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CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 ENGLISH COLLECTION 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 JAMES MORGAN HART 
 
 PROFESSOR OF ENGUSH 
 
rj 
 
 Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013574482 
 
1876.] r/r£ CENTURY— ITS FRUITS AND ITS FESTIVAL. t^yj 
 
 INTERIOR OK HORTICULTURAL HALL. 
 
 Persevering attempts at solving the 
 great problem of good bread for the 
 million crop up in all parts of the hall. 
 Five or six hundred kinds of hard biscuit 
 may be counted by a statistician inclined 
 to that field. Indeed, a single baker from 
 Albany points proudly to three hundred 
 varieties of this dry provender artistical- 
 ly arranged in glass boxes and piled into 
 the semblance of a pavilion. And he is 
 but one of many. The crackeries of all 
 nations compete. Then, compassionate 
 of the teeth of the masses, the porridge- 
 makers vary the farinaceous entertain- 
 ment. Starch companies put their aco- 
 lytes in the traditional paper cap and 
 uniform of unbroken white, and gratify 
 all comers with puddings and with the 
 satisfaction of further encouraging a bus- 
 iness of American origin, extreme youth 
 and immense present proportions. In 
 round numbers, the annual yield of In- 
 dian corn in the United States amounts 
 to twenty bushels per head of the pop- 
 ulation. Any plan looking to the rescue 
 of the surplus from the fireplace and the 
 still could not fail to be a public bless- 
 ing. Its liability to mould in bulk, either 
 ground or unground, interferes with its 
 exportation, although, with the help of 
 fast steamers, that difficulty is being 
 measurably overcome. Two or three 
 decades since the idea occurred to some 
 
 Vol. XVIll,-34 
 
 one in Western New York to reduce the 
 meal to starch and place it in small close 
 packages. " Corn-flour" has now become 
 a common aliment in Great Britain, whose 
 local papers are full of its advertisements, 
 the generic name of corn, once made to 
 embrace all grains, thus being yielded to 
 specialization by opr conservative cousins. 
 They hand us in return, from their end 
 of the family table, oatmeal. Dr. John- 
 son to the contrary notwithstanding. 
 Nothing can be better for the young : it 
 builds up the frames of men, colts and 
 pigs more rapidly and solidly than maize, 
 and its introduction is an undoubted gain 
 to our menu. Oatmeal, however, was 
 also unsuited to sea-voyages. The taste 
 for it once established, it became an ar- 
 ticle of home growth, with marked ad- 
 vantage to the farmers on both sides of 
 our northern frontier. The standing food 
 of this country and Western Europe, the 
 flour of wheat sifted to the last whiteness, 
 and so turned into a sort of medical ex- 
 tract, essays by many devices to hold its 
 own intact against the northern invader. 
 Thus we have "self-raising flour," treat- 
 ed with some form of soda, and ready to 
 swell into elegant indigestibihty under 
 the simplest application of water and 
 heat — a labor-saving contrivgoce worthy 
 of a belter cause. Macaroni, an Ameri- 
 can manufacture of rather longer stand- 
 
538 
 
 THE CENTURY— ITS FRUITS AND ITS FESTIVAL. 
 
 [Nov. 
 
 ing, takes to itself a humbler place and 
 is less demonstrative. In quality it will 
 not approach the Italian until our makers 
 use more care in selecting the dryer and 
 more glutinous wheats. 
 
 These articles bring us into the prov- 
 ince of machinery. The primeval-look- 
 ing windmill set up near the centre of 
 the building by an exhibitor represents 
 the nearest approach to a machine known 
 to those whose bread it ground. Com- 
 pared with the sickle and flail that fed it, 
 it was complexity itself. Compared with 
 their modern substitutes, the reaper and 
 threshing - machine, it is all simplicity. 
 The dura ilia messorum are harder than 
 ever, being of iron. To the young stu- 
 dents of the next generation the scythe 
 of Saturn and the sickle of Ceres will 
 become as purely mythical and incom- 
 prehensible as the biography of those 
 characters. Those antique tools were 
 never used except for cutting grass and 
 the small grains. Machines which reap, 
 rake, bind and toss or tend — a corrup- 
 tion of ted which ought to be discarded 
 — have long expelled them from the har- 
 vest-field and meadow, and now assume 
 to extend their sway to fresh fields and 
 pastures new. They attack the firm and 
 stately ranks of maize and mine the ob- 
 stinate and baffling potato. The records 
 of the Patent Office are full of inventions 
 for these two purposes, and several which 
 claim perfection are exhibited. Doubt- 
 less, this consummation is a mere ques- 
 tion of time, and the farmer of the near 
 future shall see the hoe driven from its 
 citadel in the potato-hill, and his hands 
 released from wrestling with the flinty 
 husk and stem of what Cobbett called 
 the most magnificent of grasses. 
 
 For the last polishing touches, such as 
 are dealt by the engraver's needle and 
 the painter's sable, tools wielded by hand 
 will remain indispensable. These, too. 
 Will be, as a glance at the specimens 
 around us shows already, comparable in 
 delicacy and scientific adaptation to the 
 art-implements we have likened them to. 
 The old iron hay-fork is to its keen, ethe- 
 real and elastic steel successor as the old 
 table-fork -is to its supplanter of silver. 
 That there should be so much strength 
 
 in these fragile-looking tines is easier to 
 realize when we observe the extent to 
 which economy of material has been 
 carried in appliances designed to meet 
 the heaviest strain — for instance, the se- 
 ries of levers and ratchets worked easily 
 by one person in lifting from its roots the 
 stump of a tree. 
 
 Daniel Webster's plough, a mass of 
 wood and iron remarkable for anything 
 else than saving of material, is a projec- 
 tion of the past into the present. It might 
 very well have been used by his father or 
 grandfather in subduing the rugged New 
 Hampshire soil. But it did its work well, 
 according to the great expounder's cer- 
 tificate of good behavior attached to the 
 beam, and left him no cause to envy more 
 shapely structures. Webster's attach- 
 ment to rural occupations was apparent- 
 ly genuine. He was one of a long list of 
 intellectual athletes who, AntKus-like, 
 were wont to draw fresh strength from 
 the bosom of Mother Earth. As with 
 many of them, his profit was of the mind 
 and nerves rather than of the pocket. 
 His plough is not so elaborately framed 
 as his theory of the Constitution, and se- 
 cures a place among the fabrics of New 
 Hampshire only by virtue of its parent- 
 age. Ploughs, indeed, are not at all 
 germane to her specialty as a food-pro- 
 ducer. Her maple-" orchards," the yield 
 and management of which she fully illus- 
 trates, are quite independent of aid from 
 tillage. They furnish a northern coun- 
 terpart to the India-rubber forests of the 
 tropics, represented in another part of 
 the hall by young plants and specimens 
 of the crude gum. These are contrib- 
 uted from Boston, and point to an indus- 
 try much more important and progres- 
 sive than the making of maple-sugar, 
 and suggestive of nothing about politi- 
 cians but the elasticity of their principles. 
 
 That the world is able to feed and 
 clothe itself, and has small cause to fear 
 a recurrence of famine and fig-leaves, is 
 a conviction every one will have borne 
 away from these Gothic portals that en- 
 close so little of the Gothic. It is, more- 
 over, clear that this encouraging state of 
 things is both general and particular — 
 that there are but few localities in which 
 
1 876.] 
 
 THE VENTURY^ITS FRUITS' AND ITS FESTIVAL. 
 
 539' 
 
 it does not hold, and the number of these 
 is diminishing. The advance of culture 
 cannot be said to leave any deserts be- 
 hind it. Changes occur in the staples 
 of both old and new countries, but the 
 changes are in the 
 way of addition and 
 accessioi) more fre- 
 quently than of sub- 
 traction. New prod- 
 ucts become common 
 property, and the old 
 ones are stimulated 
 by improved methods 
 and wider markets. 
 Men live more and 
 more on what to their 
 ancestors were, if 
 known to them at all, 
 luxuries ; and the sub- 
 stantials — or, which is 
 the same thing, means 
 of producing them in- 
 stantly on demand — 
 remain as a reserve. 
 The growth of cities 
 everywhere, and not 
 in isolated countries 
 only, as formerly, 
 proves that agricul- 
 ture can spare the 
 hands it sends them. 
 When they are need- 
 ed the movement will 
 stop. The new mines 
 of wheat, wool and 
 flax, are hardly less 
 astonishing than those 
 of gold and silver. The question in hand 
 becomes rather the replanting of the for- 
 ests than the extraction of additional food- 
 supplies from the cleared land. India, not- 
 withstanding the dearths which still occur 
 at lengthened intervals and of less serious 
 nature at some points of her territory, is 
 able to abstract an increasing area from 
 the production of food for the growth of 
 jute, cotton and opium. The rich plains 
 of Southern Russia and Poland find more 
 profitable crops than wheat, and esparto- 
 grass for the French and English paper- 
 mill takes possession of the vegas of Spain. 
 
 A precipitous ravine draws an inap- 
 
 propriately abrupt frontier between the 
 domains of the farmer and the garden- 
 er. The blending of the two should be 
 imperceptible. Instead of stepping from 
 the bare and colorless purlieus of the 
 
 STAIRWAY IN HOUTICUI.TIJRAL HALL. 
 
 Agricultural Building into the car of that 
 time -honored or dishonored suppliant 
 for public favor, a one-railed railroad, 
 and being twitched along the edge of a 
 scantling into a brilliant spread of turf, 
 coleus and geraniums, we should have 
 been prevented from knowing where the 
 tassels of maize ceased to nod and the 
 rose began to glow. The farmer is a 
 florist. In early June he gazes, probably 
 with pride, and certainly with deep in- 
 terest, on more acres of flowers than his 
 gardening neighbor raises in a Hfedme. 
 A little later the blossoms of wheat, as 
 conspicuous as those of mignonette, give 
 place to the crimson clover, and that in 
 
54° 
 
 THE CENTURY— ITS FRUITS AND ITS FESTIVAL. 
 
 [Nov. 
 
 turn to semi-tropical maize, more grace- 
 ful than caladium and stately as the ba- 
 nana. The white bloom of buckwheat, 
 vocal with bees, winds up his year more 
 brightly than the aster or chrysanthe- 
 mum. It may, indeed, be a floral surfeit 
 that disinclines him to borrow from hor- 
 ticulture. But flowers are one of the few 
 things in which plethora is impossible. 
 Properly disposed as regards variety, 
 mass and opposition of color, they can 
 as little be overdone as pictures. Even 
 weeds are but plants out of place. The 
 India - rubber tree is inferior in beauty 
 and fragrance to its humble relative, the 
 asclepias or silk-pod of our fence-corners, 
 and the burdock before it dons its burs 
 is a charming thing to sketch. All the 
 tenants of the parterre and conservatory 
 are weeds somewhere. 
 
 But as we step from our shaky Al-Sirat 
 into a paradise ahead of Mohammed's 
 we forget to inquire whether Mr. and 
 Mrs. Giles have come with us or not. 
 We have left a temporary booth and its 
 ipore or less perishable contents for a 
 structure which has obviously " come to 
 stay," its walls sheltering within and 
 overlooking without , the flowers of all 
 nations on their own roots, and flourish- 
 ing as though they breathed their own 
 air. On what a scale this assemblage is 
 made we gather from such facts as the 
 contribution of twenty -five varieties of 
 maples from Japan, besides a correspond- 
 ing collection from the same new and 
 distant region of camellias, conifers and 
 other evergreens, azaleas, etc. Cuba, 
 through the government and private 
 exhibitors, takes the foremost place in 
 exhibits direct from the tropics. Brazil 
 follows. More ample offerings of green- 
 house trees and shrubs come from the 
 United States Botanic Garden and Agri- 
 cultural Department, and from the nur- 
 series of England and the United States. 
 The Washington conservatories look to 
 the introduction of fruits and fibres that 
 may be found available in this country, 
 and have accordingly a more utilitarian 
 character than those of private grow- 
 ers. They send the cocoa, guava, papaw, 
 rose - apple, mango, banana of several 
 varieties besides those which are hardy 
 
 in Florida, date and other palms. The 
 eucalyptus, or Australian blue gum, 
 hardy in Cahfornia and probably in the 
 Atlantic States south of 35° or 36°, re- 
 quires protection in this latitude. Where 
 hardy it is said to disarm malaria, and it 
 has been largely planted with that view 
 in miasmatic localities in Italy, Spain, 
 Southern France and Algeria. Some 
 maintain that its reputation in this re- 
 spect is chiefly due to its rapidity of 
 growth. It makes in this way more 
 striking the improvement in healthful- 
 ness consequent upon the surrounding 
 of dwellings in malarious districts by a 
 belt of trees. 
 
 The Robert Morris sago-palm, a cen- 
 tury and a half old and ten feet high, 
 would be disowned by the tropics. It is 
 evidence that to some things a northern 
 climate fails to impart vigor. More cu- 
 rious are the insectivorous plants, long 
 known, but lately infused with new life 
 by the magic touch of Darwin. One 
 species is shown from Australia, another 
 from Java and one from North Carolina. 
 The assimilation of animal matter by 
 plants through the roots having always 
 been so notorious, the sensation caused 
 by the discovery that some of them ab- 
 sorb it through the leaf-pores is somewhat 
 surprising. Why should not the drosera 
 live on flies as well as the apple tree on 
 Roger Williams, or the peach on Andre "i 
 
 Mr. Waterer's English rhododendrons 
 were the lion of their short day — a day 
 which cannot, we fear, be prolonged 
 or repeated in the Centennial grounds. 
 An American exhibitor, Mr. Parsons of 
 Flushing, has for years endeavored to 
 make this fine evergreen at home under 
 our sky, but with only partial success. 
 He shows seventy varieties. The sum- 
 mer seems to be a more trying period 
 with most kinds than the winter. The 
 common kalmias of our hills, more showy 
 than many of the rhododendrons, are sel- 
 dom seen upon the lawn by reason of their 
 requirement of shade. Ivy also avoids 
 the direct rays of the sun, but will grow 
 well with a northern exposure and on 
 the trunk of the acacia. It is exhibited 
 in forty varieties by Hoopes & Thomas. 
 Our command of arboreal evergreens is 
 
1876.] 
 
 THE CENTURY— ITS FRUITS AND ITS FESTIVAL. 
 
 541 
 
 further attested by five hundred kinds 
 from the same firm. Mt. M«ehan's sev- 
 en hundred deciduous trees, all practi- 
 cally hardy, amply extend the resources 
 of our planters. They help to reconcile 
 us to the loss of the California sequoias 
 and the cedar of Lebanon, the 
 leading modern ornaments of the 
 English parks. The holly is an- 
 other tree of exceeding beauty 
 and rich in association which 
 cannot be depended upon north 
 of the Delaware, though New 
 Jersey leads it, with the cypress 
 and the liquidamber,- from the 
 South along the shelter of the 
 coast. It is to be hoped that the 
 variegated hollies presented by 
 Messrs. Veitch & Sons of Lon- 
 don to the Commission may 
 prove hardy, as also the Portu- 
 gal laurels and other plants of 
 open-air growth in England in- 
 cluded in the same gift. The 
 coming American country-seat 
 will date many of its features 
 from the exposition. Its thou- 
 sand-year oaks are yet, we fear, 
 to be planted. In the old coun- 
 try entail has guarded them since 
 the Heptarchy. That shield from 
 the axe they will never enjoy here 
 will continue to be a chattel, rural homes 
 but encampments, and deer-parks a name 
 for plank hotels. Yet our people like trees 
 and plants, and are fond of cherishing the 
 fancy of a dwelling-place where the family 
 may root itself with the rocks and woods. 
 It is a valuable taste and a wholesome 
 craving. Let us not distrust those who 
 are to come after us. Our tastes will 
 doubtless be theirs, and all the more if 
 we hand them down in the tangible and 
 beautiful form of a fir, an oak, or a wall 
 secured against destruction by the green 
 seal of ivy. An eloquent appeal to this 
 end comes from these hills on which the 
 exposition stands, rich chiefly in the old 
 trees left to them, and from the evident 
 appreciation of them by those to whom 
 they belong and the thousands from a 
 distance who see them for the first time. 
 In-door gardening is the only resource 
 in our climate during a third of the year. 
 
 and it is a resource within the reach of 
 all. The furnaces and self-feeding stoves 
 so abhoiTed of the doctors are loved of the 
 flowers. The temperature can be easily 
 graduated with the aid of the doors and 
 windows, and there is no need of plants 
 
 Land 
 
 OF CYCAS, FERN-PALM AND BANANA TREE IN 
 HORTICULTURAL HALL. 
 
 suffering from dry or vitiated air. Win- 
 dow-gardens are the conservatories of the 
 million, and exhibitors hasten to recog- 
 nize their growing popularity. Flower- 
 stands, ferneries, Wardian cases, aquaria 
 and self-watering flower -baskets match 
 the open-air furniture of lawn-mowers, 
 garden-engines, chairs and tables, trel- 
 lises and tools in greater profusion and 
 variety than any one person, however 
 enthusiastic and omniscient as a culti- 
 vator, ever saw before. They come from 
 manufacturers in every part of the coun- 
 try, showing how general is the demand. 
 Garden statuary is not usually of a 
 high order of art, and we do not expect 
 to see Memorial Hall rivaled in that line 
 by its gay neighbor. Messrs. Doulton 
 in terra-cotta, Baird in marble, Wood in 
 iron, and others whose works are less 
 conspicuous, creditably sustain this school 
 of sculpture. To our eye, a bit of gar- 
 den statuary is most pleasing when, like 
 
54-2 
 
 THE CENTURY— ITS FRUITS .AND ITS FESTIVAL. 
 
 [Nov. 
 
 Hermes, Terminus and such-like gods of 
 the pleasance and the grove, who were 
 unfinished below the bust, it is most- 
 ly concealed by shrubbery and vines. It 
 should be an accessory rather than a 
 principal object. This office is filled not 
 quite so well by rocks, or even rock- work. 
 The erection which underlies the foun- 
 tain in the centre of the hall will grow 
 more attractive as it disappears from 
 sight and becomes the barely visible 
 core of a mass of graceful plants. 
 
 The most intensely artificial objects to 
 be seen in this abode of natural beauty 
 are the French bouquet-holders in fili- 
 gree of paper and metal. If something 
 there must be to protect the fingers from 
 contact with a flower, these marvels of 
 fancy and scissors-craft will do as well 
 as anything else. And indestructible 
 garlands for the grave are fitly made of 
 the immortelles which appear by their 
 side, and unite, like one of Gcrome's 
 pictures, the festal and funereal. We 
 confess to a dislike for flowers which 
 do not decay. They are not true to their 
 nature and their mission ; they refuse to 
 teach the lesson that makes them sym- 
 bolically and morally expressive ; and 
 they become thus an impertinence, like 
 artificial flowers. They have no leaves, 
 and do not look as if they ever had any, 
 or were in the least discomposed at being 
 separated from the parent stalk. That 
 they ever warmed with sap, expanded 
 to the sun or drank in the shower we 
 must take on trust entirely. They would 
 be more honest and truthful, in fact, if 
 made of rags, thread, wire and sealing- 
 wax, like the similar choses de Paris that 
 deck the miUiner's shelves. Give us in 
 preference the French roses that bloom 
 around by the thousand — Luxembourg, 
 Souvenir de Malmaison, Marechal Niel, 
 Safrano, and so on in line growing longer 
 year by year. 
 
 No part of the exposition programme 
 was better wrought out than that entrust- 
 ed to the knights of the spade and wa- 
 tering-pot. The almanac was not more 
 true than the successive seasons to their 
 demands upon them. Acres of clay 
 turned into green velvet before the frost 
 
 was well away. Then came, in due and 
 ordered perfection, as laid down by line 
 and label, hyacinth, tulip, rhododen- 
 dron, gladiolus and dahlia, with great 
 vermilion and purple banks of foliage 
 plants and ornamental grasses that last- 
 ed through all the floral epochs. It was a 
 manufacturing process carried on under 
 our eyes, as precise in its methods and 
 exact in its results as any of the loom or 
 the iron mill. It took as little heed of 
 the weather as though it too had been 
 under roof. Drought was disregarded. 
 The completed fabric is not altogether 
 so durable as the less gay tissues we saw 
 turned out of silk and wool in Machinery 
 Hall : it will not stand winter wear. But 
 it can be put together another year and 
 another, when the silks are frayed and 
 the carpets trodden into strings. If this 
 machine-like science could only be made 
 to work as well by the farmers we left 
 on the other hill ! If they could com- 
 mand as implicit obedience from wheat- 
 field, meadow, orchard and fold as these 
 gardeners do from their bulbs and slips ! 
 Why should that attainment be hopeless ? 
 At least it may be sought, and by seek- 
 ing it must needs be approached. There 
 is ten times as much machinery — i. e., 
 stored and crystallized thought, inquiry 
 and experiment — in yonder hall as in 
 this. The garden cuts but a small figure 
 in the Patent Office. 
 
 After all, we may be presumptuous in 
 hinting that the craftsman who keeps us 
 all in food and raiment might still furth- 
 er systematize his business, and is not as 
 competent to discount the ups and downs 
 of the weather as the bulls and bears are 
 to discount those of the stock-market. 
 To apply the forces of Nature to the pro- 
 duction of Clydesdales, Conestogas, Per- 
 cherons, Durhams and thirteen-foot corn- 
 stalks may not rank below the creation, 
 regardless of the thermometer, of straw- 
 berries and geraniums. And it must be 
 confessed that if the IVIoresque arches 
 and their translucent domes place us in 
 a land of beauty, the green vaults — in 
 some senses richer than those of Dres- 
 den — over the way satisfy us that we 
 live in a land of plenty. 
 
1876.] WALKS AND VISITS IN WOKDSWOKTWS COUNTRY. 543 
 
 WALKS AND VISITS IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY. 
 TWO PAPERS.-], gffj, Xir^a-I' 
 
 RYDAL MOUNT. 
 
 I 
 
 August ii, 1855. 
 N company with my dear friend, the 
 Rev. Derwent Coleridge, I called to- 
 day at Rydal Mount. I had great inter- 
 est in entering again the grounds and 
 the house which six years ago I visited 
 with such eager expectation. Everything 
 remains as it was in the poet's lifetime 
 — the books and the pictures and the 
 furniture. Wordsworth's chair stands 
 in its accustomed place by the drawing- 
 room fireside. Mrs. Wordsworth seems 
 also unchanged. Her manners are 
 simple and unpretending, but she re- 
 ceived me very cordially. As was nat- 
 ural, almost the first inquiries were after 
 Mrs. Henry Reed and her children. She 
 spoke with much feeling of Professor 
 Reed and Miss Bronson, who scarcely a 
 year ago perished in the Arctic. They left 
 Rydal Mount for Liverpool to embark, 
 and it was little more than a week after 
 
 their parting from this dear venerable 
 lady that the waves closed over them. 
 Mrs. Wordsworth is almost eighty-five, 
 and is as clear in mind as she ever was. 
 You forget her great age in talking with 
 her. And what tenderness there is in 
 the tones of her voice, and what truth- 
 ful simplicity in her words ! We did not 
 remain very long. I accepted her invi- 
 tation to drink tea the next evening in 
 company with Mr. Coleridge. As we 
 drove away we passed the spot where 
 Wordsworth gave me his hand in part- 
 ing six years ago, and but six months 
 before his death. Later in the day, Mr. 
 Coleridge and I took a walk along the 
 Brathay to Skelvvith Force and back, a 
 round of six miles. The valley through 
 which we went was familiar ground to 
 Mr. Coleridge, he and his brother Hart- 
 ley — " My poor brother Hartley !" as Mr. 
 Coleridge says when he speaks of him— 
 
 C 
 
544 
 
 WALXS AND VISITS IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY. 
 
 [Nov. 
 
 having spent five or six years there in 
 their schoolboy days. We went to the 
 cottage where they had Uved, and the 
 well-remembered rooms brought up to 
 my friend a crowd of recollections of 
 forty years ago. He talked much of 
 those early days as we walked together 
 along that sweet valley. We reached 
 
 the Force, which is a pretty waterfall, 
 and returned on the other side of the 
 valley. It rained occasionally, but one 
 gets used to this in England. 
 
 Aug. 12, Sunday, I went to the new 
 Ambleside church this morning. It is 
 one of Gilbert Scott's works, but not al- 
 together pleasing. I sat with Dr. John 
 
 GRASMERE CHURCH. 
 
 Davy, brother of Sir Humphry. We 
 were close to the memorial window for 
 which Dr. Davy had applied, through 
 Professor Reed, for American contribu- 
 tions. When the service was over, I re- 
 mained to Study this window. Its ap- 
 propriate inscription is — 
 
 Guliemi Wordsworth Amatorcs et Amici, 
 partim Atigii, partim Anglo-Americani. 
 
 Other smaller windows are near by, 
 coinmcmorating members of the Words- 
 worth family, so that the corner becomes 
 a Wordsworth chapel. One window re- 
 mains without inscription : it awaits Mrs. 
 Wordsworth's departure, and will com- 
 memorate her and her daughter Dora. 
 At two o'clock I started for my walk 
 to Grasmere, five miles distant, where I 
 had agreed to meet Mr. Coleridge. My 
 way at first was along the Rothay by 
 the lovely road at the base of Lough 
 
 Rigg, which mountain seems to embrace 
 as with an encircling arm one side of the 
 Ambleside valley. There was deep 
 shade here and there, and for a part 
 of the way there was the shadow of the 
 mountain itself. I passed Fox How, 
 where there are only servants at pres- 
 ent, the family being away. Other pret- 
 ty houses, with lovely shade about them, 
 I also passed, and the sweep of the road 
 gave me a perpetually changing view. 
 Then I crossed abridge, and soon found 
 myself in the Vale of Rydal. Skirting 
 the small Rydalmere, I next entered the 
 sweet Grasmere Vale. In the distance 
 was the church which was my destina- 
 tion, the square tower being a striking 
 object in the view. It was a day of won- 
 derful brightness, and the green of the 
 mountain sheep-pastures and the purple 
 of the slate rock, which is seen here and 
 
1876.] 
 
 WALJCS AND VISITS IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY. 
 
 545 
 
 there, made a lovely contrast in the sun- 
 light. 
 
 The church, which I reached at length, 
 is the one commemorated by Words- 
 worth in the Excursion : 
 
 Not raised in nice proportions was the pile, 
 
 But large and massy, for duration built. 
 
 With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld 
 
 By naked raflers intricately crossed. 
 
 Like leafless under-boughs *mid some thick grove. 
 
 The interior is interesting. The pave- 
 ment is of blue flagstones worn and un- 
 even. The pillars support two rows of 
 
 low stone arches, one above the other, 
 and on these rest the beams and other 
 framework, black with age, which up- 
 hold the roof. The pillars are square 
 and are of separate stones, and all has 
 the look of rude strength, the rough 
 work of very ancient days. The con- 
 gregation was large. Mr. Coleridge 
 preached. When the service was over 
 I waited a while to look at the tablet 
 to Wordsworth, which is on the wall 
 directly over the pew he occupied for 
 many years. The inscription is a trans- 
 
 RYDALMERE. 
 
 lation from the Latin of the dedication 
 to him of Mr. Keble's Lectures on Poetry, 
 and is as follows : 
 
 To the memory of 
 
 William Wordsworth, 
 
 A true philosopher and poet. 
 
 Who by the special gift and calling of 
 
 Almighty God, 
 
 Whether he discoursed on man or Nature, 
 
 Failed not to lift up the heart 
 
 to holy things. 
 
 Tired not of maintaining the cause 
 
 of the poor and simple. 
 
 And so in perilous times was raised up 
 
 to be a chief minister, 
 
 Not only of noblest poesy, 
 
 but of high and sacred truth. 
 
 Mr. Coleridge and I now started for 
 
 the walk we had arranged to take to- 
 gether. It was to be a vigorous climb, 
 and then a descent and a circuit of the 
 vales of Rydal and Grasmere ; and we 
 had two hours for it. We took a nar- 
 row road leading up the mountain on 
 the west side of Grasmere Lake : coming 
 down a little, we ascended once more to 
 look down on Rydal Water. The views 
 were very lovely, and the mountain-air 
 was exhilarating. These lakes, with 
 their dark mountain settings, are like 
 mirrors in their black transparency. 
 Rydal Water is dotted with islands, each 
 with its few trees, everything seeming in 
 miniature. We went to a house which 
 
546 
 
 WALKS AN£) VISITS IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY. [Nov. 
 
 is the highest human habitation in Eng- 
 land, save one on the top of Kirkstone 
 Pass. The people occupying it knew 
 Mr. Coleridge well : they showed me, at 
 his request, the kitchen with its pave- 
 ment of flagstones, and the opening be- 
 tween the rafters which served for the 
 chimney — a curious specimen of West- 
 moreland cottage-life. 
 
 KIRKSTONE PASS. 
 
 We reached at length Rydal Mount, 
 which was our destination, and found 
 there Miss Edith Coleridge, daughter of 
 Sara Coleridge ; William Wordsworth, a 
 grandson of the poet ; and Mr. Carter, 
 Wordsworth's secretary for forty years. 
 Young Wordsworth has his grandfather's 
 face : he seems thoughtful, and, though si- 
 lent, his manner is prepossessing. He is 
 about twenty years of age, and is an un- 
 dergraduate of Baliol College, Oxford. 
 
 Mr. Coleridge left us soon after tea, 
 having to return to Grasmere. I walked 
 out on the terrace with Mr. Carter, and 
 enjoyed the fine view it commands of 
 the valley of the Rothay, with Lake 
 Windermere in the distance. It is a. 
 double terrace, with flower-beds inter- 
 spersed, rich in bloom and fragrance. 
 On either hand there is shrubbery of 
 luxuriant growth, and one wall of the 
 house is ivy-grown. All speaks of lov- 
 ing and tender care. Much of the work 
 of raising the terraces was done, I 
 believe, by Wordsworth's own hands. 
 There are seats here and there, on 
 
 which one would be tempted to spend 
 many an hour watching the changing 
 lights on the distant hillsides and the 
 fair valleys. Mr. Carter pointed out to 
 me the valley down which " the Wander- 
 er" and his party came to the "church- 
 yard among the mountains " (the Gras- 
 mere church). He showed me also the 
 stone with its inscription — 
 
 In these fair vales hath many a tree 
 
 At Wordsworth's suit been spared, 
 And from thebuilder's hand this stone. 
 For some rude beauty of its own, 
 
 Was rescued by the bard : 
 So let it rest, and time will come 
 '^^ When here the tender-hearted 
 — ■ May heave a gentle sigh for him 
 ^ As one of the departed. 
 
 Mr. Carter was most helpful 
 to the poet during the long 
 years of his association with 
 him. One could fancy that 
 he appreciated from the first 
 the dignity of the service he 
 was thus rendering. Mrs. 
 Wordsworth has only a lease 
 of Rydal Mount: at her 
 death it must pass to stran- 
 gers, for neither of her sons 
 will be able to live there. I have omit- 
 ted to say that she is rapidly losing her 
 sight, but she has scarcely any other in- 
 firmity of age. 
 
 Aug. 13. Early this morning I started 
 for an excursion which had been planned 
 for me by Mr. Coleridge. I went by 
 coach from Ambleside, ascending the 
 Kirkstone Pass. I was outside, and 
 could enjoy at first, as I looked back, 
 the sweet morning view of Lake Win- 
 dermere with its islands and its fair 
 green hillsides. But soon the sharp as- 
 cent of the road brought us between 
 steep mountain-declivities, shutting out 
 all view except of their desolate gray 
 slopes. There were but scanty patches 
 of grass here and there : all else was 
 stony and barren. I walked in advance 
 of the coach, enjoying the silence and 
 the solitude, and the grand slopes of the 
 naked mountains on either hand. Up 
 and up we went, until at last the sum- 
 mit of the pass was reached. There 
 stands the old stone house said to be 
 the highest inhabited house in England 
 
1876.] WALKS AND VISITS IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY. 
 
 547 
 
 — a rude enough dwelling, and at pres- 
 ent an alehouse. Beginning now our 
 descent toward Patterdale, we had from 
 the summit of the pass a view of the 
 little lake of Brotherswater, and soon 
 our road was along the margin of this 
 fair high-lying tarn. The mountains 
 
 stand quite around the lake, leaving 
 only space for the road. From the foot 
 of the pass a drive of a few miles 
 brought us to Patterdale, and there my 
 coach-journey ended. I climbed to a 
 stone-quarry on the hillside opposite, 
 and thence had a view of the valley 
 
 ULLSWATER. 
 
 through which I had just passed, and of 
 the lake of UUswater stretching off to 
 the right. Returning to the inn at Pat- 
 terdale, I engaged a boat to take me to 
 Lyulph's Tower, distant five or six 
 miles. A young man with drawing- 
 materials and pack slung over his shoul- 
 der was about to leave the inn. I asked 
 him to take a seat with me, and we were 
 soon side by side in the open boat on the 
 beautiful lake. From the level of the 
 water the mountains rising on either 
 hand appeared in their full dignity. 
 The lake is quite shut in by these steep 
 and lofty hills. For a while the clouds 
 were threatening, but we dreaded wind 
 more than rain, for these lakes are often 
 lashed by sudden storms. We landed 
 and climbed to Lyulph's Tower, and 
 there below, in its fair loveliness, lay the 
 
 sweet UUswater, this upper reach of it be- 
 ing of quite wonderful beauty. Thence 
 we made our way to Aira Force, a mile 
 distant — a dashing waterfall in a narrow 
 gorge. Its height is about eighty feet. 
 The "woody glen" and the "torrent 
 hoarse," as Wordsworth describes it, 
 are appropriate words. 
 
 A mile farther we found a road and a 
 little inn. We asked for luncheon, but 
 in the principal room, to which we were 
 shown, two traveling tailors were at 
 work. It seemed pleasanter to be in the 
 open air, so we had our table under the 
 trees outside. My companion proved to 
 be a clergyman : he was fresh from Ox- 
 ford, and had just taken orders. We 
 had fallen at once into intimacy, but we 
 had immediately to part company. My 
 way was onward to Keswick, a walk of 
 
548 
 
 WALKS AND VISITS IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY. [Nov. 
 
 eleven miles. I ascended first a long 
 hill, and then my route wound along or 
 around the side of a mountain. Above 
 and below me was bare heath or moun- 
 tain-moor : there were no trees whatever. 
 For near two hours I saw no house or 
 sign of cultivation, nor did I meet a hu- 
 man being. The wind blew strongly in 
 my face, but my blood coursed through 
 all my veins, and I had ever before me 
 a wide sweeping view. I descended at 
 length into the fair valley through which 
 the Greta flows, and about two hours 
 more of steady walking brought me to 
 Keswick. My stopping-place, however, 
 was at the inn at Portingscale on the 
 banks of Derwent-water, a mile out of 
 Keswick, where 1 had agreed to meet Mr. 
 
 Coleridge. I dined, and was resting after 
 my long walk, when 1 heard his voice in 
 the hall inquiring for me. With him were 
 three other gentlemen, one of them the 
 friend with whom he was staying, who 
 asked me to return with them and drink 
 tea at his house. One of the four was 
 Dr. Carlyle, a brother of the Chelsea 
 philosopher, himself a man of letters, the 
 prose translator of Dante. I soon found 
 myself in a pretty drawing-room looking 
 out on Derwent-water. Mr. Leitch was 
 our host. We had a great deal of ani- 
 mated talk at the tea-table, and later 
 in the long twilight Mr. Coleridge read 
 to us the Ancient Mariner and Gene- 
 vieve, his father's matchless poems. He 
 reads extremely well. We sat by one of 
 
 DERWENT-WATER. 
 
 the large windows, and the fair lake 
 stretching before us and the mountains 
 beyond seemed to put one in the mood 
 for the poetry. 
 
 Aug. 14. 1 went to Mr. Leitch's to 
 breakfast this morning, meeting nearly 
 the same party, and had another hour 
 of pleasant tall<. Then Dr. Carlyle, Mr. 
 Coleridge, Mr. Leitch and 1 rowed across 
 the lake. Landing near the town, Mr. 
 Coleridge and 1 took leave of the others 
 and went up into Keswick, and so out 
 to Greta Hall, the former residence of 
 Southey, now occupied by strangers. It 
 has a lovely situation on a knoll. Skid- 
 
 daw looking down upon it, and other 
 mountains standing around and in the 
 distance, and the Greta flowing, or rath- 
 er winding, by, for it is a stream which 
 has many twists and turnings. We call- 
 ed at the house, and Mr. Coleridge sent 
 in his name, telling the servant he had a 
 friend with him, an American, to whom 
 he would like to show some of the 
 rooms, adding, "I was born here." There 
 was a litde delay, for the occupant of the 
 house was a bachelor and his hours 
 were late. So we looked first at the 
 grounds, and my friend, as we walked 
 slowly along under the trees and looked 
 
1876.] WALKS AND VISITS IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY. 
 
 549 
 
 down on the Greta, seemed to be car- 
 ried altogether back to his childhood. 
 On that spot it was that his brother 
 
 Hartley used to tell to him and to their 
 sister Sara, as well as to Southey's chil- 
 dren, stories literally without end — one 
 
 GRETA HAI.L. 
 
 narration in particular in its ceaseless 
 flow going on year after year. "Here, 
 too," said my friend, pointing to a small 
 house near by, "was the residence of the 
 Bhow Begum.'' Need I add that this 
 reference was to that strange book, 
 The Doctor? 
 
 We were now summoned to the house, 
 and though we saw no one except the 
 civil housekeeper who accompanied us, 
 all was thrown open to us. My friend at 
 every room had some explanation to 
 make: "This was the dining-room;" 
 "here was Mr. Southey's seat;" "here 
 sat my mother." One room was called 
 Paul, for some one had said its furni- 
 ture was taken wrongly from another 
 room — robbing Peter to pay Paul. Up 
 stairs was the library, the room of all 
 others sacred, for there had passed so 
 much of the thirty years of Southey's life 
 of unwearied labor. The very walls 
 seemed to speak of that honorable in- 
 dustry. I looked from the windows 
 on those glories of lake and mountain 
 which had been the poet's solace and 
 
 delight, and recalled his own description 
 of the view in The Vision of yudgment ; 
 
 Mountain and lake and vale ; the hills that calm and 
 
 majestic 
 Lifted their heads in the silent sky. 
 
 Near the library was the room in which 
 he died after years of mental darkness. 
 In the same room Mrs. Southey had been 
 released from life after a still longer pe- 
 riod of mental decay. It was long watch- 
 ing by her bedside, Wordsworth told me, 
 which had caused Southey's own mind 
 to give way. 
 
 Leaving Greta Hall with all its inter- 
 esting associations, we returned to the 
 road. Near the gateway were some cot- 
 tages. "An old fiddler used to live here," 
 said Mr. Coleridge. Then inquiring cf 
 some men at work near by, he learned 
 to his surprise that he was still there. 
 "But it is more than forty years since I 
 knew him : he used to teach me to play 
 on the violin." " He is still there," the 
 men repeated ; and we entered the cot- 
 tage. An old man rose from his seat 
 near the fire as Mr. Coleridge asked for 
 
55° 
 
 iVALKS AND VISITS IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY. [Nov. 
 
 him by name. "Do you remember me?" 
 said my friend. "You gave me lessons 
 on the violin more than forty years ago, 
 until my uncle Southey interfered and 
 said I should play no longer : he feared 
 it would make me idle." " I remember 
 you perfectly," said the old man. " You 
 would have done very well if you had 
 kept on." Then followed mutual in- 
 
 quiries. The wife of the old man sat 
 by his side crippled with rheumatism, 
 from which he himself also suffered. 
 " But she bears it very patiently, sir," 
 said he. There seemed Christian sub- 
 mission in the old people — a tranquil 
 waiting for the end. 
 
 Our next visit was to Miss Katherine 
 Southey, who lives at a beautiful cottage 
 
 FALLS OF LODORK. 
 
 close at the foot of Skiddaw. She is 
 one of the three commemorated in The 
 Triad. Three little children, Robert, 
 Edith and Bertha Southey, grandchil- 
 dren of the poet, came out to meet us. 
 IVIiss Southey greeted her cousin warmly. 
 She is of cheerful, agreeable manners. 
 We talked of Greta Hall, and the cou- 
 sins called up their old recollections. 
 
 Mr. Coleridge went up stairs to see tht 
 aged Mrs. Lovell, his aunt, the last of 
 her generation, so to say — sister of Mrs. 
 Coleridge and Mrs. Southey. It was 
 one of Southey's good deeds that he 
 cared for this lady from the beginning 
 of her early widowhood as long as his 
 own life lasted. She was, 1 believe, one 
 of his household and family for more 
 
1876.] WAI,ICS AND VISITS IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY. 
 
 55* 
 
 than forty years ; and since his death 
 his children have continued the same 
 dutiful offices. (As I copy these notes, 
 now long after the date of my visit, I may 
 add that Mrs. Lovell died in 1862, aged 
 ninety-one.) 
 
 Miss Southey showed me some of the 
 manuscripts of her father — very minute, 
 but exquisitely neat and clear. 
 When the cousins took leave of 
 each other, Miss Southey's eyes 
 were filled with tears. We now 
 took to our boat again, and start- 
 ed for the Falls of Lodore at the 
 other end of Derwent-water. We 
 stopped at Marshall's Island, so 
 called from the owner, who has 
 made it a summer residence of 
 marvelous beauty, though the 
 extent of it is but five acres. 
 Trees of every variety adorn the 
 grounds. The house is in the 
 centre, of stately proportions : the 
 drawing-room in the second story 
 opens on to a balcony command- 
 ing a view which is beyond mea- 
 sure enchanting. Books in pro- 
 fusion lay upon the table, and 
 pictures and drawings were upon 
 the walls, all telling of refine- 
 ment as well as of abundance 
 of this world's goods. Return- 
 ing to our boat, my friend and I 
 took the oars. Our next stopping-place 
 was at St. Herbert's Island — a hermitage 
 a thousand or more years ago. A few 
 remains of what may have been an ora- 
 tory are still to be seen. St. Herbert 
 was the friend of the good St. Cuthbert, 
 whose especial shrine and memorial is 
 Durham Cathedral. Once a year, ac- 
 cording to Bede, he left his cell to visit 
 St. Cuthbert and " receive from him the 
 food of eternal life." And in Words- 
 worth's verse is embalmed the tradition 
 that, pacing on the shore of this small 
 island, St. Herbert prayed that he and 
 his friend might die in the same mo- 
 ment ; " nor in vain so prayed he :" 
 
 Those holy men both died in the same hour. 
 
 At length we reached Lodore. Here 
 our real work was to begin. We climbed 
 to the top of the hill down which the 
 
 stream falls over rocks piled upon rocks, 
 forming a succession of cascades. It was 
 a ladder-Uke ascent of no little difficulty. 
 After admiring the view of the rocky 
 chasm and the falls, we turned to enjoy 
 the prospect which opened before us 
 from Ladderbrow, as it is called. Der- 
 went-water lay stretched before us, and 
 
 ^^■^' 
 
 STY-HEAD PASS. 
 
 Skiddaw rose in its giant majesty in the 
 distance. The view is a celebrated one. 
 We then entered the wood, crossed a 
 beck or small stream, losing our way 
 once, and at length reached an upland 
 valley — Watendlath — very retired and 
 secluded, with its small hamlet, and 
 near by a tarn — "A little lake, and yet 
 uplifted high among the mountains." 
 The day was cloudy, but there was not 
 much mist. Climbing another ridge, 
 we found ourselves looking down upon 
 Borrowdale and the little village of Ross- 
 thwaite, one of the loveliest views I ever 
 beheld. Sunlight was upon the vale 
 while we stood in the shadow. We were 
 looking up Borrowdale to the Sty-head 
 Pass. As we descended into the valley 
 we could enjoy the view of it every step 
 of the way. At Rossthwaite we had 
 luncheon. It was half-past three. We 
 
552 
 
 IVALKS AND VISITS IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY. [Nov. 
 
 had still a mountain to climb ; and as 
 there was something of danger, for we 
 might lose our way should the mist in- 
 crease, we took a guide, a man well 
 known to Mr. Coleridge — one of the 
 dalesmen of Borrowdale. We started 
 at a vigorous pace, and, following the 
 course of a stony brook, ascended the 
 steep mountain-side. It was very sharp 
 work, for it was an absolutely continuous 
 ascent, and there was no pathway what- 
 ever. There was no sign of human hab- 
 itation. On either hand were only the 
 stony mountain slopes. It seemed a 
 long and weary way, but at the end of 
 two hours of steady climbing we reached 
 tKe summit. A cold mist here enveloped 
 us. We hastened on, our guide accom- 
 panying us a short distance over the 
 moor as we began our descent : he saw 
 us clear of the mist and safely on our 
 way. When we had reached an emi- 
 nence from which we could look down 
 into Far Easdale, our route was clear to 
 us, and we turned and waved our adieus 
 to our friendly guide. We were already 
 a long way off from him, and he was 
 resting where we had left him, waiting to 
 see that we took the right course. De- 
 scending rapidly, we went on and on 
 through the desolate and lonely valley 
 of Far Easdale — a vale within a vale, 
 for it opens into Easdale. Hereabouts 
 it was that George and Sarah Green 
 lost their way and perished on a win- 
 ter's night, as the story is recorded in 
 Wordsworth's verse and De Quincey's 
 exquisite prose. So dreary is the sol- 
 itude that scarcely a sheep-track is to 
 be found in the valley. All around 
 there is nothing but a bare and stony 
 heath. 
 
 We hastened on, for Mr. Coleridge 
 knew there would be anxiety in regard 
 to us, as evening was drawing on. An- 
 other ascent being accomplished, we 
 looked down into Easdale, surrounded 
 by its mountain-girdle. The sun was 
 setting, and as we were drawing near 
 our destination I almost forgot my fa- 
 tigue. At length we reached Mr. Cole- 
 ridge's cottage at the entrance to the Vale 
 of Grasniere. Mrs. Coleridge came out 
 to meet us, and expressed much relief at 
 
 seeing us. She knew the perils of a long 
 walk over these lonely mountains. 
 
 I found an invitation for me from Mrs. 
 Fletcher, a venerable lady of eighty-five, 
 who had been a friend of Jeffrey, and 
 one of the literary circle of Edinburgh 
 of sixty years and more ago. I made 
 myself as presentable as I could for the 
 occasion, drawing a little upon Mr. Cole- 
 ridge, and after a few cups of tea he and 
 I sallied forth. Mrs. Coleridge and Miss 
 Edith had already gone. Lankrigg is 
 the name of Mrs. Fletcher's beautiful 
 cottage. We found a brilliant company 
 assembled. Mrs. Fletcher welcomed me 
 with sweet but stately courtesy. " I am 
 always glad to see Americans," she said: 
 " my father used to drink General Wash- 
 ington's health every day of his life." 
 Her look was radiant as she said this : 
 there was light in her eyes and color in 
 her cheeks, and altogether her appear- 
 ance was most striking. I never saw a 
 more beautiful old age. I talked with 
 her son, Mr. Angus Fletcher, a sculptor 
 of some distinction. A bust of Words- 
 worth and one of Joanna Baillie, works 
 of his, were in the drawing-room. He 
 told me of his having lately been to see 
 Tennyson, who is on Coniston Water in 
 this neighborhood, in a house lent him 
 by Mr. Marshall of Marshall's Island. 
 Mr. Fletcher said he asked Tennyson 
 to read some of his poetry to him. 
 " No," was the reply : " I will do no such 
 thing. You only want to take me off 
 with the blue -stockings about here." 
 But they got on well together in their 
 after-talk, and Tennyson, softening a 
 little, said he would read him some- 
 thing. " Nothing of my Own, however : 
 I will not give you that triumph. I will 
 read you something from Milton." "Oh, 
 very well," said Mr. Fletcher ; " I con- 
 sider that quite as good poetry." 
 
 The evening over, a drive of six miles 
 brought me to the friends with whom I 
 was staying at Rothay Bank, near Am- 
 bleside. 
 
 Aug.l^. Dinedlo-day at Rydal Mount 
 — the one o'clock dinner which is al- 
 ways the hour there — with Mrs. Words- 
 worth, young William Wordsworth and 
 Mr. Carter. Six years almost to a day 
 
1876.] 
 
 WALKS AND V/S/TS IN WORDSWORTir S COUNTRY. 
 
 553 
 
 since I last sat in that quaint room in 
 the famihar presence of the great poet 
 himself. It is a low room without a ceil- 
 ing — the rafters showing. A great num- 
 ber of small prints in black frames are 
 on the walls, chiefly portraits. There are 
 portraits of the royal family also, but 
 these are in gilt frames : they were the 
 gift of the queen to Wordsworth, but 
 they seemed to me of small value for a 
 royal present. I was glad to see again 
 the bust of Wordsworth by Chantrey, 
 and also the old oak cabinet or armoire 
 with its interesting Latin inscription, both 
 of which the great poet showed to me 
 as among his choice possessions. James, 
 who has lived there for thirty years, 
 waited at the table. Mrs. Wordsworth 
 took wine with me, the single glass of 
 port which she drinks daily. It was the 
 last day of her eighty-fourth year. 
 
 The library, which adjoins the draw- 
 ing-room, is smaller in size, and the col- 
 lection of books is not large. I noticed 
 that many were presentation copies : in 
 one of them — a folio volume describing 
 the Skerryvore Rock Lighthouse — was 
 the following inscription (the author of 
 the book was the architect of the light- 
 house) : "To William Wordsworth, a 
 humble token of admiration for his 
 character as a man and his genius as 
 a poet, and in grateful remembrance of 
 the peace and consolation derived from 
 the companionship of his writings dur- 
 ing the author's solitude on the Skerry- 
 vore Rock." 
 
 John, the loquacious but intelligent 
 coachman of the friend at whose house 
 I am staying, told me of his waiting at 
 dinner at Rydal Mount a good many 
 years ago : his then master was one 
 of the guests. Miss Martineau, Hartley 
 Coleridge and F. W. Faber were present. 
 Mr. Faber had then charge of the little 
 church at Rydal. There was a rush 
 and flow of talk, as one could well im- 
 agine — such a chatter, John said, as he 
 had never heard — but the instant Words- 
 worth spoke all were attention. John 
 himself was awed by the great man's 
 talk, and described well its power. He 
 told me also of a slight incident in re- 
 gard to Wordsworth's last hours. Very 
 
 Vol. XVIII.— 35 
 
 shortly before his death it was thought 
 he might be more comfortable if he was 
 shaved. Accordingly, he was raised in 
 the bed, and his faithful servant was 
 about to minister to him in this way 
 when Wordsworth said in his serious, 
 calm voice, "James, let me die easy." 
 I may note here something which has 
 been told me in regard to poor Hartley 
 Coleridge's last days. During his ill- 
 ness a little child, the daughter of an 
 artist who lived near him, quite an in- 
 fant, used to be brought to him, and he 
 would sit for hours holding it in his 
 arms and looking down upon it with 
 mournful tenderness, thinking doubt- 
 less of his own wasted life. 
 
 Sunday, Aug. 19. Walked to the Ry- 
 dal church this morning. Just as I 
 reached the porch I saw Mrs. Words- 
 worth with her arm extended feeling for 
 the door. I went forward to assist her : 
 she turned her kind face toward me, not 
 knowing who it was. "Mr. Yarnall," I 
 said. "Oh," said she, "I am glad to see 
 you, Mr. Yarnall. You will take a seat 
 with us of course." William, her grand- 
 son, was now close behind us. We went 
 to the pew, the nearest to the chancel on 
 the left, and I sat in what had doubtless 
 been Wordsworth's seat. The prayer- 
 book I took up had on the fly-leaf, " Do- 
 rothy Wordsworth to William Words- 
 worth, Jr., 1819." The service over, 
 Mrs. Wordsworth said to me, " You will 
 dine with us of course." She took my 
 arm, and as we went out of the church 
 I was struck with the looks of affection- 
 ate reverence in the faces of those we 
 passed. As we walked along she said 
 in her kind way, "I should have been 
 glad if you had taken up your abode 
 with us while here, but you expected to 
 leave Ambleside immediately when I 
 last saw you." The Misses Quillinan, 
 the step-daughters of the late Dora 
 Quillinan, who was Dora Wordsworth, 
 were the guests besides myself to-day. 
 In the drawing-room after dinner it was 
 interesting to me to look at the portrait 
 of the elder Miss Quillinan (Jemima), 
 taken when a child six years old, and 
 to recall the lines addressed to her, or 
 rather suggested by the picture : 
 
554 
 
 A CKNO WLEDGMENT. 
 
 [Nov. 
 
 Beguiled into forgctfulness of care, 
 Due to tlie day's unfinislied tasl<, of pen 
 Or boolt regardless, and of that fair scene 
 In Nature's prodigality displayed 
 Before my window, oftentimes and long 
 I gaze upon a portrait whose mild gleam 
 Of beauty never ceases to enrich 
 The common light. 
 
 The sonnet, too, beginning — 
 
 Rotha, my spiritual child! this head was gray 
 When at the sacred font for thee I stood, 
 Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood. 
 
 And shalt become thy own sufficient stay — 
 
 came naturally to my mind as I talked 
 with the younger sister. These ladies 
 are intelligent and refined, and of very 
 pleasing manners : their mother was a 
 daughter of Sir Egerton Brydges. They 
 live at a pretty cottage underneath Lough 
 Rigg, not far from Fox How. 
 
 We went to church again at half-past 
 three : I walked with Mrs. Wordsworth. 
 She spoke of herself — said she was rap- 
 idly growing blind : in the last week she 
 had perceived a great change. One 
 would get used to the deprivation, she 
 supposed, however. Her life had been 
 
 a happy one, she added : she had very 
 much to be thankful for. Her manner 
 in church, I may mention, is most rev- 
 erent, her head bowed and her hands 
 clasped. As I returned from church 
 with her a tourist accosted me : Could 
 I tell him which was Mr. Wordsworth's 
 house? I pointed it out to him. "We 
 have many such inquiries," Mrs. Words- 
 worth said. 
 
 I had now to make my final adieus to 
 the dear venerable lady. (I little thought 
 I should ever see her again.) Her serene 
 and tranquil old age, I said to myself, 
 would be a lesson to me for life. She 
 wished me a good voyage and a safe 
 return to my friends. 
 
 William Wordsworth kindly went with 
 me for a mountain-climb. We ascended 
 Lough Rigg, from which we looked down 
 on three lakes, Windermere, Rydal and 
 Grasmere — a last view of all this beauty. 
 How lovely were the evening lights on 
 mountain and valley ! 
 
 Ellis Yarnall. 
 
 ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 
 
 OAGE that half beUev'st thou half believ'st. 
 Half doubt'st the substance of thine own half doubt, 
 
 And, half perceiving that thou half perceiv'st, 
 Stand'st at thy temple door, heart in, head out! 
 
 Lo ! while thy heart's within, helping the choir, 
 Without, thine eyes range up and down the time. 
 
 Blinking at o'er-bright science, smit with desire 
 To see and not to see. Hence, crime on crime. 
 
 Yea, if the Christ (called thine) now paced yon street, 
 Thy halfness hot with His rebuke Avould swell. 
 
 Legions of scribes would rise and run and beat 
 His fair intolerable Wholeness twice to hell. 
 
 Nay (so, dear Heart, thou whisperest in my soul), 
 
 ' Tis a half time, yet Time will make it whole. 
 
1876.] ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 555 
 
 II. 
 
 Now at thy soft recalling voice I rise 
 Where thought is lord o'er Time's complete estate, 
 
 Like as a dove from out the gray sedge flies 
 To tree-tops green where coos his heavenly mate. 
 
 From these clear coverts high and cool I see 
 How every time with every time is knit, 
 
 And each to all is mortised cunningly, 
 And none is sole or whole, yet all are fit. 
 
 Thus, if this Age but as a comma show 
 'Twixt weightier clauses of large-worded years, 
 
 My calmer soul scorns not the mark ; I know 
 This crooked point Time's complex sentence clears. 
 
 Yet more I learn while. Friend ! I sit by thee : 
 
 Who sees all time, sees all eternity. 
 
 III. 
 
 If I do ask, How God can dumbness keep 
 While Sin creeps grinning through His house of Time, 
 
 Stabbing His saintliest children in their sleep. 
 And staining holy walls with clots of crime ? — 
 
 Or, How may He whose wish but names a fact 
 Refuse %\'hat miser's-scanting of supply 
 
 Would richly glut each void where man hath lacked 
 Of grace or bread ? — or. How may Power deny 
 
 Wholeness to th' almost-folk that hurt our hope — 
 Those heart-break Hamlets who so barely fail 
 
 In life or art that but a hair's more scope 
 Had set them fair on heights they ne'er may scale? — 
 
 Somehow by thee, dear Love, I win content : 
 
 Thy Perfect stops th' Imperfect's argument. 
 
 IV. 
 By the more height of thy sweet stature grown, 
 Twice-eyed with thy gray vision set in mine, 
 I ken far lands to wifeless men unknown, 
 
 I compass stars for one-sexed eyes too fine. 
 No text on sea-horizons cloudily writ, 
 
 No maxim vaguely starred in fields or skies. 
 But this wise thou-in-me deciphers it: 
 
 Oh, thou'rt the Height of heights, the Eye of eyes. 
 Not hardest Fortune's most unbounded stress 
 
 Can blind my soul nor hurl it from on high. 
 Possessing thee, the self of loftiness. 
 And very light that Light discovers by. 
 
 Howe'er thou turn'st, wrong Earth ! still Love's in sight. 
 For we are taller than the breadth of night. 
 
 Sidney Lanier. 
 
5SS 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 
 
 [Nov. 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 
 
 BY GEORGE MACDONALD, AUTHOR OF "MALCOLM." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 THE STABLE-YARD. 
 
 IT was one of those e.\-quisite days that 
 come in every winter, in which it 
 seems no longer the dead body, but the 
 lovely ghost of summer. Such a day 
 bears to its sister of the happier time 
 something of the relation the marble 
 statue bears to the living form : the sense 
 it awakes of beauty is more abstract, 
 more ethereal ; it lifts the soul into a 
 higher region than will summer day of 
 lordliest splendor. It is like the love 
 that loss has purified. 
 
 Such, however, were not the thoughts 
 that at the moment occupied the mind 
 of Malcolm Colonsay. Indeed, the love- 
 liness of the morning was but partially 
 visible from the spot where he stood, the 
 stable-yard of Lossie House, ancient and 
 roughly paved. It was a hundred years 
 since the stones had been last relaid and 
 leveled : none of the horses of the late 
 marquis minded it but one — her whom 
 the young man in Highland dress was 
 now grooming — and she would have 
 fidgeted had it been an oak floor. The 
 yard was a long and wide space, with 
 two-storied buildings on all sides of it. 
 In the centre of one of them rose the 
 clock, and the morning sun shone red 
 upon its tarnished gold. It was an an- 
 cient clock, but still capable of keeping 
 good time — good enough, at least, for all 
 the requirements of the house even when 
 the family was at home, seeing it never 
 stopped, and the church-clock was al- 
 ways ordered by it. It not only set the 
 time, but also seemed to set the fashion 
 to the place, for the whole aspect of it 
 was one of wholesome, weather-beaten, 
 time-worn existence. One of the good 
 things that accompany good blood is that 
 its possessor does not much mind a shab- 
 by coat. Tarnish and lichens and water- 
 wearing, a wavy house-ridge, and a few 
 families of worms in the wainscot do not 
 
 annoy the marquis as they do the city 
 man who has just bought a little place 
 in the country. When an old family 
 ceases to go lovingly with Nature, I see 
 no reason why it should go any longer. 
 An old tree is venerable, and an old pic- 
 ture precious to the soul, but an old house, 
 on which has been laid none but loving 
 and respectful hands, is dear to the very 
 heart. Even an old barn-door, with the 
 carved initials of hinds and maidens of 
 vanished centuries, has a place of honor 
 in the cabinet of the poet's brain. It was 
 centuries since Lossie House had begun 
 to grow shabby and beautiful, and he to 
 whom it now belonged was not one to 
 discard the reverend for the neat, or let 
 the vanity of possession interfere with the 
 grandeur of inheritance. 
 
 Beneath the tarnished gold of the 
 clock, flushed with the red winter sun, 
 he was at this moment grooming the 
 coat of a powerful black mare. That 
 he had not been brought up a groom 
 was pretty evident from the fact that he 
 was not hissing, but that he was marquis 
 of Lossie there was nothing about him 
 to show. The mare looked dangerous. 
 Every now and then she cast back a 
 white glance of the one visible eye. 
 But the youth was on his guard, and as 
 wary as fearless in his handling of her. 
 When at length he had finished the toi- 
 lette which her restlessness — for her four 
 feet were never all still at once upon the 
 stones- — had considerably protracted, he 
 took from his pocket a lump of sugar 
 and held it for her to bite at with her 
 angry-looking teeth. 
 
 It was a keen frost, but in the sun the 
 icicles had begun to drop. The roofs in 
 the shadow were covered with hoarfrost : 
 wherever there was shadow there was 
 whiteness. But, for all the cold, there 
 was keen life in the air, and yet keener 
 life in the two animals, biped and quad- 
 ruped. 
 
1876.] 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 
 
 557 
 
 As they thus stood, the one trying to 
 sweeten the other's relation to himself, 
 if he could not hope much for her gen- 
 eral temper, a man who looked half 
 farmer, half lawyer appeared on the op- 
 posite side of the court in the shadow. 
 
 "You are spoiling that mare, MacPhail,'" 
 he cried. 
 
 " I canna weel du that, sir : she canna 
 be muckle waur," said the youth. 
 
 "It's whip and spur she wants, not 
 sugar." 
 
 " She has had and sail hae baith. time 
 aboot [in turn) ; and I houp they'll du 
 something for her in time, sir." 
 
 " Her time shall be short here, any- 
 how. She's not worth the sugar you 
 give her." 
 
 "Eh, sir! luik at her!" said Malcolm 
 in a tone of expostulation, as he stepped 
 back a few paces and regarded her with 
 admiring eye. "Saw ye ever sic legs? 
 an' sic a neck ? an' sic a heid ? an' sic 
 fore an' hin' quarters ? She's a' bonny 
 but the temper o' her, an' that she canna 
 help, like the like o' you an' me." 
 
 " She'll be the death of somebody some 
 day. The sooner we get rid of her the 
 better. Just look at that!" he added as 
 the mare laid back her ears and made a 
 vicious snap at nothing in particular. 
 
 " She was a favorite o' my — maister the 
 marquis," returned the youth, " an' I wad 
 ill like to pairt wi' her." 
 
 "I'll take any offer in reason for her," 
 said the factor. "You'll just ride her to 
 Forres market next week, and see what 
 you can get for her. I do think she's 
 quieter since you took her in hand." 
 
 "I'm sure she is, but it winna laist a 
 day. The moment I lea' her she'll be 
 as ill's ever," said the youth. "She has 
 a kin' o' a likin' to me, 'cause I gie her 
 sugar, an' she canna cast me ; but she's 
 no better i' the hert o' her yet. She's 
 an oonsanctifeed brute. I cudna think 
 o' sellin' her like this." 
 
 " Let them 'at buys tak tent [beware]," 
 said the factor. 
 
 " Ow, ay ! lat them ; I dinna objec' ; 
 gien only they ken what she's like afore 
 they buy her," rejoined Malcolm. 
 
 The factor burst out laughing. To his 
 judgment, the youth had spoken like an 
 
 idiot. "We'll not send you to sell," he 
 said. "Stoat shall go with you, and you 
 shall have nothing to do but hold the 
 mare and your own tongue." 
 
 "Sir," said Malcolm seriously, "ye 
 dinna mean What ye say ? Ye said yer- 
 sel' she wad be the deith o' somebody, 
 an' to sell her ohn tellt what she's like 
 wad be to caw the saxt comman'ment 
 clean to shivers." 
 
 "That may be good doctrine in the 
 kirk, my lad, but it's pure heresy in the 
 horse - market. No, no ! You buy a 
 horse as you take a wife — for better for 
 worse, as the case may be. A woman's 
 not bound to tell her faults when a man 
 wants to marry her : if she keeps off the 
 worst of them afterward, it's all he has a 
 right to look for." 
 
 " Hoot, sir ! there's no a pair o' paral- 
 lel lines in a' the compairison," returned 
 Malcolm. "Mistress Kelpie here's e'en 
 ower-ready to confess her fau'ts, an' that 
 by giein' a taste o' them — she winna bide 
 to be speired — but for haudin' aff o' them 
 efter the bargain's made, ye ken she's no 
 even responsible for the bargain. An' 
 gien ye expec' me to baud my tongue 
 aboot them, faith, Maister Crathie ! I wad 
 as sune think o' sellin' a rotten boat to 
 Blue Peter. Gien the man 'at has her 
 to see till dinna ken to luik oot for a storm 
 o' iron shune or lang teeth ony moment, 
 his wife may be a widow that same mar- 
 ket-nicht. An' forbye, it's again' the 
 aught comman'ment as weel's the saxt. 
 There's nae exception there in regaird o' 
 horseflesh. We maun be honest i' that 
 as weel's i' corn or herrin', or onything 
 ither 'at's coft an' sellt atween man an' 
 his neeper." 
 
 " There's one commandment, my lad," 
 said Mr. Crathie with the dignity of in- 
 tended rebuke, "you seem to find hard 
 to learn, and that is to mind your own 
 business." 
 
 "Gien ye mean catchin' the herrin', 
 maybe ye're richt," said the youth. " I 
 ken mair about that nor the horse-coup- 
 in', an' it's full cleaner." 
 
 "None of your impudence," returned 
 the factor. " The marquis is not here to 
 uphold you in your follies. That they 
 amused him is no reason why I should 
 
558 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 
 
 [Nov. 
 
 put up with them. So keep your tongue 
 between your teeth, or you'll find it the 
 worse for you." The youth smiled a lit- 
 tle oddly and held his peace. "You're 
 here to do what I tell you, and make no 
 remarks," added the factor. 
 
 "I'm awaur n' that, sir — within certain 
 leemits," returned Malcolm. 
 
 " What do you mean by that ?" 
 
 " I mean within the leemits o' duin' by 
 yer neibor as ye wad hae yer neibor du 
 by you : that's what I mean, sir." 
 
 "I've told you already that doesn't 
 apply in horse-dealing. Every man has 
 to take care of himself in the horse- 
 market. That's understood. If you 
 had been brought up amongst horses in- 
 stead of herring, you would have known 
 that as well as any other man." 
 
 " I doobt I'll hae to gang back to the 
 herrin', than, sir, for they're like to pruv 
 the honester o' the twa. But there's nae 
 hypocrisy in Kelpie, an' she maun hae 
 her day's denner, come o' the morn's 
 what may." 
 
 At the word hypocrisy Mr. Crathie's 
 face grew red as the sun in a fog. He 
 was an elder of the kirk, and had family 
 worship every night as regularly as his 
 toddy : the word was as offensive and 
 insolent as it was foolish and inappli- 
 cable. He would have turned Malcolm 
 adrift on the spot but that he remember- 
 ed — not the favor of the late marquis for 
 the lad ; that was nothing to the factor 
 now ; his lord under the mould was to 
 him as if he had never been above it — 
 but the favor of the present marchioness, 
 for all in the house knew that she was 
 interested in him. Choking down, there- 
 fore, his rage and indignation, he said 
 sternly, " Malcolm, you have two enemies 
 — a long tongue and a strong conceit. 
 You have little enough to be proud of, 
 my man, and the less said the better. I 
 advise you to mind what you're about, 
 and show suitable respect to your supe- 
 riors, or as sure as judgment you'll go 
 back to your fish-guts." 
 
 While he spoke Malcolm had been 
 smoothing Kelpie all over with .his palms : 
 the moment the factor ceased talking he 
 ceased stroking, and with one arm thrown 
 over the mare's back looked him full in 
 
 the face. "Gien ye imaigine, Maister 
 Crathie," he said, " 'at I coont it ony rise 
 i' the warl' 'at brings me un'er the orders 
 o' a man less honest than he micht be, 
 ye're mista'en. I dinna think it's pride 
 this time: I wad ile Blue Peter's lang 
 butes till him, but I winna lee for ony 
 factor atween this an' Davy Jones." 
 
 It was too much. Mr. Crathie's feel- 
 ings overcame him, and he was a wrath- 
 ful man to see as he strode up to the youth 
 with clenched fist. 
 
 "Haud frae the mere, for God's sake, 
 Maister Craithie !" cried Malcolm. 
 
 But even as he spoke two reversed 
 Moorish arches of gleaming iron opened 
 on the terror-quickened imagination of 
 the factor a threatened descent from 
 which his most potent instinct, that of 
 self-preservation, shrank in horror. He 
 started back, white with dismay, having 
 by a bare inch of space and a bare mo- 
 ment of time escaped what he called 
 eternity. Dazed with fear, he turned, 
 and had staggered halfway across the 
 yard, as if going home, before he recov- 
 ered himself. Then he turned again, 
 and, with what dignity he could scrape 
 together, said, " MacPhail, you go about 
 your business." 
 
 In his foolish heart he believed Mal- 
 colm had made the brute strike out. 
 
 " I canna weel gang till Stoat comes 
 hame," answered Malcolm. 
 
 " If I see you about the place after sun- 
 set I'll horsewhip you," said the factor, and 
 walked away, sh owing the crown of his h at. 
 
 Malcolm again smiled oddly, but made 
 no reply. He undid the mare's halter 
 and led her into the stable. There he 
 fed her, standing by her all the time she 
 ate, and not once taking his eye off her. 
 His father, the late marquis, had bought 
 her at the sale of the stud of a neighbor- 
 ing laird, whose whole being had been 
 devoted to horses till the pale one came 
 to fetch himself : the men about the sta- 
 ble had drugged her, and, taken with the 
 splendid lines of the animal, nor seeing 
 cause to doubt her temper as she quiet- 
 ly obeyed the halter, he had bid for her, 
 and, as he thought, had her a great bar- 
 gain. The accident that finally caused 
 his death followed soon after, and while 
 
1876.] 
 
 THE MARQUIS QF XOSSIE. 
 
 559 
 
 he was ill no one cared to vex him by 
 saying what she had turned out. But 
 Malcolm had even then taken her in 
 hand in the hope of taming her a little 
 before his master, who often spoke of 
 his latest purchase, should see her again. 
 In this he had very partially succeeded, 
 but, if only for the sake of him whom he 
 now knew for his father, nothing would 
 have made him part with the animal. 
 Besides, he had been compelled to use 
 her with so much severity at times that 
 he had grown attached to her from the 
 reaction of pity, as well as from admi- 
 ration of her physical qualities and the 
 habitude of ministering to her wants and 
 comforts. The factor, who knew Mal- 
 colm only as a servant, had afterward 
 allowed her to remain in his charge, 
 merely in the hope, through his treat- 
 ment, of by-and-by selling her, as she 
 had been bought, for a faultless animal, 
 but at a far better price. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 THE LIBRARY. 
 
 When she had finished her oats Mal- 
 colm left her busy with her hay, for she 
 was a huge eater, and went into the 
 house, passing through the kitchen and 
 ascending a spiral stone stair to the li- 
 brary, the only room not now disman- 
 tled. As he went along the narrow pas- 
 sage on the second floor leading to it 
 from the head of the stair, the house- 
 keeper, Mrs. Courthope, peeped after 
 him from one of the many bedrooms 
 opening upon it, and watched him as 
 he went, nodding her head two or three 
 times with decision : he reminded her so 
 strongly, not of his father, the late mar- 
 quis, but the brother who had preceded 
 him, that she felt all but certain, who- 
 ever might be his mother, he had as 
 much of the Colonsay blood in his veins 
 as any marquis of them all. It was in 
 consideration of this likeness that Mr. 
 Crathie had permitted the youth, when 
 his services were not required, to read 
 in the library. 
 
 Malcolm went straight to a certain cor- 
 nel-, and from amongst a dingy set of old 
 
 classics took down a small Greek book in 
 a large type. It was the manual of that 
 slave among slaves, that noble among 
 the free — Epictetus. He was no great 
 Greek scholar, but, with the help of the 
 Latin translation and the gloss of his own 
 rathe experience, he could lay hold of the 
 mind of that slave of a slave, whose very 
 slavery was his slave to carry him to the 
 heights of freedom. It was not Clreek he 
 cared for, but Epictetus. It was but little 
 he read, however, for the occurrence of the 
 morning demanded, compelled thought. 
 Mr. Crathie's behavior caused him nei- 
 ther anger nor uneasiness, but rendered 
 necessary some decision with regard to 
 the ordering of his future. 
 
 I can hardly say he recalled how on 
 his deathbed the late marquis, about 
 three months before, having, with all 
 needful observances, acknowledged him 
 his son, had committed to his trust the 
 welfare of his sister, for the memory of 
 this charge was never absent from his feel- 
 ing, even when not immediately present to 
 his thought. But, although a charge which 
 he would have taken upon him all the 
 same had his father not committed it 
 to him, it was none the less the source 
 of a perplexity upon which as yet all his 
 thinking had let in but little light. For 
 to appear as marquis of Lossie was not 
 merely to take from his sister the title 
 she supposed her own, but to declare 
 her illegitimate, seeing that, unknown 
 to the marquis, the youth's mother, his 
 first wife, was still alive when Florimel 
 was born. How to act so that as little 
 evil as possible might befall the favorite 
 of his father, and one whom he had him- 
 self loved with the devotion almost of a 
 dog. before he knew she was his sister, 
 was the main problem. 
 
 For himself, he had had a rough edu- 
 cation, and had enjoyed it : his thoughts 
 were not troubled about his own pros- 
 pects. Mysteriously committed to the 
 care of a poor blind Highland piper, a 
 stranger from inland regions setded 
 amongst a fishing people, he had, as 
 he grew up, naturally fallen into their 
 ways of life and labor, and but lately 
 abandoned the calling of a fisherman 
 to take charge of the marquis's yacht, 
 
560 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 
 
 [Nov. 
 
 whence by degrees he had, in his help- 
 fulness, become indispensable to him 
 and his daughter, and had come to live 
 in the house of Lossie as a privileged 
 servant. His book-education, which he 
 owed mainly to the friendship of the par- 
 ish schoolmaster, although nothing mar- 
 velous, or in Scotland very peculiar, had 
 opened for him in all directions doors of 
 thought and inquiry. But the outlook 
 after knowledge was in his case, again 
 through the influences of Mr. Graham, 
 subservient to an almost restless yearn- 
 ing after the truth of things — a passion 
 so rare that the ordinary mind can hardly 
 grasp even the fact of its existence. The 
 marchioness of Lossie, as she was now 
 called — for the family was one of the two 
 or three in Scotland in which the title 
 descends to an heiress — had left Lossie 
 House almost immediately upon her fa- 
 ther's death, under the guardianship of 
 a certain dowager countess. Lady Bel- 
 lair had taken her first to Edinburgh, and 
 then to London. Tidings of her Mal- 
 colm occasionally received through Mr. 
 Soutar of Duff Harbor, the lawyer the 
 marquis had employed to draw up the 
 papers substantiating the youth's claim. 
 The last amounted to this — that, as rap- 
 idly as the proprieties of mourning would 
 permit, she was circling the vortex of the 
 London season. As to her brother, he 
 feared himself, and Malcolm was now 
 almost in despair of ever being of the 
 least service to her as a brother to whom 
 as a servant he had seemed at one time 
 of daily necessity. If he might but once 
 more be her skipper, her groom, her at- 
 tendant, he might then at least learn how 
 to discover to her the bond between them 
 without breaking it in the very act, and so 
 ruining the hope of service to follow. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 MISS HORN. 
 
 The door opened, and in walked a 
 tall, gaunt, hard-featured woman, in a 
 huge bonnet trimmed with black rib- 
 bons, and a long black net veil, worked 
 over with sprigs, coming down almost to 
 her waist. She looked stern, determined, 
 
 almost fierce, shook hands with a sort of 
 loose dissatisfaction, and dropped into one 
 of the easy-chairs with which the library 
 abounded. With the act the question 
 seemed shot from her, " Duv ye ca' yer- 
 sel' an honest man, no. Ma'colm ?" 
 
 "I ca' mysel' naething," answered the 
 youth, "but I wad fain be what ye say, 
 Miss Horn." 
 
 "Ow! I dinna doobt ye wadna steal, 
 nor yet tell lees aboot a horse: I hae jist 
 come frae a sair waggin' o' tongues aboot 
 ye. Mistress Crathie tells me her man's 
 in a sair vex 'at ye winna tell a wordless 
 lee about the black mere : that's what I 
 ca't — no her. But lee it wad be, an' 
 dinna ye aither wag or haud a leein' 
 tongue. A gentleman maunna lee, no 
 even by sayin' naething — na, no gien 't 
 war to win intill the kingdom. But, Guid 
 be thankit ! that's whaur leears never 
 come. Maybe ye're thinkin' I hae 
 sma' occasion to say sic-like to yersel'. 
 An' yet what's yer life but a lee, Ma'- 
 colm ? You 'at's the honest marquis o' 
 Lossie to waur yer time, an' the stren'th 
 o' yer boady, an' the micht o' yer sowl 
 tyauvin (wrestling] wi' a deevil o' a she- 
 horse, whan there's that half-sister o' yer 
 ain gaein' to the verra deevil o' perdi- 
 tion himsel' amang the godless gentry 
 o' Lon'on !" 
 
 "What wad ye hae me un'erstan' by 
 that, Miss Horn?" returned Malcolm. 
 " I hear no ill o' her. I daur say she's 
 no jist a sa'nt yet, but that's no to be 
 luikit for in ane o' the breed : they maun 
 a' try the warl' first, ony gait. There's a 
 heap o' fowk — an' no aye the warst, may- 
 be," continued Malcolm, thinking of his 
 father — " 'at wuU hae their bite o' the 
 aipple afore they spit it oot. But for my 
 leddy sister, she's ower prood ever to 
 disgrace hersel'." 
 
 "Weel, maybe, gien she be na mis- 
 guided by them she's wi'. But I'm no 
 sae muckle concernt aboot her. Only 
 it's plain 'at ye hae no richt to lead her 
 intill temptation." 
 
 " Hoo am I temptin' at her, mem ?" 
 
 "That's plain to half an e'e. Are ye 
 no lattin' her live believin' a lee ? Ir ye 
 no allooin' her to gang on as gien she 
 was somebody mair nor mortal, whan' ye 
 
i876.] 
 
 THE MARQUrS OF LOSSIE. 
 
 S6i 
 
 ken she s nae mair marchioness o' Lossie 
 nor ye're the son o' auld Duncan Mac- 
 Phail ? Faith, ye hae lost trowth, gien 
 ye hae gaint the warl', i' the cheenge o' 
 forbeirs !" 
 
 "Mint at naething again' the deid, 
 mem. My father's gane till's accoont; 
 an' it's weel for him he has his Father, 
 an' no his sister, to pronoonce upo' 
 him." 
 
 "'Deed, ye're richt there, laddie !" as- 
 sented Miss Horn in a subdued tone. 
 
 " He's made it up wi' my mither afore 
 noo, I'm thinkin' ; an', ony gait, he con- 
 fesst her his wife, an' me her son, afore 
 he dee'd; an' what mair had he time to 
 du?" 
 
 " It's fac'," returned Miss Horn. " An' 
 noo luik at yersel'. What yer father con- 
 fesst wi' the very deid-thraw o' a labor- 
 in' speerit — to the whilk naething cud 
 hae broucht him but ■ the deid-thraws 
 (death-struggles) o' the bodily natur' an' 
 the fear o' hell — that same confession ye 
 row up again i' the clout o' secrecy, in 
 place o' dightin' wi' 't the blot frae the 
 memory o' ane wha I believe I lo'ed 
 mair as my third cousin nor ye du as 
 yer ain mither." 
 
 "There's no blot upo' her memory, 
 mem," returned the youth, "or I wad be 
 markis the morn. There's never a sowl 
 kens she was mither but kens she was 
 wife; ay, an' whase wife tu." 
 
 Miss Horn had neither wish nor power 
 to reply, and changed her front. "An' 
 sae, Ma'colm Colonsay," she said, "ye 
 hae no less nor made up yer min' to pass 
 yer days in yer ain stable, neither better 
 nor waur than an ostler at the Lossie 
 Airms ; an' that efter a' I hae borne an' 
 dune to mak a gentleman o' ye, baird- 
 in' yer father here like a verra lion in 's 
 den, an' garrin' him confess the thing 
 again' ilka hair upo' the stiff neck o' 
 'im ? Losh, laddie ! it was a pictur' to 
 see him stan'in' wi' 's back to the door 
 like a camstairy [obstinate) bullock !" 
 
 " Haud yer tongue, mem, gien ye 
 please. I canna bide to hear my father 
 spoken o' like that. For, ye see, I lo'ed 
 him afore I kenned he was ony drap's 
 blude to me." 
 ■ " Weel, that's verra weel ; but father 
 
 an' mither's man an' wife, an' ye cam' 
 na o' a father alane." 
 
 "That's true, mem; an' it canna be 
 I sud ever forget yon face ye shawcd me 
 i' the coffin — the bonniest, sairest sicht 
 I ever saw," returned Malcolm with a 
 quaver in his voice. 
 
 " But what for cairry yer thouchts to 
 the deid face o' her ? Ye kenned the 
 leevin' ane weel," objected Miss Horn. 
 
 " That's true, mem, but the deid face 
 maist blottit the leevin' oot o' my brain." 
 
 " I'm sorry for that. Eh, laddie, but 
 she was bonny to see !" 
 
 " I aye thoucht her the bonniest leddy 
 I ever set e'e upo'. An' dinna think, 
 mem, I'm gauin to forget the deid 'cause 
 I'm mair concern! aboot the leevin'. I 
 tell ye I jist dinna ken what to du. What 
 wi' my father's deein' words, committin' 
 her to my chairge, an' the more than 
 regaird I hae to Leddy Florimel hersel', 
 I'm jist whiles driven to ane mair. Hoo 
 can I tak the verra sunsheen oot o' her 
 life 'at I lo'ed afore I kenned she was 
 my ain sister, an' jist thoucht lang to win 
 near eneuch till to du her ony guid turn 
 worth duin' ? An' here I am, her ain 
 half-brither, wi' naething i' my pooer but 
 to scaud the hert o' her, or else lee ! 
 Supposin' even she was weel merried 
 first, hoo wad she stan' wi' her man whan 
 he cam to ken 'at she was nae mar- 
 chioness — hed no lawfu' richt to ony 
 name but her mither's ? An' afore that, 
 what richt cud I hae to alloo ony man 
 to merry her ohn kenned the trowth 
 aboot her ? Faith ! it wad be a fine 
 chance, though, for fin'in' oot whether 
 or no the fallow was fit for her. But we 
 canna mak a playock o' her hert. Puir 
 thing ! she luiks doon upo' me frae the 
 tap o' her bonny neck as frae a h'avenly 
 heicht, but I's lat her ken yet, gien only 
 I can get at the gait o' 't, that I haena 
 come nigh her for naething." He gave 
 a sigh with the words, and a pause fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 "The trowth's the trowth," resumed 
 Miss Horn, "neither mair nor less." 
 
 "Ay," responded Malcolm, "but there's 
 a richt an' a wrang time for the tellin' o' 
 't. It's no as gien I had had han' or 
 tongue in ony forgane lee. It was nae- 
 
$62 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 
 
 [Nov. 
 
 thing o" my diiin', as ye ken, mem. To 
 mysel' I was never onything but a fish- 
 erman born. I confess, whiles, whan we 
 wad be lyin' i' the lee o' the nets, teth- 
 ered to them like, wi' the win' blawin' 
 strong an' steady, I hae thoucht wi' my- 
 sel' hoo 'at I kennt naething aboot my 
 father, an' what gien it sud turn oot 'at 
 I was the son o' somebody — what wad I 
 du wi' my siller?" 
 
 "An' what thoucht ye ye wad du, lad- 
 die ?" asked Miss Horn gently. 
 
 "What but bigg a harbor at Scaurnose 
 for the puir fisher-fowk 'at was like my 
 ain flesh an' blude ?" 
 
 "Weel," rejoined Miss Horn eagerly, 
 " div ye no luik upo' that as 'a voo to 
 the Almichty — a voo 'at ye're bun' to 
 pay — noo 'at ye hae yer wuss ? An' it's 
 no merely 'at ye hae the means, but 
 there's no anither that has the richt ; for 
 they're yer ain fowk, 'at ye gaither rent 
 frae, an' 'at 's been for mony a genera- 
 tion sattlet upo' yer Ian' — though for the 
 maitter o' the Ian' they hae had little 
 mair o' that than the birds o' the rock 
 hae ohn feued — an' them honest fowk 
 wi' wives an' sowls o' their ain ! Hoo 
 upo' airth are ye to du yer duty by them, 
 an' render yer accoont at the last, gien 
 ye dinna tak till ye yer pooer an' reign ? 
 Ilk man 'at 's in ony sense a king o' men, 
 he's bun' to reign ower them in that 
 sense. I ken little aboot things mysel', 
 an' I hae no feelin's to guide me, but I 
 hae a wheen cowmon sense, an' that 
 maun jist Stan' for the lave." 
 
 A silence followed. 
 
 "What for speak na ye, Malcolm?" 
 said Miss Horn at length. 
 
 "1 was jist tryin'," he answered, "to 
 min' upon a twa lines 'at I cam' upo' the 
 ither day in a buik 'at Maister Graham 
 gied me afore he gaed awa', 'cause I 
 reckon he kent them a' by hert. They 
 say jist sic-like's ye been sayin', mem, 
 gien I cud but min' upo' them. They're 
 aboot a man 'at aye does the richt gait 
 — made by ane they ca' Wordsworth." 
 
 " I ken naething aboot him," said Miss 
 Horn with emphasized indifference. 
 
 "An' I ken but little: I s' ken mair 
 or lang, though. This is hoo the piece 
 begins : 
 
 Who is the happy warrior ? Who is he 
 That every man in arms should wish to be ? — 
 It is the generous spirit, who, when brought 
 Among the taslis of real life, hath wrought 
 Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought. 
 
 There ! that's what ye wad hae o' me, 
 mem." 
 
 "Hear till him!" cried Miss Horn. 
 " The man's i' the richt, though naebody 
 never h'ard o' 'im. Haud ye by that, 
 Ma'colm, an' dinna ye rist till ye hae 
 biggit a herbor to the men an' women 
 o' Scaurnose. Wha kens hoo mony may 
 gang to the boddom afore it be dune, jist 
 for the want o' 't ?" 
 
 " The fundation maun be laid in richt- 
 eousness, though, mem, else what gien 't 
 war to save lives better lost ?" 
 
 "That belangs to the Michty," said 
 Miss Horn. 
 
 "Ay, but the layin' o' the fundation 
 belangs to me, an' I'll no du 't till I can 
 du 't ohn ruint my sister." 
 
 " Weel, there's ae thing clear : ye'll 
 never ken what to du sae lang's ye hing 
 on aboot a stable fu' o' fower-fitted an- 
 imals wantin' sense, an' some twa-fittit 
 'at has less." 
 
 " I doobt ye're richt there, mem ; an' 
 gien I cud but tak puir Kelpie awa' wi' 
 me — " 
 
 "Hoots! I'm affrontit wi' ye. Kelpie, 
 quo he ! Preserve 's a' ! The laad '11 
 lat his ain sister gang an' bide at hame 
 wi' a mere !" 
 
 Malcolm held his peace. "Ay, I'm 
 thinkin' I maun gang," he said at last. 
 
 "Whaur till, than ?" asked Miss Horn. 
 
 " Ow ! to Lon'on — whaur ither ?" 
 
 "An' what'U yer lordship du there?" 
 
 "Dinna say lordship to me, mem, 
 or I'll think ye're jeerin' at me. What 
 wad the caterpillar say," he added with 
 a laugh, "gien ye ca'd her my leddy 
 Psyche ?" Malcolm of course pronounced 
 the Greek word in Scotch fashion. 
 
 " I ken naething aboot yer Suchies or 
 yer Sukies," rejoined Miss Horn. " I ken 
 'at ye're bun' to be a lord, an' no a sta- 
 ble-man, an' I s' no lat ye rist till ye up 
 an' say, Whatneistf 
 
 " It's what I hae been sayin' for the 
 last three month," said Malcolm. 
 
 "Ay, I daur say ! but ye hae been say- 
 
iS76.] 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 
 
 563 
 
 in' 't upo' the braid o' yer baclc, an' I 
 wad liae ye up an' sayin' 't." 
 
 "Gien I but kent what to du!" said 
 Malcolm for the thousandth time. 
 
 "Ye can at least gang whaur ye hae a 
 chance o' learnin'," returned his friend. 
 "Come an' tak yer supper wi' me the 
 nicht — a rizzart haddie an' an egg — an' 
 I'll tell ye mair aboot yer mither." 
 
 But Malcolm avoided a promise, lest 
 it should interfere with what he might 
 find best to do. 
 
 chapter iv. 
 kelpie's airing. 
 
 When Miss Horn left him — with a 
 farewell kindlier than her greeting — ren- 
 dered yet more restless by her talk, he 
 went back to the stable, saddled Kelpie 
 and took her out for an airing. As he 
 passed the factor's house, Mrs. Crathie 
 saw him from the window. Her color 
 rose. She rose herself also, and looked 
 after him from the door — a proud and 
 peevish woman, jealous of her husband's 
 dignity, still more jealous of her own. 
 "The verra image o' the auld markis !" 
 she said to herself, for in the recesses 
 of her bosom she spoke the Scotch she 
 scorned to utter aloud ; " an' sits jist like 
 himsel', wi' a wee stoop i' the saiddle, 
 an' ilka noo an' than a swing o' his haill 
 boady back, as gien some thoucht had 
 set him straucht. Gien the fractious 
 brute wad but brak a bane or twa o' 
 him !" she went on in growing anger. 
 "The impidence o' the fallow ! He has 
 his leave : what for disna he tak it an' 
 gang ? But oot o' this gang he sail. To 
 ca' a man like mine a heepocreet 'cause 
 he wadna procleem till a haill market 
 ilka secret fau't o' the- horse he had to 
 sell ! Haith ! he cam' upo' the wrang 
 side o' the sheet to play the lord and 
 maister here ;. an' that I can tell him." 
 
 The mare was fresh, and the roads 
 through the policy hard both by Nature 
 and by frost, so that he could not let her 
 go, and had enough to do with her. He 
 turned, therefore, toward the sea -gate, 
 and soon reached the shore. There, 
 westward of the Seaton where the fisher- 
 
 folk lived, the sand lay smooth, flat and 
 wet along the edge of the receding tide. 
 He gave Kelpie the rein, and she sprang 
 into a wild gallop, every now and then 
 flinging her heels as high as her rider's 
 head. But finding, as they approached 
 the stony level from which rose the great 
 rock called the Bored Craig, that he could 
 not pull her up in time, he turned her head 
 toward the long dune of sand which, a lit- 
 tle beyond the tide, ran parallel with the 
 shore. It was dry and loose, and the 
 ascent steep. Kelpie's hoofs sank at 
 every step, and when she reached the 
 top, with widespread struggling haunches 
 and "nostrils like pits full of blood to 
 the brim," he had her in hand. She 
 stood panting, yet pawing and dancing, 
 and making the sand fly in all directions. 
 
 Suddenly a woman with a child in her 
 arms rose, as it seemed to Malcolm, un- 
 der Kelpie's very head. She wheeled 
 and reared, and in wrath or in terror 
 strained every nerve to unseat her rider, 
 while, whether from faith or despair, the 
 woman stood still as a statue, staring at 
 the struggle. 
 
 " Haud awa' a bit, Lizzy!" cried Mal- 
 colm. "She's a mad brute, an' I mayna 
 be able to haud her. Ye hae the bairnie, 
 ye see." 
 
 She was a young woman, with a sad 
 white face. To what Malcolm said she 
 paid no heed, but stood with her child in 
 her arms and gazed at Kelpie as she went 
 on plunging and kicking about on the top 
 of the dune. 
 
 " I reckon ye wadna care though the 
 she-deevil knockit oot yer brains ; but 
 ye hae the bairn, woman : hae mercy on 
 the bairn an' rin to the boddom." 
 
 " I want to speyk to ye, Ma'colm Mac- 
 Phail," she said in a tone whose very still- 
 ness revealed a depth of trouble. 
 
 " I doobt I canna hearken to ye richt 
 the noo," said Malcolm. "But bide a 
 wee." He swung himself from Kelpie's 
 back, and, hanging hard on the bit with 
 one hand, searched with the other in the 
 pocket of his coat, saying as he did so, 
 "Sugar, Kelpie! sugar!" 
 
 The animal gave an eager snort, set- 
 tled on her feet, and began snuffing 
 about him. He made haste, for if her 
 
564 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF LOSS IE. 
 
 [Nov. 
 
 eagerness should turn to impatience, she 
 would do her endeavor to bite him. After 
 crunching three or four lumps sire stood 
 pretty quiet, and Malcolm must make 
 the best of it. 
 
 " Noo, Lizzy," he said hurriedly, "speak 
 while ye can." 
 
 " Ma'colm," said the girl — -and looked 
 him full in the face for a moment, for 
 agony had overcome shame : then her 
 gaze sought the far horizon, which to 
 seafaring people is as the hills whence 
 cometh their aid to the people who dwell 
 among mountains — "Ma'colm, he'sgae- 
 in' to merry Leddy Florimel." 
 
 Malcolm started. Could the girl have 
 learned more concerning his sister than 
 had yet reached himself? A fine watch- 
 ing over her was his, truly ! But who was 
 this he ? 
 
 Lizzy had never uttered the name of 
 the father of her child, and all her peo- 
 ple knew was that he could not be a fish- 
 erman, for then he would have married 
 her before the child was born. But Mal- 
 colm had had a suspicion from the first, 
 and now her words all but confirmed it. 
 And was that fellow going to marry his 
 sister? He turned white with dismay, then 
 red with anger, and stood speechless. 
 
 But he was quickly brought to himself 
 by a sharp pinch under the shoulder-blade 
 from Kelpie's long teeth : he had forgotten 
 her, and she had taken the advantage. 
 
 "Wha tellt ye that, Lizzy?" he said. 
 
 "I'm no at leeberty to say, Ma'colm, 
 but I'm sure it's true, an' my hert's like 
 to brak." 
 
 " Puir lassie !" said Malcolm, whose 
 own trouble had never at any time ren- 
 dered him insensible to that of others. 
 "But is't onybody "at kens what he 
 says ?" he pursued. 
 
 "Weel, I dinna jist richtly ken gien 
 she kens, but I think she maun hae gude 
 rizzon, or she wadna say as she says. Oh 
 me ! me ! my bairnie '11 be scornin' me 
 sair whan he comes to ken. Ma'colm, 
 ye're the only ane 'at disna luik doon 
 upo' me, an' whan ye cam ower the tap 
 o' the Boar's tail it was like an angel in 
 a fire-flaucht, an' something inside me 
 said, Tell 'im, tell 'im; an' sae I bude 
 to tell ye." 
 
 Malcolm was even too simple to feel 
 flattered by the girl's confidence, though 
 to be trusted is a greater cojj7pliment i'hs.n 
 to be loved. 
 
 " Hearken, Lizzy !" he said. " I canna 
 e'en think wi' this brute ready ilka meen- 
 ute to ate me up : I maun tak her hame. 
 Efter that, gien ye wad like to tell me 
 onything, I s' be at yer service. Bide 
 aboot here, or — luik ye, here's the key 
 0' yon door — ^come throu' that intill the 
 park — throu 'aneth the toll-ro'd, ye ken. 
 There ye'll get into the lythe [lee) wi' the 
 bairnie, an' I'll be wi' ye in a quarter o' 
 an hoor. It'll tak me but five meenutes 
 to gang hame. Stoat 'ill pit up the mere, 
 an' I'll be back — I can du't in ten meen- 
 utes." 
 
 "Eh! dinna hurry for me, Ma'colm: 
 I'm no worth it," said Lizzy. 
 
 But Malcolm was already at full speed 
 along the top of the dune." 
 
 " Lord preserve 's !" cried Lizzy when 
 she saw him clear the brass swivel. "Sic 
 a laad as that is ! Eh, he maun hae a 
 richt lass to lo'e him some day ! It's a' 
 ane to him, boat or beast. He wadna 
 turn frae the deil himsel'. An' syne he's 
 jist as saft 's a deuk's neck whan he 
 speyks till a wuman or a bairn — ay, or 
 an auld man aither." 
 
 And, full of trouble as it was about 
 another, Lizzy's heart yet ached at the 
 thought that she should be so unworthy 
 of one like him. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 LIZZY FINDLAY. 
 
 From the sands she saw him gain the 
 turnpike-road with a bound and a scram- 
 ble. Crossing it, he entered the park by 
 the sea-gate : she had to enter it by the 
 tunnel that passed under the same road. 
 She approached the grated door, unlock- 
 ed it and looked in with a shudder. It 
 was dark, the other end of it being ob- 
 scured by trees and the roots of the hill 
 on whose top stood the Temple of the 
 Winds. Through the tunnel blew what 
 seemed quite another wind — one of death 
 — from regions beneath. She drew her 
 shawl, one end of which was rolled about 
 
1876.] 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 
 
 56s 
 
 her baby, closer around them both ere 
 she entered. Never before had she set 
 foot within the place, and a strange hor- 
 ror of it filled her. She did not know 
 that by that passage, on a certain love- 
 ly summer night, Lord Meikleham had 
 issued to meet her on the sands under 
 the moon. The sea was not terrible to 
 her — she knew all its ways nearly as well 
 as Malcolm knew the moods of Kelpie 
 — ^but the earth and its ways were less 
 known to her, and to turn her face 
 toward it and enter by a little door into 
 its bosom was like a visit to her grave. 
 But she gathered her strength, entered 
 with a shudder, passed in growing hope 
 and final safety through it, and at the 
 other end came out again into the light, 
 only the cold of it seemed to cling to her 
 still. But the day had grown colder: 
 the clouds that, seen or unseen, ever 
 haunt the winter sun, had at length 
 caught and shrouded him, and through 
 the gathering vapor he looked ghastly. 
 The wind blew from the sea. The tide 
 was going down. There was snow in 
 the air. The thin leafless trees were all 
 bending away from the shore, and the 
 wind went sighing, hissing, and almost 
 waUing, through their bare boughs and 
 budless twigs. There would be storm, 
 she thought, ere the morning, but none 
 of their people were out. Had there 
 been — Well, she had almost ceased to 
 care about anything, and her own life 
 was so little to her now that she had be- 
 come less able to value that of other peo- 
 ple. To this had the ignis fatuus of a 
 false love brought her. She had dream- 
 ed heedlessly, to wake sorrowfully. But 
 not until she heard he was going to be 
 married had she come right awake, and 
 now she could dream no more. Alas ! 
 alas ! what claim had she upon him ? 
 How could she tell, since such he was, 
 what poor girl like herself she might not 
 have robbed of her part in him ? Yet 
 even in the midst of her misery and de- 
 spair it was some consolation to think 
 that Malcolm was her friend. 
 
 Not knowing that he had already suf- 
 fered from the blame of her fault, or the 
 risk at which he met her, she would have 
 gone toward the house to meet him the 
 
 sooner, had not this been a part of the 
 grounds where she knew Mr. Crathie 
 tolerated no one without express leave 
 given. The fisher-folk in particular must 
 keep to the road by the other side of the 
 burn, to which the sea-gate admitted them. 
 Lizzy therefore lingered near the tunnel, 
 afraid of being seen. 
 
 Mr. Crathie was a man who did well 
 under authority, but upon the top of it 
 was consequential, overbearing, and far 
 more exacting than the marquis. Full 
 of his employer's importance when he 
 was present, and of his own when he 
 was absent, he was yet, in the latter cir- 
 cumstance, so doubtful of its adequate 
 recognition by those under him that he 
 had grown very imperious, and resented 
 with indignation the slightest breach of 
 his orders. Hence he was in no great 
 favor with the fishers. Now, all the day 
 he had been fuming over Malcolm's be- 
 havior to him in the morning, and when 
 he went home and learned that his wife 
 had seen him upon Kelpie as if noth- 
 ing had happened, he became furious, 
 and in this possession of the devil was 
 at the present moment wandering about 
 the grounds, brooding on the words Mal- 
 colm had spoken. He could not get rid 
 of them. They caused an acrid burning 
 in his bosom, for they had in them truth, 
 like which no poison stings. 
 
 Malcolm, having crossed by the great 
 bridge at the house, hurried down the 
 western side of the burn to find Lizzy, 
 and soon came upon her, walking up 
 and down. "Eh, lassie, ye maun be 
 cauld ?" he said. 
 
 "No that cauld," she answered, and 
 with the words burst into tears. " Nae- 
 body says a kin' word to me noo," she 
 said in excuse, " an' I canna weel bide 
 the soun' o' ane whan it comes : I'm no 
 used till 't." 
 
 "Naebody?" exclaimed Malcolm. 
 
 " Na, naebody," she answered. " My 
 mither winna, my father daurna, an' the 
 bairnie canna, an' I gang near naebody 
 forbye." 
 
 "Weel, we maunna stan' oot here i' 
 the cauld : come this gait," said Mal- 
 colm. "The bairnie 'ill get its deid." 
 
 "There wadna be mony to greit at 
 
S66 
 
 THE MARQUIS OP LOSSIE. 
 
 [Nov. 
 
 that," returned Lizzy, and pressed the 
 child closer to her bosom. 
 
 Malcolm led the way to the little 
 chamber contrived under the temple in 
 the heart of the hill, and unlocking the 
 door made her enter. There he seated 
 her in a comfortable chair, and wrapped 
 her in the plaid he had brought for the 
 purpose. It was all he could do to keep 
 from taking her in his arms for very pity, 
 for, both body and soul, she seemed too 
 frozen to shiver. 
 
 He shut the door, sat down on the 
 table near her, and said, " There's nae- 
 body to disturb 's here, Lizzy : what wad 
 ye say to me noo ?" 
 
 The sun was nearly down, and its light 
 already almost smothered in clouds, and 
 the little chamber, whose door and win- 
 dow were in the deep shadow of the hill, 
 was nearly dark. 
 
 " I wadna hae ye tell me onything ye 
 promised no to tell," resumed Malcolm, 
 finding she did not reply, "but I wad like 
 to hear as muckle as ye can say." 
 
 " I hae naething to tell ye, Ma'colm, but 
 jist 'at my Leddy Florimel's gauin' to 
 be merried upo' Lord Meikleham — Lord 
 Liftore, they ca' 'im noo. Hech me !" 
 
 " God forbid she sud be merried upon 
 ony sic a bla'guard!" cried Malcolm. 
 
 " Dinna ca' 'im ill names, Ma'colm. 
 I canna bide it, though I hae no richt to 
 tak up the stick for him." 
 
 " I wadna say a word 'at micht fa' sair 
 on a sair hert," he returned; "butgien 
 ye kent a', ye wad ken I hed a gey-sized 
 craw to pluck wi' 's lordship mysel'." 
 
 The girl gave a low cry. " Ye wadna 
 hurt 'im, Ma'colm?" she said, in terror 
 at the thought of the elegant youth in the 
 clutches of an angry fisherman, even if 
 he were the generous Malcolm MacPhail 
 himself. 
 
 "I wad raither not," he replied, "but 
 we maun see hoo he carries himsel'." 
 
 " Du naething till 'im for my sake, Ma'- 
 colm. Ye can hae naething again' him 
 yersel'." 
 
 It was too dark for Malcolm to see the 
 keen look of wistful regret with which 
 Lizzy tried to pierce the gloom and read 
 his face : for a moment the poor girl 
 thought he meant he had loved her him- 
 
 self But far other thoughts were in Mal- 
 colm's mind : one was that her whom, as 
 a scarce approachable goddess, he had 
 loved before he knew her of his own 
 blood, he would rather see married to 
 any honest fisherman in the Seaton of 
 Portlossie than to such a lord as Meikle- 
 ham. He had seen enough of him at 
 Lossie House to know what he was ; and 
 puritanical, fish-catching Malcolm had 
 ideas above those of most marquises of 
 his day : the thought of the alliance was 
 horrible to him. It was possibly not in- 
 evitable, however ; only what could he 
 do, and at the same time avoid grievous 
 hurt ? "I dinna think he'll ever merry 
 my leddy," he said. 
 
 "What gars ye say that, Ma'colm?" 
 returned Lizzy with eagerness. 
 
 " I canna tell ye jist i' the noo, but ye 
 ken a body canna weel be aye aboot a 
 place ohn seen things. But I'll tell ye 
 something o' mair consequence," he con- 
 tinued. "Some fowk say there's a God, 
 an' some say there's nane, an' I hae no 
 richt to preach to ye, Lizzy ; but I maun 
 jist tell ye this — 'at gien God dinna help 
 them 'at cry till 'im i' the warst o' tribles, 
 they micht jist as weel hae nae God at a'. 
 For my ain pairt, I hae been helpit, an' I 
 think it was Him intil 't. Wi' His help 
 a man may warstle throu' onything. I 
 say I think it was Himsel' tuik me throu' 
 't, an' here I stan' afore ye, ready for the 
 neist trible, an' the help 'at '11 come wi' 
 it. What may be God only knows." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 MR. CRATHIK. 
 
 He was interrupted by the sudden 
 opening of the door and the voice of 
 the factor in exultant wrath. "Mac- 
 Phail!" it cried, "come out with you. 
 Don't think to sneak there. I know you. 
 What right have you to be on the prem- 
 ises ? Didn't I turn you about your busi- 
 ness this morning?" 
 
 "Ay, sir, but ye didna pey me my 
 wages," said Malcolm, who had sprung 
 to the door, and now stood holding it 
 half shut, while Mr. Crathie pushed it 
 half open. 
 
>876.] 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 
 
 567 
 
 "No matter. You're nothing better 
 than a housebreaker if you enter any- 
 building about the place." 
 
 " I brak nae lock," returned Malcolm : 
 " I hae the key my lord gae me to ilka 
 place 'ithin the wa' excep' the strong- 
 room." 
 
 " Give it me directly : I'm master here 
 now." 
 
 " 'Deed, I s' du nae sic thing, sir. What 
 he gae me I'll keep." 
 
 "Give up that key, or I'll go at once 
 and get a warrant against you for theft." 
 
 "Weel, vfe s' refar 't to Maister Sou- 
 tar." 
 
 "Damn your impudence — 'at / sud 
 say 't ! — what has he to do with my affairs ? 
 Come out of that directly." 
 
 "Huly, huly, sir!" returned Malcolm, 
 in terror lest he should discover who was 
 with him. 
 
 " You low-bred rascal ! who have you 
 there with you ?" 
 
 As he spoke, Mr. Crathie would have 
 forced his way into the dusky chamber, 
 where he could just perceive a motion- 
 less undefined form. But, stiff as a 
 statue, Malcolm kept his stand, and the 
 door was immovable. Mr. Crathie gave 
 a second and angrier push, but the youth's 
 corporeal as well as mental equilibrium 
 was hard to upset, and his enemy drew 
 back in mounting fury. 
 
 "Get out of there," he cried, "or I'll 
 horsewhip you for a damned black- 
 guard !" 
 
 "Whip awa'," said Malcolm, "but in 
 here ye s' no come the nicht." 
 
 The factor rushed at him, his heavy 
 whip upheaved, and the same moment 
 found himself, not in the room, but lying 
 on the flower-bed in front of it. Mal- 
 colm instantly stepped out, locked the 
 door, put the key in his pocket and turn- 
 ed to assist him. But he was up already, 
 and busy with words unbefitting the mouth 
 of an elder of the kirk. 
 
 "Didna I say 'at ye sudna come in, 
 sir ? What for wull fowk no tak a tell- 
 in' ?" expostulated Malcolm. 
 
 But the factor was far beyond force of 
 logic or illumination of reason. He raved 
 and swore. "Get oot o' my sicht," he 
 cried, " or I'll shot ye like a tyke." 
 
 "Gang an' fess yer gun," said Mal- 
 colm, "an' gien ye fin' me waitin' for ye, 
 ye can lat at me." 
 
 The factor uttered a horrible impreca- 
 tion on himself if he did not make him 
 pay dearly for his behavior. 
 
 "Hoots, sir! Be ashamet o' yersel'. 
 Gang hame to the mistress, an' I s' be 
 up the morn's mornin' for my wages." 
 
 " If you set foot on the grounds again 
 I'll set every dog in the place upon you." 
 
 Malcolm laughed : "Gien I war to turn 
 the order the ither gait, wad they min' you 
 or me, div ye think, Maister Crathie?" 
 
 " Give me that key and go about your 
 business." 
 
 " Na, na, sir ! What my lord gae me 
 I s' keep, for a' the factors atween this 
 an' the Lan's En'," returned Malcolm. 
 "An' for lea'in' the place, gien I be nae 
 in your service, Maister Crathie, I'm nae 
 un'er your orders. I'll gang whan itshuits 
 me. An' mair yet : ye s' gang oot o' this 
 first, or I s' gar ye, an' that ye'U see." 
 
 It was a violent proceeding, but for a 
 matter of manners he was not going to 
 risk what of her good name poor Lizzy 
 had left: like the books of the Sibyl, 
 that grew in value. He made, however, 
 but one threatful stride toward the factor, 
 when the great man turned and fled. 
 
 The moment he was out of sight Mal- 
 colm unlocked the door, led Lizzy out, 
 and brought her safely through the tun- 
 nel to the sands. Then he turned his 
 face to Scaurnose. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 BLUE PETER. 
 
 The door of Blue Peter's cottage was 
 opened by his sister. Not much at home 
 in the summer, when she carried fish to 
 the country, she was very little absent 
 in the winter, and as there was but one 
 room for all uses, except the closet-bed- 
 room and the garret at the top of the 
 ladder, Malcolm, instead of going in, ' 
 called to his friend, whom he saw by 
 the fire with Phemy upon his knee, to 
 come out and speak to him. 
 
 Blue Peter at once obeyed the sum- 
 mons, "There's naething wrang, I 
 
568 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF LOSS IE. 
 
 [Nov. 
 
 houp, Ma'colm ?" he said, as he closed 
 the door behind him. 
 
 " Maister Graham wad say," returned 
 Malcohn, "naething ever was wrang but 
 what ye did wrang yersel', or wadna pit 
 richt wlian ye had a chance. I hae him 
 nae mair to gang till, Joseph, an' sae I'm 
 come to you. Come doon by, an' i' the 
 scoug o' a rock I'll tell ye a' aboot it." 
 
 "Ye wadna hae the mistress no ken 
 o' 't?" said his friend. "I dinna jist 
 like haein' secrets frae her." 
 
 "Ye sail jeedge for yersel', man, an' 
 tell her or no jist as ye like. Only she 
 maun baud her tongue, or the black dog 
 'ill hae a' the butter." 
 
 " She can baud her tongue like the tae- 
 stane o' a grave," said Peter. 
 
 As they spoke, they reached the cliff 
 that hung over the shattered shore. It 
 was a clear cold night. Snow, the rem- 
 nants of the last storm, which frost had 
 preserved in every shadowy spot, lay all 
 about them. The sky was clear and full 
 of stars, for the wind that blew cold from 
 the north-west had dispelled the snowy 
 clouds. The waves rushed into countless 
 gulfs and crannies and straits on the rug- 
 gedest of shores, and the sounds of waves 
 and wind kept calling like voices from 
 the unseen. By a path seemingly fitter 
 for goats than men they descended half- 
 way to the beach, and under a great pro- 
 jection of rock stood sheltered from the 
 wind. Then Malcolm turned to Joseph 
 Mair — commonly called Blue Peter, be- 
 cause he had been a man-of-war's man 
 — and laying his hand on his arm, said, 
 "Blue Peter, did ever I tell ye a lee?" 
 
 "No, never," answered Peter. "What 
 gars ye speir sic a thing ?" 
 
 " 'Cause I want ye to believe me noo, 
 an' it winna be easy." 
 
 " I'll believe onything ye tell me — 'at 
 can be beheved." 
 
 " Weel, I hae come to the knowledge 
 'at my name's no MacPhail : it's Colon- 
 say. Man, I'm the markis o' Lossie." 
 
 Without a moment's hesitation, with- 
 out a single stare. Blue Peter pulled off 
 his bonnet and stood bareheaded before 
 the companion of his toils. 
 
 "Peter!" cried Malcolm, "dinna brak 
 my hert: put on yer bonnet." 
 
 "The Lord o' lords be thankit, my 
 lord!" said Blue Peter: "the puir man 
 has a frien' this day." Then replacing 
 his bonnet, he said, "An' what'll be yer 
 lordship's wull ?" 
 
 "First an' foremost, Peter, that my best 
 frien', efter my auld daddy and the schule- 
 maister, 's no to turn again' me 'cause I 
 hed a marquis, an' naither piper nor fish- 
 er, to my father." 
 
 "It's no like it, my lord," returned Blue 
 Peter, " whan the first thing I say is. What 
 wad ye hae o' me? Here I am — no speir- 
 in' a question." 
 
 "Weel, I wad hae ye hear the story 
 o' 't a'." 
 
 "Say on, my lord," said Peter. 
 
 But Malcolm was silent for a few mo- 
 ments. " I was thinkin', Peter," he said 
 at last, "whether I cud bide to hear ye 
 say my lord to me. Doobtless, as it'll 
 hae to come to that, it wad be better to 
 grow used till't while we're thegither, sae 
 'at whan it maun be it mayna hae the 
 luik o' cheenge intill 't, for cheenge is 
 jist the thing I canna bide. I' the mean 
 time, hooever, we canna gie in till 't, 
 'cause 't wad set fowk jaloosin'. But I 
 wad be obleeged till )'e, Peter, gien ye 
 wad say my lord whiles whan we're oor 
 lanes, for I wad fain grow sae used till 't 
 'at I never kent ye said it, for, atween 
 you an' me, I dinna like it. An' noo I 
 s' tell ye a' 'at I ken." 
 
 When he had ended the tale of what 
 had come to his knowledge, and how 
 it had come, and had paused, " Gie's a 
 grup o' yer ban', my lord," said Blue 
 Peter, "an' may God baud ye lang in 
 life an' honor to reule ower us ! Noo, 
 gien ye please, what are ye gauin' to 
 du?" 
 
 "Tell ye me, Peter, what ye think I 
 oucht to du." 
 
 "That wad tak a heap o' thinkin'," 
 returned the fisherman; "but ae thing 
 seems aboot plain : ye hae no richt to 
 lat yer sister gang exposed to tempta- 
 tions ye cud baud frae her. That's no 
 as ye promised, to be kin' till her. I 
 canna believe that's boo yer father ex- 
 peckit o' ye. I ken weel 'at fowk in his 
 poseetion haena the preevleeges o' the 
 like o' hiz : they haena the win', an' the