remember this. or, my young friend, if you have yourself to sell, the same rule holds good. but it is hard to put an old head on young shoulders. hard as the task is, however, it would seem to have been effected as regards caroline waddington. and then sir henry looked at her. not exactly with his present eyesight as then at that moment existing; for seeing that she was walking by his side, he could not take the comprehensive view which his taste and mind required. but he looked at her searchingly with the eyesight of his memory, and found that she exactly tallied with what his judgment demanded. that she was very beautiful, no man had ever doubted. that she was now in the full pride of her beauty was to him certain. and then her beauty was of that goddess class which seems for so long a period to set years at defiance. it was produced by no girlish softness, by no perishable mixture of white and red; it was not born of a sparkling eye, and a ripe lip, and a cherry cheek. to her face belonged lines of contour, severe, lovely, and of ineradicable grace. it was not when she smiled and laughed that she most pleased. she did not charm only when she spoke; though, indeed, the expression of her speaking face was perfect. but she had the beauty of a marble bust. it would not be easy even for sir henry harcourt, even for a young solicitor-general, to find a face more beautiful with which to adorn his drawing-room. and then she had that air of fashion, that look of being able to look down the unfashionable, which was so much in the eyes of sir henry; though in those of george bertram it had been almost a demerit. with caroline, as with many women, this was an appearance rather than a reality. she had not moved much among high people; she had not taught herself to despise those of her own class, the women of littlebath, the todds and the adela gauntlets; but she looked as though she would be able to do so. and it was fitting she should have such a look if ever she were to be the wife of a solicitor-general. and then sir henry thought of mr. bertram's coffers. ah! if he could only be let into that secret, it might be easy to come to a decision. that the old man had quarrelled with his nephew, he was well aware. that george, in his pig-headed folly, would make no overtures towards a reconciliation; of that also he was sure. was it not probable that at any rate a great portion of that almost fabulous wealth would go to the man's granddaughter? there was doubtless risk; but then one must run some risk in everything, it might be, if he could play his cards wisely, that he would get it all--that he would be placed in a position to make even the solicitor-generalship beneath his notice. and so, in spite of caroline's coldness, he resolved to persevere. having thus made up him mind, he turned the conversation to another subject. "you liked the house on the whole; did you?" caroline during the past week had been up to see the new house in eaton square. "oh, yes; very much. nothing could be nicer. only i am afraid it's expensive." this was a subject on which caroline could talk to him. "not particularly," said sir henry. "of course one can't get a house in london for nothing. i shall have rather a bargain of that if i can pay the money down. the great thing is whether you like it." "i was charmed with it. i never saw prettier drawing-rooms--never. and the bedrooms for a london house are so large and airy." "did you go into the dining-room?" "oh, yes; i went in." "there's room for four-and-twenty, is there not?" "well, i don't know. i can't give an opinion about that. you could have three times that number at supper." "i'm not thinking of suppers; but i'm sure you could. kitchen's convenient, eh?" "very--so at least aunt mary said." "and now about the furniture. you can give me two or three days in town, can't you?" "oh, yes; if you require it. but i would trust your taste in all those matters." "my taste! i have neither taste nor time. if you won't mind going to ----" and so the conversation went on for another fifteen minutes, and then they were at home. caroline's boots had begun to tease her, and their walk, therefore, had not been prolonged to a great distance. ah, me! again i say how pleasant, how delightful were those lovers' walks! then caroline went up to her bedroom, and sir henry sat himself down near mr. bertram's chair in the dining-room. "i wanted to speak to you, sir," said he, rushing at once into the midst of his subject, "about caroline's settlement. it is time that all that should be arranged. i would have made my lawyer see pritchett; but i don't know that pritchett has any authority to act for you in such matters." "act for me! pritchett has no authority to act--nor have i either." this little renunciation of his granddaughter's affairs was no more than sir henry expected. he was, therefore, neither surprised nor disgusted. "well! i only want to know who has the authority. i don't anticipate any great difficulty. caroline's fortune is not very large; but of course it must be settled. six thousand pounds, i believe." "four, sir henry. that is, if i am rightly informed." "four, is it? i was told six--i think by george bertram in former days. i should of course prefer six; but if it be only four, why we must make the best of it." "she has only four of her own," said the old man, somewhat mollified. "have you any objection to my telling you what i would propose to do?" "no objection in life, sir henry." "my income is large; but i want a little ready money at present to conclude the purchase of my house, and to furnish it. would you object to the four thousand pounds being paid into my hands, if i insure my life for six for her benefit? were her fortune larger, i should of course propose that my insurance should be heavier." sir henry was so very reasonable that mr. bertram by degrees thawed. he would make his granddaughter's fortune, six thousand as he had always intended. this should be settled on her, the income of course going to her husband. he should insure his life for four thousand more on her behalf; and mr. bertram would lend sir henry three thousand for his furniture. sir henry agreed to this, saying to himself that such a loan from mr. bertram was equal to a gift. mr. bertram himself seemed to look at it in a different light. "mind, sir henry, i shall expect the interest to the day. i will only charge you four per cent. and it must be made a bond debt." "oh, certainly," said sir henry. and so the affair of the settlement was arranged. chapter xiv. mrs. leake of rissbury. adela gauntlet reached littlebath without any adventures, and at the station she met miss baker ready to take her and her boxes in charge. she soon learned what was to be her fate for that autumn. it was imperatively necessary that miss baker should go up to town in a week or two. "there are such hundreds of things to be done about furniture and all that, you know," said miss baker, looking rather grand as she spoke of her niece's great match; and yet doing so with the least possible amount of intentional pride or vanity. adela, of course, acknowledged that there must be hundreds of things, and expressed her deepest regret that she should be so much in the way. perhaps she almost wished that she had remained at hurst staple. "not at all in the way, my dear," said miss baker; "i shall be back again in a week at the furthest, and miss todd will be delighted to have you for that time. indeed, she would be very much disappointed now, and offended too if you did not go. but all the same, i would not leave you, only that sir henry insists that caroline should choose all the things herself; and of course he has not time to go with her--and then the responsibility is so great. why, i suppose she will have to lay out about two thousand pounds!" "but what sort of a person is miss todd?" asked adela. "oh, an extremely nice person; you'll like her amazingly--so lively, so good-natured, so generous; and very clever too. perhaps, for her age, she's a little too fond--" "too fond of what? you were going to say dress, i suppose." "no, indeed. i can't say that there's anything to blame her for in that. she dresses very handsomely, but always plain. no; what i was going to say is, that perhaps for a woman of her age--she is a little too fond of gentlemen's attention." "caroline told me that she was the most confirmed old maid she knew--an old maid who gloried in being an old maid." "i don't know about that, my dear; but if a certain gentleman were to ask her, i don't think she'd glory in it much longer. but she's a very nice person, and you'll like her very much." miss baker did go up to town, leaving adela to miss todd's hospitality. she did go up, but in doing so resolved to return as soon as possible. sir lionel was now in the paragon nearly every other day. to be sure, he did generally call in montpellier terrace on the alternate days. but then there was a reason for that. they had to talk about george and caroline. what possible reason could there be for his going to the paragon? adela was rather frightened when she found herself left at miss todd's lodgings; though that lady's manner to her was not such as need have inspired much awe. "now, my dear," she said, "don't mind me in the least. do just whatever you like. if i only knew what you did like, you should have it if i could get it. what are you fond of now? shall i ask some young people here to-night?" "oh, no, miss todd; not for me. i have never been much in society, and certainly do not wish for it at present." "well, society is not a bad thing. you don't play cards, i suppose?" "i don't know one card from another." "you'd just suit mr. o'callaghan then. are you fond of young clergymen? there's one here might just suit you. all the young ladies are dying for him." "then pray don't let me interfere with them, miss todd." "perhaps you like officers better. there are heaps of them here. i don't know where they come from, and they never seem to have anything to do. the young ladies, however--those who don't run after mr. o'callaghan--seem to think them very nice." "oh, miss todd, i don't want clergymen or officers." "don't you? well then, we'll get some novels from the circulating library. at three o'clock i always drive out, and we'll go to the pastrycook's. oh, i declare, here's sir lionel bertram, as usual. you know sir lionel, don't you?" adela said that she had met sir lionel at miss baker's. "what a pity that match should have gone off, isn't it? i mean dear miss waddington. but though that match is off, another may come on. i for one should be very happy. you don't know anything about it, i see. i'll tell you some of these days. how do, sir lionel? you mustn't stay long, because miss gauntlet and i am going out. or i'll tell you what. you shall take care of us. it's a beautiful day; and if miss gauntlet likes, we'll walk instead of having the fly." miss todd never aped grandeur, and always called her private carriage a fly, because it had only one horse. sir lionel, having made his salutations to miss gauntlet, declared that he should be most happy to be trusted with their custody through the streets of littlebath. "but we can't walk either, miss gauntlet, to-day, because i must call on old mrs. leake, at rissbury. i quite forgot mrs. leake. so you see, sir lionel, we shan't want you after all." sir lionel declared that this last decision made him quite miserable. "you'll be recovered by dinner-time, i don't doubt," said miss todd. "and now i'll go upstairs and put my bonnet on. as miss gauntlet has got hers, you can stay and talk to her." "charming creature, miss todd; isn't she?" said sir lionel, before the door was well closed. "such freshness of character, so much bonhommie--a little odd sometimes." these last words were not added till miss todd's footsteps, heavier than camilla's, were heard well up the stairs. "she seems to be a very good-natured person. i never saw her before to-day." "did you not? we knew her very intimately in the holy land"--as if any land ever was or could be holy to sir lionel and such as he. "that is, george and i, and caroline. of course, you know all about that miss waddington." adela signified to him that she did know the circumstances to which he alluded. "it is very sad, is it not? and then the connection between them being so near; and their being the joint-heirs to such an enormous property! i know the people here take caroline's part, and say that she has been hardly used. but i cannot say that i blame george; i cannot, indeed." "it is one of those cases in which no one should be blamed." "exactly--that is just what i say. my advice to george was this. don't let money influence your conduct in any way. thank god, there's enough of that for all of us! what you have to think of, is her happiness and your own. that's what i said; and i do believe he took my advice. i don't think he had any sordid views with reference to caroline's fortune." "i am sure he had not." "oh, no, never. what sir henry's views may be, i don't pretend to know. people here do say that he has been ingratiating himself with my brother for some time past. he has my leave, miss gauntlet. i am an old man, old enough to be your father"--the well-preserved old beau might have said grandfather--"and my experience of life is this, that money is never worth the trouble that men take to get it. they say my brother is fond of it; if so, i think he has made a mistake in life--a great mistake." all this sounded very nice, but even to adela's inexperienced ears it was not like the ring of genuine silver. after all, mock virtue imposes on but few people. the man of the world is personally known for such; as also are known the cruel, the griping, the avaricious, the unjust. that which enables the avaricious and the unjust to pass scatheless through the world is not the ignorance of the world as to their sins, but the indifference of the world whether they be sinful or no. "and now, sir lionel, you may just put us into the fly, and then we won't keep you any longer," said miss todd, as she re-entered the room with her bonnet and shawl. mrs. leake, who lived at rissbury, was a deaf old lady, not very popular among other old ladies at littlebath. all the world, of course, knows that the village of rissbury is hardly more than a suburb of littlebath, being distant from the high street not above a mile and a half. it will be remembered that the second milestone on hinchcombe road is altogether beyond the village, just as you begin to ascend the hill near the turnpike. mrs. leake was not very popular, seeing that though her ear was excessively dull, her tongue was peculiarly acute. she had the repute of saying the most biting things of any lady in littlebath--and many of the ladies of littlebath were apt to say biting things. then mrs. leake did not play cards, nor did she give suppers, nor add much in any way to the happiness of the other ladies, her compatriots. but she lived in rather a grand house of her own, whereas others lived in lodgings; she kept a carriage with a pair of horses, whereas others kept flies; and she had some mysterious acquaintance with the countyocracy which went a long way with the ladies of littlebath; though what good it even did to mrs. leake herself was never very apparent. it is a terrible bore to have to talk to people who use speaking-trumpets, and who are so fidgety themselves that they won't use their speaking-trumpets properly. miss todd greatly dreaded the speaking-trumpet; she did not usually care one straw for mrs. leake's tongue, nor much for her carriage and horses, or county standing; but the littlebath world called on mrs. leake; and miss todd being at rome did as romans do. "i'll take her for five minutes," said miss todd, as, driving through the village of rissbury, she finished her description of the lady; "and then do you take her up for five more; and then i'll go on again; and then we'll go away." adela agreed, though with a heavy heart; for what subject of conversation could she find on which to dilate to mrs. leake through a speaking-trumpet for five minutes? "miss who?" said mrs. leake, putting her trumpet down from her ear that she might stare the better at adela. "oh, miss gaunt--very well--i hope you'll like littlebath, miss gaunt." "miss gaunt-let!" shouted miss todd, with a voice that would have broken the trumpet into shivers had it not been made of the very best metal. "never hollo, my dear. when you do that i can't hear at all. it only makes a noise like a dog barking. you'll find the young men about littlebath very good-natured, miss gaunt. they are rather empty-headed--but i think young ladies generally like them all the better for that." adela felt herself called on to make no answer to this, as it was not her turn at the trumpet. "what news have you heard lately, mrs. leake?" asked miss todd. the great thing was to make mrs. leake talk instead of having to talk to her. "amuse! no, i don't think they do amuse any one very much. but then that's not their line. i suppose they can dance, most of them; and those who've got any money may do for husbands--as the world goes. we musn't be too particular; must we, miss gaunt?" "miss gaunt--let," whispered miss todd into the trumpet, separating the sounds well, so that they should not clash on the unsusceptible tympanum of her friend's ear. "let, let, let! i think i can hear anybody almost better than i can you, miss todd. i don't know how it is, but i never can hear the people out of the town as well as i can my own set. it's habit i take it." "they're used to deaf people in the country, i suppose," said miss todd, who, with all her good nature, didn't choose to be over much put upon. "ah, i can't hear you," said mrs. leake. she had, however, heard this. "but i want you to tell me something about this caroline waddington. isn't it true she's got another lover already?" "oh, quite true; she's going to be married." "wants to be married. yes, i don't doubt she wants to be married. that's what they all want, only some are not able to manage it. ha! ha! ha! i beg your pardon, miss gaunt; but we old women must have our joke about the young ones; mustn't we, miss todd?" mrs. leake, be it noticed, was past seventy, whereas, our dear miss todd, was only just forty-four. "miss gauntlet can tell you all about miss waddington," said miss todd, in her very plainest voice. "they are very great friends, and correspond with each other." so miss todd handed over the spout of the trumpet. "she was corresponding with another! i dare say she was; with half a dozen at once. do you know anything about it, miss gaunt?" poor adela! what was she to say or do. her hand absolutely trembled as she put it lightly to the instrument. thrice she bent her head down before she was able to say anything, and thrice she lifted it up in despair. "is it the lady or the gentleman that is a friend of yours, my dear? or which of the gentlemen? i hope she has not robbed you of a beau." "miss waddington is a very dear friend of mine, ma'am." "oh; she is, is she?" "and i know mr. bertram also." "is he a dear friend too? well, i suppose he's disengaged now. but they tell me he's got nothing, eh?" "i really don't know." "it's very hard to know; very. i don't much admire such jilts myself, but--" "miss waddington did not jilt him, madam." "then he jilted her. that's just what i want to come at. i'm very much obliged to you, my dear. i see you can tell me all about it. it was about money, wasn't it?" "no," shouted adela, with an energy that quite surprised herself. "money had nothing to do with it." "i did not say you had anything to do with it. but don't take up that habit of holloing from miss todd. i suppose the truth was that he found out what he wasn't meant to find out. men shouldn't be too inquisitive; should they, miss todd? you are quite right, miss gaunt, don't have anything to do with it; it's a bad affair." "i think you are very much mistaken, madam," said adela, again shouting. but it was all thrown away. "i can't hear a word, when you hollo in that way, not a word," said mrs. leake. and then adela, with an imploring look at miss todd, relinquished her seat. miss todd rose with the usual little speech about leave-taking. she had, as we have seen, intended to have gone in for a second innings herself, but all hope of winning the game against mrs. leake was over; even her courage was nearly upset; so making a little whisper to adela, she held out her hand to the old lady, and prepared to depart. "dear me, you are in a great hurry to go," said mrs. leake. "yes; we are rather in a hurry this morning," said miss todd, neglectful of the trumpet, "we have so many people to see." "well, good-bye; i'm very much obliged to you for coming, and miss todd"--and here mrs. leake affected to whisper; but her whisper would have been audible to a dozen, had a dozen been there--"i mustn't forget to wish you joy about sir lionel. good morning to you, miss gaunt," and then mrs. leake dropt an old-fashioned gracious curtsy. to say that miss todd blushed would be to belie the general rosiness of that lady's complexion. she was all blush always. over her face colour of the highest was always flying. it was not only that her cheeks carried a settled brilliant tint, but at every smile--and miss todd was ever smiling--this tint would suffuse her forehead and her neck; at every peal of laughter--and her peals of laughter were innumerable--it would become brighter and brighter, coming and going, or rather ever coming fresh and never going, till the reflection from her countenance would illumine the whole room, and light up the faces of all around her. but now she almost blushed black. she had delighted hitherto in all the little bits of libellous tittle tattle to which her position as a young old maid had given rise, and had affected always to assist their propagation; but there was a poison about this old female snake, a sting in the tongue of this old adder which reached even her. "the old fool!" said miss todd, by no means _sotto voce_. mrs. leake heard her though the speaking trumpet was not in action. "no, no, no," she said, in her most good-natured voice, "i don't think he's such a fool at all. of course he is old, and in want of an income, no doubt. but then he's a knight you know, my dear, and a colonel;" and then the two ladies, waiting for no further courtesies, went back to their fly. miss todd had quite regained her good-humour by the time she was seated. "well," said she, "what do you think of my friend, mrs. leake?" "what makes her so very spiteful?" asked adela. "why, you see, my dear, she'd be nothing if she wasn't spiteful. it's her fate. she's very old, and she lives there by herself, and she doesn't go out much, and she has nothing to amuse her. if she didn't do that, she couldn't do anything. i rather like it myself." "well, i can't say i like it," said adela; and then they sat silent for a time, miss todd the while reflecting whether she would, in any way, defend herself from that imputation about sir lionel. "but you see what sort of a woman she is, miss gauntlet; and, of course, you must not believe a word that she says." "how very dreadful!" "oh; it does not mean anything. i call all those white lies. nobody notices them. but what she said about sir lionel, you know--" "i really shall not think of anything she said." "but i must explain to you," said miss todd, in whose mind, in spite of her blushing, a certain amount of pleasure was mixed with the displeasure which mrs. leake's scandal had caused her. for at this moment sir lionel was not a little thought of at littlebath, and among the lucretias there assembled, there was many a one who would have felt but small regret in abandoning her maiden meditations at the instance of sir lionel bertram. "but i must explain to you. sir lionel does come to see me very often; and i should think there was something in it--or, rather, i shouldn't be surprised at others thinking so--only that i am quite sure that he's thinking of somebody else." "is he?" asked adela, perhaps not with a great deal of animation. "yes; and i'll tell you who that somebody else is. mind, i shouldn't say anything about it if i wasn't sure; that is almost sure; for one never can be quite sure about anything." "then i don't think one ought to talk about people." "oh, that's all very well. but then, at such a place as littlebath, one would have to hold one's tongue altogether. i let people talk of me, and so i talk about them. one can't live without it, my dear. but i don't say things like mrs. leake." "i'm sure you don't." "but now about sir lionel; can't you guess who it is?" "how should i, miss todd? i don't know a person in littlebath except you and miss baker." "there; now you have guessed it; i knew you would. don't say i told you." "miss baker marry sir lionel!" "yes, miss baker marry sir lionel! and why not? why shouldn't she? and why shouldn't he? i think it would be very wise. i think those sort of marriages often make people very happy." "do you think he loves her?" said adela, whose ideas of marriage were of very primitive description. "well, i don't see why he shouldn't; that is in a sort of a way. he won't write poetry about her eyebrows, if you mean that. but i think he'd like her to keep his house for him; and now that caroline is going away, i think she'd like to have some one to live with. she's not born to be a solitary wild beast as i am." adela was surprised, but she had nothing to say. she was aware of no reason which it suited her to allege why miss baker should not marry sir lionel bertram. had she been asked before, she would have said that miss baker seemed settled in her maiden life; and that she was but little likely to be moved by the civil speeches of an old military beau. but silence was perhaps the more prudent, and, therefore, she said nothing. her fortnight with miss todd passed without much inconvenience to her. she had to sit out one or two card-parties; and to resist, at last with peremptory decision, her host's attempts to take her elsewhere. but miss todd was so truly kind, so generous, so fond of making others happy, that she won upon adela at last, and they parted excellent friends. "i am so fond of miss baker," miss todd said, on the last morning; "and i do so truly hope she'll be happy; but don't you say a word about what i was saying. only you watch if it isn't true. you'll see quite as much of sir lionel there as you have here:" and so they parted, and adela was transferred over to montpellier terrace. there had been some probability that caroline would return to littlebath with her aunt; but such was not the case. the autumn was advancing to its close. it was now november, and hardly a month remained before that--may we say happy day?--on which miss waddington was to become lady harcourt. there was, as miss baker said, so much to do, and so little time to do it! it had therefore been decided that caroline should not return to littlebath. "and you have come back only on my account?" said adela. "not at all; i should have come back any way, for many reasons. i like to see mr. bertram from time to time, especially now that he has acknowledged caroline; but it would kill me to stay long at that house. did you see much of sir lionel while you were at miss todd's?" "yes, a good deal," said adela, who could hardly keep from smiling as she answered the question. "he is always there, i believe. my idea is, that they mean to make a match of it. it is, indeed." "oh, no; i don't think that." "don't you now? well, you have been in the house, and must have seen a great deal. but what else can bring him there so much?" "miss todd says he's always talking about you." "about me; what nonsense!" and miss baker went up to her room rather better pleased than she had been. caroline, as will be remembered, had written to adela with the tidings of her new engagement. adela had answered that letter affectionately, but shortly; wishing her friend every happiness, and saying what little in the cheerful vein she could allow herself to say on such an occasion. the very shortness of her letter had conveyed condemnation, but that adela could not help. caroline had expected condemnation. she knew that she would be condemned, either by words or by the lack of them; it was nearly equal to her by which. her mind was in that state, that having half condemned herself, she would have given anything for a cordial acquittal from one she loved and valued. but she did not expect it from adela, and she did not receive it. she carried herself with a brave face, however. to her grandfather, to miss baker, and to her betrothed, she showed no sign of sorrow, no sign of repentance; but though there was, perhaps, no repentance in her heart, there was much sorrow and much remorse, and she could not keep herself wholly silent. she wrote again to adela, almost imploring her for pity. we need not give the whole letter, but a portion of it will show how the poor girl's mind was at work. "i know you have judged me, and found me guilty," she said. "i can tell that from the tone of your letter, though you were generous enough to endeavour to deceive me. but you have condemned me because you do not know me. i feel sure that what i am doing, is prudent, and, i think i may say, right. had i refused sir henry's offer, or some other such offer--and any offer to me would have been, and must have been open to the same objections--what should i have done? what would have been my career? i am not now speaking of happiness. but of what use could i have been to any one? "you will say that i do not love sir henry. i have told him that in the usual acceptation of the word, i do not love him. but i esteem his high qualities; and i shall marry him with the full intention of doing my duty, of sacrificing myself to him if needs be, of being useful in the position in which he will place me. what better can i do than this? you can do better, adela. i know you will do better. to have loved, and married for love the poorest gentleman on god's earth would be to have done better. but i cannot do that now. the power of doing that has been taken from me. the question with me was, whether i should be useful as a wife, or useless as an unmarried woman? for useless i should have been, and petulant, and wretched. employment, work, duty, will now save me from that. dear adela, try to look at it in this way if it be possible. do not throw me over without an attempt. do not be unmerciful. * * * at any rate," she ended her letter by saying--"at any rate you will come to me in london in the early, early spring. say that you will do so, or i shall think that you mean to abandon me altogether!" adela answered this as sweetly and as delicately as she could. natures, she said, were different, and it would be presumptuous in her to set herself up as judge on her friend's conduct. she would abstain from doing so, and would pray to god that caroline and sir henry might be happy together. and as to going to london in the spring, she would do so if her aunt penelope's plans would allow of it. she must of course be governed by her aunt penelope, who was now hurrying home from italy on purpose to give her a home. nothing further occurred this year at littlebath sufficiently memorable to need relation, unless it be necessary further to relate miss baker's nervous apprehensions respecting sir lionel. she was, in truth, so innocent that she would have revealed every day to her young friend the inmost secrets of her heart if she had had secrets. but, in truth, she had none. she was desperately jealous of miss todd, but she herself knew not why. she asked all manner of questions as to his going and coming, but she never asked herself why she was so anxious about it. she was in a twitter of sentimental restlessness, but she did not understand the cause of her own uneasiness. on the days that sir lionel came to her, she was happy, and in good spirits; when, however, he went to miss todd, she was fretful. sometimes she would rally him on his admiration for her rival, but she did it with a bad grace. wit, repartee, and sarcasm were by no means her forte. she could not have stood up for five minutes against deaf old mrs. leake; and when she tried her hand on sir lionel, her failure was piteous. it merely amounted to a gentle rebuke to him for going to the paragon instead of coming to montpellier terrace. adela saw it all, and saw also that sir lionel was in no way sincere. but what could she do, or what could she say? "i hope miss todd was quite well yesterday, sir lionel?" miss baker would say. "i don't think there was much the matter with her," sir lionel would answer. "she was talking a great deal about you while i was with her." "about me; he! he! he! i'm sure you had something better than me to talk of." "there could be nothing better," the gallant colonel would say. "oh, couldn't there? and when is it to be? adela here is most anxious to know." "how can you say so, miss baker? you know i am not anxious at all." "well, if you're not, i am. i hope we shall be asked--ha! ha! ha!" and why did not sir lionel make up his mind and put an end, in one way or the other, to the torment of this poor lady? many reasons guided him in his high policy. in the first place, he could not make himself certain whether miss todd would accept him or refuse him. her money was by far the safer; her fortune was assured; what she possessed, sir lionel already knew to a fraction. but miss baker, he was sure, would accept him; and having accepted him, would be amenable to all his little reasons in life, obedient, conformable, and, in money matters, manageable. miss todd, on the other hand, might, nay, certainly would have a will of her own. he would sooner have taken miss baker with half the money. but then would miss baker have half the money? if that stupid old man at hadley would only go, and tell the only tale with which it was now possible that he should interest the world, then sir lionel would know how to act. at any rate, he would wait till after the solicitor-general's marriage. it might appear on that occasion whether or no sir henry was to be regarded as the old man's heir in all things. if so, sir lionel would be prepared to run all matrimonial risks, and present miss todd to the world as lady bertram. chapter xv. marriage-bells. and now came the day of execution. "a long day, my lord, a long day," screams the unfortunate culprit from the dock when about to undergo the heaviest sentence of the law. but the convicted wretch is a coward by his profession. caroline waddington was no coward. having made up her mind to a long martyrdom, she would not condescend to ask for one short month of grace. "i don't like to press you unfairly," sir henry had said, "but you know how i am situated with regard to business." "it shall be as you wish," caroline had said. and so the day had been settled; a day hardly more than six months distant from that on which she had half permitted the last embrace from her now forfeited, but not forgotten lover. duty was now her watchword to herself. for the last six weeks she had been employed--nay, more than employed--hard at work--doing the best she could for her future husband's happiness and welfare. she had given orders with as much composure as a woman might do who had been the mistress of her lord's purse and bosom for the last six years. tradesmen, conscious of the coming event, had had their little delicacies and made their little hints. but she had thrown all these to the wind. she had spoken of sir henry as sir henry, and of herself as being now miss waddington, but soon about to be lady harcourt, with a studied openness. she had looked to carriages and broughams--and horses also under sir henry's protection--as though these things were dear to her soul. but they were not dear, though in her heart she tried to teach herself that they were so. for many a long year--many at least in her still scanty list of years--she had been telling herself that these things were dear; that these were the prizes for which men strive and women too; that the wise and prudent gained them; and that she too would be wise and prudent, that she too would gain them. she had gained them; and before she had essayed to enjoy them, they turned into dust before her eyes, into ashes between her teeth. gilding and tinsel were no longer bright to her, silks and velvet were no longer soft. the splendour of her drawing-room, the richness of her draperies, the luxurious comfort of the chamber that was prepared for her, gave her no delight. she acquiesced in these things because her lord desired that they should be there, and she intended that her lord should be among the rich ones of the earth. but not for one moment did she feel even that trumpery joy which comes from an elated spirit. her lord! there was the misery; there was the great rock against which she feared that the timbers of her bark would go in pieces. if she could only have the three first years done and over. if she could only jump at once to that time in which habit would have made her fate endurable! her lord! who was her lord truly? had she not in her heart another lord, whom her whole soul would worship, despite her body's efforts? and then she began to fear for her beauty; not for her own sake; not with that sort of sorrow which must attend the waning roses of those ladies who, in early years, have trusted too much to their loveliness. no; it was for the sake of him to whom she had sold her beauty. she would fain perform her part of that bargain. she would fain give him on his marriage-day all that had been intended in his purchase. if, having accepted him, she allowed herself to pine and fade away because she was to be his, would she not in fact be robbing him? would not that be unjust? all that she could give him he should have. but neither did sir henry see any change, nor did mr. bertram, nor those others who were round her. indeed, hers was not a beauty that would fade in such manner. when she saw her own eyes heavy with suppressed wretchedness, she feared for herself. but her power over herself was great, and that look was gone as soon as others were with her. but her worst sufferings were at night. she would wake from her short slumbers, and see him, him always before her; that him who in the essence of things was still her lord, the master of her woman's mind, the lord of her woman's soul. to screen her eyes from that sight, she would turn her moistened face to the pillow; but her eyeballs would flash in the darkness, and she would still see him there, there before her. she would see him as he stood beside her with manly bashfulness, when on the side of olivet he first told her that he loved her. she would see him as he had sometimes sat, in his sweetest moods, in that drawing-room at littlebath, talking to her with rapid utterance, with sweet, but energetic utterance, saying words which she did not always fully understand, but which she felt to be full of wit, full of learning, full of truth. ah, how proud she had been of him then--so proud of him, though she would never say so! and then she would see him, as he came to her on that fatal day, boiling in his wrath, speaking such words as had never before reached her ears; words, however, of which so many had been tinged by an inexpressible tenderness. then she would turn herself in her bed, and, by a strong effort of her will, she would for a while throw off such thoughts. she would count over to herself the chairs and tables she had ordered, the cups and china bowls which were to decorate her room, till sleep would come again--but in sleep she would still dream of him. ah, that there might have been no waking from such dreams! but in the morning she would come down to breakfast with no trouble on her outward brow. she was minutely particular in her dress, even when no one but her grandfather was to see the effects of her toilet. her hair was scrupulously neat, her dresses were rich and in the newest fashion. her future career was to be that of lady harcourt, a leader of ton; and she was determined to commence her new duties with a good grace. and so from week to week, and day to day, she prepared herself for the sacrifice. miss baker of course returned to hadley a day or two before the ceremony. the recent death of old mr. gauntlet was adela's excuse for not being present. had there been no such excuse, she would have been forced to act a bridesmaid's part. it was much better for both of them that she had not to perform the task. bridesmaids were chosen in london--eight of them. these were not special friends of caroline's; indeed, it had not been her instinct to attach to herself special friends. circumstances had created friendship between her and adela, unlike in all things as they were to each other. but other bosom-friends caroline had not; nor had she felt the want of them. this was perhaps well for her now. it would have driven her to madness if among the bevy of attendant nymphs there had been any to whom it would have been necessary for her to open her heart--to open it, or to pretend to open it. much she could do; much she was now doing; much she was prepared to do. but she could not have spoken with missish rapture of her coming happiness; nor could she, to any ears, have laid bare the secrets of her bosom. so eight young ladies were had from london. two were second-cousins by her father's side; one, who was very full of the universal joy that was to follow this happy event, was a sister of sir henry's; a fourth was the daughter of an old crony of miss baker's; and the other four were got to order--there being no doubt a repertory for articles so useful and so ornamental. old mr. bertram behaved well on the occasion. he told miss baker that nothing was to be spared--in moderation; and he left her to be sole judge of what moderation meant. she, poor woman, knew well enough that she would have at some future day to fight over with him the battle of the bills. but for the moment he affected generosity, and so a fitting breakfast was prepared. and then the bells were rung, the hadley bells, the merry marriage-bells. i know full well the tone with which they toll when the soul is ushered to its last long rest. i have stood in that green churchyard when earth has been laid to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust--the ashes and the dust that were loved so well. but now the scene was of another sort. how merrily they rang, those joyous marriage-bells! youth was now to know the full delight of matured happiness. soul should be joined to soul, heart to heart, hand to hand, manly strength and vigour to all the grace and beauty of womanhood. the world was pleasant with its most joyous smile as it opened its embraces to the young pair--about to be two no longer--now to become one bone and one flesh. out rung the hadley bells, the happy marriage-bells. and when should bells ring so joyously? do they not give promise of all that this world knows of happiness? what is love, sweet pure love, but the anticipation of this, the natural longing for this, the consummation of our loving here? to neither man nor woman does the world fairly begin till seated together in their first mutual home they bethink themselves that the excitement of their honeymoon is over. it would seem that the full meaning of the word marriage can never be known by those who, at their first out-spring into life, are surrounded by all that money can give. it requires the single sitting-room, the single fire, the necessary little efforts of self-devotion, the inward declaration that some struggle shall be made for that other one, some world's struggle of which wealth can know nothing. one would almost wish to be poor, that one might work for one's wife; almost wish to be ill used, that one might fight for her. he, as he goes forth to his labour, swears within his heart that, by god's help on his endeavours, all shall go well with her. and she, as she stands musing alone in her young home, with a soft happy tear in her bright eye, she also swears in her heart that, by god's help, his home shall be to him the sweetest spot on the earth's surface. then should not marriage-bells ring joyously? ah, my friends, do not count too exactly your three hundreds a year--your four hundreds. try the world. but try it with industry and truth, not with idleness and falsehood. and now sir henry and lady harcourt were to try the world in sweet communion together. one may say that, as to doubt about the trial, there was need of none. he had more than won his spurs. he was already a practised knight in the highest flight of the world's tourneys. and for her, too, there was little cause of fear. they who saw her arrayed in that bright frosty marriage morning, and watched the majesty of her brow, the brilliancy of her eye, the grace and dignity of her step, all swore that the young lawyer had done well. he had found for himself a meet companion for his high career; a proper bride for his coming greatness. and so the marriage-bells rang on, with all their merriness, with all their joy. and now the words have been said, the vows have been plighted, the magic circlet of pure gold has done its wondrous work. the priest smiles and grasps their hands as he gives them his parting friendly blessing. laughing bridesmaids press in to sign the book, and all observe that no signature was ever written with more decision than that of caroline waddington. caroline waddington now no longer! yes; the deed had, in truth, been done. the vows had been plighted. she had taken this man to be her wedded husband, to live together with him after god's ordinance. she had sworn to obey him, and serve him, and-- ah! ah! ah! how had she lived while that word was uttered to her! how had she lived to swear that falsest oath! but it was not then, while standing at the altar, that the struggle had been made. then she did but act her part, as some stage-queen acts hers. she acted it well; that was all. there was no meaning in her words then. though her lips moved, she swore no oath. her oath had been sworn before that. no educated woman, we may suppose, stands at the altar as a bride, without having read and re-read those words till they are closely fixed on her memory. it is a great oath, and a woman should know well what that is to which she is about to pledge herself. caroline waddington had studied them well. she would live with him after god's ordinance; that is, as his wife. yes, she was prepared for that. she would obey him. yes; if obedience were required, she would give it. serve him? oh, yes, certainly; to the best of her power of mind and body. love him? no; she was bold, at least, if not righteous. no; she could not love him. but, then, how few who were married complied with all those behests? how many were undutiful, disobedient, careless? might not she except for herself one point? be false on one article if she were true in so many? she would honour him, for honour was possible to her; she would keep him in sickness and health, and forsaking all other--yes, all other, in body certainly, in heart too if god would give her ease--and keep herself only to him, her husband. and so she swore to it all before she went there--all, with the one exception. and sir henry swore too--with a light, indifferent oath, which, however, he had no intention of breaking in any part. he would live with her, and love her, and comfort her, and all that sort of thing;--and very well she would look at the top of his table, in black velvet. and the merry bells went on ringing as they trooped back to the old man's house. they went in gay carriages, though the distance was but some hundred yards. but brides and bridegrooms cannot walk on their wedding-days in all their gala garments, though it be but a few hundred yards. and then, as they entered the breakfast-room, the old man met them, and blessed them. he was too infirm to go to church, and had seen none of them before the ceremony; but now that the deed was done, he also was there, dressed in his best, his last new coat, not more than twelve years old, his dress waistcoat sent home before the reform bill, his newest shoes, which creaked twice worse than any of their older brethren. but when a man can shower thousands on a wedded pair, what do they, or even the bridesmaids, care about his clothes? and then after this fashion he blessed them--not holding each a hand as he might otherwise have done; for his infirmities compelled him to use two crutches. "i wish you joy, sir henry--of your bride--with all my heart. and a bonny bride she is, and well able to take her place in the world. though you'll be rich and well to do, you'll not find her over-extravagant. and though her fortune's not much for a man like you, perhaps, she might have had less, mightn't she? ha! ha! ha! little as it is, it will help--it will help. and you'll not find debts coming home after her; i'm sure of that. she'll keep your house well together; and your money too--but i guess you'll not leave that to her keeping. "and i wish you joy with all my heart, my lady harcourt. you've done very well--much better doubtless than we were thinking of; you and me too. and as for me, i was an old fool." mr. bertram was doubtless thinking of that interview with his nephew. "much better, much better. your husband's a rising man, and he'll live to be a rich man. i have always thought a lawyer's profession very good for a man who would know how to make money at it. sir henry knows how to do that well. so i wish you joy with all my heart, lady bertram--harcourt, i mean. and now we'll sit down and have a bit of something to eat." such was the marriage-blessing of this old man, who knew and understood the world so well. to be lady harcourt, and have the spending of three or four thousand a year! what a destiny was that for his granddaughter! and to have achieved that without any large call upon his own purse! it was not intended that sir henry and his bride were to sit down to the breakfast. that is, i believe, now voted to be a bore--and always should have been so voted. they had done, or were now to do their necessary eating in private, and the company was to see no more of them. an effort had been made to explain this to mr. bertram, but it had not been successful. so when caroline kissed him, and bade him adieu after his little speech, he expressed himself surprised. "what, off before the breakfast! what's the good of the breakfast then?" his idea, in his extravagance, had been that he would give a last feed to the solicitor-general. but he had another piece of extravagance in his mind, which he had been unable to bring himself to perpetrate till the last moment; but which now he did perpetrate. "sir henry, sir henry," and he toddled to a window. "here; you'll be spending a lot of money on her in foreign parts, and i think you have behaved well; here," and he slipped a bit of paper into his hands. "but, remember, it will be the last. and, sir henry, remember the interest of the three thousand--punctually--eh, sir henry?" sir henry nodded--thanked him--slipped the bit of paper into his pocket, and followed his bride to the carriage. "your grandfather has just given me five hundred pounds," was his first word in private to his wife. "has he?" said lady harcourt, "i'm very glad of it; very." and so she was. what else had she to be glad of now, except hundreds--and hundreds--and hundreds of pounds? and so they were whisked away to london, to dover, to paris, to nice. "sed post equitem sedet atra cura." the care was very black that sat behind that female knight. but we will not now follow either her thoughts or her carriage-wheels. end of vol. ii. printed by w. clowes and sons, stamford street. * * * * * the bertrams. a novel. by anthony trollope author of "barchester towers," "doctor thorne," etc. in three volumes vol. iii. second editon london: chapman & hall, piccadilly. . [the right of translation is reserved.] london: printed by w. clowes and sons, stamford street. contents of vol. iii. i. sir lionel goes to his wooing. ii. he tries his hand again. iii. a quiet little dinner. iv. mrs. madden's ball. v. can i escape? vi. a matrimonial dialogue. vii. the return to hadley. viii. cairo. ix. the two widows. x. reaching home. xi. i could put a codicil. xii. mrs. wilkinson's troubles. xiii. another journey to bowes. xiv. mr. bertram's death. xv. the will. xvi. eaton square. xvii. conclusion. the bertrams. volume iii. chapter i. sir lionel goes to his wooing. yes, they were off. all the joys of that honeymoon shall be left to the imagination of the reader. their first conversation, as it took place in the carriage which bore them from mr. bertram's door, has been given. those which followed were probably more or less of the same nature. sir henry, no doubt, did strive to give some touch of romance to the occasion; but in no such attempt would his wife assist him. to every material proposition that he made, she gave a ready assent; in everything she acceded to his views; she would dine at two, or at eight, as he pleased; she was ready to stay two weeks, or only two days in paris, as best suited him; she would adapt herself to pictures, or to architecture, or to theatres, or to society, or to going on and seeing nothing, exactly as he adapted himself. she never frowned, or looked black, or had headaches, or couldn't go on, or wouldn't stay still, or turned herself into a niobean deluge, as some ladies, and very nice ladies too, will sometimes do on their travels. but she would not talk of love, or hold his hand, or turn her cheek to his. she had made her bargain, and would keep to it. of that which she had promised him, she would give him full measure; of that which she had not promised him--of which she had explained to him that she had nothing to give--of that she would make no attempt to give anything. so they spent their christmas and opened the new year at nice, and made an excursion along the cornice road to genoa, during which lady harcourt learned for the first time that the people of italy are not so free from cold winds as is generally imagined; and then, early in february, they returned to their house in eaton square. how she soon became immersed in society, and he in parliament and the county courts, we may also leave to the imagination of the reader. in a month or two from that time, when the rigours of a london may shall have commenced, we will return to them again. in the meantime, we must go back to hadley--the two old bertrams, and dear miss baker. the marriage-feast, prepared by miss baker for the wedding guests, did not occupy very long; nor was there any great inducement for those assembled to remain with mr. bertram. he and miss baker soon found themselves again alone; and were no sooner alone than the business of life recommenced. "it's a very splendid match for her," said mr. bertram. "yes, i suppose it is," said miss baker. miss baker in her heart of hearts had never quite approved of the marriage. "and now, mary, what do you mean to do?" "oh, i'll see and get these things taken away," said she. "yes, yes; stop a minute; that's of course. but what i mean is, what do you mean to do with yourself? you can't go back and live at littlebath all alone?" if i were to use the word "flabbergasted" as expressing miss baker's immediate state of mind, i should draw down on myself the just anger of the critics, in that i had condescended to the use of slang; but what other word will so well express what is meant? she had fully intended to go back to littlebath, and had intended to do so at the earliest moment that would be possible. was not sir lionel still at littlebath? and, moreover, she fully intended to live there. that she would have some little difficulty in the matter, she had anticipated. her own income--that which was indefeasibly her own--was very small; by far too small to admit of her permanently keeping on those rooms in montpellier terrace. hitherto their income, her own and caroline's put together, had been very comfortable; for mr. bertram had annually paid to her a sum which of itself would have been sufficient for her own living. but she had not known what difference caroline's marriage might make in this allowance. it had been given to herself without any specification that it had been so given for any purpose; but yet it had been an understood thing that caroline was to live with her and be supported. and though caroline's income had also been used, it had gone rather in luxurious enjoyments than in necessary expenses; in the keep of a horse, for instance, in a journey to jerusalem, in a new grand piano, and such like. now there might naturally be a doubt whether under altered circumstances this allowance from mr. bertram would remain unaltered. but it had never occurred to her that she would be asked to live at hadley. that idea did now occur to her, and therefore she stood before her uncle hesitating in her answer, and--may my inability to select any better word be taken in excuse?--"flabbergasted" in her mind and feelings. but her doom followed quickly on her hesitation. "because," said mr. bertram, "there is plenty of room here. there can be no need of two houses and two establishments now; you had better send for your things and fix yourself here at once." "but i couldn't leave the rooms at littlebath without a quarter's notice;"--the coward's plea; a long day, my lord, a long day--"that was particularly understood when i got them so cheap." "there will be no difficulty in reletting them at this time of the year," growled mr. bertram. "oh, no, i suppose not; one would have to pay something, of course. but, dear me! one can hardly leave the place where one has lived so long all of a moment." "why not?" demanded the tyrant. "well, i don't know. i can hardly say why not; but one has so many people to see, and so many things to do, and so much to pack up." it may be easily conceived that in such an encounter miss baker would not achieve victory. she had neither spirit for the fight, nor power to use it even had the spirit been there; but she effected a compromise by the very dint of her own weakness. "yes, certainly," she said. "as mr. bertram thought it best, she would be very happy to live with him at hadley--most happy, of course; but mightn't she go down and pack up her things, and settle with everybody, and say good-bye to her friends?" oh, those friends! that horrible miss todd! and thus she got a month of grace. she was to go down immediately after christmas-day, and be up again at hadley, and fixed there permanently, before the end of january. she wrote to caroline on the subject, rather plaintively; but owning that it was of course her duty to stay by her uncle now that he was so infirm. it would be very dull, of course, she said; but any place would be dull now that she, caroline, was gone. and it would be sad giving up her old friends. she named one or two, and among them sir lionel. "it would be a great pleasure to me," she went on to say, "if i could be the means of reconciling the two brothers--not but what sir henry harcourt will always be mr. bertram's favourite; i am sure of that. i don't think i shall mind leaving miss todd, though she does pretend to be so friendly; i was never quite sure she was sincere; and then she does talk so very loud; and, in spite of all she says, i am not sure she's not looking out for a husband." and then she went back to littlebath, intent on enjoying her short reprieve. something might happen; she did not ask herself what. the old gentleman might not last long; but she certainly did not speculate on his death. or;--she had a sort of an idea that there might be an "or," though she never allowed herself to dwell on it as a reality. but on one point she did make up her mind, that if it should be her destiny to keep house for either of those two gentlemen, she would much rather keep house for sir lionel than for his brother. her absolute money-dealings had always been with mr. pritchett; and as she passed through town, mr. pritchett came to her and made her the usual quarterly payment. "but, mr. pritchett," said she, "i am going to live with mr. bertram after another month or so." "oh, ma'am; yes, ma'am; that will be very proper, ma'am. i always supposed it would be so when miss caroline was gone," said pritchett, in a melancholy tone. "but will it be proper for me to have this money now?" "oh, yes, ma'am. it wouldn't be my duty to stop any payments till i get orders. mr. bertram never forgets anything, ma'am. if he'd meant me to stop it, he wouldn't have forgot to say so." "oh, very well, mr. pritchett;" and miss baker was going away. "but, one word, if you please, ma'am. i don't detain you, ma'am, do i?" and you might have guessed by pritchett's voice that he was quite willing to let her go if she wished, even though his own death on the spot might be the instant result. "oh dear, no, mr. pritchett," said miss baker. "we all see how things have gone, ma'am, now;--about miss caroline, i mean." "yes, she is lady harcourt now." "oh, yes, i know that, ma'am," and mr. pritchett here sank to the lowest bathos of misery. "i know she's lady harcourt very well. i didn't mean her ladyship any disrespect." "oh dear, no, of course not, mr. pritchett. who would think such a thing of you, who's known her from a baby?" "yes, i have know'd her from a babby, ma'am. that's just it; and i've know'd you from amost a babby too, ma'am." "that was a very long time ago, mr. pritchett." "yes, it is some years now, certainly, miss baker. i'm not so young as i was; i know that." mr. pritchett's voice at this juncture would have softened the heart of any stone that had one. "but this is what it is, ma'am; you're going to live with the old gentleman now." "yes, i believe i am." "well, now; about mr. george, ma'am." "mr. george!" "yes, mr. george, miss baker. it ain't of course for me to say anything of what goes on between young ladies and young gentlemen. i don't know anything about it, and never did; and i don't suppose i never shall now. but they two was to have been one, and now they're two." mr. pritchett could not get on any further without pausing for breath. "the match was broken off, you know." "it was broke off. i say nothing about that, nor about them who did it. i know nothing, and therefore i say nothing; but this i do say: that it will be very hard--very hard, and very cruel if so that the old gentleman is set against mr. george because sir henry harcourt has got a handle to his name for himself." the conference ended in a promise on miss baker's part that she, at least, would say nothing against mr. george; but with an assurance, also, that it was impossible for her to say anything in his favour. "you may be sure of this, mr. pritchett, that my uncle will never consult me about his money." "he'll never consult any human being, ma'am. he wouldn't consult solomon if solomon were to go to hadley o' purpose. but you might slip in a word that mr. george was not in fault; mightn't you, ma'am?" miss baker reiterated her promise that she would not at any rate say anything evil of george bertram. "he is such a foolish young man, ma'am; so like a baby about money. it's that's why i feel for him, because he is so foolish." and then miss baker prosecuted her journey, and reached littlebath in safety. she had not been long there before sir lionel had heard all the news. miss baker, without knowing that a process of pumping had been applied to her, soon made him understand that for the present sir harcourt had certainly not been received into the place of heir. it was clear that but a very moderate amount of the old gentleman's wealth--he was usually now called the old gentleman by them all; sir lionel, miss baker, mr. pritchett, and others--had been bestowed on the rising lawyer; and that, as far as that point was concerned, the game was still open. but then, if it was open to him, sir lionel, through miss baker, it was also open to his son george. and it appeared from miss baker's testimony that, during the whole period of these wedding doings, no word had escaped the mouth of the old gentleman in vituperation or anger against george. perhaps george after all might be the best card. oh, what an excellent card might he be if he would only consent to guide himself by the commonest rules of decent prudence! but then, as mr. pritchett had truly observed, mr. george was so foolish! moreover, sir lionel was not blind to the reflection that the old gentleman would never countenance his marriage with miss baker. whatever mr. bertram's good intentions miss baker-wards might be, they would undoubtedly be frustrated by such a marriage. if sir lionel decided on miss baker, things must be so arranged that the marriage should be postponed till that tedious old gentleman should move himself off the scene; and the tedious old gentleman, moreover, must not be allowed to know anything about it. but with miss todd there need be no secrecy, no drawback, no delay--no drawback but that of doubtful reception; and after reception, of doubtful masterdom. on thorough review of all the circumstances, much balancing them in his high mind, sir lionel at last thus resolved. he would throw himself, his heart, and his fortune at the feet of miss todd. if there accepted, he would struggle with every muscle of the manhood which was yet within him for that supremacy in purse and power which of law and of right belongs to the man. he thought he knew himself, and that it would not be easy for a woman to get the better of him. but if there rejected--and he could not confess but what there was a doubt--he would immediately fall back upon miss baker. whatever he did must be done immediately, for in less than a month's time, miss baker would be out of his reach altogether. as to seeking miss baker at hadley, that would be above even his courage. all must be done within the next month. if on miss baker was to fall the honour of being lady bertram, she must not only receive him within the month, but, having done so, must also agree to wear her vestal zone yet a little longer, till that troublesome old gentleman should have departed. such being his month's work--he had not quite four weeks left when he came to this resolution--he wisely resolved to commence it at once. so on one monday morning he sallied out to the paragon about two o'clock. at that hour he knew miss todd would be surely at home; for at half-past one she ate her lunch. in the regularity of her eatings and her drinkings, miss todd might have been taken as an example by all the ladies of littlebath. sir lionel's personal appearance has been already described. considering his age, he was very well preserved. he was still straight; did not fumble much in his walk; and had that decent look of military decorum which, since the days of cæsar and the duke, has been always held to accompany a hook-nose. he had considered much about his toilet; indeed, he did that habitually; but on this occasion he had come to the conclusion that he had better make no unusual sacrifice to the graces. a touch of the curling-iron to his whiskers, or a surtout that should be absolutely fresh from the tailor's hands, might have an effect with miss baker; but if any impression was to be made on miss todd, it would not be done by curled whiskers or a new coat. she must be won, if won at all, by the unsophisticated man. so the unsophisticated man knocked at the door in the paragon. yes; miss todd was at home. up he went, and found not only miss todd, but also with miss todd the venerable mrs. shortpointz, settling all the details for a coming rubber of whist for that evening. "ah, sir lionel; how do? sit down. very well, my dear,"--miss todd called everybody my dear, even sir lionel himself sometimes; but on the present occasion she was addressing mrs. shortpointz--"i'll be there at eight; but mind this, i won't sit down with lady ruth, nor yet with miss ruff." so spoke miss todd, who, by dint of her suppers and voice, was becoming rather autocratic at littlebath. "you shan't, miss todd. lady ruth--" "very well; that's all i bargain for. and now here's sir lionel; how lucky! sir lionel, you can be so civil, and so useful. do give mrs. shortpointz your arm home. her niece was to call; but there's been some mistake. and mrs. shortpointz does not like walking alone. come, sir lionel." sir lionel strove against the order; but it was in vain. he had to yield; and walked away with old mrs. shortpointz on his arm. it was hard, we must acknowledge, that a man of sir lionel's age and standing should be so employed at such a moment, because that flirt, maria shortpointz, had gone out to see young mr. garded ride by in his pink coat and spattered boots. he would have let her fall and break her leg, only that by doing so he would have prolonged the time of his own attendance on her. she lived half across littlebath; and her step, ordinarily slow, was slower then usual now that she was leaning on a knight's arm. at last she was deposited at home; and the gallant colonel, having scornfully repudiated her offer of cake and sherry, flew back to the paragon on the wings of love--in a street cab, for which he had to pay eighteenpence. but he was all too late. miss todd had gone out in her fly just three minutes since; and thus a whole day was lost. on the tuesday, in proper course, he was due at miss baker's. but for this turn, miss baker must be neglected. at the same hour he again knocked at the door of the paragon, and was again admitted, and now miss todd was all alone. she was rarely left so very long, and the precious moments must be seized at once. sir lionel, with that military genius which was so peculiarly his own, determined to use his yesterday's defeat in aid of to-day's victory. he would make even mrs. shortpointz serviceable. when gentlemen past sixty make love to ladies past forty, it may be supposed that they are not so dilatory in their proceedings as younger swains and younger maidens. time is then behind them, not before them; and urges them on to quick decisions. it may be presumed, moreover, that this pair knew their own minds. "how cruel you were to me yesterday!" said sir lionel, seating himself not very close to her--nor yet very far from her. "what! about poor mrs. shortpointz? ha! ha! ha! poor old lady; she didn't think so, i am sure. one ought to be of use sometimes, you know, sir lionel." "true, true, miss todd; quite true. but i was particularly unfortunate yesterday. i wished that mrs. shortpointz was hanging--anywhere except on my arm. i did, indeed." "ha! ha! ha! poor mrs. shortpointz! and she was so full of you last night. the beau ideal of manly beauty! that was what she called you. she did indeed. ha! ha! ha!" "she was very kind." "and then we all quizzed her about you; and miss finesse called her lady bertram. you can't think how funny we old women are when we get together. there wasn't a gentleman in the room--except mr. fuzzybell; and he never seems to make any difference. but i tell you what, sir lionel; a certain friend of yours didn't seem to like it when we called mrs. shortpointz lady bertram." "and were you that friend, miss todd?" "i! ha! ha! ha! no; not i, but miss baker. and i'll tell you what, sir lionel," said miss todd, intending to do a kinder act for miss baker than miss baker would have done for her. "and i'll tell you what; miss baker is the nicest-looking woman of her time of life in littlebath. i don't care who the other is. i never saw her look better than she did last night; never." this was good-natured on the part of miss todd; but it sounded in sir lionel's ears as though it did not augur well for his hopes. "yes; she's very nice; very nice indeed. but i know one, miss todd, that's much nicer." and sir lionel drew his chair a little nearer. "what, mrs. shortpointz, i suppose. ha! ha! ha! well, every man to his taste." "i wonder whether i may speak to you seriously, miss todd, for five minutes?" "oh laws, yes; why not? but don't tell me any secrets, sir lionel; for i shan't keep them." "i hope what i may say need not be kept a secret long. you joke with me about miss baker; but you cannot really believe that my affections are placed there? you must, i think, have guessed by this time--" "i am the worst hand in the world at guessing anything." "i am not a young man, miss todd--" "no; and she isn't a young woman. she's fifty. it would all be very proper in that respect." "i'm not thinking of miss baker, miss todd." "dear! well now, i really thought you were thinking of her. and i'll tell you this, sir lionel; if you want a wife to look after you, you couldn't do better than think of her--a nice, good-tempered, cheerful, easy, good-looking woman; with none of the littlebath nastiness about her;--and a little money too, i've no doubt. how could you do better than think of her?" would it not have softened miss baker's heart towards her friend if she could have heard all this? "ah; you say this to try me. i know you do." "try you! no; but i want you to try miss baker." "well; i am going to make an attempt of that kind, certainly; certainly i am. but it is not with miss baker, as i cannot but think you know;" and then he paused to collect his ideas, and take in at a _coup d'oeil_ the weak point to which his attack should be turned. meanwhile, miss todd sat silent. she knew by this time what was coming; and knew also, that in courtesy the gentleman should be allowed to have his say. sir lionel drew his chair again nearer--it was now very near--and thus began:-- "dear sarah!--" how he had found out that miss todd's name was sarah it might be difficult to say. her signature was s. todd; and sir lionel had certainly never heard her called by her christian name. but facts were with him. she undoubtedly had been christened sarah. "dear sarah!--" "ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!" laughed miss todd, with terrible loudness, with a shaking of her sides, throwing herself backwards and forwards in the corner of her sofa. it was not civil, and so sir lionel felt. when you first call your lady-love by her christian name, you do not like to have the little liberty made a subject of ridicule--you feel it by far less if the matter be taken up seriously against you as a crime on your part. "ha! ha! ha!" continued miss todd, roaring in her laughter louder than ever; "i don't think, sir lionel, i was ever called sarah before since the day i was born; and it does sound so funny. sarah! ha! ha! ha!" sir lionel was struck dumb. what could he say when his little tenderness was met in such a manner? "call me sally, if you like, sir lionel. my brothers and sisters, and uncles and aunts, and all those sort of people, always called me sally. but, sarah! ha! ha! ha! suppose you call me sally, sir lionel." sir lionel tried, but he could not call her sally; his lips at that moment would not form the sound. but the subject had now been introduced. if he should ever be able to claim her as his own, he might then call her sarah, or sally, or use any other term of endearment which the tenderness of the moment might suggest. when that day should come, perhaps he might have his own little joke; but, in the meantime, the plunge had been taken, and he could now swim on. "miss todd, you now know what my feelings are, and i hope that you will at any rate not disapprove of them. we have known each other for some time, and have, i hope, enjoyed and valued each other's society." miss todd here made a little bow, but she said nothing. she had a just perception that sir lionel should be permitted to have his say, and that, as matters had become serious, it would be well for her to wait till he had done, and then she might have her say. so she merely bowed, by way of giving a civil acquiescence in sir lionel's last little suggestion. "i have hoped so, dear miss todd"--he had taken a moment to consider, and thought that he had better drop the sarah altogether for the present. "in myself, i can safely say that it has been so. with you, i feel that i am happy, and at my ease. your modes of thought and way of life are all such as i admire and approve,"--miss todd again bowed--"and--and--what i mean is, that i think we both live very much after the same fashion." miss todd, who knew everything that went on in littlebath, and was _au fait_ at every bit of scandal and tittle-tattle in the place, had probably heard more of the fashion of sir lionel's life than he was aware. in places such as littlebath, ladies such as miss todd do have sources of information which are almost miraculous. but still she said nothing. she merely thought that sir lionel was a good deal mistaken in the opinion which he had last expressed. "i am not a young man," continued sir lionel. "my brother, you know, is a very old man, and there are but fifteen years' difference between us." this was a mistake of sir lionel's; the real difference being ten years. "and you, i know, are hardly yet past your youth." "i was forty-five last guy fawkes' day," said miss todd. "then there are fifteen years difference between us." the reader will please to read "twenty." "can you look over that difference, and take me, old as i am, for your companion for life? shall we not both be happier if we have such a companion? as to money--" "oh, sir lionel, don't trouble about that; nor yet about your age. if i wanted to marry, i'd as lief have an old man as a young one; perhaps liefer: and as to money, i've got enough for myself, and i have no doubt you have too"--nevertheless, miss todd did know of that heavy over-due bill at the livery stables, and had heard that the very natty groom who never left sir lionel's phaëton for a moment was a sworn bailiff; sworn to bring the carriage and horses back to the livery-stable yard--"but the fact is, i don't want to marry." "do you mean, miss todd, that you will prefer to live in solitude for ever?" "oh, as for solitude, i'm not much of a robinson crusoe, nor yet an alexander selkirk. i never found any of its charms. but, lord bless you, sir lionel, people never leave me in solitude. i'm never alone. my sister patty has fifteen children. i could have half of them to live with me if i liked it." this view of the case did throw some cold water on sir lionel's ardour. "and you are quite resolved on this?" he said, with a dash of expiring sentiment in his tone. "what! to have patty's children? no, i find it more convenient to pay for their schooling." "but you are quite resolved to--to--to give me no other, no more favourable answer?" "oh! about marrying. on that subject, sir lionel, my mind is altogether made up. miss todd i am, and miss todd i mean to remain. to tell the truth plainly, i like to be number one in my own house. lady bertram, i am quite sure, will be a fortunate and happy woman; but then, she'll be number two, i take it. eh, sir lionel?" sir lionel smiled and laughed, and looked at the ground, and then looked up again; but he did not deny the imputation. "well," said he, "i trust we shall still remain friends." "oh, certainly; why not?" replied miss todd. and so they parted. sir lionel took his hat and stick, and went his way. chapter ii. he tries his hand again. miss todd shook hands with him as he went, and then, putting on her bonnet and cloak, got into her fly. she felt some little triumph at her heart in thinking that sir lionel had wished to marry her. had she not, she would hardly have been a woman. but by far her strongest feeling was one of dislike to him for not having wished to marry miss baker. she had watched the gallant soldier closely for the last year, and well knew how tenderly he had been used to squeeze miss baker's hand. he had squeezed her own hand too; but what was that? she made others the subject of jokes, and was prepared to be joked upon herself. whatever oliver sir lionel, or other person, might give her, she would give back to him or to her--always excepting mrs. leake--a rowland that should be quite as good. but miss baker was no subject for a joke, and sir lionel was in duty bound to have proposed to her. it is perhaps almost true that no one can touch pitch and not be defiled. miss todd had been touching pitch for many years past, and was undoubtedly defiled to a certain extent. but the grime with her had never gone deep; it was not ingrained; it had not become an ineradicable stain; it was dirt on which soap-and-water might yet operate. may we not say that her truth and good-nature, and love of her fellow-creatures, would furnish her at last with the means whereby she might be cleansed? she was of the world, worldly. it in no way disgusted her that sir lionel was an old rip, and that she knew him to be so. there were a great many old male rips at littlebath and elsewhere. miss todd's path in life had brought her across more than one or two such. she encountered them without horror, welcomed them without shame, and spoke of them with a laugh rather than a shudder. her idea was, that such a rip as sir lionel would best mend his manners by marriage; by marriage, but not with her. she knew better than trust herself to any sir lionel. and she had encountered old female rips; that is, if dishonesty in money-dealings, selfishness, coarseness, vanity, absence of religion, and false pretences, when joined to age, may be held as constituting an old female rip. many such had been around her frequently. she would laugh with them, feed them, call on them, lose her money to them, and feel herself no whit degraded. such company brought on her no conviction of shame. but yet she was not of them. coarse she was; but neither dishonest, nor selfish, nor vain, nor irreligious, nor false. such being the nature of the woman, she had not found it necessary to display any indignation when sir lionel made his offer; but she did feel angry with him on miss baker's behalf. why had he deceived that woman, and made an ass of himself? had he had any wit, any knowledge of character, he would have known what sort of an answer he was likely to get if he brought his vows and offers to the paragon. there he had been received with no special favour. no lures had been there displayed to catch him. he had not been turned out of the house when he came there, and that was all. so now, as she put on her bonnet, she determined to punish sir lionel. but in accusing her suitor of want of judgment, she was quite in the dark as to his real course of action. she little knew with how profound a judgment he was managing his affairs. had she known, she would hardly have interfered as she now did. as she put her foot on the step of the fly she desired her servant to drive to montpellier terrace. she was shown into the drawing-room, and there she found miss baker and miss gauntlet; not our friend adela, but miss penelope gauntlet, who was now again settled in littlebath. "well, ladies," said miss todd, walking up the room with well-assured foot and full comfortable presence, "i've news to tell you." they both of them saw at a glance that she had news. between miss p. gauntlet and miss todd there had never been cordiality. miss todd was, as we have said, of the world, worldly; whereas miss gauntlet was of dr. snort, godly. she belonged plainly to the third set of which we have spoken; miss todd was an amalgamation of the two first. miss baker, however, was a point of union, a connecting rod. there was about her a savouring of the fragrance of ebenezer, but accompanied, it must be owned, by a whiff of brimstone. thus these three ladies were brought together; and as it was manifest that miss todd had news to tell, the other two were prepared to listen. "what do you think, ladies?" and she sat herself down, filling an arm-chair with her goodly person. "what do you think has happened to me to-day?" "perhaps the doctor has been with you," said miss p. gauntlet, not alluding to the littlebath galen, but meaning to insinuate that miss todd might have come thither to tell them of her conversion from the world. "better than ten doctors, my dear"--miss penelope drew herself up very stiffly--"or twenty! i've had an offer of marriage. what do you think of that?" miss p. gauntlet looked as though she thought a great deal of it. she certainly did think that had such an accident happened to her, she would not have spoken of it with such a voice, or before such an audience. but now her face, which was always long and thin, became longer and thinner, and she sat with her mouth open, expecting further news. miss baker became rather red, then rather pale, and then red again. she put out her hand, and took hold of the side of the chair in which she sat; but she said nothing. her heart told her that that offer had been made by sir lionel. "you don't wish me joy, ladies," said miss todd. "but you have not told us whether you accepted it," said miss penelope. "ha! ha! ha! no, that's the worst of it. no, i didn't accept it. but, upon my word, it was made." then it was not sir lionel, thought miss baker, releasing her hold of the chair, and feeling that the blood about her heart was again circulating. "and is that all that we are to know?" asked miss penelope. "oh, my dears, you shall know it all. i told my lover that i should keep no secrets. but, come, you shall guess. who was it, miss baker?" "i couldn't say at all," said miss baker, in a faint voice. "perhaps mr. o'callaghan," suggested miss penelope, conscious, probably, that an ardent young evangelical clergyman is generally in want of an income. "mr. o'callaghan!" shouted miss todd, throwing up her head with scorn. "pho! the gentleman i speak of would have made me a lady. lady--! now who do you think it was, miss baker?" "oh, i couldn't guess at all," said poor miss baker. but she now knew that it was sir lionel. it might have been worse, however, and that she felt--much worse! "was it sir lionel bertram?" asked the other. "ah! miss gauntlet, you know all about the gentlemen of littlebath. i can see that. it was sir lionel. wasn't that a triumph?" "and you refused him?" asked miss penelope. "of course i did. you don't mean to say that you think i would have accepted him?" to this miss penelope made no answer. her opinions were of a mixed sort. she partly misbelieved miss todd--partly wondered at her. unmarried ladies of a certain age, whatever may be their own feelings in regard to matrimony on their own behalf, seem always impressed with a conviction that other ladies in the same condition would certainly marry if they got an opportunity. miss penelope could not believe that miss todd had rejected sir lionel; but at the same time she could not but be startled also by the great fact of such a rejection. at any rate her course of duty was open. littlebath should be enlightened on the subject before the drawing-room candles were lit that evening; or at any rate that set in littlebath to which she belonged. so she rose from her chair, and, declaring that she had sat an unconscionable time with miss baker, departed, diligent, about her work. "well, what do you think of that, my dear?" said miss todd, as soon as the two of them were left alone. it was strange that miss todd, who was ordinarily so good-natured, who was so especially intent on being good-natured to miss baker, should have thus roughly communicated to her friend tidings which were sure to wound. but she had omitted to look at it in this light. her intention had been to punish sir lionel for having been so grossly false and grossly foolish. she had seen through him--at least, hardly through him; had seen at least that he must have been doubting between the two ladies, and that he had given up the one whom he believed to be the poorer. she did not imagine it possible that, after having offered to her, he should then go with a similar offer to miss baker. had such an idea arisen in her mind, she would certainly have allowed miss baker to take her chance of promotion unmolested. miss baker gave a long sigh. now that miss gauntlet was gone she felt herself better able to speak; but, nevertheless, any speech on the subject was difficult to her. her kind heart at once forgave miss todd. there could now be no marriage between that false one and her friend; and therefore, if the ice would only get itself broken, she would not be unwilling to converse upon the subject. but how to break the ice! "i always thought he would," at last she said. "did you?" said miss todd. "well, he certainly used to come there, but i never knew why. sometimes i thought it was to talk about you." "oh, no!" said miss baker, plaintively. "i gave him no encouragement--none whatever;--used to send him here and there--anything to get rid of him. sometimes i thought--" and then miss todd hesitated. "thought what?" asked miss baker. "well, i don't want to be ill-natured; but sometimes i thought that he wanted to borrow money, and didn't exactly know how to begin." "to borrow money!" he had once borrowed money from miss baker. "well, i don't know; i only say i thought so. he never did." miss baker sighed again, and then there was a slight pause in the conversation. "but, miss todd--" "well, my dear!" "do you think that--" "think what? speak out, my dear; you may before me. if you've got any secret, i'll keep it." "oh! i've got no secret; only this. do you think that sir lionel is--is poor--that he should want to borrow money?" "well; poor! i hardly know what you call poor. but we all know that he is a distressed man. i suppose he has a good income, and a little ready money would, perhaps, set him up; but there's no doubt about his being over head and ears in debt, i suppose." this seemed to throw a new and unexpected light on miss baker's mind. "i thought he was always so very respectable," said she. "hum-m-m!" said miss todd, who knew the world. "eh?" said miss baker, who did not. "it depends on what one means by respectable," said miss todd. "i really thought he was so very--" "hum-m-m-m," repeated miss todd, shaking her head. and then there was a little conversation carried on between these ladies so entirely _sotto voce_ that the reporter of this scene was unable to hear a word of it. but this he could see, that miss todd bore by far the greater part in it. at the end of it, miss baker gave another, and a longer, and a deeper sigh. "but you know, my dear," said miss todd, in her most consolatory voice, and these words were distinctly audible, "nothing does a man of that sort so much good as marrying." "does it?" asked miss baker. "certainly; if his wife knows how to manage him." and then miss todd departed, leaving miss baker with much work for her thoughts. her female friend miss baker had quite forgiven; but she felt that she could never quite forgive him. "to have deceived me so!" she said to herself, recurring to her old idea of his great respectability. but, nevertheless, it was probably his other sin that rankled deepest in her mind. of miss baker it may be said that she had hardly touched the pitch; at any rate, that it had not defiled her. sir lionel was somewhat ill at ease as he walked from the paragon to his livery stables. he had certainly looked upon success with miss todd as by no means sure; but, nevertheless, he was disappointed. let any of us, in any attempt that we may make, convince ourselves with ever so much firmness that we shall fail, yet we are hardly the less down-hearted when the failure comes. we assure ourselves that we are not sanguine, but we assure ourselves falsely. it is man's nature to be sanguine; his nature, and perhaps his greatest privilege. and sir lionel, as he walked along, began to fear that his own scruples would now stand in the way of that other marriage--of that second string to his bow. when, in making his little private arrangements within his own mind, he had decided that if miss todd rejected him he would forthwith walk off to miss baker, it never occurred to him that his own feelings would militate against such a proceeding. but such was now absolutely the fact. having talked about "dear sarah," he found that even he would have a difficulty in bringing himself to the utterance of "dear mary." he went to bed, however, that night with the comfortable reflection that any such nonsense would be dissipated by the morning. but when the morning came--his morning, one p.m.--his feeling he found was the same. he could not see miss baker that day. he was disgusted and disappointed with himself. he had flattered himself that he was gifted with greater firmness; and now that he found himself so wanting in strength of character, he fretted and fumed, as men will do, even at their own faults. he swore to himself that he would go to-morrow, and that evening went to bed early, trying to persuade himself that indigestion had weakened him. he did great injustice, however, to as fine a set of internal organs as ever blessed a man of sixty. at two o'clock next day he dressed himself for the campaign in montpellier terrace; but when dressed he was again disorganised. he found that he could not do it. he told himself over and over again that with miss baker there need be no doubt; she, at least, would accept him. he had only to smile there, and she would smile again. he had only to say "dear mary," and those soft eyes would be turned to the ground and the battle would be won. but still he could not do it. he was sick; he was ill; he could not eat his breakfast. he looked in the glass, and found himself to be yellow, and wrinkled, and wizened. he was not half himself. there were yet three weeks before miss baker would leave littlebath. it was on the whole better that his little arrangement should be made immediately previous to her departure. he would leave littlebath for ten days, and return a new man. so he went up to london, and bestowed his time upon his son. at the end of the ten days much of his repugnance had worn off. but still the sound of that word "sarah," and the peal of laughter which followed, rang in his ears. that utterance of the verbiage of love is a disagreeable task for a gentleman of his years. he had tried it, and found it very disagreeable. he would save himself a repetition of the nuisance and write to her. he did so. his letter was not very long. he said nothing about "mary" in it, but contented himself with calling her his dearest friend. a few words were sufficient to make her understand what he meant, and those few words were there. he merely added a caution, that for both their sakes, the matter had better not at present be mentioned to anybody. miss baker, when she received this letter, had almost recovered her equanimity. hers had been a soft and gentle sorrow. she had had no fits of bursting grief; her wailings had been neither loud nor hysterical. a gentle, soft, faint tinge of melancholy had come upon her; so that she had sighed much as she sat at her solitary tea, and had allowed her novel to fall uncared for to the ground. "would it not be well for her," she said to herself more than once, "to go to hadley? would not any change be well for her?" she felt now that caroline's absence was a heavy blow to her, and that it would be well that she should leave littlebath. it was astonishing how this affair of miss todd's reconciled her to her future home. and then, when she was thus tranquil, thus resigned, thus all but happy, came this tremendous letter, upsetting her peace of mind, and throwing her into a new maze of difficulties. she had never said to herself at any time that if sir lionel did propose she would accept him. she had never questioned herself as to the probability of such an event. that she would have accepted him a fortnight ago, there can be no doubt; but what was she to do now? it was not only that sir lionel had made another tender of his hand to another lady ten or twelve days since, but to this must be added the fact that all littlebath knew that he had done so. miss todd, after the first ebullition of her comic spleen, had not said much about it; but miss p. gauntlet's tongue had not been idle. she, perhaps, had told it only to the godly; but the godly, let them be ever so exclusive, must have some intercourse with the wicked world; and thus every lady in littlebath now knew all about it. and then there were other difficulties. that whispered conversation still rang in her ears. she was not quite sure how far it might be her mission to reclaim such a man as sir lionel--this new sir lionel whom miss todd had described. and then, too, he was in want of money. why, she was in want of money herself! but was there not something also to be said on the other side? it is reported that unmarried ladies such as miss baker generally regret the forlornness of their own condition. if so, the fault is not their own, but must be attributed to the social system to which they belong. the english world is pleased to say that an unmarried lady past forty has missed her hit in life--has omitted to take her tide at the ebb; and what can unmarried ladies do but yield to the world's dictum? that the english world may become better informed, and learn as speedily as may be to speak with more sense on the subject, let us all pray. but, in the meantime, the world's dictum was strong at littlebath, and did influence this dear lady. she would prefer the name of lady bertram to that of miss baker for the remainder of the term of years allotted to her. it would please her to walk into a room as a married woman, and to quit herself of that disgrace, which injustice and prejudice, and the folly of her own sex rather than of the other, had so cruelly attached to her present position. and then, to be _lady_ bertram! there were but few angels at this time in littlebath, and miss baker was not one of them: she had a taint of vanity in her composition; but we doubt if such female vanity could exist in any human breast in a more pardonable form than it did in hers. and then, perhaps, this plan of marrying might have the wished-for effect on sir lionel's way of living;--and how desirable was this! would it not be a splendid work for her to reclaim a lost colonel? might it not be her duty to marry him with this special object? there certainly did appear to be some difficulty as to money. if, as miss todd assured her, sir lionel were really in difficulties, her own present annuity--all that she could absolutely call her own--her one hundred and eighty-nine pounds, seventeen shillings and threepence per annum--would not help them much. sir lionel was at any rate disinterested in his offer; that at least was clear to her. and then a sudden light broke in upon her meditations. sir lionel and the old gentleman were at variance. we allude to the old gentleman at hadley: with the other old gentleman, of whom we wot, it may be presumed that sir lionel was on tolerably favourable terms. might not she be the means of bringing the two brothers together? if she were lady bertram, would not the old gentleman receive sir lionel back to his bosom for her sake--to his bosom, and also to his purse? but before she took any step in the dark, she resolved to ask the old gentleman the question. it is true that sir lionel had desired her to speak to no person on the subject; but that injunction of course referred to strangers. it could not but be expected that on such a matter she should consult her best friends. sir lionel had also enjoined a speedy answer; and in order that she might not disappoint him in this matter, she resolved to put the question at once to mr. bertram. great measures require great means. she would herself go to hadley on the morrow--and so she wrote a letter that night, to beg that her uncle would expect her. "so; you got tired of littlebath before the month was out?" said he. "oh! but i am going back again." "going back again! then why the d---- have you come up now?" alas! it was too clear that the old gentleman was not in one of his more pacific moods. as these words were spoken, miss baker was still standing in the passage, that she might see her box brought in from the fly. she of course had on her bonnet, and thickest shawl, and cloak. she had thick boots on also, and an umbrella in her hand. the maid was in the passage, and so was the man who had driven her. she was very cold, and her nose was blue, and her teeth chattered. she could not tell her tale of love in such guise, or to such audience. "what the d---- has brought you up?" repeated the old gentleman, standing with his two sticks at the sitting-room door. he did not care who heard him, or how cold it was, or of what nature might be her present mission. he knew that an extra journey from littlebath to london and back, flys and porters included, would cost two pounds ten shillings. he knew, or thought that he knew, that this might have been avoided. he also knew that his rheumatism plagued him, that his old bones were sore, that he could not sleep at night, that he could not get into the city to see how things went, and that the game was coming to an end with him, and that the grave was claiming him. it was not surprising that the old gentleman should be cross. "i'll tell you if you'll let me come into the room," said miss baker. "take the box upstairs, mary. half a crown! oh no, two shillings will be quite enough." this economy was assumed to pacify the old gentleman; but it did not have the desired effect. "one and sixpence," he holloed out from his crutches. "don't give him a halfpenny more." "please, sir, the luggage, sir," said the fly driver. "luggage!" shouted the old man. his limbs were impotent, but his voice was not; and the fly-driver shook in his shoes. "there," said miss baker, insidiously giving the man two and threepence. "i shall not give you a farthing more." it is to be feared that she intended her uncle to think that his limit had not been exceeded. and then she was alone with mr. bertram. her nose was still blue, and her toes still cold; but at any rate she was alone with him. it was hard for her to tell her tale; and she thoroughly wished herself back at littlebath; but, nevertheless, she did tell it. the courage of women in some conditions of life surpasses anything that man can do. "i want to consult you about that," said she, producing sir lionel's letter. the old gentleman took it, and looked at it, and turned it. "what! it's from that swindler, is it?" said he. "it's from sir lionel," said miss baker, trembling. there were as yet no promising auspices for the fraternal reconciliation. "yes; i see who it's from--and what is it all about? i shan't read it. you can tell me, i suppose, what's in it." "i had hoped that perhaps, sir, you and he might--" "might what?" "be brought together as brothers and friends." "brothers and friends! one can't choose one's brother; but who would choose to be the friend of a swindler? is that what the letter is about?" "not exactly that, mr. bertram." "then what the d---- is it?" "sir lionel, sir, has made me--" "made you what? put your name to a bill, i suppose." "no; indeed he has not. nothing of that kind." "then what has he made you do?" "he has not made me do anything; but he has sent me--an--an offer of marriage." and poor miss baker, with her blue nose, looked up so innocently, so imploringly, so trustingly, that any one but mr. bertram would have comforted her. "an offer of marriage from sir lionel!" said he. "yes," said miss baker, timidly. "here it is; and i have come up to consult you about the answer." mr. bertram now did take the letter, and did read it through. "well!" he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head gently. "well!" "i thought it better to do nothing without seeing you. and that is what has brought me to hadley in such a hurry." "the audacious, impudent scoundrel!" "you think, then, that i should refuse him?" "you are a fool, an ass! a downright old soft-headed fool!" such was the old gentleman's answer to her question. "but i didn't know what to say without consulting you," said miss baker, with her handkerchief to her face. "not know! don't you know that he's a swindler, a reprobate, a penniless adventurer? good heavens! and you are such a fool as that! it's well that you are not to be left at littlebath by yourself." miss baker made no attempt to defend herself, but, bursting into tears, assured her uncle that she would be guided by him. under his absolute dictation she wrote the enclosed short answer to sir lionel. hadley, january --, --. dear sir, mr. bertram says that it will be sufficient to let you know that he would not give me a penny during his life, or leave me a penny at his death if i were to become your wife. yours truly, mary baker. that was all that the old gentleman would allow; but as she folded the letter, she surreptitiously added the slightest imaginable postscript to explain the matter--such words as occurred to her at the spur of the moment. "he is so angry about it all!" after that miss baker was not allowed back to littlebath, even to pack up or pay her bills, or say good-bye to those she left behind. the servant had to do it all. reflecting on the danger which had been surmounted, mr. bertram determined that she should not again be put in the way of temptation. and this was the end of sir lionel's wooing. chapter iii. a quiet little dinner. sir henry harcourt was married and took his bride to paris and nice; and sir lionel bertram tried to get married, but his bride--bride as he hoped her to have been--ran away by herself to hadley. in the meantime george bertram lived alone in his dark dull chambers in london. he would fain have been all alone; but at what was perhaps the worst moment of his misery, his father came to him. it may be remembered how anxiously he had longed to know his father when he first commenced that journey to jerusalem, how soon he became attached to him, how fascinated he had been by sir lionel's manners, how easily he forgave the first little traits of un-paternal conduct on his father's part, how gradually the truth forced itself upon his mind. but now, at this time, the truth had forced itself on his mind. he knew his father for what he was. and his mind was not one which could reject such knowledge, or alter the nature of it because the man was his father. there are those to whom a father's sins, or a husband's sins, or a brother's sins are no sins at all. and of such one may say, that though we must of compulsion find their judgment to be in some sort delinquent, that their hearts more than make up for such delinquency. one knows that they are wrong, but can hardly wish them to be less so. but george bertram was not one of them: he had been in no hurry to condemn his father; but, having seen his sins, he knew them for sins, and did condemn them. he found that his uncle had been right, and that sir lionel was a man whom he could in no wise respect, and could hardly love. money he perceived was his father's desire. he would therefore give him what money he could spare; but he would not give him his society. when, therefore, sir lionel announced his arrival in town and his intention to remain there some little time, george bertram was by no means solaced in his misery. in those days he was very miserable. it was only now that he knew how thoroughly he loved this woman--now that she was so utterly beyond his reach. weak and wavering as he was in many things, he was not weak enough to abandon himself altogether to unavailing sorrow. he knew that work alone could preserve him from sinking--hard, constant, unflinching work, that one great cure for all our sorrow, that only means of adapting ourselves to god's providences. so he set himself to work--not a lazy, listless reading of counted pages; not history at two volumes a week, or science at a treatise a day; but to such true work as he found it in him to do, working with all his mind and all his strength. he had already written and was known as a writer; but he had written under impulse, carelessly, without due regard to his words or due thought as to his conclusions. he had written things of which he was already ashamed, and had put forth with the _ex cathedra_ air of an established master ideas which had already ceased to be his own. but all that should be altered now. then he had wanted a quick return for his writing. it had piqued him to think that the names of others, his contemporaries, were bruited about the world, but that the world knew nothing of his own. harcourt was already a noted man, while he himself had done no more than attempted and abandoned a profession. harcourt's early success had made him an early author; but he already felt that his authorship was unavailing. harcourt's success had been solid, stable, such as men delight in; his had as yet resulted only in his all but forced withdrawal from the only respectable position which he had achieved. and now harcourt's success was again before him. harcourt had now as his own that which he had looked to as the goal of all his success, the worldly reward for which he had been willing to work. and yet what was harcourt as compared with him? he knew himself to be of a higher temperament, of a brighter genius, of greater powers. he would not condescend even to compare himself to this man who had so thoroughly distanced him in the world's race. thinking, and feeling, and suffering thus, he had begun to work with all the vehemence of which he was master. he would ask for no speedy return now. his first object was to deaden the present misery of his mind; and then, if it might be so, to vindicate his claim to be regarded as one of england's worthy children, letting such vindication come in its own time. such being the state of his mind, his father's arrival did not contribute much to his comfort. sir lionel was rather petulant when he was with him; objected to him that he had played his cards badly; would talk about caroline, and, which was almost worse, about the solicitor-general; constantly urged him to make overtures of reconciliation to his uncle; and wanted one day five pounds, on another ten pounds, and again on a third fifteen pounds. at this moment george's fixed income was but two hundred pounds a year, and any other wealth of which he was possessed was the remainder of his uncle's thousand pounds. when that was gone, he must either live on his income, small as it was, or write for the booksellers. such being the case, he felt himself obliged to decline when the fifteen pounds was mentioned. "you can let me have it for a couple of months?" said sir lionel. "not conveniently," said his son. "i will send it you back immediately on my return to littlebath," said the father; "so if you have got it by you, pray oblige me." "i certainly have got it," said the son--and he handed him the desired check; "but i think you should remember, sir, how very small my income is, and that there is no prospect of its being increased." "it must be altogether your own fault then," said the colonel, pocketing the money. "i never knew a young man who had a finer hand of cards put into his hand--never; if you have played it badly, it is your own fault, altogether your own fault." in truth, sir lionel did really feel that his son had used him badly, and owed him some amends. had george but done his duty, he might now have been the actual recognized heir of his uncle's wealth, and the actual possessor of as much as would have been allowed to a dutiful, obedient son. to a man of sir lionel's temperament, it was annoying that there should be so much wealth so near him, and yet absolutely, and, alas! probably for ever out of his reach. sir lionel had resolved to wait in london for his answer, and there he received it. short as was poor miss baker's letter, it was quite sufficiently explicit. she had betrayed him to the old gentleman, and after that all hopes of money from that source were over. it might still be possible for him to talk over miss baker, but such triumph would be but barren. miss baker with a transferred allegiance--transferred from the old gentleman to him--would be but a very indifferent helpmate. he learnt, however, from littlebath that she was still away, and would probably not return. then he went back in fancied security, and found himself the centre of all those amatory ovations which miss todd and miss gauntlet had prepared for him. it was about two months after this that george bertram saw sir henry harcourt for the first time after the marriage. he had heard that sir henry was in town, had heard of the blaze of their new house in eaton square, had seen in the papers how magnificently lady harcourt had appeared at court, how well she graced her brilliant home, how fortunate the world esteemed that young lawyer who, having genius, industry, and position of his own, had now taken to himself in marriage beauty, wealth, and social charms. all this george bertram heard and read, and hearing it and reading it had kept himself from the paths in which such petted children of fortune might probably be met. twice in the course of these two months did sir henry call at bertram's chambers; but bertram was now at home to no one. he lived in a great desert, in which was no living being but himself--in a huge desert without water and without grass, in which there was no green thing. he was alone; to one person only had he spoken of his misery; once only had he thought of escaping from it. that thought had been in vain: that companion was beyond his reach; and, therefore, living there in his london chambers, he had been all alone. but at last they did meet. sir henry, determined not to be beaten in his attempt to effect a reconciliation, wrote to him, saying that he would call, and naming an hour. "caroline and you," he said, "are cousins; there can be no reason why you should be enemies. for her sake, if not for mine, do oblige me in this." bertram sat for hours with that note beneath his eyes before he could bring himself to answer it. could it really be that she desired to see him again? that she, in her splendour and first glow of prosperous joy, would wish to encounter him in his dreary, sad, deserted misery? and why could she wish it? and, ah! how could she wish it? and then he asked himself whether he also would wish to see her. that he still loved her, loved her as he never had done while she was yet his own, he had often told himself. that he could never be at rest till he had ceased to make her the first object of his thoughts he had said as often. that he ought not to see her, he knew full well. the controversy within his own bosom was carried on for two hours, and then he wrote to sir henry, saying that he would be at his chambers at the hour named. from that moment the salutary effort was discontinued, the work was put aside, and the good that had been done was all revoked. sir henry came, true to his appointment. whatever might be his object, he was energetic in it. he was now a man of many concernments; hours were scanty with him, and a day much too short. the calls of clients, and the calls of party, joined to those other calls which society makes upon men in such brilliant stations, hardly left him time for sleeping; but not the less urgent was he in his resolve to see his beaten rival who would so willingly have left him to his brilliant joy. but was not all this explained long even before christianity was in vogue? "quos deus vult perdere, prius dementat." whom god will confound, those he first maddens. nothing could exceed the bland friendship, the winning manners, and the frank courtesy of sir henry. he said but little about what was past; but that little went to show that he had been blessed with the hand of caroline waddington only because bertram had rejected that blessing as not worthy his acceptance. great man as he was, he almost humbled himself before bertram's talent. he spoke of their mutual connection at hadley as though they two were his heirs of right, and as though their rights were equal; and then he ended by begging that they might still be friends. "our careers must be widely different," said bertram, somewhat touched by his tone; "yours will be in the light; mine must be in the dark." "most men who do any good live in the dark for some period of their lives," said harcourt. "i, too, have had my dark days, and doubtless shall have them again; but neither with you nor with me will they endure long." bertram thought that harcourt knew nothing about it, and sneered when the successful man talked of his dark days. what darkness had his mental eyesight ever known? we are all apt to think when our days are dark that there is no darkness so dark as our own. "i know what your feelings are," continued sir henry; "and i hope you will forgive me if i speak openly. you have resolved not to meet caroline. my object is to make you put aside that resolve. it is my object and hers also. it is out of the question that you should continue to avoid the world. your walk in life will be that of a literary man: but nowadays literary men become senators and statesmen. they have high rank, are well paid, and hold their own boldly against men of meaner capacities. this is the career that we both foresee for you; and in that career we both hope to be your friends." so spoke the great advocate with suasive eloquence--with eloquence dangerously suasive as regarded his own happiness. but in truth this man knew not what love meant--not that love which those two wretched lovers understood so well. that his own wife was cold to him, cold as ice--that he well knew. that bertram had flung her from him because she had been cold to him--that he believed. that he himself could live without any passionate love--that he acknowledged. his wife was graceful and very beautiful--all the world confessed that. and thus sir henry was contented. those honeymoon days had indeed been rather dreary. once or twice before that labour was over he had been almost tempted to tell her that he had paid too high for the privilege of pressing such an icicle to his bosom. but he had restrained himself; and now in the blaze of the london season, passing his mornings in courts of law and his evenings in the house of parliament, he flattered himself that he was a happy man. "come and dine with us in a quiet way the day after to-morrow," said sir henry, "and then the ice will be broken." george bertram said that he would; and from that moment his studies were at an end. this occurred on the monday. the invitation was for the following wednesday. sir henry explained that from some special cause he would be relieved from parliamentary attendance, at any rate till ten o'clock; that at the quiet dinner there would be no other guests except mr. and mrs. stistick, and baron brawl, whose wife and family were not yet in town. "you'll like the baron," said harcourt; "he's loud and arrogant, no doubt; but he's not loud and arrogant about nothing, as some men are. stistick is a bore. of course you know him. he's member for peterloo, and goes with us on condition that somebody listens to him about once a week. but the baron will put him down." "and mrs. stistick?" said george. "i never heard of her till yesterday, and caroline has gone to call on her to-day. it's rather a bore for her, for they live somewhere half-way to harrow, i believe. half-past seven. good-bye, old fellow. i ought to have been before baron brawl at westminster twenty minutes since." and so the solicitor-general, rushing out from the temple, threw himself into a cab; and as the wheels rattled along the strand, he made himself acquainted with the contents of his brief. why should caroline have expressed a wish to see him? that was the thought that chiefly rested in bertram's mind when sir henry left him. why should it be an object to her to force a meeting between her and him? would it not be better for them both that they should be far as the poles asunder? "well," he said to himself, "if it be no difficulty to her, neither shall it be a difficulty to me. she is strong-minded, and i will be so no less. i will go and meet her. it is but the first plunge that gives the shock." and thus he closed his work, and sat moodily thinking. he was angry with her in that she could endure to see him; but, alas! half-pleased also that she should wish to do so. he had no thought, no most distant thought, that she could ever now be more to him than the wife of an acquaintance whom he did not love too well. but yet there was in his heart some fragment of half-satisfied vanity at hearing that she did look forward to see him once again. and how shall we speak of such a wish on her part? "caroline," her husband had said to her at breakfast, "it will be all nonsense for you and george bertram to keep up any kind of quarrel. i hate nonsense of that sort." "there is no quarrel between us," she replied. "there ought to be none; and i shall get him to come here." the colour of her face became slightly heightened as she answered: "if you wish it, sir henry, and he wishes it also, i shall not object." "i do wish it, certainly. i think it absolutely necessary as regards my position with your grandfather." "do just as you think best," said his wife. 'twas thus that lady harcourt had expressed her desire to see george bertram at her house. had he known the truth, that fragment of half-satisfied vanity would have been but small. in those early days of her marriage, lady harcourt bore her triumphs very placidly. she showed no great elation at the change that had come over her life. her aunt from hadley was frequently with her, and wondered to find her so little altered, or rather, in some respects, so much altered; for she was more considerate in her manner, more sparing of her speech, much less inclined to domineer now, as lady harcourt, than in former days she had ever been as caroline waddington. she went constantly into society, and was always much considered; but her triumphs were mainly of that quiet nature which one sometimes sees to be achieved with so little effort by beautiful women. it seemed but necessary that she should sit still, and sometimes smile, and the world was ready to throw itself at her feet. nay, the smile was but too often omitted, and yet the world was there. at home, though more employed, she was hardly more energetic. her husband told her that he wished his house to be noted for the pleasantness of his dinner-parties, and, therefore, she studied the subject as a good child would study a lesson. she taught herself what the material of a dinner should be, she satisfied herself that her cook was good, she looked to the brilliancy of her appointments, and did her best to make the house shine brightly. the house did shine, and on the whole sir henry was contented. it was true that his wife did not talk much; but what little she did say was said with a sweet manner and with perfect grace. she was always dressed with care, was always beautiful, was always ladylike. had not sir henry reason to be contented? as for talking, he could do that himself. and now that she was told that george bertram was to come to her house, she did not show much more excitement at the tidings than at the promised advent of mr. baron brawl. she took the matter with such indifference that sir henry, at least, had no cause for jealousy. but then she was indifferent about everything. nothing seemed to wake her either to joy or sorrow. sir henry, perhaps, was contented; but lovely, ladylike, attractive as she was, he sometimes did feel almost curious to know whether it were possible to rouse this doll of his to any sense of life or animation. he had thought, nay, almost wished, that the name of her old lover would have moved her, that the idea of seeing him would have disturbed her. but, no; one name was the same to her as another. she had been told to go and call on mrs. stistick, and she had gone. she was told to receive mr. bertram, and she was quite ready to do so. angels from heaven, or spirits from below, could sir henry have summoned such to his table, would have been received by her with equal equanimity. this was dutiful on her part, and naturally satisfactory to a husband inclined to be somewhat exigeant. but even duty may pall on an exigeant husband, and a man may be brought to wish that his wife would cross him. but on this occasion sir henry had no such pleasure. "i saw bertram this morning," he said, when he went home for five minutes before taking his seat in the house for the night. "he's to be here on wednesday." "oh, very well. there will be six, then." she said no more. it was clear that the dinner, and that only, was on her mind. he had told her to be careful about his dinners, and therefore could not complain. but, nevertheless, he was almost vexed. don't let any wife think that she will satisfy her husband by perfect obedience. overmuch virtue in one's neighbours is never satisfactory to us sinners. but there were moments in which lady harcourt could think of her present life, when no eye was by to watch her--no master there to wonder at her perfections. moments! nay, but there were hours, and hours, and hours. there were crowds of hours; slow, dull, lingering hours, in which she had no choice but to think of it. a woman may see to her husband's dinners and her own toilet, and yet have too much time for thinking. it would almost have been a comfort to lady harcourt if sir henry could have had a dinner-party every day. how should she bear herself; what should she say; how should she look when george bertram came there as a guest to her house? how could he be so cruel, so heartless, so inhuman as to come there? her path was difficult enough for her poor weary feet. he must know that--should, at any rate, have known it. how could he be so cruel as to add this great stumbling-block to her other perils? the wednesday came, and at half-past seven she was in her drawing-room as beautiful and as dignified as ever. she had a peculiar place of her own in the corner of a peculiar sofa, and there she lived. it was her goddess' shrine, and her worshippers came and did reverence before her. none came and sat beside her. hers was not that gentle fascination which entices men, and women too, to a near proximity. her bow was very gracious, and said much; but "noli me tangere" was part of its eloquence. and so baron brawl found, when on entering her drawing-room he told her that the fame of her charms had reached his ears, and that he was delighted to have an opportunity of making her acquaintance. mr. and mrs. stistick were the next comers. mrs. stistick sat herself down on an opposite sofa, and seemed to think that she did her duty to society by sitting there. and so she did. only permit her so to sit, and there was no further labour in entertaining mrs. stistick. she was a large, heavy woman, with a square forehead and a square chin, and she had brought up seven children most successfully. now, in these days of her husband's parliamentary prosperity, she was carried about to dinners; and in her way she enjoyed them. she was not too shy to eat, and had no wish whatever either to be talked to or to talk. to sit easily on a sofa and listen to the buzz of voices was life and society to her. perhaps in those long hours she was meditating on her children's frocks or her husband's linen. but they never seemed to be long to her. mr. stistick was standing on the rug before the fire, preparing for his first onslaught on baron brawl, when the servant announced mr. bertram. "ah! bertram, i'm delighted to see you," said sir henry;--"doubly so, as dinner is ready. judge, you know my friend bertram, by name, at any rate?" and some sort of half-introduction was performed. "he who moved all oxford from its propriety?" said the baron. but bertram neither saw him nor heard him. neither his eyes nor his ears were at his command. as he took his host's proffered hand, he glanced his eyes for a moment round the room. there she sat, and he had to speak to her as best he might. at his last interview with her he had spoken freely enough, and it all rushed now upon his mind. then how little he had made of her, how lightly he had esteemed her! now, as she sat there before him his spirit acknowledged her as a goddess, and he all but feared to address her. his face, he knew, was hot and red; his manner, he felt, was awkward. he was not master of himself, and when such is the case with a man, the fact always betrays itself. but he did speak to her. "how do you do, lady harcourt?" he said, and he put his hand out, and he felt the ends of her fingers once more within his own. and she spoke too, probably. but pretty women can say almost as much as is necessary on such occasions as this without opening their lips. whether she spoke, or whether she did not, it was the same to him. he certainly did not hear her. but her fingers did touch his hand, her eyes did rest upon his face; and then, in that moment of time, he thought of jerusalem, of the mount of olives, of those rides at littlebath, and of that last meeting, when all, all had been shattered to pieces. "there are five hundred and fifty-five thousand male children between the ages of nine and twelve," said mr. stistick, pursuing some wondrous line of argument, as bertram turned himself towards the fire. "what a fine national family!" said the baron. "and how ashamed i feel when i bethink myself that only one of them is mine!" "dinner is served," said the butler. "mrs. stistick, will you allow me?" said sir henry. and then in half a minute bertram found himself walking down to dinner with the member of parliament. "and we have school accommodation for just one hundred and fourteen," continued that gentleman on the stairs. "now, will you tell me what becomes of the other four hundred and forty-one?" bertram was not at that moment in a condition to give him any information on the subject. "i can tell you about the one," said the baron, as sir henry began his grace. "an odd thousand is nothing," said mr. stistick, pausing for a second till the grace was over. the judge and mr. stistick sat at lady harcourt's right and left, so that bertram was not called upon to say much to her during dinner. the judge talked incessantly, and so did the member of parliament, and so also did the solicitor-general. a party of six is always a talking party. men and women are not formed into pairs, and do not therefore become dumb. each person's voice makes another person emulous, and the difficulty felt is not as to what one shall say, but how one shall get it in. ten, and twelve, and fourteen are the silent numbers. every now and again harcourt endeavoured to make bertram join in the conversation; and bertram did make some faint attempts. he essayed to answer some of mr. stistick's very difficult inquiries, and was even roused to parry some raillery from the judge. but he was not himself; and caroline, who could not but watch him narrowly as she sat there in her silent beauty, saw that he was not so. she arraigned him in her mind for want of courage; but had he been happy, and noisy, and light of heart, she would probably have arraigned him for some deeper sin. "as long as the matter is left in the hands of the parents, nothing on earth will be done," said mr. stistick. "that's what i have always said to lady brawl," said the judge. "and it's what i have said to lord john; and what i intend to say to him again. lord john is all very well--" "thank you, stistick. i am glad, at any rate, to get as much as that from you," said the solicitor. "lord john is all very well," continued the member, not altogether liking the interruption; "but there is only one man in the country who thoroughly understands the subject, and who is able--" "and i don't see the slightest probability of finding a second," said the judge. "and who is able to make himself heard." "what do you say, lady harcourt," asked the baron, "as to the management of a school with--how many millions of them, mr. stistick?" "five hundred and fifty-five thousand male children--" "suppose we say boys," said the judge. "boys?" asked mr. stistick, not quite understanding him, but rather disconcerted by the familiarity of the word. "well, i suppose they must be boys;--at least the most of them." "they are all from nine to twelve, i say," continued mr. stistick, completely bewildered. "oh, that alters the question," said the judge. "not at all," said mr. stistick. "there is accommodation for only--" "well, we'll ask lady harcourt. what do you say, lady harcourt?" lady harcourt felt herself by no means inclined to enter into the joke on either side; so she said, with her gravest smile, "i'm sure mr. stistick understands very well what he's talking about." "what do you say, ma'am?" said the judge, turning round to the lady on his left. "mr. stistick is always right on such matters," said the lady. "see what it is to have a character. it absolutely enables one to upset the laws of human nature. but still i do say, mr. solicitor, that the majority of them were probably boys." "boys!" exclaimed the member of parliament. "boys! i don't think you can have understood a word that we have been saying." "i don't think i have," said the baron. "there are five hundred and fifty-five thousand male children between--" "oh--h--h! male children! ah--h--h! now i see the difference; i beg your pardon, mr. stistick, but i really was very stupid. and you mean to explain all this to lord john in the present session?" "but, stistick, who is the one man?" said sir henry. "the one man is lord boanerges. he, i believe, is the only man living who really understands the social wants of this kingdom." "and everything else also," sneered the baron. the baron always sneered at cleverness that was external to his own profession, especially when exhibited by one who, like the noble lord named, should have confined his efforts to that profession. "so boanerges is to take in hand these male children? and very fitting, too; he was made to be a schoolmaster." "he is the first man of the age; don't you think so, sir henry?" "he was, certainly, when he was on the woolsack," said sir henry. "that is the normal position always assumed by the first man of his age in this country." "though some of them when there do hide their lights under a bushel," said the judge. "he is the first law reformer that perhaps ever lived," said mr. stistick, enthusiastically. "and i hope will be the last in my time," said his enemy. "i hope he will live to complete his work," said the politician. "then methuselah will be a child to him, and jared and lamech little babies," said the judge. "in such case he has got his work before him, certainly," said mr. solicitor. and so the battle was kept up between them, and george bertram and lady harcourt sat by and listened; or more probably, perhaps, sat by and did not listen. but when her ladyship and mrs. stistick had retreated--oh, my readers, fancy what that next hour must have been to caroline harcourt!--how gothic, how barbarous are we still in our habits, in that we devote our wives to such wretchedness as that! o, lady, has it ever been your lot to sit out such hour as that with some mrs. stistick, who would neither talk, nor read, nor sleep; in whose company you could neither talk, nor read, nor yet sleep? and if such has been your lot, have you not asked yourself why in this civilized country, in this civilized century, you should be doomed to such a senseless, sleepless purgatory?--but when they were gone, and when the judge, radiant with fun and happiness, hastened to fill his claret beaker, then bertram by degrees thawed, and began to feel that after all the world was perhaps not yet dead around him. "well, mr. stistick," said the baron; "if sir henry will allow us, we'll drink lord boanerges." "with all my heart," said mr. stistick. "he is a man of whom it may be said--" "that no man knew better on which side his bread was buttered." "he is buttering the bread of millions upon millions," said mr. stistick. "or doing better still," said bertram; "enabling them to butter their own. lord boanerges is probably the only public man of this day who will be greater in a hundred years than he is now." "let us at any rate hope," said the baron, "that he will at that time be less truculent." "i can't agree with you, bertram," said sir henry. "i consider we are fertile in statesmen. do you think that peel will be forgotten in a hundred years?" this was said with the usual candour of a modern turncoat. for sir henry had now deserted peel. "almost, i should hope, by that time," said bertram. "he will have a sort of a niche in history, no doubt; as has mr. perceval, who did so much to assist us in the war; and lord castlereagh, who carried the union. they also were heaven-sent ministers, whom acheron has not as yet altogether swallowed up." "and boanerges, you think, will escape libitina?" "if the spirit of the age will allow immortality to any man of these days, i think he will. but i doubt whether public opinion, as now existing, will admit of hero-worship." "public opinion is the best safeguard for a great man's great name," said mr. stistick, with intense reliance on the civilization of his own era. "quite true, sir; quite true," said the baron,--"for the space of twenty-four hours." then followed a calm, and then coffee. after that, the solicitor-general, looking at his watch, marched off impetuous to the house. "judge," he said, "i know you will excuse me; for you, too, have been a slave in your time: but you will go up to lady harcourt; bertram, you will not be forgiven if you do not go upstairs." bertram did go upstairs, that he might not appear to be unmanly, as he said to himself, in slinking out of the house. he did go upstairs, for one quarter of an hour. but the baron did not. for him, it may be presumed, his club had charms. mr. stistick, however, did do so; he had to hand mrs. stistick down from that elysium which she had so exquisitely graced. he did hand her down; and then for five minutes george bertram found himself once more alone with caroline waddington. "good-night, lady harcourt," he said, again essaying to take her hand. this and his other customary greeting was all that he had yet spoken to her. "good-night, mr. bertram." at last her voice faltered, at last her eye fell to the ground, at last her hand trembled. had she stood firm through this trial all might have been well; but though she could bear herself right manfully before stranger eyes, she could not alone support his gaze; one touch of tenderness, one sign of weakness was enough--and that touch was there, that sign she gave. "we are cousins still, are we not?" said he. "yes, we are cousins--i suppose so." "and as cousins we need not hate each other?" "hate each other!" and she shuddered as she spoke; "oh, no, i hope there is no hatred!" he stood there silent for a moment, looking, not at her, but at the costly ornaments which stood at the foot of the huge pier-glass over the fireplace. why did he not go now? why did he stand there silent and thoughtful? why--why was he so cruel to her? "i hope you are happy, lady harcourt," at last he said. there was almost a savage sternness in her face as she made an effort to suppress her feelings. "thank you--yes," she said; and then she added, "i never was a believer in much happiness." and yet he did not go. "we have met now," he said, after another pause. "yes, we have met now;" and she even attempted to smile as she answered him. "and we need not be strangers?" then there was again a pause; for at first she had no answer ready. "is it needful that we should be strangers?" he asked. "i suppose not; no; not if sir henry wishes it otherwise." and then he put out his hand, and wishing her good-night a second time, he went. for the next hour, lady harcourt sat there looking at the smouldering fire. "quos deus vult perdere, prius dementat." not in such language, but with some such thought, did she pass judgment on the wretched folly of her husband. chapter iv. mrs. madden's ball. two days after the dinner, george bertram called in eaton square and saw lady harcourt; but, as it happened, she was not alone. their interview on this occasion was not in any great degree embarrassing to either of them. he did not stay long; and as strangers were present, he was able to talk freely on indifferent subjects. lady harcourt probably did not talk much, but she looked as though she did. and then adela gauntlet came up to town for a month; and george, though he was on three or four occasions in eaton square, never saw caroline alone; but he became used to seeing her and being with her. the strangeness of their meeting wore itself away: he could speak to her without reserve on the common matters of life, and found that he had intense delight in doing so. adela gauntlet was present at all these interviews, and in her heart of hearts condemned them bitterly; but she could say nothing to caroline. they had been friends--real friends; but caroline was now almost like stone to her. this visit of adela's had been a long promise--yes, very long; for the visit, when first promised, was to have been made to mrs. bertram. one knows how these promises still live on. caroline had pressed it even when she felt that adela's presence could no longer be of comfort to her; and adela would not now refuse, lest in doing so she might seem to condemn. but she felt that caroline harcourt could never be to her what caroline bertram would have been. lady harcourt did whatever in her lay to amuse her guest; but adela was one who did not require much amusing. had there been friendship between her and her friend, the month would have run by all too quickly; but, as it was, before it was over she wished herself again even at littlebath. bertram dined there twice, and once went with them to some concert. he met them in the park, and called; and then there was a great evening gathering in eaton square, and he was there. caroline was careful on all occasions to let her husband know when she met bertram, and he as often, in some shape, expressed his satisfaction. "he'll marry adela gauntlet; you'll see if he does not," he said to her, after one of their dinners in eaton square. "she is very pretty, very; and it will be all very nice; only i wish that one of them had a little money to go on with." caroline answered nothing to this: she never did make him any answers; but she felt quite sure in her own heart that he would not marry adela gauntlet. and had she confessed the truth to herself, would she have wished him to do so? adela saw and disapproved; she saw much and could not but disapprove of all. she saw that there was very little sympathy between the husband and wife, and that that little was not on the increase.--very little! nay, but was there any? caroline did not say much of her lot in life; but the few words that did fall from her seemed to be full of scorn for all that she had around her, and for him who had given it all. she seemed to say, "there--this is that for which i have striven--these ashes on which i now step, and sleep, and feed, which are gritty between my teeth, and foul to my touch! see, here is my reward! do you not honour me for having won it?" and then it appeared that sir henry harcourt had already learned how to assume the cross brow of a captious husband; that the sharp word was already spoken on light occasions--spoken without cause and listened to with apparent indifference. even before adela such words were spoken, and then caroline would smile bitterly, and turn her face towards her friend, as though she would say, "see, see what it is to be the wife of so fine a man, so great a man! what a grand match have i not made for myself!" but though her looks spoke thus, no word of complaint fell from her lips--and no word of confidence. we have said that sir henry seemed to encourage these visits which bertram made to eaton square; and for a time he did so--up to the time of that large evening-party which was given just before adela's return to littlebath. but on that evening, adela thought she saw a deeper frown than usual on the brows of the solicitor-general, as he turned his eyes to a couch on which his lovely wife was sitting, and behind which george bertram was standing, but so standing that he could speak and she could hear. and then adela bethought herself, that though she could say nothing to caroline, it might not be equally impossible to say something to bertram. there had been between them a sort of confidence, and if there was any one to whom adela could now speak freely, it was to him. they each knew something of each other's secrets, and each of them, at least, trusted the other. but this, if it be done at all, must be done on that evening. there was no probability that they would meet again before her departure. this was the only house in which they did meet, and here adela had no wish to see him more. "i am come to say good-bye to you," she said, the first moment she was able to speak to him alone. "to say good-bye! is your visit over so soon?" "i go on thursday." "well, i shall see you again, for i shall come on purpose to make my adieux." "no, mr. bertram; do not do that." "but i certainly shall." "no;" and she put out her little hand, and gently--oh! so gently--touched his arm. "and why not? why should i not come to see you? i have not so many friends that i can afford to lose you." "you shall not lose me, nor would i willingly lose you. but, mr. bertram--" "well, miss gauntlet?" "are you right to be here at all?" the whole tone, and temper, and character of his face altered as he answered her quickly and sharply--"if not, the fault lies with sir henry harcourt, who, with some pertinacity, induced me to come here. but why is it wrong that i should be here?--foolish it may be." "that is what i mean. i did not say wrong; did i? do not think that i imagine evil." "it may be foolish," continued bertram, as though he had not heard her last words. "but if so, the folly has been his." "if he is foolish, is that reason why you should not be wise?" "and what is it you fear, adela? what is the injury that will come? will it be to me, or to her, or to harcourt?" "no injury, no real injury--i am sure of that. but may not unhappiness come of it? does it seem to you that she is happy?" "happy! which of us is happy? which of us is not utterly wretched? she is as happy as you are? and sir henry, i have no doubt, is as happy as i am." "in what you say, mr. bertram, you do me injustice; i am not unhappy." "are you not? then i congratulate you on getting over the troubles consequent on a true heart." "i did not mean in any way to speak of myself; i have cares, regrets, and sorrows, as have most of us; but i have no cause of misery which i cannot assuage." "well, you are fortunate; that is all i can say." "but caroline i can see is not happy; and, mr. bertram, i fear that your coming here will not make her more so." she had said her little word, meaning it so well. but perhaps she had done more harm than good. he did not come again to eaton square till after she was gone; but very shortly after that he did so. adela had seen that short, whispered conversation between lady harcourt and bertram--that moment, as it were, of confidence; and so, also, had sir henry; and yet it had been but for a moment. "lady harcourt," bertram had said, "how well you do this sort of thing!" "do i?" she answered. "well, one ought to do something well." "do you mean to say that your excellence is restricted to this?" "pretty nearly; such excellence as there is." "i should have thought--" and then he paused. "you are not coming to reproach me, i hope," she said. "reproach you, lady harcourt! no; my reproaches, silent or expressed, never fall on your head." "then you must be much altered;" and as she said these last words, in what was hardly more than a whisper, she saw some lady in a distant part of the room to whom some attention might be considered to be due, and rising from her seat she walked away across the room. it was very shortly after that adela had spoken to him. for many a long and bitter day, bertram had persuaded himself that she had not really loved him. he had doubted it when she had first told him so calmly that it was necessary that their marriage should be postponed for years; he had doubted it much when he found her, if not happy, at least contented under that postponement; doubt had become almost certainty when he learnt that she discussed his merits with such a one as henry harcourt; but on that day, at richmond, when he discovered that the very secrets of his heart were made subject of confidential conversation with this man, he had doubted it no longer. then he had gone to her, and his reception proved to him that his doubts had been too well founded--his certainty only too sure. and so he had parted with her--as we all know. but now he began to doubt his doubts--to be less certain of his certainty. that she did not much love sir henry, that was very apparent; that she could not listen to his slightest word without emotion--that, too, he could perceive; that adela conceived that she still loved him, and that his presence there was therefore dangerous--that also had been told to him. was it then possible that he, loving this woman as he did--having never ceased in his love for one moment, having still loved her with his whole heart, his whole strength--that he had flung her from him while her heart was still his own? could it be that she, during their courtship, should have seemed so cold and yet had loved him? a thousand times he had reproached her in his heart for being worldly; but now the world seemed to have no charms for her. a thousand times he had declared that she cared only for the outward show of things, but these outward shows were now wholly indifferent to her. that they in no degree contributed to her happiness, or even to her contentment, that was made manifest enough to him. and then these thoughts drove him wild, and he began to ask himself whether there could be yet any comfort in the fact that she had loved him, and perhaps loved him still. the motives by which men are actuated in their conduct are not only various, but mixed. as bertram thought in this way concerning lady harcourt--the caroline waddington that had once belonged to himself--he proposed to himself no scheme of infamy, no indulgence of a disastrous love, no ruin for her whom the world now called so fortunate; but he did think that, if she still loved him, it would be pleasant to sit and talk with her; pleasant to feel some warmth in her hand; pleasant that there should be some confidence in her voice. and so he resolved--but, no, there was no resolve; but he allowed it to come to pass that his intimacy in eaton square should not be dropped. and then he bethought himself of the part which his friend harcourt had played in this matter, and speculated as to how that pleasant fellow had cheated him out of his wife. what adela had said might be very true, but why should he regard sir henry's happiness? why regard any man's happiness, or any woman's? who had regarded him? so he hired a horse, and rode in the park when he knew lady harcourt would be there, dined with baron brawl because lady harcourt was to dine there, and went to a ball at mrs. madden's for the same reason. all which the solicitor-general now saw, and did not press his friend to take a part at any more of his little dinners. what may have passed on the subject between sir henry and his wife cannot be said. a man does not willingly accuse his wife of even the first germ of infidelity; does not willingly suggest to her that any one is of more moment to her than himself. it is probable that his brow became blacker than it had been, that his words were less courteous, and his manner less kind; but of bertram himself, it may be presumed that he said nothing. it might, however, have been easy for caroline to perceive that he no longer wished to have his old friend at his house. at mrs. madden's ball, bertram asked her to dance with him, and she did stand up for a quadrille. mr. madden was a rich young man, in parliament, and an intimate friend both of sir henry's and of bertram's. caroline had danced with him--being her first performance of that nature since her marriage; and having done so, she could not, as she said to herself, refuse mr. bertram. so they stood up; and the busy solicitor-general, who showed himself for five minutes in the room, saw them moving, hand-in-hand together, in the figure of the dance. and as he so moved, bertram himself could hardly believe in the reality of his position. what if any one had prophesied to him three months since that he would be dancing with caroline harcourt! "adela did not stay with you long," said he, as they were standing still. "no, not very long. i do not think she is fond of london;" and then they were again silent till their turn for dancing was over. "no; i don't think she is," said bertram, "nor am i. i should not care if i were to leave it for ever. do you like london, lady harcourt?" "oh, yes; as well as any other place. i don't think it much signifies--london, or littlebath, or new zealand." they were then both silent for a moment, till bertram again spoke, with an effort that was evident in his voice. "you used not to be so indifferent in such matters." "used!" "has all the world so changed that nothing is any longer of any interest?" "the world has changed, certainly--with me." "and with me also, lady harcourt. the world has changed with both of us. but fortune, while she has been crushing me, has been very kind to you." "has she? well, perhaps she has--as kind, at any rate, as i deserve. but you may be sure of this--i do not complain of her." and then they were again silent. "i wonder whether you ever think of old days?" he said, after a pause. "at any rate, i never talk of them, mr. bertram." "no; i suppose not. one should not talk of them. but out of a full heart the mouth will speak. constant thoughts will break forth in words. there is nothing else left to me of which i can think." any one looking at her face as she answered him would have little dreamed how much was passing through her mind, how much was weighing on her heart. she commanded not only her features, but even her colour, and the motion of her eyes. no anger flashed from them; there was no blush of indignation as she answered him in that crowded room. and yet her words were indignant enough, and there was anger, too, in that low tone which reached his ear so plainly, but which reached no further. "and whose doing has this been? why is it that i may not think of past times? why is it that all thought, all memories are denied to me? who was it that broke the cup at the very fountain?" "was it i?" "did you ever think of your prayers? 'forgive us our trespasses.' but you, in your pride--you could forgive nothing. and now you dare to twit me with my fortune!" "lady harcourt!" "i will sit down, if you please, now. i do not know why i speak thus." and then, without further words, she caused herself to be led away, and sitting down between two old dowagers, debarred him absolutely from the power of another word. immediately after this he left the house; but she remained for another hour--remained and danced with young lord echo, who was a whig lordling; and with mr. twisleton, whose father was a treasury secretary. they both talked to her about harcourt, and the great speech he was making at that moment; and she smiled and looked so beautiful, that when they got together at one end of the supper-table, they declared that harcourt was out-and-out the luckiest dog of his day; and questioned his right to monopolize such a treasure. and had he been cruel? had he been unforgiving? had he denied to her that pardon which it behoved him so often to ask for himself? this was the question which bertram was now forced to put to himself. and that other question, which he could now answer but in one way. had he then been the cause of his own shipwreck? had he driven his own bark on the rocks while the open channel was there clear before him? had she not now assured him of her love, though no word of tenderness had passed her lips? and whose doing had it been? yes, certainly; it had been his own doing. the conviction which thus came upon him did not add much to his comfort. there was but little consolation to him now in the assurance that she had loved, and did love him. he had hitherto felt himself to be an injured man; but now he had to feel that he himself had committed the injury. "whose doing has it been? you--you in your pride, could forgive nothing!" these words rang in his ears; his memory repeated to him hourly the tone in which they had been spoken. she had accused him of destroying all her hopes for this world--and he had answered not a word to the accusation. on the morning after that ball at mrs. madden's, sir henry came into his wife's room while she was still dressing. "by-the-by," said he, "i saw you at mrs. madden's last night." "yes; i perceived that you were there for a moment," caroline answered. "you were dancing. i don't know that i ever saw you dancing before." "i have not done so since i was married. in former days i used to be fond of it." "ah, yes; when you were at littlebath. it did not much matter then what you did in that way; but--" "does it matter more now, sir henry?" "well, if it would entail no great regret, i would rather that you did not dance. it is all very nice for girls." "you do not mean to say that married women--" "i do not mean to say anything of the kind. one man has one idea, and another another. some women also are not placed in so conspicuous a position as you are." "why did you not tell me your wishes before?" "it did not occur to me. i did not think it probable that you would dance. may i understand that you will give it up?" "as you direct me to do so, of course i shall." "direct! i do not direct, i only request." "it is the same thing, exactly. i will not dance again. i should have felt the prohibition less had i been aware of your wishes before i had offended." "well, if you choose to take it in that light, i cannot help it. good-morning. i shall not dine at home to-day." and so the solicitor-general went his way, and his wife remained sitting motionless at her dressing-table. they had both of them already become aware that the bargain they had made was not a wise one. chapter v. can i escape? had not george bertram been of all men the most infirm of purpose, he would have quitted london immediately after that ball--at any rate, for many months. but he was lamentably infirm of purpose. he said to himself over and over again, that it behoved him to go. what had either of them done for him that he should regard them? that had hitherto been the question within his own breast; but now it was changed. had he not greatly injured her? had she not herself told him that his want of mercy had caused all her misery? ought he not, at any rate, to spare her now? but yet he remained. he must ask her pardon before he went; he would do that, and then he would go. his object was to see her without going to eaton square. his instinct told him that sir henry no longer wished to see him there, and he was unwilling to enter the house of any one who did not wish his presence. for two weeks he failed in his object. he certainly did see lady harcourt, but not in such a way as to allow of conversation; but at last fortune was propitious,--or the reverse, and he found himself alone with her. she was seated quite alone, turning over the engravings which lay in a portfolio before her, when he came up to her. "do not be angry," he said, "if i ask you to listen to me for a few moments." she still continued to move the engravings before her, but with a slower motion than before; and though her eye still rested on the plates, he might have seen, had he dared to look at her, that her mind was far away from them. he might have seen also that there was no flash of anger now in her countenance: her spirit was softer than on that evening when she had reproached him; for she had remembered that he also had been deeply injured. but she answered nothing to the request which he thus made. "you told me that i was unforgiving," he continued, "i now come to beg that you will not be unforgiving also; that is, if i have done anything that has caused you--caused you to be less happy than you might have been." "less happy!" she said; but not with that scorn with which she had before repeated his words. "you believe, i hope, that i would wish you to be happy; that i would do anything in my power to make you so?" "there can be nothing now in your power, mr. bertram." and as she spoke she involuntarily put an emphasis on the now, which made her words convey much more than she had intended. "no," he said. "no. what can such a one as i do? what could i ever have done? but say that you forgive me, lady harcourt." "let us both forgive," she whispered, and as she did so, she put out her hand to him. "let us both forgive. it is all that we can do for each other." "oh, caroline, caroline!" he said, speaking hardly above his breath, and with his eyes averted, but still holding her hand; or attempting to hold it, for as he spoke she withdrew it. "i was unjust to you the other night. it is so hard to be just when one is so wretched. we have been like two children who have quarrelled over their plaything, and broken it in pieces while it was yet new. we cannot put the wheels again together, or made the broken reed produce sweet sounds." "no," he said. "no, no, no. no sounds are any longer sweet. there is no music now." "but as we have both sinned, mr. bertram, so should we both forgive." "but i--i have nothing to forgive." "alas, yes! and mine was the first fault. i knew that you really loved me, and--" "loved you! oh, caroline!" "hush, mr. bertram; not so; do not speak so. i know that you would not wrong me; i know you would not lead me into trouble--not into further trouble; into worse misery." "and i, that might have led you--no; that might have been led to such happiness! lady harcourt, when i think of what i have thrown away--" "think of it not at all, mr. bertram." "and you; can you command your thoughts?" "sometimes; and by practice i hope always; at any rate, i make an effort. and now, good-bye. it will be sweet to me to hear that you have forgiven me. you were very angry, you know, when you parted from me last at littlebath." "if there be anything for me to forgive, i do forgive it with all my heart; with all my heart." "and now, god bless you, mr. bertram. the thing that would most tend to make me contented would be to see you married to some one you could love; a weight would then be off my soul which now weighs on it very heavily." and so saying, she rose from her seat and left him standing over the engravings. he had thrown his pearl away; a pearl richer than all his tribe. there was nothing for him now but to bear the loss. there were other sources of unpleasantness between sir henry and his wife besides her inclination for dancing. sir henry had now paid one half-year's interest on the sum of money which had been lent to him by the old gentleman at hadley, and had been rather disgusted at finding that it was taken as a matter of course. he was not at the present moment by any means over-burdened with money. his constant devotion to politics interfered considerably with his practice. he was also perhaps better known as a party lawyer than as a practical or practising one; and thus, though his present career was very brilliant, it was not quite so profitable as he had hoped. most lawyers when they begin to devote themselves to politics have secured, if not fortune, at least the means of making it. and, even at his age, sir henry might have been said to have done this had his aspirations been in any way moderate. but they were not moderate. he wished to shine with extreme brilliancy; to live up to the character for wealth which the world gave him; and to give it out as a fact to be understood by all men that he was to be the heir of the hadley croesus. there was, perhaps, a certain wisdom in this, a wisdom of a dashing chancy nature. fortune favours the brave; and the world certainly gives the most credit to those who are able to give an unlimited credit to themselves. but there was certainly risk in the life he led. the giving of elegant little dinners two or three times a week in london is an expensive amusement--and so he began to be very anxious about the old gentleman. but what was he to do that he might get near those money-bags? there was the game. what best sportsman's dodge might he use so as to get it into his bag? perhaps to do nothing, to use no sportsman's dodge would have been the best. but then it is so hard to do nothing when so much might be gained by doing something very well. sir henry, duly instructed as to the weaknesses customary to old men, thought his wife would be his best weapon--his surest dodge. if she could be got to be attentive and affectionate to her grandfather, to visit him, and flatter him, and hover about him, much might be done. so thought sir henry. but do what he might, lady harcourt would not assist him. it was not part of her bargain that she should toady an old man who had never shown any special regard for her. "i think you ought to go down to hadley," sir henry said to her one morning. "what, to stay there?" said caroline. "yes; for a fortnight or so. parliament will be up now in three weeks, and i shall go to scotland for a few days. could not you make it out with the old gentleman till you go to the grimsdale's?" "i would much rather remain at home, sir henry." "ah, yes; that is just like you. and i would much rather that you went." "if you wish to shut the house up, i shall not object to go to littlebath." "very probably not. but i should object to you going there--exceedingly object to it. of all places, it is the most vulgar! the most--" "you forget that i have dear friends living there." "dear friends! yes; miss todd, i suppose. i think we may as well leave miss todd alone. at the present moment, i am particularly anxious that you should be attentive to your grandfather." "but i have never been in the habit of staying at hadley." "then the sooner you get into the habit the better." "i cannot think why you should wish me to trouble an old man who would not have the slightest pleasure in seeing me." "that is all nonsense. if you behaved well to him, he would have pleasure. do you ever write to him?" "never." "write to him to-day then, and ask whether he would be glad to have you." caroline did not answer her husband immediately, but went on buttering her toast, and sipping her tea. she had never yet disobeyed any positive order that he had given, and she was now thinking whether she could obey this order; or, if not, how she would explain to him that she could not do so. "well!" said he; "why do you not answer me? will you write to him to-day?" "i had much rather not." "does that mean that you won't?" "i fear, sir henry, that it must mean it. i have not been on terms with my grandfather which would admit of my doing so." "nonsense!" said her lord and master. "you are not very civil to me this morning." "how can a man be civil when he hears such trash as that? you know how i am situated--how great the stake is; and you will do nothing to help me win it." to this she made no answer. of what use would it be for her to answer? she also had thrown away her pearl, and taken in exchange this piece of brass. there was nothing for her, too, but to bear her misery. "upon my word, you take it all very coolly," he continued; "you seem to think that houses, and furniture, and carriages, and horses are to grow up all round you without any effort on your own part. does it ever strike you that these things cost money?" "i will give them all up to-morrow if you wish it." "that you know is nonsense." "it was your doing to surround me with these things, and your reproach is not just. nay, it is not manly." "a woman's idea of manliness is very extended. you expect to get everything, and to do nothing. you talk of justice! do you not know that when i married you, i looked to your uncle's fortune?" "certainly not: had i known it, i should have told you how vain i believed any such hope to be." "then, why on earth--?" but he refrained from finishing his question. even he could not bring himself to tell her that he had married her with no other view. he merely slammed the door behind him as he left the room. yes; she had certainly thrown her pearl away. what a life was this to which she had doomed herself! what treatment was this for that caroline waddington, who had determined to win the world and wear it! she had given herself to a brute, who had taken her only because she might perhaps be the heiress of a rich old man. and then she thought of that lost pearl. how could she do other than think of it? she thought of what her life would have been had she bravely committed herself to his hands, fearing nothing, trusting everything. she remembered his energy during those happy days in which he had looked forward to an early marriage. she remembered his tenderness of manner, the natural gallantry of his heart, the loving look of his bold eye; and then she thought of her husband. yes, she thought of him long and wildly. and as she did so, the indifference with which she had regarded him grew into hatred. she shuddered as her imagination made that frightful contrast between the picture which her eyes would have so loved to look on if it were only lawful, and that other picture to look on which was her legal doom. her brow grew wildly black as she thought of his caresses, his love, which were more hateful to her even than his coarse ill-humour. she thought of all this; and, as she did so, she asked herself that question which comes first to the mind of all creatures when in misery: is there no means of release; no way of escape? was her bark utterly ruined, and for ever? that marriage without love is a perilous step for any woman who has a heart within her bosom. for those who have none--or only so much as may be necessary for the ordinary blood-circulating department--such an arrangement may be convenient enough. caroline waddington had once flattered herself that that heart of hers was merely a blood-circulating instrument. but she had discovered her mistake, and learned the truth before it was too late. she had known what it was to love--and yet she had married henry harcourt! seldom, indeed, will punishment be so lame of foot as to fail in catching such a criminal as she had been. punishment--bitter, cruel, remorseless punishment--had caught her now, and held her tight within its grasp. he, too, had said that he was wretched. but what could his wretchedness be to hers? he was not married to a creature that he hated: he was not bound in a foul mezentian embrace to a being against whom all his human gorge rose in violent disgust. oh! if she could only be alone, as he was alone! if it could be granted to her to think of her love, to think of him in solitude and silence--in a solitude which no beast with a front of brass and feet of clay had a right to break, both by night and day! ah! if her wretchedness might only be as his wretchedness! how blessed would she not think herself! and then she again asked herself whether there might not be some escape. that women had separated themselves from their husbands, she well knew. that pleas of ill-usage, of neglect, of harshness of temper, had been put forward and accepted by the world, to the partial enfranchisement of the unhappy wife, she had often heard. but she had also heard that in such cases cruelty must be proved. a hasty word, a cross look, a black brow would not suffice. nor could she plead that she hated the man, that she had never loved him, that she had married him in wounded pique, because her lover--he whom she did love--had thrown her off. there was no ground, none as yet, on which she could claim her freedom. she had sold herself as a slave, and she must abide her slavery. she had given herself to this beast with the face of brass and the feet of clay, and she must endure the cold misery of his den. separation--solitude--silence! he--that he whom her heart worshipped--he might enjoy such things; but for her--there was no such relief within her reach. she had gone up into her room when sir henry left her, in order that no one might see her wretchedness, and there she remained for hours. "no!" at last she said aloud, lifting her head from the pillow on which her face had been all but hid, and standing erect in the room; "no! i will not bear it. i will not endure it. he cannot make me." and with quick steps she walked across and along the room, stretching forth her arms as though seeking aid from some one; ay, and as though she were prepared to fight the battle herself if no one would come to aid her. at this moment there was a knock at her chamber-door, and her maid came in. "mr. bertram is in the drawing-room, my lady." "mr. bertram! which mr. bertram?" "mr. bertram, my lady; the gentleman that comes here. sir henry's friend." "oh, very well. why did john say that i was at home?" "oh, my lady, i can't say that. only he told me to tell your ladyship that mr. bertram was in the drawing-room." lady harcourt paused for a moment. then she said, "i will be down directly;" and the abigail retired. during that moment she had decided that, as he was there, she would meet him yet once again. it has been said that bertram was unwilling to go to sir henry's house. as long as he had thought of remaining in town he was so. but now he had resolved to fly, and had resolved also that before he did so he would call in the ordinary way and say one last farewell. john, the servant, admitted him at once; though he had on that same morning sent bootless away a score of other suppliants for the honour of being admitted to lady harcourt's presence. bertram was standing with his back to the door, looking into a small conservatory that opened from the drawing-room, when the mistress of the house entered. she walked straight up to him, after having carefully closed the door, and just touching his hand, she said, "mr. bertram, why are you here? you should be thousands and thousands of miles away if that were possible. why are you here?" "lady harcourt, i will divide myself from you by any distance you may demand. but may i not come to you to tell you that i am going?" "to tell me that you are going!" "yes. i shall not trouble you much longer. i have become sure of this: that to remain near you and not to love you, to remain near you and not to say that i love you is impossible. and therefore i am going." and he held out his hand, which she had as yet hardly taken--had barely touched. he was going; but she was to remain. he would escape; but her prison bars could not be broken. ah, that she could have gone with him! how little now would wealth have weighed with her; or high worldly hopes, or dreams of ambition! to have gone with him anywhere--honestly to have gone with him--trusting to honest love and a true heart. ah! how much joy is there in this mortal, moribund world if one will but open one's arms to take it! ah! young ladies, sweet young ladies, dear embryo mothers of our england as it will be, think not overmuch of your lovers' incomes. he that is true and honest will not have to beg his bread--neither his nor yours. the true and honest do not beg their bread, though it may be that for awhile they eat it without much butter. but what then? if a wholesome loaf on your tables, and a strong arm round your waists, and a warm heart to lean on cannot make you happy, you are not the girls for whom i take you. caroline's bread was buttered, certainly; but the butter had been mixed with gall, and she could not bring herself to swallow it. and now he had come to tell her that he was going; he whose loaf, and arm, and heart she might have shared. what would the world say of her if she were to share his flight? "good-bye," she said, as she took his proffered hand. "and is that all?" "what would you have, mr. bertram?" "what would i have? ah, me! i would have that which is utterly--utterly--utterly beyond my reach." "yes, utterly--utterly," she repeated. and as she said so, she thought again, what would the world say of her if she were to share his flight? "i suppose that now, for the last time, i may speak truly--as a man should speak. lady harcourt, i have never ceased to love you, never for one moment; never since that day when we walked together among those strange tombs. my love for you has been the dream of my life." "but, why--why--why?--" she could not speak further, for her voice was choked with tears. "i know what you would say. why was i so stern to you!" "why did you go away? why did you not come to us?" "because you distrusted me; not as your lover, but as a man. but i did not come here to blame you, caroline." "nor to be blamed." "no, nor to be blamed. what good can come of reproaches? we now know each other's faults, if we never did before. and we know also each other's truth--" he paused a moment, and then added, "for, caroline, your heart has been true." she sat herself down upon a chair, and wept, with her face hidden within her hands. yes, her heart had been true enough; if only her words, her deeds, her mind could have been true also. he came up to her, and lightly put his hand upon her shoulder. his touch was very light, but yet she felt that there was love in it--illicit, dishonest love. there was treason in it to her lord's rights. her lord! yes, he was her lord, and it was treason. but it was very sweet that touch; it was as though a thrill of love passed across her and embraced her whole body. treason to such a creature as that! a brute with a face of brass and feet of clay, who had got hold of her with a false idea that by her aid he could turn his base brass into gold as base! could there be treason to such a one as he? ah! what would the world say of her were she to share that flight? "caroline," he murmured in her ear. "caroline; dearest caroline!" thus he murmured soft words into her ear, while his hand still rested gently on her shoulder--oh, so gently! and still she answered nothing, but the gurgling of her sobs was audible to him enough. "caroline," he repeated; "dearest, dearest caroline." and then he was on his knees beside her; and the hand which had touched her shoulder was now pressed upon her arm. "caroline, speak to me--say one word. i will go if you bid me. yes, even alone. i will go alone if you have the heart to say so. speak, caroline." "what would you have me say?" and she looked at him through her tears, so haggard, so wild, so changed, that he was almost frightened at her countenance. "what would you have me say? what would you have me do?" "i will be your slave if you will let me," said he. "no, george--you mean that i might be your slave--for awhile, till you thought me too base even for that." "ah! you little know me." "i should but little know you if i thought you could esteem me in that guise. there; god's mercy has not deserted me. it is over now. go, george--go--go; thou, only love of my heart; my darling; mine that might have been; mine that never can be now--never--never--never. go, george. it is over now. i have been base, and vile, and cowardly--unworthy of your dear memory. but it shall not be so again. you shall not blush that you have loved me." "but, ah! that i have lost your love." "you shall not blush that you have loved me, nor will i blush that i, too, have loved you. go, george; and remember this, the farther, the longer, the more entirely we are apart, the better, the safer it will be. there; there. go now. i can bear it now; dearest, dearest george." he took her outstretched hands in his, and stood for awhile gazing into her face. then, with the strong motion of his arms, he drew her close to his breast, pressed her to his heart, and imprinted one warm kiss upon her brow. then he left her, and got to the drawing-room door with his fleetest step. "i beg your pardon, sir," said john, who met him exactly on the landing; "but i think my lady rang." "lady bertram did not ring. she is not well, and you had better not disturb her," said bertram, trying to look as though he were no whit disconcerted. "oh, very well, sir; then i'll go down again;" and so saying john followed george bertram into the hall, and opened the door for him very politely. chapter vi. a matrimonial dialogue. sir henry had said also on this day that he would not dine at home; but he came home before dinner; and after being for a few minutes in his own study, he sent for his wife. abigail, coming up to her, brought her sir henry's love, and would she be good enough to step downstairs for five minutes? this was very civil; so she did step down, and found sir henry alone in his study. "george bertram has been here to-day?" were the first words which the husband spoke when he saw that the door had been fairly closed behind his wife. what communication there may have been between sir henry and his servant john is, oh my reader, a matter too low for you and me. that there had been some communication we must both fear. not that sir henry wished to find his wife guilty; not that he at all suspected that he should find her guilty. but he did wish to have her entirely in his power; and he wished also that bertram should be altogether banished from his house. "george bertram has been here to-day?" he did not look cruel, or violent, or threatening as he spoke; but yet there was that in his eye which was intended to make caroline tremble. caroline, however, did not tremble; but looking up into his face with calm dignity replied, that mr. bertram had called that morning. "and would you object to telling me what passed between you?" caroline still looked him full in the face. he was sitting, but she had not sat down. she was standing before him, faultless in demeanour, in posture, and in dress. if it had been his aim to confound her, he certainly had so far missed his object. "would i object to telling you what passed between us? the question is a very singular one;" and then she paused a moment. "yes, sir henry, i should object." "i thought as much," said he. she still stood before him, perfectly silent; and he sat there, silent also. he hardly knew how to go on with the interview. he wanted her to defend herself, but this was the very thing which she did not intend to do. "may i go now?" she asked, after awhile. "no; not quite yet. sit down, caroline; sit down. i wish to speak to you. george bertram has been here, and there has been that between you of which you are ashamed to speak!" "i never said so, sir henry--nor will i allow you to say so. there has been that between us to-day which i would rather bury in silence. but if you command me, i will tell you all." "command! you are always talking of commands." "i have to do so very often. in such marriages as ours they must be spoken of--must be thought of. if you command me, i will tell you. if you do not, i will be silent." sir henry hardly knew what answer to make to this. his object was to frighten his wife. that there had been words between her and george bertram of which she, as his wife, would be afraid to tell, he had been thoroughly convinced. yet she now offered to repeat to him everything if he would only desire her to do so; and in making this offer, she seemed to be anything but afraid. "sit down, caroline." she then sat down just opposite to him. "i should have thought that you would have felt that, circumstanced as he, and you, and i are, the intercourse between you and him should have been of the most restrained kind--should have had in it nothing of the old familiarity." "who brought us again together?" "i did so; trusting to your judgment and good taste." "i did not wish to see him. i did not ask him here. i would have remained at home month after month rather than have met him had i been allowed my own way." "nonsense! why should you have been so afraid to meet him?" "because i love him." as she said this she still looked into his face fearlessly--we may almost say boldly; so much so that sir henry's eyes almost quailed before hers. on this she had at any rate resolved, that she would never quail before him. but by degrees there came across his brow a cloud that might have made her quail had she not been bold. he had come there determined not to quarrel with her. an absolute quarrel with her would not suit him--would not further his plans, as they were connected with mr. bertram at hadley. but it might be that he could not fail to quarrel with her. he was not a man without blood in his veins--without feelings at his heart. he could have loved her in his way, could she have been content to love him. nay, he had loved her; and while she was the acknowledged possession of another, he had thought that to obtain her he would have been willing to give up many worldly goods. now he had obtained her; and there she sat, avowing to him that she still loved his unsuccessful rival. it was no wonder that his brow grew black, despite his own policy. "and he has been here to-day in order that you might tell him so?" "he has been here to-day, and i did tell him so," said caroline, looking still full up into her husband's eyes. "what brought him here i cannot say." "and you tell me this to my face?" "well; would you have me tell you a lie? did i not tell you the same when you first asked me to marry you? did i not repeat it to you again but a week before we were married? do you think that a few months could make the difference? do you think that such months as these have been could have effaced his memory?" "and you mean, then, to entertain him as your lover?" "i mean to entertain him not at all. i mean that he shall never again enter any house in which i may be doomed to live. you brought him here; and i--though i knew that the trial would be hard--i thought that i could bear it. i find that i cannot. my memory is too clear; my thoughts of other days too vivid; my remorse--" "go on, madam; pray go on." "no, i shall not go on. i have said enough." "ah! you said more than that to him when he was here." "not half so much." "was he not kneeling at your feet?" "yes, sir, he did kneel at my feet;" and as she answered the question she rose up, as though it were impossible for her any longer to sit in the presence of a man who so evidently had set a spy upon her actions. "well, and what then? since you are so little ashamed of the truth, tell it all." "i am not at all ashamed of the truth. he came to tell me that he was going--and i bade him go." "and you allowed him to embrace you--to hold you in his arms--to kiss you?" "ah me! yes--for the last time. he did kiss me. i feel his lips now upon my brow. and then i told him that i loved him; loved none but him; could love none other. then i bade him begone; and he went. now, sir, i think you know it all. you seem to have had two accounts of the interview; i hope they do not disagree?" "such audacious effrontery i never witnessed in my life--never heard of before!" "what, sir, did you think that i should lie to you?" "i thought there was some sense of shame left in you." "too high a sense of shame for that. i wish you could know it all. i wish i could tell you the tone of his voice, and the look of his eye. i wish i could tell you how my heart drooped, and all but fainted, as i felt that he must leave me for ever. i am a married woman, and it was needful that he should go." after this there was a slight pause, and then she added: "now, sir henry, i think you know it all. now may i go?" he rose from his chair and began walking the length of the room, backwards and forwards, with quick step. as we have before said, he had a heart in his bosom; he had blood in his veins; he had those feelings of a man which make the scorn of a beautiful woman so intolerable. and then she was his wife, his property, his dependent, his own. for a moment he forgot the hadley money-bags, sorely as he wanted them, and the true man spoke out with full, unabated anger. "brazen-faced harlot!" he exclaimed, as he passed her in his walk; "unmitigated harlot!" "yes, sir," she answered, in a low tone, coming up to him as she spoke, laying her hand upon his arm, and looking still full into his face--looking into it with such a gaze that even he cowered before her. "yes, sir, i was the thing you say. when i came to you, and sold my woman's purity for a name, a house, a place before the world--when i gave you my hand, but could not give my heart, i was--what you have said." "and were doubly so when he stood here slobbering on your neck." "no, sir henry, no. false to him i have been; false to my own sex; false, very false to my own inner self; but never false to you." "madam, you have forgotten my honour." "i have at any rate been able to remember my own." they were now standing face to face; and as she said these last words, it struck sir henry that it might be well to take them as a sign of grace, and to commence from them that half-forgiveness which would be necessary to his projects. "you have forgotten yourself, caroline--" "stop a moment, sir henry, and let me finish, since you will not allow me to remain silent. i have never been false to you, i say; and, by god's help, i never will be--" "well, well." "stop, sir, and let me speak. i have told you often that i did not love you. i tell you so now again. i have never loved you--never shall love you. you have called me now by a base name; and in that i have lived with you and have not loved you, i dare not say that you have called me falsely. but i will sin no more." "what is it you mean?" "i will not deserve the name again--even from you." "nonsense; i do not understand you. you do not know what you are saying." "yes, sir henry, i do know well what i am saying. it may be that i have done you some injury; if so, i regret it. god knows that you have done me much. we can neither of us now add to each other's comfort, and it will be well that we should part." "do you mean me to understand that you intend to leave me?" "that is what i intend you to understand." "nonsense; you will do no such thing." "what! would you have us remain together, hating each other, vilifying each other, calling each other base names as you just now called me? and do you think that we could still be man and wife? no, sir henry. i have made one great mistake--committed one wretched, fatal error. i have so placed myself that i must hear myself so called and bear it quietly; but i will not continue to be so used. do you think he would have called me so?" "damn him!" "that will not hurt him. your words are impotent against him, though they may make me shudder." "do not speak of him, then." "no, i will not. i will only think of him." "by heavens! caroline, your only wish is to make me angry." "i may go now, i suppose?" "go--yes; you may go; i will speak to you to-morrow, when you will be more cool." "to-morrow, sir henry, i will not speak to you; nor the day afterwards, nor the day after that. what you may wish to say now i will hear; but remember this--after what has passed to-day, no consideration on earth shall induce me to live with you again. in any other respect i will obey your orders--if i find it possible." she stayed yet a little while longer, leaning against the table, waiting to hear whether or no he would answer her; but as he sat silent, looking before him, but not at her, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, she without further words withdrew, and quietly closed the door after her. as she did so, the faithful john was seen moving away to the top of the kitchen stairs. she would hardly have cared had the faithful john been present during the whole interview. sir henry sat silent for a quarter of an hour, meditating how he would now play his game. as regarded merely personal considerations, he was beginning to hate caroline almost as much as she hated him. a man does not like to be told by a beautiful woman that every hair of his head is odious to her, while the very footsteps of another are music in her ears. perhaps it does not mend the matter when the hated man is the husband. but still sir henry wished to keep his wife. it has been quite clear that caroline had thrown up her game. she had flattered herself that she could play it; but the very moment the cards went against her, she discovered her own weakness and threw them away. sir henry was of a stronger mind, and not so easily disgusted: he would try yet another deal. indeed, his stakes were too high to allow of his abandoning them. so arousing himself with some exertion, he dressed himself, went out to dine, hurried down to the house, and before the evening was over was again the happy, fortunate solicitor-general, fortune's pet, the crichton of the hour, the rising man of his day. chapter vii. the return to hadley. we must now return for awhile to hadley. since the day on which miss baker had written that letter to sir lionel, she had expressed no wish to leave her uncle's house. littlebath had no charms for her now. the colonel was still there, and so was the colonel's first love--miss todd: let them forgive and forget, and marry each other at last if they so pleased. miss baker's fit of ambition was over, and she was content to keep her uncle's house at hadley, and to see caroline whenever she could spare a day and get up to london for that purpose. and the old gentleman was less bearish than she thought he would have been. he occasionally became rusty about shillings and sixpences, and scolded because his niece would have a second fire lighted; but by degrees he forgot even this grievance, and did not make himself more disagreeable or exacting than old age, wealth, and suffering generally are when they come together. and then when adela left london, miss baker was allowed to ask her to stop with them at hadley--and adela did as she was asked. she went direct from eaton square to mr. bertram's house; and was still there at the time alluded to in the last chapter. it was on the second morning after sir henry's visit to his wife that the postman brought to miss baker a letter from lady harcourt. the two ladies were sitting at the time over the breakfast-table, and old mr. bertram, propped up with pillows, with his crutches close to his hand, was sitting over the fire in his accustomed arm-chair. he did not often get out of it now, except when he was taken away to bed; but yet both his eye and his voice were as sharp as ever when he so pleased; and though he sat there paralyzed and all but motionless, he was still master of his house, and master also of his money. "good heavens!" exclaimed miss baker, with startled voice before her letter had been half read through. "what's the matter?" demanded mr. bertram sharply. "oh, miss baker! what is it?" asked adela. "goodness gracious! oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!" and miss baker, with her handkerchief to her eyes, began to weep most bitterly. "what ails you? who is the letter from?" said mr. bertram. "oh, dear! oh, dear! read it, adela. oh, mr. bertram, here is such a misfortune!" "what is it, miss gauntlet? that fool will never tell me." adela took the letter, and read it through. "oh, sir," she said, "it is indeed a misfortune." "devil take it! what misfortune?" "caroline has quarrelled with sir henry," said miss baker. "oh, is that all?" said mr. bertram. "ah, sir; i fear this quarrel will prove serious," said adela. "serious; nonsense; how serious? you never thought, did you, that he and she would live together like turtle doves? he married for money, and she for ambition; of course they'll quarrel." such was the wisdom of mr. bertram, and at any rate he had experience on his side. "but, uncle; she wishes to leave him, and hopes that you'll let her come here." "come here--fiddlestick! what should i do here with the wife of such a man as him?" "she declares most positively that nothing shall induce her to live with him again." "fiddlestick!" "but, uncle--" "why, what on earth did she expect? she didn't think to have it all sunshine, did she? when she married the man, she knew she didn't care for him; and now she determines to leave him because he won't pick up her pocket-handkerchief! if she wanted that kind of thing, why did not she marry my nephew?" this was the first time that mr. bertram had been heard to speak of george in a tone of affection, and both miss baker and miss gauntlet were not a little surprised. they had never heard him speak of caroline as his granddaughter. during the whole of that day, mr. bertram was obdurate; and he positively refused to receive lady harcourt at his house unless she came there with the full permission of her husband. miss baker, therefore, was obliged to write by the first post, asking for a day's delay before she sent her final answer. but on the next morning a letter reached the old gentleman himself, from sir henry. sir henry suggested that the loving grandchild should take the occasion of the season being so nearly over to pay a much-desired visit to her loving grandsire. he did not drop the quarrel altogether; but just alluded to it as a passing cloud--an unfortunate cloud certainly, but one that, without doubt, would soon pass away, and leave the horizon more bright than ever. the matter was at last arranged by mr. bertram giving the desired permission. he took no notice himself of sir henry's letter, but desired his niece to tell caroline that she might come there if she liked. so caroline did come; and sir henry gave it out that the london season had been too much for her, and that she, to her deep regret, had been forced to leave town before it was over. "sir omicron was quite imperative," said sir henry, speaking confidentially to his intimate parliamentary friend mr. madden; "and as she was to go, it was as well to do the civil to grandpapa croesus. i have no time myself; so i must do it by deputy." now sir omicron in those days was a great physician. and so caroline returned to hadley; but no bells rang now to greet her coming. little more than six months had passed since those breakfast speeches had been spoken, in which so much golden prosperity had been promised to bride and bridegroom; and now that vision of gold was at an end; that solid, substantial prosperity had melted away. the bridal dresses of the maids had hardly lost their gloss, and yet all that well-grounded happiness was gone. "so, you are come back," said mr. bertram. "yes, sir," said caroline, in a low voice. "i have made a mistake in life, and i must hope that you will forgive me." "such mistakes are very foolish. the sooner you unmake it the better." "there will be no unmaking this mistake, sir, never--never--never. but i blame no one but myself." "nonsense! you will of course go back to your husband." "never, mr. bertram--never! i will obey him, or you, or both, if that be possible, in all things but in that. but in that i can obey no one." "psha!" said mr. bertram. such was lady harcourt's first greeting on her return to hadley. neither miss baker nor adela said much to her on the matter on the first day of her arrival. her aunt, indeed, never spoke openly to her on the subject. it seemed to be understood between them that it should be dropped. and there was occasionally a weight of melancholy about lady harcourt, amounting in appearance almost to savage sternness, which kept all inquiry aloof. even her grandfather hesitated to speak to her about her husband, and allowed her to live unmolested in the quiet, still, self-controlling mood which she seemed to have adopted with a determined purpose. for the first fortnight she did not leave the house. at the expiration of that time, on one fine sunny sunday morning she came down dressed for church. miss baker remarked that the very clothes she wore were things that had belonged to her before her marriage, and were all of them of the simplest that a woman can wear without making herself conspicuous before the world. all her jewelry she had laid aside, and every brooch, and every ring that had come to her as a married woman, or as a girl about to be married--except that one ring from which an iron fate would not allow her to be parted. ah, if she could but have laid aside that also! and then she went to church. there were the same persons there to stare at her now, in her quiet wretchedness, who were there before staring at her in her--triumph may i say? no, there had been no triumph; little even then, except wretchedness; but that misery had not been so open to the public eye. she went through it very well; and seemed to suffer even less than did her aunt. she had done nothing to spread abroad among the public of hadley that fiction as to sir omicron's opinion which her lord had been sedulous to disseminate in london. she had said very little about herself, but she had at any rate said nothing false. nor had she acted falsely; or so as to give false impressions. all that little world now around her knew that she had separated herself from her grand husband; and most of them had heard that she had no intention of returning to him. she had something, therefore, to bear as she sat out that service; and she bore it well. she said her prayers, or seemed to say them, as though unconscious that she were in any way a mark for other women's eyes. and when the sermon was over, she walked home with a steady, even step; whereas miss baker trembled at every greeting she received, and at every step she heard. on that afternoon, caroline opened her heart to adela. hitherto little had passed between them, but those pressings of the hand, those mute marks of sympathy which we all know so well how to give when we long to lighten the sorrows which are too deep to be probed by words. but on this evening after their dinner, caroline called adela into her room, and then there was once more confidence between them. "no, no, adela, i will never go back to him." caroline went on protesting; "you will not ask me to do that?" "those whom god has joined together, let not man put asunder," said adela, solemnly. "ah, yes; those whom god _has_ joined. but did god join us?" "oh, caroline; do not speak so." "but, adela, do not misunderstand me. do not think that i want to excuse what i have done; or even to escape the penalty. i have destroyed myself as regards this world. all is over for me here. when i brought myself to stand at that altar with a man i never loved; whom i knew i never could love--whom i never tried, and never would try to love--when i did that, i put myself beyond the pale of all happines. do not think that i hope for any release." and lady harcourt looked stern enough in her resolution to bear all that fate could bring on her. "caroline, god will temper the wind to the shorn lamb, now as always if you will ask him." "i hope so; i hope so, adela." "say that you trust so." "i do trust. i trust in this--that he will do what is best. oh, adela! if you could know what the last month has been; since he came to the house!" "ah! why did he ever come?" "why, indeed! did a man ever behave so madly?" the man she here alluded was sir henry harcourt, not mr. bertram. "but i am glad of it, dearest; very glad. is it not better so? the truth has been spoken now. i have told him all." "you mean sir henry?" "yes, i told him all before i left. but it was nothing new, adela. he knew it before. he never dreamed that i loved him. he knew, he must have known that i hated him." "oh, caroline, caroline! do not speak like that." "and would not you have hated him had you been tied to him? now that sin will be over. i shall hate him no longer now." "such hatred is a crime. say what you will, he is still your husband." "i deny it. what! when he called me by that name, was he my husband then? was that a husband's usage? i must carry his name, and wearily walk with that burden to the grave. such is my penalty for that day's sin. i must abandon all hope of living as other women live. i shall have no shoulder on which to lean, hear no words of love when i am sick, have no child to comfort me. i shall be alone, and yet not master of myself. this i must bear because i was false to my own heart. but yet he is not my husband. listen to me, adela; sooner than return to him again, i would put an end to all this world's misery at once. that would be sinful, but the sin would be lighter than that other sin." when she spoke in this way, adela no longer dared to suggest to her that she and sir henry might even yet again live together. in adela's own mind, that course, and that alone, would have been the right one. she looked on such unions as being literally for better or for worse; and failing to reach the better, she would have done her best, with god's assistance, to bear the worst. but then adela gauntlet could never have placed herself in the position which lady harcourt now filled. but greatly as they differed, still there was confidence between them. caroline could talk to her, and to her only. to her grandfather she was all submission; to her aunt she was gentle and affectionate; but she never spoke of her fate with either of them. and so they went on till adela left them in july; and then the three that were left behind lived together as quiet a household as might have been found in the parish of hadley, or perhaps in the county of middlesex. during this time lady harcourt had received two letters from her husband, in both of which he urged her to return to him. in answer to the first, she assured him, in the civilest words which she knew how to use, that such a step was impossible; but, at the same time, she signified her willingness to obey him in any other particular, and suggested that as they must live apart, her present home with her grandfather would probably be thought to be the one most suitable for her. in answer to the second, she had simply told him that she must decline any further correspondence with him as to the possibility of her return. his next letter was addressed to mr. bertram. in this he did not go into the matter of their difference at all, but merely suggested that he should be allowed to call at hadley--with the object of having an interview with mr. bertram himself. "there," said the old man, when he found himself alone with his granddaughter; "read that." and caroline did read it. "what am i to say to that?" "what do you think you ought to say, sir?" "i suppose i must see him. he'll bring an action against me else, for keeping his wife from him. mind, i tell you, you'll have to go back to him." "no, sir! i shall not do that," said caroline, very quietly, with something almost like a smile on her face. and then she left him, and he wrote his answer to sir henry. and then sir henry came down to hadley. a day had been named, and caroline was sore put to it to know how she might best keep out of the way. at last she persuaded her aunt to go up to london with her for the day. this they did, both of them fearing, as they got out of the train and returned to it, that they might unfortunately meet the man they so much dreaded. but fortune was not so malicious to them; and when they returned to hadley they found that sir henry had also returned to london. "he speaks very fair," said mr. bertram, who sent for caroline to come to him alone in the dining-room. "does he, sir?" "he is very anxious that you should go back." "ah, sir, i cannot do that." "he says you shall have the house in eaton square to yourself for the next three months." "i shall never go back to eaton square, sir." "or he will take a small place for you anywhere at the sea-side that you may choose." "i shall want no place if you will allow me to remain here." "but he has all your money, you know--your fortune is now his." "well, sir!" "and what do you mean to do?" "i will do what you bid me--except going back to him." the old man sat silent for awhile, and then again he spoke. "well, i don't suppose you know your own mind, as yet." "oh, sir! indeed i do." "i say i suppose you don't. don't interrupt me--i have suggested this: that you should remain here six months, and that then he should come again and see--" "you, sir." "well--see me, if i'm alive: at the end of that time you'll have to go back to him. now, good-night." and so it was settled; and for the next six months the same dull, dreary life went on in the old house at hadley. chapter viii. cairo. men and women, or i should rather say ladies and gentlemen, used long ago, when they gave signs of weakness about the chest, to be sent to the south of devonshire; after that, madeira came into fashion; but now they are all despatched to grand cairo. cairo has grown to be so near home, that it will soon cease to be beneficial, and then the only air capable of revigorating the english lungs will be that of labuan or jeddo. but at the present moment, grand cairo has the vogue. now it had so happened during the last winter, and especially in the trying month of march, that arthur wilkinson's voice had become weak; and he had a suspicious cough, and was occasionally feverish, and perspired o'nights; and on these accounts the sir omicron of the hurst staple district ordered him off to grand cairo. this order was given in october, with reference to the coming winter, and in the latter end of november, arthur wilkinson started for the east. two articles he had first to seek--the one being a necessary, and the other a luxury--and both he found. these were a curate and a companion. the reverend gabriel gilliflower was his curate; and of him we need only hope that he prospered well, and lived happily under the somewhat stern surveillance of his clerical superior, mrs. wilkinson. his companion was george bertram. about the end of november they started through france, and got on board the p. and o. company's vessel at marseilles. it is possible that there may be young ladies so ignorant as not to know that the p. and o. is the peninsular and oriental steam navigation company, and therefore the matter is now explained. in france they did not stop long enough to do more than observe how much better the railway carriages are there than in england, how much dearer the hotels are in paris than in london, and how much worse they are in marseilles than in any other known town in the world. nor need much be said of their journey thence to alexandria. of malta, i should like to write a book, and may perhaps do so some day; but i shall hardly have time to discuss its sunlight, and fortifications, and hospitality, and old magnificence, in the fag-end of a third volume; so we will pass on to alexandria. oh, alexandria! mother of sciences! once the favoured seat of the earth's learning! oh, alexandria! beloved by the kings! it is of no use. no man who has seen the alexandria of the present day can keep a seat on a high horse when he speaks of that most detestable of cities. how may it fitly be described? may we not say that it has all the filth of the east, without any of that picturesque beauty with which the east abounds; and that it has also the eternal, grasping, solemn love of lucre which pervades our western marts, but wholly unredeemed by the society, the science, and civilization of the west? alexandria is fast becoming a european city; but its europeans are from greece and the levant! "auri sacra fames!" is the motto of modern greece. of alexandria it should be, "auri fames sacrissima!" poor arabs! poor turks! giving way on all sides to wretches so much viler than yourselves, what a destiny is before you! "what income," i asked a resident in alexandria, "what income should an englishman have to live here comfortably?" "to live here _comfortably_, you should say ten thousand a year, and then let him cut his throat first!" such was my friend's reply. but god is good, and alexandria will become a place less detestable than at present. fate and circumstances must anglicize it in spite of the huge french consulate, in spite of legions of greedy greeks; in spite even of sand, musquitos, bugs, and dirt, of winds from india, and of thieves from cyprus. the p. and o. company will yet be the lords of egypt; either that or some other company or set of men banded together to make egypt a highway. it is one stage on our road to the east; and the time will soon come when of all the stages it will neither be the slowest nor the least comfortable. the railway from alexandria to suez is now all opened within ten miles; will be all opened before these pages can be printed. this railway belongs to the viceroy of egypt; but his passengers are the englishmen of india, and his paymaster is an english company. but, for all that, i do not recommend any of my friends to make a long sojourn at alexandria. bertram and wilkinson did not do so, but passed on speedily to cairo. they went to the pharos and to pompey's pillar; inspected cleopatra's needle, and the newly excavated so-called greek church; watched the high spirits of one set of passengers going out to india--young men free of all encumbrances, and pretty girls full of life's brightest hopes--and watched also the morose, discontented faces of another set returning home, burdened with babies and tawny-coloured nurses, with silver rings in their toes--and then they went off to cairo. there is no romance now, gentle readers, in this journey from alexandria to cairo; nor was there much when it was taken by our two friends. men now go by railway, and then they went by the canal boat. it is very much like english travelling, with this exception, that men dismount from their seats, and cross the nile in a ferry-boat, and that they pay five shillings for their luncheon instead of sixpence. this ferry does, perhaps, afford some remote chance of adventure, as was found the other day, when a carriage was allowed to run down the bank, in which was sitting a native prince, the heir to the pasha's throne. on that occasion the adventure was important, and the prince was drowned. but even this opportunity for incident will soon disappear; for mr. brunel, or mr. stephenson, or mr. locke, or some other british engineering celebrity, is building a railway bridge over the nile, and then the modern traveller's heart will be contented, for he will be able to sleep all the way from alexandria to cairo. mr. shepheard's hotel at cairo is to an englishman the centre of egypt, and there our two friends stopped. and certainly our countrymen have made this spot more english than england itself. if ever john bull reigned triumphant anywhere; if he ever shows his nature plainly marked by rough plenty, coarseness, and good intention, he does so at shepheard's hotel. if there be anywhere a genuine, old-fashioned john bull landlord now living, the landlord of the hotel at cairo is the man. so much for the strange new faces and outlandish characters which one meets with in one's travels. i will not trouble my readers by a journey up the nile; nor will i even take them up a pyramid. for do not fitting books for such purposes abound at mr. mudie's? wilkinson and bertram made both the large tour and the little one in proper style. they got as least as far as thebes, and slept a night under the shade of king cheops. one little episode on their road from cairo to the pyramids, i will tell. they had joined a party of which the conducting spirit was a missionary clergyman, who had been living in the country for some years, and therefore knew its ways. no better conducting spirit for such a journey could have been found; for he joined economy to enterprise, and was intent that everything should be seen, and that everything should be seen cheaply. old cairo is a village some three miles from the city, higher up the river; and here, close to the nilometer, by which the golden increase of the river is measured, tourists going to the pyramids are ferried over the river. the tourists are ferried over, as also are the donkeys on which the tourists ride. now here arose a great financial question. the reis or master of the ferry-boat to which the clerical guide applied was a mighty man, some six feet high, graced with a turban, as arabs are; erect in his bearing, with bold eye, and fine, free, supple limbs--a noble reis for that nile ferry-boat. but, noble as he was, he wanted too many piastres--twopence-halfpenny a head too much for each donkey, with its rider. and then there arose a great hubbub. the ordinary hubbub at this spot is worse than the worst confusion of any other babel. for the traffic over the nile is great, and for every man, woman, and child, for every horse and every ass, for every bundle of grass, for every cock and for every hen, a din of twenty tongues is put in motion, and a perpetual fury rages, as the fury of a hurricane. but the hubbub about the missionary's piastres rose higher than all the other hubbubs. indeed, those who were quarrelling before about their own affairs came and stood round in a huge circle, anxious to know how the noble reis and his clerical opponent would ultimately settle this stiff financial difficulty. in half an hour neither side would yield one point; but then at last the egyptian began to show that, noble as he looked, he was made of stuff compressible. he gradually gave up, para by para, till he allowed donkeys, men, and women to clamber over the sides of his boat at the exact price named by him of the black coat. never did the church have a more perfect success. but the battle was not yet over. no sooner was the vessel pushed off into the stream, than the noble reis declared that necessity compelled him to demand the number of piastres originally named by him. he regretted it, but he assured the clergyman that he had no other alternative. and now how did it behove an ardent missionary to act in such a contest with a subtle egyptian? how should the eloquence of the church prevail over this eastern mammon? it did prevail very signally. the soldier of peace, scorning further argument in words with such a crafty reis, mindful of the lessons of his youth, raised his right hand, and with one blow between the eyes, laid the arab captain prostrate on his own deck. "there," said he, turning to wilkinson, "that is what we call a pastoral visitation in this country. we can do nothing without it." the poor reis picked himself up, and picked up also his turban, which had been knocked off, and said not a word more about the piastres. all the crew worked with double diligence at their oars, and the party, as they disembarked from the boat, were treated with especial deference. even the donkeys were respected. in egypt the donkeys of a man are respected, ay, and even his donkey-boys, when he shows himself able and willing to knock down all those around him. a great man there, a native, killed his cook one morning in a rage; and a dragoman, learned in languages, thus told the story to an englishman:--"de sahib, him vera respecble man. him kill him cook, solyman, this morning. oh, de sahib particklar respecble!" after all, it may be questioned whether this be not a truer criterion of respectability than that other one of keeping a gig. oh, those pyramid guides! foul, false, cowardly, bullying thieves! a man who goes to cairo _must_ see the pyramids. convention, and the laws of society as arranged on that point, of course require it. but let no man, and, above all, no woman, assume that the excursion will be in any way pleasurable. i have promised that i will not describe such a visit, but i must enter a loud, a screeching protest against the arab brutes--the schieks being the very worst of the brutes--who have these monuments in their hands. their numbers, the filthiness of their dress--or one might almost say no dress--their stench, their obscene indecency, their clattering noise, their rapacity, exercised without a moment's intercession; their abuse, as in this wise: "very bad english-man; dam bad; dam, dam, dam! him want to take all him money to the grave; but no, no, no! devil hab him, and money too!" this, be it remembered, from a ferocious, almost blackened arab, with his face within an inch of your own. and then their flattery, as in this wise: "good english-man--very good!"--and then a tawny hand pats your face, and your back, and the calves of your leg--"him gib poor arab one shilling for himself--yes, yes, yes! and then arab no let him tumble down and break all him legs--yes, yes; break _all_ him legs." and then the patting goes on again. these things, i say, put together, make a visit to the pyramids no delightful recreation. my advice to my countrymen who are so unfortunate as to visit them is this: let the ladies remain below--not that they ever will do so, if the gentlemen who are with them ascend--and let the men go armed with stout sticks, and mercilessly belabour any arab who attempts either to bully or to wheedle. let every englishman remember this also, that the ascent is not difficult, though so much noise is made about the difficulty as naturally to make a man think that it is so. and let this also be remembered, that nothing is to be gained by entering the pyramid except dirt, noise, stench, vermin, abuse, and want of air. nothing is to be seen there--nothing to be heard. a man may sprain his ankle, and certainly will knock his head. he will encounter no other delights but these. but he certainly will come out a wiser man than he went in. he will then be wise enough to know how wretched a place is the interior of a pyramid--an amount of wisdom with which no teaching of mine will imbue him. bertram and wilkinson were sitting beneath the pyramid, with their faces toward the desert, enjoying the cool night air, when they first began to speak of adela gauntlet. hitherto arthur had hardly mentioned her name. they had spoken much of his mother, much of the house at hurst staple, and much also of lady harcourt, of whose separation from her husband they were of course aware; but arthur had been shy of mentioning adela's name. they had been speaking of mrs. wilkinson, and the disagreeable position in which the vicar found himself in his own house; when, after sitting silent for a moment, he said, "after all, george, i sometimes think that it would have been better for me to have married." "of course it would--or rather, i should say, will be better. it is what you will do when you return." "i don't know about my health now." "your health will be right enough after this winter. i don't see much the matter with it." "i am better, certainly;" and then there was another pause. "arthur," continued bertram, "i only wish that i had open before me the same chance in life that you have--the same chance of happiness." "do not despair, george. a short time cures all our wounds." "yes; a short time does cure them all--and then comes chaos." "i meant a short time in this world." "well, all things are possible; but i do not understand how mine are to be cured. they have come too clearly from my own folly." "from such folly," said arthur, "as always impedes the working of human prudence." "do you remember, arthur, my coming to you the morning after the degrees came down--when you were so low in spirits because you had broken down--when i was so full of triumph?" "i remember the morning well; but i do not remember any triumph on your part." "ah! i was triumphant--triumphant in my innermost heart. i thought then that all the world must give way to me, because i had taken a double-first. and now--i have given way before all the world. what have i done with all the jewels of my youth? thrown them before swine!" "come, george; you are hardly seven-and-twenty yet." "no, hardly; and i have no profession, no fortune, no pursuit, and no purpose. i am here, sitting on the broken stone of an old tomb, merely because it is as well for me to be here as elsewhere. i have made myself to be one as to whose whereabouts no man need make inquiry--and no woman. if that black, one-eyed brute, whom i thrashed a-top of the pyramid, had stuck his knife in me, who would have been the worse for it? you, perhaps--for six weeks or so." "you know there are many would have wept for you." "i know but one. she would have wept, while it would be ten times better that she should rejoice. yes, she would weep; for i have marred her happiness as i have marred my own. but who cares for me, of whose care i can be proud? who is anxious for me, whom i can dare to thank, whom i may dare to love?" "do we not love you at hurst staple?" "i do not know. but i know this, that you ought to be ashamed of me. i think adela gauntlet is my friend; that is, if in our pig-headed country a modest girl may love a man who is neither her brother nor her lover." "i am sure she is," said arthur; and then there was another pause. "do you know," he continued, "i once thought--" "thought what?" "that you were fond of adela." "so i am, heartily fond of her." "but i mean more than that." "you once thought that i would have married her if i could. that is what you mean." "yes," said wilkinson, blushing to his eyes. but it did not matter; for no one could see him. "well, i will make a clean breast of it, arthur. men can talk here, sitting in the desert, who would be as mute as death at home in england. yes; there was once a moment, once _one_ moment, in which i would have married her--a moment in which i flattered myself that i could forget caroline waddington. ah! if i could tell you how adela behaved!" "how did she behave? tell me--what did she say?" said arthur, with almost feverish anxiety. "she bade me remember, that those who dare to love must dare to suffer. she told me that the wounded stag, 'that from the hunter's aim has ta'en a hurt,' must endure to live, 'left and abandoned of his velvet friends.'--and she told me true. i have not all her courage; but i will take a lesson from her, and learn to suffer--quietly, without a word, if that be possible." "then you did propose to her?" "no; hardly that. i cannot tell what i said myself; but 'twas thus she answered me." "but what do you mean by taking a lesson from her? has she any such suffering?" "nay! you may ask her. i did not." "but you said so just now; at any rate you left me to infer it. is there any one whom adela gauntlet really loves?" george bertram did not answer the question at once. he had plighted his word to her as her friend that he would keep her secret; and then, moreover, that secret had become known to him by mere guesses. he had no right, by any law, to say it as a fact that adela gauntlet was not heart-whole. but still he thought that he would say so. why should he not do something towards making these two people happy? "do you believe that adela is really in love with any one?" repeated arthur. "if i tell you that, will you tell me this--are you in love with any one--you yourself?" the young clergyman was again ruby red up to his forehead. he could dare to talk about adela, but hardly about himself. "i in love!" he said at last. "you know that i have been obliged to keep out of that kind of thing. circumstanced as i have been, i could not marry." "but that does not keep a man from falling in love." "does not it?" said arthur, rather innocently. "that has not preserved me--nor, i presume, has it preserved you. come, arthur, be honest; if a man with thirty-nine articles round his neck can be honest. out with the truth at once. do you love adela, or do you not?" but the truth would not come out so easily. whether it was the thirty-nine articles, or the natural modesty of the man's disposition, i will not say; but he did not find himself at the moment able to give a downright answer to this downright question. he would have been well pleased that bertram should know the whole truth; but the task of telling it went against the grain with him. "if you do, and do not tell her so," continued bertram, when he found that he got no immediate reply, "i shall think you--. but no; a man must be his own judge in such matters, and of all men i am the least fit to be a judge of others. but i would that it might be so, for both your sakes." "why, you say yourself that she likes some one else." "i have never said so. i have said nothing like it. there; when you get home, do you yourself ask her whom she loves. but remember this--if it should chance that she should say that it is you, you must be prepared to bear the burden, whatever may be urged to the contrary at the vicarage. and now we will retire to roost in this hole of ours." arthur had as yet made no reply to bertram's question; but as he crept along the base of the pyramid, feeling his steps among the sand and loose stones, he did manage to say a word or two of the truth. "god bless you, george. i do love her--very dearly." and then the two cousins understood each other. it has been said that alexandria has nothing of an eastern town but its filth. this cannot at all be said of cairo. it may be doubted whether bagdad itself is more absolutely oriental in its appurtenances. when once the englishman has removed himself five hundred yards from shepheard's hotel, he begins to feel that he is really in the east. within that circle, although it contains one of the numerous huge buildings appropriated to the viceroy's own purposes, he is still in great britain. the donkey-boys curse in english, instead of arabic; the men you meet sauntering about, though they do wear red caps, have cheeks as red; and the road is broad and macadamized, and britannic. but anywhere beyond that circle lewis might begin to paint. cairo is a beautiful old city; so old in the realities of age that it is crumbling into dust on every side. from time to time the houses are patched up, but only patched; and, except on the britannic soil above alluded to, no new houses are built. it is full of romance, of picturesque oriental wonders, of strange sights, strange noises, and strange smells. when one is well in the town, every little narrow lane, every turn--and the turns are incessant--every mosque and every shop creates fresh surprise. but i cannot allow myself to write a description of cairo. how the dervishes there spun and shook, going through their holy exercises with admirable perseverance, that i must tell. this occurred towards the latter end of the winter, when wilkinson and bertram had nearly completed their sojourn in cairo. not but what the dervishes had roared out their monotonous prayer to allah, duly every friday, at p.m., with as much precision as a service in one of your own cathedrals; but our friends had put the thing off, as hardly being of much interest, and at last went there when they had only one friday left for the performance. i believe that, as a rule, a mahomedan hates a christian: regarding him merely as christian, he certainly does so. had any tidings of confirmed success on the part of the rebels in india reached the furthermost parts of the turkish empire, no christian life would have been safe there. the horrid outrage perpetrated at jaffa, and the massacre at jeddah, sufficiently show us what we might have expected. in syria no christian is admitted within a mosque, for his foot and touch are considered to carry pollution. but in egypt we have caused ourselves to be better respected: we thrash the arabs and pay them, and therefore they are very glad to see us anywhere. and even the dervishes welcome us to their most sacred rites, with excellent coffee, and a loan of rush-bottomed chairs. now, when it is remembered that a mahomedan never uses a chair, it must be confessed that this is very civil. moreover, let it be said to their immortal praise, that the dervishes of cairo never ask for backsheish. they are the only people in the country that do not. so bertram and wilkinson had their coffee with sundry other travelling britons who were there; and then each, with his chair in his hand went into the dervishes' hall. this was a large, lofty, round room, the roof of which was in the shape of a cupola; on one side, that which pointed towards mecca, and therefore nearly due east, there was an empty throne, or tribune, in which the head of the college, or dean of the chapter of dervishes, located himself on his haunches. he was a handsome, powerful man, of about forty, with a fine black beard, dressed in a flowing gown, and covered by a flat-topped black cap. by degrees, and slowly, in came the college of the dervishes, and seated themselves as their dean was seated; but they sat on the floor in a circle, which spread away from the tribune, getting larger and larger in its dimensions as fresh dervishes came in. there was not much attention to regularity in their arrival, for some appeared barely in time for the closing scene. the commencement was tame enough. still seated, they shouted out a short prayer to allah a certain number of times. the number was said to be ninety-nine. but they did not say the whole prayer at once, though it consisted of only three words. they took the first word ninety-nine times; and then the second; and then the third. the only sound to be recognized was that of allah; but the deep guttural tone in which this was groaned out by all the voices together, made even that anything but a distinct word. and so this was completed, the circle getting ever larger and larger. and it was remarked that men came in as dervishes who belonged to various ordinary pursuits and trades; there were soldiers in the circle, and, apparently, common labourers. indeed, any one may join; though i presume he would do so with some danger were it discovered that he were not a mahomedan. those who specially belonged to the college had peculiar gowns and caps, and herded together on one side of the circle; and it appeared to our friends, that throughout the entertainment they were by far the least enthusiastic of the performers. when this round of groaning had been completed--and it occupied probably half an hour--a young lad, perhaps of seventeen years, very handsome, and handsomely dressed in a puce-coloured cloak, or rather petticoat, with a purple hat on his head, in shape like an inverted flower-pot, slipped forth from near the tribune into the middle of the circle, and began to twirl. after about five or six minutes, two other younger boys, somewhat similarly dressed, did the same, and twirled also; so that there were three twirling together. but the twirling of the elder boy was by far the more graceful. let any young lady put out both her hands, so as to bring the one to the level of her waist, and the other with the crown of her head, and then go round and round, as nearly as possible on the same spot; let her do this so that no raising of either foot shall ever be visible; and let her continue it for fifteen minutes, without any variation in the attitude of her arms, or any sign of fatigue,--and then she may go in for a twirling dervish. it is absurd to suppose that any male creature in england could perform the feat. during this twirling, a little black boy marked the time, by beating with two sticks on a rude gong. this dance was kept up at first for fifteen minutes. then there was another short spell of howling; then another dance, or twirl; and then the real game began. the circle had now become so large as to occupy the greater part of the hall, and was especially swelled by sundry new arrivals at this moment. in particular, there came one swarthy, tall, wretched-looking creature, with wild eyes, wan face, and black hair of extraordinary length, who took up his position, standing immediately opposite to the tribune. other new comers also stood near him, all of whom were remarkable for the length of their hair. some of them had it tied up behind like women, and now proceeded to unloose it. but at this period considerable toilet preparations were made for the coming work. all those in the circle who had not come in from the college with gowns and caps, and one or two even of them, deliberately took off their outer clothing, and tied it up in bundles. these bundles they removed to various corners, so that each might again find his own clothes. one or two put on calico dressing-gowns, which appeared to have been placed ready for the purpose; and among these was the cadaverous man of the black hair. and then they all stood up, the dean standing also before his tribune, and a deep-toned murmur went round the circle. this also was the word allah, as was duly explained to bertram by his dragoman; but without such explanation it would have been impossible to detect that any word was pronounced. indeed, the sound was of such nature as to make it altogether doubtful from whence it came. it was like no human voice, or amalgamation of voices; but appeared as though it came from the very bowels of the earth. at first it was exceedingly low, but it increased gradually, till at last one might have fancied that the legions of lucifer were groaning within the very bowels of pandemonium. and also, by slow degrees, a motion was seen to pervade the circle. the men, instead of standing fixedly on their legs, leaned over, first to the right and then to the left, all swaying backwards and forwards together in the same direction, so that both sound and motion were as though they came from one compact body. and then, as the groan became louder, so did the motion become more violent, till the whole body heaved backwards and forwards with the regularity of a pendulum and the voice of a steam-engine. as the excitement became strong, the head of the dervishes walked along the inner circle, exciting those to more violence who already seemed the most violent. this he did, standing for a few minutes before each such man, bowing his own head rapidly and groaning deeply; and as he did so, the man before whom he stood would groan and swing himself with terrible energy. and the men with the long hair were especially selected. and by degrees the lateral motion was abandoned, and the dervishes bowed their heads forwards instead of sideways. no one who has not seen the operation can conceive what men may achieve in the way of bowing and groaning. they bowed till they swept the floor with their long hair, bending themselves double, and after each motion bringing themselves up again to an erect posture. and the dean went backwards and forwards from one to another, urging them on. by this time the sight was terrible to behold. the perspiration streamed down them, the sounds came forth as though their very hearts were bursting, their faces were hidden by their dishevelled locks, whatever clothes they wore were reeking wet. but still they flung themselves about, the motion becoming faster and faster; and still the sounds came forth as though from the very depths of tartarus. and still the venerable dean went backwards and forwards slowly before them, urging them on, and still urging them on. but at last, nature with the greater number of them had made her last effort; the dean retired to his tribune, and the circle was broken up. but those men with the long hair still persevered. it appeared, both to bertram and wilkinson, that with them the effort was now involuntary. they were carried on by an ecstatic frenzy; either that or they were the best of actors. the circle had broken up, the dervishes were lying listlessly along the walls, panting with heat, and nearly lifeless with their exertions; but some four, remaining with their feet fixed in the old place, still bowed and still howled. "they will die," said bertram. "will they not be stopped?" said wilkinson to their dragoman. "five minutes, five minutes!" said the dragoman. "look at him--look at him with the black hair!" and they did look. three of them had now fallen, and the one remained still at his task. he swept the ground with his hair, absolutely striking it with his head; and the sounds came forth from him loudly, wildly, with broken gasps, with terrible exertion, as though each would be his last, and yet they did nothing to repress him. at last it seemed as though the power of fully raising his head had left him, and also that of lowering it to the ground. but still he made as it were a quarter-circle. his hands were clutched behind his back, and with this singular motion, and in this singular attitude, he began to move his feet; and still groaning and half bowing, he made a shuffling progress across the hall. the dervishes themselves appeared to take no notice of him. the dean stood tranquil under his tribune; those who had recovered from their exertions were dressing themselves, the others lay about collecting their breath. but the eyes of every stranger were on the still moving black-haired devotee. on he went, still howling and still swinging his head, right towards the wall of the temple. his pace was not fast, but it seemed as though he would inevitably knock his own brains out by the motion of his own head; and yet nobody stopped him. "he'll kill himself," said wilkinson. "no, no, no!" said the dragoman; "him no kill--him head berry hard." bertram rushed forward as though to stay the infuriate fanatic, but one or two of the dervishes who stood around gently prevented him, without speaking a word. and then the finale came. crack he went against the wall, rebounded off, and went at it again, and then again. they were no mock blows, but serious, heavy raps, as from a small battering-ram. but yet both bertram and wilkinson were able to observe that he did not strike the wall, as he would naturally have done had there been no precaution. had he struck it with his head in motion, as was intended to be believed, the blow would have come upon his forehead and temples, and must probably have killed him; but instead of this, just as he approached the wall, he butted at it like a ram, and saved his forehead at the expense of his pole. it may probably be surmised, therefore, that he knew what he was about. after these three raps, the man stood, still doubled up, but looking as though he were staggered. and then he went again with his head towards the wall. but the dean, satisfied with what had been done, now interposed, and this best of dervishes was gently laid on his back upon the floor, while his long matted hair was drawn from off his face. as he so lay, the sight was not agreeable to christian eyes, whatever a true mahomedan might think of it. 'twas thus the dervishes practised their religious rites at cairo. "i wonder how much that black fellow gets paid every friday," said bertram, as he mounted his donkey; "it ought to be something very handsome." chapter ix. the two widows. the winter was now nearly over, and the travellers had determined to return to england. whatever other good purpose the city of cairo might or might not serve, it had restored wilkinson to health. bertram was sufficiently weary of living in a country in which the women go about with their faces hidden by long dirty stripes of calico, which they call veils, and in which that little which is seen of the ladies by no means creates a wish to see more. and wilkinson, since the conversation which they had had at the pyramids, was anxious to assume his own rights in the vicarage-house at hurst staple. so they decided on returning about the middle of march; but they decided also on visiting suez before doing so. in these days men go from cairo to suez as they do from london to birmingham--by railway; in those days--some ten or twelve years back, that is--they went in wooden boxes, and were dragged by mules through the desert. we cannot stay long at suez, nor should i carry my reader there, even for a day, seeing how triste and dull the place is, had not our hero made an acquaintance there which for some time was likely to have a considerable effect on his future life. suez is indeed a triste, unhappy, wretched place. it is a small oriental town, now much be-europeanized, and in the process of being be-anglicized. it is not so beelzebub-ridden a spot as alexandria, nor falling to pieces like cairo. but it has neither water, air, nor verdure. no trees grow there, no rivers flow there. men drink brine and eat goats; and the thermometer stands at eighty in the shade in winter. the oranges are the only luxury. there is a huge hotel, which contains long rows of hot cells, and a vast cave in which people eat. the interest of the place consists in pharoah's passage over the red sea; but its future prosperity will be caused by a transit of a different nature:--the passage of the english to and from india will turn even suez into an important town. here the two travellers encountered a flood of indians on their return home. the boat from calcutta came in while they were there, and suddenly all the cells were tenanted, and the cave was full of spoiled children, tawny nurses, pale languid mothers, and dyspeptic fathers. these were to be fellow-travellers homewards with bertram and wilkinson. neither of our friends regarded with favour the crowd which made them even more uncomfortable than they had been before. as englishmen in such positions generally do, they kept themselves aloof and scowled, frowned at the children who whined in the nearest neighbourhood to them, and listened in disgust to the continuous chatter about punkahs, tiffins, and bungalows. but close to them, at the end of the long table, at the common dinner, sat two ladies, on whom it was almost impossible for them to frown. for be it known that at these hotels in egypt, a man cannot order his dinner when he pleases. he must breakfast at nine, and dine at six, as others do--or go without. and whether he dine, or whether he do not, he must pay. the medes and persians were lax and pliable in their laws in comparison with these publicans. both george and arthur would have frowned if they could have done so; but on these two ladies it was impossible to frown. they were both young, and both pretty. george's neighbour was uncommonly pretty--was, indeed, one of the prettiest women that he had ever seen;--that any man could see anywhere. she was full of smiles too, and her smile was heavenly;--was full of words, and her words were witty. she who sat next arthur was perhaps less attractive; but she had large soft eyes, which ever and anon she would raise to his face, and then let fall again to her plate in a manner which made sparks fly round the heart even of our somewhat sombre young hampshire vicar. the four were soon in full conversation, apparently much to the disgust of two military-looking gentlemen who sat on the other side of the ladies. and it was evident that the military gentlemen and the ladies were, or ought to be, on terms of intimacy; for proffers of soup, and mutton, and wine were whispered low, and little attempts at confidential intercourse were made. but the proffers were rejected, and the attempts were in vain. the ladies preferred to have their plates and glasses filled by the strangers, turned their shoulders on their old friends with but scant courtesy, and were quite indifferent to the frowns which at last clouded those two military brows. and the brows of major biffin and captain m'gramm were clouded. they had been filling the plates and glasses of these two ladies all the way from calcutta; they had walked with them every day on deck, had fetched their chairs, picked up their handkerchiefs, and looked after their bottled beer at tiffin-time with an assiduity which is more than commendable in such warm latitudes. and now to be thrown on one side for two travelling englishmen, one in a brown coat and the other in a black one--for two muffs, who had never drunk sangaree or sat under a punkah! this was unpleasant to major biffin and captain m'gramm. but then why had the major and the captain boasted of the favours they had daily received, to that soft-looking, superannuated judge, and to their bilious friend, dr. o'shaughnessy? the judge and the doctor had of course their female allies, and had of course repeated to them all the boasts of the fortunate major and of the fortunate captain. and was it not equally of course that these ladies should again repeat the same to mrs. cox and mrs. price? for she who was so divinely perfect was mrs. cox, and she of the soft, lustrous eyes was mrs. price. those who think that such a course was not natural know little of voyages home from calcutta to southampton. but the major, who had been the admirer of mrs. cox, had done more than this--had done worse, we may say. the world of the good ship "lahore," which was bringing them all home, had declared ever since they had left point de galle, that the major and mrs. cox were engaged. now, had the major, in boasting of his favours, boasted also of his engagement, no harm perhaps might have come of it. the sweet good-nature of the widow might have overlooked that offence. but he had boasted of the favours and pooh-poohed the engagement! "hinc illæ lacrymæ." and who shall say that the widow was wrong? and as to the other widow, mrs. price, she was tired of captain m'gramm. a little fact had transpired about captain m'gramm, namely, that he was going home to his wife. and therefore the two ladies, who had conspired together to be civil to the two warriors, now conspired together to be uncivil to them. in england such things are done, as it were, behind the scenes: there these little quarrels are managed in private. but a passage home from india admits of but little privacy; there is no behind the scenes. the two widows were used to this, and quarrelled with their military admirers in public without any compunction. "hinc illæ lacrymæ." but the major was not inclined to shed his tears without an effort. he had pooh-poohed the idea of marrying mrs. cox; but like many another man in similar circumstances, he was probably willing enough to enter into such an arrangement now that the facility of doing so was taken from him. it is possible that mrs. cox, when she turned her pretty shoulder on major biffin, may herself have understood this phasis of human nature. the major was a handsome man, with well-brushed hair, well-trimmed whiskers, a forehead rather low, but very symmetrical, a well-shaped nose, and a small, pursy mouth. the worst of his face was that you could by no means remember it. but he knew himself to be a handsome man, and he could not understand how he could be laid aside for so ugly a lout as this stranger from england. captain m'gramm was not a handsome man, and he was aware that he fought his battle under the disadvantage of a wife. but he had impudence enough to compensate him for this double drawback. during this first dinner, arthur wilkinson was not more than coldly civil to mrs. price; but bertram became after a while warmly civil to mrs. cox. it is so very nice to be smiled on by the prettiest woman in the room; and it was long since he had seen the smile of any pretty woman! indeed, for the last eighteen months he had had but little to do with such smiles. before dinner was over, mrs. cox had explained to bertram that both she and her friend mrs. price were in deep affliction. they had recently lost their husbands--the one, by cholera; that was poor dear cox, who had been collector of the honourable company's taxes at panjabee. whereas, lieutenant price, of the st native bengal infantry, had succumbed to--here mrs. cox shook her head, and whispered, and pointed to the champagne-glass which bertram was in the act of filling for her. poor cox had gone just eight months; but price had taken his last glass within six. and so bertram knew all about it. and then there was a great fuss in packing the travellers into the wooden boxes. it seems that they had all made up their own parties by sixes, that being the number of which one box was supposed to be capable. but pretty women are capricious, and neither mrs. price nor mrs. cox were willing to abide by any such arrangement. when the time came for handing them in, they both objected to the box pointed out to them by major biffin--refused to be lifted in by the arms of captain m'gramm--got at last into another vacant box with the assistance of our friends--summoned their dingy nurses and babies into the same box (for each was so provided)--and then very prettily made way for mr. bertram and mr. wilkinson. and so they went across the desert. then they all stayed a night at cairo, and then they went on to alexandria. and by the time that they were embarked in a boat together, on their way to that gallant first-class steamer, the "cagliari," they were as intimate as though they had travelled round the world together, and had been as long about it as captain cook. "what will you take with you, mrs. cox?" said bertram, as he stood up in the boat with the baby on one arm, while with the other he handed the lady towards the ship's ladder. "a good ducking," said mrs. cox, with a cheery laugh, as at the moment a dashing wave covered them with its spray. "and i've got it too, with a vengeance. ha! ha! take care of the baby, whatever you do; and if she falls over, mind you go after her." and with another little peal of silver ringing laughter, she tripped up the side of the ship, and bertram, with the baby, followed after her. "she is such a giddy thing," said mrs. price, turning her soft eyes on poor arthur wilkinson. "oh, laws! i know i shall be drowned. do hold me." and arthur wilkinson did hold her, and nearly carried her up into the ship. as he did so, his mind would fly off to adela gauntlet; but his arms and legs were not the less at the service of mrs. price. "and now look after the places," said mrs. cox; "you haven't a moment to lose. and look here, mr. bertram, mind, i won't sit next to major biffin. and, for heaven's sake, don't let us be near that fellow m'gramm." and so bertram descended into the _salon_ to place their cards in the places at which they were to sit for dinner. "two and two; opposite to each other," sang out mrs. cox, as he went. there was a sweetness in her voice, a low, mellow cheeriness in her tone, which, combined with her beauty, went far to atone for the nature of what she said; and bertram not unwillingly obeyed her behests. "oh, my blessed baby!" said mrs. price, as the nurse handed her the child--which, however, she immediately handed back. "how can i thank you enough, mr. wilkinson? what should we have done without you? i wonder whether it's near tiffin. i am so faint." "shall i fetch you anything?" said he. "if you could get me a glass of porter. but i don't think they'll give it you. they are so uncivil!" arthur went for the beer; but went in vain. the steward said that lunch would be ready at twelve o'clock. "they are such brutes!" said mrs. price. "well, i suppose i must wait." and she again turned her eyes upon arthur, and he again thought of adela gauntlet. and then there was the ordinary confusion of a starting ship. men and women were hurrying about after their luggage, asking all manner of unreasonable questions. ladies were complaining of their berths, and servants asking where on _h_earth they were to sleep. gentlemen were swearing that they had been shamefully doubled up--that is, made to lie with two or three men in the same cabin; and friends were contriving to get commodious seats for dinner. the officers of the ship were all busy, treating with apparent indifference the thousand questions that were asked them on every side; and all was bustle, confusion, hurry, and noise. and then they were off. the pistons of the engine moved slowly up and down, the huge cranks revolved, and the waters under the bow rippled and gave way. they were off, and the business of the voyage commenced. the younger people prepared for their flirtations, the mothers unpacked their children's clothes, and the elderly gentlemen lighted their cigars. "what very queer women they are!" said arthur, walking the deck with his cousin. "but very pretty, and very agreeable. i like them both." "don't you think them too free and easy?" "ah, you must not judge of them by women who have lived in england, who have always had the comfort of well-arranged homes. they have been knocked about, ill used, and forced to bear hardships as men bear them; but still there is about them so much that is charming. they are so frank!" "yes, very frank," said arthur. "it is well to see the world on all sides," said george. "for myself, i think that we are lucky to have come across them--that is, if major biffin does not cut my throat." "i hope captain m'gramm won't cut mine. he looked as though he would." "did you ever see such an ass as that biffin? i don't wonder that she has become sick of him; and then he has behaved so very badly to her. i really do pity her. she has told me all about it." "and so has mrs. price told me all about captain m'gramm." "has she? well! it seems that he, biffin, has taken advantage of her frank, easy manner, and talked of her to every man in the ship. i think she has been quite right to cut him." and so they discussed the two ladies. and at last mrs. price got her porter, and mrs. cox got her pale ale. "i do like pale ale," said she; "i suppose it's vulgar, but i can't help that. what amuses me is, that so many ladies drink it who are quite ashamed to say they like it." "they take it for their health's sake," said bertram. "oh, yes; of course they do. mrs. bangster takes her half-pint of brandy every night for her health's sake, no doubt. would you believe it, mr. bertram, the doctor absolutely had to take her out of the saloon one night in the 'lahore'? didn't he, mrs. price?" "indeed he did. i never was so shocked.--just a little drop more to freshen it." and mr. wilkinson gave her another glass of porter. before they reached malta, all the passengers from india had agreed that mrs. cox and bertram would certainly make a match of it, and that wilkinson was also in danger. "did you ever see such flirts?" said mrs. bangster to dr. o'shaughnessey. "what an escape biffin has had!" "she is a deuced pretty woman, mrs. bangster; and i'll tell you what: biffin would give one of his eyes to get her back again if he could." "laws, doctor! you don't mean to tell me that he ever meant to marry that thing?" "i don't know what he meant before; but he would mean it now, if he got the opportunity." here captain m'gramm joined them. "well, mac," said the doctor, "what news with the widow?" "widow! they'd all be widows if they could, i believe." "indeed, i wouldn't, for one," said mrs. bangster. "b. is a deal too well off where he is. ha! ha! ha!" "but what about mrs. price--eh, mac?" continued the doctor. "there she is. you'd better go and ask her yourself. you don't suppose i ever cared about such a woman as that? only i do say this: if she goes on behaving herself in that way, some one ought to speak to the captain." but mrs. cox and mrs. price went on their own way, heeding such menaces not at all; and by the time they had reached malta, they had told the whole history of their lives to the two gentlemen--and perhaps something more. at malta they remained about six hours, and the four dined on shore together. bertram bought for them maltese veils and bad cameos; and wilkinson, misled by such an example, was forced to do the same. these treasures were not hidden under a bushel when they returned to the ship; and dr. o'shaughnessey, mrs. bangster, the fat judge, and a host of others, were more sure than ever that both the widows were re-engaged. and arthur wilkinson was becoming frightened in his mind. "upon my word," said he, as he and george were walking the deck at sunrise the next morning, "upon my word, i am getting very tired of this woman, and i really think we are making a show of ourselves." "making a show of ourselves! what do you mean?" "why, walking with them every day, and always sitting next to them." "as to sitting next to them, we can't help that. everybody always sits in the same place, and one must sit next some one; and it wouldn't be kind to leave them to walk alone." "i think we may overdo it, you know." "ah, well," said george, "you have some one else to think about. i have no one, unless it be this widow. she is kind to me, and as to what the world says, i care nothing about it." on that day wilkinson was busy with his books, and did not walk with mrs. price--a piece of neglect which sat uneasily on that lady's mind. but at ten o'clock, as usual, bertram was pacing the deck with mrs. cox. "what is the matter with your friend?" said she. "oh, nothing. he is home-sick, i suppose." "i hope he has not quarrelled with minnie." for the two ladies had come to call each other by their christian names when they were in company with the gentlemen; and bertram had once or twice used that of mrs. cox, not exactly in speaking to her, but in speaking of her in her presence. "oh dear, no," said bertram. "because it is so odd he should not give her his arm as usual. i suppose you will be treating me so as we draw nearer to southampton?" and she looked up at him with a bewitching smile, and pressed gently on his arm, and then let her eyes fall upon the deck. my brother, when you see these tricks played upon other men, the gall rises black within your breast, and you loudly condemn wiles which are so womanly, but which are so unworthy of women. but how do you feel when they are played upon yourself? the gall is not so black, the condemnation less loud; your own merit seems to excuse the preference which is shown you; your heart first forgives and then applauds. is it not so, my brother, with you? so it was, at least, with george bertram. "what! treating you with neglect, because we are soon to part?" "yes, exactly so; just that; because we are soon to part. that is what makes it so bitter. we have been such good friends, haven't we?" "and why should we not remain so? why should we talk of parting? we are both going to england." "england! yes, but england is a large place. come, let us lean on the taffrail, and look at the dolphins. there is that horrid fellow eyeing me, as he always does; major biffin, i mean. is he not exactly like a barber's block? i do so hate him!" "but he doesn't hate you, mrs. cox." "doesn't he? well then, he may if he likes. but don't let's talk of him. talk to me about england, mr. bertram. sometimes i do so long to be there--and then sometimes i don't." "you don't--why not?" "do you?" "no, i do not; i tell you frankly. i'd sooner be here with you to talk to, with you to look at." "psha, mr. bertram! what nonsense! i can't conceive that any woman can ever be worth looking at on board a ship--much less such a one as i! i know you're dying to get home." "i might be if i had a home." "is your home with that uncle of yours?" she had heard so much of his family; but he had as yet spoken to her no word about caroline. "i wonder what he would say if he could see you now leaning here and talking to me." "if he has any knowledge of human nature, he would say that i was a very happy fellow." "and are you?" as she asked him, she looked up into his face with such an arch smile that he could not find it in his heart to condemn her. "what will you think of my gallantry if i say no?" "i hate gallantry; it is all bosh. i wish i were a man, and that i could call you bertram, and that you would call me cox." "i would sooner call you annie." "would you? but that wouldn't be right, would it?" and her hand, which was still within his arm, was pressed upon it with ever so light a pressure. "i don't know why it should be wrong to call people by their christian names. should you be angry if i called you annie?" "that might depend-- tell me this, mr. bertram: how many other ladies do you call by their christian names?" "a dozen or two." "i'll be bound you do." "and may i add you to the number?" "no, mr. bertram; certainly not." "may i not? so intimate as we have become, i thought--" "i will not be one of a dozen or two." and as she answered him, she dropped her tone of raillery, and spoke in a low, soft, sweet voice. it sounded so sweet on bertram's ear. "but if there be not one--not one other; not one other now--what then, annie?" "not one other now?--did you say now? then there has been one." "yes; there has been one." "and she--what of her?" "it is a tale i cannot tell." "not to me? i should not like you the less for telling me. do tell me." and she pressed her hand again upon his arm. "i have known there was something that made you unhappy." "have you?" "oh, yes. i have long known that. and i have so wished to be a comfort to you--if i could. i, too, have had great suffering." "i am sure you have." "ah! yes. i did not suffer less because he had been unkind to me." and she put her handkerchief to her eyes, and then brought her hand again upon his arm. "but tell me of her--your one. she is not your one now--is she, mr. bertram?" "no, annie; not now." "is she--?" and she hesitated to ask whether the lady were dead, or married to some one else. it might, after all, only be a lovers' quarrel. "i drove her from me--and now she is a wife." "drove her from you! alas! alas!" said mrs. cox, with the sweetest emphasis of sympathy. but the result of her inquiries was not unsatisfactory to her. "i don't know why i should have told you this," said he. "i am so glad you have," she replied. "but now that i have told you--" "well--" "now may i call you annie?" "you have done so two or three times." "but may i?" "if it please you, you may." and the words, though whispered very low, fell clearly upon his ear. "dearest annie!" "but i did not say you might call me that." "but you are." "am i?" "dearest--all but she. will that make you angry with me?" "no, not angry; but--" "but what?" she looked up at him, pouting with her lip. there was a half-smile on her mouth, and half a tear in her eyes; and her shoulder leant against him, and her heart palpitated. she had never been so beautiful, never so attractive. "but what--? what would you say, annie?" "i would say this.--but i know you will think me very bold." "i shall not think you too bold if you will say the truth." "then i would say this--that if i loved a man, i could love him quite as fondly as she loved you." "could you, annie?" "i could. but he should not drive me from him, as you say you did her; never--never--never. he might kill me if he would; but if i once had told him that i loved him, i would never leave him afterwards." "tell me so, annie." "no, mr. bertram. we have not known each other long enough." and now she took her hand from his arm, and let it drop by her side. "tell me so, dear annie," he repeated; and he tried to regain her hand. "there is the luncheon-bell; and since mr. wilkinson won't go to mrs. price, i must do so." "shall i go?" said he. "do; i will go down by myself." "but you love me, annie?--say that you love me." "nonsense. here is that fellow, biffin. do you go for mrs. price--leave me to myself." "don't go down stairs with him." "you may be sure i won't--nor with you either this morning. i am half inclined to be angry with you." and so saying, she moved away. "ah, me! what have i done!" said bertram to himself, as he went upon his mission. "but she is a sweet creature; as beautiful as hebe; and why should i be wretched for ever?" she had moved towards the companion-ladder, and as she did so, major biffin followed her. "will you not allow me to give you an arm down stairs?" said he. "thank you, major biffin. it is rather crowded, and i can go better alone." "you did not find the stairs in the 'lahore' too crowded." "oh, yes, i did; very often. and the 'lahore' and the 'cagliari' are different things." "very different it seems. but the sea itself is not so fickle as a woman." and major biffin became a picture of injured innocence. "and the land is not so dry as a man, major biffin; that is, some men. ha! ha! ha! good-morning, major biffin." and so saying, she went down by herself. on the next day, arthur still preferred his book to walking with mrs. price; and that lady was once again seen with her arm in that of captain m'gramm's. this made a considerable consternation in the ship; and in the afternoon there was a slight quarrel between the two ladies. "and so, minnie, you are going to take up with that fellow again?" "no; i am not. but i don't choose to be left altogether to myself." "i never would have anything to say to a married man that drops his wife as he does." "i don't care two straws for him, or his wife. but i don't want to make myself conspicuous by a quarrel." "i'm sure wilkinson will be annoyed," said mrs. cox. "he's a muff," said mrs. price. "and, if i am not mistaken, i know some one else who is another." "who do you mean, mrs. price?" "i mean mr. bertram, mrs. cox." "oh, i dare say he is a muff; that's because he's attentive to me instead of leaving me to myself, as somebody does to somebody else. i understand all about that, my dear." "you understand a great deal, i have no doubt," said mrs. price. "i always heard as much." "it seems to me you understand nothing, or you wouldn't be walking about with captain m'gramm," said mrs. cox. and then they parted, before blood was absolutely drawn between them. at dinner that day they were not very comfortable together. mrs. price accepted mr. wilkinson's ordinary courtesies in a stately way, thanking him for filling her glass and looking after her plate, in a tone and with a look which made it plain to all that things were not progressing well between them. george and his annie did get on somewhat better; but even they were not quite at their ease. mrs. cox had said, before luncheon, that she had not known mr. bertram long enough to declare her love for him. but the hours between luncheon and dinner might have been a sufficient prolongation of the period of their acquaintance. george, however, had not repeated the question; and had, indeed, not been alone with her for five minutes during the afternoon. that evening, wilkinson again warned his friend that he might be going too far with mrs. cox; that he might say that which he could neither fulfil nor retract. for wilkinson clearly conceived it to be impossible that bertram should really intend to marry this widow. "and why should i not marry her?" said george. "she would not suit you, nor make you happy." "what right have i to think that any woman will suit me? or what chance is there that any woman will make me happy? is it not all leather and prunella? she is pretty and clever, soft and feminine. where shall i find a nicer toy to play with? you forget, arthur, that i have had my day-dreams, and been roused from them somewhat roughly. with you, the pleasure is still to come." after this they turned in and went to bed. chapter x. reaching home. early in their journeyings together, mrs. cox had learned from george that he was possessed of an eccentric old uncle; and not long afterwards, she had learned from arthur that this uncle was very rich, that he was also childless, and that he was supposed to be very fond of his nephew. putting all these things together, knowing that bertram had no profession, and thinking that therefore he must be a rich man, she had considered herself to be acting with becoming prudence in dropping major biffin for his sake. but on the day after the love scene recorded in the last chapter, a strange change came over the spirit of her dream. "i am a very poor man," bertram had said to her, after making some allusion to what had taken place. "if that were all, that would make no difference with me," said mrs. cox, magnanimously. "if that were all, annie! what does that mean?" "if i really loved a man, i should not care about his being poor. but your poverty is what i should call riches, i take it." "no, indeed. my poverty is absolute poverty. my own present income is about two hundred a year." "oh, i don't understand the least about money myself. i never did. i was such a child when i was married to cox. but i thought, mr. bertram, your uncle was very rich." "so he is; as rich as a gold-mine. but we are not very good friends--at any rate, not such friends as to make it probable that he will leave me a farthing. he has a granddaughter of his own." this, and a little more of the same kind, taught mrs. cox that it behoved her to be cautious. that major biffin had a snug little income over and above that derived from his profession was a fact that had been very well ascertained. that he was very dry, as dry as a barber's block, might be true. that george bertram was an amusing fellow, and made love in much better style than the major, certainly was true. but little as she might know about money, mrs. cox did know this--that when poverty comes in at the door, love flies out at the window; that eating and drinking are stern necessities; that love in a cottage is supposed to be, what she would call, bosh; and that her own old home used to be very unpleasant when cox was in debt, and those eastern jewish harpies would come down upon him with his overdue bills. considering all this, mrs. cox thought it might be well not to ratify her engagement with mr. bertram till after they should reach southampton. what if biffin--the respectable biffin--should again come forward! and so they went on for a few days longer. bertram, when they were together, called her annie, and once again asked her whether she loved him. "whether i do, or whether i do not, i shall give you no answer now," she had said, half laughing. "we have both been very foolish already, and it is time that we should begin to have our senses. isn't it?" but still she sat next him at dinner, and still she walked with him. once, indeed, he found her saying a word to major biffin, as that gentleman stood opposite to her chair upon the deck. but as soon as the major's back was turned, she said to bertram, "i think the barber's block wants to be new curled, doesn't it? i declare the barber's man has forgotten to comb out it's whiskers." so that bertram had no ground for jealousy of the major. somewhere about this time, mrs. price deserted them at dinner. she was going to sit, she said, with mrs. bangster, and dr. shaughnessey, and the judge. mrs. bangster had made a promise to old mr. price in england to look after her; and, therefore, she thought it better to go back to mrs. bangster before they reached southampton. they were now past gibraltar. so on that day, mrs. price's usual chair at dinner was vacant, and wilkinson, looking down the tables, saw that room had been made for her next to dr. shaughnessey. and on her other side, sat captain m'gramm, in despite of mrs. bangster's motherly care and of his own wife at home. on the following morning, mrs. price and captain m'gramm were walking the deck together just as they had been used to do on the other side of suez. and so things went on till the day before their arrival at southampton. mrs. cox still kept her seat next to bertram, and opposite to wilkinson, though no other lady remained to countenance her. she and bertram still walked the deck arm in arm; but their whisperings were not so low as they had been, nor were their words so soft, nor, indeed, was the temper of the lady so sweet. what if she should have thrown away all the advantages of the voyage! what if she had fallen between two stools! she began to think that it would be better to close with one or with the other--with the one despite his poverty, or with the other despite his head. and now it was the evening of the last day. they had sighted the coast of devonshire, and the following morning would see them within the southampton waters. ladies had packed their luggage; subscriptions had been made for the band; the captain's health had been drunk at the last dinner; and the mail boxes were being piled between the decks. "well, it is nearly over," said mrs. cox, as she came upon deck after dinner, warmly cloaked. "how cold we all are!" "yes; it is nearly over," answered bertram. "what an odd life of itself one of these voyages is! how intimate people are who will never see each other again!" "yes; that is the way, i suppose. oh, mr. bertram!" "well, what would you have?" "ah, me! i hardly know. fate has ever been against me, and i know that it will be so to the last." "is it not cold?" said bertram, buttoning up a greatcoat as he spoke. "very cold! very cold!" said mrs. cox. "but there is something much colder than the weather--very much colder." "you are severe, mrs. cox." "yes. it is mrs. cox here. it was annie when we were off gibraltar. that comes of being near home. but i knew that it would be so. i hate the very idea of home." and she put her handkerchief to her eyes. she had had her chance as far as bertram was concerned, and had let it pass from her. he did not renew his protestations; but in lieu of doing so, lit a cigar, and walked away into the fore-part of the vessel. "after all, arthur is right," said he to himself; "marriage is too serious a thing to be arranged in a voyage from alexandria to southampton." but luckily for mrs. cox, everybody did not think as he did. he had gone from her ruthlessly, cruelly, falsely, with steps which sounded as though there were triumph in his escape, and left her seated alone near the skylights. but she was not long alone. as she looked after him along the deck, the head of major biffin appeared to her, emerging from the saloon stairs. she said nothing to herself now about barber's blocks or uncurled whiskers. "well, mrs. cox," said the major, accosting her. "well, major biffin;" and the major thought that he saw in her eye some glimpse of the smile as of old. "we are very near home now, mrs. cox," said the major. "very near indeed," said mrs. cox. and then there was a slight pause, during which major biffin took an opportunity of sitting down not very far from his companion. "i hope you have enjoyed your voyage," said he. "which voyage?" she asked. "oh! your voyage home from alexandria--your voyage since you made the acquaintance of mr.--what's his name, the parson's cousin?" "mr. what's-his-name, as you call him, is nothing to me, i can assure you, major biffin. his real name, however, is bertram. he has been very civil when some other people were not inclined to be so, that is all." "is that all? the people here do say--" "then i tell you what, major biffin, i do not care one straw what the people say--not one straw. you know whose fault it has been if i have been thrown with this stranger. nobody knows it as well. and mind this, major biffin, i shall always do as i like in such matters without reference to you or to any one else. i am my own mistress." "and do you mean to remain so?" "ask no questions, and then you'll be told no stories." "that's civil." "if you don't like it, you had better go, for there's more to follow of the same sort." "you are very sharp to-night." "not a bit sharper than i shall be to-morrow." "one is afraid even to speak to you now." "then one had better hold one's tongue." mrs. cox was receiving her suitor rather sharply; but she probably knew his disposition. he did not answer her immediately, but sat biting the top of his cane. "i'll tell you what it is, mrs. cox," he said at last, "i don't like this kind of thing." "don't you, mr. biffin? and what kind of thing do you like?" "i like you." "psha! tell me something new, if you must tell me anything." "come, annie; do be serious for a moment. there isn't much time left now, and i've come to you in order that i may get a plain answer." "if you want a plain answer, you'd better ask a plain question. i don't know what you mean." "will you have me? that's a plain question, or the deuce is in it." "and what should i do with you?" "why, be mrs. biffin, of course." "ha! ha! ha! and it has come to that, has it? what was it you said to dr. o'shaughnessey when we were off point de galle?" "well, what did i say?" "i know what you said well enough. and so do you, too. if i served you right, i should never speak to you again." "a man doesn't like to be humbugged, you know, before a whole shipful of people," said the major, defending himself. "and a woman likes it just as little, major biffin; please to remember that." "well; i'm sure you've been down upon me long enough." "not a bit longer than you deserved. you told o'shaughnessey, that it was all very well to amuse yourself, going home. i hope you like your amusement now. i have liked mine very well, i can assure you." "i don't think so bad of you as to believe you care for that fellow." "there are worse fellows than he is, major biffin. but there, i have had my revenge; and now if you have anything to say, i'll give you an answer." "i've only to say, annie, that i love you better than any woman in the world." "i may believe as much of that as i like." "you may believe it all. come, there's my hand." "well, i suppose i must forgive you. there's mine. will that please you?" major biffin was the happiest man in the world, and mrs. cox went to her berth that night not altogether dissatisfied. before she did so, she had the major's offer in writing in her pocket; and had shown it to mrs. price, with whom she was now altogether reconciled. "i only wish, minnie, that there was no mrs. m'gramm," said she. "he wouldn't be the man for me at all, my dear; so don't let that fret you." "there's as good fish in the sea as ever were caught yet; eh, minnie?" "of course there are. though of course you think there never was such a fish as biffin." "he'll do well enough for me, minnie; and when you catch a bigger, and a better, i won't begrudge him you." that night mrs. cox took her evening modicum of creature-comforts sitting next to her lover, the major; and our two friends were left alone by themselves. the news had soon spread about the ship, and to those ladies who spoke to her on the subject, mrs. cox made no secret of the fact. men in this world catch their fish by various devices; and it is necessary that these schemes should be much studied before a man can call himself a fisherman. it is the same with women; and mrs. cox was an izaak walton among her own sex. had she not tied her fly with skill, and thrown her line with a steady hand, she would not have had her trout in her basket. there was a certain amount of honour due to her for her skill, and she was not ashamed to accept it. "good-night, mrs. cox," bertram said to her that evening, with a good-humoured tone; "i hear that i am to congratulate you." "good-night," said she, giving him her hand. "and i'll say good-bye, too, for we shall all be in such a flurry to-morrow morning. i'm sure you think i've done the right thing--don't you? and, mind this, i shall hope to see you some day." and so saying, she gave him a kindly grasp, and they parted. "done right!" said bertram; "yes, i suppose she has; right enough at least as far as i am concerned. after all, what husband is so convenient as a barber's block?" on the following morning they steamed up the southampton river, and at nine o'clock they were alongside the quay. all manner of people had come on board in boats, and the breakfast was eaten in great confusion. but few of the ladies were to be seen. they had tea and rolls in their own cabins, and did not appear till the last moment. among these were mrs. cox and mrs. price. these ladies during their journey home had certainly not been woe-begone, either in personal appearance or in manner. and who would have the heart to wish that they should be so? they had been dressed as young ladies on board ship usually do dress, so that their widowhood had been forgotten; and, but for their babies, their wifehood might have been forgotten also. but now they were to be met by family friends--by friends who were thinking of nothing but their bereavements. old mr. price came to meet them on board, and mrs. cox's uncle; old gentlemen with faces prepared for sadness, and young ladies with sympathetic handkerchiefs. how signally surprised the sad old gentlemen and the sympathetic young ladies must have been! not a whit! just as our friends were about to leave the ship that morning, with all their luggage collected round them, they were startled by the apparition of two sombre female figures, buried in most sombre tokens of affliction. under the deep crape of their heavy black bonnets were to be seen that chiefest sign of heavy female woe--a widow's cap. what signal of sorrow that grief holds out, ever moves so much as this? their eyes were red with weeping, as could be seen when, for a moment, their deep bordered handkerchiefs were allowed to fall from their faces. their eyes were red with weeping, and the agonizing grief of domestic bereavement sat chiselled on every feature. if you stood near enough, your heart would melt at the sound of their sobs. alas! that forms so light, that creatures so young, should need to be shrouded in such vestments! they were all crape, that dull, weeping, widow's crape, from the deck up to their shoulders. there they stood, monuments of death, living tombs, whose only sign of life was in their tears. there they stood, till they might fall, vanquished by the pangs of memory, into the arms of their respective relations. they were mrs. cox and mrs. price. bertram and wilkinson, as they passed them, lifted their hats and bowed, and the two ladies observing them, returned their salutation with the coldest propriety. chapter xi. i could put a codicil. on their journey up from southampton, george and arthur parted from each other. george went on direct to london, whereas arthur turned off from basingstoke towards his own home. "take my advice now, if you never do again," said bertram, as they parted; "make yourself master of your own house, and as soon after as possible make her the mistress of it." "that's easily said, old fellow," repeated the other. "make the attempt, at any rate. if i am anything of a prophet, it won't be in vain;" and so they parted. at southampton they had learnt that there had been a partial crash in the government. the prime minister had not absolutely walked forth, followed by all his satellites, as is the case when a successful turn in the wheel gives the outs a full whip-hand over the ins, but it had become necessary to throw overboard a brace or two of jonahs, so that the ship might be lightened to meet a coming storm; and among those so thrown over had been our unfortunate friend sir henry harcourt. and this, as regards him, had hardly been the worst of it. we all know that bigwigs are never dismissed. when it becomes necessary to get rid of them, they resign. now resignation is clearly a voluntary act, and it seemed that sir henry, having no wish that way, had not at first performed this act of volition. his own particular friends in the cabinet, those to whom he had individually attached himself, were gone; but, nevertheless, he made no sign; he was still ready to support the government, and as the attorney-general was among those who had shaken the dust from their feet and gone out, sir henry expected that he would, as a matter of course, walk into that gentleman's shoes. but another learned gentleman was appointed, and then at last sir henry knew that he must go. he had resigned; but no resignation had ever appeared to have less of volition in it. and how could it be otherwise? political success was everything to him; and, alas! he had so played his cards that it was necessary to him that that success should be immediate. he was not as those are who, in losing power, lose a costly plaything, which they love indeed over well, but the loss of which hurts only their pride. place to him was everything; and feeling this, he had committed that most grievous of political sins--he had endeavoured to hold his place longer than he was wanted. now, however, he was out. so much, in some sort of way, bertram had learnt before he left southampton. his first business in london was to call on mr. pritchett. "oh, master george! oh, master george!" began that worthy man, as soon as he saw him. his tone had never been so lachrymose, nor his face so full of woe. "oh, master george!" bertram in his kindest way asked after his uncle. "oh, master george! you shouldn't be going to them furren parts--indeed you shouldn't; and he in such a state." "is he worse than when i last saw him, mr. pritchett?" "gentlemen at his time of life don't get much better, master george--nor yet at mine. it's half a million of money; half--a--million--of--money! but it's no use talking to you, sir--it never was." by degrees bertram gathered from him that his uncle was much weaker, that he had had a second and a much more severe attack of paralysis, and that according to all the doctors, the old gentleman was not much longer for this world. sir omicron himself had been there. miss baker had insisted on it, much in opposition to her uncle's wishes. but sir omicron had shaken his head and declared that the fiat had gone forth. death had given his order; the heavy burden of the half-million must be left behind, and the soul must walk forth, free from all its toils, to meet such æthereal welcome as it could find. mr. bertram had been told, and had answered, that he supposed as much. "a man when he was too old to live must die," he had said, "though all the sir omicrons in europe should cluster round his bed. it was only throwing money away. what, twenty pounds!" and being too weak to scold, he had turned his face to the wall in sheer vexation of spirit. death he could encounter like a man; but why should he be robbed in his last moments? "you'll go down to him, master george," wheezed out poor pritchett. "though it's too late for any good. it's all arranged now, of course." bertram said that he would go down immediately, irrespective of any such arrangements. and then, remembering of whom that hadley household had consisted when he left england in the early winter, he asked as to the two ladies. "miss baker is there, of course?" "oh, yes, miss baker is there. she doesn't go to any furren parts, master george." "and--and--" "yes, she's in the house, too--poor creature--poor creature!" "then how am i to go there?" said george, speaking rather to himself than to mr. pritchett. "what! you wouldn't stay away from him now because of that? you ought to go to him, master george, though there were ten lady harcourts there--or twenty." this was said in a tone that was not only serious, but full of melancholy. mr. pritchett had probably never joked in his life, and had certainly never been less inclined to do so than now, when his patron was dying, and all his patron's money was to go into other and into unknown hands. some other information bertram received from his most faithful ally. sir henry had been three times to hadley, but he had only once succeeded in seeing mr. bertram, and then the interview had been short, and, as mr. pritchett surmised, not very satisfactory. his last visit had been since that paid by sir omicron, and on that occasion the sick man had sent out to say that he could not see strangers. all this mr. pritchett had learnt from miss baker. sir henry had not seen his wife since that day--now nearly twelve months since--on which she had separated herself from him. he had made a formal application to her to return to him, but nothing had come of it; and mr. pritchett took upon himself to surmise again, that sir henry was too anxious about the old gentleman's money to take any steps that could be considered severe, until--. and then mr. pritchett wheezed so grievously that what he said was not audible. george immediately wrote to miss baker, announcing his return, and expressing his wish to see his uncle. he did not mention lady harcourt's name; but he suggested that perhaps it would be better, under existing circumstances, that he should not remain at hadley. he hoped, however, that his uncle would not refuse to see him, and that his coming to the house for an hour or so might not be felt to be an inconvenience. by return of post he got an answer from miss baker, in which she assured him that his uncle was most anxious for his presence, and had appeared to be more cheerful, since he had heard of his nephew's return, than he had been for the last two months. as for staying at hadley, george could do as he liked, miss baker said. but it was but a sad household, and perhaps it would be more comfortable for him to go backwards and forwards by the railway. this correspondence caused a delay of two days, and on one of them bertram received a visit which he certainly did not expect. he was sitting in his chamber alone, and was sad enough, thinking now of mrs. cox and his near escape, then of adela and his cousin's possible happiness, and then of caroline and the shipwreck of her hopes, when the door opened, and sir henry harcourt was standing before him. "how d'ye do, bertram?" said the late solicitor-general, putting out his hand. the attitude and the words were those of friendship, but his countenance was anything but friendly. a great change had come over him. his look of youth had deserted him, and he might have been taken for a care-worn, middle-aged man. he was thin, and haggard, and wan; and there was a stern, harsh frown upon his brow, as though he would wish to fight if he only dared. this was the successful man--fortune's pet, who had married the heiress of the millionaire, and risen to the top of his profession with unexampled rapidity. "how are you, harcourt?" said bertram, taking the proffered hand. "i had no idea that you had heard of my return." "oh, yes; i heard of it. i supposed you'd be back quick enough when you knew that the old man was dying." "i am glad, at any rate, to be here in time to see him," said george, disdaining to defend himself against the innuendo. "when are you going down?" "to-morrow, i suppose. but i expect to have a line from miss baker in the morning." sir henry, who had not sat down, began walking up and down the room, while bertram stood with his back to the fire watching him. the lawyer's brow became blacker and blacker, and as he rattled his half-crowns in his trousers-pockets, and kept his eyes fixed upon the floor, bertram began to feel that the interview did not promise to be one of a very friendly character. "i was sorry to hear, harcourt, that you are among the lot that have left the government," said bertram, hardly knowing what else to say. "d---- the government! but i didn't come here to talk about the government. that old man down there will be gone in less than a week's time. do you know that?" "i hear that in all probability he has not long to live." "not a week. i have it from sir omicron himself. now i think you will admit, bertram, that i have been very badly used." "upon my word, my dear fellow, i know nothing about it." "nonsense!" "but it isn't nonsense. i tell you that i know nothing about it. i suppose you are alluding to my uncle's money; and i tell you that i know nothing--and care nothing." "psha! i hate to hear a man talk in that way. i hate such humbug." "harcourt, my dear fellow--" "it is humbug. i am not in a humour now to stand picking my words. i have been infernally badly used--badly used on every side." "by me, among others?" sir henry, in his present moody mind, would have delighted to say, "yes," by him, bertram, worse, perhaps, than by any other. but it did not suit him at the present moment to come to an open rupture with the man whom he had been in such a hurry to visit. "i treated that old man with the most unbounded confidence when i married his granddaughter--" "but how does that concern me? she was not my granddaughter. i, at least, had nothing to do with it. excuse me, harcourt, if i say that i, of all men, am the last to whom you should address yourself on such a subject." "i think differently. you are his nearest relative--next to her; next to her, mind--" "well! what matter is it whether i am near or distant? lady harcourt is staying with him. did it suit her to do so, she could fight your battle, or her own battle, or any battle that she pleases." "yours, for instance?" "no, sir henry. that she could not do. from doing that she is utterly debarred. but i tell you once for all that i have no battle. you shall know more--if the knowledge will do you any good. not very long since my uncle offered to settle on me half his fortune if i would oblige him in one particular. but i could not do the thing he wanted; and when we parted, i had his positive assurance that he would leave me nothing. that was the last time i saw him." and as bertram remembered what that request was to which he had refused to accede, his brow also grew black. "tell me honestly, then, if you can be honest in the matter, who is to have his money?" "i can be very honest, for i know nothing. my belief is that neither you nor i will have a shilling of it." "well, then; i'll tell you what. of course you know that lady harcourt is down there?" "yes; i know that she is at hadley." "i'll not submit to be treated in this way. i have been a deuced sight too quiet, because i have not chosen to disturb him in his illness. now i will have an answer from him. i will know what he means to do; and if i do not know by to-morrow night, i will go down, and will, at any rate, bring my wife away with me. i wish you to tell him that i want to know what his intentions are. i have a right to demand as much." "be that as it may, you have no right to demand anything through me." "i have ruined myself--or nearly so, for that woman." "i wonder, harcourt, that you do not see that i am not the man you should select to speak to on such a subject." "you are the man, because you are her cousin. i went to enormous expense to give her a splendid home, knowing, of course, that his wealth would entitle her to it. i bought a house for her, and furnished it as though she were a duchess--" "good heavens, harcourt! is this anything to me? did i bid you buy the house? if you had not given her a chair to sit on, should i have complained? i tell you fairly, i will have nothing to do with it." "then it will be the worse for her--that's all." "may god help her! she must bear her lot, as must i mine, and you yours." "and you refuse to take my message to your uncle?" "certainly. whether i shall see him or not i do not yet know. if i do, i certainly shall not speak to him about money unless he begins. nor shall i speak about you, unless he shall seem to wish it. if he asks about you, i will tell him that you have been with me." after some further discussion, harcourt left him. george bertram found it difficult to understand what motive could have brought him there. but drowning men catch at straws. sir henry was painfully alive to the consideration, that if anything was to be done about the rich man's money, if any useful step could be taken, it must be done at once; the step must be taken now. in another week, perhaps in another day, mr. bertram would be beyond the power of will-making. no bargain could then be driven in which it should be stipulated that after his death his grandchild should be left unmolested--for a consideration. the bargain, if made at all, must be made now--now at once. it will be thought that sir henry would have played his game better by remaining quiet; that his chance of being remembered in that will would be greater if he did not now make himself disagreeable. probably so. but men running hither and thither in distress do not well calculate their chances. they are too nervous, too excited to play their game with judgment. sir henry harcourt had now great trouble on his shoulders: he was in debt, was pressed for money on every side, had brought his professional bark into great disasters--nearly to utter shipwreck--and was known to have been abandoned by his wife. the world was not smiling on him. his great hope, his once strong hope, was now buried in those hadley coffers; and it was not surprising that he did not take the safest way in his endeavours to reach those treasures which he so coveted. on the following morning, george received miss baker's letter, and very shortly afterwards he started for hadley. of course he could not but remember that lady harcourt was staying there; that she would naturally be attending upon her grandfather, and that it was all but impossible that he should not see her. how were they to meet now? when last they had been together, he had held her in his arms, had kissed her forehead, had heard the assurance of her undying love. how were they to meet now? george was informed by the servant who came to the door that his uncle was very ill. "weaker to-day," the girl said, "than ever he had been." "where was miss baker?" george asked. the girl said that miss baker was in the dining-room. he did not dare to ask any further question. "and her ladyship is with her grandfather," the girl added; upon hearing which george walked with quicker steps to the parlour door. miss baker met him as though there had been no breach in their former intimacy. with her, for the moment, lady harcourt and her troubles were forgotten, and she thought only of the dying man upstairs. "i am so glad you have come!" she said. "he does not say much about it. you remember he never did talk about such things. but i know that he will be delighted to see you. sometimes he has said that he thought you had been in egypt quite long enough." "is he so very ill, then?" "indeed he is; very ill. you'll be shocked when you see him: you'll find him so much altered. he knows that it cannot last long, and he is quite reconciled." "will you send up to let him know that i am here?" "yes, now--immediately. caroline is with him;" and then miss baker left the room. caroline is with him! it was so singular to hear her mentioned as one of the same family with himself; to have to meet her as one sharing the same interests with him, bound by the same bonds, anxious to relieve the same suffering. she had said that they ought to be as far as the poles asunder; and yet fortune, unkind fortune, would bring them together! as he was thinking of this, the door opened gently, and she was in the room with him. she, too, was greatly altered. not that her beauty had faded, or that the lines of her face were changed; but her gait and manners were more composed; her dress was so much more simple, that, though not less lovely, she certainly looked older than when he had last seen her. she was thinner too, and, in the light-gray silk which she wore, seemed to be taller, and to be paler too. she walked up to him, and putting out her hand, said some word or two which he did not hear; and he uttered something which was quite as much lost on her, and so their greeting was over. thus passed their first interview, of which he had thought so much in looking forward to it for the last few hours, that his mind had been estranged from his uncle. "does he know i am here?" "yes. you are to go up to him. you know the room?" "the same he always had?" "oh, yes; the same." and then, creeping on tiptoe, as men do in such houses, to the infinite annoyance of the invalids whom they wish to spare, he went upstairs, and stood by his uncle's bed. miss baker was on the other side, and the sick man's face was turned towards her. "you had better come round here, george," said she. "it would trouble mr. bertram to move." "she means that i can't stir," said the old man, whose voice was still sharp, though no longer loud. "i can't turn round that way. come here." and so george walked round the bed. he literally would not have known his uncle, so completely changed was the face. it was not only that it was haggard, thin, unshorn, and gray with coming death; but the very position of the features had altered. his cheeks had fallen away; his nose was contracted; his mouth, which he could hardly close, was on one side. miss baker told george afterwards that the left side was altogether motionless. george certainly would not have known his uncle--not at the first glance. but yet there was a spark left in those eyes, of the old fire; such a spark as had never gleamed upon him from any other human head. that look of sharpness, which nothing could quench, was still there. it was not the love of lucre which was to be read in those eyes, so much as the possessor's power of acquiring it. it was as though they said, "look well to all you have; put lock and bar to your stores; set dragons to watch your choice gardens; fix what man-traps you will for your own protection. in spite of everything, i will have it all! when i go forth to rob, no one can stay me!" so had he looked upon men through all his long life, and so now did he look upon his nephew and his niece as they stood by to comfort him in his extremity. "i am sorry to see you in this state," said george, putting his hand on to that of his uncle's, which was resting on the bed. "thank'ee, george, thank'ee. when men get to be as old as i am, they have nothing for it but to die. so you've been to egypt, have you? what do you think about egypt?" "it is not a country i should like to live in, sir." "nor i to die in, from all that i hear of it. well, you're just in time to be in at the last gasp--that's all, my boy." "i hope it has not come to that yet, sir." "ah, but it has. how long a time did that man give me, mary--he that got the twenty pounds? they gave a fellow twenty pounds to come and tell me that i was dying! as if i didn't know that without him." "we thought it right to get the best advice we could, george," said poor miss baker. "nonsense!" said the old man, almost in his olden voice. "you'll find by-and-by that twenty pounds are not so easy to come by. george, as you are here, i might as well tell you about my money." george begged him not to trouble himself about such a matter at present; but this was by no means the way in which to propitiate his uncle. "and if i don't talk of it now, when am i to do it? go away, mary--and look here--come up again in about twenty minutes. what i have got to say won't take me long." and so miss baker left the room. "george," said his uncle, "i wonder whether you really care about money? sometimes i have almost thought that you don't." "i don't think i do very much, sir." "then you must be a great fool." "i have often thought i am, lately." "a very great fool. people preach against it, and talk against it, and write against it, and tell lies against it; but don't you see that everybody is fighting for it? the parsons all abuse it; but did you ever know one who wouldn't go to law for his tithes? did you ever hear of a bishop who didn't take his dues?" "i am quite fond enough of it, sir, to take all that i can earn." "that does not seem to be much, george. you haven't played your cards well--have you, my boy?" "no, uncle; not very well. i might have done better." "no man is respected without money--no man. a poor man is always thrust to the wall--always. now you will be a poor man, i fear, all your life." "then i must put up with the wall, sir." "but why were you so harsh with me when i wanted you to marry her? do you see now what you have done? look at her, and what she might have been. look at yourself, and what you might have been. had you done that, you might have been my heir in everything." "well, sir, i have made my bed, and i must lie upon it. i have cause enough for regret--though, to tell the truth, it is not about your money." "ah, i knew you would be stiff to the last," said mr. bertram, angry that he could not move his nephew to express some sorrow about the half-million. "am i stiff, sir? indeed, i do not mean it." "no, it's your nature. but we will not quarrel at the last; will we, george?" "i hope not, sir. i am not aware that we have ever quarrelled. you once asked me to do a thing which, had i done it, would have made me a happy man--" "and a rich man also." "and i fairly tell you now, that i would i had done as you would have had me. that is not being stiff, sir." "it is too late now, george." "oh, yes, it is too late now; indeed it is." "not but that i could put a codicil." "ah, sir, you can put no codicil that can do me a service. no codicil can make her a free woman. there are sorrows, sir, which no codicil can cure." "psha!" said his uncle, trying in his anger to turn himself on his bed, but failing utterly. "psha! then you may live a pauper." george remained standing at the bedside; but he knew not what to do, or what answer to make to this ebullition of anger. "i have nothing further to say," continued his uncle. "but we shall part in friendship, shall we not?" said george. "i have so much to thank you for, that i cannot bear that you should be angry with me now." "you are an ass--a fool!" "you should look on that as my misfortune, sir." and then he paused a moment. "i will leave you now, shall i?" "yes, and send mary up." "but i may come down again to-morrow?" "what! haven't they a bed for you in the house?" bertram hummed and hawed, and said he did not know. but the conference ended in his promising to stay there. so he went up to town, and returned again bringing down his carpet bag, and preparing to remain till all should be over. that was a strange household which was now collected together in the house at hadley. the old man was lying upstairs, daily expecting his death; and he was attended, as it was seemly that he should be, by his nearest relatives. his brother's presence he would not have admitted; but his grandchild was there, and his nephew, and her whom he had always regarded as his niece. nothing could be more fitting than this. but not the less did caroline and george feel that it was not fitting that they should be together. and yet the absolute awkwardness of the meeting was soon over. they soon found themselves able to sit in the same room, conversing on the one subject of interest which the circumstances of the moment gave, without any allusion to past times. they spoke only of the dying man, and asked each other questions only about him. though they were frequently alone together while miss baker was with mr. bertram, they never repeated the maddening folly of that last scene in eaton square. "she has got over it now," said bertram to himself; and he thought that he rejoiced that it was so. but yet it made his heart sad. it has passed away like a dream, thought lady harcourt; and now he will be happy again. and she, too, strove to comfort herself in thinking so; but the comfort was very cold. and now george was constantly with his uncle. for the first two days nothing further was said about money. mr. bertram seemed to be content that matters should rest as they were then settled, and his nephew certainly had no intention of recurring to the subject on his own behalf. the old man, however, had become much kinder in his manner to him--kinder to him than to any one else in the house; and exacted from him various little promises of things to be done--of last wishes to be fulfilled. "perhaps it is better as it is, george," he said, as bertram was sitting by his bedside late one night. "i am sure it is, sir," said george, not at all, however, knowing what was the state of things which his uncle described as being better. "all men can't be made alike," continued the uncle. "no, uncle; there must be rich men, and there must be poor men." "and you prefer the latter." now george had never said this; and the assertion coming from his uncle at such a moment, when he could not contradict it, was rather hard on him. he had tried to prove to mr. bertram, not so much then, as in their former intercourse, that he would in no way subject his feelings to the money-bags of any man; that he would make no sacrifice of his aspirations for the sake of wealth; that he would not, in fact, sell himself for gold. but he had never said, or intended to say, that money was indifferent to him. much as his uncle understood, he had failed to understand his nephew's mind. but george could not explain it to him now;--so he merely smiled, and let the assertion pass. "well; be it so," said mr. bertram. "but you will see, at any rate, that i have trusted you. why father and son should be so much unlike, god only can understand." and from that time he said little or nothing more about his will. but sir omicron had been wrong. mr. bertram overlived the week, and overlived the fortnight. we must now leave him and his relatives in the house of sickness, and return to arthur wilkinson. chapter xii. mrs. wilkinson's troubles. arthur wilkinson was received at home with open arms and warm embraces. he was an only son, an only brother, the head and stay of his family; and of course he was beloved. his mother wept for joy as she saw the renewed plumpness of his cheeks, and declared that egypt must indeed be a land of fatness; and his sisters surrounded him, smiling and kissing him, and asking questions, as though he were another livingstone. this was very delightful; but a cloud was soon to come across all this sunshine. mrs. wilkinson, always excepting what care she may have had for her son's ill health, had not been unhappy during his absence. she had reigned the female vicaress, without a drawback, praying daily, and in her heart almost hourly, for the continuance in the land of such excellent noblemen as lord stapledean. the curate who had taken arthur's duty had been a very mild young man, and had been quite contented that mrs. wilkinson should leave to him the pulpit and the reading-desk. in all other matters he had been satisfied not to interfere with her power, or to contradict her edicts. "mr. gilliflower has behaved excellently," she said to her son, soon after his return; "and has quite understood my position here. i only wish we could keep him in the parish; but that, of course, is impossible." "i shouldn't want him at all, mother," arthur had replied. "i am as strong as a horse now." "all the same; i should like to have him here," said mrs. wilkinson, in a tone which was the beginning of the battle. how sweet it would have been to her if arthur could have gone to some good neighbouring parish, leaving her, with gabriel gilliflower as her assistant, to manage the souls of hurst staple! and why, as she almost asked herself--why should she not be addressed as the reverend mrs. wilkinson? but the battle had to be fought, and there was to be an end to these sweet dreams. her son had been meek enough, but he was not as meek as mr. gilliflower; and now he was sharpening his arrows, and looking to his bow, and preparing for the war. "is adela at littlebath?" he asked of one of his sisters, on the third or fourth day after his arrival. "yes," said mary. "she is with her aunt. i had a letter from her yesterday." "i wonder whether she would come here if you were to ask her." "oh, that she would," said mary. "i doubt it very much," said the more prudent sophia. mrs. wilkinson heard the conversation, and pondered over it. at the moment she said nothing, pressing down her grief in her deep heart; but that evening, in the book-room, she found arthur alone; and then she began. "you were not in earnest just now about adela, were you, arthur?" "indeed i was, mother; quite in earnest." "she has been very much away from littlebath since her aunt came back from italy to make a home for her. she was with us; and with the harcourts, in london; and, since the break-up there, she was at hadley. it would not be right to miss gauntlet to ask her away so soon." "i don't think miss gauntlet would mind her coming here; and even if she does--" "and then my time is so much taken up--what with the schools, and what with the parish visiting--" "adela will do the visiting with you." "i really had rather not have her just at present; that is, unless you have some very particular reason." "well, mother, i have a particular reason. but if you had rather that she did not come here, i will go to littlebath instead." there was nothing more said on this occasion; but that was the beginning of the battle. mrs. wilkinson could not but know what her son meant; and she now knew that all that she dreaded was to come upon her. it was not that she did not wish to see her son happy, or that she did not think that his being married and settled would tend to his happiness; but she was angry, as other mothers are angry, when their foolish, calf-like boys will go and marry without any incomes on which to support a wife. she said to herself over and over again that night, "i cannot have a second family here in the parsonage; that's certain. and where on earth they're to live, i don't know; and how they're to live when his fellowship is gone, i can't think." and then she shook her head, clothed as it was in her night-cap, and reposing as it was on her pillow. "two thousand pounds is every shilling she has--every shilling." and then she shook her head again. she knew that the ecclesiastical income was her own; for had not the good lord stapledean given it to her? but she had sad thoughts, and feared that even on this point there might be a contest between her and her son. two mornings after this the blow came very suddenly. it was now her habit to go into the book-room after breakfast, and set herself down to, work--as her husband, the former vicar, had done in his time--and as arthur, since his return, usually did the same, they naturally found themselves alone together. on the morning in question, she had no sooner seated herself, with her papers before her, than arthur began. and, alas! he had to tell her, not what he was going to do, but what he had done. "i spoke to you, mother, of going to littlebath the other day." "yes, arthur," said she, taking her spectacles off, and laying them beside her. "i have written to her, instead." "and you have made her an offer of marriage!" "exactly so. i was sure you must have known how my heart stood towards her. it is many years now since i first thought of this; but i was deterred, because i feared that my income--our income, that is--was insufficient." "oh, arthur, and so it is. what will you do? how will you live? adela has got just two thousand pounds--about seventy or eighty pounds a year. and your fellowship will be gone. oh, arthur, how will all the mouths be fed when you have six or seven children round you?" "i'll tell you what my plans are. if adela should accept me--" "oh, accept you! she'll accept you fast enough," said mrs. wilkinson, with the venom with which mothers will sometimes speak of the girls to whom their sons are attached. "it makes me very happy to hear you say so. but i don't know. when i did hint at the matter once before, i got no encouragement." "psha!" said mrs. wilkinson. this sound was music to her son's ears; so he went on with the more cheerfulness to describe his plans. "you see, mother, situated as i am, i have no right to expect any increase of income, or to hope that i shall ever be better able to marry than i am now." "but you might marry a girl who had something to help. there is miss glunter--" "but it so happens that i am attached to adela, and not to miss glunter." "attached! but, of course, you must have your own way. you are of age, and i cannot prevent your marrying the cook-maid if you like. what i want to know is, where do you mean to live?" "here, certainly." "what! in this house?" "certainly. i am bound to live here, as the clergyman of the parish." mrs. wilkinson drew herself up to her full height, put her spectacles on, and looked at the papers before her; then put them off again, and fixed her eyes on her son. "do you think there will be room in the house?" she said. "i fear you would be preparing great discomfort for adela. where on earth would she find room for a nursery? but, arthur, you have not thought of these things." arthur, however, had thought of them very often. he knew where to find the nursery, and the room for adela. his difficulty was as to the rooms for his mother and sisters. it was necessary now that this difference of opinion should be explained. "i suppose that my children, if i have any--" "clergymen always have large families," said mrs. wilkinson. "well, i suppose they'll have the same nursery that we had." "what, and turn sophy and mary out of it!" and then she paused, and began to rearrange her papers. "that will not do at all, arthur," she continued. "it would be unjust in me to allow that; much as i think of your interests, i must of course think of theirs as well." how was he to tell her that the house was his own? it was essentially necessary that he should do so, and that he should do so now. if he gave up the point at the present moment, he might give it up for ever. his resolve was, that his mother and sisters should go elsewhere; but in what words could he explain this resolution to her? "dear mother, i think we should understand each other--" "certainly," said mrs. wilkinson, laying her hands across each other on the table, and preparing for the onslaught. "it is clearly my duty, as clergyman, to live in this parish, and to live in this house." "and it is my duty also, as was excellently explained by lord stapledean after your poor father's death." "my idea is this--" and then he paused, for his heart misgave him when he attempted to tell his mother that she must pack up and turn out. his courage all but failed him. he felt that he was right, and yet he hardly knew how to explain that he was right without appearing to be unnatural. "i do not know that lord stapledean said anything about the house; but if he did, it could make no difference." "not the least, i should think," said the lady. "when he appointed me to the income of the parish, it could hardly be necessary that he should explain that i was to have the house also." "mother, when i accepted the living, i promised him that i would give you three hundred and fifty pounds out of the proceeds; and so i will. adela and i will be very poor, but i shall endeavour to eke out our income; that is, of course, if she consents to marry me--" "psha!" "--to eke out our income by taking pupils. to do that, i must have the house at my own disposal." "and you mean to tell me," said the female vicaress, rising to her feet in her wrath, "that i--that i--am to go away?" "i think it will be better, mother." "and the poor girls!" "for one or two of them there would be room here," said arthur, trying to palliate the matter. "one or two of them! is that the way you would treat your sisters? i say nothing about myself, for i have long seen that you are tired of me. i know how jealous you are because lord stapledean has thought proper to--" she could not exactly remember what phrase would best suit her purpose--"to--to--to place me here, as he placed your poor father before. i have seen it all, arthur. but i have my duty to do, and i shall do it. what i have undertaken in this parish i shall go through with, and if you oppose me i shall apply to his lordship." "i think you have misunderstood lord stapledean." "i have not misunderstood him at all. i know very well what he meant, and i quite appreciate his motives. i have endeavoured to act up to them, and shall continue to do so. i had thought that i had made the house as comfortable to you as any young man could wish." "and so you have." "and yet you want to turn me out of it--out of my own house!" "not to turn you out, mother. if it suits you to remain here for another year--" "it will suit me to remain here for another ten years, if i am spared so long. little viper! i suppose this comes from her. after warming her in my bosom when her father died!" "it can hardly have come from her, seeing that there has never yet been a word spoken between us on the subject. i fear that you greatly mistake the footing on which we stand together. i have no reasonable ground for hoping for a favourable answer." "psha! viper!" exclaimed mrs. wilkinson, in dire wrath. mothers are so angry when other girls, not their own, will get offers; so doubly angry when their own sons make them. "you will make me very unhappy if you speak ill of her," said arthur. "has it ever come into your head to think where your mother and sisters are to live when you turn them out?" said she. "littlebath," suggested arthur. "littlebath!" said mrs. wilkinson, with all the scorn that she could muster to the service. "littlebath! i am to put up with the aunt, i suppose, when you take the niece. but i shall not go to littlebath at your bidding, sir." and so saying, she gathered up her spectacles, and stalked out of the room. arthur was by no means satisfied with the interview, and yet had he been wise he might have been. the subject had been broached, and that in itself was a great deal. and the victory had by no means been with mrs. wilkinson. she had threatened, indeed, to appeal to lord stapledean; but that very threat showed how conscious she was that she had no power of her own to hold her place where she was. he ought to have been satisfied; but he was not so. and now he had to wait for his answer from adela. gentlemen who make offers by letter must have a weary time of it, waiting for the return of post, or for the return of two posts, as was the case in this instance. and arthur had a weary time of it. two evenings he had to pass, after the conversation above recounted, before he got his letter; and dreadful evenings they were. his mother was majestic, glum, and cross; his sisters were silent and dignified. it was clear to him that they had all been told; and so told as to be leagued in enmity against him. what account their mother may have given to them of their future poverty, he knew not; but he felt certain that she had explained to them how cruelly he meant to turn them out on the wide world; unnatural ogre that he was. mary was his favourite, and to her he did say a few words. "mamma has told you what i have done, hasn't she?" "yes, arthur," said mary, demurely. "and what do you think about it?" "think about it!" "yes. do you think she'll accept me?" "oh! she'll accept you. i don't doubt about that." how cheap girls do make themselves when talking of each other! "and will it not be an excellent thing for me?" said he. "but about the house, arthur!" and mary looked very glum. so he said nothing further to any of them. on the day after this he got his answer; and now we will give the two letters. arthur's was not written without much trouble and various copies; but adela's had come straight from her heart at once. hurst staple, april, --. my dear adela, you will be surprised to receive a letter from me, and more so, i am sure, when you read its contents. you have heard, i know, from mary, of my return home. thank god, i am quite strong again. i enjoyed my trip very much. i had feared that it would be very dull before i knew that george bertram would go with me. i wonder whether you recollect the day when i drove you to ripley station! it is eighteen months ago now, i believe; and indeed the time seems much longer. i had thought then to have said to you what i have to say now; but i did not. years ago i thought to do the same, and then also i did not. you will know what i mean. i did not like to ask you to share such poverty, such a troubled house as mine will be. but i have loved you, adela, for years and years. do you remember how you used to comfort me at that grievous time, when i disappointed them all so much about my degree? i remember it so well. it used to lie on my tongue then to tell you that i loved you; but that would have been folly. then came my poor father's death, and the living which i had to take under such circumstances. i made up my mind then that it was my duty to live single. i think i told you, though i am sure you forget that. i am not richer now, but i am older. i seem to care less about poverty on my own behalf; and--though i don't know whether you will forgive me for this--i feel less compunction in asking you to be poor with me. do not imagine from this that i feel confident as to your answer. i am very far from that. but i know that you used to love me as a friend--and i now venture to ask you to love me as my wife. dearest adela! i feel that i may call you so now, even if i am never to call you so again. if you will share the world with me, i will give you whatever love can give--though i can give but little more. i need not tell you how we should be circumstanced. my mother must have three hundred and fifty pounds out of the living as long as she lives; and should i survive her, i must, of course, maintain the girls. but i mean to explain to my mother that she had better live elsewhere. there will be trouble about this; but i am sure that it is right. i shall tell her of this letter to-morrow. i think she knows what my intention is, though i have not exactly told it to her. i need not say how anxious i shall be till i hear from you. i shall not expect a letter till thursday morning; but, if possible, do let me have it then. should it be favourable--though i do not allow myself to have any confidence--but should it be favourable, i shall be at littlebath on monday evening. believe me, that i love you dearly. yours, dear adela, arthur wilkinson. aunt penelope was a lady addicted to very early habits, and consequently she and adela had usually left the breakfast-table before the postman had visited them. from this it resulted that adela received her letter by herself. the first words told her what it contained, and her eyes immediately became suffused with tears. after all, then, her patience was to be rewarded. but it had not been patience so much as love; love that admitted of no change; love on which absence had had no effect; love which had existed without any hope; which had been acknowledged by herself, and acknowledged as a sad misfortune. but now--. she took the letter up, but she could not read it. she turned it over, and at the end, through her tears, she saw those words--"believe me, that i love you dearly." they were not like the burning words, the sweet violent protestations of a passionate lover. but coming from him, they were enough. at last she was to be rewarded. and then at length she read it. ah! yes; she recollected the day well when he had driven her to ripley station, and asked her those questions as he was persuading dumpling to mount the hill. the very words were still in her ears. "would _you_ come to such a house, adela?" ay, indeed, would she--if only she were duly asked. but he--! had it not seemed then as if he almost wished that the proffer should come from her? not to that would she stoop. but as for sharing such a house as his--any house with him! what did true love mean, if she were not ready to do that? and she remembered, too, that comforting of which he spoke. that had been the beginning of it all, when he took those walks along the river to west putford; when she had learned to look for his figure coming through the little wicket at the bottom of their lawn. then she had taxed her young heart with imprudence--but in doing so she had found that it was too late. she had soon told the truth--to herself that is; and throughout she had been true. now she had her reward; there in her hands, pressing it to her heart. he had loved her for years and years, he said. yes, and so had she loved him; and now he should know it. but not quite at once--in some sweet hour of fullest confidence she would whisper it all to him. "i think i told you; though, i am sure, you have forgotten that." forget it! no, not a word, not one of his tones, not a glance of his eyes, as he sat there in her father's drawing-room that morning, all but unable to express his sorrows. she could never forget the effort with which she had prevented the tell-tale blood from burning in her cheeks, or the difficulty with which she had endured his confidence. but she had endured it, and now had come her reward. then he had come to tell her that he was too poor to marry. much as she loved him, she had then almost despised him. but the world had told him to be wiser. the world, which makes so many niggards, had taught him to be freer of heart. now he was worthy of her, now that he cared nothing for poverty. yes, now she had her reward. he had allowed her till the second post for her reply. that was so kind of him, as it was necessary that she should tell her aunt. as to the nature of her reply--as to that she never doubted for a moment. she would consult her aunt; but she would do so with her mind fully made up as to the future. no aunt, no mrs. wilkinson, should rob her of her happiness now that he had spoken. no one should rob him of the comfort of her love! in the evening, after thinking of it for hours, she told her aunt; or, rather, handed to her arthur's letter, that she might read it. miss penelope's face grew very long as she did read it; and she made this remark--"three hundred and fifty pounds! why, my dear, there will be only one hundred and fifty left." "we can't keep our carriage, certainly, aunt." "then you mean to accept him?" "yes, aunt." "oh, dear! oh, dear! what will you do when the children come?" "we must make the best of it, aunt." "oh, dear! oh, dear! and you will have his mother with you always." "if so, then we should not be so very poor; but i do not think that that is what arthur means." there was not much more said about it between them; and at last, in the seclusion of her own bedroom, adela wrote her letter. littlebath, tuesday night. dear arthur, i received your letter this morning; but as you were so kind as to give me a day to answer it, i have put off doing so till i could be quite alone. it will be a very simple answer. i value your love more than anything in the world. you have my whole heart. i hope, for your sake, that the troubles which you speak of will not be many; but whatever they may be, i will share them. if i can, i will lessen them. i hope it is not unmaidenly to say that i have received your dear letter with true delight; i do not know why it should be. we have known each other so long, that it is almost natural that i should love you. i do love you dearly, dearest arthur; and with a heart thankful for god's goodness to me, i will put my hand in yours with perfect trust--fearing nothing, then, as far as this world is concerned. i do not regard the poverty of which you speak, at least not for my own sake. what i have of my own is, i know, very little. i wish now that i could make it more for you. but, no; i will wish for nothing more, seeing that so much has been given to me. everything has been given to me when i have your love. i hope that this will not interfere with your mother's comfort. if anything now could make me unhappy, it would be that she should not be pleased at our prospects. give her my kindest, kindest love; and tell her that i hope she will let me look on her as a mother. i will write to mary very soon; but bid her write to me first. i cannot tell her how happy, how very happy i really am, till she has first wished me joy. i have, of course, told aunt penelope. she, too, says something about poverty. i tell her it is croaking. the honest do not beg their bread; do they, arthur? but in spite of her croaking, she will be very happy to see you on monday, if it shall suit you to come. if so, let me have one other little line. but i am so contented now, that i shall hardly be more so even to have you here. god bless you, my own, own, own dearest. ever yours with truest affection, adela. and i also hope that adela's letter will not be considered unmaidenly; but i have my fears. there will be those who will say that it is sadly deficient in reserve. ah! had she not been reserved enough for the last four or five years? reserve is beautiful in a maiden if it be rightly timed. sometimes one would fain have more of it. but when the heart is full, and when it may speak out; when time, and circumstances, and the world permit--then we should say that honesty is better than reserve. adela's letter was honest on the spur of the moment. her reserve had been the work of years. arthur, at any rate, was satisfied. her letter seemed to him to be the very perfection of words. armed with that he would face his mother, though she appeared armed from head to foot in the stapledean panoply. while he was reading his letter he was at breakfast with them all; and when he had finished it for the second time, he handed it across the table to his mother. "oh! i suppose so," was her only answer, as she gave it him back. the curiosity of the girls was too great now for the composure of their silent dignity. "it is from adela," said mary; "what does she say?" "you may read it," said arthur, again handing the letter across the table. "well, i do wish you joy," said mary, "though there will be so very little money." seeing that arthur, since his father's death, had, in fact, supported his mother and sisters out of his own income, this reception of his news was rather hard upon him. and so he felt it. "you will not have to share the hardships," he said, as he left the room; "and so you need not complain." there was nothing more said about it that morning; but in the evening, when they were alone, he spoke to his sister again. "you will write to her, mary, i hope?" "yes, i will write to her," said mary, half ashamed of herself. "perhaps it is not surprising that my mother should be vexed, seeing the false position in which both she and i have been placed; partly by my fault, for i should not have accepted the living under such conditions." "oh, arthur, you would not have refused it?" "i ought to have done so. but, mary, you and the girls should be ready to receive adela with open arms. what other sister could i have given you that you would have loved better?" "oh, no one; not for her own sake--no one half so well." "then tell her so, and do not cloud her prospects by writing about the house. you have all had shelter and comfort hitherto, and be trustful that it will be continued to you." this did very well with his sister; but the affair with his mother was much more serious. he began by telling her that he should go to littlebath on monday, and be back on wednesday. "then i shall go to bowes on wednesday," said mrs. wilkinson. now we all know that bowes is a long way from staplehurst. the journey has already been made once in these pages. but mrs. wilkinson was as good as her word. "to bowes!" said arthur. "yes, to bowes, sir; to lord stapledean. that is, if you hold to your scheme of turning me out of my own house." "i think it would be better, mother, that we should have two establishments." "and, therefore, i am to make way for you and that--" viper, she was going to say again; but looking into her son's face, she became somewhat more merciful--"for you," she said, "and that chit!" "as clergyman of the parish, i think that i ought to live in the parsonage. you, mother, will have so much the larger portion of the income." "very well. there need be no more words about it. i shall start for bowes on next wednesday." and so she did. arthur wrote his "one other little line." as it was three times as long as his first letter, it shall not be printed. and he did make his visit to littlebath. how happy adela was as she leant trustingly on his arm, and felt that it was her own! he stayed, however, but one night, and was back at staplehurst before his mother started for bowes. chapter xiii. another journey to bowes. mrs. wilkinson did not leave her home for her long and tedious journey without considerable parade. her best new black silk dress was packed up in order that due honour might be done to lord stapledean's hospitality, and so large a box was needed that dumpling and the four-wheeled carriage were hardly able to take her to the railway-station. then there arose the question who should drive her. arthur offered to do so; but she was going on a journey of decided hostility as regarded him, and under such circumstances she could not bring herself to use his services even over a portion of the road. so the stable-boy was her charioteer. she talked about lord stapledean the whole evening before she went. arthur would have explained to her something of that nobleman's character if she would have permitted it. but she would not. when he hinted that she would find lord stapledean austere in his manner, she answered that his lordship no doubt had had his reasons for being austere with so very young a man as arthur had been. when he told her about the bowes hotel, she merely shook her head significantly. a nobleman who had been so generous to her and hers as lord stapledean would hardly allow her to remain at the inn. "i am very sorry that the journey is forced upon me," she said to arthur, as she sat with her bonnet on, waiting for the vehicle. "i am sorry that you are going, mother, certainly," he had answered; "because i know that it will lead to disappointment." "but i have no other course left open to me," she continued. "i cannot see my poor girls turned out houseless on the world." and then, refusing even to lean on her son's arm, she stepped up heavily into the carriage, and seated herself beside the boy. "when shall we expect you, mamma?" said sophia. "it will be impossible for me to say; but i shall be sure to write as soon as i have seen his lordship. good-bye to you, girls." and then she was driven away. "it is a very foolish journey," said arthur. "mamma feels that she is driven to it," said sophia. mrs. wilkinson had written to lord stapledean two days before she started, informing his lordship that it had become very necessary that she should wait upon him on business connected with the living, and therefore she was aware that her coming would not be wholly unexpected. in due process of time she arrived at bowes, very tired and not a little disgusted at the great expense of her journey. she had travelled but little alone, and knew nothing as to the cost of hotels, and not a great deal as to that of railways, coaches, and post-chaises. but at last she found herself in the same little inn which had previously received arthur when he made the same journey. "the lady can have a post-chaise, of course," said the landlady, speaking from the bar. "oh, yes, lord stapledean is at home, safe enough. he's never very far away from it to the best of my belief." "it's only a mile or so, is it?" said mrs. wilkinson. "seven long miles, ma'am," said the landlady. "seven miles! dear, dear. i declare i never was so tired in my life. you can put the box somewhere behind in the post-chaise, can't you?" "yes, ma'am; we can do that. be you a-going to stay at his lordship's, then?" to this question mrs. wilkinson made an ambiguous answer. her confidence was waning, now that she drew near to the centre of her aspirations. but at last she did exactly as her son had done before her. she said she would take her box; but that it was possible she might want a bed that evening. "very possible," the landlady said to herself. "and you'll take a bite of something before you start, ma'am," she said, out loud. but, no; it was only now twelve o'clock, and she would be at bowes lodge a very little after one. she had still sufficient confidence in lord stapledean to feel sure of her lunch. when people reached hurst staple vicarage about that hour, there was always something for them to eat. and so she started. it was april now; but even in april that bleak northern fell was very cold. nothing more inhospitable than that road could be seen. it was unsheltered, swept by every blast, very steep, and mercilessly oppressed by turnpikes. twice in those seven miles one-and-sixpence was inexorably demanded from her. "but i know one gate always clears the other, when they are so near," she argued. "noa, they doant," was all the answer she received from the turnpike woman, who held a baby under each arm. "i am sure the woman is robbing me," said poor mrs. wilkinson. "no, she beant," said the post-boy. they are good hearty people in that part of the world; but they do not brook suspicion, and the courtesies of life are somewhat neglected. and then she arrived at lord stapledean's gate. "be you she what sent the letter?" said the woman at the lodge, holding it only half open. "yes, my good woman; yes," said mrs. wilkinson, thinking that her troubles were now nearly over. "i am the lady; i am mrs. wilkinson." "then my lord says as how you're to send up word what you've got to say." and the woman still stood in the gateway. "send up word!" said mrs. wilkinson. "yees. just send up word. here's jock can rin up." "but jock can't tell his lordship what i have to say to him. i have to see his lordship on most important business," said she, in her dismay. "i'm telling you no more that what my lord said his ain sell. he just crawled down here his ain sell. 'if a woman comes,' said he, 'don't let her through the gate till she sends up word what she's got to say to me.'" and the portress looked as though she were resolved to obey her master's orders. "good heavens! there must be some mistake in this, i'm sure. i am the clergyman of staplehurst--i mean his widow. staplehurst, you know; his lordship's property." "i didna know nothing aboot it." "oh, drive on, post-boy. there must be some mistake. the woman must be making some dreadful mistake." at last the courage of the lodge-keeper gave way before the importance of the post-chaise, and she did permit mrs. wilkinson to proceed. "mither," said the woman's eldest hope, "you'll cotch it noo." "eh, lad; weel. he'll no hang me." and so the woman consoled herself. the house called bowes lodge looked damper and greener, more dull, silent, and melancholy, even than it had done when arthur made his visit. the gravel sweep before the door was covered by weeds, and the shrubs looked as though they had known no gardener's care for years. the door itself did not even appear to be for purposes of ingress and egress, and the post-boy had to search among the boughs and foliage with which the place was overgrown before he could find the bell. when found, it sounded with a hoarse, rusty, jangling noise, as though angry at being disturbed in so unusual a manner. but, rusty and angry as it was, it did evoke a servant--though not without considerable delay. a cross old man did come at last, and the door was slowly opened. "yes," said the man. "the marquis was at home, no doubt. he was in the study. but that was no rule why he should see folk." and then he looked very suspiciously at the big trunk, and muttered something to the post-boy, which mrs. wilkinson could not hear. "will you oblige me by giving my card to his lordship--mrs. wilkinson? i want to see him on very particular business. i wrote to his lordship to say that i should be here." "wrote to his lordship, did you? then it's my opinion he won't see you at all." "yes, he will. if you'll take him my card, i know he'll see me. will you oblige me, sir, by taking it into his lordship?" and she put on her most imperious look. the man went, and mrs. wilkinson sat silent in the post-chaise for a quarter of an hour. then the servant returned, informing her that she was to send in her message. his lordship had given directions at the lodge that she was not to come up, and could not understand how it had come to pass that the lady had forced her way to the hall-door. at any rate, he would not see her till he knew what it was about. now it was impossible for mrs. wilkinson to explain the exact nature of her very intricate case to lord stapledean's butler, and yet she could not bring herself to give up the battle without making some further effort. "it is about the vicarage at hurst staple," said she; "the vicarage at hurst staple," she repeated, impressing the words on the man's memory. "don't forget, now." the man gave a look of ineffable scorn, and then walked away, leaving mrs. wilkinson still in the post-chaise. and now came on an april shower, such as april showers are on the borders of westmoreland. it rained and blew; and after a while the rain turned to sleet. the post-boy buttoned up his coat, and got under the shelter of the portico; the horses drooped their heads, and shivered. mrs. wilkinson wished herself back at hurst staple--or even comfortably settled at littlebath, as her son had once suggested. "his lordship don't know nothing about the vicarage," bellowed out the butler, opening the hall-door only half way, so that his face just appeared above the lock. "oh, dear! oh, dear!" said mrs. wilkinson. "just let me down into the hall, and then i will explain it to you." "them 'orses 'll be foundered as sure as heggs," said the post-boy. mrs. wilkinson at last succeeded in making her way into the hall, and the horses were allowed to go round to the yard. and then at last, after half a dozen more messages to and fro, she was informed that lord stapledean would see her. so dreadful had been the contest hitherto, that this amount of success was very grateful. her feeling latterly had been one of intense hostility to the butler rather than to her son. now that she had conquered that most savage cerberus, all would be pleasant with her. but, alas! she soon found that in passing cerberus she had made good her footing in a region as little desirable as might be. she was ushered into the same book-room in which arthur had been received, and soon found herself seated in the same chair, and on the same spot. lord stapledean was thinner now, even than he had been then; he had a stoop in his shoulders, and his face and hair were more gray. his eyes seemed to his visitor to be as sharp and almost as red as those of ferrets. as she entered, he just rose from his seat and pointed to the chair on which she was to sit. "well, ma'am," said he; "what's all this about the clergyman's house at hurst staple? i don't understand it at all." "no, my lord; i'm sure your lordship can't understand. that's why i have thought it my duty to come all this way to explain it." "all what way?" "all the way from hurst staple, in hampshire, my lord. when your lordship was so considerate as to settle what my position in the parish was to be--" "settle your position in the parish!" "yes, my lord--as to my having the income and the house." "what does the woman mean?" said he, looking down towards the rug beneath his feet, but speaking quite out loud. "settle her position in the parish! why, ma'am, i don't know who you are, and what your position is, or anything about you." "i am the widow of the late vicar, lord stapledean; and when he died--" "i was fool enough to give the living to his son. i remember all about it. he was an imprudent man, and lived beyond his means, and there was nothing left for any of you--wasn't that it?" "yes, my lord," said mrs. wilkinson, who was so troubled in spirit that she hardly knew what to say. "that is, we never lived beyond our means at all, my lord. there were seven children; and they were all educated most respectably. the only boy was sent to college; and i don't think there was any imprudence--indeed i don't, my lord. and there was something saved; and the insurance was always regularly paid; and--" the marquis absolutely glared at her, as she went on with her domestic defence. the household at hurst staple had been creditably managed, considering the income; and it was natural that she should wish to set her patron right. but every word that she said carried her further away from her present object. "and what on earth have you come to me for?" said lord stapledean. "i'll tell your lordship, if you'll only allow me five minutes. your lordship remembers when poor mr. wilkinson died?" "i don't remember anything about it." "your lordship was good enough to send for arthur." "arthur!" "yes, my lord." "who's arthur?" "my boy, my lord. don't you remember? he was just in orders then, and so you were good enough to put him into the living--that is to say, not exactly into the living; but to make him curate, as it were; and you allocated the income to me; and--" "allocated the income!" said lord stapledean, putting up his hands in token of unlimited surprise. "yes, my lord. your lordship saw just how it was; and, as i could not exactly hold the living myself--" "hold the living yourself! why, are you not a woman, ma'am?" "yes, my lord, of course; that was the reason. so you put arthur into the living, and you allocated the income to me. that is all settled. but now the question is about the house." "the woman's mad," said lord stapledean, looking again to the carpet, but speaking quite out loud. "stark mad. i think you'd better go home, ma'am; a great deal better." "my lord, if you'd only give yourself the trouble to understand me--" "i don't understand a word you say. i have nothing to do with the income, or the house, or with you, or with your son." "oh, yes, my lord, indeed you have." "i tell you i haven't, ma'am; and what's more, i won't." "he's going to marry, my lord," continued mrs. wilkinson, beginning to whimper; "and we are to be turned out of the house, unless you will interfere to prevent it. and he wants me to go and live at littlebath. and i'm sure your lordship meant me to have the house when you allocated the income." "and you've come all the way to bowes, have you, because your son wants to enjoy his own income?" "no, my lord; he doesn't interfere about that. he knows he can't touch that, because your lordship allocated it to me--and, to do him justice, i don't think he would if he could. and he's not a bad boy, my lord; only mistaken about this." "oh, he wants his own house, does he?" "but it isn't his own house, you know. it has been my house ever since his father died. and if your lordship will remember--" "i tell you what, mrs. wilkinson; it seems to me that your son should not let you come out so far by yourself--" "my lord!" "and if you'll take my advice, you'll go home as fast as you can, and live wherever he bids you." "but, my lord--" "at any rate, i must beg you not to trouble me any more about the matter. when i was a young man your husband read with me for a few months; and i really think that two presentations to the living have been a sufficient payment for that. i know nothing about your son, and i don't want to know anything. i dare say he's as good as most other clergymen--" "oh, yes; he is, my lord." "but i don't care a straw who lives in the house." "don't you, my lord?" said mrs. wilkinson, very despondently. "not one straw. i never heard such a proposition from a woman in my life--never. and now, if you'll allow me, i'll wish you good-morning, ma'am. good-morning to you." and the marquis made a slight feint, as though to raise himself from his chair. mrs. wilkinson got up, and stood upright before him, with her handkerchief to her eyes. it was very grievous to her to have failed so utterly. she still felt sure that if lord stapledean would only be made to understand the facts of the case, he would even yet take her part. she had come so far to fight her battle, that she could not bring herself to leave the ground as long as a chance of victory remained to her. how could she put the matter in the fewest words, so as to make the marquis understand the very--very truth? "if your lordship would only allow me to recall to your memory the circumstances of the case,--how you, yourself, allocated--" lord stapledean turned suddenly at the bell-rope, and gave it a tremendous pull--then another--and then a third, harder than the others. down came the rope about his ears, and the peal was heard ringing through the house. "thompson," he said to the man, as he entered, "show that lady the door." "yes, my lord." "show her the door immediately." "yes, my lord," said thompson, standing irresolute. "now, ma'am; the post-chaise is waiting." mrs. wilkinson had still strength enough to prevent collapse, and to gather herself together with some little feminine dignity. "i think i have been very badly treated," she said, as she prepared to move. "thompson," shrieked the marquis, in his passion; "show that lady the door." "yes, my lord;" and thompson gracefully waved his hand, pointing down the passage. it was the only way in which he could show mrs. wilkinson the way out. and then, obedient to necessity, she walked forth. never had she held her head so high, or tossed her bonnet with so proud a shake, as she did in getting into that post-chaise. thompson held the handle of the carriage-door: he also offered her his arm, but she despised any such aid. she climbed in unassisted; the post-boy mounted his jade; and so she was driven forth, not without titters from the woman at the lodge-gate. with heavy heart she reached the inn, and sat herself down to weep alone in her bedroom. "so, you've come back?" said the landlady. "ugh!" exclaimed mrs. wilkinson. we will not dwell long on her painful journey back to hurst staple; nor on the wretched reflections with which her mind was laden. she sent on a line by post to her eldest daughter, so that she was expected; and dumpling and the phaëton and the stable-boy were there to meet her. she had feared that arthur would come: but arthur had dreaded the meeting also; and, having talked the matter over with his sisters, had remained at home. he was in the book-room, and hearing the wheels, as the carriage drew up to the door, he went out to greet his mother on the steps. at the first moment of meeting there was nothing said, but she warmly pressed the hand which he held out to her. "what sort of a journey have you had?" said sophia. "oh, it is a dreadful place!" said mrs. wilkinson. "it is not a nice country," said arthur. by this time they were in the drawing-room, and the mother was seated on a sofa, with one of her girls on each side of her. "sophy," she said, "get up for a moment; i want arthur to come here." so sophy did get up, and her son immediately taking her place, put his arm round his mother's waist. "arthur," she whispered to him, "i fear i have been foolish about this." that was all that was ever said to him about the journey to bowes. he was not the man to triumph over his mother's failure. he merely kissed her when her little confession was made, and pressed her slightly with his arm. from that time it was understood that adela was to be brought thither, as soon as might be, to reign the mistress of the vicarage; and that then, what further arrangements might be necessary, were to be made by them all at their perfect leisure. that question of the nursery might, at any rate, remain in abeyance for twelve months. soon after that, it was decided in full conclave, that if adela would consent, the marriage should take place in the summer. very frequent letters passed between hurst staple and littlebath, and mrs. wilkinson no longer alluded to them with severity, or even with dislike. lord stapledean had, at any rate, thoroughly convinced her that the vicarage-house belonged to the vicar--to the vicar male, and not to the vicar female; and now that her eyes had been opened on this point, she found herself obliged to confess that adela gauntlet would not make a bad wife. "of course we shall be poor, mother; but we expect that." "i hope you will, at least, be happy," said mrs. wilkinson, not liking at present to dwell on the subject of their poverty, as her conscience began to admonish her with reference to the three hundred and fifty pounds per annum. "i should think i might be able to get pupils," continued arthur. "if i had two at one hundred and fifty pounds each, we might be comfortable enough." "perhaps adela would not like to have lads in the house." "ah, mother, you don't know adela. she will not object to anything because she does not herself like it." and in this manner that affair was so far settled. and then adela was invited to hurst staple, and she accepted the invitation. she was not coy in declaring the pleasure with which she did so, nor was she bashful or shamefaced in the matter. she loved the man that she was to marry--had long loved him; and now it was permitted to her to declare her love. now it was her duty to declare it, and to assure him, with all the pretty protestations in her power, that her best efforts should be given to sweeten his cup, and smooth his path. her duty now was to seek his happiness, to share his troubles, to be one with him. in her mind it was not less her duty now than it would be when, by god's ordinance, they should be one bone and one flesh. while their mother had held her seat on her high horse, with reference to that question of the house, sophia and mary had almost professed hostility to adela. they had given in no cordial adherence to their brother's marriage; but now they were able to talk of their coming sister with interest and affection. "i know that adela would like this, arthur;" and "i'm sure that adela would prefer that;" and "when we're gone, you know, adela will do so and so." arthur received all this with brotherly love and the kindest smiles, and thanked god in his heart that his mother had taken that blessed journey to bowes lodge. "adela," he once said to her, as they were walking together, one lonely spring evening, along the reedy bank of that river, "adela, had i had your courage, all this would have been settled long since." "i don't know," she said; "but i am sure of this, that it is much better as it is. now we may fairly trust that we do know our own minds. love should be tried, perhaps, before it is trusted." "i should have trusted yours at the first word you could have spoken, the first look you would have given me." "and i should have done so too; and then we might have been wrong. is it not well as it is, arthur?" and then he declared that it was very well; very well, indeed. ah, yes! how could it have been better with him? he thought too of his past sorrows, his deep woes, his great disappointments; of that bitter day at oxford when the lists came down; of the half-broken heart with which he had returned from bowes; of the wretchedness of that visit to west putford. he thought of the sad hours he had passed, seated idle and melancholy in the vicarage book-room, meditating on his forlorn condition. he had so often wailed over his own lot, droning out a dirge, a melancholy væ victis for himself! and now, for the first time, he could change the note. now, his song was io triumphe, as he walked along. he shouted out a joyful pæan with the voice of his heart. had he taken the most double of all firsts, what more could fate have given to him? or, at any rate, what better could fate have done for him? and to speak sooth, fate had certainly given to him quite as much as he had deserved. and then it was settled that they should be married early in the ensuing june. "on the first," said arthur. "no; the thirtieth," said adela, laughing. and then, as women always give more than they claim, it was settled that they should be married on the eleventh. let us trust that the day may always be regarded as propitious. chapter xiv. mr. bertram's death. sir henry harcourt had certainly played his hand badly, considering the number of trumps that he had held, and that he had turned up an honour in becoming solicitor-general. he was not now in a happy condition. he was living alone in his fine house in eaton square; he was out of office; he was looked on with an evil eye by his former friends, in that he had endeavoured to stick to office too long; he was deeply in debt, and his once golden hopes with reference to mr. bertram were becoming fainter and fainter every day. nor was this all. not only did he himself fear that he should get but little of the hadley money, but his creditors had begun to have the same fears. they had heard that he was not to be the heir, and were importunate accordingly. it might be easy to stave them off till mr. bertram should be under the ground; but then--what then? his professional income might still be large, though not increasing as it should have done. and what lawyer can work well if his mind be encumbered by deep troubles of his own? he had told george bertram that he would go down to hadley and claim his wife if he did not receive a favourable message from his wife's grandfather; and he now determined to take some such step. he felt himself driven to do something; to bring about some arrangement; to make some use of the few remaining grains of sand which were still to run through the glass that was measuring out the lees of life for that old man. so thinking, but not quite resolved as to what he would do when he reached the house, he started for hadley. he knew that george was still there, that his wife was there, and that mr. bertram was there; and he trusted that he should not fail at any rate in seeing them. he was not by nature a timid man, and had certainly not become so by education; but, nevertheless, his heart did not beat quite equably within his bosom when he knocked at the rich man's door. of course he was well known to the servant. at first he asked after mr. bertram, and was told that he was much the same--going very fast; the maid did not think that sir henry could see him. the poor girl, knowing that the gentleman before her was not a welcome visitor, stood in the doorway, as though to guard the ladies who were in the drawing-room. "who is here now?" said sir henry. "who is staying here?" "mr. george," said the girl, thinking that she would be safest in mentioning his name, "and miss baker, sir." "lady harcourt is here, i suppose?" "yes, sir; her ladyship is in the drawing-room," and she shook in her shoes before him as she made the announcement. for a moment sir henry was inclined to force his way by the trembling young woman, and appear before the ladies. but then, what would he get by it? angry as he was with all the hadley people, he was still able to ask himself that question. supposing that he were there, standing before his wife; supposing even that he were able to bring her to his feet by a glance, how much richer would that make him? what bills would that pay? he had loved his wife once with a sort of love; but that day was gone. when she had been at such pains to express her contempt for him, all tenderness had deserted him. it might be wise to make use of her--not to molest her, as long as her grandfather lived. when the old miser should have gone, it would be time for him to have his revenge. in the meantime, he could gain nothing by provoking her. so he told the servant that he wished to see mr. george bertram. as it happened, george and lady harcourt were together, and miss baker was keeping watch with the sick man upstairs. the drawing-room was close to the hall, and caroline's eager ear caught the tones of her husband's voice. "it is sir henry," she said, becoming suddenly pale, and rising to her feet, as though prepared to retreat to some protection. bertram's duller ear could not hear him, but he also rose from his chair. "are you sure it is he?" "i heard his voice plainly," said caroline, in a tremulous whisper. "do not leave me, george. whatever happens, do not leave me." they called each other now by their christian names, as cousins should do; and their intercourse with each other had never been other than cousinly since that parting in eaton square. and then the door was opened, and the maid-servant, in the glummest of voices, announced that sir henry wanted to see mr. george. "show him into the dining-room," said george; and then following the girl after a minute's interval, he found himself once more in the presence of his old friend. sir henry was even darker looking, and his brow still more forbidding than at that last interview at george's chambers. he was worn and care-marked, and appeared to be ten years older than was really the case. he did not wait till george should address him, but began at once:-- "bertram," said he, with a voice intended to be stern, "there are two persons here i want to see, your uncle and my wife." "i make no objection to your seeing either, if they are willing to see you." "yes; but that won't do for me. my duty compels me to look after them both, and i mean to do so before i leave hadley." "i will send your name to them at once," said george; "but it must depend on them whether they will see you." and so saying, he rang the bell, and sent a message up to his uncle. nothing was said till the girl returned. sir henry paced the room backward and forward, and george stood leaning with his back against the chimney-piece. "mr. bertram says that he'll see sir henry, if he'll step up stairs," said the girl. "very well. am i to go up now?" "if you please, sir." bertram followed sir henry to the door, to show him the room; but the latter turned round on the stairs, and said that he would prefer to have no one present at the interview. "i will only open the door for you," said the other. this he did, and was preparing to return, when his uncle called him. "do not go away, george," said he. "sir henry will want you to show him down again." and so they stood together at the bedside. "well, sir henry, this is kind of you," said he, putting his thin, bony hand out upon the coverlid, by way of making an attempt at an englishman's usual greeting. sir henry took it gently in his, and found it cold and clammy. "it is nearly all over now, sir henry," said the old man. "i hope not," said the visitor, with the tone usual on such occasions. "you may rally yet, mr. bertram." "rally!" and there was something in the old man's voice that faintly recalled the bitter railing sound of other days. "no; i don't suppose i shall ever rally much more." "well; we can only hope for the best. that's what i do, i can assure you." "that is true. we do hope for the best--all of us. i can still do that, if i do nothing else." "of course," said sir henry. and then he stood still for a while, meditating how best he might make use of his present opportunity. what could he say to secure some fraction of the hundreds of thousands which belonged to the dying man? that he had a right to at least a moiety of them his inmost bosom told him; but how should he now plead his rights? perhaps after all it would have been as well for him to have remained in london. "mr. bertram," at last he said, "i hope you won't think it unbecoming in me if i say one word about business in your present state?" "no--no--no," said the old man. "i can't do much, as you see; but i'll endeavour to listen." "you can't be surprised that i should be anxious about my wife." "umph!" said mr. bertram. "you haven't treated her very well, it seems." "who says so?" "a woman wouldn't leave a fine house in london, to shut herself up with a sick old man here, if she were well treated. i don't want any one to tell me that." "i can hardly explain all this to you now, sir; particularly--" "particularly as i am dying. no, you cannot. george, give me a glass of that stuff. i am very weak, sir henry, and can't say much more to you." "may i ask you this one question, sir? have you provided for your granddaughter?" "provided for her!" and the old man made a sadly futile attempt to utter the words with that ominous shriek which a few years since would have been sure to frighten any man who would have asked such a question. "what sort of man can he be, george, to come to me now with such a question?" and so saying, he pulled the clothes over him as though resolved to hold no further conversation. "he is very weak," said george. "i think you had better leave him." a hellish expression came across the lawyer's face. "yes," he said to himself; "go away, that i may leave you here to reap the harvest by yourself. go away, and know myself to be a beggar." he had married this man's grandchild, and yet he was to be driven from his bedside like a stranger. "tell him to go," said mr. bertram. "he will know it all in a day or two." "you hear what he says," whispered george. "i do hear," muttered the other, "and i will remember." "he hardly thinks i would alter my will now, does he? perhaps he has pen and ink in his pocket, ready to do it." "i have only spoken in anxiety about my wife," said sir henry; "and i thought you would remember that she was your child's daughter." "i do remember it. george, why doesn't he leave me?" "harcourt, it will be better that you should go," said bertram; "you can have no idea how weak my uncle is;" and he gently opened the door. "good-bye, mr. bertram. i had not intended to disturb you." and so saying, sir henry slunk away. "you know what his will is, of course," said sir henry, when they were again in the dining-room. "i have not the slightest idea on the subject," said the other; "not the remotest conception. he never speaks to me about it." "well; and now for lady harcourt. where shall i find her?" to this question george gave no answer; nor was he able to give any. caroline was no longer in the drawing-room. sir henry insisted that he would see her, and declared his intention of staying in the house till he did so. but miss baker at last persuaded him that all his efforts would be useless. nothing but force would induce lady harcourt to meet him. "then force shall be used," said sir henry. "at any rate not now," said george. "what, sir! do you set yourself up as her protector? is she base enough to allow you to interfere between her and her husband?" "i am her protector at the present moment, sir henry. what passed between us long since has been now forgotten. but we are still cousins; and while she wants protection, i shall give it to her." "oh, you will; will you?" "certainly. i look upon her as though she were my sister. she has no other brother." "that's very kind of you, and very complaisant of her. but what if i say that i don't choose that she should have any such brother? perhaps you think that as i am only her husband, i ought not to have any voice in the matter?" "i do not suppose that you can care for her much, after the word you once used to her." "and what the devil is it to you what word i used to her? that's the tack you go on, is it? now, i'll tell you fairly what i shall do. i will wait till the breath is out of that old man's body, and then i shall take my wife out of this house--by force, if force be necessary." and so saying, sir henry turned to the front door, and took his departure, without making any further adieu. "what dreadful trouble we shall have!" whimpered miss baker, almost in tears. things went on at hadley for three days longer without any change, except that mr. bertram became weaker, and less inclined to speak. on the third morning, he did say a few words:--"george, i begin to think i have done wrong about you; but i fear it is too late." his nephew declared that he was sure that things would turn out well, muttering any platitude which might quiet the dying man. "but it is too late, isn't it?" "for any change in your will, sir? yes, it is too late. do not think of it." "ah, yes; it would be very troublesome--very troublesome. oh, me! it has nearly come now, george; very nearly." it had very nearly come. he did not again speak intelligibly to any of them. in his last hours he suffered considerably, and his own thoughts seemed to irritate him. but when he did mutter a few words, they seemed to refer to trivial matters--little plagues which dying men feel as keenly as those who are full of life. to the last he preferred george either to his niece or to his granddaughter; and was always best pleased when his nephew was by him. once or twice he mentioned mr. pritchett's name; but he showed his dissent when they proposed to send for his man of business. on the afternoon of that day, he breathed his last in the presence of his three relatives. his nearest relative, indeed, was not there; nor did they dare to send for him. he had latterly expressed so strong a disgust at the very name of sir lionel, that they had ceased by common consent to mention bertram's father. he seemed to be aware that his last moments were approaching, for he would every now and then raise his withered hand from off the bed, as though to give them warning. and so he died, and the eyes of the rich man were closed. he died full of years, and perhaps in one, and that the most usual acceptation of the word, full of honour. he owed no man a shilling, had been true to all his engagements, had been kind to his relatives with a rough kindness: he had loved honesty and industry, and had hated falsehood and fraud: to him the herd, born only to consume the fruits, had ever been odious; that he could be generous, his conduct in his nephew's earliest years had plainly shown: he had carried, too, in his bosom a heart not altogether hardened against his kind, for he had loved his nephew, and, to a certain extent, his niece also, and his granddaughter. but in spite of all this, he had been a bad man. he had opened his heart to that which should never find admittance to the heart of man. the iron of his wealth had entered into his very soul. he had made half a million of money, and that half-million had been his god--his only god--and, indeed, men have but one god. the true worship of the one loved shrine prevents all other worship. the records of his money had been his deity. there, in his solitude at hadley, he had sat and counted them as they grew, mortgages and bonds, deeds and scrip, shares in this and shares in that, thousands in these funds and tens of thousands in those. to the last, he had gone on buying and selling, buying in the cheap market and selling in the dear; and everything had gone well with him. everything had gone well with him! such was the city report of old mr. bertram. but let the reader say how much, or rather how little, had gone well. faustus-like, he had sold himself to a golden mephistopheles, and his margaret had turned to stone within his embrace. how many of us make faust's bargain! the bodily attendance of the devil may be mythical; but in the spirit he is always with us. and how rarely have we the power to break the contract! the london merchant had so sold himself. he had given himself body and soul to a devil. the devil had promised him wealth, and had kept his word. and now the end had come, though the day of his happiness had not yet arrived. but the end had not come. all this was but the beginning. if we may believe that a future life is to be fitted to the desires and appetites as they are engendered here, what shall we think of the future of a man whose desire has been simply for riches, whose appetite has been for heaps of money? how miserably is such a poor wretch cheated! how he gropes about, making his bargain with blind eyes; thinking that he sees beyond his neighbours! who is so green, so soft, so foolishly the victim of the sorriest sharper as this man? weigh out all his past, and what has it been? weigh out his future--if you can--and think what it must be. poor, dull faustus! what! thou hast lost everything among the thimble-riggers? poor, dull, stupid wretch! mr. bertram had not been a good man, nor had he been a wise man. but he had been highly respectable, and his memory is embalmed in tons of marble and heaps of monumental urns. epitaphs, believed to be true, testify to his worth; and deeds, which are sometimes as false as epitaphs, do the same. he is a man of whom the world has agreed to say good things; to whom fame, that rich city fame, which speaks with a cornet-a-piston made of gold, instead of a brazen trumpet, has been very kind.--but, nevertheless, he was not a good man. as regards him, it will only remain for us to declare what was his will, and that shall be done in the next chapter. it was settled that he should be buried on the sixth day after his death, and that his will should be read after his funeral. george had now to manage everything, and to decide who should be summoned to the reading. there were two whom he felt bound to call thither, though to them the reading he knew would be a bitter grief. there was, in the first place, his father, sir lionel, whose calls for money had not of late decreased in urgency. it would be seemly that he should come; but the opening of the will would not be a pleasant hour for him. then there would be sir henry. he also was, of course, summoned, painful as it was to his wife to have to leave the house at such a time. nor, indeed, did he wait to be invited; for he had written to say that he should be there before he received george bertram's note. mr. pritchett also was sent for, and the old man's attorney. and then, when these arrangements had been made, the thoughts of the living reverted from the dead to themselves. how should those three persons who now occupied that house so lovingly provide for themselves? and where should they fix their residence? george's brotherly love for his cousin was very well in theory: it was well to say that the past had been forgotten; but there are things for which no memory can lose its hold. he and caroline had loved each other with other love than that of a brother and a sister; and each knew that they two might not dwell under the same roof. it was necessary to talk over these matters, and in doing so it was very hard not to touch on forbidden subjects. caroline had made up her mind to live again with her aunt--had made up her mind to do so, providing that her husband's power was not sufficient to prevent it. miss baker would often tell her that the law would compel her to return to her lord; that she would be forced to be again the mistress of the house in eaton square, and again live as the prosperous wife of the prosperous politician. to this caroline had answered but little; but that little had been in a manner that had thoroughly frightened miss baker. nothing, lady harcourt had said, nothing should induce her to do so. "but if you cannot help yourself, caroline?" "i will help myself. i will find a way to prevent, at any rate, that--" so much she had said, but nothing further: and so much miss baker had repeated to george bertram, fearing the worst. it was not till the day before the funeral that caroline spoke to her cousin on the subject. "george," she said to him, "shall we be able to live here?--to keep on this house?" "you and miss baker, you mean?" "yes; aunt and i. we should be as quiet here as anywhere,--and i am used to these people now." "it must depend on the will. the house was his own property; but, doubtless, miss baker could rent it." "we should have money enough for that, i suppose." "i should hope so. but we none of us know anything yet. all your own money--the income, at least, coming from it--is in sir henry's hands." "i will never condescend to ask for that," she said. and then there was a pause in their conversation. "george," she continued, after a minute or two, "you will not let me fall into his hands?" he could not help remembering that his own mad anger had already thrown her into the hands which she now dreaded so terribly. oh, if those two last years might but pass away as a dream, and leave him free to clasp her to his bosom as his own! but the errors of past years will not turn themselves to dreams. there is no more solid stuff in this material world than they are. they never melt away, or vanish into thin air. "not if it can be avoided," he replied. "ah! but it can be avoided; can it not? say that you know it can. do not make me despair. it cannot be that he has a right to imprison me." "i hardly know what he has a right to do. but he is a stern man, and will not easily be set aside." "but you will not desert me?" "no; i will not desert you. but--" "but what?" "for your sake, caroline, we must regard what people will say. our names have been mixed together; but not as cousins." "i know, i know. but, george, you do not suppose i intended you should live here? i was not thinking of that. i know that that may not be." "for myself, i shall keep my chambers in london. i shall just be able to starve on there; and then i shall make one more attempt at the bar." "and i know you will succeed. you are made for success at last; i have always felt that." "a man must live somehow. he must have some pursuit; and that is more within my reach than any other: otherwise i am not very anxious for success. what is the use of it all? of what use will it be to me now?" "oh, george!" "well, is it not true?" "do not tell me that i have made shipwreck of all your fortune!" "no; i do not say that you have done it. it was i that drove the bark upon the rocks; i myself. but the timbers on that account are not the less shattered." "you should strive to throw off that feeling. you have so much before you in the world." "i have striven. i have thought that i could love other women. i have told others that i did love them; but my words were false, and they and i knew that they were false. i have endeavoured to think of other things--of money, ambition, politics; but i can care for none of them. if ever a man cut his own throat, i have done so." she could not answer him at once, because she was now sobbing, and the tears were streaming from her eyes. "and what have i done?" she said at last. "if your happiness is shattered, what must mine be? i sometimes think that i cannot live and bear it. with him," she added, after another pause, "i will not live and bear it. if it comes to that, i will die, george;" and rising from her chair, she walked across the room, and took him sharply by the arm. "george," she said, "you will protect me from that; i say that you will save me from that." "protect you!" said he, repeating her words, and hardly daring to look into her face. how could he protect her? how save her from the lord she had chosen for herself? it might be easy enough for him to comfort her now with promises; but he could not find it in his heart to hold out promises which he could not fulfil. if, after the reading of the will, sir henry harcourt should insist on taking his wife back with him, how could he protect her--he, of all men in the world? "you will not give me up to him!" she said, wildly. "if you do, my blood will lie upon your head. george! george! say that you will save me from that! to whom can i look now but to you?" "i do not think he will force you away with him." "but if he does? will you stand by and see me so used?" "certainly not; but, caroline--" "well." "it will be better that i should not be driven to interfere. the world will forget that i am your cousin, but will remember that i was once to have been your husband." "the world! i am past caring for the world. it is nothing to me now if all london knows how it is with me. i have loved, and thrown away my love, and tied myself to a brute. i have loved, and do love; but my love can only be a sorrow to me. i do not fear the world; but god and my conscience i do fear. once, for one moment, george, i thought that i would fear nothing. once, for one moment, i was still willing to be yours; but i remembered what you would think of me if i should so fall, and i repented my baseness. may god preserve me from such sin! but, for the world--why should you or i fear the world?" "it is for you that i fear it. it would grieve me to hear men speak lightly of your name." "let them say what they please; the wretched are always trodden on. let them say what they please. i deserved it all when i stood before the altar with that man; when i forbade my feet to run, or my mouth to speak, though i knew that i hated him, and owned it to my heart. what shall i do, george, to rid me of that sin?" she had risen and taken hold of his arm when first she asked him to protect her, and she was still standing beside the chair on which he sat. he now rose also, and said a few gentle words, such as he thought might soothe her. "yes," she continued, as though she did not heed him, "i said to myself almost twenty times during that last night that i hated him in my very soul, that i was bound in honour even yet to leave him--in honour, and in truth, and in justice. but my pride forbade it--my pride and my anger against you." "it is useless to think of it now, dear." "ah, yes! quite useless. would that i had done it then--then, at the last moment. they asked me whether i would love that man. i whispered inwardly to myself that i loathed him; but my tongue said 'yes,' out loud. can such a lie as that, told in god's holy temple, sworn before his own altar--can such perjury as that ever be forgiven me? "but i shall sin worse still if i go back to him," she continued, after a while. "i have no right, george, to ask anything from your kindness as a cousin; but for your love's sake, your old love, which you cannot forget, i do ask you to save me from this. but it is this rather that i ask, that you will save me from the need of saving myself." that evening george sat up late alone, preparing for the morrow's work, and trying to realize the position in which he found himself. mr. pritchett, had he been there, would have whispered into his ears, again and again, those ominous and all-important words, "half a million of money, mr. george; half a million of money!" and, indeed, though mr. pritchett was not there, the remembrance of those overflowing coffers did force themselves upon his mind. who can say that he, if placed as bertram then was, would not think of them? he did think of them--not over deeply, nor with much sadness. he knew that they were not to be his; neither the whole of them, nor any part of them. so much his uncle had told him with sufficient plainness. he knew also that they might all have been his: and then he thought of that interview in which mr. bertram had endeavoured to beg from him a promise to do that for which his own heart so strongly yearned. yes; he might have had the bride, and the money too. he might have been sitting at that moment with the wife of his bosom, laying out in gorgeous plans the splendour of their future life. it would be vain to say that there was no disappointment at his heart. but yet there was within his breast a feeling of gratified independence which sufficed to support him. at least he might boast that he had not sold himself; not aloud, but with that inward boasting which is so common with most of us. there was a spirit within him endowed with a greater wealth than any which mr. pritchett might be able to enumerate; and an inward love, the loss of which could hardly have been atoned for even by the possession of her whom he had lost. nor was this the passion which men call self-love. it was rather a vigorous knowledge of his own worth as a man; a strong will, which taught him that no price was sufficient to buy his assent that black should be reckoned white, or white be reckoned black. his uncle, he knew, had misunderstood him. in rejecting the old man's offers, he had expressed his contempt for riches--for riches, that is, as any counterbalance to independence. mr. bertram had taken what he said for more than it was worth; and had supposed that his nephew, afflicted with some singular lunacy, disliked money for its own sake. george had never cared to disabuse his uncle's mind. let him act as he will, he had said to himself, it is not for me to dictate to him, either on the one side or the other. and so the error had gone on. to-morrow morning the will would be read, and george would have to listen to the reading of it. he knew well enough that the world looked on him as his uncle's probable heir, and that he should have to bear mr. pritchett's hardly expressed pity, sir henry's malignant pleasure, and sir lionel's loud disgust. all this was nearly as bad to him as the remembrance of what he had lost; but by degrees he screwed his courage up to the necessary point of endurance. "what is pritchett to me, with his kind, but burdensome solicitude? what sir henry's mad anger? how can they affect my soul? or what even is my father? let him rave. i care not to have compassion on myself; why should his grief assail me--grief which is so vile, so base, so unworthy of compassion?" and thus schooling himself for the morrow, he betook himself to bed. chapter xv. the will. the only attendants at old mr. bertram's funeral were his nephew, mr. pritchett, and the hadley doctor. the other gentlemen were to be present only at the more interesting ceremony of reading the will. sir lionel had written to say that he was rather unwell; that he certainly would come up from littlebath so as to be present at the latter performance; but that the very precarious state of his health, and the very inconvenient hours of the trains, unhappily prevented him from paying the other last sad duty to his brother's remains. sir henry harcourt had plainly demanded at what hour the will would be read; and mr. stickatit, junior--mr. george stickatit--of the firm of dry and stickatit, had promised to be at hadley punctually at two p.m. and he kept his word. mr. pritchett came down by an early train, and, as was fit on such an occasion, was more melancholy than usual. he was very melancholy and very sad, for he felt that that half-million of money was in a great jeopardy; and, perhaps, even the death of his old friend of forty years' standing may have had some effect on him. it was a mingled feeling that pervaded him. "oh, mr. george!" he said, just before they went to the churchyard, "we are grass of the field, just grass of the field; here to-day, and gone to-morrow; flourishing in the morning, and cast into the oven before night! it behoves such frail, impotent creatures to look close after their interests--half a million of money! i'm afraid you didn't think enough about it, mr. george." and then the hadley bells were rung again; but they were not rung loudly. it seemed to bertram that no one noticed that anything more than usually sad was going on. he could hardly realise it to himself that he was going to put under the ground almost his nearest relative. the bells rang out a dirge, but they did it hardly above their breath. there were but three boys gathered at the little gate before the door to see the body of the rich man carried to his last home. george stood with his back to the empty dining-room fireplace: on one side stood mr. pritchett, and on the other the barnet doctor. very few words passed between them, but they were not in their nature peculiarly lugubrious. and then there was a scuffling heard on the stairs--a subdued, decent undertaker's scuffling--as some hour or two before had been heard the muffled click of a hammer. feet scuffled down the stairs, outside the dining-room door, and along the passage. and then the door was opened, and in low, decent undertaker's voice, red-nosed, sombre, well-fed mr. mortmain told them that they were ready. "these are yours, sir," and he handed a pair of black gloves to george. "and these are yours, sir," and he gave another pair to the doctor. but the doctor held them instead of putting them on; otherwise mr. mortmain could not be expected to change them after the ceremony for a pair of lighter colour. they understood each other; and what could a country doctor do with twenty or thirty pairs of black gloves a year? "and these yours, mr. pritchett." "oh, mr. george!" sighed pritchett. "to think it should come to this! but he was a good gentleman; and very successful--very successful." there were not ten people in the church or in the churchyard during the whole time of the funeral. to think that a man with half a million of money could die and be got rid of with so little parade! what money could do--in a moderate way--was done. the coffin was as heavy as lead could make it. the cloth of the best. the plate upon it was of silver, or looked like it. there was no room for an equipage of hearses and black coaches, the house was so unfortunately near to the churchyard. it was all done in a decent, sombre, useful, money-making way, as beseemed the remains of such a man. but it was on 'change that he was truly buried; in capel court that his funeral sermon was duly preached. these were the souls that knew him, the ears to which his name loomed large. he had been true and honest in all his dealings--there, at least. he had hurt nobody by word or deed--excepting in the way of trade. and had kept his hands from picking and stealing--from all picking, that is, not warranted by city usage, and from all stealing that the law regards as such. therefore, there, on 'change, they preached his funeral sermon loudly, and buried him with all due honours. two had been named for the reading of the will, seeing that a train arrived at . p.m. and, therefore, when the ceremony was over, george and mr. pritchett had to sit together in the dining-room till that time arrived. the doctor, who did not expect much from the will, had gone away, perhaps to prepare other friends for similar occupation. it was a tedious hour that they so passed, certainly; but at last it did make itself away. lunch was brought in; and the sherry, which had been handed round with biscuits before the funeral, was again put on the table. mr. pritchett liked a glass of sherry, though it never seemed to have other effect on him than to make his sadness of a deeper dye. but at last, between this occupation and the muttering of a few scraps of a somewhat worldly morality, the hour did wear itself away, and the hand of the old clock pointed to two. the three gentlemen had come down by the same train, and arrived in a fly together. mr. george stickatit, junior, paid for the accommodation; which was no more than right, for he could put it in the bill, and sir lionel could not. the mind of sir henry was too much intent on other things to enable him to think about the fly. "well, george," said sir lionel; "so it's all over at last. my poor brother! i wish i could have been with you at the funeral; but it was impossible. the ladies are not here?"--this he added in a whisper. he could not well talk about lady harcourt, and he was not at the present moment anxious to see miss baker. "they are not here to-day," said george, as he pressed his father's hand. he did not think it necessary to explain that they were staying at good old mrs. jones's, on the other side of the green. "i should have been down for the funeral," said mr. stickatit; "but i have been kept going about the property, ever since the death, up to this moment, i may say. there's the document, gentlemen." and the will was laid on the table. "the personalty will be sworn under five. the real will be about two more. well, pritchett, and how are you this morning?" sir henry said but little to anybody. bertram put out his hand to him as he entered, and he just took it, muttering something; and then, having done so, he sat himself down at the table. his face was not pleasant to be seen; his manner was ungracious, nay, more than that, uncourteous--almost brutal; and it seemed as though he were prepared to declare himself the enemy of all who were there assembled. to sir lionel he was known, and it may be presumed that some words had passed between them in the fly; but there in the room he said no word to any one, but sat leaning back in an arm-chair, with his hands in his pockets, scowling at the table before him. "a beautiful day, is it not, mr. pritchett?" said sir lionel, essaying to make things pleasant, after his fashion. "a beautiful day--outwardly, sir lionel," sighed mr. pritchett. "but the occasion is not comfortable. we must all die, though; all of us, mr. george." "but we shall not all of us leave such a will as that behind us," said mr. stickatit. "come, gentlemen, are we ready? shall we sit down?" george got a chair for his father, and put it down opposite to that of sir henry's. mr. pritchett humbly kept himself in one corner. the lawyer took the head of the table, and broke open the envelope which contained the will with a degree of gusto which showed that the occupation was not disagreeable to him. "mr. bertram," said he, "will you not take a chair?" "thank you, no; i'll stand here, if you please," said george. and so he kept his position with his back to the empty fireplace. all of them, then, were somewhat afraid of having their disappointment read in their faces, and commented upon by the others. they were all of them schooling themselves to bear with an appearance of indifference the tidings which they dreaded to hear. all of them, that is, except the attorney. he hoped nothing, and feared nothing. mr. pritchett nearly closed his eyes, and almost opened his mouth, and sat with his hands resting on his stomach before him, as though he were much too humble to have any hopes of his own. sir lionel was all smiles. what did he care? not he. if that boy of his should get anything, he, as an affectionate father, would, of course, be glad. if not, why then his dear boy could do without it. that was the intended interpretation of his look. and judging of it altogether, he did not do it badly; only he deceived nobody. on such occasions, one's face, which is made up for deceit, never does deceive any one. but, in truth, sir lionel still entertained a higher hope than any other of the listeners there. he did not certainly expect a legacy himself, but he did think that george might still be the heir. as sir henry was not to be, whose name was so likely? and, then, if his son, his dear son george, should be lord of two, nay, say only one, of those many hundred thousand pounds, what might not a fond father expect? sir henry was all frowns; and yet he was not quite hopeless. the granddaughter, the only lineal descendant of the dead man, was still his wife. anything left to her must in some sort be left to him, let it be tied up with ever so much care. it might still be probable that she might be named the heiress--perhaps the sole heiress. it might still be probable that the old man had made no new will since caroline had left his home in eaton square. at any rate, there would still be a ground, on which to fight, within his reach, if lady harcourt should be in any way enriched under the will. and if so, no tenderness on his part should hinder him from fighting out that fight as long as he had an inch on which to stand. bertram neither hoped anything, nor feared anything, except this--that they would look at him as a disappointed man. he knew that he was to have nothing; and although, now that the moment had come, he felt that wealth might possibly have elated him, still the absence of it did not make him in any degree unhappy. but it did make him uncomfortable to think that he should be commiserated by mr. pritchett, sneered at by harcourt, and taunted by his father. "well, gentlemen, are we ready?" said mr. stickatit again. they were all ready, and so mr. stickatit began. i will not give an acute critic any opportunity for telling me that the will, as detailed by me, was all illegal. i have not by me the ipsissima verba; nor can i get them now, as i am very far from doctors' commons. so i will give no verbal details at all. the will, moreover, was very long--no less than fifteen folios. and that amount, though it might not be amiss in a three-volume edition, would be inconvenient when the book comes to be published for eighteen-pence. but the gist of the will was as follows. it was dated in the october last gone by, at the time when george was about to start for egypt, and when lady harcourt had already left her husband. it stated that he, george bertram, senior, of hadley, being in full use of all his mental faculties, made this as his last will and testament. and then he willed and devised-- firstly, that george stickatit, junior, of the firm of day and stickatit, and george bertram, junior, his nephew, should be his executors; and that a thousand pounds each should be given to them, provided they were pleased to act in that capacity. when sir lionel heard that george was named as one of the executors, he looked up at his son triumphantly; but when the thousand pounds were named, his face became rather long, and less pleasant than usual. a man feels no need to leave a thousand pounds to an executor if he means to give him the bulk of his fortune. secondly, he left three hundred pounds a year for life to his dear, old, trusty servant, samuel pritchett. mr. pritchett put his handkerchief up to his face, and sobbed audibly. but he would sooner have had two or three thousand pounds; for he also had an ambition to leave money behind him. thirdly, he bequeathed five hundred pounds a year for life to mary baker, late of littlebath, and now of hadley; and the use of the house at hadley if she chose to occupy it. otherwise, the house was to be sold, and the proceeds were to go to his estate. sir lionel, when he heard this, made a short calculation in his mind whether it would now be worth his while to marry miss baker; and he decided that it would not be worth his while. fourthly, he gave to his executors above-named a sum of four thousand pounds, to be invested by them in the three per cent. consols, for the sole use and benefit of his granddaughter, caroline harcourt. and the will went on to say, that he did this, although he was aware that sufficient provision had already been made for his granddaughter, because he feared that untoward events might make it expedient that she should have some income exclusively her own. sir henry, when this paragraph was read--this paragraph from which his own name was carefully excluded--dashed his fist down upon the table, so that the ink leaped up out of the inkstand that stood before the lawyer, and fell in sundry blots upon the document. but no one said anything. there was blotting-paper at hand, and mr. stickatit soon proceeded. in its fifth proviso, the old man mentioned his nephew george. "i wish it to be understood," he said, "that i love my nephew, george bertram, and appreciate his honour, honesty, and truth." sir lionel once more took heart of grace, and thought that it might still be all right. and george himself felt pleased; more pleased than he had thought it possible that he should have been at the reading of that will. "but," continued the will, "i am not minded, as he is himself aware, to put my money into his hands for his own purposes." it then went on to say, that a further sum of four thousand pounds was given to him as a token of affection. sir lionel drew a long breath. after all, five thousand pounds was the whole sum total that was rescued out of the fire. what was five thousand pounds? how much could he expect to get from such a sum as that? perhaps, after all, he had better take miss baker. but then her pittance was only for her life. how he did hate his departed brother at that moment! poor pritchett wheezed and sighed again. "ah!" said he to himself. "half a million of money gone; clean gone! but he never would take my advice!" but george felt now that he did not care who looked at him, who commiserated him. the will was all right. he did not at that moment wish it to be other than that the old man had made it. after all their quarrels, all their hot words and perverse thoughts towards each other, it was clear to him now that his uncle had, at any rate, appreciated him. he could hear the remainder of it quite unmoved. there were some other legacies to various people in the city, none of them being considerable in amount. five hundred pounds to one, one thousand pounds to another, fifty pounds to a third, and so on. and then came the body of the will--the very will indeed. and so mr. george bertram willed, that after the payment of all his just debts, and of the legacies above recapitulated, his whole property should be given to his executors, and by them expended in building and endowing a college and alms-house, to be called "the bertram college," for the education of the children of london fishmongers, and for the maintenance of the widows of such fishmongers as had died in want. now mr. bertram had been a member of the honourable company of fishmongers. and that was the end of the will. and mr. stickatit, having completed the reading, folded it up, and put it back into the envelope. sir henry, the moment the reading was over, again dashed his fist upon the table. "as heir-at-law," said he, "i shall oppose that document." "i think you'll find it all correct," said mr. stickatit, with a little smile. "and i think otherwise, sir," said the late solicitor-general, in a voice that made them all start. "very much otherwise. that document is not worth the paper on which it is written. and now, i warn you two, who have been named as executors, that such is the fact." sir lionel began to consider whether it would be better for him that the will should be a will, or should not be a will. till he had done so, he could not determine with which party he would side. if that were no will, there might be a previous one; and if so, bertram might, according to that, be the heir. "it is a very singular document," said he; "very singular." but sir henry wanted no allies--wanted no one in that room to side with him. hostility to them all was his present desire; to them and to one other--that other one who had brought upon him all this misfortune; that wife of his bosom, who had betrayed his interests and shattered his hopes. "i believe there is nothing further to detain us at the present moment," said mr. stickatit. "mr. bertram, perhaps you can allow me to speak to you somewhere for five minutes?" "i shall act," said george. "oh, of course. that's of course," said stickatit. "and i also." "stop one moment, gentlemen," shouted harcourt again. "i hereby give you both warning that you have no power to act." "perhaps, sir," suggested stickatit, "your lawyer will take any steps he may think necessary?" "my lawyer, sir, will do as i bid him, and will require no suggestion from you. and now i have another matter to treat of. mr. bertram, where is lady harcourt?" bertram did not answer at once, but stood with his back still against the chimney-piece, thinking what answer he would give. "where, i say, is lady harcourt? let us have no juggling, if you please. you will find that i am in earnest." "i am not lady harcourt's keeper," said george, in a very low tone of voice. "no, by g----! nor shall you be. where is she? if you do not answer my question, i shall have recourse to the police at once." sir lionel, meaning to make things pleasant, now got up, and went over to his son. he did not know on what footing, with reference to each other, his son and lady harcourt now stood; but he did know that they had loved each other, and been betrothed for years; he did know, also, that she had left her husband, and that that husband and his son had been the closest friends. it was a great opportunity for him to make things pleasant. he had not the slightest scruple as to sacrificing that "dear caroline" whom he had so loved as his future daughter-in-law. "george," said he, "if you know where lady harcourt is, it will be better that you should tell sir henry. no properly-thinking man will countenance a wife in disobeying her husband." "father," said george, "lady harcourt is not in my custody. she is the judge of her own actions in this matter." "is she?" said sir henry. "she must learn to know that she is not; and that very shortly. do you mean to tell me where she is?" "i mean to tell you nothing about her, sir henry." "george, you are wrong," said sir lionel. "if you know where lady harcourt is, you are bound to tell him. i really think you are." "i am bound to tell him nothing, father; nor will i. i will have no conversation with him about his wife. it is his affair and hers--and that, perhaps, of a hundred other people; but it certainly is not mine. nor will i make it so." "then you insist on concealing her?" said sir henry. "i have nothing to do with her. i do not know that she is concealed at all." "you know where she is?" "i do. but, believing as i do that she would rather not be disturbed, i shall not say where you would find her." "i think you ought, george." "father, you do not understand this matter." "you will not escape in that way, sir. here you are named as her trustee in this will--" "i am glad that you acknowledge the will, at any rate," said mr. stickatit. "who says that i acknowledge it? i acknowledge nothing in the will. but it is clear, from that document, that she presumes herself to be under his protection. it is manifest that that silly fool intended that she should be so. now i am not the man to put up with this. i ask you once more, mr. bertram, will you tell me where i shall find lady harcourt?" "no, i will not." "very well; then i shall know how to act. gentlemen, good-morning. mr. stickatit, i caution you not to dispose, under that will, of anything of which mr. bertram may have died possessed." and so saying, he took up his hat, and left the house. and what would he have done had bertram told him that lady harcourt was staying at mr. jones's, in the red brick house on the other side of the green? what can any man do with a recusant wife? we have often been told that we should build a golden bridge for a flying enemy. and if any one can be regarded as a man's enemy, it is a wife who is not his friend. after a little while, sir lionel went away with mr. pritchett. bertram asked them both to stay for dinner, but the invitation was not given in a very cordial manner. at any rate, it was not accepted. "good-bye, then, george," said sir lionel. "i suppose i shall see you before i leave town. i must say, you have made a bad affair of this will." "good-bye, mr. george; good-bye," said mr. pritchett. "make my dutiful compliments to miss baker--and to the other lady." "yes, i will, mr. pritchett." "ah, dear! well. you might have had it all, instead of the fishmongers' children, if you had chosen, mr. george." and we also will say good-bye to the two gentlemen, as we shall not see them again in these pages. that mr. pritchett will live for the remainder of his days decently, if not happily, on his annuity, may be surmised. that sir lionel, without any annuity, but with a fair income paid from the country's taxes, and with such extra pecuniary aid as he may be able to extract from his son, will continue to live indecently at littlebath--for he never again returned to active service--that also may be surmised. and thus we will make our bows to these old gentlemen--entertaining, however, very different feelings for them. and soon afterwards mr. stickatit also went. some slight, necessary legal information as to the executorship was first imparted; sir henry's threats were ridiculed; the good fortune of the fishmongers was wondered at, and then mr. stickatit took his hat. the four gentlemen no doubt went up to london by the same train. in the evening, miss baker and lady harcourt came back to their own house. it was miss baker's own house now. when she heard what her old friend had done for her, she was bewildered by his generosity. she, at any rate, had received more than she had expected. "and what does he mean to do?" said caroline. "he says that he will dispute the will. but that, i take it, is nonsense." "but about--you know what i mean, george?" "he means to insist on your return. that, at least, is what he threatens." "he shall insist in vain. no law that man ever made shall force me to live with him again." whether or no the husband was in earnest, it might clearly be judged, from the wife's face and tone, that she was so. on the next morning, george went up to london, and the two women were left alone in their dull house at hadley. chapter xvi. eaton square. sir henry harcourt had walked forth first from that room in which the will had been read, and he had walked forth with a threat in his mouth. but he knew when making it that that threat was an empty bravado. the will was as valid as care and law could make it, and the ex-solicitor-general knew very well that it was valid. he knew, moreover, that the assistance of no ordinary policeman would suffice to enable him to obtain possession of his wife's person; and he knew also that if he had such possession, it would avail him nothing. he could not pay his debts with her, nor could he make his home happy with her, nor could he compel her to be in any way of service to him. it had all been bravado. but when men are driven into corners--when they are hemmed in on all sides, so that they have no escape, to what else than bravado can they have recourse? with sir henry the game was up; and no one knew this better than himself. he was walking up and down the platform, with his hat over his brows, and his hands in his trousers-pockets, when mr. stickatit came up. "we shall have a little rain this afternoon," said mr. stickatit, anxious to show that he had dropped the shop, and that having done so, he was ready for any of the world's ordinary converse. sir henry scowled at him from under the penthouse lid of his hat, and passed on in his walk, without answering a word. the thing had gone too far with him for affectation. he did not care to make sacrifice now to any of the world's graces. his inner mind was hostile to that attorney of bucklersbury, and he could dare to show that it was so. after that, mr. stickatit made no further remark to him. yes; he could afford now to be forgetful of the world's graces, for the world's heaviest cares were pressing very heavily on him. when a man finds himself compelled to wade through miles of mud, in which he sinks at every step up to his knees, he becomes forgetful of the blacking on his boots. whether or no his very skin will hold out, is then his thought. and so it was now with sir henry. or we may perhaps say that he had advanced a step beyond that. he was pretty well convinced now that his skin would not hold out. he still owned his fine house in eaton square, and still kept his seat for the battersea hamlets. but baron brawl, and such like men, no longer came willingly to his call; and his voice was no longer musical to the occupants of the treasury bench. his reign had been sweet, but it had been very short. prosperity he had known how to enjoy, but adversity had been too much for him. since the day when he had hesitated to resign his high office, his popularity had gone down like a leaden plummet in the salt water. he had become cross-grained, ill-tempered, and morose. the world had spoken evil of him regarding his wife; and he had given the world the lie in a manner that had been petulant and injudicious. the world had rejoined, and sir henry had in every sense got the worst of it. attorneys did not worship him as they had done, nor did vice-chancellors and lords-justices listen to him with such bland attention. no legal luminary in the memory of man had risen so quickly and fallen so suddenly. it had not been given to him to preserve an even mind when adversity came upon him. but the worst of his immediate troubles were his debts. he had boldly resolved to take a high position in london; and he had taken it. it now remained that the piper should be paid, and the piper required payment not in the softest language. while that old man was still living, or rather still dying, he had had an answer to give to all pipers. but that answer would suffice him no longer. every clause in that will would be in the "daily jupiter" of the day after to-morrow--the "daily jupiter" which had already given a wonderfully correct biography of the deceased great man. as soon as he reached the london station, he jumped into a cab, and was quickly whirled to eaton square. the house felt dull, and cold, and wretched to him. it was still the london season, and parliament was sitting. after walking up and down his own dining-room for half an hour, he got into another cab, and was whirled down to the house of commons. but there it seemed as though all the men round him already knew of his disappointment--as though mr. bertram's will had been read in a committee of the whole house. men spoke coldly to him, and looked coldly at him; or at any rate, he thought that they did so. some debate was going on about the ballot, at which members were repeating their last year's speeches with new emphasis. sir henry twice attempted to get upon his legs, but the speaker would not have his eye caught. men right and left of him, who were minnows to him in success, found opportunities for delivering themselves; but the world of parliament did not wish at present to hear anything further from sir henry. so he returned to his house in eaton square. as soon as he found himself again in his own dining-room, he called for brandy, and drank off a brimming glass; he drank off one, and then another. the world and solitude together were too much for him, and he could not bear them without aid. then, having done this, he threw himself into his arm-chair, and stared at the fireplace. how tenfold sorrowful are our sorrows when borne in solitude! some one has said that grief is half removed when it is shared. how little that some one knew about it! half removed! when it is duly shared between two loving hearts, does not love fly off with eight-tenths of it? there is but a small remainder left for the two to bear between them. but there was no loving heart here. all alone he had to endure the crushing weight of his misfortunes. how often has a man said, when evil times have come upon him, that he could have borne it all without complaint, but for his wife and children? the truth, however, has been that, but for them, he could not have borne it at all. why does any man suffer with patience "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," or put up with "the whips and scorns of time," but that he does so for others, not for himself? it is not that we should all be ready, each to make his own quietus with a bare bodkin; but that we should run from wretchedness when it comes in our path. who fights for himself alone? who would not be a coward, if none but himself saw the battle--if none others were concerned in it? with sir henry, there was none other to see the battle, none to take concern in it. if solitude be bad in times of misery, what shall we say of unoccupied solitude? of solitude, too, without employment for the man who has been used to labour? such was the case with him. his whole mind was out of tune. there was nothing now that he could do; no work to which he could turn himself. he sat there gazing at the empty fireplace till the moments became unendurably long to him. at last his chief suffering arose, not from his shattered hopes and lost fortunes, but from the leaden weight of the existing hour. what could he do to shake this off? how could he conquer the depression that was upon him? he reached his hand to the paper that was lying near him, and tried to read; but his mind would not answer to the call. he could not think of the right honourable gentleman's speech, or of the very able leading article in which it was discussed. though the words were before his eyes, he still was harping back on the injustice of that will, or the iniquity of his wife; on the imperturbable serenity of george bertram, or the false, fleeting friends who had fawned on him in his prosperity, and now threw him over, as a jonah, with so little remorse. he dropped the paper on the ground, and then again the feeling of solitude and of motionless time oppressed him with a weight as of tons of lead. he jumped from his chair, and paced up and down the room; but the room was too confined. he took his hat, and pressing it on his brow, walked out into the open air. it was a beautiful spring evening in may, and the twilight still lingered, though the hour was late. he paced three times round the square, regardless of the noise of carriages and the lights which flashed forth from the revelries of his neighbours. he went on and on, not thinking how he would stem the current that was running against him so strongly; hardly trying to think; but thinking that it would be well for him if he could make the endeavour. alas! he could not make it! and then again he returned to the house, and once more sat himself down in the same arm-chair. was it come to this, that the world was hopeless for him? one would have said not. he was in debt, it is true; had fallen somewhat from a high position; had lost the dearest treasure which a man can have; not only the treasure, but the power of obtaining such treasure; for the possession of a loving wife was no longer a possibility to him. but still he had much; his acknowledged capacity for law pleadings, his right to take high place among law pleaders, the trick of earning money in that fashion of life; all these were still his. he had his gown and wig, and forensic brow-beating, brazen scowl; nay, he still had his seat in parliament. why should he have despaired? but he did despair--as men do when they have none to whom they can turn trustingly in their miseries. this man had had friends by hundreds; good, serviceable, parliamentary, dinner-eating, dinner-giving friends; fine, pleasant friends, as such friends go. he had such friends by hundreds; but he had failed to prepare for stormy times a leash or so of true hearts on which, in stress of weather, he could throw himself with undoubting confidence. one such friend he may have had once; but he now was among his bitterest enemies. the horizon round him was all black, and he did despair. how many a man lives and dies without giving any sign whether he be an arrant coward, or a true-hearted, brave hero! one would have said of this man, a year since, that he was brave enough. he would stand up before a bench of judges, with the bar of england round him, and shout forth, with brazen trumpet, things that were true, or things that were not true; striking down a foe here to the right, and slaughtering another there to the left, in a manner which, for so young a man, filled beholders with admiration. he could talk by the hour among the commons of england, and no touch of modesty would ever encumber his speech. he could make himself great, by making others little, with a glance. but, for all that, he was a coward. misfortune had come upon him, and he was conquered at once. misfortune had come upon him, and he found it unendurable--yes, utterly unendurable. the grit and substance of the man within were not sufficient to bear the load which fate had put upon them. as does a deal-table in similar case, they were crushed down, collapsed, and fell in. the stuff there was not good mahogany, or sufficient hard wood, but an unseasoned, soft, porous, deal-board, utterly unfit to sustain such pressure. an unblushing, wordy barrister may be very full of brass and words, and yet be no better than an unseasoned porous deal-board, even though he have a seat in parliament. he rose from his chair, and again took a glass of brandy. how impossible it is to describe the workings of a mind in such a state of misery as that he then endured! what--what! was there no release for him? no way, spite of this black fit, to some sort of rest--to composure of the most ordinary kind? was there nothing that he could do which would produce for him, if not gratification, then at least quiescence? to the generality of men of his age, there are resources in misfortune. men go to billiard-tables, or to cards, or they seek relief in woman's society, from the smiles of beauty, or a laughter-moving tongue. but sir henry, very early in life, had thrown those things from him. he had discarded pleasure, and wedded himself to hard work at a very early age. if, at the same time, he had wedded himself to honesty also, and had not discarded his heart, it might have been well with him. he again sat down, and then he remained all but motionless for some twenty minutes. it had now become dark, but he would have no lights lit. the room was very gloomy with its red embossed paper and dark ruby curtains. as his eye glanced round during the last few moments of the dusk, he remembered how he had inquired of his caroline how many festive guests might sit at their ease in that room, and eat the dainties which he, with liberal hand, would put before them. where was his caroline now? where were his guests? what anxiety now had he that they should have room enough? what cared he now for their dainties? it was not to be borne. he clasped his hand to his brow, and rising from his chair, he went upstairs to his dressing-room. for what purpose, he had not even asked himself. of bed, and rest, and sleep he had had no thought. when there, he again sat down, and mechanically dressed himself--dressed himself as though he were going out to some gay evening-party--was even more than ordinarily particular about his toilet. one white handkerchief he threw aside as spoiled in the tying. he looked specially to his boots, and with scrupulous care brushed the specks of dust from the sleeve of his coat. it was a blessing, at any rate, to have something to do. he did this, and then-- when he commenced his work, he had, perhaps, some remote intention of going somewhere. if so, he had quickly changed his mind, for, having finished his dressing, he again sat himself down in an arm-chair. the gas in his dressing-room had been lighted, and here he was able to look around him and see what resources he had to his hand. one resource he did see. ah, me! yes, he saw it, and his mind approved--such amount of mind as he had then left to him. but he waited patiently awhile--with greater patience than he had hitherto exhibited that day. he waited patiently, sitting in his chair for some hour or so; nay, it may have been for two hours, for the house was still, and the servants were in bed. then, rising from his chair, he turned the lock of his dressing-room door. it was a futile precaution, if it meant anything, for the room had another door, which opened to his wife's chamber, and the access on that side was free and open. early on the following morning, george bertram went up to town, and was driven directly from the station to his dull, dingy, dirty chambers in the temple. his chambers were not as those of practising lawyers. he kept no desk there, and no servant peculiar to himself. it had suited him to have some resting-place for his foot, that he could call his home; and when he was there, he was waited upon by the old woman who called herself the laundress--probably from the fact of her never washing herself or anything else. when he reached this sweet home on the morning in question, he was told by the old woman that a very express messenger had been there that morning, and that, failing to find him, the express messenger had gone down to hadley. they had, therefore, passed each other upon the road. the express messenger had left no message, but the woman had learned that he had come from eaton square. "and he left no letter?" "no, sir; no letter. he had no letter; but he was very eager about it. it was something of importance sure--ly." it might have been natural that, under such circumstances, george should go off to eaton square; but it struck him as very probable that sir henry might desire to have some communication with him, but that he, when he should know what that communication was, would in no degree reciprocate that desire. the less that he had to say to sir henry harcourt at present, perhaps, the better. so he made up his mind that he would not go to eaton square. after he had been in his rooms for about half an hour, he was preparing to leave them, and had risen with that object, when he heard a knock at his door, and quickly following the knock, the young attorney who had read the will was in his room. "you have heard the news, mr. bertram?" said he. "no, indeed! what news? i have just come up." "sir henry harcourt has destroyed himself. he shot himself in his own house yesterday, late at night, after the servants had gone to bed!" george bertram fell back, speechless, on to the sofa behind him, and stared almost unconsciously at the lawyer. "it is too true, sir. that will of mr. bertram's was too much for him. his reason must have failed him, and now he is no more." and so was made clear what were the tidings with which that express messenger had been laden. there was little or nothing more to be said on the matter between george bertram and mr. stickatit. the latter declared that the fact had been communicated to him on authority which admitted of no doubt; and the other, when he did believe, was but little inclined to share his speculations on it with the lawyer. nor was there much for bertram to do--not at once. the story had already gone down to hadley--had already been told there to her to whom it most belonged; and bertram felt that it was not at present his province to say kind things to her, or seek to soften the violence of the shock. no, not at present. chapter xvii. conclusion. methinks it is almost unnecessary to write this last chapter. the story, as i have had to tell it, is all told. the object has been made plain--or, if not, can certainly not be made plainer in these last six or seven pages. the results of weakness and folly--of such weakness and such folly as is too customary among us--have been declared. what further fortune fate had in store for those whose names have been familiar to us, might be guessed by all. but, nevertheless, custom, and the desire of making an end of the undertaken work, and in some sort completing it, compel me to this concluding chapter. within six weeks after the death of sir henry harcourt, the vicar of hurst staple was married to adela gauntlet. every critic who weighs the demerits of these pages--nay, every reader, indulgent or otherwise, who skims through them, will declare that the gentleman was not worthy of the lady. i hope so, with all my heart. i do sincerely trust that they will think so. if not, my labour has been in vain. mr. arthur wilkinson was not worthy of the wife with whom a kind providence had blessed him--was not worthy of her in the usual acceptation of the word. he was not a bad man, as men go; but she was--. i must not trust myself to praise her, or i shall be told, not altogether truly, that she was of my own creating. he was not worthy of her. that is, the amount of wealth of character which he brought into that life partnership was, when counted up, much less than her contribution. but that she was fully satisfied with her bargain--that she was so then and so continued--was a part of her worthiness. if ever she weighed herself against him, the scale in which he was placed never in her eyes showed itself to be light. she took him for her lord, and with a leal heart and a loving bosom she ever recognized him as her head and master, as the pole-star to which she must turn, compelled by laws of adamant. worthy or unworthy, he was all that she expected, all that she desired, bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh, the father of her bairns, the lord of her bosom, the staff of her maintenance, the prop of her house. and what man was ever worthy, perfectly worthy, of a pure, true, and honest girl? man's life admits not of such purity and honesty; rarely of such truth. but one would not choose that such flowers should remain unplucked because no hands are fit to touch them. as to the future life of the vicar of hurst staple and his wife, it is surely unnecessary to say much--or perhaps anything. it cannot be told that they became suddenly rich. no prime minister, won by her beauty or virtue, placed him upon the bench, or even offered him a deanery. vicar of hurst staple he is still, and he still pays the old allowance out of his well-earned income to his mother, who lives with her daughters at littlebath. one young lad after another, or generally two at a time, share the frugal meals at the parsonage; and our friend is sometimes heard to boast that none of these guests of his have as yet been plucked. of the good things of the world, there is quite enough for her; and we may perhaps say nearly enough for him. who, then, shall croak that they are poor? and now and then they walk along the river to west putford; for among their choicest blessings is that of having a good neighbour in the old rectory. and walking there, how can they but think of old sorrows and present joys? "ah!" she whispered to him one day, as they crept along the reedy margin in the summer evening, not long after their marriage. "ah! dearest, it is better now than it was when you came here once." "is it, love?" "is it not? but you misbehaved then--you know you did. you would not trust me then." "i could not trust myself." "i should have trusted you in all things, in everything. as i do now." and then he cut at the rushes with his walking-stick, as he had done before; and bethought himself that in those days he had been an ass. and so we will leave them. may they walk in those quiet paths for long days yet to come; and may he learn to know that god has given him an angel to watch at his side! of the rosy miss todd, there is nothing to be said but this, that she is still miss todd, and still rosy. whether she be now at littlebath, or baden, or dieppe, or harrogate, at new york, jerusalem, or frazer's river, matters but little. where she was last year, there she is not now. where she is now, there she will not be next year. but she still increases the circle of her dearly-loved friends; and go where she will, she, at any rate, does more good to others than others do to her. and so we will make our last bow before her feet. we have only now to speak of george bertram and of lady harcourt--of them and of miss baker, who need hardly now be considered a personage apart from her niece. no sooner was the first shock of sir henry harcourt's death past, than bertram felt that it was impossible for him at the present moment to see the widow. it was but a few days since she had declared her abhorrence of the man to whom her fate was linked, apparently for life, and who was now gone. and that declaration had implied also that her heart still belonged to him--to him, george bertram--him to whom it had first been given--to him, rather, who had first made himself master of it almost without gift on her part. now, as regarded god's laws, her hand was free again, and might follow her heart. but death closes many a long account, and settles many a bitter debt. she could remember now that she had sinned against her husband, as well as he against her; that she had sinned the first, and perhaps the deepest. he would have loved her, if she would have permitted it; have loved her with a cold, callous, worldly love; but still with such love as he had to give. but she had married him resolving to give no love at all, knowing that she could give none; almost boasting to herself that she had told him that she had none to give. the man's blood was, in some sort, on her head, and she felt that the burden was very heavy. all this bertram understood, more thoroughly, perhaps, than she did; and for many weeks he abstained altogether from going to hadley. he met miss baker repeatedly in london, and learned from her how lady harcourt bore herself. how she bore herself outwardly, that is. the inward bearing of such a woman in such a condition it was hardly given to miss baker to read. she was well in health, miss baker said, but pale and silent, stricken, and for hours motionless. "very silent," miss baker would say. "she will sit for a whole morning without speaking a word; thinking--thinking--thinking." yes; she had something of which, to think. it was no wonder that she should sit silent. and then after a while he went down to hadley, and saw her. "caroline, my cousin," he said to her. "george, george." and then she turned her face from him, and sobbed violently. they were the first tears she had shed since the news had reached her. she did feel, in very deed, that the man's blood was on her head. but for her, would he not be sitting among the proud ones of the land? had she permitted him to walk his own course by himself, would this utter destruction have come upon him? or, having sworn to cherish him as his wife, had she softened her heart towards him, would this deed have been done? no; fifty times a day she would ask herself the question; and as often would she answer it by the same words. the man's blood was upon her head. for many a long day bertram said nothing to her of her actual state of existence. he spoke neither of her past life as a wife nor her present life as a widow. the name of that man, whom living they had both despised and hated, was never mentioned between them during all these months. and yet he was frequently with her. he was with her aunt, rather, and thus she became used to have him sitting in the room beside her. when in her presence, he would talk of their money-matters, of the old man and his will, in which, luckily, the name of sir henry harcourt was not mentioned; and at last they brought themselves to better subjects, higher hopes--hopes that might yet be high, and solace that was trustworthy, in spite of all that was come and gone. and she would talk to him of himself; of himself as divided from her in all things, except in cousinhood. and, at her instigation, he again put himself to work in the dusky purlieus of chancery lane. mr. die had now retired, and drank his port and counted his per cents. in the blessed quiet of his evening days; but a gamaliel was not wanting, and george sat himself down once more in the porch. we may be sure that he did not sit altogether in vain. and then adela--mrs. wilkinson we should now call her--visited the two ladies in their silent retirement at hadley. what words were uttered between her and lady harcourt were heard by no other human ear; but they were not uttered without effect. she who had been so stricken could dare again to walk to church, and bear the eyes of the little world around her. she would again walk forth and feel the sun, and know that the fields were green, and that the flowers were sweet, and that praises were to be sung to god.--for his mercy endureth for ever. it was five years after that night in eaton square when george bertram again asked her--her who had once been caroline waddington--to be his wife. but, sweet ladies, sweetest, fairest maidens, there were no soft, honey words of love then spoken; no happy, eager vows, which a novelist may repeat, hoping to move the soft sympathy of your bosoms. it was a cold, sad, dreary matter that offer of his; her melancholy, silent acquiescence, and that marriage in hadley church, at which none were present but adela and arthur, and miss baker. it was adela who arranged it, and the result has shown that she was right. they now live together very quietly, very soberly, but yet happily. they have not adela's blessings. no baby lies in caroline's arms, no noisy boy climbs on the arm of george bertram's chair. their house is childless, and very, very quiet; but they are not unhappy. reader, can you call to mind what was the plan of life which caroline waddington had formed in the boldness of her young heart? can you remember the aspirations of george bertram, as he sat upon the mount of olives, watching the stones of the temple over against him? * * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious typographical errors have been corrected. volume i, chapter iv, paragraph . the word "guess" might confuse the reader in the sentence: my donna primissima will be another guess sort of lady altogether. this is an archaic use of "guess" as an adjective meaning "kind of" as in the following example from _frazer's magazine_, : every one knows what guess-sort of wiseacre france gave birth to with that algebraical gentleman. volume iii, chapter xvi, paragraph . the reader might be confused to learn that the "hadley doctor" is now from barnet: george stood with his back to the empty dining-room fireplace: on one side stood mr. pritchett, and on the other the barnet doctor. trollope was often inconsistent with names of persons and places. specific changes in wording of the text are listed below. volume i, chapter i, paragraph . the word "at" was duplicated in the original ("at at"). one occurrence was deleted to make the sentence read: they can hew wood probably; or, at any rate, draw water. volume i, chapter iv, paragraph . the name "putfield" was changed to "putford" in the sentence: there had of course been visits of condolence between west putford and hurst staple, and the hurst staple girls and adela had been as much, or perhaps more, together than usual. volume i, chapter vi, paragraph . the word "vicegerent" was changed to "viceregent" in the sentence: but as he is held to be god's viceregent among the people of south-western europe, so is the russian emperor among the christians of the east. volume i, chapter xv, paragraph . the word "you" was changed to "your" in the sentence: there is this against your future happiness-- volume ii, chapter iii, paragraph . the word "confidence" was added to the sentence: by degrees they both began to regard him with confidence--with sufficient confidence to talk to him of bertram; with sufficient confidence even to tell him of all their fears. volume ii, chapter x, paragraph . the word "him" was deleted from the sentence: i do not think he would have [him] come down here had he heard it--not yet, at least. volume iii, chapter xvi, paragraph . the word "them" was deleted from the sentence which in the original was: but he did despair--as men do when they have none to whom they can turn them trustingly in their miseries. english men of letters edited by john morley gibbon by james cotter morison, m.a. lincoln college, oxford london: macmillan and co. . contents chapter i. gibbon's early life up to the time of his leaving oxford chapter ii. at lausanne chapter iii. in the militia chapter iv. the italian journey chapter v. literary schemes.--the history of switzerland.--dissertation on the sixth Æneid.--father's death.--settlement in london chapter vi. life in london.--parliament.--the board of trade.--the decline and fall.--migration to lausanne chapter vii. the first three volumes of the decline and fall chapter viii. the last ten tears of his life at lausanne chapter ix. the last three volumes of the decline and fall chapter x. last illness.--death.--conclusion gibbon chapter i. gibbon's early life up to the time of his leaving oxford. edward gibbon[ ] was born at putney, near london, on th april in the year . after the reformation of the calendar his birthday became the th of may. he was the eldest of a family of seven children; but his five brothers and only sister all died in early infancy, and he could remember in after life his sister alone, whom he also regretted. footnotes: [footnote : gibbon's memoirs and letters are of such easy access that i have not deemed it necessary to encumber these pages with references to them. any one who wishes to control my statements will have no difficulty in doing so with the miscellaneous works, edited by lord sheffield, in his hand. whenever i advance anything that seems to require corroboration, i have been careful to give my authority.] he is at some pains in his memoirs to show the length and quality of his pedigree, which he traces back to the times of the second and third edwards. noting the fact, we pass on to a nearer ancestor, his grandfather, who seems to have been a person of considerable energy of character and business talent. he made a large fortune, which he lost in the south-sea scheme, and then made another before his death. he was one of the commissioners of customs, and sat at the board with the poet prior; bolingbroke was heard to declare that no man knew better than mr. edward gibbon the commerce and finances of england. his son, the historian's father, was a person of very inferior stamp. he was educated at westminster and cambridge, travelled on the continent, sat in parliament, lived beyond his means as a country gentleman, and here his achievements came to an end. he seems to have been a kindly but a weak and impulsive man, who however had the merit of obtaining and deserving his son's affection by genial sympathy and kindly treatment. gibbon's childhood was passed in chronic illness, debility, and disease. all attempts to give him a regular education were frustrated by his precarious health. the longest period he ever passed at school were two years at westminster, but he was constantly moved from one school to another. this even his delicacy can hardly explain, and it must have been fatal to all sustained study. two facts he mentions of his school life, which paint the manners of the age. in the year such was the strength of party spirit that he, a child of nine years of age, "was reviled and buffeted for the sins of his tory ancestors." secondly, the worthy pedagogues of that day found no readier way of leading the most studious of boys to a love of science than corporal punishment. "at the expense of many tears and some blood i purchased the knowledge of the latin syntax." whether all love of study would have been flogged out of him if he had remained at school, it is difficult to say, but it is not an improbable supposition that this would have happened. the risk was removed by his complete failure of health. "a strange nervous affection, which alternately contracted his legs and produced, without any visible symptom, the most excruciating pain," was his chief affliction, followed by intervals of languor and debility. the saving of his life during these dangerous years gibbon unhesitatingly ascribes to the more than maternal care of his aunt, catherine porten, on writing whose name for the first time in his memoirs, "he felt a tear of gratitude trickling down his cheek." "if there be any," he continues, "as i trust there are some, who rejoice that i live, to that dear and excellent woman they must hold themselves indebted. many anxious and solitary hours and days did she consume in the patient trial of relief and amusement; many wakeful nights did she sit by my bedside in trembling expectation that every hour would be my last." gibbon is rather anxious to get over these details, and declares he has no wish to expatiate on a "disgusting topic." this is quite in the style of the _ancien régime_. there was no blame attached to any one for being ill in those days, but people were expected to keep their infirmities to themselves. "people knew how to live and die in those days, and kept their infirmities out of sight. you might have the gout, but you must walk about all the same without making grimaces. it was a point of good breeding to hide one's sufferings."[ ] similarly walpole was much offended by a too faithful publication of madame de sévigné's _letters_. "heaven forbid," he says, "that i should say that the letters of madame de sévigné were bad. i only meant that they were full of family details and mortal distempers, to which the most immortal of us are subject." but gibbon was above all things a veracious historian, and fortunately has not refrained from giving us a truthful picture of his childhood. footnotes: [footnote : george sand, quoted in taine's _ancien régime_, p. .] of his studies, or rather his reading--his early and invincible love of reading, which he would not exchange for the treasures of india--he gives us a full account, and we notice at once the interesting fact that a considerable portion of the historical field afterwards occupied by his great work had been already gone over by gibbon before he was well in his teens. "my indiscriminate appetite subsided by degrees into the historic line, and since philosophy has exploded all innate ideas and natural propensities, i must ascribe the choice to the assiduous perusal of the _universal history_ as the octavo volumes successively appeared. this unequal work referred and introduced me to the greek and roman historians, to as many at least as were accessible to an english reader. all that i could find were greedily devoured, from littlebury's lame _herodotus_ to spelman's valuable _xenophon_, to the pompous folios of gordon's _tacitus_, and a ragged _procopius_ of the beginning of the last century." referring to an accident which threw the continuation of echard's _roman history_ in his way, he says, "to me the reigns of the successors of constantine were absolutely new, and i was immersed in the passage of the goths over the danube, when the summons of the dinner-bell reluctantly dragged me from my intellectual feast.... i procured the second and third volumes of howell's _history of the world_, which exhibit the byzantine period on a larger scale. mahomet and his saracens soon fixed my attention, and some instinct of criticism directed me to the genuine sources. simon ockley first opened my eyes, and i was led from one book to another till i had ranged round the circle of oriental history. before i was sixteen i had exhausted all that could be learned in english of the arabs and persians, the tartars and turks, and the same ardour urged me to guess at the french of d'herbelot and to construe the barbarous latin of pocock's _abulfaragius_." here is in rough outline a large portion at least of the _decline and fall_ already surveyed. the fact shows how deep was the sympathy that gibbon had for his subject, and that there was a sort of pre-established harmony between his mind and the historical period he afterwards illustrated. up to the age of fourteen it seemed that gibbon, as he says, was destined to remain through life an illiterate cripple. but as he approached his sixteenth year, a great change took place in his constitution, and his diseases, instead of growing with his growth and strengthening with his strength, wonderfully vanished. this unexpected recovery was not seized by his father in a rational spirit, as affording a welcome opportunity of repairing the defects of a hitherto imperfect education. instead of using the occasion thus presented of recovering some of the precious time lost, of laying a sound foundation of scholarship and learning on which a superstructure at the university or elsewhere could be ultimately built, he carried the lad off in an impulse of perplexity and impatience, and entered him as a gentleman commoner at magdalen college just before he had completed his fifteenth year ( , april ). this was perhaps the most unwise step he could have taken under the circumstances. gibbon was too young and too ignorant to profit by the advantages offered by oxford to a more mature student, and his status as a gentleman commoner seemed intended to class him among the idle and dissipated who are only expected to waste their money and their time. a good education is generally considered as reflecting no small credit on its possessor; but in the majority of cases it reflects credit on the wise solicitude of his parents or guardians rather than on himself. if gibbon escaped the peril of being an ignorant and frivolous lounger, the merit was his own. at no period in their history had the english universities sunk to a lower condition as places of education than at the time when gibbon went up to oxford. to speak of them as seats of learning seems like irony; they were seats of nothing but coarse living and clownish manners, the centres where all the faction, party spirit, and bigotry of the country were gathered to a head. in this evil pre-eminence both of the universities and all the colleges appear to have been upon a level, though lincoln college, oxford, is mentioned as a bright exception in john wesley's day to the prevalent degeneracy. the strange thing is that, with all their neglect of learning and morality, the colleges were not the resorts of jovial if unseemly boon companionship; they were collections of quarrelsome and spiteful litigants, who spent their time in angry lawsuits. the indecent contentions between bentley and the fellows of trinity were no isolated scandal. they are best known and remembered on account of the eminence of the chief disputants, and of the melancholy waste of bentley's genius which they occasioned. hearne writes of oxford in , "there are such differences now in the university of oxford (hardly one college but where all the members are busied in law business and quarrels not at all relating to the promotion of learning), that good letters decay every day, insomuch that this ordination on trinity sunday at oxford there were no fewer (as i am informed) than fifteen denied orders for insufficiency, which is the more to be noted because our bishops, and those employed by them, are themselves illiterate men."[ ] the state of things had not much improved twenty or thirty years later when gibbon went up, but perhaps it had improved a little. he does not mention lawsuits as a favourite pastime of the fellows. "the fellows or monks of my time," he says, "were decent, easy men, who supinely enjoyed the gifts of the founder: their days were filled by a series of uniform employments--the chapel, the hall, the coffee-house, and the common room--till they retired weary and well satisfied to a long slumber. from the toil of reading, writing, or thinking they had absolved their consciences. their conversation stagnated in a round of college business, tory politics, personal anecdotes, and private scandal. their dull and deep potations excused the brisk intemperance of youth, and their constitutional toasts were not expressive of the most lively loyalty to the house of hanover." some oxonians perhaps could still partly realise the truth of this original picture by their recollections of faint and feeble copies of it drawn from their experience in youthful days. it seems to be certain that the universities, far from setting a model of good living, were really below the average standard of the morals and manners of the age, and the standard was not high. such a satire as the _terræ filius_ of amhurst cannot be accepted without large deductions; but the caricaturist is compelled by the conditions of his craft to aim at the _true seeming_, if he neglects the true, and with the benefit of this limitation the _terræ filius_ reveals a deplorable and revolting picture of vulgarity, insolence, and licence. the universities are spoken of in terms of disparagement by men of all classes. lord chesterfield speaks of the "rust" of cambridge as something of which a polished man should promptly rid himself. adam smith showed his sense of the defects of oxford in a stern section of the _wealth of nations_, written twenty years after he had left the place. even youths like gray and west, fresh from eton, express themselves with contempt for their respective universities. "consider me," says the latter, writing from christ church, "very seriously, here is a strange country, inhabited by things that call themselves doctors and masters of arts, a country flowing with syllogisms and ale; where horace and virgil are equally unknown." gray, answering from peterhouse, can only do justice to his feelings by quoting the words of the hebrew prophet, and insists that isaiah had cambridge equally with babylon in view when he spoke of the wild beasts and wild asses, of the satyrs that dance, of an inhabitation of dragons and a court for owls. footnotes: [footnote : _social life at the english universities_. by christopher wordsworth. page .] into such untoward company was gibbon thrust by his careless father at the age of fifteen. that he succumbed to the unwholesome atmosphere cannot surprise us. he does not conceal, perhaps he rather exaggerates, in his memoirs, the depth of his fall. as bunyan in a state of grace accused himself of dreadful sins which in all likelihood he never committed, so it is probable that gibbon, in his old age, when study and learning were the only passions he knew, reflected with too much severity on the boyish freaks of his university life. moreover there appears to have been nothing coarse or unworthy in his dissipation; he was simply idle. he justly lays much of the blame on the authorities. to say that the discipline was lax would be to pay it an unmerited compliment. there was no discipline at all. he lived in magdalen as he might have lived at the angel or the mitre tavern. he not only left his college, but he left the university, whenever he liked. in one winter he made a tour to bath, another to buckinghamshire, and he made four excursions to london, "without once hearing the voice of admonition, without once feeling the hand of control." of study he had just as much and as little as he pleased. "as soon as my tutor had sounded the insufficiency of his disciple in school learning, he proposed that we should read every morning from ten to eleven the comedies of terence. during the first weeks i constantly attended these lessons in my tutor's room; but as they appeared equally devoid of profit and pleasure, i was once tempted to try the experiment of a formal apology. the apology was accepted with a smile. i repeated the offence with less ceremony: the excuse was admitted with the same indulgence; the slightest motive of laziness or indisposition, the most trifling avocation at home or abroad was allowed as a worthy impediment, nor did my tutor appear conscious of my absence or neglect." no wonder he spoke with indignation of such scandalous neglect. "to the university of oxford," he says, "i acknowledge no obligation, and she will as readily renounce me for a son, as i am willing to disclaim her for a mother. i spent fourteen months at magdalen college; they proved the most idle and unprofitable of my whole life. the reader will pronounce between the school and the scholar." this is only just and fully merited by the abuses denounced. one appreciates the anguish of the true scholar mourning over lost time as a miser over lost gold. there was another side of the question which naturally did not occur to gibbon, but which may properly occur to us. did gibbon lose as much as he thought in missing the scholastic drill of the regular public school and university man? something he undoubtedly lost: he was never a finished scholar, up to the standard even of his own day. if he had been, is it certain that the accomplishment would have been all gain? it may be doubted. at a later period gibbon read the classics with the free and eager curiosity of a thoughtful mind. it was a labour of love, of passionate ardour, similar to the manly zeal of the great scholars of the renaissance. this appetite had not been blunted by enforced toil in a prescribed groove. how much of that zest for antiquity, of that keen relish for the classic writers which he afterwards acquired and retained through life, might have been quenched if he had first made their acquaintance as school-books? above all, would he have looked on the ancient world with such freedom and originality as he afterwards gained, if he had worn through youth the harness of academical study? these questions do not suggest an answer, but they may furnish a doubt. oxford and cambridge for nearly a century have been turning out crowds of thorough-paced scholars of the orthodox pattern. it is odd that the two greatest historians who have been scholars as well--gibbon and grote--were not university-bred men. as if to prove by experiment where the fault lay, in "the school or the scholar," gibbon had no sooner left oxford for the long vacation, than his taste for study returned, and, not content with reading, he attempted original composition. the subject he selected was a curious one for a youth in his sixteenth year. it was an attempt to settle the chronology of the age of sesostris, and shows how soon the austere side of history had attracted his attention. "in my childish balance," he says, "i presumed to weigh the systems of scaliger and petavius, of marsham and of newton; and my sleep has been disturbed by the difficulty of reconciling the septuagint with the hebrew computation." of course his essay had the usual value of such juvenile productions; that is, none at all, except as an indication of early bias to serious study of history. on his return to oxford, the age of sesostris was wisely relinquished. he indeed soon commenced a line of study which was destined to have a lasting influence on the remainder of his course through life. he had an inborn taste for theology and the controversies which have arisen concerning religious dogma. "from my childhood," he says, "i had been fond of religious disputation: my poor aunt has often been puzzled by the mysteries which she strove to believe." how he carried the taste into mature life, his great chapters on the heresies and controversies of the early church are there to show. this inclination for theology, co-existing with a very different temper towards religious sentiment, recalls the similar case of the author of the _historical and critical dictionary_, the illustrious pierre bayle, whom gibbon resembled in more ways than one. at oxford his religious education, like everything else connected with culture, had been entirely neglected. it seems hardly credible, yet we have his word for it, that he never subscribed or studied the articles of the church of england, and was never confirmed. when he first went up, he was judged to be too young, but the vice-chancellor directed him to return as soon as he had completed his fifteenth year, recommending him in the meantime to the instruction of his college. "my college forgot to instruct; i forgot to return, and was myself forgotten by the first magistrate of the university. without a single lecture, either public or private, either christian or protestant, without any academical subscription, without any episcopal ordination, i was left by light of my catechism to grope my way to the chapel and communion table, where i was admitted without question how far or by what means i might be qualified to receive the sacrament. such almost incredible neglect was productive of the worst mischiefs." what did gibbon mean by this last sentence? did he, when he wrote it, towards the end of his life, regret the want of early religious instruction? nothing leads us to think so, or to suppose that his subsequent loss of faith was a heavy grief, supported, but painful to bear. his mind was by nature positive, or even pagan, and he had nothing of what the germans call _religiosität_ in him. still there is a passage in his memoirs where he oddly enough laments not having selected the _fat slumbers of the church_ as an eligible profession. did he reflect that perhaps the neglect of his religious education at oxford had deprived him of a bishopric or a good deanery, and the learned leisure which such positions at that time conferred on those who cared for it? he could not feel that he was morally, or even spiritually, unfit for an office filled in his own time by such men as warburton and hurd. he would not have disgraced the episcopal bench; he would have been dignified, courteous, and hospitable; a patron and promoter of learning, we may be sure. his literary labours would probably have consisted of an edition of a greek play or two, and certainly some treatise on the evidences of christianity. but in that case we should not have had the _decline and fall_. the "blind activity of idleness" to which he was exposed at oxford, prevented any result of this kind. for want of anything better to do, he was led to read middleton's _free enquiry into the miraculous powers which are supposed to have subsisted in the christian church_. gibbon says that the effect of middleton's "bold criticism" upon him was singular, and that instead of making him a sceptic, it made him more of a believer. he might have reflected that it is the commonest of occurrences for controversialists to produce exactly the opposite result to that which they intend, and that as many an apology for christianity has sown the first seeds of infidelity, so an attack upon it might well intensify faith. what follows is very curious. "the elegance of style and freedom of argument were repelled by a shield of prejudice. i still revered the character, or rather the names of the saints and fathers whom dr. middleton exposes; nor could he destroy my implicit belief that the gift of miraculous powers was continued in the church during the first four or five centuries of christianity. but i was unable to resist the weight of historical evidence, that within the same period most of the leading doctrines of popery were already introduced in theory and practice. nor was my conclusion absurd that miracles are the test of truth, and that the church must be orthodox and pure which was so often approved by the visible interposition of the deity. the marvellous tales which are boldly attested by the basils and chrysostoms, the austins and jeromes, compelled me to embrace the superior merits of celibacy, the institution of the monastic life, the use of the sign of the cross, of holy oil, and even of images, the invocation of saints, the worship of relics, the rudiments of purgatory in prayers for the dead, and the tremendous mystery of the sacrifice of the body and the blood of christ, which insensibly swelled into the prodigy of transubstantiation." in this remarkable passage we have a distinct foreshadow of the tractarian movement, which came seventy or eighty years afterwards. gibbon in , at the age of fifteen, took up a position practically the same as froude and newman took up about the year . in other words, he reached the famous _via media_ at a bound. but a second spring soon carried him clear of it, into the bosom of the church of rome. he had come to what are now called church principles, by the energy of his own mind working on the scanty data furnished him by middleton. by one of those accidents which usually happen in such cases, he made the acquaintance of a young gentleman who had already embraced catholicism, and who was well provided with controversial tracts in favour of romanism. among these were the two works of bossuet, the _exposition of catholic doctrine_ and the _history of the protestant variations_. gibbon says: "i read, i applauded, i believed, and surely i fell by a noble hand. i have since examined the originals with a more discerning eye, and shall not hesitate to pronounce that bossuet is indeed a master of all the weapons of controversy. in the _exposition_, a specious apology, the orator assumes with consummate art the tone of candour and simplicity, and the ten horned monster is transformed at his magic touch into the milk-white hind, who must be loved as soon as she is seen. in the _history_, a bold and well-aimed attack, he displays, with a happy mixture of narrative and argument, the faults and follies, the changes and contradictions of our first reformers, whose variations, as he dexterously contends, are the mark of historical error, while the perpetual unity of the catholic church is the sign and test of infallible truth. to my present feelings it seems incredible that i should ever believe that i believed in transubstantiation. but my conqueror oppressed me with the sacramental words, '_hoc est corpus meum_,' and dashed against each other the figurative half meanings of the protestant sects; every objection was resolved into omnipotence, and, after repeating at st. mary's the athanasian creed, i humbly acquiesced in the mystery of the real presence." many reflections are suggested on the respective domains of reason and faith by these words, but they cannot be enlarged on here. no one, nowadays, one may hope, would think of making gibbon's conversion a subject of reproach to him. the danger is rather that it should be regarded with too much honour. it unquestionably shows the early and trenchant force of his intellect: he mastered the logical position in a moment; saw the necessity of a criterion of faith; and being told that it was to be found in the practice of antiquity, boldly went there, and abided by the result. but this praise to his head does not extend to his heart. a more tender and deep moral nature would not have moved so rapidly. we must in fairness remember that it was not his fault that his religious education had been neglected at home, at school, and at college. but we have no reason to think that had it been attended to, the result would have been much otherwise. the root of spiritual life did not exist in him. it never withered, because it never shot up. thus when he applied his acute mind to a religious problem, he contemplated it with the coolness and impartiality of a geometer or chess player, his intellect operated _in vacuo_ so to speak, untrammelled by any bias of sentiment or early training. he had no profound associations to tear out of his heart. he merely altered the premisses of a syllogism. when catholicism was presented to him in a logical form, it met with no inward bar and repugnance. the house was empty and ready for a new guest, or rather the first guest. if gibbon anticipated the tractarian movement intellectually, he was farther removed than the poles are asunder from the mystic reverent spirit which inspired that movement. if we read the _apologia_ of dr. newman, we perceive the likeness and unlikeness of the two cases. "as a matter of simple conscience," says the latter, "i felt it to be a duty to protest against the church of rome." at the time he refers to dr. newman was a catholic to a degree gibbon never dreamed of. but in the one case conscience and heart-ties "strong as life, stronger almost than death," arrested the conclusions of the intellect. ground which gibbon dashed over in a few months or weeks, the great tractarian took ten years to traverse. so different is the mystic from the positive mind. gibbon had no sooner settled his new religion than he resolved with a frankness which did him all honour to profess it publicly. he wrote to his father, announcing his conversion, a letter which he afterwards described, when his sentiments had undergone a complete change, as written with all the pomp, dignity, and self-satisfaction of a martyr. a momentary glow of enthusiasm had raised him, as he said, above all worldly considerations. he had no difficulty, in an excursion to london, in finding a priest, who perceived in the first interview that persuasion was needless. "after sounding the motives and merits of my conversion, he consented to admit me into the pale of the church, and at his feet on the th of june , i solemnly, though privately, abjured the errors of heresy." he was exactly fifteen years and one month old. further details, which one would like to have, he does not give. the scene even of the solemn act is not mentioned, nor whether he was baptized again; but this may be taken for granted. the fact of any one "going over to rome" is too common an occurrence nowadays to attract notice. but in the eighteenth century it was a rare and startling phenomenon. gibbon's father, who was "neither a bigot nor a philosopher," was shocked and astonished by his "son's strange departure from the religion of his country." he divulged the secret of young gibbon's conversion, and "the gates of magdalen college were for ever shut" against the latter's return. they really needed no shutting at all. by the fact of his conversion to romanism he had ceased to be a member of the university. chapter ii. at lausanne. the elder gibbon showed a decision of character and prompt energy in dealing with his son's conversion to romanism, which were by no means habitual with him. he swiftly determined to send him out of the country, far away from the influences and connections which had done such harm. lausanne in switzerland was the place selected for his exile, in which it was resolved he should spend some years in wholesome reflections on the error he had committed in yielding to the fascinations of roman catholic polemics. no time was lost: gibbon had been received into the church on the th of june, , and on the th of the same month he had reached his destination. he was placed under the care of a m. pavillard, a calvinist minister, who had two duties laid upon him, a general one, to superintend the young man's studies, a particular and more urgent one, to bring him back to the protestant faith. it was a severe trial which gibbon had now to undergo. he was by nature shy and retiring; he was ignorant of french; he was very young; and with these disadvantages he was thrown among entire strangers alone. after the excitement and novelty of foreign travel were over, and he could realise his position, he felt his heart sink within him. from the luxury and freedom of oxford he was degraded to the dependence of a schoolboy. pavillard managed his expenses, and his supply of pocket-money was reduced to a small monthly allowance. "i had exchanged," he says, "my elegant apartment in magdalen college for a narrow gloomy street, the most unfrequented in an unhandsome town, for an old inconvenient house, and for a small chamber ill-contrived and ill-furnished, which on the approach of winter, instead of a companionable fire, must be warmed by the dull and invisible heat of a stove." under these gloomy auspices he began the most profitable, and after a time the most pleasant, period of his whole life, one on which he never ceased to look back with unmingled satisfaction as the starting-point of his studies and intellectual progress. the first care of his preceptor was to bring about his religious conversion. gibbon showed an honourable tenacity to his new faith, and a whole year after he had been exposed to the protestant dialectics of pavillard he still, as the latter observed with much regret, continued to abstain from meat on fridays. there is something slightly incongruous in the idea of gibbon _fasting_ out of religious scruples, but the fact shows that his religion had obtained no slight hold of him, and that although he had embraced it quickly, he also accepted with intrepid frankness all its consequences. his was not an intellect that could endure half measures and half lights; he did not belong to that class of persons who do not know their own minds. however it is not surprising that his religion, placed where he was, was slowly but steadily undermined. the swiss clergy, he says, were acute and learned on the topics of controversy, and pavillard seems to have been a good specimen of his class. an adult and able man, in daily contact with a youth in his own house, urging persistently but with tact one side of a thesis, could hardly fail in the course of time to carry his point. but though gibbon is willing to allow his tutor a handsome share in the work of his conversion, he maintains that it was chiefly effected by his own private reflections. and this is eminently probable. what logic had set up, logic could throw down. he gives us a highly characteristic example of the reflections in question. "i still remember my solitary transport at the discovery of a philosophical argument against the doctrine of transubstantiation: that the text of scripture which seems to inculcate the real presence is attested only by a single sense--our sight; while the real presence itself is disproved by three of our senses--the sight, the touch, and the taste." he was unaware of the distinction between the logical understanding and the higher reason, which has been made since his time to the great comfort of thinkers of a certain stamp. having reached so far, his progress was easy and rapid. "the various articles of the romish creed disappeared like a dream, and after a full conviction, on christmas-day, , i received the sacrament in the church of lausanne. it was here that i suspended my religious inquiries, acquiescing with implicit belief in the tenets and mysteries which are adopted by the general consent of catholics and protestants." he thus had been a catholic for about eighteen months. gibbon's residence at lausanne was a memorable epoch in his life on two grounds. firstly, it was during the five years he spent there that he laid the foundations of that deep and extensive learning by which he was afterwards distinguished. secondly, the foreign education he there received, at the critical period when the youth passes into the man, gave a permanent bent to his mind, and made him a continental european rather than an insular englishman--two highly important factors in his intellectual growth. he says that he went up to oxford with a "stock of erudition which might have puzzled a doctor, and a degree of ignorance of which a schoolboy might have been ashamed." both erudition and ignorance were left pretty well undisturbed during his short and ill-starred university career. at lausanne he found himself, for the first time, in possession of the means of successful study, good health, calm, books, and tuition, up to a certain point: that point did not reach very far. the good pavillard, an excellent man, for whom gibbon ever entertained a sincere regard, was quite unequal to the task of forming such a mind. there is no evidence that he was a ripe or even a fair scholar, and the plain fact is that gibbon belongs to the honourable band of self-taught men. "my tutor," says gibbon, "had the good sense to discern how far he could be useful, and when he felt that i advanced beyond his speed and measure, he wisely left me to my genius." under that good guidance he formed an extensive plan of reviewing the latin classics, in the four divisions of ( ) historians, ( ) poets, ( ) orators, and ( ) philosophers, in "chronological series from the days of plautus and sallust to the decline of the language and empire of rome." in one year he read over the following authors: virgil, sallust, livy, velleius paterculus, valerius maximus, tacitus, suetonius, quintus curtius, justin, florus, plautus, terence, and lucretius. we may take his word when he says that this review, however rapid, was neither hasty nor superficial. gibbon had the root of all scholarship in him, the most diligent accuracy and an unlimited faculty of taking pains. but he was a great scholar, not a minute one, and belonged to the robust race of the scaligers and the bentleys, rather than to the smaller breed of the elmsleys and monks, and of course he was at no time a professed philologer, occupied chiefly with the niceties of language. the point which deserves notice in this account of his studies is their wide sweep, so superior and bracing, as compared with that narrow restriction to the "authors of the best period," patronised by teachers who imperfectly comprehend their own business. gibbon proceeded on the common-sense principle, that if you want to obtain a real grasp of the literature, history, and genius of a people, you must master that literature with more or less completeness from end to end, and that to select arbitrarily the authors of a short period on the grounds that they are models of style, is nothing short of foolish. it was the principle on which joseph scaliger studied greek, and indeed occurs spontaneously to a vigorous mind eager for real knowledge.[ ] footnotes: [footnote : vix delibatis conjugationibus græcis, homerum cum interpretatione arreptum uno et viginti diebus totum didici. reliquos vero poetas græcos omnes intra quatuor menses devoravi. neque ullum oratorem aut historicum prius attigi quam poetas omnes tenerem.--_scaligeri epistolæ, lib. . epis. ._] nor did he confine himself to reading: he felt that no one is sure of knowing a language who limits his study of it to the perusal of authors. he practised diligently latin prose composition, and this in the simplest and most effectual way. "i translated an epistle of cicero into french, and after throwing it aside till the words and phrases were obliterated from my memory, i retranslated my french into such latin as i could find, and then compared each sentence of my imperfect version with the ease, the grace, the propriety of the roman orator." the only odd thing in connection with this excellent method is that gibbon in his memoirs seems to think it was a novel discovery of his own, and would recommend it to the imitation of students, whereas it is as old as the days of ascham at least. there is no indication that he ever in the least degree attempted latin verse, and it is improbable that he should have done so, reading alone in lausanne, under the slight supervision of such a teacher as pavillard. the lack of this elegant frivolity will be less thought of now than it would some years ago. but we may admit that it would have been interesting to have a copy of hexameters or elegiacs by the historian of rome. so much for latin. in greek he made far less progress. he had attained his nineteenth year before he learned the alphabet, and even after so late a beginning he did not prosecute the study with much energy. m. pavillard seems to have taught him little more than the rudiments. "after my tutor had left me to myself i worked my way through about half the _iliad_, and afterwards interpreted alone a large portion of xenophon and herodotus. but my ardour, destitute of aid and emulation, gradually cooled, and from the barren task of searching words in a lexicon i withdrew to the free and familiar conversation of virgil and tacitus." this statement of the memoirs is more than confirmed by the journal of his studies, where we find him, as late as the year , when he was twenty-five years of age, painfully reading homer, it would appear, for the first time. he read on an average about a book a week, and when he had finished the _iliad_ this is what he says: "i have so far met with the success i hoped for, that i have acquired a great facility in reading the language, and treasured up a very great stock of words. what i have rather neglected is the grammatical construction of them, and especially the many various inflections of the verbs." to repair this defect he wisely resolved to bestow some time every morning on the perusal of the greek grammar of port royal. thus we see that at an age when many men are beginning to forget their greek, gibbon was beginning to learn it. was this early deficiency ever repaired in greek as it was in latin? i think not. he never was at home in old hellas as he was in old rome. this may be inferred from the discursive notes of his great work, in which he has with admirable skill incorporated so much of his vast and miscellaneous reading. but his references to classic greek authors are relatively few and timid compared with his grasp and mastery of the latin. his judgments on greek authors are also, to say the least, singular. when he had achieved the _decline and fall_, and was writing his memoirs in the last years of his life, the greek writer whom he selects for especial commendation is xenophon. "cicero in latin and xenophon in greek are indeed the two ancients whom i would first propose to a liberal scholar, not only for the merit of their style and sentiments, but for the admirable lessons which may be applied almost to every situation of public and private life." of the merit of xenophon's sentiments, most people would now admit that the less said the better. the warmth of gibbon's language with regard to xenophon contrasts with the coldness he shows with regard to plato. "i involved myself," he says, "in the philosophic maze of the writings of plato, of which perhaps the dramatic is more interesting than the argumentative part." that gibbon knew amply sufficient greek for his purposes as an historian no one doubts, but his honourable candour enables us to see that he was never a greek scholar in the proper sense of the word. it would be greatly to misknow gibbon to suppose that his studies at lausanne were restricted to the learned languages. he obtained something more than an elementary knowledge of mathematics, mastered de crousaz' _logic_ and locke's _essay_, and filled up his spare time with that wide and discursive reading to which his boundless curiosity was always pushing him. he was thoroughly happy and contented, and never ceased throughout his life to congratulate himself on the fortunate exile which had placed him at lausanne. in one respect he did not use his opportunities while in switzerland. he never climbed a mountain all the time he was there, though he lived to see in his later life the first commencement of the alpine fever. on the other hand, as became a historian and man of sense, the social and political aspects of the country engaged his attention, as well they might. he enjoyed access to the best society of the place, and the impression he made seems to have been as favourable as the one he received. the influence of a foreign training is very marked in gibbon, affecting as it does his general cast of thought, and even his style. it would be difficult to name any writer in our language, especially among the few who deserve to be compared with him, who is so un-english, not in a bad sense of the word, as implying objectionable qualities, but as wanting the clear insular stamp and native flavour. if an intelligent chinese or persian were to read his book in a french translation, he would not readily guess that it was written by an englishman. it really bears the imprint of no nationality, and is emphatically european. we may postpone the question whether this is a merit or a defect, but it is a characteristic. the result has certainly been that he is one of the best-known of english prose writers on the continent, and one whom foreigners most readily comprehend. this peculiarity, of which he himself was fully aware, we may agree with him in ascribing to his residence at lausanne. at the "flexible age of sixteen he soon learned to endure, and gradually to adopt," foreign manners. french became the language in which he spontaneously thought; "his views were enlarged, and his prejudices were corrected." in one particular he cannot be complimented on the effect of his continental education, when he congratulates himself "that his taste for the french theatre had abated his idolatry for the gigantic genius of shakespeare, which is inculcated from our infancy as the first duty of englishmen." still it is well to be rid of idolatry and bigotry even with regard to shakespeare. we must remember that the insular prejudices from which gibbon rejoiced to be free were very different in their intensity and narrowness from anything of the kind which exists now. the mixed hatred and contempt for foreigners which prevailed in his day, were enough to excite disgust in any liberal mind. the lucid order and admirable literary form of gibbon's great work are qualities which can escape no observant reader. but they are qualities which are not common in english books. the french have a saying, "les anglais ne savent pas faire un livre." this is unjust, taken absolutely, but as a general rule it is not without foundation. it is not a question of depth or originality of thought, nor of the various merits belonging to style properly so-called. in these respects english authors need not fear competition. but in the art of clear and logical arrangement, of building up a book in such order and method that each part contributes to the general effect of the whole, we must own that we have many lessons to learn of our neighbours. now in this quality gibbon is a frenchman. not voltaire himself is more perspicuous than gibbon. everything is in its place, and disposed in such apparently natural sequence that the uninitiated are apt to think the matter could not have been managed otherwise. it is a case, if there ever was one, of consummate art concealing every trace, not only of art, but even of effort. of course the grasp and penetrating insight which are implied here, were part of gibbon's great endowment, which only nature could give. but it was fortunate that his genius was educated in the best school for bringing out its innate quality. it would be difficult to explain why, except on that principle of decimation by which macaulay accounted for the outcry against lord byron, gibbon's solitary and innocent love passage has been made the theme of a good deal of malicious comment. the parties most interested, and who, we may presume, knew the circumstances better than any one else, seem to have been quite satisfied with each other's conduct. gibbon and mdlle. curchod, afterwards madame necker, remained on terms of the _most_ intimate friendship till the end of the former's life. this might be supposed sufficient. but it has not been so considered by evil tongues. the merits of the case, however, may be more conveniently discussed in a later chapter. at this point it will be enough to give the facts. mdlle. susanne curchod was born about the year ; her father was the calvinist minister of crassier, her mother a french huguenot who had preferred her religion to her country. she had received a liberal and even learned education from her father, and was as attractive in person as she was accomplished in mind. "she was beautiful with that pure virginal beauty which depends on early youth" (sainte-beuve). in she was the talk of lausanne, and could not appear in an assembly or at the play without being surrounded by admirers; she was called la belle curchod. gibbon's curiosity was piqued to see such a prodigy, and he was smitten with love at first sight. "i found her" he says "learned without pedantry, lively in conversation, pure in sentiment, and elegant in manners." he was twenty and she seventeen years of age; no impediment was placed in the way of their meeting; and he was a frequent guest in her father's house. in fact gibbon paid his court with an assiduity which makes an exception in his usually unromantic nature. "she listened," he says, "to the voice of truth and passion, and i might presume to hope that i had made some impression on a virtuous heart." we must remember that this and other rather glowing passages in his memoirs were written in his old age, when he had returned to lausanne, and when, after a long separation and many vicissitudes, he and madame necker were again thrown together in an intimacy of friendship which revived old memories. letters of hers to him which will be quoted in a later chapter show this in a striking light. he indulged, he says, his dream of felicity, but on his return to england he soon discovered that his father would not hear of this "strange alliance," and then follows the sentence which has lost him in the eyes of some persons. "after a painful struggle i yielded to my fate: i sighed as a lover, i obeyed as a son." what else he was to do under the circumstances does not appear. he was wholly dependent on his father, and on the continent at least parental authority is not regarded as a trifling impediment in such cases. gibbon could only have married mdlle. curchod as an exile and a pauper, if he had openly withstood his father's wishes. "all for love" is a very pretty maxim, but it is apt to entail trouble when practically applied. jean-jacques rousseau, who had the most beautiful sentiments on paper, but who in real life was not always a model of self-denial, found, as we shall see, grave fault with gibbon's conduct. gibbon, as a plain man of rather prosaic good sense, behaved neither heroically nor meanly. time, absence, and the scenes of a new life, which he found in england, had their usual effect; his passion vanished. "my cure," he says, "was accelerated by a faithful report of the tranquillity and cheerfulness of the lady herself, and my love subsided in friendship and esteem." the probability, indeed, that he and mdlle. curchod would ever see each other again, must have seemed remote in the extreme. europe and england were involved in the seven years war; he was fixed at home, and an officer in the militia; switzerland was far off: when and where were they likely to meet? they did, contrary to all expectation, meet again, and renewed terms not so much of friendship as of affection. mdlle. curchod, as the wife of necker, became somewhat of a celebrity, and it is chiefly owing to these last-named circumstances that the world has ever heard of gibbon's early love. while he was at lausanne gibbon made the acquaintance of voltaire, but it led to no intimacy or fruitful reminiscence. "he received me with civility as an english youth, but i cannot boast of any peculiar notice or distinction." still he had "the satisfaction of hearing--an uncommon circumstance--a great poet declaim his own productions on the stage." one is often tempted, in reading gibbon's memoirs, to regret that he adopted the austere plan which led him "to condemn the practice of transforming a private memorial into a vehicle of satire or praise." as he truly says, "it was assuredly in his power to amuse the reader with a gallery of portraits and a collection of anecdotes." this reserve is particularly disappointing when a striking and original figure like voltaire passes across the field, without an attempt to add one stroke to the portraiture of such a physiognomy. gibbon had now ( ) been nearly five years at lausanne, when his father suddenly intimated that he was to return home immediately. the seven years war was at its height, and the french had denied a passage through france to english travellers. gibbon, or more properly his swiss friends, thought that the alternative road through germany might be dangerous, though it might have been assumed that the great frederick, so far as he was concerned, would make things as pleasant as possible to british subjects, whose country had just consented to supply him with a much-needed subsidy. the french route was preferred, perhaps as much from a motive of frolic as anything else. two swiss officers of his acquaintance undertook to convey gibbon from france as one of their companions, under an assumed name, and in borrowed regimentals. his complete mastery of french removed any chance of detection on the score of language, and with a "mixture of joy and regret" on the th april, , gibbon left lausanne. he had a pleasant journey, but no adventures, and returned to his native land after an absence of four years, ten months, and fifteen days. chapter iii. in the militia. the only person whom, on his return, gibbon had the least wish to see was his aunt, catherine porten. to her house he at once hastened, and "the evening was spent in the effusions of joy and tenderness." he looked forward to his first meeting with his father with no slight anxiety, and that for two reasons. first, his father had parted from him with anger and menace, and he had no idea how he would be received now. secondly, his mother's place was occupied by a second wife, and an involuntary but strong prejudice possessed him against his step-mother. he was most agreeably disappointed in both respects. his father "received him as a man, as a friend, all constraint was banished at our first interview, and we ever after continued on the same terms of easy and equal politeness." so far the prospect was pleasant. but the step-mother remained a possible obstacle to all comfort at home. he seems to have regarded his father's second marriage as an act of displeasure with himself, and he was disposed to hate the rival of his mother. gibbon soon found that the injustice was in his own fancy, and the imaginary monster was an amiable and deserving woman. "i could not be mistaken in the first view of her understanding; her knowledge and the elegant spirit of her conversation, her polite welcome, and her assiduous care to study and gratify my wishes announced at least that the surface would be smooth; and my suspicions of art and falsehood were gradually dispelled by the full discovery of her warm and exquisite sensibility." he became indeed deeply attached to his step-mother. "after some reserve on my side, our minds associated in confidence and friendship, and as mrs. gibbon had neither children nor the hopes of children, we more easily adopted the tender names and genuine characters of mother and son." a most creditable testimony surely to the worth and amiability of both of them. the friendship thus begun continued without break or coolness to the end of gibbon's life. thirty-five years after his first interview with his step-mother, and only a few months before his own death, when he was old and ailing, and the least exertion, by reason of his excessive corpulence, involved pain and trouble, he made a long journey to bath for the sole purpose of paying mrs. gibbon a visit. he was very far from being the selfish epicurean that has been sometimes represented. he had brought with him from lausanne the first pages of a work which, after much bashfulness and delay, he at length published in the french language, under the title of _essai sur l'Étude de la littérature_, in the year , that is two years after its completion. in one respect this juvenile work of gibbon has little merit. the style is at once poor and stilted, and the general quality of remark eminently commonplace, where it does not fall into paradox. on the other hand, it has an interesting and even original side. the main idea of the little book, so far as it has one, was excellent, and really above the general thought of the age, namely, the vindication of classical literature and history generally from the narrow and singular prejudice which prevailed against them, especially in france. when gibbon ascribes the design of his first work to a "refinement of vanity, the desire of justifying and praising the object of a favourite pursuit," he does himself less than justice. this first utterance of his historic genius was prompted by an unconscious but deep reaction against that contempt for the past, which was the greatest blot in the speculative movement of the eighteenth century. he resists the temper of his time rather from instinct than reason, and pleads the cause of learning with the hesitation of a man who has not fully seen round his subject, or even mastered his own thoughts upon it. still there is his protest against the proposal of d'alembert, who recommended that after a selection of facts had been made at the end of every century the remainder should be delivered to the flames. "let us preserve them all," he says, "most carefully. a montesquieu will detect in the most insignificant, relations which the vulgar overlook." he resented the haughty pretensions of the mathematical sciences to universal dominion, with sufficient vigour to have satisfied auguste comte. "physics and mathematics are at present on the throne. they see their sister sciences prostrate before them, chained to their chariot, or at most occupied in adorning their triumph. perhaps their downfall is not far off." to speak of a positive downfall of exact sciences was a mistake. but we may fairly suppose that gibbon did not contemplate anything beyond a relative change of position in the hierarchy of the sciences, by which history and politics would recover or attain to a dignity which was denied them in his day. in one passage gibbon shows that he had dimly foreseen the possibility of the modern inquiries into the conditions of savage life and prehistoric man. "an iroquois book, even were it full of absurdities, would be an invaluable treasure. it would offer a unique example of the nature of the human mind placed in circumstances which we have never known, and influenced by manners and religious opinions, the complete opposite of ours." in this sentence gibbon seems to call in anticipation for the researches which have since been prosecuted with so much success by eminent writers among ourselves, not to mention similar inquirers on the continent. but in the meantime gibbon had entered on a career which removed him for long months from books and study. without sufficiently reflecting on what such a step involved, he had joined the militia, which was embodied in the year ; and for the next two and a half years led, as he says, a wandering life of military servitude. at first, indeed, he was so pleased with his new mode of life that he had serious thoughts of becoming a professional soldier. but this enthusiasm speedily wore off, and our "mimic bellona soon revealed to his eyes her naked deformity." it was indeed no mere playing at soldiering that he had undertaken. he was the practical working commander of "an independent corps of officers and men." "in the absence, or even in the presence of the two field officers" (one of whom was his father, the major) "i was intrusted with the effective labour of dictating the orders and exercising the battalion." and his duty did not consist in occasional drilling and reviews, but in serious marches, sometimes of thirty miles in a day, and camping under canvas. one encampment, on winchester downs, lasted four months. gibbon does not hesitate to say that the superiority of his grenadiers to the detachments of the regular army, with which they were often mingled, was so striking that the most prejudiced regular could not have hesitated a moment to admit it. but the drilling, and manoeuvring, and all that pertained to the serious side of militia business interested gibbon, and though it took up time it gave him knowledge of a special kind, of which he quite appreciated the value. he was much struck, for instance, by the difference between the nominal and effective force of every regiment he had seen, even when supposed to be complete, and gravely doubts whether a nominal army of , men often brings _fifty_ thousand into the field. what he found unendurable was the constant shifting of quarters, the utter want of privacy and leisure it often entailed, and the distasteful society in which he was forced to live. for eight months at a stretch he never took a book in his hand. "from the day we marched from blandford, i had hardly a moment i could call my own, being almost continually in motion, or if i was fixed for a day, it was in the guardroom, a barrack, or an inn." even worse were the drinking and late hours; sometimes in "rustic" company, sometimes in company in which joviality and wit were more abundant than decorum and common sense, which will surprise no one who hears that the famous john wilkes, who was colonel of the buckingham militia, was not unfrequently one of his boon companions. a few extracts from his journal will be enough. "to-day (august , ), sir thomas worsley," the colonel of the battalion, "came to us to dinner. pleased to see him, we kept bumperising till after roll-calling, sir thomas assuring us every fresh bottle how infinitely sober he was growing." september rd. "colonel wilkes, of the buckingham militia, dined with us, and renewed the acquaintance sir thomas and myself had begun with him at reading. i scarcely ever met with a better companion; he has inexhaustible spirits, infinite wit and humour, and a great deal of knowledge.... this proved a very debauched day; we drank a great deal both after dinner and supper; and when at last wilkes had retired, sir thomas and some others (of whom i was not one) broke into his room and made him drink a bottle of claret in bed." december . "we found old captain meard at arlesford with the second division of the fourteenth. he and all his officers supped with us, which made the evening rather a drunken one." gibbon might well say that the militia was unfit for and unworthy of him. yet it is quite astonishing to see, as recorded in his journal, how keen an interest he still managed to retain in literature in the midst of all this dissipation, and how fertile he was of schemes and projects of future historical works to be prosecuted under more favourable auspices. subject after subject occurred to him as eligible and attractive; he caresses the idea for a time, then lays it aside for good reasons. first, he pitched upon the expedition of charles viii. of france into italy. he read and meditated upon it, and wrote a dissertation of ten folio pages, besides large notes, in which he examined the right of charles viii. to the crown of naples, and the rival claims of the houses of anjou and aragon. in a few weeks he gives up this idea, firstly, for the rather odd reason that the subject was too remote from us; and, secondly, for the very good reason that the expedition was rather the introduction to great events than great and important in itself. he then successively chose and rejected the crusade of richard the first; the barons' war against john and henry iii.; the history of edward the black prince; the lives and comparisons of henry v. and the emperor titus; the life of sir philip sidney, and that of the marquis of montrose. at length he fixed on sir walter raleigh as his hero. on this he worked with all the assiduity that his militia life allowed, read a great quantity of original documents relating to it, and, after some months of labour, declared that "his subject opened upon him, and in general improved upon a nearer prospect." but half a year later he "is afraid he will have to drop his hero." and he covers half a page with reasons to persuade himself that he was right in doing so. besides the obvious one that he would be able to add little that was not already accessible in oldys' _life of raleigh_, that the topic was exhausted, and so forth, he goes on to make these remarks, which have more signification to us now than perhaps they had to him when he wrote them. "could i even surmount these obstacles, i should shrink with terror from the modern history of england, where every character is a problem and every reader a friend or an enemy: when a writer is supposed to hoist a flag of party, and is devoted to damnation by the adverse faction. such would be _my_ reception at home; and abroad the historian of raleigh must encounter an indifference far more bitter than censure or reproach. the events of his life are interesting; but his character is ambiguous; his actions are obscure; his writings are english, and his fame is confined to the narrow limits of our language and our island. _i must embrace a safer and more extensive theme._" here we see the first gropings after a theme of cosmopolitan interest. he has arrived at two negative conclusions: that it must not be english, and must not be narrow. what it is to be, does not yet appear, for he has still a series of subjects to go through, to be taken up and discarded. the history of the liberty of the swiss, which at a later period he partially achieved, was one scheme; the history of florence under the medici was another. he speaks with enthusiasm of both projects, adding that he will most probably fix upon the latter; but he never did anything of the kind. these were the topics which occupied gibbon's mind during his service in the militia, escaping when he could from the uproar and vulgarity of the camp and the guardroom to the sanctuary of the historic muse, to worship in secret. but these private devotions could not remove his disgust at "the inn, the wine, and the company" he was forced to endure, and latterly the militia became downright insupportable to him. but honourable motives kept him to his post. "from a service without danger i might have retired without disgrace; but as often as i hinted a wish of resigning, my fetters were riveted by the friendly intreaties of the colonel, the parental authority of the major, and my own regard for the welfare of the battalion." at last the long-wished-for day arrived, when the militia was disbanded. "our two companies," he writes in his journal, "were disembodied (december rd, ), mine at alton, my father's at buriton. they fired three volleys, lodged the major's colours, delivered up their arms, received their money, partook of a dinner at the major's expense, and then separated, with great cheerfulness and regularity. thus ended the militia." the compression that his spirit had endured was shown by the rapid energy with which he sought a change of scene and oblivion of his woes. within little more than a month after the scene just described, gibbon was in paris beginning the grand tour. with that keen sense of the value of time which marked him, gibbon with great impartiality cast up and estimated the profit and loss of his "bloodless campaigns." both have been alluded to already. he summed up with great fairness in the entry that he made in his journal on the evening of the day on which he recovered his liberty. "i am glad that the militia has been, and glad that it is no more." this judgment he confirmed thirty years afterwards, when he composed his memoirs. "my principal obligation to the militia was the making me an englishman and a soldier. after my foreign education, with my reserved temper, i should long have continued a stranger in my native country, had i not been shaken in this various scene of new faces and new friends; had not experience forced me to feel the characters of our leading men, the state of parties, the forms of office, the operations of our civil and military system. in this peaceful service i imbibed the rudiments of the language and science of tactics, which opened a new field of study and observation. i diligently read and meditated the _mémoires militaires_ of quintus icilius, the only writer who has united the merits of a professor and a veteran. the discipline and evolution of a modern battalion gave me a clearer notion of the phalanx and the legion, and the captain of the hampshire grenadiers (the reader may smile) has not been useless to the historian of the roman empire." no one can doubt it who compares gibbon's numerous narratives of military operations with the ordinary performances of civil historians in those matters. the campaigns of julian, belisarius, and heraclius, not to mention many others, have not only an uncommon lucidity, but also exhibit a clear appreciation of the obstacles and arduousness of warlike operations, which is rare or unknown to non-military writers. macaulay has pointed out that swift's party pamphlets are superior in an especial way to the ordinary productions of that class, in consequence of swift's unavowed but very serious participation in the cabinet councils of oxford and bolingbroke. in the same manner gibbon had an advantage through his military training, which gives him no small superiority to even the best historical writers who have been without it. the course of foreign travel which gibbon was now about to commence had been contemplated before, but the war and the militia had postponed it for nearly three years. it appears that as early as the year the elder gibbon had conceived the project of procuring a seat in parliament for his son, and was willing to incur the anticipated expense of £ for that object. young gibbon, who seems to have very accurately gauged his own abilities at that early age, was convinced that the money could be much better employed in another way. he wrote in consequence, under his father's roof, a letter to the latter which does such credit to his head and to his heart, that, although it is somewhat long, it cannot with propriety be omitted here. edward gibbon to his father. "dear sir, "an address in writing from a person who has the pleasure of being with you every day may appear singular. however i have preferred this method, as upon paper i can speak without a blush and be heard without interruption. if my letter displeases you, impute it, dear sir, to yourself. you have treated me, not like a son, but like a friend. can you be surprised that i should communicate to a friend all my thoughts and all my desires? unless the friend approve them, let the father never know them; or at least let him know at the same time that however reasonable, however eligible, my scheme may appear to me, i would rather forget it for ever than cause him the slightest uneasiness. "when i first returned to england, attentive to my future interests, you were so good as to give me hopes of a seat in parliament. this seat, it was supposed, would be an expense of fifteen hundred pounds. this design flattered my vanity, as it might enable me to shine in so august an assembly. it flattered a nobler passion: i promised myself that, by the means of this seat, i might one day be the instrument of some good to my country. but i soon perceived how little mere virtuous inclination, unassisted by talents, could contribute towards that great end, and a very short examination discovered to me that those talents had not fallen to my lot. do not, dear sir, impute this declaration to a false modesty--the meanest species of pride. whatever else i may be ignorant of, i think i know myself, and shall always endeavour to mention my good qualities without vanity and my defects without repugnance. i shall say nothing of the most intimate acquaintance with his country and language, so absolutely necessary to every senator; since they may be acquired, to allege my deficiency in them would seem only the plea of laziness. but i shall say with great truth that i never possessed that gift of speech, the first requisite of an orator, which use and labour may improve, but which nature can alone bestow; that my temper, quiet, retired, somewhat reserved, could neither acquire popularity, bear up against opposition, nor mix with ease in the crowds of public life; that even my genius (if you allow me any) is better qualified for the deliberate compositions of the closet than for the extempore discourses of parliament. an unexpected objection would disconcert me, and as i am incapable of explaining to others what i do not understand myself, i should be meditating when i ought to be answering. i even want necessary prejudices of party and of nation. in popular assemblies it is often necessary to inspire them, and never orator inspired well a passion which he did not feel himself. suppose me even mistaken in my own character, to set out with the repugnance such an opinion must produce offers but an indifferent prospect. but i hear you say it is not necessary that every man should enter into parliament with such exalted hopes. it is to acquire a title the most glorious of any in a free country, and to employ the weight and consideration it gives in the service of one's friends. such motives, though not glorious, yet are not dishonourable, and if we had a borough in our command, if you could bring me in without any great expense, or if our fortune enabled us to despise that expense, then indeed i should think them of the greatest strength. but with our private fortune, is it worthwhile to purchase at so high a rate a title honourable in itself, but which i must share with every fellow that can lay out pounds? besides, dear sir, a merchandise is of little value to the owner when he is resolved not to sell it. "i should affront your penetration did i not suppose you now see the drift of this letter. it is to appropriate to another use the sum with which you destined to bring me into parliament; to employ it, not in making me great, but in rendering me happy. i have often heard you say yourself that the allowance you had been so indulgent as to grant me, though very liberal in regard to your estate, was yet but small when compared with the almost necessary extravagances of the age. i have indeed found it so, notwithstanding a good deal of economy, and an exemption from many of the common expenses of youth. this, dear sir, would be a way of supplying these deficiencies without any additional expense to you. but i forbear--if you think my proposals reasonable, you want no intreaties to engage you to comply with them, if otherwise all will be without effect. "all that i am afraid of, dear sir, is that i should seem not so much asking a favour, as this really is, as exacting a debt. after all i can say, you will remain the best judge of my good and your own circumstances. perhaps, like most landed gentlemen, an addition to my annuity would suit you better than a sum of money given at once; perhaps the sum itself may be too considerable. whatever you may think proper to bestow on me, or in whatever manner, will be received with equal gratitude. "i intended to stop here, but as i abhor the least appearance of art, i think it better to lay open my whole scheme at once. the unhappy war which now desolates europe will oblige me to defer seeing france till a peace. but that reason can have no influence on italy, a country which every scholar must long to see. should you grant my request, and not disapprove of my manner of employing your bounty, i would leave england this autumn and pass the winter at lausanne with m. de voltaire and my old friends. in the spring i would cross the alps, and after some stay in italy, as the war must then be terminated, return home through france, to live happily with you and my dear mother. i am now two-and-twenty; a tour must take up a considerable time; and although i believe you have no thoughts of settling me soon (and i am sure i have not), yet so many things may intervene that the man who does not travel early runs a great risk of not travelling at all. but this part of my scheme, as well as the whole of it, i submit entirely to you. "permit me, dear sir, to add that i do not know whether the complete compliance with my wishes could increase my love and gratitude, but that i am very sure no refusal could diminish those sentiments with which i shall always remain, dear sir, your most dutiful and obedient son and servant. "e. gibbon, jun." instead of going to italy in the autumn of , as he fondly hoped when he wrote this letter, gibbon was marching about the south of england at the head of his grenadiers. but the scheme sketched in the above letter was only postponed, and ultimately realised in every particular. the question of a seat in parliament never came up again during his father's life, and no doubt the money it would have cost was, according to his wise suggestion, devoted to defray the expenses of his foreign tour, which he is now about to begin. chapter iv. the italian journey. gibbon reached paris on the th january, ; thirty-six days, as he tells us, after the disbanding of the militia. he remained a little over three months in the french capital, which on the whole pleased him so well that he thinks that if he had been independent and rich, he might have been tempted to make it his permanent residence. on the other hand he seems to have been little if at all aware of the extraordinary character of the society of which he became a spectator and for a time a member. he does not seem to have been conscious that he was witnessing one of the most singular social phases which have yet been presented in the history of man. and no blame attaches to him for this. no one of his contemporaries saw deeper in this direction than he did. it is a remarkable instance of the way in which the widest and deepest social movements are veiled to the eyes of those who see them, precisely because of their width and depth. foreigners, especially englishmen, visited paris in the latter half of the eighteenth century and reported variously of their experience and impressions. some, like hume and sterne, are delighted; some, like gibbon, are quietly, but thoroughly pleased; some, like walpole--though he perhaps is a class by himself--are half pleased and half disgusted. they all feel that there is something peculiar in what they witness, but never seem to suspect that nothing like it was ever seen before in the world. one is tempted to wish that they could have seen with our eyes, or, much more, that we could have had the privilege of enjoying their experience, of spending a few months in that singular epoch when "society," properly so called, the assembling of men and women in drawing-rooms for the purpose of conversation, was the most serious as well as the most delightful business of life. talk and discussion in the senate, the market-place, and the schools are cheap; even barbarians are not wholly without them. but their refinement and concentration in the _salon_--of which the president is a woman of tact and culture--this is a phenomenon which never appeared but in paris in the eighteenth century. and yet scholars, men of the world, men of business passed through this wonderland with eyes blindfolded. they are free to enter, they go, they come, without a sign that they have realised the marvellous scene that they were permitted to traverse. one does not wonder that they did not perceive that in those graceful drawing-rooms, filled with stately company of elaborate manners, ideas and sentiments were discussed and evolved which would soon be more explosive than gunpowder. one does not wonder that they did not see ahead of them--men never do. one does rather wonder that they did not see what was before their eyes. but wonder is useless and a mistake. people who have never seen a volcano cannot be expected to fear the burning lava, or even to see that a volcano differs from any other mountain. gibbon had brought good introductions from london, but he admits that they were useless, or rather superfluous. his nationality and his _essai_ were his best recommendations. it was the day of anglomania, and, as he says, "every englishman was supposed to be a patriot and a philosopher." "i had rather be," said mdlle. de lespinasse to lord shelburne, "the least member of the house of commons than even the king of prussia." similar things must have been said to gibbon, but he has not recorded them; and generally it may be said that he is disappointingly dull and indifferent to paris, though he liked it well enough when there. he never caught the paris fever as hume did, and sterne, or even as walpole did, for all the hard things he says of the underbred and overbearing manners of the philosophers. gibbon had ready access to the well-known houses of madame geoffrin, madame helvétius and the baron d'holbach; and his perfect mastery of the language must have removed every obstacle in the way of complete social intercourse. but no word in his memoirs or letters shows that he really saw with the eyes of the mind the singularities of that strange epoch. and yet he was there at an exciting and important moment. the order of the jesuits was tottering to its fall; the latter volumes of the _encyclopedia_ were being printed, and it was no secret; the coruscating wit and audacity of the _salons_ were at their height. he is not unjust or prejudiced, but somewhat cold. he dines with baron d'holbach, and says his dinners were excellent, but nothing of the guests. he goes to madame geoffrin, and pronounces her house an excellent one. such faint and commonplace praise reflects on the eulogist. the only man of letters of whom he speaks with warmth is helvétius. he does not appear in this first visit to have known madame du deffand, who was still keeping her _salon_ with the help of the pale deep-eyed l'espinasse, though the final rupture was imminent. louis racine died, and so did marivaux, while he was in paris. the old opera-house in the palais royal was burnt down when he had been there a little over a month, and the representations were transferred to the salle des machines, in the tuileries. the equestrian statue of louis xv. was set up in the place to which it gave its name (where the luxor column now stands, in the place de la concorde) amidst the jeers and insults of the mob, who declared it would never be got to pass the hotel of madame de pompadour. how much or how little of all this touched gibbon, we do not know. we do know one thing, that his english clothes were unfashionable and looked very foreign, the french being "excessively long-waisted." doubtless his scanty purse could not afford a new outfit, such as walpole two years afterwards, under the direction of lady hertford, promptly procured. on the th of may he hurried off to lausanne.[ ] footnotes: [footnote : the chronicle of events which occurred during gibbon's sojourn in paris will be found in the interesting _mémoires de bachaumont._] his ultimate object was italy. but he wisely resolved to place a period of solid study between the lively dissipation of paris and his classic pilgrimage. he knew the difference between seeing things he had read about and reading about things after he had seen them; how the mind, charged with associations of famous scenes, is delicately susceptible of impressions, and how rapidly old musings take form and colour, when, stirred by outward realities; and contrariwise, how slow and inadequate is the effort to reverse this process, and to clothe with memories, monuments and sites over which the spirit has not sent a halo of previous meditation. so he settled down quietly at lausanne for the space of nearly a year, and commenced a most austere and systematic course of reading on the antiquities of italy. the list of learned works which he perused "with his pen in his hand" is formidable, and fills a quarto page. but he went further than this, and compiled an elaborate treatise on the nations, provinces, and towns of ancient italy (which we still have) digested in alphabetical order, in which every latin author, from plautus to rutilius, is laid under contribution for illustrative passages, which are all copied out in full. this laborious work was evidently gibbon's own guidebook in his italian travels, and one sees not only what an admirable preparation it was for the object in view, but what a promise it contained of that scrupulous thoroughness which was to be his mark as an historian. his mind was indeed rapidly maturing, and becoming conscious in what direction its strength lay. his account of his first impressions of rome has been often quoted, and deserves to be so again. "my temper is not very susceptible of enthusiasm, and the enthusiasm which i do not feel i have ever scorned to affect. but at the distance of twenty-five years i can neither forget nor express the strong emotions which agitated my mind as i first approached and entered the eternal city. after a sleepless night, i trod with a lofty step the ruins of the forum. each memorable spot where romulus stood, or tully spoke, or cæsar fell, was at once present to my eye, and several days of intoxication were lost and enjoyed before i could descend to a cool and minute examination." he gave eighteen weeks to the study of rome only, and six to naples, and we may rest assured that he made good use of his time. but what makes this visit to rome memorable in his life and in literary history is that it was the occasion and date of the first conception of his great work. "it was at rome, on the th october, , as i sat musing amid the ruins of the capitol, while the barefooted friars were singing vespers in the temple of jupiter, that the idea of writing the decline and fall of the city first started to my mind." the scene, the contrast of the old religion and the new, the priests of christ replacing the flamens of jupiter, the evensong of catholic rome swelling like a dirge over the prostrate pagan rome might well concentrate in one grand luminous idea the manifold but unconnected thoughts with which his mind had so long been teeming. gibbon had found his work, which was destined to fill the remainder of his life. henceforth there is a fixed centre around which his thoughts and musings cluster spontaneously. difficulties and interruptions are not wanting. the plan then formed is not taken in hand at once; on the contrary, it is contemplated at "an awful distance"; but it led him on like a star guiding his steps, till he reached his appointed goal. after crossing the alps on his homeward journey, gibbon had had some thoughts of visiting the southern provinces of france. but when he reached lyons he found letters "expressive of some impatience" for his return. though he does not exactly say as much, we may justly conclude that the elder gibbon's pecuniary difficulties were beginning to be oppressive. so the traveller, with the dutifulness that he ever showed to his father, at once bent his steps northward. again he passed through paris, and the place had a new attraction in his eyes in the person of mdlle. curchod, now become madame necker, and wife of the great financier. this perhaps will be the most convenient place to notice and estimate a certain amount of rather spiteful gossip, of which gibbon was the subject in switzerland about this time. rousseau and his friend moultou have preserved it for us, and it is probable that it has lost none of its pungency in passing through the hands of the latter. the substance of it is this:--that in the year , when gibbon revisited lausanne, as we have seen, susanne curchod was still in a pitiable state of melancholy and well nigh broken-hearted at gibbon's manifest coldness, which we know he considered to be "friendship and esteem." whether he even saw her on this visit cannot be considered certain, but it is at least highly probable. be that as it may: this is the picture of her condition as drawn by moultou in a letter to rousseau: "how sorry i am for our poor mdlle. curchod! gibbon, whom she loves, and to whom i know she has sacrificed some excellent matches, has come to lausanne, but cold, insensible, and as entirely cured of his old passion as she is far from cure. she has written me a letter that makes my heart ache." rousseau says in reply, "he who does not appreciate mdlle. curchod is not worthy of her; he who appreciates her and separates himself from her is a man to be despised. she does not know what she wants. gibbon serves her better than her own heart. i would rather a hundred times that he left her poor and free among you than that he should take her off to be rich and miserable in england." one does not quite see how gibbon could have acted to the contentment of jean-jacques. for not taking mdlle. curchod to england--as we may presume he would have done if he had married her--he is contemptible. yet if he does take her he will make her miserable, and rousseau would rather a hundred times he left her alone--precisely what he was doing; but then he was despicable for doing it. the question is whether there is not a good deal of exaggeration in all this. only a year after the tragic condition in which moultou describes mdlle. curchod she married m. necker, and became devoted to her husband. a few months after she married necker she cordially invited gibbon to her house every day of his sojourn in paris. if gibbon had behaved in the unworthy way asserted, if she had had her feelings so profoundly touched and lacerated as moultou declares, would she, or even could she, have acted thus? if she was conscious of being wronged, and he was conscious--as he must have been--of having acted basely, or at least unfeelingly, is it not as good as certain that both parties would have been careful to see as little of each other as possible? a broken-off love-match, even without complication of unworthy conduct on either side, is generally an effective bar to further intercourse. but in this case the intercourse is renewed on the very first opportunity, and never dropped till the death of one of the persons concerned. two letters have been preserved of gibbon and madame necker respectively, nearly of the same date, and both referring to this rather delicate topic of their first interviews after her marriage. gibbon writes to his friend holroyd, "the curchod (madame necker) i saw in paris. she was very fond of me, and the husband particularly civil. could they insult me more cruelly? ask me every evening to supper, go to bed and leave me alone with his wife--what impertinent security! it is making an old lover of mighty little consequence. she is as handsome as ever, and much genteeler; seems pleased with her wealth rather than proud of it. i was exalting nanette d'illens's good luck and the fortune" (this evidently refers to some common acquaintance, who had changed her name to advantage). "'what fortune,' she said with an air of contempt:--'not above twenty thousand livres a year.' i smiled, and she caught herself immediately, 'what airs i give myself in despising twenty thousand livres a year, who a year ago looked upon eight hundred as the summit of my wishes.'" let us turn to the lady's account of the same scenes. "i do not know if i told you," she writes to a friend at lausanne, "that i have seen gibbon, and it has given me more pleasure than i know how to express. not indeed that i retain any sentiment for a man who i think does not deserve much" (this little toss of pique or pride need not mislead us); "but my feminine vanity could not have had a more complete and honest triumph. he stayed two weeks in paris, and i had him every day at my house; he has become soft, yielding, humble, decorous to a fault. he was a constant witness of my husband's kindness, wit, and gaiety, and made me remark for the first time, by his admiration for wealth, the opulence with which i am surrounded, and which up to this moment had only produced a disagreeable impression upon me." considering the very different points of view of the writers, these letters are remarkably in unison. the solid fact of the daily visits is recorded in both. it is easy to gather from madame necker's letter that she was very glad to show mr. gibbon that for going farther and not marrying him she had not fared worse. the rather acid allusion to "opulence" is found in both letters; but much more pronounced in hers than in his. each hints that the other thought too much of wealth. but he does so with delicacy, and only by implication; she charges him coarsely with vulgar admiration for it. we may reasonably suspect that riches had been the subject of not altogether smooth conversation between them, in the later part of the evening, perhaps, after m. necker had retired in triumph to bed. one might even fancy that there was a tacit allusion by madame necker to the dialogue recorded by gibbon to holroyd, when his smile checked her indirect pride in her own wealth, and that she remembered that smile with just a touch of resentment. if so, nothing was more natural and comforting than to charge him with the failing that he had detected in her. but here are the facts. eight months after her marriage, madame necker admits that she had gibbon every day to her house. he says that she was very cordial. she would have it understood that she received him only for the sake of gratifying a feminine vanity. for her own sake one might prefer his interpretation to hers. it is difficult to believe that the essentially simple-minded madame necker would have asked a man every day to her house merely to triumph over him; and more difficult still to believe that the man would have gone if such had been the object. a little tartness in these first interviews, following on a relation of some ambiguity, cannot surprise one. but it was not the dominant ingredient, or the interviews must have ceased of their own accord. in any case few will admit that either of the persons concerned would have written as they did if moultou's statement were correct. in neither epistle is there any trace of a grand passion felt or slighted. we discover the much lower level of vanity and badinage. and the subsequent relations of gibbon and madame necker all tend to prove that this was the real one. chapter v. literary schemes.--the history of switzerland.--dissertation on the sixth Æneid.--father's death.--settlement in london. gibbon now (june, ) returned to his father's house, and remained there till the latter's death in . he describes these five years as having been the least pleasant and satisfactory of his whole life. the reasons were not far to seek. the unthrifty habits of the elder gibbon were now producing their natural result. he was saddled with debt, from which two mortgages, readily consented to by his son, and the sale of the house at putney, only partially relieved him. gibbon now began to fear that he had an old age of poverty before him. he had pursued knowledge with single-hearted loyalty and now became aware that from a worldly point of view knowledge is not often a profitable investment. a more dejecting discovery cannot be made by the sincere scholar. he is conscious of labour and protracted effort, which the prosperous professional man and tradesman who pass him on their road to wealth with a smile of scornful pity have never known. he has forsaken comparatively all for knowledge, and the busy world meets him with a blank stare, and surmises shrewdly that he is but an idler, with an odd taste for wasting his time over books. it says much for gibbon's robustness of spirit that he did not break down in these trying years, that he did not weakly take fright at his prospect, and make hasty and violent efforts to mend it. on the contrary, he remained steadfast and true to the things of the mind. with diminished cheerfulness perhaps, but with no abatement of zeal, he pursued his course and his studies, thereby proving that he belonged to the select class of the strong and worthy who, penetrated with the loveliness of science, will not be turned away from it. his first effort to redeem the time was a project of a history of switzerland. his choice was decided by two circumstances: ( ) his love for a country which he had made his own by adoption; ( ) by the fact that he had in his friend deyverdun, a fellow-worker who could render him most valuable assistance. gibbon never knew german, which is not surprising when we reflect what german literature amounted to, in those days; and he soon discovered that the most valuable authorities of his projected work were in the german language. but deyverdun was a perfect master of that tongue, and translated a mass of documents for the use of his friend. they laboured for two years in collecting materials, before gibbon felt himself justified in entering on the "more agreeable task of composition." and even then he considered the preparation insufficient, as no doubt it was. he felt he could not do justice to his subject; uninformed as he was "by the scholars and statesmen, and remote from the archives and libraries of the swiss republic." such a beginning was not of good augury for the success of the undertaking. he never wrote more than about sixty quarto pages of the projected work, and these, as they were in french, were submitted to the judgment of a literary society of foreigners in london, before whom the ms. was read. the author was unknown, and gibbon attended the meeting, and thus listened without being observed "to the free strictures and unfavourable sentence of his judges." he admits that the momentary sensation was painful; but the condemnation was ratified by his cooler thoughts: and he declares that he did not regret the loss of a slight and superficial essay, though it "had cost some expense, much labour, and more time." he says in his memoirs that he burnt the sheets. but this, strange to say, was a mistake on his part. they were found among his papers after his death, and though not published by lord sheffield in the first two volumes of his miscellaneous works, which the latter edited in , they appeared in the supplemental third volume which came out in . we thus can judge for ourselves of their value. one sees at once why and how they failed to satisfy their author's mature judgment. they belong to that style of historical writing which consists in the rhetorical transcription and adornment of the original authorities, but in which the writer never gets close enough to his subject to apply the touchstone of a clear and trenchant criticism. such criticism indeed was not common in switzerland in his day, and one cannot blame gibbon for not anticipating the researches of modern investigators. but his historical sense was aroused to suspicion by the story of william tell, which he boldly sets down as a fable. altogether, one may pronounce the sketch to be pleasantly written in a flowing, picturesque narrative, and showing immense advance in style beyond the essay on the study of literature. david hume, to whom he submitted it, urged him to persevere, and the advice was justified under the circumstances, although one cannot now regret that it was not followed. after the failure of this scheme gibbon, still in connection with deyverdun, planned a periodical work under the title of _mémoires littéraires de la grande bretagne_. only two volumes ever appeared, and the speculation does not seem to have met with much success. gibbon "presumes to say that their merit was superior to their reputation, though they produced more reputation than emolument." the first volume is executed with evident pains, and gives a fair picture of the literary and social condition of england at the time. the heavy review articles are interspersed with what is intended to be lighter matter on the fashions, foibles, and prominent characters of the day. gibbon owns the authorship of the first article on lord lyttelton's history of henry the second, and his hand is discernible in the account of the fourth volume of lardner's work _on the credibility of the gospel history_. the first has no merit beyond a faithful report. the latter is written with much more zest and vigour, and shows the interest that he already took in christian antiquities. other articles, evidently from the pen of deyverdun, on the english theatre and beau nash of bath, are the liveliest in the collection. the magazine was avowedly intended for continental readers, and might have obtained success if it had been continued long enough. but it died before it had time to make itself known.[ ] footnotes: [footnote : two volumes appeared of the _mémoires littéraires_. of these only the first is to be found in the british museum. it is a small mo, containing pages. here is the table des matières:--( ) histoire de henri ii., par milord lyttelton; ( ) le nouveau guide de bath; ( ) essai sur l'histoire de la société civile, par m. ferguson; ( ) conclusions des mémoires de miss sydney bidulph; théologie ( ) recueil des témoignages anciens, par lardner; ( ) le confessional; ( ) transactions philosophiques; ( ) le gouverneur, par d. l. f. spectacles, beaux arts, nouvelles littéraires.] when the _mémoires littéraires_ collapsed gibbon was again left without a definite object to concentrate his energy, and with his work still to seek. one might wonder why he did not seriously prepare for the _decline and fall_. it must have been chiefly at this time that it was "contemplated at an awful distance," perhaps even with numbing doubt whether the distance would ever be lessened and the work achieved, or even begun. the probability is he had too little peace of mind to undertake anything that required calm and protracted labour. "while so many of my acquaintance were married, or in parliament, or advancing with a rapid step in the various roads of honour or fortune i stood alone, immovable, and insignificant.... the progress and the knowledge of our domestic disorders aggravated my anxiety, and i began to apprehend that in my old age i might be left without the fruits of either industry or inheritance." perhaps a reasonable apprehension of poverty is more paralysing than the reality. in the latter case prompt action is so imperatively commanded that the mind has no leisure for the fatal indulgence of regrets; but when indigence seems only imminent, and has not yet arrived, a certain lethargy is apt to be produced out of which only the most practical characters can rouse themselves, and these are not, as a rule, scholars by nature. we need not be surprised that gibbon during these years did nothing serious, and postponed undertaking his great work. the inspiration needed to accomplish such a long and arduous course as it implied could not be kindled in a mind harassed by pecuniary cares. the fervent heat of a poet's imagination may glow as brightly in poverty as in opulence, but the gentle yet prolonged enthusiasm of the historian is likely to be quenched when the resources of life are too insecure.[ ] footnotes: [footnote : scholarship has been frequently cultivated amidst great poverty; but from the time of thucydides, the owner of mines, to grote, the banker, historians seem to have been in, at least, easy circumstances.] it is perhaps not wholly fanciful to suspect that gibbon's next literary effort was suggested and determined by the inward discomposure he felt at this time. by nature he was not a controversialist; not that he wanted the abilities to support that character, but his mind was too full, fertile, and fond of real knowledge to take much pleasure in the generally barren occupation of gainsaying other men. but at this point in his life he made an exception, and an unprovoked exception. when he wrote his famous vindication of the first volume of the _decline and fall_ he was acting in self-defence, and repelling savage attacks upon his historical veracity. but in his _critical observations on the sixth book of the Æneid_ he sought controversy for its own sake, and became a polemic--shall we say out of gaiety or bitterness of heart? that inward unrest easily produces an aggressive spirit is a matter of common observation, and it may well have been that in attacking warburton he sought a diversion from the worry of domestic cares. be that as it may, his _observations_ are the most pungent and dashing effusion he ever allowed himself. it was his first effort in english prose, and it is doubtful whether he ever managed his mother tongue better, if indeed he ever managed it so well. the little tract is written with singular spirit and rapidity of style. it is clear, trenchant, and direct to a fault. it is indeed far less critical than polemical, and shows no trace of lofty calm, either moral or intellectual. we are not repelled much by his eagerness to refute and maltreat his opponent. that was not alien from the usages of the time, and warburton at least had no right to complain of such a style of controversy. but there is no width and elevation of view. the writer does not carry the discussion up to a higher level, and dominate his adversary from a superior standpoint. controversy is always ephemeral and vulgar, unless it can rise to the discussion and establishment of facts and principles valuable for themselves, independently of the particular point at issue. it is this quality which has made the master-works of chillingworth and bentley supereminent. the particular point for which the writers contended is settled or forgotten. but in moving up to that point they touched--such was their large discourse of reason--on topics of perennial interest, did such justice, though only in passing, to certain other truths, that they are gratefully remembered ever after. thus bentley's dissertation on phalaris is read, not for the main thesis--proof of the spuriousness of the letters--but for the profound knowledge and admirable logic with which subsidiary positions are maintained on the way to it. tried by this standard, and he deserves to be tried by a high standard, gibbon fails not much, but entirely. the _observations_ are rarely, if ever, quoted as an authority of weight by any one engaged on classical or virgilian literature. this arises from the attitude of the writer, who is nearly solely occupied with establishing negative conclusions that Æneas was _not_ a lawgiver, that the sixth Æneid is _not_ an allegory, that virgil had _not_ been initiated in the eleusinian mysteries when he wrote it, and so forth. indeed the best judges now hold that he has not done full justice to the grain of truth that was to be found in warburton's clumsy and prolix hypothesis.[ ] it should be added that gibbon very candidly admits and regrets the acrimonious style of the pamphlet, and condemns still more "in a personal attack his cowardly concealment of his name and character." footnotes: [footnote : conington, _introduction to the sixth Æneid_. "a reader of the present day will, i think, be induced to award the palm of learning and ingenuity to warburton." "the language and imagery of the sixth book more than once suggest that virgil intended to embody in his picture the poetical view of that inner side of ancient religion which the mysteries may be supposed to have presented."--_suggestion on the study of the Æneid_, by h. nettleship, p. .] the _observations_ were the last work which gibbon published in his father's lifetime. his account of the latter's death (november , ) is feelingly written, and shows the affectionate side of his own nature to advantage. he acknowledges his father's failings, his weakness and inconstancy, but insists that they were compensated by the virtues of the head and heart, and the warmest sentiments of honour and humanity. "his graceful person, polite address, gentle manners, and unaffected cheerfulness recommended him to the favour of every company." and gibbon recalls with emotion "the pangs of shame, tenderness, and self-reproach" which preyed on his father's mind at the prospect, no doubt, of leaving an embarrassed estate and precarious fortune to his son and widow. he had no taste for study in the fatal summer of , and declares that he would have been ashamed if he had. "i submitted to the order of nature," he says, in words which recall his resignation on losing his mistress--"i submitted to the order of nature, and my grief was soothed by the conscious satisfaction that i had discharged all the duties of filial piety." we see gibbon very fairly in this remark. he had tenderness, steady and warm attachments, but no passion. nearly two years elapsed after his father's death, before he was able to secure from the wreck of his estate a sufficient competence to establish himself in london. his house was no. , bentinck street, near manchester square, then a remote suburb close to the country fields. his housekeeping was that of a solitary bachelor, who could afford an occasional dinner-party. though not absolutely straitened in means, we shall presently see that he was never quite at his ease in money matters while he remained in london. but he had now freedom and no great anxieties, and he began seriously to contemplate the execution of his great work. gibbon, as we have seen, looked back with little satisfaction on the five years between his return from his travels and his father's death. they are also the years during which his biographer is able to follow him with the least certainty. hardly any of his letters which refer to that period have been preserved, and he has glided rapidly over it in his memoirs. yet it was, in other respects besides the matter of pecuniary troubles, a momentous epoch in his life. the peculiar views which he adopted and partly professed on religion must have been formed then. but the date, the circumstance, and the occasion are left in darkness. up to december , , gibbon was evidently a believer. in an entry in his private journal under that date he speaks of a communion sunday at lausanne as affording an "edifying spectacle," on the ground that there is "neither business nor parties, and they interdict even whist" on that day. how soon after this his opinions began to change, it is impossible to say. but we are conscious of a markedly different tone in the _observations_, and a sneer at "the ancient alliance between the avarice of the priests and the credulity of the people" is in the familiar style of the deists from toland to chubb. there is no evidence of his familiarity with the widely diffused works of the freethinkers, and as far as i am aware he does not quote or refer to them even once. but they could hardly have escaped his notice. still his strong historic sense and solid erudition would be more likely to be repelled than attracted by their vague and inaccurate scholarship, and chimerical theories of the light of nature. still we know that he practically adopted, in the end, at least the negative portion of these views, and the question is, when did he do so? his visit to paris, and the company that he frequented there, might suggest that as a probable date of his change of opinions. but the entry just referred to was subsequent by several months to that visit, and we may with confidence assume that no freethinker of the eighteenth century would pronounce the austerities of a communion sunday in a calvinist town an edifying spectacle. it is probable that his relinquishing of dogmatic faith was gradual, and for a time unconscious. it was an age of tepid belief, except among the nonjurors and methodists; and with neither of these groups could he have had the least sympathy. his acquaintance with hume, and his partiality for the writings of bayle, are more probable sources of a change of sentiment which was in a way predestined by natural bias and cast of mind. any occasion would serve to precipitate the result. in any case, this result had been attained some years before the publication of the first volume of the _decline and fall_, in . referring to his preparatory studies for the execution of that work, he says, "as i believed, and as i still believe, that the propagation of the gospel and the triumph of the church are inseparably connected with the decline of the roman monarchy, i weighed the causes and effects of the revolution, and contrasted the narratives and apologies of the christians themselves with the glances of candour or enmity which the pagans have cast on the rising sects. the jewish and heathen testimonies, as they are collected and illustrated by dr. lardner, directed without superseding my search of the originals, and in an ample dissertation on the miraculous darkness of the passion i privately drew my conclusions from the silence of an unbelieving age." here we have the argument which concludes the sixteenth chapter distinctly announced. but the previous travail of spirit is not indicated. gibbon has marked with precision the stages of his conversion to romanism. but the following chapters of the history of his religious opinions he has not written, or he has suppressed them, and we can only vaguely guess their outline. chapter vi. life in london.--parliament.--the board of trade.--the decline and fall.--migration to lausanne. gibbon's settlement in london as master in his own house did not come too soon. a few more years of anxiety and dependence, such as he had passed of late with his father in the country, would probably have dried up the spring of literary ambition and made him miss his career. he had no tastes to fit him for a country life. the pursuit of farming only pleased him in virgil's _georgics_. he seems neither to have liked nor to have needed exercise, and english rural sports had no charms for him. "i never handled a gun, i seldom mounted a horse, and my philosophic walks were soon terminated by a shady bench, where i was long detained by the sedentary amusement of reading or meditation." he was a born _citadin_. "never," he writes to his friend holroyd, "never pretend to allure me by painting in odious colours the dust of london. i love the dust, and whenever i move into the weald it is to visit you, and not your trees." his ideal was to devote the morning, commencing early--at seven, say--to study, and the afternoon and evening to society and recreation, not "disdaining the innocent amusement of a game at cards." and this plan of a happy life he very fairly realised in his little house in bentinck street. the letters that we have of his relating to this period are buoyant with spirits and self-congratulation at his happy lot. he writes to his step-mother that he is every day more satisfied with his present mode of life, which he always believed was most calculated to make him happy. the stable and moderate stimulus of congenial society, alternating with study, was what he liked. the excitement and dissipation of a town life, which purchase pleasure to-day at the expense of fatigue and disgust to-morrow, were as little to his taste as the amusements of the country. in , when he settled in london, he was young in years, but he was old in tastes, and he enjoyed himself with the complacency often seen in healthy old men. "my library," he writes to holroyd in , "kensington gardens, and a few parties with new acquaintance, among whom i reckon goldsmith and sir joshua reynolds," (poor goldsmith was to die the year following), "fill up my time, and the monster _ennui_ preserves a very respectful distance. by the by, your friends batt, sir john russell, and lascelles dined with me one day before they set off: _for i sometimes give the prettiest little dinner in the world_." one can imagine gibbon, the picture of plumpness and content, doing the honours of his modest household. still he was never prominent in society, even after the publication of his great work had made him famous. lord sheffield says that his conversation was superior to his writings, and in a circle of intimate friends it is probable that this was true. but in the free encounter of wit and argument, the same want of readiness that made him silent in parliament would most likely restrict his conversational power. it may be doubted if there is a striking remark or saying of his on record. his name occurs in boswell, but nearly always as a _persona muta_. certainly the arena where johnson and burke encountered each other was not fitted to bring out a shy and not very quick man. against johnson he manifestly harboured a sort of grudge, and if he ever felt the weight of ursa major's paw it is not surprising. he rather oddly preserved an instance of his conversational skill, as if aware that he would not easily get credit for it. the scene was in paris. "at the table of my old friend m. de foncemagne, i was involved in a dispute with the abbé de mably.... as i might be partial in my own cause, i shall transcribe the words of an unknown critic. 'you were, my dear théodon, at m. de foncemagne's house, when the abbé de mably and mr. gibbon dined there along with a number of guests. the conversation ran almost entirely on history. the abbé, being a profound politician, turned it while at dessert on the administration of affairs, and as by genius and temper, and the habit of admiring livy, he values only the republican system, he began to boast of the excellence of republics, being well persuaded that the learned englishman would approve of all he said and admire the profoundity of genius that had enabled a frenchman to discover all these advantages. but mr. gibbon, knowing by experience the inconveniences of a popular government, was not at all of his opinion, and generously took up the defence of monarchy. the abbé wished to convince him out of livy, and by some arguments drawn from plutarch in favour of the spartans. mr. gibbon, being endowed with a most excellent memory, and having all events present to his mind, soon got the command of the conversation. the abbé grew angry, they lost possession of themselves, and said hard things of each other. the englishman retaining his native coolness, watched for his advantages, and pressed the abbé with increasing success in proportion as he was more disturbed by passion. the conversation grew warmer, and was broken off by m. de foncemagne's rising from table and passing into the parlour, where no one was tempted to renew it." but if not brilliant in society, he was very _répandu_, and was welcomed in the best circles. he was a member of boodle's, white's, brooks's, and almack's,[ ] and "there were few persons in the literary or political world to whom he was a stranger." it is to be regretted that the best sketch of him at this period borders on caricature. "the learned gibbon," says colman, "was a curious counterbalance to the learned (may i not say the less learned) johnson. their manners and tastes, both in writing and conversation, were as different as their habiliments. on the day i first sat down with johnson in his rusty-brown suit and his black worsted stockings, gibbon was placed opposite to me in a suit of flowered velvet, with a bag and sword. each had his measured phraseology, and johnson's famous parallel between dryden and pope might be loosely parodied in reference to himself and gibbon. johnson's style was grand, and gibbon's elegant: the stateliness of the former was sometimes pedantic, and the latter was occasionally finical. johnson marched to kettledrums and trumpets, gibbon moved to flutes and hautboys. johnson hewed passages through the alps, while gibbon levelled walks through parks and gardens. mauled as i had been by johnson, gibbon poured balm upon my bruises by condescending once or twice in the course of the evening to talk with me. the great historian was light and playful, suiting his matter to the capacity of the boy: but it was done _more suo_--still his mannerism prevailed, still he tapped his snuff-box, still he smirked and smiled, and rounded his periods with the same air of good-breeding, as if he were conversing with men. his mouth, mellifluous as plato's, was a round hole nearly in the centre of his visage." (quoted in croker's _boswell_.) footnotes: [footnote : not the assembly-room of that name, but a gaming-club where the play was high. i find no evidence that gibbon ever yielded to the prevalent passion for gambling.] now and then he even joins in a masquerade, "the finest thing ever seen," which costs two thousand guineas. but the chief charm of it to him seems to have been the pleasure that it gave to his aunt porten. these little vanities are however quite superficial, and are never allowed to interfere with work. now indeed he was no loiterer. in three years after his settlement in london he had produced the first volume of the _decline and fall_: an amount of diligence which will not be underrated by those who appreciate the vast difference between commencing and continuing an undertaking of that magnitude. "at the outset," he says, "all was dark and doubtful; even the title of the work, the true æra of the decline and fall of the empire, the limits of the introduction, the division of the chapters, and the order of the narrative,--and i was often tempted to cast away the labour of seven years;"--alternations no doubt of hope and despair familiar to every sincere and competent student. but he had taken the best and only reliable means of securing himself from the danger of these fluctuations of spirit. he finished his reading and preparation before he began to write, and when he at last put pen to paper his course lay open before him, with no fear of sudden and disquieting stoppages arising from imperfect knowledge and need of further inquiry. it is a pity that we cannot follow the elaboration of the work in detail. that portion of his memoirs in which he speaks of it is very short and fragmentary, and the defect is not supplied by his letters. he seems to have worked with singular ease and mastery of his subject, and never to have felt his task as a strain or a fatigue. even his intimate friends were not aware that he was engaged on a work of such magnitude, and it is amusing to see his friend holroyd warn him against a hasty and immature publication when he learned that the book was in the press. he had apparently heard little of it before. this alone would show with what ease and smoothness gibbon must have worked. he had excellent health--a strange fact after his sickly childhood; society unbent his mind instead of distracting it; his stomach was perfect--perhaps too good, as about this time he began to be admonished by the gout. he never seems to have needed change. "sufficient for the summer is the evil thereof, viz., one distant country excursion." there was an extraordinary difference in this respect between the present age and those which went before it; restlessness and change of scene have become almost a necessity of life with us, whereas our ancestors could continue healthy and happy for months and years without stirring from home. what is there to explain the change? we must not pretend that we work harder than they did.[ ] however, gibbon was able to keep himself in good condition with his long spell of work in the morning, and his dinner-parties at home or elsewhere in the afternoon, and to have kept at home as much as he could. whenever he went away to the country, it was on invitations which he could not well refuse. the result was a leisurely, unhasting fulness of achievement, calm stretches of thorough and contented work, which have left their marks on the _decline and fall_. one of its charms is a constant good humour and complacency; not a sign is visible that the writer is pressed for time, or wants to get his performance out of hand; but, on the contrary, a calm lingering over details, sprightly asides in the notes, which the least hurry would have suppressed or passed by, and a general impression conveyed of thorough enjoyment in the immensity of the labour. footnotes: [footnote : the most remarkable instance of all is the case of newton, who, according to dr. whewell, resided in trinity college "for thirty-five years without the interruption of a month."--_hist. of the inductive sciences_, vol. ii. book vii.] one would have liked to see this elaboration more clearly, to have been allowed a glimpse into his workshop while he was so engaged. unfortunately the editor of his journals has selected the relatively unimportant records of his earlier studies, and left us in the dark as regards this far more interesting period. he was such an indefatigable diarist that it is unlikely that he neglected to keep a journal in this crisis of his studies. but it has not been published, and it may have been destroyed. all that we have is this short paragraph in his memoirs:-- "the classics, as low as tacitus and the younger pliny and juvenal, were my old and familiar companions. i insensibly plunged into the ocean of the augustan history, and in the descending series i investigated, with my pen almost always in my hand, the original records, both greek and latin, from dion cassius to ammianus marcellinus, from the reign of trajan to the last age of the western cæsars. the subsidiary rays of medals and inscriptions of geography and chronology, were thrown on their proper objects, and i applied the collections of tillemont to fix and arrange within my reach the loose and scattered atoms of historical information. through the darkness of the middle ages i explored my way in the _annals and antiquities of italy_ of the learned muratori, and diligently compared them with the parallel or transverse lines of sigonius and maffei, baronius and pagi, till i almost grasped the ruins of rome in the fourteenth century, without suspecting that this final chapter must be attained by the labour of six quartos and twenty years." when the time for composition arrived, he showed a fastidiousness which was full of good augury. "three times did i compose the first chapter, and twice the second and third, before i was tolerably satisfied with their effect." his hand grew firmer as he advanced. but the two final chapters interposed a long delay, and needed "three successive revisals to reduce them from a volume to their present size." gibbon spent more time over his first volume than over any one of the five which followed it. to these he devoted almost regularly two years apiece, more or less, whereas the first cost him three years--so disproportionately difficult is the start in matters of this kind. while engaged in the composition of the first volume, he became a member of parliament. one morning at half past seven, "as he was destroying an army of barbarians," he heard a double rap at his door. it was a friend who came to inquire if he was desirous of entering the house of commons. the answer may be imagined, and he took his seat as member for the borough of liskeard after the general election in . gibbon's political career is the side of his history from which a friendly biographer would most readily turn away. not that it was exceptionally ignoble or self-seeking if tried by the standard of the time, but it was altogether commonplace and unworthy of him. the fact that he never even once opened his mouth in the house is not in itself blameworthy, though disappointing in a man of his power. it was indeed laudable enough if he had nothing to say. but why had he nothing to say? his excuse is timidity and want of readiness. we may reasonably assume that the cause lay deeper. with his mental vigour he would soon have overcome such obstacles if he had really wished and tried to overcome them. the fact is that he never tried because he never wished. it is a singular thing to say of such a man, but nevertheless true, that he had no taste or capacity whatever for politics. he lived at one of the most exciting periods of our history; he assisted at debates in which constitutional and imperial questions of the highest moment were discussed by masters of eloquence and state policy, and he hardly appears to have been aware of the fact. it was not that he despised politics as walpole affected to do, or that he regarded party struggles as "barbarous and absurd faction," as hume did; still less did he pass by them with the supercilious indifference of a mystic whose eyes are fixed on the individual spirit of man as the one spring of good and evil. he never rose to the level of the ordinary citizen or even partisan, who takes an exaggerated view perhaps of the importance of the politics of the day, but who at any rate thereby shows a sense of social solidarity and the claims of civic communion. he called himself a whig, but he had no zeal for whig principles. he voted steadily with lord north, and quite approved of taxing and coercing america into slavery; but he had no high notions of the royal prerogative, and was lukewarm in this as in everything. with such absence of passion one might have expected that he would be at least shrewd and sagacious in his judgments on politics. but he is nothing of the kind. in his familiar letters he reserves generally a few lines for parliamentary gossip, amid chat about the weather and family business. he never approaches to a broad survey of policy, or expresses serious and settled convictions on home or foreign affairs. throughout the american war he never seems to have really made up his mind on the nature of the struggle, and the momentous issues that it involved. favourable news puts him in high spirits, which are promptly cooled by the announcement of reverses; not that he ever shows any real anxiety or despondency about the commonwealth. his opinions on the subject are at the mercy of the last mail. it is disappointing to find an elegant trifler like horace walpole not only far more discerning in his appreciation of such a crisis, but also far more patriotically sensitive as to the wisdom of the means of meeting it, than the historian of rome. gibbon's tone often amounts to levity, and he chronicles the most serious measures with an unconcern really surprising. "in a few days we stop the ports of new england. i cannot write volumes: but i am more and more convinced that with firmness all may go well: yet i sometimes doubt." (february , .) "something will be done this year; but in the spring the force of the country will be exerted to the utmost: scotch highlanders, irish papists, hanoverians, canadians, indians, &c., will all in various shapes be employed." (august , .) "what think you of the season, of siberia is it not? a pleasant campaign in america." (january , .) at precisely the same time the sagacious coxcomb of strawberry hill was writing thus: "the times are indeed very serious. pacification with america is not the measure adopted. more regiments are ordered thither, and to-morrow a plan, i fear equivalent to a declaration of war, is to be laid before both houses. they are bold ministers methinks who do not hesitate on civil war, in which victory may bring ruin, and disappointment endanger their heads.... acquisition alone can make burdens palatable, and in a war with our own colonies we must inflict instead of acquiring them, and we cannot recover them without undoing them. i am still to learn wisdom and experience, if these things are not so." (letter to mann, january , .) "a war with our colonies, which is now declared, is a proof how much influence jargon has on human actions. a war on our own trade is popular." (february , .) "the war with america goes on briskly, that is as far as voting goes. a great majority in both houses is as brave as a mob ducking a pick-pocket. they flatter themselves they shall terrify the colonies into submission in three months, and are amazed to hear that there is no such probability. they might as well have excommunicated them, and left it to the devil to put the sentence into execution." (february , .) not only is walpole's judgment wiser, but the elements of a wise judgment were present to him in a way in which they were not so to gibbon. when the latter does attempt a forecast, he shows, as might be expected, as little penetration of the future as appreciation of the present. writing from paris on august , , when all french society was ablaze with enthusiasm for america, and the court just on the point of yielding to the current, he is under no immediate apprehensions of a war with france, and "would not be surprised if next summer the french were to lend their cordial assistance to england as the weaker party." the emptiness of his letters as regards home politics perhaps admits of a more favourable explanation, and may be owing to the careful suppression by their editor, lord sheffield, of everything of real interest. it is impossible to estimate the weight of this consideration, but it may be great. still we have a sufficient number of his letters to be able to say that on the whole they are neither thoughtful nor graphic: they give us neither pictures of events nor insight into the times. it must be, however, remembered that gibbon greatly disliked letter-writing, and never wrote unless he was obliged. it was no secret that gibbon wanted a place under government. moderate as his establishment seems to have been, it was more expensive than he could afford, and he looked, not without warrant, to a supplement of income from one of the rich windfalls which, in that time of sinecures were wont to refresh the spirits of sturdy supporters of administration. he had influential friends, and even relatives, in and near the government, and but for his parliamentary nullity he would probably have been provided with a comfortable berth at an early period. but his "sincere and silent vote" was not valuable enough to command a high price from his patrons. once only was he able to help them with his pen, when he drew up, at the request of lords thurlow and weymouth, his _mémoire justificatif_, in french, in which "he vindicated against the french manifesto the justice of the british arms." it was a service worthy of a small fee, which no doubt he received. he had to wait till , when he had been five years in parliament, before his cousin mr. eliot, and his friend wedderburne, the attorney-general, were able to find him a post as one of the lords commissioners of trade and plantations. the board of trade, of which he became one of the eight members, survives in mortal memory only from being embalmed in the bright amber of one of burke's great speeches. "this board, sir, has had both its original formation and its regeneration in a job. in a job it was conceived, and in a job its mother brought it forth.... this board is a sort of temperate bed of influence: a sort of gently ripening hothouse, where eight members of parliament receive salaries of a thousand a year for a certain given time, in order to mature at a proper season a claim to two thousand, granted for doing less" (_speech on economical reform_). gibbon, with entire good humour, acknowledges the justice of burke's indictment, and says he was "heard with delight, even by those whose existence he proscribed." after all, he only enjoyed the emolument of his office for three years, and he places that emolument at a lower figure than burke did. he could not have received more than between two and three thousand pounds of public money; and when we consider what manner of men have fattened on the national purse, it would be churlish to grudge that small sum to the historian of the _decline and fall_. the misfortune is that, reasonably or otherwise, doubts were raised as to gibbon's complete straightforwardness and honourable adhesion to party ties in accepting office. he says himself: "my acceptance of a place provoked some of the leaders of opposition with whom i had lived in habits of intimacy, and i was most unjustly accused of deserting a party in which i had never enlisted." there is certainly no evidence that those who were most qualified to speak, those who gave him the place and reckoned on his vote, ever complained of want of allegiance. on the other hand, gibbon's own letter to edward elliot, accepting the place, betrays a somewhat uneasy conscience. he owns that he was far from approving all the past measures of the administration, even some of those in which he himself had silently concurred; that he saw many capital defects in the characters of some of the present ministers, and was sorry that in so alarming a situation of public affairs the country had not the assistance of several able and honest men who were now in opposition. still, for various reasons, he did not consider himself in any way implicated, and rather suspiciously concludes with an allusion to his pecuniary difficulties and a flourish. "the addition of the salary which is now offered will make my situation perfectly easy, but i hope that you will do me the justice to believe that my mind could not be so unless i were conscious of the rectitude of my conduct." the strongest charge against gibbon in reference to this matter is asserted to come from his friend fox, in this odd form. "in june , mr. fox's library came to be sold. amongst his other books the first volume of mr. gibbon's history was brought to the hammer. in the blank leaf of this was a note in the handwriting of mr. fox, stating a remarkable declaration of our historian at a well-known tavern in pall mall, and contrasting it with mr. gibbon's political conduct afterwards. 'the author,' it observed, 'at brooks's said that there was no salvation for this country until six heads of the principal persons in administration' (lord north being then prime minister) 'were laid upon the table. yet,' as the observation added, 'eleven days afterwards this same gentleman accepted a place of a lord of trade under these very ministers, and has acted with them ever since.'" it is impossible to tell what amount of truth there is in this story, and not very important to inquire. it rests on the authority of a strong personal enemy, and the cordial intimacy which ever subsisted between gibbon and fox seems to show that it was mere calumny. perhaps the fact that gibbon had really no opinions in politics may have led persons of opposite parties to think that he agreed with them more than he did, and when he merely followed his own interest, they may have inferred that he was deserting their principles. after losing his post on the board of trade he still hoped for government employ, "either a secure seat at the board of customs or excise," or in a diplomatic capacity. he was disappointed. if lord sheffield is to be believed, it was his friend fox who frustrated his appointment as secretary of embassy at paris, when he had been already named to that office. the way in which gibbon acted and afterwards spoke in reference to the celebrated coalition gives perhaps the best measure of his political calibre. he voted among the rank and file of lord north's followers for the coalition with meek subserviency. he speaks of a "principle of gratitude" which actuated him on this occasion. lord north had given him his seat, and if a man's conscience allows him to think rather of his patron than of his country, there is nothing to be said, except that his code of political ethics is low. we may admit that his vote was pledged; but there is also no doubt that any gratitude that there was in the matter was stimulated by a lively sense of favours to come. the portland ministry had not been long in office when he wrote in the following terms to his friend deyverdun: "you have not forgotten that i went into parliament without patriotism and without ambition, and that all my views tended to the convenient and respectable place of a lord of trade. this situation i at length obtained. i possessed it for three years, from to , and the net produce, which amounted to _l._ sterling, augmented my income to my wants and desires. but in the spring of last year the storm burst over our heads. lord north was overthrown, your humble servant turned out, and even the board of trade, of which i was a member, abolished and broken up for ever by mr. burke's reform. to complete my misfortunes, i still remain a member of the lower house. at the end of the last parliament, mr. eliot withdrew his nomination. but the favour of lord north facilitated my re-election, and gratitude imposed on me the duty of making available for his service the rights which i held in part from him. that winter we fought under the allied standards of lord north and mr. fox: we triumphed over lord shelburne and the peace, and my friend (_i.e._ lord north) remounted his steed in the quality of a secretary of state. now he can easily say to me, 'it was a great deal for me, it was nothing for you;' and in spite of the strongest assurances, i have too much reason to allow me to have much faith. with great genius and very respectable talents, he has now neither the title nor the credit of prime minister; more active colleagues carry off the most savoury morsels which their voracious creatures immediately devour; our misfortunes and reforms have diminished the number of favours; either through pride or through indolence i am but a bad suitor, and if at last i obtain something, it may perhaps be on the eve of a fresh revolution, which will in an instant snatch from me that which has cost me so many cares and pains." such a letter speaks for itself. gibbon might well say that he entered parliament without patriotism and without ambition. the only redeeming feature is the almost cynical frankness with which he openly regards politics from a personal point of view. however, it may be pleaded that the letter was written to a bosom friend at a moment of great depression, and when gibbon's pecuniary difficulties were pressing him severely. the coalition promised him a place, and that was enough; the contempt for all principle which had brought it about was not thought of. but even this minute excuse does not apply to the way in which, years after, when he was in comfort at lausanne, he refers to the subject in his memoirs. the light in which the coalition deserved to be regarded was clear by that time. yet he speaks of it, not only without blame or regret, but contrives to cast suspicion on the motives of those who were disgusted by it, and bestowed their allegiance elsewhere. "it is not the purpose of this narrative to expatiate on the public or secret history of the times: the schism which followed the death of the marquis of rockingham, the appointment of the earl of shelbourne, the resignation of mr. fox and his famous coalition with lord north. but i may assert with some degree of assurance that in their political conflict those great antagonists had never felt any personal animosity to each other, that their reconciliation was easy and sincere, and that their friendship has never been clouded by the shadow of suspicion or jealousy. the _most violent_ or _venal_ of their respective followers embraced this fair occasion of revolt, but their alliance still commanded a majority of the house of commons, the peace was censured, lord shelbourne resigned, and the two friends knelt on the same cushion to take the oath of secretary of state. from a principle of gratitude i adhered to the coalition; my vote was counted in the day of battle, but i was overlooked in the division of the spoil." from this we learn that it was only the _violent_ and the _venal_ who disapproved of the coalition. one would like to know how gibbon explained the fact that at the general election of no less than one hundred and sixty of the supporters of the coalition lost their seats, and that fox's political reputation was all but irretrievably ruined from this time forward. meanwhile, he had not neglected, his own proper work. the first volume of his history was published in february, . it derived, he says, "more credit from the name of the shop than from that of the author." in the first instance he intended to print only five hundred copies, but the number was doubled by the "prophetic taste" of his printer, mr. strahan. the book was received with a burst of applause--it was a _succès fou_. the first impression was exhausted in a few days, and a second and third edition were scarcely adequate to the demand. the wiser few were as warm in their eulogies as the general public. hume declared that if he had not been personally acquainted with the author, he should have been surprised by such a performance coming from any englishman in that age. dr. robertson, adam ferguson, and horace walpole joined in the chorus. walpole betrays an amusing mixture of admiration and pique at not having found the author out before. "i know him a little, and never suspected the extent of his talents; for he is perfectly modest, or i want penetration, which i know too; but i intend to know him a great deal more." he oddly enough says that gibbon was the "son of a foolish alderman," which shows at least how little the author was known in the great world up to this time. now, however, society was determined to know more of him, the surest proof, not of merit, but of success. it must have been a rather intoxicating moment, but gibbon had a cool head not easily turned. it would be unfair not to add that he had something much better, a really warm and affectionate regard for old friends, the best preservative against the fumes of flattery and sudden fame. holroyd, deyverdun, madame necker were more to him than all the great people with whom he now became acquainted. necker and his wife came over from paris and paid him a long visit in bentinck street, when his laurels were just fresh. "i live with her" he writes, "just as i used to do twenty years ago, laugh at her paris varnish, and oblige her to become a simple reasonable suissesse. the man, who might read english husbands lessons of proper and dutiful behaviour, is a sensible, good-natured creature." the next year he returned the visit to paris. his fame had preceded him, and he received the cordial but discriminating welcome which _the ancien régime_ at that time specially reserved for _gens d'esprit_. madame du deffand writes to walpole, "mr. gibbon has the greatest success here; it is quite a struggle to get him." he did not deny himself a rather sumptuous style of living while in paris. perhaps the recollection of the unpleasant effect of his english clothes and the long waists of the french on his former visit dwelt in his mind, for now, like walpole, he procured a new outfit at once. "after decking myself out with silks and silver, the ordinary establishment of coach, lodgings, servants, eating, and pocket expenses, does not exceed _l._ per month. yet i have two footmen in handsome liveries behind my coach, and my apartment is hung with damask." the remainder of his life in london has nothing important. he persevered assiduously with his history, and had two more quartos ready in . they were received with less enthusiasm than the first, although they were really superior. gibbon was rather too modestly inclined to agree with the public and "to believe that, especially in the beginning, they were more prolix and less entertaining" than the previous volume. he also wasted some weeks on his vindication of the fifteenth and sixteenth chapters of that volume, which had excited a host of feeble and ill-mannered attacks. his defence was complete, and in excellent temper. but the piece has no permanent value. his assailants were so ignorant and silly that they gave no scope for a great controversial reply. neither perhaps did the subject admit of it. a literary war generally makes people think of bentley's incomparable _phalaris_. but that was almost a unique occasion and victory in the history of letters. bentley himself, the most pugnacious of men, never found such another. and so the time glided by, till we come to the year . lord north had resigned office, the board of trade was abolished, and gibbon had lost his convenient salary. the outlook was not pleasant. the seat on the board of customs or excise with which his hopes had been for a time kept up, receded into a remote distance, and he came to the conclusion "that the reign of pensions and sinecures was at an end." it was clearly necessary to take some important step in the way of retrenchment. after he had lost his official income, his expenses exceeded his revenue by something like four hundred pounds. a less expensive style of living in london never seems to have presented itself as an alternative. so, like many an englishman before and since, he resolved to go abroad to economise. his old friend deyverdun was now settled in a comfortable house at lausanne, overlooking the lake of geneva. they had not met for eight years. but the friendship had begun a quarter of a century before, in the old days when gibbon was a boarder in pavillard's house, and the embers of old associations only wanted stirring to make them shoot up into flame. in a moment of expansion gibbon wrote off a warm and eager letter to his friend, setting forth his unsatisfactory position, and his wish and even necessity to change it. he gradually and with much delicacy discloses his plan, that he and deyverdun, both now old bachelors, should combine their solitary lives in a common household and carry out an old project, often discussed in younger days, of living together. "you live in a charming house. i see from here my apartment, the rooms we shall share with one another, our table, our walks. but such a marriage is worthless unless it suits both parties, and i easily feel that circumstances, new tastes, and connections may frustrate a design which appeared charming in the distance. to settle my mind and to avoid regrets, you must be as frank as i have been, and give me a true picture, external and internal, of george deyverdun." this letter, written in fluent and perfect french, is one of the best that we have of gibbon. deyverdun answered promptly, and met his friend's advances with at least equal warmth. the few letters that have been preserved of his connected with this subject give a highly favourable idea of his mind and character, and show he was quite worthy of the long and constant attachment that gibbon felt for him. he cannot express the delight he has felt at his friend's proposal; by the rarest piece of good fortune, it so happens that he himself is in a somewhat similar position of uncertainty and difficulty; a year ago gibbon's letter would have given him pleasure, now it offers assistance and support. after a few details concerning the tenant who occupies a portion of his house, he proceeds to urge gibbon to carry out the project he had suggested, to break loose from parliament and politics, for which he was not fit, and to give himself up to the charms of study and friendship. "call to mind, my dear friend," he goes on, "that i saw you enter parliament with regret, and i think i was only too good a prophet. i am sure that career has caused you more privations than joys, more pains than pleasures. ever since i have known you i have been convinced that your happiness lay in your study and in society, and that any path which led you elsewhere was a departure from happiness." through nine pages of gentle and friendly eloquence deyverdun pursues his argument to induce his friend to clinch the bargain. "i advise you not only not to solicit a place, but to refuse one if it were offered to you. would a thousand a year make up to you for the loss of five days a week?... by making this retreat to switzerland, besides the beauty of the country and the pleasures of its society, you will acquire two blessings which you have lost, liberty and competence. you will also be useful, your works will continue to enlighten us, and, independently of your talents, the man of honour and refinement is never useless." he then skilfully exhibits the attractions he has to offer. "you used to like my house and garden; what would you do now? on the first floor, which looks on the declivity of ouchy, i have fitted up an apartment which is enough for me. i have a servant's room, two _salons_, two cabinets. on a level with the terrace two other _salons_, of which one serves as a dining-room in summer, and the other a drawing-room for company. i have arranged three more rooms between the house and the coachhouse, so that i can offer you all the large apartment, which consists actually of eleven rooms, great and small, looking east and south, not splendidly furnished, i allow, but with a certain elegance which i hope you will like. the terrace is but little altered ... it is lined from end to end with boxes of orange-trees. the vine-trellis has prospered, and extends nearly to the end. i have purchased the vineyard below the garden, and in front of the house made it into a lawn, which is watered by the water of the fountain.... in a word, strangers come to see the place, and in spite of my pompous description of it i think you will like it.... if you come, you will find a tranquillity which you cannot have in london, and a friend who has not passed a single day without thinking of you, and who, in spite of his defects, his foibles, and his inferiority, is still one of the companions who suits you best." more letters followed from both sides in a similar strain. yet gibbon quailed before a final resolution. his aunt, mrs. porten, his mother, mrs. gibbon, his friend, lord sheffield, all joined in deprecating his voluntary exile. "that is a nonsensical scheme," said the latter, "you have got into your head of returning to lausanne--a pretty fancy; you remember how much you liked it in your youth, but now you have seen more of the world, and if you were to try it again you would find yourself woefully disappointed." deyverdun, with complete sympathy, begged him not to be in too great a hurry to decide on a course which he himself desired so much. "i agree with you," he wrote to gibbon, "that this is a sort of marriage, but i could never forgive myself if i saw you dissatisfied in the sequel, and in a position to reproach me." gibbon felt it was a case demanding decision of character, and he came to a determination with a promptitude and energy not usual with him. he promised deyverdun in the next letter an ultimatum, stating whether he meant to _go_ or to _stay_, and a week after he wrote, "i go." he had prudently refrained from consulting lord sheffield during this critical period, knowing that his certain disapprobation of the scheme would only complicate matters and render decision more difficult. then he wrote, "i have given deyverdun my word of honour to be at lausanne at the beginning of october, and no power of persuasion can divert me from this _irrevocable_ resolution, which i am every day proceeding to execute." this was no exaggeration. he cancelled the lease of his house in bentinck street, packed the more necessary portion of his books and shipped them for rouen, and as his postchaise moved over westminster bridge, "bade a long farewell to the _fumum et opes strepitumque romæ_." the only real pang he felt in leaving arose from the "silent grief" of his aunt porten, whom he did not hope to see again. nor did he. he started on september , , slept at dover, was flattered with the hope of making calais harbour by the same tide in "three hours and a half, as the wind was brisk and fair," but was driven into boulogne. he had not a symptom of seasickness. then he went on by easy stages through aire, bethune, douay, cambray, st. quentin, la fère, laon, rheims, chalons, st. dizier, langres, besançon, and arrived at lausanne on the th. the inns he found more agreeable to the palate than to the sight or the smell. at langres he had an excellent bed about six feet high from the ground. he beguiled the time with homer and clarendon, talking with his servant, caplin, and his dog muff, and sometimes with the french postilions, and he found them the least rational of the animals mentioned. he reached his journey's end, to alight amid a number of minor troubles, which to a less easy tempered man would have been real annoyances. he found that deyverdun had reckoned without his host, or rather his tenant, and that they could not have possession of the house for several months, so he had to take lodgings. then he sprained his ankle, and this brought on a bad attack of the gout, which laid him up completely. however, his spirits never gave way. in time his books arrived, and the friends got installed in their own house. his satisfaction has then no bounds, with the people, the place, the way of living, and his daily companion. we must now leave him for a short space in the enjoyment of his happiness, while we briefly consider the labours of the previous ten years. chapter vii. the first three volumes of the decline and fall. the historian who is also an artist is exposed to a particular drawback from which his brethren in other fields are exempt. the mere lapse of time destroys the value and even the fidelity of his pictures. in other arts correct colouring and outline remain correct, and if they are combined with imaginative power, age rather enhances than diminishes their worth. but the historian lives under another law. his reproduction of a past age, however full and true it may appear to his contemporaries, appears less and less true to his successors. the way in which he saw things ceases to be satisfactory; we may admit his accuracy, but we add a qualification referring to the time when he wrote, the point of view that he occupied. and we feel that what was accurate for him is no longer accurate for us. this superannuation of historical work is not similar to the superseding of scientific work which is ever going on, and is the capital test of progress. scientific books become rapidly old-fashioned, because the science to which they refer is in constant growth, and a work on chemistry or biology is out of date by reason of incompleteness or the discovery of unsuspected errors. the scientific side of history, if we allow it to have a scientific side, conforms to this rule, and presents no singularity. closer inspection of our materials, the employment of the comparative method, occasionally the bringing to light of new authorities--all contribute to an increase of real knowledge, and historical studies in this respect do not differ from other branches of research. but this is not the sole or the chief cause of the renovation and transformation constantly needed in historic work. that depends on the ever-moving standpoint from which the past is regarded, so that society in looking back on its previous history never sees it for long together at quite the same angle, never sees, we may say, quite the same thing. the past changes to us as we move down the stream of time, as a distant mountain changes through the windings of the road on which we travel away from it. to drop figure and use language now becoming familiar, the social organism is in constant growth, and receiving new additions, and each new addition causes us to modify our view of the whole. the historian, in fact, is engaged in the study of an unfinished organism, whose development is constantly presenting him with surprises. it is as if the biologist were suddenly to come upon new and unheard-of species and families which would upset his old classification, or as if the chemist were to find his laws of combination replaced by others which were not only unknown to him, but which were really new and recent in the world. other inquirers have the whole of the phenomena with which their science is concerned before them, and they may explore them at their leisure. the sociologist has only an instalment, most likely a very small instalment, of the phenomena with which his science is concerned before him. they have not yet happened, are not yet phenomena, and as they do happen and admit of investigation they necessarily lead to constant modification of his views and deductions. not only does he acquire new knowledge like other inquirers, but he is constantly having the subject-matter from which he derives his knowledge augmented. even in modern times society has thrown out with much suddenness rapid and unexpected developments, of such scope and volume that contemporaries have often lost self-possession at the sight of them, and wondered if social order could survive. the reformation and the french revolution are cases in point. and what a principal part do these two great events always play in any speculations instituted subsequent to them! how easy it is to see whether a writer lived before the reign of terror, or after it, from his gait and manner of approaching social inquiries! is there any reason to suppose that such mutations are now at an end? none. the probability, well nigh a certainty, is that metamorphoses of the social organism are in store for us which will equal, if they do not vastly exceed, anything that the past has offered. considerations of this kind need to be kept in view if we would be just in our appreciation of historical writings which have already a certain age. it is impossible that a history composed a century ago should fully satisfy us now; but we must beware of blaming the writer for his supposed or real shortcomings, till we have ascertained how far they arose from his personal inadequacy to his task, and were not the result of his chronological position. it need not be said that this remark does not refer to many books which are called histories, but are really contemporary memoirs and original authorities subservient to history proper. the works of clarendon and burnet, for instance, can never lose a certain value on this account. the immortal book which all subsequent generations have agreed to call a possession for ever, is the unapproachable ideal of this class. but neither thucydides nor clarendon were historians in the sense in which gibbon was an historian, that is, engaged in the delineation of a remote epoch by the help of such materials as have escaped the ravages of time. it is historians like gibbon who are exposed to the particular unhappiness referred to a little way back--that of growing out of date through no fault of their own, but through the changed aspect presented by the past in consequence of the movement which has brought us to the present. but if this is the field of historical disaster, it is also the opportunity of historical genius. in proportion as a writer transcends the special limitations of his time, will "age fail to wither him." that he cannot entirely shake off the fetters which fasten him to his epoch is manifest. but in proportion as his vision is clear, in proportion as he has with singleness of eye striven to draw the past with reverent loyalty, will his bondage to his own time be loosened, and his work will remain faithful work for which due gratitude will not be withheld. the sudden and rapid expansion of historic studies in the middle of the eighteenth century constitutes one of the great epochs in literature. up to the year no great historical work had appeared in any modern language.[ ] the instances that seem to make against this remark will be found to confirm it. they consist of memoirs, contemporary documents, in short materials for history, but not history itself. from froissart and de comines, or even from the earlier monastic writers to st. simon (who was just finishing his incomparable memoirs), history with wide outlook and the conception of social progress and interconnection of events did not exist. yet history in its simple forms is one of the most spontaneous of human achievements. stories of mighty deeds, of the prowess and death of heroes, are among the earliest productions of even semi-civilised man--the earliest subjects of epic and lyric verse. but this rudimentary form is never more than biographical. with increasing complexity of social evolution it dies away, and history proper, as distinct from annals and chronicle, does not arise till circumstances allow of general and synthetic views, till societies can be surveyed from a sufficient distance and elevation for their movements to be discerned. thucydides, livy, and tacitus do not appear till greece and home have reached their highest point of homogeneous national life. the tardy dawn of history in the modern world was owing to its immense complexity. materials also were wanting. they gradually emerged out of manuscript all over europe, during what may be called the great pedant age ( - ), under the direction of meritorious antiquaries, camden, savile, duchesne, gale, and others. still official documents and state papers were wanting, and had they been at hand would hardly have been used with competence. the national and religious limitations were still too marked and hostile to permit a free survey over the historic field. the eighteenth century, though it opened with a bloody war, was essentially peaceful in spirit: governments made war, but men and nations longed for rest. the increased interest in the past was shown by the publication nearly contemporary of the great historic collections of rymer (a.d. ), leibnitz ( ), and muratori ( ). before the middle of the century the historic muse had abundant oil to feed her lamp. still the lamp would probably not have been lighted but for the singular pass to which french thought had come. footnotes: [footnote : mézeray's great history of france is next to valueless till he reaches the sixteenth century, that was a period bordering on his own. thuanus deals with contemporary events.] from the latter years of louis xiv. till the third quarter of the eighteenth century was all but closed, france had a government at once so weak and wicked, so much below the culture of the people it oppressed, that the better minds of the nation turned away in disgust from their domestic ignominy, and sought consolation in contemplating foreign virtue wherever they thought it was to be found; in short, they became cosmopolitan. the country which has since been the birthplace of chauvinism, put away national pride almost with passion. but this was not all. the country whose king was called the eldest son of the church, and with which untold pains had been taken to keep it orthodox, had lapsed into such an abhorrence of the church and of orthodoxy that anything seemed preferable to them in its eyes. thus, as if by enchantment, the old barriers disappeared, both national and religious. man and his fortunes, in all climes and all ages, became topics of intense interest, especially when they tended to degrade by contrast the detested condition of things at home. this was the weak side of historical speculation in france: it was essentially polemical; prompted less by genuine interest in the past than by strong hatred of the present. of this perturbation note must be taken. but it is none the less true that the disengagement of french thought from the narrow limits of nation and creed produced, as it were in a moment, a lofty conception of history such as subsequent ages may equal, but can hardly surpass. the influence of french thought was european, and nowhere more beneficial than in england. in other countries it was too despotic, and produced in germany, at least, lessing's memorable reaction. but the robust national and political life of england reduced it to a welcome flavouring of our insular temperament. the scotch, who had a traditional connection with france, were the first importers of the new views. hume, who had practically grown in the same soil as voltaire, was only three years behind him in the historic field. the _age of louis xiv._ was published in , and the first volume of the _history of england_ in . hume was no disciple of voltaire; he simply wrote under the stimulus of the same order of ideas. robertson, who shortly followed him, no doubt drew direct inspiration from voltaire, and his weightiest achievement, the view of the state of europe, prefixed to his _history of charles v._, was largely influenced, if it was not absolutely suggested, by the _essay on manners_. but both hume and robertson surpassed their masters, if we allow, as seems right, that the french were their masters. the scotch writers had no quarrel with their country or their age as the french had. one was a tory, the other a whig; and hume allowed himself to be unworthily affected by party bias in his historical judgment. but neither was tempted to turn history into a covert attack on the condition of things amid which they lived. hence a calmness and dignity of tone and language, very different from the petulant brilliancy of voltaire, who is never so happy as when he can make the past look mean and ridiculous, merely because it was the parent of the odious present. but, excellent as were the scotch historians--hume, in style nearly perfect; robertson, admirable for gravity and shrewd sense--they yet left much to be desired. hume had despatched his five quartos, containing the whole history of england from the roman period to the revolution, in nine years. considering that the subject was new to him when he began, such rapidity made genuine research out of the question. robertson had the oddest way of consulting his friends as to what subject it would be advisable for him to treat, and was open to proposals from any quarter with exemplary impartiality; this only showed how little the stern conditions of real historic inquiry were appreciated by him. in fact it is not doing them injustice to say that these eminent men were a sort of modern livies, chiefly occupied with the rhetorical part of their work, and not over inclined to waste their time in ungrateful digging in the deep mines of historic lore. obviously the place was open for a writer who should unite all the broad spirit of comprehensive survey, with the thorough and minute patience of a benedictine; whose subject, mellowed by long brooding, should have sought him rather than he it; whose whole previous course of study had been an unconscious preparation for one great effort which was to fill his life. when gibbon sat down to write his book, the man had been found who united these difficult conditions. the decline and fall of rome is the greatest event in history. it occupied a larger portion of the earth's surface, it affected the lives and fortunes of a larger number of human beings, than any other revolution on record. for it was essentially one, though it took centuries to consummate, and though it had for its theatre the civilised world. great evolutions and catastrophes happened before it, and have happened since, but nothing which can compare with it in volume and mere physical size. nor was it less morally. the destruction of rome was not only a destruction of an empire, it was the destruction of a phase of human thought, of a system of human beliefs, of morals, politics, civilisation, as all these had existed in the world for ages. the drama is so vast, the cataclysm so appalling, that even at this day we are hardly removed from it far enough to take it fully in. the mind is oppressed, the imagination flags under the load imposed upon it. the capture and sack of a town one can fairly conceive: the massacre, outrage, the flaming roofs, the desolation. even the devastation of a province can be approximately reproduced in thought. but what thought can embrace the devastation and destruction of all the civilised portions of europe, africa, and asia? who can realise a thirty years war lasting five hundred years? a devastation of the palatinate extending through fifteen generations? if we try to insert into the picture, as we undoubtedly should do, the founding of the new, which was going on beside this destruction of the old, the settling down of the barbarian hosts in the conquered provinces, the expansion of the victorious church, driving paganism from the towns to the country and at last extinguishing it entirely, the effort becomes more difficult than ever. the legend of the seven sleepers testifies to the need men felt, even before the tragedy had come to an end, to symbolize in a manageable form the tremendous changes they saw going on around them. but the legend only refers to the changes in religion. the fall of rome was much more than that. it was the death of the old pagan world and the birth of the new christian world--the greatest transition in history. this, and no less than this, is gibbon's subject. he has treated it in such a way as even now fills competent judges with something like astonishment. his accuracy, coupled with the extraordinary range of his matter, the variety of his topics, the complexity of his undertaking, the fulness and thoroughness of his knowledge, never failing at any point over the vast field, the ease and mastery with which he lifts the enormous load, are appreciated in proportion to the information and abilities of his critic. one testimonial will suffice. mr. freeman says: "that gibbon should ever be displaced seems impossible. that wonderful man monopolised, so to speak, the historical genius and the historical learning of a whole generation, and left little, indeed, of either for his contemporaries. he remains the one historian of the eighteenth century whom modern research has neither set aside nor threatened to set aside. we may correct and improve from the stores which have been opened since gibbon's time; we may write again large parts of his story from other and often truer and more wholesome points of view, but the work of gibbon as a whole, as the encyclopædic history of years, as the grandest of historical designs, carried out alike with wonderful power and with wonderful accuracy, must ever keep its place. whatever else is read, gibbon must be read too." gibbon's immense scheme did not unfold itself to him at once: he passed through at least two distinct stages in the conception of his work. the original idea had been confined to the decline and fall of the city of rome. before he began to write, this had been expanded to the fall of the empire of the west. the first volume, which we saw him publish in the last chapter, was only an instalment, limited to the accession of constantine, through a doubt as to how his labours would be received. the two following volumes, published in , completed his primitive plan. then he paused exactly a year before he resolved to carry on his work to its true end, the taking of constantinople by the turks in . the latter portion he achieved in three volumes more, which he gave to the world on his fifty-first birthday, in . thus the work naturally falls into two equal parts. it will be more convenient to disregard in our remarks the interval of five years which separated the publication of the first volume from its two immediate companions. the first three volumes constitute a whole in themselves, which we will now consider. from the accession of commodus, a.d. , to the last of the western cæsars, a.d. , three centuries elapsed. the first date is a real point of departure, the commencement of a new stage of decay in the empire. the second is a mere official record of the final disappearance of a series of phantom sovereigns, whose vanishing was hardly noticed. between these limits the empire passed from the autumnal calm of the antonine period, through the dreadful century of anarchy between pertinax and diocletian, through the relative peace brought about by diocletian's reforms, the civil wars of the sons of constantine, the disastrous defeat of julian, the calamities of the gothic war, the short respite under theodosius, the growing anarchy and misery under his incompetent sons, the three sieges of rome and its sack by the goths, the awful appearance of attila and his huns, the final submergence of the western empire under the barbarians, and the universal ruin which marked the close of the fifth century. this was the temporal side of affairs. on the spiritual, we have the silent occult growth of the early church, the conversion of constantine, the tremendous conflict of hostile sects, the heresy of arius, the final triumph of athanasius, the spread of monasticism, the extinction of paganism. antiquity has ended, the middle ages have begun. over all this immense field gibbon moves with a striking attitude of power, which arose from his consciousness of complete preparation. what there was to be known of his subject he felt sure that he knew. his method of treatment is very simple, one might say primitive, but it is very effective. he masters his materials, and then condenses and clarifies them into a broad, well-filled narrative, which is always or nearly always perfectly lucid through his skill in grouping events and characters, and his fine boldness in neglecting chronological sequence for the sake of clearness and unity of action. it is doing the book injustice to consult it only as a work of reference, or even to read it in detached portions. it should be read through, if we would appreciate the art with which the story is told. no part can be fairly judged without regard to the remainder. in fact, gibbon was much more an artist than perhaps be suspected, and less of a philosophic thinker on history than he would have been willing to allow. his shortcomings in this latter respect will be adverted to presently; we are now considering his merits. and among these the very high one of lofty and vigorous narrative stands pre-eminent. the campaigns of julian, belisarius, and heraclius are painted with a dash and clearness which few civil historians have equalled. his descriptive power is also very great. the picture of constantinople in the seventeenth chapter is, as the writer of these pages can testify, a wonderful achievement, both for fidelity and brilliancy, coming from a man who had never seen the place. "if we survey byzantium in the extent which it acquired with the august name of constantinople, the figure of the imperial city may be represented under that of an unequal triangle. the obtuse point, which advances towards the east and the shores of asia, meets and repels the waves of the thracian bosphorus. the northern side of the city is bounded by the harbour; and the southern is washed by the propontis, or sea of marmora. the basis of the triangle is opposed to the west, and terminates the continent of europe. but the admirable form and division of the circumjacent land and water cannot, without a more ample explanation, be clearly or sufficiently understood. "the winding channel through which the waters of the euxine flow with rapid and incessant course towards the mediterranean received the appellation of bosphorus, a name not less celebrated in the history than in the fables of antiquity. a crowd of temples and of votive altars, profusely scattered along its steep and woody banks, attested the unskilfulness, the terrors, and the devotion of the grecian navigators, who, after the example of the argonauts, explored the dangers of the inhospitable euxine. on these banks tradition long preserved the memory of the palace of phineus, infested by the obscene harpies, and of the sylvan reign of amycus, who defied the son of leda to the combat of the cestus. the straits of the bosphorus are terminated by the cyanean rocks, which, according to the description of the poets, had once floated on the surface of the waters, and were destined by the gods to protect the entrance of the euxine against the eye of profane curiosity. from the cyanean rocks to the point and harbour of byzantium the winding length of the bosphorus extends about sixteen miles, and its most ordinary breadth may be computed at about one mile and a half. the _new_ castles of europe and asia are constructed on either continent upon the foundations of two celebrated temples of serapis and jupiter urius. the _old_ castles, a work of the greek emperors, command the narrowest part of the channel, in a place where the opposite banks advance within five hundred yards of each other. these fortresses were destroyed and strengthened by mahomet the second when he meditated the siege of constantinople; but the turkish conqueror was most probably ignorant that near two thousand years before his reign darius had chosen the same situation to connect the two continents by a bridge of boats. at a small distance from the old castles we discover the little town of chrysopolis or scutari, which may almost be considered as the asiatic suburb of constantinople. the bosphorus, as it begins to open into the propontis, passes between byzantium and chalcedon. the latter of these two cities was built by the greeks a few years before the former, and the blindness of its founders, who overlooked the superior advantages of the opposite coast, has been stigmatised by a proverbial expression of contempt. "the harbour of constantinople, which may be considered as an arm of the bosphorus, obtained in a very remote period, the denomination of the _golden horn_. the curve which it describes might be compared to the horn of a stag, or as it should seem with more propriety, to that of an ox. the epithet of _golden_ was expressive of the riches which every wind wafted from the most distant countries into the secure and capacious port of constantinople. the river lycus, formed by the conflux of two little streams, pours into the harbour a perpetual supply of fresh water, which serves to cleanse the bottom and to invite the periodical shoals of fish to seek their retreat in that convenient recess. as the vicissitudes of the tides are scarcely felt in those seas, the constant depth of the harbour allows goods to be landed on the quays without the assistance of boats, and it has been observed that in many places the largest vessels may rest their prows against the houses while their sterns are floating in the water. from the mouth of the lycus to that of the harbour, this arm of the bosphorus is more than seven miles in length. the entrance is about five hundred yards broad, and a strong chain could be occasionally drawn across it, to guard the port and the city from the attack of an hostile navy. "between the bosphorus and the hellespont, the shores of europe and asia receding on either side include the sea of marmora, which was known to the ancients by the denomination of the propontis. the navigation from the issue of the bosphorus to the entrance of the hellespont is about one hundred and twenty miles. those who steer their westward course through the middle of the propontis may at once descry the highlands of thrace and bithynia and never lose sight of the lofty summit of mount olympus, covered with eternal snows. they leave on the left a deep gulf, at the bottom of which nicomedia was seated, the imperial residence of diocletian, and they pass the small islands of cyzicus and proconnesus before they cast anchor at gallipoli, where the sea which separates asia from europe is again contracted to a narrow channel. "the geographers, who with the most skilful accuracy have surveyed the form and extent of the hellespont, assign about sixty miles for the winding course and about three miles for the ordinary breadth of those celebrated straits. but the narrowest part of the channel is found to the northward of the old turkish castles between the cities of sestos and abydos. it was here that the adventurous leander braved the passage of the flood for the possession of his mistress. it was here, likewise, in a place where the distance between the opposite banks cannot exceed five hundred paces, that xerxes imposed a stupendous bridge of boats for the purpose of transporting into europe an hundred and seventy myriads of barbarians. a sea contracted within such narrow limits may seem but ill to deserve the singular epithet of _broad_, which homer, as well as orpheus, has frequently bestowed on the hellespont. but our ideas of greatness are of a relative nature; the traveller, and especially the poet, who sailed along the hellespont, who pursued the windings of the stream and contemplated the rural scenery which appeared on every side to terminate the prospect, insensibly lost the remembrance of the sea, and his fancy painted those celebrated straits with all the attributes of a mighty river flowing with a swift current in the midst of a woody and inland country, and at length through a wide mouth discharging itself into the Ægean or archipelago. ancient troy, seated on an eminence at the foot of mount ida, overlooked the mouth of the hellespont, which scarcely received an accession of waters from the tribute of those immortal rivulets the simois and scamander. the grecian camp had stretched twelve miles along the shore from the sigæan to the rhætian promontory, and the flanks of the army were guarded by the bravest chiefs who fought under the banners of agamemnon. the first of these promontories was occupied by achilles with his invincible myrmidons, and the dauntless ajax pitched his tents on the other. after ajax had fallen a sacrifice to his disappointed pride and to the ingratitude of the greeks, his sepulchre was erected on the ground where he had defended the navy against the rage of jove and hector, and the citizens of the rising town of rhætium celebrated his memory with divine honours. before constantine gave a just preference to the situation of byzantium he had conceived the design of erecting the seat of empire on this celebrated spot, from whence the romans derived their fabulous origin. the extensive plain which lies below ancient troy towards the rhætian promontory was first chosen for his new capital; and though the undertaking was soon relinquished, the stately remains of unfinished walls and towers attracted the notice of all who sailed through the straits of the hellespont. "we are at present qualified to view the advantageous position of constantinople; which appears to have been formed by nature for the centre and capital of a great monarchy. situated in the forty-first degree of latitude, the imperial city commanded from her seven hills the opposite shores of europe and asia; the climate was healthy and temperate; the soil fertile; the harbour secure and capacious; and the approach on the side of the continent was of small extent and easy defence. the bosphorus and the hellespont may be considered as the two gates of constantinople, and the prince who possesses those important passages could always shut them against a naval enemy and open them to the fleets of commerce. the preservation of the eastern provinces may in some degree be ascribed to the policy of constantine, as the barbarians of the euxine, who in the preceding age had poured their armaments into the heart of the mediterranean, soon desisted from the exercise of piracy, and despaired of forcing this insurmountable barrier. when the gates of the hellespont and bosphorus were shut, the capital still enjoyed within their spacious inclosure every production which could supply the wants or gratify the luxury of its numerous inhabitants. the sea-coasts of thrace and bithynia, which languish under the weight of turkish oppression, still exhibit a rich prospect of vineyards, of gardens, and of plentiful harvests; and the propontis has ever been renowned for an inexhaustible store of the most exquisite fish that are taken in their stated seasons without skill and almost without labour. but when the passages of the straits were thrown open for trade, they alternately admitted the natural and artificial riches of the north and south, of the euxine and the mediterranean. whatever rude commodities were collected in the forests of germany and scythia, and as far as the sources of the tanais and borysthenes; whatsoever was manufactured by the skill of europe or asia, the corn of egypt, the gems and spices of the furthest india, were brought by the varying winds into the port of constantinople, which for many ages attracted the commerce of the ancient world. "the prospect of beauty, of safety, and of wealth united in a single spot was sufficient to justify the choice of constantine. but as some mixture of prodigy and fable has in every age been supposed to reflect a becoming majesty on the origin of great cities, the emperor was desirous of ascribing his resolution not so much to the uncertain counsels of human policy as to the eternal and infallible decrees of divine wisdom. in one of his laws he has been careful to instruct posterity that in obedience to the commands of god he laid the everlasting foundations of constantinople, and though he has not condescended to relate in what manner the celestial inspiration was communicated to his mind, the defect of his modest silence has been liberally supplied by the ingenuity of succeeding writers, who describe the nocturnal vision which appeared to the fancy of constantine as he slept within the walls of byzantium. the tutelar genius of the city, a venerable matron sinking under the weight of years and infirmities, was suddenly transformed into a blooming maid, whom his own hands adorned with all the symbols of imperial greatness. the monarch awoke, interpreted the auspicious omen, and obeyed without hesitation the will of heaven. the day which gave birth to a city or a colony was celebrated by the romans with such ceremonies as had been ordained by a generous superstition: and though constantine might omit some rites which savoured too strongly of their pagan origin, yet he was anxious to leave a deep impression of hope and respect on the minds of the spectators. on foot, with a lance in his hand, the emperor himself led the solemn procession: and directed the line which was traced as the boundary of the destined capital: till the growing circumference was observed with astonishment by the assistants, who at length ventured to observe that he had already exceeded the most ample measure of a great city. 'i shall still advance,' replied constantine, 'till he, the invisible guide who marches before me, thinks proper to stop.'" gibbon proceeds to describe the extent, limits, and edifices of constantinople. unfortunately the limits of our space prevent us from giving more than a portion of his brilliant picture. "in the actual state of the city the palace and gardens of the seraglio occupy the eastern promontory, the first of the seven hills, and cover about one hundred and fifty acres of our own measure. the seat of turkish jealousy and despotism is erected on the foundations of a grecian republic: but it may be supposed that the byzantines were tempted by the conveniency of the harbour to extend their habitations on that side beyond the modern limits of the seraglio. the new walls of constantine stretched from the port to the propontis across the enlarged breadth of the triangle, at the distance of fifteen stadia from the ancient fortifications: and with the city of byzantium they inclosed five of the seven hills, which to the eyes of those who approach constantinople appear to rise above each other in beautiful order. about a century after the death of the founder the new buildings, extending on one side up the harbour, and on the other the propontis, already covered the narrow ridge of the sixth and the broad summit of the seventh hill. the necessity of protecting those suburbs from the incessant inroads of the barbarians engaged the younger theodosius to surround his capital with an adequate and permanent inclosure of walls. from the eastern promontory to the golden gate, the extreme length of constantinople was above three roman miles; the circumference measured between ten and eleven; and the surface might be computed as equal to about two thousand english acres. it is impossible to justify the vain and credulous exaggerations of modern travellers, who have sometimes stretched the limits of constantinople over the adjacent villages of the european and even asiatic coasts. but the suburbs of pera and galata, though situate beyond the harbour, may deserve to be considered as a part of the city, and this addition may perhaps authorise the measure of a byzantine historian, who assigns sixteen greek (about sixteen roman) miles for the circumference of his native city. such an extent may seem not unworthy of an imperial residence. yet constantinople must yield to babylon and thebes, to ancient rome, to london, and even to paris.... "some estimate may be formed of the expense bestowed with imperial liberality on constantinople, by the allowance of about two millions five hundred thousand pounds for the construction of the walls, the porticoes, and the aqueducts. the forests that overshadowed the shores of the euxine, and the celebrated quarries of white marble in the little island of proconnesus, supplied an inexhaustible stock of materials ready to be conveyed by the convenience of a short water carriage to the harbour of byzantium. a multitude of labourers and artificers urged the conclusion of the work with incessant toil, but the impatience of constantine soon discovered that in the decline of the arts the skill as well as the number of his architects bore a very unequal proportion to the greatness of his design.... the buildings of the new city were executed by such artificers as the age of constantine could afford, but they were decorated by the hands of the most celebrated masters of the age of pericles and alexander.... by constantine's command the cities of greece and asia were despoiled of their most valuable ornaments. the trophies of memorable wars, the objects of religious veneration, the most finished statues of the gods and heroes, of the sages and poets of ancient times, contributed to the splendid triumph of constantinople. "... the circus, or hippodrome, was a stately building of about four hundred paces in length and one hundred in breadth. the space between the two _metæ_, or goals, was filled with statues and obelisks, and we may still remark a very singular fragment of antiquity--the bodies of three serpents twisted into one pillar of brass. their triple heads had once supported the golden tripod which, after the defeat of xerxes, was consecrated in the temple of delphi by the victorious greeks. the beauty of the hippodrome has been long since defaced by the rude hands of the turkish conquerors; but, under the similar appellation of atmeidan, it still serves as a place of exercise for their horses. from the throne whence the emperor viewed the circensian games a winding staircase descended to the palace, a magnificent edifice, which scarcely yielded to the residence of rome itself, and which, together with the dependent courts, gardens, and porticoes, covered a considerable extent of ground upon the banks of the propontis between the hippodrome and the church of st. sophia. we might likewise celebrate the baths, which still retained the name of zeuxippus, after they had been enriched by the magnificence of constantine with lofty columns, various marbles, and above three score statues of bronze. but we should deviate from the design of this history if we attempted minutely to describe the different buildings or quarters of the city.... a particular description, composed about a century after its foundation, enumerates a capitol or school of learning, a circus, two theatres, eight public and one hundred and fifty-three private baths, fifty-two porticoes, five granaries, eight aqueducts or reservoirs of water, four spacious halls for the meeting of the senate or courts of justice, fourteen churches, fourteen palaces, and four thousand three hundred and eighty-eight houses, which for their size or beauty deserved to be distinguished from the multitude of plebeian habitations." gibbon's conception of history was that of a spacious panorama, in which a series of tableaux pass in succession before the reader's eye. he adverts but little, far too little, to that side of events which does not strike the visual sense. he rarely generalises or sums up a widely-scattered mass of facts into pregnant synthetic views. but possibly he owes some of the permanence of his fame to this very defect. as soon as ever a writer begins to support a thesis, to prove a point, he runs imminent danger of one-sidedness and partiality in his presentation of events. gibbon's faithful transcript of the past has neither the merit nor the drawback of generalisation, and he has come in consequence to be regarded as a common mine of authentic facts to which all speculators can resort. the first volume, which was received with such warm acclamation, is inferior to those that followed. he seems to have been partly aware of this himself, and speaks of the "concise and superficial narrative from commodus to alexander." but the whole volume lacks the grasp and easy mastery which distinguish its successors. no doubt the subject-matter was comparatively meagre and ungrateful. the century between commodus and diocletian was one long spasm of anarchy and violence, which was, as niebuhr said, incapable of historical treatment. the obscure confusion of the age is aggravated into almost complete darkness by the wretched materials which alone have survived, and the attempt to found a dignified narrative on such scanty and imperfect authorities was hardly wise. gibbon would have shown a greater sense of historic proportion if he had passed over this period with a few bold strokes, and summed up with brevity such general results as may be fairly deduced. we may say of the first volume that it was tentative in every way. in it the author not only sounded his public, but he was also trying his instrument, running over the keys in preparatory search for the right note. he strikes it full and clear in the two final chapters on the early church; these, whatever objections may be made against them on other grounds, are the real commencement of the decline and fall. from this point onwards he marches with the steady and measured tramp of a roman legion. his materials improve both in number and quality. the fourth century, though a period of frightful anarchy and disaster if compared to a settled epoch, is a period of relative peace and order when compared to the third century. the fifth was calamitous beyond example; but ecclesiastical history comes to the support of secular history in a way which might have excited more gratitude in gibbon than it did. from constantine to augustulus gibbon is able to put forth all his strength. his style is less superfine, as his matter becomes more copious; and the more definite cleavage of events brought about by the separation between the eastern and western empires, enables him to display the higher qualities which marked him as an historian. the merit of his work, it is again necessary to point out, will not be justly estimated unless the considerations suggested at the beginning of this chapter be kept in view. we have to remember that his culture was chiefly french, and that his opinions were those which prevailed in france in the latter half of the eighteenth century. he was the friend of voltaire, helvétius, and d'holbach; that is, of men who regarded the past as one long nightmare of crime, imposture, and folly, instigated by the selfish machinations of kings and priests. a strong infusion of the spirit which animated not only voltaire's _essay on manners_, but certain parts of hume's _history of england_ might have been expected as a matter of course. it is essentially absent. gibbon's private opinions may have been what they will, but he has approved his high title to the character of an historian by keeping them well in abeyance. when he turned his eyes to the past and viewed it with intense gaze, he was absorbed in the spectacle, his peculiar prejudices were hushed, he thought only of the object before him and of reproducing it as well as he could. this is not the common opinion, but, nevertheless, a great deal can be said to support it. it will be as well to take two concrete tests--his treatment of two topics which of all others were most likely to betray him into deviations from historic candour. if he stands these, he may be admitted to stand any less severe. let them be his account of julian, and his method of dealing with christianity. the snare that was spread by julian's apostasy for the philosophers of the last century, and their haste to fall into it, are well known. the spectacle of a philosopher on the throne who proclaimed toleration, and contempt for christianity, was too tempting and too useful controversially to allow of much circumspection in handling it. the odious comparisons it offered were so exactly what was wanted for depreciating the most christian king and his courtly church, that all further inquiry into the apostate's merits seemed useless. voltaire finds that julian had all the qualities of trajan without his defects; all the virtues of cato without his ill-humour; all that one admires in julius cæsar without his vices; he had the continency of scipio, and was in all ways equal to marcus aurelius, the first of men. nay, more. if he had only lived longer, he would have retarded the fall of the roman empire, if he could not arrest it entirely. we here see the length to which "polemical fury" could hurry a man of rare insight. julian had been a subject of contention for years between the hostile factions. while one party made it a point of honour to prove that he was a monster, warring consciously against the most high, the other was equally determined to prove that he was a paragon of all virtue, by reason of his enmity to the christian religion. the deep interest attaching to the pagan reaction in the fourth century, and the social and moral problems it suggests, were perceived by neither side, and it is not difficult to see why they were not. the very word reaction, in its modern sense, will hardly be found in the eighteenth century, and the thing that it expresses was very imperfectly conceived. we, who have been surrounded by reactions, real or supposed, in politics, in religion, in philosophy, recognise an old acquaintance in the efforts of the limited, intense julian to stem the tide of progress as represented in the christian church. it is a fine instance of the way in which the ever-unfolding present is constantly lighting up the past. julian and his party were the ultramontanes of their day in matters of religion, and the romantics in matters of literature. those radical innovators and reformers, the christians, were marching from conquest to conquest, over the old faith, making no concealment of their revolutionary aims and intentions to wipe out the past as speedily as possible. the conservatives of those times, after long despising the reformers, passed easily to fearing them and hating them as their success became threatening. "the attachment to paganism," says neander, "lingered especially in many of the ancient and noble families of greece and rome." old families, or new rich ones who wished to be thought old, would be sure to take up the cause of ancestral wisdom as against modern innovation. before julian came to the throne, a pagan reaction was imminent, as neander points out. julian himself was a remarkable man, as men of his class usually are. in the breaking up of old modes of belief, as mill has said, "the most strong-minded and discerning, next to those who head the movement, are generally those who bring up the rear." the energy of his mind and character was quite exceptional, and if we reflect that he only reigned sixteen months, and died in his thirty-second year, we must admit that the mark he has left in history is very surprising. he and his policy are now discussed with entire calm by inquirers of all schools, and sincere christians like neander and dean milman are as little disposed to attack him with acrimony, as those of a different way of thought are inclined to make him a subject of unlimited panegyric. through this difficult subject gibbon has found his way with a prudence and true insight which extorted admiration, even in his own day. his account of julian is essentially a modern account. the influence of his private opinions can hardly be traced in the brilliant chapters that he has devoted to the apostate. he sees through julian's weaknesses in a way in which voltaire never saw or cared to see. his pitiful superstition, his huge vanity, his weak affectation are brought out with an incisive clearness and subtle penetration into character which gibbon was not always so ready to display. at the same time he does full justice to julian's real merits. and this is perhaps the most striking evidence of his penetration. an error on the side of injustice to julian is very natural in a man who, having renounced allegiance to christianity, yet fully realises the futility of attempting to arrest it in the fourth century. a certain intellectual disdain for the reactionary emperor is difficult to avoid. gibbon surmounts it completely, and he does so, not in consequence of a general conception of the reactionary spirit, as a constantly emerging element in society, but by sheer historical insight, clear vision of the fact before him. it may be added that nowhere is gibbon's command of vivid narrative seen to greater advantage than in the chapters that he has devoted to julian. the daring march from gaul to illyricum is told with immense spirit; but the account of julian's final campaign and death in persia is still better, and can hardly be surpassed. it has every merit of clearness and rapidity, yet is full of dignity, which culminates in this fine passage referring to the night before the emperor received his mortal wound. "while julian struggled with the almost insuperable difficulties of his situation, the silent hours of the night were still devoted to study and contemplation. whenever he closed his eyes in short and interrupted slumbers, his mind was agitated by painful anxiety; nor can it be thought surprising that the genius of the empire should once more appear before him, covering with a funereal veil his head and his horn of abundance, and slowly retiring from the imperial tent. the monarch started from his couch, and, stepping forth to refresh his wearied spirits with the coolness of the midnight air, he beheld a fiery meteor, which shot athwart the sky and suddenly vanished. julian was convinced that he had seen the menacing countenance of the god of war: the council which he summoned, of tuscan haruspices, unanimously pronounced that he should abstain from action; but on this occasion necessity and reason were more prevalent than superstition, and the trumpets sounded at the break of day."[ ] footnotes: [footnote : it is interesting to compare gibbon's admirable picture with the harsh original latin of his authority, ammianus marcellinus. "ipse autem ad sollicitam suspensamque quietem paullisper protractus, cum somno (ut solebat) depulso, ad æmulationem cæsaris julii quædam sub pellibus scribens, obscuro noctis altitudine sensus cujusdam philosophi teneretur, vidit squalidius, ut confessus est proximis, speciem illam genii publici, quam quum ad augustum surgeret culmen, conspexit in galliis, velata cum capite cornucopia per aulæa tristius discedentem. et quamquam ad momentum hæsit, stupore defixus, omni tamen superior metu, ventura decretis cælestibus commendabat; relicto humi strato cubili, adulta jam excitus nocte, et numinibus per sacra depulsoria supplicans, flagrantissimam facem cadenti similem visam, aëris parte sulcata evanuisse existimavit: horroreque perfusus est, ne ita aperte minax martis adparuerit sidus."--_amm. marc._ lib. xxv. cap. .] it will not be so easy to absolve gibbon from the charge of prejudice in reference to his treatment of the early church. it cannot be denied that in the two famous chapters, at least, which concluded his first volume, he adopted a tone which must be pronounced offensive, not only from the christian point of view, but on the broad ground of historical equity. his preconceived opinions were too strong for him on this occasion, and obstructed his generally clear vision. yet a distinction must be made. the offensive tone in question is confined to these two chapters. we need not think that it was in consequence of the clamour they raised that he adopted a different style with reference to church matters in his subsequent volumes. a more creditable explanation of his different tone, which will be presently suggested, is at least as probable. in any case, these two chapters remain the chief slur on his historical impartiality, and it is worth while to examine what his offence amounts to. gibbon's account of the early christians is vitiated by his narrow and distorted conception of the emotional side of man's nature. having no spiritual aspirations himself, he could not appreciate or understand them in others. those emotions which have for their object the unseen world and its centre, god, had no meaning for him; and he was tempted to explain them away when he came across them, or to ascribe their origin and effects to other instincts which were more intelligible to him. the wonderland which the mystic inhabits was closed to him, he remained outside of it and reproduced in sarcastic travesty the reports he heard of its marvels. what he has called the secondary causes of the growth of christianity, were much rather its effects. the first is "the inflexible and intolerant zeal of the christians" and their abhorrence of idolatry. with great power of language, he paints the early christian "encompassed with infernal snares in every convivial entertainment, as often as his friends, invoking the hospitable deities, poured out libations to each other's happiness. when the bride, struggling with well-affected reluctance, was forced in hymenæal pomp over the threshold of her new habitation, or when the sad procession of the dead slowly moved towards the funeral pile, the christian on these interesting occasions was compelled to desert the persons who were dearest to him, rather than contract the guilt inherent in those impious ceremonies." it is strange that gibbon did not ask himself what was the cause of this inflexible zeal. the zeal produced the effects alleged, but what produced the zeal? he says that it was derived from the jewish religion, but neglects to point out what could have induced gentiles of every diversity of origin to derive from a despised race tenets and sentiments which would make their lives one long scene of self-denial and danger. the whole vein of remark is so completely out of date, that it is not worth dwelling on, except very summarily. the second cause is "the doctrine of a future life, improved by every additional circumstance which could give weight and efficacy to that important truth." again we have an effect treated as a cause. "the ancient christians were animated by a contempt for their present existence, and by a just confidence of immortality." very true; but the fact of their being so animated was what wanted explaining. gibbon says it "was no wonder that so advantageous an offer" as that of immortality was accepted. yet he had just before told us that the ablest orators at the bar and in the senate of rome, could expose this offer of immortality to ridicule without fear of giving offence. whence arose, then, the sudden blaze of conviction with which the christians embraced it? the third cause is the miraculous powers _ascribed_ to the primitive church. gibbon apparently had not the courage to admit that he agreed with his friend hume in rejecting miracles altogether. he conceals his drift in a cloud of words, suggesting indirectly with innuendo and sneer his real opinion. but this does not account for the stress he lays on the _ascription_ of miracles. he seems to think that the claim of supernatural gifts somehow had the same efficacy as the gifts themselves would have had, if they had existed. the fourth cause is the virtues of the primitive christians. the paragraphs upon it, dean milman considers the most uncandid in all the history, and they certainly do gibbon no credit. with a strange ignorance of the human heart, he attributes the austere morals of the early christians to their care for their reputation. the ascetic temper, one of the most widely manifested in history, was beyond his comprehension. the fifth cause was the union and discipline of the christian republic. for the last time the effect figures as the cause. union and discipline we know are powerful, but we know also that they are the result of deep antecedent forces, and that prudence and policy alone never produced them. it can surprise no one that gibbon has treated the early church in a way which is highly unsatisfactory if judged by a modern standard. not only is it a period which criticism has gone over again and again with a microscope, but the standpoint from which such periods are observed has materially changed since his day. that dim epoch of nascent faith, full of tender and subdued tints, with a high light on the brows of the crucified, was not one in which he could see clearly, or properly see at all. he has as little insight into the religious condition of the pagan world, as of the christian. it is singular how he passes over facts which were plain before him, which he knew quite well, as he knew nearly everything connected with his subject, but the real significance of which he missed. thus he attributes to the scepticism of the pagan world the easy introduction of christianity. misled by the "eloquence of cicero and the wit of lucian," he supposes the second century to have been vacant of beliefs, in which a "fashion of incredulity" was widely diffused, and "many were almost disengaged from artificial prejudices." he was evidently unaware of the striking religious revival which uplifted paganism in the age of hadrian, and grew with the sinking empire: the first stirrings of it may even be discerned in tacitus, and go on increasing till we reach the theurgy of the neoplatonists. a growing fear of the gods, a weariness of life and longing for death, a disposition to look for compensation for the miseries of this world to a brighter one beyond the grave--these traits are common in the literature of the second century, and show the change which had come over the minds of men. gibbon is colour-blind to these shades of the religious spirit: he can only see the banter of lucian.[ ] in reference to these matters he was a true son of his age, and could hardly be expected to transcend it. footnotes: [footnote : on the religious revival of the second century, see hausrath's _neutestamentliche zeitgeschichte_, vol. iii., especially the sections, "hadrian's mysticismus" and "religiöse tendenzen in kunst und literatur," where this interesting subject is handled with a freshness and insight quite remarkable.] he cannot be cleared of this reproach. on the other hand, we must remember that gibbon's hard and accurate criticism set a good example in one respect. the fertile fancy of the middle ages had run into wild exaggerations of the number of the primitive martyrs, and their legends had not always been submitted to impartial scrutiny even in the eighteenth century. we may admit that gibbon was not without bias of another kind, and that his tone is often very offensive when he seeks to depreciate the evidence of the sufferings of the early confessors. his computation, which will allow of "an annual consumption of a hundred and fifty martyrs," is nothing short of cynical. still he did good service in insisting on chapter and verse and fair historical proof of these frightful stories, before they were admitted. dean milman acknowledges so much, and defends him against the hot zeal of m. guizot, justly adding that "truth must not be sacrificed even to well-grounded moral indignation," in which sentiment all now will no doubt be willing to concur. the difference between the church in the catacombs, and the church in the palaces at constantinople or ravenna, measures the difference between gibbon's treatment of early christian history and his treatment of ecclesiastical history. just as the simple-hearted emotions of god-fearing men were a puzzle and an irritation to him, so he was completely at home in exposing the intrigues of courtly bishops and in the metaphysics of theological controversy. his mode of dealing with church matters from this point onward is hardly ever unfair, and has given rise to few protestations. he has not succeeded in pleasing everybody. what church historian ever does? but he is candid, impartial, and discerning. his account of the conversion of constantine is remarkably just, and he is more generous to the first christian emperor than niebuhr or neander. he plunges into the arian controversy with manifest delight, and has given in a few pages one of the clearest and most memorable _résumés_ of that great struggle. but it is when he comes to the hero of that struggle, to an historic character who can be seen with clearness, that he shows his wonted tact and insight. a great man hardly ever fails to awaken gibbon into admiration and sympathy. the "great athanasius," as he often calls him, caught his eye at once, and the impulse to draw a fine character, promptly silenced any prejudices which might interfere with faithful portraiture. "athanasius stands out more grandly in gibbon, than in the pages of the orthodox ecclesiastical historians"--dr. newman has said,--a judge whose competence will not be questioned. and as if to show how much insight depends on sympathy, gibbon is immediately more just and open to the merits of the christian community, than he had been hitherto. he now sees "that the privileges of the church had already revived a sense of order and freedom in the roman government." his chapter on the rise of monasticism is more fair and discriminating than the average protestant treatment of that subject. he distinctly acknowledges the debt we owe the monks for their attention to agriculture, the useful trades, and the preservation of ancient literature. the more disgusting forms of asceticism he touches with light irony, which is quite as effective as the vehement denunciations of non-catholic writers. it must not be forgotten that his ecclesiastical history derives a great superiority of clearness and proportion by its interweaving with the general history of the times, and this fact of itself suffices to give gibbon's picture a permanent value even beside the master works of german erudition which have been devoted exclusively to church matters. if we lay down gibbon and take up neander, for instance, we are conscious that with all the greater fulness of detail, engaging candour, and sympathetic insight of the great berlin professor, the general impression of the times is less distinct and lasting. there is no specialism in gibbon; his book is a broad sociological picture in which the whole age is portrayed. to sum up. in two memorable chapters gibbon has allowed his prejudices to mar his work as an historian. but two chapters out of seventy-one constitute a small proportion. in the remainder of his work he is as free from bias and unfairness as human frailty can well allow. the annotated editions of milman and guizot are guarantees of this. their critical animadversions become very few and far between after the first volume is passed. if he had been animated by a polemical object in writing; if he had used the past as an arsenal from which to draw weapons to attack the present, we may depend that a swift blight would have shrivelled his labours, as it did so many famous works of the eighteenth century, when the great day of reaction set in. his mild rebuke of the abbé raynal should not be forgotten. he admired the _history of the indies_. it is one of the few books that he has honoured with mention and praise in the text of his own work. but he points out that the "zeal of the philosophic historian for the rights of mankind" had led him into a blunder. it was not only gibbon's scholarly accuracy which saved him from such blunders. perhaps he had less zeal for the rights of mankind than men like raynal, whose general views he shared. but it is certain that he did not write with their settled _parti pris_ of making history a vehicle of controversy. his object was to be a faithful historian, and due regard being had to his limitations, he attained to it. if we now consider the defects of the _decline and fall_--which the progress of historic study, and still more the lapse of time, have gradually rendered visible, they will be found, as was to be expected, to consist in the author's limited conception of society, and of the multitudinous forces which mould and modify it. we are constantly reminded by the tone of remark that he sees chiefly the surface of events, and that the deeper causes which produce them have not been seen with the same clearness. in proportion as an age is remote, and therefore different from that in which a historian writes, does it behove him to remember that the social and general side of history is more important than the individual and particular. in reference to a period adjacent to our own the fortunes of individuals properly take a prominent place, the social conditions amid which they worked are familiar to us, and we understand them and their position without effort. but with regard to a remote age the case is different. here our difficulty is to understand the social conditions, so unlike those with which we are acquainted, and as society is greater than man, so we feel that society, and not individual men, should occupy the chief place in the picture. not that individuals are to be suppressed or neglected, but their subordination to the large historic background must be well maintained. the social, religious, and philosophic conditions amid which they played their parts should dominate the scene, and dwarf by their grandeur and importance the human actors who move across it. the higher historical style now demands what may be called compound narrative, that is narrative having reference to two sets of phenomena--one the obvious surface events, the other the larger and wider, but less obvious, sociological condition. a better example could hardly be given than grote's account of the mutilation of the hermæ. the fact of the mutilation is told in the briefest way in a few lines, but the social condition which overarched it, and made the disfiguring of a number of half-statues "one of the most extraordinary events in greek history," demands five pages of reflections and commentary to bring out its full significance. grote insists on the duty "to take reasonable pains to realise in our minds the religious and political associations of the athenians," and helps us to do it by a train of argument and illustration. the larger part of the strength of the modern historical school lies in this method, and in able hands it has produced great results. it would be unfair to compare gibbon to these writers. they had a training in social studies which he had not. but it is not certain that he has always acquitted himself well, even if compared to his contemporaries and predecessors, montesquieu, mably, and voltaire. in any case his narrative is generally wanting in historic perspective and suggestive background. it adheres closely to the obvious surface of events with little attempt to place behind them the deeper sky of social evolution. in many of his crowded chapters one cannot see the wood for the trees. the story is not lifted up and made lucid by general points of view, but drags or hurries along in the hollow of events, over which the author never seems to raise himself into a position of commanding survey. the thirty-sixth chapter is a marked instance of this defect. but the defect is general. the vigorous and skilful narrative, and a certain grandeur and weightiness of language, make us overlook it. it is only when we try to attain clear and succinct views, which condense into portable propositions the enormous mass of facts collected before us, that we feel that the writer has not often surveyed his subject from a height and distance sufficient to allow the great features of the epoch to be seen in bold outline. by the side of the history of concrete events, we miss the presentation of those others which are none the less events for being vague, irregular, and wide-reaching, and requiring centuries for their accomplishment. gibbon's manner of dealing with the first is always good, and sometimes consummate, and equal to anything in historical literature. the thirty-first chapter, with its description of rome, soon to fall a prey to the goths and alaric, is a masterpiece, artistic and spacious in the highest degree; though it is unnecessary to cite particular instances, as nearly every chapter contains passages of admirable historic power. but the noble flood of narrative never stops in meditative pause to review the situation, and point out with pregnant brevity what is happening in the sum total, abstraction made of all confusing details. besides the facts of the time, we seek to have the tendencies of the age brought before us in their flow and expansion, the filiation of events over long periods deduced in clear sequence, a synoptical view which is to the mind what a picture is to the eye. in this respect gibbon's method leaves not a little to be desired. take for instance two of the most important aspects of the subject that he treated: the barbarian invasions, and the causes of the decline and fall of the roman empire. to the concrete side of both he has done ample justice. the rational and abstract side of neither has received the attention from him which it deserved. on the interesting question of the introduction of the barbarians into the frontier provinces, and their incorporation into the legions, he never seems to have quite made up his mind. in the twelfth chapter he calls it a "great and beneficial plan." subsequently he calls it a disgraceful and fatal expedient. he recurs frequently to the subject in isolated passages, but never collects the facts, into a focus, with a view of deducing their real meaning. yet the point is second to none in importance. its elucidation throws more light on the fall of rome than any other considerations whatever. the question is, whether rome was conquered by the barbarians in the ordinary sense of the word, conquered. we know that it was not, and gibbon knew that it was not. yet perhaps most people rise from reading his book with an impression that the empire succumbed to the invasion of the barbarians, as carthage, gaul, and greece had succumbed to the invasion of the romans; that the struggle lay between classic rome and outside uncivilised foes; and that after two centuries of hard fighting the latter were victorious. the fact that the struggle lay between barbarians, who were within and friendly to the empire, and barbarians who were without it, and hostile rather to their more fortunate brethren, than to the empire which employed them, is implicitly involved in gibbon's narrative, but it is not explicitly brought out. romanised goths, vandals, and franks were the defenders, nearly the only defenders, of the empire against other tribes and nations who were not romanised, and nothing can be more plain than that gibbon saw this as well as any one since, but he has not set it forth with prominence and clearness. with his complete mastery of the subject he would have done it admirably, if he had assumed the necessary point of view. similarly, with regard to the causes of the fall of the empire. it is quite evident that he was not at all unconscious of the deep economic and social vices which undermined the great fabric. depopulation, decay of agriculture, fiscal oppression, the general prostration begotten of despotism--all these sources of the great collapse may be traced in his text, or his wonderful notes, hinted very often with a flashing insight which anticipates the most recent inquiries into the subject. but these considerations are not brought together to a luminous point, nor made to yield clear and tangible results. they lie scattered, isolated, and barren over three volumes, and are easily overlooked. one may say that generalised and synthetic views are conspicuous by their absence in gibbon. but what of that? these reflections, even if they be well founded, hardly dim the majesty of the _decline and fall_. the book is such a marvel of knowledge at once wide and minute, that even now, after numbers of labourers have gone over the same ground, with only special objects in view, small segments of the great circle which gibbon fills alone, his word is still one of the weightiest that can be quoted. modern research has unquestionably opened out points of view to which he did not attain. but when it comes to close investigation of any particular question, we rarely fail to find that he has seen it, dropped some pregnant hint about it, more valuable than the dissertations of other men. as mr. freeman says, "whatever else is read, gibbon must be read too." chapter viii. the last ten years of his life in lausanne. after the preliminary troubles which met him on his arrival at lausanne, gibbon had four years of unbroken calm and steady work, of which there is nothing to record beyond the fact that they were filled with peaceful industry. "one day," he wrote, "glides by another in tranquil uniformity." during the whole period he never stirred ten miles out of lausanne. he had nearly completed the fourth volume before he left england. then came an interruption of a year--consumed in the break-up of his london establishment, his journey, the transport of his library, the delay in getting settled at lausanne. then he sat down in grim earnest to finish his task, and certainly the speed he used, considering the quality of the work, left nothing to be desired. he achieved the fifth volume in twenty-one months, and the sixth in little more than a year. he had hoped to finish sooner, but it is no wonder that he found his work grow under his hands when he passed from design to execution. "a long while ago, when i contemplated the distant prospect of my work," he writes to lord sheffield, "i gave you and myself some hopes of landing in england last autumn; but alas! when autumn grew near, hills began to rise on hills, alps on alps, and i found my journey far more tedious and toilsome than i had imagined. when i look back on the length of the undertaking and the variety of materials, i cannot accuse or suffer myself to be accused of idleness; yet it appeared that unless i doubled my diligence, another year, and perhaps more, would elapse before i could embark with my complete manuscript. under these circumstances i took, and am still executing, a bold and meritorious resolution. the mornings in winter, and in a country of early dinners, are very concise. to them, my usual period of study, i now frequently add the evenings, renounce cards and society, refuse the most agreeable evenings, or perhaps make my appearance at a late supper. by this extraordinary industry, which i never practised before, and to which i hope never to be again reduced, i see the last part of my history growing apace under my hands." he was indeed, as he said, now straining for the goal which was at last reached "on the day, or rather the night, of the th of june, . between the hours of eleven and twelve i wrote the last lines of the last page in a summer-house in my garden. after laying down my pen, i took several turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. the air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent. i will not dissemble the first emotions of joy on the recovery of my freedom, and perhaps the establishment of my fame. but my pride was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy was spread over my mind by the idea that i had taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion, and that whatsoever might be the future fate of my history, the life of the historian must be short and precarious." a faint streak of poetry occasionally shoots across gibbon's prose. but both prose and poetry had now to yield to stern business. the printing of three quarto volumes in those days of handpresses was a formidable undertaking, and unless expedition were used the publishing season of the ensuing year would be lost. a month had barely elapsed before gibbon with his precious cargo started for england. he went straight to his printers. the printing of the fourth volume occupied three months, and both author and publisher were warned that their common interest required a quicker pace. then mr. strahan "fulfilled his engagement, which few printers could sustain, of delivering every week three thousand copies of nine sheets." on the th of may, , the three concluding volumes were published, and gibbon had discharged his debt for the entertainment that he had had in this world. he returned as speedily as he could to lausanne, to rest from his labours. but he had a painful greeting in the sadly altered look of his friend deyverdun. soon an apoplectic seizure confirmed his forebodings, and within a twelvemonth the friend of his youth, whom he had loved for thirty-three years, was taken away by death (july , ).[ ] footnotes: [footnote : the letter in which gibbon communicated the sad news to lord sheffield was written on the th july, , the day of the taking of the bastille. so "that evening sun of july" sent its beams on gibbon mourning the dead friend, as well as on "reapers amid peaceful woods and fields, on old women spinning in cottages, on ships far out on the silent main, on balls at the orangerie of versailles, where high-rouged dames of the palace are even now dancing with double-jacketed hussar officers."] gibbon never got over this loss. his staid and solid nature was not given to transports of joy or grief. but his constant references to "poor deyverdun," and the vacancy caused by his loss, show the depth of the wound. "i want to change the scene," he writes, "and, beautiful as the garden and prospect must appear to every eye, i feel that the state of my mind casts a gloom over them: every spot, every walk, every bench recalls the memory of those hours, those conversations, which will return no more.... i almost hesitate whether i shall run over to england to consult with you on the spot, and to fly from poor deyverdun's shade, which meets me at every turn." not that he lacked attached friends, and of mere society and acquaintance he had more than abundance. he occupied at lausanne a position of almost patriarchal dignity, "and may be said," writes lord sheffield, "to have almost given the law to a set of as willing subjects as any man ever presided over." soon the troubles in france sent wave after wave of emigrants over the frontiers, and lausanne had its full share of the exiles. after a brief approval of the reforms in france he passed rapidly to doubt, disgust, and horror at the "new birth of time" there. "you will allow me to be a tolerable historian," he wrote to his step-mother, "yet on a fair review of ancient and modern times i can find none that bear any affinity to the present." the last social evolution was beyond his power of classification. the mingled bewilderment and anger with which he looks out from lausanne on the revolutionary welter, form an almost amusing contrast to his usual apathy on political matters. he is full of alarm lest england should catch the revolutionary fever. he is delighted with burke's _reflections_. "i admire his eloquence, i approve his politics, i adore his chivalry, and i can forgive even his superstition." his wrath waxes hotter at every post. "poor france! the state is dissolved! the nation is mad." at last nothing but vituperation can express his feelings, and he roundly calls the members of the convention "devils," and discovers that "democratical principles lead by a path of flowers into the abyss of hell." in his friends the neckers had fled to switzerland, and on every ground of duty and inclination he was called upon to show them the warmest welcome, and he did so in a way that excited their liveliest gratitude. necker was cast down in utter despair, not only for the loss of place and power, but on account of the strong animosity which was shown to him by the exiled french, none of whom would set their foot in his house. the neckers were now gibbon's chief intimates till the end of his sojourn in switzerland. they lived at coppet, and constant visits were exchanged there and at lausanne. madame necker wrote to him frequent letters, which prove that if she had ever had any grievance to complain of in the past, it was not only forgiven, but entirely forgotten. the letters, indeed, testify a warmth of sentiment on her part which, coming from a lady of less spotless propriety, would almost imply a revival of youthful affection for her early lover. "you have always been dear to me," she writes, "but the friendship you have shown to m. necker adds to that which you inspire me with on so many grounds, and i love you at present with a double affection."--"come to us when you are restored to health and to yourself; that moment should always belong to your first and your last friend (_amie_), and i do not know which of those titles is the sweetest and dearest to my heart."--"near you, the recollections you recalled were pleasant to me, and you connected them easily with present impressions; the chain of years seemed to link all times together with electrical rapidity; you were at once twenty and fifty years old for me. away from you the different places, which i have inhabited are only the milestones of my life telling me of the distance i have come." with much more in the same strain. of madame de staël gibbon does not speak in very warm praise. her mother, who was far from being contented with her, may perhaps have prejudiced him against her. in one letter to him she complains of her daughter's conduct in no measured terms. yet gibbon owns that madame de staël was a "pleasant little woman;" and in another place says that she was "wild, vain, but good-natured, with a much larger provision of wit than of beauty." one wonders if he ever knew of her childish scheme of marrying him in order that her parents might always have the pleasure of his company and conversation. these closing years of gibbon's life were not happy, through no fault of his. no man was less inclined by disposition to look at the dark side of things. but heavy blows fell on him in quick succession. his health was seriously impaired, and he was often laid up for months with the gout. his neglect of exercise had produced its effect, and he had become a prodigy of unwieldy corpulency. unfortunately his digestion seems to have continued only too good, and neither his own observation nor the medical science of that day sufficed to warn him against certain errors of regimen which were really fatal. all this time, while the gout was constantly torturing him, he drank madeira freely. there is frequent question of a pipe of that sweet wine in his correspondence with lord sheffield. he cannot bear the thought of being without a sufficient supply, as "good madeira is now become essential to his health and reputation." the last three years of his residence at lausanne were agitated by perpetual anxiety and dread of an invasion of french democratic principles, or even of french troops. reluctance to quit "his paradise" keeps him still, but he is always wondering how soon he will have to fly, and often regrets that he has not done so already. "for my part," he writes, "till geneva falls, i do not think of a retreat; but at all events i am provided with two strong horses and a hundred louis in gold." fate was hard on the kindly epicurean, who after his long toil had made his bed in the sun, on which he was preparing to lie down in genial content till the end came. but he feels he must not think of rest; and that, heavy as he is, and irksome to him as it is to move, he must before long be a rover again. still he is never peevish upon his fortune; he puts the best face on things as long as they will bear it. he was not so philosophical under the bereavements that he now suffered. his aunt, mrs. porten, had died in . he deplored her as he was bound to do, and feelingly regrets and blames himself for not having written to her as often as he might have done since their last parting. then came the irreparable loss of deyverdun. shortly, an old lausanne friend, m. de severy, to whom he was much attached, died after a long illness. lastly and suddenly, came the death of lady sheffield, the wife of his friend holroyd, with whom he had long lived on such intimate terms that he was in the habit of calling her his sister. the sheffields, father and mother and two daughters, had spent the summer of with him at lausanne. the visit was evidently an occasion of real happiness and _épanchement de coeur_ to the two old friends, and supplied gibbon for nearly two years with tender regrets and recollections. then, without any warning, he heard of lady sheffield's death. in a moment his mind was made up: he would go at once to console his friend. all the fatigue and irksomeness of the journey to one so ailing and feeble, all the dangers of the road lined and perhaps barred by hostile armies, vanished on the spot. within twelve days he had made his preparations and started on his journey. he was forced to travel through germany, and in his ignorance of the language he required an interpreter; young de severy, the son of his deceased friend, joyfully, and out of mere affection for him, undertook the office of courier. "his attachment to me," wrote gibbon, "is the sole motive which prompts him to undertake this troublesome journey." it is clear that he had the art of making himself loved. he travelled through frankfort, cologne, brussels, ostend, and was by his friend's side in little more than a month after he had received the fatal tidings. well might lord sheffield say, "i must ever regard it as the most enduring proof of his sensibility, and of his possessing the true spirit of friendship, that, after having relinquished the thought of his intended visit, he hastened to england, in spite of increasing impediments, to soothe me by the most generous sympathy, and to alleviate my domestic affliction; neither his great corpulency nor his extraordinary bodily infirmities, nor any other consideration, could prevent him a moment from resolving on an undertaking that might have deterred the most active young man. he almost immediately, with an alertness by no means natural to him, undertook a great circuitous journey along the frontier of an enemy worse than savage, within the sound of their cannon, within the range of the light troops of the different armies, and through roads ruined by the enormous machinery of war." in this public and private gloom he bade for ever farewell to lausanne. he was himself rapidly approaching "the dark portal, goal of all mortal," but of this he knew not as yet. while he is in the house of mourning, beside his bereaved friend, we will return for a short space to consider the conclusion of his great work. chapter ix. the last three volumes of the decline and fall. the thousand years between the fifth and the fifteenth century comprise the middle age, a period which only recently, through utterly inadequate conceptions of social growth, was wont to be called the dark ages. that long epoch of travail and growth, during which the old field of civilisation was broken up and sown afresh with new and various seed unknown to antiquity, receives now on all hands due recognition, as being one of the most rich, fertile, and interesting in the history of man. the all-embracing despotism of rome was replaced by the endless local divisions and subdivisions of feudal tenure. the multiform rites and beliefs of polytheism were replaced by the single faith and paramount authority of the catholic church. the philosophies of greece were dethroned, and the scholastic theology reigned in their stead. the classic tongues crumbled away, and out of their _débris_ arose the modern idioms of france, italy, and spain, to which were added in northern europe the new forms of teutonic speech. the fine and useful arts took a new departure; slavery was mitigated into serfdom; industry and commerce became powers in the world as they had never been before; the narrow municipal polity of the old world was in time succeeded by the broader national institutions based on various forms of representation. gunpowder, america, and the art of printing were discovered, and the most civilised portion of mankind passed insensibly into the modern era. such was the wide expanse which spread out before gibbon when he resolved to continue his work from the fall of the western empire to the capture of constantinople. indeed his glance took in a still wider field, as he was concerned as much with the decay of eastern as of western rome, and the long-retarded fall of the former demanded large attention to the oriental populations who assaulted the city and remaining empire of constantine. so bold an historic enterprise was never conceived as when, standing on the limit of antiquity in the fifth century, he determined to pursue in rapid but not hasty survey the great lines of events for a thousand years, to follow in detail the really great transactions while discarding the less important, thereby giving prominence and clearness to what is memorable, and reproducing on a small scale the flow of time through the ages. it is to this portion of gibbon's work that the happy comparison has been made, that it resembles a magnificent roman aqueduct spanning over the chasm which separates the ancient from the modern world. in these latter volumes he frees himself from the trammels of regular annalistic narrative, deals with events in broad masses according to their importance, expanding or contracting his story as occasion requires; now painting in large panoramic view the events of a few years, now compressing centuries into brief outline. many of his massive chapters afford materials for volumes, and are well worthy of a fuller treatment than he could give without deranging his plan. but works of greater detail and narrower compass can never compete with gibbon's history, any more than a county map can compete with a map of england or of europe. the variety of the contents of these last three volumes is amazing, especially when the thoroughness and perfection of the workmanship are considered. prolix compilations or sketchy outlines of universal history have their use and place, but they are removed by many degrees from the _decline and fall_, or rather they belong to another species of authorship. it is not only that gibbon combines width and depth, that the extent of his learning is as wonderful as its accuracy, though in this respect he has hardly a full rival in literature. the quality which places him not only in the first rank of historians, but in a class by himself, and makes him greater than the greatest, lies in his supreme power of moulding into lucid and coherent unity, the manifold and rebellious mass of his multitudinous materials, of coercing his divergent topics into such order that they seem spontaneously to grow like branches out of one stem, clear and visible to the mind. there is something truly epic in these latter volumes. tribes, nations, and empires are the characters; one after another they come forth like homeric heroes, and do their mighty deeds before the assembled armies. the grand and lofty chapters on justinian; on the arabs; on the crusades, have a rounded completeness, coupled with such artistic subordination to the main action, that they read more like cantos of a great prose poem than the ordinary staple of historical composition. it may well be questioned whether there is another instance of such high literary form and finish, coupled with such vast erudition. and two considerations have to be borne in mind, which heighten gibbon's merit in this respect. ( .) almost the whole of his subject had been as yet untouched by any preceding writer of eminence, and he had no stimulus or example from his precursors. he united thus in himself the two characters of pioneer and artist. ( .) the barbarous and imperfect nature of the materials with which he chiefly had to work,--dull inferior writers, whose debased style was their least defect. a historian who has for his authorities masters of reason and language such as herodotus, thucydides, livy, and tacitus is borne up by their genius; apt quotation and translation alone suffice to produce considerable effects; or in the case of subjects taken from modern times, weighty state papers, eloquent debates, or finished memoirs supply ample materials for graphic narrative. but gibbon had little but dross to deal with. yet he has smelted and cast it into the grand shapes we see. the fourth volume is nearly confined to the reign, or rather epoch, of justinian,--a magnificent subject, which he has painted in his loftiest style of gorgeous narrative. the campaigns of belisarius and narses are related with a clearness and vigour that make us feel that gibbon's merits as a military historian have not been quite sufficiently recognised. he had from the time of his service in the militia taken continued interest in tactics and all that was connected with the military art. it was no idle boast when he said that the captain of the hampshire grenadiers had not been useless to the historian of the roman empire. military matters perhaps occupy a somewhat excessive space in his pages. still, if the operations of war are to be related, it is highly important that they should be treated with intelligence, and knowledge how masses of men are moved, and by a writer to whom the various incidents of the camp, the march, and the bivouac, are not matters of mere hearsay, but of personal experience. the campaign of belisarius in africa may be quoted as an example. "in the seventh year of the reign of justinian, and about the time of the summer solstice, the whole fleet of six hundred ships was ranged in martial pomp before the gardens of the palace. the patriarch pronounced his benediction, the emperor signified his last commands, the general's trumpet gave the signal of departure, and every heart, according to its fears or wishes, explored with anxious curiosity the omens of misfortune or success. the first halt was made at perintheus, or heraclea, where belisarius waited five days to receive some thracian horses, a military gift of his sovereign. from thence the fleet pursued their course through the midst of the propontis; but as they struggled to pass the straits of the hellespont, an unfavourable wind detained them four days at abydos, where the general exhibited a remarkable lesson of firmness and severity. two of the huns who, in a drunken quarrel, had slain one of their fellow-soldiers, were instantly shown to the army suspended on a lofty gibbet. the national dignity was resented by their countrymen, who disclaimed the servile laws of the empire and asserted the free privileges of scythia, where a small fine was allowed to expiate the sallies of intemperance and anger. their complaints were specious, their clamours were loud, and the romans were not averse to the example of disorder and impunity. but the rising sedition was appeased by the authority and eloquence of the general, and he represented to the assembled troops the obligation of justice, the importance of discipline, the rewards of piety and virtue, and the unpardonable guilt of murder, which, in his apprehension, was aggravated rather than excused by the vice of intoxication. in the navigation from the hellespont to the peloponnesus, which the greeks after the siege of troy had performed in four days, the fleet of belisarius was guided in their course by his master-galley, conspicuous in the day by the redness of the sails, and in the night by torches blazing from the masthead. it was the duty of the pilots as they steered between the islands and turned the capes of malea and tænarium to preserve the just order and regular intervals of such a multitude. as the wind was fair and moderate, their labours were not unsuccessful, and the troops were safely disembarked at methone, on the messenian coast, to repose themselves for a while after the fatigues of the sea.... from the port of methone the pilots steered along the western coast of peloponnesus, as far as the island of zacynthus, or zante, before they undertook the voyage (in their eyes a most arduous voyage) of one hundred leagues over the ionian sea. as the fleet was surprised by a calm, sixteen days were consumed in the slow navigation.... at length the harbour of caucana, on the southern side of sicily, afforded a secure and hospitable shelter.... belisarius determined to hasten his operations, and his wise impatience was seconded by the winds. the fleet lost sight of sicily, passed before the island of malta, discovered the capes of africa, ran along the coast with a strong gale from the north-east, and finally cast anchor at the promontory of caput vada, about five days journey to the south of carthage.... "three months after their departure from constantinople, the men and the horses, the arms and the military stores were safely disembarked, and five soldiers were left as a guard on each of the ships, which were disposed in the form of a semicircle. the remainder of the troops occupied a camp on the seashore, which they fortified, according to ancient discipline, with a ditch and rampart, and the discovery of a source of fresh water, while it allayed the thirst, excited the superstitious confidence of the romans.... the small town of sullecte, one day's journey from the camp, had the honour of being foremost to open her gates and resume her ancient allegiance; the larger cities of leptis and adrumetum imitated the example of loyalty as soon as belisarius appeared, and he advanced without opposition as far as grasse, a palace of the vandal kings, at the distance of fifty miles from carthage. the weary romans indulged themselves in the refreshment of shady groves, cool fountains, and delicious fruits.... in three generations prosperity and a warm climate had dissolved the hardy virtue of the vandals, who insensibly became the most luxurious of mankind. in their villas and gardens, which might deserve the persian name of paradise, they enjoyed a cool and elegant repose, and after the daily use of the bath, the barbarians were seated at a table profusely spread with the delicacies of the land and sea. their silken robes, loosely flowing after the fashion of the medes, were embroidered with gold, love and hunting were the labours of their life, and their vacant hours were amused by pantomimes, chariot-races, and the music and dances of the theatre. "in a march of twelve days the vigilance of belisarius was constantly awake and active against his unseen enemies, by whom in every place and at every hour he might be suddenly attacked. an officer of confidence and merit, john the armenian, led the vanguard of three hundred horse. six hundred massagetæ covered at a certain distance the left flank, and the whole fleet, steering along the coast, seldom lost sight of the army, which moved each day about twelve miles, and lodged in the evening in strong camps or in friendly towns. the near approach of the romans to carthage filled the mind of gelimer with anxiety and terror.... "yet the authority and promises of gelimer collected a formidable army, and his plans were concerted with some degree of military skill. an order was despatched to his brother ammatas to collect all the forces of carthage, and to encounter the van of the roman army at the distance of ten miles from the city: his nephew gibamund with two thousand horse was destined to attack their left, when the monarch himself, who silently followed, should charge their rear in a situation which excluded them from the aid and even the view of their fleet. but the rashness of ammatas was fatal to himself and his country. he anticipated the hour of attack, outstripped his tardy followers, and was pierced with a mortal wound, after he had slain with his own hand twelve of his boldest antagonists. his vandals fled to carthage: the highway, almost ten miles, was strewed with dead bodies, and it seemed incredible that such multitudes could be slaughtered by the swords of three hundred romans. the nephew of gelimer was defeated after a slight combat by the six hundred massagetæ; they did not equal the third part of his numbers, but each scythian was fired by the example of his chief, who gloriously exercised the privilege of his family by riding foremost and alone to shoot the first arrow against the enemy. in the meantime gelimer himself, ignorant of the event, and misguided by the windings of the hills, inadvertently passed the roman army and reached the scene of action where ammatas had fallen. he wept the fate of his brother and of carthage, charged with irresistible fury the advancing squadrons, and might have pursued and perhaps decided the victory, if he had not wasted those inestimable moments in the discharge of a vain though pious duty to the dead. while his spirit was broken by this mournful office, he heard the trumpet of belisarius, who, leaving antonina and his infantry in the camp, pressed forward with his guards and the remainder of the cavalry to rally his flying troops, and to restore the fortune of the day. much room could not be found in this disorderly battle for the talents of a general; but the king fled before the hero, and the vandals, accustomed only to a moorish enemy, were incapable of withstanding the arms and the discipline of the romans.... "as soon as the tumult had subsided, the several parts of the army informed each other of the accidents of the day, and belisarius pitched his camp on the field of victory, to which the tenth milestone from carthage had applied the latin appellation of _decimus_. from a wise suspicion of the stratagems and resources of the vandals, he marched the next day in the order of battle; halted in the evening before the gates of carthage, and allowed a night of repose, that he might not, in darkness and disorder, expose the city to the licence of the soldiers, or the soldiers themselves to the secret ambush of the city. but as the fears of belisarius were the result of calm and intrepid reason, he was soon satisfied that he might confide without danger in the peaceful and friendly aspect of the capital. carthage blazed with innumerable torches, the signal of the public joy; the chain was removed that guarded the entrance of the port, the gates were thrown open, and the people with acclamations of gratitude hailed and invited their roman deliverers. the defeat of the vandals and the freedom of africa were announced to the city on the eve of st. cyprian, when the churches were already adorned and illuminated for the festival of the martyr whom three centuries of superstition had almost raised to a local deity.... one awful hour reversed the fortunes of the contending parties. the suppliant vandals, who had so lately indulged the vices of conquerors, sought an humble refuge in the sanctuary of the church; while the merchants of the east were delivered from the deepest dungeon of the palace by their affrighted keeper, who implored the protection of his captives, and showed them through an aperture in the wall the sails of the roman fleet. after their separation from the army, the naval commanders had proceeded with slow caution along the coast, till they reached the hermæan promontory, and obtained the first intelligence of the victory of belisarius. faithful to his instructions, they would have cast anchor about twenty miles from carthage, if the more skilful had not represented the perils of the shore and the signs of an impending tempest. still ignorant of the revolution, they declined however the rash attempt of forcing the chain of the port, and the adjacent harbour and suburb of mandracium were insulted only by the rapine of a private officer, who disobeyed and deserted his leaders. but the imperial fleet, advancing with a fair wind, steered through the narrow entrance of the goletta and occupied the deep and capacious lake of tunis, a secure station about five miles from the capital. no sooner was belisarius informed of the arrival than he despatched orders that the greatest part of the mariners should be immediately landed to join the triumph and to swell the apparent numbers of the romans. before he allowed them to enter the gates of carthage he exhorted them, in a discourse worthy of himself and the occasion, not to disgrace the glory of their arms, and to remember that the vandals had been the tyrants, but that _they_ were the deliverers of the africans, who must now be respected as the voluntary and affectionate subjects of their common sovereign. the romans marched through the street in close ranks, prepared for battle if an enemy had appeared; the strict order maintained by their general imprinted on their minds the duty of obedience; and in an age in which custom and impunity almost sanctified the abuse of conquest, the genius of one man repressed the passions of a victorious army. the voice of menace and complaint was silent, the trade of carthage was not interrupted; while africa changed her master and her government, the shops continued open and busy; and the soldiers, after sufficient guards had been posted, modestly departed to the houses which had been allotted for their reception. belisarius fixed his residence in the palace, seated himself on the throne of genseric, accepted and distributed the barbaric spoil, granted their lives to the suppliant vandals, and laboured to restore the damage which the suburb of mandracium had sustained in the preceding night. at supper he entertained his principal officers with the form and magnificence of a royal banquet. the victor was respectfully served by the captive officers of the household, and in the moments of festivity, when the impartial spectators applauded the fortune and merit of belisarius, his envious flatterers secretly shed their venom on every word and gesture which might alarm the suspicions of a jealous monarch. one day was given to these pompous scenes, which may not be despised as useless if they attracted the popular veneration; but the active mind of belisarius, which in the pride of victory could suppose defeat, had already resolved that the roman empire in africa should not depend on the chance of arms or the favour of the people. the fortifications of carthage had alone been excepted from the general proscription; but in the reign of ninety-five years they were suffered to decay by the thoughtless and indolent vandals. a wiser conqueror restored with incredible despatch the walls and ditches of the city. his liberality encouraged the workmen; the soldiers, the mariners, and the citizens vied with each other in the salutary labour; and gelimer, who had feared to trust his person in an open town, beheld with astonishment and despair the rising strength of an impregnable fortress." but we have hardly finished admiring the brilliant picture of the conquest of africa and italy, before gibbon gives us further proofs of his many-sided culture and catholicity of mind. his famous chapter on the roman law has been accepted by the most fastidious experts of an esoteric science as a masterpiece of knowledge, condensation, and lucidity. it has actually been received as a textbook in some of the continental universities, published separately with notes and illustrations. when we consider the neglect of roman jurisprudence in england till quite recent times, and its severe study on the continent, we shall better appreciate the mental grasp and vigour which enabled an unprofessional englishman in the last century to produce such a dissertation. a little further on (chapter forty-seven) the history of the doctrine of the incarnation, and the controversies that sprang up around it, are discussed with a subtlety worthy of a scientific theologian. it is perhaps the first attempt towards a philosophical history of dogma, less patient and minute than the works of the specialists of modern germany on the same subject, but for spirit, clearness, and breadth it is superior to those profound but somewhat barbarous writers. the flexibility of intellect which can do justice in quick succession to such diverse subjects is very extraordinary, and assuredly implies great width of sympathy and large receptivity of nature. having terminated the period of justinian, gibbon makes a halt, and surveys the varied and immense scene through which he will presently pass in many directions. he rapidly discovers _ten_ main lines, along which he will advance in succession to his final goal, the conquest of constantinople. the two pages at the commencement of the forty-eighth chapter, in which he sketches out the remainder of his plan and indicates the topics which he means to treat, are admirable as a luminous _précis_, and for the powerful grasp which they show of his immense subject. it lay spread out all before him, visible in every part to his penetrating eye, and he seems to rejoice in his conscious strength and ability to undertake the historical conquest on which he is about to set out. "nor will this scope of narrative," he says, "the riches and variety of these materials, be incompatible with the unity of design and composition. as in his daily prayers the mussulman of fez or delhi still turns his face towards the temple of mecca, the historian's eye will always be fixed on the city of constantinople." then follows the catalogue of nations and empires whose fortunes he means to sing. a grander vision, a more majestic procession, never swept before the mind's eye of poet or historian. and the practical execution is worthy of the initial inspiration. after a rapid and condensed narrative of byzantine history till the end of the twelfth century, he takes up the brilliant theme of mahomet and his successors. a few pages on the climate and physical features of arabia fittingly introduce the subject. and it may be noted in passing that gibbon's attention to geography, and his skill and taste for geographical description, are remarkable among his many gifts. he was as diligent a student of maps and travels as of historical records, and seems to have had a rare faculty of realising in imagination scenes and countries of which he had only read. in three chapters, glowing with oriental colour and rapid as a charge of arab horse, he tells the story of the prophet and the saracen empire. then the bulgarians, hungarians, and russians appear on the scene, to be soon followed by the normans, and their short but brilliant dominion in southern italy. but now the seljukian turks are emerging from the depths of asia, taking the place of the degenerate saracens, invading the eastern empire and conquering jerusalem. the two waves of hostile fanaticism soon meet in the crusades. the piratical seizure of constantinople by the latins brings in view the french and venetians, the family of courtenay and its pleasant digression. then comes the slow agony of the restored greek empire. threatened by the moguls, it is invaded and dismembered by the ottoman turks. constantinople seems ready to fall into their hands. but the timely diversion of tamerlane produces a respite of half a century. nothing can be more artistic than gibbon's management of his subject as he approaches its termination. he, who is such a master of swift narrative, at this point introduces artful pauses, _suspensions_ of the final catastrophe, which heighten our interest in the fate which is hanging over the city of constantine. in the victorious turks have conquered all the greek empire save the capital. amurath ii. besieged it for two months, and was only prevented from taking it by a domestic revolt in asia minor. at the end of his sixty-fifth chapter gibbon leaves constantinople hanging on the brink of destruction, and paints in glowing colours the military virtues of its deadly enemies, the ottomans. then he interposes one of his most finished chapters, of miscellaneous contents, but terminating in the grand and impressive pages on the revival of learning in italy. there we read of the "curiosity and emulation of the latins," of the zeal of petrarch and the success of boccace in greek studies, of leontius, pilatus, bessarion, and lascaris. a glow of sober enthusiasm warms the great scholar as he paints the early light of that happy dawn. he admits that the "arms of the turks pressed the flight of the muses" from greece to italy. but he "trembles at the thought that greece might have been overwhelmed with her schools and libraries, before europe had emerged from the deluge of barbarism, and that the seeds of science might have been scattered on the winds, before the italian soil was prepared for their cultivation." in one of the most perfect sentences to be found in english prose he thus describes the greek tongue: "in their lowest depths of servitude and depression, the subjects of the byzantine throne were still possessed of a golden key that could unlock the treasures of antiquity, of a musical and prolific language that gives a soul to the objects of sense and a body to the abstractions of philosophy." meanwhile we are made to feel that the subjects of the byzantine throne, with their musical speech, that constantinople with her libraries and schools, will all soon fall a prey to the ravening and barbarous turk. this brightening light of the western sky contending with the baleful gloom which is settling down over the east, is one of the most happy contrasts in historical literature. then comes the end, the preparations and skill of the savage invader, the futile but heroic defence, the overwhelming ruin which struck down the cross and erected the crescent over the city of constantine the great. it is one of the many proofs of gibbon's artistic instinct that he did not end with this great catastrophe. on the contrary, he adds three more chapters. his fine tact warned him that the tumult and thunder of the final ruin must not be the last sounds to strike the ear. a resolution of the discord was needed; a soft chorale should follow the din and lead to a mellow _adagio_ close. and this he does with supreme skill. with ill-suppressed disgust, he turns from new to old home. "constantinople no longer appertains to the roman historian--nor shall i enumerate the civil and religious edifices that were profaned or erected by its turkish masters." amid the decayed temples and mutilated beauty of the eternal city, he moves down to a melodious and pathetic conclusion--piously visits the remaining fragments of ancient splendour and art, deplores and describes the ravages wrought by time, and still more by man, and recurring once again to the scene of his first inspiration, bids farewell to the roman empire among the ruins of the capitol. we have hitherto spoken in terms of warm, though perhaps not excessive eulogy of this great work. but praise would lack the force of moderation and equipoise, if allusion were not made to some of its defects. the pervading defect of it all has been already referred to in a preceding chapter--an inadequate conception of society as an organism, living and growing, like other organisms, according to special laws of its own. in these brilliant volumes on the middle ages, the special problems which that period suggests are not stated, far less solved; they are not even suspected. the feudal polity, the catholic church, the theocratic supremacy of the popes, considered as institutions which the historian is called upon to estimate and judge; the gradual dissolution of both feudalism and catholicism, brought about by the spread of industry in the temporal order and of science in the spiritual order, are not even referred to. many more topics might be added to this list of weighty omissions. it would be needless to say that no blame attaches to gibbon for neglecting views of history which had not emerged in his time, if there were not persons who, forgetting the slow progress of knowledge, are apt to ascribe the defects of a book to incompetence in its author. if gibbon's conception of the middle ages seems to us inadequate now, it is because since his time our conceptions of society in that and in all periods have been much enlarged. we may be quite certain that if gibbon had had our experience, no one would have seen the imperfections of particular sides of his work as we now have it more clearly than he. laying aside, therefore, reflexions of this kind as irrelevant and unjust, we may ask whether there are any other faults which may fairly be found with him. one must admit that there are. after all, they are not very important. ( .) striking as is his account of justinian's reign, it has two blemishes. first, the offensive details about the vices of theodora. granting them to be well authenticated, which they are not, it was quite unworthy of the author and his subject to soil his pages with such a _chronique scandaleuse_. the defence which he sets up in his memoirs, that he is "justified in painting the manners of the times, and that the vices of theodora form an essential feature in the reign and character of justinian," cannot be admitted. first, we are not sure that the vices existed, and were not the impure inventions of a malignant calumniator. secondly, gibbon is far from painting the manners of the time as a moralist or an historian; he paints them with a zest for pruriency worthy of bayle or brantome. it was an occasion for a wise scepticism to register grave doubts as to the infamous stories of procopius. a rehabilitation of theodora is not a theme calculated to provoke enthusiasm, and is impossible besides from the entire want of adequate evidence. but a thoughtful writer would not have lost his time, if he referred to the subject at all, in pointing out the moral improbability of the current accounts. he might have dwelt on the _unsupported_ testimony of the only witness, the unscrupulous procopius, whom gibbon himself convicts on another subject of flagrant mendacity. but he would have been especially slow to believe that a woman who had led the life of incredible profligacy he has described, would, in consequence of "some vision either of sleep or fancy," in which future exaltation was promised to her, assume "like a skilful actress, a more decent character, relieve her poverty by the laudable industry of spinning wool, and affect a life of chastity and solitude in a small house, which she afterwards changed into a magnificent temple." magdalens have been converted, no doubt, from immoral living, but not by considerations of astute prudence suggested by day-dreams of imperial greatness. gibbon might have thought of the case of madame de maintenon, and how her reputation fared in the hands of the vindictive courtiers of versailles; how a woman, cold as ice and pure as snow, was freely charged with the most abhorrent vices without an atom of foundation. but the truth probably is that he never thought of the subject seriously at all, and that, yielding to a regrettable inclination, he copied his licentious greek notes with little reluctance. ( .) the character of belisarius, enigmatical enough in itself, is made by him more enigmatical still. he concludes the forty-first chapter, in which the great deeds of the conqueror of italy and africa, and the ingratitude with which justinian rewarded his services, are set forth in strong contrast, with the inept remark that "belisarius appears to be either below or above the character of a man." the grounds of the apparent meekness with which belisarius supported his repeated disgraces cannot now be ascertained: but the motives of justinian's conduct are not so difficult to find. as finlay points out in his thoughtful history of greece, belisarius must have been a peculator on a large and dangerous scale. "though he refused the gothic throne and the empire of the west, he did not despise nor neglect wealth: he accumulated riches which could not have been acquired by any commander-in-chief amidst the wars and famines of the period, without rendering the military and civil administration subservient to his pecuniary profit. on his return from italy he lived at constantinople in almost regal splendour, and maintained a body of , cavalry attached to his household. in an empire where confiscation was an ordinary financial resource, and under a sovereign whose situation rendered jealousy only common prudence, it is not surprising that the wealth of belisarius excited the imperial cupidity, and induced justinian to seize great part of it" (_greece under the romans_, chap. ). there is shrewd insight in this, and though we may regret that we cannot attain to more, it is better than leaving the subject with an unmeaning paradox. it may be said generally that gibbon has not done justice to the services rendered to europe by the byzantine empire. in his crowded forty-eighth chapter, which is devoted to the subject, he passes over events and characters with such speed that his history in this part becomes little more than a chronicle, vivid indeed, but barren of thoughtful political views. his account of the isaurian period may be instanced among others as an example of defective treatment. if we turn to the judicious finlay, we see what an immense but generally unacknowledged debt europe owes to the greek empire. the saving of christendom from mohammedan conquest is too easily attributed to the genius of charles martel and his brave franks. the victory at tours was important no doubt, but almost a century previously the followers of the prophet had been checked by heraclius; and their memorable repulse before constantinople under the isaurian leo was the real barrier opposed to their conquest of the west. it requires but little reflection to see that without this brave resistance to the moslem invasion, the course of mediæval history would have been completely changed. next in time, but hardly second in value to the services of the greeks at marathon and salamis, must be reckoned the services of the byzantine emperors in repelling the barbarians. such an important consideration as this should hardly have escaped gibbon. gibbon's account of charlemagne is strangely inadequate. it is perhaps the only instance in his work where he has failed to appreciate a truly great man, and the failure is the more deplorable as it concerns one of the greatest men who have ever lived. he did not realise the greatness of the man, of his age, or of his work. properly considered, the eighth century is the most important and memorable which europe has ever seen. during its course the geographical limits, the ecclesiastical polity, and the feudal system within and under which our western group of nations was destined to live for five or six centuries, were provisionally settled and determined. the wonderful house of the carolings, which produced no less than five successive rulers of genius (of whom two had extraordinary genius, charles martel and charlemagne), were the human instruments of this great work. the frankish monarchy was hastening to ruin when they saved it. saxons in the east and saracens in the south were on the point of extinguishing the few surviving embers of civilisation which still existed. the bishop of rome was ready to fall a prey to the lombards, and the progressive papacy of hildebrand and innocent ran imminent risk of being extirpated at its root. charles and his ancestors prevented these evils. of course it is open to any one to say that there were no evils threatening, that mohammedanism is as good as christianity, that the papacy was a monstrous calamity, that to have allowed eastern germany to remain pagan and barbarous would have done no harm. the question cannot be discussed here. but every law of historic equity compels us to admit that whether the result was good or bad, the genius of men who could leave such lasting impressions on the world as the carolings did, must have been exceptionally great. and this is what gibbon has not seen; he has not seen that, whether their work was good or bad in the issue, it was colossal. his tone in reference to charlemagne is unworthy to a degree. "without injustice to his fame, i may discern some blemishes in the sanctity and greatness of the restorer of the western empire. of his moral virtues, chastity was not the most conspicuous." this from the pen of gibbon seems hardly serious. again: "i touch with reverence the laws of charlemagne, so highly applauded by a respectable judge. they compose not a system, but a series of occasional and minute edicts, for the correction of abuses, the reformation of manners, the economy of his farms, the care of his poultry, and even the sale of his eggs." and yet gibbon had read the capitularies. the struggle and care of the hero to master in some degree the wide welter of barbarism surging around him, he never recognised. it is a spot on gibbon's fame. dean milman considers that gibbon's account of the crusades is the least accurate and satisfactory chapter in his history, and "that he has here failed in that lucid arrangement which in general gives perspicuity to his most condensed and crowded narratives." this blame seems to be fully merited, if restricted to the second of the two chapters which gibbon has devoted to the crusades. the fifty-eighth chapter, in which he treats of the first crusade, leaves nothing to be desired. it is not one of his best chapters, though it is quite up to his usually high level. but the fifty-ninth chapter, it must be owned, is not only weak, but what is unexampled elsewhere in him, confused and badly written. it is not, as in the case of charlemagne, a question of imperfect appreciation of a great man or epoch; it is a matter of careless and slovenly presentation of a period which he had evidently mastered with his habitual thoroughness, but, owing to the rapidity with which he composed his last volume, he did not do full justice to it. he says significantly in his memoirs, that "he wished that a pause, an interval, had been allowed for a serious revisal" of the last three volumes, and there can be little doubt that this chapter was one of the sources of his regrets. it is in fact a mere tangle. the second and the third crusades are so jumbled together, that it is only a reader who knows the subject very well who can find his way through the labyrinth. gibbon seems at this point, a thing very unusual with him, to have become impatient with his subject, and to have wished to hurry over it. "a brief parallel," he says, "may save the repetition of a tedious narrative." the result of this expeditious method has been far from happy. it is the only occasion where gibbon has failed in his usual high finish and admirable literary form. gibbon's style was at one period somewhat of a party question. good christians felt a scruple in discerning any merits in the style of a writer who had treated the martyrs of the early church with so little ceremony and generosity. on the other hand, those whose opinions approached more or less to his, expatiated on the splendour and majesty of his diction. archbishop whately went out of his way in a note to his _logic_ to make a keen thrust at an author whom it was well to depreciate whenever occasion served. "his way of writing," he says, "reminds one of those persons who never dare look you full in the face." such criticisms are out of date now. the faults of gibbon's style are obvious enough, and its compensatory merits are not far to seek. no one can overlook its frequent tumidity and constant want of terseness. it lacks suppleness, ease, variety. it is not often distinguished by happy selection of epithet, and seems to ignore all delicacy of _nuance_. a prevailing grandiloquence, which easily slides into pomposity, is its greatest blemish. the acute porson saw this and expressed it admirably. in the preface to his letters to archdeacon travis, he says of gibbon, "though his style is in general correct and elegant, he sometimes 'draws out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.' in endeavouring to avoid vulgar terms he too frequently dignifies trifles, and clothes common thoughts in a splendid dress that would be rich enough for the noblest ideas. in short we are too often reminded of that great man, mr. prig, the auctioneer, whose manner was so inimitably fine that he had as much to say on a ribbon as on a raphael." it seems as if gibbon had taken the stilted tone of the old french tragedy for his model, rather than the crisp and nervous prose of the best french writers. we are constantly offended by a superfine diction lavished on barbarous chiefs and rough soldiers of the lower empire, which almost reproduces the high-flown rhetoric in which corneille's and racine's characters address each other. such phrases as the "majesty of the throne," "the dignity of the purple," the "wisdom of the senate," recur with a rather jarring monotony, especially when the rest of the narrative is designed to show that there was no majesty nor dignity nor wisdom involved in the matter. we feel that the writer was thinking more of his sonorous sentence than of the real fact. on the other hand, nothing but a want of candour or taste can lead any one to overlook the rare and great excellences of gibbon's style. first of all, it is singularly correct: a rather common merit now, but not common in his day. but its sustained vigour and loftiness will always be uncommon; above all its rapidity and masculine length of stride are quite admirable. when he takes up his pen to describe a campaign, or any great historic scene, we feel that we shall have something worthy of the occasion, that we shall be carried swiftly and grandly through it all, without the suspicion of a breakdown of any kind being possible. an indefinable stamp of weightiness is impressed on gibbon's writing; he has a baritone manliness which banishes everything small, trivial, or weak. when he is eloquent (and it should be remembered to his credit that he never affects eloquence, though he occasionally affects dignity), he rises without effort into real grandeur. on the whole we may say that his manner, with certain manifest faults, is not unworthy of his matter, and the praise is great. it is not quite easy to give expression to another feeling which is often excited in reading gibbon. it is somewhat of this kind, that it is more fitted to inspire admiration than love or sympathy. its merits are so great, the mass of information it contains is so stupendous, that all competent judges of such work feel bound to praise it. whether they like it in the same degree, may be questioned. among reading men and educated persons it is not common--such is my experience--to meet with people who know their gibbon well. superior women do not seem to take to him kindly, even when there is no impediment on religious grounds. madame du deffand, writing to walpole, says, "i whisper it to you, but i am not pleased with mr. gibbon's work. it is declamatory, oratorical.... i lay it aside without regret, and it requires an effort to take it up again." another of walpole's correspondents, the countess of ossory, seems to have made similar strictures. if we admit that women are less capable than masculine scholars of doing justice to the strong side of gibbon, we may also acknowledge that they are better fitted than men to appreciate and to be shocked by his defective side, which is a prevailing want of moral elevation and nobility of sentiment. his cheek rarely flushes in enthusiasm for a good cause. the tragedy of human life never seems to touch him, no glimpse of the infinite ever calms and raises the reader of his pages. like nearly all the men of his day, he was of the earth earthy, and it is impossible to get over the fact. chapter x. last illness.--death.--conclusion. gibbon had now only about six months to live. he did not seem to have suffered by his rapid journey from lausanne to london. during the summer which he spent with his friend lord sheffield, he was much as usual; only his friend noticed that his habitual dislike to motion appeared to increase, and he was so incapable of exercise that he was confined to the library and dining-room. "then he joined mr. f. north in pleasant arguments against exercise in general. he ridiculed the unsettled and restless disposition that summer, the most uncomfortable of all seasons, as he said, generally gives to those who have the use of their limbs." the true disciples of epicurus are not always the least stout and stoical in the presence of irreparable evils. after spending three or four months at sheffield place, he went to bath to visit his step-mother, mrs. gibbon. his conduct to her through life was highly honourable to him. it should be remembered that her jointure, paid out of his father's decayed estate, was a great tax on his small income. in his efforts to improve his position by selling his landed property, mrs. gibbon seems to have been at times somewhat difficult to satisfy as regards the security of her interests. it was only prudent on her part. but it is easy to see what a source of alienation and quarrel was here ready prepared, if both parties had not risen superior to sordid motives. there never seems to have been the smallest cloud between them. when one of his properties was sold he writes: "mrs. gibbon's jointure is secured on the buriton estate, and her legal consent is requisite for the sale. again and again i must repeat my hope that she is perfectly satisfied, and that the close of her life may not be embittered by suspicion, fear, or discontent. what new security does she prefer--the funds, a mortgage, or your land? at all events, she must be made easy." so gibbon left town and lay at reading on his road to bath: here he passed about ten days with his step-mother, who was now nearly eighty years of age. "in mind and conversation she is just the same as twenty years ago," he writes to lord sheffield; "she has spirits, appetite, legs, and eyes, and talks of living till ninety. i can say from my heart, amen." and in another letter, a few days later, he says: "a _tête-à-tête_ of eight or nine hours every day is rather difficult to support; yet i do assure you that our conversation flows with more ease and spirit when we are alone, than when any auxiliaries are summoned to our aid. she is indeed a wonderful woman, and i think all her faculties of the mind stronger and more active than i have ever known them.... i shall therefore depart next friday, but i may possibly reckon without my host, as i have not yet apprised mrs. g. of the term of my visit, and will certainly not quarrel with her for a short delay." he then went to althorpe, and it is the last evidence of his touching a book--"exhausted the morning (of the th november) among the first editions of cicero." then he came to london, and in a few days was seized with the illness which in a little more than two months put an end to his life. his malady was dropsy, complicated with other disorders. he had most strangely neglected a very dangerous symptom for upwards of thirty years, not only having failed to take medical advice about it, but even avoiding all allusion to it to bosom friends like lord sheffield. but longer concealment was now impossible. he sent for the eminent surgeon farquhar (the same who afterwards attended william pitt), and he, together with cline, at once recognised the case as one of the utmost gravity, though they did not say as much to the patient. on thursday, the th of november, he was tapped and greatly relieved. he said he was not appalled by the operation, and during its progress he did not lay aside his usual good-humoured pleasantry. he was soon out again, but only for a few days, and a fortnight after another tapping was necessary. again he went out to dinners and parties, which must have been most imprudent at his age and in his state. but he does not seem to have acted contrary to medical advice. he was very anxious to meet the prime minister, william pitt, with whom he was not acquainted, though he must have seen him in old days in the house. he saw him twice; once at eden farm for a whole day, and was much gratified, we are told. at last he got to what he called his home--the house of his true and devoted friend, lord sheffield. "but," says the latter, whose narrative of his friend's last illness is marked by a deep and reserved tenderness that does him much honour, "this last visit to sheffield place became far different from any he had ever made before. that ready, cheerful, various and illuminating conversation which we had before admired in him, was not always to be found in the library or the drawing-room. he moved with difficulty, and retired from company sooner than he had been used to do. on the rd of december his appetite began to fail him. he observed to me that it was a very bad sign _with him_ when he could not eat his breakfast, which he had done at all times very heartily; and this seems to have been the strongest expression of apprehension that he was ever observed to utter." he soon became too ill to remain beyond the reach of the highest medical advice. on the th of january, , he left a houseful of company and friends for his lodgings in st. james's street. on arriving he sent the following note to lord sheffield, the last lines he ever wrote:-- "st. james's, four o'clock, tuesday. "this date says everything. i was almost killed between sheffield place and east grinstead by hard, frozen, long, and cross ruts, that would disgrace the approach of an indian wigwam. the rest was somewhat less painful, and i reached this place half dead, but not seriously feverish or ill. i found a dinner invitation from lord lucan; but what are dinners to me? i wish they did not know of my departure. i catch the flying post. what an effort! adieu till thursday or friday." the end was not far off. on the th of january he underwent another operation, and, as usual, experienced much relief. "his spirits continued good. he talked of passing his time at houses which he had often frequented with great pleasure--the duke of devonshire's, mr. craufurd's, lord spencer's, lord lucan's, sir ralph payne's, mr. batt's." on the th of january "he saw some company--lady lucan and lady spencer--and thought himself well enough to omit the opium draught which he had been used to take for some time. he slept very indifferently; before nine the next morning he rose, but could not eat his breakfast. however, he appeared tolerably well, yet complained at times of a pain in his stomach. at one o'clock he received a visit of an hour from madame de sylva; and at three, his friend, mr. craufurd, of auchinames (whom he always mentioned with particular regard), called, and stayed with him till past five o'clock. they talked, as usual, on various subjects; and twenty hours before his death mr. gibbon happened to fall into a conversation not uncommon with him, on the probable duration of his life. he said that he thought himself a good life for ten, twelve, or perhaps twenty years. about six he ate the wing of a chicken and drank three glasses of madeira. after dinner he became very uneasy and impatient, complained a good deal, and appeared so weak that his servant was alarmed. "during the evening he complained much of his stomach, and of a feeling of nausea. soon after nine, he took his opium draught and went to bed. about ten he complained of much pain, and desired that warm napkins might be applied to his stomach. he almost incessantly expressed a sense of pain till about four o'clock in the morning, when he said he found his stomach much easier. about seven the servant asked whether he should send for mr. farquhar. he answered, no; that he was as well as the day before. at about half-past eight he got out of bed, and said he was 'plus adroit' than he had been for three months past, and got into bed again without assistance, better than usual. about nine he said he would rise. the servant, however, persuaded him to remain in bed till mr. farquhar, who was expected at eleven, should come. till about that hour he spoke with great facility. mr. farquhar came at the time appointed, and he was then visibly dying. when the _valet-de-chambre_ returned, after attending mr. farquhar out of the room, mr. gibbon said, 'pourquoi est ce que vous me quittez?' this was about half-past eleven. at twelve he drank some brandy and water from a teapot, and desired his favourite servant to stay with him. these were the last words he pronounced articulately. to the last he preserved his senses; and when he could no longer speak, his servant having asked a question, he made a sign to show that he understood him. he was quite tranquil, and did not stir, his eyes half shut. about a quarter before one he ceased to breathe." he wanted just eighty-three days of fifty-seven years of age. thus, in consequence of his own strange self-neglect and imprudence, was extinguished one of the most richly-stored minds that ever lived. occurring when it did, so near the last summons, gibbon's prospective hope of continued life "for ten, twelve, or twenty years" is harshly pathetic, and full of that irony which mocks the vain cares of men. but, truly, his forecast was not irrational if he had not neglected ordinary precautions. in spite of his ailments he felt full, and was full, of life, when he was cut off. we cannot be sure if lengthened days would have added much to his work already achieved. there is hardly a parallel case in literature of the great powers of a whole life being so concentrated on one supreme and magnificent effort. yet, if he had lived to , or as an extreme limit, to , we should have been all gainers. in the first place, he certainly would have finished his admirable autobiography. we cannot imagine what he would have made of it, judging from the fragment which exists. and yet that fragment is almost a masterpiece. but his fertile mind had other schemes in prospect; and what such a diligent worker would have done with a decade or two more of years it is impossible to say, except that it is certain they would not have been wasted. the extinction of a real mind is ever an irreparable loss. as it was, he went to his rest after one of the greatest victories ever achieved in his own field of humane letters, and lived long enough to taste the fruits of his toil. he was never puffed up, but soberly and without arrogance received his laurels. his unselfish zeal and haste to console his bereaved friend showed him warm and loving to the last; and we may say that his last serious effort was consecrated to the genius of pious friendship. in , two years after gibbon's death, lord sheffield published two quarto volumes of the historian's miscellaneous works. they have been republished in one thick octavo, and many persons suppose that it contains the whole of the posthumous works; not unnaturally, as a fraudulent statement on the title-page, "complete in one volume," is well calculated to produce that impression. but in lord sheffield issued a second edition in five volumes octavo, containing much additional matter, which additional matter was again published in a quarto form, no doubt for the convenience of the purchasers of the original quarto edition. of the posthumous works, the memoirs are by far the most important portion. unfortunately, they were left in a most unfinished state, and what we now read is nothing else than a mosaic put together by lord sheffield from _six_ different sketches. next to the memoirs are the journals and diaries of his studies. as a picture of gibbon's method, zeal, and thoroughness in the pursuit of knowledge, they are of the highest interest. but they refer to an early period of his studies, long previous to the concentration of his mind on his great work, and one would like to know whether they present the best selection that might have been made from these records. it is interesting to follow gibbon in his perusal of homer and juvenal at five-and-twenty. but one would much like to be admitted to his study when he was a far riper scholar, and preparing for or writing the _decline and fall_. lord sheffield positively prohibited, by a clause in his will, any further publication of the gibbon papers, and although dean milman was permitted to see them, it was with the express understanding that none of their contents should be divulged. after the memoirs and the journals, the most interesting portion of the miscellaneous works are _the antiquities of the house of brunswick_, which in their present form are merely the preparatory sketch of a large work. it is too imperfect to allow us to judge of what gibbon even designed to make of it. but it contains some masterly pages, and the style in many places seems more nervous and supple than that of the _decline and fall._ for instance, this account of albert azo the second:-- "like one of his tuscan ancestors azo the second was distinguished among the princes of italy by the epithet of the _rich_. the particulars of his rentroll cannot now be ascertained. an occasional though authentic deed of investiture enumerates eighty-three fiefs or manors which he held of the empire in lombardy and tuscany, from the marquisate of este to the county of luni; but to these possessions must be added the lands which he enjoyed as the vassal of the church, the ancient patrimony of otbert (the terra obertenga) in the counties of arezzo, pisa, and lucca, and the marriage portion of his first wife, which, according to the various readings of the manuscripts, may be computed either at twenty or two hundred thousand english acres. if such a mass of landed property were now accumulated on the head of an italian nobleman, the annual revenue might satisfy the largest demands of private luxury or avarice, and the fortunate owner would be rich in the improvement of agriculture, the manufactures of industry, the refinement of taste, and the extent of commerce. but the barbarism of the eleventh century diminished the income and aggravated the expense of the marquis of este. in a long series of war and anarchy, man and the works of man had been swept away, and the introduction of each ferocious and idle stranger had been overbalanced by the loss of five or six perhaps of the peaceful industrious natives. the mischievous growth of vegetation, the frequent inundations of the rivers were no longer checked by the vigilance of labour; the face of the country was again covered with forests and morasses; of the vast domains which acknowledged azo for their lord, the far greater part was abandoned to the beasts of the field, and a much smaller portion was reduced to the state of constant and productive husbandry. an adequate rent may be obtained from the skill and substance of a free tenant who fertilizes a grateful soil, and enjoys the security and benefit of a long lease. but faint is the hope and scanty is the produce of those harvests which are raised by the reluctant toil of peasants and slaves condemned to a bare subsistance and careless of the interests of a rapacious master. if his granaries are full, his purse is empty, and the want of cities or commerce, the difficulty of finding or reaching a market, obliges him to consume on the spot a part of his useless stock, which cannot be exchanged for merchandise or money.... the entertainment of his vassals and soldiers, their pay and rewards, their arms and horses, surpassed the measure of the most oppressive tribute, and the destruction which he inflicted on his neighbours was often retaliated on his own lands. the costly elegance of palaces and gardens was superseded by the laborious and expensive construction of strong castles on the summits of the most inaccessible rocks, and some of these, like the fortress of canossa in the apennine, were built and provided to sustain a three years' siege against a royal army. but his defence in this world was less burdensome to a wealthy lord than his salvation in the next; the demands of his chapel, his priests, his alms, his offerings, his pilgrimages were incessantly renewed; the monastery chosen for his sepulchre was endowed with his fairest possessions, and the naked heir might often complain that his father's sins had been redeemed at too high a price. the marquis azo was not exempt from the contagion of the times; his devotion was animated and inflamed by the frequent miracles that were performed in his presence; and the monks of vangadizza, who yielded to his request the arm of a dead saint, were not ignorant of the value of that inestimable jewel. after satisfying the demands of war and superstition he might appropriate the rest of his revenue to use and pleasure. but the italians of the eleventh century were imperfectly skilled in the liberal and mechanical arts; the objects of foreign luxury were furnished at an exorbitant price by the merchants of pisa and venice; and the superfluous wealth which could not purchase the real comforts of life, were idly wasted on some rare occasions of vanity and pomp. such were the nuptials of boniface, duke or marquis of tuscany, whose family was long after united with that of azo by the marriage of their children. these nuptials were celebrated on the banks of the mincius, which the fancy of virgil has decorated with a more beautiful picture. the princes and people of italy were invited to the feasts, which continued three months; the fertile meadows, which are intersected by the slow and winding course of the river, were covered with innumerable tents, and the bridegroom displayed and diversified the scenes of his proud and tasteless magnificence. all the utensils of the service were of silver, and his horses were shod with plates of the same metal, loosely nailed and carelessly dropped, to indicate his contempt of riches. an image of plenty and profusion was expressed in the banquet; the most delicious wines were drawn in buckets from the well; and the spices of the east were ground in water-mills like common flour. the dramatic and musical arts were in the rudest state; but the marquis had summoned the most popular singers, harpers, and buffoons to exercise their talents in this splendid theatre. after this festival i might remark a singular gift of this same boniface to the emperor henry iii., a chariot and oxen of solid silver, which were designed only as a vehicle for a hogshead of vinegar. if such an example should seem above the imitation of azo himself, the marquis of este was at least superior in wealth and dignity to the vassals of his compeer. one of these vassals, the viscount of mantua, presented the german monarch with one hundred falcons and one hundred bay horses, a grateful contribution to the pleasures of a royal sportsman. in that age the proud distinction between the nobles and princes of italy was guarded with jealous ceremony. the viscount of mantua had never been seated at the table of his immediate lord; he yielded to the invitation of the emperor; and a stag's skin filled with pieces of gold was graciously accepted by the marquis of tuscany as the fine of his presumption. "the temporal felicity of azo was crowned by the long possession of honour and riches; he died in the year , aged upwards of an hundred years; and the term of his mortal existence was almost commensurate with the lapse of the eleventh century. the character as well as the situation of the marquis of este rendered him an actor in the revolutions of that memorable period; but time has cast a veil over the virtues and vices of the man, and i must be content to mark some of the eras, the milestones of his which measure the extent and intervals of the vacant way. albert azo the second was no more than seventeen when he first drew the sword of rebellion and patriotism, when he was involved with his grandfather, his father, and his three uncles in a common proscription. in the vigour of his manhood, about his fiftieth year, the ligurian marquis governed the cities of milan and genoa as the minister of imperial authority. he was upwards of seventy when he passed the alps to vindicate the inheritance of maine for the children of his second marriage. he became the friend and servant of gregory vii., and in one of his epistles that ambitious pontiff recommends the marquis azo, as the most faithful and best beloved of the italian princes, as the proper channel through which a king of hungary might convey his petitions to the apostolic throne. in the mighty contest between the crown and the mitre, the marquis azo and the countess matilda led the powers of italy. and when the standard of st. peter was displayed, neither the age of the one nor the sex of the other could detain them from the field. with these two affectionate clients the pope maintained his station in the fortress of canossa, while the emperor, barefoot on the frozen ground, fasted and prayed three days at the foot of the rock; they were witnesses to the abject ceremony of the penance and pardon of henry iv.; and in the triumph of the church a patriot might foresee the deliverance of italy from the german yoke. at the time of this event the marquis of este was above fourscore; but in the twenty following years he was still alive and active amidst the revolutions of peace and war. the last act which he subscribed is dated above a century after his birth; and in that the venerable chief possesses the command of his faculties, his family, and his fortune. in this rare prerogative the longevity of albert azo the second stands alone. nor can i remember in the _authentic_ annals of mortality a single example of a king or prince, of a statesman or general, of a philosopher or poet, whose life has been extended beyond the period of a hundred years.... three approximations which will not hastily be matched have distinguished the present century, aurungzebe, cardinal fleury, and fontenelle. had a fortnight more been given to the philosopher, he might have celebrated his secular festival; but the lives and labours of the mogul king and the french minister were terminated before they had accomplished their ninetieth year." then follow several striking and graceful pages on lucrezia borgia and renée of france, duchess of ferrara. the following description of the university of padua and the literary tastes of the house of este is all that we can give here:-- "an university had been founded at padua by the house of este, and the scholastic rust was polished away by the revival of the literature of greece and rome. the studies of ferrara were directed by skilful and eloquent professors, either natives or foreigners. the ducal library was filled with a valuable collection of manuscripts and printed books, and as soon as twelve new plays of plautus had been found in germany, the marquis lionel of este was impatient to obtain a fair and faithful copy of that ancient poet. nor were these elegant pleasures confined to the learned world. under the reign of hercules i. a wooden theatre at a moderate cost of a thousand crowns was constructed in the largest court of the palace, the scenery represented some houses, a seaport and a ship, and the _menechmi_ of plautus, which had been translated into italian by the duke himself, was acted before a numerous and polite audience. in the same language and with the same success the _amphytrion_ of plautus and the _eunuchus_ of terence were successively exhibited. and these classic models, which formed the taste of the spectators, excited the emulation of the poets of the age. for the use of the court and theatre of ferrara, ariosto composed his comedies, which were often played with applause, which are still read with pleasure. and such was the enthusiasm of the new arts that one of the sons of alphonso the first did not disdain to speak a prologue on the stage. in the legitimate forms of dramatic composition the italians have not excelled; but it was in the court of ferrara that they invented and refined the _pastoral comedy_, a romantic arcadia which violates the truth of manners and the simplicity of nature, but which commands our indulgence by the elaborate luxury of eloquence and wit. the _aminta_ of tasso was written for the amusement and acted in the presence of alphonso the second, and his sister leonora might apply to herself the language of a passion which disordered the reason without clouding the genius of her poetical lover. of the numerous imitations, the _pastor fido_ of guarini, which alone can vie with the fame and merit of the original, is the work of the duke's secretary of state. it was exhibited in a private house in ferrara.... the father of the tuscan muses, the sublime but unequal dante, had pronounced that ferrara was never honoured with the name of a poet; he would have been astonished to behold the chorus of bards, of melodious swans (their own allusion), which now peopled the banks of the po. in the court of duke borso and his successor, boyardo count scandiano, was respected as a noble, a soldier, and a scholar: his vigorous fancy first celebrated the loves and exploits of the paladin orlando; and his fame has been preserved and eclipsed by the brighter glories and continuation of his work. ferrara may boast that on classic ground ariosto and tasso lived and sung; that the lines of the _orlando furioso_, the _gierusalemme liberata_ were inscribed in everlasting characters under the eye of the first and second alphonso. in a period of near three thousand years, five great epic poets have arisen in the world, and it is a singular prerogative that two of the five should be claimed as their own by a short age and a petty state." it perhaps will be admitted that if the style of these passages is less elaborate than that of the _decline and fall_, the deficiency, if it is one, is compensated by greater ease and lightness of touch. it may be interesting to give a specimen of gibbon's french style. his command of that language was not inferior to his command of his native idiom. one might even be inclined to say that his french prose is controlled by a purer taste than his english prose. the following excerpt, describing the battle of morgarten, will enable the reader to judge. it is taken from his early unfinished work on the history of the swiss republic, to which reference has already been made (p. ):-- "léopold était parti de zug vers le milieu de la nuit. il se flattait d'occuper sans résistance le défilé de morgarten qui ne perçait qu'avec difficulté entre le lac aegré et le pied d'une montagne escarpée. il marchait à la tête de sa gendarmerie. une colonne profonde d'infanterie le suivait de près, et les uns et les autres se promettaient une victoire facile si les paysans osaient se présenter à leur rencontre. ils étaient à peine entrés dans un chemin rude et étroit, et qui ne permettait qu'à trois ou quatre de marcher de front, qu'ils se sentirent accablés d'une grêle de pierres et de traits. rodolphe de reding, landamman de schwitz et général des confédérés, n'avait oublié aucun des avantages que lui offrit la situation des lieux. il avait fait couper des rochers énormes, qui en s'ébranlant dès qu'on retirait les faibles appuis qui les retenaient encore, se détachaient du sommet de la montaigne et se précipitaient avec un bruit affreux sur les bataillons serrés des autrichiens. déjà les chevaux s'éffrayaient, les rangs se confondaient, et le désordre égarait le courage et le rendait inutile, lorsque les suisses descendirent de la montagne en poussant de grands cris. accoutumés à poursuivre le chamois sur les bords glissants des précipices, ils couraient d'un pas assuré au milieu des neiges. ils étaient armés de grosses et pesantes hallebardes, auxquelles le fer le mieux trempé ne résistait point. les soldats de léopold chancelants et découragés cédèrent bientôt aux efforts désespérés d'une troupe qui combattait pour tout ce qu'il y a de plus cher aux hommes. l'abbé d'einsidlen, premier auteur de cette guerre malheureuse, et le comte henri de montfort, donnèrent les premiers l'example de la fuite. le désordre devint général, le carnage fut affreux, et les suisses se livraient au plaisir de la vengeance. a neuf heures du matin la bataille était gagnée.... un grand nombre d'autrichiens se précipitant les uns sur les autres, cherchèrent vainement dans le lac un asyle contre la fureur de leurs ennemis. ils y périrent presque tous. quinze cents hommes restèrent sur le champ de bataille. ils étaient pour la plupart de la gendarmerie, qu'une valeur malheureuse et une armure pesante arrêtaient dans un lieu où l'un et l'autre leur étaient inutiles. longtemps après l'on s'apercevait dans toutes les provinces voisines que l'élite de la noblesse avait péri dans cette fatale journée. l'infanterie beaucoup moins engagée dans le défilé, vit en tremblant la défaite des chevaliers qui passaient pour invincibles, et dont les escadrons effrayés se renversaient sur elle. elle s'arrêta, voulut se retirer, et dans l'instant cette retraite devint une fuite honteuse. sa perte fut assez peu considérable, mais les historiens de la nation ont conservé la mémoire de cinquante braves zuriquois dont on trouva les rangs couchés morts sur la place. léopold lui-même fut entrainé par la foule qui le portait du côté de zug. on le vit entrer dans sa ville de winterthur. la frayeur, la honte et l'indignation étaient encore peintes sur son front. dès que la victoire se fut déclarée en faveur des suisses, ils s'assemblèrent sur le champ de bataille, s'embrassèrent e versant des larmes d'allégresse, et remercièrent dieu de la grace qu'il venait de leur faire, et qui ne leur avait coûté que quatorze de leurs compagnons." his familiar letters and a number of essays, chiefly written in youth, form the remainder of the miscellaneous works. of the letters, some have been quoted in this volume, and the reader can form his own judgment of them. of the small essays we may say that they augment, if it is possible, one's notion of gibbon's laborious diligence and thoroughness in the field of historic research, and confirm his title to the character of an intrepid student. the lives of scholars are proverbially dull, and that of gibbon is hardly an exception to the rule. in the case of historians, the protracted silent labour of preparation, followed by the conscientious exposition of knowledge acquired, into which the intrusion of the writer's personality rarely appears to advantage, combine to give prominence to the work achieved, and to throw into the background the author who achieves it. if indeed the historian, forsaking his high function and austere reserve, succumbs to the temptations that beset his path, and turns history into political pamphlet, poetic rhapsody, moral epigram, or garish melodrama, he may become conspicuous to a fault at the expense of his work. gibbon avoided these seductions. if the _decline and fall_ has no superior in historical literature, it is not solely in consequence of gibbon's profound learning, wide survey, and masterly grasp of his subject. with wise discretion, he subordinated himself to his task. the life of gibbon is the less interesting, but his work remains monumental and supreme. * * * * * english men of letters. edited by john morley. _these short books are addressed to the general public with a view both to stirring and satisfying an interest in literature and its great topics in the minds of those who have to run as they read. an immense class is growing up, and must every year increase, whose education will have made them alive to the importance of the masters of our literature, and capable of intelligent curiosity as to their performances. the series is intended to give the means of nourishing this curiosity, to an extent that shall be copious enough to be profitable for knowledge and life, and yet be brief enough to serve those whose leisure is scanty_. _the following are arranged for_:-- _spenser_ _the dean of st. paul's._ _hume_ _professor huxley._ _in the press._ _bunyan_ _james anthony froude._ _johnson_ _leslie stephen._ [_ready._ _goldsmith_ _william black._ [_in the press._ _milton_ _mark pattison._ _wordsworth_ _goldwin smith._ _swift_ _john morley._ _burns_ _principal shairp._ _scott_ _richard h. hutton._ [_ready._ _shelley_ _j. a. symonds._ [_ready._ _gibbon_ _j. c. morison._ [_ready._ _byron_ _professor nichol._ _defoe_ _w. minto._ _gray_ _john morley._ [_others will be announced_] * * * * * opinions of the press. "the new series opens well with mr. leslie stephen's sketch of dr. johnson. it could hardly have been done better; and it will convey to the readers for whom it is intended a juster estimate of johnson than either of the two essays of lord macaulay."--_pall mall gazette_. "we have come across few writers who have had a clearer insight into johnson's character, or who have brought to the study of it a better knowledge of the time in which johnson lived and the men whom he knew."--_saturday review_. "it must be admitted that mr. stephen has succeeded admirably in his task. no writer could be more competent to supply what is wanted in boswell, a comprehensive sketch of his hero's position in the literature of the eighteenth century, and he has also shown great judgment and dexterity in his illustration of johnson's personal oddities and his power as a talker.... all the traits of the personality which boswell has immortalized are to be found here, as well as luminous sketches of the literature of the period, and a solid judgment of the work that johnson did in the world."--_examiner_. "we could not wish for a more suggestive introduction to scott and his poems and novels."--_examiner_. "the tone of the volume is excellent throughout."--_athenæum_ review of "scott." "as a clear, thoughtful, and attractive record of the life and works of the greatest among the world's historians, it deserves the highest praise."--_examiner_ review of "gibbon." macmillan's globe library. _beautifully printed on toned paper and bound in cloth extra, gilt edges, price s. d. each; in cloth plain, s. d. also kept in a variety of calf and morocco bindings, at moderate prices_. _the_ saturday review _says: "the globe editions are admirable for their scholarly editing, their typographical excellence, their compendious form, and their cheapness." the_ british quarterly review _says: "in compendiousness, elegance, and scholarliness the globe editions of messrs. macmillan surpass any popular series of our classics hitherto given to the public. as near an approach to miniature perfection as has ever been made_." shakespeare's complete works. edited by w. g. clark, m.a., and w. aldis wright, m.a., editors of the "cambridge shakespeare." with glossary, pp. . _the_ athenÆum _says this edition is "a marvel of beauty, cheapness, and compactness.... for the busy man, above all for the working student, this is the best of all existing shakespeares._" spenser's complete works. edited from the original editions and manuscripts, by r. morris, with a memoir by j. w. hales, m.a. with glossary. pp. lv., . "_worthy--and higher praise it needs not--of the beautiful 'globe series_'"--daily news. sir walter scott's poetical works. edited, with a biographical and critical memoir, by francis turner palgrave, and copious notes. pp. xliii., . "_we can almost sympathise with a middle-aged grumbler, who, after reading mr. palgrave's memoir and introduction, should exclaim, 'why was there not such an edition of scott when i was a schoolboy_?'"--guardian. complete works of robert burns. edited from the best printed and manuscript authorities, with glossarial index, notes, and a biographical memoir by alexander smith, pp. lxii., . "_admirable in all respects_."--spectator. robinson crusoe. edited after the original editions, with a biographical introduction by henry kingsley. pp. xxxi., . "_a most excellent and in every way desirable edition_."--court circular. goldsmith's miscellaneous works. edited with biographical introduction, by professor masson. pp. lx., . "_such an admirable compendium of the facts of goldsmith's life, and so careful and minute a delineation of the mixed traits of his peculiar character as to be a very model of a literary biography in little_."--scotsman. pope's poetical works. edited, with notes, and introductory memoir by a. w. ward, m.a., professor of history in owens college manchester, pp. lii., . _the_ literary churchman _remarks: "the editor's own notes and introductory memoir are excellent, the memoir alone would be cheap and well worth buying at the price of the whole volume_." dryden's poetical works. edited, with a memoir, revised text, and notes, by w.d. christie, m.a., of trinity college, cambridge, pp. lxxxvii., . "_an admirable edition, the result of great research and of a careful revision of the text_."--pall mall gazette. cowper's poetical works. edited, with notes and biographical introduction, by william benham, vicar of margate, pp. lxxiii., . "_mr. benham's edition of cowper is one of permanent value_."--saturday review. morte d'arthur.--sir thomas malory's book of king arthur and of his noble knights of the round table. the original edition of caxton, revised for modern use. with an introduction by sir edward strachey, bart. pp. xxxvii., . "_it is with perfect confidence that we recommend this edition of the old romance to every class of readers_."--pall mall gazette. the works of virgil. rendered into english prose, with introductions, notes, running analysis, and an index. by james lonsdale, m.a., and samuel lee, m.a. pp. . "_a more complete edition of virgil in english it is scarcely possible to conceive than the scholarly work before us_."--globe. the works of horace. rendered into english prose, with introductions, running analysis, notes, and index. by john lonsdale, m.a., and samuel lee, m.a. _the_ standard _says, "to classical and non-classical readers it will be invaluable_." milton's poetical works.--edited, with introductions, by professor masson. "_in every way an admirable book_."--pall mall gazette. macmillan & co., london. the life of sir richard burton by thomas wright author of "the life of edward fitzgerald," etc. volumes in this work is dedicated to sir richard burton's kinsman and friend, major st. george richard burton, the black watch. preface. fifteen years have elapsed since the death of sir richard burton and twelve since the appearance of the biography of lady burton. a deeply pathetic interest attaches itself to that book. lady burton was stricken down with an incurable disease. death with its icy breath hung over her as her pen flew along the paper, and the questions constantly on her lips were "shall i live to complete my task? shall i live to tell the world how great and noble a man my husband was, and to refute the calumnies that his enemies have so industriously circulated?" she did complete it in a sense, for the work duly appeared; but no one recognised more clearly than herself its numerous shortcomings. indeed, it is little better than a huge scrap-book filled with newspaper cuttings and citations from sir richard's and other books, hurriedly selected and even more hurriedly pieced together. it gives the impressions of lady burton alone, for those of sir richard's friends are ignored--so we see burton from only one point of view. amazing to say, it does not contain a single original anecdote [ ]--though perhaps, more amusing anecdotes could be told of burton than of any other modern englishman. it will be my duty to rectify lady burton's mistakes and mis-statements and to fill up the vast hiatuses that she has left. although it will be necessary to subject her to criticism, i shall endeavour at the same time to keep constantly in mind the queenliness and beauty of her character, her almost unexampled devotion to her husband, and her anxiety that everyone should think well of him. her faults were all of the head. of the heart she had absolutely none. as the richard burton whom i have to pourtray differs considerably from lady burton's "earthly god," [ ] i have been very careful to give chapter and verse for all my statements. the work has been written on the same lines as my life of edward fitzgerald; that is to say, without any aim except to arrive at the precise truth. but although i have regarded it as no concern of mine whether any particular fact tells for or against sir richard burton, i do think that when the reader rises from the last page he will feel that he has been in the company not only of one of the greatest, noblest and most fearless of englishmen, but also of one who, without making much profession of doing so, really loved his fellow-men, and who, despite his inability to put himself in line with religionists, fought steadily on the side of righteousness. we are aware that there are in his books a few observations which call for vehement and unqualified denunciation; but against them must be placed the fundamental goodness of the man, to which all who knew him intimately have testified. in not a few respects sir richard burton's character resembled edward fitzgerald's. burton, indeed, hailed the adapter of omar khayyam as a "fellow sufi." lady burton, too, comes extremely well out of the fire of criticism. the reader may object to her religious views, he may smile at her weaknesses, he may lament her indiscretions, but he will recognise that at bottom she was a god-fearing, noble-minded woman; and he will, we think, find himself really in love with her almost before knowing it. the amount of absolutely new information in this work is very large. thus we are telling for the first time the history of burton's friendships with mr. f. f. arbuthnot, mr. john payne, and others; and we are giving for the first time, too, a complete and accurate history of the translation of the arabian nights, the scented garden, and other works. hundreds of new facts are recorded respecting these and other absorbing topics, while the citations from the unpublished letters of burton and lady burton will, we are sure, receive a welcome. we are able to give about fifty entirely new anecdotes--many of them extremely piquant and amusing. we also tell the touching story of burton's brother edward. in our accounts of burton's travels will be found a number of interesting facts and some anecdotes not given in burton's works. the new material has been derived from many sources--but from ten in particular. ( ) from two hundred unpublished letters of sir richard burton and lady burton. ( ) from interviews with mrs. e. j. burton [ ] and mr. f. burton (burton's cousins), mr. john payne, mrs. arbuthnot, mr. watts-dunton, mr. w. f. kirby, mr. a. g. ellis, dr. codrington, professor james f. blumhardt, mr. henry r. tedder (librarian and secretary of the athenaeum, burton's club), mrs. baddeley (mother of burton's friend, st. clair baddeley), madame nicastro (sister of the late mr. albert letchford, illustrator of the arabian nights), dr. grenfell baker (burton's medical attendant during the last three years of his life), and many other ladies and gentlemen. ( ) from letters received from major st. george burton (to whom i have the pleasure of dedicating this work), lady bancroft, mr. d. macritchie, mr. e. s. mostyn pryce (representative of miss stisted), gunley hall, staffordshire, m. charles carrington, of paris, who sent me various notes, including an account of burton's unfinished translation of apuleius's golden ass, the ms. of which is in his possession, the very rev. j. p. canon mccarthy, of ilkeston, for particulars of "the shrine of our lady of dale," mr. segrave (son of burton's "dear louisa"), mrs. agg (burton's cousin), and mr. p. p. cautley (burton's colleague at trieste). nor must i omit reference to a kind letter received from mrs. van zeller, lady burton's only surviving sister. [ ] ( ) from the burton collections in the free libraries of camberwell and kensington. ( ) from unpublished manuscripts written by burton's friends. ( ) from the church registers of elstree. by examination of these and other documents i have been able to correct many mistakes. ( ) from the manuscripts of f. f. arbuthnot and the oriental scholar, edward rehatsek. these are now in the possession of the royal asiatic society. ( ) from mr. arbuthnot's typewritten and unpublished life of balzac now in my possession. this contains many notes throwing light on the burton and arbuthnot friendship. ( ) from the genealogical table of the burtons of shap, very kindly sent me by mr. e. s. mostyn pryce. ( ) from various persons interviewed during many journeys. one of these journeys (june ) took me, of course, to the tomb of mortlake, and i was gratified to find that, owing to the watchfulness of the arundell family, it is kept in perfect repair. [ ] let me first speak of the unpublished letters. these were lent me by mr. john payne ( letters), mr. w. f. kirby ( letters), major st. george burton, mrs. e. j. burton, mrs. agg, mr. mostyn pryce, dr. tuckey, mr. d. macritchie, and mr. a. g. ellis. many of the letters reveal burton in quite a new light. his patriotism and his courage were known of all men, but the womanly tenderness of his nature and his intense love for his friends will come to many as a surprise. his distress, for example, on hearing of the death of drake, [ ] is particularly affecting. of the friends of sir richard burton who have been interviewed i must mention first of all mr. john payne. but for mr. payne's generous assistance, this work i must frankly admit, could not have been written. he, and he alone, held the keys to whole chambers of mystery. mr. payne was at first extremely reluctant to give me the material required. indeed, in his first letter of reply to my request for information ( th august ) he declined positively either to enter the lists against burton, with whom, he said, he had been on terms of intimate friendship, or to discuss the matter at all. "as for what," he said, "it pleases the public to think (save the mark!) of the relative merits of my own and burton's translations, i have long ceased to care a straw." but this led me to write even more pressingly. i assured mr. payne that the public had been unjust to him simply because nobody had hitherto set himself the great task of comparing the two translations, and because the true history of the case had never been laid before them. i assured him that i yielded to nobody in admiration of sir richard burton--that is, on account of what he (sir richard) did do, not on account of what he did not do; and i gave it as my opinion that mr. payne owed it both to the public and to himself to lay bare the whole story. after several letters and interviews i at last induced him to give way; and i think the public will thank me for my persistency. my revelations, which form an astonishing story, will no doubt come as a complete surprise to almost everybody. i can imagine them, indeed, dropping like a bombshell into some circles; but they are founded, not only upon conversations with mr. payne, but upon burton's own letters to mr. payne, all of which have been in my hands, and careful study of the two translations. the public, however, cannot possibly be more surprised than i myself was when i compared the two translations page by page, i could scarcely believe my own eyes; and only one conclusion was possible. burton, indeed, has taken from payne at least three-quarters of the entire work. he has transferred many hundreds of sentences and clauses bodily. sometimes we come upon a whole page with only a word or two altered. [ ] in short, amazing to say, the public have given burton credit for a gift which he did not possess [ ]--that of being a great translator. if the public are sorry, we are deeply sorry, too, but we cannot help it. burton's exalted position, however, as ethnologist and anthropologist, is unassailable. he was the greatest linguist and traveller that england ever produced. and four thrones are surely enough for any man. i must mention that mr. payne gave me an absolute free hand--nay, more than that, having placed all the documents before me, he said--and this he repeated again and again--"wherever there is any doubt, give burton the benefit of it," and i have done so. in dealing with the fight [ ] over the arabian nights i have endeavoured to write in such a way as to give offence to nobody, and for that reason have made a liberal use of asterisks. i am the more desirous of saying this because no one is better aware than myself of the services that some of burton's most bitter opponents--those ten or twelve men whom he contemptuously termed laneites--have rendered to literature and knowledge. in short, i regard the battle as fought and won. i am merely writing history. no man at the present day would dream of mentioning lane in the same breath with payne and burton. in restoring to mr. payne his own, i have had no desire to detract from burton. indeed, it is impossible to take from a man that which he never possessed. burton was a very great man, mr. payne is a very great man, but they differ as two stars differ in glory. burton is the magnificent man of action and the anthropologist, mr. payne the brilliant poet and prose writer. mr. payne did not go to mecca or tanganyika, burton did not translate the arabian nights, [ ] or write the rime of redemption and vigil and vision. he did, however, produce the annotations of the arabian nights, and a remarkable enough and distinct work they form. i recall with great pleasure an evening spent with mr. watts-dunton at the pines, putney. the conversation ran chiefly on the gipsies, [ ] upon whom mr. watts-dunton is one of our best authorities, and the various translations of the arabian nights. both he and mr. a. c. swinburne have testified to burton's personal charm and his marvellous powers. "he was a much valued and loved friend," wrote mr. swinburne to me [ ], "and i have of him none but the most delightful recollections." mr. swinburne has kindly allowed me to give in full his magnificent poem on "the death of richard burton." dr. grenfell baker, whom i interviewed in london, had much to tell me respecting sir richard's last three years; and he has since very kindly helped me by letter. the great object of this book is to tell the story of burton's life, to delineate as vividly as possible his remarkable character--his magnetic personality, and to defend him alike from enemy and friend. in writing it my difficulties have been two. first, burton himself was woefully inaccurate as an autobiographer, and we must also add regretfully that we have occasionally found him colouring history in order to suit his own ends. [ ] he would have put his life to the touch rather than misrepresent if he thought any man would suffer thereby; but he seems to have assumed that it did not matter about keeping strictly to the truth if nobody was likely to be injured. secondly, lady burton, with haughty indifference to the opinions of everyone else, always exhibited occurrences in the light in which she herself desired to see them. this fact and the extreme haste with which her book was written are sufficient to account for most of its shortcomings. she relied entirely upon her own imperfect recollections. church registers and all such documents were ignored. she begins with the misstatement that burton was born at elstree, she makes scarcely any reference to his most intimate friends and even spells their names wrongly. [ ] her remarks on the kasidah are stultified by the most cursory glance at that poem; while the whole of her account of the translating of the arabian nights is at variance with burton's own letters and conversations. i am assured by several who knew burton intimately that the untrustworthiness of the latter part of lady burton's "life" of her husband is owing mainly to her over-anxiety to shield him from his enemies. but i think she mistook the situation. i do not believe burton had any enemies to speak of at the time of his death. if lady burton's treatment of her husband's unfinished works cannot be defended, on the other hand i shall show that the loss as regards the scented garden was chiefly a pecuniary one, and therefore almost entirely her own. the publication of the scented garden would not--it could not--have added to burton's fame. however, the matter will be fully discussed in its proper place. it has generally been supposed that two other difficulties must confront any conscientious biographer of burton--the first being burton's choice of subjects, and the second the friction between lady burton and the stisteds. but as regards the first, surely we are justified in assuming that burton's studies were pursued purely for historical and scientific purposes. he himself insisted in season and out of season that his outlook was solely that of the student, and my researches for the purposes of this work have thoroughly convinced me that, however much we may deprecate some of these studies, burton himself was sincere enough in his pursuit of them. his nature, strange as it may seem to some ears, was a cold one [ ]; and at the time he was buried in the most forbidding of his studies he was an old man racked with infirmities. yet he toiled from morning to night, year in year out, more like a navvy than an english gentleman, with an income of £ a year, and , "jingling, tingling, golden, minted quid," as r. l. stevenson would have said, in his pocket. in his hunger for the fame of an author, he forgot to feed his body, and had to be constantly reminded of its needs by his medical attendant and others. and then he would wolf down his food, in order to get back quickly to his absorbing work. the study had become a monomania with him. i do not think there is a more pathetic story in the history of literature than that which i have to tell of the last few weeks of burton's life. you are to see the old man, always ailing, sometimes in acute pain--working twenty-five hours a day, as it were--in order to get completed a work by which he supposed he was to live for ever. in the same room sits the wife who dearly loves him, and whom he dearly loves and trusts. a few days pass. he is gone. she burns, page by page, the work at which he had toiled so long and so patiently. and here comes the pathos of it--she was, in the circumstances, justified in so doing. as regards lady burton and the stisteds, it was natural, perhaps, that between a staunch protestant family such as the stisteds, and an uncompromising catholic like lady burton there should have been friction; but both lady burton and miss stisted are dead. each made, during lady burton's lifetime, an honest attempt to think well of the other; each wrote to the other many sweet, sincere, and womanly letters; but success did not follow. death, however, is a very loving mother. she gently hushes her little ones to sleep; and, as they drop off, the red spot on the cheek gradually fades away, and even the tears on the pillow soon dry. although miss stisted's book has been a help to me i cannot endorse her opinion that burton's recall from damascus was the result of lady burton's indiscretions. her books give some very interesting reminiscences of sir richard's childhood and early manhood, [ ] but practically it finishes with the damascus episode. her innocent remarks on the scented garden must have made the anthropological sides of ashbee, arbuthnot, and burton's other old friends shake with uncontrollable laughter. unfortunately, she was as careless as lady burton. thus on page she relates a story about burton's attempt to carry off a nun; but readers of burton's book on goa will find that it had no connection with burton whatever. it was a story someone had told him. in these pages burton will be seen on his travels, among his friends, among his books, fighting, writing, quarrelling, exploring, joking, flying like a squib from place to place--a th century lord peterborough, though with the world instead of a mere continent for theatre. even late in life, when his infirmities prevented larger circuits, he careered about europe in a walpurgic style that makes the mind giddy to dwell upon. of burton's original works i have given brief summaries; but as a writer he shines only in isolated passages. we go to him not for style but for facts. many of his books throw welcome light on historical portions of the bible. [ ] of those of his works which are erotic in the true sense of the word i have given a sufficient account, and one with which i am convinced even the most captious will not find fault. [ ] when necessity has obliged me to touch upon the subject to which sir richard devoted his last lustrum, i have been as brief as possible, and have written in a way that only scholars could understand. in short i have kept steadily in view the fact that this work is one which will lie on drawing-room tables and be within the reach of everyone. i have nowhere mentioned the subject by name, but i do not see how i could possible have avoided all allusion to it. i have dwelt on burton's bravery, his tenderness, his probity, his marvellous industry, his encyclopaedic learning--but the picture would not have been a true one had i entirely over-passed the monomania of his last days. hamlet must be shown, if not at his maddest, at any rate mad, or he would not be hamlet at all. as regards burton's letters, i have ruthlessly struck out every sentence that might give offence. [ ] while i have not hesitated to expose sir richard's faults, i have endeavoured to avoid laying too much stress upon them. i have tried, indeed, to get an idea of the mountain not only by climbing its sides, but also by viewing it from a distance. i trust that there will be found nothing in this book to hurt the feelings of any living person or indeed of any body of persons. i have certainly tried my utmost to avoid causing pain, and if the reader will kindly bear in mind that it is as much a christian duty to avoid taking offence as to avoid giving offence, we shall amble along pleasantly together to the very last page. out of consideration for catholics i have suppressed a number of passages; and if i have allowed sir richard in one or two instances to make a lunge at their church, i trust they will notice that i have permitted him the same licence with regard to the church of england and exeter hall. finally, my impartiality is proved by my allowing him to gird at the poet cowper. wherever possible, that is to say, when i could do it without ambiguity i have also out of courtesy used the term catholic instead of roman catholic; and in order to meet what i believe to be the wishes of lady burton's executors, i have omitted all mention of certain events that occurred after sir richard's death. the various works of mr. w. h. wilkins have been of great help to me, and i cannot avoid paying a passing tribute to the excellent opening passages [ ] of the preface of his edition of lady burton's life of her husband. the illustrations in this book are of exceptional interest. they include the burton family portraits, the originals of which are in the possession of mr. mostyn pryce and mrs. agg. during the lifetime of sir richard and lady burton they were the property of lady and miss stisted; but, owing to her difference with these ladies, lady burton was not able to use them in the life of her husband; and miss stisted's own scheme did not include illustrations. so they are now reproduced for the first time. the most noticeable are the quaint picture of burton, his brother and sister as children, and the oil painting of burton and lady stisted made by jacquand about . of great interest, too, is the series of photographs taken at trieste by dr. grenfell baker; while the portraits of burton's friends, mr. f. f. arbuthnot, mr. john payne, major st. george burton, dr. baker, mr. w. f. kirby, mr. a. g. ellis, professor j. f. blumhardt, and others, will no doubt be appreciated by the public. the writing of this book has been a thorough pleasure to me, not only on account of the infinite charm of the subject, but also because everyone whom i have approached has treated me with studied kindness. the representatives of sir richard burton, of lady burton (through mr. w. h. wilkins) and of miss stisted have not only helped and permitted me to use the unpublished letters, [ ] but have generously given me a free hand. i am deeply indebted to them, and i can only trust that these pages will prove that their confidence in my judgment has not been misplaced. to everyone who has assisted me i tender my sincere thanks, and i assure them that i shall never forget their abundant kindness. finally, in writing this work every possible care has been taken to ensure accuracy [ ]; but that absolute perfection has been attained is improbable. it is hoped, however,--to borrow the quaint expression of the persian poet jami--"that the noble disposition of the readers will induce them to pass over defects." [ ] my grateful thanks are due to the following ladies and gentlemen for various services. arbuthnot, mrs. f. f., south street, park lane, london. ashbee, mr. c. g., woolstapler hall, chipping cambden, gloucestershire. agg, mrs. hewletts, cheltenham. baddeley, mrs., brighton. baker, dr. grenfell, , southwick street, hyde park, w. birch, mrs. g. m., lympstone grange, south devon. blumhardt, prof. james f., british museum. burton, mrs. e. j., , wilbury road, brighton. burton, major st. george, the black watch. burton, mr. frederick, brighton. cautley, mr. p. p., , via della zonta, trieste. clayton, mr. arthur, south view, ropley, hants. carrington, mr. charles, , faubourg montmartre, paris. chatto, mr. andrew, hillside, elstree. codrington, dr., royal asiatic society, albemarle street. committee, the, of the central library, camberwell. eales, rev. a. r. t., the rectory, elstree, herts. ellis, mr. a. g., british museum. editors, the, of the following newspapers: the times, the daily telegraph, the standard, the daily news, the morning post, the daily chronicle, the daily mail, the athenaeum, the saturday review, the academy, for inserting letters for me at different times. these letters put me in touch with several of burton's old friends. gardiner, mr. c. h., , montpelier crescent, brighton. george, mr. william h., , highfield terrace, bognor. hector, mr. e., bookseller, , john bright street, birmingham. hutchinson & co., messrs, for the loan of the portrait of khamoor. jones, mr. herbert, the library, high street, kensington. josling, mr. a., , lyndhurst grove, camberwell. kirby, mr. w. f., "hilden," sutton court road, chiswick, london. letchford, miss daisy (now madame nicastro), mezellina , naples. mccarthy, the very rev. p. j. canon, ilkeston, derbyshire. mendelssohn, mr. s., , kensington court gardens, london, w. murray, mr. t. douglas, pyt cottage, tisbury, wilts. macritchie, mr. david, , archibald place, edinburgh. newcombe, mr. c. f., , champion park, denmark hill, london, s. e. nicastro, madame. payne, mr. john. pelham, dr., president of trinity college, oxford. pryce, mr. e. s. mostyn, gunley hall, chirbury, shropshire. rankin-lloyd, mrs., wilne house, pembroke. royal asiatic society (for permission to examine the arbuthnot and rehatsek manuscripts). roe, rev. henry, , barnoon terrace, st. ives, cornwall. sams, rev. g. f., the rectory, emberton, bucks. segrave, mr. h., seaview, lyme regis, dorset. snowsill, mr. w. g., camberwell central library. spencer, mr. w. t., bookseller, , new oxford street, london, w. c. steingass, mrs., , lyndhurst grove, camberwell. tussaud, mr. john, of "madame tussaud's." tedder, mr., the athenaeum. tuckey, dr. charles lloyd, , park street, grosvenor square, london. van zeller, mrs. (lady burton's sister). wilkins, mr. w. h., , queen street, mayfair, london, w. wood, mr. w. martin, underwood, oatlands avenue, weybridge. wyllie, mr. francis r. s., , montpellier villas, brighton. my wife, too, upon whom devolved the heavy task of transcribing, must also be awarded her meed of praise. the following is a fairly complete list of the various books and magazine articles that have been laid under contribution. arbuthnot, f. f., "persian portraits." "the mysteries of chronology." "life of balzac (in manuscript)." "baily's monthly magazine," april . baddeley, st. clair (see richards, a. b.) burton, lady. "life of sir richard burton," vols. . her works. vols. burton, sir richard. his works. vols. "edinburgh review," july . no. . hitchman, f., "richard r. burton," vols. . kama shastra society's publications. magazine articles by or relating to burton. too numerous to mention. payne, mr. john, the book of "the thousand nights and one night," vols., - , and "omar kheyyam." "perfumed garden, the." published in by mr. carrington, of paris. its preface contains letters from several of the leading arabists of the day, including m. fagnan and professor hartwig derenbourg, membre de l'institut. richards (a. b.), wilson (a.), and baddeley (st. c.), "sketch of the career of richard f. burton," . rehatsek (edward), translations. roe, rev. henry, "west african scenes," "fernando po mission." stisted, miss georgiana, "reminiscences of sir richard burton"-- "temple bar," july, . vol. . "the true life of sir richard burton," . "saturday review," "ultima thule," , jan. (p. ). "zanzibar," , february th (p. ). wilkins, w. h., "the romance of isabel lady burton," vols. . also the various works by sir richard burton that have been edited by mr. wilkins. wilson, a. (see richards, a. b.) thomas wright. contents of volume i chapter i th march -october childhood and youth . torquay and elstree, th march . tours and elstree . death of richard baker, th september . at school, richmond, . the continent again, chapter ii october -april oxford . trinity college, oxford, october . expelled, april chapter iii april - th february sind . to bombay, th june . baroda: the bubu . narachi: love of disguise . a dangerous mission, . the persian beauty . a simian dictionary . duality chapter iv th february - under the spell of camoens . goa and camoens . would you a sufi be? . letter to sarah burton, th november . allahdad chapter v - rd april chiefly boulogne . a motto from ariosto . isabel arundell and "my dear louisa," . f. f. arbuthnot, chapter vi rd april - th october pilgrimage to mecca . the man wants to wander . haji wali . the pilgrim ship, th july . medina . mecca . burton's delight in shocking . el islam chapter vii th october - nd april to harar . the arabian nights, october . from zeila to harar, th november . at harar, nd january, . from harar to berbera, th january . the fight at berbera, nd april chapter viii . the crimea . engaged to isabel arundell, august chapter ix nd april -december the unveiling of isis . to fuga, january . zanzibar to tanganyika, th june - th may . the return journey, th may, - th february chapter x st may -august mormons and marriage . we rushed into each other's arms, nd may . brigham young . marriage . at lord houghton's chapter xi august - th november fernando po . african gold . anecdotes . fans and gorillas . the anthropological society, th january chapter xii th november, - th november gelele . whydah and its deity, th november . the amazons . "the customs" . death of speke, th september chapter xiii october -october nd consulate: santos . to santos . aubertin: death of dr. steinhauser, th july . the facetious cannibals . up the sao francisco . in paraguay, august -april chapter xiv st october - th august "emperor and empress of damascus" . archbishop manning and the odd fish . rd consulate: damascus . jane digby el mezrab . to tadmor . palmer and drake, th july . khamoor . the shazlis . the recall, th august chapter xv th august - th june "the blackness of darkness" . with sir h. stisted at norwood . reduced to £ . an orgie at lady alford's, nd november . the tichborne trial . khamoor at the theatre, november chapter xvi th june - th october in iceland . in edinburgh again, th june, . wardour castle, th july . st. george and frederick burton . at the athenaeum . jane digby again . his book on zanzibar chapter xvii th october - th may th consulate: trieste . burton at trieste, th october . at the vienna exhibition, . a visit from drake, june . khamoor returns to syria, th december chapter xviii th may - th june the trip to india . visit to england, th may . "tonic bitters" . a trip to india, december - th june . arbuthnot again; rehatsek . in sind . golconda chapter xix th june - st march colonel gordon . ariosto . death of rashid pasha, june . colonel gordon . jane digby the second . the old baronetcy, th january chapter xx st march - th december midian . the new joseph, march . more advice to "lazybones" . haji wali again . graffiti . letter to sir henry gordon, th july . death of maria stisted, th november . burton's "six senses," nd december . still thinking of midian chapter xxi th devember -august camoens . the lusiads . ober ammergan . mrs. burton's advice to novelists . the kasidah . lisa chapter xxii august - th may john payne . with cameron at venice, august . john payne, november . to the gold coast, th november - th may chapter xxiii july -november the meeting of burton and payne . mrs. grundy begins to roar, may . the search for palmer, october chapter xxiv july -november the palazzone . anecdotes of burton . burton and mrs. disraeli . "i am an old english catholic" . burton begins his translation, april . the battle over the nights . completion of payne's translation chapter xxv the kama shastra society . the azure apollo . the kama sutra chapter xxvi "the ananga ranga" . the anana ranga . the beharistan . the gulistan . the nigaristan . the " " letters to payne . at sauerbrunn, th august, . burton's circulars . the book of the sword . the lyrics of camoens . more letters to john payne . death of gordon, january . mr. w. f. kirby, th march chapter xxvii may - th february a glance through "the arabian nights" . slaving at the athenaeum . a visit to mr. arbuthnot's . dr. steingass . anecdotes . the pentameron: burton and gladstone . a brief glance through the nights chapter xxviii the two translations compared . the blacksmith who, etc. . abu al-hasen and abu ja'afar the leper . the summing up chapter xxix burton's notes . burton's notes . the terminal essay . final summing up . mr. swinburne on burton chapter xxx st november - th july k.c.m.g. . in morocco, st november . k.c.m.g. . burton at . more anecdotes chapter xxxi burton's religion . burton's religion . burton as a writer chapter xxxii burton and social questions . the population question . new projects . mr. a. g. ellis and professor blumhardt, june -april . dr. leslie and dr. baker, april ; anecdotes . three months at abbazia, december -march chapter xxxiii th july - th october the last visit to england: "supplemental nights" . meeting with mr. swinburne and others . h. w. ashbee . bacon causes sparks . the gipsy lore society, august . the supplemental nights, st december, - st august . comparison chapter xxxiv "the scented garden." november . naizawi . origin of the scented garden . contents of the scented garden . burton's translation chapter xxxv th october - st july, working at the catullus and the "scented garden" . in switzerlant, th october . mr. letchford, august and september . to dr. tuckey . to mr. kirby, th may . tunis and algiers, th december . arbuthnot in trieste, may chapter xxxvi "the priapeia" . the priapeia, . catullus and the last trip, st july- th sept . at maloja . the golden ass chapter xxxvii death of sir richard burton, th october . death chapter xxxviii th october -devember the fate of the "scented garden" . "our dead in rare instances come back" . discrepancies in lady burton's story . the fate of the catullus . lisa departs, november chapter xxxvix january -july lady burton in england . lady burton arrives in england . the funeral at mortlake . the scented garden storm, june and july chapter xl june - th december o tome, o tomb . a letter to miss stisted . the writing of the "life" . the library edition chapter xli nd march, death of lady burton . lady burton at eastbourne . death of lady burton, nd march . miss sitsted's true life . mr. wilkins's work . burton's friends verses on the death of richard burton, by mr. a. c. swinburne appendices . bibliography of richard burton . list of works included in the "memorial edition" . list of biographies of burton . extracts relating to burton from the index to the publications of the anthropological institute . bibliography of f. f. arbuthnot . bibliography of dr. steingass . bibliography of john payne . the beharistan . the nigaristan and other unpublished works translated by rehatsek . w. f. kirby . genealogical table. the burtons of shap {not included} chapter i. th march -october childhood and youth . torquay and elstree. sir richard burton, the famous traveller, linguist, and anthropologist--"the arabian knight"--"the last of the demi-gods"--has been very generally regarded as the most picturesque figure of his time, and one of the most heroic and illustrious men that "this blessed plot... this england," this mother of heroes every produced. the burtons, a westmoreland family [ ] who had settled in ireland, included among their members several men of eminence, not only in the army, which had always powerfully attracted them, but also in the navy and the church. [ ] for long there was a baronetcy in the family, but it fell into abeyance about , and all attempts of the later burtons to substantiate their claim to it proved ineffectual. [ ] burton supposed himself to be descended from louis xiv. la belle montmorency, a beauty of the french court, had, it seems, a son, of which she rather believed louis to be the father. in any circumstances she called the baby louis le jeune, put him in a basket of flowers and carried him to ireland, where he became known as louis drelincourt young. louis young's grand-daughter married the rev. edward burton, richard burton's grandfather. thus it is possible that a runnel of the blood of "le grand monarque" tripped through burton's veins. but burton is a romany name, and as richard burton had certain gipsy characteristics, some persons have credited him with gipsy lineage. certainly no man could have been more given to wandering. lastly, through his maternal grandmother, he was descended from the famous scotch marauder, rob roy. burton's parents were lieutenant-colonel joseph netterville burton, a tall, handsome man with sallow skin, dark hair, and coal-black eyes, and martha beckwith, the accomplished but plain daughter of richard and sarah baker, of barham house (now "hillside" [ ]), elstree, hertfordshire. richard baker was an opulent country gentleman, and the most important personage in the parish. judging from the size of his pew at church, "no. ," he must also have been a man of eminent piety, for it contained sixteen sittings. at all events he kept the parish in admirable order, and, as churchwarden, discountenanced unreasonable sleeping in church. thanks to his patronage the choir made marked progress, and eventually there was no louder in the county. in , we find him overseer with one george olney. he took a perfunctory [ ] interest in the village school (where, by the by, arthur orton, the tichborne claimant, received his elaborate education), and was for a time "director." he led the breezy life of a country gentleman. with his fat acres, his thumping balance at the bank, his cellar of crusted wine, and his horse that never refused a gate, this world seemed to him a nether paradise. he required, he said, only one more boon to make his happiness complete--namely, a grandson with unmistakably red hair. a shrewd man of business, mr. baker tied up every farthing of his daughter's fortune, £ , ; and this was well, for burton's father, a rather quixotic gentleman, had but a child's notion of the use of money. the burtons resided at torquay, and colonel burton busied himself chiefly in making chemical experiments, of which he was remarkably fond; but the other members of the household, who generally went about holding their noses, appear not to have sympathised with his studies and researches. he was very superstitious--nothing, for instance, could induce him to reveal his birthday; and he fretted continually because he was not permitted to invest his wife's money and make a second fortune; which no doubt he would very soon have done--for somebody else. richard francis burton was born at torquay [ ] on th march ; and to the intemperate joy of the family his hair was a fierce and fiery red. the news flew madly to elstree. old mr. baker could scarcely contain himself, and vowed then and there to leave the whole of his fortune to his considerate grandson. the baby, of course, was promptly called richard after mr. baker, with francis as an afterthought; and a little later the burtons went to reside at barham house with the grandparents. richard was baptised in the parish church at elstree, nd september . in the entry his father's abode is called "bareham wood," [ ] the name being spelt various ways. our illustration of the old church is taken from an engraving made to commemorate the burial of william weare [ ] murdered by the notorious john thurtell; an event that occurred in , when burton was two years old. there was another link between the burtons and the bakers, for joseph netterville's youngest brother, francis, military surgeon in the th regiment, married sarah baker, mr. richard baker's eldest daughter. dr. burton [ ] who was in st. helena at the time of napoleon's death lives in history as the man who "took a bust of the dead emperor." [ ] . tours and elstree. being subject to asthma, colonel burton now left england and hired a chateau called beausejour situated on an eminence near tours, where there was an english colony. for several years the family fluctuated between tours and elstree, and we hear of a great yellow chariot which from time to time rolled into daylight. richard's hair gradually turned from its fiery and obtrusive red to jet black, but the violent temper of which the former colour is supposed to be indicative, and of which he had already many times given proofs, signalised him to the end of life. in mrs. burton gave birth to a daughter, maria katharine elisa, who became the wife of general sir henry stisted; and on rd july to a son, edward joseph netterville, both of whom were baptized at elstree. [ ] while at tours the children were under the care of their hertfordshire nurse, mrs. ling, a good, but obstinately english soul who had been induced to cross the channel only after strenuous opposition. . death of richard baker, th september . richard burton always preserved some faint recollections of his grandfather. "the first thing i remember," he says, "was being brought down after dinner at barham house to eat white currants, seated upon the knee of a tall man with yellow hair and blue eyes." this would be in the summer of . mr. baker, as we have seen, had intended to leave the whole of his property--worth about half a million--to his red-haired grandson; and an old will, made in , was to be cancelled. but burton's mother had a half brother--richard baker, junior--too whom she was extravagantly attached, and, in order that this brother should not lose a fortune, she did everything in her power to prevent mr. baker from carrying out his purpose. three years passed away, but at last mr. baker resolved to be thwarted no longer, so he drove to his lawyer's. it was the th of september . he reached the door and leapt nimbly from his carriage; but his foot had scarcely touched the ground before he fell dead of heart disease. so the old will had to stand, and the property, instead of going to burton, was divided among the children of mr. baker, burton's mother taking merely her share. but for this extraordinary good hap richard burton might have led the life of an undistinguished country gentleman; ingloriously breaking his dogs, training his horses and attending to the breed of stock. the planting of a quincunx or the presentation of a pump to the parish might have proved his solitary title to fame. mr. baker was buried at elstree church, where may be seen a tablet to him with the following inscription: "sacred to the memory of richard baker, esq., late of barham house in this parish, who departed this life on the th september , aged years." [ ] soon after the death of her husband, mrs. baker must have left elstree, [ ] for from to , barham house was occupied by viscount northland. the burtons continued to reside at tours, and all went well until cholera broke out. old mrs. baker, hearing the news, and accounting prevention better than cure, at once hurried across the channel; nor did she breathe freely until she had plugged every nose at beausejour with the best borneo camphor. the apprehensive old lady, indeed, hovered round her grandchildren all day like some guardian angel, resolutely determined that no conceivable means should be spared to save them from the dreaded epidemic; and it was not until she had seen them safely tucked in their snowy, lavendered beds that her anxieties of the day really ceased. one night, however, when she went, as was her custom, to look at the sleeping children before retiring herself, she found, to her horror, that they were not there. the whole household was roused, and there was an agonising hue and cry; but, by and by, the culprits were seen slinking softly in at the principal door. it seems that they had climbed down from their room and had gone the round with the death carts and torches, to help collect corpses; and enquiry revealed that they had worked considerably harder than the paid men. when the cholera scare passed off mrs. baker took to learning french, and with such success that in less than six months she was able to speak several words, though she could never get hold of the correct pronunciation. despite, however, her knowledge of the language, the good lady did not take kindly to france, and she often looked wistfully northwards, quoting as she did so her favourite cowper: "england with all thy faults i love thee still." she and mrs. ling, the old nurse, who pined for english beef and beer, made some attempts to console each other, but with inappreciable success, and finally the fellow-sufferers, their faces now beaming with smiles, returned together to their england. and not even campbell's sailor lad was gladder to see again the "dear cliffs of dover." our charmingly quaint picture of richard, his sister and brother, in wondrous french costumes, is from an oil painting [ ] which has not before been copied. richard was first taught by a lame irishman named clough, who kept a school at tours; and by and by, chiefly for the children's sake, colonel burton gave up beausejour and took a house in the rue de l'archeveche, the best street in the town. the little burtons next attended the academy of a mr. john gilchrist, who grounded them in latin and greek. a kind-hearted man, mr. gilchrist often gave his pupils little treats. once, for instance, he took them to see a woman guillotined. richard and edward were, to use richard's expression, "perfect devilets." nor was the sister an angelet. the boys lied, fought, beat their maids, generally after running at their petticoats and upsetting them, smashed windows, stole apple puffs; and their escapades and richard's ungovernable temper were the talk of the neighourhood. their father was at this time given to boar hunting in the neighbouring forest, but as he generally damaged himself against the trees and returned home on a stretcher, he ultimately abandoned himself again to the equally useful but less perilous pursuit of chemistry. if colonel burton's blowpipes and retorts and his conduct in private usually kept mrs. burton on tenterhooks, she was no less uneasy on his account when they went into society. he was so apt to call things by their right names. thus on one occasion when the conversation ran upon a certain lady who was known to be unfaithful to her husband, he inexpressibly shocked a sensitive company by referring to her as "an adulteress." in this trait, as in many others, his famous son closely resembled him. a youthful stoic, burton, in times of suffering, invariably took infinite pains to conceal his feelings. thus all one day he was in frightful agony with the toothache, but nobody knew anything about it until next morning when his cheek was swollen to the size of a peewit's egg. he tried, too, to smother every affectionate instinct; but when under strong emotion was not always successful. one day, throwing stones, he cut his sister's forehead. forgetting all his noble resolutions he flew to her, flung his arms round her, kissed her again and again, and then burst into a fit of crying. mrs. burton's way of dressing her children had the charm of simplicity. she used to buy a piece of yellow nankin and make up three suits as nearly as possible alike, except for size. we looked, said burton, "like three sticks of barley sugar," and the little french boys who called after them in the streets thought so too, until richard had well punched all their heads, when their opinions underwent a sudden change. another household incident that fixed itself in burton's mind was the loss of their "elegant and chivalrous french chef," who had rebelled when ordered to boil a gigot. "comment, madame," he replied to mrs. burton, "un--gigot!--cuit a l'eau, jamais! neverre!" and rather than spoil, as he conceived it, a good leg of mutton he quitted her service. [ ] like most boys, burton was fond of pets, and often spent hours trying to revive some bird or small beast that had met with misfortune, a bias that affords a curious illustration of the permanence of character. the boy of nine once succeeded in resuscitating a favourite bullfinch which had nearly drowned itself in a great water jug--and we shall find the man of sixty-nine, on the very last day of his life, trying to revive a half-drowned robin. . at school, richmond, . in the burtons returned to england and took a house in maids of honour row, richmond, while richard and edward were sent to a preparatory school at richmond green--a handsome building with a paddock which enclosed some fine old elms--kept by a "burly savage," named the rev. charles delafosse. although the fees were high, the school was badly conducted, and the boys were both ill-taught and ill-fed. richard employed himself out of school hours fighting with the other boys, and had at one time thirty-two affairs of honour to settle. "on the first occasion," he says, "i received a blow in the eye, which i thought most unfair, and having got my opponent down i proceeded to hammer his head against the ground, using his ears by way of handles. my indignation knew no bounds when i was pulled off by the bystanders, and told to let my enemy stand up again. 'stand up!' i cried, 'after all the trouble i've had to get the fellow down.'" [ ] of the various countries he knew, burton hated england most. would he ever, he asked see again his "dear france." and then fate, who revels in irony, must needs set him to learn as a school task, of all the poems in english, goldsmith's traveller! so the wretched boy, cursing england in his heart, scowling and taking it out of goldsmith by daubing his pages with ink, sat mumbling: "such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam his first, best country ever is at home." [ ] by and by, to burton's extravagant joy--and he always intemperately loved change--measles broke out in the school, the pupils were dispersed, and colonel burton, tired of richmond, resolved to make again for the continent. as tutor for his boys he hired an ox-like man "with a head the shape of a pear, smaller end uppermost"--the rev. h. r. du pre afterwards rector of shellingford; and maria was put in charge of a peony-faced lady named miss ruxton. the boys hurrahed vociferously when they left what they called wretched little england; but subsequently richard held that his having been educated abroad was an incalculable loss to him. he said the more english boys are, "even to the cut of their hair," the better their chances in life. moreover, that it is a real advantage to belong to some parish. "it is a great thing when you have won a battle, or explored central africa, to be welcomed home by some little corner of the great world, which takes a pride in your exploits, because they reflect honour on itself." [ ] an english education might have brought burton more wealth, but for the wild and adventurous life before him no possible training could have been better than the varied and desultory one he had. nor could there have been a more suitable preparation for the great linguist and anthropologist. from babyhood he mixed with men of many nations. . the continent again. at first the family settled at blois, where colonel and mrs. burton gave themselves over to the excitement of dressing three or four times a day; and, as there was nothing whatever the matter with them, passed many hours in feeling each other's pulses, looking at each other's tongues, and doctoring each other. richard and edward devoted themselves to fending and swimming. if the three children were wild in england they were double wild at blois. pear-headed mr. du pre stuck tenaciously to his work, but miss ruxton gave up in despair and returned to england. at a dancing party the boys learnt what it was to fall in love. richard adored an extremely tall young woman named miss donovan, "whose face was truly celestial--being so far up" but she was unkind, and did not encourage him. after a year at blois, colonel and mrs. burton, who had at last succeeded in persuading themselves that they were really invalids, resolved to go in search of a more genial climate. out came the cumbersome old yellow chariot again, and in this and a chaise drawn by an ugly beast called dobbin, the family, with colonel burton's blowpipes, retorts and other "notions," as his son put it, proceeded by easy stages to marseilles, whence chariot, chaise, horse and family were shipped to leghorn, and a few days later they found themselves at pisa. the boys became proficient in italian and drawing, but it was not until middle life that richard's writing developed into that gossamer hand which so long distinguished it. both had a talent for music, but when "a thing like paganini, length without breadth" was introduced, and they were ordered to learn the violin, richard rebelled, flew into a towering rage and broke his instrument on his master's head. edward, however, threw his whole soul into the work and became one of the finest amateur violinists of his day. edward, indeed, was the greek of the family, standing for music and song as well as for muscle. he had the finely chiselled profile and the straight nose that characterises the faces on attic coins. richard, though without the roman features, was more of the ancient roman type of character: severe, doggedly brave, utilitarian; and he was of considerably larger mould than his brother. in july , the family stayed at siena and later at perugia, where they visited the tomb of pietro aretino. at florence, the boys, having induced their sister to lend them her pocket money, laid it out in a case of pistols; while their mother went in daily terror lest they should kill each other. the worst they did, however, was to put a bullet through a very good hat which belonged to mr. du pre. when their mother begged them not to read lord chesterfield's letters to a son, concerning the morality of which she had doubts, they dutifully complied and surrendered themselves piously, and without a murmur, to the chaste pages of paul de kock. they did not, however, neglect the art treasures of florence; and at rome, their next stopping-place, they sauntered about with baedeker's predecessor, "mrs. starke," and peered into earthly churches and flower-illumined ruins. later the family journeyed to naples, where the boys continued their studies under mr. du pre. as a clergyman, this gentleman steadily inculcated in his pupils the beautiful principles of the christian religion, and took a sincere and lively interest in their favourite pastime of cock-fighting. colonel burton continued his chemical studies, and in an evil hour for the family, purchased a copy of the quaint text book by s. parkes: "a chemical catechism... with copious notes... to which are added a vocabulary and a chapter of amusing experiments." [ ] and very amusing they were when colonel burton made them. having studied the book closely, including the "poetry" with which it is studded, he manufactured, at vast expense, a few cakes of a nasty-looking and evil-smelling substance, which, he said, was soap, and ought to be put on the market. mrs. burton intimated that he might put it on the market or anywhere else as long as he did not make any more. he next, by the aid of the same manual, prepared a mixture which he called citric acid, though any other name would have suited it equally well; and of this, as neither he nor anybody else had any use for it, he daily produced large quantities. from naples the family moved to sorrento, where s'or riccardo and s'or edwardo, as the italians called them, surrendered themselves to the natural and legendary influences of the neighbourhood and to reading. the promontory on which sorrento stands is barren enough, but southward rise pleasant cliffs viridescent with samphire, and beyond them purple hills dotted with white spots of houses. at no great distance, though hidden from view, stood the classic paestum, with its temple to neptune; and nothing was easier than to imagine, on his native sea as it were, the shell-borne ocean-god and old triton blowing his wreathed horn. capri, the retreat of tiberius, was of easy access. eastward swept a land of myrtle and lemon orchards. while the elder burton was immersed in the melodious parkes, who sang about "oxygen, abandoning the mass," and changing "into gas," his sons played the parts of anacreon and ovid, they crowned their heads with garlands and drank wine like anacreon, not omitting the libation, and called to mind the ovid of well-nigh two thousand years previous, and his roses of paestum. from poetry they turned once more to pistols, again brought their mother's heart to her mouth, and became generally ungovernable. a visit to a house of poor reputation having been discovered, their father and mr. du pre set upon them with horsewhips, whereupon the graceless but agile youths ran to a neighbouring house and swarmed to the top of a stack of chimneys, whence partly by word and partly by gesticulation they arranged terms of peace. in , the burtons left for pau in the south of france; and while there richard lost his heart to the daughter of a french baron. unfortunately, however, she had to go away to be married; and richard who loved her to desperation, wept bitterly, partly because he was to lose her and partly because she didn't weep too. edward and the young lady's sister, who also understood each other, fared no better, for colonel burton having got tired of pau, the whole family had to return to italy. at pisa "s'or riccardo" and "s'or edwardo" again "cocked their hats and loved the ladies," riccardo's choice being a slim, soft, dark beauty named caterina, edwardo's her sister antonia. proposals of marriage were made and accepted, but adieux had soon to follow, for colonel burton now moved to lucca. all four lovers gave way to tears, and richard was so wrung with grief that he did not become engaged again for over a fortnight. at lucca the precious pair ruffled it with a number of dissolute medical students, who taught them several quite original wickednesses. they went, however, with their parents, into more wholesome society; and were introduced to louis desanges, the battle painter, miss helen croly, daughter of the author of salathiel, and miss virginia gabriel (daughter of general, generally called archangel gabriel) the lady who afterwards attained fame as a musical composer [ ] and became, as we have recently discovered, one of the friends of walter pater. says burton "she showed her savoir faire at the earliest age. at a ball given to the prince, all appeared in their finest dresses, and richest jewellery. miss virginia was in white, with a single necklace of pink coral." they danced till daybreak, when miss virginia "was like a rose among faded dahlias and sunflowers." here, as everywhere, there was more pistol practice, and the boys plumed themselves on having discovered a new vice--that of opium-eating, while their father made the house unendurable by the preparation of sulphuretted hydrogen and other highly-scented compounds. it was recognised, however, that these chemical experiments had at least the advantage of keeping colonel burton employed, and consequently of allowing everybody a little breathing time at each stopping-place. in the spring of , colonel burton, mr. du pre and the lads set out for schinznach, in switzerland, to drink the waters; and then the family returned to england in order that richard and edward might have a university education. their father, although not quite certain as to their future, thought they were most adapted for holy orders. their deportment was perfect, the ladies admired them, and their worst enemies, it seems, had never accused them of being "unorthodox in their views." indeed, mrs. burton already pictured them mitred and croziered. for a few weeks the budding bishops stayed with "grandmama baker," who with "aunt sarah" and "aunt georgiana," and aunt sarah's daughters, sarah and elisa, was summering at hampstead; and filled up the time, which hung heavy on their hands, with gambling, drinking and love-making. chapter ii. october -april , oxford . trinity college, october . edward was then placed under a clergyman at cambridge--the rev. mr. havergal, whose name, to that gentleman's indignation, the brothers turned into "a peculiar form of ridicule." [ ] richard was to go to trinity college, oxford. neither, as we have seen, had been suitably prepared for a university career. richard, who could speak fluently french, italian, and modern greek, did not know the apostles' creed, and what was even more unusual in a prospective clergyman, had never heard of the thirty-nine articles. he was struck with the architecture of the colleges, and much surprised at the meanness of the houses that surrounded them. he heretically calls the isis 'a mere moat,' the cherwell 'a ditch.' the brilliant dare-devil from italy despised alike the raw, limitary, reputable, priggish undergraduates and the dull, snuffling, smug-looking, fussy dons. the torpor of academic dulness, indeed, was as irksome to burton at oxford as it had been to fitzgerald and tennyson at cambridge. after a little coaching from dr. ogle and dr. william alexander greenhill [ ], he in october , entered trinity, where he has installed in "a couple of frowsy dog-holes" overlooking the garden of old dr. jenkins, the master of balliol. "my reception at college," says burton, "was not pleasant. i had grown a splendid moustache, which was the envy of all the boys abroad, and which all the advice of drs. ogle and greenhill failed to make me remove. i declined to be shaved until formal orders were issued by the authorities of the college. for i had already formed strong ideas upon the shaven age of england, when her history, with some brilliant exceptions, such as marlborough, wellington and nelson, was at its meanest." an undergraduate who laughed at him he challenged to fight a duel; and when he was reminded that oxford "men" like to visit freshmen's rooms and play practical jokes, he stirred his fire, heated his poker red hot, and waited impatiently for callers. "the college teaching for which one was obliged to pay," says burton, "was of the most worthless description. two hours a day were regularly wasted, and those who read for honours were obliged to choose and pay a private coach." another grievance was the constant bell ringing, there being so many churches and so many services both on week days and sundays. later, however, he discovered that it is possible to study, even at oxford, if you plug your ears with cotton-wool soaked in glycerine. he spent his first months, not in studying, but in rowing, fencing, shooting the college rooks, and breaking the rules generally. many of his pranks were at the expense of dr. jenkins, for whose sturdy common sense, however, he had sincere respect; and long after, in his vikram and the vampire, in which he satirises the tutors and gerund-grinders of oxford, he paid him a compliment. [ ] although he could not speak highly of the dons and undergraduates, he was forced to admit that in one respect the university out-distanced all other seats of learning. it produced a breed of bull-terriers of renowned pedigree which for their "beautiful build" were a joy to think about and a delirium to contemplate; and of one of these pugnacious brutes he soon became the proud possessor. that he got drunk himself and made his fellow collegians drunk he mentions quite casually, just as he mentions his other preparations for holy orders. if he walked out with his bull-terrier, it was generally to bagley wood, where a pretty, dizened gipsy girl named selina told fortunes; and henceforward he took a keen interest in selina's race. he spent most of his time, however, in the fencing saloons of an italian named angelo and a scotchman named maclaren; and it was at maclaren's he first met alfred bates richards, who became a life friend. richards, an undergraduate of exeter, was a man of splendid physique. a giant in height and strength, he defeated all antagonists at boxing, but burton mastered him with the foil and the broad-sword. richards, who, like burton, became a voluminous author [ ] wrote long after, "i am sure, though burton was brilliant, rather wild, and very popular, none of us foresaw his future greatness." another oxford friend of burton's was tom hughes, author of tom brown's schooldays; the man who, in burton's phrase, "taught boys not to be ashamed of being called good," [ ] and he always revered the memory of his tutor, the rev. thomas short. [ ] burton naturally made enemies as well as friends, but the most bitter was that imaginary person, mrs. grundy. this lady, whom he always pictured as an exceedingly stout and square-looking body with capacious skirts, and a look of austere piety, had, he tells us, "just begun to reign" when he was at oxford, although forty years had elapsed since she first made her bow [ ], and set everybody asking, "what will mrs. grundy say?" mrs. grundy had a great deal to say against richard burton, and, life through, he took a peculiar delight in affronting her. the good soul disapproved of burton's "foreign ways" and his "expressed dislike to school and college life," she disapproved of much that he did in his prime, and when he came to translate the arabian nights she set up, and not without justification, a scream that is heard even to this day and in the remotest corners of the kingdom. if richard was miserable at oxford, edward was equally so at cambridge. after the polish and politeness of italy, where they had been "such tremendous dandies and ladies' men," the "boorishness and shoppiness," of oxford and cambridge were well-nigh unendurable. seizing an early opportunity, richard ran over to cambridge to visit his brother. "what is the matter, edward," enquired richard. "why so downcast?" "oh, dick," moaned edward, "i have fallen among epiciers. [ ]" . expelled, april . the dull life at oxford was varied by the occasional visit of a mesmeric lecturer; and one youth caused peals of canorous laughter by walking round in a pretended mesmeric sleep and kissing the pretty daughters of the dons. the only preacher burton would listen to was newman, then vicar of st. mary's; of pusey's interminable and prosy harangues he could not bear even to think. although unable to bend himself to the drudgery of oxford, burton was already forming vast ambitions. he longed to excel as a linguist, and particularly in oriental languages. hence he began to teach himself arabic; and got a little assistance from the spanish scholar don pascual de gayangos. when he asked the regius professor of arabic to teach him, he was rebuffed with the information that it was the duty of a professor to teach a class, not an individual. he spent the vacation with his grandmother baker in great cumberland place, and he and his brother amused themselves about town with other roisterers, chiefly in gambling. returned to oxford he applied sedulously to the acquisition of foreign languages. he says, "i got a simple grammar and vocabulary, marked out the forms and words which i knew were absolutely necessary, and learnt them by heart.... i never worked more than a quarter of an hour at a time, for after that the brain lost its freshness. after learning some three hundred words, easily done in a week, i stumbled through some easy book-work and underlined every word that i wished to recollect.... having finished my volume, i then carefully worked up the grammar minutiae, and i then chose some other book whose subject most interested me. the neck of the language was now broken, and progress was rapid. if i came across a new sound, like the arabic ghayn, i trained my tongue to it by repeating it so many thousand times a day. when i read, i invariably read out loud, so that the ear might aid memory. i was delighted with the most difficult characters, chinese and cuneiform, because i felt that they impressed themselves more strongly upon the eye than the eternal roman letters." [ ] such remarks from the man who became the first linguist of his day are well worth remembering. for pronouncing latin words the "roman way" he was ridiculed, but he lived long enough to see this pronunciation adopted in all our schools. the long vacation of was spent at wiesbaden with his father and mother. here again the chief delights of richard and his brother were gambling and fencing; and when tired of wiesbaden they wandered about the country, visiting among other places heidelberg and mannheim. once more richard importuned his father to let him leave oxford and enter the army, but colonel burton, who still considered his son peculiarly fitted for the church, was not to be moved. upon his return to england, however, burton resolved to take the matter into his own hands. he laid his plans, and presently--in april --an opportunity offered. the oxford races of that year were being looked forward to with exceptional interest because of the anticipated presence of a noted steeplechaser named oliver, but at the last moment the college authorities forbade the undergraduates to attend them. burton, however, and some other lawless spirits resolved to go all the same, and a tandem conveyed them from the rear of worcester college to the race meeting. next morning the culprits were brought before the college dignitaries; but the dons having lectured burton, he began lecturing them--concluding with the observation that young men ought not to be treated like children. as a consequence, while the other offenders were merely rusticated, burton was expelled. [ ] he made a ceremonious bow, and retired "stung with a sense of injustice," though where the injustice comes in, it is difficult to see. his departure from oxford was characteristic. he and anderson of oriel, one of the other offenders, hired a tandem in which they placed their luggage, and then with "a cantering leader and a high-trotting shaft horse" they rode through the high street, and so on to london, burton artistically performing upon a yard of tin trumpet, waving adieux to his friends and kissing his hands to the shop girls. about the same time edward, also for insubordination, had to leave cambridge. thus burton got his own way, but he long afterwards told his sister, lady stisted, that beneath all his bravado there lay a deep sense of regret that such a course had been necessary. chapter iii. april - th february , sind . to bombay, th june . on his arrival in london, burton, in order to have an hour or two of peace, coolly told his people that he had been given an extra vacation, "as a reward for winning a double first." then occurred a quite un-looked-for sequel. his father insisted on giving a dinner in honour of the success, and burton, unwillingly enough, became the hero of the moment. at table, however, a remark from one of the guests revealed the precise truth--with the result of an unpleasant scene; but eventually it was deemed advisable to let burton have his own way and exchange the surplice for the sword. the indian service having been selected, a commission was purchased for £ , and burton presently found himself ensign to the th regiment, bombay native infantry. delirious with joy, he applied himself vigorously to hindustani under a dirty, smoky scotch linguist, named duncan forbes. while thus employed he made the acquaintance of two persons who just them enjoyed a remarkable reputation, namely john varley [ ], the water colour painter and occultist, and the rev. robert montgomery. [ ] an artist of undoubted genius, varley usually got fair prices for his pictures, but the expenses of a numerous family kept him miserably poor. then he took to "judicial astrology," and eventually made it a kind of second profession. curious to say, some of his predictions came true, and thanks to this freak of fate he obtained more fame from his horoscopes than from his canvasses. he "prognosticated," says burton, "that i was to become a great astrologer." straightway burton buried himself in astrological and cabalistic books [ ], studied the uncanny arts, and became learned in "dark spells and devilish enginery," but his own prophecies generally proved to be of the moseilima type; that is to say, the opposite invariably happened--a fatality that pursued him to the end of life. the rev. robert montgomery, with whom also he became acquainted, was the fashionable preacher and author whom macaulay cudgelled so pitilessly in the edinburgh review. burton's aunts, sarah and georgiana, [ ] who went with the crowd to his chapel, ranked the author of "satan, a poem," rather above shakespeare, and probably few men have received higher encomiums or a greater number of wool-work slippers. having been sworn in at the east india house, burton went down to greenwich, whence on th june, , after being "duly wept over," he, in company with his beautifully built bull-terrier of renowned pedigree, set sail for bombay. he divided his time during the voyage, which lasted four months, between studying hindustani and taking part in the quarrels of the crew. this was the year of the murder of sir william macnaughten by the afghans and the disastrous retreat of the british from cabul; consequently the first request of the voyagers on reaching bombay ( th october ) was for news about afghanistan. they learnt that the prestige of the british arms had been restored by pollack, and that the campaign was ended. to burton, who had counted on being sent to the front, this was a burning disappointment. he found bombay marvellously picturesque, with its crowds of people from all parts of the world, but before many days had passed he fell ill and had to be transferred to the sanitarium, where he made the acquaintance of an old parsee priest who assisted him in his hindustani. even in these early days we find him collecting material of the kind that was to be utilised in his arabian nights. he was struck, for example, with the fine hedges of henna whose powerful and distinctive odour loaded the atmosphere; and with the immense numbers of ravenous kites and grey-headed crows that swooped down on dead and even dying animals. . baroda. the bubu. after six weeks' rest, having received orders to join his regiment, which was then stationed at baroda, he engaged some goanese servants and made the voyage thither in a small vessel called a pattymar. it took them four days to march from the tankaria-bunder mudbank, where they landed, to baroda; and burton thus graphically describes the scenery through which they passed. "the ground, rich black earth... was covered with vivid, leek-like, verdigris green. the little villages, with their leafy huts, were surrounded and protected by hedge milk bush, the colour of emeralds. a light veil, as of damascene silver, hung over each settlement, and the magnificent trees were tipped by peacocks screaming their good-night to the son." the sharp bark of the monkey mingled with the bray of the conch. arrived at baroda, he lodged himself in a bungalow, and spent his time alternately there with his books and on the drill ground. he threw himself into his studies with an ardour scarcely credible--devoting twelve hours a day to hindustani, and outwearying two munshis. at that time it was quite the custom for the officers, married as well as single, to form irregular unions with the hindu women. every individual had his bubu; consequently half-caste children were not uncommon; but burton was of opinion that this manner of life had advantages as well as disadvantages. it connected, he says, "the white stranger with the country and its people, gave him an interest in their manners and customs, and taught him thoroughly well their language." like the rest, burton had his bubu. still, he was no voluptuary. towering ambition, enthusiasm, and passion for hard work trampled down all meaner instincts. languages, not amours, were his aspiration, and his mind ran on grammar books rather than ghazels; though he confesses to having given whole days and nights to the tender pages of euclid. indeed, he was of a cold nature, and plutarch's remark about alexander applies equally to him: "for though otherwise he was very hot and hasty, yet was he hardly moved with lust or pleasure of the body." when the officers were not on the drill ground or philandering with their dusky loves, they amused themselves shooting the black buck, tigers, and the countless birds with which the neighbourhood abounded. the dances of the aphish-looking nautch girls, dressed though they were in magnificent brocades, gave burton disgust rather than pleasure. the gaikwar, whose state processions were gorgeous to a wonder, occasionally inaugurated spectacles like those of the old roman arena, and we hear of fights between various wild animals. "cocking" was universal, and burton, who as a lad had patronised this cruel sport, himself kept a fighter--"bhujang"--of which he speaks affectionately, as one might of an only child. the account of the great fight between bhujang and the fancy of a certain mr. ahmed khan, which took place one evening "after prayers," may be read by those who have a taste for such matters in burton's book sind revisited. [ ] when bhujang died, burton gave it almost christian burial near his bungalow, and the facetious enquired whether the little mound was not "a baby's grave." his hero was the eagle-faced little veteran and despot, sir charles napier, generally known from his jewish look as "fagin," and from his irascibility as "the devil's brother," and after the war with sind, the chief event of which was the battle of meeanee (february st), where sir charles and major outram defeated the ameer, his admiration grew almost to worship; though he did not actually see his hero till some months later. according to punch the news of the battle was transmitted to headquarters in one word: "peccavi." a quarrel then broke out between the great english leaders, and western india was divided into the two opposing camps of outramists and napierists, burton, of course, siding with the latter. in april, burton returned to bombay to present himself for examination in hindustani, and having passed with honour [ ] he returned to baroda, where he experienced all the inconveniences attendant on the south-west monsoon. the rain fell in cataracts. night and day he lay or sat in a wet skin; the air was alive with ants and other winged horrors, which settled on both food and drink, while the dust storms were so dense that candles had to be burned in mid-day. however he applied himself vigorously to gujarati [ ], the language of the country, and also took lessons in sanskrit. "i soon," he says, "became as well acquainted as a stranger can with the practice of hinduism. i carefully read up ward, moor, and the publications of the asiatic society... and eventually my hindu teacher officially allowed me to wear the brahminical thread." he learnt some of the hindu text books by heart, including the tota-kahani [ ], which gave him a taste for "parrot books," [ ] on which he became an authority; while the study of the baital-pachisi led to his writing vikram and the vampire. [ ] all this application caused his fellow officers to call him "the white nigger." although, in after years, burton often made bitter attacks on christianity, and wrote most scathingly against the roman catholic priesthood, and the cenobitic life of the monks, yet at times he had certain sympathies with roman catholicism. thus at baroda, instead of attending the services of the garrison chaplain, he sat under the pleasant goanese priest who preached to the camp servants; but he did not call himself a catholic. in august he visited bombay to be examined in gujarati; and having passed with distinction, he once more returned to baroda--just in time to join in the farewell revels of his regiment, which was ordered to sind. . karachi. love of disguise. on board the semiramis, in which the voyage was performed, he made the acquaintance of captain scott, nephew of the novelist--a handsome man "with yellow hair and beard," and friendship followed. both were fond of ancient history and romance, and burton, who could speak italian fluently and had knowledge of the canalization of the po valley, was able to render scott, whose business was the surveyal of sind, the precise assistance he just then required. burton also formed a friendship with dr. john steinhauser, afterwards surgeon at aden. then, too, it was at karachi that he first saw his hero, sir charles napier. though his ferocious temper repelled some, and his rabelaisisms and kindred witticisms others, sir charles won the admiration and esteem of almost all who knew him. it was from him, to some extent, that burton acquired the taste, afterwards so extraordinarily developed for erotic, esoteric and other curious knowledge. napier intensely hated the east india company, as the champions of his detested rival, major outram, and customarily spoke of them contemptuously as the "twenty-four kings of leadenhall street," while burton on his part felt little respect for the effete and maundering body whose uniform he wore and whose pay he drew. karachi [ ], then not much better than a big village, was surrounded by walls which were perforated with "nostril holes," for pouring boiling water through in times of siege. there were narrow lanes, but no streets--the only open place being a miserable bazaar; while owing to the absence of sewers the stench was at times unendurable. near the town was a great shallow artificial pond which abounded in huge sleepy crocodiles, sacred animals which were tended by a holy fakir, and one of burton's amusements was to worry these creatures with his bull terrier. tired of that pastime, he would muzzle a crocodile by means of a fowl fastened to a hook at the end of a rope, and then jump on to its back and take a zig-zag ride. [ ] the feat of his friend, lieutenant beresford, of the th, however, was more daring even than that. here and there in the pond were islets of rank grass, and one day noticing that the crocodiles and islets made a line across the pond, he took a run and hopped from one crocodile's back on to another or an islet until he reached the opposite side, though many a pair of huge jaws snapped angrily as he passed. burton presently found himself gazetted as captain scott's assistant; and having learnt the use of the theodolite and the spirit level, he went on december th ( ) with a surveying party to hyderbad [ ] and the guni river. the work was trying, but he varied it with hawking; and collected material for a work which he published eight years later with the title of falconry in the valley of the indus. he then made the acquaintance of three natives, all of whom assisted him in his linguistic studies, mirza ali akhbar [ ], mirza daud, and mirza mohammed musayn. helped by the last he opened covertly at karachi several shops with the object, however, not of making profit, but of obtaining intimate knowledge of the people and their secret customs. then he put on long hair and a venerable beard, stained his limbs with henna, and called himself abdullah of bushire, a half-arab. in this disguise, with spear in hand and pistols in holsters, he travelled the country with a little pack of nick-knacks. in order to display his stock he boldly entered private houses, for he found that if the master wanted to eject him, the mistress would be sure to oppose such a measure. all his life he loved to disguise himself. we shall see him later as a greek doctor, a pathan hakim, and an arab shaykh. his shops had plenty of customers, for he was in the habit of giving the ladies, especially if they were pretty, "the heaviest possible weight for their money," though sometimes he would charge too much in order to induce them to chaffer with him. he learnt most, however, from the garrulity of a decayed beauty named khanum jan, who in her springtide had married a handsome tailor. her husband having lost the graces of his person, she generally alluded to him affectionately as "that old hyena." this couple proved a golconda for information. burton had not long studied these and other persons before coming to the conclusion that the eastern mind is always in extremes, that it ignores what is meant by the "golden mean," and that it delights to range in flights limited only by the ne plus ultra of nature herself. he picked up miscellaneous information about magic, white and black, yoga [ ], local manners and customs such as circumcision, both female and male, and other subjects, all of which he utilised when he came to write his notes and terminal essay to the arabian nights, particularly the articles on al islam and woman. then, too, when at bombay and other large towns he used to ransack the bazaars for rare books and manuscripts, whether ancient or contemporaneous. still, the most valuable portion of his knowledge was acquired orally. . a dangerous mission, . about this time it was reported to sir charles napier that karachi, though a town of only , souls, supported no fewer than three houses which were devoted to a particular and unspeakable vice [ ] which is said to be common in the east. sir charles, whose custom it was to worm out the truth respecting anything and everything, at once looked round for someone willing to make enquiries and to report upon the subject. burton being then the only british officer who could speak sindi, the choice naturally fell upon him, and he undertook the task, only, however, on the express condition that his report should not be forwarded to the bombay government, from whom supporters of napier's policy "could expect scant favour, mercy, or justice." accompanied by his munshi, mirza mohammed hosayn shiraz, and disguised as a merchant, burton passed many evenings in the town, made the required visits, and obtained the fullest details, which were duly dispatched to government house. but in , when napier quitted sind "he left in his office burton's unfortunate official." "this," says burton, "found its way with sundry other reports to bombay, and produced the expected result. a friend in the secretariat informed me that my summary dismissal had been formally proposed by one of sir charles napier's successors, but this excess of outraged modesty was not allowed." [ ] a little later, however, burton had to suffer very severely for this unfortunate occurrence. of course he heard regularly from home. his father was still immersed in blow-pipes and retorts, his mother still mildly protesting. his sister, who had won to herself for her loveliness the name of "the moss rose," was married to general sir henry stisted [ ], his brother edward was practising as an army doctor; his grandmother baker was dead. [ ] . the persian beauty. during one of his rambles he formed the acquaintance of a beautiful olive, oval-faced persian girl of high descent. we are told that her "eyes were narcissi, her cheeks sweet basil," her personal charms together with her siren voice and sweet disposition caused him to fall in love with her; but he had scarcely learnt that his passion was reciprocated before she died. we are told also that for many years he could never think of her without pain; and that when, some time after, he narrated the story to his sister he revealed considerable emotion. miss stisted thought she could see references to this episode in burton's poem the kasidah, portions of which were written some three years later: "mine eyes, my brain, my heart are sad--sad is the very core of me." this may be so, but the birth of a litter of pups, presented to him by his beloved bull terrier, seems to have taken the edge off his grief; and his tribute to one of these pups, which received the name of bachhun, is really affecting. the "acting commissioner" of the time was general jacob of the sind horse, who wore a helmet of silver and a sabre-tache studded with diamonds. this, however, was not from pride or love of display, but because he held it policy in those who have to deal with hindus not to neglect show and splendour. "in the eyes of orientals," he used to remark, and burton endorsed the saying, "no man is great unless he is also superbly dressed." as jacob stuttered, one of his correspondents thought his name was j. j. j. j. j. jacob, and terribly offended the testy general by writing it so. a brave and self-confident, but rancorous old man, jacob by his senseless regulations brought the indian army to the verge of ruin. this peccadillo was passed over, but a more serious offence, his inability to play whist, was remembered against him by his brother officers right to the day of his death. [ ] . a simian dictionary. when the sikh war broke out burton resigned his post under scott in order to take part in the campaign in the punjab, but peace being proclaimed a few weeks later, after the battle of sobraon, burton had no opportunities of distinguishing himself. so he returned to his studies, and now became ambitious to understand not only the people but also the monkeys of india. consequently he collected some forty of them, made them live and eat after the manner of humans; and studies them as they mowed and gibbered. he would then talk to them and pronounce the sounds they made, until at last they could conduct quite a conversation together. burton never divulged this talk, which, of course, may have been of a confidential nature, but he compiled a simian dictionary, and thus to some extent anticipated the work of mr. r. l. garner. unfortunately the dictionary was some years later destroyed by fire. . duality. we shall often notice in burton's life what burton himself called his dual nature. in the tale of janshah in the arabian nights we read of a race of split men who separated longitudinally, each half hopping about contentedly on its own account, and reuniting with its fellow at pleasure. if burton in a pre-existent state--and he half believed in the pre-existence of souls--belonged to this race, and one of his halves became accidentally united to one of the halves of somebody else, the condition of affairs would be explicable. in any circumstances, he was always insisting on his duality. for example--a kind-hearted man, who detested cruelty to animals, nevertheless he delighted, as we have seen, in the sport of cocking; an ambitious man, who wore himself out with his studies yet he neutralised all his efforts to rise by giving way to an ungovernable temper. he would say just what he thought, and no man could have exhibited less tact. thus he managed to give offence, and quite unnecessarily, to his superior officer, colonel henry corsellis, and they were henceforth at handgrips. among his favourite books was jami's beharistan. the only pity is that he did not take the advice proffered in the third garden: "if alexander's realm you want, to work adroitly go, make friends more friendly still, and make a friend of every foe." other instances of opposing qualities will be noticed as this work proceeds. late in life, when he took to glasses, burton used to say "my duality is proved by my eyes alone. my right eye requires a no. convex lens, my left a no. ." his assiduous application to his studies now brought about an illness, and, having returned to bombay, he obtained two years' leave of absence to the salubrious neilgherries. chapter iv. th february - . under the spell of camoens bibliography: . grammar of the jataki dialect, . . remarks on dr. dorn's chrestomathy of the afghan tongue, . . reports on sind addressed to the bombay government. . grammar of the mooltanee language. . goa and camoens. he left goa on th february , taking as usual a pattymar, his mind vibrant with thoughts of his great hero, the "portingall" camoens, with whose noble epic all western india, from narsinga and diu to calicut is intimately associated. passages from camoens were frequently in his mouth, and in bitterest moments, in the times of profoundest defection, he could always find relief in the pages of him whom he reverently calls "my master." later in life he could see a parallel between the thorny and chequered career of camoens and his own. each spent his early manhood on the west coast of india [ ], each did his country an incalculable service: camoens by enriching portugal with the lusiads, burton by his travels and by presenting to england vast stores of oriental lore. each received insult and ill-treatment, camoens by imprisonment at goa, burton by the recall from damascus. there was also a temperamental likeness between the two men. the passion for travel, the love of poetry and adventure, the daring, the patriotism of camoens all find their counterpart in his most painstaking english translator. arrived at panjim, burton obtained lodgings and then set out by moonlight in a canoe for old goa. the ruins of churches and monasteries fascinated him, but he grieved to find the once populous and opulent capital of portuguese india absolutely a city of the dead. the historicity of the tale of julnar the sea born and her son king badr [ ] seemed established, queen lab and her forbidding escort might have appeared at any moment. on all sides were bowing walls and tenantless houses. poisonous plants covered the site of the viceregal palace, and monster bats hung by their heels at the corners of tombs. thoughts of camoens continued to impinge on his mind, and in imagination he saw his hero dungeoned and laid in iron writing his lusiads. a visit to the tomb of st. francis xavier also deeply moved him. to pathos succeeded comedy. there was in panjim an institution called the caza da misericordia, where young ladies, for the most part orphans, remained until they received suitable offers of marriage the description of this place piqued burton's curiosity, and hearing that it was not unusual for persons to propose themselves as suitors with a view to inspecting the curiosities of the establishment, he and some companions repaired to the caza. having seen the chapel and the other sights he mentioned that he wanted a wife. a very inquisitive duenna cross-examined him, and then he was allowed to interview one of the young ladies through a grating, while several persons, who refused to understand that they were not wanted, stood listening. burton at once perceived that it would be an exhausting ordeal to make love in such circumstances, but he resolved to try, and a dialogue commenced as follows: "should you like to be married, senorita?" "yes, very much, senor." "and why, if you would satisfy my curiosity?" "i don't know." the rest of the conversation proved equally wooden and unsatisfactory, and quotations from poets were also wasted. "the maid, unused to flowers of eloquence, smiled at the words, but could not guess their sense." burton then informed the duenna that he thought he could get on better if he were allowed to go on the other side of the grating, and be left alone with the demure senorita. but at that the old lady suddenly became majestic. she informed him that before he could be admitted to so marked a privilege he would have to address an official letter to the mesa or board explaining his intentions, and requesting the desired permission. so burton politely tendered his thanks, "scraped the ground thrice," departed with gravity, and in ten minutes forgot all about the belle behind the grille. it was while at panhim, that, dissatisfied with the versions of camoens by strangford [ ], mickle and others, burton commenced a translation of his own, but it did not reach the press for thirty-three years. [ ] we next find him at panany, whence he proceeded to ootacamund, the sanitarium on the neilgherries, where he devoted himself to the acquisition of telugu, toda, persian and arabic, though often interrupted by attacks of ophthalmia. while he was thus engaged, sir charles napier returned to england ( ) [ ] and sind was placed under the bombay government "at that time the very sink of iniquity." [ ] in september burton visited calicut--the city above all others associated with camoens, and here he had the pleasure of studying on the spot the scenes connected with the momentous landing of da gama as described in the seventh and most famous book of the lusiads. in imagination, like da gama and his brave "portingalls," he greeted the moor monzaida, interviewed the zamorim, and circumvented the sinister designs of the sordid catual; while his followers trafficked for strange webs and odoriferous gums. on his return to bombay, reached on october th, burton offered himself for examination in persian, and gaining the first place, was presented by the court of directors with a thousand rupees. in the meantime his brother edward, now more greek-looking than ever, had risen to be surgeon-major, and had proceeded to ceylon, where he was quartered with his regiment, the th. . "would you a sufi be?" upon his return to sind, burton at first applied himself sedulously to sindi, and then, having conceived the idea of visiting mecca, studied moslem divinity, learnt much of the koran by heart and made himself a "proficient at prayer." it would be unjust to regard this as mere acting. truth to say, he was gradually becoming disillusioned. he was finding out in youth, or rather in early manhood, what it took koheleth a lifetime to discover, namely, that "all is vanity." this being the state of his mind it is not surprising that he drifted into sufism. he fasted, complied with the rules and performed all the exercises conscientiously. the idea of the height which he strove to attain, and the steps by which he mounted towards it, may be fathered from the sufic poet jami. health, says jami, is the best relish. a worshipper will never realise the pure love of the lord unless he despises the whole world. dalliance with women is a kind of mental derangement. days are like pages in the book of life. you must record upon them only the best acts and memories. "would you a sufi be, you must subdue your passions; banish lust and anger; be of none afraid, a hundred wounds take undismayed." [ ] in time, by dint of plain living, high thinking, and stifling generally the impulses of his nature, burton became a master sufi, and all his life he sympathised with, and to some extent practised sufism. being prevented by the weakness of his eyes from continuing his survey work, he made a number of reports of the country and its people, which eventually drifted into print. then came the stirring news that another campaign was imminent in mooltan, his heart leaped with joy, and he begged to be allowed to accompany the force as interpreter. as he had passed examinations in six native languages and had studied others nobody was better qualified for the post or seemed to be more likely to get it. . letter to sarah burton, th nov. . it was while his fate thus hung in the balance that he wrote to his cousin sarah [ ] daughter of dr. francis burton, who had just lost her mother. [ ] his letter, which is headed karachi, th november , runs as follows:--"my dear cousin, i lose no time in replying to your note which conveyed to me the mournful tidings of our mutual loss. the letter took me quite by surprise. i was aware of my poor aunt's health having suffered, but never imagined that it was her last illness. you may be certain that i join with you in lamenting the event. your mother had always been one of my best relations and kindest friends; indeed she was the only one with whom i kept up a constant correspondence during the last six years. i have every reason to regret her loss; and you, of course, much more. your kind letter contained much matter of a consolatory nature; it was a melancholy satisfaction to hear that my excellent aunt's death-bed was such a peaceful one--a fit conclusion to so good and useful a life as hers was. you, too, must derive no small happiness from the reflection that both you and your sister [ ] have always been dutiful daughters, and as such have contributed so much towards your departed mother's felicity in this life. in my father's last letter from italy he alludes to the sad event, but wishes me not to mention it to my mother, adding that he has fears for her mind if it be abruptly alluded to. "at the distance of some , [ ] miles all we can do is resign ourselves to calamities, and i confess to you that judging from the number of losses that our family has sustained during the last six years i fear that when able to return home i shall find no place capable of bearing that name. i hope, however, dear cousin, that you or your sister will occasionally send me a line, informing me of your plans and movements, as i shall never leave to take the greatest interest in your proceedings. you may be certain that i shall never neglect to answer your letters and shall always look forward to them with the greatest pleasure. stisted [ ] is not yet out: his regiment is at belgaum [ ], but i shall do my best to see him as soon as possible. edward [ ] is still in ceylon and the war [ ] has ceased there. i keep this letter open for ten or twelve days longer, as that time will decide my fate. a furious affair has broken out in mooltan and the punjaub and i have applied to the general commanding to go up with him on his personal staff. a few days more will decide the business--and i am not a little anxious about it, for though still suffering a little from my old complaint--ophthalmia--yet these opportunities are too far between to be lost." unfortunately for burton, his official respecting his investigations at karachi in was produced against him [ ], and he was passed over [ ] in favour of a man who knew but one language besides english. his theory that the most strenuous exertions lead to the most conspicuous successes now thoroughly broke down, and the scarlet and gold of his life, which had already become dulled, gave place to the "blackness of darkness." it was in the midst of this gloom and dejection that he wrote the postscript which he had promised to his cousin sarah. the date is th november, . he says, "i am not going up to the siege of mooltan, as the general with whom i had expected to be sent is recalled. pray be kind enough to send on the enclosed to my father. i was afraid to direct it to him in italy as it contains papers of some importance. you are welcome to the perusal, if you think it worth the trouble. i have also put in a short note for aunt georgiana. kindly give my best love to your sister, and believe me, my dear cousin, your most affectionate r. burton." chagrin and anger, combined with his old trouble, ophthalmia, had by this time sapped burton's strength, a serious illness followed, and the world lost all interest for him. . allahdad. he returned to bombay a complete wreck, with shrunken, tottering frame, sunken eyes, and a voice that had lost its sonority. "it is written," said his friends, "that your days are numbered, take our advice and go home to die." they carried him to his ship, "the elisa," and as there seemed little hope of his reaching england, he at once wrote a farewell letter to his mother. with him as servant, however, he had brought away a morose but attentive and good-hearted native named allahdad, and thanks in part to allahdad's good nursing, and in part to the bland and health-giving breezes of the ocean, he gradually regained his former health, strength, and vitality. at the time he regarded these seven years spent in sind as simply seven years wasted, and certainly his rewards were incommensurate with his exertions. still, it was in sind that the future became written on his forehead; in sind that he began to collect that mass of amazing material which made possible his edition of the arabian nights. chapter v. to rd april, , chiefly boulogne bibliography: . goa and the blue mountains, . . scinde; or the unhappy valley, vols., . . sindh, and the races that inhabit the valley of the indus, . . falconry in the valley of the indus, . . commencement with dr. steinhauser of the arabian nights, . . a complete system of bayonet exercise, . . a motto from ariosto. when "the elisa" approached plymouth, with its "turfy hills, wooded parks and pretty seats," allahdad opened his eyes in wonderment. "what manner of men must you english be," he said, "to leave such a paradise and travel to such a pandemonium as ours without compulsion?" on arriving in london, burton called on his aunt georgiana, [ ] flirted with his pretty cousins sarah and elisa, attended to business of various kinds, and then, in company with allahdad, set out for italy to see his father and mother, who were still wandering aimlessly about europe, and inhaling now the breath of vineyard and garden and now the odours of the laboratory. he found them, his sister, and her two little daughters, georgiana and maria (minnie) at pisa, and the meeting was a very happy one. burton's deep affection for his parents, his sister and his brother, is forced upon our notice at every turn; and later he came to regard his nieces just as tenderly. quoting coleridge, he used to say: "to be beloved is all i need, and whom i love i love indeed." [ ] if burton was thus drawn to those nearest of kin to him, so also his warm heart welled with affection for his friends, and for those who did him kindnesses. "if you value a man or his work," he said, "don't conceal your feelings." the warmth of his affection for his friends drake, arbuthnot, and others, will be noticed as this book proceeds. on one occasion, after a spontaneous outburst of appreciation, he said in palliation of his enthusiasm, "pardon me, but this is an asthenic age--and true-hearted men are rare." presently we find him revisiting some of his old haunts. in his youth he had explored italy almost from end to end; but the literary associations of the various towns were their principal charm. to him, verona stood for catullus, brindisi for virgil, sorrento for tasso, florence for "the all etruscan three," [ ] dante, petrarch, and boccaccio, reggio and ferrara for ariosto. it was from ariosto, perhaps through camoens, who adopted it, that he took his life motto, "honour, not honours"-- "'tis honour, lovely lady, that calls me to the field, and not a painted eagle upon a painted shield." [ ] all the burton servants obtained some knowledge of italian, even allahdad being soon able to swear fluently in it, and his aptitude, joined to a quarrelsome temper and an illogical prejudice against all italians, caused innumerable broils. by and by the family returned to england and miss stisted thus describes the progress: "one of the earliest pictures in my memory is of a travelling carriage crossing snow-covered alps. a carriage containing my mother and uncle, sister and self, and english maid, and a romantic but surly asiatic named allahdad. richard burton, handsome, tall and broad-shouldered, was oftener outside the carriage than in it, as the noise made by his two small nieces rendered pedestrian exercise, even in the snow, an agreeable and almost necessary variety." now and then he gave them bits of snow to taste, which they hoped might be sugar. [ ] on reaching england he sent allahdad back to bombay. much of the year was spent at leamington and dover, and in , burton, accompanied by his brother edward, crossed to boulogne, where he prepared for publication his books, goa, scinde, falconry in the valley of the indus, and bayonet exercise. love of a sort mingled with literature, for he continued various flirtations, but without any thought of marriage; for he was still only a lieutenant in the service of john company, and his prospects were not rosy. we said "love of a sort," and advisedly, for we cannot bring ourselves to believe that burton was ever frenziedly in love with any woman. he was, to use his own expression, no "hot amortist." of his views on polygamy, to which he had distinct leanings, we shall speak later. he said he required two, and only two qualities in a woman, namely beauty and affection. it was the eastern idea. the hindu angelina might be vacuous, vain, papilionaceous, silly, or even a mere doll, but if her hair hung down "like the tail of a tartary cow," [ ] if her eyes were "like the stones of unripe mangoes," and her nose resembled the beak of a parrot, the hindu edwin was more than satisfied. dr. johnson's "unidead girl" would have done as well as the blue-stocking tawaddud. [ ] . isabel arundell & "my dear louisa." . it was during burton's stay at boulogne that he saw the handsome girl who ten years later became his wife--isabel, daughter of mr. henry raymond arundell. she was the eldest of a very large family. just twenty, fair, "with yards of golden hair," dark blue eyes and a queenly manner, isabel arundell everywhere attracted attention. no portrait, it was said, ever did justice to her virginal beauty. "when she was in any company you could look at no one else," the charm of her manner exceeded even the graces of her person, but her education was defective, and she was amusingly superstitious. she could be heard saying at every turn: "this is a good omen; that a bad one; oh, shocking! the spoons are crossed; by the pricking of my thumbs something wicked this way comes." though not themselves wealthy, the arundells were of noble lineage, and had rich and influential relations who prided themselves on being "old english catholics." among miss arundell's ancestors was henry, th lord arundell of wardour; her grandfather and the th lord were brothers; and her mother was sister to lord gerard. isabel arundell and burton could have conducted their first conversation just as well had they been deaf and dumb. strolling on the ramparts he noticed a bevy of handsome girls, one of whom, owing to her exceptional looks, particularly fired him, and having managed to attract her attention, he chalked on a wall, "may i speak to you," and left the piece of chalk at the end of the sentence. she took it up and wrote under it, "no, mother will be angry." she had, however, long pictured to herself an ideal husband, and on seeing burton, she exclaimed under her breath: "that is the man!" she describes him as "five feet eleven inches in height, very broad, thin and muscular, with very dark hair, black, clearly defined, sagacious eyebrows, a brown, weather-beaten complexion, straight arab features, a determined-looking mouth and chin, nearly covered by an enormous moustache; two large, black, flashing eyes, with long lashes," and a "fierce, proud, melancholy expression." [ ] in the words of one of his friends, he had the eye of an angel, the jaw of a devil. also staying at boulogne was a young lady for whom burton entertained a sincere affection, and whom he would probably have married but for the poorness of his outlook. "my dear louisa," [ ] as he called her, was a relative of miss arundell, and hearing what had occurred, she did burton and miss arundell the kindness of formally introducing them to each other, miss arundell never tried to attract burton's attention--we have her word for that--but wherever he went she went too; and she never lost an opportunity of accidentally crossing his path. she considered sacred a sash which she wore when dancing with him, and she remembered him specially in her prayers. henceforward, one devouring desire occupied her mind. she wished--and praiseworthily--to be burton's wife. to him, on the other hand, she was but an ephemeral fancy--one of the hundred and fifty women--his fair cousins in england and the softer and darker beauties of france and italy--to whom he had said tender nothings. later, when miss arundell saw him flirting with another girl, a certain "louise" [ ] (not to be confused with "my dear louisa"), she bridled up, coloured to her brow-locks, called "louise" "fast" and louise's mother "vulgar." naturally they would be. [ ] with "myosotis eyes," peachy cheeks and auburn hair, rolling over ivory shoulders [ ], "louise" was progressing admirably, when, unfortunately for her, there came in view a fleshy, vinous matron of elephantine proportions, whom she addressed as "mother." the sight of this caricature of the "thing divine," to use burton's expression, and the thought that to this the "thing divine" would some day come, instantly quenched his fires, and when the mother tried to bring him to a decision, by inquiring his intentions regarding her daughter, he horrified her by replying: "strictly dishonourable, madam." "englishmen," he reflected, "who are restricted to one wife, cannot be too careful." miss arundell was also jealous of "my dear louisa," though unwarrantably, for that lady presently became mrs. segrave; but she and burton long preserved for each other a reminiscitory attachment, and we shall get several more glimpses of her as this book proceeds. [ ] isabel arundell was herself somewhat cheered by the prophecy of a gipsy of her acquaintance--one hagar burton--who with couched eyes and solemn voice not only prognosticated darkly her whole career, but persistently declared that the romance would end in marriage; still, she fretted a good deal, and at last, as persons in love sometimes do, became seriously indisposed. without loss of time her parents called in a skilful physician, who, with his experienced eye, saw at once that it was indigestion, and prescribed accordingly. residing at boulogne in , was a french painter named francois jacquand, who had obtained distinction by his pictures of monks, and "a large historical tableau representing the death chamber of the duc d'orleans." in an oil painting which he made of burton and his sister, and which is here reproduced for the first time, burton appears as a pallid young military man, heavily moustached, with large brown eyes [ ]; and his worn and somewhat melancholy face is a striking contrast to the bright and cheerful looks of his comely sister. our portraits of the misses stisted are also from paintings by jacquand. burton's habit of concealing his ailments which we noticed as a feature of his boyhood was as conspicuous in later life. "on one occasion," says miss stisted, "when seized with inflammation of the bladder, a fact he tried to keep to himself, he continued to joke and laugh as much as usual, and went on with his reading and writing as if little were the matter. at last the agony became too atrocious, and he remarked in a fit of absence 'if i don't get better before night, i shall be an angel.' questions followed, consternation reigned around, and the doctor was instantly summoned." . forster fitzgerald arbuthnot . when burton first became acquainted with forster fitzgerald arbuthnot is uncertain; but by , they were on terms of intimacy. burton was then , arbuthnot . of this enormously important fact in burton's life--his friendship with arbuthnot--no previous writer has said a single word, except lady burton, and she dismisses the matter with a few careless sentences, though admitting that arbuthnot was her husband's most intimate friend. of the strength of the bond that united the two men, and the admiration felt by arbuthnot for burton, she had little idea. f. f. arbuthnot, born in , was second son of sir robert keith arbuthnot and anne, daughter of field-marshal sir john forster fitzgerald, g.c.b. educated at haileybury, he entered in the bombay civil service, and rose subsequently to the important position of "collector." a man of a quiet and amiable disposition, arbuthnot never said an unkind word either to or about anyone. the sweetness and serenity of his manner were commented upon by all his friends; but like so many of your quiet men, he had a determination--a steady heroism, which made everything give way. oppose burton, and you would instantly receive a blow aimed straight from the shoulder, oppose arbuthnot and you would be pushed quietly and amiably aside--but pushed aside nevertheless. a great idea had early possessed him. he wanted to see as much attention paid to the literatures of india, persia and arabia as to those of ancient greece and rome. all the famous books of the east, he said, should be translated into english--even the erotic, and he insisted that if proper precautions were taken so that none but scholars could obtain them, no possible harm could ensue. [ ] "england," he wrote long after ( ), "has greater interests in the east than any other country in europe, and ought to lead the way in keeping the world informed on all subjects connected with oriental literature. surely the time has not arrived for her to take a back seat on that coach, and to let other nations do a work which she ought to do herself." [ ] the expression "on that coach," by the by, was eminently characteristic of a man who plumed himself on being a jehu of jehus. hundreds of invaluable manuscripts written by poets and sages, he said, require to be translated into english, and the need of the day is an oriental translation fund. a man of means, arbuthnot was sometime later to apply his money to the cause he had at heart; and year in, year out, we shall find him and burton striking at the self-same anvil. though there was a considerable difference in their ages, and though thousands of miles often separated them, their minds were ever united, and they went down the stream of life together like two brothers. chapter vi. rd april to th october , pilgrimage to mecca bibliography: . the kasidah (commenced). . el islam (commenced). . the man wants to wander. much of his time at boulogne burton devoted to fencing; and to his instructor, m. constantin, he paid glowing tributes. he thoroughly mastered the art, defeated all antagonists, whether english or french, earned his "brevet de pointe for the excellence of his swordsmanship, and became a maitre d' armes." as horseman, swordsman, and marksman, no soldier of his day surpassed him, and very few equalled him. but of fencing, flirting and book-writing, he soon got heartily tired. like his putative ancestors, the gipsies, he could never be happy long in one place. he says, "the thoroughbred wanderer's idiosyncrasy, i presume to be a composition of what phrenologists call inhabitiveness and locality equally and largely developed. after a long and toilsome march, weary of the way, he drops into the nearest place of rest to become the most domestic of men. for a while he smokes the pipe of permanence with an infinite zest, he delights in various siestas during the day, relishing withal a long sleep at night; he enjoys dining at a fixed dinner hour, and wonders at the demoralisation of the mind which cannot find means of excitement in chit-chat or small talk, in a novel or a newspaper. but soon the passive fit has passed away; again a paroxysm on ennui coming on by slow degrees, viator loses appetite, he walks bout his room all night, he yawns at conversations, and a book acts upon his as a narcotic. the man wants to wander, and he must do so, or he shall die." [ ] . haji wali, . as we have seen, burton, even before he had left sind, had burned to visit mecca. four years had since elapsed, and his eyes still turned towards "allah's holy house." having obtained another twelve months' furlough, in order that he "might pursue his arabic studies in lands where the language is best learned," he formed the bold plan of crossing arabia from mecca to the persian gulf. ultimately, however, he decided, in emulation of burckhardt, the great traveler, to visit medina and mecca in the disguise of a pilgrim, a feat that only the most temerarious of men would have dared even to dream of. he made every conceivable preparation, learning among other usefulnesses how to forge horse shoes and to shoe a horse. to his parents and lady stisted and her daughters, who were then residing at bath, he paid several visits, but when he last parted from them with his usual "adieu, sans adieu," it did not occur to them that he was about to leave for good; for he could not--he never could--muster up sufficient courage to say a final "good-bye." shortly after his departure his mother found a letter addressed to her and in his handwriting. it contained, besides an outline of his dangerous plans, the instruction that, in case he should be killed, his "small stock of valuables" was to be divided between her and his sister. once more burton had the keen pleasure of putting on disguise. richard f. burton ceased to be, and a muscular and powerful mirza abdullah, of bushire, took his place. "i have always wished to see," he explained to a friend, "what others have been content to hear of." he wore long hair and oriental costume, and his face and limbs were stained with henna. accompanied by captain henry grindlay of the bengal cavalry, he left london for southampton, rd april , and thence took steamer for egypt, without ever a thought of isabel arundell's blue eye or rapunzel hair, and utterly unconscious of the sighs he had evoked. at alexandria he was the guest of mr. john thurburn and his son-in-law, mr. john larking [ ], at their residence "the sycamores," but he slept in an outhouse in order the better to delude the servants. he read the koran sedulously, howled his prayers with a local shaykh who imparted to him the niceties of the faith, purified himself, made an ostentatious display of piety, and gave out that he was a hakim or doctor preparing to be a dervish. as he had some knowledge of medicine, this role was an easy one, and his keen sense of humour made the experience enjoyable enough. on the steamer that carried him to cairo, he fraternized with two of his fellow-passengers, a hindu named khudabakhsh and an alexandrian merchant named haji wali. haji wali, whose connection with burton lasted some thirty years [ ], was a middle-aged man with a large round head closely shaven, a bull neck, a thin red beard, handsome features which beamed with benevolence, and a reputation for wiliness and cupidity. upon their arrival at boulak, the port of cairo. khudabakhsh, who lived there, invited burton to stay with him. hindu-like, khudabakhsh wanted his guest to sit, talk, smoke, and sip sherbet all day. but this burton could not endure. nothing, as he says, suits the english less than perpetual society, "an utter want of solitude, when one cannot retire into one self an instant without being asked some puerile questions by a companion, or look into a book without a servant peering over one's shoulder." at last, losing all patience, he left his host and went to a khan, where he once more met haji wali. they smoked together the forbidden weed hashish, and grew confidential. following haji wali's advice, burton, having changed his dress, now posed as an afghan doctor, and by giving his patients plenty for their money and by prescribing rough measures which acted beneficially upon their imaginations, he gained a coveted reputation. he always commenced his prescriptions piously with: "in the name of allah, the compassionate, the merciful, and blessings and peace be upon our lord the apostle"; and haji wali vaunted him as "the very phoenix of physicians." according to his wont, he never lost an opportunity of learning the ways and customs of the various people among whom he was thrown, or of foisting himself on any company in which he thought he could increase his knowledge. his whole life indeed was a preparation for "the arabian nights." thus at cairo he had the good fortune to cure some abyssinian slave-girls of various complaints, including the "price-lowering habit of snoring," and in return he made the slave dealer take him about the town and unfold the mysteries of his craft. he also visited the resting-place of his hero, burckhardt; [ ] indeed, in whatever town he sojourned, he sought out the places associated with the illustrious dead. it was now the ramazan, and he observed it by fasting, reading the koran, and saying countless prayers with his face turned devoutly to the kiblah. [ ] he heartily rejoiced, however, with the multitude when the dreary month was over, and he describes [ ] amusingly the scenes on the first day following it: "most people," he says, "were in fresh suits of finery; and so strong is personal vanity in the breast of orientals... that from cairo to calcutta it would be difficult to find a sad heart under a handsome coat. the men swaggered, the women minced their steps, rolled their eyes, and were eternally arranging, and coquetting with their head-veils." in the house of a friend he saw an armenian wedding. for servant he now took a cowardly and thievish lad named nur, and, subsequently, he made the acquaintance of a meccan youth, mohammed, who was to become his companion throughout the pilgrimage. mohammed was , chocolate brown, short, obese, hypocritical, cowardly, astute, selfish and affectionate. burton not only purchased the ordinary pilgrim garb, but he also took the precaution to attach to his person "a star sapphire," the sight of which inspired his companions with "an almost reverential awe," and even led them to ascribe to him thaumaturgic power. [ ] his further preparations for the sacred pilgrimage reads rather like a page out of charles lever, for the rollicking irishman was as much in evidence as the holy devotee. they culminated in a drinking bout with an albanian captain, whom he left, so to speak, under the table; and this having got noised abroad, burton, with his reputation for sanctity forfeited, found it expedient to set off at once for mecca. he sent the boy nur on to suez with his baggage and followed him soon after on a camel through a "haggard land infested with wild beasts and wilder men." at suez he made the acquaintance of some medina and mecca folk, who were to be his fellow-travellers; including "sa'ad the demon," a negro who had two boxes of handsome apparel for his three medina wives and was resolved to "travel free;" and shaykh hamid, a "lank arab foul with sweat," who never said his prayers because of the trouble of taking clean clothes out of his box. "all these persons," says burton, "lost no time in opening the question of a loan. it was a lesson in oriental metaphysics to see their condition. they had a twelve days' voyage and a four days' journey before them; boxes to carry, custom houses to face, and stomachs to fill; yet the whole party could scarcely, i believe, muster two dollars of ready money. their boxes were full of valuables, arms, clothes, pipes, slippers, sweetmeats, and other 'notions,' but nothing short of starvation would have induced them to pledge the smallest article." [ ] foreseeing the advantage of their company, burton sagaciously lent each of them a little money at high interest, not for the sake of profit, but with a view to becoming a hatim tai, [ ] by a "never mind" on settling day. this piece of policy made "the father of moustaches," as they called him, a person of importance among them. during the delay before starting, he employed himself first in doctoring, and then in flirting with a party of egyptian women the most seductive of whom was one fattumah, [ ] a plump lady of thirty "fond of flattery and possessing, like all her people, a voluble tongue." the refrain of every conversation was "marry me, o fattumah! o daughter! o female pilgrim." to which the lady would reply coquettishly, "with a toss of the head and a flirting manipulation of her head veil," "i am mated, o young man." sometimes he imitated her egyptian accent and deprecated her country women, causing her to get angry and bid him begone. then, instead of "marry me, o fattumah," he would say, "o old woman and decrepit, fit only to carry wood to market." this would bring a torrent of angry words, but when they met again all was forgotten and the flirtations of the day before were repeated. . the pilgrim ship, th july . burton and his party now embarked on the sambuk which was to take them to yambu, the port of medina. as ninety-seven pilgrims were crowded on a vessel constructed to carry only sixty, most extraordinary scenes occurred. thanks to the exertions of sa'ad the demon, burton and his friends secured places on the poop, the most eligible part of the vessel. they would not be very comfortable anywhere, sa'ad explained, but "allah makes all things easy." sa'ad himself, who was blessed with a doggedness that always succeeds, managed to get his passage free by declaring himself an able seaman. disturbances soon commenced. the chief offenders were some maghrabis, "fine looking animals from the deserts about tripoli," the leader of whom, one maula ali, "a burly savage," struck burton as ridiculously like his old richmond schoolmaster, the rev. charles delafosse. these gentry tried to force their way on to the poop, but sa'ad distributed among his party a number of ash staves six feet long, and thick as a man's wrist. "he shouted to us," says burton, "'defend yourself if you don't wish to be the meat of the maghrabis!' and to the enemy 'dogs and sons of dogs! now shall you see what the children of the arab are.' 'i am omar of daghistan!' 'i am abdullah the son of joseph!' 'i am sa'ad the demon! [ ]' we exclaimed." and, burton, with his turbulent blood well stirred, found himself in the seventh heaven. "to do our enemies justice," he continues, "they showed no sign of flinching; they swarmed towards the poop like angry hornets, and encouraged each other with cries of 'allaho akbar!' but we had a vantage ground about four feet above them, and their short daggers could do nothing against our terrible quarter staves. presently a thought struck me. a large earthen jar full of drinking water, in its heavy frame of wood stood upon the edge of the poop. seeing an opportunity, i crept up to the jar and rolled it down upon the swarm of assailants. its fall caused a shriller shriek to rise above the ordinary din, for heads, limbs and bodies were sorely bruised by the weight, scratched by the broken potsherds, and wetted by the sudden discharge. [ ] the maghrabis then slunk off towards the end of the vessel, and presently solicited peace." the beauties of the sunrise baffled description. the vessel sailed over a violet sea, and under a sky dappled with agate-coloured clouds. at noon the heat was terrible and all colour melted away, "with the canescence from above." the passengers were sympathetic with one another, notwithstanding their recent factiousness, and were especially kind to a poor little brown baby, which they handed round and nursed by turns, but the heat, the filth, and the stench of the ship defied description. at mahar, one of the places where they landed, burton injured his foot with a poisonous thorn, which made him lame for the rest of the pilgrimage. presently the welcome profile of radhwa came in view, the mountain of which the unfortunate antar [ ] sang so plaintively: "did radhwa strive to support my woes, radhwa itself would be crushed by the weight," and on july th, after twelve days of purgatory, burton sprang on shore at yambu. . medina. he now dressed himself as an arab, that is to say, he covered his head with a red kerchief bordered with yellow, his body with a cotton shirt and a camel's hair cloak, while a red sash, a spear and a dagger completed the outfit. then, having hired some camels, he joined a caravan, consisting of several hundred men and beasts, which was bound for medina; but his injured foot still incommoded him. determined, however, to allow nobody to exceed him in piety, he thrice a day or oftener pounded the sand with his forehead like a true mussulman. while passing through one of the mountain gorges the pilgrims were attacked by a number of predatory bedouin, led by a ferocious chief named saad, who fired upon them from the rocks with deadly effect, but, at last, after a journey of miles, they reached medina, with the great sun-scorched mount ohod towering behind it--the holy city where, according to repute, the coffin of mohammed swung between heaven and earth. [ ] medina consisted of three parts, a walled town, a large suburb, with ruinous defences, and a fort. minarets shot up above the numerous flat roofs, and above all flashed the pride of the city, the green dome that covered the tomb of mohammed. burton became the guest of the dilatory and dirty shaykh hamid. the children of the household, he says, ran about in a half nude state, but he never once set eyes upon the face of woman, "unless the african slave girls be allowed the title. even these at first attempted to draw their ragged veils over their sable charms." having dressed themselves in white, burton and hamid sallied out for the prophet's tomb, burton riding on a donkey because of his lameness. he found the approach to the mosque choked up by ignoble buildings, and declares that as a whole it had neither beauty nor dignity. upon entering, he was also disillusioned, for its interior was both mean and tawdry. after various prayers they visited first the "hujrah," where they saw the tombs of mohammed, abu bakr, omar and fatimah; and afterwards el rauzah, the garden situated between the hujrah and the prophet's pulpit, both very celebrated spots. of the latter, mohammed said: "between my house and my pulpit is a garden of the gardens of paradise." [ ] after more prayers they wandered round to the other sights, including the fine gate of salvation, the five minarets, and the three celebrated pillars, called respectively, al-mukhallak, the pillar of ayishah, and the pillar of repentance. they then made their way to the mosque of kuba, some two miles out of the town, and witnessed the entry into medina of the great caravan from damascus, numbering , souls--grandees in gorgeous litters of green and gold, huge white syrian dromedaries, richly caparisoned horses and mules, devout hajis, sherbet sellers, water carriers, and a multitude of camels, sheep and goats. [ ] lastly burton and his friends pilgrimaged to the holy mount ohod with its graves of "the martyrs;" and to the celebrated al-bakia, or saints' cemetery, where lie ten thousand of the prophet's companions. on entering the latter they repeated the usual salutation: "peace be upon ye, o people of al-bakia," and then sought out the principal tombs--namely those of the caliph othman, [ ] "our lady halimah," [ ] the infant ibrahim, [ ] and about fourteen of mohammed's wives. [ ] the cemetery swarmed with clamorous beggars, who squatted with dirty cotton napkins spread on the ground before them for the reception of coins. some of the women promised to recite fatihahs for the donors, and the most audacious seized the visitors by their skirts. burton laid out three dollars in this way, but though the recipients promised loudly to supplicate allah in behalf of his lame foot, it did not perceptibly benefit. burton's companions hinted that he might do worse than settle in medina. "why not," said one, "open a shop somewhere near the prophet's mosque? there thou wilt eat bread by thy skill, and thy soul will have the blessing of being on holy ground." burton, however, wanted to be going forward. . mecca. on st august, after praying "a two-bow prayer," he bade adieu to shaykh hamid, and with nur and the boy mohammed, joined the caravan bound for mecca, the route taken being the celebrated road through the arid nejd made by zubaydah, wife of harun al rashid. the events of the journey were not remarkable, though mohammed very nearly killed himself by feeding too liberally on clarified butter and dates mashed with flour. sometimes burton cheered the way and delighted his companions by singing the song of maysunah, the arab girl who longed to get back from the caliph's palace to the black tents of her tribe. everybody got into good humour when he began: "oh take these purple robes away, give back my cloak of camel's hair," and they laughed till they fell on their backs when he came to the line where the desert beauty calls her royal husband a "fatted ass." in truth, they needed something to cheer them, for the sky was burnished brass, and their goats died like flies. simoon and sand-pillar threw down the camels, and loathsome vultures ready for either beast or man hovered above or squabbled around them. to crown their discomforts they were again attached by the bedouin, whom they dispersed only after a stubborn fight and with the loss of several dromedaries. after passing the classic wady laymun, sung by the arab poet labid [ ] in lines suggestive of goldsmith's deserted village, they very piously shaved their heads and donned the conventional attire, namely two new cotton cloths with narrow red stripes and fringes; and when the holy city came in view, the whole caravan raised the cry, "mecca! mecca! the sanctuary! o the sanctuary! labbayk! labbayk!" [ ] the voices being not infrequently broken by sobs. on entering the gates, burton and nur crossed the famous hill safa and took up their abode with the lad mohammed. early next morning they rose, bathed, and made their way with the crowd to the prophet's mosque in order to worship at the huge bier-like erection called the kaaba, and the adjacent semi-circular hatim's wall. the famous kaaba, which is in the middle of the great court-yard, looked at a distance like an enormous cube, covered with a black curtain, but its plan is really trapeziform. "there at last it lay," cries burton, "the bourn of my long and weary pilgrimage, realising the plans and hopes of many and many a year,"--the kaaba, the place of answered prayer, above which in the heaven of heavens allah himself sits and draws his pen through people's sins. "the mirage of fancy invested the huge catafalque and its gloomy pall with peculiar charms." of all the worshippers who clung weeping to the curtain, [ ] or who pressed their beating hearts to the sacred black stone built into the kaaba, none, thought burton, felt for the moment a deeper emotion than he. but he had to confess the humbling truth that while theirs was the high feeling of religious enthusiasm, his was but the ecstasy of gratified pride. bare-headed and footed and in company with mohammed, he first proceeded to the holy well, zem-zem, said to be the same that was shown by god to hagar. [ ] they found the water extremely unpleasant to the taste, and burton noticed that nobody drank it without making a wry face. it was impossible at first to get near the black stone owing to the crush of pilgrims. however, they occupied the time in various prayers, blessed the prophet, and kissed the finger tips of the right hand. they then made the seven ashwat or circuits, and from time to time raised their hands to their ears, and exclaimed, "in the name of allah and allah is omnipotent!" the circuits finished, and it was deemed advisable to kiss the black stone. for some minutes burton stood looking in despair at the swarming crowd of bedouin and other pilgrims that besieged it. but mohammed was equal to the occasion. noticing that most of those near the stone were persians, against whom the arabs have an antipathy, he interpolated his prayers with insults directed against them--one of the mildest being "o hog and brother of a hoggess." this having small effect he collected half-a-dozen stalwart meccans, "with whose assistance," says burton, "by sheer strength, we wedged our way into the thin and light-legged crowd. ...after reaching the stone, despite popular indignation testified by impatient shouts, we monopolised the use of it for at least ten minutes. while kissing it and rubbing hands and forehead upon it, i narrowly observed it, and came away persuaded that it was an aerolite." burton and his friends next shouldered and fought their way to the part of the kaaba called al multazem, at which they asked for themselves all that their souls most desired. arrived again at the well zem-zem, burton had to take another nauseous draught and was deluged with two skinfuls of the water dashed over his head. this causes sins to fall from the spirit like dust. he also said the customary prayers at the makam ibrahim or praying place of abraham [ ] and other shrines. at last, thoroughly worn out, with scorched feet and a burning head, he worked his way out of the mosque, but he was supremely happy for he had now seen: "safa, zem-zem, hatim's wall, and holy kaaba's night-black pall." [ ] the next day he journeyed to the sacred mount of arafat, familiar to readers of the arabian nights from the touching story of abu hasan and abu ja'afar the leper and [ ] he estimated that he was but one of , pilgrims. the mountain was alive with people, and the huge camp at its foot had booths, huts and bazaars stocked with all manner of eastern delicacies, and crowded with purchasers. instead, however, of listening to the sermons, burton got flirting with a meccan girl with citrine skin and liquescent eyes. on the third day, mounted on an ass, he made for muna and took part in the ceremony called stoning the devil. he was, however, but one of a multitude, and, in order to get to the stoned pillar a good deal of shouldering and fighting was necessary. both burton and the boy mohammed, however, gained their end, and like the rest of the people, vigorously pelted the devil, saying as they did so, "in the name of allah--allah is almighty." to get out of the crowd was as difficult as it had been to get in. mohammed received a blow in the face which brought the blood from his nose, and burton was knocked down; but by "the judicious use of the knife" he gradually worked his way into the open again, and piously went once more to have his head shaved and his nails cut, repeating prayers incessantly. soon after his return to mecca, mohammed ran up to him in intense excitement. "rise, effendi," he cried, "dress and follow me; the kaaba is open." the pair then made their way thither with alacrity, and, replies to the officials in charge being satisfactory, mohammed was authoritatively ordered to conduct burton round the building. they entered. it was a perilous moment; and when burton looked at the windowless walls and at the officials at the door, and thought of the serried mass of excited fanatics outside, he felt like a trapped rat. however safe a christian might have been at mecca, nothing could have preserved him from the ready knives of the faithful if detected in the kaaba. the very idea was pollution to a moslem. "nothing," says burton, "is more simple than the interior of this sacred building. the pavement is composed of slabs of fine and various coloured marbles. the upper part of the walls, together with the ceiling, are covered with handsome red damask, flowered over with gold. the flat roof is upheld by three cross beams, supported in the centre by three columns. between the columns ran bars of metal supporting many lamps said to be of gold." the total expense was eight dollars, and when they got away, the boy mohammed said, "wallah, effendi! thou has escaped well! some men have left their skins behind." the fifty-five other wonders of the city having been visited, burton sent on nur with his heavy boxed to jeddah, the port of mecca, and he himself followed soon after with mohammed. at jeddah he saw its one sight, the tomb of eve, and then bade adieu to mohammed, who returned to mecca. having boarded the "dwarka," an english ship, he descended to his cabin and after a while emerged with all his colouring washed off and in the dress of an english gentleman. mirza abdullah of bushire, "father of moustaches," was once more richard francis burton. this extraordinary exploit made burton's name a household word throughout the world, and turned it into a synonym for daring; while his book, the pigrimage to al-madinah and meccah, which appeared the following year, was read everywhere with wonder and delight. had he been worldly-wise he would have proceeded straight to england, where, the lion of the hour, he might have obtained a reward more substantial than mere praise. but he did not show himself until the commotion caused by his exploit had been half-forgotten, and we shall find him making a similar mistake some years later, after his return from tanganyika. [ ] it seems that burton was known in the army as "ruffian dick"--not by way of disparagement, but because of this demonic ferocity as a fighter, and because he had "fought in single combat more enemies than perhaps any other man of his time." one evening soon after his return from mecca, a party of officers, including a friend of burton's named hawkins, were lounging outside shepherd's hotel at cairo. as they sat talking and smoking, there passed repeatedly in front of them, an arab, in his loose flowing robes, with head proudly erect, and the peculiar swinging stride of those sons of the desert. as he strode backwards and forwards he drew nearer and nearer to the little knot of officers, till at last, as he swept by, the flying folds of his burnous brushed against one of the officers. "d---- that nigger's impudence!" said the officer; "if he does that again, i'll kick him." to his surprise the dignified arab suddenly halted, wheeled round, and exclaimed, "well, d---- it, hawkins, that's a fine way to welcome a fellow after two year's absence." "it's ruffian dick!" cried the astonished officer. [ ] perhaps to this period must be assigned the bastinado incident. burton used to tell the tale [ ] as follows: "once, in egypt, another man and i were out duck shooting, and we got separated. when i next came in sight of the other man some turkish soldiers had tied him up and were preparing to administer the bastinado. as i hurried to his assistance he said something to the turks which i could not catch, and pointed to me. instantly they untied him and pouncing upon me, tried to put me in his place, while my companion took to his heels. as they were six to one, they succeeded, and i had the very unpleasant experience of being bastinadoed. the first dozen or two strokes i didn't mind much, but at about the ninetieth the pain was too excruciating for description. when they had finished with me i naturally enquired what it was all for. it seems that my companion when firing at a duck had accidentally shot an egyptian woman, the wife of one of the soldiers. upon my appearance he had called out in turkish to the soldiers: 'it was not i who fired the shot, it was that other fellow,' pointing to me. the blackguard has taken good care to keep out of my way ever since." . burton's delight in shocking. the story of burton's adventures having spread abroad, people now took the trouble to invent many incidents that were untrue. they circulated, for example, a grisly tale of a murder which he was understood to have committed on a man who had penetrated his disguise, [ ] and, the tale continuing to roll, the murder became eventually two murders. unfortunately, burton was cursed with a very foolish habit, and one that later did him considerable harm. like lord byron, he delighted to shock. his sister had often reproved him for it after his return from india, but without effecting a change. kindly listeners hardly knew how to take him, while the malicious made mischief. one day, in england, when, in the presence of his sister and a lady friend, he had thought fit to enlarge on a number of purely fictitious misdeeds, he was put to some shame. his sister having in vain tried by signs to stop him, the friend at last cut him short with: "am i to admire you, mr. burton?" and he accepted the reproof. still, he never broke himself of this dangerous habit; indeed, when the murder report spread abroad he seems to have been rather gratified than not; and he certainly took no trouble to refute the calumny. on another occasion he boasted of his supposed descent from louis xiv. "i should have thought," exclaimed a listener, "that you who have such good irish blood in your veins would be glad to forget your descent from a dishonourable union." "oh, no," replied burton vehemently, "i would rather be the bastard of a king than the son of an honest man." though this was at the time simply intended to shock, nevertheless it illustrated in a sense his real views. he used to insist that the offspring of illicit or unholy unions were in no way to be pitied if they inherited, as if often the case, the culture or splendid physique of the father and the comeliness of the mother; and instanced king solomon, falconbridge, in whose "large composition," could be read tokens of king richard, [ ] and the list of notables from homer to "pedro's son," as catalogued by camoens [ ] who said: "the meed of valour bastards aye have claimed by arts or arms, or haply both conjoined." the real persons to be pitied, he said, were the mentally or physically weak, whatever their parentage. . el islam. burton now commenced to write a work to be called el islam, or the history of mohammedanism; which, however, he never finished. it opens with an account of the rise of christianity, his attitude to which resembled that of renan. [ ] of christ he says: "he had given an impetus to the progress of mankind by systematizing a religion of the highest moral loveliness, showing what an imperfect race can and may become." he then dilates on st. paul, who with a daring hand "rent asunder the ties connecting christianity with judaism." "he offered to the great family of man a church with a diety at its head and a religion peculiarly of principles. he left the moral code of christianity untouched in its loveliness. after the death of st. paul," continues burton, "christianity sank into a species of idolatry. the acme of stupidity was attained by the stylites, who conceived that mankind had no nobler end than to live and die upon the capital of a column. when things were at their worst mohammed first appeared upon the stage of life." the work was published in its unfinished state after burton's death. with the kasidah we shall deal in a later chapter, for though burton wrote a few couplets at this time, the poem did not take its present shape till after the appearance of fitzgerald's adaptation of the rubaiyat oman khayyam. having spent a few weeks in egypt, burton returned to bombay, travelling in his arab dress. among those on board was an english gentleman, mr. james grant lumsden, senior member of the council, bombay, who being struck by burton's appearance, said to a friend, "what a clever, intellectual face that arab has!" burton, overhearing the remark, made some humorous comment in english, and thus commenced a pleasant friendship. chapter vii. th october -- th february, to harar bibliography: . pilgrimage to al-madimah and meccah. vols. - . . at aden. the arabian nights. oct. . it was while staying at bombay as mr. lumsden's guest that burton, already cloyed with civilization, conceived the idea of journeying, via zeila in somaliland, to the forbidden and therefore almost unknown city of harar, and thence to zanzibar. his application to the bombay government for permission and assistance having been received favourably, he at once set out for aden, where he stayed with his "old and dear friend," dr. john steinhauser, who had been appointed civil surgeon there. steinhauser, a stolid man, whose face might have been carved out of wood, was, like burton, an enthusiastic student of the arabian nights, and their conversation naturally drifted into this subject. both came to the conclusion that while the name of this wondrous repertory of moslem folk-lore was familiar to almost every english child, no general reader could form any idea of its treasures. moreover, that the door would not open to any but arabists. but even at the present day, and notwithstanding the editions of payne and burton, there are still persons who imagine that the arabian nights is simply a book for the nursery. familiar only with some inferior rendering, they are absolutely ignorant of the wealth of wisdom, humour, pathos and poetry to be found in its pages. [ ] writing in , burton says: "the most familiar book in england, next to the bible, it is one of the least known, the reason being that about one-fifth is utterly unfit for translation, and the most sanguine orientalist would not dare to render more than three-quarters of the remainder, [ ] consequently the reader loses the contrast--the very essence of the book--between its brilliancy and dulness, its moral putrefaction and such pearls as: 'cast the seed of good works on the least fit soil; good is never wasted, however it may be laid out.' and in a page or two after such divine sentiment, the ladies of baghdad sit in the porter's lay, and indulge in a facetiousness which would have killed pietro aretino before his time." [ ] when the work entitled a thousand nights and a night was commenced, no man knows. there were eastern collections with that title four centuries ago, laboured by the bronzed fingers of arab scribes; but the framework and some of the tales must have existed prior even to the moslem conquest. it has been noticed that there are resemblances between the story of shahryar and that of ahasuerus as recorded in esther. in both narratives the king is offended with his queen and chooses a new wife daily. shahryar has recourse to the scimitar, ahasuerus consigns wife after wife to the seclusion of his harem. shahryar finds a model consort in shahrazad, ahasuerus in esther. each queen saves a multitude from death, each king lies awake half the night listening to stories. [ ] while many of the stories in the arabian nights are ancient, some, as internal evidence proves, are comparatively recent. thus those of kamar-al-zaman ii. and ma'aruf the cobbler belong to the th century; and no manuscript appears to be older than . the most important editions are the calcutta, the boulac [ ] and the breslau, all of which differ both in text and the order of the stories. the nights were first introduced into europe by antoine galland, whose french translation appeared between and . of the nights proper, galland presented the public with about a quarter, and he added ten tales [ ] from other eastern manuscripts. an anonymous english edition appeared within a few years. the edition published in by jonathan scott is galland with omissions and additions, the new tales being from the wortley montague ms. now in the bodleian. in , henry torrens began a translation direct from the arabic, of which, however, he completed only one volume, and in - appeared the translation direct from the arabic, of which, however, he completed only one volume, and in - appeared the translation of edward william lane, [ ] made direct from the boulac edition. this work, which contains about one third of the entire arabian nights, was a great step forward, but unfortunately, lane, who afterwards became an excellent arabic scholar, was but a poor writer, and having no gift of verse, he rendered the poetical portions, that is to say, some ten thousand lines "in the baldest and most prosaic of english." [ ] so burton and steinhauser said to themselves, as the public have never had more than one-third of the nights, and that translated indifferently, we will see what we can do. "we agreed," says burton, "to collaborate and produce a full, complete, unvarnished, uncastrated, copy of the great original, my friend taking the prose and i the metrical part; and we corresponded upon the subject for years." [ ] they told each other that, having completed their task, they would look out for a retreat as a preparation for senility, some country cottage, perhaps, in the south of france, where, remote from books, papers, pens, ink and telegrams, they could spend their nights in bed and their days in hammocks. beyond planning the translation, however, nothing was done. steinhauser died fourteen years later ( ), and whatever notes he made were dispersed, while burton, even as late as , had done nothing beyond making a syllabus of the boulac edition. [ ] still, the scheme was never for very long absent from his thoughts, and during his wanderings in somaliland, the tanganyika country and elsewhere, he often delighted the natives by reciting or reading some of the tales. the history of burton's translation of the arabian nights is, as we shall subsequently show, curiously analogous to that of the kasidah. . from zeila to harar, th november to nd january . burton now found that, as regards the projected expedition, his plans would have to be modified, and he finally decided to confine his explorations to "the great parched horn" of somaliland. his plan was now to visit harar via zeila, and then make for berbera, in order to join lieutenant speke, herne and stroyan, who had been authorised to assist him and had arranged to await him there. the presence at berbera of speke and his companions, would, it was supposed, "produce a friendly feeling on the part of somali," and facilitate burton's egress from harar, should he ever, as was by no means certain, enter alive that dangerous and avoided city. sir james outram, then political resident at aden, called the expedition a tempting of providence, and tried hard to stop it, but in vain. burton left aden for zeila on october th, taking with him a managing man called "the hammal," a long, lean aden policeman, nicknamed "long gulad" and a suave but rascally moslem priest dubbed "the end of time." [ ] they landed on october st, and found zeila a town of white-washed houses and minaretted mosques, surrounded by a low brown wall with round towers. burton, who called himself a moslem merchant, spent three weeks buying camels and mules and interviewing guides, while he kept up his reputation for piety with the customary devotions. according to his wont, he carefully studied the customs of the people. "one of the peculiar charms," he says, of the somali girls, is "a soft, low and plaintive voice," and he notices that "in muscular strength and endurance the women of the somal are far superior to their lords." the country teems with poets, who praise the persons of the belles very much in the style of canticles, declaring prettily, for example, that their legs are as straight as the "libi tree," and that their hips swell out "like boiled rice." the marriage ceremonies, he tells us, are conducted with feasting, music and flogging. on first entering the nuptial hut the bridegroom draws forth his horsewhip and inflicts chastisement upon his bride, with the view of taming any lurking propensity to shrewishness. as it is no uncommon event to take four wives at once, this horsewhipping is naturally rather exhausting for the husband. burton considered polygamy to be indispensable in countries like somaliland, "where children are the principal wealth;" but he saw less necessity for it "among highly civilised races where the sexes are nearly equal, and where reproduction becomes a minor duty." however, he would have been glad to see polygamy allowed even in england, "if only to get rid of all the old maids," a class that he regarded with unbounded pity. he longed "to see these poor, cankered, angular ladies transformed into cheerful, amiable wives with something really to live for." "man," it was a favourite saying with him, "is by nature polygamic, whereas woman, as a rule, is monogamic, and polyandrous only when tired of her lover. the man loves the woman, but the love of the woman is for the love of the man." he also agreed with the th century rev. martin madan, author of thelyphthora, a treatise on female ruin, who insisted that polygamy would go far to remove one of the great reproaches of the streets of london and other large cities. "except in books," says burton, "seduction in mohammedan countries is almost unknown, adultery difficult." that polygamy, however, is no panacea, the following remarks will show. "both sexes," he says, speaking of the somali, "are temperate from necessity." drunkenness is unknown. still, the place is not arcady. "after much wandering," he continues, "we are almost tempted to believe that morality is a matter of geography; [ ] that nations and races have, like individuals, a pet vice; and that by restraining one, you only exasperate another. as a general rule somali women prefer flirtations with strangers, following the well-known arabian proverb, 'the new comer filleth the eye.'" burton was thoroughly at home in zeila "with the melodious chant of the muezzin" and the loudly intoned "amin" and "allaho akbar" daily ringing in his ear. he often went into the mosque, and with a sword and a rosary before him, read the "cow chapter" [ ] in a loud twanging voice. indeed, he had played the role of devout mohammedan so long, that he had almost become one. the people of zeila tried to persuade him to abandon his project. "if," said they, "you escape the desert hordes it will only be to fall by the hands of the truculent amir of harar." nothing, however, could dash burton's confidence in his star, and like dante, he applied to fear no epithets but "vile" and "base." one raghi, a petty eesa chief, having been procured as protector of the party, and other arrangements having been made, burton on november th ( ) set out for his destination by a circuitous route. raghi rode in front. next, leading camels, walked two enormously fat somali women; while by the side of the camels rode burton's three attendants, the hammal, long gulad, and "the end of time," "their frizzled wigs radiant with grease," and their robes splendidly white with borders dazzlingly red. burton brought up the rear on a fine white mule with a gold fringed arab pad and wrapper-cloth, a double-barrelled gun across his lap, and in this manner the little caravan pursued its sinuous course over the desert. at halting places he told his company tales from the arabian nights; they laughed immoderately at the adventures of the little hunchback; tears filled their eyes as they listened to the sad fate of azizah; [ ] and the two fat somali women were promptly dubbed shahrazad and dunyazad. dunyazad had been as far as aden and was coquettish. her little black eyes never met burton's, and frequently with affected confusion she turned her sable cheek the clean contrary way. attendant on the women was a zeila lad, who, being one-eyed, was pitilessly called "the kalandar." at their first halting place, burton astonished the natives by shooting a vulture on the wing. "lo!" cried the women, "he bringeth down the birds from heaven." on their way through an ochreish goban, or maritime plain, they passed huge hills made by white ants, gallas graves planted with aloe, [ ] and saw in the distance troops of gazelles. they were now in the isa country, "traitorous as an isa" being a zeila proverb. though the people were robbers and murderers, burton, by tact, got on excellently with them, and they good-naturedly offered him wives. at every settlement the whole population flocked to see him, the female portion loudly expressing their admiration for him. "come girls," they cried one to another, "come and look at this white stranger." according to raghi, the fair face of a french lady who had recently landed at berbera, "made every man hate his wife, and every wife hate herself." once they were attacked by bedouin, who, however, on hearing the report of burton's revolver, declared that they were only in fun. others who tried to stop them were shown the star sapphire, and threatened with "sorcery, death, wild beasts," and other unpleasantnesses. at a place called aububah, raghi relinquished the charge of the caravan to some men of the gudabirsi tribe, who led the way to the village of wilensi, where they were the guests of the household of a powerful chief called jirad adan. here burton left shahrazad, dunyazad and the kalandar, and proceeded to sagharrah, where he met and formed a friendship with jirad adan. for several days he was prostrated by fever, and some harar men who looked in tried to obtain him as a prisoner. the jirad acted honourably, but he declined to escort burton to harar. "no one," he said, "is safe in the amir's clutches, and i would as soon walk into a crocodile's mouth as set foot in the city." "nothing then remained," says burton, "but payer d'audace, [ ] and, throwing all forethought to the dogs, to rely upon what has made many a small man great, the good star. i addressed my companions in a set speech, advising a mount without delay." [ ] the end of time, having shown the white feather, was left behind, but the rest courageously consented to accompany their leader. "at a.m. on the nd january," says burton, "all the villagers assembled, and recited the fatihah, consoling us with the information that we were dead men." the little company, carrying their lives in their hands, then set forward, and presently came in sight of harar, "a dark speck upon a tawny sheet of stubble." arrived at the gate of the town, they accosted the warder, sent their salaams to the amir, and requested the honour of audience. . at harar. they were conducted to the palace, a long, single-storied, windowless barn of rough stone and reddish clay. says burton: "i walked into a vast hall between two long rows of galla spearmen, between whose lines i had to pass. they were large, half-naked savages, standing like statues with fierce, movable eyes, each one holding, with its butt end on the ground, a huge spear, with a head the size of a shovel. i purposely sauntered down them coolly with a swagger, with my eyes fixed upon their dangerous-looking faces. i had a six-shooter concealed in my waist-belt, and determined, at the first show of excitement, to run up to the amir, and put it to his head, if it were necessary, to save my own life." the amir was an etiolated young man of twenty-four or twenty-five, plain and thin-bearded, with a yellow complexion, wrinkled brows and protruding eyes. he wore a flowing robe of crimson cloth, edged with snowy fur, and a narrow white turban tightly twisted round a tall, conical cap of red velvet. on being asked his errand, burton replied politely in arabic that he had come from aden in order to bear the compliments of the governor, and to see the light of his highness's countenance. on the whole, the amir was gracious, but for some days burton and his party were in jeopardy, and when he reflected that he was under the roof of a bigoted and sanguinary prince, whose filthy dungeons resounded with the moans of heavily ironed, half-starved prisoners; among a people who detested foreigners; he, the only european who had ever passed over their inhospitable threshold, naturally felt uncomfortable. the amir, it seems, had four principal wives, and an army of men armed chiefly with daggers. burton describes the streets of harar as dirty narrow lanes heaped with garbage, and the houses as situated at the bottom of courtyards, closed by gates of holcus stalks. the town was proud of its learning and sanctity, and venerated the memory of several very holy and verminous saints. neither sex possessed personal attractions, and the head-dresses of the women seen from behind resembled a pawnbroker's sign, except that they were blue instead of gilt. the people lived chiefly on holcus, and a narcotic called "jat," made by pounding the tender twigs of a tree of the same name. "it produced in them," says burton, "a manner of dreamy enjoyment, which exaggerated by time and distance, may have given rise to that splendid myth the lotos and the lotophagi. [ ] their chief commodity was coffee, their favourite drink an aphrodisiac made of honey dissolved in hot water, and strained and fermented with the bark of a tree called kudidah." although unmolested, burton had no wish to remain long at harar, and when on th january he and his party took their departure it was with a distinct feeling of relief. . from harar to berbera. th jan. - th feb. . at sagharrah they found again the pusillanimous "end of time," and at wilensi they were rejoined by shahrazad, dunyazad and the one-eyed kalandar. persons who met burton and his friends enquired irish-like if they were the party who had been put to death by the amir of harar. everyone, indeed, was amazed to see them not only alive, but uninjured, and the frank's temerity became the talk of the desert. burton now put the two women, the kalandar, the camels, and the baggage, under the care of a guide, and sent them to zeila, while he himself and the men made straight for berbera. the journey, which led them past moga's tooth [ ] and gogaysa, was a terrible one, for the party suffered tortures from thirst, and at one time it seemed as though all must perish. by good fortune, however, they ultimately came upon some pools. any fear that might have haunted them, lest the water should be poisonous, was soon dispelled, for it contained a vast number of tadpoles and insects, and was therefore considered quite harmless and suitable for drinking. for many hours they again plodded on beneath a brazen sky. again thirst assailed them; and, like ishmael in the desert of zin, they were ready to cast themselves down and die. this time they were saved by a bird, a katta or sand grouse, which they saw making for some hills; and having followed it, they found, as they had anticipated, a spring of water, at which they frenziedly slaked their thirst. many other difficulties and troubles confronted them in their subsequent march, but at last they heard (delightful sound!) the murmur of the distant sea. every man was worn out, with the exception of the hammal, who, to burton's delight, not only talked, but sang and shouted. finally they reached berbera, where they found speke, herne and stroyan, and on th february, burton in company with the hammal, long gulad, and the end of time, set sail for aden, calling on their way at siyaro and anterad, east of berbera. the first news burton had on arriving there was of the death of his mother, which had occurred th december , at the time he lay ill at sagharrah. always immersed in him, she used to say, when he left her, "it seems as if the sun itself has disappeared." he, on his part, often bore witness to the unselfishness and blamelessness of her life, generally adding, "it is very pleasant to be able to feel proud of one's parents." . the fight at berbera, nd april, . unable to let well alone, burton now wanted to make a new expedition, this time to the nile, via berbera and harar, and on a larger and more imposing scale. on th april he was back again at berbera, taking with him speke, stroyan, herne and assistants, and his first care was to establish an agency on the coast, so as to have the protection of the english gunboat, the "mahi," which had brought them. unfortunately, the government drew off the gunboat, and this had scarcely been done before burton and his party were attacked by natives, who swarmed round them during the night, and tried to entrap and entangle them by throwing down the tents. a desperate hand-to-hand fight then ensued. javelins hissed, war-clubs crashed. the forty-two coloured auxiliaries promptly took to their heels, leaving the four englishmen to do as they could. stroyan fell early in the fight. burton, who had nothing but a sabre, fought like a demon; speke, on his left near the entrance of the tent, did deadly execution with a pair of revolvers; herne on his right emptied into the enemy a sixshooter, and then hammered it with the butt end. burton, while sabreing his way towards the sea, was struck by a javelin, which pierced both cheeks, and struck out four of his teeth. speke received eleven wounds, from which, however, he took no harm--a touching proof, comments burton, of how difficult it is to kill a man in sound health. eventually the survivors, stained with blood, and fearfully exhausted, but carrying, nevertheless, the corpse of poor stroyan, managed to reach a friendly native craft, which straightway took them back to aden. [ ] chapter viii. th february -october , the crimea bibliography: . first footsteps in east africa, . . the crimea. owing to his wounds burton had to return to england, and, on his first opportunity, he gave an account of his explorations before the royal geographical society. little, however, was now talked of except the crimean war, which had commenced, it will be remembered in march . the allies landed in the crimea in september, inkermann was fought on the th of november, and then followed the tedious siege of sebastopol. burton had not long been home before he applied for and obtained leave to join the besieging army; and his brother edward also went out as surgeon, about the same time. emulous of the deeds of napier and outram, burton now thought he saw a career of military glory awaiting him. soon after his arrival at the seat of war he was appointed chief of the staff to general beatson, and in his "gorgeous uniform blazing with gold" he set vigorously to work to re-organize and drill his contingent of bashi-bazouks. he had great difficulties with beatson, a brave, but passionate and undiplomatic old warrior; but he succeeded marvellously with his men, and his hope of winning fame rose higher than ever. the war, however, was crawling to an end, and the troops he had drilled so patiently had little to do beside look on. at this conjuncture he thought he saw a road to success in the relief of kars, which had been persistently besieged by the russians. elated at the prospect of taking part in a great military feat, he hurried to constantinople, obtained an interview with the british ambassador, lord stratford, and submitted a plan for approval. to his amazement, lord stratford broke into a towering passion, and called him "the most impudent man in the bombay army." later burton understood in what way he had transgressed. as the war was closing, it had been arranged by the allies that kars should be allowed to fall as a peace offering to russia. burton now began to suffer from the untrue tales that were told about him, still he never troubled to disprove them. some were circulated by a fellow officer of his--an unmitigated scoundrel whose life had been sullied by every species of vice; who not only invented calumniating stories but inserted particulars that gave them a verisimilitude. two of this man's misdeeds may be mentioned. first he robbed the post office at alexandria, and later he unblushingly unfolded to lord stanley of alderley his plan of marrying an heiress and of divorcing her some months later with a view to keeping, under a greek law, a large portion of her income. he seemed so certain of being able to do it that lord stanley consulted a lady friend, and the two together succeeded in frustrating the infamous design. this sordid and callous rascal tried hard to lead people to suppose that he and burton were hand and glove in various kinds of devilry, and a favourite phrase in his mouth was "i and burton are great scamps." percy smythe [ ] then an official under lord stratford, commented on hearing the saying: "no, that won't do, ---- is a real scamp, but burton is only wild." one story put abroad apparently by the same scoundrel is still in circulation. we are told that burton was once caught in a turkish harem, and allowed to escape only after suffering the usual indescribable penalty. as this was the solitary story that really annoyed burton, we think it our duty to say that conclusive documentary evidence exists proving that, whether or not he ever broke into a harem, he most certainly underwent no deprivation. other slanders of an even more offensive nature got abroad. pious english mothers loathed burton's name, and even men of the world mentioned it apologetically. in time, it is true, he lived all this down, still he was never--he is not now--generally regarded as a saint worthy of canonization. with the suspension of general beatson--for the machinations of enemies ultimately accomplished the old hero's fall--burton's connection with the crimean army abruptly ceased. having sent in his resignation, he returned to england and arrived here just in time to miss, to his disappointment, his brother edward, who had again left for ceylon. edward's after career was sad enough to draw tears from adamant. during an elephant hunt a number of natives set upon him and beat him brutally about the head. brain trouble ensued, and he returned home, but henceforth, though he attained a green old age, he lived a life of utter silence. except on one solitary occasion he never after--and that is to say for forty years--uttered a single word. always resembling a greek statue, there was now added to him the characteristic of all statues, rigid and solemn silence. from a man he had become aching marble. to burton, with his great, warm, affectionate heart, edward's affliction was an unceasing grief. in all his letters he enquires tenderly after his "dear brother," and could truly say, with the enemy of his boyhood, oliver goldsmith: "where'er i roam, whatever realms to see, my heart untravelled fondly turns to thee: still to my brother turns." [ ] arrived in england, general beatson promptly instituted civil proceedings against his enemies; and burton was in constant expectation of being subpoenaed. he thoroughly sympathized with beatson, but he had no wish to be forced to remain in london, just as he had no wish at any time in his life to be mewed up anywhere. consequently he disguised himself by wearing green spectacles and tying a pillow over his stomach to simulate corpulence. to one friend who met him, he made himself known. "are you really burton?" inquired his friend. "i shall be," replied burton, "but just now i'm a greek doctor." burton's conscience, however, finally had the mastery. he did attend the trial and he corroborated the statements of his late chief. the verdict of the jury went against beatson, but it was generally felt that the old war dog had fully vindicated his character. . engaged to isabel arundell, august . in august, after a lapse of four years, burton renewed acquaintance with isabel arundell, who one day met him, quite by accident, in the botanical gardens, and she kept meeting him there quite by accident every day for a fortnight. he had carried his life in his hand to mecca and to harar, he had kept at bay somalis, but like the man in camoens, he finally fell by "a pair of eyes." [ ] according to lady burton, [ ] it was burton who made the actual proposal; and it is just possible. "you won't chalk up 'mother will be angry' now i hope," said burton. "perhaps not," replied miss arundell, "but she will be all the same." mrs. arundell, indeed, like so many other english mothers, was violently prejudiced against burton. when her daughter broached the subject she replied fiercely: "he is not an old english catholic, or even a catholic, he has neither money nor prospects." she might also have added that he was apt to respect mere men of intellect more than men of wealth and rank, an un-english trait which would be sure to militate against his advancement. miss arundell bravely defended her lover, but without effect. a few days later she again met her old gipsy crone hagar burton, who repeated her sibylline declaration. as miss arundell never, by any chance, talked about anything or anybody except burton, and as she paid liberally for consulting the fates, this declaration necessarily points to peculiar acumen on the part of the gipsy. at one of their meetings miss arundell put round burton's neck a steel chain with a medal of the virgin mary and begged him to wear it all his life. possessing a very accommodating temperament in matters that seemed to himself of no vital importance, he consented; so it joined the star-sapphire and other amulets, holy and unholy, which, for different purposes, he carried about the world. that this medal had often acted as a preservative to burton she was in after life thoroughly convinced. chapter ix. december - st may , the unveiling of isis bibliography: . lake regions of equatorial africa. . vol. of the royal geographical society. . to fuga. january to march . the fame of a soldier having been denied him, burton now turned his thoughts once more to exploration; and his eagerness for renown is revealed conspicuously in some verses written about this time. they commence: "i wore thine image, fame, within a heart well fit to be thy shrine! others a thousand boons may gain; one wish was mine." he hoped to obtain one of its smiles and then die. a glorious hand seemed to beckon him to africa. there he was to go and find his destiny. the last stanza runs: "mine ear will hear no other sound, no other thought my heart will know. is this a sin? oh, pardon, lord! thou mad'st me so." he would obtain the fame of a great traveller; the earth should roll up for him as a carpet. happy indeed was isabel arundell when he placed the verses in her hand, but melancholy to relate, he also presented copies to his "dear louisa," and several other dears. he now read greedily all the great geographers, ancient and modern, and all the other important books bearing on african exploration. if he became an authority on herodotus, pliny, ptolemy, strabo, and pomponious mela, he became equally an authority on bruce, sonnini, lacerda, the pombeiros, monteiro and gamitto. from ptolemy downwards writers and travellers had prayed for the unveiling of isis, that is to say, the discovery of the sources of the nile; but for two thousand years every effort had proved fruitless. burning to immortalize himself by wresting from the mysterious river its immemorial secret, burton now planned an expedition for that purpose. thanks to the good offices of lord clarendon, secretary of state for foreign affairs, the royal geographical society promised him the necessary funds; while cardinal wiseman, ever his sincere friend, gave him a passport to all catholic missionaries. [ ] to burton, as we have seen, partings were always distressing, and in order to avoid bidding adieu to miss arundell he adopted his usual course, leaving a letter which mentioned love and that he was gone. he quitted england for bombay in october , and crossed to zanzibar in the elphinstone sloop of war, speke, who was to be his companion in the expedition, sailing with him. burton was in the highest spirits. "one of the gladdest moments in human life," he wrote, "is the departing upon a distant journey into unknown lands. shaking off with one effort the fetters of habit, the leaden weight of routine, the slavery of civilisation, [ ] man feels once more happy. the blood flows with the fast circulation of youth, excitement gives a new vigour to the muscles and a sense of sudden freedom adds an inch to the stature." among the crew was a midshipman, c. r. low, who became a life-long friend of burton. says mr. low, "we used to have bouts of single-stick in the pleasant evening sin the poop, and many's the time he has blacked my arms and legs with his weapons.... though a dangerous enemy, he was a warm and constant friend." [ ] on reaching zanzibar, burton, finding the season an unsuitable one for the commencement of his great expedition, resolved to make what he called "a preliminary canter." so he and speke set out on a cruise northward in a crazy old arab "beden" with ragged sails and worm-eaten timbers. they carried with them, however, a galvanised iron life-boat, "the louisa," named after burton's old love, and so felt no fear. they passed the island of pemba, and on the nd reached mombasa, which burton was glad to visit on account of its associations with camoens, who wrote so near that islet lay along the land, nought save a narrow channel stood atween; and rose a city throned on the strand, which from the margent of the seas was seen; fair built with lordly buildings tall and grand as from its offing showed all its sheen, here ruled a monarch for long years high famed, islet and city are mombasa named. [ ] indeed he never missed an opportunity of seeing spots associated with his beloved "master." then they turned southward and on february rd reached pangany, whence, in company with a facetious fellow named sudy bombay, they set out on a canoe and foot journey to fuga, which they found to be "an unfenced heap of hay cock huts." though a forbidden city to strangers they managed to get admittance by announcing themselves as "european wizards and waganga of peculiar power over the moon, the stars, the wind and the rain." they found the sultan of the place, an old man named kimwere, sick, emaciated and leprous. he required, he said, an elixir which would restore him to health, strength, and youth. this, however, despite his very respectable knowledge of medicine, burton was not able to compound, so after staying two days he took his leave. "it made me sad," says burton, "to see the wistful, lingering look with which the poor old king accompanied the word kuahery! (farewell!)" on the return journey speke shot a hippopotamus which he presented to the natives, who promptly ate it. by the time pangany was again reached both travellers were in a high fever; but regarding it simply as a seasoning, they felt gratified rather than not. when the zanzibar boat arrived speke was well enough to walk to the shore, but burton "had to be supported like a bedridden old woman." . zanzibar to tanganyika, th june to th may . burton left zanzibar on his great expedition at the end of june, carrying with him various letters of introduction from the sultan of zanzibar, a diploma signed by the shaykh el islam of mecca, and the passport already mentioned of cardinal wiseman. to his star-sapphire he added some little canvas bags containing horse chestnuts which he carried about "against the evil eye, and as a charm to ward off sickness." [ ] beside burton and speke, the party consisted of two goa boys, two negro gun-carriers, sudy bombay, and ten zanzibar mercenaries. dr. steinhauser, who had hoped to join them, was restrained by illness. "my desire," says burton, "was to ascertain the limits of tanganyika lake, to learn the ethnography of its tribes, and to determine the export of the produce of the interior." he held the streams that fed tanganyika to be the ultimate sources of the nile; and believed that the glory of their discovery would be his. fortune, however, the most fickle of goddesses, thought fit to deprive him of this ardently coveted boon. the explorers landed at wale point on june th, and on july th reached k'hutu. at dug'humi burton, despite his bags of chestnuts, fell with marsh fever, and in his fits he imagined himself to be "two persons who were inimical to each other," an idea very suitable for a man nursing the "duality" theory. when he recovered, fresh misfortunes followed, and finally all the riding asses died. burton, however, amid it all, managed to do one very humane action. he headed a little expedition against a slave raider, and had the satisfaction of restoring five poor creatures to their homes. the tropical vegetation and the pleasant streams afforded delightful vistas both by daylight and moonlight, but every mile the travellers were saddened by the sight of clean-picked skeletons or swollen corpses. sometimes they met companies of haggard, heavy-gaited men and women half blind with small-pox--the mothers carrying on their backs infants as loathsome as themselves. near every kraal stood detached huts built for the diseased to die in. they passed from this god-forsaken land to a district of springs welling with sweet water, calabashes and tamarinds, and circlets of deep, dew-fed verdure. the air was spicy, and zebras and antelopes browsed in the distance. then the scene again changed, and they were in a slimy, malarious swamp. they were bitten by pismires an inch long, and by the unmerciful tzetze fly. the mercenaries, who threatened to desert, rendered no assistance, and the leader, one said bin salim, actually refused to give burton a piece of canvas to make a tent. sudy bombay then made a memorable speech, "o said," he said, "if you are not ashamed of your master, be at least ashamed of his servant," a rebuke that had the effect of causing the man to surrender at once the whole awning. at other times the star-sapphire which burton carried on his person proved a valuable auxiliary--and convinced where words failed. but the mercenaries, mistaking burton's forbearance for weakness, became daily bolder and more insolent, and they now only awaited a convenient opportunity to kill him. one day as he was marching along, gun over shoulder and dagger in hand, he became conscious that two of his men were unpleasantly near, and after a while one of them, unaware that burton understood his language, urged the other to strike. burton did not hesitate a moment. without looking round, he thrust back his dagger, and stabbed the man dead on the spot. [ ] the other, who fell on his knees and prayed for mercy, was spared. this, however, did not cure his followers of their murderous instincts, and a little later he discovered another plot. the prospective assassins having piled a little wood where they intended to kindle a fire, went off to search for more. while they were gone burton made a hole under the wood and buried a canister of gunpowder in it. on their return the assassins lighted the fire, seated themselves comfortably round, and presently there weren't any assassins. we tell these tales just as burton told them to his intimate friends. the first may have been true, the second, we believe, simply illustrates his inveterate habit of telling tales against himself with the desire to shock. in any circumstances, his life was in constant peril; but he and the majority of the party, after unexampled tortures from thirst, arrived footsore and jaded in a veritable land of goshen--kazeh or unyanyembe, where they met some kindly arab merchants. "what a contrast," exclaims burton, "between the open-handed hospitality and the hearty good-will of this noble race--the arabs--and the niggardliness of the savage and selfish african. it was heart of flesh after heart of stone." burton found the arabs of kazeh living comfortably and even sybaritically. they had large, substantial houses, fine gardens, luxuries from the coast and "troops of concubines and slaves." burton gallantly gives the ladies their due. "among the fair of yombo," he says, "there were no fewer than three beauties--women who would be deemed beautiful in any part of the world. their faces were purely grecian; they had laughing eyes their figures were models for an artist with-- "turgide, brune, e ritondette mamme." like the 'bending statue' that delights the world. the dress--a short kilt of calabash fibre--rather set off than concealed their charms, and though destitute of petticoat they were wholly unconscious of indecorum. these beautiful domestic animals graciously smiled when in my best kenyamwezi i did my devoir to the sex; and the present of a little tobacco always secured for me a seat in the undress circle." of the native races of west africa burton gave a graphic account when he came to write the history of this expedition. [ ] all, it seems, had certain customs in common. every man drank heavily, ate to repletion and gambled. they would hazard first their property and then themselves. a negro would stake his aged mother against a cow. as for morality, neither the word nor the thing existed among them. their idea of perfect bliss was total intoxication. when ill, they applied to a medicine man, who having received a fee used it for the purpose of getting drunk, but upon his return to sobriety, he always, unless, of course, the patient took upon himself to die, instead of waiting, attended conscientiously to his duties. no self-respecting chief was ever sober after mid-day. women were fattened for marriage just as pigs are fattened for market--beauty and obesity being interchangeable terms. the wearisome proceedings in england necessary to a divorce, observes burton, are there unknown. you turn your wife out of doors, and the thing is done. the chief trouble at kazeh, as elsewhere, arose from the green scorpion, but there were also lizards and gargantuan spiders. vermin under an inch in length, such as fleas, ants, and mosquitoes, were deemed unworthy of notice. the march soon began again, but they had not proceeded many miles before burton fell with partial paralysis brought on my malaria; and speke, whom burton always called "jack," became partially blind. thoughts of the elmy fields and the bistre furrows of elstree and the tasselled coppices of tours crowded burton's brain; and he wrote: "i hear the sound i used to hear, the laugh of joy, the groan of pain, the sounds of childhood sound again death must be near." at last, on the th february they saw before them a long streak of light. "look, master, look," cried burton's arab guide, "behold the great water!" they advanced a few yards, and then an enormous expanse of blue burst into sight. there, in the lap of its steel-coloured mountains, basking in the gorgeous tropical sunshine, lay the great lake tanganyika. the goal had been reached; by his daring, shrewdness and resolution he had overcome all difficulties. like the soldiers in tacitus, in victory he found all things--health, vigour, abundance. no wonder burton felt a marvellous exultation of spirits when he viewed this great expanse of waters. here, he thought, are the sources of that ancient river--the nile. now are fulfilled the longing of two thousand years. i am the heir of the ages! having hired "a solid built arab craft," the explorers made their way first to ujiji and then to uvira, the northernmost point of the lake, which they reached on april th. on their return voyage they were caught in a terrible storm, from which they did not expect to be saved, and while the wild tumbling waves threatened momentarily to engulf them a couplet from his fragmentary kasidah kept running in burton's mind: "this collied night, these horrid waves, these gusts that sweep the whirling deep; what reck they of our evil plight, who on the shore securely sleep?" [ ] however, they came out of this peril, just as they had come out of so many others. burton also crossed the lake and landed in kazembe's country, [ ] in which he was intensely interested, and some years later he translated into english the narratives of dr. lacerda [ ] and other portuguese travellers who had visited its capital, lunda, near lake moero. . the return journey, th may to th february . the explorers left tanganyika for the return journey to zanzibar on may th. at yombo, reached june th, burton received a packet of letters, which arrived from the coast, and from one he learnt of the death of his father, which had occurred months previous. despite his researches, colonel burton was not missed in the scientific world, but his son sincerely mourned a kind-hearted and indulgent parent. at kazeh, fortune, which had hitherto been so favourable, now played burton a paltry trick. speke having expressed a wish to visit the lake now called victoria nyanza, a sheet of water which report declared to be larger than tanganyika, burton, for various reasons, thought it wiser not to accompany him. so speke went alone and continued his march until he reached the lake, the dimensions of which surpassed his most sanguine expectations. on his return to kazeh he at once declared that the victoria nyanza and its affluents were the head waters of the nile, and that consequently he had discovered them. isis (he assured burton) was at last unveiled. as a matter of fact he had no firmer ground for making that statement than burton had in giving the honour to tanganyika, and each clung tenaciously to his own theory. speke, indeed, had a very artistic eye. he not only, by guess, connected his lake with the nile, but placed on his map a very fine range of mountains which had no existence--the mountains of the moon. however, the fact remains that as regards the nile his theory turned out to be the correct one. the expedition went forward again, but his attitude towards burton henceforth changed. hitherto they had been the best of friends, and it was always "dick" and "jack," but now speke became querulous, and the mere mention of the nile gave him offence. struck down with the disease called "little irons," he thought he was being torn limb from limb by devils, giants, and lion-headed demons, and he made both in his delirium and after his recovery all kinds of wild charges against burton, and interlarded his speech with contumelious taunts--his chief grievance being burton's refusal to accept the victoria nyanza-nile theory. but burton made no retort. on the contrary, he bore speke's petulance with infinite patience. perhaps he remembered the couplet in his favourite beharistan: "true friend is he who bears with all his friend's unkindness, spite and gall." [ ] there is no need for us to side either with speke or burton. both were splendid men, and their country is proud of them. fevers, hardships, toils, disappointments, ambition, explain everything, and it is quite certain that each of the explorers inwardly recognised the merit of the other. they reached zanzibar again th march . had burton been worldly wise he would have at once returned home, but he repeated the mistake made after the journey to mecca and was again to suffer from it. speke, on the other hand, who ever had an eye to the main chance, sailed straight for england, where he arrived th may . he at once took a very unfair advantage of burton "by calling at the royal geographical society and endeavouring to inaugurate a new exploration" without his old chief. he was convinced, he said, that the victoria nyanza was the source of the nile, and he wished to set the matter at rest once and for every by visiting its northern shores. the society joined with him captain james a. grant [ ] and it was settled that this new expedition should immediately be made. speke also lectured vaingloriously at burlington house. when burton arrived in london on may st it was only to find all the ground cut from under him. while speke, the subordinate, had been welcomed like a king, he, burton, the chief of the expedition, had landed unnoticed. but the bitterest pill was the news that speke had been appointed to lead the new expedition. and as if that was not enough, captain rigby, consul at zanzibar, gave ear to and published the complaints of some of burton's dastardly native followers. although fortune cheated burton of having been the actual discoverer of the source of the nile, it must never be forgotten that all the credit of having inaugurated the expedition to central africa and of leading it are his. tanganyika--in the words of a recent writer, "is in a very true sense the heart of africa." if some day a powerful state spring up on its shores, burton will to all time be honoured as its indomitable columbus. in his journal he wrote proudly, but not untruly: "i have built me a monument stronger than brass." the territory is now german. its future masters who shall name! but whoever they may be, no difference can be made to burton's glory. kingdoms may come and kingdoms may go, but the fame of the truly great man speeds on for ever. chapter x. nd january -to august , mormons and marriage bibliography: . the city of the saints, . . we rushed into each other's arms. nd may, . during burton's absence isabel arundell tortured herself with apprehensions and fears. now and again a message from him reached her, but there were huge deserts of silence. then came the news of speke's return and lionization in london. she thus tells the story of her re-union with burton. "on may nd ( ), i chanced to call upon a friend. i was told she had gone out, but would be in to tea, and was asked to wait. in a few minutes another ring came to the door, and another visitor was also asked to wait. a voice that thrilled me through and through came up the stairs, saying, 'i want miss arundell's address.' the door opened, i turned round, and judge of my feelings when i beheld richard!.... we rushed into each other's arms.... we went down-stairs and richard called a cab, and he put me in and told the man to drive about anywhere. he put his arm round my waist, and i put my head on his shoulder." [ ] burton had come back more like a mummy than a man, with cadaverous face, brown-yellow skin hanging in bags, his eyes protruding and his lips drawn away from this teeth--the legacy of twenty-one attacks of fever. when the question of their marriage was brought before her parents, mr. arundell not only offered no impediment, but remarked: "i do not know what it is about that man, i cannot get him out of my head. i dream of him every night," but mrs. arundell still refused consent. she reiterated her statement that whereas the arundells were staunch old english catholics, burton professed no religion at all, and declared that his conversation and his books proclaimed him an agnostic. nor is it surprising that she remained obdurate, seeing that the popular imagination still continued to run riot over his supposed enormities. the midnight hallucinations of de quincey seemed to be repeating themselves in a whole nation. he had committed crimes worthy of the borgias. he had done a deed which the ibis and the crocodile trembled at. miss arundell boldly defended him against her mother, though she admitted afterwards that, circumstances considered, mrs. arundell's opposition was certainly logical. "as we cannot get your mother's consent," said burton, "we had better marry without it." "no," replied miss arundell, "that will not do," nor could any argument turn her. "you and your mother have certainly one characteristic in common," was the comment. "you are as obstinate as mules." burton was not without means, for on the death of his father he inherited some £ , , but he threw his money about with the recklessness of an aladdin, and million would have gone the same way. it was all, however, or nearly all spent in the service of the public. every expedition he made, and every book he published left him considerably the poorer. so eager for exploration was he that before the public had the opportunity to read about one expedition, he had started on another. so swiftly did he write, that before one book had left the binders, another was on its way to the printers. systole, diastole, never ceasing--never even pausing. miss arundell being inflexible, burton resolved to let the matter remain nine months in abeyance, and, inactivity being death to him, he then shot off like a rocket to america. one day in april ( ) miss arundell received a brief letter the tenor of which was as follows:--"i am off to salt lake city, and shall be back in december. think well over our affair, and if your mind is then made up we will marry." being the first intimation of his departure--for as usual there had been no good-bye--the message gave her a terrible shock. hope fled, and a prostrating illness followed. the belief that he would be killed pressed itself upon her and returned with inexplicable insistence. she picked up a newspaper, and the first thing that met her eye was a paragraph headed "murder of captain burton." the shock was terrible, but anxious enquiry revealed the murdered man to be another captain burton, not her richard. . brigham young. april to november . it was natural that, after seeing the mecca of the mohammedans, burton should turn to the mecca of the mormons, for he was always attracted by the centres of the various faiths, moreover he wished to learn the truth about a city and a religion that had previously been described only by the biassed. one writer, for instance--a lady--had vilified mormonism because "some rude men in salt lake city had walked over a bridge before her." it was scarcely the most propitious moment to start on such a journey. the country was torn with intestine contentions. the united states government were fighting the indians, and the mormons were busy stalking one another with revolvers. trifles of this kind, however, did not weigh with burton. after an uneventful voyage across the atlantic, and a conventional journey overland, he arrived at st. joseph, popularly st. jo, on the missouri. here he clothed himself like a backwoodsman, taking care, however, to put among this luggage a silk hat and a frock coat in order to make an impression among the saints. he left st. jo on august th and at alcali lake saw the curious spectacle of an indian remove. the men were ill-looking, and used vermilion where they ought to have put soap; the squaws and papooses comported with them; but there was one pretty girl who had "large, languishing eyes, and sleek black hair like the ears of a king charles spaniel." the indians followed burton's waggon for miles, now and then peering into it and crying "how! how!" the normal salutation. his way then lay by darkling canons, rushing streams and stupendous beetling cliffs fringed with pines. arrived at his destination, he had no difficulty, thanks to the good offices of a fellow traveller, in mixing in the best mormon society. he found himself in a garden city. every householder had from five to ten acres in the suburbs, and one and a half close at home; and the people seemed happy. he looked in vain, however, for the spires of the mormon temple which a previous writer had described prettily as glittering in the sunlight. all he could find was "a great hole in the ground," said to be the beginning of a baptismal font, with a plain brick building, the tabernacle, at a little distance. after a service at the "tabernacle" he was introduced to brigham young, a farmer-like man of , who evinced much interest in the tanganyika journey and discussed stock, agriculture and religion; but when burton asked to be admitted as a mormon, young replied, with a smile, "i think you've done that sort of thing once before, captain." so burton was unable to add mormonism to his five or six other religions. burton then told with twinkling eyes a pitiful tale of how he, an unmarried man, had come all the way to salt lake city, requiring a wife, but had found no wives to be had, all the ladies having been snapped up by the saints. a little later the two men, who had taken a stroll together, found themselves on an eminence which commanded a view both of the salt lake city and the great salt lake. brigham young pointed out the various spots of interest, "that's brother dash's house, that block just over there is occupied by brother x's wives. elder y's wives reside in the next block and brother z's wives in that beyond it. my own wives live in that many-gabled house in the middle." waving his right hand towards the vastness of the great salt lake, burton exclaimed, with gravity: "water, water, everywhere" and then waving his left towards the city, he added, pathetically: "but not a drop to drink." brigham young, who loved a joke as dearly as he loved his seventeen wives, burst out into hearty laughter. in his book, "the city of the saints," burton assures us that polygamy was admirably suited for the mormons, and he gives the religious, physiological and social motives for a plurality of wives then urged by that people. economy, he tells us, was one of them. "servants are rare and costly; it is cheaper and more comfortable to marry them. many converts are attracted by the prospect of becoming wives, especially from places like clifton, near bristol, where there are females to males. the old maid is, as the ought to be, an unknown entity." [ ] burton himself received at least one proposal of marriage there; and the lady, being refused, spread the rumour that it was the other way about. "why," said burton, "it's like a certain miss baxter, who refused a man before he'd axed her." [ ] as regards the country itself nothing struck him so much as its analogy to palestine. a small river runs from the wahsatch mountains, corresponding to lebanon, and flows into lake utah, which represents lake tiberias, whence a river called the jordan flows past salt lake city into the great salt lake, just as the palestine jordan flows into the dead sea. from salt lake city, burton journeyed by coach and rail to san francisco, whence he returned home via panama. . marriage. nd january . he arrived in england at christmas , and miss arundell, although her mother still frowned, now consented to the marriage. she was years old, she said, and could no longer be treated as a child. ten years had elapsed since burton, who was now , had first become acquainted with her, and few courtships could have been more chequered. "i regret that i am bringing you no money," observed miss arundell. "that is not a disadvantage as far as i am concerned," replied burton, "for heiresses always expect to lord it over their lords."--"we will have no show," he continued, "for a grand marriage ceremony is a barbarous and an indelicate exhibition." so the wedding, which took place at the bavarian catholic church, warwick street, london, on nd january , was all simplicity. as they left the church mrs. burton called to mind gipsy hagar, her couched eyes and her reiterated prophecy. the luncheon was spread at the house of a medical friend, dr. bird, , welbeck street, and in the midst of it burton told some grisly tales of his adventures in the nedj and somaliland, including an account of the fight at berbera. "now, burton," interrupted dr. bird, "tell me how you feel when you have killed a man." to which burton replied promptly and with a sly look, "quite jolly, doctor! how do you?" after the luncheon burton and his wife walked down to their lodgings in bury street, st. james's, where mrs. burton's boxes had been despatched in a four-wheeler; and from bury street, burton, as soon as he could pick up a pen, wrote in his fine, delicate hand as follows to mr. arundell: "january , [ ] "bury street, "st. james. "my dear father, "i have committed a highway robbery by marrying your daughter isabel, at warwick street church, and before the registrar--the details she is writing to her mother. "it only remains to me to say that i have no ties or liaisons of any sort, that the marriage is perfectly legal and respectable. i want no money with isabel: i can work, and it will be my care that time shall bring you nothing to regret. "i am "yours sincerely, "richard f. burton." "there is one thing," said burton to his wife, "i cannot do, and that is, face congratulations, so, if you are agreeable, we will pretend that we have been married some months." such matters, however, are not easy to conceal, and the news leaked out. "i am surprised," said his cousin, dr. edward j. burton, to him a few days later, "to find that you are married." "i am myself even more surprised than you," was the reply. "isabel is a strong-willed woman. she was determined to have her way and she's got it." with mr. arundell, burton speedily became a prime favourite, and his attitude towards his daughter was metastasio's: "yes, love him, love him, he is deserving even of such infinite bliss;" but mrs. arundell, poor lady, found it hard to conquer her prejudice. only a few weeks before her death she was heard to exclaim, "dick burton is no relation of mine." let us charitably assume, however, that it was only in a moment of irritation. isabel burton, though of larger build than most women, was still a dream of beauty; and her joy in finding herself united to the man she loved gave her a new radiance. her beauty, however, was of a rather coarse grain, and even those most attached to her remarked in her a certain lack of refinement. she was a goddess at a little distance. her admiration of her husband approached worship. she says, "i used to like to sit and look at him; and to think 'you are mine, and there is no man on earth the least like you.'" their married life was not without its jars, but a more devoted wife burton could not have found; and he, though certainly in his own fashion, was sincerely and continuously attached to her. if the difference in their religious opinions sometimes led to amusing skirmishes, it was, on the other hand, never allowed to be a serious difficulty. the religious question, however, often made unpleasantness between mrs. burton and lady stisted and her daughters--who were staunch protestants of the georgian and unyielding school. when the old english catholic and the old english protestant met there were generally sparks. the trouble originated partly from mrs. burton's impulsiveness and want of tact. she could not help dragging in her religion at all sorts of unseasonable times. she would introduce into her conversation and letters remarks that a moment's reflection would have told her could only nauseate her protestant friends. "the blessed virgin," or some holy saint or other was always intruding on the text. her head was lost in her heart. she was once in terrible distress because she had mislaid some trifle that had been touched by the pope, though not in more distress, perhaps, than her husband would have been had he lost his sapphire talisman, and she was most careful to see that the lamps which she lighted before the images of certain saints never went out. burton himself looked upon all this with amused complacency and observed that she was a figure stayed somehow from the middle ages. if the mediaeval mrs. burton liked to illuminate the day with lamps or camphorated tapers, that, he said, was her business; adding that the light of the sun was good enough for him. he objected at first to her going to confession, but subsequently made no further reference to the subject. once, even, in a moment of weakness, he gave her five pounds to have masses said for her dead brother; just as one might give a child a penny to buy a top. he believed in god, and tried to do what he thought right, fair and honourable, not for the sake of reward, as he used to say, but simply because it was right, fair and honourable. occasionally he accompanied his wife to mass, and she mentions that he always bowed his head at "hallowed by thy name," which "shows," as dr. johnson would have commented, "that he had good principles." mrs. burton generally called her husband "dick," but frequently, especially in letters, he is "the bird," a name which he deserved, if only on account of his roving propensities. often, however, for no reason at all, she called him "jimmy," and she was apt in her admiration of him and pride of possession, to dick and jimmy it too lavishly among casual acquaintances. indeed, the tyranny of her heart over her head will force itself upon our notice at every turn. it is pleasant to be able to state that mrs. burton and burton's "dear louisa" (mrs. segrave) continued to be the best of friends, and had many a hearty laugh over bygone petty jealousies. one day, after calling on mrs. segrave, burton and his wife, who was dressed in unusual style, lunched with dr. and mrs. e. j. burton. "isabel looks very smart to-day," observed mrs. e. j. burton. "yes," followed burton, "she always wears her best when we go to see my dear louisa." burton took a pleasure in sitting up late. "indeed," says one of his friends, "he would talk all night in preference to going to bed, and, in the chaucerian style, he was a brilliant conversationalist, and his laugh was like the rattle of a pebble across a frozen pond." "no man of sense," burton used to say, "rises, except in mid-summer, before the world is brushed and broomed, aired and sunned." later, however, he changed his mind, and for the last twenty years of his life he was a very early riser. among burton's wedding gifts were two portraits--himself and his wife--in one frame, the work of louis desanges, the battle painter whose acquaintance he had made when a youth at lucca. burton appears with atlantean shoulders, strong mouth, penthouse eyebrows, and a pair of enormous pendulous moustaches, which made him look very like a chinaman. now was this an accident, for his admiration of the chinese was always intense. he regarded them as "the future race of the east," just as he regarded the slav as the future race of europe. many years later he remarked of gordon's troops, that they had shown the might that was slumbering in a nation of three hundred millions. china armed would be a colossus. some day russia would meet china face to face--the splendid empire of central asia the prize. the future might of japan he did not foresee. says lady burton: "we had a glorious season, and took up our position in society. lord houghton (monckton milnes) was very much attached to richard, and he settled the question of our position by asking his friend, lord palmerston, to give a party, and to let me be the bride of the evening, and when i arrived lord palmerston gave me his arm.... lady russell presented me at court 'on my marriage.'" [ ] mrs. burton's gaslight beauty made her the cynosure of all eyes. . at lord houghton's. at fryston, lord houghton's seat, the burtons met carlyle, froude, mr. a. c. swinburne, who had just published his first book, the queen mother and rosamund, [ ] and vambery, the hungarian linguist and traveller. born in hungary, of poor jewish parents, vambery had for years a fierce struggle with poverty. having found his way to constantinople, he applied himself to the study of oriental languages, and at the time he visited fryston he was planning the most picturesque event of his life--namely, his journey to khiva, bokhara and samarcand, which in emulation of burton he accomplished in the disguise of a dervish. [ ] he told the company some hungarian tales and then burton, seated cross-legged on a cushion, recited portions of fitzgerald's adaptation of omar khayyam, [ ] the merits of which he was one of the first to recognise. burton and lord houghton also met frequently in london, and they corresponded regularly for many years. [ ] "richard and i," says mrs. burton, writing to lord houghton th august , "would have remained very much in the background if you had not taken us by the hand and pulled us into notice." a friendship also sprang up between burton and mr. swinburne, and the burtons were often the guests of mrs. burton's uncle, lord gerard, who resided at garswood, near st. helens, lancashire. chapter xi. august -november , fernando po bibliography: . wanderings in west africa. vols. . . prairie traveller, by r. b. marcy. edited by burton . . abeokuta and the cameroons. vols. . . a day among the fans. th february . . the nile basin, . . african gold. as the result of his exceptional services to the public burton had hoped that he would obtain some substantial reward; and his wife persistently used all the influence at her disposal to this end. everyone admitted his immense brain power, but those mysterious rumours due to his enquiries concerning secret eastern habits and customs dogged him like some terrible demon. people refused to recognise that he had pursued his studies in the interest of learning and science. they said, absurdly enough, "a man who studies vice must be vicious." his insubordination at various times, his ungovernable temper, and his habit of saying out bluntly precisely what he thought, also told against him. then did mrs. burton commence that great campaign which is her chief title to fame--the defence of her husband. though, as we have already shown, a person of but superficial education; though, life through, she never got more than a smattering of any one branch of knowledge; nevertheless by dint of unremitting effort she eventually prevailed upon the public to regard burton with her own eyes. she wrote letters to friends, to enemies, to the press. she wheedled, she bullied, she threatened, she took a hundred other courses--all with one purpose. she was very often woefully indiscreet, but nobody can withhold admiration for her. burton was scarcely a model husband--he was too peremptory and inattentive for that--but this self-sacrifice and hero worship naturally told on him, and he became every year more deeply grateful to her. he laughed at her foibles--he twitted her on her religion and her faulty english, but he came to value the beauty of her disposition, and the goodness of her heart even more highly than the graces of her person. all, however, that his applications, her exertions, and the exertions of her friends could obtain from the foreign secretary (lord russell) [ ] was the consulship of that white man's grave, fernando po, with a salary of £ a year. in other words he was civilly shelved to a place where all his energies would be required for keeping himself alive. "they want me to die," said burton, bitterly, "but i intend to live, just to spite the devils." it is the old tale, england breeds great men, but grudges them opportunities for the manifestation of their greatness. the days that remained before his departure, burton spent at various society gatherings, but the pleasures participated in by him and his wife were neutralised by a great disaster, namely the loss of all his persian and arabic manuscripts in a fire at grindley's where they had been stored. he certainly took his loss philosophically; but he could never think of the event without a sigh. owing to the unwholesomeness of the climate of fernando po, mrs. burton was, of course, unable to accompany him. they separated at liverpool, th august . an embrace, "a heart wrench;" and then a wave of the handkerchief, while "the blackbird" african steam ship fussed its way out of the mersey, having on board the british scape-goat sent away--"by the hand of a fit man"--one "captain english"--into the wilderness of fernando po. "unhappily," commented burton, "i am not one of those independents who can say ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute." the stoic, however, after a fair fight, eventually vanquished the husband. still he did not forget his wife; and in his wanderings in west africa, a record of this voyage, there is a very pretty compliment to her which, however, only the initiated would recognise. after speaking of the black-haired, black-eyed women of the south of europe, and giving them their due, he says, "but after a course of such charms, one falls back with pleasure upon brown, yellow or what is better than all, red-auburn locks and eyes of soft, limpid blue." how the blue eyes of mrs. burton must have glistened when she read those words; and we can imagine her taking one more look in the glass to see if her hair really was red-auburn, as, of course, it was. burton dedicated this work to the "true friends" of the dark continent, "not to the 'philanthropist' or to exeter hall." [ ] one of its objects was to give a trustworthy account of the negro character and to point out the many mistakes that well-intentioned englishmen had made in dealing with it. to put it briefly, he says that the negro [ ] is an inferior race, and that neither education nor anything else can raise it to the level of the white. after witnessing, at the grand bonny river, a horrid exhibition called a juju or sacrifice house, he wrote, "there is apparently in this people [the negroes] a physical delight in cruelty to beast as well as to man. the sight of suffering seems to bring them an enjoyment without which the world is tame; probably the wholesale murderers and torturers of history, from phalaris and nero downwards, took an animal and sensual pleasure in the look of blood, and in the inspection of mortal agonies. i can see no other explanation of the phenomena which meet my eye in africa. in almost all the towns on the oil rivers, you see dead or dying animals in some agonizing position." [ ] cowper had written: "skins may differ, but affection dwells in white and black the same;" "which i deny," comments burton, "affection, like love, is the fruit of animalism refined by sentiment." he further declares that the black is in point of affection inferior to the brutes. "no humane englishman would sell his dog to a negro." [ ] the phrase "god's image in ebony" lashed him to a fury. of his landing at sierra leone he gives the following anecdote: [ ] "the next day was sunday, and in the morning i had a valise carried up to the house to which i had been invited. when i offered the man sixpence, the ordinary fee, he demanded an extra sixpence, 'for breaking the sabbath.' i gave it readily, and was pleased to find that the labours of our missionaries had not been in vain." at cape coast castle, he recalled the sad fate of "l.e.l." [ ] and watched the women "panning the sand of the shore for gold." he found that, in the hill region to the north, gold digging was carried on to a considerable extent. "the pits," he says, "varying from two to three feet in diameter, and from twelve to fifty feet deep, are often so near the roads that loss of life has been the result. shoring up being little known, the miners are not infrequently buried alive.... this ophir, this california, where every river is a tmolus and a pactolus, every hillock a gold-field--does not contain a cradle, a puddling-machine, a quartz crusher, a pound of mercury." that a land apparently so wealthy should be entirely neglected by british capitalists caused burton infinite surprise, but he felt certain that it had a wonderful future. his thoughts often reverted thither, and we shall find him later in life taking part in an expedition sent out to report upon certain of its gold fields. [ ] by september th the "blackbird" lay in clarence cove, fernando po; and the first night he spent on shore, burton, whose spirits fell, wondered whether he was to find a grave there like that other great african traveller, the cornish richard lander. [ ] . anecdotes. fernando po, [ ] he tells us, is an island in which man finds it hard to live and very easy to die. it has two aspects. about christmas time it is "in a state deeper than rest": "a kind of sleepy venus seemed dudu." but from may to november it is the rainy season. the rain comes down "a sheet of solid water, and often there is lightning accompanied by deafening peals of thunder." the capital, sta. isabel, nee clarence, did not prepossess him. pallid men--chiefly spaniards--sat or lolled languidly in their verandahs, or crawled about the baking-hot streets. strangers fled the place like a pestilence. fortunately the spanish colony were just establishing a sanitarium--sta. cecilia-- metres above sea level; consequently health was within reach of those who would take the trouble to seek it; and burton was not slow to make a sanitarium of his own even higher up. to the genuine natives or bubes he was distinctly attracted. they lived in sheds without walls, and wore nothing except a hat, which prevented the tree snakes from falling on them. the impudence of the negroes, however, who would persist in treating the white man not even as an equal, but as an inferior, he found to be intolerable. shortly after his arrival "a nigger dandy" swaggered into the consulate, slapped him on the back in a familiar manner, and said with a loud guffaw, "shake hands, consul. how d'ye do?" burton looked steadily at the man for a few moments, and then calling to his canoe-men said, "hi, kroo-boys, just throw this nigger out of window, will you?" the boys, delighted with the task, seized the black gentleman by his head and feet, and out of the window he flew. as the scene was enacted on the ground floor the fall was no great one, but it was remarked that henceforward the niggers of fernando po were less condescending to the consul. when night fell and the fire-flies began to glitter in the orange trees, burton used to place on the table before him a bottle of brandy, a box of cigars, and a bowl containing water and a handkerchief and then write till he was weary; [ ] rising now and again to wet his forehead with the handkerchief or to gaze outside at the palm plumes, transmuted by the sheen of the moon into lucent silver--upon a scene that would have baffled the pen even of an isaiah or a virgil. the captains of ships calling at sta. isabel were, it seems, in the habit of discharging their cargoes swiftly and steaming off again without losing a moment. as this caused both inconvenience and loss to the merchants from its allowing insufficient time to read and answer correspondence, they applied to burton for remedy. after the next ship had discharged, its captain walked into the consulate and exclaimed off-handedly, "now, consul, quick with my papers; i want to be off." burton looked up and replied unconcernedly: "i haven't finished my letters." "oh d----- your letters," cried the captain, "i can't wait for them." "stop a bit," cried burton, "let's refer to your contract," and he unfolded the paper. "according to this, you have to stay here eighteen hours' daylight, in order to give the merchants an opportunity of attending to their correspondence." "yes," followed the captain," but that rule has never been enforced." "are you going to stay?" enquired burton. "no," replied the captain, with an oath. "very good," followed burton. "now i am going straight to the governor's and i shall fire two guns. if you go one minute before the prescribed time expires i shall send the first shot right across your bows, and the second slap into you. good-day." [ ] the captain did not venture to test the threat; and the merchants had henceforth no further trouble under his head. . fans and gorillas. during his consulship, burton visited a number of interesting spots on the adjoining african coasts, including abeokuta [ ] and benin, but no place attracted him more than the cameroon country; and his work two trips to gorilla land [ ] is one of the brightest and raciest of all his books. the fan cannibals seem to have specially fascinated him. "the fan," he says "like all inner african tribes, with whom fighting is our fox-hunting, live in a chronic state of ten days' war. battles are not bloody; after two or three warriors have fallen their corpses are dragged away to be devoured, their friends save themselves by flight, and the weaker side secures peace by paying sheep and goats." burton, who was present at a solemn dance led by the king's eldest daughter, gondebiza, noticed that the men were tall and upright, the women short and stout. on being addressed "mbolane," he politely replied "an," which in cannibal-land is considered good form. he could not, however, bring himself to admire gondebiza, though the monsieur worth of fanland had done his utmost for her. still, she must have looked really engaging in a thin pattern of tattoo, a gauze work of oil and camwood, a dwarf pigeon tail of fan palm for an apron, and copper bracelets and anklets. the much talked of gorilla burton found to be a less formidable creature than previous travellers had reported. "the gorilla," he, says, in his matter-of-fact way, "is a poor devil ape, not a hellish dream creature, half man, half beast." burton not only did not die at fernando po, he was not even ill. whenever langour and fever threatened he promptly winged his way to his eyrie on the pico de sta. isabel, where he made himself comfortable and listened with complaisance to lord russell and friends three thousand miles away fuming and gnashing their teeth. . the anthropological society, th jan. . after an absence of a year and a half, burton, as the result of his wife's solicitation at the foreign office, obtained four months' leave. he reached england in december and spent christmas with her at wardour castle, the seat of her kinsman, lord arundell. his mind ran continually on the gold coast and its treasures. "if you will make me governor of the gold coast," he wrote to lord russell, "i will send home a million a year," but in reply, russell, with eyes unbewitched [ ] observed caustically that gold was getting too common. burton's comment was an explosion that terrorised everyone near him. he then amused himself by compiling a pamphlet on west african proverbs, one of which, picked up in the yorubas country, ran, oddly enough: "anger draweth arrows from the quiver: good words draw kolas from the bag." the principal event of this holiday was the foundation, with the assistance of dr. james hunt, of the anthropological society of london ( th january ). the number who met was eleven. says burton, "each had his own doubts and hopes and fears touching the vitality of the new-born. still, we knew that our case was good.... we all felt the weight of a great want. as a traveller and a writer of travels i have found it impossible to publish those questions of social economy and those physiological observations, always interesting to our common humanity, and at times so valuable." the memoirs of the anthropological society, [ ] met this difficulty. burton was the first president, and in two years the society, which met at no. , st. martin's place, had members. "these rooms," burton afterwards commented, "now offer a refuge to destitute truth. there any man, monogenist, polygenist, eugenestic or dysgenestic, may state the truth as far as is in him." the history of the society may be summed up in a few words. in it united with the enthnological society and formed the anthropological institute of great britain. in certain members of the old society, including burton, founded the london anthropological society, and issued a periodical called anthropologia, of which burton wrote in , "my motive was to supply travellers with an organ which would rescue their observations from the outer darkness of manuscript and print their curious information on social and sexual matters out of place in the popular book intended for the nipptisch, and indeed better kept from public view. but hardly had we begun when 'respectability,' that whited sepulchre full of all uncleanness, rose up against us. 'propriety' cried us down with her brazen, blatant voice, and the weak-kneed brethren fell away. [ ] yet the organ was much wanted and is wanted still." [ ] soon after the founding of the society burton, accompanied by his wife, took a trip to madeira and then proceeded to teneriffe, where they parted, he going on to fernando po and she returning to england; but during the next few years she made several journeys to teneriffe, where, by arrangement, they periodically met. chapter xii. th november to th september , gelele bibliography: . a mission to the king of dahome. vols., . . notes on marcy's prairie traveller. anthropological review, . . whydah and its deity. th november . in november the welcome intelligence reached burton that the british government had appointed him commissioner and bearer of a message to gelele, king of dahomey. he was to take presents from queen victoria and to endeavour to induce gelele to discontinue both human sacrifices and the sale of slaves. mrs. burton sadly wanted to accompany him. she thought that with a magic lantern and some slides representing new testament scenes she could convert gelele and his court from fetishism to catholicism. [ ] but burton, who was quite sure that he could get on better alone, objected that her lantern would probably be regarded as a work of magic, and that consequently both he and she would run the risk of being put to death for witchcraft. so, very reluctantly, she abandoned the idea. burton left fernando po in the "antelope" on th november , and, on account of the importance attached by savages to pageantry, entered whydah, the port of dahomey, in some state. while waiting for the royal permit to start up country he amused himself by looking round the town. its lions were the great market and the boa temple. the latter was a small mud hut, with a thatched roof; and of the 'boas,' which tuned out to be pythons, he counted seven, each about five feet long. the most popular deity of whydah, however, was the priapic legba, a horrid mass of red clay moulded into an imitation man with the abnormalities of the roman deity. "the figure," he tells us, "is squat, crouched, as it were, before its own attributes, with arms longer than a gorilla's. the head is of mud or wood rising conically to an almost pointed poll; a dab of clay represents the nose; the mouth is a gash from ear to ear. this deity almost fills a temple of dwarf thatch, open at the sides. ...legba is of either sex, but rarely feminine.... in this point legba differs from the classical pan and priapus, but the idea involved is the same. the dahoman, like almost all semi-barbarians, considers a numerous family the highest blessing." the peculiar worship of legba consisted of propitiating his or her characteristics by unctions of palm oil, and near every native door stood a clay legba-pot of cooked maize and palm oil, which got eaten by the turkey-buzzard or vulture. this loathsome fowl, perched upon the topmost stick of a blasted calabash tree, struck burton as the most appropriate emblem of rotten and hopeless dahomey. . the amazons. gelele's permit having arrived, the mission lost no time in proceeding northward. burton was accompanied by dr. cruikshank of the "antelope," a coloured wesleyan minister of whydah, named bernisco, and a hundred servants. at every halting place the natives capered before them and tabored a welcome, while at kama, where gelele was staying, they not only played, but burst out with an extemporaneous couplet in burton's honour: "batunu [ ]he hath seen the world with its kings and caboceers, he now cometh to dahomey, and he shall see everything here." burton presently caught sight of gelele's body-guard of , women--the famous amazons, who were armed with muskets, and habited in tunics and white calottes. with great protruding lips, and no chin to speak of, they were surely the ugliest women in the world. of their strength, however, there was no question, and burton says that all the women of dahomey are physically superior to the men, which accounts for the employment of so many of them as soldiers. the amazons were bound to celibacy, and they adhered to it so scrupulously that when burton arrived, there were only under confinement for breaking their vow. gelele who was years of age, and six feet high, sat under the shade of a shed-gate, smoking a pipe, with a throng of his wives squatted in a semi-circle round him. all were ugly to a wonder, but they atoned for their deplorable looks by their extreme devotion to, or rather adulation of their master. when perspiration appeared upon the royal brow, one of them at once removed it with the softest cloth, if his dress was disarranged it was instantly adjusted, when he drank every lip uttered an exclamation of blessing. gelele, drowsy with incense, received burton kindly, and treated him during the whole of his stay with hospitality. he also made some display of pageantry, though it was but a tawdry show. at the capital, abomey, "batunu" was housed with a salacious old "afa-diviner" [ ] called buko-no, who was perpetually begging for aphrodisiacs. . "the customs." upon gelele's arrival at abomey the presents from the queen were delivered; and on december th what was called "the customs" began, that is the slaughtering of criminals and persons captured in war. burton begged off some of the victims, and he declared that he would turn back at once if any person was killed before his eyes. he tells us, however, that in the case of the king of dahomey, human sacrifice is not attributable to cruelty. "it is a touching instance of the king's filial piety, deplorably mistaken, but perfectly sincere." the world to come is called by the dahomans "deadland." it receives the 'nidon' or soul; but in "deadland" there are no rewards or punishments. kings here are kings there, the slave is a slave for ever and ever; and people occupy themselves just the same as on earth. as the dahoman sovereign is obliged to enter deadland, his pious successor takes care that the deceased shall make this entrance in royal state, "accompanied by a ghostly court of leopard wives, head wives, birthday wives, afa wives, eunuchs, singers, drummers, bards and soldiers." consequently when a king dies some persons are put to death, their cries being drowned by the clangour of drums and cymbals. this is called the "grand customs." every year, moreover, decorum exacts that the firstfruits of war and all criminals should be sent as recruits to swell the king's retinue. hence the ordinary "annual customs," at which some perish. burton thus describes the horrors of the approach to the "palace"--that is to say, a great thatched shed--on the fifth day of the "customs." "four corpses, attired in their criminal's shirts and night-caps, were sitting in pairs upon gold coast stools, supported by a double-storied scaffold, about forty feet high, of rough beams, two perpendiculars and as many connecting horizontals. at a little distance on a similar erection, but made for half the number, were two victims, one above the other. between these substantial structures was a gallows of thin posts, some thirty feet tall, with a single victim hanging by the heels head downwards." hard by were two others dangling side by side. the corpses were nude and the vultures were preying upon them, and squabbling over their hideous repast. all this was grisly enough, but there was no preventing it. then came the court revels. the king danced in public, and at his request, burton and dr. cruikshank also favoured the company. bernisco, when called upon, produced a concertina and played "o, let us be joyful, when we meet to part no more." the idea, however, of getting to any place where he would never be separated from gelele, his brutish court, his corpses and his vultures severely tried burton's gravity. gelele, who was preparing for an unprovoked attack upon abeokuta, the capital of the neighbouring state of lagos, now made some grandiose and rhapsodical war speeches and spoke vauntingly of the deeds that he and his warriors meant to perform, while every now and then the younger bloods, eager to flesh their spears, burst out with: "when we go to war we must slay men, and so must abeokuta be destroyed." the leave-taking between gelele and "batunu" was affecting. burton presented his host with a few not very valuable presents, and gelele in return pressed upon his guest a cheap counterpane and a slave boy who promptly absconded. whydah was reached again on th february , and within a week came news that gelele, puffed up with confidence and vainglory, had set out for abeokuta, and was harrying that district. he and his amazons, however, being thoroughly defeated before the walls of the town, had to return home in what to any other power would have been utter disgrace. they manage things differently, however, in dahomey, for gelele during his retreat purchased a number of slaves, and re-entered his capital a triumphing conqueror. burton considered gelele, despite his butcherings and vapourings, as, on the whole, quite a phoenix for an african. indeed, some months after his mission, in conversations with froude, the historian, he became even warm when speaking of the lenity, benevolence and enlightenment of this excellent king. froude naturally enquired why, if the king was so benevolent, he did not alter the murderous "customs." burton looked up with astonishment. "alter the customs!" he said, "would you have the archbishop of canterbury alter the liturgy!" to a friend who observed that the customs of dahomey were very shocking, burton replied: "not more so than those of england." "but you admit yourself that eighty persons are sacrificed every year." "true, and the number of deaths in england caused by the crinoline alone numbers ." [ ] . death of speke, th september . in august burton again obtained a few months' leave, and before the end of the month he arrived at liverpool. it will be remembered that after the burton and speke expedition of speke was to go out to africa again in company with captain j. grant. the expedition not only explored the western and northern shores of the victoria nyanza, but followed for some distance the river proceeding northwards from it, which they held, and as we now know, correctly, to be the main stream of the nile. burton, however, was still of the opinion that the honour of being the head waters of that river belonged to tanganyika and its affluents. the subject excited considerable public interest and it was arranged that at the approaching bath meeting of the british association, speke and burton should hold a public disputation upon the great question. speke's attitude towards burton in respect to their various discoveries had all along been incapable of defence, while burton throughout had exhibited noble magnanimity. for example, he had written on th june from the bonny river to staff-commander c. george, "please let me hear all details about captain speke's discovery. he has performed a magnificent feat and now rises at once to the first rank amongst the explorers of the day." [ ] though estranged, the two travellers still occasionally communicated, addressing each other, however, not as "dear dick" and "dear jack" as aforetime--using, indeed, not "dear" at all, but the icy "sir." seeing that on public occasions speke still continued to talk vaingloriously and to do all in his power to belittle the work of his old chief, burton was naturally incensed, and the disputation promised to be a stormy one. the great day arrived, and no melodramatic author could have contrived a more startling, a more shocking denouement. burton, notes in hand, stood on the platform, facing the great audience, his brain heavy with arguments and bursting with sesquipedalian and sledge-hammer words to pulverize his exasperating opponent. mrs. burton, who had dressed with unusual care, occupied a seat on the platform. "from the time i went in to the time i came out," says one who was present, "i could do nothing but admire her. i was dazed by her beauty." the council and other speakers filed in. the audience waited expectant. to burton's surprise speke was not there. silence having been obtained, the president advanced and made the thrilling announcement that speke was dead. he had accidentally shot himself that very morning when out rabbiting. burton sank into a chair, and the workings of his face revealed the terrible emotion he was controlling and the shock he had received. when he got home he wept like a child. at this point the grotesque trenches on the tragic. on recovering his calmness, burton expressed his opinion, and afterwards circulated it, that speke had committed suicide in order to avoid "the exposure of his misstatements in regard to the nile sources." in other words, that speke had destroyed himself lest arguments, subsequently proved to be fundamentally correct, should be refuted. but it was eminently characteristic of burton to make statements which rested upon insufficient evidence, and we shall notice it over and over again in his career. that was one of the glorious man's most noticeable failings. it would here, perhaps, be well to make a brief reference to the expeditions that settled once and for ever the questions about tanganyika and the nile. in march , henry m. stanley set out from bagamoro in search of livingstone, whom he found at ujiji. they spent the early months of together exploring the north end of tanganyika, and proved conclusively that the lake had no connection with the nile basin. in march , lieutenant verney lovett cameron, who was appointed to the command of an expedition to relieve livingstone, arrived at unyanyembe, where he met livingstone's followers bearing their master's remains to the coast. cameron then proceeded to ujiji, explored tanganyika and satisfied himself that this lake was connected with the congo system. he then continued his way across the continent and came out at banguelo, after a journey which had occupied two years and eight months, stanley, who, in , made his famous journey from bagamoro via victoria nyanza to tanganyika and then followed the congo from nyangwe, on the lualaba, to the sea, verified cameron's conjecture. at the end of the year the burtons made the acquaintance of the african traveller winwood reade; and we next hear of a visit to ireland, which included a day at tuam, where "the name of burton was big," on account of the rector and the bishop, [ ] burton's grandfather and uncle. chapter xiii. september -october santos, burton's second consulate bibliography: . speech before the anthropological society. th april . . wit and wisdom from west africa. . . pictorial pilgrimage to mecca and medina. . psychic facts, by francis baker (burton). . . notes... connected with the dahoman. . . on an hermaphrodite. . . exploration of the highland of the brazil. vols. . . to santos. owing mainly to mrs. burton's solicitation, burton was now transferred from fernando po to santos, in brazil, so it was no longer necessary for him and his wife to live apart. he wrote altogether upon his west african adventures, the enormous number of volumes! namely: wanderings in west africa ( vols.), abeokuta and the cameroons ( vols.), a mission to the king of dahome ( vols.), wit and wisdom from west africa ( vol.), two trips to gorilla land and the cataracts of the congo ( vols.). remorselessly condensed, these nine might, with artistry, have made a book worthy to live. but burton's prolixity is his reader's despair. he was devoid of the faintest idea of proportion. consequently at the present day his books are regarded as mere quarries. he dedicated his abeokuta "to my best friend," my wife, with a latin verse which has been rendered: "oh, i could live with thee in the wild wood where human foot hath never worn a way; with thee, my city, and my solitude, light of my night, sweet rest from cares by day." in her own copy mrs. burton wrote close to the lines, "thank you, sweet love!" [ ] burton and his wife now set out for lisbon, where they saw a bull-fight, because burton said people "ought to see everything once," though this did not prevent them from going to several other bull-fights. mrs. burton was not at all afraid of the bulls, but when some cockroaches invaded her apartment she got on a chair and screamed, though even then they did not go away. more than that, numbers of other cockroaches came to see what was the matter; and they never left off coming. after "a delightful two months" at lisbon, burton set out for brazil, while his wife returned to england "to pay and pack." she rejoined him some weeks later at rio janeiro, and they reached santos on th october . they found it a plashy, swampy place, prolific in mangroves and true ferns, with here and there a cultivated patch. settlers, however, became attached to it. sandflies and mosquitoes abounded, and the former used to make burton "come out all over lumps." of the other vermin, including multitudinous snakes, and hairy spiders the size of toy terriers they took no particular notice. the amenities of the place were wonderful orchids, brilliantly coloured parrots and gigantic butterflies with great prismy wings. the burtons kept a number of slaves, whom, however, they paid "as if they were free men," and mrs. burton erected a chapel for them--her oratory--where the bishop "gave her leave to have mass and the sacraments." her chief convert, and he wanted converting very badly, was an inhuman, pusillanimous coal-black dwarf, years of age, called chico, [ ] who became her right-hand man. just as she had made him to all appearance a good sound catholic she caught him roasting alive her favourite cat before the kitchen fire. this was the result partly of innate diablery and partly of her having spoilt him, but wherever she went mrs. burton managed to get a servant companion whom her lack of judgment made an intolerable burden to her. chico was only the first of a series. mrs. burton also looked well after the temporal needs of the neighbourhood, but if she was always the lady bountiful, she was rarely the lady judicious. . aubertin. death of steinhauser, th july . the burtons resided sometimes at santos and sometimes at sao paulo, eight miles inland. these towns were just then being connected by railway; and one of the superintendents, mr. john james aubertin, who resided at sao paulo, became burton's principal friend there. aubertin was generally known as the "father of cotton," because during the days of the cotton famine, he had laboured indefatigably and with success to promote the cultivation of the shrub in those parts. like burton, aubertin loved camoens, and the two friends delighted to walk together in the butterfly-haunted forests and talk about the "beloved master," while each communicated to the other his intention of translating the lusiads into english. thirteen years, however, were to elapse before the appearance of aubertin's translation [ ] and burton's did not see print till . in burton received a staggering blow in the loss of his old friend dr. steinhauser, who died suddenly of heart disease, during a holiday in switzerland, th july . it was steinhauser, it will be remembered, with whom he had planned the translation of the arabian nights, a subject upon which they frequently corresponded. [ ] . the facetious cannibals. wherever burton was stationed he invariably interested himself in the local archaeological and historical associations. thus at santos he explored the enormous kitchen middens of the aboriginal indians; but the chief attraction was the site of a portuguese fort, marked by a stone heap, where a gunner, one hans stade, was carried off by the cannibals and all but eaten. burton used to visit the place by boat, and the narrative written by hans stade so fascinated him that he induced a santos friend, albert tootal, to translate it into english. the translation was finished in , and five years later burton wrote for it an introduction and some valuable notes and sent it to press. though burton scarcely shines as an original writer, he had a keen eye for what was good in others, and he here showed for the first time that remarkable gift for annotating which stood him in such stead when he came to handle the arabian nights. hans stade's story is so amusing that if we did not know it to be fact we should imagine it the work of some portuguese w. s. gilbert. never were more grisly scenes or more captivating and facetious cannibals. when they told stade that he was to be eaten, they added, in order to cheer him, that he was to be washed down with a really pleasant drink called kawi. the king's son then tied stade's legs together in three places. "i was made," says the wretched man, "to hop with jointed feet through the huts; at this they laughed and said 'here comes our meat hopping along,'" death seemed imminent. they did stade, however, no injury beside shaving off his eyebrows, though the younger savages, when hungry, often looked wistfully at him and rubbed their midriffs. the other prisoners were, one by one, killed and eaten, but the cannibals took their meals in a way that showed indifferent breeding. even the king had no table manners whatever, but walked about gnawing a meaty bone. he was good-natured, however, and offered a bit to stade, who not only declined, but uttered some words of reproof. though surprised, the king was not angry; he took another bite and observed critically, with his mouth full, "it tastes good!" life proceeds slowly, whether at santos or sao paulo, almost the only excitement being the appearance of companies of friendly indians. they used to walk in single file, and on passing burton's house would throw out their arms as if the whole file were pulled by a string. burton did not confine himself to santos, however. he wandered all over maritime brazil, and at rio he lectured before the king [ ] and was several times invited to be present at banquets and other splendid gatherings. on the occasion of one of these notable functions, which was to be followed by a dinner, one room of the palace was set apart for the ministers to wait in and another for the consuls. the burtons were told not to go into the consular room, but into the ministers' room. when, however, they got to the door the officials refused to let them pass. "this is the ministers' room," they said, "you cannot come here." "well, where am i to go?" enquired burton. mrs. burton stood fuming with indignation at the sight of the stream of nonentities who passed in without question, but burton cried, "wait a moment, my darling. i've come to see the emperor, and see the emperor i will." so he sent in his card and a message. "what!" cried the emperor, "a man like burton excluded. bring him to me at once." so burton and his wife were conducted to the emperor and empress, to whom burton talked so interestingly, that they forgot all about the dinner. meanwhile flunkeys kept moving in and out, anxiety on their faces--the princes, ambassadors and other folk were waiting, dinner was waiting; and the high functionaries and dinner were kept waiting for half an hour. "well, i've had my revenge," said burton to his wife when the interview was over. "only think of those starving brutes downstairs; but i'm sorry on your account i behaved as i did, for it will go against all your future 'at homes.'" at dinner the emperor and the empress were most attentive to the burtons and the empress gave mrs. burton a beautiful diamond bracelet. [ ] among burton's admirers was a rio gentleman named cox, who had a mansion near the city. one day mr. cox arranged a grand dinner party and invited all his friends to meet the famous traveller. burton arrived early, but presently disappeared. by and by the other guests streamed in, and after amusing themselves for a little while about the grounds they began to enquire for burton. but no burton was to be seen. at last someone happened to look up the highest tree in the compound and there was the guest of the day high among the branches squatting like a monkey. he had got up there, he said, to have a little peace, and to keep on with the book he was writing about brazil. he came down, however, when the lunch bell rang, for though he grumbled at all other noises, he maintained that, somehow that sound always had a peculiar sweetness. wit and humour, wherever found, never failed to please burton, and a remark which he heard in a brazilian police court and uttered by the presiding magistrate, who, was one of his friends, particularly tickled him: "who is this man?" demanded the magistrate, in reference to a dissipated-looking prisoner. "un inglez bebado" (a drunken englishman), replied the constable. "a drunken englishman," followed the magistrate, "what a pleonasm!" a little later burton and his wife went down a mine which ran three quarters of a mile into the earth. "the negret chico," says burton, "gave one glance at the deep, dark pit, wrung his hands and fled the tophet, crying that nothing in the wide, wide world would make him enter such an inferno. he had lately been taught that he is a responsible being, with an 'immortal soul,' and he was beginning to believe it in a rough, theoretical way: this certainly did not look like a place 'where the good niggers go.'" however, if chico turned coward burton and his wife did not hesitate. but they had moments of fearful suspense as they sank slowly down into the black abysm. the snap of a single link in the long chain would have meant instantaneous death; and a link had snapped but a few days previous, with fatal results. arrived at the bottom they found themselves in a vast cave lighted with a few lamps--the walls black as night or reflecting slender rays from the polished watery surface. distinctly dantesque was the gulf between the huge mountain sides which threatened every moment to fall. one heard the click and thud of hammers, the wild chants of the borers, the slush of water. being like gnomes and kobolds glided hither and thither--half naked figures muffled up by the mist. here dark bodies, gleaming with beaded heat drops, hung in what seemed frightful positions; "they swung like leotard from place to place." others swarmed up loose ropes like troglodytes. it was a situation in which "thoughts were many and where words were few." burton and his wife were not sorry when they found themselves above ground again and in the sweet light of day. . down the sao francisco. the next event was a canoe journey which burton made alone down the river sao francisco from its source to the falls of paulo affonso--and then on to the sea, a distance of miles--an astounding feat even for him. during these adventures a stanza in his own unpublished version of camoens constantly cheered him: "amid such scenes with danger fraught and pain serving the fiery spirit more to flame, who woos bright honour, he shall ever win a true nobility, a deathless fame: not they who love to lean, unjustly vain, upon the ancestral trunk's departed claim; nor they reclining on the gilded beds where moscow's zebeline downy softness spreads." [ ] indeed he still continued, at all times of doubt and despondency, to turn to this beloved poet; and always found something to encourage. . in paraguay. august th to september th . april th to april th . the year before his arrival in santos a terrible war had broken out between brazil, uruguay and argentina on the one side and paraguay on the other; the paraguayan dictator lopez ii. had been defeated in many battles and paraguay so long, thanks to the jesuits and dr. francia, a thriving country, was gradually being reduced to ruin. tired of santos, which was out of the world and led to nothing, burton in july sent in his resignation. mrs. burton at once proceeded to england, but before following her, burton at the request of the foreign office, travelled through various parts of south america in order to report the state of the war. he visited paraguay twice, and after the second journey made his way across the continent to arica in peru, whence he took ship to london via the straits of magellan. [ ] during part of the voyage he had as fellow traveller arthur orton, the tichborne claimant. as both had spent their early boyhood at elstree they could had they so wished have compared notes, but we may be sure mr. orton preserved on that subject a discreet silence. the war terminated in march , after the death of lopez ii. at the battle of aquidaban. four-fifths of the population of paraguay had perished by sword or famine. chapter xiv. october - th august , "emperor and empress of damascus." bibliography: . vikram and the vampire. . letters from the battlefields of paraguay. . . proverba communia syriaca. . . the jew. written , published . . archbishop manning and the odd fish. mrs. burton had carried with her to england several books written by her husband in brazil, and upon her arrival she occupied herself first in arranging for their publication, and secondly in trying to form a company to work some brazilian mines for which burton had obtained a concession. the books were the highlands of brazil ( vols. ), the lands of the cazembe ( ) and iracema, or honey lips, a translation from the brazilian ( ). we hear no more of the mines, but she was able to send her husband "the excellent news of his appointment to the consulate of damascus." he heard of it first, however, not from her letter, but casually in a cafe at lima, just as he was preparing to return home. on arriving in england almost his first business was to patent a pistol which he had invented especially for the use of travellers, and then he and mrs. burton gave themselves the pleasure of calling on old friends and going into society. to this date should, perhaps, be assigned the story [ ] of archbishop, afterwards cardinal manning, and the odd fish. burton had just presented to the zoological gardens a curious fish which lived out of water, and took but little nourishment. he had often presented different creatures to the zoo, though nobody had ever thanked him, but this gift created some commotion, and "captain burton's odd fish" became the talk of london. in the midst of its popularity burton one day found himself seated at a grand dinner next to his good friend the long, lean and abstemious archbishop manning. but much as burton liked manning, he could never bear to be near him at meal times. manning always would eat little and talk much; so burton, who was a magnificent trencherman, suffered serious inconvenience, and the present occasion proved no exception. it was in vain that burton urged the archbishop to mortify himself by eating his dinner. after a while mrs. burton, who sat on the other side of the archbishop, remarked "richard must take you to the zoo and show you his famous fish." "i'll certainly go," said manning, turning to burton, "i am really curious to see it." "then my lord," followed burton, "there will be a pair of odd fish. you know, you neither eat nor drink, and that's the peculiarity of the other fish." as usual when in england, burton spoke at several public meetings, and mrs. burton, of whose appearance he continued to be justifiably proud, generally accompanied him on the platform. before speaking he always ate sparingly, saying "no" to almost everything. on one of such evenings he was the guest of dr. burton, and by chance, hot curry, his favourite dish, was placed on the table. "now this is real wickedness, cousin," he exclaimed, "to have hot curry when i can't eat it." when dinner was nearly over somebody came in with a basket of damask roses. "ask for two of them," whispered burton to his wife. she did, and appeared with them in her bosom on the platform, "and oh," added my informer, "how handsome she looked!" having visited uriconium, the english pompeii, the burtons made for vichy, where they met mr. swinburne, (sir) frederick leighton and mrs. sartoris. his companions on this journey, as on so many others, were two books--one being the anodynous camoens, the other a volume consisting of the bible, shakespeare and euclid bound together, which looked, with its three large clasps, like a congested church service. mrs. burton then returned to england "to pay and pack," while burton, "being ignorant" as they say in the nights, "of what lurked for him in the secret purpose of god," proceeded to damascus, with two bull-terriers, descendants, no doubt, of the oxford beauty. . rd consulate, damascus. mrs. burton followed in december, with her entire fortune--a modest £ in gold, and life promised to be all labdanum. disliking the houses in damascus itself, the burtons took one in the suburb el salahiyyah; and here for two years they lived among white domes and tapering minarets, palms and apricot trees. midmost the court, with its orange and lemon trees, fell all day the cool waters of a fountain. the principal apartments were the reception room, furnished with rich eastern webs, and a large dining room, while a terrace forming part of the upper storey served as "a pleasant housetop in the cool evenings." the garden, with its roses, jessamine, vines, citron, orange and lemon trees, extended to that ancient river, the jewel-blue chyrsorrhoa. there was excellent stabling, and mrs. burton kept horses, donkeys, a camel, turkeys, bull-terriers, street dogs, ducks, leopards, lambs, pigeons, goats, and, to use burton's favourite expression, "other notions." they required much patient training, but the result was satisfactory, for when most of them had eaten one another they became a really harmonious family. if mrs. burton went abroad to the bazaar or elsewhere she was accompanied by four kawwasses in full dress of scarlet and gold, and on her reception day these gorgeous attendants kept guard. her visitors sat on the divans cross-legged or not according to their nation, smoked, drank sherbet and coffee, and ate sweetmeats. for ra'shid pasha, the wali or governor-general of syria, both burton and his wife conceived from the first a pronounced antipathy. he was fat and indolent, with pin-point eyes, wore furs, walked on his toes, purred and looked like "a well-fed cat." it did not, however, occur to them just then that he was to be their evil genius. "call him ra'shid, with the accent on the first syllable," burton was always careful to say when speaking of this fiendish monster, "and do not confound him with (haroun al) rashi'd, accent on the second syllable--'the orthodox,' the 'treader in the right path.'" [ ] . jane digby el mezrab. at an early date burton formed a friendship with the algerine hero and exile abd el kadir, a dark, kingly-looking man who always appeared in snow white and carried superbly-jewelled arms; while mrs. burton, who had a genius for associating herself with undesirable persons, took to her bosom the notorious and polyandrous jane digby el mezrab. [ ] this lady had been the wife first of lord ellenborough, who divorced her, secondly of prince schwartzenberg, and afterwards of about six other gentlemen. finally, having used up europe, she made her way to syria, where she married a "dirty little black" [ ] bedawin shaykh. mrs. burton, with her innocent, impulsive, flamboyant mind, not only grappled jane digby with hoops of steel, but stigmatised all the charges against her as wilful and malicious. burton, however, mistrusted the lady from the first. says mrs. burton of her new friend, "she was a most beautiful woman, though sixty-one, tall, commanding, and queen-like. she was grande dame jusqu' au bout des doights, as much as if she had just left the salons of london and paris, refined in manner, nor did she ever utter a word you could wish unsaid. she spoke nine languages perfectly, and could read and write in them. she lived half the year in damascus and half with her husband in his bedawin tents, she like any other bedawin woman, but honoured and respected as the queen of her tribe, wearing one blue garment, her beautiful hair in two long plaits down to the ground, milking the camels, serving her husband, preparing his food, sitting on the floor and washing his feet, giving him his coffee; and while he ate she stood and waited on him: and glorying in it. she looked splendid in oriental dress. she was my most intimate friend, and she dictated to me the whole of her biography." [ ] both ladies were inveterate smokers, and they, burton, and abd el kadir spent many evenings on the terrace of the house with their narghilehs. burton and his wife never forgot these delightsome causeries. swiftly, indeed, flew the happy hours when they "nighted and dayed in damascus town." [ ] . to tadmor. burton had scarcely got settled in damascus before he expressed his intention of visiting the historic tadmor in the desert. it was an eight days' journey, and the position of the two wells on the way was kept a secret by jane digby's tribe, who levied blackmail on all visitors to the famous ruins. the charge was the monstrous one of £ ; but burton--at all times a sworn foe to cupidity--resolved to go without paying. says mrs. burton, "jane digby was in a very anxious state when she heard this announcement, as she knew it was a death blow to a great source of revenue to the tribe... she did all she could to dissuade us, she wept over our loss, and she told us that we should never come back." finally the subtle lady dried her crocodile eyes and offered her "dear friends" the escort of one of her bedawin, that they might steer clear of the raiders and be conducted more quickly to water, "if it existed." burton motioned to his wife to accept the escort, and jane left the house with ill-concealed satisfaction. the bedawi [ ] in due time arrived, but not before he had been secretly instructed by jane to lead the burtons into ambush whence they could be pounced upon by the tribe and kept prisoners till ransomed. that, however, was no more than burton had anticipated; consequently as soon as the expedition was well on the road he deprived the bedawi of his mare and accoutrements, and retained both as hostages until damascus should be reached again. appropriately enough this occurred on april the first. [ ] success rewarded his acuteness, for naturally the wells were found, and the travellers having watered their camels finished the journey with comfort. says mrs. burton, "i shall never forget the imposing sight of tadmor. there is nothing so deceiving as distance in the desert.... a distant ruin stands out of the sea of sand, the atmosphere is so clear that you think you will reach it in half an hour; you ride all day and you never seem to get any nearer to it." arrived at tadmor they found it to consist of a few orchards, the imposing ruins, and a number of wretched huts "plastered like wasps' nests within them." of the chief ruin, the temple of the sun, one hundred columns were still standing and burton, who set his men to make excavations, found some statues, including one of zenobia. the party reached damascus again after an absence of about a month. the bedawi's mare was returned; and jane digby had the pleasure of re-union with her dear mrs. burton, whom she kissed effusively. both burton and his wife mingled freely with the people of damascus, and burton, who was constantly storing up knowledge against his great edition of the arabian nights, often frequented the arabic library. [ ] their favourite walk was to the top of an adjacent eminence, whence they could look down on damascus, which lay in the light of the setting sun, "like a pearl." then there were excursions to distant villages of traditionary interest, including jobar, where elijah is reputed to have hidden, and to have anointed hazael. [ ] "the bird," indeed, as ever, was continually on the wing, nor was mrs. burton less active. she visited, for example, several of the harems in the city, including that of abd el kadir. "he had five wives," she says, "one of them was very pretty. i asked them how they could bear to live together and pet each other's children. i told them that in england, if a woman thought her husband had another wife or mistress, she would be ready to kill her. they all laughed heartily at me, and seemed to think it a great joke." [ ] she also took part in various social and religious functions, and was present more than once at a circumcision--at which, she tells us, the victim, as westerns must regard him, was always seated on richest tapestry resembling a bride throne, while his cries were drowned by the crash of cymbals. burton's note-books, indeed, owed no mean debt to her zealous co-operation. . palmer and drake. th july . the burtons spent their summer in a diminutive christian village called b'ludan, on the anti-lebanon, at the head of the vale of zebedani, burton having chosen it as his sanitarium. a beautiful stream with waterfalls bubbled through their gardens, which commanded magnificent views of the lebanon country. as at santos, mrs. burton continued her role of lady bountiful, and she spent many hours making up powders and pills. although in reality nobody was one jot the better or the worse for taking them, the rumour circulated that they were invariably fatal. consequently her reputation as a doctor spread far and wide. one evening a peasant woman who was dying sent a piteous request for aid, and mrs. burton, who hurried to the spot, satisfied the poor soul by the administration of some useless but harmless dose. next morning the woman's son appeared. he thanked mrs. burton warmly for her attentions, said it was his duty to report that his mother was dead, and begged for a little more of the efficacious white powder, as he had a bedridden grandmother of whom he was also anxious to be relieved. one piping hot morning [ ] when walking in his garden burton noticed a gipsy tent outside, and on approaching it found two sun-burnt englishmen, a powerful, amiable-looking giant, and a smaller man with a long beard and silky hair. the giant turned out to be charles tyrwhitt drake and the medium-sized man edward henry palmer, both of whom were engaged in survey work. drake, aged , was the draughtsman and naturalist; palmer, [ ] just upon , but already one of the first linguists of the day, the archaeologist. palmer, like burton, had leanings towards occultism; crystal gazing, philosopher's stone hunting. after making a mess with chemicals, he would gaze intently at it, and say excitedly: "i wonder what will happen"--an expression that was always expected of him on such and all other exciting occasions. a quadruple friendship ensued, and the burtons, drake and palmer made several archaeological expeditions together. to palmer's poetical eyes all the lebanon region was enchanted ground. here the lovely shulamite of the lovelier scripture lyric fed her flocks by the shepherd's tents. hither came solomon, first disguised as a shepherd, to win her love, and afterwards in his royal litter perfumed with myrrh and frankincense to take her to his cedar house. this, too, was the country of adonis. in lebanon the wild boar slew him, and yonder, flowing towards "holy byblus," were "the sacred waters where the women of the ancient mysteries came to mingle their tears." [ ] of this primitive and picturesque but wanton worship they were reminded frequently both by relic and place name. to palmer, viewing them in the light of the past, the cedars of lebanon were a poem, but to burton--a curious mixture of the romantic and the prosaic--with his invariable habit of underrating famous objects, they were "a wretched collection of scraggy christmas trees." "i thought," said burton, "when i came here that syria and palestine would be so worn out that my occupation as an explorer was clean gone." he found, however, that such was not the case--all previous travellers having kept to the beaten tracks; jaydur, for example, the classical ituraea, was represented on the maps by "a virgin white patch." burton found it teeming with interest. there was hardly a mile without a ruin--broken pillars, inscribed slabs, monoliths, tombs. a little later he travelled as far northward as hamah [ ] in order to copy the uncouth characters on the famous stones, and drake discovered an altar adorned with figures of astarte and baal. [ ] everywhere throughout palestine he had to deplore the absence of trees. "oh that brigham young were here!" he used to say, "to plant a million. the sky would then no longer be brass, or the face of the country a quarry." thanks to his researches, burton has made his name historical in the holy land, for his book unexplored syria--written though it be in a distressingly slipshod style--throws, from almost every page, interesting light on the bible. "study of the holy land," he said, "has the force of a fifth gospel, not only because it completes and harmonises, but also because it makes intelligible the other four. oh, when shall we have a reasonable version of hebrew holy writ which will retain the original names of words either untranslatable or to be translated only by guess work!" [ ] one of their adventures--with a shaykh named salameh--reads like a tale out of the arabian nights. having led them by devious paths into an uninhabited wild, salameh announced that, unless they made it worth his wile to do otherwise, he intended to leave them there to perish, and it took twenty-five pounds to satisfy the rogue's cupidity. palmer, however, was of opinion that an offence of this kind ought by no means to be passed over, so on reaching jerusalem he complained to the turkish governor and asked that the man might receive punishment. "i know the man," said the pasha, "he is a scoundrel, and you shall see an example of the strength and equity of the sultan's rule;" and of course, palmer, in his perpetual phrase, wondered what would happen. after their return to damascus the three friends had occasion to call on rashid pasha. "do you think," said the wali, with his twitching moustache and curious, sleek, unctuous smile, "do you think you would know your friend again?" he then clapped his hands and a soldier brought in a sack containing four human heads, one of which had belonged to the unfortunate salameh. "are you satisfied?" enquired the wali. [ ] . khamoor. having been separated from "that little beast of a brazilian"--the cat-torturing chico--mrs. burton felt that she must have another confidential servant companion. male dwarfs being so unsatisfactory she now decided to try a full-sized human being, and of the other sex. at miss ellen wilson's protestant mission in anti-lebanon she saw just her ideal--a lissom, good-looking syrian maid, named khamoor, or "the moon." chico the second (or shall we say chica [ ] the first.) had black plaits of hair confined by a coloured handkerchief, large, dark, reflulgent eyes, pouting lips, white teeth, of which she was very proud, "a temperament which was all sunshine and lightning in ten minutes," and a habit of discharging, quite unexpectedly, a "volley of fearful oaths." she was seventeen--"just the time of life when a girl requires careful guiding." so mrs. burton, or "ya sitti," as khamoor called her, promptly set about this careful guiding--that is to say she fussed and petted khamoor till the girl lost all knowledge of her place and became an intolerable burden. under mrs. burton's direction she learnt to wear stays [ ] though this took a good deal of learning; and also to slap men's faces and scream when they tried to kiss her. by dint of practice she in time managed this also to perfection. indeed, she gave up, one by one, all her heathenish ways, except swearing, and so became a well-conducted young lady, and almost english. mrs. burton was nothing if not a woman with a mission, and henceforward two cardinal ideas swayed her namely, first to inveigle the heathen into stays, and secondly, to induce them to turn catholics. her efforts at conversion were more or less successful, but the other propaganda had, to her real sorrow, only barren results. in march , charles tyrwhitt drake, who had spent some months in england, arrived again in damascus, and the burtons begged him to be their permanent guest. henceforth mrs. burton, burton and drake were inseparable companions, and they explored together "almost every known part of syria." mrs. burton used to take charge of the camp "and visited the harems to note things hidden from mankind," drake sketched and collected botanical and geological specimens, while burton's studies were mainly anthropological and archaeological. they first proceeded to jerusalem, where they spent holy week, and after visiting hebron, the dead sea, and other historical spots, they returned by way of nazareth. but here they met with trouble. early in his consulate, it seems, burton had protested against some arbitrary proceedings on the part of the greek bishop of nazareth, and thus made enemies among the greeks. unhappily, when the travellers appeared this ill-feeling led a posse of nazarenes to make an attack on burton's servants; and burton and drake, who ran half dressed out of their tents to see what was the matter, were received with a shower of stones, and cries of "kill them!" burton stood perfectly calm, though the stones hit him right and left, and drake also displayed cool bravery. mrs. burton then hastened up with "two six shot revolvers," but burton, having waved her back--snatched a pistol from the belt of one of his servants and fired it into the air, with the object of summoning his armed companions, whereupon the greeks, though they numbered at least a hundred and fifty, promptly took to their heels. out of this occurrence, which burton would have passed over, his enemies, as we shall see, subsequently made considerable capital. the party then proceeded to the sea of galilee, whence they galloped across "their own desert" home. during these travels burton and drake made some valuable discoveries and saw many extraordinary peoples, though none more extraordinary than the lazy and filthy troglodytes of the hauran, [ ] who shared the pre-historic caves with their cows and sheep, and fed on mallows just as their forefathers are represented as having done in the vivid thirtieth chapter of job, [ ] and in the pages of agatharchides. [ ] . the shazlis. mrs. burton now heard news that fired her with joy. a sect of the mohammedans called shazlis used to assemble in the house of one of their number of moslem prayer, reading and discussion. one day they became conscious of a mysterious presence among them. they heard and saw things incommunicably strange, and a sacred rapture diffused itself among them. their religion had long ceased to give them satisfaction, and they looked anxiously round in search of a better. one night when they were overcome by sleep there appeared to each a venerable man with a long white beard, who said sweetly, "let those who want the truth follow me," and forthwith they resolved to search the earth until they found the original of the vision. but they had not to go far. one of them chancing to enter a monastery in damascus noticed a spanish priest named fray emanuel forner. hurrying back to his comrades he cried "i have seen the oldster of the dreams." on being earnestly requested to give direction, forner became troubled, and with a view to obtaining advice, hurried to burton. both burton and his wife listened to the tale with breathless interest. mrs. burton naturally wanted to sweep the whole sect straightway into the roman church, and it is said that she offered to be sponsor herself to , of them. in any circumstances, she distributed large numbers of crucifixes and rosaries. burton, who regarded nine-tenths of the doctrines of her church as a tangle of error, was nevertheless much struck with the story. he had long been seeking for a perfect religion, and he wondered whether these people had not found it. here in this city of damascus, where our lord had appeared to st. paul, a similar apparition had again been seen--this time by a company of earnest seekers after truth. he determined to investigate. so disguised as a shazli, he attended their meetings and listened while forner imparted the principal dogmas of the catholic faith. his common sense soon told him that the so-called miraculous sights were merely hallucinations, the outcome of heated and hysterical imagination. he sympathised with the shazlis in that like himself they were seekers after truth, and there, as far as he was concerned, the matter would have ended had the scenes been in any other country. but in syria religious freedom was unknown, and the cruel wali rashid pasha was only too delighted to have an opportunity to use his power. he crushed where he could not controvert. twelve of the leading shazlis--the martyrs, as they were called--were seized and imprisoned. forner died suddenly; as some think, by poison. this threw burton, who hated oppression in all its forms, into a towering rage, and he straightway flung the whole of his weight into the cause of the shazlis. persecution gave them holiness. he wrote to lord granville that there were at least twenty-five thousand christians longing secretly for baptism, and he suggested methods by which they might be protected. he also recommended the government to press upon the porte many other reforms. both burton and his wife henceforward openly protected the shazlis, and in fact made themselves, to use the words of a member of the english government, "emperor and empress of damascus." that rashid pasha and his crawling myrmidons were rascals of the first water and that the shazlis were infamously treated is very evident. it is also clear that burton was more just than diplomatic. we cannot, however, agree with those who lay all the blame on mrs. burton. we may not sympathise with her religious views, but, of course, she had the same right to endeavour to extend her own church as the protestants at beyrout, who periodically sent enthusiastic agents to damascus, had to extend theirs. the shazli trouble alone, however, would not have shaken seriously burton's position; and whatever others may have thought, it is certain burton himself never at any time in his life considered that in this matter any particular blame attached to his wife. but unfortunately the shazli trouble was only one of a series. besides embroiling himself with the truculent rashid pasha and his underlings, burton contrived to give offence to four other bodies of men. in june, , mr. mentor mott, the kind and charitable [ ] superintendent of the british syrian school at beyrout, went to damascus to proselytize, and acted, in burton's opinion, with some indiscretion. deeming damascus just then to be not in a temper for proselytising, burton reprimanded him, and thus offended the protestant missionaries and mr. jackson eldridge, the consul-general at beyrout. in burton's opinion, but for mrs. mott the storm would have gradually subsided. that lady, however, took the matter more to heart than her husband, and was henceforth burton's implacable enemy. then arose a difficulty with the druzes, who had ill-treated some english missionaries. as they were turkish subjects the person to act was rashid pasha, but burton and he being at daggers drawn, burton attempted to fine the druzes himself. he was reminded, however, that his power was limitary, and that he would not be allowed to exceed it. to the trouble with the greeks we have already referred. but his chief enemies were the jews, or rather the jewish money-lenders, who used to go to the distressed villages, offer money, keep all the papers, and allow their victims nothing to show. interest had to be paid over and over again. compound interest was added, and when payment was impossible the defaulters were cast into prison. burton's predecessor had been content to let matters alone, but burton's blood boiled when he thought of these enormities. still, when the money-lenders came to him and stated their case, he made for a time an honest attempt to double; but ultimately his indignation got the better of his diplomacy, and with an oath that made the windows rattle, he roared, "do you think i am going to be bum-bailiff to a parcel of blood-suckers!" and yet these gentlemen had sometimes, in their moderation, charged as little as sixty per cent. henceforward burton looked evil upon the whole jewish race, and resolved to write a book embodying his researches respecting them and his anti-semite opinions. for the purpose of it he made minute enquiries concerning the death of one padre tommaso, whom the jews were suspected of having murdered in . these enquiries naturally have his foes further umbrage, and they in return angrily discharge their venom at him. in his book the jew, published after his death, [ ] he lashes the whole people. he seems in its pages to be constantly running up and down with a whip and saying: "i'll teach you to be 'an ebrew jew,' i will." his credulity and prejudice are beyond belief. he accepts every malicious and rancorous tale told against the jews, and records as historical facts even such problematical stories as the murder of hugh of lincoln. thus he managed to exasperate representatives of almost every class. but perhaps it was his championship of the shazlis that made the most mischief. says lady burton, "it broke his career, it shattered his life, it embittered him towards religion." complaints and garbled stories reached london from all sides, and burton was communicated with. he defended himself manfully, and showed that in every question he had been on the side of righteousness and equity, that he had simply fought systematically against cruelty, oppression and nefariousness. he could not and would not temporize. an idea of the corruption prevalent at damascus may be fathered from the fact that on one occasion £ , was promised him if he would "give an opinion which would have swayed a public transaction." says lady burton, "my husband let the man finish, and then he said, 'if you were a gentleman of my own standing, and an englishman, i would just pitch you out of the window; but as you are not, you may pick up your £ , and walk down the stairs.'" [ ] . the recall. th august . accusations, many of them composed of the bluest gall; and manly letters of defence from burton now flew almost daily from damascus to england. the wali, the jews and others all had their various grievances. as it happened, the british government wanted, just then, above all things, peace and quiet. if burton could have managed to jog along in almost any way with the wali, the druzes, the greeks, the jews and the other factors in syria, there would have been no trouble. as to whether burton was right or wrong in these disputes, the government seems not to have cared a straw or to have given a moment's thought. here, they said, is a man who somehow has managed to stir up a wasp's nest, and who may embroil us with turkey. this condition of affairs must cease. presently came the crash. on august th just as burton and tyrwhitt drake were setting out for a ride at b'ludan, a messenger appeared and handed burton a note. he was superseded. the blow was a terrible one, and for a moment he was completely unmanned. he hastened to damascus in the forlorn hope that there was a mistake. but it was quite true, the consulship had been given to another. to his wife he sent the message, "i am superseded. pay, pack, and follow at convenience." then he started for beirut, where she joined him. "after all my service," wrote burton in his journal, "ignominiously dismissed at fifty years of age." one cry only kept springing from mrs. burton's lips, "oh, rashid pasha! oh, rashid pasha!" at damascus burton had certainly proved himself a man of incorruptible integrity. even his enemies acknowledged his probity. but this availed nothing. only two years had elapsed since he had landed in syria, flushed with high premonitions; now he retired a broken man, shipwrecked in hope and fortune. when he looked back on his beloved damascus--"o, damascus, pearl of the east"--it was with the emotion evinced by the last of the moors bidding adieu to granada, and it only added to his exasperation when he imagined the exultation of the hated jews, and the sardonic grin on the sly, puffy, sleek face of rashid pasha. just before mrs. burton left b'ludan an incident occurred which brings her character into high relief. a dying arab boy was brought to her to be treated for rheumatic fever. she says, "i saw that death was near.... 'would you like to see allah?' i said, taking hold of his cold hand.... i parted his thick, matted hair, and kneeling, i baptised him from the flask of water i always carried at my side. 'what is that?' asked his grandmother after a minute's silence. 'it is a blessing,' i answered, 'and may do him good!'" [ ] the scene has certain points in common with that enacted many years after in burton's death chamber. having finished all her "sad preparations at b'ludan," mrs. burton "bade adieu to the anti-lebanon with a heavy heart, and for the last time, choking with emotion, rode down the mountain and through the plain of zebedani, with a very large train of followers."--"i had a sorrowful ride," says she, "into damascus. just outside the city gates i met the wali, driving in state, with all his suite. he looked radiant, and saluted me with much empressement. i did not return his salute." [ ] it is satisfactory to know that rashid pasha's triumph was short-lived. within a month of burton's departure he was recalled by the porte and disgraced. not only so but every measure which burton had recommended during his consulship was ordered to be carried out, and "the reform was so thorough and complete, that her majesty's ambassador at constantinople was directed officially to compliment the porte upon its newly initiated line of progress." but nobody thanked, or even though of burton. on the occasion of his departure burton received shoals of letters from prominent men of "every creed, race and tongue," manifesting sorrow and wishing him god-speed. delightful, indeed, was the prologue of that from abd el kadir: "allah," it ran, "favour the days of your far-famed learning, and prosper the excellence of your writing. o wader of the seas of knowledge, o cistern of learning of our globe, exalted above his age, whose exaltation is above the mountains of increase and our rising place, opener by his books of night and day, traveller by ship and foot and horse, one whom none can equal in travel." the letter itself was couched in a few simple, heartfelt words, and terminated with "it is our personal friendship to you which dictates this letter." "you have departed," wrote a druze shaykh, "leaving us the sweet perfume of charity and noble conduct in befriending the poor and supporting the weak and oppressed, and your name is large on account of what god has put into your nature." some of the authorities at home gave out that one of the reasons for burton's recall was that his life was in danger from the bullets of his enemies, but burton commented drily: "i have been shot at, at different times, by at least forty men who fortunately could not shoot straight. once more would not have mattered much." chapter xv. th august - th june , "the blackness of darkness" . with sir h. stisted at norwood. august . arrived in england burton went straight to his sister's at norwood. his dejection was abysmal. says miss stisted, "strong, brave man though he was, the shock of his sudden recall told upon him cruelly. not even during his last years, when his health had all but given way, was he so depressed. sleep being impossible, he used to sit up, sometimes alone, sometimes with sir h. stisted, until the small hours of the morning, smoking incessantly. tragedy was dashed with comedy; one night a terrible uproar arose. the dining-room windows had been left open, the candles alight, and the pug asleep under the table forgotten. a policeman, seeing the windows unclosed, knocked incessantly at the street door, the pug awoke and barked himself hoarse, and everyone clattered out of his or her bedroom to ascertain the cause of the disturbance. my uncle had quite forgotten that in quiet english households servants retire to rest before a.m." [ ] subsequently lady stisted and her daughters resided at folkestone, and thenceforth they were "the folky folk." burton also took an early opportunity to visit his brother, and tried to lead him into conversation; but nothing could break that telamonian silence. . reduced to £ . mrs. burton, who had returned to damascus "to pay and pack," now arrived in england, bringing with her very imprudently her syrian maid khamoor. the £ , left by burton's father, the £ mrs. burton took out with her, and the damascus £ , a year, all had been spent. indeed, mrs. burton possessed no more than the few pounds she carried about her person. in these circumstances prudence would have suggested leaving such a cipher as khamoor in syria, but that seems not to have occurred to her. it is probable, however, that the spendthrift was not she but her husband, for when she came to be a widow she not only proved herself an astute business woman, but accumulated wealth. on reaching london she found burton "in one room in a very small hotel." his pride had not allowed him to make any defence of himself; and it was at this juncture that mrs. burton showed her grit. she went to work with all her soul, and for three months she bombarded with letters both the foreign office and outside men of influence. she was not discreet, but her pertinacity is beyond praise. upon trying to learn the real reason of his recall, she was told only a portion of the truth. commenting on one of the charges, namely that burton "was influenced by his catholic wife against the jews," she said, "i am proud to say that i have never in my life tried to influence my husband to do anything wrong, and i am prouder still to say that if i had tried i should not have succeeded." for ten months the burtons had to endure "great poverty and official neglect," during which they were reduced to their last £ . having been invited by mrs. burton's uncle, lord gerard, to garswood, [ ] they went thither by train. says mrs. burton, "we were alone in a railway compartment, when one of the fifteen sovereigns rolled out of my pursed, and slid between the boards of the carriage and the door, reducing us to £ . i sat on the floor and cried, and he sat by me with is arm round my waist trying to comfort me." [ ] the poet, as keats tells us, "pours out a balm upon the world," and in this, his darkest hour, burton found relief, as he had so often found it, in the pages of his beloved camoens. gradually his spirits revived, and he began to revolve new schemes. indeed, he was never the man to sit long in gloom or to wait listlessly for the movement of fortune's wheel. he preferred to seize it and turn it to his purpose. . an orgie at lady alford's. nd november . if the burtons lacked money, on the other hand they had wealthy relations with whom they were able to stay just as long as they pleased; and, despite their thorny cares, they threw themselves heartily into the vortex of society. among their friends was lady marion alford, a woman of taste, talent and culture. the first authority of the day on art needlework, she used to expound her ideas on the looms of the world from those of circe to those of mrs. wheeler of new york. at one of lady alford's parties in her house at princes gate, october , the prince of wales and the duke of edinburgh being present, burton appeared dressed as a syrian shaykh, and mrs. burton as a moslem lady of damascus. burton was supposed not to understand english, and mrs. burton gave out that she had brought him over to introduce him to english society. she thus described the occurrence in an unpublished letter to miss stisted. [ ] "our orgie was great fun. the bird and i wore arab dresses. i went in the dress of an arab lady of damascus, but as myself, accompanied by khamoor in her village dress and introducing hadji abdullah, a moslem shaykh of damascus. we then spoke only arabic to each other, and the bird broken french to the company present. we were twenty-eight at supper. the prince of wales and the duke of edinburgh were there. we let them into the joke, and they much enjoyed it, but all the rest were quite taken in half the evening. even lord lyons and many of our old friends. the house was perfect and the fountain part [ ] quite like damascus. after supper we made turkish coffee and narghilihis, and khamoor handed them to the princes on her knees, the tray on her head in eastern fashion. they were delighted and spoke to her very kindly. they talked for long to richard, and afterwards to me, and asked when we were going back to syria before lord granville's brother." this letter, like most of mrs. burton's letters to miss stisted, is signed "z," short for "zoo." in february ( ) mrs. burton's mother, who had for years been paralysed, grew rapidly worse. says mrs. burton, writing to miss stisted ( th february), "my time is divided between her and richard's concerns. she did rally a little and i took advantage of it to go one to one dinner and to the thanksgiving day [ ] which we saw to perfection, and enjoyed enormously; and last night to a very large gathering at lady margaret beaumont's... everybody was there and it gave me an opportunity of saying 'how d'ye do?' to the world after my return from syria... i am working tooth and nail at the bird's [ ] case, and have got our ambassador (elliott) to see me at twelve next saturday." at this time everyone was talking about livingstone, the story of the meeting of him and stanley being still fresh in men's minds. it was thought that another expedition ought to be sent out with burton to lead, and a grand luncheon was got up for the express purpose of bring burton and a certain great personage together. when the soup was being served, the great personage, turning to burton, said: "you are the man to go out to livingstone. come, consent, and i will contribute £ to the expedition." mrs. burton, who sat next to her husband, looked up with beaming eyes, and her heart beat with joy. the object of the luncheon had been achieved, and fortune was again bestowing her smiles; but as ill luck would have it, burton happened just then to be in one of his contrary moods. he went on spooning up his soup, and, without troubling to turn his head, said, "i'll save your royal highness that expense." poor mrs. burton almost fainted. the livingstone expedition was subsequently undertaken by cameron. . the tichborne trial. another event of this period was the tichborne trial, but though burton was subpoenaed by the claimant, his evidence really assisted the other side. "i understand," began his interlocutor, "that you are the central african traveller." "i have been to africa," modestly replied burton. "weren't you badly wounded?" [ ] "yes, in the back, running away." his identity being established, burton gave his evidence without further word fence. "when i went out to brazil," he said, "i took a present from lady tichborne for her son, but being unable to find him, [ ] i sent the present back. when returning from america, i met the claimant, and i recognise him simply as the man i met. that is all." burton, like others, always took it for granted that the claimant obtained most of his information respecting the tichbornes from bogle, the black man, who had been in the service of the family. . khamoor at the theatre. in some unpublished letters of mrs. burton, written about this time, we get additional references to khamoor, and several of them are amusing. says mrs. burton in one of them, [ ] "khamoor was charming at the theatre. i cried at something touching, and she, not knowing why, flung herself upon my neck and howled. she nearly died with joy on seeing the clown, and said, 'oh, isn't this delightful. what a lovely life!' she was awfully shocked at the women dancing with 'naked legs,' and at all the rustic swains and girls embracing each other." in january , the burtons were at knowsley, [ ] the earl of derby's, whence mrs. burton wrote an affectionate letter to miss stisted. she says, [ ] "i hope you are taking care of yourself. good people are scarce, and i don't want to lose my little pet." later, burton visited lady stisted at edinburgh, and about that time met a mr. lock, who was in need of a trusty emissary to report on some sulphur mines in iceland, for which he had a concession. the two came to terms, and it was decided that burton should start in may. he spent the intervening time at lord gerard's, [ ] and thence mrs. burton wrote to miss stisted [ ] saying why she did not accompany burton in his visit to his relatives. she says, "i hope you all understand that no animosity keeps me from edinburgh. i should have been quite pleased to go if richard had been willing, but i think he still fancies that maria (lady stisted) would rather not see me, and i am quite for each one doing as he or she likes... the bird sends his fond love and a chirrup." chapter xvi. th june - th october , in iceland bibliography: . zanzibar: city, island and coast. vols., . . unexplored syria. vols., . . on human remains, etc., from iceland, . . in edinburgh again, th june . in may, burton was back again in edinburgh, preparing for the iceland journey. he took many walks down princes street and up arthur's seat with lady stisted and his nieces, and "he was flattered," says miss stisted, "by the kindness and hospitality with which he was received. the rd highlanders, stationed at the castle, entertained in genuine highland fashion; and at our house he met most of the leading scotch families who happened to be lingering in the northern capital." lord airlie, the high commissioner, held brilliant receptions at holyrood. there were gay scenes--women in their smartest gowns, men wearing their medals and ribands. general sir h. stisted was there in his red collar and cross and star of the bath. burton "looked almost conspicuous in unadorned simplicity." on th june [ ] burton left for iceland. the parting from his friends was, as usual, very hard. says miss stisted, "his hands turned cold, his eyes filled with tears." sir w. h. stisted accompanied him to granton, whence, with new hopes and aspirations, he set sail. spectacularly, iceland--ultima thule--as he calls it--was a disappointment to him. "the giddy, rapid rivers," were narrow brooks, hecla seemed but "half the height of hermon," the great geyser was invisible until you were almost on the top of it. its voice of thunder was a mere hiccough. burton, the precise antithesis of old sir john de mandeville, was perhaps the only traveller who never told "travellers' tales." indeed, he looked upon sir john as a disgrace to the cloth; though he sometimes comforted himself with the reflection that most likely that very imaginative knight never existed. but he thoroughly enjoyed these icelandic experiences, for, to use one of his own phrases, the power of the hills was upon him. with mr. lock he visited the concession, and on his way passed through a village where there was a fair, and where he had a very narrow escape. a little more, we are told, and a hideous, snuffy, old icelandic woman would have kissed him. in respect to the survey, the mass of workable material was enormous. there was no lack of sulphur, and the speculation promised to be a remunerative one. eventually, however, it was found that the obstacles were insuperable, and the scheme had to be abandoned. however, the trip had completed the cure commenced by camoens, and at the end of it everybody said "he looked at least fifteen years younger." burton had scarcely left granton for iceland before mrs. arundell died, and the letters which mrs. burton wrote at this time throw an interesting light on the relations between her and burton's family. to miss stisted she says (june th), "my darling child. my dear mother died in my arms at midnight on wednesday th. it was like a child going to sleep, most happy, but quite unexpected by us, who thought, though sinking, she would last till august or october. i need not tell you, who know the love that existed between her and me, that my loss is bitter and irreparable, and will last for life. may you never know it! i have written pages full of family detail to darling nana, and i intended to enclose it to you to read en route, but i thought perhaps our religious views and observances might seem absurd to the others, and i felt ashamed to do so. you know when so holy a woman as dear mother dies, we do not admit of any melancholy or sorrow except for ourselves your dear little letter was truly welcome with its kind and comforting messages. i am glad that our darling [burton] was spared all the sorrow we have gone through, and yet sorry he did not see the beauty and happiness of her holy death... she called for richard twice before her death. do write again and often, dear child. tell me something about the iceland visits.... your loving zooey." what with the unsatisfactory condition of their affairs, and the death of her mother, mrs. burton was sadly troubled; but the long lane was now to have a turning. one day, while she was kneeling with wet cheeks before her mother's coffin, and praying that the sombrous overhanging cloud might pass away, a letter arrived from lord granville offering her husband the consulate of trieste [ ] with a salary of £ a year. this was a great fall after damascus, but in her own words, "better than nothing," and she at once communicated with her husband, who was still in iceland. . wardour castle, th july . she then made a round of country house visits, including one to wardour castle. [ ] in an unpublished letter to miss stisted, she says: "my pet, i came here on tuesday... i have never cried nor slept since mother died (a month to-morrow) i go up again on monday for final pack-up--to my convent ten days--....then back to town in hopes of nana in august, about the th. then we shall go to spain, and to trieste, our new appointment, if he [burton] will take it, as all our friends and relations wish, if only as a stop-gap for the present. arundell has done an awfully kind thing. there is a large austrian honour in the family with some privileges, and he has desired me to assume all the family honours on arriving, and given me copies of the patent, with all the old signatures and attested by himself. this is to present to the herald's college at vienna. he had desired my cards to be printed mrs. richard burton, nee countess isabel arundell of wardour of the most sacred roman empire. this would give us an almost royal position at vienna or any part of austria, and with nana's own importance and fame we shall (barring salary) cut out the ambassador. she wants a quiet year to learn german and finish old writings.... i should like the tour round the world enormously, but i don't see where the money is to come from... this is such a glorious old place... the woods and parks are splendid, and the old ruin of the castle defended by lady blanche is the most interesting thing possible. half the other great places i go to are mushroom greatness, but this is the real old thing of druid remains and the old baronial castle of knights in armour and fair saxon-looking women, and with heavy portcullises to enter by, and dungeons and subterranean passages, etc. there is a statue of our saviour over the door, and in cromwell's siege a cannon ball made a hole in the wall just behind it and never took off its head. ...your loving zoo." a few days later mrs. burton received a letter from her husband, who expressed his willingness to accept trieste. he arrived at edinburgh again on september th, and his presence was the signal for a grand dinner, at which all the notables of the neighbourhood, including many people of title, were present. but, unfortunately, burton was in one of his disagreeable moods, and by the time dinner was half over, he found that he had contradicted with acerbity every person within earshot. while, however, he was thus playing the motiveless ogre, his brother-in-law, sir henry stisted, at the other end of the table, was doing his utmost to render himself agreeable, and by the extraordinary means of rolling out anecdote after anecdote that told against the scotch character. the mackenzies, the murrays, the macdonalds, the mcqueens, looked black as thunder, and stisted's amiability gave even more offence than burton's ill-temper. noticing that something was amiss opposite him, burton stopped his own talk to listen. then stisted's innocence and the ludicrousness of the whole scene dawned upon him, and leaning back in his chair he roared with uncontrollable laughter. when he met his wife again one of her first questions was about this dinner, at which she had hoped her husband would dazzle and delight the whole company, and which she supposed might lead to his promotion. he then told her the whole story, not omitting his ill-humour. she listened with dismay, and then burst into tears. "come," he commented, "i wasn't so bad as stisted, anyhow." . st. george and frederick burton. upon his return to london, burton renewed his acquaintance with his cousins dr. and mrs. edward john burton. he and dr. burton, whom he thought fit to call after a character in the arabian nights, "abu mohammed lazybones," [ ] had long known each other, but dr. burton had also for some time resided in distant lands. the notes that brought about the meeting--and they could not be briefer--now lie before me. they run: "athanaeum club, "sept. ' "my dear cousin, "when and where can i see you? yours truly, "r. f. burton." "junior united service club. "my dear richard, "any day at p.m. "yours ever, "e. j. burton." a few days later, burton dined with edward john, and made the acquaintance of his young cousins, st. george and frederick. of st. george, a dark-haired lad, who was particularly clever and had a humorous vein, burton from the first thought highly. one day, happening to turn over some of the leaves of the boy's exercise book, he stumbled upon the following lines: "the map of africa was dark as night, god said, 'let burton live,' and there was light." he laughed heartily and thanked his little cousin for the compliment, while the couplet became a stock quotation in the family. later, when st. george went to a french school, he was very proud to find that the boys were conversant not only with the exploits of his famous uncle, but also with the history of the dr. francis burton who had made napoleon's death mask. frederick burton was a plump, shy, fair-haired little fellow, and burton, who loved to tease, did not spare his rotundity. in one of frederick's copy-books could be read, in large hand, "life is short." "i," commented burton, "find life very long." subsequently he advised his cousin to go to the river plate. "well," he would ask, when he entered the house, "has frederick started for the river plate yet? i see a good opening there." as dr. burton was born in the house of his father's brother, the bishop of killala, burton used to affect jealousy. "hang it all, edward," he would say, "you were born in a bishop's palace." apparently it was about this time that the terrible silence of burton's brother was for a moment broken. every human device had been tried to lead him to conversation, and hitherto in vain. it seems that some years previous, and before edward's illness, dr. e. j. burton had lent his cousin a small sum of money, which was duly repaid. one day dr. burton chose to assume the contrary, and coming upon edward suddenly he cried: "edward, you might just as well have paid me that money i lent you at margate. i call it shabby, now." edward raised his head and fixing his eyes on dr. burton said, with great effort, and solemnly, "cousin, i did pay you, you must remember that i gave you a cheque." thrilled with joy, dr. burton attempted to extend the conversation, but all in vain, and to his dying day edward burton never uttered another word. . at the athenaeum. of all the spots in london, none was so dear to burton as his club, the athenaeum. when in england, he practically lived there, and its massive portico, its classic frieze, and the helmeted statue of minerva were always imaged on his heart. he wrote a number of his books there, and he loved to write his letters on its notepaper stamped with the little oval enclosing minerva's head. he used to make his way to the athenaeum early in the day [ ] and go straight to the library. having seated himself at the round table he would work with coralline industry, and without a single break until six or seven in the evening. it was a standing joke against him in dr. burton's family that when at the club he was never at home to anybody except a certain mrs. giacometti prodgers. this lady was of austrian birth, and, according to rumour, there was a flavour of romance about her marriage. it was said that while the laws of certain countries regarded her as married, those of other countries insisted that she was still single. however, married or not, she concentrated all her spleen on cab-drivers, and was continually hauling some luckless driver or other before the london magistrates. having a profound respect for burton's judgment, she often went to him about these cab disputes, and, oddly enough, though nobody else could get at him, he was always at the service of mrs. prodgers, and good-naturedly gave her the benefit of his wisdom. [ ] to the london magistrates the good lady was a perpetual terror, and frederick burton, a diligent newspaper reader, took a pleasure in following her experiences. "st. george," he would call across the breakfast table, "mrs. giacometti prodgers again: she's had another cab-man up." one evening, says a london contributor to the new york tribune [ ] referring to this period, "there was a smoking party given by a well-known londoner. i went in late, and on my way upstairs, stumbled against a man sitting on the stairs, with a book and pencil in his hands, absorbed in his reading, and the notes he was making. it was burton. when i spoke to him he woke up as if from a dream with the dazed air of one not quite sure where he is. i asked him what he was reading. it proved to be camoens, and he told me he was translating the portuguese poet. it seemed an odd place for such work, and i said as much." "oh," answered burton, "i can read anywhere or write anywhere. and i always carry camoens about with me. you see, he is a little book, and i have done most of my translating in these odd moments, or, as you say, in this odd fashion." and he added, with a kind of cynical grin on his face, 'you will find plenty of dull people in the rooms above.' he had been bored and this was his refuge." . jane digby again. report now arrived that jane digby was dead; and paragraphs derogatory to her character appeared in the press. mrs. burton not only answered them, but endeavoured to throw a halo over her friend's memory. she said also that as she, mrs. burton, had jane digby's biography, nobody else had any right to make remarks. comically enough, news then came that jane was still alive. she had been detained in the desert by the fighting of the tribes. says mrs. burton, "her relatives attacked her for having given me the biography, and she, under pressure, denied it in print, and then wrote and asked me to give it back to her; but i replied that she should have had it with the greatest pleasure, only she having 'given me the lie' in print, i was obliged for my own sake to keep it, and she eventually died." this very considerate act of jane's saved all further trouble. . his book on zanzibar. on his expedition with speke to tanganyika, burton had already written four volumes, [ ] and it was now to be the subject of another work, zanzibar, which is chiefly a description of the town and island from which the expedition started. the origin of the book was as follows. with him on his way home from africa he had brought among other mss. a bundle of notes relating both to his "preliminary canter" and to zanzibar, and the adventures of these notes were almost as remarkable as those of the little hunchback. on the west coast of africa the bundle was "annexed" by a skipper. the skipper having died, the manuscripts fell into the hands of his widow, who sold them to a bookseller, who exposed them for sale. an english artillery officer bought them, and, in his turn, lost them. finally they were picked up in the hall of a cabinet minister, who forwarded them to burton. the work contains an enormous mass of geographical, anthropological and other information, and describes the town so truthfully that nobody, except under compulsion, would ever dream of going there. the climate, it seems, is bad for men, worse for women. "why," he asks, "should englishmen poison or stab their wives when a few months at zanzibar would do the business more quietly and effectually?" the expense of getting them over there may be one objection. but whoever goes to zanzibar, teetotallers, we are told, should keep away. there it is drink or die. burton introduces many obsolete words, makes attacks on various persons, and says fearlessly just what he thinks; but the work has both the burtonian faults. it is far too long, and it teems with uninteresting statistics. there also left the press this year ( ) a work in two volumes entitled unexplored syria, by burton and tyrwhitt drake. [ ] it describes the archaeological discoveries made by the authors during their sojourn in syria, and includes an article on syrian proverbs (proverba communia syriaca) which had appeared the year before in the journal of the royal asiatic society. some of the sayings have english analogues, thus: "he who wants nah mustn't say ah;" "nah" being wealth or honour; "ah," the expression of fear or doubt. [ ] at one of the meetings of the royal geographical society, at which burton had been billed to speak, there were present among the audience his wife, mr. arundell, and several other members of the family. considerable hostility was shown towards burton; and colonel rigby [ ] and others flatly contradicted some of his statements respecting zanzibar. then burton flew into a temper such as only he could fly into. his eyes flashed, his lips protruded with rage, and he brandished the long map pointer so wildly that the front bench became alarmed for their safety. old mr. arundell, indignant at hearing his son-in-law abused, then tried to struggle on to the platform, while his sons and daughters, horrified at the prospect, hung like bull-dogs to his coat tails. says burton, "the old man, who had never been used to public speaking, was going to address a long oration to the public about his son-in-law, richard burton. as he was slow and very prolix, he would never have sat down again, and god only knows what he would have said." the combined efforts of the arundell family however, prevented so terrible a denouement, burton easily proved his enemies' statements to be erroneous, and the order was eventually restored. chapter xvii. th october - th may , trieste bibliography: . medinah and meccah. vols. in one, . . minas geraes. th january . j. a. i. . the lands of the cazembe. . . the captivity of hans stadt, . . articles on rome. macmillan's mag. - . . the castellieri of istria. . gerber's province of minas geraes. . new system of sword exercise. . ultima thule, or a summer in iceland. vols. . . two trips to gorilla land. vols. . . the inner life of syria. vols., , by mrs. burton. . the long wall of salona. . burton at trieste, th october . burton left england for trieste th october , [ ] but the popular belief that he entered the town with a fighting cock under his arm and a bull-terrier at his heels lacks foundation. he was fifty-one, the age of the banished ovid, to whom he often compared himself, and though the independent and haughty burton bears no resemblance to the sycophantic and lachrymose yet seductive sulmoan, nevertheless his letters from trieste are a sort of tristia--or as the flippant would put it--triestia. indeed, he read and re-read with an almost morbid interest both the tristia and the ex ponto. [ ] ovid's images seemed applicable to himself. "i, too," he said, "am a neglected book gnawed by the moth," "a stream dammed up with mud," "a phalaris, clapped, for nothing in particular, into the belly of a brazen bull." like ovid, too, he could and did pronounce his invective against the ibis, the cause of all his troubles, that is to say, rashid pasha, whose very name was as gall and wormwood. his fate, indeed, was a hard one. the first linguist of his day, for he spoke twenty-eight languages and dialects, he found himself relegated to a third-rate port, where his attainments were absolutely valueless to anybody. the greatest of travellers, the most indefatigable of anthropologists, the man who understood the east as no other englishman had understood it--was set to do work that could in those days have been accomplished with ease by any raw and untravelled government official possessed of a smattering of german and italian. but the truth is, burton's brilliant requirements were really a hindrance to him. the morbid distrust of genius which has ever been incidental to ordinary government officialism, was at that time particularly prevalent. the only fault to be found with burton's conduct at damascus, was that, instead of serving his own interest, he had attempted to serve the interests of his country and humanity. by trimming, temporizing, shutting his eyes to enormities, and touching bribes, he might have retained his post, or have been passed on to constantinople. when time after time he saw incompetent men advanced to positions of importance, his anger was unrestrainable, "why," he asked bitterly, "are the egyptian donkey-boys so favourable to the english?" answer, "because we hire more asses than any other nation." trieste is a white splash between high wooded mountains and a dark precipice rising from a sea intense as the blue of the gentian. the population was about , , mostly italian speaking. nominally they were catholics, and of genuine catholics there might have been , , chiefly women. "trieste," said burton, "is a town of threes--three quarters, three races (italian, slav and austrian), and three winds (sirocco, bora, and contraste)." one brilliant man of letters had been connected with the town, namely marie-henry beyle, better known by his pen name, stendhal, [ ] who, while he was french counul here, pumice polished and prepared for the press his masterpiece, la chartreuse de parme, which he had written at padua in . to the minor luminary, charles lever, we have already alluded. such was the town in which the british hercules was set to card wool. the burtons occupied ten rooms at the top of a block of buildings situated near the railway station. the corridor was adorned with a picture of our saviour, and statuettes of st. joseph and the madonna with votive lights burning before them. this, in burton's facetious phrase, was "mrs. burton's joss house;" and occasionally, when they had differences, he threatened "to throw her joss house out of the window." burton in a rage, indeed, was the signal for the dispersal of everybody. furniture fell, knick-knacks flew from the table, and like jupiter he tumbled gods on gods. if, however, he and his wife did not always symphonize, still, on the whole, they continued to work together amicably, for mrs. burton took considerable pains to accommodate herself to the peculiarities of her husband's temperament, and both were blessed with that invaluable oil for troubled waters--the gift of humour. "laughter," burton used to say, and he had "a curious feline laugh," "animates the brain and stimulates the lungs." to his wife's assumption of the possession of knowledge, of being a linguist, of being the intellectual equal of every living person, saving himself, he had no objection; and the pertinacity with which she sustained this role imposed sometimes even on him. he got to think that she was really a genius in a way, and saw merit even in the verbiage and rhodomontade of her books. but whatever isabel burton's faults, they are all drowned and forgotten in her devotion to her husband. it was more than love--it was unreasoning worship. "you and mrs. burton seem to jog along pretty well together," said a friend. "yes," followed burton, "i am a spoilt twin, and she is the missing fragment." burton, of course, never really took to trieste, his tomi, as he called it. he was too apt to contrast it with damascus: the wind-swept istrian hills with the zephyr-ruffled lebanon, the dull red plains of the austrian sea-board with the saffron of the desert, the pre-historic castellieri or hill-forts, in which, nevertheless, he took some pleasure, with the columned glories of baalbak and palmyra. "did you like damascus?" somebody once carelessly asked mrs. burton. "like it!" she exclaimed, quivering with emotion, "my eyes fill, and my heart throbs even at the thought of it." indeed, they always looked back with wistful, melancholy regret upon the two intercalary years of happiness by the crystalline chrysorrhoa, and mrs. burton could never forget that last sad ride through the beloved plain of zebedani. among those who visited the burtons at trieste, was alfred bates richards. after describing mrs. burton's sanctuary, he says: "thus far, the belongings are all of the cross, but no sooner are we landed in the little drawing-rooms than signs of the crescent appear. these rooms, opening one into another, are bright with oriental hangings, with trays and dishes of gold and burnished silver, fantastic goblets, chibouques with great amber mouth-pieces, and eastern treasure made of odorous woods." burton liked to know that everything about him was hand-made. "it is so much better," he used to say, than the "poor, dull work of machinery." in one of the book-cases was mrs. burton's set of her husband's works, some fifty volumes. [ ] mr. richards thus describes burton himself, "standing about five feet eleven, his broad, deep chest and square shoulders reduce his apparent height very considerably, and the illusion is intensified by hands and feet of oriental smallness. the eastern and distinctly arab look of the man is made more pronounced by prominent cheek-bones (across one of which is the scar of a javelin cut), by closely-cropped black hair, just tinged with grey, and a pair of piercing, black, gipsy-looking eyes." out of doors, in summer, burton wore a spotlessly white suit, a tie-pin shaped like a sword, a pair of fashionable, sharply-pointed shoes, and the shabbiest old white beaver hat that he could lay his hands upon. on his finger glittered a gold ring, engraved with the word "tanganyika." [ ] in appearance, indeed, he was a compound of the dandy, the swash-buckler and the literary man. he led mr. richards through the house. every odd corner displayed weapons--guns, pistols, boar-spears, swords of every shape and make. on one cupboard was written "the pharmacy." it contained the innocuous medicines for mrs. burton's poor--for she still continued to manufacture those pills and drenches that had given her a reputation in the holy land. "why," asked richards, "do you live in a flat and so high up?" "to begin with," was the reply, "we are in good condition, and run up and down the stairs like squirrels. if i had a great establishment, i should feel tied and weighed down. with a flat and two or three servants one has only to lock the door and go out." the most noticeable objects in the rooms were eleven rough deal tables, each covered with writing materials. [ ] at one sat mrs. burton in morning neglige, a grey choga--the long, loose indian dressing-gown of soft camel's hair--topped by a smoking cap of the same material. she observed, "i see you are looking at our tables. dick likes a separate table for each book, and when he is tired of one he goes to another." he never, it seems, wrote more than eleven books at a time, unless stout pamphlets come under that category. their life was a peaceful one, except on fridays, when mrs. burton received seventy bosom and particular friends, and talked to them at the top of her voice in faulty german, italian, which she spoke fluently, or slangy english. [ ] in the insipid conversation of this "magpie sanhedrin," "these hen parties," as he called them, burton did not join, but went on with his work as if no one was present. indeed, far from complaining, he remarked philosophically that if the rooms had been lower down probably visitors instead of would have looked in. the burtons usually rose at or , and after tea, bread and fruit, gave their morning to study. at noon they drank a cup of soup, fenced, and went for a swim in the sea. burton then took up a heavy iron stick with a silver knob [ ] and walked to the consulate, which was situated in the heart of the town, while mrs. burton, with her pockets bulging with medicines, and a flask of water ready for baptism emergencies hanging to her girdle, busied herself with charitable work, including the promotion of the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals. they generally dined at the table d'hote of the hotel de la ville, and dined well, for, as burton says used to "only fools and young ladies care nothing for the carte." [ ] having finished their coffee, cigarettes, and kirsch, outside the hotel, they went home to bed, where, conscious of a good day's work done, they took their rest merrily. sometimes they interrupted the routine with excursions into the surrounding country, of which they both knew every stock and stone, pre-historic or modern. of business ability, burton had never possessed one iota, and his private affairs were constantly mis-managed. as at fernando po, santos and damascus, he promptly looked out for a sanitarium, his choice finally resting upon a loftily-situated village called opcina. reviewing burton's career, mr. alfred bates richards says: "he has done more than any other six men, and is one of the best, noblest and truest that breathes. while not on active service or on sick leave he has been serving his country, humanity, science, and civilisation in other ways, by opening up lands hitherto unknown, and trying to do good wherever he went. he was the pioneer for all other living african travellers." if trieste was not an ideal post for him, still it had the patent advantage of being practically a sinecure. he and his wife seem to have been able to get away almost at any time. they sometimes travelled together, but often went in different directions, and as burton was as restless as a hyena, he never stayed in any one place many hours. occasionally they met unexpectedly. upon one of these meetings in a swiss hotel, burton burst out affectionately with, "and what the devil brought you here?" to which she replied, promptly but sweetly, "ditto, brother." for study, burton had almost unlimited time, and nothing came amiss to him. he lost himself in old sacramentaries, oriental manuscripts, works on the prehistoric remains of istria, camoens, catullus, the arabian nights, boccaccio. his knowledge was encyclopaedic. . at the vienna exhibition, . early in the burtons visited vienna chiefly in order to see the great exhibition. the beauty of the buildings excited their constant admiration, but the dearness of everything at the hotels made burton use forcible language. on one occasion he demanded--he never asked for anything--a beefsteak, and a waiter hurried up with an absurdly small piece of meat on a plate. picking it up with the fork he examined it critically, and then said, quite amiably for him, "yaas, yaas, [ ] that's it, bring me some." next he required coffee. the coffee arrived in what might have been either a cup or a thimble. "what's this?" demanded burton. the waiter said it was coffee for one. "then," roared burton, with several expletives, "bring me coffee for twenty." their bill at this hotel came to £ for the three weeks. . a visit from drake, june . on their return from vienna, they had the pleasure of meeting again lady marion alford, aubertin, and that "true-hearted englishman, staunch to the backbone," charles tyrwhitt drake, who "brought with him a breath from the desert and stayed several weeks." the three friends went to a fete held in the stalactite caverns of adelsberg, from which burton, who called them the eighth wonder of the world, always assumed that dante got his ideas of the inferno. lighted by a million candles, and crowded with peasants in their picturesque costumes, which made wondrous arabesques of moving shadows, the caves presented a weird and unearthly appearance, which the music and dancing subsequently intensified. shortly afterwards drake left for palestine. in may ( ), burton was struck down by a sudden pain, which proved to arise from a tumour. an operation was necessary, and all was going on well when a letter brought the sad news of drake's death. he had succumbed, at jerusalem, to typhoid fever, at the early age of twenty-eight. [ ] burton took the news so heavily, that, at mrs. burton says, [ ] it "caused the wound to open afresh; he loved drake like a brother, and few know what a tender heart richard has." to use dr. baker's [ ] phrase, he had "the heart of a beautiful woman." . khamoor returns to syria, th december . in the meantime mrs. burton was reaping the fruits of her injudicious treatment of khamoor. thoroughly spoilt, the girl now gave herself ridiculous airs, put herself on a level with her mistress, and would do nothing she was told. as there was no other remedy, mrs. burton resolved philanthropically to send her back to syria, "in order that she might get married and settled in life." so khamoor was put on board a ship going to beyrout, with nine boxes of clothes and a purse of gold. "it was to me," says mrs. burton, "a great wrench." khamoor's father met her, the nine boxes, and the purse of gold at beyrout, and by and by came to the news that she was married and settled down in the buka'a. such was the end of chico the second. chapter xviii. th may - th june , the trip to india bibliography: . the port of trieste. . the gypsy. written in . . etruscan bologna. . . new system of sword exercise for infantry. . . visit to england, th may . on th december , burton sent his wife to england to arrange for the publication of various of his works, and in may , having obtained leave, he followed her, arriving in london on the th. he took with him "a ton or so of books" in an enormous trunk painted one half black the other white--"the magpie chest" which henceforth always accompanied him on his travels. at the various stations in england there were lively scenes, the company demanding for luggage excess, and burton vigorously protesting but finally paying. he then took the value out by reeling off a spirited address to the railway clerk, punctuated with expletives in twenty odd african or asiatic languages, on the meanness of the clerk's employers. . tonic bitters. always suffering from impecuniosity, the burtons were perpetually revolving schemes for increasing their income. one was to put on the market a patent pick-me-up, good also for the liver, to be called, "captain burton's tonic bitters," the recipe of which had been "acquired from a franciscan monk." "its object," observed burton facetiously, to a friend, "is to make john bull eat more beef and drink more beer." mrs. burton imagined naively that if it were put into a pretty bottle the demand would exceed the supply. they had hopes, too, for the camoens, which had taken many years of close application and was now approaching completion. still, it was argued that a translation of camoens, however well done, could not hope for the success of a well-advertised liver tonic, seeing that while most people have a liver, it is only here and there one who has a taste for camoens. the tonic was placed on the market, but the scheme, like so many others, proved a fiasco. nobody seemed to want to be picked up, and the indifference of a christian nation to the state of its liver, was to burton extremely painful. so he abandoned philanthropy, and took to lecturing before the anthropological and other societies, dining out, and calling on old friends. one sunday he visited the zoo; but when he asked for a glass of beer at the refreshment bar, the girl declined to serve him because he was "not a bona-fide traveller!" in , burton's portrait, painted by the late lord leighton, was exhibited in the academy; and on july th of the same year, burton started off on a second trip to iceland, which occupied him six weeks, but he and his wife did not meet again till october th. on december th ( ) they left london for the continent. the morning was black as midnight. over the thick snow hung a dense, murky fog, while "a dull red gleam just rendered the darkness visible." "it looks," said burton, "as if london were in mourning for some great national crime." to which mrs. burton replied, "let us try to think, darling, that our country wears mourning for our departure into exile." on reaching boulogne they sought out some of their old acquaintances, including m. constantin, burton's fencing master. after a brief stay in paris, they proceeded to trieste, ate their christmas dinner, and then set out for india, partly for pleasure and partly for the purpose of collecting information about the abandoned diamond mines of golconda. . a trip to india, december , th june . the suez canal, which had been finished some five years previous, gave them much pleasure, and it was like living life over again to see the camels, the bedawin in cloak and kuffiyyah, the women in blue garments, and to smell the pure air of the desert. on reaching yambu, burton enquired whether sa'ad the robber chief, who had attacked the caravan in the journey to mecca days, still lived; and was told that the dog long since made his last foray, and was now safe in jehannum. [ ] they landed at jiddah, where burton was well received, although everyone knew the story of his journey to mecca, and on rejoining their ship they found on board eight hundred pilgrims of a score of nationalities. then a storm came on. the pilgrims howled with fright, and during the voyage twenty-three died of privation, vermin, hunger and thirst. says mrs. burton: [ ] "they won't ask, but if they see a kind face they speak with their eyes as an animal does." at aden burton enquired after his old harar companions. shahrazad was still in aden, the coquettish dunyazad in somaliland, the kalandar had been murdered by the isa tribe, and the end of time had "died a natural death"--that is to say, somebody had struck a spear into him. [ ] bombay was reached on february nd. . arbuthnot again. rehatsek. the first person burton called on was his old friend, forster fitzgerald arbuthnot, who now occupied there the important position of "collector." arbuthnot, like other people, had got older, but his character had not changed a tittle. business-like and shrewd, yet he continued to be kindly, and would go out of his way to do a philanthropic action, and without fuss of parade. a friend describes him as "a man of the world, but quite untainted by it." he used to spend the winter in bombay, and the summer in his charming bungalow at bandora. in a previous chapter we referred to him as a jehu. he now had a private coach and team--rather a wonder in that part of the world, and drove it himself. of his skill with the ribbons he was always proud, and no man could have known more about horses. some of the fruits of his experience may be seen in an article [ ] which he contributed to baily's magazine (april ) in which he ranks driving with such accomplishments as drawing, painting and music. his interest in the languages and literatures of the east was as keen as ever, but though he had already collected material for several books he does not seem to have published anything prior to . he took his friends out everywhere in his four-in-hand, and they saw to advantage some of the sights of burton's younger days. with the bungalow mrs. burton was in raptures. on the eve of the tabut feast, she tells us, the duke of sutherland (formerly lord stafford) joined the party; and a number of boys dressed like tigers came and performed some native dancing with gestures of fighting and clawing one another, "which," she adds oddly, "was exceedingly graceful." the principal event of this visit, however, was burton's introduction to that extraordinary and diogenes-like scholar, edward rehatsek. lady burton does not even mention rehatsek's name, and cyclopaedias are silent concerning him; yet he was one of the most remarkable men of his time, and henceforward burton was in constant communication with him. born on rd july , at illack, in austria, edward rehatsek was educated at buda pesth, and in proceeded to bombay, where he settled down as professor of latin and mathematics at wilson college. he retired from his professorship in , and settled in a reed-built native house, not so very much bigger than his prototype's tub, at khetwadi. though he had amassed money he kept no servants, but went every morning to the bazaar, and purchased his provisions, which he cooked with his own hand. he lived frugally, and his dress was mean and threadbare, nevertheless, this strange, austere, unpretentious man was one of the greatest linguists of his time. not only could he speak most of the languages of the east, including arabic and persian, but he wrote good idiomatic english. to his translations, and his connection with the kama shastra society, we shall refer later. he was visited in his humble home only by his principal friend, mr. arbuthnot, and a few others, including hari madhay parangpe, editor of native opinion, to which he was a contributor. the conversation of rehatsek, burton, and arbuthnot ran chiefly on arbuthnot's scheme for the revival of the royal asiatic translation fund, and the translation of the more important eastern works into english; but some years were to elapse before it took shape. on february th, burton wrote to his cousin, st. george burton--addressing his letter, as he was continually on the move, from trieste. he says: "my dear cousin, "you need not call me 'captain burton.' i am very sorry that you missed woolwich--and can only say, don't miss the line. i don't think much of holy orders, however, chacun a son gout. many thanks for the details about the will. assist your mother in drawing up a list of the persons who are heirs, should the girl die without a will. [ ] let 'the party' wash his hands as often as he pleases--cleanliness is next to godliness. as the heir to a baronetcy [ ] you would be worth ten times more than heir to an esquireship--in snobby england. write to me whenever you think that i can be of any service and let me be "yr. aff. cousin, "r. f. burton." . in sind. from bombay, the burtons journeyed to karachi, which had grown from , to , [ ] and could now boast fine streets and noble houses. here burton regaled his eyes with the sights familiar to his youth; the walks he had taken with his bull-terrier, the tank or pond where he used to charioteer the "ghastly" crocodile, [ ] the spot where he had met the beautiful persian, and the shops which had once been his own; while he recalled the old familiar figures of hook-nosed sir charles napier, yellow-bearded captain scott, and gorgeously-accoutred general j-j-j-j-j-j-jacob. his most amusing experience was with a beloch chief, one ibrahim khan, on whom he called and whom he subsequently entertained at dinner spread in a tent. [ ] the guests, sind fashion, prepared for the meal by getting drunk. he thoroughly enjoyed it, however, and, except that he made impressions with his thumb in the salt, upset his food on the tablecloth, and scratched his head with the corkscrew, behaved with noticeable propriety. having transferred from the table to his pocket a wine-glass and some other little articles that took his fancy, he told his stock stories, including the account of his valour at the battle of meeanee, where at imminent risk of his life, he ran away. tea he had never before tasted, and on sampling a cup, he made a wry face. this, however, was because it was too strong, for having diluted it with an equal quantity of brandy, he drank it with relish. after a visit to the battlefield of meeanee [ ] the burtons returned to bombay in time for the feast of muharram, and saw the moslem miracle play representing the martyrdom and death of hassan and hossein, the sons of ali. then mirza ali akbar, burton's old munshi, called on them. as his visiting card had been printed mirza ally akbar, burton enquired insultingly whether his old friend claimed kin with ally sloper. in explanation the mirza said that the english were accustomed to spell his name so, and as he did not in the least mind what he was called, he had fallen in with the alteration. . golconda. on february st the burtons left bombay and journeyed by way of poona to hyderabad, where they were hospitably entreated by major nevill, the commander-in-chief of the nizam's troops, and sir salar jung, the prime minister. they rode through the town on elephants, saw the nizam's palace, which was "a mile long and covered with delicate tracery," an ostrich race, an assault-at-arms, and fights between cocks and other creatures. at "hyderabad," says mrs. burton, "they fight every kind of animal." "a nautch," which sir salah gave in their honour, mrs. burton found tame, for the girls did nothing but eat sweetmeats and occasionally run forward and twirl round for a moment with a half-bold, semi-conscious look. [ ] then followed the visit to golconda and its tombs of wax-like jaypur marble, with their arabesqued cupolas and lacery in stone. here burton accumulated a good deal of miscellaneous information about diamond mining, and came to the conclusion that the industry in india generally, and especially in golconda, had been prematurely abandoned; and endeavoured by means of letters to the press and in other ways to enlist the sympathies of the british capitalists. but everything that he wrote on the subject, as on kindred subjects, has a distinctly quixotic ring, and we fear he would not have been a very substantial pillar for the british capitalist to lean against. he was always, in such matters, the theorist rather than the practical man--in other words, the true son of his own father. the burtons then returned to bombay, which they reached in time to take part in the celebrations in honour of the prince of wales, who had just finished his indian tour. honouring the guebres--the grand old guebres, as he used to call them--and their modern representatives, the parsees, burton paid a visit to the parsee "burying place"--the high tower where the dead are left to be picked by vultures, and then he and his wife left for goa, where they enjoyed the hospitality and company of dr. gerson da cunha, [ ] the camoens student and enthusiast. mrs. burton was as disgusted with goa as she had been charmed with dr. da cunha. she says, "of all the god-forgotten, deserted holes, one thousand years behind the rest of creation, i have never seen anything equal it." they left india at the end of april, and were back again at trieste on june th. chapter xix. th june - st march , colonel gordon . ariosto. shortly after his return from india, burton commenced a translation of the orlando furioso [ ] of ariosto, a poet, to whom, as we have seen, he had been drawn ever since those far-off days when with his father and the rest of the family he had meandered about italy in the great yellow chariot. reggio, the poet's birthplace, and ferrara, where the orlando furioso was written and ariosto died, were sacred spots to him; while the terrific madness of the hero, the loves of ruggiero and bradamante and the enchanted gardens with their arabian nights atmosphere, lapped him in bliss much as they had done in the old days. only a small portion of this translation was ever finished, but he had it in mind all the rest of his life, and talked about it during his last visit to england. . death of rashid pasha, th june . in june came the news of the murder of rashid pasha; and a thousand memories, sweet and bitter, thrilled the burtons. mrs. burton recalled that "cool and aromatic housetop," the jewel-blue chrysorrhoa, the saffron desert, and then it was "oh, rashid pasha! oh, rashid pasha!" still she found it in her woman's heart to forgive the detested old enemy, now that he was gone, but burton could not restrain a howl of triumph such as might have become some particularly vindictive bible hero. writing on th june to his cousin, dr. edward john burton, he says, "we returned here on the th inst., and the first thing i heard was the murder of my arch-enemy, rashid pasha. serve the scoundrel right. he prevented my going to constantinople and to sana'a, in arabia. i knew the murderous rascal too well to trust him. maria wrote to me about poor stisted's death. [ ] a great loss for maria and the chicks. i suppose you never see bagshaw. [ ] what news are there of him? is sarah (what's her name? harrison?) [ ] still to the fore. it is, i fear, useless to write anything about poor edward [ ] except to thank you most heartily for your disinterested kindness to him. i will not bother you about our journey, which was very pleasant and successful. you will see it all, including my proposals for renewed diamond digging, written in a book or books." "united best love to my cousin and the cousinkins." burton made frequent enquiries after edward, "many thanks," he writes on a post card, "for the news of my dear brother," and all his letters contain tender and warm-hearted references to him. . colonel gordon . in july , burton heard from colonel (afterwards general) gordon, who wanted some information about the country south of the victoria nyanza; and the friendship which then commenced between these brilliant men was terminated only by death. in every letter gordon quoted burton's motto, "honour, not honours," and in one he congratulated his friend on its happy choice. for several years gordon had been occupied under the auspices of the khedive, in continuing the work of administering the soudan, which had been begun by sir samuel baker. he had established posts along the nile, placed steamers on the albert nyanza, and he nursed the hope of being able to put an end to the horrid slave trade. in january , he was appointed by the khedive governor of the entire soudan. there were to be three governors under him, and he wrote to burton offering him the governor-generalship of darfur, with £ , a year. said gordon, "you will soon have the telegraph in your capital, el fasher.... you will do a mint of good, and benefit those poor people.... now is the time for you to make your indelible mark in the world and in these countries." [ ] had such an offer arrived eight years earlier, burton might have accepted it, but he was fifty-seven, and his post at trieste, though not an agreeable one, was a "lasting thing," which the governor-generalship of darfur seemed unlikely to be. so the offer was declined. gordon's next letter ( th june ) contains a passage that brings the man before us in very vivid colours. "i dare say," he observed, "you wonder how i can get on without an interpreter and not knowing arabic. i do not believe in man's free will; and therefore believe all things are from god and pre-ordained. such being the case, the judgments or decisions i give are fixed to be thus or thus, whether i have exactly hit off all the circumstances or not. this is my raft, and on it i manage to float along, thanks to god, more or less successfully." [ ] on another occasion gordon wrote, "it is a delightful thing to be a fatalist"--meaning, commented burton, "that the divine direction and pre-ordination of all things saved him so much trouble of forethought and afterthought. in this tenet he was not only a calvinist but also a moslem." [ ] . jane digby the second. the patent pick-me-up having failed, and the burtons being still in need of money, other schemes were revolved, all more or less chimerical. lastly, burton wondered whether it would be possible to launch an expedition to midian with a view to searching for gold. in ancient times gold and other metals had been found there in abundance, and remains of the old furnaces still dotted the country. forty cities had lived by the mines, and would, burton averred, still be living by them but for the devastating wars that had for centuries spread ruin and destruction. he, reasoned, indeed, much as balzac had done about the mines of sardinia as worked by the romans, and from no better premises; but several of his schemes had a distinctly balzacian aroma, [ ] as his friend arbuthnot, who was writing a life of balzac, might have told him. burton himself, however, had no misgivings. his friend, haji wali, had indicated, it seems, in the old days, the precise spot where the wealth lay, and apparently nothing remained to be done except to go and fetch it. haji wali had some excellent points. he was hospitable and good-natured, but he was also, as burton very well knew, cunning and untrustworthy. the more, however, burton revolved the scheme in his mind, the more feasible it seemed. that he could persuade the khedive to support him he felt sure; that he would swell to bursting the egyptian coffers and become a millionaire himself was also taken for granted, and he said half in earnest, half in jest, that the only title he ever coveted was duke of midian. there were very eager ears listening to all this castle building. at trieste, mrs. burton had taken to her bosom another jane digby--a creature with soft eyes, "bought blushes and set smiles." one would have thought that former experiences would have made her cautious. but it was not so. mrs. burton though deplorably tactless, was innocence itself, and she accepted others at their own valuation. jane digby the second, who went in and out of the burton's house as if she belonged to it, was in reality one of the most abandoned women in trieste. she was married, but had also, as it transpired, an acknowledged lover. like women of that class she was extravagant beyond belief, and consequently always in difficulties. hearing the everlasting talk about midian and its supposed gold, the depraved woman [ ] made up her mind to try to detach burton's affections from his wife and to draw them to herself. to accomplish this she relied not only on the attractions of her person, but also on glozing speeches and other feminine artifices. having easy access to the house she purloined private letters, papers and other writings, and after all hope of recovery was over, she would put them back. she slipped love letters, purporting to be from other women, into burton's pockets; and whenever mrs. burton brushed his coat or dried his clothes she was sure to come upon them. mrs. burton also received pseudonymous letters. but whatever mrs. burton's faults, she, as we have seen, passionately loved, trusted and even worshipped her husband; and whatever burton's faults, he thoroughly appreciated her devotion. they were quite sufficient for each other, and the idea of anyone trying to come between them seemed ludicrous. consequently mrs. burton carried her letters to her husband and he brought his to her. amazing to say, neither of them suspected the culprit, though burton thought it must be some woman's intrigue, and that need of money was the cause of it. the real truth of it did not come out till after burton's death, and then the unhappy woman, who was near her end, made lady burton a full confession, adding, "i took a wicked pleasure in your perfect trust in me." . the old baronetcy. th january . repeated enquiry now took place respecting the old baronetcy in the burton family, and mrs. burton in particular made unceasing efforts, both in the columns of notes and queries and elsewhere, in order to obtain the missing links. several of burton's letters at this period relate to the subject. to mrs. e. j. burton, th january , he writes: "my dear cousin, i write to you in despair: that 'party,' your husband, puts me off with a post-card to this effect, 'have seen w-----ll, no chance for outsiders,' and does not tell me a word more. i wish you would write all you know about it. another matter. had the old man left me his money or any chance of it, i should have applied for permission to take up the old baronetcy. but now i shall not. your husband is the baronet and he can if he likes assume the "sir" at once. why the devil doesn't he? of course i advise him to go through the usual process, which will cost, in the case of a baronetcy, very few pounds. neither he nor you may care for it, but think of the advantage it will be to your children. don't blink the fact that the british public are such snobs that a baronet, even in the matrimonial market, is always worth £ , , and it is one of the oldest baronetcies in the kingdom. do take my advice and get it for your eldest son [st. george burton]. as i said before, your husband might assume it even without leave, but he had better get 'the duke' to sanction it. and don't fail to push the man, who won't even claim what is his right. que diable! am i the only article named burton that has an ounce of energy in his whole composition." chapter xx. st march to th december , midian bibliography: . sind revisited. . . the gold mines of midian. . . a.e.i. (arabia, egypt, india) by isabel burton. . . ogham runes. . . the land of midian revisited. vols., . . "the new joseph." st march - st april . th october - th april . burton now felt that the time was ripe to broach his views concerning the golden chersonese to the khedive (ismail), and having easily obtained leave from the home authorities, he proceeded straight to cairo. the khedive, impressed with his representations and enthusiasm, promptly consented to supply funds, and "the new joseph," as burton was now called, began preparations for the expedition that was to make both egypt and himself rich beyond computation. then followed a conversation with haji wali, whom age--he was --"had only made a little fatter and a little greedier," and the specious old trickster promised to accompany the expedition. as usual burton began with a preliminary canter, visiting moilah, aynunah bay, makna and jebel hassani, where he sketched, made plans, and collected metalliferous specimens. he returned to egypt with native stories of ruined towns evidencing a formerly dense population, turquoise mines and rocks veined with gold. the khedive in idea saw himself a second croesus. these were the quarries, he held, whence solomon derived the gold for the walls of the house of his god, his drinking vessels and his lion throne, but colonel gordon, when afterwards told of his scheme, smiled incredulously. as the hot season necessitated a delay of six months, burton returned to trieste, where life seemed hum-drum enough after so many excitement, and spangled visions. he spent the time writing a book the gold mines of midian and the ruined midianite cities, and the sluggish months having at last crawled by, he again left trieste for cairo. . more advice to "lazybones." th may . in a letter to mrs. e. j. burton, headed "at sea, th may ," he again touches on the old baronetcy. "next saturday i expect to be at trieste, whence this letter will start. the times has probably told you the story of my last adventure, and this will probably have explained to you why yours of march th has remained so long unanswered. that document informed me that 'lazybones' was going to make himself useful. i hope he has done so. if not, he can learn all about his grandfather from papers published by the late admiral burton, and i do not think that miss eruli would object to letting him have copies. of course, don't speak about the baronetcy. that failing, all he has to do is to put the matter (after making an agreement) into the hands of a professional man, who will visit shap (westmoreland) and galway, and who will find no difficulty in establishing direct descent. please write to me again. i shall be heard of in trieste for some time. many thanks to the boys, and salute 'lazybones' according to his merits." in due time burton arrived at cairo, and the curious expedition set forth for wild, mysterious midian. he himself knew nothing of engineering, but he had the services of a practical engineer--one m. marie; and some artists, and a number of egyptian officers and soudanese soldiers accompanied the expedition. the party included neither metallurgist nor practical prospector [ ] but burton carried a divining rod, and seems really to have believed that it would be a help. the expenses, it was ascertained, would amount to one thousand nine hundred and seventy-one pounds twelve shillings and sixpence--no very extravagant sum for purchasing all the wealth of ophir. . haji wali again. at zagazig they were joined by the venerable wag and trickster, haji wali, and having reached suez they embarked on the gunboat, the "mukhbir," for moilah, which they reached on december th. burton landed with studied ceremony, his invariable plan when in the midst of savage or semi-civilised people. the gunboat saluted, the fort answered with a rattle and patter of musketry. all the notables drew up in line on the shore. to the left stood the civilians in tulip-coloured garb, next were the garrison, a dozen bashi-bazouks armed with matchlocks, then came burton's quarry men; and lastly the escort--twenty-five men--held the place of honour on the right; and as burton passed he was received with loud hurrahs. his first business was to hire three shaykhs and camels and dromedaries with their drivers. the party was inclined to be disorderly, but burton, with his usual skill in managing men, soon proved who was master. nothing if not authoritative, he always spoke in the commanding voice of a man who brooks no denial, and, as he showed plainly that acts would follow words, there was thenceforward but trifling trouble. he himself was in ecstasies. the power of the hills was upon him. . graffiti. the exploration was divided into three journeys, and between each and the next, the expedition rested at moilah. the first or northward had scarcely begun, indeed, they had not no further than sharma, before haji wali found it convenient to be troubled with indigestion in so violent a form as to oblige him to return home, which he straightway did with great alacrity. his object in accompanying the expedition even thus far is not clear, but he evidently got some payment, and that the expedition was a hopeless one he must have known from the first. the old rogue lived till rd august , but burton never again met him. even in midian, burton was dogged by ovid, for when he looked round at the haggard, treeless expanse he could but exclaim, quoting the ex ponto, "rara neque haec felix in apertis eminet arvis arbor, et in terra est altera forma maris." ["dry land! nay call it, destitute of tree, rather the blank, illimitable sea."] [ ] the expedition then made for maghair shu'ayb, the madiama of ptolemy and the old capital of the land. here they spent a "silly fortnight, searching for gold," which refused to answer even to the diving rod. they saw catacombs--the tombs of the kings--some of which were scrawled with graffiti, laboured perhaps by some idle nabathaean boy in the time of christ. they found remains of furnaces, picked up some coins, and saw undoubted evidences of ancient opulence. that was all. thence they made for makna, passing on their way a catacombed hill called "the praying place of jethro," and a shallow basin of clay known as moses' well. from makna, where they found their gunboat waiting for them, they then cruised to el akabah, the ancient eziongeber, in whose waters had ridden the ships of solomon laden with the merchandise of india and sheba. they reached moilah again on february th. the second journey, which took them due east as far as the arid hisma, lasted from february th to march th. burton considered the third journey the most important, but as they found nothing of any consequence it is difficult to understand why. first they steamed to el wijh, in the "sinnar," which had taken the place of the mukhbir, and then marched inland to the ancient mines of abul maru. but burton now saw the futility of attempting to proceed further. on april th they were back again at el wijh, on the th at moilah and on the th at suez. in the meantime, mrs. burton had left trieste, in order to join her husband. she stayed a week at cairo, where she met general gordon, who listened smilingly to her anticipations respecting the result of the expedition, and then she went on to suez. writing to her nieces, the misses stisted, rd march , she said: "i have taken a room looking across the red sea and desert towards midian, and hope at last to finish my own book [a.e.i., arabia, egypt and india]. what on earth paul is doing with richard's midian [ ] god only knows. i have written and telegraphed till i am black in the face, and telegrams cost s. d. a word." at last on th april, while mrs. burton was in church, a slip of paper was put into her hand: "the 'sinnar' is in sight." determined that the khedive should have something for his money, burton and his company had, to use mrs. burton's expression, "returned triumphantly," with twenty-five tons of minerals and numerous objects of archaeological interest. the yield of the argentiferous and cupriferous ores, proved, alas! to be but poor. they went in search of gold, and found graffiti! but was burton really disappointed? hardly. in reading about every one of his expeditions in anticipation of mineral wealth, the thought forces itself upon us that it was adventure rather than gold, sulphur, diamonds and silver that he really wanted. and of the lack of that he never had reason to complain. an exhibition of the specimens, both mineralogical and archaeological, was held at the hippodrome, and all cairo flocked to see "la collection," as the announcement expressed it, "rapportee par le capitaine burton." [ ] the khedive opened the exhibition in person, and walked round to look at the graffiti, the maps, the sketches of ruins and the twenty-five tons of rock, as nobody had more right; and burton and m. marie the engineer accompanied him. "are you sure," enquired the khedive, pointing to some of the rocks, "that this and this contain gold?" "midian," replied m. marie, blandly, "is a fine mining country." and that information was all the return his highness got for his little outlay of one thousand nine hundred and seventy one pounds twelve shillings and sixpence. . letter to sir henry gordon, th july . returned to trieste, burton once more settled down to his old dull life. the most interesting letter of this period that has come to our hands is one written to sir henry gordon, [ ] brother of colonel, afterwards general gordon. it runs: "dear sir, i am truly grateful to you for your kind note of june th and for the obliging expressions which it contains. your highly distinguished brother, who met my wife at suez, has also written me a long and interesting account of harar. as you may imagine, the subject concerns me very nearly, and the more so as i have yet hopes of revisiting that part of africa. it is not a little curious that although i have been in communication with colonel gordon for years, we have never yet managed to meet. last spring the event seemed inevitable, and yet when i reached suez, he had steamed south. however, he writes to me regularly, scolding me a little at times, but that is no matter. i hope to be luckier next winter. i expect to leave trieste in a few days [ ] and to make liverpool via long sea. both mrs. burton and i want a medicine of rest and roast beef as opposed to rosbif. nothing would please me more than to meet you and talk over your brother's plans. my direction is athenaeum club, and woolwich is not so difficult to explore as harar was. are we likely to meet at the british association?" . death of maria stisted, th november . burton and his wife reached london on july th ( ). presently we hear of them in ireland, where they are the guests of lord talbot of malahide, and later he lectured at various places on "midian" and "ogham runes." again gordon tried to draw him to africa, this time with the offer of £ , a year, but the answer was the same as before. then came a great blow to burton--the death of his beloved niece--"minnie"--maria stisted. mrs. burton, who was staying at brighton, wrote to miss georgiana stisted a most kind, sympathetic and beautiful letter--a letter, however, which reveals her indiscreetness more clearly, perhaps, than any other that we have seen. though writing a letter of condolence--the sincerity of which is beyond doubt--she must needs insert remarks which a moment's consideration would have told her were bound to give offence--remarks of the kind that had already, indeed, made a gulf between her and burton's relations. she says: "my poor darling georgy, i do not know how to write or what to say to you in such poignant grief. i think this is the most terrible blow that could have happened to maria (lady stisted) and you. i do not grieve for minnie, because, as i told dick in my letter, her pure soul has known nothing but religion and music, and is certainly in its own proper place among the angels, but i do grieve for you with all my heart.... it is no use to talk to you about 'time healing the wound,' or 'resigning oneself to what is inevitable,' but i have so long studied the ways of god, that i know he has taken the angel of your house as he always does, that this is a crisis in your lives, there is some change about to take place, and some work or new thing you have to do in which minnie was not to be. i can only pray for you with all my heart, as i did at communion this morning." so far, so good, but then comes: "and have masses said to create another gem upon minnie's crown." yet mrs. burton knew that she was writing to staunch protestants whom such a remark would make positively to writhe. still, in spite of her indiscretions, no human being with a heart can help loving her. she then goes on: "please know and feel that though the world looks dark, you have always a staunch friend in me. dick feels minnie's death fearfully. he telegraphed to me and writes every day about it. i don't think he is in a state of health to bear many shocks just now, he is so frightfully nervous. he so little expected it, he always thought it was only one of the little ailments of girls, and maria (lady stisted) was over anxious; so it has come like a sledge-hammer upon him. i feel what a poor letter this is, but my heart is full, and i do not know how to express myself. your attached and sympathising aunt zoo." burton was just then engaged upon his work the land of midian revisited, and he dedicated it to the memory of his "much loved niece." . burton's "six senses." on nd december , burton lectured at , great russell street before the british national association of spiritualists--taking as his subject, "spiritualism in foreign lands." his ideas on spiritualism had been roughly outlined some time previous in a letter to the times. [ ] he said that the experience of twenty years had convinced him: ( ) that perception is possible without the ordinary channels of the senses, and ( ) that he had been in the presence of some force or power which he could not understand. yet he did not believe that any spirits were subject to our calls and caprices, or that the dead could be communicated with at all. he concluded, "i must be contented to be at best a spiritualist without the spirits." the letter excited interest. the press commented on it, and street boys shouted to one another, "take care what you're doing! you haven't got captain burton's six senses." at great russell street, burton commenced by defending materialism. he could not see with guizot that the pursuit of psychology is as elevating as that of materialism is degrading. what right, he asked, had the theologian to limit the power of the creator. "is not the highest honour his who from the worst can draw the best?" [ ] he then quoted his letter to the times, and declared that he still held the same opinions. the fact that thunder is in the air, and the presence of a cat may be known even though one cannot see, hear, taste, smell or feel thunder or the cat. he called this force--this sixth sense--zoo-electricity. he then gave an account of spiritualism, thaumaturgy, and wizardry, as practised in the east, concluding with a reference to his vikram and the vampire. "there," said he, "i have related under a facetious form of narrative many of the so-called supernaturalisms and preternaturalisms familiar to the hindus." [ ] these studies will show the terrible 'training,' the ascetic tortures, whereby men either lose their senses, or attain the highest powers of magic, that is, of commanding nature by mastering the force, whatever it may be, here called zoo-electric, which conquers and controls every modification of matter. [ ] his lecture concluded with an account of a moorish necromancer, which reminds us of the maghrabi incident in "the story of judar." when burton sat down, mrs. burton asked to be allowed to speak. indeed, she never hesitated to speak upon any subject under the sun, whether she did not understand it, as was almost invariably the case, or whether she did; and she always spoke agreeably. [ ] she pointed out to the spiritualists that they had no grounds to suppose that her husband was one of their number, and stated her belief that the theory of zoo-electricity would suit both spiritualists and non-spiritualists. then, as a matter of course, she deftly introduced the "one holy catholic and apostolic church" to which it was her "glory to belong," and which this theory of burton's "did not exactly offend." as regards the yogis and the necromancers she insisted that her husband had expressed no belief, but simply recounted what is practised in the east, and she concluded with the remark, "captain burton is certainly not a spiritualist." some good-humoured comments by various speakers terminated the proceedings. it is quite certain, however, that burton was more of a spiritualist than mrs. burton would allow, and of mrs. burton herself in this connection, we shall later have a curious story to tell. [ ] during the rest of her holiday mrs. burton's thoughts ran chiefly on philanthropic work, and she arranged gatherings at country houses in support of the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals. these were well attended and some enthusiasm was shown, except when there happened to be a meet of the fox hounds in the district, or when rabbit coursing was going on. . still thinking of midian. april-december . the burtons remained in london until after the publication of mrs. burton's book "a.e.i.," [ ] and then burton set out alone on a tour through germany. mrs. burton, who was to meet him at trieste, left london th april; and then followed a chapter of accidents. first she fell with influenza, and next, at paris, when descending the stairs, which had been waxed, she "took one header from the top to the bottom," and so damaged herself that she had to be removed in a coupe lit. [ ] she reached trieste after "an agonizing sixty hours" and was seriously ill for several weeks. all the while, burton, whose purse, like that of one of his favourite poets, catullus, was "full of cobwebs," had been turning his thoughts to midian again. he still asseverated that it was a land of gold, and he believed that if he could get to egypt the rest would be easy. says mrs. burton, writing to miss stisted, th december : "darling dick started on friday th, a week ago, in high spirits. my position is singular, no child, no relative, and all new servants." she then speaks of her christmas book, which had just gone to the publishers. she says, "it is for boys from to , culled from ten volumes: dick's three books on sind, his goa, falconry, vikram, bayonet and sword exercise, and my a.e.i." and she was in hopes it would revive her husband's earliest works, which by that time were forgotten. the fate of this work was a melancholy one, for the publisher to whom the manuscript was entrusted went bankrupt, and no more was every heard of it. [ ] burton's hope that he would be able to lead another expedition to midian was not realised. ismail was no longer khedive, and tewfik, his successor, who regarded the idea as chimerical, declined to be bound by any promise of his father's. his excellency yacoub artin pasha [ ] and others of burton's egyptian friends expressed sympathy and tried to expedite matters, but nothing could be done. to make matters worse, burton when passing through alexandria was attacked by thieves, who hit him on the head from behind. he defended himself stoutly, and got away, covered however, with bruises and blood. chapter xxi. th december -august , camoens bibliography . camoens, vols. and , the lusiads. . and , life of camoens and commentary. . and , the lyrics. . . the kasidah. . . visit to lissa and pelagoza. . . a glance at the passion play. . . how to deal with the slave trade in egypt. . . thermae of montfalcone. . . the lusiads. burton had brought with him to egypt his translation of the lusiads, which had been commenced as early as , and at which, as we have seen, he had, from that time onward, intermittently laboured. at cairo he gave his work the finishing touches, and on his return to trieste in may it was ready for the press. there have been many english translators of camoens, from fanshawe, the first, to burton and aubertin; and burton likens them to the simoniacal popes in dante's malebolge-pit--each one struggling to trample down his elder brother. [ ] burton's work, which appeared in , was presently followed by two other volumes consisting of a life of camoens and a commentary on the lusiads, but his version of the lyrics did not appear till . regarded as a faithful rendering, the book was a success, for burton had drunk the lusiads till he was super-saturated with it. alone among the translators, he had visited every spot alluded to in the poem, and his geographical and other studies had enabled him to elucidate many passages that had baffled his predecessors. then, too, he had the assistance of aubertin, da cunha and other able portuguese scholars and camoens enthusiasts. regarded, however, as poetry, the book was a failure, and for the simple reason that burton was not a poet. like his kasidah, it contains noble lines, but on every page we are reminded of the translator's defective ear, annoyed by the unnecessary use of obsolete words, and disappointed by his lack of what poe called "ethericity." the following stanza, which expresses ideas that burton heartily endorsed, may be regarded as a fair sample of the whole: "elegant phormion's philosophick store see how the practised hannibal derided when lectured he with wealth of bellick lore and on big words and books himself he prided. senhor! the soldier's discipline is more than men may learn by mother-fancy guided; not musing, dreaming, reading what they write; 'tis seeing, doing, fighting; teach to fight." [ ] the first six lines contain nothing remarkable, still, they are workmanlike and pleasant to read; but the two concluding lines are atrocious, and almost every stanza has similar blemishes. a little more labour, even without much poetic skill, could easily have produced a better result. but burton was a hannibal, not a phormion, and no man can be both. he is happiest, perhaps, in the stanzas containing the legend of st. thomas, [ ] or thome, as he calls him, "the missioner sanctified who thrust his finger in lord jesu's side." according to camoens, while thorme was preaching to the potent hindu city meleapor, in narsinga land [ ] a huge forest tree floated down the ganges, but all the king's elephants and all the king's men were incompetent to haul it ashore. "now was that lumber of such vasty size, no jot it moves, however hard they bear; when lo! th' apostle of christ's verities wastes in the business less of toil and care: his trailing waistcord to the tree he ties, raises and sans an effort hales it where a sumptuous temple he would rear sublime, a fit example for all future time." this excites the jealousy and hatred of the brahmins, for "there be no hatred fell and fere, and curst as by false virtue for true virtue nurst." the chief brahmin then kills his own son, and tries to saddle the crime on thome, who promptly restores the dead youth to life again and "names the father as the man who slew." ultimately, thome, who is unable to circumvent the further machinations of his enemies, is pierced to the heart by a spear; and the apostle in glory is thus apostrophised: "wept gange and indus, true thome! thy fate, wept thee whatever lands thy foot had trod; yet weep thee more the souls in blissful state thou led'st to don the robes of holy rood. but angels waiting at the paradise-gate meet thee with smiling faces, hymning god. we pray thee, pray that still vouchsafe thy lord unto thy lusians his good aid afford." in a stanza presented as a footnote and described as "not in camoens," burton gives vent to his own disappointments, and expends a sigh for the fate of his old friend and enemy, john hanning speke. as regards himself, had he not, despite his services to his country, been relegated to a third-rate seaport, where his twenty-nine languages were quite useless, except for fulminating against the government! the fate of poor speke had been still more lamentable: "and see you twain from britain's foggy shore set forth to span dark africk's jungle-plain; thy furthest fount, o nilus! they explore, and where zaire springs to seek the main, the veil of isis hides thy land no more, whose secrets open to the world are lain. they deem, vain fools! to win fair honour's prize: this exiled lives, and that untimely dies." burton, however, still nursed the fallacious hope that his merits would in time be recognised, that perhaps he would be re-instated in damascus or appointed to ispahan or constantinople. . at ober ammergau, august . in august ( ) the burtons paid a visit to ober ammergau, which was just then attracting all eyes on account of its passion play. burton's object in going was "the wish to compare, haply to trace some affinity between, this survival of the christian 'mystery' and the living scenes of el islam at mecca," while mrs. burton's object may be gauged by the following prayer which she wrote previous to their departure from trieste: "o sweet jesu... grant that i, all unworthy though i be, may so witness this holy memorial of thy sacrificial love, thy glorious victory over death and hell, that i may be drawn nearer to thee and hold thee in everlasting remembrance. let the representation of thy bitter sufferings on the cross renew my love for thee, strengthen my faith, and ennoble my life, and not mine only, but all who witness it." then follows a prayer for the players. burton found no affinity between the scenes at ober ammergau and those at mecca, and he was glad to get away from "a pandemonium of noise and confusion," while mrs. burton, who was told to mind her own business by a carter with whom she remonstrated for cruelly treating a horse, discovered that even ober ammergau was not all holiness. both burton and his wife recorded their impressions in print, but though his volume [ ] appeared in , hers [ ] was not published till . . mrs. burton's advice to novelists. th september . the following letter from mrs. burton to miss stisted, who had just written a novel, a fireside king, [ ] gives welcome glimpses of the burtons and touches on matters that are interesting in the light of subsequent events. "my dearest georgie, on leaving you i came on to trieste, arriving th may, and found dick just attacked by a virulent gout. we went up to the mountains directly without waiting even to unpack my things or rest, and as thirty-one days did not relieve him, i took him to monfalcone for mud baths, where we passed three weeks, and that did him good. we then returned home to change our baggage and start for ober ammergau, which i thought glorious, so impressive, simple, natural. dick rather criticises it. however, we are back.... i read your book through on the journey to england. of course i recognised your father, minnie, [ ] and many others, but you should never let your heroine die so miserably, because the reader goes away with a void in his heart, and you must never put all your repugnances in the first volume, for you choke off your reader.... you don't mind my telling the truth, do you, because i hope you will write another, and if you like you may stand in the first class of novelists and make money and do good too, but put your beasts a little further in towards the end of the first volume. i read all the reviews that fell in my way, but though some were spiteful that need not discourage... believe me, dearest g., your affectionate zookins." miss stisted's novel was her first and last, but she did write another book some considerable time later, which, however, would not have won mrs. burton's approval. [ ] . the kasidah, . this year, burton, emulous of fame as an original poet, published the kasidah of haji abdu el-yezdi, a lay of the higher law, which treats of the great questions of life, death and immortality, and has certain resemblances to that brilliant poem which is the actual father of it, edward fitzgerald's rendering of the rubaiyat of oman khayyam. lady burton tells us that the kasidah was written about , or six years before the appearance of fitzgerald's poem. nothing, however, is more certain than that, with the exception of a few verses, it was written after fitzgerald's poem. the veriest tyro in literature, by comparing the two productions, would easily understand their relationship. [ ] the facts are these. about , burton, in a time of dejection, caused by the injustice done him in india, planned a poem of this nature, wrote a few stanzas, and then put it by and forgot all about it. fitzgerald's version of omar khayyam appeared in , and burton no sooner read than he burned to rival it. so he drew from the pigeon-hole what he called his lay, furbished up the few old verses, made a number of new ones, reconstructed the whole, and lo, the kasidah! burton calls it a translation of a poem by a certain haji abdu. there may have been a haji abdu who supplied thoughts, and even verses, but the production is really a collection of ideas gathered from all quarters. confucius, longfellow, plato, the fitzgeraldian oman khayyam, aristotle, pope, das kabir and the pulambal are drawn upon; the world is placed under tribute from pekin to the salt lake city. a more careless "borrower" to use emerson's expression, never lifted poetry. some of his lines are transferred bodily, and without acknowledgment, from hafiz; [ ] and, no doubt, if anybody were to take the trouble to investigate, it would be found that many other lines are not original. it is really not very much to anyone's credit to play the john ferriar to so careless a sterne. he doesn't steal the material for his brooms, he steals the brooms ready-made. later, as we shall see, he "borrowed" with a ruthlessness that was surpassed only by alexandre dumas. let us say, then, that the kasidah is tesselated work done in burton's usual way, and not very coherently, with a liberal sprinkling of obsolete works. at first it positively swarmed with them, but subsequently, by the advice of a friend, a considerable number such as "wox" and "pight" was removed. if the marquetry of the kasidah compares but feebly with the compendious splendours of fitzgerald's quatrains; and if the poem [ ] has undoubted wastes of sand, nevertheless, the diligent may here and there pick up amber. but it is only fair to bear in mind that the lay is less a poem than an enchiridion, a sort of emersonian guide to the conduct of life rather than an exquisitely-presented summary of the thoughts of an eastern pessimist. fitzgerald's poem is an unbroken lament. burton, a more robust soul than the woodbridge eremite, also has his misgivings. he passes in review the great religious teachers, and systems and comes to the conclusion that men make gods and gods after their own likeness and that conscience is a geographical accident; but if, like fitzgerald, he is puzzled when he ponders the great questions of life and afterlife, he finds comfort in the fact that probity and charity are their own reward, that we have no need to be anxious about the future, seeing that, in the words of pope, "he can't be wrong, whose life is in the right." he insists that self-cultivation, with due regard for others, is the sole and sufficient object of human life, and he regards the affections and the "divine gift of pity" as man's highest enjoyments. as in fitzgerald's poem there is talk of the false dawn or wolf's tail, "thee and me," pot and potter, and here and there are couplets which are simply fitzgerald's quatrains paraphrased [ ]--as, for example, the one in which heaven and hell are declared to be mere tools of "the wily fetisheer." [ ] like omar khayyam, haji abdu loses patience with the "dizzied faiths" and their disputatious exponents; like omar khayyam too, haji abdu is not averse from jamshid's bowl, but he is far less vinous than the old persian. two of the couplets flash with auroral splendour, and of all the vast amount of metrical work that burton accomplished, these are the only lines that can be pronounced imperishable. once only--and only momentarily--did the seraph of the sanctuary touch his lips with the live coal. "do what thy manhood bids thee do, from none but self expect applause; he noblest lives and noblest dies who makes and keeps his self-made laws." and "all other life is living death, a world where none but phantoms dwell a breath, a wind, a sound, a voice, a tinkling of the camel-bell." we are also bidden to be noble, genuine and charitable. "to seek the true, to glad the heart, such is of life the higher law." neglecting the four really brilliant lines, the principal attraction of the kasidah is its redolence of the saffron, immeasurable desert. we snuff at every turn its invigorating air; and the tinkle of the camel's bell is its sole and perpetual music. at first burton made some attempt to create the impression that there was actually a haji abdu, and that the verses were merely a translation. indeed, he quotes him, at the end of his supplemental nights, vol. ii., and elsewhere, as an independent author. later, however, the mask which deceived nobody was removed. not only was the kasidah written in emulation of fitzgerald's omar, but burton made no secret that such was the case. to further this end mr. schutz wilson, who had done so much for the rubaiyat, was approached by one of burton's friends; and the following letter written to burton after the interview will be read with some amusement. "dear richard," it runs, "'wox' made me shudder! if you give more specimens do be good and be sparing of the 'pights,' 'ceres' and 'woxes.' i showed the lay to schutz wilson. he seemed absorbed in the idea of omar, and said 'oh! i am the cause of its going through five editions.' i told him this was even more striking than omar, but he didn't seem able to take in the new idea! when you want people's minds they are always thinking of something else." [ ] although the critics as a body fell foul of the kasidah, still there were not wanting appreciators, and its four great lines have often been quoted. . lisa. by this time mrs. burton had provided herself with another chico. chico the third (or chica the second) was a tall and lank, but well-built italian girl, daughter of a baron. lisa had khamoor's ungovernable temper, but to the burtons she at first exhibited the faithfulness of a dog. her father lived formerly at verona, but in the war of , having sided with austria, [ ] he fell upon evil days; and retired to trieste on a trifling pension. mrs. burton and lisa had not been long acquainted before lisa became a member of the burton household as a kind of lady's maid, although she retained her title of baroness, and mrs. burton at once set about anglicising her new friend, though her attempt, as in khamoor's case, was only partially successful. for instance, lisa, would never wear a hat, "for fear of losing caste." she was willing, however, to hang out her stocking on christmas eve; and on finding it full next morning said, "oh, i like this game. shall we play it every night!" just however, as a petted khamoor had made a spoilt khamoor; so a petted lisa very soon made a spoilt lisa. with mrs. burton, her jane digbys, her chicos, and her servants, burton rarely interfered, and when he did interfere, it was only to make matters worse; for his judgment was weaker even than hers. on one occasion, however, he took upon himself to dismiss the cook and to introduce another of his own finding. on being requested to prepare the dinner the new acquisition set about it by drinking two bottles of wine, knocking down the housemaid, and beating the kitchenmaid with the saucepan. burton, who flew to their rescue, thought he must be in somali-land once more. chapter xxii. august -may , john payne . with cameron at venice, august . burton had for several years been acquainted with the african traveller v. lovett cameron, [ ] and in august they met accidentally at venice. a geographical conference was being held in the city and representatives from all nations were assembled; but, naturally, the first geographer of the day, captain burton, was not invited either to speak or even to be present. on the morning of the conference, burton, mrs. burton and cameron gave themselves the treat of going over to the lido for bathing and breakfast; and being in puckish mood, the two men, notwithstanding the great crowd of pleasure seekers, took off their shoes and stockings, turned up their trousers, and made sand castles. "look, nurse," bawled burton to his wife, "see what cammy and i have done!" "if you please, nursey," whined cameron, "dick's snatched away my spade." at that moment lord aberdeen, president of the royal geographical society, and a party of grave antiquaries and geographers, mostly run to nose, spectacles, and forehead, arrived on the scene; with the result of infinite laughter, in which burton and cameron joined heartily; and henceforward mrs. burton answered to no name but "nursey." burton, however, was justly indignant on account of his not having been invited to the conference, and his revenge took the shape of a pungent squib which he wrote on his card and left in the congress room. next day, while burton and cameron were strolling in front of st. mark's, a portuguese gentleman came up and saluted them. to burton's delight it was his old friend da cunha, the camoens enthusiast; and then ensued a long argument, conducted in portuguese, concerning burton's rendering of one of camoens' sonnets, burton in the end convincing his friend of its correctness. having parted from da cunha, they ran against an egyptian officer who had just visited mecca and brought back a series of photographs. the conversation this time was conducted in arabic, and burton explained to the egyptian the meaning of much of the ritual of the pilgrimage. "as a cicerone," says cameron, "burton was invaluable. his inexhaustible stock of historical and legendary lore furnished him with something to relate about even the meanest and commonest buildings." [ ] there were trips about the green canals in a long black gondola on the day and night of the regatta, when the grand canal and st. mark's were illuminated, all of which burton enjoyed thoroughly, for round him had gathered the elite of venice, and his brilliant personality, as usual, dazzled and dominated all who listened to him. . john payne, november . we now come to that absorbing period of burton's life which is connected principally with the arabian nights. amazing as the statement may seem, we feel ourselves compelled to say at once, though regretfully, that burton's own account of the history of the translation, given in his translator's foreword to the arabian nights, and lady burton's account, given in her life of her husband, do not tally with the facts as revealed in his letters. in matters relating to his own history burton often spoke with amazing recklessness, [ ] and perhaps he considered he was justified in stating that his translation of the arabian nights was well advanced by november , seeing that it had for thirty years intermittently occupied his thoughts. as regards lady burton, no doubt, of some of the facts presently to be given, she was unaware. but she was one who easily deceived herself. whatever she wished, she was apt to believe. the actual facts compiled from existing documentary evidence--including burton's own letters--will now be revealed for the first time; and it will be found, as is generally the case, that the unembroidered truth is more interesting than the romance. the story is strangely paralleled by that of the writing of the kasidah; or in other words it recalls traits that were eminently characteristic of burton. as early as , as we have seen, burton and steinhauser had planned a translation of the arabian nights, steinhauser was to furnish the prose, burton the poetry. they corresponded on the subject, but made only trifling progress. steinhauser died in , his manuscripts were scattered, and burton never heard of them again. absolutely nothing more was done, for burton was occupied with other matters--travelling all over the world and writing piles of voluminous books on other subjects. still, he had hoards of eastern manuscripts, and notes of his own on eastern manners and customs, which had for years been accumulating and an even greater mass of curious information had been stored in his brain. again and again he had promised himself to proceed, but something every time hindered. in november , burton, who was then at trieste, noticed a paragraph in the athenaeum [ ] to the effect that mr. john payne, the well-known author of the masque of shadows and of a famous rendering of the poems of francois villon, was about to issue a translation of the book of the thousand nights and one nights. burton, who was an enthusiastic admirer of the villon and who, moreover, had not relinquished his own scheme, though it had lain so long quiescent, wrote at once to the athenaeum a letter which appeared on th november . he said: "many years ago, in collaboration with my old and lamented friend, dr. f. steinhauser, of the bombay army, i began to translate the whole [ ] of the thousand nights and a night. the book, mutilated in europe to a collection of fairy tales, and miscalled the arabian nights, is unique as a study of anthropology. it is a marvellous picture of oriental life; its shiftings are those of the kaleidoscope. its alternation of pathos and bathos--of the boldest poetry (the diction of job) with the baldest prose (the egyptian of to-day) and finally, its contrast of the highest and purest morality with the orgies of apuleius and petronius arbiter, take away the reader's breath. i determined to render every word with the literalism of urquhart's rabelais, and to save the publisher trouble by printing my translation at brussels. "not non omnia possumus. although a host of friends has been eager to subscribe, my work is still unfinished, nor could it be finished without a year's hard labour. i rejoice, therefore, to see that mr. john payne, under the villon society, has addressed himself to a realistic translation without 'abridgments or suppressions.' i have only to wish him success, and to express a hope that he is resolved verbum reddere verbo, without deference to any prejudice which would prevent his being perfectly truthful to the original. i want to see that the book has fair play; and if it is not treated as it deserves, i shall still have to print my own version. [ ] 'villon,' however, makes me hope for the best." in this letter burton oddly enough speaks of his own work as "still unfinished." this was quite true, seeing that it was not even begun, unless two or three pages which he once showed to mr. watts-dunton, [ ] and the pigeon-holing of notes be regarded as a commencement. still, the announcement of mr. payne's edition--the first volume of which was actually in the press--must have caused him a pang; and the sincere good wishes for his rival's success testify to the nobility, unselfishness and magnanimity of his character. mr. payne, supposing from his letter that burton had made considerable progress with his translation, wrote on november th to burton, and, using the words tantus labor non sit cassus, suggested collaboration. thus commenced one of the most interesting friendships in the annals of literature. before relating the story, however, it will be helpful to set down some particulars of the career of mr. payne. john payne was born in of a devonshire family, descended from that breezy old sea-dog, sir john hawkins. mr. payne, indeed, resembles hawkins in appearance. he is an elizabethan transferred bodily into the th and th centuries, his ruff lost in transit. yet he not infrequently has a ruff even--a live one, for it is no uncommon event to see his favourite angora leap on to his shoulders and coil himself half round his master's neck, looking not unlike a lady's boa--and its name, parthenopaeus, is long enough even for that. for years mr. payne followed the law, and with success, but his heart was with the muses and the odorous east. from a boy he had loved and studied the old english, scotch and welsh writers, with the result that all his productions have a mediaeval aroma. the faerie queene, chaucer and his successors--the scottish poets of the th and th centuries, the morte d'arthur, the authorised version of the bible and north's plutarch have always lain at his elbow. then, too, with dante, shakespeare and heine's poems he is supersaturated; but the authorised version of the bible has had more influence on him than any other book, and he has so loved and studied it from boyhood that he had assimilated its processes and learned the secrets of the interior mechanism of its style. it is not surprising that his first publication should have been a book of poetry. the merits of the masque of shadows and other poems were acknowledged on all sides. it was seen that the art of ballad writing--which goethe calls the most difficult of arts--was not, as some averred, a forgotten one. the masque of shadows itself is melodious and vivid from the first line to the end, but the captain jewel is the necromantic and thrilling rime of redemption--the story of a woman who erred and of a man who prayed and wrestled with god in prayer for her, and ultimately wrung her salvation by self-sacrifice from divine justice. here and there are passages that we could have wished modified, but surely such a terrific fantasy was never before penned! it is as harrowing as the ancient mariner, and appeals to one more forcibly than coleridge's "rime," because it seems actual truth. other volumes, containing impassioned ballads, lyrics, narrative poems and sonnets, came from mr. payne's pen. his poems have the rush and bound of a scotch waterfall. this is explained by the fact that they are written in moments of physical and mental exaltation. only a mind in a quasi-delirious state, to be likened to that of the pythoness on the tripod, could have evolved the rime of redemption [ ] or thorgerda [ ]. no subject comes amiss to him. his chemic power turns everything to gold. "he sees everything," as mr. watts-dunton once said to the writer--"through the gauze of poetry." his love for beautiful words and phrases leads him to express his thoughts in the choicest language. he puts his costliest wine in myrrhine vases; he builds his temple with the lordliest cedars. mr. payne does not write for the multitude, but few poets of the day have a more devoted band of admirers. some readers will express a preference for the building of the dream, [ ] others for lautrec [ ] or salvestra [ ], and others for the dazzling and mellifluous prelude to hafiz. mr. a. c. swinburne eulogised the "exquisite and clear cut intaglios." [ ] d. g. rossetti revelled in the sonnets; theodore de banville, "roi des rimes," in the songs of life and death, whose beauties blend like the tints in jewels. [ ] mr. payne first took up the work of a translator in , his earliest achievement in the new province being his admirable rendering of villon, in which he gives the music of the thief poet, and all his humour, and this reminds us that mr. payne, unlike most poets, is a skilled musician. of his life, indeed, music, in its most advanced and audacious manifestations had always been as much an essential a part as literature, hence the wonderful melodic effects of the more remarkable of his poems. already an excellent arabic scholar, he had as early as resolved upon a translation of the arabian nights, and he commenced the task in earnest on th february . he worked with exhausting sedulity and expended upon it all the gifts in his power, with the result that his work has taken its places as a classic. the price was nine guineas. imagining that the demand for so expensive a work would not be large, mr. payne, unfortunately, limited himself to the publication of only copies. the demand exceeded , , so , persons were disappointed. it was at this moment that mr. payne became acquainted with burton. mr. payne admired burton as a traveller, an explorer, and a linguist, and recognised the fact that no man had a more intimate knowledge of the manners and customs of the east; and burton on his part paid high tribute to mr. payne's gifts as a translator and a poet. [ ] . to the gold coast, th november - th may . when mr. payne's letter reached trieste, burton had just started off, with commander verney lovett cameron, on an expedition to the gold coast. in his fernando po period he had, as we have seen, been deeply interested in the gold digging and gold washing industries, [ ] had himself, indeed, to use his own words, "discovered several gold mines on that coast." for years his mind had turned wistfully towards those regions, and at last, early in , he was able to enter into an arrangement with a private speculator concerning the supposed mines. he and cameron were to have all their expenses paid, and certain shares upon the formulation of the company. the travellers left trieste on november th, being accompanied as far as fiume by mrs. burton and lisa, who on the th returned to trieste; and on december th they reached lisbon, whither mr. payne's letter followed them. burton, who replied cordially, said "in april, at the latest, i hope to have the pleasure of shaking hands with you in london, and then we will talk over the , nights and a night. at present it is useless to say anything more than this--i shall be most happy to collaborate with you..... do you know the rev. g. percy badger (of the dictionary)? if not, you should make his acquaintance, as he is familiar with the persian and to a certain extent with the egyptian terms of the nights. he is very obliging and ready to assist arabists [ ]..... i am an immense admirer of your villon." writing to burton early in the year payne observed that as his first volume was in type, apparently it should at once go to press, but that he would be pleased to submit subsequent volumes to burton. terms were also suggested. burton's reply, addressed axim, gold coast, and received by mr. payne, th march, , runs as follows: "i received your welcome letter by the steamer of yesterday, and to-morrow morning my companion cameron and i again proceed to the 'bush.' of course you must go to press at once. i deeply regret it, but on arriving in england my time will be so completely taken up by the gold coast that i shall not have a moment's leisure. it would be a useless expense to keep up the type. your terms about the royalty," he said, "are more than liberal. i cannot accept them, however, except for value received, and it remains to be seen what time is at my disposal. i am working out a scheme for chinese immigration to the west african coast, and this may take me next winter to china. i can only say that i shall be most happy to render you any assistance in my power; at the same time i must warn you that i am a rolling stone. if i cannot find time you must apply in the matter of the introductory essay to the rev. percy badger, professor robertson smith (glasgow) and professor palmer (trinity, cambridge). i have booked your private address and have now only to reciprocate your good wishes." on april th mrs. burton and lisa set out for england in order to rejoin burton--lisa, as usual, without any headgear--a condition of affairs which in every church they entered caused friction with the officials. when this began mrs. burton would explain the position; and the officials, when they came to find that nothing they could say or do make the slightest difference to lisa, invariably expressed themselves satisfied with the explanation. burton and cameron reached liverpool on may th, and were able to report both "that there was plenty of gold, and that the mines could easily be worked." the expedition, however, was unproductive of all anticipated results and no profit accrued to burton. indeed it was iceland and midian over again. "i ought," he says in one of his letters to payne, "to go down to history as the man who rediscovered one gold country and rehabilitated a second, and yet lost heavily by the discoveries." [ ] chapter xxiii. th may -july , the meeting of burton and payne bibliography . lord beaconsfield. . to the gold coast for gold. vols. . . stone implements from the gold coast. burton and cameron. . mrs. grundy begins to roar. may . in may , burton called on mr. payne, and the matter of the arabian nights was fully discussed. it then transpired that burton's project was still entirely in nubibus. he told mr. payne that he had no manuscript of any kind beyond "a sheet or two of notes," [ ] and it was afterwards gathered from his words that these notes were a mere syllabus of the contents of the boulac edition of the nights--the only one of the four printed texts (calcutta, macnaghten, boulac and breslau) used and combined by mr. payne with which burton was then acquainted. [ ] mr. payne's first volume was completely in type and had for some weeks been held over for burton's return to england. of the remaining volumes three were ready for press, and the rest only awaited fair copying. burton's thoughts, however, were then completely occupied with the gold coast, consequently the whole project of collaboration fell through. mr. payne's first volume duly appeared; and as the result of further conversations it was arranged that burton should read mr. payne's subsequent proofs, though he declined to accept any remuneration unless it should turn out that his assistance was necessary. in june, mr. payne submitted the first proofs of vol. ii. to burton. meantime the literalism of mr. payne's translation had created extraordinary stir, and burton wrote thus forcefully on the matter (june rd): "please send me a lot of advertisements. [ ] i can place a multitude of copies. mrs. grundy is beginning to roar; already i hear the voice of her. and i know her to be an arrant w---- and tell her so, and don't care a ----- for her." the event at trieste that summer was the opening of a grand international exhibition--the hobby of the governor of the town--baron de pretis, and burton thus refers to it in a letter written to mr. payne, th august ( ). "we arrived here just in time for the opening of the exhibition, august st. everything went off well, but next evening an orsini shell was thrown which killed one and wounded five, including my friend dr. dorn, editor of the triester zeitung. the object, of course, was to injure the exhibition, and the effect will be ruinous. i expect more to come and dare not leave my post. so while my wife goes to marienbad, i must content myself with the baths at monfalcone, [ ] distant only one hour by rail" in the next letter (august th) burton refers to a proposed special quarto (large paper) edition of mr. payne's nights, the scheme for which, however, fell through. "i am delighted with the idea," he says, "for though not a bibliophile in practice (£ s. d. preventing) i am entirely in theory." there is also an amusing reference to a clergyman who after giving his name for a copy withdrew it. says burton, "if the rev. a. miss this opportunity of grace he can blame only himself. it is very sad but not to be helped.... and now good luck to the venture." later he observes, "the fair sex appears wild to get at the nights. [ ] i have received notes from two upon the nice subject, with no end of complaints about stern parients, brothers and brothers-in-law." in september burton asks for the loan of payne's copy of the calcutta edition (macnaghten) and enquires after vol. i. he says "what news of vol. i.? i am very anxious to see it, and so are many female correspondents. i look forward with great pleasure to the work." it was now understood that an attack was to be made on payne's volume in the press. says burton, september th ( ). "perhaps it will be best to let ------- [ ] sing his song. -------- has no end of enemies, and i can stir up a small wasp's nest without once appearing in the matter. the best answer will be showing up a few of lane's mistakes, but this must be done with the greatest care, so that no hole can be picked in the critique. [ ] i enclose three sonnets, a specimen of my next volume of camoens, and should much like any suggestions from you. they are line for line and mostly word for word. but that is nothing; the question is, are they readable english? they'll be printed at my own expense, so they will ruin nobody. switzerland has set you up and don't let the solicitor's office pull you down." on october nd he says: "glad to hear of a new edition of lane: it will draw attention to the subject. i must see what can be done with reviewers. saturday and i are at drawn daggers, and --------of ------ is such a stiff young she-prig that i hardly know what to do about him. however, i shall begin work at once by writing and collecting the vulnerable points of the clique. ----- is a very much hated man, and there will be no difficulty." on the th, in reference to the opposing "clique," burton writes: "in my own case i should encourage a row with this bete noire; but i can readily understand your having reasons for wishing to keep it quiet." naturally, considering the tactics that were being employed against them, the villon society, which published mr. payne's works, had no wish to draw the attention of the authorities to the moral question. indeed, of the possible action of the authorities, as instigated by the clique, the society stood in some fear. burton goes on: "i shall write to-day to t----- to know how ---- is best hit. t----- hates me--so do most people. meanwhile, you must (either yourself or by proxy) get a list of lane's laches. i regret to say my copy of his modern egyptians has been lost or stolen, and with it are gone the lists of his errata i had drawn up many years ago. of course i don't know arabic, but who does? one may know a part of it, a corner of the field, but all! bah! many thanks for the notes on the three sonnets [camoens]. most hearty thanks for the trouble you have taken. the remarks are those of a scholar and a translator." later, burton sent payne other camoens sonnets to look over. writing on th october , he says, "many thanks for the sonnet. your version is right good, but it is yourself, not me. in such a matter each man expresses his own individuality. i shall follow your advice about the quatrains and tercets. no. is one of the darkest on account of its extreme simplicity. i shall trouble you again." the first proofs (pp. - ) of vol. ii. were read by burton in october , and returned by him october st. in his letter to mr. payne of that date he says, "it will only be prudent to prepare for an attack. i am perfectly ready to justify a complete translation of the book. and if i am obliged to say what i think about lane's edition there will be hard hitting. of course i wish to leave his bones in peace, but --- may make that impossible. curious to see three editions of the , nights advertised at the same time, not to speak of the bastard. [ ] i return you nine sheets [of proofs] by parcels post registered. you have done your work very well, and my part is confined to a very small amount of scribble which you will rub out at discretion." subsequently burton observed that mr. payne required no assistance of any kind; and therefore he re-refused to accept remuneration for reading the proofs. naturally, they differed, as arabists all do, upon certain points, but on all subjects save two burton allowed that mr. payne's opinion was as good as his own. the first concerned the jingles in the prose portions of the nights, such as "the trees are growing and the waters flowing and allah all good bestowing." burton wanted them to be preserved, but to this mr. payne could not consent, and he gives the reasons in his terminal essay. the second exception was the treatment of the passages referring to a particular subject; and this indicates to us clearly the difference in the ideas and aims of the two men. of artistry, of what fitzgerald calls "sinking and reducing," burton had no notion. "if anything is in any redaction of the original, in it should go," he said. "never mind how shocking it may be to modern and western minds. if i sin, i sin in good company--in the company of the authors of the authorised version of the bible, who did not hesitate to render literatim certain passages which persons aiming simply at artistic effect would certainly have omitted." payne on the other hand was inclined to minimise these passages as much as possible. though determined that his translation should be a complete one, yet he entirely omitted coarsenesses whenever he could find excuse to do so--that is to say, when they did not appear in all the texts. if no such excuse existed he clothed the idea in skilful language. [ ] nothing is omitted; but it is of course within the resources of literary art to say anything without real offence. burton, who had no aptitude for the task; who, moreover, had other aims, constantly disagreed with payne upon this point. thus, writing th may , he says: "you are drawing it very mild. has there been any unpleasantness about plain speaking? poor abu nuwas [ ] is (as it were) castrated. i should say 'be bold or audace,' &c., only you know better than i do how far you can go and cannot go. i should simply translate every word." "what i meant by literalism," he says, st october , "is literally translating each noun (in the long lists which so often occur) in its turn, so that the student can use the translation." this formed no part of mr. payne's scheme, in fact was directly opposed to the spirit of his work, which was to make the translation, while quite faithful to the original, a monument of noble english prose and verse. "i hold the nights," continues burton, the best of class books, and when a man knows it, he can get on with arabs everywhere. he thus comments on payne's vol. iv., some of the tales of which, translate them as you will, cannot be other than shocking. "unfortunately it is these offences (which come so naturally in greece and persia, and which belong strictly to their fervid age) that give the book much of its ethnological value. i don't know if i ever mentioned to you a paper (unpublished) of mine showing the geographical limits of the evil. [ ] i shall publish it some day and surprise the world. [ ] i don't live in england, and i don't care an asterisk for public opinion. [ ] i would rather tread on mrs. grundy's pet corn than not, she may howl on her *** *** to her heart's content." on august th ( ) burton says, "please keep up in vol. v. this literality in which you began. my test is that every arab word should have its equivalent english. ...pity we can't manage to end every volume with a tidbit! would it be dishonest to transfer a tale from one night or nights to another or others? i fancy not, as this is done in various editions. a glorious ending for vol. iv. would have been the three wishes or the night of power [ ] and the cabinet with five shelves." [ ] . the search for palmer, october . burton was now to make what proved to be his last expedition. all the year egypt had been ablaze with the rebellion of arabi pasha. alexandria was bombarded by the english on july th, arabi suffered defeat at tell-el-kebir three months later. on the commencement of the rebellion the british government sent out burton's old friend professor palmer to the sinaitic peninsula with a view to winning the tribes in that part of the british side, and so preventing the destruction of the suez canal. the expedition was atrociously planned, and the fatal mistake was also made of providing it with £ , in gold. palmer landed at jaffa at the end of june, and then set out via gaza across the "short desert," for suez, where he was joined by captain gill and lieutenant charrington. in fancy one hears him as he enters on his perilous journey asking himself that question, which was so absurdly frequent in his lips, "i wonder what will happen?" it is customary for travellers, before entering the arabian wastes, to hire a ghafir, that is, a guide and protector. palmer, instead of securing a powerful chief, as the case required, selected a man of small account named matr nassar, and this petty shaykh and his nephew were the expedition's only defence. the doomed party left suez on august th. on the th at midnight they were attacked by the bedawin. "palmer expostulated with his assassins; but all his sympathetic facility, his appeals to arab honour and superstition, his threats, his denunciations, and the gift of eloquence which had so often prevailed with the wild men, were unheeded." as vainly, matr nassar [ ] covered his proteges with his aba [ ] thus making them part of his own family. on the evening of august th the captives were led to the high bank of the wady sudr, where it received another and smaller fiumara yet unnamed, and bidden to prepare for death. boldly facing his enemies, palmer cursed them [ ] in biblical language, and in the name of the lord. but while the words were in his mouth, a bullet struck him and he fell. his companions also fell in cold blood, and the bodies of all three were thrown down the height [ ]--a piteous denouement--and one that has features in common with the tragic death scene of another heroic character of this drama--general gordon. the english government still believed and hoped that palmer has escaped; and on october th it sent a telegram to burton bidding him go and assist in the search for his old friend. like the war horse in the bible, the veteran traveller shouted "aha!" and he shot across the mediterranean like a projectile from a cannon. but he had no sooner reached suez than he heard--his usual luck--that sir charles warren, with picked men, was scouring the peninsula, and that consequently his own services would not be required. in six weeks he was back again at trieste and so ended viator's [ ] last expedition. the remains of palmer and his two companions were discovered by sir charles and sent to england to be interred in st. paul's cathedral. to palmer's merits as a man burton paid glowing tributes; and he praised, too, palmer's works, especially the life of harun al raschid and the translations of hafiz, [ ] zoheir and the koran. of the last mr. stanley lane-poole says finely: it "has the true desert ring in it;.. the translator has carried us among the bedawin tents, and breathed into us the strong air of the desert, till we fancy we can hear the rich voice of the blessed prophet himself as he spoke to the pilgrims on akabah." in his letter to payne of rd december , burton adumbrates a visit eastward. "after january," he says, "i shall run to the greek islands, and pick up my forgotten modern greek." he was unable, however, to carry out his plans in their entirety. on january th he thanks payne for the loan of the "uncastrated villon," [ ] and the calcutta and breslau editions of the nights, and says "your two vols. of breslau and last proofs reached me yesterday. i had written to old quaritch for a loan of the breslau edition. he very sensibly replied by ignoring the loan and sending me a list of his prices. so then the thing dropped. what is the use of paying £ odd for a work that would be perfectly useless to me.... but he waxes cannier every year." chapter xxiv. july -november , the palazzone . anecdotes of burton. in the burtons removed from their eyrie near the railway station and took up their abode in a palazzone [ ]--"the palazzo gosleth"--situated in a large garden, on the wooded promontory that divides the city from the bay of muggia. it was one of the best houses in trieste, and boasted an entrance so wide that one could have driven a carriage into the hall, a polished marble staircase and twenty large rooms commanding extensive and delightful views. the garden, however, was the principal amenity. here, in fez and dressing-gown, burton used to sit and write for hours with nothing to disturb him except the song of birds and the rustle of leaves. in the palazzo gosleth he spent the last eight years of his life, and wrote most of his later works. perhaps this is the best place to introduce a sheaf of miscellaneous unpublished anecdotes which have been drawn together from various sources. we are uncertain as to their dates, but all are authentic. to the ladies burton was generally charming, but sometimes he behaved execrably. once when he was returning alone to trieste, a lady past her prime, being destined for the same place, asked whether she might accompany him. burton, who hated taking care of anyone, frowned and shook his head. "there can be no scandal, captain burton," pleaded the lady, "because i am old." "madame," replied burton, "while fully appreciating your kindness, i must decline. had you been young and good-looking i would have considered the matter." . burton and mrs. disraeli. but burton could be agreeable enough even to plain ladies when he wished. in one of his books or pamphlets he had said "there is no difference except civilization between a very old woman and an ape." some time after its publication, when he was the guest of mr. and mrs. disraeli, mrs. disraeli, herself both elderly and very plain, laid a plan to disconcert him. she seated herself close to a low mirror, in the hopes that burton would presently join her. he soon fell into the trap and was observed a few minutes later leaning over her and "doing the amiable." "captain burton," said mrs. disraeli, with affected annoyance, and pointing to her reflection, "there must be an ape in the glass. do you not see it?" burton instantly recalled the remark in his book, but without exhibiting the least disconcertion, he replied, "yaas, yaas, madam, quite plainly; i see myself." it was altogether impossible for burton to do anything or to be in anything without causing a commotion of some kind. generally it was his own fault, but sometimes the fates were to blame. few scenes at that period could have been more disgraceful than those at the official receptions held in london by the prime minister. far too many persons were invited and numbers behaved more like untutored zulus than civilised human beings. "now darling," said mrs. burton to her husband, just before one of these functions, "you are to be amiable, remember, and not lose your temper." burton readily promised compliance, but that day, unfortunately, the crush on the staircase was particular disgraceful. apparently burton, his wife on arm, was pushed on to the train of a lady in front of him, but whatever he was doing the crush had rendered him helpless. "oh dear!" cried the lady, "this horrid man is choking me." "it's that blackguard of a burton!" followed the lady's husband. burton's eyes flashed and his lips went livid, "i'll have you out for this," he cried, "and if you won't fight i'll thrash you like a dog." "that's how you keep your promise," said mrs. burton to him, when they got home. "you don't get half a dozen steps up the staircase before you have a row with someone." then he burst out with his "pebble on ice" laughter. for burton to overhear remarks uncomplimentary to himself was no uncommon occurrence, but he rarely troubled to notice them. now and again, however, as the previous anecdote shows, he broke his rule. once at a public gathering a lady said, loudly, to a companion, "there is that infamous captain burton, i should like to know that he was down with some lingering and incurable illness." burton turned round, and fixing his eyes upon her, said with gravity: "madame, i have never in all my life done anything so wicked as to express so shocking a wish as that." the next anecdote shows how dangerous burton could be to those who offended him. when the sultan of zanzibar was paying a visit to england, burton and the rev. percy badger were singled out to act as interpreters. but burton had quarrelled with badger about something or other; so when they approached the sultan, burton began addressing him, not in arabic, but in the zanzibar patois. the sultan, after some conversation, turned to badger, who, poor man, not being conversant with the patois, could only stand still in the dunce's cap which burton, as it were, had clapped on him and look extremely foolish; while the bystanders nodded to each other and said, "look at that fellow. he can't say two words. he's a fraud." burton revelled in badger's discomfiture; but a little later the two men were on good terms again; and when badger died he was, of course, burton's "late lamented friend." another of burton's aversions was "any old woman made up to look very young." "good gracious," he said, one day to a painted lady of that category. "you haven't changed since i saw you forty years ago. you're like the british flag that has braved a thousand years of the battle and the breeze." but the lady heaped coals of fire on his head. "oh, captain burton," she cried, "how could you, with that musical--that lovely voice of yours--make such very unpleasant remarks." . "i am an old english catholic." in england, whatever objections protestants may make to roman catholic services, they admit that everything is done decently and in order. the laxity, however, in the italian churches is, or was until recently, beyond belief, and every traveller brought home some queer tale. mrs. burton, who prided herself on being "an old english catholic," was frequently distressed by these irregularities, and she never hesitated to reprove the offending priests. one day a priest who had called at burton's house was requested to conduct a brief service in mrs. burton's private chapel. but the way in which he went through the various ceremonies so displeased mrs. burton that she called out to him, "stop! stop! pardon me, i am an old english catholic--and therefore particular. you are not doing it right--stand aside, please, and let me show you." so the astonished priest stood aside, and mrs. burton went through all the gesticulations, genuflexions, etcetera, in the most approved style. burton, who was standing by, regarded the scene with suppressed amusement. when all was over, he touched the priest on the shoulder and said gravely and slowly, pointing to mrs. burton: "do you know who this is? it is my wife. and you know she will some day die--we all must die--and she will be judged--we must all be judged--and there's a very long and black list against her. but when the sentence is being pronounced she will jump up and say: 'stop! stop! please pardon my interruption, but i am an old english catholic.'" to one house, the hostess of which was one of the most fashionable women in london, burton, no matter how much pressed, had never been prevailed upon to go. he disliked the lady and that was enough. "here's an invitation for all of us to lady ----'s," said mrs. burton to him one day in honied tones. "now, dick, darling, this time you must go just for lisa's sake. it's a shame she should lose so excellent a chance of going into good society. other people go, why shouldn't we? eh, darling?" "what won't people do," growled burton, "for the sake of a dinner!" eventually, however, after an explosion, and he'd be asterisked if he would, and might the lady herself be asterisked, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, "dick darling" was coaxed over, and he, mrs. burton and lisa at the appointed time sallied forth in all the glory of war paint, and in due course were ushered into the detested house. as he approached the hostess she looked steadily at him through her lorgnon, and then, turning to a companion, said with a drawl: "isn't it horrid, my dear! every dick, tom and harry's here to-night." "that's what comes of being amiable," said burton to his wife, when they got home again--and he'd be asterisked, and might everybody else be asterisked, if he'd enter that asterisked house again. then the humour of it all appealed to him; and his anger dissolved into the usual hearty laughter. one very marked feature of burton's character was that, like his father, he always endeavoured to do and say what he thought was right, quite regardless of appearances and consequences. and we may give one anecdote to illustrate our meaning. on one occasion [ ] he and another englishman who was known by burton to have degraded himself unspeakably, were the guests at a country house. "allow me, captain burton," said the host, "to introduce you to the other principal guest of the evening, mr. ----" looking mr. ---- in the face, burton said: "when i am in persia i am a persian, when in india a hindu, but when in england i am an english gentleman," and then he turned his back on mr. ----and left him. as mr. ----'s record was not at the time generally known, those who were present at the scene merely shrugged their shoulders and said: "only another of burton's eccentricities." a few months, later, however, mr. ---'s record received publicity, and burton's conduct and words were understood. one of burton's lady relations being about to marry a gentleman who was not only needy but also brainless, somebody asked him what he thought of the bridegroom-elect. "not much," replied burton, drily, "he has no furniture inside or out." to "old maids" burton was almost invariably cruel. he found something in them that roused all the most devilish rancours in his nature; and he used to tell them tales till the poor ladies did not know where to tuck their heads. when reproved afterwards by mrs. burton, he would say: "yaas, yaas, no doubt; but they shouldn't be old maids; besides, it's no good telling the truth, for nobody ever believes you." he did, however, once refer complimentarily to a maiden lady--a certain saint apollonia who leaped into a fire prepared for her by the heathen alexandrians. he called her "this admirable old maid." her chief virtue in his eyes, however, seems to have been not her fidelity to her principles, but the fact that she got rid of herself, and so made one old maid fewer. "what shall we do with our old maids?" he would ask, and then answer the question himself--"oh, enlist them. with a little training they would make first-rate soldiers." he was also prejudiced against saints, and said of one, "i presume she was so called because of the enormity of her crimes." although mrs. burton often reproved her husband for his barbed and irritating remarks, her own tongue had, incontestibly, a very beautiful edge on it. witness her reply to mrs. x., who declared that when she met burton she was inexpressibly shocked by his chaucerian conversation and canopic wit. "i can quite believe," commented mrs. burton, sweetly, "that on occasions when no lady was present richard's conversation might have been startling." how tasteful is this anecdote, as they say in the nights, "and how enjoyable and delectable." . burton begins his translation, april . as we have already observed, mr. payne's copies of the thousand nights and a night were promptly snapped up by the public and , persons had to endure disappointment. "you should at once," urged burton, "bring out a new edition." "i have pledged myself," replied mr. payne, "not to reproduce the book in an unexpurgated form." "then," said burton, "let me publish a new edition in my own name and account to you for the profits--it seems a pity to lose these , subscribers." this was a most generous and kind-hearted, but, from a literary point of view, immoral proposition; and mr. payne at once rejected it, declaring that he could not be a party to a breach of faith with the subscribers in any shape or form. mr. payne's virtue was, pecuniarily and otherwise, its punishment. still, he has had the pleasure of a clear conscience. burton, however, being, as always, short of money, felt deeply for these , disappointed subscribers, who were holding out their nine-guinea cheques in vain; and he then said "should you object to my making an entirely new translation?" to which, of course, mr. payne replied that he could have no objection whatever. burton then set to work in earnest. this was in april, . as we pointed out in chapter xxii., lady burton's account of the inception and progress of the work and burton's own story in the translator's foreword (which precedes his first volume) bristle with misstatements and inaccuracies. he evidently wished it to be thought that his work was well under weigh long before he had heard of mr. payne's undertaking, for he says, "at length in the spring of the tedious process of copying began and the book commenced to take finished form." yet he told mr. payne in that beyond notes and a syllabus of titles nothing had been done; and in he says in a letter, "i find my translation is a mere summary," that is to say, of the boulac edition, which was the only one familiar to him till he met mr. payne. he admits having made ample use of the three principal versions that preceded his, namely, those of jonathan scott, lane and payne, "the whole being blended by a callida junctura into a homogeneous mass." but as a matter of fact his obligations to scott and lane, both of whom left much of the nights untranslated, and whose versions of it were extremely clumsy and incorrect, were infinitesimal; whereas, as we shall presently prove, practically the whole of burton is founded on the whole of payne. we trust, however, that it will continually be borne in mind that the warm friendship which existed between burton and payne was never for a moment interrupted. each did the other services in different ways, and each for different reasons respected and honoured the other. in a letter to mr. payne of th august, , burton gave an idea of his plan. he says "i am going in for notes where they did not suit your scheme and shall make the book a perfect repertoire of eastern knowledge in its most esoteric form." a paper on these subjects which burton offered to the british association was, we need scarcely say, courteously declined. writing to payne on september th ( ) he says, "as you have been chary of notes my version must by way of raison d'etre (amongst others) abound in esoteric lore, such as female circumcision and excision, etc. i answer all my friends that reading it will be a liberal education, and assure them that with such a repertory of esotericism at their finger ends they will know all the scibile [ ] requisite to salvation. my conviction is that all the women in england will read it and half the men will cut me." . the battle over the nights. although, as we have seen, burton's service to mr. payne's translation was almost too slight to be mentioned, burton was to mr. payne in another way a tower of strength. professional spite, jealousy and other causes had ranged against his nights whole platoons of men of more or less weight. jealousy, folly and ignorance made common cause against the new translation--the most formidable coterie being the group of influential men who for various reasons made it their business to cry up the commonplace translation of e. w. lane, published in , and subsequently reprinted--a translation which bears to payne's the relation of a glow-worm to the meridian sun. the clique at first prepared to make a professional attack on the work, but the appearance of volume i. proved it to be from a literary, artistic and philological point of view quite unassailable. this tactic having failed, some of these gentlemen, in their meanness, and we fear we must add, malevolence, then tried to stir up the authorities to take action against mr. payne on the ground of public morality. [ ] burton had long been spoiling for a fight--and now was his opportunity. in season and out of season he defended payne. he fell upon the lane-ites like samson upon the philistines. he gloried in the hurly-burly. he wallowed, as it were, in blood. fortunately, too, at that time he had friends in the government--straightforward, commonsense men--who were above all pettinesses. lord houghton, f. f. arbuthnot, and others, also ranged themselves on the same side and hit out manfully. before starting on the palmer expedition, burton, in a letter of october th, had written to mr. payne: "the more i read your translation the more i like it. you have no need to fear the lane clique; that is to say, you can give them as good as they can give you. i am quite ready to justify the moral point. of course we must not attack lane till he is made the cheval de bataille against us. but peace and quiet are not in my way, and if they want a fight, they can have it." the battle was hot while it lasted, but it was soon over. the lane-ites were cowed and gradually subsided into silence. mr. payne took the matter more coolly than burton, but he, too, struck out when occasion required. for example, among the enemy was a certain reverend professor of semitic languages, who held advanced opinions on religious matters. he had fought a good fight, had suffered persecution on that account, and is honoured accordingly. "it is usual," observed burton, "with the weak, after being persecuted to become persecutors." [ ] mr. ----- had the folly to put it about that payne's translation was made not direct from the arabic but from german translations. how he came to make so amazing a statement, seeing that at the time no important german translation of the nights existed, [ ] it is difficult to say; but mr. payne sent him the following words from the nights, written in the arabic character: "i and thou and the slanderer, there shall be for us an awful day and a place of standing up to judgment." [ ] after this mr. ----- sheathed his sword and the villon society heard no more of him. . completion of mr. payne's translation. mr. payne's first volume appeared as we have seen in . the last left the press in . the work was dedicated to burton, who writes, "i cannot but feel proud that he has honoured me with the dedication of 'the book of the thousand nights and one night.' ...he succeeds admirably in the most difficult passages, and he often hits upon choice and special terms and the exact vernacular equivalent of the foreign word so happily and so picturesquely that all future translators must perforce use the same expression under pain of falling far short." having finished the nights, mr. payne commenced the translation of other eastern stories--which he published under the title of tales from the arabic. [ ] chapter xxv. to may , the kama shastra society bibliography: . publications of the kama shastra society. author. translator. . the kama sutra. vatsyayana. bhagvanlal indraji. . the ananga ranga. kullianmull. " . the arabian nights. - . " burton. . the scented garden ("my old version"). . nafzawi. burton and others. . the beharistan. . jami. rehatsek. . the gulistan . sadi. " or rose garden. works still in manuscript. author. translator . the nigaristan jawini. rehatsek. . the observances of the zenanah " . etiquette of eating and drinking " (a persian essay). . physiognomies (a persian ms.) al-r'azy " . anecdotes from the nuzhat al yaman. " (persian). . the merzuban namah. (persian). . extracts from al mostatraf. (arabic). " . extracts from siraj-ul-moluk. (arabic). " . extracts from tuhfat al akhwan us safa.* " * for further particulars respecting these works see appendix. . the azure apollo. if payne's translation had been met by the wind, burton anticipated that his own, with its blunt faithfulness to the original and its erotic notes, would be met by whirlwind. considering the temper of the public [ ] at the time he thought it not improbable that an action would be brought against him, and in fancy he perceived himself standing at bay with the authorised version of the bible in one hand as a shield, and urquhart's rabelais in the other as a missile. but though a man of amazing courage, burton was not one to jeopardise himself unnecessarily. he was quite willing to take any reasonable precautions. so he discussed the matter with his friend f. f. arbuthnot, who had recently returned from india, married, [ ] and settled at a charming place, upper house court, near guildford. mr. arbuthnot, who, as we have seen, had for years given his whole soul to eastern literature, had already published a group of hindu stories [ ] and was projecting manuals of persian [ ] and arabic [ ] literature and a series of translations of famous eastern works, some of which were purely erotic. he now suggested that this series and burton's arabian nights should be published nominally by a society to which might be given the appropriate name, "the kama shastra"--that is the cupid-gospel--society, kama being the hindu god of love. this deity is generally represented as a beautiful youth riding on an emerald-plumaged lorry or parrot. in his hand he holds a bow of flowers and five arrows--the five senses; and dancing girls attend him. his favourite resort is the country round agra, where krishna [ ] the azure hindu apollo, "tunes harps immortal, and to strains divine dances by moonlight with the gopia nine." [ ] the books were to be translated by rehatsek and a hindu pundit named bhagvanlal indraji, burton and arbuthnot were to revise and annotate, and arbuthnot was to find the money. burton fell in with the idea, as did certain other members of arbuthnot's circle, who had always been keenly interested in orientalism, and so was formed the famous kama shastra society. that none of the particulars relating to the history of the society has before been made public, is explained by the fact that burton and arbuthnot, conversant with the temper of the public, took pains to shroud their proceedings in mystery. it cannot, however, be too strongly insisted upon that arbuthnot's standpoint, like burton's, was solely for the student. "he wished," he said, "to remove the scales from the eyes of englishmen who are interested in oriental literature." these erotic books in one form or another are in the hands of , , of orientals. surely, argued arbuthnot, a few genuine english students--a few, grave, bald-headed, spectacled, happily married old gentlemen--may read them without injury. [ ] the modern student seeks his treasure everywhere, and cares not into what midden he may probe so long as he finds it. no writer on th century french history, for example, would nowadays make half apologies, as carlyle did, for having read casanova. indeed, he would lay himself open to censure unless he admitted having studied it carefully. still, every genuine and right-minded student regards it as a duty to keep books such as these, which are unsuited for the general public, under lock and key--just as the medical man treats his books of plates and other reference volumes. then again it is entirely a mistake to suppose that the works issued or contemplated by the kama shastra society were all of them erotic. two out of the six actually done: the beharistan and the gulistan, and the whole of the nine still in manuscript, might, after a snip or two with the scissors, be read aloud in almost any company. we have the first hint of the kama shastra society in a letter to payne, th august . "i hope," says burton, "you will not forget my friend, f. f. arbuthnot, and benefit him by your advice about publishing when he applies to you for it. he has undertaken a peculiar branch of literature--the hindu erotic, which promises well." on dec. th he writes: "my friend arbuthnot writes to me that he purposes calling upon you. he has founded a society consisting of himself and myself." after further reference to the idea he adds, "i hope that you will enjoy it." a few days later mr. arbuthnot called on mr. payne. mr. payne did not "enjoy" the unfolding of the kama shastra scheme, he took no interest in it whatever; but, of course, he gave the information required as to cost of production; and both then and subsequently assisted in other matters of business. moreover, to mr. arbuthnot himself, as a man of great personal charm, mr. payne became sincerely attached, and a friendship resulted that was severed only by death. the arrangement about financing the books did not, of course, apply to the arabian nights. that was burton's own affair; for its success was supposed to be assured from the first. of the books other than the arabian nights published by the kama shastra society--each of which purported, facetiously, to be printed at behares, the name which burton chose to give to stoke newington, we shall now give a brief account. several, we said, are erotic. but it should be clearly understood what is here meant by the term. the plays of wycherley and other caroline dramatists are erotic in a bad sense. we admit their literary qualities, but we cannot hide from ourselves the fact that they were written by libertines and that an attempt is made to render vice attractive. the injured husband, for example, is invariably ridiculed, the adulterer glorified. the hindu books, on the other hand, were written by professedly religious men whose aim was "not to encourage chambering and wantonness, but simply and in all sincerity to prevent the separation of husband and wife"--not to make them a married couple look afield, but "to lead them to love each other more by understanding each other better." vatsyayan and kullianmull, [ ] indeed, though they poetized the pleasures of the flesh, would have been horrified could they have read the plays of wycherley and etheridge. the erotic books that arbuthnot wished to be translated were the following--all by hindu poets more or less famous:-- the kama sutra (book of love) by vatsyayana. ananga ranga (stage of love) by kullianmull. ratirahasya (secrets of love) by kukkoka. panchasakya (the five arrows) by jyotirisha. smara pradipa (light of love) by gunakara. ratimanjari (garland of love) by jayadeva. rasmanjari (sprout of love) by bhanudatta. of these seven books two only were issued, namely the kama sutra and the ananga ranga or lila shastra. the precise share that burton [ ] had in them will never be known. it is sufficient to say that he had a share in both, and the second, according to the title page, was "translated from the sanskrit and annotated by a. f. f. and b. f. r.," that is f. f. arbuthnot and richard francis bacon--the initials being purposely reversed. . the kama sutra. when commencing upon the kama sutra, indraji--for he was the actual translator--found his copy, which had been procured in bombay, to be defective, so he wrote to benares, calcutta and jeypoor for copies of the manuscripts preserved in the sanskrit libraries of those places. these having been obtained and compared with each other, a revised copy of the entire work was compiled and from this indraji made his translation. "this work," he says, "is not to be used merely as an instrument for satisfying our desires. a person acquainted with the true principles of this science, who preserved his dharma (virtue or religious merit), his artha (worldly wealth) and his kama (pleasure, or sensual gratification), and who has regard to the customs of the people, is sure to obtain the mastery over his senses. in short, an intelligent and knowing person, attending to dharma, and artha and also to kama, without becoming the slave of his passions, will obtain success in everything that he may do." according to vatsyayana, kama should be taught just as is taught--say, hygiene or political economy. "a man practising dharma, artha and kama enjoys happiness both in this world and in the world to come." it must not be supposed that the work is entirely erotic. there are also directions for one's conduct at religious festivals, especially that in honour of saraswati, [ ] picnics, drinking parties and other social gatherings. still, the erotic preponderates. the work is mainly a handbook on love. one is informed respecting what women are or are not worthy of affection. there are full instructions respecting kissing, an art which is not so easy to learn as some persons think. still, a man who could not kiss properly after reading the kama sutra would be a dullard indeed. some of the remarks are quaint enough. thus we are told that "nothing tends to increase love so much as the effects of marking with the nails [ ] and biting." some girls when asked in marriage are slow to make up their minds. with that situation there are, it seems, several ways of dealing. the simplest is the following: "when the girl goes to a garden, or to some village in the neigbourhood, the man should, with his friends, fall on her guards, and having killed them, or frightened them away, forcibly carry her off." sometime it is the man who is shy. in such cases the girl "should bring him to her house under the pretence of seeing the fights of quails, cocks and rams, of hearing the maina (a kind of starling) talk.... she should also amuse him for a long time by telling him such stories and doing such things as he may take most delight in." for edwin and angelina when they get married there is also much wholesome instruction. "the wife, whether she be a woman of noble family or a virgin widow re-married, [ ] should lead a chaste life." "when the man sets out on a journey she should make him swear that he will return quickly. [ ]... when the man does return home she should worship the god kama." ladies will be interested to learn that there are twenty-seven artifices by which a woman can get money out of a man. one is "praising his intelligence to his face." then there are useful directions for the personal adornment of both sexes. "if the bone of a peacock or of a hyena be covered with gold and tied to the right hand, it makes a man lovely in the eyes of other people." of the essential portions of the book it is sufficient to say that they are similar to those of the other avowedly erotic eastern works, the contents of the principal of which have been touched upon by burton in the terminal essay to his arabian nights and in some of his notes. finally we are told that the kama sutra was composed for the benefit of the world by vatsyayana, while leading the life of a religious student, and wholly engaged in the contemplation of the deity. at the same time, the teaching of this holy man amounts to very much the same as that of maupassant, which is, to use tolstoy's words, "that life consists in pleasures of which woman with her love is the chief, and in the double, again reflected delight of depicting this love and exciting it in others." [ ] the work lets a flood of light on hindu manners and customs; and it must be borne in mind that the translation was issued privately at a high price and intended only for "curious students." in the preface, burton and arbuthnot observe that after a perusal of the hindoo work the reader will understand the subject upon which it treats, "at all events from a materialistic, realistic and practical point of view. if all science is founded more or less on a stratum of facts, there can be no harm in making known to mankind generally certain matters intimately connected with their private, domestic and social life. alas! complete ignorance of them has unfortunately wrecked many a man and many a woman, while a little knowledge of a subject generally ignored by the masses would have enabled numbers of people to understand many things which they believed to be quite incomprehensible, or which were not thought worthy of their consideration." writing to payne, th january, , burton says, "has arbuthnot sent you his vatsyayana? [ ] he and i and the printer have started a hindu kama shastra (ars amoris society). it will make the brit(ish) pub(lis) stare. please encourage him." later arbuthnot, in reply to a question put to him by a friend, said that the society consisted practically of himself, sir richard burton and the late lord houghton. [ ] chapter xxvi. the ananga ranga or lila shastra bibliography: . the book of the sword. . . the ananga ranga. [ ] the title page of the second book, the ananga ranga, which was issued in , was as follows: ananga ranga (stage of the bodiless one) or the hindu art of love (ars amoris indica) translated from the sanskrit and annotated by a. f. f. and b. f. r. cosmopoli mdccclxxxv, for the kama shastra society of london and benares, and for private circulation only. dedicated to that small portion of the british public which takes enlightened interest in studying the manners and customs of the olden east. we are told that this book was written about by the arch-poet kalyana mull, [ ] that lithographed copies have been printed by hundreds of thousands, that the book is in the hands of almost every one "throughout the nearer east," and also that it is "an ethnological treasure, which tells us as much of hindu human nature as the thousand nights and a night of arab manners and customs in the cinquecento." in india the book is known as the kama shastra or lila shastra, the scripture of play or amorous sport. the author says quaintly, "it is true that no joy in the world of mortals can compare with that derived from the knowledge of the creator. second, however, and subordinate only to his are the satisfaction and pleasure arising from the possession of a beautiful woman." "from the days of sotades and ovid," says the writer of the preface, who is certainly burton, "to our own time, western authors have treated the subject either jocularly or with a tendency to hymn the joys of immorality, and the gospel of debauchery. the indian author has taken the opposite view, and it is impossible not to admire the delicacy with which he has handled an exceedingly difficult theme. ....feeling convinced that monogamy is a happier state than polygamy, he would save the married couple from the monotony and satiety which follow possession, by varying their pleasures in every conceivable way and by supplying them with the means of being psychically pure and physically pleasant to each other." there is a reference to this work in burton's vikram and the vampire, where we read: [ ] "as regards the neutral state, that poet was not happy in his ideas who sang, 'whene'er indifference appears, or scorn, then, man, despair! then, hapless lover, mourn!' for a man versed in the lila shastra can soon turn a woman's indifference into hate, which i have shown is as easily permuted to love." this curious book concludes: "may this treatise, ananga ranga, be beloved of man and woman, as long as the holy river ganges, springeth from shiva with his wife gauri on his left side; as long as lakshmi loveth vishnu; as long as brahma is engaged in the study of the vedas, and as long as the earth, the moon and the sun endure." the kama shastra society also issued a translation of the first twenty chapters of the scented garden. [ ] in reality it was a translation of the french version of liseux, but it was imperfect and had only a few notes. it has been repeatedly denied that burton had anything to do with it. all we can say is that in a letter to mr. a. g. ellis of th may , he distinctly calls it "my old version," [ ] and he must mean that well-known edition of , because all the other impressions are like it, except in respect to the title page. . the beharistan, . the society now determined to issue unexpurgated editions of the three following great persian classics: the gulistan or rose garden, by sadi (a.d. ). the nigaristan or picture gallery, by jawini (a.d. ). the beharistan or abode of spring, by jami (a.d. ). the first to appear was the beharistan in . jami, the author, is best known in england on account of his melodious poems salaman and absal, so exquisitely rendered by edward fitzgerald, and ysuf and zuleika (joseph and potiphar's wife), familiar to englishmen mainly through miss costello's fragrant adaptation. [ ] to quote from the introduction of the translation of the beharistan, which is written in arbuthnot's bald and hesitating style, "there is in this work very little indeed to be objected to. a few remarks or stories scattered here and there would have to be omitted in an edition printed for public use or for public sale. but on the whole the author breathes the noblest and purest sentiments, and illustrates his meanings by the most pleasing, respectable, and apposite tales, along with numerous extracts from the koran." the work consists of stories and verses--two or three of which will be found in our appendix--pleasantly intermingled; but as rehatsek, the translator, made no attempt to give the verses rhythmical form, only an inadequate idea is conveyed of the beauty of the original. it would require an edward fitzgerald or a john payne to do justice to jami's jewelled verses. . the gulistan, . the gulistan of sadi, [ ] which was the next book issued, is best known in england from the translations by james ross ( ) and edward b. eastwick ( ). sadi's aim was to make "a garden of roses whose leaves the rude hand of the blast of autumn could not affect." [ ] "the very brambles and rubbish of this book," says an ancient enthusiastic admirer, "are of the nature of ambergris." men treasured the scraps of sadi's writing "as if they were gold leaf," and the gulistan has attained a popularity in the east "which has never been reached in this western world." the school-boy lisps his first lessons in it, the pundit quotes it, and hosts of its sayings have become proverbial. from end to end the "unity, the unapproachable majesty, the omnipotence, the long-suffering and the goodness of god" are nobly set forth--the burden of every chapter being: "the world, my brother! will abide with none, by the world's maker let thy heart be won." . the nigaristan. the third of the great trio, jawini's nigaristan, did not reach the press owing to arbuthnot's death. the manuscript, however, in rehatsek's hand-writing, is still in the possession of the royal asiatic society, , albermarle street, and we trust to see it some day suitably edited and published. arbuthnot, who contributes the preface, points out that it contains stories in prose and verse, and that it abounds "in pure and noble sentiments, such as are to be found scattered throughout the sacred books of the east, the old and new testaments and the koran." a few citations from it will be found in our appendix. . letters to payne, th january . on january th, burton, after asking for the remaining volumes of mr. payne's nights, says "a friend here is reading them solemnly and with huge delight: he would be much disappointed to break off perforce half way. when do you think the vols. will be finished? marvellous weather here. i am suffering from only one thing, a want to be in upper egypt. and, of course, they won't employ me. i have the reputation of 'independent,' a manner of 'oh! no, we never mention it, sir,' in the official catalogue, and the one unpardonable chinese gordon has been sacked for being 'eccentric,' which society abominates. england is now ruled by irresponsible clerks, mostly snobs. my misfortunes in life began with not being a frenchman. i hope to be in london next spring, and to have a talk with you about my translation of the ." all the early months of , burton was seriously ill, but in april he began to mend. he writes to payne on the th: "i am just beginning to write a little and to hobble about (with a stick). a hard time since january th! let me congratulate you on being at vol. ix. your translation is excellent and i am glad to see in academy that you are working at persian tales. [ ] which are they? in my youth i read many of them. now that your are so nearly finished i am working at my translation." he then asks what arrangements mr. payne made with the publishers and the cost of the printing. "all i want," he says, on april th, "is a guide in dealing with that dragon the publisher;" and in later letters he thanks mr. payne for answering his questions. on june th ( ) writing from marienbad he says, "i should much like to know what you are doing with the three supplemental volumes, and i hope that each will refer readers to the source whence you borrow it. this will be a great aid to the students. the more i examine your translation the better i like it. mine will never be so popular because i stick so much to the text. [ ] no arrangements yet make about it, and ms. will not be all ready till end of january. we (my wife and i) have enjoyed our ten days at marienbad muchly, but the weather has as yet prevented bathing; a raw wester with wind and rain. bad for poor people who can afford only the days de rigueur. cuthbert bede (rev. edward bradley) is here and my friend j. j. aubertin is coming." . at sauerbrunn, th august . the next letter to payne, written from sauerbrunn, in austria, is dated th august . after enquiring concerning "the supererogatory three vols." he says, "we left marienbad last of last month, and came to this place (a very pretty little spa utterly clear of britishers), where we shall stay till the end of the month and then again for trieste to make plans for the winter. will you kindly let me have the remaining volumes, and when you have a spare quarter of an hour i want a little assistance from you. when you sent me your breslau you pencilled in each volume the places from which you had taken matter for translation (how wretchedly that breslau is edited!) i want these notes scribbled out by way of saving time. of course i shall have to read over the whole series; but meanwhile will content myself with your references. have you the arabian nights published in turkish by mr. clermont ganneau? you will want it for the supererogatory. if you can't get it i have it somewhere, and will look for it on return to trieste. have you a copy of trebutien? cotton, of academy has just sent me clouston's book of sindibad [ ] for review. i thought it was our old friend the sailor, but find out my mistake. you will have no objection to my naming (in my review) your style in the as that he should have taken for a model." he writes again on september th ( ): "on return here i found vol. ix., with the dedication which delighted me hugely. i did not notice your fine work in reviewing the clouston treatise. i had not your express permission. living so far from the world i am obliged to be very careful in these matters: one never knows what harm one may be doing unawares. of course i shall speak of your translation in my preface, as it deserves to be spoken of. nothing would give me greater pleasure than to look over your proofs; in fact, i should be sorry not to do so. i have not yet found ganneau's nights, but i hope to do so. my turkish edition was burnt many years ago in a fire at grindlay's; but you will easily find a copy. i suppose you read turkish; [ ] and if you do not you will in three months; the literary style is a mass of persian and arabic. you must find out which is the best turkish edition. my copy had evidently been translated from a ms. very unlike the calcutta and bulak.... i have told quartich to send you a cop of camoens (lyrics), which will be out in a few days." . burton's circulars, september . by september the first volumes of burton's arabian nights were almost ready for print, and burton asked himself how many copies would suffice the public. he was aware that , persons were disappointed of being able to obtain copies of mr. payne's edition, but it did not necessarily follow that all these , would subscribe to his. finally he decided upon , , and he had three circulars printed respecting the work. the first began "captain burton, having neither agent nor publisher for his forthcoming arabian nights, requests that all subscribers will kindly send their names to him personally (captain burton, trieste, austria), when they will be entered in a book kept for the purpose." it was then mentioned that there would be ten volumes at a guinea apiece, [ ] each to be paid for on delivery, that , copies would be printed, and that no cheaper edition would be issued. the second dealt with the advantages of the work to students of arabic. the third consisted of an article welcoming the work from the daily tribune, new york, written by g. w. s(malley). burton posted about , of these circulars at an expense of some £ , but received only favourable replies. lady burton, in dismay, then wrote to mr. payne begging for advice. several letters passed between them, and mr. payne sent her the names of the subscribers to his own book and lists of other likely persons. a second shower of circulars effected the desired purpose. indeed it did far more, for the number of favourable replies ultimately rose to , . but as we have seen, burton had restricted himself to the issue of , . so he found that he had made precisely the same mistake as mr. payne. however, it could not be remedied. . the book of the sword. this year was published burton's the book of the sword, which he dedicated, appropriately, to the memory of his old friend alfred bates richards, who had died in . it is a history of the sword in all times and countries down to the middle ages, [ ] with numerous illustrations, the interest being mainly archaeological. of "the queen of weapons" he ever spoke glowingly. "the best of calisthenics," he says, "this energetic educator teaches the man to carry himself like a soldier. a compendium of gymnastics, it increases strength and activity, dexterity, and rapidity of movement. the foil is still the best training tool for the consensus of eye and hand, for the judgment of distance and opportunity, and, in fact, for the practice of combat. and thus swordsmanship engenders moral confidence and self-reliance, while it stimulates a habit of resource." . the lyrics of camoens, . this same year, too, he published his translation of the lyrics of camoens, in which, as will have been judged from the letters already quoted, he had been assisted by mr. john payne, who was also a portuguese scholar and a lover of camoens. "the learning and research of your work," wrote mr. a. c. swinburne, in reference to burton's six camoens volumes, "are in many points beyond all praise of mine, but not more notable than the strength and skill that wield them. i am hungrily anticipating the arabian nights." . more letters to payne, st october . on october st , burton wrote to thank mr. payne for a splendid and complete set (specially bound) of his edition of the nights. he says, "i am delighted with it, especially with the dedication. [ ]... to my horror quaritch sent me a loose vol. of his last catalogue with a notice beginning, 'the only absolutely true translation of the [arabian nights], &c.' my wife telegraphed to him and followed with a letter ordering it not to be printed. all in vain. i notice this only to let you know that the impertinence is wholly against my will. life in trieste is not propitious to work as in the baths; yet i get on tolerably. egypt is becoming a comedy." then follows the amazing remark: "i expect to see gordon (who is doubtless hand in hand with the mahdi) sent down to offer to guide wolseley up to khartum." . death of gordon, january . burton little dreamt that the days of the heroic englishman were numbered. sent by the english government to the soudan, gordon had been at khartum hardly a month before it was invested by the mahdi. the relief expedition arrived just two days too late. gordon was slain! this was in january . the shock to burton was comparable only to that which he received by the death of speke. in one of the illustrated papers there was a picture of gordon lying in the desert with vultures hovering around. "take it away!" said burton. "i can't bear to look at it. i have had to feel like that myself." . w. f. kirby, [ ] th march . shortly after the announcement of his edition of the nights, burton received a letter from mr. w. f. kirby, [ ] better known as an entomologist, who had devoted much study to european editions of that work, a subject of which burton knew but little. mr. kirby offered to supply a bibliographical essay which could be used as an appendix. burton replied cordially, and this was the beginning of a very pleasant friendship. mr. kirby frequently corresponded with burton, and they often met at mr. kirby's house, the natural history museum, south kensington, or the british museum. says mr. kirby: "at the british museum, burton seemed more inclined to talk than to work. i thought him weak in german [ ] and when i once asked him to help me with a russian book, he was unable to do so." thus even a burton has his limitations. "he told me," continues mr. kirby, "that he once sat between sir henry rawlinson and a man who had been ambassador at st. petersburg, and he spoke to one in persian, and the other in russian, but neither of them could understand him. i have never, however, been able to make up my mind whether the point of the story told against him or against them. [ ] although burton was a student of occult science, i could never lead him to talk about crystals or kindred subjects; and this gave me the idea that he was perhaps pledged to secrecy. still, he related his experiences freely in print." oddly, enough, burton used to call mr. kirby "mr. rigby," and he never could break himself of the habit. "apparently," says mr. kirby, "he associated my name with that of his old opponent, colonel, afterwards major-general rigby, [ ] consul at zanzibar." in a letter of th march , burton asks mr. kirby to draw up "a full account of the known mss. and most important european editions, both those which are copies of galland and (especially) those which are not. it will be printed in my terminal essay with due acknowledgment of authorship." [ ] on april th ( ) he says, "i don't think my readers will want an exhaustive bibliography, but they will expect me to supply information which mr. payne did not deem necessary to do in his excellent terminal essay. by the by, i shall totally disagree with him about harun al rashid and the barmecides, [ ] who were pestilent heretics and gave rise to the terrible religious trouble of the subsequent reigns. a tabular arrangement of the principal tales will be exceedingly useful." chapter xxvii. may - th feb. , a glance through "the arabian nights" bibliography: . the thousand nights and a night. st vol. th september . th vol. th july . . il pentamerone. (translated--not published till ). . iracema or honey lips; and manoel de moraes the convert. translated from the brazilian. . . slaving at the athenaeum, may . in may , burton obtained leave of absence, and on arriving in england he made various arrangements about the printing of the arabian nights and continued the work of translation. when in london he occupied rooms at the st. james's hotel (now the berkeley) in piccadilly. he used to say that the st. james's hotel was the best place in the world in which to do literary work, and that the finest place in the whole world was the corner of piccadilly. still, he spent most of his time, as usual, at the athenaeum. mr. h. r. tedder, the secretary, and an intimate friend of burton's, tells me that "he would work at the round table in the library for hours and hours--with nothing for refreshment except a cup of coffee and a box of snuff, which always stood at his side;" and that he was rarely without a heavy stick with a whistle at one end and a spike at the other--the spike being to keep away dogs when he was travelling in hot countries. this was one of the many little inventions of his own. mr. tedder describes him as a man of great and subtle intellect and very urbane. "he had an athletic appearance and a military carriage, and yet more the look of a literary man than of a soldier." in summer as usual he wore white clothes, the shabby old beaver, and the tie-pin shaped like a sword. mr. tedder summed him up as "as a compound of a benedictine monk, a crusader and a buccaneer." the hon. henry j. coke, looking in at the athenaeum library one day, and noticing the "white trousers, white linen coat and a very shabby old white beaver hat," exclaimed, "hullo burton, do you find it so very hot?" "i don't want," said burton, "to be mistaken for anyone else." "there's not much fear of that, without your clothes," followed coke. [ ] during this holiday burton visited most of his old friends, and often ran down to norwood to see his sister and her daughter, while everyone remarked his brightness and buoyancy. "it was delightful," says miss stisted, "to see how happy he was over the success of his venture." he had already resolved to issue six additional volumes, to be called supplemental nights. he would then take sixteen thousand pounds. he calculated printing and sundries as costing four thousand, and that the remainder would be net profit. as a matter of fact the expenses arose to £ , , making the net profit £ , [ ] burton had wooed fortune in many ways, by hard study in india, by pioneering in africa, by diplomacy at court, by gold-searching in midian and at axim, by patent medicining. finally he had found it in his inkstand; but as his favourite jami says, it requires only a twist of the pen to transmute duvat into dulat [ ]--inkstand into fortune. except when his father died, burton had never before possessed so large a sum, and, at the time, it appeared inexhaustible. bubbling over with fun, he would pretend to make a great mystery as to the kama shastra society at benares, where he declared the nights were being printed. . a visit to mr. arbuthnot's. of all the visits to be made during this holiday burton had looked forward to none with so much pleasure as those to mr. arbuthnot, or "bunny," [ ] as he called him, and mr. payne. mr. arbuthnot was still living at upper house court, guildford, studying, writing books, and encouraging struggling men of letters with a generosity that earned for him the name of "the english mecaenas;" and it was there the friends discussed the publications of the kama shastra society and made arrangements for the issue of fresh volumes. while the roses shook their odours over the garden, they talked of sadi's roses, jami's "aromatic herbs," and "trees of liberality," [ ] and the volume persian portraits, [ ] which arbuthnot, assisted by edward rehatsek, was at the moment preparing for the press. among the objects at mr. arbuthnot's heart was, as we have said, the resuscitation of the old oriental translation fund, which was originally started in , the society handling it having been established by royal charter. a series of works had been issued between and , but the funds were completely exhausted by the publication of al biruni's memoirs of india, and there were no longer any subscribers to the society. mr. arbuthnot now set himself assiduously to revive this fund, he contributed to it handsomely himself and by his energy induced a number of others to contribute. it is still in existence, and in accordance with his suggestion is worked by the royal asiatic society, though the subscriptions and donations to the translation fund are kept entirely separate, and are devoted exclusively to the production of translations of oriental works, both ancient and modern. thanks to the fund, a number of translations of various oriental works has been issued, including volumes by professor cowell, rehatsek, miss c. m. ridding, dr. gaster and professor rhys davids. its most important publication, however, is the completion of the translation of hariri's assemblies, [ ] done by steingass. [ ] . dr. steingass. born in , dr. steingass came to england in , and after five years as professor of modern languages at wakefield grammar school, birmingham, was appointed professor at the oriental institute, woking. though entirely self-taught, he was master of fourteen languages. [ ] his arabic dictionary ( ) and his persian english dictionary ( ) are well known, the latter being the best extant, but he will, after all, be chiefly remembered by his masterly rendering of hariri. dr. steingass presently became acquainted with burton, for whom he wrote the article "on the prose rhyme and the poetry of the nights." [ ] he also assisted burton with the notes, [ ] supervised the mss. of the supplemental volumes and enriched the last three with results of his wide reading and lexicographical experience. [ ] the work of transcribing burton's manuscript and making the copy for the press fell to a widow lady, mrs. victoria maylor, a catholic friend of mrs. burton. mrs. maylor copied not only the arabian nights, but several of burton's later works, including the scented garden. . anecdotes. when asked why he spent so much time and money on orientalism, arbuthnot gave as excuse his incompetency to do anything else. he admitted, indeed, that for the higher walks of life, such as whist and nap, he had no aptitude. occasionally at upper house court, politics were introduced, and arbuthnot, a staunch liberal in a shire of tories, was sometimes rallied upon his opinions by the conservative burton and payne. he took it all, however, as he took everything else, good humouredly, and even made some amiable attempts to convert his opponents. "his radicalism," says mr. payne, amusingly, "was entirely a matter of social position and connection. he was good enough for a tory." as usual, burton paid a visit to fryston, and he occasionally scintillated at lord houghton's famous breakfasts in london. once the friends were the guests of a prosperous publisher, who gave them champagne in silver goblets. "doesn't this," said lord houghton, raising a bumper to his lips, "make you feel as if you were drinking out of the skulls of poor devil authors?" for reply burton tapped his own forehead. about this time an anonymous letter of burton's appeared in the world, but we forget upon what subject. it excited wide interest, however, and hundreds of persons wrote to mr. yates, the editor, for the name of the author. "did you see my letter in the world?" enquired burton of mrs. e. j. burton. "the christian world?" asked mrs. burton innocently. "no," replied burton, sharply, "the unchristian world." once when burton was present at some gathering, a missionary caused a shudder to run through the company by saying that he had had the dreadful experience of being present at a cannibal feast. the cannibals, he said, brought in their prisoner, butchered him, cut him up, and handed the pieces round smoking hot. with his curious feline laugh, burton enquired, "didn't they offer you any?" "they did," replied the missionary, "but of course i refused." "what a fool you were," cried burton, "to miss such a unique opportunity." . the pentameron. burton and gladstone. we must next record a visit to mr. payne, who then resided in london. burton talked over his projects, and said that he had been wondering what book to take up after the completion of the nights. "i think," said he, "i shall fix upon boccaccio next." "my dear boy," followed mr. payne, "i've just done him." [ ] as his poem "salvestra" shows, mr. payne's mind had for long been running on "that sheaf of flowers men call decameron." his brilliant translation was, indeed, already in the press, and it appeared the following year in three volumes. "you are taking the bread out of my mouth," commented burton plaintively. "but," continued mr. payne, "there is another work that i thought of doing--the pentameron, [ ] by giambattista basile, and if you care to take my place i will not only stand aside but lend you the materials collected for the purpose." burton, who had some knowledge of the neapolitan dialect but had never met with the work referred to, welcomed the idea; and as soon as he had finished the nights he commenced a translation of the pentameron, which, however, was not published until after his death. his rendering, which cannot be praised, was aptly described by one of the critics as "an uncouth performance." burton also told payne about the proposed ariosto translation, and they discussed that too, but nothing was done. on july th , the burtons lunched with lord houghton--"our common houghton," as mr. swinburne used to call him; and found his lordship unwell, peevish, and fault-finding. he had all the trials of the successful man who possesses everything that wealth can purchase or the mind conceive. "good-bye, my dear old friend," cried burton, when parting, "would that i could share your troubles with you!" [ ] but poor lord houghton was too far gone to appreciate the jest. indeed, he was on the brink of the grave. a few days later he left for vichy, where he died on august th. his remains were brought to fryston, and burton and arbuthnot were present at his funeral. in october, while he was the guest of lord salisbury at hatfield, burton solicited the consulate of morocco, and as his application was supported by fifty men of prominence he felt almost certain of obtaining it. apparently, it was during this visit to england, too, that burton committed the frightful sin of contradicting mr. gladstone. at some great house after dinner, mr. gladstone, who was the guest of the evening, took it upon himself, while every one listened in respectful silence, to enlarge on oriental matters. after he had finished, burton, who had been fidgeting considerably, turned to him and said, "i can assure you, mr. gladstone, that everything you have said is absolutely and entirely opposite to fact." the rest of the company were aghast, could scarcely, indeed, believe their ears; and one of them, as soon as he had recovered from the shock, was seen scribbling like mad on a menu card. presently burton felt the card tucked into his hand under the table. on glancing at it he read "please do not contradict mr. gladstone. nobody ever does." . a brief glance through the nights. by this time burton had finished the first volume of his translation of the arabian nights, which left the press th september . the book was handsomely bound in black and gold, the colours of the abbaside caliphs; and contained a circular "earnestly requesting that the work might not be exposed for sale in public places or permitted to fall into the hands of any save curious students of moslem manners." the last volume was issued in july . let us turn over the pages of this remarkable work, surrender ourselves for a few moments to its charms, and then endeavour to compare it calmly and impartially with the great translation by mr. payne. what a glorious panorama unfolds itself before us! who does not know the introduction--about the king who, because his wife was unfaithful, vowed to take a new wife every evening and slay her in the morning! and all about the vizier's daughter, the beautiful shahrazad, who, with a magnificent scheme in her head, voluntarily came forward and offered to take the frightful risk. did ever tale-teller compare with shahrazad? who does not sympathise with the trader who killed the invisible son of the jinni? who has not dreamt of the poor fisherman and the pot that was covered with the seal of king solomon? the story of duban, who cured king yunon of leprosy and was sent home on the royal steed reads like a verse out of esther, [ ] and may remind us that there is no better way of understanding the historical portions of the bible than by studying the arabian nights. king yunan richly deserved the death that overtook him, if only for his dirty habit of wetting his thumb when turning over the leaves of the book. [ ] what a rare tale is that of the ensorcelled prince, alias the young king of the black isles, who though he sat in a palace where fountains limbecked water "clear as pearls and diaphanous gems," and wore "silken stuff purfled with egyptian gold," was from his midriff downwards not man but marble! who is not shocked at the behaviour of the three ladies of baghdad! in what fearful peril the caliph and the kalendars placed themselves when, in spite of warning, they would ask questions! how delightful are the verses of the nights, whether they have or have not any bearing upon the text! says the third kalendar, apropos of nothing: "how many a weal trips on the heels of ill causing the mourner's heart with joy to thrill." what an imbecile of imbeciles was this same kalendar when he found himself in the palace with the forty damsels, "all bright as moons to wait upon him!" it is true, he at first appreciated his snug quarters, for he cried, "hereupon such gladness possessed me that i forgot the sorrows of the world one and all, and said, 'this is indeed life!'" then the ninny must needs go and open that fatal fortieth door! the story of nur al-din ali and his son badr al-din hasan has the distinction of being the most rollicking and the most humorous in the nights. what stupendous events result from a tiff! the lines repeated by nur al-din ali when he angrily quitted his brother must have appealed forcibly to burton: travel! and thou shalt find new friends for old ones left behind; toil! for the sweets of human life by toil and moil are found; the stay at home no honour wins nor ought attains but want; so leave thy place of birth and wander all the world around. [ ] as long as time lasts the pretty coquettish bride will keep on changing her charming dresses; and the sultan's groom (poor man! and for nothing at all) will be kept standing on his head. the moribund nur al-din turns polonius and delivers himself of sententious precepts. "security," he tells his son, "lieth in seclusion of thought and a certain retirement from the society of thy fellows.... in this world there is none thou mayst count upon... so live for thyself, nursing hope of none. let thine own faults distract thine attention from the faults of other men. [ ] be cautious, kind, charitable, sober, and economical." then the good old man's life "went forth." this son, when, soon after, confronted with misfortune, gives utterance to one of the finest thoughts in the whole work: "it is strange men should dwell in the house of abjection, when the plain of god's earth is so wide and great." [ ] but there is another verse in the same tale that is also well worth remembering--we mean the one uttered by badr al-din hasan (turned tart merchant) when struck by a stone thrown by his son. unjust it were to bid the world be just; and blame her not: she ne'er was made for justice: take what she gives thee, leave all griefs aside, for now to fair and then to foul her lust is. [ ] we need do no more than mention the world-famous stories of the unfortunate hunchback and the pragmatical but charitable barber. very lovely is the tale of nur al-din and the damsel anis al jalis [ ] better known as "noureddin and the beautiful persian." how tender is the scene when they enter the sultan's garden! "then they fared forth at once from the city, and allah spread over them his veil of protection, so that they reached the river bank, where they found a vessel ready for sea." arrived at baghdad they enter a garden which turns out to be the sultan's. "by allah," quoth nur al-din to the damsel, "right pleasant is this place." and she replied, "o my lord, sit with me awhile on this bench, and let us take our ease. so they mounted and sat them down... and the breeze blew cool on them, and they fell asleep, and glory be to him who never sleepeth." little need to enquire what it is that entwines the arabian nights round our hearts. when calamity over took nur al-din he mused on the folly of heaping up riches: "kisra and caesars in a bygone day stored wealth; where is it, and ah! where are they?" [ ] but all came right in the end, for "allah's aid is ever near at hand." the tale of ghanim bin ayyub also ends happily. then follows the interminable history of the lecherous and bellicose king omar. very striking is its opening episode--the meeting of prince sharrkan with the lovely abrizah. "though a lady like the moon at fullest, with ringleted hair and forehead sheeny white, and eyes wondrous wide and black and bright, and temple locks like the scorpion's tail," she was a mighty wrestler, and threw her admirer three times. the tender episode of the adventures of the two forlorn royal children in jerusalem is unforgettable; while the inner story of aziz and azizah, with the touching account of azizah's death, takes perhaps the highest place in the nights. the tale of king omar, however, has too much fighting, just as that of ali bin bakkar and shams al nahar, the amourist martyrs, as burton calls them, has too much philandering. then comes the tale of kamar al zaman i--about the prince and the princess whose beauty set the fairy and the jinni disputing. how winning were the two wives of kamar al zaman in their youth; how revolting after! the interpolated tale of ni'amah and naomi is tender and pretty, and as the arabs say, sweet as bees' honey. [ ] all of us as we go through life occasionally blunder like ni'amah into the wrong room--knowing not what is written for us "in the secret purpose." the most interesting feature of the "leprosy tale" of ala-al-din is the clairvoyance exhibited by zubaydah, who perceived that even so large a sum as ten thousand dinars would be forthcoming--a feature which links it with the concluding story of the nights--that of ma'aruf the cobbler; while the important part that the disguised caliph haroun al-rashid, ja'afar and masrur play in it reminds us of the story of the three ladies of baghdad. on this occasion, however, there was a fourth masker, that hoary sinner and cynical humorist the poet abu nowas. one of the most curious features of the nights is the promptitude with which everyone--porters, fishermen, ladies, caliphs--recites poetry. it is as if a cabman when you have paid him your fare were to give you a quatrain from fitzgerald's rendering of omar khayyam, or a cripple when soliciting your charity should quote swinburne's atalanta. then in the midst of all this culture, kindliness, generosity, kingliness, honest mirth,--just as we are beginning to honour and love the great caliph, we come upon a tale [ ] with the staggering commencement "when harun al rashid crucified ja'afar;" and if we try to comfort ourselves with the reflection that we are reading only fiction, history comes forward and tells us bluntly that it is naked truth. passing from this story, which casts so lurid a light over the nights, we come to abu mohammed, lazybones, the arab dick whittington, whose adventures are succeeded by those of ali shar, a young man who, with nothing at all, purchases a beautiful slave girl--zumurrud. when, after a time, he loses her, he loses also his senses, and runs about crying: "the sweets of life are only for the mad." by and by zumurrud becomes a queen, and the lovers are re-united. she is still very beautiful, very sweet, very pious, very tender, and she flays three men alive. we need do no more than allude to "the man of al yaman and his six slave girls," "the ebony horse," and "uns al wujud and rose in hood." the tale of the blue-stocking tawaddud [ ] is followed by a number of storyettes, some of which are among the sweetest in the nights. "the blacksmith who could handle fire without hurt," "the moslem champion," with its beautiful thoughts on prayer, and "abu hasn and the leper" are all of them fragrant as musk. then comes "the queen of the serpents" with the history of janshah, famous on account of the wonderful split men--the creatures already referred to in this work, who used to separate longitudinally. the sindbad cycle is followed by the melancholy "city of brass," and a great collection of anecdotes illustrative of the craft and malice of woman. in "the story of judar" [ ] we find by the side of a character of angelic goodness characters of fiendish malevolence--judar's brothers--a feature that links it with the stories of abdullah bin fazil [ ] and abu sir and abu kir. [ ] very striking is the account of the mahrabis whom judar pushed into the lake, and who appeared with the soles of their feet above the water and none can forget the sights which the necromancy of the third maghrabi put before the eyes of judar. "oh, judar, fear not," said the moor, "for they are semblances without life." the long and bloody romance of gharib and ajib is followed by thirteen storyettes, all apparently historical, and then comes the detective work of "the rogueries of dalilah," and 'the adventures of mercury ali." if "the tale of ardashir" is wearisome, that of "julnar the sea born and her son king badr," which like "abdullah of the land, and abdullah of the sea," [ ] concerns mer-folk, amply atones for it. this, too, is the tale of the arabian circe, queen lab, who turns people into animals. in "sayf al muluk," we make the acquaintance of that very singular jinni whose soul is outside his body, and meet again with sindbad's facetious acquaintance, "the old man of the sea." "hasan of bassorah" is woven as it were out of the strands of the rainbow. burton is here at his happiest as a translator, and the beautiful words that he uses comport with the tale and glitter like jewels. it was a favourite with him. he says, "the hero, with his hen-like persistency of purpose, his weeping, fainting, and versifying, is interesting enough, and proves that 'love can find out the way.' the charming adopted sister, the model of what the feminine friend should be; the silly little wife who never knows that she is happy till she loses happiness, the violent and hard-hearted queen with all the cruelty of a good woman; and the manners and customs of amazon-land are outlined with a life-like vivacity." then follow the stories of kalifah, ali nur al din and miriam the girdle girl [ ]; the tales grouped together under the title of "king jalead of hind;" and abu kir and abu sir, memorable on account of the black ingratitude of the villain. "kamar al zaman ii." begins with the disagreeable incident of the jeweller's wife--"the arab lady godiva of the wrong sort"--and the wicked plot which she contrived in concert with the depraved kamar al zaman. however, the storyteller enlists the reader's sympathies for the jeweller, who in the end gains a wife quite as devoted to him as his first wife had been false. the unfaithful wife gets a reward which from an arab point of view precisely meets the case. somebody "pressed hard upon her windpipe and brake her neck." "so," concludes the narrator, "he who deemeth all women alike there is no remedy for the disease of his insanity." there is much sly humour in the tale, as for example when we are told that even the cats and dogs were comforted when "lady godiva" ceased to make her rounds. "abdullah bin fazil" is simply "the eldest lady's tale" with the sexes changed. the last tale in the nights, and perhaps the finest of all, is that of "ma'aruf the cobbler." [ ] ma'aruf, who lived at cairo, had a shrewish wife named fatimah who beat him, and hauled him before the kazi because he had not been able to bring her "kunafah sweetened with bees' honey." so he fled from her, and a good-natured marid transported him to a distant city. here he encounters an old playfellow who lends him money and recommends him to play the wealthy merchant, by declaring that his baggage is on the road. this he does with a thoroughness that alarms his friend. he borrows money right and left and lavishes it upon beggars. he promises to pay his creditors twice over when his baggage comes. by and by the king--a very covetous man--hears of ma'aruf's amazing generosity, and desirous himself of getting a share of the baggage, places his treasury at ma'aruf's disposal, and weds him to his daughter dunya. ma'arfu soon empties the treasury, and the wazir, who dislikes ma'aruf, suspects the truth. ma'aruf, however, confesses everything to dunya. she comes to his rescue, and her clairvoyance enables her to see his future prosperity. having fled from the king, ma'aruf discovers a magic "souterrain" and a talismanic seal ring, by the aid of which he attains incalculable wealth. exclaims his friend the merchant when ma'aruf returns as a magnifico, "thou hast played off this trick and it hath prospered to thy hand, o shaykh of imposters! but thou deservest it." ma'aruf ultimately succeeds to the throne. then occurs the death of the beautiful and tender dunya--an event that is recorded with simplicity and infinite pathos. the old harridan fatimah next obtrudes, and, exhibiting again her devilish propensities, receives her quietus by being very properly "smitten on the neck." so ends this fine story, and then comes the conclusion of the whole work. this is very touching, especially where the story-telling queen, who assumes that death is to be her portion, wants to bid adieu to the children whom she had borne to the king. but, as the dullest reader must have divined, the king had long before "pardoned" her in his heart, and all ends pleasantly with the marriage of her sister dunyazad to the king's brother. what an array of figures--beautiful, revolting, sly, fatuous, witty, brave, pusillanimous, mean, generous--meets the eye as we recall one by one these famous stories; beautiful and amorous, but mercurial ladies with henna scented feet and black eyes--often with a suspicion of kohl and more than a suspicion of abu murreh [ ] in them--peeping cautiously through the close jalousies of some lattice; love sick princes overcoming all obstacles; executioners with blood-dripping scimitars; princesses of blinding beauty and pensive tenderness, who playfully knock out the "jaw-teeth" of their eunuchs while "the thousand-voiced bird in the coppice sings clear;" [ ] hideous genii, whether of the amiable or the vindictive sort, making their appearance in unexpected moments; pious beasts--nay, the very hills--praising allah and glorifying his vice-gerent; gullible saints, gifted scoundrels; learned men with camel loads of dictionaries and classics, thieves with camel loads of plunder; warriors, zanies, necromancers, masculine women, feminine men, ghouls, lutists, negroes, court poets, wags--the central figure being the gorgeous, but truculent, haroun al rashid, who is generally accompanied by ja'afer and masrur, and sometimes by the abandoned but irresistible abu nowas. what magnificent trencher-folk they all are! even the love-lorn damsels. if you ask for a snack between meals they send in a trifle of , dishes. [ ] diamonds and amethysts are plentiful as blackberries. if you are a poet, and you make good verses, it is likely enough that some queen will stuff your mouth with balass rubies. how poorly our modern means of locomotion compare with those of the nights. if you take a jinni or a swan-maiden you can go from cairo to bokhara in less time than our best expresses could cover a mile. the recent battles between the russians and the japanese are mere skirmishes compared with the fight described in "the city of brass"--where million are engaged. the people who fare worst in the arabian nights are those who pry into what does not concern them or what is forbidden, as, for example, that foolish, fatuous third kalendar, and the equally foolish and fatuous man who never laughed again; [ ] and perhaps the edinburgh review was right in giving as the moral of the tales: "nothing is impossible to him who loves, provided"--and the proviso is of crucial importance--"he is not cursed with a spirit of curiosity." few persons care, however, whether there is any moral or not--most of us would as soon look for one in the outstretched pride of a peacock's tale. where the dust of shahrazad is kept tradition does not tell us. if we knew we would hasten to her tomb, and in imitation of the lover of azizeh [ ] lay thereon seven blood-red anemones. chapter xxviii. the two translations compared . the blacksmith who, etc. having glanced through the nights, let us now compare the two famous translations. as we have already mentioned, burton in his translator's foreword did not do mr. payne complete justice, but he pays so many compliments to mr. payne's translation elsewhere that no one can suppose that he desired to underrate the work of his friend. in the foreword he says that mr. payne "succeeds admirably in the most difficult passages and often hits upon choice and special terms and the exact vernacular equivalent of the foreign word so happily and so picturesquely that all future translators must perforce use the same expression under pain of falling far short." still this does not go far enough, seeing that, as we said before, he made his translation very largely a paraphrase of payne's. consequently he was able to get done in two broken years (april to april ) and with several other books in hand, work that had occupied mr. payne six years ( - ). let us now take mr. payne's rendering and burton's rendering of two short tales and put them in juxtaposition. the blacksmith who could handle fire without hurt and abu al hasan and abu ja'afar the leper will suit our purpose admirably. the portion taken by burton from payne are in italics. payne burton vol. v. p. vol. v. p. (lib. ed., vol. iv., p. ) the blacksmith who the blacksmith who could handle fire could handle fire without hurt without hurt a certain pious man it reached the ears of once heard that there a certain pious man that abode in such a town a there abode in such a town blacksmith who could a blacksmith who could put his hand into the fire put his hand into the fire and pull out the red-hot and pull out the iron red-hot, iron, without its doing without the flames him any hurt. so he set doing him aught of hurt. out for the town in question so he set out for the town in and enquiring for the question and asked for blacksmith, watched him the blacksmith; and when at work and saw him do the man was shown to as had been reported to him; he watched him at him. he waited till he work and saw him do as had made an end of his had been reported to him. day's work, then going he waited till he had made up to him, saluted him an end of his day's work; and said to him, "i then, going up to him, would fain be thy guest saluted him with the salam this night." "with all and said, "i would be thy my heart," replied the guest this night." replied smith, and carried him to the smith, "with gladness his house, where they and goodly gree!" and supped together and lay carried him to his place, down to sleep. the guest where they supped together watched his host, but and lay down to sleep. found no sign of [special] the guest watched but saw devoutness in him and no sign in his host of praying said to himself. "belike through the night or he concealeth himself from of special devoutness, and me." so he lodged with said in his mind, "haply him a second and a third he hideth himself from night, but found that he me." so he lodged with did no more than observe him a second and a third the ordinary letter of the night, but found that he law and rose but little did not exceed the devotions in the night [to pray]. at prescribed by the last he said to him, "o law and custom of the my brother, i have heard prophet and rose but little of the gift with which in the dark hours to pray. god hath favoured thee at last he said to him, "o and have seen the truth of my brother, i have heard it with mine eyes. moreover, of the gift with which i have taken note of allah hath favoured thee, thine assiduity [in and have seen the truth of religious exercises], but it with mine eyes. moreover, find in thee no special i have taken note fervour of piety, such as of thine assiduity in distinguisheth those in religious exercises, but find whom such miraculous in thee no such piety as gifts are manifest. distinguished those who work "whence, then, cometh saintly miracles; whence, this to thee?" "i will then cometh this to thee?" tell thee," answered the "i will tell thee," smith. answered the smith. "know that i was once "know that i was once passionately enamoured of passionately enamoured a certain damsel and of a slave girl and oft-times required her many a time sued her for loveliesse, of love, but could not but could not prevail prevail upon her, for upon her, because she that she still clave fast still held fast by her unto chastity. presently chastity. presently there there came a year of came a year of drought and drought and hunger and hunger and hardship, food hardship; food failed and failed, and there befell a there befell a sore famine sore famine. as i was in the land. i was sitting sitting one day at home, one day in my house, somebody knocked at the when one knocked at the door; so i went out, and, door; so i went out and behold, she was standing found her standing there; there; and she said to and she said to me, 'o me, 'o my brother, i am my brother, i am stricken sorely an hungered and i with excessive hunger, and lift mine eyes to thee, i lift mine eyes to thee, beseeching thee to feed me, beseeching thee to feed for allah's sake!' quoth me for god's sake!' i, 'wottest thou not how quoth i, 'dost thou not i love thee and what i have know how i love thee suffered for thy sake? now and what i have suffered i will not give thee one for thy sake! i will give bittock of bread except thee no whit of food, thou yield thy person except thou yield thyself to me.' quoth she, to me.' but she said, 'death, but not 'better death than disobedience to the lord!' disobedience to god.' then then she went away and she went away and returned after two days with returned after two days the same prayer for food with the same petition as before. i made her a for food. i made her a like like answer, and she answer, and she entered entered and sat down in my and sat down, being nigh house, being nigh upon upon death. i set food death. i set food before before her, whereupon her her, whereupon her eyes eyes ran over with tears, brimmed with tears, and and she said, 'give me she cried, 'give me meat to eat for the love of god, for the love of allah, to to whom belong might whom belong honour and and majesty!' 'not so, glory!' but i answered by allah,' answered i, 'not so, by allah, except 'except thou yield thyself thou yield thyself to me.' to me.' quoth she, quoth she, 'better is 'better is death to me death to me than the wrath than the wrath of god and wreak of allah the the most high.' and most highest; and she she left the food rose and left the food untouched untouched [ ] and went away [ ] and went away repeating the following repeating these couplets: verses: o, thou, the only god, whose o, thou, the one, whose grace grace embraceth all that be, doth all the world embrace; thine ears have heard my thine ears have heard, thine moan, thine eyes have seen eyes have seen my case! my misery; indeed, privation and distress privation and distress have dealt are heavy on my head; i me heavy blows; the woes cannot tell of all the woes that weary me no utterance that do beleaguer me. can trace. i'm like a man athirst, that i am like one athirst who eyes looks upon a running stream, the landscape's eye, yet may yet may not drink a single not drink a draught of draught of all that he doth streams that rail and race. see. my flesh would have me buy its my flesh would tempt me by the will, alack, its pleasures sight of savoury food whose flee! the sin that pays their joys shall pass away and price abides to all eternity. pangs maintain their place. [the girl, "worn out with want," came a third time, and met with the same answer. but then remorse seized upon the blacksmith and he bade her, "eat, and fear not."] "when she heard this "then she raised her eyes she raised her eyes to to heaven and said, heaven and said, "'o my god, if this "'o my god, if this man man be sincere, i pray say sooth, i pray thee thee forbid fire to do forbid fire to harm him him hurt in this world in this world and the and the next, for thou art next, for thou over all he that answereth prayer things art omnipotent and and art powerful to do prevalent in answering the whatsoever thou wilt!' prayer of the penitent!' "then i left her and then i left her and went went to put out the fire to put out the fire in in the brasier. now the the brazier. now the time was the winter-cold, season was winter and the and a hot coal fell on weather cold, and a live my body; but by the coal fell on my body, but ordinance of god (to by the decree of allah (to whom belong might and whom be honour and majesty), i felt no pain glory!) i felt no pain, and and it was born in upon it became my conviction me that her prayer had that her prayer had been been answered." answered." [the girl then praised god, who "straightway took her soul to him." the story finishes with some verses which are rendered by payne and burton each according to his wont.] . abu al-hasan. we will next take "abu al-hasan and abu ja'afar the leper." payne burton v. v. (lib. ed., iv., ) aboulhusn ed durraj abu al-hasan and abou jaafer the and leper abu ja'afar the leper quoth aboulhusn ed i had been many times durraj, i had been many to mecca (allah increase times to mecca (which its honour!) and the folk god increase in honour) used to follow me for my and the folk used to follow knowledge of the road and me by reason of my knowledge remembrance of the water of the road and stations. it happened one the watering-places. it year that i was minded to chanced one year that i make the pilgrimage to was minded to make the the holy house and visitation pilgrimage to the holy of the tomb of his house of god and visit the prophet (on whom be tomb of his prophet (on blessing and the peace!) whom be peace and blessing), and i said in myself. "i and i said to myself, well know the way and "i know the road and will will fare alone." so i go alone." so i set out set out and journeyed till i and journeyed till i came came to al-kadisiyah, and to el cadesiyeh, and entering entering the mosque there, the mosque there, saw saw a man suffering from a leper seated in the black leprosy seated in prayer-niche. when he the prayer-niche. quoth he saw me, he said to me, on seeing me, "o abu "o aboulhusn, i crave al-hasan, i crave thy company thy company to mecca." to meccah." quoth i quoth i to myself, "i to myself, "i fled from all wished to avoid companions, my companions and how and how shall i shall i company with lepers." company with lepers?" so i said to him, "i will so i said to him, "i will bear no man company," bear no one company," and he was silent at my and he was silent. words. next day i continued next day i walked on my journey alone, till i alone, till i came to came to acabeh, where al-akabah, where i entered i entered the mosque and the mosque and found the was amazed to find the leper seated in the prayer leper seated in the prayer- niche. so i said to myself, niche. "glory be to god," "glory be to allah! said i in myself. "how how hath this fellow preceded hath this fellow foregone me hither." but me hither?" but he he raised his head to me raised his eyes to me and said with a smile, "o and said, smiling, "o, abu al-hasan, he doth aboulhusn, he doth for for the weak that which the weak that which the surpriseth the strong!" strong wonder at." i i passed that night confounded passed that night in at what i had perplexity, confounded at seen; and, as soon as what i had seen, and in morning dawned, set out the morning set out again again by myself; but by myself; but when i when i came to arafat came to arafat and entered and entered the mosque, the mosque, behold, behold! there was the leper there was the leper seated seated in the niche. so i in the niche! so i threw threw myself upon him myself upon him and kissing and kissing his feet said, his feet, said, "o my "o my lord, i crave thy lord, i crave thy company." company." but he answered, but he said, "this may in no "this may nowise be." way be." then i began whereupon i fell a-weeping weeping and wailing at and lamenting, and the loss of his company he said: "peace: weeping when he said, "spare thy will avail thee nothing," tears, which will avail thee and he recited the naught!" and he recited following verses: these couplets: for my estrangement dost thou why dost thou weep when i weep,--whereas it came depart and thou didst parting from thee,--and restoration claim; and cravest union dost implore, when none, when we ne'er shall re-unite alas! may be? the same? thou sawst my weakness and thou lookedest on nothing save disease, as it appeared, and my weakness and disease; saidst, "he goes, nor comes, and saidst, "nor goes, nor or night, or day, for this his comes, or night, or day, this malady." sickly frame." seest not that god (exalted be seest not how allah (glorified his glory) to his slave his glory ever be!) deigneth vouchsafeth all he can conceive to grant his slave's petition of favour fair and free! wherewithal he came. if i, to outward vision, be as if i, to eyes of men be that and it appears and eke in body, for only that they see, and this despite of fate, e'en that my body show itself so full which thou dost see. of grief and grame. and eke no victual though i and i have nought of food that have, unto the holy place shall supply me to the place where crowds unto my lord where crowds unto my lord resort, indeed, to carry me. resort impelled by single aim. i have a maker, hidden are his i have a high creating lord bounties unto me; yea, whose mercies aye are hid; there's no parting me from a lord who hath none equal him, and without peer is he. and no fear is known to him. depart from me in peace and so fare thee safe and leave me leave me and my strangerhood; lone in strangerhood to wone. for with the lonely for he the only one, consoles exile still the one shall my loneliness so lone. company. so i left him and continued accordingly i left him, my journey; and but every station i came every stage i came to, i to, i found he had foregone found him before me, till me, till i reached al-madinah, i came to medina, where where i lost sight i lost sight of him and of him, and could hear could hear no news of no tidings of him. here him. here i met abou i met abu yazid yezid el bustani and abou al-bustami and abu bakr beker es shibli and a al-shibli and a number of number of other doctors, other shaykhs and learned to whom i told my case, men to whom with many and they said, "god complaints i told my case, forbid that thou shouldst and they said, "heaven gain his company after forbid that thou shouldst this! this was abou gain his company after jaafer the leper, in whose this! he was abu ja'afar name, at all tides, the folk the leper, in whose name pray for rain, and by whose folk at all times pray for blessings prayers are answered." rain and by whose blessing when i heard prayers their end attain." this, my longing for his when i heard their words, company redoubled and my desire for his company i implored god to reunite redoubled and i implored me with him. whilst i the almighty to reunite me was standing on arafat, with him. whilst i was one plucked me from behind, standing on arafat one so i turned and pulled me from behind, so behold, it was abou jaafer. i turned and behold, it at this sight i gave a loud was my man. at this cry and fell down in a sight i cried out with a swoon; but when i came loud cry and fell down in to myself, he was gone. a fainting fit; but when i came to myself he had disappeared from my sight. this increased my yearning this increased my yearning for him and the ways for him and the were straitened upon ceremonies were tedious to me and i prayed god to me, and i prayed almighty give me sight of him; allah to give me sight of nor was it but a few days him; nor was it but a few after when one pulled me days after, when lo! one from behind, and i turned, pulled me from behind, and behold, it was he and i turned and it was again. quoth he, "i conjure he again. thereupon he thee, ask thy desire said, "come, i conjure of me." so i begged him thee, and ask thy want of to pray three prayers to me." so i begged him to god for me; first, that pray for me three prayers: he would make me love first, that allah would make poverty; secondly, that i me love poverty; secondly, might never lie down to that i might never lie down sleep upon known provision, at night upon provision and thirdly, that assured to me; and he, the bountiful one, thirdly, that he would would vouchsafe me to vouchsafe me to look upon look upon his face. so he his bountiful face. so prayed for me, as i wished, he prayed for me as i and departed from me. wished, and departed from and, indeed, god hath me. and indeed allah granted me the first two hath granted me what the prayers; for he hath devotee asked in prayer; made me in love with to begin with he hath made poverty, so that, by allah, me so love poverty that, by there is nought in the the almighty! there is world dearer to me than nought in the world dearer it, and since such a year, to me than it, and secondly i have never lain down since such a year i have upon assured provision; never lain down to sleep yet hath he never let me upon assured provision, lack of aught. as for the withal hath he never let third prayer, i trust that me lack aught. as for the he will vouchsafe me that third prayer, i trust that also, even as he hath he will vouchsafe me that granted the two others, also, even as he hath for he is bountiful and granted the two precedent, excellently beneficient. and for right bountiful and may god have mercy on beneficient is his godhead, him who saith: and allah have mercy on him who said; renouncement, lowliness, the garb of fakir, renouncement, fakir's garments be; in lowliness; patched and tattered clothes his robe of tatters and of rags still fares the devotee. his dress; pallor adorneth him, as on their and pallor ornamenting brow latest nights, the moons as though with pallor still embellished 'twere wanness such as waning thou mayst see. crescents show. long rising up by night to pray wasted him prayer a-through hath wasted him; and from the long-lived night, his lids the tears stream down. and flooding tears ne'er cease as 'twere a sea. to dim his sight. the thought of god to him his memory of him shall cheer his very housemate is; for lonely room; bosom friend by night, th' th' almighty nearest is in omnipotent hath he. nightly gloom. god the protector helps the fakir the refuge helpeth such fakir in his need; and birds and in need; beasts no less to succour him help e'en the cattle and the agree. winged breed; on his account, the wrath of allah for sake of him of wrath god on men descends, and is fain, by his grace, the rains fall and for the grace of him shall down on wood and lea. fall the rain; and if he pray one day to do and if he pray one day for plague away a plague, the oppressor's to stay, slain and men from 'twill stay, and 'bate man's tyrants are made free; wrong and tyrants slay. for all the folk are sick, while folk are sad, afflicted one afflicted and diseased, and he's and each, the pitying leach withouten he in his mercy's rich, the stint or fee. generous leach; his forehead shines; an thou bright shines his brow; an thou but look upon his face, thy regard his face heart is calmed, the lights of thy heart illumined shines by heaven appear to thee. light of grace. o thou that shunnest these, their o thou that shunnest souls of virtues knowing not, woe's worth innate, thee! thou'rt shut from departs thee (woe to thee!) of them by thine iniquity. sins the weight. thou think'st them to o'ertake, thou thinkest to overtake them, for all thou'rt fettered fast; while thou bearest thy sins from thy desire follies, which slay thee whatso do hinder thee, perdie. way thou farest. thou wouldst to them consent didst not their worth thou hadst and rivers from thine eyes all honour showed would run from them, if thou and tears in streamlets from their excellence could'st see. thine eyes had flowed. uneath to him to smell, who's to catarrh-troubled men flowers troubled with a rheum, are lack their smell; flowers; the broker knows and brokers ken for how much what worth the garments be. clothes can sell; so supplicate thy lord right so haste and with thy lord humbly for his grace and re-union sue, providence, belike, shall and haply fate shall lend thee help thy constancy; aidance due. and thou shalt win thy will and rest from rejection and from estrangement's stress estrangement stress, and eke rejection's pains and joy thy wish and will shall shall be at rest and free. choicely bless. the asylum of his grace is wide his court wide open for the enough for all that seek; the suer is dight:-- one true god, the one, very god, the lord, th' conqueror, is he! almighty might. we may also compare the two renderings of that exquisite and tender little poem "azizeh's tomb" [ ] which will be found in the "tale of aziz and azizeh." payne burton i passed by a ruined tomb in the i past by a broken tomb amid midst of a garden way, upon a garth right sheen, whereon whose letterless stone seven on seven blooms of nu'aman blood-red anemones lay. glowed with cramoisie. "who sleeps in this unmarked quoth i, "who sleepeth in this grave?" i said, and the tomb?" quoth answering earth, "bend low; for a earth, "before a lover lover lies here and waits for hades-tombed bend reverently." the resurrection day." "god keep thee, o victim of quoth i, "may allah help thee, love!" i cried, "and bring o thou slain of love, and thee to dwell in the highest grant thee home in heaven of all the heavens of paradise, and paradise-height to see! i pray! "how wretched are lovers all, "hapless are lovers all e'en even in the sepulchre, tombed in their tombs, for their very tombs are where amid living folk the covered with ruin and decay! dust weighs heavily! "lo! if i might, i would plant "fain would i plant a garden thee a garden round about, blooming round thy grave and with my streaming tears and water every flower with the thirst of its flowers tear-drops flowing allay!" free!" [ ] . the summing up. the reader will notice from these citations: ( ) that, as we have already said, and as burton himself partly admitted, burton's translation is largely a paraphrase of payne's. this is particularly noticeable in the latter half of the nights. he takes hundreds--nay thousands--of sentences and phrases from payne, often without altering a single word. [ ] if it be urged that burton was quite capable of translating the nights without drawing upon the work of another, we must say that we deeply regret that he allowed the opportunity to pass, for he had a certain rugged strength of style, as the best passages in his mecca and other books show. in order to ensure originality he ought to have translated every sentence before looking to see how payne put it, but the temptation was too great for a very busy man--a man with a hundred irons in the fire--and he fell. [ ] ( ) that, where there are differences, payne's translation is invariably the clearer, finer and more stately of the two. payne is concise, burton diffuse. [ ] ( ) that although burton is occasionally happy and makes a pat couplet, like the one beginning "kisras and caesars," nevertheless payne alone writes poetry, burton's verse being quite unworthy of so honourable a name. not being, like payne, a poet and a lord of language; and, as he admits, in his notes, not being an initiate in the methods of arabic prosody, burton shirked the isometrical rendering of the verse. consequently we find him constantly annexing payne's poetry bodily, sometimes with acknowledgement, oftener without. thus in night he takes half a page. not only does he fail to reproduce agreeably the poetry of the nights, but he shows himself incapable of properly appreciating it. notice, for example, his remark on the lovely poem of the fakir at the end of the story of "abu al-hasan and abu ja'afer the leper," the two versions of which we gave on a preceding page. burton calls it "sad doggerel," and, as he translates it, so it is. but payne's version, with its musical subtleties and choice phrases, such as "the thought of god to him his very housemate is," is a delight to the ear and an enchantment of the sense. mr. payne in his terminal essay singles out the original as one of the finest pieces of devotional verse in the nights; and worthy of vaughan or christina rossetti. the gigantic nature of payne's achievement will be realised when we mention that the arabian nights contains the equivalent of some twenty thousand decasyllabic lines of poetry, that is to say more than there are in milton's paradise lost, and that he has rendered faithfully the whole of this enormous mass in accordance with the intricate metrical scheme of the original, and in felicitous and beautiful language. ( ) that burton, who was well read in the old english poets, also introduces beautiful words. this habit, however, is more noticeable in other passages where we come upon cilice, [ ] egromancy, [ ] verdurous, [ ] vergier, [ ] rondure, [ ] purfled, [ ] &c. often he uses these words with excellent effect, as, for example, "egromancy," [ ] in the sentence: "nor will the egromancy be dispelled till he fall from the horse;" but unfortunately he is picturesque at all costs. thus he constantly puts "purfled" where he means "embroidered" or "sown," and in the "tale of the fisherman and the jinni," he uses incorrectly the pretty word "cucurbit" [ ] to express a brass pot; and many other instances might be quoted. his lapses, indeed, indicate that he had no real sense of the value of words. he uses them because they are pretty, forgetting that no word is attractive except in its proper place, just as colours in painting owe their value to their place in the general colour scheme. he took most of his beautiful words from our old writers, and a few like ensorcelled [ ] from previous translators. unfortunately, too, he spoils his version by the introduction of antique words that are ugly, uncouth, indigestible and yet useless. what, for example, does the modern englishman make of this, taken from the "tale of the wolf and the fox," "follow not frowardness, for the wise forbid it; and it were most manifest frowardness to leave me in this pit draining the agony of death and dight to look upon mine own doom, whereas it lieth in thy power to deliver me from my stowre?" [ ] or this: "o rare! an but swevens [ ] prove true," from "kamar-al-zalam ii." or this "sore pains to gar me dree," from "the tale of king omar," or scores of others that could easily be quoted. [ ] burton, alas! was also unscrupulous enough to include one tale which, he admitted to mr. kirby, does not appear in any redaction of the nights, namely that about the misfortune that happened to abu hassan on his wedding day. [ ] "but," he added, "it is too good to be omitted." of course the tale does not appear in payne. to the treatment meted by each translator to the coarsenesses of the nights we have already referred. payne, while omitting nothing, renders such passages in literary language, whereas burton speaks out with the bluntness and coarseness of an urquhart. in his letter to mr. payne, nd october , he says of mr. payne's translation, "the nights are by no means literal but very readable which is the thing." he then refers to mr. payne's rendering of a certain passage in the "story of sindbad and the old man of the sea," by which it appears that the complaint of want of literality refers, as usual, solely to the presentable rendering of the offensive passages. "i translate," he says **********. "people will look fierce, but ce n'est pas mon affaire." the great value of burton's translation is that it is the work of a man who had travelled in all the countries in which the scenes are laid; who had spent years in india, egypt, syria, turkey and the barbary states, and had visited mecca; who was intimately acquainted with the manners and customs of the people of those countries, and who brought to bear upon his work the experience of a lifetime. he is so thoroughly at home all the while. still, it is in his annotations and not in his text that he really excells. the enormous value of these no one would now attempt to minimize. all over the world, as sir walter besant says, "we have english merchants, garrisons, consuls, clergymen, lawyers, physicians, engineers, living among strange people, yet practically ignorant of their manners and thoughts..... it wants more than a knowledge of the tongue to become really acquainted with a people." these english merchants, garrisons, consults and others are strangers in a strange land. it is so very rare that a really unprejudiced man comes from a foreign country to tell us what its people are like, that when such a man does appear we give him our rapt attention. he may tell us much that will shock us, but that cannot be helped. chapter xxix. burton's notes . burton's notes. these notes, indeed, are the great speciality of burton's edition of the nights. they are upon all manner of subjects--from the necklace of the pleiades to circumcision; from necromancy to the characteristics of certain abyssinian women; from devilish rites and ceremonies to precious stones as prophylactics. they deal not only with matters to which the word erotic is generally applied, but also with unnatural practices. there are notes geographical, astrological, geomantic, bibliographical, ethnological, anthropomorphitical; but the pornographic, one need hardly say, hugely predominate. burton's knowledge was encyclopaedic. like kerimeddin [ ] he had drunk the second phial of the queen of the serpents. he was more inquisitive than vathek. to be sure, he would sometimes ask himself what was the good of it all or what indeed, was the good of anything; and then he would relate the rebuke he once received from an indolent spaniard whom he had found lying on his back smoking a cigarette. "i was studying the thermometer," said burton, and i remarked, "'the glass is unusually high.' 'when i'm hot, it's hot,' commented the spaniard, lazily, 'and when i'm cold it's cold. what more do i want to know?'" burton, as we have seen, had for a long time devoted himself particularly to the study of vice and to everything that was bizarre and unnatural: eunuchs, pederasts, hermaphrodites, idiots, augustus-the-strongs, monstrosities. during his travels he never drank anything but green tea, and if le fanu's ideas [ ] in in a glass darkly are to be respected, this habit is partly responsible for his extraordinary bias. he deals with subjects that are discussed in no other book. he had seen many lands, and, like hafiz, could say: "plunder i bore from far and near, from every harvest gleaned an ear;" and blighted ears some of them were. no other man could have written these notes; no other man, even if possessed of burton's knowledge, would have dared to publish them. practically they are a work in themselves. that they were really necessary for the elucidation of the text we would not for a moment contend. at times they fulfil this office, but more often than not the text is merely a peg upon which to hang a mass of curious learning such as few other men have ever dreamt of. the voluminous note on circumcision [ ] is an instance in point. there is no doubt that he obtained his idea of esoteric annotation from gibbon, who, though he used the latin medium, is in this respect the true father of burton. we will give specimens of the annotations, taken haphazard--merely premising that the most characteristic of them--those at which the saints in heaven knit their brows--necessarily in a work of this kind exclude themselves from citations: "laughter. 'sweetness of her smile'(abu al husn and tawaddud). arab writers often mention the smile of beauty, but rarely, after european fashion, the laugh, which they look upon as undignified. a moslem will say 'don't guffaw (kahkahah) in that way; leave giggling and grinning to monkeys and christians.' the spaniards, a grave people, remark that christ never laughed." [ ] "swan-maidens. 'and became three maidens' (story of janshah). [ ] we go much too far for an explanation of the legend; a high bred girl is so much like a swan [ ] in many points that the idea readily suggests itself. and it is also aided by the old egyptian (and platonic) belief in pre-existence, and by the rabbinic and buddhistic doctrine of ante-natal sin, to say nothing of metempsychosis. (josephus' antiq., xvii., )." "the firedrake. 'i am the haunter of this place' (ma'aruf the cobbler). [ ] arab, amir=one who inhabiteth. ruins and impure places are the favourite homes of the jinn." "sticking coins on the face. 'sticks the gold dinar' (ali nur al-din). [ ] it is the custom for fast youths in egypt, syria, and elsewhere to stick small gold pieces, mere spangles of metal, on the brows, cheeks and lips of the singing and dancing girls, and the perspiration and mask of cosmetics make them adhere for a time, till fresh movement shakes them off." "fillets hung on trees. 'over the grave was a tall tree, on which hung fillets of red and green' (otbah and rayya). [ ] lane and many others are puzzled about the use of these articles. in many cases they are suspended to trees in order to transfer sickness from the body to the tree and to whoever shall touch it. the sawahili people term such articles a keti (seat or vehicle) for the mysterious haunter of the tree, who prefers occupying it to the patient's person. briefly the custom, still popular throughout arabia, is african and fetish." the value of the notes depends, of course, upon the fact that they are the result of personal observation. in his knowledge of eastern peoples, languages and customs burton stands alone. he is first and there is no second. his defence of his notes will be found in the last volume of his supplemental nights. we may quote a few sentences to show the drift of it. he says "the england of our day would fain bring up both sexes and keep all ages in profound ignorance of sexual and intersexual relations; and the consequences of that imbecility are particularly cruel and afflicting. how often do we hear women in society lamenting that they have absolutely no knowledge of their own physiology.... shall we ever understand that ignorance is not innocence. what an absurdum is a veteran officer who has spent a quarter of a century in the east without knowing that all moslem women are circumcised, and without a notion of how female circumcision is effected," and then he goes on to ridicule what the "modern englishwoman and her anglo-american sister have become under the working of a mock modesty which too often acts cloak to real devergondage; and how respectability unmakes what nature made." [ ] mr. payne's edition contains notes, but they were intended simply to elucidate the text. though succinct, they are sufficient for the general reader. here and there, however, we come upon a more elaborate note, such as that upon the tuning of the lute (vol. viii., ), where mr. payne's musical knowledge enables him to elucidate an obscure technical point. he also identified (giving proper chapter and verse references), collated, and where needful corrected all the koranic citations with which the text swarms, a task which demanded great labour and an intimate knowledge of the koran. the appropriate general information bearing on the work he gave in a succinct and artistic form in his elaborate terminal essay--a masterpiece of english--in which he condensed the result of erudition and research such as might have furnished forth several folio volumes. . the terminal essay. finally there is the terminal essay, in which burton deals at great length not only with the origin and history of the nights and matters erotic, but also with unnatural practices. this essay, with the exception of the pornographic portions, will be found, by those who take the trouble to make comparisons, to be under large obligations to mr. payne's terminal essay, the general lines and scheme of which it follows closely. even mr. payne's special phrases such as "sectaries of the god wunsch," [ ] are freely used, and without acknowledgement. the portions on sexual matters, however, are entirely original. burton argues that the "naive indecencies of the text of the arabian nights are rather gaudisserie than prurience." "it is," he says, "a coarseness of language, not of idea.... such throughout the east is the language of every man, woman and child, from prince to peasant." "but," he continues, "there is another element in the nights, and that is one of absolute obscenity, utterly repugnant to english readers, even the least prudish." still, upon this subject he offers details, because it does not enter into his plan "to ignore any theme which is interesting to the orientalist and the anthropologist. to assert that such lore is unnecessary is to state, as every traveller knows, an absurdum." that these notes and the terminal essay were written in the interests of oriental and anthropological students may be granted, but that they were written solely in the interests of these students no one would for a moment contend. burton simply revelled in all studies of the kind. whatever was knowledge he wanted to know; and we may add whatever wasn't knowledge. he was insatiable. he was like the little boy who, seeing the ocean for the first time, cried, "i want to drink it all up." and burton would have drunk it all. he would have swallowed down not only all the waters that were under the firmament but also all the creatures, palatable and unpalatable--especially the unpalatable--that sported therein. . final summing up. to sum up finally: ( ) both translations are complete, they are the only complete translations in english, and the world owes a deep debt of gratitude to both payne and burton. ( ) according to arabists, payne's translation is the more accurate of the two. [ ] ( ) burton's translation is largely a paraphrase of payne's. ( ) persons who are in love with the beauty of restraint as regards ornament, and hold to the doctrine which flaubert so well understood and practised, and pater so persistently preached will consider payne's translation incomparably the finer. ( ) burton's translation is for those who, caring nothing for this doctrine, revel in rococo work, a style flamboyant at all costs, and in lawless splendours; and do not mind running against expressions that are far too blunt for the majority of people. ( ) payne's rendering of the metrical portions is poetry; burton's scarcely verse. ( ) burton's terminal essay, with the exception of the pornographic sections, is largely indebted to payne's. ( ) the distinctive features of burton's work are his notes and the pornographic sections of his terminal essay--the whole consisting of an amazing mass of esoteric learning, the result of a lifetime's study. many of the notes have little, if any, connection with the text, and they really form an independent work. burton himself says: "mr. payne's admirable version appeals to the orientalist and the stylist, not to the many-headed; and mine to the anthropologist and student of eastern manners and customs." burton's arabian nights has been well summed up as "a monument of knowledge and audacity." [ ] having finished his task burton straightway commenced the translation of a number of other arabic tales which he eventually published as supplemental nights [ ] in six volumes, the first two of which correspond with mr. payne's three volumes entitled tales from the arabic. . mr. swinburne on burton. congratulations rained in on burton from all quarters; but the letters that gave him most pleasure were those from mr. ernest a. floyer and mr. a. c. swinburne, whose glowing sonnet: "to richard f. burton on his translation of the arabian nights" is well known. "thanks to burton's hand," exclaims the poet magnificently: "all that glorious orient glows defiant of the dusk. our twilight land trembles; but all the heaven is all one rose, whence laughing love dissolves her frosts and snows." in his poems and ballads, rd series, , mr. swinburne pays yet another tribute to the genius of his friend. its dedication runs:--"inscribed to richard f. burton. in redemption of an old pledge and in recognition of a friendship which i must always count among the highest honours of my life." if private persons accorded the work a hearty reception, a large section of the press greeted it with no les cordiality. "no previous editor," said the standard, "had a tithe of captain burton's acquaintance with the manners and customs of the moslem east. apart from the language, the general tone of the nights is exceptionally high and pure. the devotional fervour... often rises to the boiling point of fanaticism, and the pathos is sweet and deep, genuine and tender, simple and true.... in no other work is eastern life so vividly pourtrayed. this work, illuminated with notes so full of learning, should give the nation an opportunity for wiping away that reproach of neglect which captain burton seems to feel more keenly than he cares to express." the st. james's gazette called it "one of the most important translations to which a great english scholar has ever devoted himself." then rose a cry "indecency, indecency! filth, filth!" it was said, to use an arabian nights expression, that he had hauled up all the dead donkeys in the sea. the principal attack came from the edinburgh review (july ). "mr. payne's translation," says the writer, "is not only a fine piece of english, it is also, save where the exigencies of rhyme compelled a degree of looseness, remarkably literal.... mr. payne translates everything, and when a sentence is objectionable in arabic, he makes it equally objectionable in english, or, rather, more so, since to the arabs a rude freedom of speech is natural, while to us it is not." then the reviewer turns to burton, only, however, to empty out all the vials of his indignation--quite forgetting that the work was intended only for "curious students of moslem manners," and not for the general public, from whom, indeed, its price alone debarred it. [ ] he says: "it is bad enough in the text of the tales to find that captain burton is not content with plainly calling a spade a spade, but will have it styled a dirty shovel; but in his notes he goes far beyond this, and the varied collection of abominations which he brings forward with such gusto is a disgrace and a shame to printed literature.... the different versions, however, have each its proper destination--galland for the nursery, lane for the library, payne for the study and burton for the sewers." [ ] burton's spirited reply will be found in the last volume of his supplemental nights. put compendiously, his argument is: "i had knowledge of certain subjects such as no other man possessed. why should it die with me? facts are facts, whether men are acquainted with them or not." "but," he says, "i had another object while making the notes a repertory of eastern knowledge in its esoteric form. having failed to free the anthropological society [ ] from the fetters of mauvaise honte and the mock-modesty which compels travellers and ethnographical students to keep silence concerning one side of human nature (and that side the most interesting to mankind) i proposed to supply the want in these pages.... while pharisee and philistine may be or may pretend to be 'shocked' and 'horrified' by my pages, the sound commonsense of a public, which is slowly but surely emancipating itself from the prudish and prurient reticences and the immodest and immoral modesties of the early th century, will in good time do me, i am convinced, full and ample justice." in order to be quite ready, should prosecution ensue, burton compiled what he called the black book, which consisted of specimens, of, to use his own expression, the "turpiloquium" of the bible and shakespeare. it was never required for its original purpose, but he worked some portions into the terminal essay to the arabian nights. [ ] and here it may be said that when burton attacks the bible and christianity he is inconsistent and requires to be defended against himself. the bible, as we have seen was one of the three books that he constantly carried about with him, and few men could have had greater admiration for its more splendid passages. we know, too, that the sincere christian had his respect. but his terminal essay and these notes appeared at a moment when the outcry was raised against his arabian nights; consequently, when he fires off with "there is no more immoral work than the old testament," the argument must be regarded as simply one of tu quoque. instead of attacking the bible writers as he did, he should, to have been consistent, have excused them, as he excused the characters in the arabian nights, with: "theirs is a coarseness of language, not of idea, &c., &c.... such throughout the east is the language of every man, woman and child," [ ] and so on. the suggestion, for example, that ezekiel and hosea are demoralizing because of certain expressions is too absurd for refutation. the bloodshed of the bible horrified him; but he refused to believe that the "enormities" inflicted by the jews on neighbouring nations were sanctioned by the almighty. [ ] "the murderous vow of jephthah," david's inhuman treatment of the moabites, and other events of the same category goaded him to fury. if he attacks christianity, nevertheless, his diatribe is not against its great founder, but against the abuses that crept into the church even in the lifetime of his earliest followers; and again, not so much against christianity in general as against roman catholicism. still, even after making every allowance, his article is mainly a glorification of the crescent at the expense of the cross. chapter xxx. st november - th june k. c. m. g. bibliography: . six months at abbazia. . . lady burton's edition of the arabian nights. . . in morocco, st november . on october th the burtons went down to hatfield, where there was a large party, but lord salisbury devoted himself chiefly to burton. after they had discussed the eastern question, lord salisbury said to burton "now go to your room, where you will be quiet, and draw up a complete programme for egypt." burton retired, but in two or three minutes returned with a paper which he handed to lord salisbury. "you've soon done it," said his lordship, and on unfolding the paper he found the single word "annex." "if i were to write for a month," commented burton, on noticing lord salisbury's disappointment, "i could not say more." however, being further pressed, he elaborated his very simple programme. [ ] the policy he advocated was a wise and humane one; and had it been instantly adopted, untold trouble for us and much oppression of the miserable natives would have been avoided. since then we have practically followed his recommendations, and the present prosperous state of egypt is the result. on st november , burton left england for tangier, which he reached on the th, and early in january he wrote to the morning post a letter on the home rule question, which he thought might be settled by the adoption of a diet system similar to that which obtained in austro-hungary. on january th he wants to know how mr. payne's translation of boccaccio [ ] is proceeding and continues: "i look forward to vol. i. with lively pleasure. you will be glad to hear that to-day i finished my translation and to-morrow begin with the terminal essay, so that happen what may subscribers are safe. tangier is beastly but not bad for work.... it is a place of absolute rascality, and large fortunes are made by selling european protections--a regular augean stable." mrs. burton and lisa left england at the end of january, and burton met them at gibraltar. . k.c.m.g., th february . when the first volume of the arabian nights appeared burton was sixty-four. so far his life had been a long series of disappointments. his labours as an explorer had met with no adequate recognition, the damascus consulship could be remembered only with bitterness, his numerous books had sold badly. every stone which for forty years he had rolled up proved to be only a sisyphus stone. he was neglected, while every year inferior men--not to be mentioned in the same breath with him--were advanced to high honours. small wonder that such treatment should have soured him or that--a vehement man by nature--he should often have given way to paroxysms of anger. still he kept on working. then all of a sudden the transplendent sun sailed from its clouds and poured upon him its genial beams. he had at last found the golden chersonese. his pockets, so long cobwebbed, now bulged with money. publishers, who had been coy, now fought for him. all the world--or nearly all--sang his praises. [ ] lastly came the k.c.m.g., an honour that was conferred upon him owing in large measure to the noble persistency of the standard newspaper, which in season and out of season "recalled to the recollection of those with whom lay the bestowal of ribbons and crosses the unworthy neglect with which he had been so long treated." lady burton thus describes the reception of the news. "on the th of february , a very extraordinary thing happened [ ]--it was a telegram addressed 'sir richard burton!' he tossed it over to me and said, 'some fellow is playing me a practical joke, or else it is not for me. i shall not open it, so you may as well ring the bell and give it back again.' 'oh no,' i said, 'i shall open it if you don't.'" it was from lord salisbury, conveying in the kindest terms that the queen had made him k.c.m.g. in reward for his services. he looked very serious and quite uncomfortable, and said, "oh, i shall not accept it." [ ] his wife told him, however, that it ought to be accepted because it was a certain sign that the government intended to give him a better appointment. so he took it as a handsel. . burton at . having accompanied sir richard burton to the meridian of his fame, we may fitly pause a moment and ask what manner of a man he was at this moment. though sixty-five, and subject to gout, he was still strong and upright. he had still the old duskened features, dark, piercing eyes, and penthouse brows, but the long and pendulous chinaman moustaches had shrunk till they scarcely covered his mouth. the "devil's jaw" could boast only a small tuft of hair. there were wrinkles in "the angel's forehead." if meddlesome time had also furrowed his cheeks, nevertheless the most conspicuous mark there was still the scar of that great gash received in the ding-dong fight at berbera. his hair, which should have been grizzled, he kept dark, oriental fashion, with dye, and brushed forward. another curious habit was that of altering his appearance. in the course of a few months he would have long hair, short hair, big moustache, small moustache, long beard, short beard, no beard. everyone marked his curious, feline laugh, "made between his teeth." the change in the world's treatment of him, and in his circumstances, is noticeable to his countenance. in photographs taken previous to his look betrays the man who feels that he has been treated neglectfully by an ungrateful world for which he had made enormous sacrifices. indeed, looking at the matter merely from a pecuniary standpoint, he must have spent at least £ , of his own money in his various explorations. he is at once injured, rancorous, sullen, dangerous. all these pictures exhibit a scowl. in some the scowl is very pronounced, and in one he looks not unlike a professional prize-fighter. they betray a mind jaundiced, but defiant. a restless, fiery soul, his temper, never of the best, had grown daily more gnarled and perverse. woe betide the imprudent human who crossed him! what chance had anybody against a man who had the command of all the forcible words in twenty-eight languages! his peremptory voice everywhere ensured obedience. to all save his dearest friends he was proud and haughty. then came the gold shower. there was actually a plethora of money. the world, so long irreconcilable, had acknowledged his merits, and the whole man softened. the angelical character of the forehead gradually spread downwards, and in time tempered even the ferocity of the terrible jaw. it was the same man, but on better terms with himself and everybody else. we see him sitting or strolling in his garden with quite a jaunty air--and when there is a cigar in his mouth, the shadow of which modifies still more the characteristics of that truculent region, it is hard to believe that we are looking at the same man. he has a youthful vigour, an autumnal green. in one photograph lady burton, devoted as ever to her husband, is seen nestling at his side and leaning her head against his shoulder. she had grown uncomfortably stout and her tight-fitting dress was hard put to it to bear the strain. her glorious hair was now grown gray and thin, and it was generally hidden by a not very becoming big yellowish wig with curls, which made her look like a magnified marie antoinette. burton's chief pleasure in his garden was feeding the birds. they used to wait for him in flocks on an almond tree, and became "quite imperious in their manners if he did not attend to them properly." he loved the sparrow especially, for catullus' sake. his gigantic personality impressed all who met him. conversation with him reduced the world from a sphere to a spherule. it shrank steadily--he had traversed so much of it, and he talked about out-of-the-way places so familiarly. as of old, when friends stayed with him he never wanted to go to bed, and they, too, listening to his learned, animated and piquant talk, were quite content to outwatch the bear. as an anthropologist his knowledge was truly amazing. "he was also a first-rate surgeon and had read all the regular books." [ ] people called him, for the vastness of his knowledge, the encyclopaedia britannica. he looked to the past and the future. to the past, for no one was more keenly interested in archaeology. he delighted to wander on forlorn moors among what shelley calls "dismal cirques of druid stones." to the future, for he continued to study spiritualism, and to gaze into crystals. he longed to make himself master of the "darkling secrets of eternity." [ ] both he and lady burton were, to use milton's expression, "struck with superstition as with a planet." she says: "from arab or gipsy he got.... his mysticism, his superstition (i am superstitious enough, god knows, but he was far more so), his divination." [ ] some of it, however, was derived from his friendship in early days with the painter-astrologer varley. if a horse stopped for no ascertained reason or if a house martin fell they wondered what it portended. they disliked the bodeful chirp of the bat, the screech of the owl. even the old superstition that the first object seen in the morning--a crow, a cripple, &c.--determines the fortunes of the day, had his respect. "at an hour," he comments, "when the senses are most impressionable the aspect of unpleasant spectacles has a double effect." [ ] he was disturbed by the "drivel of dreams," and if he did not himself search for the philosopher's stone he knew many men who were so engaged (he tells us there were a hundred in london alone) and he evidently sympathised with them. fear of man was a feeling unknown to him, and he despised it in others. "of ten men," he used to say, quoting an osmanli proverb, "nine are women." behind his bed hung a map of africa, and over that a motto in arabic which meant: "all things pass." this saying he used to observe, was always a consolation to him. if he had been eager for money, it was only for what money would buy. he wanted it because it would enable him to do greater work. "i was often stopped, in my expeditions," he told dr. baker, "for the want of a hundred pounds." he was always writing: in the house, in the desert, in a storm, up a tree, at dinner, in bed, ill or well, fresh or tired,--indeed, he used to say that he never was tired. there was nothing histrionic about him, and he never posed, except "before fools and savages." he was frank, straightforward, and outspoken, and his face was an index of his mind. every thought was visible just "as through a crystal case the figured hours are seen." he was always burton, never by any chance any one else. as. mr. a. c. swinburne said of him: "he rode life's lists as a god might ride." of english literature and especially of poetry he was an omnivorous reader. he expressed warm admiration for chaucer, "jolly old walter mapes," butler's hudibras, and byron, especially childe harold's pilgrimage, with its allusions to his beloved tasso, ariosto and boccaccio. surely, however, he ought not to have tried to set us against that tender line of byron's, "they keep his dust in arqua, where he died," [ ] by pointing out that the accent of arqua is rightly on the second syllable, and by remarking: "why will not poets mind their quantities in lieu of stultifying their lines by childish ignorance." [ ] then, too, he savagely attacked tennyson for his "rasher of bacon line"--"the good haroun alraschid," [ ] raschid being properly accented on the last syllable. of traveller authors, he preferred "the accurate burckhardt." he read with delight boswell's johnson, johnson's journey to the western islands, renan's life of jesus, gibbon, whom he calls "our great historian" [ ] and the poems of coleridge. at cowper he never lost an opportunity of girding, both on account of his slave ballads [ ] and the line: "god made the country and man made the town." [ ] "cowper," he comments, "had evidently never seen a region untouched by the human hand." it goes without saying that he loved "his great namesake," as he calls him, "robert burton, of melancholy and merry, of facete and juvenile memory." of contemporary work he enjoyed most the poems of d. g. rossetti, mr. swinburne, mr. john payne and fitzgerald's rubaiyat, and we find him praising mr. edmund gosse's lyrics. of novelists dickens was his favourite. he called darwin "our british aristotle." eothen [ ] was "that book of books." he never forgave carlyle for denouncing the arabian nights as "downright lies" and "unwholesome literature;" miss martineau, as an old maid, was, of course, also out of court. if she had written shakespeare, it would have been all the same. he enjoyed a pen and ink fight, even as in those old richmond school days he had delighted in fisticuffs. "peace and quiet are not in my way." and as long as he got his adversary down he was still not very particular what method he employed. unlike so many of his fellow-countrymen, he was a lover or art, and had visited all the galleries in europe. "if anyone," he used to say, "thinks the english have the artistic eye, let him stand in the noblest site in europe, trafalgar square, and look around." on another occasion he described the square as "the nation's last phase of artistic bathos." the facade of the national gallery was his continual butt. a fine handwriting, he said, bespoke the man of audacity and determination; and his own might have been done with a pin. then he used to split his words as if they were arabic; writing, for example, "con tradict" for contradict. when young ladies teased him to put something in their albums he generally wrote: "shawir hunna wa khalif hunna," which may be translated: "ask their advice, ye men of wit and always do the opposite." another of his favourite sayings against women was the persian couplet: "agar nek budi zan u ray-i-zan zan-ra ma-zan nam budi, na zan," [ ] which may be rendered: "if good were in woman, of course it were meeter to say when we think of her, beat not, not beat her." zan meaning "woman" and also "beat," and ma-zan "beat not." there was in burton, as in most great men, a touch of the don quixote, derived, no doubt, in his case, from his father. he was generous and magnanimous, and all who knew him personally spoke of him with affection. he was oftenest referred to as "a dear chap." arbuthnot regarded him as a paladin, with no faults whatever. when younger he had, as we have noticed, never undervalued a good dinner, but as he advanced in years, everything--food, sleep, exercise--had to give way before work. . more anecdotes. for silver he had a conspicuous weakness. "every person," he used to say, "has some metal that influences him, and mine is silver." he would have every possible article about him of that metal--walking-stick knobs, standishes, modern cups, ancient goblets--all of gleamy silver. had he been able to build an aladdin's palace it would have been all of silver. he even regarded it as a prophylactic against certain diseases. if his eyes got tired through reading he would lie on his back with a florin over each. when the gout troubled him, silver coins had to be bound to his feet; and the household must have been very thankful for this supposed panacea, for when in pain, burton, never a placid creature, had tremendous outbursts of anger. one of these scenes, which occurred at an hotel, is thus described by a witness. "the dinner had been ordered at six. at half-past the hour it was not ready. the waiter was summoned. he made excuse. "mille tonnerres! ventrebleu!" roared burton with a volley of unutterable language which he only could translate. the waiter literally flew before the storm, looking back at the witness with "mais, mon dieu, l'anglais!" the dinner quickly arrived, and with the soup, burton recovered his equanimity, though inveighing against all waiters, and the triestine in particular." [ ] another anecdote of this period reveals burton doing a little smuggling. one day, we are told, lady burton invited the consular chaplain to accompany her to the quay. stopping her cab just in front of the custom house, she induced her companion to talk to the custom house officer while she herself went on board a vessel to see about a case of wine for her husband. presently a porter came with the case and some loose bottles, the later being placed by the chaplain's orders in the bottom of the carriage. no sooner had this been done than lady burton followed, and stepping into the cab bade the coachman drive off. up to this moment the chaplain had kept watch, smoking a cigar, at the window of the carriage. the officer seeing a case being placed in the carriage was about to make inquiry just as the coachman whipped up the horse. lady burton smilingly saluted the officer from the window and thus allayed his suspicions. he returned her nod with a military salute, and was soon invisible. the speed, however, was too much for the loose bottles, and the duty was paid in kind, as the wine flowed freely at the bottom of the cab, while burton pretended to rate his wife for exposing him to the charge of smuggling and damaging the reputation of the chaplain. [ ] at trieste burton was always popular. the people appreciated his genius and sympathised with his grievances, and he could truly say of them in the words of his prototype, ovid: "they wish, good souls, to keep me, yet i know they wish me gone, because i want to go." [ ] not that he pleased everyone. far from it, and hereby hangs a delectable anecdote. some englishman at trieste, who took umbrage on account of the colossal muddle burton made with his accounts and the frequency of his absence, wrote to the foreign office something to this effect. "as sir richard burton is nearly always away from his post and the vice-consul has to do the greater portion of the work, why on earth don't you get rid of sir richard and let the vice-consul take his place? i wonder the foreign office can put up with him at all." to which came the following graceful reply. "dear sir,--we look upon the consulship of trieste as a gift to sir richard burton for his services to the nation, and we must decline to interfere with him in any way." [ ] chapter xxxi. burton's religion . burton's religion. as regards religion, burton had in early life, as we have seen, leaned to sufism; and this faith influenced him to the end. for a little while he coquetted with roman catholicism; but the journey to mecca practically turned him into a mohammedan. at the time of his marriage he called himself an agnostic, and, as we have seen, he was always something of a spiritualist. lady burton, charmingly mixing her metaphors, [ ] says "he examined every religion, and picked out its pear to practise it." the state of his mind in is revealed by his kasidah. from that time to his death he was half mohammedan and half agnostic. his wife pressed him in season and out of season to become a catholic, and, as we shall see, he did at last so far succumb to her importunities as to sign a paper in which, to use lady burton's expression, "he abjured the protestant heresy," and put himself in line with the catholics. [ ] but, as his opinions do not seem to have changed one iota, this "profession of faith" could have had little actual value. he listened to the prayers that his wife said with him every night, and he distinctly approved of religion in other persons. thus, he praised the princess of wales [ ] for hearing her children say their "little prayers," [ ] every night at her knee, and he is credited with the remark: "a man without religion may be excused, but a woman without religion is unthinkable." priests, ceremonials, services, all seemed to him only tinkling cymbals. he was always girding at "scapularies and other sacred things." he delighted to compare romanism unfavourably with mohammedanism. thus he would say sarcastically, "moslems, like catholics, pray for the dead; but as they do the praying themselves instead of paying a priest to do it, their prayers, of course, are of no avail." he also objected to the church of rome because, to use his own words, "it has added a fourth person to the trinity." [ ] he said he found "four great protestant sommites: ( ) st. paul, who protested against st. peter's hebraism; ( ) mohammed, who protested against the perversions of christianity; ( ) luthur, who protested against the rule of the pope; ( ) sir richard burton, who protested against the whole business." the way in which he used to ridicule the papal religion in his wife's presence often jarred on his friends, who thought that however much he might disapprove of it, he ought, for her sake, to have restrained his tongue. but he did not spare other religious bodies either. he wanted to know, for instance, what the clergy of the church of england did for the £ , , a year "wasted on them," while he summed up the nonconformists in the scornful phrase: "exeter hall!" he considered anthropomorphism to explain satisfactorily not only the swan maiden, and the other feathered ladies [ ] of the nights, but also angel and devil. both arbuthnot and payne regarded him as a mohammedan. another friend described him as a "combination of an agnostic, a theist and an oriental mystic." over and over again he said to his cousin, st. george burton, "the only real religion in the world is that of mohammed. religions are climatic. the protestant faith suits england." once he said "i should not care to go to hell, for i should meet all my relations there, nor to heaven, because i should have to avoid so many friends." lady burton, who prayed daily "that the windows of her husband's soul might be opened," relied particularly on the mediation of "our lady of dale"--the dale referred to being a village near ilkestone, derbyshire, which once boasted a magnificent premonstratensian monastery, [ ] and she paid for as many as a hundred masses to be said consecutively in the little "church of our lady and st. thomas," [ ] at ilkeston, in order to hasten that event. "some three months before sir richard's death," writes mr. p. p. cautley, the vice-consul at trieste, to me, "i was seated at sir richard's tea table with our clergy man, and the talk turning on religion, sir richard declared, 'i am an atheist, but i was brought up in the church of england, and that is officially my church.' [ ] perhaps, however, this should be considered to prove, not that he was an atheist, but that he could not resist the pleasure of shocking the clergyman." . burton as a writer. on burton as a writer we have already made some comments. one goes to his books with confidence; in the assurance that whatever ever he saw is put down. nothing is hidden and there is no attempt to munchausenize. his besetting literary sin, as we said, was prolixity. any one of his books reduced to one-quarter, or better, one-sixth the size, and served up artistically would have made a delightful work. as it is, they are vast storehouses filled with undusted objects of interest and value, mingled with heaps of mere lumber. his books laid one on the top of another would make a pile eight feet high! he is at his best when describing some daring adventure, when making a confession of his own weaknesses, or in depicting scenery. lieutenant cameron's tribute to his descriptive powers must not be passed by. "going over ground which he explored," says cameron, "with his lake regions of central africa in my hand, i was astonished at the acuteness of his perception and the correctness of his descriptions." stanley spoke of his books in a similar strain. burton owed his success as a narrator in great measure to his habit of transferring impressions to paper the moment he received them--a habit to which he was led by reading a passage of dr. johnson's journey to the western islands. "an observer deeply impressed by any remarkable spectacle," says johnson, "does not suppose that the traces will soon vanish from his mind, and having commonly no great convenience for writing, defers the description to a time of more leisure and better accommodation. he who has not made the experiment or is not accustomed to require vigorous accuracy from himself, will scarcely believe how much a few hours take from certainty of knowledge and distinctness of imagery; how the succession of objects will be broken, how separate parts will be confused, and how many practical features and discriminations will be found compressed and conglobated into one gross and general idea." [ ] "brave words," comments burton, "somewhat pompous and diffused, yet worthy to be written in letters of gold." [ ] very many of burton's books, pamphlets and articles in the journals of the learned societies appeal solely to archaeologists, as, for example etruscan bologna, [ ] an account of the etrurian people, their sharp bottomed wells, the pebble tombs of the poor and the elegant mausoleums of the wealthy with their figures of musicians and dancing girls "in garments of the most graceful form, finest texture and brilliant hues;" reminding us of the days when veii fell, and its goddess, who "was light and easily removed, as though she followed willingly," as livy, with his tongue in his cheek, says, was conveyed to rome; and of the later days when "lars porsena of clusium" poured southward his serried host, only, according to the roman historians, to meet with defeat and discomfiture. of burton's carelessness and inaccuracies, we have already spoken. we mentioned that to his dying day he was under a wrong impression as to his birthplace, and that his account of his early years and his family bristles with errors. scores of his letters have passed through my hands and nearly all are imperfectly dated. fortunately, however, the envelopes have in almost every case been preserved; so the postmark, when legible, has filled the lacuna. at every turn in his life we are reminded of his inexactitude--especially in autobiographical details. and yet, too, like most inexact men, he was a rare stickler for certain niceties. he would have defended the "h" in meccah with his sword; and the man who spelt "gypsy" with an "i" for ever forfeited his respect. burton's works--just as was his own mind--are vast, encyclopaedic, romantic and yet prosaic, unsystematic; but that is only repeating the line of the old greek poet: "like our own selves our work must ever be." [ ] chapter xxxii. th june - th april , burton and social questions: anecdotes . the population question. in social questions burton took a keen interest. indeed he was in many respects a man far in advance of his age. in denouncing various evils he betrays the earnestness of a carlyle, and when propounding plans for the abolition of the slave trade in "that devil's walk and purlieu," east africa, saul becomes one of the prophets. that he was no saint we should have known if he himself had not told us; but he had, as he believed, his special work to do in the world and he did it with all his might. though a whirlwind of a man, he had, as we have seen, the tenderest of hearts, he thought with sorrow of the sufferings of the poor, and he often said to his wife: "when i get my pension we'll spend the rest of our lives in helping the submerged tenth." although sympathising warmly with the efforts of general booth and other men who were trying to grapple with social evils, he could see, nevertheless, that they touched only the fringe of the difficulty. he was, broadly speaking, what is now known as a neo-mathusian, that is to say, he held that no man had a right to bring into the world a larger number of children than he could support with comfort, that the poor ought to be advised to limit their families, and that persons suffering from certain terrible diseases ought not to be allowed to marry, or at any rate to have children. himself a man of splendid physique, burton wanted to see every man in england physically healthy and strong. he considered it abominable that infant monstrosities or children born blind should be allowed to live, and held that showmen and others who exhibit monstrosities should be promptly jailed. "indeed," he says, "it is a question if civilisation may not be compelled to revive the law of lycurgus, which forbade a child, male or female, to be brought up without the approbation of public officers appointed ad hoc. one of the curses of the th century is the increased skill of the midwife and the physician, who are now able to preserve worthless lives and to bring up semi-abortions whose only effect upon the breed is increased degeneracy." [ ] he thought with edward fitzgerald and many another sympathiser with the poor, that it is the height of folly for a labouring man living in a cottage with only two small bedrooms and earning twelve shillings a week to burden himself with a family of from ten to a dozen. three or four children he considered enough for anybody. at the same time he perceived that the neo-malthusian system might be abused--that is to say, rich persons who could well afford to bring up respectable-sized families might be tempted to restrict the number to one or two. [ ] consequently, in the terminal essay to the arabian nights, we find him recommending the study of an arabic work, kitab al bah not only to the anthropologist but also to the million. he says, "the conscientious study would be useful to humanity by teaching the use and unteaching the abuse of the malthusian system, [ ] whereby the family is duly limited to the necessities of society." at the present time--with the diminishing birth-rate and when the subject is discussed freely in every upper and middle class home in england--these ideas cause no wonderment; but in those days they were novel. . new projects. we left the burtons, it will be remembered, at gibraltar. after a short stay there, they crossed over to morocco in a cattle tug. neither of them liked tangiers, still, if the consulate had been conferred upon sir richard, it would have given them great happiness. they were, however, doomed to disappointment. lord salisbury's short-lived administration of had been succeeded by a liberal government with lord rosebery as premier; and tangiers was given to mr. (afterwards sir) w. kirby green. [ ] the burtons were back in trieste at the end of march. the success of the arabian nights, which was owing entirely to its anthropological and pornographic notes, was for sir richard burton both good and bad. it was good because it removed for the remainder of his life all pecuniary anxieties; it was bad because it led him to devote himself exclusively to subjects which certainly should not occupy exclusively the attention of any man. henceforth every translation was to be annotated from a certain point of view. [ ] one can but regret this perversity, for the old roman and other authors have unpleasantnesses enough without accentuating them. thus in reading some sweet poem of catullus, spoilt by perhaps a single objectionable line, we do not want our attention drawn particularly to the blemish. unfortunately, sir richard now made this kind of work his speciality, and it would be idle--or rather it would be untrue--to deny that he now chose certain books for translation, not on account of their beautiful poetry and noble thoughts, but because they lent themselves to pungent annotation. indeed, his passion for this sort of literature had become a monomania. [ ] he insisted, however, and he certainly believed, that he was advancing the interests of science; nor could any argument turn him. we wish we could say that it was chiefly for their beauties that he now set himself to translate catullus, ausonius, [ ] and apuleius. he did appreciate their beauties; the poets and the classic prose writers were to him as the milk of paradise; and some of his annotations would have illuminated the best passages, but the majority of them were avowedly to be consecrate to the worst. having in the arabian nights given the world the fruits of his enquiries in eastern lands, and said his say, he might with advantage have let the subject rest. he had certainly nothing new to tell us about the manners and customs of the romans. then again, for the translating of so delicate, so musical and so gracious a poet as catullus he was absolutely and entirely unqualified. however, to catullus he now turned. sirmio and rome succeeded to baghdad and damascus; jinni and ghoul fled before hoofed satyrs and old silenus shaking his green stick of lilies. as we shall see, however, he did not begin the translation in earnest till january . [ ] . mr. a. g. ellis and professor blumhardt. th june - th april . on june th the burtons and their "magpie trunk" again left trieste and travelled via innsbruck, zurich, bale and boulogne to england. after a short stay at folkestone with lady stisted and her daughter, they went on to london, whence burton memorialized the vice-chancellor and the curators of the bodleian library for the loan of the wortley montagu manuscripts of the arabian nights. not a private loan, but a temporary transference to the india office under the charge of dr. r. rost. on november st came a refusal, and burton, at great inconvenience to himself, had to go to oxford. "the bodleian," he says, "is the model of what a reading library should not be, and the contrast of its treasures with their mean and miserable surroundings is a scandal." he did not know in which he suffered most, the bodleian, the radcliffe or the rotunda. finally, however, the difficulty was got over by having the required pages photographed. he now wrote to the government and begged to be allowed, at the age of sixty-six, to retire on full pension. his great services to the country and to learning were set down, but though fifty persons of importance in the political and literary world supported the application, it was refused. it is, however, only just to the government to say that henceforward burton was allowed "leave" whenever he wanted it. an easier post than that at trieste it would have been impossible to imagine, still, he was in a measure tied, and the government missed an opportunity of doing a graceful act to one of its most distinguished servants, and to one of the most brilliant of englishmen. then followed a holiday in scotland, where the burtons were the guests of mr. (now sir) alexander baird of urie. back in london, they lunched at different times with f. f. arbuthnot, g. a. sala, a. c. swinburne, and "dear old larkin"--now --in whose house at alexandria, burton had stayed just before his mecca journey. it was apparently during this visit that burton gave to his cousin st. george burton a seal showing on one side the burton crest, on another the burton arms, and on the third a man's face and a hand with thumb to the nose and fingers spread out. "use it," said burton, "when you write to a d-----d snob." and he conveyed the belief that it would be used pretty often. on th september , writing to mr. kirby [ ] from "united service club," pall mall, burton says, "we here have been enjoying splendid weather, and a really fine day in england (i have seen only two since may) is worth a week anywhere else.... you will find your volumes [ ] sent to you regularly. no. caused big sensation. a wonderful leader about it in standard (mrs. gamp, of all people!) followed by abuse in pall mall. i have come upon a young woman friend greedily reading it in open drawing-room, and when i warned another against it, she answered: 'very well, billy [her husband] has a copy, and i shall read it at once.'" later burton's curiosity was aroused by the news that mr. a. g. ellis, of the british museum, had shown mr. kirby an edition of alaeddin in malay. [ ] "let me know," he says, "when you go to see mr. ellis. i especially want to accompany you, and must get that malay version of alaeddin. lord stanley of alderley could translate it." it was about this time that burton decided to make a new and lavishly annotated translation of the scented garden. to the kama shastra edition of we have already referred, and we shall deal fully with the whole subject in a later chapter. on october th the burtons heard mr. heron allen lecture on palmistry at hampstead. for some weeks burton was prostrated again by his old enemy, the gout, but lord stanley of alderley, f. f. arbuthnot, and other friends went and sat with him, so the illness had its compensations. a visit to mr. john payne, made, as usual, at tea time, is next recorded, and there was to have been another visit, but burton, who was anxious to get to folkestone to see his sister, had to omit it. on january th , he writes to mr. payne as follows: "that last cup of tea came to grief, i ran away from london abruptly, feeling a hippishness gradually creep over my brain; longing to see a sight of the sun and so forth. we shall cross over next thursday (if the weather prove decent) and rush up to paris, where i shall have some few days' work in the bibliotheque nationale. thence to cannes, the riviera, &c. at the end of my th vol. (supplemental) i shall walk in to edin[burgh] review. [ ] ... i hope you like vol. x. and its notices of your work. i always speak of it in the same terms, always with the same appreciation and admiration." on january th , the burtons reached paris, where sir richard had the pleasure of meeting herr zotenberg, discoverer of the arabic originals of alaeddin and zayn al asnam; and thence they proceeded to cannes, where the state of burton's health gave his wife great uneasiness. she says, "i saw him dripping his pen anywhere except into the ink. when he tried to say something he did not find his words." an awful fit of "epileptiform convulsions," the result of suppressed gout, followed, and the local doctors who were called in came to the conclusion that burton could not recover. they thought it better, however, that their opinion should be conveyed to him by a perfect stranger, so they deputed dr. grenfell baker, a young man who was then staying at cannes, to perform the painful duty. dr. baker entered the sick room and broke the news to burton as best he could. "then you suppose i am going to die?" said burton. "the medical men who have been holding a consultation are of that opinion." shrugging his shoulders, burton said, "ah, well!--sit down," and then he told dr. baker a story out of the arabian nights. dr. baker remained a fortnight, and then sir richard, who decided to have a travelling medical attendant, sent to england for dr. ralph leslie, who a little later joined him at trieste. to his circle of friends burton now added mr. a. g. ellis, already referred to, professor james f. blumhardt, of the british museum, and professor cecil bendall, of university college, london. [ ] his first communication with mr. ellis seems to have been a post-card dated trieste, th may . he says "the perfumed garden is not yet out nor will it be for six months. my old version is to be had at ---'s, coventry street, haymarket. the supplemental nights you can procure from the agent, -----, farleigh road, stoke newington." as we have seen, burton's first and second supplemental volumes of the nights correspond with mr. payne's three volumes of tales from the arabic. he also wished to include the eight famous galland tales:--"zayn al-asnam," "alaeddin," "khudadad and his brothers," "the kaliph's night adventure," "ali baba," "ali khwajah and the merchant of baghdad," "prince ahmad and the fairy peri-banu," and "the two sisters who envied their cadette;" but the only oriental text he could find was a hindustani version of galland's tales "orientalised and divested of their inordinate gallicism." as burton was at this time prostrated by illness, professor blumhardt kindly undertook "to english the hindustani for him. while the volume was going forward, however, m. zotenberg, of paris, discovered a ms. copy of the nights containing the arabic originals of 'zayn al-asnam' and 'alaeddin,' and burton, thanks to the courtesy of zotenberg, was able to make use of it." . dr. leslie and dr. baker: anecdotes. april . from june th to nd there were rejoicings at trieste on account of queen victoria's jubilee. at the banquet, which took place at the jager, sir richard occupied the chair, and he and the rev. c. f. thorndike, the chaplain, made speeches. during the summer sir richard's health continued to cause grave anxiety, but he was well enough by july th to set out for the usual summer holiday. accompanied by lady burton, dr. leslie and lisa, he first visited adelsburg, and then sauerbrunn, where he got relief by drinking daily a cup of very hot water. in a letter to mr. ellis written from sauerbrunn, th september , burton refers to professor blumhardt's contribution to his supplementary nights, and finishes: "salute for me mr. bendall and tell him how happy i shall be to see him at trieste if he pass through that very foul part." after the burtons' return to trieste (at the end of september) dr. leslie obtained another post, and dr. baker was invited to take his place. dr. baker consented to do so, only on the condition that sir richard would not dispute his medical orders. this, dr. baker explained to me, was a very necessary stipulation, for sir richard now looked upon the time spent over his meals as so many half-hours wasted. he never ate his food properly, but used to raven it up like an animal in order to get back quickly to his books. so a treaty was made, and dr. baker remained a member of the household the rest of burton's life. to this period belong the following unpublished anecdotes. of burton's interest in ancient etruria and especially in the archaeological discoveries at bologna [ ] we have already spoken. once when he and dr. baker were visiting bologna they took a long walk outside the town and quite lost their bearings. noticing a working man seated on the roadside, burton asked him in french the way back. in reply the man "only made a stupid noise in his throat." burton next tried him with the bolognese [ ] dialect, upon which the man blurted out, "je don't know savez." sir richard then spoke in english, and the man finding there was no further necessity for parisian, explained in his own tongue that he was an english sailor who had somehow got stranded in that part. to burton's delight in shocking people we have already alluded. nor did age sober him. he would tell to open-mouthed hearers stories of his hair-breadth escapes, and how some native plotted against his life. "another moment," he would say, "and i should have been a dead man, but i was too quick for my gentleman. i turned round with my sword and sliced him up like a lemon." dr. baker, who had heard many tales about the austrians and duelling, was exercised in his mind as to what ought to be done if he were "called out." "now," said burton, "this is one of the things in life worthy of remembrance. never attack a man, but if he attacks you, kill him." sometimes the crusted tale about the arab murder would come up again. "is it true, sir richard," a young curate once innocently inquired, "that you shot a man near mecca?" "sir," replied burton, tossing his head haughtily, "i'm proud to say that i have committed every sin in the decalogue." in after years dr. baker was often asked for reminiscences of burton. "can you remember any of his sayings?" enquired one interlocutor. "yes," replied dr. baker. "he once said, 'priests, politicians and publishers will find the gate of heaven extremely narrow.'" "i'm sorry for that," followed the interlocutor, "for i've just been elected m.p. for the ---- division of yorkshire." for mrs. lynn linton, the novelist, whom he described as a "sweet, womanly woman," burton had a sincere regard, but he used to say that though she was an angel in the drawing-room, she was a raging, blood-thirsty tigress on the platform. one day, while sir richard, mrs. linton and dr. baker were chatting together, a lady to whom mrs. linton was a stranger joined the group and said "sir richard, why don't you leave off writing those heavy books on bologna and other archaeological subjects, and do something lighter? couldn't you write some trash--novels, i mean?" sir richard look sideways at mrs. linton, and kept his countenance as well as he could. on another occasion when sir richard, lady burton, dr. baker and an aged cambridge professor were chatting together, burton unconsciously glided into latin--in which he asked the professor a question. the old man began a laboured reply in the same language--and then, stopping suddenly, said, "if you don't mind, sir richard, we'll continue the conversation in english." believing that burton was overworking himself, dr. baker recommended him to order "a little rubbish in the shape of novels," from london, and so rest his brain for an hour just before bedtime. burton demurred, but the novels were ultimately sent for, they duly arrived, and burton went through a course of "chou-chou," as he called it. after a while, however, he gave up what he had never taken to kindly, and henceforward he nightly "rested his brain," by reading books in the modern greek dialects. . three months at abbazia. st dec. - th march . on the st of december , in order to avoid the fearful boras of trieste, and to shelter in the supposed mild climate of "the austrian riviera," burton, accompanied, as always, by his wife, dr. baker, and lisa, went to stay at abbazia. the subscriptions for his supplemental nights were now pouring in, and they put him in great jollity. jingling his money in his pockets, he said to dr. baker, "i've always been poor, and now we'll enjoy ourselves." henceforth he spent his money like a dissipated school-boy at a statute fair. special trains, the best rooms in the best hotels, anything, everything he fancied--and yet all the while he worked at his books "like a navvy." abbazia was a disappointment. snow fell for two months on end, and all that time they were mewed up in their hotel. burton found the society agreeable, however, and he read german with the catholic priest. most of his time was spent in finishing the supplemental nights, and lady burton was busy preparing for the press and expurgated edition of her husband's work which, it was hoped, would take its place on the drawing-room table. mr. justin huntly mccarthy, son of the novelist, gave her considerably assistance, and the work appeared in . mr. kirby's notes were to have been appended to lady burton's edition of the nights as well as to sir richard's, but ultimately the idea was abandoned. "my wife and i agreed," writes burton, "that the whole of your notes would be far too learned for her public," [ ] so only a portion was used. lady burton's work consisted of six volumes corresponding with burton's first ten, from which pages were omitted. owing to the stagnation of abbazia, and the martyrdom which he endured from the gout, burton was very glad to get back to trieste, which was reached on march th. when his pain was acute he could not refrain from groaning, and at such times, lady burton, kneeling by his bedside, use to say "offer it up, offer it up"--meaning that prayer alone would bring relief. to mr. payne, th march , burton writes, "i have been moving since yours of march th reached me, and unable to answer you.... delighted to hear that in spite of cramp, [ ] vo. v. [ ] is finished, and shall look forward to the secret [ ] being revealed. you are quite right never to say a word about it. there is nothing i abhor so much as a man intrusting me with a secret." on march th, sir richard finished his last volume of the supplemental nights, and in may he was visited at trieste by his old friend, f. f. arbuthnot. on the th of april ( ) occurred the death of matthew arnold, who had for some years enjoyed a civil list pension of £ a year; and the event had scarcely been announced before lady burton, without consulting her husband, [ ] telegraphed to the government to "give burton arnold's pension." this step, characteristic as it was indiscreet, naturally did not effect its purpose. chapter xxxiii. th march - th october , the last visit to england "the supplemental nights" bibliography: . st vol. supplemental nights, st december . th vol. st august . . meeting with mr. swinburne and others, th july - th october . burton's health continuing weak, he again endeavoured to induce the government to release him from his duties. instead of that, they gave him what he calls "an informal sick certificate," and from the following letter to his sister ( th may ) we may judge that it was not given gracefully. "yesterday," he says, "i got my leave accompanied by some disagreeable expressions which will be of use to me when retiring. we leave trieste in june and travel leisurely over the st. gothard and expect to be in england about the th.... the meteorologists declare that the heat is going to equal the cold. folky [ ] folk are like their neighbours, poor devils who howl for excitement--want of anything better to do. the dreadful dull life of england accounts for many british madnesses. do you think of the crystal palace this year? we have an old friend, aird, formerly the consul here, who has taken up his abode somewhere in sydenham. i don't want cold water bandages, the prospect of leave makes me sleep quite well. with love and kisses to both, [ ] your affectionate brother, r. f. b." burton and his wife reached folkestone on july th. next day they went on to london, where they had the pleasure of meeting again commander cameron, mr. henry irving, m. du chaillu, mr. a. c. swinburne, and mr. theodore watts[-dunton]. what burton was to mr. swinburne is summed up in the phrase--"the light that on earth was he." [ ] . h. w. ashbee. his principal place of resort, however, during this visit was the house of mr. h. w. ashbee, , bedford square, where he met not only mr. ashbee, but also dr. steingass, mr. arbuthnot, sir charles wingfield and mr. john payne, all of whom were interested, in different ways, in matters oriental. ashbee, who wrote under the name of pisanus fraxi (bee of an ash), was a curiously matter-of-fact, stoutish, stolid, affable man, with a maupassantian taste for low life, its humours and laxities. he was familiar with it everywhere, from the sordid purlieus of whitechapel to the bazaars of tunis and algiers, and related haroun al-raschid-like adventures with imperturbably, impassive face, and in the language that a business man uses when recounting the common transactions of a day. this unconcernedness never failed to provoke laughter, even from those who administered rebukes to him. of art and literature he had absolutely no idea, but he was an enthusiastic bibliophile, and his library, which included a unique collection or rare and curious books, had been built up at enormous expense. somebody having described him as "not a bad old chap," mr. payne added characteristically, "and he had a favourite cat, which says something for him." . a bacon causerie. the serenity of these gatherings, whether at mr. ashbee's or at mr. arbuthnot's, was never ruffled unless somebody happened to introduce politics or the shakespere-bacon question. arbuthnot the liberal was content to strike out with his back against the wall, so to speak, when attacked by the conservative burton, ashbee and payne; but arbuthnot the baconian frequently took the offensive. he would go out of his way in order to drag in this subject. he could not leave it out of his life of balzac even. these controversies generally resolved themselves into a duel between mr. arbuthnot and mr. payne--burton, who loved a fight between any persons and for any reasons, looking on approvingly. mr. ashbee and dr. steingass were inclined to side with mr. payne. on one of these occasions mr. payne said impatiently that he could not understand "any sensible man taking the slightest interest in the sickening controversy," and then he pointed out one by one the elements that in his opinion made the baconian theory ridiculous. "but," followed mr. arbuthnot, "shakespere had no education, and no person without an extremely good education could have written the play erroneously published under the name of william shakespere." "if," retorted mr. payne, "shakespere had been without education, do you think the fact would have escaped the notice of such bitter and unscrupulous enemies as nash, greene, and others, who hated him for his towering superiority?" upon mr. arbuthnot admitting that he studies shakespere merely from a "curio" point of view, and that for the poetry he cared nothing, mr. payne replied by quoting schopenhauer: "a man who is insensible to poetry, be he who he may, must be a barbarian." burton, who regarded himself as a poet, approved of the sentiment; dr. steingass, who wrote execrable verses in english which neither rhymed nor scanned, though they were intended to do both, was no less satisfied; mr. ashbee, who looked at matters solely from a bibliographical point of view, dissented; and mr. arbuthnot sweetly changed the conversation to balzac; with the result, however, of another tempest, for on this subject burton, who summed up balzac as "a great repertory of morbid anatomy," could never see eye to eye with balzac's most enthusiastic english disciple. at oxford, burton met professor sayce, and did more literary work "under great difficulties" at the bodleian, though he escaped all the evil effects; but against its wretched accommodation for students and its antediluvian methods he never ceased to inveigh. early in august he was at ramsgate and had the amusement of mixing with a bank holiday crowd. but he was amazingly restless, and wanted to be continually in motion. no place pleased him more than a day or two. . the gypsy, august . among the deal tables in burton's rooms at trieste was one devoted to a work on the gypsies, a race concerning whom, as we have seen, he had long been curious. he had first proposed to himself to write on the subject when he was in sind, where he had made investigations concerning the affinity between the jats and the gypsies; and now with abundance of leisure he set about the work in earnest. but it was never finished, and the fragment which was published in [ ] contains, mr. watts-dunton [ ] assures me, many errors. burton's idea was to describe the gypsy in all lands. perhaps he is happiest in his account of the spanish gypsy woman. "their women," he says, "sell poultry and old rags.... and find in interpreting dreams, in philter selling, and in fortune-telling the most lucrative industries. they sing, and play various instruments, accompanying the music with the most voluptuous and licentious dances and attitudes; but woe to the man who would obtain from these bayaderes any boon beyond their provocative exhibition. from the indus to gibraltar, the contrast of obscenity in language and in songs with corporal chastity has ever been a distinctive characteristic.... gypsy marriages, like those of the high caste hindus, entail ruinous expense; the revelry lasts three days, the 'gentile' is freely invited, and the profusion of meats and drinks often makes the bridgegroom a debtor for life. the spanish gypsies are remarkable for beauty in early youth; for magnificent eyes and hair, regular features, light and well-knit figures. their locks, like the hindus, are lamp black, and without a sign of wave: [ ] and they preserve the characteristic eye. i have often remarked its fixity and brilliance, which flashes like phosphoric light, the gleam which in some eyes denotes madness. i have also noticed the 'far-off look' which seems to gaze at something beyond you and the alternation from the fixed stare to a glazing or filming of the pupil." [ ] this peculiarity of the gypsy's eyes, burton had himself, for which reason alone, some writers, as we have already observed, have claimed him for the tribe. but he shared other peculiarities with them. for example, there was his extraordinary restlessness--a restlessness which prevented him from every settling long in any one place. then, like the gypsies, he had an intense horror of a corpse--even of pictures of corpses. though brave to temerity he avoided churchyards, and feared "the phosphorescence of the dead." many of his letters testify to his keen interest in the race. for example, he tells mr. j. pincherle, author of a romani version of solomon's song, [ ] the whole story of his wife and hagar burton. in he joined the newly-founded "gypsy lore society," and in a letter to mr. david macritchie ( th may ) he says in reference to the society's journal: "very glad to see that you write 'gypsy.' i would not subscribe to 'gipsy.'" in later letters he expresses his appreciation of mr. macritchie's article "the gypsies of india," and wishes the society "god speed," while in that of th august , he laments the trifling results that followed his own and arbuthnot's efforts in behalf of orientalism. "we [the gypsy lore society]" he says, "must advance slowly and depend for success upon our work pleasing the public. of course, all of us must do our best to secure new members, and by xmas i hope that we shall find ourselves on the right road. mr. pincherle writes to me hopefully about his practical studies of gypsy life in trieste. as regards orientalism in england generally i simply despair of it. every year the study is more wanted and we do less. it is the same with anthropology, so cultivated in france, so stolidly neglected in england. i am perfectly ashamed of our wretched "institution" in hanover square when compared with the palace in paris. however, this must come to an end some day." on th august , burton writes to mr. a. g. ellis from "the langham," portland place, and sends him the preface to the last supplemental volume with the request that he would run his eye over it. "you live," he continues, "in a magazine of learning where references are so easy, and to us outsiders so difficult. excuse this practical proof that need has no law." on september th he sent a short note to mr. payne. "arbuthnot," he said, "will be in town on tuesday october nd. what do you say to meeting him at the langham p.m. table d'hote hour?.... it will be our last chance of meeting." sir richard and lady burton, dr. baker, arbuthnot, and payne dined together on the evening appointed; and on october th burton left london, to which he was never to return alive. . the supplemental nights. st december - st august . the translation of the supplemental nights, that is to say, the collection of more or less interesting arabian tales not included in the nights proper, was now completed. the first volume had appeared in , the last was to be issued in . although containing old favourites such as "alaeddin," "zayn al asnam," "ali baba," and the "story of the three princes," the supplemental volumes are altogether inferior to the nights proper. then, too, many of the tales are mere variants of the versions in the more important work. burton's first two supplemental volumes are from the breslau text, and, as we said, cover the same ground as mr. payne's tales from the arabic. in both he followed mr. payne closely, as will be seen from his notes (such as "here i follow mr. payne, who has skilfully fine-drawn the holes in the original text") [ ] which, frequent as they are, should have been multiplied one hundred-fold to express anything like the real obligation he owed to mr. payne's translation. "i am amazed," he once said to mr. payne, "at the way in which you have accomplished what i (in common with lane and other arabists) considered an impossibility in the elucidation and general re-creation from chaos of the incredibly corrupt and garbled breslau text. i confess that i could not have made it out without your previous version. it is astonishing how you men of books get to the bottom of things which are sealed to men of practical experience like me." and he expressed himself similarly at other times. of course, the secret was the literary faculty and intuition which in burton were wanting. burton's third volume [ ] consists of the tales in galland's edition which are not in the nights proper. all of them, with the exception of "alaeddin" and "zayn al asnam," are reproductions, as we said, from a hindustani translation of the french text--the arabic originals of the tales being still ( ) undiscovered. his fourth and fifth volumes [ ] are from the wortley-montague text. his sixth and last [ ] contains the chavis and cazotte text--the manuscript of which is reputed to have been brought to france by a syrian priest named shawish (frenchlifted into chavis), who collaborated with a french litterateur named cazotte. the work appeared in . "these tales," says mr. payne, "seem to me very inferior, in style, conduct, and diction, to those of 'the old arabian nights,' whilst i think 'chavis and cazotte's continuation' utterly unworthy of republication whether in part or 'in its entirety.' it is evident that shawish (who was an adventurer of more than doubtful character) must in many instances have utterly misled his french coadjutor (who had no knowledge of arabic), as to the meaning of the original."--preface to alaeddin, &c., xv., note. mr. payne adds, "i confess i think the tales, even in the original arabic, little better than rubbish, and am indeed inclined to believe they must have been, at least in part, manufactured by shawish." [ ] . comparison. burton's supplementary volume containing "alaeddin" and "zayn al asnam," appeared, as we have seen, in ; and in mr. payne issued a translation from zotenberg's text. when dealing with the nights proper we gave the reader an opportunity of comparing burton's translation with payne's which preceded it. we now purpose placing in juxtaposition two passages from their supplemental volumes, and we cannot do better than choose from either "alaeddin" or "zayn al asnam," as in the case of both the order is reversed, burton's translation having preceded payne's. let us decide on the latter. any passage would do, but we will take that describing the finding of the ninth image: payne burton then he set out and then he set out nor gave not over journeying ceased travelling till such till he came to bassora, time as he reached bassorah, and entering his palace, when he entered saluted his mother and his palace; and after told her all that had saluting his mother, he befallen him; whereupon apprized her of all things quoth she to him "arise, that had befallen him. o my son, so thou mayst she replied, "arise, o see this ninth image, for my son, that we may look that i am exceedingly upon the ninth statue, rejoiced at its presence with for i rejoice with extreme us. so they both joy at its being in our descended into the underground possession." so both hall wherein were descended into the pavilion the eight images, and where stood the eight found there a great marvel; images of precious gems, to wit, instead of the and here they found a ninth image, they beheld mighty marvel. 'twas the young lady resembling this: in lieu of seeing the the sun in her loveliness. ninth statue upon the the prince knew her golden throne, they found when he saw her, and seated thereon the young she said to him, "marvel lady whose beauty suggested not to find me here in the sun. zayn place of that which thou al-asnam knew her at soughtest; me thinketh first sight and presently thou wilt not repent thee she addressed him saying, an thou take me in the "marvel not for that stead of the ninth image." here thou findest me "no, by allah, oh my in place of that wherefor beloved!" replied zein thou askedst; and i ul asnam. "for that thou deem that thou shalt not art the end of my seeking, regret nor repent when and i would not exchange thou acceptest me instead thee for all the jewels in of that thou soughtest." the world. didst thou said he, "no, verily, but know the grief which thou art the end of every possessed me for thy wish of me nor would separation, thou whom i i exchange thee for all the took from thy parents gems of the universe. by fraud and brought thee would thou knew what to the king of the jinn!" was the sorrow which surcharged me on account of our separation and of my reflecting that i took thee from thy parents by fraud and i bore thee as a present to the king of the jinn. indeed i had well nigh determined to forfeit all my profit of the ninth statue and to bear thee away to bassorah as my own bride, when my comrade and councillor dissuaded me from so doing lest i bring about my death." [ ] scarce had the prince nor had zayn al asnam made an end of his speech ended his words ere they when they heard a noise heard the roar of thunderings of thunder rending the that would rend a mountains and shaking mount and shake the the earth, and fear gat earth, whereat the queen hold upon the queen, the mother was seized with mother of zein ul asnam, mighty fear and affright. yea and sore trembling; but presently appeared but, after a little, the the king of the jinn, king of the jinn who said to her, "o my appeared and said to her, lady, fear not! tis i, the "o lady, fear not, it is protector of thy son, whom i who am thy son's i fondly affect for the protector and i love him affection borne to me by with an exceeding love his sire. i also am he who for the love his father manifested myself to him bore me. nay, i am he in his sleep, and my object who appeared to him in therein was to make trial his sleep and in this i of his valiance and to learn purposed to try his an he could do violence to fortitude, whether or not his passions for the sake he might avail to subdue of his promise, or whether himself for loyalty's the beauty of this lady sake." would so tempt and allure him that he could not keep his promise to me with due regard." here, again, payne is concise and literal, burton diffuse and gratuitously paraphrastic as appears above and everywhere, and the other remarks which we made when dealing with the nights proper also apply, except, of course, that in this instance burton had not payne's version to refer to, with the consequence that in these two tales ("alaeddin" and "zayn al asnam") there are over five hundred places in which the two translators differ as to the rendering, although they worked from the same ms. copy, that of m. houdas, lent by him to burton and afterwards to payne. arabists tell us that in practically every instance payne is right, burton wrong. the truth is that, while in colloquial arabic burton was perfect, in literary arabic he was far to seek, [ ] whereas mr. payne had studied the subject carefully and deeply for years. but burton's weakness here is not surprising. a frenchman might speak excellent english, and yet find some difficulty in translating into french a play of shakespeare or an essay of macaulay. burton made the mistake of studying too many things. he attempted too much. but in the supplemental nights, as in the nights proper, his great feature is the annotating. again we have a work within a work, and the value of these notes is recognised on all sides. yet they are even less necessary for elucidating the text than those in the nights proper. take for example the tremendous note in vol. i. on the word "eunuchs." as everybody knows what a eunuch is, the text is perfectly clear. yet what a mass of curious knowledge he presents to us! if it be urged that the bulk of burton's notes, both to the nights proper and the supplemental nights, are out of place in a work of this kind--all we can say is "there they are." we must remember, too, that he had absolutely no other means of publishing them. chapter xxxiv. "the scented garden" bibliography: . the scented garden. "my new version," translated - . . nafzawi. as we learn from a letter to mr. payne, th november , burton began his "new version" of the scented garden, or as it is sometimes called, the perfumed garden, in real earnest early in that month, and lady burton tells us that it "occupied him seriously only six actual months," [ ] that is, the last six months of his life. the scented garden, or to give its full title, "the scented garden for the soul's recreation" was the work of a learned arab shaykh and physician named nafzawi, who was born at nafzawa, a white, [ ] palm-encinctured town which gleamed by the shore of the sebkha--that is, salt marsh--shot al jarid; and spent most of his life in tunis. the date of his birth is unrecorded, but the scented garden seems to have been written in . [ ] nafzawi, like vatsyayana, from whose book he sometimes borrows, is credited with having been an intensely religious man, but his book abounds in erotic tales seasoned to such an extent as would have put to the blush even the not very sensitive "tincker of turvey." [ ] it abounds in medical learning, [ ] is avowedly an aphrodisiac, and was intended, if one may borrow an expression from juvenal, "to revive the fire in nuptial cinders." [ ] moslems read it, just as they took ambergrised coffee, and for the same reason. nafzawi, indeed, is the very antithesis of the english sir thomas browne, with his well-known passage in the religio medici, [ ] commencing "i could be content that we might procreate like trees." holding that no natural action of a man is more degrading than another, nafzawi could never think of amatory pleasures without ejaculating "glory be to god," or some such phrase. but "moslems," says burton, "who do their best to countermine the ascetic idea inherent in christianity, [ ] are not ashamed of the sensual appetite, but rather the reverse." [ ] nafzawi, indeed, praises allah for amorous pleasures just as other writers have exhausted the vocabulary in gratitude for a loaded fruit tree or an iridescent sunset. his mind runs on the houris promised to the faithful after death, and he says that these pleasures are "part of the delights of paradise awarded by allah as a foretaste of what is waiting for us, namely delights a thousand times superior, and above which only the sight of the benevolent is to be placed." we who anticipate walls of jasper and streets of gold ought not, perhaps, to be too severe on the tunisian. it must also be added that nafzawi had a pretty gift of humour. [ ] . origin of the scented garden. the origin of the book was as follows: a small work, the torch of the world, [ ] dealing with "the mysteries of generation," and written by nafzawi, had come into the hands of the vizier of the sultan of tunis. thereupon the vizier sent for the author and received him "most honourably." seeing nafzawi blush, he said, "you need not be ashamed; everything you have said is true; no one need be shocked at your words. moreover, you are not the first who has treated of this matter; and i swear by allah that it is necessary to know this book. it is only the shameless boor and the enemy of all science who will not read it, or who will make fun of it. but there are sundry things which you will have to treat about yet." and he mentioned other subjects, chiefly of a medical character. "oh, my master," replied nafzawi, "all you have said here is not difficult to do, if it is the pleasure of allah on high." "i forthwith," comments nafzawi, "went to work with the composition of this book, imploring the assistance of allah (may he pour his blessing on the prophet) [ ] and may happiness and pity be with him." the most complete text of the scented garden is that now preserved in the library at algiers, and there are also manuscripts in the libraries of paris, gotha and copenhagen. in a manuscript which seems to have corresponded practically with the torch of the world was translated into french by a staff officer of the french army in algeria, and an edition of thirty-five copies was printed by an autographic process in algiers in the year . [ ] in an edition of copies was issued by the french publisher isidore liseux, and the same year appeared a translation of liseux's work bearing the imprint of the kama shastra society. this is the book that burton calls "my old version," [ ] which, of course, proves that he had some share in it. [ ] there is no doubt that the average englishman [ ] would be both amazed and shocked on first opening even the kama shastra society's version; unless, perchance, he had been prepared by reading burton's arabian nights or the fiftieth chapter of gibbon's decline and fall with the latin notes, though even these give but a feeble idea of the fleshiness of the scented garden. indeed, as ammianus marcellinus, referring to the arabs, says: "incredible est quo ardore apud eos in venerem uterque solvitur sexus." . contents of the scented garden. nafzawi divided his book into twenty one-chapters "in order to make it easier reading for the taleb (student)." it consists of descriptions of "praiseworthy men" and "praiseworthy women" from a nafzawin point of view, interpretations of dreams, medical recipes for impotence, &c., lists of aphrodisiacs, and stories confirmatory of ammianus's remark. among the longer tales are those of moseilma, "bahloul [ ] and hamdonna," and "the negro al dhurgham" [ ]--all furiously fescinnine. the story of moseilema, lord of yamama, is familiar in one form or another to most students of arab history. washington irving epitomises it in his inexpressibly beautiful "successors" of mahomet [ ] and gibbon [ ] tells it more fully, partly in his text and partly in his latin footnotes. moseilema was, no doubt, for some years quite as influential a prophet as his rival mohammed. he may even have been as good a man, [ ] but nafzawi--staunch mohammedan--will not let "the whig dogs have the best of the argument." he charges moseilema with having perverted sundry chapters in the koran by his lies and impostures, and declares that he did worse than fail when he attempted to imitate mohammed's miracles. "now moseilema (whom may allah curse!), when he put his luckless hand on the head of some one who had not much hair, the man was at once quite bald... and when he laid his hand upon the head of an infant, saying, 'live a hundred years,' the infant died within an hour." as a matter of fact, however, moseilema was one of the most romantic figures in arabic history. [ ] sedja, queen and prophetess, went to see him in much the same spirit that the queen of sheba visited solomon. moseilema, who outlived mohammed about a year, was defeated and slain near his capital yamama, by the mohammedan hero khalid, and sedjah subsequently embraced islamism. in the tale entitled "djoaidi and fadehat el djemal" [ ] appears that hoary poet, philosopher and reprobate, abu nowas [ ] of the arabian nights. like the nights, the scented garden has a cycle of tales illustrative of the cunning and malice of women. but all the women in those days and countries were not bad, just as all were not plain. plumpness seems to have been the principal attraction of sex, and the kama shastra version goes so far as to assure us that a woman who had a double chin, [ ] was irresistible. if so, there were probably no words in the language good enough to describe a woman with three chins. according, however, to the author of the recent paris translation [ ] this particular rendering is a mistake. he considers that the idea nafzawi wished to convey was the tower-like form of the neck, [ ] but in any circumstances the denizens of the scented garden placed plumpness in the forefront of the virtues; which proves, of course, the negroid origin of at any rate some of the stories, [ ] for a true arab values slenderness. over and over again in the nights we are told of some seductive lady that she was straight and tall with a shape like the letter alif or a willow wand. the perfect woman, according to mafzawi, perfumes herself with scents, uses ithmid [ ] (antimony) for her toilet, and cleans her teeth with bark of the walnut tree. there are chapters on sterility, long lists of the kind to be found in rabelais, and solemn warnings against excess, chiefly on account of its resulting in weakness of sight, with other "observations useful for men and women." while chapters i. to xx. concern almost entirely the relations between the opposite sexes, chapter xxi. [ ] which constitutes more than one-half of the book, treats largely of those unspeakable vices which as st. paul and st. jude show, and the pages of petronius and other ancient authors prove, were so common in the pagan world, and which, as burton and other travellers inform us, are still practised in the east. "the style and language in which the perfumed garden is written are," says the writer of the foreword to the paris edition of , "of the simplest and most unpretentious kind, rising occasionally to a very high degree of eloquence, resembling, to some extent, that of the famous thousand nights and a night; but, while the latter abounds in egyptian colloquialisms, the former frequently causes the translator to pause owing to the recurrence of north african idioms and the occasional use of berber or kabyle words, not generally known." in short, the literary merits or the work are trifling. although nafzawi wrote his extended scented garden for scholars only, he seems afterwards to have become alarmed, and to have gone in fear lest it might get into the hands of the ignorant and do harm. so he ended it with: "o you who read this, and think of the author and do not exempt him from blame, if you spare your good opinion of him, do not at least fail to say 'lord forgive us and him.'" [ ] . sir richard burton's translation. it was in the autumn of , as we have seen, that sir richard burton, who considered the book to take, from a linguistic and ethnological point of view, a very high rank, conceived the idea of making a new translation, to be furnished with annotations of a most elaborate nature. he called it at first, with his fondness for rhyming jingle, the scented garden-site for heart's delight, and finally decided upon the scented garden--man's heart to gladden. sir richard's translation was from the algiers manuscript, a copy of which was made for him at a cost of eighty pounds, by m. o. houdas, professor at the ecole des langues orientales vivantes. this was of the first twenty chapters. whether a copy of the st chapter ever reached sir richard we have not been able to ascertain. on st march , he wrote in his journal: "began, or rather resumed, scented garden," [ ] and thenceforward he worked at it sedulously. now and again the berber or kabyle words with which the manuscript was sprinkled gave him trouble, and from time to time he submitted his difficulties to m. fagnan, "the erudite compiler of the catalogue of arabic books and mss. in the bibliotheque nationale d'alger" and other algerian correspondents. lady burton describes her husband's work as "a translation from arabic manuscripts very difficult to get in the original" with "copious notes and explanations" of burton's own--the result, indeed, of a lifetime of research. "the first two chapters were a raw translation of the works of numa numantius [ ] without any annotations at all, or comments of any kind on richard's part, and twenty chapters, translations of shaykh el nafzawi from arabic. in fact, it was all translation, except the annotations on the arabic work." [ ] thus burton really translated only chapters i. to xx., or one-half of the work. but it is evident from his remarks on the last day of his life that he considered the work finished with the exception of the pumice-polishing; and from this, one judges that he was never able to obtain a copy of the st chapter. lady burton's statement and this assumption are corroborated by a conversation which the writer had with mr. john payne in the autumn of . "burton," said mr. payne, "told me again and again that in his eyes the unpardonable defect of the arabic text of the scented garden was that it altogether omitted the subject upon which he had for some years bestowed special study." if burton had been acquainted with the arabic text of the st chapter he, of course, would not have made that complaint; still, as his letters show, he was aware that such a manuscript existed. having complained to mr. payne in the way referred to respecting the contents of the scented garden, burton continued, "consequently, i have applied myself to remedy this defect by collecting all manner of tales and of learned material of arab origin bearing on my special study, and i have been so successful that i have thus trebled the original manuscript." thus, as in the case of the arabian nights, the annotations were to have no particular connection with the text. quite two-thirds of these notes consisted of matter of this sort. mr. payne protested again and again against the whole scheme, and on the score that burton had given the world quite enough of this kind of information in the nights. but the latter could not see with his friend. he insisted on the enormous anthropological and historical importance of these notes--and that the world would be the loser were he to withold them; in fact, his whole mind was absorbed in the subject. chapter xxxv. th october to st july . working at the "catullus" and "the scented garden" bibliography: . catullus translated , printed . . the golden ass and other works left unfinished. . switzerland th october . from london the burtons proceeded first to boulogne where sir richard visited the haunts of his early manhood and called upon his old fencing master, constantin, who was hale and well, though over eighty; and then to geneva, where he delivered before the local geographical society what proved to be his last public lecture. from geneva he wrote several letters to mr. payne. in that of november st, his mind running on the bandello, he says, "you would greatly oblige me by jotting down when you have a moment to spare the names of reverends and ecclesiastics who have written and printed facetious books. [ ] in english i have swift and sterne; in french rabelais, but i want one more, also two in italian and two in german." in reply, mr. payne sent him some twenty or thirty names in half a dozen literatures. from geneva the burtons made their way first to vevey, where sir richard revelled in its associations with ludlow, the english regicide, and rousseau; and then to lausanne for the sake of his great hero, edward gibbon; and on th march ( ) they were back again at trieste. writing to mr. a. g. ellis on may th, burton enquires respecting some engravings in the museum brought over from italy by the duke of cumberland, and he finished humorously with, "what news of mr. blumhardt? and your fellow-sufferer from leather emanations, the sanskiritist?" [ ]--an allusion to the oriental room, under which, in those days, was the book-binding department. . mr. letchford, august and september . in july, for burton found it impossible to content himself long in any place, the burtons made another journey, this time through western austria, being accompanied as usual by dr. baker and lisa. after their return, on september th, it was necessary for burton to undergo two operations; and lady burton, racked with anxiety and fearing the worst, seemed, when all was successfully over, to have recovered from a horrible nightmare. then followed acquaintance with the gifted young artist, mr. albert letchford, and his beautiful and winning sister, daisy. mr. letchford became the burtons' court painter, as it were--frequently working in their house--and both he and his sister admired--nay, worshipped sir richard down to the ground. even as a child, albert letchford was remarkable for his thoughtful look, and his strong sense of beauty. in church one day he begged his mother to let him run home and get his little sword, as there was such an ugly woman there and he wished to cut her head off. as a youth he drew and studied from morning to night, living in a world of his own creation--a world of books and pictures. his letters were those of a poet and an artist. beauty of the mind, however, attracted him even more than beauty of the body. thus, he fell in love with his cousin augusta, "though she had the toothache, and her head tied up in a handkerchief." at seventeen he studied art in venice. from venice he went to florence, where he met the burtons and got from them introductions to all the best people, including the countess orford and mlle. de la ramee (ouida). we then find him in paris, in london, in egypt, where he acquired that knowledge of the east which helped him later when he illustrated the arabian nights. finally he settled at trieste. "that wonderful man, sir richard burton, with the eyes of a tiger and the voice of an angel," writes miss letchford, "loved my brother, for he found something more in him than in others--he found a mind that could understand his own, and he often said that mr. albert letchford was about the only man that he was pleased to see--the only one who never jarred on his nerves. to him did sir richard, proud and arrogant to most people, open his soul, and from his lips would come forth such enchanting conversation--such a wonderful flow of words and so marvellous in sound that often i have closed my eyes and listened to him, fancying, thus--that some wonderful learned angel had descended from heaven unto earth." among the friends of the burtons was the princess of thurn and taxis, who with her husband became one of letchford's best patrons. the princess won sir richard's heart by her intelligence, her beauty and grace; and "his conversation was never so brilliant, and his witticisms were never so sparkling as in her presence." one day another princess--a foolish, vain woman--after making a number of insipid remarks, shook hands with sir richard, lifting high her arm and elbow in the fashion which was then just coming into vogue, but which has now lost acceptance. [ ] sir richard, while giving her his right hand, quietly with his left put down her arm and elbow. the princess turned scarlet, but she never after practised "the high shake." miss letchford sums up lady burton as "a most beautiful and charming woman, with many lovely ideas, but many foolish ones." unfortunately she was guided entirely by her confessor, a man of small mental calibre. one of the confessor's ideas was to convert sir richard by dropping small charms into his pockets. sir richard got quite used to finding these little images about him; but they invariably made their way out of the window into the garden. one of lady burton's little failings was the fear lest anybody should come to the house in order to steal, and the servants had special commands to admit none who did not look "a perfect gentleman or lady," with the result that one day they slammed the door in the face of the archduke louis salvator, simply because he did not happen to have a card with him. after that lady burton's orders were less strict. mr. letchford's paintings include views of the neighbourhood, a portrait of burton which was exhibited in the stanley gallery, and a full-length portrait of burton fencing, [ ] but he is best known by his series of illustrations to the arabian nights. . to dr. tuckey. on april th we find burton writing to thank dr. charles tuckey for the gift of a copy of his psycho-therapeutics. "an old pupil of dr. elliotson," [ ] he says, "i am always interested in these researches, and welcome the appearance of any addition to our scanty knowledge of an illimitable field. suggestion (what a miserable name!) perfectly explains the stigmata of st. francis and others without preter-natural assistance, and the curative effect of a dose of koran (a verset written upon a scrap of paper, and given like a pill of p.q.). i would note that the "indian prince" [ ] was no less a personage than ranjit singh, rajah of the punjab, that the burial of the fakir was attested by his german surgeon-general, and that a friend and i followed colonel boileau's example in personally investigating the subject of vivi-sepulture. in p. : the throngs of pilgrims to mecca never think of curing anything but their 'souls,' and the pilgrimage is often fatal to their bodies. i cannot but take exception to such terms as 'psychology,' holding the soul (an old egyptian creation unknown to the early hebrews) to be the ego of man, what differentiates him from all other men, in fact, like the 'mind,' not a thing but a state or condition of things. i rejoice to see braid [ ] duly honoured and think that perhaps a word might be said of 'electro-biology,' a term ridiculous as 'suggestion' and more so. but professor yankee stone certainly produced all the phenomena you allude to by concentrating the patient's sight upon his 'electro-magnetic disc'--a humbug of copper and zinc, united, too. it was a sore trial to dr. elliotson, who having been persecuted for many years wished to make trial in his turn of a little persecuting--a disposition not unusual." [ ] . to mr. kirby th may . in a letter to mr. w. f. kirby, th may , burton, after referring to a translation of the kalevala, [ ] upon which mr. kirby was then engaged, says: "we shall not be in england this year. i cannot remove myself so far from my books, and beside, i want a summer in austria, probably at closen or some place north of vienna. we had a long ten months' holiday and must make up for time lost. the scented garden is very hard work, and i have to pay big sums to copyists and so forth. yet it will, i think, repay the reader. what a national disgrace is this revival of puritanism with its rampant cant and ignoble hypocrisy! i would most willingly fight about it, but i don't see my way." writing again on th november ( ) he says, "i like very much your idea of visiting sweden in the interests of the kalevala. perhaps you might date the preface from that part of the world. the natural history of the nights would be highly interesting. have you heard that pickering and chatto, of haymarket, london, are going to print (photogravure) illustrations of the nights? when last in london i called on them. on friday week, th november, we start upon our winter's trip. from here to brindisi, await the p. and o., then to malta (ten days), tunis (month), tripoli and algiers, where i hope at last to see the very last of the scented garden." . tunis and algiers, november to march . at the time stated, burton, lady burton, dr. baker and lisa took steamer for brindisi, where they visited virgil's house, and then made for malta. on december th they were at tunis, and sir richard ransacked the bazaar and button-holed people generally in order to get manuscripts of the scented garden, but without success. nobody had ever heard of it. [ ] at carthage he recalled that rosy morning when dido in "flowered cymar with golden fringe" rode out with aeneas to the hung, read salammbo, and explored the ruins; but lady burton had no eyes for anything but convents, monks and nuns, though she certainly once took lisa to a harem, where they learnt how to make tunisian dishes. the biblical appearance of everything reminded burton of his damascus days. seeing a man in a burnous ploughing with oxen and a wooden plough on a plain where there was no background, he said, "look, there's abraham!" at constantine, sir richard and lady burton celebrated their th, and as it proved, their last wedding day. with algiers, the next stopping place, which boasted a cardinal's moorish palace and a museum, burton was in ecstasies, and said he wanted to live there always; but in less than three weeks he was anxious to get as far away from it as possible. from algiers he wrote to mr. payne ( th january ). after recording his failure to obtain manuscripts of the scented garden at tunis he says: "to-day i am to see m. macarthy, of the algiers bibliotheque musee; but i am by no means sanguine. this place is a paris after tunis and constantine, but like all france (and frenchmen) in modern days dirty as ditchwater. the old gaulois is dead and damned, politics and money getting have made the gay nation stupid as paddies. in fact the world is growing vile and bete, et vivent les chinois! [ ] a new magyar irruption would do europe much good." in a letter to mr. a. g. ellis, dated th february, , he refers to the anecdote of the famous taymor al wahsh, who, according to a damascus tradition, played polo with the heads of his conquered enemies. "every guide book," he continues, "mentions my lord iron's nickname 'the wild beast,' and possibly the legend was invented by way of comment. he drove away all the persian swordsmiths, and from his day no 'damascus blade' has been made at damascus. i have found these french colonies perfectly casual and futile. the men take months before making up their minds to do anything. a most profligate waste of time! my prime object in visiting tunis was to obtain information concerning the scented garden, to consult mss. &c. after a month's hard work i came upon only a single copy, the merest compendium, lacking also chapter , my chief righah (the absurd french r'irha) for a week or ten days [for the sake of the baths] then return to algiers, steam for marseilles and return to trieste via the riviera and northern italy--a route of which i am dead sick. let us hope that the untanned leather bindings have spared you their malaria. you will not see me in england next summer, but after march , i shall be free as air to come and go." at hammam r'irha, burton began in earnest his translation of catullus, and for weeks he was immersed in it night and day. the whole of the journey was a pleasurable one, or would have been, but for the cruelty with which animals were treated; and burton, who detested cruelty in all forms, and had an intense horror of inflicting pain, vented his indignation over and over again against the merciless camel and donkey drivers. as the party were steaming from algiers to toulon, a curious incident occurred. burton and dr. baker having sauntered into the smoke room seated themselves at a table opposite to an old man and a young man who looked like, and turned out to be, an oxford don. presently the don, addressing the old man, told him with dramatic gesticulations the venerable story about burton killing two arabs near mecca, and he held out his hand as if he were firing a pistol. burton, who had long known that the tale was in circulation but had never before heard anyone relate it as fact, here interrupted with, "excuse me, but what was the name of that traveller?" "captain burton," replied the don, "now sir richard burton." "i am burton," followed sir richard, "and i remember distinctly every incident of that journey, but i can assure you i do not remember shooting anybody." at that, the don jumped up, thanked him for giving the story denial, and expressed his happiness at being able to make the great traveller's acquaintance. [ ] on march th ( ) a week after his return to trieste, burton wrote to mr. a. g. ellis: "it is very kind and friendly of you to write about the scented garden mss. i really rejoice to hear that you and mr. bendall have escaped alive from those ground floor abominations stinking of half rotten leather. i know the two paris mss. [of the scented garden] (one with its blundering name): they are the merest abridgments, both compressing chapter of pages (arabic) into a few lines. i must now write to gotha and copenhagen in order to find out if the copies there be in full. can you tell me what number of pages they contain? salam to mr. bendall, and best wishes to you both. you will see me in england some time after march th ." at no work that he had ever written did sir richard labour so sedulously as at the scented garden. although in feeble health and sadly emaciated, he rose daily at half-past five, and slaved at it almost incessantly till dusk, begrudging himself the hour or two required for meals and exercise. the only luxury he allowed himself while upon his laborious task was "a sip of whiskey," but so engrossed was he with his work that he forgot even that. it was no uncommon remark for dr. baker to make: "sir richard, you haven't drunk your whiskey." one day, as he and dr. baker were walking in the garden he stopped suddenly and said: "i have put my whole life and all my life blood into that scented garden, and it is my great hope that i shall live by it. it is the crown of my life." "has it ever occurred to you, sir richard," enquired dr. baker, "that in the event of your death the manuscript might be burnt? indeed, i think it not improbable." the old man turned to the speaker his worn face and sunken eyes and said with excitement, "do you think so? then i will at once write to arbuthnot and tell him that in the event of my death the manuscript is to be his." he wrote the letter the same day. arbuthnot duly received it, and several letters seem to have passed between them on the subject; but we do not know whether lady burton was aware of the arrangement. all we can say is that arbuthnot believed she knew all about it. it seems to have been at this time that lady burton prevailed upon her husband to range himself nominally among the catholics. "about a year before her death," mr. t. douglas murray writes to me, "lady burton showed me a paper of considerable length, all of it in sir r. burton's writing and signed by himself, in which he declared that he had lived and would die a catholic, adhering to all the rites and usages of the church." [ ] curiously enough, while bringing forward all the evidence she could adduce to prove that burton was a christian, lady burton makes no reference in her book to this paper. perhaps it was because sir richard continued to gibe at the practices of her church just as much after his "conversion" as before. however, it gratified her to know that if he was not a good catholic, he was, at any rate, the next best thing--a catholic. an intimate friend of burton to whom i mentioned this circumstance observed to me, "i am sure, that burton never in any way accepted the idea of a personal god; but, rather than be perpetually importuned and worried, he may have pretended to give in to lady burton, as one does to a troublesome child." lady burton tells us that during the last few years of his life he used to lock the outer doors of his house twice a day and then engage in private prayer; on the other hand, friends of burton who knew him and were with him almost to the last have received this statement with skepticism. lady burton's happiness was further increased by the present of a very beautiful oil painting representing the virgin mary, done by miss emily baker, dr. baker's sister. it was generally known by the burtons, from the colour of its drapery, as "the blue madonna." [ ] . visit of arbuthnot, last letter to mr. payne, may . on may th mr. arbuthnot paid a second visit to trieste, and the pleasure that the vent gave to sir richard is reflected in a letter to mr. payne written the same month. "at last!" he says, "arbuthnot has brought the volume [payne's alaeddin] and the ms. [zotenberg's ms. of zayn al-asnam which burton had lent to mr. payne]." he then goes on to say that he has kicked up "an awful shindy with the athenaeum club," about something, just as if he had not been kicking up awful shindies with all sorts of people ever since his schoolboy days at tours. "i am delighted," he goes on, "with the volume [payne's alaeddin] and especially with the ascription, [ ] so grateful in its friendly tone. i have read every word with the utmost pleasure. we might agree to differ about cazotte. [ ] i think you are applying to the moralities of . arbuthnot's visit has quite set me up, like a whiff of london in the pontine marshes of trieste. he goes to-day, d---- the luck! but leaves us hopes of meeting during the summer in switzerland or thereabouts. he is looking the picture of health and we shall return him to town undamaged. best of good fortune to bandello." [ ] burton and arbuthnot had spent many a delightful hour sitting out on burton's verandah, smoking, listening to the nightingales, and enjoying sea and landscape. it must not be supposed that erotic literature was the only subject upon which they conversed, though as hierarchs of the kama shastra society they naturally bestowed upon that and curious learning considerable attention. religion was also discussed, and arbuthnot's opinions may be gathered from the following citation from his unpublished life of balzac which is now in my hands. "the great coming struggle of the th century," he says, "will be the war between religion and science. it will be a war to the death, for if science wins it will do away with the personal god of the jews, the christians and the muhammedans, the childish doctrine or dogma of future rewards and punishments, and everything connected with the supernatural. it will be shown that law reigns supreme. the police representing law and order will be of more importance than the clergy. even now we might do away with the latter, everybody becoming his own priest--a great economy. none of us knows what happens to us after death, all we can do is to hope for the best, and follow the three great laws, viz., . instruct your mind. . preserve your health. . moderate your passions and desires." thus spake the founder of the kama shastra society. on may th, burton told mr. kirby all about the algiers trip. "plenty to see and do," he says, "but i was not lucky about my ms. the scented garden. no one seemed to know anything about it. never advise any one to winter in algiers. all the settled english are selling their villas. french mismanagement beats ours holler, and their hate and jealousy of us makes their colonies penal settlements to us. we stay here [at trieste] till the weather drives us away--about the end of june." the letter concludes with kindly enquiries respecting professor bendall, [ ] mr. a. g. ellis and dr. kirby (mr. kirby's son). chapter xxxvi. "the priapeia" bibliography: . priapeia. . . the priapeia. the share that sir richard burton had in the translation of the priapeia has been the subject of dispute; but we are able to state positively that he was the author of the metrical portion. indeed, he made no secret of it among his intimates. for some reason or other, however, he did not wish to have his name publicly associated with it; so the following passage was inserted in the preface: "the name of sir richard burton has been inadvertently connected with the present work. it is, however, only fair to state that under the circumstances he distinctly disclaims having taken any part in the issue." we have no other ground for the assumption, but this passage seems to point to a quarrel of some kind. it certainly does not alter the fact that every page bears evidence of burton's hand. the preface then goes on to say that "a complete and literal translation of the works of catullus, on the same lines and in the same format as the present volume, is now in preparation." a letter, however, written [ ] by burton to mr. w. f. kirby, sets the matter entirely at rest. "i am at present," he says, "engaged in translating the priapeia, latin verse, which has never appeared in english, french, or german garb; it will have the merit of novelty." the priapeia, in its latin form priapeia sine diversoreun poetarum in priapum lusus, is a work that has long been well known to scholars, and in the th and th centuries editions were common. the translation under consideration is entitled "priapeia, or the sportive epigrams of divers poets on priapus: the latin text now for the first time englished in verse and prose (the metrical version by outidanos) [good for nothing], with introduction, notes, explanatory and illustrative and excursus, by neaniskos [a young man]," whose name, we need hardly say, is no secret. the image of priapus, the god of fruitfulness, was generally a grotesque figure made of rough wood painted red and carrying a gardener's knife and a cornucopia. placed in a garden it was supposed to be a protection against thieves. "in the earliest ages," observes the writer of the preface, "the worship of the generative energy was of the most simple and artless character... the homage of man to the supreme power, the author of life.... afterwards the cult became depraved. religion became a pretext for libertinism." poets wrote facetious and salacious epigrams and affixed them to the statues of the god--even the greatest writers lending their pens to the "sport"--and eventually some nonentity collected these scattered verses and made them into a book. everybody knows catullus's contribution, which begins: "a log of oak, some rustic's blade hewed out my shape; grotesquely made i guard this spot by night and day, scare every vagrant knave away, and save from theft and rapine's hand my humble master's cot and land." the chief complaint to be made against the writers of these verses is that they so rarely strayed from their subject. the address entitled "a word to the reader," is padded with citations from burton's camoens and his supplemental nights, including the well-known passage concerning his estimate of a translator's office, [ ] and the whole work bears evidence of extreme haste. we are assured that it will be "most interesting to anthropologists and humanists." . catullus and the last trip, july--september . burton, as we have seen, had commenced his translation of catullus, th february , at hammam r'irha. he finished the first rough copy of trieste march st, and commenced a second copy on may rd. "he would bring his latin catullus," says lady burton, "down to the table d'hote with him, and he used to come and sit by me, but the moment he got a person on the other side who did not interest him he used to whisper to me 'talk, that i may do my catullus.'" "sir richard," says mr. leonard smithers, upon whom had devolved the task of making the prose translation that was to accompany it, "laid great stress on the necessity of thoroughly annotating each translation from an erotic and especially pederastic point of view." [ ] on july st the burtons, accompanied as usual by dr. baker, lisa and the magpie trunk, set out on what proved to be their last trip--a journey through the tyrol and switzerland. they arrived at zurich just in time for "the great schiefs-statte fete, the most important national function of switzerland," which was held that year at the neighbouring town of frauenfeld. seven thousand pounds had been set aside for prizes for shooing, and forty thousand persons were present. next day there was a grand consular dinner, to which burton was invited. dr. baker having expressed regret that he also had not been included, burton remarked, "oh, i'll manage it. write a letter for me and decline." so a letter was written to the effect that as sir richard burton made it a rule not to go anywhere without his medical attendant he was obliged to decline the honour, &c., &c. presently, as had been expected, came another invitation with dr. baker's name added. consequently they went, and a very grand dinner it proved--lasting, by lady burton's computation, six hours on end. at st. mortiz-kulm, and often after, they met canon wenham of mortlake, with whom both sir richard and lady burton had long been on terms of friendship. . at maloja, july . at davos they found john addington symonds, and at maloja mr. francis r. s. wyllie, mr. and mrs. (sir and lady) squire bancroft, the rev. dr. welldon and mr. and mrs. (sir and lady) henry stanley. mrs. stanley, apparently at lady burton's suggestion, took a sheet of paper and wrote on it, "i promise to put aside all other literature, and, as soon as i return to trieste, to write my autobiography." then doubling the paper she asked for burton's autograph; and her request having been complied with, she showed him what he had put his hand to. the rest of the company signed as witnesses. for some days, though it was early autumn, the party was snow-bound, and burton relieved the wearisomeness of the occasion by relating some of his adventures. mrs. bancroft told him many amusing stories as they walked together in a sheltered covered way. "he had interested me so greatly," writes lady bancroft to me, [ ] "that i felt myself in his debt, and so tried by that means to make it up to him. he laughed heartily at them. indeed, i never knew anyone who more enjoyed my stories. one morning early i played a practical joke upon him. he politely raised his hat and said: 'i will forgive you, dear friend, on one condition. play the same trick on stanley when he comes down and i will watch.' i agreed, and fortunately brought down my second bird. both victims forgave me. one day i posed the burtons, the stanleys, captain mounteney jephson (stanley's friend and companion), with salah (stanley's black servant) for a photograph, which was taken by a young clergyman. i have the delightful result in my possession. i remember on a splendid morning, when the weather had mended and the sun was dancing over a neighbouring glacier, my husband saying to the black boy, 'salah, isn't this a lovely day--don't you like to see the beautiful sun again?' 'no, sir,' was the answer, 'ice makes him cold.' both stanley and sir richard interested me more than i can say; they were wonderful personalities, and those were, indeed, happy days." almost every day during the trip sir richard brought the catullus to the table d'hote, and on st july he had finished his second copy. he then wrote in the margin, "work incomplete, but as soon as i receive mr. smithers' prose, i will fill in the words i now leave in stars, in order that we may not use the same expressions, and i will then make a third, fair and complete copy." [ ] during this trip, too, burton very kindly revised the first half of dr. baker's work the model republic. the second half was revised by john addington symonds after burton's death. burton was back again at trieste on th september. he and the magpie trunk were never again to make a journey together. the melancholy fate of the catullus, which burton had put aside in order that he might finish the scented garden, will be recorded in a later chapter. . the golden ass. another work that burton left unfinished was a translation of the golden ass of apuleius--a work known to englishmen chiefly by bohn's edition, [ ] and the renderings of the episode of cupid and psyche by adlington and walter pater (in marius the epicurean). the manuscript of burton's translation is now in the possession of m. charles carrington, the paris publisher, who is arranging for its completion by a competent hand. the portions due to burton will, of course, be indicated. these consist of "the author's intent," about two pages small to; nearly all the story of cupid and psyche; and fragments of books , , , , , , and . [ ] on th september burton wrote again to mr. w. f. kirby. "your collaboration," he says, "has been most valuable to me. your knowledge of folk lore is not only ample, it is collected and controlled by the habit of accuracy which science gives and which i find in all your writings upon imaginative subjects.... let me hope that new scenes will not cause you to forget old subjects, and remind you of the infinite important fact that i am a subscriber to the kalevala." chapter xxxvii. death of sir richard burton . death. th october . as we have seen, burton had for some months shown signs of bodily decay; and he now daily grew weaker. his eyes, though still fierce and penetrating, were sunk into hollow cavities. his body was emaciated, his hands were thin to transparency, his voice was sometimes inarticulate, and he could hardly walk without support. still, there seemed no immediate cause for anxiety, and, as will be seen from the following letter [ ] ( th october ) to mr. david macritchie, he was busy evolving new plans, including a visit to greece, to be made in the company of dr. schliemann, [ ] the archaeologist. "in the spring of next year (inshallah!) there will be a total disruption of my lares and penates. i shall be 'retired for age,' and leave trieste for ever with my mental eye upon a flat in london which can be locked up at a moment's notice when the renter wants to go abroad. meanwhile we are off to athens about mid-november. all luck to the [gypsy] society." on the same day he wrote to mr. w. f. kirby: "excuse post-card. we have no secrets. please don't forget to keep me au courant of your movements in re jan., &c. we shall not be in london before early september , i imagine, but then it will be for good." elsewhere he says, almost in the words of ovid, "my earnest wish is somehow to depart from these regions." he was to depart, very soon, but in a manner little expected. sir richard as we have noticed, would never say "good-bye." it was always "au revoir." one day in this october miss letchford went to see him with her little sister. it was tea-time, but lady burton was in another room with a visitor. never had he appeared so bright or affectionate. he laughed and joked and teased the child and would not let them go for two hours. at last he shook hands and said, "come and see me again very soon. i like you and your sister.---good-bye, daisy." "i was so startled," comments miss letchford, "by that 'good-bye' that a shiver passed over me. i felt at that moment that i should never see him again." two days later mr. albert letchford called on sir richard, who seemed fairly well, but he remarked "the good switzerland did me ended this evening." dr. baker, though himself just then a great sufferer from neuralgic headache, watched with anxious solicitude over his patient. on the last day of his life sir richard seemed better than usual, and all the household remarked his excellent spirits. it was sunday october th. after returning from mass and communion at eight in the morning lady burton found him engaged upon the last page of the twentieth chapter of the scented garden. [ ] the work was therefore almost half done. she kissed him, and he said, "to-morrow i shall have finished this, and then i will begin our biography." she commented "what happiness that will be!" her mind, however, was not quite at ease that morning, for a bird had pecked for the third time at a window that was never opened, and sir richard remarked "this is a sign of death." the day was fine, and after breakfast burton took his usual two hours' walk with dr. baker. on the way out through the garden he noticed a robin drowning in the basin of a fountain. [ ] at his request dr. baker rescued it, and burton, opening his coat and vest--for he never wore a waistcoat--warmed the bird at his breast, and then carried it to the house to be cared for by the porter. the incident carries us back to those old days at tours, when, as a boy, he often laid himself out to revive unfortunate birds and small beasts. in the afternoon he wrote some letters and discussed gaily the proposed visit to greece. they dined at half-past seven, and talked and laughed as usual, though burton seemed tired. as usual, too, he shocked his wife by jesting about scapularies and other sacred things, but the conversation ran chiefly on general booth's scheme for relieving the submerged tenth; and burton, who entered into the subject with zest, observed: "when you and i get to england and are quite free we will give our spare time to that." [ ] in the course of the day mrs. victoria maylor came in with the manuscript of the scented garden and the copy of it which she had made for the printers, [ ] and from this we may deduce that sir richard intended to go to press at once with the first twenty chapters of the work. he may have intended to publish the twenty-first chapter later as a second volume. at half-past nine he retired to his bedroom. lady burton then repeated "the night prayers to him," and while she was speaking "a dog," to use her own words, "began that dreadful howl which the superstitious regard as the harbinger of death." after prayers, burton asked for "chou-chou;" she game him a paper-covered copy in two volumes of the martyrdom of madeline [ ] by robert buchanan, and he lay in bed reading it. at midnight he complained of pain in his foot, but said he believed it was only a return of the gout--the "healthy gout," which troubled him about every three months. "let me call dr. baker," said lady burton. "no," replied sir richard, "don't disturb him poor fellow, he has been in frightful pain with his head; and has at last got a little sleep." at four, however, lady burton paid no heed to her husband's remonstrances, but called up dr. baker, who, however, saw no cause for alarm, and after administering some medicine he returned to bed. half an hour later burton complained that there was no air, and lady burton, again thoroughly alarmed, rose to call in dr. baker once more. although burton was then dying, he said, "poor chap, don't disturb him." but lady burton instantly summoned dr. baker, who on entering pronounced the situation grave. lady burton at once roused the servants and sent in all directions for a priest; while, assisted by dr. baker and lisa, she "tried every remedy and restorative," but in vain. "oh, puss," cried burton, "chloroform--ether--quick!" "my darling," replied lady burton in anguish. "dr. baker says it would kill you. he is doing everything possible." his breathing then became laboured, and after a brief struggle for air he cried, "i am dying, i am dead." lady burton held him in her arms, but he got heavier, and presently became insensible. dr baker applied an electric battery to the heart, and lady burton kneeling at the bedside, and holding her husband's hand, prayed her "heart out to god to keep his soul there (though he might be dead in appearance) till the priest arrived." but it was in vain. the priest, a slavonian, named pietro martelani, came in about half-past six. we may regret what followed, but no one would judge harshly the actions of an agonised woman. pity for human suffering must drown all other feelings. the priest looked at the dead but warm body and asked whether there was still any life. that the heart and pulsed had ceased to beat, lady burton herself afterwards admitted to her relations, but deceiving herself with the belief that life still continued in the brain, she cried: "he is alive, but i beseech you, lose not a moment, for the soul is passing away." "if," said the priest, "he is a protestant, he cannot receive the holy sacrament in this way." lady burton having declared that her husband "had abjured the heresy and belonged to the catholic church," the priest at once administered "the last comforts." it was certainly a kind of consolation to the poor lady to feel that her husband had not departed unhouselled; but it is equally evident that her mind had given way, for the scenes that presently followed can be explained only on this assumption. [ ] dr. baker at once sent a brief note to mr. letchford. singularly enough the night before--that is the terrible sunday night--miss daisy letchford experienced "a strange instance of telepathy." "my brother," she says, "had gone out, and i waited alone for him. suddenly i fancied i heard footsteps in the passage and stopping at the door of the room where i was reading. i felt drops of cold sweat on my forehead. i was afraid, yet i knew that no one was about at that time of the night. the door opened slowly, and i felt the impression of some one looking at me. i dared not raise my eyes. the footsteps seemed to approach. in a fit of fear i looked up and saw sir richard standing before me. he started, waved his hand and disappeared. early in the morning came a ring at the bell. i jumped out of bed and burst into tears as i said, 'this is to tell us that sir richard is dead.' at that moment the maid brought in the letter for my brother from dr. baker. i ran with it into his room. 'albert, albert,' i cried, 'sir richard is dead.' he opened the letter. it was only too true." the same morning, mr. p. p. cautley, the vice consul, was called up to the house. the undertaker, who was already there, asked in mr. cautley's presence to what religion sir richard belonged. turning to mr. cautley, lady burton asked: "what religion shall i say?" "tell him sir richard's true religion," replied mr. cautley. [ ] she then said, "catholic." "but!" interjected mr. cautley. "yes," followed lady burton, "he was a catholic." lady burton still nursed the hope that sir richard was not quite dead. there was life in the brain, she persisted in saying. would he revive? "for forty-eight hours," she tells us, "she knelt watching him." she could not shed a tear. then she "had the ulnar nerve opened and strong electricity applied to make sure of his death." some months after, when her mind had regained its equilibrium, she observed to major st. george burton. [ ] "to a protestant, dick's reception into the holy church must seem meaningless and void. he was dead before extreme unction was administered; and my sole idea was to satisfy myself that he and i would be buried according to the catholic rites and lie together above ground in the catholic cemetery. he was not strictly received, for he was dead, and the formula si es capax, &c., saved the priest's face and satisfied the church." when mortification began to set in, the body, which was found to be covered with scars, the witnesses of a hundred fights, was embalmed, laid out in uniform, and surrounded with candles and wreaths. "he looked so sweet," says lady burton, "such an adorable dignity, like a sleep." [ ] behind the bed still hung the great map of africa. on his breast lady burton had placed a crucifix, and he still wore the steel chain and the "blessed virgin medal," which she had given him just before the tanganyika journey. priests, pious persons, and children from the orphanage of st. joseph, in which lady burton had taken so much interest, watched and prayed, recited the office for the dead, and sang hymns. there were three distinct funerals at trieste, and there was to be another nine months onward in england. all that can be said is that lady burton seemed to draw comfort from pageantry and ceremonial that to most mourners would have been only a long-drawn agony. the procession was a royal one. the coffin was covered with the union jack, and behind it were borne on a cushion burton's order and medals. then followed a carriage with a pyramid of wreaths, and lastly, the children of st. joseph's orphanage, a regiment of infantry and the governor and officials of trieste. every flag in the town was half-mast high, multitudes thronged the streets, and every window and balcony was crowded. every head was uncovered. the procession wound its way from the palazzo gosleth down the declivity into the city under a bright sun pouring down its full beams, and so onward through the serried masses of spectators to the cemetery. writing to lady stisted, [ ] lady burton says, "i did not have him buried, but had a private room in the cemetery [a "chapelle ardente"] consecrated (with windows and doors on the ground floor) above ground where i can go and sit with him every day. he had three church services performed over him, and , masses said for the repose of his soul." "for the man," commented the profane, "who, in his own words, 'protested against the whole business,' perhaps , masses would not have been enough." in an oration delivered in the diet of trieste, dr. cambon called him an intrepid explorer, a gallant soldier, an honour to the town of trieste." the whole press of the world rang with his praises. the noble tribute paid to his memory by algernon c. swinburne has often been quoted: "while england sees not her old praise dim, while still her stars through the world's night swim, a fame outshining her raleigh's fame, a light that lightens her loud sea's rim: shall shine and sound as her sons proclaim the pride that kindles at burton's name, and joy shall exalt their pride to be the same in birth if in soul the same." [ ] "our affairs," lady burton tells lady stisted, in a heartrending letter, [ ] "are so numerous and we belonged to so many things that i have not strength enough to get them carried out before eight weeks, and i could not bear to arrive in xmas holidays, but immediately after they are over, early january, i shall arrive, if i live, and pass through folkestone on my way to mortlake with the dear remains to make a tomb there for us two; and you must let me know whether you wish to see me or not. "i wish to go into a convent for a spiritual retreat for fifteen days, and after that i should like to live very quietly in a retired way in london till god show me what i am to do or, as i hope, will take me also; and this my belief that i shall go in a few months is my only consolation. as to me, i do not know how anyone can suffer so much and live. while all around me had to go to bed ill, i have had a supernatural strength of soul and body, and have never lost my head for one moment, but i cannot cry a tear. my throat is closed, and i sometime cannot swallow. my heart swelled to bursting. it must go snap soon, i think. i have not forgotten you, and what it means to you who loved each other so much. i shall save many little treasures for you. his and your father's watch, &c. there are hundreds of telegrams and letters and cards by every post from all parts of the world, and the newspapers are full. the whole civilized world ringing with his praise, and appreciative of his merits--every one deeming it an honour to have known him. now it will be felt what we have lost. i shall pass the remainder of my short time in writing his life and you must help me. best love to dearest georgy. i will write to her. your affectionate and desolate isabel." to mr. arbuthnot, lady burton also wrote a very long and pitiful letter. [ ] as it records in other words much that has already been mentioned we will quote only a few sentences. "dear mr. arbuthnot, "your sympathy and that of mrs. arbuthnot is very precious to me and i answer you both in one. i cannot answer general letters, but you were his best friend. i should like to tell you all if i saw you but i have no heart to write it.... i am arranging all his affairs and when finished i bring him to england.... i shall be a little slow coming because i have so much to do with his books and mss., and secondly because the rent is paid to the th february and i am too poor to pay two places. here i cannot separate from his body, and there it will be in the earth. i am so thoroughly stunned that i feel nothing outside, but my heart is crucified. i have lost all in him. you will want to know my plans. when my work is done, say st of march, i will go into a long retreat in a convent and will offer myself to a sister of charity. i do not think i shall be accepted for my age and infirmities, but will try.... the world is for me a dead letter, and can no more touch me. no more joy--no further sorrow can affect me. dr. baker is so good to me, and is undertaking my affairs himself as i really cannot care about them now. love to both. god bless you both for unvarying friendship and kindness. your affectionate and desolate friend, isabel burton. "i have saved his gold watch-chain as a memorial for you." so passed from human ken the great, noble and learned richard francis burton, "wader of the seas of knowledge," "cistern of learning of our globe," "exalted above his age," "opener by his books of night and day," "traveller by ship and foot and horse." [ ] no man could have had a fuller life. of all travellers he was surely the most enthusiastic. what had he not seen? the plains of the indus, the slopes of the blue mountains, the classic cities of italy, the mephitic swamps of eastern africa, the nilotic cataracts, brazil, abeokuta, iceland, el dorado--all knew well--him, his star-sapphire, and his congested church service: lands fertile, barren, savage, civilized, utilitarian, dithyrambic. he had worshipped at mecca and at salt lake city. he had looked into the face of memnon, and upon the rocks of midian, 'graven with an iron pen,' upon the head waters of the congo, and the foliate columns of palmyra; he had traversed the whole length of the sao francisco, crossed the mississippi and the ganges. then, too, had not the power of the hills been upon him! with what eminence indeed was he not familiar, whether alp, cameroon or himalaya! nor did he despise the features of his native land. if he had climbed the easy andes, he had also conquered, and looked down from the giddy heights of hampstead. because he had grubbed in the italian pompeii he did not, on that account, despise the british uriconium. [ ] he ranks with the world's most intrepid explorers--with columbus, cabot, marco polo, da gama and stanley. like another famous traveller, he had been "in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in weariness and painfullness." in the words of his beloved camoens, he had done "deeds that deserve, like gods, a deathless name." [ ] he had lived almost his three score and ten, but, says one of his friends, "in the vigour, the vehemence indeed with which he vented his indignation over any meanness or wrong, or littleness, he was to the last as youthful as when he visited mecca and harar. if, however, the work he did, the hardships he endured, and the amazing amount of learning which he acquired and gave forth to the world are to be taken as any measure of his life, he lived double the term of most ordinary men." like ovid, for the parallelism preserved itself to the end, he died in the land of his exile. "it has been said of him that he was the greatest oriental scholar england ever had and neglected." he was a mighty writer of books--some fifty works, to say nothing of multitudinous articles in the journals of the learned societies, having proceeded from his pen. if it be conceded that he was wanting in the literary faculty and that no one of his books is entirely satisfactory, it should be borne in mind that he added enormously to the sum of human knowledge. we go to him, not for style, but for facts. again, if his books are not works of art, they contain, nevertheless, many passages that cling to the memory. take him as linguist, traveller and anthropologist, he was certainly one of the greatest men that modern england has produced. chapter xxxviii. th october -december , the fate of "the scented garden" . the fate of the scented garden. burton wad dead. all that was mortal of him lay cold and motionless in the chapelle ardente. but his spirit? the spirits of the departed, can they revive us? the roman poet propertius answers: "yes; there are ghosts: death ends not all, i ween." and lady burton was just as thoroughly imbued with that belief. hereby hangs a curious story, now to be told as regards its essentials for the first time; and we may add that lady burton particularly wished these essentials to be made public after her decease. [ ] for sixteen days after her husband's death lady burton shut herself up in the house in order to examine and classify his manuscripts, pack up books, &c., ready for the journey to england, and "carry out his instructions." to the goodness--the sweetness--of her character we have several times paid tributes. we have spoken of the devotion to her husband which surrounds her with a lambent glory; but we have also shown that she was indiscreet, illiterate, [ ] superstitious and impulsive; and that she was possessed of a self-assurance that can only be described as colossal. we have also shown that her mind was unhinged by her sad trouble. such, then, was the woman and such the condition of the woman upon whom devolved the duty of considering the manuscripts of one of the most original men of the th century. which of them were valuable and which mere lumber she was quite incapable of judging. her right course would have been to call in some competent person; but she thought she was competent. at lady burton's request, mr. albert letchford and miss letchford had come to stay with her "for the remembrance of the love her husband bore them." it fell to miss letchford to sort sir richard's clothes and to remove the various trifles from his pockets. she found, among other things, the little canvas bags containing horse-chestnuts, which, as we have already noticed, he used "to carry about with him against the evil eye--as a charm to keep him from sickness." lady burton now commenced with the manuscripts--and let it be conceded, with the very best intentions. she would have nobody in the room but miss letchford. "i helped lady burton to sort his books, papers, and manuscripts," says miss letchford. "she thought me too young and innocent to understand anything. she did not suspect that often when she was not near i looked through and read many of those mss. which i bitterly repent not having taken, for in that case the world would not have been deprived of many beautiful and valuable writings. i remember a poem of his written in the style of 'the house that jack built,' the biting sarcasm of which, the ironical finesse--is beyond anything i have ever read. many great people still living found their way into these verses. i begged lady burton to keep it, but her peasant confessor said 'destroy it,' so it was burnt along with a hundred other beautiful things." she destroyed valuable papers, [ ] she carefully preserved and docketed as priceless treasures mere waste paper. [ ] there now remained only the manuscript of the scented garden and a few other papers. by this time lady burton had discovered that miss letchford was "not so ignorant as she thought," and when the latter begged her not to destroy the scented garden she promised that it should be saved; and no doubt, she really intended to save it. miss letchford having gone out for the evening, lady burton returned again to her task. her mind was still uneasy about the scented garden, and she took out the manuscript to examine it. of the character of the work she had some idea, though her husband had not allowed her to read it. fifteen hundred persons had promised subscriptions; and she had also received an offer of six thousand guineas for it from a publisher. [ ] she took out the manuscript and laid it on the floor, "two large volumes worth." [ ] when she opened it she was perfectly bewildered and horrified. the text alone would have staggered her, but, as we have seen, burton had trebled the size of the book with notes of a certain character. calming herself, she reflected that the book was written only for scholars and mainly for oriental students, and that her husband "never wrote a thing from the impure point of view. he dissected a passion from every point of view, as a doctor may dissect a body, showing its source, its origin, its evil, and its good." [ ] then she looked up, and there, before her, stood her husband just as he had stood in the flesh. he pointed to the manuscript and said "burn it!" then he disappeared. as she had for years been a believer in spirits, the apparition did not surprise her, and yet she was tremendously excited. "burn it!" she echoed, "the valuable manuscript? at which he laboured for so many weary hours? yet, doubtless, it would be wrong to preserve it. sin is the only rolling stone that gathers moss; what a gentleman, a scholar, a man of the world may write, when living, he would see very differently as a poor soul standing naked before its god, with its good or evil deeds alone to answer for, and their consequences visible to it from the first moment, rolling on to the end of time. oh, he would cry, for a friend on earth to stop and check them! what would he care for the applause of fifteen hundred men now--for the whole world's praise, and god offended? and yet the book is for students only. six thousand guineas, too, is a large sum, and i have great need of it." at this moment the apparition again stood before her, and in a sterner and more authoritative voice said: "burn it!" and then again disappeared. in her excitement she scarcely knew where she was or what she did. still she hesitated. then she soliloquised: "it is his will, and what he wishes shall be done. he loved me and worked for me. how am i going to reward him? in order that my wretched body may be fed and warmed for a few miserable years, shall i let his soul be left out in cold and darkness till the end of time--till all the sins which may be committed on reading those writings have been expiated, or passed away, perhaps, for ever? nafzawi, who was a pagan, begged pardon of god and prayed not to be cast into hell fire for having written it, and implored his readers to pray for him to allah that he would have mercy on him." [ ] still she hesitated. "it was his magnum opus," she went on, "his last work that he was so proud of, that was to have been finished [ ] on the awful morrow that never came. if i burn it the recollection will haunt me to my dying day," and again she turned over the leaves. then for the third time sir richard stood before her. again he sternly bade her burn the manuscript, and, having added threatenings to his command, he again disappeared. by this time her excitement had passed away, and a holy joy irradiated her soul. she took up the manuscript, and then sorrowfully, reverently, and in fear and trembling, she burnt it sheet after sheet, until the whole was consumed. as each leaf was licked up by the fire, it seemed to her that "a fresh ray of light and peace" transfused the soul of her beloved husband. that such were the facts and that the appearance of her husband was not mere hallucination, lady burton stiffly maintained until her dying day. she told mr. t. douglas murray [ ] that she dared not mention the appearances of her husband in her letter to the morning post [ ] or to her relatives for fear of ridicule. yet in the life of her husband--almost the closing words--she does give a hint to those who could understand. she says: "do not be so hard and prosaic as to suppose that our dead cannot, in rare instances, come back and tell us how it is with them." [ ] that evening, when miss letchford, after her return, entered sir richard's room, she saw some papers still smouldering in the grate. they were all that remained of the scented garden. on noticing miss letchford's reproachful look, lady burton said, "i wished his name to live for ever unsullied and without a stain." . discrepancies in lady burton's story. some have regarded this action of lady burton's--the destruction of the scented garden manuscript--as "one of rare self-sacrifice prompted by the highest religious motives and the tenderest love for one whom she looked to meet again in heaven, to which her burnt offering and fervent prayers might make his entrance sure." if the burning of the ms. of the scented garden had been an isolated action, we might have cheerfully endorsed the opinion just quoted, but it was only one holocaust of a series. that lady burton had the best of motives we have already admitted; but it is also very evident that she gave the matter inadequate consideration. the discrepancies in her account of the manuscript prove that at most she could have turned over only three or four pages--or half-a-dozen at the outside. [ ] let us notice these discrepancies: ( ) in her letter to the morning post ( th june ) she says of the scented garden: "it was his magnum opus, his last work that he was so proud of." yet in the life (ii., ) she calls it the only book he ever wrote that was not valuable to the world and in p. of the same work she alludes to it "as a few chapters which were of no particular value to the world." so it was at once the most valuable book he ever wrote and also of no value whatever. ( ) in volume ii. of the life (p. ) she says the only value in the book at all consisted in his annotations, and there was no poetry. this remark proves more than anything else how very superficial must have been her examination of the manuscript, for even the garbled edition of contains nearly lines of verse, while that of probably contains over a thousand. [ ] for example, there are twenty-three lines of the poet abu nowas's. ( ) on page of the life she says: "it was all translation except the annotations on the arabic work"--which gives the impression that the translation was the great feature, and that the notes were of secondary importance; but on p. she says, "the only value in the book at all consisted in the annotations." as a matter of fact, the annotations amounted to three-quarters of the whole. [see chapter xxxiv.] ( ) in the life, page (vol. ii.), she says the work was finished all but one page; and on page that only chapters were done. yet she much have known that the whole work consisted of chapters, and that the st chapter was as large as the other twenty put together, for her husband was always talking about and trying to obtain an arabic manuscript of this chapter (see chapter ). all this, of course, proved indubitably that lady burton actually knew next to nothing about the whole matter. perhaps it will be asked, what has been lost by this action of lady burton's? after carefully weighing the pros and cons we have come to the conclusion that the loss could not possibly have been a serious one. that burton placed a very high value on his work, that he considered it his masterpiece, is incontrovertible, but he had formed in earlier days just as high an opinion of his camoens and his kasidah; therefore what he himself said about it has not necessarily any great weight. we do not think the loss serious for four reasons: first, because the original work, whatever its claims on the anthropologist, has little, if any, literary merit; [ ] secondly, because sir richard burton's "old version" [ ] of the scented garden is public property, and has been reprinted at least three times; thirdly, because only half was done; and fourthly, because the whole of the work has since been translated by a writer who, whatever his qualifications or disqualifications, has had access to manuscripts that were inaccessible to sir richard burton. practically then, for, as we have already shown, sir richard did not particularly shine as a translator, nothing has been lost except his notes. these notes seem to have been equivalent to about pages of an ordinary crown octavo book printed in long primer. two-thirds of this matter was probably of such a character that its loss cannot be deplored. the remainder seems to have been really valuable and to have thrown light on arab life and manners. although the translation was destroyed in october , the public were not informed of the occurrence until june --nine months after. copies of the kama shastra edition of the scented garden issued in [ ] are not scarce. the edition of , to which we have several times referred, is founded chiefly on the arabic manuscript in the library at algiers, which a few years ago was collated by professor max seligsohn with the texts referred to by burton as existing in the libraries of paris, gotha and copenhagen. . the fate of the catullus. the fate of the catullus was even more tragic than that of the scented garden. this work, like the scented garden, was left unfinished. burton had covered his latin copy and his manuscript with pencil notes looking like cobwebs, and on one page was written "never show half finished work to women or fools." the treatment meted to his manuscript would, if burton had been a poet of the first order, have drawn tears from a milestone. but it must be borne in mind that lady burton did consider him a poet of the first order, for she ranked his camoens and his kasidah with the work of shakespere. and this is how she treated a work which she considered a world-masterpiece. first she skimmed it over, then she expurgated it, and finally she either typed it herself, [ ] or, what is more likely, put it into the hands of a typist who must have been extremely illiterate or abominably careless. then, without even troubling to correct the copy, she sent the manuscript of the catullus up the chimney after that of the scented garden. the typewritten copy was forwarded to the unhappy and puzzled mr. leonard c. smithers, with the request, which was amusing enough, that he would "edit it" and bring it out. just as a child who has been jumping on the animals of a noah's ark brings them to his father to be mended. "to me," observes mr. smithers piteously, "has fallen the task of editing sir richard's share in this volume from a type-written copy literally swarming with copyist's errors. [ ] lady burton has without any reason constantly refused me even a glance at his ms." the book, such as it was, appeared in . if burton had not been embalmed he would have turned in his coffin. we may or may not pardon lady burton for destroying the ms. of the scented garden, but it is impossible not to pass upon her at any rate a mild censure for having treated in that way a translation of catullus after it had been expurgated to her own taste. whether burton would have considerably improved the poetry of his version we cannot say; but as it stands no single poem is superior to the work of his predecessors. one need only compare his rendering of the lines "to the peninsula of sirmio" with the hon. george lamb's [ ] "sirmio of all the shores the gem," or leigh hunt's "o, best of all the scattered spots that lie," to see what a fall was there, and yet neither lamb's version nor hunt's is satisfactory. his "atys" pales before cranstoun's, and his "epithalamium," is almost unreadable; while the lines "on the death of lesbia's sparrow" naturally compel comparison with byron's version. nor will readers of the translations by sir theodore martin or robinson ellis gain anything by turning to burton. on the other hand, we can well believe that his work, considered as a commentary on catullus--for nearly all his loose notes have perished--would have been as valuable to us as, viewed in the same light, is his edition of camoens. he had explored all the catullus country. verona, the poet's birthplace, "sweet sirmio," his home on the long narrow peninsula that cleaves garda's "limpid lake," brescia, "below the cycnaean peak," [ ] the "dimpling waters" of heavenly como, and the estate of caecilius; [ ] all were familiar to him. he knew every spot visited by the poet in his famous voyage in the open pinnance [ ] from bithynia "through the angry euxine," among the cyclades, by "purple zante," up the adriatic, and thence by river and canal to 'home, sweet home.' he was deep in every department of catullian lore. he had taken enormous pains; he had given his nights and days to the work. the notes at the end of the printed volume are a mere drop compared with the ocean he left. however, the manuscript with its pencilled cobwebs, the voluminous "loose notes"--all--good and bad--went up the chimney. personally we have never expended a sigh over the loss of the scented garden, and we should not have minded one straw if lady burton had burnt also her typewritten travesty of the catullus; but her destruction of sir richard's private journals and diaries was a deed that one finds it very hard to forgive. just as sir richard's conversation was better than his books, so, we are told, his diaries were better than his conversation. says mr. w. h. wilkins, [ ] referring to sir richard, "he kept his diaries and journals, not as many keep them, with all the ugly things left out, but faithfully and fully," and again, "the private journals and diaries which were full of the secret thoughts and apologia of this rare genius have been committed to the flames." dr. baker, who was favoured with the sight of portions of these diaries, tells me that sir richard used to put in them not only an epitome of every important letter written or received by him, and of every conversation he had with persons of consequence; but also any remarks that struck him, uttered by no matter whom. [ ] . lisa departs, november . like chico, like khamoor, lisa, the baroness lady-companion, had through injudicious treatment grown well-nigh unendurable. while burton was alive she still had some dim notion of her place, but after his death she broke the traces, and lady burton had, with deep regret, to part with her. they separated very good friends, however, for lady burton was generosity itself. by this time she had been pretty well cured of lady's maid and servant pets, at any rate we hear of no other. lady burton was also distressed by an attack make in the times upon the memory of her husband by colonel grant, who declared that burton had treated both speke and their native followers with inhumanity. lady burton replied with asperity--giving the facts much as we have given them in chapter ix. grant died th february . chapter xxxix. january to july , lady burton in england bibliography (posthumous works): . morocco and the moors, by henry leared, edited by burton. . . il pentamerone, published . . the kasidah ( copies only). . [note.--in an edition of copies appeared]. . lady burton in england. by the new year lady burton had completed all her arrangements. the swarms of servants and parasites which her good nature had attracted to her had been paid, or thrown, off; and the books and the mutilated manuscripts packed up. every day she had visited her "beloved in the chapelle ardente." "i never rested," she says, "and it was a life of torture. i used to wake at four, the hour he was taken ill, and go through all the horrors of his three hours' illness until seven." on january th, burton's remains were taken to england by the steamer "palmyra." lady burton then walked round and round to every room, recalling all her life in that happy home and all the painful events that had so recently taken place. she gazed pensively and sadly at the beautiful views from the windows and went "into every nook and cranny of the garden." the very walls seemed to mourn with her. on arriving in england on february th her first concern was to call on lady stisted and miss stisted, in order to "acquaint them with the circumstances of her husband's death and her intentions." the meeting was a painful one both to them and to her. they plainly expressed their disapproval of the scenes that had been enacted in the death chamber and at the funerals at trieste; and they declared that as protestants they could not countenance any additional ceremonial of a like nature. lady burton next visited ilkeston, in derbyshire, where she had implored "our lady of dale" to bring about her husband's conversion. entering the catholic church there, she knelt before the altar and cried "here i asked! here i obtained! our lady of dale, deliver his soul from purgatory!" [ ] burton's remains arrived--by "long sea"--in england on february th ( ) and were placed temporarily in the crypt of the catholic church at mortlake; and lady burton then devoted the whole of her time to arranging for a public funeral in england. to mrs. e. j. burton she wrote ( rd march ): "you must have thought me so ungrateful for not answering your sweet letter of five months ago, but, indeed, i have felt it deeply. losing the man who had been my earthly god for thirty-five years, was like a blow on the head, and for a long time i was completely stunned." [ ] . the funeral at mortlake, th june . the sum of £ having been raised by burton's admirers, a mausoleum, made of dark forest of dean stone and white carrara marble, and shaped like an arab tent, was erected in the catholic cemetery at mortlake. over the door is an open book inscribed with the names of sir richard and lady burton, and below the book runs a ribbon with the words "this monument is erected to his memory by his loving countrymen." among those present at the funeral were major st. george burton, dr. e. j. burton, mr. mostyn pryce, lord arundell, mr. gerald arundell, lord gerard, lord northbrook, mr. van zeller, dr. baker, dr. leslie, mr. f. f. arbuthnot, commander cameron, and mr. justin huntley mccarthy; and canon wenham officiated. the coffin was laid in the middle of the church upon trestles, which were covered by "a cramoisie velvet pall." tall silver candlesticks with wax candles surrounded it. an unseen choir sang solemn chants. lady burton, "a pathetic picture of prayerful sorrow," occupied a prie-dieu at the coffin's side. when the procession filed out priests perfumed the coffin with incense and sprinkled it with holy water, acolytes bore aloft their flambeaux, and the choir, now seen to be robed in black, sang epicedial hymns. the service had all been conducted in latin, but at this point canon wenham, turning to the coffin, said in english, "with a smile and a voice full of emotion, [ ] 'enter now into paradise.'" lady burton then laid on the coffin a bunch of forget-me-nots, and said, "here lies the best husband that ever lived, the best son, the best brother, and the truest staunchest friend." the bystanders were moved according to their temperaments and religious views, but all were touched by the tempestuousness of lady burton's grief. she seemed as "one of the eumenides." to some the pomp and scenic effects were gratifying. others were affected by the reflection that the great traveller, after roaming through almost every known land, had at last been laid in a quiet nook in an english graveyard. others who were familiar with burton's religious views considered "the whole ceremony an impertinence." all, however, whatever their opinions, were united in the desire to honour the great englishman whose motto had been "honour not honours." so at last, after four funerals, sir richard burton was left in peace. the interior of the tomb remains much as it did on that day. facing the entrance is an altar with pictures, vases and the other customary appurtenances. sir richard's sarcophagus lies to one's left, and on the right has since been placed the coffin of lady burton, while over all hang ropes of camel bells, which when struck give out the old metallic sound that sir richard heard so often in the desert. the ceremony over, lady burton went to spend ten days in the convent of the canonesses of the holy sepulchre at chelmsford--"my convent," as she called it, because she was educated there. she then hired longing at no. , baker street, london, until a house--no. --in the same street could be made ready for her. by the kindness of queen victoria she was allowed a pension of £ a year. . the scented garden storm, june . in the meantime, the fifteen hundred subscribers to the scented garden kept writing to lady burton to ask when the promised work was to be in their hands. as she could not possibly reply to so many persons, and as the nature of some of the letters cast her into a state of wild perturbation, there seemed only one course open to her--namely, to write to the press. so she sent to the morning post the well-known letter which appeared th june, , mentioning some of her reasons for destroying the manuscript, the principal being her belief that out of fifteen hundred men, fifteen would probably read it in the spirit of science in which it was written, the other fourteen hundred and eighty-five would read it "for filth's sake." the principal cause, the apparition of her husband, she did not mention. [ ] the letter in the morning post had no sooner appeared than a cry arose against her from one end of the country to the other. the press castigated her, private persons expressed their indignation by post. burton's family in particular bitterly resented what they considered a "foolish, mad act, insulting alike to the dead and the living." lady burton then wrote a second letter, which she sent to the echo. she said that if burton had lived "he would have been perfectly justified in carrying out his work. he would have been surrounded by friends to whom he could have explained any objections or controversies, and would have done everything to guard against the incalculable harm of his purchasers lending it to their women friends and to their boyish acquaintances, which i could not guarantee.... my husband did no wrong, he had a high purpose [ ] and he thought no evil of printing it, and could one have secured the one per cent. of individuals to whom it would have been merely a study, it would probably have done no harm." later she made some further defence in the new review. the opinions of burton's friends and intimate acquaintances on the matter were as follows: mr. payne and mr. watts-dunton [ ] thought that lady burton did quite rightly, considering the circumstances, in destroying the work. mr. w.f. kirby thought that, though from her own point of view she was justified in so doing, she would have done better to present it to the college of surgeons, where it would have been quite harmless and might have been consulted by bona-fide students. mr. arbuthnot considered that in fulfilment of burton's promise it should have been given to him. he would, of course, have published it as a volume of the kama shastra society, taking the usual precautions to prevent it from falling into unsuitable hands. chapter xl. july -december , o tomb, o tomb! bibliography: . life of sir richard burton, vols. . . translation of catullus. . . the library edition of the arabian nights, vols. . . a letter to miss stisted. in july there appeared in temple bar an article by miss stisted, entitled "reminiscences of sir richard burton," and upon reading it, lady burton, who headed her letter " or baker street, portman square," wrote as follows: "dearest georgy, [ ] i read last night your clever and well-written article on my darling, and send you a little notice out of the daily news. i congratulate you on it and on being able to write again. i was very sorry you and maria [lady stisted] would not come to the funeral. when you come in august i shall give you a photo of the monument and a list of the people who were invited.... there were asked, influenza refusals and over were present, counted by the police at the gates.... when you come i shall be i trust at no. . [ ] your loving aunt zoo." but the comic always treads on the heels of the pathetic for it is not probable that miss stisted valued very much the photograph of what in her "true life," she thought fit to call "an eccentric tomb" in a "shabby sectarian cemetery." [ ] the removal into , baker street, took place in september , and a little later lady burton hired a cottage at wople end, near mortlake, where she spent her summer months. during the last decade of her husband's life she had become, to use her own words, coarse and rather unwieldy, but her sorrow had the effect of restoring to her some of the graces of person that had marked her early days. that this is no figment of our imagination may easily be seen by anyone who compares her portrait in the group taken by miller in with the photograph by gunn and stuart, [ ] where she is in her widow's cap with its long white streamers. in this photograph and others taken at the time she looks handsome and stately. she is once more "empress of damascus." the house in baker street has thus been described: "no sooner have you crossed lady burton's threshold than you are at once transported, as if by magic, to eastern climes. you are greeted by a handsome woman whose black dress and white widow's cap present a striking contrast to the glow of rich but subdued colour which surrounds her. opposite the fireplace is a full length and very characteristic portrait of burton in fencing costume. [ ] among the curiosities are the necklace [ ] of human bones given to burton by gelele, some specimens of old istrian china picked up in the cottages near trieste, and a three-sided mirror and two crystals with which burton used to mesmerise his wife. from the ceiling hung a quaint moorish lamp with many branches, and its softened rays often fall on a damascene silver gilt coffee service studded with turquoises." at the top of the house and approached by a narrow staircase and a ladder was a large loft, built by herself, for storing her husband's manuscripts and books. on one side glittered a "small but tastefully decorated altar," while scattered around were the many relics which have since drifted to camberwell. . the writing of the life august -march . in this loft lady burton spent many hours examining her husband's papers, and in the autumn of she commenced in earnest to write his life--a work that occupied her about eight months. that she was absolutely unfitted for the task must be clear to all who have any knowledge of burton. indeed, she was quite incapable of doing literary work of any kind properly. the spirit in which she wrote may be gauged both from the book itself, with its frequent offences against good taste, and the following citation from a letter to a friend: "i do not know," she said, "if i can harden my heart against the curs, but i can put out my tongue and point my pen and play pussy cat about their eyes and ears." by "curs" she means those who rated her for burning her husband's manuscripts, but in justice to her, let it be borne in mind that she had received some letters that were quite unworthy of the writers. the great questions was, would she live to complete her task? owing to an incurable complaint she could give only a limited portion of her time to the work, and there were whole days in which no progress was made. every page bears evidences of hurry. we have already told the story of the three appearances of sir richard just before the burning of the scented garden ms. lady burton persistently declared that after the third appearance her husband came again and never left her until she had finished her work. "he was constantly with me," she said to mr. murray, "appearing exactly as in life, and he advised and comforted me. he helped me most materially towards the compilation of his own biography, and gave me references to books and manuscripts so that the biography came comparatively easy to my hand. he gave me absolutely the position of the book in the shelf and the page and reference itself which i required." a letter [ ] of one of burton's friends contains the following comments on the work. "i plainly see that the objects of writing the life were two-fold. first to prove sir richard a roman catholic, and thus fit him to be buried with her, and secondly to whitewash his escapades and insubordination. as to the first, i know he despised [ ] the roman catholic religion; and if any very deep sense of religious feeling existed at all, it was of the mohammedan rather than anything else; but his religion was not very apparent, though he was fundamentally an honest and conscientious man, and i think he had but one enemy--himself. he was a very great man; very like a magnificent machine one part of which had gone wrong--and that was his hot temper." lady burton's book was finished at mortlake on th march , and appeared in the autumn of that year. she then commenced the issue of the memorial edition of her husband's works. the pilgrimage to al medinah and meccah ( vols.), the mission to gelele ( vols.), and vikram and the vampire appeared in , first footsteps in east africa in . the venture, however, proved a failure, so no more volumes were issued. she published her husband's pentameron in , and the catullus in . writing th july to mrs. e. j. burton just before a visit to that lady, lady burton says--and it must be borne in mind that her complaint often made her feel very ill--"send me a line to tell me what is the nearest roman catholic church to you, as i must drive there first to make all arrangements for sunday morning to get an early confession, communion and mass (after which i am at liberty for the rest of the day) because, as you know, i have to fast from midnight till i come back, and i feel bad for want of a cup of tea. ...the life is out to-day." the reception accorded to her work by the press, who, out of regard to sir richard's memory, spoke of it with the utmost kindness, gave lady burton many happy hours. "it is a great pleasure to me," she says, "to know how kind people are about my book, and how beautifully they speak of darling richard." [ ] most of lady burton's remaining letters are full of gratitude to god, tender and christian sentiment, faulty english and bad spelling. [ ] "i did see the times," she says, "and was awfully glad of it. kinder still is the sunday sun, the st, the th and the th of october, five columns each, which say that i have completely lifted any cloud away from his memory, and that his future fame will shine like a beacon in all ages. thank god!" st. george burton was wicked enough to twit her for her spelling, and to say that he found out as many as seventeen words incorrectly spelt in one letter. but she deftly excused herself by saying that she used archaic forms. "never mind st. george," she writes good-humouredly, to mrs. e. g. burton, "i like old spelling." she did not excuse her slang by calling it old, or refer her friends to chaucer for "awfully glad." the greatest pleasure of her life was now, as she oddly expresses it, to "dress the mausoleum" on "darling dick's anniversary." she says ( st october to mrs. e. j. burton), [ ] "i received your dear flowers, and the mausoleum was quite lovely, a mass of lights and flowers sent by relations and affectionate friends. yours stood in front of the altar." then follows a delicious and very characteristic sample of lady burton's english: "we had mass and communion," she says, "and crowds of friends came down to see the mausoleum and two photographers." she was glad to visit and decorate the mortlake tomb certainly, but the pleasure was a very melancholy one, and she could but say, borrowing a thought from the arabian nights: "o tomb, o tomb, thou art neither earth nor heaven unto me." [ ] when lady stisted died ( th december ), lady burton felt the blow keenly, and she wrote very feelingly on the subject, "yes," she says, in a letter to mrs. e. j. burton, "i was very shocked at poor maria's death, and more so because i wish nothing had come between us." "poor maria," she wrote to st. george burton, "you would be surprised to know, and i am surprised myself, how much i feel it." in a letter to madame de gutmansthal-benvenuti ( th january ), lady burton refers to the burton tableau to madame tussaud's. she says, "they have now put richard in the meccan dress he wore in the desert. they have given him a large space with sand, water, palms; and three camels, and a domed skylight, painted yellow, throws a lurid light on the scene. it is quite life-like. i gave them the real clothes and the real weapons, and dressed him myself." "i am so glad," she writes to miss stisted, [ ] "you went to tussaud's, and that you admired dick and his group. i am not quite content with the pose. the figure looks all right when it stands up properly, but i have always had a trouble with tussaud about a certain stoop which he declares is artistic, and which i say was not natural to him." . the library edition of the nights . lady burton now authorised the publication of what is called the library edition of the arabian nights. according to the editorial note, while in lady burton's edition no fewer than pages of the original are wanting [ ] in this edition the excisions amount only to about pages. the editor goes on: "these few omissions are rendered necessary by the pledge which sir richard gave to his subscribers that no cheaper edition of the entire work should be issued; but in all other respects the original text has been reproduced with scrupulous fidelity." by this time lady burton had lost two of her trieste friends, namely lisa, the baroness-maid who died in , and mrs. victoria maylor, burton's amanuensis, who died in . chapter xli. death of lady burton bibliography: . the jew, the gypsy, and el islam. . . wanderings in three continents. . . lady burton at eastbourne. lady burton spent the year and part of at baker street and mortlake, making occasional visits to friends. as at trieste, she surrounded herself with a crowd of servants and other idle people whom, in her good nature, she systematically pampered, and who in their turn did their best to make her life unendurable. she could, however, easily afford these luxuries, for thanks to the large sums received for her life of sir richard, the library edition, &c., she was now in affluent circumstances. she won to herself and certainly deserved the character of "a dear old lady." in politics she was a "progressive conservative," though what that meant neither she nor those about her had any clear notion. she dearly loved children--at a safe distance--and gave treats, by proxy, to all the catholic schools in the neighbourhood. she took an active interest in various charities, became an anti-vivisectionist, and used very humanely to beat people about the head with her umbrella, if she caught them ill-treating animals. if they remonstrated, she used to retort, "yes, and how do you like it?" "when she wanted a cab," says mr. w. h. wilkins, "she invariably inspected the horse carefully first, to see if it looked well fed and cared for; if not, she discharged the cab and got another; and she would always impress upon the driver that he must not beat his horse under any consideration." on one occasion she sadly forgot herself. she and her sister, mrs. fitzgerald, had hired a cab at charing cross station and were in a great hurry to get home. of course, as usual, she impressed upon the cabman that he was not to beat his horse. "the horse, which was a wretched old screw, refused, in consequence, to go at more than a walking pace," and lady burton, who was fuming with impatience, at last so far forgot herself as to put her head out of the window and cry to the driver, "why don't you beat him? why don't you make him go?" [ ] she occasionally met her husband's friends, mr. and mrs. arbuthnot and mr. payne. one day at some dinner it transpired in the course of conversation that mr. payne had all his life been an habitual sufferer from insomnia. "i can tell you how to cure that," said lady burton. "how?" said mr. payne. "say your prayers," said she. after an attack of influenza lady burton hired a cottage--holywell lodge--at eastbourne [ ] where she stayed from september to march , busying herself composing her autobiography. [ ] two letters which she wrote to miss stisted from holywell lodge are of interest. both are signed "your loving zoo." the first contains kindly references to mr. and mrs. arbuthnot, who had been visiting her, and to the widow of professor huxley [ ] who was staying at eastbourne; and the second, which is amusing enough, records her experiences among some very uncongenial people at boscombe. wherever she went, lady burton, as we have seen, was always thrusting her opinions, welcome or not, upon other persons; but at boscombe the tables were turned, and she experienced the same annoyance that she herself had so often excited in others. "i went," she says, "to a little boarding-house called.... the house was as comfortable as it could be, the food plain, but eatable, but the common table was always chock full of plymouth brethren and tract-giving old maids, and we got very tired of it." then follows an account of her establishment at eastbourne. "it consists," she says, "of my secretary (miss plowman) and nurse, and we have our meals together, and drive out together whenever i am able. then my servants are a maid, house-parlour-maid, a housemaid and a cook (my baker street lot). the cottage [at mortlake] is in charge of a policeman, and baker street a caretaker. my friend left three servants in the house, so we are ten altogether, and i have already sent one of mine back, as they have too much to eat, too little to do, and get quarrelsome and disagreeable." thus it was the same old story, for lady burton, though she had the knack of living, was quite incapable of learning, or at any rate of profiting by experience. the letter concludes sadly, "as to myself, i am so thin and weak that i cannot help thinking there must be atrophy, and in any case my own idea is that i may be able to last till march." . death of lady burton, nd mar. . lady burton from that time gradually grew weaker; but death, which "to prepared appetites is nectar," had for her no terrors. to her it meant release from pain and suffering, ultimate reception into the presence of an all-merciful god, re-union with her beloved husband. she did, however, last, as she had anticipated, till march. early in that month she returned to baker street, where she died rather suddenly on sunday the nd. by her will dated, th december , she left some £ , to her sister, mrs. fitzgerald, [ ] and the following persons also benefitted: her sister, mrs. van zeller, £ ; her secretary, miss plowman £ ; khamoor £ ; her nephew gerald arthur arundell, the cottage at mortlake; the orphanage at trieste, £ . she directed that after her heart had been pierced with a needle her body was to be embalmed in order that it might be kept above ground by the side of her husband. she stated that she had bought a vault close to the tent, and that two places were to be reserved in it in order that if a revolution should occur in england, and there should be fear of the desecration of the dead, the coffins of her husband and herself might be lowered into it. she provided for , masses to be said for her at once at paris, and left an annuity to pay for a daily mass to be said there perpetually. the attendance of priests at her funeral was to be "as large as possible." lady burton was buried on friday march th, the service taking place in the catholic church at mortlake where five years previous she had knelt beside the coffin of her husband; and a large number of mourners was present. after mass her remains were carried to the arab tent, and so she obtained her wish, namely, that in death she and her husband might rest in the same tomb. . miss stisted's "true life." as might have been expected, lady burton's life of her husband gave umbrage to the stisted family--and principally for two reasons; first its attempt to throw a flood of catholic colour on sir richard, and secondly because it contained statements which they held to be incorrect. so after lady burton's death, miss stisted wrote and published a small work entitled the true life of sir richard burton. it is written with some acerbity, for lady burton as a catholic was not more militant than miss stisted as a protestant. it throws additional and welcome light on sir richard's early days, but as we have elsewhere remarked, the principal charge that it made against lady burton, namely that she was the main cause of her husband's downfall at damascus, is unsupported by sufficient evidence. . mr. wilkins's work, . that there should be a counterblast to the true life was inevitable, and it came in the shape of the romance of isabel lady burton, which consists of lady burton's unfinished autobiography and a continuation by mr. w. h. wilkins. the work is a valuable addition to burton lore, but mr. wilkins's friendship for lady burton led him to place her on a far higher pedestal than we have been able to give her. perhaps it was natural that in dealing with the true life he should have betrayed some heat. however, death has now visited miss stisted [ ] as well as lady burton, and the commotion made by the falling of the stone into the pool is at this distance represented only by the faintest of circles. in , mr. wilkins published, with an acceptable preface, three of burton's unfinished works in one volume, with the title of the jew, the gypsy, and el islam, and in he placed the public under further obligation to him by editing and issuing burton's wanderings in three continents. . burton's friends. most of burton's friends have followed him to the tomb. edward rehatsek died at a ripe age at worli on th december , and was cremated in hindu fashion. at the time of his death he was working at the translation of the third part of the rauzat-us-safa. [ ] in his last letter to mr. arbuthnot, after referring to his declining health, he finished by saying, "hope, however, never dies; and as work occupies the mind, and keeps off despair, i am determined to translate for you, though slowly, the third part of the rauzat-us-safa, so as to make the history of the khalifahs complete." [ ] mr. arbuthnot continued to take interest in oriental matters and wrote prefaces for several translations by rehatsek and dr. steingass, including the first part of rehatsek's rauzat-us-safa ( ) and steingass's assemblies of al haririr ( ). his arabic authors appeared in , his mysteries of chronology in . he died in may , and was buried at shamley green, guildford. he left money for the oriental translation fund, of which, it will be remembered, he was the founder, and his memory will always be honoured by orientalists. a memorial of him--the arbuthnot institute--was opened at shamley green on st may . mr. ashbee died in , dr. f. j. steingass in january, . after burton's death, mr. letchford went to bohemia as the guest of the prince of thurn and taxis. at vienna his next resort, he painted many beautiful pictures, one of the best being founded on edgar allen poe's poem, "silence." finally he went to naples, where he produced the series of pictures that has given him immortality--the illustrations to the arabian nights. then followed days of darkness and trouble, but he was always courageous. "he felt that what he had striven for so long was now within his reach; he had the presentiment that he was about to take those flights of art which are permitted to very few." his portrait of the son of sir william wollcock is a work of genius. in july , hearing that mr. letchford was ill, i wrote to his sister, daisy, [ ] who lived with him. the letter was received, and mr. letchford intended replying to it himself. "he was only waiting to feel a little stronger," wrote miss letchford, "he never thought the end was near. on monday morning of the th of july he still kept making wonderful plans for the future. he had the room in which he spent his last hours crowded with flowers, and as he felt his powers failing him he recited swinburne's beautiful poem, 'the garden of proserpine': "though one were fair as roses his beauty clouds and closes." "suddenly he lost consciousness, and he awoke from his comatose state only to repeat the identical words which were sir richard burton's last--'i am dying--i am dead.' his beautiful soul had left this world for ever, for it was indeed a beautiful soul." [ ] major edward burton, sir richard's brother, died st october --after his terrible silence of nearly forty years. he was never married. miss stisted died in . so of burton's parents there are now no descendants. within fifteen years of his death, the family was extinct. of the friends and intimate acquaintances of burton who still survive we must first mention mr. a. c. swinburne, mr. watts-dunton and mr. john payne. mr. swinburne has, year after year, it is scarcely necessary to say, added to his fame, and all englishmen are proud of his genius. the definitive edition of his works has delighted all his admirers; and just as we are going to press everyone is reading with intense interest his early novel love's cross currents. mr. watts-dunton is in excellent health, and his pen is as vigorous as ever. he enjoys the proud position of being our greatest living literary critic. mr. payne, who is still hard at work, ahs published since burton's death translations of the novels of matteo bandello (six vols. ), the quatrains of omar kheyyam ( ), and--atlantean task--the poems of hafiz ( vols. ). his collected poems ( - ) in two handsome volumes, appeared in ; and he has since issued vigil and vision ( ), songs of consolation, and hamid the luckless ( ). in the last he returns to his old love, the arabian nights, most of the poems being founded on tales in that work. mr. w. f. kirby, dr. grenfell baker, mrs. e. j. burton, major st. george burton, mr. frederick burton, mr. p. p. cautley, mr. a. g. ellis, and professor blumhardt are also living. his excellency yacoub artin pasha is still minister of instruction at cairo; mr. tedder is still at the athenaeum. our task is ended. sir richard burton was inadequately regarded in his lifetime, and even now no suitable memorial of him exists in the capital of the empire, which is so deeply indebted to him. let us hope that this omission will soon be rectified. his aura, however, still haunts the saloons of his beloved athenaeum, and there he may be seen any day, by those who have eyes latched [ ] over, busily writing at the round table in the library--white suit, shabby beaver, angel forehead, demon jaw, facial scar, and all. he is as much an integral part of the building as the helmeted minerva on the portico; and when tardy england erects a statue to him it ought to select a site in the immediate neighbourhood of his most cherished haunt. our task, we repeat, is ended. no revolution, so far as we are aware, has distracted modern england, and sir richard and lady burton still sleep in sepulchral pomp in their marmorean arab tent at mortlake. more than fifteen years have now elapsed since, to employ a citation from the arabian nights, there came between them "the destroyer of delights and the sunderer of companies and glory be to him who changeth not, neither ceaseth, and in whom all things have their term." [ ] the end. verses on the death of richard burton [ ] by algernon charles swinburne night of light is it now, wherein sleeps, shut out from the wild world's din, wakes, alive with a life more clear, one who found not on earth his kin? sleep were sweet for awhile, were dear surely to souls that were heartless here, souls that faltered and flagged and fell, soft of spirit and faint of cheer. a living soul that had strength to quell hope the spectre and fear the spell, clear-eyed, content with a scorn sublime and a faith superb, can it fare not well? life, the shadow of wide-winged time, cast from the wings that change as they climb, life may vanish in death, and seem less than the promise of last year's prime. but not for us is the past a dream wherefrom, as light from a clouded stream, faith fades and shivers and ebbs away, faint as the moon if the sundawn gleam. faith, whose eyes in the low last ray watch the fire that renews the day, faith which lives in the living past, rock-rooted, swerves not as weeds that sway. as trees that stand in the storm-wind fast she stands, unsmitten of death's keen blast, with strong remembrance of sunbright spring alive at heart to the lifeless last. night, she knows, may in no wise cling to a soul that sinks not and droops not wing, a sun that sets not in death's false night whose kingdom finds him not thrall but king. souls there are that for soul's affright bow down and cower in the sun's glad sight, clothed round with faith that is one with fear, and dark with doubt of the live world's light. but him we hailed from afar or near as boldest born of his kinsfolk here and loved as brightest of souls that eyed life, time, and death with unchangeful cheer, a wider soul than the world was wide, whose praise made love of him one with pride what part has death or has time in him, who rode life's list as a god might ride? while england sees not her old praise dim, while still her stars through the world's night swim a fame outshining her raleigh's fame, a light that lightens her loud sea's rim, shall shine and sound as her sons proclaim the pride that kindles at burton's name. and joy shall exalt their pride to be the same in birth if in soul the same. but we that yearn for a friend's face,--we who lack the light that on earth was he,-- mourn, though the light be a quenchless flame that shines as dawn on a tideless sea. appendices appendix i bibliography of richard burton . grammar of the jataki or belochi dialect. (bombay branch of the royal asiatic society.) . . remarks on dr. dorn's chrestomathy of the afghan tongue. (bombay branch of the royal asiatic society.) . . reports addressed to the bombay government. ( .) general notes on sind. ( .) notes on the population of sind. . grammar of the mooltanee language. . goa and the blue mountains. . . scinde, or the unhappy valley. vols., . . sindh, and the races that inhabit the valley of the indus. . . falconry in the valley of the indus. . . commencement (with dr. steinhauser) of the arabian nights. . . a complete system of bayonet exercise. . . the kasidah. (written. published in .) . el islam. (written. published with the jew and the gypsy in .) . pilgrimage to al-madinah and meccah. vols. - . nd edition, ; rd edition, . . first footsteps in east africa, or an exploration of harar. . . lake regions of equatorial africa. vols., . . volume of the royal geographical society. . . the city of the saints and across the rocky mountains to california. . . wanderings in west africa. vols., . . prairie traveller, by r. b. marcy. edited by burton, . . abeokuta and the cameroons. vols., . . a day among the fans. th february . . the nile basin. . . a mission to the king of dahome. vols., . . marcy's prairie traveller. notes by burton, (anthropological review), . . speech at farewell dinner given by the anthropological society to r. f. b. before his departure for south america, th april . (anthropological review, iii., - .) . wit and wisdom from west africa. . . pictorial pilgrimage to mecca and medina. . . psychic facts. stone talk, by francis baker [burton]. . . notes on certain matters connected with the dahoman. . . on an hermaphrodite from the cape de verde islands. . . exploration of the highlands of the brazil.... also canoeing down , miles of the great river sao francisco, from sabara to the sea. vols., . . vikram and the vampire. (adapted from the baital pachisi.) . . letters from the battlefields of paraguay. . . proverba communia syriaca. (royal asiatic society.) . (see no. .) . the jew. (written . published with the gypsy and el islam). . zanzibar: city, island and coast. vols., . . unexplored syria, by burton and c. tyrwhitt drake. vols., . no. is included in vol. i. . on human remains, and other articles from iceland. . . medinah and meccah. vols. in one, . . minas geraes and the occupations of the present inhabitants. th january . . lacerda's journey to cazembe in , translated and annotated by capt. r. f. burton. . . the captivity of hans stade of hesse, in a.d. - , among the wild tribes of eastern brazil. translated by albert tootal, of rio de janeiro, and annotated by burton. . . articles on rome. (macmillan's magazine.) - . . the catellieri, or prehistoric ruins of the istrian peninsula. . gerber's province of minas geraes. translated by burton. (royal geographical society.) . . new system of sword exercise. . . ultima thule; or a summer in iceland. vols., . . two trips to gorilla land and the cataracts of the congo. vols., . . inner life of syria. vols., . by isabel burton. . the long wall of salona and the ruined cities of pharia and gelsa di lesina. . . the port of trieste. . the gypsy. (written in . published in with the jew and el islam.) . etruscan bologna. . . new system of sword exercise for infantry. . . sind revised. vols., . . the gold mines of midian and the ruined midianite cities. . . a. e. i. (arabia, egypt, india.) by isabel burton. . ogham runes and el mushajjar. . . the land of midian revisited. vols., . . camoens. ( .) the lusiands. vols., . ( .) life of camoens and commentary. . ( .) the lyrics. . . kasidah. . . visit to lissa and pelagoza. [ ] . . a glance at the passion play. . . how to deal with the slave scandal in egypt. . . thermae of monfalcone. . . lord beaconsfield, a sketch. pp. . ? . to the gold coast for gold. by burton and verney lovett cameron. vols., . . stone implements from the gold coast. by burton and cameron. . . publications of the kama shastra society:-- the kama sutra. . the ananga ranga. . the arabian nights. - . the scented garden. . the beharistan. . the gulistan. . the nigaristan, etc. (unpublished.) . the book of the sword. . . the thousand nights and a night. st vol., th september . th vol., th july . . il pentamerone. translated. printed in vols., . . iracema or honey lips; and manuel de moraes the convert. translated from the brazilian. . . six months at abbazia. by burton and lady burton. . . lady burton's edition of the arabian nights. vols. . . supplemental volumes to the arabian nights. st vol., st december . th vol., st august . . the scented garden. translated. - . . catullus. (translated . printed ). . the golden ass, and other works. left unfinished. . priapeia. . posthumous publications . morocco and the moors. by henry leared. edited by burton. printed . . il pentamerone; or the tale of tales. vols., . . the kasidah. an edition of copies. . life of sir richard burton, by lady burton. . . catullus. printed . . library edition of the arabian nights. . the jew, the gypsy, and el islam. printed . . wanderings in three continents. . appendix ii list of works included in the "memorial edition" of burton's works. only vols. appeared. . pligrimage to al medinah and meccah. vol. i., . . " " " vol. ii. " . mission to gelele. vol. i., . . " " vol. ii., " . vikram and the vampire. . . first footsteps in east africa. vol. i., . . " " vol. ii. appendix iii list of biographies of sir richard burton and lady burton. by a. b. richards, a. wilson and st. clair baddeley. . by f. hitchman. vols., . by lady burton. vols., . by miss g. m. stisted. . by w. j. wilkins (the romance of isabel lady burton). vols., . by thomas wright. vols., . appendix iv extracts relating to burton from the index to the publications of the anthropological institute of great britain and ireland, including the journal and transactions of the ethnological society of london ( - ); the journal and memoirs of the anthropological society of london ( - ); the anthropological review; and the journal of the anthropological institute ( - ). on the akkas. title only, with remarks by e. b. tylor. th march . j.a.i., [ ] xviii., . on anthropological collections from the holy land. with discussion. th november . plates. j.a.i., - , , . no. ii. with discussion. th december . ( plates). j.a.i., i., - . no. iii. (notes on the hamah stones, with reduced transcripts.) with discussion. th march . ( plates.) j.a.i., ii., - , , . a day among the fans. th february . t.e.s., [ ] iii., - . a day among the fans. a.r., [ ] i., - . a day among the fans. discussion. th march, . a.r., i., . ethnological notes on m. du chaillu's explorations and adventures in equatorial africa. t.e.s. i., - . farewell dinner given by the anthropological society to r. f. b. before his departure for south america, th april, . a.r., iii., - . flint flakes from egypt. th november . (wood cut.) j.a.i., vii., , . on an hermaphrodite from the cape de verde islands. notice only. th april . a.r., iv. j.a.s., [ ] p. cl. xxv. on human remains and other articles from iceland. with discussion. th november . j.a.i., ii., - , , . kitchen-midden in brazil. anthrop. [ ] . letter. th may . a.r. iv., j.a.s., pp. cxciii., cxciv. letter. antrop., , . the long wall of salona and the ruined cities of pharia and gelsa di lesina. with discussion. th july . ( plates and woodcut.) j.a.i., v., - . a mission to dahome. review by w. w. reade. a.r. ii., . notes on the castellieri or prehistoric ruins of the istrian peninsula. anthrop., . notes on certain matters connected with the dahoman. st november . m.a.s., [ ] i., - . discussion on ditto. a.r., iii., j.a.s., pp. vi.-xi. notes on an hermaphrodite. st may . m.a.s., - . notes on scalping. a.r., ii., - . notes on waitz's anthropology. a.r., ii., - . obituary notice. by e.w. brabrook. j.a.i., xx., - . the pelagosa finds. title only. th march . j.a.i., vi., . the present state of dahome. nd november . t.e.s., iii., - . the primoridal inhabitants of minas geraes, and the occupations of the present inhabitants. with discussion. th january, . j.a.i., ii., - . reply to letter on castellieri dell'istria. anthrop., . on slavery in brazil. a.r., vi., . stones and bones from egypt and midian. th december . ( plates.) j.a.i., viii., - . a word to the reader. anthrop., . captain burton. a.r., vi., , yabrud. captain burton's collection. by dr. c. carter blake. j.a.i., ii., . marcy, randolph b. (captain u.s. army), the prairie traveller. edited by burton. review. a.r., i., - . on skulls from annabom in the west african seas. by burton and c. blake. th april . a.r., ii., j.a.s., pp. ccxxx., ccxxxi. burton and cameron on stone implements from the gold coast. with discussion. th july . (plate.) j.a.i., xii., - . burton and antonio scampecchio (ll.d.) and antonio covaz. more castellieri (the seaboard of istria). th november . j.a.i., vii., - . burton's explorations in the brazil. review. a.r., vii., . appendix v bibliography of foster fitzgerald arbuthnot . early ideas. a group of hindoo stories. collected by an aryan. . . persian portraits. a sketch of persian history, literature and politics. . . arabic authors. a manual of arabian history and literature. . . the rauzat-us-safa.... by muhammed ibu khavendshah bin mahmud, commonly called mirkhond. edited by f. f. arbuthnot. . . the assemblies of al hariri.... prefaced and indexed by f. f. arbuthnot. . . . the mysteries of chronology. . . life of balzac. unpublished. . appendix vi bibliography of f. steingass . english arabic dictionary, for the use of both travelers and students. pp. viii., . . . the student's arabic-english dictionary. pp. xvi., . . . an arabic reading book, by a. r. birdwood, with preliminary remarks by f. steingass. . . a comprehensive persian-english dictionary.... being johnson and richardson's dictionary revised by f. steingass. . . the last twenty-four makamats of abu muhammad al kasim al hariri, forming vol. ii.; chenery's translation of the first twenty-four makamats is sold with it as vol. i. . appendix vii bibliography of john payne [ ] . the masque of shadows and other poems. . . intaglios; sonnets. . . songs of life and death. . . lautrec: a poem. . . the poems of francois villon. . . new poems. . . the book of the thousand nights and one night. nine vols. - . . tales from the arabic. vols. . . the decameron of boccaccio. vols. . . alaeddin and zein ul asnam. . . the novels of matteo bandello. vols. . . the quatrains of omar kheyyam. . . the poems of hafiz. vols. . . collected poems. ( - ). vols. . . vigil and vision. new sonnets. . . songs of consolation. new lyrics. . . hamid the luckless and other tales in verse. . appendix viii notes on rehatsek's translation of the beharistan the beharistan consists of eight chapters: . aromatic herbs from the life of shaikh junaid, etc.--a glorification of sufism. . philosophical ana. . the blooming realms by wisdom. . the trees of liberality and generosity. . tender state of the nightingale of the garden of love. . breezes of jocular sallies. . signing birds of rhyme and parrots of poetry. . animal fables. we give the following as specimens of the stories: first garden, pp. and . story bayazid having been asked what the traditional and the divine law amounted to, he replied that the former is to abandon the world, and the latter to associate with the lord. [these two laws are the sonna and the farz.] verses o thou who concerning the law of the men of the period askest about the traditional and divine command; the first is to turn the soul from the world away, the second is to find the way of proximity to the lord. story shebli (may his secret be sanctified) having become demented was taken to the hospital and visited by acquaintances. he asked who they were, and they replied: "thy friends," whereon he took up a stone and assaulted them. they all began to run away, but he exclaimed:--"o pretenders, return. friends do not flee from friends, and do not avoid the stones of their violence." verses he is a friend, who although meeting with enmity from his friend, only becomes more attached to him. if he strikes him with a thousand stones of violence the edifice of his love will only be made more firm by them. appendix ix notes on the nigaristan and other unpublished translations by rehatsek, presented to the royal asiatic society by f. f. arbuthnot. . the nigaristan (picture gallery), by mu'in-uddin jawini. faithfully translated from the persian by e. rehatsek. . the preface is by arbuthnot. he points out that there are three great persian didactic works, viz.:--the gulistan, or rose garden, by sadi; the nigaristan by jawini; and the beharistan by jami. the nigaristan contains stories in prose and verse. some particulars of it are given in arbuthnot's persian portraits (quaritch, ), p. . "these three books," to use arbuthnot's works, "abound in pure and noble sentiments such as are to be found scattered throughout the sacred books of the east, the old and new testaments, and the koran." the two following extracts will give some idea of the contents and style of the nigaristan: zohra [ ] if zohra plays the guitar a thousand years, the musician's song will always be this: try to become the subject of a good tale, since everyone who lives becomes a tale. fath mousuli's prayer after having been very prosperous and rich, fath mousuli fell into poverty and misery. after a while, however, when he had accustomed himself more to his position, he said, "o lord, send me a revelation that i may know by what act i have deserved this gift, so that i may offer thanks for this favour." . translations from the persian, by the late e. rehatsek. i. a persian tract on the observances of the zenanah, pp. to . ii. a persian essay on hospitality, or etiquette of eating and drinking, pp. to . iii. a short persian manuscript on physiognomies, pp. to . the last consists of a preface and ten chapters. "these leaves," we are told, "are the compendium of a treatise written by the ema'n fakhr-al-din al-ra'zy--may god overwhelm him with forgiveness-- on the science of physiognomies." we are told how the abode influences character; when the character of a man corresponds with that of a beast; that "the index of the dominant passion is the face;" that "the male is among all animals stronger and more perfect than the female," and so on. a short quotation must suffice: "when does the character of a man correspond to that of a beast?" "if a man has a long face, protuberant eyes, and the tip of his nose long, drawn out like the snout of a dog, because as we have explained above, external appearances and internal qualities are closely connected with each other, so that if a man happens to resemble some animal he will possess the nature of it also." . translations from the persian and arabic, by the late e. rehatsek. persian. i. short anecdotes, stories and fables picked out and translated from the nuzhat al yaman, pp. to . ii. the merzuban namah, from which animal fables have been translated, pp. to . arabic. i. selected historical and other extracts from the celebrated arabic work, al moustairaf, pp. to . ii. some extracts from the well-known siraj-ul-moluk, pp. to . iii. twenty-five chapters of extracts from the arabic tuhfat ekhoan us safa, under the title of "discussion between man and animals before the king of the jinns," pp. to . . biography of our lord muhammed, apostle of allah (benediction of allah and peace be on him). according to the tradition of a'bdu-l-malik ebn hasham, obtained from muhammed ebn esahag. translated from the arabic by edward rehatsek. preface by f. f. arbuthnot. there is some account of this work in f. f. arbuthnot's arabic authors, pp. and . appendix x w. f. kirby william forsell kirby, f.l.s., f.e.s., is the son of samuel kirby, banker, and his wife lydia, nee forsell; nephew of william kirby, well-known in connection with the london orphan asylum; and cousin to the popular authoresses, mary and elizabeth kirby. born at leicester, th january . he was assistant in the museum of royal dublin society (later national museum of science and art) from to , and later was transferred to the zoological department of the british museum. he is member of several learned societies, and has written a large number of entomological works. he has made a special study of the european editions of the arabian nights and its imitations, and has a very fine collection of books relating to this subject. to his contributions to sir richard burton's translation we have already alluded. he has also written ed-dimiryaht and other poems ( ); the new arabian nights ( ); and the hero of esthonia ( ); and his translation of the kalevala is in the press. mr. kirby married in , johanna maria kappel, who died in , leaving one son, william e. kirby, m.d. appendix genealogical table. the burtons of shap {unable to reproduce the table.} footnotes: [footnote : the few anecdotes that lady burton does give are taken from the books of alfred b. richards and others.] [footnote : lady burton to mrs. e. j. burton, rd march . see chapter xxxix.] [footnote : a three days' visit to brighton, where i was the guest of mrs. e. j. burton, is one of the pleasantest of my recollections.] [footnote : mrs. van zeller had, in the first instance, been written to, in my behalf, by mrs. e. j. burton.] [footnote : it is important to mention this because a few months ago a report went the round of the newspapers to the effect that the tomb was in ruins.] [footnote : see chapter xvii.] [footnote : it is as if someone were to write "allah is my shepherd, i shall not want," &c., &c.,--here and there altering a word--and call it a new translation of the bible.] [footnote : see almost any 'cyclopaedia. of the hundreds of person with whom i discussed the subject, one, and only one, guessed how matters actually stood--mr. watts-dunton.] [footnote : between payne and burton on the one side and the adherents of e. w. lane on the other.] [footnote : at the very outside, as before stated, only about a quarter of it can by any stretch of the imagination be called his.] [footnote : burton's work on this subject will be remembered.] [footnote : st july .] [footnote : see chapters xxii. to xxix. and xxxv. he confessed to having inserted in the arabian nights a story that had no business there. see chapter xxix., .] [footnote : thus she calls burton's friend da cunha, da gama, and gives arbuthnot wrong initials.] [footnote : i mean in a particular respect, and upon this all his friends are agreed. but no man could have had a warmer heart.] [footnote : particularly pretty is the incident of the families crossing the alps, when the children get snow instead of sugar.] [footnote : particularly unexplored syria and his books on midian.] [footnote : it will be noticed, too, that in no case have i mentioned where these books are to be found. in fact, i have taken every conceivable precaution to make this particular information useless except to bona-fide students.] [footnote : i am not referring to "chaucerisms," for practically they do not contain any. in some two hundred letters there are three chaucerian expressions. in these instances i have used asterisks, but, really, the words themselves would scarcely have mattered. there are as plain in the pilgrim's progress.] [footnote : i have often thought that the passage "i often wonder... given to the world to-day," contains the whole duty of the conscientious biographer in a nutshell.] [footnote : of course, after i had assured them that, in my opinion, the portions to be used were entirely free from matter to which exception could be taken.] [footnote : in the spelling of arabic words i have, as this is a life of burton, followed burton, except, of course, when quoting payne and others. burton always writes 'abu nowas,' payne 'abu nuwas,' and so on.] [footnote : conclusion of the beharistan.] [footnote : they came from shap.] [footnote : thus there was a bishop burton of killala and an admira ryder burton. see genealogical tree in the appendix.] [footnote : mrs. burton made a brave attempt in , but could never fill the gap between and .] [footnote : now the residence of mr. andrew chatto, the publisher.] [footnote : in the inspector writes in the visitors' book: "the bakers seldom there." still, the bakers gave occasional treats to the children, and mrs. baker once made a present of a new frock to each of the girls.] [footnote : not at elstree as sir richard burton himself supposed and said, and as all his biographers have reiterated. it is plainly stated in the elstree register that he was born at torquay.] [footnote : the clergyman was david felix.] [footnote : weare's grave is unmemorialled, so the spot is known only in so far as the group in the picture indicates it.] [footnote : he died th october , aged ; his wife died th september . both are buried at elstree church, where there is a tablet to their memory.] [footnote : for a time antommarchi falsely bore the credit of it.] [footnote : maria, th march ; edward, st august .] [footnote : beneath is an inscription to his widow, sarah baker, who died th march, , aged years.] [footnote : her last subscription to the school was in . in she lived in cumberland place, london.] [footnote : the original is now in the possession of mrs. agg, of cheltenham.] [footnote : wanderings in west africa, ii. p. .] [footnote : life, i. .] [footnote : goldsmith's traveller, lines and .] [footnote : life, i. .] [footnote : it seems to have been first issued in . there is a review of it in the anti-jacobin for that year.] [footnote : she was thrown from her carriage, th august , and died in st. george's hospital.] [footnote : life, by lady burton, i. .] [footnote : dr. greenhill ( - ), physician and author of many books.] [footnote : vikram and the vampire, seventh story, about the pedants who resurrected the tiger.] [footnote : he edited successively the daily telegraph and the morning advertiser, wrote plays and published several volumes of poetry. he began the career of r. f. burton, and got as far as .] [footnote : city of the saints, p. .] [footnote : short died st may , aged .] [footnote : in thomas morton's play speed the plough, first acted in .] [footnote : grocers.] [footnote : life, i. .] [footnote : or so he said. the president of trinity writes to me: "he was repaid his caution money in april . the probability is that he was rusticated for a period." if so, he could have returned to oxford after the loss of a term or two.] [footnote : he died th november , aged .] [footnote : robert montgomery - .] [footnote : "my reading also ran into bad courses--erpenius, zadkiel, falconry, cornelius agrippa"--burton's autobiographical fragment.] [footnote : sarah baker (mrs. francis burton), georgiana baker (mrs. bagshaw).] [footnote : sind revisited. vol. ii. pp. - .] [footnote : th may . he was first of twelve.] [footnote : "how," asked mr. j. f. collingwood of him many years after, "do you manage to learn a language so rapidly and thoroughly?" to which he replied: "i stew the grammar down to a page which i carry in my pocket. then when opportunity offers, or is made, i get hold of a native--preferably an old woman, and get her to talk to me. i follow her speech by ear and eye with the keenest attention, and repeat after her every word as nearly as possible, until i acquire the exact accent of the speaker and the true meaning of the words employed by her. i do not leave her before the lesson is learnt, and so on with others until my own speech is indistinguishable from that of the native."--letter from mr. collingwood to me, nd june .] [footnote : the tota-kahani is an abridgment of the tuti-namah (parrot-book) of nakhshabi. portions of the latter were translated into english verse by j. hoppner, . see also anti-jacobin review for , p. .] [footnote : unpublished letter to mr. w. f. kirby, th april . see also lib. ed. of the arabian nights, viii., p. , and note to night v.] [footnote : this book owes whatever charm it possesses chiefly to the apophthegms embedded in it. thus, "even the gods cannot resist a thoroughly obstinate man." "the fortune of a man who sits, sits also." "reticence is but a habit. practise if for a year, and you will find it harder to betray than to conceal your thoughts." [footnote : now it is a town of , inhabitants.] [footnote : sind revisited, i. .] [footnote : "the first city of hind." see arabian nights, where it is called al mansurah, "tale of salim." burton's a. n., sup. i., . lib ed. ix., .] [footnote : mirza=master. burton met ali akhbar again in . see chapter xviii., .] [footnote : yoga. one of the six systems of brahmanical philosophy, the essence of which is meditation. its devotees believe that by certain ascetic practices they can acquire command over elementary matter. the yogi go about india as fortune-tellers.] [footnote : burton used to say that this vice is prevalent in a zone extending from the south of spain through persia to china and then opening out like a trumpet and embracing all aboriginal america. within this zone he declared it to be endemic, outside it sporadic.] [footnote : burton's arabian nights, terminal essay, vol. x. pp. , , and the romance of isabel lady burton, by w. h. wilkins, ii., .] [footnote : married in .] [footnote : she died th march , aged .] [footnote : he died th october . see sind revisited, ii. .] [footnote : camoens, born at lisbon in , reached goa in . in he was banished to macao, where he commenced the lusiads. he returned to goa in , was imprisoned there, and returned to portugal in . the lusiads appeared in . he died in poverty in , aged .] [footnote : the arabian nights.] [footnote : who was broken on the wheel by lord byron for dressing camoens in "a suit of lace." see english bards and scotch reviewers.] [footnote : begun at goa , resumed at fernando po - , continued in brazil and at trieste. finished at cairo .] [footnote : napier was again in india in . in he returned to england, where he died th august , aged .] [footnote : life of sir charles napier, by sir w. napier.] [footnote : the beharistan, st garden.] [footnote : she married col. t. pryce harrison. her daughter is mrs. agg, of cheltenham.] [footnote : she died th september , and is buried at elstree.] [footnote : elisa married colonel t. e. h. pryce.] [footnote : that is from italy, where his parents were living.] [footnote : sir henry stisted, who in married burton's sister.] [footnote : india, some miles from goa.] [footnote : his brother.] [footnote : the ceylonese rebellion of .] [footnote : see chapter iii., .] [footnote : see arabian nights, terminal essay d, and the romance of isabel lady burton, vol. ii., p. .] [footnote : his grandmother baker had died in .] [footnote : the pains of sleep.] [footnote : byron: childe harold, iv. .] [footnote : ariosto's orlando was published in ; the lusiads appeared in .] [footnote : temple bar, vol. xcii., p. .] [footnote : as did that of the beauty in the baital-pachisi--vikram and the vampire. meml. ed., p. .] [footnote : tale of abu-el-husn and his slave girl, tawaddud.--the arabian nights.] [footnote : life, i., .] [footnote : she became mrs. segrave.] [footnote : see burton's stone talk, . probably not "louise" at all, the name being used to suit the rhyme.] [footnote : mrs. burton was always very severe on her own sex.] [footnote : see stone talk.] [footnote : see chapter x.] [footnote : the original, which belonged to miss stisted, is now in the possession of mr. mostyn pryce, of gunley hall.] [footnote : of course, since arbuthnot's time scores of men have taken the burden on their shoulders, and translations of the maha-bharata, the ramayana, and the works of kalidasa, hafiz, sadi, and jami, are now in the hands of everybody.] [footnote : preface to persian portraits.] [footnote : pilgrimage to el-medinah and meccah, memorial ed., vol. i., p. .] [footnote : burton dedicated to mr. john larking the th volume of the arabian nights.] [footnote : haji wali in accompanied burton to midian. he died rd august , aged . see chapter xx.] [footnote : he died at cairo, th october .] [footnote : that is, in the direction of mecca.] [footnote : pilgrimage, memorial ed., i., .] [footnote : see preface to the kasidah, edition published in .] [footnote : pilgrimage, memorial ed., i., .] [footnote : a chieftain celebrated for his generosity. there are several stories about him in the arabian nights.] [footnote : an incrementative of fatimah.] [footnote : burton says of the arabs, "above all their qualities, personal conceit is remarkable; they show it in their strut, in their looks, and almost in every word. 'i am such a one, the son of such a one,' is a common expletive, especially in times of danger; and this spirit is not wholly to be condemned, as it certainly acts as an incentive to gallant actions."--pilgrimage, ii, ., memorial ed.] [footnote : pilgrimage to meccah, memorial ed., i., .] [footnote : a creation of the poet al-asma'i. he is mentioned in the arabian nights.] [footnote : how this tradition arose nobody seems to know. there are several theories.] [footnote : it is decorated to resemble a garden. there are many references to it in the arabian nights. thus the tale of otbah and rayya (lib. ed., v., ) begins "one night as i sat in the garden between the tomb and the pulpit." [footnote : pilgrimage to meccah (mem. ed., i., ).] [footnote : mohammed's son-in-law.] [footnote : mohammed's wet nurse.] [footnote : son of mohammed and the coptic girl mariyah, sent to mohammed as a present by jarih, the governor of alexandria.] [footnote : khadijah, the first wife, lies at mecca.] [footnote : known to us chiefly through dr. carlyle's poor translation. see pilgrimage, ii., .] [footnote : here am i.] [footnote : readers of the arabian nights will remember the incident in the story of the sweep and the noble lady. "a man laid hold of the covering of the kaaba, and cried out from the bottom of his heart, saying, i beseech thee, o allah, etc." [footnote : see genesis xxi., .] [footnote : the stone upon which abraham stood when he built the kaaba. formerly it adjoined the kaaba. it is often alluded to in the arabian nights. the young man in the mock caliph says, "this is the place and thou art ibrahim." [footnote : see also the arabian nights, the loves of al-hayfa and yusuf, burton's a.n. (supplemental), vol. v.; lib. ed., vol. xi., p. .] [footnote : burton's a.n., v., ; lib. ed., iv., .] [footnote : see chapter ix.] [footnote : sporting truth.] [footnote : the reader may believe as much of this story as he likes.] [footnote : the man was said to have been killed in cold blood simply to silence a wagging tongue.] [footnote : see shakespeare's king john, act i., scene i.] [footnote : burton's translation of the lusiads, vol. ii., p. .] [footnote : although burton began el islam about , he worked at it years after. portions of it certainly remind one of renan's life of jesus, which appeared in .] [footnote : to some of the beauties of the arabian nights we shall draw attention in chapter .] [footnote : of course both payne and burton subsequently translated the whole.] [footnote : first footsteps in east africa. (the harar book.) memorial ed., p. .] [footnote : esther, vi., .] [footnote : boulac is the port of cairo. see chapter xi..] [footnote : zeyn al asnam, codadad, aladdin, baba abdalla, sidi nouman, cogia hassan alhabbal, ali-baba, ali cogia, prince ahmed and the fairy peri-banou, the two sisters who were jealous of their cadette.] [footnote : edward william lane ( - ). he is also remembered on account of his arabic lexicon. five volumes appeared in - , the remainder by his grand-nephew stanley lane-poole, in - .] [footnote : every student, however, must be grateful to lane for his voluminous and valuable notes.] [footnote : lady burton states incorrectly that the compact was made in the "winter of ," but burton was then in europe.] [footnote : my authorities are mr. john payne, mr. watts-dunton and burton's letters. see chapter , , and chapter , .] [footnote : it was prophesied that at the end of time the moslem priesthood would be terribly corrupt.] [footnote : later he was thoroughly convinced of the soundness of this theory. see chapters xxii. to xxx.] [footnote : in the koran.] [footnote : burton's a.n., ii. ; lib. ed., ii., p. .] [footnote : when the aloe sprouts the spirits of the deceased are supposed to be admitted to the gardens of wak (paradise). arabian nights, lib. ed., i. .] [footnote : to face it out.] [footnote : first footsteps in east africa, i., .] [footnote : first footsteps in east africa, ii., .] [footnote : the legend of moga is similar to that of birnam wood's march, used by shakespeare in macbeth.] [footnote : the story of these adventures is recorded in first footsteps in east africa, dedicated to lumsden, who, in its pages, is often apostrophised as "my dear l." [footnote : afterwards lord strangford. the correspondence on this subject was lent me by mr. mostyn pryce, who received it from miss stisted.] [footnote : the traveller.] [footnote : burton's camoens, ii., .] [footnote : the marriage did not take place till nd january . see chapter x.] [footnote : this is now in the public library at camberwell.] [footnote : in england men are slaves to a grinding despotism of conventionalities. pilgrimage to meccah, ii., .] [footnote : unpublished letter to miss stisted, rd may .] [footnote : we have given the stanza in the form burton first wrote it--beginning each line with a capital. the appearance of mombasa seems to have been really imposing in the time of camoens. its glory has long since departed.] [footnote : these little bags were found in his pocket after his death. see chapter xxxviii.] [footnote : this story nowhere appears in burton's books. i had it from mr. w. f. kirby, to whom burton told it.] [footnote : the lake regions of central africa, .] [footnote : subsequently altered to "this gloomy night, these grisly waves, etc." the stanza is really borrowed from hafiz. see payne's hafiz, vol. i., p. .] "dark the night and fears possess us, of the waves and whirlpools wild: of our case what know the lightly laden on the shores that dwell?" [footnote : the ruler, like the country, is called kazembe.] [footnote : dr. lacerda died at lunda th october . burton's translation, the lands of the cazembe, etc., appeared in .] [footnote : the beharistan. st garden.] [footnote : j. a. grant, born , died th february, .] [footnote : the romance of isabel lady burton, i., .] [footnote : he is, of course, simply endorsing the statement of hippocrates: de genitura: "women, if married, are more healthy, if not, less so." [footnote : the anecdotes in this chapter were told me by one of burton's friends. they are not in his books.] [footnote : this letter was given by mrs. fitzgerald (lady burton's sister) to mr. foskett of camberwell. it is now in the library there, and i have to thank the library committee for the use of it.] [footnote : life, i., .] [footnote : .] [footnote : vambery's work, the story of my struggles, appeared in october .] [footnote : the first edition appeared in . burton's works contain scores of allusions to it. to the gold coast, ii., . arabian nights (many places), etc., etc.] [footnote : life of lord houghton, ii., .] [footnote : lord russell was foreign secretary from - .] [footnote : wanderings in west africa, vols., .] [footnote : the genuine black, not the mulatto, as he is careful to point out. elsewhere he says the negro is always eight years old--his mind never develops. mission to gelele, i, .] [footnote : wanderings in west africa, vol. ii., p. .] [footnote : see mission to gelele, ii., .] [footnote : although the anecdote appears in his abeokuta it seems to belong to this visit.] [footnote : mrs. maclean, "l.e.l.," went out with her husband, who was governor of cape coast castle. she was found poisoned th october , two days after her arrival. her last letters are given in the gentleman's magazine, february .] [footnote : see chapter xxii.] [footnote : lander died at fernando po, th february .] [footnote : for notes on fernando po see laird and oldfield's narrative of an expedition into the interior of africa, etc. ( ), winwood reade's savage africa, and rev. henry roe's west african scenes ( ).] [footnote : told me by the rev. henry roe.] [footnote : life, and various other works.] [footnote : see abeokuta and the cameroons, vols., .] [footnote : two trips to gorilla land and the cataracts of the congo, vols., .] [footnote : "who first bewitched our eyes with guinea gold." dryden, annus mirabilis, .] [footnote : incorporated subsequently with a quarterly journal, the anthropological review.] [footnote : see chapter xxix., .] [footnote : foreword to the arabian nights, vol. . the arabian nights, of course, was made to answer the purpose of this organ.] [footnote : see wanderings in west africa, vol. , p. . footnote.] [footnote : burton.] [footnote : afa is the messenger of fetishes and of deceased friends. thus by the afa diviner people communicate with the dead.] [footnote : this was dr. lancaster's computation.] [footnote : communicated to me by mr. w. h. george, son of staff-commander c. george, royal navy.] [footnote : rev. edward burton, burton's grandfather, was rector of tuam. bishop burton, of killala, was the rev. edward burton's brother.] [footnote : the copy is in the public library, high street, kensington, where most of burton's books are preserved.] [footnote : spanish for "little one." [footnote : the lusiads, vols., . says aubertin, "in this city (sao paulo) and in the same room in which i began to read the lusiads in , the last stanza of the last canto was finished on the night of th february ." [footnote : burton dedicated the st vol. of his arabian nights to steinhauser.] [footnote : dom pedro, deposed th november .] [footnote : this anecdote differs considerably from mrs. burton's version, life, i., . i give it, however, as told by burton to his friends.] [footnote : lusiads, canto , stanza . burton subsequently altered and spoilt it. the stanza as given will be found on the opening page of the brazil book.] [footnote : he describes his experiences in his work the battlefields of paraguay.] [footnote : unpublished. told me by mrs. e. j. burton. manning was made a cardinal in .] [footnote : mr. john payne, however, proves to us that the old rashi'd, though a lover of the arts, was also a sensual and bloodthirsty tyrant. see terminal essay to his arabian nights, vol. ix.] [footnote : she thus signed herself after her very last marriage.] [footnote : mrs. burton's words.] [footnote : life i., p. .] [footnote : arabian nights. lib. ed, i., .] [footnote : burton generally writes bedawi and bedawin. bedawin (bedouin) is the plural form of bedawi. pilgrimage to meccah, vol. ii., p. .] [footnote : . three months after mrs. burton's arrival.] [footnote : it contained, among other treasures, a greek manuscript of the bible with the epistle of barnabas and a portion of the shepherd of hermas.] [footnote : kings, xix., ; kings, viii., .] [footnote : the romance of isabel lady burton, ii., .] [footnote : th july .] [footnote : e. h. palmer ( - ). in he was appointed lord almoner's professor of arabic at cambridge. he was murdered at wady sudr, th august . see chapter xxiii.] [footnote : renan. see, too, paradise lost, bk. . isaiah (xvii., ) alludes to the portable "adonis gardens" which the women used to carry to the bier of the god.] [footnote : the hamath of scripture. . sam., viii., ; amos, vi., .] [footnote : see illustrations in unexplored syria, by burton and drake.] [footnote : the land of midian revisited, ii., .] [footnote : life of edward h. palmer, p. .] [footnote : chica is the feminine of chico (spanish).] [footnote : mrs. burton's expression.] [footnote : district east of the sea of galilee.] [footnote : job, chapter xxx. "but now they that are younger than i have me in derision... who cut up mallows by the bushes and juniper roots for their meat." [footnote : greek geographer. b.c.] [footnote : burton's words.] [footnote : published in .] [footnote : life, i., .] [footnote : the romance of isabel lady burton, ii., .] [footnote : the romance of isabel lady burton, ii., .] [footnote : temple bar, vol. xcii., p. .] [footnote : near st. helens, lancs.] [footnote : life of sir richard burton, by lady burton, i., .] [footnote : nd november .] [footnote : the fountain was sculptured by miss hosmer.] [footnote : th february . celebration of the prince of wales's recovery from a six weeks' attack of typhoid fever.] [footnote : her husband's case.] [footnote : of course, this was an unnecessary question, for there was no mistaking the great scar on burton's cheek; and burton's name was a household word.] [footnote : february . sir roger had sailed from valparaiso to rio janeiro. he left rio in the "bella," which was lost at sea.] [footnote : undated.] [footnote : knowsley is close to garswood, lord gerard's seat.] [footnote : letter, th january .] [footnote : garswood, newton-le-willows, lancashire.] [footnote : unpublished letter.] [footnote : the true life, p. .] [footnote : it had just been vacated by the death of charles lever, the novelist. lever had been consul at trieste from to . he died at trieste, st june .] [footnote : near salisbury.] [footnote : burton's a.n. iv. lib. ed., iii., . payne's a.n. iii., .] [footnote : told me by mr. henry richard tedder, librarian at the athenaeum from .] [footnote : burton, who was himself always having disputes with cab-drivers and everybody else, probably sympathised with mrs. prodgers' crusade.] [footnote : of nd november .] [footnote : lake regions of equatorial africa ( vols. ). vol. of the royal geographical society, , and the nile basin, .] [footnote : a portion was written by mrs. burton.] [footnote : these are words used by children. unexplored syria, i., . nah really means sweetstuff.] [footnote : afterwards major-general. he died in april . see chapter ix., .] [footnote : mrs. burton and khamoor followed on nov. th.] [footnote : burton's works contain many citations from ovid. thus there are two in etruscan bologna, pp. and , one being from the ars amandi and the other from the fasti.] [footnote : stendhal, born . consul at trieste and civita vecchia from to . died in paris, rd march . burton refers to him in a footnote to his terminal essay in the nights on "al islam." [footnote : these are all preserved now at the central library, camberwell.] [footnote : now in the possession of mrs. st. george burton.] [footnote : in later times dr. baker never saw more than three tables.] [footnote : mrs. burton, was, of course, no worse than many other society women of her day. her books bristle with slang.] [footnote : it is now in the possession of mrs. e. j. burton, , whilbury road, brighton.] [footnote : later burton was himself a sad sinner in this respect. his studies made him forget his meals.] [footnote : his usual pronunciation of the word.] [footnote : th august .] [footnote : letter to lord houghton.] [footnote : dr. grenfell baker, afterwards burton's medical attendant.] [footnote : hell.] [footnote : a.e.i. (arabia, egypt, indian).] [footnote : burton's a. n., v., . lib. ed., vol. ., p. .] [footnote : about driving four horses.] [footnote : i do not know to what this alludes.] [footnote : see chapter i.] [footnote : its population is now , .] [footnote : sind revisited, i., .] [footnote : see sind revisited, vol. ii., pp. to .] [footnote : where napier with , men defeated , .] [footnote : romance of isabel lady burton, ii., .] [footnote : dr. da cunha, who was educated at panjim, spent several years in england, and qualified at the colleges of physicians and surgeons. he built up a large practice in goa.] [footnote : there are many english translations, from harrington's, , to hoole's, , and rose's, . the last is the best.] [footnote : sir henry stisted died of consumption in .] [footnote : robert bagshaw, he married burton's aunt, georgiana baker.] [footnote : his cousin sarah, who married col. t. pryce harrison. see chapter iv. and chapter xix.] [footnote : burton's brother.] [footnote : romance of isabel lady burton, ii., .] [footnote : romance of isabel lady burton.] [footnote : burton's a.n., suppl., ii., . lib. ed. ix., p. , note.] [footnote : thus, balzac, tried to discover perpetual motion, proposed to grow pineapples which were to yield enormous profits, and to make opium the staple of corsica, and he studied mathematical calculations in order to break the banks at baden-baden.] [footnote : we are telling the tale much as mrs. burton told it, but we warn the reader that it was one of mrs. burton's characteristics to be particularly hard on her own sex and also that she was given to embroidering.] [footnote : preface to midian revisited, xxxiv.] [footnote : ex ponto iii., i., .] [footnote : the gold mines of midian and the ruined midianite cities (c. kegan paul and co.) it appeared in .] [footnote : the land of midian revisited, ii., .] [footnote : kindly copied for me by miss gordon, his daughter.] [footnote : they left on july th ( ) and touched at venice, brindisi, palermo and gibraltar.] [footnote : november .] [footnote : from the then unpublished kasidah.] [footnote : the famous yogis. their blood is dried up by the scorching sun of india, they pass their time in mediation, prayer and religious abstinence, until their body is wasted, and they fancy themselves favoured with divine revelations.] [footnote : the spiritualist. th december .] [footnote : in short, she had considerable natural gifts, which were never properly cultivated.] [footnote : see chapter xxxviii.] [footnote : arabia, egypt, india.] [footnote : letter to miss stisted.] [footnote : she says, i left my indian christmas book with mr. bogue on th july , and never saw it after.] [footnote : burton dedicated to yacoub pasha vol. x. of his arabian nights. they had then been friends for years.] [footnote : inferno, xix.] [footnote : canto x., stanza .] [footnote : canto x., stanzas - .] [footnote : between the indus and the ganges.] [footnote : a glance at the passion play, .] [footnote : the passion play at ober ammergau, .] [footnote : a fireside king, vol., tinsley . brit. mus. i. .] [footnote : see chapter xx., . maria stisted died th november .] [footnote : see chapter xli.] [footnote : only an admirer of omar khayyam could have written the kasidah, observes mr. justin mccarthy, junior; but the only omar khayyam that burton knew previous to , was edward fitzgerald. i am positive that burton never read omar khayyam before , and i doubt whether he ever read the original at all.] [footnote : for example:-- "that eve so gay, so bright, so glad, this morn so dim and sad and grey; strange that life's register should write this day a day, that day a day." amusingly enough, he himself quotes this as from hafiz in a letter to sir walter besant. see literary remains of tyrwhitt drake, p. . see also chapter ix.] [footnote : we use the word by courtesy.] [footnote : see life, ii., , and end of st volume of supplemental nights. burton makes no secret of this. there is no suggestion that they are founded upon the original of omar khayyam. indeed, it is probable that burton had never, before the publication of the kasidah, even heard of the original, for he imagined like j. a. symonds and others, that fitzgerald's version was a fairly literal translation. when, therefore, he speaks of omar khayyam he means edward fitzgerald. i have dealt with this subject exhaustively in my life of edward fitzgerald.] [footnote : couplet .] [footnote : preserved in the museum at camberwell. it is inserted in a copy of camoens.] [footnote : italy having sided with prussia in the war of received as her reward the long coveted territory of venice.] [footnote : born . appointed to the command of an east coast expedition to relieve livingstone, . crossed africa .] [footnote : "burton as i knew him," by v. l. cameron.] [footnote : nearly all his friends noticed this feature in his character and have remarked it to me.] [footnote : the number is dated th november . mr. payne had published specimens of his proposed translation, anonymously, in the new quarterly review for january and april, .] [footnote : this was a mistake. burton thought he had texts of the whole, but, as we shall presently show, there were several texts which up to this time he had not seen. his attention, as his letters indicate, was first drawn to them by mr. payne.] [footnote : in the light of what follows, this remark is amusing.] [footnote : see chapter xxiii, .] [footnote : in the masque of shadows.] [footnote : new poems, p. .] [footnote : the masque of shadows, p. .] [footnote : published .] [footnote : new poems, p. .] [footnote : published .] [footnote : mr. watts-dunton, the earl of crewe, and dr. richard garnett have also written enthusiastically of mr. payne's poetry.] [footnote : of "the john payne society" (founded in ) and its publications particulars can be obtained from the secretary, cowper school, olney. it has no connection with the "villon society," which publishes mr. payne's works.] [footnote : see chapter xi., .] [footnote : dr. badger died th february, , aged .] [footnote : to payne. th august .] [footnote : no doubt the "two or three pages" which he showed to mr. watts-dunton.] [footnote : this is a very important fact. it is almost incredible, and yet it is certainly true.] [footnote : prospectuses.] [footnote : its baths were good for gout and rheumatism. mrs. burton returned to trieste on september th.] [footnote : this is, of course, a jest. he repeats the jest, with variation, in subsequent letters.] [footnote : the author wishes to say that the names of several persons are hidden by the dashes in these chapters, and he has taken every care to render it impossible for the public to know who in any particular instance is intended.] [footnote : of course, in his heart, burton respected lane as a scholar.] [footnote : apparently galland's.] [footnote : mr. payne's system is fully explained in the introductory note to vol. i. and is consistently followed through the volumes (arabian nights, vols.; tales from the arabic, vols.; alaeddin and zein-ul-asnam, i vol.).] [footnote : one of the poets of the arabian nights.] [footnote : see chapter iii. .] [footnote : he published some of this information in his terminal essay.] [footnote : perhaps we ought again to state most emphatically that burton's outlook was strictly that of the student. he was angry because he had, as he believed, certain great truths to tell concerning the geographical limits of certain vices, and an endeavour was being made to prevent him from publishing them.] [footnote : burton's a. n. vi., ; lib. ed. v., , the three wishes, or the man who longed to see the night of power.] [footnote : the lady and her five suitors, burton's a. n., vi., ; lib. ed., v., ; payne's a. n., v., . of course mr. payne declined to do this.] [footnote : possibly this was merely pantomime. besant, in his life of palmer, p. , assumes that matr nassar, or meter, as he calls him, was a traitor.] [footnote : cloak.] [footnote : cursing is with orientals a powerful weapon of defence. palmer was driven to it as his last resource. if he could not deter his enemies in this way he could do no more.] [footnote : burton's report and besant's life of palmer, p. .] [footnote : see chapter vi., .] [footnote : palmer translated only a few songs in hafiz. two will be found in that well-known bibelot, persian love songs.] [footnote : there were two editions of mr. payne's villon. burton is referring to the first.] [footnote : augmentative of palazzo, a gentleman's house.] [footnote : we have altered this anecdote a little so as to prevent the possibility of the blanks being filled up.] [footnote : that which is knowable.] [footnote : let it be remembered that the edition was (to quote the title-page) printed by private subscription and for private circulation only and was limited to copies at a high price. consequently the work was never in the hands of the general public.] [footnote : this was a favourite saying of burton's. we shall run against it elsewhere. see chapter xxxiv., . curiously enough, there is a similar remark in mr. payne's study of rabelais written eighteen years previous, and still unpublished.] [footnote : practically there was only the wearisome, garbled, incomplete and incorrect translation by dr. weil.] [footnote : the love of jubayr and the lady budur, burton's a. n. iv., ; lib. ed., iii., ; payne's a. n., iv., .] [footnote : three vols., .] [footnote : the public were to some extent justified in their attitude. they feared that these books would find their way into the hands of others than bona fide students. their fears, however, had no foundation. in all the libraries visited by me extreme care was taken that none but the genuine student should see these books; and, of course, they are not purchasable anywhere except at prices which none but a student, obliged to have them, would dream of giving.] [footnote : he married in , ellinor, widow of james alexander guthrie, esp., of craigie, forfarshire, and daughter of admiral sir james stirling.] [footnote : early ideas by an aryan, . alluded to by burton in a. n., lib. ed., ix., , note.] [footnote : persian portraits, . "my friend arbuthnot's pleasant booklet, persian portraits," a. n. lib. ed. x., .] [footnote : arabic authors, .] [footnote : in kalidasa's megha duta he is referred to as riding on a peacock.] [footnote : sir william jones. the gopia correspond with the roman muses.] [footnote : the reader will recall mr. andrew lang's witty remark in the preface to his edition of the arabian nights.] [footnote : kalyana mull.] [footnote : the hand of burton betrays itself every here and there. thus in part of the former we are referred to his vikram and the vampire for a note respecting the gandharva-vivaha form of marriage. see memorial edition, p. .] [footnote : this goddess is adored as the patroness of the fine arts. see "a hymn to sereswaty," poetical works of sir william jones, vol. ii., p. ; also the hindoo pantheon, by major moor (edward fitzgerald's friend).] [footnote : "pleasant as nail wounds"--the megha duta, by kalidasa.] [footnote : a girl married in her infancy.] [footnote : the hindu women were in the habit, when their husbands were away, of braiding their hair into a single lock, called veni, which was not to be unloosed until their return. there is a pretty reference to this custom in kalidasa's megha duta.] [footnote : guy de maupasant, by leo tolstoy.] [footnote : the kama sutra.] [footnote : richard monckton milnes, born , created a peer , died . his life by t. wemyss reid appeared in .] [footnote : burton possessed copies of this work in sanskrit, mar'athi guzrati, and hindustani. he describes the last as "an unpaged vo. of pages, including eight pages of most grotesque illustrations." burton's a. n., x., ; lib. ed., viii., .] [footnote : kullianmull.] [footnote : memorial edition, p. .] [footnote : the book has several times been reprinted. all copies, however, i believe, bear the date . some bear the imprint "cosmopoli ." [footnote : see chapter xxxii. it may be remembered also that burton as good as denied that he translated the priapeia.] [footnote : a portion of miss costello's rendering is given in the lovely little volume "persian love songs," one of the bibelots issued by gay and bird.] [footnote : byron calls sadi the persian catullus, hafiz the persian anacreon, ferdousi the persian homer.] [footnote : eastwick, p. .] [footnote : tales from the arabic.] [footnote : that is in following the arabic jingles. payne's translation is in reality as true to the text as burton's.] [footnote : by w. a. clouston, vo., glasgow, . only copies printed.] [footnote : mr. payne understood turkish.] [footnote : copies now fetch from £ to £ each. the american reprint, of which we are told , copies were issued a few years ago, sells for about £ .] [footnote : he had intended to write two more volumes dealing with the later history of the weapon.] [footnote : it is dedicated to burton.] [footnote : for outline of mr. kirby's career, see appendix.] [footnote : burton read german, but would never speak it. he said he hated the sound.] [footnote : we cannot say. burton was a fair persian scholar, but he could not have known much russian.] [footnote : see chapter ix.] [footnote : this essay will be found in the th volume of burton's arabian nights, and in the eighth volume (p. ) of the library edition.] [footnote : mr. payne's account of the destruction of the barmecides is one of the finest of his prose passages. burton pays several tributes to it. see payne's arabian nights, vol. ix.] [footnote : tracks of a rolling stone, by hon. henry j. coke, .] [footnote : lady burton's edition, issued in , was a failure. for the library edition, issued in , by h. s. nichols, lady burton received, we understand, £ , .] [footnote : duvat inkstand, dulat fortune. see the beharistan, seventh garden.] [footnote : mr. arbuthnot was the only man whom burton addressed by a nickname.] [footnote : headings of jami's chapters.] [footnote : it appeared in .] [footnote : abu mohammed al kasim ibn ali, surnamed al-hariri (the silk merchant), a. d. to a. d. the makamat, a collection of witty rhymed tales, is one of the most popular works in the east. the interest clusters round the personality of a clever wag and rogue named abu seid.] [footnote : the first twenty-four makamats of abu mohammed al kasim al hariri, were done by chenery in . dr. steingass did the last , and thus completed the work. al hariri is several times quoted in the arabian nights. lib. ed. iv., p. ; viii., p. .] [footnote : times, th january .] [footnote : lib. ed. vol. , pp. - .] [footnote : see notes to judar and his brethren. burton's a. n., vi., ; lib. ed., v., .] [footnote : burton's a. n. suppl., vi., ; lib. ed., xii., . others who assisted burton were rev. george percy badger, who died february , mr. w. f. kirby, professor james f. blumhardt, mr. a. g. ellis, and dr. reinhold rost.] [footnote : see chapter xxx.] [footnote : this work consists of fifty folk tales written in the neapolitan dialect. they are supposed to be told by ten old women for the entertainment of a moorish slave who had usurped the place of the rightful princess. thirty-one of the stories were translated by john e. taylor in . there is a reference to it in burton's arabian nights, lib. ed., ix., .] [footnote : meaning, of course, lord houghton's money.] [footnote : cf. esther, vi., and .] [footnote : ought there not to be notices prohibiting this habit in our public reference libraries? how many beautiful books have been spoilt by it! [footnote : the joys of travel are also hymned in the tale of ala-al-din. lib. ed., iii., .] [footnote : cf. seneca on anger, ch. xi. "such a man," we cry, "has done me a shrewd turn, and i never did him any hurt! well, but it may be i have mischieved other people." [footnote : payne's version. see burton's footnote, and payne vol. i., p. .] [footnote : burton's a. n. i., ; lib. ed., i., . payne translates it: if thou demand fair play of fate, therein thou dost it wrong; and blame it not, for 'twas not made, indeed, for equity. take what lies ready to thy hand and lay concern aside, for troubled days and days of peace in life must surely be.] [footnote : burton's a. n., ii., ; lib. ed., i., ; payne's a. n., i., .] [footnote : payne has--"where are not the old chosroes, tyrants of a bygone day? wealth they gathered, but their treasures and themselves have passed away." vol. i., p. .] [footnote : to distinguish it from date honey--the drippings from ripe dates.] [footnote : ja'afar the barmecide and the beanseller.] [footnote : burton's a. n., v., ; lib. ed., iv., ; payne's a. n., iv., .] [footnote : burton's a. n., vi., ; lib. ed., v., ; payne's a. n., vi., .] [footnote : burton's a. n., ix., ; lib. ed., vii., ; payne's a. n., ix., .] [footnote : burton's a. n., ix., ; lib. ed., viii., ; payne's a. n., viii., .] [footnote : burton's a. n., ix., ; lib. ed., vii., ; payne's a. n., viii., .] [footnote : burton's a. n., viii., to ; ix., to ; lib. ed., vii., to ; payne's a. n., viii., to .] [footnote : burton's a. n., vol. x., p. ; lib. ed., vol. viii., p. ; payne's a. n., vol. ix., p. .] [footnote : satan--see story of ibrahim of mosul. burton's a. n., vii., ; lib. ed., v., ; payne's a. n., vi., .] [footnote : payne.] [footnote : "queen of the serpents," burton's a. n., v., ; lib. ed., iv., ; payne's a. n., v., .] [footnote : burton's a. n., vi., ; lib. ed., v., ; payne's a. n., v., .] [footnote : see arabian nights. story of aziz and azizeh. payne's translation; also new poems by john payne, p. .] [footnote : here occurs the break of "night ." [footnote : burton's a. n., ii., p. - ; lib. ed., ii., p, ; payne, ii., p. .] [footnote : the reader may like to compare some other passages. thus the lines "visit thy lover," etc. in night , occur also in night . in the first instance burton gives his own rendering, in the second payne's. see also burton's a. n., viii., (lib. ed., vi., ); viii., (lib. ed., vii., ); viii., (lib. ed., vii., ); viii., (lib. ed., vii., ); and many other places.] [footnote : thus in the story of ibrahim and jamilah [night :, burton takes words--that is nearly a page--verbatim, and without any acknowledgement. it is the same, or thereabouts, every page you turn to.] [footnote : of course, the coincidences could not possibly have been accidental, for both translators were supposed to take from the four printed arabic editions. we shall presently give a passage by burton before payne translated it, and it will there be seen that the phraseology of the one translator bears no resemblance whatever to that of the other. and yet, in this latter instance, each translator took from the same original instead of from four originals. see chapter xxiii.] [footnote : at the same time the edinburgh review (july ) goes too far. it puts its finger on burton's blemishes, but will not allow his translation a single merit. it says, "mr. payne is possessed of a singularly robust and masculine prose style... captain burton's english is an unreadable compound of archaeology and slang, abounding in americanisms, and full of an affected reaching after obsolete or foreign words and phrases." [footnote : "she drew her cilice over his raw and bleeding skin." [payne has "hair shirt."]--"tale of the ensorcelled prince." lib. ed., i., .] [footnote : "nor will the egromancy be dispelled till he fall from his horse." [payne has "charm be broken."]--"third kalendar's tale." lib. ed., i., . "by virtue of my egromancy become thou half stone and half man." [payne has "my enchantments."]--"tale of the ensorcelled prince." lib. ed., i., .] [footnote : "the water prisoned in its verdurous walls."--"tale of the jewish doctor." [footnote : "like unto a vergier full of peaches." [note.--o.e. "hortiyard" mr. payne's word is much better.]--"man of al zaman and his six slave girls." [footnote : "the rondure of the moon."--"hassan of bassorah." [shakespeare uses this word, sonnet , for the sake of rhythm. caliban, however, speaks of the "round of the moon."] [footnote : "that place was purfled with all manner of flowers." [purfled means bordered, fringed, so it is here used wrongly.] payne has "embroidered," which is the correct word.--"tale of king omar," lib. ed., i., .] [footnote : burton says that he found this word in some english writer of the th century, and, according to murray, "egremauncy occurs about in grebory's chron. camd. soc. , ." mr. payne, however, in a letter to me, observes that the word is merely an ignorant corruption of "negromancy," itself a corruption of a corruption it is "not fit for decent (etymological) society." [footnote : a well-known alchemical term, meaning a retort, usually of glass, and completely inapt to express a common brass pot, such as that mentioned in the text. yellow copper is brass; red copper is ordinary copper.] [footnote : fr. ensorceler--to bewitch. barbey d'aurevilly's fine novel l'ensorcelee, will be recalled. torrens uses this word, and so does payne, vol. v., . "hath evil eye ensorcelled thee?" [footnote : lib. ed., ii., .] [footnote : swevens--dreams.] [footnote : burton, indeed, while habitually paraphrasing payne, no less habitually resorts, by way of covering his "conveyances," to the clumsy expedient of loading the test with tasteless and grotesque additions and variations (e.g., "with gladness and goodly gree," "suffering from black leprosy," "grief and grame," "hades-tombed," "a garth right sheen," "e'en tombed in their tombs," &c., &c.), which are not only meaningless, but often in complete opposition to the spirit and even the letter of the original, and, in any case, exasperating in the highest degree to any reader with a sense of style.] [footnote : burton's a. n., v., ; lib. ed., iv., .] [footnote : or karim-al-din. burton's a. n., v., ; lib. ed., iv., ; payne's a. n., v. .] [footnote : le fanu had carefully studied the effects of green tea and of hallucinations in general. i have a portion of the correspondence between him and charles dickens on this subject.] [footnote : burton's a. n., suppl. ii., - ; lib. ed., ix., , .] [footnote : lib. ed., iv., .] [footnote : "the story of janshah." burton's a. n., v., ; lib. ed., iv., .] [footnote : one recalls "edith of the swan neck," love of king harold, and "judith of the swan neck," pope's "erinna," cowper's aunt.] [footnote : burton's a. n., x., ; lib. ed., viii., .] [footnote : burton's a. n., viii., ; lib. ed., vii., .] [footnote : burton's a. n., vii., ; lib. ed., v., .] [footnote : burton's a. n., suppl. nights, vi., ; lib. ed., xii., .] [footnote : burton's a. n., x., ; lib. ed., viii., ; payne's a. n., ix., .] [footnote : the writer of the article in the edinburgh review (no friend of mr. payne), july (no. , p. .), says burton is "much less accurate" than payne.] [footnote : new york tribune, nd november .] [footnote : see chapter xxxiii.] [footnote : still, as everyone must admit, burton could have said all he wanted to say in chaster language.] [footnote : arbuthnot's comment was: "lane's version is incomplete, but good for children, payne's is suitable for cultured men and women, burton's for students." [footnote : see chapter xii., .] [footnote : burton's a. n., x., , ; lib. ed., viii., .] [footnote : burton's a. n., x., ; lib. ed., viii., .] [footnote : of course, all these narratives are now regarded by most christians in quite a different light from that in which they were at the time burton was writing. we are all of us getting to understand the bible better.] [footnote : lady burton gives the extension in full. life, vol. ii, p. .] [footnote : the decameron of boccaccio. vols., .] [footnote : any praise bestowed upon the translation (apart from the annotations) was of course misplaced--that praise being due to mr. payne.] [footnote : lady burton's surprise was, of course, only affected. she had for long been manoeuvering to bring this about, and very creditably to her.] [footnote : life, ii., .] [footnote : dr. baker, burton's medical attendant.] [footnote : burton's camoens, i., p. .] [footnote : life, vol. i., p. .] [footnote : note to "khalifah," arabian nights, night .] [footnote : childe harold, iv., , referring, of course, to petrarch.] [footnote : terminal essay, arabian nights.] [footnote : it reminded him of his old enemy, ra'shid pasha. see chap. xiv.] [footnote : pilgrimage to meccah, ii., .] [footnote : mission to gelele, ii., .] [footnote : task, book i.] [footnote : by a. w. kinglake.] [footnote : see lib. ed. nights, sup., vol. xi., p. .] [footnote : chambers's journal, august .] [footnote : chambers's journal.] [footnote : ex ponto, iv., .] [footnote : or words to that effect.] [footnote : this was no solitary occasion. burton was constantly chaffing her about her slip-shod english, and she always had some piquant reply to give him.] [footnote : see chapter xxxv., .] [footnote : now queen alexandra.] [footnote : life, ii., .] [footnote : this remark occurs in three of his books, including the arabian nights.] [footnote : stories of janshah and hasan of bassorah.] [footnote : one arch now remains. there is in the british museum a quarto volume of about pages (cott. mss., vesp., e ) containing fragments of a th century chronicle of dale. on whit monday , mass was celebrated within the ruins of dale abbey for the first time since the reformation.] [footnote : the church, however, was at that time, and is now, always spoken of as the "shrine of our lady of dale, virgin mother of pity." the very rev. p. j. canon mccarthy, of ilkeston, writes to me, "the shrine was an altar to our lady of sorrows or pieta, which was temporarily erected in the church by the permission of the bishop of nottingham (the right rev. e. s. bagshawe), till such time as its own chapel or church could be properly provided. the shrine was afterwards honoured and recognised by the holy see." see chapter xxxix.] [footnote : letter to me, th june . but see chapter xxxv.] [footnote : murphy's edition of johnson's works, vol, xii., p. .] [footnote : preface to the city of the saints. see also wanderings in west africa, i., p. , where he adds, "thus were written such books as eothen and rambles beyond railways; thus were not written lane's egyptians or davis's chinese." [footnote : the general reader will prefer mrs. hamilton gray's tour to the sepulchres of etruria, ; and may like to refer to the review of it in the gentleman's magazine for april, .] [footnote : phrynichus.] [footnote : supplemental nights, lib. ed., x., , note.] [footnote : the recent speeches (july ) of the bishop of ripon and the letters of the rev. dr. barry on this danger to the state will be in the minds of many.] [footnote : burton means what is now called the neo-malthusian system, which at the time was undergoing much discussion, owing to the appearance, at the price of sixpence, of dr. h. allbutt's well-known work the wife's handbook. malthus's idea was to limit families by late marriages; the neo-malthusians, who take into consideration the physiological evils arising from celibacy, hold that it is better for people to marry young, and limit their family by lawful means.] [footnote : this is lady burton's version. according to another version it was not this change in government that stood in sir richard's way.] [footnote : vide the preface to burton's catullus.] [footnote : we are not so prudish as to wish to see any classical work, intended for the bona fide student, expurgated. we welcome knowledge, too, of every kind; but we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that in much of sir richard's later work we are not presented with new information. the truth is, after the essays and notes in the arabian nights, there was nothing more to say. almost all the notes in the priapeia, for example, can be found in some form or other in sir richard's previous works.] [footnote : decimus magnus ausonius (a.d. to a.d. ) born at burdegala (bordeaux). wrote epigrams, ordo nobilium urbium, short poems on famous cities, idyllia, epistolae and the autobiographical gratiarum actio.] [footnote : among the english translations of catullus may be mentioned those by the hon. george lamb, , and walter k. kelly, (these are given in bohn's edition), sir theodore martin, , james cranstoun, , robinson ellis, and , sir richard burton, , francis warre cornish, . all are in verse except kelly's and cornish's. see also chapter xxxv. of this work.] [footnote : mr. kirby was on the continent.] [footnote : presentation copy of the nights.] [footnote : see mr. kirby's notes in burton's arabian nights.] [footnote : see chapter xxix.] [footnote : now professor of sanskrit at cambridge.] [footnote : chapter xxxi.] [footnote : burton's book, etruscan bologna, has a chapter on the contadinesca favella bolognese, pp. - .] [footnote : th september , from adeslberg, styria.] [footnote : writer's cramp of the right hand, brought on by hard work.] [footnote : of the translation of the novels of matteo bandello, vols. published in .] [footnote : mr. payne had not told burton the name of the work, as he did not wish the news to get abroad prematurely.] [footnote : she very frequently committed indiscretions of this kind, all of them very creditable to her heart, but not to her head.] [footnote : folkestone, where lady stisted was staying.] [footnote : lady stisted and her daughter georgiana.] [footnote : verses on the death of richard burton.--new review. feb. .] [footnote : with the jew and el islam.] [footnote : mr. watts-dunton, need we say? is a great authority on the gypsies. his novel aylwin and his articles on borrow will be called to mind.] [footnote : my hair is straight as the falling rain and fine as the morning mist. --indian love, lawrence hope.] [footnote : the jew, the gypsy, and el islam, p. .] [footnote : it is dedicated to burton.] [footnote : burton's a. n., suppl. i., ; lib. ed., ix., . see also many other of burton's notes.] [footnote : lib. ed., vol. x.] [footnote : lib. ed., x., p. . xi., p. .] [footnote : lib. ed., xii.] [footnote : burton differed from mr. payne on this point. he thought highly of these tales. see chapter xxxv, .] [footnote : this paragraph does not appear in the original. it was made up by burton.] [footnote : one friend of burton's to whom i mentioned this matter said to me, "i was always under the impression that burton had studied literary arabic, but that he had forgotten it." [footnote : life, ii., . see also romance, ii., .] [footnote : as most of its towns are white, tunis is called the burnous of the prophet, in allusion to the fact that mohammed always wore a spotlessly white burnous.] [footnote : as suggested by m. hartwig derenbourg, membre de l'institut.] [footnote : the nominal author of the collection of old english tales of the same name.] [footnote : ridiculous as this medical learning reads to-day, it is not more ridiculous than that of the english physicians two centuries later.] [footnote : juvenal, satire xi.] [footnote : religio medici, part ii., section .] [footnote : we should word it "pauline christianity." [footnote : arabian nights, lib. ed., vii., .] [footnote : see the example we give in about moseilema and the bald head.] [footnote : also called the torch of pebble strown river beds, a title explained by the fact that in order to traverse with safety the dried tunisian river beds, which abound in sharp stones, it is advisable, in the evening time, to carry a torch.] [footnote : mohammed, of course.] [footnote : it contained pages of text, pages d'avis au lecteur, portraits, hors testes on blue paper, erotic illustrations in the text, and at the end of the book about ten pages of errata with an index and a few blank leaves.] [footnote : he also refers to it in his arabian nights, lib. ed., vol. viii., p. , footnote.] [footnote : see chapter xxvi.] [footnote : but, of course, the book was not intended for the average englishman, and every precaution was taken, and is still taken, to prevent him from getting it.] [footnote : court fool of haroun al rashid. several anecdotes of bahloul are to be found in jami's beharistan.] [footnote : a tale that has points in common with the lynching stories from the united states. in the kama shastra edition the negro is called "dorerame." [footnote : chapter ii. irving spells the name moseilma.] [footnote : chapter ii. sleath's edition, vol. vi., .] [footnote : it must be remembered that the story of moseilema and sedjah has been handed down to us by moseilema's enemies.] [footnote : the struggle between his followers and those of mohammed was a fight to the death. mecca and yamama were the rome and carthage of the day--the mastery of the religious as well as of the political world being the prize.] [footnote : as spelt in the kama shastra version.] [footnote : burton's spelling. we have kept to it throughout this book. the word is generally spelt nuwas.] [footnote : the edition, p. .] [footnote : vol. i., p. .] [footnote : cf. song of solomon, iv., . "thy neck is like the tower of david." [footnote : see burton's remarks on the negro women as quoted in chapter ix., .] [footnote : women blacken the inside of the eyelids with it to make the eyes look larger and more brilliant.] [footnote : so we are told in the introduction to the kama shastra edition of chapters i. to xx. chapter xxi. has not yet been translated into any european language. probably burton never saw it. certainly he did not translate it.] [footnote : from the paris version of . see chapter xxxviii. of this book, where the kama shastra version is given.] [footnote : life, by lady burton, ii., .] [footnote : the pen name of carl ulrichs.] [footnote : life, by lady burton, ii., .] [footnote : there is an article on clerical humorists in the gentleman's magazine for feb. .] [footnote : mr. bendall.] [footnote : on the continent it was called "the prince of wales shake." [footnote : it is now in the public library, camberwell.] [footnote : john elliotson ( - ). physician and mesmerist. one always connects his name with thackeray's pendennis.] [footnote : a reference to a passage in dr. tuckey's book.] [footnote : james braid ( - ) noted for his researches in animal magnetism.] [footnote : see chapter xxiv, .] [footnote : the famous finnish epic given to the world in by dr. lonnrot.] [footnote : letter to mr. payne, th january .] [footnote : as ingrained clingers to red tape and immobility.] [footnote : i give the anecdote as told to me by dr. baker.] [footnote : letter of mr. t. d. murray to me th september . but see chapter xxxi. this paper must have been signed within three months of sir richard's death.] [footnote : on th june , i saw it in the priest's house at mortlake. there is an inscription at the back.] [footnote : alaeddin was prefaced by a poetical dedication to payne's alaeddin, "twelve years this day,--a day of winter dreary," etc.] [footnote : see chapter xxxiii., . payne had declared that cazotte's tales "are for the most part rubbish." [footnote : mr. payne's translation of the novels of matteo bandello, six vols. published in .] [footnote : now professor of sanskrit at cambridge.] [footnote : th november .] [footnote : lib. ed., vol. xii., p. .] [footnote : see introduction by mr. smithers.] [footnote : th july .] [footnote : we quote lady burton. mr. smithers, however, seems to have doubted whether burton really did write this sentence. see his preface to the catullus.] [footnote : a translation by francis d. bryne appeared in .] [footnote : i am indebted to m. carrington for these notes.] [footnote : unpublished.] [footnote : dr. schliemann died th december, .] [footnote : not the last page of the scented garden, as she supposed (see life, vol. ii., p. ), for she tells us in the life (vol. ii., p. ) that the ms. consisted of only chapters.] [footnote : told me by dr. baker.] [footnote : life, ii., .] [footnote : communicated by mr. p. p. cautley, the vice-consul of trieste.] [footnote : asher's collection of english authors. it is now in the public library at camberwell.] [footnote : she herself says almost as much in the letters written during this period. see chapter xxxix., . letters to mrs. e. j. burton.] [footnote : see chapter xxxi.] [footnote : letters of major st. george burton to me, march .] [footnote : unpublished letter to miss stisted.] [footnote : unpublished letter.] [footnote : verses on the death of richard burton. the new review, feb. .] [footnote : unpublished. lent me by mr. mostyn pryce.] [footnote : unpublished.] [footnote : see chapter xiv, .] [footnote : see the land of midian revisited, ii., , footnote.] [footnote : the lusiads, canto ii., stanza .] [footnote : she impressed them on several of her friends. in each case she said, "i particularly wish you to make these facts as public as possible when i am gone." [footnote : we mean illiterate for a person who takes upon herself to write, of this even a cursory glance through her books will convince anybody.] [footnote : for example, she destroyed sir richard's diaries. portions of these should certainly have been published.] [footnote : some of them she incorporated in her "life" of her husband, which contains at least pages of quotations from utterly worthless documents.] [footnote : i am told that it is very doubtful whether this was a bona fide offer; but lady burton believed it to be so.] [footnote : romance of isabel lady burton, vol. ii., p. .] [footnote : the romance of isabel lady burton.] [footnote : lady burton, owing to a faulty translation, quite mistook nafzawi's meaning. she was thinking of the concluding verse as rendered in the edition, which runs as follows:-- "i certainly did wrong to put this book together, but you will pardon me, nor let me pray in vain; o god! award no punishment for this on judgment day! and thou, o reader, hear me conjure thee to say, so be it!" but the and, more faithful edition puts it very differently. see chapter xxxiv.] [footnote : an error, as we have shown.] [footnote : mr. t. douglas murray, the biographer of jeanne d'arc and sir samuel baker, spent many years in egypt, where he met burton. he was on intimate terms of friendship with gordon, grant, baker and de lesseps.] [footnote : written in june .] [footnote : life, ii., p. .] [footnote : it would have been impossible to turn over half-a-dozen without noticing some verses.] [footnote : we have seen only the first volume. the second at the time we went to press had not been issued.] [footnote : see chapter xxxiv.] [footnote : the kama shastra edition.] [footnote : see chapter xxvi.] [footnote : she often used a typewriter.] [footnote : the same may be said of lady burton's life of her husband. i made long lists of corrections, but i became tired; there were too many. i sometimes wonder whether she troubled to read the proofs at all.] [footnote : his edition of catullus appeared in in vols. mos.] [footnote : poem . on a wanton's door.] [footnote : poem . invitation to caecilius.] [footnote : poem . the praise of his pinnance.] [footnote : preface to the edition of lady burton's life of sir richard burton.] [footnote : in her life of sir richard, lady burton quotes only a few sentences from these diaries. practically she made no use of them whatever. for nearly all she tells us could have been gleaned from his books.] [footnote : in the church may still be seen a photograph of sir richard burton taken after death, and the words quoted, in lady burton's handwriting, below. she hoped one day to build a church at ilkeston to be dedicated to our lady of dale. but the intention was never carried out. see chapter xxxi.] [footnote : see chapter xxxvii, .] [footnote : it must be remembered that canon wenham had been a personal friend of both sir richard and lady burton. see chapter xxxvi., .] [footnote : this letter will also be found in the romance of isabel lady burton, ii., .] [footnote : all my researches corroborate this statement of lady burton's. be the subject what it might, he was always the genuine student.] [footnote : "it is a dangerous thing, lady burton," said mr. watts-dunton to her, "to destroy a distinguished man's manuscripts, but in this case i think you did quite rightly." [footnote : miss stisted, newgarden lodge, , manor road, folkestone.] [footnote : , baker street, portman square.] [footnote : true life, p. .] [footnote : frontispiece to this volume.] [footnote : the picture now at camberwell.] [footnote : now at camberwell.] [footnote : to dr. e. j. burton, rd march .] [footnote : i think this expression is too strong. though he did not approve of the catholic religion as a whole, there were features in it that appealed to him.] [footnote : th january , to mrs. e. j. burton.] [footnote : sir richard often used to chaff her about her faulty english and spelling. several correspondents have mentioned this. she used to retort good-humouredly by flinging in his face some of his own shortcomings.] [footnote : unpublished letter.] [footnote : payne, i., . burton lib. ed., i., .] [footnote : unpublished letter.] [footnote : lady burton included only the nights proper, not the supplementary tales.] [footnote : the romance of isabel lady burton, ii., .] [footnote : holywell lodge, meads, eastbourne.] [footnote : left unfinished. mr. wilkins incorporated the fragment in the romance of isabel lady burton.] [footnote : huxley died th june .] [footnote : mrs. fitzgerald died th january , and is buried under the tent at mortlake. mrs. van zeller is still living. i had the pleasure of hearing from her in .] [footnote : she died in .] [footnote : or garden of purity, by mirkhond. it is a history of mohammed and his immediate successors.] [footnote : part contains the lives of the four immediate successors of mohammed.] [footnote : now madame nicastro.] [footnote : letter of miss daisy letchford to me. th august, .] [footnote : see midsummer night's dream, iii., .] [footnote : close of the tale of "una el wujoud and rose in bud." [footnote : these lines first appeared in the new review, february . we have to thank mr. swinburne for kindly permitting us to use them.] [footnote : two islands in the middle of the adriatic.] [footnote : j.a.i. journal of the anthropological institute of great britain and ireland.] [footnote : t.e.s.--transactions of the ethnological society of london. new series.] [footnote : a.r.--anthropological review.] [footnote : a.r. iv. j.a.s.--fourth vol. of the anthropological review contained in the journal of the anthropological society.] [footnote : anthrop. anthropologia--the organ of the london anthropological society.] [footnote : m.a.s. memoirs read before the anthropological society of london.] [footnote : the titles of the volumes of original poetry are in italics. the others are those of translations.] [footnote : zohra--the name of the planet venus. it is sometimes given to girls.]