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 1995 
 
TOILERS AND SPINSTERS 
 
By the same Author. 
 
 — <■-- 
 
 Fifth Edition. Demy 8vo. i6j. 
 
 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 With 13 Illustrations. 
 Large Crown 8vo. los. 6d. 
 
 TO ESTHER ; and other Sketches. 
 
 With a Frontispiece by Frederick Walker. , 
 
 Demy 8vo. x-zs. 
 
 FIVE OLD FRIENDS AND A YOUNG PRINCE. 
 
 With Four Illustrations by Frederick Walker. 
 Deray 8vo. i2f. 6d. 
 
 THE VILLAGE ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 With Six Illustrations by Frederick Walker. 
 Crown 8vo. 3J. dd. 
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 With Four Illustrations. 
 
 SMITH, ELDER & CO., 15 Waterloo Place. 
 
TOILERS AND SPINSTERS 
 
 §,nir aihtt (j^ssans 
 
 V^ 
 
 MISS Thackeray) t,^cV.<^ 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'OLD KENSINGTON' 'THE VILLAGE ON THE CLIFF' 
 
 . jBui something 'ere the end 
 
 Ulysses 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
CHARLOTTE AUGUSTA RITCHIE 
 
 IN PARIS 
 THE FRIEND AND HELPER 
 
 OF 
 
 MANY TOILERS AND MANY SPINSTERS 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Toilers and Spinsters ..... i 
 
 Jane Austen .... . . 35 
 
 Heroines and their Grandmothers 72 
 
 Little Scholars .99 
 
 Out of the Silence ... ... . 123 
 
 LiTTL-E Paupers . . ... 138 
 
 A City of Refuge . 168 
 
 Newport Market . 191 
 
 An Easter Holiday ... . . . . 210 
 
 A Country Sunday .... .217 
 
 A Book of Photographs ... .... 224 
 
 The New Flower ... .... 230 
 
 Five o'Clock Tea . 236 
 
viii CONTRACTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Disastrous Fascinations of Croquet . 244 
 
 Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, &c. 253 
 
 Gratuities 260 
 
 Rome in the Holy Week 266 
 
 Closed Doors . 282 
 
 In Friendship . . . 288 
 
TOILERS AIvD SPINSIERS. 
 
 Je garde la fidelite a tout le monde, j'essaye d'Stre toujours veritable, 
 sincere, et fidele a tous les hommes, et j'ai une tendresse de coeur pour ceux 
 4 qui Dieu m'a unis plus etroitement, et soit que je sois seul ou a la vue de 
 tous les hommes, j'ai en toutes mes actions la vue de Dieu, qui les doit 
 juger et k qui je les ai toutes consacrees. — Pascal. 
 
 If one is to believe some people, there are a certain 
 number of unmarried ladies whose wail has of late been 
 constantly dinning in the ears of the public, and who, 
 with every comfort and necessary of life provided, are 
 supposed to be pining away in lonely gloom and help- 
 lessness. There are a score of books written for their 
 benefit with which they doubtless wile away their mo- 
 notonous hours. Old Maids, spinsters, the solitary, 
 'heart-broken women of England, have quite a little 
 literature of their own, which is not certainly cheering to 
 our forlorn spirits. It demands a degree of public sym- 
 pathy for this . particular class which would be insulting 
 almost in individual cases, except, indeed, that there are 
 no individual cases, and very few, who, while desiring 
 such commiseration for others, would not quite decline 
 to present themselves as its deserving objects. 
 
 B 
 
2 TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 
 
 To come forward, for instance, and say, ' Oh, alas, 
 ■ alas! what a sad, dull, solitary, useless, unhappy, unoc- 
 cupied life is mine ! I can only see a tombstone at the 
 end of my path, and willows and cypresses on either 
 side, and flowers, all dead and faded, crumbling beneath 
 my feet ; and my only companions are memories, and 
 hair ornaments, and ghosts, prosy, stupid old ghosts, 
 who go on saying the same things over and over and 
 over again, and twaddling about all the years that are 
 gone away for ever.' This is no exaggeration. This is 
 what the ' thoughtful ' spinster is supposed to say in her 
 -reflective moments. There are Sunsets of spinster life, 
 Moans of old maids, Words to the wasted. Lives for the 
 lonely, without number, all sympathising with these 
 ■griefs, such as they are, urging the despondent to hide 
 their sufferings away in their own hearts, to show no 
 sign, to gulp their bitter draught, to cheer, tend, console 
 others in their need, although unspeakably gloomy 
 themselves. One book, I remember, after describing a 
 life passed in abstract study, in nursing sick people, in 
 visiting unhappy ones, in relieving the needy, exclaims 
 <or something very like it) : — ' But, ah ! what at best is 
 such a life as this, whose chief pleasures asid consolations 
 are to be found in the cares and the sorrows of others } 
 Married life, indeed, has its troubles;' these single 
 but impartial critics generally go on to state ; ' but 
 then there is companionship, sympathy, protection' — 
 
TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 3 
 
 one knows the sentence by heart. ' Not so is it with 
 those whose lonely course we should be glad to think 
 that we had cheered by the few foregoing remarks, whose 
 sad destiny has been pointed out by a not unfeeling 
 hand. Who knows but that there may be compensation 
 in a lot of which the blank monotony is at least un- 
 troubled by the anxieties, and fears, and hopes of the 
 married ? ' 
 
 These are not the exact words, but it is very much 
 the substance, of many of the volumes, as anybody who 
 chooses may see. Where there really seems to be so 
 much kindness and gentle-heartedness, one is the more 
 impatient of a certain melancholy, desponding spirit, 
 which seems to prevail so often. 
 
 But what have the ladies, thus acknowledging their 
 need, been about all these years ? Who has forced them 
 to live alone .■" Is there nobody to come forward and 
 give them a lift ? What possible reason can there be 
 to prevent unmarried, any more than married, people 
 from being happy (or unhappy), according to their cir- 
 cumstances — from enjoying other pleasures more lively 
 than the griefs and sufferings of their neighbours ? Are 
 unmarried people shut out from all theatres, concerts, 
 picture-galleries, parks, and gardens .? May not they 
 walk out oh. every day of the week ? Are they locked 
 up all the summer time, and only let out when an east 
 wind is blowing.' Are they forc?bd to live in one par- 
 
4 TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 
 
 ticular quarter of the town ? Does Mudie refuse their 
 subscriptions ? Are they prevented from taking in The 
 Times, from going out to dinner, from match-making, 
 visiting, gossiping, drinking tea, talking, and playing the 
 piano ? If a lady has had three husbands, could she do 
 more? May not spinsters, as well as bachelors, give 
 their opinions on every subject, no matter how ignorant 
 they may be ; travel about an3rwhere, in any costume, 
 however convenient ; climb up craters, publish their 
 experiences, tame' horses, wear pork-pie hats, write 
 articles in the Saturday Review ? They have gone out 
 to battle in top-boots, danced on the tight-rope, taken 
 up the Italian cause, and harangued the multitudes. 
 They have gone to prison for distributing tracts ; they 
 have ascended Mont Blanc, and come down again. 
 They have "been doctors, lawyers, clergy women, squires — 
 as men have been milliners, dressmakers, ballet-dancers, 
 ladies' hair-dressers. They have worn waistcoats, shirt- 
 collars, white neckcloths, wideawakes. They have tried 
 a hundred wild schemes, pranks, fancies ; they have 
 made themselves ridiculous, respected, particular, foolish, 
 agreeable ; and small blame to them if they have played 
 their part honestly, cheerfully, and sincerely. I know 
 of no especial ordinance of nature to prevent men, or 
 women either, from being ridiculous at times ; and we 
 should hate people a great deal more than we do, if we 
 might not laugh at thfem now and then. To go back to 
 
TOILERS and SPINSTERS. . 5 
 
 our spinsters, they have crossed the seas in shoals, been 
 brave as men when their courage came to be tried ; they 
 have farmed land, kept accounts, opened shops, inherited 
 fortunes, played a part in the world, been presented at 
 Court What is it that is to render life to them only 
 one long regret ? Cannot a single woman know tender- 
 est love, faithful affection, sincerest friendship ? And if 
 Miss A. considers herself less fortunate than Mrs. B., who 
 has an adoring husband always at home, and 10,000/. a 
 year, she certainly does not envy poor Mrs. C, who has 
 to fly to Sir Cresswell Cresswell to get rid of a ' life com- 
 panion ' who beats her with his umbrella, spends her 
 money, and knocks her down instead of ' lifting her up.' 
 
 With all this it is dismally true that single women 
 many, and many of them, have a real trouble to complain 
 of ; and one which is common also to married people, 
 that is, want of adequate means ; ,and when the barest 
 necessaries are provided, life can only be to many 
 a long privation ; from books,- from amusement, from 
 friendly intercourse, from the pleasure of giving, and 
 from that social equality which is almost impossible 
 without a certain amount of money ; but then surely it 
 is the want of money, and not of husbands, which brings 
 such things to this pass. Husbands, the statistics tell 
 us, it is impossible to provide ; money, however, is more 
 easily obtained. 
 
 For mere sentimental griefs for persons whose com- 
 
6 TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 
 
 forts are assured, and whose chief trouble is that they do 
 not like the life they lead, that they have aspirations 
 and want sympathy, I think fewer books of consolation 
 might suffice. The great Times newspaper alone, as 
 it turns its flapping page, contains many an answer to 
 our questions ; and it might supply more than one need 
 for each separate want, and change how many vague 
 things, dull dreams, hopeless prayers, into facts, human 
 feelings, boys and girls, into work, into pains and sym- 
 pathy, into old shoes, and patches, and rags, and darns, 
 into ignorance and dawning knowledge and gratitude. 
 The whole clamour is so much mixed up together that it is 
 very difficult to separate even facts and feelings from one 
 another. It is not the sorrow of others which makes the 
 happiness of those who are able to find out some means 
 fo^ lessening that sorrow, but the relief of their relief 
 which can only be truly earned and felt by those who 
 have worked for it. And the best work and the most 
 grateful surely. No one can witness the first-fruits of 
 such good labour without, coming away, for a little 
 time at least, more Christian and gentle-hearted. 
 
 But it can only be by long patience and trouble that 
 such things can be achieved. For to sympathise, I 
 suppose people must know sorrow in some measure ; to 
 help they must take pains ; to give they must deny them- 
 selves ; to know how to help others best they must learn 
 themselves. 
 
TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 7- 
 
 And the knowledge of good and of evil, as it is taught, 
 to us by our lives, is a hard lesson indeed ; learnt 
 through failure, through trouble, through shame and 
 humiliation, forgotten, perhaps neglected, broken off,, 
 taken up again and again. 
 
 ' With pauses oft a many and silence strange, 
 And silent oft it seems when silent it is not ; 
 Revivals, too, of unexpected change . . .' 
 
 This lesson taught with such great pains has been 
 sent to , all mankind — not excepting old maids, as some 
 people would almost have it; such persons as would 
 make life one long sentimental penance, during which 
 single women should be constantly-occupied, dissecting,, 
 inspecting, regretting, examining themselves, living 
 among useless little pricks and self-inflicted smarts, and 
 wasting wilfully, and turning away from the busy busi- 
 ness of life, and still more from that gracious gift of 
 existence, and that bounty of happiness and content, and 
 gratitude, which all the clouds of heaven rain down 
 upon us. 
 
 When one sees what some good women can do with 
 great hearts and small means, how bravely they can 
 work for others and for themselves, how many good 
 chances there are for those who have patience to seek 
 and courage to hold, how much there is to be done — 
 and I do not mean in works of charity only, but in in- 
 dustry, and application, and determination — how every 
 
S TOILERS aiid. SPINSTERS. 
 
 woman in raising herself may carry along a score of 
 others with her — ^when one sees all this, one is ashamed 
 and angry to think of the melancholy, moping spirit 
 within us which, out of sheer dulness and indolence, 
 would tempt many of us to waste hours of daylight in 
 gloomy sentiment and inertness. 
 
 I do not mean that this is the habitual spirit of 
 the self-denying and self-concentrated persons of whom 
 I have just been speaking, for honest and persistent 
 ■efforts must make themselves respected in any form. 
 I suppose I am addressing that vague, but useful offend- 
 ing scap^oat that all advice-givers, advertisers, and 
 article-writers attack. It misbehaves in every convenient 
 manner in order to give the wrath-pots of eloquence an 
 opportunity of pouring out. 
 
 Statistics are very much the fashion now-a-days, and 
 we cannot take up a newspaper or a pamphlet without 
 seeing in round numbers that so many people will do so 
 and so in the course of the year ; so many commit 
 murder, so many be taken up for drunkenness, so many 
 subscribe to the ' London Journal,' so many die, so many 
 marry, so many quarrel after, so many remain single to 
 the end of their lives, of whom so many will be old 
 maids in the course of time. This last number is such 
 an alarming one, that I am afraid to -write it down ; but 
 it is natural to suppose that out of these latter thousands 
 a certain number must be in want of some place where 
 
TOILERS and SPINSTERS. g 
 
 they can have lunch and tea more quietly, and cheaply, 
 and comfortably served than at a pastrycook's shop. 
 Fifteen years ago good tea and bread and butter for 
 sixpence, and dinner off a joint, with potatoes, for nine- 
 pence, were to be had at a little reading-room in Lang- 
 ham Place, which things must, I should think, have been 
 a boon to a good many who were perhaps out and about 
 all day, earning their sixpences and ninepences. The 
 ladies might not only partake of all these, and other 
 delicacies, and join in intellectual conversation, but go 
 upstairs and read the Times, and the ' Englishwoman's 
 Journal,' and the ' Cornhill Magazine,' &c. &c., and write 
 their letters on neatly stamped paper when the meal was 
 over. 
 
 The governesses and hard-working ladies, however, 
 did not seem to frequent this liberal-minded little re- 
 freshment-room as much as might have been expected ; 
 changes were made, the Englishwoman's reading-room 
 was closed after a useful and original life of some ten 
 years' duration ; and the Berners Street Club was then 
 started with the same object. 
 
 It is a well-furnished home-like place, with arm- 
 chairs, food, literature. I went there one evening in the 
 dusk and found some ladies comfortably established at 
 one of the tables in the dining-room with something 
 smoking before them and a waitress in attendance, while 
 . upstairs a reader was sitting in the drawing-room absorbed 
 
10 TOILERS and SPINSTEHS. 
 
 in a novel and an armchair. The housekeeper let me 
 
 see the tariff of the charges. There is a dinner at one 
 
 o'clock to which some students from the Royal Academy 
 
 often come ; later in the day people order what they 
 
 want from the carie. Notwithstanding the rise of coals 
 
 and meat, the prices are not less moderate than they 
 
 were at the former club fifteen years ago : — 
 
 .. d. 
 
 A cup of tea 02 
 
 A plate of hot meat 06 
 
 Potatoes 01 
 
 Cold meat .......04 
 
 Pudding ........02 
 
 Bread and butter ......01 
 
 Claret 14 
 
 Tarragona port ..'....30 
 
 were among a few of the items. 
 
 It is a nice old house with a Georgian face, an old- 
 fashioned staircase ; the dining-room is downstairs, and 
 the reading-room is above, with a request for silence and 
 missing volumes to be returned, on the door. In 
 the drawing-room any amount of conversation is tole- 
 rated, and visitors, ladies and gentlemen too, are 
 admitted. 
 
 The drawing-room table seemed to me, as far as I 
 could judge, to be as liberal and well supplied as the 
 dining-room. Half-a-dozen morning papers, for break- 
 fast, hot from the printing press ; no lack of solid reading, 
 besides lighter stores upon the shelves neatly served in 
 
TOILERS and SPINSTERS. II 
 
 calf, and monthly entrees of magazines and quarterlies. 
 These refreshments may be partaken of all the days of 
 the week from eight in the morning till half-past ten at 
 night. The annual subscription is a pound and the 
 entrance-fee five shillings. 
 
 Perhaps some people may think some great moral 
 experiment is involved in the existence of this little place, 
 but it is a pity to mix up social science with cups of tea; 
 and this establishment has no more sinister intention 
 than that of providing a little rest, food, and intelligent 
 relaxation for any who may wish to avail themselves of 
 it. It cannot of course attempt to compete with any of 
 the clubs in Pall Mall, economy is studied perforce ; 
 perhaps at some future time, when women's work is 
 better paid, and education is a liberal profession for 
 women as well as for men, economy may give way and 
 more spacious comfort be secured.' 
 
 ' On the ground floor of the Ladies' Club in Bemers Street, there is the 
 office for the franchise of women. 
 
 An uninterested person, not long ago, coming in and receiving a 
 courteous reply to a few passing questions, could not help feeling ashamed 
 of a certain consdous and accepted ignorance, as there contrasted with the 
 courage and liberality which has prompted certain ladies to attempt to urge 
 the rights of the lazy and uninterested people who have not even cared to 
 take trouble to think out a serious subject. These ladies feel that justice (if 
 justice it is) has nothing to do with that acknowledged apathy of ' half the 
 women of England ' who do not care for votes, and whose supineness in the 
 Attorney-General's eyes is a good reason for not giving the Franchise to 
 those persons who do happen to care for it. 
 
 The ideal woman as one imagines her is no social failure. She is 
 calm, beautifid, dignified and gentle, not necessarily accomplished, but she 
 
12 TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 
 
 Somebody says somewhere, that it is better a thou- 
 sand times to earn a penny than to save one. I have 
 just been learning how, in a few cases, this penny may 
 be earned by women. 
 
 There are — ^to give the first instance which comes to 
 me— Schools of Art all over the kingdom, where young 
 men and young women are taught the same things by 
 the same masters. It is a fact that the women generally 
 take higher places than the men in the examinations ; 
 and when they leave, a person in authority has assured 
 me that he did not know of one single instance where 
 they had failed to make their way. They can earn 
 generally from one hundred to two hundred a year. 
 This is by teaching privately or in government schools, 
 and by designing for manufacturers. One girl that I 
 have heard of was engaged at two hundred a year to 
 invent patterns for table-cloths all day long for some 
 great Manchester firm. I think the melancholy books 
 themselves nearly all most sensibly urge upon parents 
 their duty either to make some provision for their 
 
 must be intelligent, a good administrator, 'NTise and tender by instinct ; for 
 my own taste, she should have perhaps a gift for music, and a natural feel- 
 ing for art and suitability in her home — and beyond this home she should 
 have an interest large enough to care for other people and other things, nor 
 should that which affects the world and her own country-people's welfare be 
 indiBferent to her. If she is able [to rule her household, to bring up her 
 sons and daughters in love and in truth, and to advise her husband with 
 sense and composure, she may perhaps be trusted in time with the very 
 doubtful privilege of a 5,000th voice in the election of a member for the 
 borough. 
 
'TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 13 
 
 daughters or to help them early in life to help them- 
 selves. For troubles come — sad times come — and it is 
 hard to look out for a livelihood with eyes blinded by 
 tears. 
 
 It is now about sixteen years since a society was 
 started, called the ' Society for Promoting the 
 Employment of Women,' of which the object is so 
 good that I should think there must be few who will not 
 sympathise with it. 
 
 ' Miss Boucherett and a few ladies,' says the report, 
 ' feeling deeply the helpless and necessitous condition of 
 the great number of women obliged to resort to non- 
 domestic industry as a means of subsistence, consulted 
 together as to the' best way in which they might bring 
 position and influence to their aid. . . . They resolved 
 on the formation of a new society, which should have for 
 its object the opening of new employments to women, 
 and their more extensive admission into those branches 
 of employment already open to them.' The report goes 
 on to describe briefly enough some of the difficulties 
 which at once occurred to them. Among others, where 
 they should begin their experiment. 'For highly- 
 educated women, we could for a time do nothing ; women 
 of no education could do nothing for us. That is to say, 
 we could open no new channels for the labour of the 
 former, and our experiments would have failed, owing 
 to the inefficiency of the latter. . But we felt convinced 
 
14 TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 
 
 that in whatever direction we made an opening, tjie 
 pressure upon all ranks of working women would be 
 lessened.'' 
 
 It has not been idle during the past fifteen years. 
 This society has continued in apprenticing girls to 
 hair-dressing, printing, law-copying, dial-painting, sun- 
 glass engraving. It is making inquiries in other direc- 
 tions, but it finds many obstacles in its way. Appren- 
 ticeship is expensive, very few of the girls who come to 
 them can give the time to learn a new trade. They 
 almost all want immediate work and payment, and 
 something to do which needs no learning nor appren- 
 ticeship. Can one wonder how it is that women earn so 
 little and starve so much } I once saw a dismal list 
 belonging to the secretary of the society, which tells 
 of certain troubles in a very brief and business-like way. 
 Here is — 
 
 ' Miss A., , aged 30, daughter of a West Indian 
 merchant, reduced to poverty by his failure : highly 
 educated, but not trained to anything. Just out of 
 hospital. Wants situation as nursemaid, without salary. 
 
 ' Miss B., aged 30. Father speculated, and ruined 
 the family, which is now dependent on her. He is now 
 old, and she has a sister dying. 
 
 ' Miss C, aged 50.' Willing to do anything. 
 
 • This quotation was made many years ago ; in Nov. 1873, calling at the 
 office I saw the unemployed women of to-day still sitting on a bench await- 
 ing their fate, and heard the murmurs of a committee still at work within. 
 
TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 15 
 
 ' Miss D., aged 30. Obliged by adverse circum- 
 stances to seek employment : unsuited for teaching. 
 
 ' Mrs. E., widow, with four daughters, aged from 14 
 to 23. Not trained to anything, imperfectly educated, 
 lost large property by a lawsuit. * 
 
 ' Mrs. F., husband in America, appears to have 
 deserted her. Wants immediate employment. 
 
 ' Mrs. G., ^ed 55 ; husband, a clergyman's son, ill 
 and helpless. Would do anything. Go out as char- 
 woman. Orderly and methodical in her habits. Applied 
 at St. Mary's Hospital, refused as being too old. 
 
 ' Miss H., aged 30, clergyman's daughter, governess 
 seven years. Dislikes teaching, is suffering in conse- 
 quence of overwork.' 
 
 One has no training, no resources ; another poor 
 thing says she is neither well educated nor clever at any- 
 thing ; she had a little money of her own, but lent it to 
 her brother, and lost it. 
 
 ' Miss I., energetic, willing to do anything. 
 
 ' J., middle-aged woman, not trained to anything in 
 particular ; tried to live by needlework, and failed.' 
 
 Here we are only at J, and there are yet alphabets 
 and alphabets of poor souls all ready to tell the same 
 story, more or less, whom this friendly society is en- 
 deavouring to help. 
 
 At that time the society had already opened two 
 little establishments that were making their way in the 
 
i6 TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 
 
 world with every chance of prosperity and success. One 
 was the law-copying office in Portugal Street, and the 
 other the printing press in Great Coram Street, which, as 
 I was told, was better known, and where twice as many 
 hands were employed.* 
 
 To this printing-house in Great Coram Street we 
 went, my friend A. and I '; A. telling me, as we drove 
 along, of all the thought, and pains, and money the 
 house had cost The money it is already giving back ; 
 the kind thought and trouble will be paid in a different 
 coin. 
 
 One of the best hands in the office, A. said, is a poor 
 printer's daughter from Ireland, who learnt the business 
 there at her father's press. After his death, she fell into 
 great poverty and trouble, and could find no work nor 
 way of living, when one day she happened to pick up an 
 old torn newspaper, in which she read some little account 
 of the Victoria Press. She set off immediately, begged 
 her way all the way to London, and arrived one day 
 covered with grime and rags, to ask Miss Faithfull to 
 take her in. There was another printress whom I saw 
 diligently at work, a little deaf and dumb girl, who had 
 been trained in the office. I scarcely know if I may say 
 so here, but I know that the printers in this office are 
 trained to better things still than printing. 
 
 The workwomen are paid by the piece at the same 
 • iS6o. 
 
TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 17 
 
 rate as men are paid. The money is well-earned money, 
 for the work is hard ; but not so hard — and, I think, 
 some of these very women could tell us so — as working 
 button-holes fourteen hours a day at five farthings an 
 hour, selling life, and spirit, and flesh, and blood, in order 
 not to die. Here are eighteen and twenty shillings to be 
 made a week between nine and six o'clock, except, of 
 course, when some sudden press of business obliges them 
 to work on late into the night. 
 
 On the ground-floor there is an office, a press-room, 
 a store-room ; down below, a dining-room, where the 
 women cook their dinners if they like, and rest for an 
 hour in the middle of the day. On the first floor are 
 work-rooms. The front one is filled up with wooden 
 desks, like pews, running from the windows, and each 
 holding three or four young women. At right-angles 
 with the pews run long tables, loaded with iron frames 
 and black sheets of type, which are being manipulated 
 by two or three men in dirty-white paper caps. There 
 are also men to print off, and do all the heavy work, 
 which no woman's strength would be equal to. 
 
 It is a very busy, silent colony ; a table of rules is 
 hanging up on the wall, and I see NO TALKING 
 ALLOWED printed up in fiery letters. All the tongues 
 are silent, but the hands go waving, crossing, recrossing. 
 What enchantresses, I wonder, weaving mystic signs in 
 the air, ever worked to such good purpose ! Backwards-, 
 
 
 
i8 TOILERS ana SPINSTERS. 
 
 forwards, up and down, there goes a word for a thousand 
 people to read ; hi, presto ! and the Guinea Bassinet 
 is announced in letters of iron. 
 
 Besides all the enchantresses, there is a little printer's 
 devil, who haunts the place, and seems to have a very- 
 pleasant time there, and to be made a great deal of by 
 all the womankind. He has a pair of very rosy cheeks, 
 he wears a very smart little cap, with ' Victoria Press ' 
 embroidered upon it, and he goes and waits in the halls, 
 and sends up for the ladies' manuscript, just like any 
 other printer's devil one has ever heard of 
 
 ' The Society for the Employment of Women appren- 
 ticed five girls to me,' says Miss FaithfuU, describing 
 their start, 'at premiums of lo/. each. Others were 
 apprenticed by relations and friends, and we soon found 
 
 ourselves in the thick of the struggle When you 
 
 remember that there was not one skilled compositor in 
 the office, you will readily understand the nature of the 
 difficulties we had to encounter. Work came in imme- 
 diately from the earliest day. In April we commenced 
 our first book.' 
 
 Everybody, I think, must wish this gallant little 
 venture good speed, and all the success it deserves. 
 Here is one more extract about the way in which the 
 printers themselves look at it : — 
 
 ' The introduction of women into the trade has been 
 contemplated by many printers. Intelligent workmen 
 do not view this movement with distrust. They feel 
 
TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 19 
 
 very strongly that woman's cause is man's, and they 
 anxiously look for some opening for the employment of 
 those otherwise solely dependent upon them.' And I 
 feel bound to add that I have seen exactly a contrary 
 statement in another little pamphlet, written by another 
 member of the society. 
 
 The other place to which we went was a law 
 stationer's in Portugal Street, Lincoln's Inn, where are a 
 series of offices and shops in which lawyer's clerks, 
 I believe, go and buy all those red tapes, blue bags, 
 foolscap papers, plain or over-written, in stiff, upright, 
 legible handwriting — all of which seem to play such an 
 important part in the legislature of the country. Blue 
 paper, white paper, of a dozen tints, ruled, unruled, 
 abbreviations, erasures, ordered, permitted, forbidden — 
 all these things are decreed by certain laws, which are as 
 much the laws of the land as 3 Vict, or 18 Geo. III., 
 which one reads about in the newspapers. All this was 
 good-naturedly explained to us by the manager of this 
 copying office, into which we were invited to enter by 
 an elaborate hand hanging up on the wall, and pointing 
 with a pen, which was ornamented by many beautiful 
 flourishes. I was rather disappointed to find the place 
 perfectly light and clean, without any of the conventional 
 dust and spiders' webs about. The manager sitting in a 
 comfortable little room, the clerks busy at their desks in 
 another — very busy, scarcely looking up as we go in, 
 
20 TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 
 
 and working away sedulously with steel pens. I am 
 told that the very first thing they learn, when they come 
 in, is to stick their pens behind their ears. 
 
 There were about ten of them, I think. The manager 
 told us that they were paid, like the printers, by the 
 piece, and could earn from fifteen to twenty-four 
 shillings a week ; receiving three-halfpence a folio, or 
 twopence a folio, according to the difficulty of the work. 
 They go on from ten till about six. This business, 
 however, cannot be counted on with any certainty; 
 sometimes there is a press of work which must be done, 
 and then the poor clerks sit up nearly all night, 
 scratching with wearied pens, and arrive in the morning 
 with blear eyes, and pale faces, and fit for very little. 
 Then, again, there is comparatively nothing going on ; 
 and they sit waiting in the office, working and embroi- 
 dering, to pass the time. The idea of clerks embroider- 
 ing in their office, and of young women with pens behind 
 their ears, bending over title-deeds and parchments, 
 seemed rather an incongruous one ; but young women 
 must live somehow, and earn their daily bread ; and a 
 great many of these had tried and failed very often 
 before they drifted into Miss Rye's little office. 
 
 It was .opened some ten months ago, she told us, by 
 the Society, and was transferred to her in November, and 
 already begins to pay its own expenses. It was very 
 uphill work at first. The copyists were new to their 
 work ; the solicitors chary of reading it. Many of their 
 
TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 21 
 
 clerks, too, seemed averse to the poor ladies. Others, 
 however, were very kind ; and one, in particular, came 
 to see Miss Rye of his own accord, to tell her of some 
 mistakes which had been made, and gave her many 
 useful hints at the same time. Without such help, she 
 said, they never could have got on at all. Now the 
 drudgery is overcome, the little office is flourishing ; the 
 steel pens find plenty of work to do. 
 
 One of the copyists is a widow, and supports two 
 children ; another is a Quaker lady, who writes the 
 most beautiful hand imaginable. Applicants come every 
 day to be taken in, and Miss Rye says that if they seem 
 at all promising she is only too glad to engage them ; 
 but many and many of them lose courage, cry off at the 
 last moment, find the occupation too severe, the distance 
 too great, would like to come sometimes of an afternoon, 
 and so go off to begin their search anew after that 
 slender livelihood that seems so hard to win — so hard in 
 some cases, that it is death as well as life that poor 
 creatures are earning, as they toil on day by day, almost 
 contented, almost cheerful. 
 
 Ladies — those unlucky individuals whose feelings 
 have been trained up to that sensitive pitch which seems 
 the result of education and cultivation, and which makes 
 the performance of the common offices of life a pain and 
 a penalty to them — might perhaps at a pinch find a 
 livelihood in either of these offices, or add enough to 
 their store to enable them at least to live up to their 
 
22 TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 
 
 cultivated feelings. At any rate, it must be less annoy- 
 ing and degrading to be occupied with work, however 
 humble, than to contemplate narrower and narrower 
 stintings and economies every day — economies which are 
 incompatible with the very existence of cultivation and 
 refinement Scarcely any work that is honest and produc- 
 tive can be degrading. If a lady could earn 60/. a year as 
 a cook, it seems to me more dignified to cook than to 
 starve on a pittance of 30/. or 20/., as so many must do. 
 
 Work may be wearily sought indeed, but it is to be 
 foand. By roadsides, in arid places, springing up among 
 the thorns and stones. Patient eyes can see it, honest 
 hands may gather ; good measure, now and then pressed 
 down and overflowing. Only poor women's hands are 
 bruised by the stones sometimes, and torn by the thorns. 
 
 I seem to have been wandering all about London, 
 and to have drifted away ever so far from the spinsters 
 in whose company I began my paper. But is it so .^ 
 I think it is they who have been chiefly at work, and 
 taking us along with them all this time ; I think it is 
 mostly to their warm sympathy and honest endeavours 
 that these places owe their existence — these, only a few 
 among a hundred which are springing up in every direc- 
 tion : — springing up, helpful, forbearing, kindly of deed, 
 of word, gentle of ministration, in the midst of a roaring, 
 troublous city. Somehow grief, and ' shame, and pain, 
 seem to bring down at times consolation, pity, love, as a 
 sort of consequence. 
 
TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 23 
 
 1873. The writer has left these last few pages as they 
 were written at the time, fifteen years ago or more, not 
 because of the description they contain of things which 
 have passed away, but for the sake of things that cannot 
 pass away — a remembrance of the hands that marked 
 this portion of the writer's life. One hand— that which 
 ruled and blessed at home — wrote a title to the rambling 
 little paper ; and then comes the remembrance of a 
 woman's hand, worn and delicate, yet ready with help 
 for others in its slight and steady grasp, whose impress 
 is on this page. 
 
 The guiding companion whom I have called A is no 
 longer among us, but her faithful light still burns as 
 from a shrine, and falls upon many a dark and tor- 
 tuous way, and its radiance still cheers and encourages 
 many a lagging pilgrim. Adelaide Anne Procter is a 
 household name to many and many of us, and her voice 
 is not silent.' 
 
 The writer can recall the scene in the little copying 
 office in Lincoln's Inn, and still see the noble, worn face, 
 
 ' A boolc beside me opens at her noble lines called Incompleteness : — 
 
 ' Learn the mystery of progression duly, 
 
 Do not call each glorious change Decay ; 
 But know we only hold o<ir treasures truly 
 When it seems as if they passed away. 
 
 ' Nor dare to blame God's gifts for incompleteness ; 
 In that want their beauty lies ; they roll 
 Towards some infinite depth of love and sweetness, 
 Bearing onwards man's reluctant soul.' 
 
24 TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 
 
 the slender form leading the way, and the bright-haired 
 lady who came smiling into the room with a welcome to 
 her visitor. This lady also in these long fifteen years has " 
 won for herself a place in the ranks of those who have 
 not grudged to give their life's toil and generous hearts 
 to others. 
 
 Homes, husbands, sons, and daughters, such sacred 
 ties are sweet, but they are not the only ones nor the 
 only sacred things in life, and some examples seem 
 indeed to show us that love may be strong enough and 
 wide enough to take the world itself for a home, and the 
 deserted for children, and the sick and the sorrowful for 
 a family. Married or unmarried, such lives are not alone. 
 
 Before concluding this little article, written from its 
 double point, of view and from the two ends of fifteen 
 years, I cannot help adding a few words about some of 
 the changes which have taken place in women's work 
 since it was first published. 
 
 As regards this special Society for the Employment 
 of Women, Miss King, the present secretary, tells me 
 that among the experiments (some abandoned perforce, 
 others cofttinued) hair-dressing has perhaps been most 
 thoroughly successful and well established. The follow- 
 ing extract about Dispensers is also very interesting and 
 hopeful : — 
 
 'The demand for female dispensers is still small, 
 but the efficiency displayed by those already en- 
 
TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 25 
 
 gaged in this occupation will almost, as a matter of 
 course, ensure an increase, and during the year two 
 applications have been made for female dispensers, 
 which the committee was unable to meet, having no one 
 qualified to undertake the duties. The opinion of a 
 doctor who has large experience in dispensers, both 
 male and female, is interesting. He writes of a lady who 
 was employed in a dispensary which he superintended : 
 " She was one of the most efficient dispensers I have had 
 under my direction, and I have had several, both male and 
 female. My experience has led me to prefer an intelligent 
 female to a male dispenser. I find they are more careful, 
 neater, more courteous to the patients, and that although 
 still a novelty, they are in no way taken exception to." ' 
 
 Miss King also tells me that there is a class at the 
 Society's office for book-keeping and arithmetic, which 
 seems to answer admirably, and I again extract from 
 the report showing the practical use of such instruction : — 
 
 ' Women who have obtained certificates seldom have 
 to wait long for employment, and the reports received 
 by the Society of the manner in which they discharge 
 their duties are in almost all cases satisfactory. Captain 
 Costyn, secretary of the Westminster Palace Hotel, 
 wrote in April last as follows to the secretary : " For 
 some time two young women educated in the institution 
 have been employed in the office of this company, 
 and, I am glad to say, before long a third will be 
 
26 TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 
 
 established here. The conduct of the two has been so 
 creditable, and the aptitude they have displayed for 
 business so great, that I am induced to communicate 
 with you and to ask whether it would be agreeable to 
 you to receive particulars of any vacancy which may 
 occur in the head office, though I trust the day may be 
 distant when I lose the services of either. I may men- 
 tion that in a fortnight all the clerks will be females." ' 
 
 The report goes on to say that ' persons who have 
 once had book-keepers from the Society constantly 
 return for others when those they have obtained through 
 the Society form engagements, or they require additional 
 hands ; and book-keepers who have once made a good 
 start seldom find it necessary to put their names again 
 on the register, which is, perhaps, the best guarantee 
 that could be given of their success.' 
 
 Book-keepers in the house earn from 15/. to 50/. a 
 year ; out of the house from \os. to 25J. weekly ; for 
 law writing the average for the year is only from 8j. to 
 1 5 J. a week. 
 
 Miss King has collected an interesting table of the 
 proportional wages of women ; of these the highest are 
 for trained artists and painters on china,' who can earn 
 from 3/. to 5/. weekly, and who seem to be the only 
 well-paid workers on the list. There are curious trades 
 and details in the list. iZs. a week for sticking pins 
 ' They should be grateful to Mr. Cole for this. 
 
TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 2^ 
 
 into paper is a liberal and unexpected item. Among 
 the best paid workers are the colour stampers, who 
 can earn from 20s. to 2^s. The wages seem to rise 
 immediately when the occupation ceases to be mecha- 
 nical, and intelligence comes into play. 
 
 These women, well or ill paid, have learnt their art, 
 can use their tools, and are fortunate in having where- 
 withal to gain their honest daily bread, and to be able to 
 look the future in the face. ' But what is one to do,' says 
 the secretary, ' for persons of 40 or 50 who come to one 
 wanting employment for the first time, who have never 
 learnt anything nor done anything in their life before '> 
 Though I write their names down on the registry, it is 
 of 'little use ; and yet it is a case of daily occurrence : nor 
 does it much matter if it is that of a man or a woman.' 
 Let us hope, according to the present rate of progress, that 
 in another forty years every woman will have learnt a 
 trade.' As regards teachers, Miss King told me that 
 people now constantly ask for certificated teachers for 
 their schools and their children, and it necessarily follows 
 that such teachers stand in a far better position than 
 they did before these certificates were given. 
 
 There is certainly a different feeling about education 
 now from that which formerly existed. The London 
 Association of Schoolmistresses, established for the 
 
 ' I must not omit to mention an excellent institution called the Ladies' 
 Sanitary Association, also having an office at 22 Beraers Street. 
 
28 TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 
 
 purpose of meeting and talking over matters concerned 
 with education, indicates a new spirit and interest in 
 the work. The Cambridge scheme for local examination 
 has been of real and practical benefit, and there is also 
 the system for education by correspondence. One friend, 
 whom I will not name, has given leisure, energy, and 
 resource to the work, and has sown his seed broadcast in 
 the endeavour to raise the aim and widen the span of 
 the ordinary schoolgirl mind. It is not so much at the 
 onset of life, in the early spring-time, that the result of 
 such teaching will tell ; but a little later, when the time 
 for the harvest comes round, and the fields are ripening, 
 then the sheaves may be reaped and sorted, and the 
 work of the labourer and the effort of the soil repaid. 
 
 In education, that mighty field, as you sow the seed, 
 that strange incongruous seed of human intelligence cast 
 forth hour by hour in books and words, in the.secret medi- 
 tations, the works of the dead as well as the deeds of the 
 living, so it grows again, new, revivified, gathering life 
 from every breath of air and ray of light. But, nevertheless, 
 it happens not unfrequently that while some good soil is 
 utilised and worked and turned to good and useful ends, 
 other soil not less good and fruitful is neglected or ill- 
 treated and scantily supplied, diluted with platitude, 
 planted with parsley and cucumbers and with asparagus, 
 when under more favourable circumstances it might have 
 grown wheat or wholesome crops in bountiful measure. 
 
TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 29 
 
 What Arnold did for schoolboys and . schoolmasters, in- 
 venting freedom for them and a rescue from the tyranny of 
 common-place and opposition, and bringing in the life of 
 truth and commonsense to overwhelm schoolroom fetishes 
 and opposition, some people have been trying to do for 
 home-girls, schoolgirls, and their teachers, for whom 
 surely some such revolution has long been needed. Of 
 late years a very distinct impression has grown up (by 
 the efforts of the people I am alluding to) that even 
 schoolgirls and governesses are human beings, with 
 certain powers of mind which are worthy of consi- 
 deration, and for whom the best cultivation, as well as 
 the worst, might be provided with advantage. 
 
 The College for Ladies has proposed to itself some 
 such aim of good teaching and intelligent apprehension. 
 There is also a home at Cambridge for the use of ladies 
 who wish to attend the professors' lectures. When the 
 home began, with Miss Clough as its principal, it only 
 consisted of eight or nine pupils ; there are now more 
 than twenty, and the numbers are steadily increasing. 
 The little home has moved from Regent Street, where 
 it was first opened, to an old house in a green garden 
 not far from the river, where the very elms and gables 
 seem to combine in a tranquil concentration. The girls 
 meet together, they are taught by people who do it from 
 interest in the teaching itself; they come into contact w;ith 
 cultivated minds, perhaps for the first time in their lives; 
 
30 TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 
 
 ' We teach the girls first for the examination which 
 the university has instituted specially for women,' writes a 
 friend ; ' then if they like to stay on, we teach them further, 
 just what we teach the young men. About half of them 
 are preparing to be teachers ; the rest come for pure love 
 of learning. We do not want to have only the professional 
 ones, though we are specially anxious to aid these. . . . 
 
 ' I am glad that you hear people speak favourably 
 of the results of our examination. What we want to 
 do is just what you describe — to aid in the great stimulus 
 that is everywhere being given to girls' education. This 
 is good for all, while for the few to whom the acquisition 
 of knowledge can be the plejisure or even the business of 
 life, we want to provide guidance and encouragement, 
 and a little material evidence if possible. . . .' 
 
 ' I have taught some of the girls. It was an instruc- 
 tive change from teaching men. Most of them insist on 
 understanding what they learn, and won't take words 
 for thoughts. Even the stupider ones that I have met 
 with in my teaching do not write the absolute rubbish 
 which stupid men write. I mention this because most 
 people would expect the opposite.' 
 
 What is it, then, that we would wish for, for ourselves 
 and for the younger selves who are growing up around 
 us ? Eyes to see, ears to hear, sincerity and the power 
 of being taught and of receiving the truth : and then, 
 as I hear A. F. saying, by being taken out of ourselves, 
 
TOILERS and SPHsTSTERS. 31 
 
 and farthest removed from this narrow domain into the 
 world all about us, do we most learn to be ourselves 
 and to fulfil the intention of our being. All nature comes 
 to our help, all arts, all sciences. The track of stars, 
 the vibration of strings, the chords of colour, the laws of 
 motion, the unending secrets of truth — what is there that 
 does not contribute to the divine reiteration.' The problem 
 of education is no sooner over than that of life itself begins. 
 Very soon people begin to sort themselves out, to fall 
 into their places ; and then for the women who do not 
 marry comes a further question to solve, and some write 
 books, and some write articles, and some put on long 
 black cloaks, and some wear smart chignons, and the busi- 
 ness of living goes on. For the motherly woman, those 
 who have homely hearts, there are the real joys and fulfil- 
 ments undreamt of perhaps in earlier life, when no com- 
 promise with perfect happiness seemed to be possible. 
 
 The rest of the human race is not so totally devoid 
 of all affection and natural feeling that it does not 
 respond to the love and fidelity of an unmarried friend 
 or relation. There are children to spare and to tuck up 
 in their little beds, young people to bring their sunshine 
 and interest into autumn ; there are friendships life- 
 long and unchanging, which are surely among a single 
 woman's special privileges ; as years go by she finds 
 more and more how truly she may count upon them. 
 Nor are her men friends less constant and reliable 
 
32 TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 
 
 than the women with whom she has passed her life. 
 Some amount of sentiment clings to' these old men and 
 women friendships : and some sentiment, perhaps, belongs 
 to every true feeling ; it is the tint that gives life to the 
 landscape. 
 
 As for work, whichever way we turn are the things 
 that we have left undone. ' Come, pluck us ; come, 
 pluck us ! ' cry the fruits as they hang from the branches. 
 There is education, there are associations for helping 
 the poor, there are a thousand plans, schemes, enterprises, 
 fitted to their different minds. Some go into sisterhoods 
 and put their lives into the hands of others, who may or 
 may not be wiser than themselves ; others are nurses, 
 administrators. We need not despair of seeing women 
 officially appointed as guardians of the poor. Regarding 
 the much debated question of religious and secular 
 organisation, I cannot refrain from quoting a passage 
 from a book,' that speaks straightly and wisely in solu- 
 tion of a problem that has occurred to many hundreds 
 of women before this : 
 
 ' Secular associations do not undertake to discipline 
 the souls of their members, nor to afford them any 
 special opportunity of expressing their devotion to God 
 as the common Father, but they can no more hinder 
 the expression of such feelings than they can hinder 
 the growth of the soul. On the contrary, they give 
 ' The Service of the Poor, by C. E. Stephen. 
 
TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 33- 
 
 all the scope that naturally belongs to charitable 
 action, for the expression of such feelings in deed 
 as well as in word. They neither seek for nor 
 value pain and humiliation as a means of proving 
 devotion ;. on - the contrary, they avoid all that might 
 injure health, or distract attention, or encourage spiritual 
 vanity as interruptions to the one main object — the good, 
 of the poor. Those who wish to see charitable' organi- 
 sations organised upon a purely secular basis wish it. 
 not only because they believe singleness of aim to be 
 the first condition of perfect success ; not only because 
 the poor will probably be most effectually served by 
 those who do it from pure love of them, without thought 
 of their own spiritual interests ; not only because secular 
 association breaks none of the domestic interests and 
 social ties -vi^hich they believe to be divinely appointed, 
 and full both of blessing and power for all good ends ; 
 but also because they think that to provide an organi- 
 sation for the systematic cultivation and exhibition of 
 love and devotion, is to depart from Christian simplicity,, 
 and must tend in the long run to injure true humility, 
 sincerity, and even the love and devotion themselves, 
 which are thus artificially stimulated.' 
 
 ' They think that the only service of love which God> 
 who sees the heart, can demand, is that of right action — 
 disregarding pain, when necessary, in the discharge of 
 duty, gladly accepting all innocent pleasure, and freely 
 
 D 
 
34 TOILERS and SPINSTERS. 
 
 -expressing itself in the spontaneous and unheard utter- 
 ances of the heart as it looks up to Him for strength 
 and guidance in the daily work undertaken, not to prove 
 devotion, but out of the spirit of devotion, and in the 
 path which appears to be pointed out by obedience to 
 
 natural laws.' 
 
 ' L'homme n'est ni ange ni bete,' says Pascal ; ' at le 
 
 malheur veut que qui veut faire I'ange fait la bete.' 
 
 But the angels and the beasts, far apart though 
 they may be, come together both toiling in the field of 
 life, each doing their part in the work : the beasts culti- 
 vate the ground, the angels reap and store the good 
 grain. The bread of life itself cannot come to fruition 
 without labour, and the sacrament of brotherly love, 
 union, and faithful promise must be kneaded with toil. 
 
35 
 
 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 A mesure qu'on a plus d'esprit on trouye qu'il y a plus d'hommes 
 originaiiXi , Les gens du commun ne trouvent pas de difference entre les 
 hommes. — Pascal. 
 
 ' I DID not know that you were a studier of character,' 
 says Bingley to Elizabeth. * It must be an amusing 
 study.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but intricate characters are the most amusing. 
 They have at least that advantage.' 
 
 ' The country,' said Darcy, ' caii in general supply 
 but few subjects for such a Study. In a country 
 neighbourhood you move in a veiy confined and unvary- 
 ing society.' 
 
 'But people themselves alter so much/ Elizabeth 
 answers, 'that there is something new to be observed in 
 them for ever.' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed ! ' cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by Darcy's 
 manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood; 'I 
 assure you that we have quite as much of that going on 
 in the country as in town,' 
 
 ' Everybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking 
 at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet 
 
36 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, 
 continued her triumph.' 
 
 These people belong to a whole world of familiar 
 acquaintances, who are, hotwithstanding their old- 
 fashioned dresses and quaint expressions, more alive to 
 us than, a great many of the people among whom we 
 live. We know so much more about them to b^in 
 with. Notwithstanding a certain reticence and self- 
 control which seems to belong to their age, and with 
 all their quaint dresses and ceremonies and manners, 
 the ladies and gentlemen in ' Pride and Prejudice ' and its 
 companion novels seem like living people out of our own 
 acquaintance transported bodily into a bygone age 
 represented in the half-dozen books that contain Jane 
 Austen's works. Dear books ! bright, sparkling with 
 wit and animation, in which the homely heroines charm, 
 the dull hours fly, and the very bores are delightful. 
 
 Could we but study our own bores in the spirit in 
 which Miss Austen must have contemplated hers in her 
 country village, what a delightful world this might be ! 
 — A v/orld of Norrises ; economical, great walkers, with 
 dining-room tables to dispose of ; of Lady Bertrams on 
 sofas, with their placid ' Do not act anything improper, 
 my dears ; Sir Thomas would not like it ; ' of Bennets, 
 Goddards, Bateses ; of Mr. Collinses ; of Rushbrooks, 
 with two-and-forty speeches apiece — a world of Mrs. 
 Eltons. . . . Inimitable woman! she must be alive at 
 
JANE AUSTEN. 37 
 
 this very moment, if we but knew where to find her, her 
 basket on her arm, her nods and all-importance, with 
 Maple Grove and the Sucklings in the background. 
 She would be much excited were she aware how highly 
 she is said to be esteemed by the late Chancellor of 
 the Exchequer, who is well acquainted with Maple 
 Grove and Selina too. It might console her for Mr. 
 Knightly's shabby marriage. 
 
 All these people nearly start out of the pages, so 
 natural and unaffected are they ; and yet they never 
 lived except in the imagination of one lady with bright, 
 •eyes, who sat down some seventy years ago to an old 
 mahogany desk in a quiet country parlour, and evoked 
 them for us. Of her ways and belongings we read for 
 the first time in this little memoir written half a century 
 after her death. For the first time we seem to hear the 
 echo of the voice, and to see the picture of the unknown 
 friend who has charmed us so long — charmed away dull 
 hours, created neighbours and companions for us in 
 lonely places, and made harmless mirth. Some one 
 said just now that many people seem to be so proud of 
 seeing a joke at all, that they impress it upon you until 
 you are perfectly wearied by it. Jane Austen was not 
 of these; her humour flows gentle and spontaneous, it 
 is no elaborate mechanism nor artificial fountain, but a 
 bright natural little' stream, rippling and trickling and 
 sparkling every here and there in the sunshine. We 
 
38 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 should be surprised now-a-days to hear a young lady 
 announce herself as a studier of character. From her 
 quiet home in the country lane this one reads to us a 
 real page from that great absorbing pathetic humorous 
 ■ book of human nature — a book that we can most of us 
 understand when it is translated into plain English ; but 
 of which the quaint and illegible characters are often 
 difficult to decipher for ourselves. It is a study which, 
 with all respect for Darcy's opinion, must require 
 something of country-like calm and concentration, and 
 freedom of mind. It is difficult, for instance, for a' too 
 impulsive student not to attribute something of his 
 own moods to his specimens instead of dispassionately 
 contemplating them from a critical distance, or for 
 a cold-hearted observer to throw himself sufficiently 
 into the spirit of those whose actions he would like to 
 interpret. 
 
 So we gladly welcome one more glimpse of an old 
 friend come back with a last greeting. All those who 
 love her name and her work will prize this addition, 
 small as it is, to their acquaintance with her. 'Lady 
 Susan ' is a short story complete in itself. It is very 
 unlike her later works in many respects, and not at all 
 equal to them ; but the ' Watsons ' is a delightful frag- 
 ment, which might belong to any of her other histories. 
 It is bright with talk and character and animation. 
 It is a story which is not ' Emma,' and which is not 
 
JANE AUSTEN. 39' 
 
 ' Pride and Prejudice,' but something between the two, 
 and which was written — so the Preface tells us — some 
 years before either of them was published. In this story- 
 vague shadows of future friends seem to be passing and 
 repassing, conversing with each other, sitting down to 
 cards, or 'jogging along the muddy road' that led to 
 
 D- in Surrey. The emteghosts, if such things exist, 
 
 of a Mrs. Elton, of an Elizabeth Bennet, of a Darcy, 
 meet us (only they are not ghosts at all) with jxist so 
 much resemblance to their successors as would be found, 
 no doubt, between one generation and another. A cup 
 of gruel is prepared for the master of the house : per- 
 haps that very cup — ^thin, but not too thin'— rwas 
 destined in a different metempsychosis to immortality ; 
 at least such immortality as a cup of gruel might reason- 
 ably expect Emma, sweet, intelligent, with an open 
 countenance, and bright 'lively' ^yes, such as Miss 
 Austen loved to give her heroines, comes home to live 
 with her family, in consequence of the marriage of the 
 aunt who had brought her up. She is to make her first 
 
 appearance in the neighbourhood at the D ball, 
 
 under the chaperonage of the Edwardses. 'The 
 Edwardses were people of fortune, who lived in the 
 town and kept their coach. . The Watsons inhabited a 
 village about three miles off, were poor, and had no close 
 carriage ; and ever since there had been balls in the 
 place the former were accustomed to invite the latter to 
 
•40 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 dine, dress, and sleep at their home, on every monthly 
 return throughout the winter.' Elizabeth, the heroine's 
 elder sister, ' whose delight in a ball Wcis not lessened 
 by a ten years' enjoyment,' had some merit in cheerfully 
 undertaking to drive her and all her finery over in the 
 -old chair to D . 
 
 As the sisters go along, the eldest describes the 
 family with a good deal of frankness. Two sisters are 
 away. There is the peevish Margaret, who is staying 
 with her brother at Croydon j and the scheming Penelope, 
 who has given up a great deal of time, to no purpose as 
 yet, to a certain asthmatic old doctor at Chichester. 
 Elizabeth proceeds to warn her young sister against the 
 fascinations of a certain Tom Musgrave, who has trifled 
 ■^vith all the family affections in turn. Then she comes 
 to her brother Sam's hopeless devotion for Mary Ed- 
 wards. ' " A young man must think of some one," says 
 this philosophic Elizabeth ; " and why should he not be 
 as lucky as Robert, who has got a good wife and six 
 iliousand pounds .■" " 
 
 ' " We must not all expect to be individually lucky," 
 replies Emma, with still truer philosophy. ' " The luck 
 •of one member of a family is luck to all." 
 
 ' " Mine is all to come," s^id Elizabeth, giving another 
 sigh to the remembrance of Purvis. " I have been un- 
 lucky-enough ; and I cannot say much/for you, as my 
 aunt married again so foolishly. Well, you will have a 
 
JANE AUSTEN. 41 
 
 good ball, I daresay. The next turning will bring us 
 to the turnpike ; you may see the church tower over the 
 hedge, and the 'White Hart' is close by it I shall 
 long to know what you think of Tom Musgrave." 
 
 ' Such were the last audible sounds of Miss Watson's 
 voice before they passed through the turnpike gate, and 
 entered on the pitching of the town, the grumbling and 
 noise of which made further conversation most thoroughly 
 undesirable. The old mare trotted heavily along, want- 
 ing no direction of the reins to take the right turn, zind 
 making only one blunder, in proposing to stop ,at the 
 milliner's, before she drew up towards Mr. Edwards's 
 door. Mr. Edwards lived in the best house in the street, 
 and the best in the place, if Mr. Tomlinson, the banker, 
 might be indulged in calling his newly-erected house at 
 the end of the town, with a shrubbery and a sweep, in 
 the county. 
 
 ' Mr. Edwards's house was higher than most of its 
 neighbours, with four windows on each side of the door. 
 The windows were guarded by posts and chains, and the 
 door approached by a flight of stone steps.' 
 
 Elizabeth thinks the Edwardses have ' a noble house 
 and live quite in style ; ' and on being admitted, they 
 are received by the lady of the house of that day as 
 well as her daughter — ' a genteel-looking girl, with her 
 hair in papers.' The papers, however, are taken .off in ■ 
 time for the ball. Then the carriages begin to drive up. 
 
42 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 and Emma and her new friends are introduced to the 
 assembly-room. 
 
 In passing along a short gallery to the assembly- 
 room, brilliant in light before them, they had been 
 accosted by a young man, 'in a morning dress and 
 boots,' standing in the doorway of a bed-chamber, 
 apparently on purpose to see them go by. 
 
 ' "Ah, Mrs. Edwards ! how do you do .? How do you 
 do, Miss Edwards I " he cried, with an easy air. "You. 
 are determined to be in good time, I see, as usual. The 
 candles are but this moment lit." 
 
 ' " I like to get a good seat by the fire, you know, Mr. 
 Musgrave," replied Mrs. Edwards. 
 
 ' " I am this moment going to dress," said he. " I am 
 waiting for my stupid fellow. We shall have a famous 
 ball. The Osbomes are certainly coming. You may 
 depend upon that, for I was with Lord Osborne this . 
 morning." ' 
 
 A nd in the course of the evening the party arrives 
 from the Castle — Lord Osborne, his mother, his tutor 
 Mr. Howard, and others of the party, ushered ' in by an 
 obsequious landlord, and attended by Mr. Tom Mus- 
 grave. 
 
 Emma resents the family wrongs by a calm curtsey 
 later in the evening, when she is fortunate enough to 
 attract the hero's attention. Lord Osborne and his 
 tutor also admire her; even Lady Osborne gives her a 
 
JANE AUSTEN. 43 
 
 look of complacency. Before the end of the evening, 
 the Osbe>mes and their train are on the move. Tom 
 Musgrave will not remain after they have left, and 
 announces his intention of ' retreating to a remote corner 
 of the house, ordering a barrel of oysters, and being 
 famously snug.' As he is seen no more, the authoress 
 says we may suppose his plan to have succeeded, 
 and may imagine him ' mortifying with his barrel' of 
 oysters in dreary solitude, or gladly assisting the landlady 
 i?i her bar to make fresh negus for the happy dancers 
 ^bove.' 
 
 This is a happy touch, and completes the picture. 
 Tom Musgrave, with his love of effect, his good looks, 
 his flourishes, and his easinesses and unejisinesses, is a 
 capital character. We might, perhaps, prosecute our 
 studies on him in the present age, where, under some 
 different name and in other circumstances, we have 
 certainly met him at more than one house. Emma is 
 very uncompromising, and allows him scant measure. 
 ' " But you must have liked him,"« says Elizabeth ; " you 
 must have been struck with him altogether." 
 
 * " I do «<7^1ike him, Elizabeth. I allow his person and 
 air to be good, and that his manners, to a certain point, 
 — ^his address rather, — is pleasing. But I see nothing" 
 else to admire in him. On the contrary, he seems very 
 vain, very conceited, and absurdly anxious for distinc- 
 tion." ' 
 
44 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 To which her surprised sister cries out, ' " My dearest 
 Emma, you are like no one else." ' 
 
 Notwithstanding Emma's . calm curtsey, both Lord 
 Osborne and Tom Musgrave call upon her at Stanton, 
 and one evening Tom Musgrave drops in unexpectedly 
 upon the Watson party. The brother from Croydon is 
 there with his bride, who certainly must have been first- 
 cousin to Mrs. Elton and Mrs. Suckling of Maple Grove. 
 Tom Musgrave loves to take people by surprise. He 
 appears in the doorway in a traveller's wrap, ' having 
 come from London, and half a mile out of his .road, 
 merely to call for ten minutes at Stanton. In the 
 present instance he had the additional motive of being, 
 able to tell the Miss Watsons, whom he depended on 
 finding sitting quietly employed after tea, that he was 
 going home to an eight-o'clock dinner.' 
 
 To please Margaret, Miss Watson invites him for the 
 following day. 
 
 ' " With the greatest pleasure," was the first reply. In 
 a moment afterwards,-"—" That is, if I can possibly get 
 here in time. I shoot with Lord Osborne, and therefore 
 must not engage. You will not think of me unless you 
 see me." And so he departed, delighted in the uncer- 
 tainty in which he had left them.' 
 
 One can imagine what Miss Austen would have made 
 of Tom Musgrave. But, indeed, the character is there 
 complete, indicated in a few happy touches, and requir- 
 
JANE AUSTEN. 45 
 
 ing no further amplification. A note at the end states that 
 ' when the author's sister, Cassandra, showed the manu- 
 script of the work to some of her nieces, she also told 
 them something of the intended story. Mr. Watson, for 
 whom the original cup of gruel was made, was soon to 
 die, and Emma to become dependent for a home on her 
 sister-in-law and brother. She was to decline an offer 
 of marriage from Lord Osborne, and finally to marry 
 Mr. Howard, the tutor.' 
 
 Emma Watson, and Tom Musgrave, and the whole 
 
 toTvn of D in Surrey belong, without a doubt, tathe 
 
 whole generation of Miss Austen's heroes and heroines. 
 One would scarcely recognise Lady Susan's . parentage 
 if it were not so well authenticated. It must have been 
 written early in life, when the author was still experimen- 
 talising (as young authors, and alas ! some old authors 
 are apt to do) with other people's = characters and 
 creations, making them talk, walk, and rehearse, the 
 play, until the real actors come on-the, stage ; and yet 
 • even this unpublished novelette possesses one special 
 merit which gives so great a charm to Miss Austen's art. 
 She has a gift of telling a story in a way that has never 
 been surpassed. She rules her places/times, characters, 
 and marshals them with unerring precision. Her 
 machinery is simple but complete ; events group them- 
 selves so vividly [and naturally in her mind that, in 
 describing imaginary scenes, we seem not only to read 
 
46 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 them, but to live them, to see the people coming and 
 going : the gentlemen courteous and in top-boots, the 
 ladies demure and piquant ; we can almost hear them 
 talking to one another. No retrospects ; no abrupt 
 flights ; as in real life, days and events follow one another. 
 Last Tuesday does not suddenly start into existence all 
 out of place ; nor does 1790 appear upon the scene when 
 we are well on in '21. Countries and continents do not 
 fly from hero to hero, nor do long and divergent adven- 
 tures happen to unimportant members of the company. 
 With Miss Austen days, hours, minutes succeed each 
 other like clock-work ; one central figure is always 
 present on the scene, that figure is always prepared 
 for company. Miss Edwards's curl-papers are almost 
 the only approach to dishabille in her stories. There 
 are postchaises in readiness to convey the characters 
 from Bath or Lyme to Uppercross, to FuUerton, from 
 Gracechurch Street to Meryton, as their business takes 
 them. Mr. Knightly rides from Brunswick Square 
 to Hartfield, by the very road that Miss Austen must 
 have travelled in the curricle with her brother, driving to 
 London on a summer's day. We know that it was a 
 wet ride for Mr. Knightly, to be followed by that 
 never-to-be-forgotten afternoon in the shrubbery, when 
 the wind had changed into a softer quarter, the "clouds 
 were carried off, and Emma Woodhouse, walking in the 
 sunshine, with spirits freshened, and thoughts a little 
 
JANE AUSTEN. 47 
 
 relieved, and thinking of Mr. Knightly as sixteen miles 
 away, meets him at the garden door ; and there is not 
 one of us, I think, that must not be the happier, for the 
 happiness that one half-hour gave to Emma and her 
 ' indifferent ' lover. 
 
 There is a little extract from one of Miss Austen's 
 letters to a niece, which shows that this careful marshal- 
 ling of pebple and circumstances was not chance, but 
 careful workmanship. 
 
 ' Your Aunt C.,' she says, ' does not like desultory 
 novels, and is rather fearful that yours will be too much 
 so — that there will be too frequent a change from one 
 set of people to another, and that circumstances will 
 be sometimes introduced of apparent consequence, which 
 will lead to nothing. It will not be so great an objection 
 to me. I allow much more latitude than she does, and 
 think nature and spirit cover many sins of a wandering 
 story. . . .' 
 
 But, though the sins of a wandering story may be 
 covered, the virtues of a well-told one make themselves 
 felt unconsciously, and without an effort. Some books 
 and people are delightful, we can scarce tell why, yet 
 they are not so clever as others that weary and fatigue 
 us. It is a certain effort to read a story, however tdnch- 
 ing, that is disconnected and badly told. It is like an 
 ill-drawn picture, of which the colouring is good. Jane 
 Austen possessed both gifts of colour and of drawing. 
 
48 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 She could see human nature as it was ; with near-sighted 
 eyes, it is true ; but, having seen, she could combine her 
 picture by her genius, and colour it from life. 
 
 In this special gift for organisation she seems almost 
 unequalled. Her picnics are models for all future and 
 past picnics ; her combinations of feelings, of gentlemen 
 and ladies, are so natural and life-like that reading to 
 criticise is impossible to some of us — the scene carries 
 us away, and we forget to look for the art by which it is 
 recorded. How delightful the people are who play at 
 cards, and pay their addresses to one another, and sup, 
 and discuss each other's affairs ! Take Sir Walter Elliot 
 compassionating the navy and Admiral Baldwin — ' nine 
 grey hairs of a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at 
 top — a wretched, example of what a seafaring life can 
 do, for men who are exposed to every climate and 
 weather until they are not fit to be seen. It is a pity 
 they are not knocked on the head at once, before they 
 reach Admiral Baldwin's age. . . .' 
 
 The charm of friends in pen-and-ink is their un- 
 changeableness. We go to them when we want them. 
 We know where to seek them ; we know what to expect 
 from- them. They are never preoccupied ; they are 
 always ' at home ;' they never turn. their backs nor walk 
 away as people do in real life, nor let their houses and 
 leave the neighbourhood, and disappear for weeks 
 
JANE AUSTEN. 49 
 
 together ; they are never taken up with strange people 
 Tior suddenly absorbed into some more genteel society, 
 -or by some nearer fancy. Even the most volatile among 
 them is to be counted upon. We may have neglected 
 them ; and yet when we meet again there are the familiar 
 old friends, and we seem to find our own old selves again 
 in their company. For us time has, perhaps, passed 
 away;: feelings have swept by, leaving interests and 
 recollections in their place ; but at all ages there must be 
 •days that belong to our youth, hours that will recur so 
 long as men forbear and women remember, and life itself 
 •exists.. Perhaps the most fashionable marriage on -the 
 tapis no longer excites us very much, but the sentiment 
 of an Emma or an Anne' Elliot comes home to some of 
 us as vividly as ever. It is something to have such old 
 companions who are so young. An Emma, blooming, 
 without a wrinkle or a grey hair," after twenty years' 
 acquaintance (she was, in truth, sixty years old when we 
 first knew her) ; an Elizabeth Bennet, sprightly and 
 charming, at over eighty years of age. . . . 
 
 In the ' Roundabout Papers ' there is a passage about 
 the pen-and-ink friends my father loved ; — 
 
 ' They used to call the good Sir Walter the " Wizard 
 of the North." What if some writer should appear who 
 can write so enchantingly ^zkhs. ^zW. be able to call 
 into actual life the people whom he invents ? What if 
 Mignon, and Margaret, and Goetz von Berlichingen are 
 
 E 
 
 *■ 
 
50 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 alive now (though I don't say they are visible), and 
 Dugald Dalgetty and Ivanhoe were to step in at that 
 open window by the little garden yonder? Suppose 
 Uncas and our noble old Leather Stocking were to glide 
 in silent ? Suppose Athos, Porthos, and Aramis should 
 enter, with a noiseless swagger, curling their moustaches ? 
 i\nd dearest Amelia Booth, on Uncle Toby's arm ; and 
 Tittlebat Titmouse with his hair dyed green ; and all 
 the Crummies company of comedians, with the Gil Bias 
 troop ; and Sir Roger de Coverley ; and the greatest of 
 all crazy gentlemen, the Knight of La Mancha, with his 
 blessed squire ? I say to you, I look rather wistfully 
 towards the window, musing upon these people. Were 
 any of them to enter, I think I should not be very much 
 frightened. Dear old friends, what pleasant hours I have 
 had with them ! We do not see each other very often, 
 but when we dp we are ever happy to meet. . . .' 
 
 Are not such friends as these, and others unnamed 
 here, but who will come unannounced to join the goodly 
 company, creations that, like some people, do actually 
 make part of our existence, and make us the better for 
 theirs ? To express some vague feelings is to stamp 
 them. Have we any one of us a friend in a Knight of 
 La Mancha, a Colonel Newcome, a Sir Roger de Cover- 
 ley 1 They live for us even though they may have never 
 lived. They are, and do actually make part of our lives — 
 one of the best and noblest parts. To love them is like 
 
JANE AUSTEN: 51 
 
 a direct communication with the great and generous 
 minds that conceived them. 
 
 It is difficult, reading the novels of succeeding gene- 
 rations, to determine how much each book reflects of the 
 time in which it Avas written ; how much of its character 
 depends upon the mind and the mood of the writer.. 
 The greatest minds, the most original, have the least 
 stamp of the age, the most of that dominant natural 
 reality which belongs to all great minds. We know how. 
 a landscape changes sis the day goes on, and how the 
 scene brightens and gains in beauty as the shadows 
 begin to lengthen. The clearest eyes must see by the 
 light of their own hour. Jane Austen's hour must have, 
 been a midday hour : bright, unsuggestive, with objects 
 standing clear, without relief or shadow. She did not 
 write of herself, but of the manners of her age. This- 
 age is essentially an age of men and women of natural 
 impressive emotion ; little remains of starch, of powder, ■ 
 or courtly reserve. What we have lost in calm, in 
 happiness, in tranquillity, we have gained in intensity. . 
 Our danger is now, not of expressing and feeling too 
 little, but of expressing more than we feel. 
 
 There is certainly a wide difference between Miss 
 Austen's ladies and, let us say, a Maggie Talliver. One 
 would be curious to know whether, between, the human 
 beings who read Jane Austen's books to-day and those 
 who read them fifty years ago, there is as great a con- 
 
52 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 trast. Have events happened within the last fifty years, 
 feeHngs changed so rapidly as to turn many of the 
 butterflies back into cocoons again, wrapping them 
 round and round with self-involved, self-inflicted experi- 
 ences, from which, perhaps, some higher form of moth 
 might start in time, if such a metempsychosis were pos- 
 sible in natural history ?- 
 
 ■ The living writers of to-day lead us into distant 
 fealnis and worlds undreamt of in the placid and easily 
 contented gigot age. People are gifted with wider ex- 
 periences, with aspirations and emotions that were never 
 more sincerely spoken than they are now ; but, for 
 actual study of character, there seems but little taste. 
 A phase, a mood of mind, a sympathy is what we look 
 for, and what we chiefly find among the present novelists. 
 There are leaders of the school to whom this criticism 
 does not apply ; and yet it would be no disrespect to 
 them to say that we know more of their own gene- 
 jous sympathies and of the, inner minds of their crea- 
 tions than of their outward expression. One reason may 
 be, perhaps, that characters in novels are certainly more 
 intimate with us and on less ceremonious terms than in 
 Miss Austen's days. Jane Austen's heroines have a stamp 
 of their own. They have a certain gentle self-respect and 
 hiimoiir and hardness of heart in which modern heroines 
 are a little wanting. Whatever happens they can for the 
 most part speak of gaily and without bitterness. Love 
 
■JANE AUSTEN. S3 
 
 Avith them does not mean a passion so much as an interest 
 — deep, silent ; not quite incompatible with a secondary- 
 flirtation. Marianne Dashwood's tears are evidently- 
 meant to be dried, Jane Bennet smiles, sighs, and makes 
 excuses for Bingley's neglect Emma passes one dis- 
 agreeable morning making up her mind to the unnatural 
 alliance between Mr. Knightly and Harriet Smith. It 
 was the spirit of the age, and, perhaps, one not to be 
 unenvied. It was not that Jane Austen herself was in- 
 capable of understanding a deeper feeling. In the last- 
 written page of her last- written book there is an expres- 
 sion of the deepest and truest experience. Anne Elliot's 
 talk with Captain Benfield is the touching utterance of a 
 good woman's feelings. They are speaking of meri and 
 of women's affections. ' "You are always labouring and 
 toiling," she says, " exposed to every risk and hardship. 
 Your home, country, friends, all united ; neither .time 
 nor life to be called your own. It would be too hard, 
 indeed (with a faltering voice) if a woman's feelings 
 were to be added to all this." ' 
 
 Farther on she says, eagerly : '" I hope I do justice 
 to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you. 
 God forbid that I should undervalue the warm and 
 faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures. I should 
 deserve utter conteimpt if I dared to suppose that true 
 attachment and constancy were known only by womah. 
 No ! I believe you capable of everything good and great 
 
54 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 in your married lives. I believe you equal to every im- 
 portant exertion and to every domestic forbearance so 
 long as — if I may be allowed the expression— so long 
 as you have an object ; I mean while the woman you 
 love lives, and lives for you. All the privilege I claim 
 for my own sex {it is not a very enviable, one, you 
 need not court it) is that of loving longest wJien cxisteiue 
 or when Itope is gone." 
 
 ' She could not immediately have uttered another 
 sentence — her heart was too full, her breath too much 
 oppressed.' 
 
 Dear Anne Elliot ! — sweet, impulsive, womanly, 
 tender-hearted — one can almost hear her voice, pleading 
 the "cause of all true women. Jane Austen had reached 
 the very end of her life when she wrote thus. Her 
 words seem to ring in our ears after they have been 
 spoken. Anne Elliot must have been Jane Austen 
 herself, speaking for the last time. There is something 
 ■ so true, so gentle about her, that it is impossible not to 
 love her. She is the bright-eyed heroine of the earlier 
 novels, matured, chastened, cultivated, to whom fidelity 
 . has brought only greater depth and sweetness instead of 
 bitterness and pain. 
 
 What a difficult thing it would be to sit down and 
 try to enumerate the different influences by which our 
 lives have been affected — influences of other lives, of art, 
 of nature, of place and circumstance — of beautiful sights 
 
JANE AUSTEN. ^3 
 
 passing before our eyes, or painful ones : seasons follow- 
 ing in their course — hills rising on our horizons — scenes 
 ■of ruin and desolation — crowded thoroughfares — sounds 
 in our ears, jarring or harmonious — the voices of friends, 
 ■calling,. warning, encouraging — of preachers preaching — 
 ■of people in the street below, complaining, and asking 
 -our pity ! What long processions of human beings are 
 passing before us' ! What trains of thought go sweeping 
 through our brains ! Man seems a strange and ill-kept 
 record of many and bewildering experiences. Looking 
 -at oneself — not as oneself, but as an abstract human 
 being — one is lost in wonder at the vast complexities 
 which have been brought to bear upon it ; lost in wonder, 
 and in disappointment perhaps, at the discordant result 
 of so great a harmony. Only we know that the whole 
 ■diapason is beyond our grasp : one man cannot hear the 
 note of the grasshoppers, another is deaf when the cannon 
 rounds. Waiting among these many echoes and mys- 
 teries of every kind, and light and darkness, and life and 
 ■death, we seize a note or two of the great symphony, 
 and try to sing ; and because these note^ happen to jar, 
 ■we think all is discordant hopelessness. Then come 
 pressing onward in the crowd of life, voices with some of 
 the notes that are wanting to our own — voices tuned to 
 the same key as our own, or to an accordant one ; making 
 harmony for us as they pass us by. Perhaps this is in 
 life the happiest of all experience, and to few of us there 
 «xists any more complete ideal. 
 
5& JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 And SO now and then in our lives, _when we learn to- 
 -love a sweet and noble character, we all feel happier and 
 better for the goodness and charity which is not ours,, 
 and yet which seems to belong to us while we are near 
 it. Just as some people and states of mind affect us un- 
 comfortably, so we seem to be true to ourselves with a; 
 tmthful person, generous-minded with a generous nature ; 
 the world seems less disappointing and self-seeking when 
 we think of the just and sweet. and unselfish spirits^ 
 moving untroubled among dinning and distracting influ- 
 ences. These are our friends in the best and noblest 
 sense. We are the happier for their existence — it is so 
 much gain to us. They may have lived at some distant 
 time, we may never have met face to face, or we may 
 have known them and been blessed by their love ; but 
 in either case their light shines from afar; distant are 
 their graves, green in some foreign land ; their life is for 
 us and with us, its generous example ; their song is- 
 for our ears, and we hear it and love it still, though the 
 singer may be lying dead. 
 
 Some womfen should raise and ennoble all those who 
 follow after — true, gentle and strong and tender, whom 
 * to love is a liberal education,' whom to have known is 
 a blessing in our past. Is not the * cry of the children ' 
 still ringing in our ears as it did when the poet first 
 uttered her noble song ? Is there not a Jane of our own, 
 whose presence is among us still ? 
 
JANE IHUSTEN. 57 
 
 This little book, which has come out within the last 
 few months, tells with a touching directness and simpli- 
 city the story of this good and gifted woman, the 
 familiar writer and companion of us all, of whose 
 history nothing was known until this little volume 
 appeared. It ■ only tells the story of a country lady, of 
 days following days tranquilly, of common events ; and 
 yet the history is deeply interesting to those who loved 
 the writer of whom it is written ; and as we turn from • 
 the, story of Jane Austen's life to her books again, we 
 feel more than ever that she was one of those true friends- 
 wdio belong to us inalienably — simple, wise, contented, 
 living in others, one of those whom we seem to have a. 
 . right to love. Such people belong to all human-kind by 
 the very right of their wide and generous sympathies, of 
 their gentle wisdom and loveableness. Jane Austen's 
 life, as it is told by her nephew, is very touching, sweet,, 
 and peaceful. It is a ; country landscape, where the- 
 cattle are grazing, the boughs of the great elm-tree rock- 
 ing in the wind : sometimes, as we read, they come fall- 
 ing with a crash into the sweep ; birds are flying about 
 the old house, homely in its simple rule. The rafters- 
 cross the whitewashed ceilings, the beams project into 
 the room below. We can see it all : the parlour with the 
 horsehair sofa, the scant, quaint furniture, the old- 
 fashioned garden outside, with its flowers and vegetables, 
 combined, and along the south side of the garden the 
 green terrace sloping away. 
 
.58 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 One may read the account of Catherine Morland's 
 home with new interest, from the hint which is given of 
 its hkeness to the old house at Steventon, where dwelt 
 the unknown friend whose voice we seem to hear at last, 
 and whose face we seem to recognise, her bright eyes and 
 brown curly hair, her quick and graceful figure. One 
 can picture the children who are playing at the door of 
 the old parsonage, and calling for Aunt Jane. One can 
 imagine her pretty ways with them, her sympathy for 
 the active, their games and imaginations. There is 
 Cassandra. She is older than her sister, more critical, 
 more beautiful, more reserved. There is the mother of 
 the family, with her keen wit and clear mind ; the hand- 
 -some father — ' the handsome proctor,' as he was called ; 
 the five brothers, and the cousins driving up the lane. 
 Tranquil summer passes by, the winter days go by ; the 
 young lady still sits writing at the old mahogany desk, 
 and smiling, perhaps, at her own fancies, and hiding them 
 -away with her papers at the sound of coming steps. 
 Now, the modest papers, printed and reprinted, lie in 
 'Cvery hand, the fancies disport themselves at their will 
 -in the wisest brains. 
 
 It must have been at Steventon — Jane Austen's 
 earliest home — that Mr. Collins first made his appearance 
 (Lady Catherine not objecting, as we know, to his occa- 
 .sional absence on a Sunday, provided another clergyman 
 was engaged to do the duty of the day), and here, con- 
 
JANE AUSTEN. 59 
 
 versing with Miss Jane, that he must have made many 
 of his profoundest observations upon human nature ; 
 remai'king, among other things, that resignation is never 
 so perfect as when the blessing denied begins to lose 
 somewhat of its value in our estimation, and propounding 
 his celebrated theory about the usual practice of elegant 
 females.^ It must have been here, too, that poor Mrs. 
 Bennet declared, with some justice, that once estates are 
 entailed, one can liever tell how they will go ; that Mrs. 
 Allen's sprigged muslin and John Thorpe's rodomontades 
 ■were woven ; that his gig was built, ' " curricle-hung' 
 lamps, seat, trunk, sword-case, splashboard, silver mould- 
 ing, all, you see, complete. The ironwork as good as new, 
 
 or better. He asked fifty guineas I closed with 
 
 him directly, threw down the money, and the carriage 
 was mine." 
 
 ' " And I am sure," said Catherine, " I know so little of 
 such things, that I cannot judge whether it was cheap or 
 dear." 
 
 ' " Neither the one nor the other," says John Thorpe.' 
 Mrs. Palmer was also born at Steventon — the good- 
 humoured lady in ' Sense and Sensibility ' who thinks it 
 so ridiculous that her husband never hears her when she 
 speaks to him. We are told that Marianne and EUinor 
 have been supposed to represent Cassandra and Jane 
 Austen ; but Mr. Austen Leigh says that he can trace 
 no resemblande. Jane Austen is not twenty when this 
 
€o JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 book is written, and only twenty-one when ' Pride and 
 Prejudice ' is first devised. Tliere is a pretty description 
 of the sisters' devotion to one another ; of the family 
 party ; of the old place where Jane Austen spends the 
 first five-and-twenty years of her life — Steventon, where 
 there are hedgerows winding, with green shady foot- 
 paths within the copse ; where the earliest primroses 
 and hyacinths are found. There is the wood-walk, with 
 its rustic seats, leading to the meadows ; the church- 
 walk leading to the church, ' which is far from the hum 
 of the village, and within sight of no habitation, except 
 a glimpse of the grey manor-house through its circling 
 screen of sycamores. Sweet violets, both purple and 
 white, grow in abundance beneath its south wall. Large 
 elms protrude their rough branches, old hawthorns shed . 
 their blossoms over the graves, and the hollow yew-tree 
 must be at least coeval with the church.' 
 
 Cousins presently come on the scene — a young,, 
 widowed Comtesse de Feuillade, flying from the Revo- 
 lution to her uncle's home. She is described as a clever 
 and accomplished woman, interested in her young 
 cousins, teaching them French (both Jane and Cassandra 
 knew French), helping in their various schemes, in their 
 theatricals in the barn. She eventually marries her 
 cousin, Henry Austen. The simple family annals are 
 not without their romance ; but there, is a cruel one for 
 poor Cassandra, whose lover dies abroad,' and his death 
 
JANE AUSTEN. 6i 
 
 saddens the whole family-party. Jane, too, ' receives 
 the addresses ' (do such things as addresses still exist ?) 
 * of a gentleman possessed of good character and for- 
 tune, and of everything, in short, except the subtle 
 power of touching her heart' One cannot help wonder- 
 ing whether this was a Henry Crawford or an Elton or 
 a Mr. Elliot, or had Jane already seen the person that 
 even Cassandra thought good enough for her sister ? 
 
 Here, too, is another sorrowful story. The sisters' 
 fate (there is a sad coincidence and similarity in it) was 
 to be undivided ; their life, their experience was the 
 same. Some one without a name takes leave of Jane 
 one day, promising to come back. He never comes 
 back : they hear of his death. The story seems even 
 sadder than Cassandra's in its silence and uncertainty, 
 for silence and uncertainty are death in life to some 
 people. . . . And yet to Jane Austen there can have 
 been no death in life. Her sunny temper and loving 
 heart, even though saddened, must have reflected all the 
 love and all the sunshine in her way. 
 
 There is little trace of sentimental grief in Jane 
 Austen's books — not one morbid word is to be found, 
 not one vain regret. Hers was not a nature to fall 
 crushed by the overthrow of one phase of her manifold 
 life. Hers seems to have been a natural genius for life, 
 if I may so speak ; too vivid and genuinely unselfish to 
 fail her in her need. She could gather every flower. 
 
62 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 every brightness, along her road. Good spirits, content, 
 all the interests of a happy and observant nature, were 
 hers. 
 
 It is impossible to calculate the difference of the 
 grasp by which one or another human being realises 
 existence and the things relating to it, nor how much 
 more vivid sensations seem to some than to others. Jane 
 Austen, while her life lasted, realised it, and made the 
 best use of the gifts that were hers. Yet, when all 
 was ending, then it was given to her to realise the 
 change that was at hand ; and as willingly as she had 
 lived, she died. Some people seem scarcely to rise to 
 their own ideal. Jane Austen's life, as it is told by her 
 nephew, is beyond her work, which only contained one 
 phase of that sweet and wise nature — the creative, ob- 
 servant, outward phase. For her home, for her sister, 
 for her friends, she kept the depth and tenderness of her 
 bright and gentle sympathy. She is described as busy 
 with her neat and clever fingers sewing for the poor, 
 working fanciful keepsakes for her friends. There is 
 the cup and ball that she never failed to catch ; the 
 spillikens lie in an even ring where she has thrown 
 them ; there are her letters, straightly and neatly folded, 
 and fitting smoothly in their creases. There is some- 
 thing sweet, orderly, and consistent in her character and 
 all her tastes — in her fondness for Crabbe and Cowper, 
 in her little joke that she ought to be a Mrs. Crabbe. 
 
JANE AUSTEN. 63: 
 
 She sings of an evening old ballads to old-fashioned 
 tunes with a low sweet voice. 
 
 Further on we have a glimpse of Jane and her sister 
 in their mob-caps, young still, but dressed soberly be- 
 yond their years. One can imagine ' Aunt Jane,' with 
 her brothers children round her knee, telling her de- 
 lightful stories or listening to theirs, with never-failing 
 sympathy. One can fancy Cassandra, who does not 
 like desultory novels, more prudent and more reserved,, 
 and somewhat less of a playfellow, looking down upon 
 the group with elder sister's eyes. 
 
 Here is an extract from a letter written at Steventon 
 in 1800. The vision seems to speak as one reads the 
 old letters quaint with the accent of near a century 
 
 ' I have two messages : let me get rid of them, and 
 then my paper will be my own. Mary fully intended 
 writing by Mr. Charles's frank, and only happened en- 
 tirely to forget it,' but will write soon ; and my father 
 wishes Edward to send him a memorandum of the price 
 of hops. 
 
 ' Sunday evening. 
 
 ' We have had a dreadful storm of wind in the fore, 
 part of the day, which has done a great deal of mischief 
 among our trees. I was sitting alone in the drawing- 
 
■64 JANE AUSTEN.' , 
 
 room when an odd kind of crash startled me. In a 
 moment afterwards it was repeated. I then went to the 
 window. I reached it just in time to see the last of 
 our two highly valued elms descend into the sweep ! ! ! 
 
 ' The other, which had fallen, I suppose, in the first 
 crash, and which was nearest to the pond, taking a more 
 ■easterly direction, sank among our screen of chestnuts 
 and firs, knocking down one spruce-fir, breaking off the 
 head of another, and stripping the two corner chestnuts 
 of several branches in its fall. This is not all : the 
 maple bearing the weathercock was broke in two ; and 
 what I regret more than all the rest is, that all three 
 elms that grew in Hall's Meadow, and gave such orna- 
 ment to it, are gone.' 
 
 A certain Mrs. Stent comes into one of these letters 
 - ejaculating some wonder about the cocks and hens.' 
 Mrs. Stent seems to have tried their patience, and will 
 be known henceforward as having bored Jane Austen. 
 
 They leave Steventon when Jane is about twenty- 
 ifive years of age and go to Bath, from whence a couple 
 of pleasant letters are given us. Jane is writing to her 
 sister. She has visited Miss A., who, like all other 
 young ladies, is considerably genteeler than her parents. 
 5he is heartily glad that Cassandra speaks so comfort- 
 ably of her health and looks : could travelling fifty miles 
 produce such an immediate change ? ' You were look- 
 
.JANE AUSTEN. 65 
 
 ing poorly when you were here, and everybody seenied 
 sensible of it. Is there any charm in a hack postchaise? 
 But if there were, Mrs. Craven's carriage might have 
 undone it all.' Here Mrs. Stent appears again. ' Poor 
 Mrs.' Stent, it has been her lot to'be always in the way ; 
 but we must be merciful, for perhaps in time, we may 
 come to be Mrs. Stents ourselves, unequal to anything 
 and unwelcome to everybody,' Elsewhere she writes, 
 
 upon Mrs. 's mentioning that she had sent the 
 
 .' Rejected Addresses ' to Mr.; H., * I began talking to her 
 a little about theni, and expressed my hope of their 
 having amused hen Her answer was, " Oh dear, yes, 
 very much ; very droll indeed ; the opening of the house 
 and the striking up of the fiddles ! " What she meant, 
 poor woman, who shall say ? ' 
 
 But there is no malice in Jane Austen, Hers is the 
 charity of all clear minds ; it is only the muddled who 
 are intolerant. All who love Emma and Mr. Knightly 
 must remember the touching little scene in which he 
 reproves her for her thoughtless impatience of poor Miss 
 Bates's volubility. 
 
 * " You, whom she' had known from an infant, whom 
 she had seen grow up from a period when her notice 
 was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless spirits 
 and in the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble 
 her. . . . This is not pleasant to you, Emma, and it is 
 .very far from pleasant to me, but I must, I will, I will 
 
 F 
 
66 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 tell you truths while I am satisfied with proving- myself 
 your friend by very faithful counsel, and trusting that 
 you will some time or other do me greater justice than 
 you can do me now." 
 
 ' Whjle they talked they were advancing towards the 
 carriage : it was ready, and before she could speak again 
 he had handed her in. He had misinterpreted, the 
 feeling which kept her face averted and her tongue 
 motionless.' 
 
 Mr. Knightly's little sermon, in its old-fashioned 
 English, is as applicable now as it was when it was 
 spoken. . . . What a gentleman he is, how true he rings, 
 and with what grace and spirit they play their parts— 
 all these people who were modestly put away for so 
 many years ! 
 
 Mr. Austen died at Bath, and his family removed to 
 Southampton. In iSii, Mrs. Austen, her daughters, 
 ■and her niece, settled finally at Chawton. a house be- 
 longing to Jane's brother, Mr. Knight (he is adopted by 
 an uncle, whose name he takes), and from Chawton all 
 her literary work was given to the world. ' Sense and 
 Sensibility,' ' Pride and Prejudice,' were already written ; 
 but in the next five years, from thirty-five to forty, she 
 set to work seriously, and wrote ' Mansfield Park,' 'Emma,' 
 and,* Persuasion.' Any one who has written a book will 
 know what an amount of labour this represents. . . . One 
 :can picture to oneself the little family scene which Jane 
 
JANE AUSTEN. ,67 
 
 describes to Cassandra. ' Pride and Prejudice ' jusf 
 come down in a parcel from town ; the unsuspicious 
 Miss B. to dinner ; .and Jane and her mother setting to 
 in the evening and reading aloud half the first volume 
 of a new novel sent down by the brother. Unsuspicious 
 Miss B. is delighted. Jane complains of her mother's 
 too rapid way of getting on ; ' though she perfectly 
 understands the characters herself, she cannot speak as 
 they ought. Upon the whole, however,' she says, f ,1 
 am quite vain enough and well-satisfied enough.' This 
 is her own criticism of ' Pride and Prejudice : ' — ' The 
 work is rather too light, and bright, and sparkling. Jt 
 wants shade. It wants to be stretched out here and 
 there with a long chapter of sense, if it could be had ; 
 if not, of solemn specious nonsense about something un- 
 connected with the story — an essay on writing, a critique 
 on Walter Scott or the " History of Bonaparte." ' 
 
 And so Jane Austen lives quietly working at her 
 labour of love, interested in her * own darling children's ' 
 success ; ' the light of the home,' one of the real living 
 children says afterwards, speaking in the days when she 
 was no longer there. She goes to London once or twice. 
 ■Once she lives for some months in Hang Place, nursing 
 a brother through an illness. Here it was that she 
 received some little compliments and messages from the 
 Prince Regent, and some valuable suggestions froni Mr. 
 .Clarke, his librarian, respecting a yery remarkable 
 
68 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 clergyman. He is anxious that she should delineate 
 one who ' should pass his time between the metropolis 
 and the country, something like Beattie's minstrel, 
 entirely engaged in literature, and no man's enemy but 
 his own.' Failing to impress this character upon the 
 authoress, he makes a different suggestion, and proposes 
 that she should write a romance illustrative of the august 
 house of Coburg. ' It would be interesting,' he says, 
 ' and very properly dedicated to Prince Leopold.' 
 
 To which Miss Austen replies : ' I could no more 
 write a romance than an epic poem. I could not 
 seriously sit down to write a romance under any other 
 motive than to save my life ; and if it were indispensable 
 for me to keej) it Up, and never relax into laughing at 
 myself or other people, I am sure I should be hung 
 before the first chapter.' 
 
 There is a delightful collection of friends' suggestions 
 which she has put together, but which is too long to be 
 quoted here. She calls it, ' Plan of a Novel, as suggested 
 by various Friends.' 
 
 All this time, while her fame is slowly growing, life 
 passes in the same tranquil way in the old cottage at 
 Ghawton. Aunt Jane, with her young face and her 
 mob-cap, makes play-houses for the children, helps them 
 to dress up, invents imaginary conversations for them, 
 supposing that they are all grown up the day after a 
 ball. One can imagine how delightful a game that must 
 
JANE AUSTEN. 69 
 
 have seemed to the little girls. She built her nest, did 
 this good woman, happily weaving it out of shreds, and 
 ends, and scraps of daily duty, patiently put together ; 
 and it was from this nest that she sang the song, bright 
 and brilliant, with quaint trills and unexpected cadences, 
 that reaches us even here through fifty yearsi The 
 lesson her life seems to teach us is this : Don't let us 
 •despise our nests — life is as much, made of minutes as of 
 years ; let us complete the daily duties ; let us patiently 
 gather the twigs and the little scraps of moss, of dried 
 grass together ; and see the result !— a whole, completed 
 and coherent, beautiful even without the song. 
 
 We come too soon to the story of her deathl And 
 yet did it come too soon .' A sweet life is not the sweeter 
 for being long. Jane Austen lived years enough to fulfil 
 her mission. It was an unconscious one ; and uncohscioiis 
 teachers are the. highest They, teach by. their lives j 
 even more thaii by their words, and their lives heed not 
 reach threescore years arid .ten to be complete. She 
 lived long enough to write six books that were masters 
 pieces in their way^ — ^to make a thousand people the 
 happier for her industry. 
 
 One cannot read the story of her latter days without 
 emotion ; of her patience, her sweetness, and gratitude. 
 There is family trouble, we are not told of what nature. 
 She falls ill. Her nieces find her in her dressing-gown^ 
 like an invalid, in iah arm-chair in her bed-room ;. but 
 
•JO JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 she gets up and greets them, and, pointing to seats which 
 had been arranged for them by the fire, says : ' There is 
 a chair for the married lady, and a Httle stool for you, 
 Caroline.' But she is too weak to talk, and Cassandra 
 takes them away. 
 
 At last they persuade her to go to Winchester, to a 
 well-known doctor there. 
 
 ' It distressed me,' she says, in one of her last, dying 
 letters, 'to see Uncle Henry, and William Knight, 
 who kindly attended us, riding in the rain almost the 
 "vvhole way. We expect a visit from them to-morrow, 
 and hope they will stay the night, and on Thursday,. 
 which is a confirmation and a holiday, we hope to get 
 Charles out to breakfast We have had but one visit 
 from him, poor fellow, as he is in the sick room. . . » 
 God bless you, dear E. ; if ever, you are ill, may you be 
 as tenderly nursed as I have been. . . ,' 
 
 Nursing does not cure her, nor can the doctor save 
 her to them all, and she sinks from day to day. To 
 the end she is full of concern for others. 
 
 ' As for my dearest sister ; my tender watchful inde- 
 fatigable nurse has not been made ill by her exertions,' 
 she writes. 'As to what I owe her, and the anxious 
 affection of all my beloved family on this occasion, I 
 can only cry over it, and pray God to bless them more 
 and more.' 
 
 One can hardly read this last sentence with dry eyes» 
 
JANE AUSTEN. ?! 
 
 It IS her parting blessing and farewell to those she had 
 blessed all her life by her presence and her love. And as 
 we think of others whose lives have been like hers we 
 thank God that love is beyond death ; and its benedic- 
 tion, always with us, not only spoken in words, but by 
 the signs, and the love of those lifetimes, that do not 
 end for us as long as we ourselves exist. 
 
 They asked her when she was near her end if there 
 was anything she wanted. 
 
 ' Nothing but death,' she said. Those were her last 
 words. She died on July i8, 1817, and was buried in' 
 Winchester Cathedral, where she lies not unremembered. 
 
72 : 
 
 HEROINES AND THEIR GRANDMOTHERS.^ 
 
 Fantasia. Qui salt ? Un calembour console de bien des chagrins, et 
 jouer avec les mots est un moyen comme un autre de jouer avec les pensees, 
 les actions et les Stres. Tout est calembour ici-bas, et 11 est ainsi difficile 
 de comprendre le regard d'un enfant de quatre ans, que le galimatias de trois 
 drames modemes. 
 
 Elsbeth, Tu me fais I'efFet de regarder le monde a travers un prisme 
 tant soit peu changeant. 
 
 Fantasit). Chacun a ses lunettes, mais personne ne sait au juste de 
 quelle couleur en sont les verres. Qui est ce qui pourra me dire au juste 
 si je suis heureux ou maUieureux, bon ou mauv^, triste ou gai, bete ou 
 spiritual ? 
 
 Why do we now-a-days write such melancholy novels ? 
 Are authoresses more miserable than they used to be a 
 hundred years ago ? Miss Austen's heroines came 
 tripping into the room, bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, arch, 
 and good-humoured. EveUna and Cecilia would have 
 thoroughly enjoyed their visits to the opera, and their 
 expeditions to the masquerades, if it had not been for 
 their vulgar relations. Valancourt's Emily was a little 
 upset, to be sure, when she found herself all alone in the 
 ghostly and mouldy castle in the south of France ; but 
 
 * Too Much Alone. City and Suburb. George Geith. — Mrs, Riddell. 
 
HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 73 
 
 she, too, was naturally a lively girl, and on the whole 
 showed a great d€al of courage and presence of mind. 
 Miss Edgeworth's heroines were pleasant and easily 
 pleased ; and to these may be added a blooming rose- 
 garden of wild Irish girls, and of good-humoured and 
 cheerful young ladies, who consented to make the devoted 
 young hero happy at the end. of the third volurhe, 
 without any very intricate self-examinations ; and who 
 certairily were much more appreciated by the heroes of 
 those days, than our; modern heroines with all their 
 "workings and deep feelings and unrequited affections are 
 now, by the noblemen and gentlemen to whom they, 
 happen to be attached. 
 
 If one could imagine the ladies of whom we have, 
 been speaking coming to life again, and witnessing all 
 the vagaries and agonising experiences and deadly calm 
 and irrepressible emotion of their granddaughters, the 
 heroines of the present day, what a bewildering scene it 
 would be ! Evelina and Cecilia ought to faint with 
 horror! Madame Duval's most shocking expressions 
 were never so alarming as the remarks they might now 
 hear on all sides. Elizabeth Bennett would certainly 
 burst out laughing, Emma might lose her temper, and 
 Fanny Price would turn scarlet and stop her little ears. 
 Perhaps Emily of Udolpho, more accustomed than the 
 others to the horrors of sensation, and having once faced 
 those long, and terrible passages, might be able to hold. 
 
74 HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 her own against such a great-granddaughter as Aurora- 
 Floyd or Lady Audley. But how would she deal with 
 the soul-workings and heart-troubles of a modern heroine? 
 Emily would probably prefer any amount of tortuous • 
 mysteries, winding staircases and passages, or groans 
 and groans, and yards and yards of faded curtains, to the 
 task of mjistering these intricacies of feeling and reality, 
 and sentiment. 
 
 Are the former heroines women as they were, or' 
 as they were supposed to be in those days? Are 
 the women of whom women write now, women as 
 they are, or women as they are supposed to be ? Does- 
 our modern taste demand a certain sensation feeling,, 
 sensation sentiment," only because it is actually ex- 
 perienced ? 
 
 This is a question to be answered on some other occa- 
 sion ; but, in the meantime, it would seem as if all the 
 good humours and good spirits of former generations 
 had certainly deserted our own heart-broken ladies. 
 Instead of cheerful endurance, the very worst is made of 
 every passing discomfort. Their laughter is forced, even 
 their happiness is only calm content, for they cannot so- 
 readily recover from the two first volumes. They no- 
 longer smile and trip through country-dances hand-in- 
 hand with their adorers, but waltz with heavy hearts 
 and dizzy brains, while the hero who scorns them looks 
 on. Open the second volume, you will see that, instead 
 
HEROIAES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 75 
 
 •of sitting in the drawing-room or plucking roseS in the 
 bower, or looking pretty and pleasant, they are lying on 
 their beds with agonising headaches, walking desperately 
 along the streets they know not whither, or staring out 
 of window in blank despair. It would be curious to 
 ascertain in how great a degree language measures 
 feeling.- People, with the help of the penny-post and 
 the telegraph, and the endless means of communication 
 and of coming and going, are certainly able to care for 
 a greater number of persons than they could have done 
 a hundred years ago ; perhaps they are also able to care 
 more, and to be more devotedly attached, to those whom 
 they already love ; they certainly say more about it, 
 and, perhaps, with its greater abundance and oppor- 
 tunity, expression may have depreciated in value. And 
 this may possibly account for some of the difference 
 between the reserved and measured language of a Jane 
 Bennett or an Anne Elliot, and the tempestuous confi- 
 dences of their successors. 
 
 ' Much that is written now is written with a certain 
 exaggeration and an earnestness which was undreamt of 
 in the placid days when, according to Miss Austen, a 
 few assembly balls and morning visits, a due amount of 
 vexation reasonably surmounted, or at most 'smiles 
 reined in, and spirits dancing in private rapture,' a 
 journey to Bath, an . attempt at private theatricals or a 
 thick packet of explanations hurriedly signed with the 
 
76 HEROINES atid THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 hero's initials, were the events, the emotions, the aspira- 
 tions of a liffe-time. 
 
 They had their accomphshments, these gigot-sleeved 
 ladies : witness Emma's very mild performances in the 
 way of portrait taking j but as for tracking murderers, 
 agonies of mystery, and disappointed affections, flinging 
 themselves at gentlemen's heads, marrying tvvo husbands 
 at once, flashing with irrepressible emotion, or only 
 tetraying the deadly conflict going on within by a slight 
 ■quiver of the pale lip — such ideas never entered their 
 pretty little heads. They fainted a good deal, we must 
 ■confess, and wrote long and tedious letters to aged 
 clergymen residing in the country. They exclaimed 
 ^La !' when anything surprised them, and were, we be- 
 lieve, dreadfully afraid of cows, notwithstanding their 
 country connection. But they were certainly a more 
 amiable race than their successors. 
 
 It is a fact that people do not unusually feel the 
 same affection for phenomenons, however curious, that 
 they do for perfectly commonplace human creatures. 
 And yet atthe same time we confess that it does seem 
 somewhat ungrateful to complain of these living and 
 adventurous heroines to whom, with all their vagaries, 
 •one has owed such long and happy hours of amusement 
 and entertainment and comfort, and who have gone 
 through so much for our edification. 
 
 Still one cannot but wonder how Miss Austen, would 
 
HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 77^ 
 
 have written if she had hved to-dayinstead of yesterday.. 
 It has been often said that novels might be divided intO; 
 two great divisions — ^the objective and the subjective :, 
 almost all men's iidvels belong to the former ; almost all" 
 women's, now-a-days, to the latter definition'. ^ Analysis; 
 of emotion instead of analysis of character, the" history; 
 qf "feeling instead of the history of events, seems to bC; 
 the method of the majority of penwomen. The. novels 
 that, we' have in hand to review now 1 are 'examples of- 
 this mode of treatment ; and the truth is, that, ,except inj 
 the case of the highes't art and most consummate' skillj, 
 there is no comparison between the interest excited, by 
 facts and general characteristics, as" compared with the;- 
 interest'of feeling and. emotion told w'ith only the same- 
 amount of perceptioil arid ability. 
 
 Few pedjde; for instancy could read the stdry of the; 
 poor lady who , lived too much alone without' being 
 touched by the -simple earnestness with' which her sor-' 
 rows are written . downj although in the bare details of 
 her life there might not be much worth recording. But 
 this. is. the history of poor Mrs. Storn's feelings more, 
 than that bfher life— of feelings very sad and earnest: 
 and passionate, full "of struggle for right, with truth to: 
 help and untruth tb.bewilder her ; with power and depth 
 and reality in her struggles, which end at last in a :sad: 
 aort of twilight, that seems to haunt one as one shuts- up 
 the book In ' George Geith,' of which Ave will speak more' 
 
78 HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 presently, there is the same sadness and minor key 
 ringing all through the composition. Indeed, all this 
 author's tunes are very melancholy — so melancholy, that 
 it would seem almost like a defect if they were not at 
 the same time very sweet as well as very sad. Too • 
 Much Alone is a young woman who marries a very 
 silent, upright, and industrious chemical experimentalist. 
 He has well-cut features, honourable feelings, a genius 
 for discovering cheap ways of producing acids and 
 chemicals, as well as ideas about cyanosium, which, 
 combined with his perfect trust in and utter neglect of 
 his wife, very nearly brings about the destruction of all 
 their domestic happiness. She is a pale, sentimental 
 young woman,- with raven-black hair, clever, and longing 
 for sympathy — 2. femmeincomprise, it must be confessed, 
 but certainly much more charming and pleasant and 
 pathetic than such people usually are. Days go by, 
 lonely alike for her, without occupation or friendship or 
 interest ; she cannot consort with the dull and vulgar 
 people about her ; she has her little son, but he is not a 
 companion. Her husband is absorbed jn his work. She 
 has no one to talk to, nothing to do or think of. She 
 lives all alone in the great noisy life-full city, sad and 
 pining and wistful and weary. Here is a little sketch of 
 her: — 
 
 ' Lina was sitting, thinking about the fact that she 
 had been married many months more than three years. 
 
HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 79 
 
 :and that on the especial Sunday morning in question 
 ^he was just of age. It was still early ; for Mr. Storn, 
 -according to the fashion of most London folks, borrowed 
 hours from both ends of the day, and his wife was sitting 
 there until it should be time for her to get ready and to 
 ■go to church alone. Her chair was placed by the open 
 window ; and though the city was London, and the 
 .locality either the ward of Eastcheap or that of All- 
 hallows, Barking (I am not quite sure which), fragrant 
 -odours came wafted to her senses, through the casement;'; 
 -:for in this, as in all other things save one, Maurice held 
 considered her nurture and her tastes, and covered the 
 Toof of the counting-house with flowers. But for thp 
 •distant roll of the carriages, she might just as well have 
 been miles away from London. . . . She was dressed in 
 ,a pink morning dress, with her dark hair plainly braided 
 ..upon her pale fair cheek, and she had a staid sober looTc 
 i-upon her face, that somehow made her appear handsomer 
 ;rthan in the days of old before she married. . . .' - : 
 This very Sunday Lina meets a dangerous fascinat- 
 ing man of the world, .who is a^ friendly well-meaning 
 ^•creature Tvithal, and who can understand and sympathise 
 with her sadness and solitude only too well for her peace 
 ■of mind, and for his own : again and again she appeals 
 to her husband : ' I will find pleasure in "the driest em- 
 ployment if you will only let me be with you, and not 
 leave me alone.' She only asks for justice, for con- 
 
8o HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 .fidence — not the confidence of utter desertion and trust 
 and neglect, but the daily confidence and communion, 
 which is a necessity to some women, the permission to 
 share in the common interests and efforts of her 
 
 .husband's life; to be allowed to sympathise, and to live, 
 and to understand, instead of being, left to pine away 
 
 .lonely, unhappy, half asleep, and utterly weary and 
 disappointed. Unfortunately Mr. Storn thinks it is 
 
 .all childish nonsense, and repulses her in the most affec- 
 
 ;tionate manner ; poor unhappy Lina behaves as well as 
 
 ..ever she can, and devotes herself to her little boy, only 
 
 .her hair grows blacker, and her face turns paler and 
 paler, day by day ; she is very good and struggles to be 
 
 .contented, and will not allow herself to think too much 
 of Herbert Clyne, and so things go on in the old way 
 
 ■for a long, long time; and we turn page after page, 
 feeling that each one may bring some terrible catastrophe. 
 
 •At last a crisis comes — ^troubles thicken — Maurice Storn 
 is always away when he is most wanted ; little Geordie, 
 
 .the' son, gets hold of some of his father's chemicals, 
 which have cost Lina already so much happiness and 
 
 ^confidence, and the poor little boy poisons himself with 
 something sweet out of a little bottle. All the descrip- 
 
 :ti.on which follows is very powerfully and pathetically 
 told — Maurice Storn's silence and misery, Lina's despe- 
 ration and sudden change of feeling. After all her long 
 
 . struggles and efTorts she suddenly breaks down, all her 
 
HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. Si 
 
 courage leaves her, and her desperate longings for right 
 and clinging to truth. 
 
 ' She said in her soul, " I have lost the power either 
 to bear or to resist. I have tried to face my misfortune 
 and I feel I am incapable of doing it . . . why should 
 I struggle or fear any more .' I know the worst that 
 life can bring me ; I have buried my heart and my hopes 
 with my boy. Why should I strive or struggle any 
 more ? " And Lina had got to such a pass that she 
 forgot to answer to herself. Because it is right — Right 
 and wrong, she had lost sight of them both.' 
 
 Poor Mrs. Storn is unconscious that already people 
 are beginning to talk of her, first one and then another. 
 Nobody seems very bad. Everybody is going wrong. 
 Maurice abstracted over his work, Lina in a frenzy of 
 wretchedness ; home-fires are extinct, outside the cold 
 winds blow, and the snow lies half melted on the 
 ground. The man of the world is waiting in the cold, 
 very miserable too — waiting for Lina, who has almost 
 made up her mind now ; their best impulses and chances 
 seem failing them ; all about there seems to be only 
 pain, and night, and trouble, and sorrow for every one. 
 But at last, when the night is blackest, the morning 
 dawns, and Lina is saved. 
 
 Everything is then satisfactorily arranged, and 
 Maurice is ruined, and Lina's old affection for him returns. 
 The man of the world is also ruined, and determines to 
 
 G 
 
S2 HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 emigrate to some distant colony. Mr. and Mrs. Storn 
 retire to an old-fashioned gabled house at Enfield, where 
 they have no secrets from each other ; and it'is here that 
 her husband one day tells Lina that he has brought an 
 old friend to say good-bye to her, and then poor Herbert 
 Glyne, the late man of the world, comes across the lawn, 
 and says farewell for ever to both his friends in a very 
 pathetic and touching scene. 
 
 - ' Liria Storn is finally disposed of in ' Too Much 
 Alone ; ' but Maurice Storn reappears in disguise, and 
 under various assumed names, in almost all the author's 
 subsequent novels. We are not sorry to meet him over 
 and over again ; for although we have never yet been 
 able to realise this stem-cut personage as satisfactorily 
 as we should have liked to do, yet we must confess to 
 a partiality for him, and a respect for his astounding 
 . powers of application. Whether he turns his attention 
 to chemistry, to engineering, to figures, to theology, the 
 amount of business he gets through is almost bewildering. 
 At the same time something invariably goes wrong, over 
 which he has no control, notwithstanding all his industry 
 and ability ; and he has to acknowledge the weakness of 
 humanity, and the insufficiency of the sternest determi- 
 nation, to order and arrange the events of life to its own 
 will and fancy. To the woman or women depending 
 upon him he is invariably kind, provokingly reserved, 
 and faithfully devoted. He is of good family and ex- 
 
HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 83 
 
 tremely proud, and he is obliged for various reasons to 
 live in the city. All through the stories one seems to 
 hear a suggestive accompanying roll of cart-wheels and 
 carriages. Poor Lina's loneliness seems all the more 
 lonely for the contrast of the busy movement all round 
 about her oivh silent, sad life. ' At first it seemed to 
 give a sort of stimulus to her own existence, hearing the 
 carts roll by, the cabs rattle past, the shout and hum ot 
 human voices break on her ear almost before she was 
 awake of a morning. . . . But wear takes the gloss off 
 all things, even off the sensation of being perplexed and 
 amused by the whirl of life.' 
 
 In ' City and Suburb,' this din of London life, and 
 the way in which city people live and strive, is capitally 
 described ; the heroine is no less a person than a Lady 
 Mayoress, a certain Ruby Ruthven, a beauty, capricious 
 and wajnvard and impetuous, and she is perhaps one of 
 the best of Mrs. Riddell's creations. For old friendship's 
 5ake, we cannot help giving the preference to 'Too 
 Much Alone;' but 'City and Suburb' is in many 
 respects an advance upon it, and ' George Geith ' is in its 
 -way better than either. 
 
 It- seems strange as one thinks of it that before these 
 books came out no one except Mr. Dickens had eVer 
 thought of writing about city life ; there is certainly an 
 interest and a charm about old London, its crowded busy 
 streets, its ancient churches and buildings, and narrow 
 
 G2 
 
84 HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 lanes and passages with quaint names, of which we 
 dwellers in the stucco suburbs have no conception. 
 There is the river with its wondrous freight, and the 
 busy docks, where stores of strange goods are lying, 
 that bewilder one as one gazes. 'Vast horizons of 
 barrels waiting to be carted, forests of cinnamon-trees and 
 spices, of canes, of ivory, thousands and thousands of 
 great elephant tusks, sorted and stored away, workmen, 
 sailors of every country, a great unknown strange life 
 and bustle. Or if you roam from. the busy highway, you 
 find silence, solitude, grass growing between the stones, 
 old courts, iron gateways, ancient squares where the 
 sunshine gathers quietly, a glint of the past, as it were, 
 a feeling of what has been, and what still lingers amon g 
 the old worn stones and bricks, and traditions of the city. 
 Even the Mansion House, with its kindly old customs 
 and welcome and hospitality, has a charm and romance 
 of its own, that is quite indescribable, from the golden 
 postilion standing behind the Lord Mayor's high chair 
 of state, to the heavy little mutton-pies, which are the 
 same as they were hundreds and hundreds of years ago. 
 All this queer sentiment belonging to old London, and 
 the author feels and describes with great cleverness and 
 appreciation. 
 
 ' George Geith ' ' is the latest and the most popular of 
 
 ' TTritten in 1865. 
 
HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. %i 
 
 Mrs. Riddell's novels, and it deserves its popularity. It 
 is the history of the man whose name it bears — a man ' to 
 work so long as he has a breath left to draw, who would 
 die in his harness rather than give up, who would fight 
 against opposing circumstances whilst he had a drop of 
 blood in his veins, whose greatest virtues are untiring in- 
 dustry and indomitable courage, and who is worth half-a- 
 dozen ordinary men, if only because of his iron frame and 
 unconquerable spirit.' Here is a description of the place 
 in which he lived, on the second floor of the house which 
 stands next but one to the old gateway on the Fenchurch 
 Street side : — 
 
 ' If quietness was what he wanted, he had it ; except' 
 in the summer evenings when the children of the Fen-: 
 church Street housekeepers brought their marbles' 
 through the passage, and fought over them on the pave- 
 ment in front of the office-door, there Avas little noise of 
 life in the old churchyard. The sparrows in the trees or 
 the foot-fall of some one entering or quitting the court 
 alone disturbed the silence. The roar of Fenchurch 
 Street on the one side, and of Leadenhall Street on the . 
 other, sounded in Fen Court but as a distant murmur ; 
 and to a man whose life was spent among figures, and 
 who wanted to devote his undivided attention to his- 
 work, this silence was a blessing not to be properly 
 estimated save by those who have passed through that 
 maddening ordeal which precedes being able to abstract 
 
S6 HEROINES atid THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 the mind from external influence. . . . For the historical 
 recollections associated with the locality he had chosen 
 George Geith did not care a rush.' 
 
 George Geith lives with his figures, 'climbing Alps 
 on Alps of them with silent patience, great mountains 
 of arithmetic with gold lying on their summits for him 
 to grasp ; ' he works for eighteen hours a day. People 
 come up his stairs to ask for his help — 
 
 ' Bankrupts, men who were good enough, men who 
 were doubtful, and men who were (speaking commerci- 
 ally) bad, had all alike occasion to seek the accountant's 
 advice and assistance ; retailers, who kept clerks for 
 their sold books, but not for their bought ; wholesale 
 dealers, whq did not want to let their clerks see their 
 books at all ; shrewd men of business, who yet could not 
 balance a ledger \ ill-educated traders, who, though they 
 could make money, would have been ashamed to show 
 their ill-written and worse-spelled journals to a stranger ; 
 unhappy wretches, shivering on the brink of insolvency ; 
 creditors, who did not think much of the cooking of some 
 dishonest debtors' accounts ;— all these came and sat in 
 George Geith's office, and waited their turn to see him.' 
 
 And among these comes a country gentleman, a M. 
 Molozane, who is on the brink of ruin, and who has 
 three daughters at home at the Dower House, near 
 Wattisbridge. 
 
 There is a secret in George Geith's life and a reason 
 
' HESOINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS.. 87, 
 
 for which he toils ; and although early in the story he > 
 makes a discovery which relieves him from part of his 
 anxiety and need for money, he still works on from 
 habit, and one day he receives a letter from this M. 
 Molozane, b^ging him to come to his assistance, and 
 stating that he is ill and cannot come to town. George 
 thinks he would like a breath of country air, and deter- 
 mines to go. The description of Wattisbridge and the' 
 road thither is delightful ; lambs, cool grass, shaded 
 ponds and cattle, trailing branches, brambles, roses, here- 
 a house, there a farm-yard, gently sloping hills crowned 
 with clumps of trees, distant purple haze, a calm blue 
 sky and fleecy clouds, and close at hand a grassy glade 
 with cathedral branches, a young lady, a black retriever 
 and a white poodle, all of which George Geith notices as 
 he walks along the path, ' through the glade, under the 
 shadow pf the arching trees, strdght as he can go to 
 meet his destiny.' 
 
 Beryl Molozane, with the dear sweet kindly brown 
 eyes, that seemed to be always laughing and loving, is as 
 charming a destiny as any hero could wish to meet upon 
 a summer's day, as she stands with the sunshine stream - 
 ing on her nut-brown, red golden hair. She should 
 indeed be capable of converting the most rabid of re- 
 viewers to the modern ideal of what a heroine should 
 be. with her April moods and her tenderness and 
 laughter, her frankness, her cleverness, her gay innocent 
 
88 HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 chatter, her outspoken youth and brightness. It is she 
 who manages for the whole household, who works for 
 her father, who protects her younger sister, who schemes 
 and plans, and thinks, and loves for all. No wonder that 
 George loses his heart to her ; even in the very beginning 
 we are told, when he first sees her, that he would have 
 
 'Taken the sunshine out of his own life to save the 
 clouds from darkening down on hers. He would have 
 left her dear face to smile on still, the guileless heart to 
 throb calmly. He would have left his day without '.a 
 noon to prevent night from closing over hers. He would 
 have known that it was possible for him to love so well 
 that he should become unselfish. ..." 
 
 One cannot help wondering that the author could 
 have had the heart to treat poor pretty Beryl so harshly, 
 when her very creation, the stern and selfish George 
 himself, would have suffered any pain to spare her if it 
 were possible. 
 
 It is not our object here to tell a story at length, 
 which is interesting enough to be read for itself, and 
 touching enough to be remembered long after the last 
 of the three volumes is closed. To be remembered, 
 but so sadly, that one cannot but ask oneself for what 
 reason are such stories written. Are they written to 
 cheer one in dull hours, to soothe, to interest, and to 
 distract from weary thoughts, from which it is at times 
 a blessing to escape .■• or is it to make one sad with 
 
HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 89 
 
 sorrows which never happened, but which are told with 
 so much truth and pathos that they almost seem for a 
 minute as if they were one's own ? Is it to fill one's 
 eyes with tears for griefs which might be, but which have 
 not been, and for troubles that are not, except in a 
 fancy, for the sad, sad fate of a sweet and tender woman, 
 who might have been made happy to gladden all who 
 were interested in her story ? 
 
 ' A lady putting down this book the other day, sud- 
 denly burst into tears, and said, 'Why did they give me 
 this to read ? ' Why, indeed I Beryl might have been 
 more happy, and no one need have been the worse. 
 She and her George might have been made comfortable 
 together for a little while, and we might have learnt to 
 know her all the same. Does sorrow come like this, in 
 wave upon wave, through long sad years, without one 
 gleam of light to play upon the waters .' Sunshine is 
 sunshine, and warms and vivifies, and brightens, though 
 the clouds are coming too, sooner or later ; but in nature 
 no warning voices spoil the happiest hours of our lives 
 by useless threats and terrifying hints of what the future 
 may bring forth-. Happiness remembered, is happiness 
 always ; but where would peist happiness be if there was 
 some one always standing by, as in this book, to point 
 with a sigh to future troubles long before they come, 
 and to sadden and spoil all the pleasant spring-time and 
 all the sport and youth by dreary forebodings of old age, 
 
go HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 of autumn, and winter snow, and bitter winds that have 
 not yet begun to blow ? ' So smile the heavens upon 
 that holy act,' says the Friar, ' that after sorrow chide us 
 not.' ' Amen, amen,' says Romeo ; ' but come what 
 sorrow can, it cannot countervail the exchange of joy 
 that one short minute gives me in her sight' And we 
 wish that George Geith had been more of Romeo's way 
 of thinking. 
 
 A tragic ending is very touching at the time, and 
 moves, many a sympathy ; but in prose — for poetry is to 
 be criticised from a different standard — who ever reads a 
 melancholy story over and over and over as some stories 
 are read ? The more touchingly and earnestly the tale 
 is told, the less disposed one is to revert to it ; and the 
 more deeply one feels for the fictitious friends whom one 
 cannot help loving at times, almost as if they were real 
 ones, the less heart one has to listen to the history of 
 their pains and fears and sufferings — knowing, as one 
 does, that there is only sorrow in store for them, no re- 
 lief coming, no help an)nvhere, no salvation at hand 
 My father used to say that a bad ending to a book was 
 a great mistake ; that he never would i^ake one of his 
 own finish badly. What was the use of it ? Nobody 
 ever cared to read a book a second time when it ended 
 unhappily. 
 
 There is a great excuse in the case of the writer of 
 George Geith,' who possesses in no common degree sad 
 
HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 91 
 
 powers of pathos. Take for instance the parting be- 
 tween George and Beryl. She says that it is no use 
 talking about what is past and gone ; that they must 
 part, and he knows it. 
 
 ' Then fpr a moment Geoige misunderstood her. 
 The agpny pf her own heart, the intense bitterness of 
 the draught she was called upon to drink, the awful 
 hopelessness of her case, and the terrible longing she felt 
 to be permitted to live and love once more, sharpened 
 her voice and gave it a tone she never intended. 
 
 ' " Have you grown to doubt me ? " he asked. " Do 
 you not know I would marry you to-morrow if I could? 
 Do you think that throughout all the years to come, be 
 they many or be they few, I could change to you ? Oh, 
 Beryl ! do you not belieye that through time and through 
 eternity I shall loye you and none other ? " 
 
 ' " I do riot doubt ; I believe," and her tears fell faster 
 and her sobs become more uncontrollable. . . ^ . 
 
 ' What was she to him at that moment ? More than 
 wife ; more than all the earth ; more than heaven ; 
 more than life. She was something more, far mor?, 
 than any pppr words we know can express. What he 
 felt fpr h?!" was beyond love ; the future he saw stretchr 
 ing away for himself without her, without a hope of her, 
 was in its blank weariness so terrible as to bp beyond 
 despair. I^ad the soul been taken out of his body, "life 
 could not havp been more valueless. Tiake away the 
 
92 HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 belief of immortality, and what has mortality left to live 
 for? 
 
 ' At the moment George Geith knew, in a stupid, 
 dull kind of way, that to him Beryl had been an earthly im- 
 mortality ; that to have her again for his own, had been 
 the one hope of his weary life, which had made the days 
 and the hours endurable unto him. 
 
 ' Oh ! woe for the great waste of love which there is 
 in this world below ; to think how it is filling some 
 hearts to bursting, whilst others are starving for the lack 
 thereof ; to think how those who may never be man and 
 wife, those who are about to be parted by death, those 
 whose love can never be anything but a sorrow and 
 trial, merge their own identity in that of one another, 
 whilst the lawful heads of respectable households 
 wrangle and quarrel, and honest widows order their 
 mourning with decorous resignation, and disconsolate 
 husbands look out for second wives ! 
 
 ' Why is it that the ewe-Iamb is always that selected 
 for sacrifice ? Why is it that the creature upon which 
 man sets his heart shall be the one snatched from him ? 
 Why is it that the thing we prize perishes ? That as 
 the flower fades and the grass withereth, so the object of 
 man's love, the delight of his eyes and the desire of his 
 soul, passeth away to leave him desolate ? 
 
 ' On George Geith the blow fell with such force that 
 he groped darkly about, trying to grasp" his trouble ; 
 
HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 93 
 
 trying to meet some tangible foe with whom to grapple. 
 Life without Beryl ; days without sun ; winter without a 
 hope of summer ; nights that could never know a dawn. 
 My reader, have patience, have patience with the de- 
 spairing grief of this strong man, who had at length met 
 with a sorrow that crushed him. 
 
 ' Have patience whilst I try to tell of the end that 
 came to his business and to his pleasure ; to the years 
 he had spent in toil ; to the hours in which he had 
 tasted enjoyment! To the struggles there had come 
 success ; to the hopes fruition ; but with success and 
 with fruition there had come likewise death. 
 
 ' Everything for him was ended in existence. Liv- 
 ing, he was as one dead. Wealth could not console 
 him ; success could not comfort him ; for him, for this 
 hard, fierce worker, for the man who had so longed for 
 rest, for physical repose, for domestic pleasures, the 
 flowers were to have no more perfume, home no more 
 happiness ; the earth no more loveliness. The first 
 spring blossoms, the summer glory on the trees and 
 fields, the fruits and flowers, and thousand tinted leaves 
 of autumn, and the snows and frosts of winter, were 
 never to touch his heart, nor stir his senses in the future. 
 
 ' Never the home he pictured might be his, never, ah, 
 never! He had built his dream-house on the sands, 
 and, behold, the winds blew and the waves beat, and he 
 saw it all disappear, leaving nought but dust and ashes, 
 
94 HEROINES attd THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 but death and despair! Madly he fought with his 
 borrow, as though it were a living thing that he could 
 grasp and conquer ; he turned on it constantly, and 
 strove to trample it down.' 
 
 No comment is needed to point out the power and 
 pathos of this long extract. The early stoiy of George 
 Geith is in many respects the same as the story of 
 Warrington in ' Pendennis,' but the end is far more sad 
 iihd disastrous, and, as it has been shown, pretty bright 
 Beryl dies of her cruel tortures, and it is, in truth, difficult 
 to forgive the author for putting her through so much 
 unnecessary pain and misery. 
 
 One peculiarity which strikes us in all these books 
 is, that the feelings are stronger and more vividly aUve 
 than the people who ju-e made to experience them. 
 Even Beryl herself is more like a sweet and tender idea 
 of a woman than a living woman with substance and 
 stuff, and bone and flesh, though her pjission and devo- 
 tion are all before us as we read, and seem so alive and 
 so true, that they touch us and master us by their in- 
 tensity and vividness. 
 
 The sympathy between the writer and the reader of 
 a book is a very subtle and strange one, and there is 
 something curious in the necessity for expression on both 
 sides : the writer pouring out the experience and feelings 
 of years, and the reader, relieved and strengthened in 
 certain moods to find that otliers have experienced and 
 
HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 95 
 
 can speak of certain feelings, have passed through phases 
 with which he himself is acquainted. The imaginary- 
 Public is a inost sympathising friend ; he will listen to 
 the author's sad story ; he does not interrupt or rebuff 
 him, or weary with impatient platitudes, until he has had 
 his say and uttered all that was within him. The author 
 perhaps writes on good and ill, successes, hopes, disap- 
 pointments, or happier memories, of unexpected reprieves, 
 of unhOped-for good fortunes, of old friendships, long- 
 tried love, faithful sympathies enduring to the end. All 
 this, not in the words and descriptions of the events 
 which really happened, but in a language of which he or 
 she alone holds the key, or of which, perhaps, the full 
 significance is scarcely known even to the writer. Only 
 in the great unknown world which he addresses there 
 surely is the kindred spirit somewhere, the kind heart, 
 the friend of friends who will understand him. Novel- 
 writing must be like tears to some women, the. vent and 
 the relief of many a chafing spirit. People say. Why are 
 so many novels written ? and the answer is. Because there 
 are so many people feeling, thinking, and enduring, and 
 longing to give voice and expression to the silence of 
 the life in the midst of which they are struggling. The 
 necessity for expression is a great law of nature, one for 
 which there is surely some good and wise reason, as there 
 must be for that natural desire for sympathy which is 
 common to so many. There seems to be something 
 
HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 wrong and incomplete in those natures whicli do not 
 need it, something inhuman in those who are incapable 
 of understanding the mystical and tender bond by which 
 all humanity is joined and bound together. A bond of 
 common pain and pleasure, of common fear and hope, 
 and love, and weakness. 
 
 Poets tell us that not only human creatures, but the 
 whole universe, is thrilling with sympathy and expression, 
 speaking, entreating, uttering, in plaints or praise, or in 
 a wonder of love and admiration. What do the sounds 
 of a bright spring day mean .■• Cocks crow in the farm- 
 yards and valleys below ; high up in the clear heavens 
 the lark is pouring out its sweet passionate thrills ; 
 shriller and sweeter, and more complete as the tiny speck 
 soars higher and higher still, ' flow the profuse strains of 
 unpremeditated art.' The sheep baa and browse, and 
 shake their meek heads ; children shout for the very 
 pleasure of making a sound in the sunshine. Nature is 
 bursting with new green, brightening, -changing into a 
 thousand lovely shades. Seas washing and sparkling 
 against the shores, streaks of faint light gleam in distant 
 horizons, soft winds are blowing about the landscape ; 
 what is all this but an appeal for sympathy, a great 
 natural expression of emotion .' 
 
 And perhaps, after all, the real secret of our com- 
 plaint against modern heroines is not so much that they 
 are natural and speak out what is in them, and tell us of 
 
HEROINES and THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 97 
 
 cleeper and more passionate feeling than ever stirred, the 
 even tenour of their grandmothers' narratives, but that 
 they are morbid, constantly occupied with themselves, 
 one-sided, and ungrateful for the wonders and blessings 
 of a world which is not less beautiful now than it was a 
 hundred years ago, where perhaps there is a less amount 
 of pain than at the time when Miss Austen and Miss 
 Ferrier said their say. 
 
 ' ' Jane Austen's own story was more sad and more 
 -pathetic than thai of many and many of the heroines 
 whom we have- been passing in review and complaining 
 of, and who complain to us so loudly; but in her, 
 knowledge of good and evil, and^of sorrow and anxiety 
 and disappointment, evinced itself, not in impotent rail- 
 ings against the world and impatient paragraphs and 
 monotonous complaints^ but in a delicate sympathy 
 with the smallest events of life, a charming apprecia- 
 tion of its common aspects, a playful wisdom and 
 kindly humour, which charm us to this day. 
 
 Many of the heroines of to-day are dear and tried old 
 friends, and would be sorely missed out of our lives, and 
 leave irreparable blanks on our bookshelves ; numbers of 
 them are married and happily settled down in various 
 country-houses and parsonages in England and \A/'ales ; 
 but for the sake of their children who are growing up 
 round about them, and who will be the heroes and 
 heroines of the next generation or two, we would appeal 
 
 H 
 
98 HEROINES aiid THEIR GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 to their own sense of what is right and judicious, and 
 ask them if they would not desire to see their daughters 
 brought up in a simpler, less spasmodic, less introspective 
 state of mind than they themselves have been ? Are 
 they not sometimes haunted by the consciousness that 
 their own experiences may have suggested a strained 
 and affected view of life to some of their younger readers, 
 instead of encouraging them to cheerfulness, to content, 
 to a moderate estimate of their own infallibility, a charity 
 for others, and a not too absorbing contemplation of 
 themselves, their own virtues and shortcomings ? ' Avant 
 tout, le temps est poseur^ says George Sand, ' et toi qui 
 fais la guerre a ce travers, tu 'en es p^netrd de la tete 
 aux pieds.' 
 
99 
 
 LIT7LE SCHOLARS.^ 
 
 If no better can be done. 
 
 Let us do but this, — endeavour 
 
 That the sun behind the sun 
 
 Shine upon them while they shiver 
 
 On the dismal London flags. 
 
 Through the cruel social juggle. 
 
 Put a thought beneath the rags 
 
 To ennoble the heart's struggle. — E. B. Browning. 
 
 Yesterday morning, as I was walking up a street in 
 Pimlico, I came upon a crowd of persons issuing from a 
 Tiarrow alley. Ever so many little people there were 
 •streaming through a wicket : running children, shouting 
 ■children, loitering children, chattering children, and 
 children spinning tops by the way, so that the whole 
 street was awakened by the clatter. As I stand for an 
 instant to see the procession go by, one little girl pops 
 an impromptu curtsey, at which another from a distant 
 quarter, not behindhand in politeness, pops another ; 
 and presently an irregular volley of curtseyings goes off 
 in every direction. Then I blandly inquire if school is 
 over 1 and if there is anybody left in the house ? A 
 
 • Written in 1859. 
 H 2 
 
loo LITTLE SCHOLARS. 
 
 little brown-eyes nods her head, and says, ' There's a. 
 great many people left in the house.' And so there are,, 
 sure enough, as I find when I get in. 
 
 Down a narrow yard, with the workshops on one 
 side and the schools on the other, in at a low door which 
 leads into a liig room where there are rafters, maps 
 hanging on the walls, and remarks in immense letters, 
 such as, ' Coffee is good for my Breakfast,' and 
 pictures of useful things, with the well-thumbed story- 
 underneath ; a stove in the middle of the room ; a paper- 
 hanging up on the door with the names of the teachers ; 
 and everywhere wooden benches and tables, made low 
 and small for little legs and arms. 
 
 Well, the schoolroom is quite empty and silent now, 
 and the turmoil has poured eagerly out at the door. It 
 is twelve o'clock, the sun is shining in the court, and 
 something better- than schooling is going on in the 
 kitchen yonder. Wlio cares now where coffee comes 
 from ? or which are the chief cities in Europe .•• or in 
 -what year Stephen came to the throne .' For is not 
 twelve o'clock dinner-time with all sensible people ? and 
 what periods of history, what future aspirations, what 
 distant events are as important to us — grown-up folks, 
 and children, too — as this pleasant daily recurring one ? 
 
 The motherly schoolmistress who brought me in, tells 
 me, that for a shilling, half-a-dozen little boys and girls 
 can be treated to a wholesome meal. I wonder if it 
 
LITTLE SCHOLARS. lor 
 
 smells as good to them as it does to me, when I pull 
 my shilling out of my pocket. The food costs more thaii 
 twopence, but there is a fund to which people subscribe, 
 and, with its help, the kitchen cooks all through the 
 winter months. 
 
 All the children seem very fond of the good Mrs. 
 
 K < As we leave the schoolroom, one little thing 
 
 comes up crying, and clinging to her, ' A boy has been 
 and 'it me ! ' But when the mistress says, ' Well, never 
 niind, you shall have your dinner,' the child is instantly 
 consoled ; ' and you, and you, and you,' she continues ; 
 but this selection is too heartrending ; and with the help 
 of another lucky shilling, nobody present is left out. I 
 remember particularly a lank child, with great black 
 eyes and fuzzy hair, and a pinched grey face, who stood 
 leaning against a wall in the sun : once, in the Pontine 
 Marshes, years ago, I remember seeing such another 
 
 figure. ' That poor thing is seventeen,' says Mrs. K . 
 
 ■* She sometimes loiters here all day long; she has ho 
 inother : and she often comes and tells me her father is 
 so drunk she dare not go home. I always give her a 
 dinner when I can. This is the kitchen.' 
 
 The kitchen is a delightful, clean-scrubbed place, 
 ■with rice pudding baking in the oven, and a young 
 mistress, and a big girlj busy bringing in great caldrons 
 full of the mutton broth I have been scenting all this 
 time. It is a fresh, honest, hungry smell, quite different 
 
102 LITTLE SCHOLARS. 
 
 from that unwholesome compound of fry and sauce, and 
 hot, pungent spice, and stew and mess, which comes, 
 steaming up, someseven hours later,into our dining-rooms, 
 from the reeking kitchens below. Here a poor woman 
 is waiting, with a jug, and a round-eyed baby. The mis- 
 tress tells me the people in the neighbourhood are tooglad 
 to buy what is left of the children's dinner. ' Look what 
 
 good stuff it is,' says Mrs. K „and she shows me 
 
 a bowl full of the jelly, to which it turns when cold. As 
 the two girls come stepping through the sunny doorway, 
 with the smoking jar between them, I think Mr. Millais 
 might make a pretty picture of the little scene ; but my 
 attention is suddenly distracted by the round-eyed baby,, 
 ■who is peering down into the great soup-jug with such, 
 wide wide open eyes, and little hands outstretched — such 
 an eager, happy face, that it almost made one laugh, 
 and cry too, to see. The baby must be a favourite, for 
 he is served, and goes off in his mother's arms, keeping 
 vigilant watch over the jug, while four or five other jugs 
 and women are waiting still in the next room. Then, 
 into rows of little yellow basins our mistress pours the 
 broth, and we now go in to see the company in the 
 dining-hall waiting for its banquet. Ah me ; but it is a. 
 pleasanter sight to see than any company in all the 
 land. Somehow, as the children say grace, I feel as if 
 there was indeed a blessing on the food : a blessing 
 which brings colour into these wan cheeks, and strength. 
 
LITTLE SCHOLARS. 103 
 
 and warmth into these wasted little limbs. Meanwhile, 
 the expectant company is growing rather impatient, and 
 is battering the benches Avith its spoons, and tapping 
 neighbouring heads as well. There goes a little guest, 
 scrambling from his place across the room and back 
 again. So many are here to-day, that they have not all 
 got seats. I see the wan girl still standing against the 
 wall, and there is her brother — a sociable little fellow, all 
 dressed in corduroys — who is making droll faces at me 
 across the room, at which some other little boys burst 
 out laughing. But the infants on the dolls'-benches, at 
 the other end, are the best fun. There they are — three, 
 four, five years old — whispering and chattering, and 
 tumbling over one another. Sometimes one infant falls 
 suddenly forward, with its nose upon the table, and stops 
 there quite contentedly ; sometimes another disappears 
 entirely under the legs, and is tugged up by its neigh- 
 bours. A certain number of the infants have their 
 dinner every day, the mistress tells me. Mrs. Elliot 
 has said so, and hers is the kind hand which has pro- 
 vided for all these young ones ; while a same kind heart 
 has schemed how to shelter, to feed, to clothe, to teach, 
 the greatest number of these hungry, and cold, and 
 neglected little children, 
 
 As T am replying to the advances of my young friend 
 in the corduroys, I suddenly hear a cry of 'boo ! 000 ! 
 000 ! — noo spoons — noo spoons — 000 ! 000 ! 000 ! ' and 
 
I04 LITTLE SCBOLARS. 
 
 all the little hands stretch, put eagerly as one of the big 
 girls goes by with a paper of shining metal spoons. By 
 this time the basins of soup are travelling round, with 
 hunches of home-made bread. ' The infants are to have 
 pudding first,' says the mistress, coming forward ; and, 
 in a few minutes more, all the birds are busy pecking at 
 their bread and pudding, of which they take up very 
 small mouthfuls, in very big spoons, and let a good deal 
 slobber down over their pinafores. 
 
 One little curly-haired boy, with a very grave face, 
 was eating pudding very slowly and solemnly — so I said ' 
 to him : 
 
 ' Do you like pudding best ? ' 
 
 Little Boy. ' Isss.' 
 
 ' And can you read ? ' 
 
 Little Boy. ' Isss.' 
 
 ' And write ? ' 
 
 Little Boy. ' Isss.' 
 
 ' And have you got a sister ? ' 
 
 Little Boy. ' Isss.' 
 
 ' And does she wash your face so nicely ? ' 
 
 Little Boy, extra solemn. 'No, see is wite a little 
 girl ; see is on'y four year old.' 
 
 ' And how old are yoa .'" 
 
 Little Boy, with great dignity. ' T am fi'. year old.' 
 
 Then he told me Mrs. Willis ' wassed ' his face, and 
 he brought his sister to school. 
 
LITTLE SCHOLARS. lOS 
 
 ' Where is your sister ? ' says the mistress, going by. 
 
 But four-years was not forthcoming. 
 
 ' I s'pose see has wait home,' says the child, and goes 
 on with his pudding. 
 
 This little pair are orphans out of the workhouse, 
 
 Mrs. K told me. But somebody pays Mrs. Willis 
 
 for their keep. 
 
 There was another funny little thing, very small, 
 sitting between two bigger boys, to whom I said — 
 
 ' Are you a little boy or a little girl .' ' 
 
 ' Little dirl,' says this baby, quite confidently. 
 
 ' No you ain't,' cries the left-hand neighbour, very 
 much excited. 
 
 ' Yes, she is,' says right-hand neighbour. 
 
 And then three or four more join in, each taking a 
 •different view of the question. All this time corduroys 
 is still grinning and making faces in his corner. I 
 admire his brass buttons, upon which three or four more 
 ■children hastily crowd round to look at them. One is a 
 poor little deformed fellow, to whom buttons would be 
 of very little use. He is in quite worn and ragged 
 ■clothes : he looks as pale and thin almost as that poor 
 ■girl I first noticed. He has no mother; he and his 
 brother live alone with their father, who is out all day, 
 and the children have to do everything for themselves. 
 The young ones here who have no mothers seem by far 
 the worst off- ' This little deformed boy, poor as he is. 
 
io6 LITTLE SCHOLARS. 
 
 finds something to give away. Presently I see him 
 scrambling over the backs of the others, and feeding 
 them with small shreds of meat, which he takes out of 
 his soup with his grubby little fingers, and which one 
 little fellow, called Thompson, is eating with immense 
 
 relish. Mrs. K here comes up, and says that those 
 
 who are hungry are to have some more. Thompson 
 has some more, and so does another rosy little fellow ;, 
 but the others have hardly finished what was first given 
 them, and the very little ones send off their pudding half 
 eaten and ask for soup. I did not hear a sharp tone. 
 All the children seemed at home, and happy, and gently 
 dealt with. However cmelly want, and care, and harsh- 
 ness haunt their own homes, here at least there are only 
 kind words and comfort for these poor little pilgrims 
 whose toil has begun so early. Mrs. Elliot told me once 
 that often in winter time these children come barefooted 
 through the snow, and so cold and hungry that they" 
 have fallen off their seats half fainting. We may be 
 sure that such little sufferers — thanks to these Good 
 Samaritans — will be tenderly picked up and cared for. 
 But, I wonder, must' there always be children in the 
 ■world hungry and deserted .' and will there never, out of 
 all the abundance of the earth, be enough to spare to 
 content those who want so little to make them happy } 
 
 Mrs. Elliot came in while I was still at the school, and 
 took me over the workshops where the elder boys leara 
 
LITTLE SCHOLARS. \Q>t 
 
 to carpenter and carve. Scores of draAving-rooms in 
 Belgra\^ia are bristling with the pretty little tables and 
 ornaments these young artificers design. A young man 
 with a scriptural name superintends the work ; the boys- 
 are paid' for their labour, and send out red velvet and 
 t\visted legs, and wood ornamented in a hundred devices. 
 There is an industrial class for girls, too. The best 
 and oldest are taken in, and taught housework, and 
 kitchen-work, and sewing. Even the fathers and 
 mothers come in for a share of the good things, and are 
 invited to tea sometimes, and amused in the evening^ 
 with magic lanterns, and conjurors, and lecturings. I 
 do not dwell at greater length upon the industrial part, 
 of these schools, because I want to speak of anotlier 
 very similar institution I went to see another day. 
 
 On my way thither I had occasion to go through an 
 old churchyard, full of graves and sunshine : a quaint 
 old suburban place, with tree-tops and old brick houses 
 all round about, and ancient windows looking down, 
 upon the quiet tombstones. Some children were play- 
 ing among the graves, and two rosy little girls in big^ 
 bonnets were sitting demurely on a stone, and grasping 
 two babies that were placidly basking in the sun. The 
 little girls look up and grin as I go by. I would ask them 
 the way, only I know they won't answer, and so I go- 
 OHj out at an old iron gate, with a swinging lamp, up 
 • Church Walk ' (so it is written), and along a trim little. 
 
;io8 LITTLE SCHOLARS. 
 
 terrace, to where a maid-of-all-\vork is scrubbing at her 
 
 ;steps. When I asked the damsel my way to B 
 
 Street, she says she ' do-ant know B Street, but 
 
 there's Little Davis Street round the corner ; ' and when 
 I say I'm afraid Little Davis Street is no good to me, 
 ^he says, ' 'Tain't Gunter's Row, is it ? ' So I go off in 
 despair, and after some minutes of brisk walking, find 
 -myself turning up the trim little terrace again, where 
 "the maid-of-all-work is still "busy at her steps. This 
 ■time, as we have a sort of acquaintance, I tell her that I 
 am looking for a house where girls are taken in, and 
 -educated, and taught to be hoiisemaids. At which con- 
 :fidence she brightens up, and says, ' There's a 'ouse 
 Tound the-ar with somethink wrote on the door, jest 
 where the little boy's a-trundlin' of his 'oop.' 
 
 And so, sure enough, following the hoop, I come to 
 an old-fashioned house in a courtyard, and ring at a 
 -wooden door on which ' Girls' Industrial Schools ' is 
 painted up in white letters. 
 
 A little industrious girl, in a lilac pinafore, let me in, 
 ■with a curtsey. 
 
 ' May I come in and see the place ? ' say I. 
 
 ' Please, yes,' says she (another curtsey). ' Please, 
 what name .' — please, walk this way.' 
 
 ' This way ' leads through the court, where clothes 
 are hanging on lines, into a little office-room, where my 
 :guide leaves me, with yet another little curtsey. In a 
 
LITTLE SCHOLARS. 109. 
 
 minute the mistress comes out from the inner room.' 
 She is a kind smiling young woman, with a fresli face 
 and a pleasant manner. She takes me in, and I see a 
 dozen more girls in lilac pinafores reading round a deal 
 table. They look mostly about thirteen or fourteen 
 years old. I ask if this is all the school. 
 
 'No, not all,' the mistress says, counting, 'some are 
 in the laundry, and some are not at home. When they 
 are old enough, they go out into the neighbourhood to- 
 help to wash, or cook, or what not. Go on, girls ! ' and" 
 the girls instantly begin to read again, and the mistress,, 
 opening a door, brings us out into the passage,, 'We 
 have room for twenty-two,' says the mistress ; ' and we: 
 dress them, and feed them, and teach them as well as 
 we can. On week-days they wear anything' we can find 
 for them, but they have, very nice frocks on Sundays. 
 I never leave them; I sit with them, and sleep among 
 them, and walk with them ; they are always friendly 
 and affectionate to me and among themselves, and are 
 very good companions,' 
 
 In answer to my questions, she said that most of 
 the children were put in by friends who paid half-a- 
 crown a week for them, sometimes the parents them- 
 selves, but they could rarely afford it. That besides 
 this, and what the girls could earn, 2CX)/. a year is re- 
 quired, for the rent of the house and expenses. ' It has. 
 always been made up,' says tlie mistress, ' but we can't 
 
no LITTLE SCHOLARS. 
 
 help being very anxious at times, as we have nothing 
 certain, nor any regular subscriptions. Won't you see 
 the laundry ? ' she adds, opening a door. 
 
 In the laundry is a steam, and a clatter, and irons, 
 and linen, and a little mangle, turned by two little girls, 
 while two or three more are busy ironing under the 
 superintendence of a washerwoman with tuclced-up 
 sleeves ; piles of shirt-collars and handkerchiefs and 
 linen are lying on the shelves, shirts and clothes are 
 hanging on lines across the room. The little girls don't 
 stop, but go on busily. 
 
 ' Where is Mary Anne .' ' says the mistress, with a 
 little conscious pride. 
 
 'There she is, mum,' says the washerwoman, and 
 "Mary Anne steps out blushing from behind the mangle, 
 with a hot iron in her hand and a hanging head. 
 
 'Mary Anne is our chief laundry-maid,' says the 
 mistress, as we come out into the hall again. 'For the 
 first year I could make nothing of her ; she was miser- 
 able in the kitchen, she couldn't bear housework, she 
 wouldn't learn her lessons. In fact, I was quite un- 
 happy about her, till one day I set her to ironing ; she 
 took to it instantly, and has been quite cheerful and 
 busy ever since.' 
 
 So leaving Mary Anne to her vocation in life, we 
 ■went up-stairs to the dormitories. The first floor' is let 
 to a lady, and one of the girls is chosen to wait upon. 
 
LITTLE SCHOLARS. iii 
 
 lier J the second floor is where they sleep, in fresh light 
 rooms with open windows and sweet spring breezes 
 blowing in across gardens and courtyards. The place 
 was delightfully trim, and fresh, and peaceful ; the little 
 grey-coated beds stood in rows, with a basket at the 
 foot of each, and texts were hanging up on the wall. 
 In the next room stood a wardrobe full of the girls' 
 Sunday clothes, of which one of the girls keeps the key ; 
 after this came the mistress's own room, as fresh and 
 light and well kept as the rest. 
 
 These little maidens scrub, and cook, and wash, and 
 -sew. They make brcth for the poor, and puddings. 
 They are taught to read and write and count, and they 
 learn geography and history as well. Many of them 
 ■come from dark unwholesome alleys in the neighbour- 
 hood — from a dreary country of dirt and crime and foul 
 talk. In this little convent all is fresh and pure, and 
 the sunshine pours in at every window. I don't know 
 that the life is very exciting there, or that the days spent 
 at the mangle, or round the deal table, can be very 
 stirring ones. But surely they are well spent, learning 
 useful arts, and order, and modesty, and cleanliness. 
 Think of the cellars and slums from which these children 
 come, and of the quiet little haven where they are fitted 
 for the struggle of life, and are taught to be good, and 
 industrious, and sober, and honest. It is only for a year 
 or two, and then they will go out into the world again ; 
 
H2 LITTLE SCHOLARS. 
 
 into a world indeed of which we know but little — a world 
 of cooks and kitchen-maids and general servants. I 
 daresay these little industrious girls, sitting round that 
 table and spelling out the Gospel of St. John this sunny 
 afternoon, are longing and wistfully thinking about that 
 wondrous coming time. Meanwhile the quiet hour 
 goes by. I say farewell to the mistress ; Mary Anne 
 is still busy among her irons ; I hear the mangle click 
 as I pass, and the wooden door opens to let me out. 
 
 In another old house, standing in a deserted old 
 square near the City, there is a school which interested 
 me as muth as any of those I have come across — a 
 school for little Jewish boys and girls. We find a 
 tranquil roomy old house with light windows, looking;' 
 out into the quiet square with its ancient garden ; a 
 carved staircase ; a little hall paved with black and 
 white mosaic, whence two doors lead respectively to the 
 Boys' and Girls' schools. Presently a little girl unlocks 
 one of these doors, and runs up before us into the school- 
 room — a long well-lighted room full of other little girls 
 busy at their desks : little Hebrew maidens with 
 Oriental faces, who look up at us as we come in. This 
 
 is always rather an alarming moment; but Dr. , 
 
 who knows the children, comes to our help, and begins 
 to tell us about the school. ' It is an experiment,' he 
 says, ' and one which has answered admirably well. 
 Any children are admitted, Christians as well as Jews ; 
 
LITTLE SCHOLARS. 113 
 
 and none come without paying something every week, 
 twopence or threepence, as they can afford, for many of 
 theni belong to the very poorest of the Jewish commu- 
 nity. ■ They receive a very high class of education.' 
 (When I presently see what they are doing, and hear 
 the questions they can answer, I begin to feel a very 
 great respect for these little bits of girls in pinafores, and 
 for the people who are experimenting on them.) ' But 
 the chief aim of the school is to teach them to help 
 themselves, and to inculcate an honest self-dependence 
 and independence.' And indeed, as I look at them, I 
 cannot but be struck with a certain air of respectability 
 and uprightness among these little creatures, as they sit 
 there, so self-possessed, keen-eyed, well-mannered. 
 ' Could you give them a parsing lesson ? ' the doctor 
 asks the schoolmistress, who shakes her head, and 
 says it is their day for arithmetic, and. she may not 
 interrupt the order of their studies, but that they 
 may answer any questions the doctor likes to put to 
 them. 
 
 Little things, with their hair in curls, can tell you 
 about tons and hundredweights, and how many horses 
 it would take to draw a ton, and how many little girls 
 to draw two-thirds of a ton, if so many little girls went 
 to a horse ; and if a horse were added, or a horse taken 
 away, or two-eighths of the little girls, or three-fourths 
 of the horse, or one-sixth of the ton, — until the room 
 
 I 
 
114 LITTLE SCHOLARS. 
 
 begins to spin breathlessly round and round, and I am 
 left ever so far behindhand. 
 
 ' Is avoirdupois an English word ?' Up goes a little 
 hand, with fingers working eagerly, and a pretty little 
 creature, with long black hair and a necklace, cries out 
 that it is French, and means, have weight. 
 
 Then the doctor asks about early English history, 
 and the hands still go up, and they know all about it ; 
 and so they do about civilisation, and despotism, and 
 charters, and Picts and Scots, and dynasties, and early 
 lawgivers, and colonisation, and reformation. 
 
 ' Who was Martin Luther } Why did he leave the 
 Catholic Church .'' What were indulgences ? ' 
 
 ' You gave the Pope lots of money, sir, and he gave 
 you dispensations.' This was from our little portress. 
 
 There was another shrimp of a thing, with wonderful, 
 long-slit, flashing eyes, who could answer anything 
 almost, and whom the other little girls accordingly 
 brought forward in triumph from a back row. 
 
 ' Give me an instance of a free country ? ' asks the 
 tired questioner. 
 
 ' England, sir ! ' ciy the little girls in a shout. 
 
 ' And now of a country which is not free.' 
 
 ' America,' cry two little voices ; and then one adds, 
 * Because there are slaves, sir.' ' And France,' says a 
 third ; ' and we have seen the emperor in the picture- 
 shops.' 
 
LITTLE SCHOLARS. 115 
 
 As I listen to them, I cannot help wishing that many 
 of our little Christians were taught to be as independent 
 and self-respecting in their dealings with the grown-up 
 people who come to look at them. One would fancy 
 that servility was a sacred institution, we cling to it so 
 fondly. We seem to expect an absurd amount of re- 
 spect from our juniors and inferiors ; we are ready to pay 
 back just as much to those above us in station ; and ■ 
 hence I think, notwithstanding all the kindness of heart, 
 all the well-meant and well-spent exertion we see in the 
 world, there is often too great an inequality between 
 those who teach and those who would learn, those who 
 give and those whose harder part it is to receive. 
 
 We were quite sorry at last when the doctor made a 
 little bow, and said, ' Good morning, young ladies,' quite 
 politely, to his pupils. It was too late to stop and talk 
 to the little boys down below, but we went for a minute 
 into an inner room out of the large boys' schoolroom, 
 and. there we found half-a-dozen little men, with their 
 hats on their heads, sitting on their benches, reading 
 the Psalms in Hebrew ; and so we stood, for this minute 
 before we came away, listening to David's words spoken 
 in David's tongue, and ringing rather sadly in the boys 
 touching childish voice. 
 
 But this is not by any means the principal school 
 which the Jews have established in London. Deep in 
 the heart of the City — beyond St Paul's — ^beyond the 
 
ji6 LITTLE SCHOLARS. 
 
 Cattle Market, with its countless pens— beyond Fins- 
 bury Square, and the narrow Barbican, travelling on 
 through a dirty, close, thickly-peopled region, you come 
 to Bell Lane, in Spitalfields. And here you may step 
 in at a door and suddenly find yourself in a wonderful 
 country, in the midst of an unknown people, in a great 
 hall sounding with the voices of hundreds of Jewish chil- 
 dren. I know not if it is always so, or if this great as- 
 semblage is only temporary, during the preparation for 
 the Passover, but all along the sides of this great room 
 were curtained divisions, and classes sitting divided, 
 busy at their tasks, and children upon children as far as 
 you could see ; and somehow as you look you almost 
 see, not these children only, but their forefathers, the 
 Children of Israel, camping in their tents, as they 
 camped at Succoth, when they fled out of the land of 
 Egypt and the house of bondage. Some of these here 
 present to-day are still flying from the house of bond- 
 age ; many of them are the children of Poles, and 
 Russians, and Hungarians, who have escaped over here 
 to avoid conscription, and who arrive destitute and in 
 great misery. But to be friendless, and in want, and 
 poverty-stricken, is the best recommendation for admis- 
 sion to this noble charity. And here, as elsewhere, any 
 one who comes to the door is taken in, Christian as well 
 as Jew. 
 
 I have before me now the Report for the year 5619 
 
LITTLE SCHOLARS. \l^ 
 
 (1858), during which 1,800 children have come to these 
 schools daily. 10,000 in all have been admitted since 
 the foundation of the school. The working alone of the 
 establishment — salaries, repairs, books, laundresses, &c. 
 — amounts to more than 2,000/. a year. Of this a very 
 considerable portion goes in salaries to its officers, of 
 whom I count more than fifty in the first page of the 
 pamphlet. '12/. to a man for washing boys,' is surely 
 well-spent money ; ' 3/. to a beadle ; 14/. for brooms and 
 brushes ; i/. 19J. (>d. for repair of clocks,' are among the 
 items. The annual subscriptions are under 500/., and 
 the very existence of the place (so says the Report) 
 depends on voluntary offerings at the anniversary. That 
 some of these gifts come in with splendid generosity, I 
 need scarcely say. Clothing for the whole school arrives 
 at Easter once a year, and I saw great bales of boots for 
 the boys waiting to be unpacked in their schoolroom. 
 Tailors and shoemakers corne and take measurings 
 beforehand, so that everybody gets his own. To-day 
 these artists having retired, carpenters and bricklayers are 
 at work all about the place, and the great boys' school, 
 which is larger still than the girls', is necessarily empty, 
 ■ — ^except that a group of teachers and monitors are stand- 
 ing in one corner talking and whispering together. The 
 head master, with a black beard, comes down from.a high 
 desk in an inner room, and tells us about the place — 
 about the cleverness of the children, and the scholarship 
 
ii8 LITTLE SCHOLAKS. 
 
 lately founded ; how well many of the boys turn out in 
 after life, and for what good positions they are fitted by 
 the education they are able to receive here ;-— ' though 
 Jews,' he said, ' are debarred by their religious require- 
 ments from two-thirds of the employments which Chris- 
 tians are able to fill. Masters cannot afford to employ 
 workmen who can only, give their time from Monday to 
 Friday afternoon. There are, therefore, only a very 
 limited number of occupations open to us. Some of our 
 boys rise to be ministers, and many become teachers 
 here, in which case Government allows them a certain 
 portion of their salary.' 
 
 The head mistress in the girls' school was not less 
 kind and ready to answer our questions. During the 
 Avinter mornings, hot bread-and-milk are given out to 
 any girl who chooses to ask for it, but only about a hun- 
 dred come forward, of the very hungriest and poorest. 
 
 When we came away from Square a day before, we 
 
 had begun to think that all poor Jews were well and 
 warmly clad, and had time to curl their hair and to look 
 clean and prosperous, and respectable, but here, alas ! 
 comes the old story of want, and sorrow, and neglect. 
 What are these brown, lean, wan little figures, in loose 
 gowns falling from their shoulders— black eyes, fuzzy, un- 
 kempt hair, strange bead necklaces round their throats, 
 and earrings in their ears ? I fancied these must be the 
 Poles and Russians, but when I spoke to one of them she 
 
LITTLE SCBOLARS. 119 
 
 smiled and answered very nicely, in perfectly good 
 English, and told me she liked \vriting best of all, and 
 showed me a copy very neat, even, and legible. 
 
 Whole classes seemed busy sewing at lilac pinafores, 
 which are, I suppose, a great national institution ; others 
 were ciphering and calling out the figures as the mistress 
 chalked the sum upon a slate. Hebrew alphabets and 
 sentences were hanging upon the walls. All these little 
 Hebrew maidens learn the language of their nation. 
 
 In the infant-school, a very fat little pouting baby, 
 with dark eyes and a little hook-nose and curly locks, and 
 a blue necklace and funny earrings in her little rosy ears, 
 came forward, grasping one of the mistress' fingers. 
 
 ' This is a good little girl,' said that lady, ' who knows 
 her alphabet in Hebrew and in English.' 
 
 And the little girl looks up very solemn, as children 
 do to whom everything is of va^t importance, and each 
 little incident a great new fact. The infant schools do not 
 make part of theBell Lane Establishment, though they are 
 connected with it, and the childfen, as they grow up, and 
 are infants no longer, draft off into the great free-school. 
 
 The infant-school is a light new building close by, with 
 arcaded playgrounds, and plenty of light, and air, and 
 freshness, though it stands in this dreary, grimy region. 
 As we come into the schoolrooms we find piled up on steps 
 at either end, great living heaps of little infants, swaying, 
 kicking, shouting for their dinner, beating aimlessly about 
 
120 LITTLE SCHOLARS. 
 
 with little legs and arms. Little Jew babies are uncom- 
 monly like little Christians ; just as funny, as hungry, as 
 helpless, and happy now that the bowls of food come 
 steaming in. One, two, three, four, five little cook-boys, 
 in white jackets and caps, and aprons, appear in a line, 
 with trays upon their heads, like the processions out of 
 the Arabian Nights ; and as each cook-boy appears the 
 children cheer, and the potatoes steam hotter and hotter, 
 and the mistresses begin to ladle them out. 
 
 Rice and browned potatoes is the manna given tivice 
 a week to these hungry little Israelites. I rather wish 
 for the soup and pudding certain small Christians are 
 gobbling up just about this time in another corner of 
 London ; but this is but a halfpenny-worth, while the 
 other meal costs a penny. You may count by hundreds 
 here instead of by tens ; and I don't think there would 
 be so much shouting- at the little cook-boys if these 
 hungry little beaks were not eager for their food. I was 
 introduced to one little boy here, who seemed to be 
 very much looked up to'by his companions because he 
 had one long curl right along the top of his head. As we 
 were busy talking to him, a number of little things 
 sitting on the floor were busy stroking and feeling with 
 little gentle fingers the soft edges of a coat one of us had 
 on, and the silk dress of a lady who was present. 
 
 The lady who takes chief charge of these 400 babies 
 told us how the mothers as well as the children got 
 
LITTLE SCHOLARS. 121 
 
 assistance here in many ways, sometimes coming for 
 advice, sometimes for small loans of money, which they 
 always faithfully repay. She also showed us letters from 
 some of the boys who have left' and prospered in life — 
 one from a youth who has lately been elected alderman 
 in some distant colony. She took us into a class-room 
 and gave a lesson to some twenty little creatures, while, 
 as it seemed to me, all the 380 others were tapping at 
 the door, and begging to be let in. It was an object-, 
 and then a scripture- lesson, and given with the help of 
 old familiar pictures. There was Abraham with his 
 beard, and Isaac and the ram, hanging up against the 
 wall ; there was Moses, and the Egyptians, and Joseph, 
 and the sack and the brethren, somewhat out of drawing. 
 All these old friends gave one quite a homely feeling, 
 and seemed to hold out friendly hands to us strjmgers 
 and Philistines, standing within the gates of the chosen 
 people. 
 
 Before we came away the mistress opened a door and 
 showed us one of the prettiest and most touching sights 
 I have ever seen. It was the arcaded playground full of 
 happy, shouting, tumbling, scrambling little creatures : 
 little tumbled-down ones kicking and shouting on the 
 ground, absurd toddling races going on, whole files of 
 little things wandering up and down with their arms 
 round one another's necks : a happy, friendly little multi- 
 tude indeed : a sight good for sore eyes. 
 
122 LITTLE SCHOLARS. 
 
 And so I suppose people of all nations and religions 
 love and tend their little ones, and watch and yearn over 
 them. I have seen little Catholics cared for by kind 
 nuns with wistful tenderness, as the young ones came 
 clinging to their black veils and playing with their 
 chaplets ; — little high-church maidens growing up rosy 
 and happy amid crosses and mediaeval texts, and chants, 
 and dinners of fish, and kind and melancholy ladies in 
 close caps and loose-cut dresses ; — little low-church 
 children smiling and dropping curtseys as they see the 
 Rev. Mr. Faith-in-grace coming up the lane with tracts 
 in his big pockets about pious negroes, and broken 
 vessels, and devouring worms, and I daresay pennies and 
 sugar-plums as well. 
 
 Who has not seen and noted these things, and blessed 
 with a thankful, humble heart that fatherly Providence 
 which has sent this pure and tender religion of little 
 children to all creeds and to all the world .' 
 
OUT OF THE SILENCE. 
 
 Only the prism's obstruction shows aright 
 The secret of a sunbeam: breaks its light 
 Into the jewelled bow from blankest white ; 
 
 So may a glory from defect arise. 
 Only by Deafness may the vexed Love wreak 
 Its insuppressive sense on brow and cheek ; 
 Only by Dumbness adequately speak. 
 
 As favoured mouth could never, thro' the e}'es. 
 
 R. Browning. 
 
 There is a certain crescent in a distant part of 
 London — a part distant, that is, from clubs and parks 
 and the splendours of Rotten Row — ^vvhere a great many- 
 good works and good intentions carried out, have taken 
 refuge. House-rent is cheap, the place is wide and. 
 silent and airy ; there are even a few trees to be seen 
 opposite the windows of the houses, although we may- 
 have come for near an hour rattling through the streets 
 of a neighbourhood dark and dreary in looks, and closely 
 packed with people and children, and wants and pains 
 andtroubles of every tangible form for the colonists of 
 Burton Crescent to minister to. 
 
 We pass by the Dciaconesses' Home : it is not with 
 
124 OUT of the SILENCE. 
 
 them that we have to do to-day ; and we tell the car- 
 riage to stop at the door of one of the houses, where a 
 brass-plate is set up, with an inscription setting forth 
 what manner of inmates there are within, and we get 
 out, send the carriage away, and ring the bell for admis- 
 sion. 
 
 One of the inmates peeped out from a doorway at 
 us as we came into the broad old-fashioned passage. 
 This was the little invalid of the establishment, we were 
 afterwards told ; she had hurt her finger, and was 
 allowed to sit down below with the matron, instead of 
 doing her lessons with the other children upstairs. 
 
 How curious and satisfactory these lessons are, any 
 one who likes may see and judge by making a similar 
 pilgrimage to the one which F. and I undertook that 
 wintry afternoon. The little establishment is a sort of 
 short English translation of a great continental experi- 
 ment of which an interesting account was given in the 
 ' Cornhill Magazine,' under the title of ' Dumb Men's 
 Speech.' Many of my friends were interested in it, and 
 one day I received a note on the subject 
 
 ' Dumb men do speak in England,' wrote a lady who 
 had been giving her help and countenance to a similar 
 experiment over here ; and from her I learnt that this 
 attempt to carry put the system so patiently taught by 
 Brother Cyril was now being made, and that children 
 were being shown how to utter their wants, not by signs, 
 
OUT Of the SILENCE. 125 
 
 but by speech, and in English, at the Jewish Home for 
 Deaf and Dumb Children in Burton Crescent. 
 
 The great difference in this German system as op- 
 posed to the French, is that signs are as much as 
 possible discarded after the beginning, and that the 
 pupils are taught to read upon the lips of others, and to 
 speak in words, what under the other system would be 
 expressed in writing or by signs. The well-kno-ivn 
 Abbd de I'Ep^e approved, they say, of this method, and 
 wrote a treatise on the subject, and his successor, the 
 Abb6 Sicard, says (I am quoting from a quotation), ' Le 
 sourd-muet n'est done totalement rendu a la soci^te que 
 lorsqu'on lui a appris i s'exprimer de vive voix et de 
 lire la parole dans les mouvements des l^vres.' This 
 following very qualified sentence of his is also quoted in 
 a report which has been sent me : ' Prenez garde, que 
 je n'ai point dit que le sourd-muet ne pent pas parler, 
 mais ne sait pas parler. II est possible que Mapuiz apprit 
 a parler si j'avais le temps de le lui apprendre.' 
 
 Time, hours after hours of patience, good-will, are 
 given freely to this work by the good people who direct 
 the various establishments in the Netherlands where the 
 deaf and dumb are now instructed. 
 
 How numerous and carefully organised these insti- 
 tutions are may be gathered from a little pamphlet 
 written by the great Director Hirsch of Rotterdam, who 
 first introduced this system into the schools, and who 
 
126 OUT of the SILENCE. 
 
 has lately made a little journey from school to school, 
 to note the progress of the undertaking he has so much 
 at heart. Brussels and Ghent and Antwerp and Bruges, 
 he visited all these and other outlying establishments, and 
 was received everywhere with open arms by the good 
 brothers who have undertaken to teach the system he 
 advocates. Dr. Hirsch is delighted with everything he 
 sees until he comes to Bruges, where he says that he is 
 struck by the painful contrast which its scholars present 
 as compared to the others he had visited on his way. 
 ' They looked less gay (moins enjou6) than any of those 
 he had seen.' But this is explained to him by the fact 
 that in this school the French method is still partly 
 taught, and he leaves after a little exhortation to the. 
 Director, and a warning that public opinion will be 
 against him if he continues the ancient system as op- 
 posed to the newer and more intelligible one. It is slower 
 in the beginning, says the worthy Doctor ; it makes 
 greater demands upon our patience, our time, our 
 money, but it carries the pupil on far more rapidly and 
 satisfactorily after the early steps are first mastered, 
 until, when at last the faculty of hearing with the eyes 
 has been once acquired, isolation exists no longer, the 
 sufferer is given back to the world, and every one he 
 meets is a new teacher to help to bring his study to per- 
 fection. 
 
 1873. The Jewish Home for Deaf and Dumb Chil- 
 
OUT of tlie SILENCE. 127 
 
 dren in Burton Crescent was only started as an experi- 
 ment. The lady who wrote to me guaranteed the rent 
 and various expenses for a year, after which the experi- 
 ment was to stand upon its own merits. Since the 
 opening of the home modifications have taken place in its 
 arrangements, and finally it has been determined to open a 
 second school for the education of any little Christians 
 who, as well as the little Jews, might come as day- 
 scholars there, to be taught with much labour and in- 
 finite patience and pains what others learn almost 
 unconsciously and without an effort. 
 
 F. and I have been going upstairs all this time, and 
 come into a back-room or board-room, opening with 
 folding-doors into the schoolroom, where the children are 
 taught. As we went in the young master, M. von 
 Praagh (he is a pupil, I believe, of Dr. Hirsch's) came 
 forward to receive us, and welcomed us in the most 
 friendly way. The children all looked up at us with 
 bright flashing eyes — little boys and little girls in 
 brown pinafores, with cheery little smiling faces peeping 
 and laughing at us along their benches. In the room 
 itself there is the usual apparatus — the bit of chalk, the 
 great slate for tlie master to write upon, the little ones 
 for the pupils, the wooden forms, the pinafores, the 
 pictures hanging from the walls, and, what was touching 
 to me, the usual little games and frolics and understand- 
 ings going on in distant corners, and even under the 
 
I2S OUT of the SILENCE. 
 
 master's good-natured eye. He is there to bring out, 
 and not to repress, and the children's very confidence 
 in his kindness and sympathy seems to be one of the 
 conditions of their education and cure. 
 
 He clapped his hands, and a little class came and 
 stood round the big slate — a big girl, a little one, two 
 little boys. ' Attention,' says the teacher, and he begins 
 naming different objects, such as fish, bread, chamois, 
 coal-scuttle. All these words the children read off his 
 lips by watching the movement of his mouth. As he 
 says each word the children brighten, seize the idea, rush 
 to the pictures that are hanging on the wall, discover 
 the object he has named, and bring it in breathless 
 triumph. 'Tomb,' said the master, after naming a 
 variet}' of things, and a big girl, with a beaming face, 
 pointed to the ground and nodded her head emphatically, 
 grinning from ear to ear. But signs are not approved 
 of in this establishment, and, as I have said, the great 
 object is to get them to talk. And it must be remem- 
 bered that they are only beginners and that the home 
 has only been opened a few months. One little thing, 
 scarcely more than a baby, who had only lately come in, 
 had spoken for the first time that very day, — ' a, a, i,' 
 cried the little creature. She was so much delighted 
 with her newly-gotten power that nothing would induce 
 her to leave off exercising it. She literally shouted out 
 her plaintive little ' a.' It was like the note of a little. 
 
OUT of the SILENCE. -Xi/i. 
 
 ■tamb, for, of course, being deaf, she had not yet learnt 
 how. to modulate her voice, and she had to be carried off 
 into a distant corner by a bigger girl, who tried to amuse 
 her and keep herstill. 
 
 'It is an immense thing for the children,^ said M., 
 von Praagh, ' to feel that they are not cut off hopelessly 
 
 ■and markedly from communication with their fellow- 
 creatures ; the organs of speech being developed, their 
 lungs are strengthened, their health improves. " You can 
 see a change in the very expression of their faces, they 
 delight in using their newly acquired power, and won^ 
 
 -use the finger-alphabet even among themselves.' And, 
 as if to corroborate what he was saying, there cariie a 
 cheery vociferous outbreak of ' el's ' frpm the corner where 
 the little girl had been installed with some toys, and all 
 the other children laughed. 
 
 I do not know whether little Jew boys and girls, 
 are on in average cleverer than little Christians, or 
 whether, notwithstanding their infirmity, the care and 
 culture bestowed upon them has borne this extra fruit-; 
 but these' little creatures were certainly brighter and 
 more lively than any dozen Sunday-school children 
 taken at hazard. Their eyes danced, their faces worked 
 with interest and attention, they seemed to catch light 
 from their master's face, from one another's, from ours as 
 
 . we spoke ; their eagerness, their cheerfulness andchildish 
 
 :gree, were really remarkable; they laughed : to- biie 
 
 K 
 
.-t.30 OUT of the SILENCE. 
 
 another much like any other children, peeped over their 
 ■ -slates, answered together when they were called up. It 
 was difficult to remember that they were deaf, though, 
 when they spoke, a great slowness, indistinctness, and 
 peculiarity was of course very noticeable. But these are 
 only the pupils of a month or two, be it remembered. A 
 child with all its faculties is nearly two years learning to 
 talk. 
 
 One little fellow with a charming expressive face and 
 eyes like two brown stars, came forward, and ciphered 
 and read to us, and showed us his copy-book. He "is 
 .beginning Hebrew as well as English. His voice is 
 pleasant, melancholy, but quite melodious, and, to my 
 surprise, he addressed me by my name, a long name 
 with many letters in it. M. von Praagh had said it to 
 him on his lips, for of course it is not necessary for the 
 master to use his voice, and the motion of the lips is 
 enough to make them understand. The name of my com- 
 panion, although a short one, is written with four difficult 
 consonants, and only one vowel to bind them together, 
 and it gave the children more trouble than mine had 
 done ; but after one or two effisrts the little boy hit upon 
 the right way of saying it, and a gleam of satisfaction 
 -came into his face as well as his master's. M. von 
 Praagh takes the greatest possible pains with, and 
 interest in every effort and syllable. He holds the 
 •children's hands and accentuates the words by raising 
 
OUT of the SILENCE. 131 
 
 or letting them fall ; he feels their throats and makes 
 them feel his own. It would be hard indeed if so 
 much patience and enthusiasm produced no results to 
 reward it. 
 
 ' What o'clock is it ? ' M. von Praagh asked. 
 
 ' Foor o'clock,' said the little boy, without looking 
 up. 
 
 ' How do you know .' ' asked the master. 
 
 ' Miss is come,' said the little fellow, laughing. 
 
 This was a lady who came to give the girls their 
 sewing lesson so many times a week. 
 
 I need not describe the little rooms upstairs, witli the 
 usual beds in rows, and the baths, the play-rpom — the 
 arrangements everywhere for the children's comfort and 
 happiness. If the school is still deaf arid dumb for most 
 practical purposes, yet the light is shining in ; the 
 children are happy, and understand what is wanted of 
 them, and are evidently in the right way. For the short 
 time he has been at work as yet, M. von Praagh has 
 worked wonders. 
 
 Babies, as I have just said, with all their faculties are 
 about two years learning to speak. There is a curious 
 crisis, which anyone who has had anything to do with 
 children must have noticed, a sort of fever of impa- 
 tience and vexation which attacks them when they 
 first begin to find out that people do not understand 
 what they say, I have seen a little girl burst into 
 
132 OUT of the SILENCE. 
 
 passionate tears of Vexation and impatience because she 
 could not make herself immediately understood. I 
 •suppose the pretty croonings and chatterings which go 
 before speech are a sort of natural exercise hy which 
 babies accustom themselves' to words; and which they 
 ■jnistake at first for real talking. Real words come here 
 and there in the midst of the baby-language — detaching 
 themselves by degrees out of the wonderful labyrinth of 
 sound — real words" out of the' language which they are 
 accustomed to hear all about them, and something in 
 this way, to these poor little deaf folks, the truth must 
 dawn out of the confusion of sights and signs surround- 
 ing them. 
 
 This marvellous instinctive study goes on in secret in 
 the .children's minds. After their first few attempts at 
 talking they seem to mistrust their own efforts. They 
 find out that their pretty prattle is no good : they listen, 
 they turn over words in their minds, and whisper them 
 ■to themselves as they are lying in their little cribs, and 
 then one day the crisis comes, and a miracle is worked, 
 and the child can speak. 
 
 When children feel that their first attempts are under- 
 stood they suddenly regain their good temper and wait 
 for a further inspiration. They have generally mastered 
 the great necessaries of life in this very beginning of 
 their efforts ': ' pooty,' ' toos,' ' ben butta,' ' papa,' ' mama,' 
 •' nana ' for ' riurse,' and 'dolly,' and they are content. 
 
OUT of the SILENCE. 1J3 
 
 Often a long time passes wfthout any further apparent 
 advance, and then comes perhaps a second attack of in- 
 dignation. I know of one little babe who had hardly- 
 spoken before, and who had been very cross and angry 
 for some days past, and who horrified its relations by 
 suddenly standing up in its crib one day, rosy and round- 
 eyed, and saying Bess iny soul exactly like an old char- 
 woman who had come into the nursery. ; 
 
 A friend of mine to whom I was. speaking quite bore 
 out my remarks. He said his" own children had all 
 passed through this phase, which comes after the child 
 has learned to think and before he is able to speak. 
 One's heart aches as one thinks of those whose life is 
 doomed to be a life of utter silence in the full stream of 
 the mighty flow of words in which our lives are set, to 
 whom no crisis of relief may come, who have for genera- 
 tions come and gone silent and alone, and set apart by a 
 mysterious dispensation from its very own best blessings 
 and tenderest gifts. 
 
 I was thinking of this yesterday as we wient walking 
 across the downs in the pleasant Easter-tide. I could 
 hardly tell whether it was sight or sound that delighted 
 .us most as we went along upon the turf : the sound of 
 life in the bay at the foot of the doVvns, the flowing of 
 the waves just washing over the Ibw-ridged rocks with 
 which our coast, is set: the gentle triumphant music 
 overhead of the larksL soaring . and singing in the sun^ 
 
134 OUT of the SILENCE. 
 
 shine. The sea and the shingle were all sparkling, while 
 gfeat bands like moonlight in daylight lay white and 
 brilliant on the horizon of the waters. The very stones 
 seemed to cry out with a lovely Easter hymn of praise ; 
 and sound and sight to be so mingled that one could 
 scarcely tell where one began or the other ended. 
 
 If by this new system the patient teachers cannot 
 give everything to their pupils, the ripple of the sea, the 
 song of the lark, yet they can do very much towards it, 
 by leading the children's minds to receive the great gifts 
 of nature through the hearts and sympathy of others, and 
 give them above all that best and dearest gift of all \p. 
 daily life, without which nature itself fails to comfort and 
 to charm, the companionship of their fellow-creatures 
 aiid of intelligences answering and responding to their 
 oivn. 
 
 P.S. 1873. M. Van Praagh is now the director of an 
 ittstitution in Fitzroy Square, for teaching teachers, as 
 well as the children themselves, the art of lip-reading. 
 This institution is not for Jews, but for anyone who likes 
 to come. The system is absolutely the same as that 
 already described in the article. The children seemed 
 very eager, good, and attentive ; they could speak to one 
 another, and evidently greatly preferred this plan to the 
 finger-sign system to which we are all accustomed. 
 
OUT of the SILENCE. ISJ. 
 
 There were about twenty scholars. M. Van Praagk 
 
 told us that his pupils came from various parts of the 
 
 country — from Ireland, from Birmingham, from Scotland. 
 
 He is very much against their boarding together in one 
 
 establishment, thinking it far better for them to live as 
 
 other people do, and to mix with others habitually. 
 
 The children are therefore only day scholars ; they board 
 
 out in the neighbourhood. The room is large ; there is 
 
 1 plenty of light, and sound too ; they are taught all the 
 
 : usual branches of education, in addition to the habit of 
 
 ' utterance. Those children I saw five years ago, he told 
 
 me, are some of them already out in the world, and 
 
 earning their living. One is a watchmaker, another a 
 
 line-engraver. They have a certificated drawing misr? 
 
 tress in the school to teach them, who showed us a. 
 
 'really admirable drawing by one of them, and pointed 
 
 with pride to a tall boy in the window, 'a pupil a head 
 
 and shoulders taller than herself, who had gained a prize. 
 
 at the South Kensington Museum. 
 
 Our conversation, it must be confessed, was some^ 
 what laborious, but some allowance must be made foir 
 the natural shyness of a visitor confronted with so many 
 pairs of bright and eager eyes. 
 
 ' C6me a-gain,' said the children, in voices and accents, 
 as different as though they could hear. It was indeed very 
 difficult. to realise that they did noi hear ; they, gave.pne 
 more the impression of little foreigners imperfectly 
 
:j36 OUT of the SILENCE: 
 
 -acquainted with English than of victims of so sad a 
 fate \ and I think the best testimony we can bear to the 
 success of M. Van Praagh's system is that it did not 
 -occur to us to pity anyone of them, except, perhaps, a 
 'boy and girl who did not come forward nor attempt to 
 speak. 
 
 Teachers begin upon 50/. a year, and, if the system 
 were once established, might make a comfortable livelir. 
 -hood. .The director told us, however, that he had great 
 ■difficulty in finding such pupils. 
 
 In a ,very interesting lecture given at the Society of 
 Arts, Dr. Dasent speaks of the great superiority of the 
 -system practised by M. von Praagh over the French 
 course, in which children were ' taught by signs, and con^ 
 sequently unfitted to enter upon the duties of life and 
 to communicate freely with their fellows. If all the" 
 world were an institution for educating the deaf and 
 dumb, one might.be satisfied with such a result; but as 
 it is not, we must necessarily pronounce any system which 
 contents itself with educating its , pupils for life in the 
 institution, and in the institution alone, self-condemned.' 
 , Elsewhere Dr. Dasent says : 
 
 ' So perfectly has this process of education been 
 carried out in individual cases, that persons thus 
 educated are able to carry away with them a sermon or 
 a speech by only observing the motion of the lips, and 
 
OUT of the SILENCE. 137 
 
 the play of the countenance of the speaker or preacher, 
 and in one case that I have heard of, the preacher, igno- 
 rant of the infirmity under which a regular attendant at 
 his church was suffering, sent to beg that so and so would 
 not stare at him so hard as it put him put in his sermon.' 
 
138 
 
 f LITTLE PA UPERS> 
 
 Patient children — think what pain 
 
 Makes a young child patient ! — ponder : 
 
 Wronged too commonly, to strain 
 After right, or weep, or wonder. 
 
 Wicked children, with peaked chins. 
 
 And old foreheads ! there are many ; 
 With no pleasure except sin, 
 
 Gambling with a stolen pennj'. 
 
 Sickly children, that whine low 
 
 To themselves and not their mothers — 
 
 From mere habit never so — 
 Hoping help or care from others. — E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 A FEW old-fashioned lanes still run a little way out of the 
 Kensington thoroughfare — dear old zigzag lanes and 
 winding passages, that are fast falling before the inspira- 
 tions of Improvement with her parallel lines. There is 
 one corner still left undisturbed, with some trees casting 
 their shade over a few old rambling houses and 
 garden walls, where you may hear a crowing and cluck- 
 ing of poultry, a chirruping of birds in the branches, and 
 where you may still recall, if you will, a bygone country 
 
 » A Practical Guide to the Boarding-out System. By Colonel E. W. 
 Grant, C.E. Knight & Co., Fleet Street. Children of the State: The 
 Training of ywvenUe Paupers. By Florence Hill. Mamiillan & Co. 
 
LITTLE PAUPERS. 139 
 
 tradition. It was here I met a procession I shall not 
 easily forget Wearily it toiled along, dragging and 
 lagging and slowly advancing up the lane, a stricken 
 little company of ' workhouse children out for a half- 
 holiday,' so. I was told, and returning to the workhouse: 
 .from whence it had come. They were not Kensington 
 children, but orphans from another parish, of which the 
 Union stands in Kensington. Poor little wretches in 
 pinafores and poke-bonnets and fustian, with heavy 
 yellow faces and lagging steps. One or two of the 
 passers-by stopped to look after them. A maid-servant 
 came to a garden-gate. ' They do look bad,' she said. As 
 they went by I saw heavy heads tied up ; a sling or two ; 
 dull indifferent faces ; lame and shuffling feet. There 
 was a taint in the air. Some of the smaller children 
 were draggling at the arms of the elder girls. I do not 
 remember any one of them looking up as they passed. 
 The very youngest of all was. in a perambulator, slowly 
 pushed along at the head . of this doomed and battered 
 little column. 
 
 I was told afterwards that these particular children 
 were soon to be sent to a country school, where it is to 
 be hoped the bandages may be loosened, and the weary 
 burden of life lightened from their poor little backs. 
 Perhaps it may be removed altogether: for when I 
 reniember how crushed and how hopeless they looked, 
 it. seems difficult to think that for these little creatures 
 
I40 LITTLE PAUPERS. 
 
 much youth or strength or life can be in store in any- 
 country place, no matter how pleasant. 
 
 Since seeing these children go by, and exchanging 
 looks of sympathy with the maid-servant, the writer of 
 this article has fallen in with one or two persons 
 interested in the welfare of these poor little prisoners of 
 fate. 
 
 As for their previous history there is not much 
 variety in it. Some of them have- come from outside, 
 from some dismal slum ; others are the baby-paupers of 
 paupers' children — I'onde sous Potide dans une iner sans 
 fond: 
 
 We all of us know the look of the slip-shodden 
 squaws and gins whose gaunt faces line our London 
 bricks. Who has not watched them now and again as 
 they come shuffling up some narrow passage, out of a 
 mystery of rags and darkness, into the bustling thorough- 
 fare ? They hobble a few paces ; they look round a 
 little bewildered ; and "presently they stop, for they have 
 come to a swing door, by which, alas, no angels with 
 flaming swords stand ready to thrust them out. It is 
 only at the doors of paradise that the repelling angels 
 wait; these swing-doors open wide at a touch, and 
 within them are warmth and life and strength — three 
 pennyworth at a time. What does it matter ' that the 
 children are cowering in the ashes at home, the boy 
 lying naked on the vermin bed .' ' — the swing-doors open 
 
LITTLE PAUPERS. 141 
 
 wide, and the "wretched creatures shuffle in "and pay 
 away their pence, their mothers' love, their self-respect, for 
 the fatal little glassfuls of comfort in their life-trouble. 
 One day it is their life they give, and then their trouble 
 is over ; for the parish will bury'them; and the relieving- 
 officer comes, and the neighbours stand round the door 
 of the empty cellar from whence the children are carried 
 off to the workhouse. ... 
 
 Henceforth the State — a sort of Jupiter-like parent — 
 is the only one they have to look to for- love, or sym- 
 pathy, or care. It is not unkind, perhaps kinder than 
 the real one, but then it has no eyes or voice, and ^nows 
 not its children apart. It does not refuse them the cup 
 of cold water— a tin cup, so that they shall not break 
 it. It clothes them, all alike, in blue stripe arid poke- 
 bonnets, and fustian caps and coats. It feeds them — 
 on gruel and suet-pudding. It takes them in — by 
 hundreds in a dormitory. The children grow up in a 
 place where one day is like another, where dull hour 
 follows hour, where they watch yards upon, yards of blue 
 stripe, basons after basons of water-gruel passing through 
 the wards from year's end to year's end. It cannot be 
 helped; these are. not individuals, but childten of the 
 State, machine-made paupers growing up for the market. 
 They can only be inarshalled by rule. They have book- 
 learning, but life-learning is unknown to them ; and the 
 best learning of all, love and usefulness, and the kindLy 
 
142 LITTLE PAUPERS. 
 
 play of interest, and the faith of home, its peaceful rest 
 and helpful strength, is a mystery as little dreamt of by 
 them as the secret of heaven itself is by us. How can 
 they love this abstract parent of theirs ? can they honour 
 and succour it ? That is for the nobility and ratepayers 
 perhaps, but not for them. If they have one dream, it 
 is a dream of liberty and escape from the rigid rule that 
 confines them ; of going out into the world and seeing 
 for themselves. 
 
 The day comes at last that they have looked for, and 
 they are set free ; happy if they have escaped the con- 
 tagion of evil talk and ways that spreads like a curse in 
 the workhouse. They are handed over to some mistress 
 who has come to ask for a drudge, and then they dis- 
 cover that liberty means the run of some wretched 
 lodging-house, a struggle, late at night and early in the 
 morning, over the commonest things of life. They 
 break the crockery; they have been used to tin cups 
 and wooden bowls, and they do not know how to handle 
 brittle things. They lose themselves if they are sent on 
 a message, and come home wild and frightened. They 
 scarcely understand what is said to them ; they scarcely 
 try to listen. Everything is new, everything is terrible 
 . and difficult, and the harried mistress of three flights of 
 discomfort and struggle bears with them for a time per- 
 haps, and one day in despair gives them warning and 
 turns them away. Warning ! who is there to give them 
 
LITTLE PAUPERS. 143 
 
 a warning aftd a helping hand ? Do the good Lion and 
 Unicorn come to protect these poor little Unas on tlieir 
 way through' the sorrowful forest where wild beasts are 
 prowling — hyaenas, wild cats, serpents, and poisoned 
 reptiles. Alas and alas! the Lion and the Unicorn are 
 up in their places on the organ-lofts and the shop-fronts 
 and public offices ; and the fate of these poor children 
 is almost too sad to speak of. 
 
 When you meet the little maid-of-all-work again, it 
 is a hardened and callous creature, whom you may 
 vainly try to interest or toucL Social influence cannot 
 reach her. What is there to touch ? Who has ever 
 loved her ? Who is the worse for her offending ? What 
 has she got to lose or to hold by ? It is too late now 
 to hope that she can be a child again. 
 
 Miss Hill, in her admirable little book, quotes a 
 letter from the Secretary of the Rescue Society, ac- 
 counting for the small proportion of workhouse girls 
 admitted into the Society's homes. ' It must be borne 
 in mind,' she says, ' that our judgment is always opposed 
 to the reception of workhouse cases, from their compara- 
 tive hopelessness.' Workhouse they are — to workhouse 
 they return. ' The young women who have grown up 
 in a workhouse ' (I am again quoting from ' Children of 
 the State ') * form a class proverbial for audacity and 
 shamelessness. The chaplain rarely visits them, con- 
 
144 LITTLE PA UPERS. 
 
 scious that they are beyond his influence j although it 
 must be admitted that there are instances in which the 
 most obdurate have yielded to the appeals, and judicious 
 sympathy of benevolent women. Punishment only 
 renders them more defiant. A year or two ago an out- 
 burst of the noisiest insubordination (and those.oiily who 
 have heard can realise its horror) was apologetically 
 accounted for by the master, who said, " You see, sir, 
 they are the. girls who have been brought up in the 
 house." • 
 
 V Miss Twining's words, quoted by Miss Hill, are very 
 earnest and melanclioly to read. She speaks, as the 
 characteristics of paupers, of a total want of gratitude 
 -and affection towards individuals. * They are perfectly 
 well acquainted,' .she says, ' with their " rights " as to 
 maintenance by their parishes and reception into the 
 workhouses. Above the age of sixteen they are com- 
 pletely their own mistresses, and can go in or take their 
 discharge whenever and for whatever cause they choose. 
 ,. . . An officer connected with the large pauper-school 
 -at Swinton, in Lancashire, being asked what proportion 
 of the girls sent forth from that establishment, as com- 
 pared with the daughters of artisans, had taken to bad 
 courses, answered, " Do not ask me. It is so painful 
 that I can hardly tell you the extent to which evil will 
 predominate in those proceeding from our institution." 
 
LITTLE PAUPERS. I4S 
 
 And a similar statement was made by the officer of 
 Kirkdale seiparate school.' ' 
 
 The bie^fesolutions to the most complicated problems . 
 are always' the most simple ones. The system which 
 Miss Hill and her friends are advocating is merely a 
 return to .tiie first rudiments of Divine political economy. 
 Instead of massing children together and allowing them 
 to grow up in communities, the advocates of the board- 
 ing-out system urge the great advantages of individual 
 care and interest A small local committee is formed, 
 the guardians are applied to for permission to put the 
 children out to homes approved of by them as well a 
 
 ' Not long ago an appeal from the Rev. Thomas Quick was published 
 in the ' Tablet. ' He had put out about fifty orphans, who were going on well 
 and satisfactorily ; when the Manchester guardians, by refiising to extend 
 further relief to orphan children, compelled half of them to be sent to 
 Swinton workhouse. ' Out of these fifty orphans, about one-half belong 
 to the Chorlton Union. With these I have little difficulty, as the board of 
 guardians, in their desire to advance and improve the condition of these 
 poor orphans — and to lessen the rates— allow me a reasonable support. 
 Would that the Manchester guardians would act in like manner ! It seems 
 strange that they prefer sending an orphan to S\\'inton, where it will cost 
 them from 6j. to 7-f. per week, rather than give me 3J-. or a relative 2J. ; to 
 say nothing of the advantages, nay, the natural obligation of giving a child, 
 if possible, a home or domestic training and education, where its affections 
 \\-ill be developed, its self-reliance strengthened, and feelings of independence 
 implanted in its mind. Of these fifty oiphans twenty are at work, but not 
 earning as yet their entire support ; thirty are attending our day-school. 
 Morning and evening they are taught domestic duties in the homes in which 
 they reside, thus the sooner to qualify them for work or service.' ' It would 
 seem such an easy solution,' says the lady who sends me the extract, ' of 
 the difficulty of bringing up Roman Catholic children in the faith of their 
 parents.' 
 
146 LITTLE PAUPERS. 
 
 by the association. Each member of the committee 
 undertakes to befriend one or more of the little boarders, , 
 and to send in a regular report ; a list is kept, a small 
 subscription paid. This is all the machinery that is re- 
 quired. The money which the children would cost the 
 State in the Union is given to some respectable person, 
 who undertakes to be foster-parent to the orphan. 
 From all experience, the plan seems to answer admir- 
 ably, and the child appears to be usually treated as a 
 member of the family, to cast its lot with the protectors 
 who have been found for it. I was speaking, the other 
 day, to a relieving-officer at Eton, who evidently had 
 the scheme at heart. He told me that the plan was 
 first tried at Slough, some years ago (it seems to have 
 sprung up almost simultaneously in different parts of the 
 country). He said that the guardians had found that 
 the boys and girls they sent out from their schools in- 
 variably returned to them again : that they were totally 
 unfitted for earning a respectable livelihood ; it was in 
 vain that outfits were given, situations found — the 
 children were too ignorant and scared to retain them ; 
 and, after trying the experiment of sending them to 
 some distant district school, from whence they were 
 withdrawn after a time, having all been attacked with 
 a contagious disease of the eyes, it was determined by 
 the guardians to board them out with any respectable 
 persons who would be willing to undertake them. 
 
LITTLE PAUPERS. I47 
 
 ' The cost of the children in the house (including the 
 salaries of the officials, &c.) can scarcely be less than 
 
 ■6s. or "js. a week,' said Mr. . ' We allow 3 J. 6d. a 
 
 week to the foster-parents, and also 6s. 6d. a quarter for 
 •clothes, &c.' 
 
 This is a higher rate of payment than that which I. 
 ibelieve is made at Bath and Bristol, where three shill- 
 ings a week only is allowed. But people are willing to 
 lake the children without pecuniary profit, and come 
 forward — childless couples, old maids, widows. One 
 ■can imagine a hundred silent homes that the presence 
 -of a child would brighten, and where the helplessness of 
 -the. poor little pauper, and the lonely regrets of the 
 "foster-parent together, might make a happiness for both. 
 Nature certainly intended children to be the vent for 
 many and many a sorrow and remorse. Among them 
 lies most especially the dominion of women. Are we 
 dull, ugly, shabby, neglected — ^what does it matter to 
 them ? No queen is more paramount than a mother in 
 her nursery. Even foster arms may close with a tender 
 all-satisfied clasp. It seems as if children were made 
 naturally and unconsciously selfish and trustful to com- 
 plete the parent's gift of tender devotion. Miss Hill, 
 and Mr. Archer, and Colonel Grant, who have all written 
 on the subject, unite in saying that the very greatest 
 care should be taken in the selection of these homes and 
 foster-parents. But when these are carefully chosen, 
 
 L2 
 
148 LITTLE PAUPEKS. 
 
 and when, in addition to official machinery, there are 
 superintending ladies, one to each child, it cannot often 
 happen that anything should go very seriously wrong. 
 ' You can almost tell by the children's faces if anything 
 is amiss,' the relieving officer said, to whom I applied. 
 In Colonel Grant's 'Practical Guide,' there are some 
 excellent rules for the guidance of lady visitors : among- 
 other things he warns them against very frequent visits. 
 Miss Hill gives several illustrations of the way in which 
 foster-parents attach themselves to the orphans under 
 their care. In Glasgow, a child who had been put ta 
 board with a woman in that district was found to have 
 its settlement in Edinburgh, whither the parochial board 
 directed that it should be removed. ' The foster-mother,, 
 hearing that the child was to be taken from her, repaired 
 in the greatest distress to Mr. Beattie, and besought him 
 to obtain a reversal of the order. He explained to her 
 that this was impossible : when, with tears streaming 
 down her cheeks, she implored him to let her keep the 
 child as her own, without payment, for part from it 
 she could not ; and it was accordingly adopted by her.' 
 
 The author then goes on to give a clear and care- 
 fully elaborated history of the efforts that are being 
 made to relieve these children of the State. Her story 
 is told forcibly and simply. It comes home with all the 
 eloquence of a true vroman's sympathy for the weak 
 and the ill-used, and her little book almost seems like a 
 
LITTLE PAUPERS. 149 
 
 /ivindow thrown open in a dark and bewildering and 
 over-crowded place, where everybody is talking at once, 
 and running about and tumbling over everybody else. 
 There is a pure breath of the fresh air, of common sense 
 and rational charity. I ought in common fairness to 
 ■quote the contrary opinion of a lady in Cornwall on 
 whose judgment all those who know her must perforce 
 rely. Mrs. F. told me that after some personal ex- 
 perience she had fully satisfied herself that small in- 
 -dustrial schools were on the whole more free from 
 possible abuse than private adoption. 
 
 One of Miss Hill's readers, who had no acquaint- 
 ance with her at the time, wrote to her, and some weeks 
 after went, at her suggestion, to see two friends, who 
 promised to show her the working of the system as it has 
 been started in a certain district not many hours distant 
 from London. The person in question is accustomed to 
 see facts and theories turning into print, but it was a 
 newer experience to find print and theories starting back 
 again into life ; theories working in flesh and blood, senti- 
 ments changing into kind words and doings — vague 
 ' foster-parents ' with eyes and noses, and ' pauper chil- 
 dren ' becoming Lizzies and Katies, running across the 
 garden. Parochial supervision is, — ' Mr. Woods looked 
 in — last Monday were it, Lizzie ? He said he should be 
 round again in a week ; but he didn't say nothing about 
 schooling money.' 6s. 6d. a quarter for repair of 
 
150 LITTLE PAUPERS 
 
 clothes becomes in reality,— ' It's the boots, Miss, 
 Why, Lizzie, she du wear them out in no time ; this is. 
 her Sunday pinbefore. She sowed at it herself, but 
 gels, why, they would like to be runnin' in and out all 
 day long.' This was from a funny, clever, goggle-eyed, 
 old lady whom we drove to see, over a green round hill,, 
 beyond the streets of the old city. It was a place not 
 unlike the old Hogarth etchings of outdoor life. The- 
 streets were wide, stone-paved, be-gabled, alive with 
 busy people. The women wear flapping bonnets, drive 
 their donkeys to market, carry their fish-baskets, and 
 stride out freely as the figures do in the old-fashioned 
 pictures. 
 
 We had left it all behind us and climbed another hill 
 and turned into some by-lane again. The carriage 
 rolled along between two rows of small tenements with 
 front gardens, in which dogs and cats and children 
 seemed growing and climbing every^vhere. These latter- 
 were hanging to the rails, peeping over walls, straggling- 
 across the street.. A carriage, a little baby in a blue 
 bat, three ladies inside : — all this, no doubt, was a sight 
 worth running for. I remember one little creature- 
 starting out into the middle of the road to look after us. 
 with two dark eyes. She had a little dark curly head, 
 and a black frock, and one small black leg : the other 
 foot was bare,' and came patting fat and pink over the 
 stones. As we drove away, she held up one little black 
 
LITTLE PAUPERi,. iji 
 
 Stocking to us. There was also a pale curl-paper child, 
 with horns sticking out all over its head, who came 
 running to a garden gate at the end of tlie street. But 
 curl-papers are not to be despised if my theory of life is 
 a true one ; and if facts gain in significance as they are 
 the types and images of higher things, even curl-papers 
 may be a distorted development of maternal affection. 
 
 Mrs. Pearman did not live in a street, but in • a 
 cottage, with a garden full of snapdragons. She was 
 like an old woman in a fairy tale, living, on the edge 
 of a common, with her one little orphan-girl for her 
 ■ maid. She was sitting working at her door as we drove 
 up, with aureoles of nice bright saucepans hanging up 
 all round her head. The usual old man in the smock 
 was sitting silent in the corner of the chimney ; the little 
 girl came and peeped at us and ran away tossing her 
 hair. The old woman looked hard at my companion, 
 suddenly brightened up and came out to meet us, with 
 knobby hand-shakes; and led the way out of the kitchen 
 into the state parlour. It W£ls a homely, sunny little 
 place ; the Dutch clock with the bunch of flowers 
 painted on its nose was ticking in the corner ; an em- 
 broidered cat was ' hanging up, framed and glazed 
 against the wall, faded, but grinning still at the opposite 
 sampler, like the celebrated Cheshirecat in * Alice.' There 
 was a lattice window with geraniums, an old oak chest of 
 drawers, a round oil-cloth table with work and work- 
 
152 LITTLE PAUPERS. 
 
 boxes piled upon it. The old lady smoothed her apron 
 and made us sit down on her broad mahogany chairs. 
 She was' a clever-looking old woman, as I have said, 
 •with a frill cap and grey hair, and a hook nose and 
 bright-blue goggle eyes. My friend went to the point 
 at once. 
 
 ' Here is a lady, Mrs. Pearman, who is interested in 
 this plan of ours for boarding out the children, so I 
 brought her to talk to you. How is Elizabeth, and how 
 is she going on ? ' 
 
 ' You shall see her, Miss,' the old lady said myste- 
 riously ; ' that was herr you see along o' uncle. She is 
 getting on, thank you ; but dear me ! she is a desd of 
 trouble at times' (confidentially). 
 
 ' I am sorry to hear you say this, Mrs. Pearman,' said 
 her visitor. 
 
 ' Thank ye, mum,' said Mrs. Pearman, instantly mol- 
 lified. ' Gels they all du answer sarce at times. Uncle, 
 that were uncle in the kitchen, he can speak sharp too ; 
 but I ses to 'Lizabeth (one finger up), "When he speaks 
 to you, don't you say nothin' at all." Why, she oughter 
 be a good gel when she is took and cared for' (many 
 expressive nods and shakes). ' I says to her, " 'Lizabeth, 
 who do you suppose would ha' took and cared for mc if 
 I hadna' had a good father and mother when I was a 
 little lass ? " She should remember such.' 
 
 This impressive bit of morality being delivered, Mrs. 
 
LITTLE PAUPERS. • 153 
 
 Pearman calls Elizabeth, and the little girl instantly 
 pops her head in at the door. 
 
 ' Come in, Lizzie,' says her protectress ; ' the ladies 
 would like to see you. You can show them your copy 
 and your brother's letter. They teaches her at school,' 
 says Mrs. Pearman, while Elizabeth is getting her copy- 
 book out of a clean apron in the drawer ; ' but, bless 
 you, I have had to learn her everything about the house. 
 My word, Miss, they teach them nothin' at that there 
 Union. When she come to me' (impressively) 'they 
 had not so much as learnt her to peel a potato. If, I 
 sent her out when first she come, she wer' like a wild 
 child. Now, 'Lizabeth, fetch your slate and your new 
 pinbefore, and don't forget the letter.' 
 
 Mrs. Pearman nodded and winked delightedly as 
 soon as ever the little girl's back was turned, and 
 made many approving signs. She was evidently as 
 proud as possible of her attainments, but anxious that 
 Elizabeth herself should not suspect them. 
 
 Poor little pauper ! She was a dark-faced, half- 
 wistful, half-tamed little creature, with a sullen look and 
 then a bright one. The story of many a bygone trouble 
 and dreary tramp was written in her face — the hardships 
 and troubles of other lives than her own. She had 
 thick black hair and stunted broad shoulders. 
 
 ' Do you see any change in her since she came to 
 you .■■ ' I asked once, when she was out of the room. 
 
154 LITTLE PAUPERS. 
 
 'Why, she have all wakened up like,' said the old 
 Avoman ; ' she du sing now o' mornings, and she' begins 
 to curl her hair. She's terrible fond o' children, too.' 
 
 Then turning to Miss , ' She took to Mrs. Parks' 
 
 little gel from the first. Miss ; that were a dear child, 
 and I do feel amiss without her, that I do — on'y three 
 year old, but such a good child : she were a darling 
 little one. And Lizzie she du love children. I took her 
 to a prayer-meeting out a-field the other day, and there 
 she gits a baby in her lap, and. nurses it a' the time. 
 The people they lafied to see her ' (some more expressive 
 nods and winks at us. We are to show no admiration). 
 
 Mrs. Pearman was also evidently very much pleased 
 with the brother's lettei", which she read, holding it out 
 at arms' length. • ' 
 
 ' It come last April,' said she, ' and we never thought 
 as how he wanted us to write. Bristol — it be written 
 from Bristol.' — 
 
 ' " My dear Sister,— I hope you are well" (said the 
 brother) "and obedient to your mistress — for you should 
 be always obedient " (says Mrs. Pearman at a venture) — 
 " and you must remember that your mistress knows what 
 you should do. You must be obedient and try to please 
 your mistress. And I hope to hear you are a good and 
 obedient child. So no more. 
 
 ' " Your affectionate brother, 
 
 ■ '"Wm. Dobbs."' 
 
LITTLE PAUPERS. IJS' 
 
 ' So we understands her name is Dobbs, not Stubbly,' 
 
 Mrs. Pearman prattled on. ' They told us Stubbly at 
 
 th' Union. Her brother he signs Dobbs, Miss, as you 
 
 see. Elizabeth, your name must be the same o' his.' 
 
 ' Can you write your name down on the slate,. 
 
 Elizabeth ? ' said Miss . 
 
 Elizabeth set to work at railway pace, while Mrs. 
 Pearman finished her little story. 
 
 How was it Elizabeth came to her ? She felt lone- 
 some, she said, after her first girl married, and she heard 
 of this new plan, and thought as how she should like ta 
 take a little gel. ' 'Tis a kindness,' she said, ' to take 
 the children and lam them. Elizabeth she don't talk 
 much about the Union ; if she speaks sarce, I say ' 
 (shakes of head and other reassuring signals to us),. 
 ' Elizabeth, I shall take you back.' 
 
 Elizabeth grinned, not looking much alarmed, and 
 showed all her white teeth : she had covered the slate 
 with ' Elizabeth Dobbs ' meanwhile. 
 
 Our visit was nearly at an end. Miss 's little 
 
 nephew was brought in from the carriage, where he had 
 been winking his blue eyes and making believe to pull 
 the reins all this time. Good old Mrs. Pearman 
 brightened up brighter still to welcome the little blue 
 and white visitor. Elizabeth looked pleased and shy: 
 the baby was living in a world where there are no differ- 
 ences of estate as yet, and where the little pauper girl. 
 
156 LITTLE PAUPERS. 
 
 coming up and clapping her hands before him, was as 
 welcome a companion as a princess in her right. 
 
 I have described this visit at length, because it seems 
 to me a fair average example of the working of the 
 system. My friends took me to see some more children 
 before I left, and for another drive the next day through 
 the green park that spreads for miles all round about 
 the busy old city — bright commons, sheltering trees, 
 valleys, and hills up which the horses climb. We 
 -stopped at a post-office by some cross-roads. 
 
 ' This is not my district,' my friend explained ; ' but 
 I know that some children are boarded out somewhere 
 near this, and I must find out here.' 
 
 Then she came out again, and led the way by a 
 narrow sort of back-passage place, with low thresholds 
 and geraniums and children. We peeped into the open 
 doors, and saw churns and pails and country appliances, 
 and a man sitting like a pre-Raphaelite picture, adding 
 up his books in an inner room. . Then some one came to 
 a doorway, and called to us to go on straight to the end 
 liouse. This little cul-de-sac finished with a garden gate. 
 There was a garden full of roses beyond it, and a stout 
 -elderly grey-headed woman watching us as we came 
 up the alley. Was she Mrs. Bennet ? No. Mrs. Bennet 
 was her mother. Had they any little boarders "i Yes ; 
 but they were at school. Then — for she was a friendly- 
 minded woman — she gave a second glance at the party. 
 
LITTLE PAUPERS. isr 
 
 ' Won't you walk in ? ' said she, and she flung wide 
 open the little gate of the rose-garden. There were 
 cabbages and vegetables, and all along the box-edged, 
 pathway were roses grafted, white and pink, upon their 
 hawthorn stems. The white roses were specially sweet 
 and beautiful. Out of the garden we stepped into the 
 house, passing through the kitchen, where^ as usual, the 
 old man in the smock was sitting in the chimney-corner. 
 Then we came into a little square dim parlour, with a 
 window wide open on the garden. There was an old- 
 fashioned couch pushed up to the window, and on the 
 couch a woman was lying, looking up with a grave face. 
 'This is my sister/ said the other. 
 
 There was a certain likeness between them ; but the 
 education of pain and silent suffering had given a strange 
 sweet look to the sick woman's face. Her voice, too,, 
 was very low and clear. I thought that they were 
 happy little paupers who had found such a friend. The 
 sick woman seemed to be their foster-parent from the 
 way she spoke, although she often quoted ' mother/ and 
 what mother said and did for them. Mother was ill 
 upstairs, and the grey-headed sister must have had a 
 handful, for the invalid could not move her limbs. She 
 told us that the children were at school, but they would 
 be home directly. It was some six months since they 
 first came. They had thought they would as soon take 
 two as one. They Avould be happier together, and 
 
158, LITTLE PAUPERS. 
 
 mother had gone up to the Union to choose them ; and 
 •one evenhig after dark Mr. .Reynolds brought them 
 ■down. Kitty she was not frightened, but the httle one 
 -cried bitterly, and so they put them both to bed ; and 
 then the next morning there was such a piece of fuss as 
 never was when the time came for them to go to school. 
 * But mother said, ". If we give in the first day, maybe 
 we shall ne'er hear the. end of it." So to school they 
 went, and there has never been a word since then. 
 They are quite at home. Little Kitty has her sister up 
 at Mrs. Peterson's. She do say she have five aunts, and 
 an uncle, and a grandfather and grandmother tu. That 
 is mother and father, and all of us, you know,' said the 
 woman, gently smiling : ' I heard her tell Mr. Peterson 
 so t'other day, Mary' (to the sister). 'Phoebe laughs, 
 and says she ain't no relations, she was picked up in the 
 street and taken to the Union — "that old Union," she 
 calls it. It's nicer like for the little things to have some 
 one to go to, ma'am,' the foster-aunt went on,, appealing 
 
 to Miss , 'and they get better places aftenvards. 
 
 In th' Union they see the big girls coming in and out, and 
 they do get set up to tricks. Now, Phcebe here can help 
 jmy sister nicely — she scours and runs for errands. 
 Little Phcebe had a big lump in her neck when first she 
 ■came, and little Kitty's ear were bad, and so was her 
 arm, and Phoebe's too : 'twere in the blood, I think ; but 
 they are doing nicely now. We give them nothing, only 
 
LITTLE PAUPERS. 159 
 
 feed them like ourselves, and cold water to bathe. They 
 "be good children/ said the aunt, smiling.. ' Little Kitty, 
 ■dp have her tantrums ; then she is, but a little maid.' 
 
 Little Kitty and Phcebe came running home just 
 then past the windows and the rose-trees. They had 
 •clean fresh faces and pinafores, and their aunts had 
 made them some little hats, and tied up their hair. Kitty 
 \yas a sweet-looking little 'girl of four, with great blue 
 •eyes. Little Phoebe was, about eight, and she looked 
 like the descendant of a hundred tramps. She had the 
 :same stunted grown look that had struck me in Elizabeth 
 the day before, the narrow- head and Chinese eyes ; her 
 face, seemed to tell the same piteous story of the past. 
 But here she was fresh and clean and wholesome, and 
 watched with kiiidly care ; her bad arm was healing, and 
 her swollen glands were cured: she. lived in this little, 
 rose-garden house, she went to school, she helped her 
 ■^ aunts,' she played with Kitty, and she sewed. Phoebe's 
 •stitches were displayed all along Kitty's pinafore. Poor 
 little stray waif of a vagrant race, apparently doomed to 
 a like hopeless fate ; ' found in the street,' she had drifted 
 into a tranquil and happy home, among good people 
 and peaceful things. We bestowed " the small bene- 
 faction of a threepenny-piece upon them (it was put into 
 a special drawer for their benefit), as we said good-by. 
 As we came away I looked back : the last sight I had 
 was of the children standing by the sick woman's couch ; 
 
i6o LITTLE PAUPERS. 
 
 she had hold of Kitty's hand, and was looking into their 
 faces with her kind eyes. It is not much to tell, but the 
 sight touched me. After this we went to see two more 
 little lilac pinafores boarding with the schoolmaster and 
 his wife. They were about twelve and had just been 
 christened Susy and Sally. The little pinafores dipped 
 curtseys at every other word. Susy was going into 
 school, Sally stopped at home on Fridays to help aunt ; 
 they, too, had swollen glands (dip Susy dip Sally), and 
 
 the schoolmaster asked Miss about sending Susy to 
 
 the doctor. Sally was much better than when she came ; 
 she helped ' aunt ' with the house and the baby (dip 
 Sally, and beam all over). Susy was the little kitchen- 
 maid (dip Susy). ' Sally was a good useful little girl, but 
 a terrible hand at breaking crockery ' (here poor Sally's 
 face fell) ; ' she had never been used to anything but 
 wooden bowls at the Union.' 
 
 ' Sally must learn,' said kind Miss , ' for the 
 
 time when she goes into a place.' Sally here gave a 
 melancholy and remorseful curtsey, so it seemed to me ; 
 but she brightened up before we left. 
 
 Our last visit was to 'Kitty's little sister, at Mrs. 
 Peterson's.' We came to an old-fashioned-looking house, 
 with a straggling garden, and some one standing watching 
 us as we drove up. The kitchen door was wide open, 
 and we could see a deep high-roofed fireplace, a wooden 
 dresser and tables, milk-bowls and jerkins, and great 
 
LITTLE PAUPERS. i6t 
 
 bunches of vegetables heaped up. It looked something 
 like an old Dutch interior ; Mrs. Peterson, who stood in 
 the. doorway, had a striking dark-eyed face, with smooth 
 black hair ; she was not unlike one of those solemn 
 ladies that Vandyke has painted in frills and in black 
 
 velvet and gold chains. She knew Miss , and 
 
 welcomed her warmly. 'She is very bad, Miss,' she 
 said ; ' she is worse since you saw her last Won't you 
 come in ? Milly will be glad to see you.' 
 
 In a back parlour out of the old kitchen sat a little 
 child humped up in a wooden chair, with two poor little 
 swelled legs in white stockings, resting on a wooden stool. 
 It was dressed with a pinafore. There it sat in the 
 window, waiting placidly, with great eyes smouldering in 
 its pale face, and with thick brown hair, brushed back. 
 Every now and then it gave a little cough. It didn't 
 speak, it only sat quite still, watching us. Two smart 
 dolls were toppling unheeded against the window-sill, in 
 pink and blue finery and feathers ; there was a box of 
 toys half open. 
 
 ' Are they good .? ' said Miss , pointing to the 
 
 dolls. Little Milly did not answer ; she only looked a 
 great wide far-away look. Mrs. Peterson answered, ' I 
 never hears them quarrel,' she said, smiling, and looking 
 back at the little girl. 'That one you was kind eno' to 
 send was to have been called Rose, and this one Rosy- 
 blue ; but poor Mill she don't care for them now. She 
 
 M 
 
1 62 LITTLE PAUPERS. 
 
 ha'f ondressed Rosyblue the day before yesterday ; but 
 she were not strong enough to dress herr again. So 
 there is the poor creature left standin' in her shimmy.' 
 Little Milly still sat watchful and speechless while Mrs. 
 Peterson sat down and went on with her little monologue. 
 ' Peterson he has to carry her upstairs at night ; we got 
 her little bed on the floor in our room. She used to 
 sleep down here, but, bless you, I was up and down ha'f 
 the night. I've not had a right sleep for a week, and 
 my back do ache holdin' her ; she do sleep so badly. 
 It's " O dear ! " and " O my ! " and " O how can I ! " 
 T'other morning she was still complainin' like, and I 
 says, "Milly, that's the night's litan',".and she left off 
 directly. She is a good little girl, Milly is. One day 
 she got out into the passage, and we thought she 
 was going to be well ; but 'twas no use. I often says 
 to her, " Milly, if ye should be dying, what should you 
 like your little sister to have?" Milly says she should 
 
 like to go to heaven if Mrs. G is there. I asked 
 
 her t'other day, if she should like to go back to the 
 Union to be nursed ; but she don't want to go — do ye, 
 Milly.'' said her foster-mother with a tender look. 
 The child gave a faint smile, and shook her dark shaggy 
 head. ' The doctor says her heart and her -liver and her 
 stomach is all in bits,' said Mrs. Peterson. 'He didn't 
 mention her lungs, but no doubt they'll go too.' She 
 spoke openly and simply as people do who have not 
 
LITTLE PAUPERS. i6y 
 
 learnt artificial paraphrases for the inevitable truths of" 
 life, but Peterson had walked I don't know how many- 
 miles to get a doctor for the ' poor little maid ; ' all the 
 strawberries in the garden were for her ; all the best they 
 had to give — their night's rest, their kind hearts' overflow^ 
 I don't think there is any comment needed to the little 
 story. Mrs. Peterson followed us out to say the Doctor,, 
 when he came last, had told them they must not hope 
 to save the child. If Milly had been their very own they 
 • could not have been more tender. ; 
 
 What does it mean ? Does it mean that the world 
 is a happier, kinder, better world than we have been 
 brought up to acknowledge ? I have just heard some 
 one say that perfection does exist in this life, though we 
 are too timid to believe it. Is this true ? The elenients 
 are to be found scattered everywhere. To each one of 
 us the harmonies which might be are so near at times ; 
 the possibilities of happiness, the wild possibilities of 
 perfection, so deep stirring in our hearts that we cannot 
 help believing in them, even though we put out our 
 hands again and again only to grasp whole dust-heaps 
 of disappointment, of ashes, and dead leaves, and broken 
 straws ; and if we start from our fancies with a thrill of 
 keen regret; the very pain with which we realise that 
 they weife- but dreams, not realities, seems to speak to 
 us of the truth of some actual realisation somewhere 
 else, some -other day, for others, perhaps, if not for our- 
 
i64 LITTLE PAUPERS. 
 
 selves. Is at sad to let the fancy go ? It would be 
 worse a thousand thousand times if it had not come. 
 Rainbows, and bubbles, and dreams are realities, flashes 
 that brighten the twilight of life, in radiations from the 
 great Light of a clearer truth. 
 
 At all events, it is no dream that there are children 
 dying and utterly wrecked for want of homes, homes 
 sad for want of children ; that there are kind souls 
 ready, out of the abundance of their hearts, to pour out 
 upon others the love that is but a pain and a regret 
 when it is constrained within bonds that it longs to 
 burst. Of all the well-meant failures of life, the busy 
 about nothingnesses, the honest endeavours after con- 
 fusion and ill-success, it is not necessary to speak. We 
 have had most of us to acknowledge our mistakes again 
 and again ; but even in the midst of it all, here and 
 there comes a success and a more complete achieve- 
 ment. Of course this may not always be the case : now 
 and then the most careful plan may fail from one reason 
 or another. The visitor may be deceived, the homes 
 ill-chosen : the boarding-out system cannot pretend to 
 infallibility, any more than any other of the makeshifts 
 of life ; but it is out of doors and open to daily inspec- 
 tion, and not enclosed within four walls : it has nature 
 and human sympathy upon its side ; and it seems to the 
 writer one of those endeavours of which their good sense 
 and simplicity are the best recommendations. 
 
LITTLE PAUPERS. 165 
 
 I will conclude by quoting the following extract from 
 Colonel E. S. Grant's ' Practical Guide.' Colonel Grant 
 says : ' The rules on this subject, submitted by Mr. 
 Henley, in his report on the boarding-out system in 
 Scotland, are so sensible, and so similar in almost every 
 respect to those already adopted in the Bath Union, 
 that they are given here in extenso : ' — 
 
 ' The following classes should under no circumstances 
 be boarded out : — 
 
 («.) Illegitimate children of widows still living. 
 
 (^.) Other illegitimate children whose mothers are 
 still living. 
 
 (c.) Children deserted by one parent. 
 
 (</.) Children whose parents are living. — Note. These 
 classes are not excluded in Scotland, but are so in 
 England by the present Poor Law regulations. How 
 far some of them might be modified is deserving of con- 
 sideration. 
 
 2. Deserted children should not be boarded out till 
 they have been for some time in the workhouse. 
 
 3. Children should not usually be boarded with 
 relations. — Note. In some English unions this is exten- 
 sively practised ; but although, as a general practice, it 
 is believed to give rise to imposition and other evils, 
 there are cases in which it seems very desirable. 
 
 No child should be boarded with a person who is, 
 or otherwise would be, in receipt of parochial relief 
 
166 LITTLE PAUPERS. 
 
 — Note. This has been done in some cases, and with 
 apparent good results. 
 
 $. A child, before it is boarded out, should be passed 
 i»y the medical officer, and a certificate given that it is 
 in a proper state, mentally and bodily, to be sent out. — 
 Note. This is a most necessary rule, as otherwise cu- 
 taneous and other diseases might be carried into and 
 spread in villages ; and any physical defect, such as the 
 loss of one eye, partial deafness, or any deformity, should 
 be noticed in the certificate. • 
 
 6. Not more than two children, except in the case 
 •of a family, should be sent to one house. — Note. This 
 should depend whether the foster-parents have any 
 children of their own, and upon the amount of accommo- 
 dation, as three children can be well cared for in one 
 family. 
 
 7. Brothers and sisters should usually be kept to- 
 ;gether. 
 
 8. The sexes should, as far as possible, be separated 
 in the sleeping-rooms. 
 
 9. Children over seven years of age should not sleep 
 :in the same room with married people. 
 
 10. Children should be boarded out as young as 
 possible. — Note. And may be kept until they are eligible 
 to be placed out in service, which in some unions is con- 
 sidered to be the case at the age of thirteen ; but at the 
 •district school at Hanwell no girl is sent out to service 
 
LITTLE PAUPERS. 167 
 
 until she is fourteen, and the writer thinks there are 
 obvious reasons for extending it to this latter age for 
 the case of girls. 
 
 II. Children should be removed — ist. If they are 
 kept away from school, Sunday-school, or place of 
 worship ; 2nd. If lodgers are put in the same room with 
 the children ; 3rd. If children are taken into board from 
 I other unions or parishes ; 4th. Or from private people. — 
 \Note. The 2nd rule regarding lodgers is particularly 
 [necessary to be observed, especially where there are 
 girls." 
 
 I would only add to this extract the opinion of a 
 person who has thoroughly and devotedly studied the 
 subject, and who is, perhaps better than anybody else, 
 qualified to speak. The danger of ab\ise is very great, 
 says this lady, but the more she sees of the working of 
 the system under proper supervision, the more convinced 
 she is of its benefit. It can, however, only be . applied 
 to orphans ; the number of homes is limited, and the in- 
 fluence of parents removing their children from time to 
 time is fatal to the success of the scheme. 
 
68 
 
 A CITY OF REFUGE. 
 
 This said, his powerful wand he waved anew ; 
 
 Instant a glorious angel-train descends — 
 The Charities to wit, of rosy hue ; 
 
 Sweet love, their looks a gentle radiance lends, 
 And with seraphic flame compassion blends. 
 
 At once delighted to their charge they fly, 
 ^Vhen lo ! a goodly hospital ascends. 
 
 In which they bade each lenient aid be nigh 
 That could the sick-bed soothe of that sad company. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 To be well, to be ill, to be sad, to be cross ; to feel jars 
 that shake, pains that tear and bum, and weary nerves 
 that shrink and flutter, or that respond so strangely and 
 dully to the will that it seems almost as if we were 
 scarcely ourselves, at times, when, longing to feel and to 
 sympathise with the emotion of others, we are only con- 
 scious of a numb cold acquiescence in their gladness or 
 pain : all this is in the experience of us all, of the most 
 happy as well as of the lesist happy alike, of the softest 
 and hardest hearted. Only with some it is the experi- 
 ence of an instant and with others of a lifetime. 
 
 The range of this mysterious gamut teaches us, per- 
 haps, something of the secret of what others are feeling ; 
 
A CITY of REFUGE. 169 
 
 and in the same way that the sick and unhappy may 
 imagine what vigour, hope, love, the fervour of life and 
 youth mean, the fortunate may guess now and then at 
 the sorrows of years, understand the hopelessness, the 
 patience, the disappointment of a lifetime— guess at it 
 for an instant as they stand by a sick-bed or see the 
 poor wayfarer lying by their path. There is a group 
 I have now in my mind that many of us may have 
 noticed of late — some tired people resting on the road- 
 side, a sunset marsh beyond ; they have lighted a fire 
 of which the smoke is drifting in the still air, and the 
 tired eye looks out at the spectator and beyond him in 
 the unconscious simplicity of suffering. We all under- 
 stand it, though we have perhaps never in all our lives 
 rested for the night, wearied, by a ditch-side. It is so 
 true to life that we who are alive instinctively recognise 
 its truth and uncomplaining complaint. 
 
 The persons of wh6m I am going to write just now, 
 are most wise in these sadder secrets of life, which they 
 have learnt by long years of apprenticeship. Poor 
 souls ! We have all come across them at one time or 
 another. Sometimes we listen to their complaint, some- 
 times we don't ; sometimes we put out a helping hand 
 to pull them along, sometimes we get weary, and let 
 them go. But although it is easy enough to help our 
 brothers and sisters seven times — more easy than to for- 
 give them, it is difficult enough for us individually to 
 
170 A CITY of REFUGE. 
 
 help them seventy times seven times, and in this must 
 lie the great superiority of institutions over individual 
 effort, of which the kindness is left to chance and to 
 good-natured impulse, instead of being part of a rule 
 that works on in all tempers and at all times. 
 
 It seemed to me the other day that it was real help 
 that was being given ' to some afflicted persons whom I 
 was taken to see, at the Incurable Hospital on Putney 
 Common, a few of the afflicted out of all those that are 
 stricken and in trouble, and in numbers so great that, 
 for the most part, we might pass on in despair if it were 
 not for the good hope of present and future help such 
 places afford. 
 
 We crossed Putney Bridge one bright spring day 
 and drove up through the quaint old Putney High 
 Street. The lilacs were beginning to flower in the 
 gardens and behind the mossy- old walls. When we 
 had climbed the hill we came out upon a great yellow 
 gorsy common, where all the air was sweet with the 
 peach scent of the blossom. Its lovely yellow flame 
 was bursting from one bush and from another, and blaz- 
 ing against the dull purple green of the furze. We had 
 not very far to go. The carriage turned down a green 
 lane, of which the trees and hedges did not hide 
 glimpses of other lights and other blossoming commons 
 in the distance ; and when we stopped it was at a white 
 lodge, of which the gate was hospitably open, and from 
 
A CITY of REFUGE. 171 
 
 whence a shady green sweep led us to a noble and 
 stately house, which was once Melrose Hall, but which 
 is now the Hospital for Incurables. 
 
 A little phalanx of bath chairs was drawn up round 
 the entrance, and in each a patient was sitting basking 
 in this first pleasant shining of summer sun. The birds 
 were chirping in the tall trees overhead, the little winds 
 were puffing in our faces, and those of the worn, wan, 
 tired creatures, who had been dragged out to benefit by 
 the comforting freshness of the day. Some of them 
 looked up — not all — as we drove to the door. 
 
 M. sent a small boy with a card to ask for admission 
 for some friends of Mr. H.'s, and we waited for a few 
 minutes until the answer came. All the time that we 
 were waiting, an eager, afflicted young fellow was trying 
 hard to make himself intelligible to the sick man in the 
 bath chair next to his own. The poor boy could only 
 make anxious uncouth sounds ; the sick man to whom 
 he was speaking listened for a while, and then shook his 
 head and turned wearily away. So it wasn't all sun- 
 shine even in the sunshine in the lovely tree-shaded 
 garden, with the chirruping birds and lilac buds coming 
 out There were some attendants coming and going 
 from chair to chair. There were other little carriages 
 slowly progressing along the distant winding paths of 
 the garden, and presently the message came that we 
 might be admitted. The matron was away, but the 
 
172 A[ CITY of REFUGE. 
 
 head-nurse said she would show us over the place ; and 
 she led the way across the vestibule with its pretty 
 classical ornamentation, opening the tall doors and 
 bringing us into the stately rooms where a different 
 company had once assembled, and yet it was not so 
 very different after all, for pain and ill-health are no ex- 
 cessive respecters of persons. The Duke of Argyll, who 
 was chairman at the last anniversary dinner, spoke of 
 some of the persons who used to meet in these very 
 rooms once upon a time, before they were turned to 
 their present uses : among the rest Sir Walter Scott and 
 Lockhart, and Sir Humphry Davy. I could almost 
 fancy the kind and familiar face of Sir Walter looking 
 on with gentle interest and compassion at the pathetic 
 company which is now waiting in the big drawing-room 
 of Melrose Hall, with the stately terrace and lofty win- 
 dows that let in the' light so bountifully — lame, blind, 
 halt and maimed, from London highways and the dis- 
 tant country by-ways. They sit in groups round the 
 tables and windows, busy, somewhat silent At the 
 end of the room there is a golden-piped organ, the gift 
 of the treasurer. A governess, who is one of the 
 patients, often plays to the others upon it, and so do the 
 ladies who visit the place. Once when I was there 
 some one opened the instrument and began to play. 
 As the music filled the room we all listened, beating a 
 sort of time together. It seemed like a promise of 
 
A CITY of REFUGE. 173 
 
 better things to those who were listening, for themselves 
 and for others. This sitting-room is a lofty, stately 
 place, as I have said, with columns and mouldings. All 
 about there are comfortable chairs and tables, and 
 spring sofas for aching spines that cannot sit upright, 
 tables for work, over which all these patient creatures 
 are bending. They have still tranquil faces for the 
 most part, quiet and pale, and resting for a time in the 
 refuge into which they have escaped out of the weary 
 struggle and crowd of life. The privilege is sad enough, 
 heaven knows, and the price they have paid for it is a 
 heavy one. 
 
 The head-nurse went from one to another, and the 
 faces all seemed to light up to meet hers. It is a very 
 simple and infallible sign of love and of confidence. ' It 
 would not do for me to pity them too much,' the kind 
 nurse said ; ' I always try to speak cheerfully to them.' 
 We who only come to look on may pity and utter the 
 commonplaces of compassion and curiosity. How tired 
 the poor things must be of the stupid reiteration of 
 adjectives and exclamations. There was one old 
 -woman, so nice and with such sweet eyes, that I could 
 not help sitting down by her and saying some one of 
 those platitudes that one has recourse to. She didn't 
 answer, but only looked at me with an odd long look. 
 
 ' She cannot speak,' the nurse whispered, beckoning 
 me away. 
 
174 ^ C/rr of REFUGE. 
 
 A few of the patients were reading, but only a few. 
 ' Good Words ' seemed to be popular, and the story in it 
 is particularly liked, they told me. Some of the patients 
 do plain work, and as I was speaking to one of them 
 the door opened, and a good-natured-looking man 
 came in. 
 
 ' Any of the ladies, like to go out for a drive to-day ? ' 
 he said in a brisk business-like tone. 
 
 Two or three voices answered, ' Only Miss ^ and 
 
 then Miss began beckoning and waving her hand 
 
 from the other end of the room, and was rolled off 
 accordingly for her drive in the garden-chair. 
 
 It was not my first visit to the hospital ; but though 
 a year had passed, there were many of the faces as I 
 remembered them sitting in the same comers, stitching 
 and hooking, blind women knitting, the clever, patient 
 fingers weaving an interest into their lives -with threads 
 of cotton and wool ; one gentle-looking old lady, in a frill 
 cap, was working a pair of slippers, dull red with bright 
 green spots. She had but. two fingers to work with, 
 and only, I think, this one painful crippled hand ; but 
 she was working away on a frame to which her canvas 
 was fixed. 
 
 ' I cannot like your colours this time, Mrs. ^ the 
 
 nurse said ; ' your last slippers were so pretty, and your 
 work is so beautiful, that it is quite a pity you should not 
 have pretty- coloured wools to set it off.' 
 
A CITY of REFUGE. 175 
 
 The old lady shook her head ; she wouldn't be 
 convinced. ' These are lovely wools, my dear,' she said. 
 ' I shall certainly go on with them. It's all your want 
 of taste, that is what I think.' And she nodded her 
 head,, and laughed and stitched on with fresh interest. 
 
 As we went upstairs we were sho%vn lifts and pulleys 
 and all sorts of comfortable appliances for the use of the 
 patients. I could not help admiring the extreme order 
 and neatness of all the arrangements) and the freshness 
 and ventilation of all the places we went into. 
 
 In one of the rooms upstairs a funny old fellow, in a 
 tall night-cap, was stitching away at his torn shirt- 
 sleeves. He was sitting quite by himself in a big ward, 
 with many empty beds in it. He laughed when he saw 
 us, winked, waved his night-cap with an air, and then 
 informed us he was the oldest patient, and was doing a 
 bit of work ; he didn't like to trust his shirt to others — 
 not he — he was a poor old bachelor, he had to sew his 
 own buttons on — and he was then very mysterious and 
 confidential about a shirt which had been lost at the 
 wash a year ago. Dark suspicions evidently were still 
 haunting him on the subject, but he cheered up, winked, 
 laughed, waved his night-cap again to us when we went 
 away out of the room. ' She is my greatest joy and 
 comfort,' he said, with a bow to the nurse, who could not 
 help laughing. The men have much more courage than 
 the women, they keep about until the last, this lady told 
 
176 A CITY of REFUGE. -f-^. 
 
 US ; women would be in bed and refuse to get up, when 
 the men crawl downstairs day after day, and insist upon 
 making the effort 
 
 And yet in the men's sitting-room there is a much 
 sadder, duller, and more helpless community than in the 
 women's. The numbers are fewer, and in most cases 
 the brain seems more hopelessly affected. One boy v/as 
 making paper fly-catchers, but I don't think any of the 
 others were doing anything. I have a vision of an old 
 man sitting at a table, while we were there, trying to 
 take up a broken piece of bread. His hand passed 
 beyond it again and again,; it was by a sort of chance 
 that he feebly clutched it at last and carried it to his 
 mouth. 
 
 It didn't seem much to be able to walk away, to look 
 back, to remember what we had seen ; and yet how is it 
 that we are not on our knees in gratitude and thankful- 
 ness for every active motion of the body, every word we 
 speak, every intelligent experience and interest that 
 passes through our minds ? 
 
 There was a great scampering of children's feet in one 
 of the passages as we came up the wooden stairs, and 
 some bright eyes peeped at us, and three little girls in 
 the short kilts and plaid ribbons of middle-class London 
 retreated into a room of which the door was wide open, 
 and fled to a bedside, where they all stood shyly in a row 
 until we could come up. Our guide led the way and we 
 
A CITY of REFUGE^ 177 
 
 followed her in, and there^from the bed a pair of big 
 bright browii eyes, not unlike the children's, were turned 
 upon us, and a handsome young girl, lying flat on her 
 back, greeted us with a good-humoured smile. ' Aunt 
 Mary': the children called her. Big and handsome and 
 strong though she looked, this poor bright-looking Aunt 
 yikry yiras completely paral3^ed as far as the head : 
 she could not move hand or foot ; it was a dead body 
 with "this bright bonny living face to it She did not 
 look more thaii six or seven and twenty ; she had nice 
 thick brown hair and even white teeth. With these this 
 brave girl had imagined for herself that with practice she 
 should be able to hold a pencil and guide it, tracing the 
 words against a little desk that was so contrived as to 
 swing across her bed when wanteds She was perfectly 
 enchaiited with the contrivance, and said it was the 
 greatest delight to her to be able to write for herself 
 The doctor, she told me^ not without pride, had been 
 quite surprised to receive a letter from her one day, and 
 could not imagine how she had written it for herself 
 
 Leaving her we crossed a passage and came to a 
 room not far off, where two women were lying : one of 
 them had got something in her bed that she was 
 caressing and talking to in a plaintive pitying voice^ 
 patting as if it was some animal or living thing; M.j 
 wondering what it could be, went up to see.; she found 
 that it was a watch "of which the glass was broken. In 
 
 N 
 
178 A CITY of REFUGE. 
 
 the Other bed a gentle-faced very old woman was lying, 
 afflicted with palsy. Her poor body shook and trembled 
 painfully as I stood beside the bed, and her hands, in 
 attempting to meet, crossed and passed each other again 
 and again. I said to her that I could not think how 
 she bore her affliction so patiently, for the head nurse 
 had told me that her sweetness was quite touching ; she. 
 never complained, never said an impatient word. 
 
 ' When I am not well,' I said, ' I grumble and com- 
 plain to everybody, even for little trifling ailments. 
 You make me feel ashamed.' 
 
 ' Ah,' the old woman answered gently, ' 'tis good to 
 be still' 
 
 She said it so simply and quietly that it came home 
 to me then and there/ the gentle remonstrance coming 
 from, the weary bed where so many long hopeless hours 
 had passed for her, where she lay patiently enduring 
 while we walked away. The other woman was still 
 talking to her watch, and did not notice us as we passed. 
 The room, which was formerly the library, makes a 
 delightful room for one or two of the patients. It has 
 tall windows, opening upon, a broad terrace-like bal- 
 cony, and beyond are the same elm-trees and glimpses 
 of sky and common that we see from the big room down 
 below. There is one great sufferer here who does not 
 often- get down. She cannot sit. up, from, spine disease, 
 and when I saw her last she was lying by the window. 
 
-4 CJTY of REFUGE. 179 
 
 -with a face wrapped in cotton wool, poor soul, for she 
 had been suffering tortures from neuralgia; and though 
 the dentist had come and taken out two of her teeth 
 she was still in pain. The head-nurse pitied her, and 
 recommended a little blister to draw away' the inflamma- 
 tion^ The patient shrunk and laughed and shook her 
 head. She couldn't bear any more pain, she whispered 
 imploringly ; she wanted so to get down; for a change. 
 A little belladonna plaster where nobody would see it, 
 iinder her cap, so that it shouldn't show and look ugly, 
 and where nobody would see it, please. There were two 
 good-sized baskets standing on a table near this patient. 
 They were literally piled and packed with tracts. ' We 
 get a great many,' she said, seeing me look at them; 
 •more than we can read.' Poor soult .1 hope her 
 belladonna plaster has done her good. As we came 
 away, the nurse stopped for a moment to speak to quite 
 an elegant old lady, who was sitting up, extremely 
 nicely dressed, in a chair, with a grand cap and ribbons, 
 and a knitted lace shawl. 
 
 It was getting late, and we began to pass blue- 
 garbed tander-nurses carrying little trays with teas. The 
 '-patients who are well enough to get down have their 
 tneals in the big dining-room, but these little trays looked 
 very.riice and appetising; the whole order of the plac$ 
 is perfectly appointed. Some of the rooms . fipstairs 
 were like little bowers, with pots flowering roUhd "th^ 
 
,lSo A CITY of REFUGE. 
 
 windows, bird-cages hanging up, pictures on the walls 
 of the friends of the sick people. One pale face looked 
 at us as we passed a white bed. Her room was like a 
 little chapel, with light streaming in from through the 
 flowers and bird-cages and the climbing greens upon the 
 casement,, and the poor .martyr, alas ! lying on her rack. 
 
 There was another pale face that looked out, too, as 
 we passed ; but as we were going in the nurse stopped us, 
 and said she feared the patient was dying ; and so we 
 jnoved away. I asked to be taken to a sick woman I 
 remembered a year before — a kind, merry person, who 
 had gone through a terrible operation. She was in bed 
 still -in the same room, still looking the same, bright, 
 friendly, with smart little curls, and ' a friend gossiping 
 by her bedside. 
 
 To see such a place as this as it is, to be sorry 
 enough and tender enough to continue to sympathise 
 with all its suffering, would need, I think, a mind 
 scarcely human in its powers. The whole subject is so 
 vast, so mysterious, and utterly beyond our comprehen- 
 sion, that it is easier to dwell upon the comforting 
 kindness, the helps to endurance and courage, that are 
 to be found here more than in any place I ever saw. 
 There was one poor girl who had been lying for seven 
 years upon her side. All the lines of those seven years 
 seemed to me in her white wan face. She did not com- 
 plain, though her eyes complained for her ; but she said 
 
A CITY of REFUGE. »8i 
 
 she had a nice water bed — ^that was a great comfort ; 
 and her cup of milk and toast for tea were beside her, so 
 nicely served and prepa:red that it was a pleasure to see 
 the little meal; and there was a great bunch of spring 
 lilac buds in a glass that another patient had brought 
 to her out of the garden — ^the first of the year. 
 
 And so with all its endless combination of pain and 
 of sorrow this hospital does not send us away sad and 
 rebellious at heart, as do many refuges for sorrow and 
 trouble : for instance, a workhouse ward, where there are 
 <:ases often enough that might be admitted here if there 
 was room for them ; or a sick close room, in a narrow 
 street, where the healthy and unhealthy are shut up to- 
 gether, for days and for nights. Here, where there is 
 such great suffering, there is also great comfort and 
 tender nursing and companionship ; there are trees, and 
 grasses, and sweet lilac and gorse-blown winds,. close at 
 hand. There is a certain liberality in all the arranging 
 and economy of the place that seems to disprove the 
 practical notion of Charity being a grinding, snubbing 
 sort of personage, who would like to get the scales into 
 her own hand if she could, and to weigh out her kind- 
 nesses by the ounce. Such a plan as this would defeat 
 its own object if the inmates were not well and gener- 
 ously tended. Perhaps I should in fairness confess to 
 having heard of the bitter complaints of one of the- 
 patients, who had a fancy for lobsters every day^ and- 
 
iS? A CITY of REFUGE. 
 
 who was denied this delicacy ; but she is not the first to- 
 long for the unattainable, and certainly, to some of us, 
 grumbling is almost as great a privilege as eating lobsters 
 every day. 
 
 It seems fitting and seemly tlaat in a great country 
 like ours there should be munificent charities, comfort- 
 ing and liberal in their dealings ; one only longs that 
 their doors should be set open more widely, if possible,, 
 to the crowds that are waiting about them for admission. 
 Here is a paper before me : it is two years old, and I 
 know not how many have succeeded in their efforts ; but 
 looking at it, it would indeed appear as if the wayfarers 
 were lying all along the road, and the Samaritan passing, 
 by has only one ass to carry them away upon. 
 
 These biographies are not very long in writing, and 
 I may quote one or two that I have copied off the list : — 
 
 Paralysis, loss of speech. . . . Captain of a Steam-vessel. 
 Disease of the Brain and Debility ' . . Governess. 
 Disease of the Spine and Joints, Paralysis . Governess. 
 
 Paralysis Captain of a Mail Steamer. ' 
 
 Disease of Spine and Throat . . , Schoolmistress. 
 
 Injury to Spine Working Engineer 
 
 Paralysis and Asthma .... Master Tailor. 
 
 These are seven out of i6o — a whole sad life of labour 
 and suffering told in a few words. There are laundry- 
 women, servants, journeymen, dressmakers. It is a 
 comfort to turn back to those who are safely withia 
 reach of kind hands, helpful appliances, and friendly 
 
A CITY of REFUGE. 183 
 
 Avords such as those which I heard the head-nurse 
 speaking to her patients as I followed her about from 
 one room to another. 
 
 It has been proposed lately to establish a hospital 
 oh somewhat similar principles for children, with this, 
 one comforting proviso that the children are to be cured 
 if possible. A doctor of very great experience and 
 reputation, who once superintended a children's hospital 
 in Paris, and for whose opinioii his friends have a great 
 and just regard, was speaking on the subject to a friend, 
 and saying that there are many chronic cases in child- 
 hood deemed incurable which are in reality perfectly 
 curable, but which require a doctoring of fresh air, of 
 regular diet, of cleanliness, &c., that it is impossible 
 they should receive at home. I believe it was in 
 this way the idea originated, and now the hospital 
 really seems in a fair. way to being established. Four 
 or five people have each promised a hundred a year 
 towards it, of their own accord, without solicitation. 
 When a thousand a year is assured the hospital will be 
 begun. A big garden is the first thing wanted, for the 
 Children to play in and to exercise their limbs. The 
 children's hospitals, admirable as they are, cannot keep 
 the little things always, and are obliged to change their 
 patients constantly. Anybody who has seen the piteous 
 crowd waiting at the doors in Great Ormond Street will 
 understand the necessity there is for more and more 
 
.184 ^ CITY of REFUGE. 
 
 such help and assistance to the good work which is done 
 there. 
 
 Only yesterday there was a little patient who had 
 been discharged almost cured from what seemed a hope- 
 less and chronic illness, after only two months of care in 
 the children's hospital, who was begging and praying to 
 go back from his home in the back kitchen with the 
 mangle. One patient ! A hundred — a thousand, to- 
 morrow, if one searched for them, and knew what to do 
 with them when one had found them, or where to send 
 them. This incurable children's hospital has, however, 
 good friends among people who love their own children, 
 and who are willing to come forward with generous 
 hearts and great sums to assist it, and there is great 
 hope of its speedy establishment. 
 
 But one of the greatest difficulties that have to be 
 contended against at present in the management of any- 
 thing of the sort is the extraordinary system which has 
 grown up all about us, and which seems to be almost 
 impossible to contend with. 
 
 I have the reports before me now of t\vo hospitals, 
 conducted by different people, each doing a great and 
 important work. How much the help might be extended 
 if the machinery Were more simple and the manner of 
 administering aid less complicated and costly, it would 
 be hard to say. A great country like ours should have 
 noble charities ; niggardliness seems to me a far more 
 
..A CITY of REFUGE. 185 
 
 deprecable fault than excess of generosity in the help 
 afforded. But what people complain of, an^d with 
 reason, I think, is that part of the money they subscribe, 
 instead of going to the objects of their charity, the 
 attendance, the food, the comfort of the patients, is by 
 the mere fashion and necessity of the day put to strange 
 and vexing purposes — to printing little books that no- 
 body reads, to sending circulars that go straight into 
 the fire, to arranging an elaborate machinery of admis- 
 sion that in no way benefits the patients. The postage 
 and advertising and printing of two hospitals comes to 
 1,300/. in the course of a year ; of which 100/. a year 
 for the postage of each hospital represents something 
 like, say, 240,000 letters. I don't know how many hard 
 days' work 240,000 letters would mean, and how many 
 of them are mere circulars, or how many might be 
 spared ; but it seems as if so much of our energy went 
 into advertising and crying our good intentions that, in 
 lime, there will be no strength or time left for anything 
 •else. 
 
 An experiment has been partially tried at an institu- 
 tion where no canvassing is allowed, and no public elec- 
 tion. The votes — so a friend to whom I had spoken on 
 the subject writes— are quietly ' counted at the office, 
 -and the result is announced.' He, however, goes on to 
 say that this plan is not successful in a pecuniary point 
 ■of view ; and a charity in which all the power was vested 
 
l86 A CITY of REpUGE. 
 
 in a committee would have still less chance of success. 
 I had spoken to him on the subject of this incurable 
 hospital, and asked why the most pressing cases were 
 not elected by a competent board instead of those people 
 having the best chance who had most friends, and whose 
 friends were most active in their behalf ' You do not 
 know,' he said, ' all the outcry and discontent that such 
 a proceeding would give rise to. We should be 
 accused of unfairness, of partiality. We ourselves dis^ 
 like the system as much as you do, but we cannot help 
 ourselves ; we are obliged to give in to the common cry 
 and common weakness of human nature, and to take 
 the good and the bad as they come together.' And so 
 it is, and we must be content to accept things as they 
 are ; but with the bad and the good there is certainly 
 given to each one of us an instinct for better things, and 
 is it quite impossible that any effort should ever be made 
 to disembarrass good and noble things from the cumber 
 of selfish interest and patronage which weight them so 
 heavily ? Is there no divine indignation left among us 
 strong enough to overturn the tables of the money- 
 changers, to chase away those that sell doves in the 
 temple .■' 
 
 What a horrible complication it seems looking at 
 it honestly with unbiassed eyes ! Is it possible that we 
 arfe sunk so low that we cannot give freely and witk 
 generous, tender, and grateful hearts, without this 
 
A CITY of REFUGE. 187 
 
 hideous system of patronage, of rules, of complimentaiy 
 clapping, of bad dinners and wines, of subscription lists 
 and names affixed to little miserable scraps, of crumbs- 
 from our table that should make us ashamed instead 
 of complacent, as we turn to B or A or whatever our 
 initial may be, and see our honest name set down with 
 a shabby price to it like the cheap rubbish in a huxter's. 
 shop ? 
 
 I think Mr. Froude, in his essay on ' Representative 
 Men,' has put words to a difficillty which a great many 
 have felt, but which few people have put words to before. 
 It is a difficulty of words in itself: and concerns the 
 constant cry of the age, the advice of the preachers, 
 which comes to us from every side, calling and urging us 
 to be good, and bidding us be noble, crying that to us is 
 entrusted ~z. mission of love and of charity. ' Go forth,' 
 so they say, ' Go forth and fulfil it.' And then the. 
 difficulty occurs to some of us, where are Ave to go forth .' 
 how are we to be good ? when are we to be noble } 
 Passive charity is useless without a practical use for it,, 
 and so the teachers acknowledge. But have you na 
 neighbours to tend .' they cry, no sufferers to comfort by 
 the way ? Are there no wayfarers who have fallen by 
 the roadside 'i And all this is true enough — too true,, 
 alas ! — for the wounded wayfarers may be counted by 
 thousands. 
 
 And yet as I write I feel that the preacher is right 
 
1 88 A CITY of REFUGE. 
 
 in the ftiain, though his talk is vague, and he has not 
 sufficiently applied the science of the truth he instinc- 
 tively feels, to the daily facts of life. Life, I suppose, 
 must for most of us be a rule of thumb — if I may be 
 allowed so to speak ; and to go forth must mean to take 
 a cab and call upon a dull friend, or to protest, when we 
 see occasion, against wrong-doing of any sort, or to take 
 trouble about things that do not interest or concern us 
 very much. There are some noble and honest natures 
 to whom instinctively the impulse comes for action, and 
 for right and great action, too — some lives whose love 
 and example are benedictions to those who are about 
 them- — one noble tender heart leavening the dough by 
 its unconscious generous tenderness and example. These 
 people need ask no questions, for theirs are the voices 
 that answer, not in preaching, but by their simpleness, 
 their truth, their tender impulse. As a rule we who ask 
 are not the people who work and achieve. 
 
 A woman died not long ago who had lived some 
 twenty-six or twenty-seven years one of those lives that 
 ■do not question for themselves, but that seem like 
 answers to the vague aspirations of others. Those who 
 have loved Caroline Nevill will know how it is that I 
 quote her as one of the examples of this bright and reso- 
 lute devotion, that shines like a beacon in the storm to 
 others who are wandering about in search of a way. She 
 was the head-nurse of the hospital at Lincoln, where 
 
A CITY of REFUGE. 189 
 
 in time a terrible mortality and illness overtaxed her 
 strength, and her strength of life being gone, she 
 died. 
 
 I have drifted away from the incurables a little ; any 
 one who likes to go and see the place is welcome, and 
 iio one can go without coming away touched and 
 humbled, and perhaps a little the better for the visit. 
 
 The privilege is a sad one, heaven knows, that be- 
 longs to all these poor people ; but sad as it is, when 
 one looks at these gentle and tranquil faces, it is hard 
 to think of those still outside, in a world that looks 
 peaceful enough, and pleasant and green to-day from 
 these open windows, but which is a weary, illimitable 
 place for those who, with paralysed limbs and racked 
 bodies, are hopelessly and helplessly trying to escape 
 from the overwhelming tramp of the legions by which 
 they are overwhelmed : legions that advance upon them, 
 as one has sometimes dreamt in dreams, by every road, 
 by every turn of life. I can imagine poor wearied, 
 hunted souls trying to fly from want, from anguish, from 
 loneliness, from neglect and cruel words, but their limbs 
 will not carry them ; they cannot work, they are too 
 weak even to beg, friends weary, subsistence fails, their 
 own hearts fail. The Duke of Argyll says that nearly 
 6,000 people annually leave the London hospitals suffer- 
 ing from incurable disease. Of these how many must 
 there be in miserable condition. One's own heart might 
 
igo A CITY of REFUGE. 
 
 indeed fail at the thought of such tremendous calamity ; 
 but for 6,000 incurables, how many hundreds of thousands 
 are there not among us who are well and strong, and 
 who have enough to live and enough to give to others, 
 and asses and pennies to spare for others in their need ? 
 
igi 
 
 ; NEWPORT MARKET. 
 
 We went, the other night to see a play called ' Dot,' in 
 Tvhich a beneficent cricket chirping on the hearth brings 
 a kindly warmth to the very hearts of the people assem 
 bled round it. The poor, ill-used husband, sitting all 
 iiight staring at the empty grate, softens and kindles 
 under the friendly influence. The sceptical young sailor 
 tears off his disguise ; the narrow-minded taskmaster 
 becomes generous, charitable, and begins to pay the most 
 -marked attentions to the poor toymaker's daughter. 
 Then, lo, and behold ! the fireplace opens, and a glowing 
 apparition comes down the chimney, and the beaming 
 spirit of the hearth is revealed to the spectators, who 
 laugh kindly, and clap applause. 
 
 As we all know, it is not only at the play the spirits 
 of the hearth appear. In the darkness of these long 
 winter evenings their lights gleam, and their voices echo 
 cheerfully through the old houses. Newport Refuge 
 (my text for to-day) is alight ; other hearths are kindling. 
 There is an old house near the river with red wings, 
 and a stately roof, and diamond panes, where I saw a 
 
192 NEWPORT MARKET. 
 
 real spirit on the hearth the other night ; only it was 
 more beautiful and shining even than the crowned 
 lady at the play, — a tall spirit in robes of green, lighted 
 by stars twinkling crimson and golden ; a spirit Briareus- 
 like, with outstretched arms, and beautiful gifts hanging 
 from them, and glittering flags and wreaths. All round 
 about it stood a crowd of wistful little babies, with big 
 round eyes, in which this wonderful shining was reflected. 
 Only one night in all the year does this lovely wonderful 
 spirit appear to the little patients at Gough House 
 Hospital — poor tiny aching creatures with wounds, and 
 pains, and plagues innumerable. Their little pale faces 
 may be seen peeping out of the narrow windows of the 
 old house — at the people passing by, at the men at work 
 in the wood yard, at the boats sailing along the river 
 hard by. Other little children who are well come, nod 
 to them, and play upon the old steps leading up to the 
 ancient doorway, over which ' Victoria Hospital for 
 Children ' is written up in big letters, for those who run 
 to read. 
 
 In this community, which the lady in charge gave 
 me leave to explore for myself, there are about thirty 
 "little children. The first room into which I wandered 
 belonged to eight babies, who are put to bed about six 
 o'clock, in cradles all round the room. In each cradle 
 lies a silent, abstracted, blinking heap ; one nurse and a 
 little helpful patient are tucking them all busily away. 
 
NEWPORT MARKET. .193 
 
 There was not a dissentient voice among them. 
 Home babies shout, kick, shake the house with their 
 indignant voices. But these infants were all good, 
 all going to sleep, clutching their prizes and tiny- 
 dolls and clenched fists behind theij. little chintz 
 curtains. 
 
 '• Tn the older wards the children were gathered round 
 the tall fender in the firelight, chattering to one another, 
 the blind boy lying flat on the floor, the little white wan 
 girl in her nightcap sitting in a tiny wicker-chair, so 
 still, so touchingly tranquil, that it gave one a pang 
 to see. Another sweet-faced rosy maiden, with great 
 brown eyes, is lying paralysed on her back in her crib. 
 
 ' I don't want to go home,' said one little fellow, who 
 had come from his back-kitchen home to be cured and 
 dipped in these healing waters. * I hkes being here 
 best' 
 
 * I'm going home,' said the little blind boy, kicking 
 on the floor. ' I'm going home to-morrow, — I am.' 
 
 'He is always saying that,' laughed the other 
 children. 
 
 < I have been here — oh, a very long time,' said a tall 
 boy called Georgy; 'oh, a long time j but I : don't re- 
 member. I have been here six weeks, I think.' 
 
 'He has been here the longest,' said -the little 
 children, wagging their heads ; ' longer nor any one.' 
 
 O 
 
194 NEWPORT MARKET. 
 
 ' Do you like this better 'than school, David ? ' I 
 asked one of them. 
 
 David nods and nods. ' Ye-es, ma'am,' says he. All 
 the little children laugh. 
 
 ' He don't want to go home,' says a little girl sitting 
 up in her crib. 
 
 They are very happy, poor little souls ! and it is not 
 while they are in the hospital that one is sorry for them. 
 The lady who has charge of them all says the hardest 
 part is sending them away : but others are waiting and 
 they must go in turn. She amused me by describing 
 their bewilderment sometimes when they come, at the 
 sight of the baths and the water provided. They have 
 never even heard of such things at home, and cannot 
 make them out. Their complaints are, many of them, 
 caused by sheer neglect and want of cleanliness : and 
 yet, how can it be helped .■' A man came to the hospital 
 the other day ; he had eight children, no work, a wife 
 sick in a hospital, and one child very ill at home. 
 David is one of seven in a dark kitchen, where he lives 
 with a mangle, a sick father, a thriftless mother. Wliat 
 chance have the poor little children? The mangle 
 cannot do everything. It is only a mangle, and it could 
 not feed and clothe nine people, though it went on of its 
 own accord turning from one year's end to another. 
 
 ' It is not only that the children are generally cured 
 when they come here,' said Miss S , ' but they learn 
 
NEWPORT MARKET. 195 
 
 things which they never forget. They are taught little 
 prayers ; they get notions of order and cleanliness. One 
 little girl said she should go home and teach the others all 
 she had learnt. She came from a miserable place, poor 
 •child. One would be glad to think that any good in- 
 fluences might follow the children after they have left us.' 
 
 For the first time they hear of something besides the 
 squalid commonplaces of their daily lives. This hospital 
 is doing true and good work in its district : • one can only 
 hope that others in their places may rise up, and that 
 there may be more and more kind teaching and comfort 
 in store for all poor little children, and more and more 
 kind hands to succour them, and friendly roofs to sheltfer 
 them from the blast. 
 
 The ladies who superintend the children's hospital 
 are trying an experiment just now. They want to 
 establish a fever cottage somewhere in the country, to 
 which they may send the poor little patients who cannot 
 of necessity be let into their wards. 
 
 Every one knows the Great Parent Hospital, in 
 Ormond Street. It is a noble charity and encloses its 
 little hatchlings warm and sheltered within its oaken 
 wings — only to-night I _ heard them all singing and 
 chirping and chattering over their tea. There is an off- 
 shoot from Ormond Street at No. i8 Queen's Square 
 hard by, founded by two ladies for children afflicted by 
 hip disease, an illness so tedious and so long that other 
 
,96 NEWPORT MARKET. 
 
 hospitals are obliged to refuse them admittance. Kwy- 
 one who has an hour to spend on sick children may see 
 the wards, the November twilight, the patient little 
 creatures under their crimson blankets, lying waiting — 
 for health let us hope. One small patient jumped up 
 when she saw the lady superintendent, and caught her 
 round the waist with those dear little outstretched child- 
 ren's arms so read}' to love, so wide open to kindness. 
 This little girl had a bed near a window. ' I see ever 
 so many people "walking in that garden,' she told me ; 
 * look ! look ! there's some one now. / can walk now ; 
 that little boy got up one day, but he's had to go to bed 
 again.' This little patient has been ill for many years, 
 but is recovering at last. There was. another little thing 
 who had learnt to talk in the hospital ; it was a baby 
 ■when it came. I think I must have seen nearly fifty" 
 little patients lying in their cribs. Their poor little 
 wrists are sometimes affected as well as their hips and 
 knees. Many of them were singing little songs to them- 
 selves, others were shouting out to the nurses, some of 
 them were thoughtfully staring at their tea-things and 
 waiting for their tea. ' Do you like eggs for your tea ? ' 
 I asked a little boy who gave a little silent confidential 
 nod. The lady in charge took me out of the ward of 
 children into a large room with great pleasant windows 
 and some ten little empty cots. ' It is melanchol}-, 
 isn't it, to see all these empty beds,' she said. ' There is 
 
NEWPORT MARKET. 197 
 
 another ward down below also empty. We have more 
 than twenty empty beds and nearly forty children on 
 the books waiting for admission ; one does long to see 
 ■ the ward open.' 
 
 And so by the loving perversion of helpful charity, 
 it comes to pass that illness, trouble, and cruel disease 
 are made welcome guests within the walls of the old 
 houses where these kind ladies live, their stricken little 
 flock lying prostate all around them. In town and 
 country villages, and seaside places, people are at work, 
 and sisters of charity of some sort or another (for.it is 
 not the quilled cap which makes the difference) are 
 nursing and tending their little patients, stirred by the 
 same gentle, natural impulse, which makes real mothers 
 love their little ones with an anxious pain and love and 
 fear, in which some women find the greatest happiness 
 which this world can bestow. At Brighton there is 
 more than one home for sick children. One specially iii 
 Montpellier Road, for little corwralescents, where the care 
 is so wise and tender, that people who, like myself, go to 
 -see, come away with a real friendship and love for the 
 place. 
 
 If some mighty spirit were to give us the gift of see- 
 ing into the lives of the people who are passing like our- 
 selves through the slush and mud and dim vapours of 
 a London winter, we might well be scared, we middle 
 respectable classes, hurrying along from one comfortable 
 
igS NEWPORT MARKET. 
 
 firelit world to another, — worlds closed in by curtains 
 and shutters, warmed by fires and carpets, steaming with 
 the flavour of good things. We go out into the streets, 
 and hurry back again to our snug paradises, where white- 
 robed houris are singing and playing upon grand pianos 
 with golden strings, where ministering butlers and waiters 
 and parlour-maids are pouring claret into thin glasses 
 that sparkle, where tables are spread a la Russe with 
 fruit and with flowers, and the faithful are feasting in 
 companies of six, eight, and ten at this season of the 
 year. As they feast they are reclining upon seats of 
 mahogany and rosewood, and discoursing of past and 
 future deeds. Shining is the broadcloth, spotless the 
 white linen ; veils and crowns are set on the heads of 
 the matrons, and wreaths lie on the maiden's heavy 
 tresses that are plaited and stained to gold ; and soft 
 words are uttered ; and smoking viands pass round 
 between the pauses of the conversation. But, speaking 
 seriously, it seems almost impossible to some of us, 
 living in a certain fashion, to realize the state of mind in 
 which certain other people alongside are existing,^ 
 people whose chief possessions are a few rags perhaps, a 
 body to hunger and weary with, aching feet to tramp 
 along the pavement, the fierce winds blowing at the 
 corners, the gusts of rain, and the piled-up mud in the 
 streets. The wet railings to lean against are theirs too, 
 a kerbstone perhaps to rest upon, and the bitter fruits of 
 
NEWPORT MARKET. I99 
 
 the knowledge of hunger, of patience, of utter weariness, 
 of the length of the night. 
 
 ' I daresay you don't know what it is to walk about 
 all night long,' a woman said to me one day not long 
 ago ; and her eyes filled up with tears as she spoke 
 quietly in a sort of whisper. 'I walked about three 
 nights this week,' she said, ' till a person I met took pity 
 on me, and let me into her room. She was only a poor 
 , woman ; not a lady,' the woman said. '' She told me to 
 Qome here.' ' Here,' was the woman's ward in the New- 
 port Market Refuge, a long room, with slender iron 
 pillars, and a double row of narrow beds on either side 
 of the middle passage. The beds were wooden frames 
 stretched with sacking, and fastened to the wall. By 
 , each bed a woman was standing, waiting while some one 
 at the far end of the room was busily preparing bowls of 
 hot coffee and dividing hunches of white bread. One or 
 two of the women looked scared and sad ; but not all. 
 Till this person spoke to me, I should never have guessed 
 how the week had passed for her nor what straits she 
 was in. I had even wondered to see her, there, for her 
 appearance was decent and respectable, and her face 
 looked quiet and cheerful ; only when she answered me 
 her eyes filled with tears, and her voice failed. This 
 was the only woman to whom I spoke ; but I suppose 
 there were some thirty of them in the long room, who 
 had just been let in out of the rain. 
 
200 NEWPORT MARKET. 
 
 I had come a long way, and the horse had struggled 
 and stumbled through the black, twinkling mud, for it 
 was dark and wet with rain this London winter's evening ; 
 dim crowds were flitting and hurrying along shadowy 
 pavements that all the flaming gas-becks in the shop- 
 fronts were not enough to lighten, — no sky overhead, no 
 tops to the houses, but a dense Christmas vapour dripping 
 upon the heads of the passers-by. We turned from gas 
 to utter blackness, out of the long street which had put 
 me in mind of some foreign street for odd stores, tobacco, 
 bird-cages, jewellery-shops ; and then we jolted into dark 
 and lonely places where no lights were shining, and no 
 one passed. The cab stopped, and the man asked me 
 which was the way to go. A small shrill ghost appearing 
 in a doorway, and hearing us talk of the Newport Refuge, 
 screamed out to us to ' go ba-ack, turn to the roight, and 
 then to the lef ' agin ; ' and then, in another gloom, the 
 stumbling horse stopped once more, and the driver opened 
 the door of the cab. The rain was beginning to cease, 
 but the drops still dripped as I stood in the middle of a 
 muddy sheet, to which I could see no shore. As well 
 as I could make out, we were in a narrow sort of court- 
 passage, opening into a wider court, with tall tenements 
 enclosing it. One or two people were standing round 
 about something that looked like a big barn-door, half- 
 open. ' In there, missus,' said a man with a pipe ; and so 
 out of the darkness I stumbled through the barn-door. 
 
NEIVPORT MARKET. 201 
 
 I was a little bewildered after my long drive by what 
 seemed_^ at first a dazzle of light, a din of voices, a 
 sudden strumming of distant music. ... I think I went 
 up some steps. I saw a staircase, a passage, in which 
 was a lighted window, and a man's face looking out over 
 some books. A woman was standing at the window, 
 a great rouad clock was ticking, and its hands were 
 pointing to ten minutes past five. I asked the porter if 
 this was the Refuge, and if the people were all in for the 
 night .' Yes, they were all come ; some sixty of them, 
 out of the street. 'We let them in early to-night,' said 
 the man at the window, ' because of the rain.' 
 
 I myself was glad enough to get under shelter. I 
 don't know how I should have felt if I had been walking 
 about all day and all the night before, and all the day 
 before that, and the night before that again, in the slough 
 without, as some of the people had done who were just 
 admitted. If I had come to ask for a night's lodging, the 
 man at the window would have asked me my name, 
 what I worked at, where I slept the night before. The 
 other woman standing beside me said she made enve- 
 lopes, had been turned off some weeks, meant to go to 
 this place and. that in the morning to ask for work ; had 
 tried all day long, and all the shops, and didn't know 
 what she should do. 
 
 ' There is no reason why you should not find employ- 
 ment,' said the man at the window. ' People write aS 
 
202 NEWPORT MARKET. 
 
 many letters in winter as in summer. You should ask 
 at the manufactories instead of going to the shops. 
 There is a man here to-night who had given up asking 
 
 in despair. I sent him to Messrs. , and he got work 
 
 immediately. You can go up.' 
 
 One of the committee, who had come in with a 
 dripping umbrella, asked if the woman had ever been 
 tliere before ? 
 
 'No,' she said, anxiously. 'Mrs. So-and-so in the 
 court had took her in last night, and the neighbours told 
 her to come.' 
 
 The porter nodded, and at this sign of Watchful's 
 the poor Christiana, nothing loth, trudged up to her 
 supper by the wooden stairs that led to the women's 
 dormitories. It was a very simple affair, soon settled, 
 and the man shut up his book for the night, for the 
 people were all in. There they were, two long lines of 
 names all the way down the page. 
 
 I followed Mr. C. through the men's ward, which was 
 on the ground-floor. It was like the women's ward, 
 more beds, more suppers preparing, and more weary- 
 folks waiting to eat, and rest a little while, before they 
 started again on their rounds. As I walked after my 
 friend down this narrow passage the many eyes fixed 
 upon us made us glad to escape. I was surprised by 
 the respectable self-respecting look of most of the 
 refugees. They did not look as people often do in work- 
 
NEWPORT MARKET. 203 
 
 houses, with that peculiar half-hopeless, half-cunning, 
 face, which is so miserable to see. There were some 
 workmen and others, shabbily dressed, but still respect- 
 able, and they had the appearance of shopmen or clerks 
 or servants out of place. One boy, I remember, glanced 
 up with a bright handsome Lord Byron face as we 
 passed, and I also carried away the vision of a melan- 
 choly old man with a ragged beard, sitting staring before- 
 him, with his hands on his knees. After we left the 
 ward, Mr. C. began telling me something of the people 
 who came to it. They were of all trades and callings ; 
 clergymen, officers, schoolmasters, a well-known radical 
 reformer, a billiard-marker, a surgeon. In last year's, 
 list I see fifty-one tailors and sixteen waiters were 
 admitted. They come in for a night or two, or stay on 
 longer if there seems any reason for it, or chance of 
 employment. To some of us it may seem sad to read 
 that no less than sixty-five soldiers took refuge in the 
 ward last year, and that no other caUing has sent so 
 many applicants for relief. ' Of all who come,' said 
 Watchful, 'they are the most difficult to provide for.. 
 We got one a situation in a county gaol the other day ; 
 but it is not always that we can help them.' Men of war,, 
 mulcted of their arms, discharged before they have served, 
 their time, knowing no trade, sick, helpless. It seems. 
 a hard fate enough. I heard of some poor invalided 
 fellows coming back from India the other day, discharged,. 
 
204 NEWPORT MARKET. 
 
 in high spirits at the prospect of getting away and seeing 
 their friends and homes again. ' Good-bye, you Asiatics ! ' 
 one of them shouted, waving his cap, as the train set off. 
 The farewells are cheerful perhaps, but the welcomes 
 -awaiting these poor men at their journeys' end are not 
 ■cheering to contemplate. I could not help wondering 
 the other night, as I talked to my guide, who there was 
 among the men of peace ready to fight their battles. 
 
 Here, in the Newport Refuge, many get helped, one 
 way and another. Trouble and time are given ungrudg- 
 ingly by the committee, by the people upon the estab- 
 lishment, and by the kindest of sisters, in her nice grey 
 ■dress and white cap. This lady is in charge of the 
 ■women's department. She sits in her quaint dark room, 
 leading out of the women's sleeping-ward, with its glass 
 •doors opening every instant to admit one or other person, 
 — application, complaint, inquiry, petition. The women 
 come, the boys come, the committee comes, and its 
 wives, and stray outsiders like myself; but there is a 
 method in all these comings and goings, a meaning and 
 an unaffected kindness and good-fellowship that impress 
 -one irresistibly. The sister told me to go and see the 
 boys' refuge, and the kitchen, where all the suppers were 
 preparing. It was a large kitchen on the ground-floor, 
 with cocoa-nut matting and generous-looking pans and 
 coppers, and a white cook watching the coffee-pots that 
 •were just beginning to boil. 
 
NEWPORT MARKET. 205, 
 
 The Newport Refuge not only takes in people to- 
 sleep for the night, and cooks their supper for them, but 
 there are also some small folks whom it keeps alto- 
 gether, — certain homeless boys, who live in the old house, 
 and who are taught and fed, and finally started in life- 
 frorn this curious busy hive of a home. A painter deal-, 
 ing in lights and sudden glooms might have found more 
 than one subject for his art, among the dark passages of 
 this ancient high-roofed barn this foggy, flaring, winter's 
 nighty Through an open door I caught sight of a little, 
 group of tailors at work. They were in a long low play- 
 room, where I have been amused to see the boys darting; 
 about in the twilight like imps at play, shouting, gallop- 
 ing, gambolling. Now the little imps were hard at work in 
 a bright corner of the dark room, squatting cross-legged 
 in a circle on the floor, round a tall lamp, and demurely 
 stitching at the rents and patches in theirvarious garments. 
 Grey walls, grey boys, with their little brown faces, a. 
 black master ; strongly-marked shadows and lights, a 
 red handkerchief tied round a boy's neck, — it does not 
 take much to make up a harmonious picture. The little 
 fellows were unconscious of pictorial effect as they sat 
 cobbling and mending a few of the tears and tatters 
 that exist in this seam-ripped world. The triumph of 
 the tailors was a grand pair of trousers that one of the 
 little fellows had achieved, with all the buttons gleam- 
 ing brass. The conqueror himself, I .believe, was des- 
 
-206 NEWPORT MARKET. 
 
 patched to fetch the garment, which was displayed 
 before us, — the banner of the industrious little phalanx 
 -at our feet. The master-tailor and the committee-man 
 had a little talk together, while I watched the boys' 
 youthful fingers sticking in stitches with much applica- 
 tion, but some uncertainty. So-and-so was to be 
 apprenticed, such an one had sent a good account of 
 himself, another wanted to give up tailoring altogether ; 
 and when the little consultation was over we left the 
 tailors, and climbed a winding stair. It seemed to lead 
 us into the kingdom of boys. A cheerful jingle of 
 sounds, scrapings, cheerful voices, met us from above, 
 from below ; small clumping steps and echoes ; boys 
 ilying up and down, disappearing through doors. In 
 one room, by the light of a blazing fire, a number of 
 little fellows were trolling out a Christmas hymn, at the 
 pitch of their childish trebles. In the intervals of this 
 hymn came a brilliant accompaniment from above of I 
 <ion't know what trumpets, trombones, flutes, executing 
 some martial measure. The two strains went on quite 
 independently of each other, and making noise enough, 
 ■each in its own place, to deafen the auditors and drown 
 ■every other sound. 
 
 One of the choristers was pointed to by the umbrella, 
 and beckoned off to come and show us the sleeping- 
 ward, where the boys each possess a box, a suit of Sun- 
 ■day-clothes, a bed, a grey blanket, and a red one, and a 
 
NEWPORT MARKET. 207 
 
 nice little pair of sheets, all doubled up like a roly- 
 poly pudding, neatly cut through the middle. 
 
 The young chorister proceeded to make his bed very 
 nicely and expeditiously. While he was accomplishing 
 this little task, I saw the grand pair of trousers being 
 carefully put away in the box of their fortunate pos- 
 sessor. 
 
 Upstairs, in a sort of loft, where the bandsmen were 
 practising, while the master beat time energetically the 
 ■musicians pulled and blew at enormous instruments, by 
 the music on the stands before them. The little fellows 
 seemed to me like all the champions of Christendom 
 manfully struggling with vomiting monsters and yawning 
 ■dragons. One boy was solemnly puffing away at an 
 ■ophicleide quite as big as he was, with an enormous pro- 
 boscis that seemed ready to gobble him up each time it 
 advanced ; others gallantly grasped writhing brass 
 serpents : a rosy-cheeked infant was playing on the 
 flute, a boy on a bench was reading a song-book, a . 
 charwoman was scrubbing the floor. The sister, in her 
 quaint grey gown, came up the stairs, and stood smiling 
 at the overflowing music, and beckoning to us : for we 
 could not -hear her speak in the din of their youthful 
 lungs and violent trumpets and trombones. She wanted 
 us to come to the shoemakers, before they left off work. 
 
 So we left the musicians playing their triumphant 
 march. Well may they play it, fortunate little mu- 
 
2oS A^EXVPORT MARKET. 
 
 sicians, rescued from the darkness without, where no 
 stars are shining, and where monsters, not harmless and 
 tameable such as these of brass and sound, are wander- 
 ing ready to make a prey of children, and weakness, 
 and helpless things, vainly struggling against the dark 
 and deadly powers of ignorance and want. 
 
 The little shoemakers were finishing for the day. 
 They lived at the other end of the building in a workshop 
 all to themselves. There was a kind eager young master 
 to direct them ; there were more gas-becks, more lights 
 and shadows, more brown-faced boys, drills and lasts, 
 very thick little boots on the floor, with nails, and 
 shapes, and abundant energy. The sister laughed, 
 seeing the little fellows' desperate efforts, 'Look at 
 Carter,' she said, 'how hard he is working.' Carter 
 grinned, but did not look up, and tugged away at his 
 leather thongs more vigorously than ever. They offered 
 to make me a pair of shoes. They had made some for 
 the sister already. This very day a friend has consented 
 to be measured for a pair of hobnailed boots. 'As we 
 were finding our way downstairs back to the sister's 
 room again, we began to meet trays of food, coming up 
 apparently of their own accord, ' Go down, trays,' cried 
 the sister, and the slices of bread, the mugs, &c., began 
 slowly to descend again. 
 
 The sister told me that the little bandsman I had 
 seen with the flute was the son of a soldier at the Cape, 
 
NEWPORT MARKET. 209 
 
 who had brought him to the Home before he left, and 
 who regularly paid for him out of his earnings, and 
 wished that he should be brought up a bandsman. 
 Some children are drafted on to other institutions ; some 
 are apprenticed. Grown-up people are helped one way 
 and another. And I must here gratefully acknowledge 
 my own obligations for the kindness I have received in 
 the home. I heard of a cook who had no clothes, but 
 who knew of work. This man was given clothes, and 
 allowed to live there long enough to save a few 
 shillings out of his wages, so as to redeem his things 
 and set up in a lodging for himself. The report tells of 
 newspaper editors and musicians helped to employment. 
 Servants come in great straits, and they, too, are as- 
 sisted. 
 
 I have not space to set down all the ways and means, 
 and people, and wants, and supplies, that are brought 
 together here. 
 
 It is pleasant to come away from these refuges and 
 hospitals with a remembrance of children's laughter in 
 the twilight, and voices at play, of troubles quieted, of 
 the sick and wounded made whole, of a divine light of 
 hope and love shining upon the arid and blighted vine- 
 yard, and cheering the failing labourers at work among 
 the vines. 
 
AN EASTER HOLIDA P. 
 
 Is that enchanted moan only the swell 
 
 Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay ? 
 And hark ! the clock within, the silver knell 
 Of t^velve sweet hours, that past in bridal white 
 And died to live. . . . — Maud. 
 
 It is late to begin to write of Easter holidays and holiday 
 makers when Easter is past and the holidays are rapidly 
 coming to an end — ^when all the people who only yester- 
 day, in a glamour of sunshine and laziness, were to one 
 another distant figures dotting the cliffs, groups upon 
 the beach, couples strolling on the smooth lawn of the 
 hotel, or voices calling from unseen places through the 
 clear spring air, are common-place, uninteresting men 
 and women again, packing up their portmanteaus and 
 bags, disputing over their bills, and driving away in flys 
 and breaks to the platform, where the same railway 
 carriages and steamers which conveyed so many to ease 
 and pleasant hours, now wait, remorseless and unrelent- 
 ing, to carry unwilling victims back to desks, pulpits, 
 pupil-rooms, consultations, household duties, social cares, 
 clerks, dust, office paper, and red tape. 
 
AN EASTER HOLIDAY. 21 r 
 
 For the last week or so it has seemed to some of us 
 as if a sort of millennium had set in in many places.. 
 Lawyers have been disporting themselves, suddenly 
 freed, as if by magic, from the blue bags and tin boxes. 
 to which they are usually chained, Prometheus-like, by 
 strings of red tape. Clergymen, without their pulpits, 
 have been climbing the cliffs with surprising agility, 
 their white neckcloths gleaming in the sun and marking 
 them distinct from other men. Pupils have ceased to 
 be altogether in this happy hour, and are transformed 
 into the well-loved Toms and Harrys of home and. 
 domestic life. Illnesses, and patients have also vanished 
 out of sight; although the doctors do not quite put 
 aside their professional manner with their practice, and 
 walk in a brisk and business-like way along the sea- 
 shore, or alertly read the 'Times,' cross-legged, upon 
 
 the benches in front of their hotels. Here at F , if 
 
 one may be allowed to instance one place among the 
 rest, there have been students from Oxbridge and 
 Camford. Two mighty dons have come down from, 
 their high places, and may be seen looking at the prim- 
 roses in the lane ; while in the adjoining field a painter, 
 whose name is reckoned high among his compeers, is 
 TOth some boys, leaping over a cat-gallows; and. a 
 councillor who has forgotten the cares of empire for a 
 while, is strolling in the shade of a hedgerow, and repeat- 
 ing odes of Horace to a young companion. 
 
212 AN EASTER HOLIDAY. 
 
 Horace would have most certainly written an ode or 
 
 two if he had come to F . He would have liked the 
 
 pinewood on the hill-side, where the river bubbles from 
 its source, and where you climb among trees, across 
 mosses starred with primroses and tiny dog-violets, and 
 as you climb you see the horizon gleaming between the 
 flaked stems of the pines, until at last you come out 
 upon a wide down which reaches to the summit of the 
 -hill. 
 
 But, in truth, we have no need of Horace here to tell 
 -us of ' groves of pine on either hand,' to teach us how to 
 look for ' the shining steps.' For the Lord of the Manor 
 of Faringford has written of these full-toned seas and 
 breaking waves, 'these happy blossoming shores,' and 
 ' thymy promontories,' 'where the rainbow lives in the 
 curve of the land,' and ' the golden chords run up the 
 ridged sea.' 
 
 Only yesterday, I think, two countrymen who were 
 driving stakes, ceased their work for a while to tell us, 
 'They were a-putten up of a fence to keep Misterr 
 Tennyson's sheep from strayen — ^for he wer Lord of the 
 Manor, he wer, and the sheep wer always goen astray.' 
 
 It seems almost as if the song of poets came to life 
 upon some spring days, and took visible form and voice 
 and being. Rhythm, music, the great flow of their 
 melodies, the secrets of their philosophy, are vibrating 
 all round and about. One seems to learn the meaning 
 
AN EASTER HOLIDAY. 21 j: 
 
 of many a poem by heart as one lies on the hill-side in 
 the sunshine. A bumble-bee buzzes by and floats away 
 down the slope over sweet gorse, thrift, wild thyme, 
 rock-roses, violets, and soft green grass. A chorus of 
 piping, whistling, thrilling, chirruping, twittering mounts 
 from all the hedges and copses at our feet, a soft wind, 
 from the sea comes blowing into our faces, while the 
 distant sound of the waves washing against the shore 
 down below seems to flow like an accompaniment to the 
 concert of the birds. Townbred folks cannot tell the 
 different notes and instruments of the concerts, but 
 there is a very sweet piping to the measure of ' Come 
 hither! come hither!' and then among the many, one 
 clear note (a nightingale's most likely) struck over and 
 over again with wonderful vivacity and sweetness. 
 Meanwhile, the sun streams over the country at one's 
 feet ; far away, water and landscape, towers and villages;^ 
 are tender with sudden lights, and everything thrills; 
 in answer to the first touch of spring. One cannot help, 
 thinking here — safe on the quiet hill-side — of another, 
 an awful springtide, a shadow of gloom and sorrow 
 which has overspread the unhappy countries across the 
 sea, 'with its blood-red blossom of war with a heart of 
 fire.' Meanwhile the leaves are budding, and blackthorn 
 blossoms flowering on the bare branches, and a sea of 
 tender green goes flooding over the land, and reaching 
 into dark courts where the grass sprouts greenly between. 
 
SI4 AN EASTER HOLIDAY. 
 
 the . stones, and the poor httle flower in , the garret win- 
 dow begins to put out its feeble shoots. 
 
 And as the season comes on beneficent, silent, and 
 bountiful for us, another also begins in London far away. 
 Cabs, flys, and carriages go quicker and quicker and in 
 more bewildering circles ; linkmen suddenly emerge like 
 gnomes out of the earth, with lanterns in their hands ; 
 the doors of the houses fly open ; the ladies and gentle- 
 men get excited, spring out from the carriages,' tear off 
 their cloaks, and begin in their turn to go whirling round 
 and round, and as they go they drag invisible circles in 
 their train of servants, milliners, children, governesses, 
 tradespeople' and what not, and the talk will hum 
 on and the music jangle until the night is nearly over, 
 and the stars begin to wane over the waking city, as 
 they do here when the last light has been extin- 
 guished in the lattice window, and country folks lie 
 peacefully dreaming, with their dogs whining in their 
 sleep. 
 
 But London is four hours away, the sun is not yet 
 set, nor the holidays quite over, and we are still safe 
 on the hill. One tries to climb it, slipping over the 
 smooth turf It is so smooth that the furze bushes 
 seem gliding over the precipitous sides of the down, 
 and one wonders that the very shadows do not slide 
 away. As we climb on, the browsing sheep first ap- 
 pear against the clear sky, then comes more yellow 
 
AN EASTER HOLIDAY. 215 
 
 gorse, and then at last the sea from the summit of the 
 cliff. 
 
 It lies quite calm, a pale-blue ocean, streaked with 
 straight and solemn lines where the currents flow. The 
 ships seem sailing in the air, for you cannot tell where 
 the horizon finishes or where the sky begins. We stand on 
 the edge of the cliff, listening to the strange stillness of 
 far-away sound, to the song of the waves and the birds. 
 All the air is thrilling with the sweet smell of gorse 
 bushes, and vibrating with sunlight. There are no words 
 to tell of such silence and sweetness and greatness. A 
 gull swoops over the cliff at our feet with a sudden cry ; 
 the sheep straggle away, tinkling their bells, stopping 
 now and then to browse the grass and the wild thyme. 
 Faint scents, faint sounds, wide colours flowing — green 
 and the tender blue of sea and of heaven and the lilac 
 distance melting on the far-away hills. A sudden awe 
 and wonder comes over one — a thrill of exquisite calm 
 and gratitude and comfort, like an unspoken psalm of 
 wonder and of praise. Only a week ago the churches 
 were done out for Easter with flowers and graceful 
 garlands : now it is the whole world which seems decked 
 and garlanded in season. Along the lanes, scattered 
 across our path, under our feet, hanging from the 
 branches in the woods below, flowers, and green and 
 white blossoms are scattered. An Easter hymn is in 
 the air. 
 
2l6 AN EASTER HOLIDAY. 
 
 P.S. — The councillor to whom I happened to read 
 the beginning of the essay had not patience to hear the 
 end, but interrupted me by quoting two verses from his 
 favourite poet. Mr. Martin has translated them into 
 English. 
 
 Whether thy days go down 
 
 In gloom and regrets, 
 Or, shunning life's vain struggle for renown, 
 
 Its fevers and its frets, 
 Stretched on the grass, with old FaJemian wine. 
 Thou givest the thoughtless hours, a rapture all divine. . . 
 
 Where the tall spreading pine 
 
 And white-leaved poplar grow. 
 And, mingling their broad boughs in leafy twine, 
 
 A grateful shadow throw. 
 Where runs the wimpling brook in its slumberous tune. 
 Still murmuring, as it seems, to the hushed ear of noon. 
 
217 
 
 A COUNTRY SUNDAY. 
 
 I am always well pleased with a"countiy Sunday, and think if keeping 
 holy the seventh day were only a human institution it would have been the 
 best method that could be thought of for the polishing and civilising of 
 mankind. . . . Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, not only 
 as it re&eshes in their minds the notion of religion, but as it puts both the 
 sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all suck 
 qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eyes of the village. — 
 Spectator. 
 
 This does not seem less applicable now than it did in 
 Addison's time, when perhaps men and women did not 
 work so hard as they do now-a-days, or need the day of 
 rest so greatly ; when the village where Addison wrote 
 was smaller than it is now ; when Piccadilly was a single 
 line of houses, looking out on fields at the back ; when 
 all the painful information, and the army of recollections 
 and allusions which are expected from well-informed 
 persons at every turn, were still in the future, and did 
 not exist to trouble the lazy and haunt the ignorant ; 
 when the weeks did not come laden with letters to read 
 and to answer, with ' Times,' with ' Telegraphs,' with 
 ' Saturday Reviews ' ; -when there were a hundred thou- 
 sand less books to cut, a hundred thousand less people 
 
2i8 A COUNTRY SUNDAY. 
 
 coming and going, each in turn to be seen, visited, at- 
 tended to, conciliated, solicited, as the case might be ; 
 when whole streets and districts round which we now 
 laboriously ply in the dusty east wind were unbuilt and 
 unthought of; when one single little welcome sheet, 
 brought in with .the tea-equipage by Betsy (who knew 
 her mistress's tastes so well that when breakfast delayed 
 it was because the ' Spectator ' had not yet come, but 
 the water boiled, and she expected it every minute), was 
 all that anybody was required to master before the tea- 
 pot was drained. 
 
 That small sheet, short, well considered, written by 
 the wisest penmen of the day, who took so great an in- 
 terest in its little moralities, and quirks, and kindly con- 
 ceits, suggested, perhaps, another publication which is at 
 this moment in the reader's hands : but anyhow it is to 
 be feared that a few pleasant reflections on Sir Roger 
 de Coverley's household, or the story of Theodosius and 
 Constantia, or a paper on the abuse of metaphors, would 
 scarcely suffice to us jaded beings who are in pursuit 
 of the latest intelligence from India, Asia, China, and 
 Abyssinia, besides particulars of the American war, the 
 speeches in the two Houses, the accidents on the rail- 
 ways, and the latest abuses of the day. A law should 
 be passed to compel such people to spend at least one 
 Sunday out of every seven in the country, where Sun- 
 days in England seem to dawn with a sweet peace and 
 
A COUNTRY SUNDAY. 219 
 
 tranquillity that are inexpressibly quieting and comfort- 
 ing to the weary. In France people try hard to follow 
 this advice, but we may all of us possibly remember, as 
 a vision, the long straight roads leading from the gates 
 of Paris, with the sun beating fierce upon the dust and 
 the stone-heaps and the stunted trees (acacias, and such 
 like) along the arid wayside, the grey flat horizon, the 
 -city with its white stone houses and glittering placards 
 : in the distance, the contented people pouring out of its 
 many barriers, and straggling along the road, or resting 
 on the stone-heaps under their sunshades and umbrellas, 
 Tvhile the children fill their little blouses and white pina- 
 fores with pebbles and with dust instead of flowers and 
 grass. At the time one could not help being touched 
 by the cheerful content of the sun-baked little groups. 
 Father in Sunday blouse; mother in smart ribbons; 
 grandmother in her country cap, producing the basket 
 Tvith the provender and sour bread ; and, perhaps, a 
 friendly gendarme with his lass coming up to join the 
 party. Then there are Roman Sundays,- steaming with 
 incense ; Scotch Sundays, when the gardener refuses to 
 pluck fresh vegetables, and the children go to church 
 three times ; there are Sundays at sea. . . But it seems 
 to me that there can be no Sundays in the world like 
 an English country Sunday, such as that which most of 
 us, let us hope, can look back to at some time in our 
 Jives. 
 
220 A COUNTRY SUNDAY. 
 
 Lord Bacon in his essays used to like to describe 
 castles in the air with commodious galleries, and servants' 
 ofBces, and gardens laid out to his fancy, all of which 
 good things were far removed from many of his readers, 
 who yet liked to read of the great man's conceits. In a 
 humble way I too would like to describe an ideal of 
 which most of the component parts are within anybody's 
 reach. 
 
 The ideal Sunday should be spent at a country house, 
 not many miles from London. We will call it Pleasance. 
 You should come to it through fresh country,lanes and 
 commons, and across broad fields where the cows are 
 browsing. Pleasance should have a great hall through 
 which the garden might show, and from which the 
 doors should lead into a library, a dining-room, a 
 drawing-room, all with windows looking across the 
 lawns and fields and green distant slopes and acres far 
 away gently rising and falling. There should be 
 scattered here and there flocks and herds, to give life 
 and animation to the green pastures and the still waters,, 
 and close at hand a few great trees under which one or 
 two people are strolling and enjoying the early spring. 
 All the mists and shadows of London life are left behind, 
 and lie in wait for them when they cross the river ; here 
 is only a bright winter's morning, the song of birds 
 piping, among the bare branches and bushes, with 
 sudden notes and cadences of exceeding sweetness. In 
 
A COUNTRY SUNDAY. 221 
 
 the ideal country house there should be a farm-yard, 
 with live toys for grown up-children : cocks that crow, 
 hens sitting with their little bead-eyed yellow brood 
 nestling round them. There should be cows that moo 
 and shake their heads, and crop the grass with a pleasant 
 crunch as you watch them in the meadow, or stand 
 meekly in their stalls when milking-time has come, with 
 their names, such as Cowslip, Daisy, Bluebell, painted 
 over each pair of horns. 
 
 In the morning, instead of hurrying through the 
 streets and past the closed shops and gin-palaces to a 
 crowded church with high square pews and dingy 
 windows and dust, and a fierce-looking pew-opener in a 
 front, you wend your way quietly across the fields, 
 where the air is sweet with coming spring, and you pass 
 by narrow swinging gates and under elm-trees to the 
 church door. As you enter, though it seems dim at 
 first, and the stained glass windows temper the light, 
 yet you have a sense of the pleasant sights and sounds 
 beyond the walls, of the great arch of the sky over head, 
 of the birds joining in the chaunt, of the preacher with- 
 out) telling in silent language of new hope, new life ; of 
 courage and endurance, of peace, and beneficence, and 
 wisdom. There are still Sir Roger de Coverleys, thanks 
 be to Heaven ! now-a-days, though perhaps they do not 
 stand up and publicly rebuke the sleepy and inattentive, 
 and as soon as Lady de Coverley sees you (for our Sir 
 
222 A COUNTRY SUNDAY. 
 
 Roger is a married man), she finds room for you in her 
 big pew with a welcoming look, and makes you quite 
 comfortable, with hassocks, and hymn-books, and psalters. 
 Coming out of church, Lady de Coverley greets her 
 acquaintance, and nods to the village children. There 
 is a certain Amelia I know of, in little hob-nailed shoes, 
 who turns her back upon the congregation, and stands 
 stock still, tied up in a little flannel cape. There is also 
 a delightful little fat ploughboy in a smock, who smiles 
 so pleasantly that we all begin to laugh in return. 
 
 You cross the fields again on your way back to Pleas- 
 ance. The cows have scarcely moved. A huge pig that 
 was grazing under a tree has shifted a little, and instead 
 of a side view now presents its tail. The farmyard, as 
 you pass on your way to the house, is all alive in the mid- 
 day sunshine. The Cochin-China cocks and hens, look- 
 ing like enchanted princes and princesses, come ambling 
 up to meet . you, shaking out their soft golden plumage. 
 The Spanish population, and the cr^ve-cceurs, black- 
 robed, with crimson crests, are all in their respective 
 countries, with beautiful sunset tints, purple, violet, green, 
 and golden, showing among their feathers in the sun- 
 shine. There is a great discussion going on among the 
 Poles. Gallant generals, with spurs and cocked-hat and 
 feathers, impatiently pace their confines ; fiery young 
 captains and aides-de-camp seem to be laying down the 
 law ; while the ladies, who also look very important, and 
 
A COUNTRY SUNDAY. 223 
 
 are dressed in a semi-military costume, evidently join in 
 the proceedings with the keenest interest. As for the 
 white ducks, what do they care for anything that is going 
 on ? their Sunday is spent squatting on the grass in the 
 field with the young Aldemey calves. They see both 
 sides of the world at once with their bright eyes, and do 
 not trouble themselves for anybody. 
 
 Some people like to go to church a second time ; 
 some go for a long walk in the afternoon : they have 
 only to choose. Park, and lawn, and common, hills and 
 dales lie before them ; and though the distance begins 
 to fade into the soft grey mist of an English March, yet 
 even the mist is gentle and beautiful, and the air is moist 
 and refreshing, and the brown turf yields under foot 
 with a delightful spring. I seem to forget myself, and 
 to fancy that these are the days of the Spectator come 
 back to us, when I venture to write thus at length of 
 ducks and of brown turf, and it is time I should cease. 
 
224 
 
 A BOOK OF PHOTOGRAPHS. 
 
 There are all sorts of books, and those of which we 
 have so many, and of which we shall have so many more 
 before the end of the year, are not the only ones which 
 are published. Type, and printers'-ink, and paper, after 
 all, are but the record of things as they are ; of facts, 
 laws, states of being and feeling, which might perhaps 
 be more quickly and more fully described in many other 
 ways, if we could only find them out ; and certainly of 
 late years one great new method of communication has 
 been discovered. A photograph of your friend will, to 
 a certain point, tell you more about him in one minute 
 than whole pages of elaborate description. You see him 
 himself — the identity is there, the dull, worn look or the 
 familiar cross-grained expression, or the humourous 
 twinkle of the eye, or the little vanities or negligences 
 of dress which always belonged to him. They are all 
 before you, summed up upon a little bit of card which 
 tumbles out of his letter, and which you are pretty 
 certain to examine even if you have not time to go on 
 trying to decipher the words with which he accompanies 
 
' . A BOOK of PHOTOGRAPHS. 225 
 
 his offering. ; There he is, more or less like, but always 
 with a certain essence of personality, so to speak, which 
 is produced in no other way. And if one little piece of 
 prepared-pasteboard is able to express so much about 
 B., J. and R., the most uninteresting of men, it would 
 seem strange, indeed, if it were not able to say still more, 
 and to describe the interest and. sentiment belonging to 
 some people, as well as the utter absence of either in 
 others. This latter quality, especially feeling or senti- 
 ment, which is so hard to put into words, seems to have 
 a language of its own, which utters in many different 
 ways, and is often quite beside and beyond the words 
 which try to speak of it. It comes out in music as the 
 notes thrill and suddenly master the listeners ; it speaks 
 from the pictures hanging on the walls of great galleries, 
 where the people coming and going, stop, called they 
 know not why or how. When some poets sing, suddenly 
 you know that their song is alive with this mysterious 
 soul of inanimate things ; or, again, you find it in the 
 fields and the woods, and along the hill ranges, or in 
 a look which comes into a familiar face, and which, 
 perhaps, you had never seen before. Whatever it may 
 be, it is certain that some people are blind to it all their 
 lives, and we all remember how to Peter Bell — , . 
 
 A primrose on a river's brim 
 A yellow primrose was to him,. 
 And it was nothing more. 
 
226 A book: of PHOTGCRAPHS. 
 
 A great many people are blind, a great many others go 
 about peering through spectacles more or less green, 
 blue> concave, convex ; while a few great masters there 
 are, certain Shakspeares and Raphaels of ancient and of 
 latter times, who seem to see things with their clear 
 natural eyes, and to point out to those who foUo^ after 
 them truths which are almost beyond the apprehension 
 of some of their disciples, though they know that they 
 exist, and have faith to believe in them. 
 
 A book, or rather a portfolio, although it may be 
 here reviewed as a book, has been lately published,' in 
 which as one turns over the pages one cannot but be 
 struck by the indescribable presence of this natural 
 feeling and real sentiment of which we have been speak- 
 ing. Mrs. Cameron, the author of the work in question, 
 is a photographer who has tried to photograph something 
 more than a mere inanimate copy of this or that object 
 before her, and yet the commonest stories and events of 
 everyday life are the subjects of her art. 'Trust,' 
 ' Resignation,' ' Meekness,' ' Thy Will be done,' are the 
 names she has given to some of her pictures. Children's 
 solemn eyes and fair waving locks, mothers tending them. 
 Madonnas, here and there an old friend greeting us out 
 of a sea of marginal pasteboard, these are all her ma- 
 terials ; but it is difficult to believe thatTthese quiet and 
 
 ' It is to be seen at Messrs. Colnaghis' by anytody who likes to go 
 there. 
 
A BOOK of PHOTOGRAPHS. 227 
 
 Tioble-looking people are of the same race as those men 
 and women whom we are accustomed to meet with in 
 all our own and our friends' photograph books. 
 
 A vision rises before one of the throng of gentlemen 
 -and ladies, dining-room chairs, small tables, and plaster 
 pedestals to which photography has accustomed us, and 
 of the devices by which popular artists have imagined 
 -how to give both dignity and repose to their sitters. 
 You may choose both or either, at your will. If dignity 
 :is desired, the plaster column is brought into requisition ; 
 if repose is considered more characteristic, the dining- 
 room chair and the small and ricketty table are produced. 
 You are requested to place one elbow on the table, to 
 turn your head back over one shoulder, to point out 
 -your little finger if you are a lady, to put one hand into 
 your pocket if you are a man. Art can go no farther^ 
 "With the tasteful addition of a vase, or a small bronze 
 statuette of a horse, and a volume negligently placed 
 upon the small table, the composition is complete. 
 
 It is, perhaps, no disparagement to Mrs. Cameron 
 to say that she is not a popular artist, -and does not deal 
 in these original effects. People like clear, hard out^ 
 lines, and have a fancy to see themselves and their 
 friends as if through ' opera-glasses, all complete, with 
 the buttons, &c., nicely defined. These things Mrs. 
 Cameron's public may not always find, but in their 
 stead are very wonderful and charming sights and sug- 
 
 Q2 
 
:Z28 A BOOK of PHOTOGRAPHS. 
 
 gestions in this unbound book of hers. A well-known 
 photographer said the other day that hers was the real 
 and artistic manner of working the camera ; that he, 
 too, had tried to photograph ' out of focus,' as it is called 
 but the public would not accept it, and he had therefore 
 been obliged to give it up. 
 
 As we are writing, at this moment, we look through 
 a window into a garden, and across a sloping country,, 
 where the bare trees have not yet put on their leaves, 
 and stand out in soft and delicate lines against a gentle 
 spring mist, through which the birds are singing. A 
 thatched cottage roof, the hedges, the distant clump of 
 trees, are all painted with the soft mysterious grey. An 
 effect very much like this seems to be occasionally the 
 result of Mrs.' Cameron's method of working. And yet the 
 very mystery seems in many cases to add to the wonder- 
 ful charm of the pictures, althoiigh as photographs some 
 of the clearer specimens are the finest. There is one 
 portrait of George Watts which is Holbein-like in its 
 perfection of detail, while another, much fainter and less 
 distinct, for repose and solemn flow of outline puts one 
 in mind of some stately figure of Michael Angelo's. 
 Among tlie portraits, those of Sir Henry Taylor, Mr. 
 Holman Hunt, and Mr. Speddirig, are remarkably fine. 
 A sweet intent woman's head, a child, safely cradled in 
 her arms, the old tender maternal story retold once more 
 -j.i called 'Resting in Hope.' 'The Salutation' will re- 
 
A BOOK of PHOTOGRAPHS. 229 
 
 ■call to many a picture now in our National Gallery. In 
 ' Aurora,' less perfect as a photograph than many of the 
 others, the child's eyes shine out with a depth and in- 
 tensity that put one in mind of those wonderful children's 
 ■eyes in Millais' ' Autumn Leaves.' ' Annie Lee ' might 
 be a Leonardo, from a certain stately grace. ' Trust,' a 
 •quiet woman with a noble head, with children clinging 
 about her ; ' Paul and Virginia,' an exquisite little pair, 
 and * Good Night,' are only a few among the many one 
 would like to mention. A painter, writing of these very 
 photographs, says : — ' There is a quality about many of 
 them as pictures which I do not remember in any other 
 photographs. They suggest colour so completely that 
 it does not seem that painting could add anything to 
 their beauty.' Photographers will appreciate the 
 difficulties overcome in the larger picture called ' The 
 Wise and the Foolish Virgins ;' but.it does not require 
 any knowledge of the art to do justice to the noble and 
 honest and beautiful effects which are here broxight 
 before us. Now-a-days Wordsworth would be thinking 
 of other pictures than Sir George Beaumont's vvere he 
 ±0 write of the — 
 
 Soul-soothing Art, whom morning, noontide, even. 
 Do serve with all their changeful pageantry, 
 Thou, with Ambition, modest, yet sublime. 
 Here for the sight of mortal man hast given 
 To one brief moment caught from fleeting time 
 The appropriate calm of blest eternity. 
 
230 
 
 THE NEW FLOWER. 
 
 So the Prince grew up to te a man, 
 
 Oil ! the bonny bud 's blowing ! 
 And ever the same fair course he ran, . 
 
 Oh ! the bonny bud 's blowing ! — T. Westwood. 
 
 It is like a story in a fairy book to hear how there was- 
 once a prince with a beautiful glass palace of his own, 
 in which wonders of every lovely form and colour were 
 to be seen, all blooming and flowering and scenting the 
 air — great palms making triumphal arches with their 
 beautiful leaves, and ferns springing up high overhead,, 
 throwing a green network against the crystal ; and 
 flowers of every sweetest perfume and colour. The 
 story goes on to say that the prince, although the 
 possessor of such lovely things, was not content ; for he 
 had not yet got the wonderful tree without a name, of 
 which travellers had brought back histories from distant 
 lands beyond the sea — a tree, they told him, that was. 
 more beautiful than anything he had in all his palace, 
 and which it was almost impossible to procure. But the 
 Ijrince, nothing daunted, determined to possess it, and 
 after taking information he despatched a mission to a 
 
THE NEW FLOWER. 231 
 
 distant empire, where a wise doctor of his own country- 
 had said that the tree was to be found. Some flowers 
 had been given to him by a learned traveller, who had 
 gathered them in a garden belonging to a monastery 
 ' around the hill of Kogua, in the Saluen river, in the 
 far-away kingdom of Birmah.' There the traveller had 
 ■ seen handfuls of the flowers of the tree thrown as offer- 
 ings in the caves, before the images of Buddha. And 
 meantime, while the mission was still absent on its 
 travels, the prince caused a beautiful pot to be prepared 
 to receive the tree when it should arrive — a wooden tub, 
 all carved and kyanised, for greater security; and, in 
 case the hearers of this fairy tale should not know what 
 Icyanising meant, they were told that it was a peculiar 
 process by which wood was prepared and steeped, so 
 that it should last for years, nor decay nor rot away. 
 
 And in time the mission returned to the prince, 
 bringing back a specimen of the tree in triumph from 
 the other end of the world. With great pomp and cere- 
 mony it was planted in the pot, and the prince and 
 all the doctors hoped to see it grow and flourish, and 
 give out the beautiful shining flowers of which they had 
 heard so much. 
 
 But they hoped and waited in vain. Years and years 
 went by, and the plant made no progress : no flowers grew 
 upon it, and the doctors said it was because they had 
 not yet waited long enough that the blossoms did not 
 
232 THE NEW FLOWER. 
 
 come. At last one of the doctors, more impatient than 
 the rest, bethought him that perhaps the magnificent 
 tub which had been prepared at such pains and expense 
 might be itself the cause that, notwithstanding all their 
 science, the tree did not flourish ; and that perhaps the 
 poisonous preparation in ' which the wood had been 
 steeped to prevent it from decay was affecting the too 
 susceptible plant And this wise doctor was right in 
 his surmise ; for no sooner was the tree taken out of the 
 grand and special tub which had been made for it and 
 put into a common one than it began to rally and re- 
 cover itself, and to throw out shoots. 
 
 This Avise doctor was no other than Sir Joseph 
 Paxton ; the prince was the Duke of Devonshire ; tlie 
 palace was the palace of Chatsworth ; the travellers were 
 Dr. Wallich and his friend Mr. Crawfurd ; the flower i? 
 the famous AmJurstia nobilis — the splendid Amherstia, 
 of which all the world has heard ; and as for the fairy 
 tale, it was told on Tuesday afternoon in the council 
 room of the Horticultural Gardens by Mr. Bateman, 
 F.R.S., and Vice-President of the Royal Horticultural 
 Society, to about 300 people who had assembled to hear 
 it, and to see a specimen of the beautiful flower which 
 had bloomed after thirty years ; for, on the day when 
 Mr. Gladstone brought forward his Reform Bill the 
 flames of the splendid Amherstia burst forth at last. 
 
 It was decided after some days to send specimens 
 
THE NEW FLOWER. 23.3 
 
 of these flowers to London; to the. Horticultural Gardens, 
 for all the world to see ; but it almost seemed as if some 
 adverse fate still attended the long-expected blossom, 
 for, although it had already been delayed some thirty 
 years, the railway company kept it back an hour longer, 
 and the lecturer had to begin without it. However, he 
 had not proceeded very far when a big box was carried 
 in in triumph, and the great bright blossom of the 
 Ainherstia was displayed at last to view. 
 
 Perhaps it will be best to give Dr. Wallich's own 
 •description of the plant. He says : — 
 
 ' The leaves are ample, pinnate, and of a dark greei> 
 ■colour ; while young they are glaucus, purple, and hang 
 •down loosely, together with the tender shoots to which 
 they are attached. The leaflets are large, oblong, tapering 
 into a most slender point, very glaucus underneath, and 
 furnished with slender prominent ribs and nerves, the 
 latter reaching towards the margin in a very elegant 
 manner. The flowers are numerous and very large, 
 scentless, of a brilliant vermilion colour diversified 
 -with three yellow spots. They are arranged in gigantic 
 ovate buriches, pendulous on their long peduncle, and 
 partially hidden beneath the profuse and elegant 
 foliage.' 
 
 We cannot also refrain from quoting his history of 
 the discovery. 
 
 In March 1825 Doctor Wallich accompanied the 
 
234 THE NEW FLOWER. 
 
 British envoy to Ava, and in his official report of a 
 journey on the river Saluen he thus writes : — 
 
 ' In about an hour I came to a decayed kioum (a 
 sort of monastery) close to the large hill of Kogua, 
 distant about two miles from the right bank of the river, 
 and twenty-seven from the town of Martaban. I had 
 been prepared to find a tree growing here of which an 
 account had been before communicated to me by Mr. 
 Crawfurd, and which I had been fortunate enough to 
 meet with for the first time a week ago at Martaban ; 
 nor was I disappointed. There were two individuals of 
 this tree here. The largest, about forty feet high, with 
 a girth at three feet above the base of six feet, stood 
 close to the cave. They were profusely ornamented 
 with pendulous racemes of large vermilion-coloured 
 blossoms, forming superb objects unequalled in the flora 
 of the East Indies. . . . The Birman name is Toha. 
 Neither the people here nor at Martaban could give me 
 any distinct account of its native place of growth, but 
 there is little doubt but that it belongs to the forests of 
 this province. The ground was strewed even at a distance 
 with its blossoms, which are carried daily as offerings to 
 the images in the adjoining caves.' 
 
 It was Dr. Wallich who named this tree the A mherstia 
 nobilis, after the Countess Amherst and her daughter. 
 Lady Sarah, who both took a great interest in his pur- 
 
THE NEW FLOWER. 235. 
 
 suits'. To the latter lady, when the lecture was over, 
 the specimens of the flower were despatched. 
 
 In 1849, one other specimen of the Amherstia was- 
 known to have flowered in England. It was in the 
 possession of Mrs. Lawrence, of Ealing Park, to whom 
 it had been given by Lord Hardinge some time after 
 the original plant had first come .to Chatsworth. 
 
 It is cheering and refreshing, amid storms and wars- 
 and rumours of wars and of famine and of pestilence, at 
 a time when a day of national humiliation is appointed, 
 to read of such harmless and delightful triumphs as 
 these, of idylls still upon the earth, of three hundred 
 people coming to see a flower. It was blooming bright 
 and beautiful, although, owing to state arrangements,, 
 sackcloth and ashes were the order of the day. 
 
236 
 
 FIVE a CLOCK TEA. 
 
 For lo ! the board with cups and spoons is crowned ! 
 On shining Altars of Japan they raise 
 The silver lamp ; the fiery spirits'blaze ; 
 From silver spouts the gratefiil liquors glide, 
 While China's earth receives the smoking tide. 
 At once they gratify their scent, and taste. 
 And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. 
 
 R.\rE OF THE Lock. 
 
 PiVE o'clock tea is rarely good. It is either strongly- 
 flavoured with that peculiar bitter taste which shows that 
 the tea has been kept waiting and neglected too long, or 
 •else it is cold, weak, and vapid. These remarks apply 
 strictly to the tea itself ; for, as a general rule, it is the 
 pleasantest hostess who provides the worst tea, and it 
 would almost seem, notwithstanding a few noticeable 
 •exceptions, that a lively conversation and a pleasant 
 wit are incompatible with boiling water, and a sufficient 
 supply of cream, and sugar, and souchong. But, for- 
 tunately, the popularity of five o'clock tea does not 
 depend upon its intrinsic merits. Five o'clock friend- 
 ship, five o'clock gossip, five o'clock confidence and 
 pleasant confabulation, are what people look for in these 
 
flVE O'CLOCK TEA. 237- 
 
 harmless cups ; a little sugar dexterously dropped in, 
 a little human kindness, and just enough pungency lo- 
 give a flavour to the whole concoction, is what we all 
 Jike sometimes to stir up together for an hour or so, and 
 to enjoy, with the addition of a little buttered muffin, 
 from five to six o'clock, when the day's work is' over, 
 and a pleasant, useless, comfortable hour comes round. 
 
 Everybody must have observed that there ' are 
 certain propitious hours in the day when life appears- 
 under its best and most hopeful aspects. Five o'clock is 
 •to a great many their golden time, when the cares 
 which haunt the early rising have been faced and sur- 
 mounted ; when the mid-day sun is no longer blazing 
 down and exhibiting all the cracks and worn places 
 which we would fain not see ; when the labours of the 
 ■ day are over for many, and their vigils have not yet 
 begun ; and when a sense of soon-coming rest and re- 
 freshment has its unconscious effect upon our spirits. 
 Whether for work or for play, five o'clock is one of the 
 hours that could be the least spared out of the twenty-four 
 we have to choose from. Two o'clock might be sacri- 
 ficed ; and I doubt whether from ten o'clock to eleven 
 is not a difficult pass ±0 surmount for many : neither 
 work nor play comes congenially just after breakfast,, 
 but both are welconie at tliis special five o'clock tea- 
 time. A painter told me once that just a little before 
 sunset, at the close of a_ long day's toil, there comes a. 
 
258 FIVE O'CLOCK TEA. 
 
 certain light which is more beautiful and more clear and 
 •still than any other, and in which he can do better work 
 than at any other time during the day. It is so, I 
 believe, with some people who make writing their profes- 
 sion, and who often find that after wrestling and struggling 
 with intractable ideas and sentences all through a long 
 and wearisome task, at the close, just as they are giving 
 up in despair, a sudden inspiration comes to them, 
 thoughts zmd suggestions rush upon them, words fall 
 into their places, and the pen flies along the paper. 
 Miss Martineau says in one of her essays that after 
 -writing for seven hours, the eighth hour is often worth 
 all the others put together. 
 
 There is no comparison, to my mind, between the 
 merits of luncheons and breakfasts and five o'clock tea, 
 in a social point of view. People sometimes experi» 
 mentalise upon the practicabilities of the minor meals, 
 but pleasant as luncheons or breakfasts may be at tjie 
 time, a sense of remorse and desolation when the enter- 
 tainment is over generally prevents anything like an 
 agreeable reminiscence. One has wasted one's morning ; 
 one has begun at the wrong end of the day ; what is to 
 be the next step on one's downward career ? Is one to 
 ^o backwards all through one's usual avocations, and 
 wind up at last by ordering dinner just before going to 
 bed } The writer can call to mind several such meetings, 
 Tvhere persons were present whom it was an honour and 
 
* FIVE a CLOCK TEA. 239 
 
 a delight to associate with, and where the talk was 
 better worth listening to than commonly happens when 
 several remarkable people are brought together ; and yet 
 when all was over, and one came away into the midday 
 sunshine, an uncomfortable feeling of remorse and general 
 ■dissatisfaction, of not knowing exactly what to do next or 
 how to get through the rest of the day, seemed almost 
 to overpower any pleasant remembrances. It was like 
 the afternoon of a wedding-breakfast, without even a 
 wedding. No such subtle Nemesis attends the little 
 gathering round the three-legged five o'clock tea-tables. 
 You know exactly the precise right thing to do when 
 Ihe tea-party is over. You go home a little late, you 
 hurriedly dress for dinner with the anticipation of an 
 agreeable evening, to which your own spirits, which have 
 been cheered and enlivened already, may possibly con- 
 tribute ; and the knowledge that each other member of 
 the party is also hurrying away with a definite object, 
 instead of straggling out into the world all uncertain and 
 -undecided, must unconsciously add to your comfort. 
 
 Two o'clock is much more the hour of friendship 
 than of sentiment. Sentimental scenes take place (it 
 would seem) more frequently in the morning and even- 
 ing, or out of doors in the afternoon. One can quite 
 imagine that after breakfasts or luncheons the stranded 
 guests might fly to sentiment to fill up the ensuing 
 blank vacancy. But although one has never heard of 
 
240 FIVE O'CLOCK TEA. * 
 
 an offer being made at five o'clock tea, the story, of the 
 engagement — more or less interesting — and all the 
 delightful particulars of the trousseau, and settlements, 
 and wedding presents, are more fully discussed then 
 than at any other time. What is not discussed at five 
 o'clock tea, besides the usual gossip and chatter of the 
 day ? How much of sympathy, confidence, wise and 
 kindly warning and encouragement it has brought t(S 
 us, as well as the pleasure of companionship in one of its 
 simplest forms ! It is now the fashion in some houses 
 .to play at whist at five o'clock, but this seems a horrible 
 innovation and interruption to confidence and friendship. 
 If the secret which Belinda has to impart is that she 
 happens to hold four trumps in her hand, if the advice 
 required is whether she shall play diamonds or hearts ; 
 if Florio is only counting his points, and speculating on 
 his partner's lead, then, indeed, all this is a much ado 
 about nothing. Let us pull down the little three-legged 
 altars, upset the cream-jugs and sugar-basins, and ex- 
 tinguish the sacred flames of spirits of wine with all the 
 water in the tea-kettle. 
 
 I do not know whether to give the preference to 
 summer or winter for these entertainments. At this 
 time of the year one comes out of the chill tempests 
 without to bright hearths, warmth, comfort, aiid kindly 
 welcome. The silver kettle boils and bubbles, the tea- 
 table is ready spread, your frozen soul melts within you. 
 
.» FIVE a CLOCK TEA. 241 
 
 ^ou sink into a warm fireside comer, and perhaps one of 
 the friends that you love best begins with a familiar voice 
 to tell you of things which mutually concern and interest 
 you both, until the door opens, and one or two more 
 codie in, and the talk becomes more general. In 
 summer time Lady de Coverley has her tea-table placed 
 sunder the shade of the elm trees on the lawn.. There is 
 ^ great fragrance of flowering azaleas and rhododendrons 
 all about ; there are the low seats and the muslin dresses 
 in -a semicircle under the bright green branches; 
 shadows come flickering, and gusts of summer sweet- 
 ness ; insects buzzing and sailing away, silver and china 
 wrought in bright array, and perhaps a few vine-leaves 
 and strawberries to give colour to the faint tints of the 
 equipage. You may almost see the summer day spread- 
 ing over the fields and slopes, where the buttercups 
 blaze like a cloth of gold, and the beautified cattle are 
 browsing. 
 
 Five o'clock is also the nursery tea-time, when a 
 little round-eyed company, perched up in tall chairs, 
 struggles with mugs, and pinafores, and large slices of 
 bread and butter. I must confess that the nursery 
 arrangements have always seemed to me capable of 
 improvement, and I have never been able to understand 
 why good boys and girls should be rewarded with such 
 ugly mugs, or why the bread and butter should always 
 pervade the whole atmosphere as it does nowhere else. 
 
 R 
 
242 FIVE aCLOCK TEA. 
 
 It is curious to note what very small things have an 
 •unconscious influence upon our comfort at times, and I 
 could quite understand what a friend meant the other 
 day when she told me that whenever anybody came to 
 see her with whom she wished to have a comfortable 
 talk, she was accustomed to move to a certain corner in 
 her drawing-room, where there was a snug place for 
 herself and an easy chair which her guest was certain to 
 take. Those who have been so fortunate as to occupy 
 that easy chair can certify to the complete success of the 
 little precaution. 
 
 Of the sadder aspect of my subject, of the tea-parties 
 over and dispersed for ever, of old familiar houses now 
 closed upon us, of friends parted and estranged, who 
 no longer clink their cups together, I do not care to 
 write. 
 
 The readers of ' Pendennis ' may remember Mrs. 
 Shandon and little Mary at their five o'clock tea, and 
 the extract with which I conclude : — 
 
 ' So Mrs. Shandon went to the cupboard, and in lieu 
 of a dinner made herself some tea. And in those varie- 
 ties of pain of which we spoke anon, what a part of con- 
 fidante has that poor tea-pot played ever since the 
 kindly plant was introduced among us ! What myriads 
 of women have cried over it, to be sure ! what sick-beds 
 it has smoked by ! what fevered lips have received re- 
 
FIVE a CLOCK TEA. 243 
 
 freshment from out of it ! Nature meant very gently by 
 women when she made that tea-plant ; and with a little 
 thought, what a series of pictures and groups the fancy 
 may conjure up, and assemble round the tea-pot and 
 cup.' 
 
244 
 
 THE DISASTROUS FASCINATIONS OF CROQUET. 
 Go ! cries the nymph and strikes the flying ball. — Cunningham. _ 
 
 Tc the Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette. 
 Sir, — I am sorry to trouble you with the following 
 remarks, and yet I feel that it is right that the attention 
 of the public should be drawn to the spread of an infatu- 
 ation which seems to me in its strange progress almost 
 to resemble the well-known hysterical affections of the 
 middle ages." 
 
 I have been staying for the last three days in a 
 country house in Hampshire, belonging to some old 
 friends whom I have been in the habit of visiting for 
 many years. I arrived on Monday evening, driving up 
 in a fly from the station in that half-satisfied, half-ex- 
 pectant state of mind in which people arrive at the 
 hospitable houses where the friends are to be found 
 whom they wish to see, and where a long-standing 
 welcome awaits them. Not the least agreeable part of 
 my pleasurable feeling in coming to Malleton Hall was 
 the anticipation of the cordial welcome and friendly 
 greeting of my host and hostess. I remembered arriving 
 
THE DISASTROUS FASCINATIONS of CROQUET. 245 
 
 the time before, and how they came out into the hall to 
 receive me, and while I. drove along pleased myself by 
 imagining the meeting. 
 
 As ' it was, the ilyman rang twice before the door 
 was opened by a stupid young country footman. I 
 could not help thinking it a little strange that no one 
 appeared, as I had expected. I was shown into the 
 
 library, and told that Mrs. F would be with me 
 
 directly, and I accordingly waited for twenty minutes by 
 the clock on the chimney. The place seemed to me a 
 little less cared for than it used to be ; the general 
 aspect was less pleasing— newspapers lay about on the 
 floor and on the chairs, the books were somewhat in 
 confusion, and happening to look for a favourite volume 
 in one of the book-cases — ' Grote's Antiquities '^I found 
 it was not in its place. The flowers too seemed to me 
 faded, and no longer arranged with that taste and preci- 
 sion for which my hostess had been always remarkable. 
 At last, however, the door opened and the daughter of 
 the house came in. I must own that she was looking 
 remarkably well ; a bright colour was in her cheeks, her 
 eyes shone, and her white dress was prettily looped up 
 over a flowered petticoat. ' How do you do, dear Mr. 
 Croker ? ' she said. ' I am so glad you are come. We 
 wanted a fourth so badly for the second set Mamma 
 is in the middle of her game, and she says will you come 
 out upon the lawn to her as she can't come to you.' 
 
2z;6 THE DISASTROUS FASCINATIONS of CROQUET. 
 
 All my momentary ill-humour had vanished at. the 
 sight of the bright young face, and, though I did not 
 quite understand her allusions, I followed her across the 
 hall, and out through a little back room, of which the 
 windows open into the garden. ' What has happened to 
 this little boudoir ? ' I asked, when, instead of the trim 
 and orderly retreat in which I remember having so many 
 pleasant talks and quiet, happy hours, we passed through 
 a sort of lumber-room — I can give it no other name. 
 Two great wooden boxes were lying on the floor, so 
 were a quantity of mallets and croquet balls, together 
 with hats, cloaks, umbrellas, and india-rubber shoes. 
 ' My dear child, what a pity to have unfurnished this 
 room ! ' I exclaimed. ' How did you come to pull it to 
 pieces ? ' 
 
 ' Why, you see the balls spoil so if they are left out 
 all night,' said Miss Lucy ; ' the paint rubs off quite 
 directly ; and it was such a very long way to carry them 
 all round the house, that by degrees we came to put 
 them in here at the window. We are out so much that 
 we really do not want the room.' 
 
 We were now approaching the croquet-ground ; the 
 distant report of the balls going off reached our ears, 
 while the players were still concealed behind the bushes. 
 
 As I came up, Mrs. F , mallet in hand, came to 
 
 meet me, with all her old kindly charm and cordiality. 
 F himself waved his stick in the air, and called out, 
 
.THE DISASTROUS FASCINATIONS of CROQUET. 247 
 
 ' Welcome, welcome ! ' but he did not come up, and 
 seemed immediately afterwards to foi^et my presence, 
 and to be once more absorbed in the game. I never in 
 
 all my life beheld such a sight : F and his wife, 
 
 Frank the son, Lucy, two young men, and a strange 
 middle-aged lady, were all tapping and rapping the 
 wretched balls, pegging and unpegging, spooning — I 
 think the expression is — crocketting, rocketting, as if 
 their lives depended on it. 
 
 ' Who plays next — blue ? ' said F- , who used to 
 
 be a man of sense, of some conversation, and wit. 
 
 ' Blue played before you,' said young Frank ; ' yel- 
 low comes next. Look sharp, yellow ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ! ' says F , in great excitement ; ' then 
 
 green and then black. Who is black "i Is it you. 
 Smith ? ' 
 
 ' I am the invincible green,' said Smith ; ' Jones is 
 black' 
 
 ' And who wired black ? ' F went on. 
 
 ' I did,' said Miss Lucy, who was standing in a 
 pretty little attitude, with one foot on an iron hoop. 
 
 ' I never saw such a fluke,' cried young Frank. ' You 
 spooned in the most audacious manner ; you know, you 
 did.' 
 
 ' How could I spoon when I played sideways, 
 Frank .' ' cried Lucy. ' Papa, did I spoon ? ' 
 
 This conversation went on for ever so long, my poor 
 
248 THE DISASTROUS FASCINATIONS of CROQUET. 
 
 friends showing every sign of lively interest in it, until 
 at last I confess I was quite wearied of the whole thing. 
 The sun was beginning to set by this time ; the whole 
 place was illuminated. It was in vain I called their 
 attention to the lovely effects— not one of them had any 
 idea beyond his or her hoop. 
 
 I had brought down a little piece of London gossip 
 which I knew would amuse my hosts, and being some- 
 what ciirious to see the way in which it would be re- 
 ceived, and to hear their opinion on the subject, I could 
 
 not resist taking Mrs. F presently a little apart and 
 
 telling her confidentially that I had a bit of news which 
 would interest her. 
 
 Mrs. F looked surprised, as I expected, laughed, 
 
 saic^ the usual ' do tell me,' and I was accordingly be- 
 ginning to recount the whole thing as I was told it by 
 some one who was staying at Chatterton. at the time, 
 
 when suddenly F roared out from the other end of 
 
 the lawn, ' I say, Croker, just get out of the way, will 
 
 you ? ' and Mrs. F beckoned me to another part of 
 
 the field. ' The fact is,' I said, ' she was supposed to 
 have a tendresse in another quarter, and being an heiress, 
 you know, our friend would never have come fonvard 
 if it had not been pretty clearly intimated by the lady's 
 guardian that — a — that — " ' Pray, Mr. Croker, will you 
 move a little more to this side .' ' said Mrs. F , look- 
 ing absently round and about her. Blue and black now 
 
THE DISASTROUS FASCINATIONS of CROQUET. 249 
 
 flew past, and I received a violent blow on the shin from 
 green. Of course there were apologies made, which I 
 accepted, and seeing that Mrs. F was really inte- 
 rested in my story, I went on to tell her in a few words, 
 that propositions were made in so many words, always 
 supposing, you know, that the family was willing to 
 come forward. ' Go back — go back ! ' shrieks Miss 
 Lucy, springing forward, with her hair flying, in a state 
 of very unbecoming excitement. ' Everything depends 
 
 upon this move,' said F , solemnly placing himself 
 
 in an attitude and hitting a tremendous crack, while 
 
 Mrs. F looked anxiously at a washed-out pink ball 
 
 which -was l)nng on a tuft of grass at our feet, and 
 
 breathed a great sigh of relief when F 's ball flew 
 
 past it. ' Ever37thing depended upon the way in which 
 the proposition was taken,' I said, ' and now comes the 
 extraordinary part of my story. It seems almost incre- 
 dible that after the distinct assurance that was given 
 
 ' At this moment Mrs. F suddenly exclaimed 
 
 with great animation, 'Oh, Mr. Croker, now it's my 
 turn to play. I will come back to you directly.' I 
 need scarcely say that when she did return, elated and 
 triumphant, announcing that she had hit the stick and 
 croquetted her husbaiid into the shrubbery, I was too 
 much bewildered by all these evolutions to finish my 
 story. I only inquired at what time dinner would be 
 ready, and said I should go up to my room for the pre- 
 
Z50 THE DISASTROUS FASCINATIONS of CROQUET. 
 
 sent. I abominate five-o'clock tea, and I am always 
 glad when the dinner hour comes round, so that I could 
 not help feeling a little annoyed to hear they did not 
 dine before half-past seven, though my hostess smiled, 
 and pointed very graciously, saying, — ' You know your 
 room, Mr. Croker ; the windows look over the flower 
 garden. I know that is the view you like best.' 
 
 There was nothing to complain of in my room : 
 comfortable writing apparatus, four-post bed, prints — 
 Her Majesty, the Duchess of Kent, the Duke of Welling- 
 ton. One of the advantages of getting old is being pro- 
 moted from the garrets to the first floor, with its various 
 comforts, nicely-framed prints, arm-chairs* looking- 
 glasses, &c., &c. I threw open my window. There was 
 a pleasant view of the flower garden, of the hills all 
 brightening, while close at hand the trees, and the 
 glades, and the waters, were reflecting the sudden 
 colours of the evening glow. After enjoying the pros- 
 pect for some minutes, I lay down on the sofa and read 
 a number of the ' Pall Mall Gazette,' which I happened 
 to have brought with me, and over which I took a com- 
 fortable little nap. I only woke up at a quarter-past 
 seven, when some one came in with some hot water. 
 Although I dressed quickly, I was sorry to find myself 
 
 just two minutes behind the time Mrs. F had given 
 
 me as the dinner hour. I hurried downstairs into the 
 hall, where the family assembles, but not a soul was to 
 
THE DISASTROUS FASCINATIONS of CROQUET. 251 
 
 be seen. I looked into the drawing-room, the library ; 
 they were both empty. I waited, I walked up and 
 down the hall. I confess the delay was vexing to a 
 man who had eaten nothing since breakfast. At eight 
 o'clock precisely some one hastily rushed across from 
 the garden and ran upstairs — then another — and then 
 another. I could scarcely believe it possible, when 
 
 finally Mrs. F herself appeared in complete garden 
 
 costume, with ' Oh, Mr. Croker, I am afraid you will 
 find us very unpunctucd ! The two last were such ex- 
 citing games, we really could not tear ourselves away.' 
 
 We sat down to table at a quarter to nine. The 
 dinner was cold, burnt, overdone. The fish was sodden, 
 the soufflet came up like a pancake, the ice was in a 
 soup. All dinner-time the young folks discussed the 
 fortunate strokes of the afternoon, and the desirability of 
 getting a new set of mallets heavier than the last. 
 Captain Smith described at great length an ingenious 
 device with a ball which greatly increased the length of 
 the game and the difficulty of passing the middle, hoop. 
 
 In the evening the ladies were too tired to give us 
 
 any music, to which I am exceedingly partial. F 
 
 went fast asleep in his chair until eleven o'clock, when 
 they all parted for the night, making arrangements to 
 get up early next morning and practise at the hoops 
 before breakfast. 
 
 Sir, I do not exaggerate when I prophesy that this 
 
252 THE DISASTROUS FASCINATIONS of CROQUET. 
 
 diversion, if carried to such extremes, will prove the 
 bane of the rising generation. If I speak with force, it 
 is because I feel deeply on the subject upon which I 
 address you. Yesterday I refused to join the party, and 
 sat in the library all the morning by myself; in the 
 afternoon I took a solitary walk. I am now confined to 
 my own room by a hurt in the foot proceeding from a 
 violent blow I struck myself in my efforts to master the 
 rudiments of the game. I was only induced to attempt 
 to do so by the entreaties of my hostess and her friend 
 who is staying with her — they wanted me, they said ; 
 they were going to try to play at night with lamps 
 fastened to the hoops and the mallets. I weakly yielded 
 to their solicitations : the result is that I am disabled by 
 this accident, and also much shaken by a fall over one 
 of the hoops. I do not complain, and I feel that it is 
 only what I deserve for my foolish weakness in con- 
 senting to their wishes against my confirmed convictions ; 
 but under the circumstances I feel that I am justified 
 when I entreat you. Sir, to lend the aid of your powerful 
 columns to arrest the progress of this growing evil. — I 
 remain your obedient servant, * CHARLES CrOKER. 
 
253 
 
 MONDAYS, TUESDAYS, WEDNESDAYS, ETC. 
 
 So here hath bfeen dawning 
 
 Another blue day ; 
 Think, wilt thou let it 
 
 Slip useless away ? 
 
 Out of Eternity 
 
 This new day is born ; 
 Into Eternity 
 
 At night will return. 
 
 Behold it aforetime 
 
 No eye ever did : 
 So soon it forever 
 
 From all eyes is hid. — ^T. Carlyle. 
 
 To tJie Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 Sir, — Some months have elapsed since I last ventured 
 to address you upon the subject of an annoyance which 
 the inclemency of the weather has allayed for a time ; 
 although I have little doubt but that the summer ides 
 will witness a return, with all its accompanying violent 
 and alarming symptoms of the contagious and widely- 
 extended infatuation which may not inaptly be termed 
 the croquet pest. 
 
 Sir, I perceive that the evil is too deeply rooted for 
 
254 MONDAYS, TUESDAYS, WEDNESDAYS, ETC. 
 
 my feeble pen to battle with ; all expostulation would 
 now be useless. My country haunts are torn up and 
 invaded, and I am driven from the lawns and green 
 pastures where I had hoped to end my days by the 
 wayward blow, the bewildering course of the ball, the 
 iron hoop of fate. 
 
 I returned to London in the beginning of the winter, 
 shattered in health and spirits, suffering from a severe 
 injury to the leg, but hoping still, among familiar haunts 
 and in the social intercourse of an agreeable acquaint- 
 ance, to forget the disheartening scenes of which I had 
 been a reluctant spectator. I leave you to imagine with 
 what feelings I discover another enemy springing up on 
 every side — a fiend no less insidious than that diable d 
 deux mille b&tons from whom I was escaping when I met 
 with my unfortunate accident 
 
 Sir, need I say after this that I allude to the 
 Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, 
 Saturdays, and Sundays by which I am attacked, 
 persecuted, and exasperated on every side .■' I am 
 aware that one must consent to pay the penalties of 
 being an agreeable and popular person. I am willing 
 to put myself to a certain inconvenience for the sake of 
 those upon whom — speaking without affectation or 
 irrelevant modesty — I am well aware my prolonged 
 absence entails considerable disappointment ; but there 
 are bounds to the utmost limits of good-nature. 
 
MONDAYS, TUESDAYS, WEDNESDAYS, ETC. 255 
 
 I ask you, how is it possible to find one's self, as the 
 clock strikes five on any given day, at Putney, at 
 Clapham, at Brixton — I have old friends in that 
 locality— ^ in Eaton Place, Grosvenor Crescent, and Hert- 
 ford Street, Mayfair ? Hitherto I have taken my friends, 
 in districts; travelled quietly round from one well- 
 known door to another, at my own leisure, and at my 
 own inclination. If Lady Noddington was unfortu- 
 nately from home, I consoled myself with her cheerful 
 neighbour, Mrs. Dashmore, next door. If Mrs. Dash- 
 more was out driving, I left my card with the satisfactory 
 reflection that I was doing a good day's work, and 
 travelled on to Miss Spitville's, whom I do not wish to 
 offend, or to my old friend and relative, Lady Katherine 
 Croker's, where I have always been sure of a chatty 
 half-hour. The butler, a most excellent servant of my 
 own recommending, knows me, and I am shown upstairs 
 into the drawing-room without demur. The house is 
 dark and shabby, but what I call a thoroughly liveable 
 house ; and Lady Katherine, who is as good a creature 
 as ever breathed, is always delighted to see one. One 
 feels quite at home sitting in the comer while her lady- 
 ship sits and knits stockings, and we talk over 
 the occurrences of the last few days— where she is 
 
 going ; who dined at House the night before, 
 
 Madame de I'Etoile's strange mistake — I won't particu- 
 larize it here, because the poor thing mightn't like it 
 
256 MO.VDAYS, TUESDAYS, WEDNESDAYS, ETC. 
 
 made public ; in a word, we have been for years past in 
 the habit of exchanging all those little minutiae of con- 
 versation which go so far to make up the real value and 
 interest of social intercourse. 
 
 Sir, these quiet meetings and oases in the deserts of 
 London society are destroyed for ever. This execrable 
 institution has annihilated some of the most agreeable 
 reminiscences of my life. Lady Katherine now receives 
 the whole rabble on Thursdays, and rushes off to kettle- 
 drums every other day in the week. I give you my 
 honour, I am worn, to a skeleton trudging about from 
 one end of the town to another. When I wake in the 
 morning, my first thought, is, ' This is Mrs. Ramsbotham's 
 Tuesday,' or whatever the combination may be. My 
 man brings me my letters — I loathe the very sight of 
 them. I know by intuition that, instead of agreeable 
 little summonses to rational entertainments, invitations 
 to dinner, &c., &c, the usual formula will greet me — 'Dear 
 Mr. Croker, we have been so unfortunate, &c., &c. ; other 
 of our friends who kindly call upon us, &c., &c., have 
 determined in future to stay at home on alternate 
 Mondays and Tuesdays from a quarter-past four to 
 twenty minutes to seven. Pray, if you should be in our 
 neighbourhood, &c., &c., and so forth, and so on. Dear 
 Mr. Croker, yours mostl &c., &c. One is invited to 
 • drop in,' as if one was for ever hovering over all the 
 chimney-pots in London. 
 
, MONDAYS, TUESDAYS, WEDNESDAYS, ETC. 257 
 
 Saturday is a fearful day for me, no less than eight 
 of my most intimate friends (all of whom I am particu- 
 larly anxious to be well with) having chosen it for their 
 especial property. The consequence is that I am able 
 to see each of them once in two months with the utmost 
 exertion. Even the poor old Miss Creepers in thoi 
 impossible villa at Brompton are determined not to be 
 behindhand with the fashion. ' Dr. Clapper has kindly 
 promised to look in upon them,' they write, ' on his way 
 to Mdrtie. Tussaud's next Friday. He is anxious to 
 renew his acquaintance with an old and valued friend ; 
 will I come and meet him, and also look in on any other 
 Friday, when I shall be sure of finding them and a few 
 mutual acquaintances of " auld lang syne " ? ' 
 
 The poor old things have no conception of what they 
 are asking. Why, I am not even able to get to Lady 
 Taplow's, at Upper Lower Lodge, Regent's Park, whose 
 note comes in with Miss Creeper's — ' Lazy Man ! Why 
 didn't you come to my last Tuesday ? Mind you come 
 to my Fridays. I have changed the day, and shall take 
 no excuse. Ever yours, Emma Taplow.' 
 
 Ladies are privileged, of course, but I ask you. Sir, 
 in the name of common sense, who is to remember or 
 to keep count of all these combinations 1 One person 
 I know of has changed her day no less than five times 
 in the course of the last three weeks. Another, I am 
 told, is gone out walking when I arrive panting at her 
 
 s 
 
258 MONDAYS, TUESDAYS, WEDNESDAYS, ETC. 
 
 door by special invitation. Besides, there are some 
 combinations which are simply impossible. Take Lady 
 Katherine's last Thursday, for example. I drop in as 
 requested, though my heart misgives me. Old Mrs. 
 Codlington, in her wraps and boas, is installed in my 
 favourite corner, staring apoplectically at Lady Broad- 
 stairs, who reposes, terrible, impressive, and deadly calm, 
 upon the sofa, grasping a screen like a sceptre. Mrs. 
 Codlington persists in inquiring after my rheumatism, 
 mj- deafness ; do I use spectacles .' do I like the motion 
 of a Bath chair ? Lady Broadstairs never sees me, never 
 asks me to her parties, never notices any little remark 
 I may make, in the course of conversation. Sir, I ask 
 you what possible pleasure can I find in their society .■• 
 Instead of enjoying my social little chat with Lady 
 Katherine, I have to sit silent or engage in a conver- 
 sation more utterly vapid than you can have any idea 
 of. It happened last Thursday that I had just heard a 
 piece of news concerning young R. G., whose engage- 
 ment is a subject of congratulation to all his friends. 
 I made an attempt. 'Well, Lady Katherine,' I said, 
 'what do you say to a marriage ? "Jevous le donne 
 en dix, je vous donne en vingt," as Madame de Sevigne 
 says.' Any other day in all the week I know Lady 
 Katherine would have been delighted, and would have 
 asked me a hundred questions ; but what is she to do } 
 Lady Broadstairs slowly turns her head away and ex- 
 
MONDAYS, TUESDAYS, WEDNESDAYS, ETC. 259 
 
 amines an old cracked teacup. Mrs. Codlington is con- 
 vulsed with an asthmatic fit of coughing. The door 
 opens : enter Lady Taplow with a rush and a flutter — 
 enter the Miss Spitvilles dressed alike, knowing nobody, 
 with old Lady Grogan from Queen Anne Street. ' My 
 dear Mr. Croker,' whispers Lady Katherine, bewildered, 
 hastily pouring out a cup of lukewarm water, ' take this 
 to Lady Grogan, and pray go and talk to those dreadful 
 Miss Spitvilles if you can,' for the three were sitting on 
 a round ottoman, back to back, in alarming silence. 
 Lady Katherine goes on with forced cheerfulness. But 
 I — I flee in consternation, leaving the poor lady to get 
 out of it as best she can. 
 
 ' Who is it who likes it .'* said a friend of mine the 
 other day. Everybody grumbles. Sir, my disposition 
 is a contented one, and I am not apt, without due cause, 
 to express all that I feel upon certain subjects, but I 
 cannot contemplate, silent and unmoved, the fatal in- 
 fatuation which dooms our firesides to ruin, our life to 
 toil and misery, and our finest feelings to be nipped and 
 blighted in the bud. — I am. Sir, your obedient servant, 
 
 Charles Croker. 
 
26o 
 
 GRATUITIES. 
 
 I found they sold the dearest things. 
 
 The sailor sold his life away 
 
 To plough the waters \rild ; 
 And captains sold commissions 
 
 To yoimg gentlemen so mild ; 
 And some thieves sold their brother thieves, 
 
 ^Vho hanged were or exiled. 
 
 And critics sold their paragraphs, 
 
 And poets sold their lays ; 
 And great men sold their little men, 
 
 With votes of ' Ays ' and ' Nays ; ' 
 And parsons sold their holy words, 
 
 And blessed rich men's ways. 
 And women sold their love for life, 
 
 Or only a few days. — BARRY Cornwall. 
 
 To the Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 SrR, — Not many days ago you published a letter 
 from a lady called ' Saccharissa,' who subscribes herself 
 ' Your Puzzled Correspondent.' Will you allow another 
 ' Saccharissa ' of modern life to lay her melancholy case 
 before you .' Perhaps some more experienced and 
 clearer-headed person may be able to give the 
 clue to a mystery which has long oppressed, per- 
 plexed and distracted me. I am a single lady of a 
 
GRATUITIES. 261 
 
 certain age, and I travel about a good deal with my 
 maid. When we put up at an hotel, either at home or 
 abroad, there is generally a neatly-framed statement 
 hanging over the fireplace in the sitting-room, by which 
 one may calculate exactly how much each little separate 
 attention which one receives from the various domestics 
 of the establishment is worth. A can of hot water so 
 much ; attendance so much ; a cup of tea, with or without 
 cold meat and eggs, downstairs, upstairs, so much more 
 or less : in short, every possible combination of refresh- 
 ments and attentions ; attentions without refreshments,- 
 or refreshments without attentions, with their prices pre- 
 cisely rated for your information. Nothing remains but 
 to pay your bill and drive away with an easy conscience. 
 But it is in a very .different frame of mind that one 
 leaves the houses where kind and hospitable friends have 
 pressed one to remain. From the moment of arriving, a 
 gloom has been cast over one's pleasantest hours by the 
 anticipation of the mental struggles which inevitably 
 await one. You arrive at the little country station. A 
 civil porter (No. i) — but I am scarcely stating the case 
 fairly, — a well-dressed person with moustachios, who 
 may be either a passenger, your friend's brother in the 
 army, one of the directors of the railway, or a superior 
 station-master, comes up to help you out, and asks 
 whether you are going to X. He begs you to wait until 
 the line is clear, hands out shawls, bag, basket of sand- 
 
262 GRATUITIES. 
 
 wiches, parcel, umbrella, and parasol. The small square 
 box is missing. Your unknown friend in the most 
 gentlemanly manner reassures you, proposes to tele- 
 graph, and says that no doubt one of the porters will 
 bring it on to X. as soon as it is forthcoming. Your 
 troubles begin immediately. Perplexed gratitude on 
 your part — unrequited attention on his. Who is it .■" 
 Is he coming to stay at the house too ? Is he a gentle- 
 man .' or would he take a shilling — a sovereign — half a 
 crown .' This mystery is not solved, when (No. 2) a 
 grand-looking footman advances, touching his cockaded 
 hat, receives an armful of various objects, and leads 
 the way to a. break which has been sent to meet 
 you, and which is waiting by the fresh country 
 roadside ; the horses are champing and fidgeting, 
 while (No. 3) a sulky-looking groom sits motionless upon 
 the box. 
 
 You get in with your maid and drive off, skirting 
 primroses, hedgerows, villages^ and farmsteads, and you 
 speculate where this or that green lane leads to, what 
 is growing in the fields, who lives in the pretty country- 
 houses that you pass. At last, with the well-known 
 grind, the carriage stops at a lodge gate. No. 4, with 
 flying bonnet-strings, and a baby in her arms, rushes out 
 — so do three little curly-headed children. The gate 
 flies open ; No. 4 deeply curtsies, so do little S, 6, 7 ; 
 and you drive on in state. Shrubberies, improvements, 
 
GRATUITIES. 263 
 
 new ice-house, men cutting down a tree. You arrive at 
 the glass hall-door ; a loud bell rings, and the butler 
 (No. 8), accompanied by a circling satellite in livery, 
 respectfully welcomes you, and ushers you into the 
 empty library. Lady X. has not yet returned from her 
 drive. ' Will you take tea ? ' and on your assent the 
 dpor flies open, and one footman comes in with a tray, 
 another with a table ; the butler attentively places a 
 chair and retires. In the mean time a housemaid is 
 showing your maid the way to the room, and your boxes 
 are being carried upstairs. All this is very well, and 
 the day of reckoning is a week or even a fortnight off ; 
 but in the meantime what a heavy score is surely accu- 
 mulating, from the moment you arrive, or when No. 8 
 blandly whispers that a man from the station has brought 
 up a small box and is waiting, to the morning when you 
 tear yourself away from the friendly and now familiar 
 walls which have sheltered you, and where you have 
 found so much kindness and good cheer ! There are 
 the two housemaids, both pretty, both in fresh print 
 dresses, both smiling, obliging, and ever willing to find 
 your maid, whom you have no other means of discover- 
 ing. Which of them is to be rewarded? what is the 
 reward to be ? You do not wish to be stingy or un- 
 grateful, and yet you are not a person of very consider- 
 able means. You take care of your gloves, and have all 
 your dresses made at home ; you have many little 
 
264 GRA TUITIES. 
 
 fancies which you cannot always gratify, and you are 
 conscious of having practised economics in letter paper 
 which are perhaps unworthy of a correspondent of the 
 ' Pall Mall Gazette.' 
 
 But the housemaid question is a mere trifle compared 
 to the difficulties of butler, footman, under-footman, all 
 to be rewarded in graduated scales of obligation ; to say 
 nothing of the groom who met you at the station, and 
 who drove you to Y. and Z., whither your hostess good- 
 naturedly despatched you in her own basket carriage to 
 call upon some friends next day ; and of the gardener 
 who so obligingly cut camelias for your hair on the 
 night of the dinner-party, and who flashes into ^ your 
 mind just as you are driving off. Who is it who knows 
 about these things ? There must be some solution to 
 such mysteries. One old friend to whom I applied said, 
 ' My dear, never give anything but gold to a man.' 
 Another, on the contrary, assured me that half-a-crown 
 was considered ample by the very grandest butler. 
 While a third declared tjiat ladies were never expected 
 to give to men-servants at all, and that it was better to 
 offer nothing than a sum which might be considered 
 insufficient. For ladies, he said, the way was clear, 
 but for men — young men especially — it was full of 
 difficulties. 
 
 Under these circumstances I cannot help appealing 
 
GRATUITIES. 265 
 
 to you, Sir. Is there nobody competent to give infor- 
 mation which would be so useful to many, and relieve 
 the minds of bewildered visitors in the same dilemma as 
 
 Your obedient servant, 
 Martha Query. 
 
266 
 
 ROME IN THE HOLY WEEK. 
 
 Oh 1 come to Rome, nor be content to read 
 
 Alone of stately palace and of street 
 Whose fountains ever run with joyful speed, 
 
 And never-ceasing murmur. Here we meet 
 Great Memnon's monoliths, or, gay with weed. 
 
 Rich capitals, as corner stone, or seat ; 
 The sites of vanished temples, where now moulder 
 
 Old ruin, hiding ruin even older. 
 Ay ! come and see the statues, pictures, churches. 
 
 Although the last are commonplace or ilorid. 
 Some say 'tis here that superstition perches, 
 
 Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried. 
 
 F. Locker. 
 
 [letter L] 
 
 Thursday was bright sunshine and blue, and as we 
 came downstairs all the marbles and stone carvings in 
 the courtyard were glittering in the light. A great 
 golden carriage went by (it was the hereditary Captain 
 of the Guard driving off to his post). That was the first 
 sign of the day's festive humiliation, except, by the way, 
 some guns and bells in the early morning. As we drove 
 along, we passed a whole procession of people walking 
 along the narrow street towards St. Peter's. Black-veiled 
 ladies, carriages, green, blue, red petticoats, coal-black 
 
ROME IN THE HOLY WEEK. 267 
 
 tresses, children in little black veils tripping along, 
 swaddled-up babies held up at the doors to see the sight. 
 Then brown friars, white monks, black and white Domi- 
 nicans, and some strange brown creatures, penitents in, 
 huge bonnets, and priests without number, all drifting in 
 the same direction. As we neared St. Angelo the 
 carriages came thicker, and all the pretty ladies (they 
 did not, however, look so pretty as usual) drove by faster 
 and faster. We drive on and on down the quaint beautiful 
 streets, arched, and wrought, and carved ; past fountains, 
 where even on days like this the women are watching the 
 water flow into their pitchers heedless of the crowd ; past 
 shrines, and Mater Dolorosas with sorrowful upturned 
 eyes, past milk-merchants, lottery establishments, 
 sausage shops, past Raphael's palace and the ancient 
 Doge's barn, and iron-worked windows ; by open shop 
 arches full of light and darkness, and you come at last to 
 the river and the great bridge of St. Angelo all alight in 
 the wonderful dazzle. Some one points out the gonfa- 
 lonps streaming from the fort, and quotes the old saying 
 about always meeting a soldier, a priest, and a beggar 
 on the bridge. The saying is true enough to-day as far 
 as priests and soldiers are concerned, but the beggars 
 seem to have dressed themselves, and put on uniform 
 and velvet gowns, and to be coming along with us to the 
 piazza in front of St. Peter's. It is flowing with people ; 
 they are . squatting on the steps ; standing against the 
 
268 ROME IN THE, HOLY WEEK. 
 
 great columns in hundreds ; and every minute the crowd 
 is growing thicker and closer. There sits a row of pea- 
 sant women with beautiful red sunny petticoats ; there 
 stand the monks talking together, with their umbrellas ; 
 here are shepherds coming up from the country with 
 cross-barred Italian legs. In Rome itself common 
 people don't dress up any more, unfortunately, and wear 
 trousers instead of the familiar rags and ribbons we all 
 admire. However, country people have not yet 
 abandoned their traditions. 
 
 ■ There are some dresses left, happily for us sightseers. 
 There stands one of the Swiss guard in his grand-look- 
 ing uniform. Michael Angelo designed it, it is said ; 
 yellow with stripes of red and black, with a beefeater's 
 cap and halberd. As we come into St. Peter's one of 
 these grand-looking creatures bars our passage and 
 silently motions us to turn back to a place where every- 
 body is crowding round a little sacristy door, protected 
 by a young Zouave officer. 
 
 Great St. Peter's is strangely decorated for the oc- 
 casion with crimson stages and hangings, and countless 
 pens or raised stands full of the veiled ladies whom we 
 have seen arriving by every winding street and piazza. 
 Common people are strolling about hand in hand ; those 
 are the Zouaves in their blue picturesque dress, and again 
 more monks and priests. It is very like the scene outside, 
 only the great dome is overhead and the carved walls 
 
ROME IN THE HOLY WEEK. 269 
 
 and windows about us, and many people are on their 
 knees, specially round the statue of the bronze St. Peter 
 with his key and his shining toe. We persuade the 
 officer of the guard at the turret-door to let us pass 
 before the crush, and we climb the broad shallow steps. 
 , Figures out of the picture galleries meet us at every 
 ;c6mer. Here is a plum-coloured clerk, slashed and 
 square-toed, waiting to take the favoured yellow tickets ; 
 and at the top of the stairs a Vandyke hero is gallantly 
 standing, velvet cloak, ruffle, golden chain, with one 
 hand on the sword's hilt, and black silk legs. This is a 
 handsome American general, who has been appointed 
 ' cameriere segreto,' and who takes us under his pro- 
 tection. He tells us that if we will wait in a certain 
 narrow passage at the back of the pens, which are also 
 here for the use of the veiled ladies, he will provide for 
 us in time. In this little secret passage we wait patiently, 
 and well amused. All sorts of strange figures flit past, 
 the great Swiss guards bearing down upon us ; a little 
 uneasy violet priest, with a muslin petticoat, darting 
 here and there in an agony to find a corner, more Van- 
 dykes, then Raphaels and Titians in furred tippets and 
 red and violet caps, and then there is a pause ; we see a 
 little bustle at the far end of the passage ; three or four 
 priests in white fur capes attended by their acolytes 
 hurry by without noticing us ; some huge waving things 
 appear above the pens. 'There are the. Pope's fans,' 
 
270 ROME IN THE HOLY WEEK. 
 
 says my companion ; ' he is coming to bless the people 
 outside. Listen ! ' And then in the dead silence which 
 suddenly seems to overpower all the sounds and glitter- 
 ings and echoings that are everywhere about, we stand 
 listening as a clear voice not far away repeats some few 
 words, to which comes a thundering amen from the 
 priests. Again the voice speaks. Again the amen fires 
 off its boom, and then a quavering old man's voice utters 
 something — a blessing — upon the patient crowds waiting 
 down below. It is with an odd feeling of touched be- 
 wilderment that one stands silent, listening to the faded 
 voice blessing the kneeling multitude. As it ceases the 
 guns begin to fire and the bells to ring. 
 
 After the blessing came the curse : a crash, a scream, 
 all barriers broken down along our little secret passage 
 a sudden overwhelming torrent pouring over everything, 
 charging the Swiss guard, setting aside the indignant 
 Vandykes. ' E una impertinenza ! ' I hear them crying 
 in fierce indignation. The ladies don't care ; they come 
 on laughing and running with dauntless courage, and 
 begin to hop and scramble into their places ; the place 
 echoes, then pens creak, and still the ladies pour in. 
 Some have cavaliers, fine old gentlemen, with orders ; 
 some have tickets, some have none. We are installed in 
 our places by this time, and watch them pass before us. 
 The diplomatic corps now marches up, in swords and 
 tights and embroidered coats, the white Austrian uni- 
 
sH ROME IN THE HOLY WEEK. 271 
 
 forms and the beautiful Hungarian dress. Little by 
 little this human sea flows into the dykes and dams and 
 locks which have been provided, and we begin to look at 
 the spectacle we have come to see. In this beautiful 
 light hall of the Vatican a stage has been raised upon 
 which a table is spread ; as well as I can make out all 
 the cakes and puddings and fruit seem to be of gold, but 
 now immediately a procession passes, damask and stately 
 servitors bearing food and wine, and then come in thirteen 
 white figures with tall white caps upon their heads ; these 
 are the priests whose feet have been washed down below 
 by the Pope, and who are now to be served at table by 
 him. They are surrounded by a stream of prelates and 
 damask attendants. I see the old Pontiff bending as he 
 serves ; cold fish and cold vegetables is the fare provided. 
 It is too far off to distinguish very plainly what is going 
 on, only this, a long table glittering, quaint figures sitting 
 at it, a Pope serving, and robed and splendid figures 
 looking on. Paul Veronese, Raphael, and others, painted 
 from their own time, and have left us records of what 
 they saw round about them, and here is time going back- 
 wards and our curious critical and yet charmed eyes see 
 as they saw, and the stately past rises before us. This 
 was not the first collation of the day, at eight o'clock 
 the camerieres and other officials had been treated to 
 ices and coffee. 
 
 Later in the afternoon we went to the Miserere'm. the 
 
272 ROME IN THE HOLY WEEK. f 
 
 Sixtine Chapel, and still by favour of a kind cameriere 
 segreto we were admitted, just before the lamentation 
 began, to a dim arched place where many people were 
 waiting, and some lights burning, and the daylight was 
 streaming through the windows upon Michael Angelo's 
 great prophets and sybils, and upon the magnificent 
 creation of man, a fresco high up in the roof with a 
 mountain height feeling about it, that takes one away 
 out of the chapel and beyond the angels and devils 
 painted on the walls. We had all got quite used to our 
 black veils by this time, and we listened, in our rows, to 
 the chanting, which at first seemed disappointing. The 
 Pope did not come that afternoon, and his throne stood 
 empty, but the service went on and on, and presently 
 some of the lights were put out, and the chanting seemed 
 to thrill a little and then to go on and on once more, and 
 then some more lights went out, and with the last the 
 chanting stopped short, and now began a melody so 
 strange, so sad, so carefully sweet, so utterly unlike any- 
 thing I had ever in my life listened to before, that I do 
 not know how to write of it ; sad, still, strange, and 
 shrill, it deepened and died away, and seemed soaring to 
 those very mountain heights which were dimly reflected 
 in the fresco overhead ; the secret of life seemed to be in 
 its voice if one could only understand it. It did not sound 
 like singing ; it seemed to change, to turn sadder and 
 more sad in the grey of the sunset, from which all the 
 
JtOME IN THE HOLY WEEJC. 273 
 
 gold had died away. At last came one note of hope, 
 one only, and as we all listened for more the music 
 stopped and the Miserere was over. We came out into 
 the Sala Regia of the Vatican, dark figures crowding, 
 awestricken, and silenced by this wonderful service. 
 Except in the sepulchres no lights are allowed in the 
 churches till Easter, nor do bells ring any more. 
 
 [LETTER II.] 
 
 Good Friday. 
 
 A LONG procession of red figures passed us this afternoon 
 in«the Felice; they were chanting, and bearing their 
 veiled crosses high aloft. Their eyes gleamed out of 
 their silk masks and pointed red caps. The coachman 
 told us that these were Brothers of Consolation, but con- 
 solation would seem somewhat terrific thus mufHed and 
 mysterious. I saw another procession of ladies in black 
 silk carrying a cross through the streets. All the 
 brothers and sisters were out this afternoon ; the Roman 
 eentlemen and ladies come to St. Peter's or stand out 
 in the piazza to see their penitent friends go by. The 
 confraternities went wending along the streets, chanting 
 and travelling from campp santo to campo santo ; then 
 during the vesper service they come wearily back across 
 the piazza to St. Peter's to pray at the high altar and 
 to receive absolution. I was in the chapel listening to 
 
 T 
 
274 HOME IN THE HOLY WEEK. 
 
 the Miserere, so that I missed a great deal that was 
 going on. 
 
 One rush of feet meant that the Pope had arrived in 
 order to see the exhibition of relics from the balcony. 
 Another turning and straining of heads, several proces- 
 sions of green, white, and black penitents were advancing 
 up the great aisle together. .While the chanting is peace- 
 fully thrilling in one chapel, in another a number of 
 people are sitting waiting round a cardinal's chair, which 
 stands by a certain altar. It is here that twice a year 
 he listens to the confessions of the most unpardonable 
 offenders, and gives absolutions for crimes which could 
 at no other time be forgiven. People sit and wait to see 
 the looks of the cardinal and of the offenders, and to 
 guess at the horrible tragedies that are wiped out by this 
 long-suffering tradition. I, seeing as I passed nice-look- 
 young ladies and amiable-faced gentlemen waiting, 
 imagined that these were the criminals, and passed on 
 duly horrified, until I was told that they were merely 
 spectators. Once, some one assured me, a man was 
 seen to rush wildly in like a madman, leap over the 
 barriers, and in a desperate, excited way hiss out some- 
 thing in the cardinal's ear. The cardinal shrank back 
 with a scared face, but all the same gave his absolution, 
 and the man, with a shriek, rushed away as he had come, 
 flying down the crowded aisle and out through the door 
 into the piazza, I saw nothing more exciting than the 
 
ROME IN THE HOLY WEEK. 275 
 
 rod working from the doors of the, confession-boxes and 
 the faithful passing meekly beneath its stripes. The sun 
 was set by the time we left the cathedral, and all the 
 people were slowly dispersing : the bridges, the streets, 
 were crowded with loiterers ; the moon was streaming 
 her own peculiar benediction overhead, the churches were 
 lighted, and the homeward bound faithful were pouring in. 
 We went into one quiet place, dark, and with prostrate 
 figures on their knees round, a beautiful glowing shrine. 
 Another church was packed so closely that we were glad 
 to turn and come out into the moonlight again.' As we 
 went along we were amused to see the cheesemongers' 
 shops, brilliantly illuminated and turned into chapels for 
 the time being. Surrounded by strings of alternate 
 sausages and burning candles, stands a holy figure ; 
 eggs in water float before it, hams hang from the 
 ceiling, cheeses are ranged in ornamental rows, and then 
 come more dips, wax tapers, candles of every sort ; it is 
 a quaint sight, and an old custom taken from a bygone 
 religion, most probably. 
 
 In one crowded narrow street that we passed on our 
 way home we saw a number of grand carriages waiting 
 at the door of a barn-like building. These were the 
 carriages of the Roman ladies who were washing the 
 feet of the pilgrims within. These poor people come on 
 foot for miles — forty miles at least are necessary to en- 
 title a pilgrim to the privilege of board and lodging 
 
276 ROME IN THE HOLY WEEK. 
 
 during these three great days. They are fed and housed, 
 and the poor grand ladies come in their carriages and 
 black silk dresses and red aprons to wait upon them. 
 They wash their feet, they fold up their rags and tuck 
 them under their arms, and take the pilgrims up to 
 supper and then to bed. The poor ladies are often made 
 ill hy it, but they do their work charmingly, and smile 
 over the dreadful garments, and don't falter, though the 
 steam and the grime and the atmosphere are, I am told, 
 something indescribably horrible. The grand ladies 
 pray the whole time, and some one reads out a holy 
 book. In another part of the building some 200 men 
 are waited on by the gentlemen of the town. What part 
 of their suppers the pilgrims cannot eat there and then 
 they carry up and put under their pillows. 
 
 • Sunday. 
 Easter began this morning about five o'clock with 
 bells and cannons for an Easter hymn. All the clanging 
 and booming set the canaries singing in the next room, 
 and I believe most people got up and dressed, for many 
 were at St. Peter's by seven, and even earlier. The 
 
 N s were there by six, and I heard of some people 
 
 who dressed at four so as to be in time for the ten 
 o'clock mass. After this one is ashamed to remember 
 a nine o'clock breakfast ; but though we came late there 
 was a kind person present, with influence to turn the 
 hard hearts of barrier-keepers and camerieres, and to 
 
ROME IN THE HOLY WEEK. 277 
 
 get US admitted into an uncrowded place, from whence, 
 by standing, we could see the great sight. A moment's 
 dizziness and breathlessness, and then you see it there 
 before you, a wonderful waving, shining sea beating 
 against the rocks of St. Peter's ; by degrees you feel 
 that every wave is bright with colour ; a sort of rainbow 
 dazzle is in the air almost veiling the far depths of the 
 great brilliant arches. High overhead are specks of 
 people looking from galleries ; the altar shines and 
 glitters with shimmering smoke and light, and a sound of 
 music and chanting begins. There, at the far end of the 
 church, sits the Pope enthroned in white, with his 
 officers of state around him, and all the long way from 
 the throne to the altar is lined by the brass helmets of 
 the guards, while every arch and nook is crowded ; the 
 uniforms are glittering, the knights, nobles, and diplomat- 
 ists are each in their places. Upon the steps of the high 
 altar crowd cardinals and bishops and attendant priests. 
 I see a row of silver mitres on cushions, which their for- 
 tunate possessors will presently assume. One black 
 motionless figure stands upon the high step of the altar. 
 This is a young nobleman representative of the great 
 families of Rome. Overhead the great figures in the dome 
 hang silent over all this pomp and eager wide-spreading 
 wave of life, and we dizzy spectators get down from the 
 step on which we have been standing to make way for a 
 Roman princess, who is going to take her seat in the 
 
27S ROME IN THE HOLY WEEK. 
 
 privileged place which has been prepared for her. They 
 look magnificent in their veils, these Roman ladies, as 
 they sweep past us. The dress suits them better than it 
 suits the pilgrim English and American ladies, who have 
 not coal-black hair, and whose bright complexions are 
 dimmed by the black. Some one tells me the names of 
 some of the great ladies as they kneel side by side in the 
 front of the box kneeling and bending lower. There is a 
 thrill, the soldiers fall on their knees, and so do the came- 
 rieres, and the Pope and his holy mysteries pass by. 
 Then the incense begins to mount, and the music swells ; 
 the Pontiff himself officiates, and elevates the host, and 
 swings the silver censer. People who are used to the 
 service kneel, and then have a little conversation, and 
 then kneel again, so that Protestants find it difficult to 
 follow the vjirious phases ; and I must here protest that 
 though I have heard much complaint of the Protestants' 
 behaviour, it has always been the Catholics who have 
 most talked and made disturbance wherever I have been. 
 Strange and brilliant creatures come into our reserved 
 corner : M. de Charette, the Captain of the Zouaves, in 
 his splendid dress — the Hungarians in their Vandyke 
 dresses — and the Captain of the Pope's Guard, a noble 
 mediaeval head, with a close frill and a grand suit of 
 armour, which he wears with a sort of knightly grace. 
 Nothing seems out of place in this curious glittering com- 
 pany, from the Roman princesses to the bare-footed 
 
ROME IN THE HOLY WEEK. 279 
 
 friars. Here is no actual thing, or time, or place. It 
 seems like a mystical, typical multitude from all time" 
 and all places worshipping and wondering round the 
 high altar of Catholicism. Splendour, devotion, and the 
 ifervent faith of the past, and the chill and doubting yet 
 /true-hearted spirit of these plain-speaking times are 
 there, and long use and love and new fervours awakened. 
 All centuries of feeling seem represented under this re- 
 sounding roof, while the light of heaven shines through 
 the windows of the dome alike upon the just and the 
 unjust. And now, as we are waiting, suddenly all 
 talking ceases, and once more the vast multitude bows 
 low. The incense rises, and the censers clank, but the 
 music has ceased ; there is a pause, a sort of hushed 
 silence, which is very impressive ; and then clear above 
 our heads sound the silver trumpets, musical, majestic, 
 lovely in harmony ; and the heads bend lower and 
 lower, and the brilliant strain dies away. . . . 
 
 I have not attempted to describe the passing and 
 repassing of cardinals, the mitres doffed and reassumed ; 
 the solemn state of the mass was so big and so brilliant 
 that the details were almost beyond my ken. I saw the 
 cardinals sitting in a splendid row by the throne. I had 
 a glimpse of ambassadors in their places, and royalties, 
 and of the hundreds gazing upwards, and then some one 
 called me and told me to follow quickly, and a number 
 of us, under the protection of a special and friendly 
 
28o ROME IN THE HOLY WEEK. 
 
 cameriere, hurried down the centre of the church, 
 between the two long lines of the people held back by 
 ropes. We came at last to a side door and climbed 
 steps and hastened along halls and passages and so 
 came out upon the leads of the Vatican into a place 
 partitioned off with an awning, and a view of the piazza, 
 where another multitude was waiting for the benedic- 
 tion. 
 
 The cavalry stands in squares of grey and green, and 
 the line in uniforms of yellow and red, and there are 
 Zouaves glittering blue, with their prancing command- 
 ers, and the Household troops ; then comes a group of 
 country women and a file of Sisters of Charity in their 
 white flapping caps ; from, all the distant windows heads 
 are bending ; on the distant hills stand people watching 
 from a long way off; some cardinals and white and red 
 robes are looking out of the windows of the Vatican, and 
 all the leads are crowded. The sun comes out and 
 shines on the bright great piazza, on the leads, on the 
 Vatican, on the distant hills, on the window with the 
 tapestry, from whence the blessing is coming. The 
 Pope's mitre is there already on a cushion, and half-a- 
 dozen priests are waiting for his coming. Now the sun 
 bursts bright and hot from rain clouds, and the lights 
 come and go, and suddenly ' Ecco ! ' cry the people, for 
 the fans appear under the awning, and the golden figure 
 carried to the window ; and as the Pope appears 
 
ROME IN THE HOLY WEEK. 281 
 
 there is a sort of murmur, and then the priests say- 
 something, and then once more the trembling hands are 
 upheld, and the kind quavering voice is heard. At its 
 first utterance the word of command rings out quick and 
 sharp, and the army of soldiers kneel with a great clank 
 and glitter among all the country people on their knees ; 
 and so the kind old Pontiff blesses his kneeling 
 multitude ; and as the blessing ends the peacock's 
 feathers move, and the golden figure disappears, and 
 with a cheer (it made our eyes fill somehow) the people 
 spring to their feet. 
 
 We went home in a crowd of senators' and princes' 
 and monsignores' carriages. The senators had ruffles, 
 gold bodies with crimson arms, the little pages were 
 peeping from the windows of the great coaches. I saw 
 one great glass carriage with four delighted-looking little 
 boys in ruffies and a monk to take care of them. I 
 saw Monsignor Stonor in a brougham, and Cenci and 
 Montecchi, and Visconti and Barberini, and all the 
 historical names that one knows, in splendid mediaeval 
 dresses, driving in solemn state. It is rather depressing to 
 come away, having seen this grand sight, and to 
 reflect that there is probably nothing more of the sort 
 to come in all one's life so golden and magnificent, and 
 that all of us, men and women, have done our utmost 
 here, and can't go any farther. 
 
282 
 
 CLOSED DOORS. 
 
 E'en tho' temptation press thee hard and sore, 
 
 And strength is failing, and that prayer for grace 
 Was thy last effort, and thou canst no more. 
 
 Now, on some week-day, if thy heart be hot 
 Within thee to thank Him for mercy given, 
 
 Towards His sanctuary go thou not ! 
 
 Its doors are shut, and back thou wilt be driven ! 
 
 And if wide from thy gracious Lord thou'st erred, 
 
 Yet late repentant to thine heart art cut. 
 Repent elsewhere j for here no vows are heard : 
 
 God's ears are open, but His church is shut ! 
 
 Closed Doors — Hon. Mrs. Knox. 
 
 To the Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 Sir, — I am writing to you very early on a Sunday 
 morning, and as I write the bell is ringing of a little 
 whitewashed chapel standing by a wooden bridge and a 
 rushing torrent; and down from the high green Alps, 
 stream-crossed and pine-scented, the peasants are com- 
 ing at its call. All round about this plateau are white, 
 dazzling snow mountains and green slopes, where, on 
 week days, the peasants are at work early and late reap- 
 ing the grasses, and the grey oxen come down the pre- 
 
CLOSED DOORS. 283 
 
 cipitous sides of the mountains, dragging the sledges 
 upon which the sweet dry hay is piled, or it may be the 
 household goods of some little family flitting from its 
 high Alpine home to its chalet in the village down 
 below. The husband goes first, with his arm round the 
 broad-homed head ; the mother follows with steady 
 step, through the pine trees, carrying a little Italian 
 peasant baby in her arms. In the valley where we are 
 staying there are perhaps three or four little wooden 
 houses by the stream, but a good many seem to have 
 flown up right out of the valley and perched upon the 
 mountains, all about the low stone house with the stone- 
 piled roof which stands by the stream. It has been 
 erected for those who come to drink the waters that flow 
 from the iron spring in the valley. 
 
 Among the company are some Milanese ladies, con- 
 vent-bred, who go often to the little white-washed 
 chapel, and whose many questions as to the ways of our 
 Church, its beliefs, its consolations, I sometimes find it 
 difficult to answer. To them their Church means re- 
 ligion itself, to us it is (or should be) but an expression 
 of something higher. They ask me if it is to our Church 
 we go for consolation in trouble, for daily sustainment 
 and advice. ' Ah, no,' cries the youngest of the party, 
 ' your Church is not a friend to you as ours is to us.' 
 Practically, perhaps, she is in the right, if a Protestant 
 may concede so much. 
 
2S4 CLOSED DOORS. 
 
 These are days of change, of eager debate of words 
 that do not spare ; on every side people are looking out 
 for the fall of superstructures erected by our prede- 
 cessors, at whose traditions this impatient age not un- 
 naturally rebels, just as men of forty sometimes rebel at 
 the professions made for them by men of twenty-three. 
 We see beacons destroyed or tottering (in truth they 
 are beacons no longer, for the harbour is closed and the 
 tide is sweeping elsewhere), previsions are evaded, pro- 
 fessions turned into protests. To some consciences, 
 perhaps, Faith in spiritual matters may mean love ; to 
 others it may mean hope ; but not to many, is it Faith 
 any longer ; and such as these, who would not willingly 
 desert the ancient edifice, hear gladly on every side 
 what is being done to open wide the ways, to enlarge 
 the spirit of a grand old community, which may be 
 narrow-minded and inconsequent at times, but which 
 recognises honour as a part of its creed, and to which its 
 votaries cling from traditions that have almost become 
 a part of their very natures. One point after another 
 is stretched, one tenet after another is tacitly abandoned, 
 things are cried in the market-place now which in my 
 youth were scarcely whispered. I have been told of a 
 sect now existing at Geneva so wide and comprehensive 
 in its views that many who thought themselves excluded 
 from all communities now find that they can consci- 
 entiously belong to this. 
 
CLOSED DOORS. 285 
 
 Some of the best and wisest spirits of our time are 
 anxiously trying to do all they can to counteract the 
 cry that the Church as a Church is no living institution, 
 excluding as it does many of the most honest and 
 scrupulous of its members from holy orders, and appeal- 
 ing to the uneducated in a very limited and partial 
 degree ; and while these reformers, preserving as far as 
 they can the spirit of the Church of England, are at- 
 tempting to enlarge the profession of its doctrines, and 
 allowing to every man more and more liberty to deter- 
 mine for himself that inscrutable point of connection 
 between the known and the unknown, the spiritual and 
 the material, another class are in a very simple and 
 effectual manner closing the doors of the Church (and I 
 am speaking no metaphor) in the faces of its votaries, 
 and doing more by that turn of the key in the too well 
 greased lock to abolish in the minds of those who are 
 thus excluded all realisation of a living actual sympathy, 
 than all the doubts, expressed and non-expressed, of 
 honest sceptics, or the railings of fanatics and scoffers have 
 ever done. Why are church doors closed, bolted, and 
 barred ? why are pew-openers and sightseers the only 
 people who are allowed to enter from one week's end to 
 another ? Why am I at this minute — it is about nine 
 o'clock on Sunday, morning — the member of an estab- 
 lished church, which is shut up, with drawn blinds, into 
 which there is no admittance for two hours at least ? 1 
 
286 CLOSED DOORS. 
 
 Here in this little village, high up among the Rhoetian 
 Alps, a bell is ringing, as I have said, and the peasants 
 are coming over the mountains and down the green 
 slopes that lead to the little chapel by the torrent. It 
 is only a low white shed, a little larger than the neigh- 
 bouring chalets, or baitas, as they call them here. It is 
 quite shabby and humble, and whitewash is falling from 
 its walls, but the bell rings evening after evening for the 
 ' Ave,' the people go in and come out and walk away 
 quietly by the torrent or along the narrow mountain 
 paths that travel by rock and waterfall and by fragrant 
 scent of thyme and through fresh pine woods to higher 
 Alps near the snow peaks that encircle our valley ; and 
 all day long, on Sundays and week days, the worm-eaten 
 door of the chapel is open, and one lamp burns dimly. 
 Whenever you look into the humble little place the 
 lamp is burning, and one or other kneeling figure is 
 there, peasant or traveller. On Sundays the country 
 people come in full dignity of knee-breeches, and wives 
 and sweethearts, and huge red umbrellas, and streaming 
 out after the mass sit in a row on the low wall in front 
 of the establishment where- we are staying, while the 
 little children run about and peep through the wooden 
 planks of the bridge at the boiling waters below. 
 
 This seems a long round-about way of entering my 
 little protest, and petitioning for leave to enter the 
 church to which I belong, but the contrast between our 
 
CLOSED DOORS. 287 
 
 own system and that which I see here has struck me 
 very much. Not long ago, at Oxford, one day I re- 
 member walking from one noble old chapel to another 
 and ^wondering at the barred doors: in one place a 
 shutter had been left a little open, showing a glimpse of 
 aisle and lofty- arch and peaceful light, but the outer 
 gate Wcis safely locked, for fear any passer-by should 
 enter. 
 
 It seems a small thing to ask for — leave to go in 
 now and then out of the busy street of life to a quiet 
 place hallowed by association, and to stay there for a 
 little while among surroundings which should bring 
 peaceful and holy things; before us. To some natures 
 and temperaments such minutes, coming, maybe, at a 
 moment of doubt or loneliness, would count more than 
 even a whole three hours' service and sermon complete, 
 perhaps unsuited to their need, and coming when the 
 stress was over and help no longer of any avail. — I am. 
 Sir, your obedient servant. 
 
 Out of Season. 
 
2SS 
 
 IN FRIENDSHIP} 
 
 II faut dans ce bas monde aimer beaucoup de choses, 
 Pour savoir apres tout ce qu'on aime le mieux. . . . 
 
 II faut fouler au pieds des fleurs a peine ecloses ; 
 
 II faiit beaucoup pleurer, dire beaucoup d'adieux . . . 
 
 De ces .biens passagers que Ton goute i demi 
 Le meilleur qui nous reste est un ancien ami, — 
 
 So says Alfred de Musset, in his sonnet to Victor Hugo : 
 and as we live on we find out who are in truth the 
 people that we have really loved, which of our com- 
 panions belongs to us, linked in friendship as well as by 
 the chances of life or relationship. Sometimes it is not 
 until they are gone that we discover who and what they 
 were to us — those ' good friends and true ' with whom 
 we were at ease, tranquil in the security of their kind 
 presence. 
 
 Some of us, the longer we live, only feel more and 
 more that it is not in utter loneliness that the greatest 
 peace is to be found. A little child starts up in the 
 dark, and finding itself alone, begins to cry and toss in 
 its bed, as it holds out its arms in search of a protecting 
 hand ; and men and women seem for the most part true 
 
 ' C. A. C. Easter 1873. 
 
IN FRIENDSHIP. '289 
 
 to this first childish instinct as they awaken suddenly : 
 (how strange these awakenings are, in what incongruous 
 places and seasons do they come to us !) People turn 
 helplessly, looking here and there for protection, for 
 sympathy,' for affection, for charity of human fellowship ; 
 give it what name you like, it is the same cry for com- 
 panionship, and terror of the death of silence and 
 absence. Human Sympathy, represented by inadequate 
 words, or by clumsy exaggeration, by feeble signs 
 or pangs innumerable, by sudden glories and unreason- 
 able ecstasies, is, when we come to think of it, among 
 the most reasonable of emotions. It is life indeed ; it 
 binds us to the spirit of our race as our senses bind us to 
 the material world, and makes us feel at times as if we 
 were indeed a part of Nature herself, and chords respond- 
 ing to her touch. 
 
 People say that as a rule men are truer friends than 
 women — more capable of friendship. Is this the result 
 of a classical education.' Do the foot-notes in which 
 celebrated friendships are mentioned in brackets stimu- 
 late our youth to imitate those stately togas, whose 
 names and discourses come travelling down to us 
 through two thousand years, from one country to 
 another, from one generation to another, from one 
 
 > ' I felt nobody to have existence at all until existing in the minds of 
 other people, and positivism without sympathy between people to be like a 
 religion vrithout its devotion.' — A Correspondent. 
 
 U 
 
ago 
 
 IN FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 language to another, until they flash perhaps into the 
 pages of Bohn's Classical Library, of which a volume 
 has been lent to me from the study-table on the hill ? 
 It is lying open at the chapter on friendship. ' To me, 
 indeed, though he was snatched away, Scipio still lives, 
 and will always live ; for I love the virtue of a man, and 
 assuredly of all things that either fortune or nature has 
 bestowed upon me, I have none which I can compare 
 with the friendship of Scipio.' So says Cicero, speaking 
 by the mouth of Laelius and of Bohn, and the generous 
 thought still lives after many a transmigration, though it 
 exists now in a world where perhaps friendship is less 
 thought of than in the days when Scipio was mourned.' 
 Some people have a special gift of their own for friend- 
 ship ; they transform a vague and abstract feeling for us 
 into an actual voice and touch and response. As our 
 
 ' Grimoald, 'chaplain to Bishop Ridley,' quoted by Robert Bell in his 
 edition of English poets, has left some quaint hobbling verses which seem 
 to have pre-^viitten my little article — 
 
 Friendship, flower of flowers, oh ! lively sprite of life ! 
 
 Oh ! sacred bond of blissful peace, the stalworth staunch of strife ! 
 
 Scipio with Laelius, didst thou conform in care 
 
 At home, in wars, for weal and woe with equal faith to fare ? 
 
 Gisippus eke with Tyte, Damon Avith Pythias, 
 
 And with Menethus' son Achill, by thee combined was. 
 
 Eurialus and Nisus gave Virgil cause to sing ; 
 
 Of Pylades do many rhyme and of Orestes ring. 
 
 Down Theseus went to hell, Pereth his friend to find. 
 
 Oh ! that the wives in these our days were to their mates so kind. 
 
 Cicero the friendly man to Atticus his friend 
 
 Of friendship ^vrote . . . 
 
IN FRIENDSHIP. 291 
 
 life flows on — 'a torrent of impressions and emotions 
 bounded in by custom,' a writer calls it whose own deep 
 torrent has long since overflowed any narrow confining- 
 boundaries — the mere names of our friends might for 
 many of us almost tell the history of our own lives. As 
 one thinks over the roll, each name seems a fresh sense 
 and explanation to the past.. Some, which seem to 
 have outwardly but httle influence on our fate, tell for 
 us the whole hidden story of long years. One means 
 perhaps passionate emotion, unreasonable reproach, 
 tender reconciliation ; another may mean injustice, for- 
 giveness, remorse ; while another speaks to us of all that 
 we have ever suffered, all that we hold most sacred in 
 life, and gratitude and trust unfailing. There is one 
 name that seems to me like the music of Bach as I 
 think of it, and another that seems to open at the Gospel 
 of St Matthew. ' My dearest friend,' a young man 
 wrote to his mother only yesterday, and the simple 
 words seemed, to me to tell the whole history of their 
 lives. 
 
 ' After these two noble fruits of friendship, peace in 
 the affections, and support df the judgment, followeth 
 the last fruit, which is like the pomegranate, full of 
 many kernels. I mean aid and bearing a part in all 
 actions and occasions,' says Lord Bacon, writing in the 
 spirit of Cicero three hundred years ago. 
 
 To be in love is a recognised state ;'. relationship 
 
292 IN FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 without friendship is perhaps too much recognised in 
 civihsed communities ; but friendship, that best blessing 
 of life, seems to have less space in its scheme than 
 almost any other feeling of equal importance. Of 
 course it has its own influence ; but the outward life ap- 
 pears, on the whole, more given to business, to acquaint- 
 ance, to ambition, to eating and drinking, than to the 
 friends we really love : and time passes, and convenience 
 takes us here and there, and work and worry (that we 
 ■ might have shared) absorb us, and one day time is no 
 more for our friendship. 
 
 One or two of my readers will understand why it is 
 that I have been thinking of friendship of late, and have 
 chosen this theme for my little essay, thinking that not 
 the least lesson in life is surely that of human sympathy, 
 and that to be a good friend is one of the secrets that 
 comprise most others. And yet the sacrifices that we 
 usually make for. a friend's comfort or assistance are 
 ludicrous when one comes to think of -them. 'One 
 mina, two minae ; are there • settled values for friends, 
 Antisthenes, as there are for slaves } For of slaves one 
 is perhaps worth two minse, another not even half a 
 mina, another five minae, another ten.' Antisthenes 
 agrees, and says that some friends are not even worth 
 half a mina ; ' and another,' he says, ' I would buy for 
 my friend at the sacrifice of all the money and revenues 
 in the world.' 
 
IN FRIENDSHIP. 293 
 
 I am afraid that we modem Antisthenes would think 
 a month's income a serious sacrifice. If a friend is in 
 trouble, we leave a card at his door, or go the length of 
 a note, perhaps. And when all is well, we go our 
 way silent and preoccupied. We absent ourselves for 
 months at a time without a reason, and yet all of this is 
 more want Of habit than of feeling ; for, notwithstanding 
 all that is said of the world and its pompous vanities, 
 there are still human beings among us, and, even after two 
 thousand years, true things, seem to come to life again 
 and again for each one of us, in this sorrow and that happi- 
 ness, in one sympathy and another ; and one day a vague 
 essay upon friendship becomes the true story of a friend. 
 
 In this peaceful island from whence I write we hear 
 Cicero's voice, or listen to In Memoriam, as the Friend 
 sings to us of friendship to the tune of the lark's shrill 
 voice, or of the wave that beats away our holiday and 
 dashes itself upon the rocks . in the little bay. The 
 sweet scents and dazzles of sunshine seem to harmonise 
 with emotions that are wise and natural, and it is not 
 until we go back to our common life that we realise the 
 difference between the teaching of noble souls and the 
 noisy bewildered translation into life of that solemn 
 printed silence. 
 
 Is it, then, regret for buried time, 
 That keenlier in sweet April wakes, 
 And meets the year, and gives and takes 
 The "colours of the crescent prime? 
 
294 • IN FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Not all : the songs, the stirring air, 
 The life re-orient out of dust. 
 Cry through the scene to hearten trust 
 In that which made the world so fair. 
 
 Here, then, and at peace, and out of doors in the 
 spring-time, we have leisure to ask ourselves whether 
 there is indeed some failure in the scheme of friendship 
 and in the plan of that busy to-day in which our lives 
 are passed ; over-crowded with people, with repetition, 
 with passing care and worry, and unsorted material. 
 It is perhaps possible that by feeling and feeling alone, 
 some check may be given to the trivial rush of mean- 
 ingless repetition by which our time is frittered away, 
 our precious power of love and passionate affection given 
 to the winds. 
 
 Sometimes we suddenly realise for the first time the 
 sense of kindness, the treasure of faithful protection 
 that we have unconsciously owed for years, for our 
 creditor has never claimed payment or reward, and we 
 remember with natural emotion and gratitude that the 
 ■time for payment is past ; we shall be debtors all our 
 lives long — ^^debtors made richer by one man's generosity 
 and liberal friendship, as we may be any day made 
 poorer in heart by unkindness or want of truth. 
 
 Only a few weeks ago a friend passed from among 
 us whose name for many, for the writer among the rest, 
 spoke of a whole chapter in life, one of those good 
 chapters to which we go back again and again. This 
 
IN FRIENDSHIP. 295 
 
 friend was one of those who make a home of life for 
 others, a home to which we all felt that we might come 
 sure of a wise and unfailing welcome. The door opens, 
 the friend comes in slowly with a welcoming smile on 
 his pale and noble face. Where find more delightful 
 companionship than his .' We all know the grace of 
 that charming improvised gift by which he seemed able 
 to combine disjointed hints and shades into a whole, to 
 weave our crude talk and ragged suggestions into a 
 complete scheme of humorous or more serious philosophy. 
 In some papers published a few years ago in the 
 ' Cornhill Magazine,' called ' Chapters on Talk,' a great 
 deal of his delightfuV and pleasant humour appears. 
 
 But it was even more in his society than in his writ- 
 ing that our friend showed himself as he was. His 
 talking was unlike that of anybody else ; it sometimes 
 put me in mind of another voice out of the past. There 
 was an earnest wit, a gentle audacity and simplicity of 
 expression, that made it come home to us all. Of late, 
 E. R. was saying he spoke with a quiet and impressive 
 authority that we all unconsciously acknowledged, al- 
 though- we did not know that the end of pain was 
 near. 
 
 Of his long sufferings he never complained. But if 
 he spoke of himself, it was with some kind little joke or 
 humorous conceit and allusion to the philosophy of en- 
 durance, nor was it until after his death that we knew 
 
296 JN FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 what his martyrdom had been, nor with what courag^e 
 he had borne it. 
 
 He thought of serious things very constantly, al-r 
 though not in the conventional manner. One of the 
 last times that we met he said to me, ' I feel more and 
 more convinced that the love of the Father is not unlike 
 that of an earthly father ; and that as an earthly father, 
 so He rejoices in the prosperity and material well-doing^ 
 of his children.' Another time, quoting from the' 
 '.Roundabout Papers,' he said suddenly, ' " Be good, my 
 dear." Depend upon it, that is the whole philosophy of 
 life ; it is very simple.' 
 
 Speaking of a friend, he said with some emotion, ' I 
 think I love M. as well as if he were dead.' 
 
 He had a fancy, that we all used to laugh over with 
 him, of a great central building, something like the 
 Albert Hall, for friends to live in together, with galleries 
 for the sleepless to walk in at night. 
 
 Perhaps some people may think that allusions so 
 personal as these are scarcely fitted for these pages ; but 
 what is there in truth more unpersonal than the thought 
 of a wise and gentle spirit, of a generous and truthful 
 life ? Here is a life that belongs to us all ; we have all 
 been the better for the existence of the one man. He 
 could not be good without doing good in his generation, 
 nor speak the truth as he did without adding to the 
 sum of true things. And the lesson that he taught us 
 
IN FRIENDSHIP. 297 
 
 was — 'Let us be true to ourselves: do not let us be 
 afraid to be ourselves, to love each other and to speak 
 and to trust in each other.' 
 
 Last night the moon rose very pale at first, then 
 blushing flame-like through the drifting vapours as they 
 rose far beyond the downs; a great blackbird sat 
 watching the shifting shadowy worlds from the bare 
 branch of a tree, and the colts in the field set off scam- 
 pering. Later, about eleven o'clock, the mists had dis- 
 solved into a silent silver and nightingale-broken dream 
 — in which were vaporous downs, moonlight, sweet 
 sudden stars, and clouds drifting, like some slow flight 
 
 of silver birds. L took us to a little terrace at the 
 
 end of his father's garden. All the kingdoms of the 
 night lay spread before us, bounded by dreams. For a 
 minute we stood listening to the sound of the mono- 
 tonous wave, and then it ceased — and in the utter silence 
 a cuckoo called, and then the nightingale began, and then 
 the wave answered once more. 
 
 It will all be a dream to-morrow, as we stumble into 
 the noise, and light, and work of life agaia Monday 
 comes commonplace, garish, and one can scarce believe 
 in the mystical Sunday night. And yet this tranquil 
 Sunday night is more true than the flashiest gas-lamp 
 in Piccadilly. Natural things seem inspired at times, 
 and beyond themselves, and to carry us upwards and 
 beyond our gas-lamps ; so do people seem revealed to 
 us at. times, and in the night, when all is peace. 
 
LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET 
 
WORKS BY MISS THACKERAY. 
 
 Fifth Edition. %vo. i6j. 
 
 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 WITH THIRTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 . A Selection of Notices by the Press. 
 
 ' In layin? her scenes in Old Kensington, the author has shown an artist's instinct, 
 
 and chosen her ground where she was iikdy to wxite at her strongest It is an 
 
 illustrated idyl from first to last.' . The Times. 
 
 * One of the most perfect pieces of poetic fiction that the present age has produced. 
 
 The characters have in them the mystery and the awfulness of life. They are 
 
 not merely figures contrived for the sake of the nanative ; they are souls trembling to 
 the touch of many emotions — ^fuU of desires, .hopes, weaknesses, joys, sorrows, 
 affinities, like the souls of living men and women Miss Thackeray can paint a 
 
 ' picture in a few lines, and no - one can more subtly apprehend that correspondence 
 between the aspects of earth and sky and elemental change, and the agitations of our 
 human nature, which all sensitive dispositions must have felt, but which only the 
 finest mastery can express.' The Daily News. 
 
 * Of the quiet, charming gracefulness and purity of style that mark every chapter 
 of this book, of the author's kindly shrewdness, of her knowledge of, and love for, 
 children, flowers, and all the varied quaintness of Old Kensington, no one can form a 
 just opinion but the reader who patiently peruses the whole of these 500 highly 
 
 finished, dainty pages Interspersed among these graceful pictures will be found 
 
 an abundance of thoughtfiil, terse moralisings about men and tmngs ; little touches of 
 kindly satire and half-humorous pathos in dealing with the lights and shadows, the 
 nns, follies, and weaknesses of modem life, which help to^ season many a page, and 
 carry the reader pleasantly on to the close of the tale, which dies faindy out at last, 
 like a strain of mu^c.' The Standard. 
 
 'This story is worthy of consideration in two aspects: first; on account of its 
 intrinsic merits : secondly, as a timely protest against the falsehood in art which is so 
 
 prevalent among novel-writers of the present period We welcome "Old 
 
 Kensington " as part of the corrective influence which we hope will soon spread over 
 the whole of that branch of literature to which it belongs Altogether, we are in- 
 clined to rank " Old Kensington " as the second novel of the season. It is the only 
 work worthy to be placed after the ckef-a'ceuvre of George Eliot — " Middlemarch.' * 
 
 - The Edinburgh Review. 
 
 * High as we were inclined to rate Miss Thackeray's gifts, we were certainly quite 
 unprepared for such a novel as "Old Kensington.".. ..Miss Thackeray has. by this 
 work, placed herself in the very foremost ranks of English novelists.' 
 
 Westminster Review. 
 'This is, in many respects, the most interesting^ story Miss Thackeray has as yet 
 published ; it is certainly that which gives us the highest impression of the richness 
 
 and power of her genius The story is indeed exquisitely tender and harmonious. 
 
 When we come to the individual characters,^ we have nothing but admiration 
 
 for the skill, the grace, the delicacy, the subtle insight with which they are painted. 
 
 No work more clear and true and pure, more full of tenderness and grace, and 
 
 of that insight which nothing but a keen sympathy with every phase of joy and sorrow 
 can give. Is produced among us than tli^t by which Miss Thackeray sustains the 
 honours of her Other's name.' The Saturday Review. 
 
 * A book of high excellence in many ways — redolent indeed of beauty and chamu' 
 
 The Graphic. 
 
 * A refreshing book indeed.' John Bull. ^ 
 
 London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place. 
 
Works by Miss Thackeray — continued. 
 Large Crown Svo. los. 6d. 
 
 TO ESTHER, 
 
 AND OTHER SKETCHES. 
 
 WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY FREDERICK WALKER. 
 
 A Selection of Notices by the Press. 
 
 * Miss Thackeray may call her tales " sketches/' but they commend themselves 
 to us as pictures, and as pictures very beautifully painted. It is hard to pick and 
 choose where each story is diversely good. . . .The author has caught so truly every 
 colour and every accent that she goes among these villagers herself, and we follow 
 her without constraining in the leiist their everyday existence. She takes up and 
 lays down the story of a group of men and women without effort, without forcing 
 them out of their natural grooves ; we can conceive their days to have gone on, and 
 to be going on now. to an accompaniment of plot and incident akin to that depicted 
 for our delight. No doubt this is high praise, but our readers have only to turn to 
 the story we refer to and they will see that it is deserved.* The Times. 
 
 ' Miss Thackeray's stories are studies of character The singular delicacy of 
 
 touch and absorbed feeling which lent its great charm to the author's almost unique 
 " Story of Elizabeth," are displayed in unabated measure, though with less concen- 
 trated effect, in the Uttle tales before us.* Daily Telegraph. 
 
 ' The stories in this volume are exquisite gems, and will, if possible, add to Miss 
 Thackeray's fame as one of our most charming and refined writers.* Observer. 
 
 * A volume of charming and graceful sketches, marked by all Miss Thackeray's 
 usual tenderness and simplicity, as well as by all her usual picturesque purity of 
 
 style Not a single line can be skipped without positive loss, and every word 
 
 will be read with pleasure. Like a strain of soft and flowing melody from the hand 
 of a master, it charms all comers by its very simplicity — the surest proof of originality 
 and high art.' Standard. 
 
 *A truly delightful bouquet of stories.'— Graphic 
 
 * Its charm lies in its simplicity, in its truth, in little delicate touches, in a few half 
 careless words dropped here and there, which suggest more than they say — in the 
 absolute word-painting which makes the scene live before you, and obliges you to 
 feel yourself now at Rome, now at St. Bertrand, with really living people, whose lives 
 
 are being unrolled before you We love to linger over the book, to refer to it 
 
 again and again, to turn its pages lightly, resting on some special passage, or to read 
 it often almost from end to end." John Bull. 
 
 London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place. 
 
Works Toy Miss Th.aek.ev ay— continued. 
 Demy %vo. 12s. 
 
 FIVE OLD FRIENDS 
 
 AND A YOUNG PRINCK. 
 
 WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS BY FREDERICK WALKER. 
 
 Selection from Notices by the Press. 
 
 * Miss Thackeray can cast that atmosphere of wonder and delight which children 
 find in the spells and transformations of their fairy tales round events of real life, and 
 make us fee.l that rationalism is not, after all, the presiding genius of modern society. 
 
 Perhaps the tale with most of depth and beauty of its own, is the story of the 
 
 modem "Jack the Giant Killer." Our authoress av^ls hwself of every touch of 
 
 poetry in the old legend, and yet has a hroad and solid humour, ready to interpret 
 
 the great crowning feat of 'the celebrated " hasty pudding '* too . , But we might go 
 
 on extracdng efiects full of the nmrvels of action, of the mirage of fancy, apd of the 
 true light of imagination, till we had extracted half the book. None of Miss 
 Thackeray's literary productions have been so novel, if any as perfect after their kind, 
 as this.* The Spectator. 
 
 ' A pleasing, popular volume, which the young will accept with pleasure, and in 
 which the old will recall the days when " Beauty and the Beast," and '* The 
 
 Sleeping Beauty of the Wood" were reaUti^ Though it adds little to the value 
 
 of the book, yet it is but due to note the goodness of the illustrations.' 
 
 John Bull. 
 
 *As charming a book as we have read for many a day, one which cannot fail to 
 delight readers of every bodily and mental age, as well those who can appreciate its 
 "iiigh artistic merit as those who will enjoy, without criticising, its unforced humour 
 and genuine pathos/ The Saturday Review. 
 
 • Xhe ** Five Old Friends" of this fresh and delightful book are the stories of "The 
 Sleeping Beauty in the Wood," "Cinderella," "Beauty and the Beast," "Little 
 Red Riding Hood," and " Jack the Giant Killer ; " but original thought and delicate 
 literary manipulation have so completely changed the &ces of these ancient friends, 
 and have imbued them with so many qualities of fancy and feeling, of head and heart, 
 that whilst it is sometimes difficult to recognise in their actors the favourite heroes 
 and heroines of childhood's romance, it is still more difficult to state precisely, in a few 
 words, how far they resemble, and in what respects they diifer from, the narratives of 
 which they are transformations.' ^ The Athen^gum. 
 
 London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place. 
 
Works by Miss Thackeray— cowifj'w^. 
 
 Third Edition. Demy %vo. 12s. 6d. 
 
 THE VILLAGE ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 WITH SIX ILLUSTRATIONS BY FREDERICK WALKER. 
 
 'Compared with the ordinary run of three-volume novels, the brief history now 
 before us is a highly-finished cabinet picture by the side of a dozen square yards of 
 
 stage scenery We may venture to congratulate the authoress on having inherited 
 
 some of the most precious literary excellences of her distinguished father. But, 
 
 besides this, the writer possesses original gifts of her own, a capability of minutely 
 analyang mental struggles, and a peculiar faculty for depicting the landscape in which 
 her characters move. So powerful is her rendering, that we do not merely say coldly, 
 'This is a vivid and truthful picture;" we insensibly breathe, as we read, the very 
 atmosphere of the place described.' The Times. 
 
 ' The story not only gratifies the taste by its artistic merit, but also speaks straight 
 to the heart with a sweetness and a pathos which none can fail to appreciate. The 
 author depicts, with a tenderness of feeling and a delicacy of touch worthy of the 
 highest praise, the cheerlessness of a life upon which but little sunlight falls— the 
 yearning of a loving nature for the happiness which it feels it could not merely appre- 
 ' ciate, but revel in, and which is to it just everything that makes hfe worth having. ' 
 
 The Satukdav Review. 
 
 Crown Zvo. y. 6d. 
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 
 
 WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 *A story unique among the novels of the day; a. fresh bouquet all clewed and 
 thomed with real prickle upon the rose-stalks, and great blobs of morning tears upon 
 the leaves But if there are thorns there is fragrance, and promise not to be mis- 
 taken ; and so vivid a picture of a girl's heart, made by the fittest of all painters, an. 
 artist on the spot and behind the scenes, has an interest still greater than that of a 
 story to all who may be concerned in the caprices or peculiarities of that generally 
 interesting species of humanity.' Blackwood's Magazine. 
 
 * " The Story of Elizabeth " affords an almost solitary instance of a simple, touch- 
 ing, Ufe-like tale, which possesses interest without any physical horrors, and amuse- 
 ment without the aid of melo-drama.' Eraser's Magazine. 
 
 *The English, no less than the substance of this little tale, indicates real genius 
 It is rare, indeed, to find a style which is steeped in the colours of many literary 
 generations, and yet so full of vivacity and youtt as this.* Spectator. 
 
 London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO.. 15 Waterloo Place. 
 
LIBRARY EDITION 
 
 OF THE 
 
 WORKS OP W. M. THACKERAY. 
 
 In Twenty-two Volumes, Large Crown 8vo. with Illustrations by the 
 
 Author, Richard Doyle, and Frederick Walker. 
 
 Price £i. S'- Cloth ; ;^12. 12s. Half-Russia. 
 
 VANITY FAIR. A Novel Without a Hero. Two Volumes. With Forty Steel 
 
 Engravings and 150 Woodcuts. 
 THE HISTORY OF PENDENNIS: His Fortunes and Misfortunes: his 
 
 Friekds and his Greatest Enemy. Two Volumes. With Forty Steel 
 
 Engravings and numerous Woodcuts. 
 THE NEWCOMES : Memoirs of a most Respectable Family. Two Volumes. 
 
 With Forty-eight Steel Engravings by Richard Doyle, and numerous Woodcut;^ 
 
 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND, Esq. : A Colonel in the Service 
 .- OF Her Majesty Queen Anns. With Eight Illustrations by George S)V 
 
 Maurier, and numerous Woodcuts. 
 THE VIRGINIANS: A Tale of the Last Century. Two Volumes. With 
 
 Forty-eight Steel Engravings and numerous Woodcuts. 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP ON HIS WAY THROUGH THE WORLD: 
 Chowing who robbed him, who helped him, and who passed him by. To 
 which is prefixed A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY. Two Vohimes. With 
 Twenty Illustrations. 
 
 THE PARIS SKETCH-BOOK OF MR. M. A. TITMARSH ; AND THE 
 MEMOIRS OF MR. C J. YELLOWPLUSH. With Illustrations by the Author. 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF BARRY LYNDON, Esq., Written by Himself: with 
 THE HISTORY OF SAMUEL TITMARSH, and THE GREAT H0GGAR1"Y 
 DIAMOND. \\^th Illustrations by the Author. 
 
 THE IRISH SKETCH-BOOK : and NOTES OF A JOURNEY FROM CORN- 
 HILL TO GRAND CAIRO. With Illustrations by the Author. 
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS; SKETCHES AND TRAVELS IN LONDON'; and 
 CHARACTER SKETCHES. With lUustrations by the Author. 
 
 BURLESQUES:— 
 
 novels by eminent hands, 
 adventures of major gahagan. 
 jeames's diary. 
 a legend of the rhine. 
 
 REBECCA AND ROWENA. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF THE NEXT FRENCH 
 
 REVOLUTIONi 
 cox's DIARY. 
 
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 CHRISTIMAS BOOKS OF MR. M. A. TITMARSH:— 
 
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 With Seventy-four Illustrations. 
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 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. Wth Portraits and other Illustrations. 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. To which is added the SECOND FUNERAL OF 
 
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 2.— THE HISTORY OF PENDENNIS. 
 
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 COSNHILL TO CAIRO, 
 
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 REBECCA AND ROWENA. 
 
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 REVOLUTION, 
 cox's DIARY. 
 THE FATAL BOOTS. 
 
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 JEAMES'S DIARY 
 
 ADVENTURES OF MAJOR GAHAGAN. 
 
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