7i.ec: ac^/f^^- 
 
A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
NOVELS, ETC., BY SIR WALTER BESANT 
 
 Crown 8vo., cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; post 8vo., boards, as. each ; cloth, as. 6d. each. 
 
 ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN. 12 lUusts. by Barnard. 
 
 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. With Frontispiece by E. J. Wheeler. 
 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. With 6 Illustrations by Harry Furniss. 
 
 DOROTHY FORSTER. With Frontispiece by Charles Green. 
 
 UNCLE JACK, and other Stories. 
 
 CHILDREN OF GIBEON. 
 
 THE WORLD WENT VERY WELL THEN. 12 Illusts. by FORESTIE*. 
 
 HERR PAULUS: His Rise, his Greatness, and his Fall. 
 
 THE BELL OF ST. PAUL'S. 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. Illusts. by Forestier and Waddy. 
 
 TO CALL HER MINE. With 9 Illustrations by A. Forestier. 
 
 THE HOLY ROSE. With Frontispiece by F. Barnard. 
 
 ARMOREL OF LYONESSE. With 12 Illustrations by F. Barnard. 
 
 ST.KATHERINE'S BY THE TOWER. With 12 Illustrations by C.Green. 
 
 VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS. Frontis. by Gordon Brown. 
 
 THE IVORY GATE. 
 
 THE REBEL QUEEN. 
 
 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE, xa lUustraUons by Hyde. 
 
 Crown 8vo., cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each. 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS. With Frontispiece by A. Forestier. 
 THE REVOLT OF MAN. 
 THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN. 
 
 A FOUNTAIN SEALED. Crown 8vo., cloth, 6s. 
 
 THE CITY OF REFUGE. 3 vols., crown 8vo., 15s. net. 
 
 THE CHARM : Drawing-room Plays. By Walter Besant and W. H. 
 
 Pollock. 50 Illusts. by Chris. Hammond and Jule Goodman. 
 
 Crown 8vo. , cloth, 6s. 
 
 FIFTY YEARS AGO. With 144 Illustrations. Crown Svo., cloth, 53. 
 THE EULOGY OF RICHARD JEFFERIES. Portrait. Cr. Svo., cloth. 6s. 
 LONDON. With 125 Illustrations. Demy Svo, , cloth extra, 7s. 6d, 
 WESTMINSTER. With Etched Frontispiece by F. S. Walker., and 130 
 
 Illustrations by William Patten, etc. Demy Svo., cloth, iSs. 
 SIR RICHARD WHITTINGTON. Frontispiece. Cr. Svo., linen, 3s. 6d. 
 GASPARD DE COLIGNY. With a Portrait. Crown Svo., art linen, 3s. 6d. 
 
 BY SIR WALTER BESANT AND JAMES RICE 
 
 Crown Svo., cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each; post Svo., boards, as. each ; cloth, as. 6d. each. 
 
 READY-MONEY MORTIBOY. 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 THIS SON OF VULCAN. 
 
 BY CELIA'S ARBOUR. 
 
 THE CHAPLAIN OF THE FLEET. 
 
 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 THE CASE OF MR. LUCRAFT. 
 
 THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 'TWAS IN TRAFALGAR'S BAY. 
 THE MONKS OF THELEMA. THE TEN YEARS' TENANT. 
 
 *•'* There is also a Library Edition of the above Twelve Volumes, handsomely 
 set in new type on a large crown Svo. pn^e, and bound in cloth extra, 6*. each ; and 
 • Popular Edition of THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY, med. Svo., 6d. ; cloth, it. 
 
 London: CHATTO Sc WINDUS, hi St. Martin's Lane, W.C 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2008 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/fountainsealedOObesarich 
 
WAS MV MAID MOLI.Y WHO 
 
 PULLED ME BACK. fp. 38. 
 
A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER BESANT 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 * ALL SOKTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN,' ' DOROTHY FORSTER,' ETC. 
 
 WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY H. G. BURGESS 
 
 LONDON 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS 
 
 1897 
 
foLL 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 The story about George, Prince of Wales, and a certain 
 amour or liaison, has been floating about the world for 
 a long time. The name of the lady varies : it is Light- 
 foot ; it is AVheeler : it is Whitefoot. The history 
 varies also : she married the Prince of Wales at St. 
 James's Church : she did not marry the Prince, but a 
 certain Axford, a grocer, at May Fair Chapel : she left 
 her husband at the chapel door, and never saw him 
 again : she lived with him for some time : there were 
 children by her husband : she died in Piccadilly of a 
 broken heart : she died, many years later, at Islington, 
 and is buried in the churchyard under an assumed 
 name : the documents concerning her marriage with 
 the Prince have been produced : there are people in 
 America and in South Africa who claim to be her 
 descendants. It is now some thirty years since the late 
 W. J. Thoms began to investigate this tangled story. 
 He proved, after a great deal of trouble, that there 
 was a Hannah Lightfoot : that she was a Quakeress of 
 Shadwell : that she did marry one Axford at May Fair : 
 that she was expelled the Society of Friends for being 
 married by a priest, and for not living with her husband : 
 that all this happened when Prince George was only 
 fifteen years of age : that the man Axford married again 
 
 848 
 
vi PREFACE 
 
 at Warminster in 1759 as a widower : that no one knows 
 where or how Hcinnah his wife died ; and, finally, that 
 he could find nothing whatever to connect George with 
 Hannah. 
 
 These are the legends and these are the facts of the 
 case. Was Hannah at any time the mistress of the 
 Prince? First, there is no breath of contemporary 
 scandal on the subject : next, we must remember that 
 a Prince cannot conceal his actions : that someone would 
 most certainly find out and proclaim the thing : thirdly, 
 that George was the most truthful of men at all times, and 
 that he made a solemn statement, twenty years after his 
 accession, to the effect that he had never been involved 
 in any affair of the kind. These considerations made 
 Thoms disbelieve the whole story from beginning to 
 end. There was, however, one thing possible and even 
 probable ; that is, some flirtation or friendship with a 
 girl of the middle class. Youth is attracted by beauty 
 of whatever rank : it must be pleasant for a Prince to 
 step outside his rank and for a time to be treated as an 
 ordinary gentleman. Such an episode in the life of the 
 Prince was probably the foundation of the persistent 
 story about his liaison with a fair Quakeress. 
 
 In other words, the pages that follow are an attempt 
 to tell the true story of George and Hannah. "\Miat- 
 ever may be thought of the accuracy of the history, it 
 must certainly be allowed by all the world to be a great 
 deal nearer the truth than the old story of the Prince and 
 the Quakeress and her May Fair husband. At the same 
 time, I do not, as a historian, vouch for the exact truth 
 of every circumstance in the story that follows. 
 
 W. B. 
 
 United University Club, 
 May 4, 1897. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER TAGS 
 
 PROLOGUE HIS MAJESTY's OWN WORDS - - 1 
 
 I. ON THE RIVER DARENTH - - - 21 
 
 II. A MIRACLE - - - - - 45 
 
 III. THE WICKED WORLD - - - -55 
 
 IV. THE FIRST MEETING - - - -65 
 V. THE NEXT DAY - - - - 77 
 
 VI. THE CORPORAL- - - _ _ 84 
 
 VII. THE BOOKSELLER - - - -87 
 
 VIII. ' MY BROTHER, SIR GEORGE ' - - -95 
 
 IX. WARNINGS - - - - - 107 
 
 X. THE OPINIONS OF A GENTLEMAN - - 111 
 
 XI. THE CHRISTENING OF A CONVERT - - 130 
 
 XII. kings' FAVOURITES - - - - 136 
 
 XIII. ROBERT STOREY _ _ _ _ I44 
 
 XIV. THE MASQUERADE - - - - 156 
 XV. MOLLY AND THE CORPORAL - - - 178 
 
 XVL A RIVER PARTY - 190 
 
 XVII. THE GUARD OF HONOUR - 202 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XVIII. THE PALACE AND THE COURT - - - 210 
 
 XIX. 'INVEST IT IN MY BUSINESS* - - - 219 
 
 XX. 'LET HIM TELL ME HIMSELF* - - - 229 
 
 XXI. MY BROTHER JOSEPH - - - - 238 
 
 XXn. THE 'TOWER OF BRILL* _ . _ 248 
 
 xxiii. 'there shall be no obstacle* - - 267 
 
 XXIV. to dress the bride . - - - 278 
 
 XXV. god save the kino ! - - - - 285 
 
 XXVI. conclusion - - - - 295 
 
A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 HIS majesty''s own words. 
 
 At noon, as I knew by the shadow of my sundial in the 
 middle of the grass ; by the striking of the clock in the 
 tower of Hackney Church ; by the disappearance of the 
 shadows from the side walls of my garden, which lie 
 exactly north and south ; I was taking the air upon my 
 lawn. It was, I remember, Saturday morning, Septem- 
 ber 16, in the year of grace 1780. The day, though the 
 season was already advanced into autumn, was fair and 
 warm ; the orchard was still pleasing to the eye, those 
 apples not yet gathered showing like balls of vermilion 
 and gold ; the summer flowers were nearly over, yet 
 there were still some ; the sweet-peas, which had been 
 that year more than commonly luxuriant, were now 
 piled in a heap of brown seed-pods, brown leaves, and 
 gi'ay stalks, yet there were blossoms still among them : 
 there were late roses still in bloom ; the jessamine on 
 the wall was still dotted with a few white sweet-smelling 
 blossoms — it is a scent which makes the senses reel and 
 the heart beat — it recalls old memories. Wherefore I, 
 
 1 
 
2 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 who now for twenty years live wholly in the past, love 
 that blossom. There were hollyhocks, the flowei-s 
 finished, all but one or two on the very top of their 
 drooping heads ; sunflowers gone to seed weighing 
 down the thick stalk; trailing nastui-tium ; flaunting 
 marigolds, which refuse to believe that winter is nigh ; 
 .mignonette lying all across the path, its stalks breaking 
 at a touch, its little delicate flowerets without scent yet 
 still beautiful. The soft air breathed a pleasing 
 fragrance ; there was no breeze. Such consolations of 
 lingering flowers and perfumed air doth the autunm 
 ofter to those who are growing old and have retired 
 from the world. With that strange pride of man, 
 which allows him to regard nature as reflecting his 
 own moods, as if the round earth, and all that therein 
 is, had nothing to do but to watch his thoughts and to 
 act in sympathy with them, I chose to take this warm, 
 sweet autumn morning as granted especially to myself, 
 and so sat on the garden bench, or strolled across the 
 lawn and along the walks, with a mind contented and 
 grateful. The humble-bee who rolled heavily about 
 like some great river-barge on the flowing tide, reeling 
 from flower to flower, covered all over with white dust, 
 boomed its monotonous song for me: the honey-bee 
 buzzed louder — a note of accompaniment and solace — 
 for me : tlie yellow wasp fluttered about among the 
 peaches — for me to see his beauty : a thrush sat on a 
 pear-tree, singing, late as it was in the year — for me. 
 What they said, or sang, I know not, but they filled my 
 mind with peace and such happiness — that of resignation 
 — as can befall a woman such as I am — lonely — bereaved 
 — with no change before her — and with such a past as 
 mine to look back upon. 
 
 It is my own garden, lying at the back of my own 
 
\ 
 
 HIS MAJESTrS OWN WORDS 3 
 
 house : a large and richly furaished garden behind the 
 house of a gentlewoman. At the end of the garden is 
 a wicket-gate which I sometimes open in order to gaze 
 across the broad valley of the Lea. From the elevation 
 on which my house stands I can see below nie the whole 
 expanse of low meadows called the Hackney Flats, 
 intersected with ditches here and there. This morning 
 a light mist rolled over them — not the cold marshy 
 exhalation which all through winter lies upon them by 
 day and night, but a gentle vaporous veil through 
 which I could discern the river winding in the midst ; 
 and beyond the river more flats ; and beyond the flats the 
 low green hills of Essex, looking upon which, on such a 
 day as this, with the sunshine lying on them, the heart 
 goes up to heaven, and the distant hills remind one of 
 the everlasting rest to come when all tears shall be 
 wiped away and the memory of former sorrows will 
 only show as steps by which the soul hath climbed. 
 
 This morning I saw smoke mounting straight to the 
 sky from the bank of the river : 'twas an encampment 
 of the thievish people called gipsies : only a week before 
 they had robbed my poultry-yard. Thus do thoughts 
 and memories of evil always mar the thing most beauti- 
 ful upon the earth. I shut the wicket and locked it, 
 and turned back to the house. 
 
 My own house : my own garden : all that is contained 
 in either is mine. I did certainly receive them as a 
 gift, yet not in the way alleged : and I have resolved 
 upon telling you why I took this gift, and for what 
 reasons I live here, retired from the world. 
 
 Twenty years and more have I lived in this house 
 alone, save for Molly, my faithful woman. A long 
 time : a peaceful time : a time without pain or disease 
 of the body, without any anxiety of the mind except 
 
 1—2 
 
4 A FOUNl^AIN SEALED 
 
 for the natural sadness which can never leave a mind so 
 full of memories : yet from time to time I am disturbed 
 as I consider the place and remember that I am the 
 owner of all. Mine is the house : mine the books, the 
 furniture, the plate, the wardrobe, the jewels, the 
 garden, the orchard, the greenhouses — everything mine. 
 Yet what kind of price have I paid for this seclusion in 
 this place.'' Whenever I amve at this question, my 
 heart beats and my cheek changes colour. If I am in 
 the house I make haste to open a desk and to take 
 from it two miniatures. The one represents him who 
 was once my lover ; the other, the fondest, faithfullest 
 friend that ever woman had. These, too, were mine, 
 and they represent the price that I have paid. You 
 shall hear, if you will listen. Good name and reputation 
 I have given ; friends and relations I have abandoned ; 
 obscurity I have accepted — nay, embraced. No ankress 
 woman in her cage has been more lonely than I, whom 
 no one ever visits except one friend of that undying 
 past and the Rector of Hackney — a good and worthy 
 man who still, against his will, believes the worst that 
 can be whispered of me and waits for the time when I 
 shall make confession. This is a grievous price to be 
 paid by a woman, then young, of good repute, well 
 connected, and of pious conversation. I say that this 
 was indeed a heavy price to pay. At the time I counted 
 not the cost. Indeed, I willingly paid the price. Yes, 
 and I would pay it all over again : the loss of name 
 and reputation ; the burden of a shameful story : for 
 nobody in the world who once knew me or has heard 
 tell of me— to be sure, there are not many— but whispei-s 
 evil things about me and believes the worst. Their 
 whispers do not reach me : the things that they believe 
 do me no harm. I am dead to scandal : I am dead to 
 
HIS MAJESTY'S OWN WORDS 5 
 
 the world: I live here, now a woman of forty and 
 more : I hear nothing that is said and know nothing 
 that is done. All my life lies in a brief season of three 
 short months. It is but a little time to make up a 
 whole life, but I live it over and over and over again : 
 I am never tired of letting my memory dwell upon 
 every day of that short time. I desire no other Heaven 
 than to live that brief time over and over again, from 
 the first evening when those two, whose miniatures I 
 keep, came to my help, down to the last morning when 
 we parted, never to meet again. Oh ! Name, fame, 
 rumour, scandal, reputation — all — all — all would I 
 freely give over and over again and think them of no 
 account for the dear sake of that brief time and of that 
 most godlike lover ! 
 
 At the thought of that time, house and garden and 
 orchard and lawns, the breath of summer, the blue of 
 the sky, the sunshine, all vanish : they sink and fall and 
 disappear. I am once more in the parlour of the house 
 in St. James's Place, and my heart is beating and my 
 cheek is glowing because I know that he is coming and 
 because he loves me. Yes — he loves me — me, the first. 
 To myself I dare to own and to avow it : I confess it 
 with a front of brass : I glory in the memory of it : I 
 am so proud of it that I can hardly contain myself : on 
 Sunday when I walk to church, Molly — the faithful, 
 fond Molly — who alone knows all the truth, behind me, 
 I dress myself in my best silk ; I wear my gold chain ; 
 I draw on my best silk gloves, and I walk down the 
 aisle to my pew with head erect and proud bearing. 
 The world knows not why ; but Molly knows : Molly 
 says to herself, as she carries Bible and Prayer-book, 
 ' My lady does well to bear herself proudly. My lady 
 has been loved by "* But this we never say : we 
 
6 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 only think it. Some things there are that must not 
 even be whispered. 
 
 Now, as I was meditating this morning, not for the 
 first time, nor for the hundredth, upon these things, 
 there came running into the garden Molly herself — and 
 at the sight of her the past vanished again and the 
 present returned. 
 
 'Madam,' she said quickly, 'there is my Lord's 
 carriage coming up the road : his runners are even now 
 standing at the door, but the carriage is stuck in last 
 year s ruts. ITiey are lifting it over. Shall I lay out 
 your black silk frock ? You have time.' 
 
 ITiere was but one noble Lord who ever came to see 
 me : there was no occasion to name him. He was the 
 one friend who remained to me of the past. 
 
 ' Molly,' I said, ' I will put on my gray silk, and, if 
 there is time, touch my hair before my I^ord aiTives. 
 And give the runners, while his carriage stands at the 
 door, a drink of ale and a piece of cheese.' 
 
 So presently, in my gi-ay silk and my gold chain and 
 lace gloves, I descended the stairs and found his Lord- 
 ship waiting for me in the best parlour. 
 
 Robert, Viscount de Lys, was at this time nearly fifty 
 years of age. Too gi*eat a devotion to the bottle in his 
 early manhood had produced in him symptoms which 
 threatened to cut short his earthly pilgrimage. Indeed, 
 he died about three months after this visit, which was 
 the last time that I saw him. The gout flying about 
 him settled in his stomach, where it killed him after 
 inflicting terrible pains. As befits his rank, he was 
 buried in Westminster Abbey, where I am told (for I 
 have not seen it) that a marble monument represents 
 him as borne up to Heaven, with the Star of the Bath 
 upon his breast, by two angels. Indeed, I hope that 
 
HIS MAJESTY^S OWN WORDS 7 
 
 his soul has received the reward of everlasting happiness, 
 though it must be owned that during life, like many other 
 gentlemen of Quality, he lived as if the means of grace 
 were not intended for persons of rank, and as if they 
 had no occasion to regard the next world with either 
 fear or hope. Yet a man of kindly heart and generous, 
 and, except for this vice of drinking, of a cleanly life. 
 To me he was always loyal and true. Wherefore, if 
 the prayers of the living could help the dead. Lord de 
 Lys should have my prayers, night and day. 
 
 On this day he hobbled, leaning on his gold-headed 
 cane more than was customary with him. His feet 
 were in soft shoes ; his fingers were swollen at the 
 joints ; his face was red ; his eyes were bloodshot ; his 
 voice was husky. He was sitting in the window-seat 
 looking across my front garden planted with box cut 
 into shapes. 
 
 ' Madam,"* he said, rising with difficulty, and kissing 
 my hand — ^he always had the finest manners in the 
 world — ' I need not, I am sure, repeat that I am always 
 your most obedient servant to command in anything.' 
 
 ' Your Lordship,' I replied, ' is, which is much better, 
 always my kindest friend.' Compliments mean little, 
 yet show friendliness. For instance, when one gazes 
 upon a man who is the mere pitiful wreck of what he 
 once was ; when one remembers what he once was — 
 how tall and gallant and comely ; and when one tells 
 that man that he looks well but for the touch of gout 
 in his feet — which, indeed, is a good sign, for gout 
 is better out than in — why, one means nothing but 
 the assurance of friendly interest. Such compliments 
 passed, we sat down, and came at once to the business 
 in hand. 
 
 'Madam,' he said, 'I have in my possession — they 
 
8 A FOUNTAIxN SEALED 
 
 have been lent to me by the person to whom they are 
 addressed for the express purpose of showing them to 
 you — certain letters which give me a pretext for making 
 this visit/ 
 
 *Then am I vastly obliged to the letters. They 
 concern me, I may presume, in some way or other/ 
 
 * They will certainly interest you. You shall judge 
 for yourself how they concern yourself.' 
 
 ' What letters can they be ? You awaken my 
 curiosity, my Lord.' 
 
 'They are written by a certain Person — whom you 
 once knew — to Lord North.' 
 
 « Oh ! But . . . What has Lord North to do with 
 me? Why does that Person write to Lord North 
 about me T 
 
 ' Lord North has nothing to do with you. He does 
 not even know of your existence.' 
 
 * Then, how can they concern me ? My Lord, do not 
 without reason remind me that the world is cruel and 
 censorious and believes the worst.' 
 
 * I do not seek to do so. Madam, I assure you. 
 Indeed, you have so often informed me of the true 
 relations — I mean, of the true friendship once existing 
 between yourself and a certain Person — that I thought 
 you would like to see these letters, which, in fact, 
 corroborate your information.' 
 
 ' If you wish me to read them I will do so, though 
 I do not desire. I had thought that nothing would 
 ever occur which would bring me back to the world 
 again — or bring the world to me.' 
 
 'Believe mc, dear Madam, I would not willingly 
 disturb your rest, since it is your pleasurc to live buried 
 in this solitude. But these letters you must, indeed, 
 read, if only for your own satisfaction.' 
 
HIS MAJESTY'S OAVN WORDS 9 
 
 ' But, my Lord, once more : how does Lord North 
 know anything about me ?' 
 
 'I know not. I am sure that he knows nothing 
 definite about you. I am the only person now Hving 
 who knows anything about the matter.' 
 
 'Are you quite sure that you know the story, my 
 Lord?' 
 
 ' Can any man know more of a woman than she 
 chooses to tell T 
 
 ' I am still waiting to know what Lord North thinks 
 or has heard.' 
 
 ' There are rumours — quite uncertain and vague — 
 about the early life of the Person aforesaid : I suppose, 
 because alone among those of his rank he hath led, and 
 still doth lead, an unspotted life. People, as a rule, 
 do not like those in very high places to be virtuous : 
 every Prince must needs commit the common sins in 
 order to win the love of the multitude: his faults, I 
 suppose, bring him down to the common level. Very 
 well, these rumours cling to a certain house in St. 
 James's Place, and to a certain lady who once lived 
 there.' 
 
 'The rumour is, of course, the worst that can be 
 invented ?' 
 
 ' It varies. The lady ran away with him : the lady 
 married him secretly — it varies according to the imagina- 
 tion or the inventive faculty of the person handing it 
 on : it grows : it becomes embellished : your name is 
 known : your religion is known : nothing else is certain. 
 People turn into St. James's Place when they wish to 
 calumniate that Person, and point to the house and 
 tell their story.' 
 
 ' Nothing matters to me now, since I am retired from 
 the world.' 
 
10 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 * Lord North, therefore, called upon me. He said 
 to me, " Rumour credits you with knowing something 
 of certain passages which formerly happened in the 
 life of — this Pei-son/^ I replied that it was true that 
 accident had placed me in possession of facts which 
 could not be published/ 
 
 ' In a word, my Lord, you allowed Lord North to 
 l)elieve that these disgraceful rumours were true,^ I 
 replied, but would say no more, thinking of the ti-uth, 
 which I alone can know. 
 
 ' Nothing of the kind, dear Madam, I assure you. 
 He wished me to confess that these rumours were true, 
 but I refused. He then lugged out these letters and 
 asked me to read them. " If,"'"' he said, " any other per- 
 son knows the facts of the case, let that person also 
 read the letters. He, or she, will undei-stand that now, 
 if ever, the most absolute silence must be observed.*" ' 
 
 ' But if there is nothing that need be concealed ?'' 
 
 ' So far £is I can see, the whole world may read the 
 letters. " If,"" he added, " any money were wanted for 
 the purchase of other letters " "* 
 
 ' Do not insult me, my Lord.'' 
 
 * Pardon me. Madam. I do but repeat what he 
 said." 
 
 ' The letters, you tell me, come from — a certain Per- 
 son. Does that Person know of this message of youi*s ?^ 
 
 ' I believe not. I should say not. My own existence 
 is probably forgotten by that Person. He desires, 
 apparently, to bury in oblivion a certain passage in his 
 life. Would he, then, be thought more — or less — than 
 Man?' 
 
 ' He is more than Man,' I replied. ' The oi-dinary 
 man cannot contemplate such virtues as were his. 
 Now, my Lord, it is idle to talk about seci*ecy. I, who 
 
HTS MAJESTY'S OWN WORDS 11 
 
 might have enjoyed notoriety at least, which is a kind 
 of fame, have accepted obscurity and silence. Is it 
 likely that I am going to attempt notoriety after 
 twenty years and more ? As for money — I had no 
 occasion to accept it, for I had no need of any money, 
 or any help whatever in that way.' 
 
 ' Madam,' — he bowed again — ' yoinr conduct has been 
 always full of dignity, and worthy of that passion 
 which was once lavished upon you.' 
 
 * Then,' I said, ' without more words let me see these 
 letters.' 
 
 He took out of his pocket a book in which lay two 
 lettei-s. ' You will, I believe,' he said, ' recognise the 
 handwriting.' 
 
 I did. I had one letter — only one — in the same 
 handwriting, which was little changed. He opened 
 and gave me one of the letters. It had reference to 
 the creation of a separate establishment for the writer's 
 eldest son. The following passage halfway down caught 
 my eyes : ' I thank Heaven that my morals and course 
 of life have but little resembled those prevalent in the 
 present age : and certainly of all the objects of this 
 life, the one I have most at heart is to form my children 
 that they may become useful examples and worthy of 
 imitation.' 
 
 ' Well,' I said, ' the sentiment is worthy of the 
 writer.' 
 
 ' And his gratitude is, no doubt, based on a sound 
 and solid foundation.' 
 
 ' Assuredly,' I replied. ' Is this all you have to 
 show me ?' 
 
 ' There is the other letter,' he said, handing it to 
 me with curiosity in his eyes. 
 
 It was a letter of a very private character. I felt 
 
12 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 that I had no right to be reading it: the letter was 
 not meant for the eyes of anyone but Lord North. 
 At the end of it was this passage : ' I am happy at 
 being able to say that I never was personally engaged 
 in such a transaction, which makes me feel this business 
 the stronger.** 
 
 ' Such a transaction ,"* his Lordship repeated. ' He 
 means an amour — a pre-nuptial amour.'' 
 
 'Not at all. It means that his son has become 
 involved in some love affair of a low and disgraceful 
 kind : that he has now, in order to avoid the exposure 
 which the disgraceful woman threatens, to buy back 
 letters. This Person writes that he has no such odious 
 business on his conscience : that he has never written 
 letters which the whole world might not read : that 
 there is no creature living who either could or would 
 threaten him. That is the meaning, my Lord, of this 
 passage.' 
 
 ' It seems to me, rather, as if his memory was playing 
 him false. " Such a transaction.'' Has he, then, for- 
 gotten everything ?' 
 
 ' Go on, my Lord.' But my cheek burned. 
 ' Nay ! All I would say is that at the present 
 juncture it is highly important that the — the — passage 
 I referred to should not be whispered about. The effect 
 might be most mischievous. It must not even be known 
 that the writer of this letter was ever engaged in any 
 love affair at all before his marriage, not even a simple 
 and platonic affair of conversation only, and, you will 
 allow me to observe, the censorious might ask why a 
 mere friendship was rewarded by a comfortable allow- 
 ance in the country.' 
 
 * One moment, ray Lord,' I interrupted him. * You 
 are quite wrong. This house and the income on which 
 
HIS MAJESTY'S OWN WORDS 13 
 
 I live were not given me by the writer of this letter. 
 Let me assure you quite seriously upon this point. If 
 you have thought otherwise, pray think so no longer." 
 
 ' Indeed," he said thoughtfully. ' Then I know not 
 
 who But, dear Madam, why should I give you 
 
 pain ? I have shown you the letters. I have told you 
 what Lord North said. I have nothing to add." 
 
 ' About secrecy ; who is there left to talk about the 
 affair? You, my Lord, will never speak about it to 
 anyone. His brother Edward died — alas ! — seven years 
 after it. Corporal Bates was killed in action. Molly 
 doesn"t talk ; my cousin Isabel is dead ; Mr. Robert 
 Storey is dead: he died a bankrupt, poor wretch! in 
 the Fleet. The Doctor, old Mr. Mynsterchamber, went 
 abroad, I believe, and must now be dead. Mrs. Bates, 
 the widow, may know something, but very little " 
 
 'Dear Madam, there remain only you and I and 
 Molly. Yet this Mrs. Bates — it may be that through 
 her the rumours have spread. It is strange how 
 rumours arise and grow and are spread around. Well, 
 we cannot help rumours and whispers ; we cannot silence 
 the world. It is enough for me to assure Lord North 
 that there is no danger of anything worse than a 
 whisper ; or more dangerous than scandalous gossip. 
 There will be no proof that the son is only treading in 
 the footprints of his father. Let us now, dear Madam, 
 talk of things more pleasant and, to me, more interest- 
 ing than of rumours which attack your name." 
 
 We talked long and earnestly : there was much to 
 recall — the treachery of the Doctor, the good fortune of 
 the Coi-poral, the evening of the masquerade, and 
 many, many other things of which he knew a little 
 and thought he knew a great deal. We sat talking 
 together in my best parlour for three or four houi-s. 
 
14 A FOUNTAIN SExYLED 
 
 ' Nancy,** he said — for, having taken a glass or two 
 while we talked, he had gone back to the past, when it 
 was Fair Nancy, or Cruel Nancy, or Conquering Nancy, 
 or Heartless Nancy, or Nancy the Toast, or any other 
 compliment that he might light upon ; in a word, his 
 imagination was inflamed to some degree — * Nancy, 
 whenever I remember that happy time when a bottle — 
 nay, three bottles — brought nothing Moi-se in the morn- 
 ing than an aching head, and when I gazed daily upon 
 thy charms — ah ! sweet Nancy ' — he laid his hand upon 
 mine, but a twinge of the gout caused him to draw it 
 back swiftly — * I say — devil take this gout ! — that 
 whenever I think of that time it is your heavenly face 
 that still I see." 
 
 ' Through the bottles, my Lord ?** 
 
 * Perhaps/ He sighed. ' We could see through half- 
 a-dozen bottles in those days. Thy face. Madam Nancy, 
 was lovely then, and 'tis, I swear, lovely still. But in 
 those days, for the angelic sweetness and tenderness of 
 it, I say that it had no equal." 
 
 ' Your Lordship is so good as to pay me compli- 
 ments.'' 
 
 ' They are the truth, not compliments at all. And 
 this being the case, even though you should a thousand 
 times affirm the contraiy, out of your constancy and 
 fidelity, I will never believe that a ceitain Pei-son did 
 not think so as well. Come, Nancy, we are old friends : 
 I am discretion itself : it is an old story : tell me : was 
 this Person a stock and a stone .''' 
 
 ' Certainly he was neither stock nor stone. Yet, my 
 Lord, the words written in these lettei-s are the truth."* 
 
 * Ta-ra-ra ! Ta-ra-ra !' said his Lordship. ' Twtvs 
 ever the most obstinate piece — as well as the loveliest."* 
 
 His lx>rd8hip, I know very well, always took pleasure 
 
HIS MAJESTY'S OWN WORDS 15 
 
 in my society. On this occasion — though he kept his 
 horses standing in the road and his people waiting for 
 him — though as to that he paid no heed — he remained 
 talking with me, I say, for nearly four hours. It pleases 
 me now to think with what kindness and remembrance 
 he spoke of the past which he had in a measure shared. 
 Yet, for all I could say, I perceived that he could not 
 believe one word as to my relations with the Person 
 above referred to. By this time I was accustomed to 
 this disbelief, which at the outset cut me to the soul. 
 What did I say above ? The price was name and fame 
 and reputation — all the things that a woman most 
 highly prizes. And I had paid that price. Not one 
 word did my Lord believe — affirm it as I might — as to 
 the truth of those two letters. He laughed : he put it 
 off with a smile, with the uplifting of his eyebrows, with 
 a gentle inclination of his head, with the wave of his 
 hand, with a ' Nay, Madam, since you say so," with a 
 pinch of snufF. 
 
 ' Well,' said I, seized with a sudden thought — doth 
 not Heaven itself send some thoughts, while the Devil, 
 if we admit him into the chambers of Imagery, as the 
 Prophet calls them, sends others ? ' Advise me, my 
 Lord. I am now past forty "^ 
 
 ' For most women it is a great age. You are still 
 young, however. At forty I already hobbled : I am 
 now nearly fifty, with both feet hanging over the 
 grave. But for my advice. How can I advise thee, 
 Nancy ?' 
 
 ' I know not what length of days may remain to me. 
 But I think that perhaps some part of the allotted space 
 might be spent in dissipating whispers or contradicting 
 scandals which may be flying around concerning this 
 Person.' 
 
16 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' For the moment it would, perhaps, be best to observe 
 silence/ 
 
 ' Yet you say that there are whispers ' 
 
 ' Undoubtedly there are. When a certain Pei-son is 
 observed, or is rumoured — his face was not absolutely 
 unknown in the neighbourhood of St. James's — to visit 
 a certain house : when it is ascertained that a certain 
 lady of that name really lived there '' 
 
 ' Add, if you please, that the lady was always accom- 
 panied by another lady ; and the Person was always 
 accompanied by his brother "* 
 
 ' These, observe, are facts which the world does not 
 know. Let me add that when this lady disappears 
 suddenly : when no one, not even her own friends, know 
 where she is . . . then . . .** He took a pinch of snuff 
 and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' Granted the whispers : would it not suffice if I wrote 
 down exactly the truth as it happened — for the sake of 
 the reputation of the Person concerned ?** 
 
 ' Why,"* he replied, ' the world would be very much 
 interested : the booksellers would be enriched ; the 
 Person concerned would not be grateful : the lady would 
 not be cleared : and the whispers would go on."* 
 
 'Still — it is surely best always to have the truth 
 told; 
 
 * No one, certainly, would tell it so well as you, deal* 
 lady. Besides," he laughed, ' what woman could desire a 
 more pleasing task than to relate in her own words the 
 history of her own amoui*s ?' 
 
 The words seemed, at the time, mocking and heai-tless. 
 Lord de Lys sometimes spoke in this light and satirical 
 voice : he meant, I thought, that a woman could thus 
 hide what she wished, and reveal what would set her in 
 a better light. However, they were wise words as I 
 
HIS MAJESTY^S OWN WORDS 17 
 
 now understand. No one, sure, knows the heart of a 
 woman so well as herself. 
 
 ' My Lord,' I replied, ' pleasing or not, I am resolved ' 
 — the resolution was formed at that moment only — ' to 
 commit to writing a full and complete history of an 
 affair concerning which the world knows nothing — not 
 for the clearing of my own reputation, of which I care 
 nothing, for in this secluded spot nothing reaches me : 
 but for the reputation of another.' 
 
 'Well, Nancy, I think the world will like its own 
 version best. Tell the truth, dear woman, by all means ; 
 and the world will fall in love with thee : and, what is 
 more, will remain in love with thee, long after thou art 
 laid in Hackney Churchyard. Tell the truth : nothing 
 could possibly do more to raise the soul of a young man 
 than to love the idea and the presentment of such a 
 woman as thyself.' 
 
 ' No compliments, my Lord ; but as much advice as 
 you please.' 
 
 ' Then, Nancy, my advice is this. If you write about 
 love, talk little of other matters. Let your discourse 
 be always of love. Speak not of affairs of State : keep 
 the lover always before your readers. Let them hear the 
 voice of love and see the eyes of love. Do not dwell at 
 length upon his previous history or your later history, 
 or anything except what is necessary to show how he 
 fell in love with you, and why. Tell the world who you 
 were and what you were, and then let the Tragedy — or 
 the Comedy — begin. "When the love tale is ended, 
 close the volume : draw a line : write " Finis " below — 
 walk off the stage, and do not let your lover lag behind.' 
 
 This seemed sensible advice. As my story concerns 
 one person mostly, I must write about little but what 
 concerned him. 
 
18 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 * I will try to remember your advice. Meantime, my 
 Lord, here is something for your own ears. You spoke 
 about the fact of a certain lady retiring into obscurity 
 in affluence. I know, of course, what was meant ; I 
 have known all along that such a thing would be 
 meant. This house is mine, and it was given to me. I 
 have lived in it since November, 1760. It was given to 
 me at my own request. On the evening of the day 
 when we parted — on October the 25th, 1760, his brother 
 Edward came to see me.' 
 
 'I met him walking across St. James'*s Place, I 
 remember.' 
 
 ' He came to me. He remained with me alone for 
 some time : he spoke most tenderly and sorrowfully : he 
 took all the blame upon himself : he confessed that he 
 ought to have told me all at the outset : he asked what 
 I proposed to do : he agreed that I could not go home 
 to live with my brother, which would be worse than 
 anything: he promised that his own lawyers should 
 make him give up my fortune : then, with a noble 
 generosity, he offered to give me what I asked of him — 
 a house in the country, so that I could always feel that 
 I belonged still, and all my life should belong, to his 
 brother and to him.' 
 
 * Madam,' said Lord de Lys, 'upon my word, you 
 amaze me. For twenty years I have believed that this 
 house, with an annuity, was given to you by that 
 Person.' 
 
 ' This is the literfJ truth. I knew what would be 
 said and thought by those who knew some of the cir- 
 cumstances of the case. But I have told you the 
 literal truth. More: this most generous of men, this 
 fond and faithful friend, came often to see me until he 
 left the country on his last voyage, from which he was 
 
HIS MAJESTY^S OWN WORDS 19 
 
 nevermore to return. No one can ever know with what 
 a truly brotherly love he regarded me, and how he 
 lamented with me the bitterness of fate which dashed 
 from my lips the cup which was just prepared for me. 
 My Lord, the world knows not what a heart of gold 
 was lost when Edward — I still must call him by his 
 Christian name — when my brother — yes, my brother — 
 Edward died.' 
 
 ' Nancy, tell me no more. Why should I revive the 
 tears of the past? Well — give me a sailor, should 
 every woman say : 'tis only a sailor who does the truly 
 generous things.' 
 
 It was then four o'clock. Molly opened the door to 
 tell me that dinner was served. 
 
 ' My Lord, I have for dinner a simple breast of veal 
 roasted, stuffed. Molly is a plain cook, but I warrant 
 the roast wholesome and good. There will also be some 
 sweet-pudding or fruit-pie : and I can give you a bottle 
 of good wine, I believe, if you will honour me with your 
 company at my humble meal.' 
 
 He condescended to dine with me. His appetite, as 
 I feared, was not good : indeed, he could eat but little ; 
 yet he complimented Molly on her stuffing, and he pro- 
 fessed to find the pudding delicious. 
 
 After dinner Molly placed a bottle of port on the 
 table. My Lord took it up with affectionate, though 
 swollen fingers. 
 
 ' I have loved thee too well,' he said, addressing the 
 bottle, not Molly. 'But for the warmth — nay — the 
 ardour of my passion for this ruby liquid wherein I 
 found man's chief felicity, I might now be kneeling at 
 sweet Nancy's feet. Thou hast rewarded me, ungrateful 
 divinity, with ten thousand red-hot needles. Neverthe- 
 less, as an invalid, a veteran — a discharged soldier — I 
 
 2—2 
 
20 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 must still worship/ He filled two glasses. * Madam,** 
 he said, ' I will drink to you. Strange it is — oh ! won- 
 drous strange !' he gazed upon me with admiring eyes — 
 * we have been talking over the past — and behold ! — it 
 is a miracle ! — your former face has come back to you. 
 Memory is a witch. Your face, divine Nancy, is now 
 once more as young : your eyes are as clear : your cheek 
 is as soft — oh ! the peach blossom on that cheek : as 
 twenty yeai*s ago, when that young — Person — paid to 
 all those charms the adoration of a maiden heart. 
 Nancy — a vos beaux yeuxl Could he again behold 
 thee — could he get rid "' 
 
 ' My Lord ! you must not, indeed, talk in this strain. 
 It is unbecoming for one of your station, and it afflicts 
 me to hear such discourse. In this house we take one 
 glass of wine a day — Molly and I — and we drink it to 
 the health and safety of that certain Person.'' 
 
 He bowed. He gave me a glass and poured out one 
 for Molly, who stood beside my high-backed arm- 
 chair. 
 
 I stood up, glass in hand. ' I drink,' I said, ' or 
 rather, I pray, for the continued health, happiness, and 
 safety of the noblest man in these three Kingdoms.' 
 
 Molly fell upon her knees. * By your leave, Madam,' 
 she said, * I drink to the health and happiness of your 
 friend.' These words we exchanged in fact every day 
 after dinner. To me, if I may say so in all respect, they 
 were a kind of daily Sacrament. 
 
 His Lordship rose with some difficulty. * Nancy,' he 
 said, ' your heart is all constancy and fidelity. It moves 
 me. ... I wonder if any man born of an earthly mother 
 was ever worth a heart so true and tender. Madam, I 
 drink the health of that Person — once your lover — His 
 Majesty the King !' 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 ON THE RIVER DARENTH. 
 
 If I shut my eyes and Jet my memory go back to early 
 days I see a substantial square house : in the front stand 
 two goodly cedars sweeping the lawn : a brick wall shuts 
 out the house from the highroad : there are two gates 
 with iron railings of fine workmanship : from the gates 
 one can see a large mass of low buildings — they are 
 paper-mills, belonging to a Quaker named Samuel 
 Walden : the river Daren th flows past the mills : about 
 a mile away there stands the town of Dartford. The 
 house is cold within and gloomy : it seems a house 
 which never gets any sunshine, yet the rooms are lofty 
 and the windows are high and broad ; the furniture is 
 massive and costly : yet, for the bareness of the walls 
 and the absence of ornament, the place might pass for a 
 prison. 
 
 At the back of the house is a most beautiful garden, 
 broad, well cultivated, full of everything that an English 
 garden can yield. I see a child running about that 
 garden under the shade of trees and across sunny lawns. 
 The place is lonely and silent, save for the birds in the 
 trees. Sometimes there flits across the grass a pale 
 drooping figure in the gray Quaker dress and white 
 cap : sometimes hhe is sitting in the shade ; sometimes 
 
22 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 she is looking at the child ; but mostly she is wrapped 
 in meditation. It is the child's mother, who is like an 
 anchoress of old, inasmuch as she spends most of her life 
 in considering the Divine Scheme of Redemption : she 
 speaks little at any time, even at meeting : in the 
 Roman Church she would be a saint, and work miracles : 
 in the English Communion she would be accounted a 
 holy woman. In my recollection I always see her thus, 
 a silent ghost meditating in the garden. Also in my 
 memory summer and sunshine always remain : rain and 
 cold have vanished. Always I see the fruit turning 
 from green to gold : always I breathe the fragrance of 
 the flowers : always the air is soft and warm : there is 
 always blue sky : there are always shadows on the lawn, 
 and they slowly turn, so that I know the time by their 
 position as well as by the sundial in the middle of the 
 gi-ass. I can always see the honey-bees staggering under 
 the weight of their burdens ; the flowers are always in 
 blossom : I can see them still — roses, lilies, sunflowers, 
 hollyhocks, love-lies-bleeding, ragged robin, boy's love, 
 lavender, pansy, clove, pink, convolvulus, stocks, sweet- 
 william — all that you may find in any garden. 
 
 The child has no playmates, no toys or dolls, she 
 knows only such games as her imagination has invented 
 for her. She has never heai*d any of the foolish stories 
 of fairies, lovely damsels, brave lads, and happy lovers, 
 which ai'e told to children of the world, whereby their 
 thoughts are turned to things of the world : she has 
 read no book except portions of the Bible, because the 
 godly books on the shelf have no attraction for her. 
 
 The child has never heard the sound of music : in the 
 house there was no fond tinkling of the guitar, no up- 
 lifting of the voice with a love ditty. 
 
 The child has never seen a picture or a drawing of 
 
I 
 
 ON THE RIVER DARENTH 23 
 
 any kind. There were no pictures in the house at all — 
 not a single representation of even a tree or a flower, to 
 say nothing of man, woman, or child. 
 
 The child has never heard the sound of laughter — no 
 one in that house ever laughed. The Society of Friends, 
 indeed, have for the most part forgotten how to laugh. 
 Nothing to them is ridiculous ; certainly not the sight 
 of a man suddenly suffering pain, which always excites 
 mirth in the mind bucolic ; nor the sight of a man in 
 bewilderment, consternation, or amazement, which makes 
 the lesser sort to laugh. It was a grave household even 
 for one of that Society. The master of the house was 
 always serious and full of thought, divided between his 
 religion and his affairs : the mistress was, as I have said, 
 greatly occupied in religious meditation. 
 
 On Sundays in the silent Meeting-house, while the 
 clock ticked and the members sat with closed eyes, 
 meditating and waiting to be moved, the child looked 
 through an open door upon a green enclosure, which 
 was the burial ground. There were no headstones or 
 altar tombs, or monuments of any kind. The memory 
 of the dead was not preserved : except for two small 
 slabs, each containing initials, there was nothing to tell 
 who slept beneath : they were godly people who lived 
 and died, and went to Heaven. What were they doing 
 in Heaven ? the child asked. Sitting apart in a Meet- 
 ing-house, doubtless, out of sight or hearing of the 
 golden harps. The child wanted no tombstones to 
 know the people who lay in the ground : they were 
 sitting around her in the Meeting-house : the ghosts of 
 the dead — though she knew nothing about ghosts — sat 
 with the living — all in Heaven together — and waited 
 for the Divine prompting of the Word. 
 
 Among such people, the child of such people, did 
 
24 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 this child grow up. Picture to yourself what kind of 
 child she would become ! 
 
 Often in the winter evenings it pleases me to recall 
 these old days. There were many things which as a 
 child I neither observed nor understood — such, for 
 instance, as the stiffness and wooden can-iage of both 
 men and women. To me, after more than twenty years'* 
 knowledge of the world, I still contrast the courtesy 
 of a well-bred man ; the graceful movements of a gentle- 
 woman ; the unconscious ease with which young people 
 of the world move and speak ; with the stiffness which 
 I used to consider part of our holy calling. I blush to 
 remember how my own brother moved with the constraint 
 of a wooden image: how he spoke with harsh voice, 
 ignorant of music or of modulation : how he said things 
 uncouth because he enjoyed no softening influence of 
 society to teach him civility. 
 
 As for knowledge of the outer world, I only knew that 
 it was the freehold property of the devil, the men and 
 women in it being merely his tenants. Surely this was 
 a most wicked thing to believe. 
 
 The Society of Friends, which began by being penni- 
 less, has now become, as a body, rich — that is to say, 
 there are always the poor with them as with every other 
 community ; but there are a great many rich and 
 prosperous members of the Society. There is a street 
 in the City of London where all the shops — many of 
 them splendid and stately — are owned by rich Quakei-s 
 and served by their daughters — nay, it is even said that 
 the simple Quaker dress has proved an attraction to 
 many young fellows of the City, who have done their 
 best to entice the young women from their duty. Since, 
 however, they have become comfortable in worldly 
 matters, the early zeal has disapj)cai'ed. 
 
ON THE RIVER DARENTH 25 
 
 There are still, I am told, great preachers among the 
 Quakers of America. In this country one may hear 
 occasionally a moving experience ; one may receive 
 sometimes words of assurance and hope : one may be 
 terrified by words of commination : but not words of 
 fierce utterance and prophetic fire. For the most part 
 the Friends sit apart by themselves, no longer anxious 
 to spread their doctrines, contented to believe that they 
 alone carry on the true life enjoined by the Founder 
 of the Christian Faith. Thus to believe gives every 
 Member of the Society, however humble, self-respect 
 and dignity : perhaps even uplifting and vain conceit. 
 
 Yet, consider briefly some of the doctrines of the 
 Society, and plainly ask on what foundations they rest, 
 and to what consequences they lead. Thus, they will 
 not acknowledge Bishop, Priest, or Deacon. Yet it is 
 plain that these offices existed in times Apostolic, what- 
 ever they then meant. And how can a vast body of 
 people be governed without order, precedence, rank, 
 and authority ? In a Church as in anything else there 
 must needs be Captains and Lieutenants for the rank 
 and file. Are we all equally wise and equally learned ? 
 Then they refuse to pay Easter Offerings, tithes, and 
 the rest of the dues for the maintenance of the Church. 
 They might as well refuse to pay the wages of a 
 Constable or Headborough, or expect My Lords the 
 Justices of the High Courts to receive no pay. 
 
 Let me, as becomes an ignorant woman, speak rather 
 of such things as belong to the daily life. A woman 
 may be permitted to discuss them, at least. And, first, 
 they refuse to bear arms. Now, the countries where the 
 Friends are mostly found are Great Britain and Ireland 
 and the Colonies (now the Revolted Colonies) of North 
 America: these are rich and prosperous beyond any 
 
26 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 other countries in the world : they have, therefore, many 
 envious enemies, who, were the armies and the fleets of the 
 kingdom disbanded, would instantly overrun and devour 
 everything. It is therefore the duty of every man who 
 desires to carry on his business in peace and safety to 
 take his share in the defence of his country. Those 
 who refuse to do this selfishly profit by the services 
 of others, and send forth to fight and die for their own 
 advantage armies among whom no sons of theire are 
 ever seen. No candid person who considers the point 
 can defend the receiving of gifts without giving aught 
 in return. Next, they wear a distinctive dress. I believe 
 that at first they thought only to show a marked 
 simplicity in dress, as a protest against the vanity and 
 folly of fashion. It is not simplicity that is now aimed 
 at so much as separation. By so doing they proclaim 
 their opinions : is not this a sure way to engender 
 spiritual pride ? Will not many — nay, most — be per- 
 suaded that separation means a higher place in things 
 spiritual ? When one remembers, at the same time, 
 the distinctive speech which has been preserved among 
 the body, doth not that also feed the spiritual pride 
 which is the besetting sin of all sects ? What does it 
 avail a man that he should say, ' Thee will do so and 
 so ' when his neighbours say among themselves, * You 
 will do so and so ^ : or, with their children and intimates, 
 * Thou wilt do so and so ' ? What part does religion 
 play in such a mode of speech ? Indeed, I cannot 
 discover. 
 
 I take it, then, to speak generally, that those pereons 
 who cut themselves off from the world run the risk of 
 losing that charity towards others which belongs to those 
 who share in the common dangers of life. Can anything 
 be more hurtful to the soul than to sit apart from 
 
ON THE RIVER DARENTH 27 
 
 humanity — rich, prosperous, with full gi'anaries — and 
 not to inquire or to know how this poorer sort are 
 living — the people who take no kind of heed about their 
 souls, and are full of sin and suffering, and live from 
 hand to mouth or from day to day? What can be 
 worse than a separation from the learning and the 
 j)reaching of scholars ; and from the science of philoso- 
 phers ; from the wisdom of statesmen ; from the songs 
 of poets, the pictures of artists, and the music of 
 musicians ? 
 
 In a word, the Quaker in his desire for holiness 
 imitates the monk and hides himself in a cloister — but 
 a cloister without a Gothic church and the adornment 
 of music — with the world outside, unknown and un- 
 regarded. 
 
 Next, consider, if you please, how much a Quaker 
 denies himself. He will have none of the common 
 sports which divert young people outside the Society. 
 His boys shall not play at cards, dice, cock-fighting, 
 bear and bull baiting, wrestling, boxing, single-stick, 
 quarter-staff*, horse - racing, cricket, football, hockey, 
 or quoits. A woman does not like to witness cruel 
 sports, but of the rest can anyone maintain that they 
 are unrighteous in themselves? We may not play 
 at cards or dice because they mean gambling : and 
 gambling, the world is agreed, cannot be considered as 
 a spiritual exercise. Very well : but what diff*erence is 
 there between the men who play with the dice for great 
 sums of money and the men who send out large cargoes 
 and bring home large cargoes for sale ? Is there any- 
 thing, apart from dice, more uncertain than the market 
 of Calcutta ? I have read of the anxious and haggard 
 faces of those who gamble for money. I am sure that I 
 remember the anxious face of my brother at a dangerous 
 
28 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 moment in his business: then would he walk about 
 restlessly : then would he take paper and pen and make 
 long calculations : then would he fall into a kind of 
 trance, like some of the Friends at Meeting, not to be 
 disturbed. He was then, as I now perceive, possessed of 
 the true gambling spirit as much as any who play at 
 cards. 
 
 ITiere are other things, more impoitant, which they 
 will not allow. Among them are all the Fine Ai-ts, such 
 as music, singing, painting, carving, with acting and 
 dancing. Why were these things forbidden ? Because 
 the founder of the Society, himself an illiterate man, 
 could see nothing in the Fine Arts except allurements of 
 the Devil. It can, however, be plainly proved by the 
 testimony of multitudes, by the practice of the Church 
 of England, and by that of all the Christians except 
 this body of separatists, that music, and singing, not to 
 speak of the other arts, do often prove great aids to 
 cany the soul upwards. Nay, I know by my own 
 experience how by the magic of the human voice in 
 singing, or by the rolling of the organ, the mind may be 
 swayed this way and that and uplifted and bonic aloft 
 till all the world vanishes and the soul is left alone, 
 flying unto Heaven. Yet we are debarred from the 
 exercise of such gifts because the Founder knew no 
 music except the bawling of rustics at a pot-house, 
 or the scraping of a crowd or the pipe and tabor going 
 before the bear at the vilhige baiting. 
 
 As for dancing, I do not suppose that George Fox 
 liad ever seen any dancing except that of the village 
 wake, when the young men and women together leap 
 and jump with drinking and common ribaldry. 'Twas 
 all he knew of dancing. He understood not, nor had 
 ever seen, that polite dancing which provides a charm 
 
ON THE RIVER DARENTH 29 
 
 for the world of good manners. He would forbid, out 
 of sheer ignorance, the stately minuet and the innocent 
 and joyous country dance. The former expresses with 
 its music and its gestures the respect for women which 
 belongs to this our polite age : the latter gives play, 
 yet with decorous bounds, to the happiness which young 
 people of either sex naturally and blamelessly feel in 
 each other^s society. To laugh and dance and sing at 
 that age is in obedience to the laws of Nature. ^Vhy 
 should we forbid either courtesies which refine and 
 correct those who practise them ; or the levities of 
 youth which are carried on in the eyes of all and in the 
 full blaze of this lighted sconce ? 
 
 Even more senseless, because more ignorant, is the 
 condemnation of painting, drawing or carving. Had, 
 one asks, George Fox ever seen a picture or a statue in 
 his life ? Indeed, I doubt it. Yet there are pictures it 
 may be of Roman Saints — whom we are taught to 
 think Pretenders — which do represent in so lively a 
 manner fortitude in tortures : faith in martyrdom : 
 assurance in prayer : love in adoration : forgiveness of 
 persecutors : that I am sure no Friend, even in the days 
 of persecution, could excel these saints. The very con- 
 templation of these pictures lifts the heart to admiration 
 and moves the soul to deeper and stronger faith. Nor 
 is the power of the painter bounded by such subjects. 
 Is it not beneficial to gaze upon a landscape perfectly 
 painted, where the sunlight plays upon the leaves and 
 flowers and irradiates the stream : where the fields are 
 yellow with the golden harvests and the reapers home- 
 ward drive the laden wain ? Or, again, doth it not 
 raise the heart to gaze upon the portrait of some face, 
 in which the limner hath wrought a (perhaps) transient 
 look of wisdom or of purity or of faith ? It is objected 
 
30 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 that this Art may be used for vile purposes : I am told 
 that there are places filled with pictures of heathen 
 Goddesses, Nymphs and Loves, intended, I know not 
 how, to debase men''s minds. Everything human has 
 its bad side : let it be our task to take care that all the 
 gifts bestowed upon man may be used for nobler 
 purposes. 
 
 My father^s house stood not far from his mills. The 
 house is a red-brick structure having two advanced 
 wings so that an open court is formed : this court looks 
 to the south and is laid out as a fair flower-garden, 
 while creeping things have been trained over the walls 
 of the house. Beyond the wings stand two mighty 
 cedars, their dark branches sweeping the ground. A 
 high railing with gates of wrought-iron protects the 
 house in front : behind there stretches a noble garden 
 or succession of gardens. For first there are lawns and 
 flower-beds, in summer \ery beautiful. At the sides 
 are glass-houses, where grape-vines and melons ai'e 
 cultivated, and where in winter the choicer flowers are 
 kept alive. A low hedge of monthly roses sepamtes 
 this part of the garden from the next, where is the 
 kitchen-garden with vegetables of every kind, and every 
 herb that may be wanted for the still-room and the 
 kitchen : it made one feel the richness of Nature only 
 to walk in this garden and see how many and how 
 kindly are her gifts to man : trained over the walls and 
 on trellis-work were peaches and pears. Beyond this 
 garden another low hedge of roses separated it from 
 the orchards, where apple, pear, plum, and cheiTy trees 
 formed a thick and leafy grove. On one side of the 
 orchard lay a meadow, where our cows lay meditating 
 all the day. In one comer of the meadow was a deep, 
 dark pond, with alders bending over it. 
 
ON THE RIVER DARENTH 31 
 
 The house itself possessed that stateliness which men 
 of business desire. Large rooms opened out of a large 
 hall and a broad staircase. It was furnished throughout 
 in such a manner as denoted great wealth : carpets were 
 thick, curtains were heavy, tables were solid : on the 
 sideboards was plate in quantities : the wainscot was 
 of oak painted chocolate. On the walls there were no 
 pictures, on the chairs there was no embroidered work : 
 there were no musical instruments. 
 
 Sometimes, in the long winter evenings, I sit before 
 the fire and turn the lamp low, and in the red coals I 
 see once more the house, and I recall the days of my 
 childhood. I see it all — all — so clearly that presently 
 the tears rise to my eyes and blurr the picture. 
 
 Surely, if ever there was a Saint upon earth : a Saint 
 wholly separated from the world, of which she never 
 thought, it was my mother. Ah ! had she lived ! 
 When the Spirit moved her to speak at Meeting — I 
 have long left the Society, yet I cannot doubt that she 
 was indeed moved by the Spirit — there flowed out upon 
 the hearts of all a stream of peace and faith : she spoke 
 of spiritual things, too high for me : I listened with 
 childish pride that it was by my mother that these 
 hearts were softened. Beside her sat my father, grave, 
 even stern, and mostly silent. I cannot think that his 
 soul was lifted to the same heights. 
 
 My father, however, was a man of a large and charitable 
 spirit. He was for ever giving. The poor of Dartford 
 knew his hand if they knew not his name. The Rector 
 of Dartford knew his generosity, even though he knew 
 that my father refused his tithe and suffered things to 
 be taken away and sold by the parish officers rather 
 than pay what he thought illegal. I think that the 
 burning faith and the perfect truth which filled my 
 
 k 
 
32 A FOUNTALN SEALED 
 
 inother''s soul calmed and controlled his soul as well. 
 My mother believed because she loved : my father 
 believed because he witnessed her belief. 
 
 I must perforce, even though I have spoken so freely 
 about the Society, own that for the most part their 
 religion is hopeful and even assured. Therc are many 
 other Christians to whom religion is a thing of terror 
 rather than of hope. The Friends are a people tranquil 
 of heart, quiet of speech, looking forward to the world 
 to come without fear, yet with seriousness and gravity. 
 It is true that there are sometimes at Meeting members 
 who speak out of the disquiet of their souls; who 
 express the anxiety and even the terror with which the 
 reading of certain texts has inspired them. They have 
 no business in the Society : they are Friends in name 
 only. Alas ! had my parents lived, I should never have 
 felt those terrors which, for a time, distracted and nearly 
 ruined me. You shall hear presently. 
 
 Now, although so much wrapped up in her religious 
 thoughts, my mother thought it her duty to educate 
 me in the same way as she herself had been brought up 
 in the duties of a housewife. She not only made, but 
 taught me as well how to make, cakes, pastry, puddings, 
 pies, strong wines, cordials, and all the things that a 
 housewife ought to know. It pleases me to remember 
 how with her thin face and soft eyes — that were always 
 gazing into the world of blessed saints and happy 
 angels — she would roll her pastry on the board, using 
 a green glass rolling-pin on which were engraved the 
 words, * Waste not, spare not ' ; how she filled her 
 pie-dishes, measured off her short cake, cut out and 
 stamped her biscuits, weighed her spices, warmed her 
 butter, sprinkled her sugar, spread her jam, and 
 arranged her pots on the tray for the oven. It was as 
 
ON THE RIVER DARENTH 33 
 
 if an angel were to fold her wings awhile and to stand 
 over the kitchen-table. And with what anxiety lest 
 the oven should be too hot or the things should remain 
 one moment after they were done ! ' A pasty,' she 
 would say, ' is Hke a pear. There cometh a moment, 
 child, when it is ripe and ready — a moment before or a 
 moment after something of its flavour hath gone out 
 of it.' Ah ! dear, cunning housewife ! Could George 
 Fox himself with such anxiety await the baking of a 
 short-cake ? I understand, now, that such homely 
 work was a relief after serious meditation too long 
 continued. 
 
 These two, both my father and my mother, most un- 
 happily died when I was about fifteen years of age, 
 leaving me to the guardianship of my brother Joseph. 
 
 As a child, I had always regarded Joseph with more 
 awe than respect. Surely there was never any young 
 man more grave and sober than Joseph. He never had 
 any sallies of youth : he never showed any signs of 
 youthful mirth : he was older than his father while still 
 in his teens. 
 
 He read but one book : he read but one portion of it : 
 the book was the Bible : his portion was the part of it 
 written by St. Paul. And he was for ever turning, 
 twisting, comparing, trying to understand, poring over 
 difficulties. 
 
 I have said that now and then one would speak at 
 Meeting out of the disquiet of his soul. Such an one 
 was Joseph. Fortunately there are few like him in 
 any Christian community. He was a kind of Calvinist : 
 he knew every text and every verse in St. PauFs Epistles, 
 which can be twisted into the doctrine, or which seem 
 to support the doctrine, of the small number of the 
 Elect. Out of these passages he sucked abundant 
 
34 A FOUNTALV SEALED 
 
 matter for the discourse which he constantly held on 
 this dark and doubtful subject, into which, I think, the 
 strongest mind might hesitate to plunge. 
 
 There was another point about Joseph which caused 
 liim to be respected by, if not endeared to, many of his 
 brethren — namely, that he proved himself from the very 
 outset a most prudent, far-seeing, keen man of business. 
 Of course, if a young man has to enter upon trade it is 
 well that he should make himself an accomplished 
 tradesman. But it is not good for a man to think 
 about nothing except trade and religious doctrine. 
 
 In appearance Joseph was always stem, gloomy, and 
 forbidding : his hair was black ; he had bushy black 
 eyebrows and strong black eyes ; he was tall and thin ; 
 he earned himself bolt upright and walked with a gold- 
 headed stick. He had no private friends, such as most 
 young men have : nor did he desire the company of any, 
 but if company came he discoursed upon things religious. 
 He showed no inclination towards the other sex, but 
 held that woman must be in all things submissive to 
 man. In the evening he sat apart, with the ledgers and 
 account-books of the mills spread out before him, and 
 he would groan in anguish if he discovered that the 
 profit account was less than he hoped. He read no 
 books, he took no interest in the political situation of 
 his country : he never knew, or cared, whether the State 
 which protected him and allowed him to become rich 
 was at peace or at war, whether it was triumphant or 
 humiliated. He was what is called a gross feeder, 
 sitting down to meat with eagerness; and he drank 
 largely, especially of the wine called Madeira. Yet he 
 was never fuddled or the worse for wine : indeed, I now 
 remember that the more Madeira he took the more 
 resolute he became still more to diminish the number 
 
ON THE RIVER DARENTH S5 
 
 of the Elect, insomuch that after the second J bottle 
 there would remain nothing but a miserably poor 
 remnant. 
 
 Some children there are who are born for happiness, 
 some whose nature cannot bear happiness. If the 
 former do not obtain what they naturally crave after, 
 they become afflicted in some way. I think, nay, I am 
 sure, that I was one of those who were born for happi- 
 ness : as I grew out of childhood, and found no happi- 
 ness, but only a perpetual gloom, with the necessity of 
 thinking continually about the safety of my soul, there 
 fell upon me a dreadful sickness of the brain. It came 
 to me when I was in my twenty-first year. Even to 
 think of that sickness fills my mind, after more than 
 twenty years, with horror unspeakable. I fall to 
 trembling when I remember that sickness. It was a 
 despondency which attacked me, first, as to things 
 spiritual : I was convinced that my soul was lost. Then 
 a strange heaviness fell upon me. I cared for none of 
 my former amusements or occupations : neither for the 
 flowers in the gardens ; nor for the singing of the birds ; 
 nor for reading in the Bible. I wished not to eat ; I 
 could not carry on any housewifery. 
 
 In plain words, I suffered from melancholia. Some 
 physicians call it hysteria, I believe. Whatever its 
 name, those were its symptoms. 
 
 As for the origin of the malady, it was nothing in the 
 world but the continual harping by Joseph upon his one 
 theme. He had no one else who would listen : therefore 
 he talked to me : holding forth upon, and proving with a 
 dreadful complacency, the certainty of eternal suffering 
 for the vast majority of mankind. How could he, 
 thinking these things, sit down with satisfaction to his 
 roast meat and his sweet-pudding ? How could he, while 
 
 S—2 
 
S6 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 he dilated on the many proofs of his doctrine, drink 
 with pleasure the Madeira which he loved ? 
 
 A young girl cannot endure the contemplation of so 
 tenible a fate for herself or for others the quiet and 
 loneliness of ray life helped to make my condition more 
 melancholy: for we had few visitors and there was 
 nothing to distract my thoughts. 
 
 There was a certain cousin, Isabel by name, the 
 widow (though still a young woman) of my mother^s 
 nephew, the late Mr. Reuben Storey. She had formerly 
 belonged to the Established Church, but joined the 
 Society when she mamed Cousin Reuben. She lived in 
 London, and sometimes came to visit us. 
 
 Soon after I fell into this state of despondency she 
 arrived on a visit. Well — first she W6is shocked at my 
 condition : then she questioned Molly, my maid, who 
 would only cry and lament, not knowing any cause that 
 could account for this terrible affliction. Then Isabel 
 talked to me, but could produce no impression. No 
 one can argue with a girl in melancholia. 
 
 Then she spoke to Joseph, who had observed nothing, 
 but consented to taking advice of a certain learned 
 physician. 
 
 Melancholia, or hysteria, is like madness, the act of 
 God. It is not in the power of man to take it away. 
 Yet this tiresome person kept feeling my pulse : asking 
 questions: ordering drugs. I took the drugs. They 
 produced no effect at all upon me, except that they 
 were hombly nauseous. I even became woi-se : more 
 wretched : more despondent : more incapable of thought 
 or action : insensible to outer things, save that the 
 harsh and grating voice of Jose})h annoyed me and his 
 gloomy visage seemed to make me more miserable. At 
 the same time the cheerful conversation of Isabel, always 
 
ON THE RIVER DARENTH 37 
 
 the most vivacious of Quakeresses, seemed to me an im- 
 pertinence. I thought that gnashing of teeth would be 
 more appropriate to the situation. Well, to repeat, I 
 suffered day and night continually from a strange dis- 
 inclination to undertake anything : the mind refused to 
 follow a simple argument : I wandered about alone, 
 doing nothing : I would burst into tears without a 
 cause : I lay awake at night : I had swoons and beating 
 of the heart. Further, it vexed me that Molly, my 
 maid, would try to divert me with strange gifts — such 
 things as sailors bring from foreign ports : tears would 
 gather in her eyes while she watched me. I would fly 
 to the garden, then in the beauty of spring, yet found 
 no comfort there : I would be alone, but solitude made 
 me still more wretched : I would compose my mind and 
 reduce my wandering thoughts to order, but could not. 
 There is no misery — ^believe me — so great as to find that 
 you have lost control over the mind. 
 
 In the morning I awoke with apprehensions — I knew 
 not why. The day before me became a burden too 
 heavy to be borne : the night behind me was a wilder- 
 ness of unbidden thoughts and uncalled voices. In one 
 word, I was possessed, I say, with the demon of melan- 
 choly, which is to the mind what leprosy is to the body 
 if it be not expelled. 
 
 Then terrible thoughts and temptations entered my 
 head — can the soul be destroyed while the mind is in 
 this condition of slavery ? The thought came into my 
 most miserable head that the only way of escape was 
 by death. And I persuaded myself that since the Lord 
 was not pleased to call me by the ordinary way of death, 
 it would be pleasing to Him if I were to take the matter 
 into my own hands. 
 
 I venture to confess the whole wickedness of this time 
 
88 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 because it is necessary to show the reason for the readi- 
 ness with which I left the Society of Friends. Truly, 
 my recollection of the last few months spent in that 
 body are of a time so terrible, so maddening, that after 
 all these years I cannot think of it without renewed 
 horror and tremblings. 
 
 I will confess all — I will hide nothing. 
 
 The thought that it would be pleasing to God if I 
 were to take my own life dwelt in my mind, and would 
 not be shaken off. At night, when I went to bed, I re- 
 solved to take the step in the morning. When I awoke 
 it was with the gloomy assurance that my end, as regards 
 this world, must take place some time during the day. 
 
 Now I declare that I had no thought of the way in 
 which wretched suicides kill themselves. But one morn- 
 ing, while I was walking by myself in the garden, I 
 remembered a certain pond which I have already men- 
 tioned. It was a deep black pool in the field beyond 
 the garden : a weeping willow hung over it : a steep 
 bank surrounded it. I remember that moniing, it was 
 in spring : the birds were singing and the garden was 
 full of flowers and the orchard was gay with blossoms. 
 I was walking among all the lovely works of God, and I 
 was unmoved with them. I was thinking of the end 
 that was to come : then I remembered this pool of water. 
 I cannot call it my own action : I was dragged — 1 
 cannot acknowledge that I walked — I say that I was 
 dragged by invisible hands in the direction of the 
 pond. My heart beat ; I was agitated by the horror of 
 the thing which yet I could not escape. I reached the 
 bank : I stood over the dark waters : a moment more 
 and I should have fallen in — say, rather, I should have 
 been dragged in. Already I felt the bitterness of 
 death : I tried to pray, but could not : I felt the 
 
ON THE RIVER DARENTH S9 
 
 despair of the soul that is lost — when suddenly I was 
 pulled back. ""Twas my maid Molly who pulled me 
 back : and at sight of my face, which was wan and 
 white, she cried out, ' Oh ! Nancy ! Nancy r and fell on 
 her knees clasping her hands and weeping. 
 
 After that she attended upon me day and night : I 
 was not left to myself — but the temptation did not 
 return ; the violence of the disorder left me. Yet I 
 was dull and apathetic, taking no interest in what was 
 said or done. My brother sent again for the physician, 
 who came with his great wig and his gold-headed cane. 
 He talked much : I know not what he said, but I dare 
 say he discoursed very learnedly. Still, however, I 
 remained in the same condition, doing nothing, saying 
 nothing, thinking nothing. And it seemed as if melan- 
 choly had indeed seized me, and that no more was to be 
 expected, for the rest of my life, except that incurable 
 distraction of the mind which we call madness. 
 
 ' Cousin Joseph,"* said Isabel, ' the condition of dear 
 Nancy is indeed serious.' 
 
 ' It is the Lord's own doing,' said Joseph. 
 
 ' It is. Yet we must do what we can.' 
 
 ' I have consulted a learned physician twice. He can 
 do nothing. We can but wait the event.' 
 
 ' By thy leave, cousin. I doubt not thy wisdom or 
 thy reliance upon the Lord. Yet, with submission — I 
 know that thee desirest the welfare of the child : 
 and, indeed, it would look ill were the Society to think 
 that anything had been omitted which would help the 
 child of thy valued parents.' This she said knowing 
 that Joseph was anxious to stand well with the Society. 
 
 ' What can be done, then, cousin .?' 
 
 ' I think, Joseph, subject to thy better judgment, 
 that the child is melancholy for lack of company.' 
 
40 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' Idle company, babbling women who would turn her 
 thoughts from her soul." 
 
 ' Pious company, Joseph : women whose faith is above 
 their fear : people who will distract her thoughts from 
 herself and make her forget anxieties which ought not 
 to trouble her.** 
 
 * Since her anxieties are for the eternal welfare of her 
 soul, they are wholesome and they are welcome.** 
 
 * Nay, Joseph, but the body must also be cared for : 
 or, to put it plainly, there must be some adleviation to 
 the burden on her mind/ 
 
 ' Well, cousin, what dost thee desire T 
 
 ' I have a lodging — in a retired part of London.' — 
 Oh ! Isabel ! a retired part of London ! — * It is near the 
 Park and enjoys a wholesome air. Let me have her 
 with me for a month or two. Thee can well spare her, 
 Joseph : she is better in the hands of women : here she 
 must be every day a continual trouble and anxiety, 
 only to look upon her poor sad face. Let me take 
 care of her. I doubt not that I shall restore her to 
 thee completely cured and in a new mind — ^yes, Joseph,' 
 she added, but he understood nothing, ' in a new mind."* 
 
 Joseph shook his head. 'The girl will behold the 
 vanities of the world.' 
 
 ' My dear,' Isabel told me afterwards, ' I could have 
 slapped him — as if there was anything better for thee 
 than to behold the vanities of the world.' 
 
 But she replied meekly, ' As for the vanities of the 
 world, there are many of the Society who behold them 
 daily : as, for example, those young but pious cousins of 
 ours, Rachel and Rebekah, who serve in their father's 
 glove shop all the day in Gracechurch Street. It is 
 not beholding vanities, Joseph, that endangers the soul : 
 it is the thinking over them and desiring.' 
 
ON THE RIVER DARENTH 41 
 
 Still, however, he hesitated. 
 
 ' Come, Joseph, let us be plain," she persisted. ' Thy 
 sister is threatened with the loss of her mind — a most 
 dreadful calamity, especially at her tender age. All 
 other remedies have failed. Let me now try this remedy 
 of change. I would change the air she breathes, the 
 things she sees, the thoughts that besiege her. For this 
 secluded garden I will give her the sight of a crowded 
 street : for the quiet of these lawns she shall have the 
 uproar of the streets, with the coaches and the carts, the 
 bawling draymen, the quarrelling chairmen, the finely- 
 dressed ladies "^ 
 
 ' Jezebels !' 
 
 ' Perhaps. This child knows not Jezebel from Ruth : 
 therefore she will take no harm. Joseph,** my cousin 
 spoke very earnestly — 'I am assured that this remedy 
 will serve. I can divert her mind. Let her come. 
 Thee does not desire the death of thy sister." 
 
 He did not, he said. He only feared her everlasting 
 death. 
 
 In a word, then, it was at length agreed that my 
 cousin should carry me away with her to this ' retired 
 part of London." 
 
 You may be sure that she made haste to get me away. 
 My maid Molly was to go with us. They told me nothing, 
 but one morning while I sat apart, a prey to deadly 
 melancholy and the most unutterable foreboding, my 
 cousin and Molly came to me, both dressed for the 
 journey : they put on my shoulders the shawl and on my 
 head the hat which belonged to the dress of the Society. 
 ' Nancy," said my cousin, but I understood nothing^^ 
 ' thee will go away with me, my dear. Molly will come 
 too. A coach and four horses wait at the door : "tis 
 but twenty miles : we shall fly all the way to London in 
 
42 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 three or four hours. Come, my dear. Thee shall have 
 once more, poor child, the joy of youth and . . . and 
 . . . whatever belon<?s to youth. Come.'' 
 
 So they led me, submissive and obedient, and placed 
 me in the coach. They got in beside me : the coach- 
 man cracked his whip, and we rolled throufi^h the gates 
 and out into the road. I have often wondered why 
 Joseph could not have stood upon the porch to wish his 
 half inanimate sister a speedy recovery and a happy 
 return. 
 
 Now, remember that my cousin was dressed in Quaker 
 garb, the widow of a Quaker, herself, so far as any of us 
 knew, still a Quakeress, though she was not bom in the 
 Society : that my brother would never have allowed me 
 to enter any house that did not belong to some member 
 of the Society : that she was always demure and quiet 
 in Joseph''s presence : and that she never once before 
 this revealed herself in any other light than that of a 
 consistent Friend. 
 
 What, then, was my surprise when, as soon as we 
 were through the garden gates, she began to kiss me 
 and to talk in a most unexpected manner ! 
 
 ' Dear heart !** she cried, ' dear child, thou art starving 
 for happiness. I know the symptoms — I am resolved 
 to make thee cheerful. What ? A young girl — a 
 lovely girl — ought to be happy and merry and gay. 
 Well, I shall give you something new to think about : 
 I shall teach you to laugh. Nancy — think of that ! I 
 do not believe you have ever heard a laugh in that 
 great silent house. It will be strange for you to laugh : 
 strange at first, but you will grow accustomed. We 
 will" talk like other Christians — you will find it very 
 easy ."^l* will teach you to sing and to play music: 
 thei'C are many ways of being happy in the part of the 
 
ON THE RIVER DARENTH 4S 
 
 town where I live. You shall hear music. Fie upon 
 the Quakers that they have banished music from their 
 Society ! Why, it was music which soothed the 
 troubled heart of Saul : it is music which lifts the 
 soul. As for that pretty face '' — she kissed that face — 
 ' it shall know another kind of look in a day or two : 
 your pale cheek shall be rosy. Your white arm — it is a 
 poor thin arm at present — but it shall fill out. What 
 say you, Molly.?' She ran on without waiting for 
 an answer. I listened with speechless wonder. The 
 kind of talk I had never heard before. And my 
 cousin kept laughing while she talked. Why did she 
 laugh ? 
 
 ' Ah, Madam !' cried Molly. ' This is cheerful talk. 
 The dear young lady wants no more Meeting-houses 
 and tombstones. Give her cheerful talk, and I warrant 
 she will come round again, and that right soon.** 
 
 ' Her eyes are brighter already, Molly. It is the 
 sight of the wicked world, Nancy, that does you good 
 already. What ? You are looking out upon the 
 wicked world for the first time. There go the wicked 
 men working for their wicked wives, for the support of 
 their wicked children — you see them all along the 
 streets. And here' — the journey of twenty miles was 
 done — ' here is St. James's Place, close to the wicked 
 Park where the wicked ladies walk : and here, my dear, 
 is my humble lodging.' 
 
 I have told this long story of my childhood and my 
 melancholia because I wish you to understand how 
 simple and ignorant a creature I was : how unused to 
 the society of gentlefolk : what little experience I had 
 of the world when those things happened to me which 
 you are about to hear. These things add to'the marvel 
 of the thing : nay, I have never ceased to wonder how 
 
44 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 one so humble as myself should have attracted the 
 attention of one . . . but I will not anticipate. * Oh ! 
 child,' cried Isabel, in her playful way. * It is no 
 marvel : indeed, there is neither maiTel nor miracle. 
 Look in the glass, my dear, and read an explanation of 
 the whole.' 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 A MIRACLE. 
 
 I HAVE now to relate an event which I cannot choose 
 but believe was a direct miracle. How can we doubt, I 
 ask, that such miracles of healing are performed every 
 day, when we believe in the miracle of a sinner's conver- 
 sion ? 
 
 You shall hear. 
 
 I was overcome with the fatigue and the excitement 
 of the journey. When the carriage drew up at the 
 door of the house, instead of following my cousin I fell 
 down in some kind of swoon and was caught by Molly. 
 When I recovered Molly was standing over me with the 
 hartshorn and my cousin with a glass of wine. They 
 took me into a bedroom and put me to bed, as if I was 
 a child. I fell fast asleep, and continued that whole 
 day and the following night thi'ough without distm-b- 
 ance, without terrors, without once thinking of my soul, 
 and without any dreams. 
 
 It was about nine in the morning when I woke up. I 
 was awakened by a sweet and soothing sound. It was 
 music. Remember that I had never before heard any 
 music at all. How should a Quaker living in a country 
 house hear music ? Why, I knew not what it meant. 
 I had never to my recollection heard even the ploughboy 
 
46 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 whistling on his way to work. My cousin was playing 
 on the hai'psichord : she played softly and sweetly, 
 having a most skilful and tender touch, so that the air 
 fell upon my ears like a gentle rain of refreshment. I 
 thought of the harps of Heaven and the hymns of the 
 Blessed. My heart beat ; tears crowded into my eyes. 
 When a new emotion is experienced, if the words are 
 wanting which should describe it, one speaks of it in 
 terms that belong to other senses. If I were to say, for 
 instance, that my cousin's music was like the fragrance 
 of violets in the hedge, or like the pine-trees in the rare 
 sunshine of March, or like the tender sweetness of the 
 mignonette, you would understand that I could not tell 
 you in other words the delight with which this music 
 filled my willing soul. 
 
 Then I remembered where I was — in my cousin^s 
 lodgings : not at home. I sprang from my bed and 
 pushed back the curtains of the darkened room. Yes, 
 it was a different room indeed. My own room at home 
 had in it nothing but a bed, a cupboai'd, and a plain 
 chair of cane : the walls were bare : there were no cur- 
 tains or hangings : a bedroom with us was a place in 
 which to sleep. This room had coloured engravings on 
 the walls : samplers were hanging over the mantelshelf : 
 there was a soft carpet : the bed was in an alcove with 
 costly curtains and hangings : there was a toilet-table 
 with a large mirror and all kinds of things that women 
 are supposed to want, including a pot of rouge and a 
 silver j^atch-box and powder for the face. There were 
 two low chairs covered with red plush. 
 
 I turned, bewildered, to the window. It looked out 
 upon the Green Park. The morning was fair : it was 
 already eight o^clock ; nurses or mothers were thei-e with 
 their children, who ran about playing and crying and 
 
A MIRACLE 47 
 
 laughing : soldiers were exercising : there were trees in 
 one place, and through the branches I saw the gleaming 
 of a pond : on the north side there ran a road through 
 fields — it was the road called Piccadilly — horsemen 
 were riding along : and there passed by a stage-coach — 
 laden and piled high with parcels and packages, covered 
 with mud, because it had come all the way from the 
 West Country. 
 
 For a while, filled with interest and curiosity, I gazed 
 upon all these things. Then suddenly I made a strange 
 discovery. It was nothing less than this : I felt no 
 longer the oppression that had held me down. 
 
 This was the Miracle of which I spoke above. 
 
 What had happened, then.? My cousin was still 
 playing. I remembered how King Saul, who also 
 suffered from melancholia, was soothed by David's harp. 
 But when David went away his malady returned. 
 Doubtless when my cousin ceased to play my malady 
 would also return. 
 
 She did cease to play. Then I sat down and waited. 
 ' It will begin again," I said to myself with ten'or un- 
 speakable. There should be a Prayer in the Litany — 
 ' From a disordered brain : and from the terror of a 
 disordered brain. Good Lord deliver us !' 
 
 But it came not. The fresh air from the Park fanned 
 my cheek : I heard the laughing children down below : 
 I heard the words of command as the Sergeant drilled 
 his men : I found that I could think and reason : the 
 prospects of my immortal soul ceased to loom before me 
 heavy and black. Was not this a miracle ? A single 
 night had done this. A single night only had changed 
 me. What is more, I have never since suffered from 
 melancholia. 
 
 Then, with hesitation and doubt, I dressed, and 
 
48 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 opened the door of the parlour. My cousin ran and 
 caught me by both hands, and kissed me on both 
 cheeks. 
 
 ' Why,"* she cried, laughing — why did she laugh ? but 
 she laughed at everything — ' the medicine works ! 
 Thine eyes are bright — tell me, dear, wsis thy sleep 
 sound ? Thy cheek hath already a touch of the summer 
 rose — was thy sleep peaceful ? Was it without bad 
 dreams ? And thy poor head — it is better ? and thy 
 brain — it is clearer ? and thy heart — it is stout again T 
 She made no pause for my replies. ' Oh, I rejoice, my 
 dear ! To be sure, I expected nothing less."* I had 
 answered not one word. ' Sit down, now : we will take 
 our dish of chocolate." Molly brought it that moment, 
 foaming, in two bowls. ' Here are toast and buttered 
 cakes. Eat, my dear, and drink, and then we will talk. 
 You must long to talk, after so long a silence." Indeed, 
 I was not burning to talk. It was enough to sit and 
 listen while my cousin talked. 
 
 I listened, and looked round the room. It needed 
 not the eye of a plain Quakeress to discover that this 
 room and its tenant were clearly followers of the world's 
 fashions and pleasui-es. There was the harpsichord with 
 its books of music : on the walls pictures hung, as 
 many pictures as could be hung : some were oil paint- 
 ings ; some were coloured drawings. I was never tired 
 of looking at these pictures : for the most part they 
 presented mral scenes — is it not pleasant to see, and to 
 recall, the village green, the pond with the flock of 
 ducks, and all the country sights? They presented 
 heads — studies, my cousin called them — gi'oups of 
 people, interiors of churches, men in taverns drinking — 
 everything that you can think of. V^Tiat harm can 
 there be in studying such pictures? Why did our 
 
A MIRACLE 49 
 
 Founder prohibit the practice of Art ? Then there were 
 books on shelves — not serious books, but plays and 
 poetry. My cousin afterwards encouraged me to read 
 them. 
 
 While I listened and looked about me, my cousin 
 continued with the utmost volubility, talking of two or 
 three subjects at the same time. And she looked into 
 my face with a kind of exultant satisfaction because her 
 prophecy had proved correct, and the change was already 
 apparent. When melancholia, which is a disease of the 
 imagination, leaves the patient, the recovery is instan- 
 taneous. But the terror — yes — the terror of it remains 
 until the dying day. 
 
 ' You are astonished, my dear,' she said. ' I do not 
 use the Quaker manner of speech, nor do I dress after 
 their fashion, nor do I obey their rules about music and 
 pictures. Know then, sweet Nancy, that I joined the 
 Friends to please my husband ; and that I left them, 
 after his death, to please myself. I do but assume the 
 dress when I go to visit thy brother's house.' She wore 
 a very fine night-gown of pink sarcenet, with a pink 
 ribbon in her laced cap. Rings were on her fingers ; 
 certainly, she had departed very far from the Quaker 
 rule. ' I have not told Joseph of my resignation : he 
 would not receive me if he knew; and Nancy, dear,' 
 she took my hand and held it, ' my heart bled for 
 thee, so young, so beautiful, condemned to languish 
 in obscurity, or to endure the wooing of some sanctified 
 Yea Verily. Heavens, my dear! if thy mother saw 
 thee, this morning — eyes bright, face clear — she would 
 forgive this deception by which I have rescued thee, 
 and by which I hope to keep thee for awhile. What 
 is it, after all ? I was bom in the Church of England. 
 I was grown up when I turned Quaker. (Your mother 
 
 4> 
 
50 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 would be amazed to mark the difference.) I only joined 
 the Society to please my Reuben. For his sake I would 
 have even become a Mohammedan, had he wished it. 
 (Your eyes, Nancy, are like lamps, and your lips like 
 rosebuds!) As long as he lived I said "thee"*' instead 
 of " thou ■*'' and " you.'*'' Oh ! the pride and the pretence 
 of it ! While he lived, too, I dressed always in his 
 fashion, which I was happy to discover is not unbecoming 
 to a fine woman like myself.' My cousin was a tall and 
 handsome woman with large eyes, an ample check, and 
 fulness of figure. * Not at all unbecoming if the dress 
 is made of fine materials."* Certainly I had never before 
 heard talk so easy and so voluble, accompanied by so 
 many smiles and nods and little gestures of head and 
 lips and hands. ' My dear, I was never more than half 
 a Quaker. They questioned me on my admission. 
 Reuben, though a Broadbrim, was as anxious to marry 
 me as if he had been a simple Churchman. That was 
 why I loved him — because he loved me as a young man 
 should. So he told me what to say, and they received 
 me. But only half a Quaker, ever. I kept my harpsi- 
 chord in a garret, out of the way : I used to go secretly 
 to St. Paul's to hear the anthem. Oh ! I like the Friends 
 well enough. They are charitable to the poor, but they 
 are stiffnecked : even Reuben feared that there was no 
 salvation except in his sect : and thy brother Joseph 
 believes that even membership does not ensure salva- 
 tion. However, there is some safety in taking a Quaker 
 for a husband : he will not go to bed drunk, nor will 
 he indulge in those — rovings — or sallies — which most 
 torment a woman's heart.' 
 
 I understood very little of this long discourse, because 
 the newness of everything bewildered me. However, 
 one thing at least was plain : that my cousin had me, 
 
A MIRACLE 51 
 
 for a time, in her keeping, and that many other new 
 things were going to happen. 
 
 So she went on talking, and I hstening and looking 
 about me. 
 
 ' Why, my Nancy, the gloom has gone already. It 
 was but sulks, I doubt, thou saucy girl ! Yet it must 
 not return. The cloud hath rolled away — already I 
 see the sunshine on thy brow." She patted my cheek 
 softly. She was, in a word, one of those women who 
 would gladly see all their friends happy. ' Why, Nancy, 
 I have seen for a long time that neither nunnery nor 
 Meeting-house was designed for thee."* What did she 
 mean ? ' Brother Broadbrim hath no concern with this 
 soft face, with those rosy lips, with those big eyes, with 
 this velvet cheek which hath already the returning rose — 
 'tis now the time of roses : thou art created for the 
 happiness of a Man, not of a Yea Verily.' I ought to 
 have remonstrated against this talk, but, indeed, I had 
 no power. ' Well : we shall show thee the Wicked 
 World. My Lord and Lady Vanity shall see the 
 sweetest piece of Innocence ever taken into the Park. 
 I say the Park, my dear, where the ladies of fashion 
 walk, but I am not one of them — although I go as 
 fine as most — for Reuben left money. I am not one 
 of them. A mere tradesman's widow who married a 
 Broadbrim — ^yet his hat was the only fault he had — 
 one who for love put on the frock of gray — I say that 
 a tradesman's widow is not received by these ladies, 
 though her beauty may make them tear their hair for 
 mortification, and though her dress be finer than theirs, 
 and her accomplishments better. Well — I mind it 
 not — so much have I gotten from the Friends that I 
 regard no more the pretensions of rank, and am afraid 
 to stand before no man — and no woman eitlier, which 
 
 4—2 
 
62 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 is saying more. We shall look at them in the Park, 
 Nancy, and it shall not be my fault, my dear, if they 
 do not look at thee. Already thou art transformed : 
 the thought of the silent house like a great grave "^ 
 
 Here she stopped suddenly and sprang to her feet, 
 for the mere mention of the silent house recalled to 
 my mind, in a moment, all that had happened : the 
 gloomy forebodings of everlasting perdition, Joseph's 
 triumphant proofs that no one should presume to hope, 
 the lonely brooding over those sad thoughts in the 
 garden, the dreadful day when I stood over the black 
 water of the pond, my thoughts blacker still; and all 
 the trouble returned to my eyes. I seemed to hear the 
 rustling of wings — the return of Melancholia — I turned 
 ashy pale — I fell back in my chair. When I recovered, 
 Molly was patting my hands with a cold wet sponge, 
 and my cousin was administering smelling-salts. 
 
 ' Poor lamb !' she was saying. ' She is weaker than 
 I thought. Molly, never mention the house — never 
 speak to her about it. We must keep her thoughts 
 from the past.' 
 
 ' It was not the loneliness,' said Molly. * A body 
 may bear to be lonely : 'twas Master Joseph with his 
 everlasting asking who could be saved. Oh ! they're 
 hard upon her with their Elected and their damned — 
 damned for nothing — as a body may say.' 
 
 ' Hush, Molly ! She opens her eyes.' 
 
 So I sat up, and my cousin went on talking, looking 
 anxiously at me from time to time. I think she talked 
 faster than ever, keeping my mind fixed upon the new 
 things to which she was introducing me. 
 
 ' When we are in the world, my dear, we must do 
 as the world does. Ix)rd ! a body must not be singular. 
 Therefore you will dress as they dress. And you must 
 
A MIRACLE 5S 
 
 speak as they speak. And you must learn the pretty 
 httle nothings, the graces, the pretences, the affecta- 
 tions : they mean nothing, but they please ; and the 
 art of smiling and laughing — it will amuse you infinitely 
 for a while to be a lady of fashion. And I have thought 
 of a great moral lesson in it — oh ! a most useful lesson. 
 In the Society there are no temptations for a^ lovely 
 maid : no one turns her head with love and compli- 
 ments, flames and darts and burning hearts, bosky 
 groves and laughing Loves : she knows nothing of these 
 poetical snares which catch a girl and make her vain 
 and conceited. But, my Nancy, which is better — to 
 meet temptation and resist it, or never to be tempted 
 at all ? Think how meritorious it is to resist tempta- 
 tion." 
 
 If I am reproached with the readiness of this deser- 
 tion of my own people, remember that I was not in 
 a condition to resist, to question, or to object. The 
 chief emotions in my mind at the time were bewilder- 
 ment amidst these new surroundings, a newly awakened 
 curiosity, and an ever-present terror lest the clutch of 
 the demon — can I ever cease to believe that I was truly 
 Possessed ? — should again seize upon me. But of re- 
 sistance I was quite incapable. I knew not, nor did 
 my cousin know, that in putting off the Quaker garb 
 I could never again put it on. I knew not, nor did she 
 know, that in giving up their manner of speech I could 
 never resume it. For dress and speech alike are con- 
 nected with that time of Melancholia. Even now, after 
 more than twenty years, when I think of the silent 
 house where one heard nothing but the ticking of the 
 clock, which was haunted by a fearful whisper threaten- 
 ing in my ears everlasting torment, a shudder seizes me. 
 I shake and tremble : for a little while my mind is 
 
64 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 clouded : for a brief space the skies are darkened, and 
 I feel again, as I felt then, that there is no hope, and 
 can be none, for me, because I am not one of the few 
 Elect, and that my unhappy soul is included among the 
 innumerable multitude of those for whom Christ did 
 not die. 
 
 But, thank Heaven ! there are few of any Christian 
 Church, and still fewer among the Friends, who are like 
 my brother Joseph. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE WICKED WORLD. 
 
 Then did my cousin address herself very seriously to 
 the task of making me observe, and imitate, the fashions 
 of the world. And I have to relate how what was 
 begun only as an experiment or a medicine proved in 
 the end to be a necessary condition of life : in other 
 words, how it became impossible for me to go back to 
 my old way of life. 
 
 First, because this meant one's outward appearance, 
 we engaged upon the subject of dress. To me there 
 had been hitherto but two colours (except those with 
 which Nature had endowed the flowers) — namely, gray 
 and drab : the men dressed in the latter, the women 
 mostly in the former. Yet colour, and the discrimina- 
 tion of colour, came to me as by instinct. And as for 
 fashions — for the shape of a mantel or a sash or a hat ; 
 for stuffs of silk or satin ; brocade or velvet ; for ribbons, 
 laces, gloves, embroidery, and such gear, it was wonder- 
 ful in the eyes of my instructress to mark the rapid 
 progress which I made. Yet I ventured sometimes — 
 not every day — more feebly to protest against giving to 
 these things the whole attention of a woman. 
 
 ' Why, Nancy," said my cousin, laughing, ' what is the 
 
56 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 use of fine clothes ? They set off and adorn a fine 
 woman. And why should a fine woman set off and 
 adorn her person ? To attract the men, my dear. And 
 why should she wish to attract the men ? In order to 
 gain power and have her own way. The men believe 
 they rule the world. Not so. The women rule the 
 men, who rule the world.^ 
 
 One need not believe all the idle nonsense talked by 
 Isabel in her light and careless way, which, to one like 
 myself, was wonderful. Yet there is (for a woman) a 
 happiness (I know not why) in the mere putting on 
 things that are beautiful and becoming ; and not only 
 in wearing, but in choosing them out of other things 
 beautiful and becoming, such as flowered silks, point 
 lace, and the like. If clothes were invented only for 
 warmth, a blanket and a leathern girdle would be 
 enough. If they were invented to show the figure — but 
 why should we wish to show the figure ? — then hoops, 
 head-dresses, sleeves, and many other things would have 
 to be discarded. The figure has nothing to do with the 
 fashions : if one were shaped like a pig the fashions 
 might continue. If the figure alone were concerned the 
 fashions would never change. But all human creatures 
 love change; therefore the fashions change: and all 
 women, if they can afford to buy them, delight in stuff's 
 beautiful to look at and soft to handle. 
 
 In a word, I proved in this respect an apt pupil, and 
 speedily learned almost as much as my cousin could 
 teach me. And after a week or two you might have 
 seen me, who had been clad in plain QuakeiV gray all 
 my life, now sitting in the shops of Ludgate Hill or 
 Cheap, while the complaisant draper and his patient 
 apprentices brought out their choicest fabrics, such as 
 they do not use to display in the windows, and learnedly 
 
THE WICKED WORLD 57 
 
 discoursed for our instruction upon the newest fashions 
 and their changes. 
 
 Another point was the manner of speech. It would 
 seem easy to change from ' thee ' to ' thou ' or ' you "* 
 when one is not famihar, or to say 'yes' and 'no' 
 instead of ' yea ■* and 'nay'; yet I confess that it cost 
 me a great deal of practice before I spoke easily in the 
 way of the world. Happily a woman is not called 
 upon to use the oaths and appeals to the Deity which 
 are commonly the custom with men : thus I had 
 nothing to learn except (which I did never learn) such 
 familiarity with these words as might make them fall 
 unnoticed on my ears. 
 
 My cousin was anxious on the score of an easy or a 
 graceful carriage. It must be owned that the Quakers 
 in this respect are greatly to seek : yet among them the 
 stiffhess of their carriage lends to those who are 
 advanced in years a certain dignity. It is of the 
 younger men and women that one would complain. I 
 think, for instance, with a kind of shame of my brother 
 Joseph, who moved and stood as if he was of a verity 
 made of wood and jointed like a puppet. ' My dear,' 
 said Isabel, ' at Dartford one could hear the man's 
 joints creak.' 
 
 For the sake of grace I must needs learn dancing. 
 ' There is nothing,' said my cousin, ' that so takes the 
 stiffness out of the limbs. The Society of Friends 
 would make a woman believe that she hath no limbs 
 and is nothing but a head on a gray frock. I should 
 like, my dear, to give you a wooden hoop and make you 
 run in the Park every day — but it is a censorious world. 
 We will learn to dance.' 
 
 By this time I was quite ready to accept without 
 question whatever regimen might be prescribed for me. 
 
58 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 Nor did I stop to inquire or to consider what would be 
 my brother^s wrath should he discover that I had learned 
 to dance. To dance ! Was there anything which 
 filled the heart of the Quaker with greater horror than 
 the spectacle of young men and maidens dancing — 
 hand in hand — round the ring — setting to each other, 
 beating time with their feet : with curtsies and inclina- 
 tions : singing as they danced ? All they knew was the 
 rude, coarse wake and village dance, not the courtly, 
 graceful, stately dance that my cousin taught me. 
 
 One who has been cut oft* from the innocent pleasures 
 of the world may well become, in a manner, intoxicated 
 with them when they are at length placed within her 
 reach. I became greedy of everything, and of dancing 
 among the rest. The movement of the body in har- 
 mony with the music : the expression by the limbs of 
 what music meant: the interpretation of courtesy, 
 respect, reverence, affection, gracefulness by correspond- 
 ing gestures and steps, was a thing to me so wholly un- 
 expected and so new that I could not but ask for more. 
 
 I learned, as well, to laugh. Yes : strange to say, 
 the power of laughing came to me unsolicited and un- 
 taught. I cannot tell you when first I laughed, or why. 
 I learned to laugh, as a duckling learns to swim, by 
 observing others laugh. When one begins to laugh, 
 one finds a thousand things to laugh at : unexpected 
 turns : the astonishment of someone ; something said 
 malapropos ; something said unwarily : the accidental 
 discovery of a little secret. The difficulty is to ffnd out, 
 not why one should laugh, but why one did not always 
 laugh. If we laughed when Molly tripped on the 
 carpet and fell down with the dish of sausages, why did 
 not my brother Joseph laugh when a similar accident 
 happened at his table ? I only note this trifling point 
 
THE WICKED WORLD 59 
 
 because I desire you to understand the great and wonder- 
 ful transformation which my cousin brought about. 
 
 I have said that my cousin's rooms were covered with 
 pictures, upon which I gazed with a pleasure always 
 new. Most of these pictures are now hanging on the 
 walls of my own house : yet, after so many years, the 
 sight of them still affords delight to me, and in each 
 one I discover always some fresh beauty. In some of 
 them there are spiritual heights which are discovered by 
 long contemplation, when the soul is lifted to the 
 level of the picture. It seems to me, thinking over all 
 that I have read and seen and experienced, that there 
 are times when the painter or the poet describes or 
 paints things far beyond his own reach of mind : there 
 is, for instance, a divinity, sometimes, in the face of 
 Virgin or Saint as represented in certain pictures which 
 the painter himself could never perceive or portray. 
 Therefore I say that the soul must be lifted to the level 
 of such a picture before it can convey its message. 
 Why, then, have my former friends forbidden paintings ? 
 Because, I suppose, the founder of the sect was too 
 ignorant to know what a picture is, or what high 
 thoughts may be suggested by a picture. 
 
 Not only did my cousin possess these pictures in 
 frames fitted to the panels of her wainscoting, but she 
 had also portfolios full of prints and engravings, some 
 of them most exquisite ; some, it is true, of the earth, 
 earthy (which one could pass over). In addition she 
 could herself draw very dexterously in pencil outline, 
 which she would afterwards fill in with colour. Her 
 genius lay in drawing figures : thus she drew the soldiers 
 marching out of St. James's Palace : the fine ladies in 
 the Park : the beaux attending them : the divine and 
 the lawyer : and the people in the street — the men and 
 
60 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 women who walk all day long about every street carry- 
 ing everything that a house can want and bawling their 
 wares at the top of the voice. Here are her drawings 
 before me. I remember every one : the bandbox man 
 with his bandboxes of every shape and every colour, the 
 man covered up and almost hidden by his pile of baskets ; 
 the man who offered to mend your bellows ; the man who 
 sold brickdust ; the woman with the cat's-meat ; the girl 
 who would mend your rush-bottomed chair; the man with 
 the brooms ; the knife-grinder ; the lavender-girl ; the 
 boy with the matches ; the old-clothes man ; the Turk 
 who sold the slippers ; the sandman ; the strawbeiTy-girl ; 
 and the sweep. They are all before me, drawn to the 
 life. Why should these things be forbidden ? What 
 sinful emotion is excited in the mind by the picture of 
 the knife-grinder ? What by the picture of the straw- 
 berry-girl ? 
 
 Among the pictures were figured certain marble 
 statues. Before one of them my cousin held me. 
 * Nancy,'' she said, ' this figure is the sweetest dream 
 of beauty ever put into marble. Learn — for I am sure 
 you do not know already — that the type of perfection, 
 whether of Art, or of Learning, or of Holiness, is the 
 human figure, and especially the female figure. The 
 curving lines which artists love are taken by them to 
 represent the highest and most perfect attainment in 
 everything. This figure is the Soul, blessed and purified; 
 or it is song at its noblest : or it is the Muse of this or 
 of that. Regard it as a symbol, and ask only how far 
 the figiu-e corresponds with the ideal." But this lesson 
 I learned gradually, and not in a single day. To under- 
 stand these things is to understand that ancient ai*t of 
 which the connoisseurs speak and write with such 
 enthusiasm. 
 
THE WICKED WORLD 61 
 
 Then Isabel showed me her books — she had a case 
 full of them. 
 
 ' I have always thought,"* she went on, ' that the finest 
 invention of man has been the book which portrays the 
 sufferings of imaginary people. In reading of them we 
 forget ourselves : and though we boil with indignation 
 we are restrained by the knowledge that nothing is real. 
 So, my dear, we will to-day, if you please, begin the 
 study of that most unfortunate of puppets, the real — 
 unreal ; imaginary ; veritable ; heroine, Clarissa.'' 
 
 In this immortal book the wickedness of man is so 
 unmistakably held up to execration, and the unhappy 
 victim of a relentless passion is so movingly depicted, that 
 one rises from its perusal with a heart strengthened for 
 virtue and religion. I confess that to me Clarissa is a 
 real woman of flesh and blood. And to think that this 
 book, with all other works of imagination which deal 
 with the passions and sins of men and women, should 
 be prohibited by the Society of Friends ! 
 
 After reading ' Clarissa ' we exchanged novels for 
 poetry. First my cousin introduced me to portions of 
 Shakspere, Milton, Dryden, Pope, and others. She read 
 these portions aloud. Many women, I think, would do 
 well to study the art of reading aloud. My cousin read 
 very well, and after study in the true modulation of the 
 voice and with gestures appropriate to every emotion, 
 she possessed a sweet voice and read with much feeling. 
 It is in the reading of fine poetry that a generous heart 
 most readily betrays itself. As she read she would stop 
 to say, ' Listen, Nancy — here is a noble thought — this 
 is sweet and tender — this is a passage that women 
 would do well to carry about in their minds. . . . 
 Here is a vivid description. One can hear the clanking 
 of the armour. . . . Here is a fine contempt for things 
 
62 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 base and low. Can one hear such sentiments at Meet- 
 ings ? This poet is all for giving up everything : our 
 old friends are all for getting what they can — every man 
 for himself, whether it is a seat in heaven or a hundred 
 thousand pounds. They forbid the poets. Why 't 
 Because, they say, some poetry is not fit for a virtuous 
 woman to read. Then they may as well forbid a walk 
 in the streets, where, to be sure, the things said and 
 heard are far worse than any poet has ever written. 
 No, my dear, the same spirit which forbade poetry also 
 forbade music and painting. It is a narrow and an 
 ignorant spirit, my dear, which we have done well to 
 put away.' 
 
 One must not forget the power of music. Was not 
 my soul uplifted a thousand times .? — yea, clean carried 
 out of itself into heights filled with blissful dreams and 
 soft air, by my cousin's playing.? She knew all kinds of 
 music — soft and gentle : loud and martial : tender, so 
 that the heart yearned after something unknown : 
 meditative, sorrowful. Much of what she played was 
 music taken from Masses composed for the Roman ser- 
 vice : that service which I had been taught to believe 
 was all superstition and treachery and deceit. Yet the 
 music was unspeakably moving. While my cousin 
 was playing I sat beside her, my head on my hand, 
 seeing nothing, all my senses rapt by those sweet strains. 
 
 Why — why — why — have the Friends closed this 
 avenue, this gate of Heaven ? Eye hath not seen the 
 glories of the world to come, but surely by means of 
 music the soul may be wafted upwards and so be vouch- 
 safed a glimpse through the Pearly Gates. Never shall 
 I forget the first morning when we heard the music in 
 Westminster Abbey. The church itself amazed me : 
 the tombs of the Kino;s and of the great men of the 
 
THE WICKED WORLD 63 
 
 country filled me with emotion : these were the people 
 — I had never thought them real before I saw their 
 tombs — who were set upon thrones and bidden to resist 
 temptation not offered to lesser men ; to be great and 
 good and wise — for the sake of their people. Well : all 
 the people — kings and paupers, wise or foolish, good or 
 bad, great or little — the Church receives them all. The 
 Church receives them all. And our little sect — our fol- 
 lowing small and narrow — refuses them all. The 
 Church receives them all : this building so wonderful in 
 its height and length and in the beauty of its pillars 
 and its carvinijs stands for the whole Church of Christ 
 and is a symbol of the Church of Christ : and it receives 
 all — all — all within its walls. Then, while I thought 
 upon these things, the sweet pure voices of the boys — 
 they stood for the angels — rose up and floated over our 
 heads and rolled about the roof and the arches and the 
 aisles ; and after the anthem the voice of him who 
 prayed was like a whisper to us who stood outside under 
 the transept. So great was the contrast between the 
 universal Motherhood of the Church of England and 
 the straitness of my sect that my former opinions — all 
 that were left — fell from me as a mantle falls from the 
 shoulders. Come what might come, I would henceforth, 
 I resolved, follow a creed which allowed me to believe 
 in the goodness and the love of the Lord. 
 
 ' Child !' my cousin cried when I told her these 
 things. ' What is this ? They will surely say that it 
 was my doing.** 
 
 ' Dear Isabel ! thou art all goodness to me. But, 
 indeed, I can no longer remain in the Society of 
 Friends.' 
 
 Here I must stop. My education (or my transforma- 
 tion) was now complete. Look at me at the beginning 
 
64 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 of this chapter. In dress, in speech, in carriage, a 
 Quaker among Quakers : my mind, except for the 
 narrow creed of that sect, empty, and ready for the 
 possession of any wandering devils who might be per- 
 mitted to enter. Ignorant of the world : ignorant of 
 music, painting, singing, dancing : ignorant of manners. 
 In all these things my cousin was able to effect a com- 
 plete change principally because she found me at a time 
 when I was weak and humbled, and above all things 
 anxious never to look back. 
 
 As I said above, my cousin did not understand that 
 in doing all this for me she was making it impossible 
 for me to return to the old life. Not even the memory 
 of my mother could send me back to a sect where I found 
 no longer any hope — or if any, no more than a struggling 
 ray of light in the darkness scarcely visible. Let me 
 live under the wings of the Church which admits all, as 
 the Abbey buries all, within its walls. Here lie saint 
 and sinner: sinful King and innocent Queen, martyr 
 and murderess — the Church admits them all. ' Come,"* 
 she cries. * All ye who have lived. Here there is hope 
 for all. Lie down and rest and trust.' And so, as 
 John Bunyan journeyed through the Dark Valley to the 
 Hills beyond, I went through all those agonies of terror 
 and found myself at last standing on the slopes of the 
 Hills Beautiful. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE FIRST MEETING. 
 
 Yor have heard from Lord de Lys how tradition still 
 attaches to a house in St. James'*s Place concerning a 
 certain Person and a certain lady. It cannot be more 
 than a garbled and mangled version of the truth. Not 
 one of the persons chiefly concerned would ever, I 
 believe, speak publicly of this episode. Not Captain 
 Sellinger ; not the Corporal, who was afterwards killed 
 in action ; not my cousin, who died of small-pox a year 
 after this event ; not Dr. Mynsterchamber, who went 
 away under circumstances you shall learn, and no doubt 
 is long since dead ; not Molly, who remains with me 
 still ; not Mr. Robert Storey, who shortly afterwards 
 fell into misfortune and the Fleet Prison. In whatever 
 version was spread abroad, I make no doubt that I was 
 depicted as a woman of the baser sort, practising the 
 allurements of Delilah, decked with fine raiment and 
 jewels, costly head-tire and wanton looks : in short, 
 such a woman as is described by the Wise King in his 
 Book of Proverbs. You, however, who have read so 
 far will understand that a young gentlewoman with 
 such a history as mine — for which reason I have written 
 what precedes — formerly a Quakeress, and of the strictest 
 kind, daughter of a wealthy manufacturer, instructed in 
 
 5 
 
66 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 none of the arts of allurement and only the simplest 
 graces and accomplishments, would be unable — if she 
 were basely to wish — to attempt those arts. 
 
 This is a love story : for my own part I do not 
 believe that any others are worth reading : I am indeed 
 sincerely son-y for all poor women who have no love 
 story of their own. One must not magnify the passion 
 of love, but certainly there is no other passion that 
 plays so important a.part in this transitory life, especially 
 for my sex. I say that this is a love story : and I de- 
 clare, further, that if any young man (whatever his 
 rank) bestowed upon me his affections in the spring- 
 time of my days, when I possessed some charms of face 
 and form, it was not on account of any allurements or 
 snares, but solely on account of those perfections which 
 a generous and noble soul (all out of his own nobility) 
 imagined in a woman all imperfections. The more 
 noble the lover, the deeper and the stronger is his love : 
 the more noble the lover, the more heavenly becomes 
 the woman of his imagination. Such a young man 
 sees in the woman he loves a Living Well of Virtue, a 
 Sealed Fountain, a soul all beautiful within and with- 
 out. Happy is the woman who is loved by so great a 
 heart ; for even before her death she may be led upward 
 so as to become an angel of heaven. 
 
 My cousin spent an incredible amount of pains upon 
 me for three months — namely, May, June, and July of 
 the year 1760. During that time she transformed me 
 into a woman of the fashion — that is to say, not a great 
 Court lady, but a woman who di-essed like the rest, 
 spoke like the rest, and took the same pleasure in the 
 things that delight all other women. Of friends we had 
 not many, which afterwards proved an advantage to us. 
 The other occupants of the house — namely, Corporal 
 
THE FIRST MEETING 67 
 
 Bates, of the Horse Guards, and his family in the garrets, 
 Captain Sellinger on the second floor, and Dr. Mynster- 
 chamber on the ground floor — we knew, but had Httle 
 intercourse with them. So much was I changed that I 
 could not bear to think of the Society of Friends. Only 
 to remember the house at Dartford made me tremble 
 and shiver. I had ceased going to First Day Meeting, 
 and had even begun to attend the services at St. James's, 
 Piccadilly, with my cousin, who had a pew in that 
 noble church. As for singing, painting, reading poetry, 
 making music, embroidery, fine dress, and adornment of 
 all kinds, I was now as fond of these things as my cousin 
 could desire. 
 
 It was on Wednesday, August 17, that the event 
 happened which was destined to change the whole of my 
 life. At half-past seven in the evening I was returning 
 home from evening prayers at St. James's. It was a 
 sermon day, which made the service longer. I was 
 accompanied by Molly, who walked behind me, carrying 
 my prayer-book. Many other ladies were also going 
 home after prayers, either in their coaches or accom- 
 panied by footmen carrying sticks, or, like me, protected 
 only by a woman servant. 
 
 At such a time and in such a place one considers that 
 there is no danger save from some gentleman whose 
 attentions are uninvited or from some audacious pick- 
 pocket : who could look for danger at the Court end of 
 the town, in the most polite streets, with numbers of 
 passengers, and in broad daylight? A gentlewoman 
 may, surely, go to evening prayers and return home 
 without fear of molestation within a few yards of the 
 King's Palace. There is, however, another kind of 
 danger to which one is exposed in every part of the 
 town. One thinks little of it : one cannot guard against 
 
 5—2 
 
68 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 it : yet it always threatens : it is always possible : it 
 can never be removed, so long as the world continues to 
 drink rum, punch, port wine, or beer. 
 
 However, being tranquil as to this or any other 
 danger, and seeing many Isidies and persons of respect- 
 able appearance in the streets, I walked along reflecting 
 on the discourse which the congregation had just heard. 
 It was one of the kind which the Church of England 
 loves : the preacher had an argument which he ex- 
 pounded, followed up, and proved with a gi-eat display 
 of scholarship and with that appearance of authority 
 which the pulpit, the ecclesiastical wig, the black gown, 
 and a full voice also contributed to his discourse. I 
 know not, now, what he advanced or proved. There 
 was nothing of himself in it : no ' experiences," no claim 
 to the special working of the Lord in his soul : nothing 
 individual : he spoke as one in a collective Church, as 
 if the individual shared with all the rest the gifts and 
 graces of the Church, which receives all alike, treats all 
 alike : gives the same promise to all alike. Nor did 
 this preacher, as my brother Joseph was wont to do, 
 take a text here and a text there and lay them side by 
 side. Not so : he showed us what each text means in 
 the original Greek, and what it means with reference to 
 the passages that go before and the passages which 
 follow after. Such a discourse to a person of my ex- 
 perience was like an invitation to rest and be happy in 
 an Ark of Refuge. 
 
 We accomplished our short walk through Jermyn 
 Street and down St. James's Street in perfect safety 
 vmtil we reached the corner of St. James's Place. When 
 we turned into that very quiet place we were met full 
 face to face by two gentlemen walking arm-in-arm, or 
 rather, .shoulder to slioulder. 
 
THE FIRST MEETING 69 
 
 They both wore the King''s scarlet. One of them I 
 knew very well. He was the Honourable Robert 
 Sellinger, younger brother of the Viscount de Lys, 
 Captain in his Majesty ^s Horse Guards. He was at 
 this time not more than five-and-twenty : a tall and 
 proper person, upon whom the King''s uniform sat 
 becomingly : all women, I am sure, like to see a young 
 man in a handsome uniform. As yet the gout which 
 afterwards cruelly afflicted him, swelling his joints, 
 covering his face with unsightly blotches, crippling his 
 feet, had not appeared. He was, however, so to speak, 
 inviting and preparing the way for it : this he did by 
 drinking too much port wine or rum punch, so that 
 already his neck was too thick and his cheek too flushed 
 for so young a man. In the morning, however, there 
 was no better company : he was as well bred a man as 
 can be expected even in one of his rank : he had some 
 knowledge of books : he was of the kindliest disposition : 
 and he discoursed pleasantly. In appearance I say that 
 he was tall : his nose was long and narrow : his eyes 
 had a constant light as of sunshine in them : his lips 
 were ever ready for a smile. To me and to my cousin 
 he was attentive : he visited us frequently : he walked 
 with us in the Park : he told us about the old King in 
 St. James's Palace and the Princes in Leicester Square, 
 and he paid me every day some new and pleasing com- 
 pliment. But he did not make love to me, for which I 
 am now thankful : indeed, the poor man, who had but 
 this one fault, entertained love towards the bottle 
 as his only mistress. Strange, that a man of parts 
 and judgment should every night voluntarily fuddle 
 himself! ^Vhy did he do it? Why do men, our 
 superiors in strength of mind as well as of body, 
 choose to deaden their finer senses for the sake of — 
 
70 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 I know not what — say, a few drops of sweetness, more 
 or less ? 
 
 Had Captain Sellinger been sober this evening I am 
 certain that nothing would have happened. Sober, he 
 respected me and all other women ; drunk, he regarded 
 all women alike, just as he regarded (I suppose) the 
 impudent hussies in the Park, whom I have seen the 
 gentlemen, with a disgusting familiarity, take by the 
 chin. This evening, however, he was overcome, and he 
 walked with difficulty, holding up his companion and 
 being held up by him. 
 
 At the comer of St. James's Place, I say, we came 
 face to face with this pair, insomuch that there was no 
 way of avoiding them ; nor would they suffer me to 
 take the wall and pass, but, in a manner, spread them- 
 selves out and barred the way. 
 
 ' Captain Sellinger,"' I said, ' will you let me pass.'*' 
 
 'Jack,' he replied, speaking thickly, "tis Nancy — 
 divine Nancy. She hath been at her devotions — on her 
 lovely knees. Jack, let us take her to Marylebone 
 Gardens to finish the evening.' 
 
 ' T' other bottle,' the other man replied, still more 
 thickly. He understood nothing. 
 
 ' Let me pass, Captain Sellinger.' But he still barred 
 the way. 
 
 'Thou shalt take the maid. Jack,' he continued. 
 ' Molly will do for thee. Hold up, man — and I will 
 take the mistress. Call a coach— call a coach, Molly, 
 for thy mistress and Jack and me.' 
 
 So he went on in his tipsy way, about the lovely 
 Nancy, the divine Nancy, and such nonsense as makes 
 me ashamed to set it down except to show that he 
 knew not what he said. 
 
 ' Captain Sellinger,' I said, ' you have been drinking. 
 
THE FIRST MEETING 71 
 
 otherwise you would not behave in this strange way. 
 Please suffer me to pass. For shame, Sir ; for shame !"* 
 
 ' T* other bottle,' murmured his companion, dropping 
 his head upon his chest. 
 
 ' You shall pass,' he said, ' in my arms, in a chariot — 
 in a chair ' — he hardly knew what he said — ' to Mary- 
 lebone Gardens. There we will dance — you have never 
 yet danced with me, fair Nancy. We will afterwards 
 take supper — supper, and have — eh. Jack.? — V other 
 bottle.' 
 
 ' T' other bottle,' the other gentleman replied ; but 
 his glassy eye showed that he at least would not arrive 
 at that stage, having certainly worked his way already 
 through as many bottles as he could hold. 
 
 ' Let me go, Captain Sellinger !' I cried, as he caught 
 hold of my hand. 
 
 ' We will go together,' he repeated, firm in his 
 drunken mood, ' to Marylebone Gardens. The women 
 shall expire — by Gad ! — with envy and spite — bless their 
 hearts ! And the men shall burst — hang 'em — with 
 envy. We will show them Venus herself — Venus her- 
 self — fair Queen of Love. Willy-nilly, fair Nancy, 
 needs must thou show thy face at Marylebone.' 
 
 ' Nay, Captain Sellinger, this passes endurance. You 
 are so tipsy that you are not yourself. You know not 
 what you say. Will you let me go, or must I force 
 my way through ?"" 
 
 Now, what he did I know not. He seized my hand, 
 he tried to kiss my cheek. I know not, indeed, what 
 he did ; because to be accosted in this manner in such a 
 place as St. James's Street by two drunken gentlemen 
 terrifies a girl out of her senses. And to be told that, 
 willy-nilly, she must go with these two gentlemen — 
 almost unable to stand — to a place of public resort 
 
7^ A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 disturbed me so much that I can hardly tell what 
 happened. However, I cried out for help, that is quite 
 certain, and Molly screamed and pulled me back, and 
 stood in front of me : and the poor Captain was so 
 fuddled that he hardly knew the maid from the mistress, 
 which, I suppose, was the reason why Molly boxed his 
 ears. And then — then — this was the first meeting — 
 there came running across the street two gentlemen, 
 both young, the elder not more than one or two and 
 twenty, and the other two years or so younger. They 
 grasped their swords. * Madam ,'' said the elder, with 
 great resolution in his eyes and in his voice, ' have no 
 fear, we will make a way for you.' 
 
 So saying he stepped before me, drawing his sword 
 and holding it before him, pointed at the poor tipsy 
 Captain. 
 
 The other — the younger man — stepped to the right 
 hand of his friend, and also drew his sword quickly, 
 standing beside the first, yet a little in advance, and it 
 seemed to me as if he was defending his friend, so 
 watchfully did he hold his weapon. I noticed, besides, 
 that the two young men were richly dre^^sed : the elder, 
 who was the taller and stouter, in scarlet, like Captain 
 Sellinger, with broad gold lace on his hat and beautiful 
 lace at his wrists and neck. His sash was also trimmed 
 ^vith gold lace. His friend, on the other hand, wore a 
 blue coat with white facings, also decorated with gold 
 lace. I was so ignorant at the time that I did not 
 recognise the uniform of the Royal Navy. 
 
 Now at sight of the drawn swords the Captain showed 
 an immediate and remarkable change of demeanour. 
 All the soldier awakened in his breast ; he stepped 
 back, leaving hold of his friend, who fell to the ground : 
 he stood upright and alert : he drew his sword swiftly : 
 
THE FIRST MEETING 7S 
 
 the wine went out of his head. ' As you will, gentle- 
 men," he said, ' if you must interfere where you have no 
 business.' So he turned half round, saluted his enemy 
 and crossed swords. 
 
 ' Oh ! good gentlemen !' cried Molly, wringing her hands. 
 
 ' Gentlemen I' I said. ' They are drunk ' 
 
 As I spoke an extraordinary transformation fell upon 
 Captain Sellinger. His face expressed suddenly a swift 
 succession of emotions — doubt, astonishment, bewilder- 
 ment, and recognition. ' Good Lord I"* he cried. Then 
 he lowered his sword to the ground, the point touching 
 the stones : he took off his hat, bowed low, sheathed 
 his sword, and still with bowed head retreated backward, 
 and so passed into the Park beyond. 
 
 For my own part, I was not so much astonished by 
 this behaviour, because my people practise these cour- 
 tesies of bows and bendings and reverences so little, 
 that, indeed, I knew not what kind of reverence is due 
 to this person or to that. 
 
 ' So,' said the younger of the two, ' the adventure 
 ends well. What about this other brave companion of 
 the bottle ?' 
 
 For Captain Sellinger's friend, on losing the support 
 of his brother toper, fell forward on the kerbstone, and, 
 not being able to get up, was fumbling about stupidly 
 in search of his sword, which he was too drunk to find. 
 
 'Gentlemen,' I said, 'I thank you for your kindly 
 help. As for this poor man lying here, I say again 
 that he is drunk. Otherwise, pray, gentlemen, be so 
 good as to put up your swords.' 
 
 So they obeyed. And the elder, with a bow, asked 
 me if I had far to go. I told him that at the end of 
 St. James's Place lived my cousin, whom I was then visit- 
 ing, and that I could now go home in perfect safety. 
 
74 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 * Nay, Madam,'* he replied. ' To the door at least 
 you will suffer us to attend you.' 
 
 So they walked, one on either side of me, for the 
 short distance that remained. When we reached the door 
 I thanked them again and wished them good-night. 
 
 ' Madam,"* said the elder of the two, gazing into my 
 face, but not boldly or impudently — the word impu- 
 dence can never, surely, be connected with him — ' may 
 we, at least, learn the name of the lady — or the goddess 
 — whom we have this evening happily assisted ?"* 
 
 ' Sir,' I replied, ashamed to be called a goddess, ' I 
 am the daughter of the late Samuel Walden, paper 
 manufacturer, of Dartford in Kent. I am here on a 
 visit to my cousin Mrs. Isabel Storey, widow of my 
 father's cousin, the late Mr. Reuben Storey, American 
 merchant, of Great Tower Hill.' 
 
 He received the information with a show of the 
 deepest interest, and lingered as if uncertain. 
 
 ' Come, George,' said the other, ' we keep this lady 
 waiting on her doorstep.' 
 
 So the elder of the two bowed. ' Madam,' he said, 
 ' I humbly hope for our better acquaintance.' 
 
 ' I too, Madam,' said the other, ' venture to hope for 
 better acquaintance. If,' he indicated his companion, 
 * this gentleman be permitted the honour of calling ' 
 
 ' Sir,' I replied, * I have no right to accept or to refuse 
 such an honour, being but a guest of my cousin.' 
 
 ' Sure, Miss Nancy,' said the impudent Molly, * there 
 are not too many young gentlemen coming to the house. 
 Do you call, gentlemen, and you will find a welcome, 
 trust me. Good-night, therefore, gentlemen, and thank 
 you* for my mistress.' 
 
 So they laughed and walked away. I turned my 
 head to look after them, and was punished for my 
 
THE FIRST MEETING 76 
 
 curiosity like Lot's wife — for the elder of the two, he 
 who was called George, had also turned his head, and 
 he smiled and waved his hand. It made me blush to 
 be caught looking after him. 
 
 At his own door, half opened, stood Dr. Mynster- 
 chamber, the lodger of the ground floor, in his ragged 
 old gown and his head wrapped in a nightcap. The 
 man was so long and lean and so much like a vulture 
 that I shuddered whenever I met him, and this was 
 almost every time that we went out of the house or 
 returned to it. He would then open his door an inch 
 or two, poke out his hooked nose and nod his head, 
 saying, ' Good - morning, fair Nancy ""; or 'Divine 
 Nancy'; or 'Lovely nymph, good-day,' with the 
 privilege which we accord to age. 
 
 This evening his door was opened wider than usual, 
 and his whole head came out. ' Lovely Nancy,' he said, 
 ' the beaux are beginning. Thy train will soon drive 
 other nymphs to madness.' 
 
 ' I have no beaux. Dr. Mynsterchamber.' 
 
 'It is a magnificent beginning. One of them, at 
 least, will come again, doubtless. Have they told thee, 
 child, who and what they are ? Ha ! not yet. In good 
 time. Well, history is made by women. Love rules 
 the Court ; love is victorious over the conqueror. The 
 Kings are led by Rosamond and Alice and Jane and 
 Nelly and Gabrielle, each in his turn ; each by one at a 
 time. For a time they have their day — their little 
 day ' — his voice was like a raven's, hoarse and boding 
 ill. ' AVell — the candle is lit : the pretty moth flies 
 round and round : pure and clear burns the flame : see ! 
 the moth flies into it, and lies dying, all its colours 
 burned up. The story of Semele is a parable.' 
 
 ' I know not what you mean. Sir.' 
 
76 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 'No, no. Best not ask their names. That they 
 should come to this house — to this house — strange V 
 He shut his door and retired. As I ran up the stairs, 
 I heard him muttering. His words made me uneasy. 
 What did he mean by his long list of women ? Who 
 was the moth and what was the candle ? 
 
 ***** 
 
 * I wonder who they were,' said my cousin. * So 
 Molly promised them a welcome in my name. Molly is 
 an impudent baggage. Yet, my dear, one would not 
 stand in your way. They will come to see you. Oh, 
 Nancy ! that such a lovely face was condemned to go in 
 gray, and to marry a man in drab ! Monstrous ! Well, 
 they shall have a welcome. Heaven grant they may 
 not prove to be profligates.' 
 
 * They looked most virtuous, I think. "* 
 
 ' Looked indeed ! Who can trust a man's looks ? 
 Last year one of them — a mere adventurer — cari'ied off 
 an heiress, and was at Gretna Green before her parents 
 knew that she was lost. To be sure, they say that she 
 was nothing loath.' 
 
 ' I am no heiress, cousin. Therefore no one will cai-ry 
 me off.' 
 
 ' I don't know, child. There are other reasons for 
 carrying oft' a woman. Besides, thy father was possessed 
 of goodly bags of gold. There are hunters of nymphs 
 as well as hunters of fortune. There are in the world 
 always young men named Lovelace. Remember Clarissa, 
 my dear.' 
 
 I laid my hand on hers. * If Clarissa had lived with 
 thee, dear cousin, Lovelace would not have ventured or 
 succeeded.' 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE NEXT DAY. 
 
 In the morning Captain Sellinger presented himself, 
 making such excuses as one expects from a gentleman. 
 There was not much repentance in his looks, but some : 
 he was not wholly without gxace. His excuses were 
 not too full of self-reproach : he had not lost any self- 
 respect, because he maintained that he was certainly 
 not more drunk than becomes a gentleman. Nobody, 
 he said, could be called drunk so long as he was still 
 able to distinguish a lovely woman. * This,' I replied, 
 ' was the reason why you kissed Molly, the maid." The 
 accident, he confessed, betrayed a momentary wander- 
 ing of wits, but nothing more. 
 
 He owned, however, that he ought to have taken my 
 refusal seriously and allowed me to pass. And he 
 expressed himself as unfeignedly sorry for having caused 
 me the least pain. In a word, he spoke as a gentleman 
 is expected to speak after such an accident. 
 
 ' Still, Captain Sellinger, I am pleased to think that 
 Molly boxed your ears.' 
 
 ' I shall call Molly out. She must give me satisfac- 
 tion. Can a man of honour sit down with ears tingling ? 
 You say that I mistook the maid for the mistress. That 
 should be impossible in your case, Miss Nancy. I have 
 
78 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 seen maids — but enough. You say that Molly virtu- 
 ously boxed my ears ? Well, I cannot remember. And 
 then, suddenly, so far as my memory serves me, who 
 should jump out of the ground like a Jack-in-the-box, or 
 a ghost at Drury, but the Prince of Wales himself, with 
 his feathers on his head and a naked sword in his hand !^ 
 
 * You are dreaming, Captain Sellinger." 
 
 * I suppose I am. But, fair Nancy, how came the 
 Prince of Wales to be wandering in St. James's Place ?** 
 
 *How came the Prince into your muddled brain? 
 How can anyone account for tricks of imagination ? 
 Besides, there were two gentlemen, not one." 
 
 'Na — na — na — do not make me out quite sober 
 either. I saw two gentlemen, which is a proof, when a 
 man has taken three bottles, that there was but one. 
 Had there been two I should have seen four. Every- 
 body knows so much. There was one gentleman, I tell 
 you, not two." 
 
 So Captain Sel linger left us and went off in the direc- 
 tion of the tavern, where a draught of small ale would 
 cool the fever caused by his three bottles. How can a 
 man . . . but it is in vain for a woman to understand 
 the temptations which beset a man. In all things we 
 are less strongly drawn and tempted. If we desire a 
 glass of wine, we are satisfied with one : we do not 
 demand three bottles. And so with other things. 
 Their wrath is quicker: their strength is less con- 
 trolled : their love is fiercer : their jealousy — though 
 they speak of the raging woman — is, I am told, more 
 terrible. There are women, I know, who speak of the 
 wickedness of men — compared with that of women. 
 Truly, we are wicked enough — that is to say, we are 
 human : let us not compare our own shortcomings with 
 those of the other sex. Poor Captain Sel linger had but 
 
THE NEXT DAY 79 
 
 this one fault : he was gallant and comely to look upon : 
 his manners were fine : he was courtly of speech : he 
 was considerate to women : he was loyal, brave, honour- 
 able : yet there is no doubt that in respect of strong 
 drink he sinned much. One day I met him as he 
 passed down the stairs — 'twas the day after a debauch. 
 * Captain Sellinger," I said, 'I have found something 
 that meets your case, if you will come in with me."* He 
 swore that he was honoured by the invitation, and fol- 
 lowed me. ' Captain Sellinger,' I said, ' what I have 
 found in this book is nothing less than the Word of 
 God. Sit down then, and listen.** 
 
 So he sat down, bowed his head, and listened, while I 
 read — 
 
 ' Who hath woe .? Who hath sorrow ? Who hath 
 contentions ? Who hath babbling ? Who hath wounds 
 without cause ? Who hath redness of eyes ? They that 
 tarry long at the wine. Look not thou upon the wine 
 when it is red : when it giveth his colour to the cup ; 
 when it moveth itself aright. At the last it biteth like 
 a serpent and stingeth like an adder.' 
 
 So I closed the Book and set it down. Captain 
 Sellinger rose : his face was moved. ' Miss Nancy,"* he 
 began. 'Fair Nancy . . . if . . ."* but stopped and 
 raised my hand to his lips, and left the room. 
 
 ' My dear,' said Isabel when I told her, ' neither the 
 Word of God : nor the Word of the Wise King : nor the 
 Word of Prophet : nor the Word of Priest : nor the 
 Voice of Woman, will withdraw such a man from the 
 bottle. It is his mistress : it is his love : it is his life : 
 it is his death."* 
 
 To return, however, to that morning when I knew 
 not Captain Sellinger'*s weakness so well as afterwards. 
 
 In the end he was forgiven on conditions which he 
 
80 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 accepted so readily, and with a smile so suspicious, that 
 I ought to have suspected something. He promised to 
 drink no more port wine for a week. 
 
 * Fair Nancy,^ he said, * I would make it even a fort- 
 night in token of repentance. It is of thy goodness 
 that I obtain this clemency." 
 
 Clemency it proved, indeed, for although he had 
 promised to abstain from port, nothing was said about 
 punch, which is said to be even more potent in the 
 stealing away of men's brains. In the evening he was 
 carried home by two chairmen, who laid him on his 
 bed and took away his purse. 
 
 ' Why,' he said afterwards, when I reproached him 
 with breaking his vow, ' there was not a drop of port, 
 I assure you, in the bowl. Rum there was, and lemon 
 and milk, with spice and sugar — a drink fit for the 
 gods on ordinary days. On feast days they drink 
 port.' 
 
 * I think,' said my cousin, who was much interested 
 by this incident, 'that I, too, must go to evening 
 prayer. In the morning there are no adventures pos- 
 sible. I am not yet, I hope, too old to be rescued by 
 a knight. Only twenty-six ! Yet a widow ! Heigho ! 
 In the story books she is never a widow, and scarcely 
 ever, so far as I can remember, more than nineteen, and 
 sometimes only fifteen. Why should a slip of a girl 
 of fifteen, who ought to be pinned to her mother's 
 apron, be allowed a rescue and a gallant knight ? It 
 is a waste, my dear, of valour and of adventures.' 
 
 * Then come with me this evening,' I replied. ' Per- 
 haps we shall encounter a second pair drunk and 
 unruly, and another pair of gentlemen waiting to 
 attempt our rescue.' 
 
 She sighed. 
 
THE NEXT DAY 81 
 
 ' Alas ! Adventures never come to those who look for 
 them. Once, I remember, when I was newly married, 
 a Fellowship Porter fell against me in the streets : I 
 think he was drunk too : there was no rescue, but I 
 was hon'ibly frightened. With such an adventure as 
 yours I should be set up for life.' She sighed again. 
 ' In my father's house there was an old romance which 
 I used to read. The heroine was a noble virgin con- 
 tinually beset by sorcerers, dragons, giants, robbers, 
 and wicked lords. But she was never in any real 
 danger, because in the nick of time, look you, who 
 should turn up but the Knight of the White Plume or 
 he of the Golden Spurs, who came prancing out of the 
 wood, and carried her off upon his saddle, while she 
 fainted becomingly. I really think, Nancy, it would have 
 been more becoming in you to have fainted. Then it 
 would have been exactly like an adventure out of the 
 book. Tell me, dear Nancy, once more, all they said. 
 Show me how they stood. Let me sit down and hear 
 it all again. It is a most charming story. Tell me 
 how Molly boxed Captain Sellinger's ears. It is so 
 delightful that I cannot hear it too often. Show me 
 how the Captain ran away.' 
 
 So for the twentieth time I told her all, from the 
 beginning to the end. 
 
 ' They hope for a better acquaintance,' she repeated. 
 She was sitting forward, holding her right knee in her 
 clasped hands. ' They hope for a better acquaintance, 
 do they ? It might be dangerous. We know not who 
 they are. Two young men admitted into the house 
 might cause many troubles. It is on thy account, 
 Nancy, that I am careful.' 
 
 ' It is for you to decide, cousin. This place is 
 yours."* 
 
 6 
 
82 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 She mused a little. 
 
 * Perhaps,' I added, ' it was only a compliment. Very 
 likely they said it in order to say something polite. 
 Just as Captain Sellinger talks about Divine woman."* 
 
 ' Nay, I doubt not that they meant what they said. 
 For, Nancy, it cannot be denied that thy face, once 
 seen, is like a loadstone. There are great dangers. 
 They must be, I should think, from all they said, 
 gentlemen at least.' 
 
 * Certainly they are gentlemen.' 
 
 You see that I was already far removed from the 
 Society of Friends, since I could set up for distinguish- 
 ing a gentleman. 
 
 'One cannot always tell. However, there must be 
 no pretences.' 
 
 ' What pretences, cousin .^' 
 
 * Why, child, thy father was a Quaker — one of the 
 sect most hated by gentlefolk, because, you see, if we 
 were all Quakers there would be no gentry. Then he 
 was, although wealthy, a manufacturer and in trade. 
 Now trade of all kinds, while it makes the country 
 rich, is despised by gentlefolk. They are quite ready 
 to despise the father for his trade, and to make love 
 to the daughter for her money.' 
 
 ' If, cousin, I thought that these gentlemen could do 
 either the one or the other, I would never wish to see 
 them again. Let them keep to the women of their 
 own class.' 
 
 * There is an un-Quakerlike fierceness in thine eye, 
 Nancy. Where is the meekness that should receive an 
 injury ? However, in the amusement called Love there 
 is no class or rank observed by the men. It humiliates, 
 my dear, to think of it, but it is too true, that a young 
 man will make love to a dairymaid as readily as to a 
 
THE NEXT DAY 83 
 
 duchess. Love universal embraces all womanhood. 
 Shouldest thou alone, dear Nancy, ^scape ?^ 
 
 ' Is not this what we call unedifying discourse, 
 cousin ?"* 
 
 ' Not if it makes us careful. Well, child, we will let 
 them come if they desire. I am assured that your 
 thoughts will not run on . . . run on . . . such 
 things. But we must learn who they are and their 
 names and all about them. Let them come. Even if 
 they are in search of another Clarissa, I warrant I will 
 make them renounce their purpose. My dear, the 
 danger is that one or both may fall seriously in love — 
 and then — if thou ' 
 
 'Do not fear for me, cousin. I have no such 
 thoughts.' 
 
 ' Still, a woman is not always mistress of herself, my 
 dear. Well, there is another danger. What if they 
 are above the rank of private gentlemen ? In this part 
 of town noblemen are as plenty as blackberries in the 
 hedge. A nobleman, Nancy, must not marry outside 
 his own class. If he does he corrupts the blood of his 
 children and breaks down the levels of rank. What 
 kind of Duke would that be whose children were first 
 cousins to the grocer ? What keeps up the separation 
 of the Friends but the rule that Quakers must marry 
 Quakers ? Otherwise there would be very soon a disso- 
 lution of that Society.' 
 
 ' Cousin, indeed, I do not wish to marry a nobleman. 
 Are they not all profligates ?' 
 
 ' Not quite all, I believe.' 
 
 ' Dear cousin, I have no such thoughts indeed : 
 either of love or marriage. Believe me, if ever I marry 
 it will be to a man whose relations will not despise me.' 
 
 6— a 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE CORPORAL. 
 
 After the Captain came the Corporal. 
 
 Corporal Bates, also of the Guards, but not of 
 Captain Sellinger's company, occupied the garrets of 
 the house with his wife and family of six little 
 children. All day long, unless it rained, the children 
 played in the Green Park, while their mother made 
 and sewed for them the clothes that they wore out as 
 fast as she made them. The Corporal, who was a man of 
 thirty, maintained his family by the teaching and the 
 practice of many arts and accomplishments. Indeed, I 
 have never known a man of more various acquirements 
 than the Corporal. Yet, with all his knowledge, his 
 earnings were but slender, and had it not been for many 
 a secret visit that Isabel paid to the garrets, the children 
 must often have gone hungry as well as ragged. For 
 the Corporal taught, first of all, military subjects, such 
 as the Art of Fencing, in which he was always desirous 
 of challenging some great French Master, but had not 
 the money to lay down : and he taught the Science of 
 Fortification : he knew also, and could teach, the history 
 of all the great campaigns from those of Alexander and 
 Hannibal, which were, I believe, conducted in India, to 
 those of the Great Marlborough. He also understood 
 
THE CORPORAL 85 
 
 French, which he talked very sweetly, to my thinking : 
 but then I know nothing of the language. He was a 
 good mathematician as well, and could teach algebra, 
 and the survey of land and other branches of that 
 science with names that I know not. He was a 
 painter in water-colours : he drew in pencil very pretty 
 landscapes and houses : and he taught fine penmanship. 
 With all these accomplishments it was remarkable that 
 he remained so poor and could not obtain what he so 
 much desired, his commission. When he was at leisure 
 he drew up plans of campaign, plans of sieges, observa- 
 tions on campaigns, and military pamphlets of all kinds, 
 but especially such as professed to extend the power of 
 the country. None of these learned tracts would book- 
 sellers — who were in a league, he said, to crush merit — 
 publish for him. All his talk was on military matters ; 
 and he lived in the constant hope (and as constant 
 disappointment) of receiving a commission. In a word, 
 he was a brave, loyal, honest man, who believed himself 
 to be another Churchill, or a Turenne at least, in the 
 art of war. 
 
 Coming off duty that morning he knocked at our 
 door and appeared in his uniform, with a high hat, 
 white cross-belt, and long worsted epaulettes, which he 
 played with proudly because they proclaimed his rank. 
 To be corporal is to stand on the lowest rung of the 
 ladder, but yet it is on the ladder. 
 
 * Ladies," he said, saluting us, ' your most obedient 
 servant. I come to offer my respects and my condolences. 
 Truly I tear my hair to think that Fortune — cruel 
 Fortune — forbade me the happiness which two unknown 
 gentlemen enjoyed last night. Perhaps they were not 
 even soldiers. I venture to hope that no evil conse- 
 quences of the shock have ensued. Ha! had I been 
 
86 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 there — though he were Captain in my regiment — yet 
 he should have seen what sword-play means. Captain 
 or no Captain — even if I was broke for it/ He looked 
 as valiant as Mars himself, the God of War. 
 
 ' Thank you, Corporal Bates,' I replied. ' But it was 
 much better to have no fighting.** 
 
 ' As for consequences,' said my cousin, ' Miss Nancy 
 did not even swoon, which proves her courage ; and 
 Molly assures me that her own appetite is unimpaired, 
 which proves her insensibility. Yet she was kissed.' 
 
 * It is my son'ow, ladies,' he repeated, bringing his 
 feet into position, ' that I was not so favoured as to be 
 on the spot. In such a case, my commission they could 
 not choose but grant me as a reward.' 
 
 * Courage, Corporal. Another occasion will perhaps 
 present itself.' 
 
 ' Madam, you will perhaps go again to evening 
 prayers. The Church bell is the ladies' call of duty : 
 it is their revel ly. I most humbly offer my services 
 as escort. I presume not to walk beside my convoy 
 — I will walk behind with a drawn sword and a proud 
 heart.' 
 
 Here, at least, was devotion and gratitude. One 
 would willingly be frightened a little if only to draw 
 forth such proof of kind hearts. 
 
 ' But, Corporal, valour, even when it has no chance of 
 proving itself, deserves reward.' My cousin took from 
 the cupboard a bottle of port and a glass. ' Sir, you 
 must be thirsty.' 
 
 * In the presence of Beauty, Madam, every soldier is 
 thirsty.' I do not know what he meant by this aphorism. 
 *I drink your health. Madam — Miss Nancy, when 
 Virginal distress next calls for the hero's arm, may I be 
 there to help !' 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE BOOKSELLER. 
 
 Our next visitor that day was Mr. Robert Storey, the 
 bookseller of Pall Mall. He was cousin to Isabel's late 
 husband : yet his branch of the family belonged not to 
 the Society. He was at this time still a young man, not 
 more than eight-and-twenty, having succeeded to his 
 father^s business two or three years before. In his dress 
 he aimed at the outward semblance of the substantial 
 citizen : he would be taken for one known on 'Change ; 
 therefore his coat was of black velvet, his stockings 
 of white silk, and his buckles of silver ; at his throat 
 and wrists he wore fine white lace ; his buttons were of 
 silver, and silver lace adorned his hat; his powdered 
 hair was tied behind with a large black silk bow; a 
 bunch of seals hung from his fob ; a gold ring was on 
 one finger ; and he carried a gold-headed cane. No 
 one cculd look more like the prosperous tradesman, or 
 mere the merchant, than Robert Storey : so that his 
 subsequent fate surprised everybody. But that will be 
 told later. He stood at the door for a moment in 
 a studied attitude : in his right hand he held his hat 
 over his heart : in his left hand he held the gold-headed 
 cane : he brought his feet into the dancing-master's 
 first position, that which shows the white silk stockings 
 
88 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 and the shape of a good leg to advantage. He was, 
 in fact, a personable young man of fair stature and 
 reasonable face, though his eyes were too close to- 
 gether. He bowed low, first to his cousin, and then 
 to myself. 
 
 ' Cousin Storey ,■* he said, ' your most obedient. Miss 
 Nancy, your most humble." 
 
 Then he came in and sat down. In all his actions 
 and all his words, Robert Storey still preserved the air 
 of one who performs a duty properly. He now held 
 himself upright in his chair : his legs crossed : his left 
 hand plunged into his waistcoat, his right hand free for 
 gesture. 
 
 His shop in Pall Mall, which we often visited, was 
 large and filled with the books which he offered for sale : 
 folios on the lower shelves : quartos on the middle : and 
 octavos on the higher. It was all day filled with book- 
 collectors, poets, scholars, divines, and certain persons 
 for whom he entertained a profound contempt, yet 
 employed them constantly, called booksellers' hacks. 
 They are persons, it appears, who have some tincture of 
 learning but none of genius : they are cursed with an 
 ardent desire to write, a desire which unfits them for 
 any honourable employment ; yet they cannot with all 
 their efforts depict the passions, move the heart, or fire 
 the imagination. They compile books which those who 
 cannot distinguish treat seriously : such as essays for the 
 magazines, at a guinea the sheet, poetry by subscrip- 
 tion, translations of ancient poets already translated a 
 hundred times, histories copied from better historians, 
 travels in foreign countries (never having left their own), 
 sermons for clergymen who ca,nnot compose — in a word, 
 they are hacks ready to do all kinds of work at any pay 
 that they can get. It is needless to add that they have 
 
THE BOOKSELLER 89 
 
 no principles, no opinions, and no honesty : that they 
 will advocate any cause, write on any side, and — 
 still at a guinea a sheet — would defend even the fallen 
 angels. 
 
 Robert came often to visit us in the evening after his 
 shop was shut. Sometimes he read to us ; sometimes 
 he spoke of the poets, who made of his shop a kind of 
 Apollo's Walk. It must be confessed that, although 
 he despised the tribe of hacks, he spoke always with 
 reverence of those scholars and poets and wits whose 
 productions lend a lustre to this age — such men, I 
 mean, as Samuel Johnson, Dr. Warburton, Lord Lyttel- 
 ton, Henry Fielding, Tobias Smollett, the Reverend 
 Laurence Sterne, and David Garrick, if one may include 
 a mere actor with these illustrious names. 
 
 More often, however, Robert brought us news of the 
 great world, with anecdotes and scandals, which he 
 produced one by one, as a child picks out plums. His 
 shop, in fact, was a greater home for gossip and scandal 
 than even a barber's : scholars and men of letters, I 
 verily believe, love talking as much as women. He 
 would deliver himself of these items slowly and with 
 intervals : and he was fond of concluding any one, 
 when he could, with a moral or a religious observa- 
 tion. 
 
 This evening, however, he had no opportunity, for 
 my cousin instantly poured into his ears the story of 
 my adventure. He received it with a good man's 
 horror. 
 
 'This,' he exclaimed at length, as if carried away 
 by righteous indignation, ' appears to me one of the 
 most flagitious acts ever attempted by a profligate 
 aristocracy, even in an age such as this of unbridled 
 license.' 
 
90 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' Mr. Robert,' I told him, somewhat surprised at his 
 heat, ' the Captain was overcome with drink and knew 
 not what he did/ 
 
 ' Your ignorance, Miss Nancy,' he replied with a 
 smile, 'enables you to undertake the defence of that 
 bad man. The business seems to me (I am necessarily 
 acquainted with much of the wickedness of the world) 
 arranged beforehand : two men pretend to be drunk : 
 they waylay a young gentlewoman : two others pretend 
 to rescue her. The conspiracy is quite easy to carry 
 out, if one has the wickedness to devise it and the daring 
 to carry it through.** 
 
 ' Your opinion, Mr. Storey,' I replied, ' seems, if I 
 may say so, nonsense, because how could they know that 
 we should pass, or when we should pass ? Besides, the 
 Captain was really drunk.' 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and bowed his head. 
 
 ' Miss Nancy,' he said, ' has, I know, been already 
 remarked. I have heard observations upon her singular 
 beauty in my shop — from Doctors of Divinity. If these 
 reverend persons observe the beauty of a lady, be sure 
 that the profligate beaux and sparks of this end of town 
 have also done the same thing. However, let us hope 
 that the business is finished.' 
 
 ' On the contrary, Robert,' said my cousin, ' these 
 gentlemen have expressed a desire, which does us great 
 honour, to improve their acquaintance.' 
 
 * Ay ? Ay ? Dear ! Dear ! ITie wickedness of this 
 part of town is terrible : yet I have five satirists in verse 
 and eleven in prose on my books and in my pay at this 
 moment lashing the vices of the Great. What more 
 can a bookseller do ? There is also a sermon every 
 Sunday at St. James's. The Church is with me in 
 denouncing vice. Well, ladies, this is a very serious 
 
THE BOOKSELLER 91 
 
 affair. You will have to place it in my hands. Believe 
 me, I shall do justice to the occasion.' 
 
 ' It seems to me,' I said, ' that these are two well-bred 
 gentlemen who desire to pay their respects to ladies who 
 are indebted to them. I cannot understand, Mr. 
 Storey, either your heat or your charges of deceit and 
 wickedness. Is it not better to believe that a man is 
 honourable until he shows that he is not ?"* 
 
 ' My dear young lady, you know nothing, believe 
 me. And my cousin here knows little more. How 
 can you know the kind of company into which you may 
 be led.?' 
 
 * We have at least read " Clarissa," ' said Isabel. 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Richardson knows how to teach and warn 
 the female heart. Without raising a blush to your 
 cheek, Miss Nancy, I cannot describe the company into 
 which you may fall. Know, however, that these young 
 Sprigs of Quality (if such indeed is their station) live in 
 a world which is different indeed from oui' own. So 
 much so that we cannot get into it if we would. I 
 thank the Lord, however, that I desire not to exchange 
 my station for theirs. We are honest workers, they are 
 unprofitable drones : we make wealth, they consume it : 
 we live with measure and decorum, they without rule or 
 order : we save, they spend ; we take thought for the 
 morrow, their morrow is assured : we live for the world 
 to come, they for the world that is : we fear God and 
 keep His commandments, they continue as if there were 
 no commandments at all : we are constant in our affec- 
 tions, they continually mislead and deceive trusting 
 women. Miss Nancy, seek not further acquaintance 
 with these young men. They are so far above you, 
 indeed, that they are infinitely below you.' 
 
 The last sentence so pleased him, inasmuch as it 
 
92 A FOUxVTAIN SEALED 
 
 sounded like a paradox from one of his essayists, that 
 he repeated it. The words impressed me at the moment 
 as anything said sonorously which one does not under- 
 stand sometimes does impress a hearer — you may hear 
 such things in church. If you think of it, however, it 
 is a foolish thing to say, for it means that the higher 
 is a man'*s rank the more corrupt does he become : in 
 which case his Most Sacred Majesty himself — but I 
 hesitate to write the words. 
 
 ' Ladies,"* he went on, * it is your singular privilege, 
 also, to belong to this same class, which is as much 
 above the common herd as it is below the nobility. 
 What, to you, are the attractions of fashion and of 
 rank ? These two gentlemen hope to get a footing in 
 this house by an open and palpable trick, which they 
 have learned from a novel of intrigue (unhappily there 
 are such novels, but not published by me). What sort 
 of reception should they meet.? From me, if I were 
 here, they would hear the truth. ** He rose and stood in 
 an attitude of one who rebukes. ' " Retire,"'' I should 
 say — " retire in confusion "*' ' — he stood up and pointed 
 to the door — ' " from this house of Virtue and Religion. 
 Leave unmolested the Daughters of Innocence who 
 adorn this house. Retire ! Repent of designs con- 
 ceived in wickedness, or carry those designs to places 
 which are more fit for their attempt. Respect the 
 virtuous indignation of a Bookseller, though you boast 
 the rank of Baron.*" These are the words, ladies — or 
 words to this effect — which I should feel it absolutely 
 necessary to use, on your behalf, were these gentlemen 
 in my presence to attempt an entrance.'' 
 
 More he would have added, in the same elevated 
 strain, for as a moralizer Robert Storey had no equal. 
 But at that moment Molly came running upstairs and 
 
THE BOOKSELLER 98 
 
 threw open the door, crying, without any ceremony, 
 ' Madam ! Miss Nancy ! The two young gentlemen are 
 here !' 
 
 And so, her honest face grinning from ear to ear, she 
 withdrew, and our two gallant rescuers appeared. 
 
 We all rose. 
 
 ' Madam,' the elder spoke, bowing first to my cousin 
 and then to me, ' we have ventured to call, in order to 
 ask if Miss Nancy hath recovered from the shock and 
 affright of yesterday.' 
 
 ' Nay, Sir,' I said. * If you call that a frighi 
 which was but an affair of a moment, thanks to your 
 courage ' 
 
 ' Nancy,' my cousin interposed, ' was naturally indis- 
 posed at first, but with the aid of a little cherry brandy 
 she speedily recovered.' 
 
 I hastened to present her by name. 'Gentlemen, 
 this is my cousin, Mrs. Storey, widow of the late 
 Reuben Storey, American merchant, of Great Tower 
 Street.' 
 
 They bowed low again. ' And this is Mr. Robert 
 Storey.' They inclined their heads slightly with a look 
 of condescension — as if I had introduced Molly my 
 maid. They were dressed as the day before, but their 
 swords they had left outside on the landing. 
 
 We then sat down, and I waited with some trepida- 
 tion for Robert's promised harangue. Alas ! there 
 would be no harangue. The poor man stood confused 
 and terrified. His face expressed this confusion : his 
 hands hung stupidly : his stiffness and resolution had 
 gone out of him. Where was the proper pride of the 
 Bookseller, which should have sustained him even in the 
 presence of a Baron ? Gone : it had left him. When 
 the rest of us sat down he remained standing : he 
 
94 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 appeared unable to decide what to do : he opened his 
 mouth and gasped : as for the words of fire, where were 
 they? Then he stammered a confused good-night to 
 his cousin, bowed low to the gentlemen, and retired, 
 falling ignominiously over the mat as he went out. So 
 there was an end to his grand appeal in the name of 
 virtue. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 * MY BROTHER, SIR GEORGE.' 
 
 When Mr. Robert Storey left us, in this sudden and 
 surprising manner, before we resumed our chairs, the 
 younger of the two visitors introduced his brother and 
 himself. 
 
 ' Madam,' addressing my cousin, ' our anxiety for the 
 safety of Miss Nancy may, we hope, excuse our pre- 
 sumption in calling. Let me present to you my brother. 
 Sir George Le Breton : I am myself — Mr. Edward Le 
 Breton, of His Majesty''s Navy. And, believe me, we 
 are both very much at your service.' 
 
 Sir George bowed low and looked about the room 
 curiously, as if he were in some strange place. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' my cousin replied, smiling sweetly — 
 most grateful in her mind that she was ari'ayed be- 
 comingly — ' I am indeed gratified by this honour,^ the 
 more so as it enables me to express my sense of your 
 gallantry last night.' 
 
 They both disclaimed any cause for gratitude, and, 
 compliments finished, we sat down and began to talk. 
 
 ' My brother,' said the sailor, ' is a country gentle- 
 man, so that he can stay at home while I go ploughing 
 the salt wave.' 
 
 While he spoke, his brother was looking about the 
 
96 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 room with curiosity. He appeared not to hear this 
 i-emark. 
 
 ' To be a country gentleman,"* said my cousin, ' is a 
 great thing. May I ask, Sir ' — she addressed Sir George 
 — ' in what county lies your estate V 
 
 Sir George started, and changed colour. 
 
 *I have property,' he replied in some confusion — I 
 know not why — ' chiefly in Berks and Wilts : but also 
 elsewhere "^ 
 
 The elder brother was at that time in the first flush 
 of early manhood : he was tall and strongly made : he 
 was much stronger, one would judge from his breadth 
 and height, than the ordinary run of young men : his 
 lips and mouth spoke of firmness : his features wei-e 
 regular and large: he moved and spoke with an un- 
 mistakable air of authority, yet his eyes, swift to change, 
 betrayed the gentleness and softness of his heart : 
 although at a time of life when youth is at its best 
 and the spirits are at their highest, he wore an habitual 
 expression of seriousness, as of one who contemplates 
 grave responsibilities. His cheek betrayed by its rosy 
 hue his splendid health. 
 
 It must not be supposed that this summary of his 
 appearance could have been written after the first day 
 of conversation. Not at all. I write down the descrip- 
 tion of the man as I learned to know him in three 
 months of his society and conversation. 
 
 I must call the second, as he presently begged me 
 to do, being always of a frank and even fraternal kindli- 
 ness, by his Christian name. Not, therefore, Mr. Edwaixl 
 Le Breton, but Edward. As for him, vivacity was 
 stamped upon his face; he was animated in speech, 
 in look, in movement ; he was always happy ; he seemed 
 to laugh whenever he spoke ; not so much at the wit 
 
'MY BROTHER, SIR GEORGE' 97 
 
 or humour of what was said, as that, being perfectly 
 happy, he must needs laugh. Yet he could at any 
 moment assume an air of authority almost as profound 
 as that of his brother. In appearance he was smaller 
 and slighter ; his dress, which was that of a naval officer, 
 of blue cloth with white facings, gold buttons, and a 
 scarlet sash, was much less splendid than the silk coat 
 Avom by his brother. Yet it seemed to befit his 
 character, which was entirely simple and trustful. And 
 as his own soul was incapable of aught that was mean, 
 disloyal, or treacherous, so he believed that most of 
 the world was created after the same mould. I think, 
 for my own part, that he who is thus constituted, and 
 can so regard his fellows, is far more likely to obtain 
 such happiness as the world affords than one who regards 
 every other man as a rogue and a traitor : who finds 
 mean motives in the noblest actions : and guards him- 
 self at every point against the possible treachery of a 
 friend. 
 
 The discourse on this, their first visit, was much more 
 formal than it afterwards became. Our friends mani- 
 fested some curiosity as to the Society of Friends (Isabel 
 made haste to explain our connection with that body), 
 of which they had never before seen any members. 
 
 ' I thought,' said Sir George, ' that there had been 
 some distinction in dress. I heard something of a 
 leather doublet which was never changed.' 
 
 ' There were formerly extravagances,' my cousin 
 replied. 'These have now settled down into a dress 
 of drab for the men and of drab or gray for the women. 
 They wear no ornaments, as they practise no arts.' 
 
 ' Miss Nancy is, therefore, not a Quakeress.' 
 
 ' She has not yet left the Society. While she stays 
 with me she dresses as fashion orders. ^ATien my 
 
 7 
 
98 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 husband died I went back to the Church of England, 
 in which I was born.' 
 
 'Madam,' said Sir George very earnestly, 'permit 
 me to say that you are quite right. There can be no 
 form of faith in which we can find so much happiness 
 or such solid assurance for the future. And there is 
 no other form of faith in which there have been and 
 are still so many scholars, divines, and philosophers.' 
 
 ' Add to which,' his brother said, ' that we must not 
 let Miss Nancy resume the gray and drab, or she will 
 make that fashion immortal. As it is, I look to see 
 no change in the present fashion while Miss Nancy 
 adorns it.' 
 
 I take pleasure in remembering the little extrava- 
 gances which please at the time, because they are 
 extravagant, yet mean nothing. 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said my cousin, ' Nancy may be persuaded 
 not to return to the garb of the Quakeress.' 
 
 ' Gray and drab — ^'tis the habit of a nun. Miss 
 Nancy, we cannot believe that you were intended for a 
 nunnery.' 
 
 So we talked on all kinds of things. Sir George 
 admired my cousin's pictures, and examined them more 
 closely, my cousin explaining them. Mr. Edward and 
 I talked meanwhile. He asked me what people I knew 
 or visited about St. James's ; he expressed his surprise 
 that he had never met or seen us anywhere. 
 
 * Sir,' I said, ' I am not only a Quakeress, but also 
 the daughter of a manufacturer. On either gi*ound I 
 can have no place in the fashionable world. We live 
 here, in the midst of noble people, but have no friends 
 among them.' 
 
 * Yet I swear,' he replied, laughing, ' there is not 
 anywhere one better fitted to grace a Court.' 
 
' MY BROTHER, SIR GEORGE ' 99 
 
 Sir George had finished his round of the walls, and 
 now stood beside me and heard these words. 
 
 ' Why,"* said Sir George, ' you miss all the scandal. 
 The Court kind of life is full of scandals. You are 
 happy not to know how much Lady Betty lost last 
 night at ombre, and how Lady Charlotte has run away 
 with her groom. Pray, madam, do not change in this 
 particular. Do not let Miss Nancy join the goodly 
 company of Scandal."* 
 
 Presently, turning over a portfolio of engravings, we 
 came upon one of a sea-fight. ' ^^y,' cried Edward, 
 ' I myself am a mere tarpaulin. I ought to have come 
 in my petticoats.' So he took up the picture and began 
 to talk about sea-fights, of which he had seen more than 
 one ; of engagements on land, and of tempests and ship- 
 wrecks. Alas ! what a gallant lad he was, and how the 
 colour rose to his cheeks and the light of his eyes fired 
 as he sprang to his feet and cheered the striking of the 
 enemy's flag ! His brother listened, as much moved as 
 ourselves. ' Happy the land,' he said, ' happy the King 
 for whom these brave fellows fight !' 
 
 'Yet I was tauo^ht to believe that all fifyhting: is 
 unchristian,' I said. ' Our people hold the doctrine of 
 non-resistance. They obey the Gospel precept. They 
 turn the other cheek.' 
 
 Sir George replied slowly : ' Why, then, if fighting is 
 unchristian, where is patriotism or loyalty ? AVhere is 
 the honour that despises death ? Where is the sacrifice 
 of personal advantage ? It may be that the time may 
 come when the lion will lie down with the lamb : 
 believe me, ladies, that time is not yet. For private 
 slights and insults it may even be possible, with some, 
 to turn the other cheek. As yet, however, the words 
 are to be taken as a prophecy rather than a command.' 
 
 7--2 
 
100 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 At nine ©''clock Molly brought up supper. At the 
 appearance of the tray, my cousin appeared anxious, 
 but her countenance cleared when she saw what was on 
 it. For our supper was commonly a slice or two of 
 bread with a little soft cheese and a glass of wine. This 
 incomparable Molly, finding that the gentlemen did not 
 withdraw, stepped round to Rider Street, behind St. 
 James''s Street, and returned with a cold roast chicken, 
 some slices of ham, a greengage pie, and two or three 
 tarts — it was not for nothing that the maid had lived 
 with a wealthy Quaker, at whose house, though the 
 outlook of the soul was doubtful, that of the body was 
 always secured. Well might my cousin change coun- 
 tenance at the sight of so dainty a supper, which, when 
 laid out on the clean white cloth, with the blue china 
 and glass, the silver spoons, and the ivory-handled steel 
 forks of which my cousin was justly proud — and embel- 
 lished with a bottle of Madeira, her late husband's best 
 — was a supper to tempt a nobleman. 
 
 ' Pray, gentlemen,*" she cried with smiling mock 
 humility, ' do not leave us ** — for they both rose at 
 sight of the supper — * to our simple meal. I have but 
 what you see, but indeed you will make us happy if 
 you partake of it with us." 
 
 So they sat down, and my cousin carved, while 
 Edward poured out the wine, not touching his glass 
 until his brother had first tasted. ' This," he said, ' is 
 a feast for the gods. Ah, ladies, could you but behold 
 us a thousand miles at sea with our salt junk and our 
 weevilly biscuit ! I thank you. Madam : the leg was 
 ever my favourite part of the bird : let me give you a 
 slice of ham. Brother, you let your glass stand too 
 long — he is but a onc-legojed creature : he l)ear8 too 
 heavy a load : lighten him a little. Miss Nancy — nay 
 
' MY BROTHER, SIR GEORGE ' 101 
 
 — one more glass.' I think I see him now — making so 
 much of this grand feast — laughing and talking. * On 
 Saturday night,' he said, ' we give ourselves a little 
 happiness in drinking to our mistresses : but it is a 
 shadowy joy ; a winter's sunshine, which only pretends 
 to warm. This ham. Madam, must have graced a 
 porker of Westphalia. The Madeira has been more 
 than once to India — that I dare affirm without taking 
 an oath in the presence of Miss Nancy.' 
 
 'It has been three times to India,' said my cousin 
 proudly. ' My husband was choice in his wine.' 
 
 Supper over, they invited us to play on the hai-psi- 
 chord. My cousin obeyed, and I saw that Sir George 
 possessed a soul sensible to the power of music. My cousin 
 played with great taste and skill : she played, first of all, 
 some of the music of that famous composer, Handel ; 
 then she changed the theme, and played in a lighter 
 strain. Both our visitors listened intently : but the elder 
 was more moved. Then she struck into the air of a song. 
 
 * Shall Nancy sing to you .^' she asked. ' I promise 
 you she hath a charming voice, though as yet it is not 
 completely trained.' 
 
 They begged and entreated, though I would willingly 
 have been excused. So, while she played an accom- 
 paniment, I sang a song which she had taught me. 
 The words were her own, set to the air called ' Drink 
 to me only with thine eyes.' Isabel wrote the words 
 herself one day after discoursing with me on the 
 wickedness of forbidding music to the people called 
 Quakers. She called the song ' Life and Song ' — 
 
 * The thrushes sing from yonder wood, 
 
 The lark from yonder sky ; 
 And all day long the sweet wind's song 
 Among the leaves doth lie. 
 
102 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 Oh I gently touch the magic string, 
 
 Let soft strains rise and fall : 
 So that our thoughts in concert sing 
 
 With birds and leaves and all. 
 
 * The birds love sun and light and air : 
 
 The glories of the day : 
 All living things, both foul and fair, 
 
 Rejoice to live alway. 
 Oh I gently touch the magic string, 
 
 Let soft strains rise and fall : 
 So that our songs of praise we sing 
 
 In concert with them all. 
 
 * The birds they sing : the birds they love : 
 
 List 1 mate his mate invites. 
 All living things around, above, 
 
 They know the same delights. 
 Oh ! gently touch the magic string, 
 
 Let soft strains rise and fall : 
 So that our hearts of love may sing 
 
 In concert with them all.' 
 
 ' Let me thank you, Miss Nancy. Such a voice, with 
 such a face, is rarely seen.' It was Sir George who 
 spoke. ' Perhaps we may have the happiness of hearing 
 emother song.' 
 
 'No, gentlemen,' Isabel said, shutting the harpsi- 
 chord. 'We would not tire your ears. If it pleases 
 you to come again, Nancy shall sing again and I will 
 play to you. And now let me offer you a simple glass 
 of punch. It is a custom of the City, to which both 
 my father and my husband belonged.' 
 
 * Willingly, Madam.' Edward spoke in the name of 
 his brother, for both. ' Most willingly, especially if 
 you will permit me to make it, as we make it at sea — 
 I think you will own that even servants taught by you 
 cannot make punch so well as a sailor. Afai* from love 
 
'MY BROTHER, SIR GEORGE' 103 
 
 — torn from his sweetheart — what comfort for the sailor 
 but his punch ?** 
 
 So Molly brought the hot water, the lemons, sugar, 
 spice, and the rum in a decanter, with the punch-bowl 
 — be sure that it was Isabel's best punch-bowl — that 
 formerly reserved by her husband for the refreshment 
 of the pious company which frequented his house — and 
 a most beautiful bowl it was, thin as an egg, painted 
 with flowers, gilt-edged, and, if you struck it lightly, 
 giving out a note as clear as a bell and almost as 
 loud. 
 
 You could imagine that the making of punch was a 
 mighty mystery, so great was the attention bestowed 
 upon it by the maker of it. He pushed back his ruffles ; 
 he spread out his materials around him : then, with an 
 air of boundless importance, he began. 
 
 There is this difference between men and women, 
 that whatever men like to do it is with a will : they 
 put into it, for the time, all their heart ; women, on the 
 other hand, save for what touches their affections and 
 their dress, do everything as if it mattered not whether 
 it was ill done or well done. No woman could possibly 
 think that in the brewing of punch so much care was 
 necessary. To be sure I have seen equal care bestowed 
 (by a man) upon the boiling of an egg or the composi- 
 tion of a sallet. 
 
 First he cut his lemons; then he rubbed the bowl 
 with the rind ; after this he opened the decanter and 
 sniffed at the contents. * Ha f he said, ' I have not 
 been in the Navy for nothing. This is right Barbadoes ; 
 your true West Indian spirit — twenty years old if it is 
 a day. Your lamented husband, dear Madam, knew 
 punch as well as Madeira !' 
 
 ' He also knew port and Rhenish and Canary — and 
 
104 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 indeed every wine there is. He had no equal as a 
 connoisseur.' 
 
 *It is to be hoped' — Edward began to squeeze his 
 lemons — ' that where he now goes to Meeting these 
 gifts will not be wasted.' Then he put in the rum : 
 added a glass or two of Madeira : measured out the 
 sugar and the spice with anxious eyes : and, lastly, 
 poured over all the hot water. Then he placed the 
 spoon in my hand, and begged me to stir it. ' For,' 
 he said, ' the one thing that is lacking at sea is the 
 light touch of a woman's hand. Believe me. Miss 
 Nancy, there is a persuasiveness in the stirring of the 
 bowl by a lovely woman which induces the materials 
 to combine and mix with a will and a completeness 
 which not even the youngest volunteer at sea can 
 induce.' 
 
 So I stirred, laughing, and presently Edward declared 
 the punch ready, and, indeed, thanks to my stirring, 
 perfection. 
 
 He poured out five full glasses and bestowed one 
 upon each, including Molly, who stood by wondering 
 and pleased. Then he stood up and addressed his 
 brother. ' George,' he said, ' a toast.' 
 
 * I drink,' said George, ' to the fair Quakeress, Miss 
 Nancy.' So, with a little maidenly blush which became 
 him, he drank half a glass and set it down. But his 
 brother drank two glasses one after the other, saying 
 that the toast deserved nine times nine. 
 
 Then, for it was now already ten o'clock, they de- 
 parted, promising that they would speedily call again. 
 
 When they were gone my cousin sat down with a 
 little laugh of satisfaction. 
 
 * Molly did well,' she said. * My heart failed me 
 when I saw the arrival of the tray. To-mon*ow I will 
 
' MY BROTHER, SIR GEORGE ' 105 
 
 present Molly with something in acknowledgment. 
 The supper, my dear, was genteel — and oh ! how thank- 
 ful one ought to be for a husband whose taste in wine 
 and rum was so exquisite. My dear, we might have 
 set before these young noblemen a bottle from the 
 tavern — such stuff as mounts to the brain of Captain 
 Sellinger.' 
 
 She supped a little punch, of which a good deal was 
 left. ' 'Tis excellent,' she said. ' In the Navy they under- 
 stand punch. Sir George Le Breton and Mr. Edward 
 Le Breton : I know not their names : but then, what 
 names do we know of the Quality? The elder is a 
 Baronet — doubtless. He is rich, I am sure ; partly 
 from his diess, which is costly ; and his buckles, which 
 are set with brilliants : and his gold lace : and partly 
 from his dignity and air of authority : and the defer- 
 ence with which his brother treats him. Yes : he is 
 doubtless rich. Nancy, dear, his eyes are eloquent.' 
 
 ' He intensely admired your pictures, Isabel."* 
 
 ' He admired something else more than the pictures. 
 I observed, Nancy, that while the younger brother 
 talked and laughed in his merry way, the elder sat in 
 silence, but gazing, with a kind of wonder. Yes — my 
 dear, of wonder ' 
 
 ' Why should he wonder .?' 
 
 ' Nay, I know not — and of tenderness.' She rose and 
 kissed my forehead. 
 
 ' Isabel, your thoughts run away with you. Cannot 
 two gentlemen pay us a visit without ' 
 
 ' Without — what, dear child ? Know, Nancy, that to 
 the presence of beauty no man can ever be insensible.' 
 
 ' Oh ! But when he knows nothing of the mind that 
 is beneath. Why, it might be the mind of a Shrew or 
 a Fury.' 
 
106 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' Men take the face first, and consider the mind after- 
 wards. Some of them never do consider the mind at 
 all. Nancy,** she repeated seriously, ' it is not a woman's 
 mind that man inquires after : her face, my dear ' — she 
 kissed me — ' her face proclaims her mind : her lovely 
 face, my child : her bewitching form : proclaim aloud 
 all the virtues that can endow a woman : all the wis- 
 dom that can exist in a woman's mind : all of Heaven, 
 my dear, that the angels themselves can enjoy.' 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WARNINGS. 
 
 In the morning I went to Robei-t Storey's shop in Pall 
 Mall early, before the scholars and poets met to talk : 
 he was standing behind his counter in a brown coat, 
 smug and self-satisfied : his shopmen were dusting and 
 an-anging books : one of his hacks was standing in a 
 humble attitude with a manuscript in his hands. I 
 suppose he was begging for a guinea. Robert changed 
 colour when he saw me. 
 
 'I only wish to congratulate you, Mr. Robert, on 
 your eloquent address of last night. Your remonstrance 
 in the cause of vii-tue cannot fail to produce its effect.' 
 
 ' It is true,' he acknowledged, ' that I withdrew. 
 Why ? Because,' he stammered and hesitated, ' I per- 
 ceived . . . Yes . . . yes . . . that the conversation 
 would turn upon things frivolous and gallantries in 
 which a plain man can have no part.' — Yet the con- 
 versation had not begun when he left us — ' As for the 
 remonstrance, I understood that it would be wasted 
 where Virtue has no residence. Fashion, the Mode, 
 Frivolity are stamped upon their faces. Stamped,' he 
 repeated, gaining fresh confidence, ' on their faces.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Mr. Robert, surely this is uncharitable.' 
 
 * Besides — I may have to receive these gentlemen in 
 
108 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 my shop ; and I would not emban-ass them with the 
 recollection of having met them before in a lady''s 
 parlour. It was for their own sakes that I left you : 
 I w^ould spare them possible embarrassment.' 
 
 ' This was truly thoughtful of you, Mr. Robert.' 
 
 ' We must preserve the gradations of rank.' He had 
 now recovered his composure. ' Go away, Sir ' — he 
 addressed the poor hack. * Leave me. Come at a 
 more convenient time. Rank must be observed. Else 
 what should we become ? A mere mob. In the same 
 way, though in the qualities of virtue and of parts I 
 may not be greatly superior to the groundling authors, 
 such as this gentleman here ' — the poor man, who was 
 tying up his papers, winced and coloured — * whom I 
 employ, they would not certainly expect to sit at the 
 same table with me.' 
 
 ' Surely not, Mr. Storey,' murmured the ragged 
 genius. ' I should be more in my place, I own, at 
 another table, with your guineas in my pocket.' 
 
 ' I would not embarrass them by inviting them to 
 do so : as my author says, they would be more in their 
 place at another table : so these young gentlemen, what- 
 ever their rank may be — if, indeed, they have any 
 rank — would not invite me to dine with them.' 
 
 I thought this a lame excuse to cover his ignominious 
 flight. However, he went on to warn me earnestly 
 once more against these new friends. * If you knew ' 
 he went on, ' who the young men are — their intrusion 
 into the private circle of a lady marks, to my mind, 
 inferior breeding — their dress may be that of the stage : 
 their manners are certainly supercilious. On the whole 
 I incline (unwillingly) to the belief that they are pre- 
 tenders. You will learn, presently, what a mass of 
 dissimulation and falsehood exists in this place.' 
 
WARxNINGS 109 
 
 * So far, they have advanced no pretences.** 
 
 ' That will follow. They are Irish adventurers, may- 
 be, in search of an heiress.' 
 
 'They will, in that case, quickly learn the truth, and 
 they will come no more.' This I said in ignorance as 
 to my o^vn fortune. 
 
 ' Nay, Miss Nancy, when they learned the truth, they 
 would stay all the longer. But perhaps they are not 
 gentlemen at all, but the sons of City tradesmen. It 
 is well known that certain young men of the City 
 delight in assuming the disguise of Rank, and frequent 
 Vauxhall and Marylebone and other places of resort 
 with the manners which they ignorantly ascribe to the 
 Great. The apron of the morning is exchanged in the 
 evening for the silken coat, the embroidered waistcoat, 
 gilt buckles, gilt buttons and a laced hat — all borrowed 
 or hired for the evening in Monmouth Street. Some 
 even assume the Star. Thus attired, the prentice passes 
 himself off at the play-house, the coffee-room, the 
 tavern, the gaming-house, and the public garden, for 
 a man of fashion. The elder of your visitors showed 
 something of the City manner : I could not choose but 
 suspect (I hope without any foundation) that the apron 
 had j ust been discarded.' 
 
 ' Mr. Robert, I am not long in this part of town : 
 but I am sure that you are wrong. Little as I know 
 of the world, I am persuaded that this young man is 
 no pretender.' 
 
 ' Nay, I do not accuse — I only warn. We live in a 
 wicked age and in a wicked city. Sometimes when a 
 serious man reflects, he is fain to ask why the city is 
 not consumed with fire.' 
 
 'I have been told a good deal of wickedness since 
 I came here. Yet ' 
 
110 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' For instance, what should you say if these two 
 persons turned out to be highwaymen in disguise ?*" 
 
 * Why — what should highwaymen want in our simple 
 house ?' 
 
 ' They are seen everywhere. In the younger man, 
 dressed as an officer of the Royal Navy, there was a 
 reckless audacity which made me think of the high- 
 wayman.' 
 
 ' Irish adventurers, city apprentices, and highwaymen. 
 Our new friends are truly interesting. How are we 
 to prove them guilty ? 
 
 ' Of course I do not assert, or charge. I only say 
 that the suspicion — I hope a baseless suspicion — crossed 
 my mind.** 
 
 ' But why highwaymen ? How can you be so familiar 
 with that gentry as to recognise them ?** 
 
 ' I have seen them, in the cart, on their way to 
 Tyburn — reckless to the last, even the moment before 
 meeting their offended Creator."* 
 
 ' Oh ! To compare a vivacious young gentleman with 
 those abandoned wretches ! This is not just, Mr. 
 Storey.' 
 
 He shook his head sadly. ' A wicked world. Miss 
 Nancy.' 
 
 ' Yet you ran away and left us exposed to their 
 wiles and arts and perhaps their violence. Was that 
 well done .'*' 
 
 To this he made no reply, and I went away. 
 
 Would you believe, after reading all these warnings, 
 that Robert actually knew our visitors, their names, 
 and their position in the world, the moment he saw 
 them ? And to this day I cannot understand what 
 he meant by all these warnings and suspicions. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE OPINIONS OF A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Every woman is at heart a match - maker. This 
 proposition is generally advanced as an accusation or 
 charge against the sex. On the contrary, it should be 
 considered as a part of the eulogy which must be pro- 
 nounced on women by every candid man. For, that 
 every woman should be a match -maker proves the 
 natural kindness of her heai-t, and that in spite of the 
 (so-called) feminine jealousies commonly attributed to 
 her. Nothing is more desired, or more desirable, by a 
 woman than love : all her instincts lead her to desire 
 love : it is love that raises weak woman to be mistress 
 instead of servant : nay, it is love that makes her a 
 willing and happy servant, though the mistress : it is 
 love that distinguishes and glorifies her : it is love that 
 makes her live by the work of other hands not her own : 
 it is love that gives her more than the full share of her 
 lover's good fortune, and enables her to mitigate and 
 console him in adversity : it is love that removes from 
 her the loneliness of the soul apart : finally, it is love, 
 and love alone — even past love — which lifts her out of 
 the apparent insignificance of her lot. 
 
 Every woman knows this : if every woman, knowing 
 this, desires that another woman should be loved as well 
 
112 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 as herself, then must every woman's heart be truly soft 
 and kind, and anxious for the general happiness. 
 
 My cousin was no exception to the rule. She 
 assumed from the outset that love brought these two 
 gentlemen to visit us. Why else should they come? 
 ' My dear,'' said Isabel ; ' one of them is in love with a 
 certain person. Of that we may be assured. The 
 other comes, I suppose — unless he, too, is in love — to 
 lend support and countenance."* 
 
 'I do not know,' I replied, being as yet unmoved. 
 ' They make no signs of love. What is a woman to do 
 whose lover, if there is one, makes no sign ?"* 
 
 ' I cannot tell which it is ' — we were still at the outset. 
 * Nothing astonishes me more than this difficulty. Some- 
 times I think it is one: sometimes I think it is the 
 other. I have seen the elder brother gazing upon you 
 the whole evening through : the next day, perhaps, it is 
 the younger. However, let us have patience. The 
 flame will break out before long. Meantime let us 
 attend, my dear, with even greater solicitude, to our 
 ribbons and our rags.' 
 
 It is not difficult to study the mode when one lives in 
 St. James's : one has but to walk down the street, which 
 is filled all day with fine people : or in St. James's Park : 
 or in the Green Park ; to see how the ladies of fashion 
 dress and rouge and patch. 
 
 *We are by right but City Madams,' said Isabel. 
 ' We ought to be living within the sound of Bow Bells : 
 yet we can show as well as any how a fine woman may 
 set off her charms. And as for charms, my Nancy, 
 what can they display at Court — in face or figure — 
 finer than a certain person, who shall be nameless ?' 
 
 At first this kind of talk shamed me. Was, I asked, 
 a woman to be praised according to her points, like a 
 
THE OPINIONS OF A GENTLEMAN 11^ 
 
 horse or a dog ? Did love mean nothing more than 
 admiration of these points ? 
 
 ' Nay,' said my wise cousin. ' We have Nature behind 
 us, and before us, and within us always. We build 
 upon Nature. Dress, for instance, keeps us warm, but 
 we do not wrap ourselves in a blanket : we build the 
 structure called Fashion upon that blanket. Love 
 begins with the attraction of beauty, but with civilised 
 beings it doth not end there. My husband once owned 
 that first he loved me for my face, which he was pleased 
 to admire ; but afterwards he found other things — 
 those which belong to the understanding — which he 
 also admired. Yet a lovely face must ever give a 
 woman the highest advantage. Do not despise Nature, 
 my dear."* 
 
 I understand, now, that she was right. After all, it 
 is easy for a girl to be reconciled to the nilings of 
 nature when she has been endowed with what men call 
 charms. 
 
 ' A man, in a word," Isabel continued, ' is first caught 
 by a face and afterwards fixed — if ever he can be fixed 
 — by the heart, or the mind, or the capability, or some 
 other charm, real or imaginary, of which the world 
 knows nothing. Thus fixed, it is for life. My dear, 
 the only man a woman of sensibility as well as beauty 
 has to fear is the dull man — the stupid man — who 
 cannot understand more than what he sees, and, when 
 he tires of one face, flies off to another. Now, let us go 
 back to where we began, that is, our ribbons and our rags.** 
 
 Everyone will believe me, I am sure, when I confess 
 that, although a Quakeress by breeding, I quickly dis- 
 covered how great a pleasiu-e may be found in consider- 
 ing dress and fashion : stuff's and shape : trimmings and 
 ribbons : to sit in a shop and have spread out before you 
 
 8 
 
114 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 dazzling things in flowered silks, satin, brocade, or 
 velvet : to imagine a frock glorified with ribbons, lace, 
 and trimmings : to choose : to order : to try on before 
 a long glass : I confess that to my newly-awakened 
 sense it was enchanting. Every woman will understand 
 me. But let no man, except those of the Society, 
 blame me : let him try to understand that a woman'*8 
 dress is far more to her than his own can be to him : to 
 the latter it is always, more or less, his working dress, 
 like the leathern apron of the blacksmith : the sign of 
 his occupation, like the red cap of the brewer, or the 
 brown-paper cap of the carpenter : or his fighting dress, 
 like the cuirass and the helmet. In a woman di*ess 
 is never intended for work, but for adornment : in youth 
 it proclaims, and enshrines, and sets off the newly 
 blossomed flower of her beauty : and in age it conceals, 
 as well as it can, the decay and final disappearance of 
 beauty. It also proclaims her wealth and her rank. 
 To be sure I had no rank, yet my cousin dressed me as 
 fine as any countess, and when we walked in the Park 
 the other women stared at us with the rudeness of envy, 
 or the equal rudeness of curiosity. Even the highest 
 rank, I have learned by this experience, does not always 
 confer good-breeding. It is not well-bred, even for 
 a duchess, to stare after a new-comer with the air of 
 asking what right she has to appear among a well- 
 dressed company, hei*self well dressed. I am not there- 
 fore ashamed to confess that during this period I spent 
 much time standing before the mirror, or sitting at the 
 counter of the mercer^s shop. 
 
 * Cousin,' I said, ' what if my brother should see me 
 now ?"• Twas when my fii-st really fine frock came 
 home, and I stood in grandeur, hoop and all, ready to 
 sally forth into the Park. 
 
THE OPINIONS OF A GENTLEMAN 115 
 
 * Quakeress !' she laughed, speaking in the old style. 
 ' Will thee still be thinking about thy brother ? Thee 
 art but a goose. I do not think that someone will ever 
 suffer thee to go back to him.'' 
 
 Did I, then, lay myself out, consciously, to attract 
 and captivate a man, like the woman in the Book 
 of Proverbs ? Nay : that can I never confess. Sure I 
 am that if any woman should read this page, she will 
 forgive me for wishing to appear becomingly dressed. 
 
 These friends of ours called upon us a second time, 
 and a third time, and again and again : they made 
 excuses for calling : they brought presents — an engrav- 
 ing for my cousin : some fine silver-work from India for 
 me : a book, because we loved books — always something- 
 new. Of course, when they had offered their gifts, they 
 sat down and talked. After a week or two, they came 
 every day, either in the morning or in the evening. 
 
 In August the fashionable part of town is empty. 
 The great people come up from the country in 
 January and leave in June. The park is therefore 
 nearly empty during that month. Sometimes we 
 walked with our friends in the deserted paths of St. 
 James*'s Park : sometimes we saw the soldiers exercising 
 in the Green Park : sometimes we watched the Trooping 
 of the Colour at St. James's Palace. Many times as we 
 walked with them, Sir George beside me, and Edward 
 with Isabel, hats were taken off and people gazed upon 
 us curiously, especially upon me. ' They are, I suppose,' 
 he would say carelessly, ' acquaintances of mine. A 
 great many people know me. Not everybody. Yet 
 they gaze upon you, Miss Nancy, for very good reasons 
 which I need not explain.' 
 
 Meantime, I could no longer disguise from myself the 
 knowledge that Sir George came to see me, and that 
 
 8—2 
 
116 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 the brother came simply to accompany him. And it 
 was manifest that the younger brother's deference to 
 the elder was always most marked and unusual. On 
 the other hand, Sir George accepted this deference as if 
 it were his due — yet not arrogantly. 
 
 I have told you that Sir George was a young man of 
 singularly fine appearance. Let me talk about him 
 again. His large and open face showed the nobility of 
 his soul : honour, truth, loyalty, bravery, were stamped 
 upon it ; his eyes were always full of light, and — oh ! to 
 think of it ! — I have seen them full of love and tender- 
 ness. He wore his hair powdered and tied behind in a 
 bow of black ribbon ; his gold lace, his gold buckles, 
 were of the finest ; his dress was that of a rich young 
 man. In his speech he was rapid but authoritative ; 
 his voice was musical and sweet. 
 
 In his manner he was extremely affable : he wore 
 habitually the gracious smile that belongs to a good 
 heart. I have since learned that he could be peremptory, 
 and even harsh on occasions : as when his orders were 
 not obeyed. For myself, I cannot understand how he 
 could ever be harsh. The mere look of reproach in 
 those eyes, always so kindly, would have made me sink 
 into the earth. 
 
 It is a pleasure for me to recall some of the opinions 
 and judgments which he delivered in my presence ; and, 
 indeed, addressed chiefly to myself. And since it is 
 interesting to the world to know what were the private 
 sentiments and the opinions of a great man in his 
 younger days, while still a (comparatively) private 
 person, I propose to pause in my story in order to set 
 down some of those which I remember. There are 
 times when I seem to remember every word that he ever 
 said : there ai*e other times (those of depression) when 
 
THE OPINIONS OF A GENTLEMAN 117 
 
 many of his words seem to escape me. His opinions 
 may have been founded on imperfect knowledge : but 
 they were always such as a noble mind would form and 
 hold. 
 
 Sometimes we read poetry, but neither of the brothers 
 cared greatly for verse: they were not open to the 
 influence of the Muse : they were not moved by poetry, 
 though my cousin read, or declaimed, as well as any 
 actress. When I ventured to remonstrate with Sir 
 George on this apparent insensibility, ' If I were a 
 woman,' he said, 'I should read poetry. Men act, 
 women look on : they like to hear, if they cannot see, 
 how a thing is done. The poet fights the battle over 
 again for their instruction.' 
 
 ' But, Sir,' I ventured to say, ' the actors are few, the 
 spectators are many, and they are not all women.' 
 
 'Let us say, then, that poets write not for men 
 of action. That is to say, not for kings and princes : 
 generals and admirals, statesmen, lawmakers, judges, 
 bishops, divines. See how large a number are excluded, 
 for these are the men of action, who care little how 
 a thing is described so that it is done well. For myself, 
 it is possible that I, too, shall be numbered hereafter 
 among those who act. Do you think that I shall 
 concern myself about the gentry who are trying to 
 make crown rhyme to frozvn f It is a necessary con- 
 dition imposed upon the man who acts that he should 
 be the prey of the man who writes. Poets eulogize the 
 men who are successful. They are the slanderers of the 
 men who are defeated. Miss Nancy, the poets do not 
 write for the leaders, but for those who are led : they 
 write, I say, for the spectators : for the herd : for the 
 people who obey, and for the women who look on. For 
 my part, I cannot for the life of me understand the 
 
118 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 admiration with which the world regards the poets, or 
 the vanity with which they regard themselves.' 
 
 *Does not their vanity spring from the world's 
 admiration?' I ventured to ask. 'If we did not 
 admire and love their works they would not be vain.' 
 
 ' Yet — what is it we admire ? A feat of arms finely 
 described : yet, Miss Nancy, the feat of arms is neither 
 better nor worse for the description. The poet does not 
 make it. He only talks about it.' 
 
 ' He makes kings immortal. Sir. Who would know, 
 after all these years, anything of the Siege of Troy but 
 for Homer's Epic and Pope's Translation ?' 
 
 ' A general or a prince should so live that he should 
 carve his name himself in immoi-tal granite never to 
 be forgotten. I hear that they accuse the King of 
 neglecting poets. What should he do for them ? If 
 they are good poets they become so without the King's 
 help. Why should the King encourage them ? Elizabeth 
 did not encourage Shakspere, who got on very well, I 
 believe, without her support. Kings nmst encourage 
 the soldiers who defend the nation and extend her 
 glory : and statesmen who administrate the country : 
 and merchants who increase her wealth ; and scholars 
 who preserve her religion : but poets ! Let those for 
 whom the poets write maintain the poets. Therefore, 
 Miss Nancy, I prefer those who make the history of the 
 world : that is, the Kings who rule : to the men who 
 write verses upon them.' 
 
 * But, Sir,' I said, * there are other poets besides those 
 who write epics. There are pastoral poets, religious 
 poets : those who write love poems : those who >vrite 
 drinking songs : satirists ' 
 
 * There, indeed,' he said, * I congratulate you, Miss 
 Nancy. The pastoral poets talk about the warblei-s in 
 
THE OPINIONS OF A GENTLEMAN 119 
 
 the bosky grove and the enamelled lawns. When I 
 walk in my gardens at Kew I see the flowers and I hear 
 the birds. It would make me no happier if I could 
 repeat dozens of rhymes upon them. As for drinking 
 songs, you would not like my brother to troll out in 
 this room some low sailor''s drinking song : and as for 
 satire, it is, truly, a fine thing to invent lies and to take 
 away another man''s character. Of love songs, however, 
 I must speak with respect, because my father, who loved 
 the arts of every kind, wrote at least two. One, which 
 I remember, was addressed to his mistress — that is, his 
 wife.' 
 
 We begged him to recite it. 
 
 ' I would rather sing it for you,' he replied. 
 
 This was a new discovery. He could touch the 
 harpsichord and sing. His voice, I have already said, 
 was musical : it was also true to time and tune. The 
 words, which I took down, were as follows. I give the 
 best — which were the first two verses and the last — 
 
 ' 'Tis not the liquid brightness of thine eyes, 
 
 That swim with pleasure and delight, 
 
 Nor those two heavenly arches which arise 
 
 O'er each of them to shade their light. 
 
 * 'Tis not that hair which plays with every wind, 
 
 And loves to wanton round thy face : 
 Now straying round the forehead, now behind 
 Retiring with insidious grace. 
 • • • * • 
 
 * No : 'tis that gentleness of mind, that love 
 
 So kindly answering my desire : 
 That grace with which you look and speak and move 
 That thus has set my soul on fire.' 
 
 After this he often sang to us. ' At home,' he said, 
 ' when I sing, they all fall into ecstasies. Sure never 
 
120 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 was heard so fine a singer ! Never was heard so fine a 
 voice ! From your lips, dear ladies, alone can I leam 
 the truth and have my faults corrected, and so improve. 
 If singing is a tiifle worth doing, it is worth taking 
 trouble about/ My cousin had told him that he hissed 
 his consonants too much, and ran words together which 
 should be separate. ' Nay — but, indeed, I thank you 
 for your criticisms. Perhaps another evening I may 
 prove that I have laid your instructions to heart.' 
 
 Of books and authors he entertained as poor an 
 opinion as of poets. * If a gentleman chooses,' he said, 
 ' to entertain the world with his thoughts, I suppose he 
 may do so, though it would be more dignified to com- 
 mimicate them to his private friends only, as many 
 learned scholars and wits prefer to do. But as for 
 these ragged fellows who hang about booksellers' shops ; 
 write vile pamphlets on either side for money ; sell their 
 pens to all comers ; praise or slander according to pay, 
 and supply whatever is wanted at a guinea a sheet — 
 this, I hear, is the rule — why, I think such a trade most 
 contemptible and most hateful.' 
 
 'But,' I said, 'authors move the world through the 
 imagination, either by a play, or a poem, or a romance.' 
 
 'Why, if so, how is your author better than a 
 buffoon who makes the people laugh ? He is but a 
 Jack Pudding and a Merry Andrew at best. If we 
 condescend to laugh at such a fellow we despise him 
 still. Pitiful trade, to make idle people laugh or cry ! 
 But perhaps there are people who do not think so. 
 Otherwise no one would be proud to take up the trade.' 
 
 I submitted with humility that many of these authors 
 wrote with a serious intention, for the promotion of 
 Virtue. And I instanced that remarkable work, 
 ' Clarissa,' by the ingenious Mr. Samuel Richardson. 
 
THE OPINIONS OF A GENTLEMAN 121 
 
 ' I have heard of the book,' he said : ' I doubt, how- 
 ever, whether virtue can be advanced by the dehneation 
 of vice or the contemplation of virtue brought to ruin. 
 Besides, this advocacy of virtue belongs to Divines and 
 to religion. Tell me, Miss Nancy, if the Gospel, which 
 contains the Word of God, fails to inculcate virtue, 
 can we expect success from a printer of Fleet Street T 
 
 He would, in fact, admit only as worthy of encourage- 
 ment, books of instruction, such as works on agriculture, 
 inventions, medicine, surgery, arts and crafts, and the 
 like. Much reading, he thought, made a man rely on 
 books more than upon himself. ' Consider a gardener,' 
 he said. ' I dare swear that none of my gardeners know 
 how to read. Yet, what a vast field of knowledge 
 belongs to them : they know the trees and the flowers 
 and the roots and the vegetables, with everything 
 belonging to them : each kind of tree, and how it 
 lives and flourishes : its soil : its health and diseases. 
 They know all the birds and their customs : there is 
 no end to the knowledge of a gardener. What book 
 can teach this knowledge ?' 
 
 One must confess that this kind of knowledge cannot 
 be imparted by books. 
 
 ' As for me," he went on, * I find that I learn best 
 if I learn by the word of mouth. Whether it is in the 
 art of war or the art of government, I do not care to 
 read so much as to listen : then I turn over in my mind 
 what I have heard, and there it sticks. How much 
 better is this than the printed book, where one always 
 sees the peacock author strutting about and crying, 
 " Hear me ! Behold me ! See these fine feathers ! 
 How clever I am !" ' 
 
 Such were his opinions on poets and authors. He 
 did not advance them with the diffidence that one finds 
 
122 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 in most young men : such diffidence, for instance, as 
 is due to the presence of older or more experienced 
 persons : such diffidence as one acquires by frequenting 
 places where men congregate : as the halls and common 
 rooms of colleges ; coffee houses and taverns. ITiis 
 young man spoke as if he had been encouraged to think 
 his own opinions of the greatest importance: this, 
 indeed, as you will presently understand, was the case. 
 
 His opinions, again, were such as one would expect 
 of a young man living out of the world : that is to 
 say, apart from the folk who do the work and are 
 anxious about their daily bread. His \'iews of human 
 nature were not based on a sufficiently wide observa- 
 tion. Yet they were remarkable, you will own, for 
 their sound justice. 
 
 We spoke of plays. I mentioned that I knew them 
 only by reading, for I had never been to the theati-e. 
 
 'A play,' he said, 'is the representation of history 
 or fable by action accompanied by dialogue proper to 
 the situation. If you only read a play you have to 
 imagine a succession of situations, which continually 
 change as they follow the course of the story. I 
 confess that my own imagination is too dull and the 
 effort is too great for this. If you will permit me to 
 accompany you to the play you will see a thousand 
 beauties in the story which you never guessed by 
 reading."* 
 
 I said that in my youth I was taught that the theatre 
 is the house of the devil. 
 
 *Why,"* he replied, 'so is this house — if the Denl is 
 terrified by the sight of goodness — and every house, 
 unless we keep him out. Miss Nancy's face would 
 frighten him even out of the playhouse.' 
 
 'But,' said my cousin, 'I have always understood 
 
THE OPINIONS OF A GENTLEMAN 123 
 
 that vice is open and unrestrained at the playhouse. 
 How can a gentlewoman venture into such a place P"* 
 
 ' At first,' he replied, ' you will, it is true, wonder 
 what a gentlewoman has to do in such a place: you 
 will see the people fighting in the gallery, brawling in 
 the pit, the fellows staring at the pretty women in the 
 boxes, the painted Jezebels laughing loud and staring 
 at the men, the footmen in their gallery whistling and 
 calling and bawling, the music making noise enough 
 to crack your ears, and the orange-girls shrieking above 
 all. But as soon as the piece begins you forget all 
 that offended you before : your eyes will be fixed upon 
 the stage : you will be carried quite out of yourself : 
 you will think of nothing but the story which they act. 
 They are not afraid — these actors — to place even Kings 
 and Queens upon the stage : the Majesty of Kings, 
 which is conveyed to them by the holy Chrism, they 
 cannot, of course, imitate : but the dignity of a Queen 
 have I seen represented with wonderful power. That, 
 Miss Nancy, is, I suppose, because all women are born 
 to command.' 
 
 ' Well, but,' I said, still thinking of the authors and 
 the poets, ' every play must be written by someone, who 
 invents also the fable or plot.' 
 
 'Nobody asks who wrote it. The playwright finds 
 his plot somewhere ; he does not invent it. He arranges 
 it first, and then writes the words afterwards. But the 
 words are nothing: it is the scene and the situation 
 that can-y us out of ourselves. The play is not made 
 by the author, but by the actor, to whom alone should 
 be given the credit.' 
 
 Now to this opinion, that the words are nothing, and 
 that the play is made by the actor, not the author, my 
 cousin, who loved the reading of plays, demurred, and 
 
124 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 a long argument followed, which I omit because nothing 
 was settled, and to this day I know not whether a play 
 owes more to the poet or to the actor. 
 
 In a word, he loved the play, which moved him 
 deeply, but he cared nothing for the fine poetry or the 
 noble sentiments : what moved him were the situations, 
 the things that happened : Richard the Second in prison 
 filled him with pity : the fine verses put into the King's 
 mouth by the poet moved him not at all. 
 
 ' If I were a school master,"* he said, ' I would teach 
 history by means of plays, to be acted by the boys. 
 ITie schoolmaster would arrange the play and the boys 
 would make their own words."* 
 
 Sometimes we sat down to play cards. His favourite 
 game was that called Comet. I believe that the 
 Founder of our Society called them the DeviPs pictures, 
 or something equally severe. Surely, had he seen our 
 innocent games, at which no one wept at losing or 
 rejoiced at winning, he would have changed his opinion. 
 Cards, I apprehend, like wine, dress, and many other 
 things, are what we make of them. On this subject he 
 was quite clear and decided. He played with interest, 
 but it was the interest of watching the chances and 
 varying fortunes of the cards, which sometimes wantonly 
 strip a player of all he has, and at other times, with no 
 more reason, load him with wealth. 
 
 * A gentleman,"* he said, * must not play above his 
 means : let him lose no more than he will never miss, 
 and win no more than will not make him rich. Let us 
 not see your lovely face. Miss Nancy, distorted by the 
 anxieties of the gamester. Sometimes, at my mother's 
 card parties, I watch the ladies over their play. 
 Heavens ! if they only mark the havoc which play can 
 make upon a woman"*s face ! What lover would not fly 
 
THE OPINIONS OF A GENTLEMAN 125 
 
 in horror from his mistress when he saw her snatch up 
 her cards ; bite her lips ; turn white and red through 
 her rouge : when her eyes are filled with tears : when 
 her voice chokes : and her brow wrinkles with rage and 
 despair ? Yet the next night they are ready to begin 
 again ! Miss Nancy, you have again all the luck of the 
 cards.' 
 
 He spoke often and willingly on religion, in which he 
 was firmly attached to the Established Church : holding 
 in pity all those persons who dissent from the Thirty- 
 Nine Articles ; not, as some clergymen of the Establish- 
 ment do, treating them with hatred as if they were 
 criminals : or derision, as if their judgment were con- 
 temptible : but with a sincere and deep-rooted pity 
 that, owing to some early prejudice or confusion of 
 brain, they should not be able to discern the truth. 
 He knew all the arguments against the Catholics, and 
 wondered openly why the Pope of Rome did not acknow- 
 ledge the English Church as the only true form : the 
 Jesuits, and the Pretender's brother, he supposed, kept 
 him from reading the simple arguments against Popery. 
 As for the Protestant sects, he knew some of them — 
 their name is legion — and what was to be said against 
 them. As for the Society of Friends, he had been, till 
 he knew us, in complete ignorance. How could a young- 
 gentleman grow up in ignorance of the Society ? In 
 every town the Friends are to be found : always in 
 trade; always wealthy; spoken of continually on 
 account of their refusal to pay tithes ; having colonies 
 in America ; belonging more largely than most sects to 
 the history of their country : and here was a young 
 man of two-and-twenty who knew nothing of them. 
 * Who are they ?' he asked. ' Why were they called 
 Friends ? Why did they offer no resistance ? Why 
 
126 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 did they i-efuse to pay tithes and Easter dues? By 
 what arguments did they defend their position ? If we 
 were all equal it would be right for all to wear the 
 same dress : then we ought all to have the same fortune/ 
 He took the greatest pleasure in knocking down the 
 doctrines of my people. This, I dare say, was not 
 difficult with two women, only half-hearted, against him. 
 
 ' I take my doctrines,"* he said, ' from the'Archbishops, 
 the Bishops, and the Divines of my own Church. These 
 doctrines, I understand, were originally laid down for us 
 in Hebrew, Chaldean, and in Greek — perhaps in other 
 languages, none of which do I undei*stand, even if I had 
 them laid before me. How, then, can I pretend to 
 judge of these doctrines, what they were and what the 
 translation should be? Do the Quakers understand 
 these ancient languages? I think not. Yet they 
 venture to construct their own interpretation. This is 
 presumption ! Do they also profess to expound the law 
 which has been made for them by successive Kings? 
 Dear Miss Nancy, there is no safety among such people, 
 believe me. In things religious, above all, the wise 
 must lead the ignorant.^ 
 
 These words I have remembered ever since. Of their 
 wisdom I have now no doubt. Scholarship and learn- 
 ing are of small importance except for the acquisition 
 of wisdom and the imparting of knowledge. It is to 
 the Divines that the world at large must look for their 
 opinions. 
 
 Sometimes he asked questions about the people — how 
 they live, how they work, what they think, of their 
 loyalty, their religion, their manners ; betraying a 
 strange ignorance of the lower classes whom we of the 
 middle sort continually meet and know. 
 
THE OPINIONS OF A GENTLEMAN 127 
 
 ' I suppose,"* he said, ' that I ought to know some- 
 thing of these people. Mj excuse is that while my 
 brother Edward has been to sea, and so knows the world, 
 I have had to live at home — for reasons which I will 
 spare you. Few indeed are the houses into which I 
 have gone : few are the people outside my own — 
 relations — whom I know. Therefore, all that you tell 
 me interests me."* 
 
 My cousin, for instance, told him how the City people 
 of the better class live : she described her own life before 
 she married a Quaker : the cheerful life of a London 
 merchant's daughter, with the assembly once a week in 
 winter : the country drives in summer — to Hampstead 
 and Highgate in the north, to Dulwich and the hanging 
 woods of Penge in the south : the card-parties in the 
 winter evenings : the river parties : the City feasts : 
 the church and the sermons : the visits accompanied by 
 a 'prentice with a club and a lantern : the sets and 
 coteries and the different ranks and stations : all of 
 which she depicted with much vividness. The differ- 
 ences in position he could not possibly understand. 
 ' Rank,' he said, ' very rightfully belongs to the 
 Sovereign. A peer would not condescend to know a 
 craftsman : but why is a lawyer above a schoolmaster ? 
 — a merchant above a shopkeeper ? They are all 
 commoners.' 
 
 ' The quarterdeck cannot associate with the fo'c'sle,' 
 said the sailor. 
 
 ' There, brother, we have the officer. That is rank ; 
 that we understand.' 
 
 This strange ignorance of the lower walks of Society 
 seemed connected with the fact that his mother, as he 
 told us, was a foreigner. 
 
128 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' For myself," he said, * it is my chief pride that I am 
 bom an Englishman/ 
 
 Then he raised his hand, and recited these verses — ' I 
 spoke them,' he explained, *as a prologue to a play 
 when I was thirteen or fourteen — 
 
 • Should this superior to my years be thought, 
 Know — 'tis the first great lesson I was taught. 
 What ? Tho' a boy I It may with pride be said ; 
 A boy : in England born : in England bred : 
 Where freedom well becomes the earliest state, 
 For there the law of Liberty's innate.' 
 
 These lines he pronounced (as he did everything) with 
 the utmost sincerity. He could never understand the 
 differences in position (rather than in rank) which make 
 the pride (or the misery) of so many of our City dames. 
 I suppose that to one who stands on a pinnacle, or looks 
 down upon the world from the summit of some high 
 mountain, the smaller differences vanish : all becomes a 
 plane surface. 
 
 ' As for our own class,"* said my cousin, ' it is that of 
 the sober and successful merchant, who is raised above 
 the shopkeeper by his superior education and know- 
 ledge : by his superior wealth : and by the magnitude 
 of his enterprises.' 
 
 He made haste to compliment her as to her own 
 class. 
 
 ' Madam,' he said, ' your class is the chief glory of the 
 country : you make its wealth : you employ the people. 
 Believe me, we are truly sensible of the service which 
 London has always rendered to this country. As for 
 myself and my brother, we hold it a singular happiness 
 that we are permitted to join the society of so much 
 virtue and so much refinement as that of youi-self and 
 Miss Nancy.' 
 
THE OPINIONS OF A GENTLEMAN 129 
 
 We both acknowledged this compliment. 
 
 ' Here,' he continued, ' I find amusement without 
 rudeness, wit without coarseness, and here alone ' — 
 he rose, for it was nearly ten — ' friendship without 
 self-seeking.' 
 
 He bent his head and kissed both our hands, with a 
 humid eye which betrayed his sensibility. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE CHRISTENING OF A CONVEET. 
 
 Every history is like a journey : there are long stretches 
 of road, dusty or muddy, with joltings and jostlings in 
 the deep ruts : then come periods of rest, of smooth 
 road, of pleasant company. One such moment of rest 
 and refreshment I would note here, if only to show the 
 natural piety of heart which distinguished my lover, 
 whom I must still call, as his brother called him, Sir 
 George Le Breton, 
 
 I write these words in my summer-house : there are 
 two windows in it : one of them looks out upon the 
 valley of the Lea. I can see the barges towed up and 
 down the river : it is a broad flat valley, a marsh in 
 winter, a meadow in summer : day after day, year after 
 year, I sit and gaze across this expanse broken only by 
 the meandering stream. Beyond it are the low hills of 
 Essex. As this landscape, so is now my life : it is the 
 stream which always flows on without rest or pause 
 towards the end : but there is no change in it : nothing 
 happens. 
 
 The other window looks upon my garden — a brave 
 garden, full of fruit and flowers. The garden speaks to 
 me daily. It says — ' He who gave you this garden loved 
 you well : yet not in the same way as the other. He 
 
THE CHRISTENING OF A CONVERT 131 
 
 gave it to you in memory of the other and of that brief 
 term of joy and happiness.' It is true : it is true. The 
 garden in spring and summer reminds me of my dream 
 of love. Then I lift my hands in a kind of ecstasy and 
 I cry aloud to think of how much happiness the heart 
 can hold. This garden so full of fruits and flowers is 
 a Garden of Love. In the autumn when the yellow 
 mist clings to the lawn and the dying flowers hang their 
 heads and the long threads lie from paling to paling 
 threaded with pearls, my heart sinks, but I am not 
 quite unhappy, for there is the summer to look back 
 upon. In the winter — oh! the dark cold winter — I 
 remember it still. Alas ! he can never come again : the 
 brave and gallant youth who gave me this garden. 
 
 As if I could ever forget ! The days pass : the 
 nights pass : the suns rise and set : I desire nothing : I 
 expect nothing : I hope nothing : I have no friends : 1 
 live only in the past : I do not wish to die, because the 
 memory of the past is precious and I would not lose it 
 I console myself concerning inevitable death with think 
 ing that we shall preserve the memories of the past 
 There was once a poet who wrote that there is nc 
 greater misery than the memory of past joys. No, no 
 no : that is not so. I wOuld not for all the world part 
 with the memory of my past joys. They make my life 
 happy ; they give me pride : even though, I know, the 
 people at church whisper that this is the lady who was 
 
 once What does it matter what they whisper.? 
 
 Alas ! A woman's heart rules her in everything, even 
 in religion. Sometimes when I read Paul's promises 
 concerning the future life — where he tells us — this great 
 consoler — that eye hath not seen, nor can man's mind 
 understand, the glories, the joys, that await us in the 
 other world, I, being only a humble and unlettered 
 
 9— a 
 
132 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 woman, feel that unless one person is there with me, 
 I shall be insensible to those joys. Again, since all 
 human delights, all the joys and pleasures and ecstasies 
 of which we can form any conception (being limited by 
 what we can see and understand here) have their roots 
 in corruption, but soar high as the highest human 
 nature can allow : we may understand how out of the 
 basest desires may spring the highest spiritual gifts : 
 and since of all sources of human happiness love is the 
 first, the most copious, the most satisfying, it is therefore 
 the counterpart of the supreme joys, whatever they may 
 be, of Heaven. In which case, my lover will come back 
 to me. There, at least, will be no talk of rank and 
 birth and barriers of love. For I was his first : I was 
 his first : before the Other came across the seas. 
 
 By this time there was no doubt possible. He came 
 every evening, sometimes in the morning : he gazed in 
 my face with such love as one could hardly believe. 
 What was it that he saw in my face .? Indeed, I know 
 not why a man should be so overcome by a woman''s 
 face. I knew very well by this time that he was of high 
 rank : I understood what he meant when once he told 
 me a story about a certain noble Lord and a village 
 maid, saying that though the Lord loved the girl, he 
 should not have taken her to his great castle as he did, 
 but should have left her in her native village or placed 
 her somewhere in a cottage surrounded by flowers and 
 orchards, where she would be happy in her own way, 
 and where he could find rest from the cares of rank and 
 station. And to this story he often returned. As for 
 things that have been suspected, no one, I am sure, who 
 reads this history will continue to believe them. Never 
 — never — never could this noble soul stoop to anything 
 disgraceful. How could I respect him otherwise ? How 
 
THE CHRISTENING OF A CONVERT 133 
 
 could I, otherwise, think him worthy the love and respect 
 which still I bear towards him ? 
 
 It was at this time, and in consequence of his desire, 
 that I was baptized and received into the Church of 
 England. 
 
 It was a desire very greatly at his heart. He urged 
 the cause of the Church with singular spirit and full 
 conviction. It was the ancient Church of Christ purged 
 from corruption : it taught nothing but what the Bible 
 sanctions and commands : it has its organized authority, 
 as the early Church had, with bishops, and priests, and 
 deacons ; the ancient sacraments : the ancient forms of 
 prayer. He showed me that the Church was the mother 
 of a great number of divines, scholars, and philosophers- 
 Further, that my own poor sect was founded by simple 
 men who were governed by the letter — and that an 
 uncertain letter, because they knew not the ancient 
 languages. 
 
 ' One thing only," he said to my cousin, ' is lacking 
 in this sweet girl — she is still a schismatic.'' 
 
 ' I think that she will never return to the Society 
 again.' 
 
 ' Yet she is not baptized. Nancy, the Church awaits 
 thee — she waits with open arms.' 
 
 In a word, I repaired to the Rector of St. James's, 
 Piccadilly, and laid my case before him. This excellent 
 man was so good as to devote some time to my instruc- 
 tion in the doctrines of the Church, showing me at the 
 same time how they rest upon the solid Rock of the 
 Word. 
 
 When I fully understood the meaning of the things 
 which are prohibited by the Society of Friends — as the 
 efficacy of the sacraments : the baptism of infants : the 
 kneeling posture : the chanting and singing : the litanies 
 
134 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 and forms of prayer : the declaration of absolution : and 
 so forth — when I had learned the Catechism and read 
 the Articles (which my tutor kindly allowed me to 
 accept unquestioned), I was baptized. 
 
 The ceremony took place after the Second Lesson of 
 Morning Prayer. My cousin appeared as my godmother, 
 to present me at the font : very few people were present : 
 Sir George stood retired under the gallery, where he 
 could see, but was not observed. 
 
 Thus, consenting at first to receive instruction out of 
 a desire to please my lover, I found myself a daughter — 
 I hope a true and loyal daughter — of a Church which 
 includes in its illustrious company of children an infinite 
 number of scholars and divines, poets and philosophers, 
 statesmen and soldiers, martyrs and confessoi*s. 
 
 When the awful service was over and my vows were 
 pronounced, my soul was filled with solemn thoughts. 
 I felt myself regenerate, in a sense which would never 
 be admitted by my brother : I was lifted out of a barn, 
 so to speak, into a palace : out of a fold surrounded by 
 wolves into meadows safely guarded. 
 
 At the doors of the church, after the baptism. Sir 
 George met us. 
 
 ' We are now,** he whispered, ' of the same faith and 
 of the same mind. What I believe, you believe : what 
 I think, you think. I am now completely happy.' Not 
 one word of love had yet been pronounced. Yet I, like 
 him, was now completely happy. 
 
 This day is one of those which mark the course of the 
 journey. It can never be forgotten. My heai*t is full 
 when I think of it. For the first time in my life, I 
 understood what it was to be a member of the Cliristian 
 Church : not one of a little flock apart, torn by fears 
 and saddened by doubts, but one of the whole great 
 
THE CHRISTENING OF A CONVERT 135 
 
 company of human creatures for whom our Lord came 
 to earth : He loved that whole great company : not one 
 or two only among them. And now those evil shadows 
 fled from my soul : these demons of terror and doubt 
 left me for good. I have no fear now. I am one of 
 that great Company. My lover led me into it. I owe 
 to him, in a sense, even my certainty of Redemption. 
 
 Two days later, in the same church, I was confirmed 
 by the Lord Bishop of London, alone. It was at the 
 special request of my lover that this learned prelate 
 consented to receive me. ' A gentlewoman of gi'eat 
 piety and many virtues,' the Bishop was told. No one 
 was present except my cousin and the verger. The 
 doors were shut, and I received in a kind of solitude 
 the blessing and a brief exhortation of the Bishop. 
 The solitude, had I understood it, should have fore- 
 shadowed the solitude of my after life, with the blessing 
 to console and comfort the lonely woman. 
 
 On the following Sunday I completed my entrance 
 into the Church of England by communion at the 
 Sacred Table. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 kings' favourites. 
 
 I SUPPOSE it was natural that we should feel some curiosity 
 as to the family to which our friends belonged. They 
 had a mother living : she was of German birth ; they 
 spoke as if she lived in London, and with her sons ; 
 their father was dead. Sir George had a country house 
 at Kew; Edward had a younger son's portion; there 
 was a grandfather of whom both spoke with a reverence 
 not usual, I believe, in young men ; in fact we knew, as 
 we thought, everything about them, except the extent 
 and the position of their estates and the history of their 
 family. 'Everybody,' said my cousin, 'knows about 
 the Storeys. There is always a Storey of good repute 
 on 'Change. In City names I am leai'ned, and can tell 
 you of anyone, whether he belongs to a good City 
 family or not. But of these people of rank I know 
 nothing.' Therefore we were in ignorfince as to the 
 history and position of the Le Bretons. 
 
 And yet — it was truly wonderful — everybody about 
 us knew perfectly well the history, the position, and 
 everything concerning that family and the two young 
 men who belonged to it. Thus, Captain Sellinger 
 knew : Corporal Bates knew : the Doctor knew : Robert 
 Storey knew : what is still more wonderful, no one told 
 
KINGS' FAVOURITES 137 
 
 us who they were : everybody, on the other hand, sup- 
 posed that we knew. 
 
 As for the Doctor, his behaviour surprised me ex- 
 tremely, because I could not for the life of me under- 
 stand what he meant. I think I have already mentioned 
 him. He was the old man whose means of living were 
 not apparent. He occupied the front room on the 
 ground floor. He called himself Mynsterchamber, which, 
 as we now know, was an assumed name. We called 
 him Doctor, I know not why, for he did not practise. 
 For the most part he seemed to be sitting like a spider 
 with his door ajar, watching the people pass in and out. 
 He had many visitors of his own : some of them he let 
 out privately by the garden door, which opened upon 
 the Park. Whenever my cousin and I went out or 
 returned, he would throw open the door and stand 
 there, a long, lean figure with a hatchet face, a cunning 
 foxy face all wrinkles, with a pair of keen bright eyes. 
 Then he would laugh gently and rub his hands while 
 he passed some extravagant compliment. I expected 
 these compliments : they amused me : one knew how 
 foolish they were : yet they amused me. It was, ' Miss 
 Nancy will kill all the swains this morning ^ or 'Miss 
 Nancy, I protest, hath called up all her angelic soul 
 into her eyes.' And so on. Why, we might defend a 
 compliment as a homage to virtue : it cannot harm 
 a woman to be reminded that an angelic soul is much 
 to be desired : she may then be induced to raise her 
 own imperfect soul. Cold would be the world : it would 
 be a world after the fashion of our Society : in which 
 the exact truth, and nothing more, was told. In that 
 kind of world the Doctor would have saluted me some 
 morning with, ' Miss Nancy, I vow, doth express in her 
 sour and peevish countenance the whole of her detestable 
 
138 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 temper/ That, I am quite sure, would have made me 
 very angry. 
 
 One morning he not only threw the door wide open 
 and passed the usual compliment, but he invited us to 
 enter his room. Out of curiosity to see the lodging of 
 this mysterious person, my cousin accepted and we went 
 in. The room was furnished most meagrely. There 
 was a low and narrow wooden bed covered with a 
 blanket : there was a table littered with papers : two 
 or three common chairs : and a cupboard with shelves 
 containing his wardrobe. There was also a large 
 wooden box strengthened with iron. His hat, sword, 
 and coat hung from the wall : his wig hung from 
 another nail : he wore a white cotton nightcap tied 
 round his head like a turban, and a long, ragged night- 
 gown of faded silk. 
 
 *The place,'' he said, 'is simple, as you see; yet it 
 does very well for an old soldier."* 
 
 He handed us to chairs. ' I believe,"* he said, ' that 
 this is the first time during my residence here, of ten 
 years, that I have been visited by a lady. What can I 
 offer ?"* He went to his cupboard and brought out a 
 bottle of curious shape and two little wine-glasses, into 
 which he poured some liquid. 'This,"* he said, *is a 
 cordial made by certain monks in a place called the 
 Grande Chartreuse. Taste it, ladies. Be not afraid : 
 it is strong, but I have given you only a few drops."* It 
 was, indeed, the most delicious nectar that I hsA ever 
 tasted, but too strong for a woman's drink. While we 
 tasted this cordial he went on talking. ' This is my 
 humble lodging : hither come a few old friends from 
 time to time to visit me : we exchange recollections and 
 experiences : like all old men, we praise the days that 
 are past. Alas! They come no more. Age has few 
 
KINGS^ FAVOURITES 139 
 
 pleasures except wine and recollections and the snuff- 
 box.' He produced his own and illustrated the remark. 
 
 He spoke with something of a foreign accent. 
 
 ' You have travelled abroad, Sir ?' my cousin asked. 
 
 ' I have travelled over most of Europe. I have seen 
 the Courts of Kings and the cottages of the people. I 
 speak most of the European languages. That man 
 cannot be said to travel who cannot speak the language 
 of the country.** 
 
 ' You must have observed many interesting things ?' 
 
 ' The differences between peoples appear interesting 
 at first. When one grows old, they become insignificant. 
 All men and women in every country are the same. 
 And their highest virtues are simply those which we 
 teach to children.' 
 
 ' What teaching do you mean, Sir ?'' 
 
 ' I mean. Madam, the elementary virtues which are, I 
 believe, taught in your Church Catechism : Honesty, 
 obedience, chastity, industry, loyalty — nothing more is 
 wanted. Were these virtues actually practised in the 
 world, there would be no poverty, no discontent, no 
 lawyers, no prisons, no gibbets, no sermons. Nothing 
 is wanted, in spite of yom* Thirty-nine Articles and your 
 libraries of theology but the simple virtues. Honesty 
 to beget confidence and trust: obedience to preserve 
 order and authority : chastity to preserve the dignity 
 of women : industry to supply the world : and, above 
 all, and before all, loyalty to keep the social machine 
 from falling to pieces.' 
 
 ' Is loyalty to be put first, Doctor ? To be sure, in 
 this favoured land, we are all loyal.' 
 
 He made a wry face. 'All loyal. Madam.?' he re- 
 peated. ' All loyal ? I would to Heaven we were ! 
 Loyalty, Madam, to the lawful sovereign — not to any 
 
140 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 usurper — is the first of all duties. He who is loyal is 
 everything : he is ready at all times to spend and be 
 spent in the service of his King. There may be a bad 
 King, yet some time or other he dies : whatever may be 
 said of him he fulfils — he cannot choose but fulfil — the 
 function of a King. When he dies there comes a 
 better. The King is the keystone to the arch : the 
 only stone that belongs to that place. If all the world 
 were loyal there would be no rebellions, no heresies, no 
 false prophets, no mischievous liberties : we should all 
 think alike, hold the same faith, and, if need be, should 
 die alike."* 
 
 He spoke earnestly, and his face lost for a moment its 
 habitual look of cunning. 
 
 ' When a man is loyal,' he went on, * he will do cheer- 
 fully whatever he is bidden to do by his superiors, even 
 if it cost him his fortune and estate : even if it ruins 
 his children : yea, even if it ordei*s him to cairy out 
 the basest of tasks ; even if his loyalty cover him with 
 infamy, he will dare it cheerfully. A man who is loyal 
 will place more than his life — he will place his honour — 
 at the disposal of his King.' 
 
 ' Could a King take a man's honour from him ?' 
 'In politics and statecraft. Miss Nancy, everything 
 may be possible — even necessary.' 
 
 ' Of course,' said my cousin, * everybody must be loyal.' 
 ' Madam, believe me : it is the superlatively good 
 thing. Remember all the miseries — the civil wars — 
 brought upon this country by disloyalty. Henry the 
 Fourth takes his cousin's place. Presently the country 
 is red with rivers of blood. Charles the First is 
 murdered with more rivers of blood. James the Second 
 is deposed, and what end do we see to the troubles that 
 followed that act of wickedness ?' 
 
KINGS' FAVOURITES 141 
 
 ' Nay, Sir !' My cousin opened her eyes. This was 
 a strange theory to hear in the reign of George II. 
 
 * Loyalty remains in the country still. There are 
 the martyrs of 1715 and those of 1745. Derwent- 
 water^'s spirit yet survives ' 
 
 My cousin jumped up. 
 
 ' Nancy !' she cried. ' This gentleman is a Jacobite.' 
 
 ' Nay, nay.' He spoke as one who coaxes. ' Sit 
 down, dear Madam. What matter the opinions of an 
 old philosopher ? He can do no harm.' So we sat 
 down again. ' I see everywhere,' he went on, ' the 
 miseries which follow when the Rightful King is set 
 aside. Oh ! a mere speculation. I suppose no one 
 will deny that the Pretender is the King by right of 
 succession if not by Right Divine. I am told there are 
 thousands in this country who are ready to draw the 
 sword — nay, I deplore the fact. They may wait ten 
 years, twenty years, a hundred years : but the time will 
 come at last. Well — well — I am only an old man— an 
 onlooker. In old age one becomes a Prophet. I see 
 more rebellions — more risings — a nation returning to 
 allegiance. I receive from all quarters — that is, I 
 observe in all quarters — signs of that return. Your 
 High Churchman must needs acknowledge ' 
 
 ' Sir,' said my cousin, ' enough of such speculations. 
 They are dangerous, believe me : and can serve no good 
 purpose.' 
 
 ' Speculations — speculations only. As for my politi- 
 cal opinions, they are, I doubt not, yours, Madam ; 
 wherefore' — he poured out a glass of the cordial — 
 'wherefore can I drink with you to the King.' He 
 did so. ' And now I will show you something.' He 
 opened his great box, and began to rummage among its 
 contents. ' You must know, ladies, that I have a poor 
 
142 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 house — in the country — a country house. Here I have 
 certain collections — an old man likes to collect things. 
 I have some paintings : some china ; some curiosities 
 of all kinds. Since I have been in London I have 
 made a little collection of miniatures which will in- 
 terest you, I am sure. They are portraits — real or 
 imaginary — of lovely and celebrated ladies — not one so 
 lovely as Miss Nancy, who will, I am sure, be the most 
 celebrated of them all.' He took out a box about a 
 foot long and placed it on the table. It contained a 
 large number of miniatures set in gold frames. I took 
 them up one after the other. They were, as he said, 
 portraits of really beautiful women. 
 
 ' That portrait,' he said — I was looking at one repre- 
 senting a girl wearing a Scotch plaid over her shoulder — 
 ' will never be given you, Miss Nancy, by the gentleman 
 who visits you every day.' 
 
 'Why not. Sir?' 
 
 ' Truly, I cannot say. If you do not know, I do not. 
 It is the portrait of Flora Macdonald, a very distin- 
 guished loyalist, who saved the life of Prince Charles 
 Edward.' 
 
 ' The Young Pretender,' my cousin corrected him. 
 
 * If you please — Prince or Pretender — she saved his 
 life. The Prince has been — though there is still time 
 for fortune to change — singularly unfortunate hitherto : 
 misfortune dogs his steps : he is continually pursued by 
 misfortune : yet he has had his consolation in the 
 women whose portraits are in this box. Clementina 
 Walkinshaw : Jenny Cameron : Lady Mackintosh : and 
 not the least the subject of this piece, Flora Mac- 
 donald. Now Miss Nancy, I repeat, would your friends 
 give you this picture ?' 
 
 * Why should they not, Sir?' 
 
KINGS^ FAVOURITES 143 
 
 ' Indeed, I repeat, I cannot say. If you do not know 
 I do not. Will you choose to look at the rest ? They 
 are all the favourites of Kings and Princes. See — here 
 is Agnes Sorel, beloved of Charles the Seventh of 
 France : here La Belle Gabrielle, mistress of Henry the 
 Fourth of France : here is La Valliere : here Madame 
 de Montespan : all French ladies. Here, again, are 
 some English portraits. Fair Rosamond — but I doubt 
 the genuineness of this portrait : Alice Ferrars : Jane 
 Shore : — they are all sad in the eyes. I know not why, 
 but the King'^s sweetheart is never happy for long. Here 
 is Nell G Wynne ' 
 
 'Put them up — put them up. Doctor Mynster- 
 chamber. Are these things to be shown to a young 
 lady ?"" My cousin was greatly moved. The Doctor 
 grinned, with such a meaning look that though I knew 
 not what it meant I shivered and shook as in the 
 presence of some evil thing. 
 
 * Come, Nancy, come," she caught me by the hand. 
 * This is the last time, Doctor Mynsterchamber, that I 
 shall enter your lodging. Do not dare. Sir, so much as 
 to speak to us ! Rosamond and Nell Gwynne, indeed !' 
 
 She pushed me out, very indignant. ' What does the 
 old villain mean.?' she asked. 'As for the French 
 pictures I know nothing about the persons, and, I 
 am sure, I do not desire to know anything: but the 
 English creatures one has heard about in history. 
 What does he mean by the loyalty of Derwentwater ? 
 My dear, the creature is a Jacobite. That is certain. 
 And what does he mean by saying that our friends 
 would not give us the portrait of the Scotch woman ?"* 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ROBERT STOREY. 
 
 It was somewhere about this time that Mr. Robert 
 Storey paid me a remarkable visit. He came in the 
 morning, when (I suppose) he knew that Isabel would 
 probably be out with Molly and a basket, somewhere 
 about Shepherd's Market. I was, in fact, alone, for 
 that reason. Since the evening when he fairly ran 
 away, frightened by the mere aspect of our visitors, he 
 had not once called upon us. For my own pai-t, as I 
 did not think of him, or miss him, I asked not why he 
 came no longer, who had before that event come so 
 often. 
 
 This morning he was dressed in the plain brown 
 cloth in which he served his customers and showed his 
 books. One expected the studied respect of the counter : 
 the self-satisfaction with which he stood before me was 
 out of place in the workaday dress. A certain anxiety, 
 however, was in his eyes, and his salutation showed 
 some doubt or difficulty in his mind by the omission of 
 some of his ceremonies. 
 
 Yet he remembered, on sitting down, to thrust his 
 right hand under his waistcoat, which is an attitude 
 denoting authority. A suppliant, if you think of it, 
 
ROBERT STOREY 145 
 
 doth never sit upright, with his hand in his waistcoat 
 over his heart. 
 
 ' This is vmexpected, Mr. Robert,' I said. * The 
 cares of business, I believe, generally occupy your 
 mornings.' 
 
 ' I have left a shopful of poets and authors soliciting, 
 as usual, my patronage. They must wait. I come at 
 the call of duty. Consider me. Miss Nancy, as a man 
 who never flinches at the call of duty." 
 
 ' Indeed, Sir ! I am honom-ed, whatever the cause.' 
 
 * Where ruin threatens one in whom a man takes a 
 friendly interest, or even a warmer interest, he would be 
 below a man were he not to obey the voice of duty. In 
 such a case, to flinch would be degrading. Vanish, 
 safety ! Welcome, danger ! — so that duty points the 
 way.' 
 
 ' Really, Mr. Robert ! You are doubtless right. But 
 — does the occasion justify these noble sentiments ?' 
 
 ' In some cases,' he went on, ' as in old friendship, or 
 in blood relationship, a man has a right to intervene : in 
 other cases the right has been conferred upon him by 
 circumstances: as when two persons have been lovers. 
 The recollection of the past preserves a tender interest, 
 and confers that right. He who hath once loved, 
 always loves. He who hath once loved, retains the 
 right of intervention. So sacred. Miss Nancy, is the 
 passion of love.' 
 
 He must have got this exordium ofi* by heart : with 
 so much dignity and roundness of phrase was it ad- 
 vanced: indeed, in what followed as well, he seemed 
 like one who is saying a lesson ; or like a schoolboy 
 reciting, with studied gestiures, the words of another. 
 As for me, I understood not one word. What had 
 Robert Storey to do with love ? Why should he speak 
 
 10 
 
146 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 to me about the sacred passion of love ? Never had I 
 suspected, never did my cousin suspect, that the man 
 entertained towards me any sentiment of the kind. As 
 for myself, as you know very well, I had no thought of 
 love from any quarter until a certain Person began to 
 occupy my heart. 
 
 ' Love," he went on grandly, ' even when rejected 
 and scorned, confers rights. To love a worthy woman 
 — that is, a woman worthy the affection of a merchant 
 — not only raises the woman, but also the man, in whom 
 love confirms and strengthens his former conspicuous 
 virtues. It is a patent of nobility. Venus borrows the 
 sword of Mars, and lays it over the shoulders of the 
 lover."* 
 
 He repeated the last clause, being carried away by 
 admiration of it. 
 
 I know not how long he might have gone on with 
 these extravagances had I not stopped him, being out 
 of patience. 
 
 ' Pray, Sir, for Heaven'*s sake cease talking language 
 fit for one of your starving authors, and come to the 
 point ! What do you mean, once for all, by your rights 
 and your duty and your sacred passion of love .?' 
 
 He turned very red, took his hand out of his bosom, 
 and leaning both hands on his knees, he bent down and 
 whispered hoarsely, though there was nobody else in the 
 room, ' Miss Nancy, I can never forget that I was first 
 in the field." 
 
 * What do you mean, Sir ?' 
 
 * First in the field. That you cannot deny." 
 
 * I do not wish to deny anything that is true. But, 
 if you please, what field ?' 
 
 ' First in the field, I say : you know very well what I 
 mean. For two months my attentions — those of a plain 
 
ROBERT STOREY 147 
 
 substantial merchant — a sober, godly citizen — pleased — 
 until the Other came."* 
 
 ' Attentions ! To me, Mr. Robert ?' This did 
 astonish me, because, I repeat, I had no kind of sus- 
 picion at all that he had ever paid me attentions. 
 Speeches of a highly moral character he had made, 
 often : but these I could not take for attentions. 
 
 'Understand me, if you please, Sir. I have never 
 received any attentions from you, to my knowledge. 
 You have behaved to me in no way differently than to 
 my cousin. I am certain that Isabel has never sus- 
 pected such a thing. Put it out of your thoughts, 
 therefore, instantly and for ever. I cannot admit that 
 you have any rights, or that I have ever heard you 
 speak to me except as Isabel's cousin should be allowed 
 to speak.' 
 
 Perhaps I spoke more strongly than was necessary : 
 but I confess that the claim made me angry. Robert 
 Storey ever my lover ! This smug, self-satisfied man of 
 second-hand maxims and third-rate phrases ! Robert 
 Storey ever to occupy the heart afterwards filled with 
 oh! 
 
 In reply he sighed heavily, joined his hands, and sat 
 back in his chair with his eyes raised as if appealing 
 to Heaven. ' So quickly may the world corrupt ! So 
 quickly may the most transparent soul be clouded ! So 
 quickly may coquetry — heartless coquetry — ^grow up 
 even in the Quaker heart !' 
 
 ' Now, Mr. Robei-t Storey, you become rude. I assure 
 you, once more, that I was quite unconscious of any 
 attentions on your part.' 
 
 ' Alas I' he replied. ' That Miss Nancy should so 
 stoop ! How can I believe such a thing ? Did I not 
 
 10—2 
 
148 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 lend books ? Did I not come here instead of going to 
 my club, where I am an honoured member ?' 
 
 ' I am sorry, Sir. I was brought up in such seclusion 
 that I understood not what these attentions might 
 mean." 
 
 ' Nay — think — you allowed me to believe : you 
 suffered me to flatter myself: that I was not displeas- 
 ing to you/ 
 
 'Displeasing? Why should you be displeasing? 
 Besides, if you were, I could not tell you so in my 
 cousin's house." 
 
 'Then, suddenly, there appeared upon the scene — 
 Another — one who dazzled — and I am forgotten and 
 cast aside. This gives me, I say, the right to warn.' 
 
 I was silent because what he said was quite tnie. I 
 had forgotten him. Pei-sons for whom we do not greatly 
 care pass out of our minds very easily. I had forgotten 
 him. Yet as to these intentions, indeed I did not even 
 suspect them. 
 
 ' These young — gentlemen — are admitted every night : 
 the honest merchant is turned out of doors."* 
 
 ' Not turned out of doors. Remember, Mr. Robert, 
 you ran away. We do not keep you out of dooi"s. 
 Come back if you please.' 
 
 ' You know that I cannot pretend to associate with 
 these two — persons.' 
 
 * You were once, if I remember, convinced that they 
 were highwaymen or impostoi-s of some kind. Do you 
 now own that you were wrong .?' 
 
 ' If,' he replied slowly, ' it will help you to i*etum to 
 your senses, I do own that I was wrong. They ai-e 
 young men, as you know, of high place. Their world is 
 not mine. I cannot presume to sit in the same room 
 with them.' 
 
ROBERT STOREY 149 
 
 * You also thought that they are profligates. How- 
 ever, that matters little. What is your present griev- 
 ance T 
 
 ' They are admitted here every evening, Miss Nancy. 
 Have you considered — has my cousin considered — the 
 construction which the world may put upon such an 
 intimacy ?"* 
 
 ' We live so much out of the world that we do not 
 hear what the world says.' 
 
 'No woman can afford to disregard the character 
 which she bears in the world. As for me, my cousin**s 
 name is also concerned. This adds to the apprehen- 
 sions with which I contemplate the situation.' 
 
 ' It is very good of you, Mr. Robert, to caution me 
 against the world. Meantime, I doubt if the most 
 censorious can find anything to say against visits paid 
 openly to two women — one of them a widow — by two 
 brothers, who always come together.' 
 
 He rose : he made as if he would speak : he checked 
 himself : he walked to the window and looked out : he 
 came back and stood by the table. 
 
 ' You shall hear what is said. Only the day before 
 yesterday you passed my shop in Pall Mall. I was 
 standing on the doorstep conversing with a customer 
 concerning a certain Person. As you passed he said to 
 me, "Those are the ladies whom he visits." As he 
 spoke he turned away his head.' 
 
 ' Is that all ? Why, it is quite true.' 
 
 He groaned so unaffectedly that I did not laugh at 
 him as I was at first inclined. 
 
 'The world will always think the worst. Oh, 
 Miss Nancy ! you know not the wickedness of the 
 world.' 
 
 ' But — what have we to do with the wickedness of the 
 
160 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 world ? These gentlemen come not alone, if it is a sin 
 for a man to call alone upon two ladies : I do not 
 receive them alone, but in the company of my cousin. 
 Believe me, Sir, they never transgress — they could not 
 — the rules of good breeding. They are well-bred 
 young men, with whom it is a gi-eat pleasure to con- 
 verse. I am sure that they have no place in the corrupt 
 society of which you speak '' 
 
 * That is as it may be — but why do they come ? I 
 will tell you then, in so many words, why they come.' 
 
 He sat down again and delivered himself of the 
 suspicions which filled his soul. 
 
 ' I will tell you,' he repeated, ' why they come. They 
 are not highwaymen or adventurers, or impostors of any 
 kind : you pretend not to know their rank : well, I will 
 not know either.' 
 
 ' I wish to learn the truth when it pleases my friends 
 to tell me. Besides, Mr. Robert, I could hardly believe 
 you on this subject, after your mistake as to the high- 
 waymen. Go on, however.' 
 
 * I will begin, then. In this country ' — Robert Storey 
 always affected, as you have perceived, the preacher, or 
 lecturer, or moral philosopher — ' in this country, where 
 there exists a hierarchy, which is a word derivetl 
 from the I^tin, meaning a ladder, there are levels in 
 which each of us is born. To take your place on the 
 wrong level brings misery and repentance. Those on 
 the higher levels nmst not maiTy with those of the 
 lower. Yet, sometimes, to the irreparable injury of 
 the women concerned, the men of the upper levels make 
 love to the women of the lower. They either dazzle 
 the poor creatures with their ribbons and their gold 
 lace, or they make promises which they never mean to 
 perform : or one makes his society so pleasing to a 
 
ROBERT STOREY 151 
 
 woman that — poor wretch ! — she cannot live without 
 her lover, and so — and so — the rest is easy.' 
 
 * The rest, Mr. Storey ?' I sprang to my feet, fired 
 with indignation. ' What rest, pray ? What rest, I say ?' 
 ' The rest ? It is what happens whenever a woman 
 like yourself listens to a man like either of these two- 
 There can be but one rest, Miss Nancy ; there can be, I 
 say ' — he rose quietly, forgot his affectations, and spoke 
 quite plainly straight to my face — * but one termination 
 to such an affair as that. If no one else will warn thee 
 I will. What ! Can you suppose that a person of that 
 position can marry one of the trading class — can marry 
 a Quakeress — one of that despised sect ? A Quakeress ? 
 If he were to do such a thing in the heat and madness 
 of his passion, he would have to conceal and to deny the 
 fact. How would you endure the slights, the rudenesses, 
 the cruelties, the suspicions which such a position would 
 bring upon you? What friends would you have? 
 Your own ? Not so : they would not meet your hus- 
 band. His friends ? They would not meet you. 
 The men would not concern themselves about you : 
 the women would hate you. They would leave no 
 stone unturned to make mischief between your husband 
 and you. Nancy, you know nothing of the fine ladies 
 of London. They come to my shop, and I listen to 
 their talk : they regard me not. I am only a shop- 
 keeper : a servant. They say what they please before 
 me : what do they care about a servant's opinion about 
 them? Their lovers call them angels, but they are 
 fallen angels. They are as false as Belial : as cruel as 
 Death : as vain as peacocks : their cheeks are painted : 
 their hair once belonged to some poor, honest girl : 
 beneath their fine clothes they are made of wood and 
 of whalebone : they are selfish, greedy, grasping, insati- 
 
152 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 able as the daughters of the horseleech, and as pitiless 
 as the slave-drivers of Virginia.' 
 
 He spoke with so much fervour that he moved me. 
 Yet what grounds were there for his outbreak ? Nothing 
 could be charged against our friends : neither of them 
 had begun to make love, although I felt and understood 
 the truth very well. As for the fine ladies, he had prob- 
 ably received some affront in their behaviour to him 
 which caused this outburst of wrath. What could he 
 know about them ? 
 
 He sat down and wiped his forehead with his hand- 
 kerchief. Then he composed himself once more, ashamed 
 of his heat, and represented the man who has delivered 
 a message or a prophecy and now smiles gently over 
 the recollection of an effective speech. 
 
 ' Mr. Storey,' I replied, still standing, ' I think that 
 what you have said passes all bounds ; yet I am willing 
 to believe that you are in earnest. Understand, how- 
 ever, that there is no ground for this suspicion at all 
 — none. And now, if you please, we will end the con- 
 versation.' 
 
 * One word more, if you will permit. The danger 
 exists : of that I am quite sure : my cousin Isabel ought 
 to perceive it, and to avoid it — even by flight. My 
 passion has perhaps betrayed me into speaking with 
 greater heat than I had intended — pray forgive me. 
 And now. Miss Nancy, hear me quietly on another sub- 
 ject. All these suspicions and whispered scandals can 
 be avoided in one simple way — by marrying me.' 
 
 He rose again, took one step forward, held out both 
 his arms, and threw his head back in an attitude which 
 he believed to be one of admiration or passion con- 
 trolled by virtue. 
 
ROBERT STOREY 153 
 
 ' By marrying me,' he repeated. ' Miss Nancy, it 
 is in your power to make a good man happy, not 
 a ' 
 
 I stepped back, and took up a position which enabled 
 me to have the table between us. 
 
 ' By marrying you, Mr. Robert ?"* 
 
 ' It is the only way. Then the voice of the world, 
 which does not concern itself about honourable wives of 
 sober citizens, will pour its calumny upon the name 
 of some other woman — Isabel, perhaps. Marry me, 
 Nancy.' 
 
 ' It is impossible — quite impossible.' 
 
 ' Nancy, when I think of that other Person playing 
 with thy heart my own is like to burst with rage. 
 Believe me, Nancy, I love thee. Thy image is always 
 before my eyes, day and night. Sometimes I come at 
 night and stand under the window here — and think 
 with madness that those two are upstairs with Isabel 
 and you. Nancy, I cannot bear it.' 
 
 ' Mr. Robert,' I said, ' it is impossible. Say no more. 
 Leave me now.' 
 
 ' I must say what I came to say. Consider again, 
 these friends of yours are only playing with you. For 
 you, if not for them, it is playing with fire. For myself, 
 I have no other desire than to make you my partner for 
 life. You know me — I am personable : I have good 
 manners : I come of a good family. In the trade I hold 
 a good position. I have money saved and a reasonable 
 income. I possess shares in many important books. As 
 for reading, few have read more books. For religion, I 
 am a sidesman of St. James's "* 
 
 'It is no use — oh! no use at all. Please go away 
 and leave me,' 
 
154 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' I shall prove a fond and loving husband/ 
 
 * Mr. Robert, I could not marry you, even if these 
 gentlemen had never come here."* 
 
 He looked at me fixedly for some moments. Then he 
 picked up his hat, which had fallen on the ground. 
 
 ' Your eyes are hard, Nancy. I perceive plainly that 
 another presence, not mine, is wanted to make them 
 soft. I say no more for this time. Only, Nancy, when 
 trouble comes, remember that there was a man in your 
 own rank who once loved thee, but was driven away. 
 When trouble comes — it must come — there is no help 
 for it — it must come : remember that it would not have 
 come had you taken that good man, that religious and 
 respectable man, and embarked your money in his 
 business.** 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr. Robei-t.** I offered him my hand, 
 but he would not take it. ' If trouble comes, I will 
 remember that the same kind of trouble would not have 
 come with you. Believe me. Sir, I would rather have 
 that sort of trouble without you, than any other kind 
 with you."* 
 
 So he went away, without any attitudes, quite natur- 
 ally, and with his face full of rage. He loved me, in 
 his fashion, I dare say, but how could I endure him 
 after that Other ? 
 
 This conversation for a time disquieted me. Not all 
 of it. I cared nothing about the difference of station : 
 if two people love each other heartily, what matters 
 difference of station ? Nor did I care what he said 
 about the women of fashion, except for the curiosity of 
 it, and to think of the smiling, bowing shopkeeper all 
 the time listening with both ears to the talk of these 
 persons ! No : the part which concerned me most was 
 
ROBERT STOREY 155 
 
 the statement that the time may come to every woman 
 so courted when she can no longer live happily except 
 in the society of the man who courts her. 
 
 Was that time already come to me ? 
 
 With flushed cheek and beating heart I put the 
 question by. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE MASaUERADE. 
 
 Thus slipped away the months of August and Sep- 
 tember. Oh ! the happy time ! The sweet and happy 
 time ! In the evening we sang or played cards : some- 
 times we danced ; sometimes we read : continually we 
 talked and laughed : continually I saw in the eyes of 
 one man that look which no woman, not even the most 
 innocent or the most ignorant, can misundei-stand ; and 
 in the eyes of the other a look of interest — I will call it 
 brotherly interest — with something of anxiety, which I 
 could not then understand, though now I do. Always 
 we laughed and were happy. Kind Heaven gives to 
 youth that power of happiness ; but only for a short 
 time, lest men and women should cease to bethink them 
 of the world to come. Should not that glad time of 
 spring warn us that there are joys of which we know 
 not, even sweeter than the joys of love and youth ? 
 though truly in my heart I want nothing sweeter. 
 
 Sometimes, but not often, we walked together in the 
 Park. ^ It was always in the morning, and early, before 
 the world of fashion. The Park is full of nursemaids 
 and children at that hour : of soldiers being drilled in 
 companies : of persons taking the morning air for the 
 
THE MASQUERADE 157 
 
 good of their health. Where are the women of 
 fashion ? 
 
 ' They are still in bed,'' Sir George told me, with the 
 contempt which he always displayed towards the women 
 of the great world. ' They have spent the night over 
 cards: they have been carried home at five haggard 
 and agitated : at eleven they will call for their choco- 
 late : the maid will dress them and paint them. Who 
 could fall in love with a creature whose cheek is all 
 lard and paint like an actress on the stage, while her 
 head is full of cards ? Nancy, you know not, believe 
 me, the kind of women that I have had to meet. As 
 for virtues, they have none : not, I am told, the most 
 necessary : they are ignorant and stupid : they possess 
 neither arts nor accomplishments : they lament the 
 necessity of bearing children, whom they leave to 
 their servants : they have no religion — which is the 
 business of the Domestic Chaplain : they have no 
 taste — which is the business of the maid : they are 
 jealous and spiteful to each other : their tempers are 
 uncontrolled . . . why,' he laughed, ' I hear that they 
 ask each other why I have never made love to any of 
 them. Love ! and with the image in my heart of 
 purity and truth and high thoughts — Love !' 
 
 He gently touched my fingers, because it was in the 
 Park. 
 
 Now and then, but not often, hats were doffed by 
 men who knew him. They stared curiously at me : 
 they stood still to let us pass. Why, it became more 
 wonderful, the more I think of it, that we did not 
 discover the rank and the names of our friends. 
 
 London is full of places of entertainment for the 
 men. In every rank and class of society the men 
 always begin by creating for themselves amusements. 
 
158 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 When they have quite satisfied themselves as to the 
 means of passing an evening of diversion, with punch 
 or wine, they will sometimes, but not often, turn to 
 consider the amusements of their wives and daughtei*s. 
 Unfortunately, any place open to respectable women 
 becomes frequented by those who cannot be called 
 respectable, and it must be intolerable for one of the 
 former class to be touching one of the latter class, even 
 by the fringe of her skirt. For myself, I have no know- 
 ledge of such places of entertainment, save for one 
 night. 
 
 We were talking about the amusements of London. 
 
 * I have been to the play once,' said my cousin, ' but 
 I do not wish to go again. When I read Shakespeare, 
 I think I carry away a truer imagination of his mind 
 than if T see his play acted in modem costume before a 
 noisy house.** 
 
 ' We always consider London to be full of amuse- 
 ments,** said Edward. 
 
 ' Why, so it is — for men. They have races, fairs, 
 taverns, clubs, cock-fighting, duck -hunting, boxing, 
 bull-baiting, quarterstafF, wrestling. What is there 
 for women .?"* 
 
 The two gentlemen conferred together for a moment. 
 
 ' Madam,** said Sir George, ' it has been our happy 
 fortune, so far, to accept your favours. Suffer us to 
 become still more indebted to you by accepting from us 
 in your turn some amusement, however trifling.** 
 
 'What say you, Nancy.? Sir George is very kind. 
 What would you like ?** 
 
 * Should we walk in St. PauPs, or go to see the Royal 
 Exchange ?** I asked, not knowing what else to say. 
 
 The brothers looked at each other doubtfully. Sir 
 George replied, with a little hesitation, that there was 
 
THE MASQUERADE 159 
 
 little pleasure in walking about crowded streets, and 
 being possibly followed and mobbed and stared at. 
 
 ' Why should the crowd stare ?"* I asked. 
 
 ' Because, Miss Nancy ,^ Edward replied quickly, ' they 
 always stare at every handsome woman, and they always 
 mob and follow her if she happens to be very hand- 
 some."* 
 
 It was prettily said, and there was no answer possible. 
 At least, none occurred to me. Yet I knew very well 
 that this was not meant. 
 
 ' Should we,^ I said, ' go to see the Court ? We are 
 told that anyone decently dressed is admitted in the 
 afternoon ? I should like to see His Majesty, if only 
 once.' 
 
 ' I fear not,' said Sir Greorge quickly. ' The King 
 is old : the Court is now very quiet : it is, I am 
 told, greatly desired to keep it quiet. Your loyalty, 
 Miss Nancy, were better displayed by keeping away. 
 Yet a chance may occur when I might show you St. 
 James's.** 
 
 ' Then, Sir George,' said my cousin, ' should we not 
 leave the choice to yourself?' 
 
 *It is a grave responsibility. Madam,' he replied. 
 * Nothing less than to make or to mar the happiness of 
 two most amiable ladies for a whole evening. I say the 
 evening, because at that hour there is less danger of 
 being followed and mobbed.' 
 
 This was one of a hundred indications which he gave 
 of an unwillingness to be recognised. For my own part, 
 I could see no reason why any young man should fear 
 recognition, or dread being followed. 
 
 ' No one will recognise you, George,' said his brother, 
 ' outside St. James's Street. But, if you please, let us 
 choose the evening. We will go where we can find 
 
160 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 company, music, dancing, and supper. Will that please 
 you, Miss Nancy T 
 
 ' What is there, Edward T asked Sir George. 
 
 ' To-night there is a ball at Carlisle House, Soho — 
 one of Madame Comely's subscription balls.^ 
 
 Sir George shook his head. ' You can altbrd to go 
 there, Edward, perhaps. I cannot."* 
 
 ' What do you say to Vauxhall T 
 
 ' The last time I went there it was full of tallow- 
 chandlers.** 
 
 ' So long as they leave their tallow at home, what 
 matter ? What do you say to Ranelagh T 
 
 ' To walk round and round with a crowd of chattering 
 women all talking about each other .'^ Our friends, 
 brother, would quickly tire of Ranelagh."* 
 
 ' Well, then, there is a grand masquerade to-morrow 
 evening at the Marylebone Gardens."* 
 
 ' We could all wear dominoes, I suppose. The pleu^e 
 could not possibly be worse than Vauxhall. It might 
 amuse our friends to witness the amusements of the 
 people."* 
 
 We looked at each other. A masquerade ! Surely 
 this was not a form of amusement which decorum allowed 
 to a lady. 
 
 'You have never seen a masquerade. Madam?"* I 
 suppose we both looked astonished. 
 
 ' I have always been given to understand,' my cousin 
 replied, ' that none but females who have lost respect 
 for their reputation are ever seen there."* 
 
 ' I observe. Madam, with admiration, the jealousy 
 with which City ladies regard their pleasures. It is true 
 that after midnight these meisqueraxles often become 
 scenes of riot. Before that hour they are generally 
 amusing, and sometimes full of surprises 6md of vivacity. 
 
THE MASQUERADE 161 
 
 Believe me, dear Madam, we would not invite you to an 
 orgy, any more than we would escort you to a cock- 
 fight or a prize-fight.** 
 
 ' To be sure, Sir, we can tnast ourselves with you. If 
 you think that we could go "* 
 
 ' I not only think you can, but I think you should, 
 as to a sight worth seeing. Briefly, dear ladies, if you 
 care to be present at a scene of harmless merriment and 
 good-natured frolic, we will attend you there. I think 
 I can promise that you will experience no other incon- 
 veniences or rudenesses than one may expect among 
 persons all disguised." He spoke with animation, as if 
 he was anxious that we should go. 
 
 My cousin still hesitated, thus showing that some 
 traces yet remained of her Quaker experiences. For 
 myself, I was now quite abandoned, and ready for any 
 innocent pleasure that the world aftbrds, especially in 
 such company. 
 
 Well, after a little demur, she acquiesced. For my 
 own part, I confess I was most curious to see a public 
 assembly, particularly one in which everybody was in 
 disguise. 
 
 ' I am the widow of a sober merchant,** said Isabel. 
 ' What would that sober merchant — himself a member 
 of the Society of Friends — say and think if he saw his 
 relict at a masquerade disguised and wearing a domino.^" 
 
 ' He would call it an enlargement of the mind, 
 Madam. He was, no doubt, a reasonable person, 
 although a Quaker, and has now discovered that the 
 amusements of the world are not only innocent, but 
 laudable. Else why were they created ? Doubtless, he 
 now regrets that on earth he had no share in them. We 
 might even,' he added gravely, ' picture his soul in Heaven 
 regretting that it never learned to dance on earth.** 
 
 11 
 
162 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 It was agreed, then, that we should go to the mas- 
 querade, provided that we were not to remain after 
 supper, when revelry would come in, and manners would 
 go out. As for the characters we were to assume, it 
 appeared that if we put on something, or carried 
 something, appropriate to the character assumed, or to 
 its history, that would be enough to indicate our inten- 
 tion. Otherwise it might be difficult to obtain a dress 
 such as that worn by the character assumed, or, as in 
 the case of that chosen for myself, even impossible. 
 
 We then, sitting round the table, with great solemnity 
 proceeded to pass in review famous women, beginning 
 with the history of our own country and going on to 
 other countries, and even back to remote history. You 
 would not believe, if you have not already enjoyed this 
 experience, how difficult it is to choose a character for a 
 masquerade, especially if your friends ai*e jealous of your 
 reputation. First, I remember, we thought of Queen 
 Boadicea, but she would be useless without her chariot 
 and her two daughters, therefore she was dismissed. 
 How could we possibly introduce her chariot into Mary- 
 lebone Gardens ? Next, Fair Rosamond was proposed, 
 but Sir George objected on account of her character : 
 he could not bear, he said, that Miss Nancy's name 
 should be coupled with one whose conduct might be 
 forgiven, but could not be forgotten. The same objec- 
 tion was raised to the character of Jane Shore, even if 
 I presented myself barefooted, bareheaded, in a white 
 skii-t and caiTying a wax taper, doing penance. * I sup- 
 pose,' said Edward, ' that we must not so much as men- 
 tion Nell Gwynne or Lady Castlemaine ?' 
 
 ' Certainly not,' said Sir George, colounng. * How 
 can we even name such pei-sons in this presence ?' 
 
 ' There is Anne Boleyn.' 
 
THE MASQUERADE 163 
 
 ' The mother of Queen Elizabeth. But, if we choose 
 Anne Boleyn, it would be taken as a protest against 
 her execution. One would not choose to condemn the 
 judgment of the King." 
 
 ' There is Mary Queen of Scots.** 
 
 ' For private reasons,"" said Sir George, ' I should take 
 it as a personal honour if Miss Nancy played that part "* 
 — I knew not what he meant — ' for I believe that if 
 ever any woman was maligned Mary Queen of Scots is 
 one. But I cannot deny that there are grave historians 
 who believe her life to have been what her enemies pre- 
 tended. Therefore we will pass over the name of Queen 
 Mary. Miss Nancy,** he spoke earnestly, ' you could not 
 take her part without interesting yourself in her history, 
 which is, I assure you, a tangled mass of invention and 
 lies.^ 
 
 Someone suggested Queen Elizabeth. ' Her features,"* 
 said Sir George, ' were strongly marked : her eyes were 
 piercing ; her hair was red : her port was imperious. 
 Miss Nancy, whose eyes are all gentleness and softness, 
 and her face all maidenly sweetness, could not possibly 
 represent that part."* 
 
 What were we to do then ? Where to find an illus- 
 trious woman ? Observe that none of us were students 
 of history. However, we proceeded to think of names 
 in ancient history, of which the gentlemen seemed to 
 know something. Most of the names proposed were 
 strange to me. For instance, there was the name of 
 Helen of Troy. I had read somewhere that she was 
 the loveliest woman of her time (for which reason it 
 would have been a pleasant piece of presumption to 
 represent her). It now appeared that she had actually 
 run away from her own husband. This deplorable act 
 not only caused a ten years' war and the destruction of 
 
 11—2 
 
164 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 a noble city, but also prevented me from attending the 
 masquerade in her character. Queen Dido, for much 
 the same reason, as I concluded, for I know not the 
 history of that sovereign, was next rejected. So also 
 were other Queens and great ladies. Zenobia, Cleopatra, 
 Aspasia, Theodora, and others whose names and actions 
 I have forgotten if I ever knew them, all of them, it 
 appeared, though great in other respects, were (unless 
 they were maligned) cracked in reputation. 
 
 ' Should I go as a Vestal Virgin ?'' 
 
 ' VS'^hat !** cried Sir George. ' You to go as a woman 
 who has forsworn love ? Why . . . Miss Nancy, you 
 were bom for love.' 
 
 * We might,** observed his brother, ' cause her to accept 
 a lover publicly, and so to break her vows. This would 
 make an interesting play for the mastiuerade. At the 
 same time, for a Vestal to break her vows was anciently 
 thought to be the worst possible omen, and to be pro- 
 ductive of the greatest national calamities."* He looked 
 strangely at his brother as he spoke. 
 
 ' No Vestal Virgin, then,"* said Sir George. ' We will 
 avoid national calamities.' 
 
 What was to be tried next ? After ancient history, 
 sacred history. It was then suggested that Deborah, 
 Minam, Judith, or Esther might be attempted. But I 
 could not consent to take into a masquerade — a place 
 containing many scoffers — any part of a woman belong- 
 ing to the Bible. 
 
 ' I^t us try the women of the poets,' said my cousin. 
 * There are the ci-eations of Shakespeai-e : Portia the 
 lawyer : the loving Cordelia : the unfortunate Ophelia : 
 Juliet, the amorous child of fourteen : Rosalind in the 
 dress of a boy ' 
 
 * Nay,' said Sir George impatiently — I have said that 
 
THE MASQUERADE 165 
 
 he loved not poetry — * Miss Nancy must not wear the 
 dress of a bov. Let us leave the foolish poets and find 
 something for her that the world will understand.' 
 
 ' We waste our time,' said his brother. ' What 
 character can we find more fitting for Miss Nancy than 
 Venus herself, the Goddess of Love T 
 
 ' Venus .^' cried my cousin, looking up at a certain 
 picture on her walls, ' why — how in the world would 
 you present her T 
 
 'Nothing more easy. She will go in her ordinary 
 white dress, in which Venus herself could not look more 
 divine : she will have a golden belt about her waist : 
 everybody will understand that — all the women who 
 have been compared to Venus by their lovers ; and 
 every man who has been flogged through his Latin 
 Grammar and his Ovid. The golden belt will proclaim 
 her : perhaps you might add a flowing robe of muslin — 
 say blue — to look like the old gods' heaven : and she 
 might carry a sceptre in one hand, and a golden apple 
 in the other. You remember, brother, that the shepherd 
 bestowed the golden apple upon Venus as the most 
 beautiful.' 
 
 ' Did he .?' Sir George was not greatly concerned 
 with mythology. 'Perhaps he was right, so long as 
 Miss Nancy was not there.' 
 
 I laughed. ' You are both bent on making me blush 
 with your compliments. Let me have the golden apple, 
 if you like ; but my sceptre shall be my fan.' 
 
 So that was arranged. Then came my cousin. How 
 was she to go ? ' As Diana,' said Edward. ' Madam, 
 as the huntress with a quiver at your back filled with 
 arrows ; a bow in your hand, and a crescent moon 
 above your forehead, the whole world will swear that 
 you are Diana to the life.' 
 
166 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' Shall I be asked to shoot anyone ?' asked my cousin. 
 
 ' If anyone should be rude, you will turn him into a 
 stag and hunt him. You must take care of the whole 
 party, most dread Diana. There is one thing, however. 
 I learned once, that gods and goddesses are jealous. 
 Will the real Venus forgive one before whom her beauty 
 pales? Will the real Diana burst with envy at the 
 sight of her supplanter T 
 
 So, after a great deal of talk, this important matter 
 was decided. 
 
 The next morning we spent in the manner customary 
 (say necessary) for women who are going to an enter- 
 tainment where all the world will have on their best 
 frocks. We sat together, that is, with our whole wai-d- 
 robe spread out before us, and considered what we 
 should wear in the evening. Oh ! Friends, once truly 
 Friends ! Oh ! Society of Friends ! Oh ! solenui Meet- 
 ing House and silent congregation ! Oh ! Brother with 
 the broad brim ! Oh ! Sisters with the flat straw hat 
 and the gray stuff! Alas! How changed was this 
 damsel, once so meek and silent, once wrapped in 
 continual meditation upon things which she could never 
 understand, and tortured by terrors which she could 
 never drive away. Behold her now, full of anxiety — 
 not about her soul — but about her frock ; about her 
 head ; about the decorations of that worthless j>erson 
 which she had been taught to consider was already, 
 even in comely youth, little better than dust and ashes I 
 
 ' Yes, dear child," said Isabel : ' the world has pleasures 
 which draw us on. For my own part, I am certain 
 that we were designed by Heaven always to seek after 
 happiness. When we have settled these things of real 
 importance,' I will prove to you by argument that we 
 do right to be happy when we can.' 
 
THE MASQUERADE 167 
 
 While we were thus debating, Molly running up and 
 down between kitchen and parlour, grappling with the 
 double cares of dress and dinner, there came a mes- 
 senger — Molly said he was a footman with a most 
 splendid livery — who brought a large parcel. Imagine 
 our delight when we opened it ! First of all there was 
 Venus''s belt of gold — I did not think them in earnest 
 about it, but they were. It was a belt of pure gold — 
 what is called filigree gold, of the kind they make in 
 Venice, I am told : it was open-work about three inches 
 broad, with a buckle set with pearls : never was a more 
 delightful belt or girdle. It fitted my waist so per- 
 fectly that it would have been miraculous had not 
 Molly confessed to giving the measurement. With the 
 belt was an apple, a large pippin gilt and pierced so as 
 to admit a ribbon with which to tie it to my wrist : 
 and for sceptre there was a fan — a large and beautiful 
 fan — painted on one side with Cupids flying, Cupids 
 shooting, Cupids lying hidden behind flowers : and in 
 the midst Venus herself rising out of the waters. All 
 this was meant for me. For Diana there was the bow 
 — about three feet long and adorned with ribbons — 
 a quiver of open silver wire twisted together, and half- 
 a-dozen sticks, feathered and gilt, to represent the 
 arrows of the huntress. In addition, there was a thin 
 silver plate shaped like the crescent moon ; and a fan 
 like mine, but representing the miserable fate of Actaeon 
 when he surprised Diana bathing in the river. 
 
 'My dear,^ said Isabel, 'these things are vanities 
 indeed. What would your brother say ? But Nancy, 
 they mean — what do they mean ? They are rich young 
 men. I sometimes think that they may be of higher 
 rank than they confess. Well : for to-night let us 
 enjoy ourselves — low rank or high rank : they are but 
 
168 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 men : and when a young man is in love, speak he must 
 ere long — or die. I say no more, my dear.' 
 
 My frock was the best I had, you may be sure ; of 
 white satin over a great hoop : given to me by Isabel. 
 I was all in white, except for the belt : my cousin's lace 
 adorned my throat and my wrists : I wore a white silver 
 chain about my neck, white gloves, and white ribbons in 
 the lofty structure of my head. Our hairdressers came 
 at four, and finished us before six ! Oh ! what a day 
 was that, spent altogether in making one's self fine ! 
 As for my cousin, she swore that she had never enjoyed 
 such a day since she was herself a girl, and went to her 
 first assembly at Grocers' Hall. ' To dress thee, Nancy, 
 recalls the day of my first ball before I met my Reuben 
 and turned Quaker. That was a day ! Alack ! That 
 youth should so quickly fly ! Well — to-night the folk 
 shall see Venus herself. And I know who longs to say 
 so — but I say no more, my dear.' 
 
 Our escort arrived at about seven with a coach and 
 four horses. They brought the dominoes — oh! the 
 pretty little black things. How saucy could one be in 
 a domino, with no one to know her name ! 
 
 ' Put it on before you get into the coach,' said Sir 
 George. ' Then no one will recognise you.' 
 
 For themselves, they waited till we drew near the 
 place where the crowd began to be thick before they 
 put on their own. They were dressed with great richness 
 and magnificence, in crimson coats lined with white silk, 
 flowered silk waistcoats, and gold buckles on their shoes. 
 
 Marylebone Gardens lie in the fields (which are now, 
 I hear, mostly built over) north of Tyburn Road. The 
 gates are opposite Marylebone Church, a neat and 
 handsome structure. ITiey are approached by a lane 
 called the Marylebone Lane. Outside the gates and 
 
THE MASQUERADE 169 
 
 half-way down Marylebone Lane there was collected a 
 crowd of people come to see the dresses and the dis- 
 guises : link-boys ran along with the carriages, and the 
 people looked in and shouted their approval or the 
 reverse. For ourselves, we received, one is pleased to 
 remember, a continuous roar of approbation. ' They 
 are so polite,"* said Sir George, ' that one would almost 
 like you to take off your domino.'' 
 
 For myself, as this was my first experience of the 
 nocturnal pleasures of London, I felt a strange flutter- 
 ing of expectation as we entered the gates. There was 
 already a considerable company assembling : and more 
 arrived continually : all were walking in one direction, 
 which we followed. The way led through an avenue of 
 trees, lit with lamps hanging from the branches, but at 
 rare intervals, so that at best there was but twilight in 
 that avenue beyond the gate. Suddenly, however, we 
 burst upon the main avenue. Then, indeed, I started 
 with surprise and admiration. The avenue was broad 
 and long : it had rows of beautiful trees on either side : 
 coloured lamps hung in festoons from tree to tree : 
 there were thousands of coloured lamps : we walked 
 beneath these lights, the ladies' dresses showing a quick 
 succession of varying hues : at the end there were certain 
 erections standing out in a blaze of light. As for the 
 company, I paid no attention to them, being wholly 
 absorbed in admiring the beautiful lights. When we 
 came to the end of the avenue we were in an open 
 space, which was boarded over and already crowded 
 with people. In a balcony covered over to keep off 
 rain the band was playing an accompaniment softly, 
 while a woman richly dressed was singing some song, 
 the words of which I could not distinguish. Half the 
 people, however, were not listening. 
 
170 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 On the other side rose another building, also filled 
 with light. Behind and between the trees were alcoves 
 illuminated with coloured lamps. In these alcoves 
 parties were already gathered over supper and bowls of 
 punch. 
 
 ' Behold our masquerade,' said Sir George. ' We 
 will do what all the world does. First we will walk 
 round the Hall, and then Ave will come out to see the 
 mummers."* 
 
 We followed the throng and entered. Sir George 
 walking first, with me : and his brother following after 
 with my cousin. I found myself in a large square 
 room : the walls, painted a light blue, were decorated 
 with pictures of nymphs and swans; loves and god- 
 desses : flowers and fruit : there were also large mirrors 
 at intervals, in which I obsen'ed that the whole com- 
 pany gazed as they passed. A gallery contained 
 accommodation for a band : the floor was smooth for 
 dancing: but to-night, the weather being fair and 
 warm, the dancing was to be outside : round the wall 
 were seats if any chose to rest. 
 
 ' We walk round,' said Sir George, * and look at each 
 other.' 
 
 All the women wore dominoes, and nearly all were 
 in character of some kind. One in black silk and 
 carrying a lute, was the Muse of Comedy. A Turkish 
 Sultana in short skirts and full trousers wore a crown 
 to mark her rank : two Greek slaves followed her, 
 clinking their gilded fetters: Queen Elizabeth ruined 
 her part by inattention to the points which we had 
 considered : Dido wept ])erpetually — when she remem- 
 bered to weep. Queens, mistresses, characters from 
 plays and poetry followed in rapid succession. I know 
 not how many came as Fair Rosamond — ^you knew her 
 
THE MASQUERADE 171 
 
 by her bowl of poison : I remember three Jane Shores, 
 all in white, with tapers : Nell Gwynne was so great a 
 favourite that one hopes her history was unknown : 
 Joan of Arc was there in multitudes : as for mythology, 
 one could not have believed that so many women 
 understood the deities of Olympus. Nymphs of every 
 kind — of the wood, of the stream, of the ocean — 
 displayed their charms with liberality : all the greater 
 goddesses were there, including at least twenty Dianas 
 and a dozen who pretended to play the part of Venus. 
 
 They were all, I have said, in domino. The gentle- 
 men with them were divided about equally, some being 
 in disguise and some not ; some wearing a domino and 
 some not. I observed that the gentlemen, though they 
 affected the finest manners possible, paying extravagant 
 compliments to the ladies, and even walking backwards, 
 did not possess the ease which alone can give to fine 
 manners their charm : their studied gestures reminded 
 me of Robert Storey : when I turned to my partner I 
 observed at once the great difference. Yet they all 
 took infinite pains to show their breeding, handling the 
 snuff-box, for instance, with all the ceremony and pre- 
 tence which that performance demands in the polite 
 world. It has always seemed to me that one secret of 
 good manners is to assume or to pretend that every- 
 thing is of the greatest value and rarity — even a pinch 
 of snuff : a glass of wine : a slice of chicken : a hat or 
 a wig : a man's opinion : a lady's smile : a woman's face. 
 But all this, which is charming when it is done with 
 ease, just as a good actor will play his part so naturally 
 as to appear not an actor at all, is ridiculous when it is 
 clearly pretence and imitation. 
 
 My escort looked about him with an air of good- 
 natured disdain. 
 
172 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' I wonder," he said, ' who they are, and where they 
 come from, and why they think it becoming to mock 
 the manners of gentlefolk.' 
 
 ' How do you know that they are not gentlefolk ? 
 They are well dressed." I knew for my own part that 
 they were playing at good manners : but I wanted to 
 hear what he would say. 
 
 ' Dress maketh not the man,' he replied. ' What I 
 see is that all this parade of compliment ; this making 
 legs and brandishing hat and snufF-box, is acting — and 
 mostly bad acting. I should like to see their real 
 manners off the stage of the assembly floor — in their 
 counting-houses and their shops." 
 
 'Kemember, Sir George, that I also am but the 
 daughter. . . ." 
 
 He turned his eyes from the crowd to me. ' I care 
 not whose daughter you are, Miss Nancy. It is suffi- 
 cient for me to know that you are the most beautiful 
 woman in the world, with the finest mannere and the 
 best breeding. There is not, believe me, a single Court 
 lady to be compared with thee." He took my hand 
 and pressed it tenderly. The open assembly room of 
 Marylebone Gardens is not the place for making love, 
 however, so, for the moment, he said no more. And 
 then I observed with astonishment that he wore on his 
 breast a splendid great star, blazing with diamonds. I 
 was not so ignorant as not to know that this badge 
 denoted high rank. 
 
 ' What," I asked, ' is the meaning of this star. Sir 
 George ? You have hidden something from me, have 
 you not T 
 
 ' Have I hidden anything from you, Nancy ? Believe 
 me, dear child, there was good reason. I will tell you 
 what it is, if you desire to know." 
 
THE MASQUERADE 173 
 
 ' Nay, I am content to wait for your good pleasure. 
 Tell me when you please, so long as you do not treat 
 me as you treat these people, with a domino. Let me 
 see your true face and read your true mind, Sir George.** 
 
 I said no more, but I confess that my heart sank a 
 little. What did I want with rank ? We continued 
 to walk round the room, the people falling back at the 
 side. So great is the respect of the English for rank 
 that they show respect for the simple star that indicates 
 it, not knowing even the name of the person it adorns. 
 Yet so much of the Quaker remains in me that I 
 respect the man first and his rank next. 
 
 'That noble Lord"* — Sir George went back to the 
 story which had so taken his fancy — 'the one who 
 wooed a village maiden and married her and took her 
 to his own great house — did wrongly. He should have 
 kept her in her village all her life. It would have 
 been happier for him to exchange his rank and dignity 
 for the life of a simple country gentleman ; and for her 
 to live in ignorance of irksome rank with all its cares 
 and responsibilities. Ah, Miss Nancy l" he murmured ; 
 ' if it could be my happy lot to live with such a com- 
 panion — so pure and sweet and innocent — untouched by 
 the world — free from ambition, greed, or self-interest — 
 content to love her Lord ' He stopped and sighed. 
 
 We were once more come round to the door of the 
 assembly room, having walked round it twice or three 
 times in such discourse as the above. At the doors his 
 brother, with my cousin, was waiting. 
 
 ' George,"* his brother called him, ' they are dancing 
 on the boards outside. Come out and dance just once- 
 Do you know,' he whispered, ' you have forgotten to 
 take off your star .^ Never mind now. Perhaps they 
 will take it for part of your disguise : there is another 
 
174 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 star among the crowd much finer than yours — the 
 diamonds from Drury Lane Theatre, I imagine: they 
 mark, no doubt, the rank of a merchant's rider/ 
 
 Then the Master of the Ceremonies, a very polite 
 gentleman, came up, and with smiling obsequiousness 
 bowed low to the star. 
 
 ' If your Lordship," he said, ' will command a minuet 
 de la cour : if the Queen of Love ** — he recognised the 
 emblem — * will consent to walk a minuet with your 
 Lordship ' 
 
 'If fair Venus condescends.** Sir George led me by 
 the hand into the middle of the floor before all that 
 multitude of eyes. I know that they were asking each 
 other to whom the star belonged and who was the lady 
 his partner. I know also that they were expecting to 
 witness the manner and style of the dance as practised in 
 the highest circles. Alas ! my dancing mistress was but 
 the daughter of one City merchant and the widow of 
 another ; my style was that of the City assembly. 
 
 The band struck up the first bars. The dance began. 
 I have reason to remember that dance because it was the 
 first and the last dance that I ever performed in a public 
 place. 
 
 You have read that I sometimes danced with Sir 
 George at home. I therefore knew, at least, his style, 
 and had borrowed something, perhaps, of his dignity. 
 He moved, indeed, through the dance with a courtliness 
 and an authority quite in keeping with the spirit of the 
 dance, which is intended, as some say, to indicate the 
 true position of our sex, and to show how we should be 
 treated with the greatest possible honour and respect, if 
 only to make us endeavour after the virtues which the 
 men attribute to us. Others there ai-e who see in the 
 minuet the progress of a courtly amour. The whole 
 
THE MASQUERADE 175 
 
 company stood round and looked on while we two alone 
 occupied the floor : and, probably on account of the 
 star, they all applauded loudly when we finished. Then 
 we retired, and they made a lane to let us pass. 
 
 ' Nancy,"* said my cousin, ' we are proud of you. 
 Everybody was charmed.' 
 
 ' No one was so much charmed as her partner,"* said 
 Sir George. 
 
 Then the masques ran over the floor and seized it, so 
 to speak ; and some began to dance — the music playing 
 a noisy tune — in country dances, while others ran about 
 making jokes and rough play. For half a dozen would 
 get together and act something that belonged to their 
 characters : there were clowns and French Pierrots all in 
 white : there were dancing harlequins : there were sailors 
 in petticoats dancing hornpipes : there were shepherds 
 and shepherdesses with crooks and ribbons : there were 
 negroes : there were milkmaids : there were queens with- 
 out dignity ! and judges without authority : there were 
 devils who caused no fear ; in short, it was a scene of 
 pure merriment and of simple frolic, so far, without 
 apparent rudeness or license. As we stood aloof, being 
 yet the object of much attention, some of the mummers 
 came out and ventured to pray to me as to a goddess. 
 
 ' Fair Venus,' cried one, ' soften the heart of my 
 mistress or I die ' ; or, ' Great Goddess ! incline my 
 mistress's heart,' and so forth. One brought a censer, 
 such as they use in Roman Catholic churches, and swung 
 it before me. 
 
 ' Come,' said Sir George, ' we shall presently have too 
 much of this. Brother, let us to supper.' 
 
 In one of the alcoves we found waiting for us some 
 partridges, with a salad and a bottle of Lisbon ; and, 
 after the Lisbon, a bowl of punch. 
 
176 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 From our supper-table we could look out upon the 
 revellers capering and acting and laughing on the dancing- 
 stage. Now while we sat there, the gentlemen over their 
 punch, I was surprised to see under the trees before 
 our alcove Doctor Mynsterchamber himself. What was 
 he doing in this place, at his age ? He had three 
 or four gentlemen with him. They were all masked? 
 but I knew the Doctor by his long lean figure and by 
 the old brown coat which he wore, frayed and thread- 
 bare. What was the Doctor doing in the Gardens? 
 Why did he and his friends keep looking into our 
 alcove ? Why did they stand outside waiting, while all 
 the other people walked about ? The sight of that old 
 hawk made me uneasy, I knew not why. 
 
 Then I observed another strange thing. Under the 
 trees, in a place not illuminated, I discerned, having eyes 
 both strong and quick, two figures familiar to me. 
 Presently I made out that they were Captain Sel linger 
 and Corporal Bates. Strange ! The Captain at the 
 Gardens in company with a Corporal ! Was he di*unk ? 
 No ; he stood upright, a cane in his hand, without the 
 support of anyone. What were they doing ? 
 
 About half- past eleven, when the music was at its 
 loudest, the mummers at their merriest, and queens, 
 goddesses, nymphs, and heroines all jumping about 
 like Blowsabella of the Village Green : when from the 
 alcoves near us men were bawling songs, whose words, 
 happily, were lost to us, we rose to go, sorry to leave 
 the scene of so much mirth, yet anxious not to witness 
 the scenes of disorder which took place later. Many 
 ladies were directing their steps towards the gates at 
 the same time and for the same reason. 
 
 When we stood outside the alcove, just before we 
 started, the Doctor and his friends moved forward. 
 
THE MASQUERADE 177 
 
 With what object I know not. But at that moment 
 Captain Sellinger stepped out of the shade, followed 
 by the Corporal. They marched straight to the place 
 where we were standing : and there they stood beside 
 us, but facing the Doctor and his party. 
 
 No one seemed to notice this movement except myself. 
 We then walked along the avenue of trees. Sir George 
 leading me, and Edward my cousin. Behind us, but at 
 some distance, walked the Captain and the Corporal; 
 behind them the Doctor and his party. 
 
 When we reached the gates and got into the coach, I 
 looked again. Just within the gates stood the Captain 
 barring the way. And the Doctor and his party stood 
 irresolute. For some reason or other I felt sure that 
 they were baffled, and for no reason at all I connected 
 their proposed action with the gallant youth who held 
 my hand in the coach. 
 
 1« 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 MOLLY AND THE CORPORAL. 
 
 Hitherto I have told you what I saw and did and 
 heard myself. I must now ask you to read something 
 which bears upon this history, yet was confessed or 
 delivered to me by another or by others. 
 
 It is nothing less than the reason why Captain 
 Sellinger was at Marylebone Gardens that evening. 
 
 Servants, especially women, are always listening and 
 prying, the ear at the door ajar, the eye at the keyhole. 
 It affords them, I suppose, some pleasure, unintelligible 
 to ourselves, to find out what is going on, even when 
 there is nothing to conceal. 
 
 My own maid Molly, a person of great curiosity, 
 though in other respects an excellent woman, when she 
 was not watching her mistress and trying to make out 
 which was the lover, turned her attention to the other 
 residents of the house. The Corporal and Mi's. Bates 
 had become her intimate friends : Captain Sellinger 
 provoked no curiosity — a man who is drunk every day 
 cannot be interesting to a woman, who naturally 
 prefers Apollo to Bacchus : therefore there remained 
 only the Doctor. 
 
 ' There is something going on,' she said — one cannot 
 stop the tongue of a woman when she is dressing one's 
 
MOLLY AND THE CORPORAL 179 
 
 hair. ' The Doctor keeps the key of the garden door "" 
 — it opened out upon the Park. ' He has friends calling 
 all day long : they come in at the front door and he lets 
 them out by the garden-door. He thinks I can''t see 
 out of the kitchen window for the shrubs, but I can. 
 They whisper in the passage: sometimes they go out 
 quite late at night.' 
 
 One did not encourage her in these confidences ; but 
 it was strange. What was the man doing that he 
 should receive visitors by day and night in this secret 
 manner ? He might be a wizard, perhaps : or a fortune- 
 teller, or an astrologer : there are always plenty of these 
 gentry about for those who wish to learn the future and 
 make themselves miserable beforehand. To be sure, the 
 Doctor looked like a gentleman, though he went about 
 with torn ruffles and ragged skirts. However, the 
 subject concerned us not, and, besides, there were more 
 pleasant things to think about. 
 
 But Molly communicated her suspicions to the 
 Corporal, who frequently took a pipe of tobacco in the 
 kitchen of an evening with a tankard of our small ale, 
 to which the honest fellow was truly welcome. 
 
 He listened carelessly, at first, as not concerned with 
 a prying woman'*s chatter : a gentleman has a right to 
 receive his friends at one door and to let them out at 
 another if he pleases. There is no law against whisper- 
 ing in the passage : one is not compelled to go to bed at 
 midnight. 
 
 ' But,' said Molly mysteriously, ' they talk a foreign 
 jargon.' 
 
 ' What language ?' he asked. ' Molly, it may be pure 
 Yorkshire or Welsh.' 
 
 'It may be French,' she replied. And at this the 
 Corporal sat up, attentive. 
 
 12—2 
 
180 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 At that time, as everybody knows, we were at war 
 with France. If it was French, what did Frenchmen do 
 in St. Jameses Place ? The Corporal, therefore, became 
 thoughtful : he put down his pipe and considered the 
 subject. Presently, after binding Molly over on the 
 New Testament to secrecy, he told her that he thought 
 it might be worth his while to become, for the first time 
 in his life, a spy : he would watch and listen : he would 
 find out why this company talked a foreign language. 
 A spy, he explained, was a person whose occupation 
 justly stinks ; yet in such a cause as this : for country 
 and King : as a soldier : a man must not shrink. 
 Besides, he confessed, much advantage, in case of the 
 thing proving important, might accrue to his own 
 interests. 
 
 He was moved, therefore, to turn spy, and to watch 
 the Doctor closely and constantly. 
 
 ' The thing," he said, * must be done by rule and 
 plan, as one lays siege to a fortification. Let us con- 
 sider. At two the Doctor goes to his dinner: he 
 returns at six. He, therefore, after dinner, sits in the 
 coffee-house. His habits and his hours are fixed. Molly, 
 I shall procure a master-key. That in our hands, we 
 will to-morrow shut the front door when the Doctor 
 goes out, and I will then secretly make a first examina- 
 tion of the country.** 
 
 This he did. He found the room as you have heard. 
 There were papers on the table which he did not dis- 
 turb ; but he examined the wall. The room was 
 wainscoted like our own upstairs. He measured a 
 certain distance from the fireplace at the height of his 
 own eye : he then came out, having touched nothing on 
 the table, nor opened the cupboard or the box. ' That 
 will do for a beginning," he said. * You can open the 
 
MOLLY AND THE CORPORAL 181 
 
 front door again, Molly, and the Doctor may return 
 when he pleases.' 
 
 He then returned to the kitchen, the walls of which 
 were plastered with a yellow stuif: he scraped away a 
 square space at a place coiTesponding to his measure- 
 ments in the other room, and with some difficulty 
 removed two or three bricks from the party-wall. He 
 could then put his eye close to the wainscoting in the 
 other room. ' A small skewer, Molly,' he called. With 
 this he made half-a-dozen little holes in the wainscoting 
 which would be invisible the other side. ' Excellent ! 
 I can now command the table, and I think I shall hear 
 what they say. Molly, there must be no talking in the 
 kitchen while these bricks are out. Every evening I 
 shall take them out : every evening I shall put them 
 back : you must cover the place with the frying-pan or 
 a clout or something in the daytime."* 
 
 In the evening about nine o'clock, the Doctor s friends 
 arrived : there were four or five of them, and they 
 entered by the front door singly and without knocking 
 at the door, which stood open. 
 
 The Corporal took down the frying-pan, removed the 
 bricks, and stood prying through one of the holes, and 
 listened intently. 
 
 ' Molly,' he murmured, ' they are talking French. A 
 fortunate chance indeed that I should understand that 
 language.' 
 
 So he listened again, very earnestly. ' Molly,' he 
 murmured presently, ' they are the greatest villains 
 unhung. They are traitors : they are rebels : they 
 are. . . .' Again he applied himself. 
 
 In a word, save for occasional whispered ejaculations, 
 the Corporal stood there till eleven o'clock, when the 
 Doctor arose and let out his friends by the back way, 
 
182 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 Molly blowing out the candle so that he should not 
 suspect. 
 
 Tlie Corporal replaced the bricks, hung up the frying- 
 pan, and went to bed, where he lay awake all night 
 long, thinking what he had better do. 
 
 In the morning he came down, gi'eatly moved and 
 agitated. ' Molly, "* he whispered, ' not a word, even to 
 your ladies. You have sworn. There will be murder 
 if you talk. Not a word, Molly, on your life. And 
 now go call my wife downstairs.^ She came down, the 
 poor patient thing, so hard-worked, so anxious about 
 her brats. 'My dear," he said, 'cheer up. Let us 
 rejoice. Look out upon the world with smiling face. 
 Behold the sun : the clouds fly ; the rain stops ; I see 
 fair weather coming. My dear, something is going to 
 happen — some great thing — I know not yet what ; but 
 some great thing. I must drink to my own good 
 fortune. If you please, Molly, a tankard — we will all 
 drink. Give it to me. Ha !' He poured out a glass and 
 held it up to the light. 'It foams and sparkles, and 
 the bubbles rise. They rise like me, my dear. For 
 thy husband this day is a made man. It shall mean — 
 I swear — my commission — long defen*ed — nothing less."* 
 He still held the glass to the light. 
 
 'My dear,' said his wife, 'has trouble driven thee 
 distraught T 
 
 ' Distraught .? I ? Nay, it is not trouble before us, 
 but joy. My dear, I am like unto one who lights on 
 buried treasure. I see before me a splendid future. 
 Let us drink first to the Lieutenant — that is, to me 
 myself: next to the Lieutenant's charming wife — to 
 thee, my dear : then to the Captain's lovely consort — 
 to thee, my dear ; and lastly, to the Coloners honoured 
 lady — to thee, Madam, to thee.' 
 
MOLLY AND THE CORPORAL 183 
 
 ' Oh ! what does this mean ?' she asked. 
 
 ' I drink to you, my dear — always to you — in silk 
 and satin, the Pride of the Regiment !"* 
 
 He finished the tankard and set it down. 'And 
 now,' he said, ' I go to consult Captain Sellinger. I am 
 the bearer of State news — State Despatches. I am a 
 Royal Messenger !' 
 
 ' Well, Sir,' said Molly, ' the Captain was put to bed 
 drunk last night, and he will be sleeping still.' 
 
 That was, in fact, the case. The Corporal had, 
 therefore, to wait until noon, when he waited upon him 
 while he was dressing. 
 
 ' Sir,' said the Corporal, ' my errand shall prove, I 
 make bold to say, an excuse for this intrusion upon 
 your privacy.' 
 
 ' Corporal, you have your proper officer : you have 
 the Captain of your troop. If your business concerns 
 your troop, go to him.' 
 
 ' It does not. Sir. It is a business of so great im- 
 portance that I crave permission to pom- it into your 
 Honour's ears. After that, if you so direct, I will take 
 it to my own Captain.' 
 
 ' Go on, then. Corporal. But first give me the 
 tankard.' The Captain took a long drink of that 
 refreshing creature, small ale, with which he would 
 always revive his spirits in the morning. ' So !' he said, 
 ' the night was cheerful : the punch was strong.' He 
 sat on the table in his shirt-sleeves, his stockings down 
 at heel, his hair not dressed. ' Now I am ready ; go 
 on. Corporal.' 
 
 What he heard was what you have already surmised. 
 The Doctor on the ground floor was both a Jacobite 
 and a French spy. His friends, also Jacobites, appeared 
 to be of English descent, but, as they spoke French 
 
184 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 fluently, were probably the sons or grandsons of those 
 who formed the Court of James II. in exile, whom he 
 created earls and barons. They were talking over the 
 chances of a rising: or demonstration in favour of the 
 Pretender whenever the King, who was already seventy- 
 seven years of age, should die. For greater security, as 
 they fondly thought, they conversed in French. As 
 for their hopes, they were assured of support in many 
 quarters — it was not, remember, more than fifteen ye«u^ 
 from the Rebellion of 1745, which so nearly succeeded. 
 
 That was the general purport of the nightly meetings. 
 
 ' You say,"* said the Captain thoughtfully, after another 
 draught of ale, ' that they have papers and lists with 
 them.' 
 
 * They were lying on the table.' 
 
 * If the Doctor has them in his keeping we can secure 
 them easily. However — Hark ye. Corporal, this busi- 
 ness should be told to your Captain. If it becomes a 
 case for trial, you must show that you went to the right 
 quarter.' 
 
 ' By your leave. Sir, one minute more.' 
 
 ' If they want to proclaim James Francis Edward ' — 
 the Captain went on — * let them. I would counsel 
 encouraging them till they grow confident. We shall 
 then know who are his friends in the country and shall 
 be able to hang 'em all, and so an end.' 
 
 ' But this is not all, Sir.' 
 
 * Not all ! What the devil would the fellow have ? 
 Will they carry off the King ?' 
 
 ' You shall hear. Sir. They have hatched a most 
 diabolical plot, which will be earned into execution this 
 very evening : or to-morrow evening, as the circum- 
 stances will allow.' 
 
 * Go on, man. Come to the point. What is their i)lot .''' 
 
MOLLY AND THE CORPORAL 185 
 
 *■ In one word, Sir. Two young gentlemen, as your 
 Honour very well knows, come to this house often and 
 always in the evening. Your Honour knows their 
 faces very well. So do I, although but a Corporal, and 
 for the same reason. Well, Sir, they shall be nameless. 
 At ten o''clock, or thereabouts, they come downstairs, 
 thinking of nothing : the stairs are dark : suppose an 
 ambuscade of half-a-dozen men in the dark passage : 
 suppose the Doctor'*s door suddenly thrown open : there 
 is a rush : the two gentlemen are seized — gagged — 
 handcuffed. In the Place outside waits a coach : at 
 Westminster Bridge stairs waits a boat: in the pool 
 waits a ship ready to weigh anchor and drop down the 
 river, and so cross to the coast of France.** 
 
 The Captain sprang to his feet, dropping the tankard 
 and spilling the beer. ' Corporal Bates," he cried, ' I 
 believe you are a liar of the first water."* 
 
 * I wish I was, Sir. But for my truth and honesty I 
 might now be commanding my company.' 
 
 ' This is the most desperate villainy ! This is unheard 
 of ! The King so old that he may die any day. . . , 
 How many of them are there ?' 
 
 ' Not more than six, I should say. But there may be 
 more behind.' 
 
 'Yes — more behind, perhaps — ^but no more for an 
 attempt in a narrow passage. Corporal, if you are 
 lying . . .' 
 
 ' Sir,' said the Corporal, taking a Bible which lay, 
 more for show, I fear, than for use, in the window, ' I 
 swear, upon this sacred volume ' — he kissed it — ' by all 
 my hopes of eternal happiness ; by the sacred name of 
 God Almighty, that every word is true. Captain, this 
 evening will show that I am no liar. The ship which 
 waits for them is a brig called the Toxver of Brill, 
 
186 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 Amsterdam. The captain has been bought, though I 
 believe he does not know the names of the gentlemen he 
 is to take across. He will sail into French waters and 
 will become a French prize : the coach has been hired • 
 it will be driven by one of the conspirators : they will 
 assemble to-night, and in the Doctor"*s room : they have 
 not yet decided whether to make the attempt on the 
 stairs or as the gentlemen are walking out of the door.** 
 
 The Captain looked at him seriously. ' I cannot 
 choose but believe you, my man. Well — how best to 
 tackle this villainy ?'' 
 
 He proceeded to dress leisurely, turning upon the 
 Corporal at intervals with a question, while he turned 
 the matter over in his mind. 
 
 * Corporal, you are ready to fight in this cause ?' 
 
 ' Sir, I ask nothing better. And I am a master in 
 the art of fence, which I teach, with fortification and 
 the forms of siege.** 
 
 ' Corporal, you can be silent ?** 
 
 ' Sir, I am a soldier — therefore silent. I teach the 
 art of war, with the soldier^s duties, to all who come.' 
 
 ' Corporal, you have a wife, I understand. Can she 
 hold her tongue ?"■ 
 
 ' The poor creature knows nothing of this business.*" 
 
 ' Corporal, you appear to be a man of courage.** 
 
 * Will your Honour give me the command of a forlorn 
 hope P** 
 
 ' Does anyone in this house, or out of it, know these 
 visitors ?' 
 
 ' I think not, Sir. Molly, the maid, knows that they 
 come. You and I are the only two who know what 
 they are.** 
 
 ' Hark ye, Coi-poral. This is not an affair to take to 
 Bow Street. It is one in which your loyalty will be 
 
MOLLY AND THE CORPORAL 187 
 
 best shown in keeping the thing dark. If it were to 
 succeed, the Lord only knows what would happen. If 
 it were to fail with a fight and half a dozen killed and 
 wounded, and the noise of it spread over the whole 
 world, there would be a proper kind of scandal indeed. 
 No : the attempt itself must be prevented. Now, Cor- 
 poral, you and I must prevent it, for the sake of the 
 ladies as well as those w^ho may be with them. Our ser- 
 vices will not be put in the Gazette : there will be no 
 promotion for us : yet I take it upon me to assure you 
 that you shall be no loser."* 
 
 The poor Corporal hung his head. Silence and 
 secrecy ! And he had dreamed of a fight : slaughter of 
 the conspirators : and himself the hero of the fray ! 
 And, after all, silence and secrecy ! 
 
 ' I repeat. Corporal, you shall be no loser. Very well. 
 You and I must mount guard together every night 
 from the time these villains arrive till the time they go 
 away. And we must escort these gentlemen unseen 
 home. Meantime, you are sure that the ladies know 
 nothing about it T 
 
 * I am certain they do not.** 
 
 ' Humph ! Give Molly, the maid, this guinea to 
 keep her mouth shut. Very good. Let me think." 
 He sat on the table again and buried his nose in the 
 tankard, now empty. Custom connected the attitude 
 with the assistance of thought. 
 
 The Corporal, meanwhile, pulled out of his pocket a 
 paper, which he unrolled and smoothed upon the table. 
 * It is a plan. Sir, drawn to scale, of the ground floor. 
 Here is the Doctor's room : here the stairs : here is 
 the kitchen : here the back door, the garden, and the 
 garden door. I drew it this morning for your Honour''s 
 use."* 
 
188 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' You are a man of infinite accomplishments, Coi'poral. 
 This is admirable. Well, I think a little sand in the 
 lock of the garden door will stop their retreat, in case 
 we come to cold steel, which I doubt. This evening, 
 Coq^oral, you will patrol the passage and the back 
 garden. If you find a man or two in ambuscade, run 
 him through. I will take the consequences — run him 
 through.' 
 
 *I will. Sir."' The Corporal drew himself up and 
 smiled satisfaction. 
 
 ' Have a candle burning in the passage or at the bend 
 of the stairs : have another in the kitchen. Don't hide 
 yourself: make a little noise to show that you are 
 there. I will take the court and the front door. 
 Remember, man, we want to prevent them, not to 
 draw them on : we want to save certain gentlemen 
 from a scandal and certain ladies from things which 
 would be believed and said about them."* 
 
 That night the Doctor's friends were assembled : the 
 coach was waiting : those who were to hide under the 
 stairs found a candle burning in the passage and a 
 soldier carelessly walking about : the man on the coach- 
 box observed that another, an officer, was standing on 
 the door-steps or walking backwards and forwards 
 before the door : one or two came out of the Doctor's 
 room and obsened him. At about ten o'clock there 
 were steps on the stairs : the Doctor's door was opened 
 and his head was poked out. The two gentlemen came 
 down : they stood on the door-step : behind them was 
 the Corporal, beside them was the Captain. They 
 walked away : after them, at a little distance, followed 
 the Captain and the Corporal. Then the Doctor's 
 friends got into their coach and silently drove away. 
 We knew nothing about this nightly watch, but the 
 
MOLLY AND THE CORPORAL 189 
 
 guard at Marylebone could not be passed over. I 
 asked Captain Sellinger what it meant. ' We are not 
 Princesses/ I said, ' to want a guard of honour.' 
 
 'Nobody more deserves a guard of honour, Miss 
 Nancy ."^ He looked at me strangely and anxiously. 
 
 * But you seemed to come after us.' 
 
 ' Highwaymen are about : foot-pads are hanged every 
 day by the dozen : pickpockets, hustlers, ruffians, are as 
 common as oysters. Ladies must be protected.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Captain Sellinger,' I replied. ' But 
 ladies do not ask for better protection than that of 
 their own escort. We have two very gallant gentlemen 
 for our escort.' 
 
 ' Villains abound. London is full of dangers. There 
 can be no other reason. Miss Nancy, since you know of 
 none.' 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A RIVER PARTY. 
 
 After the masquerade, the next event of interest was 
 our party on the river. It took place one evening 
 early in October, when the sun sets soon after five. 
 The weather, however, in that year was, for the season, 
 open and mild — even warm, so that the freshness of the 
 air upon the river and its coolness were pleasant. 
 
 When our friends first proposed this excursion, I 
 looked forward to nothing more than to be tugged up 
 the river by two pairs of brawny arms, and to be regaled 
 by the horrid language of the rowers : in short, such a 
 pleasure-paxty as may be seen upon the river whenever 
 the weather is fine. We should probably, also, be 
 splashed with water during the voyage. Therefore, I 
 looked forward to it, I say, with no great pleasure, 
 except for the society which I had — alas ! — already 
 learned to desire so much. 
 
 It was aiTanged that we should be at the Whitehall 
 Stairs, whither Corporal Bates escorted us, at the hour 
 of half-past four, Whitehall Stairs, formerly the stairs 
 of the Palace, of which little now remains, are not a very 
 convenient place for two gentlewomen to be kept wait- 
 ing, though they are less frequented than many others, 
 and consequently less disgusting for ears of delicacy. I 
 
A RIVER PARTY 191 
 
 wonder if there will ever arrive a time when the water- 
 men of London will learn to speak with decency and to 
 affirm without blasphemy. 
 
 But we were not kept waiting, for, true to time, the 
 boat which was to convey us came sweeping up the 
 river, and was held by a hook to the long pole or mast 
 at the end of the stairs. Boat do I call it? Why, 
 Queen Cleopatra herself, whose barge is represented in 
 one of my cousin's pictures, never had so beautiful a 
 vessel : nor had Queen Elizabeth anything, I am sure, 
 half so fine when she took the air upon the river : nor 
 has the Lord Mayor a finer vessel when he comes up the 
 river on the ninth day of November : nor has any City 
 Company a more beautiful vessel. It was a barge 
 capable of holding I know not how many people : 
 within and without it was all carved work, bright 
 paint and gilded wood : most lovely was she — every 
 boat is feminine — to look at as she lay upon the water : 
 her bows rose up high, with a figurehead representing a 
 maiden, all (apparently) of pure gold : in the middle 
 she was low, and she rose again in the stern : she had 
 six oars on each side : the men wore a scarlet livery : 
 the man who took the helm was also in scarlet : two or 
 three footmen, also in scarlet, stood about beside the 
 steersman : a cabin or chamber was constructed in front 
 of the helm — that is to say, neither in the middle nor 
 in the stern, but between the two : the roof was sup- 
 ported by slim and elegant intertwined pillars of carved 
 wood: the sides were open, but there were velvet 
 curtains to be drawn if the air should prove cold: 
 round the sides were cushioned seats : in the middle 
 stood a small table, at present with nothing upon it : 
 in the bows was a band of music, hautboys, horns, harps, 
 violins, and other instruments. 
 
192 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 When we came down the stairs the harpist ran his 
 fingers over the strings and stinick up the old air, ' How 
 should I my true love know?' This I received as a 
 conipUment to myself, because I once said that a harp 
 moved me more than any other instrument and another 
 time said that I liked the tune of ' How should I my 
 true love know ?' 
 
 ' Heavens !' murmured my cousin. ' Where did they 
 get this splendid barge? It is not one of the City 
 barges, or I should know iV 
 
 'Welcome!' said Sir George, stepping on to the 
 stairs. ' We have luckily secured this barge. I hope 
 it will prove comfortable.' So he handed us into the 
 cabin and placed us at the end, taking his own seat on 
 the right-hand side by me, and his brother sitting 
 opposite on the left-hand of Isabel. 
 
 And then they pushed off the boat, and the voyage, 
 which remains graven upon my heart to this day, 
 began. Oh! that the happy day could come back 
 again! Oh! that one could not only remember past 
 joys and recall sweet words, but also see the lovely 
 youth once more, rejoicing in his manhood, full of love 
 and happiness ! But for the hope that, somehow, we 
 cannot imagine in what way, vanished joys will be 
 restored to us, life would be too sad for endurance. 
 We should accuse Providence, and die hopeless. They 
 pushed off the boat, I say, and we dropped down into 
 the open stream. Over our heads hung or streamed 
 out a long silken pennant : thus were flags flying in the 
 bows and at the stern : the boat was all glorious within 
 and without : my heart beat : my colour came and 
 went : my eyes, I know not why, filled with tears : and 
 Sir George gazed upon me fondly and fixedly as if he 
 could never have enough. 
 
A RIVER PARTY 193 
 
 We passed without accident through the arches of 
 Westminster Bridge and pursued our stately way, the 
 oars hfting and falling without noise, up the river 
 beyond the houses and buildings which cease at 
 Lambeth and are followed by low shores with trees, 
 fields, and market-gardens, and a house here and there. 
 
 The course of the river at Westminster is nearly 
 north and south : before reaching Chelsea the river 
 bends to the west : here we faced the sun, now wester- 
 ing rapidly : before us the river lay spread out like a 
 sheet of red gold, reflecting the sky above, which was 
 truly like a vision of the New Jerusalem. 
 
 ' This is a dream of fairyland," said my cousin. 
 
 *I have seen many sunsets on the Atlantic,' said 
 Edward; 'both sunsets over a rough sea and sunsets 
 over a sea as smooth as this river to-night ; and I have 
 seen sunsets in the Mediterranean : but give me still 
 the river Thames." 
 
 'My brother is happier than I,"* Sir George added. 
 * He is a sailor and can travel. I must stay at home. 
 Therefore I rejoice to hear that oui' Thames is as 
 beautiful as any of the famous rivers of foreign lands." 
 
 The tide was flowing and nearly high: the river 
 seemed brimming over, it was so full : the water was 
 covered with swans floating about by twos and threes ; 
 there were hundreds of the graceful creatures; there 
 were also many boats on the river. Mostly they con- 
 tained girls and their sweethearts (one supposes they 
 were sweethearts) enjoying like us the freshness of the 
 air and their own society : and there were many of the 
 huge unwieldy barges filled to the water s edge with 
 hay or with casks or coals or iron, working their way 
 up stream with the tide, the men on board tugging at 
 their long sweeps. 
 
 13 
 
194 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 The scene was so beautiful that we sat in silence, 
 ravished by the sight. And all this time the harper 
 played to us, changing his tune continually into some- 
 thing still more sweet and beautiful. Thus he played, 
 'Early one morning, just as the sun was rising,' 
 * Drink to me only with thine eyes '' — when Sir George 
 began to sing my song softly — 'Begone, dull care," 
 ' Sweet, if you love me,' ' The dusky night rides down 
 the sky ' ; and more. The smaller boats, as we swept 
 along, tried to keep up with us for the delight of the 
 music : but could not, so they huzzaed and let us go 
 on our way. Presently the sun sank, and before long 
 there fell upon the world a soft and sweet twilight, on 
 which rose a moon glorious and beautiful. 
 
 ' Will the ladies take their regale now, brother ?^ 
 asked Edward. 
 
 ' Sir, can you speak of eating in such a scene as this ?' 
 replied my cousin. 
 
 But she sat up as if in readiness — while two of the 
 footmen quickly spread the cloth and laid upon it the 
 supper. Truly, the supper would tempt an ankress, if 
 any ankresses yet remain to mortify their appetites and 
 serve the Lord by starving. For there were pheasants 
 and grouse — the latter bird brought out of Yorkshire, 
 we were told, by flying post, so that the brace on our 
 table had actually been shot two hundred and fifty 
 miles away, two days before. And there was fruit of 
 all kinds, pears, peaches, plums, grapes, the most 
 costly and the most delicious that the country can 
 produce. 
 
 It was now nearly dark. Then a new smprise 
 awaited us. For, as if by magic, there appeared 
 hanging round the high bows of the barge a kind of 
 crown of gleaming lamps of all colours, and a footmain 
 
A RIVER PARTY 195 
 
 lit candles in our cabin, and we found ourselves sitting 
 in a blaze of light. Then the harpist stopped, and the 
 horns and the hautboys began tossing the music out 
 upon the waters, which tossed it on to the shore, and 
 so it came echoing back. If this world, I thought, 
 can be made so heavenly, what must Heaven itself be 
 hke ? 
 
 ' Come,' said our host, when we had exclaimed and 
 applauded, ' let us see what they have given us for 
 supper. It will be found, I fear, a poor offering in 
 return for your great kindness in coming." 
 
 Their poor offering was, I have said, a most delicate 
 little banquet. One wanted nothing : the fresh air, 
 the gleaming lights, the music of the horns, the com- 
 pany and conversation of our entertainers, were £is 
 exhilarating as the wine and as staying as the chicken 
 and partridge. It must be confessed that we did 
 justice to these viands, cheered as they were by the 
 lively sallies of Edward, and the graver discourse of his 
 brother. 
 
 Supper finished, the footman who had been standing 
 behind the cabin came in and rapidly can'ied off the 
 dishes, leaving in their place a bowl of punch. He 
 also extinguished the candles in the cabin and left 
 us in the light produced by the glass lamps in the 
 bows. 
 
 Beside me sat Sir George. He had been pensive and 
 even melancholy during the supper, gazing from time 
 to time upon me with eyes that now I understand. 
 Sad is the lot of the woman upon whom those eyes 
 have never rested : eyes full of tenderness, and respect, 
 and longing. The memory of those eyes remains with 
 me to comfort my lonely age : ' Once," they say, ' thou 
 wert fair and a man loved thee for thy beauty : once 
 
196 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 thou wert so fair that a man believed thee to have 
 all the virtues that belong to an angel : once wert 
 thou thought so fair that a man worshipped thee 
 as one worships a wood-nymph or a goddess of the 
 heathen."* 
 
 * What think you of our music, fair Nancy ?' he said, 
 bending over me. 
 
 It was now, I say, almost dark in our cabin save lor 
 the lights in the bows : the rowers lifted and dipped 
 their oars noiselessly : the music was gentle : the air 
 was soft: my heart was well-nigh full of happiness. 
 And now I was to be lifted out of myself — ^yea — to the 
 seventh heaven — with such joy as I never thought could 
 lill a human heart. 
 
 ' The music," I replied, ' seems to celebrate the happi- 
 ness of this evening. Yet for a touch I could weep. 
 Why does music move one to tears ?' 
 
 He laid his left hand timidly round my waist : with 
 the right he took my hand and kissed it. * Sweet 
 Nancy,' he whispered, ' believe that I would die rather 
 than bring a tear into those eyes. If the music makes 
 thee sad, sweet girl, it shall cease.' 
 
 * Nay, but there are tears of joy as well as of sadness.*" 
 I tried to withdraw my hand, but he held it firmly. 
 Besides, it was the kind of capture to which a woman is 
 resigned : and, again, his words, his grasp, the pressure 
 of his arm upon my waist all together, suddenly and 
 swiftly, awakened me and changed vague yearnings into 
 strong love — strong as death — yea — stronger. From 
 that moment I have been wholly his — all my heart, all 
 my soul, all my thoughts — were and are his and his 
 alone. 
 
 It costs me no pain now to remember these things : 
 a few tears of regret, perhaps : but such regrets console 
 
A RIVER PARTY 197 
 
 the season of age : the memory of those days ennobles 
 me : it makes me proud and happy : sometimes when I 
 have thought long over them I take down a book 
 which, in spite of all the Divines pretend, I find 
 full of earthly love. I mean the Song of Solomon : 
 and I read the verses concerning my beloved with that 
 sense of experience which makes me understand them all. 
 
 ' My tender sweetheart !' he whispered low, while the 
 music drowned his words, and the others could not see. 
 I hear that soft, sweet whisper still ; 'twill comfort my 
 dying moments : it is my consolation from day to day, 
 from hour to hour, to remember it. Oh! I was the 
 first in his heart : the first. Yes, the first : before 
 the Other came across the seas : I was the first. ' My 
 tender sweetheart ! My most beloved mistress !' Then 
 he drew me gently to his bosom, and laid my head 
 upon his shoulder and kissed me on the forehead and 
 on the cheek and on the lips, murmuring, ' Oh, my 
 tender sweetheart ! Oh, my most beloved mistress !' 
 This was all he said. It was not so dark in the cabin 
 but that the others might see something ; but I know 
 not how much they saw. 
 
 How long did this declaration last ? Indeed, I have 
 no recollection, because I lost myself. Presently I 
 heard his brother''s voice. 
 
 ' George, we are near the Stairs. Are you asleep ?' 
 
 * No, brother. I have never been so wakeful, believe 
 me. Are we really near Whitehall Stairs again ? Oh ! 
 let us turn round and have it all over again !' 
 
 His brother laughed. ' I wish we could. But there 
 are other things to do this evening."* 
 
 'True — a most tedious card-party awaits us, Miss 
 Nancy. Alas ! here we are, and the evening is done.'' 
 
 It surprised me when we landed at the stairs to find 
 
198 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 a link-boy waitinor for us, and Captain Sellinger, quite 
 sober, with Corporal Bates, in attendance. 
 
 * By your leave, Sir,' said the Captain, takinoj off his 
 hat. * I will escort the ladies home.' 
 
 ' If you please. Sir,' Sir Georo^e seemed to know the 
 Captain. He stooped and kissed my hand once more. 
 'I shall never forget this evening,' he whispered. 
 * Never, so long as I live.' So we landed, and the 
 barge pushed off again and went down the river. 
 
 I was also greatly surprised to see on the stairs Doctor 
 Mynsterchamber and two or three gentlemen with him 
 I knew not. They whispered to each other : they 
 looked at the barge and at Captain Sellinger. When 
 the barge pushed off they walked away. 
 
 The Captain walked home with us, the Corporal 
 marching behind. 
 
 ' You know Sir George Le Breton, then .?' I asked. 
 ' Have you known him long ?' 
 
 * Sir George Le Breton ? Oh ! yes — yes !' he replied, 
 with a little confusion. ' Oh, yes — I know — Sir George 
 — Sir George Le Breton.' 
 
 ' Do you know him intimately ?' 
 
 ' No, certainly not. I have not that honour. But 
 of course — I know him. Not so well as you know him, 
 Miss Nancy.' 
 
 If I blushed, the night concealed that sign of guilt. 
 
 * We find him and his brother most agreeable com- 
 pany. Captain Sellinger.' 
 
 *It is quite certain that they find most agi*eeable 
 company in St. James's Place.' 
 
 * They are young gentlemen of many virtues, Captain 
 Sellinger.' 
 
 ' So I have understood — especially Sir Greorge. He 
 has all the vii'tues there are. It is his inheritance. His 
 
\ 
 
 A RIVER PARTY 199 
 
 father had all the virtues before him ; so has his 
 grandfather. All the virtues reside permanently in his 
 family.' 
 
 ' I know not what you mean, Captain Sellinger. But 
 they do not get tipsy in the evening.' 
 
 ' Which is best, child : to repent in the morning with 
 a headache, or to be sorry in the morning for an evening 
 thrown away ?' 
 
 By this time we were arrived at our own door. * And 
 now,' said the Captain, ' that I have left you in safety at 
 the door, I will go to the Cocoa-Tree and drink. There 
 is still time. Good-night, ladies. It is indeed a most 
 wonderful thing.' 
 
 What was most wonderful ? 
 
 ' We must talk a little, Nancy,' said Isabel, sitting 
 down. 
 
 ' What shall we talk about .?' 
 
 ' Let me look in thy face, Nancy. Oh ! she says 
 " What shall we talk about ?" We will talk about St. 
 Paul's Cathedral, my dear, if you wish ; or about Dart- 
 ford Paper Mills; or about your brother Joseph of 
 pious memory; or, indeed, about everything except 
 what you want to talk about.' 
 
 * Cousin, what do you mean .?' 
 
 ' Oh ! you know very well. The cabin was dark, but 
 not so dark but I could see one head bending over 
 another. The oars made a splashing and the water 
 lapped against the side of the boat, yet I heard a 
 whisper on the other side of the cabin. Nancy, why 
 was that head bent down.? What did that whisper 
 mean ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! Cousin ' — I threw my arms round her — ' I am 
 the happiest, most joyful woman in the whole world ! 
 He loves me !' Then I broke from her and ran into 
 
SOO A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 my own room, because I must needs be alone to sit and 
 think. 
 
 In the morning she asked me no more questions, 
 being always so kind and so thoughtful about me ; and 
 after breakfast I went out to walk by myself in the 
 Green Park, to think over the thing which had befallen 
 me. 
 
 When I came back I was waylaid by the Doctor, who 
 came out of his room to meet me. 
 
 'I hope, Miss Nancy ,■* he said, bowing profoundly, 
 'that you enjoyed your voyage on the river last night. 
 I saw the boat landing you at Whitehall Stairs. With 
 a cavalier the river may be delightful. Without, it 
 may provoke a sore throat. Miss Nancy, I beg once 
 more to offer for your acceptance one of the miniatures ' 
 — he drew it out of his pocket — * which I showed you 
 once before. It is a truly beautiful piece of work — 
 see ! it is set with pearls. Believe me, it is worthy even 
 of your acceptance.' 
 
 I took it in my hands. Yes : it presented a most 
 lovely face with a strange sadness in the eyes : a face 
 having blue eyes and light hair — like my own. 
 
 ' 'Tis none other than the portrait of Mademoiselle 
 la Valliere, first mistress of Louis Quatorze: once as 
 good and beautiful as yourself. She was dazzled by the 
 passion of the young Prince. She was the first love of 
 Louis. They say he never truly loved any other 
 woman. Take it. Miss Nancy. Take it — keep it. 
 See — there is a touch — turn it to the light — just a 
 touch of yourse f. Miss Nancy — it may be my imagina- 
 tion — in those eyes. Keep it. She was a Prince's first 
 and only love.' 
 
 I had no suspicion why he forced this gift upon me : 
 not the least suspicion. But now I know. Well, I 
 
A RIVER PARTY 201 
 
 took it : I have it still : when I take it out in these 
 latter days, when the past is so far off and I so changed 
 and the whole history dim except to me, I see that the 
 Doctor was right. There is in the eyes a touch — a 
 touch of sadness — a touch of myself. And I am glad 
 that I never showed this miniature to my lover. Hence- 
 forth I can call him my lover. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE GUARD OF HONOUR. 
 
 I NOW return to the events which were not conducted in 
 my presence; namely, those concerned with the Cer- 
 poral's discovery and the Doctor"'s conspii*acy. 
 
 You may be sure that it was not long before one of 
 the two brothers — the younger — discovered the fact 
 that these two sentinels were posted at the door every 
 night, and that they formed a voluntary escort out of 
 St. James''s Place. As for Sir George, this was a thing 
 which he would not notice. The presence of an escort 
 would seem to him natural and no more to be ques- 
 tioned than the following of a footman. As elder 
 brother, he was more accustomed to these attentions 
 than an officer in the Royal Navy. Besides, he left us 
 every evening, I am quite sure, with his Head as full 
 as his Heart. For the Head said, ' She is only a 
 daughter of a bourgeois : of no family : of no connec- 
 tions except those of trade. She is far, far below your 
 rank. You must put her out of your thoughts." And 
 the Heart said, ' Nay ; but you love her : you have told 
 her so : she loves you : to leave her would be the basest 
 cruelty : arrange some plan, with your Head, so that 
 you may love her still.' And always Conscience 
 whispered, ' Remember, George, those in high place 
 
THE GUARD OF HONOUR 203 
 
 must not set base examples.'' With these conflicts 
 going on, do you think it wonderful that he did not 
 notice certain things ? 
 
 One evening, therefore, the younger brother, after 
 allowing George to enter his own house, stopped in the 
 street outside, and called the Captain. 
 
 'Hark ye, Sir,' he began with some roughness, 'I 
 observe that in the exercise of a zeal which, I suppose, 
 does an officer of Horse Guards credit, you have con- 
 stituted yourself into a special Guard of Honour to my 
 brother and myself.** 
 
 Captain Sel linger bowed low. ' I would explain. Sir,"* 
 he began. 
 
 ' Sir, I know you very well by sight, and you, 
 I suppose, know my brother and myself also by 
 sight.' 
 
 ' I have that honour. Sir.** 
 
 ' Well, Sir, your zeal, let me tell you, is uncalled for 
 and meddlesome. I beg — I command — that it be dis- 
 continued.' 
 
 ' When I have explained, Sir ' 
 
 ' What ? When a gentleman wishes to preserve an 
 incognito : when he pays visits which he does not wish 
 to be proclaimed by beat of drum : when he carries his 
 own sword, and is not afraid to use it : to have his 
 privacy invaded by a volunteer escort ? Allow me to 
 say, Sir, again, that it is meddlesome.' 
 
 ' Sir,' said the Captain quietly, ' you are able to say 
 what you please "" 
 
 ' Well, Sir, I will say what I please, and I will give 
 you satisfaction afterwards like any other man. Why 
 not bring your troop and trot along beside us ? They 
 would look well drawn up every evening in St. James's 
 Place, would they not ? Certain ladies of our acquaint- 
 
204 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ance would receive this delicate attention with pleasure, 
 no doubt/ 
 
 *Sir, I desire nothin<ij but permission to explain. 
 Indeed, Sir, I shall show you the ^avest reasons. Be- 
 lieve me, neither presumption nor meddling. . . . But 
 if you will not hear me ** 
 
 * Go on, then. Explain if you can.** He stood upon 
 the doorstep, leaning against the pillars of the porch. 
 * Explain, then.' 
 
 ' I will not take long, Sir.** He lowered his voice to 
 a whisper. ' To begin with, there is a person on the 
 ground floor of that very house in St. James's Place who, 
 I have discovered, is a rank Jacobite, and possibly a 
 French spy : of the former there is no doubt.' 
 
 * Jacobite — Jacobite!' He threw up his arms im- 
 patiently. * What does it matter, man ? Are you so 
 foolish as to believe in that cry ? Why, Sir, the Young 
 Pretender is forty and childless, and his brother is in 
 the Romish Church ! Jacobite ! Let him go to the 
 Devil for a Jacobite ! He is a French spy, too, is he ? 
 Well — St. James's is not Portsmouth Dockyard. What 
 is he to learn ? What mighty secrets will he pick up ? 
 Have him to Bow Street and hang him. Is it because 
 there is a Jacobite scoundrel in the house that you 
 think fit to dog my brother's steps every night ?' 
 
 ' Pardon me. Sir. I said there was the gravest reason. 
 I will tell it in short. It is this. Every evening there 
 assembles in this man's lodging on the ground floor of 
 that house in St. James's Place a company of half a 
 dozen ; they are, apparently, the grandsons of certain 
 English and Irish who followed James into exile : they 
 come and go without suspicion because they talk English 
 perfectly : they are over here in the desperate hope of 
 reviving a lost cause. Meantime, they have another 
 
THE GUARD OF HONOUR 205 
 
 matter in hand — which is the grave reason of which I 
 spoke." 
 
 'Well, Sir?" 
 
 ' To-morrow night, Sir, you may remark, if you choose, 
 a coach in waiting. That coach is driven by one of 
 themselves : at Whitehall Stairs there is waiting a boat, 
 manned by two of themselves : down the river off Red- 
 rili* lies a vessel waiting for them. The ship is called 
 the Tower of Brill, of Amsterdam : the captain has 
 been won over in the usual way : when he has received 
 certain passengers, who will be carried up the ship's 
 side, he will drop down the river : he will then make 
 for Calais, and be taken by the French, who will leam 
 when they get into port the names of the passengers." 
 
 ' The names of the passengei*s .? Who are they, 
 then.?" 
 
 ' Your brother. Sir, and yourself.'* 
 
 ' The Devil ! How are they to get hold of us ?" 
 
 ' I have told you. Sir. Every evening that company 
 is assembled in that Jacobite"s room looking for an 
 opportunity to seize you both at the bottom of the 
 stairs, and carry you away, prisoners, to France." 
 
 'To seize us— seize my brother.?" But he said this 
 in a whisper. ' To carry us away ? Man — ^this is some 
 foolish joke." 
 
 ' No joke at all. Sir. It is plain truth, as I can show. 
 Now, Sir, with this conspiracy before you — say — was 
 my interference justified? Was I to lay the matter 
 before the magistrates and cause those ladies to give 
 evidence, and " 
 
 Edward put up his hand. 'Captain Sellinger," he 
 said, 'this is a serious business. I must think for a 
 moment." 
 
 He was silent for some minutes. ' Are you quite 
 
206 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 sure of your information ?"" he asked. * From whom did 
 it come to you ?' 
 
 ' From a Corporal in the Hoi-se Guards — a man of 
 education, who speaks French, and overheard their con- 
 versation. I can show you this evening. Sir, if you 
 please, how they meet. The coach you can see for 
 yourself."' 
 
 ' Then, Captain Sellinger,' Edward replied, ' I thank 
 you.' So he held out his hand, which the other, bowing 
 low, touched with his fingers. ' Forgive me, Sir, for my 
 haste. I am to blame. I should have known that a 
 gentleman must have had his reasons. What do you 
 advise 'f 
 
 ' With submission, Sir, that we continue the nightly 
 watch. There will be no attempt, I am sure, where 
 there is the certainty of a fight. A sudden and un- 
 expected rush of five or six upon two might succeed : 
 not a rush provided for against four armed men. These 
 kind of conspirators are mighty coy about the clashing 
 of steel and waking the neighbours. They desire a 
 noiseless abduction, with gags and handcuffs. If they 
 still persist, it would be well to warn them.' 
 
 ' The business wants careful handling. We must 
 keep the ladies out of the affair : we must keep my 
 brother out of it. No breath of it must get about to 
 his detriment. This Corporal of yours — is he an honest 
 fellow?' 
 
 'I believe him to be so. He is a fellow of many 
 accomplishments and vain, but honest and zealous.' 
 
 ' For my own pai-t I should like a brush with the 
 villains — ^you beside me and the gallant Corporal dis- 
 tinguishing himself behind. I am not sui-e whether we 
 can contrive to keep my brother in ignorance. How- 
 ever, I shall try. Above all things, his name must not 
 
THE GUARD OF HONOUR 207 
 
 appear publicly, and his person must not be put into 
 any danger, if that is possible. Tell your man. Captain, 
 to continue his silence. We will talk of this business 
 again when I have turned it over in my mind.' 
 
 For some days nothing more was done ; the coach 
 was brought every evening to St. James's Place, where 
 it waited : the Doctor's friends came every evening to 
 his lodging, where they waited : and every evening they 
 were baulked by the accidental presence of Corporal 
 Bates in the kitchen and about the passage, whistling 
 and singing so that there could be no doubt concerning 
 his presence, while outside, in St. James's Place, for 
 some purpose of his own, doubtless to meet a girl. Cap- 
 tain Sellinger strolled about the Place or waited in the 
 doorway. From time to time the Doctor would get up 
 and look out, as if to ascertain the weather : his door 
 was kept ajar, so that any footsteps could be heard : 
 regularly at ten o'clock, when the two gentlemen came 
 downstairs, the Corporal was standing at the bottom of 
 the stairs ready with a salute, and the Captain was 
 standing on the doorstep ; and if the conspirators made 
 a rush it would be met by these two defenders first. 
 
 What did the Doctor suspect ? I cannot tell. The 
 coach, I say, continued to come every evening. I con- 
 jecture that they were resolved to wait until an oppor- 
 tunity should occur, and that they thought this op- 
 portunity would certainly occur before long. I con- 
 jecture, further, that they had no thought of murder, 
 which would be useless, but of seizing the person. If 
 they had desired murder they might bring six or more 
 against four and so set upon them ; but it was plainly 
 their interest to avoid bloodshed : now when swords are 
 crossed even in self-defence, one cannot say who will 
 receive a thrust. Meanwhile it is also certain, in my 
 
208 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 mind, that they had no suspicion that their purpose 
 was discovered. Else why this perseverance in making 
 everything ready night after night ? Their very security 
 showed that they had no suspicions : for this security 
 woukl have been impossible if the plot had been known, 
 in which case there would have been no delay, but they 
 would all have been seized, committed, tried, and exe- 
 cuted in the usual way. These considerations account 
 for the fact that they made no attempt to fly or to 
 disperse themselves. 
 
 ' You walk abroad late. Captain Sellinger,' said the 
 Doctor, one morning. * Last night I went forth to 
 watch the stars, and saw you in the Court : the night 
 before, if I mistake not, I heard your footsteps.^ 
 
 * Doctor, if a little friend sometimes came to talk to 
 you in this quiet Court, where there is no one except a 
 cursed mysterious coach which waits every evening for 
 someone, would you like to be watched .?' 
 
 ' Oh ! If a woman is in the case. Captain — one has 
 been young ' 
 
 * The nights grow cold. In a few days I fear she will 
 come no longer." 
 
 That night the coach came not, nor did the company 
 gather in the Doctor s room. Yet soon after the coach 
 appeared again, and the men came again. They had 
 not lost their hopes of an opportunity. 
 
 On another occasion — * Captain,"* said the Doctor, 
 * advise me. The fellow who lives in the garret — 
 Corporal Bates by name ' 
 
 'What of him. Doctor?' 
 
 *A noisy fellow. He disturbs me in the evening. 
 When one would be writing or reading, or perhaps 
 sleeping, he walks about the passage whistling. He 
 goes in and out the kitchen and drinks/ 
 
THE GUARD OF HONOUR 209 
 
 ' He is not in my Company, Doctor. I cannot speak 
 to him. But bid Molly the maid tie a dish-clout to his 
 coat-tail. Or — better still — make his wife jealous.' 
 
 That was all that the Doctor and his friends got by 
 their interference. Yet it showed uneasiness. It is 
 certain that they feared all was not right. 
 
 As for my cousin and myself, we knew nothing. For 
 my own part, I lived in a FooPs Paradise, i.e., in the 
 Paradise which every woman desires for herself, the 
 Paradise of Love. This gallant young gentleman loved 
 me : so brave and so handsome ; so rich and so highly 
 placed ; he loved me, when he might have chosen among 
 the noblest ladies of the land : he had chosen me : he 
 loved me : he loved me. While I sat with those words 
 day and night ringing in my brain, downstairs went on 
 the plots and conspiracies of those villains and the 
 devotion of those two, the Captain and the Corporal, 
 thwarting and preventing. 
 
 The patience, both of conspirators and of guard, is 
 shown by the time during which the former waited for 
 an opportunity, and the latter continued to interpose 
 obstacles. Consider, Isay, the time that the watch con- 
 tinued. Yet the thing was worth patience and watch- 
 fulness incredible. We went to Marylebone Gardens on 
 the last day of September ; the plot was then discovered 
 and in the possession of Captain Sellinger. He began 
 his watch and escort and continued both, as you shall 
 see, for more than three weeks. While the coach was 
 waiting in the Place, the Captain and his companion 
 patrolled the open square and guarded the steps and 
 the stairs. "WHiat put an end to the business you shall 
 learn in due course. 
 
 U 
 
CHAPTER XVin. 
 
 THE PALACE AND THE COURT. 
 
 You have read how Sir George turned the conversation 
 when my cousin or I expressed a desire to see the Coui*t 
 and Palace of St. James's. The King was old : one 
 must not annoy the King: our loyalty would be best 
 shown by not attempting to enjoy the privilege of seeing 
 the Palace : and so forth. Therefore we were greatly 
 surprised when he offered of his own accord to show us 
 what was to be seen. ' Come,' he said, ' to the Colour 
 Court, which is that within the gate, at the mounting 
 of the guard to-morrow morning, and I will try to let 
 you see everything.' 
 
 You may be sure that we joyfully accepted the invi- 
 tation. For my own part, I understood that something, 
 I knew not what, was intended for me, especially, by 
 this invitation, and T dressed with some trepidation yet 
 with happy expectancy. What he chose to do would be 
 well done. 
 
 The mounting of the guard at eleven every morning 
 is a pretty sight : we had often witnessed it from the 
 end of St. James's Street. First marches the band 
 headed by the drum major, a very majestic person, over 
 six feet high and carrying a gold -headed staff: after 
 him the ' trumpets and shawms,' that is to say, men in 
 
THE PALACE AND THE COURT 211 
 
 cocked hats and scarlet uniforms blowing strange instru- 
 ments : then two little boys, pretty little fellows, who 
 look as if they ought to be still in a Dame's school, 
 with drums : then a great fat negro with a turban 
 carrying the big drum, and on either side another 
 negro with cymbals and tambourine. Then a company 
 of twenty -four drums and fifes : then the Captain or 
 Colonel with his sword drawn marching before the ensign 
 who carried the colours ; lastly, the guard of the day, 
 fellows so well shaven and so finely dressed that you 
 would not believe their daily work was that of the 
 humble, though useful, coal-heaver. 
 
 At eleven the next morning, therefore, we repaired to 
 Colour Court. When the Guard had left the Court Sir 
 George came to us dressed in scarlet with his star and a 
 glittering order on his breast. ' I am here,"* he said, ' as 
 a kind of official : do not be surprised when they salute 
 me. I have ordered that none are to be admitted except 
 on the King's business while you are here. You w^ill 
 have the Palace to yourselves, ladies, except for the 
 private apartments of the King."* 
 
 So saying, he led the way. I observed that wherever 
 we met one of the Palace servants, or any gentleman 
 belonging to the Court, our guide was saluted in the 
 most respectful manner possible, everybody falling back 
 out of our way and bowing low or saluting. 
 
 I forget most of the things we saw, and, indeed, it 
 does not greatly matter, because the importance of the 
 morning lay not in the State rooms of the Palace, but 
 in the words which were spoken in them. 
 
 First we went into the Chapel, where the King every 
 year makes his offering of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. 
 Here, also, we learned, the Sovereign formerly touched 
 for the King's Evil, working miracles daily. 
 
 14—2 
 
212 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' If," said our guide, * the King reigns by Divine per- 
 mission, there would seem nothing ridiculous in the 
 function which George I. discontinued/ 
 
 ' But,"* I said, ' we all live by Divine permission : and 
 all we do or say is only what we are permitted : yet we 
 do not work miracles.' 
 
 ' I do not press the point,' he replied. * What divines 
 ordain or decide that do I accept with humility. The 
 King touches no longer, by the ruling of the Church. 
 It is enough. Let me show you, next, the State rooms.' 
 
 These rooms are called Queen Anne's Room, the 
 Throne Room, the Armoury, and othei-s which I forget. 
 The rooms were large and lofty, opening one out of the 
 other : in one or two there were card-tables and chairs : 
 all had thick carpets and heavy curtains : there were 
 gilded chairs and sofas : there were very large looking- 
 glasses, hanging chandeliers, carved cornices and chimney- 
 pieces with coats-of-arms and crowns and initials : 
 among them those of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn. 
 There were also pictures, chiefly portraits. Here were 
 the two Princes of Wales who died young : Arthur, son 
 of Henry VII. ; and Henry, son of James. Here were 
 Jane Seymour ; the Duchess of York ; Charles I. in 
 Greenwich Park : and I remember a famous picture 
 of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Paradise. As for 
 the rooms themselves, they were full of memories. I 
 looked about in curiosity. Here Queen Mary died — in 
 great misery, which was surely well deserved : here King 
 Charles slept — if he could sleep — on the night before 
 his execution : here Queen Anne lived and died : these 
 rooms are full of history : great Lords and Ladies fill 
 them in the imagination : here are held the grand 
 Levees and Drawing-Rooms : here the King and the 
 Court hold theu' great gambling nights at the New 
 
THE PALACE AND THE COURT 213 
 
 Year : here are the Court Balls : here the foreign 
 Ambassadors are received and the Deputations from 
 the City of London and elsewhere : here the Privy 
 Council assemble. 
 
 'Yes,' said Sir George, 'the place hath many memories, 
 like every house which is a residence of Kings. They 
 are nearly all sad — one would say it was an unlucky 
 Palace.' 
 
 ' The Palace of George I. and George H. cannot be 
 called unlucky.' 
 
 ' The family of those two Kings,' he replied gravely, 
 'have been unfortunate in many respects. Call you 
 that a happy family where the son will not speak to 
 the father ? Oh ! it is notorious : it is not scandal. 
 His Majesty's son, the Prince of Wales, for some 
 reason — I know not what — some political matter — some 
 Court business — at Court there are points of no import- 
 ance which are made to assume vast proportions — but 
 indeed I know not why — would neither speak to his 
 father nor visit his mother.' He spoke very gravely, 
 and his look was serious. ' Think you not. Miss Nancy, 
 that the son of Prince Frederick must feel as if a heavy 
 sin lay unatoned upon his head .?' 
 
 ' He may, Sir George, but is every son to atone for 
 his father's sins? Li such a case as this it is too 
 late.' 
 
 'Too late, indeed. Now let us proceed. I shall 
 take you to a part of the Palace which the public are 
 not allowed to see.' 
 
 He took us by some corridors, empty and deserted, 
 to a door which he opened. A porter, sitting on a 
 chair half asleep, jumped up and stood with his hands 
 down, ready for service. ' Where is the King .?' asked 
 our guide. 
 
214 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' His Majesty is in the Palace Garden, Sir," the man 
 replied. 
 
 * We can walk round, then. I am going to show the 
 King's own private rooms. And first, these ' — he led 
 the way — 'are the private rooms of the late Queen.' 
 It was a suite, or collection, of rooms containing the 
 bed-chamber with a great bed richly hung with velvet 
 and gold fringes : the little bed-chamber for the Queen's 
 personal attendant: the room for the robes: the 
 dressing-room : and the withdrawing-room. * All is 
 kept exactly,' whispered Sir Geoi-ge, * as the Queen left 
 it : the furniture undisturbed : the robes hanging as 
 they were. She was a great woman.' 
 
 * Did you ever see her .?' 
 He hesitated. 
 
 * She died the year before I was bom. But I have 
 heard much concerning her. I know not — I cannot 
 even imagine — why her son was alienated from so good 
 and great a woman. On her deathbed she sent him 
 her forgiveness. The King himself, who hath never 
 recovered from her death, declares openly that he never 
 yet saw the woman worthy to buckle her shoe. And I 
 have conversed with statesmen who assure me that her 
 mind was as fine as her heart.' 
 
 I wondered, at the time, that he was so moved at the 
 mention of the late Queen. 
 
 * That is her portrait.' He showed us a picture 
 hanging on the wall. * The outside world knows little 
 of Courts. It is well that they do not. The Court is 
 full of intrigues : the King is always being deceived by 
 one false friend after another : the art of reigning is, 
 above all, the art of finding out the truth. Come.' 
 
 I said no more, and he led us away. 
 
 He showed us next the King's private rooms : his 
 
THE PALACE AND THE COURT 215 
 
 bedroom : his writing and reception-room : his dining- 
 room : and so forth. Of course, one knows that not 
 even a King can eat or drink more than a subject : nor 
 can he take up more room : yet one was perhaps 
 astonished to observe the simplicity with which these 
 rooms were furnished. 
 
 'You see,' Sir George remarked, smiHng, 'why the 
 public must not be admitted to these rooms : in their 
 eyes the King must always appear in robes of State : if 
 with a crown upon his head, so much the better : if on 
 horseback in gilded armour, so much the better still. 
 That he should appear as a good old man, living in 
 quiet ease without any State except on State occasions, 
 would perhaps cause the loss, or, at least, the decay of 
 his magnificence as King. It is the same with other 
 dignities : the Judge does well to confine himself to the 
 society of other Judges : the Bishop must consort with 
 Bishops : the General must not descend to the mer- 
 chant's company. Authority is kept up by dignity : 
 and dignity cannot admit of familiarity save among 
 equals. The world has not yet learned to separate 
 the office from the man : otherwise, in his moments of 
 leisure, the King might walk about Pall Mall or watch 
 the humours of the Park, seated among his people on a 
 chair.' 
 
 There certainly was an aspect of homeliness not only 
 in the King's own room but about the whole Palace. 
 The Guard in the Guard-room lounged about : the 
 servants lounged about : there was a sleepy look in the 
 courts and in the brick walls. But I was pleased to 
 have seen it all. 
 
 ' I believe it was different,' said our conductor, ' while 
 the Queen lived. Then the discipline of the service 
 was sharper: Guards and Yeomen knew their duty, 
 
216 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 and did it with alacrity. The King is old : the Queen 
 is dead : there are no longer the State balls and card- 
 parties and receptions. When the — the successor 
 arrives, he will have to restore something of that 
 strictness of outward ceremonial which keeps up the 
 kingly dignity.' He sighed heavily. ' Little ease hath 
 he who wears a crown. No solitude : no moments to 
 himself: much care and little ease."* He sighed again. 
 ' And now,"* he went on, ' there is little more to show 
 you. The King's Library has been given to the British 
 Museum, where no doubt it will prove of greater use. 
 Reading is not at present much cultivated at Courts. 
 What .? I have said before that those who make history 
 are not concerned about reading it, save for instruction 
 in youth. Thus, it is useful for an English King to learn 
 that Richard the Second was ill advised when he seized 
 on the savings of the merchants : that the Stuarts might 
 have been reigning still had not Charles the Second shut 
 up the Exchequer and so robbed the City of a million 
 and a half, for which they never forgave him. English 
 history is indeed very useful to an English King. Yet 
 the King must defend his own prerogative or he would 
 not be King.' He spoke as if to himself. ' Come,' he 
 said, ' you shall see the Queen's Library.' 
 
 The Queen's Library stands apart from the Palace, in 
 the gardens in the west : it is a small building with one 
 or two pictures. 
 
 ' The Library,' said Sir George, ' was built for Queen 
 Caroline. She wanted books of a lighter kind than the 
 old folios which have now been sent to the Museum. 
 Her ladies came here in her lifetime : it has been of late 
 neglected, but you shall see it.' 
 
 We looked round at the books. Some were on the 
 table : some were on the floor : some were lying care- 
 
THE PALACE AND THE COURT 217 
 
 lessly about the shelves. Sir George turned to my 
 cousin. ' You would like to look at the books, Madam. 
 Walk round the Library and see for yourself what the 
 late Queen loved to read.' 
 
 Isabel smiled and left us. 
 
 Then Sir George took my hand and led me to a chair 
 which was in a window lookingc over the garden. 
 
 At that moment the door at the other end of the 
 room opened and there entered an old man leaning 
 upon a stick : an old man of singular aspect, had one 
 met him in the street : he was followed by two servants 
 who stood at the door while their master entered the 
 room and looked round. 
 
 ' It is the King,' said my lover. ' I must speak with 
 him.' He walked down the room and knelt on one 
 knee. 
 
 ' George !' cried the King, sui*prised. * You in the 
 Library .?' 
 
 ' Yes, Sir. I trust your Majesty is well this morn- 
 ing.' 
 
 'Ay — ay — well enough. Come to see me presently 
 when you have left your friends.' Then he looked at me 
 curiously ; shook his head, as if he could not remember 
 my face, and went out again. 
 
 ' He comes to look at the Library,' said George, 
 ' because it was the Queen's. Otherwise he loves not 
 reading. But he loves everything that belongs to the 
 memory of his wife.' 
 
 Even then I did not guess : I had no suspicion : not 
 the least. 
 
 And now I understand it all so well : what was in his 
 mind: the sacrifice that he was ready to make: the 
 meaning of it all : how love had trampled upon interest : 
 and how he was prepared even to give up his inheritance 
 
218 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 after his own death to his brother. He would give all 
 — all — all — for my sake — mine. 
 
 *Be seated, Nancy. Oh, my dear! my dear!' He 
 kissed my hand regardless of Isabel's presence : but I 
 think she was among the books. * I have brought you 
 here, dear, because — because "* — he hesitated a little, * I 
 thought to show you what should have been the ending 
 of that story of the noble lord and his country maid. 
 He took her to see his castle — his stately castle : he 
 showed her all over it : his rooms of State, his court- 
 yards, his Halls, his Chapel, his Park : everything. 
 And when she understood who and what he was — how 
 great his state — he took her away again — to her old 
 home and said, " My dear, it is not in that great gilded 
 place that you can love me : it is in some rustic cottage 
 like your own, whither I can steal when I can from the 
 cares and forms of State."" What say you, Nancy T 
 
 * Will your State be so very great — as great as that 
 of the Lord Burleigh T 
 
 * It will be greater. It will be — something — some- 
 thing like this."* 
 
 And even then I never guessed. 
 
 I gave him my hand. * Oh !"* I whispered. ' I am all 
 yours. Do with me — dispose of me — as both your heart 
 and your honour decide.' 
 
 Again he kissed me, but on the forehead. 
 
 * My honour bade me show thee these things, Nancy. 
 My heart bids me tie myself to thee for life — so that 
 none but the call of God shall part us.' 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ' INVEST IT IN MY BUSINESS.' 
 
 Robert Storey called again — his last visit it proved. 
 He came the day after our visit to the Palace, when the 
 words of my lover were still ringing in my brain, with 
 the accompaniment of sweet music, all in fantasy, as 
 happens when one is happy and hears voices singing 
 and silver bells ringing, and melodies hitherto unknown. 
 The sight of the man jangled the bells, and made 
 discords instead of the music. Not only the prim 
 decorum of his dress, the self-satisfaction in his face — 
 these were things which one expected in the worthy 
 bookseller — there was also visible a certain purpose in 
 his face. Yet I received him with an appearance of 
 graciousness. 
 
 * I have left our cousin,' he said, ' in the shop. She is 
 talking with a traveller lately returned from Siberia (if 
 his word can be taken : but we have many pretended 
 travellers). He has been telling her of the cannibals 
 who dwell in that unknown country (but one of my 
 poets swears that the traveller hath been seen of late in 
 Grub Street). He is to issue his ' Description of 
 Siberia' by subscription. I doubt not that he will 
 have our cousin's name and guinea before he leaves 
 her. A plausible fellow in discourse, and once at 
 
220 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge. When I left them, 
 he was beginning upon the marriage customs of those 
 distant islanders. Apparently they have never even 
 heard of the English Church.'' He shook his head sadly, 
 sighed, and asked permission to sit down. He did so, 
 carefully arranging the correct disposition of his legs, 
 and thrusting, as was his wont, one hand in his bosom. 
 
 ' When I came last,' he said, ' I allowed myself to fall 
 into some heat of temper because it pained me to watch 
 the continuance of an acquaintance which, from the 
 incompatibility of rank and station, can never become 
 more than a passing incident — pray Heaven not a pain- 
 ful incident ! — in the history of a beautiful though 
 unfortunate young lady.' 
 
 This was the introduction or preface to what followed. 
 I hope my readers are as well satisfied with it as the 
 author appeared to be. 
 
 * You mean something, Mr. Robert, I dare say.' 
 
 ' I always mean something. One of my satirists told 
 me yesterday, when I gave him three guineas, that my 
 words are of gold, like the Greek Father named 
 Socrates, which means, unless my Greek is rusty, he 
 with the golden mouth. What I say, Miss Nancy, is 
 received by my friends, as well as my dependent poets, 
 as something worth the hearing. The sayings of Robert 
 Storey, perhaps, will prove hereafter as worthy of record 
 as the " Table Talk " of Selden, of which I have a share, 
 with six other booksellers.' 
 
 ' Will you kindly proceed to your meaning then ? If 
 Isabel grows tired of her Siberian she may return, and 
 so you may lose your opportunity. For, Mr. Robei't, I 
 suppose you wish to speak to me alone.' 
 
 * With your permission. Ahem ! The — the — gentle- 
 man who comes here nearly every day, with whom you 
 
'INVEST IT IN MY BUSINESS^ 221 
 
 have been seen at Marylebone Gardens and on the river 
 in a barge, with music, is attracted by a lovely face. 
 Naturally — for a gentleman. We in business do not 
 consider the beauty ofour fair customers. Handsome or 
 ugly makes no difference in the buying of books. You 
 may believe me. Miss Nancy, when I assure you that 
 although in business hours I must not have any eye for 
 beauty, yet out of business hours, when I might relax 
 from this severity, respect for my own reputation, on 
 which a tradesman's success greatly depends, would not 
 allow me to run after a pretty face if I wished to 
 do so.' 
 
 ' Indeed, Mr. Robert, I am quite sure that you are 
 incapable of running after a pretty face.' 
 
 ' What respect, indeed, should I receive from my 
 light-headed poets if I were thus to betray the 
 amorous propensities which they are constantly sing- 
 ing and praising ?' 
 
 ' Do you think, Mr. Robert, that this subject is the 
 most proper one in the world to discuss with me .?' 
 
 ' I introduced it, believe me, for contrast only. That 
 I do not run after pretty faces is due not only to my 
 principles, which would, I believe, resist Helen of Troy 
 herself, but also to my calling, which necessitates a 
 reputation for virtue. Every bookseller should be 
 christened Joseph, even though his temperament should 
 incline him rather to the character of Solomon.' 
 
 ' Mr. Robert, I do not know you this morning.' 
 
 * I mean, then, that a tradesman of virtue, like my- 
 self, is as capable of the passion of love as the greatest 
 man in the country.' 
 
 'I hope. Sir, that an honest love for a worthy object 
 — if there be any woman worthy of Mr. Robert Storey 
 — will reward these present privations.' 
 
222 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 I believe that if you humour a man in accordance 
 with his vanity you may say what you please. He 
 took this remark as a confession of admiration, and 
 bowed, smiling. 
 
 * There is, then,' he continued, * this difference between 
 myself and a gentleman. While I am heedfully em- 
 ployed in making a profit by getting copy from an 
 author (whose necessities make him take what I offer, 
 while his unbridled greed makes him still dissatisfied) a 
 gentleman has nothing to occupy his thoughts, and 
 therefore suffers them to rove at will. If he sees a 
 pretty girl, he instantly follows her, converses with her, 
 makes love to her, regardless of consequences which will 
 not injure him. It is the way with his class — his rank. 
 A woman, he thinks, is a creature made for love, and 
 especially for the love of a gentleman. It is condescen- 
 sion in him to offer love : it is an honour in her to 
 accept love. In my rank — the happier because the 
 more virtuous — we do not speak much of love before we 
 tie the nuptial knot. Then, believe me, no nobleman 
 could be more affectionate, no gentleman so constant." 
 
 ' I believe that you are come again in order to malign 
 certain friends of mine. Mr. Robert, once for all, you 
 need not continue.' 
 
 ' I come. Miss Nancy, with a more important object 
 than that. I have nothing to say against this gentle- 
 man. He comes here in order to enjoy your society. 
 His behaviour, I am informed by your cousin, is as 
 admirable as your own most honourable principles would 
 demand. Can I say more than that I believe this 
 assurance .?' 
 
 These words naturally softened me. * Since you 
 admit that he is a man of honour, Mr. Robert, I am 
 satisfied. You can therefore go on.' 
 
INVEST IT IN MY BUSINESS' 223 
 
 ' I admit, moreover, that he comes here after you. I 
 do not doubt that he greatly admires, and perhaps 
 loves, you. Who can be surprised ? Who can for a 
 moment doubt it ? What I would ask you most 
 earnestly. Miss Nancy, is this : What is to be the 
 end of it?' 
 
 ' In reply, Mr. Robert : What right have you to ask 
 this question ?' 
 
 He did not answer this point. ' Consider, I beseech 
 you,' he said, ' the position of this gentleman — consider 
 only what it means.' 
 
 * Do you know his position .?' 
 
 ' Of course I know.' 
 
 I understand, now, that he could not believe that I 
 did not know ; yet if he had only spoken to Isabel, he 
 would have learned, at least, that we did not know. 
 
 ' Do not, I entreat you,' he added, ' deceive yourself 
 by the belief that no one else knows. I recognised them 
 at the very first evening, when I ran away, as you said. 
 Captain Sellinger knows ; that Corporal of Horse 
 Guards knows ; the tall, lean man on the ground-floor 
 knows : he is said in my shop to be a Jacobite. Some- 
 times he looks in to ask after rare books. He was talk- 
 ing to me about other things, and from what he 
 dropped, I am certain that he knows your friends.' 
 
 Everybody knew, except me. And I was not anxious 
 to know. My lover was a man of exalted rank — an 
 Earl, perhaps : or, indeed, I know not, never having 
 been taught to respect rank, which is an accident of 
 birth. He would tell me himself in his own good 
 time. 
 
 'So, Miss Nancy, since so many people know, and 
 since we cannot stop their tongues, all the world will 
 soon know.' 
 
JW4 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 'Well, Sir?' This kind of talk began to vex me. 
 * If a gentleman is his own master, why should he not 
 visit whom he pleases ?' 
 
 ' His own master ? Yes. But for how long ? The 
 old man is now getting on for eighty. For how long ?' 
 
 * I know nothing about any old man.' 
 
 * Tut-tut!' he said impatiently. 'Consider, I say, 
 the position. It is impossible for him to marry you. 
 It is perfectly impossible — it is out of the question — 
 not to be thought of. You must acknowledge that.' 
 
 ' I acknowledge nothing.' 
 
 'You cannot entertain the thought! It would be 
 madness !' 
 
 ' Mr. Robert ! Pray understand once for all that I 
 cannot speak of these things to you.' 
 
 ' If not marriage, then — what ?' 
 
 I rose. 'Mr. Robert, your talk on this subject is 
 nauseous. Have done, or you will drive me out of the 
 room.' 
 
 'Well, I have spoken.' He kept his seat, as if 
 resolved to say something more. ' Pray sit down again, 
 Miss Nancy. I will sin no more, even for your sake, in 
 this respect. I must now tell you that, being in the 
 City yesterday, I came upon your brother, Mr. Joseph, 
 in a coffee-house. I told him, perhaps incautiously, 
 that you were in good health and staying near the 
 Palace of St. James's with the widow of my cousin, 
 Reuben Storey. That, he said, was with his consent, 
 but he would call here when next his business takes 
 him to London.' 
 
 ' My brother Joseph ? My brother here .?' 
 
 * Yes. He will see in these lodgings a great deal ' — 
 Robert looked round the room — ' which he will dis- 
 approve. He is still stiff, I observe, in his Quaker 
 
* INVEST IT IN MY BUSINESS' 225 
 
 principles. What will you say ? How will you defend 
 your abandonment of their principles ?' 
 
 I was silent. I had quite forgotten the very existence 
 of my brother Joseph. 
 
 ' Joseph is your guardian. You want, it is true, only 
 a few days of coming of age, when you can do as you 
 please. He is trustee, I understand, for a large fortune, 
 which he will, if possible, keep in his own hands. Shall 
 you return, may I ask, to Dartford T 
 
 'Never.' I shuddered. At the very thought of 
 Dartford the memory of the old melancholy returned 
 to me. ' Never.' 
 
 ' Well. He will be here. You must tell him your- 
 self that you have changed your religion and that you 
 intend to become — or have become — a member of the 
 Church of England. As myself a humble follower of 
 that Church, I rejoice. Joseph will not rejoice. He is 
 an austere man. He will be angry.' 
 
 I looked about the room. If we were to deceive him 
 again — it was by sheer deception that Isabel got me 
 into her custody — we should have to go back to the old 
 pretences : we should change again our dress : change 
 the fashion of our heads : change our conversation : 
 take down all the pictures from the walls : banish all 
 the books : send away the harpsichord : hide the music : 
 put away the china and gewgaws. Oh ! But we would 
 not deceive him. I resolved to let my brother know 
 the truth. But, alas ! a sinking of the heart followed 
 this disagreeable intelligence. I felt as if the pleasant 
 time was threatened. 
 
 ' As yet,' Robert went on, ' Joseph knows nothing of 
 your visitors. I did not venture to tell him. I know 
 not what he will say, or think, if he should learn the 
 truth.' 
 
 15 
 
226 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 * Joseph,' I said, ' may be my brother and even my 
 guardian. But he is no longer my master. Nor shall 
 he be, henceforth.** 
 
 * You are warned, however, that he is about to visit 
 you. It may be to-day : it may be to-morrow — or next 
 week. I know not how often his affairs call him to the 
 City of London or to this end of town.** 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Robert, is that all you had to say .? You 
 are indeed a messenger of good tidings."* 
 
 ' One thing more. Miss Nancy, I would in cold blood 
 renew the proposal which last I made in passion. You 
 are now in a perilous position : your reputation, if 
 certain things were known, would be more than cracked : 
 I offer to take you out of the meshes which suiTound 
 you. Miss Nancy "* — he drew out his hand from his 
 bosom and fell upon his knees — ' I offer you — myself. 
 I care nothing for what may be said : I take you as you 
 are. Your fortune can be put into the shop. I offer 
 you a good business, a careful and prudent manager of 
 that business, a loving and tender husband, and a partner 
 who will be respected through life for his mannei-s and 
 for his probity. He is also not without learning.'' 
 
 ' Get up. Sir ! Mr. Robert,' I said, nothing moved by 
 his earnestness — because he must have been very much 
 in earnest to offer thus to repair a reputation which he 
 certainly believed to be cracked. At the time I did 
 not understand in this his insult to my good name, nor 
 his eagerness to get my money. ' Get up, Sir ; dismiss 
 this matter from your mind at once.' 
 
 ' Why ?' he asked, still on his knees. * Nothing stands 
 in the way, so far as the world and your brother know. 
 It is but cutting a knot. I will marry you at once, by 
 license — to-morrow. You need not pain yourself by 
 saying farewell to your illustrious lover : you will only 
 
INVEST IT IN MY BUSINESS' %%1 
 
 have to leave the house — and him — for ever. I will 
 make Joseph render an account of thy fortune. Con- 
 sider, my dear Nancy. I cannot bear to think that 
 things will be said about thee. So lovely — so bewitch- 
 ing. Oh !' he caught my hand and tried to kiss it. 
 < Oh ! Oh ! Oh !' he mumbled. 
 
 ' Get up, I say, Mr. Robert. How can the man 
 make such a fool of himself T 
 
 Thus adjured, he rose, and taking his handkerchief, 
 brushed off a little dust from his knees. Thus did 
 prudence govern passion in this excellent man of busi- 
 
 'You will want a man of business,' he added, 'to 
 make Joseph disgorge and to invest your fortune pru- 
 dently. I will become that man of business. In my 
 own calling I can invest with safety as much money as 
 I can lay hands on. Nancy, I know of shares in books 
 to be had cheap : and there is money in them of which 
 no one else knows. Marry me, Nancy. You shall 
 invest your money in my shop. You shall have a 
 chariot. You shall have a country house with a 
 garden — what do I care about a cracked reputa- 
 tion T 
 
 I sprang to my feet. ' Sordid wretch !** I cried. ' To 
 pretend love when all thy thoughts are of money ! Go ! 
 Leave me. The man — whose shoe-latchet thou art not 
 worthy to loose — is the noblest, truest, purest heart 
 that beats. Go ! Let me never see thee or speak to 
 thee again ! Go ! Lest I . . . but go — go l' 
 
 I sank back into my chair and turned my head from 
 him. 
 
 ' I obey,' he replied hoarsely. ' I am a sordid wretch. 
 Your brother Joseph will come here in a day or two. 
 You will have to explain a great deal more — a great 
 
 15—2 
 
 
A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 deal more, I say — than a change of faith. He shall 
 know all before he comes/ 
 
 So he left me. His threats concerned me little, 
 because I hardly knew what he meant by a cracked 
 reputation — certainly not all he meant. But I confess 
 I was not anxious to meet Joseph. I was willing to 
 avow that I could no longer remain in the Society of 
 Friends : I could tell him that I now loved and practised 
 all those things which, according to the illiterate Founder, 
 send souls in multitudes to the abode of Devils— namely, 
 music, painting, dancing, dress, poetry, books of the 
 imagination. All that mattered nothing. I had the 
 support — the strong arm — of the man who loved me ; 
 who kissed me and called me his tender sweetheart — 
 his lovely mistress — and other sweet things which I 
 cannot write down even after these long years. I had, 
 I say, the support of this man for whose sake I had 
 been baptized and received into the Church of England, 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 * LET HIM TELL ME HIMSELF.' 
 
 It was, however, a week and more before Joseph came. 
 When he did come, he found his sister in no mood to 
 Hsten to any reproaches or threats. What was the 
 anger of Joseph compared with troubles and terrors 
 which at that moment filled my heart ? 
 
 It was, I well remember, the 24th day of October — 
 the day before the End. From my open bedroom 
 window I looked out upon the Park full of people, and 
 full of sunshine, the warm yellow sunshine of autumn. 
 The autumn sun could not yet reach our garden on the 
 west side of St. Jameses Place : the dwellers in the 
 garrets, on the other hand, enjoyed all the sunshine 
 that falls upon London and Westminster. So that if 
 sunshine can compensate, poverty has its compen- 
 sations. 
 
 As was often the case in the morning, I was alone. 
 My cousin was gone by water to the City, whither her 
 affairs often called her. The house was quiet save for 
 the chatter of Mrs. Bates and her children upstairs. 
 The parlour window was open for the sweetness of the 
 air ; yet, because the night had been cold, there was a 
 small coal fire burning in the grate. I sat beside the 
 table, leaning my head on my hand, an open book of 
 
JtdO A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 poetry befoi-e nie, some needlework in my lap, and my 
 lover in my mind. When a girl is loved and also 
 loves — sad for one of these things to be found without 
 the other ! — I suppose her lover is always in her mind : 
 she dreams of him : she thinks of him if she wakes in 
 the dark hours of the night : she puts his name, instead 
 of her own, into her prayers : she dresses to please him : 
 she thinks to please him : she considers all day long 
 what will please him. Only to please him she would 
 be beautiful, she would be good. My sisters ! great 
 and wonderful, nay, miraculous, is the power of Love, 
 since it is strong enough to raise the soul — even a 
 grovelling soul — from lowest depths to heights of 
 virtue. 
 
 I have never been to a theatre, but I have read many 
 plays. Every play has a story, which they call a plot : 
 every play is divided into five acts, in each of which 
 something is done which carries on the plot and 
 advances it and increases the interest and absorption 
 of the reader or the spectator. My life, I think, is a 
 play — that is, a small portion of my life. The Pro- 
 logue or Introduction is the House at Dartford with 
 the gloomy Joseph. Act I. is the First Meeting at 
 St. James's Place : Act II. is the Masquerade : Act III. 
 is the River: Act IV. is the morning of October 24. 
 The last Act is the Morning of October 25. 
 
 There was a step on the stairs — a step I knew full 
 well : a step that always announced a cheerful face and 
 an affectionate heart — yet not the step I could have 
 wished to hear. 
 
 The door opened, and Edward stood there alone. 
 
 * Edward !' I sprang to my feet with the cold shiver 
 which heralds coming evil. ' But where is George ?' 
 
 ' I have not seen him this morning.' His face was 
 
'LET HIM TELL ME HIMSELF' 231 
 
 very grave — what had happened ? ' George does not 
 know that I am here. Are you alone, Nancy ?' 
 
 'My cousin has gone into the City with Molly. I 
 am quite alone."" 
 
 He entered the room and closed the door. ' I am so 
 far fortunate,"* he said. ' May I sit down and talk with 
 you a little ?"* 
 
 He sat down, took my hand, pressed it — and kissed it. 
 
 ' Nancy,' he said, ' you know that I love you — as a 
 sister — I would delight in seeing — my sister — happy — 
 in the way that she most desires. Believe this always, 
 dear girl. I have no other wish for you — the way you 
 most desire — I know full well what that way is."* 
 
 ' You have always been kind, Edward. Why should 
 I not believe it ? You are my brother — almost — 
 George's brother will be mine, will he not ?"" 
 
 ' I am not blind, or deaf, Nancy. On the river, dark 
 as the cabin was, I heard and saw — certain things. 
 Forgive me for reminding you. My dear, it is very 
 certain to me that George loves you to distraction, and 
 that you — may I say it ?"* 
 
 ' No, Edward ; but you may think it."* 
 
 ' My poor Nancy !' Again he took my hand and held 
 it. ' All this has been my fault."* 
 
 'All your fault.? Is it your fault that two people 
 love each other and are happy ?"* 
 
 ' It was by accident that we met, that night, for the 
 first time. George was greatly excited by the adventure. 
 He has been brought up, for certain reasons, in seclusion, 
 so that he has not been allowed the liberty which other 
 young men enjoy — he has not been able to enjoy 
 adventures and dangers such as other young men 
 court '' 
 
 'But why.?' 
 
232 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 * For certain reasons,' he replied. ' As for me, I am 
 of very little importance — a younger son does not count. 
 I could go and come as I pleased. Besides, I was placed 
 in the Navy, where I have had opportunities of leaniing 
 the world. Well . . . the truth is that I have always 
 been grieved to find George so ignorant of people : 
 there seemed here an opportunity, such as had never 
 fallen to him before, of observing certain gentlewomen 
 of tastes and manners delicate, yet not belonging to the 
 great world. In other words, I would introduce him, 
 through you, to the better class of those whose husbands 
 and brothers work for their livelihood.' 
 
 ' Yes — so you brought him here — not thinking what 
 else might happen.' 
 
 'If we were always thinking of that we should do 
 nothing at all. I wanted to get him outside the narrow 
 circle — of course a man in his position is always kept in 
 a narrow circle — it is his greatest danger. You observed 
 that George talked at first as if he had been taught 
 everything, and had seen nothing.' 
 
 'We could understand that he was wonderfully 
 ignorant of many things — how people live, for instance.' 
 
 ' How should he know anything ? Nancy, there was 
 also another point in which he was profoundly ignorant 
 — ^the knowledge of women. Above all things a young 
 man in his position ought to know something on that 
 important subject. What could I do for him on that 
 subject ?' 
 
 * You brought him here. He did the rest himself.' 
 
 'Yes. At first it was to be a polite call — just to 
 hope the lady was none the worse for the fright. But 
 George was struck : the simplicity of the conversation 
 — let me say it, Nancy: the absence of flattery, self- 
 interest, effort to please : the refinement of the ladies : 
 
'LET HIM TELL ME HIMSELF' 
 
 the ease, and yet the propriety of their manners : add 
 to which, the beauty of one — these things, which he 
 had never met before, fired him in his way. George is 
 slow in being moved by anything except by principle. 
 But when he is moved he is firm — even obstinate. He 
 would come again and again : I must come with him : 
 presently he would not keep away : he talked about you 
 all the morning : in the evening he talked with you : 
 after returning home he sat among his mother's friends 
 as mute as a mouse, because he was thinking about you.' 
 ' Well, Sir — was that a calamity ?' I asked him, with 
 a. laugh, but there was no response in his face. 
 
 * Nancy, he was slowly, for the first time in his life, 
 falling in love. Yet he is now already twenty-two years 
 of age. For my part — I am twenty — but — well — sailors 
 are made of stuip more inflammable. Yet it would be 
 incredible if it were not true. For the first time, 
 George is fully possessed with the idea of a woman. 
 Your image wholly occupies his heart.' 
 
 * Oh ! Is this what you came to tell me ? But will 
 this knowledge make me unhappy ?' 
 
 ' No, sweet girl, I think not. In thy society George 
 hath learned more than love. He has learned to think 
 of men and women as a man himself: they are no 
 longer of importance to him in regard only to their 
 position and their rank ; he has learned that however 
 high may be a man's rank, a simple woman with no 
 rank at all may surpass him in knowledge — yes, Nancy, 
 and may surpass all the great Court ladies in breeding 
 and in heart. A dozen times hath my brother spoken 
 to me to such effect as this. Whatever happens, Nancy, 
 never will he forget the lessons that he hath learned 
 from thee.' And the tears stood in his eyes. 
 
 I was silent — foreboding something terrible. He 
 
2S4 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 went on, his dear kind face so full of trouble that I 
 trembled and shivered. 
 
 ' This has been a pleasant time, Nancy, to me, as well 
 as to George. To me, because I have seen that noble 
 heart bursting the bonds in which an ill-judged seclusion 
 has swathed it. No one knows what George might have 
 become, or may yet become, except myself, his brother 
 and his playmate. He is all truth and candour ; he is 
 full of religion ; full of principle ; wanting only in the 
 knowledge of men and women. Dear Nancy, it has 
 been, believe me, a very pleasant time.' Yet now the 
 tears, already in his eyes, came also into his voice. 
 * But it must stop. The time has come when it must 
 stop.' 
 
 ' Why must it stop ?' 
 
 ' It should have been stopped long ago. It is all my 
 fault. It should have been stopped before — before 
 George felt the whole force of love and before — before, 
 Nancy, you yourself '* 
 
 'Why must it stop.? Oh! Edward, tell me — why 
 must it stop ? Oh ! do you know what these words 
 mean to me .?' 
 
 ' Nancy, has George told you nothing ? Child, do 
 you suspect nothing ?' 
 
 ' George is a gentleman of noble birth. What else is 
 there to tell me .?' 
 
 'Then he must tell you himself. I cannot. I 
 promised I would not. Nancy, in a word, he cannot 
 marry you. Understand. It is not a question of what 
 he would like or would choose. He has no voice in the 
 matter. He cannot many you. He must make an 
 alliance fitting his position.' 
 
 I made no reply at first. ' Then,' I said, * why does 
 he swear that he loves me ?' 
 
'LET HIM TELL ME HIMSELF' 2S5 
 
 ' Because it is the truth, Nancy — the real downright 
 truth. How he will get out of it I know not. Nay, 
 for him I care little : many a man has to give up the 
 girl he loves — for this or that reason. It is — oh ! Nancy, 
 it is not George that concerns me so much — it is the 
 girl whom he must leave behind. She it is who 
 troubles me."* 
 
 ' Why do you tell me all this, then .? What do you 
 wish me to do .?"* I asked, trembling. 
 
 ' I do not know. I want to put an end to a situation 
 which is full of peril. Nancy — sweetest girl — I would 
 to Heaven you were in love with me — then would I 
 brave the world and show the way ! But it is my 
 brother. It will make him miserable to end it. Yet 
 it must be ended. It must be ended.** Thus he re- 
 peated continually, as not knowing what else to say. 
 * His wife you cannot be. Nancy, you cannot — ^you 
 cannot. Believe me, you cannot — ^you cannot. And 
 his light o' love you cannot be. Never would George 
 propose such a thing. He loves you too well, Nancy. 
 What is to be done ? Try to think of some way 
 out.' 
 
 ' I know not — yet — Edward — if that is your name — 
 perhaps I ought to call you Lord something.' 
 
 ' It is Edward. Call me Edward, Nancy. And don't 
 think too hardly of me for telling you the dreadful 
 truth.' 
 
 ' Do you come from George ?' 
 
 * No, I have no message from George.' 
 
 ' Does he know that you are here ? Does he know 
 that the end must come ?' 
 
 ' George is in the Heaven of accepted lovers : he is 
 drunk with love : he cannot listen to reason : one can- 
 not discourse with George as with a rational being. 
 
236 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 No, Nancy, George has not sent me : George would not 
 allow that there must be an end : George is incapable 
 of acting with prudence. I have come myself, without 
 authority, to give you a warning, so that you may be 
 prepared. The forces against you are overwhelming. 
 There must be an end.' 
 
 I waited awhile, thinking. Then I rallied my poor 
 shattered spirits, and presently stood up and spoke 
 slowly. 
 
 ' You have been so kind a friend, Edward, that I 
 cannot believe you would seek to do me an injury. 
 Pray remember, however, that you did not court me 
 for George ; he did his courting for himself. He asked 
 me to be his. I am his — I belong to him. I will take 
 my release from none other than George himself. I 
 shall do what he commands me, not what you wish. If 
 he desires to marry me and to keep me in concealment 
 I shall cheerfully obey. I am wholly his — his servant 
 — ^his slave, Edward "* 
 
 ' Dear girl, you stab me with a knife. What shall I 
 say ? I want you to break it off suddenly — to go away 
 and remain concealed — and so to break it off". Better 
 so — believe me, than to wait — I know not what may 
 happen at any moment — and then there will be the 
 full shock — of discovery' — he went on talking as if 
 with himself — ' and no more possibility of going any- 
 where or doing anything except under the eyes of the 
 whole world. Oh ! Nancy — Nancy — if you would only 
 go away and bring it to an end yourself.' 
 
 * I will not. Nothing shall induce me to run away 
 from George. He shall tell me what to do. I belong 
 to him,' I repeated. ' I belong to him.' 
 
 *Then I waste my time. Yet I know that there 
 must be an end, and that before long. There must — 
 
'LET HIM TELL ME HIMSELF' ^37 
 
 well — I have executed my task. You will hate me all 
 your life, Nancy.** 
 
 ' No, Edward — ^you will all my life be as a brother, 
 whether — oh, my heart ! my heart !' 
 
 He stayed with me while I sobbed and wept. He 
 wept with me. 'Twas the most tender, pitiful soul. 
 He could not bear to see tears rise to any woman's 
 eyes : and I know that he regarded me with a particular 
 esteem and affection. Else would he have brought his 
 brother back day after day ? 
 
 ' Let things go on,' he said at last. * Let them end 
 as George and you shall agree. For me, I neither make 
 nor mend in the matter henceforth. George loves you, 
 Nancy, that is quite certain. How he will find an end, 
 the Lord knows, not I. Rocks are on the lee : and a 
 plaguy surf: well, let her drive.' 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 MY BROTHER JOSEPH. 
 
 He turned and left me. That is, he would have left 
 me, but he was stopped, because, as he opened the door, 
 he was met by the figure of my brother Joseph — none 
 other — who stood there face to face with him. 
 
 Edward stepped back with a bow. ' Oh, Sir,"* he said, 
 * I ask your pardon." And so made way for him and 
 would have passed behind him but Joseph banged the 
 floor with his great gold-headed stick and turned upon 
 him with the fierceness of Joshua rather than the meek- 
 ness of Moses. 
 
 ' Friend V he roared — he meant * Enemy,** if the voice 
 has any meaning — ' what does thee in this place ? What 
 does thee with my sister .?' 
 
 'The lady. Sir, does me the honour of receiving a 
 visit from me. If she is your sister, I would point out 
 that your question might be put more courteously, even 
 from one of your coloured cloth.' 
 
 ' I care nothing, friend, for thy opinion. Tell me 
 what does thee with my sister ?** 
 
 ' I have nothing more. Sir, to tell you. Miss Nancy, 
 your brother — if he is your brother — seems angry. Do 
 you wish me to stay? It seems as if you may need 
 some protection.'' 
 
MY BROTHER JOSEPH 239 
 
 ' Stay, if you please,' I replied . 
 
 I remember even now the picture of these two, and 
 the contrast they presented, standing one in the door- 
 way, the other facing him. What could be greater 
 than this contrast ? On the one side a gentleman well 
 bred and courteous, easy and assured : on the other my 
 brother, angry and rude. As he stood in the doorway, 
 he was dressed in his stiff Quaker drab, with neither 
 cuff nor collar, and with metal buttons ; on his head he 
 kept his hat without lace ; his hair was without powder, 
 and just tied behind. His face was red and threaten- 
 ing, full of wrath, hard as the nether millstone : his 
 eyes were angry : his brows were knit. With it all, 
 because wrath does not go well with Quaker tran- 
 quillity, he was still stubborn, self-satisfied, schismatic. 
 Never was there seen so great a contrast as that be- 
 tween these two men. It made me ashamed to think 
 that I must call this ungainly monster my brother. 
 
 Robert Storey must have given him some garbled 
 account of my life and of my friends. Nay, I am quite 
 sure that he must have decorated the account with cir- 
 cumstances, invented for the occasion, of dishonour. 
 Otherwise, how to understand Joseph'^s condition of 
 rage ? 
 
 He came, in fact, straight from Robert's book-shop, 
 and was resolved to drag me, willy nilly, by the hair of 
 my head, if necessary, out of this Pit of Destruction — 
 this Lake of Unforgiven Sin. 
 
 It was unfortunate for his purpose that he arrived at 
 a moment when I was face to face with a danger far 
 more terrible than the wrath of Joseph. His arrival 
 was a thing that annoyed — but there was a far greater 
 thing behind it. 
 
 Joseph began by pointing about the room: at the 
 
240 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 pictures : at the books : at the music and the harpsi- 
 chord. 
 
 I repeat that the trouble in which I was plunged 
 by the unexpected disclosure — if disclosure it should 
 prove — of obstacles in our way only hardened my soul 
 against the wrath of my brother. This trouble was so 
 great that the interference of Joseph and his indigna- 
 tion over such a trifle as my defection from the Society 
 irritated me. The moment was certainly most in- 
 opportune for any remonstrance from him. 
 
 ' Sister,' he said, ' is this my cousin's lodging ? Or is 
 it thine ?' 
 
 * It is Isabel's, Joseph. Do you like it .?' 
 
 He pointed with his stick to the pictures on the wall. 
 'These Allurements of the Devil' — 'twas Diana sur- 
 prised by Act aeon. The picture represents nymphs 
 surrounding the goddess in the water. If the Devil 
 has no stronger Allurements than the sight of bare 
 arms and shoulders, the women, I believe, are compara- 
 tively safe. * Allurements, I say, of the Devil. Are 
 these the property of Reuben Storey's widow ? Or are 
 they thine .?' 
 
 ' They are Isabel's, Joseph. I wish they were my own.' 
 
 ' Nancy,' said Edward, ' I will with your permission 
 sit down.' 
 
 ' If you please, Edward. My brother will be more 
 angry, I fear, before he leaves me.' 
 
 Joseph looked at him with displeasure in his face, 
 but said nothing. 
 
 ' Had these pictures been thine, sister, I should have 
 destroyed them. This tinkling cymbal' — he pointed 
 to the harpsichord — 'which drives sinners to the Pit 
 by its foolish jingle, is this also my cousin's? Or is it 
 thine?' 
 
MY BROTHER JOSEPH 241 
 
 'It is IsabePs. Everything in this room is hers — 
 pictures, harpsichord, books, music. Prayer-books of the 
 Church of England.' 
 
 'What does all this mean? There is treachery — 
 villainy — the Devil hath broken loose.' 
 
 ' It means that Isabel has returned to the Church 
 of England, of which she was a member before her 
 marriage.' 
 
 ' Robert Storey told me something. She has left us. 
 And as for thee, sister . . . What means this — this 
 man of the world alone with thee .?' 
 
 ' You have to learn many things, Joseph. In the 
 first place, I too have left the Society of Friends.' 
 
 He banged his stick upon the table. 
 
 ' Come out from this place,' he bawled. ' Come out 
 
 from this accursed den ' He added a great deal 
 
 more, which I refrain from setting upon paper. Suffice 
 it to say that he accused poor Isabel with all imagin- 
 able wickedness, and myself quite as much. Never could 
 I believe that Joseph could possess an imagination 
 capable of conceiving such things. 
 
 ' I say, Joseph, that I no longer belong to the Society 
 of Friends ' 
 
 ' Come out, I say, lest I drag thee from the place by 
 the hair of thy head — sister of mine ! Shame and dis- 
 grace to thy name !' 
 
 ' Friend Broadbrim,' said Edward, stepping forward, 
 ' I am here for the protection of your sister. Under- 
 stand me : another word of abuse and you shall 
 descend the stairs head first.' He sat down again 
 quietly, but his face looked ready for mischief. 
 
 * Go, sister,' said Joseph more quietly, ' put on again 
 the garb of the Friends and come with me out of the 
 Pit of Hell.' 
 
 16 
 
242 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 'Joseph,' I stood up before him and close to him, 
 face to face, not afraid. ' I^ok at me well. Behold 
 your sister, transformed. Look at this dress "^ — 'twas 
 in pink and blue — ' look at the dressing of my head ; 
 listen to the language which I speak ■* 
 
 ' No more,' he said ; ' put off these gauds.' 
 
 ' This very day, Joseph . . .' Why, I had actually 
 forgotten the fact till then, and remembered it oppor- 
 tunely. ' This very day I am twenty-one years of age. 
 I am therefore my own mistress.' 
 
 ' Thine own mistress ? Oh ! That shall be seen. 
 And while I live ? Go, I say. No more mutinous 
 words. Obey thy guardian, and come. What ! Must 
 I drag thee out ?' 
 
 ' No,' said Edward. ' That must thee not, while I 
 am here.' 
 
 'Moreover,' I went on, 'I have been baptized, and 
 received into the Church of England.' 
 
 ' Go, child of the Devil. Put off, I say, these 
 vanities.' 
 
 ' Joseph, I shall never go back to the old house. 
 Henceforth, your ways and mine are sepfirate.' 
 
 'Sir.' It was Edward who stepped forward once 
 more. 'It behoves not a man to interfere between 
 brother and sister or between husband and wife. Yet 
 sufier me to remind you that if this young lady is of 
 age you can have no authority over her.' 
 
 ' Thee knoweth nothing.' 
 
 ' If you have any authority, then claim it by law. I 
 am no lawyer, thank Heaven ; but this I believe, that 
 the Courts would think twice before they suffered a 
 Quaker to take forcible possession of a girl belonging 
 to the Established Church.' 
 
 ' Is this the friend of whom Robeiii Storey spoke to 
 
MY BROTHER JOSEPH 243 
 
 me — two young men — great men about the Court — the 
 godless Court — men who come here constantly to ensnare 
 and corrupt the heart of women ? Sister, thy position 
 is perilous indeed — I knew not how perilous until I 
 came here. Well — I threaten nothing — I call no names 
 — I declare no more of my mind. Choose between the 
 bottomless Pit and the joys of Heaven. Choose between 
 thy brother and thy — what ? — thy friend ? — thy lover ?'' 
 
 ' Miss Nancy is of age,"* said Edward, ' and will do as 
 she pleases.' 
 
 ' Nancy ! Her name is Hannah. She will do, Sir, as 
 I please. Or she will have no money. Thee can under- 
 stand, Hannah, that thee will have no money.' 
 
 ' I gather. Sir,' Edward replied, ' that this lady, your 
 sister, has been your ward. Your father — and hers — 
 either left a will or he did not. If he did, you probably 
 have no control over her fortune after she is of age. If 
 he left none, the inheritance must be divided. Let me 
 tell you. Sir, that this affectation of authority is foolish : 
 and this pretence of power is ridiculous. Understand 
 also. Sir, that this lady's friends are fully prepared to 
 set the law in motion on her behalf. Therefore set 
 your papers in order.' 
 
 ' Law or no law,' said Joseph, ' she shall have no 
 money unless she comes with me.' 
 
 ' Law or no law, Joseph, I will not come vdth you.' 
 
 Joseph turned to Edward. ' Friend,' he said, ' will 
 thee listen ? This obstinate girl, some time ago, fell 
 into a kind of melancholy which happens often with the 
 younger women of our Society from serious contempla- 
 tion of their soul and its dangers. It is a wholesome 
 rod administered to young blood, which might else be 
 presumptuous and headstrong, as a coiTection.' 
 
 * "As a correction," ' Edward repeated. * Pray go on, 
 
 16—2 
 
244 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 Sir. Nancy, poor child, was corrected in a wholesome 
 manner pecuhar to your Society. It consists of per- 
 suading innocent souls that the good God has created 
 them for torments. No doubt most wholesome."* 
 
 ' My cousin, herself a widow and, I believed, a godly 
 member of the Society of Friends, oft'ered to take her 
 away for a change of air. I let her go."" 
 
 ' You did wisely. Sir. The end has fully justified 
 your judgment in letting her go."* 
 
 ' I now learn the deceit that has been practised upon 
 me. She has been allured into the vanities of the world. 
 She is a woman of the world : her companions belong to 
 the world : her thoughts "* — he groaned deeply — ' are of 
 the world. She is rebellious : she has thrown away her 
 religion. Friend, blame not the righteous wrath of one 
 who hath been tricked — tricked — duped — wickedly 
 tricked — even out of his sister's immortal soul.'' He 
 groaned bitterly, and for the moment I felt almost soiTy 
 for him. 
 
 ' Forgive me, Sir, if I venture to think that you 
 perhaps exaggerate the extent of the mischief."* 
 
 ' What ! To leave her one of the Elect — to find her 
 a companion of the Devil T 
 
 ' Nay, Sir, by your leave. Console yourself, Sir. The 
 Devil, if Nancy is really his companion, cannot fail to 
 be speedily converted. He will then, perhaps, join 
 your Society ."* 
 
 ' Joseph,' I said, ' let me speak. Oh ! nothing that 
 I can say will move your heart or your reason. You 
 are too far apart from me. I cannot reach to you. 
 But I want this gentleman whom you have insulted to 
 understand what all this means."* 
 
 Joseph gi-unted, but made no reply. 
 
 ' I was driven mad ])y your cruel doctrines : my cousin 
 
MY BROTHER JOSEPH 245 
 
 pretended to be still a Quakeress in order to get me 
 away. I should have been, now, a poor raving mad- 
 woman but for her deception. Oh ! my soul was sick 
 with terror. Edward ! You could never understand 
 how sick and miserable I had become. I hated even 
 the name of my God, whom I feared with a terror 
 not to be told in words.' 
 
 * Poor Nancy !** Edward, not Joseph, spoke. ' I have 
 heard of these things among enthusiasts.' 
 
 ' Then my cousin came, and changed me within and 
 without : she gave me music and taught me to love 
 painting and singing and dancing. Then, Edward, 
 your brother led me into the fold of the Church, where 
 we are all sheep of one pasture, with one Shepherd who 
 
 will lead us all — all — ^all "* But here I broke into 
 
 tears. 
 ■ ' Calm yourself, Nancy,' said Edward. ' Make an end 
 of it. You had better go. Sir.' 
 
 Then I recovered, and finished what I had to say. 
 ' I owe all this to the kindest and best woman of the 
 world — to Isabel Storey. As for returning with you, 
 Joseph, learn that, rather than do so, I would become a 
 scullerymaid in this house. Understand me clearly, 
 Joseph. I will never go back to your house. Only to 
 think of that sepulchre makes me tremble and shake. 
 Now go, brother.' 
 He growled something which I did not understand. 
 
 * Come, Joseph. Your authority is finished. Leave 
 me.' 
 
 ' If I go, it is for ever. I cast thee off. None of my 
 money shall thee have ; not one farthing.' 
 
 ' She shall have her own, thouofh ' said Edward. 
 
 * One more chance — Will thee come, sister .?' 
 ' One more reply — No, brother !' 
 
246 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 Joseph turned and walked slowly downstairs. 
 
 I have never seen him since ; and now, I suppose, I 
 never shall see him. I have heard that he married — I 
 know not the name of his wife. She was, of course, a 
 member of the Society of Friends. 
 
 As regards Josephs threat of keeping all the money 
 in his own hands, Edward was as good as his word ; for, 
 a week or two later, he sent a person learned in the law 
 who asked me a good many questions, and then went 
 to Dartford, where he spoke at length with Joseph. It 
 appeared that no will had been found on the death of 
 my father, and that Joseph had quietly stepped into 
 possession, intending to keep everything as his by right: 
 that, being undisturbed so long, he had come to regard 
 himself as the rightful owner of everything. When, 
 therefore, he learned that there was no quibble or pre- 
 tence that would save him, but that he would be com- 
 pelled to pay over to his sister nothing less than one 
 half of the whole estate, including the great house and 
 gardens : the furniture : the paper mills, worth I know 
 not how much every year : many houses and cottages 
 in Dartford and elsewhere : certain farms in Kent : and 
 certain shares and stocks in London : when, I say, he 
 understood that there was no help for it but that he 
 must pay all this money, he became like a madman, 
 falling into a kind of fit, in which his face grew purple 
 and his neck swelled. They blooded him, taking a 
 great quantity. Presently he recovered a little, and 
 moaned and cried like a child. ' The half !** he lamented. 
 * The half ! I cannot and I will not. The half ! I am 
 a ruined man ! The half ! I will die first !'' And so 
 forth, showing very plainly that, in spite of his doctrine, 
 wherein he fancied himself another Gamaliel, or even a 
 
MY BROTHER JOSEPH 247 
 
 Daniel, his mind dwelt continually upon riches as the 
 one thing needful. 
 
 In this way, some months afterwards, I learned that 
 I was a great heiress indeed. Robert Storey would have 
 called it a plum, and would have liked nothing better 
 than to embark the whole in his bookselling business. 
 
 No one, I suppose, would refuse unexpected wealth, 
 but I wanted little, as you shall presently learn, and 
 the rest I have endeavoured to use for the assistance of 
 those less favoured than myself. 
 
 To return. Joseph gone, Edward went back to the 
 discourse which his arrival interrupted. 
 
 ' Edward," I said, ' do not forget what I said. Suffer 
 Greorge to tell me himself. Whatever he bids me to do 
 — that will I do. But he — and he alone — must tell me 
 that we must part. Not from your lips will I have it 
 — though I think you love me too."* 
 
 ' God knows, Nancy !' he murmured. 
 
 'Let George tell me himself. He will come this 
 evening. I will ask my cousin to stay in her own room. 
 Leave us alone. George shall tell me what he pleases : 
 and I will do — whatever he commands."* 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Leave the love-sick girl. She is best alone. Come 
 now to things of greater importance — to traitors and 
 the clash of arms. 
 
 When Edward left me he did not go down the stairs, 
 but climbed up to Captain Sellinger's room. The 
 Captain, who was in his shirt-sleeves, sprang to his feet 
 in some confusion when he recognised his visitor. 
 
 ' Sir," he cried. ' This surprise — this honour !** He 
 offered a chair, but his visitor remained standing. 
 
 * I have been paying a morning call upon your fair 
 neighbours,' he said. 'Do not disturb yourself. Sir. 
 Nay, I entreat : shirt-sleeves will not hinder discourse. 
 Now, Sir,' Edward sat down on the table. 'Let us 
 talk.' 
 
 ' At your convenience, Sir.' 
 
 ' Well, then, I came here. Captain Sellinger, to confer 
 with you about this plaguy business — of which you 
 know.' 
 
 The Captain bowed. 
 
 ' Night after night the coach waits in the court, and 
 I hear the voices of the fellows below. When is it 
 going to end .?' 
 
 * Jndeed, Sir, I know not,.' 
 
THE « TOWER OF BRILL' 249 
 
 ' Will they never grow tired of watching for the oppor- 
 tunity that never comes ?' 
 
 ' We are not tired of defeating their intentions, Sir.' 
 
 ' I believe you are not. Some time or other it will 
 be my duty to acquaint my -brother with the whole 
 business. But it is I who am tired of it. Let me tell 
 you, Captain Sellinger, that I am heartily sick of the 
 whole business. Let me tell you, further, that to sneak 
 downstairs and out of St. James's Place under convoy — 
 even the convoy of the Horse Guards — sticks. It 
 sticks in the gullet. And all for half-a-dozen damned 
 Jacobites !"" 
 
 ' And yet. Sir, with submission "" 
 
 ' Oh, I know — I know,' he replied impatiently. ' My 
 brother's person must not be exposed to any danger. 
 And his reputation must be kept clear from calumny. 
 Concerning the young lady below, there must be no 
 scandal — no scandal at all, I repeat. Sir.' He fixed his 
 eyes earnestly on Captain Sellinger. 
 
 ' There is none, I believe, Sir.' 
 
 * Well, Sir, I have considered the case, and I think 
 I have found a way by which my brother will be safe- 
 guarded — name and fame and life and limb. But I 
 shall want your help, and that of your fellow the 
 Corporal.' 
 
 ' You shall have both. Sir.' 
 
 ' And your silence, drunk or sober, until the thing is 
 done.' 
 
 ' Sir, I am never drunk till your illustrious brother is 
 safe.' 
 
 'Ay — ay. We don't drink on board as you drink 
 ashore, otherwise we should be on the rocks or among 
 the breakers very speedily. But of course there are 
 some . . . Captain Sellinger, there is a kind of man 
 
250 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 who, when the drink is in him, babbles like a running 
 brook, the louder and the more foolish the more he 
 drinks. And there is another kind of man whose lips 
 are sealed like wax, the tighter with every glass. To 
 which kind. Captain '' 
 
 He did not finish the question. 
 
 ' To the latter kind, Sir. But, indeed, if you doubt, 
 I will undertake to drink nothing — a bottle or so, no 
 more — at a sitting until this business is despatched. 
 As for being tired. Sir, let me entreat you not to think 
 of it. They must grow weary of the nightly watching 
 with the nightly baffling: they must understand, by 
 this time, that their designs are suspected : they will 
 get tired of bribing the Dutch skipper; besides, the 
 nights grow cold ; we shall soon have frost and snow.' 
 
 ' It is not certain that they will grow tired.' 
 
 *The ladies might change their lodging for some 
 place unknown.' 
 
 ' Yes : but I want to give the fellows a lesson, and as 
 sharp as you please.' 
 
 ' I am pleased. Sir, with what pleases you.' 
 
 * As for the termination of the business below, that, 
 Captain Sellinger, I frankly tell you, lies with my 
 brother, not with me.' 
 
 Captain Sellinger bowed. 
 
 * But the termination of this watching and waiting I 
 will bring about as soon as I can — and I say that I have 
 found a way in which we may end it without my brother's 
 name being so much as mentioned or suspected.' 
 
 ' If, Sir, I might be trusted ' 
 
 *You shall be trusted. Hang it, Captain, I have 
 climbed this steep stair of yours with no other object 
 than to trust you. There will, perhaps, be a little 
 fighting. There are six of them, you say.' 
 
THE 'TOWER OF BRILL' 251 
 
 * One for the coach : five for the seizure, without 
 counting the old man, the Doctor.' 
 
 ' Good ! We are three. Well, this is my plan. 
 The Corporal will get into hiding on the evening of 
 action : under the stairs, or in the kitchen : there will 
 be a light on the wall in the passage — there is a sconce, 
 I believe. You will remain quiet upstairs in your own 
 room. At half-past nine o'clock you will come down 
 and knock at Mrs. Storey's door. I will come out : we 
 two will descend the stairs as noisily as we can : this 
 will be a signal for the Corporal to hold himself in 
 readiness. Your Jacobites will think it is my brother 
 coming downstairs with me. Out they come : out flies 
 the steel, and to it hammer and tongs. What do you 
 think of that, Captain Sellinger ?' 
 
 ' Why, Sir, except for the danger to yourself "* 
 
 ' Never fear, man : the danger to me is nothing : my 
 brother's name must not be mentioned, and those 
 fellows must be scattered. Do you agree to this plan ? 
 Can you think of a better ?' 
 
 ' Sir, I believe it is excellent. I will answer for the 
 Corporal when you choose to give the word.' 
 
 ' Why, Captain, I love not to think of your suff*ering 
 privation in our cause. We will strike the blow to-night 
 — this very night — and you shall go back to your bottle 
 released from your self-imposed penance.' 
 
 ' To-night, Sir. By all means.' 
 
 So it was decided. The Captain looked after the 
 simple arrangements : one candle on the landing : 
 another in the passage: the Corporal in the kitchen 
 with the door locked : they allowed Molly to sit there 
 as well, on the condition that she was not to be told 
 before the evening what was intended. At half-past 
 nine, when the two gentlemen came downstairs, the 
 
252 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 Corporal was to step out quickly, armed and ready for 
 the fray. 
 
 At half-past eight our friends arrived. George was 
 agitated : he sat down to play, but rose again : he sat 
 beside me and talked about things indifferent. Edward, 
 anxious for the time to pass, walked about the room 
 and looked at the clock. We were all four full of dis- 
 quiet. 
 
 Upstairs, the Captain sat at his window watching. 
 In the court below the coach was standing : two 
 men stood at the horses"* heads : that was satisfactory. 
 The Captain shut his window and waited in the 
 dark. 
 
 Downstairs the Corporal, in his hiding-place, removed 
 the bricks and listened to the conversation in the 
 Doctor'^s room. They were talking about desisting 
 from the attempt : it was disheartening to find them- 
 selves baffled every evening: their purpose must have 
 been discovered and guarded against, and so forth. 
 The Doctor, on the other hand, earnestly entreated 
 them to persevere a few nights more; this nightly 
 guard simply showed that Captain Sellinger had recog- 
 nised the visitors, and that he made it his business some- 
 times to let them understand the fact: accident any 
 night might place in their hands these two gentlemen, 
 unarmed, without the power of resistance : then, what 
 a splendid prize to carry across the Channel ! 
 
 He then went out to look about him, to reconnoitre, 
 as the soldiers call it. He walked up and down St. 
 James's Place ; neither Captain nor Corporal was there : 
 he went out into St. James's Street, but could see 
 neither of them : he looked in the back garden : no one 
 was there, and the door was bolted : he tried the 
 kitchen door ; it was locked. 
 
THE 'TOWER OF BRILL' 253 
 
 ' Who's there ?' cried Molly. ' I'm not going to have 
 no one in my kitchen.' 
 
 ' Where's the Corporal, Molly .?' 
 
 * I don't know. He's gone out.' 
 
 ' I would speak with the Captain, Molly. Have you 
 seen him ?' 
 
 ' He's gone out too,' said Molly, the shameless. 
 
 So the Doctor returned to his own room and re- 
 ported with great contentment of mind what he had 
 seen and heard. Both guards — if they were guards — 
 gone out : the job was easy : before their prisoners had 
 found room or time to draw their swords, they would 
 be seized and pinioned and gagged. A dark and 
 cloudy night, too ; a threatening of rain : nothing 
 could be more convenient for this great and holy 
 purpose of theirs. 
 
 With the Doctor this evening were four men. One 
 of them, a great fat fellow of six feet and more, the 
 Corporal took to be the Skipper of the ship engaged to 
 carry the prisoners — namely, the Tower of Brill — because 
 he was dressed somewhat like a sailor, and because he 
 talked execrable French. 
 
 ' You have hired me, gentlemen,' he said ; ' and I 
 will fight for you, and carry off your prisoners for you. 
 But I think we shall come badly out of this business. 
 Every night we have been watched and baffled. Do 
 you think that knowing we are here and that the object 
 of our attempt is there' — he pointed upstairs — 'they 
 will ever sufier those two persons to be without a 
 guard ?' 
 
 ' There is no sign of any guard,' said the Doctor. 
 
 ' There must be a guard. Gentlemen, you are, no 
 doubt, prepared for the worst. I mean the way we shall 
 go out of the world. After dangling for a minute or 
 
254 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 two, they will cut us down still alive and strip us and 
 prick out the places where the knife is to go. We shall 
 look very pretty, all of us, pricked out for the knife. 
 And afterwards*' — he broke off, shuddering. 'How- 
 ever, you have hired me — I am your servant.** 
 
 The others sat in patience and silence: they were 
 gentlemen of English descent, born in France. Mostly 
 they were pale of countenance, for the audacity of the 
 enterprise was such that it moved the heart even of a 
 Jacobite. 
 
 At a quarter past nine the Corporal left off listening 
 and watching and replaced his bricks. 
 
 ' A few minutes more, Molly,"* he said, ' and I am at 
 last Fortune^s Favourite. I may now speak openly, 
 because there is no fear of your tongue.' 
 
 ' I am no talker. Corporal.'' 
 
 ' Thou art as discreet a wom«in as lives, Molly. In 
 a few minutes, therefore, let me tell thee that I shall 
 win my commission in the noblest way possible, or I 
 shall have left my wife — poor disconsolate wi-etch ! — to 
 the gratitude of my country, while I myself shall be 
 sitting on a golden stool or throne in glory and playing 
 on a harp with golden strings."* 
 
 ' God forbid. Corporal !^ 
 
 ' God forbid, indeed, Molly ! I confess, that at 
 present, at the early age of twenty- eight, I prefer the 
 King's commission, if I could get it, even to the celestial 
 harp. A single jug of small ale, Molly. Thank you. 
 Learn, my girl, that the object of the bloody villains 
 in the other room is to secure the persons of the two 
 gentlemen now sitting with Madam and Miss Nancy 
 overhead — to secure their pei*sons, Molly, and to take 
 them prisoners across the seas to their own country. 
 To their own poor beggarly country.' 
 
THE 'TOWER OF BRILL' ^55 
 
 ' What for T asked Molly. 
 
 ' That I will tell thee on another occasion. I must 
 now make ready for the fray. Ha ! my time has come." 
 He loosened his sword in its scabbard. ' Ha ! my wrist 
 is firm : my eye is steady. 'Tis the day of Fortune — 
 wish me luck, Molly. It is my happy chance to protect 
 those two gentlemen. I could protect them against 
 fifty. Ha !' he made as if he was thrusting. ' Ha ! I 
 had you there ! Come on ! Come on ! Come all !' 
 
 So he vaunted, in his braggart way; yet it was a 
 brave heart and ready to face death in the cause of 
 loyalty. And the moments passed all too slowly for 
 his impatient spirit. ' Not half-past nine yet ? looking 
 at his watch. ' Molly, time crawls for the hero who 
 would be standing sword in hand. Ha! I had you 
 there !' 
 
 At last the expected steps were heard upon the stairs, 
 and the welcome signal — the three knocks. The Corporal 
 drew his sword and stepped out into the passage dimly 
 lit by the two candles in the sconces. 
 
 The two coming down the stairs were close to the 
 bottom : there was a little more light upon the stairs 
 from a candle higher up on the landing : the Corporal 
 saw the glimmer of their swords, which were di*awn. 
 He stood waiting for one moment only. Then the 
 Doctor's door was thrown open and the four men 
 iTished out. They were unarmed : they trusted to the 
 suddenness of the attack. 
 
 ' Ha !' cried the Corporal. ' Have at you !' and sprang 
 upon them. It was the big sailor who led the party, I 
 suppose on account of his weight. He threw himself 
 forward, but met, I know not in what pai-t of him, the 
 Corporal's sword. Whether he was killed or whether it 
 was but a blood -letting will never be known, for he fell 
 
256 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 with a deep groan and moved no more. All this that 
 takes time to relate passed in a moment. The other 
 three recoiled and drew their swords. Captain Sellinger 
 pushed aside his companion, and stood astride the fallen 
 man sword in hand. Beside him stood the Corporal, 
 lunging and parrying and crying all the time, like a 
 fencing-master, ' Ha ! ha ! ha V We heard it upstairs, 
 and could not understand what had happened, the last 
 thing in our minds being a fight. Yet these were the 
 words : ' Ha ! Come on then ! Ha ! Take your bellyful, 
 then ! Ha ! ha !' stamping with heel as if at a fencing- 
 school. 
 
 ' It is your friend the Corporal," said George upstairs. 
 ' He is giving somebody a lesson. A strange time and 
 a strange place ! By candle-light, in a narrow passage !" 
 
 He was, indeed, giving a lesson, but not the kind of 
 lesson that we thought. 
 
 Then the old Doctor snatched up two candles that 
 stood upon the table and brought them to the door, 
 throwing their light upon the scene of battle. I say 
 that these things, as told to me by the Captain, lasted 
 not a moment. And I say, further, that the end would 
 have been the death of some besides the fat Dutch 
 skipper, who perhaps was only wounded, had it not 
 been for an unexpected blow, quite contrary to the 
 recognised principles of polite warfare. One must admit 
 that the decisive blow in this battle was delivered by a 
 woman — none other than Molly. 
 
 When she saw the Corporal rush out of the kitchen, 
 sword in hand, she ran after him : she saw him with 
 that swift lunge despatch one of the assailants— the 
 biggest and the strongest. She neither shrieked nor 
 swooned nor wrung her hands : she acted nnich more 
 sensibly : she ran back to her kitchen : you think, to 
 
THE « TOWER OF BRILL ^ 257 
 
 weep and wring her hands ? Not at all. Molly was a 
 quick woman : quick to see and to act : she was also as 
 strong a woman as you will meet on a summer^^s day : 
 strong and strapping and brave. She remembered— 
 'twas a kind of inspiration, if we may venture to think 
 so — ^yet why not, considering the magnitude of the 
 danger and the audacity of the assailants ? Yes, I 
 needs must think it was by a kind of inspiration — she 
 remembered the great black pot hanging over the fire, 
 and filled with boiling beef broth : she quickly lifted 
 it off the chain : she carried it out in her strong arms, 
 which were burned and scarred for life, of which she 
 took no heed : and she threw the contents — ^the bubbling, 
 boiling broth — full in the faces of the three men at the 
 moment when their swords were drawn, and the battle 
 was beginning. 
 
 They shrieked : they dropped their swords : they 
 leaped in the air, cursing and shrieking: they were 
 scalded : they were blinded. 
 
 (' What sort of a lesson is this ?' asked George, above. 
 'Someone must be hurt.** He rose to go downstairs, 
 but I stopped him. 
 
 ' They are laughing,' I said. ' It is some horse-play 
 of the Captain and his friends."*) 
 
 The Corporal seized their swords. ' Surrender, gentle- 
 men,' he said. Alas ! they could neither surrender nor 
 fight, such was the agony of their faces from the boiling 
 broth. 
 
 Captain Sellinger put up his sword. ' I think, 
 Sir,' he said to his chief, 'that Molly the maid 
 carries off the honours of the field. What shall we 
 do next .?' 
 
 ' When these gentlemen have arrived at a lower pitch 
 
 of pain, which will enable them to speak Do you 
 
 17 
 
258 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 suiTender, gentlemen, or shall Corporal Bates finish this 
 encounter for you ?' 
 
 * We surrender,** one of them replied. 
 ' We surrender, Sir,** said Doctor Mynsterchamber, 
 sitting down and replacing the candles on the table. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,** said Edward, ' I am sorry that we did 
 not proceed to a more legitimate conclusion. Let us 
 hope that when your designs are more complete, you 
 will allow me to meet you in the open field. For the 
 moment, I have but one thing to say. If we take you 
 prisoners, there is no doubt that you will end your days 
 on Tower Hill or at Newgate. As your attempt has 
 proved futile, I am disposed to think that the less said 
 about it the better. You will therefore get into the 
 coach you designed for my brother and myself : you will 
 make your way to the Tower of Brill, your ship ; and 
 if that vessel is found in the Pool to-morrow morn- 
 ing, you shall all be aiTested, tried, and hanged as 
 traitors.' 
 
 No one replied. The pain of the scalding forbade 
 any reply. 
 
 ' Here is a man either dead or wounded. Carry your 
 man away.' 
 
 Thus, in grievous plight, in the agony of scalded 
 cheeks and blinded eyes, they lifted their great fat 
 skipper and bore him into the coach. 
 
 Captain Sellinger followed after. He declared after- 
 wards that the wounded man groaned audibly ; so that, 
 perhaps, he was not killed. When they were all in the 
 coach he stood at the window and addressed the dis- 
 comfited conspirators. 
 
 * Gentlemen,*' he said, ' I congratulate you. The 
 attempt was gallant : but you were ill advised in trying 
 to fight in so narrow a space, which exposed you to the 
 
THE ' TOWER OF BRILL ' ^59 
 
 sword of the first comer — and in the flank. Moreover, 
 you did not take into account the devotion of the 
 women to our cause. Believe me, the Roman Catholic 
 Pretender, should he land, will go home, like you, with 
 a dishclout to his tail. Remember that the evidence 
 against you is full and complete. You are allowed to 
 escape, but you are known : if any one of you should 
 venture to show his face again on this soil of Great 
 Britain, he will have himself to blame for his own trial 
 and subsequent hanging, with its usual trimmings. 
 Corporal, is the coachman ready ? Good. Coachman, 
 you will get your fare embarked as soon as you can at 
 Whitehall Stairs. You are yourself also known after 
 your long attendance in St. James's Place. You had 
 better get into the boat as well. What has been said 
 to the gentlemen inside is also said to you. ""Ware 
 prison ! Vare gallows ! Gentlemen, Bon Voyage ! 
 Some kinds of soft soap or goose-grease are recom- 
 mended for scalds and burns. No doubt on board 
 you will find all that the " Pharmacopoeia " itself could 
 recommend.** 
 
 The Captain returned to the house when the coach 
 had rumbled out of St. James's Place. 
 
 He found his chief sitting at the table in the Doctor's 
 room, his sword lying across the table. 
 
 ' So,' he said, ' they are gone. Captain ? Thus is 
 broken up a nest of traitors and rebels. Let them go. 
 Is the man dead ?' 
 
 ' I believe he groaned as they carried him. Another 
 is pricked, but I believe not seriously : the hot broth 
 did the job. Sir.' 
 
 ' Here is the contriver and leader in the whole 
 business. I have kept him for a little conversation.' 
 
 The Doctor was dressed in a long travelling roque- 
 
 17—2 
 
260 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 laure : his neck was muffled up : he wore his hat. The 
 box in which he kept his papers was open and empty : 
 his cupboard door stood open : it was evident that as 
 soon as the attempt was resolved upon, he had made 
 hasty arrangements for immediate flight; and that, 
 whether the attempt was successful or not. He stood 
 leaning against the wall, his wrinkled old face showing 
 no sign of any emotion whatever. At the door stood 
 the Corporal as guard, carrying his naked sword, on the 
 blade of which he observed with infinite gratification 
 signs of the recent conflict. On the table lay a packet 
 of papers, tied up. 
 
 'These papers, Captain Sellinger, were taken from 
 the pocket of our prisoner — this man whom they call 
 Doctor Mynsterchamber. He was preparing for depar- 
 ture, and had tied them up in readiness. I have looked 
 at them. I find sufficient proof in them that he is a 
 double-dyed traitor. Tell me. Sir, what should I do 
 with him ?' 
 
 ' Hang him !' said the Captain, ' unless some other 
 and slower form of death can be found .' 
 
 The Doctor neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 ' It is now some little time. Captain Sellinger — in fact, 
 after our first conversation on the subject — since I made 
 it my business to find out who and what this man might 
 be. You observe that he is an old man, with the grave 
 in sight ; at a time of life when one would expect 
 honesty '' — the Doctor started and winced — 'honesty 
 and honour.' 
 
 ' Sir," said the Doctor, ' I cannot fight you.' 
 
 * No ; because I fight with none but gentlemen — and 
 you — Faugh !** His face was as stem as that of a judge 
 on his bench. 'This man. Captain Sellinger, has for 
 twenty-five years past — ^you will hardly believe it— 
 
THE * TOWER OF BRILL' 261 
 
 acted as paid spy in our interest—paid by the British 
 Government, Sir. For five-and-twenty years he has 
 received a large salary for the purpose"^ of fetching in- 
 formation about the ships and armies of the French— 
 for five-and-twentv vears. Sir.' 
 
 'A double traitor/ said Captain Sellinger. <But 
 what does one expect of a spy ?' 
 
 ' I know not why they trusted him so long. Perhaps 
 because they were used to him. Well, Sir, they have 
 now discovered— I learned the fact this morning only ; 
 they were considering about arresting him— that he is' 
 a Jacobite ; the son of one of those Englishmen who 
 accompanied James the Second ; one of the Pretender's 
 household ; and a spy for the French on English ground. 
 You see, Captain, the advantages of the position. In 
 this country, as an accredited agent and spy for us, he 
 can live where he pleases. In France, as a known spy in 
 England, he can also go where he pleases, and live as 
 he pleases.' 
 
 ' Hang him !' said the Captain, adding other verbs or 
 interjections. 
 
 * It is a most honourable occupation. I hardly know 
 one more honourable. Jack Ketch is a gentleman of 
 great honour compared with this Creature.' 
 
 ' Hang him ! Hang him !' 
 
 ' First, he deceives his friends in France, and reports 
 their doings. Then he comes over here and takes the 
 Kmg's pay, and spies out our doings.' 
 
 ' Hang him ! Hang him !' said the Captain. 
 
 C They are quite quiet again,' said George, upstaii-s. 
 ' I wonder what all the noise meant.') 
 
 ' What shall we do with this villain. Captain T 
 
 ' Hang him, I say !' 
 
 'As for this conspiracy, it was audacious enough to 
 
262 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 be successftil. Had it not been for the accidental dis- 
 covery of Corporal Bates it would have been successful. 
 The kingdom, for some time aftei-wards, would have 
 been thrown into confusion. But no gieat harm would 
 have followed. We've got to fight out the quarrel with 
 France, whether my brother and I are prisoners or not. 
 Still, the attempt, made by one in English pay, was, as 
 I said, audacious.** He turned suddenly to the prisoner, 
 ' Now, Sir, have you anything to say ?'' 
 
 The Doctor lifted his head, took off his hat, and cried 
 in a strong, resolute voice : 
 
 ' God save King James !** 
 
 ' The Pretender i"* said Captain Sellinger. 
 
 ' And God save Prince Chailes Edward !' 
 
 ' Very good. What else have you to say before you 
 go into Newgate Jail ?"* 
 
 ' Learn, Sir,** the Doctor replied with dignity, ' that 
 my friends are loyal men. With us loyalty means an 
 attachment to the Throne, which you could hardly be 
 expected to understand. The loyalty of the Jacobites 
 survives everything: the stupidity of one King, the 
 profligacy of another, the obstinacy of a third. If a 
 King is a weak or a bad King, he is still King by Divine 
 appointment : we wait for a better King. James the 
 Second threw away the Crown : but he could not throw 
 away the loyalty of the faithful. Our loyalty means 
 not only loyalty to death, but more : it means loyalty 
 to dishonour if necessary. I am a gentleman : my father 
 was ennobled by James the Second when in exile : yet I 
 am a spy. I pretend to betray my King's secrets in 
 order to obtain the secrets of your Court. I take 
 money from you : in return I supply you with false 
 information as to the strength and the destination of 
 the Fi-ench fleets ' 
 
THE 'TOWER OF BRILL' 263 
 
 ' The villain !' said Captain Sellinger. 
 
 ' And I am permitted to come over here ; to go about 
 where I please ; to converse with Ministers ; to learn 
 your plans. All that I learn and discover I most faith- 
 fully report by means of secret messengers, who are 
 English on this side and French on the other. These 
 things — this treachery which would be dishonouring in 
 any other cause — are accounted among loyalists as 
 honourable and commendable. If, Sir, I have the 
 approbation, of my King and my friends, what do I 
 care for any opinion of yours ?'' 
 
 'You confess that you lie, and degrade and debase 
 your soul every day. Yet it is in the cause of righteous- 
 ness. Then we may break all the Commandments daily 
 in support of the Christian Faith."* 
 
 ' I am loyal. That is the sum of all. Now, Sir, I 
 am ready to go to your prison. I am an old man, 
 seventy-five years of age. Not too old to die for my 
 King, but too old to fear death.' 
 
 ' Perhaps there will be no prison. I think, Master 
 Loyalist, that if you are once out of the country you 
 can do us very little further harm. Therefore, while 
 we keep the papers, we will not keep the writer. Cor- 
 poral, search the prisoner for more papers.** 
 
 There were no more. All the papers were in the 
 packet lying on the table. 
 
 ' Now, Sir, you can go. There will be time for you 
 to get to bed on board the Tower of Brill before she 
 weighs anchor. Should the ship be taken to-morrow 
 morning, I fear that you, too, will be hanged with the 
 rest. The Corporal here, who understands French, will 
 give sufficient evidence for hanging pui-poses.' 
 
 ' Oh !' The Doctor looked astonished. ' You under- 
 stand French — you ? Perhaps you, too, are a loyalist ?"" 
 
264 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' I am. To the House of Brunswick,' said the Cor- 
 poral stiffly. 
 
 * And you listened, I suppose : and reported what you 
 heard. Villain I** Indignation choked him. ' A spy ! 
 Faugh ! A spy I" 
 
 ' Come,"* said the Captain roughly. ' What the devil 
 are you yourself ? Pack ! March ! Get thee to thine 
 own friends, double-dyed traitor !"* 
 
 The Doctor walked away with dignity, tall and erect 
 as a lance, although so old. It degrades a man to be a 
 spy : but loyalty covers all. 
 
 ' Corporal Bates !' Edward turned to his defender. 
 
 The Corporal stood at attention. 
 
 ' It is not likely that I shall ever forget the events of 
 this evening. Had it not been for your zeal in dis- 
 covering this horrid plot ; and for your discretion in 
 keeping the thing a secret ; and for your bravery this 
 evening, which at the vei-y outset despatched one of the 
 villains, my brother and I might now have been occu- 
 pants of a French prison with a dismal outlook as re- 
 gards liberty. Or we might have fought for our libeity 
 and fallen. Be assured that as opportunity offers I shall 
 inform my brother as to these particulars. Meantime, 
 here is my purse, which contains, I believe, fifty guineas. 
 Take it. Corporal Bates, 6is an earnest of future favoui-s.' 
 
 The Corporal received the purse with a salute and 
 in silence. He had not expected a gift of money, 
 which he could not refuse. Yet it was not what he 
 wanted. 
 
 ' I understand further. Corporal Bates, that you are 
 a pei-son of many accomplishments ; speaking other 
 languages, skilled in the art of fence, able to instioict in 
 fortifications and the mathematics ; and that you ai*e, 
 in addition, a sober man, well mannered, creditably 
 
THE 'TOWER OF BRILL' 265 
 
 married, and in no way likely to bring discredit upon 
 epaulettes not of wool.** The Corporal made no sign 
 save that his cheek tmiied pale. He was now on the 
 point of achieving his fondest and most constant dream. 
 *I understand, further, from Captain Sellinger, that 
 you are desirous, above all things, of obtaining His 
 Majesty's Commission.' 
 
 ' Sir, I can have no higher ambition,' the poor 
 Corporal murmured. 
 
 ' It is a highly laudable ambition. Well, Sir, I take 
 it upon myself to speak for your valour. As to the 
 rest of your accomplishments I take the word of Captain 
 Sellinger. I shall venture. Sir, to recommend you to 
 his Majesty.' 
 
 The Corporal's face fell. Other patrons had made 
 him the same promise, but he remained a Corporal. 
 
 Then Captain Sellinger whispered something. 
 
 ' Corporal Bates,' said Edward, ' would you like to 
 exchange your woollen epaulettes for the gold lace of 
 a Royal Marine .?' 
 
 ' Sir, you would make me the proudest man in the 
 whole world.' 
 
 ' Then it is as good as done. Captain Sellinger, pre- 
 sent to me Lieutenant Bates, of his Majesty's Regiment 
 of Royal Marines.' 
 
 The Lieutenant fell on his knees while the tears of 
 joy ran down his cheek. ' Sir,' he said, ' my only prayer 
 is that I may be sent in command of a company to take 
 the enemy's forts, and that under your very eyes, to 
 justify this promotion 1' 
 
 ' We will dispense with your convoy to-night, Captain 
 Sellinger.' So he went upstairs, nodding his head good- 
 humouredly to the Coi-poral. 
 
 ' Lieutenant Bates,' said the Captain. ' We are now 
 
266 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 brothers-in-arnis. We can drink together. There are 
 — -ah! — aiTears to pull up and new toasts to drink. 
 You shall drink them all. " Confusion to all Traitors 
 and Rebels !"'' " Success to the Youngest Officer in his 
 Majesty's Service !'" " The Health of the Divine Nancy I"' 
 Come, Lieutenant. You shall swim in punch. Come. 
 This night, if ever, thou shalt have a skinful." 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 'there shall be no obstacle.' 
 
 All the afternoon of that day my cousin and I talked 
 over the position of things. I had no secrets from her : 
 I told her exactly what Edward had said : how at the 
 end he melted : how I had resolved to leave everything 
 to George himself. 
 
 ' Not able to marry you ? What does the man 
 mean ?' my cousin asked. ' Why, Nancy, to be sure he 
 is a great lord : I am certain of that : the star which 
 he sometimes wears betrays his rank ; and as for us, we 
 belong only to the trading class : but Love levels all : 
 and Sir George has over and over again assured me 
 that he has never found, among the greatest ladies, any 
 whose manners are more polite than your own ; nor any 
 whose mind is purer and whose face and form are more 
 bewitching. Not marry you ?'^ 
 
 ' Edward was all kindness, Isabel : he shed tears 
 while he spoke to me." 
 
 ' Not able to marry ? Then the creature must be 
 married already."* 
 
 ' Nay ; I am certain that he is not. I am, he has 
 told me, the first. His brother assures me that no 
 other woman has ever yet attracted his eyes.' 
 
 ' Then — what can he mean ? He is of age ; his 
 
268 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 father is dead ; he can please himself. Perhaps they 
 promised him when he was of tender years to some girl 
 of his own rank. Why can he not please himself? If 
 he would please himself, it would be with thee, my 
 Nancy. Of that be well assured.** 
 
 'Indeed,** I confessed, 'I am well assured of that. 
 Never was any woman more assured of her lover^s 
 truth.' 
 
 ' So we all think ; yet . . . not that my Reuben ever 
 gave me any cause to think otherwise. But, Nancy, 
 the question is, What are the reasons ? Why cannot 
 Sir George marry you .?'* 
 
 ' The reasons he must tell me himself.' 
 
 ' Shall I ask him, child ? Stay in your own room this 
 evening and I will ask him.' 
 
 * Nay, but I would not have anyone — not even thee. 
 Cousin, between him and me. Let him tell me what 
 he pleases. If we are to part, it must come from his 
 own lips. . . .' And again teai*s came to my relief. 
 
 'Part — part — why?' My cousin bent over me and 
 kissed me. ' Has the man eyes ? Has the man a 
 heart ? Part with the sweetest girl in the world ? He 
 cannot, my dear. He cannot, except he were the 
 King of Great Britain and Ireland. Heart up, Nancy ! 
 Heart up ! Thy sweetheart shall carry thee off to 
 church — he shall — with a laugh on his lips and a shake 
 in his leg, and ring thee before all the world. Why 
 else did he wish thee to be baptized ? Why else did he 
 take us on the river and to the Gardens ? My dear, it 
 were else a most monstrous thing thus to play with a 
 girl's affections. It were worse with such a girl as my 
 Nancy than to betray the blowsy innocence of some 
 milkmaid. No — no — Sir George could not. His face 
 and his discoui-se, his heait and his mind, are too full of 
 
'THERE SHALL BE NO OBSTACLE' 269 
 
 truth and of religion. He could not, I say. Oh, he 
 could not.** 
 
 'Then there is another thing, cousin. If to marry 
 me would bring trouble upon him, it were better that I 
 should die.' 
 
 'Trouble? What trouble, I pray?' she replied 
 quickly. ' Out of honest love no trouble ever sprang. 
 Say he is above thee in rank, Nancy. Call him Earl or 
 Duke — he is master of himself and his o^vn actions. 
 What can his friends do when they find it out ? 
 Nothing. They may be disappointed. Those fine 
 Court ladies of whom Robert speaks so kindly will tear 
 their hair for spite. But, since the thing is done ' 
 
 ' It is not yet done, cousin.' 
 
 'It will be done — and that very soon — if I have 
 studied that young gentleman to any purpose. My 
 dear, men are like chips and matches, some of which 
 catch fire quickly and bum out in no time, while others 
 are slow to light but burn on steadily and gradually. 
 Sir George is one who is slow to light. But once he 
 bums he is all pure flame.' 
 
 Thus we talked, and though my cousin assured me 
 of her perfect confidence, there lay upon me the weight 
 of foreboding — ^a sense of coming evil. 
 
 In the evening, about half-past eight, our friends 
 came as usual. Isabel begged to be excused, because 
 she must go to see a poor woman in the garrets who 
 had children to clothe. So she went away, promising 
 to return shortly. 
 
 What happened next, you know. At a certain 
 signal Edward went out, also promising to return 
 shortly. 
 
 Then we heard the noise below : the trampling and 
 the shouting. 
 
270 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' One would think it a fencing-bout,'' said Sir George. 
 *A strange place and a strange time for a fencing- 
 bout !' 
 
 Then he sat down beside me. 
 
 I have now to tell you what we talked about while 
 all this fighting went on below — Love and happiness 
 above : sword and bloodshed below. 
 
 For the first time we were alone. He sat down, I 
 say, beside me : then he sank on one knee and caught 
 my hand and began to kiss it fondly. 
 
 ' Oh, Nancy i** he said, • sweet maid — heart of my 
 heart I** I cannot write down all that he said. Sure, 
 never did fond lover express his love more passionately, 
 or with greater extravagance. Women do not love in 
 the same way. Their sweetheai*ts are not gods to 
 them — yet they desire no other gods : they love the 
 man : they see him as he might be : as he was intended 
 to be : as the Lord meant him to be : they see, though 
 in a glass darkly, because their eyes are not strong 
 enough to gaze upon the glory, nor can their minds 
 imagine or figure to themselves the splendour of the 
 truth — but they see imperfectly the man as he will be, 
 glorified and made perfect : they undei-stand his short- 
 comings and his faults, which are to them only like so 
 many excrescences that can be shaken off. Never did I 
 worship George as he worshipped me : why, the fact 
 itself that he should find in me so much perfection 
 when I was conscious of so many faults, made me feel 
 his weakness. Yet every woman likes it. Oh ! How 
 happy did it make me to be told that I was a goddess ! 
 Oh ! how did my poor heart beat and the colour fly to 
 my face when that dearest and best of men — that man 
 in whom were united all the virtues of honour, truth, 
 and purity — knelt at my feet to tell me with such 
 
'THERE SHALL BE NO OBSTACLE' 9.71 
 
 extravagances as moved me well nigh to tears of joy 
 and happiness that he loved me — he loved me — he 
 loved me. 
 
 ' My dearest Nancy,' he said, calming himself after a 
 while. 'We are so seldom alone. This is the rarest 
 chance. It is only on such a chance that we can 
 speak. Nancy : when wilt thou be mine, altogether — 
 my bride ?'' 
 
 ' Oh ! When my Lord shall command. I will obey 
 in anything.' 
 
 ' Yes — yes — I will think. I will consult Edward. I 
 can do nothing without Edward.' 
 
 'He was here this morning. He told me ... he 
 said plainly . . . that there were reasons which would 
 stand between you and me.' 
 
 ' What reasons are those ? I know of none that I 
 cannot meet, if I choose.' 
 
 'I know not. He would not tell me. Nor, indeed, 
 did I press him, because I would know nothing except 
 from your own lips. If there are reasons, let us part 
 at once.' 
 
 Part at once ! Why, he was sitting beside me : my 
 head was on his heart : he was kissing me fondly : one 
 arm was round my waist : one hand was holding my 
 hand. Part at once ! 
 
 He laughed. ' Part at once ?' he cried. ' We will 
 part, my Nancy, when the span of life is finished and I 
 am called away. Then you shall remain to pray a little 
 for me (if it is allowed to pray for the dead).' 
 
 ' Child !' he said, after these transports, or in the 
 midst of them. ' I cannot live without thee. Edward 
 has been telling me this, and that, and the other. They 
 are obstacles, he says. I will admit no obstacles. I 
 care not what they say. If I cannot please ray own 
 
«7« A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 heart, I will step down and suffer Edward to take my 
 place/ 
 
 ' Nay,'' I said, not understanding what he meant, * but 
 I love thee too well, George, to stand in thy way. It is 
 enough for me to be loved. Let me go and remember 
 that.' 
 
 ' Go ? Never ! I will not leave thee, Nancy. Now 
 listen. There are reasons why I cannot place thee 
 beside me : we must love in secret, and thou must live 
 in obscurity. But I would not wrong thee. Oh ! to 
 wrong this pure angel — to bring sorrow and shame upon 
 thee — I could not, Nancy, were I the deepest profligate 
 in all this wicked town. I could not, I say. Believe 
 me, dearest girl. I were not worthy to love so much 
 goodness if I were capable of such a thought."* 
 
 There needed no assurance on this point. I told 
 him so. 
 
 * Edward and I have talked it over. Let me confess. 
 Edward is the best brother that ever lived. Of all 
 creatures I love him best — next to you. I told him, this 
 very day, that I would hear of no obstacles. He gave way. 
 He will help us in everything. Now, Nancy, listen to 
 what we have arranged. We are to be married to-morrow 
 morning — I know not in what church — Edward knows : 
 I know not by what clergyman — Edward knows : in some 
 name or other — perhaps that of Le Breton — Edwaixl 
 knows. The coach shall come for thee in the morning 
 about eight. After the ceremony we shall go to some 
 place — it is a small house close by, in Catherine Wheel 
 Alley, looking over the Park. He found it, bought it, 
 furniture and all, this afternoon : he has also put a few 
 servants in it : it shall be thy nest, my love, thy bower, 
 where thou shalt sit and dream of love and of thy lover. 
 Nancy, never did I know what happiness meant until I 
 
* THERE SHALL BE NO OBSTACLE ' 273 
 
 learned to love thee. I am not like one of the town 
 gallants who catch fire at the rustle of a furbelow : I 
 cannot, I think, love a woman unless I am truly per- 
 suaded that she is as beautiful within as without. I 
 would lay my whole heart open to the woman I love. 
 I would make her the casket to contain all my secret 
 thoughts, my ambitions, and everything. With such a 
 woman for a partner a man might become indeed a king."* 
 He raised his head : his eyes became fixed : he was one 
 who saw in a vision noble deeds and kingly thoughts. 
 'But thou must be effaced from view — an invisible 
 bride — canst thou do so much for me, Nancy, without 
 repining P** 
 
 ' I can do more than that, (leorge, for such a lover — 
 I could die for him — oh! so gladly, if it would help 
 him.' 
 
 With that he kissed me again, and so we continued 
 our discourse till Edward came back, this business of his 
 happily accomplished. 
 
 ' You have had your fencing-bout ?' said George. 
 ' Ay, ay ! We have had the fencing-bout,*' he replied. 
 ' Now, George, have you told this sweet girl what to- 
 morrow brings with it ?'' 
 
 ' I have told her. She agrees." Oh ! But he never 
 asked me if I agreed. 
 
 'Then, Nancy, to-moiTow we shall be brother and 
 sister — as dear to me, believe it, as any other sister 
 could be. George is not worthy of thee, I begin to 
 think. Yet a moderately fond lover ; and I dare swear, 
 as constant as any of his rank in Europe. Well, Nancy^ 
 I hope the house will be to thy liking. The rooms are 
 small ; the house belonged to old Lady Harlowe, who 
 died some months ago. There is a window in the first 
 floor overlooking the park, with a Venetian balcony.' 
 
 18 
 
274 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 *And we have never yet told her our real names/ 
 said George. 
 
 ' Tell me at your own leisure. Not to-night, George. 
 Let me not be dazzled with greatness. I am too happy 
 to-night. To-moiTow, be Baron, Earl, or Duke — what 
 you will." 
 
 ' I shall use your permission — I will be what I am.** 
 
 'I remember what you told me, about the noble 
 Lord who married the country girl : that he should 
 not have taken her to his grand house. Have you got 
 a grand house T 
 
 'I have two or three. In due course I shall have 
 more.^ 
 
 * Then, my dear, do not take me to them : leave me 
 in that modest cottage of which you speak, near at 
 hand, so that I may see you often. Let me itmain 
 in obscmity : believe me, I shall never desire to 
 take my place before the world : it will be happiness 
 enough for me to be yours in reality and to enjoy yom- 
 affection.'' 
 
 ' Nancy !"* So he fell into a transport again, swearing 
 — but you know what he would swear at such a moment. 
 
 At this moment my cousin returned. ' Sir George,' 
 she said, ' I pray you to forgive me. That poor woman, 
 with her six children ' 
 
 ' Let me minister, through you, deai' lady, to their 
 wants.^ So he lugged out his purse, filled with guineas, 
 and laid it in her hands. 'It is a thank-offering,"' he 
 said. * I give thee this money in gi'atitude. This fair 
 cousin of youi*s. Madam, has this evening come to an 
 understanding with me. We have, in a word, ananged 
 things for our own satisfaction first ; and for the con- 
 sideration of other people — who must also be considered 
 — next. I am blessed indeed, for my own part, because 
 
'1 HEBE SHALL BE NO OBSTACLE' 275 
 
 she hath promised to become my own whenever those 
 arrangements can be made.' He spoke now with the 
 greatest dignity. ' I trust, Madam, that you will believe 
 me when I assure you that whatever arrangements I 
 may be compelled to make-always subject to my Nancy's 
 approv^al-I shall be guided only by the resolution to 
 make her happiness the first consideration, and her 
 interest the chief study of my life.' 
 
 'Oh, Sir! oh, Nancy! ... I have, of coui-se, looked 
 tor this. I could not choose but be aware of what was 
 going on. Else why should you and your brother so 
 often visit two simple ladies who have none of the arts 
 and accomplishments of the Great f 
 He laughed. 
 
 ' My Nancy has arts and accomplishments which the 
 people you call the Great cannot have. She has taught 
 me, dear Madam, some of the dangers and temptations 
 which beset great people. By your leave I will tell you 
 vjiat these are. We-may I say w and not they\- 
 We, I say, have not to work for what we enjoy • there- 
 fore we enjoy nothing: we have not to long for some- 
 thing and save up for it, and deprive ourselves of this 
 and of that in order to get it : if we want a thing we 
 Sf" ^^Tf"":^' ^« -«l"e nothing. No one con- 
 tnwhcts us ; therefore, we think we know evervthing. 
 and are vain accordingly. We have no uncertainty 
 about fortune : it is true that history is full of the sad 
 endsof pnnceand noble: but in this polite age such 
 deaths by violence or by Civil War do not happen. 
 There will be no more munler of Princes in the Tower- 
 no more beheading of Kings at Whitehall. Again, we 
 know nothing of the struggle for a livelihood and of 
 the patience of women in poverty and their contrivance 
 to keep the chilureu. We are raised, as they call it, 
 
 18—3 
 
276 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 above these things. Therefore we grow selfish. Now, 
 my dear Nancy has contradicted me times out of number. 
 She has taught me that I know nothing : she has shown 
 me what they are like — the people of whom I used to 
 speak ignorantly. I am lowered in my own conceit, 
 and therefore I am raised in reality. She has herself 
 most unconsciously made me more worthy — yet still 
 most unworthy — to be her lover. Believe me, Madam "* 
 — again he took my hand and kissed it — * there is no 
 rank so lofty which would not be graced by Nancy, 
 lliere is no title so grand as that of Nancy "*s lover.** 
 
 * Oh ! Sir,"* cried my cousin, quite overcome and 
 unable to say more. * Oh ! sir ; it is too much, indeed,'' 
 and so fell back into a chair, where she lay, half in 
 tears and half laughing, fanning herself violently. She 
 said afterwards that the reason of this emotion was the 
 first discovery of the authority — not to say the majesty 
 — with which this young man spoke. In a Bishop, she 
 said, or in a Judge, such authority might be looked for : 
 but in so young a man 'twas wonderful. However, the 
 events of the next day might possibly have coloured 
 her imagination. All I know is that the dear woman 
 was profoundly affected when she heard this gracious 
 speech. I may say it here, and once for all, that what- 
 ever my cousin did for me — whether she took me away 
 from my sepulchral home : whether she took off the 
 Quaker habits and made me drop the Quaker s})eech : 
 whether she showed me the wicked world : whether she 
 allowed these young men to visit us : whether she 
 suffered them to offer entertainments — all she did was 
 done out of pui-e love for me and consideration for me. 
 First, she would drag me out of the melancholy which 
 oppressed my soul, and next she would encoumge the 
 passion of which she watched and knew the first begin- 
 
' THERE SHALL BE NO OBSTACLE ' 277 
 
 nings. If my cousin's conduct brought upon me my 
 greatest misfortunes, it gave me my gi'eatest happi- 
 ness. But for her, Robert Storey might have been 
 in my estimation a man of the finest manners. Nay, 
 more : but for her, Robert Storey might have been my 
 husband. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 TO DRESS THE BRIDE. 
 
 It was late when they went away, for there was much 
 to say, and Edward was full of spirits, all the more 
 because of the victory won down below, of which we 
 heard from Molly, you may be sure. 
 
 When they were gone my cousin fell to kissing me 
 again. ' Thou art bom for love, Nancy. Oh ! not the 
 common kind. He who once loves thee will never for- 
 get thee ! What have I read ? There is a love, even 
 between man and woman, which is heavenly love : there 
 is also the love which is earthly love. Thine is the 
 heavenly love ! So long as thy lover is filled with thy 
 image he will never go wrong : he will be guided always 
 by the principles of honour and religion.'' 
 * My lover wants not that guidance, cousin. ^ 
 ' Women,' she went on, * may pretend what they 
 please, but there is no solid happiness in life unless it 
 be accompanied by love. Oh, yes ! here one and here 
 another, cold and unfit for love. I talk of the sex, my 
 dear. 'Tis love, 'tis love — ^'tis love they still desire. 
 Love protects them from the rubs and knocks of the 
 world : love provides them with all the good things for 
 which their husbands work : love fills the heart. I am 
 a widow, and I think I shall not marry again because 
 
TO DRESS THE BRIDE 279 
 
 love has filled my heart and fills it still, though my 
 Reuben has been called away. Now to bed, my dear. 
 Wake in the morning with rosy cheeks and bright 
 eyes. Go not to the altar with pale cheeks and dull 
 looks. Go like one who greets the day with a thankful 
 heart.** 
 
 So I went to bed : but not to sleep. 
 
 In the morning, at seven o'clock, a letter came to me : 
 brought, Molly told me, by a footman in splendid livery. 
 It is the only love-letter I ever received. 
 
 ' Dearest Nancy ! Dearest Nancy ! Dearest Nancy !' 
 Thus the letter began. How tender and sweet were 
 the words ! ' All night long have I been awake with 
 thy loving idea in my mind, so that I had no desire to 
 sleep, but would fain lie awake for ever. It is now six 
 of the clock, and I am sending thee this note for a 
 Valentine to greet thee on thy pillow. In an hour or 
 two thou wilt be mine. Edward has arranged every- 
 thing. We have only to do as he tells us. It is 
 pleasant to obey for oner's own happiness. Well, I 
 enter this day upon a life of obedience. The world 
 may obey me, but I shall obey my Nancy. It is like 
 taking the vow of a monk. I take the vow of poverty, 
 for all my wealth is thine, to the uttermost farthing : 
 and of constancy to thee : and of celibacy, except to 
 thee : and of obedience. You shall hear me take those 
 vows at the altar. 
 
 ' A pretty story Edward had to tell me about that 
 fencing-bout. My dear, it was no fencing-bout, but a 
 battle with Edward, Captain Sellinger, of the Horse 
 Guards, and a Corporal on one side, and half-a-dozen 
 traitors and would-be kidnappers on the other. They 
 were peppered. I must thank Captain Sellinger at the 
 first opportunity. Edward will procure for the Cor- 
 
280 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 poral a commission in the Royal Marines. It is a 
 pretty story, and it must be kept private for the sake 
 of certain ladies of whom we know somethino^. If 
 Edward was endeared to me before, by a thousand acts 
 of friendship, think what I must feel for him now when 
 he has risked his life to save my liberty. Everything 
 was arranged : a coach in readiness : a ship in waiting. 
 Well — Providence has interfered, for which I am, I 
 hope, properly grateful. 
 
 ' Thou wilt be in bed, my dearest, when you get this 
 note. Rise, Nancy, and in thy morning prayers re- 
 member me. This day shall see us to the altar, and 
 ever after shall we be happy as the day is long in each 
 other's arms. My dearest — my dearest — my dearest. 
 Thy fond lover, George.' 
 
 Did ever a girl receive so peremptory an order to get 
 up and dress in order to be mamed ? Yet did ever girl 
 kiss the bridegroom's letter with greater fondness ? Did 
 ever girl obey so readily and so joyfully, as thinking to 
 make her lover happy if she could ? 
 
 I dressed : I took my letter to my cousin's room and 
 showed it to her. She, too, made haste to rise. I 
 called Molly : I told her that it was my wedding-day : 
 that I was to be taken away, but not far, by my 
 husband : but that I should expect to keep her in my 
 service. 
 
 While she dressed my head, she told me about the 
 terrible battle and the boiling broth. I rejoiced over 
 the bravery of our side, and congratulated her upon 
 her contribution. One man, she said, was carried off 
 wounded, and perhaps dead : there was a red pool of 
 blood only just dried up on the floor to show that his 
 wound was desperate. I shuddered. Was a fight, 
 with a death, of good omen to a wedding-day ? But 
 
TO DRESS THE BRIDE ^1 
 
 then the fight was in a good cause, and the right side 
 won. 
 
 ' Corporal Bates,' she said, ' is well nigh off his head. 
 He struts about this morning like one possessed. The 
 gentleman gave him fifty guineas : the other gentleman 
 — yours, Miss Nancy — sent his wife fifty more: they 
 are rich : the children are to have new frocks : Mrs. 
 Bates is buying a new frock : and the Corporal is to be 
 called henceforth Lieutenant.' 
 
 I was pleased, indeed, to hear of his good fortune. 
 
 'The Doctor is gone,' she continued. 'They took 
 away his papers and they let him go. If he returns, he 
 will be hanged and drawn and quartered for a French 
 
 spy-' 
 
 That, too, was a pleasant thing to hear. 
 
 'Well, Molly,' I said, 'we shall all, I hope, prove 
 fortunate over this event. Meantime, wait for your 
 share, till I go to my new home which I have not seen 
 in St. Catherine Wheel Court.' 
 
 ' Miss Nancy, may I go to the church too ?' 
 
 'Surely, Molly. I could not be happy unless thou 
 wert present. The church is — we shall find out where 
 it is presently. It may be St. James's, or St. Martin's- 
 in-the-Fields, or even St. Margaret's, Westminster : but 
 we shall find out.' 
 
 ' The bridegroom would like a dish of chocolate and 
 some buttered toast before starting,' she said. 'The 
 mornings are cold and raw. You, too. Miss Nancy, 
 must take something before you go out.' 
 
 'Everything,' said my cousin, always ready to wel- 
 come a cheerful aspect of Fate, ' has turned out for the 
 best. You suffered from melancholia at Dartford : you 
 repined at that affliction : but for that you would not 
 have come to me. You gave up the Society : but for 
 
282 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 that you would not have met your lover. You were 
 ignorant of the world : but for that artless ignorance he 
 would not have loved you. It was necessary to tell 
 your brother Joseph something of your change. He 
 came and stormed like a madman, yet learned all that 
 it was proper for you to tell him. You need not keep 
 him informed, for the future, of your doings. You 
 have explained to him the things which concern him : a 
 lawyer will make him disgorge what I verily believe he 
 intended to keep altogether : it matters not how rich 
 George may be — a few more thousands are always a 
 pleasant addition to one's fortune. Thy George, dear 
 Nancy, will be a pattern to all husbands : sober, 
 religious, virtuous, of kindly temper — ^he is everything 
 that a husband should be. Add to this that he is 
 young, strong, and well formed. AVhat matter if he 
 expects obedience? A wife should obey her husband 
 cheerfully. I always did, the more readily because 
 Reuben would never command anything unless he knew 
 that it was in accordance with my wishes. What was 
 the result, my dear ? How was I rewarded ? The 
 whole of his fortune devolved upon me : not a life 
 interest, or a moiety, or a third part, on which some 
 poor widows have to scratch along. Obedience ? 'Tis 
 the first mark of a good wife that she obeys cheerfully 
 and readily. An obedient wife makes an obedient hus- 
 band. Obedience ensures for a wife her own way : it 
 gives the responsibility of work to the man and the 
 enjoyment of the harvest to the woman. Never, my 
 dear, was apostolic injunction more misunderstood than 
 that in which is enjoined obedience in women.'' 
 
 So she went on chattering while we busied about the 
 bridal dress, giving me such hints and advice as to the 
 management of a husband as wedded women like to 
 
TO DRESS THE BRIDE 9SS 
 
 bestow out of their experience. The sum of it all is, 
 I believe, that if two people love each other, they will 
 give way to each other, study each other, take care not 
 to insist too strongly on their own wishes, and never think 
 obedience a duty, but a pleasure. Alas ! it was love's 
 labour lost, this advice, as you shall presently see. 
 
 I put on my white satin frock over a hoop : Isabel 
 trimmed it with laces and with white ribbons : my hat 
 she also trimmed with white ribbons, very fine ; and 
 she gave me a pair of white silk gloves. 
 
 ' It is sad,"* she said, ' that thou wilt be married with 
 so few spectators. I could wish all the Society of 
 Friends to be in the church : thy brother Joseph at 
 the head of them. And Robert Storey to stand like a 
 play-actor : and the fine Court ladies in a row — all to 
 see thy beauty, and to burst with envy at the spectacle 
 of thy great fortune.' 
 
 ' Oh, dear cousin ! there will be enough — with thee 
 and Molly and Edward.' 
 
 ' My dear ' — she stepped back and looked at me from 
 top to toe — ' thou ai-t, indeed, a charming bride ! Some 
 women at the altar make charming corpses : as for thee, 
 thy colour so comes and goes, thine eyes are so bright, 
 thy cheeks so soft ! Oh, Nancy, Nancy !' — she caught 
 me in her arms — ' how shall I live without thee ? Oh, 
 what a happy three months have I spent ! and now, 
 though everything ends as it should, I am loath — I am 
 loath, my dear, to let thee go.' 
 
 I turned over my drawers to see what things Molly 
 should bring me. I had not much to fit out a bride. 
 But for Isabel I could not have made a decent appear- 
 ance. Among the things which I turned out one was 
 the miniature of Mademoiselle de la Valliere, first love 
 of King Louis XIV. of France. Her sweet, sad face 
 
284 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 looked upon me as if with pity. Yet why should she 
 pity me, the happiest and most fortunate girl in the 
 world ? I put it down again, somewhat dashed. Such 
 little things suffice to jar upon one. We are full of 
 joy and happiness : then we remember something ; we 
 hear something ; we see something ; and lo ! it is like 
 cold water poured upon the boiling pot ; the water 
 sings no more, the bubbles die : it is like an ice-cold 
 wind blowing over the meadows on a warm spring day : 
 our joy is suddenly sobered. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 GOD SAVE THE KING ! 
 
 By half-past seven I was out of Molly's hands, dressed 
 and ready for my wedding. Then I sat down to wait. 
 The clock ticked slowly, slowly : the hands seemed 
 unable to move. My cousin sat down beside me — I 
 remember all she said — I remember all that was said 
 and done by everybody till the end. My cousin talked. 
 Her voice was like the voice of a person afar off: yet I 
 heard it, and I remember all she said. It was the 
 shadow of coming calamity that weighed down my heart. 
 Molly brought some chocolate. My cousin took a dish, 
 talking the while. 
 
 * My dear,' she said, ' what shall I do without thee ? 
 How shall I live ? What shall I do in the long winter 
 evenings for a companion ? The house will be empty. 
 The Corporal, now that he is a Lieutenant, will go 
 abroad. The Lieutenant's lady — poor Mrs. Bates ! — 
 will give up her garret. Molly will go to cook for thee : 
 the old Doctor, the long lean Don Quixote, the Knight 
 of the Sorrowful Countenance — he, too, has gone : to 
 his own place — villain ! Pity the wretch was not pinked, 
 as the men say, last night. The only person left at 
 night will be the Captain with six bottles inside his 
 belt. What shall I do ? 
 
286 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 ' I will go and stay with you, my dear, whenever thy 
 husband is away at his countiy seat. Sometimes when 
 he is at home he will ask me. I think he must love 
 me. I am sure he does. But for me, he would never 
 have met his Nancy. I was the instrument of Pro- 
 vidence: the poets would call me Lovers Messenger — 
 Venus's handmaid. He has always spoken kindly of 
 what he calls my kindness to thee, my dear, as if any- 
 one with a heart could help being kind to the sweetest 
 and fondest of her sex. 
 
 ' Some day, my dear, in spite of what has been said, 
 thou wilt be a gieat Lady. Oh ! it will be impossible 
 for him to avoid that end. He will grow only more 
 affectionate as the time goes on : such a man as this is 
 always constant : thine image will be carven so deeply 
 on his heart that he will never be able to tear it out. 
 I know that look. I know that slow, deliberate mind, 
 which gradually grasps a thing and never lets it go. 
 Then nothing will do but he must publicly place thee 
 beside him in the full light of day. Well, there is no 
 position which thou wilt not grace. And to think that 
 Robert Storey dared to aspire to thy hand I Well ! 
 " Fools rush in where men of quality fear to tread,*" as 
 the poets say. 
 
 * Strange that he has never told us his name and 
 family. He reserves it to be a surprise at the wedding. 
 Captain Sellinger knows, and he will not believe that 
 we do not know. Corporal Bates — now Lieutenant — 
 knows, and pretends that we know as well. The old 
 French spy and traitor knew. All the world knows, it 
 seems, except the pei-son most concerned. Patience, my 
 dear. It is now a quai-ter to eight. In half an hour 
 thou shalt know. 
 
 * That was a pretty piece of business downstairs last 
 
GOD SAVE THE KING! 287 
 
 night. To carry off* two young men of rank and fortune : 
 to design them for a French prison : I suppose to have 
 them held to ransom. It is Hke an old story of Moorish 
 pirates. * I am sorry they let the wretch go in peace. 
 My dear, our friends might have been killed. Now we 
 understand what was meant by his talk about loyalty. 
 Fine loyalty, tiTily ! Wretch !' 
 
 At eight o'clock the rumbling of wheels told us that 
 our bridegroom had anived. He jumped out of the 
 coach and ran up the stairs with the eagerness of a 
 bridegToom, threw himself into my arms, regardless of 
 my head, which he nearly mined, and regardless of 
 Isabel's presence. ' My dear !' he cried. ' My dear P 
 and kissed me again and again. All the weight and 
 fear left my heart at sight and touch of my bride- 
 groom. I was perfectly happy again. 
 
 Then he perceived Isabel. ' Madam," he said, bowing 
 low. In the presence of his bride a man may well have 
 eyes for none other — even for my cousin Isabel. ' Fray 
 forgive me.' 
 
 'Dear Sir, there is nothing to forgive, and most 
 heai'tily do I wish you joy.' 
 
 He kissed her hand and laughed. ' Joy !' he cried. 
 'I am the most joyful man in the whole world. I 
 would exchange places with no one.' 
 ' Not even with the King .?' said Isabel. 
 He changed colour in a moment. Something touched 
 him. ' Indeed,' he said, ' I do not wish to take the 
 place of the King.' Ihen he recovered. 'Where is 
 Edward ?' he asked, looking round him. 
 ' He has not yet come.' 
 
 ' Not come ! Edward is generally most punctual. 
 Well, it is but just eight. We can afford to wait a 
 little. I shall give him ten minutes more. If he does 
 
288 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 not arrive by that time he shall be punished by not 
 being present at his brother's wedding. That would 
 indeed be a punishment for my loyal and affectionate 
 brother.' 
 
 * Where is the church ?"* 
 
 ' I don't know. Edward knows. Oh, he will come ! 
 He will come I"* 
 
 But his face showed a little anxiety. 
 
 ' May we offer a dish of chocolate against the moming 
 air ?' my cousin asked. 
 
 ' Dear Madam, who can think of food — even of your 
 chocolate, which is the best I ever tasted — on such 
 a day as this ^ I wonder what makes Edward so 
 late.' 
 
 But the chocolate was brought up, and he took some 
 with a little bread-and-butter cut thin and rolled as 
 Molly knew how to make it. 
 
 'Edward,' he went on, 'is the best of brothers. 
 Some men are jealous of their elder brother: not so 
 Edward. I have heard cases where the younger wished 
 the death of the elder. Not so Edward. There is 
 nothing he would not do for me. He has aiTanged 
 this business for us, Nancy, all by himself. I believe 
 he loves thee as much as I do — yet without envy. 
 The other day he began to remonstrate, all in thy 
 interests, dear girl. There must be some kind of end, 
 he said. Thy name would suffer if we continued night 
 after night to enjoy the heaven of thy society. He 
 wanted me, for thy happiness, dear Nancy, to give up 
 coming here: he tried to persuade me that I could 
 never hope to man-y thee — could not hope — those were 
 his very words. In remonstrating Edward is the very 
 devil : these sailors know not round-about methods : they 
 steer straight as a line. Could not hope — he said : his 
 
GOD SAVE THE KING ! 289 
 
 very words. I wonder why Edward is so late.' He 
 looked out of the window and then resumed his dis- 
 course, talking rapidly as one who is naturally agitated 
 by the occasion. There were other reasons for agitation 
 of mind which we knew not. In a word, he was about 
 to take a step the consequences of which no one could 
 foresee. He would not sit down, therefore he kept 
 walking up and down the room, looking continually 
 out of the window for his brother. He continued, as I 
 said, talking. ' Well, Edward declared that there were 
 insuperable obstacles. What were they ? I asked him. 
 They were this : they were that. I must marry into 
 my own class and rank. Everybody would demand it. 
 There would be jealousies : the English nobles love 
 not a mesalliance. He instanced cases where jealousies 
 amounting to civil wars have followed such mesalliances. 
 I speak freely and frankly, because we have agreed, 
 dear girl, on what we shall do. There will be no 
 jealousies aroused, because you will live retired and 
 unknown. The world will not know that I am married. 
 Dear Nancy, think not that I am ashamed of thee. 
 Far from it. Thou wilt always be my chiefest pride. 
 The world will presently discover that I am not in- 
 clined to marry — in my own rank. Then Edward will 
 become of greater importance. That will not harm 
 thee, my dear, nor myself. So when he talked to me of 
 obstacles, I brushed them all aside. ' Obstacle or no 
 obstacle,' I said, 'I will marry my Nancy to-morrow 
 morning. I must and I will.' ' Well, George,' he said, 
 ' if you will you must : if you must you will. As for 
 what will happen when it is discovered I know not. 
 They cannot order you off for execution on Tower 
 Hill. Yet there will be mighty indignation in certain 
 
 19 
 
2&0 A FOUNTAIxN SEALED 
 
 quarters/ He said a great deal more, but I made an 
 end. " Come what may,**"* I swore, " I will marry my 
 Nancy." ^ 
 
 ' Ajid now," said my cousin, ' we shall learn your true 
 name." 
 
 ' I am afraid you must. Is it true that you do not 
 know it ? Yes — ^yes — it is true. The sweet and simple 
 friendliness would have been impossible else. It was 
 because you did not, either of you, know my name that 
 you were able to continue so friendly." 
 
 He laughed gently. ' To me,' he said, ' one of the 
 chief charms of our friendship has been the fact that 
 you accepted our incognito with no apparent desire to 
 penetrate to the truth." 
 
 ' Indeed, no !** my cousin replied. ' It was enough 
 for us that we were receiving two gentlemen who wei*e 
 perhaps of rank, but certainly of good breeding and 
 honour. Our Quaker experience teaches us to set no 
 value on rank alone." 
 
 ' At first we doubted whether you really were ignorant 
 of our names. The people who live about St. James's 
 Street for the most part know us. You were from 
 the country, it is true, or from a part of London 
 which does not know the faces which are here familiar. 
 The liveries, the arms, I thought would proclaim 
 aloud " 
 
 ' The Quakers do not know liveries and have no 
 knowledge of arms." 
 
 ' So I learned. Well, dear ladies, what happened 't 
 I found myself, for the first time, among people who 
 were not in the least afraid of contradicting me. If 
 you only knew the happiness of being contradicted ! 
 You paid me no respect on account of rank — "twas like 
 stepping out of a prison into the open air : you sought no 
 
GOD SAVE THE KING ! 291 
 
 favour Irom me — neither place nor pension nor office — 
 for yourselves or your friends — how charming to meet 
 such people !"* 
 
 ' Why, Sii*," said Isabel, ' what could we ask ?' 
 
 ' And you — ^you offered no favours,' he added, with a 
 blush. ' In a word, dear ladies, I learned to love you 
 because you did not know me. Oh, the happiness of 
 equality ! You never flattered me : when I spoke in 
 ignorance you corrected me : you told me things that I 
 had never learned before : you talked to me about the 
 people — the working people — ^you told me what the 
 Quakers mean, but the Church above all ! Dear 
 Nancy, you have learned to love me wholly for myself 
 as a private gentleman, happy in the duties and in the 
 blessings of the position.' He had been walking about 
 during this long speech — agitated in his mind, but full 
 of sweetness and full of dignity. Then he took my 
 hand and kissed it again. ' Well,' he added, ' if you 
 really wish to know — if you cannot wait until we leave 
 the church, I will tell you now.' 
 
 'George,' I murmured when he took my hand. 
 ' No — no — no. Let me be all yours before you tell 
 me. Then, if you must, tell me when you please. 
 But oh ! believe me. I do not wish to know. I would 
 that I could never know except that I am loved by 
 a gallant and noble gentleman, and that his love is 
 the greatest honour and the greatest happiness of my 
 life.' 
 
 ' Have it your own way, dear — all shall be your own 
 way. Ah !' he looked out of the window again. ' Here 
 comes Edward running.' 
 
 I sprang to my feet and looked out, beside him. 
 Why — Edward's face was pale and anxious. He ran 
 across the court as fast as he could run. He ran up the 
 stairs — again I felt the dreadful presentiment of mis- 
 
 19— a 
 
A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 fortune. He threw open the door. His face was white : 
 his eyes were wild. 
 
 ' George !** he cried, gasping, in a harsh and broken 
 voice. 
 
 ' Well, brother, you are late. But there is plenty of 
 time. Now, Nancy dear, we will go downstairs.^ 
 
 ' Come with me, George, come, I say !' Edward cried. 
 ' With you ? No — you are coming with me. This 
 is my wedding-day. Are you in your senses, brother ?"" 
 ' Come with me, George. Oh ! come without asking 
 whyf 
 
 ' Leave my bride ? Edward, are you mad ?^ 
 * I wish I was. Come, George — Nancy, my poor 
 child ! Send her away, Mrs. Storey — take her away. 
 For God's sake, take her into her own room — take off 
 that dress V 
 
 George stepped forward. ' What is it ? What has 
 happened .?' 
 
 ' Everybody is looking for you. Come, you must come ! 
 Oh, Nancy ! Nancy ! Poor girl ! Come, George i** 
 ' What is it, man .?' 
 
 Edward threw out his arms. ' Then, if you must be 
 told before her — The King is Dead !' 
 
 Then he knelt on one knee, placed his brother's hand 
 on his own left arm and kissed it, saying solemnly and 
 slowly — ' God Save the King !' 
 
 No one spoke for a moment — a long moment. I 
 know not how long. George stood silent, hushed, awed, 
 his brother kneeling before him. 
 
 Then the whole truth burst upon me. I reeled and 
 fell and was caught by my cousin. But I was not faint- 
 ing. No — I was not in a swoon. I saw and wfis con- 
 scious of everything. 
 
 My lover, my bridegroom, who was never to be my 
 
GOD SAVE THE KING ! 293 
 
 husband, stood with his face turned upwards — alas ! 
 away from his bride. And his face was changed. There 
 was in it a new authority — a new majesty — that of the 
 Sovereign : a new expression, that of kingship. 
 
 Love had gone out of that face. It was filled with a 
 new emotion. The young King saw suddenly before 
 him the vastness of his responsibilities : the burden of 
 empire : the great duties. ^Vhat was the simple girl 
 beside him, in presence of these things ? War and 
 peace : prosperity and adversity : the happiness of mil- 
 lions or their misery : the sovereignty of a great, proud, 
 and free people : their love and loyalty : or their hate. 
 How could love survive that sudden shock ? In a 
 moment the passion died out in his heart, though the 
 memory of it might afterwards return. He was the 
 King. Needs must that he marry in his own class. 
 
 How could love remain when the new kingship filled 
 the soul ? Love was gone. I knew — alas ! I knew — 
 alas ! — I saw — Love had gone for ever : our simple, 
 artless Love could not live beneath the shadow of the 
 Crown. 
 
 ' Dei Gratia,^ he murmured. ' By the Grace of 
 GodT 
 
 Then he turned to me and his brother rose. 
 
 ' Nancy,' he said solemnly, ' Fate calls me. I am now 
 the King — unworthy. Pray for me. My brother will 
 see thee. What has passed I pray thee to forget. Thou 
 art all goodness, Nancy. Farewell. Be happy. "* He 
 stooped and kissed my head — and I fell back. 
 
 When I recovered they were gone, and my cousin 
 was weeping beside me. 
 
 Sometimes I think it would have been better for me if 
 I had died that day. But yet . . . no — I have still these 
 tender memories which I have tried to set down. I can 
 
294 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 think of my gallant Prince. I can remember how he loved 
 me. Surely no woman was ever loved so well. This 
 short chapter makes all my life. And I was the first — 
 yes — the first. I was the first. AVhen I meet him in 
 the world to come, I shall go up to him fearlessly. I 
 shall say : ' George, you loved me first. I was the first : 
 you loved me before the Other came across the sea. A 
 man's first love is best. You loved me first, and since I 
 have never ceased to love you, I think that my image 
 must be in^our heart still.' 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 I SAY that I saw my death-warrant in his face. When 
 the sudden shock had passed away — when he understood, 
 indeed, that he was King — then the light of love, I say, 
 went out of his eyes. He kissed my forehead, indeed, 
 but it was no longer the kiss of a bridegroom. I knew 
 that it was all over. I knew that I had looked upon 
 his face for the last time. 
 
 As for the days that followed, let me forget them ; or 
 if that may not be granted, let me pass over them. 
 
 Edward, whom I cannot call Prince, came often to 
 sit with me and comfort me. Sometimes he wept with 
 me — it was the kindest heart in the world. ' Consider,' 
 he said, over and over again, ' that a King cannot marry 
 whom he pleases, or where he pleases : he must marry 
 among the sovereign houses of Europe ; he must make 
 an alliance that will advance the country either for 
 safety or for policy, or for the good of trade. His sons 
 who will succeed him must be of kingly rank on both 
 sides : his daughters must marry Princes for the good 
 of their own country. "WHiy, if the King were to marry 
 one of his own nobility, there would be such jealousies 
 that his throne would be in danger or succession dis- 
 
S96 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 puted. Nothing is more certain than that the King 
 must belong to a Royal House and be married into a 
 Royal House.** 
 
 I do not know that these words comforted me : but 
 they brought the Hand of Fate into the business. It 
 grew to appear inevitable. 
 
 ' I consented,"* he said, ' to a secret marriage because 
 George was headstrong and determined. But it was 
 with a heavy heart, believe me. Now, consider what 
 would have been your lot. A secret marriage ; a wife 
 put away in a cupboard : not allowed at Court. Then 
 the House of Parliament would petition the King to 
 marry — if they knew the truth they would urge him 
 to divorce you. The Archbishop would show that the 
 case was excusable and laudable. If he resisted these 
 importunities, I believe he would have to abdicate. As 
 for your children, what would be their lot ? Bom in 
 wedlock, yet not the heirs ; born in the highest rank, 
 yet possessing no rank at all.' 
 
 Still I was not consoled. 
 
 ' As for me,' he said, ' I declare that I have had no 
 happy moment since the time when I perceived that 
 George was in love with you, Nancy — and you with 
 him. For George is in everything serious and sincere. 
 It was in no light mood that he fell in love with you, 
 but seriously and sincerely. If George loved you yester- 
 day he loves you to-day. Yet I do not think that he 
 will speak much about it to me, not even to me. His 
 sorrows he will lock up in his own heart. His memory 
 he will keep under lock and key.** 
 
 A great deal more he said, but to little purpose. 
 Time alone could heal that gaping wound, which would 
 leave a horrid scar for the rest of my days. 
 
 I he«^rd nothing from the object, or the Cause, of 
 
CONCLUSION 297 
 
 these troubles. At first I thought he would send me a 
 letter : but the days went on : no letter came. Then 
 I thought he would send me a message or a token : but 
 the days went on : there was no token nor any message. 
 No letter, token, or message has ever come to me. And 
 now I am glad to think that he chose to sever the bond 
 as he did, at one stroke. 
 
 Edward spoke about it. ' At that fatal moment,"* he 
 told me, ' George said " Farewell."''' He meant you, and 
 me, and your cousin to understand then, that it was 
 " Farewell."'"' He has since talked to me, but only once, 
 and with few words. He said, " What must be done 
 had best be done as quickly as possible. I have said 
 ' Farewell' ^'^ 
 
 Wonderful it was how the thought that one might 
 be cast away but not forgotten comforted me. Since I 
 was led to suspect that he was suffering on my account 
 it seemed a duty plainly laid upon me to strive after 
 such resignation as I might attain to. 
 
 I told Edward this, and began to put on some measure 
 of cheerfulness. When one is young, it is not difficult, 
 even in the worst kind of bereavement, when the object 
 of one's affection is not dead, but carried away out of 
 reach and beyond the power of speech. 
 
 He was patient with me : he saw that I took some 
 small pleasure in his coming. He came, therefore, every 
 day. 
 
 But everything, as you know, was changed. The 
 whole house was changed. To begin with. Captain 
 Sellinger's elder brother had died unexpectedly, the day 
 after King George the Second, and left him the title of 
 Viscount De Lys and an estate, so that he resigned his 
 commission in the Guards and went to live upon his 
 country estates. Corporal Bates had become Lieutenant 
 
«98 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 Bates of the Royal Marines, and was off to sea. He 
 called to say farewell, looking very gallant in his new 
 uniform and the gold lace instead of the woollen 
 epaulettes. 
 
 ' Ladies,' he said, ' I have come to ask your good 
 wishes. I am now on the lowest step of the ladder. A 
 soldier has no chance until he has the King's commis- 
 sion. I start for Portsmouth to-night — I join my corps 
 on arrival. If I am lucky in action I may be gazetted 
 to my company in a few weeks. Then, ladies, to victory 
 or death! It may he the gallant death of a simple 
 Lieutenant : it may be the funeral of a hero in 
 Westminster Abbey. Fortune of war ! Fortune of 
 war ? 
 
 We asked him what would become of his \^ife and 
 children. They were to stay on in the house, but had 
 come down from the garrets to the second floor. So he 
 went off — to meet his death, poor man. Yet one would 
 not pity him, because I am sure that his last breath 
 must have been one of satisfaction that he had been 
 permitted to fall on the field. The Doctor was gone : 
 no one ever set eyes upon that man again : he and his 
 treacheries and villainies are now, I suppose, all dead 
 and forgotten. 
 
 One day about the end of November, Prince Edward 
 spoke to me seriously about my future. What did I 
 wish to do ? Where would I live .? I had been reflect- 
 ing on the subject for some time, and my mind was 
 made up, as you shall see. 
 
 I had learned already, thanks to Edward's lawyers, 
 that by my father's death without a will I was entitled 
 to half the fortune which he left behind him. My 
 brother had in his keeping the whole, as you have 
 seen. 
 
CONCLUSION 299 
 
 * I have been wishing,' I said, ' to converse with you 
 upon this subject. My cousin would have me Hve on 
 with her. But I am a kind of wife — a woman that 
 was to have been a wife — and I must live as an inde- 
 pendent woman.' 
 
 ' Quite so.' 
 
 ' I do not wish to live in London. I desire to find 
 a cottage in the country, where with a garden and 
 a few books, and Molly to wait upon me, I can medi- 
 tate.' 
 
 ' Nancy, you are but young. This is but a passing 
 storm.' 
 
 'Nay, it is what you sailors call a hurrkano. My 
 ship is wrecked well-nigh to sinking.' 
 
 ' Say that you find the cottage, how long before you 
 will pine after London again .?' 
 
 ' Edward, do you know me so little ?' 
 
 ' Well . . . first, there is this inheritance of yours. 
 I shall at least, as I promised, instruct some of my 
 people to get that out of your brother's hand.' 
 
 'Yes, if you will be so kind. At first I was set 
 against interfering with my brother at all. Let him 
 keep everything, I thought. It is all he cares about. 
 But afterwards I reflected that it would be best to have 
 the means of relieving a little distress in the world. 
 There is so much poverty and unhappiness. I also am 
 myself so unhappy that I can feel for all. It is the 
 consolation which the Lord gives to the unhappy.' 
 Here Edward turned away his head. ' So, if you will 
 be so kind, get for me what is mine. It may be little, 
 or it may be much. And now let me open all my 
 mind.' 
 
 He took my hand, but said nothing. 
 
 ' Remember, Edward, I was promised to him — to your 
 
300 A FOUNTAIN SEALED 
 
 brother. I am his, as much as any nun is vowed to 
 Christ. But one short half-hour more, and you would 
 have been my brother.' 
 
 'Nancy,' he said, ' I am your brother. I am always 
 your brother. Tell me all — all — that weighs down your 
 poor soul.' 
 
 ' Let me feel, then, that I am in reality your sister. 
 Send me not adrift into the world. Let me feel that I 
 owe something of my life to you, besides these sad 
 memories. That cottage in the country of which we 
 spoke — give it to me, Edward, yourself, for the sake of 
 your brother. Let it be your own gift — your wedding 
 gift — for the wedding which will never be celebrated. 
 Oh! my brother — let me live in a house that I may 
 call my brother's gift. And come to see me some- 
 times. It will be a consolation to me only to call you 
 brother.' 
 
 I have done. The house in which I live was given to 
 me by Prince Edward, Duke of York. It hath been 
 rumoured abroad, I believe, that it was given to me by 
 the King himself. The house, with all the furniture, 
 was bought for me, and given to me, I say, by Prince 
 Edward, in remembrance of that happy time when the 
 royal brothers came night after night to talk with two 
 simple gentlewomen. This is all that he gave, or that 
 I could accept. My ample fortune is not his gift, but 
 my inheritance. 
 
 My story is told. Many a Prince has loved a maiden 
 beneath his rank. Love cares not for rank and station. 
 Yet never before, I think, was a poor woman so suddenly 
 dashed to the ground as I myself. I hear people speak- 
 ing of his happiness, his domestic happiness, with the 
 Royal Lady his consort. Oh ! think not that I grudge 
 
CONCLUSION 301 
 
 his happiness : he cannot be too happy for me : my 
 prayers go up for him both day and night : but still I 
 feel — ^yes — I cannot choose but feel — I was the first — I 
 was the first. Before the Other came across the sea, I 
 was the first. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 BILLING AKD SONS, PKINTEBS, GUILDFORD. 
 
CHATTO & WINDUS'S 
 
 LIST OF CHEAP POPDUR HOVELS 
 
 BY THE BEST AUTHORS. 
 Picture Oouers, TWO SHILLINGS each. 
 
 BY EDMOND ABOUT. 
 The Fellah. 
 
 BY HAMILTON AIDE. 
 Carr of Carrlyon. 
 Confidences. 
 
 BY MARY ALBERT. 
 Brooke Finchley's Daughter. 
 
 BY MRS. ALEXANDER. 
 Maid, Wife, or Widow ? 
 Valerie's Fate. 
 Blind Fate. 
 
 BY GRANT ALLEN. 
 Strange Stories. 
 Philistia. 
 Babylon. 
 
 The Beckoning Hand. 
 In All Shades. 
 For Maimie's Sake. 
 The Devil's Die. 
 This Mortal Coil. 
 The Tents of Shem. 
 The Great Taboo. 
 Dumaresq's Daughter. 
 The Duchess of Powysland. 
 Blood Royal. 
 Ivan Greet's Masterpiece. 
 The Scallywag. 
 At Market Value. 
 
 BY EDWIN LESTER ARNOLD. 
 Phra the Phoenician. 
 
 BY FRANK BARRETT. 
 A Recoiling Vengeance. 
 For Love and Honour. 
 
 iohn Ford ; and His Helpmate, 
 lonest Davie. 
 A Prodigal's Progress. 
 Folly Morrison. 
 Lieutenant Barnabas. 
 Found Guilty. 
 Fettered for Life. 
 Between Life and Death. 
 The Sin of Olga Zassoulich. 
 Little Lady Linton. 
 The Woman of the Iron Bracelets 
 
 BY SHELSLEY BEAUCHAMP. 
 Grantley Grange. 
 
 BY BESANT d RICE. 
 Ready-Money Mortiboy, 
 With Harp and Crown. 
 This Son of Vulcan. 
 My Little Girl. 
 The Case of Mr. Lucraft. 
 The Golden Butterfly. 
 By Celia's Arbour. 
 The Monks of Thelema. 
 *Twas in Trafalgar's Bay. 
 The Seamy Side. 
 The Ten Years' Tenant. 
 The Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 
 BY WALTER BESANT. 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 The Captains' Room. 
 All in a Garden Fair, 
 Dorothy Forster. 
 Uncle Jack. 
 Children of Gibeon. 
 The World went very well then. 
 Herr Paulus. 
 For Faith and Freedom. 
 To Call her Mine. 
 The Bell of St Paul's. 
 The Holy Rose. 
 Armorel of Lyonesse. 
 St. Katherine's by the Tower. 
 The Ivory Gate. 
 Verbena Camellia Stephanotis. 
 The Rebel Queen. 
 Beyond the Dreams of Avarice. 
 
 BY AMBROSE BIERCE. 
 In the Midst of Life. 
 
 BY FREDERICK BOYLE. 
 Camp Notes. 
 Savage Life. 
 Chronicles of No-Man's Land. 
 
 BY HAROLD BRYDGES. 
 I Uncle Sam at Home. 
 
 London: CHATTO 6* WINDUS, iii St. Martin's Lane, W.C. 
 
TWO-SHILLING POPUIJLR NOVELS. 
 
 BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 The Shadow of the Sword. 
 A Child of Nature. 
 God and the Man. 
 Annan Water. 
 The New Abelard. 
 The Martyrdom of Madeline. 
 Love Me for Ever. 
 Matt : a Story of a Caravan. 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 The Master of the Mine. 
 The Heir of Linne. 
 Woman and the Man. 
 Rachel Dene. 
 
 BY BUCHANAN AND MURRAY. 
 The Charlatan. 
 
 BY HALL CAINE. 
 The Shadow of a Crime. 
 A Son of Hagar. 
 The Deemster. 
 
 BY COMMANDER CAMERON. 
 The Cruise of the * Black Prince.' 
 
 BY MRS. LOVETT CAMERON. 
 Deceivers Ever. 
 Juliet's Guardian. 
 
 BY EX-INSPECTOR CAVANAGH. 
 Scotland Yard, Past and Present. 
 
 BY AUSTIN CLARE. 
 For the Love of a Lass. 
 
 BY MRS. ARCHER CLIVE. 
 Paul Ferroll. 
 Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife 
 
 BY MACLAREN COBBAN. 
 The Cure of Souls. 
 The Red Sultan. 
 
 BY C. ALLSTON COLLINS. 
 The Bar Sinister. 
 
 BY WILKIE COLLINS. 
 Armadale. 
 After Dark. 
 No Name. 
 A Rogfue's Life. 
 Antonma. | Basil. 
 Hide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret. 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 My Miscellanies. 
 The Woman in White. 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife. 
 
 BY WILKIE COLLI NS-continu€d. 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 Miss or Mrs. ? 
 The New Magdalen. 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 The Law and the Lady. 
 The Two Destinies. 
 The Haunted Hotel. 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 Jezebel's Daughter. 
 The Black Robe. 
 Heart and Science. 
 * I say No.' 
 The Evil Genius. 
 Little Novels. 
 The Legacy of Cain. 
 Blind Love. 
 
 MORTIMER d FRANCES COLLINS. 
 Sweet Anne Page. 
 Transmigration. 
 From Midnight to Midnight 
 A Fight with Fortune. 
 Sweet and Twenty. 
 Frances. 
 
 The Village Comedy. 
 You Play Me False. 
 Blacksmith and Scholar. 
 
 BY M. J. COLQUHOUN. 
 Every Inch a Soldier. 
 
 BY BUTTON COOK. 
 Leo. 
 Paul Foster's Daughter. 
 
 BY C. EGBERT CRADDOCK. 
 Prophet of the Smoky Mountains. 
 
 BY MATT CRIM. 
 Adventures of a Fair Rebel. 
 
 BY B. M. CROKER. 
 Pretty Miss Neville. 
 Proper Pride. 
 A Bird of Passage. 
 Diana Barrington. 
 ♦To Let' 
 
 A Family Likeness. 
 VillageTales & JungleTragedies. 
 Two Masters. 
 Mr. Jervis. 
 
 BY WILLIAM CYPLES. 
 Hearts of Gold. 
 
 BY ALPHONSE DAUDET, 
 The Evangelist 
 
 London: CHATTO 6* WINDUS, xix St. Martin's Lant, W.C. 
 
TWO-SHILLING POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 BY ERASMUS DAWSON. 
 The Fountain of Youth. 
 
 BY JAMES DE MILLE. 
 A Castle in Spain. 
 
 BY J. LE/TH DERWENT. 
 Our Lady of Tears. 
 Circe's Lovers. 
 
 BY CHARLES DICKENS. 
 Sketches by Boz. 
 Oliver Twist 
 Nicholas Nickleby. 
 
 BY DICK DONOVAN. 
 *i*he Man-hunter. 
 Caught at Last I 
 Tracked and Taken. 
 Who Poisoned Hetty. Duncan ? 
 The Man from Manchester. 
 A Detective's Triumphs. 
 In the Grip of the Law. 
 Wanted I 
 
 From Information Received. 
 Tracked to Doom. 
 Link by Link. 
 Suspicion Aroused. 
 Dark Deeds. 
 Riddles Read. 
 The Mystery of Jamaica Terrace. 
 
 BY MRS. ANNIE EDWARD ES. 
 A Point of Honour. 
 Archie Lovell. 
 
 BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS. 
 Felicia. 
 Kitty. 
 
 BY EDWARD EGGLESTON. 
 Roxy. 
 
 BY G. MANVILLE FENN. 
 The New Mistress. 
 Witness to the Deed. 
 The Tiger Lily. 
 The White Virgin. 
 
 BY PERCY FITZGERALD. 
 Bella Donna. 
 Polly. 
 
 The Second Mrs. Tillotson. 
 Seventy-five Brooke Street 
 Never Forgotten. 
 The Lady of Brantome. 
 Fatal Zero. 
 
 BY PERCY FITZGERALD and Others. 
 Strange Secrets. 
 
 BY ALBANY DE FONBLANQUE. 
 Filthy Lucre. 
 
 BY R. E. FRANCILLON. 
 Olympia. 
 One by One. 
 Queen Cophetua. 
 A Real Queen. 
 King or Knave. 
 Romances of the Law. 
 Ropes of Sand. 
 A Dog and his Shadow. 
 
 BY HAROLD FREDERIC. 
 Seth's Brother's Wife. 
 The Lawton Girl. 
 Prefaced by Sir H. BARTLE FRERE. 
 
 Pandurang H^ri. 
 
 BY HAIN FRISWELL 
 
 One of Two. 
 
 BY EDWARD GARRETT. 
 The Capel Girls. 
 
 BY GILBERT GAUL. 
 
 A Strange Manuscript Found. 
 BY CHARLES GIBBON. 
 
 Robin Gray. 
 
 For Lack of Gold. 
 
 What will the World Say? 
 
 In Honour Bound. 
 
 In Love and War. 
 
 For the King. 
 
 Queen of the Meadow. 
 
 In Pastures Green. 
 
 The Flower of the Forest 
 
 A Heart's Problem. 
 
 The Braes of Yarrow, 
 
 The Golden Shaft 
 
 Of High Degree. 
 
 The Dead Heart. 
 
 By Mead and Stream. 
 
 Heart's Delight 
 
 Fancy Free. 
 
 Loving a Dream. 
 
 A Hard Knot 
 
 Blood-Money. 
 
 BY WILLIAM GILBERT. 
 
 iames Duke. 
 )r. Austin's Guests. 
 The Wizard of the Mountain. 
 
 London: CHATTO 6» WINDUS, iii St. Martin's Lane, W.C. 
 
TWO-SHILLING POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 BY ERNEST GLANVILLE. 
 The Lost Heiress. 
 The Fossicker. 
 A Fair Colonist. 
 
 BY REV. S. BARING GOULD. 
 Eve. 
 Red Spider. 
 
 BY HENRY GREVILLE. 
 Nikanor. 
 A Noble Woman. 
 
 BY CECIL GRIFFITH. 
 Corinthia Marazion. 
 
 BY SYDNEY GRUNDY. 
 The Days of his Vanity. 
 
 BY JOHN HABBERTON. 
 Brueton's Bayou. 
 Country Luck. 
 
 BY ANDREW HALLIDAY. 
 Every-Day Papers. 
 
 BY LADY DUFFUS HARDY. 
 Paul Wynter's Sacrifice. 
 
 BY THOMAS HARDY. 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 
 BY BRET HARTE. 
 An Heiress of Red Dog. 
 The Luck of Roaring Camp. 
 Califomian Stories. 
 Gabriel Conroy. 
 Flip. 
 Maruja. 
 
 A Phyllis of the Sierras. 
 A Waif of the Plains. 
 A Ward of the Golden Gate. 
 
 BY J. BERWICK HARWOOD. 
 The Tenth Earl. 
 
 BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 Garth. 
 
 Ellice Quentin. 
 Sebastian Strome. 
 Dust. 
 
 Fortune's Fool. 
 Beatrix Randolph. 
 Miss Cadcg^na. 
 Love— or a Name. 
 Poindexter's Disappearance. 
 The Spectre of the Camera. 
 
 BY SIR ARTHUR HELPS. 
 Ivan de Biron. 
 
 BY G. A. HENTY. 
 Rujub the Juggler. 
 
 BY HENRY HERMAN. 
 A Leading Lady. 
 
 BY HEADON HILL 
 Zambra the Detective. 
 
 BY JOHN HILL. 
 Treason- Felony . 
 
 BY MRS. CASHEL HOEY. 
 The Lover's Creed. 
 
 BY MRS. GEORGE HOOPER. 
 The House of Raby. 
 
 BY TIG HE HOPKINS. 
 'Twixt Love and Duty. 
 
 BY MRS. HUNGERED RD. 
 In Durance Vile. 
 A Maiden all Forlorn. 
 A Mental Struggle. 
 Marvel. 
 
 A Modern Circe. 
 Lady Verner's Flight. 
 The Red- House Mystery. 
 The Three Graces. 
 An Unsatisfactory Lover. 
 Lady Patty. 
 
 BY MRS. ALFRED HUNT. 
 Thornicroft's Model. 
 The Leaden Casket 
 Self-Condemned. 
 That Other Person. 
 
 BY JEAN INGELOW. 
 Fated to be Free. 
 
 BY WILLIAM JAMESON. 
 My Dead Self. 
 
 BY HARRIETT JAY, 
 The Dark Colleen. 
 The Queen of Connaught. 
 BY MARK KERSHAW. 
 Colonial Facts and Fictions. 
 
 BY R. ASHE KING. 
 A Drawn Game. 
 * The Wearing of the Green' 
 Passion's Slave. 
 Bell Barry. 
 
 London: CHATTO 6* WINDVS, iix St. Martin's Lane, W.C. 
 
TWO-SHILLING POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 BY EDMOND LEPELLETIER. 
 Madame Sans-G^ne. 
 
 BY JOHN LEYS. 
 The Lindsays. 
 
 BY E. LYNN LINTON. 
 Patricia Kemball. 
 The Atonementof Learn Dundas. 
 The World Well Lost. 
 Under which Lord ? 
 With a Silken Thread. 
 The Rebel of the Family. 
 * My Love V 
 lone. 
 
 Paston Carew. 
 Sowing the Wind. 
 The One too Many. 
 
 BY HENRY W. LUCY. 
 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
 BY JUSTIN McCarthy. 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 
 The Waterdale Neighbours. 
 
 My Enemy's Daughter. 
 
 A Fair Saxon. 
 
 Linley Rochford. 
 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 
 Donna Quixote. 
 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
 Maid of Athens. 
 
 Camiola : a Girl with a Fortune. 
 
 The Dictator. 
 
 Red Diamonds. 
 
 BY HUGH MacCOLL 
 Mr. Stranger's Sealed Packet 
 
 BY GEORGE MACDONALD. 
 Heather and Snow. 
 
 BY MRS. MACDONELL. 
 Quaker Cousins. 
 
 BY KATHARINE S. MACQUOID. 
 The Evil Eye. 
 Lost Rose. 
 
 BY W. H. MALLOCK. 
 The New Republic. 
 A Romance of the 19th Century. 
 
 BY FLORENCE MARRYAT. 
 Fighting the Air. 
 Written in Fire. 
 A Harvest of Wild Oats. 
 Open 1 Sesame 1 
 
 {'. 
 
 BY J. MASTERMAN. 
 Half-a-dozen Daughters. 
 
 BY BRANDER MATTHEWS. 
 A Secret of the Sea. 
 
 BY L T. MEADE. 
 A Soldier of Fortune. 
 
 BY LEONARD MERRICK. 
 The Man who was Good. 
 
 BY JEAN MIDDLEMASS. 
 Touch and Go. 
 Mr. Dorillion. 
 
 BY MRS. MOLESWORTH. 
 Hathercourt Rectory. 
 
 BY J. E. MUDDOCK. 
 Stories Weird and Wonderful. 
 The Dead Man's Secret. 
 From the Bosom of the Deep. 
 
 BY D. CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
 A Life's Atonement, 
 oseph's Coat, 
 al Strange. 
 A Model Father. 
 Coals of Fire. 
 Hearts. 
 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 The Way of the World. 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 First Person Singular. 
 Cynic Fortune. 
 Old Blazer's Hero. 
 Bob Martin's Little Girl. 
 Time's Revenges. 
 A Wasted Crime. 
 In Direst Peril. 
 Mount Despair. 
 
 BY MURRAY AND HERMAu. 
 One Traveller Returns. 
 Paul Jones's Alias. 
 The Bishops' Bible. 
 
 BY HENRY MURRAY. 
 A Game of Bluff. 
 A Song of Sixpence. 
 
 BY HUME NISBET. 
 ♦ Bail Up r 
 
 Dr. Bernard St. Vincent. 
 BY W. E. N ORRIS. 
 Saint Ann's. 
 
 BY ALICE O'HANLON 
 The Unforeseen. 
 Chance ? or Fate ? 
 
 London: CHAT TO ^ WIND US, in St. Martin's Lane, W.C. 
 
TWO-SHILLING POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 BY GEORGES OH NET. 
 Doctor Rameau. 
 A Last Love. 
 A Weird Gift 
 
 BY MRS. OLIPHANT. 
 Whiteladies. 
 The Primrose Path. 
 The Greatest Heiress in England 
 
 BY MRS. ROBERT O'REILLY. 
 Phoebe's Fortunes. 
 
 BY OUIDA. 
 Held in Bondage. 
 Strathmore. 
 Chandos. 
 
 Under Two Flags. 
 Idalia. 
 
 Cecil Castlemaine's Gage. 
 Tricotrin. 
 Puck. 
 
 FoUe Farine. 
 A Dog of Flanders. 
 Pascarfel. 
 Signa. 
 
 In a Winter City. 
 Ariadn^. 
 Moths. 
 Friendship. 
 Pipistrello. 
 Bimbi. 
 
 In Maremma. 
 Wanda. 
 Frescoes. 
 
 Princess Napraxine. 
 Two Little Wooden Shoes. 
 A Village Commune. 
 Othraar. 
 Guilderoy. 
 RufRno. 
 Syrlin. 
 
 Santa Barbara. 
 Two Offenders. 
 Wisdom, Wit, and Pathos. 
 
 BY MARGARET AGNES PAUL 
 Gentle and Simple. 
 
 BY JAMES PAYN. 
 Lost Sir Massingberd. 
 A Perfect Treasure. 
 Bentinck's Tutor. ; 
 Murphy's Master. 
 A County Family. 
 
 BY JAMES PAYN— confined. 
 At Her Meror. 
 A Woman's Vengeance. 
 Cecil's Tryst. 
 The Clyffards of Clyffe. 
 The Family Scapegrace. 
 The Foster Brothers. 
 The Best of Husbands. 
 Found Dead. 
 Walter's Word. 
 Halves. 
 
 Fallen Fortunes. 
 What He Cost Her. 
 Humorous Stories. 
 Gwendoline's Harvest. 
 Like Father, Like Son. 
 A Marine Residence. 
 Married Beneath Him. 
 Mirk Abbey. 
 Not Wooed, but Won. 
 Two Hundred Pounds Reward. 
 Less Black than We're Painted. 
 By Proxy. 
 High Spirits. 
 Under One Roof. 
 Carlyon's Year. 
 A Confidential Agent. 
 Some Private Views. 
 A Grape from a Thorn. 
 From txile. 
 Kit : A Memory. 
 For Cash Onlv. 
 The Canon's Ward. 
 The Talk of the Town. 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 Glow-worm Tales. 
 The Mystery of Mirbridge. 
 The Burnt Million. 
 The Word and the Will. 
 A Prince of the Blood. 
 Sunny Stories. 
 A Trying Patient. 
 
 BY C. L PIRKIS. 
 Lady Lovelace. 
 
 BY EDGAR A. POE. 
 The Mystery of Marie Roget 
 
 BY MRS. CAMPBELL PR A ED. 
 The Romance of a Station. 
 The Soul of Countess Adrian. 
 Outlaw and Lawmaker. 
 Christina Chard. 
 
 London: CHATTO 6* WIND US, xxx St. MarHn's Lant, W,C, 
 
TWO-SHILLING POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 BY E. C. PRICE. 
 Valentina. 
 Gerald. 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. 
 The Foreigners. 
 
 BY RICHARD PRYCE. 
 Miss Maxwell's Affections. 
 
 BY CHARLES READE. 
 It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 Hard Cash. 
 Peg Woffing^ton. 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 Griffith Gaunt. 
 Put Yourself in His Place. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
 Foul Play. 
 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 The Course of True Love. 
 The Autobiography of a Thief. 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
 The Wandering Heir. 
 A Simpleton. 
 A Woman- Hater. 
 Singleheart and Doublefacc. 
 Good Stories of Man and other 
 The Jilt. [Animals. 
 
 A Perilous Secret 
 Readiana. 
 
 BY MRS. J. H. RIDDELL 
 Her Mother's Darling. 
 The Uninhabited House. 
 Weird Stories. 
 Fairy Water. 
 
 Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 
 The Mystery in Palace Gardens. 
 The Nun's Curse. 
 Idle Tales. 
 
 BY AMELIE RIVES. 
 Barbara Dering. 
 
 BY F. W. ROBINSON. 
 Women are Strange. 
 The Hands of Justice. 
 
 BY JAMES RU NCI MAN. 
 Skippers and Shellbacks. 
 Grace Balmaign's Sv^eetheart 
 Schools and Scholars. 
 
 BY DORA RUSSELL 
 A Country Sweetheart. 
 
 BY W. CLARK RUSSELL 
 Round the Galley Fire. 
 On the Fo'k'sle Head. 
 In the Middle Watch. 
 A Voyage to the Cape. 
 A Book for the Hammock. 
 Mystery of the * Ocean Star.' 
 The Romance of Jenny Harlowe 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 My Shipmate Louise. 
 Alone on a Wide Wide Sea. 
 The Phantom Death. 
 The Good Ship ' Mohock. ' 
 
 BY ALAN ST. AUBYN. 
 A Fellow of Trinity. 
 The Junior Dean. 
 The Master of St. Benedict's. 
 To his Own Master. 
 Orchard Damerel. 
 In the Face of the World. 
 
 BY GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA. 
 Gaslight and Daylight. 
 
 BY JOHN SAUNDERS. 
 Guy Waterman. 
 The Lion in the Path. 
 The Two Dreamers. 
 
 BY KATHARINE SAUNDERS. 
 Joan Merryweather. 
 The High Mills. 
 Margaret and Elizabeth. 
 Sebastian. 
 Heart Salvage. 
 
 BY GEORGE R. SIMS. 
 The Ring o' Bells. 
 Mary Jane's Memoirs. 
 Mary Jane Married. 
 Tales of To-day. 
 Dramas of Life. 
 Tinkletop's Crime. 
 Zeph : a Circus Story. 
 My Two Wives. 
 Memoirs of a Landlady. 
 Scenes from the Show. 
 The Ten Commandments. 
 Dagonet Abroad. 
 
 BY ARTHUR SKETCHLEY. 
 A Match in the Dark. 
 
 BY HAWLEY SMART. 
 Without Love or Licence. 
 The Piunger. 
 Beatrice and Benedick. 
 
 London: CHAT TO 6* W INDUS, m St. Martin's La^, WX. 
 
8 
 
 TWO-SHILLING POPULAR NOVELS, 
 
 BY J. W. SPEIGHT. 
 The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. 
 The Golden Hoop. 
 By Devious Ways. 
 Hoodwinked. 
 Back to Life. 
 
 The Loudwater Tragedy. 
 Burg^os Romance. 
 Quittance in Full. 
 A Husband from the Sea. 
 
 BY R. A. STERNDALE. 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 BY R. LOUIS STEVENSON. 
 New Arabian Nights. 
 
 BY BERTHA THOMAS. 
 Proud Maisie. 
 The Violin-player. 
 Cressida. 
 
 BY WALTER THORNBURY. 
 Tales for the Marines. 
 Old Stories Re-told. 
 
 BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 The Way We Live Now. 
 Mr. Scarborough's Family. 
 The Golden Lion of Granpfere. 
 The American Senator. 
 Frau Frohmann. 
 Marion Fay. 
 Kept in the Dark. 
 The Land-Leaguers. 
 John Caldigate. 
 
 BY FRANCES E. TROLLOPE. 
 Anne Fumess. 
 Mabel's Progress. 
 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 
 BY T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE. 
 Diamond Cut Diamond. 
 
 BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 
 Famell's Folly. 
 
 BY IVAN TURGENIEFF, etc. 
 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 
 BY MARK TWAIN. 
 Tom Sawyer. 
 A Tramp Abroad. 
 The Stolen White Elephant 
 Pleasure Trip on the Continent. 
 
 BY MARK TWAIN— continued. 
 The Gilded Age. 
 Huckleberry Finn. 
 Life on the Mississippi. 
 The Prince and the Pauper. 
 Mark Twain's Sketches. 
 Yankee at Court of K. Arthur. 
 The j^ 1, 000, 000 Bank-note. 
 
 BY SARAH TYTLER. 
 Noblesse Oblige. 
 Citoyenne Jacqueline. 
 The Huguenot Family. 
 What She Came Through. 
 Beauty and the Beast 
 The Bride's Pass. 
 Saint Mungo's City. 
 Disappeared. 
 Lady Bell. 
 Buried Diamonds. 
 The Blackhall Ghosts. 
 
 BY 0. C. FRASER-TYTLER. 
 Mistress Judith. 
 
 BY ALLEN UPWARD. 
 The Queen against Owen. 
 The Prince of Balkistan. 
 
 BY ART EM US WARD. 
 Artemus Ward Complete. 
 
 BY AARON WATSON AND LILLIAS 
 
 WASSERMANN. 
 The Marquis of Carabas. 
 
 BY WILLIAM WESTALL. 
 Trust-Money. 
 
 BY MRS. F. H. WILLIAMSON. 
 A Child Widow. 
 
 BY J. S. WINTER. 
 Cavalry Life. 
 Regimental Legends. 
 
 BY H. F. WOOD. 
 Passenger from Scotland Yard. 
 Englishman of the Rue Cain. 
 
 BY LADY WOOD. 
 Sabina. 
 
 BY CELIA PARKER WOOLLEY. 
 Rachel Armstrong. 
 
 BY EDMUND YATES. 
 Castawav. 
 Land at Last 
 The Forlorn Hope. 
 
 London: ChATTO 6* WINDUS, lii St, Martin's Lane, W.C. 
 
tSe^t.X^9U^ 
 
 LIST OF BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS 
 
 l!!JI;f ART»rSLANE. CHARING CROSS. LONDON, W.C. 
 
 ^^^?^|:^^f^lL-hj J,"JOT'- Novel. Translated b, 
 Adams (W. Davenport), Works by. 
 
 Day. Crown 8vo. half-bound, i2j. &? America, from the EarUest Times to the Present 
 
 ^.K|^.rJIL1c?L;L^1„^^^^^^^^^^^ 'BOO .oT8;o. EliiTd 
 
 ""ci'JJ^c^i""."*' N^^^S^bSr-p^^ illustrated boards. «. each. 
 
 aTk — i~Tii*"~' I Confide nces. 
 
 ^''^SLK^^ the Confession and Defen^^f 
 
 Alexander (Mrs.), Novels by. 
 
 Maid. Wife, or Widow? 
 
 Post 8vQ, illustrated boards. 25. each 
 I Yalerle's Fate. | Blind Pato. 
 
 _A_Ii We Interest^ 
 
 ^!^.i^™~-)^^«^^e^^^-Gras^ 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, y. 6d. each, 
 Mona'a Choice. 1 
 
 5y H£™5»!»_??l'' 
 
 Allen (Grant), Works by. 
 
 MoorlanT?^ ji,f.*^'&P jy; c&r/ectr"^te^S S^"* ^^ ^ 
 
 With a Frontispiece!^ Crown 8vo, 
 
 The Tejits of Shem. Frontls. ?-'°°'»-'*°ya'- 
 The Great Taboo. 
 Dumaresq'a Daughter. 
 
 Babylon. t2 Illustrations, 
 Strange Stories. Frontis. 
 
 gor Maimie's Sake. 
 Phllistia. I In all Shade* 
 
 Under Sealed Orders. Crown ivo. doth extra « 6d 
 ^.PalUser's P atient. Fcap. 8vo.'.loth boa^\^;^. 
 
 -van Greet's Masterpiece. 
 The Scallywag. 24llLst^ 
 
 At Market ValueT 
 
 ArnoW (Edwin Lester). Storle*! hv" 
 
 The Wonderful AdvAtTt^.il f^S?"®^ by. 
 
 Crown 8vo, 
 
 
* CHATTO A tViNbUs. m St Mariln*« Ufle. Uaddfl. W.C. 
 
 Ashton (John), Works by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 75. 6d. each. 
 
 History of the Chap-Books of the 18th Centary. With 334 lUustrations. 
 Humour. Wit. and Satire of the Seventeenth Century. With 8a IHustnittonv 
 English Caricature and Satire on Napoleon the First. With 115 lUustnUotts. 
 
 Modern Street Ballads. With 57 Illustrations. 
 
 Social Life In th e Reig n of Queen A nne .~Wi tih 8 5 Illustrations. Cnwa «to. cloth , y. 6if. 
 
 Bacteria, Yeast Fungi, and Allied 5pecies, A Synopsis of. ^ 
 
 _W. B. Grove . B.A. With 8 7 illustra tions. Crown 8 vo. cloth e xtra, y. 6rf. 
 
 Bardsley (Rev. C. Warelng, M.A.), Worlcs by. 
 
 ■ngllsh Surnames > Their Sources and Significations. FlFtH EDITioNi with s New Pfcf^ce. 
 
 Crown 8vo. cloth, js. M. 
 Cu riosities of Puritan Noma ncl ataf. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3/. 6d. 
 
 Baring: Gould (Sabine, Author of 'John Herring,' &c.), Novels by. 
 
 Crown 8vo, doth extra, jr. 6d. each ; post 8vo. illustrated boards, ax. each. 
 R ed Spider. | Bve. 
 
 Barr (Robert: Lulce Sharp), Stories by. Cr. 8vo, cl., 35. 6d. each. 
 
 In a Steamer Chair. With Frontispiece and Vignette by Dbmain HAMMOND. 
 Prom Whose Bourne, &c. With 47 illustrations by HAL HuRST and others. 
 A Woman Intervenes. With 8 Illustrations by Hal Hurst. 
 Reven ge ! With 12 Illustrations by LANCELOT SPEED and others. ^^_ 
 
 Barrett (Frank), Novels by. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, m. each; cloth, m. W.each. 
 
 A Prodigal's Progress. 
 
 John Ford; n:ut His Helpmat*. 
 
 A Recoiling Vengeance. 
 
 Lieut. Barnabas. | Found Guilty. 
 
 For Love and Honour. 
 
 The Woman ol the Iron Bracelets. Cr. 8vo. cloth, y. ~6d. ; post Svo, boards, aj.; d. limp, *s. 6d 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, y. 6rf. each. 
 The Hard in g Scand a l. I A Missing W i tness. With 8 Illustrations by W. H. Margbtsow. 
 
 ^?^^^1^- (Joa ")'— Monte Carlo Stories. Fcap. 8vo. cloth, 15. 6d. 
 Beaco nsfleld, Lord. By T. P. O'Connor. M.P. Cr. Svo. cloth. 55. 
 Beauchamp (Shelsley). — Qrantley Gran ge. Post 8vo, boards, zs. 
 Besant (Sir Walter) and James Rice, Novels by. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, rr. 6d. each; post Svo, illustratc<l boanls, cj. e.icli ; cfoth limr>, ax. 6J. eack. 
 
 Fettered for Life. 
 
 The Stn of Olga Zassoullch. 
 
 Between Life and Death. 
 
 Folly Morrison. | Honest Davla. 
 
 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 Ready-Money Morilboy. 
 My Little Girl. 
 With Harp and Crown* 
 This Son of Vulcan. 
 The Golden Butterfly. 
 The Monks of Thelema. 
 
 By Cella's Arbour. 
 
 The Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 
 The Seamy Side. 
 
 The Case of Mr. Lucraft, &-c. 
 
 'Twas In Trafalgar's Bay, &c 
 
 The Ten Years' Tenant. Ac. 
 
 There is also a LIBRARY EDtTTON of the above Twelve Volumes, handsomely set in new f>-pe on « 
 Ur^e crown 8vo pa^e, and bound in cloth extra, 6s. each; and a Pui'ULAR EDITION of The Ooidea 
 Butterfly, medium 8vo. 6d. ; cloth, u. 
 
 Besant (Sir Walter), Novels by. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, v- 6rf. each : post Svo, illustrated boards, 7S. each : cloth limp, *s, td, cack. 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men. With i: Illustrations by I'kru. Barnako. 
 The Captains' Room, &c. With Frontispiece by E. J. Whf.hi.er. 
 All in a Garden Fair. With 6 Illustrations by HARRY FUR.NISS. 
 Dorothy Forster. With Frontispiece by CHARLES GRrFN. 
 Uncle Jack, ami other Stories. | Children of Glbeon. 
 
 The World Went Very Well Then. With » lUustrations by A. Forrstibr. 
 Herr Paulus: His Rise, his Greatness, and his Fall. j The Bell of St. Paol'^g 
 For Faith and Freedom. With Illustrations by A. Forfstirr and F. Waudy. 
 To Call Her Mine, &c. With 9 Illustrations by A. FORHSTIER. 
 The Holy Rose, (S.c. With hrontisviiccc by F. UARNARD. 
 
 Armorel of Lyonosse : A Romance of To-day. With la Illustrations by F. BARNAim, 
 St. Katherine'^s by the Tower. With la Illustrations by C. Grern. 
 Verbena Camellia Btephanotls. Ac With a Frontispiece by GORDON BKOWNI. 
 The Ivory Gate. I The Rebel Queen. 
 
 Beyond (he Dreams of Avarice. Wuh la Illustrations by W. H. HYoa. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extr.i, 3r. 6</. e.irh. 
 In Deacon's Orders, Ac With Frontispiece by A. FoKi^s tiRR. 
 The Revolt of Man. j The Master Craftsman. 
 
 The City of Refuge. With a Frontispiece by F. S.JA^ilson. 
 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men, ^ii hap For uLAR Edition. Medium 8ro, Mj dotk, u. 
 A Fountain Sealed. With Frontfiplcce by H. G. BURCnss. Crown 8vo. cU>ih, 6j. 
 The Charm, an.l other OrawinK-room Vlays. By Sir WALTER BBSANTand Wai.i HR H. POLLOCK. 
 
 With 50 lUusir.iiionsby CHRIS HAMMOND and JjJLB GoonMAN. Crown «vo. doth, ^llt edcM. W. 
 Fifty Years Atfo. With 144 Plates and Woodruti Crown 8to, cloth extra, 5/. 
 The Eulotfy of Richard Jefferies. With Portrait. Crows tvo, cloth extra, 6r. 
 London, with i.q Illustrations. Ociiiy Rvo, cloth, 7/. td. 
 Westminster. With Etched Frontitpiece by F. S. WalKBR. R.P.E.. and 130 IDustratleM kf 
 
 Wil.I.IAM I'AriHN and others. IVniy Svo, cloth. 71. W. 
 ■Ir Richard Whittln|(ton. With Frontispiece. Crown 8to. art Mnea. v- *A 
 ftaapard Aa ColUnjr. Wuk a Poruait. Crows tre. ait Mmo. v. %d. 
 
CHATTO & WINDU5, iii St. Martin's Lane, London, W.C. 3 
 
 Beautiful Pictures by British Artists : A Gathering of Favourites 
 
 from tlie Picture Galleries, engraved on Steel. Imperial 4to, cloth extra, gilt edges, 21 j. 
 
 Bechstein (Ludwig).— As Pretty as Seven, and other German 
 
 Stories, With Additional Tales by the Drothers GRIMM, and 98 Illustrations by RiCHTER. Squar« 
 8vo, cloth extra, 6j. 6rf. ; gilt edges, ^s. 6d. 
 
 Bellew (Frank).— The Art of Amusing: A Collection of Graceful 
 
 Arts, Games, Tricks, Puzzles, and Charades. With 300 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 4J. 6d. 
 
 Bennett (W. C, LL.D.).— Songs for Sailors. Post 8vo, cl. limp, 25. 
 Bewick (Thomas) and his Pupils. By Austin Dobson. With 95 
 
 Illustrations. Square 8vo, cloth extra , 6j. 
 
 Bierce (Ambrose).— In the Midst of Life: Tales of Soldiers and 
 
 Civilians. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6s. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, ss. 
 
 Bill Nye's History of the United States. With 146 Illustrations 
 
 by F. QPPER, Crown Svo. cloth extra, 3s. (xi. 
 
 Bir6 (Edmond). — Diary of a Citizen of Paris during *The 
 
 Terror.' Translated and Edited by JOHN DE ViLLIERS. With a Photogravure Portraits. Two Vols., 
 demy Svo, cloth, 21J. 
 
 Blackburn's (Henry) Art Handbooks. 
 
 Academy Notes, 1897. «. 
 Academy Notes, 1875-79, Complete in 
 
 One Vol., with 600 Illnstrntions. Cloth, 6r. 
 Academy Notes, 1880-84. Complete In 
 
 One Vol., with 700 Illustrations. Cloth, 6j. 
 Academy Notes, 1890-94. Complete hi 
 
 One Vol., with 800 Illustrations. Cloth, ^s. 6d. 
 Orosvenor Notes, Vol. I., 1877-82. With 
 
 300 Illustrations. Demy Svo, cloth 6j-. 
 CrosvenoF Notes, Vol. II., 1883-87. With 
 
 300 Illustrations. Demy Svo, cloth, 6j. 
 
 Crosvenor Notes, Vol. III., 1888-90. With 
 
 230 Illustrations. Demy Svo cloth, 3J. M. 
 The New Gallery, 1888-1892. With 950 
 
 Illustrations. Demy Svo, cloth, 6^-. 
 English Pictures at the National Gallery. 
 
 Witli 114 Illustrations, is. 
 Old Masters at the National Gallery. 
 
 With 128 Illustrations. is.M. 
 Illustrated Catalogue to the National 
 
 Galler y. With 242 lUusts. Demy Svo, cloth, y. 
 
 The Illustrated Catalogue of the Paris Salon, 1897. With 300 Sketches, y. 
 
 Blind (Mathilde), Poems by. 
 
 The Ascent of Man. Crown Svo, cloth, <s. 
 
 Dramas in Miniature. With a Frontispiece by F. MADOX BROWN. Crown 8vo, cloth, sj. 
 
 Songs and Sonnets. Fcap. Svo, vellum and gold, 5 j. 
 
 Birds of Passage : Song:s of the Orient an d Occident. Second Edition. Crown Svo, linen, 6j. net. 
 
 Bourget (Paul). — A Living Lie. Translated by John de Villiers. 
 
 With special Preface for the English Edition. Crown Svo, cloth, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Bourne (H. R. Fox), Books by. 
 
 Cnglish Merchants -. Memoirs in Illustration of the Proj^ess of British Commerce. W^th numerous 
 
 Illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth extra, js. (xi. 
 English Newspapers : Chapters in the History ofjournalism. Two Vols., demy Svo, cloth, 25*. 
 The Other Side of the Emin Pasha Relie f E xped iti on. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. 
 
 Bowers (George).— Leaves from a Hunting Journal. Coloured 
 
 Plates. Oblong folio, half-bou nd, 21J. 
 
 Boyle (Frederick), Works by. Post Svo, illustrated bds., 25. each. 
 
 Chronicles of No-M an 's Land. | Camp Notes. I Savage Life. 
 
 Brand (John).— Observations on Popular Antiquities; chiefly 
 
 illustrating the Origin of our Vulgar Customs, Ceremonies, and Superstitions. With the Additions of Sir 
 Henry Ellis, and numerous Illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth extra, ts. 6<i. 
 
 Brewer (Rev. Dr.), Works by. 
 
 The Reader's Handbook of Allusions, References, Plots, and Stories. Eighteenth 
 
 Thousand. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 7^. 61:^. 
 
 Authors and their Itf orks, with the Dates : Being the Appendices to ' The Reader's Hand- 
 book,' separately printed. Crown Svo, cloth limp, ax. 
 
 A Dictionary of Miracles! Imitative, Realistic, and Dogmatic. Crown Svo, cloth, 3^. &/. 
 
 Brewster (Sir David), Works by. Post 8vo, cloth, 4s. 6i. each. 
 
 More Worlds than One : Creed of the Philosopher and Hope of the Christian. With Plates. 
 The Martyrs of Science: Galileo, Tycho Brahe, and Kepler, With Portraits, 
 Letters on Natural Magic. With numerous Illustrations. 
 
 Brillat-Savarin.— Gastronomy as a Fine Art. Translated by 
 
 R. E. ANDERSON, M.A. Post Svo, half-bound. 7s. 
 
 Brydges (Harold).— Uncle Sam at Home. With 91 Illustrations, 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, w. ; cloth limp, ts. 6d, 
 
CHATTO A WINDUS, in St. Martin'* Lane. London, W.C. 
 
 Buchanan (Robert), Novels, &c., by. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, y. 6d. each ; post 8vo. Illustrated boards, 2j. each. 
 
 The Shadow of the Sword. 
 
 A Child of Nature. With Frontispiece. 
 
 Ood and the Man. With ii Illustrations by 
 
 Fred. Harnaku. 
 The Martyrdom of Madelina. With 
 
 Frontispiece by A. W. COOPER. 
 
 Iiove Me for Ever. With Frontispiece. 
 Annan Water. I Foxiflove Manofi 
 
 The New Abelard. | Rachel Dene. 
 Matt : A Story of a Caravan. With Frontispiece. 
 The Master of the Mine. With Prnntispiece. 
 The Heir of Linne. I Woman and the Man. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3J. 6(i. each. 
 
 Red and White Heather. j La dy Kllpatrlck. 
 
 The Wandering Jew I a Christmas CaroL Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. 
 
 The Charlatan. By Robhrt Buchanan and Henry Murray. Crown fro. doth, wlA a 
 frontispiece by T. H. ROBINSON. 3s. M. ; post 8vo, picture boards. 2 J. 
 
 Burton (Richard F.).— The Book of the Sword. With over 400 
 
 Illustrations. Demy 4to, cloth extra, yis. 
 
 Burton (Robert).— The Anatomy of Melancholy. With Transla- 
 
 tions of the Quotations. Demy Svo, cloth extra, qs. 6d. 
 
 Melancholy Anatomised: An Abridgment of BURTON'S Anatomy. Post 8vo, half-bd., w. dd. 
 
 Caine (T. Hall), Novels by. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6i. each.; 
 
 post Svo, illustrated boards, 2j. each ; cloth limp, 2J. 6rf. each. 
 The Shadow of a Crime. I A Son of Ha^ar. I The Deemster. 
 
 Also a Library edition of The Deemster, set in new type, crown Svo, cloth decorated, 6s. 
 
 Cameron (Commander V. Lovett).— The Cruise of the * Black 
 
 Prince ' Privateer. Post Svo, picture boards, is. 
 
 Cameron (Mrs. H. Lovett), Novels by. Post 8vo, illust. bds. 2s. ea. 
 
 Juliet's Guardian^ I Deceivers Ever. 
 
 Captain Coignet, Soldier of the Empire: An Autobiography. 
 
 Edited by LOREDAN LaRCHEY, Translated by Mrs. CAREY. With loo Illtistrations. Crown Svo, 
 cloth. 3<-. 6d. 
 
 Carlyle (Jane Welsh), Life of. By Mrs. Alexander Ireland. With 
 
 Portrait and Facsimile Letter. Small demy Svo, cloth extra, ^s. 6d. 
 
 Carlyle (Thomas).— On the Choice of Books. Post 8vo, cl., is. 6i. 
 
 Correspondence of Thomas Carlyle and R. W. Emerson. 1834-1872. Edited by 
 C. E. NORTON. With Portraits. Two Vols., crown Svo, cloth, 541. 
 
 Carruth (Hayden).— The Adventures of Jones. With 17 Illustra- 
 
 tions. Fcap. Svo, cloth, gj. 
 
 Chambers (Robert W.), Stories of Paris Life by. Long fcap. 8vo, 
 
 cloth, ts. 6d. each. 
 
 The King In Yellow. f In the Qnarter. 
 
 Chapman's (George), Works. Vol. I., Plays Complete, including the 
 
 Doubtful Ones.— Vol. II., Poems and Minor Translations, with Essay by A. C. Swinpur.N'e.— Vol 
 III., Translations of the Iliad and Odyssey. Three Vols., crown Svo, cloth, 3f. 6d. each. 
 
 Chappie (J. Mitchell).— The Minor Chord: The Story of a Prima 
 
 Donna. Crown 8vo. cloth, y. (xi. 
 
 Chatto (W. A.) and J. Jackson.— A Treatise on Wood Engraving, 
 
 Historical and Practical. With Chapter by H. G. BOIIN. and 450 fine lUutts. Larue 4to, half leather, aa*. 
 
 Chaucer for Children : A Golden Key. By Mrs. H. R. Haweis. With 
 
 8 Coloured Plates and 30 Woodcut*. Crown 4to, cloth extra. 31. 6rf. 
 Chauce r for Schools. By Mrs. H. R. HaweiS. Demy Svo. cloth limp, 9S. 6rf. 
 
 Chess, The Laws and Practice of. With an Analysis of the Open- 
 ing". By Howard Staunton. Edited by R. B. Wormald. Crown Svo, cloth, 5». 
 
 The Iflnov Tactics of Chess t A Treatise on the Deployment of the Forces In obedience to Strs* 
 tegic Principle. By V. K. YoUNG and H. C. Howei.L. Lon? fcap. Pvo. cloth. ■>t. (^f. 
 
 The Hastings Chess Tournament. ~ ip, 
 
 played Aug.-Sept., 1895. \\ itli An. 
 sCHIFFBRS, TEtCHMANN. BaRPH 1 
 
 ALBIN ! Biographical Sketches of th< 
 Crown 8vo, cloth. 7/. td. 
 
 Clare (Austin).— For the Love of a Loss. Post Svo, 2;.; cl.. 2^, td 
 
CHATTO & WINDUS, in St. Martin's Lane, London, W.C. 
 
 Clive (Mrs. Archer), Novels by. Post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. each. 
 
 • Paul Ferroll. | Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wlfa. 
 
 Clodd (Edward, F.R.A.S.).— Myths and Dreams. Cr. 8vo. 35. 6d. 
 
 Coates (Anne).— Rie's Diary. Crown 8vo, cloth, 35. 6d. 
 
 Cobban (J. Maclaren), Novels by. 
 
 The Cure of Souls. Post 8vo, Illustrated boards, as. 
 
 The Red Bultan. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3^. 6d. -, post 8vo, illustrated boards, «r. 
 
 The Burden of Isabel. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3J. 6<;. 
 
 Coleman (John).— Curly : An Actor's Story. With 21 Illustrations 
 
 by J. C. DOLLMAN. Crown 8vo, picture cover, xj. 
 
 Coleridge (M. g.).— The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus. Cloth, 15. 6d, 
 Collins (C. Allston).— The Bar Sinister. Post 8vo, boards, 2s. 
 Collins (John Churton, M.A.), Books by. 
 
 Illustrations of Tennyson. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 Jonathan Swift : A Biographical and Critical Study. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 9s. 
 
 Collins (Moig:imer and Frances), Novels by. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3J. 6rf. each ; post 8vo, fllustrated boards, aj. each. 
 From Midnight to Midnight. | Blacksmith and Scholar. 
 
 Transmigration. | Yoa Play me False. | The Yillagc Comedy. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2j. each. 
 
 Bweet Anne Page, t A Fight with Fortune. I Sweet and Twenty. I F rance«« 
 
 Collins (Wilkie). Novels by. '. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, many Illustrated, 31. 6tf. each ; post Sro, picture boards, w. each ; 
 cloth limp, is. 6(i. each. 
 
 'Antonlna. 
 
 •Basil. 
 
 *Hlde and Seek. 
 
 •The Woman in White. 
 
 •The Moonstone. 
 
 •Man and Wife. 
 
 After Dark. 
 
 The Dead Secret. 
 
 The Queen of Heart!. 
 
 Vo Name. 
 
 Hy Miscellanies. 
 Armadale. 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 Hiss or Mrs.? 
 The New Magdalen. 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 The Law^ and the JLady. 
 The Two Destinies. 
 The Haunted Hotel. 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 
 Jezebel's Danghter* 
 The Blaek Robe. 
 Heart and Science. 
 • I Say No.' 
 A Rogue's Life. 
 The Evil Genius. 
 Little Novels. 
 The Legacy of Cain* 
 Blind Love. 
 
 Marked * are the NEW LIBRARY EDITION at y. 6d., entirely reset and icund in new stylt. 
 Popular Editions. Medium 8vo, M. each; cloth, IS. each. 
 The Woman In White. I The Moonstone. | Antonlna. 
 
 The Woman in White and The Moonstone in One Volnme, medium 8vo, cloth, s#. 
 
 Colman's (George) Humorous Works: 'Broad Grins,' 'My Night- 
 
 gown and Slippers,' &c. with Life and Frontispiece. Crown Svo, cloth extra, js. 6d. 
 
 Colquhoun (M. J.).— Every Inch a Soldier. Post 8vo, boards, 2s. 
 C olt-breaking, Hints on. By W. M. Hutchison. Cr. Svo, cl., y. 6d, 
 Convalescent Cookery. By Catherine Ryan. Cr. Svo, is. ; cl., is. 6d. 
 Conway (Mbncure D.), Works by. 
 
 Demonology and Devil-Lore. With 65 Illustrations. Two Vols., demy Svo, cloth, 28*. 
 George Washington's Rules of Civility. Fcap. Svo, Japanese vellum, gj. 6d. 
 
 Cook (Dutton), Movels by. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, es. each. 
 Leo^ I Paul Foster's Danghter. 
 
 Cooper (Edward H.).— Qeoffory Hamilton. Cr. Svo, cloth, 35. 6d. 
 Cornwall.— Popular Romances of the West of England ; or, The 
 
 Drolls, Traditions, and Superstitions of Old Cornwall. Collected by ROBERT HUNT, F.R.S. With 
 two stee l Plates by GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. Crovra Svo, cloth, ys. 6d. 
 
 Cotes (V. Cecil). — Two Girls on a Barge. With 44 Illustrations by 
 
 F. H. TOWNSEND. Post Svo, cloth, gj. 6d. 
 
 Craddock (C. Egbert), Stories by 
 
 The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mounts 
 His Vanished Star. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3^. 6rf, 
 
 The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains. Post Svo, Illustrated boards, as. 
 - - \ai - - - - 
 
 Cram (Kalph Adams).— Black Spirits and White. Fcap. 8vo, 
 
 cloth, u. dd. 
 
6 CHAT TO & WINDUS. m St, Martin's Lane. London, W.C. 
 
 Crellin (H. N.). Books by. 
 
 Romances o( the Old Seraglio. With 38 Illustrations by S. L. WOOD. Crown 8vo, cloth, y. 60. 
 Tales of the Caliph. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2X. 
 The Nazareneai A Drama. Crown 8vo, is. 
 
 Crim (Matt.).— Adventures of a Fair Rebel. Crown 8vo, cloth 
 
 eztrs, whh a Frontispiece by Dan. Beard, y. 6d. ; post 8vo, Illustrated boards, m. 
 
 Crockett (S. R.) and others. —Tales of Our Coast. By S. R. 
 
 Crockhtt. Gilbert Parker, Harold Frederic, 'Q.,' and W Clark russelu With xa 
 Illustrations by FRANK BRANCWYN. Crown 8vo, cloth, jr. id, 
 
 Croker (Mrs. B. M.), Novels by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6i. 
 
 each ! post 8vo. illustrated boards, ss. each ; cloth limp, as. 6d. each. 
 Pretty Miss Neville. | Diana Barrlntfton. I A Family Likeness. 
 
 A Bird of Passage. {_ Proper Pride. I ' To Let.' 
 
 Ylllage Tales and Jangle Tragedies. | Two Masters. 1 Mr. Jervis. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, y. 6d. each. 
 Married or Single? | In the Kingdom of Kerry. 
 
 The Real Lady Hilda. | Interfer ence. I A Third Person. 
 
 Beyond the Pale. Crown 8vo, buckram. 6^. 
 
 Cruikshank's Comic Almanack. Complete in Two Series: The 
 
 First, from 1835 to 1843 ; the Second, from 1844 to iSsi. A Gathering; of the Best Humour of 
 
 THACKERAY. HOOD. ^fAYHE\V. ALBERT SMITH, A'BHCKKTT. ROBERT BROUGH, &C. With 
 numerous Steel Engrravingrs and Woodcuts by GeorGB CRUIKSHANK, HINE, Landells. &c. 
 Two Vols., crown 8vo, cloth gilt, yj. 6d. each. 
 The Life of George Cruikshank. By BLANCHARD Jerrold. With 84 Illustrations and s 
 Bibliography. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 6r. 
 
 Cumming (C. F. Gordon), Works by. Demy 8vo, cl, ex., &. (>d. eau 
 
 In the Hebrides. With an Autotype Frontispiece and 23 Illustrations, 
 
 In the Himalayas and on the Indian Plains. With 42 lUusuationa 
 
 Two Happy Years in Ceylon. With 38 Illustrations. 
 
 Yla Cornwall to E gypt. With a Photogrravure Frontispiece. Demy Svo. doth. it. 64. 
 
 Cussans (John E.).— A Handbook of Heraldry; with Instructions 
 
 for Tracing Pedigrees and Deciphering Ancient MSS., &c. Fourth Edition, revised, with 408 Woodcuts 
 and 2 Coloured Plates. Crown 8vo. cloth extra. 6j. 
 
 Cyples (W.).— Hearts of Gold. Cr. 8vo, cl., 35. 6i. ; post 8vo, bds. , 25. 
 Daudet (Alphonse).— The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation. Crown 
 
 Svo, cloth extra, y. 6d. ; post 8vo. iUustrated boards, as. 
 
 Davenant (Francis, M.A.).— Hints for Parents on the Choice of 
 
 a Profession fo r their Sons when Starting In Life. Crown 8vo. cloth, xj. 6rf. 
 
 Davidson (Hugh Coleman).— Mr. Sadler's Daughters. With a 
 
 Frontispiece by STANLEY W OOD. Crown 8vo. cloth extra. 3J. 6rf. 
 
 Davies (Dr. N. E. Yorke-), Works by. Cr. 8vo, is. ea.; cl., i^. 6d. ea. 
 
 One Thousand Medical Maxims and Surgical Hints. 
 
 Nursery Hints : A Mothers Guide in Health and Disease. 
 
 Foods for the Fat t A Treatise on Corpulency, and a Dietary for Its Cure. 
 
 Aids to Long Life. Crown 8vo. as. ; cloth limp, sx. 60. 
 
 Davies' (Sir John) Complete Poetical Works. Collected and Edited, 
 
 with Introduction a nd Notes, by Rer. A. B. GROSART. D.D. Two Vols., crown 8vo. cloth, y. 6d. each. 
 
 Dawson (Erasmus, M.B.).— The Fountain of Youth. Crown 8vo, 
 
 cloth extra, with Two Illustrations by HUME NiSBET. y. 6J. ; post 8vo. illustrated boards, ts. 
 
 De Guerin (Maurice), The Journal of. Edited by G. S. Trebutikn. 
 
 with a Memoir by SAiNTn-Bp.uvH, Translated from the soth French Edition by JBSSIK P. FROTH* 
 INGHAM. Fcap. 8vo. balf-bounO". ax. W. 
 
 De Malstre (Xavler).— A Journey Round my Room. Translated 
 
 by sir HENRY ATT WELL. Post 8 vo. cloth limp. w. 6,/. 
 
 De Mllle (James);— A Castle In Spain. Crown 8vc), cloth extra, with 
 
 a Frontispiece, y. bd, ; post 8vo. illustrated boards, ar. 
 
 Derby (The) : The Blue Ribbon of the Turf. With Brief Accounts 
 
 of TH» Oaks. By Louis Hbnry Cuiuon. Crown tro, cloth limp, tt. 6tt. 
 
£haTT6 & WiNbtJ§. iii gt. Martinis Ln&6, Lohdoh, W.C. > 
 
 Derwent (Leith), Novels by. Cr. 8vo, cl., 35. 6d. ea. ; post 8vo, as. ca. 
 
 Our Lady of Tears. I Clroe's Liovara. 
 
 Dewar (T. R.).— A Ramble Round the Globe. With 220 lUustra- 
 
 tions. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, js. id. 
 
 Dickens (Charles).— Sketches by B02. Post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. 
 
 Aboat England with Dickens. By Alfred Rimmer. With 57 IDustratlonsby C A. Vander- 
 HOOF, Alfred Rimmer, and others. Square 8vo, cloth extra, 7^. 6d. 
 
 Dictionaries. 
 
 The Reader's Handbook of Allaslons, References, Plots, and Stories. By the Rer. 
 
 E. C. Brewer, LL.D. With an English Bibliography. Crown 8vo, doth extra, js. td. 
 Authors and their Works, isrlth the Dates. Crown 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 
 A Dictionary of Miracles : Imitative, Realistic, and Doematic By tlte Rer. E. C B&EWER, 
 
 LL.D. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3^. 6ii. 
 Familiar Short Sayings of Great Men. With Historical and Explanatory Notes by SAMUEL 
 
 A. Bent, a.m. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. td. 
 The Slang Dictionary : Etymologfical, Historical, and Anecdotal. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. 6d. 
 Words, Facts, and Phrases : A Dictionary of Curious, Quaint, and Out-of-the-Way Matters. By 
 
 ELIEZER Edwards. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, %s. 6d. 
 
 Diderot.— The Paradox of Acting. Translated, with Notes, by 
 
 Walter Herries Pollock. With Preface by Sir Henry Irving. Crown 8vo, parchment, +». td, 
 
 Dobson (Austin), Works by. 
 
 Thomas Bewick and his Pupils. With 93 Illustrations. Square 8ro, cloth, 63, 
 Four Frenchwomen. With Four Portraits. Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, 6j. 
 Eighteenth Century Vignettes. In Three Series. Crown 8vo. buckram, &r. each. 
 
 Dobson (W. T.).— Poetical Ingenuities and Eccentricities. Post 
 
 8vo, cloth limp, 2j. 6d. ^ ^ 
 
 Donovan (Dick), Detective Stories by. 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, sj. each ; cloth limp, *s. M. each. 
 The Man-Hunter. | Wanted I I A Detective's Triumphs. 
 
 Caught at Last. I In the Grip of the Law^. 
 
 Tracked and Taken. I From Information Reoelved. 
 
 Who Poisoned Hetty Duncan? I L>ink by Link. 1 Dark Deeds. 
 
 Suspicion Aroused. I Riddles Read. 
 
 Crown 8to, cloth extra, 3^. 6d. each ; post Svo, illustrated boards, u. each ; doth, %s. id. each. 
 The Man from Manchester. With 73 Illustrations. 
 Tracked to Doom. With Six full-page lUusUations by GORDON BROWNS. 
 The Mystery of Jamaica Terrace. 
 
 The Chronicles of Michael Danevitch, of the Russian Secret Service. Crewa Sro, 
 
 cloth, 3J. 6d. ^ 
 
 Dowling (Richard).— Old Corcoran*s Money. Crown Svo. cl., 35. 6d. 
 Doyle (A. Conan).— The Firm of Girdlestone. Cr. 8vo, cl., 35. 6d. 
 Dramatists, The Old. Cr. Svo, cl. ex., with Portraits, 35. 6d. p)er Vol. 
 
 Ben Jonson'S Works. With Notes, Critical and Explanatory, and a Biographical Memoir by 
 
 William GiFFORD. Edited by Colonel Cunningham. Three Vols. 
 Chapman's Works. Three Vols. Vol. I. contains the Plays complete ; Vol. II., Poems and Minor 
 
 Translations, with an Essay by A. C. SWINBURNE ; Vol. III., Translations of the Iliad and Odyssey. 
 Marlowe's Works. Edited, with Notes, by Colonel Cunningham. One Vol. 
 Masslnger's Plays. From Gifford'S Text. Edited by Colonel Cunningham. One Vol. 
 
 Duncan (Sara Jeannette : Mrs. Everard Cotes), Works by. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, js. 6d. each. 
 A Social Departure. With m illustrations by F. H. TOWNSEND. 
 An American Girl in London. With 80 Illustrations by F. H. TOWNSEND. 
 The Simple Adventiures of a Memsahib. With 37 lUustrations by F. H. TOWNSEND. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, jr. 6J. each. 
 A Dattghtef of To-Day. | Vernon's Aunt. With 47 Illustrations by Hal HURST. 
 
 Dutt (Romesh C.).— England and India: A Record of Progress 
 
 during One Hundred Yea rs. Crown 8vo, cloth, gj. 
 
 Dyer (TTFTThiselton).— The Folk" Lore of Plants. Cr. 8vo, cl, 65. 
 Early English Poets. Edited, with Introductions and Annctationt, 
 
 by RcT. A. B. GROSART, D.D. Crown 8vo. cloth boards, y. 6d. per Volua*. 
 Fletcher's iGilesi Complete Poems. One Vol. 
 Davies' (Sir John) Complete Poetical Works. Two Vols. 
 Merrick's (Robert) Complete Collected Poems. Three Vols. 
 Sidney's (Sir Philip) Com ple te Poetical Works. Three Vols. 
 
 Edgcumbe (Sir E. R. Pearce).— Zephyrus: A Holiday in Brazil 
 
 •ad on the Rirer Plate. With 41 lUustratiAns. Caown 8\o. cloth extra, ii. 
 
S CHATTO & WINDUS, m St. MarHn'a Lane. London. W.C. _ 
 
 Edwardes (Mrs, Annie), Novels by. 
 
 Post 8vo. illustrated board;, ». each. 
 Archie Lovell. I A Point of Hononr. 
 
 Edwards (Eliezer).— Words, Facts, and Phrases: A Dictionary 
 
 of Curious, Quaint, and Out-ofthe-Way Matters. Cfieapcr Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth, y. bd, 
 
 Edwards (M. Betham-), Novels by. 
 
 Kitty* Post 8vo, boards, aj. ; cloth, aj. 6d. \ FeRcla* Post 8vo, Illustrated boards, «. 
 
 Egerton (Rev. J. C, M. A.). — Sussex Folk and Sussex Ways. 
 
 with Introductio n by Rev. Dr. H. Wach. and Four Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, y. 
 
 Eggleston (Edward). — Roxy : A Novel. Post 8vo, illust. boards, 25. 
 
 Englishman's House, The : A Practical Guide for Selecting or Build- 
 ing a House. By C. J. Richardson. Coloured Frontispiece and ^ Illutta. Cr. Svo. cloth, js. bd. 
 
 Ewald (Alex. Charles, F.S.A.), Works by. 
 
 The Ldie and Times ot PFlnce Charles Btnart. Count of Albany (Thb Young PrbtkN' 
 
 DEE. With a Portrait. Crown Svo, cloth extra, ji. td. 
 Stories from the State Papers, with Autotype Frontispiecow Crown &vo, cloth, 6s. 
 
 Eyes, Our : How to Preserve Them. By John Browning. Cr. Svo. is. 
 Familiar Short Sayings of Great Men. By Samoel Arthur Bbnt, 
 
 A.M. Fifth Edition, Revised and Enlarg^ed. Crown Svo, cloth extra, -jt. 6A 
 
 Faraday (Michael), Works by. Post Svo, cloth extra, 45. 6d. each. 
 
 The Chemical History of a Candle : Lectures delivered before a Juvenile Audience. Edited 
 
 by William Crookks. F.C.S. with numerous ItlustratJons. 
 On the Various Forces of Nature, and their Relations to each other. Edited hj 
 
 William Ckookbs, F.C.S. With lUustrations. 
 
 Farrer (J, Anson), Works by. 
 
 Military Manners and Castoms. Crowrn Svo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 ■War : Three Essays, reprinted from • l^Ulitary Manners and Customs.' Crown 8ro, w. ; doth, w. 6d. 
 
 Fenn (Q. Manville), Novels by. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra. 3*. 6d. each ; post Rvo, Illustrated boards. *r. each. 
 The New Mistress. I Witness to the Deed. | The Tiger Lily. | The White Tlr^n. 
 
 Fin-Bee— The Cupboard Papers : Observations on the Art of Living 
 
 and Dinins^. Post Svo, cloth limp. *s. 6d. ^ 
 
 Fireworks, The Complete Art of Making ; or, The Pyrotechnist's 
 
 Treasury. By THOMAS KENTISH. With 267 Illustrations. Crown Svo. cloth, 5*. 
 
 First Book, My. By Walter Besant, James Pavn. W. Clark Rus- 
 
 SJ'-LL, GRANT ALLEN, HALL CAINB. GEORCH R. SllIS, RUDYARD KiPLING. A. CONAN DOYLH, 
 M. E. BRADDON, F. W. ROSnUSON, H. RiDHR HAGGARll. R. M. BALLANTYNH. I. ZaNGVVILL, 
 
 MoRLUY Roberts, D. Christie AIurray, Mary Cokeli.i. J. K. Jeromh, John stranc.b 
 Winter, Bret Harte, • Q.,' Rob6rt Buchanan, and R. L. Stevrnson, With a Prefatory Story 
 by JBROMB K. JbroME. and 185 Illustrations. A New Edition. SmaU demy Svo, art linen, y. 6d. 
 
 Fitzgerald (Percy), Works by. 
 
 Little Essays 1 Passacres from the Letters of CHARLHS LAMB. Post Svo, cloth, as. 6A 
 Fatal Zero. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3^. W. ; post Svo, illustrated boards, as. 
 
 Post Svo. illustrated boards, as. each. 
 Bella DonnK* I The Lady of Brantome* I The Second Mrs. Tlllotson. 
 
 Polly. I Never Forgotten. | Beventy-nve Brooke Street. 
 
 The Life of James Boswell (of Auchinleck). With llhists. Two Vols., demy Svo, cloth, us. 
 
 The Savoy Opera. With 60 Illustrations and Portraits . Crown Bvo, cloth, y. txi. 
 
 Sir Henry Irving t Twenty Years at the Lycetun. With Portrait. Crown Svo, ix. t cloth, ts. 6d, 
 
 Flammarion (Camille), Works by. 
 
 Popular Astronomy j A General r>cscrli>tion of the Hearens. Translated by J. ElLARD COML 
 
 F.R.A.S. With Three Plates and »84 lllustr.itions. Medium Svo, cloth, 10*. 6d. 
 Urania I A Romance. With 87 lUustrations. Crown Svo. cloth extra. «^. 
 
 Fletcher's (Giles, B.D.) Complete Poems: Christ's Victorie in 
 
 lloaven, Christ's Victorle on Earth, Christ's Triiiiiiph over Deatli, and Minor Poems; Wltk Notes by 
 Re v. A. B. GKOSAUT. P.p. Crown Svo. cloth bo.irtls. y. M. 
 
 Fonblanque (Albany) i— Filthy Lu^e. Post 8vo, illuat. boards, 21. 
 
CHATTO & WINDUS, in St. Martin's Lane, London, W.C. 9 
 
 Forbes (Archibald).— The Life of Napoleon III. With Photo- 
 
 gravure Frontispiece and Thirty-six full-page Illustrations. Demy 8vo, cloth, gilt top, laj. [Shortly, 
 
 Francillon (R. E.), Novels by 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, y. 6d. each ; post 8to, DIustrated boards, ax. each. 
 One by One. | A Real Queen. | A Dotf and his Shadov. 
 
 Ropes ot Sandt Illustrated. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 Queen Coptaetua. | Olympl a. I Romances ot t he Law. I King or Knave ? 
 Jack Doyle's Daughter. Crown 8vo, cloth, jr. ed. 
 
 Frederic (Harold), Novels by. Post 8vo, illust. boards, 25. each. 
 
 Seth's Brother's Wife. I The Lawton Girl. 
 
 French Literature, A History of. By Henry Van Laun. Three 
 
 Vols., d e my 8vo, cloth boards, 7J. 6d. each. 
 
 Frisweil (Hain).— One of Two; A Novel. Post 8vo, illust. bds.. 25. 
 Fry's (Herbert) Royal Guide to the London Charities. Edited 
 
 by J OH!< LaN'B. Published Annually. Crown 8vo, cloth, u. M. 
 
 Gardening: Books. Post 8vo, is. each; cloth limp. is. 6d. each. 
 
 A Year's Work In Garden and Greenhouse. By George Glenny. 
 
 Household Horticulture. By Tom and Jane Ierroljj. Illustrated. 
 
 The Garden that PiUd the Rent. B y Tom Jb rrold. 
 
 My Garden Wild. By Francis G. Heath. Crown 8yo. cloth, pllt edges. 6s. 
 
 Gardner (Mrs. Alan).— Rifle and Spear with the Rajpoots: Being 
 
 the Narrative of a Winter's Travel and Sport in Northern India. With numerous Illustrations by the 
 Author and F. H. TOWNSENP. Demy 4to, half-bound, 2ij. 
 
 Garrett (Ed ward). —The Capel Girls: A Novel. Crown 8vo. cloth 
 
 extra, with two Illustrations, y. 6d. ; post 8vo. illustrated boards. 2J. 
 
 Gaulot (Paul).— The Red Shirts: A Story of the Revolution. Trans- 
 
 lated by JOHN DE VILLIERS. With a Frontispiece by STANLEY Wood. Crown 8vo, cloth, y. 6rf. 
 
 Gentleman's Magazine, The. is. Monthly. Contains Stories, 
 
 Articles upon Literature, Science, Biographj', and Art, and ' Table Talk • by SYLVANUS URBAN. 
 *»* Bound yolttmts for recent years kept Ui stock, %s. 6<f. each. Cases for binding', as. each. 
 
 Gentleman's Annual, The, Published Annually in November. 15. 
 
 The Title of the 1897 ANNUAL is The Secret of Wyvern Tovrers. By T. W. Speight. 
 
 German Popular Stories. Collected by the Brothers Grimm and 
 
 Translated by EDGAR TAYLOR. With Introduction by JOHN RUSKIN, and aa Steel Plates after 
 George CRUIKSHANK. Square 8vo, cloth, ts. 6d. ; gilt edges. 7s. 6d. 
 
 Gibbon (Chas.), Novels by. Cr. 8vo, cl., y. 6d. ea.; post 8vo, bds., 25. ea. 
 
 Robin Gray. With Frontispiece. I lioving a Dream. 
 
 The Golden Shaft. With Frontispiece. | Of High Degree. 
 
 Post 8vo, illusUate 
 The Flower oT the Forest. 
 The Dead Heart. 
 For Lack of Gold. 
 What Will the World Say7 
 For the King. | A Hard Knot. 
 Queen of the Meadow. 
 In Pastures Green. 
 
 « boards, zs. each. 
 
 In Love and War. 
 
 A Heart's Problem. 
 
 By Mead and Stream. 
 
 The Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Fancy Free. 
 
 In Honour Bound. 
 
 Heart's Delight. I Blood-Money. 
 
 Gib ney ( 5 omerville).— Sentenced ! Crown 8vo, cloth, 15. 6i. 
 
 Gilbert (W. S.), Original Plays by. In Three Series, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 The First Series contains : The NVicked World— Pygmalion and Galatea— Charity— The Princess— 
 
 The Palace of Truth— Trial by Jury. 
 The Second Series : Broken Hearts— Engaged— Sweethearts— Gretcben— Dan Druce— Tom Cobb 
 
 — H.M.S. ' Pinafore '—The Sorcerer— The Pirates of Penzance. 
 The Third Series: Comedy and Tragedy— Foggerty's Fairy— Rosencrantz and Guildenstem— . 
 
 Patience— Princess Ida— The Mikado— Kuddigore—Tao Yeomen of the Guard— The Gondoliers— 
 
 The Mountebanks — Utopia. 
 
 Eight Original Comic Operas written by W. S. Gilbert. In Two Series. Demy 8vo, doth, 
 
 2i. ed. each. Tlie FIRST containing : The Sorcerer— H.M.S. ' Pinafore '—The Piratfes of Peniance— 
 
 lolanthe— Patience— Princess Ida— The Mikado— Trial by Jury. 
 The Second Series containing: The Gondoliers— The Grand Duke— The Yeomen of the Guatd-* 
 
 His Excellency— Utopia, Limited— Ruddigore-Tho Mountebanks— Haste to the Wedding. \ 
 
 The Gilbert and BuIIlTan Birthday Book : Quotations for Every Day in the Year, selected 
 
 from Plays by W. S. Gilbert set to Music by gir A. SULl^lVAN. Compiled by ALEX. WATSON. 
 
 Royal lOmo, J^anose leather, z$, (ti^ 
 
IP CHATTO & WINDUS, in St. Martln'5 Lane, London. W.C. ^ 
 
 Gilbert (William), Novels by. Post 8vo, illustrated bds.. 2s. each. 
 
 Dr. Austin's Guests. I James Duke. Costermonger. 
 
 The W izard of the Mountain. j 
 
 Qlanville (Ernest), Novels by. 
 
 Crown 8vo, doth extra, y. 6d. each ; po« Sro, Illustrated bomrds. mx. sack. 
 The Lost Heiress : A Tale of Love, Battle, and Adventure. With Two Illustrations by H. NiSlST. 
 The Fosslcker : A Romance of Mashonaland. With Two Illustrations by HUMB NlSBBT. 
 A Fair Colonist. With a Frontispiece by STANLEY WOOO. 
 
 The Golden Rook. With a Frontispiece by STANLEY WOOD. Crown tve. cloth extra, v. M. 
 
 Kloof Yarns. Crown 8vo, picture cover, u. ; cloth, ix. 6rf. 
 
 Ta les fro m the Ve l dt. With Twelve Illustrations by M. NiSBET. Crown Iro. cloth, y. 6J. 
 
 Glenny (George).— A Year's Work in Garden and Greenhouse: 
 
 Practical Advice as to the Management of the Flower, Fruit, an.l Hwrne Garden. Post 8vo, u. ; cloth, if.6rf. 
 
 Godwin (William).— Lives of tlie Necromancers. Post 8vo, cl.. 25. 
 Golden Treasury of Thought, The : An Encyclopaedia of Quota- 
 
 TION3. Edited by Theodore Taylor. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt. 7f. 6<<. 
 
 Gontaut, Memoirs of the Duchesse de (Gouvernante to the ChiU 
 
 dren of France), 1773-1836. With Two Photogravures. Two Vols., demy 8vo. cloth extra, aif. 
 
 Goodman (E. J.).— The Fate of Herbert Wayne. Cr. 8vo, 35. 6i. 
 Greeks and Romans, The Life of the, described from Antique 
 
 Monuments. By ERNST GUHL and W. KONHR. Edited by Dr. F. HUEFFEE. With 545 lUuslxa- 
 tions. Large crown Svo, cloth extra. 7J. 6rf. 
 
 Greville (Henry), Novels by. 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, is. each. 
 NlkanoF. Translated by Eliza E. Chase. 
 A Noble Woman. Translated by Albert D. Vandam. 
 
 Griffith (Cecil).— Corinthia Marazion : A Novel. Crown Svo, cloth 
 
 extra, 31. 6a. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, sx. 
 
 Grundy (Sydney).— The Days of his Vanity: A Passage in the 
 
 Life of a Young Man. Crown Svo, cloth extra, y. bJ. ; post Svo, illustrated boards, si. 
 
 Habberton (John, Author of • Helen's Babies '), Novels by. 
 
 Post Svo, Illustrated boards, ax. each : cloth limp, is. 6d. each. 
 Brueton'a Bayou. | Country Luck. 
 
 Hair, The : Its Treatment in Health, Weakness, and Disease. Trans- 
 lated from the German of Dr. J. PiNCUS. Crown Svo, xj. ; cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 Hake (Dr. Thomas Gordon), Poems by. Cr. 8vo, cl. ex., 6*. each. 
 
 Mew Symbola. I liegenda of the Morrow. | The Serpent Play. 
 Maiden Ecetasy. Small 4to, doth extra, it, 
 
 Halifax (C.).— Dr. Rumsey*s Patient. By Mrs. L. T. Meadb and 
 
 C MFFORD Halifax, M.D. Crown Bvo, cloth, 6 s. 
 
 Hall (Mrs. S. C.).— Sketches of Irish Character. With numerous 
 
 Illustration! on Steel and Wood by MACLISH, GiLBHRT, Harvey, and GeoRGB CRUIKSHANK. 
 Small demy Svo. cloth extra, yj. 6d. 
 
 Hall (Owen), Novels by. 
 
 The Track of a Storm. Cheaper Editloo. Crown Svo, cloth, y. 6d, 
 
 Jetaam. Crown Bvo, cloth. 3J M. 
 
 Halliday (Andrew).— Every-day Papers. Post 8vo, boards. 2^. 
 Handwriting:, The Philosophy of. With over 100 Facsimiles and 
 
 Explanatory Text By DON FELIX DH SALAMANCA. Post Svo. cloth limp, as. 6d. 
 
 Hanky-panky : Easy and Difficult Tricks, White Magic, Sleight of 
 
 Han<C &C, ndited by W. H. Crhmhr. With aoo Illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth extra. 4^. 6d. 
 
 Hardy (Lady Duffus).— Paul VVynter's Sacrifice. PostSvo. bds.,2j . 
 Hardy (Thomas).— Under the Greenwood Tree. Crown Svo, cloth 
 
 extra, with Portrait and 15 Ill ustra tions, y. 6d . ; p ost Bvo, illustrated boards. *t. rloth limp, ns. id. 
 
 Horwood (J. Berwick).— The Tenth EarJ. Post 8vo, bQar4a, zs. 
 
CriAtfo & WinDU^, It! ^t. Martinis Ldfife, Loflaon, \V.6. it 
 
 .<••■. •> — 
 
 Harte*s (Bret) Collected Work5. Revised by the Author. LIBRARY 
 
 EDITION, in Nine Volumes, crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6j. each. 
 VoL I. COMPLETE Poetical and Dramatic works. With Steel-plate Portrait. 
 „ II. The Luck of roaring Camp— Bohemian Papers— American Legend. 
 - III. Tales of the argonauts— Eastern Sketches. 
 „ IV. Gabriel Conroy. | VoL V. Stories— ConOhnshd Novels. &c. 
 „ VI. Tales of the Pacific Slope. 
 
 „ VII. Tales of the Pacific Slope- II. With Portrait by John PEttih, R.A. 
 „ viil. Tales of the Pine and the Cypress. 
 
 „ IX. Buckeye and Chappareu 
 
 The Select Works of Bret Harte, in Prose and Poetry. With Introductory Essay by J. M. 
 
 BULLEW, Portrait of the Author, and 50 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. dd. 
 Bret Harte's Poetical Works. Printed on hand-made pai>er. Grown 8vo, buckram, 4^. 6rf. 
 A New? Volume of Poems. Crown 8vo, buckram, sj. [Preparing. 
 
 The Queen of the Pirate Isle. With 28 Original Drawings by KatB GRBENAWAY, reproducod 
 
 in Colours by EDMUND EVAN S. Small 4to, cloth, y . 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, y. ftd. each ; post 8vo, picture boards, ax. each. 
 A Waif of the Plains. With 60 Illustrations by STANLEY L. WOOD. 
 A Ward of the Golden Gat e. With 59 lUustrations by St anley L. Wood. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, y. 6d. each. 
 A Sappho of Green Springs, &c. With Two illustrations by Hume Nisbet. 
 Colonel Starbottle's Client, and Some Other People. With a Frontispiece, 
 Busy : A Novel. With Frontispiece and Vignette by J. A. CHRISTIE. 
 Bally Dows, &c. With 47 Illustrations by W. D. ALMOND and others. 
 A Protegee of Jack Hamlin's, &c. With 26 illustrations by W. SMALL and others. 
 The Bell-Rlnger of Angel's, &c. With 39 Illustrations by DUDLEY Hardy and others, 
 Clarence : A Story of the American War. With Eight Illustrations by A. JULE GOODMAN. 
 Barker's Luck, &c. With 39 Illustrations by A. FORESTIER, PAUL HARDY, &c. 
 Devil's Ford, &c. With a Frontispiece by W. H. OVEREND. 
 
 The Crusade of the " Excelsior." With a Frontispiece by J. Bernard Partridck, 
 Three Partners ; or. The Big Strilcc on Heavy ^ree Hill. With 8 lUusUations by J. GUUCU. 
 
 Post 8vo. illustrated boards, ax. each. 
 Gabriel Conroy. I The Luck of Roaring Camp. dec. 
 
 An Heiress of Red Dog, &c. | C aJifornlan Stories. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, ax. each ; cloth, ax. dd. each. 
 Flip . I Marnja. | A Phyllis of the Sierras. 
 
 Haweis (Mrs. H. R.), Books by. 
 
 The Art of Beauty. With Coloured Frontispiece and 91 Illustrations. Square 8vo, cloth bds.. 6x. 
 
 The Art of Decoration. With Coloured Frontispiece and 74 Illustrations. Sq. 8vo, doth bds., 6x. 
 
 The Art of Dress. With 32 Illustrations. Post 8vo, ix. : doth, ix. 6d. 
 
 Chaucer for Schools. Demy 8vo, doth limp, ax. 6d. 
 
 Chaucer for Children. With 38 Illustrations (8 Coloured). Crown 4to, doth extra, 3X. 6d. 
 
 Haweis (Rev. H. R., M.A.), Books by. 
 
 American Humorists : Washington Irving. Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell 
 
 Lowell, Artemus Ward. Mark Twain, and Bret Hartb. Third Edition. Crown 8vo, 
 
 cloth extra, 6x. 
 Travel and Talk, 188S-93-9S : My Hundred Thousand Miles of Travel through America— Canada 
 
 — New Zealand — Tasmania — Australia — Ceylon —The Paradises of the Pacific With Photogravure 
 
 Frontispieces. A New Edition. Two Vols., crown 8vo, cloth, lax. 
 
 Hawthorne (Julian), Novels by. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3X. 6d. each ; post 8vo, Illustrated boards, 2J. each. 
 Garth. | Ellice Quentln. I Beatrix Randolph. With Four TITusts. 
 
 Sebastian Strome. | David Poindexter's Disappearance. 
 
 Fortune's Fool. I Dust. Fo ur Illusts. \ T he Spectre of the Camera. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2x. each. 
 Miss Cadogna. | Love— or a Name. 
 
 Hawthorne (Nathaniel).— Our Old Home. Annotated with Pas- 
 
 sages from the Author's Note-books, and Illustrated with 31 Photogravures. Two Vol s., cr. 8vo, isx. 
 
 Heath (Francis George).— My Garden Wild, and What I Grew 
 
 There. Crown 8vo. doth extra, gilt edges, 6x. 
 
 Helps (Sir Arthor), Works by. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 25, 6i. each. 
 
 Animals and their Masters. | Social P ressure. 
 
 lYan de Biron t A NoveL Crown 8yo, cloth extra, 3X. (xi. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, ax. 
 
 Henderson (Isaac).- Agatha Page; A Novel. Cr. 8vo,cl., 35. 6<^. 
 Henty (Q. A.), Novels by. 
 
 Rujub the Juggler. With Eight Illustrations by STANLEY L. WOOD. Crown Sto, cloth, jx. &/.; 
 post 8vo. illustrated boards, ax. 
 
 Crown 8vo. doth. 3X. td. each. 
 Dorothy's Double. I The Queen's Cup. 
 
 Herman (Henry).— A Leading Lady. Post 8vo, bds., 25. ; cl., 25 6d. 
 Herrick's (Robert) Hesperides, Noble Numbers, and Complete 
 
 Collected Poems. With Memorial-Introduction and Notes by the Rev. A. B. Grosart, D.D. 
 Steel Portrait, &c Three Vols., crown 8vo, cloth boards, y. 6d. each. 
 
la CHATTO & WINDUS. tii St. Martin's Lane. London. W.C. 
 
 Hertzka (Dr. Theodor).— Freeland: A Social Anticipation. Trana- 
 
 lated by ARTHUR RANSOM. Crown 8vo. cloth extra. 6j. 
 
 fiesse-Wartegg (Chevalier Ernst von).— Tunis: The Land and 
 
 the People. With 23 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, y. 6d. 
 
 Hill (Headon).— Zambra the Detective. Crown 8vo, cloth, y. 6d. ; 
 
 post 8vo, picture boards, st. ; cloth, 3J. 6d, 
 
 Hill (John), Works by. 
 
 Treason -Felony. Post 8vo. boards, aj. | Tha Common Ancestor. Cr. Svo, cloth. 31. 6rf. 
 
 Hoe y (Mrs. Cashel).— The Lover's Creed. Post 8vo, boards, 2s. 
 Holidays Where to go for a. By E. P. Sholl, Sir H. Maxwell, 
 
 ■' Bart., M.P., JOHN Watson, Jane Barlow, Mary Lovett Cameron, Justin H. McCarthy, 
 Paul Langh, J. W. Graham, J. H. Salter. Phcebb Allen, S. J. Beckett, L. Rivers Vine, 
 
 and C. F. GORDON CUMMING. Crown 8vo, u. ; cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 Hollingshead (John).— Niagara Spray. Crown 8vo, 15. 
 
 Holmes (Gordon, M.D.)— The Science of Voice Production and 
 
 Voice Preservation. Crown 8vo. is. ; cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 Holmes (Oliver Wendell), Works by. 
 
 The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table. lUustrated by J. Gordon Thomson. Post Svo. cloth 
 
 limp, ss. 6(i.— Another Edition, post Svo, cloth, 2S. 
 
 The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table and The Professor at tha Breakfast-Tabla. 
 
 In Qua Vol. Post Svo. half-bound, gj. 
 
 Hood's (Thomas) Choice Works in Prose and Verse. With Life of 
 
 the Auth«r, Portrait, and 200 Illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth, y. 6J. 
 
 Hood's Whims and Oddities. With 85 Illustrations. Post Svo. half-hound, ss. 
 
 Hood (Tom).— From Nowhere to the North Pole: A Noahs 
 
 Arkaeological Narrative. With 35 Illustrati ons by W. BruntOW and E. C. BARNES. Cr. Svo, cloth. & s. 
 
 Hook's (Theodore) Choice Humorous Works; including his Ludi- 
 crous Adventures, Bons Mots. Puns, and Hoaxes. With Life of the Author, Portraits, Facsimiles, and 
 Illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth extra, js. M . 
 
 Hooper (Mrs. Geo.).— The House of Raby. Post Svo, boards, zs. 
 Hopkins (Tighe).— *'Twixt Love and Duty.* Post 8vo, boards. 25. 
 Home (R. Hengist). — Orion: An Epic Poem. With Photograph 
 
 Portrait by SUMMERS. Tenth Edition. Crown Svo, cloth extra, yj. 
 
 Hungerford (Mrs., Author of • Molly Bawn '), Novels by. 
 
 Post Svo, Illustrated boards, sf. each : cloth limp, ax. td. each. 
 A Maiden All Forlorn. | A Modern Circe. | An Unsatisfactory Lovara 
 Marvel. A Mental Struggle. I Lady Patty. 
 In Durance Ylle, |_ I 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, r^s. 6d. each ; post Svo. illustrated boards, 9S. each ; cloth limp. rr. M. each. 
 I<ady Verner's Flight. I The Red- House Mys tery. 1 Tha Three Graces, 
 
 Crown Svo. cloth extra, 3J. tti. each. 
 The Professor's Experiment, with Irontispiecr by E. J, Wheeler. 
 Nora Creina. I April's Lady. I Patar'a Wife. 
 
 An Anxious Moment. | A Point of Consc ience. 1 
 
 liOVloe. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. 
 
 Hunt's (Leigh) Essays : A Tale for a Chimney Corner, &c. Edited 
 
 by Edmund Oll it r. Post Bvo. half-bound, gj. 
 
 Hunt (Mrs. Alfred), Novels by. 
 
 Crown Svo. doth extra, 3*. 6rf. each ; post Svo, Hhistrafed boards, *t. each. 
 The Leaden Casket. | Self-Condem ned. | That Other Paraon. 
 
 Thornl croffs Model . Post Svo, boards, at. | Mrs. Juliet. Cro wn Svo . cloth extra , y. &/. 
 
 Hutchison (W. M.).— Hints on Colt-breaking. With 25 Illustra- 
 
 tlons. Crown Svo, cloth extra, y. 6d. 
 
 Hydrophobia : An Account of M. Pasteur's System ; The Technique of 
 
 Ills M eth od, and S tatistics. B y REN AUD SU ZOR, M.B . C rown 8vo, cloth extrm. 6t, 
 
 H yne (C. J. Cu tcl iff e).— Honour of Thieves. Cr. 8vo. cloth, 3^. G L 
 Idler (The) : An Illustrated Monthly Magazine. Edited by J. K. Jerome. 
 
 Not. I to 48, M. each ; So, 40 and followinfir Numbers, js. each. The first EIGHT VOLS., ctoln, y. each | 
 VoL IX. and afl^r, js, 6d. ea':h,— Cases fur Binding;, is, (xi. each. 
 
CHATTO & WiNDUS, itt St. Martin's Lane, London, W.C. I3 
 
 Impressions (The) of Aureole. Cheaper Edition, with a New Pre- 
 face. Post 8vo, blush-rose paper and cloth, zj. 6rf. 
 
 Indoor Paupers. By One o f Them. Crown 8vo, cloth, 15. 6d. 
 
 Ingelow (Jean). — Fate d to be Free. Post 8vo, illus tra ted bds., 25. 
 innkeeper*s Handbook (The) and Licensed Victualler's Manual. 
 
 By J. TREVOR-DavieS. Crown 8vo, xs. ; cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 Irish Wit and Humour, Songs of. Collected and Edited by A. 
 
 Perceval Graves. Post 8vo, cloth limp, as. 6d. 
 
 Irving (Sir Henry) : A Record of over Twenty Years at the Lyceum. 
 
 By Percy Fitzgerald. With Portrait. Crown 8vo, ts. ; cloth, ix. 6d. 
 
 James (C. T. C.).~A Romance of the Queen's Hounds. Post 
 
 8vo, cloth limp, is. 6d. 
 
 Jameson (William).— My Dead Self. Post 8vo, bds.,25. ; cl, 25. 6i. 
 J a pp (Alex. H., LL. P.). —Dramatic Pictures, &c. Cr. Svo, cloth, y. 
 Jay (Harriett), Novels by. Post Svo, illustrated boards, 25. each. 
 
 The Dark Colleen. | The Queen of Connaught. 
 
 Jefferies (Richard), Works by. Post Svo. cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 Nature near London. | The Life of the Fields. | The Open Alt, 
 
 ♦♦♦ Also the Hand-MADH Paper Edition, crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top. 6s. each. 
 
 The Eulogy of Richard Jefferies. By Sir Walter Besant. With a Photograph Portrait 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra. 6s. 
 
 Jennings (Henry J.), Works by. 
 
 Curiosities of Criticism. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Lord Tennyson z A Biographical Sketch. With Portrait. Post Svo, is. ; cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 Jerome (Jerome K.), Books by. 
 
 Stageland. With 64 Illustrations by J. Bernard Partridge. Fcap. 4to, picture cover, ts. 
 John Ingerfleld, &c. With 9 Ulusts. by A. S. BOVD and John Gulich. Fcap. Svo, pic. cov. is. 60. 
 The Prude's Progress : A Comedy by J. K. Jerome and Eden Phillpotts. Or. evo, is. 6d. 
 
 Jerrold (Douglas).— The Barber's Chair; and The Hedgehog 
 
 Letters. Post 8vo, printed on laid paper and half-bound, -u. 
 
 Jerrold (Tom), Works by. Post Svo, 15. ea. ; cloth limp, 15. 6i. each. 
 
 The Garden that Paid the Rent. 
 
 Household Horticulture : A Gossip about Flowers. Illustrsted, 
 
 Jesse (Edward). ^Scenes and Occupations of a Country Life. 
 
 Post Svo, cloth limp, -zs. 
 
 Jones (William, F.S.A.), Works by. Cr. Svo, cl. extra, 'js. 6d. each. 
 
 Finger-Ring Lore : Historical, Legendary, and Anecdotal. With nearly 300 Illustrations. Second 
 
 Edition, Revised and Enlarged. 
 Cradulities, Past and Present. Including the Sea and Seamen, Miners, Talismans, Word and 
 
 Letter Divination, Exorcising and Blessing of Animals, Birds, Eggs, Luck, &c. With Frontispiece. 
 Crowns aJid Coronations : A History of Regalia. With zoo Illustrations. 
 
 Jonson's (Ben) Works. With Notes Critical and Explanatory, and 
 
 a Biographical Memoir by WILLIAM GiFFORD. Edited by Colonel CUNNINGHAM, Three VoU. 
 crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each. 
 
 Josephus, The Complete Works of. Translated by Whiston. Con- 
 
 tainmpr ' The Antiquities of the Jews' and 'The Wars of the Jews.' With 52 Illustrations and Maps. 
 Two Vols., demy Svo, half-bound, 12s. 6d. ___^___ 
 
 Kempt (Robert).— Pencil and Palette: Chapters on Art and Artists. 
 
 Post Svo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Kershaw (Mark). — Colonial Facts and Fictions: Humorous 
 
 Sketches. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, zs. ; cloth, gj. 6^. 
 
 King (R. Ashe), Novels by. 
 
 A Drawn Game. Crown Svo, cloth, y. 6d. ; post Sro, boards, ar. 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, st. each. 
 
 t The Wearing of the Green.' | Passion's Slave. | Bell Barrx, 
 
14 CHATTO k WiNDllS, in St. MafUn's Une. L6ndoii. W.C. 
 
 . III ■> 
 
 Knight (William, M.R.C.S., and Edward, L.R.C.P.). — The 
 
 Patient's Yade Mecum : Uow to Get Most Benefit from Medical Advice. Cr. 8vo, it. ; cL.u.id. 
 
 Knigllts (The) of the Lion : A Romance of the Thirteenth Century. 
 
 Edited, with an Introduction, by the MARQUESS OF LORNE, K.T. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6j. 
 
 Lamb's (Charles) Complete Works in Prose and Verse, including 
 
 ' Poetry for Children and ' Prince Dorus.' Edited, with Notes and Introduction, by R. II. SilEP- 
 HHKU. With Two Portraits and Facsimile of the ' Essay on Roast Pie." Crown 8vo, dath, y. bJ. 
 
 The Essays of Elia. Post Svo, printed on laid paper and half-bouncH z-r. 
 
 Little Essays : Sketches and Characters by CHARLES LAMB, selected from his Letters by PERCY 
 I riVGIlKAI.l). Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2S. Ui. 
 
 The Dramatic Essays of Charles Lamb. With Introduction and Notes by Brander Mat- 
 ' TH i:\sS, and Steel-plate Portrait. Ecap. Svo, half-bound. 2J. &/. 
 
 Landor (Walter Savage).— Citation and Examination of William 
 
 Shakspeare, Ac, before Sir Thomas Lucy, touching Dcer-stealinij, 19th Septeml)er, 1582. To wliich 
 is added, A Conference of Master Edmund Spenser with the Eurl of Essex. toucbin£ the 
 
 State of Ireland, 1593. P'cap. Svo, lialf-Roxburfjhe, zj. 61/. 
 
 Lane (Edward William).— The Thousand and One Nights, com- 
 monly called in England The Arabian Nights' Entertainments. Translated from the Arabic, 
 ■with Notes. Illustrated with many hundred iin^jravings from Desigus by HARVIiY. Edited by EDWARD 
 STANLEY POOLR. With Preface by S fANLEV LanePOOLE. Three Vols., demy Svo, cloth, js. bJ. ea. 
 
 Larwood (Jacob), Works by. 
 
 Anecdotes of the Clergy. Post Svo, laid pap er, half-boun d, at. 
 
 Post Svo, cloth limp, 2^. 6ci. each. 
 Forensic Anecdo tes. | Theatrical Anecdote«» 
 
 Lehmann (R. C), Works by. Post Svo, 15. each ; cloth, 15. W. each, 
 
 Harry Fludyer at Cambridge. "* 
 
 Conv ers ational Hi n ts tor y oung Shooters ; A Guide to Poli t e Talk. 
 
 Leigh (Henry S.).— Carols of Cockayne. Printed on hand-made 
 
 paper, bound in buckram, 5^-. 
 
 Leland (C. Godfrey). —A Manual of Mending and Repairing. 
 
 With Dia!,'rauis. Crown Svo, cloth, y. 
 
 Lepelletier (Edmond). — Madame Sans-Qene. Translated from 
 
 the French by JOHN DE VILLI ERS . C rown Svo, cloth, y. 6./. ; post Svo, picture boards, a*. 
 
 Leys (John ).— The Linds ays ; A Romance. Po st Svo, illust. bds., 25. 
 Lindsay (Harry).— Rlioda Roberts: A Welsh Mining Story. Grown 
 
 8vo, cloth, y. Cd. 
 
 Linton (E. Lynn), Works by. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra. 2S. bii. each ; post Svo, illustrated boards, at. each. 
 Patricia Keinball. | lone. I Under which JLord 7 With » Illustrations. 
 
 The Atonement of Learn Oundas. I * My Love I' | Sowing the Wind. 
 
 The World Well Lost. With u lllusts. I Paston Carew. MiUionaire and Miser. 
 
 The One Too M any. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, st. each. 
 
 Th« Rebel of the Family. | With a SUkan ThrMUL 
 
 Post Svo, cloth limp, aj. 6rf. each. 
 Witch Stories. | Ourselves i Essays oo Womsa. 
 
 FreeKhootlng: Extracts from the Works of Mrs. LYNN LiNT OW. 
 
 Dulcie Everton. Crown Svo, cloth extra, jx. (xi. 
 
 Lucy (Henry W.).— Gideon Fleyce: A Novel. Crown Svo, cloth 
 
 extra, v. M. ; p ost 8vo, illustrated b oards, 7t. 
 
 Macalpine (Avery), Novels by. 
 
 Teresa Itasca. Crown Svo, cloth extra, is. 
 Broken Wings. AVitli Six Illustrations by W. J. HbnNHSSY. Crown »to, cloth extra, it. 
 
 MacColl (Hugh), Novels by. 
 
 Mr. Stranger's Sealed Packet. Post Svo, Illustrated boards, ar. 
 Ednor Whltlo ck. Crown 8vo, eloth extra, 6t. 
 
 Macdonell (Ag nes).— Quaker Cousins. Post Svo, boards. 25. 
 MacGregor (Robert).— Pastimes and Players: Notes on Popular 
 
 Games . Pos t Svo, clot h limp , a s. 6d. ^ 
 
 Mackay (Charles, LL.D.). — Interludes and Undertones; or, 
 
 Jdukic at Twilight. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6t. 
 
CHATTO &. WINDUS, iii St. Martin's Lane, London, W.C. is 
 
 McCarthy (Justin, M.P.)» Works by. 
 
 A History of Our Own Times, from the Accession of Queen Victoria to the General Election of 
 1880. Library Edition. Four Vols., demy 8vo, cloth extra, 12s. each.— Also a POPULAR 
 Edition, in Four Vols., crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6j. each.— And the JUBILEE EDITION, with an 
 Appendix of Events to the end of 1886, in Two Vols., large crown 8vo, cloth extra, ys. 6d. each. 
 
 A History of Our Own Times, from 18S0 to the Diamond Jubilee. Demy 8to. cloth extra, 
 raj. Library Edition, uniform with the previous Four Volumes. 
 
 A Short History of Our Own Times. One VoL, crown 8vo, doth extra, 6x.— Also a Cheap 
 Popular Euition, post 8vo, cloth limp, ss. 6d. 
 
 A History of tlie Four Georges . Four Vols., demy 8vo, c l. ex., its. each. [Vols. I. & II. reatfy 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3J. 6d. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each ; cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 The Waterdale Neighbours* 
 
 My Enemy's Daughtert 
 
 A Fair Saxon. 
 
 Liinley Rochford. 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 
 Miss Misanthrope. With is Illustrations. 
 
 Donna Quixote. With 13 Illustrations. 
 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
 Maid of Athens. With 13 lUustradona. 
 
 Camiola : A Girl with a Fortune. 
 
 The Dictator. 
 
 Red Diamonds* 
 
 The Riddle Ring. Crown 8vo, cloth, y. 6d. 
 
 The Three Disgraces, and oth er Stories. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3r. 6rf. {Oct. at. 
 
 • The Right Honourable.* By Justin McCarthy. M.P.. and Mrs. CAMPBELL PRABD. Crown 
 
 8vo. cloth extra. 6s. 
 
 McCarthy (Justin Huntly), Works by. 
 
 The French Revolution. (Constituent Assembly, 1789-91). Four Vols., demy tro, doth, tax. each. 
 
 An Outline of the History of Ireland. Crown 8vo, is. ; cloth, is. td. 
 
 Ireland Since the Union : Sketches of Irish History , 1798-1 886. Crown 8vo, clot)\, is, 
 
 Hafiz in London : Poems. Small 8vo, gold doth, y. 6rf. 
 
 Our Sensation Novel. Crown 8vo, picture cover, is. ; cloth limp, is. id. 
 
 Doom : An Atlantic Episode. Crown 8vo, picture cover, is. 
 
 Dolly ; A Sketch. Crown 8vo, picture cover, is. ; cloth limp, is. 6d. 
 
 Lilly Lass : A Romance. Crown 8vo, picture cover, is. ; cloth I'nip, is. M, 
 
 The Thousand and One Days. Vvith Two Photogravures. Two Vols., crown tro, half-bd., imi, 
 
 A London Legend. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3^. (xi. 
 
 The Royal Christopher. Crown 8vo. cloth, 3J. 6d. 
 
 MacDonald (George, LL.D.), Books by. 
 
 Works of Fancy and Imagination. Ten Vols., i6mo, doth, gilt edges, in doth case, *xs. ; ot 
 
 the Volumes may be had separately, in Grolier cloth, at 2J. 6d. each. 
 VoU I. Within and Without.— The Hidden Life. 
 
 „ II. THE Disciple.— THE Gospel Women.— Book of Sonnets.— Organ Songs. 
 „ III. Violin Songs.— songs ok the Days and Nights.- A book of Drbams.— Roadsidx 
 
 Poems.— Poems for Children. 
 „ IV. Parables.— Ballads.— Scotch Songs. 
 
 „ V. & VI. PHANTASTES : A Faerie Romance. | Vol. VIT. THH PORTHNT. 
 „ VIII. THE Light Princess.— The Giant's Heart.— shadows. 
 „ IX. Cross Purposes.— The Golden Key.— The Carasoyn.— Littlh Daylight. 
 „ X. The Cruel Painter.— The Wow o" Rivven.— The Castlh.— The Broken Swords 
 —THE Gray wolf. — Uncle Cornelius. 
 
 Poetfoa! Works of George MaoOonald. Collected and Arranged by the Author. Two Vols., 
 
 crown 8vo, buckram, i2j. 
 A Threefold Cord. Edited by Gborgr MacDonald. Pos t 8vo, doth, sj, 
 
 Phantastes: A Faerie Romance. With 25 Illustrations by J. BELL. Crown 8vo, doth extra, jt. 6d. 
 Heather and Snour: A Novel. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 3^. 61'. ; post Svo, illustrated boards, zj. 
 Lilith ; A Romance. SECOND EDITION. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, fjs. 
 
 Maclise Portrait Gallery (The) of Illustrious Literary Charac- 
 ters: 85 Portraits by Daniel Maclise ; with Memoirs— Biographical, Critical, Bibliograpnical 
 and Anecdotal— illustrative of the Literature of the former half of the Present Century, by William 
 Bates, B.A. Crown Svo, cloth extra, ys. 6d. 
 
 Macquold (Mrs.), Works by. Square 8vo, cloth extra, 65. each. 
 
 In the Ardennes. With 50 Illustrations by THOMAS R. Macquoid. 
 
 Pictures and Legends from Normandy and Brittany. 34 lllusts. by T. R. MACQUOin. 
 
 Through Normandy. With 92 Illustrations by T. R. MACQUOID. and a Map. 
 
 Through Brittany. With 35 Illustrations by T. R. Macquoid, and a Map. 
 
 About Yorkshire. With 67 Ill ustrations by T. R. MACQUO ID. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, zr. each. 
 The Evil Eye, and other Stories. I Lost Rose, and other Stone*. 
 
 Magician's Own Book, The: Performances with Eggs, Hals, &c. 
 
 Edited by W. H. Cremer. With 200 Illustrations. Crown Svo . c loth extr a, 4J. 6d. 
 
 Magic Lantern, The, and its Management : Including full Practical 
 
 Directions. By T. C. Hepworth. With 10 Illustrations. Crown Svo, is. ; cloth, is. dd. 
 
 Magna Charta : An Exact Facsimile of the Original in the British 
 
 Museum, 3 feet by gfe^t, with Arms and Seals emblazoned in Gold and Colours, $s. 
 
 IVIallory (Sir Thomas). — Mort d' Arthur: The Stories of King 
 
 Arthur and of the Knights of th,e Ro'4n(J T^ble. (^ Selection.) Edited by ^, MojJTGOMni^IJi RAJt 
 CJIIG. I«.JKt 8ro, c)pth jinjp, 2,'. 
 
i6 CHATTO & WINDUS, in 5t. Martin's Laae. London, W.C. 
 
 Mallock (W. H.), Works by. 
 
 The Neiw Republic. Post 8vo, picture cover. %r. ; cloth Hinp, a/. 6d. 
 
 The New Paul & Vir^nia: Positivism on an Island. Post 8vo, cloth, as. 6d. 
 
 A Romance of the Nineteen th Century. Crown 8vo. cloth 6s. ; post 8vo, must, boards, m. 
 
 Poems. Small ^to, parchment, 8j. 
 
 Is Liife Wopth Living 7 Crown Sro, cloth extra. 6x. 
 
 Marks (H. S., R.A.), Pen and Penci! Sketches by. With Four 
 
 ^Photogravures and ia6 lUustrations. Two Vols, demy Svo, cloth, 32J. 
 
 Marlowe's Works. Including his Translations. Edited, with Notes 
 
 and Introductions , b y Co lo nel CU NNING HAM. Crown Svo, clo th extra, y.^^ 
 
 Marryat (Florence), Novels by. Post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. each. 
 
 A Harvest of Wild OatS. I Plghtlng the Alp. 
 
 Open ! Sesame! I Written in Fire. 
 
 Massinger's Plays. From the Text of William Gifford. Edited 
 
 by Col CUNNINGHAM. Crowm Svo, cloth ex tra, y. 6ti, 
 
 Masterman (J.).---Half-a-Dozen Dau ghte r s. Post 8v o , boards. 2s. 
 Matthews (Brander).— A Secret of the Sea, &c. Post 8vo, illus- 
 
 trated boards, aj. ; cloth limp, as. td. 
 
 Meade (L. T.), Novels by. 
 
 A Soldier of Fortan*. Crow n Svo, clot h, y. 6rf. ; post Svo, Illustrated boards, «. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth, jr. 6d each. 
 In an Iron Grip. I The Voice of the Charmer. With 8 Illustrattons. 
 
 Dr. Rumsey's Patient. By L. T. Meade and Clifford Halifax, M.d. 
 
 Merrick (Leonard), Stories by. 
 
 The Man who was Good. P ost 8vo, pict ur e boards, ax. 
 
 Crown Svo, doth, y. 6rf. each. 
 Thla Stage of Foola. | Cynthiai A Danghter ofthe Philistlnea. 
 
 Mexican Mustang (On a), through Texas to the Rio Grande. By 
 
 A. E . SWF.F.T and J. A RMOY KNO.x. W ith 365 Illus t rations. Crown Sv o, cloth extra, ^s. M. 
 
 Middlemass (Jean), Novels by. Post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Touch and Go. | Mr. Dorllllon. 
 
 Miller (Mrs. F. Fenwick).— Physiology for the Young; or, The 
 
 House of Life. With nunjf^rous lllustr.itions. Post Svo, cloth limp, ar. 6.^. 
 
 Milton (J. L.), Works by. Post Svo, is. each ; cloth, is. 6i. each. 
 
 The Hygiene of the Sltln. With Directions for Diet. Soaps, Baths, Wines, &c. 
 
 The Bath In Diseases of the Skin. 
 
 The Laws of Ufe, and their Relation to Diseases of the Skin. 
 
 Mint o (W m.). — Was She Good or Bad? Or. Svo, is.; cloth, is. 6 d. 
 Mitford (Bertram), Novels by. Crown Svo, cloth extra, y. 6d. each. 
 
 The Gan-Runner i A Ronrance of Zululand. With a Fapntlspiece by STANLEY L. Wooo. 
 The Luck of Gerard Bidgeley. With a FrontUpieco l)y Stanley L. Wood. 
 The King's Assegai. With Six fiill-patre Illustrations by STANLEY L. Wood. 
 Renshaw Fanning's Quest. With a Frontispiece by S lANLEY L. Wood. 
 
 Molesworth (Mrs.), Novels by. 
 
 Hathercourt Rectory. Post Svo. illustrated boards, at. 
 That Girl in Black. Crown Svo, cloth, ij. 6d. 
 
 Moncrieff (W. D. Scott-).— The Abdication: An Historical Drama. 
 
 With Seven Mchlnes by J01»N PeTTIH, W. Q. ORCHARUSoh " "' 
 R. Macheth and 'TOM Gka i I am . Im p erial 4to. buckrain, au, 
 
 Moore (Thomas), Works by. 
 
 The Epicurean ; and Alolphron. Po$t 8vo, half-bound, or. 
 
 Prose and Verse; indudini; Suppressed Passages from the MRMOIRS 07 LORD BVRON. 
 by R. H. Shp.PHERD. With Portrait. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, js. (xL 
 
 Muddock (J. E.) Stories by. 
 
 Maid Marian and Robin Hood. With ja lllu«rattons by StanLBY WOOD, 
 Basile the Jester. Wiih Fiuntisplccc by Stanley Wood. 
 
 Young Lochlnvar. • 
 
 Post 8vo, Illustrated boards, ax. each. 
 
 The Dead Man's Secret. I F rom the Bosom of tha Daay, 
 
 Itorles Weird and Wondorfol. Po^t 8vo, tltustrated bo^rd*. v. ; cloth, ar. «rf. 
 
• CHATTO & WINDUS, in gt. Martin's Lane. London, W.C. 17 
 
 Murray (D. Christie), Novels by. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, y. 6d. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards. 2J. eacK 
 
 A Life's Atonement. 
 
 Joseph's Coat. 12 lllusts. 
 
 Coals of Fira. 3 lllusts. 
 
 Val Strange. 
 
 Hearts. 
 
 The Way of the World. 
 
 A Model Fathe^ 
 Old Blazer's Hero. 
 Cynic Fortune. Frontlsp. 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 First Person Singular. 
 
 Bob Martin's Little Gill. 
 Time's Revenges. 
 A Wasted Crime. 
 In Direst Peril. 
 Moant Despair. 
 
 The Making of a Novelist : An Experiment in Autobiography. With Portrait. Cr. Ivo, Unen,6j. 
 
 My Contemporaries In Fiction . Crown 8vo, buckram, y . 64, 
 
 A Capful o' Nails. Croxvn 8vo' cloth, 35. 6d. 
 
 This Little World. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top, 6s. 
 
 Tales and Poems. Crown Svo. cloth, 35. 6d. [PrefaHrtf. 
 
 Murray (D. Cliristie) and Henry Herman, Novels by. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3J. td, each; post Svo, illustrated boards, 2J. each. 
 One Traveller Returns. I The Bishops' Bible. 
 Paul Jones's Alias, &c. with Illustrations by A. Forestier and G. NicOLET. 
 
 Murray (Henry), Novels by. 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated bo; 
 
 aoards, m. each ; cloth, 2j. 6rf. each. 
 A Game of Bluff. \ | A Song of Sixpence. 
 
 Newbolt (Henry).— T aken from the Enemy. Fop. Svo, cloth, 15. 6i. 
 Nisbet (Hume), Books by. 
 
 • Bail Up.' Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3J. 6d. ; post Svo, illustrated boards, aj. 
 
 Dr. Bernard St. Vincent. Post Svo, illustrated boards, zs. 
 
 Les sons In A rt. With 21 Illus tra tions. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 2j. dd. 
 
 NorriYTwT"!.), Novels~by. 
 
 Saint Ann's. Crown Svo, cloth, y. 6d. ; post «to, picture boards, aj. 
 
 Billy Bellew. With a Fronti sp iece by F. H. TOWNSEND. Crown Svo, doth, y. 6d. 
 
 O'Hanlon (Alice), Novels by. Post Svo, illustrated boards, 25. each. 
 
 The Unforeseen. | Chance 7 or Fate 7 
 
 Ohnet (Georges), Novels by. Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Doctor Rameau. | A Last L ove. 
 
 A Weird Gift. Crown 8vo, cloth , jj. 6d. ; post Svo, picture boards, 2S, 
 
 Oliphant (Mrs.), Novels by^ Post S~vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 The Primrose Path. | Whiteladiea. 
 The Greatest Heiress In EnglaniL 
 
 The Sorceress. Crown Svo, cloth. 3s. 6d. 
 
 O'Reilly (Mrs.).— Phoe be' s For tunes. Post 8vo, illust. boards. 25. 
 O'Shaughnessy (Arthur), Poems by : 
 
 Fcap. Svo, cloth extra, js. 6d. each. 
 
 Masle and Moonlight. | Songs of a Worker. 
 
 L a ys of Fran ce. C rown Svo, cloth extra, los. td. 
 
 Ouida, Novels by. Cr. Svo, cl., 35. td. ea.; post Svo, illust.- bds., 25. ea. 
 
 Held In Bondage. 
 
 Tricotrln. 
 
 Strathmore. 
 
 Chandos. 
 
 Cecil Castlemalne's Cage 
 
 Under Two Flags. 
 Puck. I IdaUa. 
 
 Folle-Farlne. 
 A Dog of Flanders. 
 Pascarel. | Signa. 
 Two Wooden Shoes, 
 [n a Winter City, 
 tie 
 
 Moths. I Pipistrello. 
 In Maremma. I Wanda. 
 Bimbi. | Syrlin. 
 Ot 
 
 Frescoes. | Othmar. 
 Princess Napraxine. 
 Guilderoy. | Ruffino. 
 Two Offenders. 
 
 Ariadne. I Friendship. 
 A Village Commune. 
 
 Square Svo, cloth extra, jj. each. 
 Blmbl. With Nine Illustrations by EDMUND H. GARRETT. 
 A Dog of Flanders, &c. With Six lUustrations by EDMUND H. Garrhtt. 
 
 Banta Barbara, &c. Square 8vo, cloth, 6j. ; crown 8vo, cloth, 3J. 6d.; ppst 8vo, ijlustrated boards, aj, 
 POPULAR. EDITIONS. Medium Svo. (>d. each ; doth, is. each. 
 
 Under Two Flags. | Moths. 
 
 Wisdom, Wit, and Pathos, selected from the Works of OUIDA by F. SYDNEY MORRIS. Post 
 Svo, cloth extra, y.— CHEAP EDITION, illustrated boards, gj. 
 
 Page (H. A.).— Thoreau: His Life and Aims, With Portrait. Post 
 
 Svo, cloth. 2j. 6rf. 
 
 Pandurang Harf; or, Memoirs of a Hindoo. With Preface by Sir 
 
 BARTLE Frere. Crown Svo. cl oth, y. 6rf. ; post Svo, illustrated boards, 2J. 
 
 Parker (Rev* Joseph, D.D.).— Might Have Been: some Life 
 
 Notes. Crown Svo, cloth, 6s. 
 
 Pascal's Provincial Letters. A New Translation, with Historical 
 
 Introduction »nd Notes by T. M'CRIE. D.D. Post Svo, cloth limp, -is. 
 
 Paul (Margaret A.).— Gentle and Simple. Crown Svo, cloth, with 
 
 Frostispispe by HEtPN PATEBSo^f, za. e?/. ; past Svo, illustrated bo^rd?, w. 
 
i8 CHATTO & WIN DUS. iii St. Martin's Lane. London, W.C. 
 
 Payn (James), Novels by. 
 
 Crown 8vo. cloth extra, y. 64. each ; post 8vo. ntii<;f rated boirds. it e»ch. 
 
 I<oat Sir Masslngberd. 
 
 'Walter's Word. I A County Pamlly, 
 
 Less Black than We're Painted. 
 
 By Proxy. I For Cash Only. 
 
 High Spirit*. 
 
 Under One Roof. 
 
 A Confidential Agent. WItb la IBusti. 
 
 A Grape from a Thorn. With xa Illusts. 
 
 Humoroua Stories. | From Bzlis. 
 The Foster Brothers. 
 The Family Scapegrao«t 
 
 Post 8to illustrated ooards, 2j. each. 
 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 
 The Canon's Ward. With FortriH. 
 
 The Talk of the Town. Wittt » lUuta. 
 
 Glow-Worm Tales. 
 
 The Mystery of Mirbrldgtt. 
 
 The Word and the Will. 
 
 The Burnt Million. 
 
 "l unny S tories. I A Trying Patlsnt. 
 
 The ClylTards of ClyfTe. 
 
 Found Dead. I Gwendoline's Harvest. 
 
 Mirk Abbey. | A Marine Residence. 
 
 Borne Private Views. 
 
 Not Wooed, But Won. 
 
 Two Hundred Pounds Reward. 
 
 The Best o( Husbands. 
 
 Halves. I What He Cost Hsv. 
 
 Fallen Fortunes.! Kit: A Memory. 
 
 A Prince of the Bluud. 
 
 Married Beneath 
 
 Bentinck'a Tutor. 
 
 A Perfect Treasure. 
 
 Like Father, Like Son. 
 
 A \yoman's Vengeance. 
 
 Canyon's Year. I Cecil's Tryst. 
 
 Murphy's Master. | At Her Mercy, 
 
 In Peril and Privation. With'17 Illustrations. Crown'Svo. cloth. 31. 6./. 
 
 Notes f rom th e ' News.' Cro wn 8vo. portrait cover, is. ; cloth, is. bd 
 
 Pa yne (VViJI).— Jerry tlie ~Dreamer. Crown 8vo, cloth . 35. td. 
 Pennell (H. CholmondeIey)7^orks by. Post 8vo, cloib. 2s. td. ea. 
 
 Puck on Pegasus. AVith- Illustrations. 
 
 Pegasus Re-Saddled. With Ten full-pajre Illustrations by G. DtJ MAtrRiBR. 
 
 The M uses of Mayfal r ; Vers de Soc icte. Selected by H.C.PF.N NRLt.. 
 
 Phelps (E. Stuart), Works by. Post 8vo, is. ea. ; cloth, is. 6i. ea. 
 
 Beyond the Gates. | An Old Maid's Paradise. I Burglars In Paradlss. 
 Jack the Fisherman. J(llustrated^_C. W^KEF.D.jCrownJyo. cloth. i£;_6^. 
 
 Phil May's Sketch-Book. Containing" 54 Humorous Cartoons. A 
 
 New Edition. Crown folio, cloth, aj. td. 
 
 Phipson (Dn~T.~iL7)T— Famous Violinists and Fine Violins': 
 
 . Historical Notes, Anec dotes, and Reminiscences. Crown 8vo^cloth^. 
 
 P irkis (C. L. ) .— Lady~Ldveiac e. "Post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2s. 
 Planche (J. R.), Worksby. 
 
 The Pursuivant of Arms. With Six Plates and aoq Ttlustratlonj, Crown Byo. cloth, is. M. 
 Songs a nd Poems, 18191879. With Introduction hy Mrs. M aCKARNESS. Crown 8vo. clolh. (t._ 
 
 Plutarch's Lives of Illustrious Men. With' Notes and a Life of 
 
 Pluta rch by JOHN an d WM. Langhornh. and Portraits. Two Vols., demy 8 to. h alf t»ound tas. 6 J. 
 
 Poe's (Ed^ar Allan) Choice'WorksinProse and Poetry. With Intro- 
 
 duction liy CllARI.HS BaUUP.LAIRE, • Portrait and Facsimiles. Crown 8vo. clolh. js. 6rf. 
 The Mystery o f Marie Roget, iVc I'ost 8vo. illustrated boards, u. 
 
 Pollock (W. H.). — The ChanST^nd otherDrawing-room Flays. By 
 
 Sir Walter Bhsant and Walter II. pollock. With so_Illustrations.^Crown 8vo. cloth nilt. 6s. 
 
 Pollock (Wilfred).— War and a Wheef: The Graco-Turkish War as 
 
 Seen from a Bi cycl e. Wi th a Map. Crown 8vo, picture eover. ts. ^^ 
 
 Pope's Poetical Works^ Posrsvorcloth'ilmp, 2s. 
 
 Porter (John).— Kingsclere. Edited by Bvron Webber. With 19 
 
 full-page an d ma ny smaller Illustrations. Second_Editioii^_ Demy 8vo._clojh decorated. zBt. 
 
 Praed (Mrs. Campbell j,~Noveis by. Post Svo.iilust. bds., 2s. each. 
 
 The Romance of a Station. [The Boal_ of Countess Adrian. 
 
 Crown 8vo. cloth, 3s. 6d. each : post 8vo. boards, js. each. 
 
 Outlaw and Lawmaker. | Christina Chard. With Frontispiece by W. PACBT. 
 
 Mrs. Tregasklss. With 8 Illustrations by Robert Sai/ber. Crown 8vo, cloth exira. j*. 64. 
 Nulma: An Antlo-Australian Romance. Crown 8vo. cloth, 6s. 
 
 Price"(ErcT)7Novels by; ~ 
 
 Crown 8vo, clolh extra, v- 64. each : post tvo, llluttrated boards, is. earh. 
 
 Valentlna. | The Foreigners. ^_ I Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. 
 
 Gerald. Post 8to, Illustrated boards, aj. ~ ~~~~ ' 
 
 Princess Ol^a.— Radna: A Nov el. Crown Svo. cloth extra. 6s. 
 Proctor (Richard A. )~ Works by. 
 
 Flowers of the Sky. With i;i; Illustrations. Small crown Rto, clolh e^itni, jr. 64. 
 
 Easy Star Lessons. With ^t.-ir Maps for every Night in the Year. Ctown Svo, cloth, it. 
 
 Familiar Science Studies. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, ts. 
 
 Saturn and its System. With 13 Sterl rutes. Demy Svo. cloth extra, lox. 64. 
 
 Mysteries of Time and Space. With ninnerous illustrations. Crown 8vo. cloth extri, 4f. 
 
 The Universe of Suns. A:c. With numerous IlliiMr.itions. Clown Svo, cloth exit a, Q, 
 
 1 
 
CHaTTO & WiNbllS, III St. Martin's Lane, London, W.C. 
 
 Pryc 
 
 /ce (Richard).— Miss Maxwell* s Affections. Crown 8vo, cloth, 
 
 with Frontispi ece by HAL LUDLQW. y- 6rf.; post 8vo. illustrated boards. 2j. 
 
 RambossoiMJ.).— Popular Astronomy. Translated by C. B. Pit- 
 man. With Coloure d Frontispiece and numerous Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, ys. 6rf. 
 
 Randolph (Lieut.-Col. George, U.S.A.).— Aunt Abigail Dykes : 
 
 A Novel. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 7s. 6rf. 
 
 Read (General Meredith).— Historic Studies in Vaud, Berne, 
 
 a nd Savoy. With 31 full-page Illustrations. Two Vols., demy 8vo. cloth, aSx. 
 
 Reade's (Charles) Novels. 
 
 The New Collected LIBRARY EDITION, complete In Seventeen Volumes, set m new long ptlmcf 
 type, printed on laid paper, and elegantly bound in cloth, price 3^-. 6.^. each. 
 
 7. Love Me Little, Love me Long. 
 
 8. The Double Marriage. 
 
 9. Griffith Gaunt 
 
 10. Foul Play. 
 
 11. Put Yourself In Hla PIae«« 
 
 12. A Terrible Temptation. 
 
 13. A Simpleton. 
 
 14. A Woman-Hater. 
 
 15. The Jilt, and other Stories; and Good 
 Stories of Man and other Anlmale. 
 
 x6. A Perilous Secret. 
 
 17. Keadiana : and Bible CharaoterSt 
 
 Peg Woffington: and Christie John* 
 stone, 
 s. Hard Cash. 
 
 3. The Cloister and the Hearth. With a 
 
 Preface by Sir WALTER Bf.SANT. 
 
 4. • It is Never Too Late to Mend.' 
 
 5. The Course of True Love Never Did 
 
 Run Smooth; and Singleheart and 
 Doubleface. 
 t. The Autobiography of a Thief; Jack 
 of all Trades; A Hero and a Mar- 
 tyr i and The Wandering Heir. 
 
 In Twenty-one Volumes, post 8vo, illustrated boards, as. each. 
 
 Peg Wofflngton. | Christie Johnstone. 
 
 •It is Never Too Late to Mend.' 
 
 The Course of True Love Never Did Sun 
 
 Smooth. 
 The Autobiography of a Thief; Jack of 
 
 all Trades ; and James Lambert. 
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 
 Hard Cash. I Griffith Gaunt. 
 
 Foul Play. I Put Yourself in His Place. 
 
 A Terrible Temptation, 
 
 A Simpleton. | The Wandering Heir 
 
 A Woman-Hater. 
 
 Singleheart and Doubleface. 
 
 Good Stories of Man and other Animals* 
 
 The Jilt, and oilier Stories. 
 
 A Perilous Secret. I Readiana. 
 
 Popular Editions, medium 8vo, CJ. each : cloth, is. each. 
 *It Is Never Too Late to Mend.' | The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 
 Peg Wo ffington; and Christie J ohnstone. 
 
 It is Never Too Late to Mend ' and The Cloister and the Hearth In One Volume, 
 
 mediiiin 8vo, cloth, 7S. 
 
 Christie Johnstone. With Frontispiece. Choicely printed in Elzevir style. Fcap. 8vo, half-R0xb.2j.6rf. 
 
 Peg Woffington. Choicely printed in Elzevir style. Fcap. 8vo, half-Roxburghe, zs. 6rf. 
 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. In Four Vols., postSvo, with an Introduction by Sir Walter Br- 
 SANT, and a Frontispiece to each Vol., 14^. the set ; and the ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY EDITION, 
 with Illustrations on every page, Two Vols., crown 8vo, dotli gilt, 4aj. net 
 
 Bible Characters. Fcap. 8vo, lea therette, is. 
 
 Selections from the Works of Charles Reade. With an Introduction by Mrs. Alex. Irb- 
 LAND. Crown 8vo. buckram, with Portrait, 6j-. ; CHEAP EDITION, post 8vo. cloth limp, zs. 6rf. 
 
 Riddell (Mrs. J. H.), Novels by. 
 
 Weird Stories. Crown 8vo, clo th extra. 3s. bd. ; post 8vo, Illu strated boards, %i. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, zs. each. 
 The Uninhabited House. j Fairy Water. 
 The Prince of Wales's Garden Party. Her Mother's Darling. 
 The Myste ry in Palac e Gardens. | The Nun's Curse. | Idle Tales. 
 
 Rimmer (Alfred), Works by. Square 8vo, cloth gilt, 75. ^, each. 
 
 Our Old Country Towns. Witli 55 lUustrafions by the Author. 
 
 Rambles Round Eton and Harroiv. With 50 Illustrations by the Author. 
 
 About England with Dickens. With 58 Illustrations by C. A. Vanderhoop and A. RiMMER. 
 
 Rives (Amelie).— Barbara Dering. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 35. 6d. 
 
 post 8vo, illustrated boards, zs. 
 
 Robinson Crusoe. By Daniel Defoe. "With 37 Illustrations by 
 
 George Cruikshank. Post 8vo, half-doth, zs. ; cloth extra, gilt edges, zs. 6d. 
 
 Robinson (F. W.), Novels by. 
 
 Women are Strange. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, ar. 
 
 The Hands of Justice. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ; post 8to, Dlustrated boards, ac 
 
 The Wom an in t he Dark. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3J. 6rf. ^^^^^ 
 
 Robinson (Phil), Works by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 65, each. 
 
 The Poets' Birds. , „ ,., I The Poets' Beasts. 
 
 The Poets and Nature; Reptiles, Fishes, and In se cts. 
 
 Rochefoucauld's Maxims and Moral Reflections. With Notes 
 
 and an Introductory Essay by Sainte-Beuve. PostSvo, cloth limp, zs. 
 
 Roll of Battle Abbey, The : A List of the Principal Warriors who 
 
 came fiom Normandy with William the Conqueror, io66. Printed in Gold and Colours, 5*. 
 
30 CHATTO & VVINDUS, in St. M artin's Lane, London. W.C 
 
 Rosengarten (A.). — A Handbook of Architectural Styles. Trans- 
 
 lated by W. COLLHT T-SANUARS. With 630 IlIustrations._Crown 8vo. cl oth ex tra, ^t. bd. 
 
 Rowley (Hon. Hugh), Works by. Post 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 Puniana : Riddles and Jokes. With numerous Illustrations. 
 
 More Puniana. I'rofuscly Illustrated^^ 
 
 Runciman (James), Stories by. Post 8vo, bds., 25. ea.; cl., 25. 6d. ea. 
 
 Skip pers & Sliellb ac ks. I Grac e Balmalgn's Sweetheart. | Sohool a A Scho la rs. 
 
 Russell (Dora), Novels by. 
 
 A Country Sweetheart. Crown Svo, cloth, 3T. 6d. post 8ro, picture boards, u. 
 The Drift of Fate. Crown Svo, cloth, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Russell (W. Clark), Novels, &c., by. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3J. 6ii. each ; post Svo, illustrated board?, 2j. each ; cloth limp, «. 6d. each. 
 
 The Romance of Jenny Harlowe. 
 
 Round the Galley-Fire. 
 
 In the Middle Watch. 
 
 On the Fo'k'sle Head. 
 
 A Voyage to the Cape. 
 
 A Book for the Hammock. 
 
 The Mystery of the 'Ocean Star.' 
 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 My Shipmate Louise. 
 Alone on a Wide Wide S 
 The Good Ship * Mohock. 
 The Phantom Death, 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, y. Cd. each. 
 
 The Tale Of the Ten. With 12 lUustra- | Is He the Man? I The Convict Ship. 
 
 tions by G. MOM'BARD. | Heart of Oak. | The Last Entry. 
 
 Saint Aubyn (Alan), Novels by. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, y. 6J. each ; post Svo, illustrated boards, ns. each. 
 A Pello5l7 of Trinity. With a Note by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES and a Frontispiece. 
 The Junior Dean. I The Master of St. Benedict's. I To Uia Own Maatert 
 
 Orchard Damerel. 1 In the Face of the World. | 
 
 Fcap. Svo, cloth boards, is. 6d. each- 
 The Old Maid's Sweetheart. | Modest little Sara. 
 
 The Tremlett Diamonds. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 5/. 6d. 
 
 Saint John (Bayle).— A Levantine Family. A New Edition. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth, 3J. 6(^ 
 
 Sala (George A.).— GasI ig ht and Day lig ht. Post 8vo, boards, 25. 
 Saunders (John), Novels by. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, y. 6rf. each ; post Svo, illustrated boards, ir. each. 
 Guy Waterman. | The Lion In the Path. | The Two Dreamers. 
 
 Bound to the Wheel. Cr own Svo, cloth extra, y. 6d. ___^ 
 
 Saunders (Katharine), Novels by. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3^. 6d, each f post 8yo, illustrated boards, aj. eacl^ 
 
 Margaret and Elizabeth. I Heart Salvage. 
 
 The High Mills. I Sebastian. 
 
 Joan Merryweather. Post 8vo. Illustrated boards, ar. 
 Gideon's Rock. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3J. 6rf. 
 
 Scotland Yard, Past and Present : Experiences of Thirty-seven Years. 
 
 By Ex-giief-lnspector CaVANAGH. Post Svo, ill ustrated board s, aj. ; cloth, aj. 6./. 
 
 Secret Out, The : One Thousand Tricks -with Cards ; with Entertain- 
 
 infrUxperiineifts in Drawing-room or 'White' Mastic By W.H.CREMBR. With 300 lllusUations. Crown 
 
 _ Svo, cloth extra, 4 s. td. ^ ^___ 
 
 SegiiTn (L. Q.), Works by. 
 
 The Country of the Passion Play (Oberammergan) and the Hiuhl.Huls of Bavaria. With 
 
 M.ij) and 27 Illustrations. Crown Svo. tlotli extra, y. b.i. 
 Walks ill Algiers. AVith Two Maps and 16 Illustrations. Crown Svo, doUi extra, 6s. 
 
 Senior (Wm.).— By Stream and Sea. Post Svo, cloth. 25. 6d. 
 Sergeant (Adeline).— Dr. EndJcott's Experimen t. Ct. Svo. 3s. 64. 
 Shakespeare for Children: Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare. 
 
 With lUustrations, coloured and plain, by J. MOYR SMITH. Crown 4to. cloth c<lt, y. td. 
 
 Shakespeare the Boy. With Sketches of the Home and School Life, 
 
 the Gaines and Sports, the Manners, Customs, and Folklore of the Tinio. By WILLIAM J. ROUFB, 
 Litt.D. With 42 illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth gilt, 3^. (xix 
 
CtlATTO & WINDUS, 121 St. Martin's Lane, London, W.C. 21 
 
 S harp (William).— Children of To-morrow. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s, 
 Shelley*s (Percy Bysshe) Complete Works in Verse and Prose. 
 
 Edited, Prefaced, and Annotated by R. HERNE SHEPHERD. Five Vols., crown 8vo, cloth, y. td. each. 
 Poetical Works, in Three Vols. : 
 
 Vol. I. Introduction by the Editor ; Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson ; Shelley's Corre- 
 spondence with Stockdale; The Wandering Jew ; Queen Mab, with the Notes ; Alastor, 
 and other Poems ; Rosalind and Helen ; Prometheus Unbound ; Adonais, &c. 
 „ II. Laon and Cythna ; The Cenci; Julian and MaddaJo; Swellfoot the Tyrant; The Witch of 
 
 Atlas ; Epipsychidion ; Hellas. 
 „ IIT. Posthumous Poems ; The Masque of Anarchy ; and other Pieces. 
 Prose Works, in Two Vols. : 
 Vol. I. The Two Romances of Zastrozzl and St. Irvyne ; the Dublin and Marlow Pamphlets ; A Refu- 
 tation of Deism ; Letters to Leigh Hunt, and some Minor Writings and Fragments, 
 w II. The Essays ; Letters from Abroad ; Translations and Fragments, edited by Mrs. SHELLEY. 
 With a Biography of Shelley, and an Index of the Prose Works. 
 *^* Also a few co pie s of a LaRGE-PAPER Edition, s vols., cloth, £2 laj. 6d. 
 
 Sherard (R. H.).— Rogues: A Novel. Crown 8vo. cloth, 15. 6d. 
 
 Sheridan (General P. H.), Personal Memoirs of. With Portraits, 
 
 Maps, and Facsimiles. Two Vols., demy 8vo, cloth, 24J. 
 
 Sheridan's (Richard Brinsley) Complete Works, with Life and 
 
 Anecdotes. Including his Dramatic Writings, his Works in Prose and Poetry, Translations, Speeches, 
 and Jokes. With 10 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3J. 6d. 
 The Rivals, The School for Scandal, and other Plaj-s. Post 8vo, half-bound, ar. 
 Sheridan's Comedies : The Rivals and The School for Scandal. Edited, with an Intro- 
 duction and Notes to each Play, and a Biographical Sketch, by BRANDER MATTHEWS. With 
 Illustrations. Demy 8vo, half-parcliment, i2j. td. 
 
 Sidney's (Sir Philip) Complete Poetical Works, including all 
 
 those in ' Arcadia.' With Portrait, Memorial-Introduction, Notes, &c., by the Rev. A. B. Grosart, 
 D.D. Three Vols., crown 8vo, cloth boards, 3J. 6a?. each. 
 
 Signboards : Their History, including Anecdotes of Famous Taverns and 
 
 Remarkable Characters. By JACOB Larwood and JOHI 
 piece and 94 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, ^s. td. 
 
 Remarkable Characters. By JACOB LARWOOD and JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN. With Coloured Frontis 
 Cr " ... 
 
 Sims (George R.), Works by. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, sj. each ; cloth limp, 2J. 6d. each. 
 
 Dramas of Liife. With 60 Illustrations. 
 
 The Ring o* Bells. 
 Mary Jane's Memoirs* 
 Mary Jane Married. 
 Tinkletop's Crime. 
 
 Zeph : A Circus Story, &c. 
 
 Tales of To-day. __^ 
 
 Crown 8ro, picture cover, w. each ; cloth, ij. 6rf. each. 
 The Dagonet Reciter and Reader: Being Readings and Recitations in Prose and Verse 
 selected from his own Works by GEORGE R. SiMS, 
 
 Memoirs of a Landlady. 
 
 My Two Wives. 
 
 Scenes from the Shoiar. 
 
 The Ten Commandments: Stories. 
 
 M. 
 
 The Case of George Candlemas. I Dagonet Ditties. (From T/u Re/eree.) 
 
 Rogues and Vagabonds. A New Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth, 35. ed. 
 
 How the Poor Liive; and Horrible London. Crown 8vo, picture cover, u. 
 
 Dagonet Abroad. Crown Svo, cioth, 3^. 6d. ; post 8vo, picture boards. 2s. 
 
 Sister Dora: A Biography. By Margaret Lonsdale. With Four 
 
 Illustrations. Demy Svo, picture cover, \d. ; cloth, (xi. 
 
 Sketchley (ArthTtr).— A Match~in~the Dark. Post 8vo, boards, 25 . 
 Slang Dictionary (The) : Etymological, Historical, and Anecdotal. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, (>s. td. 
 
 Smart (Hawley), Novels by. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth, y. td, each ; post Svo, picture boards, 2j. each. 
 
 Beatrice and Benedick. I Witho ut Love or Licence. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth, y. td. each. 
 Long Odds. | The Waste r of Rathkelly. I Th e Outsider. | A Racing Rubber. 
 The Plunger. _ Post Svo, pi cture b oards, 2J. 
 
 Smith (J. Moyr), WoFks by. 
 
 The Prince of Argolis. With 130 Illustrations. Post Svo, cloth extra, y. td. 
 
 The Wooi n g of the Water Witch. With numerous Illustrations. Post Svo, cloth, ts. 
 
 Society in London. Crown 8vo, 15. ; cloth, 15. td. 
 
 Society in Paris: The Upper Ten Thousand. A Series of Letters 
 
 from Count PAtJL VaSILI to a Young French Diplomat. Crown Svo. cloth, ts. 
 
 S omerset (Lord Henry).— Songs of Adieu. Small 4to, Jap, vel., 65. 
 Spalding (T. A., LL.B.).— Elizabethan Demonology: An Essay 
 
 on the Belief in the Existence of Devils. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 5J. 
 
<a CHaTTo & WINbUg, III St Mitftlii*« LaHe, toiidoii. W.C. 
 
 Speight (T. W.), Novels by. 
 
 Post 8vo. Illustrated boards, a/, each. 
 The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. I The Loudwater Tratfedyi 
 
 By Devious Ways, &c. Burc^o's Romance. 
 
 Hoodwinked; & Sandyoroft BUyfltery. Quittance In Full. 
 
 The Golden Hoop. | A Husband Irom (b« Btki 
 
 Back to Ht%, 
 
 Post 8vo, doth limp. is. 6d. each. 
 
 A Barren Tltl*. | Wife o r Mo WllaT 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, y. 6rf. each. 
 A Secret of the Sea. | The Grey Honk. | The Master of TrenanMt 
 A Minion of the Moon : A Romance of the Kind's Highway. 
 
 Spenser for Children. By M. H. Towry. With Coloured Illustrations 
 
 by Walter J. Morgan. Crown 410, cloth extra, s». 6A 
 
 Stafford (John), Novels by. 
 
 Doris and I. Crown 8vo. cloth. 3J. 6d. 
 Carlton Priors. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top, 6x, 
 
 Starry Heavens (The) : A Poetical Birthday Book. Royal i6mo, 
 
 cloth extra, aj. 6rf. 
 
 Stedman (E. C), Works by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 95. each. 
 
 Victorian Poets. | The Poets of America. 
 
 Stephens (Riccardo, M.B.).— The Cruciform Mark: The Strange 
 
 Story of RICHARD TREGENNA, Bachelor of Medicine (Univ. Edinb.) Crown 8vo, cloth, y. 6rf. 
 
 Sterndale (R. Armitage).— The Afghan Knife: A Novel. Crown 
 
 8vo, cloth extra, y. 6d. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2S. 
 
 Stevenson (R. Louis), Works by. Post 8vo, cloth limp, zs. 6d, ea. 
 
 Travels with a Donkey. With a Frontispiece by Walter Cranb. 
 An Inland Voyage. With a I-rontispiece by WALTER Ckanb. 
 
 Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, 6s. each. 
 Famlltar Stndles of Men and Books. 
 The Silverado Squatters. With Frontispiece bv T. D. Strong. 
 The Merry Men. J Underwoods i Poems. 
 
 Memories and Portraits. 
 
 Virginibus Puerisque, and other Papers. | Ballads. | PrlnO* OttO* 
 
 Across the Plains, with other Memories and Essays 
 Weir of Hermiston. (R. L. Stevenson s Last Work.) 
 
 Bongs of Travel. Crown 8vo, buclcram, s^. 
 
 New Arabian Nights. Crown 8vo, buckram, pilt top, 6s. ; post 8yo, Illustrated boards, a*. 
 
 The Suicide Club; and The Rajah's Diamond. (From New Arabian Nights.) Wltk 
 EiK'lit lllustralions by W. J. IlENNUSSY. Crown 8vo. cloth, 3J. 6rf. 
 
 The Edinburgh Edition of the Works of Robert Louis BtCTenson. Twenty-serea 
 Vols., demy 8vo. This Fdition (which is hinitcd to 1,000 copies) is sold in Sets only, the price ol 
 which may be learned from the Uocksellers. The First Volume was published Nov.. 1894. 
 
 Stories from Foreign Novelists. With Notices by Helbn and 
 
 Alice Zimmern. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, y. M. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, or. 
 
 Strani^e Manuscript (A) Found in a Copper Cylinder. Crown 
 
 8vo, cloth extra, with 19 Illustrations by Gilbert Gaul. ss. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, »s. 
 
 Strange Secrets. Told by Percy Fitzgerald, Conan Doylb. Flor- 
 ence MarRYAT, &c. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, af. 
 
 Strutt (Joseph). — The Sports and Pastimes of the People of 
 
 England; includinif the Rural aud Domestic Rcrre.ilions, May (ianics. Mutnmerie*. Shown, &c.. from 
 the Earliest Period to the Present Time. Edited by WILLIAM HUNB. With 140 Illustrations. Crowa 
 8vo. cloth extra, ys. td. 
 
 Swift's (Dean) Choice Works, in Prose and Verse. With Memoir, 
 
 Portrait, and Facsimiles of the Mafis In ' Gulliver's Travels.' Crown 8vo, cloth, y. 6d, 
 Gulliver's Travels, and A Tale of a Tub. Post 8vo, half-hound, •s. 
 Jonathan Swift i A Study. By J. CllUKTON COLLINS, Crown 8vo. cloth extn, 1% 
 
CHATTO & WINDUS, in St. Martin's Lane, London, W.C. aj 
 
 Swinburne (Algernon C), Works by. 
 
 Selections from the Poetical Works of 
 
 A. C. Svirinburne. Fcap. 8vo 6s. 
 Atalanta In Calydon. Crown 8vo, 6j. 
 Chastelard : A Tragedy. Crown 8vo, js. 
 Poems and Ballads. First Series. Crown 
 
 8vo, or fcap. Svo, gs. 
 
 Poems and Ballads. Second Series. Crown 
 
 8vo, 9J. 
 
 Poems & Ballads. Third Series. Cr. 8vo, 7s. 
 Bongs before Sunrise. Crown Svo, 10^. sd. 
 Both well : A Tragedy. Crown Svo. i2j. 6d. 
 Songs of Two Nations. Crown Svo, 6.r. 
 George Chapman. (5<r<f Vol. II. of G. CHXr- 
 
 MANS Works.) Crown Svo, 3J. 6<i. 
 Essays and Studies. Crown Svo, ns. 
 Erechtheus : A Tragedy. Crown Svo, dr. 
 A Note on Charlotte Bronte. Cr. Svo, 6r. 
 
 A Study of Shakespeare. Crown Svo, 8r. 
 
 Songs of the Springtides. Crown Svo, 6x. 
 
 Studies in Song. Crown Svo, yj. 
 
 Mary Stuart: A Tragedy. Crown 8to, S*. 
 
 Tristram of Lyonesse. Crown Svo, gs. 
 
 A Century of Roundels. Small 410, 8r. 
 
 A Midsummer Holiday. Crown Svo, 7*. 
 
 Marino Faliero : A Tragedy. Crown Svo, tt, 
 
 A Study of Victor Hugo. Crown 8»o, is. 
 
 Miscellanies. Crown Svo, i2.r. 
 
 Iiocrine : A Tragedy. Crown Svo, 6s. 
 
 A Study of Ben Jonson. Crown 8t«. ft. 
 
 The Sisters : A Tragedy. Crown Svo, 6s. 
 
 Astrophel, &c. Crown Svo, js. 
 
 Studies in Prose and Poetry. Cr.trs, 9;. 
 
 The Tale of Balen. Crown Svo. IS. 
 
 Syntax's (Dr.) Three Tours : In Search of the Picturesque, in Search 
 
 of Consolation, and in Search of a Wife. With ROWLANDSON'S Coloured Illustrations, and Life of the 
 Author by J. C. HOTTEN. Crown Svo, cloth extra, js. 6d. 
 
 Taine*s History of English Literature. Translated by Henry Van 
 
 Laun. Four Vols., smaU demy Svo, cloth boards, 30J.— POPULAR Edition, Two Vols., large crown 
 Svo, cloth extra, 15s. 
 
 Taylor (Bayard). — Diversions of the Echo Club: Burlesques of 
 
 Modem Writers. Post Svo, cl oth liinp, gj. 
 
 Taylor (Tom). — Historical Dramas. Containing 'Clancarty,' 
 
 'Jeanne Dare,' "Twixt Axe and Crown," The Fool's Revenge, 'Arkwright's Wife,' 'Anne Boleyn, 
 • Plot and Passion. Crown Svo, cloth extra, js. f>d. 
 
 ♦*♦ The Plays may also be had separately, at r j. each. 
 
 Tennyson (Lord) : A Biographical Sketch. By H. J. Jennings. Post 
 
 Svo, portrait cover, is. ; cloth, u. 6d. 
 
 Thackerayana : Notes and Anecdotes. With Coloured Frontispiece and 
 
 Hundreds of Sketches by WILLIAM MAKEPEA C E THACK E RAY. Crow n Svo, cloth extra, 7J. 6d. 
 
 Thames, A New Pictorial History of the. By A. S. Kraussb. 
 
 With 340 Illustrations. Post Svo, picture cover, i.r. 
 
 Thiers (Adolphe). — History of the Consulate and Empire of 
 
 France under Napoleon. Translated by D. FORBES CAMPBELL and JOHN STEBBING. With 36 Steel 
 Plates. 12 Vols., demy Svo, cloth extra, izj. each. 
 
 Thomas (Bertha), Novels by. Cr. 8vo, cl.,3s. ei.ea.; post Svo, 25. ea. 
 
 The Ylolln-Player. | Proud Ma isie. 
 
 Creaslda. Post Svo, illustrated boards, ar. 
 
 Thomson's Seasons, and The Castle of Indolence. With Intro- 
 
 duction by ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, and 48 Illustrations. Post Svo, half-bound, 3J. 
 
 Thornbury (Walter), Books by. 
 
 The liife and Correspondence of J. M. W. Tamer. With Eight Illustrations la Colours and 
 
 Two Woodcuts. New and Re vised Edition. Crown Svo. doth, 3J. 6d. 
 
 Post Svo illustrated boards, is. each. 
 
 Old Storlea Re-told. I Tales for the Martaea. 
 
 Tlmbs (John), Works by. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 75. 6i. each. 
 
 The History of Clubs and Club Life In London: Anecdotes of ite Famous Coffee-houses, 
 
 Hostelries, and Taverns. With 42 lUuptrations. 
 English Eccentrics and Eccentricities: Stories of Delusions, Impostures, Sportinsr Scenes, 
 Eccentric Artists, Theatrical Folk. &c. Witli 48 Illustrations. 
 
 Transvaal (The). By John db Villiers. With Map. Crown Svo, i|. 
 Trollope (Anthony), Novels by. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, y. 6d. each ; post 8to, illustrated boards, 2J, eaek. 
 The Way We Liye New. I Mr. Scarborough'q Family* 
 
 Frau Frohmann. |_The_Land-Lea<u«r». 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, is. each. 
 Kep$ In the Dark. I The American Senator. 
 Th6 OoldeH Lion of 6ranpere. | John Caldlgate. | Marlon Fay. 
 
 Trollope (Frances E.), Novels by. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3J. 6rf. each ; post Svo, Illustrated boards, *s. eack. 
 ]UK9 iJ»IP» V»o^ the Be*.' | Uftbal'S PrQ:tr«i«9, | 4^c« Fujnttflj, 
 
" «i CHATTO & WINDUS. in St. Martin's Lane. Londo n. W.C. 
 
 Trollope (T. A.).— Diamond Cut Diamond. Post 8vo. illust. bds., 21, 
 Trowbridge (J. T.).— Farnell's Folly. Post 8vo. illust. boards, 25. 
 Twain's (Mark) Books. 
 
 Crown 8ro, cloth extra, 31. 6d. each. 
 The Choice 'Works or Mark Twain. Revised and Corrected througrhout by the Author. WUk 
 
 I-ife, I'ortrnit, and mmiero-.is Illustrations. 
 Roughing It ; and The Innocents at Home. With aoo Illustrations by F. A. FraSER, 
 The American Claimant. With 81 Illustrations by Hal Hurst and others. 
 Tom Sawyer Abroad. With 26 Illustrations by Dan Beard. 
 Tom Sawyer, Deteotlire, &c. With Photogravure Portrait. 
 Pudd'nhead Wilson. With Portrait and Six Iinustrations by LOUIS LOHB. 
 Mark Twain's Library of Humour. With 197 lUustrations by E. W, Kemblb. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 31. 6rf. each ; post 8vo, picture boards, «. each. 
 A Tramp Abroad. With 314 Illustrations. 
 The Innocents Abroad 5 or. The New Pilgrriin s Progress. With 234 Illustrations. (The Two ShiV 
 
 lingr lidition is entitled Mark Twain's Pleasure Trip.) 
 The Gilded Age. By Mark Twain and C. D. Warner. With 21a Illustrations. 
 The Adventures ot Tom Sawyer. With m Illustrations. 
 The Prince and the Pauper, with 190 Illustrations. 
 Life on the Mississippi. With 300 Illustrations. 
 
 The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. With 174 HlustraHons by E. W. Kemblb. 
 A Yankee at the Court of Kintf Arthur. With 320 Illustrations by DA.N BfiARD. 
 The Stolen White Elephant. 
 The £1.000,000 Bank-Note. 
 
 Mark Twain's Sketches. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, as. 
 
 Personal Recollectlona of Joan o( Aro.- With Twelve Illustrations by F. V. Du UOND. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. 
 More Tramps Abroad. Crown 8vo, cloth, e>lt top, 6t. « [Um, 
 
 Tytler (C, C. Fraser-).— Mistress Judith: A Novel. Crown 8vo, 
 
 cloth extra, y. 6d. ; post 8vo, Illustrated boards, aj. 
 
 Tytler (Sarah), Novels by. 
 
 Crown 8vo, doth extra. 3s. M. each ; post «vo. Illustrated boards, as. each 
 Lady BelL 1 Burled Dlamonda. | Tha BlaokhaJl Ghoata* 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, as. each. 
 What She Came Through. I The Huguenot Family, 
 
 Citoyenno Jacqueline, I Noblesse Oblige. 
 
 The Bride's Pass. I Beauty and tlia Beast* 
 
 Saint Mungo'a City. I Disappeared. 
 
 The Maedonald Lasa. With Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3^. 6d. 
 
 The WltCh-Wife. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3^. 6rf. [SM^rfff, 
 
 Upward (Allen), Novels by. 
 
 A Crown of Straw. Crown 8vo, cloth, &f. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, y. 6d, each ; i>ost 8vo, picture boards, as. each. 
 Tha Queen Against Owen. | The Prince of Baiklstan. 
 
 • Cod Save the Queen ! ' a Tale of '37. Crown 8vo, decorated cover, ts ; cloth, a*. 
 
 Vashti and Esther. By 'Belle' of The Wofld. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 35. 6d. 
 Vizetelly (Ernest A.).— The Scorpion: A Romance of Spain. With 
 
 a I-roatispiece. Crown 8vo. cloth extra. 3J. 6J. 
 
 Walford (Edward, M.A.), Works by. ' 
 
 Watford's County Families of tha United Kingdom (1808). Contalnlni; the De<:c<>nt, 
 
 nirth. Marri.iire, l-,diic.ii ion. &c., of 12.000 Heads of l-aiuilics, their Heirs, Offices. Adarcsscs. Clubs, 
 
 iVc. Royal 8vo, cloth i:ilt, 501. 
 Walford's Shilling Peerage (1898). Containing a List of the House of Lords. Scotch and 
 
 Irish Peers, &c, s-.'ino, cloili, is. 
 Walford's Shilling Baronetage (1808). Containing a List of the Baronets of the United 
 
 Kingdom, nu)^.'r.^l)llical Notices, Addresses, &c. 331110. cloth, ts. 
 Walford's Shilling Knightage (1808). Containinsr • List of the Kniirhts of Ute United 
 
 Kli»f*'iiin. liloi.'rai>liicul Notices. Addresses. Jtc. 3-Jiuo, cloth, I*. 
 Waltor d's Shilling House of Commons (1808). Containing a List of all the Mwnben of the 
 
 New Parliament, their Addresses, Club., Arc. 32mo. cloth, ix. 
 Walford's Complete Peerage, Baronetag9, KnlghtagOt 8nd Houaa of Commona 
 
 (1898). Koyal 3MU0, clolll. Bllt Cilfcs. if. ^ 1/m I/u /rtsf. 
 
CHATTQ &. WlNbUS. iti St. Martinis Lafle. Londofl. W.C. Jg 
 
 Waller (5. E.).— Sebastiani's Secret. With Nine full -page Illus- 
 trations by the Author. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. 
 
 Walton and Cotton's Complete Angler ; or, The Contemplative 
 
 Man's Recreation, by IZAAK WALTON ; and Instructions How to Angle, for a Trout or Grayling in a 
 clear Stream, by CHARLES COITON. With Memoirs and Notes by Sir HARRIS NlCX)LAS, and 6x 
 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth antique, yj. bd. 
 
 Walt Whitman, Poems by. Edited, with Introduction, by William 
 
 M. ROSSETTI. With Portrait. Crown 8vo, hand-made paper and buckram, 6f. 
 
 Ward (Herbert), Books by 
 
 Five Years with the Congo Cam 
 
 My Life with Stanley's Rear Guard. With Map. Post 8to, is. ; cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 Five Years with the Congo Cannibals. With 93 Illustrations. Royal 8vo, doth, 14*. 
 """ ~ ■" ~ ' ClO' " 
 
 Warner (Charles Dudley).— A Roundabout Journey. Crown 8vo, 
 
 cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 Warrant to Execute Charles I. A Facsimile, with the 59 Signatures 
 
 and Seals. Printed on paper 22 in. by 14 In. as. 
 Warrant to Execute Mary Queen ot Soots. A Facsimile, includinc: Queen Elizabeth's Signa- 
 ture and the Great SeaL zs. 
 
 Washington's (George) Rules of Civility Traced to their Sources 
 
 and Restored by MONCURH D. CONWAY. Fcap. 8vo, Japanese vellum, ay. 6d. 
 
 Wassermann (Lillias) and Aaron Watson.— The Marquis of 
 
 Carabas. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, as. 
 
 Weather, How to Foretell the, with the Pocket Spectroscope. 
 
 By F. W. CORY. With Ten Illustrations. Crown 8vo, is. ; cloth, is. 6d, 
 
 Westall (William), Novels by. 
 
 Trust-Money. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, es. ; doth. as. 6d, 
 
 Sons of Belial. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, y. 6d. 
 
 With the Red Eagle: A Romance of the Tyrol. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. 
 
 Westbury (Atha).— The Shadow of Hilton Fernbrook: A Ro- 
 
 mance of Maoriland- Crown 8vo, cloth, y. 6d. 
 
 White (Gilbert).— The Natural History of Selborne. Post 8vo, 
 
 printed on laid paper and half-bound, as. 
 
 Williams (W. Mattieu, F.R.A.S.), Works by. 
 
 Science In Short Chapters. Crown Svo, cloth extra, ^s. 6d. 
 
 A Simple Treatise on Heat. "With Illustrations. Crown Svo. doth, as. 6d. 
 
 The Chemistry of Cookery. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, ftr. 
 
 The Chemistry of Iron and Steel Mailing. Crown Svo, cloth extra, gj. 
 
 A Ylndlcation of Phrenology. With Portrait and 43 lUusts. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, las. 6d. 
 
 Williamson (Mrs. F. H.).— A Child Widow. Post 8vo. bds., 25. 
 Wills (C. J.), Novels by. 
 
 An Easy-going Fello'W. Crown Svo, doth, y. 6d. 
 His Dead Past. Crown Svo, cloth, 6s. 
 
 Wilson (Dr. Andrew, F.R.S.E.), Works by. 
 
 Chapters on Evolution. With 259 Illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth extra, ^s. 6d, 
 
 Leaves from a Naturalist's Note-Book. Post Svo, cloth limp, as. 6rf. 
 
 Leisure-Time Studies. With Illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6s . 
 
 Studies in Life and Sense. With numerous Illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6j. 
 
 Common Accidents: How to Treat Them. With lllirstrations. Crown 8vo, u. ; cloth, is.6d. 
 
 Glimpses of Nature. With 35 Illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3J. 6<i. 
 
 Winter (John Strange), Stories by. Post Svo, illustrated boards, 
 
 as. each ; cloth limp, as. 6d. each. 
 Cavalry Life. \ Regi mental Legends. 
 
 Cavalry Life and Regimental Legends. Library Edition, set in new type and hand- 
 somely liound. Crown Svo, cloth, 5J. 6d. 
 
 A Soldier's Children. With 34 Illustrations by E. G. THOMSON and E. STUART HARDY. Crown 
 8vo, cloth extra, jr. 6d. 
 
 Wissmaan (Hermann von). — My Second Journey through 
 
 Equator ial Africa. With 92 Illustrations. Demy Svo, doth, its. 
 
 Wood (H. F,), Detective Stories by. Post Svo, boards, zs. each. 
 Tbs Passenger from B«otlana Yard. | Zhf EnfUtlunAn of |ta« B«« Gain. 
 
i6 CHAfto & \ViNbli^. iti St. Martin's Lane, Loddon. W.6. 
 
 .-n 
 
 W ood (Lady).— Sabina: A Novel. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 Woolley (Ceiia Parker).— Rachel Armstrong; or, Love and The 
 
 olofrjr. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, is. ; cloth, zs. 6rf. 
 
 WrigfU ITholiiasyrWorkslby 
 
 ' e Caricature History of the G< 
 story pr Caricature and of th 
 
 'Minting. Illiisiratedby F. W. FaikIM 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 75. 6d. each. 
 
 Vith 400 Caricatures. Squibs, &c. 
 otesqua In Aft. Uterature* Soulptara, and 
 
 She Caricature History of the Georjfea. Vith 400 Caricatures. Squibs, Sec 
 is.tofy Qf Caricature and of the Grotesque - - - 
 
 Wynman (Margaret).— My Flirtations. 
 
 J. Bernard Partridge. Post 8vo. cloth limp. 21. 
 
 With 13 Illustrations by 
 
 Yates (Edmund), Novels by. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 Land at Last. I The Forlorn Hope. I Caitaway. 
 
 Zangwlll (L). — Ghetto Tragedies. 
 
 A. S. BOYD. Fcap. «vo, cloth, as. ret. 
 
 With Three Illustrations by 
 
 •Z. Z.' (Louis Zangwill).— A Nineteenth Century Miracle. Cr. 
 
 8 yo, cloth, y . 6i. 
 
 Zola (Emile), Novels by. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3^. 6d. each. 
 
 His Excellency (Eugene Rougon). With an Introduction by ERNBST A. ViZBTELLY. 
 The Dram-Shop (L'Assommolr). Edited by E. A. ViZHTHLLY. 
 The Fat and the Thin. Translated by ERNEST A. ViZSTXIXY. 
 Money. Translated by ERNEST A. VIZETELLY. 
 The Downfall. Translated by E. A. ViZETELLY. 
 
 The Dream. Translated by Eliza CHASE. With Eifrht Illustrations by JEANNIOT. 
 Doctor Pascal. Translated by E. A. ViZETELLY. With Portrait •/ tlkc Author. 
 Lourdes. Translated by ERNEST A. ViZETELLY. 
 Rome. Translated by ERNEST A. ViZETHLLY. 
 Paris . Tran slated by Ernest A. Vizetelly. f /x ^re/armfi^n. 
 
 SOME BOOKS CLASSIFIED IN SERIES. 
 
 *** For fuller cataloguing, see alphabetical arrangement, pp. 1-26. 
 
 The Mayfair Library. 
 
 Post Svo, cloth limp, 2s. 6<f. per Volume, 
 
 A Journey Round My Room. By X. de Maistrb. 
 
 Translated by Sir HENRY ATrVVELL. 
 Quip« and Quidditle*. By W.D. ADAMS. 
 The Agon/ Co!umn of 'The Times.' 
 Uelancholy Anatomiied : Abridgment of BURTON. 
 Poetical In?enuitiei. By W. T. DOBSON. 
 The Cupboard Paperi. By FlM-BEC, 
 W. 8. Ollberfi Playi. Three Scries. 
 Songi of Iriih Wit and Humour. 
 Animals and their Masters. By Sir A Hblts. 
 Social Pressure. By Sir A. HELPS. 
 Curiosities of Criticism. By H. J. JENNINGS. 
 The Autocrat of the BreaUaat-Tsbl*. By OLIVRR 
 
 Wenoell Holmes. 
 Pencil and Palette. By R. KEMPT. 
 Little Essays: from LAMB'S I.KITERS. 
 Forensic Anecdotes. By Jacob Larwootj^ 
 
 Theatrical Anecdotes. By Jacob Larwood. 
 Witch Stories. By K. I-YNN I.inton. 
 Ourii«lves. By E. Lynn I-inton. 
 Pastimes and Players. By R. Macgrrgor. 
 Mew Paul and Virginia. By W. H. MallocK. 
 The New Republic. By W. H. Mallock. 
 Puck on Pegasus. By H. C. Pennhll, 
 Pegasus Re saddled. By H. C. I'enneli.. 
 Muses of Mayfair. Edited by H. C. Pennbli.. 
 Thoreau : His Life and Aims. By H. A. PaCS. 
 Pu:iiana. By Hon.JIUCH ROWLEY. 
 More Punlana. By Hon. HUGH RoWLBY. 
 The Philosophy of Handwriting. 
 By Stream and Sea. By William Senior. 
 Leaves from a Naturaliit's Mote-Book. By Dr. 
 Andrew Wilson. 
 
 The Golden Library. Post 8vo, cloth limp, as. per volume. 
 
 Diversions of the Echo Club. Bayard Taylor. 
 Songs for Sailors. By W. C. Benneit. 
 Liver of the Nerromnncers. By W. Godwin. 
 The Po«ti?.Tl Works of Alexander Pope. 
 Scenes of Country Life. By Edward Jk.ssr. 
 Tale for a Chimney Comer. By Leigh Hunt. 
 
 The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. B 
 
 (ILIVER WENDKLL hoi. M us. 
 La Mort d'Arthur : Selections from MallORY. 
 Provincial Letters of Blaise Pascal. 
 Maxims and Beilectioni of RochefoacaoM. 
 
 Handy Novels. Fcap. Svo, cloth boards, IS. 60, each. 
 The Old Mald'i Sweetheart. By A. ST. AUBYN. l A Lost Soul. By W. L. Aldrn. 
 Modest Little Sara. By ALAN ST. AUBYN. Dr. Pallisers Patient. By Grant ALLRN. 
 
 Seven Sleepf-rs of Ephesus. M. E. COLERIDCB. Monte Carlo Stories. By Joan Barrett. 
 
 Taken from the En emy. By H . New BOLT. ' Black SpiriU and White. By R. A. Cram. 
 
 My Library, Printed on laid paper post Svo, half-RoxburRhe, as. 6</. each. 
 ClUtlon and Examination of William Bhakspeare. ' Christie Johnstone. By Charles Rraob. 
 
 By W. s. Landor. Peg Woffington. By Charles Rradk. 
 The Journal of Maurice de Ouerin^ ' The Dramatic Eseays of Charles Lamb. 
 
 The Poclcet Library. Post 8vo, printed on laid paper and hf..bd., as. each. 
 
 White's Natural History of Selborae. 
 Gulliver s Travels. Ac. By IVan Swift. 
 Plays hv KlLII^HI) Hkinsi.rv SIIERIDAN. 
 AnecdotPi of the Clerirv- Hy J acoh LaRWOOD. 
 Thomson s Seasons l!lir,tr4ted. 
 Autocrat or th« Breakfast Tiwble and The Prefesesr 
 at the Breakfsat Table. By O. W. Holmks. 
 
 The Essays of Ella. By Charles Lamb. 
 Robinson Crusoe. Illustrated by G. Cruikshank. 
 Whims and Oddities. By Thomas Hood. 
 The Barber s Chair By Douglas Ihrrold. 
 Oastronomy. By Brillat-Savarin. 
 The Epicurean. See. Hy THOMAS MOORB. 
 Iielch Hunt's Bssare. Kdlied bv E. i)LLiRR. 
 
CHATTO & WINDUS, iii St. Martin's Lane, London, W.C. 
 
 »7 
 
 i THE PICCADILLY NOVELS. 
 
 f Library Editions of Novels, many Illustrated, crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3$. 6d. each. 
 
 By Mrs. ALEXANDER. 
 
 A Life Interest | Mona's Choice i By Woman'i Wit 
 
 By F. M. ALLEN. 
 Green as Grass. 
 
 By GRANT ALLEN. 
 
 The Great Taboo. 
 Dumaresq's Daughter. 
 Duchess of Fowysland. 
 Blood RoyaL 
 Ivan Grtdt's Master- 
 piece. 
 The Scallywag. 
 At Market Value. 
 Under Sealed Orders 
 
 PhiUstla. 
 
 Strange Storiei. 
 
 Babylon. 
 
 For Maimie'B Sako, 
 
 In all Shades. 
 
 The Beckoning Hand. 
 
 The Devils Die. 
 
 This Mortal CoU. 
 
 The Tents of ghem. 
 
 By MARY ANDERSON. 
 Othello's Occnpation. 
 
 By EDWIN L. ARNOLD. 
 Phra the Phoenician. | Constable of St. Nicholas. 
 
 By ROBERT BARR. 
 In a Steamer Chair. 1 A Woman Intervenes. 
 From Whose Bourne. | Revenge I 
 
 By FRANK BARRETT. 
 The Woman of the Iron Bracelets. 
 The Harding Scandal. | A Missing Witness. 
 
 By 'BELLE.' 
 Vathti and Esther. 
 By Sir W. BESANT and J. RICE. 
 
 Eeady-MoneyMortlboy. 
 Mv Little Girl. 
 With Harp and Crown. 
 This Son of Vulcan. 
 The Golden Eutterf j. 
 The Monks of Theleina. 
 
 By Celia's Arbour. 
 Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 The Seamy Side. 
 The Case of Mr. Lncraft. 
 In Trafalgar 8 Bay. 
 The Ten Years' Tenant. 
 
 By Sir WALTER BESANT. 
 
 All Sorts and Condi 
 
 tions of Men. 
 The Captains' Room. 
 All in a Garden Fair. 
 Dorothy Forstar. 
 Uncle Jack. 
 The World Went Very 
 
 Well Then. 
 Children of Glbeon. 
 Herr Paulus. 
 For Faith and Freedom. 
 To Call Her Mine. 
 The Revolt of Man. 
 
 By PAUL BOURQET. 
 A Living Lie. 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 The Bell of St. Paul's. 
 The Holy Rose. 
 Armorel of Lyonesse. 
 S.Katherine's by Tower 
 Verbena Camellia Ste- 
 
 phanotis. 
 The Ivory Gate. 
 The Rebel Queen. 
 Beyond the Dreams of 
 
 Avarice. 
 The Master Craftsman. 
 The City of Refuge. 
 
 The New Abelard. 
 Matt. I Ra hel Dene. 
 Master of th : Mine. 
 The Heir of Linne. 
 Woman and the Man. 
 Red and White Heather. 
 Lady KUpatrick. 
 
 MURRAY. 
 
 Shadow of the Sword 
 
 A Child of Nature. 
 
 God and the Man. 
 
 Martyrdom of Madeline 
 
 Love Me for Ever. 
 
 Annan Water. 
 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 
 ROB. BUCHANAN & HY 
 
 The Charlatan 
 
 By J. MITCHELL CHAPPLE. 
 The Minor Chord 
 
 By HALL CAINB. 
 The Shadow of a Crime. I The Deemster. 
 A Son of Hagar. | 
 
 By ANNE COATES. 
 RIe's Diary. 
 
 By MACLAREN COBBAN. 
 
 Tie Red Sulton. I The Burden of IsabeL 
 
 By WILKIE COLLINS 
 
 Armadale. T AfterDark. 
 No Name. | Antonina 
 Basil. I Hide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret. 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 My Miscellanies. 
 The Woman in White. 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife. 
 Poor Miss Flnob. 
 Miss or Mrs. 7 
 The New Magdalen. 
 The Frosen Dsop. 
 
 The Two Destinies. 
 The Law and the Lady. 
 The Haunted Hotel. 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 Jezebels Daughter. 
 The Black Robe. 
 Heart and Scienc*. 
 ' I Say No.' 
 Little Novels. 
 The EvU Genius. 
 The Legacy of Cala. 
 A Rogue's Life. 
 Blind Loyo. 
 
 ^y MORT. & FRANCES COLLINS. 
 
 Transmigration. | From Midnight to Mid. 
 
 Blacksmith & Scholar. night. 
 
 The Village Comedy. | You Play me False. 
 
 By E. H. COOPER. 
 
 Oeoffory Hamilton. 
 
 By V. CECIL COTES. 
 
 Two Girls on a Barge. 
 
 By C. EGBERT CRADDOCK. 
 
 His Vanished Star. 
 
 By H. N. CRELLIN. 
 
 Romances of the Old Seraglio. 
 
 By MATT CRIM. 
 
 The Adventures of a Fair Rebel. 
 
 By S. R. CROCKETT and others. 
 
 Tales of Our Coast. 
 
 By B. M. CROKER. 
 
 The Real Lady Hlldk. 
 Married or Single ? 
 Two Masters. 
 IntheKingdom of Kerry 
 Interference. 
 A Third Person, 
 
 Diana Barrington. 
 Proper Pride. 
 A Family Likeness. 
 Pretty Miss NevUle. 
 A Bird of Passage. 
 'To Let." I Mr. Jervls. 
 Village Tales ft Jungle 
 Tragedies. 
 
 By WILLIAM CYPLES. 
 Hearts of Gold. 
 
 By ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 
 The Evangelist ; or, Port Salvation. 
 
 By H. COLEMAN DAVIDSON. 
 
 Mr. Sadler's Daughters. 
 
 By ERASMUS DAWSON. 
 The Fountain of Youth. 
 
 By JAMES DE MILLE. 
 A Castle in Spain. 
 
 By. J. LEITH DERWENT. 
 Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Lovers. 
 
 By DICK DONOVAN. 
 Tracked to Doom. I TheMystery of Jamaica 
 
 Man from Manchester. | Terrace. 
 The Chronicles of Michael Danevitch. 
 
 By RICHARD DOWLINQ. 
 Old Corcoran s Money. 
 
 By A. CONAN DOYLE. 
 The Finn of Girdlestone. 
 
 By S. JEANNETTE DUNCAN. 
 A Daughter of To day. | Vernon's Aunt. 
 By Q. MANVILLE FENN. 
 The New Mistress. I The Tiger Lily. 
 
 Witness to the Deed. | The White Virgin. 
 
 By PERCY FITZGERALD. 
 Fatal Zero. 
 
 By R. E. FRANCILLON. 
 One by One. i Ropes of Sand. 
 
 A Dog and his Shadow. Jack Doyle s Daughter. 
 A Real Queen. I 
 
 Prefaced by Sir BARTLE FRERE. 
 Pandurang Hari. 
 
 BY EDWARD GARRETT. 
 The Capel Girls. 
 
 By PAUL GAULOT. 
 The Red Shirts. 
 
 By CHARLES GIBBON. 
 Eobln Gray. I Of High Degree. 
 
 Loving a Dream. | The Golden Shaft. 
 
 By E. GLANVILLE. 
 The Lost Heiress. I The Golden Rock. 
 
 A Fair Colonist. Tales from the Veldt 
 
 The Fosslcker. 1 
 
 By E. J. GOODMAN. 
 The Fate of Herbert Wayne. 
 
 By Rev. S. BARING GOULD. 
 Red Spider. | Eve. 
 
 By CECIL GRIFFITH. 
 Corlntbla Marazion. 
 
a8 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, in St. Martin's Lane, London. W.C. 
 
 The Piccadilly (3/6) Novevs— continued. 
 
 By SYDNEY GRUNDY. 
 The Dayi of his Vanltv. 
 
 By OWEN HALL. 
 
 The Track of a Storm. | Jetsam. 
 
 By THOMAS HARDY. 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 
 By BRET HARTE. 
 
 A Waif of the Plains. 
 A Ward of the Golden 
 Gate. [Springs. 
 
 A Bappho of Green 
 Col. Btarbottle's Client. 
 Busy. I Sally Dows. 
 BeU-Binger of Angel's 
 
 A Frot(-gee of Jack 
 
 Hamlin «. 
 Clarence. 
 Barker's Luck. 
 Devil's Ford, [celslor.* 
 The Crusade of the ' Ex- 
 Three Partners. 
 
 By JULIAN Hawthorne. 
 
 Beatrix Randolph. 
 David Poindexters DU- 
 
 appearance. 
 The Spectre 
 
 Camera. 
 
 of the 
 
 Oartb. 
 
 Elllce Quentln. 
 
 Sebastian Strome. 
 
 Dust. 
 
 Fortune's Fool. 
 
 By Sir A. HELPS. 
 Ivan de Biron. 
 
 By I. HENDERSON. 
 Agatha Page. 
 
 By a. A. HENTY. 
 Rujnl) the Juggler. I The Queens Cup, 
 Dorothy's Double. I 
 
 By JOHN HILL. 
 The Common Ancestor. 
 
 By Mrs. HUNGERFORD. 
 Lady "Verner's Plight. I Nora Creina. 
 The Red House Mystery An Anxious Moment 
 The Three Graces. | April's Lady. 
 
 Professor's Experiment. I Peter's Wife. 
 A Point of Conscience. 
 
 By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
 The Leaden Casket. I Self Condemned. 
 That Other Person. | Mrs. Juliet. 
 
 By C. J. CUTCLIFFE HYNE. 
 Honour of Thieves. 
 
 By R. ASHE KING. 
 A Drawn Game. 
 
 By EDMOND LEPELLETIER. 
 Madame Sana G^ne. 
 
 By HARRY LINDSAY. 
 Khoda Roberts. 
 
 By HENRY W. LUCY. 
 Gideon Flevce. 
 
 By E. LYNN LINTON. 
 
 Patricia Eemball 
 Under which Lord 7 
 ' My Love I ' | Zone. 
 Paston Carew. 
 Sowing the Wind 
 
 The Atonement of Learn 
 
 Dundas. 
 The World WeU Lost. 
 The One Too Many. 
 Dulcle Everton. 
 
 By JUSTIN McCarthy. 
 
 A Fair Baxon 
 Linley Rochford. 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 Camiola. 
 
 Waterdale Neighbours, 
 My Enemy'! Daughter. 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 
 Donna Quixote. 
 
 Maid of Athens. 
 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
 The Dictator. 
 
 Red Diamonds. 
 
 The Riddle Blng. 
 
 The Three Disgraces. 
 
 By JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY. 
 
 A London Legend. I The Royal Christopher. 
 
 By GEORGE MACDONALD. 
 Heather and Snow. | Pbantastes. 
 
 By L. T. MEADE. 
 A Soldier or Fortune. I The Voice of the 
 In an Iron Grip. I Charmer. 
 
 By L. T. MEADE and CLIFFORD 
 HALIFAX. M.D. 
 Dr. Rumsey'i Patient. 
 
 By LEONARD MERRICK. 
 This Stage of Fools. | Cynthia. 
 
 By BERTRAM MlfTFORD. 
 
 The Gun Runner. I The King s Assegai. 
 
 The Luck of Gerard Renshaw Fannlng'i 
 Ridgeley. | Quest. 
 
 By J. E. MUDDOCK. 
 Maid Harlan and Robin Hood. 
 Baelle the Jester. i Young Lochlnrar. 
 
 By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
 
 Cynic Fortune. 
 The Way of the World. 
 BobMartln's Uttle QirL 
 Time's Revenges. 
 A Wasted Crime. 
 In Direst Peril. 
 Mount Despair. 
 A Capful o' Nailj. 
 Tales and Poems. 
 
 A Life's Atonement. 
 Joseph's Coat. 
 Coals of Fire. 
 Old Blazer's Hero. 
 Val Strange. | Hearts. 
 A Model Father. 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 First Person Singular. 
 
 By MURRAY and HERMAN. 
 The Bishops' Bible. I Paul Jones s Alias. 
 One Traveller Returns. | 
 
 By HUME NISBET. 
 ' Ball Up I ■ 
 
 By W. E. NORRIS. 
 Saint Ann s. | BiUy Bellew. 
 
 By a. OHNET. 
 A Weird Gift. 
 
 By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 
 The Sorceress. 
 
 By OUIDA. 
 
 Held In Bondage 
 
 Btrathmore. 
 
 Chandos. 
 
 Under Two Flags. 
 
 Idalia. [Gage. 
 
 Cecil Castlemaine'i 
 
 Tricotrin. | Puck. 
 
 Folle Farine. 
 
 A Dog of Flanders. 
 
 Pa^carel. | Signa. 
 
 Princess Napraxine. 
 
 Ariadne. 
 
 Two Little Wooden 
 
 In a Winter City. 'Shoes 
 
 Friendship. 
 
 Moths. I 
 
 PlplstreUo. 
 
 A Village Commune. 
 
 Bimbi. I Wanda. 
 
 Frescoes. | Othmar. 
 
 In Maremma. 
 
 Byrlm. | GuUderoy. 
 
 Santa Barbara. 
 
 Two Offenders. 
 
 By MARGARET A. PAUL. 
 
 Gentle and Simple. 
 
 By JAMES PAYN. 
 
 Lost Sir Massingberd. —-^ "-«-" 
 Less Black than We.re 
 
 Painted. 
 A Confidential Agent 
 A Grape from a Thorn. 
 In Peril and Privation. 
 The Mystery of Mir- 
 By Proxy. [bridge. 
 
 The Canon's Ward. 
 Walter s Word. 
 
 High Spirits. 
 Under une Roof. 
 Glow-worm Tales. 
 The Talk of the Towa. 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 For Cash Only. 
 The Burnt Million. 
 The Word and the WllL 
 Bunny Stories. 
 A Trying Patient. 
 
 By WILL PAYNE. 
 
 Jerry the Dreamer. 
 
 By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED. 
 
 Outlaw and Lawmaker. I Mrs. Tregoskiia. 
 Christina Chard. | 
 
 By E. C. PRICE. 
 Valentlna. | Foreigners. | Mrs. Lancaster s RlvaL 
 
 By RICHARD PRYCE. 
 Miss Maxwell's Affections. 
 
 By CHARLES RBADE. 
 
 Peg Wofllngton ; and 
 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 Hard Cash. 
 Cloister & the Hearth. 
 Never Too Late to Mend 
 The Course of True 
 
 Love Never Did Run 
 
 Smooth : and Single- 
 heart andDoubleface. 
 Autobiography of a 
 
 Thief: Jack of all 
 
 Trades ; A Hero and 
 
 a Martyr; and The 
 
 Wandering Heir. 
 GrlfllUi Gaunt 
 
 By Mrs. J. H. RIDDELL. 
 
 Weird Stories. 
 
 By AMELIE RIVES. 
 
 Barbara Deriug. 
 
 By P. W. ROBINSON. 
 The Rands of Justice. | Woman In the Dark. 
 
 By DORA RUSSELL. 
 A Country Bweetheait. \ The DrUt oi F»l«, 
 
 Love Me Little, Lor* 
 Me Long. 
 
 The Double Marriage. 
 
 Foul Play. 
 
 Put Yourself in Hia 
 Ptace. 
 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
 
 A Simpleton. 
 
 A Woman Hater. 
 
 The Jilt. <^- othcrS'oHcs ; 
 <& Good Stories of Man 
 and other Animals. 
 
 A Perilous Secret. 
 
 Readlana ; and Bible 
 Characters. 
 
CHATTO & WINDUS, in St. Martin's Lane, London, W.C. 
 
 39 
 
 My Shipmate Ionise. 
 Alone onWideWide Sea. 
 The Phantom Death, 
 Is He the Man ? 
 Good Ship 'Mohock.' 
 The Convict Ship. 
 Heart of Oak. 
 The Tale of the Tea. 
 The Last Entry, 
 
 The Piccadilly (3/6) Novnr.s— continued. 
 
 By W. CLARK RUSSELL. 
 Round the Galley-Fire. -- — 
 In the Middle Watch. 
 On the Fo'k'Ele Head. 
 A Voyaue to the Cape. 
 Book for the Hammock. 
 Mysteryof 'Ocean Star' 
 The Romance oi Jenny 
 
 Harlowe. 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 
 By BAYLE ST. JOHN 
 A Levantine Family. 
 
 By JOHN SAUNDERS. 
 Ony Waterman. I The Two Dreamers. 
 
 Bound to the Wheel. I The Lion in the PatlL 
 
 By KATHARINE SAUNDERS. 
 Margaret and Elizabeth I Heart Salvage. 
 Gideon's Rock. Sebastian. 
 
 The High Mills. | 
 
 By ADELINE SERGEANT. 
 
 Dr. Endicott's Experiment. 
 
 By HAWLEY SMART. 
 Without Love or Licence. I The Outsider. 
 The Master of Rathkelly. Beatrice & Benedick. 
 Long Odds. I A Racing Rubber. 
 
 By T. W. SPEIGHT. 
 A Secret of the Sea. I The Master of Trenance. 
 The Grey Monk. | A Minion of the Moon. 
 
 By ALAN ST. AUBYN. 
 
 In Face of the World. 
 
 Orchard Damerel. 
 
 The Tremlett Diamonds. 
 
 A Fellow of Trinity. 
 The Junior Dean. 
 Master of St.Benedict's. 
 To his Own Master. 
 
 By JOHN STAFFORD. 
 Doris and I. 
 
 By RICCARDO STEPHENS. 
 The Cruciform Mark. 
 
 By R. A. STERNDALE. 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 By R. LOUIS 5TEVENS0N. 
 The Suicide Club. 
 
 By BERTHA THOMAS. 
 Proud Maisie. | Tha Violin-Player. 
 
 By ANTHOriY TROLLOPE. 
 The Way we Live Notr. I OcarLoroagh's Family. 
 Fran Frohmcnn. I The Land Leaguers. 
 
 By FRANCES E. TROLLOPE 
 
 Like Ships upon the I Anne Furness. 
 Sea. I Mabel's Progress. 
 
 By lYAN TURGENIEFF, &c. 
 
 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 
 By MARK TWAIN. 
 
 Tom Sawyer. Detective. 
 Pudd nhead Wilson. 
 The Gilded Age. 
 Prince and the Paurer. 
 Life on the Mississippi. 
 The Adventures of 
 
 Huckleberry Finn. 
 A Yankee at the Court 
 
 of King Arthur. 
 Stolen White Elephant. 
 £1,0G0,0C0 Banknote. 
 
 Mark Twaina Choice 
 
 Works. 
 Mark Twain's Library 
 
 of Humour. 
 The Innocents Abroad. 
 Roughing It ; and The 
 
 Innocents at Home. 
 A Tramp Abroad. 
 TheAmerican Claimant. 
 AdventuresTomSawyer 
 Tom Sawyer Abroad. 
 
 By C. C. ERASE R-TYTLER. 
 
 Mistress Judith. 
 
 By SARAH TYTLER. 
 
 Lady Bell. I The Macdonald Lms. 
 
 Buned Diamonds. The Witch- Wife. 
 
 The Blackball G\;)st8. | 
 
 By AiXeN UPWARD. 
 
 The Queen against Owen I The Prince of BalkistUL 
 By E. A. viZETELLY. 
 
 The Scorpion : A Romance of Spain. 
 
 By WILLIAM WE5TALL. 
 
 Sons of Belial. 
 
 By ATHA WESTBURY. 
 
 The Shadow of Hilton Fembrook. 
 
 By C. J. WILLS. 
 An Easy-going Fellow. 
 
 By JOHN STRANGE WINTER, 
 
 Cavalry Life and Regimental Legends. 
 A Soldier's Children. 
 
 By MARGARET WYNMAN. 
 
 My Flirtations. 
 
 By E. 
 
 The Downfall. 
 The Dream. 
 Dr. Pascal. 
 
 Money. | Lonrdes. 
 By 
 
 ZOLA. 
 
 The Fat and the Thla. 
 His Excellency. 
 The Dram-Shop. 
 Rome. i Paris. 
 Z. Z.' 
 
 A Nineteenth Century Miracle. 
 
 CHEAP EDITIONS OF POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 By ARTEMUS WARD. 
 
 Artemos Ward Complete. 
 
 By EDMOND ABOUT. 
 
 The Fellah. 
 
 By HAMILTON AIDE. 
 
 Carr of Carrlyon. | Confidences. 
 
 By MARY ALBERT. 
 Brooke Finchley s Daughter. 
 
 By Mrs. ALEXANDER. 
 Maid. Wife or Widow 7 | Valerie s Fate. 
 Blind Fate. 
 
 By GRANT ALLEN. 
 
 Philistla. 
 
 Strange Stories. 
 
 Babvlon. 
 
 For Maimie's Sake. 
 
 In all Shades. 
 
 The Beckoning Hand 
 
 The Devils Die. 
 
 The Tents of Shem. 
 
 By E. LESTER ARNOLD, 
 Phra the Phoenician. 
 
 BY FRANK BARRETT. 
 
 The Great Taboo. 
 Dumaresq's Daughter. 
 Duchess cf Powysland. 
 Blood Royal. [piece- 
 Ivan Greet's Master. 
 The Scallywag. 
 Thi'5 Mortal Coil. 
 At Market Value. 
 
 Fettered for Life. 
 Little Lady Linton. 
 Between Ltf^ <t Death. 
 The Sin of Olga Zassou- 
 
 Uch. 
 Folly Morrison. 
 Lieut. Barnabas. 
 Honest Davie. 
 
 A Prodigal's Progress. 
 Found Guilty, 
 A Recoiling Vengeance. 
 For Love and Honour. 
 John Ford; and His 
 
 Helpmate. 
 The Woman of the Iron 
 
 Bracelet?. 
 
 By SHELSLEY BEAUCHAMP. 
 
 Grantley Grange. 
 By Sir W. BESANT and J. RICE. 
 
 Ready- Money Mortiboy 
 
 My Little Girl. 
 With Harp and Crown. 
 This Son of Vulcan. 
 The Golden Butterfly. 
 The Monks of Thelema. 
 
 By Celias Arbour. 
 Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 The Seamv Side. 
 The Case of Mr. Lucraft. 
 In Trafalgar s Bay. 
 The Ten Years' Tenant. 
 
 By Sir WALTER BESANT. 
 
 All Sorts and Condi- 
 tions of Men. 
 
 The Captains' Room. 
 
 AU in a Garden Fair. 
 
 Dorothy Torster. 
 
 Uncle Jack. 
 
 The World Went Very 
 Well Then. 
 
 Children of Gibeon. 
 
 Herr Paulus. 
 
 For Faith and Freedom. 
 
 To Call Her Mine. 
 The Bell of St. Paul'!. 
 The Holy Rose. 
 Armorel of Lyonesse. 
 S.Katherine's by Tower, 
 Veibena Camellia Ste- 
 
 phanotis. 
 The Ivory Gate. 
 The Rebel Queeu. 
 Beyond the Dreams of 
 
 Avarice. 
 
 By AMBROSE BIERCE. 
 
 In the Midst of Life. 
 
 By FREDERICK BOYLE. 
 
 Camp Notes. I Chronicles of No man'a 
 
 Savage Life. | Land. 
 
 BY BRET HARTE. 
 
 Califomian Stories. 1 Flip. I Uaraja. 
 
 Gabriel Conroy. | A Phyllis of the Sierrai. 
 
 The Luck of Roaring 1 A Waif of the Plains. 
 
 Camp. I A Ward of the Goldea 
 
 An Heiress of Red Dog. | Gate. 
 
30 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS. in St. Martin's Lane, London, W.C. 
 
 Two-Shilling lio\ els— continued. 
 By HAROLD BRYDGES. 
 Uncle Sam at Home. 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 * ■■ ~ " The Martyrdom of Ma- 
 
 deline. 
 The New Abel&rd. 
 Matt. 
 
 The Heir of Llnne. 
 Woman and the Man. 
 Rachel Dene. 
 
 Shadow of the Sword. 
 A Child of Nature, 
 God and the Man. 
 Love Me for Ever. 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 The Master of the Mine. 
 Annan Water. 
 
 By BUCHANAN and MURRAY. 
 The Charlatan. 
 
 By HALL CAINE. 
 The Shadow of a Crime. I The Deemster. 
 A Son of Eagar. | 
 
 By Commander CAMERON. 
 
 The Cruise of the ' Black Prince." 
 
 By Mrs. LOVETT CAMERON. 
 Deceivers Ever. | Juliet's Guardian. 
 
 By HAYDEN CARRUTH. 
 The Adventures of Jones. 
 
 By AUSTIN CLARE. 
 For the Love of a Lass. 
 
 By Mrs. ARCHER CLIVE. 
 
 Paul FerroU. 
 
 Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. 
 
 By MACLAREN COBBAN. 
 The Cure of Souls. | The Red Sultan. 
 
 By C. ALLSTON COLLINS. 
 The Bar Sinister. 
 By MORT. & FRANCES COLLINS 
 
 By DICK DONOVAN. 
 
 Sweet Anne Page 
 Transmigration. 
 From Midnight to Mid 
 
 night. 
 A Fight with Fortune. 
 
 By WILKIE COLLINS 
 
 Sweet and Twenty. 
 The Village Comedy. 
 You Play me False. 
 Blacksmith and Scholar 
 Frances. 
 
 Armadale. | AiterDark. 
 
 No Name. 
 
 Antonlna. 
 
 Basil. 
 
 Hide and Seek. 
 
 The Dead Secret. 
 
 Oueen of Hearts. 
 
 Miss or Mrs. 7 
 
 The New Magdalen. 
 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 
 The Law and the Lady 
 
 The Two Destinies. 
 
 The Haunted HoteL 
 
 A Rogue's Life. 
 
 By M. J. COLQUHOUN. 
 Every Inch a Soldier. 
 
 By BUTTON COOK. 
 Leo. I Paul Foster's Daughter. 
 
 By C. EGBERT CRADDOCK. 
 The Prophet of the Great Smokv Mountains. 
 
 By MATT CRIM. 
 The Adventures of a Fair Rebel. 
 
 By B. M. CROKER. 
 Pretty Miss Neville. 
 
 My Miscellanies. 
 The Woman in White. 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife. 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 Jezebel's Daughter. 
 The Black Robe. 
 Heart and Science. 
 ' I Say No I ' 
 The Evil Genius. 
 Little Novels. 
 Legacy of Cain. 
 Blind Love. 
 
 A Family Likeness. 
 Village Tales and Jungle 
 
 Tragedies. 
 Two Masters. 
 Mr. Jervis. 
 CYPLES. 
 
 Diana B.-vrrington. 
 ■To Let.' 
 
 A Bird of Passage. 
 Proper Pride. 
 
 By W, 
 Hearts of Gold. 
 
 By ALPHONSR DAUDBT. 
 The Evangelist: or, Port Kalvntlon. 
 
 By I; RASMUS DAWSON. 
 The Fountain of 'Sroiith. 
 
 By JAMES DB MILLE. 
 A Castle In Spain. 
 
 By J. LEITH DERWENT. 
 Our Lady of Tears. I Circe s Lovers. 
 
 Bv CHARLES DICKENS. 
 Sketches Sy Box. 
 
 In the Grip of the Law. 
 From InformaUoa Re- 
 ceived. 
 Tracked to Doom. 
 Link bv Link 
 Satpicion Aroused. 
 Dark Deeds. 
 Riddles Read. 
 
 The Man-Hunter. 
 Tracked and Taken. 
 Caught at Last I 
 Wanted I 
 Who Poisoned Hetty 
 
 Duncan 7 
 Man from Manchester. 
 A Detective's Triumphs 
 The Mystery of Jamaica Terrace. 
 
 By Mrs. ANNIE EDWARDES. 
 A Point of Honour. | Archie Lovell. 
 
 By M. BETHAM-EDWARDS. 
 
 Felleia. | Kitty. 
 
 By EDWARD EGGLESTON. 
 
 Roxy. 
 
 By a. MANVILLE FENN. 
 The New Mistress. I The Tiger Lily. 
 
 Witness to the Deed. | The White Virgin. 
 By PERCY FITZGERALD. 
 
 Second Mrs. Tillotson. 
 Seventy - five Brook* 
 
 Street. 
 The Lady of Brantom* 
 
 By P. FITZGERALD and others. 
 
 Strange Secrets. 
 
 By ALBANY DE FONBLANQUE. 
 Filthy Lucre. 
 
 FRANCILLON. 
 
 King or Knave t 
 
 Bella Donna. 
 Never Forgotten. 
 Polly. 
 Fatal Zero. 
 
 R. E. 
 
 By 
 
 Olympia. 
 One by One. 
 A Real Queen. 
 Queen Cophetua. 
 
 Romances of the Law. 
 
 Ropes of Sand. 
 
 A Dog and his Shadow. 
 
 What will World Say 7 
 In Love and War. 
 For the King. 
 In Pastures Green. 
 Queen of the Meadow. 
 A Heart s Problem. 
 The Dead Heart, 
 
 By HAROLD FREDERIC. 
 
 Seth's Brother s Wife. | The Lawton Girl. 
 Prefaced by Sir BARTLE FRERE. 
 
 Pandurang Hari. 
 
 By HAIN FRISWELL. 
 
 One of Two, 
 
 By EDWARD GARRETT. 
 
 The Capel Girls. 
 
 By GILBERT GAUL. 
 A Strange Manuscript. 
 
 By CHARLES GIBBON. 
 Robin Gray. In Honour Bound. 
 
 Fancy Free. Flower of the Forest 
 
 For Lack of Gold. The Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 The Golden Shaft. 
 
 Of High Degree. 
 
 By Mead and Streua. 
 
 Loving a Dream. 
 
 A Hard Knot. 
 
 Heart's Delight. 
 
 Blood-Money. 
 By WILLIAM GILBERT. 
 Dr. Austin s Guests. I The Wizard of tk» 
 James Duke. | MounUin. 
 
 By ERNEST GLANVILLB. 
 
 The Lost Heiress. I The Fossicker. 
 
 A Fair Colonist. | 
 
 By Rev. S. BARING GOULD 
 
 Red Spider. | Eve. 
 
 By HENRY GREVILLE. 
 A Moble ivoman. i Nikanor. 
 
 By CECIL GRIFFITH. 
 Corlnthla Marazion. 
 
 By SYDNEY GRUNDY. 
 The Days of his Vanity. 
 
 By JOHN HABBERTON. 
 Bmeton s Bayou. | Country Luck. 
 
 By ANDREW HALLIDAY. 
 Every day Papers. 
 
 By Lady DUFFUS HARDY. 
 Paul Wynters Sacrlflcs. 
 
 Bv THOMAS HARDY. 
 Under the dreenwood Tree. 
 
 By .1. BERWICK HARWOOQ. 
 The Tenth Ear). 
 
€HAtt6 & WINDUS, m St. Martin's Lafle, LotKJan. W.6. i> 
 
 Two-Shilling Uovzi^s— continued. 
 By JULIAN HAWTHORNE 
 
 Garth. 
 Elllce Qneiltia. 
 Fort one I FooL 
 liisa C&dogn*. 
 BebMtljui Strom*. 
 
 Beatrix RaBdolph. 
 Love — or a Name. 
 David Folndexter'i Dit- 
 
 appearance. 
 Tbe SpecUa of tlie 
 
 Camera. 
 
 Dust. 
 
 By Sir ARTHUR HELPS. 
 
 Ivan d« Slron. 
 
 By a. A. HENTY. 
 
 Xujub tbe Juggler. 
 
 By HENRY HERMAN. 
 
 A Leadlac Lady. 
 
 By HEADON HILL. 
 
 Zambra tbe Detecuve. 
 
 By JOHN HILL. 
 
 Treason Felony. 
 
 By Mrs. CASHEL HOEY. 
 
 The Lover i Creed. 
 
 By Mrs. GEORGE HOOPER. 
 
 Vbo House ot Raby. 
 
 By TIGHE HOPKINS. 
 
 Twlxt Love and Duty. 
 
 By Mr*. HUNGERFORD. 
 
 A Maiden all Forlorn. I Lady Verners Flight 
 In Durance Vilo. I The Red House Mysteiy 
 
 Marvel. J The Three Graces 
 
 A Mental Strugglt. I Unsatisfactory Lovor. 
 A Modern Circa. | Lady Patty. 
 
 By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
 
 Tbomlcroft's ModeL I Self Condemned. 
 That Other Person. | Tbe Leaden Caskot. 
 
 By JEAN INGELOW. 
 
 Fated to be Free. 
 
 By WM. JAMESON. 
 Ky Dead Self. 
 
 By HARRIETT JAY. 
 
 The Dark Colleen. | Queen of Connavf ht. ■ 
 
 By MARK KERSHAW. 
 Colonial Facta and Fictions. 
 
 By R. ASHE KING. 
 
 A Drawn Game. I Passion's Slar*. 
 
 • The Wearing of the Bell Barry. 
 Green.' | 
 
 By EDMOND LEPELLETIER. 
 
 Madame Sans Gene. 
 
 By JOHN LEYS. 
 
 Tbe Lindsays. 
 
 By E. LYNN LINTON. 
 
 Patricia Kemball 
 The World Well Lost, 
 Under which Lord T 
 Paston Carew. 
 ' My Love I • 
 Ion*. 
 
 By HENRY W. LUCY 
 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
 By JUSTIN McCarthy. 
 
 Camiola. 
 
 Donna Quixote. 
 
 Maid of Athens. 
 
 Tbe Comet of a Season. 
 
 Tbe Dictator. 
 
 Red Diamonds. 
 
 maccoll. 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain 
 Waterdale Neighbours 
 Mv Enemy's Daughter 
 A Fair Saxon. 
 Linley Rochford, 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 
 By HUGH 
 Mr. Stranger's Sealed Packet 
 
 By GEORGE MACDONALD. 
 Heather and Snow. 
 
 By AGNES MACDONELL. 
 Quaker Cousins. 
 
 By KATHARINE S. MACQUOID 
 Tha Evil Eye. I Lost Rose. 
 
 By W. H. MALLOCK. 
 A Komance of the Nine- 1 The New Kapubli*. 
 taaatk Oantury. i 
 
 The Atonement of Laam 
 
 Dundas. 
 With a Silken Thread. 
 Rebel of the Family, 
 Sowing tbe Wind. 
 Tbe One Too Biaay. 
 
 By FLORENCE MARRY AT. 
 Oren I Sesame I I A Harvest of WUd Oitk 
 
 Ficbtlnc tha Air. | Written in Fira. 
 
 By J. MASTERMAN. 
 
 Ealf-a-dozen Daughters. 
 
 By BRANDER MATTHEWS. 
 A Icerat of tha Sea. 
 
 By L. T. MEADB. 
 
 A Soldier of Fortune. 
 
 By LEONARD MERRICK. 
 
 Tha Kan who was Good. 
 
 By JEAN MIDDLEMASS. 
 
 Toaeb and Go. | Mr. DorlUion. 
 
 By Mrs. MOLESWORTtf. 
 Hatharcourt Rectory. 
 
 By J. E. MUDDOCK. 
 Stories Weird and Won- 1 From tb* Boaom tf Ik* 
 
 derful. Deep. 
 
 Tha Dead Man's Secret. | 
 
 By D. CHRISTIE AlURRAY. 
 
 By the Gate of tha Saa. 
 A Bit of Human Natnra. 
 First Person Singular. 
 Bob Martin's Little ftlvl 
 Time's Revenges. 
 A Wasted Crim*. 
 In Direst Peril. 
 Mount Despair. 
 
 A Model Father 
 
 Joseph's Coat. 
 
 Coals of Fire. 
 
 'Val Strange. | Hearts. 
 
 Old Blazer s Hero. 
 
 The Way of the World 
 
 Cynic Fortune. 
 
 A Life's Atonement. 
 
 By MURRAY and HERMAN 
 One Traveller Returns. I The Bishops' Blblo. 
 Panl Jones's Alias. | 
 
 By HENRY MURRAY. 
 A Game of Bluff. | A Song of Sixpeneo. 
 
 By HUME NISBET. 
 * Bail Up I ' I Dr.Bernard St. Vlneaaft. 
 
 By W. E. NORRI5. 
 Saint Ann's. 
 
 By ALICE O'HANLON. 
 The Unforeseen. | Chance ? or FatoT 
 
 By GEORGES OHNET. 
 Dr. Rameau. | A Waird Gift. 
 
 A Last Love. | 
 
 By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 
 Whiteladies. I Tbe Greatest Heiress ia 
 
 Tbe Primrose Path. | England. 
 
 By Mrs. ROBERT O'REILLY. 
 Phoebe's Fortunes. 
 
 By OUIDA. 
 
 Held In Bondage, 
 
 Stratiimora. 
 
 Chandos. 
 
 Idalia. 
 
 Under Two Flags. 
 
 Cecil Castiemaina'sQage 
 
 Tricotrin. 
 
 Puck. 
 
 Folle Farina. 
 
 A Dog of Fiandart. 
 
 Pascaral. 
 
 Signa. 
 
 Princess Naprazla*. 
 
 In a Winter City. 
 
 Ariadne. 
 
 Friendship. 
 
 Two Lit. Wooden Shoes. 
 
 Moths. 
 Bimbi. 
 Pipistrello. 
 A Village Commnn*. 
 Wanda. 
 Othmar 
 Frescoes. 
 In Maremma. 
 Guilderoy. 
 Ruffino. 
 Syrlin. 
 
 Santa Barbara. 
 
 Two Offenders. 
 
 Ouida's Wisdom, Wit, 
 
 and Pathos. 
 
 By MARGARET AGNES PAUL. 
 
 Ga&tla and Simple. 
 
 By C. L. PIRKIS. 
 Lady Lovelace. 
 
 By EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 The Mystery of Marie Roget. 
 
 By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED. 
 
 The Romance of a Station. 
 The Soul of Countess Adrlaa. 
 Outlaw and Lawmaker. 
 Christina Chard. 
 
 By E. C. PRICE. 
 Valentlna. I Mrs. Lancaster's KivaL 
 
 Tha Foreigners. | Gerald. 
 
 By RICHARD PRYCB. 
 Ml« MazwaU s AffacUaju 
 
3a 
 
 CHAttO A WiNbUS. Ill St. Maftlii'i Ude, Lbfldon, W.C. 
 
 Two-Shillino Hovzvs— continued. 
 By JAAICS PAYN. 
 
 The Talk of the Towm. 
 
 Bcntlnck'i Tutor. 
 
 Murphy's Master. 
 
 A County Family, 
 
 At Her Mercy. 
 
 Cecil's Tryst. 
 
 The Clyflards of Clyffe. 
 
 Th£ Foster Brothers. 
 
 Found Dead. 
 
 The Beat of Husbandjl. 
 
 Walter's Word 
 
 Halves. 
 
 Fallen Fortnnei. 
 
 Humorous Stories, 
 
 £200 Reward. 
 
 A Marine Resideaca. 
 
 Mirk Abbey 
 
 By Proxy. 
 
 Under One Roof. 
 
 HiRh Spirits. 
 
 Carlyon's Year. 
 
 From Exile. 
 
 For Cash Only. 
 
 Kit. 
 
 The Canon's Ward. 
 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 A Perfect Tre.astire. 
 What He Cost Her. 
 A Confidential Agent. 
 Glow-worm Tales. 
 The Burnt Million. 
 Sunny Stories. 
 Lost Sir Massingberd. 
 A Woman's Vengeance. 
 The Family Scapegrace, 
 Gwendoline 8 Harvest. 
 Like Father, Like Son. 
 Married Beneath Him. 
 Not Wooed, but Won. 
 Less Black tban Wt'r* 
 
 Painted. 
 Soma Private 'Vtetni. 
 A Orape (Tom a Thorn. 
 The Mystery of Mir- 
 
 bridge. 
 The Word and the Will. 
 A Prince of the Blood. 
 A Trying Patient. 
 By CHARLES READE. 
 It is Never Too Late to A Terrible Temptation. 
 
 Mend. 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Put Yourself In Hii 
 
 Place 
 Love Ma Little, Love 
 
 Me Long. 
 The Cloister and the 
 
 Hearth. 
 The Courie of True 
 
 Love. 
 The Jilt. 
 The Autobiography of 
 
 a Thief. 
 
 Foul Play. 
 The Wandering Heir. 
 Hard Cash. 
 Blngleheartand Doublo- 
 
 face. 
 Good Stories of Man and 
 
 other Animals. 
 Peg Woffington. 
 Griffith Gaunt. 
 A Perilous Secret. 
 A Simpleton. 
 Readiana. 
 A Woman-Hater. 
 
 By Mrs. J. H. RIDDELL 
 
 The Uninhabited House. 
 The Mystery in Palace 
 
 Gardens. 
 The Hun's Corse. 
 Idle Tales. 
 
 Weird Stories. 
 Fairy Water. 
 Her Mother's Darling. 
 The Prince of Wales 
 Garden Party. 
 
 By AMELIB RIVES. 
 Barbara Dering. 
 
 By P. W. ROBINSON. 
 Women are Strange. | The Hands of Justic*. 
 
 By JAMES RUNCIAIAN. 
 Skippers and Shellbacks. | Schools and Scholan. 
 Grace Balmaign's Sweetheart. 
 
 By W. CLARK RUSSELL. 
 
 Round Ihe Galley Fire 
 
 On the Fo k'sle Head. 
 
 In the Middle Watch. 
 
 A 'Voyage to the Cape. 
 
 A Book for the Ham- 
 mock. 
 
 The Mystery of the 
 ' Ocean Star 
 
 The Romance of Jenny 
 Harlowe. 
 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 
 My Shipmate Louise. 
 
 Alone onWideWtde Sea. 
 
 The Good Ship 'Mo- 
 hock.' 
 I The Phantom Death. 
 
 By DORA RUSSELL. 
 
 A Country Sweetheart. 
 
 By OHORQE AUGUSTUS SALA. 
 Gaslight and Daylight. 
 
 By JOHN SAUNDERS. 
 Guy Waterman. I The Lion In the Path. 
 
 The Two Dreamer*. | 
 
 By KATHARINE SAUNDERS. 
 Joan Merryweathar. I Sebastian. 
 The High Mllli. Margaret ai 
 
 Heart Salvage. I beth. 
 
 By GEORQB R. SJMS, 
 The Ring o'^Bclls. My Two Wives. 
 
 Mary Jane's Memoirs. 
 Mary Jane Married. 
 Tales of To-day. 
 Dramas of Life, 
 Tlnkletop B Crime, 
 
 Zeph. 
 
 Memoirs of a Landlady. 
 Scenes from the Show. 
 The 10 Commandment!. 
 
 A Matcl 
 
 stop B Crime. Dagonet Abroad. 
 
 By ARTHUR SKETCHLEY. 
 
 tch in the Dark. 
 
 By HAWLEY SMART. 
 
 Without Love or Licence. 
 
 The Plunger. 
 
 Beatrice and Benedick. 
 
 By T. W. SPErOHT. 
 
 Back to Life. 
 
 The LoudwaterTragedy. 
 
 Burgo s Romance. 
 
 Quittance In Pull. 
 
 A Husband from the Sea 
 
 The Mysteries of Heron 
 
 Dyke. 
 The Golden Hoop. 
 Hoodwinked. 
 By Devious Ways, 
 
 By ALAN ST. AUBYN. 
 A Fellow of Trinity. I To His Own Master. 
 The Junior Dean. Orchard Damerel. 
 
 Master of St.Benedlct'i I In the Face of the World. 
 
 By R. A. STBRNDALB. 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 By R. LOUIS STEVENSON. 
 Hew Arabian Nights. 
 
 By BERTHA THOMAS. 
 Cressida. I The 'Violin PUyer. 
 
 Proud Malsle, | 
 
 By WALTER THORNBURY. 
 Tales for the Marines. | Old Stories Retold. 
 
 By T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE. 
 Diamond Cut Diamond. 
 
 By P. ELEANOR TROLLOPB. 
 Like Shlpi upon the I Anne Furness. 
 Sea. I Mabel's Progress. 
 
 By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 Frau Frohmann. 
 Marion Fay. , 
 Kept in the Dark 
 John Caldigate. 
 The Way We Live Now, 
 
 The Land-Leaguers. 
 The American Senator. 
 Mr. Scarborough's 
 
 Family. 
 GoldenLlon of Granpere 
 
 By J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 Famell's Folly. 
 
 By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c 
 
 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 
 By MARK TWAIN. 
 
 A Pleasure Tiip on the 
 
 Continent. 
 The Gilded Age. 
 Huckleberry Finn. 
 Mai-kTwain's Sketchei. 
 Tom Sawyer. 
 A Tramp Abroad. 
 Stolen white Elephant. 
 
 By C. C. PRASE R-TYTLER. 
 Mistress Judith. 
 B 
 
 Life on the Mississippi. 
 The Prince and the 
 
 Pauper. 
 A Yankee at the Court 
 
 of King Arthur. 
 The £1,000,000 Bank. 
 
 Note. 
 
 The Bride 
 Buried Dlamondi. 
 St. Mungo's City. 
 
 By SARAH TYTLER. 
 
 s Pass. The Huguenot Family. 
 
 The BUckhall Ghosts. 
 What SheCameThrouph 
 Beauty and the Beast, 
 Oitoyenne Jaqnellne. 
 
 Lady Be 
 Noblesse Oblige. 
 Disappeared 
 
 By ALLEN UPWARD. 
 The Queen against Owen. | Prince of Balklstan. 
 'God Save the Queen I' 
 By AARON WATSON and LILLIAS 
 
 WASSERMANN. 
 The Marquis of Oarabas. 
 
 By WILLIAM WESTALL. 
 Trust Money. 
 
 By Mr5. P. H. WILLIAMSON. 
 A Child Widow. 
 
 By J. S. WINTER. 
 Cavalry Life. | ReeimenUl Legende. 
 
 By H. P. WOOD. 
 The Passenger from Scotland Yard. 
 The Englishman of the Rne C.iln. 
 
 By Lady WOOD. 
 
 Sablna. 
 By CELIA PARKER WOOLLEY. 
 
 Rachel Armstrong : or, I.ove ami Thmloiry. 
 
 By EDMUND YATES. 
 The Forlorn Hope. I Castaway. 
 
 Land at Last. I 
 
 By I. ZANGWILL. 
 Ghetto Trafedlea. 
 
 OODEN, 8MALS AMD CO. LIMITBD. PIUNTIIlt, QRKAT lATrRON HILL, B.0, 
 
^ 
 
RETURN 
 TO— ^ 
 
 CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT 
 
 202 Main Library 
 
 LOAN PERIOD 
 HOME USE 
 
 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS 
 
 1 -month loans may be renewed by calling 642-3405 
 
 6-month loans may be recharged by bringing books to Circulation 
 
 Desk 
 
 Renewals ond recharges may be made 4 days prior to due dote 
 
 DUE AS STAMPED BELOW 
 
 ,iArHE(|;EiyBq 
 
 
 
 AUb ?, n lyy^t 
 
 
 
 CIRCULATi'^" r r 
 
 — 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY 
 BERKELEY, CA 94720 
 
|l!il! 
 
 ■,,/;':';ii!li 
 l':''!l''ri!!i'|iil;|i 
 
 iiii!:'!! ; :i