/I Ly- 
 
THALATTA! 
 
 OR 
 
 THE GREAT COMMONER 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 
 https://archive.org/details/thalattaorgreatcOOskel 
 
r HAL ATT A! 
 
 OR 
 
 THE GREAT COMMONER 
 
 A POLITICAL ROMANCE 
 
 • JL^r . JjU /, 
 
 <y& /U * 
 
 “ Oh, emptiness of fame ! 
 
 Oh Persic Zoroaster, lord of Stars ! ” 
 
 Paracelsus 
 
 LONDON 
 
 PARKER SON AND BOURN WEST STRAND 
 1862 
 
[The Author reserues the right of Translation.] 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET, 
 A.ND CHARING CROSS. 
 
Jib fay IfaZ/rut 
 
 PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 The substance of this sketch — written several years 
 ago — originally appeared in Fraser s Magazine ; and 
 I cannot allow the present opportunity to pass without 
 returning my grateful thanks to the friend who now 
 occupies its editor’s chair, — the most brilliant and 
 thoughtful of living historians. 
 
 The age of dedications, like the age of chivalry, 
 has departed. Had those pretty solemnities been 
 still in fashion, I should have ventured to inscribe a 
 political story to Mr. Disraeli ; not merely because 
 loyalty to one’s leader is the first, and most neg- 
 lected, of political virtues ; not merely because that 
 leader is to us in England, what Tully was to his 
 countrymen in Rome, “ optimus omnium patronus 
 but because I recognise in him, as in the politicians 
 with whom he is associated, when dealing with social 
 and religious controversies, a breadth of aim and 
 .generosity of sentiment, which I do not find in their 
 opponents, and which comprise the best and most ** 
 sterling elements of “ Liberalism.” The enfranchise- 
 ment of the people , the abolition of church-rates , and 
 similar phrases, have become the deceptive and 
 delusive beacons of faction ; but when the advocates 
 
 $ 
 
VI 
 
 PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 of a really national and unsectarian system of edu- 
 cation desire an exponent of their policy in the House 
 of Commons they are forced to turn to a Tory ; 
 Tories alone, it would seem, are prepared to resist 
 the fanatical legislation of the modern puritan ; and 
 — when the National Church is menaced by the 
 intemperance of Prelates, and the rancour of a 
 partisan theology — to utter words of warning, reproof, 
 and moderation. 
 
 I may add that the title of the sketch is slightly 
 altered. That under which it at first appeared — 
 Thalatta! Thalatta ! A Study at Sea — was pro- 
 nounced by the critics to be unpardonably affected. 
 Perhaps it was — at least they said so— and it is the 
 duty of a writer to accept with humility, and obey 
 with alacrity, the decisions of our periodical Mentors. 
 The present title indicates, I hope, with sufficient 
 exactness the motley character of the contents, the 
 hardy sea-life of the north, and — English politics. 
 I use the word politics , as it was used by Hobbes in 
 Leviathan , in its oldest and widest sense. 
 
 A French translation — by M. Ch. B. Derosne of 
 Paris — has been completed, and is about to appear. 
 
 S. 
 
 December , 1862 . 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PROLOGUE .. 1 
 
 I. — THE DAWN 7 
 
 II. AUTUMN DAYS 17 
 
 III. — THE SNOW 51 
 
 IV. — CONFESSION Ill 
 
 V. — THE ELECTION 165 
 
 VI. — DEFEAT .. 221 
 
 VII. — THE SETTING SUN 283 
 
 EPILOGUE 361 
 
THALATTA ! 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 For me the favouring breeze, when loud 
 It pipes against the galley’s shroud, 
 
 Makes blither melody. 
 
 TT has been a lovely morning tide ; but the noon is 
 sultry and lowering, and a picturesque ridge of 
 storm-charged cloud stretches along the sea-line in 
 our wake. To-night we shall have a blow,— a lash 
 of rain, and the wind rattling among the rigging. 
 But now it is calm as Eternity, or as that still marble 
 face which has never deigned even to smile upon our 
 pain. 0 violet-eyed Evadne, grant us thy peace! 
 Let us know the truth once and for ever. The 
 bleeding heart may break, but death is preferable to 
 this intolerable toothache. We pray for rest, — rest, 
 rest , — in ceterna pace . But the still maiden stirs not, 
 answers not ; only looks with those clear cold eyes — 
 cold and elemental as the winter stars — right away 
 past us into the outermost horizon. Oh, my wintry 
 
 b 
 
2 
 
 PEOLOGUE. 
 
 heaven, for whom wait you ? The old heroic ages 
 have departed, and do not return any more. But in 
 one breast there still beats knightly faith, and truth, 
 and loyalty, and they are all laid at your feet. Bend 
 your eyes, and kill us, if you will* with passion, or 
 mockery, or tender tears ; but do not remain for ever 
 so inaccessibly, so snowily, divine. 
 
 Such was the Confession of Faith which I had 
 addressed to a mortal Saint Cecilia about a fortnight 
 before the date at which this narrative commences. 
 I am naturally eloquent, I believe; yet I do not 
 deny that I may have polished the speech a very 
 little since its delivery. Evadne, though an exceed- 
 ingly sensible girl, who would never dream of marry- 
 ing a man without knowing his rent-roll and referring 
 him to her mother, is still on certain speculative 
 points charmingly capricious and sentimental. 
 Bending her superb eyes, in answer to my appeal, 
 “ You are a knight,” she said, “ and a true knight 
 must do his devoir before he wins Iris lady. Find 
 first the Holy Grail, and when you return to 
 Belgravia do not forget this souvenir,” and she 
 presented me with a fairy gauntlet, a wonderful little 
 pink-coloured, lavender-scented Parisian kid-glove 
 (No. 6J), which I kissed devoutly. “ But if I return 
 not?” “ Then I will weep for you,” replied the 
 maiden, with heavenly composure. This was alto- 
 gether very consolatory; but Evadne was mildly 
 inexorable as any saint, and I was forced to quit on 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 3 
 
 the quest. I had not the most distant conception 
 who or what the Holy Grail might be, or where he, 
 she, or it was to be met with ; and none of my club- 
 friends, I found, were better informed. The Arthu- 
 rian knights, however, when in search of the super- 
 natural, commonly went north; and as it was now 
 the middle of June, a yacht voyage to Norway I 
 fancied would be an exceedingly pleasant way of 
 passing the time. So here I am, — in the first place, 
 in search of the blessed Grail, and in the second, 
 provided with rods and guns for the salmon and wild- 
 fowl of the Scandinavian fjords. 
 
 I must write an account one day of life on board a 
 yacht: — like Cerito’s dancing, it is the poetry of 
 motion. Not yet embalmed in a poem, indeed ; but 
 this happens because the poets are bilious, and when 
 at sea keep mostly to the cabin. The morning is 
 pretty far advanced before I rise, — for I like to lie 
 and listen to the water as it whistles, and whispers, 
 and plashes, and gurgles restlessly on the other side 
 of the thin board which keeps the ocean out of my 
 crib. Good heavens ! I waken sometimes in the 
 deep of the dead night, and feel with a chill sense of 
 terror that there is only a fir-plank between me and 
 the mysterious creatures of the deep who follow in 
 the wake of the ship, and, with cruel stony eyes, 
 wait for us outside. But the morning light scatters 
 the mists, and Ponto and I leap overboard, where he 
 sometimes nearly drowns me outright with his rough 
 
 b 2 
 
4 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 dog-play. Now, Ponto, let us pass the Lily — purest 
 and stateliest of the virgin flowers which live in holy 
 singleness of heart, and therefore likest of any to 
 that blessed Lily at home — and so we beat the water 
 with our shaggy paws, and shoot away like salmon. 
 But, as the morning breeze ruffles her snowy plumage, 
 she steals silently from us, and leaves us there, alone 
 by ourselves, in the very heart of the ocean. Superb ! 
 A man can never stretch his limbs except in the sea. 
 On the shore he is the victim of the tailor, and what 
 with boots, braces, and gaiters, is as much a prisoner 
 as if he were lodged in Newgate. But in the sea 
 every limb gains an ampler sweep, a lordlier freedom, 
 and the owner feels that he has returned for a while 
 to his native element. Yes, native, no doubt. Men 
 must have sinned foully, and fallen far, ere, chained 
 to the prosaic and unpliant earth, they were forced 
 to relinquish for ever the stormy caresses of the 
 white-edged waves. See, the Lily lies-to ; the white 
 pennant streams from the gaff to intimate that 
 breakfast is on the board : again we strike out, and 
 clambering over the gunnel into our little cozy nest, 
 speedily shake ourselves dry. 
 
 So here in the poop— note-book in hand — I am 
 settled for the day. Among the brilliant coloured 
 shawls and rugs that strew the deck, I must look 
 uncommonly like the immortal Kubla Khan — with- 
 out his harem, the Lord be thanked ! I like comfort ; 
 and if a man loves an arm-chair, and a quilted 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 5 
 
 coverlet at home, I see no reason why he should not 
 have them on board his yacht. Hermit crabs, and 
 sea-anemones (or “ inemies,” as Dan calls them), are 
 very well in their way; but a man needs his wine 
 and his weed even when naturalising. I don’t chance 
 to be a muscular Christian ; and the conveniences, 
 if not the pomps and vanities, of this wicked world, 
 retain a strong hold on my affections. Dear little 
 Lily ! you are as white and innocent as the poet’s 
 “Lily” in the beautiful old idyl. Don’t listen, 
 therefore, my darling, to the Norland rover that 
 would wile you away with him to your doom. He 
 w T ill tell you the strangest sagas of the yellow-haired 
 sea-kings and their brides, and his hollow whispers 
 are sweeter than the lascivious murmurs of tropic 
 seas : but, indeed, he is very hard, and icy, and 
 pitiless at heart. Take care, take care : I heard him 
 whisper even now ; thrust him back, and cast off his 
 deceitful kisses, or you are lost for ever. You cannot 
 fancy how merciless the beautiful creature is : he 
 will smile, and fondle, and wanton, and the children 
 may pull his ears, and stroke his whiskers* and 
 smooth the lustrous fur; and then all at once he 
 will leap upon you like a wild tiger-cat, as he is, and 
 w T ill rend you limb from limb. 
 
 Dan, our “ skeely skipper/’ is coiled up somewhere 
 among the rigging, darning, as he calls it, a pair of 
 sail-cloth breeches, so compacted of shreds and 
 patches, that not a single thread of the original 
 
6 
 
 PEOLOGUE. 
 
 garment can now remain; and as he “ darns,” 
 recreates himself with an interminable “Song of 
 the Sea/’ which is longer than the sea-serpent, and 
 takes nearly a voyage to unravel. It unrolls itself 
 “ without haste, without rest,” like the music of a 
 broken-winded hurdy-gurdy, or the waves that lap 
 against the vessel o’ nights ; and at intervals, through 
 the monotonous solidity of the narrative, a dash of 
 spray, in the shape of a chorus or refrain, breaks out, 
 and is taken up mechanically by any of the crew 
 within hearing — 
 
 Y o! H o! 
 
 Trip and g o ! 
 
 Over the water 
 
 Cheerily r — o — w ! 
 
 Ponto occasionally joins in with an eccentric and 
 commiserating howl ; but at the present moment he 
 is standing erect on his hind legs, his head between 
 his shaggy fore-paws, and gazes wistfully, now at the 
 loaded gun beside me, and then over the gunnel at 
 a pair of red-throated divers who cross in our wake. 
 “ Down, Ponto, down ; you don’t go over at present, 
 sir. We are writing a romance.” 
 
THE DAWN. 
 
( 9 ) 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MARE TENEBROSUM. 
 
 A lovely dream, a vision fair, 
 
 Of some far-off forgotten land, 
 
 And of a girl with golden hair 
 And violets in her hand. 
 
 fTlHAT time seems to me like a dream now ; per- 
 haps it may grow clearer again by-and-bye. 
 There is the great sea in the background, running 
 like solemn music through all the mean details of 
 the day, and communicating to the people into whose 
 life it insinuates itself a peculiar sobriety of thought 
 and staidness of demeanour. These primitive people 
 are nursed in the sad companionship of the Northern 
 Ocean — that Mare Tenebrosum of mists, and ice- 
 bergs, and snowy storms, out of which to the antique 
 imagination issued the wintry gods of Walhalla. 
 There, too, the yellow curly-pated children sport 
 upon the rippled shore, and, used to the water from 
 earliest infancy, speedily become the cherished and 
 dauntless nurslings of the waves. Among the others, 
 two are specially noticeable to us — one a grave, 
 
IO 
 
 MAEE TENEBKOSUM. 
 
 dreamy, large-eyed girl ; the other a handsome, 
 vivacious, mischievous boy, who gives the young 
 nursemaid in charge of them a world of trouble. 
 She has tried in vain for the last half-hour to catch 
 the vagrant young gentleman, who, dodging round 
 the sharp rocks, or splashing through the shallow 
 pools with royal disregard of his nether garments, 
 still continues to elude the chase. “ Miles ! Miles ! ” 
 she exclaims at last, fairly out of breath, “ see what 
 her ladyship will say to you! No supper for you 
 to-night, sir. 0, Corry, get him to come.” 
 
 “ Miles, dear, 5 ' says the little maiden, in her still 
 way, “ we must go home. Katie says mamma will 
 be frightened.” 
 
 The quiet voice seems to have a peculiar influence 
 over Master Miles, who forthwith approaches within 
 reach, looking very subdued and penitent about the 
 unhappy shoes. 
 
 “ Don’t tell on me, Katie, darling,” he says, looking 
 into her face with a sort of comic entreaty, as she 
 stoops down to set him to rights. 
 
 Katie is a good-natured little soul, who cannot 
 remain angry for more than five minutes at most ; 
 and long before they reach the old manor-house 
 above the bay, the two are chattering like “ pyets,” 
 the closest allies in the world. 
 
 “ Katie,” says Miles, solemnly, as they enter the 
 house, “you are the nicest, dearest, prettiest; and, 
 dear Katie — let me have a dry pair of stockings.” 
 
MARE TENEBROSUM. 
 
 ii 
 
 Ay, Katie, nicest, dearest, prettiest ! Miles was 
 not so far wrong in his boyish estimate of the black 
 eyes, the black hair, and the rosy bloom of health 
 and happiness on the flushed cheeks. And you 
 looked as solemn and prim withal, at times, as any 
 little Puritan ; while indeed you had the cheeriest 
 heart, and the merriest laugh, of them all. 
 
 “Why do you weep, Katie? What makes you 
 cry so ? O, Katie ! what is the matter ? ” 
 
 But Katie will not own that anything is wrong ; 
 she dries her eyes, and smiling mechanically on the 
 child, bids her go sleep — it is late, and she must not 
 waken again. Corry long remembered that hard, 
 sad, woful smile ; the smile of a heart bruised past 
 recovery, and which no future summer will quite 
 heal. When Corry woke next morning, Katie had 
 gone ; but how she had gone, or where and why she 
 had gone, could only be vaguely surmised — in guesses 
 that were not intelligible to a child’s ear. 
 
( 12 ) 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 LA CRUCHE CASS^E. 
 
 And love 
 
 Is something awful, which one dares not touch 
 So early o’ mornings. 
 
 TT 0 W did it happen ? I really cannot tell you ; 
 
 nay, it is perhaps better that I should not try. 
 I think we are getting rather candid and out-spoken 
 in this direction. The old writers were content with 
 the simple tragedy of The Fall ; they did not enter 
 into a pathological examination of its consequences. 
 Our story-tellers are more scientific. A modern novel 
 or a modern poem resembles a lecture on midwifery 
 more than anything else I know. 
 
 Katie is seated on the stile behind the laburnum 
 shrubbery — as neat, trim, and dainty a little woman 
 as ever bewildered the eye of man. A woman ? no, 
 barely ; barely more than a girl yet ; though the 
 blush that plays upon her cheek is already womanly 
 in its way. The pitcher she is carrying from the well 
 — to ease old Jean, whose stiff joints are somewhat 
 more difficult to move than the lithe limbs of this 
 
LA CRUCHE CASSfiE. 
 
 J 3 
 
 nimble nymph — rests on the wall beside her ; her 
 light summer dress is looped up to prevent its being 
 wetted, and discloses the crimson petticoat, and the 
 trimmest, daintiest foot and ankle in all the country- 
 side, — ever so provokingly modest and coquettish. 
 The plump arm is not very sinewy ; so she has to rest 
 on the stile here ; yes, that of course is the cause of 
 her delay ; though, truth to tell, the rosy cheek does 
 not look delicate, and the “ pail ” is one of the smallest. 
 If a gentleman in shooting gear will pass this way 
 can she help it, I should like to know ? And if he 
 will speak to her, somewhat too softly perhaps, and 
 tell her how pretty and blooming she looks this 
 summer evening — what of that? And if he will 
 insist on “ a drink ” out of the pail, and if, as blushing 
 and smiling she holds it up to him, he somehow slips 
 his arm round her waist, and prints a kiss — 
 
 Soft and warm 
 
 As those the sun prints on the smiling cheek 
 Of plums and mellow peaches, 
 
 not on the pitcher-mouth, but on her own rosy lips, 
 how can she prevent him ? She will spill all the 
 water on her crimson petticoat if she let it drop ; and 
 to avoid such a mischance has she not expressly 
 looped up her dress in this too charming mode ? Nay, 
 if it fall, may it not break ? 
 
 Truth to tell, little Katie cares not how long those 
 stolen summer nights may last. How clever, and 
 handsome, and gentlemanlike he looks ! How plea- 
 
H 
 
 LA CEUCHE CASSEE. 
 
 sant it is to feel the blush stealing across her face as 
 he looks into her eyes — how the subtle shock goes 
 through her as he takes her hand in his and traces 
 her fortunes in its blue- veined lines ! How small 
 and delicately-fashioned that hand of his is, even 
 when compared with her own, which is not so very 
 large after all, she thinks ! What clever things he 
 can say when he wants her to laugh, and how ca- 
 ressingly murmur the tenderest words ! How pleasant 
 it is, too, to be able to teach him ; to teach him to 
 repeat the soft North country words which he affects 
 not to know ; and then how pleasantly the old words 
 of rustic wooing come back from the smooth eloquent 
 lips ! And then she is such a child yet : so charmed 
 with her new playmate, so ignorant of all evil or sin. 
 
 Beware, Katie darling ! a snake lurks in the grass. 
 I can see how insincere that dangerous and subtle 
 homage is: how shallow and tawdry the hollow- 
 hearted “ love ” which is already beginning to eat 
 into your child-life, and hurt its innocent bloom. 
 Oh, darling ! did you know how cold and hard that 
 smooth face can be when it chooses — how cold and 
 hard the heart underneath always is — you would 
 rather sit all night alone with old Janet by “ the 
 ingle-neuk,” than listen to these false notes. 
 
 But the child does not perceive the falsetto ; does 
 not perceive that the words do not ring true, and are 
 tipt with deadliest poison. To think of a smooth- 
 tongued, cozening knave teaching this little maiden 
 
LA CRUCHE CASSEE. 
 
 i5 
 
 in the innocence of her heart to believe a lie, is bacl 
 enough ; but to think of him ruthlessly, deliberately, 
 spoiling her whole life, torturing every sensitive fibre 
 of heart and soul, — it makes one’s blood boil to think 
 of it. Could no entreaty induce him to relent ? None. 
 Else how could he have disturbed the childish gleeful 
 happiness that smiled up in his eyes when first he 
 met her ; how resist the silent appeal which the fair 
 innocent face made to his mercy? But he had no 
 mercy, and the cat-like claws held her fast in their 
 smooth grip till she perished. There are some hearts 
 that bleed to - think of it even yet. Let each of us 
 pray to be delivered from such evil ; every man of 
 us to be delivered from the hell of knowing that he 
 has done a fellow-soul a hurt that eternity perhaps 
 cannot repair ; every woman among us to be delivered 
 from that sense of startled convulsive shame which 
 crimsoned Katie’s neck, and made her flee — like a 
 wild wounded animal, with the hunter’s dart sticking 
 in its bleeding side — to the homeless mountain 
 coverts. 
 
II. 
 
 AUTUMN DAYS. 
 
 c 
 
( *9 ) 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SiEVA PELOPIS DOMUS. 
 
 Knights, 
 
 Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings, 
 
 Who laid about them at their wills and died. 
 
 4 MBITION ! Like the old Darian dynasty over 
 all its satraps, king of kings, and lord of lords. 
 Rare fallacy of the young blood of nature. Can 
 this pulse cease to beat? Can this warm being 
 become as though it had not been ? No, — its vigorous 
 vitality projects itself into the future, and refuses to 
 believe in the dust of the charnel-house. I may die 
 and be buried ; but my spirit shall walk abroad among 
 the children of men. They will speak gently of the 
 young poet who sang “ so pitifully sweet ; 99 the ring- 
 ing sentences of the great statesman will still kindle 
 patriot hearts, as when they fell, warm and lighted 
 from the lips, “ wet with Castalian dew.” 
 
 One who has consented to settle down into the 
 ordinary jog-trot of existence, who has never found 
 time nor opportunity to make the great speech, to 
 write the great book, and who looks forward indeed 
 
 c 2 
 
20 
 
 S2EVA PELOPIS DOMUS. 
 
 to the rest prepared for the people of God — “ when 
 at eventime it shall be light/’ — as a heritage unspeak- 
 ably more comforting than any uneasy fame, or vexed 
 immortality, may yet regard with an indulgent eye 
 these luxuries of the imagination. Who would break 
 a child’s wooden toy, because it is not the Apollo ? 
 Who would tear a boy’s scrawl, because Baphael 
 painted the Blessed Mother and the Transfigured 
 God ? Dear heart ! believe and hope what you will ; 
 the clay and the wood are touched by the radiant 
 glory that lies around thy heart ; and to thee they 
 also are transfigured. It would be cruel and sinful 
 to break the illusion just now : the disenchantment 
 will come at the appointed time, when new interests 
 and new excitements have cast out the early ambition, 
 and an unnoted hand has filled the vacant niche. 
 And you will be a better merchant or mechanic, 
 because you dreamed once that you were born to grow 
 the Dryden or the Chatham of your age. 
 
 Honour — what is honour? “ Detraction will not 
 suffer it to live with the living,” said Falstaff; but 
 does the sepulchre shut it out ? Fancy being dis- 
 sected and anatomised for ever, — the unclean hands 
 of critics wandering restlessly over the weary limbs 
 that should rest in wait for the resurrection. “ He 
 was vain, pompous, superficial : his style is rugged, 
 turgid, inelegant : he said foolish things, that have 
 done much hurt to men.” So the palaver goes on 
 from one generation to another ; you are spoken of 
 
s^:ya pelopis domus. 
 
 21 
 
 as if you were a picture or a statue — not of marble, 
 but of mud ; and the shuttlecock is kept flying till 
 the day of judgment. No wonder that men should 
 stir in their coffins, and feel that they have defrauded 
 their ashes of the respite that is bestowed on meaner 
 dust. I cannot doubt that the Protector envies the 
 quiet grave wherein rests “ the Cromwell guiltless of 
 his country’s blood.” There they lie side by side — 
 the brother who conquered and cast down ; the 
 brother who w r as wisely silent and died. Mark the 
 contrast. No sound disturbs his still repose ; his 
 very name is forgotten among men — for on the tomb- 
 stone which was meant, not unkindly, to perpetuate 
 for a season his homely virtues, every letter (except 
 only the numerals of some unknown event of birth, 
 or marriage, or death) has been clean washed out. 
 But even in his mutilated sepulchre the other may 
 not rest ; he is a renowned, a famous, an illustrious 
 man ; one calls him a hero, another a liar and a 
 knave ; of the writing of books about him there is no 
 end. “ Oh, that I had stayed at home!” exclaims 
 the vexed and attenuated ghost, “ and ploughed my 
 father’s acres ! My eyes are heavy, but I cannot 
 close them ; I am tired to death, and yet I cannot 
 rest. See my brother, — he does not stir, nor moan, 
 nor turn in his bed, — he sleeps as well as when we 
 lay together on our mother’s lap. Oh ! dear brother, 
 waken and speak to me but once ; for the night is 
 dark and tedious, and I am sick of the generations 
 of fools that possess the earth so long.” 
 
22 
 
 SiE VA PELOPIS DOMUS. 
 
 But if, after this warning, you still desire to be 
 remembered, do not despair. There are many forms 
 in which a man may endure. Critics have kept 
 many reputations alive by the supreme perfection of 
 their hostility. The fool is preserved that we may 
 be able to relish the sauce. The culprit is flayed 
 into everlasting notoriety. You are not a man of 
 genius yourself, but you may become the enemy of 
 one, if you try hard enough ; and some morning you 
 will rise and find yourself among the Immortals, — 
 scarified into fame. Fame, too, is capricious as for- 
 tune. “ The iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth 
 her poppies. Herostratus lives that burnt the temple 
 of Diana ; he is almost lost that built it ; time hath 
 spared the epitaph of Adrian’s horse, confounded 
 that of himself.” Age after age names drop out of 
 the recorded calendar of time, and are never again re- 
 inserted. We cannot house above a certain number 
 of great men ; and so the world is forced to sift and 
 winnow as it turns ; and the reputation of the foremost 
 is at the mercy of the most frivolous generation. The 
 illustrious of the earth were as many in Homer’s age 
 as in our own ; and when the destroying trumpet is 
 heard the roll will not be longer than it is now. 
 Who knows but that at the Last Day, by a wild 
 freak, by an ungovernable caprice, by an immortal 
 perversity. Dr. Martin Tupper may not be one of the 
 celebrities ? 
 
 Several great men besides Mr. De Quincey are 
 rather apt to forget what they are writing about ; 
 
SiE V A PELOPIS DOMUS. 
 
 23 
 
 but as Miles Warrender was ambitious, I cannot sup- 
 pose that the intelligent reader will deem these few 
 observations on the last infirmity of noble minds out 
 of place. Yes, Miles was ambitious, and he had a 
 right to be ambitious. His race from time imme- 
 morial had borne no ungraceful nor undistinguished 
 place in the national annals. It came straight down, 
 so the history of the house asserted — a history com- 
 piled in the last century by a reverend cadet, who 
 believed in his heart that the annals of the War- 
 renders were of more enduring interest than the 
 annals of the Plantagenets — from fair-haired Yikings 
 and bearded Jarls. One of these roving gentry, 
 though everywhere else victorious, fell at length 
 before the blue eyes of a Saxon maid. He wooed and 
 won ; and built himself a craggy keep above the 
 Northern Sea, which stormed of winter nights a 
 thousand feet below his bed-room window. His bride 
 was descended from the younger shoot of a royal 
 stem, and he himself traced his origin to a distin- 
 guished ornament of Walhalla. Well connected, 
 therefore, on both sides of the house — on this with 
 Charlemagne, on that with Odin — it was not sur- 
 prising that the Earl should have enjoyed the pro- 
 tection and favour of his sovereign, who, on the 
 principle of setting a thief to catch a thief, made him 
 the Warden of the Northern Coasts. Thus the house 
 was established, and with characteristic tenacity 
 t had clung through good and evil fortune to the 
 
24 
 
 SiEVA PELOPIS DOMUS. 
 
 barren seaboard where it was planted. Dynasties 
 might perish and empires decay, bnt the Warrenders 
 sat unmoved in their hawk-like nest above the cliffs. 
 But time was too potent even for the great house, 
 and at last it began to give way. The Earl jealously 
 watched the inroads of the reformed clergy, and after 
 having, as a warning, hung one or two of the most 
 active, gave peremptory orders that no more heretics 
 should be admitted within the limits of his heritable 
 jurisdiction. The edict would not work, however. 
 Silently, the subtle miasma infected castle and cot- 
 tage, and the Earl was forced sullenly to acquiesce 
 in the change. The seventeenth century saw the 
 family thrice attainted — twice for its politics and 
 once for its religion. But the domestic influence at 
 Court was so powerful that these were speedily 
 reversed ; and it was not until the beginning of the 
 succeeding century that the Government of the day 
 found it impossible to overlook the share which the 
 Earl had taken in his cousin of Mar’s rebellion. He 
 was driven into exile, the estates were confiscated, and 
 the title extinguished. One vain but romantic effort 
 was made by the last scion of an unhappy house to 
 recover “ the likeness of a kingly crown,” and the 
 son of the old Earl accompanied his prince. Worn 
 out with grief and hardship, the only heir of the 
 elder branch of the Warrenders perished in some 
 obscure continental brawl — that warfare of a hundred 
 years ago which was entered into without provocation 
 
SiE VA PELOPIS DOMUS, 
 
 25 
 
 and ended without honour. Meantime the northern 
 estates (which comprised but a moiety of their great 
 possessions) were gifted by the Crown to an able 
 commoner, who had married a pretty little niece of 
 the Earl, and who thereupon assumed the family 
 name and arms. He was one of the most noted 
 House of Commons men of his day, and might have 
 been made a peer had he liked. Since his time most 
 of the gentlemen of the name had achieved parlia- 
 mentary reputations ; and at the moment when 
 Miles entered public life, his cousin George Mowbray, 
 wit, poet, and orator, occupied the foremost place on 
 the Opposition benches. 
 
 Such was the blood which flowed in the Warrender 
 veins, and which had been transmitted from the 
 Norse Viking and his Saxon bride, through Koyalist 
 soldiers and Cavalier statesmen, to Miles Warrender, 
 Esquire, of Grace Dieu and Carlyon, in the county of 
 
 . But hold ! no personalities, if you please. It 
 
 was a keen, healthy, pungent ichor, smelling of the 
 sea-breeze, smacking of its brine. The Warrenders 
 were not a versatile race. Strong passions and 
 strong convictions are not unfrequently monotonous ; 
 for their range is narrow; they always strike the 
 same key-note, and keep at the same altitude. These 
 races do not end in Shakespeares and Goethes, but 
 Cromwells and Bluchers spring from them not un- 
 frequently. They are too intense to be cheerful, too 
 concentrated to be catholic. Yet the Warrenders 
 
26 
 
 S2EVA PELOPIS DOMUS. 
 
 could not be called monotonous ; a certain humorous 
 eccentricity prevented these grave men from becom- 
 ing tedious. It was this also which enabled them to 
 withstand as they did the levelling influences of 
 modern organisation, and to retain a marked and 
 not unjdeasant angularity of their own. Men called 
 it eccentricity — perhaps it was ; it was either that, or 
 the scent of the sea in the blood. And as the shell 
 still murmurs of the wave, “ though inland far it be,” 
 it was curious to note how, even when removed to the 
 interior and planted at college or in the senate, a 
 Warrender always recalled to the imagination the 
 stormy seaboard where his fathers were bred. Even 
 the great politician did not entirely fine down. He 
 was by theory and practice as suave and courteous as 
 a leader must be ; but the ruthless mockery, the 
 flashing scorn, the iron hardihood of heart and nerve, 
 were inherited from his Norse kin and smelt of the 
 brine. He sat there ; his hat pulled across his brows, 
 his arms crossed upon his chest — there at the head of 
 the gentlemen of England, himself the most polished 
 gentleman of them all. But how was it that when 
 he rose, and the keen, clear words flashed from the 
 curled lips and entered, like the noiseless steel, the 
 hearts of his enemies — how was it that you dreamed 
 of the stormy Walhallan ghosts, and the naked - 
 legged Viking striding angrily through the surf? 
 
( 27 ) 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 “THE TWELFTH.” 
 
 Not in Ithaca broad glades or meads ; 
 
 Yet dear the cliff whereon the wild goat feeds ; 
 
 No sea-girt island’s pasturing fields expand, 
 
 Yet most beloved of me, my rocky land. 
 
 HEATH like that of which the poet sings — 
 
 a heath so dreary, 
 
 For ever mantled by the sad white snow. 
 
 Only there is no snow here during August, and the 
 broad moors run down, purple with summer, to the 
 sea. 
 
 Lying at the foot of one of the heathy knolls 
 which relieve the monotonous level, the historian 
 perceives, though they are nearly hidden by the 
 luxuriant heather, a couple of sportsmen. It is the 
 close of a summer afternoon, and the blue smoke 
 of Manillas ascends gratefully — incense to appease 
 the sad ghosts of the unburied moorcock. 
 
 From the top of the knoll you look down upon 
 the sea — three, four, five miles away. Thalatta ! 
 Thalatta! Still it startles you, as it startled the 
 
28 
 
 <{ TIIE TWELFTH/ 
 
 Greeks of old, with a glad surprise. Blue or grey 
 or silvery, I know not which; but alive at least. 
 Therefore it is that we who are gifted with a fatal 
 immortality greet the sea. It, too, has inherited the 
 unhappy prerogative of our house. The earth dies 
 and is buried ; the sea, which is its soul, endures for 
 ever. 
 
 The blackened castle of Carlyon, rising from the 
 white surf and the windy bents, is dimly visible. 
 Carlyon stands on one side of the blue bay; the 
 house of Hawkstone on the other. You get a bird’s- 
 eye view of the boats that beat out and in to the 
 cove, or that lie with folded sails, like gannets, 
 over the fishing ground outside. A green marginal 
 border, such as the sportsman sees in summer round 
 the moss-springs, skirts the shore. Then, north and 
 south, far as the eye reaches — broad, barren, purple 
 moorland, — here and there a squatter’s hut, with turf 
 roofing, and curling blue smoke of peat. A little 
 community shut up by itself, like the aborigines in a 
 Pacific island. 
 
 On the other side, it is still the muir, and the 
 muir alone. Bat could you rise a furlong higher, 
 you would learn how the muir terminates at length, 
 and how rich woodlands, and rivers freighted with 
 pleasure-boats and merchant craft, and the country- 
 seats of county magnates, and the castle and demesne 
 of My Lord of Otterburne, and a great city of 
 labour and capital, lie beyond — not very many miles 
 
THE TWELFTH. 
 
 29 
 
 distant, indeed, by this smooth beaten road which 
 slants athwart the moss. 
 
 Along which an elf-like carriage now approaches 
 from the landward. It is drawn by two vigorous 
 Highland ponies — the one pale as a star, the other 
 black as coal. A dove-like flutter of ribbons and 
 muslin dresses becomes plainly visible. Two girls 
 — both pretty ; one with Titian hair, and an exqui- 
 sitely clear and child-like delicacy of complexion ; 
 the other dark and pensive, and doing her best to 
 restrain the wild little Highlanders, while she listens 
 to the merry badinage of her companion. She is 
 still a girl, though on the hither verge of girlhood, 
 and the shy fawn-like glance, which is sharply with- 
 drawn the moment it meets your eye, contrasts 
 charmingly with her mature and matronly carriage. 
 That glance somehow arrests and startles you. I 
 have called it shy, but it neither deprecated nor 
 entreated ; and though it reminded you somehow of 
 the soft and dreamy lustre of the fawn’s, it was 
 keener, more penetrating and defined. So long as it 
 knows that you are gazing on the face it belongs to, 
 the dark lashes studiously veil it ; but take a book, 
 pretend to be occupied, or looking in a different 
 direction, or at another face (as some can do), then 
 on a sudden it will peep out in the stillness, like a 
 mouse from its hole, and again retreat as suddenly 
 whenever it feels that it is detected. The rest of the 
 face remains perfectly quiescent ; the eye only roams 
 
3 o 
 
 “THE TWELFTH. 
 
 and investigates gravely, like the old vagabond con- 
 jurers, who left their bodies stark and untenanted, 
 while they themselves wandered over the world. 
 
 The ponies had got very restive before the Titian- 
 esque face noticed that anything was wrong. 
 
 “ Corry, Corry,” she cried, as the ponies bursting 
 into a gallop, brushed some large stones that lay on 
 the road-side, “ take care.” 
 
 Corry looked very pale, but not distressed. “ Don’t 
 touch the reins, Alice, you will frighten them. They 
 only want a gallop. Pluto, good Pluto, wo-o-o.” 
 
 But Pluto has got the bit between his teeth, and 
 he and Proserpine are determined to “ try a fall.” 
 The little wicker-work basket swings to and fro as 
 the ponies, warming with the passion of the turf, 
 gallop more recklessly along, and is sometimes almost 
 concealed from sight in the cloud of dust which is 
 raised by the hurrying hoofs. The mischievous 
 prank is ending in a panic, under the influence of 
 which they rush along as if pursued by the furies. 
 Alice is already speechless with fright ; but Corry, 
 though her fingers are bruised and bleeding, holds 
 to the reins like white death. Do what she can, 
 however, the terrified brutes manage to get off the 
 smooth road to the adjacent moor, and are apparently 
 making straight for a deep and ugly-looking peat- 
 hag, filled with greenish water, when — 
 
 Of course, at this crisis, the hero of the piece 
 descends gracefully upon the stage amid a profusion 
 
THE TWELFTH. 
 
 3 1 
 
 of fireworks, and cuts the traces. This being a story 
 of real life, I was at first somewhat suspicious of an 
 incident which bore so questionable a resemblance to 
 the course of events in legendary history. It was 
 much more probable, I said to myself, that that 
 gentleman was at home, playing pool, writing poetry, 
 or taking a glass of sherry as a whet for the salmon. 
 Why should the ponies have halted purely, as it 
 seemed, to give him an opportunity to stop them, to 
 earn sweet thanks from the ladies’ lips, and /euSo? 
 from the county paper? Had I reasoned thus, I 
 should no doubt have produced an unanswerable 
 argument ; but I should have had to leave the ponies 
 at the bottom of the bog, and only one white feather 
 from that charming wide-awake floating on the sur- 
 face of the mere ; and this would never have done, 
 for I have not yet come to the tragic part of my 
 story. The argument, as an argument, is, I cheer- 
 fully admit, conclusive ; and the only valid objection 
 to it, as to modern historical theories in general, 
 is that it chances to be entirely opposed to the 
 facts. For this was the twelfth of August (dies 
 immemor ), and Miles Warrender and an old college 
 chum were taking their pleasure on his moors 
 (being in fact the sportsmen we have already inci- 
 dentally noted), and were lunching and smoking 
 as we have seen, at the precise spot where the acci- 
 dent threatened to occur. To a wiry sportsman like 
 Miles, it was of course a matter of little difficulty to 
 
32 
 
 “THE TWELFTH.” 
 
 arrest the Highlanders, and his heavy hand quickly 
 brought the little fellows, panting and perspiring, to 
 a stand. 
 
 Alice rapidly recovered speech, and was profuse 
 in her thanks. “ In truth, Mr. Warrender, you have 
 saved us. What a frightful scrape ! How intoler- 
 able to have had that horrid green water splashed all 
 over our new muslins ! I should have died of it.” 
 
 Corry said nothing. If the two girls had been 
 quite alone, I believe they would have had recourse 
 to what Mr. Tadpole calls “a good cry.” As it 
 was, Alice did not cry, but laughed and talked with 
 her usual esprit , while Corry went up to Pluto’s head, 
 and reproached the impenitent miscreant. 
 
 “ 0, Pluto, I am ashamed of you ; what do you 
 mean, sir ? ” she inquired with childish gravity, 
 stamping prettily on the ground w r ith her tiny foot, 
 and patting him not ungently on the nose, while the 
 eye, like a startled sunbeam, shot through the thick 
 cover of the lashes, and across Pluto’s shaggy mane, 
 to light on Miles’s face. 
 
( 33 ) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 SOLUTIS GrRATIiE ZONIS. 
 
 In all she did 
 
 Some figure, of the golden time was hid, 
 
 TT is a great mistake to be specific. Half the 
 “ heresy ” in the world is the result of trying to 
 define. So the events already narrated, or about to 
 be narrated, were transacted — no matter where. 
 They were transacted in the year of grace — no 
 matter which. Let it suffice that they were trans- 
 acted ; they will remain humanly significant, though 
 I do not condescend to the where and wdien. 
 There are obvious reasons why the present historian 
 should not become prudishly circumstantial. An 
 acute critic would then experience no difficulty in 
 detecting the incessant anachronisms, in which, as a 
 countryman of Shakespeare, he is pleased to indulge. 
 Why should he heedlessly expose himself to the risk 
 of capture by the detective police ? 
 
 There is an after-piece to the incident narrated in 
 the last chapter, which 1 had almost omitted to 
 chronicle. 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 SOLUTIS GRATIS ZONIS. 
 
 It was the first night of the full moon, and the 
 moonlight rested wliitely on the water, and on the 
 bold promontory of rocks, and on the bleached 
 towers of Carlyon, and on the fishing-boats with- 
 drawn from the tide, and on the white muslin cur- 
 tains of Alice’s bedroom in Hawkstone. Her eyes 
 are half closed ; she is not yet quite asleep, but “ the 
 glamour is cuisten ower her.” A pale statue-like 
 figure moves noiselessly through the room. It is 
 draped in simple antique white, but the black hair 
 has been unloosed, and falls down dishevelled to the 
 unzoned waist. It passes to the window, and gazes 
 across the bay to Carlyon, amid whose grey towers 
 red lights still burn. A priestess of Diana ? No, 
 she does not belong to the austere sisterhood ; it is 
 only a pretty innocent girl, who cannot rest for the 
 new, unquiet pain at her heart. 
 
 “ Is that you, Corry ? ” asks Alice. “ Why are you 
 up so late ? You will get your death of cold, child.” 
 
 The girl comes and seats herself by the bedside. 
 
 “ Alice, dear, I can’t sleep. I am so hot and rest- 
 less ; feel my hand. How thankful we should be 
 that we got safe home to-day ! I cannot tell you how 
 terrified I was ; it was dreadful.” And she clasped 
 her hands over her eyes. Then, looking into her 
 friend’s face, she whispered, “ And dear Miles, how 
 can I show him I am not ungrateful ? I couldn’t 
 thank him ; I was afraid I would cry if I tried ; and 
 I am now so sorry. What will he think ? ” 
 
SOLUTIS GBATI2E ZONIS. 
 
 35 
 
 “ You poor child, you have lost your heart to that 
 dear Miles. That is the matter, is it ? Well, write 
 him a pretty, dutiful little epistle, and seal it with a 
 forget-me-not .” 
 
 “ Tush, Alice, you are unfeeling, silly. But I do 
 love my cousin dearly, and I don’t mind who knows 
 it, — not a bit,” she added, with a charming childish 
 petulance that was graceful as a Greek jest. 
 
 “ Why should you, you romantic chit ? Miles is a 
 king of men, just as you are a real little angel, with 
 wings that you hide under your night-gown, I be- 
 lieve. But I rather prefer, for my own part, that 
 huge friend of his, who rolls about like the Indian 
 god on the mantelpiece downstairs. I’m sure he’s 
 quite as clever, and twenty times funnier.” 
 
 “ Miles does not care to be funny to — to — ” said 
 the child, loftily, and with great dignity. 
 
 “ To a silly good-for-nothing like me,” interrupted 
 Alice. “ But go to bed now, dear. You are shiver- 
 ing all over. Good night. Good night.” 
 
( 36 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Tasting the air this spicy night which turns 
 The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine. 
 
 rpHE lights were still burning in the comfortable 
 smoking-room at Carlyon, and Miles and Darcy, 
 seated in two ample easy-ehairs, were taking their 
 pleasure on either side of the open window, through 
 which came the soft breezes of the summer night, 
 and “ the voice of the long sea wave as it swell’d ! ” 
 Darcy was reading the Times; Miles’s whole soul 
 was absorbed in his meerschaum — the reign of clay 
 had not been inaugurated as yet. 
 
 “ You will be glad to hear,” quoth Darcy, “ that 
 His Grace is in perfect health, that Lady Manning 
 gave the last assembly of the season on Tuesday 
 night, that it was attended by the elite of the aris- 
 tocracy who remain in town, among whom we noticed 
 the Princess of Oxbridge, the Earl of Bedlam — ” 
 “Hold, Darcy, there’s a good fellow. You will 
 make the room as hot as Lady Manning’s temper, if 
 
THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 37 
 
 you conjure up these visions of Pandemonium. Find 
 something cool and unexciting.” 
 
 “The coolest thing I ever heard of is young Por- 
 cupine standing for Middleton. Who could have 
 put him up to it ? Why, the man was at Codlington 
 with us, you recollect, and he was a born idiot, if 
 ever there was one. He was meant for the diplo- 
 matic service then — even his friends said he wasn’t 
 fit for anything better. It’s just like these Nevils 
 — they never had the slightest respect for public 
 decency — they’ll put up the family parrot or the 
 family cuddy some day. I’ve a great mind to go and 
 lead a revolt.” 
 
 “ I would, if I were you ; the Earl will give you a 
 shove.” 
 
 “ I would if I were a Croesus, like you ; I will 
 when I am. Hang the Earl. I can fancy how he 
 would take it. — 6 No doubt the country is — aw — aw 
 — going to the bad, and the Nevils are the deuce and 
 all that, but our family — aw — aw — has given up 
 politics, and — aw — aw — in fact, Mr. Darcy Langton, 
 I wash my hands of the whole concern.’ No, no, the 
 bar for ten years ; but if I don’t have a shy at the 
 county the day I’m Solicitor, may I be blessed.” 
 
 “ Is the House up ? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know ; haven’t come to that yet. I always 
 take the police reports first, they are so much more 
 instructive than what is done in the other place. If 
 it wasn’t for the look of the thing I’d go and practise 
 
38 
 
 THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 before Sir Peter. Let me see — ‘ House of Lords. — 
 Fifty bills were read a third time and passed, but 
 there was no business of any public interest/ Think 
 of that — fifty bills passed and no public interest ! I 
 can tell you it is a good deal for my interest though ; 
 I look upon each of these bills as so much clear 
 profit. It’s very considerate of these Parliament 
 lawyers ; but they are coming it a leetle too strong. 
 Things will get into such an eternal mess presently, 
 that Cobham will sweep us away like cobwebs some 
 fine morning, and bring the Code Napoleon across the 
 water.” 
 
 “ Too precious a blessing to be prayed for. The 
 nation wouldn’t consider itself safe for a day, if it 
 understood its laws or its religion.” 
 
 “ Like old Widow Murphy. ‘ UnerstaiT his rever- 
 ence’s sermon, sir ? Na, na, I wudna presume.’ But 
 don’t be profane. I hate the superficial way in which 
 you laymen sneer at the most lucrative system of 
 jurisprudence in the world.” And Darcy relapsed into 
 the newspaper. “ Hullo ! Here’s the Great Man 
 been at it again. ‘ Mr. Mowbray’s motion on the 
 Partington disabilities/ By Jove, how he walks 
 into them ! Listen to this. ‘ You may resist to-day 
 and to-morrow, but the time will come when you 
 must give way. Look at the noble lord ! He has 
 pledged himself to put down the movement. 0 
 devout imagination ! The noble lord against the 
 people of England ! Let him try it.’ And so your 
 
THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 39 
 
 cousin sits down — liis lip curled with that supreme 
 scorn of his — and the House cheers him vociferously, 
 and ” 
 
 “ Divides clean against him, as of old? ” 
 
 “Not a bit. 200 for, 225 against — majority 
 against, 25, in prodigious capitals, and great cheering 
 from the minority thereat.” 
 
 “ Things are coming to a crisis. A dissolution, I 
 suppose. Mowbray will be minister next year.” 
 “And Miles Warrender an Under-Secretary, or 
 something better.” 
 
 “No, thank you. I am not a politician, and don’t 
 mean to be one. I saw a good deal of the farce last 
 year, and didn’t like it.” 
 
 “ Tush, — ’tis a good play, and I want you to make 
 me Solicitor. Let us have All the Talents.” 
 
 “ Be Solicitor, 0 my friend, but I will sit under 
 my own vines, if you please.” 
 
 “ Your own cabbages, you mean.” 
 
 “Very well. But a Secretary of State — what a 
 destiny ! The man ceases to be a man, and becomes 
 an abstraction — War, Justice, the Colonies. And an 
 Under-Secretary is the shadow of a shade — an Under- 
 secretary can’t smoke — an Under-Secretary isn’t 
 allowed a latch-key — an Under-Secretary must keep 
 regular hours, and have no inconvenient convictions. 
 And so — and so — what a glorious night ! ” 
 
 The moonlight lies on the water, which heaves 
 like molten silver. Lights are moving among the 
 
40 
 
 THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 cottages in tlie village — ’tis the fishers preparing to 
 catch the morning tide. Already the first boat has 
 left, and crosses the lane of light that lies athwart 
 the bay ; its brown sail is set, but the warm night 
 wind is soft and fickle ; so the rowers pull, and the 
 ear catches distinctly the regular beat of the heavy 
 oars. 
 
 “Hawkstone is still as the dead,” said Darcy, 
 looking across the bay. “ Very sweet pretty creatures 
 these girls are. Corry is an old friend of mine, but 
 she is as wild and shy as one of her own ponies. My 
 dear Miles, I caught an expression in these eyes to- 
 day, which I tried to keep to myself, only I fear it 
 was meant for some one else. However, that yellow- 
 haired, blue-eyed friend of hers, with her infectious 
 laugh, is more to my taste. A simple man like my- 
 self would be afraid of the other ; he would be per- 
 petually hurting her, without knowing it ; and then 
 she would break away like a wounded fawn, and 
 bleed to death in the woodland quite alone, — too shy 
 to seek for help. A pretty figure, is it not? I 
 sometimes fancy Providence designed to make a 
 poet of me. Chance has given the world a Chan- 
 cellor.” 
 
 “ Corry is a good child, and wouldn’t do anything 
 so absurd. But Alice would make an excellent help- 
 meet for Mr. Darcy Langton, and we’ll go and call 
 to-morrow at Hawkstone.” 
 
 “ Heaven forbid ! I am an anchorite, a pilgrim, 
 
THE MOONLIGHT. 41 
 
 — the scallop-shell and green bag are my only pos- 
 sessions. No income under a thousand a-year should 
 have leave to visit the drawing-room. I don’t 
 enter Paradise till I quit my garret. Then, — but 
 then I will be crowned with age, if not with wisdom, 
 and some of the blue will have melted out of these 
 blue eyes. Alack ! alack ! Vanity of vanities ! I 
 wonder if the Chancellor sleeps as well as plain 
 Darcy does. And so, my lord, good-night, or rather 
 good-morrow, for ‘ the Lady of the Light, the rosy- 
 flnger’d Morn,’ stirs over yonder,— an I mistake 
 not.” 
 
( 4 2 ) 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE COMMONWEALTH. 
 
 Who breaks his birth’s invidious bar, 
 
 And grasps the skirts of happy chance, 
 
 And breasts the blows of circumstance, 
 
 And grapples with his evil star ; 
 
 Who makes by force his merit known, 
 
 And lives to clutch the golden keys, 
 
 To mould a mighty state’s decrees, 
 
 And shape the whisper of the throne. 
 
 npHE Commonwealth was in commotion. 
 
 The Commonwealth was the popular club with 
 the younger men. It was not Whig, and it was not 
 Conservative. Frequented by those who were not 
 tied to the Ministry, nor bound to the Opposition, 
 who had little sympathy with the obsolete traditions 
 of the Tory, and none with the doctrinaire antidotes 
 of modern Liberalism, it was a club of good birth 
 and good breeding — a club of parts, culture, and 
 ability, but at the same time a club better suited for 
 the critic than for the worker, for the wit and the 
 satirist than for the practical politician. 
 
THE COMMONWEALTH. 
 
 43 
 
 Yet the Commonwealth was moved. The Ministry 
 had been virtually defeated the previous evening ; 
 and even the still waters of the Commonwealth 
 rippled. 
 
 “ Have you heard the news ? His Grace has been 
 at Windsor.” 
 
 “ But the King won’t let him resign.” 
 
 “ I beg your pardon — I have it on the best autho- 
 rity — his resignation has been accepted. The Ministry 
 is out.” 
 
 “ Well, I suppose the world will wag on. Who 
 comes in ? ” 
 
 “ Don’t know. Mowbray’s the man ; but they 
 don’t like him up there. Easyhavers threatens to 
 tell the Emperor.” 
 
 “ Yes, Mowbray’s the man,” was unanimously 
 echoed from the bay window. Wherever else he 
 might be disliked, the surpassing merits of the 
 English Cicero were frankly admitted by that cri- 
 tical and fastidious assembly. 
 
 Mowbray, indeed, was very popular at the Com- 
 monwealth. He had taken a first-class at Oxford, 
 and his prize poem was better than the Laureate’s. 
 He had written epigrams once — he spoke them now 
 — and they were terse, brilliant, and sparkling 
 with wit and scholarly point. He came of an 
 old race, and the bar-sinister which crossed his coat 
 did him little harm with critics who were better up 
 in them horses’ than in them statesmen’s pedigrees. 
 
44 
 
 THE COMMONWEALTH. 
 
 For many years he was the petted Benjamin of his 
 party. But at length he freed himself from the tra- 
 ditions in which he had been nursed, and assumed a 
 higher position. At home he was now regarded as 
 the most dangerous enemy of antique wrongs ; from 
 abroad, as the most sagacious advocate of an intel- 
 ligent foreign policy, and “ the last sighs of nations, 
 perishing with their gods,” were carried to the patriot 
 politician. Only by the fools and bigots of political 
 life was he hated. That party, however, is always 
 a large one — one not unfrequently in the majority 
 — holding office with peculiar tenacity, difficult to 
 resist, and dangerous to assail. The triple brass of 
 an English fool furnishes invincible armour. 
 
 As the evening fell, members gathered in to learn 
 the rumours. The chances of the competitors were 
 discussed, and the odds against the favourite, or in 
 favour of the field, taken and given. At length a 
 well-known figure, compact as a lady’s glove, wiry as 
 a Skye terrier, saunters along the pavement towards 
 the club-door. 
 
 “ Here’s Maurice — Maurice will know.” 
 
 “ What’s up, Maurice; what’s the news?” 
 
 The gentleman addressed slowly raises his eyes to 
 the eager inquirers, composedly glances along the 
 line, and answers — 
 
 “ Nothing I know of ; there never is any news 
 now. It was different when I was a boy. Then we 
 had a new prince every six months or so — six months 
 
THE COMMONWEALTH. 
 
 45 
 
 to a day, upon my honour. Now it takes twice the 
 time, it seems, and we don’t care about it when it 
 does come. By the way, what kind of fellow is this 
 Mowbray I hear people begin to talk about ? ” 
 
 “ Begin to talk ! Why, they have been at it for 
 thirty years. But what of Mowbray ? ” 
 
 “ Let me see, what was it ? Yes, I recollect. He 
 has been with the King, who shed tears — good old 
 soul ! — when he found Mowbray didn’t mind being 
 scolded, and ended by making him Minister. He is 
 now forming a government ; and I do trust you may 
 be in the Cabinet, my dear Ashby ! if you like that 
 kind of thing.” 
 
 Lord Maurice’s voice was drowned. The Com- 
 monwealth was fairly beside itself. Mowbray was its 
 favourite son, its peculiar pupil ; and Mowbray was 
 Minister. If the members of that critical and 
 cynical, if not Christian, society ever embraced each 
 other, it was upon this occasion. Many of them, no 
 doubt, expected official pickings ; but on the whole 
 I am inclined to believe that unselfish satisfaction at 
 the elevation of a wit, a scholar, and a gentleman, 
 was the motive of the rejoicing. 
 
 This is not the place nor the time to attempt to 
 discriminate with exactness the elements that con- 
 curred to create the admiration entertained for 
 Mr. Mowbray by a large body of the public: but, 
 generally speaking, they could be detected on the 
 
4 6 
 
 THE COMMONWEALTH. 
 
 surface. There undoubtedly existed then, in many 
 quarters, a reaction against the mechanical mate- 
 rialism of the century, and to this, in Mr. Mowbray, 
 there was something congenial, — something which 
 might be true or false in other respects, but which at 
 least was, — whatever else it might be, — a sturdy pro- 
 test against the principle of red tape. His earlier 
 works were distinguished by a spirit of serene ex- 
 travagance, which, even when most curiously incon- 
 sistent, was not wanting in a certain reckless fidelity. 
 Vaughan , Marvel , and Wharton , are the polished and 
 artistic elaborations of a mature intellect : but the 
 same critical and fearless genius animates their most 
 practical speculations. His opponents turned from 
 his literary to his political life, and dwelt upon the 
 contrast between the perfervid enthusiasm of the 
 closet, and the interested intrigues of the Senate. 
 But Mr. Mowbray, the leader of His Majesty’s 
 Opposition, and Mr. Mowbray, the Chancellor of His 
 Majesty’s Exchequer, were quite as popular characters 
 with his friends, as Mr. Mowbray, the sarcastic 
 assailant of a corrupt conservatism, and Mr. Mowbray, 
 the author of Wharton. They admired the subtle and 
 courageous thinker: they admired the subtle and 
 courageous politician. In either capacity he mani- 
 fested the virtues which secure the respect and 
 fealty of men, who, practically taught to believe that 
 all speculations and opinions are equally worthless 
 
THE COMMONWEALTH. 
 
 47 
 
 in themselves, naturally attach exclusive importance 
 to the manner in which a man acquits himself, and 
 to the personal qualities or abilities he may display. 
 Here, then, they found one, who, though conversant 
 with abstract systems, and with the artificial specula- 
 tions of a literary life, had yet displayed an unrivalled 
 capacity for the management of public affairs, and 
 manifested incomparable energy, daring, and resolu- 
 tion, alike in the conception and in the achievement 
 of a career. Especially felicitous in this light did 
 that connection appear, which once called forth so 
 much violent animadversion, — a connection which 
 was originally formed by Mr. Mowbray that he might 
 more effectively gratify his hostility against Lord 
 Stafford, — (and which he did gratify in a famous and 
 protracted conflict, in which genius and audacity 
 assailed with scornful success the conventional autho- 
 rity of place,) — a connection between the most subtle 
 and brilliant intellect of these times, and a feeble 
 and mercenary combination, without a creed, and 
 without a principle. We all remember how, under 
 his masterly dictatorship, this dispirited remnant 
 gradually acquired reputation and importance, — how 
 it became, by degrees, associated with a traditionary 
 policy, and an historical confession, — how the con- 
 fidence of democratic England was boldly demanded 
 for an aristocratic connection, because it represented, 
 forsooth, the party whose interests had been imme- 
 morially identified with those of the English people, 
 
4 8 
 
 THE COMMONWEALTH. 
 
 — how it ultimately acquired the authority of English 
 power, and its author assumed the responsibilities of 
 English government ! 
 
 Associated with the genius which Mr. Mowbray 
 manifested in the conduct of practical politics, two 
 features were very noticeable, — especially in that 
 intensely conscious and imitative age. Of all its 
 public men, in the first place, he was the only one 
 who relied implicitly upon himself. With cold pre- 
 cision he struck the blow that was, perhaps, to prove 
 the turning point of a difficult and protracted conflict, 
 and, when he had done so, he was immediately 
 content to hold his peace. Unlike our representative 
 “ delegates,” he manifested no desire to “ explain his 
 conduct,” — to “ vindicate his position,” — to justify 
 himself to his friends, — to avert the censure of his 
 enemies. He had estimated the exact value of what 
 he had achieved, and he was content in silence to 
 abide the issue. It was from this characteristic that 
 to many he seemed, as it were, to exert a direct and 
 conscious control over his career, — as though he 
 were not so much the creature of circumstances as 
 other men, and had more thoroughly recognised and 
 mastered the necessities of his position. He had 
 rehearsed his career, and, consequently, he played 
 his part with infinite accuracy and precision. And 
 it was from this, moreover, that he never publicly 
 manifested irritation, or annoyance, or vented his 
 anger in the infelicitous language of passion. He 
 
THE COMMONWEALTH. 
 
 49 
 
 was not moved, because be was thoroughly prepared. 
 When he was indeed touched, — when it did seem as 
 though the insult had reached him, through the cold 
 and haughty reserve of his nature, — he never allowed 
 himself to forget that he represented an important 
 historical character. Even his passion was made 
 subservient to his art. There was nothing impulsive 
 or spontaneous in its expression. It had been 
 anxiously adapted to serve a particular purpose, — 
 perhaps to cover a bitter retort, which could not be 
 tolerated except from a very angry and conscientious 
 man. Consequently, in this light, Mr. Mowbray 
 never appeared more severely artistical or artificial 
 than when he was utterly in earnest. Nor, in the 
 next place, was it possible to mistake the impersonal 
 nature of the man. There was no part of his career 
 which did not bear a direct and intimate connection 
 with the rest; but, whenever it had answered the 
 purpose it was immediately designed to serve, it 
 became detached and separated from him, — whenever 
 it ceased to engage the active energies of his mind, 
 he was able to criticise it with passionless historical 
 impartiality, as an object out and apart from him, for 
 which he was not in any wise solicitous, nor re- 
 sponsible. 
 
 Such were the character and career of the great 
 Tory chief. It was the same story throughout. 
 Desperately against desperate odds, he kept his 
 place in the perilous arena; but he never lost 
 
 E 
 
5 ° 
 
 THE COMMONWEALTH. 
 
 temper once. So his good things have not perished. 
 The bitter repartees have crystallised into immortal 
 gems. The diamond is curiously polished, and 
 without flaw. I do not wonder that the Common- 
 wealth loved him, especially when it came to know 
 that the politician was as wise as he was witty ; that 
 the man was a sure friend and a magnanimous foe, 
 never selfish and never base. 
 
 “ Blessed be the man,” says the wise Sancho 
 Panza, “ who first invented sleep. It covers one all 
 over like a cloak ! ” Let us dry the ink and put the 
 pen aside, Ponto. That is Saint Hilda, rising up 
 sheer from the ocean’s bottom, which, far to the 
 southward, cuts the evening sky. 
 
THE SNOW 
 
 E 2 
 
 library 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
( 53 ) 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE LEGITIMATE DRAMA. 
 
 This life of mine 
 
 Must be lived out, and a grave thoroughly earned. 
 
 rpHE Theatre Royal had arrived at Ashton : but — 
 in the meantime — two years have elapsed since 
 we left our friends in the Commonwealth. 
 
 Two years, — passed into darkness on their noise- 
 less wings. The roses have died out of the cheeks, 
 and the garlands have been plucked from the hair. 
 Only the vacant effigy of them survives, — “ as in 
 a glass darkly/’ Can these passionate moments, 
 touched with sacred fire, thus perish utterly, leaving 
 only a barren monument to the memory? Some 
 people are content with the reminiscence, and flatter 
 its mocking counterfeit of life. But let us, at least, be 
 frank. A single throb of the pulse, a single glance 
 from the blue eyes, a single pressure of the tender 
 hand, is worth a dead Caesar’s victories, or the storied 
 glories of an empire that has perished. Carpe diem . 
 
 During these two years, however, few visible 
 
54 
 
 THE LEGITIMATE DEAMA. 
 
 changes had affected our society. Mowbray was in 
 office when they began, and notwithstanding the bit- 
 terly personal hostility of a portion of the aristocracy, 
 still continued Minister. But it was a hard fight, a 
 hand-to-hand struggle ; and the next election was 
 looked forward to with intense interest as likely to 
 prove decisive, either for or against him. Warrender 
 had not yet entered Parliament; for though Mow- 
 bray had lately offered his young kinsman a seat — 
 one of the Government close boroughs — Miles had, 
 for certain reasons of his own, seen fit to decline. 
 With the exception of a couple of months in the 
 metropolis during the spring east winds, he continued 
 to reside exclusively at Carlyon. Nor was Hawk- 
 stone deserted. Mrs. Menteith and Corry were little 
 addicted to wandering, and old Sir Maxwell never 
 quitted the library where he sharpened the edge of 
 his wit on Descartes and Hegel. Alice always 
 spent the summer-tide with them, and she had just 
 received leave from “home” (somewhere among the 
 orchards and hedgerows of sunny Devon) to pass the 
 incoming winter beside the frosty seas. Darcy was 
 making his way, slowly but sturdily, at the bar ; not 
 permitting its dry lore and tedious mummeries to 
 deform his intellect, or warp his common sense ; and 
 still retaining unimpaired the buoyant vivacity of 
 temperament and the keen direct insight which had 
 made him the popular favourite at school, at college, 
 and in his profession. 
 
THE LEGITIMATE DRAMA. 
 
 55 
 
 To return. The “Theatre Royal ” had arrived 
 at Ashton, and a village group was discussing the 
 play-bill displayed in front of the War render Arms , 
 where the company performed. 
 
 It stated that, in obedience to the wishes of the 
 
 nobility and gentry of the county of , Mr. O’Rook 
 
 had visited Ashton, and would perform there during 
 the week. The manager remarked that the well- 
 known ability of his company had realized the am- 
 bition of a life spent in the service of his country — 
 the production, namely, of the great national Drama, 
 in a manner never witnessed hitherto off the metro- 
 politan boards. On the present occasion (as a mark 
 of respect to that August Personage who had deigned 
 to mark in a way Mr. O’R., without violating the 
 most Sacred Confidence, could not more precisely 
 allude to, but which would never be forgotten, His 
 appreciation of Mr. O’R.’s humble services to the 
 Legitimate Drama), the performances would com- 
 mence with “ The National Anthem, by the whole 
 strength of the company,” would include the cele- 
 brated Dramatic Tragedy, “ The Exciseman ; a Tale 
 of the Sea a comic song on Ashton, by Mr. Smiles ; 
 and the popular Comic Extravaganza entitled “ Tib- 
 bie and the Bo’sun.” Children in arms could not be 
 admitted ; whistling, riotous, or improper noises were 
 not allowed under any circumstances whatever ; 
 smoking in any part of the house was strictly pro- 
 hibited ; and every person disregarding these regula- 
 
5 6 THE LEGITIMATE DEAMA. 
 
 tions would be immediately turned out, and — “no 
 money returned.” Mr. O’R. was a resolute supporter 
 (in large capitals) of Social Order and .Municipal 
 Institutions ; and he trusted that the public would 
 second his efforts “ to elevate the Tone, and purify 
 the Atmosphere of the $tage.” 
 
 The villagers were properly impressed by the views 
 thus oracularly promulgated ; and on entering the 
 house, Miles and Darcy found the pit (6c?.) and the 
 gallery (3c?.) well filled — chiefly by seamen and their 
 “ sweethearts.” In the foremost row, by courtesy 
 denominated the “ boxes,” there were, besides them- 
 selves, half-a-dozen of the soi-disant gentry of Ash- 
 ton ; grocers’ lads with a passion for the legitimate 
 drama, and an aspect of general seediness ; a large 
 family of little children, under the wings of a par- 
 ticularly pretty nurse, to whom Darcy, more suo , found 
 occasion to make himself incidentally agreeable ; an 
 old marine captain on half-pay, and a member of the 
 local bar, rather addicted to the use of stimulants, 
 and who smelt indifferently of snuff, brandy, and 
 coal-tar. 
 
 Though the programme might have been inspired 
 by Mr. Charles Kean, the most cynical critic could 
 not affirm that Mr. O’R.’s success depended on the 
 employment of scenic effects. “ Our great Shake- 
 spearian interpreter,” as the Ashton Tomahawk put 
 it, “is independent of the upholsterer. It is the 
 man , not the tailor, that we recognise in Mr. O’R.” 
 
THE LEGITIMATE DEAMA. 
 
 57 
 
 The stage-machinery, indeed, was of the simplest 
 kind, and spectacle was as studiously avoided as if the 
 manager had been a Prae-Raphaelite. The orchestra, 
 the whole strength of which was exhausted on the 
 National Anthem, consisted of a blind fiddler, and a 
 cracked drum, which was occasionally beaten in an 
 independent and incidental way by any member of 
 the company who chanced to be disengaged. The 
 company, however, was the strong point. There was 
 Mr. O’R. himself, the ubiquitous smuggler, who 
 defied the officials of His Majesty’s Revenue, and 
 declared unhesitatingly that death was preferable to 
 dishonour. There was the elderly gentlewoman who 
 enacted the heroine, and who walked about in the 
 rain in an evening dress and a plume of ostrich 
 feathers ; and the young lady who, with other odds 
 and ends, had lost her character, and a good many 
 of her front teeth. There was a diminutive imp of 
 darkness in livery, who “made his first appearance 
 on any stage,” and who succeeded in removing cer- 
 tain pieces of furniture from the scene, without 
 producing any striking casualty ; and who shortly 
 afterwards re-appeared, with a basket of eatables, in 
 front of the curtain, trying to look as honest and 
 mortal as he could, while he disposed of gingerbread 
 and gingerbeer to the occupants of the pit. There was 
 a gloomy individual with a tragic squint, who repre- 
 sented His Majesty’s Revenue, and belonged — it was 
 generally rumoured about the room — to a noble 
 
58 THE LEGITIMATE DRAMA. 
 
 family not unknown in the neighbourhood. Finally, 
 there was Samuel Smiles, Esquire, to whom Provi- 
 dence was provokingly unkind, but who encountered 
 all the mischances of life in a cheerful spirit, and 
 conquered them with a comic song. 
 
 The Great National Drama represented the career 
 of an adventurous smuggler, and the various shifts to 
 which he was put while engaged in defrauding the 
 Revenue. He had (as occasionally happens in the 
 Legitimate Drama) ruined his sweetheart, who ulti- 
 mately, however, rescued him from the prison where 
 he was lodged preparatory to his execution, and 
 whom, in a mingled transport of gratitude, remorse, 
 and drink , he made “ an honest woman ” upon the 
 spot. To do Mr. O’R. justice, he went through his 
 part with infinite gusto, and defended himself from 
 the charge of murder (on the ground that the de- 
 ceased was only a “ gauger ”) in a style that would 
 have brought down the Old Bailey. So that when 
 the curtain fell upon ‘ Justice Vindicated and Virtue 
 Rewarded,’ in the form of the murderer marrying his 
 mistress, the plaudits were loud and unanimous. 
 Mr. O’R. was sensibly moved, and when he appeared 
 before the curtain, with his bride at his side, and his 
 hand on his heart, his emotion almost prevented him 
 from acknowledging (as in oblivion of his obligations 
 to royalty, he succeeded in doing), that it was “ the 
 proudest incadent of me loife.” 
 
 Miles had sat, not very deeply interested, laughing 
 
THE LEGITIMATE DEAMA. 
 
 59 
 
 a little at the performances, and a good deal at 
 Darcy’s commentaries, until the heroine appeared 
 on the stage ; but there was something about her 
 which at once arrested the attention. Once she 
 might have been really pretty ; but the face was now 
 haggard and attenuated, the cheek-bones seemed as 
 if they would cut through the tightly-drawn skin, 
 which barely covered them ; and the cheeks had been 
 coarsely and carelessly smeared with red paint. Her 
 black hair, however (and by the imperfect lamp- 
 light Miles could not see that it was streaked with 
 iron grey), was still thick and abundant. She began 
 her part mechanically, repeating each syllable with 
 perfect precision, but in a tired, fagged, inanimate 
 voice, as if she had failed to catch the sense of the 
 words, or were speaking an unfamiliar tongue. But 
 she warmed as the plot thickened ; and at last, when 
 her lover was about to die, the impending catastrophe 
 seemed to nerve her, and to quicken all her faculties 
 into a painful life. She awoke ; the hard, dry, 
 parched look left her eyes ; she was struggling with 
 an imminent peril, and the glance grew moist, and 
 warm with dramatic life. “ Oh God ! and must he 
 die, and to-morrow ? He who has lain on this heart ; 
 whom these arms have clasped. No. If mortal aid 
 can save him, he shall not die ! ” And she does save 
 him ; and there is one glad moment of victory (when 
 her face bore a wonderful expression of triumph and 
 ecstacy), and then the brief illusion passes, and the 
 
6o 
 
 THE LEGITIMATE DRAMA. 
 
 hard, dry, sad smile settles down again on tlie 
 parched lips, and the thirsty eyes. 
 
 Miles felt, in spite of the rouge and the tawdriness, 
 that there was something genuine here — a natural 
 refinement inconsistent with the coarse setting. 
 Darcy, too, had been arrested. 
 
 “ That woman is a real actress,” he said. “For 
 the moment she forgot all the world — except the 
 instant peril of her lover. That is the true artist 
 instinct. There is something fine about the wreck. 
 What is it ? Is it her hair, I wonder ?” 
 
 And so they sat out the first part of the entertain- 
 ment ; but a comic song proved rather too serious for 
 them, and they rose to go. 
 
 “ Here, you young imp,” said Darcy, taking the 
 rose from his button-hole, and addressing the youth 
 who had that evening made his debut , and who was 
 now actively employed in vending and consuming 
 his wares, “take that to Miss Julia Stanley, or what- 
 ever the lady’s name may be, and tell her Mr. Darcy 
 Langton asks a real actress to accept of it with his 
 respects. Do you hear, sir ? ” as the imp looked up 
 in his face with an impish leer, “do what I tell 
 you.” 
 
( 6i ) 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 VENUS ANADYOMENE, 
 
 Aut quis 
 
 Simptivium rider e Numse, nigrum que catinum 
 Ausus erat ? 
 
 T high, water the waves wash within a few feet 
 
 of the fisher’s cottage. When the wind blows 
 from the east the windows are sometimes darkened, 
 as by snow, with the white drifted foam. 
 
 This winter afternoon, however, the tide is ont, 
 and there is a long space of black tangled rock 
 between the sea and the cottage door. ’Tis a hard 
 black frost, and the steep braes down to the beach 
 are white with snow. The day has been sullen, and 
 heavy and lustreless, and the shade of the winter 
 twilight (though it is little more than three o’clock) 
 already gathers into the sky. 
 
 Upon the beach a lithe figure moves stealthily 
 from rock to rock, or lies and watches silently in 
 their wake. Over the bay, scattered parties of wild 
 ducks are feeding busily, — making the most of the 
 few minutes that are left them before the dark closes 
 
62 
 
 VENUS ANADYOMENE. 
 
 in. A pair of huge “ annets,” that look very white 
 and stately on the tawny water, have been gradually 
 nearing the spot where the watcher is concealed, 
 when suddenly a sharp report is heard, and a light 
 puff of blue smoke rises overhead. The grey eider 
 splashes away seaward, but the drake lies still and 
 motionless, and in a few minutes the east wind and 
 the incoming tide lay him at the feet of the fowler. 
 
 He has taken up his prize, and is regarding curi- 
 ously the beautiful dyes of the rich eider-down — so 
 charmingly warm and cozy for this bleak winter-tide 
 — when he hears his name called from behind. 
 
 “ Peter, Peter ! — come hame to your supper.” 
 
 “Pm just coming, Elsie,” replies the fisherman, 
 picking up his gun. 
 
 “ What’s that you’ve gotten ?” the girl asks, 
 pointing to the duck, when he reaches the place 
 where she waits for him. 
 
 “ A bonnie bird — ane of the muckle annets. Ye’ll 
 get ane o’ the tail feathers for your mutch, only the 
 Souter will be seeking it to skin.” 
 
 “ Gae it him, if ye like, Peter ; I wudna’ wear’t.” 
 
 “ Ye’d like a red ribbon better. The neist time 
 I gang to the Brough I’m to fetch ane, ye ken, 
 Elsie?” 
 
 “ I thocht ye were to gi’e it to Kirsty Davidson, 
 when I last heerd tell o’t/’ retorts Elsie, looking a 
 little wicked. “ But ye may gi’e it her for what I 
 care. Peter.” 
 
VENUS ANADYOMENE. 
 
 “ Wlia tell’t you that?” asks the straightforward 
 son of the sea. “ I’ll teach them to lee, the cutties.” 
 
 They had reached by this time the little brook that 
 babbles o’summer nights through the village. Masses 
 of ice were floating about on its pools, and the 
 stepping-stone was away. Elsie paused. 
 
 “ How am I to get over?” she exclaimed. 
 
 “ Tak aff your hose and sheen,” says Peter, be- 
 coming mischievous in turn. “ It’ll warm you, my 
 lass.” 
 
 “ 0 Peter ! ” she replied, with the least little bit of 
 a quiver in her voice ; “ it’s no kind o’ you.” 
 
 Elsie looked really very nice. Her thick woollen 
 shawl was thrown over her head, and the bright little 
 face, all rosy with the cold, peeped from under the 
 coarse cloth hood. Her fisher’s petticoat was not too 
 lengthy, and the clean cut ankle, even in its grey 
 worsted stocking, was a study in its way. The little 
 foot was not over-delicate, but quick, decisive, and 
 prononce. 
 
 “ I’ll carry you over,” Peter says, relenting, and 
 putting his gun down. 
 
 Elsie, however, wouldn’t hear of that, and tripped 
 down the bank to make the trial herself. But when 
 she had put her foot on one of the nearest pieces of 
 ice, and felt it give way under her weight, her heart 
 failed her, and she jumped back. 
 
 “ How am I to get over ? ” 
 
 Peter quickly solved the difficulty. Coming be- 
 
6 4 
 
 VENUS ANADYOMENE. 
 
 hind unperceived, the young giant put his arms round 
 her waist, and fairly lifted her off her feet, as he 
 would have lifted a child. Skilfully taking advantage 
 of the broken ice, he was across in a second. 
 
 “ Noo, Elsie, I maun ha’e a kiss for luck,” he said, 
 before putting her down. 
 
 But Elsie would by no means agree to any such 
 overture, and buried her face in her hands. A brief 
 struggle ensued, and then Elsie, her cheeks even 
 rosier than before, recovered her feet, and ran off, 
 like a scared fawn, to the cottage, smoothing her 
 shawl and hair as she went, while Peter returned for 
 his gun. 
 
 The inside of the cottage was sufficiently plain and 
 rude, but it looked comfortable — homely, yet home- 
 like. A bright fire of peat burned on the floor and 
 played upon the whitewashed walls, and the earthen- 
 ware plates and saucers which were suspended in a 
 “ liaik ” along them. A bed, sunk in the wall, a 
 substantial-looking “ dresser,” a seaman’s chest, a few 
 three-legged stools, and some wicker baskets filled 
 with lines, formed the whole of the furniture. A 
 “ kettle of tea ” hung over the fire, and simmered 
 with cheerful composure. 
 
 In this little cabin old Peter Stephen and his wife 
 had lived for five-and-thirty years. They were, if 
 not perfectly happy, at least perfectly contented. 
 The idea of “ raising himself in the world ” had never 
 entered into Peter’s head. His forefathers had lived 
 
VENUS ANADYOMENE. 
 
 65 
 
 in this village, and fished in this bay, all their days, 
 and he was ordained and appointed to do the same. 
 So it would be with his sons, and his sons’ sons. To 
 them there was no world beyond the limits of their 
 little sea-bound settlement. In this century of hurry- 
 skurry (“progress” they call it), it is pleasant to 
 meet with such people. Their placid peace, their 
 supreme repose, their perfect content, soothes the 
 chafed spirit as a Greek statue does. 
 
 “ Whar are my glasses, lassie ? ” old Peter inquires, 
 when they are all disposed about the hearth. “ Here’s 
 a letter frae your brither, Peter.” 
 
 Elsie finds the spectacles, and the old man spells 
 away patiently through his son’s letter. Then she 
 takes her knitting and sits down quietly beside old 
 Hester, who is “ shelling ” mussels to bait the lines 
 for to-morrow’s fishing. Peter, stretched at full 
 length along the chest, glances occasionally over 
 Elsie’s shoulder to see how the “ netting ” gets for- 
 ward. Unhappy boy ! — it is clear as day that the 
 little witch has bound the good-humoured lazy giant 
 fast in her meshes. 
 
 And Elsie ? She is the niece of the gudewife ; 
 daughter of a brother who was lost long ago in these 
 fickle Northern seas. Father and mother are both 
 dead, and she has lived ever since she was a child in 
 her aunt’s house. Is she pretty ? Pretty, certainly, 
 though you can’t tell why exactly: for no one 
 feature is quite perfect. But there is a light, and 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 VENUS ANADYOMENE. 
 
 gleeful, and saucy grace about her which makes her 
 presence felt like a sunbeam. Her bright red hair, 
 in its untutored waves and ripples— 
 
 Like a clue of golden thread 
 Most excellently ravelled, — 
 
 is quite in keeping with the careless and dishevelled 
 charm of her face. Eed, fair reader, the hair un- 
 doubtedly is ; that hated colour in its fiercest inten- 
 sity; but only a reckless and unprincipled critic 
 could assert that in this instance it is unbecoming. 
 In that homely interior, and amid these stolid and 
 weather-beaten figures, Elsie moves like an antique 
 grace, like a line of Horace in the Digest, like this 
 radiant sonnet by Edgar Poe : 
 
 Helen, thy beauty is to me 
 
 Like those Nicean barks of yore, 
 
 That gently o’er a perfumed sea, 
 
 The weary, way-worn wanderer bore 
 To his own native shore. 
 
 On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
 
 Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 
 
 Thy Naiad airs have brought me home 
 To the glory that was Greece, 
 
 And the grandeur that was Rome. 
 
 Lo ! in yon brilliant window-niche 
 How statue-like I see thee stand, 
 
 The agate-lamp within thy hand ! 
 
 Ah Psyche, from the regions which 
 Are Holy-land ! 
 
 in the midst of a load of rubbish by M. T. or 
 J. S. B. 
 
VENUS ANADYOMENE. 
 
 67 
 
 “ Bill’s in tlie Ingies,” the father says, looking 
 over his horn spectacles. “ A gran place belike ; 
 sic floors and wud. There’s ae tree, he says, like 
 the muckle kirk — wi’ doors a’ roun’, and a great 
 lia’ inside that huds a thousan’ folk, and the lie-lit 
 glintin’ thro’ the green leaves. ’Deed it’s surprisin’. 
 The Injun wives are nae bonnie, though — brown as 
 peat divets, and deil a coat saving a bit dud roun’ 
 their wames. But they soom like fush.” 
 
 “D’ye mind the Yak wives, feyther?” asks Peter. 
 “ When I gaed wi’ Captain Brown to the sealghing 
 last spring, ane swam on boord five mile aff the 
 shore. Her skin canoe had been crunched by the 
 ice. We thocht her a marmaid when she cam’ bob- 
 bing up first, wi’ her lang hair hangin’ doun till her 
 middle.” 
 
 “ Ay, they’re surprisin’ bodies, the Yaks. Troth, 
 they mak’ their bit boaties skite thro’ the water 
 uncommin! I’ve seen them dancin’ through the 
 jabble, when we were heatin’ wi’ reefed topsails, as 
 skeely as a loom or a deuk. They’re skeely craturs.” 
 
 “Hardie says they dinna believe in heaven or 
 hell,” interposed old Hester. “They’re dounricht 
 misbelievers.” 
 
 “ I dinna ken,” answered her husband, reflectively. 
 
 “ Some are better and some are waur ; they are a’ 
 thieves, the haill crew of them, nae doobt ; yet the 
 craturs are no that bad either. I mind a harpooneer 
 we left ahint ae summer, and they were unca guid 
 
 f 2 
 
68 
 
 VENUS ANADYOMENE. 
 
 till him — gaed him a wife, and bits of sealgh blubber 
 to eat in the winter-time, and biggit him a snaw 
 house. It was desperate dark, though ; and he was 
 like to gang daft when we cam" back. His wife, puir 
 bit bodie, was loth to leave him, and grat like Elsie 
 when she tined her sweetheart.” 
 
 Elsie tossed her head contemptuously. 
 
 “ I ne’er had a sweetheart to tine,” quoth Elsie, 
 “ and I’m no seeking ony.” Peter gave a tug at one 
 of the stray curls that had escaped from her cap. 
 “ Dinna, Peter ! — ye’re makin’ me miss the stich. 
 Hid ye no bring her back, uncle ? ” 
 
 “ Na ; that couldna be, though she was fain to 
 come. He had tocht her a wheen things, and she 
 was mair eeeveeleesed nor the rest. She swam oot to 
 the ship when we were leaving, but we wouldna’ lat 
 her on boord. She griped at the ropes and swung 
 roun’ and roun’ like a monkey ; but some of the lads 
 pushed her back, and then she fairly gaed in, and lay 
 on the water just like a dead finnock. We let doun 
 a boat and took her to the shore, and left her there — 
 quiet eneuch, but greetin’ like to burst.” 
 
 Elsie’s bright eyes moistened and flashed. 
 
 “ That was cruel o’ you, uncle.” 
 
 “ What could we dee, lassie ? ” answered the old 
 man, composedly, in reply to the reproachful glance. 
 “ They’re nae like ither folk, ye ken, and the minis- 
 ter says he disna’ believe that they’ve sowls o’ their 
 ain. But I'm no sure o’ that — I’ve aye thocht better 
 
VENUS ANADYOMENE. 69 
 
 o’ the varmint sin syne. Were ye at the Ha’ the day, 
 Hester?” 
 
 “ Aye ; they’ve company wi’ them, and they were 
 needin’ fusli. Sae I had up the cod and ling ye got 
 yestreen. The young Laird and him they ca’ Maister 
 Darcy are bidin’ at the Ha’, over auld Eele. He’s 
 a fine spruce lad, that Maister Darcy, — he was 
 speerin’ for you. They’re for you to gang oot wi’ 
 them, Peter, to try the new boat the laird’s gat frae 
 Lunnon.” 
 
 A loud rap at the door. 
 
 "Well, Peter,” said a short, strong, wiry little 
 fellow, who entered, “ are you for the sea the morn ? 
 Whan’s the tide ? ” 
 
 “ Four, or thereby, — but we’d better be aff earlier, 
 to catch the ebb. There’s cod aff the Gutterbank, 
 I’m jalousin’, J ohn.” 
 
 “Phelim got a heavy shot roun’ the Borough- 
 head,” interposed Peter Junior. 
 
 “ We’ll try thereawa’ on Mononday,” said his father. 
 "It’s ower far to gang the morn. Hoo’s the guid 
 wife, John ? ” 
 
 "’Deed she’s but poorly hersel’, and wee Ailie’s 
 very sair wi’ the hoast. Jean’s no like hersel’ ava, 
 — it’s her sairest time sin’ she had Ailie; and I 
 dinna understand it a’thegither — she’s dreadful doun 
 and disjaskit like.” 
 
 “ I’ll gae doon and sit wi’ her a bit,” Elsie offers. 
 
 “Na, na — no the nicht, Elsie. It’s bitter caul’, 
 
7 o 
 
 VENUS ANADYOMENE. 
 
 and the snaw’s driftin’ thick. But come doon and 
 read her a chapter the morn ; Jean likes your readin’ 
 better nor the lave, — she aye says — savin’ Miss 
 Corry.” 
 
 So John stuffs a “ live peat ” — vivum cespitem , as 
 a punning Horatian would say, — into his pipe, and 
 trudges out into the snowy darkness. Then the 
 rushlight is extinguished ; Elsie says her prayers on 
 her knees, unlooses the coarse grey woollen petticoat, 
 and slips in to her cosy nest at the “ butt ” end of 
 the dwelling ; and deep sleep falls upon the cottage, 
 thickly and silently as the falling snow. 
 
( 7 1 ) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE VILLAGE WELL. 
 
 Gelidos inficiet tibi 
 Bubro sanguine rivos 
 Lascivi suboles gregis. 
 
 TT snowed heavily all night; but with the turn 
 of the tide the white passion of the dark 
 abated, and the waning moon waded knee-deep out 
 of the storm-spent clouds. The pale apparition was 
 looking back, through the sad wintry silence, upon 
 the muffled earth, when the fishers’ boats moved out 
 to sea. That would be about four ; and then in the 
 little village the lights were again extinguished, and 
 until the first cold streaks of morning seamed the 
 horizon, all was still — still as the polar winter or the 
 grave. 
 
 The village well is nearly half-a-mile from the 
 village, on the ridge of the picturesque little ravine 
 through which the Norburn winds. On the opposite 
 bank, and still further inland, stands Hawkstone. 
 The gentle slopes of the glen are there covered with 
 sheltered plantations and the flower-beds of Corry’s 
 
72 
 
 THE VILLAGE WELL. 
 
 garden. Now the wreathed snow bends the branches, 
 and pallida mors has been among the flowers. 
 
 Corry had erected a pretty simple fountain over 
 the well. No unfit combination, — mens Sana in cor - 
 pore sano. It was a favourite rendezvous for gossips 
 and sweethearts ; and the granite slab at the side — 
 where the matron, out of breath with the pull up 
 the hill, might rest her limbs while the limpid water 
 filled her pitcher — was seldom quite unoccupied. 
 Even this morning, in the dim winter twilight, a 
 solitary figure might be discerned — a form simply 
 draped, that paced uneasily to and fro, and leant for 
 a moment once and again upon the cold stone, not to 
 rest, but like Lady Anne in the bitterness of her 
 pain. 
 
 She leaned her hack unto a thorn, 
 
 Ah, well-a-day! 
 
 And there she has her twa babes horn ; 
 
 The wind gaes by and will not stay. 
 
 An inner anguish, that rent her heart, as the pitiless 
 knife rent the sacrificial kid’s whose life-blood stained 
 thy murmuring stream — loquaces lymphoe tuce — 0 
 famed Bandusian well ! 
 
 The morning was now fairly risen, — risen, we say, 
 in obedience to ancient law and custom, though the 
 word is not the right word to describe the dawn. 
 No. The whole atmosphere had gradually filled 
 with light; a grey, austere, uncertain light, which 
 is properly the dawn-light, and to which the day- 
 
THE VILLAGE WELL. 
 
 73 
 
 light is as the living face to the hushed and vacant 
 Death of the Vatican. Every object on a sudden 
 grew wondrously distinct ; the black tangled rocks, 
 the stones upon the beach, the white-gabled red- 
 tiled cottages, with grey masses of peat-smoke hang- 
 ing overhead, which the wind was too light to lift. 
 A solitary fisher, in a blue-striped shirt, and with a 
 wicker basket slung on his arm, came trudging across 
 the sands on his way to the rocks, to gather bait — 
 mussels and limpets — for the day’s fishing. Then 
 along the uneven ocean ridge wavered a pearly flush, 
 the tremola della marina of the paradisal pilgrim ; 
 and one little cloud, just hanging on the verge of 
 the horizon, suddenly burned into gold. 
 
 I don’t know that the black veiled form spoke 
 aloud ; but the anguish of the pained spirit spoke in 
 the abrupt gait and uneasy gesture ; and it was not 
 difficult to construe aright that silent but expressive 
 speech. 
 
 “Ay! I mind the place like yesterday, and its 
 near twenty year. There’s the very stane Miss 
 Corry would aye sit on, as quiet and bonnie as a 
 queen, just because it was the place, she said, Master 
 Miles liked best. He was a keen-spirited lad, and 
 aye happy wi’ little Katie, as he caed me. I wonder 
 wha are in the servants’ ha’ now ; auld Jean must be 
 dead lang syne, she was an auld-farand body when 
 I first kent her. They’re no up yet ; they wouldna 
 mind an’ I gaed roun’. Na, na, I couldna, it would 
 
74 
 
 THE VILLAGE WELL. 
 
 kill me. 0 God ! ” she exclaimed, as if struck sorely 
 by sudden pain, “ surely thou wilt remember me in 
 thy mercy ! ” 
 
 Unmindful of the thick snow, she fell upon her 
 knees and prayed passionately. The agony at length 
 wore itself away in tears and prayers, and she rose and 
 seated herself on the slab. Though still white with 
 the violence of the pain, she strove hard to regain 
 her composure ; and by the time a fisherwoman, she 
 had observed climbing the hill, approached, the strong 
 will had triumphed, and the white face behind the 
 black veil had grown hard and impassive again. 
 
 “ It’s a caul mornin’,” observed old Hester, in a 
 friendly way, as she placed one of her pitchers below 
 the thin jet of water. “ Ye’ll be bidin’ at the ha’, 
 mem?” she added, after she had “got hold of her 
 breath.” Hester was by no means an old woman ; 
 she must have been ten or fifteen years younger 
 than her husband, and though known as “ Old 
 Peter,” to distinguish him from his son, the fisher- 
 man was still hale, and hearty, and vigorous. But 
 Hester had grown stout as she grew in years, and 
 her “ breath ” was now rather apt to play her false. 
 
 “ Yes — no — I mean, I have been there,” answered 
 the stranger (whom Miles, had he been present, 
 might possibly have recognised as the heroine of the 
 Legitimate Drama) greatly embarrassed. 
 
 “ Have been there ! ” repeated Hester, arrested by 
 something in the voice. 
 
THE VILLAGE WELL. 
 
 75 
 
 “ Oil, Hester ! ” the other burst out, unable to re- 
 strain herself any longer, “ do you no mind me ? I’m 
 Katie, little Katie, your ain sister Katie.” 
 
 Hester uttered a suppressed cry, opened her arms 
 a little, as if she would have taken the wanderer into 
 them, and then drew them back rigidly to her side. 
 
 “ Na, na,” she muttered, “ I hae vowed a vow, 
 and maun keep it.” 
 
 Katie had sunk upon the seat, and with beseeching 
 eyes and outstretched arms bent towards her sister. 
 But when she saw that sister draw back, and the 
 averted face grow cold and rigid, her manner altered, 
 the shrinking, appealing timidity of her address 
 departed, and she stood up and faced the other, 
 quietly but resolutely. 
 
 “ I ken what you mean,” she said ; “ but I trow, 
 Hester, you might ha’ said ae kind word to your 
 mother’s daughter ; God knows she disna hear ower 
 mony.” 
 
 “ Katie Armstrong,” said the other, “ I made a 
 vow to God, and keep it I wull. Your feyther’s folk 
 hae been in Norburn for a hunner’ year, and a’ that 
 time nane but yoursel’ has brought disgrace upon 
 her folk. Katie, Katie, it was an ill time when we 
 kent what you had deen. It killed the feyther : he 
 was never himself after he heard that you were aff. 
 And then I vowed that I would not tak your hand, 
 nor look upon your face again. Ay, I have prayed,” 
 she continued bitterly, “ that you might dee ; that 
 
7 6 
 
 THE VILLAGE WELL. 
 
 she wha had been our pride, our sinfu’ pride, might 
 never come back to be our shame. Depart, and 
 trouble us not.” 
 
 A quiver passed across the pale face at the men- 
 tion of her father’s name ; but the bitter invective 
 passed by, and did not touch her. 
 
 “ And so the old man is dead,” she said, quietly. 
 “ God rest his soul ; it wunna be lang till we meet. 
 You wished me dead, Hester,” she continued, with 
 the same impassive calmness ; " weel, sometimes I 
 ha’e wished it mysel’. But God did not take me 
 away, and I thocht it best to bide His time. I ken 
 that I ha’e sinned, sinned sairly ; but He saw how 
 I was tried, and may be He will pardon the sin. I 
 ha’e fallen,” she went on, “ but no so bad as I micht. 
 I was blinded and the wily tempter owercam’, but I 
 sinned not again. Eh ! that was an awfu’ wak’ning. 
 But I couldna lie doon and dee, and so I ha’e worked 
 on for twenty year — work as hard and honest as 
 your ain — to keep body and soul thegither. Perhaps 
 God has heard my prayers — perhaps He may; I 
 think sometimes He has, but I canna tell ; whiles 
 the foul sin comes back on me, and drives me into 
 the blackness o’ darkness. I didna’ come back to 
 shame you : I meant not to ha’e seen ony o’ you ; 
 but I was fain to look once mair on the auld place. 
 Ay, ay ! ” she murmured to herself as her eye wan- 
 dered over sea aud land, and fastened on each well- 
 remembered spot, " it’s the same as ever, — just as it 
 
THE VILLAGE WELL. 
 
 77 
 
 was when we made snawbas at the scliule, and Alick 
 wudna’ tell the maister wha broke the window. Puir 
 Alick ! puir Alick ! Alick wudna ha’e been sae hard 
 on little Katie. But he was awa afore I gaed. Fare 
 ye weel, Hester, and may ye never fin’ the sair, sair 
 heart I have whiles.” And she turned away. 
 
 No contrast could be more marked than that 
 between the two sisters. The one was rude and 
 homely as any rustic : a life-long sorrow had refined 
 the ore and purified the dross of the other. Intense 
 pain has this effect. “ I believe that by suffering,” 
 Heine says, in one of his far-reaching lines, “ animals 
 could be made human.” But it is a fatal school in 
 which to learn the usages of polite society. Poor 
 Katie ! not only had her body wasted, but one could 
 see as she spoke that the mind too had wasted — had 
 grown over keen, and sharp, and luminous. She w r as 
 not exactly mad, perhaps ; but her eyes flashed out 
 at times the acute glances of mental disorder. 
 
 Katie turned away. Hester had listened with 
 averted face to her sister’s rapid words. She was 
 moved; the woman’s heart was touched — she did 
 not like to own how deeply. Even her vow might 
 have given way under the pressure ; but when she 
 looked up, Katie was already at a distance, beyond 
 reach of speech. 
 
 “ Dinna gang, Katie,” she exclaimed involuntarily ; 
 but Katie heard her not, and she did not follow her. 
 
7 8 
 
 THE VILLAGE WELL. 
 
 “ It’s better no/’ she said, as she watched her 
 disappear along the high road that led to Ashton. 
 “ I eouldna ha’e ta’en her hame wi’ me. What wnd 
 the neebors ha’e said ? And little Elsie — na, na ; 
 it’s best as it is.” 
 
 She turned to lift her pitcher ; the interview did 
 not seem to her to have occupied more than a few 
 seconds ; but the pail had long been full, and the 
 water w r as running over, and wearing a black channel 
 through the snow. She lifted it, looked again in the 
 direction Katie had gone, and then wended slowly 
 down the brae to the cottage. A cheery voice was 
 singing within, and a blithe nursery stave greeted 
 her ears as she approached : — 
 
 Now in there came My Lady Wren, 
 
 Wi’ mony a sigh and groan, 
 
 “ 0 what care I for a’ the lads 
 If my wee lad be gane ? ” 
 
 Then Eobin turned him round about, 
 
 E’en like a little king ; 
 
 “ Gae pack ye out at my chamber door, 
 
 Ye little cutty quean ! ” 
 
 “ Na, it eouldna’ be,” repeated the old woman, 
 “ but I micht ha’e been cannier wi’ her.” 
 
 So Hester, according to her own judgment, had 
 acted very prudently — too prudently, perhaps, in the 
 judgment of the Immortals. For prudence is some- 
 times a most reckless spendthrift. I believe Hester 
 
THE VILLAGE WELL. 
 
 79 
 
 came ultimately to feel that lier prudence on this 
 occasion had been very costly. The retribution which 
 
 the powers that tend the soul 
 To help it from the death that cannot die, 
 
 And save it even in extremes, 
 
 exacted from her, as atonement to the God of 
 Sacrifice, palsied her hand, and bent her head. Her 
 own people, indeed, saw no connexion between the 
 selfish act, and the sentence which the Unseen Judge 
 pronounced upon it. But I believe, on my honour, 
 that it broke the cherished idol of the mother’s 
 heart ; that it quenched the fires on the hearth ; 
 that it left her old age homeless, desolate, and 
 unloved. 
 
( 8o ) 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 WHAT IS TKUTH? 
 
 Thus we play the fools with the time, and the spirits of 
 the wise sit in the clouds and mock us. 
 
 T\ INNER is the great political institution of our 
 beloved land. I do not speak of public 
 dinners : I was never able to endure the solemn 
 weariness of a public dinner — its speeches, smacking 
 of the unctuous oil that adheres to oratorical lips, its 
 songs redolent of brandy-ancl- water ; and therefore 
 that is a phase of social life that I am not qualified 
 to discuss. But the daily dinner of the Englishman 
 is what makes him an Englishman. A Frenchman 
 never dines; he goes to a cafe , and trifles with 
 trifles. So he grows fickle, capricious, feverish, and 
 is never at rest except in a revolution. But Dinner 
 (with a big D, please) is the sheet-anchor which 
 holds the English gentleman and the English 
 ploughman fast to his moorings. It? is a great 
 periodical fact, which brings him back every day to 
 first principles, and in which, amid all the moral 
 
WHAT IS TRUTH? 
 
 difficulties of liis age, he can steadily believe. 
 Theologians may snarl over the dry bones of creeds ; 
 politicians may wrangle over the dead bodies of con- 
 stitutions ; but when the Englishman comes home at 
 six from his club or his counting-house to the solid 
 reality of dinner, he feels that he has entered once 
 more upon the grand “ veracities ” of life. 
 
 An historic tenderness for this palladium of 
 English liberty is justifiable in an English writer; 
 and the only controversies I have ever entertained 
 have related to the subordinate inquiry, Under what 
 conditions is it best to dine? It is at its best, 
 probably, when you have partaken of nothing since 
 breakfast; but “liability to lunch” is one of the 
 weaknesses of a corrupt humanity. It is good when 
 you have pulled six miles on end against a head 
 wind, with a strong flood tide running dead in your 
 teeth ; it is good after a plunge in salt-water, after a 
 speech which has gained your cause, after a neck- 
 and-neck tussle with “ the Eleven ; ” specially good 
 when, like Achilles, you have dragged your slain 
 adversary three times around the immortal links of 
 St. Mungo. Each of these is good ; but dinner after 
 a hard day’s December shooting, the ground covered 
 with snow and the mere with wild-duck, eclipses 
 them all. The assimilative apparatus is then in 
 unrivalled working order ; then undoubtedly, if ever, 
 we approximate most closely to the ideal of digestive 
 humanity. 
 
 a 
 
82 
 
 WHAT IS TRUTH? 
 
 Well — the December dinner is over at Hawkstone ; 
 the womankind have retired, and the gentlemen and 
 the claret have drawn round the fire. Four gentle- 
 men in all — the host, Miles Warrender, Darcy 
 Langton, and the Reverend T. P. Jones, — Tudor 
 Plantagenet Jones, as he was named at the baptismal 
 font, and who must now be introduced to the reader. 
 
 Tudor Plantagenet was a scion of the Prince of 
 Wales’ Principality. His ancestry on the Tudor 
 Plantagenet side (it was his mother, dear good soul ! 
 who got him named so) wandered into a mythical 
 antiquity ; but the Joneses at least were by no means 
 fabulous, and carried on with great practical ability 
 a lucrative retail business at the foot of Snowdon. 
 Tudor Plantagenet, however, quitted the distilling 
 line, entered the ministry, and had recently been 
 entrusted with the superintendence of the Episcopal 
 “ souls ” in the neighbourhood of Norburn. 
 
 Why he took to the Church it was difficult to 
 determine. The responsibility of his position did not 
 seem to oppress him severely. That he was com- 
 missioned to teach truth and righteousness to sinful 
 mortals, and that the duty he had undertaken was 
 one more perilous and weighty than any other, in no 
 way disturbed his mind or affected his tranquillity. 
 Nature had not cast him in one of her finer moulds. 
 He was not compactly put together. His limbs were 
 long and lanky, and rambled about in an irregular 
 independent Avay, uncontrolled by any general prin- 
 
WHAT IS TRUTH? 
 
 83 
 
 ciple. That part of the head “ which gave itself out 
 for a face ” was curiously like an otters, and was 
 marked by the same wistful, restless, and inquiring 
 expression. Otherwise Tudor was good-humoured, 
 susceptible, and carnivorous, — often in love, and 
 always hungry. The chronic famine of his Welsh 
 mountains had descended and settled upon his 
 stomach. 
 
 “ Mr. Jones,” said the old gentleman, “ help 
 yourself, and pass the bottles.” (Both of which Mr. 
 Jones did cheerfully, especially the first.) “ Sport 
 good to-day, Miles ? ” 
 
 “ Not particularly ; a couple of cocks down in the 
 birch copse — a right and left to Darcy.” 
 
 “ Lucky fellow. I never had the chance. But 
 sport is not now what it used to be. The birds get 
 scarce and shy ; you don’t see any of the rare divers 
 now, Miles ? They were splendid fellows. My bag 
 used to be worth looking at then ; but that was 
 before either of you lads was born.” 
 
 “ Please, don’t make me worse than I am,” said 
 Darcy. “ It’s bad for a man at the bar. They don’t 
 believe in you there till you are going down hilL 
 In other professions, when a man loses his wits, they 
 put him in the asylum. In ours they put him on 
 the Bench.’ ’ 
 
 “ Do you shoot, Jones?” asked Miles. 
 
 “ No. Murder is not seemly in a minister ; 
 
 G 2 
 
8 4 
 
 WHAT IS TRUTH? 
 
 besides, I can’t,” replied Jones, who was often nerv- 
 ously honest in his admissions. 
 
 “ Murder,” said Darcy, looking him full in the 
 face ; “ you don’t mean to tell me, Jones, that you 
 disapprove of murder ?” 
 
 Jones was taken aback at this unexpected inquiry, 
 and could only murmur some inarticulate observa- 
 tions about “ limitations of the general principle.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Darcy, “ as a general principle, I 
 admit that it may be carried too far. De Quincey 
 was scarcely guarded enough. As one of the fine 
 arts, it is calculated to demoralize. Still there are 
 many cases in which, as a moral duty, it becomes 
 imperative. Were I a Calvinist, I should, like 
 Saturn, devour my offspring in infancy — the boys at 
 least. It is inconceivable that these little children 
 of the devil can ever belong to the elect. So I 
 would take care to make things snug in time. What 
 do you think of suicide, Sir Maxwell ? ” 
 
 Sir Maxwell was as gentle and artless-hearted a 
 man as ever lived ; but in the metaphysical world, 
 where he spent most of his time, he grew more ven- 
 turous than Spinoza. All the questions which are 
 practically tabooed by our social sensitiveness he 
 thought out clearly and discussed fearlessly. His 
 childlike simplicity could never appreciate the 
 barriers and fences which we have raised up between 
 us and these questions. He saw no impiety in free 
 
WHAT IS TEUTH? 
 
 85 
 
 thought, no blasphemy in philosophic denial, and 
 there was an indescribable charm in the naive and 
 piquant fearlessness of his mind. Darcy liked to get 
 him on these proscribed topics. To the man of the 
 world it was like exercising a new sense. 
 
 “ Why, as to suicide, it’s a very nice question. I 
 don’t quite see my way out of it ; but I cannot say 
 that I think it expedient, at least. It won’t do for a 
 man to try the next world, just because he has got 
 into a mess in this. Depend upon it he will find the 
 difficulties there quite as intricate as those he has 
 tried to shirk here. He has a certain drill to learn, 
 and if he doesn’t go through his training here, he 
 will elsewhere -—if not now, afterwards ; that is all. 
 The child is more teachable than the man, and it will 
 probably be better for him in every respect to take 
 his schooling in time.” 
 
 “ Suicide is the act of a coward,” said Jones. 
 
 “ I’m not so sure of that,” answered Darcy. “ It 
 needs some courage to take that plunge, I can tell 
 you. It’s very easy to talk about suicide ; but it is 
 a different thing when you have got the cup of 
 hemlock between your teeth, and contemplate in a 
 practical way the infinite possibilities it contains. 
 No ; it is indolence, not cowardice, that drives a man 
 to self-destruction. He is too lazy to set himself 
 seriously to unravel the skein, and so he cuts the 
 knot.” 
 
 “ Jones means, I take it,” interposed Miles, “that 
 
86 
 
 WHAT IS TRUTH? 
 
 there would be more courage in stoutly resisting the 
 enemy, than in turning your back upon him. Does 
 not Sir Thomas Browne say that ‘ where life is more 
 terrible than death, it is the truest valour to dare to 
 live ? ’ It is never courageous to retreat, unless it be 
 necessary.” 
 
 “But it may be necessary sometimes?” asked 
 Sir Maxwell, musingly. “ I can fancy such a case. 
 You are struck down by a lingering, incurable, tor- 
 turing disease, which must kill you sooner or later, 
 and in the mean time deprive you of reason, inca- 
 pacitate you for work or thought. Are you not then 
 entitled to die — to take the matter into your own 
 hands ? I don’t say that you are ; but I don’t exactly 
 see why you should not be.” 
 
 “An interference with the laws of nature,” said 
 Miles. 
 
 “ Yes ; but we continually interfere with her laws. 
 If I break my leg and it mortifies, I cut it off — that 
 is an interference. But if I did not cut it off, I should 
 die by a law of nature. This incurable disease is 
 another law — the law is, that in the course of a cer- 
 tain number of weeks or months the disease will kill 
 me. Now, may I not assist nature a little — give her 
 an impulse forward, so to speak ? In fact, there is 
 less interference in the one case than in the other : 
 there I artificially evade the law, here I aid and 
 abet it.” 
 
 “ Exactly,” said Darcy ; “ rapidly secure the result 
 
WHAT IS TRUTH? 
 
 87 
 
 to which Nature blunders by inches. My dear sir, 
 you would make an admirable lawyer. I should like 
 you for a leader.” 
 
 “ Very ingenious talk,” replied the matter-of-fact 
 Miles, “ but it wants substance. You don’t either of you 
 believe what you say. ‘ Thou shalt do no murder ’ is 
 an old commandment, graven not only on the Tables 
 of the Law, but on the heart, the reason, the affections 
 of man. Life is fenced in by our strongest fears and 
 our most cherished instincts. No one has a right to 
 touch with his rude hands its delicate and mysterious 
 chords.” 
 
 “ The soldier and the hangman,” answered Darcy, 
 “ have rough hands, and yet you pay them both. 
 Why? Merely because, as Jones observed, the 
 sacredness of life has certain limits, and when these 
 are transgressed — when, for instance, life becomes an 
 intolerable hindrance — the natural respect which we 
 owe can no longer be enforced.” 
 
 Jones was horrified at the idea of being the author 
 of such a theory, and vigorously disclaimed the sen- 
 timent. 
 
 “ Well, if you didn’t,” said Darcy, “ I beg your 
 pardon. But the idea is quite true, notwithstanding. 
 I was talking,” he continued, “ with one of your 
 brethren the other day about a matter upon which 
 a good deal has been written lately. The proposition 
 I maintained was, that when a man thinks and speaks 
 sincerely, no matter what, you have no right to con- 
 
WHAT IS TRUTH? 
 
 demn him for his opinions. They are, in relation to 
 himself, true, real, the logical development of his 
 inner man.” 
 
 “ Doubtless,’’ said the philosopher ; “ but you rather 
 evade the point. There is, I suppose, such a thing 
 in this world as absolute truth,— wherever it is to be 
 found, at the bottom of the well, or elsewhere : the 
 where being, I grant, not as yet perfectly settled. 
 Either the Hindoo, or the Mahometan, or the Eng- 
 lishman, or some one else, has got hold of it. But 
 if one, why not all ? If you see it, why should I not 
 see it? And if I don’t see it, but see something 
 quite other in its place — something else which is not 
 truth at all, but pestilent error, is not that proof 
 in itself that I do not choose to see the truth ; and 
 loving the darkness rather than the light, am re- 
 sponsible for my perversity of vision ? You assume in 
 your argument that a man may sin honestly. I 
 don’t say that he may not ; but the assumption needs 
 to be examined.” 
 
 “ True,” said Miles ; “ yet I agree with Darcy. 
 Some men in this world are not responsible for their 
 perversity ; goodness is a thing which early associa- 
 tions, imperfect culture, social injustice, the world’s 
 hardness, has made impossible to them. They can- 
 not see otherwise than they do : their minds have 
 been set in a certain rut ; and their errors in conse- 
 quence are perfectly honest. If such men, obeying 
 selfish or prudential motives, were to profess abso- 
 
WHAT IS TRUTH? 
 
 89 
 
 lutely true opinions, tliey would profess opinions 
 which, in so far as they are concerned, would be posi- 
 tively false.” 
 
 “ The argument, I own, looks a little startling on 
 the outside. It seems, as my reverend friend said, 
 to deny the existence of absolute truth altogether.” 
 
 “ Not at all,” replied Miles. “ When I say to a 
 man, ‘Be true, be sincere; tell the truth and shame 
 the Devil, who is the father of lies/ I am giving him 
 the very best advice. Perhaps it would be well to 
 say to him at the same time, ‘ See that your nature 
 is true ; see that you have not allowed prejudice and 
 custom to warp your intellect, to bias your judgment. 
 Search out and cast away from you whatever will 
 not stand the most searching scrutiny. 5 Perhaps 
 some of our teachers who preach voluminously on the 
 former text, neglect the latter a little. Still, we may 
 be sure that, after the most thorough scrutiny, a 
 residue of involuntary and transmitted error must be 
 left in every man’s constitution ; and for the diseased 
 opinions and judgments which are the logical outcome 
 of this plague-spot, it is impossible to hold him re- 
 sponsible.” 
 
 “ And of course,” added Sir Maxwell, “ we don’t 
 assert that it is a matter of no moment what a man 
 believes, whether it be true or whether it be false. 
 It is a matter of moment to him if he knock his head 
 perpetually against the Universe. Believe me, the 
 Universe will bring him sooner or later to his senses. 
 
9 o 
 
 WHAT IS TRUTH? 
 
 6 This is not a precipice/ he says, ‘ I believe it to be a 
 turnip-field/ — and he walks over it and breaks his 
 neck. When in the next world he recovers from the 
 effects of the fall, be sure that for the future he will 
 admit that a precipice is a precipice, and not a turnip- 
 field. So that in one respect his fall will have done 
 him good ; it will have knocked one false notion, at 
 least, out of his head. And thus, perhaps, it may be 
 with all the material and spiritual falseness in our 
 nature : experience will winnow it by degrees : the 
 fire will purge the dross. But come,” he added, “ I 
 hear the lassies singing : we shall have coffee in the 
 drawing-room to-night.” 
 
 So ended a conversation which I have thought 
 proper to record, and which the reader may consider 
 at his leisure, if he is so minded. I do not write it 
 down as being specially characteristic of the different 
 speakers ; I write it down because I think that it is, 
 as to the subjects discussed, not altogether without 
 value of its own. I am acquainted with critics who 
 believe that such topics should not be treated except 
 in books avowedly devoted to philosophy or theology. 
 A drama should be a drama ; a romance a romance ; 
 a moral essay a moral essay. The literary artist is 
 quite entitled to reason in this way, and perhaps no 
 book is entitled to live which neglects the condition. 
 But the social, political, or religious reformer is 
 entitled to reason differently. He uses the poem, the 
 romance, and the essay to serve his own purpose ; to 
 
WHAT IS TRUTH? 
 
 9 1 
 
 enforce the cause which he has at heart, and to which 
 he devotes his life. If the people read a drama with 
 avidity, while they altogether refuse to read a sermon 
 or a political treatise, the politician or the theologian 
 loses an invaluable weapon when he declines to em- 
 ploy the dramatic form. The novel is the great 
 literary vehicle of the present day ; reformers of 
 every class have in turn made use of it ; and that it 
 has popularized and familiarized many abstract forms 
 of thought, many admirable philosophical specula- 
 tions, which might otherwise have failed to obtain a 
 hearing, cannot be denied. This consideration must 
 be allowed to modify the criticism we pass on such 
 books. “ Compare Sir Walter Scott and Mr. 
 Disraeli ! ” the critic exclaims, “ you will find more 
 flesh and blood in one of the Waverley novels than in 
 all the Chancellor's put together.”* But Disraeli 
 wrote Coningsby , and Sybil, and Tancred , not to limn 
 a character, but to ventilate a creed, and create a 
 party. We must not, therefore, judge his novels as 
 we judge those of our ordinary novel writers. We 
 do not ask, Is this a first-rate romance ? — but, Has it 
 served the cause it was written to serve ? When that 
 cause has triumphed, it may be put away. When 
 the enemy is wounded to the death, the weapon may 
 
 * At the same time I am not prepared to adopt the critic’s 
 conclusion, — the life and conversation of the young “ swells,” for 
 instance, in Mr. Disraeli’s novels, being, I think, truer to nature 
 than anything that we have — out of Mr. Leech’s “ portraits.” 
 
92 
 
 WHAT IS TRUTH? 
 
 be hung up in the banquet hall. “ A thing of beauty 
 is a joy for ever.” A perfect piece of art — an Apollo 
 or a Cymbeline — has a right to endure upon the 
 earth while time endures. It draws its life from a 
 perennial spring. Unlike fashion, it never grows 
 old. The coat, the cloak, the ruffles of this year are 
 out of date next year. Founded on no large princi- 
 ples, drawing their nourishment from the fancy of 
 the saloon and the caprice of the boudoir only, they 
 perish with the fancy and the caprice. Thus it is 
 with the logic of the lawyer and the eloquence of the 
 statesman; and thus it is also with the poem, the 
 drama, and the picture, when these are used as in- 
 struments to enforce the politics of the hour. Im- 
 mortal forms rush into the battle, and are stricken 
 and perish like mortals. But the contest at least 
 becomes exciting when the gods mingle with men ; 
 when wit, and wine, and storied song, and the fire of 
 genius, are used for the common purposes of life, — 
 to plant a party in power, to hurl a demagogue into 
 the dirt out of which he sprang, to scathe a political 
 charlatan. True, genius so employed must quickly 
 die : but let no vain moan be made over its ashes. 
 The fleeting satire serves its end, and rounds its 
 orb, as well as the severe and lofty epic. The poli- 
 tician who writes a poem to bespatter his rival does 
 not care that it should survive the fall of the Minister. 
 Coningsby is dead, but Mr. Disraeli is Chancellor of 
 the Exchequer. Sometimes, indeed, the ephemerae 
 
WHAT IS TRUTH? 
 
 93 
 
 do not die with the day ; sometimes the brightest 
 sparks are struck out in that sharp and angry col- 
 lision ; sometimes a trifle, lighted by the electric fire, 
 outlives the annals of an empire. The Attic salt pre- 
 serves them fresh and green ; and the nicknames of 
 Aristophanes survive when the Phidian Zeus has 
 perished. 
 
( 94 ) 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 PRINCE CHARLIE. 
 
 Singing of men that in battle array, 
 
 Keady in heart and ready in hand, 
 
 March with the banner, and bugle, and fife, 
 
 To the death, for their native land. 
 
 HE lassies were “ lilting ” in the drawing-room ; 
 
 both Alice and Corry sang Norland songs 
 sweetly enough, though neither was perhaps a very 
 consummate performer. Sir Maxwell got hold of a 
 philosophical treatise, which proved that everything 
 was true because everything was a contradiction in 
 terms, and settled himself in an easy chair by the fire ; 
 the young men gathered round the singers. J ones, 
 whose tongue the “ sunny south ” had unloosed, con- 
 fided his mischances to Mrs. Menteith, who listened 
 placidly to their recital as she hemmed a handker- 
 
 “ We will be Jacobites for one night,” said Darcy. 
 “Down with the Hanover rats, and let the White 
 Eose flourish ! What say you, Miss Evelyn ? ” 
 
 “ 0 yes, — I am a vicious Jacobite. Corry, who is 
 
 chief. 
 
PRINCE CHARLIE. 
 
 95 
 
 a Whig, and false to the good cause, says that I am 
 a renegade. But it is not true ; she is the traitor.” 
 
 “ As Montrose remarked, ‘ Thou traitorous and 
 untrue!’ But I don’t believe it. The heiress of 
 the Menteiths untrue to her religion ! ” 
 
 “ Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” replied the fawn- eyed ; 
 “ Alice likes to appropriate all the heroism to herself. 
 But she is a wretched coward at heart, and would 
 have run away, I believe, at the first shot.” 
 
 “Now, don’t be abusive, Corry; you know I have 
 the heart of a lion.” 
 
 “ You do look rather fierce at times, I admit,” said 
 Miles. “ Do you recollect how you shook your 
 mane the other day when you found little Tony 
 Lumpkin (the wee devilikee , as they call the little 
 villain) walloping his sister? You rushed into the 
 fray most valorously ; but when the imp unexpectedly 
 
 showed fight, and doubled his chubby fists ” 
 
 “ Stop,” exclaimed Alice. “ Do not believe him. 
 It is a story altogether ; ” and then she retreated to 
 the piano, and dashed into the middle of a stirring 
 Jacobite fray — 
 
 Wha wudna’ fight for Charlie ? 
 
 Wha wudna’ draw the sword ? 
 
 Wha wudna’ up and rally 
 At the royal Prince’s word ? 
 
 “ Yes, dear Charlie ! we would have loved you, 
 and bled and died for you, better than that high- 
 
9 6 
 
 PRINCE CHARLIE. 
 
 cheeked Miss Flora the story-books make such a fuss 
 about, let them say what they like.” 
 
 “ Leave Flora alone, please ; we have not come 
 to her yet. The clans are gathering, and the Royal 
 standard streams o’er Lochaber. Let us have a 
 battle-piece — cloudy and brilliant.” 
 
 “ Help me, Corry, — no, we will keep you for the 
 sad finale,” and Alice sung with infinite spirit — 
 
 Cam’ ye by Athol, lad wi’ the philabeg, 
 
 Down by the Tummel or banks o’ the Garry ? 
 
 Saw ye the lads, wi’ their bonnets and white cockades, 
 Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie ? 
 
 Alice was nearly naturalized ; and the foreign accent 
 barely touched the song, and did not hurt its Doric. 
 
 “Now, Corry, the clans are broken, and poor 
 Prince Charlie is hunted across the muir. It is your 
 turn now.” Corry sat down and played with a 
 pretty, child-like simpleness a sad coronach over the 
 beaten array, — 
 
 “ 0 no, no, no ! ” the wee bird sang, 
 
 “ I’ve flown sin’ mornin’ early ; 
 
 But sic a day o’ wind and rain — 
 
 Oh, wae’s me for Prince Charlie ! ” 
 
 “ And so, goodbye to Prince Charlie,” said Miles, 
 after a pause. 
 
 “Do the common people here,” asked Darcy, 
 “ still recollect him ? In England our country- 
 people know nothing of their history.” 
 
PRINCE CHARLIE. 
 
 97 
 
 “This was a keen Jacobite district, and we all 
 spilt our blood for the good cause. So the Prince is 
 better kept in mind here than elsewhere. Some of 
 the best of these old songs were written within a few 
 miles of this, and the people still sing them at the 
 Harvest Home, and talk to you of ‘ Charlie 9 as of 
 an old friend. But we are all growing by degrees 
 too wise for this. The associations which a district 
 shut up within itself could not help preserving, 
 stand no chance when the Times makes its appear- 
 ance every morning. People find other things to 
 think about — things not very much worth thinking 
 about, perhaps, and that make no permanent im- 
 pression on the heart — and so the old names, and the 
 old stirring histories, that mixed with the life-blood, 
 and silently enriched the imagination of a whole 
 people, are carried away, and nothing is got to re- 
 place them. Thus, at certain points our modern life 
 grows poor and deteriorated, — though perhaps it 
 gains at others.” 
 
 “ Your cousin is a fine old Tory, Miss Menteith, 
 and should be put in a glass case as a curiosity.” 
 The fawn-eyed looked indignantly at the mocker; 
 mockery of this sublime cousin of hers seemed to her 
 little short of impiety. But Darcy did not heed. 
 “ I’ll tell you what he did at Borne. Of course wo 
 went to the Vatican, and the Capitol, and other 
 places where there are Apollos, and Laocoons, and 
 
 H 
 
S 8 
 
 PRINCE CHARLIE. 
 
 Raphaels, and Michael Angelos and such trifles. 
 Sublimely indifferent, Mr. Warrender walked after 
 the crazy lawyer, whose raptures he would not under- 
 stand, and thought it altogether a bore. ‘I don’t 
 care about these imperfectly dressed people,’ he said. 
 
 ‘ I would rather have a beggar-boy by Wilkie or a 
 clump of pines by Turner.’ However, this impassive 
 gentleman always disappeared at an untimely and 
 unrighteous hour — before I was out of bed, in fact — 
 and as he could give no authentic tidings of himself, 
 I set Massimo to watch him.” 
 
 “That wasn’t fair,” broke in the fawn. “I am 
 surprised at you, Mr. Darcy.” 
 
 “ Oh ! I was set to look after him, you know. 
 Besides, a lawyer sometimes does evil that good (in 
 the shape of promotion or otherwise) may come. 
 Now, where do you think he went ? ” 
 
 “To breakfast,” exclaimed Jones, abruptly (lie and 
 Mrs. Menteith were listening to the narrative), as if 
 he had fallen upon a fine nest-egg, and wished to 
 keep it all to himself. 
 
 “ Well, not exactly ; indeed, he always came back 
 with a remarkably keen appetite, I noticed. How- 
 ever, Massimo followed him one morning and saw 
 him cross the bridge of St. Angelo, and enter St. 
 Peter’s. When Massimo arrived, his master was 
 prostrate on his knees, worshipping a graven 
 image ” 
 
PRINCE CHARLIE. 
 
 99 
 
 “ Of the Virgin ! ” exclaimed Alice, in a tone of 
 constrained horror. “Mr. Warrender an idolator! 
 How could you ? ” 
 
 “ No, not the Virgin — he hadn’t the taste for that ; 
 many is the Virgin I have prayed to in my time, 
 especially these Raphael ones, with their rapt eyes 
 and heavenly lips. No, not the Virgin — that might 
 be forgiven — but a starched, wizened, eighteenth- 
 century-looking old scarecrow, in yellow marble. 
 Massimo couldn’t make it out at all, and thought his 
 lord had gone crazy, as English lords are in the 
 habit of doing — an opinion, perhaps, not very wide 
 of the mark. However, I went off forthwith to exa- 
 mine this queer saint, and then I found that he had 
 been saying his prayers to a fallen royalty, — ' King 
 of England’ the inscription called him. There’s 
 something catching in mental disorder. Do you 
 know, I felt half inclined to do likewise.” 
 
 “ Delightful ! ” said Alice. “ It is so pleasant to 
 know that the age of chivalry is not quite past.” 
 
 “ Darcy has heightened the colouring a little,” said 
 Miles, laughing ; “ not to mention his having sub- 
 stantially altered the facts. It was a boyish whim. 
 
 I believe I went there to see that tomb more than 
 anything else. I used to dream about it when I was 
 a boy ; my old nurse had a melancholy rhyme in 
 which Prince Charlie complains that his dust cannot 
 rest out of Scotland, and prays any kindly clansman 
 to carry it back to the old land. I believe it was 
 
 H 2 
 
IOO 
 
 PEINCE CJHAKLIE. 
 
 some association with this ditty that stirred my 
 piety” 
 
 Alice and Darcy sat down to a rapid game at 
 chess; Corry continued at the piano, and ran her 
 fingers idly over the chords, — Miles at her feet in a 
 low sofa-like chair, which overflowed with cushions, 
 listening indolently to the careless music which the 
 instrument discoursed. 
 
 “ Miles,” a soft voice whispered under cover of the 
 music, “ I think you were quite right. How I should 
 like to go to Rome ! ” 
 
 “ We will go one day,” said Miles, trying to look 
 into the eyes ; — but the music faltered and ceased. 
 
 j ones, having finished the narrative of his mishaps — 
 his landlady, it appeared, had lost all feeling for the 
 beautiful and good, and charged him fifty per cent, 
 on his sugar — rose to go, and Miles saw him to his 
 nag. The night was clear, cold and frosty — a winter 
 night cresseted with stars, and dazzling you as Lady 
 Emmeline dazzles you with her diamonds. 
 
 “ Tell the Dean,” said Miles, as they parted, “ that 
 I want to see him. I will ride over to Otterburne 
 during the week.” 
 
( IOI ) 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE NORTH MAIL. 
 
 Not one except the Attorney was amused, — 
 
 He, like Achilles, faithful to the tomb, 
 
 So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause, 
 
 Knowing they must he settled by the laws. 
 
 T\URING the night the frost broke up, and Darcy 
 ^ left in the morning. Alice was not in general 
 a very early riser; but this morning she was up 
 before breakfast. But these untimely hours did not 
 agree with her, seemingly ; at least she was subdued 
 and quiet, not by any means so bright and saucy as 
 she could be. Early rising, in fact, under any cir- 
 cumstances, is a mistake, and ought to be dis- 
 couraged. You feel dirty and disagreeable the 
 whole after day, — obnoxious to your acquaintance, 
 and a burden to yourself. 
 
 The groom drove Darcy to Ashton, and Miles 
 drove himself to Carlyon. Two or three days there- 
 after the following letter arrived : — 
 
 Dear Miles, — I am once again settled in the 
 old ace. It looked sadly shabby and disreputable 
 
102 
 
 THE NORTH MAIL. 
 
 when I opened the door. Who could have believed 
 in the rosy evenings it has witnessed , — nodes coenceque 
 Deum ? “ 0 the mad days that I have spent ! and 
 
 to see how many of mine old acquaintance are dead ! ” 
 It needs a soft hand to set it right ; and my Abigail’s 
 are as hard as horn. 
 
 I was five minutes too late — as usual — for the 
 coach at Ashton. Jim, who is a plucky lad, offered 
 to “ catch it ” in half an hour, but I had more respect 
 for the laird’s horse-flesh, and so deposited my bag- 
 gage at the Warrender Arms (whence our theatrical 
 friends have flitted), and determined to make myself 
 easy for the day. After an incidental flirtation with 
 the rather prettyish barmaid, I went down to the 
 harbour, and had a crack with certain sailors just 
 returned from warring with Polar bears, and finally 
 fell in with Tudor Plantagenet, who asked me to 
 dine with him at his lodgings, and go to Lady Gar- 
 diner’s tea and cookies afterwards. As I had my 
 own views about his larder and landlady, we com- 
 promised matters. He came and dined with me — 
 a more satisfactory arrangement, as he subsequently 
 allowed. In justice to mine host of the Warrender, 
 I must not omit to notice a bottle of Lafitte, which 
 he produced with a strong show of feeling ; and 
 which, if I may judge from his nods, becks, and 
 wreathed smiles, has not materially contributed to 
 the increase of the Imperial revenue. Pity that trade 
 is all up, — we never see such claret now as we used to 
 
THE NOKTH MAIL. 
 
 103 
 
 get from your grandfather when we were boys. Our 
 youth, alas! is dead; but amid its faded roses the 
 bouquet of that divine Mouton is ever fragrant. 
 
 Poor Jones, — he is a good-natured cub, after all. 
 The rosy nectar quite warmed his heart (I dare say 
 it would be more exact to say his midriff) ; and he 
 made me the custodian of a great many valueless 
 little schemes and secrets which he hugs in private. 
 It appears that he is always looking out for some- 
 thing to turn up, — a chaplaincy at Hong-Kong, or 
 the Gold-coast, or the penal settlements. He makes 
 incessant applications, which are never answered; 
 and at the present moment is quite confident that he 
 will be appointed to Christchurch, because he asked 
 for it last week. He must have carried sad havoc 
 into the hearts of his fair hearers, — wherever he has 
 come and been seen, he has conquered. He has 
 never, however, been positively “ hooked,” as he 
 calls it, till now. Miss MacGroggy, his intended, 
 is the daughter of MacGroggy the corn-dealer, a 
 nice, blooming, red-cheeked little thing, who posi- 
 tively seems to like him. We met her in the street, 
 and he introduced me, and was on the point of pro- 
 posing to bring me to dine with them. Indeed, this 
 engagement is a first-rate thing for Jones — capital 
 feeds at Mac’s, and unlimited kissing of Minny ; and 
 then he is so poor that there is no chance of his 
 being brought to book. So, in effect, he gets the 
 eating and the rest, gratis . 
 
THE NOETH MAIL. 
 
 104 
 
 Lady Gardiner’s fete was rather a trial, — the sort 
 of thing the early Christians went through. The six 
 gawky daughters, two evangelical parsons, and the 
 cracked piano, nearly drove me frantic. She spoke 
 about you in a dubious way : you are not of the 
 elect, but you belong to a decent family. I should 
 not wonder, were you to make up to one of the 
 unmarried, that she might be induced to overlook 
 the defects in your religious training. Think of this, 
 my dear Miles, and luck be with you. 
 
 Well, — next morning I mounted the mail, and 
 dashed away South, — past cities, and churches, and 
 farm-houses, and quiet lanes, and then across the 
 estuary of a mighty river hushed by the tide and the 
 frost, and so on in the darkness to the Northern 
 Capital. At the last stage but one, our old friend, the 
 Farintosh, entered the coach with a huge bundle of 
 papers, tied with red tape, under his arm. He was 
 delighted to see me, but atra cura sat above his 
 eyebrows. 
 
 “ This is a teind business,” he said, with a sigh, 
 squinting at the bundle of papers (which he had 
 placed as far from him as the circumstances admitted), 
 as Christian squinted at the bundle on his back, or 
 Sinbad at the hairy old chap whose knees were 
 knuckled into his ribs. “ The minister of Cladach- 
 clougli wants an augmentation of stipend, that is to 
 say, an addition to his income. A very natural 
 feeling you suppose ; but unluckily, certain unprin- 
 
THE NORTH MAIL. 
 
 I0 5 
 
 cipled heritors start up and exclaim, Bless the fellow, 
 what does he mean ? Where does he expect to go ? 
 We haven’t got a halfpenny to give him. To which 
 my client replies (he’s a prodigiously learned old 
 dog, and drinks like the fish in his own lochs), “ That 
 though the infeudation of teinds to laymen was 
 forbidden by Innocent III. under the heavy penalty 
 of the want of Christian burial, and the yet heavier 
 one of eternal damnation, yet that by the Act, 1567, 
 cap. 10, commonly known as the Assumption of 
 Thirds, the lords of erection, or titulars of the teinds, 
 were required to surrender such a proportion as the 
 Commissioners of Plat might determine; that the 
 lands of Towie, not being held cum decimis inelusis , 
 were liable pari passu; that if the thirlage of the 
 lands of Macorkindale imported an astriction of the 
 tithes to the Laird of Drumwhalloch, that could only 
 be because the servitude had been created prior to 
 the Act of Charles, which was not the case, and was 
 at least no business of the minister, nor of the titular, 
 who might allocate any teinds that he chose, seeing 
 that there was no locality, and that though the leases 
 had expired, the tenants continued to hold on tacit 
 relocation.” By Jove, isn’t it awful ? I have 
 wakened every night for the past week in a cold 
 perspiration, dreaming of the Purgatorio , — a strait- 
 jacket, and a shaved head. However, it will be over 
 to-morrow. Will you come and hear us at it? 
 
ioS THE NORTH MAIL. 
 
 Eleven, sharp.” And as I got into a cab at the 
 Royal, I promised to attend. 
 
 Having a sjrnre hour next morning before the 
 train started, I kept my engagement. The court 
 was sitting, and I took my place on a side bench to 
 watch the proceedings. “ That’s the President, you 
 know,” said my friend, coming to where I sat, 
 “ looking as fresh as a lark, — he don’t seem a year 
 older since you left us ; and that is the Vice on his 
 right. The two cleverest men in England at this 
 moment, I take it.” 
 
 True enough, Miles, — able men both. The Pre- 
 sident, serene, luminous, equitable ; never swayed by 
 passion, never bent by prejudice ; an orderly and 
 abstemious intellect, disinclined, though not unfitted, 
 to deal with principles and abstract propositions, and 
 clinging to fact with characteristic tenacity. Orderly 
 — for the manner in which he marshals the leading 
 facts of a case, groups them into relation, and keeps 
 them in subordination to the end to which he is 
 cautiously working, is often quite admirable; so 
 that when the end does come, it seems to you, 
 without further demonstration, that no other is 
 possible, and that any argument would be super- 
 fluous : abstemious — never throwing away a word, or 
 a scrap of logic, or a grain of sense ; always equal to 
 the argument, never below it, and (an infirmity 
 almost as common with men of great powers) never 
 
THE NOKTH MAIL. 
 
 107 
 
 above it; never expending force when it is not de- 
 manded, and never feeble, even when combating a 
 truism, or extinguishing a bore. This abstemious- 
 ness is not timid carefulness or an artificial restraint ; 
 it is the natural fruit of a supreme sense of order. 
 When he has arranged, analyzed, and sifted, with 
 untiring patience, all the facts of the case, it is 
 wonderful, in many instances, how little remains to 
 be done. The “ logic of fact ” is “ inexorable ” when 
 we can get at it ; but it needs an intellect like the 
 President’s to disengage the fact from what is acci- 
 dental or superfluous, — to sweep away the rubbish, 
 and make the true reading visible. This is a very 
 fine and a very peculiar faculty. For an indolent and 
 speculative mind dislikes facts, slurs them over, com- 
 monly mistakes their application and value, and then 
 retreats, from the chaos which it cannot shape into 
 order, on metaphysical subtleties or a general prin- 
 ciple. The judge who retires majestically upon “ the 
 eternal principles of justice,” and leaves the Judica- 
 ture Act to take care of itself, possesses, as a rule, 
 reasoning faculties that are either slothful, feeble, 
 or helplessly inaccurate. 
 
 The Vice-President was, as you know, a great 
 advocate : his speech in a cause celebre , of which all 
 the world has heard, is one of the finest of these times, 
 — symmetrical in arrangement, and executed with a 
 consummate knowledge of strategy and effect. When 
 he was opposed to you, however good your cause 
 
io8 
 
 THE NOKTH MAIL. 
 
 might be, you felt that you were doomed. He 
 convinced you that you were a rogue. No inno- 
 cence could resist the weight of that immaculate 
 indignation; it could as well resist the Ten Com- 
 mandments. He was neither witty nor sarcastic; 
 but the haughty scorn of his virtue, the intense 
 bitterness of his integrity, crushed its victim to 
 pieces. His presence was imposing, and he knew 
 how to use it to perfection. He folded his black 
 stuff-gown about him with the offended dignity of a 
 Chatham. The contemptuous curl of his nether lip 
 was deadly. His manner was singularly still and 
 impassive, until the victim was fairly in his toils, 
 when he came down upon him like a thunder-clap. 
 As a judge, he is powerful, intrepid ; a profound 
 civilian, a great logician. If it be possible to rescue 
 our jurisprudence from the meanness and empiricism 
 of modern practice, the Yice-President is the man to 
 do it. 
 
 The Farintosh made an impressive appeal. His 
 client’s parish was extensive and important; Mr. 
 Malthus’s arguments had had no effect upon the 
 nursing mothers of the flock, and the population had 
 increased outrageously ; the necessaries of life were 
 not to be purchased for love or money ; the heritors 
 were as rich as Croesus, and the minister as poor as 
 Job. It whs a cheerful picture, but his adversary 
 disposed very summarily of the Farintosh’s sta- 
 tistics. The parish was a large one, no doubt, but it 
 
THE NOETH MAIL. 
 
 109 
 
 consisted entirely of fresh-water lochs, and sand- 
 banks covered by the sea at high water ; snuff, tobacco, 
 and wdiisky, on which life was exclusively maintained 
 in the district, could be had for an old song ; nobody 
 lived within ten miles of the church, except seals, 
 otters, and rock-cod. What augmentation the 
 minister succeeded in getting I did not stay to learn : 
 the argument on Drumwhalloch’s thirlage w T as not 
 concluded when I departed ; it is possible that they 
 are talking on at this very minute. 
 
 The town is as empty and dull as heaven (accord- 
 ing to the Calvinistic theology) ; and the only jest 
 afloat is one that Mowbray made last week. Some 
 one asked him to give your sapient neighbour 
 
 Lord M the vacant Thistle. Mowbray pondered 
 
 — hesitated — declined. “ He would — eat it ! ” he 
 urged gravely. Neat and incisive, is it not ? Vale , 
 
 iterumque vale ! 
 
CONFESSION. 
 
( “3 ) 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower ; 
 
 Then Nature said — “ A lovelier flower 
 On earth was never sown ; 
 
 The child I to myself will take : 
 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 A lady of my own.” 
 
 TT was a sultry afternoon in June, — twenty years 
 ago, let us say. Though the thunder was 
 muttering among the higher hills, the sun shone 
 brightly enough on the blue valley of the Esk. And 
 among the pines of Otterburne shafts of golden mist 
 came down all day through their shattered branches, 
 and rested upon the white lilies and the wood ane- 
 mones at their feet. 
 
 At one point, near a sharp bend in the river, the 
 rocks rise abruptly from its bed. The precipice there 
 cannot be less than a thousand feet in height. It is 
 covered with spruce, except at intervals where the 
 light soil, unable to sustain the weight of vegetation, 
 has given way, leaving channels for the floods of red 
 clay which the rain brings down. On the summit a 
 
 I 
 
EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 1 14 
 
 small space is cleared of wood, and a flock of goats 
 with twisted horns and pointed Vandyke beards 
 graze eagerly on the short sweet mountain grass. 
 The southern slope is very gentle, and the vegetation, 
 protected from the biting “ Nor’easters,” belongs to 
 a kindlier and more delicate fauna. The deep green 
 and the ragged masses of the pine are exchanged for 
 the quivering leaves of the birch and the white spray 
 of the hawthorn. In spring the wood burns with the 
 golden fire of the laburnum. 
 
 Among the cover on this southern slope a pic- 
 turesque wood-lodge had been built many years 
 previously. It lay among the hawthorns and the 
 laburnums, as the mossy nest of the field-lark lies in 
 the grass. You could not in your dreams imagine a 
 more perfect seclusion. Except for the light blue 
 smoke which rested upon the tree-tops, and rose up 
 and died in the deeper blue of the sky, no stranger 
 could have suspected the existence of a human 
 dwelling-place. Hidden from prying eyes with 
 anxious jealousy, and lined with green lichens and 
 purple mosses, it inevitably recalled the nest of some 
 shy, jealous, and solitary bird — a wild-duck or a 
 cushat. 
 
 From the top of the ridge, where the goats are 
 browsing, the prospect is noble and commanding. A 
 thousand feet below, the rapid river frets its rocky 
 bed. Turner-like vignettes of the white perturbed 
 waters are visible through the encrusted green of the 
 
EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 “5 
 
 pines. On the opposite bank lie the wide lawns and 
 woods of Otterburne, and the old Keep itself looking 
 as cheerful in the sunshine as such a musty piece of 
 antiquity can do. A stone could easily be dropped 
 from this among its angular pepper-boxes ; but were 
 the rock itself to fall it would disturb no living 
 creature, except perhaps the round-eyed owl who 
 keeps a drowsy ward over the ivied gateway. The 
 New Place is a mile down the river, at a turn 
 where the river, escaping from its pent-up passage 
 through the rocks, breathes a moment, ere it resumes 
 its stormy march upon the sea. 
 
 On either side of the river, here, and down to the 
 sandy sea-bents, stretches a narrow stripe of level 
 land — peculiarly fertile, growing the finest pasture 
 in the north, and feeding the finest sheep in the 
 world. Inland, however, the hills rise rapidly, 
 through their green mantle of pines, to the bleached 
 and naked granite, among whose “ quarries ” the 
 snow often lies through the summer. The Graiae 
 guard the western entrance to the Pass, but on the 
 east it widens into a noble amphitheatre, through 
 which the eye follows the stormy onset of the river, 
 till the smoke of battle is lost among the lowlands of 
 Moravia. On a clear morning before sunrise, a 
 white sharp line cuts the eastern horizon ; but during 
 the day a luminous reflection upon the distant sky 
 alone indicates that the sea lies there . 
 
 Among the heather on the summit of the ledge, a 
 
 i 2 
 
1 1 6 EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 rosy-cheeked child was lying fast asleep. The lassie 
 had tired herself clambering after the mountain 
 blaeberries, a small wicker basket of which, covered 
 with lime-leaves, was placed beside her. She had 
 thrown her brown broad-brimmed gipsy hat, with its 
 bright pink sash, carelessly aside ; and through the 
 dark cloud of curls the prettiest little mouth in the 
 world peeped out, like a bunch of cherries. Such 
 dainty little red lips ! The blaeberry juice had 
 stained them, perhaps, or a bee had stung them as it 
 passed to the foxglove ; but Titian had never a 
 richer red on his palette. The mouth, too, possessed 
 a certain defined character of its own, which you 
 could not miss — the upper lip, though very delicately 
 cut, was quite firm and decided, and the under one 
 protruded slightly, indicating a composed, perhaps 
 even haughty temperament. It is not often that a 
 smile plays about a mouth of this stamp, but when 
 it does it is the sweetest and rarest of any. It comes 
 direct from the soul. One can guess the eyes that 
 must belong to such lips, but they are not visible 
 just now — the white lids are closed upon them, and 
 the long dark lash is folded along the brown rosy 
 cheek. She makes a charming picture, this comely 
 little maiden in her white dress ; if you were a poet 
 you might fancy that among the rough pines and the 
 dark hills you had come upon an angel unawares. 
 Indeed I once noticed her, I am sure, in the disguise 
 of a red-clieeked cherub, looking down with grave 
 
EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 117 
 
 welcome on the Virgin, in a picture by Murillo at 
 Seville. 
 
 This little lady has grown since to be a very 
 beautiful and famous woman. As such, indeed, she 
 will not appear in our story, nor does she in any way 
 greatly concern us. But I have tried to sketch her 
 because she often reminded me in her childish way 
 of Corry. She was Corry in miniature — a tinted, 
 fairy-like edition of the indolent grace, the grave 
 self-possession, and the shy but sedate girlhood of 
 the other. 
 
 Meantime she sleeps. The goats browse quietly 
 on — sometimes resting from the labour of eating to 
 contemplate their long beards with evident satisfac- 
 tion. An old billy-goat takes as much pride in his 
 beard as a Jew in the Ghetto or an Englishman in 
 the East. A white kid, with a red ribbon fastened 
 round its neck, frisks towards the child, and looks 
 curiously into the sleeping face. Then it snuffs at 
 the gipsy-hat, and turns it round and round with its 
 nose ; and having finished the inspection assumes a 
 pretty air of affected timidity, and rushes away to 
 the shelter of its mother, who regards her vivacious 
 offspring with maternal wonder and admiration. 
 Then the whole flock gather together, and on the 
 very verge of the precipice, their beards dangling 
 over the rock, iook down into the valley. A hawk 
 hangs suspended before the face of the cliff, its wings 
 quivering in the quivering sunlight. From the gray 
 
1 1 8 
 
 EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 distant hills comes the sharp rattle of a rifle, which 
 tells that a stag has died among its corries. A 
 cushat, dreaming upon a tree-top, suddenly wakens, 
 and, with a startled flutter which shakes the branches, 
 rises up out of the wood. 
 
 The scene charmed Miles, who gazed at it in 
 silence. Then he came forward and raised the child 
 in his arms. She awoke, not a bit alarmed ; threw 
 her tiny arm round his neck, and looked smilingly 
 into his face with her round blue eyes. 
 
 “ You thought to frighten me, Miles, but I don’t 
 mind you. Now, you shall carry me home all the 
 way. But stop ; let me get my bonnet and my 
 berries.” And the little maiden insisted on being 
 “ put down ;” and haying gathered her chattels to- 
 gether, returned and asked gravely to be “ taken 
 up,” which Miles accordingly did, and carried her oft' 
 towards the wood-lodge. 
 
 “ Is papa at home ? ” asks Miles. 
 
 “Yes; he told me that you were coming to-day, 
 and I went out ever so early to get you berries ; and 
 Minnie there,” (the white kid was following them), 
 “ came with me.” 
 
 “ You dear little fairy,” said Miles, “ how good you 
 are!” 
 
 “ But you know I am your wee wife,” she re- 
 sponded gravely ; “ you told me so ! ” 
 
 The two chatted away merrily. Miles was never 
 reserved with children. There was a sort of sympa- 
 
EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 119 
 
 thetic understanding between them, — children, like 
 dogs, knowing by instinct who are fond of them. 
 
 The Wood Lodge was the residence of Dean 
 Leighton, — Tudor Plantagenet’s Dean. The widower 
 with his little daughter, Effie, to bear him company, 
 clung to the moss-grown retreat where his wife had 
 died. The Wood Lodge was ten or twelve miles 
 inland from the Episcopal church near Ashton ; but 
 at the little chapel attached to Otterburne the Dean 
 ministered on the alternate Sundays. 
 
 How shall I describe the Dean ? I speak the 
 simple truth ; but it sounds like flattery. I cannot 
 help it. He was simply the most perfect man I ever 
 met. When I try to fancy what the old martyrs and 
 truth-seekers were like, I cannot help thinking of 
 Leighton. Heroic love, and valour, and charity, 
 waited upon that worn and attenuated frame. 
 
 The Dean was one of Miles’s oldest friends. Miles 
 was more indebted to Frederick Leighton than to 
 any other man in England. I must try in a sentence 
 or two to show how this was. 
 
 Miles’s father and mother died when he was very 
 young (they had led a wandering, straggling, rather 
 vagabond life) ; his grandfather, however, the old 
 laird, and one of Consul Plancus’s men, liked the 
 boy, and his haughty, domineering ways. The plea- 
 sant heathen (Plancus and his associates were rather 
 addicted to Paganism) relished the daily bickerings 
 between his grandson and the Oxford tutor; and 
 
120 
 
 EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 had it not been for Mrs. Menteith — a cousin of his 
 mother’s — the lad would have been permanently 
 spoiled. Mrs. Menteith, a woman of considerable 
 tact, had learned the boy by heart, and knew the 
 motives that would most effectually appeal to him. 
 He was passionate, high-tempered, obstinate as any 
 Warrender of the race ; scrupulously honest and 
 honourable, and severely truthful. From the acci- 
 dents of his early life, he had been forced to rely 
 very much on his own judgment, even in matters 
 that were too weighty for a child’s judgment. This 
 made the boy grave, taciturn, self-reliant ; and spite 
 of the pretty subduing ways of his cousin Corry, had 
 given a somewhat austere cast to his mind. He 
 wanted flexibility. There was a certain hardness in 
 his manner. His mind moved ponderously. When 
 he once got into the rut, he stayed in it. Obstinate 
 men are generally the men who are least inde- 
 pendent. They don’t think so, indeed. But that 
 very immobility out of which obstinacy springs, 
 forces them to retain a dominant impression better 
 than other people. The mark cleaves to them 
 longer. 
 
 Miles went to Codlington. The life there did him 
 good. It did not altogether subdue the obstinacy of 
 his understanding ; but it quickened its life — it made 
 it work more pliantly. 
 
 Codlington, for those who love the country which 
 God has made, is the queen of cities. Even Home 
 
EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 121 
 
 in her widowed beauty cannot be spoken of in the 
 same breath. A canter across the Campagna is tame 
 in comparison with Mary’s drive. And they want 
 the sea at Home ; from the very summit of the 
 Dome there is nothing save the thin radiant line 
 over Ostia ; wdiile in the Northern City you lie in its 
 lap all day. These are the waves of the Northern 
 Sea itself that break against the pier. Such an open- 
 ing out of the town life is perfect redemption. It 
 gives a man room to breathe. It washes the dust 
 out of his lungs — the eau de Cologne out of his 
 hair — the cobwebs out of his brain. In short, it 
 cleans him, externally and internally. 
 
 Codiington, at that time, had not ceased to be a 
 city of great men. The Whig faction, a brilliant 
 brigade of sharpshooters, still scorned and defied. 
 Opposed to it were the veterans who had fought the 
 rude battles of an earlier world, — Jove himself in the 
 van, giving and taking such blows as were dealt long 
 ago, when the immortals came down and warred 
 together before Ilium. But the fierce ambrosial 
 nights were now well-nigh ended. Pan was finally 
 planted among the knowes of the forest. And the 
 great master no longer recalled the light-haired and 
 bright-eyed god who carried fire and sword into the 
 camp of the Titans. A splendid old man still ; but 
 the passion of battle and the glow of victory were 
 past, and the Thunderer rested serenely from his 
 labour. 
 
122 
 
 EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 The University of Codlington was a favourite and 
 famous seat of the Muses. It was the best school in 
 Christendom, — so, at least, the men who had been 
 there alleged. All its geese were swans. If a Pro- 
 fessor wrote a Commentary on the Epistles, he was 
 the successor of St. Paul; the head of the aspiring 
 undergraduate who composed a third-rate volume of 
 poetry touched the stars. The Codlington Review 
 book its stand on Codlington. Every good thing 
 )ame from Codlington. Out of Codlington was no 
 lalvation ; the barbarous peoples beyond the gates — 
 the poets, and wits, and statesmen, who had not been 
 bred at Codlington, — lay in thick darkness. The 
 Codlington Reviewers were the Puritans of literature. 
 If an author relished the country, and said so, he 
 was “ a word-painter if he was ever warmed by the 
 heroic, or touched by the pathetic aspects of life, 
 he was guilty of “ fine writing.” They aspired to 
 become perfectly dry and colourless ; and they suc- 
 ceeded. In their books at least; for this harmless 
 affectation — understood to denote classical culture, 
 as a listless manner indicates aristocratic blood — did 
 not go farther. Otherwise these Codlington men 
 were good fellows, — rather heretical, perhaps, on 
 matters of faith (about which they talked largely 
 towards the close of the evening), but, — on slow bowl- 
 ing, Badminton, short-whist, and the long odds, — 
 sound to the core. 
 
 At College Miles and Darcy had come together. 
 
EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 123 
 
 Miles was a year or two younger tlian his friend, and 
 threw himself eagerly into the moral and metaphy- 
 sical mist which then and there was reckoned solid 
 land ; while Darcy peaceably smoked his pipe, and 
 would not listen to the charmer. He did not believe 
 in that deceptive shore, “ whose margin fades for 
 ever and for ever as we move and consequently 
 made no attempt to reach it. When the first hope 
 and excitement were past, Miles came back to his 
 friend’s side, and smoked his pipe likewise. God 
 and man, heaven and earth, this mortal and that 
 immortality, were put aside with philosophic com- 
 posure. 
 
 Leighton held at that time a metropolitan rectory, 
 and so came to know the young men. The contests 
 in which they engaged were keen and earnest ; but 
 the noble enthusiasm of the Christian pastor stirred 
 them from their lethargy, and his still nobler tem- 
 perance made the victory permanent. Miles was 
 thus sincerely attached and deeply grateful to Leigh- 
 ton ; and when, under the pressure of town work, the 
 Rectors health gave way, got him, through his influ- 
 ence with Mowbray, appointed to the Deanery of 
 Otterburne. 
 
 The Dean was a perfect gentleman, and was 
 popular among the gentlemen of the county. But it 
 was to the working classes that he chiefly devoted 
 himself. Their elevation was the one ambition of 
 
124 
 
 EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 his life. He longed to see them better fed, better 
 housed, better taught; and he worked at the work 
 with all his might. Already he had earned his re- 
 ward. Not only had much positive progress been 
 made ; not only were his reformatory schemes bear- 
 ing fruit ; but the polished and cultivated scholar had 
 won the entire confidence of his uncourtly friends. 
 He never flattered them ; never employed the rhe- 
 toric of the demagogue. On the contrary, he spoke 
 to them with resolute boldness, and denounced with- 
 out hesitation their peculiar weaknesses. But he 
 loved them from the bottom of his heart ; and they 
 felt it, and loved him in return. 
 
 The Dean was not a voluminous writer: during 
 his long life, indeed, he published only one brief 
 pamphlet. “ For we trust we have a good con- 
 science,” said the Apostle. “ For we trust we have a 
 good conscience,” was the text from which Parson 
 Yorick preached a famous discourse. “ For we trust 
 we have a good conscience,” was the motto which 
 the Dean of Otterburne prefixed to his contribution 
 to the theological literature of the age. It is a senti- 
 ment which at one period of the Church’s history 
 would not have been held to indicate any special 
 religious partisanship. But times had changed. 
 Protestant as well as Papist controversialists, had 
 been content to renounce the hope of the ardent 
 Apostle. Conscience had few, if any, friends left in 
 
EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 I2 5 
 
 either camp. “ ’Tis wrote upon neither side,” quoth 
 Trim, “ for ’tis only upon conscience , an’ please your 
 honour.” 
 
 The Dean loved fair-play, and so he lifted the 
 gdove. An athletic theological “ pet ,” — “ the Bromp- 
 ton Chicken,” — had been hitting out heavily right 
 and left, and had left a number of ugly marks behind 
 him. The Righteous were in raptures. Their cham- 
 pion had finally “ smashed ” the Conscience, and 
 planted Christianity upon an impregnable basis. A 
 bull in a china-shop could not work greater havoc 
 than this logical sledge-hammer worked among the 
 delicate tissues and sensitive fibres of the moral life. 
 It was a famous victory, — yet one or two imprac- 
 ticable and uncourtly divines, little beloved by their 
 brethren, who did not relish their grim humour, and 
 w r ho did not know that at heart they were true and 
 tender as children, stood aloof, and declined to join 
 in the Te Deum . They were supremely unreason- 
 able ; it was whispered that they could not distinguish 
 a synthetic from an analytic syllogism : but they said, 
 in a few sharp and ringing words, that Victory was 
 sometimes more damaging than Defeat : and I have 
 now and then fancied that they had not the worst 
 of the tussle. And my dear Dean, who was always 
 on such points alarmingly honest, simple, and chival- 
 rous, cast in his lot with the wicked. The good 
 gallant Quixote! — I came across the poor, yellow, 
 
1 26 
 
 EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 musty pamphlet the other day, and as I glanced over 
 its queer old-fashioned pages (it was printed in the 
 country, and its type is the type in which remote 
 colonial newspapers are printed), it brought to my 
 eyes a vision of that deserted battle-field, where the 
 drum ecclesiastic once beat so loudly, and where so 
 many latitudinarian heroes, — “ the gleanings of hos- 
 tile spears,” — went down before the Calvinistic 
 Achilles. 
 
 I distinctly remember the immediate provocation 
 which drove him into print. He had been discussing 
 in the College Hall one day, with the celebrated 
 Professor of Faith and Fiction at Codlington, a cen- 
 tral position of the Calvinistic theology. The Dean 
 remarked that he considered the doctrine immoral. 
 The Professor retorted that the conscience was fal- 
 lible : that we must believe what we are taught : and 
 that it was as easy for the Almighty to work a moral, 
 as a physical, miracle. “ A moral miracle ! ” ex- 
 claimed the Dean, turning round contemptuously on 
 his antagonist, — for he could be scornful at times, 
 especially in his younger days, and he saw at a glance 
 the profound scepticism involved in the plea, — “A 
 moral muddle , you mean ! ” 
 
 “ Papa ! papa ! ” exclaimed Effie, as they entered 
 the Wood Lodge, “ here’s Miles!” She lay in his 
 arms as a bird lies in its nest, or a bee in the bell of 
 the foxglove. 
 
EFFIE ON THE ESK. 
 
 I2 7 
 
 Dear little Effie ! my brilliant Queen of Fashion, 
 is the heart as glad as when it beat under the child’s 
 pinafore ? I hope so ; but I know at least that it is 
 pure and dovelike as ever— as true as his who is 
 now at rest with God. 
 
( I 28 ) 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE DEAN. 
 
 How best to help the slender store, 
 
 How mend the dwellings of the poor ; 
 
 How gain in life as life advances 
 Valour and charity more and more. 
 
 “ T ACTED as Mowbray’s private secretary last 
 summer, you know,” said Miles, “ and I think 
 he liked it. He is badgered and worried by his 
 House of Commons’ work. There is no one on his 
 side that he is entirely at ease w 7 ith, and he wants 
 me to come in. Now what do you think ?” 
 
 “ Does he offer you a seat ? ” asked the Dean. 
 
 “ He has, frequently ; but I don’t care about a 
 Minister’s borough. My own w T ish is to try Ashton. 
 We have some influence there, and I think the 
 people rather like me upon the whole. And there 
 is another temptation.” 
 
 “ And that is ? ” 
 
 “ To oust Sir Jasper. He hates Mowbray w r ith his 
 whole soul ; has attacked him virulently more than 
 once ; and to such a man I am disposed to offer no 
 
THE DEAN. 
 
 129 
 
 quarter. Mowbray made a jest on him once, and 
 somehow he has never forgiven it.” 
 
 “ I wish your kinsman would give up making epi- 
 grams. It spoils a Minister. He might have been 
 Premier years ago had he not been a wit.” 
 
 “ He has little enough time now, poor fellow, for 
 that sort of pleasantry. War with the Empire, and 
 national taxation, are decidedly serious subjects. Yet 
 it is curious to see how the old spirit survives. I 
 went down to the House with him one night last 
 session. He was fagged and harassed — intensely 
 anxious about a negotiation going on then, which a 
 blundering diplomate threatened to spoil. But Bar- 
 ton got up, and made one of his fierce ungainly 
 onslaughts. Something he said tickled Mowbray ; 
 I saw his eyes kindle as they do when he is going to 
 say a good thing ; and then he rose and quizzed 
 Barton in his light humorous way till the House 
 laughed and cheered him to the echo. I believe he 
 shook the black care off his back for the moment, 
 and enjoyed the fun as he would have done when a 
 boy. It is a mystery how any man can hate him — 
 as Sir Jasper does.” 
 
 “ Sir Jasper is no favourite of mine. I see a good 
 deal of him at Otterburne. The Duke likes him ; I 
 don’t. He is clever, good-humoured, I daresay, but 
 wretchedly insincere. I would not have thought that 
 he could either love or hate very heartily. His bitter 
 animosity to Mowbray surprises me ; it is something 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 THE DEAN. 
 
 unique in his character. A man of no principles, I 
 should have fancied he had no resentments. Do you 
 know the provocation?” 
 
 “ I don’t know — though I guess sometimes. But 
 to return to what I wanted to say to you. I have 
 really no political convictions, as people call them. 
 As far as the welfare of the nation is involved, it 
 does not seem to me to make much difference whether 
 Whig or Tory be in power. Neither party is governed 
 by any very unselfish or lofty motives. I scarcely 
 know a man in the House — among the smaller men, 
 at least — who would not sell his opinions for a good 
 place. Now I think this tone hurts. A few days 
 among them always makes me feel that what looks 
 like clear duty down here, is in practice Utopian and 
 sentimental. One loses sight of large aims and 
 unselfish ends, or comes to ridicule them as the 
 dreams of well-intentioned impracticable Christians.” 
 
 The Dean assented. “ Parliament, certainly, has 
 little Christianity except the transmitted and heredi- 
 tary. It has its chaplain, and its public prayers — 
 that is about the whole. From such a body it is in 
 vain to look for any practical acknowledgment of the 
 Christian scheme of government. A speech which 
 enforced the doctrines which Paul taught — obedience, 
 self-sacrifice, humility — would be looked on as the 
 speech of a jester. Like the rest of us, Peers and 
 Commons, I fear, think too much of their ‘ rights’ — 
 the divine right to be as selfish, exclusive, and un- 
 
THE DEAN. 
 
 I 3 I 
 
 merciful as we choose — too seldom of their ‘ duties.’ 
 But it is hard to say whether the Parliament be worse 
 than the society it represents. Try the lives of any 
 of us by that standard, and how miserably do we fall 
 short ! Even we — the ministers of the Church — con- 
 sider our petty controversies and animosities of more 
 moment than the message of the Master. It is hard 
 work to be honest anywhere — I don’t think it is more 
 difficult in the senate than it is here.” 
 
 “ I am not certain of that,” Miles replied ; “ but I 
 should like to be near Mowbray. He is my political 
 creed in the mean time ; and I really think he repre- 
 sents all that is freest and worthiest in our political 
 life. But don’t you feel — I do more and more every 
 day — how difficult earnest work is in this country at 
 present ? ” 
 
 “ I do, — often intensely. It is no mere cant to say 
 that our life everywhere and in every direction has 
 become painfully dishonest. How many men among 
 us, even when alone, dare to be sincere ? A certain 
 dramatic untruthfulness sticks to us all ; so that we 
 never think or speak out quite plainly even to our- 
 selves. You say it is hard to be an earnest politician ; 
 think how much harder it is to be an earnest pastor. 
 The nation believes thoroughly in the importance of 
 your function; it reads every syllable of your 
 speeches ; Mowbray and Barton are the names in all 
 men’s mouths. It must be your own fault, surely, if you 
 make this vocation, believed in by the people as it is, 
 
 k 2 
 
132 
 
 THE DEAN. 
 
 the wretched farce it has become. But we — what is 
 our position ? Our people come to listen to us, not 
 because they care for the Gospel we declare, but be- 
 cause it is considered becoming to attend public 
 worship once a week. I never wonder when I see 
 one of us fail in the race ; my wonder oftener is, how 
 any of us should be able to persevere to the end. 
 Some one said the other day that it was impossible 
 for a bishop in the modern Christian Church to be a 
 Christian ; and he was not very far wrong perhaps. 
 A colonial bishop with a hundred and fifty pounds 
 a year may be sometimes. There , the Apostolic life 
 is in a sense still practicable. A great college chum 
 of mine — the best Greek of his day — has gone out to 
 the Antipodes, and in his last letter he writes me that 
 he begins to see that Christianity is, as matter of fact, 
 a boon to men. 6 Here,’ he says, ‘ as in the early 
 Church, they hear the word gladly .’ ” 
 
 “ Perhaps earnest politicians are possible there too. 
 Shall we try ? ” said Miles. “ As for myself, were it 
 not for Mowbray, I would prefer to stay where I am. 
 It seems to me that now-a-days we work too much in 
 the general. We centralize everything — destroying 
 the provincial life, and all the good that is associated 
 with it. We pass Poor-laws, and we subscribe to 
 societies that undertake to convert the heathen 
 abroad, and at home, in the abstract ; but we never 
 get close enough to elicit sympathy. Society puts a 
 man in the workhouse, and keeps him from starving ; 
 
THE DEAN. 
 
 133 
 
 but does lie love society for its official alms ? How 
 different is it with the poor around ns, where our 
 personal charity is twice blessed — to him who gives 
 and to him who takes ! The giver does not grumble, 
 as he does when he finds the rate which is to support 
 that political burden, ‘ the poor/ increasing year after 
 year ; the taker is thankful and grateful to the 
 friendly hand which relieves his want. It stirs quite 
 a different sentiment in his heart — a sentiment which 
 it is well, for the sake of his own and of every other 
 class should be there — than the statutory relief by 
 the parish inspector. The landlord who stays at 
 home will effect more for the elevation of the people 
 than the landlord who reforms them through a cor- 
 poration. Corporations have neither conscience nor 
 heart ; and both conscience and heart are needed to 
 work any effective scheme of political ameliora- 
 tion.” 
 
 “ There is doubtless much to be done in private,” 
 replied the Dean, — “ more, probably, than in public. 
 When Mowbray gets these religious disabilities re- 
 pealed — and the next session may see an end of 
 them — the last rag of intolerance will be torn down. 
 But though we banish bigotry from the Constitution, 
 we do not banish it from society. Men will remain 
 as narrow, as pitiless, as vindictively selfish as ever. 
 Persecution must then be met, not in Parliament, but 
 in the household. Public and private life, however, 
 always influence each other ; and the statesman who 
 
*34 
 
 THE DEAN. 
 
 strives most earnestly to abate the selfishness of 
 caste, and the violence of sect, will deserve best of 
 his country. Let that be the new crusade, and even 
 to-day a politician may find a worthy creed for which 
 to work.” 
 
 “ Miles, Miles,” exclaimed Effie, looking in at the 
 open window, “I want you to come out. Such a 
 nice evening, and I am going with Jean, to milk the 
 cows ; so let Miles come, papa.” 
 
 “ We will all come, Effie, and see your miraculous 
 cows. Will Jean let us, think you?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes. Jean is very good to-day. She has had 
 a letter from Aus-tra-alia (it came out syllable by 
 syllable), from her sweetheart — ” 
 
 And the little maiden paused and hesitated and 
 stammered, and ran off to the pet kid which was 
 feeding in the middle of the lawn. 
 
( i35 ) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE OLD STORY. 
 
 0 wind of strife — to ns a wedding wind 
 0 cover me with kisses of her mouth, 
 
 Blow thou our souls together, heart and mind ; 
 
 To narrowing northern lines blow from the south. 
 
 ’ll TILES, Cony, and Alice were standing on the 
 ILL village pier, waiting for Peter, who was trim- 
 ming the Lapwing for a run. It was a lovely 
 September day ; a light cool breeze blew from the 
 hills, but barely rippled the water, and did not shake 
 the shadow of the castle that rested upon the bay. 
 
 “ You need not come, Peter,” said Miles, “ I know 
 you are busy, and there’s no chance of a blow.” 
 
 “Varra gude, sir,” answered the sailor. “We’re 
 for the Dodder Bank the nicht, and the lang lines 
 are no baited yet.” 
 
 “ I don’t think I can go either,” said Alice, who 
 did not particularly love the sea, except from the 
 shore. 
 
 “ That’s too bad of you,” exclaimed Miles, “ Corry’s 
 quite right, I fear.” 
 
i 3 6 
 
 THE OLD STOEY. 
 
 “lea dreadful coward sometimes, and I never 
 go to sea except with people who know a little about 
 it,” Alice retorted. 
 
 “ Oh, Miles is a capital sailor — isn’t he, Peter ?” 
 asked Corry. 
 
 “ Never mind that,” said Miles ; “ Alice is bent on 
 staying, and there’s no good trying to move her ; she 
 is inflexible as fate. You will come, Corry ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, Miles, of course,” said Corry. “ I like a sail 
 so much. But, Alice, you will have to go home by 
 yourself ; tell them we shall be back in an hour.” 
 
 So it was settled; and ruffling her snow-white 
 plumes, the clean little craft slipped gently from the 
 pier. It looked so pretty and swan-like, and the sea 
 was so transparently calm, that Alice began to repent 
 that she had not gone. She waved an adieu with 
 her handkerchief, and then slowly sauntered home- 
 wards, chatting gaily with Peter till they reached 
 the village. 
 
 “ Give my love to Elsie,” she said, as they parted. 
 
 The cousins w r ere famous sailors, and Corry guided 
 the boat with the skill of a blue-jacket. She looked 
 very pretty under her wide-awake, as the salt breeze 
 gathered the roses into her cheek and played with the 
 tangled curls. A sweet innocent girlish face, but 
 with a depth of grave repose in the soft April eyes 
 that took away the sense of girlishness. 
 
 Miles had brought a volume of poems by Heine 
 with him, and Corry never tired of hearing Miles read. 
 
THE OLD STOEY. 
 
 137 
 
 They were strange poems — the utterances of one who 
 had lived upon the stern North Sea, and learned to 
 interpret what the Norse gods said to each other 
 while the North wind blew. 
 
 “ What do you think of this, Corry ? ” said Miles, 
 and he read the poem until he came to these won- 
 derful lines : — 
 
 A wondrous tumult, a whistling and whispering, 
 
 A laughing and murmuring, sighing and washing, 
 
 And ’mid them a lullaby known to me only. 
 
 “ I have heard it at night often,” said Corry. 
 “ Alice and I lifted the window late last night — it 
 was so lovely ; and we heard the sea talking to itself 
 just so.” 
 
 “ A little more to the left, or we’ll graze the Scrath 
 rock. And what said the sea, fair cousin mine?” 
 
 “ Oh, we couldn’t make it out, though it talked 
 away without minding us in the least. There was 
 something going on clearly ; each wave was chatter- 
 ing so eagerly, and not minding a bit what the rest 
 said.” 
 
 “ You didn’t notice the scent of a cigar, did you ? 
 I went down about midnight, and sat on the stones at 
 the Haven’s crag, and heard the white ripples chime 
 like a row of silver bells on the beach, and the 
 herring-fishers heaving at their nets outside the bay. 
 But I was luckier than you ; I learned what the sea 
 said.” 
 
138 
 
 THE OLD STOEY. 
 
 “ And what did it say, Miles ? ” Corry demanded. 
 “ Though I don’t quite believe you, all the same.” 
 
 “ It said,” responded Miles, gravely, “ that she was 
 deep as death, and endless as eternity ; that at night 
 she was warmed by the moonlight that lay upon 
 her breast; that the light breeze that wandered 
 among her tresses cooled her by day ; that I was to 
 be member of parliament for the borough of Ashton, 
 and that the electors might rest assured I would take 
 a warm interest in the cod-fishing ; that she did not 
 wish to indulge in any personal reflections, but that 
 to the best of her judgment it was time certain young 
 ladies she would not more particularly mention were 
 in bed ; that ” 
 
 “ Nonsense, Miles ; you are as bad as Darcy. Head 
 on, please.” 
 
 And Miles read of 
 
 The ever-quivering, grey, and silvery- world sea ; 
 
 and then Corry looked ever and again across the 
 water, to make sure that the German poet spoke 
 true ; and she found that the words were as true as 
 Gospel words. 
 
 “ I think,” said Miles, “ that greeting of the sea — 
 c Be thou greeted, thou infinite sea ! ’ — shows how he 
 loved it. That’s the one I like best.” 
 
 “ I like the first you read better — about the god 
 who came one night to the fisher’s cottage, where 
 the pretty daughter,” — 
 
THE OLD STORY. 
 
 *39 
 
 (“ The wondrous lovely fisher’s daughter,” broke in 
 Miles). 
 
 — “ is waiting alone by the ruddy hearth for her 
 father and brother, who are out on the dark sea. 
 Only another, Miles,” she added, coaxingly. 
 
 So Miles had to read another, and he read one 
 which the maiden beside him loved better than any, 
 and which is indeed the most perfect and exquisite of 
 ballads. It tells how the poet came to the miner’s 
 cottage in the lone Hartz Mountains, and how, like 
 brother and sister, he and the grave innocent child- 
 daughter of the host talked together long into 
 the night ; and how she fears from his mocking lip 
 that he is not a true follower of the good Jesus ; and 
 how he tells her that he believes in the Father, the 
 Son, and the Holy Ghost. Yea, in the Holy Ghost 
 — who breaks the bonds of the oppressed, who frees 
 the captive from his chains, who pours God’s truth 
 and God’s light through the dark places of the heart, 
 and who has erst chosen a thousand knights to do his 
 bidding. 
 
 Lo ! their precious swords are gleaming, 
 
 And their banners wave in fight. 
 
 What, thou fain wouldst see, my darling, 
 
 Such a proud and noble knight ! 
 
 Well, then, gaze upon me, dearest, 
 
 I am of that lordly host. 
 
 Kiss me ; lam an elected 
 
 True knight of the Holy Ghost ! 
 
 And Corry looked shyly, but proudly, at the 
 
140 
 
 THE OLD STOEY. 
 
 reader, and thought in her heart of hearts that he 
 too belonged to that elected band, and was as good 
 and true a knight as any in the chosen company. 
 
 “ A knight of the Holy Ghost,” quoth Miles ; “ a 
 teacher of the truth that maketh free. I wish some 
 of our great friends would throw away their dirty 
 ribbons and garters, and join the order. What de- 
 vice shall we bear on our banner ? ” 
 
 “ Alice and I will work your colours,” said Corry, 
 smiling, “ only tell us what they are.” 
 
 •‘Let me think; yes,” continued Miles, half in 
 play and half in earnest, “ the cross and the bleeding 
 heart — the bleeding heart of Menteith ” 
 
 The breeze had been gradually freshening, and 
 the light craft now sped swiftly along, taking a 
 firmer grasp of the water ; no longer toying volup- 
 tuously on the sunny bosom of the sea, but in good 
 earnest buckling on its armour for the fray. The 
 scornful little beauty brushes away the spray that 
 would fain kiss her brow, opens her white wings like 
 a cygnet, and speeds toward the Happy Isles that 
 lie just beyond the horizon — 
 
 Where beats not hail, nor rain, nor any snow, 
 
 Nor ever wind blows loudly, but they lie 
 Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair, with orchard-lawns 
 And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea, 
 
 Where I will heal me of my grievous wound. 
 
 Ay, they are nearing the Happy Isles, and their 
 wounds are not very grievous. The heartache, like 
 
THE OLD STOEY. 
 
 141 
 
 the toothache, “though it be not mortal, it is very 
 troublesome ; ” but Corry’s serene devotion did not 
 sting as the mosquito stings. The tyrant might kill 
 her, no doubt, if so inclined, but could not make her 
 pettily miserable. 
 
 While the cousins thus read and talked over their 
 book, the Lapwing had left the land far behind on 
 its lee ; and when Miles looked up (he was lying at 
 the helmsman’s feet), he found that they had quitted 
 the bay and reached the open sea. Though the 
 water was comparatively smooth, yet in the rapid 
 tideways of the North it is never quite at rest, and 
 into one of these they had now passed. The boat 
 began to rock uneasily to and fro ; the breeze died 
 away for a moment, letting the sail flap unpleasantly 
 against the mast; when it returned it came down 
 sharp and cold. A threatening mass of white cloud 
 was rising over the nearer hills. Miles prepared to 
 tack. 
 
 “ Look, Miles,” said Corry, suddenly, “ how black 
 the water in the bay has grown.” 
 
 “ There is wind there, but only a capful. It will 
 die away before it reaches us.” 
 
 But even as he spoke he let go the sail, hurriedly 
 gathered it into the boat, and getting out the oars, 
 turned the bow toward the coming squall — for a 
 squall it was. The bay grew darker and darker, 
 little flakes of white foam were dashed across it, and 
 in a couple of minutes the gale was upon them. 
 
142 
 
 THE OLD STORY. 
 
 “ I will keep her head to the wind,” said Miles. 
 “ It can’t last. Wrap your cloak about you, Corry, 
 or you will catch cold. There is no fear.” 
 
 “ I am not frightened, Miles,” said Corry, quietly, 
 though there was a brighter flush upon her cheek 
 now than the wind had brought ; “ but I don’t think 
 that it gets better.” 
 
 The wind whistled shrilly through the rigging, 
 and the waves began to beat unpleasantly against 
 the sides of the boat. The white bank of clouds had 
 suddenly descended from the hills, and lashed the 
 bay with sleet. The sun was no longer visible, and 
 even the shore grew indistinct, as the thick rush of 
 rain descended between it and the boat. Miles and 
 Corry were both drenched with spray ere the rain 
 came. 
 
 The situation was alarming, as any one might see 
 — as Corry did see from Miles’s face, when he turned 
 round and looked through the driving sleet for any 
 glimpse of a break in the clouds. But there was 
 none such; the rain came down close, thick, and 
 drenching ; the wind blew coldly and shrilly ; worse 
 than all, he felt the damp water rising about him, 
 and knew that the boat was beginning to fill. 
 
 “ We must run for Ashton,” he said, in a tone of 
 unconcern. “ We shall get our deaths of cold if we 
 stay in- this pelt. Corry, do you think you can 
 manage to steer us through this bit of a blow ? ” 
 
 “ Yes ; I will try.” 
 
THE OLD STORY. 
 
 *43 
 
 So Miles drew his oars on board, double-reefed his 
 sail, and then raised it cautiously. The moment the 
 wind touched it the boat yawed suddenly to leeward, 
 and Miles fancied that they were over. But it re- 
 covered in time, after having shipped a few gallons 
 of salt water, and then set itself stoutly to work, 
 rushing along straight as an arrow, except when a 
 heavier blast came down, and Corry involuntarily 
 turned its head still closer into the wind. Miles 
 meanwhile baled, doing his best to keep the water 
 down, but with indifferent success. “ If we can only 
 make Ashton ! ” he muttered. Ay ! if they can 
 only make Ashton. 
 
 The wind blew dead from the land, and Ashton 
 lay to the north — five miles to the north-west from 
 where they were. Even in its present “ airt ” the 
 wind blew so nearly from the point on which they 
 tried to keep, that they had to “ hug ” it as closely 
 as the sail would lie. It seemed, however, that they 
 would succeed ; Miles could dimly discern the church 
 steeple, — a wild disordered gleam of stormy sunshine 
 touched it once when he looked ; and they were then 
 apparently sailing on a point considerably to wind- 
 ward of the town. He drew a deep breath of relief, 
 and turned to Corry with a smile. 
 
 “ The fishes won’t get us yet,” he said ; “ but keep 
 close to the wind, Corry, keep close.” 
 
 Corry returned the smile : if Miles was confident, 
 then they were safe. There could be no real danger ; 
 
i 4 4 
 
 THE OLD STOEY. 
 
 and slie did liis bidding cheerfully and in perfect 
 trust. There and then, at that very moment — sud- 
 denly, convincingly, and impetuously — Miles learned 
 the truth. Yes, it was more than a cousin’s fancy, 
 a school-girl’s romance ; he felt instinctively that 
 the perfect sacrifice of a woman’s life had been 
 offered up to him. Hitherto he had never dared to 
 ask, for it had seemed to him almost like sacrilege 
 to stir the innocent child-heart with the story of a 
 love stronger and more vehement than the boy’s. 
 But now the soft fawn eyes had mutely told their 
 tale, and Miles knew that he loved, and that he was 
 loved. 
 
 Upon my word, had you seen her then, you would 
 not have wondered at his love. The braided hair 
 was unloosed and dishevelled, and floated freely 
 behind — like lo’s when she fled from Jove. The 
 pitiless rain and wind beat against the beautiful pale 
 face — very pale now, though composed and un- 
 daunted as ever. Very pale ; but the sweet grave 
 smile — so soft and yet so winning, so girlish and yet 
 so mature — played about the eyes, and touched the 
 finely-chiselled and decisive lips. Corry’s grave 
 sedateness ai\d quiet self-possession had given to 
 the child a piquant and contrasted interest ; but 
 now Miles felt that the child was gone, and that 
 the woman had come to possess the shrine which 
 waited for her. Who has not witnessed this trans- 
 formation? Some of us, perhaps, can recal the 
 
THE OLD STOEY. 
 
 J 45 
 
 day and tlie hour when it took place — when the 
 eyes which were only blue and sunny with the clear 
 child happiness in the morning, darkened and deep- 
 ened into a richer and softer life ere night. Ay, 
 and some of us have witnessed that grander yet 
 stiller dawn, when a strange and awful light gathers 
 into the familiar eyes, which will not dwell upon us 
 with kindness any more, but pass us by unheeded, 
 to rest upon the Light beyond. 
 
 It was a great joy, but it was a joy dashed with 
 bitterness. He had found the treasure, but only to 
 have it taken from him again. For Miles had 
 indeed begun to lose hope. He undid another scrap 
 of sail to aid the boat in closing with the wind ; he 
 even left the indispensable “ baling,” to try if his 
 strong hand could not make the rudder work better. 
 No, it would not do ; the ebb-tide was running strong 
 to the north, and it became evident that they could 
 not reach Ashton. They must be driven past. And 
 beyond Ashton, what was beyond? Norway and 
 the Northern Sea. Nothing between. 
 
 For one moment Miles was stunned, and in that 
 moment Corry learned the truth. But it did not 
 alarm her : it only made her anxious to comfort her 
 cousin. 
 
 “ Oh, it’s not myself ! ” exclaimed Miles, pas- 
 sionately, as she spoke ; “ but you, Corry — you, 
 Corry!” 
 
 “ Miles,” she said, very quietly and solemnly, “ I 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 THE OLD STOEY. 
 
 would rather die with you than learn that you were 
 dead.” And she looked into his eyes with eyes so 
 full of faith, that Miles could not but believe. 
 
 Do not let us intrude into the sanctuaries of the 
 soul. I believe that there, on the brink of death, 
 confession was made. But why try to describe this 
 solemn consecration of love? We may be sure that 
 in that moment of awful suspense there was no false 
 prudery or reserve. Frankly and bravely, if not 
 with a profounder and holier tenderness, the love 
 would be told ; frankly and bravely the love would 
 be returned. 
 
 I do not know if there are such things as “ special ” 
 providences in this world. Certainly, in the sense 
 of the religious public, who exclude Providence cn 
 all other occasions from any participation in public 
 affairs, I am inclined to believe that there is not. 
 And for my own part, holding that there cannot be 
 anything very exceptional in the Maker guiding and 
 governing the creatures who in Him alone “ live, 
 move, and have their being,” I cannot say that I love 
 the word. However (as Mr. Ruskin observes), “ I 
 hate dogmatism ; ” and I know that Lady Gardiner 
 described what followed as such ; nay, as a very 
 particular special providence indeed; seeing that, 
 according to her theory of the universe, Providence 
 commonly interferes not to save but to destroy. 
 
 The wind still blew bitterly, and the sleet poured 
 down in torrents; Miles could indistinctly perceive 
 
THE OLD STOEY. 
 
 HI 
 
 Ashton, a mile, or a mile and a half, distant. Was 
 there any chance that they might be seen? — that 
 assistance might reach them ? If it is to come, it 
 had best come quickly, for the ebb tide is bearing 
 them away. No ; there is no help from man. 
 
 But even while they strain their eyes towards 
 Ashton, an invisible Helper approaches. Not the 
 angel Michael, with whom Lucifer wrestled of old on 
 the battlements of heaven ? Oh no ! — there are no 
 angels now ; the angels, like the devils, are abolished, 
 except in Mr. Coningsby’s novels, and then they talk 
 politics only. Who then ? It happened simply 
 thus : — 
 
 The wind, which had been hitherto blowing dead 
 from the land, went round a point to the south. 
 Miles felt that it no longer struck against his cheek ; 
 he drew the sail “taut,” and saw with unspeakable 
 thankfulness that if it held so they might yet gain 
 the harbour. It did not hold only : it changed more 
 and more into the south; until when they reached 
 the pier they were rushing along — water-logged and 
 nearly sinking though they were — before a fair wind. 
 The wind, which “bloweth where it listeth,” went 
 round a point, and two living souls were saved from 
 death. A special providence, no doubt, but probably 
 only one — the last — in a chain, which reached back 
 into the Beginning:. 
 
 I should not wish, were I an artist, to be required 
 to paint the expression on Corry’s face as they passed 
 
 l 2 
 
148 
 
 THE OLD STORY. 
 
 the pier-head, and heard the eager greetings of a 
 crowd who, pale with excitement, had watched for 
 the last mile the perilous passage of the boat through 
 the reefs. I doubt if mortal art could do much to 
 secure and convey it. I think some of the emotions 
 — some of the pride, gratitude, triumph, love — are 
 portrayed in the wife’s face in Mr. Millais’ “ Order 
 of Release ; ” only that face is harsh, and worn, and 
 livid, as if its owner had been long abandoned to 
 sorrow or drink ; here , it is a maiden with rosy lips, 
 and soft auburn eyes, and rich masses of dark hair, 
 and who has only learned to-day that the man she 
 loves is her lover. 
 
( J 49 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 THE FADING POLITICS OF MORTAL ROME. 
 
 And when he raised his lance, 
 
 Up Hesperus rose among the evening stars. 
 
 ARRENDER, on his return home, found a 
 
 bundle of letters awaiting him. I am not 
 going to copy the whole of them ; but two of them 
 were important ; and, as they aid the progress of the 
 narrative, I make no apology for inserting them. 
 The first was from Darcy, and ran thus : — 
 
 “ Dear Miles, — That cousin of yours is a trump. 
 Let us drink his health in a bumper of Glenclronach 
 — fit libation to the silver-tongued Apollo. By the 
 way, accept my thanks for the ten gallon cask I 
 found waiting me ; all the Dorians of my acquaint- 
 ance have tasted it, and declare it genuine and 
 unique. Ten to one he goes down to posterity 
 (Mowbray I mean, not the Glendronach), as “ the 
 Great Minister.” He is the Chatham of the age, 
 only a Chatham with finer ear and more attuned 
 temperament. I believe in a politician at last, and 
 am quite prepared to become Solicitor. 
 
150 THE FADING POLITICS 
 
 “ ‘ But why this excitement ? 9 you inquire, in 
 your icy way. Has the silk gown been offered 
 already? Not yet; but perpend, and I will tell 
 you. Last night (after haying listened solemnly all 
 day to Sir Bichard havering over a pyramid of 
 papers at the bar of the Lords), I went across to 
 the Commons, and having dined and drank with a 
 senator, was conveyed to the Speaker’s gallery. I 
 tell you honestly that I was as sober as a judge. 
 The Burgundy was no doubt very fair, and I took 
 my lawful share ; but I had merely arrived at that 
 state of mild elation which, like charity, thinketh 
 no evil. The House was very full ; a great debate 
 on the Soap-Bubble question was coming on. All 
 the swells were present — the heavy swells on the 
 Opposition benches; Mowbray in the van of the 
 free-lances he has trained. What a splendid gentle- 
 man he looked ! Graceful and manly, gallant as an 
 antique paladin, — the representative of whatever is 
 refined and noble in English life, — I do not wonder 
 that lie is such a prodigious favourite with the 
 women, or that the ‘ bright eyes which sparkled 
 through the lawn ’ should have hailed the haughty 
 and victorious chief. His opening speech was calm, 
 lucid, statesmanlike ; it showed a profound acquaint- 
 ance with the internal politics of foreign govern- 
 ments, and their relation to the liberal national 
 policy he was carrying out. Only towards the close, 
 only when he declared that the English Government 
 
OF MOETAL ROME. 
 
 I 5 I 
 
 had prepared for the threatened war, and that that 
 very day English troops had embarked for the Medi- 
 terranean, did he warm himself and his hearers. 
 Then for a few seconds, though his voice never lost 
 its clear bell-like tone, he spoke vehemently and 
 rapidly. The House was all with him, and cheered 
 him till the old walls rang again. But the triumph 
 came later. One or two third-rate men tried a little 
 feeble abuse — your friend, Sir Jasper, being, like 
 himself, bitter and malignant ; but even Josey hesi- 
 tated to move any formal amendment, and contented 
 himself with some very general remarks on the 
 Minister’s foreign policy and past administration. 
 Then Mowbray rose once more, and what a speech 
 he made ! I shall hear nothing like it again while 
 I live. Even a hardened sinner of a lawyer was 
 carried away. The eye brightened, the form dilated ; 
 you saw Europe at the conqueror’s feet, — you learned 
 that the intrigues of cabinets, the ambition of kings, 
 the passions of nations, had been directed by the 
 master’s hand, or foiled by the master’s skill. But a 
 higher altitude remained ; it was no longer Europe 
 alone — no longer a nation here or a nation there — 
 but ‘ the whole round earth ’ obeyed the Minister’s 
 behest. The Emperor might disturb the balance 
 of power in Europe if so minded — he might occupy 
 the Peninsula if he chose — what did that matter? 
 * Did I attempt a petty retaliation ? When he 
 
I 5 2 
 
 THE FADING POLITICS 
 
 crossed the Pyrenees, did I blockade Cadiz? No, — 
 I looked another way ; — I sought compensation in 
 another hemisphere. Contemplating Spain such as 
 our ancestors had known it, I resolved that if the 
 Emperor had Spain, it should not be Spain with 
 the Indies. I called the New World into exist- 
 ence to redress the balance of the Old.’ * My dear 
 fellow ! had you heard these last words. They rang 
 like a trumpet-call. They electrified the House : for 
 a moment the members sat silent, spell-bound, unable 
 even to cheer, — and then what a shout ! Every man 
 rose ; a crowd gathered round Mowbray ; business 
 for that night was at an end. And this in the 
 prosaic House of Commons, in this prosaic nineteenth 
 century, which we all abuse so heartily ! 
 
 “You can have no idea how grand your cousin 
 looked when he spoke these words. People thought 
 of Chatham. I doubt if Chatham even was ever so 
 vehemently great. 6 1 called the New World into 
 existence to redress the balance of the Old.’ Ay, 
 there stood the maker, the creator ; the Atlas who 
 stayed the world ; the Zeus who presided over its 
 
 * This passage bears so strong a likeness to one that occurs in 
 a speech delivered by a great statesman thirty years ago, that it 
 might have been interesting to ascertain which of the two was 
 spoken first. Though it is impossible in this imperfect and 
 transitory world to be sure about dates, I rather incline to be- 
 lieve that George Mowbray was indebted to George Canning. 
 
OF MOETAL KOME. 
 
 *53 
 
 destinies. And, after all, only a simple English gen- 
 tleman in a black surtout and checked breeches ! 
 Great is the mystery of genius ; for a time the most 
 blase of us ceased to believe in the eternal dominion 
 of red tape. 
 
 “ It does one no harm to go a little crazy now and 
 again ; so, pr’ythee, Miles, look with grave compas- 
 sion upon your friend’s insanity. Ere I write you 
 again, I shall have regained my wits.” 
 
 The next epistle had a semi-official air — the air of 
 a great official when he unbends in private life. The 
 note w T as very brief, but not hurried — Mowbray was 
 never hurried ; nothing could disturb that grave and 
 sinewy repose. It ran — 
 
 “ Private and confidential. 
 
 “ Dear Miles, — I am going to dissolve ; the time 
 is ripe ; and I want you to come in. You must. I 
 need a lad who can give me a friendly arm to the 
 House, and chat with me cousin-wise. I put it on 
 this score, because I know that you wont take the 
 trouble on your own account, though it should make 
 you a Minister — which it may. So, either get a seat, 
 or I find you one. Which is it to be ? I am told that 
 you can hit Sir Jasper pretty hard at Ashton ; should 
 you do so, I shall not be inconsolable. The Whigs 
 will strain every nerve against us ; but I take the 
 
154 FADING POLITICS OF EOME. 
 
 bull by the horns, and ‘ the Houses ’ shall be taught a 
 lesson they wont forget. All this will be visible next 
 week ; in the mean time, not a word. “ G. M.” 
 
 “ So,” mused Miles, “ the moment has come. To 
 be, or not to be. Not the nominee of a Minister — 
 even though the Minister is Mowbray. Ashton is the 
 card. It will be stiff work though, and bitter as night- 
 shade,” 
 
( i55 ) 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE SABBATH REST. 
 
 This blessed hour is yours and eve’s, 
 
 And this is why it seems so sweet, 
 
 To lie as husht as fallen leaves 
 In autumn at your feet, 
 
 And watch awhile, released from care, 
 
 The twilight in yon quiet skies, 
 
 The twilight in your quiet hair, 
 
 The twilight in your eyes. 
 
 O NE other day of peace for Miles, and then — 
 “ the noise of battle hurtled in the air.” 
 
 It is the Sabbath day ; and the party from Hawk- 
 stone are on their way to attend evening service at 
 “ Our Lady’s Chapel of the Cliff.” Sir Maxwell has 
 stayed at home — Corry always reads the Morning 
 Service in the library ; and, unless at Christmas or 
 Easter, this suffices the old gentleman. “ She reads 
 as well as the Dean,” he heretieally avers. 
 
 It is a splendid autumn afternoon ; and straggling 
 parties of villagers and country -people dot the steep 
 ascent which leads to the old chapel. They are all 
 good churchmen here ; the dissenting interest lan- 
 
156 
 
 THE SABBATH BEST. 
 
 guishes, though it has built itself a brick conventicle 
 among the rocks in front of the village ; a building 
 not remarkable for a nice adherence to any archi- 
 tectural canons — Greek or Gothic — where the 
 Eev. Mr. Sturmup, a yellow and lanky methodist, 
 officiates. The people, indeed, are not addicted to 
 any form of Protestant dissent ; on the contrary, it 
 is asserted by religious agitators that the district is a 
 nest of malignant prelatists ; and certainly many old 
 heathenish words and customs — grey and venerable 
 like Our Lady’s Chapel itself — are wrought into the 
 daily life of the people, and recal the time when all 
 the lands around belonged to the great Abbey of 
 Otterburne. 
 
 Mrs. Menteitk, Alice, and Corry, slowly wend up 
 the steep path, resting ever and again to look down 
 upon a scene of noble beauty, or to exchange a few 
 kindly words with the country people they know. 
 The round ocean lies at their feet ; bright, and calm, 
 and lustrous with autumn sunshine. The white 
 ripples break gently on the sandy beach far below 
 them ; but the sense of sabbath rest lies upon the sea. 
 There are no busy fishing craft darting across the bay ; 
 all are drawn up high upon the shore ; only near the 
 horizon the white sails of a great merchant ship from 
 the Pacific sparkle against the blue. The place used 
 to remind me of scenes I had often witnessed along 
 the delicious skirts of Northern Italy — the blue seas, 
 the snowy sands, the nestling villages ; and far aloft, 
 
THE SABBATH REST. 
 
 157 
 
 above the strife of men and the contention of the 
 waves, the arched and moss-grown windows of the 
 ancient church. 
 
 The interior was grey and sombre ; two rows of 
 simple massive pillars — massive as Homan masonry — 
 ran from end to end. Entering from the brilliant 
 sunshine and the laughing sea, the effect was cold 
 and sepulchral — an effect which the rosy faces of the 
 children, and the bright dresses of the women, did not 
 tend to diminish. The pews of the Menteiths and 
 the Warrenders occupied spaces on either side of the 
 high pulpit ; and Miles could see through the arched 
 pillars of the screen the glow of grateful acknow- 
 ledgment which flushed Corry’s upturned cheek when 
 the thanksgiving for those who have escaped great 
 peril — a thanksgiving of the Early Church, elsewhere 
 forgotten, which praises Him “ who has redeemed our 
 souls from the jaws of death ” — was read with great 
 solemnity by the Dean. Perhaps he also noted a look 
 of softer tenderness in the violet eyes when at the 
 close they rested upon himself. 
 
 The Dean was an admirable preacher, and his 
 short, pithy sermons were listened to with that earnest 
 attention which is so grateful to a speaker, and which 
 shows him that his argument is intelligently fol- 
 lowed. He was preaching on the obligation to observe 
 the Sabbath, his text being taken from that noble 
 chapter in which Saint Paul expounds to the Colos- 
 sians the practice of Christian liberty. A fierce 
 
158 
 
 THE SABBATH REST. 
 
 agitation had been going on against the attempt to 
 open certain places of instruction and amusement upon 
 the Sabbath, and the disturbance had even reached 
 this remote district, and petitions against the proposal 
 had been hawked round the parish. The Dean, though 
 always moderate, never hesitated to announce and 
 enforce his opinions with unhesitating straightfor- 
 wardness. 
 
 “ I cannot recommend you to sign these papers,” 
 he said. “ I do not see that we have any right to 
 interfere with others in this matter. Let each man 
 satisfy his own conscience ; that is the obligation 
 which St. Paul requires us to observe. And I think 
 we who lead what I may call the pastoral life — the 
 life led by the patriarchs of old — are peculiarly un- 
 fitted to tell the great towns and cities of the empire 
 how they are to observe the first day of the week. 
 No one loves more than I do our beautiful and simple 
 Sabbath, when man and nature alike rest from their 
 labours. The work of the week is over ; the plough-* 
 man leaves his plough in the furrow ; the fisherman’s 
 nets are spread upon the beach ; the horse and the 
 ox are released from their harness. It is well that 
 we, and such as we, should assemble in God’s house 
 to-day, to thank Him for His mercies during the week 
 on which last night’s twilight so softly and graciously 
 closed. But during all that week we have been 
 breathing the untainted air ; we have been looking 
 on the sea ; God’s serene heaven has never been shut 
 
THE SABBATH REST. 
 
 *59 
 
 out from us. How different it is with those who live 
 in the cities — in their wretched garrets, in their filthy 
 cellars, in the heated and poisoned atmosphere of 
 their great workshops ! The sight of a green field, 
 of a hawthorn hedge, of a noble elm or oak, may fall 
 upon these soiled and thirsty hearts like dew. When, 
 therefore, I am asked to prevent our workmen from 
 seeing the works of God, I answer — No. The Sab- 
 bath is given to us that we may regain mental vigour 
 and moral freedom — may wash away the foul impurity 
 of the week, and the truest homage we can offer to 
 our Maker on this day is to put his Divine gift to the 
 best use. And who except the dogmatist or the 
 ascetic will venture to impose any inflexible and mer- 
 ciless law of observance ? I believe that to some men 
 — to the sick child or to the tired mechanic — the 
 purple clouds and the wayside flowers convey a mes- 
 sage of mercy which they cannot learn from any other 
 teacher — which they cannot learn in their garrets, in 
 their ginshops, in their churches. Yes, my friends, 
 I say “ their churches,” without shrinking, because I 
 hold that you must put physical stamina, human 
 hope, and manly vigour into a man, before you can do 
 much for him either morally or spiritually. Give 
 him something — green fields or fresh air or innocent 
 recreations, I care not which — that will make his 
 pulse beat, and arouse the soul paralysed by incessant 
 toil. So do not let us judge one another any more, 
 
THE SABBATH REST. 
 
 160 
 
 but judge this rather, that no man put a stumbling- 
 block, or an occasion to fall, in his brother’s way.” 
 
 Simple and manly words — words, however, which 
 in that age and society few clergymen had the courage 
 to utter. 
 
 They walked back to Hawkstone together, only 
 Miles and Corry lingered a little behind. They had 
 been engaged for nearly a week now, and she hung 
 upon his arm with a winning and wistful confidence, 
 very distracting to male onlookers, but no doubt very 
 pleasant to its object. 
 
 “ Stay, Corry, I want to speak to you about some- 
 thing that concerns us both,” said Miles. 
 
 She stopped and looked into his eyes with a quick 
 alarm. 
 
 “ Let us rest a minute here. There’s young Peter 
 and Elsie just behind us.” 
 
 “ Well, Peter,” said Miles, “ have you been at the 
 kirk?” 
 
 “ No, sir, Elsie and I gaed down in the mornin’ to 
 see the auld grandmither at Langhaven : she’s been 
 sair hauden doun a’ the winter wi’ the rheumatics, 
 and she’s aye girnin’ for some o’ his to bide wi’ her. 
 But we’re thinkin’ to bring her up here in the fa’, 
 and Elsie was telling her she’d be less uncanny like 
 among her ain freens than hidin’ her lane in that 
 eerie place.” 
 
 “ Will the old lady come ? ” 
 
THE SABBATH BEST. 
 
 161 
 
 u She’s hard to drive, sir ; she likes the place, though 
 it’s cauld and weet in the winter. Puir Bob gaed 
 doun a mile aff the pint ; she saw the boat upset 
 hersel, and she canna thole to leave it. It’s my 
 opinion she’ll no come. But she likes Elsie, and 
 mayhap she’ll bring her.” 
 
 “ She’s not singular there at least, I suppose, Peter ? 
 But where’s your father — I haven’t seen him to-day ? ” 
 “ Deed, sir, he says lie’s growing deaf, and he disna 
 care muckle, I jalouse, for the new-fangled preachings 
 down by. Forby he was lookin’ through a wheen 
 papers that came for him yestreen.” 
 
 “ I dare say the packet I sent him. Tell him to 
 let me know if he wants to speak to me about them.” 
 “ I’ll dee that, sir ; many thanks to you.” 
 
 “ Good day, Peter ; good day, Elsie.” 
 
 “ Corry,” said Miles, “ could you bear to leave this 
 place ? ” 
 
 “ Why do you ask ? ” 
 
 “ I fancy that by and bye we may not be able to 
 live much here. Could you quit the old place for a 
 noisy bustling town ? I will tell you why I ask after- 
 wards.” 
 
 Her answer did not come at once. Her eye wan- 
 dered over the familiar scene — the quiet sea crowned 
 with the autumnal glory — across the shore, the green 
 braes, the smoke curling quietly above the old hall. 
 
 “ Yes, Miles,” she said, very quietly and earnestly, 
 as if casting her childhood behind her, “ I think I 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 THE SABBATH REST. 
 
 could leave everything for you.” And then, actuated 
 by a sudden impulse, she turned her eyes full upon 
 his face, and stooping down — for he lay along the 
 bank at her feet — touched his cheek with her pure 
 lips : “ Oh, my love, my love ! ” 
 
 There was no reserve, or shame, or shrinking shy- 
 ness about her love. It was her boy friend, her dear 
 old cousin Miles, who was now her lover, and who was 
 to be her husband ; and she never fancied for a mo- 
 ment that she should not show him her whole heart. 
 But that heart was so tremulous and dovelike — so 
 like the eyes through which it looked — that Miles 
 felt that the most clear and outspoken words left a 
 whole mystery of unexplored tenderness behind. The 
 love was visible and complete, and almost childlike 
 in its clear simplicity and honesty of assertion ; but 
 its honesty did not make it common or commonplace. 
 The single light that played upon her heart was as 
 chequered and richly toned as the light that plays 
 upon the sea. 
 
 Cony would have followed Miles over the world 
 like a dog or a child ; but this unquestioning worship 
 did not destroy the delicacy of her love, or the 
 womanly reserve of her character. It is indeed only 
 through the perfect obedience of the heart that the 
 full strength and self-reliance of which a woman is 
 capable can be ascertained. Without this plummet 
 she cannot sound her deepest powers. It is the woman 
 whose whole soul has been lavished upon her lover, 
 
THE SABBATH REST. 163 
 
 who for a time has seemed incapable of any indepen- 
 dent energy or volition, who in the end will prove 
 the strongest — the sagacious wife of the statesman, 
 the courageous mother of the hero. She must have 
 felt with Corry, and said with Ruth, 
 
 “ Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my 
 God.” 
 
 M 2 
 

THE ELECTION. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 A LESSON IN DANTE. 
 
 Sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair. 
 
 HEY were staying at the Duke’s. The Duke was 
 
 a keen politician, but a very gentlemanly man. 
 The Duke — I am not positive that he occupied that 
 position in the Peerage ; but we all love to mingle 
 with the great, and why should we not do so — on 
 paper ? It does not cost me a penny more to say 
 that he was premier-peer of England ; and a writer 
 
 is likelier to come to a better understanding with 
 his publisher, I believe, than if he deals only in 
 “ honest men ” — a somewhat unsaleable article. 
 
 Lofty moralists, with an air of general dilapida- 
 tion, are to be found here and there, no doubt, who 
 denounce what they call “ the silver-fork school ” of 
 literature. If you chaff them a little, and assure 
 
 who 
 
 Can mak a belted, knight, 
 A marquis, duke, and a’ that, 
 
A LESSON IN DANTE. 
 
 them that your friend De Morvil, or Jack the Giant- 
 killer, or St. George of Cappadocia, or the Dragon, 
 had Norman blood in his veins, or if you happen to 
 know a man whose name is not basely plebeian, you 
 are assaulted by a vicious whelp like Brown, by a 
 mangy cur like Jones, or an unlicked cub like Robin- 
 son. But these stem mentors, happily, remain in the 
 minority, and their professional slang has not yet 
 come into fashion. For my part I own that I prefer a 
 silver fork any day to one formed of the baser metals. 
 “ The silver-fork school ? ” Snobs repeat the phrase, 
 but an authentic “ flunkey,” — a “ flunkey ” morally 
 and socially — must have been its inventor. “ A 
 ’aughty haristocrat,” Plush observes contemplatively, 
 as he washes up the silver, “ uses this ere fork, and 
 a Man, — a man of iligant ’abits, and even superior 
 calves, — is condemned to polish it. 
 
 0 cursed spite 
 
 That ever I was born to set it right.” 
 
 There was a large party at the Duke’s; for 
 September was well advanced, and the partridge- 
 shooting had commenced. There were a lot of 
 embryo diplomatists and members of parliament; 
 one or two full-fledged specimens of the same ; 
 Lady Gardiner and her five daughters — 
 
 Morning doves 
 
 That sun their milky bosoms on the thatch ; 
 
 Mrs. Graham and her husband ; Sir Jasper Trelawney, 
 
A LESSON IN DANTE. 169 
 
 the member for Ashton ; an Italian refugee, and a 
 Polish Count. 
 
 The drawing-room at Otterburne was a very plea- 
 sant room. A certain air of artistic confusion and 
 dishabille always characterized it of a morning. None 
 of its features were stiff or angular. It stretched 
 along the whole front of the castle, its bow-w 7 indow 7 s 
 bending over the noble river that foamed below. 
 
 Kate Gardiner is busily employed this morning on 
 a mysterious piece of worsted-work, which, like 
 Penelope’s w r eb, never seems to advance beyond a 
 given point. The design is chaste and impressive. 
 It represents a scantily-coated shepherdess with a 
 conspicuous patch of pink on either cheek, and a 
 love-lorn swain, attired in light Arcadian peg-tops, 
 who gazes blankly into her blue eyes. As far as one 
 can judge from the intense vacancy of his stare, and 
 the fiery complexion of his countenance, this victim 
 of an unrequited attachment has abandoned himself 
 to the habitual use of intoxicating drinks. A pair 
 of dyed sheep, as large as life, stand by in an easy 
 idyllic attitude, and constitute a background which 
 Giotto might have painted, and Mr. Ruskin glorified. 
 Had she lived at present, Kate would have become 
 no doubt, a distinguished Prse-Raphaelite Sister. 
 Mrs. Graham, in that triumphant issue of our civili- 
 zation — a really easy chair — sits beside her ; a pretty, 
 fashionable woman, with the clear, cold directness of 
 manner which distinguishes our highest class. No 
 
1 70 
 
 A LESSON IN DANTE. 
 
 emotion penetrates that icy affability — no tempest 
 can ruffle that superb and insolent politeness. There 
 is not a hint of hauteur, not a particle of pretension ; 
 but the queen-like courtesy, which listens and replies 
 without constraint to your mortal talk, just because 
 you are mortal, and cannot by possibility say any- 
 thing that can hurt a Divine Olympian, freezes 
 you like the sun shining through an east wind in 
 winter. 
 
 Ah ! Lady Beatrix, many is the heart you have 
 broken, while all the while — though the world knew 
 it not — your own was mortally hurt. Those who 
 have only seen the haughty beauty of the London 
 ballroom — very beautiful, no doubt, but still with 
 certain hard lines about the mouth, and a sad weari- 
 ness in the heavy violet eyes — cannot fancy how 
 exquisitely lovely you were at seventeen, when I saw 
 you first. The only daughter of the house of Kinkell 
 and the Lord of Otterburne — you were haughty even 
 as a child, the Ijworld fancied. Corry would say, 
 indeed, that when you unbent at night, as you sat 
 together over the dying fire, when all the household 
 were a-bed, you would soften strangely ; the confi- 
 dent voice would falter, the mocking eyes moisten 
 with unusual tears. And especially if the storm roared 
 outside among the pines and lashed the river into 
 foam, that strange tenderness would grow more 
 solemn and earnest, and a prayer for those who go 
 down to the sea in ships would be repeated with sad 
 
A LESSON IN DANTE. 
 
 J7 1 
 
 seriousness by the pale lips. That “ Charles Ed- 
 ward ” was cruising in the Pioneer across the Pacific, 
 Corry knew ; but Lady Beatrix never whispered her 
 penniless cousin’s name. In those days the beautiful 
 victim was only a pretty girl in her teens ; not quite 
 Olympianized, nor raised above mortal conflict. But 
 even then she knew that she was destined for the 
 altar ; the daughter of a northern duke, the grand- 
 daughter of an English earl, could not fail to be 
 a victim to her order; yet she sometimes dreamt 
 vaguely, notwithstanding, that true love would win 
 the day ; and at these times — her cheek leaning on 
 the white hand, a rapt smile flickering about the 
 parted lips, grave happiness dwelling in the pensive 
 eyes — how beautiful she looked ! 
 
 In one of the bay windows — there were three of 
 them, quaintly fitted up with elegant trifles, so that 
 when the massive gold and crimson curtains were 
 drawn, each formed a miniature boudoir — Lady 
 Beatrix and the Hawkstone girls were engaged on 
 their Italian lesson. Sir Jasper, half-buried among 
 the drapery, vouchsafed occasionally the benefit of 
 his advice, which, I fear, did not aid their progress 
 much. The pleasant murmur of the water, as it 
 lapped the crag underneath, came in with the rich 
 September sunshine through the open window. A 
 nice place for an Italian lesson ; for Petrarch espe- 
 cially. But they were reading Dante. 
 
 “ That vowel is short, you will observe, Lady 
 
172 
 
 A LESSON IN DANTE. 
 
 Beatrix. It is a matter of no consequence, of course ; 
 and I have no doubt your way is really tbe best. 
 But the Tuscans are prejudiced.” 
 
 “Sir Jasper,” retorted Lady Beatrix, “ I hate 
 criticism ; and critics likewise.” 
 
 “ They are an obnoxious race, certainly,” he re- 
 plied, “ more especially when they are right. I 
 quite agree with you : but that passage is really 
 worth noticing.” 
 
 “ You mean,” said Corry, “ that the sound imitates 
 or echoes the sense. I thought so when I read it.” 
 “Yes,” said Trelawney, repeating the line. “A 
 man with any ear could tell what it meant, though 
 he did uot know a word of the language. How cold, 
 hard, dead, every syllable is here ! 
 
 Ecaddi come corpo morto cade. 
 
 It is the blank dull fall of a mass of lifeless matter ; 
 there is no rustle of life — not a single S — through it 
 all. The dust has returned to the dust.” 
 
 “Is it Pope?” asked Corry, a little tremulously, 
 “ who has that line about one breathing and panting 
 up the hill ? — 
 
 Up the high hill he heaved a huge round stone.’' 
 
 “ Ay, Pope, or Homer, or some of these great old 
 swells. But I thought no one read Pope now — that 
 ladies, at least, only kept Hannah More or Mont- 
 gomery below their pillows ” 
 
A LESSON IN DANTE. 
 
 J 73 
 
 “ Don’t answer him, Corry. It is too bad.” 
 
 They began resolutely to read again. Trelawney 
 closed his eyes, and seemed to be in a fair way of 
 going asleep. Perhaps he was only testing the doc- 
 trine that colour cannot be rightly apprehended by 
 the unclosed eye. And certainly, not to speak of 
 the purple hills, and the bloody carmine of the 
 beaches, there was such a delicate flush of rosy light 
 on the faces of the girls, that the experiment was 
 worth making. 
 
 “ I can’t like Dante,” exclaimed Alice, suddenly ; 
 “lie is so pitiless.” 
 
 “Oh, no,” said Sir Jasper; “he is the kindest- 
 hearted of poets. There is no tenderness anywhere 
 like Francesca’s. But he did not wear it on the out- 
 side — as your Anacreons and Petrarchs do — like a 
 cross or a ribbon. He had family troubles, poor 
 man ! and his temper was somewhat soured. But 
 there was a well of love underneath that would not 
 dry up. You do not meet with it more than once or 
 twice ; but then his whole soul weeps. ’Tis the in- 
 tensest language of passion ; and so these brief words, 
 winnowed of all dross as by fire, live for ever.” 
 
 Corry’s eyes acquiesced. 
 
 “ I think you are right,” she said. “ Alice, after 
 that you must repent.” 
 
 “ Very well. I have sinned,” she answered. “But 
 there is a wretched man who writes a dreadfully dry 
 preface to our copy, and w T ho says that Beatrice went 
 
*74 
 
 A LESSON IN DANTE. 
 
 away, and married somebody else. How could you, 
 Lady Beatrix ? ” 
 
 Lady Beatrix looked up, and smiled somewhat 
 drearily. 
 
 “ Don’t believe it, please,” replied Sir Jasper; 
 “ your cousin knows better. On the contrary, Bea- 
 trice died when a mere child, and was buried in a 
 garden of lilies in Vallombrosa. She went meekly 
 enough to heaven, poor soul ! but her little heart 
 w r as very sad for her playfellow, notwithstanding. 
 Just think of that, and then how grand the after- 
 meeting, when forty years are past — when the boy’s 
 brown hair is grey, and his cheek furrowed. But 
 the old love remains — fresh and vernal as at the 
 beginning.” 
 
 “ It is very beautiful,” said Lady Beatrix, gravely. 
 
 They went on with the reading, and there was 
 another pause broken only by the voluptuous vowels 
 of the Italian, and the sharp tones of Kate Gardiner’s 
 voice, who was discussing the Dean with Mrs. Gra- 
 ham. The girls were not particularly good scholars ; 
 but Trelawney had never understood Dante better, 
 never understood better the strange theology which, 
 with all its bitterness and uncouth ness, is not wanting 
 in a certain impassioned charity, — the wonderful 
 vividness with which he daguerreotypes the most fan- 
 tastic conceptions, — the intense force and energy of 
 the thought which transfigures the meanest details, 
 and touches the most puerile incidents with “ an- 
 
A LESSON IN DANTE. 
 
 175 
 
 thentic fire.” Some such vague critical impressions, 
 into which the Greek braids of Corry’s brown hair 
 somewhat inconsequentially entered, were floating 
 through his brain when the door opened, and Lady 
 Gardiner entered. The curtain under which Sir 
 Jasper sat suddenly collapsed. 
 
 “ Our Lady of Bitterness,” he whispered to Corry, 
 as he passed through the open window on to the 
 terrace. In a few minutes The Faerie Queen , with 
 her white sails set, emerged from among the rocks, 
 and held away close-hauled towards the Salmon Pot. 
 
 “ Trelawney is a most agreeable man,” was the 
 first impression which Sir Jasper’s animated conver- 
 sation and varied accomplishments excited ; yet, 
 curiously enough, the latter half of the criticism 
 would run, after a pause, “ but somehow he frightens 
 me.” He was intensely amusing ; but the fireworks 
 were artificial. He was exceedingly good-tempered ; 
 but one felt instinctively that those thin lips could 
 say on occasion the cruellest words to man or woman 
 without compunction. He spoke and wrote excel- 
 lently ; “ the ever-cheerful man of sin,” as a great 
 satirist named him, was everywhere popular; he 
 prided himself especially on his stock of those cold 
 and clever untruths which vice mistakes for wisdom ; 
 and yet his tact was so exquisite that they were 
 never used except where they were welcome. He 
 had no warmth of heart, nor force of imagination ; 
 but his power of appreciation was so genuine and so 
 
17 6 
 
 A LESSON IN DANTE. 
 
 consummately cultivated, that he was supposed to 
 possess both, — the fire of the lover, and the fancy of 
 the poet. I never, indeed, have known any man 
 with finer tact. Like some marine animals, Sir 
 Jasper had feelers all round him. The subtle volup- 
 tuary concealed his bad points admirably ; only the 
 grey merciless eyes, the thin merciless lips, some- 
 times betrayed him to the keen observer. 
 
( l ll ) 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE UPLAND EIDE. 
 
 This Egypt-plague of men. 
 
 TS there any pleasanter place in the world than a 
 country-house in autumn ? I don’t know of any 
 — do you ? And Otterburne, in September, was the 
 pleasantest of country-houses. 
 
 Immediately after breakfast, most of the males 
 started for the moors or the stubbles. They walked 
 and shot till the light failed them, and then returned 
 in time to read their letters and papers, and enjoy 
 a warm-bath before the eight o’clock dinner. The 
 Duke intrenched himself during the forenoon in 
 what he called his “ study;” while Sir Jasper, 
 always gallant, rode with the womenkind, or 
 thrashed assiduously a favourite pot, where the 
 salmon lay, grim and sulky, watching his flies. 
 The evenings, with their dash of billiards and 
 music, and stately Lady Beatrix sailing serenely 
 from guest to guest, though not immortal, were 
 divine. That is to say, they were not so utterly 
 wearisome as they might have been. 
 
 N 
 
i 7 8 
 
 THE UPLAND RIDE. 
 
 It was a fine frosty afternoon in the middle of 
 September. Shots were heard among the distant 
 covers, and the salmon leapt bravely in the black 
 pot below the Linn. Two or three horses, with side- 
 saddles and attendant grooms, waited in front of the 
 castle. Lady Beatrix, Corry, and Alice, appeared in 
 their riding-habits. 
 
 “ We are to have your escort,” said Lady Beatrix 
 to Sir Jasper, who came up from the river. 
 
 “If you don’t forbid me,” he answered, with a 
 glance at Corry, as if he meant to direct his appeal 
 to her. Lady Beatrix, with her quick sympathy, 
 detected the gesture ; Corry did not, she only 
 bowed and smiled and looked radiant, as she 
 always did now. The light in her heart — “the 
 light that never was on sea or shore,” except to 
 the lover and his mistress for about ten days or so 
 — lighted the world. 
 
 Otterburne was deliciously situated. In front of 
 the castle, a noble chase dotted with forest trees — 
 magnificent limes and chestnuts — retreated slowly till 
 it lost itself in a thicket of spruce and brushwood. 
 The approach swept in a succession of fine curves 
 along the brink of the river. There were no gates 
 to shut in the face of the people ; nothing to indicate 
 exactly where the lawn terminated, and the outer 
 world began. Cottages were scattered here and 
 there among the cover ; blue smoke curled in lazy 
 wreaths over the tree-tops. 
 
THE UPLAND RIDE. 
 
 179 
 
 They rode through the castle grounds, till they 
 came to the barren upland, where the plover and 
 the muirfowl breed. It was a glorious ride — the 
 road continually ascending from the rich banks of 
 the river to the region of the heather and the 
 pine, and disclosing a new “ coigne of vantage ” 
 at every turn. The picturesque antiquity of the 
 historic keep — the lordly sweep of the modern 
 mansion — Lady Beatrix’s rose-illumined flower-garden 
 — the blue curves of the river gleaming through the 
 golden autumnal woods — the birchen glades through 
 which they passed, and whose witch-like leaves rustled 
 in the breezeless afternoon — the white swans upon 
 the lake ruffling their snowy plumage, or dipping 
 their long necks into the clammy weeds ; and each 
 object transfigured and glorified by the mellow 
 lustre of the declining day ! A charming ride, in 
 sooth — three pretty girls, one of them, at least, 
 supremely beautiful, and Sir Jasper in his pleasant- 
 est mood. 
 
 “Did you see Lady Gardiner and her highland 
 brigade arrive ? ” he asked, his eyes sparkling with 
 fun and malice as he went on to describe their 
 advent. “ It was in one of those primeval con- 
 veyances which still survive in the regions of the 
 Old Red Sandstone. This immortal vehicle — I 
 have been taking an inventory of it — is elevated 
 on wheels of enormous height, and swings about in 
 the upper air like a gigantic meat-safe. A long 
 
 n 2 
 
i8o 
 
 THE UPLAND RIDE. 
 
 ladder leads up to a hole in its side, through which 
 the explorer precipitates himself into the abyss 
 behind. Dante alone could describe that murky 
 cavern. Many generations of bilious moths have 
 pined and died within its faded linings. A few 
 survivors yet remain who, incensed by the unwonted 
 light, dash themselves blindly on any venturesome 
 intruder. We know that her ladyship’s tastes are 
 peculiar, else I should venture to assert that she 
 must look forward to the day when she will be 
 permitted to exchange the family carriage for a 
 commodious and well-aired hearse.” 
 
 However clumsy it may look on paper, his grave 
 and solemn quizzing — graced by the charm of voice 
 and manner — was inimitable; even Mowbray, a 
 master in the craft, admitted that Sir Jasper’s good- 
 humoured raillery was in its way unrivalled. 
 
 “ A canter over the heather,” pleaded Sir Jasper. 
 
 “ Oh, yes,” exclaimed Corry, her face flushed, and 
 glowing with exercise and the keen autumn air. 
 
 “I am tired,” said Lady Beatrix, bending indo- 
 lently over her charger’s neck. “ Alice and I will 
 wait for you here.” 
 
 They stood on the sky-line of the valley, and the 
 glorious river unwound itself like a silver snake far 
 below their feet. Behind them stretched “ the low 
 backs of the bushless downs,” crowned with a shining 
 crest of purple heather. 
 
 The horses were fresh, and galloped gallantly 
 
THE UPLAND HIDE. 
 
 1 8 1 
 
 across the heath. Cony was a graceful and fear- 
 less rider. A single tress of the brown hair escaped 
 from the meshes of the silken net, and floated, like 
 an elf-lock, behind. Sir Jasper looked at the lissome 
 girlish figure with visible admiration, which every 
 moment became more marked and unrestrained. 
 For indeed that brown twilight-touched hair, and 
 those brown eyes, with their liquid, fawn-like pen- 
 siveness — that soft, silky, insinuating beauty — had 
 touched a chord in the jaded heart which had long 
 been silent ; and Sir Jasper to-day felt younger than 
 he had felt for years. For though the wiry figure 
 still looked fresh and vigorous and almost boy-like, 
 Trelawney, a lying world asserted, was already on 
 the wrong side of fifty. 
 
 They drew up their panting horses in the middle 
 of the encrimsoned downs, and turned their faces 
 homeward. A gorcock crowed lustily, startling the 
 lustrous silence of the autumn evening. There was 
 no sound or trace of man ; the wild Highland cattle 
 that fed upon the scrubby herbage were the only 
 denizens of these dreary flats. Obstinate, mouse- 
 coloured, picturesque little brutes, with shaggy manes 
 and shaggy heads crowned with long branching horns, 
 who looked at the riders with brown, tranquil, medi- 
 tative eyes, as they went past. 
 
 “The ox-eyed Juno,” said Sir Jasper. “ They have 
 just such a breed of shaggy Highland caterans among 
 their Greek hills.” 
 
102 
 
 THE UPLAND HIDE. 
 
 I don’t know how it happened ; it even took the 
 veteran experience of Trelawney by surprise ; but 
 somehow or other, possessed by some good or evil 
 spirit, some malicious imp or guardian angel, he 
 found himself then and there, upon these lonely 
 uplands, making an offer of his hand, in due form, to 
 Miss Menteith. Poor Corry, who had never dreamt 
 of such a catastrophe, was too much taken aback at 
 first to utter a word ; at length she faltered forth an 
 inarticulate refusal. For a moment Sir Jasper 
 did not seem to comprehend that he had been 
 rejected; but Corry ’s evident distress was too real 
 and unaffected to admit of doubt; and then an ill 
 light, such as Corry had never seen there before, 
 came into his eyes. She recoiled before it, and Sir 
 Jasper, with his practised instinct, felt that he had 
 betrayed himself ; but he asked, calmly, 
 
 “ Is there no hope for me, Miss Menteith ? ” and he 
 looked into her face with a calm, freezing smile upon 
 his thin lips, as she answered hurriedly, and with a 
 tremor in her voice she could not quite disguise, 
 
 “ None ; never ! ” 
 
 She hated that smile ; it was, she felt, an insult to 
 her womanhood — a mockery of the heart which she 
 could not but resent ; and she turned her head away 
 and forced her steed into a gallop. Trelawney kept 
 by her side, but did not speak until they had nearly 
 reached the rest of the party, when he asked, in his 
 old, frank, good-humoured way, 
 
THE UPLAND RIDE. 183 
 
 “ And how is my ancient ally, your cousin, Miles 
 Warrender, Miss Menteith ? ” 
 
 She winced as he spoke ; she felt that he had 
 divined her heart’s secret. 
 
 “We have had a famous gallop, Lady Beatrix,” 
 he said, blandly ; “ what a capital horsewoman Miss 
 Menteith is ! She nearly left me in the lurch.” 
 
184 
 
 THE KNIGHTS OF 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE KNIGHTS OP THE ROUND TABLE, 
 
 Boy ! False Found ! 
 
 If you have writ your annals true, ’tis there, 
 
 That, like an eagle in a dove-cot, I 
 Flutter’d your Yolscians in Corioli. 
 
 Alone I did it. 
 
 LAKGE oval table — so I am hardly entitled to 
 
 address “ the Knights of the Round Table ” — 
 sparkling with green and purple dies from Bohemian 
 glassworks ; heavy with gold, and antique porcelain, 
 and Sevres china ; glowing with swarthy pears, and 
 golden peaches, and yellow melons ; a veiled Ariadne 
 (the gift of an emperor .to an ambassador) in the 
 centre, — its chaste purity and pale perfection con- 
 trasting with the splendid glow of colour underneath. 
 A party of twenty, men and women, the men, wealthy 
 or clever, the women, all of them well dressed and 
 distinguished-looking, one or two exquisitely beauti- 
 ful. Corry and Alice — the twilight and the dawn — 
 sit on either side and catch fugitive glimpses of each 
 other through the leafy branches of an Etruscan vase 
 which dowers between them. The wealth, the mag- 
 
THE EOUND TABLE. 
 
 185 
 
 nificence, and the beauty of England, are never seen 
 in greater perfection than at one of its great dinner- 
 parties. 
 
 “A clever fellow, Sir Jasper,’’ said a lively young 
 diplomate, who sat beside Alice. He looked little 
 more than a boy, and you would have guessed that 
 he was still at Christ Church, and yet you (the British 
 nation, that is, of course) were surprised, the other 
 day, that in a negotiation which he had virtually 
 conducted, you had been, as usual, vexatiously put to 
 shame. His chef happened to be writing a romance 
 or an opera at the time ; so the office-work was left 
 to the sub. Otherwise a good lad, and a future Secre- 
 tary of State. “ A monstrously clever fellow. He 
 has the best taste in sherry of any man I know,” he 
 rattled on. “ Did you notice his drag the other day ? ” 
 “No,” said Alice, absently. 
 
 “Well, let me advise you as a friend,” he con- 
 tinued, confidentially, “to go and see it to-morrow. 
 I’ll manage it. It’s perfect.” 
 
 “ What style is it ? ” his auditor inquired. 
 
 “ 0, quiet — decidedly quiet — so quiet that its owner 
 must be proud as Lucifer. The dark green is a study 
 in itself. That’s an exclusive colour which belongs 
 to your aristocratic coach-builder alone. To the 
 trade in general it’s a profound secret, like the 
 purple in Tintoret’s Ariadne .” 
 
 “ You excite my curiosity immensely,” said Alice, 
 
1 8<5 
 
 THE KNIGHTS OF 
 
 in her sarcastic way. “We are surrounded by 
 mysteries.” 
 
 “ So we are,” retorted the embryo secretary, cheer- 
 fully ; “ and your way of looking at them is far too 
 flippant, let me tell you. There are more things in 
 heaven and earth, Miss Evelyn, than are dreamt of 
 in your philosophy. For instance, you see nothing 
 striking in this table, I presume ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing — at it, or on it,” she said, with a mean- 
 ing glance at her companion. 
 
 “ Thank you. Just as I supposed. Now, the 
 truth is, that it is constructed on the profoundest 
 philosophical principles. I spoke to the Duke about 
 it myself. A round table is not fitted for a refined 
 society, though it might serve, no doubt, for a very 
 primitive one, like King Arthur’s at Camelot. A 
 square one, on the other hand, is formal and freezing ; 
 it destroys wit and good-fellowship. Our square 
 dining-tables are, I believe, Miss Evelyn, at the root 
 of the national moroseness,” he added, gravely, as if 
 rising to the height of a large generalization. 
 
 The ladies retired. 
 
 “ What a graceful creature Miss Menteith is ! ” said 
 the Duke. 
 
 “ And what a trump the other one is ! ” sighed 
 Charley Latimer to himself. “ I wish you would 
 lend me a thousand a-year, my lord.” 
 
 The letters and papers were brought in, and laid 
 
THE BOUND TABLE. 
 
 187 
 
 on the side-table. It was customary to do so at 
 Otterburne, and during times of keen political ex- 
 citement they were opened forthwith. But this was 
 the dead season, and nothing of interest was looked 
 for. So they lay unnoticed for some time, until a 
 sporting legislator said, 
 
 “ Please, Charley, look at the racing news in the 
 Times , and tell me who has won the cup. 
 
 Charley did as directed, lazily unfolded the paper, 
 cast his eyes lazily oyer it, and then started up sud- 
 denly — 
 
 “ By Jove, sir, a dissolution ! ” 
 
 “ A dissolution ! ” was echoed on every side. 
 
 “ Yes. Here is Mowbray’s address to the uni- 
 versity.” 
 
 “ Bead it,” was the unanimous demand. 
 
 It was not an address calculated to soothe the 
 feelings of that assembly. It treated “ the great 
 families ” with studied disrespect, and told the 
 “ proud combinations ” which had intrigued against 
 him, that the Adventurer was not afraid “ to look 
 them in the face.” The good government of the 
 people of England, not the aggrandizement of an 
 aristocratic faction, was the purpose for which, it 
 said, the present government had been formed. 
 Because it had adhered scrupulously to that purpose, 
 it had met with bitter and unscrupulous hostility; 
 but that principle it was still determined to vindicate. 
 The minister was prepared to submit the issue, as he 
 
1 88 
 
 THE KNIGHTS OF 
 
 now did— for parliament would be dissolved during 
 the present week — to the judgment of the English 
 people. 
 
 “ Utterly revolutionary ! ” said the Duke, who had 
 held a silver stick in the days when the Great Houses 
 were dominant. 
 
 “ A good cry,” said Sir Jasper. “I don’t like it 
 much. What says the Ashton Tomahaivk ? ” 
 
 The Ashton Tomahawk , published that afternoon, 
 was clearly in a state of keen excitement. It was 
 bespattered all over with huge capitals. Half of its 
 leading article was printed in the most emphatic 
 italics. And on the first page, the address of Miles 
 Warrender, Esquire, “To the Electors; of Ashton,” 
 though brief and terse, was leaded to such an extent 
 that it occupied a column and a half. , 
 
 Miles had long desired, he said, to represent 
 Ashton in Parliament. Old memories and early ties 
 bound him to a constituency with which the Parlia- 
 mentary fame of more than one of the Warrenders 
 was associated. Moreover, he knew them intimately 
 — had known them since boyhood. 
 
 His political position was easily defined. He was 
 the kinsman of Mowbray, one of the greatest ministers 
 who had ever ruled the empire. To him he was 
 attached alike by principle and affection. He did 
 not hesitate to make this avowal, for after the violent 
 hostility which had been shown to the minister by 
 their present representative, he considered it only 
 
THE BOUND TABLE. 
 
 189 
 
 fair that a plain issue should be placed before the 
 constituency — the great and single-minded minister, 
 or a narrow and sectarian oligarchy. 
 
 “ That’s a dig at you, Trelawney,” said Mr. 
 Graham, yawning. Confident in the enlightened 
 and steady patriotism of a close Whig borough, Mr. 
 Graham was disposed to regard the dissolution with 
 his usual serenity. 
 
 The principles of the minister, Miles went on, 
 were, and always had been, his own. He was quite 
 satisfied with the constitution. He saw no necessity 
 for political reconstruction. He was utterly averse 
 to theoretical change. But the wise efforts of the 
 minister to secure religious freedom to his fellow- 
 countrymen deserved the earnest aid of every man 
 who truly valued liberty of conscience. “ It is not 
 merely these antique disabilities,” were the con- 
 cluding words, “ which require to be removed. The 
 subtle tyranny of opinion is now more to be dreaded 
 than the active intolerance of the State.” 
 
 “ A very good discourse,” said Sir Jasper, who 
 had recovered his composure, at first a little ruffled. 
 “ The style of thing for a mechanics’ institute. I 
 understand his game ; ’tis rather a fine one to play 
 well, and will try the lad’s metal.” 
 
 “ I give you five to one in fifties, Trelawney, 
 that Warrender beats you,” said Mr. Graham, who 
 would have bet on the Resurrection. 
 
 “ Done,” replied Sir Jasper, with perfect sweetness. 
 
i go KNIGHTS OF THE BOUND TABLE. 
 
 They entered the bet in their books, and ad- 
 journed to the drawing-room. 
 
 Lady Beatrix and Corry were at the piano. Sir 
 Jasper approached them, paper in hand. 
 
 “ You will be glad to hear, Miss Menteith, that 
 Mr. Warrender is wooing the affections of the Ashton 
 electors. He is a dangerous rival, I know. But he 
 sha’n’t beat me again,” he added, in a perfectly good- 
 humoured and unembarrassed tone, which, to Corry, 
 however, was perfectly intelligible. 
 
 “ What an enemy that man will make ! ” she 
 thought, with a sort of shudder, as she took the 
 paper from his hand. 
 
( I 9 1 ) 
 
 CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath, 
 
 And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan ; 
 
 One day upon His bosom, all thine own, 
 
 Thou shalt lie still, embraced in holy death. 
 
 JpROM Gilbert Burnet, M.D., in Codlington. 
 
 “ My dear Warrender, 
 
 “ How the years roll on ! It seems an age since I 
 wrote you, ages since I heard from you. ’Tis our 
 way, I suppose ; and though we can’t be bored to 
 write and speak to one another, we don’t forget. I 
 am a wretched correspondent, but I keep my old 
 friends somewhere near my heart, and I will be very 
 happy to meet you in Hades or elsewhere Hereafter. 
 Now, I want you to do a little piece of business for 
 me. You know I work a good deal at the hospital 
 here. Well, a month ago a poor woman was ad- 
 mitted ; that she was dying of consumption was 
 evident from the first. She was rather pretty, very 
 
t 9 2 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 patient and uncomplaining, and I chanced to take an 
 interest in her, and got her a few luxuries that kept 
 soul and body a little longer together, I daresay. 
 
 “ I suppose she belonged to what politicians call 
 the dangerous classes ; at least, a girl who came to 
 see her every second day, undoubtedly did, and she 
 herself had been a strolling actress or something of 
 the kind. Poor souls ! it was touching to witness the 
 sort of affection that existed between the two. To 
 the sufferer, the bitterness of death was already past ; 
 calm, but wearied with the conflict, she waited for 
 rest. The other clung to her passionately; there 
 was a defiant gleam in the overbright eyes when the 
 dying woman talked of death, a sore and vexed 
 displeasure of the fair face, when a harder cough 
 than common shook the wasted frame. The poor 
 creature was angry, in her childish way, with the 
 great enemy, and clenched her little hand defiantly 
 in his face, and would fain have induced her wearied 
 friend to brave him, as she did. But it was of no 
 avail, and one morning I found the poor little animal 
 sitting in a tearless, helpless way beside the cold 
 body of the dead woman. When I spoke to her and 
 tried to take her away, she started up with flashing, 
 . bright eyes, and said, fiercely, ‘ Ye’re no’ to touch 
 Katie ! I promised her to bury her mysel’. ’ Which 
 she did; out of the wages of sin, no doubt, — honest 
 wages have often been less honestly spent. 
 
 “ The day before her death, the dying woman 
 
THE WAY OF THE WOELD. 
 
 193 
 
 gave me a small packet, which she asked me to 
 keep for her. ‘ She didna’ want it to be lying about 
 in folks’ way/ she said. ‘ When I dee/ she added, 
 ‘ send it back to him — / A fit of coughing came 
 on, which prevented her finishing, and when I re- 
 turned next day she was gone. I have accidentally 
 discovered since then that she came from your part 
 of the country, and that her family belong to the 
 little fishing village beside you. I wish, therefore, 
 you would find them out — Stephen is the name — 
 and give them the enclosed packet, which is the one 
 I received. 
 
 “ Ah, my dear Warrender! how I envy your 
 country life ! Seeing, as I do here, day after day, 
 the whole sin and misery of the city gathered into a 
 single chamber, a weight oppresses me, which makes 
 me wretched at times. Still the mind gets hardened 
 (not, I hope, in the bad sense of the word), the 
 nerves are braced, and one comes at last to believe 
 that, even amid the foul defilement, a Great Phy- 
 sician is at work. 
 
 “ Ever thine, 
 
 “ Gilbert Burnet.” 
 
 “ What a complex machine a woman’s nature is ! ” 
 says a great modern sage. I think there is a time 
 in the lives of most men when they are rather dis- 
 posed to resent the aphorism. It seems such a 
 
 0 
 
194 THE WAY OF THE WOBLD. 
 
 simple matter, after all ; tlie mystery is no mystery 
 at all, or, at least, is so easily penetrated. The best 
 and the worst of the sex are united by a monotonous 
 uniformity. The lorette, as well as the titled gentle- 
 woman or the untainted maiden, can do generous 
 things with a free hand and a warm heart. It is not 
 Traviata alone who takes a childish pleasure in the 
 masquerade or the milliner. The opera-cloak that 
 goes to the casino does not conceal very different 
 feelings — in so far as positive value is concerned — 
 from those hidden by the cloak that goes to the ball 
 at the palace. Frail Sophie, day after day, sits 
 beside the frailer Marie, who is coughing away her 
 lungs in the hospital, and never fancies that her 
 patient kindness will be recorded to her credit above. 
 The Angel of Death hovers overhead ; but she does 
 not fear him ; when the awe and majesty of love 
 have departed out of life, death ceases to terrify. 
 She puzzles her little head in considering how much 
 the coffin will cost ; how much Mr. Mould will 
 charge for a decent burial ; for she has promised the 
 dying girl that the emaciated body will not be sent 
 to the surgeons, and the forsaken sinner has no 
 relative who will even consent to bury her out of sight. 
 The steady undemonstrative sense of duty which 
 actuates her, has nothing about it that is touched by 
 any romance ; she entertained no vehement attach- 
 ment to the other during life ; her death causes her 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 J 95 
 
 no violent regret; the little interests of her dress 
 and toilet have remained quite as attractive as ever ; 
 and perhaps the strongest emotion that she expe- 
 rienced was when she found that it would be neces- 
 sary to send her new silk to the pawnbroker for a 
 day or two, to enable her to discharge Mr. Mould’s 
 peremptory account. Looked at from one side, her 
 conduct has been noble and sacrificial ; looked at 
 from the other, all the motives appear poor, meagre, 
 unsentimental. 
 
 The Lady Clara is said to be generous and devout ; 
 she builds a church, she endows a charity ; the Swiss 
 Annette exhausts her genius on the plaited hair, or 
 the sweep of the lordly silk, — which is twice as plain 
 and twice as costly as poor Traviata’s. ’Tis a mag- 
 nificent piece of art ; it dazzles the eye ; you fall 
 down and worship, and believe that the mystery is 
 not so transparent as you had fancied. But subject 
 the lady’s motives to the same analysis ; put her into 
 the same crucible ; use the same tests ; and see how 
 much more of eternal goodness there is in her soul 
 than in the other’s. “ I protest to you,” said a friend 
 to me the other day, “ let Lady Clara scorn Traviata 
 if she will for the mighty gulf between them, in the 
 face of eternity the saint is not distinguishable from 
 the sinner. Both have given the cup of cold water 
 — what then ? Sophie, as we have seen, is not mag- 
 nanimous : the critic, unblinded by accidents of place 
 
 o 2 
 
196 THE WAY OF THE WOBLD. 
 
 and circumstance will find as little magnanimity in 
 her ladyship.” 
 
 To all which there is only one reply, — “ We are 
 greater than we know.” No man, and no woman, 
 perhaps, is altogether aware of what his or her 
 motives in any one case are. Those that lie on the 
 surface are not the only ones involved. The cup of 
 cold water has been given ; and though, as you think, 
 you have ticketed all the virtues it represents, you 
 will be taught sometime that the most subtle— those 
 that partake most of the Divine beneficence — have 
 eluded your coarse scrutiny. That homely sense of 
 duty — on what does it rest ? Whence does it derive 
 its unfaltering constancy? On the side turned to 
 you there is nothing very admirable, as you say; 
 but to be even meanly and basely constant is not 
 consistent with the only elements your analysis has 
 recovered. The chivalry of the hero, and the charity 
 of the saint, may not be very different from the 
 unromantic devotion of the sinner ; but this happens, 
 perhaps, — not because the gold in every case is 
 counterfeit,— but because it is tried in each. The 
 deserted outcast rises to the level of a sacrificing 
 charity, of a divine forgiveness, as well as the heroic 
 and blameless king. 
 
 And all is past ; the sin is sinned, and I, 
 
 Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
 
 Forgives ; do thou for thine own soul the rest. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 197 
 
 Old Peter sat by the ingle-neuk alone, spelling 
 through the bundle of old letters which Miles had 
 sent him, his horn spectacles elevated in such a posi- 
 tion on his nose that he might comfortably see over 
 them. She had kept these letters carefully even 
 when the old love that had made them memorable to 
 her had been put away. Had she lived to see how 
 hollow they were ? I looked over them once : they 
 did not ring true , I thought. They were gay, clever, 
 insincere ; and yet I read them with more interest 
 than they merited. They were the miserable trophies 
 of a sad tragedy : they had spoiled a woman’s life. 
 
 “ Puir lass ! puir lass ! ” said the old man, wiping 
 his eyes, “ she was sair beguiled.” And then he put 
 them aside, and went out to the seat at the cottasre- 
 door to watch “the kirk scalin’.” 
 
 So Katie sleeps among the roots and dews, — 
 while the rival candidates canvass the electors of 
 Ashton. The long grasses and the coarse sea-side 
 weeds now nearly cover the unpretending slab we 
 laid upon her grave. When last in the Northern 
 City I could barely trace a single line of the brief 
 prayer we inscribed upon it and which asks pardon 
 for “ one who has sinned.” It is a prayer, however, 
 that need not be forgotten by any of us, and that 
 may bear, perhaps, to be repeated once more. 
 
 “ Our Father in heaven, forgive us our sins, as we 
 forgive them that sin against us.” 
 
198 the way of the woeld. 
 
 One of us thought of a secular inscription, — two 
 lines from The Blot on the \ Scutcheon . 
 
 I was so young — I loved him so — I had 
 No mother — God forgot me — and I fell. 
 
 But the holy quiet of Holy Writ suits the sepulchre 
 better. 
 
( 199 ) 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE GOLDEN SCALES. 
 
 To be in heaven sure is a blessed tiling ; 
 
 But, Atlas-like, to prop heaven on one’s back, 
 
 Cannot but be more labour than delight. 
 
 rpHE humours of an election have been frequently 
 enlisted by fiction. It is only needful to say, 
 therefore, that the election at Ashton presented all 
 the usual features, and may be found fully described 
 in the works of Mr. Dickens and Sir Edward Lytton. 
 The ladies — the Devonshires and Crewes of Ashton — 
 took a very keen interest in the fight, and, like the 
 nymphs of Hawthornden, sported the colours of the 
 candidate they espoused. 
 
 For nymphs they seemed ; about their heavenly faces 
 In waves of gold did How their curling tresses ; 
 
 About each arm, their arms more white than milk, 
 
 Each bore a blushing armlet of silk, — 
 
 — Miles’s colours. For Miles was, upon the whole, 
 the popular favourite. He had youth on his side; 
 
200 
 
 THE GOLDEN SCALES. 
 
 he had not been tried and found wanting ; he came 
 of a great house which the Ashton people had looked 
 up to for generations. Sir Jasper, on the other hand, 
 had offended many by his occasional hauteur, the 
 scandal of a loose life, and his violent hostility to 
 Mowbray, who had by this time taken everywhere 
 a strong hold on the popular heart. But he had 
 many personal adherents, — the exquisite charm of his 
 manner, when he chose to be gracious, the familiar 
 humour of his public talk, the airy boldness of his cha- 
 racter, which enabled him to charge the Minister or 
 the Leicestershire fences with equal ease and gaiety, 
 had originally attached them to him, and still kept 
 many true to their allegiance. So the fight was a 
 well-balanced and a fair one, and it was fought out 
 bitterly. 
 
 Trelawney spoke of his antagonist with an air of 
 good-humoured toleration. The audacity of the boy 
 was to be admired ; these juvenile escapades were 
 always rather amusing. But the farce had been 
 played long enough ; and it was now time Miles 
 should go home, and leave the sober-minded and 
 sound-thinking citizens of Ashton to their ordinary 
 avocations. It was not a bad jest at first ; but it 
 had been protracted rather too long. “ My uncle’s 
 nephew ” was not the man for the independent electors 
 of that ancient burgh. 
 
 L But though Sir Jasper spoke confidently enough, 
 
THE GOLDEN SCALES. 
 
 201 
 
 he was far from feeling so. He found that Miles was 
 no contemptible antagonist. There was a gravity 
 and a vigour in the young man which impressed even 
 his adversaries. His convictions were clearly the con- 
 victions of one who had tried them for himself — the 
 independent convictions of an independent thinker. 
 Such a character impresses even the vulgar. A 
 thoroughly earnest man is always powerful, however 
 narrow and inflexible his intellect may be. 
 
 The Reverend Tudor Plantagenet was of course a 
 warm ally, and he did Miles good service. For the 
 slippery Plantagenet had been booked at last, and 
 Minny was now The Reverend Mrs. Jones. Her 
 father, old Bailie MacGroggy — a very jolly, rotund, 
 red-faced corn-merchant — was a man of no mean 
 authority among the Ashton worthies, and through 
 Jones’s persuasions he enlisted himself under the 
 Warrender banner. 
 
 “ He’s no an ill lad,” he whispered confiden- 
 tially to his cronies on the Exchange ; “ and it’s a 
 guid thing to hae the Minister’s lug, tak my 
 word.” 
 
 Sir Jasper fought to the last ; but it would not do. 
 Even his great card — Miles’s alleged alliance with 
 the scarlet lady — did not win a trick. He had 
 reserved it to the end, and he played it on the 
 hustings. 
 
 “ After all, gentlemen,” he concluded, in a low 
 
202 
 
 THE GOLDEN SCALES. 
 
 and impressive voice, “ right views on politics are not 
 all that is necessary. A man must be a Christian, 
 as well as a politician. What says my honourable 
 opponent? Does he respect the venerable faith 
 which the blood of our forefathers watered ? Or does 
 he not denounce your loftiest convictions as narrow 
 and bigoted? Would he not substitute a super- 
 stitious ritual for the noble simplicity of our Pro- 
 testant faith ?” 
 
 Ingenious Sir Jasper! After this outbreak of 
 devout invective, he did not surely deserve to be left 
 in a minority of 29, as he was at 4 p.m. of the polling 
 day. 
 
 After vainly endeavouring to address the electors, 
 Trelawney, accompanied by two or three supporters, 
 walked to his hotel. The exquisite urbanity was at 
 length ruffled. Sir Jasper was in a thoroughly 
 vicious temper. As he passed along the High- 
 street, a group of men, clad in the blue jackets of 
 fishermen, and talking eagerly together, blocked 
 the way. 
 
 “ What right have you to stop the road ? ” said Sir 
 Jasper, in an irritated tone. 
 
 “ As guid as your ain,” answered one of the 
 party. 
 
 “ What, sirrah,” exclaimed Sir Jasper, lifting the 
 light cane he held in his hand, “ you mean to be 
 impertinent, do you ? ” 
 
THE GOLDEN SCALES. 
 
 203 
 
 An old grey-haired fisherman interfered. 
 
 “ Come awa, lads, — he’s no worth fashin’ aboot. 
 I’d gae him a bit o’ my mind an he were.” 
 
 “You old rogue,” said Sir Jasper, bitterly, “if it 
 wasn’t for your grey hairs, I would let you feel the 
 weight of this stick.” 
 
 “Better try it,” exclaimed a young fellow, turning 
 round savagely on Sir Jasper. 
 
 “ In God’s name, come away,” one of his friends 
 wdiispered to Trelawney. “ These men are dan- 
 gerous.” 
 
 But Sir Jasper was obstinate. 
 
 “ And wherefore not, fair sir, if I may presume to 
 inquire of your worship?” he asked, in a taunting 
 tone. 
 
 “ Go your ways, Sir Jasper Trelawney,” said the 
 old man, coming between them ; “ ye hae done ruth 
 eno’ to me and mine already. Ye’ll no mind little 
 Katie, may be — na, na. Ye hae ruined mony a bit 
 lass, that lippened to your fause tongue, sin syne. 
 It was a braw job — to take her guid name, and syne 
 leave her to dee at the dyke-side. Ay,” he went 
 on slowly and bitterly, “ye may forget, but God 
 Almighty has pit it down to your reckonin'. Leave 
 him alane, Peter.” 
 
 “ The deil will look after him hissel’,” said one of 
 the group. 
 
 Sir Jasper grew pale when Katie’s name was 
 
204 
 
 THE GOLDEN SCALES. 
 
 mentioned ; then the old wicked light came into 
 his eyes, and he lifted his cane over old Peter’s 
 head 
 
 In a moment it was grasped by a powerful hand. 
 Trelawney was on the alert, however, and freeing 
 it by a sudden jerk, laid it sharply along young 
 Peter’s cheek. It left a bright livid line in its 
 track. 
 
 For a second the two stood looking at each other. 
 In another Sir Jasper was lying on the pavement, 
 stunned by an ox-like blow delivered full in his face 
 by the swarthy son of the sea. 
 
 “ Serves him right,” shouted the crowd who had 
 gathered round. 
 
 Bailie MacGroggy sat in state, balancing the 
 Golden Scales, and dispensing justice to the Ashton 
 public. The Bailie was a portly man, with a good- 
 humoured twinkle in his eyes, which, as inconsistent 
 with the gravity of his judicial functions, he vainly 
 endeavoured to suppress. 
 
 Sir Jasper, stung and exasperated, had charged 
 Peter with assault; and that an assault had been 
 committed, the ex-senator’s black eye supplied unim- 
 peachable testimony. 
 
 “ My opinion is, Sir Jasper,” said the worthy Bailie, 
 after hearing a number of witnesses who voluntarily 
 came forward, “ that ye were baith to blame, and ye 
 
THE GOLDEN SCALES. 
 
 205 
 
 had best let by-ganes be by-ganes. The action is 
 dismissed.” 
 
 “ Take care, Mr. MacGroggy,” interrupted Sir 
 Jasper, “ how you allow your political feelings to 
 bias your judgment on the bench.” 
 
 “ My conscience ! ” said the magistrate, loftily, 
 “ I’ve mair than a mind to commit ye, Sir Jasper, 
 for contempt o’ court. And if ye wull hae it, sir, 
 troth had I been Peter, I suld hae gaen you as guid 
 as ye gat.” 
 
 The crowd laughed and cheered. Trelawney, with 
 a parting threat, “ that the Home Secretary should 
 hear of the business,” departed ; and Peter was borne 
 out of Court — the hero of a popular ovation. 
 
 A rumour had reached Norburn of the fray, and 
 Elsie, who had been left to keep the house, waited 
 the return of her “folk” with keen impatience. At 
 length she heard the sound of a footstep outside, and, 
 on unbarring the door, found herself in her lover’s 
 arms. 
 
 “ What is’t ? Has onything orra happened, Peter ?” 
 she asked, anxiously. 
 
 Seating her on his knee beside the glowing hearth, 
 Peter told his tale. 
 
 “Now, Elsie,” he said, “ just ae kiss, to finish wi’, 
 ye ken.’ 
 
 Elsie’s answer is not recorded ; but (truth to tell) 
 
206 
 
 THE GOLDEN SCALES. 
 
 she could not help looking with a kindly eye upon 
 the stalwart giant; and Love is even now, though 
 the world grows old, and its Mays are misty, as it 
 was in the bright heroic days, when Perseus wooed 
 Andromeda ; 
 
 Then lifting her neck, like a sea-bird 
 Peering up over the wave, from the foam- white swells of her 
 bosom, 
 
 Blushing she kissed him : afar on the topmost Idalian summit 
 Laughed in the joy of her heart, farseeing, the Queen Aphrodite. 
 
( 207 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HESPERUS. 
 
 Dame Life, though fiction out may trick her, 
 
 And in paste gems and frippery deck her, 
 
 Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker, 
 
 I’ve found her still ; 
 
 Aye, wavering like the willow wicker, 
 
 ’Tween good and ill. 
 
 "1 TY friend Miles used often to remind me of the 
 association which gives a grotesque charm, a 
 strange humorous power, to Mr. Carlyle’s books. On 
 this hand, the supreme law which nominally shapes 
 our life ; on that , the fantastic departures from it 
 which in our practice we admit. Miles, in his grave 
 way, was always thus contrasting practice with first 
 principles. He tried the codes of Christendom by 
 the precepts of Christ. The investigation un- 
 doubtedly produced some sufficiently startling con- 
 trasts. Is a system of universal selfishness the logical 
 offshoot of a system of boundless beneficence ? 
 Christendom is a civitas Dei constructed by a Divine 
 lawgiver, — does it at a single point conform itself to 
 
200 
 
 HESPERUS. 
 
 his law ? Is there a single tribunal in Europe where 
 the Sermon on the Mount is an authority ? 
 
 Every bagman of that age saw in unlimited com- 
 petition the great principle which was to renew 
 society. “ Give us free trade, and we will lick crea- 
 tion.” Eighteen hundred years of Christian govern- 
 ment had made this, and this only, clear to the 
 British bagman. “ To lick creation ” was the ideal 
 of human success at which he had arrived. The toil 
 of apostles, the devotion of saints, the agony of mar- 
 tyrs, had not been expended in vain. The British 
 bagman was the fruit of the soil which they had 
 enriched by their lives, and watered with their blood. 
 
 The excitement of the election was over ; and with 
 infinite weariness and disgust Miles looked back upon 
 his experience. “ I would not do it again,” he said, 
 “ for a ransom. It is filthy work.” And he threw 
 up the window impatiently, and let the evening sea- 
 breeze wander into the heated room. “ Let us take 
 a cigar and a stroll, Dean,” he pleaded. “ Darcy is 
 fast asleep, more suo , in the big chair.” 
 
 “ What a selfish lot they are ! ” he continued, as 
 they sauntered along the cliffs. “ Everybody wants 
 something, and something that will hurt some one 
 else. Who will sacrifice a day’s work to save his 
 neighbour’s soul ? Are we to hate our enemies and 
 our friends alike? It cannot be said now, surely, 
 that we make any distinction between them.” 
 
 “ Hush,” said the Dean ; “ you are fagged and 
 
HESPERUS. 
 
 209 
 
 unstrung. No truth worth living for is to be got 
 without work ; and yet the reaction after work often 
 leaves us too weak to profit by what we have gained. 
 However, it fits in ultimately.” 
 
 “ No, no, I am sick of the whole thing. It is 
 essentially bad and demoralizing. This unrestricted 
 competition that they rave about is unchristianising 
 society.” 
 
 “ It is certainly difficult at first sight,” replied the 
 Dean, “ to believe that competition and a gospel of 
 goodwill agree.” 
 
 “ At first sight ! ” exclaimed Miles. " Why, they 
 are radically opposed. The principle of competition 
 is — Every man for himself, and the devil take the 
 hindmost; of the Gospel — Love your neighbour as 
 yourself. To do so is to co-operate, not to compete.” 
 
 There was no quality in Leighton’s intellect more 
 admirable than his consummate impartiality. He 
 steered with brave moderation between fanaticism 
 and infidelity — a most rare and difficult excellence. 
 But on every subject he manifested the same calm- 
 ness and justice of judgment. He would not suffer 
 sympathy, or enthusiasm, or the popularis aura , to 
 drive him in any direction where he did not clearly 
 see his way, knowing that the unguarded impulses of 
 the purest sympathy, or the most upright enthu- 
 siasm, are always to be dreaded. 
 
 “ I trust they are not opposed,” he answered. 
 “For if co-operation is opposed to competition, and 
 
 p 
 
210 
 
 HESPEBUS. 
 
 if competition be a true economical principle — as I 
 believe it is — then co-operation cannot be sound. 
 And if it is unsound in politics, it is not a precept of 
 the Gospel.” 
 
 “ But is it not found there ? ” 
 
 “ I think not — at least, as commonly understood. 
 Socialism is false ; it is the application of individual 
 to political relations. It confounds the conscience of 
 the man with the conscience of the nation. Apply it 
 without qualification, and you arrive— logically and 
 not remotely — at persecution. But competition is a 
 true principle of government ; it encourages healthy 
 life ; it secures the greatest average amount of good 
 to the State.” 
 
 “Hang the State!” exclaimed Miles, irreverently. 
 “• The State devours the individual.” 
 
 “ But we must take care,” continued the Dean, 
 that we work the principle in a Christian spirit. 
 To do this, we must intelligently and constantly 
 recognise that competition is for the good, not of one 
 only, but of all.” 
 
 “ But how many respect the imaginary barrier you 
 would set up? How many, in the heat of the 
 scramble, recognise it as the public good and not as 
 the private benefit? A man competes because he 
 believes that it is for his own advantage. The motive 
 power of competition is selfishness.” 
 
 “ It is, no doubt ; it ought not to be. The motive 
 should be — will be some time, I hope — a wise and 
 
HESPERUS. 
 
 2n 
 
 righteous recognition of its large national expediency. 
 We will come right, not by changing the system, 
 but by changing the spirit in which the system is 
 worked.” 
 
 “ It comes pretty much to the same thing in the 
 end.” 
 
 “ By no means. You want to abolish a true rule 
 of policy ; I want to keep it, but to clean and purify 
 it, if I can.” 
 
 “ Well, I can’t argue with you to-night : but I feel 
 that such a principle is at least an inducement to 
 selfishness.” 
 
 “ Alas ! my dear Miles,” said Leighton, with a quiet 
 laugh, “ that will not do, I am afraid. Why, life is 
 at every point an inducement to selfishness. To be 
 born is to receive an inducement, a very strong in- 
 ducement, to selfishness. The only way to get out of 
 the way of these inducements is to cease to be alto- 
 gether. It is just because all the laws of life are 
 inducements to selfishness, that there is any room for 
 self-sacrifice. Because these inducements surround us 
 on every side, w r e are able occasionally to turn out a 
 really great man, who dares to disobey the clamant 
 instincts of interest, and sacrifice himself that he may 
 save his people.” 
 
 They sat down on the sheltered bank of a deep 
 ravine. A hawk or a raven, disturbed by their 
 presence, swept silently along the cliffs. The white 
 reflection of the harvest moon lay upon the water 
 
 p 2 
 
212 
 
 HESPEKUS. 
 
 at their feet, and heaved in silvery ripples round the 
 mouth of the Witches’ Cave. 
 
 “This is refreshing,” exclaimed Miles, as he lay 
 down, and laved his hot hands in the cool green grass. 
 “After life’s fitful fever we return to thee, 0 
 venerable mother! and thou layest thy cold hands 
 upon our hearts, and they are still.” 
 
 After a pause, Leighton said — 
 
 “ I am glad you denounced intolerance so strongly. 
 It is really the greatest temptation in our way. How 
 intolerant all of us are at heart !” 
 
 “ You, my dear Dean, are the only man I know 
 who shouldn’t say so.” 
 
 “ Nay, I often feel that I am hugely intolerant. I 
 am intolerant of intolerance. I sometimes fancy,” 
 he continued, “that we are getting more bigoted 
 than we used to be. Once we employed visible in- 
 struments of persecution, — 
 
 The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
 
 Luke’s iron crown, and Damien’s bed of steel ; 
 
 we persecuted franldy and openly then ; and I am 
 not sure that the moral nature of a nation suffered so 
 much when thus relieved. But those who now wage 
 war with intolerance do not require to destroy iron or 
 wooden instruments of torture, but what are much 
 more difficult to get at, — shades of feeling, a habit 
 of thought, prejudices that are inwrought with the 
 finest textures of the conscience. Our civilization 
 
HESPEEUS. 
 
 213 
 
 is getting every day more impersonal; we seldom 
 come into healthy collision; the oiled wheel slips 
 past the oiled wheel smoothly and noiselessly ; and 
 our animosities, though less loud, grow more in- 
 veterate.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Miles, wearily, “ I fear it is so. But 
 it is an old complaint. Euripides felt it as we do* 
 ‘ Alas ! no mortal is there who is free. For either he 
 is the slave of money or of fortune ; or the populace 
 of the city, or the dictates of the laws, constrain him 
 to adopt manners not accordant with his natural 
 inclinations.’ That is the sense of what he says, 
 I think, in the Hecuba .” 
 
 “ The older I grow,” resumed the Dean, “ the more 
 do I feel that the only thing very much worth fight- 
 ing for in this world is — freedom ; freedom of heart, 
 freedom of thought, freedom of conscience. What 
 miserable stunted beings we become when we cease, 
 either from fear or shame, to obey our honest convic- 
 tions ! Nothing has a more fatal effect on a man’s 
 nature than this base compliance. And yet some 
 really admirable people fancy that free inquiry on 
 any ‘ shelved ’ topic is pernicious, that vast fields of 
 speculation, like the snowy slopes of Monte Bosa, are 
 not to be trodden by mortal feet. 
 
 “ I never argue with such people,” said Miles ; “ I 
 simply avoid them.” 
 
 “ It is well,” replied the Dean, “if you can do so. 
 Argument on such men is thrown away. It only 
 
214 
 
 HESPERUS. 
 
 renders their hostility more bitter. But when you 
 must not avoid them, when they belong to your own 
 household, then comes the tug to the heart-strings. 
 I tell you,” said Leighton, sadly and earnestly, as if 
 stirred by some deep and painful feeling, “ there is 
 nothing more miserable than to find ourselves be- 
 coming day after day more widely separated from 
 those we love ; to know that explanation is fruitless, 
 that it can only widen the breach ; to feel that never 
 in this life can we be completely reconciled, that 
 even in the presence of death no understanding is 
 possible, and that the parting breath conveys a veiled 
 reproach. The alienation of the understanding is 
 more hopeless than the alienation of the heart.” He 
 paused a moment, and then continued, more calmly : 
 “ The only remedies for this household scourge are 
 manliness and affection ; the manliness to dare to 
 believe at any risk, and at whatever cost, and that 
 rare instinct of love which penetrates through the 
 superficial environments of creed to the sound heart 
 behind. No love is worth the name which cannot do 
 this ; but even this love is sometimes powerless. It 
 is not, I think,” he went on, “ so much the aggressive- 
 ness of the heterodox that is to blame, as the ungenial 
 narrowness and want of hearty bravery which is the 
 fruit of bigotry. It is impossible that the moral 
 lungs can respire freely, that the heart can beat with 
 healthy vigour, in the foul air of intolerance. No ; 
 it poisons affection, and stunts the heart.” 
 
HESPERUS. 
 
 215 
 
 The Dean had almost forgotten the presence of a 
 listener, and Miles did not care to interrupt him. 
 
 “Ah, well,” he resumed, “that old grief is nearly 
 dried up now. And God was very gracious to me in 
 his own way. Miles, when you marry, seek out such 
 a wife as Heaven blessed me with — a woman capable 
 of a large tolerance, yet withal noble, generous, and 
 devout.” 
 
 “ Perhaps I have found her already,” Miles re- 
 plied, with a confident smile. 
 
 “ What are you fellows up to ? ” exclaimed Darcy, 
 coming up with the terriers at his heels. “ We have 
 run you down. Your cigars betrayed you. Now, 
 Tartar, pitch yourself over the rocks, if you please ; 
 but in that case the sharks will get you. Talking 
 scandal against Queen Elizabeth, are you? Just let 
 me know, please, and Tartar and I will get out of 
 earshot, as we don’t wish to be compromised.” 
 
 “ What were we talking of ? ” asked Miles. “ The 
 virtues of intolerance, I think. Have you any views 
 on the matter ? ” 
 
 “ I am all for intolerance,” said Darcy. “ Tartar 
 has no tolerance for a foumart ; neither have I. Let 
 us worry the vermin out of creation. Persecution is 
 one of the original instincts of the race.” 
 
 “ The difficulty is to find out who the foumarts 
 are,” replied the Dean. “The chance is, if you 
 begin to worry, that you worry a respectable tabby, 
 or a domestic tom. Better leave worrying alone.” 
 
2l6 • 
 
 HESPERUS. 
 
 “ Not a bit of it,” said Darcy. “ I’ll do nothing of 
 the kind. I think your modern philandering is 
 hopelessly wrong. You have got so wretchedly tem- 
 perate and rational that you have lost all manliness. 
 You think nothing of showing up your native land, and 
 exposing the nakedness of your friends, because it’s 
 your duty to be impartial, and to love mankind as a 
 brother, and all that kind of drivel. No, no, give me 
 the patriotic fire, the tender piety of Burns. 
 
 The rough, burr-thistle spreading wide 
 Amang the bearded bear, 
 
 I turned the weedin'-heuk aside, 
 
 An’ spared the symbol dear. 
 
 Besides, I object to the principle. People are always 
 repeating parrot- like nowadays, — Why should a 
 man be shunned by us for holding any opinions, if he 
 holds them honestly? That is rubbish. Suppose 
 they are opinions contrary to decency, what do you 
 say? Right and wrong, and the moral sense of 
 mankind, must come in somewhere, even in the 
 region of opinion. You wont leave Petronius Arbiter 
 on your drawing-room table, and I wont admit a man 
 into my house who holds that there should be no 
 limitations x?n murder or adultery or theft.” 
 
 “And he replies,” said Miles, “you are an in- 
 tolerant bigot.” 
 
 “ And I return him no answer except this practical 
 one, — I disagree with you ; I think your opinion 
 
HESPERUS. 
 
 217 
 
 leads to certain consequences of which I disapprove. 
 I don’t wish these to occur in my house ; accordingly, 
 have the goodness to leave it. I exclude him, as the 
 Church excommunicates him, or the State hangs 
 him. Both in public and private it is the same con- 
 sideration, How am I to secure my own safety ? The 
 State says, by penalties ; I say by exclusion ; and 
 there the matter ends.” 
 
 “ You have fallen on one of the stumbling-blocks,” 
 answered the Dean ; “ I confess I never very clearly 
 saw the answer to what you urge, though I feel that 
 it hides a fallacy. Self-preservation is a law, no 
 doubt, both to society and the individual; and it 
 may be right to enforce the law more strictly in 
 the one case than in the other. The State has 
 nothing to do with opinion; but you may have. 
 Every one is the best judge of what is required for 
 his own safety, and entitled to take the precautions 
 which he deems fittest. But perhaps we may go even 
 further. When the natural repugnance to an opinion 
 is so keen as to make intercourse unpleasant, then let 
 association cease. But a true tolerance makes these 
 repugnances as few as may be. Testing every opinion 
 nicely, closely, conscientiously, only when we find that 
 it is utterly obnoxious to our moral sense, should we 
 fence it out. And even in the most extreme case, 
 having perfect confidence in the actual rectitude of 
 the man, we may feel that the opinion does not infect 
 
HESPERUS. 
 
 218 
 
 his life, and that by associating with ns he comes 
 under an implied contract, an engagement of honour, 
 not to attack the code we adopt.” 
 
 “ But opinions about the supernatural,” said Miles, 
 — “ and it is against these that war is exclusively 
 waged by the intolerant, — are not of a kind that can 
 do practical hurt? Yet the odium theologicum is bit- 
 ter as gall. Why should a man be excluded from 
 our society because he believes in the Unity and not 
 in the Trinity, in feasting and not in fasting, in the 
 Thirty-nine Articles and not in the Confession of 
 Faith?” 
 
 “ Darcy’s definition of liberty,” said the Dean, 
 “ comes in effect to this — Remove those restrictions, 
 and those only, which prevent me from doing what I 
 ought to do. A very good definition, as far as it goes ; 
 but it can work in that society only where God is the 
 visible arbiter. Here , who is to be the judge of the 
 ‘ ought ?’ To what tribunal can you refer the cause ? 
 When we step in with our rude verdicts and our 
 coarse penalties, be sure that in the long-run we do 
 more harm than good. We kill the heretic, but 
 we fan the heresy.” 
 
 “ Settle it between you,” cried Darcy ; “ but, with 
 your leave, I shall continue to worry mj foumart 
 whenever I get the chance. Ah ! Tartar, lad, what 
 are you after?” 
 
 Tartar, with his hair on end, was glaring, red- 
 eyed, into a badger’s hole. The short, sharp, vicious 
 
HESPERUS. 
 
 219 
 
 bark, indicated an enemy not distant. Occasionally 
 lie made a dash forward, and then suddenly backed 
 out, casting, like the old Northmen, the earth over his 
 head as he retreated. 
 
 “He has got his foumart , at last,” said Miles. 
 “ Can’t you fancy him a Grand Inquisitor ? Does 
 not that bark of his say as plainly as words can, You 
 and I, sir, cannot exist together ; there is not room in 
 the world for us both, and as I am the stronger of the 
 two, I will put you out of it ? You do not smell well ; 
 you are a nuisance ; you come between the wind and 
 my nobility ; I am convinced that it is my duty to 
 worry you, and, please the Immortals, I will do it. 
 Our theories of the universe, sir, are naturally incom- 
 patible, so come out and be worried at once ! 5 55 
 
DEFEAT. 
 
( 22 3 ) 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SPRETiE INJURIA FORMAL 
 
 Only I discern 
 
 Infinite passion, and the pain 
 Of finite hearts that yearn. 
 
 rpHE lovers had had an angry contention. 
 
 “ Weel, Peter/’ said Elsie, “ ye may gang your 
 gate. I dinna mind whether ye like me or no.” 
 
 “ I dinna doubt you,” replied the giant, angrily. 
 “ Is’t Tam Hewison ye’re foregathered wi’ noo ? Are 
 ye trysted wi’ him the nicht ? ” he asked, scornfully ; 
 and Peter was not pleasant in his scornful moods. 
 
 The little gipsy flushed up. Her whole face 
 glowed with the disdain which her soul felt ; and 
 Peter’s eyes, giant though he was, fell before the 
 angry lightning he had evoked. 
 
 “ Tam Hewison ! ” she said, throwing back her 
 head with a bright and indignant expression of sur- 
 prise. “ Tam Hewison ! na, na, Peter, he’s ower like 
 you for me to court him.” 
 
 Peter stood before the little tormentor a moment 
 irresolute. He was hurt and sore, and was on the 
 
224 SPKETJE INJURIA F0RM2E. 
 
 point of retorting bitterly ; but tlie bright and angry 
 gleam in Elsie’s eyes arrested his speech, and he only 
 said, in a constrained voice — 
 
 “ Aweel, aweel, Elsie, tak your ain way. I’m aff. 
 The boats ’ill be starting shortly, and they’ll be 
 needin’ me to stow the nets. Gude een to ye ! ” 
 
 Oh, Peter, Peter! have you indeed gone? Not 
 one little word of endearment for this last greeting ; 
 not one expression of unconstrained tenderness ; not 
 one smile or embrace. Eelent and come back; 
 could you see her now you could not but relent. 
 All the bright, beautiful, panther-like mockery has 
 died out of the face, which is no longer flushed, but 
 very pale and wan. Yes, she cannot be angry any 
 longer ; she must weep to ease that sharp pain at 
 the heart ; and laying her head down upon her arm, 
 she sobs sorely and bitterly. He was unkind, she 
 thought ; but she herself was to blame too. She 
 would tell Peter that on the morn when he returned. 
 Yet why not tell him to-night ? Why not be recon- 
 ciled at once, and weep all bitterness away upon the 
 faithful and manly heart which, she knew, loved her 
 so well ? 
 
 Stirred by this new longing, Elsie wrapped her 
 plaid round her head, and ran down towards the 
 harbour. As the tide was ebbing, the boats were 
 being towed towards the point of the pier; the 
 crews, bearing nets and small barrels of water, were 
 hurrying to the beach. The whole place was alive 
 
SPRETiE INJURIA FORMJE. 
 
 225 
 
 and bustling merrily, as it always is before the 
 departure of the fleet. Elsie stopped short on the 
 hill-side that overhangs the harbour ; she could not 
 face the crowd ; if she met Peter, she must needs 
 throw herself into his arms, and she could not do so 
 among these strangers. So she sat down and waited, 
 hoping that he might notice where sh$ sat, and come 
 to her. She saw him distinctly ; saw him casting 
 the nets into the bottom of the boat with his brawny 
 arms ; saw him with the huge oar pushing his craft 
 away from its neighbours towards the harbour mouth, 
 and then — ah, surely they were not starting yet ? — 
 the mast was raised and fixed, and the sail slowly 
 and laboriously hoisted. She could doubt no longer ; 
 they were gone : and forgetting everything except 
 the passionate desire to receive but a single word of 
 forgiveness, she ran down the steep pathway to the 
 beach. Peter, Peter, do you not hear that imploring 
 cry ? No, he hears nothing, save the waves as they 
 plash against the sides of his craft. The boat beats 
 strongly and lustily out to sea before the fresh 
 evening breeze. 
 
 ’Tis a pretty sight enough, for one whose heart is 
 not too heavy. The rough weatherbeaten forms of 
 the sturdy tars ; the monotonous beat of the long 
 oars, and the heavy lurching of the craft, when they 
 meet the ground-swell outside the harbour bar ; the 
 creaking of the mast and tackle as the sail rises 
 heavily from the deck. It is hard work, you see. to 
 
 Q 
 
226 SPBETiE INJURIA FORMJE. 
 
 force the inert monster into motion ; but at length, 
 touched by subtle force, he digs his keel keenly into 
 the hissing foam, and meets proudly the chill kiss of 
 the autumnal breeze, which freshens the water, and 
 deepens the frosty green on the sky, and drives away 
 the slanting gleams of the sunset. 
 
 Elsie sat down on the hill-side, and watched the 
 fleet depart. They crowded out ; but her eyes were 
 fixed on one, until its brown sail mingled with the 
 brown of the twilight. Then she rose and walked 
 home very wearily. Her heart felt very empty. 
 With that boat the hope that had buoyed her up 
 departed, and she returned faint and desolate. Janet 
 had got back from the “ toun but old Peter had 
 not returned. Janet noticed Elsie’s pale cheeks and 
 red eyes — 
 
 “ What maks you look sae white, Elsie ? ” 
 
 Poor Elsie, she could restrain herself no longer ; a 
 passion of tears choked her, as she turned her face 
 to the wall, and murmured — 
 
 “ That I had said but one word ! ” 
 
 The twilight had deepened into night — the cold 
 clear night of the late autumn — as Miles smoked 
 a meditative cigar along the castle cliffs. Though 
 the sea was perfectly smooth, its roar was loud and 
 defiant — a reminiscence of past storms, it might be : 
 a presage, perhaps of storms to come. Otherwise, 
 the night was very beautiful,— still and lustrous, with 
 
SPBETiE INJURIA FORMAS. 227 
 
 flitting gleams of fire in the north. That pale and 
 silent array of warriors, on what mission is it bent ? 
 
 Their helmets gleamed white through the vapour, 
 
 In the moonlight their corselets did shine, 
 
 As they wavered and flickered together, ? 
 
 And fashioned their solemn design. 
 
 Swiftly the fire of fight gathered along the northern 
 horizon — swift charges — swift retreats — a kindling 
 onset, as the northern chivalry swept the field, and 
 the arrowy shafts of the archers rang against their 
 burnished corslets, until the battle streamed away, 
 and was lost upon the distant firmament, behind the 
 Northern Star ! There was scarce a breath of wind ; 
 what there was felt cold and chill for the season, and 
 came direct from the east. “There will be more 
 wind ere morning,” Miles said to himself. “ I hope 
 the boats are within hail.” As he spoke, he looked 
 across “ that wan water,” and saw, or fancied that he 
 saw, the lights on board the fleet twinkling in the 
 distance, many miles to the south. 
 
 Miles went to bed, and slept soundly. About four 
 next morning his servant wakened him — 
 
 “ It’s blowing a gale,” he said, “ from the sea ; 
 and the hail country-side is down on the shore. 
 The boats are trying to weather the Borough-head.” 
 Miles rose, and dressed himself hurriedly. The 
 wind howled among the turrets, and by the grey 
 light of the dawn he saw that the sea was already 
 fiercely agitated. Huge white breakers, running 
 
228 
 
 SPRETiE INJURIA FORM^E. 
 
 across the whole bay, roared in hoarsely upon the 
 shore. Here and there amid the tumult, a solitary 
 boat was visible, — a scrap of sail hoisted on one 
 of the masts, the other bare of canvas, — plunging 
 deeply and heavily among the waves, and vainly 
 attempting, by lying close to the wind, to escape the 
 rocky headlands. 
 
 “ God help them ! ” said Miles ; " for man can do 
 little for them this night.” 
 
( 229 ) 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A GALE FROM THE EAST. 
 
 This ae night, this ae night, 
 
 Every night and alle, 
 
 Fire and sleet and candle light, 
 
 And Christe receive thy saule. 
 
 When thou from hence awaye art past, 
 
 Every night and alle, 
 
 To Whinny-muir thou com'st at last, 
 
 And Christe receive thy saule. 
 
 If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, 
 
 Every night and alle, 
 
 Sit thee down and put them on, 
 
 And Christe receive thy saule. 
 
 T)EFORE eleven o’clock the wind began to rise, 
 and a little later the pier-head at Ashton was 
 crowded by those who began to look anxiously for 
 the return of the fleet. One or two of the crews 
 — more cautious than the others — about this time 
 reached the harbour in safety, and were warmly 
 greeted by the watchers. But this happened before 
 midnight, and for two hours thereafter, the wind 
 continuing to rise till it shrieked and howled among 
 
230 A GALE FROM THE EAST. 
 
 the shrouds of the vessels in port, no more appeared. 
 The night had become very dark ; it did not rain, 
 but a thick murky cloud stretched across the sky, 
 and blotted out the stars, and it was impossible to 
 see any distance seaward. Only the white fringe of 
 surf, which indicated the line of rocks beyond the bar, 
 grew every moment more fatally distinct. Ah ! that 
 wild waste of waters out yonder in the stormy gloom, 
 what hapless struggles, and gallant toils, and bitter 
 throes of anguish, does the darkness veil this night ! 
 
 “ Where are the boats ? ” was the question that 
 many an anxious heart in the crowd asked fearfully ; 
 for it was a crowd composed principally of the wives 
 and daughters of the fishers. But there was little 
 said, the anguish was too profound for noisy demon- 
 stration. A bright light flashed out a little way into 
 the darkness, and struck clearly against the massive 
 wall tli at protected the entrance to the channel from 
 the east. On this a harbour pilot was stationed, and 
 as his shadow wavered and flickered in the glare, 
 they could see distinctly the tough and weather-beaten 
 form of the old tar, in his round hat and pilot jacket, 
 peering curiously into the night. The town clock 
 was striking two, when a hail from the opposite side 
 told them that the first boat was in sight. In another 
 second it came within the flash of the light, and an 
 interval of intense suspense to all who stood there 
 followed. The blast was blowing right in-shore, and 
 the weather-pier of the harbour had to be fairly 
 
A GALE FEOM THE EAST. 2 3 i 
 
 rounded before the sheet could be lowered — a feat 
 which required no little nerve and hardihood. They 
 were evidently brave and skilful fellows, however, 
 who worked this boat. Through the heavy swell that 
 would have borne them to destruction, they held their 
 own gallantly, and though they came in at prodigious 
 speed, urged on by the swell, and their great sail, 
 which had only a single reef, they were past the light, 
 and the pier-head, and the troubled faces, before the 
 sheet came down. 
 
 A hearty cheer, through which the pent up feelings 
 of the crowd first found vent, greeted the men ; but 
 this was only one of a hundred boats that were still 
 out in the stormy darkness, amid the angry waves, 
 and the same deep and painful silence again ensued. 
 A few minutes passed, and one by one, four black 
 sails struggled out of the profound gloom, and three 
 of them succeeded in making the harbour. But the 
 last was not so fortunate. It was evidently steered 
 by a good seaman ; two heavy swells that broke close 
 upon its bow when it first came in sight, being very 
 skilfully avoided, and no one doubted that it would 
 be equally fortunate with those which had pre- 
 ceded it. But as it approached the mouth of the 
 harbour, the rope that held the sheet was either un- 
 skilfully loosed, or gave way under the strain ; and 
 in a moment the unlucky craft was at the mercy of 
 the breakers, which carried it like a cork towards the 
 white line of surf. An involuntary cry of horror 
 
A GALE FROM THE EAST. 
 
 232 
 
 scaped from the crowd. They saw the steersman 
 rush from his seat in the boat and make a vain attempt 
 to clutch the sheet as it escaped, ere the wind tore it 
 away in shreds ; they could almost hear the deep and 
 bitter curse which broke from his Kps at the ill luck 
 or folly which had delivered them up to death. They 
 could note this, but little besides, for the tragedy was 
 consummated with terrible rapidity. The oars of the 
 men were of no avail against the deadly gripe of the 
 current, and although they strove gallantly for life, 
 it was clear from the first that they were drifting 
 hopelessly to death. A rope, as they were hurried 
 past the pier-head, was flung to them, but it snapped 
 like a reed before it could be fastened. Past the 
 sickened onlookers they went, not thirty yards away, 
 the light streaming on the white horror of their faces 
 as they struggled helplessly with their oars. The 
 next wave that broke upon them bore them out of 
 sight, and shivered the craft against the Witches’ 
 Eock. 
 
 “ Merciful heavens ! ” some one exclaimed, as the 
 light fell upon the steersman’s pale, resolute face, “ it’s 
 young Peter Stephen.” 
 
 What cry is that ? It is the cry of a despairing 
 woman, of a woman whose heart is broken. Poor 
 Elsie ! 
 
 Elsie had gone to bed after her aunt had ad- 
 ministered a strong cup of tea, and quickly sobbed 
 herself to sleep. The sore smart of the recent quarrel, 
 
A GALE FROM THE EAST. 
 
 2 33 
 
 the sense of an impending calamity, were forgotten, 
 and the girl dreamt of her lover, and a bright smile 
 played about the rosy lips as she dreamt. About 
 midnight she wakened suddenly, with a feverish start, 
 the wind was howling round the little cottage, and 
 old Peter was moving about the room with the lamp, 
 which he had lighted at the embers of the peat fire 
 on the hearth. 
 
 “What’s the matter, uncle?” she asked, wearily. 
 
 “ It’s a bad nicht come on, my lassie,” said the 
 old man ; “ I’m gaun doun till the pier-head.” 
 
 Elsie sickened with fright. Her presentiment of 
 danger, then, had been too true. “ Tak’ me wi’ you, 
 uncle,” she asked. 
 
 “ Na, na, you’re best in your bed. There’s na 
 fear o’ the boats — leastwise o’ the lad ; he kens hoo 
 to tak Ashton pier, if ony ane kens, I warrant.” 
 
 The old man put out the lamp, and cautiously 
 opening the door, went out into the darkness. The 
 dying embers on the hearth gave out a dreary and 
 forlorn light. Elsie could endure the suspense no 
 longer ; hurriedly throwing on her dress, she wakened 
 her aunt, and they went down together to the pier. 
 
 She crouched among the crowd. The wind blew 
 her long hair about her face unregarded. Terrible 
 to the strongest man in the crowd was that silent 
 suspense ; an agony, a fever of misery, to that poor 
 girl. Above the roar of the wind, above the tumult 
 of the waves, a refrain rang in her ears, “ That I had 
 
 n 
 
234 A GALE FROM THE EAST. 
 
 said but one word.” Never, never, never, can that 
 one word be uttered now ; not till the great day when 
 they shall stand side by side before the Judge, will 
 she be able to ask him to forgive her. 
 
 She did not faint or go into hysterics, as fine ladies 
 would have done. She stood pale and tearless among 
 the crowd. Her uncle was by her side, and she 
 slipped her cold hand into his. There the two watched 
 without speaking or moving; the girl waiting her 
 lover, the father his son. A lusty cheer greeted each 
 boat as it ran into the harbour, but the one for which 
 they waited did not come. At length Elsie felt old 
 Peter’s hand clutch hers convulsively, but he said 
 nothing. Another moment, and the unlucky boat 
 and its ill-fated crew were being dashed among the 
 waves and the rocks. 
 
 She had seen his face for a moment as the light 
 fell upon it. Pale and resolute, but full of anguish ; 
 she could read its every line, as though he had been 
 standing by her side. It was a terrible vision ; so 
 close to her, and yet separated for ever by the great 
 gulf. Her head swam round. “ Let me go to him,” 
 she cried, in wild unconsciousness, and then, stagger- 
 ing forward, fell stunned and helpless into the old 
 man’s arms. 
 
( 235 ) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE ELECT. 
 
 Is there do pity sitting in the clouds ? 
 
 4 DEEP grief bad fallen upon Peter’s cheerful 
 dwelling. Little Elsie had been struck clown, 
 and was now lying in a state of feverish insensibility 
 in her lonely little crib. His son, the brave, honest, 
 simple-hearted giant, the pride of his old age, was 
 dead, drowned in those treacherous waters which had 
 already proved fatal to so many of his hardy race. 
 The body, however, had been recovered, and this was 
 a great source of comfort and consolation both to 
 Peter and Hester. The devouring sea would not 
 prevent them from paying their simple charities to 
 the dead — their homely homage to death. The scarred 
 features had been carefully composed — the wet sea- 
 weed had been combed out of the yellow curls — 
 the linen winding-sheet which the mother had pre- 
 pared for the husband had been appropriated to the 
 son — the body had been laid decently in the plain 
 coffin, with its simple “ P. S., aged 25,” on the lid, 
 
 K 2 
 
236 
 
 THE ELECT. 
 
 and the coffin had been laid decently in the old 
 churchyard among the windy bents on the shore, 
 “ which twice a day with his embossed foam, the tur- 
 bulent surge shall cover.” All was over and finished, 
 and Miles had ordered a plain slab to be laid above 
 the dust of his simple-hearted friend ; but Elsie still 
 remained in the same state of bewildered unconscious- 
 ness. Old Hester hobbled about the cottage, old 
 Peter sat over the hearth, gazing into the embers; 
 but Elsie would not waken out of the strange and 
 perilous sleep which had overtaken her. At length, 
 weeks afterwards, Corry’s low voice penetrated the 
 dulled ear, and sank into the sad, sore heart. The 
 spirit roused itself, cast off the ghastly winding-sheet 
 of seeming death in which it had lain, and then the 
 body quickly gained strength, and Elsie — a very 
 different Elsie from the radiant Elsie of yore — was 
 able once more to attend to the aged couple, to whom 
 she was now doubly dear. 
 
 Old Peter was an office-bearer in the little Metho- 
 dist conventicle built on the shore in front of the 
 village ; and on the Sunday following the funeral, 
 Miles met a party of fishers returning home, who 
 informed him that the Rev. Mr. Sturmup had that 
 morning preached a “ gran’ discourse ” on poor Peter, 
 and that the close of the sermon had been reserved 
 for the evening service. 
 
 “ Let us go,” said Darcy, “ and hear him. I want to 
 see what this wild people of yours really believe in.” 
 
THE ELECT. 
 
 237 
 
 “ I am told lie is a vehement bigot — loud, long- 
 winded, and intolerant. However, the evening is 
 fine ; it will be a pleasant walk across the bay.” 
 
 The twilight was falling ere they passed through 
 the deserted streets of the deserted village ; for the 
 entire population had already crowded into the little 
 chapel. Only as they passed Peter’s cottage, they 
 heard old Hester, as she sat solitarily by the fire, 
 “ crooning ” over the words of some half-remembered 
 text or hymn. The light played upon the withered 
 features of the old crone, and into the little crib 
 where Elsie, pale and smooth as a marble figure, lay 
 in her unquiet sleep. As they approached the con- 
 venticle, they found that the service had commenced, 
 and the words of the grand sea-psalm, sung gruffly 
 and rudely, but heartily, by every one present, greeted 
 them as they entered. 
 
 The floods, 0 Lord, have lifted up, they lifted up their voice ; 
 The floods have lifted up their waves and made a mighty noise. 
 But yet the Lord that is on high is more of might by far 
 Than noise of many waters is, or great sea-billows are. 
 
 The building was quite crowded, and Miles and 
 Darcy had some difficulty in finding an unoccupied 
 pew. The preacher was a long, dark, bony man — 
 middle-aged, apparently — the expression of his face 
 harsh, and at times even repulsive. That he was a 
 man of no inconsiderable ability was evident from 
 the first sentence he uttered, and his opening prayer 
 
238 
 
 THE ELECT. 
 
 consisted of a very clever and elaborate account to 
 the Almighty of the object and character of the 
 scheme of salvation which He had invented, and with 
 which therefore He might have been presumed to be 
 tolerably familiar. Instead of those simple, touching, 
 and beautiful confessions of sin, and dependence on 
 the Divine Mercy, with which our ritual has made us 
 familiar, he indulged in elaborate argument and 
 rather boisterous declamation. Still, it was an able 
 and impressive performance; though undoubtedly, 
 whatever it might be, it was not prayer. It was 
 rather an ornate Confession of Faith immediately 
 addressed to the Almighty ; with this effect, that it 
 made, or seemed to make, the person to whom it was 
 addressed, a witness to the truth of what it asserted. 
 As such it had no doubt a certain impressive solem- 
 nity, and prepared the hearer for the peculiar and 
 powerful discourse which succeeded, — a discourse, 
 like the creed it represented, gloomy and fanatical 
 indeed, but rendered striking and picturesque by its 
 scent of the sea.* 
 
 * The sketch in the text is a by no means exaggerated report 
 of a “ revivalist ” discourse preached by an itinerary “ revivalist ” 
 which the author had once the fortune to hear. Some of its 
 darker features — the minute narrative, for instance, of the 
 profligate life from which the preacher had been rescued — 
 have been purposely omitted “as unfit for publication.” I 
 may add that Mr. Sturmup’s doctrine has been coarsely but 
 vigorously caricatured by a well known Transatlantic poet : — 
 
THE ELECT. 
 
 239 
 
 Ye shall all likewise perish , was tine brief, and cha- 
 racteristically misshapen, text from which it started. 
 
 Itur ad Astra. 
 
 (Our Confession of Faith.) 
 
 The mighty dome of heaven is quaking ; 
 The round earth, like a bubble, breaking ; 
 And we before the Throne do stand 
 On either hand. 
 
 The goats are cast into the fire, 
 
 For ever burning higher ; 
 
 But the sheep feed upon the lea, 
 
 And fatten through eternity. 
 
 Impartial justice shall be shown, 
 
 By the great Judge who rules alone : 
 
 The mother and the babe she nurst 
 Are both accurst. 
 
 Who listens to the brazen trumpet 
 Blown by the Roman strumpet ; 
 
 But stops his ears when humble Cumming 
 Begins his drumming ; 
 
 Who joins the throng when wanton eyes 
 Inflame the carnal vanities ; 
 
 Or sits with half-dressed foolish things 
 While Patti sings : 
 
 Who knows by rote the lusty rhymes 
 That Shakespeare made among the limes 
 On Avon’s banks : these ghosts perplext 
 In hell are vext. 
 
 And he who deems that Mighty Love 
 And Mercy, infinite will prove, 
 
 Shall find that he without his host 
 Has reckoned — to his cost. 
 
 With joyful hearts the Elect shall raise 
 Perennial praise ; 
 
 “ Duly let us His grace extol — 
 
 He miyht have damned us all.” 
 
240 
 
 THE ELECT. 
 
 “ Men/’ the preacher began, “ are born in sin. They 
 are rotten to the very core. They are not, indeed, 
 devils — no, they are not devils as yet” he repeated, 
 emphatically ; “ but to the natural man good is as 
 hateful as it is to the devils in hell. 
 
 “ The Almighty,” he continued, “ had it seemed 
 good to him, might have left us to perish utterly. 
 We could not compel Him to save us. He is the All- 
 powerful. We are not necessary to His happiness. 
 He is the All-happy. We had no claim upon his 
 mercy — whatever He has done for us, has been done 
 out of His own infinite beneficence.” 
 
 “No claim?” muttered Miles, uneasily. “Was 
 He not their Maker ? He who had implanted these 
 capacities for sinning, permitted these possibilities of 
 evil ! Have they not the claim which the weak have 
 upon the strong ? Not necessary to His happiness ? 
 Has the Divine Purity, then, no satisfaction in the 
 diminution of pollution ? ” 
 
 “ Hush ! ” said Darcy ; “ let us see how he gets 
 them out of the scrape.” 
 
 “ But, my brethren, He did not leave all to perish. 
 He chose to save some from the wrath which is to 
 come. Not, however, for any goodness or virtue of 
 their own, but out of His own free choice, are the 
 elect redeemed. And who are the elect ? Nay, my 
 brethren, let us not inquire too urgently. We cannot 
 tell who they are — we cannot penetrate His decrees 
 — we cannot explore the depths of His sovereign and 
 
THE ELECT. 
 
 241 
 
 almighty will. This only do we know, that these are 
 they which have come out of great tribulation. Be 
 patient, therefore, my suffering and sorrowful bre- 
 thren ! Be patient and endure to the end, until the 
 old heaven and the old earth have passed away, and 
 ye behold that new heaven and that new earth, 
 where,” he added, as he gazed down on old Peter and 
 the vacant pew, “ where there is no more sea.” 
 
 He paused a moment as if to realize the vision he 
 had summoned up. For a moment it seemed to cast 
 a certain grave beauty around the harsh features — 
 for a moment only. When he resumed, the lips were 
 hard and stern as ever. 
 
 “Of those who are left to perish what shall we 
 say? They are abandoned to destruction by an 
 infinitely wise and holy God, — is not that sufficient 
 for us who believe in Him ? And yet we need not 
 doubt that they justify their damnation. They break 
 the tables of the law, the commandments of Sinai ; 
 they are murderers, adulterers, fornicators. On the 
 Sabbath-day, on the day when the Maker himself 
 rested from his labour, they eat and drink, and make 
 merry. 0 stiff-necked generation ! who shall deliver 
 you from the wrath to come ? Know you not that 
 this is a holy and divinely consecrated season ? When 
 on this day I behold the sailor or the husbandman 
 walking heedlessly along the shore of the ocean which 
 encompasses us even now, I hear from out of heaven 
 
242 
 
 THE ELECT. 
 
 the menace of an angel-voice. ‘ Know yon not/ it 
 asks, ‘ that you are walking on the shore of the bound- 
 less ocean of Hell ? Do you not see its molten waves 
 of devouring fire? Do you not feel the scorching 
 blast that fans the smoke which rises from its dreadful 
 waters? Are you not blinded by the glare which 
 reddens the adamantine heaven ? Hear you not the 
 trumpet of the destroying-angel, the shrieks of the 
 damned, the anathemas of devils? Ay, there they 
 writhe in torture. The souls of strong men are torn 
 asunder in their agony ; their sisters and their wives 
 clasp imploring hands, and ask God to save their 
 tender limbs from the fire which burns and yet con- 
 sumes not. Ay, God save them ! But even the 
 Lord of Hosts cannot do it. Even the Omnipotent 
 cannot rescue them from the lake. His hands are 
 powerless. Justice, which sits above the Throne of 
 God, has set fast its decrees. The worm dies not : 
 the fire is not quenched. We are lost — lost — lost. 
 Heaven and earth shall pass away, but Hell shall 
 endure for ever.” 
 
 Overcome by excitement, his black hair lashed 
 back from his pallid brow, the sweat falling in great 
 drops from his face upon the Bible, his voice quiver- 
 ing with emotion, he paused a moment as he closed 
 the volume, and then opening the little hymn-book 
 that lay below it, said in a low and exhausted voice, 
 “ Let us praise God for his infinite goodness, by 
 
THE ELECT. 
 
 2 43 
 
 singing together the Sixty-second Scriptural Para- 
 phrase, beginning at the seventh verse.” And then 
 the rough voices took up the hymn. 
 
 Reserved are sinners for the hour when to the gulf below, 
 
 Arm’d with the hand of sovereign power, the Judge consigns his 
 foe. 
 
 Though now, ye Just, the time appears protracted, dark, 
 unknown, 
 
 An hour, a day, a thousand years to heaven’s great Lord are one. 
 
 “ A verra comfortable discoorse,” said Widow Bodie, 
 an old lady in a red cloak and white mutch, as she 
 accompanied Widow Buchan to the door of her 
 cottage. 
 
 “ That exhibition is immoral,” said Darcy, as they 
 left. “I have felt Bachel’s unholy fascination. I 
 felt it again to-night. The man is possessed by a 
 demon. But he is a great actor,” added the poli- 
 tician, “ and worth gaining.” 
 
 The shadows of the autumn twilight lay upon the 
 bay as they strolled home across the sands. How 
 grand and peaceful the sea was that night! The 
 ripple broke noiselessly upon the beach at their feet ; 
 but away out yonder in the gloom, they heard the 
 voice of the great Deep, — “Deep calling unto 
 deep.” 
 
 “No,” said Miles, “such convictions as that man 
 enforced to-night would make life intolerable, were 
 they credible. But no one believes in the eternity 
 
244 
 
 THE ELECT. 
 
 of his own misery. Hope is the heaven-touched 
 instinct which tells him that out of this evil must 
 issue an ultimate good. It is the finger which points 
 to the hidden blessedness. What heart could utter 
 the ‘ Yale, vale, in seternum vale ! ’ without breaking ? 
 If misery be eternal, then hope is a lie.” 
 
 Overhead spread the infinite spaces sown with 
 illimitable systems. Can it be that behind the 
 starry silence rises an angry Olympus? Ho Odin 
 and his fierce warriors still quaff the bowl sweetened 
 with the bitter tears of mortal men? Thank God 
 that it is not so. As for all the gods of the heathen , 
 they are but idols : it is the Lord who made the heavens . 
 Odin and the Olympians have been abolished. 
 
 The goats may climb and crop 
 The soft grass on Ida’s top, 
 
 Now Pan is dead. 
 
 We are no more the victims of vindictive malice 
 or of aimless caprice ; but the worlds lie in the hollow r 
 of His hand, and in His encasing spirit we live and 
 move and have our being. 
 
 Homer is not to be blamed for the unseemly 
 tumults which convulsed Olympus, seeing that the 
 Thunderer himself had to strain every nerve to 
 prevent the wrath of Achilles from thwarting the 
 Supreme design. 
 
 Lest, frantic for his loss, he even pass 
 The bounds of fate, and desolate the town. 
 
THE ELECT. 
 
 245 
 
 But it is difficult to extenuate the British Christians 
 who endow the Lord of Hosts with the frailties of 
 mortal combatants, and attribute to the Almighty 
 in his government of the universe the policy of a 
 parish beadle. 
 
( 246 ) 
 
 CHAPTER TV. 
 
 A EEPULSE. 
 
 That is said 
 
 Austerely, like a youthful prophetess, 
 
 Who knits her brows across her pretty eyes, 
 
 To keep them back from following the grey flight 
 Of doves between the temple columns. 
 
 “/~\NE lady,” says Heine, “did not shed a single 
 tear — in that lies the whole catastrophe.” 
 Bitterly true. 
 
 What avails it to go on writing? The races of 
 men make haste to destruction, and will not be 
 stayed. No warning of mortal wisdom is heeded: 
 the menace upon the angry heaven is scorned. Men 
 are hard, obstinate, exacting ; women fickle, capri- 
 cious, perverse : so they were when paper was made 
 of the Nile reeds among which the daughter of 
 Pharaoh found the deliverer of Israel ; so they con- 
 tinue to be when it is made of the dirty rags collected 
 by his despised posterity. Perversity is in the blood, 
 and no amount of schooling can eradicate the taint. 
 We see every day the life-long woe that an idle word 
 
A REPULSE. 
 
 247 
 
 may breed : the sharp undying sting that a momen- 
 tary miscarriage inflicts ; the heavy retribution that 
 silly pique or light caprice exacts. But the warning 
 is disregarded ; and even when the tragedy is enacted 
 before our own eyes, and on our own little stage — 
 even when we note how the swift and fleeting alien- 
 ation of the lovers has been frozen by the hard hand 
 of death into a form of enduring pain,— it does not 
 make us pause. We would not repent though one 
 rose from the dead. 
 
 Alice sat on the terrace at Hawkstone which over- 
 hung the sea. It was the afternoon, and the drowsy 
 hum of the bees among the fox-glove mingled with 
 the languid beat of the fisher’s oars on the motionless 
 water. Alice in her breezy summer muslin looked 
 delightfully cool and sylph-like, and Darcy seemed to 
 think so as he seated himself by her side. 
 
 “ That wide-awake of yours has caught a charming 
 curve — the white feather is exceedingly becoming.” 
 
 “ I am sorry I cannot say the same of yours,” 
 retorted the little lady. “How is it that you men 
 can’t dress yourselves now?” 
 
 “Because it bores us, I suppose,” he replied lan- 
 guidly. “We haven’t time for the milliner.” 
 
 “ And we have, while you waste yours on frivolities. 
 Well, I confess I did look at myself for an hour or 
 two in the glass this morning.” 
 
 “You could not have been better occupied.” 
 
248 
 
 A REPULSE. 
 
 “ Thank you ; I think not. The white feather,” 
 she replied, taking it off and looking at it, “is worth 
 the time. It reminds me of Marie’s, in the opera. 
 Piquant and soldier-like, is it not ? ” 
 
 Darcy did not reply. He was looking at the light- 
 frilled curls — the Devil’s frills, I think they have 
 been irreverently termed — through which, now that 
 they were released, the breeze, and the sunbeams 
 wandered distractedly. 
 
 “Where did you get that thing you wear?” she 
 continued, with mock gravity. “Its curves, as you 
 call them, are fearful and wonderful. Do you sit 
 upon it ? ” 
 
 “That must be it, I fancy,” he said, absently; 
 “Miss Evelyn— will you favour me with your opi- 
 nion on a point I am considering ? ” 
 
 “I have no opinions — only one or two fancies 
 which I like to keep to myself. Besides, I thought 
 you were paid for it.” 
 
 “I will send you my fee — if the opinion is not 
 against me.” 
 
 “ No, no ; you must take it whether you like it or 
 not. I hope it is a very intricate point ; I won’t say 
 anything unless it is.” 
 
 “Well — it’s just this. A friend of mine has done 
 a very foolish thing — he has lost his heart. And he 
 comes and asks me what he is to do ?” 
 
 A slight blush flitted across Alice’s transparent 
 
A REPULSE. 
 
 249 
 
 cheek as he began ; but before he had finished the 
 red lip curled rather disdainfully, and the eyes 
 sparkled with malice. 
 
 He must be rather a — a — spoon — is not that the 
 word ? — this friend of yours. Being so, I think he 
 had much better hold his tongue. That’s my 
 opinion.” 
 
 “ But you see he has made up his mind.” 
 
 “ Of course he has done that, and then he comes 
 to ask what to do.” 
 
 “ He has made up his mind to tell her — if there be 
 any hope of winning. But they are very good friends 
 just now, and he would not like to do anything to 
 hurt her. He thinks that she likes him well enough, 
 but he doesn’t fancy that any young lady now-a-days 
 would choose love and poverty — and that sort of 
 thing, you know.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes ; I know perfectly well. He must be an 
 excellent judge of women, and let him be satisfied 
 that in this case at least he is right. Love and that 
 sort of thing, you know,” she went on in a mocking 
 tone, “ is quite an old-fashioned complaint, and 
 nobody takes it now-a-days. He had much better 
 be prudent — a virtue, indeed, that he don’t neglect, 
 seemingly. Tell him so, please. Tell him that no 
 woman marries for love — that unless he has ever so 
 many thousands a year it would be absurd to suppose 
 that any woman could love him. We are excellent 
 judges of what suits us best, and none of us care for 
 
250 
 
 A REPULSE. 
 
 a man wlio lives in a garret. We must have our 
 carriage and our house in the Square, and our 
 account with Howell, which would probably be 
 three times as much as he is worth. Without 
 these none of us can fancy being happy — of course 
 not. Tell him so, please, from me.” 
 
 The little lady spoke with decision — somewhat 
 scornfully too ; and Darcy did not like the mocking 
 curl of the red lip, — not quite so red as usual it was 
 now, perhaps. He looked at her doubtfully for a 
 moment, and some words trembled on his tongue 
 — but he said nothing. 
 
 And then the little lady looked at her watch. 
 “ Dear me ! how late it is,” she exclaimed ; and 
 making him a little scornful curtesy, she walked 
 away, leaving him seated. 
 
 Darcy sat there rather disconsolately. She had 
 seen through his sorry artifice, he thought, and had 
 rejected him not only without kindness, but with 
 scorn. Well, perhaps he deserved it; and he con- 
 tinued to brood rather gloomily over the situation. 
 His reveries were at length interrupted : 
 
 “ Darcy, where is Corry ? Have you seen Corry ? 
 Where can Corry be?” and little Effie ran up to 
 him in breathless haste, and seated herself by his side. 
 
 “No, my princess. May I help your ladyship to 
 look for her ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, I don’t mind. I am too tired. I must rest. 
 Tartar has run away from me — I think he saw a 
 
A KEPULSE. 
 
 251 
 
 rabbit — and lie has gone into a hole. Do you think 
 he will get out ? ” 
 
 “ He will prefer to stay with the rabbits, I 
 suspect.” 
 
 “ Then Corry will be so sorry. But where can she 
 have gone ? ” 
 
 “ Ask Miles ; perhaps he knows.” 
 
 “ Oh, I can’t find Miles either. Miles has not been 
 attentive to me,” she added, in an injured and stately 
 tone ; “ I am not pleased with him.” 
 
 “ Then your ladyship will make Darcy her knight, 
 will you not ? ” 
 
 “ I am afraid I can’t do that,” she replied hesita- 
 tingly. “ That would not be right. You know,” 
 she continued, confidentially, “that I am Miles’s 
 little wife.” 
 
 “ And you won’t take me then ? It’s very unkind 
 of you.” 
 
 “ I like you very much, Darcy, indeed I do,” said 
 the child, clambering up on the seat, and putting 
 her arms caressingly round his neck. “ Do you think 
 I might take both of you ? I’ll ask Miles.” 
 
 “ Hullo ! ” cried Miles, who, with Corry leaning on 
 his arm, had approached unperceived by them ; 
 “ what are you about Effie ? Kissing Darcy, I do 
 declare,” he cried, with affected horror. 
 
 “ No, I was not,” she said, poutingly ; “ no, I was not 
 kissing him, and it’s very naughty of you to say so.” 
 
 s 2 
 
252 
 
 A REPULSE. 
 
 And then she retreated with great dignity and pnt 
 herself under Corry’s protection. 
 
 “Oh no, she had just rejected me,” said Darcy, 
 “ and in your favour. Let me congratulate you.” 
 
 But little Effie would make no reply to the accu- 
 sation ; but, taking hold of Corry’s hand, she affected 
 not to have heard, and entered into a confidential 
 communication about Tartar, who just then made 
 his appearance covered with mud. He lay down 
 before them, panting as if he would burst his sides, 
 and wagging his tail faintly. 
 
 “Tartar,” said Effie, solemnly, “where have you 
 
 been, sir ? How could you ” 
 
 But Tartar looked up impudently and confi- 
 dentially into her face, and allowed his red tongue 
 to hang out of his black muzzle with provoking 
 composure. 
 
 And then they went in to dinner. I am afraid 
 that Alice was a thorough flirt. She was never 
 more lively than during the evening ; and when 
 Sir Maxwell asked her for a Norland ballad — he 
 would always have one before going to bed — she 
 sang the most coquettish of songs with the most 
 provoking tenderness. 
 
 0 dinna ask me gin I loe thee, 
 
 Troth I daurna tell, 
 
 Dinna ask me gin I loe ye, 
 
 Ask it 0 ’ yoursel* 
 
A REPULSE. 
 
 253 
 
 0 dinna look sae sair at me, 
 
 For weel ye ken me true ; 
 
 0, gin ye look sae sair at me, 
 
 I daurna look at you. 
 
 And thereupon she cast at Darcy a look of saucy and 
 laughing defiance that fairly belied the words. I 
 wonder if the little tormentor had a soft place any- 
 where about her heart ? I fear not. Darcy at least 
 looked very glum upon it, and (while Corry still flut- 
 tered round Miles like a butterfly) moodily retreated 
 to his pipe. 
 
( 2 54 ) 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 YAE VICTIS! 
 
 So evil wounded was the knight, 
 
 That he behoved to dee. 
 
 “TLTISS Evelyn,” said Darcy, firmly, when he 
 found himself alone with her in the conser- 
 vatory next morning, “ I cannot bear this any longer. 
 Pardon me, but I must speak frankly with you for 
 five minutes.” 
 
 “ What do you want ? ” she replied, petulantly. 
 “ You are getting quite annoying. I wish you 
 would leave me alone. Corry wants her geraniums 
 watered.” 
 
 “ Please listen to me for one moment. You 
 cannot have misunderstood what I said yesterday, 
 however clumsily I put it. And now let me say it 
 as plainly as I should at first : Miss Evelyn, I love 
 you — love you with my whole heart, with a love as 
 deep and constant, I believe, as man ever felt for 
 woman.” 
 
 She sat down. For a moment she turned very 
 
YAE VICTIS! 
 
 2 55 
 
 pale ; for a moment, I believe, she felt inclined to 
 obey the honest impulse of her heart, but the old 
 spirit of perverseness returned, and she would not 
 own the “ weakness,” as she called it to herself. 
 
 “ I like you very well, Mr. Langton,” she replied, 
 lightly; 4 6 but you are not nearly so amusing as you 
 used to be. You get more tiresome every day. Do, 
 please, change this foolish talk ; we shall get on 
 much better if you do.” 
 
 “We shall not get on at all. I am not any longer 
 able to bear this,” he went on with unwonted passion ; 
 “ I thought I could yesterday — I find I am mistaken. 
 I say once more that I love you — that I would have 
 you to be my wife. Tell me if you will be so. I 
 must have an answer, yea or nay.” 
 
 Somewhat rough wooing, I fancy, and so Alice 
 thought. The defiant spirit kindled up in her, more 
 especially as she felt, or seemed to feel, that she was 
 yielding. It became a matter of honour with her not 
 to give way. She was piqued into obstinacy. 
 
 “ Upon my word, Mr. Langton, you are somewhat 
 peremptory. I am not used to be spoken to thus. 
 Really, it seems to me that you are becoming very 
 disagreeable.” 
 
 Darcy looked at her grimly in silence for a moment. 
 
 “ Am I, then, to understand that you do not care 
 for me — that you will not consent ? Do not throw 
 away the heart that is offered to you,” he said, almost 
 
256 
 
 VAE VICTIS ! 
 
 bitterly. “ Such love is perhaps worth even your 
 acceptance.” 
 
 The bitterness grated upon her ear. All the per- 
 verseness in the little woman’s nature was thoroughly 
 roused. 
 
 “ Don’t suppose/’ she exclaimed, scornfully, “ that 
 I am not duly aware of the honour you design. 
 The sense of my unworthiness must excuse me to 
 you. Make no sacrifice, sir, on my account, I 
 beseech you.” 
 
 The tone in which the words were spoken stung 
 him to the quick. 
 
 “ Thank you, Miss Evelyn, you have undeceived 
 me,” was all he said; and turning quickly on his 
 heel, he left her. 
 
 Alice lay back in her seat dnd covered her face 
 with her hands. She was glowing all over with 
 excitement. What perverse demon had taken pos- 
 session of her soul, and made her thus reject the man 
 she loved ? For be it spoken frankly here, — I hate 
 all deception and mystery, — even while the sharp 
 bitter words were falling from her lips, her heart 
 thrilled with tenderness. 
 
 Are we our own masters, my masters ? If we are, 
 why are we so often prevented by aimless pique or 
 objectless obstinacy from doing that to which our 
 whole soul prompts us ? When the very blessing for 
 which we have prayed is granted, why do we turn 
 
YAE VICTIS ! 
 
 257 
 
 from it and affect to wish that it had not been 
 granted? A jest, an idle word, has changed the 
 destiny of an empire. It was a tannt from Cassius 
 that sent Caesar to the Capitol. And it happens also 
 in the lives of most men and women that a momen- 
 tary impatience, a passing pique, an unaccountable 
 perversity, renders the whole after-life barren, 
 fruitless, and unblessed. Our free will and our free 
 reason are no better than philosophic watch-words ; 
 for constantly in the course of life we find that we 
 have been the mechanical slaves of motives that 
 cannot be sifted, that will not bear analysis. A trifle 
 that cunning fate leaves in the way turns us aside 
 from the engrossing desire of our hearts. A trifle at 
 the time — but oh ! how tragic the trifle, when three- 
 score years of vain repentance have failed to redress 
 the sorrow that has drained the springs of hope, and 
 spoiled one life at least. 
 
 Life must be taken on its own terms ; but there 
 are times when one does feel inclined to throw up 
 the bargain. It is sometimes such a weariness. 
 When ambition and love withdraw their urgent 
 motives, when the fervid pulse beating high with 
 excitement and hope abruptly stops, or creeps on so 
 feebly that its dull and languid life grows more in- 
 tolerable than the sharpest pain, we are often tempted 
 to wish that it might cease altogether. “ 0 that I 
 had the wings of a dove, that I might flee away and 
 
258 
 
 YAE VICTIS! 
 
 be at rest.” Beyond the dawn-struck summits of the 
 snowy hills, in the silent places of the heavens tra- 
 versed only “ by morn, and even, and the angels of 
 God,” peace is to be found, perchance. God knows ! 
 But here at least we can only chase the phantom of 
 a hope, and happy are they on whom the phantom 
 does not cease to beckon. But few of us are per- 
 mitted to keep even the illusion. Ambition becomes 
 powerless, and love is wrecked. When we have 
 received our sentence, when our most passionate 
 prayers have been heard unheeded, when the won- 
 derful eyes into which we have piteously gazed will 
 not answer our appeal, when the sweet lips have told 
 us with cruel calmness that there is no hope for us 
 any more, how the charm is taken out of work, how 
 bleak life becomes from henceforth ! Cynics tell us 
 that such sorrows do not kill, that the sharpest pain 
 loses its edge and ceases even to hurt. It is false. 
 Such misery is immortal. We may plod on; the 
 mild happiness and the common joys of middle life 
 may make us content ; but a light has passed out of 
 our lives that can never be restored ; the mainspring 
 has snapped ; we are never again quite what we were 
 before. Had our prayer been granted, would it have 
 been otherwise ? 
 
 And no pain stings like unrequited love. The 
 separation of death is easier to bear. Innocent is 
 dead. The white and stainless lily could not outlive 
 
YAE VICTIS! 
 
 259 
 
 its spring. And so the pale cheek gradually lost its 
 faint, delicate, zephyr-like bloom, and the soft eyes 
 their earthly light, and a shadow fell upon the white 
 brow, that, had it not been for the deep love in both 
 your hearts, would have made her almost strange to 
 you, even while she stayed beside you. But she 
 died in your arms ; your name was the last upon her 
 lips ; and the strong instinct of immortal love binds 
 you deatlilessly together. When Christ who is our 
 life shall appear, then shall she also appear with him 
 in glory ; and in that great city, the Holy Jerusalem, 
 descending out of heaven from God, the vows that 
 were cut short will be renewed. But Mabel still 
 lives. All the wealth of your heart has been laid at 
 her feet; all the memories of her sweet girlhood 
 have been invoked; piteously you prayed her to 
 have mercy — in vain. She turned her head aside ; 
 she told you haughtily or kindly (upon my soul, I 
 forget the tone — but what does it matter ?) that your 
 love stirred no echo in her heart, and — she married 
 your rival. Upon him her eyes shed a light that 
 never fell upon you — though you dreamed it, fool 
 that you were. Yes, death’s sting is not the sharpest. 
 To know that you are an alien from the heart which 
 you have made your home, that its household gods 
 can never be yours, is more bitter than a dishonoured 
 name or a bankrupt ambition. 
 
 “ I have made one cast for happiness,” said Darcy ; 
 
26 o 
 
 VAE VICTIS! 
 
 “ now I will go in for ambition — a wealthy wife and 
 the woolsack.” 
 
 As for Alice, she went on with tearless eyes 
 watering the geraniums, but she saw the flowers no 
 longer. 
 
( 26l ) 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 Here yon come with your old music — and here’s all the good it 
 brings : 
 
 What ! they lived once thus at Venice, where the merchants 
 were the kings ; 
 
 Where St. Mark’s is ; where the Doges used to wed the sea with 
 rings. 
 
 "Pi ARC Y was to have acted as “ best friend ” at 
 ^ AVarrender’s marriage ; but the wounded hero 
 bad not the heart to stay. “ Oh ! how bitter a thing 
 it is to look into happiness through another man’s 
 eyes !” Darcy disappeared for six months. I cannot 
 say where he went. Some one had seen him at 
 Venice with Lord Ashton, — Lady Beatrix’s eldest 
 brother, and the heir to the Dukedom. A member 
 of the Alpine Club was said to have met him on the 
 North Pole. Another had hob-nobbed with him in 
 the Great Geyser. I incline to believe that he spent 
 his time mostly among the Lagoons. His name, at 
 least, frequently occurs in Sedley’s Souvenirs from 
 the South which were published a year or two 
 thereafter, and rather ruffled — for ten days — the 
 English proprieties. Sedley avers that the lawyer 
 
262 
 
 A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 fell madly in love with the great singer Catarina; 
 but I suspect that Sedley himself was the victim. 
 Darcy may have flirted with the Gipsy Queen in 
 passing , — que voulez vous ? Can a man live without 
 bread, or without love? We must eat or die. At 
 any rate — if we are to credit the Confessions — they 
 had rather a wild time of it. They shot wild-duck 
 among the islands during the day ; they bathed, they 
 danced, they eat ices at Florian’s ; their black gondola, 
 with the eastern battle-axe, ominous and menacing, 
 at the prow, stole like a water -snake through 
 the dim canals. I do not know if my readers (those 
 who survive the joltings of this infernal machine) 
 will allow me to wander so far away ; yet perhaps 
 they may relish — after these haggard northern coasts 
 — a breath of air from “ the sweet South,” and a fugi- 
 tive glimpse into the festive life of the Adriatic. 
 
 THE FENICE. 
 
 0 father ! what a hell of with craft lay 
 In the small orb of each particular tear. 
 
 “ Catarina has come back from Milan,” said 
 Darcy, looking up from the shabby Venetian news- 
 paper he had been diligently perusing ; “ she sings to- 
 night at the Fenice. We must go.” 
 
 When we entered the house they were at the end 
 of the second act. I forget now what the opera was 
 named, but I believe it was an Italian adaptation of 
 
A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 2 63 
 
 Macbeth — very characteristic in its way ; for a 
 certain Carlotta, amid a clond of white-bosomed 
 nymphs, in extremely transparent gauze, was skipping 
 over the floor, to the unbounded amazement of the 
 good Duncan, who had probably never seen anything 
 of the kind before. I secured a comfortable position 
 in the fauteuil which Darcy, with the connivance of 
 the box-keeper, had conveyed into his box, and glass 
 in hand leisurely surveyed the beauties who lined the 
 principal tier : women with their golden hair in 
 sunny ripples, like the ripples that shine on the 
 Adriatic. Titian painted their mothers. 
 
 But Carlotta had skimmed off the stage as a sea- 
 mew skims the waves, “ now wafted through the air, 
 now moisting the tips of its wing-feathers in the 
 violet-coloured sea the simile, dear critic, is old as 
 Homer, who applied it to the swift-footed Hermes, 
 and therefore, though not original, must be good ; 
 and ere the burst of applause that followed her per- 
 formance had ceased, Catarina stood suddenly before 
 the people, and hushed the tumult. Like most 
 opera-goers, I know nothing of music ; but I fancy 
 that her voice was not one of great extent or compass, 
 as they call it. Still, there was passion, expression, 
 natural music in its tones, which made it infinitely 
 more persuasive than a more powerful organ. It 
 was, of course, a contralto, — no profound emotion 
 can receive adequate expression, except through 
 these rich notes. Depend upon it that in such a 
 
264 
 
 A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 voice Sappho carolled her exquisite little scraps, — - 
 sharp, luminous, and radiant as diamond-chips for 
 ever and ever, — and Troy would never have been 
 sacked had Helen, as she hung over her golden 
 shuttle, expressed her passion in a soprano. We 
 reverence the tenor ; for in a tenor (so a great com- 
 mentator assures me), Achilles was singing the deeds 
 of heroes when Ulysses found him among his ships ; 
 but the contralto, doubt it not, is “ the most excellent 
 thing in woman.” 
 
 Still Catarina was not a great singer. There she 
 was matched often — sometimes probably excelled. 
 But as an actress she stood alone. In this second 
 scene she had little to say — a few passionate words 
 of anger and entreaty. But the vignette was perfect 
 in its way ; an elaborate picture could not have been 
 more curiously finished. She stood before the house 
 for one breathless moment, a white-armed fury. 
 Very beautiful, but fierce and merciless as the 
 panther, as raising her white arm she points pitilessly 
 to the chamber wherein lies the king. Such an arm ! 
 I have never seen its match. It spoke to the people 
 expressively, eloquently as her face. What often 
 becomes an incumbrance to an inferior artist, was 
 with her the highest spell of her craft. In its strained 
 and agitated muscles you could read anger, contempt, 
 defiance, detestation ; most womanly weakness, when 
 at the end it dropt exhausted and helpless by her 
 side. She cast it up to heaven, and its grand vehe- 
 
A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 265 
 
 ment curve invoked the vindictive gods ; it clasped 
 the neck of her Eoman lover with the passion and 
 tenderness of an Italian Aphrodite. 
 
 When the curtain fell, I found that Darcy had 
 quitted the box; so I lay back and ruminated on 
 this ireful apparition — this deep-breasted Eoman 
 matron. 
 
 But Catarina’s triumph was reserved for the last 
 act. The general conception of the act was unsub- 
 stantial enough ; but her acting redeemed it. She 
 has taken off her jewels and the rich robes which 
 befit a noble’s wife ; there is nothing save her white 
 night-gear around the queen. Her small feet are 
 bare ; and though they are blue with cold, the marble 
 floor does not chill her. She advances coldly, 
 calmly, stilly — like the visitant of a dream. What 
 wants the queen ? .She knows well, no doubt ; for 
 there is neither hesitation nor embarrassment in her 
 gait. But look into her eyes. They are blank, 
 expressionless, like a statue’s. The lamp is there, 
 but the light has been extinguished, or rather in- 
 verted, turned in, to illumine that inner life men call 
 the conscience. For see, a spasm of pain contracts 
 the pale lips, and the white hands wring each other 
 in a fierce pressure. “ Out, damned spot.” ’Tis 
 in vain. That white arm and that little hand, all 
 the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten again. 
 Ay ! she knows it. She will give up the fight. The 
 
 T 
 
266 
 
 A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 fever has devoured her life, and the damned spot has 
 eaten into her soul. What a sigh is there ! ’Twas 
 that sigh snapped the heart-strings. Back to bed, 
 fair queen, an you list ; but it matters not. The 
 hours are numbered. No man or woman could groan 
 that bitter groan and live. So the pale apparition 
 passes away to her doom, — pale, but with the flush of 
 pain still upon her cheek. 
 
 “ Catarina wants us to sup with her,” whispered 
 Darcy, as the curtain fell upon the funeral train that 
 bore the queen to burial. 
 
 “ Where ? In Hades ? ” I asked, for the spell was 
 not yet broken, 
 
 “ By no means,” he answered, laughing, “ else had 
 I declined the invitation with thanks. No, no ! at 
 the Palazzo Soranzo, a much nicer place, and plea- 
 santer company, I take it. At least, she has the 
 best chef in Venice, a real artist, like his mistress. 
 There is a delicacy,” he continued with animation, 
 “ a subtlety, nay, at times a grotesque oriental 
 richness in his conceptions, that become Venice admi- 
 rably. He is one of the masters; B says he 
 
 belongs to the chosen people.” 
 
 “ Let us go.” 
 
 And we went. 
 
A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 267 
 
 THE SORANZO. 
 
 Hebe, when her zone 
 Slipt its golden clasp, and down 
 Fell her kirtle to her feet, 
 
 While she held the goblet sweet, 
 
 And Jove grew languid. 
 
 The Palazzo Soranzo, on the Canale Grande, is one 
 of the most sumptuous in Venice. 
 
 We were led through the central sala, which was, 
 more Veneziano, filled with flowers and vines, among 
 whose branches a few lamps were suspended, along 
 the grand balustrade, to Catarina’s own room. The 
 other guests, two or three Italian gentlemen and a 
 
 brace of Englishmen, Lord Ashton and Mr. B , 
 
 had arrived, and the party was at supper. Darcy 
 mentioned my name : Catarina bowed and smiled. 
 The pallor of the spectral sleep-walker still haunted 
 my mind; I saw before me the rosy revel of a 
 Bacchante. The contrast was effective and striking. 
 Could this girlish form assume the superb matron- 
 hood of Borne? could the merry and mocking eye, 
 the mischievous smile, pale their lustre at will under 
 the pressure of an intolerable woe ? 
 
 The style of the room added to the contrast. It 
 is a thousand pities that so little remains of the rich 
 interiors of the old Venetian life. San Marco and 
 the Ducal Palace may survive for another genera- 
 tion ; but those domestic adornments, not less, nay, 
 even more characteristic of the genius of its people, 
 have been either destroyed or dispersed. At home 
 
 T 2 
 
268 
 
 A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 the Venetian noble was the most luxurious of men, a 
 luxury ministered to by a taste sumptuous in its 
 simplicity, refined in its caprice. His was a civiliza- 
 tion which combined a Eoman manliness with an 
 Oriental languor. Massive couches, gigantic cabinets, 
 mirrors framed in columns of jasper and porphyry, 
 benches at which the sons of Anak might have 
 supped, were overrun with the whimsical fancies of 
 the Moor. When I first knew Venice much of this 
 remained ; but thirty ruthless years have left scarce 
 a single trophy behind them. Catarina’s room 
 retained its antique magnificence. There had been 
 no change for a century ; none perhaps since her fair 
 namesake, Catarina Cornaro, “ a widow, but no wife,” 
 came back from Cyprus. The transparent floor of 
 cool and snow-like marble ; the elaborate carvings of 
 the antique high-backed chairs ; the fantastic cupids 
 around the mirror from Murano ; the walls hung 
 with the celebrated cloth of gold, which weavers of 
 Bagdad wove for Alraschid, and merchant-princes 
 bore from the Tigris to deck their palaces on the salt 
 Lagoons. The ceiling was painted of a sky-like blue, 
 with fleecy patches of vapour, and behind the clouds, 
 roguish and rosy-cheeked, the fair-haired Venetian 
 children lurked and smiled. But the crowning glory 
 of the room was the cinque-cento frieze, with its 
 quaint border of grotesque satyr and purple grape- 
 crowned faun, circling the immortal gods of Giorgione. 
 Bor lo ! the Immortals. 
 
A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 269 
 
 With ruffled plumage the kingly bird nestles in 
 the unwary breast of Hermione. AjdoIIo strings his 
 lyre beside the banks of the Amphrysus, and night 
 after night, upon old Latmos, Diana stoops to kiss 
 the dead Endymion. Here the smiling Hebe fills with 
 flowing nectar the cup of an enamoured god; and 
 Bacchus, flushed with the grape-juice and crowned 
 with the vine-leaf, springs lightly from his chariot, 
 
 ■ while his eye 
 
 Makes Ariadne’s cheek look blushingly. 
 
 Death itself is changed by the magic pencil into an 
 influence graceful and endearing. Hyacinthus for- 
 sakes not the beautiful world, and the pleasant sun- 
 shine that he loves : but, as a delicate flower, still 
 communes with the god. The melancholy tree is 
 charged with the drooping spirit of Cyparissus ; and 
 in the feathered anemone Adonais blooms into a 
 purer and gentler life. But now bow down, bow 
 down; for lo! Aphrodite in her immortal girlhood 
 woos the young Anchises among the sheep-cots on 
 Ida — Ida, that looks down on windy Troy ! 
 
 We gathered round the open window which 
 reached to the floor, and admitted right into the 
 midst of us the full sweep of that glorious outer life. 
 The moon had scarcely risen ; the warm haze of the 
 summer night hung over the city : innumerable lights 
 played upon the rippling water. In the pauses of 
 the talk we heard the lapping of its waves on the 
 
27 o 
 
 A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 palace walls; for in Venice tlie sea is never still. 
 Through the most sequestered canal the tide of the 
 Adriatic ebbs and flows. Among its palaces and its 
 tombs, its marts and its churches, there is the un- 
 resting murmur of the very sea. 
 
 Through all the isle 
 There is no covert, no retired shade, 
 
 Unhaunted by the murmurous breath of waves. 
 
 The talk turned naturally upon the fortunes of this 
 strange people. 
 
 “Ah!” said Catarina, “I wish I had lived two 
 hundred years ago. What a famous life I should 
 have led then ! ” 
 
 Darcy was very glad that her birth had been post- 
 poned. 
 
 “ We could not have spared you,” he said. 
 
 Her male friends — and she had none of the other 
 sex — addressed the actress in a certain tone of 
 freedom, the inevitable result of her equivocal posi- 
 tion ; but it never degenerated into grossness or in- 
 delicacy. Catarina was not exactly what she should 
 have been, certainly: but one felt when with her 
 that this was more the accident of her position than 
 her choice. She could not have been naturally 
 vicious. The slight child-like form, with its indefinite 
 and impalpable grace, was the incarnation of inno- 
 cence, — on the surface at least. And if her language, 
 the tone of her thought, the consciousness of her 
 smile, the wild levity of her manner, at times 
 
A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 271 
 
 insensibly produced the conviction that there was 
 a taint somewhere, the sensuousness of her con- 
 stitution was so bound up with and disguised under 
 a bright and sparkling intellect, a restless and sen- 
 sitive imagination, that it rather added to her charm. 
 Hers was the moral languor, the spiritual abandon , 
 of Aspasia. 
 
 Catarina used to remind certain people of Alice 
 Evelyn : yet was she formed upon an essentially 
 different type. Richer instincts, more delicate insight, 
 on the whole a finer organization; but slight, sen- 
 sitive, and tremulous, as a flower. She might 
 have been a poet had she learned to rhyme, or an 
 orator had she not been an actress only. But as it 
 was, the poetic temperament in her spent itself in 
 gay, sparkling, sarcastic sallies which young Mr. 
 Sheridan might have envied, and during graver in- 
 tervals communicated to her character a ripe and 
 prodigal pensiveness, like the purple leaves and sun- 
 sets of autumn. 
 
 Her eyes were hazel — people said so at least ; but 
 the colour changed continually in them, as it changes 
 on the sea. It was never exactly the same for ten 
 minutes together. And it was a wonderful eye that 
 lay in wait behind the long dark lash, — so long that 
 
 cast a shadow on the transparent cheek ; an eye 
 that expressed with curious mobility every change of 
 feeling, every phase of passion. Now it overflowed 
 with dreamy and voluptuous tenderness, then it 
 
272 
 
 A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 sparkled with bewitching mockery and charming 
 malice; now still and ominous, it crouched like a 
 leopard in its lair, then flashing as a sabre-stroke 
 from its silken sheath, it smote the beholder along 
 the face, so that even a strong man would grow pale 
 and embarrassed before the sovereign lustre of her 
 scorn. 
 
 Her cheek, 
 
 White as the consecrated snow 
 
 That lies on Dian’s lap, 
 
 had that transparent delicacy of hue which we asso- 
 ciate with disease. One could look into it as into 
 the veins of serpentine and agate that wander round 
 the sepulchre of the merchant-dukes at Florence. 
 Yet it generally retained a rare flush of colour ; a 
 flush like that with which the Greek stained his 
 marble of Psyche or Latona ; a flush which woke up 
 and w r andered fitfully along, as though the breeze 
 fanned it ; a flush like the rosy bloom caught of a 
 strayed sunbeam by a pearl or a shell below the sea. 
 
 The mouth was quite in character with the rest of 
 the face ; delicate, tremulous, the lip cleanly cut, and 
 indicating a quick, nervous, susceptible temperament. 
 The smile that played around her mouth was, like 
 Undine’s, white and wave-like. The hair, “ brown in 
 the shade, golden in the sun,” and among whose 
 fretted network all day the sunbeams strayed, rippled 
 around the low Greek brow; rippled around the 
 white, proud, defiant little throat ; and fell at length 
 
A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 273 
 
 in a cloudy cataract over the white peerless curve of 
 the shoulder. 
 
 The same type was predominant throughout; a 
 charming uncertainty, an exquisite indecision, each 
 trait so subtle and evanescent as to baffle classifica- 
 tion and defy analysis. One felt disposed to lay 
 hands on the fairy creation — could such a gossamer 
 be touched by mortal hand without breaking — and 
 forcibly prevent it from turning itself, as seemed 
 inevitable, and perhaps most meet, into a hare-bell or 
 a sunbeam. 
 
 “ Who could I have been ?” she asked ; “ I am not 
 quite sure.” 
 
 “ Bianca Capella,” Darcy suggested. 
 
 “ Catarina Cornaro,” said B , one of the Eng- 
 
 lishmen present. 
 
 “ Bianca, no ; Catarina, yes. Yes, I should have 
 been the bride of Cyprus. Besides, I was named 
 after her.” 
 
 “ Catarina let it be,” answered Darcy, twisting 
 some vine-leaves that lay round the fruit, into a 
 wreath ; “ may I crown your queenship ? ” 
 
 “ We thank our loyal servant,” she said, inclining 
 the little head to him with grave condescension. He 
 twined the green leaves into her light hair. “ Green 
 on gold,” he said, “ the colours of the Cornari.” 
 
 “Just so, and the Doge — Marino Faliero, is it 
 not? — welcomes us home to Venice.” “Nay, my 
 lord, we cannot enter Bucentaur. We are a daughter 
 
274 A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 of Venice. ‘And Queen of Cyprus/ replies tlie 
 stately gentleman in his noble way, as he leads us to 
 his barge. I should have kissed him ere we landed, 
 I know I should : Catarina did it.” 
 
 “Happy man,” murmured Darcy. 
 
 “Yes,” said B , “those old merchants under- 
 
 stood the grand courtesies of national life. We have 
 forgotten the art. The antique gentlemanliness has 
 departed. I too belong to a merchant people ; but 
 it deals only in the retail trade. We are a nation of 
 shopkeepers.” 
 
 “ We always did these things well,” said the Padre ; 
 “ it was natural to us. The effect, indeed, was 
 studied with an artist’s eye ; but there was a true 
 gentlemanlike spirit, as" you call it, at the root, we 
 may be sure. The most graceful courtesy the Re- 
 public ever paid, I think, w^as when, during the war 
 of Chioggia, in calling on the citizens to contribute, 
 it specially excepted from the tax ‘Tiziano Vecellio, 
 that marvellous painter, and Jacobo Sansovino, the 
 great architect.’ What a masterly tribute of ad- 
 miration !” 
 
 “ Only fancy,” exclaimed Darcy, “ the uproar such 
 an exception would make in England. Favouritism ! 
 Corruption ! It would be denounced as a ministerial 
 job from every hustings in the country. How the 
 economists would fume ! How the working classes 
 would be required to rise as a man, and resist these 
 iniquitous burdens ! ‘ Walter Scott, that great poet, 
 
A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 275 
 
 and David Wilkie, that memorable painter/ would 
 be made to pay up to the uttermost farthing.” 
 
 “ I trust when minister,” said B , “ to teach 
 
 our islanders a more generous respect for genius.” 
 
 “ You believe in the Millennium?” Ashton 
 inquired, somewhat sceptically. 
 
 • “We shall see,” was the confident rejoinder. “I 
 admire the Venetian policy immensely,” he went on. 
 “ It was the most subtle and sagacious that modern 
 Europe has yet developed. What in its machinery 
 was capable of being exposed to the daylight, was 
 exhibited with supreme ostentation ; what was nar- 
 row, vindictive, pitiless, they inexorably concealed. 
 An Oriental Machiavelli must have devised it. 
 Bolingbroke is the only English statesman who 
 has understood it.” 
 
 “ Yet,” said the Padre, — the Padre, I say, for it 
 was the Church official who spoke, — “ it was founded 
 upon a lie, and so — Delenda est Carthago.” 
 
 “ Let the gods decide,” answered B . 
 
 “ Ilion is fallen, and they who dwelt therein 
 Are as they are before high-judging heaven. 
 
 I speak only of its policy ; and good or bad, no policy, 
 down to the minutest detail, was ever executed with 
 more consummate ability. A governing oligarchy 
 and a popular republic ! That was the central idea, 
 and you trace it everywhere. In its huts and in its 
 palaces, in the haughty reserve of the Broglio, in the 
 
27 6 
 
 A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 frank fraternity of the Piazza. It exacted the funeral 
 simplicity of the gondola; it dictated the black 
 domino of the noble. The mask was not a mere 
 cloak for intrigue or adventure. No, it was a national 
 institution, essential to the economy of Venice. For 
 it preserved that mystery and prestige to the govern- 
 ing classes which such a constitution imperatively 
 required.” 
 
 “ Don’t you think/’ said Darcy, “ we had better 
 import it into England ? The governing classes there 
 seem to be rather in need of it.” 
 
 B was a remarkable man in his way. There 
 
 was an exaggeration, an epigrammatic bombast in 
 his talk at which many wiseacres grinned, and which 
 Catarina mimicked to the life. But he was a rer 
 markable man — much more so than his critics. His 
 political and historical creed was no doubt partly 
 fictitious : it smacked of the insincerity which must 
 always attach to the creed of the mere artist ; but he 
 construed it at least with the breadth and generosity 
 of a poetic intellect. His nature was large and un- 
 selfish. He was insanely ambitious, but never base. 
 He could abandon his principles ; he never abandoned 
 his friends. And his persevering insouciance , his 
 obstinate nonchalance , were indomitable. Nothing 
 could shake him from his purpose : he held on to it 
 like grim death or an English terrier. And he 
 did not exactly fail. He was first minister of the 
 Republique Occidentale when he died. 
 
A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 277 
 
 As the night wore on the Padre disappeared : 
 Lord Ashton, engaged elsewhere, had left earlier. 
 The mirth became fast and furious. Catarina was 
 brilliant and bewitching — saucy, bitter, tender, 
 pathetic, as the mood changed. Her vivacity was 
 not the wild effort men can make to smother a rooted 
 sorrow ; there was not room for any deep misery to 
 take root in her heart, and she had none to conceal. 
 No doubt some bitter memories now and again 
 jarred against the heart-strings, but they did not 
 abide long ; and when they did recur she made no 
 effort to hide them, but gave expression to them with 
 passionate directness. At such moments one feared 
 to say what this angry child might not do : children 
 have fired temples before now. 
 
 We went out on the balcony. We heard the plash 
 of the water below our feet, and a hundred church- 
 bells answer each other through the mist. The grey 
 ghost of the morning lay along the northern sky over 
 the Euganeans. It was two o’clock. 
 
 “ Let us see the Duorno,” cried Catarina, suddenly, 
 clapping her hands. “ Let us go,” we all echoed. 
 We were excited, and we entered readily into the 
 whim. “ The sail will be superb.” 
 
 Catarina wrapped her opera-cloak round her, and 
 drawing the white hood over her head, greeted us 
 with one of her grave smiles. “ I am a sister of 
 the Carthusians,” she said. 
 
 Our gondolas were lying at the door, and waken- 
 
278 
 
 A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 ing our men, who were lying in a heap fast asleep 
 in the bottom of the most commodious, we bore down 
 the Canale for the Piazza. 
 
 Catarina was in great spirits. In her white hood 
 she was the most charming nun the moonlight ever 
 looked on. Her eyes sparkled with glee at the frolic 
 on which we were bent, and at length she burst into an 
 Io paean of victory. It was the fierce Osmanli chant 
 in Mahomet , which in the opera is chanted to the 
 menacing music of barbaric cymbals. We joined in 
 the chorus, gondoliers and the rest of us, and from 
 among the hoarse male voices rose, like the spring of 
 a crystal fountain, rejoicing, triumphant, the liquid 
 notes of the great singer. 
 
 “ The infidel is at the gates, and the senators of 
 the Republic are a-bed,” concluded Darcy, in a sort 
 of Runic chant. “ We will hang the banner of the 
 Moslem on the vanes of St. Mark. We must humour 
 her,” he whispered to me as we landed at the stairs 
 of the Piazzetta ; “ but it is more than likely we 
 shall spend the morning with the Austrian police. 
 We are in for a row, you may be sure ; but here 
 goes.” 
 
 However, we met no one. Two or three sleepy 
 gondoliers raised their heads as we passed them from 
 out the forest of gondolas which were moored at the 
 stairs ; and between us and the Lido the painted sails 
 of a few fishing craft bearing up from Cliioggia were 
 dimly visible. But the great square was silent as the 
 
A NIGHT IN VENICE. 279 
 
 valley of death. Not a creature stirred, and the 
 Infidel were masters of the situation. Catarina in- 
 sisted upon another Saracenic chant in celebration of 
 our victory as we marched round the Piazza ; but no 
 one interrupted us, though we saw a black-bearded 
 Jew thrust his ugly head out of a little window near the 
 summit of the orologio. The head retreated hastily 
 
 when B solemnly adjured it in what we took to 
 
 be the Semitic tongue. 
 
 “We must say good morrow to his Saintship,” ex- 
 claimed Catarina when we reached the Duomo. The 
 great gates were closed ; but a small door at the west 
 angle stood open, and we entered the famous cathedral 
 of the Lagoons. During the brightest sunshine the 
 interior oppresses one by its gloom ; now it was 
 mirk as the day of judgment. Our mad gaiety 
 vanished. The gloom sobered us. It was too solemn 
 for our infidel scorn. We groped our way quietly 
 through the darkness to a chapel near the high altar, 
 where lamps were burning, and two old priests mut- 
 tering the service for the dead. I leaned against 
 a pillar, a square massive column that could have 
 borne Ossa and Olympus on its sinewy shoulders, 
 and enjoyed the Rembrandt-like effect. The lamp- 
 light peered into dark and mysterious vaults, played 
 upon vast gilded arches, discovered the rude and 
 quaint character of the gigantic figures in mosaic 
 capriciously scrawled over the spacious domes, and 
 revealed above the altar one glorious woman-face by 
 
28 o 
 
 A NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 Tiziano Vecellio, “that marvellous painter”— a sinful 
 woman at her Redeemer’s feet, washing them with 
 her tears and wiping them with her golden dishevelled 
 hair. 
 
 Pone luctum, Magdalena, 
 
 Et serena lacrymas ; 
 
 said the scrawl below. But now when my eyes 
 turned from the picture they fell upon another figure 
 with as fair a face, weeping tears as scalding as any 
 Magdalen ever shed. It was Catarina. The awe of 
 the darkness had fallen upon the child’s heart, and 
 in a sudden revulsion of feeling she had sunk upon 
 her knees before the shrine, and now sobbed sorely 
 and piteously, like one whose heart is broke, 
 
 “ Pone luctum, Magdalena, 
 
 Et serena lacrymas.” 
 
 I do not know how long she remained. Slowly 
 the daylight gathered into the edifice and subdued 
 the darkness, revealing as it came the alternate 
 pauses between the triple domes, the radiant angels, 
 and the Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini, 
 on its golden ground. Then slipping quietly away, 
 I bade Catarina’s gondolier wait her return, and 
 reached home as the market-boats, with their purple 
 and crimson colours, crowded on to the Rialto. 
 
( 281 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 HYMEN, 0 HYMEN.EE! 
 
 My royal head when weary 
 In my queen’s arms softly lies ; 
 
 And my endless broad dominion 
 In her deep and gentle eyes. 
 
 rpHIS chapter is the shortest but the most em- 
 phatic of my book. I wish the printer would 
 put the whole of it in italics or Roman capitals. It is 
 composed exclusively of materials borrowed from the 
 Ashton Tomahawk of the 25th December, 18 — . 
 
 At the chapel of Saint Ursula , Norburn , by the 
 Very Rev . the Dean of Ashton , Cordelia , only child of 
 Sir Maxwell Menteith , Bart., of Hawkstone , to Miles 
 War render, Esquire, of Carlyon, M.P. for the Ashton 
 burghs . 
 
 u 
 
THE SETTING SUN. 
 
( 285 ) 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 AGAMEMNON. 
 
 His voice is silent in your council-hall 
 For ever ; and whatever tempests lour 
 For ever silent ; even if they broke 
 In thunder, silent ; yet, remember all, 
 
 He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke. 
 
 HEN a politician’s watchword is “ Measures, not 
 
 men,” he is presumed to be patriotic. The 
 truth is, that he is often less so than the most selfish 
 place-hunter. Most of the existing vices of our 
 public life are to be ascribed to an ignorant belief in 
 this fallacious and pernicious maxim. 
 
 I say, with Fox, “Men, not measures.” What 
 healing virtue is there even in the wisest measure ? 
 What influence can it exert over the national heart 
 and the national conscience ? Does it purify the 
 one or arouse the other? A measure is only a 
 machine : beneficial to organise, powerless to inspire. 
 The impulse, the motive-power, for good, must be 
 derived from the man. 
 
 It matters little to what party the man may nomi- 
 
286 
 
 AGAMEMNON. 
 
 nally belong. The statesman great enough to arrest 
 sympathy and command obedience, must be great 
 enough to give a nation its principles and a party its 
 creed. He is no authentic leader unless he can 
 mould his followers, and modify their traditions. To 
 become the exponent of a stereotyped and fossilized 
 policy is the ambition of a mediocre intellect. 
 
 Mowbray’s career had been a striking illustration 
 of this truth. By tradition and sentiment he was 
 attached to the most frigid of political parties : the 
 men who voted along with him were of the straitest 
 sect of the Pharisees, of the haughtiest connexion of 
 the patricians. He had a genuine dislike to many 
 of the stock watchwords of the party which mono- 
 polized to itself the credit of political progress. He 
 hated, indeed, every restriction on the liberty of 
 individual action or thought ; and he had done more 
 than any man living, either among his friends or 
 foes, to break the narrow and oppressive yoke which 
 his ancestors bound round the necks of themselves 
 and their children. But the official policemen of 
 freedom were always arrayed against him. He came 
 into public life a Tory, and a Tory he remained to 
 the end. 
 
 Yet this representative of political sectarianism 
 commanded the sympathy and support of the 
 strongest, ablest, and freest men of his time. The 
 most generous and the widest-hearted Englishmen 
 recognised in Mowbray their fittest leader. How 
 
AGAMEMNON. 
 
 287 
 
 was this ? He did not affect the slang of political 
 liberalism : he did not carry the measures which his 
 opponents had invented. Mowbray never courted 
 popularity ; he did not care much for fame, at least 
 for the fame whose echoes do not stir St. Stephen’s. 
 The tribute to his power that he relished most was 
 the profound silence of the House when he rose to 
 speak — to charm them by his wit, to rouse them by 
 his invective. How, then, did he who was de jure 
 monarch of the Tories become de facto the leader of 
 scientific Liberalism ? 
 
 The answer is not difficult. It was felt that this 
 was a man who, whatever political nickname he might 
 choose to assume, really loved liberty * This was the 
 spell. Other men might prate about the great prin- 
 ciples of civil and religious freedom ; but it was 
 shrewdly guessed that to them these watch-cries had 
 practically lost their significance, and had become 
 the mere symbols of party organization. What had 
 been living truth, most living truth worth fighting 
 for, and praying for, and dying for, to Hampden and 
 Locke and Sidney and Russell, had ceased to be 
 intelligible to their descendants. They believed in 
 the principles of the Revolution Settlement as they 
 believed in the Settlement of the Thirty-nine Articles. 
 In other words, attachment to the principles of pro- 
 gress had become a mere mechanical habit of the 
 mind. All earnest men saw this ; and saw that it 
 was quite otherwise with Mowbray. Let his enemies 
 
288 
 
 AGAMEMNON. 
 
 call him what they liked, the nation had learnt that 
 to this man freedom of thought and speech was as 
 needful as “ the encasing air ; ” that he was one 
 who resented, as morally hateful to his highest in- 
 stincts, any interference with either — who detested 
 social and ecclesiastical slavery with his whole heart 
 — who loved liberty with a true and irrepressible 
 fervour, and bowed before Her as before a crowned 
 queen, with loyal and reverent obedience. Com- 
 pared with his natural and inborn sensitiveness to 
 her honour, the frothy protestations and empty 
 symbols of official patriots seemed mean and tawdry 
 to observant eyes. 
 
 This was the secret of his power. A liberal people 
 knew that the statesman who best represented them 
 - — who, because he was their greatest man, was also 
 their freest and broadest — was in the camp of the 
 Philistines. But they did not hesitate, and the 
 choice they made was a sagacious choice. They 
 said frankly, “ Men, not measures.” Measures, they 
 had discovered, were powerless to cure the profound 
 intolerance of their social system : the inspiration of 
 one great man would do more to relieve their life 
 and widen their code than any amount of parlia- 
 mentary legerdemain. And they were right. There 
 was never more real liberty in England than under 
 Mowbray’s Administration. He was great, honoured, 
 beloved : and the influence of his example pene- 
 trated the land. His countrymen hung upon the 
 
AGAMEMNON. 
 
 289 
 
 terse and pregnant words which fell from his lips. 
 It was a thing to be proud of that England should 
 speak to the nations in that ringing voice, and that 
 the most potent monarchy in Europe should be 
 identified with the logic and vigour of that unrivalled 
 intellect. Eed-tapists sneered when a ray of genius 
 lighted up a Diplomatic Note or a Eoyal Proclama- 
 tion ; but the heartfelt words stirred the hearts of the 
 people, and bound them at once to the man and to 
 the official. Few Governments have been stronger 
 than Mowbray’s ; for it rested upon the strength and 
 the integrity of a great man. Since his death all sorts 
 of liberal measures have become law. The constitu- 
 tion is tinkered every ten years : and whenever one 
 costermonger licks another, an act to amend the 
 laws relating to the liberty of the person is solemnly 
 introduced by Lord John Bustle. But is there less 
 intolerance in our society, less sectarianism in our 
 life, than during the Iron Age when Agamemnon 
 reigned in Argos ? 
 
( 290 ) 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 VERE NOVO. 
 
 The moan of doves in immemorial elms, 
 
 And murmur of innumerable bees. 
 
 “ T SAW,” says Heine, “ the young Spring-God, 
 large as life, standing on the summit of an 
 Alp.” Beautiful and charming picture, which no 
 painter has yet succeeded in painting. Among the 
 pale snows, and the rocky scaurs, and the morning 
 silence of the uncovered hills, stands the rosy God 
 in the flush of his fresh, glad, scornful boyhood — one 
 foot resting lightly upon the topmost crest, the other 
 raised for swift flight down into the valley — crowned 
 with the lily, and the orchis, and the anemone. 
 Hear our petitions, Boy of the Violet Crown ! May 
 these hearts that hail thee now never grow dry and 
 seared and withered, never lose the capacity for 
 loving, never cease to stir with the old triumphant, 
 rejoicing gladness, with the early exquisite life, when- 
 ever the birds and the green buds welcome thy re- 
 turn. Nay, the prayer is already too long delayed. 
 
VERE NOVO. 
 
 291 
 
 “ Already I discern a winter on every hand.” No 
 longer is it possible for us to believe in this seeming 
 gladness. It is hollow, artificial, insincere. Shine 
 as thou wilt, 0 Sun in Heaven, the too cunning eye 
 detects the coming cloud. Bud and blossom as you 
 will, 0 murmurous elms, the proj)hetic ear hears 
 the autumn winds warring among your desolate 
 branches. The unquiet heart, the unstrung nerves, 
 the overwrought brain, are sceptical of happiness. 
 Only the Sunshine that lies upon the child’s heart 
 is without its shadow to warn and menace. 
 
 Yet Spring in England is lovely — where more 
 lovely? As the cripple to the pool of Siloam, as 
 Arthur’s knights to old enchanted fountains, go and 
 bathe the soiled and tainted soul in that serene and 
 tranquil haven. By her blue lakes, on her breezy 
 downs, amid her hedgerows and orchard-blossoms, — 
 everywhere, like Raphael’s blessed mother, she is 
 pure and calm and beneficent, and everywhere she 
 is alike. Amid the still cathedral cities, amid the 
 grey ancestral homesteads, amid the rook-haunted 
 elms, and not least, but most of any in Thee, thou 
 fair and indolently graceful city, lying, swan-like, 
 along the margin of thy belated river — where the 
 shadows drift lightly across the green meadows of 
 Christchurch — where the ivy clusters and the apple 
 blossoms, white and scented, around the quadrangles 
 of Merton — where the deer roam, and the sturdy 
 oaks force their reluctant leaves, and the sunlight 
 
292 
 
 YEEE NOVO. 
 
 crosses the radiant angels that veil their faces before 
 the saint-like tower of Magdalen — where the spirit 
 of one age has been roused into life by the skilful 
 hand and faithful heart of another — where Hughes’ 
 black-stoled weeping queens mourn for the wounded 
 Arthur, and the sad Guinevere of Eossetti warns 
 back the sleeping Launcelot from his quest, and 
 Merlin, as he nears the oblivious waters, listens to 
 the notes of the beguiling lute ; a city where abbots 
 have prayed, and poets have rhymed, and scholars 
 have disputed, and nobles have fought, and kings 
 have governed ; an illustrious and venerable city, 
 which the inventive intellect of Muller, and the mild 
 wisdom of Jowett, still dignify and adorn. Abolish 
 whatever else you choose, vulgarize and secularize 
 our society in every way which the mechanical in- 
 vention of the mill-owner can suggest, pare our ima- 
 gination and clip our wings, stifle our public spirit 
 by the ballot, and extinguish our local nationalities 
 in electoral districts, make Frederick Peel a Chan- 
 cellor of the Exchequer, and Mr. Bright a Lord of 
 the Admiralty, — do all this if you will, but leave us 
 at least the monastic and beautiful life, which im- 
 presses the most careless mind, falls with the quiet 
 power of the unforgotten and unforgettable dead on 
 the most reckless heart, and encompasses with the 
 silent strength of a rich, energetic and vivid organiz- 
 ation, the most fickle temper. All monopoly and 
 exclusion are hateful : but surely a nourishment like 
 
VERE NOVO. 
 
 293 
 
 this must make finer men and better citizens than 
 the ignoble scramble of a metropolitan university or 
 an industrial school. Only leave us this, and we 
 will yet undertake to raise a race of statesmen and 
 gentlemen fit to govern their country. 
 
 It is pleasant to think that there are certain dis- 
 tricts of England, where science has not yet made 
 much way, where the people do not use the dialect 
 of the Seven Dials, but a Saxon, on the whole, not 
 altogether unfamiliar to Alfred, where no profane 
 hand (for the urchins who scramble through the 
 branches after the sparrows’ and the linnets’ nests, 
 are privileged neophytes) has disturbed the hedge- 
 rows since Cronrwell posted his Ironsides behind 
 them, and where each inch of the green bank at 
 their roots nourishes a group which Millais or Hunt 
 would take a year to copy. I know one of these 
 banks by heart : we sat upon it years ago, and she 
 pulled an ivy-leaved snap-dragon to pieces (how well 
 I recollect the fall, one by one, of the blue and 
 violet flowers from her nervous hand !) as the colour 
 came, and went, and came again upon her cheek. 
 I could describe it to you at this very moment, I 
 solemnly believe, though I have not seen it since 
 that day. I wonder if the same flowers grow there 
 now as used to grow there in the old time? So 
 much is changed and altered since then — so much is 
 lost and destroyed — so much blighted and soiled — 
 that I cannot fancy that the place quite retains the 
 
294 
 
 VEKE NOVO. 
 
 look I remember, that the ox-lip still peeps through 
 the grass, or that that flower still hangs out with 
 serene indifference its blue and purple banner. Did 
 these timid witnesses escape the blow ? did they not 
 feel the pang which hurt our hearts for ever ? 
 
 The city is not very beautiful in itself; a few 
 houses in the Close, built in the old English cottage 
 style, are very quaint and charming ; but the dwell- 
 ings in general are sombre and mean. But as you 
 wander through the dirty and narrow streets, you 
 look up at last into the sky, and lo ! a painted cloud 
 lies softly on the heaven, rapt, serene, and spiritual 
 as a dream by Angelico. And a fair and exquisite 
 piece of dreamwork it is ; all the more so from the 
 contrast between its wonderful and rare purity, and 
 the homely and harshly-coloured buildings among 
 which you stray, and over which it rises. As when 
 gazing on the dying splendour of the summer sunset, 
 you fear to close the eye for a moment, lest when 
 you look again, the aerial fabric may have fled. But 
 do not fear ; you may advance, and yet it will not 
 retreat; it stands firm against the breeze; it has 
 been framed by human hands, and fashioned out of 
 a human heart ; it is the noblest memorial that re- 
 mains to England of Avhat England was, of the free 
 strength and rich simplicity of happy and pious men. 
 
 On the outskirt of the town, but in sight of the 
 cathedral, whose massive towers are visible through 
 the budding elms of English May, buried in a little 
 
VERE NOVO. 
 
 295 
 
 clump of brushwood, which fringes the lawn down 
 to the river’s bank, Marley Lodge forms a delightful 
 retreat for the wearied lawyer or the jaded states- 
 man during the rest-day of the week. Miles has 
 taken it this year for the spring months ; so that 
 Corry may escape from the glare and fever of the 
 metropolis when she likes. Corry affects to hate 
 London, and she divides the season pretty impartially 
 between the cottage here and the great house in 
 Tudor-square. 
 
 The rustic drawing-room, with its softened glow 
 of colour, is not quite empty. Did you ever see 
 lovelier children? Seraph faces, worthy of Greuse 
 or Murillo. The twins are three or four years old, I 
 fancy (children’s ages have always been a mystery 
 to me), and both are dressed exactly alike; so 
 piquantly dressed, that in their little red cloaks, 
 and bright pink tasselled Turkish smoking-caps, you 
 might mistake them for little Eastern princesses, 
 from Bagdad or the Bosphorus, or the Arabian 
 Nights. I never could make out which was which ; 
 but the tiny fairies would resent any confusion of 
 identity, and one or other would elaborately explain, 
 “ Me not Minnie, me Doe.” When the one took ill, 
 the other did likewise; when Minnie laughed, Doe 
 would laugh in sympathy ; and they had a genuine 
 sense of the ridiculous, and enjoyed any kind of fun 
 with infinite relish and tact. Doe was a satirist from 
 her cradle, a flirt from the day her blue eyes opened ; 
 
29 6 
 
 VERE NOVO. 
 
 it was said that she solemnly mocked her sister 
 before she could walk ; Minnie was graver and state- 
 lier, a coquette of another order, who tried different 
 arts on her admirers, and captivated them by her 
 pensive affectation and sweet deprecating smiles. 
 Bewitching is the half-hidden side-glance which steals 
 so coquettishly to you — withdrawn suddenly, indeed, 
 if you show too plainly that you are conscious of it, 
 withdrawn for a moment as the little hand rises 
 nervously to the mouth, but still the merry eyes — 
 for the eyes are always laughing, and disavow the 
 pensive mouth — will not cease to gaze at you, and 
 keep you captive. Ah! little rogues — blue-eyed 
 banditti, as Mr. Longfellow would call you — how 
 many hearts you will break ere the noonday ! But 
 as yet the kittens are quite content where they are ; 
 in their soft furs, and in the midst of this happy, 
 warm life ; and each toddles after the other, and each 
 rolls over the other, and gets up again in a quiet, 
 unconcerned way, as if tumbling were natural and 
 inevitable to men and kittens. 
 
 The little fairies are listening to a fairy tale, and 
 the fairy tale runs thus : — 
 
 “ Once upon a time two boys were playing beside 
 the banks of a river, and as they played they saw the 
 fairy who lives far away down below the blue water 
 rise to the surface of the pool. She had a harp in 
 her hand, and her yellow hair was long and wavy, 
 and her eyes sparkled like dewdrops, and her voice 
 
VERE NOVO. 
 
 297 
 
 was as sweet as Alie’s. It was such a lovely place — 
 tall green trees grew round about, and their shadows 
 rested on the smooth water, and delicate mosses and 
 white lichens clung to the rocks that rose from the 
 water-side. You would fancy that the Necke — that 
 was the fairy’s name — would lead a happy life in 
 such a bright sunshiny spot, for though it was shut 
 in by the rocks and the trees there was plenty of the 
 warmest sunshine inside — and so she did, and she 
 sang so sweetly it might have made you cry, and the 
 burden of her song was always, ‘ And I hope, and I 
 hope that my Redeemer liveth.’ Then one of the 
 boys, — he was not a cruel boy, only he had been 
 badly taught at school, and did not know that the 
 birds, and the bees, and the flowers are loved by the 
 good Lord who made all these beautiful things ; and 
 he was a brave boy, as all English boys are, and not 
 a bit frightened, — he said to the Necke, 4 What is the 
 use of your singing and playing, Necke ? You will 
 never be saved.’ And the other boy, who was the 
 smaller of the two, said rudely — I don’t know why, 
 perhaps because he thought it manly to speak 
 roughly, like his big brother — ‘No, Necke, you will 
 never be saved.’ When the poor Necke heard this, 
 she began to weep bitterly, and then she flung away 
 her harp, and sank down under the water. But when 
 the boys went home they told their father what they 
 had done, and their father, who was a kind old man, 
 like Effie’s papa, said to them, ‘ My children, it was 
 
298 
 
 YEEE NOVO. 
 
 wicked to make the poor Necke cry ; you must go 
 back and comfort her.’ And when they went back 
 they found the Necke sitting upon the water, and 
 sobbing as if she would break her heart, and they 
 said both at once (for they were sorry for what they 
 had done), ‘ Necke, do not grieve so ; our father says 
 that perhaps your Redeemer liveth also.’ You should 
 have seen how bright the Necke looked when she 
 heard this, and she took up her harp again, and, as 
 they went home, they heard her singing as only 
 fairies can sing when they are happy, and after that 
 she sang joyfully the whole night through, — for 
 fairies don’t care about going to bed till morning.” 
 Within the policies, but on the margin of the 
 sluggish river, stands a miniature temple; call it 
 what you will, a temple, a chapel, a cell, nay, rather 
 the inverted bell of a beautiful flower — a foxglove, 
 or a convolvulus. Do you know the chapter-house 
 of the cathedral of Moravia? Well, this is a model 
 of it — such a model as Doe is of her mother. The 
 inverted bell of a beautiful flower, I say ; but a lily- 
 stalk rises from its centre, and then the ascending 
 and descending cups lightly kiss, and mingle lip to 
 lip. The building grows and expands like a flower, 
 and must have risen as the lily rises. There is not 
 a straight line nor a sharp angle anywhere ; but an 
 exquisite curve is caught throughout, which I do not 
 think stone or lime ever caught elsewhere, except, 
 perhaps, in the arched roof of the chancel at Peter- 
 
YEEE NOVO. 
 
 299 
 
 borough, and the secret of which the birch and the 
 acacia now keep to themselves. 
 
 “ I like it,” said Mowbray to Miles. They were 
 standing by the bank of the river ; “ I like to catch 
 a glimpse of our old Norland work here. Strange 
 where our rough ancestors could have got these 
 exquisite proportions and that rare beauty ! ” 
 
 “ From the sea,” said Miles. 
 
 “ They got their cod and mackerel there ; I doubt 
 if they got their churches.” 
 
 a I think they did — their churches and their bal- 
 lads. The sea is in them both ; its misty solemnity 
 in the one, its fresh breezy scent in the other. A 
 man needs to live by the sea ere a building will grow 
 out of his mind, as a flower grows out of the soil. 
 The sea harmonises and attunes his powers. I never 
 heard of a man who did anything great, who had not 
 known the sea.” 
 
 “ You harp upon the sea,” replied Mowbray ; “ and 
 yet — ’tis a grand master, after all. I remember 
 how, Greek-wise, I used to harangue it in the old 
 days ; I think some of the best speeches I ever made 
 were addressed to the bay of Ashton. Sydney says 
 that whenever I get into a passion with the House 
 (which of course I never do), I remind him of a 
 storm in the Atlantic. There is perhaps more in it 
 than he thinks. I once tried hard to catch the moan, 
 or sob, that the waves make in the Earl’s Cave. 
 I never quite succeeded myself, but I took Benoni 
 
 x 2 
 
300 
 
 YEEE N0Y0. 
 
 there one summer-day, and he gave us its liquid 
 gurgle afterwards in a surprising way, in Bombastes , 
 
 I think. But the old ballads — yes, they are full of 
 the sea, and you are saturated with them. Give me 
 a cigar, Miles, and we will talk about them in the 
 temple. What has come of the Solicitor ? I thought 
 he was to be here.” 
 
 “ He was to row up,” replied Miles, as they entered 
 the lily-like shrine ; “ but I suspect he is courting , as 
 we say in the north ; and a man in that state is not 
 to be relied on.” 
 
 “ Fickle as a patriot,” said the Minister. 
 
 Yes, the old ballads are full of the sea, and, like 
 the sea-shell, they carry their scent along with them. 
 Not of the soft blue Adriatic which touched Horace 
 and the Hellenics, which runs through the Odyssey , 
 as the iEgean runs through Greece, but of the grim, 
 rough Northern sea, which laps the feet of Odin and 
 the Gods, do the old ballads smack. It is no 
 summer breeze, no Mediterranean “ white squall,” that 
 blows through Sir Patrick Spens, but a black “ nor- 
 waster” straight from the pole, that will blow till 
 the masts are bare, and the waves are black, and the 
 very midday welkin itself dour as night or death. 
 
 They had na sailed a league, a league, 
 
 A league, hut barely three, 
 
 When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, 
 
 And gurly grew the sea. 
 
 It is always on the sea or the sea-like rivers that the 
 
VERE NOVO. 
 
 301 
 
 crowning tragedy takes place. The Douglas rides 
 on ; but his life-blood runs the while, and stains with 
 a purple stream “ that wan water.” The death-mist 
 darkens the earl’s eyes as he bleeds to death upon 
 the English moors, but his heart is beating with the 
 wild northern breakers — 
 
 For I hae dreamed a dreary dream 
 Ayont the Isle of Skye. 
 
 And when we come to such lines as these — 
 
 There was a roar in Clyde’s water 
 Wad fear’d a hundred men, — 
 
 we can see and hear the flooded river tearing along 
 as the fevered knight gallops down the hill-side, and 
 we know at once that he will never reach the other 
 bank, though man and horse swim stoutly, as Scottish 
 men and horses do. 
 
 “ Our fathers were Vikings,” said Mowbray, “ and 
 that is the reason why these sea-stories stir our 
 blood. But, after all, I am only half a sea-king. 
 I was not born, Miles, among the waves, as you 
 were ; 
 
 But it was in the gude green wood, 
 
 Among the lily-flowers, 
 
 like brave English Robin. And an Englishman is 
 not such a despicable creature, after all. Look at 
 these towers.” 
 
 Sharply cut against the encrimsoned evening sky 
 rose the famous towers of that immemorial shrine. 
 
3 02 
 
 VERE NOVO. 
 
 The river flowed between, the town lay between ; 
 but the massive pile, like the mountains, dwarfed 
 every other object, and towered right overhead, as it 
 seemed. 
 
 “ Yes,” answered Miles ; “ but it is from its cathe- 
 drals alone that you can tell that a great people once 
 occupied this land.” 
 
 “ And are they not enough ? What other people, 
 except the Romans, can show more ? And Roman 
 work was barbarous ; they were hard-handed soldiers 
 from first to last, and cared for nothing except bulk 
 and strength.” 
 
 “ But what do these tell us of the past ? Do they 
 tell us anything ? ” 
 
 “ This at least,” said Mowbray : “ in the complete 
 unity of every feature, in the perfect harmony of 
 every detail, that the men who made them knew 
 what they wished to make, that they were in earnest, 
 that they felt, as Leighton would say, that they were 
 doing God’s work, and so did it, as such work should 
 be done, without fear or flaw. But ours is an age 
 of doubt,” he continued, in that tone of sarcastic 
 melancholy which was habitual with him, “ no, not 
 of doubt — hesitation is the right word (for we do not 
 dare to doubt) — when no man’s w T ork lies at his 
 hand, and God’s work seems farthest off of any — 
 when no man knows indeed whether what he pro- 
 poses to do may not be the devil’s work. And so, 
 instead of these eternal shrines, we will leave — what ? 
 
VERE NOVO. 
 
 3°3 
 
 Our cotton-mills, our plaster palaces, our mud 
 embankments which every flood washes away, — the 
 perishable memory of a wealth which perished in 
 the using! Miles,” he said, after a pause, “your 
 architecture is all very w r ell ; but you cannot rival 
 this yet.” 
 
 A ribston pippin grew along the wall, and one of 
 its blossomed branches crept round the doorway 
 where they sat Have you ever nicely observed a 
 sprig of apple-blossom? One lies beside me while 
 I write this that I would fain describe if I could. 
 There is a bright vermilion glow on the unfolding 
 leaves, like the rosy bloom on the child’s face, while 
 the pale and delicate flush on the opened buds recals 
 the faint flush that comes and goes in soft pulsations 
 on the maiden’s cheek. But w 7 ky write about these 
 things ? This black ink and dingy paper on the one 
 hand ; the radiant white and pink of these blossoms 
 on the other ; what affinity can there be between 
 the two, and how is it possible to change the one 
 into a picture of the other ? That is a transforma- 
 tion which only the spell of a Goethe or a Tennyson 
 can work. 
 
 “ These are my rosebuds at least,” answered Miles, 
 as Corry slowly approached, with the children cling- 
 ing to her knees. 
 
 “You gentlemen can never think of anything 
 except your work. I know you have been talking 
 politics,” she said. 
 
3 o4 
 
 VERE N0Y0. 
 
 “No; like Falstaff, we babbled o’ green fields, 1 ” 
 replied Mowbray. “I hope it is no proof that onr 
 wits are going.” 
 
 “ I misdoubt you, my lord, and so does Doe. She 
 avers you have not spoken to her to-day.” 
 
 “My dainty little tyrant, come and play the 
 coquette to me.” 
 
 But the little coquette, with affected timidity, hid 
 her face in her mother’s lap, and would not listen to 
 the statesman’s flatteries. At length, the beguiling 
 voice, potent with men and gods, won its way, and 
 Doe, mounted on his knee, lisped in broken words 
 how angry she had been with him for his unfaithful- 
 ness, and how she had determined never to forgive 
 him. Probably she could not make so long a speech 
 in articulate words ; but the large reproachful eyes 
 may have said as much. 
 
 Mowbray, when he unbent, was fascinating. Could 
 his enemies have watched him as he sat there, with 
 the child nestling upon his knee, and heard him 
 with mingled tenderness and naivete win his way to 
 the little heart, perhaps they might not have hated 
 him so fiercely as they did. The great satirist was 
 hardly to be recognised at such a moment, except 
 perhaps in a tone of ironic sadness, which tinged his 
 most familiar talk. But the irony was not unpleasing ; 
 it was the irony which lies deep, I think, in the 
 English character : the surface-play of a temper 
 habitually grave. The intense reserve of an intellect 
 
VERE NOYO. 
 
 3°5 
 
 which protects itself even against its affections, 
 could find no more characteristic defence. And 
 with Mowbray, time had mellowed its bitterness and 
 taken away its sting. It was rather “ the wise sad 
 valour ” of a man who has seen many cities and men ; 
 who has found when at the summit of a career that 
 success is not such a very successful thing, after all ; 
 and who, as he witnesses the eager scramble of the 
 crowd, is content, not indeed to laugh with Swift, 
 but to smile with Horace. He had many very deep 
 and hearty convictions ; if he had not, I honestly 
 believe that he would have given up public life ; 
 though no doubt the charm of vivid action was pro- 
 foundly felt by that active and sleepless intellect. 
 But when he unbent, he unbent wholly ; a certain 
 indolent listlessness and abandon succeeded the keen 
 energy of work : his repose was as complete as the 
 repose of a Greek statue, and as graceful. Indeed, 
 the Minister was always graceful; his Latin was 
 graceful ; his epigrams were graceful ; I have no 
 doubt that even his dressing-gown was not inelegant, 
 and that its folds were studied. But this graceful- 
 ness was neither affected nor shallow. It was the 
 genuine and deeply-rooted instinct of an intensely 
 refined and fastidious intellect, and therefore was 
 quite free from affectation. Nor was it a proof of 
 
 shallowness any more than the clumsiness of W d 
 
 is a proof of depth. The grace was not incompatible 
 
30 6 
 
 YEEE NOVO. 
 
 with the keenest and most passionate energy of 
 feeling and thought. 
 
 “ The daintiest little angels out of heaven,” said 
 Mowbray, as the children played about his knee. 
 “ Let us lie down, my pets, on this grassy bank, and 
 you shall teach me the innocent secret of child- 
 hood.” 
 
 And so the spring sunset fell upon the group of 
 to-day, as it fell upon the great Minster of a perished 
 race, upon the yellow girlish curls, upon Corry’s 
 pensive beauty, upon the worn but noble face which 
 once hung in the boudoir of every Englishwoman, — 
 who recognised in the Great Commoner the sole 
 representative, in an unchivalrous society, of the 
 antique grace and gallantry. 
 
( 3°7 ) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE JEBUSITES. 
 
 And when religious sects ran mad, 
 
 He held — in spite of all his learning — 
 
 That if a man’s belief is bad, 
 
 It will not be improved by burning. 
 
 ]l F OWBRAY had now been Premier for nearly 
 ^ six years. During that period his administra- 
 tion had been constantly gaining ground in the 
 confidence and the respect of the people. In the 
 House, also, its position was respectable. Around 
 the Minister sat a group of illustrious colleagues — 
 men who for tact, zeal, and administrative capacity, 
 have seldom been rivalled. Behind him were ranged 
 the rank and file of his own party, and a band of 
 untried politicians — men then little known to fame, 
 but who have since proved that the generous chivalry 
 and imaginative enthusiasm which bound them to 
 Mowbray had not disqualified them for the graver 
 responsibilities of office. On the Opposition benches 
 those statesmen were gathered before whose compact 
 organisation and bitter hostility a greater minister 
 
308 
 
 THE JEBUSITES. 
 
 than Mowbray had fallen. Their ranks, moreover, 
 had been recently recruited by various Tory deserters, 
 who hated their ancient leader with the zeal and 
 venom of apostates. It was a powerful Opposition, 
 — such an Opposition, that only the high personal 
 character of the Minister had kept the Cabinet in 
 place so long. The vehement Barton, the wary 
 Orange, the subtle Halifax, all the representatives 
 in the Commons of the great Whig connexion, were 
 united by a common tie — hostility to the untitled 
 “ adventurer ” who had braved their displeasure, and 
 whose wiry and tenacious hands held the reins of 
 government. But the opportunity to wrench them 
 from the plebeian dictator had now apparently 
 arrived, and it was eagerly seized. 
 
 In the strange society of whose characteristics I 
 have been writing, a small sect of religious enthusiasts 
 whose tenets are, to say the least, eccentric, had long 
 maintained a torpid vitality. They believed that 
 an old lady, who was said to be no better than she 
 should be, and whose scarlet petticoats were of the 
 deepest dye, was the divinely appointed head of 
 the Church. A hundred and fifty years before, a 
 great poet had ridiculed with less, perhaps, than his 
 usual keenness of satire, the other article of their 
 creed : — 
 
 The Egyptian rites the Jebusites embraced, 
 
 Where gods were recommended by their taste. 
 
 Such savoury deities must needs he good, 
 
 As served at once for worship and for food. 
 
THE JEBUSITES. 
 
 3°9 
 
 Bidiculously absurd, no doubt, — though indeed many 
 of the finest intellects in Europe did not hesitate to 
 accept, and with keen logic to defend, the thesis, — 
 but not demanding more than the loud and vacant 
 laughter to which the great nation treated it. Not 
 content, however, with intellectual dissent, the leaders 
 of civil and religious liberty had prosecuted the pro- 
 fessors of this doctrine with all the industry of the 
 Inquisition, and the gall of their bitterness still 
 infected and disgraced the Statute-book. Because 
 the Jebusites supported opinions which were specu- 
 latively absurd, they were excluded, for instance, 
 from the general Legislative Council, an assembly 
 which professed to represent every class in the com- 
 munity. To the genial and high-bred temper of 
 Mowbray, the vulgar disabilities of sect were pecu- 
 liarly obnoxious. He was by temper, as I have said, 
 essentially tolerant. The zealots of either party 
 beheld in him the political Gallio, “ who cared for 
 none of these things.” The judgment was as false as 
 it could well be ; for the large tolerance of his nature 
 was not the offspring of indifference, but of an intel- 
 lect at once keen and equable. To erase from the 
 Statute-book the sullen animosities of creed, to free 
 the Constitution from the impurities of fanatical 
 intemperance, was, of all the measures which the 
 Minister contemplated, the one which lay nearest to 
 his heart. During his administration many minute 
 but irritating sores had been cautiously removed, and 
 
3 io 
 
 THE JEBUSITES. 
 
 lie had now ventured to introduce a sweeping 
 measure, and to try conclusions with an arrogant and 
 intolerant Propaganda. In inaugurating a policy 
 which offended many of his own followers, he had to 
 rely to some extent upon the support of an Opposi- 
 tion which had condescended to become the champion 
 of the Conscience. These very disabilities, indeed, 
 had been created by the ancestry of the Opposition, 
 and had been criticised and condemned by their 
 rivals of the hour, — for the Tory of King George was 
 the Eadical of Queen Anne ; but times change and 
 parties revolve, and the Whig who in power had 
 persecuted was the Whig who, when persecuted, 
 eloquently protested against persecution. And so 
 long had his exclusion from office now lasted, that 
 by the mere force of assertion the nation had been 
 led to believe that “ Liberty” was the peculiar 
 dowry of a party which history declares to be narrow 
 and selfish at heart, ungrateful to friends, ungenerous 
 to foes. Mowbray was thus entitled to expect, that 
 for shame, if not for love, a measure of emancipation 
 would be welcomed by Emancipators. 
 
( 3 ” ) 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LADY WINDERMERE’S. 
 
 Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 
 
 In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold ; 
 
 With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
 Rain influence, and judge the prize. 
 
 rPHEKE was a crowded assembly at Lady Win- 
 dermere’s. 
 
 “ Why do our young men,” said Mrs. Warrender 
 to Alice, “ so resolutely strive to look like fools ? 
 Nature is strong enough unaided.” 
 
 “ The labour is thrown away, certainly,” was the 
 reply ; “ it is gilding the gold.” 
 
 “ It is the morale and not the physique,” said 
 Lord Maurice, “ which has deteriorated. They are 
 splendid fellows at a hedge or a six-barred gate. 
 Let them go at the French or the Cossacks, and you 
 will see what pace is. The pluck and the stamina 
 are as good as ever ; but, as you say, they are fools. 
 I dine with some of them, for my sins, once or twice 
 a year — it is awful work. Anything more utterly 
 feeble, I defy you to find in Christendom. ’Tis a 
 moral and intellectual paralysis.” 
 
312 
 
 LADY WINDEEMEEE’S. 
 
 “ Very long words,” said Alice; “but why do you 
 do it ? ” 
 
 “ Why, as Congreve says — ‘ I please myself : 
 besides, sometimes to converse with fools is for my 
 health.’ ” 
 
 “ You take rather too gloomy a view of our ad- 
 mirers, don’t you ? But who is that ? ” 
 
 “ The fat little man with the sharp face ? That’s 
 the new Judge. His father was a publican in the 
 Isle of Dogs. What right have they to put such men 
 on the bench ? They can’t be judicial : they have 
 not the inborn instinct which keeps a thoroughbred 
 intellect in the straight path of logic and reason.” 
 
 “ Don’t speak so,” said Mrs. Warrender ; “ you 
 know we are all for the people.” 
 
 “ The people are very well in their way — but why 
 make heroes and martyrs of them ? I believe they 
 are pretty much like the rest of us, and don’t want 
 to be canonized.” 
 
 “ Ah ! you are an infidel, Lord Maurice, and don’t 
 believe in the saints.” 
 
 “ I do — in one or two,” he replied, bowing to them 
 in his courtly way. “ But saints are common among 
 the lower orders only in that visionary world where 
 Walpole is a philosopher and Wood a wit.” 
 
 Lord Maurice, who knew everybody, and every- 
 body’s "father and grandfather, continued his com- 
 mentary as the guests went past. That was the new 
 Bishop, and that was the new Poet. That was a Be- 
 
LADY WINDERMERE’S. 
 
 3i3 
 
 former of provincial manners, who had cured the 
 provinces, by showing them his own. That was a 
 strenuous Defender of the Faith, who, privately, did 
 not believe much in anything except whisky-and- 
 water. That was a parochial Satirist, who wrote 
 terribly severe epigrams about the doctor and the 
 clergyman when they neglected to ask him to dinner. 
 That was a Classical Editor, who had taken to the 
 dead languages late in life, and had begun to learn 
 when his contemporaries had begun to forget. “ It’s 
 rather a bore,” said Lord Maurice, yawning. “ He 
 is under the impression that the rest of the world, 
 like himself, are still being birched. So he fills the 
 morning paper with Greek verbs and exercises in 
 Latin syntax — much to the edification of the general 
 reader.” That was the Historian of the aristocracy, 
 who was as familiar with the peccadilloes of the 
 Roses as with the Chronique Scandaleuse of the Re- 
 gency. “ He fancies that he has the blood of all the 
 Howards in his veins,” said Lord Maurice ; “ and 
 his father — decent man!— was a drover in Drum- 
 nadrochit.” 
 
 “ I have just left the House,” said Charley Latimer, 
 coming up to where they sat. “ Warrender has 
 made a first-rate speech, and come down upon 
 Trelawney in style. The House was quite with him. 
 Are any of our men about, Maurice ? I am beating 
 them up.” 
 
 “ Are you going to divide ? ” 
 
 Y 
 
3 i4 
 
 LADY WINDERMERE’S. 
 
 “ In an hour. Monmouth was winding up when 1 
 left, and Mowbray is not to speak thirty minutes. 
 Ah ! there is Lord Bustle with the Baroness — I must 
 waylay him.” 
 
 And the whip disappeared in the crowd. 
 
 “ Let me congratulate Mrs. Warrender on her 
 husband’s speech,” said Darcy, who had come up. 
 “ ’Tis a great success. Mowbray is immensely 
 pleased. The House was taken by surprise. They 
 didn’t know it was in him ; he has never cared to 
 strike yet. But Trelawney’s attack on Mowbray 
 stung him, and worked him up to the point where 
 anger gets eloquent. The severe and weighty indig- 
 nation of his rebuke made a profound impression. 
 Sir Jasper didn’t like it, I can tell you.” 
 
 A glow of gratified pride tinged Corry’s cheek. 
 
 “ I am very happy,” she said, in a low voice, that 
 was audible only to Alice ; “ I should so like to have 
 heard him.” 
 
 “ He didn’t mean to speak. Mowbray will make 
 a great reply. Miles sent me along to try and get 
 you to come down.” 
 
 “ Charming. Will you go, Alice? But how are 
 we to get there ? ” 
 
 “ Leave it to me- — I will manage. Will you take 
 my arm ? ” 
 
( 3*5 ) 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 apollo’s lyee. 
 
 We, we have seen the intellectual race 
 Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 
 
 Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
 Of eloquence between, which flowed all free, 
 
 As the deep billows of the iEgean roar 
 Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore. 
 
 npHEY drove quickly through the streets, which, 
 late as it was, were still crowded and brilliantly 
 lighted. The political clubs were astir and excited ; 
 members hurried in to learn what even yet hung in 
 the balance — the fate of the great Minister. For, 
 after considerable hesitation, the Opposition had 
 resolved to fight. But as Emancipators could not 
 with seemliness defeat a measure of emancipation, 
 considerable circumspection was necessary to give a 
 decent colouring to the assault. So, instead of a 
 direct negative, they asked the House to affirm that 
 certain things were out of the Bill which ought 
 to have been in it. The Jebusites, at the time 
 the penal statutes directed against them were 
 passed, had declined to use the hair-powder then 
 
 y 2 
 
3 j 6 
 
 APOLLO’S LYEE. 
 
 worn by tlie loyal subjects of the monarchy. Poli- 
 tical motives were supposed to be involved ; the tax 
 on hair-powder was an important source of national 
 revenue ; and thus unpowdered cues became the cue 
 of the disaffected. The result was, that a Whig 
 minister carried a measure which declared that 
 whoever was guilty of wearing his head as God made 
 it, should be visited with the pains and penalties set 
 forth in the statute. Men in the old days had died 
 at the stake to assert the lawfulness of unpowdered 
 hair. But these days were past ; the nation had 
 changed its mind, and left the finance minister to 
 discover other sources of revenue ; the distinction 
 had been abolished and forgotten. The obnoxious 
 statute was perfectly obsolete, and its existence was 
 only known to a few constitutional antiquarians. 
 Mowbray’s measure, intended to redress practical 
 grievances, had neglected to deal with penalties 
 which public opinion had repealed. Here was an 
 opening for the Opposition ! The ministerialists 
 vainly attempted to explain that it was unnecessary 
 to repeal a forgotten and fantastic disability, and 
 unsafe, by such an association, to discredit the relief 
 that was urgently needed. It was of no avail. The 
 Opposition had got their grievance, and they worked 
 it like men. The measure was a sham — a Tory 
 intrigue — a fraud, which pretended to enfranchise, 
 but virtually enslaved. Not repeal this odious and 
 despotic law! True, nobody wears powder now; 
 
APOLLO’S LYRE. 
 
 3 J 7 
 
 but the principle is at stake. There is no difficulty, 
 besides, in getting quit of a practical grievance ; it 
 is the invisible and intangible, those which hurt no 
 one, and which no one resents, that the true friends 
 of freedom must watch most narrowly. 
 
 The Jebusites unfortunately were not able to rise 
 to the height of this great argument. They were 
 quite willing to take the Bill as it stood. It libe- 
 rated them from many irritating restraints ; it con- 
 ferred upon them all the rights of citizenship. 
 Nobody wore powder that they knew of, and nobody 
 that they knew of had ever been prosecuted for not 
 wearing it. “ But,” replied the jealous guardians 
 of freedom, “ it is the principle we fight for, not 
 the wretched details. It is your duty and your 
 privilege to suffer in its vindication.” But the argu- 
 ment did not disturb their ignoble content. They 
 wanted to be made justices of the peace, and mem- 
 bers of the senate; and they could not be got to 
 entertain right views upon the hair-powder. For- 
 tunately for themselves, however, they were not 
 enfranchised as yet, and so could not vote against 
 their friends. 
 
 This was the High Debate, on the issue of which 
 the fate of the Ministry depended. 
 
 “ Did you ever hear such rubbish ? ” said Darcy, 
 as they rolled along, and he described some of the 
 speeches. “ The little statesman struts about on the 
 
3i8 
 
 APOLLO’S LYEE. 
 
 constitutional dunghill, which he wants to keep all 
 to himself ! Like the hero of the old song — 
 
 Aye cacklin’ like a clokin hen.” 
 
 It was a mild spring night, and the round moon 
 rested serenely upon the towers of the Abbey. Black, 
 massive, silent, the huge pile rose into the sky, and 
 cast its cold shadow upon the neighbouring chapel. 
 Darcy and his companions passed quickly through 
 the hall, where a large crowd awaited the issue of 
 the debate, and in another moment, from behind the 
 latticed screen, they looked down upon the famous 
 arena. 
 
 It is a grand spectacle, that simple assembly. The 
 entire absence of ceremonial or parade adds, I think, 
 to the effect which it produces on the mind. There 
 is no deception, no artifice. It is an unpretending 
 meeting of English gentlemen. Yet what can be 
 finer than the chivalrous courtesy ? How the rivals 
 hate each other, and yet the noble politeness never 
 fails ! Only centuries of high breeding, of guarded 
 honour, of inherited tact, could preserve that volun- 
 tary restraint. How bitter is the sarcasm, how 
 cutting the irony ; but the speaker never uses an 
 expression which a society of gentlemen can resent, 
 and the victim never winces. Self-command and 
 self-respect are the secret machinery which gives to 
 this unimpressive and unambitious assembly an 
 
APOLLO’S LYRE. 
 
 3*9 
 
 authority which the most splendid despotism does 
 not wield. 
 
 Every bench is crowded, every seat occupied. A 
 former colleague, who had recently deserted the 
 Minister, is speaking. Calm, insidious, and studi- 
 ously moderate, it is yet obvious that he hates his old 
 friend with more than party bitterness. Mowbray 
 feels it, they say ; is wounded by it to the quick ; 
 but will not notice it, will pass it by with a silence 
 that is more expressive than any words could be. 
 Even the Opposition are conscious that the speech is 
 somewhat ungenerous ; still it helps them, and they 
 cheer it lustily ; the oily orator concludes amid a 
 shout of applause that contrasts with the silent and 
 stern dissatisfaction of those among whom he lately 
 sat. It is a triumph of a kind, a triumph that, even at 
 the moment, could barely have gratified, and which, 
 years afterwards, was bitterly avenged. 
 
 As you enter the antechamber of the new Houses, 
 the two great orators of a generation that has passed 
 away stand upon either hand; the spare and at- 
 tenuated minister, and his jovial and rotund foe, the 
 most eloquent and simple-hearted of Englishmen. 
 Their successors preserved many of the old contrasts, 
 though traced in less marked and decisive lines. 
 
 “ I see Mr. Mowbray,” whispered Alice ; “ but 
 where is Mr. Barton ? ” 
 
 “ There,” said Mrs. Warrender, pointing out the 
 leader of the Opposition. 
 
320 
 
 APOLLO’S LYEE. 
 
 Ay, there they sit, one on either side of the House, 
 and respectively in the van of the famous historical 
 parties, which for two centuries have governed this 
 famous England. Men not lightly to be forgotten. 
 Mowbray, the great commoner who has refused the 
 blue ribbon, and would not exchange his simple 
 “ Esquire ” for any title on earth, keen, clear, com- 
 manding, thoroughbred, a fitting representative of a 
 temperate people and an historic monarchy ! Barton 
 passionate, generous, warm-hearted, logical, vehe- 
 ment, a fiery orator, a courageous tribune ! 
 
 Very fierce to-night were his words; and, feeling 
 perhaps that his argument would not bear much 
 handling, he gave more than usual play to the 
 sweep of his rich and fervid invective, ^nd yet 
 even the argument was conducted with infinite 
 ingenuity ; if coiled itself around the foe ; it twisted 
 and untwisted its links with surpassing dexterity; 
 it was impossible to sift these passionate sophistries. 
 Sustained and searching argument, clothed in rapid, 
 vehement, nay, almost boisterous declamation — that 
 was his peculiar gift, a gift bestowed upon no other 
 orator I ever heard, at least in the same measure. 
 For men are for the most part divided into the two 
 classes ; the logical and the rhetorical ; and rarely, 
 very rarely, once in a century or so, are the two 
 found united. But logic was the very soul of 
 Barton’s eloquence. 
 
 Amid the tumult of cheers which greeted the 
 
APOLLO’S LYRE. 
 
 321 
 
 peroration of tlieir chief, the Minister rose, and im- 
 mediately, in a still and unimpassioned voice began 
 his reply. From the turbid mountain torrent to the 
 azure and many-dimpled smile of ocean — from Barton 
 to Mowbray — the contrast was sudden and striking. 
 Exquisitely poised as a Greek capital, every syllable 
 was effective. The art was perfect — perfect because 
 so artfully hidden. Each successive sentence was a 
 step to the denouement ; but the path was studiously 
 concealed ; he seemed to toy with his victim, and 
 dally with his argument ; and the ringing invective 
 or the winged jest startled, at last, with all the 
 suddenness of surprise. The burnished shaft had 
 pierced the quarry ere it was seen that the bow 
 was bent. He spoke without pain, and without 
 passion. With mellow laughter, he ridiculed the 
 pretences to which the Opposition had had recourse. 
 Then he alluded slightly, but in a graver tone, to 
 the charges which had been hurled against himself. 
 4 6 Some of them,” he said, calmly, though the bell-like 
 notes did not ring quite so clearly as in the passages 
 of fun and irony that had preceded, “ might have 
 been spared, if only for the ghost of a departed 
 friendship.” Then amid the touched silence of the 
 House, he went on to vindicate his consistency. 
 “If anything has been dear to me since my boy- 
 hood, if anything will remain dear to me till death, 
 it is — liberty. That birthright of the sons of 
 England is the peculiar heritage of no party in 
 
3 22 
 
 APOLLO’S LYEE. 
 
 the State. An aristocratic connexion has, indeed, 
 vouchsafed to it an exotic patronage ; but I take 
 leave to doubt the genuineness of the homage. At 
 all events, I will permit no party to enjoy an exclu- 
 sive monopoly. Statesmen, as well as patriots, may 
 assert the excellence and vindicate the integrity of 
 English freedom. As for myself, I regard not the 
 bitter words that have assailed the “ ambitious 
 adventurer.” They do not hurt me now, they 
 will not disquiet those to whom I bequeath the 
 justification of my ambition. True, I am ambitious ; 
 it is an early frailty ; a frailty which, even to-night, 
 I am not solicitous to disown. That it has been 
 altogether gratified I do not presume to affirm, for 
 I have desired something more than even the con- 
 fidence of this great assembly. My ambition, my 
 sole ambition, has been to gain a place in the hearts 
 of my countrymen, and to leave a name, not alto- 
 gether unbeloved, nor unfamiliar to the English 
 race.” 
 
 He spoke calmly, but the words thrilled his hearers. 
 The solemn accents, the calm reproach, were affecting 
 at the moment ; now they are touched with enduring 
 pathos and a sad immortality. The nation has not 
 forgotten even yet — amid futile politicians and feeble 
 statesmen — the dying appeal of the great Minister. 
 
 A few minutes of keen anxiety — for the division 
 was expected to be very close — and then the result 
 was known. A majority of twenty-nine for the 
 
APOLLO’S LYEE. 
 
 3 2 3 
 
 Government — narrow, but sufficient in the then 
 balanced state of parties. In fact, after the ominous 
 prophecies of the past fortnight, the numbers were 
 regarded as a triumph by ministers. 
 
 One clamorous cheer, and the House rapidly 
 emptied. Leaning on Miles’s arm, Mowbray walked 
 along the hall, which was still crowded — crowded by 
 those who had waited to greet the triumphant Minister. 
 As he passed by they pressed around him ; the antique 
 rafters echoed their acclamations ; it was a great po- 
 pular ovation. Mowbray was evidently affected ; he 
 trembled with unusual emotion; Miles had never seen 
 the reserved and haughty Minister so visibly moved. 
 
 “This is the recompense,” he muttered as they 
 drove away ; and the unwonted cheers startled the 
 empty streets and the grey dawn. 
 
( 3 2 4 ) 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 DOWNING-STREET. 
 
 He is all fault who hath no fault at all ; 
 
 For who loves me must have a touch of earth. 
 
 IVT OWBRAY sat in his office in Downing-street the 
 morning after the debate. The room was 
 simply furnished ; the walls lined with blue-books 
 and works on foreign and international law ; a 
 massive writing-table of oak occupied the centre. 
 A print of Pitt hung over the mantelpiece. 
 
 The Minister was dictating a diplomatic despatch 
 to a clerk who sat at his elbow. It was a communi- 
 cation addressed to a foreign and not very friendly 
 court, and every sentence required to be weighed 
 and measured with the nicest attention. Mowbray’s 
 exquisite tact was never more conspicuous than when 
 thus occupied. If the balance wavered a hair’s- 
 breadth on either hand — if a word hinted too little 
 or implied too much — the unfaltering instinct was 
 awakened and the slip at once repaired. * Not a line 
 passed from that room which could not bear the 
 scrutiny of the keenest intellects in Europe. His 
 
DOWNING-STEEET. 
 
 3 2 5 
 
 despatches were addressed at once to the closet and 
 to the forum. The hostile diplomatist read them, 
 and admired their wary and sinewy discretion ; the 
 people read them, and felt that in the hands of this 
 fearless moralist the honour of the country was 
 secure. He never committed himself, though to 
 the uninitiated and on the surface the words often 
 seemed wonderfully frank and unreserved. But it 
 was not so. Foreign ministers scanned them eagerly, 
 to elicit from any unguarded phrase the secret wishes 
 of the English Cabinet ; parliamentary opponents dis- 
 sected them with critical animosity ; but the more 
 they were handled the more intangible they grew. 
 I know that some wiseacres are rather disposed to 
 underrate diplomatic address ; only the unwise and 
 ignorant can do so. The subtle and vigilant diplo- 
 matists of Continental Europe acknowledged that 
 Mowbray was a master of their craft — almost the 
 only master the islanders had produced — and the 
 opinion of the English monarchy, always exerted 
 in behalf of “ truth, peace, freedom, mercy,” had 
 never more weight with the world than during his 
 administration. 
 
 He continued to dictate ; it was a grave State 
 paper, and required even more than ordinary deli- 
 beration. A deputation was announced. 
 
 “Let them in. Wait, please,” he added to Miles, 
 “ they won’t keep me five minutes.” 
 
 The deputation had come to advocate the abolition 
 
3 26 
 
 DOWNING- STREET. 
 
 of certain import duties. Keen-eyed Manchester 
 cotton-spinners, Sheffield cutlers, as sharp as their 
 own blades, professional agitators, and honest trades- 
 men from the country, who looked rather afraid of 
 the Minister. 
 
 “ Well, gentlemen,” he said, rising and standing 
 before the fire, “ what can I do for you ? ” 
 
 A spare, hollow-chested man, with a very long and 
 sallow face, who stood in the van, acted as spokesman. 
 With remarkable clearness and precision he explained 
 the nature of the changes which they desired. The 
 Minister listened attentively, thanked the speaker, 
 with the grace peculiar to him, for his lucid exposi- 
 tion, and then briefly indicated his own sentiments — 
 
 “ I am opposed,” he said, “ to all restrictions upon 
 trade, thought, and speech. As to moral and political 
 restrictions, I think we are in a fair way of getting 
 quit of them, because nobody is peculiarly concerned 
 in their retention. But it is quite otherwise when 
 we come to deal with the restrictions that affect our 
 trade and commerce : powerful classes are interested 
 in their maintenance ; their abolition cannot be 
 secured until after a protracted, and what, I fear, 
 will prove a fierce and obstinate struggle. Now the 
 nation is unprepared for the step you ask me to take. 
 No Government would be powerful enough at the 
 present moment to carry such a measure. Twenty 
 years hence all this will be changed. I make no doubt 
 that then you will have the nation with you; but 
 
DOWNING-STREET. 
 
 3 2 7 
 
 till then it would be madness for any Government to 
 undertake to change the law.” 
 
 The deputation, after the manner of deputations, 
 thanked him for his courtesy, and withdrew. Two 
 or three more followed in rapid succession — one about 
 a new pump, one to have the drinking of strong ale 
 made a capital offence, one to see about getting the 
 Established Church repealed. 
 
 “Do you really think so?” asked Miles, alluding 
 to the answer he had made to the first body of mal- 
 contents. 
 
 “ Certainly,” was the answer. “ I do not doubt it. 
 Why should we produce a state of artificial poverty ? 
 Whenever the nation sees this as clearly as I do, or 
 as that fellow does, it won’t stand it any longer. But 
 it does not see this yet ; unfortunately, its selfish 
 instincts — short-sighted, because keen and intense 
 — will prevent it from doing so for a generation 
 yet.” 
 
 “ But if we think so,” said Miles, doubtfully, “ is it 
 right to go on as we are doing ? ” 
 
 Mowbray was silent for a moment. 
 
 “ Why,” he said at length, “ every measure that I 
 have passed paves the way to this conclusion. To 
 me it is as clear as day that the Bill we carried last 
 night involves these others. They are all component 
 parts of a policy to which the nation is becoming 
 familiarised. But not till it has grown familiar as a 
 
328 
 
 DOWNING-STREET. 
 
 household world does any policy obtain popular 
 sanction here. Neither you nor I may live to see 
 the change. But are we to fold our hands and do 
 nothing, because we cannot get all ? Even as it is, 
 we are somewhat in advance already : I don’t believe 
 that a majority heartily likes our work of last night. 
 It is carried by the sheer intellect of a minority.” 
 
 “ But must this always be the way ? Is truth not 
 to be fought for? lived for? died for, if need be? 
 Are we never to hail her, until the populace acknow- 
 ledge her? How, then, is truth to work its way, 
 how force itself into the daylight ? Are we only to 
 register the decrees of the mob ? There must surely 
 be something better for us to do.” 
 
 “ Miles, I am not a philosopher. I cannot deal 
 with abstractions. I must have real men to work 
 with. I must have real work to do. I can honour 
 the men you speak of — men who in an age of false- 
 hood are bold to appeal to the truth. Their protests 
 are invaluable — their protests lie at the root of any 
 practical work we achieve. I can believe that unless 
 Milton had written his Areopagitica two hundred years 
 ago, we would not last night have carried our Bill. 
 But these men do not make statesmen, — they are not 
 fit for practical politics. The politician does not pro- 
 test — he registers, as you call it. An inferior work, 
 it may be ; but still needing to be done, and done 
 well. I am a politician, Miles. Were I to bring in 
 
DOWNING- STREET. 
 
 3 2 9 
 
 the measure these men want, I should be out of office 
 to-morrow. But I have many things to do,” he added, 
 with a smile, “ ere I die.” 
 
 The smile vanished, and a sudden paleness suc- 
 ceeded. Mowbray pressed his hand to his side, and 
 for a moment breathed with difficulty. 
 
 “ What is the matter ? ” Miles exclaimed, starting 
 up. “ Are you ill?” 
 
 “No; it is nothing. A slight spasm — I have 
 them at times. I am better now.” 
 
 There was a knock at the door : a courier entered. 
 
 “Ah,” said Mowbray, quickly, “from Vienna 
 already ? ” 
 
 “I left last Friday,” was the reply, “and have 
 just arrived.” 
 
 Mowbray took the despatch, and, as the messenger 
 left, opened it with visible eagerness. 
 
 “ No ; he dare not do it. I will be even with him 
 for this. Write a note to Bourillon, Miles, and ask 
 him to come here this afternoon. An alliance 
 between them now,” he went on, in a low voice, as 
 Miles wrote and despatched the note, “would be 
 fatal. But they cannot do it. I know too much.” 
 
 He said no more ; on foreign affairs Mowbray was 
 singularly reserved, and even Miles was not admitted 
 to his confidence. He held each mesh of the web 
 in his own hand, and played every move himself. 
 Miles knew that for weeks he had been engaged on 
 it night and day, and that even the great Home 
 
 z 
 
330 
 
 DOWNING- ST BEET. 
 
 Debate had occupied only a subordinate place in his 
 thoughts. Two of the great Continental despotisms 
 were understood to be bitterly hostile to the English 
 Minister. It had been a hand-to-hand fight hitherto ; 
 but Mowbray, it was whispered, had played his cards 
 so well, that he had disconcerted the alliance. 
 
 Miles would have liked to gain Mowbray’s con- 
 fidence. He saw that the strain was beginning to tell 
 even upon that nervous intellect, and that he could 
 not bear it with safety much longer. Perhaps the 
 Minister felt so too ; but he made no response. Only 
 as Miles finished the despatch on which they had 
 been engaged, he lay back in his chair, and closed 
 his eyes for a moment, as if to rally all his faculties. 
 
 “Give me another week,” he murmured, “and 
 they will know who is master.” 
 
 “ Come and dine with us/’ said Miles, as he rose 
 to leave. “ Corry is enraptured with last night, and 
 won’t be pacified till she sees you.” 
 
 “No — thanks — I can’t to-night — I am busy. But 
 give her my love, Miles,” he added, softly, “ and the 
 little doe too. Ah, Miles, you are a happy fellow. 
 God bless you. I wish I could come.” 
 
 Miles paused. 
 
 “ I don’t wish to force your confidence,” he said, 
 anxiously, struck by Mowbray’s tone, “but I think 
 it would do you good to have some help with this 
 business that bothers you so.” 
 
 “Would that I could,” he answered. “But the 
 
DOWNING-STREET. 
 
 33 1 
 
 skein is so tangled, that I could never unravel it to 
 you. No, even to speak about it confuses me. I can 
 only just see my moves, and play them in silence. 
 But I will have a talk with you to-morrow.” 
 
 A servant entering announced, “ The French 
 Ambassador.” 
 
 “I am happy to see you,” said the cold, calm, 
 courteous voice. “ I trust my request has not incon- 
 venienced you. My kinsman, Mr. Warrender. Don’t 
 let me keep you, Miles.” 
 
 Miles bowed and disappeared. 
 
 “ Another move in the game,” he said, 
 win, I dare say, but it is killing him.” 
 
 “ He will 
 
( 332 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE PARK. 
 
 Love here blindfolded stands with how and dart, 
 
 There Hope looks pale, Despair with rainy eyes. 
 
 TITUS. Warrender and Miss Evelyn had visited 
 that morning the studio of a very great and 
 famous artist, and were returning through the Park 
 on their way to Tudor-square. 
 
 He is a very great painter ; perhaps as a colorist 
 he has had no rival since Titian and Veronese, 
 
 In that lost land, in that soft clime, 
 
 In the crimson evening weather, 
 
 revelled in the mellow and lustrous life of the Vene- 
 tian Archipelago. Though the world scarcely knows 
 or honours him rightly yet, it will come to do so 
 before we die. There is a Saint Catherine or Saint 
 Cecilia of his which actually glows with colour, with 
 such a glow of gold and amethyst as sometimes burns 
 upon the sunset Atlantic. But he is great not alone 
 as a colorist. He has drawn with exquisite feeling 
 that vision of Queen Guinevere which arrests Launce- 
 
THE PAKK. 
 
 333 
 
 lot as he seeks the San G-real. The sad woman comes 
 between the knight and the mystic quest. The head 
 is not averted, — the look is still and passionless, 
 though sad. Passion is buried and dead, and it is 
 only a pale spectre who warns the warrior back. It 
 would be difficult to express in words all that that 
 visioned face expresses. There is none of the old 
 love and tenderness (that was over when she turned 
 away from his caress at Arthur’s grave) ; there is the 
 sense of the inevitable sorrow, of the incurable shame ; 
 and yet, through it all, in those calm, pitiful eyes, a 
 profound and womanly compassion for the man who 
 had shared her guilt, and partakes her punishment. 
 Such a look — straight from the inmost soul as that — 
 is greater than any victory of colour. 
 
 I have sometimes deemed it strange that this man 
 can turn from his Hebrew kings, and his old romance, 
 and his prostrate angels, and his golden skies, to the 
 commonest and most simple aspects of this mean, 
 modern life. It startles at first, as though we were 
 to find Angelico and Hogarth working together. 
 Here David, the kingly minstrel, amid orange and 
 golden blossoms, strings his harp, and Arthur sleeps 
 beneath the yellow leaves ; there between the sun 
 and shade the wounded woman revels in a ghastly 
 festival, or on the cold London pavement, in the chill 
 London dawn, shivers drearily, as the peasant — fresh 
 from the breezy meadow-lands among which the child 
 played in her innocent girlhood — drives his team into 
 
334 
 
 THE PARK. 
 
 the sleeping city. And yet there is nothing dis- 
 cordant in this : both aspects are consistent with plain 
 truth. One is drawn from the deep fountains of his- 
 torical and religious feeling, where the boldest and 
 most unreserved conventionalisms may be admitted : 
 the other from the present, where nothing except 
 simple transcript is possible. In the antique, all the 
 suggestions of the imagination may be introduced 
 under abstract and formal forms, — like the chorus in 
 the Greek drama, an embodied commentary upon the 
 passing transaction ; while in the modern the same 
 law dictates the frankest and most conscientious 
 adherence to reality. “ Signs and wonders ” were 
 familiar in the old ages of faith ; but we have no 
 creditable witches or miracle workers now, no angels 
 resting on the rosy clouds, no “ spears arrayit” 
 upon the menacing heaven. Our story must be 
 related, as it relates itself in the life, and from the 
 hidden face and the averted gesture alone can the 
 shame, misery, humiliation, and swift remorse be 
 gathered. 
 
 But Corry and Alice are driving as aforesaid in the 
 Park, and aesthetic discussions are neither relevant 
 nor gallant. And indeed no painting that Baphael 
 Sanzio of Urbino painted is sweeter than that of those 
 two girls. 
 
 Alice’s face was full of life. The light auburn 
 hair in its breezy ripples ; the swift shafts of mockery 
 and ridicule that shot from the blue eyes ; the tremu- 
 
THE PAEK. 
 
 335 
 
 Ions delicacy of colour on the white blue- veined cheek ; 
 the slight curl of defiance on the watchful lip ; — 
 every feature was impressed by the keen and domi- 
 nant life that animated the whole. The Greek would 
 have desired more repose : the perpetual unrest would 
 have fatigued him. 
 
 But Corry would have satisfied him, — satisfied the 
 soul even of the unrivalled artist who dreamt the 
 pensive Antinous of the Borghese. The rich brown 
 eyes, sleepy and soft as the fawn’s ; the drooping 
 eyelash ; the mouth, content with its own sweetness ; 
 the regal gait which dignified the maiden, and which 
 had now matured into the superb sweep of beautiful 
 matronhood ; the dark lustrous twilight in the hair, — 
 why, Velasquez, did you not paint her in her prime? 
 How languidly the eye travels, and yet how delicious 
 its languor! — how indolently the swan-like neck 
 sweeps round, and yet how noble that indolent grace ! 
 But there is no haughtiness nor scorn, such as curves 
 the heavy lips of Antinous : only the sweet meekness 
 you see in the brown eyes of the oxen which pasture 
 below the Apennines. 
 
 Both had changed since we knew them first. Corry 
 had grown less serious. The grand gravity of the 
 girl could not resist the little lips that babbled on her 
 knee, and pressed her bosom. She was no longer 
 abstracted and absorbed. She was a proud wife and 
 a happy mother ; and such happiness, charming away 
 
33 5 
 
 THE PARK. 
 
 the solitary romance of girlhood, fills its place with 
 less romantic and more active sympathies. Alice, on 
 the other hand, had become more pensive. The cease- 
 less vivacity, which would have driven an Oriental 
 lover distracted, had disappeared. When serious she 
 was more tender, when gay more bitter, than she 
 used to be. The bright content of the old time was 
 gone. There was a sharp and unquiet restlessness in 
 her manner, very different from the light-hearted 
 mockery of the past. Her life somehow had not 
 rounded its orbit serenely. Something — some care 
 or woe — had contrived harshly to arrest it. At least, 
 so I felt. She used to honour me by flirting with me 
 at that time — the world said she was a tremendous 
 coquette ; but a sharp pain hurt her often, and the 
 anguish would sometimes drive the colour from her 
 cheek, spite of all her bravery. 
 
 Corry had long felt that something was amiss. But 
 Alice would make no confession of weakness. When 
 there came a sharper twinge than usual, it was still 
 “the tooth-ache only” — never the heart-ache. No 
 doubt she was an intrepid little soul, and bore her 
 pain — wherever it gnawed — like a martyr. 
 
 “ How you start, dear ! ” said Corry, as they drove 
 along below the budding elms; “you are getting 
 quite nervous. Dear Alice ! there is something wrong 
 with you — what is it ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Alice, trying to laugh it off, as the 
 
THE PAEK. 
 
 337 
 
 colour went and came again with a richer bloom on 
 her cheek, “ I think I am getting nervous. How 
 stupid of me ! I believe I will take to fainting, like 
 a fine lady, one of these days. There is some one 
 bowing to us — who is it ? ” 
 
 “ Why, Darcy, of course ; don’t you know him ? ” 
 Corry replied, looking keenly at her friend as a new 
 light broke upon her. “ We must get him to dine 
 with us.” 
 
 She stopped the carriage. Darcy came up. 
 
 “ You must dine with us. I have so much to say 
 to you about last night. There is no one with us — 
 only Alice. You are not engaged ? ” 
 
 Darcy was not, and would be delighted. 
 
 A carriage swept past them. A haughty recog- 
 nition from Lady Beatrix Trelawney was vouchsafed 
 to the party. 
 
 “Poor thing!” said Corry; “how ill she looks! 
 I wonder if she is happy ? ” 
 
 “ She looks miserable,” said Darcy, “ and I don’t 
 wonder. What between her own and her husband’s 
 temper, she must lead a wretched life.” 
 
 “ You politicians always dislike each other. I used 
 to like her, but she seems to avoid me now. I fear 
 her husband does not admire mine.” 
 
 “After the drubbing he got last night, I should 
 think not. The man is so oily and so implacable, 
 no wonder he is hated. But I think he regards 
 
338 
 
 THE PARK. 
 
 Mowbray and the Mowbray connexion with peculiar 
 bitterness. Do you know how it is ? ” 
 
 “ No,” Mrs. Warrender replied, with a little hesi- 
 tation ; then she added, “ I have heard that there 
 was some old love-affair in which Mowbray was the 
 fortunate rival.” 
 
 “I recollect something of the sort. You never 
 saw Mrs. Mowbray ? I knew her when I first came 
 up here. She was very beautiful. They said she 
 was the most lovely woman of her day. She was the 
 idol of her husband : it nearly killed him when she 
 died. Do you know, I sometimes fancy that you are 
 like her ? ” 
 
 Mrs. Warrender blushed slightly, but she only 
 said, “ It is dreadful to think of such bitterness.” 
 
 “ I have heard,” said Alice, in a low voice, “ that 
 men are very bitter about these things. They never 
 forgive.” 
 
 Darcy looked quickly at her : she could not bear 
 the look ; again all the blood forsook her face ; 
 and it really seemed as though she were about to 
 make good her promise, and faint in grim earnest 
 at last. 
 
 Mrs. Warrender noticed her agitation. “ Till seven,” 
 she said to Darcy, and the carriage drove on. Alice 
 lay back, and after a moment’s silence, during which 
 she seemed trying to subdue the hysterical affection 
 that was mastering her, burst into tears. Corry 
 
THE PARK. 
 
 339 
 
 sootlied and petted her, as she would have petted a 
 child. 
 
 “ Alie,” she whispered at last, “ I see how it is. 
 You love him.” 
 
 “I once told him that I did not,” was the sole 
 reply. 
 
( 34 ° ) 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE DYING LION. 
 
 And the poor deities, high in the heavens, 
 
 Travel in sorrow 
 
 Endless disconsolate journeys ; 
 
 And they are immortal, 
 
 Still hearing with them 
 Their bright-gleaming sorrow. 
 
 But I, the mortal, 
 
 Planted so lowly, with death to bless me, 
 
 I sorrow no longer. 
 
 It TILES had occasion to call at the Foreign Office 
 before returning to Tudor-square. He was 
 then informed that shortly after he had left, the 
 Minister had been taken ill and had been instantly 
 conveyed home. 
 
 Miles, much alarmed, at once followed. “ Thomas,” 
 Mowbray’s butler, an old family domestic, met him 
 in the hall. 
 
 “ Oh, Mr. Warrender,” said the honest fellow, with 
 tears in his eyes, “ I am glad you are come. Mr. 
 Mowbray has been very bad to-day. I have never 
 seen him so long of coming round.” 
 
THE DYING LION. 
 
 34i 
 
 “ Is he better ? ” asked Miles. “ Can he see me ? ” 
 “ He asked for you a few minutes since. I will let 
 him know, sir, if you please.” 
 
 Miles waited in the spacious antechamber, which 
 was furnished with almost monumental simplicity ; 
 only above the hearth hung a single picture, ordi- 
 narily concealed by a curtain of crimson velvet, which 
 to-day was partially withdrawn. Mowbray must have 
 looked at it before he left for the day's work ; per- 
 haps he had gazed at it in the grey dawn-light, when 
 he returned from his triumph. Two as lovely women 
 faces as Sir Peter or Sir Joshua ever painted — the 
 elder very high-bred, noble, and thoughtful-browed, 
 the other full of soft vivacity and espieglerie. The 
 matronly sister leans upon the other, bends over her 
 fondly, caresses her with sisterly caresses. She is 
 cheering the “ wee pet ” of their flock, telling her 
 that she must obey the true instinct of her heart ; 
 that the untitled adventurer who loves her will make 
 a nobler mate than the most noble Plantagenet of 
 them all ; and in reply a shy glad smile, you see, 
 crosses like sunlight the long-lashed violet eyes. 
 Ay, the potent voice has won its way to that proud 
 heart, and tamed it into beautiful obedience. 
 
 “ Mr. Mowbray will see you now,” said Thomas, 
 opening the door that led into the study. 
 
 Miles entered. There sat the Minister, pen in 
 hand, a great heap of papers beside him. He finished 
 the sentence he was writing before he looked up. He 
 
342 
 
 THE DYING LION. 
 
 was somewhat pale ; but the eye was clear and pene- 
 trating, and the voice did not shake. Miles could 
 not have guessed that he had been ill. 
 
 “ I am glad to find that you are no worse,” he said. 
 “ From what they said at the Office, I was rather 
 frightened.” 
 
 “ The blockheads,” said Mowbray, “ it will be all 
 over the town to-morrow that I am dying. However, 
 Miles, I have had a sharp bout of it this time. Sir 
 Benjamin very nearly gave me over, I can tell you. I 
 suppose they will say that that spiteful speech of Tre- 
 lawney’s has killed me. Well, it was base in him to 
 say such things behind my back. But take my word 
 for it, were there no other wound than he can inflict, 
 I should live till doomsday. As if his insolence could 
 touch me,” said the Minister, with his superb scorn. 
 
 “ I am gathering up the woof,” he continued, 
 pointing to the pile of papers, “ so that you or some 
 one else may hold it. I fear me it is too late.” 
 
 A weary sigh that was almost inaudible escaped 
 from him. Miles heard it, however. 
 
 “You should rest to-night; you will never get 
 round, if you treat yourself thus. Put away your 
 work and rest this one night.” 
 
 “ I must work while it is day,” replied Mowbray, 
 with a somewhat sad smile. “The night when no 
 man can work will come soon enough. But I promise 
 you I will not sit long. Just let me get this business 
 put right, and then we will take a long holiday. 
 
THE DYING LION. 
 
 343 
 
 Where shall we go, Miles ? Oh, I must see Carlyon 
 and the grand old sea once more. You were a mere 
 chit, Miles, when I was there last, and here you are 
 — one of the senators of our great Babel ! It will 
 make me a new man to go back to the old place. I 
 remember it all — the day I first went there, as well 
 as if it were yesterday ; your father, a youngster like 
 yourself, and that superb old heathen of a grand- 
 father. We have no such heathen now. It is a 
 perished race. They were too sinfully jolly for this 
 morose generation. Ah, Miles, won’t we enjoy our- 
 selves ? ” Had the Minister cheated his fancy with 
 the picture he conjured up ? I think not. At least 
 there was something — a rich swell of sea-like sadness 
 in his voice — that did not assure Miles. 
 
 “ Now go,” he added ; “ don’t scold me any more. 
 I shall be in bed in an hour, I promise. True Thomas 
 will see that I am punctual. Take my word for that.” 
 
( 344 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 And away through the mist of the morning grey 
 The spectre and horse rode wide ; 
 
 The dawn came up the old bright way, 
 
 And the lady never died. 
 
 rpHEY had a very pleasant party at Miles’s. He 
 said nothing about the Minister’s illness or of 
 his apprehensions regarding him. No sense of an 
 approaching calamity lay upon their hearts. Darcy 
 was good-naturedly clever as usual. Alice had 
 recovered; she looked languid and subdued, but 
 tranquil. Some drops of summer rain had fallen 
 upon the thirsty heart. 
 
 They spoke of the artist’s life ; the girls’ visit to 
 the studio brought that topic into the talk. 
 
 “ Do you know,” said Darcy, “ that I am a devoted 
 adorer of Velasquez? It was that picture at Lord 
 
 H ’s which first opened my eyes. I take a look 
 
 at it every afternoon, almost. It puts me straight 
 after the dirty work of the day.” 
 
PEACE. 
 
 345 
 
 “ How beautiful it is ! ” said Alice. “ It is like a 
 buncli of grapes.” 
 
 “ Yes ; and what a charming notion it gives one of 
 the life he led. Any mother and any ragged urchin 
 that he found sunning themselves upon the hot sierras, 
 and any group of peasants or beggars at the wayside 
 albergo — the picture is nothing more ; but then it 
 discloses such a richness and vivid vital strength, and 
 such an abundance of the ruddiest juice of human 
 heartiness in the man, that it charms and enchains. 
 Your comparison is admirable, Miss Evelyn. The 
 picture is ripe and fruity — a basket of golden peaches 
 or Spanish grapes kissed by the sun.” 
 
 “■How he must have enjoyed such work,” said 
 Miles ; “ so simple and natural and gloriously indo- 
 lent. The artist life is after all the best. It is the 
 green spot in this desert — the resting-place amid the 
 tumult.” 
 
 “ We go at a desperate pace, truly,” replied Darcy. 
 “ Somebody says , 6 we need to struggle to stand still.’ 
 Do you know who said that, Mrs. Warrender ? I 
 have quite forgotten.” 
 
 They had all forgotten, as the present writer has ; 
 when the author claims it, his property will be re- 
 stored to him. 
 
 “ It is too true,” said Miles, “ but at least the artist 
 on his hillside or seaside can keep aloof. But the 
 torrent will carry him away with it some day, or leave 
 him stranded without a vocation.” 
 
 2 A 
 
346 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 “ How do you mean ? ” 
 
 “ I was talking with old Snarleyou the other day, 
 and he said, truly enough, I thought, that the 
 theatrical age was past, that we had arrived at one 
 that was ‘ intolerant of form.’ ” 
 
 “ My dear Miles,” said Darcy, “ if you compre- 
 hended him, it is more, I am sure, than I do.” 
 
 “ We did not expect that you would,” exclaimed 
 Corry, with her peerless smile. 
 
 “ If you are not understood in this world, the next 
 best thing is to be utterly misunderstood,” remarked 
 Darcy, in a resigned tone. “ I detest compromises.” 
 
 “ Of course there is something in it,” said Miles. 
 “We don’t go to see the drama now; we prefer to 
 read Cymbeline at home. The sermon, which was 
 quite a necessity of life to our forefathers, is now 
 regarded as an absolute nuisance. Our culture has 
 been so much extended that these forms have become 
 less able than they used to be to serve any practical 
 purpose. We are taught every day their inadequacy. 
 Painting, which is one of them, may suffer the same 
 fate. Who cares now for Aurora, or the Graces, or 
 the Seasons ? No one except some old China col- 
 lectors, and yet these abolished forms are just a 
 shade more artificial — more formal — than those 
 which still obtain in art. Painting must become 
 more nearly identified with life, if it is to live.” 
 
 “ And why should it not ? ” asked Darcy. “Why 
 should it not become a perfect transcript of life, of 
 
PEACE. 
 
 347 
 
 our life, of the life of nature ? I think the man you 
 saw to-day will teach us that that is not altogether 
 impracticable. As for sermons, I can’t give them up 
 either. Many a sound sleep, many a blessed dream, 
 do I owe them. It is only then I see angels.” 
 
 “ I wish you wouldn’t talk so,” said Corry, gently ; 
 “ I know you are both longing to hear our dear 
 Dean again.” 
 
 “ One good man can’t save a city. I go to church 
 to worship, not to hear preachments , as old Jeremy 
 Taylor has it. The Prayer Book does me good, but 
 the sermon leaves me just where I was. Not only so, 
 it positively hurts. I often leave church a perfect 
 Pagan. How can it be otherwise ? When you are 
 forced to sit for a good hour, listening to the rhetorical 
 rubbish of an ineffable idiot ; to foolish and illogical 
 argument which you are not allowed to refute ! ” 
 
 “ Wouldn’t you like to have one of them in the 
 house ? ” asked Darcy. “ How you could demolish 
 him!” 
 
 “ Come, Alice,” said Mrs. Warrender, rising, “ we 
 will leave them to their politics.” 
 
 “ One song, Alice,” Miles pleaded, in the drawing- 
 room. “ I will ring for lights.” 
 
 “ Please don’t ; this dim twilight is so much nicer,” 
 said poor Alice plaintively ; “ I can’t sing to-night, I 
 am too hoarse.” 
 
 “ Only one — we won’t ask for more.” 
 
 2 a 2 
 
348 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 Alice went to the piano, near which Darcy was 
 seated talking to Corry. 
 
 “ Sing that old dirge,” said Miles ; “ yon know it 
 by heart, I am sure.” 
 
 Alice tried, and though the notes trembled a little 
 doubtfully as she began, she contrived to finish it. 
 The subdued pathos of her voice made its wild sadness 
 most touching. For it is, indeed, one of the saddest 
 and eeriest of ballads. 
 
 They shot him dead at the Nine-stane rigg 
 Beside the headless cross ; 
 
 And they left him lying in his blood 
 Upon the mnir and moss. 
 
 They buried him at the mirk midnight, 
 
 When the dew fell cold and still, 
 
 When the aspen grey forgot to play, 
 
 And the mist clung to the hill. 
 
 They dug his grave but a bare foot deep, 
 
 By the edge of the Nine-stane burn, 
 
 And they covered him o’er with the heather-flower, 
 
 The moss, and the lady-fern. 
 
 A fitting dirge for the gallant soldier, “ who died, 
 and died so young.” 
 
 Miles was called out of the room ere the ballad 
 was finished, and Corry followed him. When Alice 
 finished, she found that Darcy was by her side alone. 
 She trembled — every drop of colour left her cheek. 
 
 “ May I say again what I said once before ?” Darcy 
 began, with hesitation ; “ I have loved you always — 
 
PEACE.; 
 
 349 
 
 I love you now — more, if it be possible. Oh, Alice,” 
 he continued, passionately, “ why may we not be 
 happy?” 
 
 She did not answer at once ; she trembled so vio- 
 lently, that he thought she would faint. But she did 
 not ; she looked into his eyes so full of love, and then 
 said, in a low, penitent voice, as if the thought of the 
 old girlish wilfulness that had made her cast away in 
 caprice the treasure-trove of her heart, had come 
 back upon her again, nay, had never been absent 
 from her memory since she had turned away from 
 him long ago, — 
 
 “ I do not deserve this. Can you forgive me, 
 Darcy?” 
 
 Ah, well ; let us be thankful that there are some 
 griefs which death does not freeze into despairs. 
 
( 35 ° ) 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE GATES OF DEATH. 
 
 Most like the roar 
 
 Of some pain’d desert lion, who all day 
 Has trailed the hunter’s javelin in his side, 
 
 And comes at night to die npon the sand. 
 
 end had indeed come. The overwrought 
 brain can sustain the pressure no longer ; the 
 nerveless fingers drop the pen ; the web which the 
 great intellect had woven is unloosed. Though 
 Europe be wrapped in flame to-morrow, the master 
 must die to-night. What he might have done had 
 he lived to complete what he began, no man can tell. 
 This only we know, that when he died at forty-five, 
 he was the first man in the freest and most famous 
 monarchy in Christendom. 
 
 When Miles, who had been hastily summoned, 
 arrived, Mowbray was still conscious. He held out 
 his hand with a faint smile to his kinsman. “ It has 
 come at last,” he said. 
 
 Then the keen eye brightened strangely, the fine 
 
THE GATES OF DEATH. 
 
 35 1 
 
 intellect began to wander, the lips, so often touched 
 with authentic fire, were silent, or only spoke foolish 
 words more painful than the silence. The fever-tide 
 had caught him, had torn him away, had hurried 
 him along with it in its black anger. Once, and 
 once only, the torrent seemed to abate, leaving its 
 exhausted victim weak and stranded on the bank ; 
 and then the blinded consciousness slowly, very 
 slowly, aroused itself, and looked out keenly once 
 more at those who stood around. The lips tried to 
 articulate ; Miles bent his ear close down ; he de- 
 ciphered a single sentence, — only one ; even that 
 iron will, that eloquent tongue, could not master 
 another word — 
 
 “ Tell Leonardo I will never consent.” 
 
 Leonardo was the Imperial ambassador. 
 
 “ Well, it does not matter much ; we can do with- 
 out his consent now,” the polished courtier inwardly 
 surmises; “ there will be a new minister at the 
 Foreign Office to-morrow.” 
 
 These were the last articulate words that Mowbray 
 uttered. The pause in the fierce race did not last 
 long. Again the devouring waters close over his 
 head, and bear him with them until they near the 
 sea, and cast the naked body lifeless upon the 
 beach. 
 
( 352 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE EUMENIDES. 
 
 The old miraculous mountains heaved in sight, 
 
 One straining past another along the shore, 
 
 The way of grand dull Odyssean ghosts, 
 
 Athirst to drink the cool blue wine of seas 
 And stare on voyagers. 
 
 rjHHE Great Minister died. Without the master 
 spirit the Cabinet could not hold together a 
 day. So the King requested a nobleman who 
 had translated a tragedy, and written a review, to 
 look after the monarchy on which the sun never 
 sets. The Premier, who loved his jest, appointed 
 Trelawney a Lord of the Admiralty (Sir Jasper 
 being always dead sick when at sea), and then dis- 
 solved the Parliament. Trelawney posted down to 
 Ashton and commenced a vigorous contest for his 
 old seat. The Duke exerted his influence : there 
 was a controversy about the Parish Pump which 
 divided Miles’s supporters ; and a month after 
 Mowbray’s death Miles Warrender, Esquire, had 
 
THE EUMENIDES. 
 
 353 
 
 lost the burgh, and Sir Jasper Trelawney was 
 elected to sit for Ashton in the new Parliament. 
 
 My history stops here. I am sorry for it. The 
 retributive “ thunder and lightning ” which overtakes 
 the villain in the third volume, is no doubt effective. 
 I cannot help it ; my work is not in three volumes. 
 Considered as a mere question of art, I admit that 
 my denouement is decidedly tame — not by any means 
 striking. But English life is not striking. In 
 English life “justice is not vindicated, nor virtue 
 rewarded,” in the broad visible characters that the 
 patrons of the drama demand. The mystic Mene, 
 Mene , Tekel , Upharsin, is not written upon the walls 
 of our houses. So far as my observation has ex- 
 tended, indeed, the villain — I don’t mean your 
 housebreaker, but your heart-breaker ; not the thief 
 who steals your spoons, but the thief who steals 
 your honour and your happiness — contrives not 
 only to escape unpunished, but to secure most of 
 the honours and emoluments which a grateful people 
 provides for its best men. If you force me to go on — 
 to anticipate another ten years or so of the century — 
 I am afraid that your theories of atonement will not 
 gain much by any facts we can collect. Lazarus 
 never succeeds to the purple and fine linen ; he 
 continues to eat the crumbs, and sees nothing more 
 of the loaf. On the contrary, his sores grow so 
 offensive that even the most charitable dogs are 
 
354 
 
 THE EXJMENIDES. 
 
 forced to avert their noses. Dives, for his part, 
 speculates successfully on the Stock Exchange ; goes 
 into Parliament ; is made a member of Government ; 
 dines with royalty, and “ falls asleep in the bosom of 
 the House of Lords.” Miles continues plain Miles 
 to this day : I don’t suppose there are a dozen people 
 in the metropolis who know him by name now; 
 while Sir Jasper is a Secretary of State and an 
 oracle of the May meetings. Leighton was not made 
 a bishop. In the old kirkyard of Kinkell there is a 
 simple slab, “ To the memory of a brave and devout 
 Christian gentleman.” That is all. It was put up 
 about the time that a virulent partisan — a man who 
 had abused Mowbray like a pickpocket, before the 
 breath was well out of his body, for having treated 
 fellow-Christians like fellow-creatures — was preferred 
 to the richest diocese in England. Don’t you think 
 that the “ villain ” has the best of it ? Let us all be 
 rogues. 
 
 But it may be admitted that there is another side 
 to the picture. Lazarus, I have heard, is now in 
 Abraham’s bosom. And Miles at least was never so 
 happy as when he found that he might, with a 
 clear conscience, retire from public life. Corry was 
 charmed to get back with her “ bairns ” to the old 
 Norland home, to the dear Norland faces. Nor did 
 Leighton dissuade them. 
 
 “ I feel glad,” he said, in one of the last letters he 
 wrote, “ that you are coming back; Effie bids me 
 
THE EUMENIDES. 
 
 355 
 
 say that she is “ so glad.” I think you are right. 
 You can work better through private than through 
 public ties. It is what the age needs, — visible sym- 
 pathy between man and man, not legislative associa- 
 tion between classes. We must rise from the family 
 life to the national life ; work through the one into 
 the other. Religious ascetics and theoretical poli- 
 ticians make the same mistake. The Apostolic life 
 is no doubt the model. But are we to become 
 pilgrims and martyrs before we become Christians ? 
 No. In old days a supreme necessity forced earnest 
 men to cut asunder the domestic ties ; we are to 
 make these very ties the means of work. The aim 
 in either case is to keep the life true ; the form will 
 follow. The power of the domestic life as a political 
 force has never been rightly recognised ; and, in an 
 age of constitutional reconstruction, we are in danger 
 of losing sight of it altogether. Come soon ; I would 
 fain see you again.” 
 
 And so they came back, and tried to reform the 
 nation by reforming themselves, as Leighton had 
 recommended. No doubt the world said that War- 
 render was a man whose career had failed, and it 
 looks upon him somewhat sourly in consequence at 
 times ; but I cannot say that he ever manifests any 
 violent symptoms of chagrin ; and if he has failed, 
 as is alleged, the spectacle of honest failure — 
 
 The long war closing in defeat, 
 
 Defeat serenely borne — 
 
35 ^ 
 
 THE EUMENIDES. 
 
 has always seemed to me much more “ interesting ” 
 — in much better taste — than the coarse clap-trap of 
 success. 
 
 And what of the other compartment of the picture, 
 as it represents the Eight Honourable Dives, M.P., 
 Q.C., D.GL., K.G., and so forth? I am sorry to 
 record that Lady Beatrix ran away from her husband 
 the day he was made Home Secretary. Sir Jasper, 
 who w f as a crack shot, followed the fugitives, made 
 up with them at a miserable albergo on the road to 
 Madrid, sent a bullet through the young Guardsman’s 
 brain, and left the wretched woman without a six- 
 pence, to beg or starve in a strange land. And 
 here, within brackets, or without them, let it be 
 remarked that it is the villain who is commonly most 
 anxious to see justice summarily vindicated, and 
 whose keen eye and ready hand are most successful 
 in exacting a speedy settlement of accounts — a fact 
 which may start certain reflections in the reader’s 
 mind regarding the tardy vengeance of the Immortals. 
 Was this the sole plague-spot in his life, the only 
 skeleton in his house ? Apparently so : the world at 
 least never heard of any other. But true it is, 
 
 the gods creep on with feet of wool 
 Long ere with iron hands they punish men, 
 
 and the menace of the overhanging evil — of the 
 cloud charged with death — often infects the soul 
 with a chill and undefinable horror months and years 
 
THE EUMENIDES. 
 
 357 
 
 before it burst. Was Sir Jasper pursued by the 
 iuvisible Eumenides ? I fear lie was. This is why 
 I think so. 
 
 And yet what good to tell of the blank dread I 
 once saw depicted on that man’s face ? It is all over 
 now, — the stars and the ribbons have been put away, 
 and the moths eat them. The Earl of Ravenscraig 
 died last August, “ universally regretted.” 
 
 He has gone to his last account ; he has answered 
 at the tribunal of the Judge. It may be that little 
 Katie is avenged above, — if the vengeance of Heaven 
 be any recompense for a broken heart below. 
 
( 358 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WAITING BY THE WAVES. 
 
 I shall be married shortly. 
 
 To whom ? 
 
 To one whom you have all heard talk of. 
 
 Your fathers knew him well ; one who will ne’er 
 Give cause I should suspect him to forsake me. 
 
 A constant lover — one whose lips, though cold, 
 
 Distil chaste kisses ; though our bridal-bed 
 Be not adorn’d with roses, it will be green — 
 
 We shall have virgin laurel, cypress, yew, 
 
 To make us garlands. Though no fire do burn, 
 
 Our nuptial shall have torches, and our chamber 
 Shall be cut out of marble, where we shall sleep 
 Free from all care for ever. Death, my Lord, 
 
 I hope will be my husband. 
 
 rjiHALATTA ! Thalatta! We are once more beside 
 the ancient sea. Still it murmurs solemnly 
 and peacefully upon “ the ribbed sea-sand ” of the 
 moon-like bay, — solemnly and peacefully, as if a 
 great man had not died, and an historic empire 
 perished, — solemnly and peacefully, as it has done 
 any time these thousand years or so. 
 
 A bright jagged coil of red granite runs into the 
 green water at that point. ’Tis the vanguard of the 
 
WAITING BY THE WAVES. 
 
 iron-helmeted host who guard our sea-nursed nation. 
 A stormy place in winter, when the fishers come 
 during the northern storms to watch the long lines 
 of Arctic birds that the fierce sea-wind drives before 
 it. But now the crimson autumn sunset rests peace- 
 fully upon the bright plain of waters underneath, 
 and dyes the red granite with a yet deeper carmine. 
 
 One solitary watcher haunts that solitary spot. A 
 draped woman-form, with clasped hands folded upon 
 her breast, is clearly outlined against the white sky 
 above the sea-line. The face is sad but composed, 
 — the yellow hair is drawn back from the fine brow, 
 that yet bears the traces of an old pain. The sharp 
 pain stings no more indeed, — God has healed the 
 bleeding heart ; but the cheeks are thin and faded, 
 and the blue eyes are very dim now. If you look 
 curiously at these dimmed eyeballs, you will under- 
 stand how last night, as the village children played 
 gleefully about them upon the soft yellow sands, 
 Elsie hid her face in her sister’s lap, and moaned, — 
 “ Oh, that I could see ! ” 
 
 But these bursts of passion -are not frequent now. 
 Her life is calmed into a sad content. She is willing 
 to wait ; to wait in blindness for the hour when her 
 eyes will be opened ; to wait in loneliness for the 
 day when at eventime it shall be light. Still, the 
 poor child’s heart is very empty — at times ; and she 
 longs with inexpressible longing for “ The Order of 
 Release ” that is to liberate her. For ye are not as 
 
3 5o WAITING BY THE WAVES. 
 
 yet come to the rest and to the inheritance which the 
 Lord your God giveth you . 
 
 When the men are on the sea, and the women at 
 their household work, she steals away unnoticed to 
 her lonely watch-tower above the waves. She hears 
 their tender moan in the long summer twilights ; 
 she listens to the dreary wail they make when the 
 keen winter wind strikes stormily against the granite 
 headlands. And though her eyes be veiled, still, as 
 she feels the sea-breeze wander across her face, that 
 glorious spectacle is not altogether hid from her. 
 In memory, the golden-lighted main burns below the 
 blue horizon, and she sits and gazes on the smooth 
 and treacherous water, — breathing quietly as a child, 
 smiling peacefully as a saint, — “ where he she loved 
 was drowned.” Oh, empty heart, wait in patience. 
 
 A little longer ere life, true, immortal, 
 
 Not this our shadowy life, will be thine own ; 
 
 And thou shalt stand where winged Archangels worship, 
 And kneeling bow before the Great White Throne. 
 
( 3 61 ) 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 And Autumn with a noise of rooks, 
 
 That gather in the waning woods. 
 
 rpHE Norwegian rivers were in bad trim this year ; 
 
 so we turned the Lily homeward before the days 
 began to darken, and sailing up the beautiful Bay of 
 Ashton, anchored the other evening below Carlyon, 
 where we still lie. 
 
 We have had a glorious autumn week. Warren- 
 der’s water and moor have been both in first-rate 
 condition. I cannot tell you how many sea- trout 
 have been landed — how many black-cock and wild- 
 fowl have fallen upon the heather and the mere— 
 since we came. Their name is legion. 
 
 The Teal-Moss is a capital locality for wild fowl ; 
 but there is another station which, for duck-shooting, 
 an indolent man prefers. The wild duck commonly 
 pass a number of hours during the day at sea (where 
 they are out of harm’s way), returning at sun-down 
 to the stubbles and the inland marshes. They follow 
 the same route with great punctuality — across a 
 ridge of sandy bents, then across the barley-fields, 
 
 2 b 
 
362 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 and so lip to the lonely sides of the valley. Donald 
 and I conceal ourselves among the long grasses on 
 the downs as “the gloaming” approaches, and wait 
 the evening flight. Nothing can well be pleasanter 
 during these soft autumn afternoons. You smoke, 
 of course — everybody does. You hear the reapers 
 at their work, the laughter of children and sweet- 
 hearts, the tramp and neighing of the horses as they 
 wend home from the watering-place — all the cheerful 
 sounds of farm life. The shrill and plaintive call of 
 the partridge sounds from the fields, and now and 
 again a covey sweeps swiftly past to its roosting-place 
 on the links. The hoarse rattle of the corncrake — 
 no, the corncrake has lost his voice by this time, not 
 to recover it again till spring returns, and the earth 
 “renews its ancient rapture.” Then, while the soft 
 mist rises from the heated ground, and the lark “ in 
 a privacy of glorious light ” chants his evening song, 
 but ere the rosy flush has faded from the sky, or 
 ceased to rim with gold the phantom island-shores 
 that float along the horizon, the wild ducks, in com- 
 panies of twos and threes, begin to whistle overhead, 
 and ever and anon a brace comes within range of our 
 fowling-pieces. And as we sit and watch, Donald 
 favours me with his notions on men and manners, 
 old-world stories, and “ the clash ” of the country- 
 side. Donald is a great institution. He is as old 
 and as wiry as the Prime Minister. He has con- 
 sumed oceans of whisky in his time. I believe, had 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 3 6 1 
 
 it been properly mixed, that, like the Celtic son-in- 
 law of Noah commemorated in the famous ballad, he 
 might have drunk up the deluge. Donald was a 
 mighty poacher in his youth—the dread of all the 
 game-keepers and game-preservers in the neighbour- 
 hood. But he has become a privileged character in 
 his old age, and is permitted to land his salmon, or 
 bring down his brace of “ deuks ” without moles- 
 tation. His fly falls on the water like a midge ; he 
 is a dead shot at a seal; and, in the less reputable 
 branches of the craft, I have heard that he is as 
 accomplished as his namesake, Sir Walter’s friend. 
 
 Donald Caird can wire a maukin, 
 
 Kens the wiles of dun-deer stalkin’ 
 
 Leisters kipper, makes a shift 
 To shoot a moorfowl in the drift. 
 
 Water-bailiffs, rangers, keepers, 
 
 He can wauk when they are sleepers ; 
 
 Not for bountith or reward, 
 
 Daur they mell wi’ Donald Caird. 
 
 A shrewd, douce, “ pawky ” old gentleman is Donald, 
 not without a vein of romance either. Moon-lighted 
 nights, forays after wild duck and ptarmigan, the moan 
 of the western sea on the shore, or its whisper among 
 the reeds, have enriched his character. Like all 
 sea-born and sea-bred men, he is a bit of a poet. 
 The ballads of these sea people, you must have 
 noticed, are seldom coarse in feeling or prosaic in 
 expression. There is a natural melody in them ; 
 they rise and fall with the waves. But their sym- 
 
3 6 4 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 pathy with nature, though intense, is not cheerful. 
 It is touched with the sadness and the dread of men 
 who know what death on the winter sea is like. They 
 love, but they fear her. 
 
 “ There’s a loon,” said Donald yesterday afternoon, 
 as we lay in our hidingplace among the bents — a 
 hidingplace, however, from which a glimpse of the 
 bay could be obtained. “ Shall I gie him a shot ? 
 Pie’s no aboon a hundred yards, and I’ve a charge o’ 
 heavy leads in.” 
 
 Donald never shoots with anything smaller than 
 No. 2, so that his “ heavy leads ” must be like small 
 cannon-balls. 
 
 “ For the Lord’s sake, sir, haud doon your head : 
 there’s a sealch makin’ this way. It’s a pity I’ve no 
 a bullet in my pouch.” 
 
 “Gaudebant carmine phocse. Try him with a 
 song, Donald.” 
 
 “ The brute’s aff,” said the old man, after a pause 
 and a long look. “ I ken that fellow’s nose weel ; he’s 
 as keen as a whitret, and as wily as the Laird o’ 
 Braxy.” 
 
 “ Don’t speak evil of dignities, Donald. I thought 
 you and Braxy ” — Braxy is a neighbouring laird — 
 “ were fast friends.” 
 
 “ Hoot, sir,” he replied, “ I canna thole him. He’s 
 racked the rents, and turned a wheen o’ the puir bit 
 cottar bodies into the muir. Ye’ll mind Andrew 
 MacTavish? A canny auld chiel is Andrew; sair 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 365 
 
 liudden doun wi’ the rheumatiz, and aye grumblin’, 
 as he miclit indeed, and his leg as stiff as the funnel 
 o’ the loch steamer, but wi’ sense and spunk eneuch, 
 and likin’ his snuff verra weel,” said Donald, as he 
 took out his “ mull,” and thrust a huge spoonful or 
 two up either nostril. “ Andrew was swear to gang ; 
 he had lived in the place for forty year. The wife 
 had deed in it, and three o’ his bairns ; guid bairns 
 they were, and weel liket in the country. So Andrew 
 puts on his shoon, and liirples across to the Laird. 
 ‘ Deed, Laird,’ says Andrew, ‘ I canna look to bide 
 lang noo, and ye’ll let me dee in the auld hoose.’ 
 But he wudna, for he’s a dour and greedy body, and 
 wanted a langer rent ; so Andrew was forced to pack. 
 Faith ! I wish we had the auld Laird back ; he was 
 a raal gentleman. Deil a berry from the Ha’ garden 
 was selt, as lang as he was maister. They didna 
 mind then if a lad was whiles seen in the gloamin’, 
 wi’ a maukin at his belt and his gun under his 
 shouther. But the law’s changed noo. New maisters, 
 new men ; and troth, sir,” Donald continued, waxing 
 confidential, “if Braxy fa’s our the back o’ the pier 
 ane o’ thae mirk nichts, he wunna be lang missed. 
 What think you tried he last? He wanted the 
 fisher-bodies doun at Norburn to sell him their fish 
 cheap, so he gets Sawney to ring the bell, and when 
 they are a’ seated in the Kirk — for public worship, 
 ye wud jalouse ? — he begins and bargains wi’ them 
 like a travellin’ packman. Heard ye ever the like ? 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 366 
 
 But they wudna bite. Ae lad — Fluke they ca’ him 
 — asked him for a sang : anither wud hae a sermon 
 on greed. And auld Browney gaed up to the pulpit 
 and began a discoorse — for Browney can speak like 
 a buik when he’s no blin’ fou — on the money-changers 
 in the Temple, and what was dune till them.” 
 
 Donald chuckled over this reminiscence, and took 
 another spoonful ere he resumed. 
 
 “And there was Elspit Gray, — ye’ve seen her 
 aften. I’ll warrant ? — she was a servant lass at the 
 castle lang syne. Weel, sir, she deed yestreen. She 
 was a gran’ auld wife, and keepit up her head till 
 she gaed. The yerl aye said she was born a gentle- 
 woman, wi’ her saft hands, and her white mutch, and 
 her glitterin’ een, like a kite’s. She was blin’ for 
 lang, and did na hear muckle forby. So she wud sit 
 ben the hoose for weeks without speaking a word to 
 her ain dochter, as gran’ as a queen with her crown on. 
 It was gruesome whiles, though — she’s gaured me 
 loup often when I’ve come on her at orra times — her 
 head turned up, a licht on her face, and her een 
 glowerin’ oot into the mirk.” 
 
 I had seen old Elspit often, and had been struck 
 by her grave and almost solemn cast of beauty. As 
 a girl, she must have been strikingly handsome : but 
 even as a girl, her expression could never have been 
 other than stern. The features had not grown hard 
 as she grew old : they must have been petrified in 
 girlhood. The story of some cruel wrong was vaguely 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 367 
 
 associated with her in my mind ; a story which I had 
 once heard, but had long forgotten. So I asked 
 Donald if he knew the details. 
 
 “ I ken it weel,” he said, “ and guid richt I have 
 — nane better noo. I was a wean at the time, and 
 she was a bit lassie hersel — a bonnie lassie, wi’ bricht 
 een, and curly red hair, that happed her roun’ like a 
 hood. It was in the hard time afore the war, when 
 the hail country was fairly wicked wi’ hate and 
 hunger. Her feyther was verra chief wi’ the yerl, — 
 a strang, stout chiel, that spoke his mind freely. 
 But he was hard on the starvin’ folk, and ‘ the boys ’ 
 swore that he shudna live past Mary mas. Sae it 
 chanced that ae mirk nicht in the fa’ a band o’ them 
 cam to his hoose — he was a fearless man, and wudna 
 steek the door for a’ the deevils oot o’ hell, he wad 
 say — and into the room where he was sittin’ wi’ his 
 wife Marion, and little Elsie upon her lap, beside the 
 fire. There was a dull licht, for the peats were low, 
 and they dragged him oot, and never a word spoken ; 
 for man and wife kent what was come upon them, 
 •and that it behoved not to pray to them that shed 
 innocent bluid. They stickit him like a stirk at his 
 ain door. Weel, the wife jaloused that they wad finish 
 wi’ her (for she had ever backed her man up — he was 
 aye richt, the rest were aye wrang) ; and when they 
 were awa’, she grippit little Elsie, and steekit her into 
 a closet in the wa’. There was a chink in the buird, 
 and she says to her — ‘ Noo, lass, they are killin’ your 
 
368 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 feyther ootside, and when they hae kilt him, they 
 will come back and kill me. Look weel at them 
 when they come, and mind you swear to them when 
 you see them in coort. I’ll cast a peat on the fire the 
 last thing to raise a bleeze, and struggle hard that 
 you may take a guid look.’ Marion Gray was a 
 keen- spirited wife ; she was ane o’ the auld Leslie 
 clan, and married her man for luve, but she was noo 
 clean daft, and her last thocht on earth was to hang 
 the loons. Auld Elspit had a picture o’ her mither, 
 that was painted by a foreigneer when she was a 
 lass, — a lauchin-face, safter-like than Elspit’s. The 
 bairn keeked thro’ the chink, and saw them murder 
 her mither. It’s a terrible but true story,” said 
 Donald, wiping his brow, over which the sweat was 
 running. “But she had marked them weel, and 
 swore to them afore the lords. I was there mysel ; 
 and weel I mind it, tho’ I was but a wean at the 
 time, — it’s sixty year this very fa’. There were the 
 twa lords, sitting crackin’ in their red gowns like twa 
 howdies, and a wheen glib lads wi’ horsehair wigs, 
 and the prisoners ahint them. There was unca little 
 against them though ; and the writer body — a fat 
 man, wi’ a red roun’ face like a haerst moon — was 
 cock-sure they wad wun aff, till the lass was fetched 
 in. Her face was deadly white, but her een burned 
 like live peats. The writer-bodies were no for lattin’ 
 her speak at first ; but she was sae quiet, and douce, 
 and keen, that the lords pit her in the box, and 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 369 
 
 speert at her aboot the catechism, and the Testament, 
 and the ten commandaments, and she answered 
 every word freely and fairly. Then she looked lang 
 at the men, and says quite quiet, pointing to ane and 
 anither o’ them, ‘ You were there, and you were 
 there, and you were there.’ It was like as if she 
 had spoken in a dwam, or aff a buik : there was nae 
 dauntin’ her. The three loons were hangit, and 
 Elspit gaed hame wi’ Whitey, that was sib to her 
 feyther’s gude brither. She grew lang and bonny, 
 and Sandy Gray courted her ; but they say she never 
 leuch again. And ’deed, sir,” he concluded, “it was 
 a burnin’ trouble for a young bairn.” 
 
 Having finished his narrative, Donald took a pull 
 at the capacious flask which I handed to him. There 
 are no abstainers among the northern hills. The 
 sportsman “ takes his dram” after he has slain his 
 stag on Ben Yorlich. The fisher “ takes his dram ” 
 when his twenty-pound salmon lies on the grass at 
 his feet. The pastor “ takes his dram ” after his 
 Gaelic discourse. The bard “ takes his dram ” when 
 he has recounted the exploits of Fingal and the 
 Fairshon. And each in succession “ blesses” the 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer, and “ tamns ta whisky 
 tuty.” 
 
 “ Elspit was the last o’ the clan,” he resumed. 
 “ She saw her folk a’ oot. Little Elsie bided wi’ her, 
 after auld Peter gaed, — but she did na bide lang, 
 puir lass.” 
 
 2 c 
 
370 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 “ Little Elsie ? ” I said ; " I did not know that she 
 was a relation of the old woman ? ” 
 
 “ Indeed, sir, she was,” Donald replied. “ Elsie 
 was caed after her gran’mither. Hester, her eldest 
 dochter, married Peter Stephen; an’ the ither, ye 
 may hae heard tell, gaed wrang — Katie they caed 
 her. Whist ! sir, — whist ! There’s a brace o’ deuks 
 anent the burn.” 
 
 And so musing upon Fate — upon the doom which 
 haunts a fated House, by the shores of the Northern 
 Sea as by the sleepless Cephisus, in the fisher’s hovel 
 as in the palace of. the King — I prepare at length 
 to lay aside my pen. But this is a book on politics, 
 you say ; and you think, therefore, that it might be 
 advisable to point the moral which it enforces. But 
 it points to nothing, — neither to the legerdemain of 
 Whig, or Tory, or Radical. It is a man we want, not 
 legislative antidotes. All history has proved, all true 
 religion has asserted, that the form is worthless, if 
 the spirit be dead. Christendom is the life of Christ. 
 The life of a Divine Person, and not the dogmas of 
 priests, lies at the root of all the truth, and goodness, 
 and greatness of eighteen hundred years. Whatever 
 is most characteristic in the life of any nation is 
 due to the influence of some half-dozen men, whose 
 high deeds or thoughts inspired the race, — thereby 
 raising it out of itself, out of its savageness, and its 
 meanness, and its selfishness, to the level of sacrifice, 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 37 1 
 
 and to the sense of duty. I have no confidence in 
 measures : I believe in men. Mowbray was the 
 last of the men who were greater than their measures. 
 He did not enfranchise the ten -pounders, but he 
 stirred the imagination and wakened the faith of the 
 nation. Had he lived the ten-pounders might not 
 have been enfranchised. The people would have 
 been satisfied to be led by one in whom they recog- 
 nised a chief, a guide, a leader. They would not 
 have required to be saved by an ingenious piece of 
 mechanism. But he died, and as the Whigs, who 
 cultivate “ Houses ” instead of “ Men,” succeeded to 
 the Government, and had neither personal genius 
 nor lofty virtue to offer to the people, they were 
 forced to try the ten-pound experiment. Whether 
 it has worked well, I do not stay to inquire. Upon 
 the whole, I am inclined to agree with Darcy, who 
 once said — 
 
 “ There must be a Divine Governor of the world. 
 Else into what a mess we should get when Lord John, 
 for instance, is at the helm. And as long as there is a 
 Divine Leader, it does not, perhaps, matter very 
 much who is Prime Minister.” 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET, 
 AND CHARING CROSS.