J ITLIAN H O M E
A TALE OF COLLEGE LIFE.
BY
FREDERIC W. FARRAR, M.A.
FELLOW OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE,
AUTHOR OF "ERIC; OR, LITTLE BY LITTLE."
AlAtvov atrvov derd, TO A' EY NIKATO.
JEsCI. AG. 1O;6
NEW YORK:
M. DOOLADY, PUBLISHER.
448 BROOME STREET.
1866.




AUTHOR'S EDITION.




TO
H. M. B., V. L., AND C. J. A
OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMIBRIDGE,
THE ONLY SURVIVORS OF OUR "SHAKSPEARE SOCIETY,"P
THIS TALE OF COLLEGE LIFE
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
BY
ONE WHO IS PROUD TO BE THEIR FRIEND.








PREFACE.
READER, even if, in the story of JULIAN HOME,
I should be so unfortunate as to arouse your
antagonism or offend your taste, at least believe
that it has then my earnest endeavor to write
with fearie riness and honesty; that it has been
my sincere desire to avoid causing needless
pain; and that it has been my one object "to
lend a dor to virtue, and confidence to truth."
1*            (v)








CONTENTS.
PAGA
APTEl I.-SPEECH DAY AT HARTON......................,-.....  9
II.-JULIAN HOME...................................  19
III.-A   RETiOSPECT............................................  28
IV.-How JULIAN LOST A FORTUNE...................... 41
V.-SAINT WERNER'S.......................................  55
VI.-RENCOUNTERS............................................... 72
VII.-THE SCORN OF SCORN.................................. 84
VIII.-STUDY AND IDLENESS.....................................97
IX.-THE BOAT-RACE.......................................... 108
X.- CONTRASTS.................................................. 117
XI.-SCREWED IN............................................. 127
XII.-A GUST OF THE SOUL................................... 140
XIII.-THE CLERKLAND SCHOLARSHIP........................... 151
XIV.-MR. CARDEN............................................... 170
XV.-KENNEDY'S DISHONOR.................................... 179
XVI.-A DAY OF WONDER......................... 195
XVII.-A NIGHT OF TERROR........................ 210
XVIII.-THE ALPEN-GLUHEN..................................... 220
XIX.-ONLY A BLUSH.............................................. 229
(vii)




Viii                     CONTENTS.
PAGS
CHAPTER XX.-BRUCE THE TEMPTER............................. 238
XXI.-ONE OF THE SIMPLE ONES................................ 250
XXII.-DE VAYNE'S TEMPTATION.......................... 264
XXIII.-KENNEDY'S WINE-PARTY, AND WHAT         CAIE
OF  IT..........2...................................  277
XXIV.-DE VAYNE'S CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS............... 289
XXV.-MEMORY THE BOOK OF GOD......................... 301
XXVI.-HAZLET'S VISION................................... 318
XXVII.-JULIAN AND KENNEDY............................... 336
XXVIII.-KENNEDY'S DESPAIR.................................. 346
XXIX.-EVA ENTERS THE CHAPEL............................ 358
XXX.-REPENTANCE.......................................... 370
XXXI.-BRUCE IN TROUBLE.............................. 383
XXXII. —A QUIET PROSPECT.................................... 397
XXXIII.-FAREWELL.........................  405




JULIAN HOME.
CHAPTER I.
SPEECH DAY AT HARTON.
"A little bench of heedless bishops there,
And here a chancellor in embryo."-SHENSTONE.
IT was Speech day at Harton. From an.early hour
handsome equipages.had been dashing down the treet,
and depositing their occupants at the masters' houses.
The perpetual rolling of wheels distracted the attention
every moment, and curiosity was keenly on the alert to
catch a glimpse of the various magnates whose arrival
was expected. At the Queen's Head stood a large
array of carriages, and the streets were thronged with
gay groups of pedestrians, and full of bustle and liveliness.
The visitors-chiefly parents and relatives of the
Harton boys —occupied the morning in seeing the
school and village, and it was a pretty sight to observe
mothers and sisters as they wandered with delighted
interest through the scenes so proudly pointed out to
them by their young escort. Some of them were strolling over the cricket-field, or through the pleasant path
down to the bathing-place. Many lingered in the beau(9)




10                  HARTON.
tiful chapel, on whose painted windows the sunlight
streamed, making them flame like jewelry, and flinging
their fair shadows of blue and scarlet and crimson on
the delicate carving of the pillars on either side. But,
on the whole, the boys were most proud of showing
their friends the old school-room, on whose rude panels
many a name may be deciphered, carved there by the
boyish hand of poets, orators, and statesmen, who, in
the zenith of their fame, still looked back with fond
remembrance on the home of their earlier days, and
some of whom were then testifying by their presence
the undying interest which they took in their old
school.
The pleasant morning wore away, and the time for
the speeches drew on. The room was thronged with a
distinguished company, and presented a brilliant and
animated appearance. In the center was a table loaded
with prize-books, and all round it sat the secular and
episcopal dignitaries, for whom seats had been reserved,
while the chair was occupied by a young prince of the
royal house. On the other side was a slightly elevated
platform, on which were seated the monitors who were
to take part in the day's proceedings, and behind it,
under the gallery set apart for old Hartonians, crowded
a number of gentlemen and boys who could find no
room elsewhere.
"Now, papa," said a young lady sitting opposite the
monitors, "I've been asking Walter here which is the
cleverest of those boys."
"Ahem! young men, you mean," interrupted her
elder sister.
"No, no!" said Walter, positively; "call them boys;




PHYSIOGNOMIES.              11
to call them young men is all bosh; we shall have'young gentlemen' next, which is awful twaddle."
"Well, which of those boys on the platform is the
cleverest-the greatest swell he calls it? Now you
profess to be a physiognomist, papa, so just see if you
can guess."
"I'm to look out for some future Byron or Peel
among them, eh, Walter?"
"Yes."
The old gentleman put on his spectacles, and deliberately looked round the row of monitors, who were
awaiting the head-master's signal to begin the speeches.
"Well, haven't you done yet, papa? What an age
you are! Walter says you ought to tell at a glance."
"Patience, my dear-patience. I'll tell you in a
minute.  There," he said, after a moment's pause,
" that boy seated last but one on the bench nearest us
has more genius than any of them, I should say." He
pointed to one of the youngest-looking of the monitors,
who would also have been the most striking in personal
appearance had not the almost hectic rose-color of his
cheeks, and the quiet shining of his blue eyes, under
the soft hair that hung over his forehead, given a look
of greater delicacy than was desirable in a boyish face.
"Wrong, wrong, wrong!" chuckled Walter and his
sister. "Try again."
"I'm very rarely wrong, you little rogue, in spite
of you; but I'll look again. No, there can be no
doubt about it. Several of those faces show talent,
but one only has a look of genius, and that is the face
of the boy I pointed out before. What is his name?"
"Oh, that's Home. He's clever enough in his way;




12          BRUCE AND JULIAN HOME.
but the fellow you ought to have picked out is the moni
tor I fag for-Bruce, the head of the school."
"Well, show me your hero."
"There he sits, right in the middle of them, opposite
us. There, that's he just going to speak now."
He pointed to a tall, handsome fellow, with a look of
itifinite self-confidence, who at that moment made a low
bow to the assembly, and then began to recite with much
force- a splendid burst of oratory from one of Burke's
great speeches; which he did with the air of one who
had no doubt that Burke himself might have studied
with benefit the scorn which he flung into his invective,
and the Olympian grace with which he waved his arm.
A burst of applause followed the conclusion of his recitation, during which Bruce took his seat with a look of
unconcealed delight and triumph.
"There, papa-what do you think of that? Wasn't
I right now?" said the young Hartonian, whose name
was Walter Thornley.
But the old gentleman's only answer was a quiet
smile, and he had not joined in the general clapping.
"Is Home to take any part in the speeches?" he
inquired.
"0 yes! he's got some part or other in one of the
Shakspeare scenes; but he won't do it half as well as
Bruce."
"I observe he's got several of the prizes."
"Yes, that's true. He's a fellow that grinds, you
know, and so he can't help getting some. But Bruce,
now, never opens a book, and yet he's swept off no end
of a lot, as you'll see."
"Humph! Walter, I don't much believe in your




A RECITATION.                13
boys that'never open a book,' and, as far as I can ob.
serve, the phrase must be taken with very considerable
latitude; I still believe that the boy who'grinds,' as
you call it, is the abler boy of the two."
"Yes, Walter," said his brother, an old Hartonian,
"whenever a fellow, who has got a prize, tells you he
won it without opening a book, set him down as a shallow puppy, and don't believe him."
By this time four of the monitors were standing up
to recite a scene from the-Merchant of Venice, and
Home among them; his part was a very slight one,
and, although there was nothing remarkable in his way
of acting, yet he had evidently studied with intelligence
his author's meaning, and his modest self-possession
attracted favorable regards. But, a few minutes after,
he had to recite alone a passage of Tennyson's Morte
d'Arthur, and then he appeared to greater advantage.
Standing in a perfectly natural attitude, he began in
low clear tones, enunciating every line with a distinctness that instantly won attention, and at last warming
with his theme, he modulated his voice with the requirements of the verse, and used gestures so graceful, yet
so unaffected, that when with musical emphasis he spoke
the last lines,"Long stood Sir Belvidere
Resolving many memories, till the hull
Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away,"
he seemed entirely absorbed in the subject, and for
half a minute stood as if unconscious, until the deep
2




14                THE HOMES.
murmur of applause startled his meditations, and he sat
down as naturally as he had risen.
"Well done, old Home!" said Walter; while Mr.
Thornley nodded rapidly two or three times, and murmured after him,"And on the mere the wailing died away."
"Really, I think Julian did that admirably, did he
not?" said a young and lovely girl to her mother, as
Home sat down.
"By jingo!" whispered Walter, "I believe these
people just by us are Home's people."
"People 1" said his sister; "what do you mean by
his people?"
"Oh you know, Mary; you girls are always shamming you don't understand plain English. I mean his
people."
Mary smiled, and looked at the strangers. "Yes,
no doubt of it," she said; "that young lady has just
the same features as Mr. Home, only softened a little;
more refined they could not be. And they've been
hearing all your rude remarks, Walter, no doubt."
The boy was right, for when the speeches were over,
they saw Home offer his arm to the two ladies and lead
them out into the court-yard, where everybody was
waiting, under the large awning, to hear the lions of
the day cheered as they came down the school-steps.
Bruce was leading the cheers; he seemed to know
everybody and everybody to know him, and as group
after group passed him, he was bowing and smiling
repeatedly while he listened to the congratulations
which were lavished upon him from all sides. Among




HARTON CHURCH-YARD.            15
the last his own family came out, and when he gave
his arm to his mother and descended the school-steps,
one of the other monitors suddenly cried,"Three cheers for the head of the school."
The boys cordially echoed the cheers, and, taking
off his hat, Bruce stood still with a flush of exultation
on his handsome face, in an attitude peculiar to him
whenever he was undergoing an ovation.
"Pose plastique; King Bruce snuffing up the incense of flattery!" muttered a school Thersites, standing by
"Green-minded scoundrel," was the reply; "that's
because he beat you to fits in the Latin verse."
"How very popular he seems to be, Julian!" said
Miss Home to her brother, as they stood rather apart
from the fashionable crowd.
"Very popular, and, on the whole, he deserves his
popularity; how capitally he recited to-day!" and
Julian looked at him and sighed.
"And now, mother, will you come to lunch?" he
said; "you're invited to my tutor's, you know."
They went and took a hasty lunch, heartily enjoying
the simple and general good humor, which was the
order of the day; and finding that there was still an
hour before the train started which was to convey them
home, Julian took them up to the old church-yard, and
while they enjoyed the only breath of air which made
the tall elms murmur in the burning day, he showed
them the beautiful scene spread out at their feet, and
the distant towers of Elton and St. George. Field
after field, filled with yellowing harvests or grazing
herds, stretched away to the horizon, and nothing on




16                  A SIGH.
earth could be fairer than that soft sleep of the golden
sunshine on the green and flowery meadow-land; while
overhead only a few silvery cloudlets variegated with
their fleecy luster the expanse of blue, rippling down
to the horizon like curves of white foam at the edges
of a summer sea.
"No wonder a poet loved this view," said Mrs. Home.
"By-the-by, Julian, which is the tomb he used to lie
upon?"
"There! just behind us; that one with the fragments broken off by stupid picturesque tourists, with
the name of Peachey on it."
"And so Byron really used, as a boy, to rest under
these elms, and look at this lovely view!" said his
sister.
"Yes, Violet. I wonder how much he'd have given,
in after-life, to be a boy again," said Julian, thoughtfully; "and have a fresh start-a rejuvenescence, beginning after a summer hour spent on Peachey's tomb!"
and Julian sighed again.
"My dear Julian," said Violet, gayly rallying him,
"what a boy you are! What business have you to
sigh here of all places, and now of all times? That's
the second time in the course of an hour that I've
heard you. Imagine a Harton monitor sighing twice
on speech day! You must be tired of us."
"Did I sigh?  Abominably rude of me. I really
didn't mean it," said Julian; and, shaking off the influences which had slightly depressed him for the moment, he began to laugh and joke with the utmost
mirth until it became time to meet the train. He accompanied his mother and sister to the station, bade




LILLYSTON.                17
them an affectionate farewell, and then walked slowly
back, for the beauty of the summer evening made him
loiter on the way.
"Poor Julian!" said Violet to her mother when the
train started; "he lets the sense of responsibility weigh
on him too much, I'm afraid."
But Julian was thinking that the next time he came
to the station would probably be at the end of term,
when his school-boy days would be over. He leaned
against a gate, and looked long at the green quiet hill,
with its tall spire and embosoming trees, till he fell
into a reverie.
A slap on the back awoke him, and, turning round,
he saw the genial, good-humored face of one of his
fellow-monitors, Hugh Lillyston.
"Well, Julian, dreaming as usual-castle-building,
and all that sort of thing, eh?"
" No I was thinking how soon one will have to bid
good-by to dear old Harton.  How well the chapel
looks from here, dbesn't it?-and the church towering
above it."
"The chapel being like a fair daughter seated at her
mother's feet, as your poetical tutor remarked the
other day. Well, Julian, I'm glad we shall leave together, anyhow. Come and have some tea."
Julian went to his friend's room. The fag brought
the tea and toast, and they spent a merry evening,
chatting over the speeches and the way in which the
day had gone off. At lock-up, Julian went to write
some letters, and then feeling the melancholy thought
of future days stealing over him, he plunged into a
book of poems till it was bedtime, being disturbed a
2*




18                 PROSPECTS.
good deal, however, by the noisy mirth which resounded, long after forbidden hours, from Bruce's study
overhead. Bruce was also to leave Harton in a month,
and they were going up together to St. Werner's College, Camford. But the difference was, that Bruce
went up wealthy and popular; Julian, whose retiring
disposition and refined tastes won him far fewer though
truer friends, was going up as a sizar, with no prospect of remaining at the university unless he won himself the means of doing so by his own success. It- was
this thought that had made him sigh.




CHAPTER II.
JULIAN HOME.
"0 thou goddess.
Thou divine Natures how thyself thou blazon'st
In these two princely boys; they are as gentle
As zephyrs blowing beneath the violet,
Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as fierce,
Their royal blood enchafed, as the rud'st wind
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And makes him bow to the vale."
CYMBELINE, Act iv., sc. 2.
IT was but recently (as will be explained hereafter)
that the circumstances had arisen which had rendered
it necessary for Julian Home to enter St. Werner's as
a sizar; and since that necessity had arisen, he had
been far from happy. A peculiar sensitiveness had
been from childhood the distinctive feature of his charactei.  It rendered him   doubly amenable to every
emotion of pleasure and pain, and gave birth to a selfconscious spirit, which made his nature appear weaker,
when a boy, than it really was. * While he was at Harton, this self-consciousness made him keenly, almost
tremblingly, alive to the opinions of others about himself. His self-depreciation arose from real humility,
and there was in his heart-so deep a fountain of love
toward all his fellows, and so sympathizing an admiration of all their good or brilliant qualities, that he was
(19)




20                  ENEMIES.
far too apt to suffer himself to be tormented by the in
difference, or dislike of those who'were far his inferiors
It was strange that such a boy should have had
enemies, but he was sadly aware that in that light some
regarded him. Had it been possible to conciliate them
without any compromise in his line of action, he would
have done so at any cost; but as their enmity arose
from that vehement moral indignation which Julian
both felt and expressed against the iniquities which he
despised and disapproved, he knew that all union with
them was out of his power. As a general rule, the
best boys are by no means the most popular.
It was the great delight of Julian's detractors to
compare him unfavorably with their hero, Bruce.
Bruce, as a fair scholar and a good cricketer, with no
very marked line of his own-as a fine-looking fellow,
anxious to keep on good terms with everybody, and
with an apparently hearty "well met". for all the
world-cut against the grain of no one's predilections,
and had the voice of popular favor always on his side.
While ambition made him work tolerably hard, as far
as he could do so without attracting observation, the
line he took was to disparage industry, and ally himself
with the merely cricketing set, with some of whom he
might be seen strolling arm-in-arm, in loud conversation, at every possible" opportunity. Julian, on the
other hand, though a fair cricketer, soon grew weary
of the "shop" about that game, which for three months
formed the main staple of conversation among the
boys; and while his countenance was too expressive to
conceal this fact, he in his turn found himself unable
to enlist more than a few in any interest for those in.




BROGTEN.                 21
tellectual pursuits which were the chief joy of his own
life.
"Home, I've been watching you for the last halfhour," said Bruce, one day at dinner, "and you
haven't opened your lips."
"I've had nothing to say."
"Why not?"
"Because, since we came in, not one word has been
said about any human subject but cricket, cricket,
cricket; it's been the same for the last two months;
and as I haven't been playing this morning-"
"Well, no one wants you to talk," interrupted Brogten, one of the eleven, Julian's especial foe. "I say,
Bruce, did you see-"
"I was only going to add," said Julian, with perfect
good humor, heedless of the interruption, "that I
couldn't discuss a game I didn't see."
"Nobody asked you, sir," retorted Brogten, rudely;
"if it had been some sentimental humbug, I dare say
you'd have moaned about it long enough."
"Better, at any rate, than some of your low stories,
Brogten," said Lillyston, firing up on his friend's behalf.
"I don't know. I like something manly."
"Vice and manliness being identical, then, according to your notions?" said Lillyston.
Brogten muttered an angry reply, in which the only
Audible words were "confound" and "milksops."
"Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame;
Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name,"
thought Julian; but he did not condescend to make
any further answer.




22               SENSITIVENESS.
"I hate that kind of fellow," said Brogten, loud
enough -for the friends to hear, as they. rose from the
table; "fellows who think themselves everybody's
superiors, and walk with their noses in the air."
"I wonder that you will still be talking, Brogten;
nobody marks Yyou," said Lillyston, treatfig with the
profoundest indifference a stupid calumny. Bat poisoned
arrows like these quivered long and rankle4 painffully
in'Julian's heart.
Yet no sensible boy would have given Julian's reputation in exchange for that of Bruce; for in all except
the mean and coarse minority, Julian excited either
affection or esteem, and'he had the rare inestimable
treasure of some real and noble-hearted friends; while
Bruce'as too vain, too shallow, and too fickle to inspire any higher feeling than a mere transient admiration.
Latterly it had become known to the boys that
Julian was going up to St. Werner's as a sizar, and
being ignorant of the reasons which decided him, they
had been much surprised. But the little clique of his
enemies made this an additional subject of annoyance,
and there were not wanting those who had the amazing
bad taste to repeat to him some of their speeches.
There are some who seem to think that a man must
rather enjoy hearing all the low tittle-tattle of envious
backbiters.
"I knew he must be some tailor's son or other,"
remarked Brogten.
"I say, Bruce, we shall have to cut him at St. Werner's," observed an exquisite young exclusive.
Such things-the mere lispings of malicious folly



MR. CARDEN.                23
Julian could not help hearing; and they galled him so
much that he determined to:have a talk on the subject
with his tutom, who was a St. Werner's man. It was
his tutor's custom to devote the hour before lock-up on
every half-holiday to seeing any of-his pupils who cared
to come and visit him; but as on the rich summer
evenings few were to be tempted from.the joyous
sounds of the cricket-fibld, Julian found him sitting;alone in his study reading.
"Ha, Julian!" he exclaimed, rising at once, with a
frank and cordial greeting. "Here's a triumph! A
boy actually enticed from bats and balls to pay me a
visit!"
Julian smiled. "The fact is, sir," he said, "I've
come to ask you about something. But am I disturbing you?  If so, I'll go and'pursue vagrant pieces of
leather again,' as. Mr. Stokes says when he wants to
dismiss us to cricket."
"Not in the least. I rather enjoy being disturbed
during this hour. But what do you say to a turn in
the open air?  One can talk so much better walking
than sitting down on opposite sides of a fire-place with
no fire in it."
Julian readily assented, and Mr. Carden took his
arm as they bent their way down to the cricket-field.
There they stopped involuntarily for a time, to gaze at
the house-match which was going on, and the master
entered with the utmost vivacity into the keen yet
harmless "chaff" which waS being interchanged between the partisans of the rival houses.
"What a charming place this field is," he said, "on
a summer evening, while the sunset lets fall upon it the




24             TIHE CRICKET-FIELD.
last innocuous arrows of its golden sheaf! When I am
wearied to death with work or vexation-which, alas!
is too often-I always run down here, and it gives me
a fresh lease of life."
Julian smiled at his tutor's metaphorical style of
speech, which he knew was in him the natural expres.
sions of a glowing and poetic heart, that saw no reason
to be ashamed of its own warm feelings and changeful
fancies; and Mr. Garden, wrapped in the scene before,
him, and the sensations it excited, murmured to himself some of his favorite lines:
"Alas! that one
Should use the days of summer but to live
And breathe but as the needful element
The strange superfluous glory of the air
Nor rather stand in awe apart, beside
The untouched time, and murmuring o'er and o'er,
In awe and wonder,'These are summer days!'"
"Shall we stroll across the fields, sir, before lockup?" said Julian, as a triumphant shout proclaimed
that the game was over, and the Parkites had defeated
the Grovians.
"Yes, do. By-the-by, what was it that you had to
ask me about?"
" Oh, sir, I don't think I've told you before; but I'm
going up to St. Werner's as a sub-sizar."
Mr. Garden looked surprised.  "Indeed! Is that
necessary?"
"Yes, sir; it's a choice between that and not going
at all. And what I wanted to ask you was, whether
it will subject me to much annoyance or contempt;
because, if so  "




SIZARS.                   25
"Contempt, my dear fellow!" said Mr. Carden,
quickly. "Yes," he added, after a pause, "the contempt of the contemptible-certainly of no one else."
"But do you think that any Harton fellows will cut
me?
"Unquestionably not; at least, if any of them do,
it will be such a proof of their own absolute worthlessness, that you will be well ridof such acquaintances."
Julian seemed but little reassured by this summary
way of viewing the matter.
"But I hope," he said, "that no one (even if they
ion't cut me) will regard my society as a matter of
mere tolerance, or try an air of condescension."
"Look here, Julian," said the master; "a sub-sizar
means merely a poor scholar, for whom the college has
set apart certain means of assistance. From this body
have come some of the most distinguished men whom
St. Werner's has ever produced; and many of the Fellows (indeed quite a disproportionate number) began
their college career in this manner. Now tell meshould you care the snap of a finger for the opinion or
the acquaintance of a man who could be such an ineffable fool as to drop intercourse with you because you
are merely less rich than he? Don't you remember
those grand old words, Julian:"'Lives there for honest poverty,
Who hangs his head and a' that?
The coward slave we pass him by,
And dare be poor for a' that."
"And yet, sir, half the distinctions of modern society
rest upon accidents of this kind."
3




26          VIRTUS VERA NOBILITAS.
"True, true! quite' true; but what is the use of
education if it does not teach us to look on man as
man, and judge by a nobler and more real standard
than the superficial distinctions of society? But answer
my question."."Well, sir, I confess that I should think very lightly
of the man who treated me in that way; still I should
be annoyed very much by his conduct."
"I really think, Julian," replied Mr. Garden, "that
the necessity which compels you to go up as a sizar
will be good for you in many ways. Poverty, selfdenial, the bearing of the yoke in youth, are the highest forms of discipline for a brave and godly manhood.
The hero and the prophet are rarely found in soft
clothing or kingly houses; they are never chosen from
the palaces of Mammon or the gardens of Belial."
They talked a little longer on the subject, and Mr.
Garden pointed out how, at the universities more than
anywhere, the aristocracy of intellect and character are
almost solely recognized, and those patents of nobility
honored which come direct from God. "After a single
term, Julian, depend upon it, you will smile at the sensitiveness which now makes you shrink from entering
on this position. At least, I assume that even by that
time your name will be honorably known, as it will be
if you work hard. You must never forget that'Virtus
vera nobilitas' is the noble motto of your own college."
"Well, I will work at any rate,' said Julian; "indeed I must."
"But may I ask why you have determined on going
up as sizar?"
" Oh yes, sir. I am far too grateful for all your many




SYMPATHY.                  27
kindnesses to me, not to tell you freely of my circums
stances."
And so, as they walked on that beautiful summer
evening over the green fields, Julian, happy in. the
quiet sympathizing attention of one who was not only
a master, but a true, earnest, and affectionate friend,
told him some of the facts, to which we shall allude in
the retrospect of the next chapter.




CHAPTER III.
A RETROSPECT.
" Give me the man that is not Passion's slave,
And I will wear him in my own heart's core,
Yea, in my heart of hearts."-SHAaSPEARE.
JULIAN'S father was rector of Ildown, a beautiful
village on the Devonshire coast. As younger son, his
private means were very small, and the more so as his
family had lost in various unfortunate speculations a
large portion of the wealth which had once been the
inheritance of his ancient and honorable house. Mr.
Home regretted this but little; contentment of mind
and simplicity of tastes were to him a far deeper source
of happiness than the advantages of fortune. Immediately after his university career he had taken holy
orders, and devoted to the genial duties of his profession all the energies of a vigorous intellect and a generous heart.'During his first curacy he was happy,enough to be
placed in the diocese of a bishop whose least merit was
the rare conscientiousness with which he distributed
the patronage at his disposal. Whenever a living was
vacant, the Bishop of Elford used deliberately to pass
in mental review all the clergy under his jurisdiction,
and single out from among them the ablest and the
(28)




MR. HOME.                  29
best. lie was never influenced by the spirit of nepotism; he was never deceived by shallow declaimers or
ignorant bigots, who had thrust themselves into the
notoriety of a noisy and orthodox reputation. The
ordinary Honorable and Reverend, whose only distinction was his title or his wealth, had to look for preferment elsewhere; but often would some curate, haply
sighing at the thought that obscurity and poverty were
his lot for this life, and meekly bearing both for the
honor of his Master's work, be made deservedly happy
by at last attaining the rewards he had never sought.
Few, indeed, were the dioceses in which the clergy
worked in a more hopeful spirit, in the certainty that
the good bishop never suffered merit to pass unrecognized; and for talent and industry, no body of rectors
could be compared to those whom Bishop Morris had
chosen from the most deserving of the curates who
were under his pastoral care.
Mr. Home, after five years' hard work, had been
promoted by the bishop to a small living, where he
soon succeeded in winning the warmest affection of all
his parishioners, and among others, of his squire and
churchwarden, the Earl of Raynes, who, from a feeling
of sincere gratitude, procured for him, on the first
opportunity, the rectory of Ildown.
Here, at the age of thirty, he settled down, with
every intention of making it his home for life; and
here he shortly after wooed and won the daughter of
a neighboring clergyman, whose only dower was the
beauty of a countenance which but dimly reflected the
inner beauty of her heart.
Very tranquil was their wedded life; very perfect
3*




30                WEDDED LIFE..was the peacefulness of their home. Under her hands
the rectory garden became a many-colored Eden, and
the eye could rest delightedly on its lawns and flowerbeds, even amid that glorious environment of woods
and cliffs, free moors and open sea, which gave to the
vicinity of Ildown such a nameless charm. But the
beauty without was surpassed by the rarer sunshine of
the life within; and when children were born to them
-when little steps began to patter along the hall, and
young faces to shine beside the fire, and little strains
of silvery laughter to ring through every room-there
was a happiness in that bright family, for the sake of
which an emperor might have been content to abdicate
his throne.  Oh that the river of human life could flow
on forever with such sparkling waters, and its margin
be embroidered forever with flowers like these!
Julian was their eldest son, and it added to the
intensity of each parent's love for him to find that he
seemed to have inherited the best qualities of them
both. Their next child was Violet, and then, after
two years' interval, came Cyril and Frank. The four
children were educated at home, without even the
assistance of tutor or governess, until Julian was thirteen years old; and during all that time scarcely one
domestic sorrow occurred to checker the unclouded
serenity of their peace. Even without the esteem and
respect of all their neighbors, rich and poor, the love
of parents and children, brothers and sister, was enough
for each heart there.
But the day of separation must come at last, however long we may delay it, and after Julian's thirteenth
birthday it was decided that he must go to school. In




SCHOOLS.                  31
making thls determination, his father knew what he
was about. He knew that in sending his son among a
multitude of boys he was exposing him to a world of
temptation, and placing him amid many dangers. Yet
he never hesitated about it, and when his wife spoke
with trembling anxiety of the things which she had
heard and read about school-life, he calmly replied,that
without danger there can be no courage, and without
temptation no real virtue or tried strength.
"Poor Julian!" said Mrs. Home, "but won't he be
bullied dreadfully?"
"No, dear; the days of those atrocities about which
you read in books are done by forever. At no respectable school, except under very rare and peculiar circumstances, are boys exposed to any worse difficulties
in the way of cruelty than they can very easily prevent
or overcome."
"But, then, those dreadful moral temptations!"
pleaded the mother.
"They are very serious, love. But is it not better
that our boy should learn, by their means, (as thousands do,) to substitute the manliness of self-restraint
for the innocence of ignorance-even on the very false
supposition that such an innocence can be preserved?
And remember, that he does not escape these temptations by avoiding them; from the little I have seen, it
is my sincere conviction that for after-life-even in this
aspect alone, without alluding to the innumerable other
arguments which must be considered-the education
of a public school is a far sounder preparation than the
shelter of home.  I cannot persuade our neighbor
Mrs. Hazlet of this, but I should tremble to bring up




32                TEMPTATION.
Julian with no wider experience than she allows to her
boy."
So Julian went to Harton, and, after a time,
thoroughly enjoyed his life there, and was unharmed
by the trials which must come to every school-boy; so
that when he came back for his first holidays, the
mother saw with joy and pride that her jewel was not
flawed, and remained undimmed in luster. Who knows
~how much had been contributed to that glad result by
the daily and nightly prayer which ever ascended for
him from his parents' lips, " Lead him not into temptation, but deliver him from evil"?
For when he first went to school, Julian was all the
more dangerously circumstanced, from the fact that he
was an attractive and engaging boy. With his bright
eyes, beaming with innocence and trustfulness, the
healthy glow of his clear and ingenuous countenance,
and the noble look and manners which were the fruit
of a noble mind, he could never be one of those who
pass unknown and unnoticed in the common throng.
And since to these advantages of personal appearance
he superadded a quick intelligence, and no little activity and liveliness, he was sure to meet with flattery
and observation. But there was something in Julian's
nature which, by God's grace, seemed to secure him
from evil, as though he were surrounded by an atmosphere impermeable to base and wicked hearts. Ile
passed through school life not only unscathed by, but
almost ignorant of, the sins into which others fell; and
the account which his contemporaries might have given
of their school-boy days was widely different from his
own. Ite was one of those of whom the grace of God




FLIES.                  33
took early hold, and in whom "reason and religion ran
together like warp and woof," to form the web -of a
wise and holy'life. Such happy natures, such excellent hearts there are, though they are few and far
between.
To Hugh Lillyston Julian owed no little of his happiness. They had been in the same forms together
since Julian came, and the friendship between them
was never broken. When Lillyston first saw the -new
boy, he longed to speak to him at once, but respected
him too much to thrust himself rudely into his acquaintance. During the first day or two they exchanged
only a few shy words; for Julian, too, was pleased and
taken with Lillyston's manly, honest look. But both
had wisely determined to let their knowledge of each
other grow up naturally and gradually, without any
first-sight vows of eternal friendship, generally destined
to be broken in the following week.
Lillyston had observed, not without disgust, that two
thoroughly bad fellows were beginning to notice the
new-comer, and determined at all hazards to tell Julian
his opinion of them. So one day, as they left the
school-room together, he said,"Do you know Brant and Jeffrey?"
"Yes, a little," answered Julian.
"Did you know them before you came, or anything?"
"No; but they will wait for me every now and then
at the door of the fourth-form room when I'm coming
out; and I'm sure I don't want them, but one doesn't
wish to seem uncivil, and I don't know how to get rid
of them."
"Hem! well, I wouldn't see too much of them if I
were you."




34             NOBLE FRIENDSHIP.
"No? but why?"
"WellY never mind-only I thought I'd tell you;"
and Lillyston, half ashamed at having taken this step,
and half afraid that Julian might misconstrue it, ran
away. Julian, who was little pleased with the coarse
adulation of Brant and Jeffrey, took his friend's advice,
and from that time he and Lillyston became more and
more closely united. They were constantly together,
and never tired of each other's society; and at last,
when their tutor, observing and thoroughly approving
of the friendship, put them both in the same room, the
school began in fun to call them Achilles and Patroclus, Damon and Pythias, Orestes and Pylades, David
and Jonathan, Theseus and Pirithous, and as many
other names of paria amicorum as they could remember.
Yet there was many a Harton boy who would have
said, "Utinam in tali amicitiA tertius ascriberer!"
for each friend communicated to the other something
at least of his own excellencies. Lillyston instructed
Julian in the mysteries of fives, rackets, football, and
cricket, until he became an adept at them all; and
Julian, in return, gave Lillyston very efficient help in
work, and inspired him with intellectual tastes for
which he felt no little gratitude in after-days. The
desire of getting his remove with Julian worked so
much with him that he began to rise many places in
the examinations; and while Julian was generally
among the first few, Lillyston managed to be placed,
at any rate, far above the ranks of the undistinguished
herd.
So, form by form, Lillyston and Julian Home
mounted up the school side by side, and illustrated the




A TELEGRAM.                 35
noblest and holiest uses of friendship by adding to each
other's happiness and advantage in every way. I am
glad to dwell on such a picture, knowing, 0 holy Friendship, how awfully'a school-boy can sometimes desecrate
Chy name!
Three years had passed, and they were now no longer
little boys, but in the upper fifth form together, and
Julian was in his sixteenth year. It was one March
morning, when, shortly after they entered the schoolroom, the school " Custos" came in and handed to the
master a letterIt's for Mister Home, sir, by telegraph."
The master called Julian, (whose heart beat quick
when he heard his name,) and said to him,"Perhaps you had better take it out of the room,
Home, before you read it, as it may contain something
important."
With a grateful look for this considerate kindness,
Julian took the hint, and, leaving the room, tore open
the message, which was from his mother:" DEAR JULIAN —Come home instantly; your father
is most dangerously ill. I cannot add more."
The boys heard a cry, and the master made a sign
to Lillyston, who had already started to his feet.
Springing out of the unclosed door, he found Julian
half fainting; for his home affections were the very
mainsprings of his life. He read the message, helped
Julian down stairs, flung a little cold water over his face,
and then led him to their own study, where he imme



36               IN THE TRAIN.
diately began, without a word, to pack up for him such
things as he thought he would require.
Lillyston made all the necessary arrangements, and
did not leave his friend until he had seen him into the
railway carriage, and pressed his hand with a silent
farewell. He watched the train till it was out of sight.
Then first did Julian's anguish find vent in tears.
Passionately he longed at least to know the worst, and
would have given anything to speed the progress of the
train, far too slow for his impatient misery. He was
tormented by remembering the unusually solemn look
and tone with which his father had parted from him a
month before, and by the presentiment which at that
moment had flashed across him with uncontrollable
vividness, that they should never meet again. At last
they reached Ildown, late in the evening, just as the
flushed glare of crimson told the death-struggle of
an angry sunset with the dull and heavy clouds. The
station was a mile from the town, and it was a raw,
gusty, foggy evening. There was no conveyance at
the station, but leaving with the porter a hasty direction about his luggage, Julian flew along the road heedless of observation, reached the cliff, and at length
stood before the rectory door. He was wet, hungry,
and exhausted, for since morning he had tasted nothing,
and his run had spattered him with mud from head to
heel. It'was too dark to judge what had happened
from the appearance of the house, and half frantic as
he was with fear and eagerness, he had yet not dared
to give a loud summons at the door, lest he should disturb his father's slumber or excite his nerves.




TOO LATE.                 37
Ah! Julian, you need not restrain your impetuous
dread from that cause now.
The door opened very quietly, and in reply to
Julian's incoherent question, the good old servant only
shook her head, and turned away to brush off with her
apron the tears which she vainly struggled to repress.
But the boy burst into the study where he knew that
the rest would be, and in another moment his arm was
round his mother's neck, while Cyril and Violet and
little Frank drew close and wept silently beside them
both. But still Julian knew not or would not know
the full truth, and at last he drew up courage to ask
the question which had been so long trembling on his
lips,"Is there no hope, mother-no hope?"
" Don't you know, then, my boy? Your father is —"
"Not dead!" said Julian, in a hollow voice; "oh
mother, mother, mother!"
His head drooped on her shoulder; the news fell on
him like a horrible blow, and, stunned as he was with
weariness and anxiety, all sense and life flowed from
him for a time.
The necessity for action, and the consolation of
others, are God's blessed remedies to lull, during the
first intolerable moments, the poignancy of bereavement. Mrs. Home had to soothe her children, and to
see that they took needful food and rest; and she
watched by the bedside of her younger boys till the
silken swathe of a soft boyish sleep fell on their eyes,
red and swollen' with many tears. Then she saw
Violet to bed, and at last sat down alone with her
4




38             A DYING MESSAGE.
eldest son, who, by a great prayerful effort, aroused
himself at last to a sense of his position.
IIe took her hand in his, and said, in a low whisper,
"Mother, let me see him."
"Not now, dearest Julian; wait till to-morrow for
our sakes."
"What was the cause of death, mother?"
" Disease of the heart;" and once more the widow's
strength seemed likely to give way. But this time it
was Julian's turn to whisper, " God's will be done."
Next morning Mrs. Home, with Julian and Violet,
entered the room of death. Flowers were scattered
on the bed, and on that face, calm as marble yet soft
as life, the happy wondering smile had not yet even
died away. And there Julian received from his mother
a slip of paper, on which his father's dying hand had
traced the last messages of undying love; and when
they had left him there alone, he opened and read these
words, written with weak and wavering pen:"My own dearest boy, in this world we shall never
meet again. But I die happy, Julian, for my trust is
in God, who cares for the widow and the fatherless.
And you, Julian, will take my place with Violet, Cyril,
and dear Frankie-I need say nothing of a mother to
such a son. God bless you, my own boy. Be brave,
and honest, and pure, and God will be with you. Your
dying father,                  HENRY HOME."
The last part was almost illegible; but Julian bent
reverently over his father's corpse, and it seemed that




CHANGES.                  39
the smile brightened on those dead lips as he bowed
his young head in prayer.
Reader, for many reasons we must not linger there.
But I had to tell you of that death and of those dying
words which Julian knew by heart through life, and
which he kept always with him as the amulet against
temptation. He never forgot them; and oh! how
often in the hours of trial did it seem as if that dying
message was whispered in his ear, "Be brave, and
honest, and pure, and God will be with you."
The concluding arrangements were soon made. The
family left the rectory, but continued to reside at
Ildown, a spot which they loved, and where they were
known and loved. Mr. Home had insured his life for a
sum, not large indeed, but sufficient to save them from
absolute penury, and had besides laid by sufficient to
continue Julian's education. It was determined that
he should return to Harton, and there try for the
Newry scholarship in time. If he should be successful
in getting this, there would be no further difficulty in
his going to college, for it was expected that a wealthy
aunt of his would assist him. His guardians, however,
were kind enough to determine that, even in case of
his failing to obtain the Newry, they would provide for
his university expenses, although they did not conceal
from him the great importance of his earnestly studying with a view to gain this pecuniary aid. Cyril was
sent to Marlby, and Frank, who was but ten years old,
remained for the present at Ildown grammar school.
After the funeral, Julian returned to Harton with a
sadder and wiser heart. Though never an idle boy, he
had not as yet realized the necessity of throwing him



40                   IAMBI.
self fully into the studies of the place, but had rather
given the reins to his fancy, and luxuriated in the gorgeous day-dreams of poetry and romance. Henceforward, he became a most earnest and diligent student,
and day by day felt that his intellectual powers grew
stronger and more developed by this healthier nourishment. At the end of that quarter he gained his first
head-remove, and Mr. Garden rejoiced heartily in the
success of his favorite pupil.
"Why, Julian, you will beat us all if you go on at
this rate," said he, after reading over the trial verses
which Julian asked him to criticise after the examination. "You always showed taste, but here we have
vigor, too; and, for a wonder, you haven't made any
mistakes.";"I'm  afraid I shall be'stumped' in the Greek'Iambi,' sir, as Mr. Clarke calls them.'"
"Ah! well, you must take pains. You've improved,
though, since you had to translate Milton's'Smoothing the raven down
Of darkness, till it smiled;'
when, you remember, I gave you a literal version of
your'Iambi,' which meant'pounding a pea-green fog.'
Eh?"
"Oh, yes," said Julian; "I remember, too, that I
rendered'the moonbeams' by'the moon's rafters.'"
"Never mind," said Mr. Carden, laughing; "improve in them as much as you have-in Latin verse, and
we shall see you Newry scholar yet."
A thrill of joy went through the boy's heart as he
heard these words.




CHAPTER IV.
HOW JULIAN LOST A FORTUNE.
"Most like a stepdame or a dowager
Long withering out a young man's revenue."
SHAKSPEARE.
I MIST not chronicle Julian's school life, much as I
should have to tell about him, and strong as the temptation is; but another event happened during his stay
at Harton, which affected so materially his future years
that I must proceed to narrate it now.
Julian's father had a sister much older than himself,
who many years before had married a baronet-farmer,
Sir Thomas Vinsear, of Lonstead Abbey. It was certainly not a love-match on the lady's side, for the baronet was twenty years her senior, and his tastes in no
respect resembled hers. But she was already of "a
certain age," and, despairing of a lover, accepted the
good old country squire, and was located for the rest
of her life as mistress of Lonstead Abbey.
As long as he lived all was well; Lady Vinsear, like
a sensible wife, conformed herself to all his wishes and
peculiarities, and won in no slight degree his gratitude
_and affection. But he did not long survive his marriage, and after a few years the lady found herself
alone and childless in the solitary grandeur of her husband's home.
4*             (41)




42               LADY VINSEAR.
Her brother Henry, the rector of Ildown, had always
been her special favorite, and she looked to his frequent
visits to enliven her loneliness. But shewas piqued
by his having married without consulting her, and behaved so uncourteously to Mrs. Home, that for a long
time the intercourse between them was broken.
One day, however, shortly before his death, she had
written to announce an intended visit, and in due time
her carriage stood before the rectory door. It so happened that it was Julian's holiday-time, and he was at
home. Changed as the old lady had become by years
and disappointment, and the ennui of an aimless widowhood, little relieved by the unceasing attendance of a
confidante, yet Lady Vinsear's childless and withered
heart seemed to be touched to life again when she
gazed on her brother's beautiful and modest boy.
Courteous without subservience, and attentive without
servility, Julian, by his graceful and unselfish demeanor, won her complete affection, and she dropped
to the family no ambiguous hints, that, for Julian's
sake, she should renew her intercourse with them, and
make him her heir. Circumstanced as he was, Mr.
Home could not but rejoice in this determination, and
the more so from his proud consciousness that not
even the vilest detractor could charge him with having,
courted his rich sister's favor by open or secret arts.
From Julian he would have concealed Lady Vinsear's
intention, but she had herself made him tolerably aware
of it, after a fit of violent spleen against Miss Sprong,
her confidante, who, seeing how the wind lay, had tried
to drop little malicious hints against the favorite nephew,
until the old lady had cut them short by a peremptory




JULIAN AN HEIR.              43
order that Miss Sprong should leave the room. That
little rebuff the lady never forgot and never forgave,
and, under the guise of admiration, she nursed her
enmity against the unconscious Julian until due opportunity should have occurred to give it vent.
Every now and then, Julian, when wearied with
study, would be tempted to think in his secret heart,
"What does it matter my working so hard, when I
shall be master of Lonstead Abbey some day?" And
then perhaps would follow a rather inconsistent fit of
idleness, till Mr. Garden, or some other master, applied
the spur again.
"I can't make you out, Julian," said Lillyston;
"sometimes you grind away for a month, like-like
beans, and then you're as idle again for a week as the
dog that laid his head against a wall to bark."
"Well, shall I tell you, Hugh?" answered Julian,
who had often felt that it would be a relief to put his
friend in possession of the secret. And he told Lillyston that he was the acknowledged heir of his aunt's
property.
" Oh, well, then," said Lillyston, " I don't see why I
should work either, seeing as how Lillyston Court will
probably come to me some day. I say, Julian, I vote
we both try for lag next trials. It'd,save lots of
grind."
All this was brought out very archly, and instantly
recalled to Julian's mind the many arguments which
he had used to his friend, especially since his father's
death, to prove that, under any circumstances, diligence
was a duty which secured its own reward; indeed, he
used to maintain that, even on selfish grounds, it was




44               AN INVITATION.
best, for, in the long run, the idlest boys, with their
punishments and extras, got far the most work to doto say nothing of the lassitude that usurps the realm
of neglected duty, and that disgraceful ignorance which
is the nemesis of wasted time.
He burst out laughing. "You have me on the hip,
Hugh, and I give in. In proof whereof, here goes the
novel I'm reading; and I'll at once set to work on my
next set of verses;" whereon Julian pitched his green
novel to the top of an inaccessible cupboard, got down
his elegiacs for the next day, and had no immediate
recurrence of what Lillyston christened the "pudding
theory of work."
It was during his last year at Harton that Lady
Vinsear, in consequence of one of her sudden whims,
wrote to invite him to Lonstead, with both his brothers;
for she never took any notice of either Violet or Mrs.
Home. The time she mentioned was ten days before
the Harton holidays began, so that Frank and Cyril
(who came back from Marlby just in time) had to go
alone, rather to their disgust; Julian, however, promising to join them directly after he returned from school.
The willful old lady, urged on by the confidante, took
considerable umbrage at this, and wrote that "she was
quite sure the doctor would not have put any obstacles
in the way of Julian's coming had he been informed of
her wishes. And as for trials," the Harton word for
examination, which Julian had pleaded in excuse, "he
had better take care that, in attending to the imaginary
trials of Harton, he didn't increase his own real trials."
This sentence made Julian laugh immoderately, both
from his Aunt's notion of the universal autocracy of her




CYRIL AND FRANK.              45
will, and from her obvious bewilderment at the tech.
nical word "trials," which had betrayed her unconsciously into a pun, which, of all things, she abhorred.
However, he wrote back politely-explained what he
meant by' trials"-begged to be excused for a neglect
of her wishes, which was inevitable-and reiterated his
promise of joining his brothers, as early as was feasible,
under her hospitable roof.
It was not without inward misgiving that Cyril and
Frank found themselves deposited in the hall of their
glum old aunt's large and lonely house, the very size
and emptiness of which had tended not a little to
increase the poor lady's vapors. However, they were
naturally graceful and well bred, so that, in spite of the
patronizing empire assumed over them by the vulgar
and half-educated Miss Sprong-which Cyril especially
was very much inclined to resent-the first day or two
passed by with tolerable equanimity.
But this dull routine soon proved unendurable to the
two lively boys. They found it impossible to sit still
the whole evening, looking over sacred prints; and
this was the only amusement which Miss Sprong suggested to Lady-Vinsear for them. Of late the dowager
had taken what she considered to be a religious turn;
but, unhappily, the supposed religion was as different
from real piety as light from darkness, and consisted
mainly in making herself and all around her miserable
by a semi-ascetic puritanism of observances, and a style
of conversation fit to drive her little nephews into a
lunatic asylum.
Though they both felt a species of terror at their
ungracious aunt, and the ever-detonating Miss Sprong,




46          "THE LITTLE BUSY BEE."
the long-pent spirit of fun at times grew too strong
in them, and they would call down sharp rebukes by
romping in the drawing-room, so as to disturb the two
ladies while they read to each other, for hours together,
the charming treatises of their favorite moderate divine.
The boys were seated on two stools, in the silence
of despair, and at last Cyril, who had been twirling-his
thumbs for half an hour, and listening to a dissertation
on Armageddon, gave a yawn so portentous and prolonged that Frank suddenly exploded in a little burst
of laughter, which was at once checked, when Miss
Sprong observed,"I think it would be profitable if your ladyship"
-Miss Sprong never omitted the title-" would set
your nephews some of Watts's hymns to learn."
The nephews protested with one voice and much
rebellion, but at last their irate aunt quenched the unseemly levity, and they were fairly set to work at Dr.
Watts-Frank getting for his share "The little busy
bee." But instead of learning it, they got together,
and Cyril began drawing pictures of cruet-stands and
other impieties, whereby Frank was kept in fits of
laughter, and when called up to say his hymn, knew
nothing at all about it. Cyril sat by him, and when
Frank had exhausted his stock of acquirements by
saying, in a tone of disgust,"How doth the little busy bee —-"
Cyril suggested"Delight to bark and bite."
"Oh, yes!




MISS SPRONG.                 47
"How doth the little busy bee
Delight to bark and bite —— "
How does it go on, Cyril?" said Frank.
"To gather honey all the day,
And eat it all the night,"
whispered the audacious brother, conjuring into memory
the school-boy version of that celebrated poem.
Frank, who was far too much engrossed in his own
difficulties to think of what he was saying, artlessly repeated the words, and opened his large eyes in amazement, when he was greeted by a shout of laughter from
Cyril, and a little shriek of indignation from Miss
Sprong, which combined sounds started LadyVinsear
from the doze into which she had fallen, and ended in
the summary ejectment of the young offenders.
The next day, to their own great relief and delight,
they were sent home in disgrace; and knowing that
their mother would not be angry with them for a piece
of childish gayety under such trying circumstances, they
were surprised and pained to see how grave she and
Violet looked when they told their story. But Mrs.
Hcme's thoughts had reverted to Julian, and she knew
Miss Sprong too well not to be aware that she had
designs on Lady Vinsear's property, and would excite
against Julian any ill-will she could.
That her fears were not unfounded was proved by
the fact that, in the middle of trial-week, Julian received an altogether intolerable epistle from Miss
Sprong, written, she said, "at the express request and
dictation of his esteemed aunt," calling him to account




48                FIERY-SHORT.
for this little incident in a way that (to use Lillyston's
expression) instantly "put him on his hind legs." He
read a part of this letter to Lillyston, and, with his own
comments, it ran thus:"Lady Vinsear desires me to say" (Hem! I doubt
that very much) "that the rudeness of those two little
boys, to say nothing of their great immorality and impiety," (I say, that's coming it too strong, or rather too
Sprong,) "is such as to reflect great discredit on the
influences to which they have been lately —"
"By Jove, this is too bad!" said Julian, passionately; "when she adds innuendoes against my mother
to her other malice-I won't stand it;" and, without
reading farther, he tossed the letter into the fire,
watching with vindictive eyes its complete consumption"There goes the squire-revered, illustrious spark!
And there-no less illustrious-goes the clerk!"
he said, as he watched the little red streams flickering
out of the black paper ashes. "And now for the answer! Bother the woman for plaguing me (for I know
it's none of my aunt's handiwork) in the middle of
trial-week."
"I say, Julian, don't be too fiery in your answer,
you know, for you really ought to appease the poor
old lady. Only think of that impudent little brother
of yours! I must make the young rogue's acquaintance
some day."
But Julian had seized a sheet of note-paper, and




A BREACH.                 49
wrote to his aunt, not condescending to notice, even by
a message, her obnoxious amanuensis:"MY DEAR AUNT:-I cannot believe that the letter
I received to-day really emanated from you, at least
not in the language in which it was couched.
"I have neither time nor inclination ('Hoity toity,
how grand we are!') to attend to the foolish trifle to
which your amanuensis ('Meaning me!' screamed the
irrepressible Sprong) alludes; but I am quite sure that,
on reflection, you will not be inclined to judge too
hardly a mere piece of fun and thoughtless liveliness;
for that Frankie meant to be rude, I don't for a moment
believe. I shall only add, that if I were not convinced
that you can never have sanctioned the expressions
which the lady" (Julian had first written "person," but
altered it afterwards) "who wrote for you presumed to
apply to my brothers, and, above all, to my mother, I
should have good reason to be offended; but feeling
sure that they are not attributable to you, I pass them
over with indifference. I am obliged to write in great
haste, so here I must conclude.
" Believe me, my dear Aunt, your affectionate
nephew,                        JULIAN HOME."
Lady Vinsear was secretly pleased with the spirit
which this letter showed, and was not sorry for the
snubbing which it gave to hjerJady-companion; but she
determined to exrcise a little tyranny, and fancied
that Julian would be too much frightened to resent it.
Accustomed to the legacy-hunting spirit of many parasites, the old lady thought that Julian would be like the
5




50                 SPIRITED.
rest, and hoped to enjoy the sight of him reduced to
submission and obedience, in the hopes of future advantage; not that she would exult in his humiliation, but
she was glad of any pretext to bring the noble boy
before her as a suppliant for her favor. Accordingly,
setting aside her first and better impulses, she wrote
back a sharp reply, abusing Cyril and Frank in round
and severe terms, and adding some bitter innuendoes
about the poverty of the family, and their supposed
expectations at her decease. Miss Sprong lent all the
venom of her malicious ingenuity to this precious performance, which fortunately did not reach Julian until
trials were nearly over. Tired with excitement and
hard work, the boy could ill endure these galling allusions, and wrote back a short and fiery reply:"MY DEAR AUNT:-If any one has persuaded you
that I am eager to purchase your good-will at any sacrifice, and that in consideration of'supposed advantages'
hereafter to be derived from you, I shall be willing
to endure unkindly language or groundless insinuations
about my other relatives, then they have very seriously
misled you as to my real character. This is really the
only reply of which your letter admits. I shall always
be ready, as in duty bound, to bestow on you such
respect and affection as our relationship demands and
your own kindness may elicit, but I would scorn to
win your favor at the expense of a subservience at once
ungenerous and unjust.
"Believe me to remain, your affectionate nephew,
"JULIAN HoMEB.




DISINHERITED.               51
This letter decided the matter. Lady Vinsear wrote
back, that as he obviously cared nothing about her, and
did not even treat her with ordinary deference, she had
that day altered her will. Poor old lady! Julian's
angry letter cost her many a pang; and that night, as
she sat in her bedroom by her lonely hearth, and
thought over her dead brother and this gallant highsouled boy of his, the tears coursed each other down
her furrowed cheeks, and she could get no rest. At
last she had taken her desk, and, with trembling hands,
written:"DEAREST JULIAN:-Forgive an old woman's whim,
and come to-me and comfort my old age. All I have
is yours, Julian; and I love you, though I wrote to you
so bitterly.-Your loving aunt,
" CAROLINE VINSEAR."
But when morning came, Sprong resumed her ascendancy, and by raking up and blowing the cooled
embers of her patroness's wrath, succeeded once more
in fanning them to the old red heat, after which she
poured vinegar upon them, and they exploded in the
pungent fumes of the note which told our hero that he
was not to hope, for the future, to be one day owner
of a handsome fortune.
Of course, at first he was a little downcast; and in
talking to Lillyston, compared himself to Gautier sans
avoir, and "Wilfred the disinherited."
"Never mind, Julian; it matters very little to you,"
said Lillyston, proudly.




52             CYRIL IN TROUBLE.
"Anyhow, I must have no more fits of idleness,"
answered Julian.
And indeed the only pain it caused him arose from
the now necessary decision that he must go to St.
Werner's College as a sizar, or not at all. But for
all that he went home with a light heart, and had once
more gained the proud distinction of head-removeone for which, at that time, I very much doubt whether
he would have exchanged the prospect of a rich inheritance.
And the misfortune proved an advantage to Cyril,
too, as we shall see.
"So. here's the little rogue who has lost me a thousand a year 1" said Julian, laughingly, when he got
home, and took Cyril on his knee by the fireside after
dinner. The next moment he was very sorry he had
said it, for Cyril hung his head, and seemed quite disconcerted; but his brother laughed away his sorrow,
as he thought, and no further allusion to the subject
was made.
But that night, as Julian looked into his brother's
bedroom before he went to bed, he found Cyril crying,
and his pillow wet with tears.
"Cyril, what's the matter, my boy?-you're not ill,
are you?"
Cyril sat up, his eyes still swimming, and threw his
arms round his brother's neck. "I've ruined you,
Julian," he said.
"My dear child, what nonsense! Nay, my foolish
little fellow," answered Julian, "this is really a mistake of yours. Aunt Vinsear was angry with me for
my letters,-not with you. Don't cry so, Cyril, for I




ONE MORE SCENE.               53
really don't care a rush about it; but I shall care if it
vexes you. But shall I tell you why you ought to
know of it, Cyril?"
"Why?"
"Because, my boy, it affects you, too. You know,
Cyril, that we are very poor now. Well, you see we
shall have to support ourselves hereafter, and mother
and Violet depend on us; so you must work hard,
Cyril, will you? and don't be idle at Marlby, as I'm
afraid you have been. Eh, my boy?"
The boy promised faithfully, and performed the
promise well in after-days; but that night Julian did
not leave him until he was fast asleep.
We shall tell only one more scene of Julian's Harton
life, and that very briefly.
It is a glorious summer afternoon; four o'clock bell
is just over, and it is expected that in a few minutes
the examiner (an old Hartonian and senior classic)
will read out the list which shall give the result of
many weeks' hard work. The Newry scholarship is to
be announced at the same time: Bruce and Home are
the favorite names.
A crowd of boys throng round the steps, but Julian
is not among them; he is leaning over the rails of the
church-yard, under the elm-trees by Peachey's tomb,
filled with a trembling and almost sickening anxiety.
Bruce, confident of victory, is playing rackets just
below the school-yard.
The examiner suddenly appears from the speechroom door. There is a breathless silence while he
reads the list, and then announces, in an emphatic
voice,5*




54           NEWRY SCHOLARSHIP.
"The Newry scholarship is adjudged to Julian
Home!"
Off darts Lillyston, bounds up the hill into the
church-yard, and has informed the happy Julian of his
good fortune long before the "three cheers for Mr.
Burton" and "three cheers for Home" have died
away.




CHAPTER V.
SAINT WERNER'S.
"So soodh the boy a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran."
ROGERS'S Human Life.
THE last day at Harton came; the last chapel service in that fair school fabric; the last sermon, "Arise,
let us go hence;" the last look at the church-yard and
the fourth-form room; the last "Speecher," and delivering up of the monitors' keys; the last farewell-to
Mr. Carden and the other masters, and the doctor,
and their school-fellows and fags; and then, with swelling hearts, Julian and Lillyston got into the special
train, thronged with its laughing and noisy passengers,
and during the twenty minutes which were occupied
by their transit to London, were filled with thq melancholy thought that the days of boyhood were over forever.
"Good-by, Frank," said Julian"To-morrow, to fresh fields and pastures new."
"Good-by, Julian.  We must meet next. at St.
Werner's."
"Mind you write meanwhile."
"All right. You shall hear in a week-good-by."
(55)




56            BRUCE "EN PRINCE."
And Lillyston nodded from the cab window his last
farewell to Julian Home, the Harton boy.
But if there were partings, what glorious meetings
there were too, during those twenty-four hours! Ah 1
they must be felt, not written of: but I am sure that
no family felt a keener joy that day than Julian's
mother, and sister, and brothers, when they saw him
again, and learned with pride that he had won a
scholarship of ~100 a year; even Will and Mary, the
faithful servants, seemed, when they heard it, to look
up to their young master with even more honor than
before.
Bruce spent the first part of his holidays in shooting, and the latter weeks in all the gayeties of a wealthy
London family. He was naturally self-indulgent, and
as no one urged him to make good use of his time, he
devoted it to every possible amusement which riches
could procure. Both he and his parents had a boundless belief in his natural abilities, and these, he thought,
would be quite sufficient to gain him such honors as
should be a graceful addition to the public reputation
which he intended to win. A week or two before the
Camford term commenced, he engaged some splendid
lodgings, the most expensive which he heard of, and,
turning out the furniture which was usually let with
them, gave an almost unlimited order to a fashionable
upholsterer to see them fitted out with due luxury and
taste. When he came up as a freshman, which he deferred doing until the last possible moment, he was
himself amazed to see how literally his orders had been
obeyed. The rooms were refulgent with splendor:
glossy tables, velvet-cushioned chairs, Turkey carpets,




SUMMER                   57
rich curtains, and an abundance of mirrors, made them,
as the tradesman remarked, "fit for a lord;" and
Bruce took possession, with no little pride and selfsatisfaction, at finding himself his own master in so
brilliant an abode.
Meanwhile the holidays had passed by with Julian
very differently, but very happily. Without tiring
himself, or harassing his attention by study, he made
a rule of devoting to work some portion at least of
every day. Long strolls with his mother and sister in
the bright summer evenings, bathes and boating excursions with Cyril and Frank, and happy, lonely rambles
on the beach, kept him in health and spirits; and he
looked forward with eager ambition to the arena which
he was so soon to enter.
"The Harton boys have gone back by this time,
haven't they?" asked Violet, as she sat with her
mother and brother on the lawn one afternoon. "Don't
you wish you were there again-with them, Julian?"
"No," said Julian, "I wouldn't exchange St. Werner's man even for Harton boy."
" How soon shall you have to go up to St. Werner's?"
said Mrs. Home.
"On October fifteenth; in about a fortnight's time.
I mean to go up a day or two beforehand, to get settled. You and Violet must come with me, mother."
"But is that usual? won't-you get laughed at as
though you were coming up under female escort?"
asked Violet.
"Pooh! you don't suppose I care for that," said
Julian, "even supposing it were likely to be true; besides-" He said no more, but his proud look at




58                  CAMFORD.
his sister's face seemed to imply that he expected
rather to be envied than laughed at.
Accordingly, they went up together, and, as the
train drew nearer and nearer to Camford, all three
grew silent and thoughtful. They were rightly conscious that on the years to be spent in college life depended no sniall part of Julian's future happiness and
prosperity. Three years at least would be spent there;
years wealthy with all blessing, or prolific of evil and
regret.
It was night when they arrived, and in the dimlylighted streets there was not enough visible to gratify
Julian's eager curiosity. The omnibus was crowded
with undergraduates, who were chiefly freshmen, but
apparently anxious to seem very much at home. At
the station, the piles of luggage seemed interminable,
and Mrs. Home and Violet were not sorry to escape
from the unusual confusion, to the quiet of their hotel.
Next morning, directly after an impatient breakfast,
Julian started to call on his tutor.
"Which is the way to St. Werner's College?" he
asked of the waiter.
"Straight along, sir," was the reply; and off he
started down King's Parade. In his hurry to make
the first acquaintance with his new college, Julian
hardly stopped to admire the smooth green quadrangle
and lofty turrets of King Henry's College, or St.
Mary's, or the Senate House and Library, but strode
on to the gate of St. Werner's. Entering, he gazed
eagerly at the famous great court, with its chapel, hall,
fountain, and master's lodge; and then made his way




MR. GRAYSON.                59
through the cloisters of Warwick's Court to his tutor's
rooms.
On entering, he found himself in a room luxuriously
furnished, and full of books. In a large arm-chair
before the fire sat a clergyman, whom Julian at once
conjectured to be Mr. Grayson, the tutor on whose
"side" he was entered. He was a tall, grave-looking
man, of about forty, and rose to greet his pupil with a
formal bow.
" How do you do, Mr. —?   I did not quite catch
the name."
"Home, sir," said Julian, advancing to shake hands
in a cordial and confiding manner; but the tutor contented himself with a very cold shake, and seemed at a
loss how to proceed.
Julian was burning with curiosity and eagerness.
IHe longed to ask a hundred questions; at such a moment-a moment when he first felt how completely he
had passed over the boundary which divides boyhood
from manhood-he yearned for a word of advice, of
encouragement, of sympathy. He expected, at least,
something which should resemble a welcome, or a direction what to do. Nothing of the kind, however, came.
While Julian was awaiting some remark, the tutor
shuffled, hemmed, and looked ill at ease, as though at
a loss how to begin the conversation.
At last Julian, in despair, asked, "Whereabouts are
my rooms, sir?"
"Oh, the porter will show you; you'll find no diffieulty about them," said the tutor. "Have you anything further to ask me, Mr. Home?" he inquired, after
another little pause.




60             NON-INTERFERENCE.'Nothing whatever, sir," said Julian, a little indignantly, for he began to feel much like what a volcano
may be supposed to do when its crater is filled with
snow. "Have you anything to tell me, sir?"
"No, Mr. Home. I hope you'll-that is-I hopegood morning," he said, as Julian, to relieve him from
an unprofitable commonplace, backed toward the door
and made a formal bow.
"Humph!" thought Julian. "What an icicle! not
much good to be got out of that quarter. An intolerably cold reception. It's odd, too, for the man must
have heard all about me from Mr. Garden."
As we shall have very little to do with Mr. Grayson, we may here allow him a cordial word of apology.
What was to Julian the commencement of an epoch,
was, be it remembered, to the tutor a commonplace
and almost every-day event. The whole of that week
he had been occupied in receiving visits from "the
early fathers," who came up in charge of their sons,
and all of whom seemed to expect that he would show
the liveliest and tenderest interest in their respective
prodigies.  Other freshmen had visited him unaccompanied, and some of them appeared rather inclined to
patronize him than otherwise. He was a shy man,
and always had a painful suspicion at heart that people
were laughing at him. Having lived the life of a
student, he had never acquired the polished ease of a
man of the world, and had a nervous dread of strangers.
His manners were but an icy shield of self-defense
against ridicule, and they suited his somewhat sensitive
dignity. He persuaded himself, too, that the "men"
on his side were "men" in years and discretion as




MUD-HONEY.                 61
well as name, and that they must stand or fall unaided,
since the years of boyish discipline and school constraint were gone by. It never occurred to him that a
word spoken in due season might be of incalculable
benefit to many of his charge. Being a man of slow
sensibilities, he could not sympathize with the enthusiastic temperament of youths like Julian, nor did he
ever single out one of his pupils either for partiality
or dislike. Yet he was thoroughly kind hearted, and
many remembered his good deeds with generous gratitude. Nor was he'wholly wrong in his theory that a
tutor often does as much harm by meddling interference as he does by distance and neglect.
When a boy goes to college, eager, quick, impetuous,
rejoicing as a giant to run his course, he is generally
filled with noble resolutions and elevating thoughts.
There is a touch of flame and of romance in his disposition; he feels himself to be the member of a brotherhood, and longs to be a distinguished and worthy one;
he is anxious for all that is grand and right, and yearns
for a little sympathy to support his determination and
enliven his hopes. Some there may be so dull and
sensual, so swallowed up in selfishness and conceit, so
chill to every generous sentiment, and callous to every
stirring impulse, that they experience none of this;
their sole aim is, on the one hand, to succeed, or, on
the other, to amuse and gratify themselves, to cultivate
all their animal propensities, and drown in the mudhoney of premature independence the last relics of
their childish aspirations. With men like this, to dress
showily, to drive tandem and give champagne breakfasts,
comes as a matter of course; while their supremest de6




62                ASSOCIATIONS.
light is to wander back to their old school, in fawn.
colored dittos, and with a cigar in their mouths, to
show their superiority to all sense of decency and good
taste. But these are the rare exceptions. However
much they may conceal their own emotions, however
dead and cynical and contemptible they may grow in
after-days, there are few men of ordinary uprightness
who do not feel a thrill of genuine enthusiasm when
they first enter the walls of their college, and who will
not own it without a blush.
Now Julian was an enthusiast by nature and temperament; all the sentiments which we have been
describing he felt with more than ordinary intensity.
It gave a grandeur to his hopes, and a distinct sense of
ennobling pleasure, to remember that he was treading
the courts which generations of the good and wise had
trodden before him, and holding in his hand the torch
which they had handed down to him. Their memory
still lingered there, and he trusted that his name, too,
might in after-days be not wholly unremembered. At
least he would strive, with a godlike energy, to fail in
no duty, and to leave no effort unfulfilledt If he viewed
his coming life too much in its poetical aspect, at least
his glowing aspirations and golden dreams were tempered with a deep humility and a childlike faith.
After fuming a little at the icy reception which his
tutor had given him, he walked up and down the court,
thinking of his position and his intentions-of the past,
the present, and the future-until proud tears glistened
in his eyes. It was clear to him that now he would
have to stand alone amid life's trials, and alone face
life's temptations. And he was ready for the struggle.




NIL ADMIRARI.               63
With God's help he would not miss the meaning of his
life, but take the tide of opportunity while it was at the
flood.
Before rejoining his mother, he determined to call
on one of the junior fellows, the only one with whom
he had any acquaintance, the Rev. N. Admer. He
only knew him from a casual introduction; but Mr.
Admer had asked him to call, on his arrival at St.
Werner's, and Julian hoped both to get some information from him to dissipate the painful feeling of strangeness and novelty, and also partially to do away with
the effect of Mr. Grayson's coldness.
Although it was now past ten in the morning, he
found Mr. Admer only just beginning breakfast, and
looking tired and lazy. He was received with a patronizing and supercilious tone, and the fellow not only
went on with his breakfast, but occasionally glanced at
a newspaper while he talked. Not that Mr. Admer at
all meant to be unkind or rude, but he hated enthusiasm in every shape; he did not believe in it, and it
wearied him-hence freshmen during their first few
days were his profound abhorrence.
After a few commonplace remarks, Julian ventured
on a question or two as to the purchases which he
would immediately require, the hours of lecture and
hall, and the thousand-and-one trifles of which a newcomer is necessarily ignorant. Mr. Admer seemed to
think this a great bore, and answered languidly enough,
advising Julian not to be "more fresh" than he could
help. It requires very small self-denial to make a person at home by supplying him with a little information;
but small as the effort would have been, it was greater




64           "THAT SORT OF THING."
than the Rev. N. Admer could afford to make, and his
answers were so little encouraging that Julian, making
ample allowance for the ennui condition of the young
fellow, relapsed into silence.
"And what do you think of St. Werner's?" asked
Mr. Admer, taking the initiative, with a yawn.
Julian's face lighted up. "Think of it! I feel uncommonly proud already of being a St. Werner's man."
"Genius loci, and all that sort of thing, eh?"
The sneering way in which this was said left room
for no reply, so Mr. Admer continued.
"Ah! you'll soon find all that sort of twaddle wear
off."
"I hope not," said Julian.
" Of course you intend to be senior classic, or senior
wrangler, or something of that sort?"
"I expect simply nothing; but if I were inclined to
soar, one might have a still higher ambition than that."
"Oh, I see; an embryo Newton,-all that sort of
thing."
"I didn't mean quite'all that sort of thing,' since
you seem fond of the phrase," said Julian; "but really
I think my aspirations, whatever they are, would only
tire you. Good morning."
"Good morning," said Mr. Admer, nodding. "We
don't shake hands up here. I shall come and call on
you soon."
"The later the better," thought Julian, as he descended the narrow stairs. "Good heavens! is that
a fair specimen of a don, -I wonder! If so, I shall
certainly confine my acquaintance to the undergrad.
uates."'




"THE WORLD WITHOUT SOULS."          65
No, Julian, not a fair specimen of a don altogether,
but in some of his aspects a fair specimen of a certain
class of university men, who profess to admire nothing,
hope for nothing, love nothing; who think warmth of
heart a folly, and sentiment a crime; who would not
display an interest in anything more important than a
boat-race or a game of bowls, to save their lives; who
are very fond of the phrase, "all that sort of nonsense," to express everything that rises above the dead
level of their own dead mediocrity iii intelligence and
life. If you would not grovel in spirit; if you would
not lose every tear that sparkles and ewery sigh that
burns; if you would not ossify the very power of passion; if you would not turn your soul into a mass of
shapeless lead, avoid those despicable cynics, who never
leave their discussion of the merits of beer, or the
powers of stroke-oars, unless it be to carp at acknowledged eminence and jeer at genuine emotion. How
often in such company have I seen men relapse into
stupid silence, because, if they ventured on any expression of lively interest, one of the throng, amid the
scornful indifference of the rest, would give the only
acknowledgment of his remark, by taking the pipe out
of his mouth, to give vent to a low guttural laugh!
After this it was lucky for Julian that he had brought
his mother and sister with him, and that a moment after
leaving Mr. Admer he caught sight of Hugh Lillyston.
With a joyful expression of surprise, they grasped each
other's hands, and interchanged so friendly a greeting
that Julian in an instant had scattered to the winds
she gloomy impression which was beginning to creep
over him.
6*




66                A MEETING.
"How long have you been here, Hugh?"
"I came yesterday. Have you seen your rooms
yet?"
"No; I am just going to look for them."
"Well, come along; I know where they are."
"But stop," said Julian, "I must go to the Eagle
first for my people. They'll be expecting me."
"Really! So Mrs. Home's here?" asked Lillyston.
"Yes, and my sister. If you've nothing to do, come
and be introduced."
" How immensely jolly! I wish my mother and sister
had taken thetrouble to come with me, I know."
They went to the hotel, and Lillyston was able to
gratify the curiosity he had long felt tf see his friend's
relations.
"Whom do you think I've brought back with me,
mother? Guess," said Julian, as he entered the room,
beaming with pleasure. "Here, Hugh, come along.
My mother-my sister-Mr. Lillyston."
"What! is this the Mr. Lillyston of whom we've
heard so much?" asked Mrs. Home, with a cordial
shake of the hand, while Violet looked up with a quick
glance of curiosity and pleasure.
"No other," said Hugh, laughing; "and really I
feel as if I were an old friend already."
"You are so, I assure you," said Mrs. Home, "and
I hope we shall often meet now." Lillyston hoped the
same, as he looked at Violet.
It was arranged that they should all four go at once
to Julian's rooms, and help in the grand operation of
unpacking. The rooms were very pleasant attics in
the great court, looking out on the fellows' bowling



JULIAN'S ROOMS.              67
green, and the Iscam flowing beyond it. The furniture, most of which Julian was going to take from the
previous possessor, was neat and comfortable; and when
the book-shelves began to glitter with his Harton prizes
and gift-books, Julian was delighted beyond measure
with the appearance of his new home.
For some hours the unpacking continued vigorously,
only interrupted by an excursion for lunch to the hotel,
since Julian had as yet purchased no plates and received no commons.
On their return, they found an old lady in the
room"A charred and wrinkled piece of womanhood,"
who, in a voice like the grating of a blunt saw, informed
Julian that she was to be his bed-maker, and asked him
whether he intended "to tea" in his rooms that evening.
(The verb "to tea" is the property of bed-makers, and,
with beautiful elasticity, it even admits of a perfect
tense-as, "have you tea'd?")
"By all means," said Julian; "lay the table for four
this evening at eight o'clock, and get me some bread
and butter. You'll stay, Hugh, won't you?"
"I should like to, very much. But-Won't it be
your last evening with your mother and Miss Home?"
"Yes; but never mind that."
Lillyston shook his head, and, bidding the ladies a
warm good-by, left them to enjoy with Julian his first
quiet evening in St. Werner's, Camford.
"I must hang my pictures before you go, Violet. I
shall want your advice."
"Well, let me see," said Violet. "The water-color
likenesses of Cyril and Frankie ought to go here, one




68          MR. VERE-FRA ANGELICO.
on each side of Mr. Vere; at least, I suppose, you mean
to put Mr. Vere in the place of honor?"
"Oh, certainly," said Julian; "every time I look on
that noble face, so full of strength and love, and so
marked with those'divine hieroglyphics of sorrow,' I
shall learn fresh lessons of endurance and wisdom."
"People will certainly call you a heretic, if you do,"
laughed Violet.
"People!" said Julian, scornfully;
"'Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise.'
Let them yelp."
Mr. Vere was an eminent clergyman, who had been
an intimate friend of Mr. Home before his death.
Julian had only heard him preach, and met him occasionally; but he had read some of his works, and had
received from him so much sympathizing kindness and
intellectual aid, that he regarded him with a love and
reverence little short of devotion-as a man distinguished above all others for his gentleness, his eloquence, his honesty, his learning, and his love. This
likeness had belonged to Mr. Home, and Julian had
asked leave to carry it with him whenever he should
go to the university.
"Yes," said he, "the place of honor for Mr. Vere.
But where shall I put the Fra Angelico?"
"Dear old Beato," said Violet; "put him opposite
the door, that he may give a sensation of peace and
beauty to every one who enters the room."
"Yes; I do think this would touch even the soul of
a bed-maker or a gyp," said Julian.
So they hung it, in a good light, directly facing the




FRA ANGELICO.                69
door. It was a chromo-lithograph of Angelico's Frankfort picture, and was very pleasant to look at as a mere
effect of color, from the predominance of blue and gold.
It had always been a favorite with Julian; it could not
but be a favorite with any man of pure taste or refined
sentiments. Exactly in the center, under a baldaccino,
with a roof of blue and gold, sits the Virgin, her tresses
hiddet, but her fair, holy, tender face visible under'the
graceful and exquisitely symmetrical folds of her falling
robe of pale blue, which is edged with a thin golden
broidery, and clasped by a gem over her bosom. In
her arms is the Holy Child, the figure infantine with
the first flaxen hair, but the face full of mystery and
love. On either side, round the steps of the throne, is
a crown of choiring angels, six on either side, each
corresponding to each, all with their glorious faces
turned toward the Virgin and Child, each in a different attitude of awe and worship, with white hands
uplifted and intertwined, and lambent flames over their
foreheads, symbolizing the fervor of love, and shedding
a roseate glow over their star-like nimbuses and waving
curls. Each of their glories is golden, and pierced
with small flower-like dots, except that of the Infant
Saviour, whose golden halo is broken by the red lines
of a cross. The whole is on a golden ground, which
admirably throws out the radiant and mingled colors
of the dove-like angelic wings. No one could look
thoughtfully at the picture without a feeling of deep
devotion, and without a reverence for the great and
holy painter, who painted only for God's glory, who
refused all praise as due only to the subjects which he
chose, and who rightly attributed to inspiration his




70     ST. MARY OF EGYPT-JACOB'S DREAM.
power of seeing and of representing the spiritual beauty
of those young, unfading, seraphic faces that reflect for.
ever the emerald of the rainbow and the sunlight of the
throne.
"The Ribera will be a capital pendant to the Fra
Angelico; won't it, Vi.?" said Julian, driving a nail
into the wall on the other side of the window.
"Yes," said Mrs. Home; "there will be something
suggestive to a thoughtful mind in the contrast of the
Virgin Mother with the bienheureuse pecheresse." The
picture-a fine engraving of Spagnoletto's ekef-d'oeuvre
-represented St. Mary of Egypt kneeling in an attitude of rapt devotion beside her own open grave, while
over her fair shoulders, and rippling down to her bare
feet, stream the long disheveled tresses of her dark
hair, touched into a golden gleam where the light falls
on it, and vailing her whole form in its soft drapery,
while an angel clotles her in the pure raiment, bathed
in the blood
"which hath this mightThat, being red, it dyes red soules to white."
"And where shall we hang this?" said Julian, taking
up a photograph of Van Dyck's great painting of Jacob's Dream. The Hebrew boy is sleeping on the
ground, and his long dark curls, falling off his forehead, mingle with the rich foliage of the surrounding
plants, fanned by the waving of mysterious wings; a
cherub is lightly raising the embroidered cap that partially shades his face, and at his feet, blessing him
with uplifted hand, stands a majestic angel, on whose
flowing robes of white gleams a celestial radiance from




JACOB'S DREAM.              71
the vista, alight with heavenly faces, that opens over
his head. A happy and holy slumber seems to breathe
from the lad's countenance, and yet you can tell that
the light of dreams has dawned under his "closed eyelids," and that the inward eye has caught full sight of
that Beatific Epiphany.
"We must hang this in your bedroom, Julian," said
Mrs. Home. " I shall love to think of you lying under
the outstretched hand of this heavenly watcher."
So they hung it there, and the task was over, and
they spent a happy evening together. Next morning
Julian accompanied them to the train, and walked back
to the matriculation examination.




CHAPTER       VI.
RENCONTRES.
"A boy-no better-with his rosy cheeks
Angelical, keen eye, courageous look,
And conscious step of purity and pride."
WORDSWORTH'S Prelude.
A PUBLIC school man is by no means lonely when
he first enters the university. He finds many of his
old school-fellows accompanying him, and many who
have gone up before him, and he feels united to them
all by a bond of fellowship, which at once creates for
him a circle of friends. Had Julian merely kept up
his Harton acquaintances, he would have known as
many Camford men as were at all necessary for the
purposes of society.
But although with most or all of the Hartonians
Julian remained on pleasant and friendly terms, there
were others whom he saw quite as much, and whose
society he enjoyed all the more thoroughly because
their previous associations and experiences were different from his own. And, on looking back in aftertimes, what a delight it was to remember the noble
hearts which, during those years of college life, had
always beaten in unison with his own. Few enjoyments were more keen than that social equality and
unconventional intercourse common among all under.
[(72)




EDWARD KENNEDY.               73
graduates, which might at any time ripen into an
earnest and invaluable friendship, or merely stop at
the stage of an agreeable acquaintanceship. A great
(and not the least useful) portion of university education consisted in the intimate knowledge of character,
and the many-sided sympathies which were thus insensibly acquired.
During the first few weeks of college life, of course
a good deal of time was spent in receiving and returnir'g the visits of acquaintances, old and new. Of the
latter, there was one with whom Julian and Lillyston
were equally charmed, and who soon became their constant companion:  His name was Kennedy: Julian
first got to know him by sitting next him in the lectureroom. His lively remarks,.his keen and vivid sense of
the ludicrous, the quick yet kindly notice he took of
men's peculiarities, his ardent appreciation of the books
which occupied their time, and the pleasant, rapid way
in which he would dash off a caricature, soon attracted
notice, and he rapidly became popular, both among
undergraduates and dons. He was known, too, by the
warm eulogy of his fellow-Marlbeians, who were never
tired of singing his praises among themselves.
"Splendid!" whispered he to Julian, warmly, after
Julian had just finished construing a difficult clause in
the Agamemnon, which he had done with a spirit and
fire which even kindled a spark of admiration in the
cold breast of Mr. Grayson. " Splendidly done, Home!
I say, how very reserved you are. Here have I been.
longing to know you for the last ten days, and we have
-hardly got beyond a nod to each other yet. Do come
in to tea at my rooms to-night at eight. I want to
7




74                AT LECTURE.
introduce you to a friend of mine-Owen of Roslyn
school."
"With pleasure," said Julian. "That dark-haired
fellow is Owen, is it not? I hear he's going to do great
things!"
"Oh, yes! booked for a fellow and a double-first;
so you ought to know him, you know."
"Silence, gentlemen," said Mr. Grayson, turning his
stony gaze on Kennedy, whose bright face instantly
assumed a demure expression of deep attention, while
the light of laughter which still danced in his eyes
might have betrayed to a careful observer the fact that
the notes on which he appeared to be so assiduously
occupied mainly consisted of replications of Mr. Grayson's placid physiognomy and Roman nose.
-" I've brought an umbra with me, Kennedy, in the
person of Mr. Lillyston, who sits next me at lectures,
and wanted to be introduced to you," said Owen, as he
came into Kennedy's room that evening.
"I'm  delighted," said Kennedy. "Mr. Lillyston,
let me introduce you to Mr. Home."
"We hardly need an introduction, Hugh, at this time
of day, do we?" said Julian, laughing; and the four
were soon as much at home as it was possible for men
to be. There was no lack of conversation. I think
the rooms of a Camford undergraduate are about the
last place where conversation ever flags; and when men
like Kennedy, Owen, Julian, and Lillyston meet, it is
perhaps more genuinely earnest and interesting than
in any other time or place.
The next day, as Kennedy was sitting in Julian's
rooms, glancing over the ~Eschylus with him, in strut



HAZLET.                  75
ted Hazlet, whom we have incidentally mentioned as
having been the son of a widow lady living at Ildown.
He had come up to Camford straight from home, and
as he had only received a home-education everything
was strangely bewildering to him, and Julian was
almost the only friend he knew. Nor was he likely to
attract many friends; his manner was strangely selfconfident, and his language dictatorial and dogmatic.
In his mother's house he had long been the center of
religious tea-parties, before which he was often called
upon to read and even to expound the Scriptures.
"At the tip of his subduing tongue" were a number of
fantastic phrases, originally misapplied, and long since
worn bare of meaning; and the test of his orthodoxy
was the universality with which he could reiterate
proofs of heresy against every man of genius, honesty,
and depth-who loved truth better than he loved the
oracles of the prevalent idols. Hazlet practiced the
duty of Christian charity by dealing indiscriminate
condemnation against all except those who belonged to
his own exclusive and somewhat ignorant school of religious intolerance. His face was the reflex of his
mind; his lank black hair stuck down in stiff dry
straightness over a contracted forehead and an illshaped head; his spectacles gave additional glassiness
to a lack-luster eye, and the manner in which he car
ried his chin in the air seemed like an acted representa.
tion of "'I am holier than thou."
Far be it from me to hold up to ridicule any body
of earnest and honest men, to whatever party they may
belong. I am writing of Hazlet, not of those who
hold the same opinions as he did. That man must have




76      THE TRUTH IN UNRIGHTEOUSNESS.
been unfortunate in life who has not many friends, and
friends whom he holds in deep affection, among the adherents of opinions most entirely antagonistic to his
own. Hazlet's repulsiveness was due to a very mistaken education, developing a very foolish idiosyncrasy,
and -especially to the pernicious system of encouraging
sentiments and expressions which in a boy's mind could
not be other than sickly exotics. He had to be taught
his own hypocrisy by the painful progress of events,
and, above all, he had to learn that religious shibboleths may be no proof of sanctification, and that religious intolerance is usually the hybrid offspring of
ignorance and conceit. In many essential matters he
held the truth,-but he held it in unrighteousness.
It may be imagined that Hazlet was no favorite
companion of Julian Home.'But Julian loved and
honored to the utmost of his power the good points of
all; he had a deep and real veneration for humanity,
and rarely allowed himself an unkind expression, or a
look which indicated ennui, even to those associates by
whose presence he was most unspeakably bored. Hazlet mistook his courteous manner for a deferential
agreement, and was, too often, in Julian's presence
more than usually insufferable in his Pharisaical tendencies.
"Good heavens!" said Kennedy, who saw Hazlet
coming across the court. "Who's this, Home? He
looks as if he had been just presiding at three conventicles and a meeting at Philadelphus Hall. Surely he
can't be coming here."
"Oh yes," said Julian, "' that s a compatriot of mine




THE "POOR BLIND HEATHEN."         77
named Hazlet; a very good fellow, I believe, though
rather obtrusive perhaps."
"Good morning, Home," said Hazlet, in a measured
and sanctified tone, as he entered the room and sat
down.
Kennedy glanced impatiently at the Eschylus.
"'Ah! I see you're engaged on that heathen poet.
It often strikes me, Home, that we may be wrong after
all in spending so much time on these works of men,
who, as St. Paul tells us, were'wholly given to idolatry.' I have just come from a most refreshing meeting
at  -"
I say, Home," cut in Kennedy hastily, "shall I
go? I suppose you won't do over any more of the
Agamemnon this morning."
" I don't know," said Julian; "perhaps'Hazlet will
join us in our construe."
"No, I think not," said Hazlet, with a compassionate
sigh. "I have looked at it; but some of it appeared to
me so pagan in its sentiments that I contented myself
with praying that I might not be put on. But you
haven't told me what you think about what I was
saying."
"Botheration!" said Kennedy; "so your theory is
that Christianity was, intended to- put an extinguisher
over the light of heaven-born genius, and that the
power and passion and wisdom of Eschylus came from
himself or the devil, and not from God?  Surely,
without any further argument on such an absurd proposition, it ought to be sufficient for you that this kind
of learning forms a part of your immediate duty."
7*




78       DIABOLUS INSPIRAUS-EXTRACTS.
"I find other duties more paramount-now prayer,
for instance, and talk with sound friends —"
"Phew!" whistled Kennedy, thoroughly disgusted
at language which was as new to him as it was distasteful; and, to relieve his feelings, he abandoned the
conversation to Julian, and began to turn over the
books on the table. Julian, however, seemed quite
disinclined to enter into the question; and, after a
pause, Hazlet, gracefully waiving his little triumph,
asked him with a peculiar unction,"And how goes it, my dear Iome, with your immortal soul?"
"' My soul!" said Julian, carelessly. "Oh! it's all
right."
"One would think from your question that souls
were liable to stomachaches," said Kennedy, curtly.
Iazlet looked Philadelphus thunder at the profanity;
but being too much taken aback to make any remark,
he got up, and began to look at Julian's pictures.
"Ah!" he observed with a deep sigh, "I'm sorry
to see that you have the portrait of so unsound, so
dangerous a man as Mr. Vere."
"We'll drop that topic, please, Hazlet," said Julian,
"as we're not likely to agree upon it."
-" Have you ever read one word that Mr. Vere ever
wrote'" asked Kennedy.
"Well, yes; at least no, not exactly: but still one
may judge, you know; besides, I've seen extracts of
his works."
"Extracts!" answered Kennedy, scornfully; "extracts which often attribute to him the very sentiments
which he is opposing. But it isn't worth arguing with




HAZLET ON THE FINE ARTS.         79
one of your school, who have the dishonesty to condemn writers whom you are incapable of understanding, on the faith of extracts which they haven't even
read."
The wrathful purpling of Hazlet's sallow countenance portended an explosion of orthodox spleen; but
Julian gently interposed in time to save the devoted
Kennedy from a few unmeasured anathemas.
"Hush!" he said, "none of the odium theologicum,
please, lest the mighty shade of 2Eschylus smile at you
in scorn. Do drop the subject, Iazlet."
"Very well, if you like, Home; but I must deliver
my conscience, you know. But really, Julian, you are
not very Christian in your other pictures; now look at
this young-young person. I really don't consider it
quite a modest picture." He pointed to the St. Mary
of Egypt, being clad in the white robe of a Saviour's
innocence, and " vailed in the long night of her dark
hair."
Kennedy almost kicked his chair over in the impatience of the gesture with which he received this
apostrophe, and he rose up with an exclamation that
sounded suspiciously like "Fool! 0 fool!"
" To the pure all things are pure," answered Julian,
calmly,-and checked himself without continuing the
quotation.
"Pray, Mr. Hazlet, after your criticism of that picture, you'll excuse me asking whether you don't think
there are some very improper things in -— "
"My dear Kennedy," whispered Julian, "pray don't
let's have an argument; it really isn't worth while."
Kennedy subsided into the recess of the window,




80             KENNEDY EXCITED.
hiding himself behind the curtain, but Hazle continuing his victorious career, proceeded to scrutinize the
Fra Angelico. "And what have we here?" he observed sententiously.  "Why, really, my dear HIome,
this is'quite papistical; it is indeed. Why, here's the
Virgin Mary; really, it's quite Mariolatry-what I
once heard an eminent anti-papistical scholar call
hyperdulia of the Virgin. Do let me persuade you to
remove this idolatrous relic; only think, Julian, what
dangerous results it might produce on the perhaps unregenerate mind of your bed-maker for instance."
This was too much even for Julian's politeness, and
he joined in the shout of laughter with which Kennedy
greeted this appeal.
"Fools make a mock at sin," said Hazlet, austerely.
"I trust that you will both be brought to a better state
of mind; I shall make it a special subject of prayer
with the few Christian and congenial friends whom I
can find here. Good morning!"
Kennedy flung himself into an arm-chair, and after
finishing his laugh, exclaimed, "'My dear Home, where
did you pick up that intolerable hypocrite?"
" Hush, Kennedy, hush! don't call him a hypocrite.
His mode of religion may be very offensive to us, and
yet it may be sincere."
"' Faugh! the idea of asking you,'How's your soul?'
It reminds me of a friend of mine who was suddenly
asked by a dissenting minister in a train,'if he didn't
feel an aching void?''An aching void? where?' said
Jones, in a tone of alarm, for he was an unimaginative
person.'Within, sir, within!' said the stranger.
Jones felt anxiously to find whether one of his ribs




HALLOWED SECRETS.             81
was accidentally protruding, but finding them all safe,
set down the minister for a lunatic, and moved to the
farther end of the carriage."
Julian smiled; he was more accustomed to this kind
of phraseology than his friend, and knew that outrageous as it was to good taste under the circumstances, it yet might spring from a sincere and honorable motive, or at best must be regarded as the natural
result of innate vulgarity and mistaken training.
"Surely at best," continued Kennedy, " it's a most
unwarrantable impertinence for a fellow like' that to
want to dabble his ignorant and coarse hand in the
hallowed secrets of the microcosm. Not to one's
nearest and dearest friend, not to one's mother or
brother would one babble promiscuously on such awful
themes; and to have the soul's sublime and eternal
emotions, its sacred and unspoken communings, lugged
out into farcical prominence by such conversational
cant as that, is to dry up the very fountain of true religion, and put a premium on the successful grin of an
offensive- hypocrisy."
Kennedy seemed quite agitated, and as usual found
relief in striding up and down the room. His religious
feelings were deep and: real-none the less so for being
hidden-and Hazlet's language and manner had given
him a rude shock.
"Another hour in that fellow's company would make
me an infidel," he exclaimed with quivering lip. "Pray
for me, indeed, with some of his'sound and congenial
friends!' Faugh!'Sound!' Howdoes he dare tojudge
whether his superiors are'sound' or not? and why




82             LOVE ONE ANOTHER.
must he borrow a metaphor from Stilton cheeses when
he's talking of religious convictions!"
" Why really, Kennedy," said Julian, "to see the
contempt written in your face, one would think you
were an archangel looking at a black beetle, as a
learned judge once observed.'If you won't regard
Hazlet as a man and a brother, at least remember that
he's a vertebrate animal."
But Kennedy was not to be joked out of his indignation; so Julian continued. "I wish you knew more
of Lillyston. At one time, I should have been nearly
as much bothered by Hazlet as you, but Lillyston's
kind, genial good humor with every one, and the
genuine respectful sympathy which he shows even for
things he can least understand, have made me much
happier than I should have been. Now, he might have
done Hazlet some good, whereas your opposition, my
dear fellow, will only make him more rampant than
ever. Ah, here Lillyston comes!"
"What an honest open face!" said Kennedy.
"Like the soul which looks through it, sans peur
et sans reproche," said Julian warmly.
" Rather a contrast to the last comer," murmured
Kennedy, as he picked up his cap and gown to walk
to the lecture-room.
"There, don't think of Hazlet anymore," said Julian.''He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small,
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.'
A capital good motto that, isn't it, Hugh?"




HOW TO CONSTRUE.               83'C I must love Hazlet as one of the very small things,
then," said the incorrigible Kennedy, as he left the
room with the other two.
Hazlet was put on to construe during the lecture,
and if anything could have shaken the brazen tower of
his self-confidence, it would have been the egregious
display of incapacity which followed; but IHazlet rather
piqued himself on his indifference to the poor blind
heathen poets, on whose names he usually dealt reprobation broadcast. "Like lions that die of an ass's
kick," those wronged great souls lay prostrate before
Hazlet's wrathful heels.




CHAPTER VII.
THE SCORN OF SCORN.
"And Lct a man, for being simply man,
Hath any honor, but honor for those honors
That are without him-as place, riches, favorPrizes of accident as oft as merit."-SHAKSPEARE.
VERY different in all respects were Julian's reneonters with others of his old school-fellows. There were
some, indeed, among them who had left Harton while
they were still ini low forms, and some whose tastes
and pursuits were so entirely different from his own,
that it was hardly likely that he should maintain any
other intercourse with them than such as was demanded
by a slight acquaintance. But of Bruce, at any rate,
it might have been expected that he would see rather
more than proved to be the case. Bruce, as having
been head of the school during the period when Julian
was a monitor, had been thrown daily into his company, and, as inmates of the same house, they had
acted together in the thousand little scenes which
diversify the bright and free monotony of a schoolboy's life.
But the first fortnight passed by, and Bruce had not
called on Julian, and as they were on different "sides,"
they had not chanced to meet, either in lecture-room or
(84)




VYVYAN BRTtCE.               85
elsewhere. Julian, not knowing whether his position as
sizar would make any difference in Bruce's estimation
of him, had naturally left him to take the initiative in
calling; while Bruce, on the other hand, always a little
jealous of his brilliant contemporary, and not too
anxious to be familiar with a sizar, pretended to himself that it was as much Julian's place as his to be first
in calling. Hence it was that, for the first fortnight,
the two did not happen to come across each other.
Meanwhile Bruce also had made many fresh acquaintances. His reputation for immense wealth and
considerable talent-his dashing, easy manner-his
handsome person and elaborate style of dress, attracted
notice, and very soon threw him into the circle of all
the young fashionables of St. Werner's. His style of
life cannot be better described than by saying that he
affected the fine gentleman. Hardly a day had passed
during which he had not been at some large breakfast or wine party, or formed one of a select little
body of supping aristocrats. He did very little work,
and pretended to do none, (for Bruce was a first-rate
specimen of the never-open-a-book genus,) although'at
unexpected hours he took care to get up the lectureroom subjects sufficiently well to make a display when
he was put on. Even in this he was unsuccessful, for
scholarship cannot be acquired per saltum, and Mr.
Serjeant, the lecturer on his side, looked on him with
profound contempt, as a puppy who was all the more
offensive from pretending to some knowledge. He told
him that he might distinguish himself by hard, steady
work, but would never do so without infinitely more
pains than he took the trouble to apply. His quiet
8




86              FORTUNCE FILIUS.
and caustic strictures, and the easy sarcasm with which
he would allow Bruce to flourish his way through a
passage, and then go through it himself, pointing out
how utterly Bruce had "hopped with airy and fastidious
levity" above all the nicer shades of meaning, and
slurred over his ignorance of a difficulty by some piece
of sonorous nonsense, made him peculiarly the object
of the young man's disgust. But though Mr. Serjeant
wounded his vanity, the irony of "a musty old don,"
as Bruce contemptuously called him, was amply atoned
for by the compliments of the fast, young admirers
whom Bruce soon gathered round him, and some of
whom were always to be found after hall time sipping
his claret or lounging in his gorgeous rooms. To them
Bruce's genius was incontestably proved by the faultless evenness with which he parted his hair behind, the
dapperness of his boots, and the merit of his spotless
shirts.
Sir Rollo Bruce, Vyvyan's father, was a man of no
particular family, who had been knighted on a deputation, and contrived to glitter in the most splendid circles of London society. His magnificent entertainments, his exquisite appointments, his apparently
fabulous resources, were a sufficient passport into the
saloons of dukes; and although ostensibly Sir Rollo
had nothing to live on but his salary as the chairman
of a bank, nobody who had the entr6e of his house
cared particularly to inquire into the sources of his
Wealth. Vyvyan imitated his father in his expensive
tastes, and cultivated, with vulgar assiduity, the society
of the noblemen at his college. In a short time he
knew them all, and all of them had been at his rooms




SIZARS.                   87
except a young Lord De Vayne, of whom we shall
hear more hereafter, and whose retiring manners
made him shrink with dislike from Bruce's fawning
familiarity.
The sizars at St. Werner's do not dine at the same
hour as the rest of the undergraduates, but the hour
after, and their dinner consists of the dishes which
have previously figured on the fellows' table. It seems
to me that the time may come when the authorities of
that royal foundation will see reason to regret so unnecessary an arrangement, the relic of a long obsolete,
and always undesirable system. Many of St. Werner's
most distinguished alumni have themselves sat at the
sizars' table, and if any of them were blessed or cursed
with sensitive dispositions, they will not be dead to the
justice of these remarks. The sizars are, by birth and
education, invariably, so far as I know, the sons of
gentlemen, and perhaps most often of clergymen whose
means prevent them from bearing unassisted the heavy
burden of university expenses. After a short time
many of these sizars become scholars, and eventually a
large number of them win for themselves the honors
of a fellowship. Why put on these young students a
gratuitous indignity? why subject them to the unpleasant remarks which some are quite coarse enough to
make on the subject? The authorities of St. Werner's
are full of real courtesy and kindness, and that the
arrangement is not intended as an indignity I am well
aware; it is, as I have said, the accidental fragment of
an obsolete period-a' period when scholars dined on
"a penny piece of beef," and slept two or three in a
room at the foot of the fellows' beds. All honor to




88            PER ASPERA. AD ASTRA.
St. Werncr's; all honor to the great, and the wise,
and the learned, and the nobt- Whom she has sent forth
into all lands; all honor to the bravery and the truthfulness of her sons; all honor to the profound scholars,
and able teachers, and eloquent orators who preside at
her councils; she is a queen of colleges, and may wield
her scepter with a strong hand and a proud. But are
there not some among her subjects who are deaf to the
sounds of calm advice?-some who are so blind as
to love her faults and prop up her abuses?-some who
daub her walls with the untempered mortar of their
blind prejudice, and treat every one as an enemy who
would aid in removing here and there a bent pillar, and
here and there a crumbling stone?*
And now let all defenders of present institutions,
however bad they may be-let all violent supporters of
their old mumpsimus against any new sumpsimus whatever, listen to a conversation among some undergraduates. It may convince them, or it may not-I cannot
tell; but I know that it had a powerful influence on me.
Bruce was standing in the butteries, where he had
just been joined by Lord Fitzurse and Sir John D'Acres,
who by virtue of their titles —certainly not by any
other virtue-sat among reverend professors and learned
doctors at the high table, far removed from the herd
of common undergraduates. With the three were Mr.
Boodle and Mr. Tulk, (the "Mister" is given them
in the college lists out of respect for the long pulses
* These words were written some time ago. I trust that since
then all causes of offense, if they ever existed, have long been
forgiven and forgotten.




FELLOW-COMMONERS.              89
which have purchased them the privilege of fellow-commoners or fiaavr2eoYrevvaZo,) who enjoyed the same enviable distinction and happy privilege. By the screens
were four or five sizars; a few more were scattered
about in the passage, waiting, while the servants hurriedly placed the dishes on the table set apart for them;
and Julian was chatting to' Lillyston, who chanced at
the moment to have been passing by.
"Who is that table for?" asked D'Acres, pointing
through the open door of the hall.
"Oh, that's for the sizars," tittered the feebleminded Boodle, who tittered at everything.
" S-s-sizars!" stammered Lord Fitzurse.  What's
that mean? Are they v-v-very big f-f-fellows?"
"Ha, ha, ha!" said Bruce. "No; they're sons
of gyps and that kind of thing, who feed on the semese
fragments of the high table."
"They must be g-g-ghouls!" said his lordship,
shudderingly.
" Hush!" said D'Acres, who was a thorough gentleman,. "some of the sizars may be here;" and he
dropped Bruce's arm.
"Pooh! they'll feel flattered," said Bruce, carelessly,
as D'Acres walked off.
"Indeed!" said Julian, striding indignantly forward,
for the conversation was so loud that he had heard
every word of it. " Flattered to be the butt for the insolence of puppyism and every fool who is coarse enough
to insult them publicly."
"Who the d-d-d-deuce are you?" said Lord Fitzurse;
"for you're coming it r-r-rather strong."
"Who is he?" said Lillyston, breaking in, "your
8*




90               LORD DE VAYNE.
equal, sir, in birth, as he is your superior in intellect,
and in every moral quality. Gentlemen,'' he continued,
"let me just-warn you how you have the impertinence
to talk in this way again."
"Warn us!" said Bruce, trying to hide under bravado his crest-fallen temper; "why, what'll you do if
we choose to continue?"
"Make a few counter-remarks to begin with, Bruce,
on parasites and parvenus, tuft-hunting freshmen and
the tenth transmitters of a foolish face," retorted Lillyston, glowing with honest indignation.
"And turn you out of the butteries by the shoulders," said a strong undergraduate, who had chanced
to be a witness of the scene. "A somewhat boyish
proceeding, perhaps, but exactly suited to some capacities."
Bruce and his friends, seeing that they were beginning to have the worst of it, thought it about time to
swagger off, and for the future learnt to confine their
remarks to a more exclusive circle.
There had been another silent spectator of the scene
in the person of Lord De Vayne. He was a young
viscount whose estate bordered on the grounds of Lonstead Abbey, and he had known Julian since both of
them were little boys. He had been entirely educated
at home with an excellent tutor, who had filled his
mind with all wise and generous sentiments; but his
widowed mother lived in such complete seclusion that
he had rarely entered the society of any of his own
age, and was consequently timid and bashful. Meeting
sometimes with Julian, he had conceived a warm admiration for his genius and character, and at one time




JULIAN'S VISIT.             91
had earnestly wished to join him at Harton. But his.
mother was so distressed at the proposition that he at
once abandoned it, while he eagerly looked forward to
the time'when he should meet his friend at St. Werner's, on the books of which college he had entered his
name partly for this very reason. He had not been an
undergraduate many days before he called on Julian,
who had received him indeed very kindly, but who
seemed rather shy of being much in his company for
fear of the remarks which he had not yet learnt entirely
to' disregard. This was a great source of vexation to
De Vayne, though the reason of it was partly explained
after the remarks which he had just overheard.
"Home," he whispered, " I wish you'd come into my
rooms after hall, I should so much like to have a talk.
Do," he said, as he saw that Julian hesitated, I assure
you I have felt quite lonely here."
Accordingly, after hall, Julian strolled into Warwick's Court, and found his way to Lord De Vayne's
rooms.
"I am so glad to see you, Julian, at last. As I
have told you," he said, with a glistening eye, " I have
been very lonely. I have never left home before, and
have made no friend here as yet;" and he heaved a
deep sigh.
Julian felt his heart full of friendliness for the gentle
boy whose total inexperience made him seem younger
than he really was.  He glanced round the rooms;
they were richly furnished, but full of memorials of
home, that gave them a melancholy aspect. Over the
fire-place was a water-color likeness of his lady-mother in her widow's weeds, and on the opposite side of




Q~2    ~    LORD OF LEISURE.
the room another picture of a beautiful young child —De
Vayne's only brother, who had died in infancy. The
handsomely bound books on the shelves had been transferred from their well-known places in the library of
Uther Hall, and the regal antlers which were fastened
over the door had once graced the dining-room. Thousands would have envied De Vayne's position; but he
had caught the shadow of his mother's sadness; his
relations were few; at St. Werner's as yet he had found
none to lean upon, and he felt unhappy and alone.
"I was so ashamed, Julian," he said, "so utterly
and unspeakably ashamed to hear the rudeness of these
men as we came out of hall. I'm afraid you must
have felt deeply hurt."
"Yes, for the moment; but I'm sorry that I took
even a moment's notice of it.  Why should one be
ruffled because others are unfeeling and impertinent?
it is their misfortune, not ours."
" But why did you come up as a sizar, Julian? Surely
with Lonstead Abbey as youi inheritance-"
"No," said Julian, with a smile; " I am lord of my
leisure, and no land beside."
" Really! I had always looked on you as a future
neighbor and helper."
He was too delicate to make any inquiries on the
subject: but while a bright airy vision rose for an instant
before Julian's fancy, and then died away, his friend
said, with ingenuous embarrassment,"You know, Home, I am very rich.   In truth, I
have far more money than I know what to do with.
It only troubles me. I wish  -"
"Oh dear no!" said Julian, hastily; "I got the




SUNDAY AT CAMFORD.            93
Newry scholarship, you know, at Harton, and I really
need no assistance whatever."' I hope I haven't offended you; how unlucky I am!"
said De Vayne, blushing.
"<Not a whit, De Vayne; I know your kind heart."
" Well, do let me see something of you. Won't you
come a walk, sometimes, or let me come in of an evening when you're taking tea, and not at work?"
"Do," said Julian; and they agreed to meet at his
rooms on the following Sunday evening.
Sunday at Camford was a happy day for Julian
Home. It was a day of perfect leisure and rest; the
time not spent at church or in the society of others, he
generally occupied in taking a longer walk than usual,
or in the luxuries of solemn and quiet thought. But
the greatest enjoymentwas to revel freely in books, and
devote himself, unrestrained, to the gorgeous scenes of
poetry, or the passionate pages of eloquent men; on
that_ day he drank deeply of pure streams that refreshed him for his weekly work; nor did he forget
some hour of commune, in the secrecy of his chamber
and the silence of his heart, with that God and Father
in whom alone he trusted, and to whom alone he looked
for deliverance from difficulty and guidance under
temptation. Of all hours his happiest and strongest
were those in which he was alone-alone, except for a
heavenly presence, sitting at the feet of a friend, and
looking face to face upon himself.
He had been reading Wordsworth since hall time,
when the ringing of the chapel bell summoned him to
put on his surplice, and walk quietly down to chapel.
As there was plenty of time, he took a stroll or two




94            THE SCORN OF SCORN.
across the court, before going in. While doing so, he
met De Vayne, and in his company suddenly found himself vis-a-vis with his old enemy Brogten.
"Hem!" whispered Brogten to his companion, " the
sizars are getting on. A sizar and a viscount arm in
arm!"
Julian only heard enough of this sentence to be aware
that it was highly insolent; and the flush on De Vayne's
cheek showed that he too had caught something of its
meaning.
"' Never mind that boor's rudeness," he said. " I feel
more than honored to be in the sizar's company. Iow
admirably quiet you are, Julian, under such conduct!"
"I try to be; not always with success, though," he
answered, as his breast swelled, and his lip quivered
with indignation.
"'Scorn!-to be scorned by one that I scorn:
Is that a matter to make me fret?
Is that a matter to cause regret?'Stop! let's come into chapel."
They went into chapel together. De Vayne walked
into the noblemen's seats; and Julian, hot and angry,
and with the words, " Scorn!-to be scorned by one
that I scorn," still ringing in his ears, strode up the
whole length of the chapel to the obscure corner set
apart-is it not very needlessly set apart?-for the
sizars' use.
St. Werner's chapel on a Sunday evening is a moving
sight, Five hundred men in surplices thronging the
chapel from end to end-tte very flower of English
youth, in manly beauty, in strength, in race, in courage.




OUR FATHER.                95
in mind-all kneeling side by side, bound together in
a common bond of union by the grand historic associations of that noble place-all mingling their voices together with the trebles of the choir and the thundermusic of the organ.  This is a spectacle -not often
equaled; and to take a share in it as one for whose
sake, in part, it has been established, is a privilege not
to be forgotten. The music, the devotion, the spirit of
the place, smoothed the swelling thoughts of Julian's
troubled heart. "Are'we not all brethren? Hath not
one Father begotten us?"  Such began to be the burden of his thoughts, rather than the old " Scorn!-to
be scorned by one that I scorn." And when the glorious tones of the anthem c'eased, and the calm steady
voice of the chaplain was heard alone, uttering in the
sudden hushthe grand overture to the noble prayer" 0 Lord, our heavenly Father, high and mighty,
King of kings,'Lord of lords, the only Ruler of princes,
who dost from thy throne behold all the dwellers upon
earth,then the last demon of wrath was exorcised, and
Julian thought to himself-"No; from henceforth I
scorn no one, and am indifferent alike to the proud
man's scorn and the base man's sneer."
The two incidents that we have narrated made
Julian fear that his position as a sizar would be one
of continual annoyance.  He afterwards gratefully
acknowledged that in such a supposition he was quite
mistaken. Never again while he remained a sizar did
he hear the slightest unkind allusions to the circum



96                ST. WERNER'S.
stance, and but for the external regulations imposed
by the college, he might even have forgotten the fact.
Those regulations, especially the hall arrangements,
were indeed sufficiently disagreeable at times. It could
not be pleasant to dine in a hall which had just been
left by hundreds of men, and to make the meal amid
the prospect of slovenly servants employed in the
emptying of wineglasses and the ligurrition of dishes,
sometimes even in passages of coquetry or noisy civilities, on the interchange of which the presence of
these undergraduates seemed to impose but little check.
These things may be better now, and in spite of them
Julian felt hearty reason to be grateful for the real
kindness of the St. Werner's authorities.' In other respects he found that the fact of'his being a sizar made
no sort of difference in his position; he found that the
majority of men either knew or cared nothing about it,
and sought his society on terms of the most unquestioned equality, for the sake of the pleasure which his
company afforded them, and the thoughts which it
enabled them to ventilate or interchange.




CHAPTER     VIII.
STUDY AND IDLENESS.
"Then what golden hours were for us,
-While we sate together there!
How the white vests of the chorus
Seemed to wave up a live air I
How the cothurns trod majestic,
Down the deep iambic lines,
And the rolling anapcestic
Curled like vapor over shrines!"
E. BARRETT BROWNING.
THE incentives which lead young men to work are
as various as the influences which tend to make them
idle. One toils on, however hopelessly, from a sense
of duty, from a desire to please his parents, and satisfy
the requirements of the place; another because he has
been well trained into habits of work, and has a notion
of educating the mind; a third because he has set his
heart on a fellowship; a fourth, because he is intensely
ambitious, and looks on a good degree as the steppingstone to literary or political honors. The fewest perhaps pursue learning for her own sake, and study out
of a simple eagerness to know what may be known, as
the best means of cultivating their intellectual powers
for the attainment of at least a personal solution of
those great problems, the existence of which they have
already begun to realize. But of this rare class was
9              (Q7)




98            THE WORLD OF BOOKS.
Julian Home. He studied with an ardor and a passion
before which difficulties vanished, and in consequence
of which he seemed to progress not the less surely,
because it was with great strides.  For the first time
in his life, Julian found himself entirely alone in the
great wide realm of literature-alone, to wander at his
own will, almost without a guide. And joyously did
that brave young spirit pursue its way-now resting
in some fragrant glen, and by some fountain mirror,
where the boughs which bent over him were bright
with blossom and rich with fruit-now plunging into
some deep thicket, where at every step he had to push
aside the heavy branches and tangled weeds-and now
climbing with toilful progress some steep and rocky
hill, on whose summit, hardly attained, he could rest at
last, and gaze back over perils surmounted and precipices passed, and mark the thunder rolling over the
valleys, or gaze on kingdoms full of peace and beauty,
slumbering in the broad sunshine beneath his feet.
Julian read for the sake of knowledge, and because
he intensely enjoyed the great authors, whose thoughts
he studied. He had read parts of Homer, parts of
Thucydides, parts of Tacitus, parts of the tragedians,
at school, but now he had it in his power to study a
great author entire, and as a whole. Never before did
he fully appreciate the "thunderous lilt" of Greek epic,
the touching and voluptuous tenderness of Latin elegy,
the regal pomp of history, the gorgeous and philosophic
mystery of the old dramatic fables. Never before had
he learnt to gaze on " the bright countenance of truth,
in the mild and dewy air of delightful studies." Those
who decry classical education, do so from inexperience




BRIGHT HOURS.                99
of its real character and value, and can hardly conceive
the sense of strength and freedom which a young and
ingenuous intellect acquires in all literature, and in all
thought, by the laborious and successful endeavor to
enter into that' noble heritage which has been left us
by the wisdom of bygone generations. Those hours
were the happiest of Julian's life; often would he be
beguiled by his studies into the "wee small" hours of
night; and in the grand company of eloquent men and
profound philosophers, he would forget everything in
the sense of intellectual advance. Then first be began
to understand Milton's noble exclamation" How charming is divine philosophy!
Not harsh and rugged as dull fools suppose,
But musical as is Apollo's lute,
And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets,
Where no crude surfeit reigns."
He studied accurately, yet with appreciation; sometimes the two ways of study are not combined, and
while one man will be content with a cold and barren
estimate of yr's and rov'q derived from wading through
the unutterable tedium of interminable German notes,
of which the last always contradicted all the rest;.
another will content himself with eviscerating the general meaning of a passage, without any attempt to
feel the finer pulses of emotion, or discriminate the
nicer shades of thought. Eschewing commentators as
much as he could, Julian would first carefully go over
a long passage, solely with a view to the clear comprehension of the author's language, and would then
reread the whole for the purpose of enjoying and ap



100                 CLASSICS.
preciatiLg the thoughts which the words enshrined;
and finally, when he had finished a book or a poem,
would run through it again as a whole, with all the
glow and enthusiasm of a perfect comprehension.
Sometimes Kennedy, or Owen, or Lord De Vayne
would read with him. This was always in lighter and
easier authors, read chiefly for practice, and for the
sake of the poetry or the story which lent them their
attraction. It was necessary to pursue in solitude all
the severer paths of study; but he found these evenings,
spent at once in society and yet over books, full both
of profit and enjoyment. Lillyston, although not a
first-rate classic, often formed one of the party; Owen
and Julian contributed the requisite scholarship and
the accurate knowledge, while Lillyston and De Vayne
would often throw out some literary illustration or historical parallel, and Kennedy gave life and brightness
to them all, by the flow and sparkle of his gayety and
wit. But it must be admitted that Kennedy was the
least studious element in the party, and was too often
the cause of digressions and conversations which led
them to abandon altogether the immediate object of
their evening's work.
Kennedy had a tendency to idleness, which was developed by the freedom with which he plunged into society
of all kinds. His company was so agreeable, and his
bright young face was so happy an addition to all parties, that he was in a round of constant engagementsbreakfast parties, wines, supper parties, and dinnersthat encroached far too much on the hours of work.
At school, the perpetual examinations kept alive an
emulous spirit, which counteracted his fondness for men.




WASTE OF TIME.              101
tal vagrancy; but at college the examinations-at least
those of any importance-are few and far between; and
he always flattered himself that he meant soon to make
up for lost time; for three years looks an immense period to a young man at the entrance of his university
career. It was nearly as necessary (even in a pecuniary point of view) for him as for Julian to make the
best use of his time; for although he was an only son,
he was not destined to inherit a fortune sufficient for
his support.
"Just look at these cards," he'said to Julian one
day; "there is not one of them which hasn't an invitation scribbled on it. These engagements really leave
one no time for work. What a bore it is! how do you
manage to escape them?"
Well-first, I havn't such a large acquaintance as
you; that makes a great deal of difference. But, besides, I make a point of leaving breakfast parties at
ten, and wines at chapel time-so that I really don't
find them any serious hinderance. No hinderance, I
mean, in comparison with the delight and profitof the
society itself."
"I wish I could make the same resolution," said
Kennedy; "but the fact is, I find company so
thoroughly amusing, that I am always tempted to
stay."
But why not decline, sometimes?"
"I don't know-it looks uncivil. Here, which of
these shall I cut?" he said, tossing three or four notes
and cards to Julian.
"This, for one," said Julian, as he read the first:9*




192                 CARDS.
"Dear Kennedy-Come to supper and cards at ten.
%ruce wants to be introduced to you. Yours,
"C. BROGTEN.' "
"Yes, I think I shall.  I don't like that fellow
Brogten, who is always thrusting himself in my way,"
said Kennedy. " Heigh ho 1" and Kennedy leant his
head on his arm, and fell into a reverie, thinking that,
after all, his three years at college might be over almost
before he was aware of how much time he lost.
I hope you don't play cards much," said Julian.
"Why? I hear Hazlet has been denouncing them in
hall with unctuous fervor, and I do think it was that
which led me to join in a game which was instantly proposed by some of the men who sat near."
"I don't say that there's anything diabolical," said
Julian, smiling, "in paint and pasteboard, or that I
should have the least objection to play them myself, if
I wanted amusement; but I think them-except very
occasionally, and in moderation-a waste of time; and
if you play for money, I don't think it does you any
good."
"Well, I've never played for money yet.  By-theby, do you know Bruce? he has the character and
manner of a very gentlemanly fellow?"
"Yes, I know him," said Julian, who made a point
of holding his tongue about a man when he had nothing
favorable to say.
"Oh, ay, I forgot; of course; he's a Hartonian.
But didn't you think him gentlemanly?"
"He has an easymanner, and is accustomed to good




ADMONISHED.               103
society, which is usually all that is intended by the
word," said Julian.
"I think I must go just this one evening. I like to
see a variety of men; one learns something from it."
Kennedy went. The supper took place in Brogten's
rooms, and the party then adjourned to Bruce's, where
they immediately began a game at whist for half-acrown points, and then "unlimited loo."  Kennedy
was induced to play, "just to see what it was like."
As the game proceeded, he became more and more excited; the others were accustomed to the thing, and concealed their eagerness; but Kennedy, who was younger
and more inexperienced than any of them, threw himself into the game, and drank heedlessly of the wine
that freely circulated. Surely, if guardian spirits attend
the footsteps of youth, one angel must have wept that
evening "tears such as angels weep " to see him with
his flushed face and sparkling eyes, eagerly seizing the
sums he won, or, with clenched hand and contracted
brow, anxiously awaiting the result of some adverse
turn in the chances of the game. I remember once to
have accidentally entered a scene like this, in going to
borrow something from a neighbor's room; and I shall
never forget the almost tiger-like eagerness and haggard
anxiety depicted on the countenances of the men who
were playing for sums far too extravagant for an undergraduate's purse.
How Kennedy got home he never knew, but next
morning he awoke headachy and feverish, and the first
thing he saw on- his table was a slip of paper, on which
was written " Kennedy admonished by the senior dean
for being out after twelve o'clock."  The notice an



104            UNDER THE STARS.
noyed and shamed him.. He lay in bed till late was
absent from lecture, and got up to an unrelished breakfast, at which he was disturbed by the entrance of Bruce,
to congratulate him on his winnings of the evening
before.
While Bruce was talking to him, Lillyston also strolled
in, on his way from lecture, to ask what had kept Kennedy away. IHe was surprised to see the pale and weary
look on his face, and, catching sight of Bruce seated in
the arm-chair by the fire, he merely made some commonplace remarks, and left the room. But he met Julian
in the court, and told him that Kennedy didn't seem
to be well.
I'm not surprised," said Julian; "he supped with
Brogten, and then went to play cards with Bruce, and
I hear that Bruce's card parties are not very steady
proceedings."
"Can't we manage to keep him out of that set,
Julian? it will be the ruin of his reading."
"Ay, and worse, Hugh. But what can one say?
It will hardly do to read homilies to one's fellow-undergraduates."
"You might at least give him a hint."
"I will. I suppose he'll come and do some Euripides to-night."
He did come, and when they had read some three
hundred lines, and the rest were separating, he proposed to Julian a turn in the great court.
The stars were crowding in their bright myriads,
and the clear silvery moonlight bathed the court,
except where the hall and chapel flung fantastic and
mysterious shadows across the green smooth-mown




PRESENTIMENTS.              105
lawns. of the quadrangle. The soft light, the cool
exhilarating night air were provocative of thought, and
they walked up and down for a time in silence.
Many thoughts-were evidently working in Kennedy's mind, and they did not all seem to be bright
or beautiful as the thoughts of youth should be.
Julian's brain was busy, too; and as they paced up
and down, arm and arm, the many-colored images of
hope and fancy were flitting thick and fast across
his vision. He was thinking of his own future and
of Kennedy's, whom he was beginning to love as a
brother, and for whose moral weakness he sometimes
feared.
"Julian," said Kennedy, suddenly breaking the
silence; "were you ever seized by an uncontrollable,
unaccountable, irresistible presentiment of coming evil,
-a feeling as if a sudden gulf of blackness and horror
yawned before you —a dreadful something haunting
you, you knew not what, but only knew that it was
there?"
"I have had presentiments, certainly; though hardly
of the kind you describe."
"Well, Julian, I have such a presentiment now,
overshadowing me with the sense of guilt, of which
I was never guilty; as though it were the shadow
of some crime committed in a previous state of existence, forgotten yet unforgotten, incurred yet unavenged."
" Probably the mere result of a headache this morn.
ing, and the night air now," said Julian, smiling at
the energetic description, yet pained by the intensity of
Kennedy's tone of voice.




106                A METEOR.
"Hush, Julian! I hate all that stupid materialism.
Depend upon it, some evil thing is over me. I wonder
whether crimes of the future can throw their crimson
shadow back over the past. My life, thank God, has
been an innocent one, yet now I feel like the guiltiest
thing alive."
"One oughtn't to yield to such feelings, or to be
the victim of a heated imagination, Kennedy. In my
own case at least, half the feelings I have fancied to
be presentiments have turned out false in the endpresentiments, I mean, which have been suggested, as
perhaps this has, by passing circumstances."
"God grant this may be false!" said Kennedy;
"but something makes me feel uneasy."
"It will be a lying prophet, if you so determine,
Kennedy. The only enemy who has real power to
hurt us is ourselves. Why should you be agitated by
an idle forecast of uncertain calamity?  Be brave, and
honest, and pure, and God will be with you.  Don't
be surprised," continued Julian, "if you've heard me
say the same words before; they were my father's
dying bequest to his eldest son."
"Be brave, and honest, and pure-" repeated
Kennedy; "yes, you must be right, Julian. Look,
what a glorious sky, and what numberless'patines of
bright gold!'"
Julian looked up, and at that moment a meteor shot
across the heaven, plunging as though from the galaxy
into the darkness, and, after the white and dazzling luster
of the trail had disappeared, seeming to leave behind
the glory of it a deeper gloom. It gave too true a
type of many a young man's destiny.




GOOD NIGHTS.              107
Kennedy said nothing, but although it is not the
Camford custom to shake hands, he shook Julian's
hand that night with one of those warm and loving
grasps, whichz are not soon forgotten. And each walked
slowly back to his own room.




CHAPTER IX.
THE BOAT-RACE.
* And caught once more the distant shout,
The measured pulse of racing oars
Between the willows."-IN MEMORIAM.
THE banks of " silvery-winding Iscam" were thronged
with men; between the hours of two and four o'clock the
sculls were to be tried for, and some eight hundred of
the thousand undergraduates poured out of their colleges by twos and threes to watch the result from the
banks on each side.
The first and second guns had been fired, and the
scullers in their boats, each some ten yards apart from
the other, are anxiously waiting the firing of the third,
which is the signal for starting. That strong splendid-looking young man, whose arms are bared to the
shoulder, and "the muscles all aripple on his back,"
is almost quivering with anxious expectation.  The
very instant the sound of the gun reaches his ear, those
oar-blades will flash like lightning into the water, and
"smite the sounding furrows" with marvelous regularity and speed. He is the favorite, and there are
some heavy bets on his success, Bruce and Brogten
and Lord Fitzurse will be richer or poorer by some
(108)




ON THE BANKS.              109
twenty pounds each from the result of this quarter of
an hour.
The three are standing together on the towing-path
opposite that little inn where the river suddenly makes
a wide bend, and where, if the rush of men were not
certain to sweep them forward, they might see a very
considerable piece of the race. But directly the signal
is given, and the boats start, everybody will run im-,petuously at full speed along the banks to keep up with
the boats, and cheer on their own men, and it will be
necessary for our trio to make the best possible use of
their legs, before the living cataract pours down upon
them.  Indeed, they would not have been on the
towing-path at all, but among the rather questionable
occupants of the grass plat before the inn on the other
side of the river, were it not for their desire to run
along with the boats, and inspirit the rowers on whom
they have betted.
But what is this?  A great odious slow-trailing
barge looms into sight, nearly as broad as the river
itself, black as the ferruginous ferryboat of Charon,
and slowly dragged down the stream by two stout cart
horses, beside which a young bargee is plodding along
in stolid independence.
"Hi, hi! you clodhopper there, stop that infernal
barge!" shouted Bruce, at the top of his voice, knowing
that if the barge once passed the winning posts, the
race would be utterly spoilt.
"St-t-t-topp there, you cl-l-lown, w-w-will you?"
stuttered Fitzurse, more incoherent than usual, with
indignation.
10




110                A BARGEE.
The young bargee either didn't hear these apostrophes, or didn't choose to attend to them when they
were urged in that kind of way; and besides this, as
the men were entirely concealed from his view by the
curve of the river, he wasn't aware of the coming race,
and therefore saw no reason to obey such imperious
mandates.
"Confound the grimy idiot! doesn't he hear?" said
Bruce, turning red and pale with excitement as he
thought of the money he had at stake, and remembered
that the skiff on which all his hopes lay was first in
order, and would therefore be most likely to suffer by
any momentary confusion. "Come, Brogten, let's stop
him somehow before it's too late."
"Let's cut the scoundrel's ropes," said Brogten between his teeth; and at once the three darted forward
at full speed, at the very instant that the sharp crack
of the final signal-gun was heard.
It so happened that Julian and Lillyston had started
rather late for the races, and had come up with the
barge just as it had first neglected the summons of
Bruce and Fitzurse.
"Come, bargee," said Lillyston, good-humoredly,
" out of the way with the barge as quick as ever you
can; there's a boat-race, and you'll spoil the fun."
"Oh, it's a race, be it?" said the man, as he instantly helped Lillyston to back the horses. "If
them young jackanapes had only toald me,'stead of
blusterin' that way- "
His speech was interrupted by Bruce, who, with his
friends, had instantly sprang at the ropes, and cut
them in half a dozen places, while the great heavy




ONE TO THREE,              111
horses, frightened out of their propriety, turned tail
and bolted away at a terrifically heavy trot.
"You big hulking blackguard!" roared Brogten,
who had been the first to use his knife, "why the
devil didn't you move when we told you? What business have louts like you to come blundering up-the
river and spoil our races?" And Fitzurse, confident
in superior numbers, gave emphasis to the question by
knocking off the man's cap.
The bargee was a strongly-built, stupid, healthylooking young man, of some twenty-three years old,
who, from being slow of passion was all the more
terrible when aroused. Not finding any vent for his
anger in words, he suddenly seized Bruce (who of the
three stood nearest him) by the collar of his boating
jersey, shook him as he might have done a baby, and
almost before he was aware, pitched him into the river.
Instantly swinging round, he gave Lord Fitzurse a butt
with his elbow, which sent his lordship tottering into
the ditch on the other side, and while his wrath was
still blazing, received in one eye a blow from Brogten's
strong fist, which for an instant made him reel.
But it was only for an instant, and then he repaid
Brogten with a cuff which felled him to the ground.
Brogten was mad with fury. At that moment the men
were running round the corner, at the bend of the
Iscam, in full career, and hundreds on both sides of the
river must have seen him sprawl before the man's blow.
He sprang to his feet, and, blind with rage, lifted the
clasp-knife with which he had cut the ropes. A second
more, and it would have been buried to the handle in
the right arm which, quick as lightning, the bargee




112                fAROGTEN.
raised to shield his face, when Brogten's arm was seized
from behind by Lillyston, who wrested the knife from
him, and pitched it into the river.
Brogten turned round, still unconscious of what he
was about. Julian stood nearest him, and he thought
it was Julian who had disarmed him. Old hatred was
suddenly joined to outrageous passion, and, clenching
hfi fist, he struck Julian in the face. Julian started
back just in time to evade the full force of the blow,
and, fearing a second attack, suddenly tripped his
aggressor as he once more rushedtoward him.
But now the full tide of men had reached the spot;
the barge had drifted helplessly lengthwise across the
stream, and an angry circle closed round the chief
actors in the scene we have described, while a hundred
hasty voices demanded what was the row, and what
the bargee meant by "stopping the race in that stupid
way!"   Meanwhile Bruce, wet and muddy, was declaiming on one side, and Fitzurse, bruised and dirty,
on the other, was stammering his uncomprehended
oaths; while a dozen men were holding Brogten, who,
foiled a second time, and now in a dreadfully ungovernable passion, was struggling with the men who' held him,
and vowing murder against Julian and the bargee.
It was no time for deliberation, nor are excited,
hasty, and disappointed boys the most impartial of
jurors. Julian and Lillyston were rapidly explaining
the true state of the case to the few who were calm
enough to listen; but all that appeared to most of the
by-standers was, that a bargee had spoiled the event of
the day, and assaulted two or three undergraduates. A
cry arose to duck the fellow in the muddiest angle of




A HUBBUB.                113
the Iscam, and twenty hands were laid on his shoulder
to drag him off to his fate. But a sense of injustice,
joined to strength and passion, are. all but irresistible
when their opponents are but half in earnest; and, violently exerting his formidable muscles, the man shook
himself free with a determination, agility, and pluck,
which, by a visible logic, showed the men how cruel and
cowardly it was to punish him before they knew anything of the rights of the case. Lillyston's voice, too,
began to be loudly heard, and several dons among the
crowd exerted themselves to restore order out of the
hubbub.
There is nothing like a touch of manliness. A feeble
and fussy and finicking little proctor, who happened to
be on the bank, was pompously endeavoring to assert
his dignity and make himself attended to. He was
just beginning to get indignant at the laughing contempt with which his impotent efforts were received, and
was asking men for their names and colleges, ina futile
sort of way, when a tall and stately tutor in the crowd
raised his voice above the uproar, and said, " Silence,
gentlemen, if you please, for a moment." He was recognized and respected, and the men made room for him
into the center of the throng.
" Now, my man, just tell us what's the matter." The
man was beginning to tell them how wantonly his ropes
had been cut, and he himself insulted, when Bruce broke
in, "That's a lie, you beggar; we asked you to move,
and you wouldn't. I'll have you in prison yet, my fine
fellow; you'll see."
"And if I don't make you pay for them ropes, you
10*




114                  FAIR.
young pink-and-white monkey, my name ain't Jemthat's all."
"Did anybody see what really took place?" asked
the don, cutting short the altercation.
"Yes, I did," said Lillyston, instantly; "the fellow
was civil enough, and began to back his horses the moment I told him there was a race, when these gentlemen
ran up, abused him, struck him, and cut the ropes."
"Ay, it's all very fine for you gentlefolk," said the
man, with bitter scorn, "to take away a poor man's
living, for your pleasure.  How do you think I'm to
pay for them ropes? am I to take the bread out of the
children's mouths, let alone being kicked and speered
at?  D  - you all! I ain't afeard o' none o' you.
Come on the whole lot o' yout to one.'I ain't afeardnot I," he said, again glaring round like a bull at bay,
and stripping an arm of iron strength.
" I never cut your ropes, you brute!" said Bruce, between his teeth, "though you wouldn't move when we
asked you civilly."
" What's that, then," said the man, pointing to a bit
of rope, two inches long, which Bruce still held dangling in his hand.
"I'm afraid you forget the facts, Bruce, in your
excitement," said Lillyston, very sternly.
"Facts, or not, I'll have you up for assault," said
Bruce, affectedly, wringing the mud out of his wet
sleeve.
" Have me up for assault!" mimicked the man, trying to mince his broad rough accents into Bruce's delicate tones; and he condescended to add no more, but
turned round to catch his horses, which had trotted




MR. NORTON-LILLYSTON.          115
through the open gate of a neighboring field, and were
now quietly grazing.
"I hope, gentlemen, said Brogten, bluntly, "that
you're not going to believe that blackguard's word,
against ours."
"You forget, sir," said Mr. Norton, the tall don,
"that what the blackguard (as you are pleased to call
him) said, is confirmed by a gentleman here."
"And impugned by three gentlemen," said Bruce,
who felt how thoroughly he was in disgrace.
"Do you mean to deny, Bruce, that you swore at the
man first, and then cut his ropes, when he was already
stopping his barge?" asked Lillyston.
"I mean to say he wouldn't move, when we told
him."
"I appeal to Home," said Lillyston; "didn't the
man instantly stop, when he understood why we wanted
him to do so?"
"Yes," said Julian, who, still dizzy with Brogten's
blow, was standing a little apart, " I am bound to say
that the man was entirely in the right."
"I am inclined to think so," said Mr. Norton, with
scorn in his eye; and so saying, he took the little proc.
tor's arm, and strode away, while the crowd of undergraduates broke up and streamed off in twos and
threes.
"Do you mean to paythat fellow for his rope,
Bruce?" asked Lillyston; "if not, I do."
"Pay!" said Brogten, with an explosion of oaths;
"I'll pay you and your sizar friend there for this,
depend upon it."
" We're not afraid," said Lillyston, quietly. Julian




116                 GHOULS.
only answered the threat by a bow, and the two walked
off to the bargee, who, in despair and anger, was knot
ting together the cut pieces of his rope.
Lillyston slipped a sovereign into his hand, and told
him how sorry he was for what had happened.
Thank you, sir," said the man, humbly; "it's a
hard thing for a poor chap to be treated as I've been;
but you're a rale gentleman."
" Well, do me one favor, then. Promise not to say
a word to, or take any notice of, those three fellows, as
they pass you."
The man promised; but there was no need to have
done so, for, furious as Brogten was, he and his companions were too crest-fallen to take any notice of the bargee in passing, except by contemptuous looks, which he
returned with interest. On the whole, it struck them
that they would not make a particularly creditable display in hall that evening, and therefore they partook,
instead, of a sumptuous repast in the rooms of Lord
Fitzurse, who made up for the dirt which they had been
eating by the splendor of his entertainment.
"I'll be even yet with that fellow, Home," muttered
Brogten, as they were parting.
"He's not w-w-worth it," said the host. " He's one
of the g-g-ghouls; eh, Bruce-ha, ha, ha!"




CHAPTER X.
CONTRASTS.
"And here was Labor his own bond slave; HGcp
That never set the pains against the prize;
Idleness halting with his weary clog,
And poor misguided Shame and witless Fear
And simple Pleasure foraging for Death."
WORDSWORTH.'Tle Preludo
ALTHOUGH Julian did not immediately feel, and had
no particular reason to dread, the results of Brogten's
displeasure, yet it was very annoying to be on the same
staircase with him. It was a constant reminder that
there was one person, and he near at hand, who regarded him as an enemy. For a time, indeed, Brogten tried a few practical jokes o:a his neighbor and
quondam school-fellow, which gratified for the moment
his desire for revenge.  Thus he would empty the
little jug of milk, which stood every day before Julian's
door, into the great earthenware pitcher of water which
was usually to be found in the same position; or he
would make a surreptitious entry into his rooms, and
amuse himself by upturning chairs and tables, turning
pictures with their faces to the wall, and doing sometimes considerable damage and mischief. Once Julian,
on preparing to get into bed, found a neat little garden
laid out for his reception, between the sheets-flower(117)




118             PRACTICAL JOKES.
beds and gravel walks, all complete. This course of
petty annoyance be bore, though not without a great
struggle, in dignified and contemptuous silence. H6
looked Brogten firmly in the face, whenever they
chanced to meet, and never gave him the triumph of
perceiving that his small arts of vexation had taken
the slightest effect. He merely smiled when the hotheaded Kennedy suggested retaliation, and would not
allow Lillyston to try the effect of remonstrance. It
was not long before Brogten became thoroughly ashamed
that his malice should be tried and despised, and he
would have proceeded to more overt acts of hatred had
he not been one day informed by Lillyston that the
Hartonians generally had heard of his proceedings, and
that if he continued them he would be universally cut.
For, indeed, such practical jokes as Brogten attempted
are now almost unknown at Camford, and every man's
room is considered sacred in his absence. But although
he desisted from this kind of malice, it was not long before
Brogten was generally shunned by his former schoolfellows. He developed into such a thorough blackguard that, had it not been for his merits as an oarsman and a cricketer, even the countenance of pruce
and Lord Fitzurse would have been insufficient to prevent him from being deserted by all the undergraduates
of St. Warner's, except that small and wretched class
who take refuge from vacuity in the society of cads,
dog-fanciers, and grooms.
Yet Brogten's HIarton education, idle as he had
been, sufficed to make him, see that he was sinking
lower and lower, not only in the world's estimation, but
in his own. Unable to make the mental effort which




LILLYSTON AND BROGTEN.          119
the least approach to study would have required, he
suffered his few intellectual faculties to grow more
and more gross and stolid, and spent his mornings in
smoking, drinking beer, or lounging in the rooms of
some one as idle and discontented as himself. It was
sad to see the change which even in his first term came
over his face; it was not the change from boyhood to
youth which gave a manlier beauty to the almost feminine delicacy of Julian's features, but it was a look in
which effrontery supplied the place of self-dependence,
and coarseness was the substitute for strength. Beer
in the morning, and brandy in the evening, cards, and
low company, and vice, made him sink into a degradation from which he was only redeemed by the still
lingering ambition to excel in athletic sports, and by
the manly exercises which rescued him for a time from
such dissipation as would have incapacitated him from
shining in the boat or in the field.
Lillyston was a singular contrast with Brogten;
originally they were about equal in ability, position,
and strength. They had entered school in the same
form, and, until Julian came, they had generally been
placed near each other in the quarterly examinations.
Both of them were strong and active, and, without being
clever or brilliant, they were both possessed of respectable powers of mind. Both of them had been in the
Harton eleven, and now each of them was already in
the second boat of their respective clubs; but with all
these similarities Lillyston was beginning to be one of
the men most liked and respected among all the best
sets of his own year, and was reading for honors with
a fair chance of ultimate success, while Brogten was




120                  BRUCE.
looked on as a low and stupid fellow, whose company
was discreditable, and whose doings were a disgrace to
his old school.
The two presented much the same contrast as was
also visible between Julian and Bruce. While Julian
and Lillyston had mutually influenced each other for
good, while they had been growing up together in warm
and honorable friendship, thinking whatsoever things
are pure and true and of good report, the other two had
only fostered each other's vanity, and rather encouraged
than checked each other's failings. At school they
were always exchanging the grossest flattery, and the
lessons and tendencies which each had derived from the
other's society were lessons of weakness and sin alone.
And now Bruce was looked on at St. Werner's as a
vain, empty fellow, living on a reputation for cleverness
which he had never justified,-low, dressy, and extrava.
gant, despised by the reading men (whose society he
affected to avoid) for his weakness and want of resolution; by the real athletes for his deficiency in strength
and pluck, and by the aristocrats (whose rooms he most
frequented) for the ill-concealed obscurity of his father's
origin, and the ill-understood source of his wealth.
Since he first astonished the men of his year by the
brilliancy of his entertainments and the gorgeousness
of his rooms, he had steadily declined in general estimation'among all whose regard was most really valuable, and he would have found few among his immense
acquaintance who cared as much for him as they did
for his good dinners and recherchd wines. Julian, on
the other hand, who knew far fewer men, could count
among his new and old companions some real friends



FRIENDS.                 121
friends who would cling to him in adversity as well as
in prosperity, and who loved him for his own sake,
whether his fortunes were in sunshine or in cloud.
First among these newly-acquired friends he counted
the names of Owen and Kennedy,. among the old ones
of Lillyston and De Vayne. But, besides these, he
had been sought out by all the most distinguished men
among the St. Werner's undergraduates, while Mr.
Admer, who improved immensely on acquaintance, had
introduced him to some of the most genial and least
exclusive dons. Even Mr. Grayson used to address
him with something approaching to warmth, and so
high was his general reputation, that he had no difficulty in making the acquaintance of every man of
his college, whom he in the least cared to see or know.
Brogteni was one of those who perceived these contrasts, and the bitter intense malice with which they
filled him was one of the evil feelings which helped to
drag him down from following out his occasional resolutions for better things.
Strange that a few weeks could produce such differences; but so it was. At the,-d of those few weeks
Bruce went back to take part in his mother's splendid
theatricals and routs, with a consciousness of neglected
opportunities and wasted time, even if his conscience
laid no worse sins to his charge. Brogten went back,
cursing himself and all around him, with the violent
self-accusations of a reprobate obstinacy, a man in
vice, though hardly more than a boy in years. Kennedy went back happy on the whole, happy above all
in the certainty that he had made in Julian one noble
friend. Lillyston went back happy, well pleased with
11




122              A FEW WEEIfS.
the sense of duty done, and the prime of life well and
innocently enjoyed. And Julian went back in the
same train with De Vayne, happy too, with a mind
strengthened and expanded, with knowledge deepened
and widened, with an honorable ambition opening before him, and friends and a fair position already won.
All these results had sprung from those few and swiftlygliding weeks.
The Christmas time passed very pleasantly for the
Homes. They had few relations, and Lady Vinsear
had dropped all intercourse with them, but they were
happy in themselves.  Violet, too, had the pleasure
of forming an acquaintance with Kennedy's sister Eva,
who, with her aunt, happened to be paying a short visit
to a family in the neighborhood. Frank and Cyril were
at home for their holidays, and the house and garden
at Ildown rang all day long with their merry voices and
incessant games. Old Christmas observances were not
yet obsolete in Ildown, and Yule logs and royal feasts
were the order of the day. The bright, clear, frosty air
-the sparkling sea and freshening wind-a lovely country, a united and cheerful family, and the delights of
moderate study, made the weeks speed by in pure enjoyment. With his mother, his brothers, and Violet,
Julian felt the need of no other society, but he corresponded with Kennedy and other college friends, and
saw a great deal of Lord De Vayne, who continually
rode over to pass the Sundaywith them at Ildown, and
sometimes persuaded all the Homes to come and spend
the day with him-andJhis mother, in the beautiful but
lonely grounds of Uther Hall.
Whenever they accepted the invitation, the young




AT ILDOWN.                 123
and pensive viscount. seemed another man. He would
join in the boys' mirth with the most joyous alacrity,
and talked to Violet with such vivacity, that none who
saw him would believe what a shade of melancholy usually hung over his mind. His life had been spent in
seclusion, and he had never yet seen any to whom his
heart turned with such affection as he felt for Julian and
Violet. His mother observed it, and often thought that
if she saw in Violet Home the future Lady De Vayne,
a source of happiness was laid up for her only son, which
would fulfill, and more than fulfill, her fondest prayers.
It never occurred to her to think that he would do better to choose a bride among the noblest and wealthiest
houses of England, rather than in the orphan family
of a poor and unknown clergyman. What she sought
for him was goodness and usefulness, not grandeur or
riches; a lonely and sorrowful life had taught her at
how slight a value rank and wealth are to be reckoned
in any high or true estimate of the meaning of human
life; nor did it add greatly to her desire for such a match
that Violet, with her bright hair, and soft eyes, and
graceful figure-with her sweet musical voice, and the
rippling silver of her laugh, and the rich imagery which
filled her fancy-might well have fulfilled the ideal of a
poet's dream. But Violet was still veryyoung, and none
of Lady De Vayne's hopes had ever for an instant
crossed her mind.
Julian was, at this time, and had been for some
months, intensely occupied with the thought and desire
of winning the Clerkland scholarship, a university
scholarship of ~60 a year, open to general'competition
among all the undergraduates of less than one year's




124                 AMBITION.
standing. This scholarship was the favorite success of
Camford life. It stamped at once a man's position as
one of the most prominent scholars of his year; and
as the names of many remarkable men were found in
the list of those who had already obtained it, it gave a
strong prestige of future distinction and success. Julian had a peculiar reason for longing to obtain it, because, with his Harton scholarship, it would not only
enable him at once to enter his name as a pensioner,
instead of a sizar, at St. Werner's, but even make him
independent of all help from his family and guardians.
There would have been reasons sufficient to account for
his passionate desire for this particular distinction, even
independently of his natural wish to justify the general
opinion of his abilities, and the eager ambition caused
by the formidable numbers of other competitors. In
shoft, at this time, to obtain the Clerkland scholarship
was the most prominent personal desire in Julian's
heart, and could some genius have suddenly offered him
the fulfillment of any one wish, this would undoubtedly
have been the first to spring to his lips. He looked
with emulation, almost with envy, on those who had won
it before him; he almost knew by heart the list of Clerkland scholars; and when he returned to Camford constantly discussed the chances of success in favor of the
different candidates. Do not blame him; his motives
were all high and blameless, although he at length turned
over this thought so often in his mind as to recur to it
with almost selfish iteration, and to regard success in
this particular struggle as the one thing wanting to
complete, or even to create his happiness.
IHe could not refrain from mentioning it at home,




THE CLERKLAND SCHOLARSHIP.        125
although, for the sake of preventing disappointment,
he generally avoided dwelling on any of his school or
college struggles.  Deprecating his own abilities, it
made him doubly anxious to find that not only did his
St. Werner's contemporaries regard him as the favorite
candidate, and bet upon him in the sporting circles,
(although Brogten furiously.took the largest odds against
him,) but, what was worse, his own family, always proud
of him, seemed to regard his triumph as certain. Thus
circumstanced, and most fondly avoiding every possibility of causing pain or disappointment to that thriceloved circle, of which he regarded himself as the natural protector and head, he was more than ever determined to do his very utmost to prevent failure, and give
them the lasting pride and pleasure which they would
all receive by seeing his name in the public papers as
Clerkland scholar.
" Come, Julian, and let's have a row, or a sail," said
Cyril, one morning to him, as he sat at work.' Frank
and I have nothing to do to-day."
" Not to-day, Cyril, my boy. I really must do some
work; you know De Vayne made me ride with him
yesterday, and I've done very little the last day or
two. "
" I wish I liked work as you do, Julian."
" It isn't only that I like work, though I do," said
Julian; "but you know a great deal depends on it."
"Oh! I know!" said Cyril; "you mean the Clerkland scholarship; but never mind, Julian, Lord Do
Vayne told me you were sure of that."
" Did he?" said Julian, a little anxiously; "then, for
11*




126            "I MUST GET IT."
goodness' sake, don't believe him.  It's very kind of
him to say so-but he's quite mistaken."
"Ah, you always say so beforehand, you know." You
used to say that about the Harton scholarship, Julian,
and yet-  you see? Do come."
"Well, I'll come," said Julian, smiling a little sadly.
"But, Cyril, don't, pray, say anything of that kind
to mother or to Violet, for if I should fail it would
make me doubly sad."
Cyril, thanking Julian, and still laughingly proph'esying success, ran out to tell Frank; and, when he
had gone, Julian stamped his foot passionately on the
ground, and said half aloud, "I will get this Clerkland,
I will get it, I must get it 1"
He paused a moment, and then, raising his eyes
and hands to heaven, prayed that "God would do for
him that which was best for his highest welfare;" but
even as he prayed, he secretly determined that obtaining the Clerkland scholarship was, and must necessarily be, the best piece of worldly prosperity that
could possibly happen to him.




CHAPTER        XI.
SCREWED IN.
fTOt 6 xalov a'Aet2ov dvatpoaeeOat e` s2AE,Zpvaeov, sai-proy xal Ja Accra %~psltv dylopa
oispa iriol Jtvo' o..
lgraq BaI ocl EArease ^(~p6o;.
HOM. Od., xxii. 11.
iESADER, if the latter part of the preceding chapter
has 6een dull to you, it is because you have never
entered into the devouring ambition which, in a matter
of this kind, actuates a young man's heart when he
is aiming at his first grand distinction-an ambition
which, if selfishly encouraged, becomes dangerous both
to health and peace, and works powerfully, perhaps
by a merciful provision, to the defeat of its own darling
hope.
As long as Julian had been at home, a thousand
objects helped to divert his thoughts from their one
cherished desire; butlwhen he returned to Camford,
finding the Clerkland a frequent subject of discussion
among the men, even in.hall, and constantly meeting
others who were as absorbed in the thought of the approaching examination as himself, he once more fell
into the vortex, and thought comparatively of little
else.
(127)




128               COMPETITORS.
As yet he had had no means of measuring himself
with others, except so far as the lecture-room enabled
him to judge of the abilities of some few in his own
college. Under these circumstances all conjecture must
have seemed to be idle; but somehow or other at
Camford, by a sort of intuition, the exact place a man
will ultimately take is often prophesied from the first
with wonderful accuracy. St. Werner's 7being by far
the largest college at Camford, supplied the majority
of the candidates, and Julian, Owen, and Kennedy
were all three mentioned as likely to be first; but the
rival ranks of St. Margaret's boasted their champions
also, and almost every small college nursed some prodigy of its own, for which it vehemently predicted an
easy and indisputable success.
Owen was the competitor whom Julian most really
feared; educated at Roslyn, a comparatively small
school, his scholarship was not so ready and polished
as that acquired by the training of Marlby and Harton,
but, on the other hand, he had improved greatly in the
short time he had been at St. Werner's, and besides
his sound knowledge, he had a strong-headed common
sense, and a clearness and steadiness of purpose, more
valuable than a quick fancy and refined taste.  In
composition, and in all the lighter and more graceful
requirements of a classical examination, Julian had an
undoubted superiority, but Owen was his equal, if not
his master, in the power of unraveling intricacies and
understanding logic; and, besides this, Owen was a
better mathematician, and, although classics had considerable preponderance, yet one mathematical paper
always formed part of the Clerkland examination,




ANTICIPATIONS.              129
Kennedy who, if he had properly employed his time,
would have been no mean rival to either of them, had
unfortunutely been so idle, and continued to be so gay
and idle even for the weeks immediately preceding the
examination, that they all felt his chance to be gone.
He acknowledged the fact himself, with something between a laugh and sigh, and only threatening to catch
them both up in the classical tripos, he resigned all
hope for himself, and threw all his wishes into the scale
of Julian's endeavors. And although Owen was liked
and respected, there was no doubt that Julian was
regarded throughout the university as the popular candidate; the Hartonians especially, who had carried off
the prize for several years, were confident that he would
win them another victory.
As the time drew near, Julian became more and
more feverish with eagerness, and his friends feared
that he would hinder, by over reading, his real probability of success. Kennedy felt this most strongly, but
being himself engaged in the competition, was afraid
that any attempt to divert Julian's thoughts would not
have a disinterested look. Lillyston and De Vayne,
unrestrained by such motives, did all they-could to
take him from his books, and amuse him by turning his
attention to other subjects; but with such strong reasons for exertion, and so much depending on success
or failure, the Clerkland scholarship continued ever the
prominent subject of Julian's thoughts.
At last the long looked-for week arrived.  After
chapel, on the Sunday morning, De Vayne invited
himself to breakfast with Julian, and continued in his
company the greater part of the day, going with him




1I0     "IN QUIETNESS AND CONFIDENCE."
to the university sermon. He entirely forbade Julian
even to allude more than once to the coming examination, and managed in the evening to get him to come
to his rooms, where, with some other Hartonians and
Kennedy, they spent a very pleasant evening.
" Good night," he said to Julian, as he strolled with
him to his staircase across the starlight court; "don't
stay up to-night. In quietness and confidence shall
be your strength."
The examination was to last a week, and Julian
rose for it refreshed and cheerful on Monday morning.
The papers suited him excellently, and his hopes rose
higher and higher as he felt that in each paper he had
done to the utmost of his knowledge and ability. He
had not been able to afford a private tutor during the
term, with whom he might have discussed the papers,
but he sent his Iambics and Latin verse to Mr. Garden
at Harton, who wrote back a most favorable and encouraging judgment of them, and seemed to regard
Julian's success as certain. Julian had implicit confidence in his opinion, for Mr. Garden entered very
warmly into all his hopes and wishes, and kept up with
him an affectionate correspondence, which had helped
him out of many intellectual difficulties, and lessened
the force of many a temptation.
The papers usually lasted from nine till twelve in
the morning, and from two to four in the afternoon.
It was on the Friday morning, when only three more
papers remained, that Julian found Mr. Carden's kind
and hopeful letter lying on his breakfast table at eight
o'clock; he read it with a glow of pleasure, because he
knew that he could rely thoroughly on the accuracy




TITGH HOPES-A SPORTED OAK.      131
and truth of his old tutor's judgment, and as he read
and reread it, his hopes rose higher ared higher.
Finishing breakfast, he began to build castles in the
air, and to imagine to himself the delight it would be
to write and tell the doctor and Mr. Garden of this
new leaf to the Harton laurels. Never before had he
a more reasonable ground for favorable expectation,
and he began almost to run over in his mind the sort of
letter he would write, and the kind of things he would
say.  Leaning over his window-sill, he enjoyed the
cool feeling of the early spring breeze on his brow
and hair, and then finding by his watch that it was
time to start, he took his cap and gown, and prepared
to sally out to the senate-house.
It was the custom of the gyp, when he had laid
breakfast and put the kettle on the fire, to go away
and "sport the oak," i.e. shut the outer door, so as
to prevent any one from coming into the rooms until
their owner was awake and dressed. Julian, therefore,
was not surprised to see his door " sported," but was
surprised to find that, when he lifted the latch, the
door did not open to his touch. He pushed it with
some force, and then kicked it with his foot to see if
some stone or coal had not caught against it, but the
door still remained obstinately closed; he put his
shoulder against it, fancying that some heavy weight,
like the coal-box or water-pitcher, might have been
placed outside,-but all in vain; the thick door did
not even stir, and then there fashed upon Julian the
bitter truth that he had been screwed in. He understood now the stifled titter which he fancied he had
heard after one of his most violent efforts to get out.




13-2             "MANY A SLIP."
In one instant, before he had time to think, a fit
of blind, passionate, uncontrollable fury had clouded
and overpowered Julian's whole mind. Almost unconscious of what he was doing, he kicked the door with all
his might, and beat on it savagely with his clenched
fists, until his knuckles streamed with blood: he forgot
everything but the one burning determination to get
out at all hazards, and to wreak on Brogten, whom he
felt to be the author of his calamity, some desperate
and terrible revenge. But the thick oak door, screwed
evidently with much care and in many places, resisted
all his efforts, and no one came to help him from outside. The gyp, who was usually about, happened to
have gone on an errand; the staircase was? one of the
most secluded in the college; the fellow who was Julian's nearest neighbor had "gone down" for a few
days, and it was improbable that any one ever heard
him, except Brogten, to whom, he thought, every sound
of his angry violence would be perfect music.
All was useless, and Julian, as he strode up and down
the room, clenched his hands, and bit his lips in passionate excitement.  Suddenly it struck him that he
would escape by the window; but, looking out for the
purpose, he found that, when he had jumped from the
sloping,roof below him, he was still thirty feet above
the ground, which, in that place, was not the turf of the
bowling-green, but a hard gravel road. Giving up the
attempt in despair, he sat down, and covered' his face
with his hands; but instantly the-picture of the senatehouse, with the sixty candidates who were trying for the
scholarship, all writing at some new paper —while he
was thus cut off (as he thought) from the long-desired




A FRIEND IN NEED.            133
accomplishment of all his hopes-rose before his eyes,
and, springing up once more, he seized the poker, and
raising it over his shoulder like a hammer, brought down
the heavy iron knob with a crash on the oaken panels.
He struck again and again, but, by a shower of fierce
blows, could only succeed in covering the door with deep
round dents. Finally, he seized the heaviest chair in
the room, and dashed it savagely with one heavy drive
against the unyielding oak; a second blow shivered the
chair to splinters, and Julian, a compulsory prisoner at
that excited moment, flung himself on the sofa, furious
and weary, with something that sounded like a fierce
imprecation.
Full twenty minutes had been occupied by his futile
and frantic efforts, and, for a few moments longer he
sat still in a stupor of grief and rage. Meanwhile, several of the other competitors for the Clerkland had noticed his absence in the senate-house, and Owen and
Kennedy kept directing anxious glances to the door,
and dreading that he was ill. At last half an hour had
elapsed, and Kennedy, unable any longer to endure the
suspense, went up to the examiner, and said,"One of the candidates is absent, sir. Would you
allow me to go and inquire the- reason?"
"WhQ is it?" asked the examiner.
"Home, sir."
"Indeed   But I am afraid I cannot allow you to
leave the senate-house; the rules, you know, on this
subject, are necessarily very strict."
"Then, sir, I will merely show up what I have written, for I am sure there must be some unusual reason
for Home's absence."
-12




134               LIBERATED,
"Oh, no, Mr. Kennedy, pray don't do so," said the
examiner, who knew how well Kennedy had been doing;
"I will send the university marshal to inquire for Mr.
Home; it is a very unusual compliment to pay him, but
I think it may be as well to do so."
It so happened that as the marshal crossed the
court to Julian's rooms, Lillyston and De Vayne, who
were strolling toward the grounds, caught sight of him,
and went with much curiosity to inquire the object of
his errand.
Home not in the senate-house!" said Lillyston, on
hearing the marshal's answer; "good heavens, what
can be the matter!" and, without waiting to hear more,
he darted to Julian's door, and called his name.
"What do you want?" said Julian, in a fretful and
angry voice.
"Why are you sported? and why aren't you in for
the Clerkland?"
" Can't you see, then?"
"What! so you are screwed in?" said Lillyston,
in deep surprise; " wait three minutes, Julian-three
minutes, and I will let you out."
He sprang down stairs, four steps at a time, borrowed a screwdriver at the porter's lodge, was back in
a moment, and then, with quick and skillful hand, he
drew out, one after another, the screws which had been
driven deep into the door.
Julian lifted the latch inside, and Lillyston saw with
surprise and pain his scared and wild glance. Julian
said not a word, but rushed past his friend, and burst
fit tously into Brogten's room. Fortunately, 3rogten




LATE.                  135
was not in, for, the moment he heard steps approaching, he had purposely gone out; but Lillyston followed
Julian, and said,"Come, this is folly Julian; you have not a moment
to lose. You will be already nearly an hour late, and
remepber that the Clerkland may depend upon it."
He suffered himself to be led, but as he walked he
was still silent, and seemed as though he were trying
to gulp down some hard knot that rose in his throat.
His expression was something totally different from
anything that Lillyston had ever observed in him,
even from a boy, and his feet seemed to waver under
him as he walked.
De Vayne joined them in the court, and was quite
startled to see Julian looking so ill. He saw that it
was no time to trouble him with idle inquiries, and
merely pressed him to come into his rooms and take
some wine before going to do the paper.   Julian
silently complied. The kind-hearted young viscount
took out a bottle of choice old wine, of which Julian
swallowed off a tumblerful, and then, without speaking
a word, strode off to the senate-house, which, he reached
pale and agitated, attracting, as he entered, the notice
and commiseration of all present.
The examiner, with a kind word of encouragement,
and an inquiry as to the cause of his delay, which
Julian left unanswered, promised to allow him in the
evening as much additional time for doing the paper as
he had already lost. Julian bowed, and walked to his
place.
And now that he was seated, with the paper before
him, he found himself in a condition to do nothing.




136                 PASSION.
His mind was in a tumult of wrath and sorrow. Bitter
sorrow that his hopes should be shattered; fiery wrath
that any one should have treated him with such malignant cruelty. His brain swam giddily, and his head
throbbed with violent pain. His hands were still raw
and bleeding with his efforts to burst open the door;
and the consciousness that his whole appearance was
wild, and that several eyes were upon him, unnerved
him so completely that he was quite unable to collect
or control his scattered senses. He made but little
progress. The clock of St. Mary's told the passing
hours, and at twelve Julian found himself with nothing
written except a few half-finished and incoherent sentences, which he was ashamed to show up. Dashing
the nib of his pen on the desk, he split it to pieces;
and then, tearing up his papers, was hurrying out,
when the voice of the examiner suddenly recalled
him.
"You have not shown me up any papers, Mr.
Home."
"No, -sir," he answered, sullenly.
"Indeed! But why?"
"I have not done any, sir."
"Really! I am sorry for that. It is a serious
matter, for you have been doing remarkably well,
and —Are you not feeling well?"
"No, sir, not exactly."
"Hum! Well, it is a great pity; a great pity;
a very great pity. However —"    There seemed to
be no more to say, and as Julian's mind was in too
turbulent a state to allow of his being communicative,




DE VAYNE'S WHIP.             137
he did not trust himself to make any remark, and left
the room.
Kennedy, who came up with him as he went out,
asked what was the matter; but as he only answered
with &n impatient gesture, and evidently seemed to
wish to be alone, Kennedy left him and went to inquire
of Lillyston what had happened, while Julian hastened
to the solitude of his own room, and breaking with the
poker one of the outer hinges of his door, to secure
himself from a second imprisonment, flung himself on a
chair, and pressed his hands to his burning forehead.
In his bitterness of soul ha half determined to abandon
all further attempt to gain the Clerkland, and dwelt,
with galling recurrence, on the anguish of defeated
aims. But the sound of the clock striking the hour of
examination started him into sudden effort, and almost
mechanically he seized his cap and gown and went out
without food and unrefreshed.
Although he endeavored, with all his might, to
shake off all thought of the morning's insult and misfortune, he only partially succeeded, and when he folded
up his papers, he felt that the fire and energy which
had shone so conspicuously during the earlier days of
the examination, and had imparted such strength and
brilliancy to his efforts, were utterly extinguished, and
had left him wandering and weak. When the time
was over, he went to De Vayne's rooms, and said
abruptly,"De Vayne, will you lend me your riding-whip?"
"Certainly," said De Vayne, starting up to meet
him. "Are you going to have a ride? I wish you
12*




138               A DINNER.
would ride my horse; I'll hire another, and come with
you."
"No; I don't want a ride."
"What do you want the whip for, then?" said De
Vayne, uneasily.
"Nothing. Let me go; it must be time for you to
go to hall."
"I'm not going to dine in hall to-day," said De
Vayne.  "Dining at the high table, with none but
dons to talk to, is dull work for an undergraduate.
Stop! you shall dine with me here, Julian. I know
you won't care to go to hall to-day. Nay, you shall,"
he said, putting his back against the door; "I shall
be as dull as night without you."
He made Julian stay, for it happened that at that
moment his gyp brought up dinner, and Julian, hungry
and weary, was tempted to sit down. De Vayne, who
only too well divined his reason for borrowing the whip,
was delighted at having succeeded in detaining him, for
he knew that the only time when Julian would be likely
to meet Brogten was immediately after hall.
Whiling away the time with exquisite tact-talking
to him without pressing him to talk much in replyturning his thoughts to indifferent subjects, until he had
succeeded in arousing his interest-the young viscount
detained his guest till evening, and then persuaded him
to have tea. Lord De Vayne played well on the piano,
and knowing Julian's passion for music, was rewarded
for his unselfish efforts by complete success in rousing
his attention. He played some of the finest passages
of a recent and beautiful oratorio, until Julian almost




A WHIP AGAIN.              139
forgot his troubles, and was ready to talk with more
freedom and in a kindlier mood.
"You surely won't want the whip now," said De
Vayne, in some dismay, as Julian picked it up on saying
good night.
"Yes, I shall," answered Julian. "Good night!"




CHAPTER XII.
A GUST OF THE SOUL.
"Once more will the wronger, at this last of all,
Dare to say,'I did wrong,' rising in his fall?"
BROWNING.
THE story of Brogten's practical joke, and the
circumstances which made it so unusually disgraceful,
spread with lightning-like rapidity through St. Werner's College; and when he swaggered into hall with
his usual self-confident air, he was surprised to find
himself met with cold and even with frowning looks.
Snatches of conversation which went on around him
soon showed him the reason of the general disapprobation; and when he learnt how violently the current of
popular opinion was beginning to set against him, and
how unfavorable a view was taken of his conduct, he
began seriously to regret that he had given the reins
to his malice.
" I shouldn't wonder now if Home were to lose the
Clerkland; he was sure of it before this morning,"
said one.
"What a cursed shame!", echoed another.   "1
never in my life heard a more blackguard trick. That
fellow Brogten has lost the Hartonians the scholarship;
lucky if he hasn't lost it to St. Werner's too. Perlaps that Benedict man will get it."
(140)




BROGTEN'S BETS.             141
"I say, Kennedy," said a third, "if I were you or
Lillyston, or any other of Home's particular friends,
I'd duck Brogten."
"Let's wait till we see whether Home does lose
the scholarship first," said Lillyston.  "If he does,
Brogten deserves anything; but I have strong hopes
yet."
"I know Home," said Kennedy, "and he would
never forgive such an interference, or I declare I should
be inclined to do it."
" I should like to see you do it," thundered Brogten,
from a farther end of the table.
" I have just given my reasons for not seeing fit to
do it," said Kennedy, with a curl of the lip. "By-theby, Mr. Brogten," he continued, sarcastically, "I
hope that you don't, after this, expect to be paid any
of the bets you have made against Home's getting the
Clerkland?"
"' There's my betting-book," replied. Brogten, flinging it at Kennedy, whom it struck in the face, and who
tooli no further notice of the insult than to pick up the
book, and throw it into-the great brazier, full of glowing charcoal, which stands in the center of St. Werner's
hall.
"Don't do that, confound you!" cried Brogten,
springing up. "Do you think there are no bets in it
but those about the Clerkland?"
" Keep your missiles to yourself, then," said Kennedy, while Brogten burnt his fingers in the vain
attempt to rescue his book.
"I hope you've at least hedged, or behaved as
judiciously in the case of your other bets as in those




142            A WINGED ARROW.
about the Clerkland," suggested one of his sp( rting
friends.
This last sneer and insinuation were too much, and
it galled the proud man to the quick to hear the laugh
of scorn which followed.  He turned round, seined
his cap, and flinging at Kennedy a look of intense and
concentrated hatred, left the hall, and rushed up to hie
rooms.
To do Brogten. justice, he had never intended foj a
moment to affect Julian's chance of ultimate success,
when he enjoyed the mean satisfaction of screwing up
his door. He had indeed regarded him with a dislike,.
which received a tinge of deeper intensity from the
envy, and even admiration, with which it was largely
mingled. But although he had calculated that his trick
might be more telling and offensive if done at this particular opportunity, and although he had quite sufficient grudge against his former school-fellow to wish
him a deep annoyance, yet he would never have dreamed
of willfully thwarting his most cherished aims, or materially affecting his prospects and position. So vile a
malice would have been intolerable to any one, and the
thought of it was thoroughly intolerable to Brogten, in
whom all gleams of honorable feeling were by no means
extinguished,. however dormant they might seem. It
had never entered into his thoughts to anticipate the
violent consequences which his act had produced; and
when told of Julian's passion and suffering, he had felt
such real remorse that he had even half intended to
wait for him as he went to hall, and there-in a quasipublic manner, since men were sure to be standing
about on the hall steps-to endure the mortification of




STRUGGLES.                143
expressing his regret to the man whom he had chosen
to treat as his enemy. But when he found himself cut
and jeered at-when he was even met by the suggestion that he had intended basely to serve his own pecuniary interests at Julian's expense-a method of'swindling which he had never for one instant contemplated-all his softer and better feelings vanished at
once, and created a brutal hardness in his heart, which
now once more he was striving in solitude to mollify or
remove.
And he succeeded so far that, while brooding savagely over the venomous shafts of sarcasm and ridicule
with which Kennedy had wounded him, he gradually
softened his feelings toward Julian, by transferring
them  in tenfold virulence against Julian's nearest
friend. Home and he had been school-fellows, after
all, and Julian had never done him any wrong; on the
contrary, he liked the boy; he remembered, distinctly,
how the first seeds of ill-will against him had been
sown, by the reserve with which Julian, as a school-fellow, had received his advances. Without being rude
and uncivil, he had managed to hold aloof from him,
and, as Brogten was in some repute at Harton when
Home cafie, and was, moreover, an Hartonian of much
longer standing, his sensitive pride had been stung by
the fact that the " new fellow" whose pleasant face and
manners had attracted his notice, did not at once and
gratefully embrace his proffered friendship. Circumstances had tended to widen the breach between them;
but secretly he liked Home still, and would have gladly
been his friend. "And, after all," he thought, " Home
has never once retaliated any injury which I have un



144              SELF-CONQUEST.
doubtedly done him; he has never done me any harm,
Even in the affair at the boats, he only did.what was
quite justifiable, and I was far more in the wrong than
he was when-I struck him.  And now they all say
I shall have prevented him from getting this confounded Clerkland. And I know how he longed for it,
and how much all his hopes and wishes were fixed upon
it. Upon my word, when I come to think of it, it was
a very blackguard thing of me to do, and -I wish I had
been at the bottom of the sea before I did it. I think
-yes-I think I'll go and see Home, and ask his pardon; yes, upon my word, I need his forgiveness, and
would give a good deal to get it. He's a grand fellow,
after all. I wish he'd take me as a friend. I should
be infinitely better for it; and I will be better, too."
And as he thus reasoned with himself, Brogten began
to yearn for better things, and for Julian's friendship
as a means of helping him to higher aims; and he
remembered the lines" I would we were boys as of old,
In the field, by the fold;
His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn,
Were so easily borne."
So his thoughts ran on, but when it occurred to him
that no such humiliation on his part would perhaps go
very far to mend the general disgust with which he had
been greeted, he began to waver again. " What business had they to assume that I meant the worst?  I
may be a bad fellow, but (and a mental oath followed)
I'm not a blackleg after all. That fellow Kennedy —




REVENGE.                 145
curse him! —I'll be even with him yet. I swear that
he shall rue it. I'll be a very fiend in the vengeance I
take-curse him, curse him!"  An-d stamping his heel
furiously on the floor, he swallowed some raw brandy,
and began to pace up and down his room.
The conflict of his thoughts lasted, almost without
intermission, till evening. Finally, however, his heart
softened toward Julian, as he ran over in his mind all
the circumstances of the day. Cheating his conscience
with the fancy that he was conquering his feelings of
revenge and hate, while he was only displacing them
with others of a deeper dye, he at last determined to
go up at once to Julian's room, ask his pardon openly,
honestly, and unreservedly, confess his past unworthy
malice, and obtain, if possible, at least Julian's forgiveness, perhaps even his friendship, in return for so great
a victory over himself.
It was a victory over himself, and no slight one. For
at least five years he had been nursing into dislike an
inward feeling of respect for his enemy, and now to
humble himself so completely before him, required a
struggle of which he had hardly supposed himself capable, and of which he was secretly a little proud. It inspired him with better hopes for the future, and gave him
a pledge of combating successfully other vicious propensities, which had gained an ascendency over him.
Hesitatingly he went up to Julian's rooms; he saw
the broken door, and it made him waver. All was
silence inside, but still he hoped that Julian was in, because he felt sure that he should never persuade his
natural pride to consent to such a sacrifice again. But
yet, what should he'say? He had been thinking of a
13




146          WITHIN AND WITHOUT.
thousand set forms of apology, but they all vanished,
as, with beating heart, he knocked, a little loudly,at the
door.
Julian, too, had been brooding on the events of the
day, and fanning every now and then into fierce bursts
of flame the dying embers of his morning's indignation.
He took the worst view, and had every reason to take
the worst view, of Brogten's intentions. He had received at his hands many wrongs, and an incivility as
unvarying as it was undeserved. Of course he could
not tell that this rudeness, was but. the cover of a real
desire for cordiality between them, and now he fully
believed that Brogten had intentionally, deliberately,
and with malice prepense, formed a deep-laid scheme to
dash from his lips the cup of happiness as he was in the
very act of tasting- it. The success which had seemed
in his very grasp would have removed the poverty, which
had been one of the severest trials, not to himself only,
but to those whom he most dearly loved; it was the
thing-the one thing-of which he had thought, and
for which he had prayed.' And now it was wrenched
from him," so he thought, "by this mean and dastardly villain."
He had determined to horsewhip Brogen, at all
hazards, though he knew that Brogten was far stronger
than himself. De Vayne's maneuver had disconcerted
his intention, for he could not carry it out in cold
blood; but even now he felt by no means sure that he
was right to take passively an insult which, if unresented, might, he thought, be repeated some other
time, and which, if frequently repeated, would render
college life wholly intolerable. All this was floating




COALS OF FIRE.             147
through his mind, when there came a loud-he took it
for an insolent-knock at the door, and his enemy
stood.before him.
His enemy stood before him, humbled and remorseful, with the words of apology on his lips, and his heart
full of such emotions as might have enabled Julian to
convert him from an enemy into a lasting and grateful
friend. But when he saw him, in one instant furious,
unreasoning, headlong anger had again seized Julian's
mind-the more easily because he had already yielded
to it once. Without stopping to hear a word-without
catching the gentler tone of Brogten's rough voicewithout noticing his downcast expression of countenance-Julian sprang up, assumed that Brogten had
come to ridicule or even insult him, glared at him,
clenched his teeth, and then, seizing De Vayne's
ridingwhip, laid it without mercy about Brogten's
shoulders.
During the first few blows, Brogten was disarmed
by intense surprise. Of all receptions, this was the
only one which it had never occurred to him to contemplate. He had imagined Julian bitter, sarcastic,
cold; he had prepared himself for a torrent of passionate and overwhelming invective; he had thought
how to behave if Julian remained silent, or rejected
with simple contempt his stammered apology; but to
be horsewhipped by one so much weaker than himself
-by one whom he remembered to have pitied and
patronized when he came to Harton, a delicate rosycheeked boy-this he had certainly never thought of.
Julian had almost expended his rage in half a dozen




148          UNEXPECTED-A THIRD.
wild blows before Brogten was startled from his surprise
into a consciousness of his position.
But when he did realize it, all the demon took possession of his heart. He seized Julian by the collar,
wrenched the whip out of his hand, and raised the silver
knob at the end of the handle. What fearful hurt
Julian might have received from so heavy a weapon in
so powerful a hand, or how far Brogten's fury might
have transported him, none can tell; but at that very
moment he heard a step on the stairs, which arrested
his violence, and the moment after Lillyston entered.
" What!" said Lillyston, indignantly, as he caught
the almost diabolical expression of Brogten's face.
"Not content with doing your best to ruin Home, you
are using personal violence to one not so strong as
yourself. Come, sir, you have felt what I can do before.
Drop that whip, or take the consequences."
"Stop, Hugh!" said Julian, sullenly; "I horsewhipped him first."
"You!" said Lillyston.
"Yes," answered Brogten, slowly, while his voice
shook with passion; "yes, he did horsewhip me, and
I took it. Note that, you Lillyston, and don't think
I'm afraid of you. And as for you Home, listen to
me. I came here solely to tell you that though I
screwed you in, I never dreamt that such results would
follow. I never dreamt-so help me, God!-of doing
more than causing you ten minutes' annoyance; and
now, when I was told how it had hindered you in the
examination, I was heartily sorry and ashamed of what
I had done, and"-he began to speak lower and faster,
as the remembrance of a better mood came over him-.~




A LOST OPPORTUNITY.           149
"and I came here, Home, to ask your forgiveness.
Yes; Ito beg pardon of you, and humbly and honestly
too. And now you see how you have received me.
Yes," he continued, fiercely; "'no word between us
from henceforth. You have horsewhipped me, sir,
and I, who never took a blow from man yet without
returning it, have taken your horsewhipping. Take
your d-   d whip," he said, flinging it to the end of
the room; " and after that, never dare to say that all
accounts are not squared between us."
Lillyston made room for him to pass. With a lowering countenance he turned from them, and they continued silent till they heard his last heavy footfall as
he went down the echoing stairs.
Lillyston sat on the sofa, and Julian kept his eyes
fixed on the floor. There seemed nothing to talk about,
so Lillyston merely said, " Good night, Julian. I came
to advise you to go to bed early, and so get a good
night's rest, that you may be yourself to-morrow. You
have not been yourself to-day. Good night."
But a worse evil had happened to Julian that day
thad hinderance in his career of ambition and hope.
He had lost a golden opportunity for an act of Christian forgiveness which might have had the noblest influence on the life of an erring human soul. He had
lost a golden opportunity of doing lasting good, and
that, too, to one who hated him. Alas, it is too seldom
that we have power in life to raise up them that fall!
Julian felt bitterly, he felt even with poignancy, Brogten's closing words; but it was too late now to offer
the forgiveness which would have been invaluable to
13*




150              EVIL THOUGHTS.
his persecutor, and would have had a healing effect on
his own troubled thoughts so short a time before. All
this gave deeper vexation to Julian's heart as he went
moodily to bed.
And Brogten? He sat sullenly over his fire till the
last spark died from its ashes, and his lamp flickered
out, and he shivered with cold. "It is of no use to
conquer myself," he thought; "it is of no use to do
better or be better if this comes of it. Horsewhipped,
and by him!" But, as he had said, he no longer
grieved over Julian's injury:-that was wiped off by the
horsewhipping, and he had now made himself understand that his inward respect for Home was deeper
than the long superficial quarrel that had existed between them. It was against Kennedy that the current
of his anger now swept this ever-growing temptation
for revenge. His craving, often yielded to, became
terrible in its virulence, and from this day forward
there was in Brogten's character a marked change for
the worse. He ever watched for his opportunity, certain that it would come in time; and this encouragement of one bad passion opened the floodgates for a
hundred more. And so on this evening he went on
selling himself more and more completely to the devil,
till the anger within him burned with a red heat, and
as he went to bed the last words he muttered to himself
were, "That fellow Kennedy shall rue it; curse him!
he shall rue it to his dying day."




CHAPTER XIII.
THE CLERKLAND SCIIOLARSHIP.
" Si consilium vis
Permittes ipsis expendere numinibus quid
Conveniat nobis, rebusque sit utile nostris
Carior est illis homo quam sibi."
Juv. Sat., x. 346.
How different our smaller trials look, when they are
seen from the distance of a quiet and refreshful rest!
Utterly wearied, Julian slept deeply, and when the servant awoke him next morning, he determined that as
the errors of yesterday were irreparable, he would at
least save the chances of to-day.
He rose at once, and read during breakfast the letter
from home, which came to him from one of his family
nearly every day. This morning it was from Violet,
and he could see well how anxiously they were awaiting
the result of his present examination, and yet how sure
they were that he would succeed. Unwilling to trouble
them'by the painful circumstances of the day before, he
determined not to write home again until the decision
was made known.
This morning's paper was to be the last, and Julian
applied to it the utmost vigor of his powers. After
the first few moments, he had utterly banished every
sorrowful reflection, and when the clock struck twelve,
(151)




152         AFTER THE EXAMINATION.
he felt that once more he had done himself justice.
He answered with a smiling. assent the examiner's expressed hope that his health was better than it had
been the day before, and joining Owen as he left the
senate-house, found, on comparing notes, that he had
done the paper at least as well as his dreaded but
friendly rival.
His spirits rose, and, his hopes revived in full. Shaking off examination reminiscences, he proposed to De
Vayne, Kennedy, and Lillyston, a bathe in the Iscam,
and then a long run across the country. They started
at once, laughing and talking incessantly on every subject, except the Clerkland, which was tabooed. Ten
minutes' run brought them to a green bend of the
Iscam, where a bathing-shed had been built, and after
enjoying the bath'as only the first bath in a season
can be enjoyed, they struck off over the fields toward
some neighboring villages, which De Vayne had often
wanted to visit, because their old churches contained
some quaint specimens of early architecture. On the
way they passed through Barton Wood, and there
found some fine specimens of herb Paris, with large
bright purple berries resting on its topmost trifoliations, one of which Julian eagerly seized, saying.that
his sister had long wanted. one for her collection of
dried plants.
"I suppose you want the one you have gathered De
Vayne, for some botanist," said Lillyston.
"No-yes-at least I meant it for a lady, too; but
it's of no use now?" he said, stammering.
"For a lady-of no use now," said Kennedy, laughing; "what do you mean?"




HERB PARIS.              153
"Oh never mind," said Julian, as he noticed De
Vayne's blush, and divined that he had meant the
plant for Violet, but without knowing how much he
was vexed by losing the opportunity of doing something
for her.
They had a beautiful walk; De Vayne made little
sketches of the windows and gargoyles of the village
churches, and they all returned in the evening to a
dinner which Lillyston had ordered in his own rooms,
and which gave the rest an agreeable surprise when
they got in.
"Julian," whispered De Vayne as they went away,
"would you mind my sending that herb Paris to ViI beg pardon-to Miss Home, to your sister?"
"Oh dear, yes, if you like," said Julian, carelessly,
surprised at the earnestness of his manner about such
a trifle.
" It's only, you know, because Miss Home had heard
that they were to be found near Camford, and asked
me to get her one for her herbarium."
"Oh, very well, send it by all means. I shouldn't
like you to break a promise."
"Thank you," said De Vayne; "and I suppose
that Miss Home wouldn't mind my sending it in a
letter?"
C Certainly not," said Julian, laughing; "I've no
doubt she'll be highly flattered.  Here's the plant.
Gobd night."
"What could he have meant," thought he, "by
making such a fuss about the trifolium, and by blushing so when Kennedy chaffed him? he surely can't have
fallen in love with my dear little Vi." Now he thought




154               A SUSPICION.
of it, many indications seemed to show that such was
really the case, and Julian contemplated the thought
with singular pleasure. It did him good by diverting
his attention from all harassing topics; and knowing
that Violet was well worthy of Lord De Vayne, and
could make him truly happy, while his high character
and cultivated intellect rendered him well suited for
her, he hoped in his secret heart that some day might
see them united.
But Lord De Vayne, full of delight, took the plant,
pressed it carefully, cut it to the size of an envelope,
and then, with a thrill of exquisite emotion, sat down to
write his letter to Violet Home.
" Dear Violet," he wrote after having chosen a good
sheet of note-paper and a first-rate pen, " you remember that I promised to find you a-."   "Dear
Violet!-no, that won't quite do," he said, as he read
over what he had written; "at least not yet. HIow
pretty it looks!'What a charming name it is! I wish
I might leave it, it does look so happy. I wonder whether it would do to call her Violet; no, I suppose not;
at least not yet-not yet!" and the young viscount let
his fancy wander away to Uther Hall, and there, by the
grand old fireplace in the drawing-room, he placed in
imagination a slight graceful figure with soft fair hair,
and a smile that lighted up an angel face,-and by her
side he sat down, and let' his thoughts wander through
a vista of golden years.
Waking from his reverie, he found that his letter
would be too late for the _post, so. he deferred it till
Monday, and then wrote:



A LITTLE NOTE.             155
" DEAR MIss HOME-I inclose you a specimen of
the herb Paris, which I promised to procure for you, if
I could find one in Barton Wood. Julian was the actual
discoverer, but has kindly allowed me to send it in fulfillment of my promise; he is quite well, and we are all
hoping that you may hear in a day or two that he has
got the Clerkland scholarship. With kindest remembrances to Mrs. Home and your brothers, I remain,
dear Miss Home, very truly yours,  DE VAYNE."
Little did Violet dream that this commonplace note
had given its author such deep pleasure, and that before he dispatched it he had kissed it a thousand times
for her sake and because it was destined for her hand.
De Vayne would not have added the allusion to the
Clerkland, but that rumors were already gaining ground
in Julian's favor. The universal brilliancy of his earlier papers had already attracted considerable attention,
and from mysterious hints at the high table, De Vayne
began to gather almost with certainty that Julian was
the successful candidate. Similar reports from various
quarters were rife among the undergraduates, and were
supposed to be traceable to competent authorities.
Wednesday evening came, and next morning the
result was to be made known. As certainty approached
and suspense was nearly terminated, Julian awaited his
fate with sickening, almost with trembling anxiety. At
nine o'clock he knew that the paper on which was written the name of the Cl!rkland scholar would be affixed
to the senate-house door, but he did not venture to go
and read it. He knew that, if he were successful, a
hundred men would be eager to rush up to his rooms




156               NINE O'CLOCK.
with the joyful intelligence; if unsuiccessful, he still
trusted that he had one or two friends sufficiently sincere to put an end to his painful anxiety by telling him
the news.
Nine o'clock struck. Oh for the sound of some footstep on the stairs! Many must know the result by
this time. Julian's hopes were still high, and he could
not fail to hear of the numerous and seemingly authoritative reports which had ascribed success to him. He
pressed his hands hard together, as he prayed that
what was most for his welfare might be granted to him,
and thought what boundless delight success would bring
with it. What a joy it would be, above all, to write
home, and gladden their hearts by the news of his
triumph!
Every moment his suspense made him more feverish,
and now the clock struck a quarter past nine, and he
feared that in this case no news must be bad news.
He leaned out of the window, and, at this moment Mr.
Grayson strolled across the bowling-green. Then he
heard anothor don, who was following him, call out,"I say, do you know that the Clerkland.is out?"
"Is it?" said Mr. Grayson, with unusual show-of
interest.
Yes. Who do you think has got it?"
"A St. Werner's man, I hope."
" Yes."
"Well, who is it?"
What was the answer-Owen or Home?-at that
distance the names sounded exactly alike.
" Oh, then, I am very sorry for-" Again Julian
could not, with his utmost effort, catch the name with




OWEN OR HOME?-A BLOW.          157certainty; and, unable any longer to endure this state
of doubt, he seized his cap and gown, when the sound
of a slow footstep stopped him.
But it was Brogten's step, and Julian heard him
pass into his own room.
A moment of breathless silence, and then another
step, or rather the steps of two men; he- detected, by
the sound, that they were Lillyston and De Vayne. In
one moment he would know the    was it the best or
the worst? He stood with his hand on the handle of
the door; but it seemed as if they would never get to
the top of the stairs. Why on earth were they so slow?
Well," said Julian, as they came in sight, "is the
Clerkland out?"  He knew it was, but would not ask
them the result.
"-Yes," they both said; and Lillyston added, in a
sorrowful tone of voice, "I am sorry for you, Julian,
but Owen has got it."
Julian grew very pale, and for one second reeled as
if he would faint. Lord De Vayne caught him as he
staggered, and added, eagerly, "But you are most
honorably mentioned, Julian,'proxime accessit,' and
an allusion to your illness during one paper."
" Nothing, nothing," muttered Julian; "please leave
me by myself."  They were unwilling to leave him,
and both lingered, but he entreated them to go; and,
respecting his desire for solitude, they left him alone.
Julian found relief in a burst of passionate tears.
He flung himself on the ground. and cursed his birth,
and his hard fate, and, above all, he cursed Brogten,
who, as was clear, had been the cause, the sole cause,
as Julian obstinately said, of his heavy misfrtn^1,,
14




1,58            DISAPPOINTMENT.
"Here I am," he murmured, "a sizar, an orphan,
poor, without relations, with others depending on me,
with my own way to make in the world, and now he
has lost me the one thing I longed for, the one thing
which would have made me happy;" and as Julian kept
brooding on this, on the loss of reputation, of help, of
hope, his eyes grew red and swollen, and his temples
throbbed with pain. He was far from strong, and the
shock of news that shattered all his hopes, and dashed
rudely to the ground his long, long cherished desires,
came more heavily upon him, because his constitution,
naturally delicate, had suffered much during the last
week from study and over anxiety. The necessity of
writing home haunted him,-to his mother and sister,
whose pride in him was so great, and who- hoped so
much for the honors which they thought him so -sure
to win,-to his brothers who had seen his diligence,
and who would be deeply sorry to know that it had
been in vain; to them at least he would be forced to
announce the humiliating intelligence of defeat. He
might leave his other friends to learn it from accidental
sources; but oh the bitterness of being obliged to announce it for himself, to those to whose disappointment
he was most painfully alive, and- oh the intolerable
plague of receiving letters of commiseration!
He could not do anything, he could not read, or
write, or even think, except of the one blow which had
thus laid him prostrate. He leaned over his windowsill, and stared stupidly at the great stone bears carved
on the portals of St. Margaret's; his eyes wandered
listlessly over the smooth turf of the fellows' bowlinggreen, and the trim parterres full of crocus and anemone




DE VAYNE.                159
and violet which fringed it; he watched the boats skim
past him on the winding gleams of the Iscam, and
shoot among the water-lilies by the bridge; and then
he stared upward at the sun, trying to think of nothing
until his eyes watered, and then the sight of a don in
the garden below made him shrink back, to avoid
observation, into his own room.
Some of the St. Werner's men would be coming soon
to condole with him. What a nuisance it would be!
He got up and sported the door. This action recalled
in all their intensity his bitterest and angriest feelings,
and he flung the door open again, and threw himself
full length on the sofa, until a sort of painful stupor
came over him, and he became unconscious of how the
time went by.
At length, a slight sound awoke him, and he saw
Pe Vayne standing by him. De Vayne was so gentle
in heart and manner, so full of sympathy and kindness,
that of all others he was the one whom at that moment
Julian could best endure to see.
"I am afraid," he said, "that you will think me
very foolish, De Vayne. But to me everything almost
depended on this scholarship, and you can hardly tell
how absolutely it had engrossed my hopes."
"It is very natural that you should feel it, Julian.
But I came to ask if you would like me to save you the
trouble of writing home to-day. I could say more, you
know, than you could," he added, with a pleasant smile,
"of the splendid manner in which you acquitted yourself, of which I have heard a great deal that I will tell
you some day."
" Thanks, De Vayne. I should be really and truly




160                MR. ADMER.
grateful if you would. They will expect to hear by
to-morrow, and I know that if I write now, I shall be
saying something bitter and hasty."
"'Very well, I will. Are you inclined for a stroll
now?"
"No, thank you," said Julian, unwilling to encounter
the many eyes which he knew would look on him with
curiosity to see how he bore his loss.
"Good morning, then, I shall come again soon."
"Do, I shall like to see you," said Julian; and De
~Vayne went away, thinking with some happiness, that
if he had won Julian's affection, that would be something toward helping him to win Violet's too.
Julian had no intention that any strange eye should
see,how much he had felt his disappointment, so when
Mr. Admer came to see him, he gave no sign of vexation, and they talked indifferently for a few minutes,
till Mr. Admer said,"Well, Home, I'm sorry you haven't got this scholarship. Not that it makes the least difference, you know,
really. No sensible man would have thought one atom
the better of you for getting it, and even your reputation
stands just as high as before.- Ah, I see you take it
to heart rather; all very natural, but when you're my
age you'll think less of these things. There are higher
successes in the world than these small university
affairs."
"But they aren't small to me," said Julian.
" Not to men up here," said Mr. Admer.
"'They think the rustic cackle of their body
The murmur of the world.'




ARISTIUS FUSCUS.            161
Perhaps, after all, if you had got it, it would only have
helped to make you as fussy, as foolish, and as selfimportant as Jones, and Brown, and Robinson, who,
because they are dons, think themselves the most important people in England, when really they are only
conspicuous for empty-headedness and conceit; or as
the senior wrangler, who, entering the theater at the
same moment as the queen, bowed graciously on all
sides in acknowledgment of the acclamations. As it
is, Home, you are a man who ought to do something in
the world."
Julian could not help smiling at Mr. Admer's usual
style, and would have found some relief in arguing with
him, had not IHazlet entered, whose very appearance
put Mr. Admer to a precipitate flight. There could
not have been any human being less likely to give
Julian any effectual consolation at such a moment, and
he could not help sighing as Mr. Admer left him to his
persecutor.
"Fugit improbus ac me sub cultro linquit," he said
appealingly, secure in Hazlet's ignorance of the Latin
tongue; but Mr. Admer only shook his head signifificantly, and disappeared.
With his black shining hair brushed down in unusual
lankiness over his receding forehead, and with an expression of sleek resignation unusually sanctimonious,
Hazlet sat down, and gave a half groan.
"I am sorry," he said, " dear Julian-"
Home, if you please, Hazlet," interrupted Julian.
Hazlet was a little taken aback, but he said,"Well, dear Home —"
14*




162                 HAZLET.
"Home only, if you please," said Julian, still more
abruptly.
"Ah!- I see you are in a rebellious-excuse me,
dear-I mean Home,-a rebellious spirit. I feared itwould be so when I saw that godless young clergyman
with you."
Julian relieved his disgust by an expression of impatience.
"I have no doubt, dear Ju-I mean Home-I
have no doubt," he continued, with a gusto infinitely
annoying, "that you needed this rod. I am afraid
that you are as yet unconverted; that you have as.yet
no saving, no vital sense of Christianity. Some sin,
perhaps, needs correction; some-"
"Confound your intolerable impudence and cant!"
said Julian, starting from his seat, aroused by his hypocritical prate into unwonted intolerance; and he suddenly observed, by the cowering attitude which Hazlet
assumed, that the worthy youth was afraid of receiving
at his head the water-bottle, on which Julian's hand
was resting. Julian thought it best to avoid the temptation, and hoping Hazlet would take the hint, he said,
"Forgive my rudeness, Hazlet, but I am very tired
and annoyed just now; in fact, I am hardly in a condition to talk with, as you see, and you are really quite
incapable of saying anything to help me."
But Hazlet had come prepared to say his say, and
did not attempt to move.
"' Ah," he said, with a sigh which seemed to express
satisfaction-(some people always sigh when they thank
God)-" I am afraid you are unprepared for the consolations of religion."




A MASK.                 16
"Of such a religion as yours, most certainly," interrupted Julian, with haughty vehemence. 
"The natural man, you see —"    He stopped as
he saw Julian's hand fidgeting toward the water-bottle.
" Ah! well, you will still have to sit at the sizars' table,
and dine on the fellows' leavngs; perhaps it might inscrutably be good for you to bear the yoke- "
Had the fellow come to insult him? Was he there
on purpose to gratify his malice at another's misfortune,
under the pretext of pious reflections? Half a dozen
times Julian had thought so, and thought'so correctly.
Hazlet's very little and very ignorant mind had been
fed into self-complacency by the cheering belief that he
and his friends formed a select party whose future welfare was secure, while "the world" was very wicked,
and destined to everlasting burning; and in proportion
to his gross conceit, was he nettled with the evident
manner in which Julian, though without any rudeness,
avoided his company even at Ildown, where he reigned
with undisputed sway among his own admiring circle
of yovacxdpea. (Excuse the word, gentle reader; it is St.
Paul's-not mine.) Hazlet had come there (though in
the depth of his hypocrisy he hardly knew it himself)
to enjoy a little triumph over Julian's pride, and to
pour a little vinegar, in the guise of a good Samaritan,
on wounds which he knew to be bleeding still.
In saying the last sentence, in which he cut Julian
to the very quick, Hazlet had seemed to his victim's
excited imagination to be actually smacking his lips
with undisguised delight. "Ah, you will have still to
dine at the sizars' table on the fellows' leavings!"
Julian knew that the form of the sentence made it most




164                LOOK OUT!
maliciously and odiously false; and that this hypocritical son of Belial should address him at such a
moment in such a way was so revolting to his own
generous spirit, that he could endure it no longer.
"What did you say?" he asked sharply.
"Of course, my dear Ju-Home, I mean —poverty
is no disgrace to you, you know. Some of the sizars
are pious men, I have no doubt; and I dare say the
fellows leave  "
"I swear this is too much," said Julian, using the
only oath that ever in all his lifetime crossed his lips;
"you canting and mean-pshaw! you are beneath
my abuse. Sizar, indeed! There, take that, and begone!" He had meant to empty the tumbler in his
face, but his hand shook with passion, and the glass
flew out of it, and, after cutting the top of HIazlet's
head, fell broken on the floor.
With a howl of dismay, Hazlet fled to his own rooms,
where, having satisfied himself that the cut had done
little other harm than leaving some red streaks upon
his damp and lanky hair, he put over it some strips of
plaster as large as he conveniently could, and then, with
a lugubrious expression, went to hall, and gratified his
malice by buzzing and babbling among his fellows all
sorts of lies and exaggerations about Julian's conduct
and state of mind. When Kennedy came in, however,
he put an abrupt end to Hazlet's calumnies, by handling his own tumbler with so significant a glance that
Iazlet assumed a look of terror, and, amid shouts of
laughter, retired with all speed out of reach of the
danger.
Lillyston, always a firm and faithful friend, was




HAZLET DISCOMFITED.           165
grieved to the soul to hear of Julian's condition; for,
without believing half that Hazlet said, it was at least
clear that Julian had shown some violence, and, if-Hazlet was to be trusted, " had sworn at him in a manner
perfectly awful." What had come over Julian of late?
Since that fit of uncontrollable and lasting passion
which had overpowered him when he was screwed in,
he did not seem to have recovered that noble moral
strength and equilibrium which was usually conspicuous
in his character. The restlessness which had prevented
him from doing the paper, the half sullen silence
through the day, the horsewhipping of Brogten, the
second outburst of unchecked feeling at the loss of the
scholarship, and, finally, this -treatment of Hazlet,
caused Lillyston a deep regret that his friend should
have strayed so widely from his usual calm and manly
course. It was as if one staggering blow had loosened
all the joints of his moral armor, and left room for successive wounds. He determined to go and see him before chapel, and, if possible, get him to come and spend
the evening quietly with him; he was only prevented
from going at once by supposing that Julian would
be dining by himself, to avoid meeting any one in
hall, and he did not wish to disturb him at his lonely
meal.
Julian's head was aching with mortification, passion,
and fatigue; it seemed as if he had but one thought
to which he could turn, and that this was a thought
of weariness and pain. He dwelt much less on his
own defeat than on the disappointment which he knew
it would cause to Violet and his young brothers. He
knew well that Mrs. Home would bear it with equanim




166              BREVIS FUROR.
ity, because she regarded all the events of life, however
painful, with the same quiet resignation, and trusted
ever in the gentle dealing and loving purposes of His
hand who guides them all. Poor Julian longed to be
able to regard it in this light too, but he had suffered
the angry part of his nature to gain the victory, and
his human reason was now being torn by his lion
heart.
Unable to endure the notion of going to hall, which
would be a painful reminder that the opportunity to
which he had long looked for emancipation from his
sizarship had passed by, he determined to take some
wine, in the hope that it would support him till the
evening. He could not of course afford to give wine
parties, but he always kept a few bottles in his rooms
for medicinal purposes, or to offer to any stranger who
might come to visit him.  Taking out a decanter, he
sat down in his arm-chair, and drank a glass or two.
The wine exhilarated him; as: he had scarcely tasted
anything all day, it got rapidly into his head, and, in a
few minutes, his thoughts seemed in a tumult of delirious emotion. Pride and passion triumphed over
every other feeling; after all, what was the scholarship
to him? Tush! he looked for better things in life than
scholarships. He would discard the petty successes of
pedantry, and would seek a loftier greatness. He had
been a fool to trouble himself about such trifles. And
as these arrogant mists clouded his fancy, he broke out
into irregular snatches of unmeaning song.
It was a saint's-day evening, and consequently chapel
was at a quarter-past six instead of six, and the undergraduates wore surplices in chapel instead of their




JUST IN TIME.              167
ordinary gowns.  On saints'-days there is always a
choral service at St. Werner's College, and the excellence of the choir generally attracted a large congregation. To Julian, who was fond of music, these saints'day services had a peculiar interest; and now while his
brain was swimming with the fumes of wine, he determined to go to chapel, and imagined to himself the
pleasure he should feel in striding haughtily through
the throng of men up the long aisle to the sizars' seat,
to show by his look and manner that his courage was
undaunted, and that his self-confidence rose superior to
defeat. Although the chapel bell had not yet begun
to ring, he put out his cap and surplice, and sat down
to drink more wine.
Just as the clock struck six, Lillyston knocked at
Julian's door.
"Aha! old fellow," said Julian, "you are just in
time to have a glass of wine before chapel."
"No, thank you," said Lillyston, coldly, sick at
heart to see a fresh proof of his friend's unworthy
excitement, but without realizing as yet his true condition.
" Tush! you think I care about that trumpery Clerkland?  Not I!   Won't you have some wine? no?
well, I shall, and then I'm going to chapel."
His flushed countenance and excited manner, joined
to the harsh tones of his generally pleasant and musical
voice, produced on Lillyston's mind a feeling of deep
pain and shame; and when with unsteady hand Julian
endeavored to pour out for himself a fresh glass, and
in doing so, spilt the wine in great streams over the
table, Lillyston saw that he was in an utterly unfit




168            THE ONLY QUARREL.
state to go to chapel, and that the attempt to do so
would certainly draw upon him exposure and disgrace.
"Julian," he said, gently; "you are not in a condition to go to chapel; you must not think of it."
"What do you -mean?" said Julian, with a stupid
stare.
"I mean," he replied, slowly, "that the wine has
got into your head."
A laugh, half hysterical, half defiant, was the only
answer, and Julian began to put on his surplice, wrong
side out.
"Julian, I beg of you to stay here as you would
avoid ruin."
"Pooh! I am not a child as you seem to think.
You are —yes, you are a fool, Lillyston."
Pained to the very heart, Lillyston wavered for a
moment, but a glance at Julian decided him. Five years
of happy uninterrupted friendship, five years during
which he had regarded his friend's stainless character
with ever-growing pride and affection, determined him
at all hazards to save him from the effects of this temporary possession. Firmly, but quietly, he planted his
back against the door, and said,- -
"Dear Julian, I beseech you not to go."
The tone of voice, the mention of his own name,
recalled Julian for a moment, but the sound of the
chapel bell renewed his determination, and he answered,
"Nonsense. Come, make room."
"You shall not go, Julian."
"But I will,"' shouted he angrily; "how dare you
prevent me? stand aside."
Lillyston did riot stir; and, rendered furious by op



A REMINISCENCE.             169
position, Julian grappled with him. It required all
Lillyston's strength to retain his position against this
wild assault, but he managed to do so without inflicting
any hurt; and when Julian paused, Lillyston noticed
with a sense of relief that the chapel bell had ceased
to ring.
"I WILL go," said Julian, madly renewing the
struggle. But with all his efforts he could not stir
Lillyston from the door, and only succeeded in tearing
his surplice from the neck downward.  He paused)
and, baffled of his intention, glared at his opponent.
"The clock has now struck," said Lillyston, calmly,
"and the doors will be' shut. You are too late to get
in."
Julian stamped impatiently on the floor, and prepared to close with Lillyston again, but now Lillyston
stepped from the door, and as he slowly went out,
turned round and said,"Julian, do you call this being brave or strong?
Can you let one disappointment unman you so utterly?'Be brave, and honest, and pure, and God will be
with you.'"  The words flashed into light from the
folded pages of Julian's memory, and with them the
dim image of a dead face and the dying echo of a
father's voice.
15




CHAPTER        XIV.
MR. CARDEN.
Pol pudere quam pigere prcestat totidem literis."
PLAUT, TriWnuz., II. 2.
Wno has not felt, who does not know, that one sin
yielded to, that one passion uncontrolled, too often
brings with it a train of other sins, and betrays the
drawbridge of the citadel to a thousand enemies beside?
It had been so with Julian Home, and in proportion
to the true strength and beauty of his character was
the poignancy of his bitterness when he awoke the next
morning, and calmly reviewed the few last excited,
prayerless, and unworthy days. Surely after so many
proofs of weakness, surely after emotions and acts so
violently inadequate to the circumstances which had
caused them, his best friends must despise him as
utterly as he despised himself.
He arose that morning strong out of weakness. He
determined that he would be checked no longer by unavailing regrets, and that his repentance should be open
and manly, as his prostration had been conspicuous.
Fortified by the humiliating experience of his own want
of strength, he sought for help in resolute determination
and earnest prayer. After breakfast, his first step was
to call on Owen, and congratulate him with hearty and
(170)




APOLOGIES.                171
unaffected simplicity on his success-a success which
Owen generously acknowledged to be due solely to
Julian's misfortune. It was much more difficult to call
on Hazlet, but this, too, Julian felt to be his duty; and
distasteful as it was, he would not shrink from performing it. Hazlet received him with a ludicrous air
of offended dignity, and was barely overcome into a tone
of magnanimous forgiveness by Julian's frank apology.
On the whole, Julian decided that it would be best not
to call on Brogten, lest, by so doing, he should seem
to be reminding him of the consequences of his enmity
under the appearance of expressing a regret. It only
remained therefore to see Lillyston, and to this visit
Julian looked with unmitigated joy.
"Forgive me, Hugh," he said, as he entered the
room; "from this time forward I shall owe you a neiw
debt of gratitude; you have saved me from I know not
what disgrace."
Lillyston was delighted to see- him look like his old
self once more.  The thunder-cloud which had been
hanging on his brow was dissipated, and the sullen
expression had wholly passed.
"Don't talk of debt, Julian," he said; "between
friends, you know, there are no obligations-they are
merged in the friendship itself."
" I am amazed at my own intolerable folly, Hugh.
I hope this is the last time that I shall yield to such
storms of passion. I have much to be ashamed of.' Well, Julian," said Lillyston, changing the subject;
" you mustn't think any more of this Clerkland, for
potentially you got it, as everybody acknowledges;
SavdiJ.s you were successful, if not boy'."




172              AN INVITATION.
I don't mean to let it discourage me," said Julian,
"though the potential is mightily different from the
actual."  Nor did he suffer it to discourage him, or
weaken his endeavors.  His life soon began to flow
once more in its usual, even, and quiet course. It did
not take him long to discover that it was possible to
live happily without the Clerkland, and he wondered
in himself at the intensity of the desire to obtain it,
which he had suffered to overpower him. He felt no
touch of envy toward Owen, whose friendship be began
to value more and more, and who voluntarily told him,
from information that he-had derived from the examiners
themselves, that the decision had long hung in a doubtful
scale. In fact, the scholarship would have been divided
between both of them but for one of the examiners, who
hardly appreciated Julian's merits. It was so well understood that Julian must have been the successful candidate but for the one fatal paper on Monday morning,
that he rather gained than lost in reputation from the
result of the competition.
It was a few days after these events that Julian
received from Mr. Garden a pressing invitation to spend
a Sunday with him at Harton. Glad of a change, he
easily obtained an ezeat, and went down on the Saturday morning. Even the half year since he had left
had made a perceptible change in the old place. There
were many new faces, and many old ones had disappeared, so that, already, he began to feel himself half
a stranger among the familiar scenes. But alike from.
boys and masters he received a kindly greeting, and
Mr. Garden entertained him with a pleasant and genial
hospitality.  The only thing which pained him was




A FAREWELL PRESENT.            175
the obvious change for the worse in Mr. Carden's
health. He wore a sadder expression than of old,
and though he made no remark about his health, yet
every now and then his face seemed to be suddenly
contracted by a throb of pain.
On the Monday morning, when it was necessary for
Julian to return to Camford, Mr. Garden called him-into
his study after breakfast, and asked him to choose any
book he liked, as a farewell present, from the shelves.
"But why a farewell present, Mr. Carden?" asked
Julian, laughing. "Aren't you ever going to ask me
to Harton again?"
"No," said Mr. Garden, with a sad smile, "never
again. I resign my mastership at the end of this term,"
he continued, in answer to Julian's inquiring look;
"my health is so uncertain that I feel unequal any
longer to these most arduous, most responsible duties.
Perhaps, too," he added, "I may be a little disappointed in the result of my labors; but, at any rate,
though as yet few are aware of it, this is my last month
at Harton-so choose one of my books, Julian, as a
farewell present."
Julian expressed his real sorrow at Mr. Carden's
failing health. "If you go away," he said, "it will
seem as if the chief tie which bound me to dear old
Harton was suddenly snapped."  He chose as his memento a small volume of sermons which Mr. Garden
had published in former days, and asked him to write
his name on the title-page.
"Yes," said the master, "you shall have that book,
if you like; but I mean you to have also a more sub15*




174                COLERIDGE.
stantial memorial of my library.  Here, Julian, this
book I always destined to be yours some day; you
may as well have it now."
He took down from the shelves a richly-bound copy
of Coleridge's works, in ten volumes, which Julian
knew to be the one book of his library which he most
deeply prized. His marginal comments enriched almost
every page; and Julian was ashamed to take what he
knew that the owner so highly valued.
"But I thought you told me once that you were
thinking of publishing a biography of Coleridge, and
an edition of his writings," said Julian. " Surely, sir,
you will want these MS. notes, won't you?"
" Ah, Julian; that is one of the many plans which
have floated through my mind unfulfilled. My life, I
fear, will have been an incomplete one. Thank Gpd,
that there is no such thing as a necessary man-il n'y
a point d'hommes necessaires; others will be found to
do a thousandfold better the work which I had purposed to do."  And then he murmured half to himself-  " Till, in due time, one by one,
Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well
undone,
Death came suddenly, and took them where men never see the
sun."
His eyes filled with tears. "No," he said, "take
the book, Julian. If it does you all the good it has
done me, it will have been more useful than I could
ever have made it. And when you hang on the eloquent and earnest words of the great poet-philosopher,
mingle his teachings with some few memories of me; it




A DROP OF MYRRIH-THE LAST LETTER.     175
will be like a drop of myrrh, perhaps, in the cup, but
— I should like," he added, with faltering voice, "to
leave at least one to think of me with affection."
He turned away as his old pupil grasped his hand;
and Julian, as he went back in the train to Camford,
could not help a feeling of real pity that one so generous and upright in heart and life should be destined to
so lonely and sorrowful a lot.
As he had said, he resigned his Harton mastership
at the end of the term, and sailed to Madeira, for his
health. He begged Julian to continue his correspondence with him, and to tell him all about his old Harton
and Camford friends.
During Easter week, while Julian was at Ildown, he
received from him a letter to the following effect:"DEAR JULIAN —I    as not mistaken in hinting,
while you were at Harton, that we should never meet
again. I am on my death-bed; and, in all probability,
the rapid decline which is now wasting my powers, and
which, while I write, shakes me with painful fits of
coughing, will have terminated my life before this letter reaches your hands.
" I leave life, I hope, with simple resignation; and,
although I have left undone much which I hoped to
have accomplished, yet I die trusting in God. My
friends in this world have been few, and my fortunes
have not been bright, yet happiness has largely preponderated even in my destiny, and I look on the
death which is approaching as the commencement, not
as the end of true existence.
"But I did not write to you, dear Julian, to tell you




176               MR. CARDEN.
of the frame of mind in which death finds me. I wrote
to bid you farewell, and to tell you of something which
concerns you-I mean my intention, recently adopted,
of leaving you my small private fortune, and the added
earnings which my labors have procured. Together,
they amount only to ~10,000, but I hope that they
may be of real service to you. Had you still been
the heir to your aunt's property, perhaps even if you
had got the Clerkland, I should have disposed of this
money in some other way; but as these events have
been ordered otherwise, and as I have no relations of
my own who need the legacy, nor any friend in whose
welfare I take a deeper interest than in yours, it gives
me a gleam of real satisfaction to be able to place at
your disposal this little sum.
" Good-by, dear Julian. When these words meet
your eye, I expect to be in that state where even your
prayers can benefit me no more. But I know your
affectionate and grateful heart, and I know.that you
will sometimes recur with a thought of kindness to the
memory of your affectionate friend,
" HENRY CARDEN."
The next mail brought the news of Mr. Carden's
death.  It caused many a sorrowing heart both at
Harton and Camford.  Mr. Carden was a man whose
impetuous and enthusiastic disposition had caused him
to commit many serious errors in life, and these had
been a barrier to the success which must otherwise have
rewarded his energy and talent. But even among those
who were envious of his ability, and offended by his
eccentricities, they were few who did not do justice to




THE LEGACY.               177
the rectitude of his motives, and none who did not admit the warmth of his affections. There were more to
mourn over his untimely death than there had been to
forgive the mistakes he made, and by wise and friendly
counsel to raise him to that height which he might
easily have obtained. And among the crowd who had
known him, and the many who honored him, there
were some who loved him with no ordinary love, and
who were not too proud to admit the obligation of a
permanent gratitude. It was one of the great happinesses of Mr. Carden's life that of this number was
Julian Home.
With a clear ~300 a year of his own, it was of course
unnecessary for Julian to return to St. Werner's as a
sizar, and he at once wrote to his tutor to beg that his
name might be removed from the list. There was one
respect in which he found this a very material addition
to his comfort and happiness. As the sizars dined an
hour later than the other men, and at a separate table,
he had been by this means cut off from the society of
many of his friends in hall, where men have more opportunities of meeting and: becoming intimate than anywhere else. It was no slight addition to his happiness
to sit perpetually with the group of friends he valued
most.
"I've got a magnificant plan for the Long, Julian,"
said Kennedy to him one day, as they left the hall.
" My father is going to Switzerland for three months,
with my sister Eva and me. Eva goes under the wing
of an aunt of mine, Mrs. Dudley, whom I think you
met at Ildown once. Won't you come with us?"
The proposal was very tempting, the more so as




178           A PLEASANT SCHEME.
Julian had never been abroad. He mentioned it in
his next letter home, and asked if it would be possible
for any of them to accompany him, without which he
gave up all intention of making the tour. In reply,
Mrs. Home proposed that Violet should go, if Mrs.
Dudley would kindly chaperone her, because the trip
would be of great advantage to her in many ways;
and that Cyril should go, as a reward, for his industry
and success at Marlby. "As for Frankie and me,"
she continued, "we will stay at home to take care of
Ildown in your absence. Frank is too young to enjoy
traveling, and I have but little desire for it; we two
will stay behind, and I dare say we shall be very happy,
especially if you write us long accounts of all your
proceedings."
So this most delightful plan was definitely adopted,
and all concerned were full of the happiest anticipations. Kennedy and Julian looked forward to it with
the utmost eagerness; Violet, who had already grown
fond of Mrs. Dudley and Eva, was charmed at the
prospect, and Cyril, with all a boy's eagerness for
novelty, was well-nigh wild with joy.
But as yet six weeks were to elapse before the Long
commenced.




CHAPTER XV.
KENNEDY'S      DISHONOR.
"I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine, to fix me to the place,
That way he used... Alas! one hour's disgrace!"
ROBERT BROWNING. Childe Roland.
" I AM very doubtful, after all, Julian, whether I shall
be one of the Switzerland party," said Kennedy, with
a sigh, as he and Julian were walking round the St.
Werner's gardens one bright evening of the May term.
The limes and chestnuts were unfolding their tender
sprays of springtide emerald, the willows shivered as
their green buds made ripples in the water, and the
soft light of sunset streamed over towers and colleges,
giving a rich glow to the broad windows of the library,
and bathing in its rosy tinge the white plumage of the
swans upon the river. The friends were returning
from a walk, during which they had thoroughly enjoyed
the blue and golden weather. Up to this time Kennedy had seemed to be in the highest spirits, and Julian
was astonished at the melanchloy tone in which the
words were spoken.
"Doubtful? Why?" said Julian, quickly.
(179)




180               A CONDITION.
"Because my father has made it conditional on my
getting a first class in the May examination."
"But, my dear fellow, there is not the ghost of a
doubt of your doing that."
" I don't feel so sure."
"Why, there are often thirty in the first class in the
freshman's year; and just as if yoqu wouldn't be among
them!"
"All very well; I know that anybody can do it who
works; but I am ashamed to say that I haven't read
one of the books yet."'Haven't you, really?  Well, then, for goodness'
sake, lose no more time."
"But there's only a fortnight to the examination."
"My dear Kennedy, what have you been doing to
be so idle?"
"Somehow or other the time manages to slip away.
Heigh ho!" said Kennedy, "my first year at college
nearly over, and nothing done-nothing done! How
quickly the time has gone!"
"Yes," said Julian;
- "' rrpuoya; yrap'rw/uaSfaa <poee,
xa/Fe lfi Ppa8Vr~pots  r TrorfJieva'avu2afitw,'
as Theocritus prettily observes."
Seized with the strong determination not only to
pass the examination, but even to excel in it, Kennedy
devoted the next fortnight to unremitted study for the
first time since he had been an undergraduate. But
the more he read the more painfully he became aware
of his own deficiencies, and the more bitterly he deplored the waste of time, He seemed to be toiling in




"PUTTING ON A SPURT."          181
vain after the opportunities he had lost.  He knew
that the examination, though limited in subjects, was
searching in character, and he found it impossible to
acquire, by a sudden impulse, what he should have
learned by continuous diligence. As the time drew
nearer, he grew more and more nervous. He had set
his heart on the Swiss tour, and it now seemed to him
painfully probable that he would fail in fulfilling the
condition which his father had exacted, and without
which he well knew that Mr. Kennedy would insist on
his spending the vacation either at Camford or at home.
Of the three main subjects for examination he had
succeeded by desperate effort, aided by natural ability,
in very quickly mastering two sufficiently well to secure
a creditable result; but the third subject, the Agamemnon of iEschylus, remained nearly untouched, and
Kennedy was too good and accurate a scholar not to
be aware that the most careful and elaborate study was
indispensable to an even tolerable understanding of
that master-piece of Grecian tragedy. Besides this, he
had a hatred of slovenly and superficial work, and he
therefore determined to leave the 2Eschylus untouched,
while, at the same time, he was quite conscious that if
he did so, all chance of distinction, and even all chance
of a first class were out of the question. With some
shame he reflected over this proof, that, for all purposes of study, a third of his academical life had been
utterly and wholly lost.
As he had decided on giving- up the JEschylus, it
became more imperative to make sure of the Tacitus
and Demosthenes, and he therefore went to Mr. Grayson's rooms to get a library order which should entitle
16




182          WAITING FOR ADMISSION.
him to take from the St. Werner's library any books
that would be most likely to give him effectual help.
At the moment of his arrival, Mr. Grayson was
engaged, and he was shown into another room until
he should be ready. This room was the tutor's library,
and like many of the rooms in Camford, it opened into
an inner and smaller study, the door of which was
partly open.
Kennedy sat down, and after a few minutes, as there
seemed to be no signs that he would be summoned immediately, he began to grow very restless.  He tried
some of the books on the table, but they were all unspeakably dull; he looked at the pictures on the wall,
but they were most of them the likenesses of Camford
celebrities, which he already knew by heart; he looked
out of the window, but the court was empty, and there
was nothing to see. Reflecting -that the only thing
which can really induce ennui in a sensible man, is to
be kept waiting when he is very busy for an indefinite
period, which may terminate at any moment, and may
last for almost any length of time, Kennedy, vexed at
the interruption of his work, chose the most comfortable arm-chair in the room, and settled himself in it
with a yawn.
At this moment, as ill fate would have it, his eye
caught sight of a book lying on Mr. Grayson's readingdesk. Lazily rising to see what it was, he found it to
be an AZschylus, and turned over the leaves with a
feeling of listless indifference. Between two of the
leaves lay a written paper, and suddenly, after reading
two or three lines, he observed it to be a manuscript




SUDDEN TEMPTATION.           183
copy of the much dreaded Agamemnon paper for the
May examination.
Temptation had surprised him with sudden and unexpected violence.'He little knew that on this idle
weary moment rested the destiny of many years.
As when in a hostile country one has laid aside his
armor, and from unregarded ambush the enemy leaps
on him, and, though he be strong and noble, stabs him
with a festering wound, so this temptation to a base act
sprang on poor Kennedy, when he was unarmed and
unprepared.  In the gayeties of life, and the brightnesses of hope, and the securities of unbroken enjoyment, he had long been trusting in himself only, in his
own high principle, his own generous impulses, his own
unstained honor. But these were never sufficient for
any human being yet, and they snapped in an instant
under this unhappy boy.
The only honorable thing to do, the thing which, at
another moment, Kennedy might have done, and which
any man would have done, whose right instincts and
high character had the reliable support of higher principles than mere personal self-confidence and pride,
would have been to shut the book instantly, informed
Mr. Grayson that he had accidentally read one of the
questions, and beg him to change it before the examination.  This Kennedy knew well; it flashed before
him in an instant as the only proper course; but, at
the same instant, he passionately obliterated the suggestion fronm his mind, fiercely stifled the impulse to do
right, choked the rebukes of honor and principle, and
blindly willed to save his reputation as a scholar, and
his chance of enjoyment for the vacation, by reading




184       CCONSCIENTIA URILLE TESTES."
through the entire number of the questions. The mental struggle did not last an instant, for the emotions of
the spirit belong only to eternity, and the guilt of human actions is not commensurate with the length of
time they occupy. But in the intense wish to see
what the examination would be like, and to secure his
first class, Kennedy repressed altogether, by one blow,
the moral element of his being, and concentrated his
whole intellect on the paper before him. To read it
through was the work of a minute; when it was read
through, it was too late to wish the act undone, and,
without suffering' himself to dwell, or even to recur in
thought to the nature of his proceedings, Kennedy deliberately read through the whole paper a, second time.
But this imperious effort of the will was not exercised without visible effects,. Absorbed as he was in
seizing every prominent subject in the questions, his
forehead contracted, his hands shook, his knees trembled, and his heart palpitated with violence. He observed nothing; he did not notice the shadow that
checkered the sunlight streaming from the door of
the inner room; nor did he hear the light step which
passed over the carpet; he did not-feel the breath of a
man who stood behind him, looked over his shoulder,
watched his eager determination to secure the unfair
advantage, smiled at his agitation, and then slipped
back again into the inner room, unnoticed as before.
It was done. Not a question but was printed indelibly on Kennedy's memory. Quickly, fearfully, he shut
the book, and glided back to the arm-chair, in the vain
attempt to look and feel at ease.
At ease! no, now the tumult broke. Now Kennedy




A SHADOW ON THE FLOOR.           185
hated himself; called himself mean, vile, contemptible,
a reptile, a cheat. Now his insulted honor began to
vindicate his rights, and his trampled sense of truth to
spring up with a menacing bound, and his conscience to
speak out calmly and clearly the language of self-condemnation and contempt. Good Heavens! how could
he have sunk so low? Fancy if Julian had seen him, or
could know his meanness. Fancy if anybody had seen
him.  Hazlet, or Fitzurse, or Brogten himself, could
hardly have been guilty of a more dishonorable act.
You miserable souls, that do not know what honor
is, or what torments rend a truly noble heart, if ever
it be led to commit an act which to your seared consciences and muddy intelligence appears a trivial sin,
or even no sin at all; you, the mean men to whom an
offense like this is so common, that, unless it were discovered, it would not trouble your recollections with a
feather's weight of remorse,-for you, I scorn to write,
and I scorn from my inmost being the sneer with which
you will regard the agony that Kennedy suffered from
his fall. But, to the high and the generous, who have
erred, and have bewailed their error in secret,-to
them I appeal to imagine the anguish of self-reproach,
the bitterness of humiliation, which stung him in those
few moments after his first dishonor. It is the lofty
tower that falls with the heaviest crash; it is the stately
soul that suffers the deepest abasement; it is the white
scutcheon on which the dark stain seems to wear its
darkest hue.
He had not sat there for many minutes-though to
him they seemed like hours-when a step on'the stairs
16*




186              EXIT BROGTEN.
told him that his tutor's visitor had departed, and the
gyp blandly entering, observed,"Now, sir, Mr. Grayson can see you."
" Oh! very well," said Kennedy, rising and assuming, with a painful effort, his most indifferent look and
tone.
"Pardon me, Mr. Kennedy, my turn first; I have
been waiting longest," said a harsh voice behind him,
that sounded mockingly to his excited ear. He turned
sharply round, and, with a low bow and a curl on the
protruding lip, and a little guttural laugh, Brogten came
from the inner room, and passed before him into Mr.
Grayson's presence.
If a thunder-bolt had suddenly fallen before Kennedy's feet and cloven its sulphureous passage into the
abyss, he could hardly have been more startled or more
alarmed. Without a word he sat down half stupefied.
Was any one else in the inner room? For very shame
he dare not look. Had Brogten seen him? If so,
would he at once tell Mr. Grayson? What would be
done in that case? Dare he deny the fact? Passionately he spurned the hateful suggestion. Would Brogten
tell all the St. Werner's men? Brogten of all others,
whom he had publicly insulted and branded with dishonor! Ah me, there is no anguish so keen, so deadly,
as the anguish of awakened shame!
With unspeakable anxiety Kennedy awaited Brogten's departure. Why should he be so long? Surely
he must be telling Mr. Grayson.
At last the heavy step was heard, the door opened,
and the gyp once more announced that Mr. Grayson
was disengaged.




WILL HE TELL?              187
Pak, and almost breathless, Kennedy went into the
room.
"Good morning, Mr. Kennedy."
"Good morning, sir."
I-e quite expected that Mr. Grayson was about at
once to address him on the subject of the paper, and,
expecting this, totally forgot the purpose for which he
had come. The tutor's cold eye was upon him, and
after a pause he said,"Well, Mr. Kennedy?"
"Well, sir?" he replied, with a start.
" Do you want anything?"
" Oh, I came for   Really, sir, I must beg your
pardon, but I have forgotten what it was."  "To look
at an examination paper," were the words which, in
his embarrassment, sprang to his lips, but he checked
them just in time.
" Really, Mr. Kennedy, you appear to be strangely
absent this morning," said Mr. Grayson, in a tone the
reverse of encouraging.
"Oh, I remember now," he replied, desperately;
"it was a library order I wanted."
Mr. Grayson wrote him the order. Kennedy took
it, and, without even shaking the cold hand which the
tutor proffered, hurried out of the room, relieved at
least by the conviction that Brogten,-if he had seen
him look at the paper, had not, as yet, at any rate,
revealed it to the examiner.
"After all," he reflected, "he was hardly likely to
do that. But had he told the men?"
Kennedy did not go to the library; he could not
bear to meet anybody, and hastened to bury himself in




188         ANYTHING BUT DETECTION.
his own rooms. His walk, usually so erect and gay as
he went across the court-the tune he used to hum so
merrily in the sunshine-and the bright open glance
of recognition with which he passed his acquaintances
and friends, were gone to-day. He shuffled silently
along the cloisters with downcast eyes.
Hall time would be the time to know whether Brogten had seen him and betrayed him. And if he had
seen him, surely there could be no doubt he would tell
of him. What a sweet revenge it would be for that
malicious heart! how completely it would turn the
tables on Kennedy for the day when he had sarcastically alluded to Brogten's bets! how amply it would
fulfill the promise of which that parting scowl of hatred
had been full.
He went to hall rather late on purpose; and, instead
of sitting in his usual place, near Julian, he chose a
vacant place at another table. Half a minute sufficed
to show him that there was no difference in his reception; the same frequent nods and smiles from all sides
still gave him the frank greeting of which, as a popular
man, he was always sure. He looked round to Brogten,
but could make nothing of his face; it simply wore a
somewhat slight smile when their eyes met, and Kennedy's fell. Kennedy began to convince himself that
Brogten could not have seen what he had done in Mr.
Grayson's room.
The thought rolled away a great load-a heavy, intolerable load from his heart. It was not that with him,
as with so many thousands, the fear of discovery constituted the sense of sin, but young as he was, and high
as his character had stood hitherto in man's estimation,




SOLD-FOR NAUGHT.              189
he prayed for any chastisement rather than that of
detection, any stroke in preference to open shame. This
was the one thing which he felt he could not bear.
Even now, as conscience strongly suggested, he
might make, by private confession to his tutor, or at
any rate by not using the knowledge he had thus
acquired, the only reparation which was still in his
power. But it was a hard thing for conscience to ask
-too hard for poor Kennedy's weakness. Much of
the paper, as he saw at once, he could very easily have
answered from his previous general knowledge and
scholarship; so easily, that he now felt convinced that
he might have done quite enough of it to secure his
first class. His sin, then, had been useless, quite useless, worse than useless to him. Was he -obliged also
to make it positively injurious? was he to put himself
in a worse position than if he had never committed it?
After all the punishment which the sin had brought
with it, was he also to lose, in consequence of it, the
very advantage, the very enjoyment, for the sake of
which he had harbored the temptation?  It was too
much-too much to expect.
The night before the ZEschylus examination he began
to read up the general information on the subject, and
he intended to do it quite as if he were unaware of
what the actual questions were to be. But it was the
merest self-deception. Each question was branded in
fiery letters on his recollection, and he found that, as
read, he was skipping involuntarily every topic which
he knew had not been touched on in Mr. Grayson's
paper.
Oh the sense of hypocrisy with which he eagerly




190           THE SINS OF GENIUS.
seized the paper next morning, and read it over as
though unaware of its contents!
Julian could not help observing that, during the last
few days, Kennedy's spirits had suffered a change.
His old mirth came only in fitful bursts, and he was
often moody and silent; but Julian attributed it to
anxiety for the result of the examination, and doubt
whether he should be allowed by his father to make one
of the long anticipated party in the foreign tour.
Kennedy dared not admit any one into his confidence, but the last evening, before they went down, he
turned the conversation, as he sat at tea in Owen's
room, to the topic of character, and the faults of great
men, and the aberrations of the good.
"Tell me, Owen," he said, " as you're a philosopher
-tell me what difference the faults of good men make
in our estimate of them?"
"In our real estimate," said Owen, "I fancy we
often adopt, half unconsciously, the maxim, that'the
king can do no wrong'-that the true hero is all
heroic."
"Yes," said Kennedy; "but when some one calls
your attention to the fact of their failings, and makes
you look at them-what then?"
"Why, in nine cases out of ten, the faults are grossly
exaggerated and misrepresented, and I should try to
prove that such is the fact; and for the rest,-why no
man is perfect."
"You shirk the question, though," said Lillyston;
"for you have to make very tremendous allowance
indeed for some of the very best of men."
"As, for instance?"




A SINFUL SAINT.             191
"As for instance, King David."
"Oh don't take Scripture instances," said Suton, an
excellent fellow whom they all liked, though he took
very different views of things from their own.
"Why not, in heaven's name?" said Kennedy; "if
they suit, they are good because so thoroughly familiar."
"Yes, but somehow one judges them differently."
"I dare say you do,-in fact, I know you do; but
you've no business to. I maintain that even according
to Moses, King David deserved a felon's death. Murder
and adultery were crimes every bit as heinous then as
they are now. Yet David, this most human of heroes,
was the man after God's own heart. Solve me the
problem."
"Practically," said Lillyston; "I believe one follows a genuine instinct in determining not to look at
the spots, however wide or dark they are, upon the
sun."
"And in accepting theoretically old Strabo's grand
dictum, duX olov Tr drya046 yevfcOatc zrorrTy /Iij tCporepovY
reOvv01vra vyapa aya'ov. Eh?"
"As Coleridge was so fond of doing," said Julian.
"Ay, he needed the theory," said Suton.
"Hush!" said Julian, "I can't stand any such Philadelphus hints about Coleridge.  By-the-by, Owen,
you might have quoted a still more apt illustration from
Seneca, who criticises Livy for saying,'Vir ingenii
magni magis quam boni,' with the remark,'Non potest
illud separari; aut et bonum erit aut nec magnum.'"
Mr. Admer, who was one of the circle, chuckled inwardly at the discussion. " I was once," he said, " at
a party,where a lady sang one of Byron's Hebrew melo



192      "GOD, NOT MAN, IS THE JUDGE."
dies. At the close of it, a young clergyman sighed
deeply, and, with an air of intense self-satisfaction, observed,'Ah! I was wondering where poor Byron is
now!' What should you have all said to that?"
"Detesting Byron's personal character, I should
have said that the very wonder was a piece of idle and
meddling presumption," said Owen.
" And I should have answered that the Judge will
do right," said Suton, reverently.
" Or, if he wanted a text,'Who art thou that judgest
another?'" said Lillyston, contemptuously.
"And I," said Julian, "should have said,"'Let feeble hands iniquitously just,
Rake up the relics of the sinful dust,
Let Ignorance mock the pang it cannot heal,
And Malice brand what Mercy would conceal;
It matters not!'"
"And I," said Kennedy, "should have been vehemently inclined to tweak the man's nose."
L But what did you say, Mr. Admer?" asked Lillyston.
"I answered a fool according to his folly. I threw
up my eyes, and said,'Ah, where indeed! what a
good thing it is that you and I, sir, are not as that publican.'"
" I should think that he skewered you with a glance,
didn't he?'' said Kennedy.
"No, he was going to bore me with an argument,
which I declined."
"But you've all cut the question: tell mie, now,
supposing you had known King David, should you




TOUCHED WITH INIRMITY.          193
have thought worse of him, should you have been cool
to him-in a word, should you have cut him after his
fall?"
" I think not —I mean, I shouldn't have cut him,"
said Owen.
"And yet you would have treated so any ordinary
friend."
"Not necessarily. But remember, that the two best
things happened to David which could possibly happen to a man who has committed a crime."
"Namely?"
" Speedy detection," said Lillyston.
"And prompt punishment," added Julian; "but
for these, there's no knowing what would have become
of him."
Unsatisfactory as the discussion had been, yet those
words rang hauntingly in Kennedy's ears; he could
not forget them. During all those first days of happy
travel they were with him; with him as they strolled
down the gay and lighted Boulevards of Paris; with
him beside the quaint fountains of Berne, and the
green rushing of the Rhine at Basle; with him amid
the scent of pine-cones, and under the dark green
umbrage of forest boughs; with him when he caught
his first glimpse of the everlasting mountains, and
plunged into the clear brightness of the sapphire lake
-the thought of speedy detection and prompt punishment. It was no small pleasure to partake in Violet's
happiness, and mark the ever fresh delight that lent
such a bright look to Cyril's face; but before Kennedy, in the midst of enjoyment, the memory of a dis17




194      CONSCIENCE DOTH MAKE COWARD.S."
honorable act started like a specter, and threw a sudden shadow on his brow. He felt its presence when
he saw the sun rise from Rigi; it stood by him amid
the wreathing mists of Pilatus; it even checked his
enthusiasm as they gazed together on the unequaled
glories spread beneath the green summit of Montorone, and as their graceful boat made ripples on the
moonlit waves of Orta and Lugans.  In a word, the
conviction of w6akness was the only alloying influence
to the pleasure of his tour, the one-absinth drop that
lent bitterness to the honeyed wine. It was not only
the consciousness of the wrong act and its possible results, but horror at the instability of moral principle
which it showed, and a deep fear lest the same weakness should prove a snare and a ruin to him in the
course of future life.




CHAPTER     XVI.
A DAY    OF WONDER.
"Flowers are lovely, Love is flower-like,
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
Oh the joys that came down shower-like
With virtue, truth, and liberty,
When I was young."-CoLERIDGE.
"TO-MORROW, then, we are all to ascend the Schilthorn," said Mr. Kennedy, as he bade good-night to the
merry party assembled in the salle A manger of the
chalet inn at Miiren.
" Or as high as we ladies can get," said Mrs. Dudley.
" Oh, we'll get you up, aunt," said Kennedy; "if
Julian and my father and I can't get you and Miss
Home and Eva up, we're not worth much.":
" To say nothing of me!" said Cyril, putting his
arms akimbo, with a look of immense importance.
"Breakfast, then, at five to-morrow morning, young
people," said Mr. Kennedy, retiring; and full of happy
anticipations, they went off to bed.
Punctually at five they were all seated round the
breakfast table, eagerly discussing the prospects of the
day.
" I say, did any of you see the first sunbeam tip the
Jungfrau this morning?" said Kennedy. "It looked
like-like-what did it look like, Miss Hoime?"
(195)




196              A TIP OF GOLD.
"Like the golden rim of a crown of pearls," said
Violet, smiling. "And did you see the morning star,
shining above the orange-colored line of morning light,
over the hills behind us, Eva? What did that remind
you of?"
" Oh, I can't invent poetic similes," answered Eva.
"I must take refuge in Wordsworth's
"'Sweet as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky.'"
" Yes," said Julian; " or Browning's
"'One star-the chrysolite!'"
"Hum!" said Cyril, who had been standing impatiently at the door during the colloquy; " when you
young ladies and people have done poetizing, etc., the
guide's quite ready."
"Come along, then; we're soon equipped," said
Violet, adjusting at the looking-glass her pretty straw
hat, with its drooping feather, and the blue vail tied
round it.
"I say, Miss Kennedy-bother take it though, I
can't always be saying Miss Kennedy-it's too long.
I shall call you Eva-may I?" said Cyril.
" By all means, if you like."
"Well, then, Eva, the guide is such a rum fellow;
le looks like a revived mummy out of-out of Palmyra,"
said he, blundering a little in his geography.
"Mummy or no," said Julian, "he'll carry all our
provisions and plaids to-day up to the top, which is
more than most of your A. C.'s would do."




UPHILLWARD.               197
"A. C.-what does that mean?" asked Violet. "One
sees it constantly in the visitors' books."
"Don't you know, Vi.?" said Cyril. "It stands for'athletic climber.'"
"Alpine Club, you little monkey," said Kennedy,
throwing a fir-cone at him. "You'll be qualified for
the Alpine Club, Miss Home, before the day's over,
I've no doubt."
"No," said Julian, "they want thirteen thousand
feet, I believe, and the Schilthorn is only nine thousand."
"Nearly three times higher than Snowden; only
fancy!" said Cyril.
Meanwhile the party had started with fair weather,.and in high spirits. The guide, with the gentlemen's
plaids strapped together, led the way cheerily, occasionally talking his vile patois with Julian and Mr.
Kennedy, or laughing heartily at Cyril's "bad language,"-for Cyril, not being strong in German, exercised a delightful ingenuity in making a very few
words go a very long way. Kennedy walked generally
with Eva and Violet, while Julian often joined them,
and Cyril, always with- some new scheme in hand, or
some new fancy darting through his brain, ran chattering, from one group to another, plucking bilberries and
wild strawberries in handfuls, and trying the merits of
his alpenstock as a leaping-pole.
The light of morning flowed down in an ever-broadening river, and peak after peak flashed first into rose,
then into crimson, and then into golden light, as the
sun fell on their fields of snow; high overhead rose
Alp after Alp of snow-white and luminous cloud, but
17*




198             AN ALPINE VIEW.
the flowing curves of the hills themselves stood unvailed, with their crests cut clearly on the pale, divine,
lustrous blue of heaven, and our happy band of travelers gazed untired on that glorious panorama of glistering heights from the towering cones of the Eiger
and the Moench to the crowding precipices of the
Ebenen-fluen and the Silberhorn. Deep below them,
in the valley, "like handfuls of pearl in a goblet of
emerald," the quiet chalets clustered over their pas,
tures of vivid grass, and gave that touch of human
interest which alone was wanting to complete the
loveliness of the scene.
Every step brought them some new object to gaze
upon with loving admiration; now the gaunt spurs of
some noble pine that had thrust his gnarled roots into
the crevices of rock to look down in safety on the
torrent roaring far below him, and now the track of a
chamois, or the bright black eyes of some little marmot
peering from his burrow on the side of a sunny bank,
and whistling a quick alarm to his comrades at their
play.
"What an extraordinary howl!" said Cyril, laughing, as the guide whooped back a sort of jodel in answer
to a salute from the other side of the valley.
"It's very harmonious-is it not?" said Violet.
"Yes, that's one of the varieties of the Ranz des
V&ches," said Kennedy.
" And why do they shout at each other in that way?"
"Because the mountains are lonely, Cyril, and the
shepherds don't see human faces too often; so men
begin to feel like brothers, and are glad to greet each
other in these silent hills."




"THE WILD ECHOES FLYING."         199
Did you hear how the mountain echoed back his
cry?" said Eva; "it sounded like a band of elves
mocking at him."
"Yes, you'll hear something finer directly; the
guide told me he was going to borrow an alpen-horn
at one of these chalets, and then you'll discover for the
first time what echo can do."
In a few minutes the guide appeared-with the horn,
and blew. Heavens! what a melody of replications!
How in the hollows of the hills every hard tone died
away, and all the softer notes flowed to and fro in
tenderest music, and fainted in distant reverberations
more and more exquisite, more and more exquisitely
low. Can it be a mere echo of those rude blasts? It
seemed as though some choir of spirits had caught each
tone as it came fiom the peasant's horn, and had
deified it there among the clouds, and had repeated it
over and over with divinest variations, to show man
how crabbed were the sounds which he produced, and
yet how ravishing they might one day become, when to
the symphony of silver strings they rang out amid the
seraph harps and choral harmonies of heaven. All the
party stood still in rapturous attention, and even Cyril
forgot for ten minutes his frolicsome and noisy mirth.
Reader, have you ever seen an Alpine pasture in
warm July, at early morning? If not, you can hardly
conceive the glorious carpet over which the feet of the
wanderer in Switzerland press during summer tours.
Around them as they passed the soft mosses glowed
with gold and crimson, and the edges of the Lady'smantle shimmered with such diamonds and pearls as
never adorned a lady's mantle yet. Everywhere the




200             ALPINE FLOWERS.
grass was vivid with a many-colored tissue of dewdropped flowers: pale crocuses, and the bright crimson-lake carnation, and monk's-hood, and crane's-bill,
and Aster alpinus, and the lovely Myosotis, and thousands of yellow and purple flowers, nameless qr lovelier
than their names, were the tapestry on which they
trod; and it was interwoven through warp and woof
with the blue gleam of a myriad harebells. At last
they came to the cold region of those delicate nurslings
of the hills, the gentianellas and gentians. Kennedy,
who had been keenly on the look out, was the first of
the party to find the true Alpine gentian, and, instantly
recognizing it, ran with it to Violet and his sister.
"There," he said, "the first Alpine gentian you
ever saw. Did you ever know real blue in a flower
before? Doesn't it actually seem to shed a blue radiation round it?"
"How perfectly beautiful!" said Violet; $" see, Eva,
how intense blue and green seem to be shot into each
other, -or to play together like the waters of a shoaling
sea."
" Shall I take a root or two?" said Kennedy.
"Not the slightest use," said Julian; "'they only
grow at certain elevations, and would be dead before
you got down."
"Isn't it strange, Violet, that Nature-should fling
such a tender and exquisite gem so high up among
these awful hills, where so few eyes see them?"
"Just look," said Julian, "how the moss and the
grass seem to be illuminated with them, as though the
heavens were golden, and stars in it were of blue." 
While they talked, Cyril dashed past them with all




MORE MARVELS.              201
the ardor of a young entomologist in full chase of a
little mountain ringlet, which he soon caught and
pinned on the top of his straw hat. In a few minutes
more he had added a great fritillery to his collection,
and it gave him no trouble to pick out the finest of the
superb lazy-flying Apollos, which quickly shared the
same fate.
" Here's another for you, Cyril," said Eva, pointing
to a gorgeous peacock-butterfly which had settled amicably by a bee on the, pink and downy coronet of a
great thistle.
" Oh, I don't want that; one can get it any day in
England; here though, look at this lovely burnetmoth,"
he cried, as the blue and red winged little creature
settled on the same thistle-head.
"What a shame to disturb that beautiful Psyche,"
said Julian, as Cyril dashed his cap over the prey, and
the peacock fluttered off; "it was enjoying itself so
intensely in the sunshine, opening and shutting its
wings in unmitigated contentment." But Cyril had
secured his moth without heeding the remark, and was
now twenty yards ahead.
A sudden roar of sound stopped him, and he waited
to ask the rest " if they had heard the thunder?"
"It wasn't thunder, but the rush of an avalanche,"
said Kennedy; " there, you may see it still on the side
of the Jungfrau."
"What'! those little white streaks which look like a
mountain torrent?"
"Yes."
"And can those threads of snow make all that row?"
"You must remember that the threads of snow are




202              THE CATARACT.
five miles off, and are, perhaps, thousands of tons in
weight."
By this time they had reached the part of the mountain where the climb became really toilsome, and they
settled down into the steady pace which the Swiss
guides always adopt, because they know that it is the
quickest in the long run. And at this point Mr. Kennedy and Mrs. Dudley left them, preferring, like sensible old people, to stroll back in quiet, and avoid an
exertion which they found too fatiguing. They knew
that they could safely intrust the party to the care of
Julian and the guide. The ladies often needed help,
and there seemed to be something very pleasant to
Kennedy in the light touch of Violet's hand, for he lent
her his arm or his alpenstock oftener than was absolutely required. They only stopped once more to quench
their thirst at a streamlet, which was rushing impetuously down the rocks, and a little below them foamed
over the precipice into a white and noisy cataract.. I never noticed water before falling from such a
height," said Julian; " it looks exactly like a succession of white comets plunging through the sky in a
crowd."
" Or a throng of white-sheeted ghosts hurrying deliriously through the one too-narrow entrance of the
lower world," said Kennedy. "Doesn't it remind one
of Schiller's line"'Und es wallet und siedet und brauset und Zischt?'"
"I admire the rainbow most, which overarches the
fall, and plays into light, or dies away as the sunbeams
touch the foam," said Violet.




AL-SIRAT'S ARCH.             203
"Doesn't it remind you of Al-Sirat's arch, Miss
Home?" asked Kennedy.
" Haven't the pleasure of that gentleman's acquaintance," observed Cyril.
"Nor I," said Kennedy; "but Al-Sirat's arch is
the bridge-narrow as the edge of a razor, or the
thread of an attenuated spider-which is supposed to
span the fiery abyss, over which the good skate into
Paradise, while the bad topple over it. Don't you
remember Byron's lines about it in the Giaour?
"'Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say,
That form was aught but breathing clay,
By Alla! I would answer nay;
Though on A-Sirat's arch I stood,
That topples o'er the fiery flood,
With Paradise within my view,
And all its Houris beckoning through!'
Pretty nearly the only lines of Byron I know." Somehow Kennedy was looking at Violet while he repeated
the lines,
A few minutes more brought them on to the great
field of snow, through which they toiled along laboriously, treading as much as possible in the footsteps of
the guide.
"This isn't a glacier, is it?" asked Cyril.
"Oh, dear, no! If it were, ypu wouldn't find it such
easy walking, for it would be full of hidden crevasses,
and we should have to march much more carefully, occasionally poking our feet through the snow that lightly
covers a fathomless depth."
"Yes! you must have read in Murray that eerie




204      THE TOP OF THE SCHILTHORN.
story of the guide that actually tumbled, though not
very deep, into the center of the glacier, and found his
way back to light down the bed of a sub-glacial torrent, with no worse result than a broken arm."
" There is a still eerier- story, though, of two brothers," said Kennedy, "of whom one fell into a crevasse, and was caught on a ledge some fifty feet down,
where he could be actually seen and heard."
"Did he ever get out?" asked Violet.
"Yes: the guide went back four hours' walk, and
brought ropes and assistance just before dark, and
meanwhile the other brother waited anxiouslyby the
side of the crevasse, talking, and letting down brandy
and other things to keep the poor fellow alive. He did
escape, but not without considerable risk of being frozen to death."
Beguiling the way with talk, they at last got over
the tedious climb, and reached the summit. Eva and
Violet were very tired, but the difficult and eager air
of the icy mountain-top was exhilarating as new wine,
and the provisions they had brought with them reinvigorated them completely. To hungry and thirsty
climbers, black bread and vin ordinaire taste like nectar and ambrosia.  The day was cloudless, the view
unspeakably magnificent, and Cyril's high spirits were
contagious. They lingered long before they began the
descent, and laughingly pooh-poohed the guide's repeated suggestion that it was getting late.
"I bet you Kennedy has been writing poetry," said
Cyril;'" do make him read it, Julian."
" Hear, hear!" said all in chorus; and Julian, with
playful force, possessed himself of the pocket-book,




NOBODY IN PARTICULAR.             20t
while Kennedy, only asseverating that the verses were
addressed to nobody in particular, fled from the sound
of his own lyrics, which Julian proceeded to read.
"Rose-opals of the sunlit hills
Are flashing round my lonely way,
And cataracts dash the rushing rills
To plumes of glimmering spray;
But mountain streams and sunny gleams
Are not so dear to me
As dawning of the golden love
My spirit feels for -thee!
" Their diamond crowns and giant forms
The lordly hills upraise;
Nor rushing winds nor shattering storms
Can shake their solid base;
Though Europe rests beneath their crests,
And empires sleep secure,
Less firm their bases than my love,
Their snow less brightly pure."
"There, rubbish enough," said Kennedy, returning
and snatching away the pocket-book before Julian could
read another verse.  "'Like coffee made without trouble, drunk without regret,' as the Monday Oracle, with
its usual exquisite urbanity, observed of a recent poet."
"Of course addressed quite to an imaginary object,
Eddy," said Eva; while Violet looked toward the hills,
and hoped that the glow which covered her fair face
might be taken for a reflection of the faint tinge that
already began to fall over the distant ridges of pale
snow.
"We really must come away," said Julian; "it'll
18




206               LINGERING.
be sunset very soon, and then we shall have to creep
down nearly in the dark."
So they left the ridge, and while Kennedy and Cyril,
amid shouts of laughter, glissaded gallantly over the
slopes of snow,-Julian and the guide conducted the
girls by a method less rapid but more secure. Arrived
at the rocks, Cyril went forward with the guide, Julian
followed with Eva, and Kennedy with Violet led up the
rear.
Why did they linger so long? Violet was tired no
doubt, but could she not have walked as fast as Eva,
or was Kennedy's arm less stout than Julian's? She
lingered, it seemed, with something of a conscious pleasure, now to pluck a flower or a fern, now to look at
some yellow lichens on the purple crags; and once,
when Julian looked back, the two were some way behind the rest of the party. They were standing on
a rock gazing on the fading splendor of the mountains
in front of them, while the light wind that had risen
during the sunset flung back his hair from his forehead, and played with one golden tress which had
strayed down Violet's neck. He shouted to them to
make haste, and they waved their hands to him with a
gay salute. Thinking that they would soon overtake
him, he pressed forward with Eva, and did not look
back again.
While Kennedy walked on with Violet in silence
more sweet than speech, they fell into a dreamy mood,
and wandered on half oblivious of things around them,
while deeper and deeper the shades of twilight began
to'ast their gloom over the hills.
"Look, Violet, I mean Miss Home; the moon is in




NO MORE PATI.              207
crescent, and we shall have a pleasant night to walk
in; won't it be delightful!"
"Yes," she murmured; but neither of them observed
that the clouds were gathering thick and fast, and obscured all except a few struggling glimpses of scattered
stars.
They came to a sort of stile formed by two logs of
wood laid across the gap in a stone wall, and Kennedy
vaulting over it, gave her his hand.
" Surely," she said, stopping timidly for a moment,
"we did not pass over this in coming, did we?"
Kennedy looked back. "No," he said, "I don't
remember it; but no doubt it has been put up merely
for the night to prevent the cattle from going astray."
They went forward, but a deeper and deeper misgiving filled Violet's mind that they had chosen a wrong
road.
"I think," she said with a fluttered voice, "that the
path looks much narrower than it did this morning.
Do you see the others?"
They both strained their eyes through the gloom, now
rendered more thick than ever by the dark driving
clouds, but they could see no trace of their companions,
and though they listened intently, not the faintest sound
of voices reached their eager ears.
They spoke no word, but a few steps farther brought
them to a towering rock around the base of which the
path turned, and then seemed to cease abruptly in a
mass of loose shale. It was too clear now. They had
lost their road and turned, while they were indulging
those golden fancies, into a mere cattle-path worn by the
numerous herds of goats and oxen, the music of whose




208                DARKNESS.
jangling bells still came to them now and then in low
sweet snatches from the pastures of the valley and hill.
What was to be done? They were alone amid the
all but unbroken silence, and the eternal solitudes of
the now terrible mountain. The darkness began to
brood heavily above them; no one was in sight, and
when Kennedy shouted there was no answer, but only
an idle echo of his voice. Sheets of mist were sweeping
round them, and at length the gusts of wind drove into
their faces cold swirls of plashing rain.
"Oh, Mr. Kennedy, what can we do? do shout
again."
Once more Kennedy sent his voice ringing through
the mist and darkness, and once more there was no
answer, except that to their now excited senses it
seemed as if a scream of mocking laughter was carried
back to'them upon the wind. And clinging tightly to
his arm, as he wrapped her in his plaid to shelter her
from the wet, she again cried, " Oh, Edward, what must
we do?"
Even in that fearful situation-alone on the mountain, in the storm-he felt within him  a thrill of
strength and pleasure that she called him Edward,
and that she clung so confidingly upon his arm.
"Dare you stay here, Violet," he asked, "while I
run forward and try to catch some glimpse of a light?"
" Oh I dare not, I dare not," she cried; " you might
miss your way in coming back to me, and I should be
alone."
He saw that she loved him; he had read the secret
of her heart, and he was happy. Passionately he drew
her toward him, and on her soft fragrant cheek-on




A MOUNTAIN STORM.            209
which the pallor'of dread had not yet extinguished the
glow which had been kindled by the mountain windhe printed a lover's kiss; but in maidenly reserve she
drew back, and was afraid to have revealed her secret,
and once more she said, "Oh, Mr. Kennedy, we shall
die if we stay here unsheltered in this storm."
As though to confirm her words, the thunder began
to growl, and while the sounds of it were beaten back
with long loud hollow buffetings from the rocks on every
side, the blue and winged flash of lightning glittered
before their eyes, cleaving a rift with dazzling and vivid
intensity amid the purple gloom.
" Stay here but one instant, Violet-Miss IHome,"
he said; "' I will climb this rock to see if any light is
near, and will be with you again in a moment."
He bounded actively up the rock, reckless of danger,
and gazed from the summit into the night. For a
second, another flash of lightning half blinded him with
its lurid glare, but when he was again accustomed to
the darkness, he saw a dull glimmer in the distance,
and supposing it to come from the hotel, sprang-down
the rock again to Violet's side.
"This way," he said, "dear Violet; I see a light,
and from the direction of it, I think it must be from
our hotel. Keep up courage, and we shall soon reach
it."
Dangerous as it was to hurry over the wet and
slippery shale and down the steep sides of the rugged
hill, Kennedy half drew, half carried her along with
swift steps toward the place from which the dim light
still seemed to allure them by its wavering and uncertain
flicker.
18*




CHAPTER XVII.
A NIGHT OF TERROR.
" For the strength of the hills we bless Thee,
Our God, our Father's God;
Thou hast made our spirits mighty,
By the touch of the mountain sod!"-HIEMANS.
" HERE you are, then," said the cheerful voice of
Mr. Kennedy, as Julian, Eva, and Cyril, followed by
the guide, entered the little Mirrem inn.
Here are three of us," answered Julian; "haven't
Edward and Violet arrived? Not having seen them
for the last half hour, I fancied they must have got
before us by some short cut."
"No, they've not come yet. Fortunately for you,
Eva, Aunt Dudley is very tired and has gone to bed,"
he said laughing, "otherwise you would have got a
scolding for not taking better care of Violet."
"Oh, then, they must be close behind somewhere
for certain," said Julian; "they could not have missed
the path-it lay straight before us the whole way."
"Well, I hope they'll be in soon, for it begins to
look lowering. I've ordered tea for you; make haste
and come down to it. You're ready for tea, Cyril, I
have no doubt."
".Rather!" said Cyril, reviving; for fatigue had
made him very quiet during the last half hour. And,
(210)




NOT ARRIVED.               211
indeed, the tempting-looking display on the table, the
bright teapot, and substantial meal, and amber-colored
honey, would have allured a more fastidious appetite.
They ran up stairs to make themselves comfortable
before having tea and retiring to bed, and on re-entering the warm and glowing room, their dirst question
was, "Have they come?"
"No," said Mr. Kennedy, anxiously; and even the
boy's face grew grave and thoughtful, as Julian rose
from the tea-table, and said, "I must go and search
for them."
He seized his straw hat, put on his boots again, and
ran out, calling on the guide to accompany him. They
took out with them a lighted torch, but it was instantly
extinguished by the streaming rain. Julian and the
guide shouted at the top of their voices, but heard no
sound in reply; and the darkness was now so intense,
that it was madness to proceed farther amid that
howling storm.
They ran back to the inn, where the rest sat round
the table, pale and trembling with excessive fear. In
reply to their hasty questions, Julian could only shake
his head sorrowfully.
The guide says that in all probability they must
have been overtaken by the storm, and have run to
some chalet for refuge. If so, they will be safe and
well treated till the morning."
"You children had better go to bed," said Mr.
Kennedy to Eva and Cyril, who reluctantly obeyed.
"You cannot be-of any help, and directly the storm
begins to abate, Julian and I will go and find the
others."




212             IN GOD'S HAND.
"Oh, papa," sobbed Eva; " poor Eddy and Violet,
what will become of them? perhaps they have been
struck by the lightning."
"They are in God's hand, dearest," he said, tenderly
kissing her tearful face, "as we all are. In His hand
they are as safe as we."
"In God's hand, dear Eva," said Julian, as he bade
her good night. "Go to sleep, and no doubt they will
be here safe before you awake."
"I shall not sleep, Julian," she whispered; "I shall
go and pray for their safety. Dear, dear Eddy and
Violet."
Cyril lingered in the room.
" Do let me stay up with you, Julian. I couldn't
sleep-indeed, I couldn't; and I might be of some use
when morning comes, and when you go to look for
them. Do let me stay, Julian."
Julian could not resist his brother's wish, though
Mr. Kennedy thought it best that the boy should go to
bed. So they compromised matters by getting him to
lie down on the sofa, while they sat up, and stared
out of the windows silently into the rain. How wearily
the time goes by when you dread a danger which no
action can avert!
Meanwhile the objects of their anxiety had hurried
up to the light, and found that it came from the ragged
windows of an old tumble-down tenement, built of pineboards which the sun had dried and charred, until they
looked black and stained and forbidding. Going up
the rotten wooden steps to the door, and looking
through the broken windows, Kennedy saw two men




A CHALET.                213
seated, smoking, with a flaring tallow candle between
them.
"Must we go in there?" asked Violet; and Kennedy observed how her arm and the tones of her voice
were trembling with agitation.
"Isn't it better than staying out in this dreadful
storm?" said Kennedy. "The Swiss are an honest
people, and I dare say these are herdsmen who will
gladly give us food and shelter."
Their voices had roused the inmates of the chalet,
and both the men jumped up from their seats, while a
large and fierce mastiff also shook himself from sleep,
and gave a low deep growl.
Kennedy knocked at the door. A gruff voice bade
him enter; and as he stepped over thethreshold, the dog
flew at him with an angry bark. Violet uttered a cry
of fear, and Kennedy struck the dog a furious blow
with the nobbed end of his alpen-stock, which for the
moment stunned the animal, while it drew down on the
heads of the tired and fainting travelers a volley of
brutal German oaths.
"Can you give us shelter?" said Kennedy, who
spoke German with tolerable fluency. "We have lost
our way, and cannot stay out in this storm."
The man snarled an affirmative, and Violet observed
with a shudder that he was an ill-looking, one-eyed
fellow, with villainy stamped legibly on every feature.
The other peasant looked merely stolid and dirty, and
seemed to be a little better than a crdtin, as he sat
heavily in his place without offering to stir.
Can't you give us some food, or at any rate some




214                 CYCLOPS.
milk?-we have been to the top of the Schilthorn, and
are very tired."
The man brought out a huge coarse wooden bowl of
goat's milk and some sour bread; and, feeling in real
need of food, they tried to eat and drink. While doing
so, Kennedy noticed that Violet gave a perceptible
start; and, looking up, observed the one eye of their
grim entertainer intently fixed on the gold watch-chain
which hung over his silk jersey. He stared the man
full in the face, finished his meal, and then asked for a
candle to show the lady to her room.
"No light but this," said the Cyclops, as Kennedy
mentally named him.
" Then you must lend me this."
And taking it without more ado, he went first to the
cupboard from which the milk had been produced,
where seeing another dip, he coolly took it, lighted it,
and pushed open the creaking door which opened on
the close, damp closet, which the man had indicated as
the only place where Violet could sleep.
This room opened on another, rather larger; and
here, putting the candle on the floor, for the room (if
room it could be called) was destitute of all furniture,
he spread his plaid on the ground over some straw, and
said,"Try to sleep, here, Miss Home, till morning. I
will keep watch in the outer room."
He shut the door, went back to the two men, looked
full at them both, and leaving them their candle, returned to the closet, where, fastening the door with his
invaluable alpen-stock, he sat on the ground by the
entrance of Violet's room. He heard her murmuring




THE BAD HANDS.              215
words of prayer, and knew well that she could not
sleep in such a situation; but he himself determined
to sit in perfect silence, to keep watch, and to commend himself and her, whom he now knew that he
loved more than himself, in inward supplication to the
merciful protection of their God and Father.
He felt a conviction that they had fallen into bad
hands. The man's anger had first been stirred by the
severe wound which Kennedy had, in self-defense,
inflicted on the dog, and now there was too much reason to dread that his cupidity had been excited by the
sight of the gold chain, and by Violet's ornaments,
which gave promise that he might by this accident gain
a wealthy prize.
After an interval of silence, during which he perceived that they listened at his door, and were deceived
by his measured breathing into a notion that he was
asleep; he noticed that they put out the candle, and
continued to whisper in low thick voices.  He was
very, very weary, his head nodded many times, and
more than once he was afraid that sleep would overcome him, especially as he dared not stir or change his
position; but the thought of Violet's danger, and the
blaze of the lightning, mingled with the yell of the
wind, kept him watchful, and he spent the interminable moments in thinking how to act when the attack
came.
At last, about an hour and a half after he had retired, he heard the men stir, and with a thrill of horror he detected the sbund of guns being loaded. Violet's candle was yet burning, as he perceived by the
faint light under her door, so he wrote on a leaf of his




216               A STRUGGLE.
pocket book, in the dark, "Don't be afraid, Violet,
whatever you may hear; trust in God;" and noiselessly pushed it under the crevice of the door into her
room.
The muffled footsteps approached, but he never
varied the sound of his regular breathing.  At last
came a push at the door, followed by silence, and then
the whisper, "he has fastened it." Still he did not
stir, till he observed that they were both close against
the door, and were preparing to force it open. Then,
guided by a swift instinctive resolution, he determined
to trust to the effects of an unexpected alarm. Noiselessly moving his alpen-stock, he suddenly and with
all his force dashed the door open, shouted aloud, and
with his utmost violence swung round the heavy iron
spike. A flash, the report of a gun, and a yell of anguish instantly followed; and as Violet in terror and excitement threw open her door, the light which streamed
from it showed Kennedy in a moment that the foremost villain,.startled by the sudden opposition, had
fired off his gun, of which the whole contents had
lodged themselves in the shoulder of his comrade. This
second man had also armed himself with a chamoisgun, which slipped out of his hands as he fell wounded
to the ground. Springing forward, Kennedy wrenched
it out of his relaxing grasp, and presented it full at the
head of the other, who, half-stunned with the blow he
had received from the heavy iron-shod point of the
ashen alpen-stock, was crouching for concealment in
the corner of the chalet.
"Violet," he said, "all is now safe. These wretches
are disarmed; if you like to take shelter here till the




SAFE.                 217
morning, I can secure you from any further attack.
If you stir but an inch," he continued, addressing
the unwounded man, "I will shoot you dead.  Lay
down your gun."
The man's one eye glared with rage and hatred, but
Kennedy still held the loaded gun at his head, and he
was forced sullenly to obey.  Kennedy put his foot
upon the gun, and was in perplexity what to do next,
fearing that the wounded murderer, who was moaning
heavily, might nevertheless spring at him from behind,
and also momentarily dreading an attack from the
mastiff, who kept up a sullen growl.
"Let us leave this dreadful place," said Violet, who,
pale but undaunted at the horrors of the scene, had
taken refuge by Kennedy's side.
"Dare you pick up and carry the gun?" he asked.
"It would be dangerous to leave it in-their hands."
Violet picked it up, where it lay under his feet, and
then glided rapidly out of the chalet, while Kennedy
slowly followed, never once taking his eye from his
crouching antagonist. Before he stepped into the open
air, he said to the men, "If I hear but one footstep in
pursuit of us, I will shoot one of you dead."
"Oh what a relief to be on the mountain turf once
more!" said Violet, in a low and broken whisper, as she
grasped Kennedy's arm, and he cautiously led her down
a rude path, which was faintly marked a few hundred
yards from the lonely cottage where they had been.
" Are we safe now do you think?"
"Yes, quite safe, Violet, I trust. They will not
dare pursue me, now that their guns are gone, and I
have this loaded one in my hand."
19




218                 TORCHES.
"Dear, brave Mr. Kennedy. How shall I ever thank
you enough for having saved my life so nobly? If you
had not been so strong and watchful, we should both
have now been killed."
"I would die a thousand deaths," he whispered,
"to save you from the least harm, Violet. But you
are tired, you must rest here till the dawn. Sit under
this rock, dearest, and cover yourself with my plaid.
I will keep watch still."
She sat down wearily, and her head sunk upon the
rock. The storm was over: the thunder was still
muttering like a baffled enemy in the distance, but the
wind, after its late fury, was sobbing gently and fitfully
like a repentant child. The rock gave her shelter, and
after her fatigue and agitation she was sleeping peacefully, while Kennedy bowed down his head, and thanked
God for the merciful protection which he had extended
to them.
He had not been seated long when his eye caught
the light of torches, being waved at a distance in the
direction of the hotel. In an instant, he felt sure that
Julian was come out to search for them, and gently
awakening Violet, he told her with a thrill of joy that
help. was at hand. The torches drew nearer the place
where they were seated, and he raised a joyous shout.
As yet they were too far off to hear him, but suddenly
it occurred to him to fire his gun. The flash and
echoing report attracted their notice; the torches grew
rapidly nearer; he could almost see the dark figures
of those who carried them; and now in answer to his
second shout came the hurried sound of familar voices,
and in five minutes more Julian and his father had




REST.                  219
grasped him by the hands, and Cyfil had flung his arms
round Violet's neck.
And now at last Kennedy gave way to his emotion,
and his highly-wrought feelings found relief in a burst
of passionate tears. It was no time for questionings.
Julian passed his arm around his sister's waist,, and,
aided by Mr. Kennedy, half carried her to their hotel.
Kennedy leaned heavily on the guide's arm; the honest
landlord, who accompanied the searching party, carried
the plaid, the alpen-stock, and one of the guns, and
Cyril, impressed by the strange scene, carried the other
gun, full of wondering conjecture what Kennedy could
have been doing with it, and from whence it could have
come.
And when Violet reached Eva's room, in which she
slept, she could only say, as they sat locked in a long
embrace," Dearest Eva, it is only through Edward that my
life has been saved."
Eva had never before heard Violet call her brother
by his name, and she was glad at heart.




CHAPTER XVIII.
THE A L P E N- L U    E N.
i And, last of all,
Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with tears
By some cold morning glacier."-THE PRINCESS.
VIOLET'S fluttered nerves and wearied frame rendered'it necessary for the party of English travelers to stay
for a few days at Miirrem, and afterwards it was decided that they should all go down to Grindelwald, and
spend there the remainder of the time which they had
set apart for the Swiss tour. The landlord of the
Jungfrau treated them with the utmost consideration,
and amused Kennedy by paying him as much deference
as if he had been Tell or Arnold himself. Leaving in
his hands all endeavors to discover the two scoundrels,
who had entirely decamped, Kennedy gave him one of
the guns, while he carried with him the other to keep
as a trophy in his rooms at Camford.
There are few sights more pleasant than that of two
families bound together by the ties of friendship and
affection, and living together as though they were all
brothers and sisters of a common home. For long
years afterwards the Homes and the Kennedys looked
back on those days at Grindelwald as among the happiest of their lives, and, indeed, they glided by like a
(220)




WITI THE IMMORTALS.           221
dream of unbroken pleasure. How is it that there can
be such a thing as ennui, or that people ever can be at
a loss what to do?  In the morning they took short
excursions to the glaciers or the roots of the great
mountains, and Cyril made adventurous expeditions
with his fishing-rod to the mountain streams. And at
evening they sat in the long twilight in the balcony
of their rooms, while Eva and Violet sang them sweet,
simple English songs, which rang so softly through the
air, that the crowd of guides and porters which always
hang about a Swiss hotel used to gather in the streets
to listen, and the English visitors collected in the garden
to catch the familiar tones. Julian and Kennedy always
gave some hours every day to their books, and Cyril,
though he could be persuaded to do little else, spent
some of his unemployed time on his much-abused holiday
task for the ensuing quarter at Marlby.
And when the candles were lit, the girls would sketch
or work, and Julian or Kennedy would read or translate
to them aloud. Sometimes they spent what Mr. Kennedy used to call "an evening with the immortals," and
taking some volume of the poets, would each choose a
favorite passage to read aloud in turn. This was Mr.
Kennedy's great delight, and he got quite enthusiastic
when the well-remembered lines came back to him with
fresh beauty, borne on the pleasant voices of Eva,
Julian, or Cyril, like an old jewel when new facets are
cut on its lustrous surface. "Stop there; that's an
immortal, lad-an immortal," he would say to Cyril,
when the boy seemed to be passing over some flower of
poetic thought without sufficient admiration; and then
he would repeat the passage from memory with such
19*




222             A GREEK NOVEL.
just emphasis, that on these evenings all felt that they
were laying up precious thoughts for happy future
hours.
"Now, Mrs. Dudley, and you young ladies, we're
going to translate you part of a Greek novel to-night,"
said Julian.
"A Greek novel!" said Cyril, with a touch of ineredulous suspicion. "Those old creatures didn't write
novels, did they?"
"Only the best novel that ever was written, Cyril."
"What's it called?"
"The Odyssey."
"Oh what a chouse! you don't mean to call that a
-novel, do you?"' Well, let the ladies decide."
So he read to them how Ulysses returned in the
guise of a beggar, after twenty years of war and wandering, to his own palace door, and saw the haughty
suitors reveling in his halls; and how, as he reached the
door, Argus, the hunting-dog, now old and neglected,
and full of fleas, recollected him, when all had forgotten
him, and fawned upon him, and licked his hand, and
died; and how the suitors insulted him, and one of
them threw a footstool at him, which by one quick
move, he avoided, and said nothing, and another flung
a shin-bone at his head, which he caught in his hand,
and said nothing, but only smiled grimly in his heart —
ever so little, a grim,, sardonic smile; and how the old
nurse recognized him by the scar of the boar's tusk on
his leg, but he quickly repressed the exclamation of
wonderment which sprang to her lips; and how he sat,
ragged but princely, by the fire in his hall, and the




ULYSSES.                 223
red light flickered over him, and he spake to the suitors
words of solemn warning; and how, when Agelaus
warned them, a strange foreboding seized their souls,
and they looked at each other with great eyes, and
smiled with alien lips, and burst into quenchless laughter, though their eyes were filled with tears; and how
Ulysses drew his own mighty bow, which not one of
them could use, and how he handled it, and twanged
the string till it sang like a swallow in his ear, and sent
the arrow flying with a whiz through the twelve iron
rings of the line of axes; and then, lastly, how, like to
a god, he leapt on his own threshold with a shout, and
gathered his rags about him, and, aided by the young
Telemachus and the divine Swineherd, sent hurtling
into the band of wine-stained rioters the swift arrows
of inevitable death.
Pleased with the tale, which the girls decided, in
spite of Cyril's veto, to be a genuine novel, they asked
for a new Greek romance, and Julian read to them
from Herodotus about the rise and fall of empires, and
"strange stories of the deaths of kings."  One of his
stories was the famous one of Crcesus, and the irony of
his fate, and the warning words of Solon, all of which,
rendered into quaint rich English, struck Cyril so
much that, mingling up the tale with reminiscences
of Longfellow's "Blind Bartimeus," he produced with
much modesty at the breakfast table next morning the
following very creditable boyish imitation:"Speak Grecia's wisest, thou,'tis said,
Full deeply in Life's page has read,
And many a clime hath known my tread;
Tc' rarvwv d6Re.tc.raro;.




224           THE DEATHS OF KINQS.
"The monarch raised his eager eye,
Gazed on the sage exultingly,
And slow came forth the calm reply
TP22o5 6'AOBYvato~.
"Upon his funeral pyre he lay
Crownless, his scepter passed away,
The shade of Solon seem to say
odvst q zrv g'VTWvov 2W1(o;.
"How little thought that Grecian sage
These words should live from aye to aye,
Tcs 7radvrYT   d2PCwiraCTOS;
Td2AAo 6 d SAOYaoc.
ou6veqs TrYv CWvrw o(ios.q."*
In a manner such as this the summer hours glided
happily away. But all things, happy or mournful, must
come to an end, lest we should forget God in our prosperity, or curse him in our despair. Too quickly for
all their wishes their last Sunday in Switzerland had
come.   Most of them had spent the day in thoughtful
retirement or quiet occupations, and both morning and
evening they assembled together in their pleasant sitting-room for matins and even-song.  Their thoughts
were full of the coming separation, and it gave a deep
interest to these last services; for the Homes, unwilling to leave their mother and Frank so long alone at
Ildown, were to start for England on the following day,
and the Kennedys intended to visit Chamouny for two
weeks more.
On the Sunday evening they strolled down to the
* These verses were really written by a boy of fourteen.




MORALIZIiTG ON GLACIERS.         225
glacier to look once again, for the last time, into its
crevices, and wonder at its fairy caverns, fringed with
icicles, like rows of silver daggers, and ceiled with
translucent sapphire, beneath whose blue fretwork the
stray sunbeams lost their way amid ice-blocks of luminous green, and pillars of lapis-lazuli and crystal.
They sat on a huge boulder of granite, which some
avalanche' had torn down, and tumbled from the
mountain's side, and there enjoyed the icy wind which
tempered the warm evening air, as it swept over the
leaping waves of the glacier stream.
"What a mixture of terror and beauty these monstrous glaciers are!" said Julian; "crawling down the
valleys, and shearing away the solid rocks before them
like gigantic plowshares."
" Yes," said Eva.  When you look up at the tumbled pinnacles of those stracs, does it not seem as if
Summer had rent in anger with some great ice-axe the
huge enemy which she could not quite destroy?"
"And see," said Mr. Kennedy, "how Nature gets
out of these terrible heaps of shattered ice both use
and beauty; and since she must leave them at the eternal fountains of her rivers, see how she tinges them
with her loveliest blue."
They talked on until it was time to return, but Violet and Kennedy still lingered, sitting on the vast boulder, under pretense of seeing the sunset.
"Well, don't get lost again, that's all," said Cyril,
sagely.
"Oh, no; we shall be back very soon," answered
Violet; but she felt instinctively that the "very soon"
in time might measure an eternity of emotion.




226             THE ROUGEATRE.
Need we say that Kennedy and Violet had, since
that night of wild adventure, loved each other, hour by
hour, with deeper affection? He was young and brave,
and light-hearted and of a pleasant countenance; and
she was a young, and confiding, and graceful, and lovely
girl, and they were drawn to one another with a love
which absorbed all other thoughts, and overpowered all
other considerations; and it was unspeakable happiness
for each to know how lovely were all their acts, and
how dear were all their words in the other's eyes. And
now that the time was come to declare the love in
words, and ratify it by a plighted troth, there was
something in the act so solemn, as) almost to disturb
their dream of a lover's paradise.
They sat silent on the rock until the sun had set
behind the peaks of snow, and their eyes were filled
with idle yet delicious tears. Ripples of luminous sunshine and banks of primrose-colored cloud still lingered
on the path which the sun had traversed, and, when
even these began to fade, there stole along the hill
crests above them a film of tender color, flinging a vail
of the softest carnation over their cold gray rocks, and
untrodden fields of perpetual snow.
"Look, Violet, at that rose color on the hills; does
it not seem, as it rests on those chill ledges, as though
Nature had said that her-last act to-day should be a
triumph of glory, and her last thought a thought of
love?"
Violet murmured an assent.
"Oh, Violet," he continued, "you know that I love
Fou, and I know that you love me;-is it not so,
Violet?"




SAPPHIRE AND RUBY.           227
He hardly heard the "yes" which came half like a
sigh from her lips.
"Violet, dear Violet, we part to-morrow; let me
hear you say'yes' more clearly still."
"You know I love you, Edward-did you not save
my life?"
"I know you love me," he repeated slowly, "but
Oh, Violet! I am not worthy of you-I am not all you
think me." There passed over his fair forehead the
expression of humiliation and pain which she had seen
there with wonder once or twice before.
"You are good and noble, Edward," she answered;
"I see you to be good and noble, or I could not love
you as I do."
"No," he said, "alas! not good, not noble, Violetin nowise worthy of one so pure, and bright, and
beautiful as you are." I-e bent his face over her
hand, and his warm tears fell fast upon it. "But," he
continued, "I will strive to be so hereafter, Violet, for
your sweet sake. -Oh, can you take me as I am? will
you make me good and noble, Violet, as Julian is? can
you let the sunshine of your life fall on the shadow of
mine?"
She did not understand his passion as he raised to
her his face, not bright and laughing as, it generally
was, but stained with the traces of many tears; she
only knew that he had won her whole heart, and for
one moment she let her hand rest in the curls of the
head which he had bent once more.
"Oh, Violet," he said, looking up again, "I can be
anything if you love me." In an instant the cloud had
passed away from his face, and the old sunshine bright



228             THE BETROTHED.
ened his blue eyes.  for one instant their eyes met
with that lustrous and dewy love-gleam that only lovers
know, but during that instart it seemed as if their
souls had flowed together into a common fount. With
a happy look she suffered him to take her hand, and
draw off from her finger a sapphire ring; this he put
on his own finger, while on hers he replaced it by the
gold-set ruby, his mother's gift, which he usually wore.
The crescent moon had risen as they walked home,
and they found the rest of the party seated in the hotel
garden, under her soft silver light; but nobody seemed
to be much in a mood for talking, until that little monkey Cyril, who observed everything, exclaimed," Why, Julian, do look! Violet has got Kennedy's
ring on, and-well I declare if he hasn't got hers!"
" Let us all come up stairs," said Kennedy, hastily;
and then, before them all, he drew Violet to his side,
and said,"Julian, Violet and I are betrothed to each other."
"As I thought," said Julian, with a smile, as a rush
of sudden emotion made his eyes glisten, and he warmly
grasped Kennedy's hand.
"And as I hoped, Julian," said Mr. Kennedy, as
he turned away to wipe his spectacles, which somehow
had grown dim.
The moonlight streamed over them as the two stood
there together, young, happy, hopeful, beautiful; and
while Cyril held Kennedy's hand, Eva and Violet exchanged a sister's kiss.
And Julian looked on with a glow of happiness-happiness that had one drawback only-a passing shadow
of sorrow for the possible feelings of De Vayne.




CHAPTER XIX.
ONLY A BLUSH.
"Erubit! salva res est!"-PLAUT.
BACK from the glistening snow-fields, where every,
separate crystal flashes with a separate gleam of light
-back from the Alpine pastures, embroidered with
their tissue of innumerable flowers, over which, like
winged flowers, the butterflies flutter continually-back
from the sunlit silver mantle of the everlasting hills,
*and the thunder of the avalanche, and the wild leap
of the hissing cataract-back to the cold gray flats
and ancient towers of Camford, and the lazy windings
of the muddy Iscam, and the strife and struggle of a
university career.
Kennedy arrived at Camford at mid-day, and as
but few men had yet come up, he beguiled the time by
going out to make the usual formal call on his tutor.
As he passed the door of the room where temptation
had brought on him so many heavy hours, he could
hardly repress an involuntary shudder; but on the
whole, he was in high spirits, and Mr. Grayson received
him with something almost approaching to cordiality.
"You did very well in the examination, Mr. Kennedy; very well indeed. With diligence you might
have been head of your year-as it was, you were in
the first ten."
20             (229)




230           FIRST IN ESCHYLUS.
"Was Owen head of the year, sir?"
"No, Home was head; his brilliant composition
and thorough knowledge of the books brought him to
the top. Either he or Owen were first in all the papers
except one."
"Which was that, sir?"
"The Eschylus paper, in which you were first, Mr.
Kennedy; you did it remarkably accurately. If you
had seen the paper, you could hardly have done it
better."
"Indeed!"   Would you give me a library order,
sir?" said Kennedy, rising abruptly, to change the subject. Mr. Grayson was offended at this sudden change
of subject, and, silently writing the order, bade Kennedy a cold "good morning."    All that Kennedy
hoped was that he would not tell others as well as
himself, the odious fact of his success.
The thought damped his spirits, but he shook it off.
The novelty of returning as a junior soph, the pleasure
of meeting the familiar faces once more, the consciousness of that bright change of existence, which, during
the past vacation, had bound the golden thread of
Violet's destiny with his, filled him with inward exultation. And then there was real delight in the warmth
with which he was greeted by all alike.
He found himself, very unexpectedly, a hero in the
general estimation.  The romantic adventure on the
Schilthorn had been rumored about among the numerous
English visitors to the Valley of Lauterbrunnen, until
it had reached the editor of a local paper, and so had
flowed through Galignani into the general stream of
the English journals. True, the names had been sup



A NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH.          231
pressed, but all the St. Werner's men knew who was
intended by "Mr. K -   y," and as he entered the
hall there was a murmur of applause.
He was greeted on all sides with eager questions.
"I say, Mr. K —y," said one, "did the fellow
whom you shot die of his wound?"
"It was rather a chouse to shoot a cretin, though,"
said another, in chaff.
"I didn't shoot him," said Kennedy.
"No, you very leerily managed to make the other
fellow shoot him. Preserve me from my friends, must
have been his secret reflections."
"Have you kept the guns, Kennedy? you must let
me have a look after hall."
While this kind of talk was going on, Brogten, who
was nearly opposite to Kennedy, sat silent, and watched
him. lie did not join in the remarks about the night
adventure in Switzerland, but when there was a slight
pause in the fire of questions, he turned the conversation
to the subject of the May examination.
"Those are not your only triumphs, Kennedy, it
appears. You seem to have been doing uncommonly
well in the examination, too."
"Oh, ay, you were in the first ten," said Suton;
"Mr. Grayson told me so."
" Who was first?" asked Lillyston.
"Oh, Home, of course; except in one paper, and
Kennedy was first in that."
"I believe that was the 2Eschylus paper," said
Brogten, throwing the slightest unusual emphasis into
his tone; " you were first in that, weren't you, Kennely?"




232                A SLY AIM.
The men were surprised to hear Brogten address
him with such careless familiarity, knowing the old
quarrel that existed between them; and they were still
more surprised to hear Brogten interest himself about
a topic usually so indifferent to him as the result of an
examination. It seemed particularly strange that he
should give himself any trouble to inquire about the
present list, because he himself had been posted, in
company with Hazlet and Lord Fitzurse, i.e. their
names had been written up below the eighth class, as
" unworthy to be classed."
"Was I?" said Kennedy, in the most careless tone
he could assume.
"'Yes-really, didn't you know it?  You did it so
well that Grayson said, you couldn't have done the
paper better if you had seen it beforehand."
"I say, Kennedy, you must have come out swell,
then," said D'Acres, "for Grayson said just the same
thing to me."
"How very odd!" said Brogten, affectedly. "You
didn't see the papers beforehand, Kennedy-did you?"
The last few moments had been torture to Kennedy;
he had moved uneasily; the bright look of gratified
triumph, which the allusions to his courage had called
forth, had gone out the moment the examination was
mentioned, and it was only by a painful and violent
exercise of the will that he was able to keep back the
blood which had begun to rush toward his cheeks. In
the endeavor to check or suppress the blush, he had
grown ashy pale; but now that Brogten's dark and
cruel eye was upon him —now that the protruding
underlip curled with a sneer that left no more room to




*A BLUSH.                233
doubt that he was master of Kennedy's guilty secret
-the effort was useless, and spite of will, the burning
crimson of an uncontrollable shame burst and flashed
over Kennedy's usually clear and open face. It was
no ordinary blush-no common passage of color over
the cheeks. Over face, and neck, and brow the guilty
blood seemed to be crowding tumultuously, and when
it had filled every vein and fiber till it swelled, then
the rich scarlet seemed to linger there as though it
would never die away again, and if for an instant it
began to fade, then the hidden thought sent new waves
of hot agony in fresh pulses to supply its place. And
all the while the conscious victim made matters worse
by his attempts to seem unconcerned, until his forehead
was wet with heavy perspiration. By that time the
men had turned to other topics, and were talking about
Bruce's laziness, and the utter manner in which he
must have fallen off, for his name to appear, as it had
done, in the second class; and, in course of time,
Kennedy's face was as pale and cold as it before had
burned and glowed.
And all this while, though he would not lookthough he looked at his plate, and at the busts over
his head, and the long portraits of St. Werner's worthies
on the walls, and on this side and on that-Kennedy
knew full well that Brogten's eye had been on him
from beginning to end, and that Brogten was enjoying,
with devilish malignity, the sense of power which he
had gained from the knowledge of another's sin. The
thought was intolerable to him, and, finishing his dinner
with hasty gulps, he left the hall.
20*




234           NOTICED-A VISITOR.
"Brogten, how rude you were to Kennedy," said
Lillyston.
"Was I?" said Brogten, in a tone of sarcasm and
defiance.
"No wonder he blushed at your coarse insinuations."
"No wonder," said Brogten, in the same tone; "am
I the only person who makes coarse insinuations, as you
call them?"
"It is just like you to do so."
"Is it?" Qh well, I shall have to make some more,
perhaps, before I have done."
"Well, you'd better look out what you say to Kennedy, at any rate. He is a fiery subject."
" Thank you, I will."
This wrangling was very unprofitable, and Lillyston
gladly dropped it, not however without feeling somewhat puzzled at the air which Brogten assumed.
That night Kennedy was sitting miserably in his
room alone; he had refused all invitations, and had
asked nobody to take tea with him. He was just
making tea for himself, when Brogten came to see
him.
" May I stay to tea?" he asked, in mock humility.
"If you like," said Kennedy.
He stayed to tea, and talked about all kinds of subjects rather than the one which was prominent in the
thoughts of both. He told Kennedy old Harton stories,
and asked him about Marlby; he turned the subject to
Home, and really interested Kennedy by telling him
what kind of a boy Julian had been, and what inseparable friends he and Lillyston had always been, and
how admirably he had recited on speech day, and how




"I SAW YOU."               235
stainless his whole life had been, and how vice and
temptation seemed to skulk away at his very look.
"You are reconciled to him, then?" said Kennedy in
surprise.
"Oh, yes. At heart, I always respected him. He
wasn't a fellow to take the worst view of one's character you know, or to make nasty innuendoes  -"
He stooped, and eyed Kennedy as a parrot eyes a
finger put into his cage, which he could peck if he
would. "He wasn't, you know, a kind of fellow who
would force you to leave the table by sneering at you
in hall-  "  He still continued to eye Kennedy, but
in vain, for Kennedy kept his moody glance on the
table and was silent, and would not look at him or
speak to him. Brogten could not help being struck
with his appearance as he sat there motionless,-the
noble and perfectly formed head, the well-cut features,
the cheek a little pale now, so boyishly smooth and
round, the latent powers of fire and sarcasm and
strength in the bright eye and beautiful lip. It was a
base source of triumph that made Brogten exult in the
knowledge that this youth was in his power; that he
held for a time at least the strings of his happiness or
misery; that at any time by a word in any public place
he could bring on his fine features that hue of shame;
that for his own purposes he could at any time ruin
his reputation, and put an end to his popularity.
Not that he intended to do so. He had the power,
but unless provoked, he did not wish or mean to use it.
It was far more luxurious to keep it to himself, and use
it as occasion might serve. Everybody's secret is nobody's secret, and it was enough for Brogten to enjoy




236              BROGTEN'S USE
privately the triumph he had longed for, and which
accident had put into his hands.
"Come, come, Kennedy," he said, "this is nonsense; we understand each other. I saw you coolly
read over the whole examination paper, you know,
which wasn't the most honorable thing in the world to
do-"
He paused, and half relented, as he saw a solitary
tear on Kennedy's cheek, which was indignantly
brushed away almost as soon as it had started.
Come," he said, "cheer up, man. I'm not going
to tell of you; neither Grayson nor any of the men
shall know it, and at present not a soul has a suspicion
of such a thing, except ourselves.  Come-I've had
my triumph over you, for your sharp words in hall last
term, before all the men, and that's all I wanted.
Don't let's be enemies any longer. Good night."
But Kennedy sat there passively, and when Brogten
had gone away, whistling "The Rat-catcher's Daughter," he leaned his head upon his hand, and his
thoughts wandered away to Violet Home.
O holy, ennobling, purifying love! He felt that if
he had known Violet before, he should not now have
been in Brogten's power. He fancied that the secret
had oozed out; he fancied that men eyed him sometimes with strange glances; he pictured to himself the
degradation he should feel if Julian, or De Vayne, or
Lillyston ever knew of what weakness he was capable.
This one error rode like a nightmare on his breast.
But none of his gloomy presentiments on. the score
of detection were fulfilled. Except to Bruce, and that
under a pledge of secrecy, Brogten never betrayed




OF HIS INFLUENCE.            237
what he knew, and the only immediate way in which
he exercised the influence which his knowledge gave
him, was by claiming with Kennedy a tone of familiarity, and asking him to card parties, suppers, and
die riots of all kinds, in which Bruce and Fitzurse
were frequent visitors.




CHAPTER XX.
BRUCE    THE TEMPTER.' Oui autrefois; mais nous avons change tout cela."-MOrIERIm
BRUCE was disgusted with his second class in the St.
Werner's May examination.   He had quite flattered
himself that he could not fail to be among the somewhat large number who annually obtained the pleasant
and easy distinction of a first. He had not been nearly
so idle as men supposed, although he had managed to
waste a large amount of time; and if he could have
foreseen that his name would only appear in the SECOND
class, he would have endeavored to be lower still, so as
to make it appear that he had not condescended to give
a thought on the subject. As it was, he hoped that if
he got a first, men would remark, " Clever fellow that
*Bruce! never opened a book, and yet got a first class;"
whereas now he knew that the general judgment would
be, "Bruce can't be half such a swell as one fancied.
He's only taken a second."
His vanity was wounded, and he determined to throw
up reading altogether. "What good would it do him
to grind? His father was rolling in money, and of
course he should cut a very good figure in London when
he had left Camford, which was a mere place for crammers and crammed," etc.
So Bruce became more and more confirmed as a
trifler and idler, and he suffered that terrible ennui
(238)




IDLERS TEMPT THE DEVIL.         239
which dogs the shadow of wasted time. Associating,
habitually, with men who were his inferiors in ability,
and whose tastes were lower than his own, the vacuity of
mind and lassitude of body which at times crept over
him were the natural assistants of every temptation to
extravagance, frivolity, and sin.
An accidental conversation gave a mischievous turn
to his idle propensities.- Coming into hall one evening,
he found himself seated next to Suton, and observing,
from the goose on the table and the audit ale which
was circling in the loving cup, that it was a feast, he
turned to his neighbor, and asked,"Is it a saint's day to-day?"
"Yes," said Suton, "and the most memorable of
them all-All Saints' Day."
"  h, really," said Bruce, with an expression of half
contemptuous interest, "then I suppose chapel's at a
quarter past six and we shall have one of those longwinded choral services."
"Don't you like them?"
"Like them?   I should think not! Since one's
forced to do a certain amount of chapels, the shorter
they are the better."
" Of course, if you regard it in the light of'doing'
so many chapels, you won't find it pleasant."
"Do you mean to tell me now," said Bruce, turning
round and looking full at Suton, "that you regard
chapels as anything but an unmitigated nuisance?"
" Most certainly I do mean to tell you so, if you ask
me?"
"Ah! I see-a Sim!" said Bruce, with the slightest
possible shrug of the shoulders.




240              A YOUNG NERO.'"I don't know what you mean by'a Sim,' Mr.
Bruce," said Suton, slightly coloring;' but whether
a Sim or not, I at least expect to be treated as a
gentleman."
"Oh, I beg pardon," said Bruce; "but I couldn't
help recognizing the usual style of-"
"Of cant, I suppose you would say.  Thank you.
You must find it a cold faith to disbelieve in all sincerity."
"Well, I don't know. At any rate, I don't believe
that all your saints put together were really a bit better than their neighbors; so I can't get up an annual
enthusiasm in their honor. All men are really alike
at the bottom."
"Nero's belief," said Owen, who had overheard the
conversation.
" It doesn't matter whether it was Nero's, for Neri's,
or Neander's," answered Bruce; "experience proves it
to be true."
Suton had finished dinner, and as he did not relish
Bruce's off-hand and patronizing manner, he left the
discussion in Owen's hand. But between Owen and
Bruce there was an implacable dissimilarity, and neither
of them cared to pursue the subject.
Bruce, who went to wine with D'Acres, repeated
there the subject of the conversation, and found that
most of his audience affected to agree with him.  In
fact, he had himself set the fashion of a semi-professed
infidelity; and, amid his most intimate associates, there
were many to adopt with readiness a theory which
saved them from the trouble and expense of a scrupulous conscience. With Bruce, this infidelity was rather




DECAY OF FAITH.              -241
the decay of faith than the growth of positive disbelief. He had dipped with a kind of willful curiosity
into Strauss's Life of Jesus, and other books of a similar description, together with such portions of current
literature as were most clever in sneering at Christianity, or most undisguised in rejecting it.
Such reading-harmless, or even desirable, as it
might have been to a strong mind sincere in its search
for truth, and furnished with that calm capacity for
impartial thought which is the best antidote against
error-was fatal to one whose superficial knowledge
and irregular life gave him already a powerful bias
toward. getting rid of everything which stood itt the
way of his tendencies and pursuits. Bruce was ihot in
earnest in the desire for knowledge and wisdom: he
grasped with avidity at a popular objection or a skeptical argument, without desiring to understand or master the principles which rendered them nugatory;.mnd
he was ignorant and untaught enough to fancy that
the very foundations of religion were shaken, if he
could attack the authenticity of some Jewish miratle,
or impugn the genuineness of some Old Testament
book.
When all belief was shaken down in his shallow and
somewhat feeble understanding, the structure of his
moral convictions was but a baseless fabric. Error ill
itself is not fatal to the inner sense of right; but Bruce's
error was not honest doubt, it was willful self-deception, blindness of heart, first deliberately induced, then
penally permitted.
In Bruce's character there was not only the error in
intellectu, but also the pertinacia in voluntate.  All
21




242         STRUTTING TO CONFUSION.
sense of honor, all delicacy of principle, all perception
of sin and righteousness, all the landmarks of right
and wrong were obliterated in the muddy inundation
of flippant irreverence and ignorant disbelief.
"For when we in our viciousness grow hard,
0, misery on't! the wise gods seal our eyes:
In our own filth drop our clear judgments, make us
Adore our errors, laugh at us while we strut
To our confusion."
"I'm sometimes half inclined to agree with what
you were saying about would-be saints," said Brogten,
as they left D'Acres' wine party.
"What fun it would be to try the experiment of a
saint's peccability on some living subject," said Bruce.
"Rather! Suppose you try on that fellow Hazlet?"
" Oh, you mean the lank party who snuffles the responses with such oleaginous sanctimony. Well, I bet
you two to one in ponies that I have him roaring drunk
before a month's over."
"I won't take the bet," said Brogten, "because I
believe you'll succeed."
"I'll t-t-take it for the fun," said Fitzurse.
"Done, then!" said Bruce.
So Bruce, pour passer le temps, deliberately undertook the corruption of a human soul. That soul might
have been low enough already; for Hazlet was, as we
have seen, mean-hearted and malicious, and in him,
although unknown to himself, the garb of the Pharisee
but concealed the breast of the hypocrite. But yet
Hazlet was free, and if Bruce had not undertaken the
devil's work, might have been free to his life's end,




THE DEVIL'S WORK-"FAST" OR "SLOW.' 243
from all gross forms of transgression-from all the
more flagrant and open delinquencies that lay waste
the inner sanctities of a fallen human soul.
He was an easy subject for Bruce's machinations,
and those machinations were conceived and carried on
with consummate and characteristic cleverness. Bruce
lid not spread his net in the sight of the bird, but set
to work with wariness and caution. He determined to
try the arts of fascination, not of force. The thought
of the desperate wickedness involved in his attempt
either never crossed his mind, or, if it did, was rejected
as the feeble suggestion of an over-scrupulous conscience.
Bruce pretended at least to fancy that the basis of all
men's characters was identical, and that, as they only
differed in external manifestations, it made very little
difference whether Hazlet became "fast" or continued
" slow." "Fast" and "slow" were the mild euphemisms
with which Bruce expressed the slight distinction between
a vicious and a virtuous life.
At hall-the grand place for rencounters-he managed
to get a seat next to his victim, and began at once to
treat him with that appearance of easy and well-bred
familiarity which he had learnt in London circles. He
threw a gentle expression of interest into his face and
voice, he listened with deference to Hazlet's remarks,
he addressed several questions to him, thanked him
politely for all his information, and then adroitly introduced some delicate compliments on the agreeableness of Hazlet's society. His bait took completely;
Hazlet, whom most men snubbed, was quite flustered
with gratified vanity at the condescending notice of so
unexceptionable a man of fashion as the handsome and




244               SAVOIR VIVRE.
noted Vyvyan Bruce. "At last," thought Hazlet, "men
are beginning to appreciate my intellectual powers."
After continuing this process for some days, until
Hazlet was unalterably convinced that he must be a
vastly agreeable and attractive person, Bruce asked him
to come to breakfast, and invited Brogten and Fitzurse
to meet him. Ile calculated justly that Hazlet, accustomed only to the very quiet neighborhood of a
country village, would be duly impressed with the presence and acquaintance of a live lord; and he instructed
both his guests in the manner in which they should treat
the subject of their experiment. Hazlet thought he
had never enjoyed a breakfast party so much. There
was a delicious spice of worldliness in the topics of conversation which was quite refreshing to him, accustomed
as he was to:he somewhat droning moralisms of his
" congenial friends." Nothing which could deeply shock
his prejudices was ever alluded to, but the discussions
which were introduced came to him with all the charm
of novelty and awakened curiosity.
Hazlet never could endure being a silent or inactive
listener while a conversation was going forward. No
matter how complete his ignorance of the subject, he
generally managed to hazard some remarks. Bruce
talked a good deal about actors and theaters, and
Hazlet had never seen a theater in his life. He did
not like, however, to confess this fact, and, after a little
hesitation, began to talk as if he were an habitud.
The dramatic criticisms, which he occasionally saw in
the papers, furnished him with just materials enough
to amuse Bruce and the others at his assumption of
C' savoir vivre," and to furnish a laugh at his expense




HAZLET.                 245
the moment he was gone; but of this he was blissfully
unconscious, and he rather plumed himself on his knowledge of the world. He had yet to learn the lesson
that consistency alone can secure respect. He had
indeed ventured at first to remark," Don't you think
the stage a little-just a little-objectionable?"
"Objectionable!" said Bruce, with a bland smile;
" oh, my dear fellow, what can you mean? Why, the
stage is a mirror of the world, and to show virtue her
own image is one of its main objects."
"Yes," said Hazlet, "I am inclined to think so. I
should like to see a theater, I confess."
He had let slip unintentionally the implied admission
that he had never been to a theater; but when Fitzurse
asked in astonishment, " What, have you never been to
a theater?" he merely replied, "Well, I can hardly
say I have; at least not for a long time."
"Oh then we must all run down to London some
night very soon," said Bruce, "and we'll go together
to the Regent."
"But I've no friend in London, except-except
a clergyman or two, who perhaps might object, you
know."
"Oh never mind the clergymen," said Bruce; "you
shall all come and stay with me at Vyvyan House."
Here was a triumph! to go to the celebrated Vyvyan
House, and that in company with a lord, and to be a
partaker of Bruce's hospitality! Of course it would
be very rude and wrong to refuse so eligible an invitation. How pleasant it would be to remark casually,
at hall time, "I'm just going to run down for the Sunday
to Vyvyan House with Bruce and Lord Fitzurse!"
21*




246             GETS nIS EXEAT.
" Let me see," said Bruce, "to-day's Monday; supposing you come to wine with me on Thursday, and
then we'll see if we can't manage to get to London from
Saturday to Monday."'Thursday-I'm    afraid I've an engagement on
Thursday to-"
"To what?" said Bruce.
The more Hazlet colored and hung back, the more
Bruce, in his agreeable way, pressed to know, till at
last HIazlet, unable to escape such genial importunity,
reluctantly confessed that it was to a prayer-meeting in
a friend's rooms.
" Oh," said Bruce, with the least little laugh, "tea
and hassocks, eh?" He said no more, but the little,
scornful laugh, and the few scornful words had done
their work more effectually than a volume of ridicule.
It need not be added that Hazlet came, not to the prayermeeting, but to the wine party. Cards were introduced
in the evening, and one of the players was Kennedy.
Kennedy played often now, but he certainly did feel a
qualm of intense and irrepressible disgust as, with great
surprise, he found himself vis d vis with the spectacled
visage of Jedediah Iazlet.
" But how shall I get my exeat to go to London?"
said Hazlet.
" Oh, say a particular friend has invited you to spend
the Sunday with him. Say you want to hear Starfish
preach."
Mr. Norton, Hazlet's tutor, who did not expect him
to fall into mischief, and thought that very likely Mr.
Starfish's eloquence might be the operating attraction,
granted him the exeat without any difficulty, and on




"MAUVE-COLORED PEG-TOPS."        247
Saturday Hazlet was reclining in a first-class carriage, with Bruce, Brogten, and Fitzurse, on his way to
Vyvyan House. A change was observable in his dress.
Bruce had hinted to him that his usual garb might look
a little formal and odd at a theater, and had persuaded
him to come to his own egregious Camford tailor, Mr.
Fitfop, who, as a particular favor to his customer
Bruce, produced with suspicious celerity the cut-away
coat and mauve-colored pegtops, in which unwonted
splendor Hazlet was now arrayed. It was a pity that
his ears were so obturated with vanity as not to have
heard the shrieks of half-stifled laughter created by his
first public appearance in this fashionable guise, which
only required to be completed by the death's-head pin
with which Bruce presented him, and which therefore
he was obliged to wear, to make it perfct.
The sumptuous and voluptuous richness of all the
appointments in Vyvyan House introduced Hazlet to
a new world.  Sir Rollo and Lady Bruce were not
in town, so that the four young men had the house
entirely to themselves, and Bruce ordered about the
servants with royal energy. Soon after their arrival
they sat down to a choice dinner, and Bruce took care,
although the champagne had been abundant at dinner,
to pass pretty freely, at dessert, the best claret and
amontillado of his father's cellars. Hazlet was not
slow to follow the example which the others set him;
he helped himself plentifully to everything, and after
dinner, lolling in an easy attitude, copied from Fitzurse,
he even ventured to exhibit his very recently acquired
accomplishment of smoking a weed. Very soon he




248              AT THE REGENT.
imagined that he.had quite made an impression on the
most fashionable members of the St. Werner's world.
They went to the Regent, and, between the acts,
Bruce, who knew everything, introduced them behind
the scenes. Hazlet, rather amazed at his own boldness, but in reality entirely ignorant which way to turn,
necessarily followed his guides, and, exultant with the
influence of mellow wine, imitated the others, and tried
to look and feel at home. Within a month of Bruce's
manipulation, this excellent and gifted young man, this
truly gracious light in the youthful band of confessors,
was seated, talking to a fascinating young danseuse
who wore a gossamer dress, behind the scenes of a petty
London theater. Bruce looked on with a smile, and
hummed to himself" Jene Tanzerinn
Fleigt, mit leichtem Sinn
Und noch leichtern Kleide
Durch den Saal der Freude
Wie ein Zephyr bin," etc.
The head of Jedediah Hazlet was somewhat confused when, after the play and an oyster supper in the
cider cellars, it sank deep into the reposeful down of a
spare chamber in the gay Sir Rollo Bruce's London
House.
The next morning was Sunday.      They none of
them got up till twelve, to a languid breakfast, and
then read novels. IHazlet, who was rather shocked at
this, did indeed faintly suggest going to church. " Oh
yes," said Bruce, looking up with a smile from his




THE LORD'S DAY.             249
Balzac, " we'll do that, or some other equally harmless
amusement." The dinner hour, however, coincided
with the time of evening service, so that it Was impossible to go then; and finally they spent the evening in
what they all agreed to call "a perfectly quiet game
at cards."




CHAPTER XXI.
ONE OF THE SIMPLE ONES.
05Tos; xdav els lcaxaapas xzfv er Tjoee xiiz elf iTup agRotrTo.
XEN. Mem. I. 3.
"I tempted his blood and his flesh,
Hid in roses my mesh,
Choicest cates, and the flagon's best spilth."
ROBERT BROWNING.
"FAUGH!" said Bruce, on his return to Camford;
" that fellow Hazlet isn't worth making an experiment
upon-in corpore vili, truly; but the creature is so
wicked at heart, that even his cherished traditions
crumble at a touch. He's no game; he doesn't even
run cunning."
"Then I hope you'll p-p-pay me miy p-p-p-ponies,"
said Fitzurse.
"By no means; only I shall cut things short; he
isn't worth playing; I shall haul him in at once."
Accordingly Hazlet was invited once more to one
of Bruce's parties-this time to a supper. It was one
of the regular, reckless, uproarious affairs,-D'Acres,
Boodle, Tulk, Brogten, Fitzurse, were all there, and the
6lite of the fast fellow-commoners and sporting-men besides. Bruce had privately entreated them all not to snub
Hazlet, as he wanted to have some fun. The supper
was soon dispatched, and the wine circled plentifully.
It was followed by a game of cards, during which the
punch-bowl stood in the center of the table, rich,
(250)




A SUPPER PARTY.              251
smoking, and crowned with a concoction of unprecedented strength. Hazlet was quite in his glory. When
they had plied him sufficiently-which Bruce took care
to do by repeatedly replenishing his cup on the sly, so
that he might fancy himself to have taken much less
than was really the case-they all drank his health
with the usual honors:" For he's a jolly good fe-el-low,
For he's a jolly good fe-el-low,
For he's a jolly good fe-el-lowWhich nobody can deny,
Which nobody can deny:
For he's a jolly good fe-cl-low," etc.
And so on, ad infinitum, followed by "Hip! hip!
hip! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!!! and then the general rattling of plates on the table, and breaking of
wineglass stems with knives of " boys who crashed the
glass and beat the floor."
Hazlet was quite in the seventh heaven of exaltation, and made a feeble attempt at replying to the
honor, in a speech; but he was in so very oblivious and
generally foolish a condition, that, being chiefly accustomed to Philadelphus oratory, he began to address
them as " My Christian Friends;" and this produced
such shouts of boisterous laughter, that he sat down
with his purpose unaccomplished.
Before the evening was over, Bruce, in the opinion
of all present, including Fitzurse himself, had fairly
won his bet.
"I shan't mind p-p-paying a bit," said the excellent
young nobleman; " it's been such r-r-rare f-f-fun."




252               "RARE FUN."
Rare fun indeed! The miserable Hazlet, swilled
with unwonted draughts, lay brutally comatose in a
chair. HIis head rolled from side to side, his body and
arms hung helpless and disjointed, his eyelids dropped
-he was completely unconscious, and more than fulfilled
the conditions of being "roaring drunk!"
Now for some jolly amusement-the opportunity's
too good to be lost! What exhilaration there is on
seeing a human soul imbruted and groveling hopelessly
in the dirt! or rather to have a body before you, witlwut
a soul for the time being-a coarse animal mass, swinish
as those whom the wand of Circe smote, but with the
human intelligence quenched besides, and the charactery
of reason wiped away. Iere, some ochre and lampblack, quick! There-plaster it well about the whiskers
and eyelids, and put a few patches on the hair! Magnificent!-he looks like a Choctaw in his war-paint,
after drinking fire-water.
Screams of irrepressible laughter-almost as ghastly,
if the cause of them be considered, as those that might
have sounded round a witch's caldron over diabolical
orgies-accompanied the whole proceeding. So loud
were they that all the men on the staircase heard them,
and fully expected the immediate apparition of some
bulldog, dean, or proctor. It was nobody's affair, however, but Bruce's, and he must do as he liked. Suton,
who "kept" near Bruce, was one of those whom the
uproar puzzled and disturbed, as he sat down with
sober pleasure to his evening's work.  His window
was opposite Bruce's, and across the narrow road he
heard distinctly most of what was said. The perpetual
and noisy repetition of HIazlet's name perplexed him




SUTON.                  253
extremely, and at last he could have no doubt that they
were making Hazlet drunk, and then painting him;
nor was it less clear that many of them were themselves
half intoxicated.
It had of course been impossible for Suton and
others of similar character to avoid noticing the eccentricities of dress and manner which had been the
outward indications of Hazlet's recent course. When
a man who has been accustomed to dress in black, and
wear tail coats in the morning, suddenly comes out in
gorgeous apparel, and begins to talk about cards, betting, and theaters, his associates must be very blind if
they do not observe that his theories are undergoing a
tolerably complete revolution. Suton saw with regret
mingled with pity Hazlet's contemptible weakness, and
he had once or twice endeavored to give him a hint of
the ridicule which his metamorphosis occasioned; but
Hazlet had met his remarks with such silly arrogance,
nay, with such a patronizing assumption of superiority,
that he determined to leave him to his own experiences.
This did not prevent Suton from feeling a strong and
righteous indignation against the iniquity of those who
were inveigling another to his ruin, and he felt convinced that, as at this moment Hazlet was being unfairly
treated, it was his duty in some way to interfere.
He got up quietly, and walked over to Bruce's
rooms. His knock produced instant silence, followed
by a general scuffle as the men endeavored to conceal
the worst signs of their recent outrage.  When Suton opened the door, he was greeted with a groan of
derision.
22




254       " CANT'*-SHAME FOR GLORY.
" Confound you," said Bruce, "I thought it must be
the senior proctor at the very least."
Without noticing his remark, Suton quietly said,
"I see, Bruce, that you have been treating Hazlet in
a very unwarrantable way; he is clearly not in a fit
condition to be trifled with any more; you must help
me to take him home."
"Ha, ha! rather a good joke. I shall merely shove
him into the street, if I do anything. What business
has he to make a beast of himself in my rooms?"
"What business have you to do the devil's work,
and tempt others to sin?. You will have a terrible
reckoning for it, even if no dangerous consequences
ensue," said Suton sternly.
" C-c-c-cant!" said Fitzurse.
"Yes-what you call cant, Fitzurse. You shall
hear some more, and tremble, sir, while you hear it,"
replied Suton, turning toward him, and raising his
hand with a powerful but natural gesture; " it is this:'Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that
putteth thy bottle to him, and makest him drunken
also-thou art filled with shame for glory.' "
"Bruce," said D'Acres, the least flushed of the
party, "I really think we ought to take the fellow
home. Just look at him."
Bruce looked, and was really alarmed at the grotesque
yet ghastly expression of that striped and sodden face,
with the straight black hair, and the head lolling and
rolling on the shoulder.  Without a word, he took
Hazlet by one arm, while Suton held the other, and
D'Acres carried the legs, and as quickly as they could
they hurried along with their lifeless burden to the




HAZLET'S NEW FRIENDS.          255
gates of St. Werner's. It was long past the usual
hour for locking up, and the porter took down the
names of all four as they entered. A large bribe which
D'Acres offered was firmly yet respectfully refused,
and they knew that next day they would be called to
account.
Having put Hazlet to bed, they separated; Suton
bade the others a stiff " Good night;" and D'Acres, as
he left Bruce, said, "Bruce, we have been doing a very
blackguard thing."
"Speak for yourself," said Bruce.
" Good!" said D'Acres; and "allow me to add that
I have entered your rooms for the last time."
Next morning Suton spoke privately to the porter,
and told him that it would be best for many reasons
not to report what had taken place the night before,
beyond the bare fact of their having come into college
late at night. The man knew Suton thoroughly, and
respected him; he knew him to be a man of genuine
piety, and the most regular habits, and consented,
though not without difficulty, to omit all mention of
Hazlet's state. All four had of course to pay the
usual gate fine, and D'Acres and Bruce were besides
"admonished" by the senior dean, but Suton and
Hazlet were not even sent for. The dean knew Suton well, and felt that his character was a sufficient
guaranty that he had not been in any mischief; Hazlet
had been irregular lately, but the dean considered him
a very steady man, and overlooked for the present this
breach of rules.
Of course all St. Werner's laughed over the story of
IIazlet's escapade. He did not know how to avoid the




256           WANING CONFIDENCE.
storm of ridicule which his folly had stirred up. He
had already begun to drop his " congenial friends" for
the more brilliant society to which Bruce had introduced him, and so far from admitting that he felt any
compunction, he professed to regard the whole matter
merely as "an amusing lark."  Bruce and the others
hardly condescended to apologize, and at first Hazlet,
who found it impossible at once to remove all traces of
the paint, and who for a day or two felt thoroughly
unwell, made a half resolve to resent their coolness.
But now, deserted by his former associates, and laughed
at by the majority of men, he found the society of his
tempters indispensable for his comfort, and even cringed
to them for the notice which at first they felt Inclined
to withdraw.
"'Wasn't that trick on Hazlet a disgraceful affair,
Kennedy?" said Julian, a few days after.  "Some one
told me you were at the supper party; surely it can't
be true."
"I was for about an hour," said Kennedy, blushing,
"but I had left before this took place."
" May I say it, Kennedy?-a friend's, a brother'8
privilege, you know-but it surprises me that you care
to tolerate such company as that."
"Believe me, Julian, I don't enjoy it."
"Then why do you frequent it?"
Kennedy sighed deeply and was silent for a time;
then he said,"' Not e'en the dearest heart, and next our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh.'"
"True," said Julian; for he had long observed that




BACKSLIDERS.               257
some heavy weight lay on Kennedy's mind, and with
deep sorrow noticed that their intercourse was less
cordial, less frequent, less intimate than before. Not
that he loved Kennedy, or that Kennedy loved him
less than of old, for, on the contrary, Kennedy yearned
more than ever for the full cherished unreserve of their
old friendship; but, alas! there was not, there could
not be, complete confidence between them, and where
there is not confidence, the pleasure of friendship grows
dim and pale. And, besides this, new tastes were growing up in Edward Kennedy, and, by slow and fatal
degrees, were developing into passions.
Hazlet had come to Camford, not so much innocent
as ignorant. IHe had never learnt to restrain andcontrol the strong tendencies which, in the quiet shades
of Ildown, had been sheltered from temptation. Unlike Suton, he had mistaken the language of a sect for
the utterances of the heart, and-was unconscious of the
weak foundations on which his goodness rested. A
*few months before he would have heard with unmitigated horror the delinquencies which he now committed without a scruple, and defended without a blush.
None are so precipitate in the career of sin and folly
as backsliders: none so unchecked in the downward
course as those to whom the mystery of iniquity is suddenly displayed when they have none of the gradual
training whereby men are armed to resist its seductions.
Who does not know from personal observation that
the cycle of sins is bound together by a thousand invisible filaments, and that myriads of unknown connections unite them to.one another? Hazlet, when he
had once " forsaken the guide of his youth, and for22*




258             UNDER THE LAMP.
gotten the covenant of his God," did not stop short at
one or two temptations, and yield only to some favorite
vice. With a rapidity as amazing as it was disastrous,
he developed in the course of two or three months into
one of the most shameless and dissipated of the worst
St. Werner's set. There was something characteristic
in the way in which he frothed out his own shame,
boasting of his infamous liberty with an arrogance
which resembled his former conceit in spiritual superiority.
Julian, who now saw less of him than ever, had no
opportunity of speaking to him as to his course of life;
but at last an incident happened which persuaded him
that further silence would be a culpable neglect of his
duty to his neighbor.
Montagu, of Roslyn School, came up to Camford to
spend a Sunday with Owen, and Owen asked Julian
and Lillyston to meet him. They liked each other
very much, and Julian rapidly began to regard Montagu as a real friend. In order to see as much of each
other as possible, they all agreed to take a four-oar on
the Saturday morning, and row to Elnham; at Elnham
they dined and spent two pleasant hours in visiting the
beautiful cathedral, so that they did not get back to
Camford till eleven at night.
Their way from the boats to St. Werner's lay
through a bad part of the town, and they walked
quickly, Owen and Montagu being a little way in
front.
A few gas-lights were burning at long intervals in
the narrow lane through which they had to pass, and,
as they walked under one of them, they observed a




"SIMPLE ONES."              259
group of four standing half in shadow.   One of
them Julian instantly recognized as the very vilest
of the St. Werner "fast men;" another.was Hazlet;
there could be no doubt as to the company in which he
was.
For one second Julian turned back to look in sheer
astonishment,-he could hardly believe the testimony
of his own eyes. The figure which he took to be Hazlet hastily retreated, and Julian half-persuaded himself
that he was mistaken.
"Did you see who that was?" asked Lillyston,
sadly.
"Yes," said Julian; "'one of the simple ones;''but he knoweth not that the dead are there, and that
her guests are in the depths of hell.'"
"You must speak to him, Julian."
"I will."
As Hazlet was out when he called, Julian wrote on
his card: " Dear I., will you come to tea at eight?
Yours ever, J. HOME."
At eight o'clock accordingly, Hazlet was seated, as
he had not been for a very long time, by Julian's fireside. Julian's conversation interested him, and he
could not help feeling a little humbled at the unworthiness which prevented him from more frequently enjoying it.  It was not till after tea, when they had
pulled their chairs to the fire, that Julian said: " Haz
let, I was sorry to see you in bad company last
night."
" Me!" said Hazlet, feigning surprise.
You!"
Hazlet saw that all attempt at concealment was use



260               MUD BATHS.
less. "For God's sake don't tell my mother, or any
of the Ildown people," he said, turning pale.
" Is it likely I should? Yet my doing so would be
the very least harm that could happen to you, Hazlet,
if you adopt these courses.- I had rather see you
afraid of the sin than of the detection."
Hazlet stammered in self-defense one of the common phrases which he had heard but too often in the
society of those who "put evil for good and good for
evil."
Julian very quietly tore the miserable sophism to
shreds, and said:  There is but one way to describe
these vices, Hazlet,-they are deadly, bitter, ruinous."
"Oh, they are very common. Lots of men     "
"Tush!" said Julian; " their commonness, if indeed it be so, does not diminish their deadliness. Not
to put the question on the religious ground at all, I
fully agree with Carlyle that, on the mere consideration of expedience and physical fact, nothing can be
more fatal, more calamitous than'to burn away in
mad waste the divine aromas and celestial elements
from our existence; to change our holy of holies into
a place of riot; to make the soul itself hard, impious,
barren.''
ITazlet, ashamed and bewildered, confused his present position with old reminiscences, and muttered some
balderdash about Carlyle "not being sound."
"Carlyle not sound?" said Julian; "good heavens! you can still retain the wretched babblements
of your sectarianism while your courses are what they
are!"
He was inclined to drop the conversation in sheer




THE MURDERER.               261
disgust, but Hazlet's pride was now aroused, and he
began to bluster about the impertinence of interference,
on Julian's part, and his right to do what he chose.
"Certainly," said Julian, sternly, "the choice lies
with yourself. Run, if you will, as a bird to the snare
of the fowler, till a dart strike you through. But if
you are dead and indifferent to your own miserable
soul, think that in this sin you cannot sin alone; think
that you are dragging down to the nethermost abyss
others besides yourself. Remember the wretched victims of your infamous passions, and tremble while you
desecrate and deface forever God's image stamped on
a fair human soul. Think of those whom your vileness
dooms to a life of loathliness, a death of shame and
anguish, perhaps an eternity of horrible despair. Learn
something of the days they are forced to spend, that
they may pander to the worst instincts of your degraded nature; days of squalor and drunkenness, disease and dirt; gin at morning, noon, and night; eating
infection, horrible madness, and sudden death at the
end. Can you ever hope for salvation and the light of
God's presence, while the cry of the souls of which you
have been the murderer-yes, do not disguise it, the
nmurderer, the cruel, willing, pitiless murderer-is
ringing upward from the depths of hell?"
" What do you mean by the murderer?" said IHazlet,
with an attempt at misconception.
"I mean this, Hazlet; setting aside all considerations which affect your mere personal ruin-not mentioning the atrophy of spiritual life and the clinging
sense of degradation which is involved in such a course
as yours-I want you to see if you will be honest,




262              "PROCURESS TO
that the fault is yet more deadly, because you involve
other souls and other lives in your own destruction. Is
it not a reminiscence sufficient to kill any man's hope,
that but for his own brutality some who are now perhaps rotting in the lazar-house or raving in the asylum,
might have been clasping their own children to their
happy breasts, and wearing in unpolluted innocence
the rose of matronly honor? Oh, Hazlet, I have heard
you talk about missionary societies, and seen your name
in subscription lists; but believe me you could not, by
myriads of such conventional charities, cancel the direct
and awful quota which you are now contributing to the
aggregate of the world's misery and shame."
It took a great deal to abash a mind like Hazlet's.
He said that he was going to be a clergyman, and that
it was necessary for him to see something of life, or he
would never acquire the requisite experience.
"Loathly experience!" said Julian, with crushing
scorn. "And do you ever hope, Hazlet, by centuries
of preaching such as yours, to repair one millionth part
of the damage done by your bad passions to a single
fellow-creature?  Such a hateful excuse is verily to
carry the Urim with its oracular gems into the very
sty of sensuality, and to debase your religion into'a
procuress to the lords of hell.' I have done; but let
me say, Hazlet, that your self-justification is, if possible,
more repulsive than your sin."
He pushed back his chair from the fire, and turned
away, as Hazlet, with some incoherent sentences about
"no business of his," left the room, and slammed the
Aioor behind him.
What are words but weak motions of vibrating air?




THE LORDS OF HELL."           263
Julian's words passed by the warped nature of Hazlet
like the idle wind, and left no more trace upon him
than the snow-flake when it has melted into the purpling
sea. As the weeks went on, his ill-regulated passions
grew more and more free from the control of reason or
manliness, and he sank downward, downward, downward, into the most shameful abysses of an idle, and
evil, and dissipated life.
And the germ of that ruin was planted by the hand
of the clever, and gay, and handsome Vyvyan Bruce.




CHAPTER XXII.
DE VAYNE'S TEMPTATION.
"And felt how awful goodness is, and virtue
*In her own shape how lovely."
MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.
SHALL I confess it? Pitiable and melancholy as was
Hazlet's course, I liked him so little as to feel for him
less than I otherwise should have done. His worst
error never caused me half the pain of Kennedy's most
venial fault. Must I then tell a sad tale of Kennedy
too-my brave, bright, beautiful, light-hearted Kennedy, whom I always loved so well? May I not-throw
over the story of his college days the rosy colorings of
romance and fancy, the warm sunshine of prosperity
and hope?   I wish I might! But I am writing of
Camford-not of a divine Utopia or a sunken Atalantis.
Bruce, so far from being troubled by his own evil
deeds, was proud of a success which supported a pet
theory of his infidel opinions. He made no sort of
secret of it, and laughed openly at the fool whom he
had selected for his victim.
"But, after all," said Brogten, who had plenty of
common sense, "your triumph was very slight."
" How do you mean? I chose the most obtrusively
religious man in St. Werner's, and, in the course of a
very short time, I had him, of his own will, roaring
drunk."
(264)




DAREN'T.                265
"And what's the inference?"
"That what men call religion is half cant, half the
accident of circumstances."
"Pardon me, you're out in your conclusion; it only
shows that Hazlet was a hypocrite, or at the best a
weak, vain, ignorant fellow. The very obtrusiveness
and uncharitableness of his religion proved its unreality.
Now I could name dozens of men who would see you
dead on the floor rather than do as you have taught
Hazlet to do-men, in fact, with whom you simply
daren't try the experiment."
"Daren't! why not?"
"Why, simply because they breathe such a higher
and better atmosphere than either you or I, that you
would be abashed by their mere presence."
"Pooh! I don't believe it," said Bruce, with an
uneasy laugh; "mention any such man."
" Well, Suton for instance, or Lord De Vayne."
"Suton is an unpleasant fellow, and I shouldn't
choose to try him, because he's a bore. But I bet you
what you like that I make De Vayne drunk before
a month's over."
" Done! I bet you twenty pounds you don't."
Disgusting that the young, and pure-hearted, and
amiable De Vayne should be made the butt of the
machinations of such men as Bruce and Brogten! But
so it was. So it was; I could not invent facts like
these. They never could float across my imagination,
or if they did, I should reject them as the monstrous
chimeras of a heated brain. I can conceive a man's
private wickedness,-the wickedness which he confines
23




266                so IT rWAS.
within his own heart, and only brings to bear upon
others so far as is demanded by his own fancied interests; I can imagine, too, an open and willing partnership in villainy, where hand joins in hand, and face
answereth to face. But that any, knowing the plague
of their own hearts, should deliberately endeavor to
lead others into sin, coolly and deliberately, without
even the blinding mist of passion to hide the path
which they are treading,-this, if I had not known that
it was so, I could not have conceived. The murderer
who, atom by atom, continues the slow poisoning of'a
perishing body for many months, and dies amid the
yell of a people's execration-in sober earnest, before
God, I believe he is less guilty than he who, drop by
drop, pours into the soul of another the curdling venom
of moral pollution, than he who feeds into full-sized
fury the dormant monsters of another's evil heart.
Surely the devil must welcome a human tempter with
open arms.
Of course Bruce had to proceed with Lord De
-Vayne in a manner totally different from that which he
had applied to Jedediah Hazlet. He felt himself that
the task was far more difficult and delicate, especially
as it was by no means easy to get access to De Vayne's
company at all. Julian, Lillyston, Kennedy, and a
few others formed the circle of his only friends, and
although he was constantly with them, he was rarely to
be found in other society. But this was a difficulty
which a man with so large an acquaintance as Bruce
could easily surmount, and for the rest he trusted to
the conviction which he had adopted, that there was no
such thing as sincere godliness, and that men only dif



PLAYING THIE AGREEABLE.         267
fered in proportion to the weakness or intensity of the
temptations which happened to assail them.
So Bruce managed, without any apparent maneuvering, to see more of De Vayne at various men's rooms,
and he generally made a point of sitting next to him
when he could. He had naturally a most insinuating
address and a suppleness of manner which enabled him
to adapt himself with facility to the tastes and temperaments of the men among whom he was thrown. There
were few who could make themselves more pleasant and plausible when it suited them than Vyvyan
Bruce.
De Vayne soon got over the shrinking with which
he had at first regarded him, and no longer shunned
the acquaintance of which he seemed desirous. It was
not until this stage that Bruce made any serious attempt to take some steps toward winning his wager.
He asked De Vayne to a dessert, and took care that
the wines should be of an insidious strength. But the
young nobleman's abstemiousness wholly defeated and
baffled him, as he rarely took more than a single
glass.
"You pass the wine, De Vayne; don't do that."
"Thank you, I've had enough."."Come, come; allow me," said Bruce, filling his
glass for him.
De Vayne drank it out of politeness, and Bruce
repeated the same process soon after.
" Come, De Vayne, no heel-taps," he said playfully,
as he filled his glass for him.
"Thank you, I'd really rather not have any
more."




268                  COMUS.
"Why, you must have been lending your ears to
"' Those budge doctors of the Stoic fur,
Praising the lean and sallow abstinence.'
You. take nothing.  I shall abuse my wine merchant."
"You certainly seem as anxious as Comus that I
should drink, Bruce," said De Vayne, smiling; "but
really I mean that I wish for no more."
Bruce saw that he had overstepped the bounds of
politeness, and also made a mistake by going a little
too far. He pressed De Vayne no longer, and the
conversation passed to other subjects.
"Anything in the papers to-day?" asked Brogten.
"Yes, another case of wife-beating and wife-murder.
What a dreadful increase of those crimes there has
been lately!" said De Vayne.
"Another proof," said Bruce, "of the gross absurdity
of the marriage theory."
De Vayne opened his eyes wide in astonishment.
Knowing very little of Bruce, he was not aware that
this was a very favorite style of remark with him,indeed, a not uncommon style with other clever young
undergraduates. He delighted to startle men by something new, and dazzle them with a semblance of insight
and reasoning. " The gross absurdity of the marriage
theory," thought De Vayne to himself; "I wonder
what on earth he can mean?" Fancying he must have
misheard, he said nothing; but Bruce, disappointed
that his remark had fallen flat, for the others were too
much used to the kind of thing to take any notice of it,
continued,"How curious it is that the whiole of the arguments




THE MARRIAGE THEORY-PICCIOLA!       269
should be against marriage, and yet that it should con4inue to be an institution. You never find a person to
defend it."
"'At quis vituperavit?' as the man remarked, on
hearing of a defense of Hercules," said De Vayne.
"I should have thought that marriage, like the Bible,' needed no apology.''
"My dear fellow, it surely is an absurdity on the
face of it? see how badly it succeeds."
Without choosing to enter on that question, De Vayne
quietly remarked, "You ask why marriage exists. Don't
you believe that it was originally appointed by divine
providence, and afterwards sanctioned by divine lips?"
" Oh, if you come to that kind of ground, you know,
and abandon the aspect of the question from the side
of pure reason, you've so many preliminaries to prove;
e.g. the genuineness and authenticity of the Pentateuch
and the gospels; the credibility of the narrators; the
possibility of their being deceived; the-"
"In fact," said De Vayne, " the evidences of Christianity. Well, I trust that I have studied them, and
that they satisfy alike my reason and my conscience."
"Ah, yes! Well, it's no good entering on those
questions, you know. I shouldn't like to shock your
convictions, as I should have to do if I discussed with
you. It's just as well after all-even in the nineteenth
century-not to expose the exotic flower of men's belief
to the rude winds of fair criticism. Picciola! it might
be. blighted, poor thing, which would be a pity.' Perhaps one does more harm than good by exposing antiquated errors." And with a complacent shrug of the
23*




270          SKEPTICAL LITERATURE.
shoulders, and a slight smile of self-admiration, Bruce
leant back in his arm-chair.
This was Bruce's usual way, and he found it the
most successful. There were a great many minds on
whom it created the impression of immense cleverness.
" That kind of thing, you know, it's all exploded now,"
he would say among the circle of his admirers, and he
would give a little waive of the hand, which was vastly
effective-as if he "' could an if he would" puff away
the whole system of Christianity with quite a little
breath of objection, but refrained from such tyrannous
use of a giant's strength. "It's all very well, you
know, for parsons-though, by the way, not half of the
cleverest believe what they preach-but really for men
of the world, and thinkers, and acute reasoners"-oh,
how agreeable it was to the Tulks and Boodles to be
included in such a category!-" why, after such books
as Frederic of Suabia'De Tribus Impostoribus,' and
Strauss''Leben Jesu,' and De Wette, and Feuerbach,
and Van Bohlen, and Nork, one can't be expected, you
know, to believe such a mass of traditionary rubbish."
(Bruce always professed acquaintance with German
writers, and generally quoted the titles of their books
in the original; it sounded so much better; not that he
had read one of them, of course.) And they did think
him so clever when he talked in this way. Only think
how wise he must be to know such profound truths!
But so far from Bruce's hardly concealed contempt
for the things which Christians hold sacred producing
any effect on Lord de Vayne, he regarded it with a
silent pity. "I hate," thought he, "when Vice can
bolt her arguments, and Virtue has no tongue to check




ITHURIEL.                271
her pride." The annoying impertinence, so frequent
in argument, which leads a man to speak as though,
from the vantage-ground of great intellectual superiority
to his opponent, the graceful affectation of dropping an
argument out of respect for prejudices which the arguer
despises, or an incapacity which the arguer impliesthis merely personal consideration did not ruffle for a
moment the gentle spirit of De Vayne. But that a
young man-conceited, shallow, and ignorant-should
profess to settle with a word the controversies which
had agitated the profoundest reasons, and to settle
with a sneer the mysteries before which the mightiest
thinkers had vailed their eyes in reverence and awe;
that he should profess to set aside Christianity as a
childish fable not worthy a wise man's acceptance, and
triumph over it as a defeated and deserted cause; this
indeed filled De Vayne's mind with sorrow and disgust.
So far from being impressed or dazzled by Bruce's
would-be cleverness, he sincerely grieved over his impudence and folly.
" Thank you, Bruce," he said, after a slight pause,
and with some dignity, " thank you for your kind consideration of my mental inferiority, and for the pitying
regard which you throw, from beside your nectar, on
my. delicate and trembling superstitions. But don't
think, Bruce, that I admit your-may I call it?impertinent assumption that all thinking men have
thrown Christianity aside as an exploded error. Some
shadow of proof, some fragment of reason, would be
more satisfactory treatment of a truth which has regenerated the world, than foolish assertion or insolent
contempt. Good night."




272              READY MONEY.
There was something in the manner of De Vayne's
reproof which effectually quelled Bruce, while it galled
him; yet, at the same time, it was delivered with such
quiet good taste, that to resent it was impossible. He
saw, too, not without vexation, that it had told powerfully on the little knot of auditors. The wine party
soon broke up, for Bruce could neither give new life to
the conversation, nor recover his chagrin.
"So-ho!" said Brogten, when they were left alone,
" I shall win my bet."
" D —  d if you shall!" said Bruce, with an oath'of
vexation. In fact, not only was he determined not to
be foiled in proving his wisdom and power of reading
men's characters, but he was wholly unable to afford
any payment of the bet. Bruce could get unlimited
credit for goods, on the reputation of his father's wealth,
but money-dealers were very sharp-eyed people, and
he found it much less easy to get promissory notes
cashed. It was a matter of etiquette to pay at once
"debts of honor," and his impetuous disposition led
him to take bets so freely that his ready money was
generally drained away very soon after his return. Not
long before he had written to his father for a fresh supply, but, to his great surprise, the letter had only produced an angry and even indignant reproof. "Vyvyafi,"
(his father had written not even "dear Vyvyan,") "I
allow you ~500 a year, a sum totally out of proportion
with your wants, and yet you are so shamefully extravagant as to write without a blush to ask me for more.
Don't presume to do it again on pain of my heavy displeasure."  This letter had so amazed him that he did
not even answer it, nor, in spite of his mother's earnest,




LAUDANUM.                273
urgent, and almost heart-rending entreaties, post by
post, would he even condescend to write home for many
weeks. It was the natural result of the way in which
at home they had pampered his vanity, and never
checked his faults.
But, for these reasons, it was wholly out of Bruce's
power to pay Brogten the bet, if he failed in trying to
shake the temperance of De Vayne. He saw at once
that he had mistaken his subject; he took De Vayne
for a man whose goodness and humility would make
him pliant to all designs.
A dark thought entered Bruce's mind.
He went alone into a druggist's shop, and said, with
a languid air, "I have been suffering very much from
sleeplessness lately, Mr. Brent; I want you to give me
a little laudanum."
"Very well, sir.  You must be careful how you
use it."
"Oh, of course. How many drops would make one
drowsy, now?"
"Four or five, sir, I should think."
" Well, you must give me one of those little bottles
full. I want to have some by me, to save trouble."
The chemist filled the bottle, and then said, "I'm
afraid I'm out of my poison labels, sir. I'll just write
a little ticket and tie it on."
"All right;" and putting it in his pocket, Bruce
strolled away.
But how to see De Vayne again? He thought over
their common acquaintances, and at last fixed on Kennedy as the likeliest man on whom he could depend to
secure another meeting. Yet he hardly liked to sug



274                 I WON'T.
gest that Kennedy should give a wine party, and
ask De Vayne and himself; so that he was rather
puzzled.
" I say, Brogten, how is it that we are always asking Kennedy to our rooms, and he so very seldom
asks us?"
"I suppose because he isn't over-partial to our company."
"Why not?" said Bruce, who considered himself
very fascinating, and quite a person whose society was
to be courted; "and if so, why does he come to our
rooms?"
Brogten. might, perhaps, have thrown light on the
subject, had he chosen.
"Well," he said, "I'll give him a hint."
"Do; and get him to ask De Vayne."
Brogten did so; Kennedy assented to asking Bruce,
though he listened to Brogten's hints (which he instantly understood) with a sullenness which but a short
time before had no existence, not even a prototype, in
his bright and genial character. But when it came to
asking De Vayne, he simply replied to Brogten's suggestion flatly,"I will not."
"Won't you? but why?"
"Why? because I suspect you and that fellow
Bruce of wishing to treat him as you treated Hazlet."
"I've no designs against him whatever."
"Well, I won't ask him,-that's flat."
"Whew-ew-ew-ew-ew!" Brogten began to whistle,
ind Kennedy relieved his feelings by digging the poker
into the fire. And then there was a pause.




A GUILTY SECRET.            275
"I want you to ask De Vayne."
"And I tell you I won't ask him."
"Whew-w-w-!" Another long whistle, during which
Kennedy mashed and battered the black lumps that
smoldered in the grate.
" Whew-ew-ew-ew! Oh, very well."  Brogten left
the room. At hall that day, Brogten took care to sit
near Kennedy again, and the old scene was nearly reenacted. He turned the conversation to the Christmas examination.  "I suppose you'll be very high,
again, Kennedy."
"No," said he, curtly. "I've not read, and you
know that as well as I do."
" Oh, but you hadn't read much last time, and you
may do some particular paper very well, you, know. I
wish there was an 2Eschylus paper; you might be first,
you know, again."
Kennedy flung down his knife and fork with a curse,
and left the hall. Men began to see clearly that there
must have been some mystery attached to the ZEschylus paper, known to Brogten and Kennedy, and very
discomforting to the latter. But as Kennedy was concerned, they did not suspect the truth.
Brogten went straight from hall to Kennedy's rooms.
He found the door sported, but knew as well as possible that Kennedy was in. He hammered and thumped
at the door a long time with sundry imprecations, but
Kennedy, moodily resolute, heard all the noise inside,
and would not stir. Then Brogten took out a card and
wrote on the back: "I think you'll ask De Vayne,"
and dropped it into the letter-box.
That evening he found in his own letter-box a slip




.276           WINE AND WATER.
of paper. " De Vayne is coming to wine with me tomorrow. Come, and the foul fiend take you. I Jave
filled my decanters half full of water, and won't bring
out more than one bottle. E. K."
Brogten read the note and chuckled, —partly with
the thought of Kennedy, partly of Bruce, partly of
De Vayne. Yet the chuckle ended in a very heavy
sigh.




CHAPTER XXIII.
KENNEDY S WINE PARTY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
"Et je n'ai moi
Par la sang Dieu!
Ni foi, ni loi,
Ni jeu, ni lieu,
Ni roi, ni Dieu."
VICTOR HUGO, Notre Dame de Paris.
"Nay, that's certain; but yet the pity of it,
Iago!-O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!"-OTHELLO, iv. 1.
"ARE you going to Kennedy's, Julian.?" asked De
Vayne.
" No."
"I wish he'd asked you."
Julian a little wondered why he had not, but remembered, with a sigh, that there was something,
he- knew not what, between him and Kennedy. Yet
Kennedy was engaged to Violet! The thought carried him back to the beautiful memories of Grindelwald and Mirrem,-perhaps of Eva Kennedy: I will
not say.
As De Vayne glanced round at the men assembled
at Kennedy's rooms, he felt a little vexation, and halfwished he had not come. Why on earth did Kennedy
see so much of these Bruces and Brogtens when he was
so thoroughly unlike them? But De Vayne consoled
himself with the reflection that the evening could not
fail to be pleasant, as Kennedy was there; for he liked
24              (277)




278               CONSIDERATE.
Kennedy both for Julian's sake and for his own. Hap.
pily for him he did not know as yet that Kennedy was
affianced to Violet Home.
Kennedy sat at the end of the table with a gloomy
cloud on his brow.  "Here, De Vayne," he said:
"I'm so really glad to see you at last. Sit by mehere's a chair."
De Vayne took the proffered seat, and Bruce immediately seated himself at his left hand. At first, as
the wine was passed round, there seemed likely to be
but little conversation; but suddenly some one started
the subject of a "cause celebre," which was then filling
the papers, and Kennedy began at once to discuss it
with some interest to De Vayne, who sat nearly facing
him, almost with his back turned to Bruce, who did
not seem particularly anxious to attract De Vayne's
attention.
"What execrable wash!" said Brogten, emptying
his glass.
De Vayne, surprised and disgusted at the rudeness
of the remark, turned hastily round, and, while Bruce
as hastily withdrew his hand, raised the wineglass to
his lips.
"Stop, stop, De Vayne," said Bruce, eagerly;
"there's a fly in your glass."
"I see no fly," said De Vayne, glancing at it, and
immediately draining it, with the intention of saying
something to smooth Kennedy's feelings, which he supposed would have been hurt by Brogten's want of common politeness.
"I think it very- " Why did his words fail, and
what was the reason of that soared look with which he




"NOT A FLY, BUT-"            279
regarded the blank faces of the other undergraduates I
And what is the meaning of that gasp, and the rapid
dropping of the head upon the breast, and the deadly
pallor that suddenly put out the fair color in his
cheeks? There was no fly-but, good heavens! was
there death in the glass?
The whole party leapt up from their places, and
gathered round him.
"What is the matter, De Vayne?" said Kennedy,
tenderly, as he knelt down and supported the young
man in his arms. But there was no answer. "Here,
D'Acres, or somebody, for heaven's sake fetch a doctor; he must have been seized with a fit!"
" What have you been doing, Bruce!" thundered
Brogten.
"Bruce doing!" said Kennedy, wildly, as he sprang
to his feet. "By the God above us, if I thought this
was any of your devilish machinations, I would strike
you to the earth."
"Doing? I?" stammered Bruce. " What do you
mean?" He trembled in every limb, and his face was
as pale as that of his victim; yet, though perhaps De
Vayne's life depended on it, the young wretch would
not say what he had done. He had meant but to put
four or five drops into his glass, but De Vayne had
turned round suddenly, and startled him in the very
act, and, in the hurried agitation of the moment, his
hand had slipped, and he had poured in all the contents of the bottle, with barely time to hurry it ermpty
into his pocket, or to prevent the consequences of
what he had done, when De Vayne lifted the glass to
his lips




280                POISONED.
The men all stood round De Vayne and Kennedy
in a helpless crowd, and Kennedy said: " Here, fetch
a doctor, somebody, and let all go except D'Acres; so
many are only in the way."
The little group dispersed, and two of them ran off
to find a doctor; but Bruce stood there still, with open
mouth, and a countenance as pale in its horror as that
of the fainting viscount. He was anxious to tell the
truth about the matter, in order to avert worse consequences, and yet he dared not,-the words died away
upon his lips.
"Don't stand like that, Bruce," said Brogten, indignantly; " the least you can do is to make yourself
useful.  Go and get the key of De Vayne's rooms
from the porter's lodge. Stop, though! it will probably be in his pocket.  Yes, here it is. Run and
unlock his door, while we carry him to bed."
Bruce took the key with trembling hand, and shook
so violently with nervous agitation, that he could hardly
make his way across the court. The others carried De
Vayne to his bedroom as quickly as they could, and
anxiously awaited the doctor's arrival. The livid face,
with-the dry foam upon the lips, filled them with alarm,
but they had not any conception what to do, and fancied that De Vayne was in a fit.
It took Dr. Masham a very short time to see that
his patient was suffering from the influence of some
poison, and when he discovered this, he cleared the
room, and at once applied the proper remedies. But
time had been lost already, and he was the less able to
set to work at first, from his complete ignorance of
what had happened. He sat up all night with his pa



DARK RUMORS.               281
tient, but was more than doubtful whether it was not
too late to save his life.
The news that De Vayne had been seized with a fit
at Kennedy's rooms, soon changed into a darker rumor. Men had not forgotten the affair of Hazlet,
and they suspected that some foul play had been
practiced on one whom all who knew him loved, and
whom all, though personally unacquainted with him,
heartily respected. That this was really the fact, soon
ceased to be a secret; but who was guilty, and what
had been the manner or motives of the crime, remained
unknown, and this uncertainty left room for the wildest surmises.
The dons were not slow to hear what had happened,
and they regarded the matter in so serious a light that
they summoned a seniority for its immediate investigation. Kennedy was, obviously, the first person of
whom to make inquiries, and he told them exactly what
had occurred, viz., that De Vayne, after drinking a
single glass of wine, fell back in his chair in the condition wherein he still continued.
"Was anything the matter with the wine, Mr. Kennedy?" asked Mr. Norton, who, as one of the tutors,
had a seat on the board.
"Nothing, sir; it was the same which we were all
drinking."
"And without any bad effects?"
Yes, sir."
"But, Mr. Kennedy, there seems strong reason to
believe that some one drugged Lord De Vayne's wine?
Were you privy to such plans?"
24*




282           CROSS-EXAMINATION.
"No, sir-not exactly;" said Kennedy, slowly and
with hesitation.
"Really, sir," said the master of St. Werne' s,
" such an answer is grossly to your discredit. Favor
us by being more explicit; what do you mean by'not
exactly?'"
Kennedy's passionate and fiery pride, which had
recently increased with the troubles and self-reprobation of his life, could ill brook such questioning as this,
and he answered haughtily,"I was not aware that anything of this kind was
intended."
"Anything of this kind! you did, then, expect
something to take place?"
" I thought I had taken sufficient precaution against
it."
"Against it! against what?" asked Mr. Norton.
Kennedy looked up at his questioner, as though he
read in his face the decision as to whether he should
speak or not.  He would hardly have answered the
master, or any of the others, but Mr. Norton was his
friend, and there was something so manly and noble
about his look and character, that Kennedy was encouraged to proceed; and he said slowly,"I suspected, sir, that there was some intention of
attempting to make De Vayne drunk."
"You suspected that," said Mr. Norton, with astonishment and scorn, " and yet you lent your rooms
for such a purpose?  I am ashamed of you, Kennedy;
heartily and utterly ashamed."
Kennedy's spirit was roused by this bitter and
public apostrophe. " I lent my rooms for no such pur



SUSPICIONS.               283
pose; on the contrary, if it existed, I did my best to
defeat it."
"What made you suspect it?" asked Dr. Rhodes,
the master.
"Because a similar attempt was practiced on another."
"At which it seems that you were present."
"I was not." Kennedy was too fiercely angry to
answer in more words than was absolutely required.
" I am sorry to say, Mr. Kennedy, you have not
cleared yourself from the great disgrace of giving an
invitation, though you supposed that it would be made
the opportunity for perpetrating an infamous piece
of mischief.  Can you throw no more light on the
subject?"
"None."
"Will you bring the decanter out of which Lord:De Vayne drank?" said one of the seniors after a pause,
and with an intense belief in the acuteness of the suggestion.
" I don't see what good it will do, but I will order
my gyp to carry it here if you wish."
"Do so, sir. And let me add," said the master,
"that a little more respectfulness of manner would be
becoming in your present position."
Kennedy's lip curled, and without answer he left the
room to fetch the wine, grimly chuckling at the effect
which the mixture would produce on Mr. Norton's
fastidious taste.  When he reached his rooms, he
stumbled against the table in his hurry, and upset a
little glass dish which held his pencils, one of which
rolled away under the fender. In lifting the fender to




284            A WRITTEN LABEL.
pick it up, a piece of paper caught his eye, which the
bed-maker in cleaning the room had swept out of sight
in the morning. He looked at it, and saw in legible
characters, " Laudanum, Poison."  It was the label
which had been loosely tied on Bruce's phial, and
which had slipped off as he hurried it into his pocket.
He read it, and as the horrid truth flashed across
his mind, stood for a moment stupefied and dumb. His
plan was instantly formed. Instead of returning to the
conclave of seniors, he ran straight off to the chemist's,
which was close by St. Werner's.
"Do you know anything of this label?" he said,
thrusting it into the chemist's hands.
"Yes," said the man, after looking at it for a
moment; "it is the label of a bottle of laudanum
which I sold yesterday morning to Mr. Bruce of St.
Werner's."
Without a word, Kennedy snatched it from him,
and rushed back to the seniority, who were already
beginning to wonder at his long absence. He threw
down the piece of paper before Mr. Norton, who handed
it to the master.
" I found that, sir, on the floor of my room."
"And you know nothing of it?"
"Yes. It belongs to a bottle purchased yesterday
by Bruce."
Amazement and horror seemed to struggle in the
minds of the old clergymen and lecturers as they sat
at the table.
"We must send instantly for this young man," said
Mr. Norton; and in ten minutes Bruce entered, pale,
indeed, but in a faultless costume, with a bow of easy




ENTER BRUCE.              285
grace, and a smile of polite recognition toward such of
the board as he personally knew.  He was totally
unaware of what had been going on during Kennedy's
cross-examination.
"Mr. Bruce," said Mr. Norton, to whom they all
seemed gladly to resign the task of discovering the
truth, " do you know anything of the cause of Lord
De Vayne's sudden attack of illness last night."
"I, sir? Certainly not."
" He sat next to you, did he not?"
"He did, I believe. Yes. I can't be quite surebut I think he did."
" You know he did as well as I do," said Kennedy.
"Mr. Kennedy, let me request you to be silent.
Mr. Bruce, had you any designs against Lord De
Vayne?"
"Designs, sir? excuse me, but I am at a loss to
understand your meaning."
" You had no intention then of making him drunk?"
"Really, sir, you astonish me by such coarse imputations. Is it you," he said, turning angrily to
Kennedy, "who have been saying such things of me?"
Kennedy deigned no reply.
I should think the testimony of a man who doesn't
scruple secretly to read examination papers before
they are set, ought not to stand for much.' Brogten,
as we have already mentioned, had revealed to him
the secret of Kennedy's dishonor. This remark fell
quite dead: Kennedy sat unmoved, and Mr. Norton
replied,"Pray don't introduce your personal altercations
here, Mr. Bruce, on irrelevant topics. Mr. Bruce,'




286        CONVICTED-THE SENTENCE.
he continued, suddenly giving him the label, "have you
ever seen that before?"
With a cry of agony, Bruce saw the paper, and
struck his forehead with his hand. The sudden blow
of shameful detection with all its train of consequences
utterly unmanned him, and, falling on his knees, he
cried incoherently," Oh! I did it, I did it. I didn't mean to; my hand
slipped: indeed, indeed it did. For God's sake forgive me, and let this not be known. I will give you
thousands to hush it up-"
A general exclamation of indignation and disgust
stopped his prayers, and the master gave orders that
he should be removed and watched. He was dragged
away, tearing his hain and sobbing like a child. Kennedy, too, was ordered to retire.
It took the seniors but a short time to deliberate,
and then Bruce was summoned. He would have spoken,
but the master sternly ordered him to be silent, and said
to him,"Vyvyan Bruce, you are convicted by your own
confession, extorted after deliberate falsehood, of having
wished to drug the wine of a fellow-student for the purpose of entrapping him into a sin, to which you would
otherwise have failed to tempt him. What fearful
results may follow from your wickedness we cannot yet
know, and, you may have to answer for this crime before
another tribunal. Be that as it may, it is hardly necessary to tell you that your time as a student at St. Werner's has ended. You are expelled, and I now proceed
to erase your name from the books." (Here the master
ran his pen two or three times through Bruce's signa



THE SENIOR DEAN.             287
ture in the college register.) "Your rooms must be
finally vacated to-morrow. You need say nothing in
self-defense, and may go." As Bruce seemed determined to plead his own dause, they ordered the attendant
to remove him immediately.
Kennedy was then sent for, and they could not help
pitying him, for he was a favorite with them all.
"Mr. Kennedy," said the senior dean, "the master
desires me to admonish you for your very culpable connivance-for I have no other name for it-in the
great folly and wickedness of which Bruce has been
convicted- "
"I did not connive!" said Kennedy.
" Silence, sir!"
"But I will not keep silence; you accuse me falsely."
" We shall be obliged to take further measures, Mr.
Kennedy, if you behave in this refractory way."
" I don't care what measures you take. I cannot
listen in silence to an accusation which I loathe-of a
crime of which I am wholly innocent."
"Why, sir, you confessed that you suspected some
unfair design."
"But not this design. Proceed, sir; I will not interrupt you again; but let me say that I am totally
indifferent to any blame which you throw on me for a
brutality of which the whole responsibility rests on
others."
The thread of the dean's oration was quite broken
by Kennedy's impetuous interruption, and he merely
added: "Well, Mr. Kennedy, I am sorry to see you so
little penitent for the position in which you have placed
yourself. You have disappointed the expectation of all




288               EXIT BRUCE.
your friends, and however you may brazen it out, your
character has contracted a stain."
" You can say so, sir, if you choose," said Kennedy;
and he left the room with a formal bow.
A few days after, Mr. Grayson asked him to what
Bruce had alluded in his insinuation about an examination paper?
"He alludes, sir, to an event which happened some
time ago."
Further questions were useless; nevertheless Kennedy saw that his tutor's suspicions were not only
aroused, but that they had taken the true direction.
Mr. Grayson despised him, and in St. Werner's he had
lost caste.
That evening Bruce vanished from Camford, with
the regrets of few except his tailors and his duns. To
this day he has not- payed his college debts or discharged the bill for the gorgeous furniture of his rooms.
But we shall hear of him again.




CHAPTER XXIV.
DE VAYNE'S CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.
"He thlat for love hath undergone
The worst that can befall,
Is happier thousandfold than one
Who never loved at all.
A grace within his soul hath reigned,
Which nothing else can bring;
Thank God for all that I have gained
By that high suffering."-MONCTON MILNES.
FOR many days Lord De Vayne seemed to be
hovering between life and death. The depression of
his spirits weighed upon his frame, and greatly retarded
his recovery. That he; unconscious as he was of ever
having made an enemy-good and gentle to all-with
no desire but to love his neighbor as himself, and to
devote such talents and such opportunities as had been
vouchsafed him to God's glory and man's benefit;
that he should have been made the subject of a disgraceful wager, and the butt of an infamous experiment;
that in endeavoring to carry out this nefarious plan,
any one should have been so wickedly reckless, so
criminally thoughtless, —this knowledge lay on his
imagination with a depression as of coming death. De
Vayne had been but little in St. Werner's society, an'd
had rarely seen any but his few chosen friends; and
that such a calamity should have happened in the
25            (289)




290.EART-SICK,
rooms and at the table of one of those friends; that
Kenn3dy, whom he so much loved and admired, should
be suspected of being privy to it,-this fact was one
which made De Vayne's heart sink within him with
anguish and horror, and a weariness of life.
And in those troubled waters of painful thought
floated the broken gleams of a golden phantasy, the
rainbow-colored memories of a secret love. They came
like a light upon the darkened waves, yet a light too
feeble to dissipate the under gloom. Like the phosphorescent flashes in the sea at midnight, which the
lonely voyager, watching with interest as they glow in
the white wake of the keel, guesses that they may be
the heralds of a storm,-so these bright reminiscences
of happier days only gave a weird beauty to the tumult
of the sick boy's mind; and the mother, as she sat by
him night and day during the crisis of his suffering,
listened with a deeper anxiety for future trouble to the
delirious revelations of his love.
For Lady De Vayne had come from Uther Hall to
nurse her sick son. She slept on a sofa in his sitting
room, and nursed him with such tenderness as only a
mother can. There was no immediate possibility of
removing him; deep, unbroken quiet was his only
chance of life. The silence of his sick-room was un.
disturbed save by the softest whispers and the lightest
footfalls, and the very undergraduates hushed theii
voices, and checked their hasty steps as they passed
in the echoing cloisters underneath, and remembered
that the flame of life was flickering low in the golden
vase.
De Vayne was much beloved, and nothing could ex



THE VACATION.              291
ceed the delicacy of the attention shown him. Choice
conservatory flowers were left almost daily at his door,
and men procured rare and rich fruits from home or
from London, not because De Vayne needed any such
luxuries, which were easily at his command, but that
they might show him their sympathy and distress.
Several ladies, more or less connected with St.Werner's, offered their services to Lady De Vayne, but she
would not leave her son, in whose welfare and recovery
her whole thoughts were absorbed.
And so, gloomily for the son and mother, the Christmas holidays came on, and St. Werner's was deserted.
Scarcely even a stray undergraduate lingered in the
courts, and the chapel was closed; no sound of choirs
or organ came sweetly across the lawns at morning
or evening; the ceaseless melancholy plash of the
great fountain was almost the only sound that broke
the stillness.  Julian, Lillyston, and Owen had all
gone down for the holidays, full of grief at the thought
of leaving their friend in such a precarious state, but
as yet not permitted to see or serve him.  Lady De
Vayne promised to write to Julian regular accounts
of Arthur's health, and told him how often her,son
spoke of him both in his wanderings and in his clearer
moments.
It was touching to see the stately and beautiful
lady walking alone at evening about the deserted
college, to gain a breath of the keen winter air, while
her son had sunk for a few moments to fitful rest. She
was pale with long watchings and deep anxiety, and
in her whole countenance, and in her deep and often
uplifted eyes, was that look of prayerfulness and




292       THE GROUNDS OF ST. WERNER'S.
holy communion with an unseen world, which they
acquire whose abode has long been in the house of
mourning, and removed from the follies and frivolities
of life.
Well-loved grounds of St. Werner's by the quiet
waves of the sedgy Iscam, with smooth green grass
sloping down to the edge, and trim quaint gardens, and
long avenues of chestnut and ancient limes! Though
winter had long whirled away the last red and golden
leaf, there was pleasure in the air of quiet and repose,
which is always to be found in those memory-hallowed walks; and while Lady De Vayne could pace
among them in solitude, she needed no. other change,
nor any rest from thinking over her sick son.
She was surprised one evening, very soon after the
men had gone down, to see an undergraduate slowly
approaching her down the long and silent avenue. He
was tail and well made, and his face would have been
a pleasant one, but for the deep look of sadness which
clouded it. He hesitated, and took off his cap as she
came near, and, returning his salute, she would have
passed him, but he stopped her, and said,"Lady De Vayne."
Full of surprise, she looked at him, and with his
eyes fixed on the ground, he continued: "You do not
know my name; if I tell you, I fear you will hate me,
because I fear you will have heard calumnies about me.
But may I speak to you?"
"You are not Mr. Bruce?" she said, with a slight
shudder.
"No, my name is Edward Kennedy. Ah, madam!
do not look at me so reproachfully; I cannot endure it,




KENNEDY AND LADY DE VAYNE.        293
Relieve me, I would have died-I would, indeed-ather than this should have happened to Lord De
Vayne."
"Nay, Mr. Kennedy, I cannot believe that you
were more than thoughtless. I have very often heard
Julian Home speak of you, and I cannot believe that
his chosen friend could be so vile as some reports would
make you."
"They are false as calumny itself," he said, passionately. "Oh, Lady De Vayne, none could have
honored and loved your son more than I did; I cannot
explain to you the long story of my exculpation, but I
implore you to believe my innocence."
"I forgive you, Mr. Kennedy," she said, touched
with pity, "if there be anything to forgive; and so
will Arthur. A more forgiving spirit than his never
filled any one, I think. Excuse me, it is time for me
to return to him."
" But will you not let me see him, and help you in
nursing him? It was for this purpose alone that I
stayed here when all the others went.  Let me, at
least, be near him, that I may feel myself to be making
such poor reparation as my heedlessness requires."
She could hardly resist his earnest entreaty, and,
besides, she was won by compassion for his evident
distress.
"You may come, Mr. Kennedy, as often as you like 
whenever Arthur is capable of seeing you, you shall
visit his sick-room."
" Thank you," he said, and she perceived the trem.
ble of deep emotion in his voice.
25*




294           JEALOUSY-AWAKING.
He came the next morning, and she allowed him
to see De Vayne. He entered noiselessly, and gazed
for a moment as he stood at the door, on the pale
wasted face, looking still paler in contrast with the
long dark hair that flowed over the pillow.  He was
awake, but there was no consciousness in his dark
dreamy eyes.
As De Vayne murmured to himself in low sentences, Kennedy heard repeatedly the name of Violet
and once of Violet Home.  He sat still as death, and
soon gathered from the young lord's broken words his
love, his deep love for Julian's sister.
And when Kennedy first recognized this fact, which
had hitherto been quite unknown to him, for a moment
a flood of jealousy and bitter envy filled his heart.
What if Violet should give up her troth in favor of a
wcalthier, perhaps worthier lover? What if her family
should think his own poor claims no barrier to the hope
that Violet should one day wear a coronet? The. image
of Julian and Violet rose up in his fancy, and with one
more pang of self-reproach, he grew ashamed of his
unworthy suspicions.
Yet the thought that De Vayne, too, had fixed his
affections on Violet filled him with uneasiness and foreboding, and he determined, on some future occasion,
to save pain to all parties, by getting Julian to break
to De Vayne the secret of his sister's betrothal.
For several days he came to the sick-room, and a
woman could hardly have been more thoughtful and
tender than he was to his friend.  It was on about
the fourth evening that De Vayne awoke to complete
consciousness. HIe became aware that some one besides




AT ItLD) Ai              295
his mother was seated in the re<,n, and without asking
he seemed slowly to recognize that it was Kennedy.
"Is that Kennedy?" he asked, in a weak voice.
"It is I," said Kennedy; but the patient did not
answer, and seemed restless and uneasy, and complained
of cold.
When Kennedy went, De Vayne whispered to his
mother: "Mother, I am very weak and foolish, but it
troubles me somehow to see Kennedy sitting there; it
shocks my nerves, and fills me with images of something dreadful happening. I had rather not see him,
mother, till I am well."
"Very well, Arthur.  Don't talk so much, love;
I alone will nurse you." Soon I hope you will be able
to return to Uther."
"And leave this dreadful place," he said, "forever."
" Hush, my boy; try to sleep again."
He soon slept, and then Lady De Vayne wrote to
Kennedy a short note, in which she explained as kindly
and considerately as she could, that Arthur was not
yet strong enough to allow of any more visits to his
sick-room.
" He shuns me," thought Kennedy, with a sigh; and
packing up some books and clothes, he prepared to go
home.
Of course he was to spend part of the vacation at
Ildown. Violet wondered that he did not come at
once; she was not exactly jealous of him, but she
thought that he might have been more eager for her
company than he seemed to be, and she would have
liked it better had he come earlier. Poor Kennedy!




296         BEAUTIFUL AS A DREAM.
his very self-denials turned against him; for the sole
reason why he kept away from Ildown was, that he
feared to disturb the freedom of Frank and Cyril by
the presence of a stranger all the time of their holidays,
and he hesitated to intrude on the united happiness
which always characterized the Ildown circle.
Eva, too, was invited, and the brother and sister
arrived at Ildown by a late train, and drove to the
house. What a glowing welcome they received! Julian
introduced them to Mrs. Home, an4 Kennedy kissed
affectionately the hand of his future mother. Frank
and Cyril had gone to bed, but Frank was so determined
to see Violet's lover that night, that he made Julian
bring him into their bedroom, and he was more than
satisfied with the first glimpse.
"And where is Violet?" asked Kennedy, in a matterof-fact tone, for he well knew that she would not choose
to meet him in the presence of others.
"In her own little room," said Julian, smiling; "1
will show you the way."  He led Kennedy up stairs,
and left him at the door; he well knew that her heart'would be fluttering as much as his.
A light knock at the door, and a moment after they
saw each other again.
She sat on the sofa, and the firelight flickered on
the amethyst-his gift-which she wore on her white
neck; and her bright eyes danced with tears and
laughter, and her bosom heaved and fell as he clasped
her to his breast, and printed a long, long kiss upon
her cheek.
In silence, more exquisite than speech, they gazed.
on each other; and as though her beauty were reflected




EVENINGS AT ROM{E.            297
on his own face, all trace of sorrow and shame fled
like a cloud from his forehead; and who would not have
said, looking upon the pair, that he was worthy of her,
as she of him?
"My own Violet," he said, "you are beautiful as a
vision to-night!"
"Hush, flatterer!" and she placed her little hand upon
his mouth: no wonder that he seized and kissed it.
"And what a thrice-charming dresg!"
"Ah, I meant you to admire it," she said, laughing
"'And thinking, tPLis will please him best,"
She takes a ribbon or a rose,'"
he whispered to her.
" Come," she replied, "no ill-omened words, Edward.
You know the sad context of those lines."
"No! no sadness to-night, my own Violet, my
beautiful, beautiful Violet; you quite dazzle me, my
child. I really can't sit by your side; come, let me
sit on your footstool here, and look up in your face."
"Silly boy!" she said; "come along, we shall keep
them all waiting for supper."
While poor De Vayne languished on the bed of sickness, his sufferings were almost the only shadow which
checkered the brightness of these weeks at Ildown.
In the morning, Julian and Kennedy worked steadily;
the afternoon and evening they devoted to amusement
and social life. The Kennedys soon became great
favorites among the Ildown people, and went out to
many cheery Christmas parties; but they enjoyed
more the quiet evenings at home when they all sat
and talked after dinner round the dining-room fire;




298           KENNEDY AND VIOLET.
and while the two boys played at chess, and Violet and
Eva worked or sketched, Julian and Kennedy would
read aloud to them in turns. How often those evenings
recurred to all their memories in future days!
Soon after the Kennedys had come, Julian received
from Camford the Christmas college-list.  He had
again won a first class, but Kennedy's name, much to
his vexation, appeared only in the third.
"How is it that Edward is only in the third class?"
asked Violet of Julian-for, of course, she had seen
the list. "He is very clever-is he not?"
"Very; one of the cleverest fellows in St. Werner's."
"Then is he idle?"
"I'm  afraid so, Vi.; you must get him- to work
more."
So when he was seated by her on the sofa in her
little boudoir, she said: "You must work more, Edward,
at Camford, to please me."
"Ah, do not talk to me of Camford," he said, with
a heavy sigh. "Let me enjoy unbroken happiness for
a time, and leave the bitter future to itself."
" Bitter, Edward? but why bitter?  Julian always
seems to me so happy at Camford."
"Yes, Julian is, and so are all who deserve to be."
" Then you must be happy too, Edward."
His only answer was a sigh. "Ah, Violet, pray
talk to me of anything but Camford."
The visit came to an end, as all things, whether
happy or unhappy, must; and Julian rejoiced that confidence seemed restored between him and Kennedy once
more. Of course, he told Violet none of the follies
which had cost poor Kennedy the loss both of popularity




AT SUNSET.                299
and self-respect. Soon afterwards Lord De Vayne was
brought back to Uther Hall, and Violet and Julian
were invited, with their mother, to stay there till the
Camford term commenced. The boys had returned to
school, so that they all acceded to Lady De Vayne/s
earnest request that they would come.
It was astonishing how rapidly the young viscount
recovered when once Violet had come to Uther Hall.
Her presence seemed to fill him with fresh life, and he
soon began to get down stairs, and even to venture on
a short walk in the park. His constitution had suffered
a serious and permanent injury, but he was pronounced
convalescent before the Homes finished their visit.
The last evening before their departure, he was
seated with Violet on a rustic seat on the terrace, looking at the sun as it set behind the distant elms of the
park, and at the deer as they grazed in lovely groups
on the rich undulating slopes that swept down from the
slight eminence on which his house was built. He felt
that the time had come to-speak his love.
"Violet," he said, as he looked earnestly at her, and
took her hand, "you have, doubtless, seen that I love
you. Can you ever return my love?   I am ready to
live and die for you, and to give you my whole affection." Iis voice was still low and weak through illness,
and he could hardly speak the sentences which were to
win for him a decision of his fate.
Violet was taken by surprise; she had known Lord
De Vayne so long and so intimately, and their stations
were so different, that the thought of his loving her had
never entered her head. She regarded him familiarly
as her brother's friend.




300                DARKNESS.
"Dear De Vayre, " she said, "I shall always love
you as a friend, as a brother. But did you not know
that I have been for some months engaged?"
"Engaged?" he said, turning very pale.
" I am betrothed," she answered, to Edward Ken.
nedy. Nay, Arthur, dear Arthur," she continued, as
he nearly fainted at her feet, " you must not suffer this
disappointment to overcome you. Love me still as a
sister; regard me as though I were married already,
and let us enjoy a happy friendship for many years."
He was too weak to bear up, too weak to talk; only
the tears coursed each other fast down his cheeks, as
he murmured, "Oh, forgive me, forgive me, Violet."
"Forgive you," she said kindly; "nay, you honor
me too much. Marry one of your own high rank, and
not the orphan of a poor clergyman. I am sure you
will not yield to this sorrow, and suffer it to make you
ill. Bear up, Arthur, for your mother's sake-for my
sake;' and let us be as if these words had never passed
between us."
She lent him her arm as he walked faintly to his
room, and, as he turned round and stooped to kiss her
hand, she felt it wet with many tears.
They went home next day, and soon after received
a note from Lady De Vayne informing them that Arthur was worse, and that they intended removing for
some time to a seat of his in Scotland; after which
they meant to travel on the continent for another
year, if his health permitted it. "But " she said, "I
fear he has had a relapse, and his state is very precarious. Dear friends, think of us sometimes, and let
us hope to meet again in happier days."




CHAPTER XXV.
MEMORY THE BOOK OF GOD.
"At Trompyngtoun, nat fer fra Cantebrigge,
Ther goth~a brook, and over that a brigge,
Upon the whiche brook then stant a melle;
And thZs is verray sothe that Iyou telle."
CHAUCER. Tie Reeve's Tale.
THERE is little which admits of external record in
Julian's life at this period of his university career. It
was the usual uneventful, quiet life of a studious Camford undergraduate. Happy it was beyond any other
time, except, perhaps, a few vernal days of boyhood;
but it was unmarked by any incidents. He read, and
rowed, and went to lectures, and worked at classics,
mathematics, and philosophy, and dropped in sometimes to a debate or a private business squabble at the
Union, and played rackets, fives, and football, and
talked eagerly in hall and men's rooms over the exciting topics of the day, and occasionally went to wine
or to breakfast with a don, and (absorbed in sone
grand old poet or historian) lingered by his lamp over
the lettered page from chapel time till the gray dawn,
when he would retire to pure and refreshful sleep,
humming a tune out of very cheerfulness.
Happy days, happy friendships, happy study, happy
recreation, happy exemption from the cares of life I
26             (301)




302              CAMFORD LIFE.
The bright visions of a scholar, the bright hilarity of a
youth, the bright acquaintanceship with many united
by a brotherly bond within those gray walls, were so
many mingled influences that ran together "like warp
and woof" in the web of a singularly enviable life.
And every day he felt that he was knowing more, and
acquiring a strength and power which should fit him
hereafter for the more toilsome business and sterner
struggles of common life. Well may old Cowley exclaim," 0 pulerae sine luxes cedes, vitceque decore
Splendida paupertas ingenuusque pudor!"
All the reading men of his year were now anxiously
occupied in working for the St. Werner's scholarships.
They were the blue ribbon of the place. In value they
were not much more than ~50 a year, but as the scholars~had an honorable distinctive seat both in hall and
chapel, and as from their ranks alone the fellows were
selected, all the most intelligent and earnest men used
their best efforts to obtain them on the earliest possible
occasion. At the scholars' table were generally to be
found the most distinguished among the alumni of St.
Werner's.
Julian still moved chiefly among his old friends,
although he had a large acquaintance, and by no means
confined himself to the society of particular classes.
But De Vayne's illness made a sad gap in the circle
of his most intimate associates, and he was not yet
sufficiently recovered to attempt a correspondence.
Among the dons,'Julian began to like Mr. Admer
more and more, and found that his cynicism of manner




"PEREUNT ET IMPUTANTUR."         30
was but the result of disappointed ambition and unsteady aims, while his heart was sound and right.
Kennedy, as well as Julian, had always hoped to
gain a scholarship at his first trial; but now, with only
one term left him to, read in, his chance seemed to fade
away to nothing. Poor fellow, he had returned with
the strongest possible intention of working, and of
abandoning at once and forever all objectionable acquaintances and all dangerous ways. Hourly the sweet
face of Violet looked in upon his silent thoughts, and
filled him with shame as he thought of lost opportunities and wasted hours.
"Kennedy," said Mr. Admer, "how can you be so
intolerably idle? I saw some of your Christmas papers,
and they were wholly unworthy of your abilties."
"I know it well.  But what could you expect?
The Pindar I had read once over with a crib; the
morality I had not looked at; the mathematics I did
not touch."
"But what excuse have you?   I really feel quite
angry with you. You are wholly throwing away everything. What have you to show for your time and
money? Only think, my dear fellow, that an opportunity like this comes only once in life, and soon your
college days will be over, with nothing to remember."
"True, too true."
" Well, I am glad that you see and own it. I began
to fear that you were one of that contemptible wouldbe fine gentleman class that affects forsooth to despise
work as a thing unworthy of their eminence."
"No, Mr. Admer," said Kennedy, "my idleness
springs from very different causes."




304            "VIDEO MELIORA."
"And then these Brogtens and people, whom you
are so often seen with; which of them do you think
understands you, or can teach' you anything worth
knowing? and which of them do you think you will
ever care to look back to as acquaintances in afterdays?"
":Not one of them. I hate the whole set."
" And then, my dear Kennedy-for I speak to you
out of real good-will-I would say it with the utmost
delicacy, but you must know that your name has suffered from the company you frequent."
" Can I not see it to be so?" he answered, moodily;
"no need to tell me that, when I read it in the faces
of nearly every man I see.  The men have not yet
forgiven me De Vayne's absence, though really and
truly that. sin does not lie at my door. Except Julian
and Lillyston there is hardly a man I respect, who does
not look at me with averted eyes. Of course Grayson
and the dons detest me to a man; but I don't care for
them."
"Then, you mysterious fellow, seeing all this so
clearly, why do you suffer it to be so?"
Kennedy only shook his head; already there had
begun to creep over him a feeling of despair; already
it seemed to him as though the gate of heaven were a
lion-haunted portal, guarded by a fiery sword.
For he had soon found that his intense resolutions to
do right met with formidable checks. There are two
stern facts-facts which it does us all good to remember
-which generally lie in the path of repentance, and
look like crouching lions to the remorseful soul. First,
the fact that we become so entangled by habit and




"AS A MAN SOWETE."             305
circumstance, so enslaved by association and custom,
that the very atmosphere around us seems to have
become impregnated with a poison which we cannot
cease to breathe; secondly, the fact that "in the
phlysical world there is no forgiveness of sins;" to
abandon our evil courses is not to escape the punishment of them, and although we may have relinquished
them wholly in the present, we cannot escape' the consequences of the past. Remission of sin is not the
remission of their results.  The very monsters we
dread, and the dread of which terrifies us into the
consideration of our ways, glare upon us out of the
future darkness, as large, as terrible, as irresistible,
whether we approach them on the road to ruin, or
whether we seem to fly from them through the hardly
attained and narrow wicket of genuine repentance.
Both these difficulties acted with their full force on
the mind of Kennedy. His error was its own punishment, and its heaviest punishment. The hours he had
lost were lost so utterly, that he could never hope
to recover them; the undesirable acquaintances he had
formed were so far ripe as to render it no light task to
abandon them; and, above all, the fleck on his character,
the connection of his name with the outrage on De
Vayne, had injured his reputation in a manner which he
never hoped, by future endeavors, to obviate or remove.
For instance, there was at once an objection to his
dropping the society of the set to which Bruce and
Brogten had introduced him. He owed them money,
which at present he could not pay; his undischarged
" debts of honor" hung like a millstone round his neck.
26*




3C6                SINNING TO
To pay these seemed a necessary preliminary even to
the possibility of commencing a new career.
But how to get the money? ah me! new temptations
seemed springing up around like the crop of armed men
from the furrows sown with the dragon's teeth.
There was but one way which suggested itself to
his mind, by which he would be able at once to deliver
himself in part by meeting the most exigent demands.
Let me hurry over the struggle which it cost him, but
finally he adopted it. It was this.
Mr. Kennedy was most liberal in allowing his son
everything which could possibly further his university
studies, and the most important item in his quarterly
expenses was the charge for private tuition. This sum
was always paid by Kennedy himself, and it amounted
at least to seven pounds a term. Now, what if he
should not only ask his father to allow him this term a
classical and a mathematical tutor, but also request permission to read double with them both; i.e. to go for
an hour every day instead of every other day? This
would at once procure him from his father the sum of
twenty-eight pounds, and by means of this he could,
with great economy, clear off all the most pressing of
those pecuniary obligations which bound him to company which he longed to shun, and exposed him to
dangers which he had learnt to fear. Of course he
would be obliged to forego -all assistance from private
tutors, and simply to appropriate the money, without
his father's knowledge, to other ends. In a high point
of view, it was simple embezzlement; it was little better
than a form of swindling. But in this gross andl repulsive shape, it never suggested itself to poor Kennedy's




ESCAPE TEMPTATION.            307
imagination. Somehow one's own sins never look se
bad in our eyes as the same sins when committed by
another. IHe argued that he would really be applying
the money as his father intended, viz., to such purposes
as should most advance the object of his university
career. He was committing a sin to save himself from
temptation.
The near approach of the scholarship examination,
and Kennedy's failure at Christmas, made his father all
the more ready to give him every possible advantage
that money could procure. Ignorant of the fact that to
"read double" with a tutor was almost a thing unprecedented at Camford, and that to do so, both in classics
and mathematics, was a thing wholly unknown, and
indeed practically impossible, Mr. Kennedy was only
delighted at Edward's letter, as conveying a proof of
his extreme and laudable eagerness to recover lost
ground, and do his best. He very readily wrote the
check for the sum required, and praised his son liberally
for these indications of effort. How those praises cut
Kennedy to the heart!
But he at'once. spent the money in the way which
he had devised, and added thereby a new load of mental
bitterness to the heavy weight which already oppressed
him. The sum thus appropriated greatly lightened,
although it did not remove, the pecuniary obligations
which he had contracted at cards or in other ways to
his set of "fast" companions; but it was at the cost of
hip peace of mind.
Externally he profited by the transaction.. He was
enabled in great measure, without the charge of mean.
ness, to drop the mcst undesirable of his acquaintances;




308            TWC LIVES IN ONE.
and awaking eagerly to the hope of at once redeeming
his reputation and lessening his difficulties by gaining
a scholarship, he began, for the first time since he had
entered St. Werner's, to work steadily with all his
might.
He seemed to be living two lives in one, and often
asked himself whether there' was in his character some
deeply-rooted hypocrisy. With Julian and Owen, and
the men who resembled them, he could talk nobly of all
that was honorable, and he powerfully upheld a chivalrous ideal of duty and virtue. And as his face lighted
up, and the thoughts flowed in the full stream of eloquent
language in reprobation of some mean act, or in glowing eulogium of some recorded heroism for the performance of what was right, who would have fancied, who
would have believed, that Kennedy's own life had failed
so egregiously in the commonest requirements of steadfastness and honesty?
None rejoiced more in the outward change of life
than Julian Home; for Violet's sake now, as well as
for Kennedy's, he felt a keen and brotherly interest in
the progress and estimation of his friend. Once more
they were to be found together as often as they had
been in their freshman's year, and it was Julian's
countenance and affection that tended more than anything else to repair Kennedy's damaged popularity,
and remove the tarnish attaching to his name.
One evening they were taking the usual two-hours'
constitutional-which is often the poor substitute for
exercise in the case of reading men-and discussing
together the chances of the coming scholarship examination, when they found themselves near a place called




THE MILLDAM.               309
Gower's Mill, and heard a sudden cry for help. Pressing forward they saw a boat floating upside down, and
whirling about tumultuously in the racing and rainswollen eddies of the milldam. A floating straw hat
was already being sucked in by the gurgling rush of
water that roared under the mighty circumference of
the wheel, and for a moment they saw'nothing more.
But as they ran up, a black spot emerged from the
stream, only a few yards from the mill, and they saw
a man, evidently in the last stage of exhaustion, struggling feebly in the white and boiling waves.
The' position was agonizing.  The man's utmost
efforts only served to keep him stationary, and it was
clear, from the frantic violence of his exertion, that
he could not last an instant longer. Indeed, as' they
reached the bank, he began to sink and disappeardisappear as it seemed to the certainty of a most horrid
death.
In one instant-without considering the danger and
apparent hopelessness of the attempt, without looking
at the wild force of the water, and the grinding roll of
the big wheel, without even waiting to fling off their
coats-Julian and Kennedy, actuated by the strong
instinct to save a fellow-creature's life, had both plunged
into the milldam, and at the same moment struck out
for the sinking figure. It was not till then that they
felt their terrific danger; in the swirl of those spumy
and hissing waves it was all but impossible for them to
make head against the current, and they felt it carry
them nearer and nearer to the black, dripping mass,
one blow of which would stun them, and one revolution
of it mangle them  with horrible mutilation.  They




310   FOR DEAR LIFE-" iE IS MINE ENEMY."
reached the drowning wretch, and each seizing him by
the arm, shouted for assistance, and buffeted gallantly
with the headstrong stream.  The senseless burden
which they supported clogged their efforts, and as they
felt themselves gradually swept nearer, nearer, nearer
to destruction, the passionate desire of self-preservation woke in both of them in all its wild agony; yet
they would not attempt to preserve themselves by letting go the man to save whose life they had so terribly
endangered their own.
Meanwhile their repeated shouts and those of the
swimmer, which had first attracted their own attention,
had aroused the miller, who instantly, on hearing them,
ran down with a rope to the water's side. He threw
it skillfully; with a wild clutch Kennedy caught it, and
in another moment, as from the very jaws of death,
when they were Almost touching the fatal wheel, they
were drawn to shore, still carrying, or rather dragging,
with them their insensible companion.
After words of hurried thanks to the miller for saving
their lives, they began to turn their whole attention to
the half-drowned man, and to apply the well-known
remedies for restoring extinct animation.
"Good heavens!" said Julian, "it is Brogten!"
"Brogten?" said Kennedy; he looked on the face,
and whispered half aloud, "thank God!"
They carried him into the mill, put him between
the blankets in a warm bed, chafed his numb limbs,
and sent off for the nearest doctor. Very soon he
began to revive, and recovered his consciousness; immediately this was the case, Julian and Kennedy ran




COALS OF FIRE.             311
home as quickly as they could to change their wet
clothes.
The next day the doctor ordered Brogten to lie in
bed till after mid-day, and then allowed him, now
thoroughly well and rested, to walk home to St. Werner's. He had. not yet learnt the names of his deliverers.
He reached the college in the evening, and after
changing his boating dress, his first care was to try and
learn to whom he was indebted for his life. Almost
the first man he met told him that the men who had
risked their safety for his were Home and Kennedy.
Home and Kennedy!     Home, to whom he had
caused the bitterest disappointment and done the most
malicious injury which had ever happened to him in his
life; Kennedy, whom he had tried but too successfully
to corrupt and ruin, tempt from duty, and push from
his good name!
Deeply, very deeply was Brogten humiliated; he
felt that his enemies had indeed heaped coals of fire
upon his head.
He determined, as his first duty, to go and thank
them both-Kennedy first, as the one against whom he
had most willfully sinned.
He found Kennedy sitting down to tea, and Julian,
Owen, and Suton were with him.
"Kennedy," he said, "I have come to thank you
and Home for a very gallant deed; I need not say
how much I feel indebted to you for the risk you ran
in saving my life."
Genuine tears rushed into his dark eyes as he spoke,
and cordially grasped the hands which, without a word,




312         CAMFORD CONVERSATIONS.
they proffered. Community of danger, consciousness
of obligation, blotted out all evil memories; and to
have stood side by side together on the very brink of
the precipice of death was a bond of union which could
not be ignored or set aside. That night, in spite of
bygones, the feeling of those three young men for each
other was of the kindliest cast.
"Won't you stay to tea, Brogten?" said Kennedy.
He looked round, as though uncertain whether the
others would like his company, but as they all seconded
Kennedy's request, he gladly stayed. It was the first
evening that he had regularly spent in the society of
reading men, and he was both delighted and surprised
at the rare pleasure he received from the vigor and
liveliness of their conversation. These were the men
whom he had despised as slow; yet what a contrast between their way of talking and the inanities of Fitzurse
or the shallow flippancy of Bruce! As he sat there
and listened, his very face became softer in its lines
from the expression of a real and intelligent interest,
and they all thought that he was a better fellow, on
closer acquaintance, than they had been accustomed to
suppose. Ah me! how often one remains unaware of
the good side of those whom we dislike.
Oh those Camford conversations-how impetuous,
how interesting, how thoroughly hearty and unconventional they were!  How utterly presumption and
ignorance were scouted in them, and how completely
they were free from the least shadow of insincerity or
ennui! If I could but transfer to my page a true and
vivid picture of one such evening, spent in the society
of St. Werner's friends-if I could write down but one




CONSECRATED TO FIVE FRIENDS.        313
such conversation, and at all express its vivacity, its
quick flashes of thought and logic, its real desire for
truth and knowledge, its friendly fearlessness, its
felicitous illustrations, its unpremeditated wit, such a
record, taken fresh from the life, would be worth all
that I shall ever write. But youth flies, and as she
flies all the bright colors fade from the wings of thought,
and the bloom vanishes from the earnest eloquence of
speech.
Yet, as I write, let me call to mind, if but for a
moment, the remembrance of those happy evenings,
when we would meet to read Shakspeare or the poets
in each other's rooms, and pleasant sympathies and
pleasant differences of opinion freely discussed, called
into genial life friendships which we once hoped and
believed would never have grown cold. Let the image
of that bright social circle, picturesquely scattered in
arm-chairs round the winter fire, rise up before my
fancy once more, and let me recall what can never be
again. Of the honored and well loved few who one
night recorded their names and thoughts in one precious little book, two are dead, though it is but five
years back; C.E. B. is dead, and R. H. P. is dead.
C. E. B., the chivalrous and gallant hearted, the champion of-the past, the " Torywhom Liberals loved;" and
R. H. P., the honest and noble, the eloquent speaker,
and the brave actor, and the fearless thinker-he, too,
is dead, nobly volunteering in works of danger and
difficulty during the Indian mutiny; but L., and B.,
and M., and others are living yet, and to them I consecrate this page; they will forgive the digression, and
for their sakes' I will venture to let it pass. We are
27




314          ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS.
scattered now, and our friendship is a silent one, but
yet I know that to them, at least, changed or unchanged, my words will recall the fading memory of
glorious days.
The conversation-but do not suppose that I shall
attempt, after what I have said, to reproduce it-happened to turn that evening on the phenomena of
memory. It started thus. They had been discussing
some subject of the day, when Owen observed to
Julian,"Why, how grave you look, Julian."
"Do I? I was thinking of something odd. While
you were talking-without the faintest apparent reason
that I can discover, and I was trying to hit upon one
when you spoke-a fact started up in my mind, which
had no connection whatever with the subject, and yet
which forced itself quite strongly and obtrusively on
my notice."
"Just as one catches sight suddenly of some stray
bit of seaweed floating in a great world of waters, which
seems to have no business:there," said Kennedy.
"Yes. But there must have been some reason for
my thinking of it just then."
"The law of association, depend upon it," said
Owen, "even if the connecting links were so subtle and
swiftly moved that you failed to detect their presence."
"Are you of the Materialist school, Owen, about
memory?" said Julian; "i.e. do you go with Hobbes
and Condillac3 and make it a decaying sense or a
transformed sensation?"
"Not a bit; I believe it to be a spiritual faculty,
entirely independent of mere physical organization."




PINEAL GLAND-OLATRY.           315
"Wo-ho!" said Kennedy; "the physiologists will
join issue with you there. How, for instance, do you
account for such stories as that of the groom, Who,
getting a kick on a particular part of the head from a
vicious horse, suffered no harm except in forgetting
everything which had happened up to that time?"
"It isn't a bit conclusive.  I don't say that the
conscious exercise of memory mayn't be temporarily
dependent on organization, but I do believe that every
fact ever imprinted on the memory, however long it
may be latent, is of its very nature imperishable."
"Yes," said Suton. "Memory is the book of God.
Did you see that story of the shipwreck the other day?
One of the survivors, while floating alone on the dark
midnight sea, suddenly heard a voice saying to him
distinctly,'Johnny, did you eat sister's grapes?' It
was the revived memory of a long-forgotten childish
theft. What have the Pineal gland-olaters to say to
that?" 
"What a profound touch that was of Themistocles,"
said Kennedy, "who rejected the offer of a Memoria
Technicha, with the aspiration that some one could
teach him to forget! Lethe is the grandest of rivers
after all."
"I can illustrate what you are saying," said Brogten, "and I believe it to be true that nothing can be
utterly forgotten. Yesterday when you saw me I had
sunk twice, and when you rescued me I was insensible.
Strange things happened to my memory then!"
"Tell us!" said all of them, eagerly.
"Well. I believe it's an old story, but I'll tell you.
When the first agony of fear, and the'sort of gulp of




816         AN EVERLASTING MEMORY.
asphyxia was over, I felt as if I was sinking into a
pleasant sleep, surrounded by the light of green
fields-"
"Because the veins of the eye were bloodshot, and
green is the complementary color," interpolated Kennedy, whereat Owen gave a little incredulous guffaw;
and Brogten continued,"Well, then it was that all my past life flashed before
me, from the least forgotten venial fault of infancy to
the worst passion of youth,-only they came to me
clear and vivid, in retrograde order. The lies I told
when I was a little boy, the wicked words I spoke, the
cruel things I did, the first taint that polluted my mind,
the faces of school-fellows whom I had irreparably injured, the stolen waters of manhood-all were dashed
into my remorseful recollection; they started up like
buried, menacing ghosts, without, or even against my
will. I felt convinced that they were indestructible."
"That strain I heard was of a higher mood!"
thought the auditors, for it was quite a new thing to
hear Brogten talk like this, and in such a solemn,
manly, sober voice.
"Fancy," said Kennedy, sighing, "an everlasting
memory!"
The others went away, but Brogten still lingered
in Kennedy's rooms, and, rising, took him by the hand.
They both remembered another scene in these rooms,
when they two were together,-the torturer and the
tortured; but it was different now.
"The worst thing that haunted me, Kennedy, when
you were saving my life, was the thought of my wicked-.I




"AS WE FORGIVE THEM."          317
ness to you.  I fear it can never be repaired; yet
believe me, that from this day forth I have vowed
before God to turn over a new leaf, and my whole
effort will be to do all for you that ever may be in my
power! Do you forgive me?"
"As I hope to be forgiven," he replied.
Yet it was part of Brogten's punishment in afterdays to remember that Ms hand had set the stone
moving, on the steep hill-side, which afterwards he had
no power to stay. It would not come back to him' for
a wish, but leapt, and rushed, and bounded forward,
splintering and splintered bithe obstacles in its course,
till at last- Could it be saved from being dashed to
shivers among the smooth rocks of the valley and the
brook?
27*




CHAPTER XXVI.
HAZLET.
"And ride on his breast, and trouble his rest
In the shape of his deadliest sin."-ANON.
BEFORE the scholarship, came the Little-go, so called
in the language of men, hut known to the gods as the
Previous Examination. As it is an examination which
all must pass, the standard required is of course very
low, and the subjects are merely Paley's Evidences, a
little Greek Testament, some easy Classic, Scripture
History, and a sprinkling of arithmetic and algebra.
The reading men simply regard it'as a nuisance,
interrupting their reading and wasting their time, i.e.
until the wisdom of maturer years shows them its necessity and use. But, to the idle and the stupid, the
name Little-go is fraught with terror. It begins to
loom upon them from the commencement of their
second year, and all their efforts must be concentrated
to avoid the disgrace and hinderance of a pluck. There
are regular tutors to cram Poll men for this necessary
ordeal, and the processes applied to introduce the
smallest possible modicum of information into the
heads of the victims, the surgical operations necessary
to inculcate into them the simplest facts, would, if narrated, form a curious chapter in morbid psychology.
I suggest this merely as a pregnant hint for the future
(318)




"CRAMBE REPETITA."            819
historian of Camford; personally, I am only acquainted
by report with the system resorted to.
Hazlet began to be in a fright about the Little-go,
from the very commencement of his second October.
His mother well knew that the examination. was approaching, and thought it quite impossible that her
ingenuous and right-minded son could fall a victim to
the malice of examiners. Hazlet was not so sure of
this himself, and as the days had passed by when he
could speak of the classics with a holy indignation
against their vices and idolatry, he was wrought up by
dread of the coming papers into a high state of nervous excitement.
I will not betray the mistake he made, or dish up
in this place the "crambe repdtita" of those Little-gQ
anecdotes, which at this period of the year awaken the
laughter of combination rooms, and dissipate the dullness of Camford life.  Suffice it to say that Hazlet
displayed an ignorance at once egregious and astounding; the ingenious perversity of his mistakes, the fatuous absurdity of his confusions, would be inconceivable
to any who do not know by experience the extraordinary combinations of ignorance and conceit. The examiners were very lenient and forbearing, but Hazlet
was plucked; plucked, too, in Scripture History, which
astonished everybody, until it became kn'own that he
had attributed John the Baptist's death to his having
"danced with Herodia's daughter" —traced a connection between the Old and New Testaments in the fact
of St. Peter's having cut off the ear of Malachi, the
last of the prophets-and stated that the substance of
St. Paul's sermon at Athens, was " crying vehemently




320             EAZLET PLUCKED.
about the space of two hours, Great is Diana of the
Ephesians!"
It is a sad pity that such ludicrous associations should
center round the word "pluck."  It is anything but a
laughing matter to those who undergo the process;
they have tried hard and worked diligently, perhaps,
to pass the examinations and, if they fail, they see before them another long period of weary and dissatisfied effort, with the same probability of failure, again
and again repeated; for, until the barrier of Little-go
is passed, they can advance no further, and must simply stay at Camford, until, in some way or other, they
can succeed in getting up the requisite minimum of
information. I have seen a strong man in the senatelouse turn as white as a sheet, when a paper which he
was unable to answer was placed before him. I fancy
I see him now, and distinctly remember my strong feeling of compassion for his distress, and my earnest hope
that he would not be "floored.". 
There was a general laugh in St. Werner's when
it was announced that Hazlet was plucked- and in
Scripture History, too! His follies and inconsistencies had, unhappily, made him a butt; but men little
knew how heavily the misfortune would weigh upon
him.
He happened at this time to be living on the same
staircase with Lillyston, and Lillyston, who was in
the rooms below him, was quite amazed at the sounds
which he heard proceeding from his rooms. For a long
time there was a series of boo-hoos, long, loud, and
wailing, as of some animal in distress, and then there
was an uproar as of some one running violently about,




Boo-Hoo.                 821
and throwing the furniture out of his way. Lillyston
was just on the point of going to see what was the
matter, when the breathless bed-maker appeared at the
door, and said,"Oh, Mr. Lillyston, sir, do go and look at Mr.
Hazlet, sir; he's took very bad, he is!"
"Took very bad-how do you mean?"
"Why, sir, it's the Little-go, sir, as done it. He's
plucked, sir, and it's upset him like. So, when I asked
him if he'd a tea'd, and if I should take away the
things, he begins a banging his chairs about, you see,
sir, quite uncomfortable."
Lillyston immediately ran up stairs.  The violent
fit seemed to have subsided, for Hazlet, peering out of
a corner, with wandering, spectacled eyes, quite cowered when he saw him. Lillyston was shocked at the
spectacle he presented. Hazlet was but half dressed;
his hands kept up an uneasy and vague motion, his
face was blank, and his whole appearance resembled
that of an idiot.
"Why, Hazlet, my man, what is the matter with
you?" said Lillyston, cheerily.
Hazlet trembled, and muttered something about a
dog. It happened that just before coming back from
the senate-house, a large Newfoundland had run against
him, and his excited imagination had mingled this
most recent impression with the vagaries of a temporary madness.
"The dog, my dear fellow; why, there's no dog
here."
Hazlet cowered farther into the corner.




322                LOOK OUT!
"Here, won't you have some tea?" said Lillyston;
"I'll make it for you. Come and help me."
He began to busy himself about setting the teathings, and cutting the bread, while he occupied Hazlet
in pouring out the water and attending to the kettle.
Hazlet started violently every now and then, and
looked with a terrified side-glance at Lillyston, as
though apprehensive of some wrong.
At last Lillyston got him to sit down quietly, and
gave him a cup of tea and some bread. He ate it in
silence, except that every now and then he uttered a
sort of wail, and looked up at Lillyston.  The look
didn't seem to satisfy him, for, after a few minutes,
he seized his knife, and said: "I shall cut off your
whiskers."
What put the grotesque fancy into his head, Lillyston did not know; probably some faint reminiscence
of having been forced to shave after the trick which
Bruce had played on him by painting his face'with
lampblack and ochre.
Lillyston decidedly declined the proposition, and
they both started up from their seats-Hazlet brandishing his knife with determined purpose, and looking
at his companion with a strange savage glare under
his spectacles.
After darting round the room once or twice to
escape his attack, Lillyston managed with wonderful
skill to clutch the wrist of Hazlet's right hand, and,
being very strong, he held him with the grasp of a vice,
while with his left hand he forced the knife out of his
clutch, and dropped it on the floor. He held him tight
for a minute or two, although HIazlet struggled so




NO MISCHIEF.               323
fiercely, that it was no easy task, and then quietly
forced him into a chair, and spoke to him in a firm
authoritative voice,"No mischief, Hazlet' we shan't allow it. Now,
listen to me: you must go to bed."
The tone of voice and the strength of will which
characterized Lillyston's proceedings awed Hazlet into
submission. He cried a little, and then suffered Lillyston to see him into his rooms, and to put him into a
fair way toward going to bed. Taking the precaution
to remove his razor, Lillyston locked the door upon
him, and determined at once to get medical advice.
The doctor, however, could give very little help; it was,
he said, a short fit of temporary madness, for which
quiet and change of air were the only effectual remedies. He did not anticipate that there would be any
other outbreak of violence, or anything more than a
partial imbecility.
"Do come and help me to manage Hazlet," said
Lillyston to Julian, next morning; " his head has been
turned by being plucked for the Little-go, and he's as
mad as Hercules Furens."
Julian went, and they stayed in Hazlet's room till
he had quietly breakfasted. He then appeared to be
so calm that Lillyston agreed to leave Julian there for
the morning, and to take the charge of Hazlet for the
afternoon and evening. It seemed absolutely necessary that some one should take charge of him, and they
thought it best to divide the labor.
Julian sorely felt the loss of time. He had a great
deal to get through before the all-important scholarship
examination, and the loss of every available hour




824            A LUCID INTERVAL.
fretted him, for since he had failed in the Clerkland,
he was doubly anxious to gain a St. Werner's scholarship at his first time of trial. Still he never wavered
for a moment in the determination to fulfill the duty of
taking care of his Ildown acquaintance, and he spent
the whole tedious morning in trying to amuse him.
Hazlet's ceaseless allusions to' the dog," and the
feeble terror which it seemed to cause him, made it
necessary to talk to him incessantly, and to turn his
attention, as far as possible, to other things. He had
to be managed like a very willful and stupid child; and
when one of the five hours which Julian had to spend
with him was finished, he was worn out with anxiety
and fatigue.  It is a dreadful thing to be alone in
charge of a human being-a being in human shape,
who is, either by accident or constitution, incapable
alike of responsibility and thought. Hazlet had been
able to play draughts pretty well, so Julian got out a,board and challenged him to a game; but, instead of
playing, Hazlet only scrabbled on the board, and
pushed the pieces about in a meaningless confusion,
while every now and then the sullen glare came into
his eye, which showed Julian the necessity of being on
his guard if. self-defense should be needed.  Then
Julian tried to get him to draw, and showing him a
picture, sketched a few strokes ofoutline, and said,"Now, Hazlet, finish copying this picture for me."
Hazlet took the pencil between his unsteady fingers,
and let it make futile scratches on the paper, and when
Julian repeated his words, wrote down in a slow painful hand"Finish copying pict -- ure pict - -'




"MISERIS SUCCURRERE DISCO."       325
What was to be done in such a case as this? Julian
suggested a turn in the grounds, but Hazlet betrayed
such dread at the thought of leaving his rooms and
encountering "the dog," that Julian was afraid, if he
persisted, of driving him into a fit.
Just as the dilemma was becoming seriously unpleasant, Brogten came up to the rooms, and begged Julian
to intrust Hazlet to his charge.
"Your time is valuable, Home-particularly just
now. Mine is all but worthless. At any rate, I have
no special work as you have, and -I can take care of
poor Hazlet very well."
" Oh no," said Julian; "I mustn't shrink from the
duty I have undertaken; and besides, you'll find it very
dull and unpleasant work."
"Never mind that. I once had an idiot brotherdead now —and I understand well how to manage any
one in a case like this. Besides, Hazlet is one of the
many I have injured. Let me stay."
"I really am afraid you won't like it."
"Nonsense, Home; I won't give in, depend upon it.
I am quite in earnest, and am besides most anxious
that you should get a scholarship this time. Don't
refuse me the privilege of helping you."
Julian could refuse no longer, and went back to his
rooms with perfect confidence that Brogten would do
his work willingly and well. He looked in about midday to see how things were going on, and found that,
after thoroughly succeeding in amusing his patient,
Brogten had persuaded him to go to sleep, ii-the conviction that by the time he awoke he would be nearly
well. Nor was he mistaken. The next day Hazlet
28




826              RECKLESSNESS.
was sufficiently recovered to go home for the Easter
vacation.
It was a very bitter and humiliating trial to him;
but misfortune, however frequently it causes reformation, is not invariably successful in changing a man's
heart and life. Hazlet,came back after the Easter
vacation with recovered health, but damaged constitution, and in no respect either better or wiser for the
misfortune he had undergone.
One peculiarity of his recent attack was a strong
nervous excitability, which was induced by very slight
causes, and Hazlet had not long returned to St. Werner's when the dissipation of his life began once more
to tell perniciously upon his state of health. It must
not be imagined that because he was the easiest possible victim of temptation, he suffered no upbraidings of
a.terrified and remorseful conscience. Many a time
they overwhelmed him with agony and a dread of the
future, mingling with his slavish terrors of a material
Gehenna, and stirring up his turbid thoughts until they
drove him to the verge of madness. But the inward
chimera of riotous passions was too fierce for the weak
human reason, and while he hated himself, he continued
still to sin.
Late one night he was returning to his rooms from
the foul haunts of squalid dissipation and living death,
when the thought of his own intolerable condition
pressed on him with a heavier than usual weight. It
was a very cloudy night, and he had long exceeded the
usual college hours. The wind tossed about his clothes,
and dashed in his face a keen impalpable sleet, while
nothing dispelled the darkness except the occasional




A SHRIEK.                327
gleam of a lamp struggling fitfully with the driving
mist. Hazlet reached St. Werner's wet and miserable;
in returning he had lost his way, and wandered into
the most disreputable and poverty-stricken streets, the
very homes of thievery and dirt,'vhere he seriously
feared for his personal safety. By the time he got to
the college gates he was drenched through and through,
and while his body shivered with the cold air, the condition of his mind was agitated and terrified, and the
sudden blaze of light that fell on him from the large
college lamp, as the gates opened, dazzled his unaccustomed eyes.
Hastily running across tne court to his own rooms,
he groped his way-giddy and crapulous-up the dark
and narrow staircase, and, after some fumbling with his
key, opened the door.
Lillyston, who was just going to bed after a long
evening of hard work, heard his footstep on the stairs,
and thought with sorrow that he had not mended his
old bad ways. He heard him open the door, and then
a long wild shriek, followed by the sound of some one
falling, rang through the buildings.
In an instant Lillyston had darted up stairs, and
the other men who "kept" on the staircase jumped
out of bed hastily, thrust on their slippers, and also
ran out to see what was' the matter. As Lillyston
leached the threshold of Hazlet's rooms, he stumbled
against something, and, stooping down, found that it
was the senseless body of Iazlet himself stretched at
full length upon the floor.
He looked up, but saw nothing to explain the mystery; the rooms were in darkness, except that a dull,




328              "DEGRADING."
blue flame, flickering over the black and red relics of
the fire, threw fantastic gleams across the furniture
and ceiling, and gave an odd, wild appearance to the
cap and gown that hung beside the door.
Lillyston was filled with surprise, and lit the candle
on the table. Lifting Hazlet on the sofa, he carefully
looked at him to see if he was correct in his first strmise, that the unhappy man had swallowed poison, or
committed suicide in some other way. But there was
no trace of anything of the kind, and Hazlet merely
appeared to have fainted.and fallen suddenly.
Aided by Noel, one of those who had been alarmed
by that piercing shriek, Lillyston took the proper
means to revive Hazlet from his fainting fit, and put
him to bed. He rapidly recovered his consciousness, but
earnestly begged them not to press him on the subject
of his alarm, respecting which he was unable or unwilling
to give them any information.
The next morning he was very ill; excitement and
anxiety brought on a brain fever, which kept him for
many weary weeks in his sick-room, and from which
he had not fully recovered until after a long stay at
Ildown. As he lost, in consequence of this attack, the
whole of the ensuing term, he was obliged to degrade,
as itis called, i.e. to place his name on the list of the
year below; and he did not return to Camford till the
following October, where his somewhat insignificant
individuality had been almost forgotten.
Let us anticipate a little to throw light on what we
have narrated.
When Hazlet did come back to undergraduate life,
he at once sought the alienated friends from whom he




NOT A FUSILE CHRISTIAN.          329
had been separated ever since the disastrous period of
his acquaintanceship with Bruce. He came back to'
them penitent and humble, with those convictions now
existing in his'mind, in their reality and genuineness,
which before he had only simulated so successfully as
to deceive himself. I will not say that he did not continue ignorant and bigoted, but he was no longer conceited and malicious. I will not say that he never
showed himself dogmatic and ill informed, but he was
no longer obtrusive and uncharitable.  His life was
better than his dogmas, and the sincerity of his good
intentions counteracted and nullified the ill effects of a
narrow and unwholesome creed. There were no further
inconsistencies in his conduct, and he showed firmly
yet modestly the line he meant to follow, and the side
he meant to take. As his conscience had become
scrupulous, and his life irreproachable, it mattered
comparatively little that his intellectual character was
tainted with fanaticism and gloom.
I would not be mistaken to mean that he found his
penitence easy, or that he was, like St. Paul, transformed
as it were by a lightning fash —" a fusile Christian."
I say, there were —fter his two sicknesses and long
suffering, and experiendes bitter as wormwood-there
were, I say, no more outward inconsistencies in his
life; but I do not say that within there were no fierce,
fearful struggles, so wearisome at times that it almost
seemed better to yield than to feel the continued
anguish of such mighty temptations. All this the
man must always go through who has warmed in his
bosom the viper whose poisoned fang has sent infection
into his blood. But through God's grace Hazlet was
28*




330        THE LEES AFTER THE WINE.
victorious; and as, when the civilization of some infant
colony is advancing on the confines of a desert, the
wild beasts retire before it, until they become rare, and
their howling is only heard in the loiely night, and
then even that sign of their fury is but a strange occurrence, until it is heard no more; so in Iazlet, the
many-headed monsters, which breed in the slime of a
fallen human heart, were one by one slain or driven
backward by watchfulness, and shame, and prayer.
Julian and Lillyston had never shunned his society,
either when he breathed the odor of sanctity or when
he sank into the slough of recklessness.  Both of
them were sufficiently conscious of the heart's weakness
to prevent them from the cold and melancholy presumption which leads weak and sinful men to desert
and denounce those whom the good spirits have not yet
deserted, and whom the good God has not finally condemned. As long as he sought their society, they were
always open to his company, however distasteful; and
the advice they gave him was tendered in simple goodwill-not as though from the haughty vantage-ground
of a superior excellepce.' Even when Hazlet was at
the worst-when to be seen with him, after the publicity of his vices, involved something like a slur on a
man's fair name-6ven in these his worst days n'either
Julian nor Lillyston would have refused, had he so desired it, to walk with him under the lime-tree avenue,
or up and down the cloisters of Warwick's court.
But they naturally met him more often when his
manner of life was changed for the better, and were
both glad to see that he had found the jewel which adversity possessed. It happened that he was with them




GHOSTS-A MAN'S FINGERS.          331
one evening when the conversation turned on supernatural appearances, the possibility of which was maintained by Julian and Owen, while Lillyston in his
genial way was pooh-poohing them altogether. Hazlet
alone sat silent, but at last he said,I have never yet mentioned to any living soul what
once happened to me, but I will do so now. Lillyston,
you remember the night when I aroused you with a
scream?"
" Well!" said Lillyston.
" That night I was returning in all the bitterness of
remorse from places where, but for God's blessing, I
might have perished utterly"-and Hazlet shudderedwhen from out of the storm and darkness I reached
my room door. You know that a beam ran right across
my ceiling. When I threw open the door to enter, I
saw on that beam as clearly as I now see you-no,
more clearly, far more clearly than I now see you, for
your presence makes no special impression on me, and
this was burnt into my very brain-I saw there written
in letters of fire, —'AND THIS IS IELL.'
Struck dumb with horror, I stared at it; there could
be no doubt about it, the letters burned and glared and
reddened before my very eyes, and seemed to wave
like the northern lights, and bicker into angrier flame
as I looked at them. They fascinated me as I stood
there dumb and stupefied, when suddenly I saw the
dark and massive form of a hand, over which hung the
skirt of a black robe, moving slowly away from the
last letter. What more I might have seen I cannot




332                 "AND —
tell; it was then that I fell and fainted, and my shriek
startled all the men on the staircase."
Hazlet told his story with such deep solemnity, and
such hollow pauses of emotion, that the listeners sat
silent for awhile.
"But yet," said Lillyston, "if you come to analyze
this, it resolves itself into nothing.  You were confessedly agitated, and almost hysterical that night;
your body was unstrung; you were wet through, and
it was doubtless the sudden passage from the darkness
outside to the dim and uncertain glimmer of your own
room, which acted so powerfully on your excited imagination as to project your inward thoughts into a
shape which you mistook for an external appearance.
I remember noticing the aspect of your rooms myself
that evening; the mysterious shadows, and the mingled
effects if dull red firelight with black objects, together
with the rustle of the red curtain in front of your window which you had left open, and the weird waving of
your black gown in the draught, made such an impression even on me, merely in consequence -of the alarm
your shriek had excited, that I could have fancied anything myself, if I wasn't pretty strong headed and
rather prosaic. As it was, I did half fancy an unknown
Presence in the rooin."
"Yes, but you say inward thoughts," replied Hazlet,
eagerly. " Now these weren't my inward thoughts; on
the contrary, they flashed on me like a revelation, and
the strange word,'And'-for I read distinctly' And
this is'- was to me like an awful copula connecting
time and eternity forever. I had always thought of
quite another, quite a different hell; but this showed




OBJECTIVE OR SUBJECTIVE?          333
me for the first time that the state of sinfulness is the
hell of sin. It was only the other day that I came
across those lines of Milton-oh, how true they are,-'Which way I fly is hell, myself am hell,
And in the lowest deep a lower deep
Still gaping to devour me opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.'
It was the truth conveyed in those lines which I then
first discovered, and discovered, it seems to me, from
without. I know very, very little-I am shamefully
ignorant, but I do think that the vision of that night
taught me more than a thousand volumes of scholastic
theology. And let me say, too," he continued, humbly,
" that by it I was plucked like a brand from the burning; by it my conversion was brought about."
None of the others were in a mood to criticise the
phraseology of Hazlet's religious convictions, and he
clearly desired- that the subject of his own immediate
experiences, as being one full of awfulness for him,
might be dropped.
"Apropos of your argument, I care very little,
Hugh," said Julian, "whether you make supernatural
appearances objective or subjective. I mean I don't
care whether you regard the appearance as a mere deception of the eye, wrought by the disordered workings
of the brain, or as the actual presence of a supernatural
phenomenon. The result, the effect, the reality of the
appearance is just the same in either case. Whether
the end is produced by an illusion of the senses, or an
appeal to them, the end is produced, and the senses are
impressed by something which is not in the ordinary




334        THE LITERATURE OF GHOSTS.
course of human events, just as powerfully as if the
ghost had flesh and blood, or the voice were a veritable
pulsation of articulated air. The only thing that annoys me is a contemptuous and supercilious denial of
the facts."
"I hold with you, Julian," said Owen. "Take for
instance the innumerable recorded instances where intimation has been given of a friend's or relative's death
by the simultaneous appearance of his image to some
one far absent, and unconscious even of his illness.
There are four ways of treating such stories-the first
is to deny their truth, which is, to say the least, not
only grossly uncharitable, but an absurd and impertinent caprice adopted in order to reject unpleasant
evidence; the second is to account for them by an
optical delusion, accidentally synchronizing with the
event, which seems to me a most monstrous ignoring
of the law of chances; a third is to account for them
by the existence of some exquisite faculty, existing in
different degrees of intensity, and in some people not
existing at all, whereby physical impressions are invisibly conveyed by some mysterious sympathy of
organization-a faculty of which it seems to me there
are the most abundant traces, however much it may be
sneered and jeered at by those shallow philosophers
who believe nothing but what they can grasp with both
hands; and a fourth is to suppose that spirits can, of
their own will, or by superior permission, make themselves sometimes visible to human eyes."
"Or," said Julian, " so affect the senses as to produce the impression that they are present to human
eyes."




so IT WAS.               335
"And to show you, Lillyston," said Owen, "how
little I fear. any natural explanations, and how much I
think them beside the point, I'll tell you what happened to me only the other night, and which yet does
not make me at all inclined to rationalize Hazlet's
story. I had just put out the candle in my bedroom,
when over my head I saw a handwritting on the wall
in characters of light. I started out of bed, and for a
moment fancied that I could read the words, and that
somebody had been playing me a trick with phosphorus.
But the next minute, I saw how it was; the moonlight
was shining in through the little muslin folds of the
lower blind, and as the folds were very symmetrical,
the checkered reflection on the wall looked exactly like
a series of words."
"Well, now, that would have made a capital ghost
story," said Lillyston, "if you had been a little more
imaginative and nervous. And still more, if the illusion
had only been partially optical, and partly the result
of excited feelings."
"It matters nothing to me," said Hazlet, rising,
"whether the characters I saw were written by the
finger of a man's hand or limned by spirits on the
sensorium of the brain. All I know is that-thank
God!-tihey were there."




CHAPTER XXVII.
JULIAN AND KENNEDY.
"But there, where I have garnered up my heart 
Where either I must live, or bear no life;
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!
Patience, thou young and rose-lipped cherubim!
Ay, there, look grim as hell!"
OTHELLO, Act iv. sc. 2.
ST. WERNER'S clock, with "its male and female
voice," has just told the university that it is nine
o'clock.
A little crowd of St. Wernerians is standing before
the chapel door, and even the grass in the lawn in
front of it is hardly sacred to-day from common feet.
The throng, composed of undergraduates, dons, bedmakers, and gyps, is broken into knots of people, who
are chatting together according to their several kinds;
but they are so quiet and expectant, that the very
pigeons hardly notice them, but flutter about and coo,and peck up the scattered bread crumbs, just as if
nobody was there. If you look attentively round the
court, you will see, too, that many of the windows are
open, and you may detect faces half concealed among
the window curtains.  Clearly everybody is on the
look out for something, though it is yet vacation time,
and only a small section of the men are up.
The door opens, and out sail the seniors, more thai
(336)




A SCENE AT ST. WERNER'S.          337
ever conscious of pride and power. They stream away
in silk gowns, carrying on their faces the smile of
knowledge, even into their isolation, where no one can
see it. For some reason or other they always meet in
chapel, or, for all I know, it may be in the ante-chapel,
to elect the St. Werner's scholars.
And now the much talked of, much thought of, anxiously expected list, which is to make so many happy
or miserable, is to be announced.  On that little bit
of paper which the chapel clerk holds in his hands as
he stands on the chapel steps are the names which
everybody has been longing to conjecture. He comes
out and reads. There are nine scholarships vacant, of
which five will be given to the third-year men; and four
to Julian's year.
The five third-year men are read first, and as each
name is announced, off darts some messenger from the
crowd to carry the happy intelligence to some expectant senior soph. The heads of listeners lean farther
and farther out of the window, for the clerk speaks so
loud as to make his voice heard right across the court;
and the wires of the telegraph are instantly put into
requisition, to flash the news to many homes, which it
will fill either with rejoicing or with sorrow.
And now for the four second-year scholars, who
have gained the honor of a scholarship their first time
of trial, and whose success excited a still keener interest. They are read out in the accidental order of the
first entering of their names in the college books.
Silence! the second-year scholars areDUDLEY CHARLES OWEN, (for the names are always
read out at full length, Christian names and all;)
29




338              THE SCHOLARS.
JULIAN HOME;
ALBERT HENRY SUTON;
and it is a very astonishing fact, but the fourth is
HUGH JAMES LILLYSTON.
Who would have believed it?   Everybody expected
Owen and Home to get scholarships their first
time, and Suton was considered fairly safe of one;
but that Kennedy should not have got one, and that
Lillyston should, were facts perfectly amazing to all
who heard them. St. Werner's was full of surprise.
But, after all, they might have expected it; Kennedy
had been grossly idle, and Lillyston, who had been exceedingly industrious, was not only well grounded at
Iarton in classics, but had recently developed a real
and promising'proficiency in mathematics; and it was
this knowledge, joined to great good fortune in the
examination, which had won for him the much-envied
success.
But not Kennedy?
No! This result was enough most seriously to damp
the intense delight which Julian otherwise felt in his
own success, and that of his three friends.
Julian, half expecting that he would be successful,
had come up with Owen early in the day, and received
the news from the porter as he entered the college.
Kennedy and Lillyston were not yet arrived, and Julian
went to meet the coach from Roysley, hoping to see one
of them at least; for he was almost as anxious to break
the disappointment gently to Kennedy, as he was to
be the first to bear to his oldest school friend the surprising and delightful news of his success.
They were botl in the coach- and Julian was quite




TEARS.                  339
puzzled how to meet them. His vexation and delight
alternated so rapidly as he looked from one to the
other, that he felt exceedingly awkward, and would
very much have preferred seeing either of them alone.
Lillyston was incredulous; he insisted that there must
be some mistake, until he actually saw the list with
his own eyes. It was quite by accident, and not with
any view of being sworn in as a scholar the next
morning, that he had returned to St. Werner's on
that day at all.  Kennedy bore the bitter but not
unexpected disappointment with silent stoicism, and
showed an unaffected joy at the happy result which
had crowned the honest exertions of his best-loved
friends.
He bore it in stoical silence, until he reached his
own rooms; and then do not blame him-my poor
Kennedy!-if he bowed his head upon his hands, and
cried like a little child. There are times when the
bravest man feels quite like a boy-feels as if he
were unchanged since the day when he sorrowed for
boyish trespasses, and was chidden for boyish faults.
Kennedy was very young, and he was eating the fruits
of folly and idleness in painful failure and hope deferred. In public, he never showed the faintest signs
of vexation, but in the loneliness of his closet, do not
blame him if he wept-for Violet's sake as well as for
his own.
So once more he was separated from Julian and
Lillyston in hall and chapel, for they now sat at the
scholars' table and in the scholars'-seats.
He was beginning to get over his feeling of sorrow
when he received a letter, which did not need the coroi




340             FROM DE VAYNE.
net on the seal to show him that his correspondent was
De Vayne. He opened it with eagerness and curiosity,
and read:" Eiaglestower, April 30, 18-. Argyleshire.
MY DEAR KENNEDY —How long it'is since we saw
or heard of each other! I am getting well now, slowly
but surely,but as I am amusing my leisure by reviving
my old correspondence with my friends, let me write to
you, whom I reckon and shall ever reckon among that
honored number.
"I am afraid that you consider me to have been
slightly alienated from you by the sad scene which
your rooms witnessed when last we met in health, and
by the connection into which your name was dragged,
by popular rumor, with that unhappy affair. If such
a thought has ever troubled you, let me pray that
you will banish it. I have long since been sure that
you would have been ready to suffer any calamity
rather than expose me to the foreseen possibility of
such an outrage. 
" No, believe me, dear Kennedy, I am as much now
as I always have been since I knew you, your sincere
and affectionate friend. Nor will I conceal how deep
an interest another circumstance has given me in your
welfare.  You, perhaps, did not know that I, too,
loved your affianced Violet; how long, how deeply, I
can never utter to any living soul. I did not know
that you had won her affections, and the information that such was the case came on me like the
death-knell of all my cherished hopes. But I have
schooled myself now to the calm  contemplation of




DE VAYNE'S' LETTER.          341
my failure, and I can rejoice without envy in the
knowledge that in you she has won a lover richly endowed with all the qualities on which future happiness
can depend.
"I write to you partly to say good-by. In a fortnight I am going abroad, and shall not return until I
feel that I have conquered a hopeless passion and regained a shattered health. Farewell to dear old Camford!  I little thought that my career there would
terminate as it did, but I trust in the full persuasion
that God worketh all things for good to them who
love Him.
" Once more, good-by! When I return, I hope that
I shall see leaning on your arm a fair, a divine young
bride. Ever affectionately yours,
"DE VAYNE."
Kennedy had written home to announce that his
name was not to be found in the list of St. Werner's
scholars.  The information had disgusted his father
exceedingly. Mr. Kennedy, himself an old Wernerian,
loved that royal foundation with an unchanging regard; and ever since the day that Edward had been
playing in his hall a pretty boy, he determined that
he should be a St. Werner's scholar at his first trial.
He knew his son's abilities, and felt convinced that
there must be some radical fault in his Camford life,
to produce such a disastrous series of failures and
disgraces.  Unable to gain any real information on
the subject from Edward's letters, he determined to
write up at once, and ask the classical and mathematical tutors the points inwhich his son was most
29*




342           GENIUS IS PATIENCE."
deficient, and the reason,of his continued want of
success.
The classical tutor, Mr. Dalton, wrote back that
Kennedy's failure was due solely to idleness; that
nis abilities were acknowledged to be brilliant, but
that at Camford, as everywhere else, the notion of
success without industry was a chimera invented by
boastfulness and conceit. " Le G4nie c'est la Patience."
"You seem, however," continued Mr. Dalton, "to
be under the mistaken impression that your son read
with me the last term, and even read double.' This is
not the case, as he has ceased to read with me since
the end of the Christmas term: I was sorry that he
did so; for, if economy was an object, I would gladly,
merely for the sake of the interest I take in him, have
afforded gratuitous assistance to so clever and promising a pupil."
The letter of Mr. Baer, the mathematical tutor, was
precisely to the same effect. "I can only speak," he
said, " from what I observed of your son previous to
last Christmas; since then I have not had the pleasure
of numbering him among my pupils."
When Mr. Dalton's letter came, Mr. Kennedy was
exceedingly perplexed to understand what it meant,
and assumed that there must be some unaccountable
mistake.  He simply could not believe that his son
could have asked him for the money on false pretenses.
But when Mr. Baer's letter confirmed the fact that
Kennedy had not been reading with a tutor, either in
classics or mathematics during the previous quarter, it
seemed impossible for any one any longer to shut his
eyes to the truth.




DISCOVERIES.             343
When the real state of the case forced itself on
Mr. Kennedy's conviction, his affliction was so deep,
that no language can adequately describe what he
suffered. In a few days his countenance became sensibly older looking, and his hair more gray.  His
favorite and only surviving son had proved unworthy
and base. Not only had he wasted time in frivolous
company, but, clearly, he must have sunk very low
to be guilty of a crime so heinous in itself, and so
peculiarly wounding to a father's heart, as the one
which it was plain that he had committed.
At first, Mr. Kennedy could not trust himself to
write, lest the anger and indignation which usurped
the place of sorrow should lead him into a violence
which might produce irreparable harm. Meanwhile
he bore in silence the blows which had fallen. Not
even to his daughter Eva did he reveal the overwhelming secret of her brother's shame, but brooded
in loneliness over the fair promise of the past, blighted
utterly in the disgrace of the present.  Often, when
he had looked at his young son, and seen how glorious
apd how happy his life might be, he had determined
to shelter him from all evil, and endow him with
means and opportunities for every success. He had
looked to him as a pride and stay in declining manhood, and a comfort in old age. Edward Kennedy
had been "a child whom every eye that looked on
loved," and now he was-   Mr. Kennedy could not
apply to him the only name which at once sprung up
to his lips. He wrote"DEAR EDWARD —When I tell you that it cost me




344          MR. KENNEDY'S LETTER.
an effort, a strong effort to call you'dear,' you may
judge of the depth of my anger. I cannot trust myself,
nor will I condescend. to say much to you. Suffice it
for you to know that your shameful transactions are
detected, and that I am now aware of the means, the
treacherous, dishonest means, you' have adopted to procure money, which, since I give you an ample and
liberal allowance, can only be wanted to pander to vice,
idleness, and I know not what other forms of sin.
"I tell you that I do not know what to say; if you
can act as you have acted, you must be quite deaf to
expostulation, and dead to shame. You have done all
you can to cover me and yourself with dishonor, and
to bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.
"Oh Edward, Edward! if I could have foreseen this
in the days when you were yet a young and innocent
and'happy boy, I would have chosen rather that you
should die.
"It must be a long time before you see my face
again. I will not see you in the coming holidays, and
I at once reduce your allowance to half of what it was.
I cannot, and will not supply money to be wasted in
extravagance and folly, nor shall I again be deceived
into granting it to you on false pretenses.
"Your indignant, deeply-sorrowing father,
"T. KENNED."
Kennedy read the letter, and reread it, and laid
it down on the table beside his untouched breakfast.
There was but one expression in his face, and that was
misery, and in hig soul no other feeling than that of
hopeless shame.




"'HAST THOU FOUND ME, 0 MINE ENEMY?" 345
He did not, and could not write to his father. What
was tobe said? He must bear his burden-the burden
of detection and of punishment-alone.
And the thought of Violet added keener poignancy
to all his grief. For Kennedy could not but observe
that her letters were not so fondly, passionately loving
as they once had been, and he knew that the fault was
his, because his own letters reflected, like a broken
mirror, the troubled images of his wandering heart.




CHAPTER XXIX.
KENNE DY'S DESPAIR.
"When all the blandishments from life are gone,
The coward slinks to death;-the brave live on I"
OF all the sicknesses that can happen to the human
soul, the deadliest and the most incurable is the feeling
of despair-and this was the malady which now infected
every vein of Kennedy's moral and intellectual life.
Could he but have conquered his pride so far as to
take but one person into his confidence, all might have
been well. But Violet-could he ever tell Violet of
sins which her noble heart must render so inconceivable
as almost to make it impossible for her to sympathize
with one who committed them? And Eva-could he
ever wound the tender affection of his sweet sister, by
revealing to her the disgrace of the brother whom, from
her childhood, she had idolized? He sometimes thought
that he would confess to Julian or Lillyston; but his
courage failed him when the time came, and he fed on
his own heart in solitude, avoiding the society of men.
The sore burden of a self-reproaching spirit wore
him down. He had fallen so often now, and swerved
so often from the path of temperance, rectitude, and
honor, that he began to regard himself as a hopeless
reprobate-as one who had been weighed and found
wanting-tested of God, and deliberately set aside.
(346)




ADOKIMOS.                347
And so step by step the devil thrust him into desperation, and strove thereby to clinch the hopelessness of
his estate. With wild fierce passion Kennedy flung
himself into sins he had never known before; angrily
he laid waste the beauty and glory of the vineyard
whose hedge had been broken down; a little entrance
to the sanctuary had been opened to evil thoughts,
and they, when once admitted, soon flung back wider
and wider the golden gates, till the reveling band of
worse wickedness rushed in and defiled the altar, and
trampled on the virgin floors, and defaced the cedarn
walls with images of idolatry and picturings of sin.
Because he had sunk into the slough of despond, he
would be heedless of the mud that gathered on his garments. Was he not ruined already? could anything
much worse befall him than had befallen him already?
No; he would sin on now and take his fill.
It was a short period of his life; but in no other
period did he suffer so much, or shake more fatally the
foundations of all future happiness. It was emphatically
a sin against his own soul, and as such it affected his
very look. Those blue laughing eyes were clouded
over, and the bloom died away from his cheeks, and
the ingenuous beauty from his countenance, as the light
of the Shekinah grew pale and dim in the inmost
sanctuary. Kennedy was not mastered by impulse,
but driven by despair.
Nor did he take any precaution to shield himself
from punishment-the punishment of outward circumstance and natural consequence-as his moral abasement proceeded. His acquaintances shunned him, his
friends dropped away from him, and the guiltiness of




348                LOWER AND
the present received a tinge of deeper horror from the
gloom of the future.
All that could be done, Julian did. He warned, he
expostulated, he reminded of purer and happier-of
pure and happy days. But he did not know the bitter
fountain of despondency whence flowed those naphthalike streams of passion. At last he said,"Kennedy, I have not often spoken to you of my
dear sister; it is time to speak of her now. Your
conduct proves to me that you do not and cannot
love her."
Kennedy listened in silence; his face bowed down
upon his hands. "You could not go on as you qre
doing if you loved her, for love allows no meaner, no
unhallowed fires to pollute her vestal flame. Your love
must be a pretense-a thing of the past. It was only
possible, Kennedy, when you were worthier than now
you are."
He groaned deeply, but still said nothing.
"Kennedy," continued Julian, "I have loved you
as a friend, as a brother; I love you still most earnestly,
and you must not be too much pained at what I say;
but I have come to a determination which I must tell
you, and by which I must abide. Your engagement
with Violet must cease."
" Does SHE say so?" he asked, in a hollow voice.
" No, she does not know, Kennedy, what I know of
you; but she will trust my deep affection, and know
that I act solely for her good. The blow may almost
kill her, but better that she should die than that her
life should be ever connected-oh that you should have
driven me to say it-with one so stained as yours!




LOWER.                 349
"Ay!" said Kennedy, bitterly, " stab hard, for the
knife is in your hand. Fling dust on those who are
down already-it is the world's way. I see through it
all, Julian Home; you would gladly get rid of me, that
Violet may wear a coronet. No comparison between
a penniless and ruined undergraduate, and a handsome,
rich young viscount."
"Unjust, ungenerous!? answered Julian, with indignation; "you have poisoned your own true heart,
Kennedy, or you would not utter the lie which you
must disbelieve. Edward Kennedy, I will not attempt
to rebut your unworthy suspicions; you know neither
my character nor Violet's, or you would not have dared
to utter them. No-it is clearer to me than ever that
you are no fit suitor for my sister. Passion and weakness have dragged you very low. I trust and pray that
you may recover yourself again."'sudden rush of tears came to his eyes as he turned
away to leave his earliest and best loved collegefriend.
But Kennedy stopped him, and said wildly,"Stop, Julian Home, you shall hear me-speak! I
can hardly believe that you do this of your own responsibility-without Violet's-nay, nay, I must not
call her so-without your sister's consent. And if this
be so, hear me. Tell her that I scorn the heart which
would thus fling away its plighted love: tell her that
she has committed a great sin in thus rejecting me;
tell her that she is now responsible for all my future,that whatever errors I may fall into, whatever sins I
may commit, whatever disgrace or ruin I may incur,
she is the author of them. Tell her that if I ever
live to do ungenerous acts, or ever yield to bursts of
30




350              wv   a veroa.
foolish passion, the acts are hers, not mine; she will
have caused them; my life lies at her feet. Tell her
this before it is too late. What! you still wish to hurry
away? Go then." He almost pushed Julian out, and
banged the door after him.
Amazed at this paroxysm of wrath and madness,
Julian went down stairs with a slow step and a
heavy heart; above all, he dreaded the necessity of
breaking to Violet the heart-rending intelligence of his
decision, and the circumstances which caused it. He
trembled to do it, for he knew not how crushing the
weight might prove. At last he determined to write to
his mother, and to beg her to bear for him the pain of
telling that which her womanly tact and maternal
sympathy might make less overwhelming to be borne.
But Kennedy, after Julian's words, rushed out of
his rooms, and it was night. He left the college, and
wandered into the fields-he knew not whither,'nor
with what intent. His brain was on fire. The last
gleam that lent brightness to his life had been extinguished; the friend whom he loved best had cast him
off; his name was sullied; his love rejected. It was
not thought which kept him in a tumult, but only a
physical consciousness of dreadful, irremediable calamity; and but for the wind which blew so coldly and
savagely in his face, and the rain that soaked his
clothes-and cooled the fever of his forehead, he feared
that he might go mad.
He did not return to the college till long past midnight; and the old porter, as he got out of bed to
open the gate; could not help saying to him in a tone
of reproach,



MIDNIGHT WANDERING.           351
"Oh Mr. Kennedy, sir-excuse me, sir-but these
are bad ways."
The words were lost upon him: he went up to his
room, and threw himself, without taking off his clothes,
upon his bed. No sleep came to him, and in the morning-damp, weary, and feverish as he had been-his
look was inexpressibly pitiable and haggard.
The imperious demands of health forced him to take
some notice of his condition; and he was about to put
on clean clothes, and take some warm tea about ten in
the morning, when the master's servant came to tell
him that the seniority desired his presence.
He at once knew that it must be for his irregularity
of the previous night, which, in the agitation of other
thoughts, had not occurred to him before. He remembered, too, that the senior dean had only recently
threatened him that, in consequence of his late misdoings, the next offense would be visited with summary
and final punishment.
Kennedy received rather hard treatment at the hand
of the senior dean, who was a very worthy and excellent man, but so firm and punctilious that he could
neither conceive nor tolerate the existence of beings
less precise in their nature than himself. Kind and
well intentioned, he was utterly unfit for the guidance
of young men, because he was totally deficient in those
invaluable qualities-sympathy and tact. He had early
taken a dislike to Kennedy, in consequence of some
very harmless frivolities of his freshman's year. Kennedy, in his frolicsome and happy moods, had, in ways
childish perhaps, but completely harmless, offended the
sensitive dignity of the college official, and these trivial




352              SENIOR DEANS.
eccentricities the dean regarded as heinous faults-the
symptoms of a reckless and irreverent character. There
was one particular transaction which gave him more
than usual offense, in which Kennedy, hearing a very
absurd story at a don's party, while the dean was present, parodied it with such exquisite humor and such
complete command of countenance, that all the other
men, in spite of the official presence, had indecorously
broken into fits of laughter. It is a great pity when
rulers and teachers take such terrible fright at little
outbreaks of mere animal and boyish spirits.
The dean was inclined, therefore, from the first to
take the most serious view of Kennedy's proceedings,
even when they were not as questionable as recently
they had been. Instead of trying to enter into a young
man's feelings and temptations with consideration'and
forbearance, the dean regarded them from a moral
watchtower of unapproachable altitude, and hence to
him the errors which he was sometimes obliged to
punish were not regarded as human failings, but as
monstrous and inexplicable phenomena. He could not
in the least understand Kennedy; he only looked at
him as a wild, and objectionable, and irregular young
man; while Kennedy reciprocated his pity by a hardly
concealed contempt.
So, as Kennedy took cap and gown, and walked
across the court to the combination-room, he became
pretty well aware that a very heavy sentence was
hanging over his head. He cared little for it; nothing
that St. Werner's or its authorities could do would
wound him half so deeply as what he was already suf



IN A DREAM.               353
fering, or cause the iron to rankle more painfully in
his soul. He felt as a man who is in a dream.
He stood before them with a look of utter vacancy
and listlessness, the result partly of physical weariness,
partly of complete indifference. He was aware that
the dean, undisturbed this time, was haranguing him
to his heart's content, but he had very little notion of
what he was saying. At- last his ear caught the question —"Have you any explanation to offer of your
conduct, Mr. Kennedy?"
He betrayed how little he had been attending by the
reply-" What conduct, sir?"
The dean ruffled his plumage, and said with asperity
-" Your conduct last night, sir."
" I was wandering in the fields, sir."
"Wandering in the, fields!" In the dean's formal
and regular mind such a proceeding was wholly unintelligible; fancy a sensible member of a college wandering in the fields on a wet stormy night past twelve
o'clock!  "Really, Mr. Kennedy, you must excuse
us, but we can hardly accept so fantastic an explanation; we can hardly believe that you had no ulteriol
designs."
Kennedy was bothered and fretful; he was not
thinking of deans or seniors just then; his thoughts
were reverting to his father's implacable anger, and to
Julian's forbidding him to hope for the love of Violet
Home. Weary of the talking, and careless of explaining anything to them, and with a short return of his
old contempt, he wished to cut short the discussion,
and merely said," I can't help what you accept or what you believe."
30*




S54               RUSTICATION.
The seniors had a little discussion among themselves,
in which the opinion of Mr. Norton appeared to be
overborne by the majority of votes, and then the senior
dean said shortly,"Mr. Kennedy, we have come to the decision that
it is undesirable for you to remain at St. Werner's at
present, until you have mended your ways, and taken a
different view of the duties and responsibilities of college
life. You are rusticated for a year. You must leave
to-morrow."
Kennedy bowed and left the room. He, too, had
been coming to a decision, and one that rendered all
minor ones a matter of no consequence to him. During
all the wet, and feverish, and sleepless night he had
been determining what to do, and the event of this
morning confirmed him still further. He was rusticated
for a year; where could he go?  Not to his father
and his home, where every eye would look on-him as a
disgraced and characterless man; not to any of his relations or friends, who would regard him perhaps as a
shame and burden; no, there was but one home for
him, and that was the long home, undisturbed beneath
the covering of the grave.
The burden and mystery of life lay heavily on him
-its lasting calamities and vanishing joys, its trials and
disappointments. He would try whether, in a new state
of life, the same distorted individuality was a necessary
possession. Would it be necessary there also to live
two lives in one, to have a soul, within whose precincts
curse wrested. with blessing, good with evil, and life
with death? As life went with him then, he would
rather escape from it even into annihilation; he groaned




ETERNAL INDIVIDUALITY.          355
under it, and in spite of all he had heard or read, he
had no fear whatever of the after-death. If he had
any feeling about that, it was a feeling of curiosity
alone. He could not wholly condemn himself: he felt
that however much evil might have mastered him, good
was the truest and most distinctive element of his being.
He loved it even when he abandoned it, and yielded
himself to sin. He could not believe that for these
frailities he would be driven into an existence of
unmitigated pain.
He had no fear, no shadow of fear of the state of
death, for he forgot that he would carry himself, his
unchanged being-conscience, habit, and memory-into
the other world. What he dreaded was the spasm of
dying-the convulsion that was to snap the thousand
silver strings in the harp of life. This he shuddered
at, but he consoled himself that it would be over in a
moment.
He took no food that day, but wrote to his father,
to Eva, to Julian, Violet, and De Vayne. He told
them his purpose, and prayed their forgiveness for all
the wrongs he had done them. And then there seemed
no more to do. With weak unsteady steps he paced
his room, and looked at the old Swiss chamois-gun
above the door. He took it down and handled it.
It was a coarse clumsy weapon, and he could not trust
it to effect his purpose.  Shunning observation, he
walked by back streets and passages until he came to a
gunsmith's shop, where he bought a large pistol, under
pretense of wanting it for the purposes of travel.
He carried it home himself, but, instead of return
ing straight to his rooms, he was tempted to stroll for




356          STANDING IN THE WAY.
a last time about the grounds. The delightful softness
of the darkening air on that spring evening, and the
cheerful gleam of lamps leaping up here and there
between the trees, and flickering on the quiet river,
enticed him up the glorious old intwined avenue into the
shadow of the great oaks beyond, until he found himself leaning between the weeping willows over the bridge
of Merham Hall, looking on the still gray poetic towers,
and the three motionless reposing swans, and the gloaming of the west. And so, still thinking, thinking, thinlking, he slowly wandered home.
As he had determined to commit suicide that night,
it mattered little to him at what hour it was done; and,
opening the first book on the table, he tried to kill time
until it grew later and darker. The book happened to be
a Bible, and, conscious how much it jarred with his present frame of mind and his guilty purpose, he threw it
down again; but not until his eye had caught the words:
"AND HE SAW THE ANGEL OF THE LORD STANDING
IN THE WAY.
The verse haunted him against his will, till he half
shuddered at the dim! light which the moon made, as
it struggled through the curtains only partially drawn,
into the quaint old room. He would delay no longer,
and loaded the pistoi with a dreadful charge, which
should not fail of carrying death.
Some fancy seized him to put out the lights, and then,
with a violent throbbing at the heart, and a wild prayer
for God's mercy at that terrible hour, he took the pistol
in his hand.
At that very instant,-when there was hardly the
motion of a hair's breadth between him and his fate, —




THE DISCHARGE.             357
what was it that startled his attention, and caused his
hand to drop, and fixed him there with open mouth and
wild gaze, and caused him to shiver like the leaves of
the acacia in a summer wind?
Right before him-half hidden by the window curtains, and half drawing them back-clear and distinct,
he saw the spirit of his dead mother with uplifted finger
and sad reproachful eyes fixed upon her son. The
countenance so sorrowfully beautiful, the long bright
gleaming of the white robe, the tresses floating down
over the shoulders like a golden vail, for one instant he
saw them, not dim and shadowy, like the fading outlines of a dream, but with all the marked full character of living vision.
"Oh, mother, mother!"    he whispered, as he
stretched out his hands, and sank trembling upon
his knees, and bowed his head; but, as he raised his
head again, there was nothing there; only the glimmer
of lamps about the court, and the pale moonlight
streaming through the curtains into the room.
Unable to trust himself with the murderous weapon
in his hand even for a moment, yet swept from his
evil purpose by the violent reflux of new and better
thoughts, he fired the pistol into the air. The barrel,
enormously overloaded, burst in the discharge, and,
uttering a cry, he fell fainting, with his right hand
shattered, to the ground.
His cry and the loud report of the explosion raised
the alarm, and as the men rushed up and forced open
the door of his room, they found him weltering in his
blood upon the floor.




CHAPTER XXIX.
EVA ENTERS THE CHAPEL.
"I took it for a fairy vision
Of some bright creatures of the element,
That in the colors of the rainbow live
And play i' the plighted clouds; I whs awe-struck,
And, as I passed, I worshiped."-CoMus.
THE long, long illness that followed, and the weary
time which it took to heal the mutilated hand, proved
the greatest blessings that could have befallen the
weak and erring feart of Edward Kennedy.     They
spared him the necessity of that heart-rending meeting
with those whom he best loved, the dread of which had
the most powerful incitement to urge upon him the
thought of suicide. They gave him time to look before
and after-they relieved the painful tension of his
overwrought mind-they calmed him with the necessity for quiet thought and deep rest, after the anguish
and turmoil of the bygone months.
When he awoke to consciousness, Eva was sitting
by his bedside in the sick-room.  Slowly the wellremembered objects and the beloved face broke upon
his recollection, but at first he could remember nothing
more, nor connect the strange present with the excited
past.  Still more slowly-as when one breaks the
azure sleep of some unruffled mountain mere by the
skimming of a stone, and for a long time the clear
(358)




THE AWAKING.               359
images of blue sky, and wreathing cloud, and green
mountain-top are shaken and confused on the tremulous and twinkling wave, but unite together into the
old picture when the water has recovered its glassy
smoothness,-so, still more slowly did Kennedy's trQubled -memory reflect the incidents (alas, unbeautiful
and threatening incidents!) of the preceding days.
They came back to him as he lay there quite still; and
then he groaned.
"Hush, dearest Edward!" said Eva, who had
watched his face, and guessed, from its expressive
workings, the progress of his thoughts; "hush, we
are with you, and all is going on well. Your hand is
healing."
He found that his right hand was tightly and firmly
bandaged, and kept still by a splint.
"Was it much hurt? Shall I recover the use of it?"
"Yes, almost certainly, Dr. Leesby says. I will
tell papa that you are awake."
" Is he very, very angry?" asked poor Kennedy.
"He has forgiven all, dear," she said, kissing his
forehead.  "It was all very dreadful!" and a cold
shiver ran over her; " but none of us will ever allude
to it again. Banish it from your thoughts, Eddy; we
will leave Camford as soon as you can be moved."
She went to fetch her father, and as he camen in
and leant fondly over his son's sick-bed, and grasped
warmly his unwounded hand, tears of afflicting memory
coursed each other fast down the old man's cheeks.
He had been hard, too hard upon Edward; perhaps
his severity had driven him of late into such bad
courses, and to the brink of such an awful and dis



360           "TWO FIRM FRIENDS."
graceful end; perhaps if he had been kinder, gentler,
more sympathizing for this first offense, he might have
been saved the anguish of driving his poor boy to lower
and wilder depths of sin and sorrow. It was all over
now; and, amid the apparent wreck of all his hopes,
even after the death-blows which recent events had
dealt to his old pride in his noble child, he yet regarded him as he lay there-wounded and in such a
way-with all the pity of a Christian's forgiveness,
with all the fondness of a father's love..
"Oh, father! I have suffered unspeakably. If God
ever raises me to health and strength again, I vow
with all my heart to serve him as I have never done
before."
"Yes, Edward, I trust and believe it; think no more
of the past; let the dead bury their dead.  The golden
present is before you, and you will have two friends
who never desert the brave man-your Maker and
yourself."
A silence followed, and then Eva said: "I have just
seen Dr. Leesby, Eddy, and he says that if you are
now quite yourself, and the light-headedness has ceased,
you may be moved on Monday."
"And to-day is?-I have lost all count of time."
"To-day is Saturday. Won't it be charming, dear,
to find ourselves once more at home; quietly at home,
with no one but ourselves, and our own love to make us
happy?"
"And what am I to do, Eva?"
" Hush, Eddy! sufficient for the day —"
"Does she know, Eva'? do you ever hear from her
now?"




NOT ENEMIES.              361
"Yes, often-but do not think too much of those
things just yet."
"And Julian?"
"He has often come to ask after you"' she said,
blushing, " but he is afraid to see you, lest it should do
you harm just now."
"Perhaps he is right. We are not all enemies,
then?"
" Enemies with Julian and Violet?  Oh no."
Though the.engagement of Kennedy with Violet had
been broken off by the common desire of Julian and
Mr. Kennedy, the twb families still continued their
affectionate intercourse, and bewailed the sad necessity
which drove them to a step so painful, yet so unavoidably required by the welfare of all concerned. And
from the first they hoped that all might yet be well,
whilQ some among them began to fancy that if Kennedy
and Violet should ever be united, it would not be the
only close bond between hearts already full of mutual
affection.
So Julian still came daily during Kennedy's illness
to see Eva and Mr. Kennedy, and to inquire after the
sufferer's health. And sometimes he took them for a
walk in the grounds or the immediate neighborhood of
Camford, a place which they had never visited before,
and which to them was full of interest.
Eva had often heard of the glories of St. Werner's
chapel, arid on the Sunday she asked Julian if it would
be possible for her to go with her father to the evening
service there.
" Oh, yes," said Julian; " certainly. I will get one
31




362             SUNDAY EVENING.
of the fellows to take you in. It is a remarkable sight,
and I think you ought to go."
The Sunday evening came, and Julian escorted them
to the ante-chapel, and showed them the various sculp
tures and memorials of mighty names. They then
waited by the door till some fellow whom Julian knew
should pass into the chapel to escort them to a vacant
place in the fellows' seats.
St. Werner's chapel consists of a single aisle, along
the floor of which are placed rows of benches for the
undergraduates; raised above these to a height of three
steps are the long seats, appropriated to the scholars
and the bachelors of arts; and again, two steps above
these are-'he seats of the fellows and masters of arts,
together with room for such casual strangers as may
chance to be admitted. In the center of these long
rows, on either side, are the places for the choristers,
men and boys, and the lofty thrones whence the deans
"look down with sleepless eyes upon the world."  By
the door on either side are the red-curtained and velvetcushioned seats of the master and vice-master, beyond
whom si1 the noblemen and fellow-commoners. By
the lectern and reading desk is a step of black and
white marble, which extends to the altar, on which are
two candlesticks of massive silver; and over them
some beautiful carved oaken work covers a great paint
ing, flanked on either side by old gilded pictures of the
Saviour and the Madonna. Imagine this'space all
lighted from wall to wall by wax candles, and at the
end by large lamps which shed a brighter and softer
light, and imagine it filled, if you can, by five hundred
men in snowy surplices, and you have a faint fancy ol




ST. WERNER'S CHAPEL.              863
the scene which broke on the eyes of Mr. Kennedy and
Eva, as they passed between the statues of the antechapel, and under the pealing organ into the inner
sanctuary of St. Werner's chapel.
"Could they beholdWho, less insensible than sodden clay
In a sea river's bed at ebb of tide-.
Could have beheld with undelighted heart
So many happy youths, so wide and fair
A congregation in its budding-time
Of health, and hope, and beauty, all at once
So many divers samples from the growth
Of life's sweet season-could have seen unmoved
That miscellaneous garland of wild flowers,
Decking the matron temples of a place
So famous through the world?"
It was Mr. Norton whom Julian caught hold of as an
escort for his friends into the-chapel.  I well remember (who that saw it does not?) that entrance. It was
rather late; the organ was playing a grand overture,
the men were all in their seats, and the service just
going to begin, when Eva entered leaning on Mr. Norton's
arm, and followed by her father and Julian.  Many of
the St. Werner's men had seen her walking in the
grounds the last day or two, and, as Kennedy's sister, a
peculiar interest attached to her just then. But she
needed no such accidental source of interest to attract
the liveliest attention of such keen and warm enthusiasts
for beauty as the Camford undergraduates. Ladies are
comparatively rare apparitions in that semi-monastic
body of scholars; and ladies both young and lovely are




364   EVA KENNEDY IN ST. WERNER'S CHAPEL.
rare indeed. So as Eva entered, so young and so fair,
the bright and graceful and beautiful Eva-with that
exquisite rose-tinge which the air of Orton-on-the-Sea
had given her, and the folded softness of the tresses
which flowed down beside her perfect face, and the
light of beaming eyes seen like jewels under her long
eyelashes as she bent her glance upon the ground-as
Eva entered, I say, leaning on Mr. Norton's arm, and
touched, with the floating of her pale silk dress, the
surplices of the St. Werner's men as they sat on either
side down the narrow passage, it was no wonder that
every single eye from that of the senior dean* to that
of the little chorister boy was turned upon her for an
instant, as she passed up to the only vacant seats, and
Mr. Norton caused room to be made for her beside the
tutor's cushion by the chaplain's desk. Shewas happily
unconscious of the admiration, and the perfect simplicity of her sweet girlish uncohsciousness added a
fresh charm to the whole grace of her manner and appearance. Only by the slightest possible blush didt she
show her sense of her unusual position as the cynosure
for the admiring gaze of five hundred English youths;
and that too though the dark and handsome countenance of Mr. Norton glowed visibly with a brighter
color, (as though he were conscious of the thoughtrespecting him which darted across many an undergraduate's mind,) and even the face of Julian, as he
walked to the scholars' seats among the familiar ranks
of his compeers, was flushed with the crimson of a
sensitiveness which he would fain have hidden.
* Pace Decani dixerim!




THEE ANTE-CHAPEL.            865
And I cannot help it, if even during the noble service
-even amid the sound
"Of solemn psalms and silver litanies,"
the eyes of many men wandered toward a sweet face,
and gazed upon it as they might have gazed upon a
flower, and if the thoughts ofmany men were absorbed
unwontedly in other emotions than those of prayer;
nor can I help it if Julian was one of those whose eyes
and thoughts were so employed.
What an evening star she was! and how her very
presence filled all hearts with a livelier sense of happiness and hope, and sweet pure yearnings for wedded
calm and bridal love! But she-innocent young Eva
— little knew of the sensation she had caused by the
rare beauty of her blossoming womanhood.  Her whole
heart was in the act of worship, except when it
wandered for a moment to her poor sick Eddy, whom
they had left alone, or for another moment to one
whom she could not but see before her in the scholars'
seats.  She did not know that men were looking at
her, as she raised her clear warbling voice amid the
silvery trebles of the choir, and uttered with all the
expressiveness of genuine emotion those strains of
poetry and passion which thrilled from the heart to
the harp of the warrior-prophet and poet-king. And
never did truer prayers come from a woman's lips than
those which her heart offered as her head was bowed
that night.
The service was over, and the congregation streamed
81*




866            JULIAN AND EVA.
out. That evening the ante-chapel was fuller than
usual of men, who stayed nominally to hear the organ;
but besides those musical souls, who always linger to
hear the voluntary, or to talk in little groups, there
were others who, on that pretense, waited to catch
another glimpse-a last glimpse of eyes whose deep
and lovely color had flowed inito their souls. They
were disappointed though,.for Eva dropped her vail.
With a graceful bow to Mr. Norton, which he returned
with courteous dignity, she took Julian's proffered arm,
and walked out into the court, her father following. A
proud man was Julian that evening, and the subject of
kindly envy to not a few.
But that little incident-the many eyes that had
seen his treasure-determined Julian to take the step
which he had long decided upon in his secret heart.
He was jealous of the open, unconcealed admiration
which Eva had excited, and it made him fear lest
another should approach the object of his love, and
occupy a place in the heart which he had not even
demanded as his own. He was positively in a hurry.
What if some undergraduate should get an introduction
to Eva-some gay and handsome Adonis-and should
suddenly carry away her heart?
So when Mr. Kennedy went into the sick-room to
read to Edward the lessons for the day, and Julian
stayed with Eva in the sitting-room, he drew his chair
beside hers, and they began to talk about St. Werner's.
" Do you think you shall ever be a fellow, Julian?
I should so like you to be."
"And if I am, I shall hope very soon to exchange
it for a happier fellowship, Eva."




THE HAPPINESS OF LOVE.          367
She wouldn't see what he meant, so he said: " Eva,
shall I read to you?"
"Yes," she said, "I should like it so much; I used
to enjoy so much the poetry we read at Grindelwald."
He took down Coleridge's poems from the shelf, and
read"All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
Are all but ministers of love,
And feed his sacred flame!"
He went on, watching her color change with the
musical variation of his voice, until he came to the
verse"I told her how he pined-and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
In which I sang another's love
Interpreted my own."
He saw her breast heaving with agitation; and, throwing away the book, h& bent down beside her, and
looked up into her deep eyes, and said: "Oh Eva,
what need of concealment? you have read it long ago,
have you not? I love you, Eva; love you so passionately-you cannot tell the depth of my love. Do you
return it, Eva?" he said, as he gained possession of
her hand.
She had won him then-the dream of her latter life!
This was the noble Julian kneeling at her side. She
trembled for very joy, and whispered: "Oh Julian,
Julian, do you not see that I loved you from the first
day we met?"    She regretted the speech the next




368     HAPPINESS MIXED WITH SADNESS.
moment, as though it had been wanting in maidenly
reserve, but it was the first warm natural utterance of
her heart; and Julian sprang up in an ecstasy of joy,
and, as she rose, he claimed as his due a lover's kiss.
She blushed crimson, but Buffered him to sit down
beside her; and they sat, hardly knowing anything but
the great fact that they loved each other, till Mr. Kennedy's voice had ceased in the adjoining room, and he
came in.
"Oh, there you are,' he said; "Edward is sinking
to sleep. How good of you to be so quiet!"
They rose up, and Julian led her to him with her
hand in his, and his arm supporting her. "Mr. Kennedy," he said, "I am going to ask you for the most
priceless jewel you possess."
" What? is it indeed so? Ah, you wicked Julian,
do not rob me of Eva yet. She is too young; and
now that Edward seems likely to be ill so long — ah,
me! I am bereaved of my children.  Well, well, I
suppose it must be so. Come here, darling, to the old
father you are going to desert: I dare say Julian won't
grudge me one kiss."
He kissed her tenderly, and she clung about his neck
as she whispered: "But it will not be yet for a long,
long time, papa."
"What youth calls long, my Eva; but not long for
those who are walking into the shadow down the hill."
O happy, happy lovers! how gloriously that night
did the stars shine out for you in the deep, unfathomable galaxies of heaven, and the dew fall, and the
moon dawn into a sky yet flushed with the long-un



FITFUL SLEEP.              869
fading purple of the fading day! Yet there was sadness mixed with their happiness as they heard, until
they'parted, the plaintive murmurs of Kennedy's fitful
sleep, and thought of all the sufferings of their bro
ther, and how nearly, how very nearly, he had been
hurried from the midst of them by self-inflicted death.




CHAPTER XXX.
REPENTANCE.
" This world will not believe a man repents,
And this wise world of ours is mainly right;
For seldom does a man repent, and use
Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch
Of blood and nature wholly out of him,
And make all clean, and plant himself afresh."
TENNYSON'S Idyls.
BEAUTIFUL Orton-on-the-Sea! who that has been
there does not long to return there again and again,
and gaze on the green and purple of its broad bay, and
its one little islet, and the golden sands that stretch
along its winding shore, and its glens clothed with
fir-trees and musical with the voice of many rills.
It was there that Kennedy had lived from childhood,
and it was there that he now returned to spend at home
the year of his rustication. They arrived at home on
Monday evening, and from that time forward Kennedy
rapidly gained health and strength, and was able to
move about again, though his hand healed but slowly,
and it took months to enable him to use it without
pain.
On that little islet of the bay was Kennedy's favorite
(370)




ORTON ISLET.              371
naunt. It was a place where the top of a low cliff was
sheltered by a clump of trees which formed a natural
bower, from whence he would gaze untired for hours
on the rising and falling of the tide. A little orphan
cousin whom Mr. Kennedy had adopted, used to row
him over to this retirement, and while the boy stayed
in their little boat, and fished, or hunted for sea-birds'
nests in the undisturbed creeks and inlets, Kennedy,
with some volume of the poets in his hands would rest
under the waving branches, and gaze upon the glancing
waves.
And at times, when, like a great glowing globe, the
sun sunk, after the fiery heat of some burning summer
day, into the crimsoned waters, and filled the earth,
and the heavens, and the sea with silent splendors, a deep
feeling of solemnity, such as he had never before experienced, would steal over Kennedy's mind. He could
not but remember that, but for God's special grace
thwarting the nearly accomplished purpose of his sin,
the eyes which were filled with such indescribable
visions of glory would have been closed in death, and
the brow on which the sea wind was beating in such
cool and refreshful perfume would have been crumbling
under the clammy sod. Surely it must be for some
great thing that his life had been saved; it was his own
no longer; it must be devoted to mighty purposes of
love and toil. Kennedy began to look for some work
of danger and suffering as his portion upon earth: he
longed ambitiously for the wanderings of the apostle
and the crown of the martyr. The good deeds of a
conventional piety, the quiet routine of a common



372                TEARNINGS.
place benevolence, seemed no meet or adequate em.
ployment for his highly-wrrought mind. No, he would
sail to another world; there he would join a new colony
in clearing away the primeval depths of some virgin
forest, and tilling the glebes of a rich and untried soil;
and, living among them, he Would make that place a
center for wide evangelization-the home of religious
enthusiasms and equal laws; or he would go as a missionary to the savage and the cannibal, and, sailing
from reef to reef, where the coral-islands of the Pacific
mirror in the deep waters, of their calm lagoon the
reed-huts of the savage, and the feathery coronal of
tropic trees, he would devote his life to reclaiming from
ignorance and barbarism the waste places of a degraded
humanity.
Such were the visions and purposes that floated
through his mind-partly the fantastic fancies of
dreamy hours, partly the unconscious desire to fly from
a land which reminded -him too painfully of vanished
hopes, and from a scene which had been the witness of
his error and disgrace. Perhaps, most of all, he was
influenced by the desire to escape from a house which
constantly recalled the image of a lost love-a lost love
that he never hoped to regain; for Kennedy thought
-though but little had been said about it-that Violet
had deliberately and finally rejected him in scorn for
the courses he had followed.
But he wished, before he quite made up his mind as
to his future career, to see Violet once more, and bid
her a last farewell. Not daring to write and announce
his intention lest she should refuse to meet him again,




ONE   ORE MOEINTERVIEW.       873
and unwilling to trust his secret to any of her family,
he determined to see her by surprise, and enjoy for
one last hour the unspeakable happiness of sitting by
her side.
"Father," he said, "I am well now, or nearly well;
will you let me go on a little journey?"
"A journey?-where?     We will all go together,
Edward, if you want any change of air and scene." 
He shook his head. "You can guess," he said,
" where I wish to go for the last time."
"But do you think you can travel alone, Eddy, with
your poor wounded hand?" asked Eva.
" Oh, yes; the splinters keep it safe, and I shall'
only be two days or so away."
They suffered him to fulfill his whim, although they
felt that if he saw Violet, the meeting could hardly fail
to be full of pain.
It was deep in autumn when he started, and arriving at Ildown, took up his abode in the little village
inn. HIe kept himself as free from observation as he
could, and begged the landlady, who recognized him,
not to mention his arrival to any one. She had seen
him on his former visit, and remembered favorably his
genial good humor and affable bearing. He told her
frankly that he had come to say good-by to Miss Home,
whom he might not see again; but he did not wish to
go to the house-could the landlady tell him anything
about their movements?
"Why, yes; I do.happen to know," she said, "and
I suppose there can't be no harm in telling you,
for I heard Master Cyril say as how they were all
32




874             A CONVERSATION.
a-going a-gipsying to-morrow in the wood near the
King's Oak."
"And when do you thinl they will start?"
"Oh, they'll start at ten, sir, in the morning, for I'm
a-going to lend'em my little trap to carry the perwisions in, and that."
This would suit Kennedy capitally, and, musing on
the meeting of the morrow, he sank into a doze in the
arm-chair. A whispering awoke him, and he was far
from reassured by overhearing the following colloquy:"Who be that in the parlor?" asked a rustic.'"Oh, that's the young gentleman as wer' Miss
Violet's sweetheart," said the bar-maid, confidentially;
"nobody don't know of it, but I heard the missus
a-saying so."
" Why bean't he at the house then?"
i Oh, ye know, he aint her sweetheart no longer;
there's been a muddle somehow, and they do say as
how he shot hisself, but he don't seem to be shot much
now, to look at'im. He's as likely and proper a
young gentleman as I've seen for a long time."
Taking his candle, wearily, Kennedy listened to no
more of the conversation, and went to bed. His bedroom window looked toward the pleasant house and
garden of Mrs. Home, and he did not lie down till he
had seen the light extinguished in the embowered
window of Violet's room. Next morning he got up
betimes, and, after dressing himself with the utmost
pain and difficulty, for he did not like to ask for the
assistance which he always had at home since his illness, he went down to breakfast. Hardly touching the




ILDOWN WOOD.               875
dainties-which the hospitable old landlady had provided,
he strolled off to the wood, almost before Ildown was
astir, and sat down in a place, not far from the King's
Oak, in a green hollow, where he was sheltered from
sight by the broad tree trunks and the tall and graceful
ferns.
He had not long to wait, and the time so spent
would have been happy if agitation had not prevented
him from enjoying the glories of the scene. Nowhere
was " the gorgeous and melancholy beauty of the sunlit
autumnal landscape more bounteously displayed." The
grand oldI trees all round him were burning themselves
away in many-colored flames, and the green leaves that
still lingered amid the rich hues of beautiful decay,
suggested, in their contrasting harmony with their
withered brethren, many a deep moral to the thoughtful mind: and everything that the thoughts could shape
received a deeper emphasis from the unbroken silence
of the wood.
The occupation of his mind made the time pass
quickly, and it seemed but a few minutes when he saw
the Homes approaching the King's Oak. The boys
laid on the greensward the materials for the picnic,
and then, while Violet and Mrs. Home seated themselves on a fallen trunk and took out their work, Julian
read to them, and Cyril and Frank walked through
the wood in search of exercise and amusement.
As they passed near the spot where Kennedy was
seated, they caught sight of a squirrel's nest, and Frank
was instantly on the alert to reach the spoil. While
he was scrambling with difficulty up the tall fir, Cyril




376            CYRIL AND FRAN'K.
stayed at the foot, and Kennedy determined to call
him.   Cyril had grown into a tall handsome boy
of seventeen, and Kennedy knew that he could be
trusted to help him, for he had won the boy's
affection thoroughly when they were together in Switzerland.
"Cyril!"
The sound of a voice in that quiet place, out of earshot of his friends, startled Cyril, and he turned hastily
round.
" Who's there?"
" Edward Kennedy. Come here, Cyril, and let me
speak to you; Frank does not notice us."
"Edward-you here?" said Cyril; "why don't you
come and see mother?" —he was going to say Violet,
but he checked himself.
"I want to see, not Mrs. Home, but Violet," said
Kennedy; " you know our engagement is broken off,
Cyril; I have only come to say farewell, before I leave
England, perhaps forever. Call Violet here alone."
Cyril, who had heard of Kennedy's wild ways at
college; and of the dreadful story that had raised
against him the suspicion of intended suicide, hesitated
a moment, as though he were half afraid,- or unwilling
to fulfill the commission. But Kennedy said to him
sorrowfully,"You need not fear, Cyril, that you will be doing
wrong. Tell Frank first, and then you can stay near,
while I speak for a few minutes to your sister."
Cyril called down his brother from the tree, and
told: him that Kennedy was there.   "Stay here,




UNDiER AUTUMN TREES.           877
Frankie, while I fetch Violet; Edward wants to bid
her good-by."
He ran off, and said; "Come here, Vi.; Frank and
I have something to show you."
"Is it anything very particular?" said Violet; "for
I shall disturb Julian's- reading if I go away."
"Yes, something very particular."
"Won't you tell me what?"
"Why, a squirrel's nest for one thing, which Frank
has found. Do come."
"You imperious boys, at home for your holidays!"
she said, smiling; "Punch hasn't half cured you of
your tyranny to us poor sisters."  She rose to follow
him, and when they had gone a few steps, he said, —
"Vi., Edward Kennedy is in that little dell there,
behind the trees; he has come, he says, to bid you
good-by."
The sudden announcement startled her; but she only
leaned on Cyril's shoulder, and walked on, while he
almost heard the beating of her heart.
"We will stay here, Violet; you see him there."
Cyril pointed to a tree, against whose trunk Kennedy was leaning, with his eyes bent upon the ground,
looking at the red splashes on the withered leaves,
and the golden buds embroidered on "elf-needled
mat of moss."   Hearing the sound of footsteps, he
raised his head, and a moment after he was by Violet's
side.
Taking her hand without a word, while her bosom
shook with deep sobs as she saw his pale face and
maimed hand, he led her to the gnarled and serpentine
32*




378           VIOLET AND KENNEDY.
roots of a great oak, and seated her there, while he sat
lowly at her feet upon the red ground' With sheddings of the pining umbrage tinged."
How was it that she did not shrink from him? How
was it that she seemed content to rest close beside him,
and suffered her hand to rest upon his shoulder, as he
stooped? Did she love him still after all? Had Julian
deceived him with the assertion of her acquiescence in
the termination of their engagement? A strange rush
of new hope filled his heart. He would test the true
state of her affections.
"I have come," he said, in that tone of voice which
was so dear to her remembrance, "I have come, Violet, to bid you farewell forever. Since you have rejected me, I have neither heart nor hope, and I shall
leave England as soon as I may go."
The tears were falling fast from her blue eyes. " Oh,
Edward," she said, "why do you bid me farewell? do
you not think that I love you still?"
" Still, Violet? you love me, the ruined, dishonorable, disgraced; the- "   She would, not hear the
dreadful word, but laid her finger on his lip.
"Oh, hush, Edward! those words are not for you.
You may have sinned; they tell me you have sinned.
But have you not repented, too. Edward? Have the
lessons of sickness and anguish taught you nothing?
I am sure they have. I could not wed one who was
living an evil life, but now I see your true self once
more."




AUTUMN LOVE.               879
"Then you love me still?" The words were uttered
in astonishment, and the emotions of unexpected joy
almost overpowered him.
"I never ceased to love you, Edward.   Do you
think that I am one to trifle with your heart, or to use
it as a plaything for me to triumph by? Never, never,
Had you died, or, worse still, had you continued in sinful ways, I could not even then have ceased to love you,
though we might have been separated until death. But
now I read other things in your face, Edward, and I
will be yours-your betrothed-again.  Come, let us
join the rest. There is not one of us but will welcome
you with joy."
"Nay, flay, let us stay here for a moment," he
cried, as he rose up; "let me realize the joyful sensation which your words have given me; let me sit here,
Violet, a few moments, at your feet, and feel the touch
of your hand in mine, and look at your face, that I
may recover strength again."
They sat there in silence, and the thoughts of both
recurred to that other scene where they had sat on
the great boulder under the shadow of the Alps, and
watched the rose-film steal over their white summits on
the golden summer eve. It was the same love that
still filled their souls-the same love, but more sober)
more quiet, more like the love of maturer years, less
like the passionate love of. boy and girl. It was more
of an antumnal love than of old; and, if the departing summer had flung new hues over the forest and
the glen; they were the duller hues that recalled to
mind the greater glory of the past. It was round a




880          COMMON-LIFE HEROISM.
dying year that Autumn was "folding his jeweled
arms."  Yet, they were happy-very happy, and they
felt that, come what might, nothing on earth could part
them now.
When Kennedy had grown more calm, Violet called
for Cyril, and bade him break the fact of Edward's
presence to her mother and Julian. The boy bounded
off to do her bidding, and, in a few moments, Kennedy
was seated among the Homes as one of them. They
received him with no simulated affection; Frank and
Cyril helped to take away all awkwardness from the
meeting, by their high spirits, and when they all sat
down on the velvet mosses to their rural meal, every
one of them had banished the painful hauntings of the
past.  Of course Kennedy accompanied them home;
they drove back in the quiet evening, and Kennedy sat
by Violet's side.
He stayed at Ildown till Julian returned to St.
Werner's, and, as was natural, he revolved in his mind
continually his future course. At last, he determined
to talk it over with Violet, and told her of all his
heroic longings for a life of toil and endeavor, if need
were, even of banishment and death-all the high
thoughts that had filled his heart as he sat alone in the
island by Orton-on-the-Sea.
"Let us wait," she said, "Edward. God will decide
all this for us in time; and, if duty seems to call you
to the hard life of missionary or colonist, I am ready
to go with you."
"But don't you feel yourself, Violet, a kind of
common placeness about English life; a silver-slippered




THE ISLAND HEART.             381
religion, a pettiness that does not satisfy, a sense of
comfort incompatible with the strong desire to do the
work which others will not do in the neglected corners
of the vineyard?"
"No," she answered, smiling; " I am content.
The trivial round, the common task,
Should furnish all we ought to ask;
Room to deny qurselves-a road
To bring us dally nearer God."'
"True," he said; "well, I must try not to carry
ambition into my religion."
"Of course you return to St. Werner's, next autumn?"
He mused long. "Ah, Violet, you cannot conceive
how awful to my imagination that place has grown.
And to return, after rustication, and live among men
who will regard me with galling curiosity, and dons
who will look at me sideways, with suspicion-can I
ever bear it?"
"Why not, Edwardc?    They cannot affect you by
their opinion. I heard you say the other day that
your heart was becoming an island, and the waters
round it broadening every day. If the island itself
be beautiful and happy, it need not reck of the outer
world."
"You are right, Violet. I will return, if need be,
and bear all meekly which I have deserved to bear.
The one sorrow will be gone," he said, as he drew her
nearer to his side, "that drove me into —Yes, you




382             BITTER LESSONS.
are right. I will- go away home to-morrow,when Julian
starts, and begin from the very, first day to read with
all my might. Hitherto I have had only the bitter
lessons of Camford; let us see if I cannot gain some
of her honors, too."




CHAPTER XXXI.
BRUCE IN TROUBLE.
Trvei' Apses, &E XuVretpoc.
THEOCR. Id., i. 106.
"Nuda nee arva placent, umbrasque negantia molles,
Nec dudum vetiti me laris augit amor."-MLToN.
BRUCE, when expelled from St. Werner's, thought
very little of his disgrace. It hardly ruffled the calm
stream of his self-complacency, and, for some reasons,
he was rather glad that it had happened. He did not
like Camford; he had never taken to reading, and
being thus debarred from all intellectual pleasures, he
had grown thoroughly tired of late breakfasts, boating on the muddy Iscam, noisy wines, and interminable
whist parties. Moreover, he had made far less sensation at Camford than he had expected. Somehow or
other he had a dim consciousness that men saw through
him' that his cleverness did not conceal his superficiality, nor his easy manners blind men's eyes to his
ungenerous and selfish heart. Even his late phase of
popular skepticism was less successful at Camford than
it would have been at places of less steady diligence
and less sound acquirements. In fact, Bruce imagined
that he was by no means appreciated. The sphere was
too narrow for him; he was quite sure that in the arena
(383)




384             QUITE A TRIFLE.
of London society and political life he was qualified to
play a far more conspicuous part.
Nor did he believe that Sir Rollo Bruce would care
for his expulsion any more than he did himself; he
fancied that his father was quite above the middle
class prejudices of respect and reverence for pedantry
and pedagogues, and was too much a man of the world
to be disturbed by a slight contretemps like this. He
wrote home a careless note to mention the fact that
his St. Werner's career was ended, and attributed this
result to a mere escapade at a wine party, which had
been distorted by rumor, and exaggerated by malice
into a serious offense.
So when Vyvyan gayly entered his father's house,
he felt rather light hearted than otherwise. He expected that very likely some party would be going on,
and quite looked forward to an agreeable dance. When
he arrived, however, Vyvyan House was quite silent; a
dim light came from a single window, but that was all.
"Sir Rollo andi my mother not at home, I suppose,"
he said to the plushed and powdered footman.
"Yes, sir, they're in the library."
He entered; they were sitting on opposite sides of
the fire, with a single lamp between them. They were
not doing anything, and Lady Bruce appeared to have
been crying; but neither of them took any notice of
his entrance beyond turning their heads.
"How do you do?" he said, advancing gracefully:
but not a little surprised at so silent and moody a
greeting.
" How do you do?'" was his father's cold reply.
"Dear me-I quite expected to find a party going




VYVYAN AT HOME.             385
on, but you seem quite gloomy. Is anything the
matter?'
" Matter, sir!" exclaimed Sir Rollo, starting up
vehemently from his chair, and angrily pacing the
room. "Matter! Upon my word, Vyvyan, your impudence is sublime."
"You surprise me. What have I done?"
"Done!" retorted his father, with intense scorn.
"You have been expelled from college; you have
wasted your whole opportunities of education; you
have thrown away the boundless sums which I have
spent in your interest; you have lived the life of a
puppy and a fool, and now you come back in the
uttermost disgrace, with your name involved in I know
not what infamy, and are as cool about it as if you
returned to announce a triumph."
Not deigning a word more, Sir Rollo turned indignantly on his heel and left Bruce as much astounded
by so unexpected a reception as if he had suddenly
trodden on a snake. He relapsed into uncommon
sheepishness, and hardly knew how to address his
mother, who sat sobbing in her arm-chair.
"My dear mother," he said at last, "what can be
the matter, that I am met by such tornadoes as my
welcome on returning?"
"Don't ask me, Vyvyan. Your father is naturally
angry at your expulsion, and you have grieved us both.
But, dear Vyvyan, do not put on such an impertinent
and indifferent manner; it annoys Sir Rollo exceedingly. Do submit yourself, my dear boy, and he will
soon recover his usual suavity."
"But I never saw him like this before."
33




386             SIR ROLLO BRUCE.
"No; these violent fits of temper have only come
over him of late, and I am afraid that there must be
some cause for them of which I am unaware."
Bruce sat silent and unhappy. Expelled from college, and insulted (as he called it) at home, he felt
truly alone and miserable. He went up to his own
room, supped there, and coming down next morning to
the awkward meeting with his parents, spoke a few
words of regret about his position. Sir Rollo barely
listened to them, breakfasted in silence, and immediately afterwards set out for his office. He did not
return till late in the evening, and continued for some
time to spend the days in this manner, seeing next to
nothing of his wife and son, but sternly forbidding any
festivities or balls.
One morning he called Vyvyan into his study before starting. Bruce laid aside his novel, yawned, and
followed.
" Pray, sir, do you intend to spend all your time in
reading novels?" said Sir Rollo.
" There's nothing else for me to do that I see."
Very well. If you suppose that you are going to
spend your days in idleness, you are mistaken. I give
you a week to choose some occupation that will not
involve me in further outlay."
Bruce took out his embroidered pocket-handkerchief,
redolent with scent, and blew his nose affectedly. On
doing so, an unopened envelope dropped on the floor,
out of his pocket; picking it up, he glanced at it, tore
it across, and flung it into the fire. Sir Rollo immediately picked up the pieces with the tongs, and
opened it.




A SCENE.                387
"I see that this is a bill, and I shall proceed to look
at it."
"Yes, if you like," said Bruce, in an indifferent
tone-" it's from a dun."
It was a tailor's bill which had been sent after him,
and it amounted to ~150.
"And you suppose," said his father, "that I am
going to pay these debts for you?"
"I suppose so, certainly-some day. Let the dogs
wait."
Sir Rollo seemed on the point of a great burst of
wrath; his lips positively quivered and his eye flashed
with passion. He controlled himself, however, darted at
his son a look of scorn, and left the room. A note
that evening informed Lady Bruce that business detained him from home, and that he might not return
for some days.
A week after Bruce received a letter with foreign
postmarks, to the following effect:" DEAR VYVYAN-By the time you receive this, I
shall be on the continent, far beyond the reach of the
law.
"I have been living for the last ten years on the
money I embezzled from the company whose affairs I
managed. The fraud cannot. fail of being detected
almost immediately.' I feel acutely the position in which I am forced to
leave your mother. I do not pity you in the least. I
gave you the amplest opportunity to save yourself from
this ruin, if you had not been a fool. You cared for
nothing and for nobody but yourself.  You never




388               A DISCOVERY.
worked hard, though you knew it to be my wish; you
assumed an air of spurious independence, and affected
the fine gentleman. Your conceit and idleness will be
their own punishment. You have made your own bed;
now you will have to lie in it.
" ROLLO BRUCE."
The truth was soon known to the world. Numberless executions were put into Vyvyan House. Every
available fragment of property was seized by Sir
Rollo's creditors; and as Lady Bruce's private fortune had long been spent, she and her son-were left
all but penniless. The gay and gilded friends of their
summer hours were the first to desert them, and Sir
Rollo's wickedness had created such a gust of indignation, that few came forward to lend his family the
slightest assistance.
When Bruce found himself in this most distressing
position-when he sat with his mother in shame and
retirement in obscure lodgings, which had been taken
for them by one of their former servants, and with no
immediate means of livelihood-then first the folly of
his past career revealed itself to his mind in its full
proportions. Lady Bruce's health was dreadfully affected by the mental anguish through which she had
passed, and it became a positive necessity that Bruce
should work with his head or hands to earn their daily
bread.
He found no difficulty in procuring a temporary
post in a lawyer's office as a clerk. The drudgery was
terrible. Daily, from nine in the morning to six in
the evening, he found himself chained to the desk, and




NECESSITY IOR TOIL-BEREAVEMENT.      389
obliged to go through the dullest and most mechanical
routine, the only respite being half an hour in the middle
of the day, which he spent in dining at an'eating-house.
Nursed on the lap of luxury, habituated to the choicest
viands, and accustomed to find every whim fulfilled,
this kind of life was intolerable to him. The steaming
recesses of a squalid eating-house gave him a sensation
of loathing and sickness, and the want of exercise made
him look haggard and wan. In vain he appealed to
men who had called themselves his father's friends; he
found to his cost that the son of a detected swindler
has no friends, and more especially if his own life have
been tainted with suspicion or dishonor. Poor Bruce
was driven to the very verge of despair.
He applied for a situation in a bank, but he was
informed that it could not be granted him unless he
could obtain a certificate of good character from his
college, which, of course, was out of the question. He
tried writing for the press, but his shallow intellectual
resources soon ran dry. The pittance he could thus
earn did not remunerate him for the toil and wasted
health, and even this pittance was too often cruelly
held back. He made applications in answer to all
sorts of advertisements, but one after another the replies were unfavorable, until his whole heart died within
him. No intelligence could be obtained of his father's
hiding-place, and before a year had elapsed since Sir
Rollo's bankruptcy and felony had been made known,
Lady Bruce died at her son's lodgings, worn out with
misery and shame.
This climax of the young man's misfortunes awoke
at last the long dormant sympathy in his favor. An
33*




890    THE NYMPHOLEPSY OF REMEMBRANCE.
effort was made by his few remaining and unalienated
friends to provide for him the means of emigration,
which seemed the only course likely to give him once
more a fair start in life. But to pay his passage, and
provide him with the means of settling in New Zealand required a considerable sum, and Bruce had to
suffer for weeks the agonies of hope deferred. And
when he glanced over his past life, he found nothing
to help him. He could not look back with any comfort; the past was haunted by the phantoms of regret.
His violent and willful infancy, his proud, passionate
boyhood, his wandering and wicked youth, afforded him
few green spots whereon the eye of retrospect could
rest with calm. As the wayworn traveler who on
some bright day sat down by the fringed bank of clear
fountain or silver lake, and while he leant to look into
its waters, was suddenly dazzled into madness by the
flashing upward upon him, from the unknown depths,
of some startling image, so Bruce, as he rested by the
dusty wayside of life, and gazed into the dark abysses
of recollection, was startled and horrified, with a more
fearful nympholepsy, by the crowding images and sullen
glare of unforgotten and half forgotten sins.
But in dwelling on his past life, Bruce bethought
him that he might still find friends at school; and not
long after his mother's funeral, he determined to call
on his old masters, and get such pecuniary aid as he
could from them and his school-boy friends. To come
to such a resolution was the very bitterness of humiliation; but Bruce was now all eagerness to escape from
England, and recommence a new life in other lands.
He took a third class ticket to larton, and when he




NOW AND THEN.              391
arrived there, was so overcome with shame that he
well-nigh determined to return by the next train, and
leave the town unvisited, at whatever cost; but on inquiry he found that the next train would not start for
some hours, and meanwhile he fully expected to be
seen and recognized by those whom he had known
before. And yet it was not easy, in that stooping
figure, with the pale cheek and dimmed eye, to recognize the bright and audacious Vyvyan Bruce, who had
been captain of Harton barely three years before.
Poverty, ruin, disappointment, confinement, guilt, and
sorrow had done their work with marvelous quickness.
Nerving himself to the effort, he turned his face
toward Harton, and walked slowly up the hill. The
reminiscences which the walk recalled were not happy
— rather far from happy. It was not because formerly
when he was a flattered, and rich, and handsome, and
popular Harton boy, all the prospects of his life had
looked as bright as now they seemed full of gloom; it
was not that then both his parents were living, and
now one was dead, the other disgraced; it was not
that then he was full of health and vigor, and now was
feeble and wearied; it was not that then he seemed to
have many friends, and now he hardly knew of one;no, it was none of these things that affected him most
deeply as he caught sight of the well-known chapel,
and strolled up the familiar hill; but it was the thought,
the bitter thought, the cursed thought that there, as at
Camford, the voice of his brother's blood was crying
against him from the ground.
By the time he reached the school buildings, it happened to be just one o'clock, and, from the various




392            WALTER THORNLEY,
school-rooms, the boys were pouring out in gay and
noisy throngs. The faces were new to him for the
most part, and at first he began to fancy that he should
recognize no one. But at last he observed a boy looking hard at him, who at length came up and shook him
warmly by the hand.
"How do you do, Bruce?    Ah, I see you don't
remember me; true, I was only in the shell when you
left, but you ought at least to remember your old fags."
The change of countenance, between fifteen and
eighteen is, however, very great, and it was not without
an effort that Bruce recalled in the tall strong fellow
who was talking to him his quondam fag, little Walter
Thornley, now in his turn captain of the eleven, and
head of the school, whose admiration of Bruce we have
already recorded in the first chapter of this eventful
history.' Where are you off to now?" said Thornley.
"To the doctor's."
"Well, you'll come and see me afterwards?"
Bruce promised, and then walked to see the doctor,
and his old tutor. To both he opened his piteous tale,
and both of them gave him the most generous and
liberal assistance; they promised also to procure him
such other aid as might lie in their power. A little
lighter in heart, he went to pay his visit to Thornley,
whom he found occupying his old rooms. As Bruce
recrossed his familiar threshold, the contrasts of past
and present were almost too much for him, and he
found it difficult to restrain his tears. He stayed but
a short time, and then returned to London to his poor
and lonely lodgings.




A SUBSCRIPTION.             393
Walter Thornley heard his story from the tutor, and
besides getting a large subscription for him among his
own friends, wrote to ask if Julian could procure for
the emigrant any assistance in Camford. Julian received the letter about the middle of the October term
in his third year, and it ran thus:" DEAR HOME-Beyond knowing by rumor that I
am head of the school, you will, I suppose, hardly remember a boy who was so low in the school as I was
when you were monitor. But though you will perhaps
have forgotten me, I have not forgotten you, or the
many kind acts I experienced from you and Lillyston
when I was a little new fellow. Remembering these, I
am emboldened to write, and ask if you or any of the
old Hartonians are willing to assist poor Bruce to
settle in New Zealand, now that he has no chance of
succeeding well in England?' I am sure that you personally will be glad of any opportunity to help an old
school-fellow in his distress and difficulty, for report tells
me that Julian Home is as kind hearted and generous
as he was when he won the Newry scholarship at Harton.
Believe me to be, my dear Home, yours very truly,
" WALTER THORNLEY."
Julian had almost forgotten the very existence of
Thornley when this letter recalled him to. his mind;
but it was one of the pleasures of Julian's life constantly
to receive letters of this kind from former school-fellows,
thanking him for past kindnesses of which he was wholly
unconscious from the simple and natural manner in
which they had been done. It need hardly be said




394               EMIGRATION.
that he at once complied with the request which the
letter contained, and that (next to De Vayne's) his
own was the largest contribution toward the handsome
sum which the Hartonians and other St. Werner's men
cheerfully subscribed to assist their former comrade in
his hour of need.
To avoid all unnecessary wounding of Bruce's feelings, the money thus collected was transmitted to the
doctor to be placed at Bruce's disposal. It completed
the sum requisite for his outfit, and there was no longer
any obstacle in the way of his immediate departure
from England. He at once booked his passage by
an emigrant ship, and sailed.  The day after his
departure, Julian received from him the following
letter:
"' DEAR JULIAN-Although you are one of those who
would'do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame,'
I am not ignorant of the debt of gratitude which I owe
to you for providing me with the means of recovering
my fortunes, and beginning life afresh in another
hemisphere.
" Our lots in life, since at Harton we ran a neck
and neck race, have been widely different, and while
the happy months have been rolling for you on silver
wheels, and the happy hours speeding by you with
white feet, to me Time has been'A maniac scattering dust,
And Life a Fury slinging flame.'
How much I have gone through in the last year-the
accumulated agony of remorse, bereavement, and ruin




BRUCE'S LETTER.             395
-no human soul can tell. No wonder my bark was
wrecked after such mad and careless navigation; but,
thank God, the blow of the tempest that staggered and
shattered it, and drove it on the reefs, has not sunk it
utterly, and now, like a waif or stray, it is being carried
to be refitted across a thousand leagues of sea.
"I am not the Bruce you knew, but a wiser, sadder,
and better man. I have not yet lost all hope. The
old book of my life was so smutched and begrimedtorn, dogs-eared, and scrawled over-that it was
scarcely worth while to turn over a new leaf. I have
rather began a new volume altogether, and trust, by
God's blessing, that when'Finis' comes to be written
in it, some few of the pages will bear reperusal.
"' De Vayne!' how that name haunts me; how full
it is of horror-De Vayne and Hazlet; and yet I hear
that both have contributed to my help. It gives me
new life to know that human hearts can be so full of
forgiveness and of love.
Starting almost for another world-without fortune, without friends, with nothing but head and heart,
the wreck of what I was-I sometimes feel so sad that
I could wish myself out of the world altogether.  Forgive me, then, for once more bringing before you a
name which you can only connect with the most unpleasant and somber thoughts, and pray for me that
my efforts (this time they are genuine and sincere) to
improve my life, my talents, and my fortune may be
crowned with success.
4"We sail in an hour or sooner, for I hear them
weighing anchor now. Good-by! Accept my warmest
thanks for all your kindnesses, and my wishes (ah!




396          THE MORAL-LA PRAYER.
that they were worthier!) for your happiness in life, and
believe me, my dear Julian, your sincere and grateful
friend,
" VYVYAN BRUCE.
"P.S.-I am positively alone; not one soul is here
even to bid me good-by.   Eheu! jam serus vitam
ingemo relictam!"
Julian read the letter many times; he was touched
by' its delicate and eloquent sorrow-its fine and
chastened thoughtfulness.  He was no longer in a
mood to work, but closed his books, and watched the
faces in the fire. One thought filled him with joy and
thankfulness; it was the thought that, though of his
friends and acquaintances so many had gone wrong,
yet God was leading them back again, by rough and
thorny roads it might be, but still by sure roads to the
right path once more. Hazlet, Bruce, Brogten-above
all, his friend and brother Kennedy-were returning
to the fold they had deserted, were learning that for
him who has sinned and suffered, REPENTANCE IS THE
WORK OF LIFE. And as these thoughts floated through
Julian's mind, the words of an old prayer came back
upon his lips,"That it may please Thee to strengthen such as do
stand; and to comfort and help the weak hearted; and
to raise up them that fall; and finally, to beat down
Satan under our feet."




CHAPTER XXXII.
A QUIET PROSPECT.
"Patit omnibus veritas; nondum est prorsus occupata."
SEN. Ep. xxxiii.
JULIAN'S third year at Camford was by no means
the happiest period of his life there, because the sad
absence of Kennedy and De Vayne made a gap in his
circle of friends, which could not easily be filled up;
but this was the annus nMirabilis of his university
career. He gained prize after prize; he was always
first class in the college examinations; he won the
chancellor's medals for Latin and English verse, and,
indeed, almost divided with Owen the honors of the
place. To crown all, he gained the Ireford University
scholarship, which Owen had won the year before.
Of all the men of his year, he was the most honored
and respected; he wore the weight both of his honors
and his learning " lightly like a flower," and there was
a graceful humility, joined with his self-dependence,
which won every heart, and prevented that jealousy
which sometimes accompanies success.
The most important event in his intellectual progress was the attention which he began to turn at this
time to biblical and theological studies. He was thankful in later years that he had deferred such inquiries
to a time when he was capacitated for them by a calm
34               (397)




398      "TRUTH IS THE GREAT TIHINGand sound judgment, and a solid basis of linguistic and
historical knowledge. He had always looked forward
to holy orders, and, regarding the life of a clergyman
as his appointed work, he considered that an honest, a
critical, and an impartial study of the Bible was his
first duty. In setting about it, he came to it as a little
child; all he sought for was the simple truth, uncrushed
by human traditions, unmingled with human dogmas,
untrammeled by human interpretations, unadulterated
by human systems.    He found that he had a vast
amount to unlearn, and saw clearly that if he fearlessly pursued his inquiries, they would lead him so far
from the belief of popular ignorance as very probably
to bar all worldly success in the sacred profession which
he had chosen. But he knew that the profession was
sacred, and, fearless by nature, he determined to seek
for truth, and truth only, honestly following the prayerful conclusions of his clearest and most deliberate judgment. Even in these early days the freedom and honesty of his research drew on him slight sibilations of
those whose religion was shallow and sectarian.  In
after-years they were destined to bring on him open
and positive persecution.
Not that Julian was ever in the least degree obtrusive in stating his beliefs, when they widely and
materially differed from the expressed opinions of the
majority; except, indeed, in the cases when such opinions appeared to him dishonest or dangerous. He was
scrupulously careful not to wound the conscience of
those who would have been unable to understand the
ground of his arguments, even when they could not
resist their logical statement and in whom long cus



LET MAN'S LIFE BE TRUE."         399
tor was so inveterate, that the weed of system could
not be torn out of their hearts without endangering
the flower of belief. With men like Hazlet-I mean
the reformed and now sincere Hazlet-he either confined himself wholly to subjects on which differences
were impossible, or, if questioned, stated his views
with caution and consideration. It was only with the
noisy and violent upholders of long-grounded errorerror which they were too feeble to maintain except by
mean invective or ignorant declamation-that Julian
used the keen edge of his sarcasm, or the weighty
sword of his moral indignation. He was not the man
to bow down before the fool's-cap of tyrannous and
blatant ignorance. If he could have chosen one utterance from the Holy Scriptures, which to him was more
precious in its full meaning than another, it was that
promise, rich with inexhaustible blessing, "And ye
shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you
free."
Perhaps there is no greater want in this age than a
full, fair, fearless religio clerici; the men who could
write it, dare not; and the men who dare write it, cannot. They say the age is not ripe for it; and if they
mean that it would cause violent offense to the potent rulers of fashionable religious dogmatism, they are
right. But     I wander from my theme, and meddle
with subjects which this is not the place to touch upon.
The close of Julian's undergraduate life was as honorable as its promise had been. He obtained a brilliant first class, and was bracketed with Owen as the
best classic of his year. Lillyston also distinguished




400          CHOOSING A PROFESSION.
himself, and all three determined to read for fellowships, which, before a year was over, they had the
honor to obtain.
Meanwhile a circumstance had happened which
changed the course of Kennedy's intentions. After
his conversation with Violet, he had often thought of
his plans for the future, and written to her about them.
Reconciled to the plan of. returning to Camford after
the year of his rustication, he was now trying to settle
his future profession.  His way seemed by no means
clear; he had never thought of being a clergyman,
and now, more than ever, deemed himself unfitted for
such a life. The long tedious delay of the bar, to a
man without any special interest; the sickness of hope
deferred during the prime years of life; the weariness
of a distasteful study, and the heavy trial of dusky
chambers in a city, to a man who loved the sea and
the country with a passionate love, deterred him from
choosing the law. He had no liking for the army, except in time of war; the life of the officers whom he
knew was not altogether to his. mind, and he was
neither inclined to gayety nor fond of an occupation
which offered so many temptations to listlessness and
indolence. There was no immediate necessity to decide
finally, because, in any case, he meant to take his degree, and looked forward with some hope, after his
year of unswerving diligence in the retirement of
Orton, to honors in the Tripos and the pleasant aid
of a St. Werner's fellowship as the crown of his career.
But on the whole he began to think that he might be
both useful and successful as a physician. He had a




A NEW FIELD.               401
deep reverence for this earthly tabernacle of the immortal soul, and a hallowed and reverend curiosity
about that "harp of a thousand strings," which, if it
be untuned by sickness, mars every other melody of
life. Violet entered into all his views, and they determined to leave the matter thus until Kennedy should
have donned his B.A. gown.
But about this period that public step was taken of
throwing open to competition the Indian civil service
appointments, which has been of such enormous advantage to the "middle classes" of England, by offering
to them, as the reward of industry, the opportunity
of a new and honorable profession, and which seems
likely to be prolific of good results to the future of
our empire in the East.  Directly Kennedy saw the
announcement of the examination, he grasped with avidity the chance of a provision for life which it afforded,
and easily obtained the assent both of his own and of
Julian's family to offer himself as a candidate.  Of
course, they contemplated with sorrow the prospect
of so long a separation as the plan involved, but they
saw that he himself was strongly desirous to win their
approval of his proposition, and of course his wishes
were Violet's too.
So Kennedy went in for the civil service examination, and acquitted himself so admirably, that his
name headed the list of successful competitors, and he
was told that he must prepare himself to leave England in a year for the post to which they appointed
him.
This happened about the time that Julian took his
84*




402            A LITTLE VILLAGE.
degree, and, before the year was over, Julian had been
elected a fellow, and the living of Elstan was offered
to him. Being of small value —~200 a year-it had
been rejected by all the fellows of older standing, and
had "come down" to Julian, who, to the surprise of
his friends, left Camford and accepted it without
hesitation.
"My dear fellow," said Mr. Admer, "how in the
world can you be so insane as to bury yourself alive,
at the age of twenty-two, in so obscure a place as the
vicarage of Elstan?"' Oh, Elstan is a charming place,'' said Julian; " I
visited it before accepting it, and found it to be one of
those dear little English villages in the greenest fields
of Wiltshire.  The house is a very pretty one, and
the parish is in perfect order. My predecessor was
an excellent man; his population, -of one thousand
souls, were, perhaps, as well attended to as any in all
England."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Admer, impatiently, " I know
all that; but who will ever hear of you again, if you
go and become what Sydney Smith calls'a kind of
holy vegetable' in the cabbage-gardens of a Wiltshire
hamlet?"
" Why, what would you have me do, Mr. Admer?"
"Oh, I don't know; stay up here, edit a Greek
play, or one of the epistles; bestir yourself for some
rising university member in a contested election; set
yourself to get a bishopric or a deanery; you could
easily do it if you tried. I'll give you a receipt for it
any day you like.  Or go to some London church;




THE IDOL OF SUCCESS.          403
with such sermons as you could preach, you might
have London at your heels in no time; and, as you
would superadd learning to effectiveness, your fortune
would be made."
Julian was sorry to hear him talk like this; it was
the language of a disappointed and half believing
man."
" I don't care for such aims," he said. "A mere
popular preacher I would not be; and, as for preferment, it doesn't depend much on me, but, for the most
part, on purely accidental causes. All I care for, at
present, is to be useful and happy. Obscurity is no
trial to me; neither success nor failure can make me
different from what I am."
": Well then, at least, write a book, or something to
keep yourself in men's memory."
I don't feel inclined. There are too many books
in the world, and I have nothing particular to say.
Besides, the annoyance and spite to which an author
subjects himself are endless-to hear ignorant, and,
often, malicious criticisms; to see his views misrepresented, his motives calumniated, and his name aspersed.
No, for the present, I prefer the peace and the dignity
of silence."
" What on earth will you find to do, then, if you have
no ambition?"
"Nay, I don't want you to think that I'm so virtuous, or so.phlegmatic, as to have no ambition. I
have a passionate ambition, whether known or un-.known, so to live as to lead on the coming golden
age, and prepare the next generation to be truer and




404         THE MARRIAGE QUESTION.
wiser than ours. If it be my destiny never to be called
to a wider sphere of work than Elstan, I shall be con
tent to do it there."
"And how will you occupy your time?" asked Mr.
Admer, who had long loved Julian too well even to
smile at what were to himself mere unintelligible
enthusiasms.
" Oh, no fear on that score.  My profession will
give me plenty of work; besides, what is the use of
education, if it be not to render it impossible for a
man to know the meaning of the word ennui?   Put
me alone in the waiting-room of some little wayside
station, to wait three hours for a train, and I should still
be perfectly happy, even if there were no such thing as
a book to be got for miles."
"Well, well, if you must vanish to Elstan, do. At
any rate, remember your old Camford friends, and let
us hear of you sometimes. I suppose you'll keep on
your fellowship at least. for a year."
"Insidious questioner," said Julian; "no, I hope to
be married very soon. You shall come down and see
love in a cottage."
"Aha, I see it all now!" said Mr. Admer, with a
sigh."
" Nay, you mustn't sigh. I expect to be congratulated, not pitied," said Julian, gayly.  "A wife will
sweeten all the cares and sorrows of life, and, instead
of withering away my prime in selfish isolation, and
spending these still half-youthful years in loneliness,
and without a real home, I shall feel myself complete
in the materials of happiness. After all, ambition such
as yours is a loveless bride.''




HE WHO CARETH FOR SPARROWS.       405
So Julian accepted Elstan, and Lillyston went with
him to London to help him in selecting furniture for
the vicarage, which was so soon to receive a bride.
" Are you really going to venture on matrimony with
only ~200 a year?" asked Lillyston.
"I have some more of my own, you know, Hugh;
Mr. Carden's legacy, you remember; but, even if I
hadn't, I would still marry on ~100 a year, if I
wished and the lady consented."
"And repent at leisure."
"Not a bit of it. If I were a man to whom lavender-colored kid gloves and unlimited eau-de-cologne
were necessaries of life, it might be folly to think of it.
But if a man be brave, and manly, and fearless of convention, let him marry, by all means, and not make his
life bitter and his love cold by long delay."
"But how about the children?"
" Well, it may be fanaticism, but I believe that God
never sends a soul into the world, without providing
ample means for its sustenance. Of course, such an
assertion would set the tongues of our would-be philosophers wagging in scornful cachination; but, in spite
of that, I do believe that if a man have faith, and a
strong heart, and common sense, he may depend upon
it his children will not starve. Some of the very happiest people I know are to be found among the large
families of country clergymen.  Besides, very often
the children succeed in life, and improve their father's
position. I haven't the shadow of a doubt that I am
doing the right thing. I only wish, Hugh, that you
would follow my example."




406                GOOD-BY TO
" Perhaps I shall, some day," said Lillyston.
"And meanwhile you will be my bridegroom's man,
will you not?"
" Joyfully-if it be only to see Miss Kennedy's face
again."
"And do you know that Kennedy is to be married
to Violet the same day?"
" Is he? happy fellow! As for me, I am going to
resign my fellowship, and to make myself useful at
Lillyston Court, When is the wedding to be?"
" Both weddings, you mean, Hugh. On the tenth
of next June, at Orton-on-the-Sea-the loveliest spot
in the world, I think."
So in due time Julian packed up all his books and
prizes, and bade farewell to his friends, and turned his
back on Camford. It is as impossible to leave one's
college without emotion as it is to enter it, and the
tears often started to Julian's eyes as the train whirled
him off to Elstan. He had cause, if any man ever had,
to look back to Camford with regret and love. His
course had been singularly successful, singularly happy.
He had entered St. Werner's as a sizar, he left it as a
fellow, and not
"With academic laurels unbestowed."
He had grown in calmness, in strength, in wisdom; he
had learnt many practical lessons of life; he had gained
new friends, without losing the old. He had learnt to
honor all men, and to be fearless for the truth. His
mind had become a well-managed instrument, which he




CAMFORD.                 407
could apply to all purposes of discovery, research, and
thought; he was wiser, better, braver, nearer the light.
In a word, he had learnt the great purpose of lifesympathy and love to further man's interest-faith and
prayer to live ever for God's glory. And not a few of
these lessons he owed to his college, to its directing
influence, its ennobling associations, its studies-all
bent toward that which is permanent and eternal, not
to the transitory and superficial. To the latest day
of his life, the name of St. Werner's remained to Julian
Home an incentive to all that is noble and manly in
human effort. He felt the same duty with regard to it
as the generous scion of an illustrious house feels toward
the ancient name which he has inherited, and the noble
lineage whence he has sprung.
The few months which were to elapse before his
marriage, Julian spent in preparing the vicarage for
his young betrothed, and he stored it with everything
which could delight a simple yet refined and educated
taste. There was an indefinable charm about it-the
charm of home. You felt on entering it that its owner
destined it as the place around which his fondest affections were to center, and his work in life was to be
done. Julian had not the restless mind which sighs for
continual change; happy in himself and his own resources, and the honest endeavor to do good, the glory
of the green fields, the changes of the varying year
supplied him with a wealth of beauty which was sufficient for all his needs, and when-after some long
day's work amid the cottages, reading to the sick at
their lonely bedsides, listening to the prattle of the




408              PEACE OF HEART.
childreLn mn the infant schools, talking to the laborers
as they rested at their work-he refreshed himself by
a gallop across the free, fresh downs, or a quiet stroll
under the rosy apple-blossoms of his orchard or garden,
Julian might have said with more truth than most men
can, that he was a happy and a contented man.




CHAPTER XXXIII.
FAREWELL.
"Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Oh from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously swells!"
EDGAR A. POE.
MERRILY, merrily rang out the sweet bells of Ortonon-the-Sea; more merrily than they ever rang before;
so merrily that it seemed as if they would concentrate
into every single clash and clang of their joyous peal a
tumult of inexpressible happiness greater than they
would ever be able to enjoy again. If you look up at
the belfry, you will see them swing and dance in a very
delirium of ecstasy, such as made everybody laugh
while he listened, and chased away the possibility of
sorrow, and thrilled the very atmosphere with an impression of hilarity and triumph.
All Orton is astir. Mr. Kennedy is the squire of
the parish, and the villagers may well love him as they
do. The son and daughter of the squire are not often
married on the same day; and besides the double wedding with its promise of an evening banquet, and dance
on the hall lawn to all the people of Orton, Eva and
Jeward are known well to every cottager, and loved
as well as known.
35             (409)




410                DE VAYNE.
The hall is quite full, and the village inn is quite
full, and all the neighboring gentry who are invited,
are hospitably entertaining such members of the two
families as can find room nowhere else. Never had
Orton seen such grand doings; the very stables and
coach-houses are insufficient to receive the multitude of
carriages.
Several St. Wernerians are invited; and (as both
Julian and Kennedy prefer to be alone on that morning) Lillyston, who has visited the place before, is
lionizing them in the neighborhood, and with Willie,
Kennedy's orphan cousin, rows them over to the little
islet in the bay. As they come back, the hour for the
wedding approaches, and Lillyston says to Owen,-' How I wish De Vayne were here!"
"But he is in Florence, is he not?" says Owen.
- They have hardly spoken when a carriage with ^
coronet on the panels' dashes up to the Lion inn; s
young man alights, hands out a lady, and enters the
inn.
"Surely that must be De Vayne himself!" says
Suton, running forward. Meanwhile the young man.
after taking the lady into a private room, asks if he
may see Mr. Home or Mr. Kennedy, and is shown ul
to the parlor in which they are sitting.
"De Vayne!" they both exclaim in surprise.
"Yes, Julian!" he answered, cheerily; "I only
returned from Florence two days ago, heard of your
marriage from the Ildown people, and determined te
come with my mother a self-invited guest."
"Don't fear for my feelings," he continued, turning
to Kennedy. " Nothing is so useless or dangerous af




ANOTHER VISITOR.             411
to nurse a hopeless love, like the flame burning in the
hearts of the banqueters, at the feast of Eblis. No,
Kennedy, I love Violet, but only as a sister now, and
you must not be afraid if I claim one kiss after the
marriage from the bride. You shall have the same
privilege some day soon."
"Your coming is the completion of my happiness,"
said Kennedy, cordially shaking his hand. "I will
run and tell Violet at once, lest she should be alarmed
by seeing you."
"Yes, and to show her why we may continue to
have communion as friends, tell her that there is a
gentle Florentine girl, with dark eyes, arid dark hair,
and a sweet voice, who, as my mother will bear witness,
has promised in a year's time to leave her Casa d'ora
for Uther Hall," he said, smiling.
They took him down to see the others, who rejoiced
to see him nearly as much as they did, and the time
sped on for the wedding to be performed. The carriages had already started to convey the bridegrooms
and their friends to church, when another carriage
drove rapidly along the street, carrying another most
unexpected guest.
It had been arranged that Cyril and Frank should
come down to Orton on the morning of the ceremony,
as there was a difficulty in finding room for them. It
was very late, and they were beginning to be afraid
that the boys had missed a train, and would not arrive
till after the ceremony, when they made their triumphant
entry into Orton in a carriage by the side of-Lady
Vinsear 
Only imagine! Being left almost alone at Ildown,




412              LADY VINSEAR.
while the others had gone to Orton to make arrange.
ments for the marriage, Cyril had audaciously proposed
to his brother that, as it was through them that Lady
Vinsear's wrath had been kindled against Julian, they
should go over and see whether the old lady would
admit them into her presence, or in any way suffer
herself to be pacified. The proposal was quite a sudden
one, and the thought had only come into Cyril's head
because he had nothing else to do. But he had no
sooner thought of it than he determined to carry it
out. He felt certain that Lady Vinsear could not be
so totally unlike his late father as to have become
wholly ill natured and implacable, and he was sure that
no harm could result from his visit even if no good
were done.
So the boys drove over in a pony chaise to Lonstead
Abbey, and, knocking at the door, asked if Lady Vinsear was at home.
"Yes," said the old servant, opening his eyes in
astonishment at the apparition of the two boys, whom
he had only seen as children four years before.
"Then ask if she will see Mr. Cyril and Master
Frank Home. Stop, though; is Miss Sprong at
home?"
"Oh no, Master Cyril; la bless you! Miss Sprong,
sir, has gone and married Farmer Jones this year
gone."
"Has she indeed? Oh then, take my message,
please, James."
They had come at the right moment. In the large
drawing-room of Lonstead Abbey Lady Vinsear was
sitting with no companion but the orphan girl of a




ALONE.                  413
villager, to whom she gave a home, and who was amusing herself with a picture-book on a low stool by the
fire; for though it was summer, the fire was lighted to
give cheerfulness to the room. When Miss Sprong
married a neighboring farmer, Lady Vinsear had given
her a handsome dowry, and refused ever to see her
again, being in fact heartily tired of her malice and
sycophancy, and, above all, resenting the new breach
which she had caused between herself and her brother's
family. Ever since her quarrel with Julian, Lady Vinsear had bitterly regretted the violence which had cut
off from her that natural affection to which she had
looked as the stay of her declining years. She had
grown sadder as she grew older, and the loneliness of
her life weighed heavily on her heart, yet in her obstinate pride she made an unutterable resolve never to
take the initiative in restoring Julian to her favor.
And as she sat there by the fire, longing in her secret
soul for the society and love of some young hearts
of her own kith and kin, she glanced away from the
uninteresting little girl whom she had taken as a protdg6 to the likeness of Julian's bright and thoughtful
boyish features, (which still, in spite of Miss Sprong,
had retained a place over the mantle-piece,) and remembered the foolish little incident which had led to
her rejection of him as her heir. The tears started to
her eyes as she thought of it, and wished with all her
heart that the two gay and merry boys whose frolic
had caused thefracas were with her once more. How
much she should now enjoy the pleasant sound of their
young voices, and how gladly she wouldl join in their
unrestrained and innocent laughter I
35*




414              A SURPRISE AND
So when the bewildered James asked in his nevervarying voice "whether Master Cyril and Frank Home
might see her," Lady Vinsear fancied that she was
seeing in a dream the fulfillment of her unexpressed
wishes, and rubbed her eyes to see if she could really
be wide awake.
"What's all this, James? are you James, or am I in
a dream?"
" James, your ladyship."
"And do you really mean to tell me that my nephews
are outside?"
"Yes, please your ladyship."
" Well, then, don't keep them there a minute longer,
James. Run along, Annie," she said to the little girl,
" it is time for you to be in bed."
Annie had hardly retired, when-a little shyly-the
boys entered, uncertain of their reception. But Lady
Vinsear started-from her seat, and embraced them with
the utmost affection.
"My dear Cyril," she said, kissing him again, "how
tall and handsome you have grown; and Frankie, too
you are the image of Julian when he was your age."
The boys were amazed at the heartiness with which
shewelcomed them, as though nothing had happened,
and, after she had given them a capital supper, she said
to them: "Now, boys, I see you are rather puzzled at
me. Never mind that; don't think of what has happened. We mean all to be friends now. And now
tell me all about Julian."
They found, however, that Lady Vinsear knew a
good deal about his college career from her neighbor,
Lord De Vayne, who had kept her acquainted with all




A PROPOSAL.               415
his successes and honors up to the period when De
Vayne left Uther Hall. Since then she had not been
able to gain much information about him, and had not
heard the news either of his fellowship, his approaching
marriage, or his acceptance of a college living.
She listened eagerly to the intelligence, and finally
asked if he knew of their visit.
"No," said Cyril, laughing; "neither he nor any
of them. Now, Aunt Vinsear, you really must do me
a favor. You know Vi. is to be married at Orton on
the same day as Julian; won't you come with us to the
wedding, and surprise them all? If you were to start
by an early train, and take the carriage with you, we
should drive up in time for the ceremony, and it would
be such a happy joke for all concerned."
The old lady was delighted with the plan. Meeting
on such an occasion, when the minds of all were so
much occupied, would avert the necessity of anything
approaching to a scene, which of all things she most
dreaded. She felt a flood of new interests, occupations,
and hopes; she made the boys stay with her until the
appointed day, and looked forward to Cyril's triumph
with a delight which made her happier than she had
been for many a long year.
And thus it was that Cyril and Frank drove into
the town in galant style, accompanied by Lady Vinsear! They stopped at the door of the Lion, and hearing that Julian had started, got white favors placed at
the horses' heads, and dashed on to the church. The
brides had not arrived, but they were expected every
moment; and Mr. Vere (who had most kindly come to
perform the ceremony) was putting on his surplice in




416 IN THE LAUREL WALK-VIOLET AND EVA.
the vestry, while Julian and Kennedy, with Owen,
Lillyston, and De Vayne, were strolling up and down
a pretty, retired laurel walk behind the church. Iearing where they were, the boys, accompanied by their
aunt, boldly invaded their privacy, and reached the
end of the walk just as the gentlemen were approaching
to enter the church.
"Good gracious! Lady Vinsear!" said De Vayne.
"Hush, hush!" she said. "Come here, Julian, and
kiss your old aunt, and welcome her on your weddingday, and don't think of bygones. I am proud to see
you, my boy;" and he felt a tear on his cheek as the
old lady drew down his head to kiss him.
"And now," she said, "don't tell any of the rest
that I have come till after the marriage. I hear the
sound of wheels. Put me in some pew near the altar,
Julian, that I may have a good long look at your bride
and Violet's bridegroom."
They had just time to fulfill her wish when the carriages drove up, and the bridal procession formed, and,
followed by their bridesmaids, Violet and Eva passed
up the aisle, in all their loveliness, with wreaths of
myrtle and orange-flowers round their fair foreheads,
and long, graceful vails, and simple ornaments of
pearl.
Beautiful to see! A bride always looks beautiful
but these two were radiant and exquisite in their loveliness. Which was the fairest? I cannot tell. Most
men would have given the golden apple to Eva, with
the sweet, tender grace that played about her young
features, almost infantile in their delicacy, and with
those bright, beaming, laughter-loving eyes, of which




BY THE ALTAR.               417
the light could not be hid though she bent her face
downward to hide the bridal blush that tinged it; but
yet they would have doubted about the decision when
they turned from her to the full flower of Violet's
beauty, and gazed on her perfect face, so enchanting
in its meekness, and on that one tress of golden hair
that played upon her neck.
De Vayne, as he looked on the perfect scene,
took out a piece of paper, and wrote on it Spenser's
lines:" Behold, while she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks
And blesses her with his two happy hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks
And the pure snow with golden vermeil stain,
Like crimson dyed in grain."
He handed the lines to Lillyston and Owen, and
they saw from the happy smile upon his face that
no touch of regret or envy marred his present meditations.
Has life any pleasure-any deep, unspoken happiness-comparable to that which fills a young man's
*hole soul when he stands beside the altar with such a
bride as Violet or Eva was?-when he thinks that the
fair blushing girl, whose white hand trembles in his
own, is to be the star of his home, the mother of his
children, the sunbeam shining steadily on all his life?
Verily he who hath experienced such a joy has found
a jewel richer
"Than twenty seas though all their sands were pearl,
Their waters crystal, and their rocks pure gold."




418           BETWEEN THE GRAVES.
The service was over, and, in those few moments, four
young souls had passed over the marble threshold of
married life. Violet felt the presence of De Vayne
removed the only alloy to that deep happiness that spoke
in the eloquent luster of her eye, and she told him so
as he bent to kiss her hand, and as Lady De Vayne
clasped her to her heart with an affectionate embrace.
All the people of the village awaited them at the porch,
and, as they passed along the path, the village children,
lining the way, and standing heedless on the green
mounds that covered the crumbling relics of mortality,
scattered under their happy feet a thousand flowers.
One passing thought, perhaps, about the lesson which
those green mounds told, flitted through the minds of
the bridal party as they left the trodden blossoms to
wither on the church-yard path; but, if so, it was but
as the shadow of a summer cloud, and it vanished, as
with a sudden clash the bells rang out again, thrilling
the tremulous air with their enthusiasm of happy
auguries, and the sailor boys of Orton gave cheer on
cheer, while brides and bridegrooms entered their carriages, and drove from under the umbrage of the
church-yard yews to the elms and oaks and lime-tree
avenues of the hall.
Oh, that happy day! The wedding breakfast had
been laid in a large tent on the lawn, whence you could
catch bright glimpses of the blue sea, and the islet,
and the passing ships; while, on all sides around it, the
garden glowed a paradise of blossom, and the fragrance
of sweet flowers floated to them through the golden
air. Rich fruits and gorgeous bouquets covered the
table, and the whole tent was gay with. wreaths and




"THE OLD, OLD STORY."         419
anadems.  And then, what ringing laughter, what
merry jests, what earnest happy talk! Let us not linger
there too long, and from this scene I bid avaunt to
the coarse cynical reader, who is too strong minded to
believe in love.
Only let the gentle reader fancy for himself how
beautiful were the few words with which Mr. Vere proposed the health of the brides, and how long they
remembered his earnest wish, that though the truest
love is often that which has been sanctified by sorrow.
yet that they might be spared the sorrow, and enjoy
the truest love. And he will fancy how admirably
Julian and Kennedy replied-Julian, in words of poetic
feeling and thoughtful power; Kennedy, with quick
flashes of picturesque expression-both with the eloquence of sincere and deep emotion; and how gracefully De Vayne proposed the health of the bridesmaids,
for whom  Cyril and Lillyston replied.  Then, too
quickly, came the hour of separation; the old shoe
was flung after the carriages, the bridal couples departed for a tour among the lakes, and the villagers
danced and feasted till twilight, on the lawn.
Six weeks are over since the marriage day, and
there, in Southampton harbor, lies the Valleyfield, which
is to convey Kennedy and Violet to Calcutta. They
have just spoken the last, long, lingering farewell to
Eva and Julian, who are standing in deep tearful silence
on the pier, and are watching the little boat which is
conveying their only brother and only sister to the ship.
The boat is but a few moments in reaching the Valleyfeld, and, when they are on board, the vessel weighs
anchor, and ruffles her white plumage, and flings her




420             OVER THE SEA.
pennons to the breeze, and begins to dash the blue
water into foam about her prow. Violet and her husband are standing at the stern, and as long as the vessel is in sight they wave their hands in token of farewell. It is but a short time, and then the Valleyfield
grows into a mere dot on the horizon, and Eva and
Julian, heedless of the crowds around them, do not
check the tears as they flow, and speak to each other
in voices broken by sorrow, as they slowly turn away.
That- evening Violet and Kennedy knelt side by side
in their little cabin, to join in common prayer, and
Julian led his Eva over the threshold of their quiet and
holy home.
And their path thenceforth was "as the shining
light, shining more and more to the perfect day."
THD END.
Data ar ala.