;\TY OF. 
 
 
 ^"^ ^'^ STACKS
 
 THE UNKIND WORD 
 
 OTHER STORIES. 
 
 BY 
 THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN," 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 IN TWO VOLS. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 1870. 
 
 The right 0/ Translation is reserved.
 
 LONDOK : 
 BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRtAKS.
 
 
 X 
 
 
 V 
 
 > 
 
 THIS COLLECTION OF PAPERS, 
 
 SOME ORIGINAL-SOME REPRINTS-TO MY FRIEND AND 
 PUBLISHER FOR THIRTEEN YEARS, 
 
 HENRY BLACKETT. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ^ 
 i
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THERE was — nay there is, for it doubt- 
 less exists still — in a certain nook of 
 the Western Highlands of Scotland, 
 a cottage — of which, as of the celebrated cottage 
 over which the "smoke so gracefully curled," 
 it might truly be said — 
 
 " That, oh, if there's peace to be found in the world, 
 A heart that is humble might hope for it here. " 
 
 Very ^'humble," certainly, the heart should 
 be — for the cottage was humble enough. It con- 
 sisted only of two rooms ; with a byre adjoining : 
 unto which byre the original owners periodically 
 migrated, somewhat to the inconvenience of the 
 cow : while the house itself was let to any 
 summer lodgers who might prefer the primitive 
 and picturesque to the elegant and convenient. 
 
 Most picturesque it was: this solitary dwell- 
 ing, nestling under a perpendicular rock, in the 
 curve of a small bay, with a glorious sea-view in 
 
 VOL. r. B
 
 2 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 front, and, behind, a magnificent glen, presided 
 over by two lofty ranges of granite hills. These 
 hills from dawn to sunset — nay, all night long, 
 for they never looked grander than by starlight 
 — were continually changing their aspect and 
 colour ; their forms remaining, permanently out- 
 lined, through shine or storm, white mist or 
 purple shadow — giving a sense of eternal endur- 
 ance and majestic calm. 
 
 Besides this large beauty of the mountains, 
 there was an infinite perfection of lesser beauty 
 on every hand. Nowhere could be found such 
 heathery moorlands ; such verdant bogs, rich 
 in lovely and rare bog-plants ; such a pleasant 
 shore, where from curious conglomerate rocks 
 you might peer down a dozen feet, through 
 crystal depths of brine, into the brilliant sea- 
 gardens, waving with under-water vegetation, 
 wonderful to behold. On land too, all about 
 these rocks, which were strewn everywhere, or 
 left standing upright in great boulders — were 
 nooks that would almost make you believe in 
 fairies' bowers ; so that you would never feel 
 surprised to see a wee green man perk up his 
 head from among the delicate mosses and ferns, 
 to ask you what business you had in his especial 
 dominion. 
 
 Thus, outside, the cottage possessed every 
 attraction that heart or eye could desire. Inside, 
 perhaps, the less that is said of it the better. 
 Except that it had two merits — rare, alas ! in 
 this region — it was undoubtedly clean : and it 
 had windows which were actually made to open !
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 3 
 
 Thanks to these advantages, within its narrow 
 limits had for the last month been stowed away, 
 in the miraculous manner in which people do 
 contrive to stow themselves away in Highland 
 solitudes, — a family of six persons ; two brothers, 
 three sisters, and a cousin ; living that wild, free, 
 Robinson-Crusoe sort of life which is so delicious 
 to the young. For they were all young — the 
 brothers and the cousin being under twenty, the 
 three sisters a little older. Five of these young 
 people were Wyvills — Agnes, Emma, Jane, 
 Maurice, and Richard — motherless children of a 
 grim, poor, proud Yorkshire squire ; the sixth 
 was Jessie Raeburn, orphan heiress of the old 
 uncle of them all, a Glasgow merchant It was 
 through her that the young Wyvills her cousins 
 had been persuaded to spend their holidays in 
 the North, — taking for a month this cheap, out- 
 of-the way cottage, and keeping house for them- 
 selves, — for no servant was possible. 
 
 Very simple were all their domestic arrange- 
 ments. The four girls appropriated the one 
 double-bedded room ; the other apartment,— 
 which, like the cobbler's stall, " served them for 
 kitchen, and parlour, and all," — being made to 
 serve a third purpose as well : for at night, by 
 means of that mysterious arrangement, common 
 enough in Scotland, "a concealed bed," it in- 
 geniously accommodated the boys. They, daily 
 rising with the September dawn, always rushed 
 out at once to their glorious morning bath on the 
 near sea-shore, leaving the kitchen free. When 
 they came home, as hungry as hunters, it was
 
 4 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 to find it all "redd up," as the Scotch cousin 
 expressed it (and could do it too, though she 
 was a rich Glasgow young lady), the kettle 
 singing on the rude iron bars which did duty for 
 a grate, — ^just enough to keep the peat and wood 
 from spluttering out on the earthen floor, — and 
 the breakfast laid out on the one table. A very 
 homely meal it was, consisting merely of a great 
 bowl of porridge, and two jugs of sweet milk 
 and butter-milk. If the boys desired fish, they 
 had to catch it for themselves in the little creek 
 where the mountain burn met the sea ; and oh ! 
 what splendid sea-trout they sometimes brought 
 home, and what a grand frying there was in 
 the big frying-pan, which, with the three-legged 
 pot and one saucepan, formed their only culinary 
 apparatus. Yet even with these the girls had, 
 during the month, become very tolerable cooks, 
 and maids-of-all-work besides. To be sure, 
 some disasters had at first occurred — such as 
 when Agnes, coming home one day a little in 
 advance of the rest, to prepare w4iat is techni- 
 cally and most truthfully called a " hungry tea," 
 unfortunately filled the kettle, and afterwards 
 the tea-pot, out of a can, not of fresh, but of 
 j^-water! And once, when the "half-sheep," 
 which she was accustomed to order weekly, had 
 (with its corresponding half of course) betaken 
 itself to the mountains, decHning to be killed, 
 and also, owing to storms or piscatory ill-luck 
 and incapacity, all the fish, both in sea and burn, 
 unanimously refused to come to the boys' hooks, 
 there was absolute famine in the house. For
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 5 
 
 two days the family had to breakfast, dine, and 
 sup, upon oatmeal porridge : at which they had 
 first laughed, then grumbled, and then taken to 
 quarrelling, as they not seldom did. " And 
 as all brothers and sisters do," they told the 
 little quiet cousin, — who, quite alone in the 
 world, with no one either to love her or to 
 vex her, could not understand this quarrelling 
 at all. 
 
 But in spite of such small troubles, they had 
 been very happy together ; and now that their 
 holiday was nearly over — it being then Sunday 
 night, and Wednesday would be the first of 
 October and their month's end — they all felt a 
 little sad. They sat over their tea-table in the 
 early closing twilight, without any of the skir- 
 mishes which, either in jest or earnest, were 
 always rising up among these strong, rough, 
 Yorkshire natures — warm to love and quick to 
 hate — or, at least, to wrangle, in a way that to 
 little Jessie seemed as if it must spring from, or 
 result in, undying hatred, till she found out that 
 they always made the quarrel up again, or, with- 
 out any making up, went on in five minutes just 
 as cheerfully as if it had never happened. 
 
 "You are the very queerest family!" she would 
 say sometimes. " I suppose it is your English 
 demonstrativeness, which seems to me so odd. 
 You speak out whatever comes into your minds 
 — good or bad — kind or unkind. If anyone 
 were to say to me half the things that you say 
 to one another every day of your lives, I should 
 break my heart about it for weeks after : and if
 
 6 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 I were so irritated as to speak to anybody 
 else in that way, it would imply that I had lost 
 all love and respect for them, and I should just 
 go away and leave them, and never be friends 
 with them any more." 
 
 " Should you ? Then you'd be a little 
 goose ! " Agnes would answer. " We all like 
 one another well enough, and we speak to one 
 another no sharper than father always speaks to 
 us. We are used to that sort of thing, and 
 don't heed it. It might have been different 
 had mother been alive." 
 
 So Jessie often thought, but did not like to 
 say. She knew very slightly her late aunt's 
 husband, except that she had seen him once or 
 twice : and had long noticed that her uncle, 
 Mr. Raeburn, with whom she resided at Glasgow, 
 always looked '^ dour " when he mentioned 
 Mr. Wyvill of Wyvill Court. And in her fond 
 little heart — which her solitary life had made 
 prematurely wise — she made great allowances 
 for this rugged family, which had brought itself 
 up much as it chose ; with no softening influence 
 of parental love, no restraining hand of parental 
 guidance. And she loved them all — hardly 
 making any difference : at least, none that she 
 then knew. And they all loved her — nor, 
 even in their worst and roughest humours, did 
 they ever ill-use her or say to her the ill- 
 natured things that they often said to one an- 
 other. As she sat on the settle in front of the 
 fire — so small in face and figure that she almost 
 seemed a child, and so grave and quiet that she
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 7 
 
 might have been a Httle old woman — she con- 
 trasted strongly with the handsome young 
 Wyvills, all large-made, well-featured, hearty- 
 voiced : full of health and spirit and life. No 
 wonder that to her — reserved, rather dreamy, 
 delicate in health, and passive in nature — those 
 wild Yorkshire cousins brought exactly the 
 elements in which her dull, easy, rich, shut-up 
 existence was deficient, and that she had been 
 very happy this month — happier, she often 
 thought, than she had been ever since she was 
 born. 
 
 So she told Agnes, and, a little less frankly, 
 told Maurice also, as, after the tea-things had 
 been washed up by the girls, and the fire piled 
 up by the boys, they took their usual evening 
 walk — past the old kirk, and along the burn-side, 
 where the fringing birk-trees were turning 
 yellow, and the rowan-berries a coral red ; up 
 the steep hill-road which led to the nearest 
 point of communication with the civilised world, 
 — a fishing village, where, twice a week in 
 summer, and once in winter, a steamer stopped 
 to take passengers and herrings to Glasgow. 
 
 " I don't think I'll go up to Glasgow to- 
 morrow," said Maurice, suddenly interrupting the 
 line of procession, which now, as in all their 
 walks had latterly happened, was just two and 
 two and two — Maurice and Jessie, Dick and 
 Agnes, Emma and Jane. " Dick, you could get 
 the money at the bank just as well as I could : 
 and bring it back in time for us to pay our rent on 
 the 1st. You shall go ; though I am the eldest,
 
 8 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 I don't see why I should always be the hard- 
 worked man of business of the family. It would 
 be ' awfully * nice, as you say, Jessie, to get two 
 more days on the hills before I go back to 
 college." 
 
 " And why shouldn't I get the benefit of those 
 two days as much as you .'' " said Richard, sul- 
 kily ; — he was more given to sulks, and Maurice 
 to quick, short angers. "You'll not make me 
 go up to Glasgow for you, my lad. I'll be shot 
 if I do." 
 
 " Hush, don't quarrel, it's Sunday," said Jessie, 
 using the first argument which came to hand, 
 though her heart misgave her that it was a feeble 
 one, seeing there was no reason why people should 
 be less good on week-days than on Sundays. 
 But the Sunday evening silence had more influ- 
 ence than her speech, even over these young 
 lads. Hardly any creature above the nature of 
 a boor could fail to be impressed, consciously or 
 unconsciously, by such a lovely, heavenly night, 
 the like of which is now and then seen in the 
 Highlands just before "coarse" weather sets in 
 — a combination of all the beauty of all the 
 seasons — warm and mild as summer, clear as 
 autumn, solemn and soundless as winter. 
 
 Jessie Raeburn, who is a middle-aged woman 
 now, could still describe it, vividly as if it were 
 yesterday, — that lonely hill-road, the sunset fad- 
 ing rosily over the sea on the right hand, and the 
 full moon, with a star above her, climbing in a 
 flood of brightness above the black mountains 
 on the left ; — the two mountain ranges, with
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 9 
 
 the desolate glen lying between them, from 
 which, through the utter silence, rose up the 
 faint far-off ripple of the burn, like the voice of 
 a soul alive in the midst of death. And she 
 remembers, — or whether or not she does, all the 
 rest do, — all save one (and perhaps he does too, 
 in some strange way, belonging to the mysteries 
 which are unfathomable in this world) — how her 
 voice suddenly and involuntarily went up like 
 an arrow of sound through the pellucid air ; 
 in a hymn tune, of course. It was that tune 
 called " French," which in Scotch churches is 
 usually sung, as Jessie sang it now, to the I2ist 
 Psalm : — 
 
 " I to the hills will lift mine eyes, 
 
 From whence doth come mine aid. 
 My safety cometh from the Lord, 
 
 Who heaven and earth hath made. 
 Thy foot he'll not let slide, nor will 
 
 He slumber that thee keeps ; 
 Behold, He that keeps Israel, 
 
 He slumbers not, nor sleeps. 
 
 " The Lord thee keeps, the Lord thy shade 
 " At thy right hand doth stay ; 
 
 The moon by night thee shall not smite, 
 
 Nor yet the sun by day. 
 The Lord shall keep thy soul ; He shall 
 
 Preserve thee from all ill. 
 Henceforth thy going out and in, 
 God keep for ever will. " 
 
 The psalm ended, they all stood motionless ; 
 awed by the unearthly beauty of the scene, and by 
 the involuntary solemnity which creeps over any 
 six persons who have spent a very happy time 
 together, and are now on the eve of parting — 
 with the consciousness which common experience
 
 lo THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 teaches, that it is at least doubtful how, when, and 
 where the whole six may meet — or if they may 
 ever meet together again. 
 
 " We shall soon be going home now," observed 
 Richard in a dolorous voice. 
 
 " I almost wish we were never going home any 
 more," said his brother. 
 
 '' Oh, Maurice ! " cried Agnes, reprovingly. 
 
 " At least not to such a dreary home as ours. 
 But some time," — and the lad, who had hold of 
 cousin Jessie's hand, looked up towards the moon- 
 lit mountain tops with a new expression of manly 
 will and manly hope dawning in his handsome 
 boyish face — '' some time, perhaps, I will make 
 for myself a real happy home." 
 
 Just at that moment they were all startled by 
 one of those sudden meteors common enough on 
 Scottish autumn nights. It blazed out from be- 
 side the moon, quivered over the mountain peak 
 below, and then vanished into blackness just 
 over a pass which the boys had often talked of 
 trying — fancying it would prove a short cut to 
 the fishing village — shorter, perhaps, than this 
 winding road across the wilderness of moorland, 
 rock, and bog. 
 
 " By George, how plain that bit of the hill 
 showed ! I '11 have a try at climbing it to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " You won't, Maurice, my lad," Dick an- 
 swered angrily. " You '11 be far enough off by 
 this time to-morrow." 
 
 " We '11 see," Maurice said, angrily, too. But 
 either he was too happy or too sad to wish to
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. ii 
 
 quarrel : or something else evidently engrossed 
 him, for he walked home without saying a word 
 more. Not even to Jessie. 
 
 Presently they all gathered round the kitchen 
 table for their supper ; their last meal together, 
 for whichever of the brothers went up to Glasgow 
 to-morrow, he would have to rise before daylight, 
 and cross the country by the mountain road to 
 catch the steamer, returning only just in time on 
 Wednesday to pay the rent, and escort the family 
 to the point where the weekly boat would touch 
 next day. Thus, to-night was the real close of 
 this Arcadian life ; they would return to the 
 comforts and discomforts of civilisation : and 
 though all the party tried to be exceedingly 
 jolly — nay, Agnes actually brought out the 
 whisky bottle, and unexceptionable toddy made 
 by Maurice was distributed fairly round, even to 
 the silent and sullen Dick — still there was a 
 cloud over them ; a cloud long remembered and 
 spoken of with awe. 
 
 " Well, boys, do settle the matter : which of 
 you is to go } " said Agnes. 
 
 " Richard," cried Maurice. 
 
 ** Maurice," cried Richard. 
 
 " I '11 make you do it." 
 
 " I '11 be hanged if you will." 
 
 And from words they might have gone still 
 further — even to blows, for their hearts seemed 
 hot within them : had not Jessie laid her little 
 hand on the elder brother's arm. 
 
 " Don't quarrel, — not this night at least, when 
 we have been so happy. Oh, please, don't."
 
 12 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 " Let go of him, Jessie ! " cried Dick, fiercely. 
 '* He's a selfish, domineering, ill-natured brute." 
 
 " Am I ? " said Maurice between his teeth, 
 when he caught sight of Jessie's imploring face. 
 " Hold your tongue, lad. You and I will settle 
 our affairs by-and-by, after the girls have gone 
 to bed. Good night now." 
 
 They said good night all round obediently ; 
 even Agnes, the house-mother and ordinary ruler 
 of the family : for something in Maurice quite 
 startled them : so unusual was his tone of com- 
 mand, as well as self-command. 
 
 " I wonder what has come over the boy } " she 
 said, when the four girls had shut themselves in 
 their bed-room. " How well he kept his temper ! 
 Did he not, Jessie ? And he usually loses it so 
 soon." 
 
 Jessie said nothing. 
 
 Shortly afterwards there came a little tap at 
 the door. 
 
 *^ I want to speak to one of you girls for a 
 moment." 
 
 '' Which of us ? " 
 
 " Cousin Jessie will do." 
 
 And Jessie, who had not begun to undress, but 
 had sat meditatively on her bed, went out, right 
 outside the door into the starlight night, which 
 was the only available place for conversation with 
 Maurice. 
 
 " I want to ask you your opinion, Jessie : and 
 your advice, for I know it will be right, and I '11 
 do whatever you tell me. Ought I to give in to 
 Richard, or not } "
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 13 
 
 " About going to Glasgow to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I don't know," said Jessie, sorely perplexed 
 at being thus elevated into a sort of Mentor, 
 and, more painful still, a judge between the two 
 brothers. " You are the elder, and have a right 
 to get your own way. But, still — nay, Maurice," 
 she added, suddenly, ** I'm not a bit wiser or 
 better than you : don't ask me to decide, for I 
 really cannot." 
 
 " Then I will," said Maurice, and he looked 
 down tenderly into the gentle face. " I won't 
 vex him, for I'm a great deal happier than he, 
 Jessie. I'll go to Glasgow myself" 
 
 And with a thrill at her heart, half of pleasure 
 and pride in Maurice's goodness, and half of pain, 
 Jessie said, " Yes, go." 
 
 " Then good night, for we'll likely never have 
 another night here again." 
 
 " Good night, Maurice. You are very, very 
 good." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 They stood together, these two, girl and boy, 
 little more than children, in the still night under 
 the stars, with the murmur of the sea close below, 
 and the great silent mountains beyond. They 
 hardly understood either one another or their 
 own selves, and yet somehow they did, or one of 
 them learnt the secret afterwards. 
 
 " Oh Jessie, give me a kiss ! Just one ! " 
 Maurice breathed rather than spoke. 
 
 Either she gave it, or he took it — she hardly 
 knew which — but they kissed one another with a
 
 14 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 long silent kiss, as Jessie Raeburn has remem- 
 bered and will remember all her life long. 
 
 " Maurice — good, dear Maurice," she sighed 
 lovingly to herself, as she curled round on her 
 hard but peaceful and happy pillow, " how could 
 Richard say to him one unkind word } " 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Jessie lay awake for a long time, but no omi- 
 nous sound of quarrelling came through the thin 
 wall. She concluded the boys had made it up 
 in the easy way that all squabbles were made up 
 among the young Wyvills, namely, by the mere 
 cessation of strife : contrition or forgiveness being 
 things neither given nor expected in this not 
 over-sensitive or sentimental family. She went 
 to sleep at last with a quiet heart — in which the 
 deep feeling waking into existence was only just 
 enough conscious of itself to diffuse a sense of 
 vague happiness throughout her whole being — 
 the happiness of which there is but one kind, 
 which come it early or late, comes to any human 
 being but once in a lifetime. 
 
 When the girls rose, they found the boys 
 already away ; nor did either Maurice or Richard 
 return to breakfast, which caused some sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " They can't both have gone to Glasgow. It 
 would be very ill-natured of them ; for I want
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 15 
 
 help in ever so many ways. I wonder how they 
 settled the quarrel last night ? " 
 
 " Maurice told me he meant to go," said Jessie, 
 briefly. 
 
 " That's all right ; and most likely Dick has 
 walked with him across the hill, and will be back 
 to dinner." 
 
 So, after a reasonable time they cleared away 
 breakfast, and fell to their packing cheerily, with 
 all the small jests indulged in under such circum- 
 stances by four lively and lightsome girls, who 
 enjoy being busy, and busy all together. In the 
 activity of their work they had quite got over 
 the slight shadow of regret at parting, and were 
 planning new meetings and new pleasures with 
 the hopefulness and elasticity of youth. After- 
 wards, they looked back upon that morning, 
 when they were all so active and gay, so preter- 
 naturally full of laughter and fun, with a kind of 
 shiver, which for years made them pause in the 
 midst of any mirth, as if they heard through it 
 all the soundless footsteps of approaching Fate. 
 
 Their gaiety was only checked, not suppressed, 
 by the arrival of Richard, in not the best of 
 humours. Poor fellow, this time he had some 
 cause, for he had slipped into a rocky crevice, 
 bruised his shoulder, and scarified his knee. 
 
 " It's lucky I didn't hurt myself worse," said 
 he, " for some of those places are confoundedly 
 deep, and so overgrown with heather that one 
 never sees them till one puts one's foot into them. 
 They are regular crevasses, I think, and they are 
 just in that particular bit of the hill- side where
 
 16 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 we have so often intended to go. I've been, 
 girls. I played old Maurice a nice trick, and 
 slipped off before daybreak. So he would be 
 obliged to go to Glasgow. Is he gone } " 
 
 " I suppose so, more shame to you, Dick," said 
 Agnes. 
 
 " He meant to go in any case ; he made up 
 his mind last night," Jessie added. 
 
 " Did he ? Now that was jolly of him," said 
 Dick, cordially. "But he might as well have 
 told me so." 
 
 " Didn't he say anything last night } " 
 
 "Not a word, for I shammed to be asleep. 
 And this morning I left him really asleep, as 
 sound as a church. Well, it was jolly of Maurice, 
 and I'll do him a good turn some day for it." 
 
 So Dick quite recovered his spirits, and in 
 spite of his bruises made himself both useful and 
 agreeable all that day and the next ; even though 
 the coarse weather, of which that heavenly Sun- 
 day was the warning, had fairly set in, and the 
 family were shut up between their two rough 
 apartments, unable even to cross the threshold 
 for blast and storm. Such storm as is only seen 
 in these mountains, where the rain not falls but 
 drives, in absolute sheets of water ; and the wind 
 grows into a perfect whirlwind ; and the burn 
 rises and roars along in a foaming torrent, thick 
 and brown ; and the sea becomes a mass of 
 " white horses," and dashes itself along the once- 
 quiet beach and weedy rocks in a mad mass of 
 waves and spray. It was a slight forewarning 
 of what winter must be here ; and it made the
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 17 
 
 young people feel a little reconciled to the idea 
 of going home. 
 
 "Only fancy being out on the mountains on a 
 night like last night ; " for the storm began about 
 dusk on Monday. " I am glad Maurice starteb 
 so early for the boat, and that you were back 
 early, too, Dick. Fancy, if you had been out 
 till now ! " 
 
 " Pooh, Agnes ! I'd have stood it well enough. 
 The shepherds do. And Fm glad I * did ' that 
 pass after all ; only it's nonsense supposing it's 
 a nearer way to the coast — it's ever so much 
 farther. Nothing so deceiving as miles of heather 
 and bog. A horrid place. Ugh ! but my 
 shoulder is sore yet." 
 
 He occupied a good deal of the girls' time in 
 waiting upon and nursing him, and apparently 
 rather liked their doing it, especially Jessie, who 
 was very sorry for him and very kind to him, as 
 she would have been to any human creature. 
 
 The wild weather lasted all Tuesday, but on 
 Wednesday morning it cleared up into that won- 
 derful brightness of calm which succeeds these 
 equinoctial storms. The packing was finished 
 in great glee, and all preparations made for de- 
 parture, as soon as Maurice should come with 
 the cart that was to convey themselves and their 
 luggage to the little inn where they had agreed 
 to sleep, in order to be ready for the early boat 
 next morning. 
 
 The girls prepared a hasty dinner out of the 
 last of their provisions — had a final " crack " 
 with their landlady, Mrs. MacDiarmid, who was 
 
 I VOL. I. C
 
 i8 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 expecting her "man" home from a week's ab- 
 sence at the fishing — and then they all kept 
 sauntering about rather restlessly, watching along 
 the white line of road for the black speck which 
 ought to be Maurice. They all felt, and said, 
 that they would be quite glad to see him again : 
 in his absence they had found out how pleasant 
 and useful Maurice had been all this month, and 
 how, with his bright cheery face and unfailing 
 good-nature, he was, even though he had his 
 little hot tempers occasionally, a more important 
 element in the family circle than any one had 
 imagined. Agnes owned, with a sigh, that she 
 was half sorry he was going to Cambridge — the 
 father having at last consented to this step. 
 
 " Perhaps it is all the better for him ; but we 
 shall miss him very much at home." 
 
 " Not a bit of it ; you've me," said Richard, 
 sharply. '' And it's he that's the lucky fellow to 
 get away from home, with father so cross, and 
 you girls always bothering/' 
 
 "Oh, Dick!" cried Jessie; and then, "Oh, 
 Agnes ! " as Agnes returned her brother some 
 sharp answer, in the family fashion. After which 
 little outburst the horizon cleared up ; but Jessie 
 would have liked it better had it never clouded, 
 especially just at the leaving of this sweet place, 
 where they had enjoyed themselves so much. 
 She said little, but kept looking wistfully and 
 lovingly ajong the mountain road for that small 
 speck in the distance, which, as tourists were 
 getting rare now, was almost sure to be Maurice ; 
 but he never came. No, — though the afternoon
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 19 
 
 melted into evening, the sun set goldenly in the 
 sea, and the moon rose over the hill-top, in the 
 same spot, and almost as bright and beautiful as 
 on Sunday night — Maurice never came. 
 
 " The steamer could not have put in yester- 
 day ; it often happens so in stormy weather," 
 Jessie said at last, speaking oracularly, as being 
 the most familiar with these parts, and trying to 
 hide a tremor of disappointment that was per- 
 ceptible in her voice. 
 
 " But how shall we find out whether or no ? " 
 Agnes answered. " And it will be very pro- 
 voking if it was so, for we shall have to wait for 
 Maurice another day or more ; and it is too late 
 for Dick to start off and inquire." 
 
 " Dick won't do it, neither," emphatically de- 
 clared that young gentleman. " You must just 
 unpack, and stop here another night. Who 
 cares ? I don't." 
 
 " But about Maurice," suggested Jessie, meekly. 
 " There, look [ somebody is coming down the 
 road." And they all ran forward eagerly. 
 
 But it was only Diarmid McDiarmid, other- 
 wise Diarmid Beg, a small man, with hardly an 
 idea beyond fishing-nets and whisky. By the 
 latter he was considerably overcome just then ; 
 and it was with difficulty they could make him 
 understand what they meant to inquire — namely, 
 whether the boat had stopped at all yesterday, 
 and if either then or on any other day he had 
 seen Maurice. 
 
 " Maybe I did, but I'm no sure. Eh ! my 
 heid's no guid at messages. But bide a wee, 
 
 c 2
 
 ^o THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 leddies." And, with a sudden lucky gleam of 
 recollection, he pulled out of his pouch a scrap 
 of paper, on which was written, in Maurice's own 
 bold scrawl, " Fin off, and I'll be back on Wed- 
 nesday'' 
 
 " He met you, then ? He gave you that note?" 
 
 *' He just did," affirmed Diarmid Beg, but 
 when or where, his memory failed : or drunken- 
 ness had stupified his faculties, so that from him 
 no further information could be by any means 
 elicited. 
 
 There was, therefore, no help for it but to 
 conclude that Maurice had gone to Glasgow on 
 Monday, but that the return boat had not stopped 
 at the fishing village ; so that he had been, as 
 not seldom happens in the Highlands to unlucky 
 autumn or winter passengers, conveyed against 
 his will to some further port, whence he would 
 have, to get back how and when he could. 
 
 " Very provoking ! " Agnes exclaimed ; and 
 they all agreed that, on the whole, civilisation 
 had Its advantages. But they determined to 
 make the best of things, and spent a not very 
 doleful evening, or morning either, — when, sleep 
 having brought Diarmid Beg a little more to 
 '* himsel," they called him into the kitchen, 
 and again questioned him. He now declared 
 that the scrap of paper — which, after being 
 passed eagerly round, was left lying about, till 
 Jessie took it up and put it in her pocket — had 
 been given him by Maurice, whom he had met, 
 somewhere on the hill-side, hurrying to catch the 
 boat.
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 2r 
 
 " And did he catch it ? " 
 
 " Maybe he did, and maybe he didn't," said 
 the cautious Highlander. But afterwards, being 
 hard pressed, and seeing, with the mingled cun- 
 ning and kindliness of his race, how very anxiously 
 the information was desired, giving vent to the 
 universal Celtic imagination, he told a long and 
 consecutive story of how, just before the steamer 
 stopped, there passed him a gentleman who he 
 felt sure was the young master, for he called out 
 to him, " unco ceevil," as Master Maurice always 
 was, " Eh, Diarmid Beg, and hoo are ye the 
 day.?" 
 
 Which story, resting on no foundation at all, 
 or on the slender foundation of two probabilities, 
 perhaps facts, so twisted together as to compose 
 one absolute lie, was eagerly received by the 
 Wyvills : and afterwards repeated and believed 
 with that intensity of belief with which people 
 seize on one only possible clue in the midst of a 
 sea of doubt and misery. 
 
 On this fortunate lie, therefore, the family 
 rested, tolerably at ease, for two days more : 
 when, getting no letter and no message, they 
 decided, in general council, that their wisest plan 
 was to take the Saturday boat up to Glasgow. 
 Something must have happened — perhaps their 
 father was ill, and Maurice had been summoned 
 direct home ; still, they complained bitterly, 
 he might have contrived to send them some 
 line or word, instead of leaving them in this 
 forlorn condition. It was thoughtless — like all 
 boys.
 
 22 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 " Oh! don't blame him, Agnes. Not now ! " 
 pleaded Jessie. 
 
 " Well, I won't," replied the elder sister, who 
 perhaps felt a relief in being cross. Yet it was 
 strange, and seemed stranger still afterwards, 
 how little real anxiety they experienced at first, 
 and how wonderfully they kept up their spirits — 
 these five young people, to whom life had always 
 been so easy, that they scarcely understood what 
 fear or sorrow meant. And a few physical in- 
 conveniences, natural under their forced stay — 
 such as tea without sugar, and no meat to be got 
 for love or money — kept their minds in a state 
 of wholesome irritability and self-compassion, 
 which took away the sense of real dread. 
 
 Only the first shadow of apprehension came 
 over them on Friday ; when, having explained 
 their position to Mrs. McDiarmid, and given 
 Uncle Raeburn's name as security for the unpaid 
 rent, they counted out all their money, and found 
 it barely enough to carry them to their uncle's 
 door at Glasgow. 
 
 " It's very hard, and Maurice knew exactly 
 what a state he was leaving us in. It wasn't 
 Hke him to forget us so," said Agnes, almost 
 crying. " I hope nothing has gone wrong with 
 him — that he is not ill." 
 
 And when, in a somewhat dreary procession, 
 they quitted, with scarce a farewell glance, the 
 pretty cottage, and filed away — some walking, 
 some riding in the cart — along the mountain 
 road, Richard confided to Jessie that he rather 
 feared Maurice was ill, — had perhaps caught a
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 23 
 
 fever — for he shivered several times, and tossed 
 about for a good while after he came to bed on 
 Sunday night. 
 
 " And yet you never spoke to him .'' " 
 
 The boy hung his head. 
 
 " And the last thing you said to him was an 
 unkind word ! " 
 
 " I'll never say another ! " cried Dick, in a 
 passionate burst of compunction. And poor 
 Jessie's sore heart melted to see what deep, 
 honest, brotherly love lay beneath the rough and 
 quarrelsome exterior. " Never again, I promise 
 you, Jessie ! " But, alas ! why had he said it 
 at all ? 
 
 And so they passed on, a very silent little 
 party, along the familiar road, and lost sight, for 
 ever, of the cottage where they had been so 
 happy : the pleasant bay, the singing burn ; and, 
 at last, of the sharply outlined mountains, which 
 kept eternal watch, in shower and sunshine, 
 summer and winter, over the desolate glen. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 When, on a fearfully wet and foggy night — 
 the sort of night which, dreary anywhere, is un- 
 utterably dreary in Glasgow — the five forlorn 
 travellers reached Jessie's home in Blythswood 
 Square, they found that Mr. Raeburn had been 
 five days absent on business in London — and, 
 strange to say, that Maurice Wyvill had never 
 made his appearance at all !
 
 24 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 And he never appeared again. Nothing was 
 heard either of or from him. After that first hour 
 of unspeakable dread, ensued days and weeks 
 of slow suspense and dull misery ; lessened and 
 relieved by accidental gleams of hope, for human 
 nature can only endure a certain amount of pain, 
 either temporarily throwing it off, or sinking 
 under it entirely. For awhile the excitement kept 
 them up somehow ; the perpetual uncertainty, 
 the inquiries started in all directions, with no lack 
 of ingenuity — or money either, for Uncle Rae- 
 burn furnished the latter to an unlimited extent, 
 as close-fisted Scotchmen, when once touched, 
 will often do. And there was the sympathy 
 of friends, nay, even of common acquaintances, 
 roused into friendship by the pitifulness of the 
 story, which circulated far and wide, as such a 
 mysterious and melancholy history was sure to 
 do, bringing to light a number of other stories, 
 which people always hear of when something 
 similar happens to themselves. Common the 
 fact is not, — thank Heaven ! in our civilised 
 community, where " murder will out " however 
 closely hid, and where any strange accident 
 evokes universal publicity, — yet many cases have 
 happened, of individuals suddenly vanishing from 
 the midst of friends and neighbours, with no 
 likely reason for their disappearance, no clue to 
 their possible fate ; slipping out of the whirl of 
 ordinary life as completely as if the earth had 
 opened her mouth and swallowed them up — to 
 be never heard of more. 
 
 Any who have undergone such an agony, will
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 25 
 
 acknowledge that to weep over the saddest 
 death-bed, to sit beside the most untimely grave, 
 — to be smitten as by a thunder-bolt with the 
 tidings, mercifully made certain and sure, of 
 some beloved one passiiig from the measurable 
 distance of a foreign land into the immeasurable, 
 yet, perchance, scarcely further distance of the 
 land unseen, — is actual happiness, compared to 
 the calamity which befell the Wyvills and Rae- 
 burns — including Mr. Wyvill and Mr. Raeburn, 
 the two brothers-in-law, no longer at variance 
 now. 
 
 The blow fell heavy upon each and all, but 
 heaviest upon those who were expected to feel 
 it least — Jessie and Richard. The former took 
 it quietly at first — indeed throughout ; Jessie 
 was always quiet. But the colour faded, slowly 
 and entirely, out of her pretty soft cheek ; her 
 small figure grew thin and spare : she seemed 
 within a few months — nay, a few weeks — to 
 wither up into a little old maid, who might have 
 been any age between twenty and forty. And 
 so she remained — and remains still. 
 
 As for poor Dick, after the first excitement 
 was over, when weeks, months, slipped by, and 
 still Maurice was never heard of, he sank into 
 the depression of utter repentance — say rather 
 remorse, which is repentance with no hope of 
 atonement. The last '' unkind word," which 
 there was no unsaying now, and which perhaps 
 had goaded Maurice on to that Glasgow journey 
 in which, by some unknown means or other, he 
 met his end, rested on the poor boy's memory
 
 26 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 with a morbid weight. He harped upon it con- 
 tinually ; nothing ever seemed to take it out of 
 his mind : he seemed to feel almost as if he, and 
 none but he, had caused the death of his brother. 
 
 As a matter of course, Richard took the place 
 of eldest and only son. There was now no 
 rivalry possible either at home or abroad, no 
 jealousy of Maurice's handsomer face or plea- 
 santer manner, — the inexpressible charm which 
 made him, as is sure to be the case, more loved, 
 because more loveable. All these things were 
 for ever passed away, and Richard would have 
 given worlds to have had his vexations back 
 again in all their bitterness, if he could but have 
 had Maurice also back once more. 
 
 It is good sometimes to be absent — better 
 still, perhaps, to be dead — as regards our own 
 imperfectness, and our equally imperfect friends. 
 How they rise up and praise us for virtues we 
 never possessed, and benignly pardon us for 
 sins we never committed ! How tender over 
 our memories grow those who, living, worried 
 our lives out, and might do the same again if 
 we were alive to-morrow ! Ay, in spite of the 
 poet's touching verse — more touching than true, 
 perhaps — 
 
 " I think, in the lives of most women and men, 
 
 There's a time when all would grow smooth and even, 
 If only the dead could find out when 
 To i-eturn and be forgiven." 
 
 But whether he were dead or not, there was 
 no need to forgive poor Maurice. In his short 
 life of twenty years he had done little harm, and in
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 27 
 
 the shock of his mysterious and terrible fate, any 
 trifling faults he had were totally obscured and ob- 
 literated. He who, had he not been so suddenly 
 and awfully snatched from among them, might 
 have kept his place as an ordinarily good elder 
 brother — full of failings, doubtless, but well-liked 
 on the whole — was now exalted into a family 
 idol. The sisters, who used to snub and scold 
 him — the selfish father, who had neglected, al- 
 most ignored him — the brother, who had quar- 
 relled with him, almost daily, and yet could 
 never get on without him — now mourned for 
 Maurice with an anguish unrestrained, and wor- 
 shipped him with a passionate love, the wilder 
 and sadder that it came too late. 
 
 There never seemed to enter the family mind 
 — ^what crossed strangers' minds, and mouths 
 too, not seldom ; only, with the curious tender- 
 ness that any deep tragedy awakens in even 
 the worldliest half of " the world," nobody ever 
 hinted it to the Wyvills themselves — that the 
 lad might have been himself to blame in his 
 disappearance. That, having fallen under some 
 sudden temptation, he might have committed 
 some ill deed, which made him dread to meet 
 his father's face : or, with the mingled thoug^ht- 
 lessness and selfishness of his age, might have 
 taken a fit of boyish adventure, and shipped 
 himself off somewhere, to America or Australia 
 — ^just for fun. 
 
 Of his being murdered there seemed far less 
 probability, seeing he had little or no money 
 about him. He had never appeared at the
 
 28 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 Glasgow Bank at all ; and it was very unlikely 
 any murder could have been committed, undis- 
 covered, in that city, whither, with a fatal per- 
 sistency, his family were convinced he had gone. 
 They were the more settled in this belief by the 
 additional evidence of the stoker of the Glasgow 
 boat, who being hard pressed with money and 
 whisky remembered having that day noticed 
 a young gentleman — fair-haired and pleasant- 
 spoken — who came and looked down into the 
 engine-room ; as, with an agony of fond recol- 
 lection, they knew Maurice, who had a turn for 
 machinery, was particularly fond of doing. 
 
 So, amidst all their searching, they never 
 searched, or only very superficially, the moun- 
 tains round the cottage, or the spot on the hill- 
 road where Diarmid Beg said he had encoun- 
 tered the lad — of which encounter the fisherman 
 now spoke very charily, believing it to be the 
 youth's fetch and " no himself ava." And 
 when, in the midst of winter — which fell very 
 early that year — the tidings came, slowly as 
 tidings always do come to these remote High- 
 land regions, that the poor young Englishman 
 had never been seen more, Diarmid and his 
 neighbours, slow to take in new ideas, and 
 equally slow to put them together, merely 
 shook their heads with, " Eh, but it's awfu' ! " — 
 " The bonnie lad ! " but made no inquiries of 
 any kind. 
 
 So, in a few weeks more, the mountains 
 wrapped themselves in their grand familiar 
 winter snows, and the storms swept over the
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 29 
 
 little lone cottage on the shore, where the family 
 of the Wyvills had spent that merry month of 
 September. And at last, when hope was dying, 
 almost dead in their hearts — though the girls 
 still resolutely refused to put on mourning — they 
 left Scotland, and went home together to Wyvill 
 Court — without Maurice. 
 
 The strange story of the poor lost lad was 
 talked over all that winter at Glasgow dinner- 
 parties ; and Jessie Raeburn was pointed at in 
 church or in the street — she never went anywhere 
 else — as, " Yon's his cousin — his sweetheart some 
 say." 
 
 But whether she was or was not Maurice's 
 " sweetheart," Jessie never betrayed, and nobody 
 knew. She lived her ordinary life, faithfully 
 doing its duties : attending to her uncle, and 
 keeping his large splendid house in order, neither 
 sinking into bodily illness nor mental depression. 
 Only people noticed — the few people whose 
 society she mixed in — that the hall-bell never 
 rang — the parlour-door never opened — the hand- 
 ful of post-letters never arrived — without Jessie 
 Raeburn's turning with a sudden start and a 
 tremble of expectation — as if even yet, though 
 weeks grew into months, and months into years, 
 she had not given up all hope, but was patiently 
 waiting on for him who never came.
 
 30 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Wyvill Court lay on the western side of 
 one of the most beautiful of the beautiful York- 
 shire dales. It was a comparatively small estate, 
 and the mansion was likewise small ; built of the 
 grey stone of the district, plain and old-fashioned 
 within and without. For the Wyvills had been 
 one of those ancient impoverished Roman Ca- 
 tholic families which are still found, here and 
 there, in the wilds of the north country ; poor 
 and proud ; clinging tenaciously to their ancestral 
 faith, until the last owner, in giving up Catho- 
 licism, had sunk into that pitiful moral and 
 mental condition only too common in the be- 
 ginning of the present century, satirically called 
 Nothingarianism. 
 
 But he was dead now, the grim, eccentric, 
 selfish old man, who had broken his wife's heart, 
 and never won, nor attempted to win, in the 
 smallest degree, the hearts of his children. Yet, 
 strange as it may appear, he was unable to re- 
 cover the blow to his pride, — it could hardly be 
 his affections, — given by the disappearance or 
 death, whichever people chose to call it, of his 
 eldest son. 
 
 For Maurice Wyvill never came home. From 
 that fatal 30th of September, when he was seen, 
 as stated by Diarmid McDiarmid, hurrying to 
 meet the Glasgow boat, no light had been thrown 
 upon his mysterious fate. He was searched
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 31 
 
 for everywhere : advertised for, periodically, in 
 England, Scotland, and even the colonies : re- 
 wards large enough to have tempted any man, 
 not his actual murderer, were offered for any 
 information regarding him, living or dead ; but 
 all in vain. 
 
 When, after a lapse of four years, the father 
 died, many difficulties arose. Wyvill Court was 
 strictly entailed, and until clear evidence could 
 be obtained of the death of the eldest son, the 
 younger could inherit nothing. It was only by 
 some ingenious legal arrangements, made to suit 
 the emergencies of this novel and most painful 
 case, and in the hope that Maurice, should he 
 ever reappear, would act with the generosity 
 which had been his characteristic when a boy, that 
 Richard was installed temporary master at Wyvill 
 Court, and lived there with his three sisters upon 
 the small income that was available. For Mr. 
 Wyvill, like many other selfish men, had com- 
 plicated all troubles by dying intestate, and the 
 girls were wholly dependent upon the heir. So 
 poor Dick, heir and yet not heir, cramped on all 
 hands by innumerable perplexities, could only 
 live on sufferance at his ancestral home, unable 
 to take legal possession of it himself, and, worst 
 of all, unable to adorn it, as his forefathers had 
 always been eager to do, with a wife. For early 
 marriages had long been the hereditary blessing, 
 as the last late marriage had been the misfortune, 
 of the Wyvill family. 
 
 Whether Richard wanted to marry or not, he 
 never informed anybody. Since his brother's loss,
 
 32 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 his natural reserve had increased to an ahnost 
 morbid extent. He attempted no profession : 
 perhaps he had the sense to feel he was not 
 clever enough to succeed therein, and trade was 
 impossible to a Wyvill. So both during his father's 
 lifetime and afterwards, he '* hung about " at 
 home, shooting, fishing, or dabbling in agricul- 
 ture, to which, if he had any bias at all, his taste 
 inclined : he was a born country gentleman. 
 
 Almost his only absences from home were 
 periodical visits, at long intervals, to Glasgow ; 
 but he never asked his sisters to accompany him, 
 and was as incommunicative about his uncle and 
 cousin, with whom he was supposed to stay, as 
 he was about most other things. He was not 
 a pleasant young man, and there seemed some 
 curious twist in his nature, growing more per- 
 ceptible every year, which made his sisters, while 
 they respected him sincerely, find it difficult to 
 love him. At least, with that warmth of love 
 which they had felt, or now believed they had, 
 towards his elder brother. 
 
 A chapter since I said, and not untruly, that 
 it is, good sometimes to be absent — better still to 
 be dead. That is, for the absent and the dead : 
 but also, in a mysterious secondary sense, for 
 the survivors. Many a man's death earns for 
 him far more love, and exercises a far wider in- 
 fluence for good, than his life might have done. 
 Ever since Maurice's — death they still refused to 
 call it, but his departure, the memory of him, 
 and the anguish of his loss, had brought into his 
 family a warmer, kindlier, softer atmosphere :
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 33 
 
 more patience, more forbearance ; more clinging 
 together, as if they felt the slenderness of the 
 links that bound them to one another, and 
 walked always in the solemn shadow of that 
 death which overhangs all mortal life ; though, 
 alas ! we are so prone to forget it ; so prone to 
 live as though we were never to die. 
 
 The girls had been good girls to their old 
 father until his death : they had nothing to re- 
 proach themselves with on that score : and when 
 Jessie Raeburn had to follow their example, and 
 devote herself exclusively and engrossingly to 
 her old uncle, they did not reproach her, even 
 though it prevented what, in the absence of all 
 intimate female friends, they v/ould very well 
 have liked — visits to her at Glasgow, or her 
 visits to them at Wyvill Court. There was 
 scarcely an obvious reason for the fact — yet a 
 fact it was, — that ever since that Highland 
 journey with its terrible ending, Jessie and her 
 cousins (excepting Richard) had never once 
 met : — and now little Jessie was Miss Raeburn 
 of Blythswood Square and Woodhouselea ; 
 heiress to Uncle Raeburn's uncounted wealth, 
 which, by some crotchet which no one either 
 blamed or much wondered at, he had be- 
 queathed to her, and her alone. 
 
 Her cousins, though they might have been a 
 little disappointed, since they stood in exactly 
 the same relationship to him, legally speaking, 
 as herself, behaved very well. The Wyvill pride 
 accepted its position, and was too proud to feel 
 or to express envy, or to shrink from Jessie 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 because she was rich and independent. They, 
 poor girls, had scarcely wherewithal to clothe 
 themselves, or to keep up anything like the 
 decent dignity expected from the Miss Wyvills 
 of Wyvill Court ; still less, to suppose that any 
 one in their own rank of life would marry them 
 — though Emma and Jane were both handsome 
 girls ; but young men of the present day have 
 sometimes an eye to money, even in primitive 
 Yorkshire dales. 
 
 At last, a poor young parson came, who loved 
 Emma, poor as she also was : and then the high 
 spirit of Richard Wyvill, ay, and of Agnes too 
 — the unselfish and motherly Agnes — writhed 
 under new vexations. No settlements could be 
 made ; for who was to make them ? So closely 
 was the estate tied up — waiting the possible re- 
 appearance of the heir, (or his heirs ; for who 
 knew but that some son of Maurice's might 
 one day make claim to the property i^) — that it 
 was with difficulty enough money could be got 
 at to ensure a decent marriage outfit to the 
 daughter of the Wyvills of Wyvill Court. 
 Emma could hardly have been married at all, 
 had not Jessie Raeburn stepped forward and 
 claimed her cousinly right liberally to portion 
 the bride ; doing it so sweetly, so delicately, that 
 even Richard had not the heart to stand in the 
 way. Possibly his own heart felt how cruel the 
 position was, and responded to the earnest 
 manner in which Jessie put the matter in her 
 letter, which enclosed a cheque for several hun- 
 dreds, addressed to Emma, in an envelope
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. ^5 
 
 containing merely the well-known lines from 
 Burns : — 
 
 ' ' O why should Fate sic pleasure have 
 Life's dearest bands untwining? 
 Or why sae sweet a flower as Love 
 Depend on Fortune's shining ? " 
 
 And so, Emma's marriage was made possible 
 and easy, and it was on the occasion of it, to 
 witness the happiness she had caused, that, after 
 long years, Jessie revisited Wyvill Court. 
 
 Spring was creeping greenly over the bleak 
 Yorkshire dale, and, in spite of the Avild equi- 
 noctial winds, primroses were peeping out round 
 the roots of the old oaks, and forget-me-nots 
 blossoming in hundreds by the river, — the bright, 
 daring, rapid river, whose course could be tracked 
 along the dale for miles and miles, — when Jessie 
 came, a woman of seven-and-twenty, to the 
 house where she had last been as a mere child, 
 patronised by the girls, and domineered over by 
 the two boys. And with that uncomfortableness 
 of expectation with which people who know 
 themselves changed, and expect equal change 
 in others, prepare for a meeting long delayed, 
 desiring it, and yet wishing it well over — did 
 Agnes, Emma, and Jane Wyvill stand watching 
 for the carriage in which their brother was bring- 
 ing Jessie Raeburn to the old familiar place. It 
 was visible at last, crawling up the steep road ; 
 and then a little figure, all in black, alighted, 
 and toiled, Richard following though not assist- 
 ing her, up the weary half mile : but still the 
 sisters were too nervous to run forward, or 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 do anything but quietly wait for Jessie's 
 approach. 
 
 " I wonder if she is altered ? " 
 
 "Dick says, not much," observed Emma. 
 " Dick likes her very much, I am sure ; he 
 always did. So did dear Maurice." 
 
 " Ah ! yes, and she was very fond of Maurice." 
 
 " I wonder," remarked Emma again, with an 
 acuteness doubtless born of her own happy lot, 
 "wdiether Richard would like to marry Jessie. 
 It has struck me so sometimes. And it would 
 not be a bad thing either." 
 
 " Don't speak of it," said Agnes angrily, — 
 Agnes, in whom the sore circumstances of the 
 family had sharpened and exaggerated a strong 
 inbred pride. " What, she with all her money, 
 and he with not a penny ! He could not do 
 it. If you ever hint at such folly, I shall wish 
 we had never invited her here." 
 
 " I shouldn't call it folly, if he loved her, and 
 she loved him," cried Emma, spurred on to 
 honest warmth by the thought of her own faith- 
 ful and honest lover. " But, anyhow, I'll hold 
 my tongue." 
 
 And then the traveller came close in sight, 
 and the three ran out to meet her, — the same 
 Jessie who had kept house with them in that 
 merry Highland, cottage — wandered with them 
 over mountain and moor — shared with them in 
 that terrible home-coming, and in the weeks of 
 agonised search for him who was never found : 
 Jessie, so little changed that at sight of her face 
 the old time came over them like a flood, and
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 37 
 
 they all wept together — those three almost 
 middle-aged women, as if they had been girls 
 still, and all had happened but yesterday. 
 
 However, such emotion could not be very 
 lasting : and after a few hours they put aside the 
 unalterable past, and settled down into their 
 present selves. Soon, pleasant daily interests 
 seemed to obliterate those so painful to dwell 
 on. Emma was married — gaily, grandly : and 
 after that, for a week or two longer, Jessie stayed 
 on ; — she seeming happy with them, and they 
 trying their best to make agreeable to her the 
 old-fashioned dreariness of Wyvill Court. Still, 
 for some things it was a trying visit. When 
 friends or kindred have been parted for seven 
 years — moving meanwhile in totally different 
 spheres, and engrossed with totally distinct in- 
 terests — a division, wider than either years or 
 distance could effect, often comes between them. 
 In vain the cousins rambled together through 
 the Wyvill woods : gathered primroses and 
 hyacinths, and tried to fancy themselves girls 
 again — it would not do. Life's onvv^ard footstep 
 has no returning. A new life may come — far 
 higher than the past — richer, fuller, more heart- 
 sufficing : but the old life comes never again. 
 
 It was almost a relief when — rather suddenly 
 at last — Jessie said she must go home, and 
 went : parting from the girls very affectionately : 
 but still making no plans for another meeting — 
 at least not immediately. When she was gone, 
 Richard, who had throughout her whole visit 
 kept himself rather uncomfortably aloof from
 
 38 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 her and his sisters, sank into more than his usual 
 reserve and taciturnity. 
 
 One marriage often results in more ; and before 
 the summer ended, the young parson's best- 
 man — an Oxford tutor, who had been very agree- 
 able at the wedding — came back and courted 
 the pretty bridesmaid Jane. Again cousin 
 Jessie insisted on making her wealth common 
 property, and portioning the other sister — " ex- 
 actly as Maurice would have done if he were 
 here." So she expressed it in her letter, and 
 repeated afterwards when she came to Wyvill 
 Court. But her visit this time was brief, em- 
 bracing only the marriage-day and the day after. 
 She said her " engagements " prevented her 
 longer stay. And after the first day, Agnes 
 ceased to urge it. With all her sweetness^ there 
 was about Miss Raeburn a degree of firmness, 
 ill-natured people might say independence, of 
 character, which made it perfectly clear that she 
 had, in small things and great, the power of 
 making up her own mind, and keeping to it. 
 Besides, Agnes sometimes stealthily watched her 
 brother Richard ; his hard, set face ; his nervous, 
 restless manner — and without any further press- 
 ing, she let Jessie Raeburn go. 
 
 It was the night after she was gone^the first 
 night the brother and sister had ever spent toge- 
 ther, they two alone — that Agnes first ventured, 
 tremblingly, upon a subject which had caused 
 her anxious thought for a long while. She did 
 so with much hesitation — being a good deal 
 afraid of it, and of Richard : but anything was
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 39 
 
 better than suspense. Besides, lately, with her 
 sharpened experience, she had felt so certain of 
 one thing — nay, of two things, cruelly conflicting 
 with one another, and neutralising any possibility 
 of a happy future, or of matters going on much 
 longer in the way they stood now — that she 
 felt it her absolute duty, to try and speak out 
 plainly to her brother, so as to discover his real 
 mind. 
 
 "Jessie will have about reached Glasgow by 
 this time." 
 
 " Yes," said Richard, without looking up from 
 his book. 
 
 " She seems extremely well and cheerful ; and 
 how young she looked in her bridesmaid's dress 
 — almost pretty. Didn't you think so ? " 
 
 " Yes," reiterated the young man ; and vouch- 
 safed no more conversation. 
 
 "Richard," said Agnes, repressing a wild 
 spasm at her heart, " I have been thinking — I 
 hope your marriage will be the next in the 
 family. If you could find some nice pretty girl, 
 in your own position : neither too rich nor too 
 poor — (though I would rather she were poor 
 than rich : it would be dreadful if anybody were 
 to say a Wyvill married for money) — I should 
 be glad, extremely glad, to give up my place 
 here, and see the family name kept up, the 
 family happiness complete." 
 
 Agnes faltered — stopped ; her heart was full. 
 Richard replied not a word. 
 
 " I think it is time you married, Richard ; I 
 do really. Hitherto I know you could not afford
 
 40 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 it ; but now there is only me to support, and I 
 shall cost you very little ; I can live anywhere. 
 I would almost rather work and maintain my- 
 self : it would be dreadful to me to think I was 
 hindering my brother from marrying. And if 
 you did marry, you would be perfectly safe, 
 even if Maurice came back. And oh ! Dick, I 
 would so like you to be happy." 
 
 She went over to him and put her arms 
 around his neck, and then all poor Richard's 
 reserve broke down. 
 
 He told his sister — to her unutterable pain, 
 grief, almost indignation — ay, even though she 
 had guessed it before, but it looked so much 
 blacker when condensed by his own confession 
 from a cloudy conjecture into an absolute fact — 
 that the only woman in the world who could 
 make him happy was Jessie Raeburn. 
 
 " I have been fond of her all my life, and yet 
 I couldn't ask her. Her horrible money ! — five 
 thousand a year I think it is. Agnes, I couldn't, 
 you know." 
 
 " It is well you did not," said Agnes, sharply 
 and sternly ; " for she would never have married 
 you. I am quite sure of that." 
 
 ^' Why not ? " cried Dick, who was the sort of 
 man that contradiction ahvays rouses into re- 
 sistance. 
 
 '■ I don't know — do not look at me so, for 
 indeed I don't ; and yet I feel quite sure of it. 
 You will never get her." 
 
 "I'll try!" said Richard hoarsely ; and began 
 marching up and down the long, low, dark,
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 41 
 
 oak-panelled room, in stronger emotion than 
 Agnes had ever seen in him since the day of 
 his brother's loss. " Upon my life and soul, 
 I'll try ! " 
 
 And nothing would persuade him otherwise. 
 Agnes talked till near midnight — first persua- 
 sively, then contemptuously, then angrily — for 
 her pride was up that any Wyvill, any brother 
 of hers, should ask and be refused, as she felt 
 certain would be the case ; but Richard was 
 utterly unmoved. He was determined to start 
 for Glasgow the next morning. 
 
 " And if you do, you are a fool — a mean- 
 spirited, mercenary fool." 
 
 Richard's eyes blazed. " And, Agnes, do you 
 know what you are ^ A selfish, mischief-making 
 woman. I zuill go ! though you and I should 
 never see one another's face again." 
 
 With that word he left her, and returned not 
 though Agnes sat waiting a whole hour, and 
 then crept up to her bedroom in an agony of 
 tears. 
 
 " Oh, Maurice, Maurice ! " she sobbed ; and 
 the bright, frank, boyish face of her lost brother 
 came back through the clouds of many years fresh 
 upon her tenacious memory, contrasting with the 
 face of the brother who remained, in the hard- 
 ness of unwontedly hard manhood. " If Maurice 
 were only here ! " — He might have been : and 
 nearer to her than she knew. 
 
 Shortly, a light knock came to her door, and 
 Richard stood there, with all his fury gone, 
 changed and softened to a degree that seemed
 
 42 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 almost miraculous, as if some spiritual influence 
 had come about him to make him tender and 
 good. 
 
 "Agnes, I thought I Avould come to say 
 good-night to you. There are only us two left 
 now ; don't let us quarrel. I must go to 
 Glasgow to-morrow — and know my fate one 
 way or another. But don't send me away in 
 anger ; don't let us part as I once parted from 
 poor Maurice — with an unkind word." 
 
 " Oh, Richard ! I didn't mean it. Forgive 
 me." And she hung upon his shoulder as she 
 had never done before in all her days. " Do 
 just as you like, and may God prosper and 
 bless you." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Miss Raeburn was sitting alone in the very 
 handsome drawing-room of her very handsome 
 house in Blythswood Square. It was dark, and 
 the fire-light danced on her black velvet dress — 
 she almost alv/ays wore black : ill-natured people 
 said, because it made her look so " interesting." 
 But these remarks were always made behind 
 her back ; and people well knew she would not 
 have cared one straw, or altered either her mind 
 or her costume one whit, even had she heard 
 them. She had that self-possessed dignity 
 which is indifferent to public opinion, especially 
 on trivial and personal matters, where indeed
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 43 
 
 public opinion has no right to interfere at all. 
 She went on her way calmly : accustomed from 
 her teens to be sole mistress in her uncle's 
 house, where she had now quietly become in- 
 dependent mistress of her own. 
 
 Young as she was, she had settled at once 
 into the busy responsible life of a woman of 
 property, who had evidently no intention of 
 changing her condition by marriage. To the 
 natural influence of wealth she added a personal 
 influence very considerable, though exercised in 
 a sweet and womanly way. All Glasgow knew 
 her name well ; — in charity, in society, in every 
 good and generous work. Miss Raeburn was 
 always sought for, and always easy to find. 
 And it would be idle to say she did not enjoy 
 her position ; — she did. A lonely woman must 
 fill her heart and her time with something : 
 Jessie accepted the lot which Providence had 
 assigned to her, and made the best of it; bravely 
 and cheerfully. It had its pleasures. She loved 
 her independence, her power of doing good 
 unquestioned and uncontrolled. Without being 
 in the least ungentle or unlovely, she was 
 already, in a degree, " old-maidish " — that is, she 
 had sufficient strength of character to stand 
 alone. Though barely eight-and-twenty, it never 
 seemed to enter into her own head or that of 
 any other that she needed either protection or 
 guidance. She lived alone, and visited alone, 
 without any one's thinking the fact remarkable. 
 She was just Miss Raeburn, of Blythswood 
 Square and Woodhouselea ; and the idea of
 
 44 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 her ever becoming Mrs. Anybody seemed most 
 improbable. 
 
 She was waiting for her carriage to be an- 
 nounced, reading by a small lamp the daily 
 newspaper : until, her eye being caught by the 
 date of it, she laid it down abruptly, and re- 
 mained with her head sunk between her hands, 
 gazing mournfully into the fire. No wonder, 
 for this day was an anniversary : the first of 
 October : seven years since that first of October 
 when she and her cousins had stood watching 
 for Maurice along the mountain-road, and he 
 never came. 
 
 " Seven years." She repeated the words, and 
 then bent down, clasping her hands and stooping 
 her head upon them ; low down, as people are 
 prone to do when some heavy wave of misery or 
 sharp recollection breaks over them. " Oh my 
 darling, my darling ! " 
 
 Not a word more, nor a sob. Years had 
 smoothed down and softened all things, except 
 the love which was absolute, sole, and undying. 
 Some women have had such loves, quenched so 
 far as earthly fulfilment goes, in earliest girl- 
 hood : yet surviving in another form to the very 
 close of life — consecrated by death, or confirmed 
 by total separation into a bond which, in the 
 absence of any other, becomes as strong almost 
 as marriage, being in truth the real marriage of 
 the soul. 
 
 It might have been a great mistake — many 
 wise, good, and loving persons may consider it 
 so — that any woman should thus waste her life
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 45 
 
 upon a mere dream : which, if she could have 
 ended it, were far best ended and forgotten. 
 Yet people are but as they are made : and Jessie 
 could no more have resigned her worshipped 
 ideal of what Maurice was, and what he might 
 have become, to sink to the reality of any of 
 the excellent Glasgow gentlemen whom she was 
 in the habit of meeting ; could no more have 
 exchanged that first and last love-kiss — young, 
 passionate, mutual love — for the touch of any 
 mortal lips, than a maid betrothed with all her 
 heart to one man could ever put another man's 
 ring on her finger, or pass as a bride into an- 
 other man's home. It v/as not merely unnatural : 
 it was impossible. 
 
 Yet no one could call Jessie Raeburn an un- 
 happy or disappointed woman. Hers was no 
 unrequited, misplaced, or unworthy attachment : 
 from first to last it had been wholly sacred and 
 wholly her own. Not one pang of bitterness, or 
 remorse, or humiliation had mingled with its 
 sorrow. Hardly like a regret, though full of the 
 tenderest, most passionate remembrance, were 
 the words, " My darling, my darling ! " And 
 then the momentary outburst passed : she sat, 
 quietly and meditatively, waiting for the hour 
 when she had to fulfil her evening engagement. 
 For she did fulfil it — even on this anniversary- 
 night. She kept her anniversaries to herself 
 alone. She did not shut herself out of the 
 world, but moved therein — playing her part 
 well — yet letting the world peer neither 
 smilingly nor pityingly into her inner life,
 
 46 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 which was, and ever had been, exclusively her 
 own. 
 
 When the door opened. Miss Raeburn rose, 
 gathering her rich Indian shawl round her, and 
 moving in her usual composed graceful way 
 across the floor, thinking it was the announce- 
 ment of her carriage. But it was a visitor, so 
 unexpected that she quite started at the sight 
 of him — pale, travel-stained, and agitated Richard 
 Wyvill. 
 
 He fixed his eyes upon the little figure before 
 him — the velvet gown, the dainty lace, the glit- 
 tering diamonds ; it had been uncle Raeburn's 
 delight to load his niece with diamonds. And 
 Richard said, in his roughest manner, " Don't 
 let me intrude. You were going out to dinner.'^" 
 
 " I was, but — oh cousin ! " And a sudden 
 agony of expectation, not dulled after even all 
 these expectant years, thrilled through her. 
 " Something has happened .^ What news do 
 you bring .'* " 
 
 " I bring no news at all — nothing better nor 
 worse than myself," said he, bitterly. " And, if 
 you like, I will go away directly." 
 
 " No, no, I could not think of such a thing," 
 she replied, with her hand upon the bell. But 
 on second thoughts she went and gave her 
 orders herself, thus allowing Richard time to 
 recover from his ill mood, and giving a brief 
 minute of solitude to herself. For, with a strange 
 recurrence to the ever-abiding thought which 
 under-ran all her life, she had fancied, oh, wild 
 hope ! that Richard's sudden appearance might
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 47 
 
 be caused by tidings of Maurice. No, no ! 
 Again, for the thousandth time, the vain hope 
 faded, and she said to herself : " It is the will 
 of God." 
 
 Ay, it was. Never in our own way, but in 
 His own way, does the Master grant us our 
 heart's desire : and yet still we must '' rest in 
 the Lord." 
 
 In a few minutes Jessie came back to the 
 drawing-room, cheerful and bright, the white 
 gloves and the shawl removed, though the dia- 
 monds still glittered on her neck and in her 
 hair. 
 
 " Well, Richard, I don't get a cousin to visit 
 me every day, and so I have sent an apology to 
 the dinner-party ; and you and I shall dine 
 together at home in peace and quietness." 
 
 " Thank you. It is very good of you," said 
 Richard, his irritability soothed in spite of him- 
 self by her frank familiar air, though it caused 
 his heart to sink within him. What if that 
 sweet familiarity boded affection only — the affec- 
 tion which shuts out love ? What if his sister 
 should prove right after all ^ 
 
 Still, a kind of dogged determination impelled 
 the young man to remain and carry out his 
 intention : to face the worst ; which could not 
 be worse than much he had already suffered. 
 But it was hours before he could find courage to 
 say a word beyond the common-place family 
 talk, the habit of the cousins through so many 
 years. Jessie at last brought her fate upon her- 
 self by the sudden and very natural question —
 
 48 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 "And now, Richard, tell me why you came 
 so unexpectedly to Glasgow ? " 
 
 The moment she had said this, she felt her 
 mistake ; felt that the crisis, which, with a 
 generous woman's delicate ingenuity, she had 
 contrived to stave off so long, had arrived. She 
 could no longer save either her lover or herself 
 from the half-dozen desperate words, which, 
 alas ! would break the pleasant bond of a life- 
 time. For after this, poor Richard never could 
 be her friend and cousin any more. 
 
 The pang of rejected love is nothing new. 
 Most women have had to inflict it, and most 
 men to suffer it, at least once in their lives. It 
 does to neither any incurable harm — that is, 
 when the misfortune is simply a fatality. Only 
 when a woman has wilfully led a man on to 
 love her, and denied him — or when he has 
 swamped his honest dignity of honourable man- 
 hood in the ungovernable anguish of baulked 
 desire — need there be any irremediable bitterness 
 in such a trial. But in either of these cases 
 both v/ill surely reap their own punishment — 
 a very sore one : and they deserve it. 
 
 Before Richard had half got out his words, he 
 read his doom in Jessie's eyes. Yet they were 
 very tender eyes — less compassionate than 
 mutely entreating forgiveness, as ^if she herself 
 must surely have done something wrong. But 
 there was no doubt in them — none of that 
 wavering uncertainty which in this, as in all 
 other things, has destroyed so many a soul. 
 She was perfectly sure of her own mind. She
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 49 
 
 liked him, but she did not love him ; and she 
 made him plainly see it, as she had done from 
 the very first. He acknowledged that himself. 
 So, almost before they quite knew what had 
 been said, or answered, the whole thing was 
 over — entirely over and done. 
 
 Richard Wyvill was not a pleasant fellow — 
 neither attractive in society, nor very loveable 
 in family life ; but he was an honest fellow for 
 all that. Deep at the core of his rough York- 
 shire nature lay a keen sense of honour, a sound 
 stability and faithfulness, which every one be- 
 longing to him was forced to appreciate. Jessie 
 did, to the full. And now that his bitter secret 
 was out, the young man, in spite of all his disap- 
 pointment, felt unconsciously relieved. Though 
 Jessie had refused his love, she had not wounded 
 his pride. He saw that he was not degraded in 
 her eyes ; nay, more, that with a tenderness 
 second only to the tenderness of love returned, 
 did she regard the faithful attachment which had 
 followed her, unspoken, for so many years. 
 
 As to the money question, Richard's sore- 
 ness on this head was for ever healed. He felt 
 instinctively that Jessie rejected him simply and 
 solely because she did not love him ; that, had 
 she loved him, she would have thrown her paltry 
 thousands at his feet, saying, "These are no- 
 thing, — less than nothing, — but I myself am 
 worth a little, I think ; take mer 
 
 So, strange as it may appear, though he had 
 just staked and lost what he then thought to be 
 the one happiness of his life, the young man was 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 not altogether miserable ; for he still could 
 respect both himself and the woman who had 
 refused him. He neither dashed his hand to 
 his brow and fled, nor fell on his knees in frantic 
 entreaty, nor stamped about in anger, nor did 
 any of the foolish things that young fellows 
 are supposed to do under similar circumstances ; 
 he kept his place, like an honest man ; who 
 has given the best thing a man can give — his 
 heart's love ; which, though not accepted, had 
 been neither mocked, nor trifled with, nor 
 despised. 
 
 He was just considering whether he ought not 
 now to depart, when a sei-vant entered the draw- 
 ing-room with a message. A man — *' a Hie- 
 lander — a wee bit camsteary-looking mannie — 
 was wishing a word with the mistress." 
 
 " At this hour ? What can he want ? " said 
 Miss Raeburn, surprised. 
 
 " Shall I go down and see } " asked Richard, 
 perhaps a little glad to resume some shadow of 
 the former familiar cousinly ways. 
 
 " Thank you," Jessie answered, glad too. 
 
 ** He says he'll no speak to onybody but the 
 mistress," interposed the old butler, who looked 
 rather strange and perplexed. 
 
 " Then show him up here. My cousin and I 
 will see him together." 
 
 The man entered, and hung at the drawing- 
 room door, staring about him with bleary eyes ; 
 and when Richard asked him his name, he an- 
 swered, somewhat hesitatingly, that he was 
 " Diarmid M'Diarmid — Diarmid Beg, yc ken."
 
 THE UNKIND WORD". 51 
 
 '' Indeed ' I don't," Richard was answering 
 sharply, when he saw Jessie spring forward. 
 
 " The man — you remember — ^Whom Maurice 
 
 met, who was the last person that saw Maurice." 
 
 "Ay, my leddy^ — just mysel'. And it's aboot 
 
 him I come — the puir laddie» Ye'U no hae 
 
 heard onything .? " 
 
 Richard glanced at Jessie, who stood listening 
 with lips apart, and hands locked together, white 
 and rigid as stone. At once, by a sort of reve- 
 lation, he knew why she had never loved him. 
 
 For an Instant his human nature recoiled In 
 inexpressible bitterness ; then the nobler half of 
 the man conquered. To find his rival in his 
 brother — his own dearly-beloved and passion- 
 ately regretted brother — It was a heavy blow : 
 but he would bear It. Ay, even though Maurice 
 came back and won her. 
 
 ''What about my brother — is he alive .^" 
 " Truly I canna weel say," replied the High- 
 lander, " but, I fear me, na. Do ye no ken this, 
 sir.?-" / 
 
 And Diarmid unfolded from out his plaid, 
 slowly, like a fearsome thing that he was half 
 afraid to handle, something — it was not easy at 
 first to detect what, so covered was it with 
 mildew, and damp, and moss. But on closer 
 inspection the cousins recognised It as being a 
 strong tin case, fastening with a spring, which 
 Maurice had had made to contain his botanical 
 or entomological specimens : he was very fond 
 of collecting both. Outside, on a silver plate, 
 he had had engraved — and it was legible still — 
 
 E 2 
 
 UBwynr — 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF IlLmOU
 
 52 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 his name and address : — " Maurice Wyvill, 
 WyvIU Court, Yorkshire." 
 
 ** Where did you find that? • Tell us quickly!" 
 cried Richard. 
 
 And then M'Diarmid explained — not quickly, 
 but they understood him somehow — that a few 
 days since he had been belated on the moun- 
 tains, in a spot that was seldom traversed — not 
 once in several years, being very dangerous on 
 account of the numerous holes, fissures in the 
 rocks, narrow chasms so overhung with heather 
 that a man might easily step upon it, and be 
 plunged in a moment to the depths below. He, 
 Diarmid, had done this — only, with the Provi- 
 dence which they say guards drunkards and 
 young children, he had managed to crawl out, 
 bruised and hurt, but still alive. 
 
 "It was just the Lord's mercy that I wasna* 
 kilt, like mony a better man ; for at the bottom 
 I found this, ye ken" — and he pointed to the 
 tin case. 
 
 " Anything else ? " asked Richard, in a low, 
 awe-struck voice. 
 
 *' Banes. Just a wheen banes." 
 
 ****** 
 
 So the mystery was cleared up at last ; and 
 they knew that in this world they would never 
 see Maurice more. 
 
 Jessie and Richard clasped hands and looked 
 at one another, wistfully and long. Then both 
 — the man as well as the woman — lifted up their 
 voices and wept. 
 
 After a little while Richard sent Diarmid away
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. S3 
 
 down-stairs, made Jessie sit down, and, kneeling 
 beside her, opened, in the way they both well 
 remembered, the concealed spring. Inside the 
 case, and from its substantial workmanship most 
 wonderfully preserved, was a little book, which 
 must have been placed there — Maurice must 
 have placed it himself, in the interval between 
 his fall and his dissolution, — as the slender and 
 only chance he had of ever conveying informa- 
 tion of who he was, or how he died. For, it 
 proved to be a psalm-book of Jessie's, which 
 Jessie well remembered his carrying from church 
 for her that Sunday, and never giving her back. 
 One of the mouldy leaves was still turned down 
 at the 1 2 1st Psalm : — 
 
 " I to the hills will lift mine eyes." 
 
 He had remembered them, then, in his last 
 hour, and left this token for them, in the only 
 way he could think of He, unto whom had 
 come no ''aid" ; whom '' He that keeps Israel" 
 had 7Wit kept, but who, in the awful m.ystery 
 of Omnipotent will, had been suffered to perish 
 here alone — the handsome, happy, loving, and 
 beloved lad — to be found, after an interval of 
 seven years, as " a wheen banes." 
 
 Jessie sat dumb, mechanically repeating to 
 herself the words of the psalm, which seemed 
 at first such a ghastly mockery. But slowly, 
 with that agony of belief which forces itself 
 upon the heart, not the reason, at an hour like 
 .this, when all the anchors of faith seem torn up,
 
 54 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 and the soul is ready to drift out blindly upon 
 a Godless sea, there came into her an almost 
 miraculous comfort — the same which her Mau- 
 rice might also have had, dying forlorn and 
 alone on the mountain side. 
 
 And the more she dwelt upon it, the clearer 
 this comfort grew. If during the few minutes 
 or hours — thank God, they could not have been 
 many ! — that elapsed before consciousness left 
 him, Maurice had put the book inside the case, 
 which might preserve it for years, he must, even 
 in his last moments, have had strength and com- 
 posure enough to remember them all at home — 
 Jessie especially — and thus send them, as it were, 
 a loving message ere he died. And so he had 
 died in a manner not unworthy of their Maurice. 
 Humanly viewed, it was a death so terrible 
 that they dared not suffer their imaginations to 
 dwell upon it, but passed at once to the thought 
 of Maurice in heaven, with his sufferings ended, 
 his new life begun. Still, man's impotence is 
 God's omnipotence. It might have been — and 
 indeed appeared most likely, from the position 
 in which the remains were found — that the end 
 had come so peacefully that death felt to him 
 no more than falling asleep, with the Everlast- 
 ing Arms underneath him, and his head pillowed 
 on the bosom of Everlasting Love. 
 
 vir * *■ *■ * * 
 
 Maurice's bones were laid, by common family 
 consent, in a spot not far from the place where 
 they were discovered — the little mountain grave- 
 yard, where, during that merry month of Sep-
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 55 
 
 tember, they had all often leaped the low wall, 
 and sat among the long grass, or read the in- 
 scriptions on the ancient ^stones. There, soon 
 afterwards, another stone was erected, by Jessie 
 Raeburn — she asked permission to do it, and 
 Richard allowed her — on which was recorded, 
 in the simple Scotch fashion of kirkyard memo- 
 rials, Maurice's name, age, and how he died. 
 Nothing more, except the words — incomprehen- 
 sible addition to many readers, yet full of peace 
 to her who many a time afterwards sat and 
 read it there — with the grand mountains look- 
 ing on her, and the sea calm and blue, and the 
 heavens shining overhead — "Psalm 121." 
 
 When all this was done, Richard went back 
 to his sisters, and they put on quiet mourning 
 for a season. Then, quietly still, without any 
 obtrusiveness either of regret or congratulation, 
 Richard Wyvill, Esq., of Wyvill Court, took 
 lawful possession of his ancestral home. 
 
 •5i5- ■* ^- * *- *■ 
 
 I know it would be more pathetic, more in 
 accordance with the feelings of young and 
 poetic readers, if I were to state that Richard 
 Wyvill never married, but remained all his days 
 faithful to his first disappointed love. But such 
 fidelity is rare in man, and well that it is so. 
 By-and-by, when all hope of Jessie was at an 
 end, Richard found a pretty, merry Yorkshire 
 lass, who loved him — partly because he was so 
 opposite to herself — loved him, and married 
 him, and made him happy ; so happy, that he 
 could receive his cousin Jessie as Aunt Jessie
 
 56 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 in his household, for weeks together, without the 
 sHghtest pain. And it is thought that some 
 day his second son, Maurice Raeburn Wyvill, 
 will inherit all the thousands that Jessie has to 
 leave, and be in truth her adopted child. His 
 parents can well spare him, for Wyvill Court is 
 full of children, brought up rather differently 
 from what the last generation were, with more 
 of gentleness, less of impatience and rough dis- 
 puting — in an atmosphere of sweetness and 
 sunshine which, radiating from the elders, flows 
 down to the younger ones, and makes of them, 
 whatever else they may be, a family of love. 
 For, thinking of Maurice, whose story is told 
 from child to child till it becomes like one of 
 the saintly chronicles of old — thinking of poor 
 Uncle Maurice, how could they ever say to 
 one another an unkind word ?
 
 A CHILD'S LIFE. 
 
 SIXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 EELY, taking a leisurely stroll through 
 one of the quaint old streets of Bristol 
 city, Temple Street I believe it was, 
 I came upon an ancient book-shop. Can any- 
 body resist the fascination of an old book-shop ? 
 I own I cannot. Many a valuable minute have 
 I wasted in peering into those forlorn relics of 
 gone-by literature, which lean imploringly against 
 the window-panes, title-page and frontispiece 
 outspread to invite public gaze, — that remorseless 
 public which has long since forgotten both. I 
 stopped now. I happened to be writing a book 
 myself, which, perhaps, made me more tender- 
 hearted. I paused to consider whether it too 
 — my magnum opus — might not one. day swell 
 these pathetic ranks. Ah, my brethren ! defunct 
 authors ! in a few years more, the same epitaph 
 will be written over us and you — your books and 
 ours — abienint ad majores. 
 
 Being in this frame of mind, it was not sur- 
 prising that one of the books in the window
 
 58 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 should especially catch my eye. Its title ran 
 thus : " A Father's Memoirs of his Child. By 
 Benj. Heath Malkin, Esquire, M.A., F. A. S." 
 And below was a motto from Sir Philip Sidney's 
 '' Astrophel : "— 
 
 " Great loss to all that ever did him see : 
 Great loss to all — but greatest loss to me." 
 
 Its publishers were the immemorial '^ Longman, 
 Hurst, Rees, and Orme," and the date was 1806. 
 The frontispiece was a miniature of a sweet 
 childish face, and round it a fanciful design 
 of the said child bidding adieu to a kneeling 
 mother, and sailing away upwards clasping an 
 angel's hand. The drawing and engraving were 
 good enough to attract me even before I noticed 
 at the foot, " W. Blake, inv. — R. H. Cromck, 
 scr Then it became at once a book to be 
 bought. 
 
 Few now care much for Cromek the engraver, 
 though he was famous in his day ; but most 
 people have heard of William Blake, — " Pictor 
 ignotus," as he is called in a late biography : the 
 painter unknown in his life, and unrecorded in 
 his death, for even his grave, somewhere in Old 
 St. Pancras churchyard, had no stone put over 
 it, and cannot now be recognised. Happy, half- 
 mad, loving and loveable genius ! — whom Flax- 
 man calls his "gentle visionary Blake," — his 
 long life of nearly fourscore years has flitted 
 by as shadowy-like as one of his own visions. 
 His works — chiefly etchings and engravings — 
 are found only in the collections of connoisseurs.
 
 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 59 
 
 So great Is their eccentricity, so Incomprehensible 
 their meaning, that the general pubHc could 
 never be brought to appreciate them. Yet in 
 poor Blake's misty soul shone assuredly a 
 fragment of the " spark divine." His Book of 
 Job, and many of his little poems, stand out. In 
 that age of endless shams and gigantic affecta- 
 tions, fresh as dew, and grand as Nature herself 
 
 Everything of Blake's Is rare enough to be 
 valuable : I entered the shop, and came out of 
 it triumphantly with the book under my arm. 
 It was a "tall," thin volume, roughly got up, 
 with large type and larger margins, — a book 
 to horrify the elegant bibliopollsts of to-day, 
 and " make each particular hair to stand on 
 end" of every head of the still-existing firm 
 whose name it bears, at thought of their house 
 having sent forth, even sixty years ago, such an 
 unsightly volume. 
 
 My great interest In it was solely for the 
 frontispiece ; but on glancing at the letter-press 
 it seemed curious enough to be worth reading 
 and preserving. Not reprinting : nobody in our 
 terse modern era would get through one page 
 of those long-winded. Latinised, Johnsonian 
 sentences ; but, reproduced as extracts, I 
 thought it might amuse, perhaps instruct, a 
 later generation. So I went carefully through 
 this history of a little life that had barely 
 lasted seven years, and had ended sixty years 
 ago. 
 
 The " father " — he must long since have de- 
 parted to his rest. He was apparently a some-
 
 6o A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 what pompous, learned gentleman — doubtless 
 an object of awe to both wife and children — 
 yet loved by them, and loving them too in 
 his way, with a well-regulated and decorous 
 tenderness. He must have been well esteemed, 
 likewise, by a select circle of intellectual friends, 
 among whom we incidentally find he numbered 
 Blake, Banks the sculptor, Clive and Lister the 
 surgeons ; and the friend to whom, in forty- 
 eight voluminous pages, he dedicates the book, 
 "Thomas Johnes, of Hafod, Esq., M.P., Lord 
 Lieutenant of the County of Cardigan ; " who, 
 we learn, was a gentleman of good estate, and 
 the author of a translation of Froissart. It was 
 in visiting at Hafod that the bereaved parent, 
 resident at Hackney, conceived the idea of writ- 
 ing this memoir, partly for love, and partly for 
 money " to make some little additions to the 
 library of the young survivors, or to their other 
 means of instruction, beyond what else it might 
 be thought expedient for a moderate fortune to 
 supply." He adds, with good feeling that might 
 well be imitated now-a-days : " The trick of 
 converting confidential correspondence, private 
 history, or domestic events, to marketable pur- 
 poses, has been practised of late years with little 
 remorse, and in open defiance of all prejudice on 
 the side of decency. Yet to drag the privacy of 
 a wife or child into daylight, and expose to an 
 inquisitive world scenes which were never meant 
 to meet the public eye, may be entered in the 
 day-book of the literary trade among its meanest 
 arts."
 
 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 6i 
 
 Its lengthy dedication ended, Mr. Malkin com- 
 mences his memoir thus : — 
 
 ** Infinite pains have been taken by the learned in decyphering 
 the human mind. The dawn of infancy — the meridian of man- 
 hood — the sunset of advanced age, have respectively afforded 
 suitable topics of ingenious or pi-ofound speculation. Yet the 
 researches of the theorist, without an appeal to practice and 
 experience, avail but little to direct our projects or to console 
 our disappointments." 
 
 Stop ! After this specimen I am sure the 
 reader will thank me for henceforward re-trans- 
 lating the Malkin English into our modern 
 tongue. 
 
 But the child — the little fellow whose bonnie 
 face has for sixty years been only dust — let us 
 refer to him ; his father does so, chiefly as a 
 peg whereon to hang innumerable dissertations, 
 not very interesting. 
 
 Thomas Williams Malkin was born on Oct. 
 30th, 1795. We are not told who his mother 
 was, or anything about her, except what comes 
 out incidentally in the account of her treat- 
 ment of her son, and his great love for her ; 
 but this inclines us to believe that she was 
 a very superior woman. Thomas is reported 
 to have been, as an infant, " acute, active, 
 robust." 
 
 *' Yet he v{as by no means forward in speaking. It was not 
 till he was full two years old that he began to talk, but he was 
 familiar with the alphabet almost half a year sooner. He not 
 only knew the letters when given to him as toys on sets of 
 counters, but as expressed in books, to which, from seeing 
 them constantly about him, he directed his notice at a very early 
 period. Before he could articulate, when a letter was named, 
 he immediately pointed to it with his finger."
 
 62 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 But my plain English must tell the story a 
 little faster than Mr. Malkin does. 
 
 It seems little Thomas taught himself spelling 
 after a sort of phonetic system of his own ; and, 
 before he was three, had, still of his own accord, 
 learnt to write, first in printed and then in writing 
 characters. On his third birthday he executed 
 in pencil his first letter to his mother. 
 
 " As it now lies before me," says the father, '' I 
 find the forms of the letters to be accurate and 
 well-shaped, though their sizes are dispropor- 
 tionate, and the lines, though few, extremely 
 uneven. At the bottom he has written the 
 Arabian numerals in succession up to twenty. 
 There is nothing in this letter to call for its 
 insertion ; but I have received another from a 
 lady, which he wrote to her only two months 
 afterwards. This is also in pencil, written much 
 better, and sufficiently straight." 
 
 Here it is : 
 
 •'My DEAR Miss, — 
 
 *' Thomas has been reading Tit for Tat in the Evenings 
 at Home : and Thomas laughed at ' The fellow tried, and 
 tried, and tried.' I wish you would come and see Tom. 
 
 '' December, \^^^: " T. W. M." 
 
 Two more : 
 
 ** My dear Cousin S. M., — 
 
 " I have a new map. Thomas can put it together, and 
 when mamma takes some countries out, Tom can tell what they 
 all are. I think you are very beautiful. I wish you would come 
 and teach Tom to read Greek. Benjamin has got some more
 
 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 6^ 
 
 double teeth coming. Tom gives him all his playthings, and 
 makes him very happy. " *' T. W. Malkin." 
 
 "■June\%, 1799." 
 
 "My DEAR Cousin S. M., — 
 
 *'I thank you for your letter. I have read it often 
 enough. My love to you. Maps are for setting up. Papa was 
 so good as to bring Tom maps, Benjamin hasn't lived long 
 enough in the world to know his letters. When he i^ big like 
 Tom, then mamma will buy him a box of letters. He will then, 
 run and say. Is this A? " T. W. Malkin." 
 
 "^/;-//4, 1799." 
 
 These letters do not require the lengthy 
 paternal criticism which follows them. Parents 
 who have hoarded up such — the more tenderly 
 because no after letters from the youth or the 
 man were ever written — will feel how interesting 
 they are ; and how evidently a child's letters — 
 undictated and uncorrected. 
 
 At this age, three and a half, Thomas could 
 read " any English book ; likewise the Greek 
 alphabet, and most Greek words not exceeding 
 four syllables." 
 
 Unfortunate child ! In spite of Mr. Malkin's 
 disavowals, we suspect the already too preco- 
 cious brain had been over-stimulated, so that 
 the little body, '' robust " as it was, would 
 have small chance. Far better, a thousand 
 times, to have thrown English and Greek books 
 together on the back of the fire, and helped, 
 encouraged, nay, even forced, the child to be 
 only a child — that in Nature's slow but sure 
 development he might become successively a 
 boy and a man, which he never was to become 
 in this world.
 
 64 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 His education — self-education the father con- 
 tinually repeats it was — rapidly advances. Let 
 him describe it himself in one of his pretty birth- 
 day letters, — ah, how few ! — written yearly to his 
 mother : — 
 
 ♦*My dearest Mother, — 
 
 "I was four years old yesterday. I have got several 
 new books : Mrs. Trimmer's English Description ; Mental Im- 
 provement, by Mrs. Priscilla Wakefield ; and a Latin Grammar, 
 and English prints. I think I have got a great many besides 
 the old ones that I had before. Every day I lay up all my maps 
 and chronological tables. My maps and tables are all dissected. 
 I know you love me very much when I am a good boy, and I 
 hope I always shall be a good boy. Benjamin knows all his 
 letters, except one or two, and I hope he will know how to read 
 soon. Papa is going to teach me Latin on Friday. That will 
 be to-morrow. " T. W. Malkin." 
 
 *^ October 2,1, 1799." 
 
 " Papa is going to teach me Latins Luckless, 
 innocent admission : contradicting all Mr. Mal- 
 kin's statements of having left his boy's mind 
 solely to self-development. But perhaps he 
 really thought he had. 
 
 Another letter comes between two birthdays, 
 its date being January, i8oo ; following it is the 
 birthday letter of the same year. 
 
 " My dear Mother, — 
 
 "In the illustrious heads that I have seen, there was 
 Catherine Howard, not Catherine Parr, (and these were all 
 queens of King Henry VIII.,) and Lady Jane Seymour, Cathe- 
 rine of Arragon, and Elizabeth Plantagenet. But slie was queen 
 of Henry VII. and daughter of Edward IV. I saw Oliver 
 Cromwell too, and William Shakspeare, and Sir Isaac Newton. 
 He was a very good man. In the third volume of my Evenings 
 at Home, I read about him being led to some of his discoveries 
 by seeing an apple fall from a tree. And that was veiy pretty. 
 ... I never was drunk, nor I shouldn't like to be in that 
 shocking way a bit. To be about to be : I hardly know whether 
 that is any sense or not. . . . As I know I am a good boy, I 
 believe I shall be better still. ..."
 
 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 65 
 
 " Hackney, Oct. 30, 1800, is the year at this time. 
 
 " My dear Charlotte, — 
 
 **I shall give you a reason why I wrote Charlotte in- 
 stead of mother to you, and the reason is because I thought it 
 would be prettier. I also think that I shall be veiy glad when I 
 am six years old. I am five now, and to-morrow I shall begin 
 to go on for six. In my walk to-day I saw some persons clipping 
 a tree : and I saw a man killing a poor pig, which you told me 
 that one might well squeak if a man was to kill it. I also think 
 that I shall learn a great great deal of Latin from my Latin 
 Dictionary. I shall now, when I do my exercise, do it out of 
 my Latin Dictionary, and I shall have my Exempla Minora to 
 look out some words in it. And I shall have my Latin Gram- 
 mar to turn to when I want it. Also, I think my pocket-book 
 is a very nice thing especially : for in it there is a tweasers, 
 bodkin, scissors, and knife to cut with ; pencil to write memo- 
 randums with upon the asses' skin ; and there is a clasp to it on 
 the outside to open and shut the pocket-book with. . . . Dearest 
 mother, as you are not well, I will do what you like me to do ; 
 to make you better, mother, I shall read to you to-day, and to- 
 day do some exercise. After I have looked a little in my Latin 
 Dictionary, which I use in my exercise, I find the words that I 
 want to find in it. I do not find the great dictionary too unwieldy 
 for me ; but I think I can manage it very well. I think I will 
 not tell you any Latin words. At Lea-bridge I have so very 
 fine a view of Essex ! The months of the year are (he here 
 repeats them). Civilised nations, in January, they in general 
 agree to begin reckoning the new year from the first of that 
 month. Water is, when frozen, expanded ; that is, takes up 
 more room than before. Ice is lighter than water, and swims 
 upon it. I am quite sure never to spoil the garden, that the 
 mower has been making tidy, again. My Latin Dictionary is so 
 very useful to me, so is my stool. The trees now are rotten. I 
 have seen two trees that were rotten all at the top : one was a 
 willow-tree ; but I do not know what tree the other was. The 
 Calendar of Nature is very useful to me, and I think it was very 
 good in Mr. Aiken and Mrs. Barbauld to write these employing 
 books for little boys instead of grown people. The index of the 
 English Exercise-book does not apply to those I am in, but the 
 dictionary. " T. W. Malkin." 
 
 Poor little fellow! how plainly one can see 
 him, perched on his stool, "lugging "wearily about 
 with him the great Latin Dictionary, running 
 occasionally into the new-mown garden, but 
 " quite sure " not to spoil it ; full of interest in
 
 66 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 all sorts of knowledge and of natural facts ; 
 acute to observe, and accurate to detail. A 
 very good boy, somewhat conceited perhaps, as 
 clever children often are ; and with his tongue 
 too full of those " employing " {sic) books, which 
 he is always poring over ; but still a loving 
 little fellow, and especially loving towards his 
 " dearest mother." 
 
 The next letter given is dated Oct. loth, 1800. 
 In it a good deal of " priggishness " — I can find 
 no better word — seems already cropping out. 
 
 "In my Mental Improvement I have read that the wood of the 
 beech-tree is useful to the turners for dishes, trays, &c., and that 
 the upholsterer turns it into stools, &c., and I have not forgotten 
 that yet. My father has told me that the Romans used to oil 
 their bodies and make them active, and I have not forgotten 
 that, neither. In the Latin language thousands more are of the 
 feminine gender than I knew. Some are masculine, some neuter. 
 I know a good deal of geography, and I shall be very glad, too, 
 when I know a good deal more : for geography, I find, is a veiy 
 clever thing for me to know. I know a good deal of Latin. I 
 think I know a little French, but no Welsh. I know no Greek, 
 neither. God bless you, my dearest father and mother, and I 
 hope you may see many happy days. I find in the lOth vol. 
 of those books — ('Museum Florentinum,' explains the father) 
 — the figures are very fine of Hygeia, Venus, Apollo, Minerva, 
 (Sec, and other statues. I hope 1 shall be a clever man." 
 
 But this was not to be. How could it .-* No 
 child's brain could have received, unharmed, the 
 flood of knowledge which was being poured into 
 this thirsty little cranium, — geography, natural 
 history, science, art ; his native English, with 
 French, Latin, and Greek ; all of which studies 
 were, if not encouraged, at any rate not pre- 
 vented by the mistaken father. " It seemed," 
 writes Mr. Malkin— 
 
 "It seemed to be a leading object of his ambition to make him- 
 self master of the dead languages. ... It was with the utmost
 
 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 67 
 
 avidity that he looked for my assistance in comparing the idiom 
 and construction of the Latin Syntax used at Eton, with the 
 idiom and construction of his own and the French languages. 
 Indeed, his acuteness in tracing the etymology and reducing to 
 their elements the component parts of words, pursuing them 
 through English and French, and enquiring after their forms in 
 Greek and Italian, ground as yet untouched by him, evinces a 
 mind more than commonly fitted for philological pursuits." 
 
 I wonder whether, after the boy's death, the 
 father ever suspected that he might as well 
 have fed his five-year-old son with poison as 
 with philology. 
 
 But even when the poor little head took a 
 rest, there was still work for the busy little 
 hands. Thomas began map-making and draw- 
 ing. He copied Raphael's hea.ds, and even the 
 cartoon of Paul preaching at Athens. He " had 
 a remarkable habit of inventing little landscapes ; 
 for which purpose he was accustomed to cut 
 every piece of waste paper within his reach into 
 small squares. These he filled with temples, 
 bridges, trees, broken ground, or any other fanci- 
 ful and picturesque materials that suggested 
 themselves to his imagination." 
 
 Of these, six are given in the book, accompa- 
 nied by the following criticism by William Blake. 
 
 "They are all finii, determinate outline, or identical form. 
 Had the hand which executed these little ideas been that of a 
 plagiary who works only from memory, we should have seen 
 blots, called masses : blots without form, and therefore without 
 meaning. These blots of light and dark, as being the result of 
 labour, are always clumsy and indefinite : the effect of rubbing 
 out and putting in, like the progress of a blind man, or of one in 
 the dark who feels his way but does not see it. These are not 
 so. Even the copy from ' Paul Preaching at Athens,' is a firm, 
 determinate outline, struck at once, as Protogenes struck his line, 
 when he meant to make himself known to Apelles. All his 
 efforts prove this little boy to have that greatest of all blessings, 
 a strong imagination, a clear idea, and a determinate vision of 
 things in his own mind." 
 
 F 2
 
 68 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 Here is another birthday letter — the last— - 
 which has in it less learning than usual, but a 
 strange seriousness and tenderness. It is ad- 
 dressed to Cambridge, whither the parents had 
 gone on his father's " University business." 
 
 " Hackney, Oct. 30, 1801. 
 
 ** My dearest Mother, — 
 
 *' Next time you go to Cambridge, if you will allow it, 
 I should be very glad to accompany you there, for the sake of 
 having a ride. I hope before you return you will be so good as 
 to write to me a letter, and I shall be most happy to receive it. 
 As you one day said you hoped I would hear Benjamin read and 
 spell to me, I promise to do it sometimes when I have leisure to 
 hear him, and when he is in a humour for it, and I shall teach 
 him as near as I can to the manner in which you do. I am in 
 great hopes you will think well of this letter, for I am sure I do 
 all I can to put it in your power to do so. I hope you will trast 
 that the great and good God will make us both better still, 
 though, I assure you, I have this morning had very serious 
 thoughts of being much better now I am six. However, I still 
 think there is much room for improvement in us both, especially 
 me, if God spares our lives, that we improve in them still more. 
 I hope that you think all this about improvement is a very good 
 subject. Till you return it is my intention to do, as near as it is 
 in my power to, what I imagine you would like. I trust Cam- 
 bridge is a healthy place for you and my father, and when you 
 write to me I should hope you will tell me in what state of health 
 you are. I should rejoice most amazingly to knoAV how you was. 
 At first you told me you would excuse the drawing and every- 
 thing of that sort : but I went to business on my birthday and 
 did first the drawing. When you are from home it is always a 
 pleasure to me to think you are are in good health, and that you 
 have met with no misfortune any way at least. Ben, I trust, 
 will read and spell to me well, for you know the more improve- 
 ment he will gain by it, and the more useful it will make him. 
 He seems to me to be a very good little boy altogether while 
 you are gone. I hope you will believe me, 
 
 "Your most affectionate son, 
 
 "T. W. Malkin." 
 
 A touching letter, in spite of its painful self- 
 consciousness, its obtrusive morality, and its tone
 
 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 69 
 
 of patronising superiority over the junior Ben- 
 jamin. What a curious contrast there is between 
 this child and that other long-dead child — lately 
 held up to modern criticism by Dr. John Brown 
 — Pet Marjorie, with her premature flirtations, 
 her unconscious coarsenesses, and her innocent 
 " naughty " words ; what a foil she is to this pre- 
 ternaturally good little boy, so quiet, so clever, 
 and so pretty-behaved ! We hardly know which 
 of the precocities is most objectionable, or rather 
 most pitiable ; for, does it ever occur to anybody 
 that for a child's faults the person most to be 
 blamed is the parent ? Do parents consider — 
 would that they did ! — how the most blessed or 
 most fatal instruction they can bestow is the silent 
 teaching of personal influence } It is not the 
 slightest use in the world for a father to chastise 
 his son for giving way to wrath, when, in inflict- 
 ing the punishment, he is seen to be in a passion 
 himself Vainly does a mother preach to her 
 girls the beauty of gentleness, sweetness, truth- 
 fulness, when they hear her every day giving 
 sharp speeches to husband, children, or servants, 
 and telling white lies of politeness to friends and 
 visitors. The verbal instruction passes away, and 
 is forgotten ; but the unconscious effect of the 
 permanent home atmosphere lasts in the indi- 
 vidual throughout life. 
 
 Poor Thomas Malkin ! — poor Marjorie Fle- 
 ming ! — there must have been something amiss 
 in the bringing up of both of them. And when 
 we reflect what very unpleasant people, as man 
 and woman, they might possibly have become,
 
 70 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 we think almost with satisfaction of the two 
 little graves. 
 
 I was once walking in her pleasant garden 
 with a mother — the mother of ten children, all 
 of whom had grown up to be a blessing to 
 herself, to themselves, and to everybody who 
 knew them. Many sorrows they had, and she 
 had for them ; but only sorrows : no dissensions, 
 no bitternesses, no sins. In the whole ten was not 
 a single " black sheep." I said to her, talking 
 about them, and the difference between them and 
 most other families I knew, " How did you ever 
 manage to bring them up so well .'* " " I did 
 not bring them up at all," said she, smiling. 
 " I did with them as I did with that apple-tree 
 there — I let them ^row up." 
 
 Ay, that is the secret, 'which parents so often 
 miss. They will not let their children grow. 
 They must keep lopping them and propping 
 them, training them after some particular form, 
 forgetting that every human being, like every 
 tree, has a growth of its own — ay, even though 
 it may not be after the parental pattern ; that 
 the wisest thing in the end, seeing that the best 
 of parents are not infallible, is just to treat 
 young folk like young trees — removing all harm- 
 ful influences, and bringing them under the reach 
 of good ; giving them plenty of earth and sun, 
 freshness and dew, and then letting them alone. 
 
 Alas ! this doctrine of " let alone " was appa- 
 rently far too simple for Benjamin Heath Malkin, 
 Esq., M.A., F.R.S. 
 
 In one thing, however, he must have been wise.
 
 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 71 
 
 The following letter, which in other points is 
 almost pathetic in its simplicity, shows that 
 there was dawning in the mind of little Thomas 
 — he never could have been called plain " Tom," 
 — that strong religious sentiment common to 
 precocious children. But it also shows that the 
 pure heavenly light was never smothered in a 
 fog of theological instruction upon subjects 
 which no infant mind could understand : — 
 
 " Grove Place, Hackney, 
 
 ^^ Sunday evenings Jan. 22, 1802. 
 
 *• My dear Mother, — 
 
 " My anxiety of writing to you has proved the action 
 quite necessary, having a good deal to say about the Uttle child 
 which the incomprehensible Almighty has, with all His wonderful 
 works, given you reason to know wall come. I certainly think 
 it exactly true that it will come, by your saying so, though I 
 should not have, of course, believed it so steadfastly if you had 
 only thought so ; but now I will return to the subject, not of 
 your thinking that it will come, but of the infant itself. What 
 use can it be of either to you or to me if I do not love it ? But 
 I shall love it, as much or more than I did Benjamin, when 
 he first came, if I am not too much concerned about anything — 
 especially Allestone — to think of it at all, which, I dare say, I 
 shall not be. I should love it whatever sex it was of: but I 
 should love a sister rather the best, as you know I have a brother 
 already. 
 
 " Indeed, I find that in another case this address to you is ne- 
 cessary, for in it I would tell you many subjects Mjhich I want to 
 hide from any other person but yourself. I dare say the letter 
 which my brother and you read, and also you alone, will in the 
 end prove very entertaining and instructive, and will cause me to 
 make very good resolutions. I promise you henceforth to read 
 and study a great deal in that Holy Book, and also make a con- 
 stant, and, perhaps, everlasting, resolution of attempting to re- 
 ceive instruction from the Bible. Henceforth this resolution will 
 for a long time get the better of me, perhaps for all my life. I wish 
 it may be long" — (poor boy, it was only to be six months more) 
 — " hardly at all for the sake of fortune, being so much less im- 
 portant than piety and goodness ; and as God cares so much 
 more about it, that I may have time to fulfil my resolution, 
 which, I dare say, is in yours, and I am sure in our Heavenly 
 Father's opinion, good. But I will not get into that conceited
 
 72 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 way of thinking my own promises good ; I had much rather 
 have a better subject, as you say. I think myself happily cir- 
 cumstanced to have such a good mother and father. I think I 
 could not have a better one. I also confess that I ought to think 
 myself in the same happy state that I do. God grant that your 
 life may be long — that you may keep your disposition toward us 
 and the next little child that you have ! In ti-ouble I intend to 
 attempt in future to console myself if I can with the thoughts of 
 your tender disposition towards us, if, as I have great confidence 
 it will, it lasts for ever. ... I from henceforth also promise to 
 do your will always in everything, and to obey the Almighty's will 
 the same. Believe me, my dear mother, 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 " T. W. Malkin." 
 
 About this time the child writes a rough 
 rhymeless paraphrase of Psalm cii., and a prayer. 
 These are the only indications of that most 
 questionable thing, " infant piety," except one 
 little letter of much earlier date, in which the 
 simple childish notions are touching enough : — 
 
 " The praise of God is great loA'e. Well, I should like to go to 
 heaven very much. Then you know I should see my little sister 
 Mary and my little brother John, that are dead. So, they go to 
 be buried. I think it is a very nice thing to go to heaven. Well, 
 and then we should see our Heavenly Father and our Saviour. 
 He has got a light round his head, our Saviour has. When we 
 go we shall see Judas who brought the soldiers to seize our 
 Saviour and put him to death — and so he went. There was St. 
 Bartholomew, St. John, St. Peter, St. Matthew — but these were 
 all the saints that I knew of." 
 
 During the last year of his life the little fellow 
 must have kept up a large correspondence among 
 aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends. One letter 
 he writes 
 
 " to inform you of the coming of a little boy who was bom yes- 
 terday. My mother has been long expecting it, and also hopes 
 you will write her and me also a nice long letter soon. . . . The 
 child is a very healthy little boy, and my mother, of course, hopes 
 that it Avill live. . . . You would gratify me if you would 
 describe your thoughts of the little boy just born yesterday, and 
 also tell me how you would like a first sight of it. In my
 
 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 73 
 
 opinion it is a very fine child, and I also with pleasure hope and 
 trust that it will, from its appearance, both live and form a good 
 life, — also be obedient to its good, kind, and attentive parents." 
 
 This baby seems to have been a subject of 
 intense interest to the elder brother. He refers 
 continually to "the dear little Frederic," mi- 
 nutely describes his state of health, and makes 
 plans for his education. Meantime, his own 
 seems to have been going on with terrible ra- 
 pidity. He writes essays, fables, and poems, 
 sometimes of his own accord, sometimes at the 
 instigation — oh, how cruel and unwise ! — of 
 friends and relatives. One instance the father 
 mentions, of his " complying with his usual 
 alacrity " with a request to write a poem, sitting 
 for several minutes with the pen in his hand, 
 then bursting into tears, and declaring " he was a 
 stupid fellow, and could write no more verses 
 that day." Doubtless, the overstrained brain was 
 already beginning to give way. Indeed, in most 
 of his productions of this last year there is a 
 wildness of imagination and a slight incoherency, 
 which looked ominous enough for the future. 
 
 But the most curious relic of this brief life, so 
 soon to come to an end, was that referred to in 
 a former letter as " Allestone." AUestone was 
 the name Thomas gave to a visionary country — 
 a sort of Utopia, of which he fancied himself 
 king. He made a map of it, and lists of its 
 cities, towns, rivers, all of his own invention. He 
 wrote for it an imaginary scheme of government, 
 an imaginary history, and numerous accounts of 
 the imaginary Allestonians — their manners, cus-
 
 74 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 toms, dress, and domestic adventures. Some of 
 these are very quaint and ingenious : — 
 
 "The first king of Allestone had no father or mother, as he 
 was the first AUestonian bom. He could not certainly receive 
 great instruction being without parents ; but as soon as ever he 
 was able to begin learning he practised as much as he could. 
 He, by his diligence, attentive thought, and industry — also well- 
 timed magnanimity, generosity, &c., acquired wonderful in- 
 struction. ... By this time the kindness of manners of the 
 Allestonians was fortunately increased. The then present king 
 (George the First) was of a good, amiable disposition, and 
 placed himself upon the throne when he was about ten years of 
 age — and a very proper time too. . . . The Allestonians lived 
 in good houses. They were very clever people. The dress of 
 the Allestonians was, and is, very commodious. They in their 
 houses wear nothing on their heads and no cravats. In their 
 walks they have a little flapped hat, with a ribbon almost at top, 
 and a buckle to keep it on. The men have a small head. They 
 wear no waistcoats, have linen shirts, and quartered shoes, one 
 flannel shirt, and brown breeches. . . , The AUestonian women 
 dressed themselves in a commodious way. They wear their 
 hair with a toupee : hoops are usual here : the ladies wear a 
 shift and two dimity petticoats, and a long gown. When they 
 go to church a fan is necessary to their dress. Allestone in- 
 creased with numbers of Allestonians. They were all of a good 
 character and inclined to generosity. One of their principal acts 
 of generosity was that one of them gave the other a telescope, 
 and the other said, 'I'll give it back to you again, sir.' That 
 was when King James the Third was present — a good king he 
 was. He placed himself upon the throne directly he was born, 
 which was in 288." 
 
 Then ensue a series of imaginary biographical 
 adventures and domestic historiettes, all con- 
 cerning the inhabitants of the island of Allestone. 
 One of these is enough to give : — 
 
 ** Once upon a time, in a pleasant street of Countib (the capital 
 city of Allestone) there lived a young lady. ... As soon as 
 ever she grew up old enough to be able to look for a house for 
 herself, she settled a plan of doing it, and began to look out for 
 one as fast as she could. After searching over a great many 
 towns for one, at last she got to Countib, and went into a house 
 from fatigue, to see if it was empty. She looked all about the 
 house and found it so. Nobody can think how glad she was 
 that she did find it, having taken so much trouble before. As
 
 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 75 
 
 soon as ever she had searched the house, she went to the parlour 
 in great sorrow, took place of an arm-chair that was there- 
 abouts, and begun to reflect on her offences to her parents, 
 whom she lost when about eleven years old : and after she had 
 reflected about a quarter of an hour, she began to think of one, 
 that in a few moments was so deeply impressed upon her mind, 
 that she was almost ready to faint. She began in a few days to 
 think that she chose to look out for a husband, and presently set 
 about it, and though this was with a great deal of trouble, it was 
 with less than her house. She took her husband with her to the 
 house which she had with so much trouble chosen for herself. 
 ♦ Do you know, sir,' says the lady, 'that a few days before this 
 I have been reflecting on my offences to my parents, whom I 
 have long ago lost, and one was so deeply impressed upon my 
 mind, that I was almost ready to faint. ' ' Oh ! ' replied he, 
 surprised. Some children were presently bom to them, at first 
 two at a time, and a few hours after that, one more. Their 
 name was Malysbeg." 
 
 Alexander, Septimius, Adoleo, Ophelius, and 
 Ablyth, are other names which figure in these 
 odd little tales : — 
 
 '* Septimius was most inclined to be good concerning humility 
 and respect to the Divine Being ; Alexander concerning gene- 
 rosity ; Ophelius concerning wisdom ; and Adoleo concerning 
 virtue ; in that they were all very good in all ways, but 
 Alexander had the mildest disposition. . . . Though Adoleo 
 had no wife, he was very happy with these relations of his. He 
 loved his two brothers so much that he thought he could not be 
 any happier with a wife ; for they consoled him so much 
 when he was in perplexity or trouble, that they served as one : 
 and they were both of them ready to give up all consultation for 
 their safety that they might busy themselves about his. Adoleo 
 was always ready to do the same for them." 
 
 But I will quote no more from this curious 
 production, which, and the letters also, the father 
 says are printed literatim. 
 
 As if he must try his hand at everything, little 
 Thomas also began the composition of a comic 
 opera, entitled "The Entertaining Assembly," 
 and a canzonet, on the back of which he put in 
 printed letters, " What the maker of the music
 
 76 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 means. The thing on the other side is only 
 imaginary music made by Thomas Williams 
 Malkin, who does not understand real music." 
 
 Invention seems to have been the most promi- 
 nent characteristic of this boy's mind ; likewise 
 an originality of ideas, and a persistency in car- 
 rying them out — which, had he lived, might have 
 made him a remarkable man. And under all the 
 little fellow's priggishness there runs a current of 
 steady conscientiousness of earnest desire to do 
 right, and strong home affections, which might 
 also have made him a truly good man. The 
 father's lengthy praise of him and trivial anec- 
 dotes about him, give not half so clear an im- 
 pression of what the child really was, as the 
 bits that peep out in his own innocent letters. 
 Witness this — to an uncle in Quebec : — 
 
 "Now for an account of the little baby. He grows very- 
 much, and talks in near the same quantity : he has just been 
 inoculated for the cow-pox, which has proved very successful 
 towards him : he has been christened Frederic, and I love him 
 very much, , . . Now for a little information concerning Benja- 
 min. He is but very slow in learning to write, and not much 
 quicker in his Latin. I am soriy to give you an account which 
 is at all unfavourable ; but as it was my proposal to tell you of 
 Benjamin, I could not give you a true account without making it 
 as I have. I have made an undertaking to teach him to write, 
 and also to teach him Latin gradually as I learn myself. It is 
 hard to say which I shall succeed in, if in either ; but it is 
 uncertain if I shall succeed in eithoi". " 
 
 To this child -like statement Mr. Malkin adds 
 three or four pages, apologising for poor Ben- 
 jamin's incapacities, and saying what a clever 
 boy he is now turning out ; how he is " learn- 
 ing French rapidly ; " '' reads the best English 
 authors on polite and entertaining subjects
 
 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 77 
 
 with a due share of discrimination ; " " is capa- 
 ble of carrying on in his head, without noting 
 them down, a considerable series of arithmetical 
 computations ; " how " his temper is generous 
 and affectionate, his manners open and engaging." 
 Not bad for a child " just eight years old." One 
 wonders if this Benjamin lived — if he be even 
 yet alive, as is not impossible. He would be now 
 an old man of sev€nty-six, who must long ago 
 have forgotten all about the brother Thomas, 
 that grieved so over his slowness in Latin. 
 
 But the short life was fast drawing to a close. 
 The father declares that Thomas was always 
 exceedingly healthy, and that he had no illness 
 from his birth until the one of which he died. 
 The only forewarning given might easily have 
 been recollected, with exaggerations, after the 
 event had happened : namely, that his mother 
 having been talking with him about " the world 
 to come," he exclaimed with animation, " Do you 
 know, mamma, that what we have been talking 
 of makes me almost wish not to live long, chat I 
 may have the pleasure of mounting ? " 
 
 On the 1st of July, 1802, he complained of 
 his throat, but continued his studies and play. 
 The second day a shivering fit came on, and on 
 the third the boy took to his bed, which he never 
 again quitted. 
 
 His illness lasted a whole month. Its progress 
 is described by the father with scientific minute- 
 ness. There seems to have been a combination 
 of diseases, dropsy being the most prominent. 
 Even through the cloud of verbiage under which
 
 78 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO, 
 
 Mr. Malkin relates his story, the boy's patience 
 and sweetness are plainly discernible ; also, his 
 great love for his mother, who used to be with 
 him all day, but could not remain at night, on 
 account of his little brother, who was still a baby 
 at the breast. He used to let her go quite cheer- 
 fully, only saying, " I shall be glad when it is 
 morning, that you may come to me again." 
 Those weary night-watches — longing for the 
 morning ! who does not know them ? Only once 
 the poor child is said to have complained — " I 
 wonder when the time will come for me to have 
 a settled sleep all through the night again ! " 
 
 He does not seem to have had any idea that 
 he was about to die. A week before his death 
 he asked, " Do you think my illness is half 
 over, mamma ^ " She answered, " Yes, much 
 more than half. Did he think it long ? " " No, 
 not very long." And he said no more. 
 
 Up to the last he took pleasure in his books, 
 which he insisted on having beside him on the 
 bed ; and in his maps, one of which he was try- 
 ing to play with half an hour before he died. 
 But, curiously enough, he seemed to have for- 
 gotten all about his fancied kingdom, Allestone, 
 and only mentioned it once during his illness. 
 His mind was wandering a little, and he talked 
 about a certain King James. They asked if it 
 were King James of England. " No ; the King 
 James of my imaginary country." Poor child ! 
 slipping away fast into the unknown country, 
 the mystery of which eye hath never seen nor 
 ear heard !
 
 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 79 
 
 Sickness seemed only to strengthen his strong 
 household affections. Every day he used to ask 
 after his two little brothers, wanting to know 
 what Benjamin was doing, and insisting on baby 
 Frederic being brought to his bedside, for him 
 to talk to and play with. " Pretty Frederic," he 
 always called him. And the last night of his 
 life he had Benjamin brought to take tea in 
 his room, and watched his mother standing 
 at the foot of his bed with baby in her arms — 
 watched her, and the baby, too, very ear- 
 nestly ; then tried to speak as usual, but could 
 not. After two or three efforts he just managed 
 to articulate " Frederic " — the last word he 
 ever uttered. About midnight he " sank in the 
 arms of his mother, without a struggle or a 
 groan." 
 
 The day after, some medical friend hinted, as 
 was most natural, that water on the brain, pro- 
 duced by over-study, had been the cause of 
 death. The father, angrily disclaiming such an 
 accusation — ^which all through the memoir he 
 has repelled with a suspicious eagerness — states 
 that on the 3rd of August — the child died on 
 the 1st— "Mr. Clive, Dr. Lester, Dr. Pett, Mr. 
 Toulmin, and Mr. Smith met ; when Mr. Clive 
 opened the head." The brain was found to be 
 unusually large, but perfect and healthy. The 
 body was afterwards opened, when " the general 
 organisation was so complete as to have given 
 the fairest promise of life and health." 
 
 How far this medical opinion was accurate we 
 cannot now judge ; nor does it very much matter.
 
 8o A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 The little life was ended. Only six years and 
 nine months, and to have left so many memo- 
 rials behind ! 
 
 But the question still remains, whether in this 
 present day, when the intimate connection be- 
 tween mind and body, physical and mental 
 soundness, is so much better understood than it 
 was sixty years ago, the verdict on this poor 
 precocious child would not assuredly have been 
 " Died from preventible causes." And causes, 
 the prevention of which was given by Providence 
 into the parents hands, A very solemn thought, 
 and worth the consideration of parents. 
 
 Mr. Benjamin Heath Malkin gives us a great 
 deal more of sermonising, but no other facts. 
 He does not even tell us where his little son was 
 buried. Probably, some inquisitive archaeologists, 
 searching over Hackney churches or churchyards, 
 might find the tomb — no doubt a very elegant 
 one, with a flowery epitaph in the most admirable 
 Latin. But beneath it — whatsoever, and where- 
 soever it is — little Thomas sleeps well. And 
 somewhere — though where, I have not the re- 
 motest idea — sleeps the father : who, for all his 
 pedantic long-windedness, may have loved and 
 mourned his little son, and mourned too perhaps 
 even his own mistake concerning: him — more 
 deeply than any of us know. 
 
 'fc» 
 
 When I wrote this paper, and for some time 
 afterwards, I had — as I say — not the remotest 
 idea who the Malkin family were, or whether 
 there were any of them surviving. I have since,
 
 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 8i 
 
 by a curious chance, discovered all about them ; 
 which I think it is but just to append here — 
 more especially as I have passed a rather severe 
 judgment on the long-dead father of this pain- 
 fully precocious child. 
 
 That judgment I cannot conscientiously re- 
 scind. The harm frequently done by learned 
 fathers to over-clever children is so great that 
 it ought to be protested against in every 
 possible way. Indeed, generally speaking, the 
 less any father has to do with his children till 
 past infancy, the better ; for hardly any mascu- 
 line mind has the tenderness, the patience, the 
 power of ignoring self, and seeing only the child's 
 good, which seem to be almost an instinct with 
 mothers. And the pride — quite distinct from 
 love — which a father feels in clever children, is a 
 sore temptation to him to spur them on, instead 
 of holding them back in every possible way. I 
 may have been too hard upon this father in 
 particular ; but, as a rule, I believe, the evil and 
 cruelty of over-stimulating an already preco- 
 cious brain cannot be too strongly pointed out 
 to parents, and therefore I let my words stand. 
 
 But concerning the Malkins, let me add a few 
 more, which trench upon no privacy, since the 
 family must all have been in a sense public 
 characters — and a very remarkable family to 
 boot. 
 
 Mr. Benjamin Heath Malkin (or Dr. Malkin, 
 as he afterwards became), the father of little 
 Thomas, was head-master of Bury Grammar 
 School for a number of years, until about 1825,
 
 82 A CHILD'S LIFE.— SIXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 when he gave up his post, and retired to a quiet 
 Welch village, where he occupied himself with 
 his studies to the end of his life. He was a 
 kindly, courteous, and genial man ; he had a 
 handsome person, excelled in music, singing, and 
 acting, and though gifted with no particular 
 originality of mind, had a great faculty for 
 absorbing every sort of knowledge. 
 
 Of his sons, Benjamin (the little Benjamin 
 so slow at his Latin), afterwards Sir Benjamin 
 Malkin, became a barrister, went to India, and 
 was appointed successively Recorder of Penang, 
 and one of the Puisne Judges of Calcutta. He 
 was remarkable for his mental power, high 
 character, and charm of disposition. Every- 
 where he won warm friends — some very distin- 
 guished ones. He died at Calcutta, in 1838, 
 in the prime of life, and in the midst of a most 
 useful career, leaving a widow and two children. 
 
 Frederic (the " baby " in whom little Thomas 
 took such interest, and whose name was the last 
 word he was heard to utter) was also an author, 
 writing a History of Greece, and other solid 
 works. "■ Indeed all Dr. Malkin's sons were more 
 or less connected with literature. Arthur, the 
 only one now surviving, has written " Pompeii," 
 '' Historical Parallels," &c. 
 
 With such descendants to cast a halo round 
 it, I may leave safely the memory of their father 
 — as well as that of their little brother who died 
 at seven years old.
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 A STORY FOR GREAT AND LITTLE PEOPLE. 
 
 IT was a pat of butter — only a pat of butter, 
 a small, silly thing, and yet it made me 
 feel, as the children say, " like to greet." 
 For I knew the spot it came from, — a lovely 
 nook in a lovely land. I could picture the 
 narrow valley, so rich and green, over which the 
 huge grey granite mountains watched, frowning 
 or smiling, but still watching, like faithful parents 
 over their children ; reflecting the sunshine, ga- 
 thering the rain, and sending both down alter- 
 nately upon the fertile tract below. I could 
 summon up its " pastures green," not like Eng- 
 lish meadows, hedged and ditched, but divided 
 angularly by stone dykes, among which grew 
 innumerable ferns and accidental clumps of 
 heather and whin ; while here and there in damp 
 places were queer bog-plants ; butter- wort with 
 its flat leaves and tall-stemmed blue flowers ; the 
 white tufts of the cotton-plant ; the aromatic 
 bog-myrtle. Nay, as I looked at my pat of 
 butter, I could almost see the cows that ori-
 
 84 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 ginated it, — small, shaggy, active, Highland 
 beasts, or the dainty little Ayrshire breed, the 
 prettiest of cattle, moving about their restricted 
 plot of pasturage under the shadow of these 
 same mountains which — whom, I was nearly 
 writing, they felt so like living friends — any one 
 who knows, loves ; and once loving, loves for 
 ever. 
 
 " Yes," said my hostess, whom I had better call 
 by the good Scotch name of Mrs. Burns, " it is 
 real Scotch butter ; we in London don't get any- 
 thing like it. It was sent to me from ," 
 
 'naming the place, to which I mean to give an 
 imaginary name, and call it the Laighlands. 
 
 For upon it, and the butter, hangs a story, 
 which Mrs. Burns immediately began to tell me: a 
 story true and simple as that of Jeanie Deans — of 
 which, while she related it, we were both strongly 
 reminded. I asked her leave to write it down, just 
 plainly as it was, with no elaborations or exagge- 
 rations, — for indeed it required none ; only dis- 
 guising the names and the places, so that while 
 the truth remains — the internal truth, which is 
 the real life and usefulness of fiction — the bare 
 outside facts may be quite unrecognisable by 
 the general public. And I wish I could give to 
 the written tale anything like the simple graphic 
 power with which it was unconsciously told. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Burns, looking me through 
 with her clear kind eyes ; " I must tell you all 
 about that butter, and how we got it from such 
 a distance. You know the Laighlands ? Isn't 
 it a bonnie place ? Such a sweet, quiet, out-of-
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 85 
 
 the way farm. We lived there a whole summer. 
 We had come to the neighbourhood, and did 
 not know where to get lodgings ; so they took 
 us in at the Laighlands, eight in all, — papa, 
 and me, and our six : and we lived there for 
 ten happy weeks. That was nine years ago." 
 
 It was not nearly so long since I had seen the 
 Laighlands myself; and though I was only 
 there for one day, I could still remember it 
 Especially the garden, wonderfully neat and 
 well-stocked for that part of Scotland, where the 
 lazy Highland nature has not yet arrived at the 
 difficult science of horticulture : and among the 
 common people life implies mere living, without 
 any attempt to adorn existence, with even the 
 beauty of a cottage flower-border, or the small 
 luxury of a dozen gooseberry bushes, and a row 
 of beans or peas. Therefore, I had noticed 
 this farm-house, for it had a capital garden, 
 and an upland orchard behind ; and its orderli- 
 ness within was equal to its picturesqueness 
 without, which is a great deal to say for such 
 dwellings in the Highlands of Scotland. 
 
 " Yes," continued Mrs. Burns {I will go straight 
 on with her part in the conversation, and omit 
 my own, which indeed consisted merely of a few 
 questions), " we lived there for ten weeks, and 
 during that time we got to have quite an affection 
 for our landlord and his wife. They were such 
 simple people, and so honest, so painfully 
 honest. Of course, in country lodgings where 
 the people can only make hay while the sun 
 shines, and that is for about two months in the
 
 86 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 twelve, one almost expects to be cheated, or at 
 least made the most of in the same way ; but 
 these good folk only cheated themselves. For 
 instance, we had the run of the garden^ and you 
 can imagine what a raid my six children would 
 make upon the gooseberry bushes. Besides, we 
 had an unlimited quantity of vegetables. But 
 when, at the first week's end, I looked to see 
 what was put down in the bill, there was nothing 
 at all ! ' Oh,' said the mistress, a tall, handsome 
 Highland woman, much younger than her hus- 
 band, and speaking English with a quaint slow 
 purity of accent that you often find among those 
 who have to learn it like a foreign language — 
 ' Oh, I hope ye'll use your freedom with the 
 garden — we'd never ask ye to pay.' But when 
 I remonstrated — for I don't like that Celtic 
 fashion of being too proud to receive honest 
 payment, and yet expecting always an equiva- 
 lent in kind — Mrs. Kennedy (I will call her 
 Kennedy) assented, with a sort of dignified 
 acquiescence that had a touch of condescen- 
 sion in it, begging I would put my own price 
 on the things we took, for she really did not 
 know what they were worth. Which doubtless 
 was the truth, for you are aware how little actual 
 coin is current in that district, and how people 
 there often live half a lifetime without ever 
 having seen a town street, or the inside of a 
 moderate-sized shop. 
 
 *' This woman, Mrs. Kennedy, was a case in 
 point. She was about forty, her husband being 
 somewhat over sixty ; yet neither of them had
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 87 
 
 ever travelled twenty miles from their own farm, 
 which had been rented by Kennedy, and his 
 father before him, for the best part of a century, 
 from the one great landholder of these parts. 
 
 " * And his lordship kens us weel,' said the 
 gudewife to me one day, when my children 
 had been describing a grand-looking gentleman 
 whom they met riding over the hill-side, i He's 
 a fine man, and a gude friend to us. Many's 
 the day I hae seen him stand and crack wi' the 
 auld gudeman — that's Kennedy's father ; and he 
 never meets Kennedy himsel' but he'll stop and 
 shake hands and ask for the wife and bairns. 
 He's a fine man, — his lordship — and a gude 
 landlord ; he kens a' that's done on the property. 
 Though I'll no say but that he might hae waur 
 tenants than oursels : for my man and his father 
 before him hae lived at the Laighlands, and paid 
 their honest rent, every term-day, for seventy- 
 five years.' 
 
 " I remember this little incident," continued 
 Mrs. Burns, " because I remember the woman's 
 face as she spoke — full of that honourable pride 
 which is as justifiable in a farmer as in a duke ; 
 and, also, because circumstances brought it to 
 my mind afterwards. 
 
 " Well, we stayed at the Laighlands all summer. 
 It was a glorious summer to my young folks — 
 and a sorrowful day when we left the place. We 
 had to start about four in the morning, in Ken- 
 nedy's cart, which had been our sole link with 
 the civilised world, and in which he had conveyed 
 to us daily — for this absolutely refusing payment
 
 88 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 to the last — all provisions which the farm could 
 not supply ; and the few extraneous necessities — 
 letters, newspapers, linendrapery, &c. — which we 
 indulged in at this primitive place. He brought 
 them from the nearest town, or what flattered 
 itself was a town, several miles off. We had 
 given him a deal of trouble, and now he had 
 taken for us the final trouble of all, by bestowing 
 endless pains on the arrangement of seats and 
 mattresses, so as to make the rough jolting cart 
 a little comfortable for me and the children. 
 They cried as they said good-bye to the pretty 
 place where they had been so happy, and the 
 good folk who had been so excessively kind to 
 them. And I own I was half inclined to cry too, 
 when Mrs. Kennedy, who had been rather in- 
 visible of late — she brought her gudeman his 
 seventh child while we were at the Laighlands — 
 appeared, weak and white-looking as she was, in 
 the cold dawn of the morning, and gave me a 
 basket neatly packed with all sorts of good 
 things — eatables and drinkables. ' It's for the 
 weans on their journey/ she said. ' We'll no 
 forget the weans.' 
 
 " And it was a very long time before the weans 
 forgot her or the Laighlands. Of winter nights 
 they used to go over every bit of our blithe time 
 there — from the first day we came and settled 
 ourselves in the small but tidy parlour, in the 
 clean bedrooms, full of furniture that looked as 
 if it had been bought in the last century — as 
 possibly it had — up to the final day when old 
 Kennedy (he was quite an old man, though hale
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 89 
 
 and hearty), drove his cart into the sea almost — 
 for the waves were running high — and carried 
 the children through them into the boat by which 
 we had to reach the steamer that was to bear 
 us far away — to horrid London, to streets, and 
 squares, and work, and school. And over and 
 over again I had to describe to the little ones, 
 whose memories were fainter than they cared to 
 confess, the figure of the good old man in his 
 grey kilt, bonnet, and plaid, with his white hair 
 flying in the wind, as he stood making his last 
 signals from the shore, and shouting out his last 
 Gaelic farewells, for he could speak but little 
 English ; the boys answering him in the few 
 words he had taught them, which they remem- 
 bered for ever so long, till Gaelic was rubbed out 
 by Latin and Greek. I, too — with the warm heart 
 that a mother cannot help having towards any 
 one who has been kind to her children — kept for 
 a long time in my store-cupboard the basket 
 Mrs. Kennedy had filled for the bairns on their 
 voyage. And every New Year, for several years, 
 we sent books and other gifts to the little 
 Kennedys, hoping each summer that we should 
 manage to go back to the Laighlands. But we 
 never did ; and in process of time our connection 
 with the place slipped by — perhaps our interest 
 likewise : in this busy London life it is so easy 
 to forget. 
 
 " It was last New Year, or possibly a few days 
 after then, that I was sitting just here — in this 
 drawing-room " — (which was a very nice one, for 
 Mrs. Burns' husband has honourably worked his
 
 90 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 way to a handsome house in one of the best 
 streets in London) — " I was sewing by myself, 
 and the young folks were down below in the 
 school-room. It was one of those terribly cold 
 bleak days that we had last winter, the wind 
 howling in the chimney, and the snow falling or 
 trying to fall, for it was too cold almost to snow. 
 I was sitting with my feet on the fender, and 
 with the feeling of intense thankfulness which 
 always comes to me in such weather, that I have a 
 good house over my head and all my dear ones 
 about me, — when a message arrived that some 
 one below wanted to speak to me. 
 
 " ' Who is it } ' asked I ; for such messages 
 are endless in our house, and generally prove to 
 be applications for charity. It was a poor woman, 
 my servant said : a woman with a little girl, and 
 she would not send up her name, but insisted 
 upon speaking to me myself 
 
 " I thought it was one of the ordinary genteel 
 London beggars, and you know what London 
 begging is, and how, after being taken in over 
 and over again, one has to harden one's heart " — 
 (a process which, judging from Mrs. Burns' face, 
 in her case would not be sudden or easy). " Of 
 course, I could not refuse to see the person ; but 
 I went down to her, looking, I dare say, as cold 
 as a stone. 
 
 " She was a tall thin woman — remarkably tall 
 for a woman ; and her long straight black dress, 
 and clinging black shawl, no thicker than yours 
 to-day, though it was mid-winter, made her seem 
 taller and thinner still. I looked in ther face,
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 9I 
 
 which was sharp-featured, worn, and elderly, but 
 I could not remember ever having seen her 
 before. So I just asked her her business, very 
 freezingly I suppose, for she drew back at once 
 towards the dining-room door. 
 
 " ' Ye'U no mind o' me, ma'am. I'm troubling 
 ye, I see ; so I'll just be gone. It's no matter.' 
 
 " It was a Scotch voice, and a Scotch manner ; 
 the air of quiet independence that, I am glad to 
 say, even the very lowest of us seldom quite 
 lose. We Scotch, if we are ever so poor, don't 
 beg like your London beggars. So, of course, 
 I asked her to wait a minute, and tell me her 
 name. 
 
 " Do ye no ken } — Eh, Mrs. Burns ? I must 
 be sair changed — and nae wonder — if ye dinna 
 ken me. I'm Mistress Kennedy of the Laigh- 
 lands.' 
 
 " ' Mrs. Kennedy of the Laighlands ! ' You 
 will guess how in an instant the face of matters 
 was entirely changed, and what sort of a welcome 
 she got — she and her daughter, for the little 
 girlie that hung by her gown, and peered from 
 behind her with shy, dark eyes, must be hers — 
 possibly the baby that was born while we were 
 there. 
 
 " Ay, so she was. ' She's the youngest ; and 
 I couldna leave her behind ; though it's a very 
 sad journey I come on to this awfu' London. 
 Oh, it is an awfu' place, Mrs. Burns ! And ye're 
 keeping weel yoursel', and the gudeman and a' 
 the bairns } ' added she, with the instinctive tact 
 and courtesy which one sees almost universally
 
 92 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 among Highland people, and which we had 
 always noticed so much in Mrs. Kennedy. 
 Though only a farmer's wife, her manners were 
 as good as if she were a lady born. But she 
 looked so ill, so depressed, so actually weighed 
 down with care, that I shrank from asking her 
 the especial trouble which had brought her 
 hither. By-and-by she poured it out. 
 
 " * No, the gudeman's no deid, Mrs. Burns, 
 though sometimes he almost wishes he were. 
 He has got notice to quit the Laighlands. Just 
 think ! — the Laighlands ! Where he was born, 
 and his father likewise — and where he has paid 
 his rent — never behind a day — for fifty year. 
 Isn't it hard, ma'am ? ' 
 
 " It was hard. We folk who live in streets 
 and houses all just like one another can scarcely 
 recognise how hard. Besides, as Mrs. Kennedy 
 went on to explain, and which I myself knew 
 well, in that thinly-populated district an eviction 
 meant actual turning out ; with small prospect 
 of finding another home. Houses were very 
 scarce, and the farms few and far between, being 
 mostly held by tenants who had held them for 
 generations. A notice to quit implied not merely 
 a flitting but a complete uprooting. No wonder 
 the poor body spoke of it as we speak of some 
 heavy calamity. 
 
 " ' But your factor is a good man,' said I. 
 * Did you not appeal to him } ' 
 
 " Mrs. Kennedy shook her head. * I'm no 
 saying aught against the factor, but he's my 
 lord's servant, and they say my lord wants
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 93 
 
 money, and they're wishing to feu the estate. 
 Ah, they micht hae let my man keep the Laigh- 
 lands a bit while langer. It'll no be unco lang 
 — he's ower seventy, ye ken^; It's breaking his 
 heart.' 
 
 " I asked her why she did not write to the 
 young lord ; for the old lord, as he was now 
 called, though scarcely past middle age when he 
 died, had, I knew, been dead a year or more. 
 
 " ' We did think o' that. His young lordship 
 — do you ken him, Mrs. Burns .'' ' 
 
 " That was not likely ; but I had heard about 
 him — a promising lad in his teens, left sole 
 master of one of the finest properties in Scot- 
 land. He was too young for people to know 
 much good about him — but nobody knew any 
 harm : he was a college youth, frank and lively, 
 given to all the amusements of his age and rank 
 — not much of a student, but that could hardly 
 be expected of the heir to indefinite thousands 
 a year. Still, as I told Mrs. Kennedy, a young 
 man scarcely twenty, in any rank of life, is apt 
 to be thoughtless, and in his rank great people 
 often do little people a deal of harm without in 
 the least intending it. 
 
 **'That was just what the lawyer said — the 
 lawyer I went to in Edinburgh, yesterday.' 
 
 " * Yesterday ! ' I exclaimed. 
 
 " ' Ay, ma'am, though it seems a year sinsyne. 
 The gudeman couldna stir, being laid aside with 
 rheumatism, so I just thought I would gang 
 to Edinburgh mysel', and see Mr. Campbell, a 
 friend o' mine that's a writer there. And he
 
 94 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 said to me — " Mrs. Kennedy, if I was you I 
 would gang up to London and speak wi' his 
 young lordship face to face." That was yester- 
 day, as I said ; there wasna a day to lose — in a 
 week's time the notice we got to leave the Laigh- 
 lands was due ; and we would be turned out. 
 So I wrote to my husband frae Mr. Campbell's 
 office, I put mysel' in the train — me and the 
 bairn, for I could neither send her hame nor 
 leave her in Edinburgh ; and we travelled a' the 
 night and reached London this morning, just as 
 we were.' 
 
 "Just as they were! — in those thin clothes, 
 and such a terrible cold night as it had been ! 
 No wonder they looked as wretched as they did, 
 and that my servant had made such a mistake 
 about them and their condition in life. Very 
 much surprised she was when I rang the bell 
 and desired her to take the little girl and make 
 her comfortable in my children's nursery ; and 
 bring up breakfast at once for ' my friend Mrs. 
 Kennedy, who had come all the way from Scot- 
 land last night' 
 
 " Mrs. Kennedy said nothing, nor resisted in 
 the least ; she was utterly exhausted. She sat 
 by the fire with her hands on her lap, and her 
 sad eyes looking straight before her, scarcely 
 noticing the things around her, as if she had 
 been familiar with them all her life. And when 
 at last she got a little strengthened by warmth 
 and food, and was able to tell me her story, she 
 did so with a composure and quiet dignity that 
 would have surprised any one who did not know
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 95 
 
 how the Jeanie Deans nature, fearless, self- 
 reliant, yet absolutely without self-consciousness, 
 is not exceptional, but lies dormant in many and 
 many a Scotchwoman, ready to appear at once 
 when circumstances require it, as in this case. 
 For you and I, I suppose, can hardly realise 
 what such a sudden journey to London must 
 have appeared to Mrs. Kennedy — almost like a 
 journey to the Antipodes. 
 
 " ' Were you not afraid ? ' I asked her. 
 
 " * Maybe,' she answered, faintly smiling. ' But 
 somebody maun do it, ye ken, and there was 
 naebody but me.' By-and-by she told me 
 how she had done it. 
 
 " Poor body ! only imagine her, dropped in 
 the gloomy winter morning at the terminus in 
 Euston Square, not knowing a soul, having but 
 one place to go to in all London ; — and with 
 her Scotch directness of purpose she had gone 
 right to it — his young lordship's town-house, the 
 magnificent mansion in Square. 
 
 ** It was partially closed, as most great houses 
 are in the Christmas recess. Mrs. Kennedy 
 merely thought, ' the London folk are awfu' late 
 of rising,' and unwilling to disturb the family, sat 
 down on the lowest stone step, with her little 
 girl beside her. There she waited, pinched with 
 cold — but she was well accustomed to cold — 
 until there should be some sign of life in the 
 house within. Presently came * a braw sogerly 
 young man, wi' a bag o' letters,' and rang as if 
 he, at least, had no fear of disturbing his lord- 
 ship's slumbers, but he poked his letters in at a
 
 96 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 slit in the door — and still it was not opened. 
 At last Mrs. Kennedy took courage and rang 
 the bell likewise, and begged the footman who 
 opened it to tell his lordship that she had come 
 all the way from Scotland to speak to him, and 
 could he see her for five minutes on private busi- 
 ness, as soon as he rose .'' 
 
 " But the footman only laughed, and called 
 another footman who laughed too, and they told 
 her it was a capital story, but that if she didn't 
 go away they would send the Mendicity officers 
 after her. * I didna ken what the young man 
 meant,' added Mrs. Kennedy, * but I tell't him 
 (ceevilly enough, for I was sure he was only 
 doing his duty) that his young lordship would 
 mind me weel ; — I was Mistress Kennedy o' the 
 Laighlands. But what do you think, Mrs. Burns .? ' 
 and she looked at me with a grieved simplicity, 
 ' he had never heard tell o' the Laighlands ! ' 
 
 " There must have been some uncomfortable 
 passages between her and these grand footmen, 
 though with her natural dignified reticence, which 
 did not like even to own that she had been 
 insulted, Mrs. Kennedy avoided particularising 
 them. Besides, the feudal reverence in which 
 the young lord was held everywhere on the 
 estate was such, that under the shadow of it 
 even his domestics were exempt from blame. 
 I could only gather that she was turning to quit 
 the house, when up there came a young man, 
 or, as Mrs. Kennedy pointedly put it, a young 
 gentleman. 
 
 " He entered with an air of authority, so that
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 97 
 
 she might have taken him for her landlord, only 
 it had been plainly said that the young noble- 
 man was absent from home ; ' and,' reasoned she 
 in her simplicity, ' his lordship must be far too 
 great a gentleman to bid his servants tell a lee 
 about himsel'.' But the new-comer was of some 
 importance in the establishment. When he per- 
 ceived the confusion in the hall, he asked im- 
 peratively what it was all about; and so he learnt 
 Mrs. Kennedy's name, and where she came from. 
 '' ' He was a Scotsman — I'm gey sure he was 
 a Scotsman,' she said ; but at any rate he was a 
 kindly-hearted young gentleman, and evidently 
 held some good position in the establishment ; 
 for when he spoke and listened to her answers, 
 the servants ceased interfering, and hung back 
 respectfully. At length he asked her to walk 
 into his * study/ a little room leading off the 
 hall, and then told her who he was. 
 
 (Mrs. Burns gave me the gentleman's name 
 and position in the young lord's household ; but 
 neither are of consequence to my story. If he 
 ever reads it, he may take the reward of one of 
 those small kindlinesses which cost so little and 
 are worth so much, and recognise himself) 
 
 "He placed the weary woman in his own arm- 
 chair, and shut the study-door. Then, before 
 he allowed her to speak another word, he opened 
 a cupboard, and took out a bottle of wine and a 
 bag of biscuits, with which he put a little life 
 into her and the child, — the good bairn, her brave 
 mother's own daughter, who had stood silent 
 and sleepy and hungry, but had never once shed 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 a tear. Then he bade Mrs. Kennedy tell him 
 her whole case from beginning to end. 
 
 " It was very simple ; and he, of course, must 
 have seen it clearly enough, — probably much 
 clearer than the poor woman herself saw it. It 
 was the common story of the different way in 
 which the same things affect big folk and little. 
 Probably nobody was to blame ; or the whole 
 was a matter of mere carelessness. In all likeli- 
 hood the young nobleman knew nothing what- 
 ever about it, and never would, unless some one 
 specially told him, ' You cannot see him,' said 
 
 Mr. , ' he really is not here, but you might 
 
 write to him. If you like I will sketch out the 
 letter.' 
 
 " ' But,' continued Mrs. Kennedy, ' I tell't him 
 that I was ill at the pen, and gin I wrote maybe 
 his lordship couldna read it ; and if I could only 
 see him, just for five minutes. I hae seen him 
 mony a time — riding up our hill-side by his 
 father's big horse — on his wee Shetland pony. 
 O, gin I could but see his lordship ! ' 
 
 " Probably the young gentleman thought — as 
 I did then — oh, if his lordship could but see this 
 woman ! — one of the sort of women who bore 
 the sons that followed and fought for his fore- 
 fathers ; with her strong, earnest, and yet not 
 unbeautiful Highland face ; her complete self- 
 forgetfulness, and absorption in the work she had 
 before her. So, after a little consideration, he 
 agreed with Mrs. Kennedy that a personal inter- 
 view would give her cause the best chance. But 
 it could only be accomplished by her going to the
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 99 
 
 college where the young lord then was ; and 
 which, to avoid all recognition, I will call St. 
 Cuthbert's Hall, Oxbridge. Would she do this.? 
 Could she do it ? For it was a considerable 
 journey from London, and it would cost a good 
 deal more money. She asked how much ; and 
 then inwardly reckoned her purse. It fell short 
 by at least twenty shillings. 
 
 " This was a hard discovery, but she kept it 
 to herself. She had never borrowed a halfpenny 
 in her life, and would not begin now, — certainly 
 not from a stranger. The only thought that 
 occurred to her was to sell something, perhaps a 
 little cairngorm brooch she had ; but how to set 
 about it she did not know. And then, in answer 
 to the young gentleman's question, had she any 
 friends in London .'* she suddenly thought of us. 
 
 " She did not know, or if she ever did know, 
 had forgotten, our London address, and our 
 name was a common one enough. The Direc- 
 tory, which her friend took down and diligently 
 searched in, scarcely helped her at all ; till at 
 length she recollected my husband's profession 
 and somewhat peculiar Christian name. ' That's 
 him,' she cried ; and found to her comfort that 
 
 Mr. knew him, at least by reputation. 
 
 Most young Scotsmen in London know my 
 husband. So, without more ado, Mrs. Kennedy 
 took a grateful leave of the gentleman, put her- 
 self into a cab by his advice, and drove to our 
 door. 
 
 " While she rested, for she absolutely refused 
 to go to bed or to sleep, I went in to consult 
 
 H 2
 
 loo HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 with my husband. But when I saw him I was 
 so excited by the story I had heard, by the old 
 remembrances which the sight of Mrs. Kennedy 
 had revived, and by things in general, that I 
 could not speak a word, but fairly began to 'greet.' 
 He, too, was in no small degree affected by what 
 at last I managed to tell him ; even so much 
 that he had to take refuge in the study of Brad- 
 shaw, and discovery of the Oxbridge trains. 
 
 " We found the only available one now would 
 take Mrs. Kennedy into the town about eleven 
 that night — an impossible time to see a young 
 undergraduate. So we persuaded her with great 
 difficulty, for it seemed to be like losing time, 
 that her best course was to sleep at our house, 
 she and Jessie, and take the earliest morning 
 train, which was at six a.m. To this she con- 
 sented ; seeing, with her clear good sense, that 
 nothing better could be done, and being withal 
 greatly comforted by perceiving how happy 
 Jessie was with our children. 
 
 " The children — or rather the young people — 
 were in great excitement all day. It was such 
 a romantic story ; Mrs. Kennedy was such a 
 remarkable person, and Jessie (who being left 
 behind with us in awful London, was at first 
 very unhappy — then being taken to the Zoolo- 
 gical Gardens, found consolation in a ride on 
 the big elephant), Jessie was such a quaint sort 
 of child, speaking little English, yet full of 
 Highland grace and Highland intelligence, that 
 she amused us much. Late at night Jessie's 
 mother came back, and then we all thronged
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. loi 
 
 round her, eager to learn how she had fared ; 
 in fact, greedy over every word of her story. 
 
 " It was told in her face. Never was there 
 such a sad face. I wish his young lordship 
 could have seen it 
 
 " Understand, I don't mean unwarrantably to 
 blame the young nobleman. He was but a boy 
 — careless as boys are : and upon him had fallen, 
 much before his time, the solemn responsibilities 
 of property. I do not suppose he meant any 
 harm, or had the least idea he was doing an 
 unkindness. Only, he did it. 
 
 *' When Mrs. Kennedy reached Oxbridge at 
 about nine in the morning, she was told that his 
 lordship could not be seen ; in fact, he had not 
 long gone to bed. This his valet informed her 
 confidentially ; adding, for he seemed a kind 
 young fellow, and knew his lordship's Scotch 
 property, and even thought he remembered the 
 farm at the Laighlands — that as soon as his 
 master waked he would tell him that there was 
 a woman waiting, who had come all the way 
 from Scotland to see him. 
 
 " She did wait — hour after hour — wandering 
 forlornly about the college gardens and quad- 
 rangle — going into the town for a little food — 
 then walking hurriedly back again, lest by 
 chance she should miss the happy moment when 
 his young lordship should condescend to open 
 his eyes ; afraid to intrude, and yet trembling 
 lest she should be forgotten and overlooked. It 
 was now nearly three in the afternoon. Then 
 in despair applying again to the valet, she heard
 
 102 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 that his lordship was at breakfast ; some friends 
 were breakfasting with him ; he could not pos- 
 sibly be disturbed. 
 
 " Nevertheless, the kindly valet took in a 
 message, imploring that she might see his lord- 
 ship just for one minute ; she would not trouble 
 him longer. He surely must remember the 
 Laighlands ; he had ridden there many a time 
 on his little pony. His lordship sent out word 
 that he did remember the Laighlands, and that 
 though he could not see her now, he would do so 
 on the Monday following, at his house in London. 
 
 " But Mrs. Kennedy knew that Monday would 
 be too late. If she could not leave London on 
 the Saturday evening, she would not reach home 
 in time to prevent the notice from taking effect, 
 and the ejection being accomplished. She urged 
 this upon the valet, who was daring enough to 
 go in and speak to his master a second time. 
 Then one of the guests, a merry-looking young 
 gentleman — they seemed a merry set, Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy thought, for she heard their shouts of 
 laughter through the door — came out and spoke 
 to her, quite civilly, but with exceeding amuse- 
 ment at the idea of her thinking it was possi- 
 ble she could see his lordship. But, neverthe- 
 less, he told her to make her mind easy, for 
 that a telegram should be sent to the factor, 
 desiring him to pause in the ejection until he 
 heard further. 
 
 " With this Mrs. Kennedy was forced to be 
 content ; but she left Oxbridge with a very 
 heavy heart.
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 103 
 
 " She stayed with us until the appointed 
 Monday ; and we took her about and showed 
 her and Jessie the wonders of London, and 
 diverted her mind as well as we could from the 
 painful suspense under which she was labouring. 
 She tried to enjoy herself — she was touchingly 
 grateful But still the heavy sense of what was 
 hanging over her — hanging upon half-a-dozen 
 words from a youth's careless lips — seemed to 
 cloud over everything. I never spent a more 
 restless uncomfortable Sunday than the one be- 
 fore that Monday, in thinking and wondering 
 what would be the result of her application : a 
 result of such slight moment to the young noble- 
 man — of incalculable importance to the old 
 farmer and his family. 
 
 " ' I hope I'm no wicked, Mrs. Burns/ said 
 the poor woman, looking at me pathetically on 
 coming home from church, — we had taken her 
 to hear our own dear minister, though he was 
 Free Kirk and she Established, to prove that 
 there were good ' soun' ' Presbyterian clergy- 
 men even in London — ' I didna mean to be 
 wicked or unthankfu' — and I likit the look o' 
 him, and his sweet voice and kind eyes— but I 
 didna hear one half o' the minister's sermon,' 
 
 " Neither did I, so I could say nothing. It 
 was no use to begin moralizing to Mrs. Kennedy 
 about the relations between class and class, and 
 the respective duties that each owes to the 
 other. It is just what I notice in my own house- 
 hold, that what seems a small thing to me may 
 be a very great one to my servant ; and that it
 
 104 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 behoves all who are put in authority to take the 
 utmost pains to look at every question from the 
 under as well as the upper side. 
 
 " Eleven in the forenoon was the hour fixed 
 for the interview. We dressed Mrs. Kennedy 
 for it with great care, and helped her out with 
 some few things ; for she had hardly any clothes 
 with her ; and we thought it advisable that his 
 lordship's tenant of fifty years' standing, and re- 
 presenting a tenantry of fifty years previous to 
 that, should appear before him as respectable as 
 possible. To this end, it being a fearfully wet 
 morning, we sent her off in a decent cab, which 
 my husband gave orders should wait for her at 
 the corner of the square. 
 
 " This done — we, too, waited ; in a suspense 
 that to my young people was very exciting, and 
 to me actually painful. We had given her a full 
 hour, indeed I expected a much longer absence, 
 for I thought she would likely be kept waiting ; 
 people whose time is of little value never reckon 
 the value of time to others. So if she were back 
 by one, I should have been well-pleased. But 
 long before the clock struck twelve the cab drew 
 up to the door, and Mrs. Kennedy stood in the 
 hall. The moment I saw her face I was certain 
 all was lost 
 
 " * Come in,' I said, and drew her into the 
 study, and shut the door, to keep the children 
 out awhile. * Come in and sit down.' 
 
 *' She sat down, and then lifted up to me the 
 forlornest face ! ' Ye' re vera kind, ma'am ; I'll 
 tell the gudeman ye've been wonderfu' kind. My
 
 (< i 
 
 a i 
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. ioS 
 
 puir auld man ! — and he past seventy year ! — 
 It's awfu' hard for him.' 
 
 " I took her hand— poor soul ! and then she 
 shed one or two tears, not more, and rose. 
 
 " * I maun gang hame as soon as I can, Mrs. 
 Burns, to look after the auld man.' 
 
 " ' Then there is no chance .? What did his 
 lordship say to you ? ' 
 
 Naething. He gaed to Paris yestreen.' 
 ' And did he leave no letter — no message .? * 
 Ne'er a word. He's clean forgotten me. 
 Young folks hae sic short memories. Maybe he 
 meant nae harm.' 
 
 " This was all she said. Not a word of blame 
 or reproach, or bitterness. The instinctive feel- 
 ing of feudal respect in which she had been 
 brought up, or perhaps a higher feeling still, 
 sealed her tongue even then. Nor did I — in- 
 dignant as I was — desire to be more severe 
 upon the young man than he deserved. I only 
 wished that he, who had such an infinite power 
 of good in his hands — such an unlimited possi- 
 bility of experiencing the keenest joy of life, that 
 of making people happy — could have seen the 
 misery on this poor woman's face, as she thought 
 of all her weary journeys thrown away — of her 
 returning journey to tell the bitter tidings to her 
 old husband, about whom she seemed to grieve 
 far more than for herself. 
 
 " ' If his lordship wad hae let us bide at the 
 Laighlands while the auld man lived,' she said, 
 ' we wad hae paid a better rent — as we tell't 
 the factor — and new stockit the farm, and Ken-
 
 io6 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 nedy wad hae done his best wi' the new-fangled 
 ways, though he hates them a' — and it wadna 
 hae been for more than ten years at most : and 
 what's ten years to his young lordship, that will 
 scarce be a man when my auld man's in his 
 grave ? Ochone — ochone ! ' And she began 
 rocking herself with a low moan, and talking 
 in (jaelic to Jessie, who had run in eagerly with 
 several of my children. I took them all away, 
 and left the child and mother together. 
 
 '' There was no more to be done. To apply 
 
 to Mr. , who had been so kind, was also 
 
 useless ; he had told her he was only in London 
 for two days. Besides, he could not interfere 
 openly in her affairs, with which, from his position 
 in the household, he had nothing whatever to do. 
 The only thing was to accept passively things as 
 they were, and trust to the chance that the 
 telegram sent had stopped present proceedings 
 at the Laighlands. While in the meantime Mrs. 
 Kennedy might take the course which had at 
 first been intended, of addressing his lordship by 
 letter. 
 
 "We wrote the letter for her, putting the 
 case in her name, but in as strong terms as 
 we could ; and my husband took care it should 
 be so forwarded that it was almost impossible 
 his lordship should not receive it. This done, 
 we sent the poor woman away by the night-train 
 to Scotland — for she was most eager to be gone 
 — making her and Jessie as comfortable as we 
 could ; earnestly hoping, and with perhaps an 
 allowable hypocrisy trying hard to persuade her,
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 107 
 
 that, after all, things might turn out less sad than 
 she feared. We assured her — and ourselves in 
 doing so — that the telegram would make all safe 
 for a few days to come ; and in the meantime 
 her letter — that momentous letter, the invention 
 and inditing of which had cost us, as well as 
 herself, such a world of pains — might, nay, must, 
 not only appeal to the young landlord's sense of 
 justice, but touch his heart, even in the midst of 
 his Paris enjoyments ; so that he would imme- 
 diately send back word, confirming the Laigh- 
 lands Farm to poor old Kennedy for his lifetime. 
 My young folk, full of youth's romance and in- 
 herent belief in goodness, felt quite sure it would 
 be so ; nay, I think the younger ones actually 
 imagined his lordship would do all manner of 
 noble and generous actions — even to driving to 
 the farm in a coach and six, personally to ex- 
 press his regard for the Kennedys — the very 
 next time he happened to be on his property. 
 
 " We started her off — poor body ! — with many 
 good wishes on both sides : talked of her very 
 often for a week or so, and then, hearing no 
 more, we concluded all was well so far ; the 
 whirl of London life swallowed us up, and the 
 subject dropped out of our memories. 
 
 " It might have been February — no, I have 
 the letter here, and it is dated 12th March— that 
 my husband got the following from Mr. Ken- 
 nedy, written in a feeble old man's hand, but 
 carefully composed and spelt, as became one of 
 the well-educated peasantry of the North ; one, 
 too, who though only a farmer, could count his
 
 lo8 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 forefathers for more generations than many an 
 owner of a magnificent ' place.' 
 
 *' 'Dear Sir,— 
 
 ***! beg to return you my sincerest thanks for your 
 unremitting kindness to my wife and daughter when in London : 
 when they came home and told us, the whole family were de- 
 lighted to hear of such kindness being shown them. Before 
 Mrs. Kennedy came home, a friend got a paper made out in our 
 favour, to prevent anything being done against us ; this friend 
 was home in the boat along with Mrs. Kennedy, also officers 
 
 from , to get us put out. I went in the morning to call 
 
 upon the factor, and see if he had got the telegram from his 
 lordship, but I could not see him, and I asked his clerk if he 
 knew if he had got it, but he said he had heard no word about it. 
 I told him the telegram was certain sent, for that Mrs. Kennedy 
 saw the valet go to the telegraph ofiice at Oxbridge with it. 
 The officers came to the farm, but this friend of ours got them 
 stopped. We learnt afterwards that the telegram had been mis- 
 directed, and so it went to another place, and did not reach the 
 factor till too late. We have got no answer from his young 
 lordship to the letter you was kind enough to help Mrs. 
 Kennedy write. We have sold part of our sheep in order to get 
 some better kind, as we have been hearing that it has been said 
 we were turned out because our farm was not fully stocked ; but 
 the Order in Council about the cattle disease, preventing cattle 
 being removed from one place to another, and the uncertain 
 situation we are placed in, has hindered this being done. But il 
 we get encouragement from his loixlship, we will stock the farm, 
 and get on as soon as possible. If you will be kindly pleased, 
 say in your wisdom, if anything can be done, and if we need 
 to write his lordship any more till we hear from himself. 
 
 " ' I am, dear sir, 
 
 " ' Your most obedient servant, 
 
 "'Andrew Kennedy.' 
 
 " On receipt of this letter, we all laid our heads 
 together to consider what had best be done. 
 The result was that Mr. Kennedy wrote a second 
 letter to the young nobleman — sufficient, we 
 thought, to have moved a heart of stone — and 
 my husband got it forwarded immediately by 
 what he believed to be even a surer channel
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 109 
 
 than the first one had gone by. And, meantime, 
 we made private inquiries as to what sort of 
 young fellow he really was : and, I must con- 
 fess, we heard nothing ill of him : nothing but 
 faults of youth — which a few more years may 
 mend, and cause him to grow up a man worthy 
 of his important destiny : worthy of his an- 
 cestors and himself Oh, that he may ! — for 
 many sakes besides his own, — this poor lad, 
 left orphaned at a time a lad most needs a 
 father's care, and pinnacled on a height where 
 the bravest and steadiest could hardly walk 
 without tottering. 
 
 ** After sending this letter, for two months 
 more we heard nothing from the Laighlands. 
 Then came the following, headed by another 
 date, which the minute I saw, I knew the poor 
 old farmer's fate was decided : — 
 
 *' ^ Fairbaiik Cottage, May yd. 
 " ' Dear Sir, — 
 
 " * I am sorry to say that we never received any letter 
 from his lordship ; and we had to submit to be ejected from our 
 farm and home, so that we are now for a short time in a little 
 cottage belonging to my brother, James Kennedy. I called upon 
 the factor to-day, to see if he had any place for us now ; but I got 
 no encouragement. He had said the family could make us com- 
 fortable with another house if we left the Farm ; but there is no 
 word of that now. We would have written to you sooner, but 
 Mrs. Kennedy has been so grieved in her mind, and she had no 
 time to spare, being busy removing and packing up furniture 
 until we get some home elsewhere. She still remembers the 
 kindness shown her by you and your kind family, and bids me say 
 she has a small box preparing with a few articles to send to Mrs. 
 Burns, as a small token of her gratitude for the kindness shown 
 
 her. You can let Mr. know how we have been used, and 
 
 how the young lord forgot us in our distress. If his lordship 
 would have given us a small lot of ground and a house, we 
 should have taken it kind, though we lost our farm : and so we
 
 no HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. 
 
 would now — but, in the way he forgot us, we have no encourage- 
 ment to ask any other favour. 
 
 " ' I am, my dear sir, 
 
 " ' Your sincere well-wisher, 
 
 "'Andrew Kennedy.' 
 
 " That was all. No more complaints : no 
 blame : no wild democratic outcry against the 
 lord of the soil. The old man had been brought 
 up to respect * the powers that be,' and to submit, 
 unmurmuring, in his stern, patient, unquestion- 
 ing Presbyterian faith, to the ordering of Provi- 
 dence. Unto human injustice it is possible to 
 submit too much : and yet there is a submission 
 which is not merely wise, but heroic. I own, 
 Mr. Kennedy's letter — in its brevity involving 
 such a world of grief and loss, and that, too, at 
 the close of life, when loss is quite irreparable 
 — touched most deeply both my husband and 
 myself. And — well, there lies before you Mrs. 
 Kennedy's butter." 
 
 I tasted it, for the second time feeling *' like 
 to greet," but with a far deeper emotion than 
 the mere remembrance of the lovely country 
 
 about the Laighlands. 
 
 ***** 
 
 I should like to end this tale — a true tale, be 
 it again understood — with the bright winding-up 
 exacted by ''poetical justice." I should like to 
 state how — " better late than never " — his young 
 lordship had recognised his responsibilities ; and 
 though the carelessly worded telegram did fail 
 of its object, though the promised appointment 
 was broken, and the humble entreating letters
 
 HIS YOUNG LORDSHIP. in 
 
 left unanswered, possibly even unread, still some 
 good angel had brought the matter to the young 
 man's memory, with favourable results for poor 
 Kennedy's few remaining years. So that, though 
 he could not be reinstated in his farm — nay (for 
 let us hold the balance of justice fairly between 
 poor and rich, the rich who are often in reality 
 so painfully, humiliatingly, poor), although it 
 might even be inevitable, for some recondite 
 reason, that he should have been removed from 
 it — still there was found for him that '' little lot 
 of ground " hard by somewhere, where the old 
 man could live comfortably and content until 
 the end of his days. 
 
 But nothing of this sort has happened, or 
 seems likely to happen, so far as I know. I 
 can only tell the story, and leave it ; as we are 
 obliged to leave so many things in this world — 
 sad, unfinished ; unable alike to see the reason 
 of them, or the final settlement of them. Only 
 there is One above us who sees all.
 
 ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA. 
 
 FROM A WOMAN'S POINT OF VIEW. 
 
 " Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." 
 
 WE women have a voice in the nation 
 — let the men say what they will. 
 Nor, I think, will any good man 
 say aught unkind of it, or of us, so long as we 
 take care to keep this voice what it should be — 
 what God and nature meant it to be — low and 
 sweet in their ears as the voice of Eve in 
 Adam's : yet clear, firm, and never to be 
 silenced or ignored, like the voice of conscience 
 in their hearts. For the condition of a nation 
 where it has ceased to speak and to be listened 
 to — this soft utterance, appealing less to reason 
 and expediency than to instinct and feeling 
 — would be analogous to that of a strong, bold, 
 active man, with every physical and mental 
 power in full perfection, only — without a con- 
 science. 
 
 It can do no harm to speak a little, in this 
 said woman's voice, upon a subject which has
 
 ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA. 113 
 
 been very much discussed of late, in news- 
 papers, social circles, and, since it touches on 
 family and fireside things, at almost every 
 family fireside throughout the kingdom. We 
 shall come to it by-and-by ; but previously let 
 me refer to two other subjects which drew my 
 thoughts towards this one, and are, in fact, 
 illustrations of it. The first was a book — the 
 second a picture. 
 
 The book was Froude's history of the reign 
 of Queen Elizabeth. What a wonderful history 
 it is ! Not written after the ancient pattern, 
 viz., laying down the law : stating certain 
 received facts, concerning which no evidence is 
 either given or expected to be required. Such 
 and such events happened — there is no doubt 
 of it — everybody believes it, dear reader, and so 
 must you ; thus and thus were people's actions, 
 characters, and motives — we are quite sure of 
 all, there is no room for either dispute or inquiry. 
 This was the old style of writing history : but 
 Froude does it on a totally different principle. 
 He rarely gives any individual opinion, and as 
 seldom makes any statement without proving it 
 or making it prove itself. He does not trust to 
 chance at all. He hunts out from every avail- 
 able source a series of well-authenticated data, 
 which he lays clearly and impartially before 
 you : and then leaves you to form your own 
 conclusions. Sometimes in a few vivid touches 
 — (witness the opening sentence of Vol I. : "The 
 breath was scarcely out of Queen Mary's body," 
 &c., &c) — he gives you a picture of incidents
 
 114 ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA. 
 
 or characters, interesting as a novel, and vivid as 
 life ; but, generally speaking, he allows them to 
 make pictures for themselves on your mind. 
 His part is to place before you, as perfectly and 
 truthfully as he can, the people and the events 
 of the period, which you then judge for your- 
 self If he assists your judgment by any per- 
 sonal bias of his own, it is concealed so 
 artistically that you never discover it. And 
 you become so deeply interested in these his- 
 torical personages — these long dead men and 
 women, once so living and warm — that you 
 scarcely think of the historian at all ; which is 
 the highest compliment you can pay him. 
 
 Most lifelike among all these portraits — now 
 reproduced almost in flesh and blood, after 
 being mere historical shadows for three cen- 
 turies — is the young Queen. Not as yet the 
 Queen Elizabeth of our school-days, who cut 
 off the heads of Mary Stuart, her cousin, and 
 Essex, her supposed lover — (wicked lie!) — whose 
 terrible deathbed scene fixed itself on our youth- 
 ful imagination, as she lay raving on her palace 
 floor, with her gray hair torn, and her three 
 hundred dresses, stiff with jewels, all disre- 
 garded. Not this Elizabeth, but Elizabeth, still 
 not much over twenty, the learned, accom- 
 plished, handsome princess — with quahties suffi- 
 cient to exact personally the homage necessarily 
 given to her station : acute, determined, liking 
 to rule and quite capable of doing it : given to 
 " indirect, crooked ways " and diplomatic deceits 
 — rather, perhaps, from the excessive cleverness
 
 ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA. 115 
 
 of her scheming brain than from any absolute 
 untrueness of heart. For she had a heart — 
 this poor EHzabeth — a heart as passionate, 
 proud, capricious, artful, and yet sincere, as ever 
 tormented a woman. 
 
 To students of human nature, there is hardly a 
 more pathetic picture than England's favourite 
 " virgin Queen " — Shakspeare's 
 
 '* Fair vestal, throned in the West," 
 
 at whom throughout her long and glorious reign 
 Cupid shot unheeded — 
 
 *' And the imperial votaress passed on 
 In maiden meditation, fancy-free." 
 
 So the poet puts it ; but history records, from un- 
 deniable evidence, that restless, solitary, unloved 
 life — that miserable death. And the root of all, as 
 we now know, was what is at the root of most 
 women's characters and lives — love ; her per- 
 sistent, imprudent, and yet most pitiable attach- 
 ment to Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. A 
 passion which, however unworthy (that it was 
 actually guilty, is impossible to believe), was yet 
 deep and sincere enough to contrast strongly with 
 the falseness, vanity, and ambition which made 
 up the other half of her character ; and which, 
 in after days, combined with outward circum- 
 stances, brought her, from her youthhood of 
 promise and brightness, to be that wretched, 
 old, forlorn, and dying Queen, upon whom the 
 sternest judge cannot look without a certain 
 compassion. 
 
 I 2
 
 ii6 ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA. 
 
 True, she had earned her fate, the inevitable 
 fate of a woman who fixes her affections upon 
 an unworthy man ; she is dragged down to his 
 level ; or else, undeceived at last, she lives to 
 unlove him and to despise him — happy for her 
 if she does not at the same time, and by the 
 same lamentable process, learn to despise and to 
 deny love itself ! 
 
 But, nevertheless, as Elizabeth passes from 
 the scene, as her brilliant reign closes, and the 
 curtain falls upon that busy, troublous, splendid, 
 empty life of hers, wherein this combination of 
 a man's brain and a woman's heart brought 
 upon her the faults, weaknesses, and sufferings 
 of both, and the happiness of neither — our 
 strongest sensation towards her is absolute pity. 
 
 Glorious as the Elizabethan era was, we can- 
 not but draw a parallel between it and what we 
 are now thankfully and proudly beginning to 
 call "the Victorian Age." Alike they are in 
 many points, especially in one— that in both 
 the centre and nucleus is a regnant queen. Two 
 queens, belonging to two as different types of 
 womanhood as could well be found : yet both 
 stamping their own individuality, not only on 
 their personal court, but on the country at 
 large. What strongly contrasted figures they 
 will make in future history ! Elizabeth, with her 
 masculine intellect, and iron will, masculine also, 
 yet often womanish in its fitfulness ; her stately 
 court, all etiquette and outside show ; and the 
 utter blank of her domestic life, a hollow crater 
 wherein burnt fiercely the ashes of one con-
 
 ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA. 117 
 
 suming passion, which first conscience and then 
 ambition forbade should ever become holy, 
 peaceful, wedded love ; — ^Victoria, gifted only 
 with moderate talent, who if not born a queen 
 might have been much like an ordinary gentle- 
 woman ; refined, accomplished, sensible, and 
 good : in everything essentially womanly, and 
 carrying in her bosom through life a woman's 
 best amulet, the power of giving and of win- 
 ning affection. Loving and fortunate in her 
 love ; a happy daughter, wife, mother — ay, and 
 happy widow, to whom even the memory of 
 her dead is a crown of honour ; for it was a 
 love wise and worthy, and lasting until death. 
 And this brings me to the picture I spoke of, 
 which contrasted so vividly with the imaginary 
 picture I had formed of Queen Elizabeth — 
 Froude's Elizabeth. 
 
 It is a very small thing, only one of the 
 studies for an unfinished painting. A mere 
 sketch in crayons, and with nothing either 
 tragic, dramatic, or even picturesque about 
 it : simply the portrait of a woman, no longer 
 young, and who even in her youth could 
 never have been beautiful. One of those faces, 
 the most trying to artists and most unsatis- 
 factory to friends, in which the principal charm 
 lies in expression, and that expression so fleet- 
 ing and variable that it is almost impossible 
 to catch. But here, by a rare chance, this is 
 done : and the imperfect outside forms are 
 idealised by a certain spiritual grace, which in 
 these sort of faces is continually seen ; the mo-
 
 ii8 ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA. 
 
 mentary outward shining of the inward light, 
 which friends recognise, strangers never. 
 
 Yet it is not a plain face. The features are 
 delicate, with a clear cut nose, finely formed 
 brow, and honest eyes, but with a soft sad droop 
 of the mouth, round which touching wrinkles are 
 already forming — nay formed. The hair, which 
 looks as if it were slightly grey, is put back under 
 a widow's cap, and round the throat is a neat 
 close widow's collar. But it needed no dress to 
 indicate one of those who are "widows indeed." 
 
 In spite of this excessive simplicity, there is 
 an inexpressible benignity and sweetness about 
 the face. A something better than beauty ; a 
 quiet motherliness, a composed sorrow — sorrow 
 not succumbed to, but struggled with, as only a 
 woman can struggle. Yes, that is the heart of 
 the portrait, — its exceeding womanliness. It is 
 the sort of portrait which, whether met with over 
 a family hearth, or on an Academy wall, you 
 would involuntarily stop before, and say : " I 
 am sure that is a good woman, one whom I 
 should like to know and make a friend of" But 
 you cannot, dear reader, for she happens to be 
 Victoria, by the Grace of God, Queen of Great 
 Britain and Ireland ; placed by her high estate 
 above all friendships, and all equal bonds of 
 every sort, except one, which it has pleased 
 Heaven now to remove from her for ever. 
 
 This picture, and Froude's book, I take in 
 connection with that subject on which the entire 
 country is now talking, a certain paragraph in 
 the Times, Everybody has read it : but I re-
 
 ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA. 119 
 
 copy it, for it is one of those bits of human 
 nature which spring up here and there in the 
 arid deserts of courtly formahties and State 
 history, touching — and they ought to touch — the 
 whole heart of a nation : — 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 
 The following communicated article appeared in the Times of 
 Wednesday : — 
 
 *' An erroneous idea seems generally to prevail, and lias 
 latterly found frequent expression in the newspapers, that the 
 Queen is about to resume the place in society which she occu- 
 pied before her great affliction ; that is, that she is about again 
 to hold levees and drawing-rooms in person, and to appear as 
 before at court balls, concerts, &c. This idea cannot be too 
 explicitly contradicted. 
 
 " The Queen heartily appreciates the desire of her subjects to 
 see her, and whatever she can do to gratify them in this loyal and 
 affectionate wish she will do. Whenever any real object is to be 
 attained by her appearing on public occasions, any national 
 interest to be promoted, or anything to be encouraged which is 
 for the good of her people, her Majesty will not shrink, as she 
 has not shrunk, from any personal sacrifice or exertion, however 
 painful. 
 
 " But there are other and higher duties than those of a mere 
 representation which are now thrown upon the Queen, alone and 
 unassisted— duties which she cannot neglect without injury to 
 the public service, which weigh unceasingly upon her, over- 
 whelming her with work and anxiety, 
 
 "The Queen has laboured conscientiously to discharge these 
 duties till her health and strength, already shaken by the utter 
 and ever- abiding desolation which has taken the place of her 
 former happiness, have been seriously impaired. 
 
 " To call upon her to undergo, in addition, the fatigue of those 
 mere State ceremonies, which can be equally well performed by 
 other members of her family, is to ask her to run the risk of 
 entirely disabling herself for the discharge of those other duties 
 which cannot be neglected without serious injury to the public 
 interests. 
 
 "The Queen will, however, do what she can — in a manner 
 least tryiiig to her health, strength, and spiznts — to meet the 
 loyal wishes of her subjects ; to afford that support and coun- 
 tenance to society, and to give that encouragement to trade 
 which is desired of her. 
 
 " More the Queen cannot do ; and more the kindness and 
 good feeling of her people will surely not exact from her."
 
 I20 ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA. 
 
 Strange and touching words ! Here is the 
 highest, loneliest woman in the land, appealing, 
 with a sad gentleness, to the sympathy of her 
 people. Pleading, without State reserve, and 
 with a pathetic simplicity that feels no shame 
 to confess either love or grief, her " former hap- 
 piness," her " ever-abiding desolation." Never- 
 theless, she " will do what she can." Surely 
 there is not a man in the nation, a real man, 
 father, husband, or brother, who would not 
 respond loyally to such an appeal } 
 
 And yet there have been many hard things 
 said of her, this Queen of ours, in speech or 
 print, and especially by men ; words which, if 
 spoken of any other woman, a widow too, her 
 " next friend " would have been justified in 
 fiercely resenting. But she, in her splendid 
 isolation, has no next friend. She has to take 
 the unprecedented step of writing a letter — for 
 in point of fact it is that — through the Times 
 newspaper to her people. 
 
 There are people who doubt the wisdom of 
 this — people who regard royalty as a mere 
 State machine, to which forms are indispen- 
 sable. They could hardly imagine a queen 
 without a crown on her head and a sceptre in 
 her hand, making due public appearances, and 
 fulfilling to the last iota all ceremonial observ- 
 ances. They require, in this as in all else, not 
 merely the thing itself, but the outward demon- 
 stration of it, almost at any personal cost. And 
 in a sense, they are right. Such persons arc 
 always to be esteemed, for they are very con-
 
 ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA. 121 
 
 scientious. They keep society safe and smooth, 
 and contribute greatly to maintain that fair 
 conservatism without which it would soon crum- 
 ble away into anarchy, disorder, and misrule. 
 And they are very loyal too. It is in sad and 
 sore earnestness that they believe the Queen, 
 in giving up State etiquette, is perilling the life 
 of the nation. 
 
 But they forget one thing — that the life of a 
 nation is not its ceremonial but its moral life, 
 to which such a letter as this, out-spoken, honest, 
 and free, from the Sovereign to the people, con- 
 tributes more than the holding of a hundred 
 drawing-rooms. And why } Because it is a 
 true thing, a real thing. Because it sets forth, 
 the more strongly because unconsciously, the 
 fact that womanhood is higher than queendom. 
 Even though never a queen did the like before, 
 it is well done in this our Queen — loved and 
 honoured as such for twenty-seven years — to 
 have the courage to stand forward, quite by 
 herself, and in her own identity, without in- 
 tervention of ministers, or councillors, or par- 
 liament, and say to the country, " I am only 
 a woman, I have lost my husband, my one love 
 of all my life ; my heart is broken, but I will 
 try to do my duty. Ask of me no shows or 
 shams, and I will try to fulfil all that is real 
 and necessary. 'The Queen will do what she 
 can.' " 
 
 Surely, when we consider what courts are, 
 what queens are, and what they have been in 
 our own past history and that of foreign coun-
 
 122 ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA. 
 
 tries, there is in the simple sincerity of this 
 letter, with its open recognition of two things, 
 only too much ignored — the reality of love, the 
 reality of grief — an influence which cannot fail 
 to affect strongly our own and other nations. 
 It is the woman's voice, speaking, neither loudly 
 nor dictatorially, but with that sweet humility 
 which is the best persuasion. 
 
 But still a word may be said on the other 
 side, and it should be said, with very great 
 earnestness. 
 
 There is something in our strong, reserved 
 Saxon nature which recoils exceedingly from 
 much outward demonstration of grief — indeed 
 of every kind of emotion. We do not beat our 
 breasts or tear our hair. We follow our best 
 beloved to the grave in composed silence. We 
 neither hang immortelles on their tombs, nor 
 wreath their memorial busts with flowers. Not 
 that we condemn these things, only they are 
 not our way. After any great affliction we 
 rarely speak much about it, but as soon as 
 possible go back to our ordinary habits, and 
 let the smooth surface of daily existence close 
 over the cruel wound. We bury our dead in 
 our hearts ; there they soon arise and live, and 
 live for ever. And we believe it is best so. 
 
 It would make us only the more tender over 
 her, our widowed Queen, if she would try as 
 much as possible to remember this. Englishmen 
 would esteem her all the more for making her 
 sorrow a silent sorrow. And English women, 
 so many of whom are also widows, or childless.
 
 ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA. 123 
 
 or solitary and forlorn, would like to see her 
 suppress, in every suitable way, all outward 
 tokens of suffering. We suffer too, and are 
 obliged to bear it ; we cannot mourn externally, 
 at least not for long ; some of us, after the very 
 briefest season of that death-like passiveness 
 which nature itself allows to a great sorrow, 
 have to rise up again and resume our daily 
 burthen, fulfilling unremittingly, and at any per- 
 sonal sacrifice, all the duties of our station, be 
 it low or high. 
 
 We are compelled to do this : and we should 
 love her all the better, and revere her all the 
 more, if, so far as she can, our Mistress, God 
 bless her ! would do the same. He would have 
 done it — the husband, whose highest praise it is 
 that all his virtues were so silent ; and who, for 
 this very reason, has been taken into the deepest 
 core of the strong, silent, British heart. For his 
 sake we ask this, and for the upholding after his 
 death, as during his life, of that truth which zve 
 know to be true — that as men are what women 
 make them, so women are what men make 
 them; that everyone of us grows more or less 
 after the pattern of the man we love. In his 
 name, therefore, who was so perfect a man, we 
 would appeal to our Queen, as honestly as she 
 appeals to us, that she should do her best to 
 overcome her grief, and to rejoice in the many 
 comforts that are left her. We would cry to 
 her as with one voice — the echo of her own — 
 " Be strong ! You do but love as we love, suffer 
 as we suffer. We understand it all, but still we
 
 124 ELIZABETH AND VICTORIA, 
 
 ask you to bear it. Live through it, as many of 
 us have done, expending wholly for others the 
 life which is no longer sweet to ourselves ; until 
 there comes a time, when it pleases God to 
 send you the peace which is securer than joy, 
 the blessedness which is better than happiness." 
 In words which — to so truly religious a woman 
 — must be far more precious than any words 
 of ours, ** Be strong, and He shall comfort thine 
 heart. Put thou thy trust in the Lord."
 
 A WOMAN'S BOOK. 
 
 WHAT!" lately said a certain 
 young American, entering a 
 London bookseller's shop, and 
 laying his hand, a little contemptuously, on a 
 newly-published volume — simple enough to look 
 at, having on its plain green binding neither 
 coronets nor coats of arms — nothing but a mono- 
 gram, "V.A." — the entwined initials which we 
 English used to see familiarly everywhere for so 
 many years, and now see only there — " What ! 
 do you call that a Queen's book ?" 
 
 "No," replied the bookseller, with an honest 
 dignity, " we call it a woman s bookr 
 
 And this is the true way in which to look at 
 them, both the present and the previous volume, 
 which go by the name of " the Queen's books," 
 as if her Majesty were trying to place herself 
 among the ranks — sparse and small — of royal 
 authors. Not at all. The very name — "royal 
 author" — is a double misnomer, especially with 
 regard to the second work. The worthy book- 
 seller — we would it were fair to give his honest
 
 126 A WOMAN'S BOOK. 
 
 name — was quite right. " Leaves from the 
 Journal of our Life in the Highlands " is es- 
 sentially a woman's book. There is little of 
 " the Queen," and almost nothing of " the 
 author" in it. They who look for either, but 
 especially the last, will assuredly be disap- 
 pointed — as disappointed as they might be, 
 and would deserve to be, if in reading the 
 home -letters of their wives and daughters 
 they expected to find them Saturday Review 
 essays or Times leading articles. Such a thing 
 is not likely, nor would it redound much to the 
 credit of the wife or daughter, if instead of 
 being a simple woman, writing her natural 
 home-letter, just as will please them all at 
 home, she were to soar into grand literary com- 
 position, compiled, as some celebrated authors 
 do their most familiar epistles — with an eye to 
 posterity. 
 
 This, our Queen's book, is, in a sense, no 
 book at all — only a letter. A General Epistle, 
 as it were — addressed to all her people, who 
 in some things have rather misunderstood and 
 wronged her of late — opening to them her whole 
 heart, and appealing to their good hearts to try 
 and understand the depth of her sorrow by 
 measuring it with what she now reveals to them 
 of the high perfection of her vanished joy. This 
 utter candour — this wonderful absence of reti- 
 cence, under circumstances when a nature so 
 womanly would ordinarily grow reticent in the 
 extreme — is of itself the strongest testimony 
 in favour of the book, and the advisability, nay,
 
 A WOMAN'S BOOK. 127 
 
 necessity, of publishing it. Another woman, 
 has said, speaking of grief : — 
 
 ' ' Judge the length of the sword by the sheath's, 
 By the silence of life, more pathetic than death's ; " 
 
 and so it usually is. But our Queen was in 
 perfectly exceptional circumstances. She could 
 not keep silence ; her position did not allow it : 
 and this was the only way in which she could 
 speak. 
 
 It was becoming high time she should speak. 
 The dissatisfied half of the nation was already 
 murmuring against her bitter and unjust things. 
 And here, in their climax of dissatisfaction, 
 appears this book, proving by its straight- 
 forward unconscious evidence — circumstantial 
 evidence, the strongest of all — that every dis- 
 loyal allegation was inherently and ludicrously 
 false. That, so far from being absorbed in a 
 morbid selfish sorrow, there is probably not a 
 woman in the three kingdoms more utterly 
 unselfish, or freer from that most unpleasant 
 form of egotism, self-consciousness, than her- 
 self That she is also a busy woman — fulfilling 
 her many duties, harder than any of us know, 
 with earnest conscientiousness ; a wise woman 
 — ordering her household and family, and ac- 
 quainted with all that happens therein ; an 
 affectionate woman — beloved by, and cordially 
 appreciating, every worthy servant of the crown, 
 from the great Duke of Wellington to the High- 
 land gillie who runs along by her pony's side. 
 That instead of rejecting her people's love, and
 
 128 A WOMAN'S BOOK. 
 
 being careless of their sympathy, she is touch- 
 ingly, sensitively eager for both. 
 
 There is nothing worse for a nation than the 
 habit of carping at its rulers ; of slandering 
 and backbiting ; of " speaking evil of dignities," 
 merely because they are dignities ; of being 
 ever ready to carry from mouth to mouth 
 defamatory or ludicrous stories. Now, as our 
 widowed Lady passes on her lonely way, surely 
 the silliest, wickedest tongue will be ashamed 
 to wag about her any more. 
 
 Though neither of these books can be rated 
 high as literary productions, nor judged by the 
 strict canons of the art of authorship, they are 
 in one sense remarkable contributions to litera- 
 tyre, and especially to historic literature. What 
 would we not give for a dozen pages of such 
 fragments out of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, 
 or any other English sovereign ! Two hundred 
 years to come how valuable they will be ! Even 
 now it is curious to read them — and think how 
 they will be read by posterity. 
 
 But they have an interest and value of their 
 own already. However we may gossip about 
 it, and try to pry into it, we middle classes 
 know very little of the inner life of royalty. 
 We have still in our secret hearts a dim sus- 
 picion that if 
 
 " Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown" — 
 
 it must be because her Majesty is in the habit of 
 sleeping in it — and that had we the honour of
 
 A WOMAN'S BOOK. 129 
 
 meeting her in private life, she would certainly 
 carry a golden sceptre instead of a common 
 parasol or umbrella. In fact our ideas are very 
 misty about court life altogether. We do not 
 fall before it on our bended knees, as we did in 
 the time of the Georges, when Sunday after 
 Sunday a loyal adoring crowd followed down 
 the slopes of Windsor that good, jolly, farmer- 
 like man, his plain, prim wife, and their tribe of 
 commonplace sons and daughters. Nor do we 
 as a staunch Tory once observed, ''revere the 
 crown though it hung upon a bush." We have 
 ceased to believe in the divine right of kings ; 
 but we believe all the more earnestly, as perhaps 
 no generation ever did before, in the divine 
 right of all humanity. 
 
 And this is what makes these books so valua- 
 ble in themselves, and likely to do so much good — 
 they are intensely human, especially the last one. 
 
 To begin from the outside — the widest circle 
 of interest before it narrows down to the pure, 
 fine point of conjugal and parental love, the 
 central star of the whole. For twenty years we 
 had been accustomed to read in journals, and 
 brief court circulars, and lengthy articles by 
 " Our Own Correspondent," of the Queen's pro- 
 gresses, entertainments, ceremonials ; ponderous 
 accounts of the crowds, the processions, &c. ; and 
 minor details, whenever they could be gleaned, 
 of the royal personages, their looks, sayings, 
 and doings — notably few, and generally rather 
 apocryphal. Now, after this long interval, we 
 see the picture from the other side. 
 
 VOL. 1. K
 
 I30 A WOMAN'S BOOK. 
 
 Take, for instance, her Majesty's account of 
 what was a vivid public interest at the time — 
 the first royal visit to Scotland. 
 
 Now many Edinburgh people will remember 
 the incidents of that landing — how there was 
 some unfortunate hitch in the ceremonial, causing 
 much trouble and confusion, and bringing a 
 shower of abuse and quizzing and disparaging 
 criticism upon the luckless bailie whose fault it 
 was. But not a word of this does the gentle 
 diarist record. She sees only the pleasantness 
 and the loyalty. And when, at last, these two 
 young people — we must remember they were 
 young people, not above a year or two married, 
 and dearly loving each other's society — escape 
 " feeling dreadfully tired and giddy," from the 
 endless ceremonial of welcome, to reappear in 
 an hour or two after, as the cynosures of a 
 large dinner-party, there is still not a word of 
 complaint ; only " every body was very kind 
 and civil." Perhaps one of the most touching 
 things in the book is the half-surprised grate- 
 fulness — actual gratefulness — with which this 
 simple-natured, high-hearted woman, accident- 
 ally born a queen, takes every demonstration of 
 loyalty. 
 
 Again, it may be good for the many lady- 
 grumblers, " bored " or " worn to death " by 
 their burdensome and mostly self-imposed social 
 duties, as they call them, to read the story of 
 two days during her Majesty's visit to Dublin, 
 on a tour supposed to be a tour of ''enjoy- 
 ment : " —
 
 A WOMAN'S BOOK. 131 
 
 " Wednesday, Aiigust 8. — At twenty minutes to one o'clock 
 we left for Dublin, I and all the ladies in evening dresses, all the 
 gentlemen in uniform. We drove straight to the Castle. Every 
 thing here as at St. James's Levee— the staircase and throne- 
 room quite like a palace. I received (on the throne) the ad- 
 dresses of the Lord Mayor and Corporation, the University, the 
 Archbishop and Bishops, both Roman Catholic and Anglican, 
 the Presbyterians, the non-subscribing Presbyterians, and the 
 Quakers. They also presented Albert with addresses. Then 
 followed a very long levee, which lasted without intermission till 
 twenty minutes to six o'clock ! Two thousand people were 
 presented. 
 
 " Thursday, August 9. — There was a great and brilliant re- 
 view in the Phoenix Park — six thousand one hundred and sixty 
 men, including the Constabulary. In the evening we two dined 
 alone, and at half-past eight o'clock drove into Dublin for the 
 drawing-room. It is always held here of an evening. I should 
 think, between two and three thousand people passed before us, 
 a.nd one thousand six hundred ladies were presented. After it 
 was over, we walked through St. Patrick's Hall, and the other 
 rooms ; and the crowd was very great. We came back to the 
 Phoenix Park at half-past twelve, the streets still densely crowded. 
 The city was illuminated." 
 
 Verily the poor young Queen was a hard- 
 worked woman. 
 
 It is an open question how far the abolition of 
 even cumbrous and vexatious state ceremonials 
 is desirable. They are a link with the past — an 
 inferior past, may be, to our present : for it is a 
 mistake to suppose that parents are necessarily 
 wiser than their children ; often quite the con- 
 trary. Still, as we advance in life, we cling ten- 
 derly to old things simply because they are old. 
 The pomps and splendours of stately royalty are 
 not to be despised, being the outward and visible 
 sign of a much higher reality. Thus there is 
 some justice in the grumblings of those good 
 '* auld-farrant " souls who mourn over the anni- 
 hilation of the Lord Mayor's Show — or the eight 
 
 K 2
 
 132 A WOMAN'S BOOK. 
 
 cream-coloured Hanoverian horses, '' eating their 
 heads off," unseen, from year to year, in the 
 royal stables ; and especially the unworn royal 
 robes, thrown ignominiously over the back of a 
 chair. Mere forms these things may be, child's 
 play, transmitted to us from barbaric ages, when 
 the national eye loved to be dazzled with outside 
 show, and very irksome they must have been to 
 those engaged therein. Still, we all have to go 
 through a good deal for the benefit of society. 
 And royalty has its duties, too, even ceremonial 
 duties, from which it can not escape without 
 perilling a little of the patient self-denying dig- 
 nity, which adds lustre to any throne. The 
 crown may be more or less thorny than one 
 of our everyday bonnets ; but we are apt to 
 forget that while we wear only this bonnet, one 
 queenly head wears not merely the ordinary 
 matron-coif (alas, the widow's cap now !) but also 
 the crovv^n. 
 
 These " Leaves " ought to serve as an admo- 
 nishment to authors in general and travelling 
 authors in particular, of the graphic effects pro- 
 duced by extreme simplicity ; that we have only 
 to go to Nature, and reproduce her faithfully, 
 and as Ruskin would say " lovingly," in order 
 to arrive at results more telling than the most 
 laboured art. Little thought the royal journalist, 
 setting down in the simplest language her 
 " visits to the old women," that she was furnish- 
 ing a subject which the hand of a future Sterne, 
 Wilkie, or Wordsworth may do into endless 
 poems and pictures for the benefit of posterity.
 
 A WOMAN'S BOOK. 133 
 
 Undoubtedly the last thing her Majesty thought 
 of was painting her own portrait ; yet she has 
 done it, and in colours vivid and true beyond 
 the touch of time to efface. Therein the most pro- 
 minent characteristic is the one already noticed 
 — the very last we would expect in a queen — an 
 absence of self-consciousness ; in fact, a total 
 abnegation of self so pathetic as to be often 
 almost sublime. There follows, as a natural 
 consequence, an unlimited sympathy with other 
 people. From the highest to the lowest every 
 one seems to have a place, small or large, in 
 this warm heart — this tenacious and accurate 
 memory. Even persons casually met, such as 
 " Mr. Taylor, mineral agent to the Duchy of 
 Cornwall, a very intelligent young man, married 
 to a niece of Sir Charles Lemon's;" "Mr. Fox, 
 a Quaker, who lives at Falmouth, and has sent 
 us flowers, fruits, and many other things," will 
 feel something better than mere curiosity in 
 seeing themselves thus remembered. 
 
 Besides her friends, the Queen seems to exer- 
 cise a peculiar care over her servants. It should 
 be a sharp example to those fine ladies among 
 the middle classes who treat their domestics as 
 automatons or slaves, and then complain that 
 good servants are impossible, — to see what a 
 thoroughly feudal relationship seems to subsist 
 between the highest lady in the realm and her 
 servants. " Jane Shackle," " the good Grant," 
 Brown, " handy and willing to do every thing 
 and any thing, and to overcome every difficulty, 
 which makes him one of my best servants
 
 134 A WOMAN'S BOOK. 
 
 anywhere ; " nay, even " poor Batterbury," the 
 English groom at Balmoral, of whom his mistress 
 relates, with a gentle drollery, that '' he followed 
 me about in his ordinary dress, torn boots and 
 gaiters, and seemed anything but happy " — all 
 share the same kindly remembrance. Indeed 
 it is touching in going through the book to 
 mark note after note respecting these and other 
 faithful servants, and, incidentally, what has been 
 done for them by her Majesty or the Prince 
 Consort in acknowledgment of their fidelity. 
 
 Another lesson this book unconsciously teaches 
 — indifference of personal luxury. No one can 
 read of the Queen's life in the Highlands without 
 feeling that what she and her husband enjoyed 
 most in it was its excessive simplicity — at times 
 almost amounting to hardship. And when one 
 thinks of the blase, grumbling, self-indulgent 
 tourists who go about the beautiful world, see- 
 ing nothing in it, or only things to complain 
 of — the picture of this young Queen and Prince 
 cheerily enjoying their mutual journeyings, 
 making the best of everything, always ready 
 to be grateful and pleased with what was done 
 for them and shown to them, and, best of all, 
 always content with what was their stronghold 
 of happiness — their own companionship and 
 that of their children — this, though a picture 
 now mournfully curtained over, is yet a bit of 
 Arcadia which will remain for generations. 
 
 No pure happiness ever dies, or becomes any- 
 thing but happiness. The sharp sense of loss 
 may darken it for a time, but can never
 
 A WOMAN'S BOOK. 135 
 
 wholly annihilate it. Days may come — from 
 the evidence of this book the nation affection- 
 ately trusts they are coming now — when the 
 mother of her people may feel that the noblest 
 tribute to him whom we shall for ever venerate 
 as 
 
 '* The silent father of our kings to be," 
 
 is for her to assume in its utmost responsi- 
 bility that regal motherhood ; to show herself 
 just as she is, in her sacred sorrow as in her 
 youthful bliss, unto her myriad children ; every 
 one of whom holds out to her — not unmingled 
 with few contrite tears — earnestly- longing, re- 
 verent arms. She has opened her heart, and 
 confided herself to the heart of the nation ; it 
 acknowledges and respects the trust, and will 
 ever be faithful to it. 
 
 What further need be said ? if indeed there 
 was need to say anything, when by this date 
 the book will have been read universally wher- 
 ever English is spoken throughout the wide 
 proportion of the earth's surface which owns 
 as sovereign and queen, this — woman. Mere 
 tvoinan ; she could not have a higher or better 
 title ; it will last her longer than her crown. 
 
 One word more — which we are sure the royal 
 lady would be the last to wish left unsaid — even 
 though the interest of the work itself a little 
 blinds one to that of the preface which intro- 
 duces it. In a most difficult and delicate position, 
 as a gentleman and an author advising a not 
 literary lady ; as a subject giving both wise
 
 136 A WOMAN'S BOOK. 
 
 counsel and valuable assistance to a sovereign, 
 Mr. Arthur Helps, in his own manly, simple, 
 independent fashion, has done exactly what he 
 ought to have done^ and said exactly what he 
 ought to say.
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 BUT not that precious metal with a queen's 
 head upon it, which you, O anxious- 
 eyed Paterfamilias, shovel up on a 
 copper scoop from the Bank counter ; or you, 
 bare-armed and be-jewelled Materfamilias, stop 
 to fasten somewhere about your elegant evening 
 dress, in passing from your nursery-door to your 
 carriage. The gold here referred to is none of 
 yours. You have forgotten you ever had it, or 
 maybe you never had it at all ; for it does not fall 
 to the lot of every one, even in childhood. But 
 your little, quiet, pale-cheeked boy, crouching in 
 a window-seat with his knees up to his chin, and 
 a book upon them ; or your bright-eyed, clever 
 girl, the Dinarzade of the nursery, sitting in the 
 gloaming with the little ones round her, spinning 
 " stories" without end : they know all about it. 
 They are in the very m.idst of the treasure : it 
 lies about them in ungathered heaps ; morning, 
 noon, and night. They eat of it, drink of it, 
 wear it, play with it ; it is their own rightful 
 property in fee and entail — and as such will
 
 138 THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 descend through generations to the last child 
 that ever is to be born upon this earth. A pos- 
 session in one sense unalienable ; for though it, 
 and the very memory of it, may fade — the 
 influence which it has unconsciously exer- 
 cised remains, and remains for ever. Every 
 good thought and noble act of after life 
 may, nay must, have originated in the Age of 
 Gold. 
 
 By that phrase is not implied the age of 
 innocence. Much poetic nonsense is talked con- 
 cerning the "innocence" of children. Taking a 
 sober, candid revision of our own childhood, or 
 that of our " co-mates and brothers in exile," 
 still left on pilgrimage beside us, and therefore 
 not exalted as we are fain to exalt into angelic 
 perfection those children who remain children 
 always — few of us can remember being very 
 good or very happy in those early days. Most 
 of us, we confess — or rather, we hope — were a 
 great deal naughtier then than we are now. 
 Otherwise, what would have been the use of 
 our remaining on probation here ? we should 
 have assumed our wings, and mounted direct to 
 paradise. 
 
 But we were anything but infantile angels, 
 and we know it. We recall with contrition our 
 affectations, conceits, jealousies, selfishnesses, 
 meannesses — not to count those fierce angers 
 and revenges — excusable, perhaps in degree 
 inevitable, when the blood is hot, and 
 quick, and young. Nor do we remember 
 being so very happy. Then, as now — nay,
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. 139 
 
 far more, thank Heaven, then, than now — 
 did we 
 
 ' ' Look before and after, 
 
 And pine for what is not : 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 With some pain was fraught ; " 
 
 — pain, sharpened by the fact that it was new 
 and incomprehensible ; that we either fought 
 furiously against it, as an injustice and a wrong, 
 or hugged it to our hearts with a kind of morbid 
 pleasure ; thereby laying the foundation of that 
 diseased state of mind, which out of an over- 
 sensitive child, makes a nervous, fretful, useless 
 woman, or a discontented, egotistic, miserable 
 man. 
 
 Surely, considering how vividly all impres- 
 sions must come to a child, a being so new to 
 this world, and how the balance of mental sen- 
 sations and emotions must necessarily be as 
 undecided and untrue as that of the physical 
 powers, the happiness of childhood becomes 
 almost as doubtful as its innocence. We be- 
 lieve in neither. And yet we believe, solemnly, 
 pathetically, thankfully, in the Age of Gold. 
 
 It does not, as was said before, come to all 
 children. Human beings are not — though many 
 good, deluded people, try to make them — all of 
 one mould and one pattern : to be reared in 
 shoals, like tadpoles, each with the prescribed 
 head, body, and tail, out of which it is to emerge 
 into a uniform maturity of perfect froggism. 
 Not so. Apparently, Omniscient Wisdom, at 
 least in us. His immortal creatures, wishes to
 
 I40 THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 combine infinite unity with infinite variety — a 
 law we cannot too early recognise, especially 
 concerning children. 
 
 Thus the boy being " father to the man," 
 possesses even in babyhood the germ of that 
 individuality which is to distinguish him from 
 other men. We cannot conceive Benjamin 
 Franklin, that prince of practicality, with his 
 immemorial recipe, "Honesty is the best policy ;'' 
 or that " Successful Merchant " who began his 
 career with buying a lollipop for a penny, and 
 selling it for twopence — we cannot, I say, ima- 
 gine these notable characters ever to have had 
 an age of gold. They would probably deny 
 that there was such a thing. And yet it is the 
 truth ; just like first love or boyish friendship, 
 or many another thing that some of us grow out 
 of and live to laugh at ; until possibly in old 
 age it may rise up and stare us in the face as 
 the one reality of our existence. However the 
 fashion of them may alter and pass away, woe 
 be to us, if we have been false to the dreams of 
 our youth ! ay, or of our childhood either ; and 
 should come to despise or offend one of these 
 little ones, delighting itself in the impossible 
 happiness, indescribable lovelinesses, and never- 
 to-be attained virtues, that constitute its age of 
 gold. 
 
 This age, and the sort of children who enjoy 
 it, may be indicated by one word, Imagination, 
 — that strange faculty which rationalistic philo- 
 sophers present as the solution of many diiKicult 
 problems, but yet which is itself the greatest
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. 14I 
 
 problem of all. What is it — this power, which 
 enables the human mind to create f not merely 
 to put together certain known facts or materials, 
 and derive therefrom certain conclusions or re- 
 sults — but to originate, to make something out 
 of nothing, to transform intangible fancies into 
 credible, or at least credited realities } To 
 which question the answer is probably as diffi- 
 cult as it must be for the conscientious atheist — 
 and there is such a thing — to explain away by 
 logical induction, how it was that the first idea 
 of a Divine Being (granted any sort of God, 
 Hebraic, heathen, or Brahminical,) ever entered 
 into the mind of any being merely human, and 
 subject to all the laws and accidents of change, 
 decay, and death. 
 
 Curious, wonderful, almost awful, is it to watch 
 and investigate this faculty of Imagination, the 
 first to be developed in nearly every child, 
 and lasting during the whole period of infancy 
 and adolescence ; either passively, in the uni- 
 versal delight with which, from the earliest dawn 
 of intelligence, a child listens to " a 'tory" — or 
 actively, when it begins to invent one for itself. 
 What astonishing historiettes result ! — queer 
 mingling of the real and the ideal, till you hardly 
 know whether it would be wiser to smile at the 
 eccentric fancy and brilliant invention of the 
 prattler at your knee, or gravely to admonish it 
 for '' lying." There are many children of vivid 
 imagination, who, even to themselves, can hardly 
 distinguish between what they see and what 
 they invent, and have to be taught, by hard
 
 142 THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 and patient lessons, the difference between truth 
 and falsehood. For instance, a little fellow I 
 knew, scarcely past the lisping age, used day 
 after day and week after week to relate to 
 mother and nurse continuous biographies of 
 his '' brother William," and a certain " Crocus 
 bold" (both equally fabulous characters) ; how 
 he used to meet them on the sea-shore, and 
 go sailing with them — how "the Crocus bold" 
 fell out of the boat, and " my brother William " 
 jumped overboard and fished him up again ; 
 and how they two lived together in a bay 
 — a real bay — and "sold lobsters," &c. &c. 
 Amidst all the laughter created by this story, 
 told with the gravest countenance by the young 
 relater, who was exceedingly displeased if you 
 doubted his veracity for a moment — it pro- 
 duced an uneasy sensation, not unlike what one 
 would feel in listening to a monomaniac, who 
 tells you earnestly how he 
 
 " Sees a face you cannot see," — 
 
 though perhaps it is, he avers, looking over your 
 shoulder at this very time. Or, rather, one 
 listened to it with the sense of curious bewilder- 
 ment with which one hears the statement of a 
 modern Spiritualist, probably in all respects but 
 this a very sensible, rational person, who relates 
 " communications," as lengthy as they are ludi- 
 crous, from the invisible world ; informs you, and 
 expects you to believe, that he has seen spirit- 
 wreaths moved from head to head by spirit- 
 hands, and felt soft dead-cold fingers clasping
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. 143 
 
 his under his respectable dinlng-table. You 
 cannot deny those things, without accusing good 
 people of voluntary mendacity : you have, there- 
 fore, no resource but to set it all down to " the 
 force of imagination." 
 
 But what is imagination ? — None of us on 
 this side immortality are ever likely to be able 
 satisfactorily to answer that question. 
 
 It remains, therefore, only for us humbly 
 to accept the manifold developments of this 
 faculty, the nature and causes of which we 
 can never demonstrate. We can but use it 
 as we are meant to use all our faculties — re- 
 verently, judiciously, cautiously. And as to 
 those who are given to our charge — those help- 
 less little ones, who, so far as we see, will owe 
 it to MS whether they grow up to be, unto 
 themselves and society, a blessing or a curse 
 . — we can but attempt wisely to guide that 
 which we have no power either to annihilate or 
 to repress. 
 
 A few serious thoughts of this kind, conse- 
 quent on going through a course of what may 
 be termed Infantile Imaginative Literature, re- 
 sulted in the present paper, which, however, 
 only offers the merest and vaguest suggestions 
 on a subject daily becoming more important — 
 viz., the character, tone, and matter, most suit- 
 able for children's books. 
 
 On this question there is one wide split be- 
 tween " the parents of England." We find them 
 divide into realists and idealists — the one fac- 
 tion going the whole length of fairy tales, " Ara-
 
 144 THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 bian Nights," &c. &c. — the other protesting that 
 no book which is not strictly and absolutely 
 true, should ever be placed in a child's hands. 
 To argue this question would be idle ; though 
 it may be just hinted in passing that we 
 have the Highest authority for the presentation 
 of truth through fiction, and that the fiercest 
 realist would hardly venture to accuse the 
 Divine Relator of the Gospel parables of lying. 
 
 Let us grant, then, that imagination is a 
 child's natural birthright, its strongest tendency, 
 its keenest enjoyment. No person will doubt 
 this who has ever been told or heard of any 
 sort of tale, from the most ordinary reproduc- 
 tion of ordinary infant life — '' There was a 
 little boy and he had a garden " — to one of 
 those wildly improbable romances about fairies 
 and genii, and what not — winding and unwind- 
 ing, without connection or plot, the most con- 
 fused succession of events and characters, and 
 combining all that the child has ever read or 
 heard of with original ideas of the most ex- 
 traordinary kind, of which you wonder how 
 they ever got into its head at all ! And all 
 the while the wide-open eyes are fixed on 
 yours, and the grave little voice goes on with 
 a quiet conviction of its own veracity, which at 
 times perfectly staggers you. You cannot help 
 feeling, though you may be the mother who bore 
 it, that there is something in the creature which 
 you cannot understand, something above you 
 and beyond you, which tells you that this little 
 one, created of your flesh, is yet a separate ex-
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. 145 
 
 istence, immortal, with all the needs, instincts, 
 and responsibilities of mortally-invested immor- 
 tality. How awful this makes your responsibili- 
 ties, is there any need to urge ? 
 
 So, in swift and sure succession, like heirs 
 coming into their inheritance, do individuals out 
 of all generations enjoy the age of gold ; some 
 of us entering upon it so early that we never 
 remember the time when it was not ours. All 
 the personages in the Arabian Nights, and in 
 the classic old fairy-tales, together with Lemuel 
 Gulliver, Robinson Crusoe, and a few more, 
 seem to have been with us, and to have gone 
 along with us during all our childhood, co- 
 existent companions, as real as any of our living 
 playmates, most of whom have now become as 
 unreal characters as they. 
 
 And yet it is curious in thus attempting to 
 analyse our old selves, to find what a duality of 
 nature there was in us, and what a distinctly 
 double world we lived in ; half of it being com- 
 posed of strong realities — breakfasts, dinners, 
 suppers, school, play, and bed-time, — wherein 
 we fed and quarrelled, hated spelling and adored 
 mince-pies, with true animal intensity : while 
 the other half was a region of pure imagination, 
 in which we roamed and revelled, unfettered by 
 any moral consciousness, or indeed any mun- 
 dane necessities whatsoever. How the seven 
 brothers were turned into swans, and the white 
 cat into a princess ; whether it was right of 
 Puss-in-boots to tell such atrocious falsehoods 
 about " my Lord, the Marquis of Carabas ; " and 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 for young Hop-o'-my-thumb to cause that sim- 
 ple-minded Ogre to commit unintentional suicide 
 by the delicious deception of the leathern bag 
 and the hasty pudding — were questions that 
 never troubled us. We believed it all — that is, 
 our fancy did ; and fancy alone is the first shape 
 assumed by that strange quality which we here 
 term Imagination. 
 
 This fact may serve as a hint to those who 
 write for children. All a child wants, at first, is 
 "a story:" about good or bad people matters 
 not, — whether with or without a moral, 'tis all 
 the same. Every impression must be conveyed 
 in the broadest colouring and simplest outline. 
 The young mind instinctively refuses to perplex 
 itself with nice distinctions of right and wrong. 
 Brave little Jack attacking the cruel giants, 
 Cinderella's unkind sisters punished by seeing 
 her exaltation, and, in fact, the general tenor of 
 old-fashioned fairy-lore, where all the bad people 
 die miserably, and all the good people marry 
 kings and queens, and live very happy to the end 
 of their days, furnish as much moral teaching as 
 can well be taken in at the age of six or seven. 
 And the intellectual, like the physical appetite, 
 is not a bad indication of its own capacity of 
 digestion. 
 
 Therefore, we cannot help suggesting that 
 there may be some little mistake in the flood of 
 moral and religious literature with which our 
 hapless infants are now overwhelmed : where 
 every incident is "usefully applied," and the 
 virtuous and the wicked walk about carefully
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. I47 
 
 labelled, " this is good," "this is bad;" so that 
 no child can possibly mistake one for the other. 
 And, without wishing to blame a very well- 
 meaning class of educators, it may fairly be 
 questioned how far it is wholesome to paint 
 children going about converting their fathers 
 and mothers, and youthful saints of three and a 
 half prating confidently about things which, we 
 are told, "the angels themselves desire to look 
 into," yet cannot, or dare not. We honestly 
 confess«.that we should very much prefer " Jack 
 the Giant-killer." 
 
 However, in spite of all these modern in- 
 structors of youth, we delight to find the old 
 non-moral — let us not say immoral — literature 
 still flourishing. Witness a one-volume family 
 edition of the " Arabian Nights," illustrated by 
 W. Harvey ; and a still more charming volume, 
 adorned by even better artists — to wit, Absolon. 
 Harrison Weir, &c. — who, undisdaining, have 
 taken our ancient friends Mother Hubbard, 
 Little Bo-peep, Poor Cock Robin, the Babes in 
 the Wood, &c. ; with prose favourites, the two 
 heroic Jacks of glorious memory, Cinderella, 
 Whittington, Goody Two-shoes, and Tom 
 Thumb ; also the modern Three Bears and 
 Andersen's Leaden Soldier ; and pictured them 
 all with a poetic feeling and a true high-art 
 fidelity to nature which cannot be too highly 
 praised. No child in the three kingdoms could 
 have a better birthday present than this pretty 
 book. Or, another, the " Children's Pilgrim's 
 Progress." An allegory out of which centuries of 
 
 L 2
 
 148 THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 older Christians have drawn more truth and con- 
 solation than out of any book, except the Holy- 
 Bible. But to children it is, and ought to be, 
 merely " a story." These, to whom the perplex- 
 ities of doctrine must be wholly unintelligible, 
 may yet receive Christian and Faithful, the 
 Slough of Despond and the Celestial City, as 
 ideal pictures — first strongly impressed on the 
 fancy as pictures only ; to be afterwards vivified 
 with that glorious reality — that truth of God, 
 with which He inspired old John Bunyan; which 
 makes children of a larger growth read, with 
 tears in their eyes, and a yearning unutterable 
 at their hearts — of the "burthen" which fell 
 from Christian at the foot of the cross : of the 
 Shining Ones, who walked in the Land of 
 Beulah ; of the river which was '* very deep ; " 
 of the city which " shone like the sun." 
 
 In a child's book no "preaching" should 
 be admissible. The moral of it should always 
 be left to speak for itself, for the silent truth- 
 telling of fiction is one of the strongest agencies 
 that can be set to work upon the human mind, 
 at any age. I could speak of a precocious 
 little damsel, who, put in charge of a younger 
 child, was made a miserable martyr — being 
 waked regularly at four A.M. by the obstre- 
 perous infant to " tell stories." She told them 
 — and remonstrated, begged to be allowed to 
 sleep, and was roused up again — till at last it 
 struck her that, entreaties being wasted, she 
 would weave the moral — " selfishness " — into her 
 talc ! How she managed it, memory fails to
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. 149 
 
 recall ; but it so subdued her young tyrant, that 
 in the dim light of the dawn repentant arms were 
 thrown round the narrator's neck, with an earnest 
 promise " to be a good little girl, and not tease 
 you any more ;" which promise was faithfully 
 kept. The twelve -year -old story-teller has 
 " preached " through a good many three- volume 
 novels since, and the small listener, if still alive, 
 is probably a comely mistress of a family, with 
 
 *' Twa weans at her apron and ane at her knee." 
 
 — but this true incident may suggest to both 
 mothers and tale-writers for children how much 
 power they have to teach, if they take care that 
 their lessons be conveyed, as life's lessons in- 
 variably are, by implication rather than direct 
 admonition. 
 
 As an instance where this is done, and well 
 done, we may give " Princess Use," a German 
 translation ; — by the bye, there needs an earnest 
 protest against the injustice of putting only the 
 translator's name, and not the author's. It is a 
 charming specimen of this kind of legendary 
 allegory : the outward design being worked out 
 with true poetic unity of detail, and the under 
 meaning conveyed with such clearness, that even 
 a child could hardly miss it. 
 
 '' Princess Use " is a personification of the 
 stream so named, which we conclude to be a 
 real river in the Hartz mountains. She is first 
 presented as " a youthful streamlet, wrapped in 
 a white veil, lying on the ground and weeping 
 bitterly," on an Alpine summit, whence she had
 
 ISO THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 refused to descend, after the Deluge, to the 
 *' green bed " prepared for her by the angel of 
 her course. 
 
 " 'Poor child,' said the good Angel ; 'why are you remain- 
 ing here all alone on the rugged mountains ? Are all the others 
 gone, and none remembered to take you with them ? ' 
 
 " The little Use, however, tossed her head quite saucily, and 
 said, ' I am not forgotten. Old Weser waited long enough, 
 calling and making me signs to go with him ; and Ijoth Ecker 
 and Ocker tried to seize me. But I did not choose to go ; 
 nothing would induce me ; I would rather perish here. Was I 
 to descend into the valley, and traverse the plain like a common 
 brook for menial service, to slake the thirst of cows and sheep, 
 and to wash their plebeian feet ? — I, the Princess Use ! Look 
 at me, and see if I am not of a noble race ! A ray of light was 
 my father, and the clear air my mother ; my brother is the 
 diamond, the dewy pearl in a rose my beloved little sister. The 
 billows of the Deluge bore me high aloft : I played on the 
 snowy summits of the most lofty mountains, and the first ray of 
 sunshine which broke through the clouds embroidered my dress 
 with glittering spangles. I am a Princess of the purest water, 
 and I really cannot descend into the valley ! I therefore preferred 
 hiding myself, and pretended to be asleep ; and old Weser, with 
 his train of sluggish brooks, who have nothing better to do 
 than to rush into his arms, was at last forced to pursue his 
 course grumbling. ' 
 
 " The Angel shook his head sadly at this long speech of little 
 Use, and looked gravely and searchingly at her pale face ; and 
 as he gazed long and steadily into her childish large blue eyes, 
 which to-day emitted angry flashes, then he saw in their clear 
 depths a dark spot moving, and he knew that an evil guest was 
 harboured in the head of little Use. A little Demon of Pride 
 had entered there, and driven away all pious thoughts, and 
 looked mockingly at the good Angel out of the large blue eyes 
 of poor little Use 
 
 "'Dear Use,' for thus spoke the Angel, 'as you remained 
 here from your own choice, and considered it beneath your 
 dignity to descend into the plain with the other streams, surely 
 you ought to be quite contented, and I cannot understand why 
 you choose to weep and lament.' 
 
 "'Alas!' answei-ed Use, 'when the waters were all gone, 
 dear Angel, the stormy wind came to sweep the hills, and when 
 he found me here, he was quite furious ; he roared and raged, 
 and scolded and shook me, and threatened to dash me from this 
 rock into a deep black abyss, where no ray of light ever shines. 
 I wept and prayed, and pressed myself trembling against the 
 sides of the rock ; at last I succeeded in escaping from his strong 
 grasp, and hid myself in a fissure of the precipice.'
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. 151 
 
 *' ' But as you cannot always succeed in hiding yourself,' 
 spoke the Angel, ' for the Storm-wind sweeps clean, and keeps 
 good order up here, you must see, dear Use, that it was foolish 
 of you to remain here all alone ; and I think you will gladly ^ 
 follow me, when I offer to lead you to the good old Weser and 
 your young companions. ' 
 
 " 'On no account whatever!' cried the little Use; *I will 
 stay up here, — I am a Princess ! ' 
 
 " ' Use !' said the Angel, in his gentle soft voice, ' dear little 
 Use ! I like you, and therefore you will, I hope, oblige me and 
 be a good child. Do you see that white morning cloud sailing in 
 the spacious blue sky ? I will hail it, and it will descend on this 
 spot ; then we will both take our places in it. You shall lie 
 down on the soft snowy cushions, and I will be beside you ; and 
 the cloud will quickly transport us to the deep valleys where the 
 other brooks are. There, 1 will place you gently in your pretty 
 green bed, stay with you, and relate stories, and bestow pleasant 
 dreams on you.' 
 
 " Princess Use was, however, incurably perverse ; she called 
 out again, more crossly and imperiously than before, ' No ! no ! 
 I won't go down — I don't choose to go down ! ' And when the 
 kind Angel approached her, and wished to take her in his arms, 
 she tried to push him away and dashed water in his face ! 
 
 "The Angel seated himself sorrowfully on the ground, and 
 the little headstrong Princess crept back into the crevice of the 
 rock, quite proud that she had shown so much decision of cha- 
 racter ; and though the Angel repeatedly endeavoured to per- 
 suade her to go with him, she only gave him short repulsive 
 answers. 
 
 "When the good Angel at last saw that, in spite of all his 
 love, he had no power over little Use, and that the little Demon 
 of Pride had got complete mastery over her mind, he turned 
 away from the perverse child, sighing heavily, and sought out 
 his own blessed companions, who were still busily engaged 
 below. 
 
 " When Princess Use found herself once more alone on the 
 summit of the Alps, she wished to enjoy her lofty position. She 
 crept forth from the crevice of the rock, placed herself on a jutting 
 crag, spread out her vaporous drapery in wide folds, and waited 
 to see if the other hills would not bow down before her, and the 
 clouds approach to kiss the hem of her garment. Nothing of 
 the kind, hoivever, occurred, notwithstanding the dignified air of 
 the lofty little lady ; so at last she became weary of remaining in 
 one place, began to feel very desolate, and said with a low sigh, 
 'I could have borne a certain portion of ennui, befitting my 
 rank, but so much of it is more than even a Princess can be 
 expected to endure ! ' " 
 
 But evil comes — in the shape of the Demon
 
 152 THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 of the Brokenberg, who persuades her to shp 
 into a shining shell, and be transported to his 
 witch-festival on the Hartz mountains ; where 
 she hears herself called " a tea-kettle " princess, 
 and learns that she is to be boiled in the unholy 
 cauldron. Nevertheless, she contrives to escape 
 to the " green forest," and there flows calmly 
 and safely on ; notwithstanding that the demon 
 sends the north wind and the winter frost to 
 bring back to his clutches the " ethereal child." 
 But in vain ; and she lives on her peaceful, 
 happy life of many hundred years. 
 
 How, afterwards, becoming subject to advan- 
 cing civilisation, which converts the forest into 
 an iron-works, and makes it populous with toil- 
 ing and suffering humanity, the little stream 
 condescends to turn a mill, to wash poor folk's 
 clothes, and even to be boiled on the household 
 fire, careless of the obnoxious title "tea-kettle 
 princess,'^ — all this, readers may learn for them- 
 selves. 
 
 Another book of somewhat similar character, 
 where lessons of the purest Christian morality 
 gleam like threads of gold through the web of 
 a beautiful story, is " The History of Sir 
 Thomas Thumb : " in which Miss Yonge has 
 woven together the old familiar nursery tale, the 
 poetic legend of King Arthur, and the Shak- 
 sperian fairy-lore, in a manner that will charm 
 old and young. 
 
 Frances Freeling Broderip, daughter of him 
 who so exquisitely sang the " Plea of the Mid- 
 summer Fairies," has surely been gifted by them
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. 153 
 
 with the faculty of dehghting children. No 
 " Little Folk," and few great ones, could fail to 
 appreciate the "Snail who came of a Distin- 
 guished Family." 
 
 "'May I ask whom I have the honour of speaking to?' 
 asked a large Snail, with a fine ring-marked shell, who was 
 leisurely feasting on a low branch of a very fine crop of green 
 peas. 
 
 " 'My name is Atalanta,' quietly replied a sober-looking 
 Caterpillar of a greenish -black colour, with a spotty yellowish 
 band running along its sides. 
 
 " ' Dear me, what a ridiculously fine name for such a dingy 
 creature; " Deadleaf" would be far more consistent with the 
 faded colour of your vestments, which seem to have seen better 
 days. I hope you are not hungry, my good fellow, and that you 
 have not come on a foraging expedition ; because I must tell 
 you that this row of peas is especially the peculiar property and 
 feeding -ground of my family, and our own cousins, the Slugs.' 
 
 " 'Don't alarm yourself,' said the Caterpillar, 'I don't care 
 for peas. I always prefer something more highly seasoned ; 
 indeed nettles are my principal food. ' 
 
 "'Indeed,' said the Snail, patronizingly; 'and I daresay, 
 now, you consider them good eating. What a bountiful pro- 
 vision there is for the lower orders ! How many more nettles 
 there are than rows of peas or beds of strawberries ! We, 
 more delicate and refined beings, who are particular in our fare, 
 are not so bounteously provided. For myself, I prefer early 
 green peas ; I don't care about them when they get the least old 
 and hard. I am partial to strawberries, when ripe and full- 
 ilavoured. W^hen I am really pushed to it for food, however, 
 I can make a meal on the heart of a young mild cabbage- 
 lettuce. ' 
 
 " 'You are easily satisfied, then,' remarked the Caterpillar; 
 ' not very dainty in your eating, seemingly.' 
 
 "'Yes,' said the Snail, with a virtuous air; 'I am, alas! 
 used to the ups and downs of life, and have known times of great 
 scarcity. Why, do you know, I have really passed one or two 
 summers almost without tasting an apricot or peach ?' 
 
 " 'You must have suffered much, then,' said the Caterpillar. 
 
 " 'Indeed I have,' sighed the Snail, 'for a member of such 
 ancient lineage. We are of as good family as any in the land, 
 being cousins only once removed from the fat white Dorking 
 Snails. They, as you have doubtless heard, are illustrious 
 exiles from the sunny land of France. Still, even the highest 
 and noblest meet with occasional misfortunes, and I have had 
 my share. I have been tormented by those obnoxious articles 
 called gardeners, to a fearful extent ; in fact, they only seem
 
 154 THE AGE OF GOLD, 
 
 made to be a perpetual penance to us. The trouble they have 
 given me, I am sure, no one v^^ould believe. Many times have I 
 snugly established myself in a pleasant grove of ivy, intending 
 to make my winter residence there ; but no ! the perverse 
 wretches would not let me alone, but must send me flying over 
 the railings into the road. Fortunately my house is strong and 
 well built, so I have never come to any material hann. The 
 greatest annoyance, besides flying through the air in that breath- 
 less way, has been from being obliged to walk back over the 
 dusty, gritty road, through the garden gate again.' 
 
 "'You are not very easily daunted, then,' said the Cater- 
 pillar, who had listened with amusement to all this pompous 
 oration. 
 
 "'Oh, dear, no!' said the Snail, affectedly; *we must not 
 let a little daunt us, and deter us from our purpose. And so, 
 when I am sent flying thus, as I am obliged to change my resi- 
 dence, I do so for the better, and locate myself in the middle of 
 a clump of nice choice carnations, or a blooming pansy.' 
 
 " 'But suppose the ruthless gardener should find you there, 
 and crunch you without remorse,' suggested the Caterpillar. 
 
 " 'Why, then, "I shall have lived my life," and leave my 
 children to carry on an illustrious line. By the way, I have a 
 most promising family of this season, feeding yonder on those 
 young shoots. Their shells are almost hard already. ' 
 
 ' ' ' They seem to have voracious appetites for such small 
 creatures, ' observed the Caterpillar ; ' notwithstanding their 
 delicate rearing.' 
 
 "'They are young,' said the Snail, haughtily, * and require 
 plenty of nourishment to sustain their delicate nervous systems. 
 By the way, where do you lodge for the night ? I suppose you 
 are obliged to put up with anything,' 
 
 " ' Why, I generally curl myself up in a leaf,' said the Cater- 
 pillar. ' I find it very airy and well ventilated in the warm 
 weather.' 
 
 " 'Ah, poor fellow !' said the Snail, compassionately ; 'what 
 a vagrant, gipsy sort of life. You should have a house like mine ; 
 it is so much more respectable to be a householder.' 
 
 " 'I should think such property must bring its own respon- 
 sibility, and often become burdensome,' said the Caterpillar. 
 ' Don't you find it a great load to carry ?' 
 
 "'Oh, dear, no!' answered the Snail; 'and only consider 
 the comfort of being able to draw in your head in safety from 
 your enemies.' 
 
 "'Thrushes manage, though, to demolish your mansions 
 sometimes, don't they?' asked the Caterpillar, mischievously. 
 
 " ' Sometimes, but not very often ; and then one must put up 
 with a few dangers on account of one's dignity and exalted 
 situation. Take my advice, and get a house ; I. dare say you can 
 find a few empty ones lying about, quite good enough for your 
 limited wants. And now, as I see my friend, Sir Helix, coming
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. 155 
 
 this way, I must leave you ; and I will beg of you to go a little 
 further off, my good fellow, as he is not very fond of new 
 acquaintances, unless they are extremely select.' 
 
 " Some time after, while our Snail was slowly creeping along 
 on his way to a fine fruit tree, richly laden, he beheld not far 
 above his head a gorgeous creature. Its wings, of a rich velvet- 
 like black, wei-e edged with the most brilliant blue ; splendid 
 scarlet bands, that seemed robbed from the poppy itself, were, 
 as it were, embroidered upon them, studded with snowy spots ot . 
 pure white. On the underneath these lovely wings were painted, 
 as if in imitation of an Indian shawl. Rich shades of golden 
 brown were mingled with delicate patterns of red, amber, and 
 blue, in the most harmonious manner. 
 
 " 'Good morning, your Royal Highness,' said the Snail, ob- 
 sequiously ; ' we are deeply honoured by your condescending 
 visit, ' 
 
 "'And who may you be?' inquired the lovely creature, 
 languidly. " You seem a slow, humble sort of body ; and your 
 bundle on your back, too : how very amusing.' 
 
 "The Snail was deeply mortified at the ridicule of the But- 
 terfly, but did not presume to reply, for fear of giving offence. 
 Those who are most overbearing to their inferiors, are generally 
 servile enough to those who ai^e above them in station. 
 
 " ' Do you carry your food in that funny sort of cupboard on 
 your back ? ' inquired the Butterfly ; ' pray, what do you live on, 
 you grovelling creatures?' 
 
 " ' Please your Highness, this is my house, my little cottage ; 
 and as for food, we snails live on peas, lettuces, or strawberries, 
 when we can get them, ' 
 
 " ' Oh, you coarse things,' said the Butterfly, 'how very un- 
 pleasant ! But all you lower orders are so uncouth in your 
 habits. I suppose you have no idea what the taste of honey is 
 like ? — that is the nectar upon which we feed. ' 
 
 "The Snail professed his ignorance very humbly, hoping to 
 get an invitation to the Butterfly's domain. 
 
 ' ' ' Poor drudging thing ! ' said the Butterfly, with an air of 
 supreme pity, ' toiling along the dusty road with all your goods 
 and chattels on your back. Now, when we are tired of reposing 
 in a lily, we spread our light wings and go next door to a rose. 
 We feed on the sweetest dews and the purest and finest 
 honey. We soar into the air on our jewelled wings, and fly 
 hither and thither over garden and meadow, wheresoever we 
 will' 
 
 "'Oh, your Highness,' said the Snail, envyingly, 'what a 
 charming existence 1 How flattered I feel by the honour of your 
 conversation !' 
 
 " ' Do you?' said the Butterfly ; *I am sorry I cannot return 
 the compliment. I suppose in this gay attire you don't recog- 
 nise the Caterpillar you once patronised and insulted ?' 
 
 "The horrified Snail fairly drew into his shell with dismay,
 
 156 THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 but speedily recovering his presence of mind, he began a sort of 
 apology. 
 
 " ' Pray, don't say another word,' said the Butterfly, unfolding 
 his beautiful wings, and preparing for flight. ' Such blindness 
 as yours is not confined to the snail tribe ; there are many 
 greater and wiser, who can find no beauty or virtue under 
 a humble exterior. Had you been only commonly civil to me 
 when I was a humble, crawling creature like yourself, I should 
 not now disdain your acquaintance ; but your present respect is 
 only paid to my gay attire. You disowned me in my lowly, 
 early days, and despised me ; consequently, now my wings are 
 grown I leave you to your own sordid pursuits, and soar far 
 above you in the sunny air.' " 
 
 From an equally pleasant book, " Little Es- 
 tella," we take this picture of the deep sea world, 
 to which has been brought a stolen mortal child. 
 
 "At first little Viola wept, for she remembered her sweet 
 mother's face, but soon she learnt to love the sea-nymphs and 
 their Queen, and became like one of them. 
 
 " In the mornings, when the sun's rays pierced through the 
 ciystal water, and fell upon the steps of yellow marble, and into 
 the bright hall of the palace, Coralline and Sepiola, seating 
 themselves on either side of her, taught the child to weave the 
 beautiful green and purple tapestry destined for the Queen's new 
 grotto, and which was embroidered all over with seed-pearl ; 
 whilst the Queen reclined on a couch near them, issuing her 
 orders, or telling such incidents of the previous day as were most 
 likely to amuse little Viola, and to teach her what was good 
 and lovely. 
 
 " When the time came to gather up the embroidery th:-eads, 
 and fold together the tapestry. Pearl came by on her way to the 
 palace of green marble. Pearl was Viola's favourite friend ; 
 she was young and full of mirth and frolic ; but she could be 
 grave too. None had so sweet and sad a voice to pity the little 
 injured fish, so gentle a hand to bind their wounds, or such 
 pxtience to hear their sorrows, and Viola liked to share in her 
 labours. 
 
 "It was a great delight to both, when their recovered 
 favourites were able to leave the hosj^ital and return to their 
 native haunts. Often as they sat at work in the mornings, the 
 little fish, grateful for so much kijidness, came waving their fins, 
 and sporting about before the steps of the palace, to catch a 
 glimpse of Pearl and Viola, or see their Queen. Sometimes 
 she would bid them tell her where they had travelled, and 
 what curious things they had seen ; this they thought a great 
 honour, and sometimes had the most amusing adventures to
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. 157 
 
 relate, so that Viola learned to watch for the glancing of their 
 silver scales, and the twinkling of their bright eyes, as one of her 
 pleasures. 
 
 " The most tiresome of all the Queen's subjects were the crabs 
 and lobsters, who were always bent on seeing and touching 
 everything ; but being too heavy and idle to swim in pace with 
 the rest of the train, they used to hold on by their claws to the 
 flowing robes of the sea-nymphs, thereby impeding their pro- 
 gress. They had very little sharp eyes, and were extremely 
 curious ; they were, moreover, very quarrelsome, and were per- 
 petually pinching and fighting each other, especially the lobsters, 
 who would poke their long feelers into everybody's way, and 
 often got them broken in consequence ; upon which they used to 
 run off to the hospital in a miserable plight, and nobody but the 
 gentle Pearl would ever have had patience to nurse them. 
 
 "The Queen used often to punish them by having them 
 tightly wound up in sea-weeds, so that they could not use their 
 claws ; after which, they became very penitent, and were glad to 
 be allowed to carry on their strong backs all the food and other 
 things which Pearl needed in her labours. 
 
 ' ' Viola used to look forward with great pleasure to the ap- 
 proach of evening, when Ulva came with Doris and Lorea, to 
 take her abroad with the Queen. At first, Ulva used to lift the 
 child in her arms ; but soon she learnt to ride a quiet old 
 Dolphin, who was too old to gambol and curvet as the Queen's 
 sea-horse did, while Doris and Lorea held the bridle-rein, and 
 taught her to manage it." 
 
 Alack, and well~a-day ! where are the fairies 
 of our youth ? We believe in them no longer. 
 We create them no more. But Heaven forbid 
 that they should not exist still for others, and 
 for years to come delight the little children 
 now growing up around us, — the dear ones 
 tmto whom we look with unutterable love 
 and longing, praying that in them our child- 
 hood and youth may be renewed, only that 
 they may prove infinitely better and happier 
 than we. 
 
 But after the first craving of infantile imagi- 
 nation has satisfied itself with its natural food, 
 namely, mere amusement, there usually comes a 
 new development, without which the liveliest
 
 158 THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 fancy is mere fantasy, vague, unsubstantial, and 
 utterly insufficient for the yearnings of a human 
 soul. This is ideality — the nearest word we can 
 find to express that thirst for ideal beauty and 
 ideal good, which, more or less, exists in every 
 immortal soul — may it not be, as the intuitive 
 instinct of its immortality ? 
 
 When the child-nature first wakes up to this, 
 how the whole world becomes transformed, full 
 of a glorious mystery, glowing with an unutter- 
 able beauty ! How the little heart beats, and 
 the bright eyes glisten, at tales of heroic virtue 
 or pathetic patience ! How nothing seems too 
 mighty to achieve or to endure, in this wonder- 
 ful new world, of which the gate is just opened ; 
 an ideal earth, beautiful as Paradise, and yet it is 
 this very earth of ours. 
 
 This is the first great crisis in youthful life. 
 On the use that is made of it, the influences 
 that surround it, depends frequently the bias of 
 the whole character. Parents cannot be too 
 careful of the books they then give their chil- 
 dren to read, of the tone of the conversation 
 they let them hear, and of the associates with 
 whom they surround them. In many children, 
 especially those of imaginative temperament, no 
 after impression will ever efface those received 
 at this age. Therefore it is good to furnish 
 either boy or girl with such strengthening food 
 as this history, by Sarah Crompton, of the old 
 man who waited fifteen years for leave to sail 
 from Spain in search of a New World. 
 
 "Though each day, as they sailed on, must bring them nearer
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. 159 
 
 to land, yet each day the fears and conduct of the crew became 
 worse. The signs so full of hope to the mmd of Columbus did 
 but add to the fears of the men. 
 
 " Some of them laid a plot to throw their leader into the sea, 
 and turn back. Columbus knew of all this bad feehng, but still 
 bore all in patience, and spoke wisely and well to each man in 
 turn. On the 25th of September the wind was due east, and 
 took them onwards. Once the cry of land was heard, but the 
 daylight put an end to this fresh dream of hope. They still 
 went on. Dolphins played around the ships, and flying- fish fell 
 upon the decks. Tliese new sights kept the sailors amused. 
 On the 7th of October some of the admiral's crew thought 
 they saw land in the west, but before the close of day the signs 
 were lost in the air. They had now sailed 750 leagues, more 
 than 2000 miles, from any known land. Flights of small birds 
 came about the ships ; a heron, a pelican, and a duck were 
 seen ; and so they went on, till one night, when the sun went 
 down on a shoreless sea, the crew rose against Columbus, to 
 force his return. He was firm as ever, but spake gently, and 
 prayed them to trust that all would yet be well. It was hard 
 work to make them submit and obey, and the state of things for 
 Columbus was bad indeed. 
 
 "Next day brought some relief; for the signs of land were 
 more and more sure. They saw fresh weeds, such as only grow 
 in rivers, and a kind of fish only found about rocks. The 
 branch of a tree with berries on it floated past, and they picked 
 up a piece of cane ; also a board and stick, with strange things cut 
 on them. All gloom and ill-will now cleared away. Each man 
 hoped to be the first to see the new land, and thus to win the 
 large reward in money which was then to be given him. The 
 breeze had been fresh all day, and they sailed very fast. At 
 sunset their course was due west. Every one was on the alert. 
 No man on board the three ships went to sleep that night. 
 Columbus took his place on the top of the cabin. He was glad 
 to be alone just on the eve of the long-looked-for event. His 
 eye was keen, and on the strain, through the deep, still, shades 
 of night. All at once, about ten o'clock, he thought he saw a 
 light far off. Lest hope should mislead him, he called up a m^an 
 to his side. Yes — there again — it surely was a light. They 
 called the mate. Yes ; he, too, was sure of the same : and 
 then it was gone, and soon they all saw it again. It might be a 
 torch in the bark of some fisherman, rising and sinking with the 
 waves, or a light in the hand of a man on shore, moving here 
 and there. Thus Columbus knew that land was there, with 
 men upon it. What words can tell the joy of his brave and 
 noble soul ! " 
 
 The boy who could read this passage (told 
 so graphically that we wish many a historian
 
 i6o THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 would take a lesson from Sarah Crompton's 
 " short words ") without a thrill of emotion that 
 may give the first impulse to the chance of 
 becoming himself a great man, must be a very 
 common-minded boy indeed. 
 
 A less complete, and yet very pleasant book, 
 is " Days of Old ; " though, as a child's book, 
 not quite satisfactory. We should say, from in- 
 ternal evidence, that the writer has not so long 
 passed the season of childhood as to be able 
 clearly to see its requirements. She — for the 
 style is essentially feminine — falls into the com- 
 mon error of " writing down to children ; " that 
 is, of presenting the ideas of a grown-up person 
 in the language of a child. Now the first neces- 
 sity to secure the attention of little people, is to 
 make yourself a child — not in a condescending, 
 carefully-acted fashion, but by coming down, 
 literally and entirely, to their level, and trying 
 to see everything from their point of view. Their 
 interests must be your interests, their reality 
 your reality. It is this which forms the charm 
 of the old-fashioned fairy tales — the exceeding 
 gravity and verity with which they are related, 
 the relator seeming no more to doubt than the 
 child-readers, that Jack did really cut off all the 
 giant's three heads ; and that it was perfectly 
 natural and probable for Puss to put on boots 
 and converse with everybody he met in that 
 extremely gentlemanly manner. 
 
 With this suggestion, that the author would 
 do well to avoid " poetical " language and re- 
 condite moralising, and study that perfect sim-
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. i6i 
 
 pliclty of conception, action, and diction, which 
 is quite compatible with perfect ideal beauty, 
 nay, forms the chief element therein, — we can 
 give warm praise to the " Days of Old." 
 
 It consists of three tales, each illustrating a 
 principle. The first is " Self-sacrifice." A little 
 British child, Deva, daughter of Caswallen, or 
 Casslvelaunus, hearing that once a brother died 
 to save a brother, offers herself to the Druid 
 god, hoping thereby her sick brother may be 
 spared, and live to become a hero. The sacrifice 
 Is not completed, but she learns from Otho, a 
 Christian convert, of '^ the only perfect Man and 
 perfect Sacrifice," and recognises In Him the 
 story of the brother who died. Less intelligible 
 to children, we fear, and yet worked out with 
 exceeding beauty, Is " Wulfgar and the Earl," a 
 story of pride broken by sorrow, of the will of 
 man forced to submit itself to the will of God. 
 The third tale, " Roland," is that of a younger 
 brother, '' the scholar of the family," with " more 
 friends among his books than among his fellows," 
 who, under a strong impulse, follows his elder 
 brother to the Holy Land. There Gerard ap- 
 plies himself to acquire glory, and gains it ; but 
 Roland, touched by the anguish of a mother 
 whose son had been tempted over to Saladln's 
 camp, devotes all his energies to recover the 
 apostate ; whom meeting at last In battle, he 
 will not slay, preferring to be branded as a 
 coward rather than murder the widow's son. 
 His generosity is the sinner's redemption. 
 
 The tone and spirit of this story cannot better 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 i62 THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 be shown than by extracting its conclusion, be- 
 ginning with part of Roland's last conversation 
 with the monk whose preaching had induced 
 him to embark for the Holy Land, which he was 
 now quitting for ever : — 
 
 "These two were walking together within sight of the sea 
 that would take one back to his own land, and separate the 
 other from him. 
 
 " ' My son,' the monk asked abruptly, * are you content ?' 
 
 "'lam.' 
 
 " ' You have gained no renown.' 
 
 " ' I came not for that, father. ' 
 
 " ' Nor riches.' 
 
 " 'I did not expect them.' 
 
 ' ' ' What, then, have you gained ? ' 
 
 "'A brother!' 
 
 " * Yet you did not come for that. Why, then, are you 
 content ? ' 
 
 " ' I came not for that, indeed ; I came to do my own work ; 
 but God gave me His to do instead. He gave me the work, 
 the will to do it, and the power to succeed. Have I not cause to 
 be content ? ' 
 
 ****** 
 
 "This is all the story. 
 
 "Gerard went on fighting, and men called 'him a good 
 soldier ; and Roland went home. He took with him no golden 
 spurs, but he had a friend and brother by his side who would 
 never be unfaithful. 
 
 * ^^ * * * * 
 
 " When that generation had passed, though Roland's name 
 was remembered, it was not as a crusader ; but Gerard's fame 
 and prowess were talked of and sung of for many a day. 
 
 "That he, the elder brother, was 'fit for a soldier,' no one 
 ever doubted ; indeed, a tangible proof of the same remains to 
 this day in the shape of a yellow banner laid up somewhere as a 
 memento of the past — at least, if it does not remain to this day, 
 it is only because it has dropped away thread by thread ; for 
 Time must have worn it a long while, and perhaps by this time 
 has worn it out. 
 
 "That Roland was 'fit for a soldier,' no proof remains — on 
 earth. But perhaps it is not only here that brave soldiers are 
 knoM-n from cowards, and that mementoes of great deeds are 
 laid up." 
 
 This book speaks for itself. It appeals in-
 
 THE AGE OF GOLD. 163 
 
 stinctively to what is highest in child or man — 
 that struggle after something better than any- 
 thing we possess or behold, which, beginning in 
 this Age of Gold, is never to be ended on earth. 
 But what matters it unto those who recognise 
 themselves as mere travellers, bound for another 
 Country brighter than even the Celestial Country 
 of which Bunyan's little readers are taught to 
 dream? Ay, and it is good for them so to 
 dream, and good to read stories such as this we 
 have been quoting from, wherein the actual is 
 elevated into the ideal, and by means of its 
 imagination the child is taught lessons, the 
 influence of which may be needed in after life, 
 who knows how often or for how long ? Until 
 at last we cease to crave after the ideal, merely 
 as such, and recognise in it the spirit's blind 
 groping after that faith which is ^' the substance 
 of things hoped for, the evidence of things not 
 seen." 
 
 Possessing this, need we mourn that the sea- 
 son is gone by, for us grown people at least, 
 when glamour was over all our world, when 
 everybody seemed so good and so beautiful, and 
 from others as well as from ourselves we ex- 
 pected the noblest deeds, the most impossible 
 perfections ? If they have somewhat failed — and 
 we also — if, instead of walking this poor earth 
 in stature greater than men, and speaking — 
 
 "With the large utterance of the early gods, — " 
 
 we see ourselves and our friends the pigmies 
 that we really are, let us not repine ; nor, 
 
 M 2
 
 i64 THE AGE OF GOLD. 
 
 because we have come short of it, let us deny 
 the truth we once held, for it ivas the truth. 
 Happy are we if we can still recognise, in spite 
 of all mutations, that the Age of Gold has 
 never become dim — that we still believe in the 
 same good and lovely things that we believed 
 in when we were young.
 
 ON 
 
 LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE, 
 
 A 
 
 N enterprising artist once painted a picture, 
 after the fashion of that school which, 
 with all its exaggerations, has done 
 much for the reformation of modern art ; — ay, 
 as much as Wordsworth's startling simplicities 
 once did for that of modern poetry. Not a 
 bad picture, though very pre-Raphaelite. Two 
 decidedly plain young people leant against a 
 wall, or rather seemed growing out of it ; and 
 the wall itself was painted minutely down to the 
 last brick, over which a large green beetle was 
 meditatively walking. The landscape beyond 
 rose almost perpendicularly up to the sky, 
 against which, sharply outlined on the top of a 
 very verdant tree, was a solitary black crow — 
 so large, that if seen on the ground he would 
 have been as big as a sheep. He and the green 
 beetle together quite distracted one's attention 
 from the melancholy lovers ; and though many 
 parts of the picture were well painted, still there 
 was a lack of proportion which marred exceed-
 
 i66 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 
 
 ingly the general effect. It was unlevel, irre- 
 gular ; a sacrifice of the whole to particular parts, 
 which were carefully " worked up," while others 
 were totally neglected. In short, it made one 
 feel, with a sad moralising, what a fatal thing in 
 pictures, books, or human lives, is a lack of pro- 
 portion. 
 
 It is a plausible theory that neither good nor 
 evil is absolute ; that each vice is the exagge- 
 rated extension of a virtue ; each virtue capable 
 of being corrupted into a vice ; so that the good 
 and wise man becomes simply the man with 
 acuteness enough to draw the exact line betw^een 
 either, and then to obey the advice — In viedio 
 tiUissimus ibis. If this be a sophism, there is 
 yet truth in it. Undoubtedly the best man, the 
 man most useful to his species, is he whose 
 character is most equally balanced ; and the 
 most complete life is that which has been lived, 
 so to speak, in perspective. People with enor- 
 mous faults and gigantic virtues may be very 
 interesting in novels, but they are exceedingly 
 inconvenient in real life. An equable person, 
 with no offensively exaggerated qualities, is by 
 far the safest to have to do with, and especially 
 to live with. My friend Juventus, when you 
 marry, be sure you choose a woman with no 
 strong " peculiarities ; " let her soul, like her 
 form, be without angles ; above all, take care 
 that she has, in all her doings and thinkings, a 
 clear eye for the fitting relations of things which 
 make up what I call the perspective of life. 
 
 How shall I explain it 1 Perhaps best by
 
 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 167 
 
 illustration, beginning with the root of all evil, 
 and of a very great deal of good — money. 
 
 It may be a most immoral and unpoetical 
 sentiment, but those are always the best people 
 who have a carefulness over, and a wise respect 
 for, money. Not per se — not the mere having it 
 or amassing it, but the prudent using of it — 
 making it our servant and not our master. As 
 a test of character, perhaps £ s. d. is one of the 
 sharpest and most sure. A man who is in- 
 different and inaccurate in money matters, will 
 rarely be found accurate in anything. He may 
 have large benevolence — externally ; you will 
 see him throw half-a-crown to a beggar, and 
 subscribe to every charity list in the Times; but 
 if he forgets to pay you that five shillings he 
 borrowed for cab-hire, you may be quite sure 
 that the beggar's half-crown and the twenty 
 pounds in the printed subscription will have to 
 come out of somebody's pocket — probably not 
 his own ; for there is nothing like the meanness 
 of your '' generous " people — always robbing 
 Peter to pay Paul. A liberal man is a glorious 
 sight ; but then he must be " liberal in all his 
 ways" — even-handed as well as open-handed. 
 His expenditure must be, Hke his character, 
 justly balanced and in due proportion. And 
 since how to earn and how to spend, are equally 
 difficult arts, and that a large part of our useful- 
 ness, worthiness, and happiness depends on our 
 learning them — ay, and they cannot be learnt 
 too soon — is it wrong to put money as the crucial 
 test of what we term living " in perspective 1 "
 
 l68 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 
 
 For example : Smith has exactly five hundred 
 a year. We all know this fact — we cannot help 
 knowing it, he being a salaried official of Govern- 
 ment. We also know — somehow, everybody 
 does know everything — that he has no private 
 fortune, and that he had the courage and manli- 
 ness to marry a woman without a halfpenny to 
 hers. Nevertheless, when he married he took a 
 house, which, being in our own street, we are 
 aware must cost him, rent and taxes together, 
 at least 70/. a year ; this leaves him, for all 
 other expenses, just 430/. A very comfortable 
 sum if fairly divided among the moderate neces- 
 sities of life, but which, in these modern days, 
 will certainly allow no extraneous luxuries. 
 
 Yet we meet Mr. and Mrs. Smith continually 
 in " society " — he well-dressed as usual, she in 
 her beautiful marriage gowns, which would be 
 ruined by a common cab or omnibus ; so we 
 must conclude they come to these elegant parties 
 in a fly — (lOi". per night ; say, at lowest calcula- 
 tion, 30J". per week of carriage-hire. Poor Smith !) 
 In process of time we are invited to Smith's own 
 house, to meet " a few friends at dinner." And 
 every dinner — counting the wine, the hired cook, 
 the two waiters, and all the inevitable extraneous 
 expenses of a small household giving a large 
 entertainment, must, we are certain, have mulcted 
 our poor friend of at least 15/. If he gives three 
 of them — there, at one fell swoop, goes 45/. out 
 of the 430/., merely eaten and drank, with no- 
 thing to show for it. And Smith being an 
 honourable fellow who ivill pay his tradesmen.
 
 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 169 
 
 though he starve for it, we shrewdly suspect 
 there will be sharp economies somewhere ; that 
 the Gruyere cheese may result in family butter 
 frightfully salt, and that these elegant desserts 
 will cause Smith to go puddingless for days. 
 Also, that the tall greengrocer in white gloves, 
 who didn't a bit delude us into believing that 
 our friends kept a footman, will dwindle in daily 
 life to a slatternly Irish girl, who, being paid 
 half the wages of a good housemaid, is so in- 
 competent a servant that poor Mrs. Smith has 
 to do half the work herself Yet there she sits, 
 pretty young creature ! wan, but smiling; anxious 
 to keep up the dignity of her husband's table, 
 but enduring agonies lest all should not go on 
 rightly in the kitchen, — which, in that household 
 of 500/. a year, aping for one day only the luxu- 
 ries and conveniences of 5,000/., is nearly im- 
 possible. We are so sorry for her, our gentle 
 hostess ; and as for our host, though we laugh 
 at his jokes and praise his wine, we feel as if all 
 the time we had our hand feloniously in his 
 pocket. But why — oh ! why was he so foolish 
 as to invite us to put it there .? 
 
 Why ? Because he cannot see that he is living 
 out of perspective. That if he asked really " a 
 few friends" — not acquaintances — to share the 
 wholesome joint and nice pudding which, I 
 doubt not, Mrs. Smith gives him every day, 
 with, perhaps, a cozy " crack " over walnuts and 
 wine afterwards, we should not only enjoy our 
 entertainment, but respect our host a great deal 
 more. For we should feel that he was giving us
 
 I70 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 
 
 real hospitality — a share of his own bread and 
 salt — the best he could afford ; and, therefore, 
 just as valuable in its way as our best : — though, 
 we being richer men, this may consist of turtle 
 and champagne, which, if he honours us by 
 sharing, we are honoured ; for he and his wife 
 are well-born, well-bred, and altogether charming 
 and acceptable guests. Why should they not 
 believe this, accept our invitations, and take 
 their stand in society upon higher ground than 
 petty rivalry in meats and clothes ? Why not 
 say, openly or tacitly, " We have just five 
 hundred a year, and we mean to live accord- 
 ingly. We enjoy society, but society must take 
 us as we are. We will attempt no make-believes ; 
 we will not feast one day and starve another ; 
 appear finely dressed at our neighbour's house, 
 and lounge about our own in shabbiness and 
 rags ; have a large, well-furnished, showy draw- 
 ing-room to receive our company in, and let 
 our family sleep in upper chambers, bare, com- 
 fortless, dirty — something between a workhouse 
 ward and a pigsty. Whatever we spend, we 
 will spend levelly ; then, be our income large 
 or small, we shall always be rich, for we shall 
 have apportioned our spendings to our havings. 
 The nobleman who is said to have an income 
 of a thousand a day can do no more." 
 
 Not less unreal than the Smiths, or more 
 devoid of that fine sense of the proportion of 
 things which distinguishes a wise man from an 
 unwise, is our other friend, Jones. 
 
 Jones is a self-made man. He and his wife
 
 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 171 
 
 began life in a second-floor over their shop in 
 the High Street. There, by steadfast industry, 
 he developed from a tradesman to a merchant — 
 from a merchant to a millionnaire. Now, in all — 
 stop ! let me not name the city, — no house is 
 more palatial than the one built by Thomas 
 Jones. When he gives a dinner-party, his plate, 
 glass, and china dazzle your eyes ; and his 
 drawing-room — on those rare occasions when 
 you are allowed to behold it — is the very perfec- 
 tion of the upholsterer's art. But, ordinarily, its 
 carved marble chimney-pieces gleam coldly over 
 never-lighted fires ; its satin damask is hid under 
 brown hoUand ; its velvet pile carpet you feel, 
 but cannot see it — not an inch of it ! — under the 
 ugly drugget that covers all. The chandeliers, 
 the mirrors, and picture-frames, nay, the very 
 statues, are swathed in that dreadful gauzy 
 substance, sticky, flimsy, and crackly, which 
 must have been invented by the goddess of 
 Sham — as if anything not too good to buy were 
 too good to use ! 
 
 Yet, even in this their dreary condition, the 
 splendid apartments are seldom opened. Jones 
 and his wife live mostly in their little back 
 parlour, where are neither books, pictures, statues, 
 nor handsome furniture ; nothing pretty to de- 
 light the eye, nothing comfortable or luxurious 
 to pleasure the old age of Jones himself or of 
 excellent Mrs. Jones, who was such a faithful, 
 hard-working wife to him in his poverty days, 
 and who now richly deserves all that their well- 
 earned wealth could give her. But, alas ! both
 
 172 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 
 
 had grown so used to narrowness, that when 
 good fortune came they could not expand with 
 it. Save on show occasions, they continue to 
 live in the same unnaturally humble way, ap- 
 proaching actual meanness ; as much below 
 their income as Smith lives, or appears to live, 
 above his ; and both are equally wrong. 
 
 The poor Joneses ! — they cannot see that 
 riches were given to a man richly to enjoy, and, 
 Avhat is higher still, to help others to enjoy also. 
 How many a young fellow, with a full brain 
 and an empty purse, would keenly relish those 
 treasures of art which the merchant prince buys 
 so lavishly, just because other people buy them, 
 but does not understand or appreciate one jot ! 
 How often some sickly invalid would feel it like 
 a day in Paradise to spend a few hours in 
 Mrs. Jones's beautiful country house and deli- 
 cious garden, or to take an occasional drive in 
 her easy barouche, which six days out of seven 
 stands idle in the coach-house ! For she, with 
 her active habits, prefers walking on fine days ; 
 and on wet days, afraid of spoiling the carriage 
 or harming the horses, she takes a street cab — 
 nay, she has been seen tucking up her old black 
 silk gown and popping surreptitiously into an 
 omnibus. A noble economy, if there were any 
 need for it, but there is none. The childless 
 couple had far better spend their income in 
 making other folks' children happy. As it is, 
 for all the use or benefit their wealth is to them, 
 they might as well be living in those two little 
 poky rooms over their first shop ; and that heap
 
 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 173 
 
 of countless guineas, which they can neither 
 spend nor carry away with them, is, for all the 
 enjoyment got out of it, of no more value to 
 them than the dust-heap at their stable door. 
 Their folly is, in its way, as foolish as the folly 
 of the spendthrift, and only a shade less sinful. 
 
 Far wiser are the Browns, whom I went to 
 see the other day, and talked over old times 
 and new. " Yes," said Mrs. Brown — comment- 
 ing, smiling, upon " now " and " then," — " our 
 great secret has been, whatever our income was, 
 we lived within it." That income, as I knew, 
 began at 300/., out of which two households 
 had to be maintained. At present, it is pro- 
 bably over — it cannot well be under — 3,000/. 
 a year. And I like to see Mr. Brown drive off 
 in his well appointed brougham, and Mrs. Brown 
 sit cheerful in her pretty drawing-room, resplen- 
 dent in rich black silk and delicate lace caps, 
 even of a morning. How nice she always looks ! 
 yet not nicer than she used to do in the neat 
 muslins and warm merinos, made every stitch 
 by her own hands. She never makes her own 
 dresses now ; she employs a Court milliner, and 
 sometimes appears at dinner-parties in attire 
 quite gorgeous. But do I admire her the less for 
 this ? Do I not feel that such lawful and pleasant 
 extravagance is the natural outcome of those 
 simple days when she was her own milliner, and 
 went to evening parties hooded and cloaked, in 
 an omnibus .'* Now, as then, she lives in propor- 
 tion to her means, fully using and enjoying her 
 income, and, I am certain, taking good care that
 
 174 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 
 
 others shall enjoy it too. For the true root of 
 generosity is carefulness ; and if in the omni- 
 bus times she managed to spare out of her 
 slender wardrobe many an old gown, and out 
 of her small store-cupboard many a half pound 
 of tea, to people poorer than herself, depend 
 upon it, out of the 3,000/. there is still a large 
 item left for " charity." For true charity con- 
 sists, not in slap-dash acts of astonishing liberal- 
 ity, but in persistently managing one's expenses 
 so that one always has a margin left wherewith 
 to do a kindness. 
 
 Money is, I repeat, the point upon which this 
 system most plainly breaks down ; but there are 
 many other sad ways in which people may live 
 out of perspective. 
 
 Your great philanthropist, for instance, who 
 devotes himself to one or more pet schemes 
 for the improvement of the race, firmly con- 
 vinced that his scheme is the only scheme, until 
 it absorbs his whole time, and becomes, like the 
 big black crow on the tree-top, a mere blot in 
 the otherwise fair landscape of his life, and out 
 of all proportion to the rest of it — how can he 
 condescend to such small duties as to be the 
 kind husband, whose smile makes the evening 
 sunshine of the fireside ; the afi"ectionate father, 
 who is at once the guide, the companion, and 
 the confidant of his children ? 
 
 Your great author, too. It is a pathetic thing 
 to see a wife sit smiling under the laurels of an 
 illustrious husband, and 
 
 " Hear the nations praising him far off,"
 
 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 175 
 
 while, near at home, she knows well that the 
 praise never warms the silent hearth, from which 
 he is continually absent, or, if he comes to it, 
 only brings with him sulkiness and gloom. 
 Alas ! that shadow of fame rather blights than 
 shelters the weak womanly heart which cares 
 little, perhaps, for ambition, but is thirsting for 
 help, comfort, and love. Doubtless many a time 
 that great man's wife envies the lot of a woman 
 married to some stupid respectable spouse who 
 goes to his office at nine and returns at six — 
 goes with the cheerful brow of the busy, active 
 man, and comes back with the kiss and the 
 smile of the honest man who has done his work 
 and got it over, and has room for other cares 
 than bread-winning — other thoughts than of 
 himself and his celebrity. 
 
 And the "auri sacra fames" is as great a 
 destroyer of all domestic peace, as great a blot 
 on the level landscape of a man's life, as the 
 *' cacoethes scribendi." See it in all its madness, 
 in our poor friend Robinson. He has made one 
 fortune, but did not consider it large enough, 
 and is now busy making another. He is off to 
 the city at 8 A.M., never returning till 8 P.M., 
 and then so worn and jaded that he cares for 
 nothing beyond his dinner and his sleep. His 
 beautiful house, his conservatories and pleasure- 
 grounds, delight not him ; he never enjoys, he 
 only pays for them. He has a charming wife 
 and a youthful family, but he sees little of 
 either — the latter, indeed, he never sees at all 
 except on Sundays. He comes home so tired
 
 176 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 
 
 that the children would only worry him. To 
 them " papa " is almost a stranger. They know 
 him only as a periodical incumbrance on the 
 household life, which generally makes it much 
 less pleasant. And when they grow up, it is to 
 such a totally different existence than his that 
 they usually quietly ignore him — " Oh ! papa 
 cares nothing about this ! " '' No, no, we never 
 think of telling papa anything," — until some day 
 papa will die, and leave them a quarter of a 
 million. But how much better to leave them 
 what no money can ever buy — the remembrance 
 of a father ! A real father, whose guardianship 
 made home safe ; whose tenderness filled it with 
 happiness ; who was companion and friend as 
 well as ruler and guide ; whose influence inter- 
 penetrated every day of their lives, every feeling 
 of their hearts ; who was not merely the " author 
 of their being " — that is nothing, a mere accident: 
 — but the originator and educator of everything 
 good in them : the visible father on earth, who 
 made them understand dimly " our Father which 
 is in heaven." 
 
 One of the saddest forms taken by lives lived 
 out of perspective is one which belongs not so 
 much to men as to women, and that is with 
 regard to the affections. We laugh at the lady 
 with whom every second person she chances to 
 name is " my very dearest friend." We know 
 there can be but one '' dearest," or else the phrase 
 means nothing at all. We take these demon- 
 strative people for what they are worth : ex- 
 tremely obliged for their friendship, but not
 
 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 177 
 
 breaking our hearts about them, and well as- 
 sured they will never break their hearts about 
 us. 
 
 But while we smile with a sort of half-con- 
 temptuous pity at those who have such shallow 
 and thinly spread affections, such small capacity 
 of loving, we are forced to admit that it is pos- 
 sible to love too much — I mean, to allow one 
 passion or affection, of whatever kind, to absorb 
 so much of a life that the rest of it, with all its 
 duties, tendernesses, and responsibilities, becomes 
 dwindled down into unnatural proportions. AVho 
 has not seen, with sorrowful bitterness, some 
 woman — it is usually a woman — wasting her 
 whole time, thoughts, and feelings upon one 
 individual, friend or relative (we will not add 
 lover, because that is, at all events, a natural 
 engrossment, leading to natural and righteous 
 duties), and sacrificing to this one person every- 
 thing in life .'* An unholy sacrifice, and gene- 
 rally to an unworthy object, or it would not 
 have been accepted. Gradually, this influence 
 narrows the worshipper's whole nature. She, 
 poor voluntary slave, cannot see that the essence 
 of honest love is perfect freedom, exacting no 
 more than its just rights, and being delicately 
 careful of the rights of others. No friend ought 
 to be the only friend ; no tie of blood, the only 
 tie ; our affections, like all else, were meant to 
 be fairly divided. When they are concentrated 
 upon one object, a wholesome attachment be- 
 comes a diseased engrossment, which, instead of 
 elevating, deteriorates the character, and makes
 
 178 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 
 
 an all-absorbing love more injurious than many 
 an honest hate. 
 
 Ay ; for love itself may be degraded from a 
 religion into a mere superstition. Sometimes 
 even a mother will neglect her other children to 
 waste her substance upon an undutiful scamp, 
 whom everybody knows to be a scamp, and 
 treats accordingly. And continually one sees 
 sisters condoning and palliating in some ne'er- 
 do-weel brother, errors which in any other man 
 they would condemn and scorn. Worse still — 
 how many a wife, who has unhappily borne 
 children to a man whom it is ruin for them to 
 have as a father, hesitates and quails before her 
 conflicting duties — God help her ! Yet how can 
 He help her unless she sees clearly what is her 
 duty, — which is not to let even the tie of mar- 
 riage obedience blind her so that she compro- 
 mises with sin .'* There may be cases in which 
 the only salvation' is escape. It is possible to 
 love, not only father and mother, but husband 
 or wife, more than God, and so be led astray 
 from His absolute right and unalterable truth. 
 
 And this brings us to the last and most fatal 
 phase of lives out of perspective. There are 
 people who to one special duty, which by some 
 morbid exaggeration of fancy they have been 
 led to believe a duty paramount, will sacrifice 
 everything else. The balance of conscience is 
 in them quite lost. They see all things in a 
 distorted light. They are unable to take a just 
 estimate of either their own rights or those of 
 others — nay, their very moral consciousness be-
 
 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 179 
 
 comes diseased ; all the more so, because these 
 victims are generally among the best and noblest 
 of natures — the most single-minded, devoted, 
 and self-sacrificing. While the mass of the 
 world is made up of exceedingly selfish people, 
 passionately pursuing their own interest, there 
 is a proportion in whom the element of self 
 seems to be altogether and fatally absent. I 
 repeat, fatally ; because a certain quantity of 
 it, just sufficient to make one weigh oneself, 
 one's own capabilities and rights, in equal mea- 
 sure with those of other people, is not only 
 beneficial but necessary. Nothing is more 
 hateful than the egotist, whose one little *' I " 
 is the centre of his universe. Yet, on the 
 other hand, it is sad to see a person, man 
 or woman (and here again it is generally a 
 woman), in whom the quality of self-esteem or 
 self-respect is so totally wanting that she allows 
 herself to be continually " put upon ; " follows 
 everybody's advice, succumbs to everybody's 
 tyranny, is the victim of all the injustices of 
 friends and the caprices of acquaintances. Sad- 
 der still, because the woman is almost invariably 
 a very good woman ; only devoid of that some- 
 thing, intellectual or moral — which is it ? — which 
 forms, so to speak, the centre of gravity in a 
 character — enabling the individual to see clearly 
 and decide fairly the balance of duties and the 
 relative proportions of things. 
 
 Otherwise, as continually we see, many a 
 noble and useful life is actually wrecked for the 
 sake of some self-created or, at best, strongly
 
 i8o ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 
 
 exaggerated duty, into which circumstances had 
 drifted the individual, and for which all other 
 duties (including the one, not to man but to 
 God, to preserve for His utmost service the mind 
 and body which He bestowed) are completely 
 neglected. A mother will sacrifice all her child- 
 ren, and herself, upon whom her whole family 
 depends, to some one child who happens to 
 have more influence over her than the rest ; a 
 sister will strip herself of every penny, and per- 
 haps come to subsist upon charity in her old 
 age, to supply the wanton extravagances of 
 some scapegrace brother, for whom a workhouse 
 crust of his own earning would be a salutary 
 lesson ; or — though of this evil let us speak with 
 tenderness, for it verges on the noblest good — a 
 daughter will waste her health, her strength, all 
 the lawful enjoyments of her youth, perhaps 
 even sacrifice woman's holiest right — love and 
 marriage — for the sake of some exacting parent 
 or parents, who consider that the mere fact of 
 having given life constitutes the claim to absorb 
 into themselves everything that makes life plea- 
 sant or desirable. These are hard words, but 
 they are true words ; and though it may be a 
 touching sight to see one human being devoted 
 — nay, say sacrificed — to another, woe be to 
 that other — ay, even though it were a parent — 
 who compels the sacrifice ! 
 
 Ay, even as Nature made this tree — at which, 
 while I write, I sit looking — in such marvellous 
 proportion as well as perfection : the strong 
 rough trunk, the slighter boughs, the slender
 
 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE, i8i 
 
 branches and twigs, all hung with green leaves 
 and rosy blossoms, foretelling wealth of fruit ; 
 so she created our lives to be lived in perspec- 
 tive, and our duties to be fitted into one another 
 or rather to grow out of one another — none 
 taking an exaggerated size, or'assuming a false 
 relation, to the injury of the rest. And truly, the 
 great art of living is to learn this secret. 
 
 What is it } Where is the one point from 
 which, speaking geometrically, we may safely 
 " describe " all lines, so as to make our confused 
 lives into that divine, harmonious figure which 
 alone constitutes completeness, rest, and peace "i 
 Not self, certainly. However conceited and 
 egotistic we are in our youth, we rarely grow to 
 middle age without discovering that egotism, 
 per se, is a huge mistake — not merely ugly, 
 but ridiculous. He who dwells wholly in him- 
 self, who sees all things with reference to 
 himself, makes a blunder as patently ludicrous 
 as he whose feeble self-dependence and low self- 
 esteem cause him to lean always on the judg- 
 ment and be guided by the opinion of others. 
 Both err in precisely the same way as our friend 
 the pre-Raphaelite painter, who took his point 
 of sight anywhere, or nowhere in particular, and 
 so lost altogether his power of comparison be- 
 tween objects ; made his crow as large as a 
 donkey, and his green beetle a more interesting 
 personage than his unfortunate lovers leaning 
 against the wall. 
 
 One last word, and a solemn one, for life is a 
 sad and solemn thing.
 
 1 82 ON LIVING IN PERSPECTIVE. 
 
 In this strange landscape of our mortal exist- 
 ence there is but one true and safe point of sight, 
 and that is neither from self within us nor from 
 the world without us, hw\. from above. The man 
 who feels, humbly yet proudly, that his life is 
 owed to Him who gave it, to be fashioned ac- 
 cording to the clearest vision he has of His 
 pattern, possesses in himself a permanent centre 
 whence he can judge of all things with an equal 
 eye. He is like what David says of " a tree 
 planted by rivers of water : " he grows firmly 
 on his own root, and every development of his 
 character, every act of his life, is in due propor- 
 tion. Consequently, season by season, he will 
 bring forth, in sight of all men, his buds, leaves, 
 blossoms, and fruit : even like my apple-tree 
 there, which stands steadfast in its place, while 
 the bees come humming about it, and the birds 
 sit and sing in the branches, as they will do to 
 its very last summer — its very last day. Such 
 a man, who, whatever sort of life it may please 
 Heaven to give him, carries it out to the full, so 
 far as its possibilities allow, bears with him to 
 the end of his days the blessing of the tree — 
 " His leaf also shall not wither ; and look, what- 
 soever he doeth, it shall prosper." And be his 
 life short or long, lofty or lowly, it is sure to be 
 a complete life, inasmuch as, whatever its pro- 
 portions, it was lived " in perspective."
 
 SERMONS. 
 
 Eus consider the question of Sermons, not 
 in any controversial or doctrinal, or, what 
 is mournfully different from both, in any 
 religious point of view, but simply regarded as 
 sermons — sermo, a discourse — to be judged as 
 we judge any other discourse on any other sub- 
 ject, literary, scientific, or political. Is this allow- 
 able ? Some may say decidedly no. There are 
 those who believe that every word which drops 
 from the lips of any youth consecrated episco- 
 pally is altogether sacred, and beyond the pale 
 of criticism. Others, while denying the doctrine 
 of apostolic succession, deem their own " gospel 
 preacher " — that is, the man who preaches their 
 own particular gospel, however incoherently, illo- 
 gically, and ungrammatically — to be a " teacher 
 sent from God." And a large intermediate por- 
 tion of the decently religious community view 
 " the clergyman," or " the minister," with a sort 
 of respectful indifference, as a decorous necessity, 
 whose discourses, like himself, are to be taken 
 for granted, but neither judged nor investigated.
 
 i84 SERMONS. 
 
 But does not the truth of the question lie far 
 below — or above — these various opinions ? The 
 more earnest is our belief in, and reverence for, 
 the minister of divine things, the sharper must 
 be our judgment upon every man who assumes 
 such an office, until, or unless, he has proved 
 himself consecrated to it by the only true conse- 
 cration — the Spirit of God burning within him 
 and shining without, in all his w^ords, and works, 
 and ways. Otherwise, whether he wear Geneva 
 bands, Episcopal apron, or the fustian jacket of 
 John Jones, bricklayer and Methodist preacher, 
 he is still no more than " the man in the pulpit," 
 whom it is lawful and right for us to judge as 
 we judge any other man ; or rather, not him but 
 his sermon. 
 
 Thus I mean neither offence nor irreverence, 
 if I speak out plainly a few things which many 
 persons must have inwardly thought, regarding 
 the discourses that we all hear Sunday after 
 Sunday, in our various churches and chapels of 
 England, Scotland, or Ireland. It would be 
 easy to make an amusing article of thinly- 
 disguised personalities, but the subject is too 
 serious to be " amusing " upon. Besides, there 
 is a certain text, "He that is not against us is 
 for us." The very poorest soldier who wears 
 our Master's cloth, and fights, ever so feebly, in 
 our Master's army, deserves respect, and shall 
 have it here. 
 
 A sermon, then — ^what is it ? Among Episco- 
 palians it usually means an original discourse 
 about twenty-five minutes long, read carefully,
 
 SERMONS. 185 
 
 but unimpressively, and listened to with civil 
 indifference, as an excrescence, often unwelcome, 
 upon the noble and beautiful liturgy which is 
 the pride and bulwark of the English Church. 
 In Scotland it is different : the mere phrase 
 " between sermons " implies the difference. 
 South of the Tweed it is always " between 
 service." There, the service is everything, the 
 sermon of comparatively little moment. Mingle 
 in an English congregation, passing out, wearily 
 maybe, but reverentially, into the open air, and 
 you will rarely hear the slightest comment on 
 the preacher. He and his sermon are taken as 
 a matter of course. But at the " skellin' " of a 
 Scotch kirk, almost before the congregation 
 have quitted their pews, you may catch the 
 eager buzz of conversation on the merits of the 
 discourse and the peculiarities of the minister. 
 He knows this only too well — is aware that 
 each hearer is a sharp critic, and possibly a 
 sharper theologian ; that every fragment of the 
 worship — prayer included — will be assuredly 
 commented upon by every worshipper present, 
 with that keen earnestness that the national 
 mind brings, proverbially, to everything with 
 which it comes in contact. 
 
 This is the weak point of the Church of Scot- 
 land — that where the weight of the service falls 
 on one man, it is apt to become a service 
 directed unto men, instead of a worship offered 
 unto God. And though in its highest sense all 
 worship ought to be extempore, the voice of one 
 man lifting up the praises and supplications of
 
 1 86 SERMONS. 
 
 the rest, in the language of the moment, and 
 suited to the present needs of the people ; still 
 we all know into what this is apt to degenerate. 
 Many, nay the most of Presbyterian prayers are 
 mere doctrinal disquisitions ; or, worse, harangues 
 addressed to the Almighty, informing Him, in a 
 tone little less than blasphemous, of what He is, 
 what He has done, and what He ought to do. 
 
 To any one familiar with this peculiarity of 
 the Scottish Kirk, and of many English and 
 Irish Nonconformist sects, there will appear 
 nothing extraordinary or incredible in the story 
 of the minister who, in giving thanks for the 
 good harvest, stopped and carefully excepted 
 "a. few bad fields between here and Strathbyres;" 
 or the Baptist elder, who, in earnest supplication 
 for an erring brother, explained that " he wears 
 a blue coat, and lives at the corner of the lane." 
 
 The same irreverent ignorance affects the 
 sermon. It ceases to be a gospel — a message — 
 in which the speaker feels himself to be the 
 mere deliverer of truths which have been put 
 into his mind and heart to say, in the simplest, 
 clearest form, so as to carry the strongest con- 
 viction to his hearers. He becomes the ex- 
 ponent, not of his Master, but of himself : con- 
 siders what effect he can produce, and what the 
 congregation will be thinking of him. For he is 
 fully aware that on his sole individuality the 
 whole attention of the congregation, and the 
 whole weight of the service, depend. 
 
 Whatever other errors, such as dry formalism 
 and wearisome monotony, the English Church
 
 SERMONS. 187 
 
 falls into, it escapes this. You never hear from 
 English clergymen those flowery discourses, 
 delivered with set changes of voice and rhe- 
 torical action, which are the pride — and shame 
 — of youthful Scotch ministers : those elegant 
 extempore rhapsodies which we are well aware 
 have been " got " by heart, and " studied " 
 before the looking-glass all the week. Happily, 
 however, the practice of first writing sermons, 
 and then committing them to memory, is being 
 gradually discontinued. Its patent folly and 
 falseness are such that one wonders it was 
 not long since resisted and put an end to by all 
 sensible and spirited ministers of the Kirk of 
 Scotland. 
 
 To this may be mainly attributed the great 
 bane of that Church — " show " sermons. The 
 preacher — he is usually young — mounts the pul- 
 pit, every hair in every curl, and every motion 
 of hands or eyes, being arranged with a view to 
 effect. He then begins, gets quickly through the 
 hymns, Scripture-reading, and prayer, and girds 
 himself for the grand achievement — the sermon. 
 It has a text certainly, which he delivers with 
 energy ; then bursts into a continuous stream of 
 language. Mere language — nothing more; a far- 
 rago of similes, epithets, adjectives, quasi-solilo- 
 quies, and scenery pictures (oh, what daubs they 
 are !) heaped together in unconnected confusion ; 
 sentence after sentence threaded on, bearing not 
 the slightest relation to each other or to the 
 text. And often, though headed with a text, 
 it is scarcely a religious discourse at all, but a
 
 iS8 SERMONS. 
 
 string of sentimental nonsense, into which is 
 dragged, for illustration or embellishment, every 
 conceivable subject in art, literature, or science, 
 with which the young man is acquainted. At 
 last he stops, wipes his damp brow, and sits 
 down, congratulating himself, and deluding a 
 portion of his hearers, that he has preached 
 a very " powerful " sermon. And by a series of 
 such, he will very likely "lead captive silly 
 women," and become for the time a popular 
 preacher. 
 
 '' Unhappy is the nation whose king is a 
 child," says the wise Solomon. And unhappy 
 is the Church whose clergy are raw boys, eager 
 to display themselves and their cleverness, and 
 believing that the whole duty of a minister of 
 the gospel is to preach " popular " sermons. 
 
 At the opposite pole of inefficiency is the sort 
 of clergyman whom one continually finds in 
 English country parishes, where he has been 
 located by hereditary influence as the squire's 
 younger brother, son, or nephew ; or has settled 
 down into the Church because he was not con- 
 sidered clever enough for any other profession. 
 In the Presbyterian, and most other forms of 
 unliturgical worship, a man must possess a cer- 
 tain amount of original talent ; but in the Church 
 of England talent is not indispensable. Educa- 
 tion is, and corresponding refinement. You will 
 rarely find the poorest curate, or the richest and 
 dullest rector, who is not, in degree, a gentle- 
 man ; but a gentleman is not necessarily a clever 
 man, and certainly not a clever preacher ; nay,
 
 SERMONS. 189 
 
 sometimes quite the contrary. You may get 
 interested in Jack the blacksmith, with his wild, 
 uncouth bursts of passionate piety, in which, like 
 all intensely earnest things, there is something 
 pathetic, something that at times rises almost 
 into poetry. But in the Reverend Blank Blank, 
 with his Oxford or Cambridge learning, his un- 
 blemished Johnsonian English, and his grave, 
 decorous, and wholly unobjectionable delivery, 
 you never get interested at all. You can but 
 sit in passive patience, listening to those vapid 
 periods which compose a moral essay as mind- 
 less and commonplace as the school-theme of a 
 lad of twelve. Yet he writes such, week after 
 week, as a duty and necessity ; and his congre- 
 gation listen to them with the same feeling : 
 " He is not much of a preacher, to be sure ; " 
 but then he is such a worthy man in his parish 
 — a real pastor, as, God bless them ! most of the 
 English country clergy are, only — would that he 
 were a silent shepherd ! One would respect him 
 exceedingly could he only be persuaded to con- 
 fine himself to the district and the reading-desk, 
 and never mount the pulpit more. 
 
 But there is a class of preachers more trying 
 even than he — for they do not leave us at peace 
 in that lowest deep of " the intense inane," where 
 even the tenderest conscience is satisfied that to 
 listen is impossible, and we take refuge in bliss- 
 ful repose or in thinking about something else. 
 In these other sermons there is a degree of preten- 
 sion and even accomplishment. They rise to the 
 level of mild mediocrity. They are well written
 
 igo SERMONS. 
 
 and scholar-like, and delivered with that quiet 
 gentlemanly elocution, which, in strong contrast 
 to the Scotch and Irish habit of thundering and 
 cushion-thumping, is the especial characteristic 
 of the English clergy. As to matter — there is, 
 without doubt, a certain substance in the dis- 
 course — a degree of steady connectedness and 
 logical induction ; only, unfortunately, all the 
 premises are taken for granted, and all the 
 arguments we think we have somehow heard 
 before. The whole sermon is, in fact, not so 
 much an elucidation as an expansion of the 
 text. Or else it is a familiar fragment of Bible 
 story, reproduced with amplifications innumer- 
 able, imaginary conversations, soliloquies, and 
 descriptions, until the anecdote or parable is 
 diluted from, its original Saxon brevity — touching 
 and beautiful — into a long-winded history of 
 which everybody knows beginning, middle, and 
 end — moral included ; which last is tacked 
 on to it with remorseless accuracy, and often 
 with exaggerated applications for which the ori- 
 ginal text has not the slightest warrant. But 
 the good man must say something — and he says 
 it : though at the close we cannot but think he 
 has left his subject precisely where he found it. 
 He had much better have read in his impressive, 
 sonorous voice, the chapter or parable, and closed 
 the book. 
 
 Would that there could be impressed upon 
 half the preachers of the day this wholesome 
 doctrine of silence ! As said one of them lately 
 — a noted man too — to the present writer, who
 
 SERMONS. 191 
 
 desired to come and hear him preach : " You 
 had better stop at home. What do people come 
 to hear me for ? Most of them know everything 
 that I can teach them." "Then," repHed his 
 interlocutor, " why do you preach at all ? " 
 " Well," said the other, half sadly, " I some- 
 times do ask myself that very question. Why 
 should we parsons be expected and obliged to 
 preach, Sunday after Sunday, whether or not 
 we have got anything to say } " 
 
 Ay — that is the question. Two sermons per 
 week : one hundred and four sermons a year : 
 such is the average produced by, and expected 
 of, almost every clergyman in the United King- 
 dom. One hundred and four discourses on one 
 subject to be extracted from one human brain 
 in the course of a twelvemonth ! Why, if the 
 same were demanded of any other literary worker 
 — say a quarterly reviewer, an essayist, a lecturer 
 on science, or a writer of political leaders — he 
 would answer, if he had a fairly humble estimate 
 of himself and his own powers, " It is impossible. 
 That is, I may do it somehow ; but the work 
 will not be good. I shall drift into prosy ex- 
 pansions — feeble repetitions ; reproductions in 
 my own words of other men's ideas ; or, be my 
 own ideas ever so original, they will be presented 
 crudely, roughly, and imperfectly. No. If I 
 am a worker at all, I must have time to do 
 justice both to myself and to my labours." 
 
 Yet if one were to suggest to any preacher 
 that, be his sermons good, bad, or indifferent, if 
 he were to write two per month, instead of eight,
 
 192 SERMONS. 
 
 they would likely be much better ; or if, instead 
 of wearying his soul out every Friday and Satur- 
 day, to concoct a given number of pages of his 
 own, he would sometimes substitute the same 
 quantity of somebody else's, how horrified 
 and offended our reverend friend would be ! 
 Yet why ? We all are sometimes ill, or wor- 
 ried, or overdone with business. Why should 
 our rector or curate have more immunity than 
 his neighbours from the weaknesses of humanity ? 
 Why, instead of cudgelling his brains Saturday 
 after Saturday, in spite of sickness, business, or 
 worry, to compose a discourse for which nobody 
 is the least the better, does he not occasion- 
 ally stand up calmly in his pulpit with a preface 
 after this kind : — " My brethren, this week I 
 could not write a sermon worth your hearing, 
 so I will read you one that is worth hearing.' 
 
 Ay, and suppose he then opened a volume 
 of Jeremy Taylor, or Tillotson, or Ken, or of 
 our many excellent modern preachers whom it 
 would be invidious to particularize : — reading it 
 with his heart and soul, and sympathy; perhaps 
 pausing here and there to discriminate and ex- 
 plain some little point wherein the two minds of 
 writer and reader differed ; what a blessing it 
 would be ! For he would have given, humbly 
 and honestly, another man's wheat, instead of 
 his own bran ; and sent his flock away full, not 
 empty ; well fed, not choked with the poor refuse 
 of what, properly administered, might have been 
 good and substantial pabulum for many a day. 
 
 If many of our clergymen would have the
 
 SERMONS. 193 
 
 moral courage to do this, surely, after the first 
 shock of surprise at the innovation, their congre- 
 gation would acquiesce gratefully in a proceed- 
 ing so much to the advantage of both preacher 
 and hearers. Especially as it would only be 
 attempted by a very honest man, whose humility 
 equalled his honesty : who had the sense to take 
 that conscientious estimate of himself and his 
 productions, which ensures the only real respect, 
 and constitutes the only true dignity. 
 
 It remains to speak of one more class of 
 sermons, which are, for many things, still more 
 objectionable. Worse than the dullest written 
 discourse that one ever dozed over, on a sleepy 
 Sunday in June, with the church-doors open, 
 and the " baa " of the sheep in the churchyard, 
 or the faint warble of the skylark on a level 
 with the steeple weathercock, coming in at 
 every pause, inclining us to believe that the 
 Reverend Dr. Laverock is the best minister 
 after all. 
 
 These really extempore preachers, different 
 from the pseudo-extempore Scotch preachers 
 before described, are usually Irish. Who except 
 an Irishman possesses that wondrous " gift of the 
 gab," that frothy facility of speech, and that un- 
 failing confidence in the same, which enables 
 him to stand up in a pulpit, armed only with a 
 pocket Bible, and pour forth by the hour a 
 stream of disconnected rubbish — clever rubbish it 
 may be — gilded and filigreed over with apt illus- 
 trations, picturesque phraseology, and passionate 
 exclamatory devotion, but still devoid of sub- 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 SERMONS. 
 
 stance, purpose, or argument ; a sermon, in short, 
 which though it may interest for the moment, 
 contains not an atom of truth which the hearer 
 can take hold of, or carry away with him ? No 
 doubt it sounded very fine at the time, but when 
 he comes to think it over, he cannot in the least 
 remember what it was about — can recall at best 
 but a few stray passages, or a brilliant thought, 
 brilliantly expressed, sticking in the midst of 
 a heap of verbiage, like a fire-fly in a negro's 
 hair. 
 
 No wonder. Among our reticent and self- 
 contained Northern races, the power of extem- 
 poraneous fluency is extremely rare. Very few 
 even among educated men can put six consecu- 
 tive ideas into as many sentences, without 
 muddling all up together, falling into nervous 
 repetition, or stilted declamation, and ending by 
 a conviction that they have made thorough asses 
 of themselves, said a great deal that they never 
 meant to say, and nothing that they did. So 
 much for ordinary public speaking. As for the 
 great gift of oratory, it does not, either in pulpit 
 or public rostrum, fall upon three men in the 
 course of a century. 
 
 Among the lay community these would-be 
 Demostheneses find their level, are hissed from 
 platforms and hustings, or coughed down in 
 Parliament : but in the church there is no 
 remedy against them. And yet a section of 
 the young and foolish is caught by the clap-trap 
 of such sermons ; believes that " the Gospel " 
 consists of a number of texts strung together
 
 SERMONS. 195 
 
 without meaning or consistency ; and that a 
 mere fluency of speech, a fatal facility of adjec- 
 tives, and the power, by means of repetitory 
 verbs, of spinning out a sentence to the last ex- 
 tremity of tenuity, is indeed the divine eloquence 
 of one whose lips are touched as with the pro- 
 phet's living coal. 
 
 But the very lowest of all sermons are ^' sen- 
 sational " sermons. It is just the same whether 
 they are preached by the Reverend Boanerges 
 Wakesouls in the pulpit of a legitimate esta- 
 blishment, or by Mr. Apollos Groanall, in his 
 hot, musty, and not over-clean conventicle, or 
 by the before-mentioned Jack Blacksmith, toss- 
 ing his brawny arms and shouting out '' Glory ! 
 glory ! " from his improvised cart or tub ; all 
 are equally obnoxious, equally dangerous to the 
 cause of religion. 
 
 First, because, like all extempore sermons, 
 they are such a personal display. A read ser- 
 mon obliges the reader to keep his eye on his 
 MS., the matter of which must consist of what 
 he has of necessity previously thought of, be 
 his thoughts ever so commonplace, and written 
 down, be his language ever so barren or diffuse. 
 But the preacher without notes throws himself 
 in all his individuality upon the (audience, I was 
 going to write) congregation ; attitudinizes, cul- 
 tivates droppings of voice, and peculiarities of 
 gesture ; becomes, in short, as much of an actor 
 as any on the stage. Many of us must know 
 such ; men whom we go to hear and are much 
 entertained by, but somehow, come away with
 
 196 SERMONS. 
 
 the Involuntary feeling that they have mistaken 
 their vocation, and that their proper place ought 
 to have been before the footlights instead of 
 under the ecclesiastic chandelier. And when, in 
 addition, they are not merely actors, but clap- 
 trap actors, using all the lower emotions and 
 passions of men as instruments to produce an 
 effect, stirring up hatred not only against heresy 
 but heretics ; taking advantage of that eager 
 craving for the terrible — the same which makes 
 children scream with awful delight at ghost- 
 stories — to treat grown children with vivid pic- 
 tures of hell, and threatenings of the near ap- 
 proaching day of judgment; when they use all 
 these elements of excitement to effect one grand 
 purpose — their own glorification — do they not 
 deserve the strongest condemnation that tongue 
 or pen can give ? Ay, though crowds may fill 
 their churches — exactly as they would the pit of 
 a theatre, and with the same purpose ; though 
 there may be power, passion, and even genius, 
 in these discourses ; still, it is the misuse of 
 power, the pretence of passion, the prostitution 
 of genius. Worse than all, it teaches men to 
 substitute excitement for devout impression, 
 showy talent for earnestness, and the tickling of 
 the ears for the solemn instruction in righteous- 
 ness which is an essential part of the service of 
 God. 
 
 And now let us consider for a moment what a 
 sermon ought to be. In its highest sense, a 
 message — the *' glad tidings of good things " — 
 delivered by a man who believes, in all devout
 
 SERMONS. 197 
 
 humility, that his utmost honour is to be such a 
 messenger ; who in his noblest inspiration never 
 forgets that he is only a messenger, the mouth- 
 piece of the Divine Spirit, by whom, as in his 
 consecration vow he believed and declared him- 
 self, he is called to be a chosen priest, and yet a 
 minister. Yes, whether Episcopalian, Presby- 
 terian, or dissenting Nonconformist, still a mere 
 minister : elected to teach the laity, that is, 
 those who are more ignorant than he is himself, 
 what he can, and as much as he can, of Divine 
 truth. If he cannot, and knows he cannot, may 
 Heaven have mercy upon him ! for, like Ananias, 
 he has " lied, not unto men, but unto God." 
 
 So much for the high ideal of what a sermon 
 is or ought to be. Beneath this there are its 
 commonplace practical necessities. 
 
 A sermon should be, as its name implies, a 
 discourse — like any other discourse on a secular 
 subject : and from it should be exacted the same 
 requirements. It should have one clear idea 
 running through it — all the better if only one — 
 of which its text should be the exponent and 
 illustration ; not, as is often supposed, the 
 sermon being the illustration of the text. There 
 is no commoner or more fatal mistake than 
 choosing an accidental isolated verse, or clause 
 in a verse, and building upon it a whole super- 
 structure of theological fantasy — useless and 
 baseless — and which, to any clear mind, on care- 
 fully examining text and context, is seen imme- 
 diately to crumble into dust. A good preventive 
 of this error, and an admirable means of eluci-
 
 198 SERMONS. 
 
 dating dark passages of Scripture, is the form 
 of preaching called "exposition," namely the 
 reading of a chapter and expounding it verse by 
 verse ; a practice used and commended by the 
 early Christians, and which might advantage- 
 ously be adopted in many pulpits now. 
 
 That .the sermon, to be worth anything, must 
 be the outpouring of the preacher's honest heart 
 to the hearts of the congregation, no one will 
 deny ; and this is the reason why earnestness, 
 however blended with coarseness, narrowness, 
 and shallowness of argument, will always have 
 a certain power over certain — nay, over all — 
 audiences. It is their earnestness and not their 
 rant, the true thing in them and not the false, 
 which is the secret of the great influence of our 
 Spurgeons, and Cummings, and Guthries ; as it 
 was of that of the Whitfields and Wesleys of 
 the past generation. The first requisite, there- 
 fore, of a sermon is earnestness ; that the con- 
 gregation should feel, without one doubt, that 
 the preacher means exactly what he says, and 
 teaches what he himself entirely believes. Next 
 to that, his discourse should have completeness. 
 It should be a perfect whole, well fitted in all 
 its parts ; every one of which has been carefully 
 thought out and clearly arranged. Not perhaps 
 in hydra "heads" to "sixteenthly," but still artis- 
 tically put together in fair logical sequence. 
 Whatever opinion he holds — whatever doctrine 
 he preaches — he should have the faculty of 
 clearly expressing it, clothing it in a plain form 
 of lucid language, so that no hearer can possibly
 
 SERMONS. 199 
 
 mistake his meaning, but, whether agreeing or 
 differing, may be able to carry away a distinct 
 impression of the discourse — sound matter con- 
 veyed in sound words. 
 
 Then as to the manner. To any deeply re- 
 ligious mind, one fact is self-evident, as true as 
 that the real Church is neither High, Low, nor 
 Broad; Presbyterian nor Episcopalian; Catholic 
 nor Protestant: Established nor Nonconformist; 
 but the Spiritual Church of Christ, known to 
 Him alone. The highest form of a sermon is 
 not oratory. If the message be anything, it is a 
 Divine message. No flowers of rhetoric can 
 exalt, and may ignominiously degrade it. In- 
 tellectual dignity of style it should have — 
 neither common colloquialisms, nor slipshod 
 expressions ; but a certain solemn musical flow, 
 which springs naturally out of the high beauty 
 of the subject. That, and no more. The simplest 
 sentences, terse and succinct — the fewest illus- 
 trations — the most careful avoidance of all clap- 
 trap appeals to the sentiment, fancy, or emotion 
 of the audience: in fact, a style pure, noble, and 
 severe as those discourses which are chronicled 
 in Holy Writ — this is the perfection of a Sermon.
 
 THE HOUSE OF COMMONS 
 
 FROM THE LADIES' GALLERY. 
 
 T 
 
 HIS does not pretend to be a political 
 article. The writer has a decided ob- 
 jection to women who 
 
 " Talk of things that they don't understand;" 
 
 and seldom can any woman really understand 
 politics. The cool, clear, large brain, the steady 
 judgment, the firm, unimpassioned, yet not un- 
 tender heart, is a combination of qualities which 
 very few among men, fewer still among women, 
 can boast. And this alone justifies an individual 
 in taking part in, or even criticising those who 
 ho take part in guiding the vessel of the State 
 and governing the destinies of nations. To be a 
 truly great politician is so grand a thing, that 
 to be a small one appears simply ridiculous : 
 and perhaps a political woman is the most ridi- 
 culous of all. Unless, indeed — which is the only 
 excuse for exceptional women — Providence has 
 endowed her with a man's brain, and something 
 of a man's nature. It is so often. As we see
 
 FROM THE LADIES' GALLERY. 201 
 
 womanish men, so we sometimes see manly, nay 
 " very gentlemanly " women ; and then it be- 
 comes a question whether both they, and society, 
 are not safest in following out, under certain 
 limitations, the law of their individual natures, 
 so far as it can be done without injury to the 
 general well-being of the community. This, 
 possibly, is the golden mean into which the 
 great contest now pending between the total 
 repression and unlimited emancipation of women 
 will subside. 
 
 But to our article : which assumes — shall we 
 say presumes ? — to give a woman's view — un- 
 biassed, and absolutely unpolitical — of that great 
 deliberative assembly, perhaps the greatest in 
 all the world — the British House of Commons. 
 
 Our Saxon ancestors evidently thought that 
 this feminine view was quite unnecessary ; that 
 our sex's opinion concerning them, or our pre- 
 sence among them, was a matter to be tacitly 
 ignored. Our business as ladies — (the Saxon 
 word means "loaf-givers") — was to rule the 
 household, to rear the children, to instruct duly 
 the dependent maidens, to look after the poor 
 and the helpless, and especially the sick ; enough, 
 one would think, to occupy fully any woman's 
 life. They — our forefathers — certainly did not 
 contemplate our doing as some of us now-a- 
 days are understood to desire — take our seats 
 and make speeches in Parliament. Nay, they 
 only in later times allowed us even to hear their 
 speeches ; and Sir Charles Barry, carrying out 
 this ungallant tradition, has made the Ladies'
 
 202 HOUSE OF COMMONS : 
 
 Gallery of the House of Commons very com- 
 fortable indeed within, but without, not much 
 better than a wire cage. Let us flatter ourselves 
 that this is a matter of self-preservation, lest 
 honourable members should be led astray from 
 their duties, blinded by the blaze of beauty, or 
 beguiled by the tenderness beaming from sym- 
 pathetic eyes. In the meantime here we are ; 
 enclosed like beautiful but obnoxious animals, 
 and tamely investigating through our bars the 
 nobler animals below. 
 
 But before reaching this elegant den we have 
 had various long galleries to traverse, and stair- 
 cases to climb, where every accidental masculine 
 eye regards us doubtfully and condescendingly, 
 as if to say — " Ladies, you must be aware that 
 you are here quite on sufferance." We did not 
 mind. Armed with an honourable ticket of ad- 
 mission, we penetrated, glad and grateful, to our 
 sanctum, and there prepared to spend an evening, 
 which was expected to be, and has since become, 
 a matter of history. 
 
 It was the night — no^ some years ago — 
 when the British Government made its manifesto 
 on the subject of Italian liberty. Every avail- 
 able space that could afl"ord a hearing for man 
 or for woman, was eagerly sought ; and though 
 we ourselves — let us contritely confess — cared 
 but little for the great question of the night, still 
 there was a pleasurable excitement in feeling 
 ourselves part and portion of the national as- 
 sembly, and in peering down through our gilded 
 bars at the gradually filling House, and the
 
 FROM THE LADIES' GALLERY. 203 
 
 already crowded Strangers' Gallery opposite. 
 The Ladies' Gallery, whatever it may look from 
 thence — within, be it known to all inquirers, is 
 exceedingly comfortable. It consists of three 
 divisions — two public boxes, to which every 
 Member of the House has the privilege of 
 giving a limited number of admissions, and the 
 Speaker's box, which is private, like a loge at 
 the Opera. Behind it is a small, well-appointed 
 sitting-room ; and farther away, for general 
 benefit, is — oh, let us thank the lords of creation 
 for this ! — a kitchen, whence comes the refresh- 
 ing clatter of tea-cups and saucers. We con- 
 soled ourselves that the long evening we were 
 prepared to spend — it was then six P.M., and the 
 House was not expected to rise till three A.M. — 
 would not be spent in total starvation. But — 
 alas for another feminine weakness! — we saw 
 inscribed in every available position, the omi- 
 nous, not to say impertinent, words, " Silence is 
 requested!' Could we — I put it to the sympa- 
 thising public — be expected to hold our tongues 
 for nine mortal hours } 
 
 However we determined to try ; and took our 
 places, so as to obtain the widest and most satis- 
 factory view possible of the scene beneath. 
 
 A large, well-proportioned, simply yet taste- 
 fully decorated hall, through the coloured win- 
 dows of which the April sunset glow streamed 
 down on to " the floor of the house," where a 
 notable Irish member once expressed his inten- 
 tion to die. He might have died in a more 
 uncomfortable place ; for it is well matted and
 
 204 HOUSE OF COMMONS: 
 
 broad, while from either side of it rise in tiers 
 the well-known " benches " — " Ministerial " and 
 " Opposition." They are of green leather — 
 comfortable, well stuffed ; with plenty of room 
 for honourable gentlemen to lounge and loll in, 
 as some hundred or so were now doing. In this 
 intermediate space a few figures moved about — 
 Members taking their seats, or officials carrying 
 messages to and fro. The business of the night 
 had begun, and there was a certain vocal mur- 
 mur floating about, but if any particular Member 
 were then speaking, neither we, nor apparently 
 the House, much noticed him. Our first atten- 
 tion was caught by the sight directly opposite 
 us — the Strangers' Gallery. 
 
 Probably on every night, but especially on an 
 important night like this, there are few places in 
 London which afford a better study of character 
 than the Strangers' Gallery of the House of 
 Commons. The variety of heads would have 
 delighted a painter. There was the sharp Lon- 
 doner, free and easy, well accustomed to this, as 
 to most other sights, and taking it merely as a 
 matter of business. There was the sober, stolid 
 country visitor, a good deal awed, but full of 
 importance ; who, no doubt, had hunted out and 
 worried " our member " no little, to get admis- 
 sion to this privileged spot, where, after being 
 wedged in tightly and uncomfortably for a whole 
 night, he might attain the honour and glory of 
 taking back to " our borough " a full, true, and 
 particular account of what the member did and 
 said, and how he looked, and how exceedingly
 
 FROM THE LADIES' GALLERY. 205 
 
 attentive or inattentive, as might be, he was to 
 his constituent. Sprinkled among these, the 
 middle class — or rather below the middle class 
 — of metropolitans and provincials, were a few 
 heads of higher order, acute, intelligent, refined, 
 appertaining, you saw at a glance, to scholars 
 and gentlemen, who had friends in the House, 
 in whose success, or in the success of the cause, 
 they were vitally interested. And one small 
 atom in the audience, specially noticeable be- 
 cause his light-coloured feminine petticoats broke 
 the monotonous line of masculine costume, was 
 a pretty little boy, placed beside a fashionable, 
 handsome young man, who guarded him pater- 
 nally, and pointed out everything to him in a 
 way that was charming to witness. Who knows 
 but that the mighty brain of some great states- 
 man, who, 
 
 " When we all lie still," 
 
 shall wield the destinies of Europe, may lurk 
 undeveloped under those soft shining curls and 
 intent childish eyes } 
 
 But from this pleasant sight (to a woman at 
 least) we turned our gaze to what we had espe- 
 cially come to see — the House, the legislative 
 assembly of our native land. Externally, there 
 was no call for enthusiasm. Not even the 
 memories of a generation hung about these 
 glaringly new walls. This was not the classic 
 spot whence Chatham was borne out dying : 
 where Fox and Pitt, whose wonderfully cha- 
 racteristic statues now stand in ever-silent oppo-
 
 2o6 HOUSE OF COMMONS : 
 
 sition in the gallery below, fought out their 
 never-ceasing battles ; where Burke rolled out 
 his sonorously elegant periods, Sheridan startled 
 and dazzled with his useless ephemeral brilli- 
 ance, and Canning charmed both friends and 
 enemies, by the polish and grace of an eloquence, 
 remembered lovingly by many still alive. No 
 — here was nothing to awaken either archaeo- 
 logical or historical fervour. Here was merely 
 a well-adorned, very comfortable modern hall, 
 where an assemblage of very comfortable-looking 
 gentlemen disposed themselves in all varieties of 
 attitude. Every costume, from the easy morn- 
 ing-coat to the full-dress black suit — from the 
 stylish attire of the young man, whom the de- 
 testable slang of the day would term " a swell," 
 to the solidly-respectable dress of the old-fash- 
 ioned English gentleman, — was represented here. 
 Every age, too, from twenty-five to eighty ; 
 and almost every class — educated, uneducated ; 
 stupid, intelligent ; patrician, plebeian ; for the 
 one leveller — money, which only too often brings 
 a man into Parliament, ceases its power when 
 the glory of election is over, and he comes to 
 sit on these formidable green benches — a single 
 individual, upon whose personal talent it alone 
 depends whether he shall become of any weight 
 in the House and the world, or sink ignomini- 
 ously into a mere "Ay" or" No" of a division. 
 Still, taking the average of these men, and judg- 
 ing them — utterly unknown to us as they were 
 — only by their externals, there seemed a fair 
 proportion of honest-looking, intelligent, and
 
 FROM THE LADIES' GALLERY. 207 
 
 truly gentlemanly English gentlemen, such as 
 could fairly be trusted with that responsibility 
 which the British House of Commons has 
 wielded, in all generations, as almost the 
 strongest, perhaps the very strongest, power in 
 the nation. 
 
 As our perceptions, at fitst slightly confused 
 by the novelty of the scene, began to right 
 themselves, we caught certain sonorous sounds 
 arising from below, and distinguished, among 
 the moving figures in the centre of the House, 
 one stationary figure, which, gesticulating 
 slightly, tried to make itself heard. We became 
 aware that an honourable Member was " on his 
 legs" — is not that the phrase i* — and striving 
 to gain " the ear of the House " — which mys- 
 terious organ appeared to suffer from chronic 
 neuralgia. Nevertheless the present speaker — 
 I omit his name — seemed a worthy gentleman, 
 very much in earnest ; and this earnestness 
 won, from his most uproarious opponents, 
 a certain genial personal respect. Still, his 
 whole speech of — how many .? — hours' dura- 
 tion, could, we solemnly aver, have been easily 
 condensed — facts, arguments, applications and 
 all — into one half-hour of blessed brevity ; or, 
 to put the thing professionally, into four printed 
 pages large octavo, or two of ordinary Magazine 
 type. Repetitions innumerable, every idea re- 
 appearing again and again, clothed in slightly 
 altered phraseology; assertions given for argu- 
 ments, and invective for simple statements; in- 
 volutions and divergencies interminable, till the
 
 2o8 HOUSE OF COMMONS : 
 
 original subject was buried under one mass of 
 inextricable confusion — this was the impression 
 his speech made upon the unprejudiced feminine 
 mind. It grieves us to have to say it, but so it 
 was. The advisability of first knowing clearly 
 what one had to say, of saying it as tersely, 
 lucidly, and briefly l!s possible, and then sitting 
 down again, never seemed to present itself to 
 the honourable gentleman's imagination. And 
 yet he was a most honourable and sincere gen- 
 tleman, and it was quite pathetic to see the 
 mingled dignity and patience with which he bore 
 the House's ironical cheers or laughter at his 
 various blunders and hesitations. If a wrong- 
 headed, he was certainly a much-enduring man, 
 with courage and self-possession worthy of a 
 better cause. 
 
 What — are we turning political } Does the 
 strong revulsion which the House evidently 
 shows against a speech defending pope and 
 tyrant, Pio Nono and Bomba of Naples, rouse in 
 us a spirit of partisanship ? We fear so. We 
 begin to feel our hearts warm in the contest — 
 our staunch, liberty-loving, Protestant hearts ; 
 and we listen to this not too dangerous cham- 
 pion of a creed outworn, who has just thrown 
 down the glove of the evening, with an angry 
 intentness equal to that of Parliament itself. 
 
 Nevertheless, after its occasional but unmis- 
 takeable expression of opinion, the House seemed 
 to take the matter very quietly, as if well ac- 
 customed to that sort of thing. It suffered the 
 honourable Member to go mildly meandering
 
 FROM THE LADIES' GALLERY. 209 
 
 on, while it listened or lounged, exchanged mes- 
 sages, notes, or sotto voce conversation, with a 
 nonchalance that in most public meetings would 
 be considered, to say the least, rather peculiar. 
 Occasional murmurs of " Hear, hear," *' Oh, 
 oh," " Order," were the only signs that Parlia- 
 ment was condescending to pay any attention to 
 business. In truth, it somewhat surprised us igno- 
 rant women, who expected to behold a body of 
 men concentrating every energy of their powerful 
 minds on the government of their country, to see 
 the easy, not to say *' free-and-easy," demeanour, 
 the want of dignity and gravity, and the total 
 absence of anything like Areopagite solemnity 
 in the British House of Commons. 
 
 When the long-winded gentleman at length con- 
 cluded, a sigh of relief seemed to flutter through 
 the House, and was undoubtedly echoed in the 
 Ladies' Gallery. Then, after a slight confusion, 
 unintelligible save to parliamentary ears, another 
 member rose to speak. Rose — first placing his 
 stalwart figure in an apparently well-considered 
 oratorical attitude — like a man who was, or, at 
 any rate, believed himself to be, perfectly master 
 of his subject and of himself; and, certainly, his 
 first sentence made it apparent that, if not an 
 orator, he was a capital speaker, with the faculty 
 of lucidly expressing original and valuable 
 thoughts. He began composedly, but gradually 
 waxed more and more vehement ; clenching 
 each of his arguments — and they were terse and 
 clear, fortified by a ground-work of apt and well- 
 put facts — by striking his two hands together 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 2IO HOUSE OF COMMONS: 
 
 with a noise that resounded through the whole 
 House, causing us continually to lose the thread 
 of discourse in counting the minutes that would 
 elapse before the next blow came. If this 
 periodical manual exercise is the constant habit 
 of the honourable member — the uninitiate female 
 mind would humbly suggest that it does not in 
 the least improve his oratory, and is very dis- 
 turbing to the nerves of his listeners. 
 
 Another fact, which in this and in succeeding 
 speeches struck us with considerable amaze- 
 ment, was the extreme latitude with which 
 M.P.'s abuse and insult one another. Anything 
 short of actually giving the lie seems to be quite 
 " parliamentary." Scarcely less than this was 
 both expressed and implied by the two honour- 
 able gentlemen aforesaid ; yet the latter one 
 contented himself by ejaculating, with a stohd 
 obstinacy truly British, the customary " No, 
 no," and only once rose to explain, in the 
 meekest manner, that, despite his political 
 opinions, he was not an absolute ruffian, deaf to 
 all considerations of common sense and common 
 humanity. Indeed, when we had recovered from 
 the effect of his prosy speech, our advocate of 
 popes and tyrants displayed himself in such an 
 amiable light, so patient of contumely, so stead- 
 fast to his own convictions, so forbearing to those 
 of his opponents, that the respect with which the 
 House regarded him, despite his little pecu- 
 liarities, was not surprising to his audience in 
 the Ladies' Gallery. 
 
 Our box was now filled. With whom, does
 
 FROM THE LADIES' GALLERY. 211 
 
 not matter to the public. Suffice it that they were 
 high-born beauties, bearing historical names ; 
 ancient ladies, also beautiful, with that loveli- 
 ness of matronly old age which is met nowhere 
 as it is in England ; and other honourable 
 women — having a woman's interest in the House, 
 which, as was natural, concentrated itself in one 
 especial member thereof. Alack ! it will be so 
 to the end of time. We of the weaker sex — ay, 
 the very best of us — will always have our deepest 
 interests rooted in and our strongest opinions 
 governed by — not something, but somebody. 
 
 After an energetic speech, the last M. P. sat 
 down, and another M. P. rose — who shall be also 
 left unrecorded, trusting that his oration was as 
 satisfactory to himself as it undoubtedly was to 
 other people. For it gave the House an oppor- 
 tunity for unanimous evasion. In a miraculously 
 short space of time, yard after yard of empty 
 green benches was ominously displayed, till 
 only a few members and the hapless Speaker 
 remained as listeners. Uncheered by friends, 
 unhissed by foes, the honourable member 
 blandly continued his speech, as if emulating 
 Tennyson's brook — 
 
 *' For men may come and men may go, 
 But I go on for ever." 
 
 For how long he did go on this deponent cannot 
 say, since we also took the opportunity of dis- 
 appearing to — our tea ! What private alarms 
 beset us because spoons would strike resonantly 
 against saucers, and knives would clatter down 
 
 p 2
 
 212 HOUSE OF COMMONS : 
 
 to the ground with a noise that we feared might 
 be heard by the whole British ParHament, who 
 had so imperatively commanded our " silence," 
 — need not here be confessed. Enough, that we 
 subdued our terrors, took our meek and blame- 
 less repast ; and much invigorated — as we trust 
 were the nobler feeders below — we settled to the 
 serious business of the evening. 
 
 The House, having dined, began to re-as- 
 semble. One member, unknown to fame, who 
 seemed of a practical turn, delivered himself of 
 a few harmless remarks, chiefly arithmetical ; 
 and then another — not unknown — in a few brief, 
 but telling sentences, given with classic grace — 
 spoke out his honest mind. Afterwards came 
 a comic interlude, carried on between a large 
 impulsive gentleman, who used language of the 
 sledge-hammer style, and a mild, spare, politely 
 irate partisan of the first speaker. These two 
 fell upon one another so fiercely that at last 
 they were decided to be " out of order " — which 
 phrase seemed, in parliamentary etiquette, to 
 allow of any vituperation short of one gentle- 
 man's calling another gentleman *' a " — euphuis- 
 tically speaking, a person who is not too par- 
 ticular in his attention to veracity. 
 
 This storm abated ; with one or two more of 
 a similar nature, for indeed they apparently 
 formed part of the House's nightly entertain- 
 ment. Another was, that several members should 
 get " on their legs " at the same time, when 
 there would ensue vociferous and contradictory 
 calls for each, until the Speaker's fiat decided
 
 FROM THE LADIES' GALLERY. 213 
 
 the matter. One member, who was always 
 " rising," seemed an especial pet of the House, 
 and was continually called for ; but whether to 
 be listened to or laughed at, we could not deter- 
 mine. Parliament clearly liked to be amused, 
 and darted upon the merest shadow of a joke 
 with boyish avidity. Indeed, there was a strong 
 school-boy element in this dignified assembly ; 
 and those whom nature or chance forbade to use 
 their lungs for the benefit of the Reporters' 
 Gallery and the public, evidently took a secon- 
 dary pleasure in merely making a noise. 
 
 And now the full House settled itself into 
 post-prandial ease ; ay, even the member round 
 whose devoted head had hurtled the chief artil- 
 lery of the evening. He sat in his place, honest 
 man ! and gave no sign of nervousness, save an 
 occasional patting of the back of his bench. He 
 had faced his foes like a Briton ; but perhaps he 
 knew — what we did not — that of all his enemies 
 ** the greatest was behind." 
 
 A little man — or he seemed little, viewed from 
 the altitude of the Ladies' Gallery — rose from 
 the Government benches, and leaning his arm 
 on the table before him, began to say a few 
 words. 
 
 " Saying a few words " best expresses this 
 commencement So unobtrusive was it, that, 
 until we noticed the sudden silence of intent 
 attention which fell upon the House, we scarcely 
 noticed him at all. Then we did. 
 
 Neither you nor I, good reader, ever heard 
 Demosthenes or Cicero. Other lights of later
 
 214 HOUSE OF COMMONS; 
 
 date — Burke, Fox, Pitt, Sheridan, &c. — are like- 
 wise to us little better than myths of a departed 
 age. Oratorical, like musical and dramatic glory, 
 must always be taken by after generations en- 
 tirely on trust. Daniel O'Connell is almost 
 forgotten ; and yet he was dubbed " orator" 
 widely enough in his day. Not undeservedly. 
 Even though you believed in your conscience 
 that he was one of the greatest humbugs alive, 
 and that three words out of every six he uttered 
 were tainted with Irish "imaginativeness," still 
 those words fell so honey- sweet, that you caught 
 yourself listening with moist eye and beating 
 heart, as if every syllable were true. Nay, his 
 voice — just the mere organ — so thrillingly musi- 
 cal, so deeply pathetic — haunted you for hours 
 after ; even like that of the present Bishop of 
 Oxford, which — 
 
 " A lyre of widest range," 
 
 possesses the same inexplicable fascination, and 
 can invest the commonest language, the dryest,, 
 most uninteresting topic, with a charm all its 
 own. He, like O'Connell. could almost " wile a 
 bird off a bush." 
 
 But this man, my orator, the nearest approach 
 to my ideal — that ideal which we most of us have, 
 and never expect to see realized, does not attempt 
 to wile. He scarcely even condescends to per- 
 suade. He appeals simply to your reason, or 
 rather, without any direct appeal, he lays before 
 you what your reason at once acknowledges to 
 be the truth, thereby, if he has any victory to
 
 FROM THE LADIES' GALLERY. 215 
 
 gain, making yourself, not himself, your con- 
 queror. Nor in the conflict does he use any 
 ungenerous weapons. His fiercest anger is but 
 the indignation of an honest man. 
 
 And an honest man both friends and enemies 
 know him to be. Beyond this, the present 
 writer, in no way a political partizan, does not 
 presume to judge him. Posterity will decide 
 in what niche of his country's history to place 
 the name of William Ewart Gladstone. 
 
 He began, as has been recorded, so unobtru- 
 sively as to be scarcely recognised ; then, with a 
 grasp, ruthless as it was firm, he seized his ad- 
 versary and smote him hip and thigh with a 
 great slaughter. Quite impersonally, the man 
 being the mere embodiment of the cause ; but 
 he did it. Point by point he anatomized his 
 whole speech, its contradictory facts and weak 
 fallacious arguments ; then caused the speaker 
 to annihilate himself, to put the torch of truth to 
 his own funeral pile, and reduce his speech, his 
 principles, and all his surroundings to ignomi- 
 nious ashes. This done, the victorious orator 
 went on his way amidst a storm of applause, for 
 the House was now warmed up to the highest 
 pitch of enthusiasm. 
 
 He let it subside a little, and then he burst — 
 though still with calmness and dignity — into 
 the free tide of an eloquence — 
 
 *' Strong without rage — without o'erflowing, full." 
 
 That line best expresses the peculiar character 
 of his oratory. Strictly classic it is not, yet it
 
 2i6 HOUSE OF COMMONS : 
 
 has a flavour of Attic salt befitting one of the 
 ripest scholars of the day. Nor is it plain 
 Saxon, though fraught with a Saxon directness, 
 simplicity, and earnestness, that none of your 
 florid Southern or Celtic orators ever attain. 
 Its grace is not injured, while its force is in- 
 creased, by a slightly provincial tone — scarcely 
 an accent — which sometimes intrudes upon what 
 would be otherwise the purest academic English. 
 His voice, without being noticeably mellifluous, 
 strikes one as emphatically a sincere voice : 
 firm too — the voice of a man who possesses 
 that strongest element of governing others — 
 the power of being " fully persuaded in his 
 own mind." You feel by instinct that whatever 
 be his opinions, or by whatever process he has 
 arrived at them, they are his real opinions, and 
 will be abided by to the end.* 
 
 The House listened to him — as the House 
 always does — with an intentness that his mere 
 diplomatic position, and the importance of his 
 speech, as the mouthpiece of the Government, 
 could never have won. How we listened — we 
 in the Ladies' Gallery — those present will long 
 remember and rejoice. When he ended, the 
 sudden silence felt like an actual pain ; we knew 
 well that never in all our lives might we hear 
 the like again. The pause of regret, however, 
 was broken by a naive exclamation near us — 
 
 " Only look ! has actually crossed 
 
 the House and put his arm upon his shoulder." 
 
 * This sentence, written years ago, the author records unhesi- 
 tatingly J being of the same conviction still.
 
 FROM THE LADIES' GALLERY. 217 
 
 And SO it was. " He," the great orator, and 
 evidently the one " he " in the world to his 
 affectionate listener, sat in amiable confabula- 
 tion with his late enemy, who had come over to 
 him and laid his hand upon him — in amicable, 
 not inimical intent. There they were, chatting 
 and smiling together as if they had not been all 
 this time at open warfare, tearing one another 
 to pieces in the most gentlemanly manner — 
 which manner long may they and the whole 
 House retain ! No harm can come if each 
 valorous M.P. keeps up a true Briton's hearty 
 respect for another equally true Briton who 
 happens to hold a different opinion from himself. 
 
 With this little episode, characteristic in itself 
 — touching, too, if one could dare to put into 
 public print such sacred things as the tender 
 pleasure of a woman's talk, the glad proud light 
 beaming in a woman's eyes — our share in the 
 night's proceedings unhappily terminated. It 
 was long past midnight, and we were very 
 weary, yet we shall always regret that we did 
 not stay to hear the short decisive speech of 
 Lord Palmerston, whose setting sun outshines 
 many of the most brilliant luminaries of Parlia- 
 ment. But the life of the debate seemed to 
 have ended with Gladstone ; and besides, we 
 little cared to hear any other speaker : we rather 
 wished to carry away with us, sharp and clear, 
 the recollection of that wonderful speech which 
 has now become matter of history, and which to 
 us personally will always remain as pur ideal of 
 oratory — and an orator.
 
 2i8 HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 The Abbey towers showed distinct in the 
 moonlight, and London streets were silent and 
 empty, as we drove through the sleeping city 
 into the region of green fields and gardens. 
 Alas ! we fear we shall never become politicians, 
 or cease to take a much more vital interest in 
 the destinies of our family and friends than 
 in those of nations ; yet we never see the 
 debates (which, contritely be it owned, we 
 seldom read) in The Times newspaper, without 
 a vivid memory of our night in the Ladies* 
 Gallery of the House of Commons.
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT 
 SORROW. 
 
 OF which it is rather venturesome to say 
 anything in this Democritan age, which 
 boasts so many laughing philosophers. 
 Our forefathers sentimentalised over and dwelt 
 upon their feelings — we are somewhat ashamed 
 of having any ; they made the most of all 
 afflictions, real and imaginary — we are often 
 disposed to turn grief itself into an excellent 
 joke. A " broken heart " is a stock subject for 
 humour ; yet some have known it ; and the 
 worthiest of us have at one time or other 
 caught ourselves making a jest about funerals, 
 just as if there were no such thing as dying. 
 It is good to laugh, — good to be merry ; no 
 human being is the better for always contem- 
 plating ** the miseries of human life," and talk- 
 ing of " graves and worms and epitaphs." Yet 
 since sorrow, in its infinitely varied outside 
 forms and solemn inward unity, is common to 
 all, ought we not sometimes to pause and look
 
 220 A FEW WORDS ABOUT SORROW. 
 
 at it, seriously, calmly, nor be afraid to speak 
 of it, as a great fact — the only fact of life, except 
 death, that we are quite sure of? And since we 
 are so sure of it, will a few words, suggesting 
 how to deal with it in others, and how to bear 
 it for ourselves, do us any harm ? I think not. 
 
 For, laugh as we may, there is such a thing 
 as sorrow ; most people at some portion of their 
 lives have experienced it — no imaginary misery 
 — no carefully petted-up wrong ; no accidental 
 anxiety, or state of nervous irritable discontent, 
 but a deep, abiding, inevitable sorrow. It may 
 have come slowly or suddenly ; may weigh 
 heavier or lighter at different times, or accord- 
 ing to our differing moods and temperaments ; 
 but it is there — a settled reality not to be 
 escaped from. At bed and board, in work or 
 play, alone and in company, it keeps to us, as 
 close as our shadow, and as certainly following. 
 And so we know it will remain with us ; for 
 months, for years — perhaps even to the end of 
 our lives. 
 
 Therefore what can we preach to ourselves, 
 or to our fellows, concerning it } Perhaps the 
 best sermon of all is that of the ancient 
 Hebrew, who laid his hand upon his mouth, 
 "because THOU didst it." For sorrow is a holy 
 thing. The meanest mortal who can say truly, 
 
 " Here I and sorrow sit," 
 
 feels also somewhat of the silent consecration 
 of that awful companionship, which may well — 
 
 ** Bid kings come bow to it,"
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT SORROW. 221 
 
 yet elevates the sufferer himself to a higher con- 
 dition of humanity, and brings him nearer to the 
 presence of the King of kings. 
 
 Grief is a softening thing, from its very uni- 
 versality. Ex 21110 disce oimtes. Your child, 
 my neighbour, may be dying, or giving you 
 anguish sharp as death ; my own familiar friend 
 may have lifted up his heel against me, causing 
 me now, and perhaps for ever, to doubt if there 
 be such a thing as fidelity, or honour, or honesty 
 in the world ; a third, whom we all know and 
 meet daily, may have received yesterday, or 
 last week, or last month, some small accidental 
 stab, altogether inward, and bleeding inwardly, 
 yet which may prove a death wound ; a fourth 
 has sustained some heavy visible blow or loss, 
 which we all talk of, compassionate, would fain 
 comfort if we could, but we cannot. These 
 various shapes which sorrow takes compose a 
 common unity ; and every heart which has once 
 known its own bitterness, learns from thence to 
 understand, in a measure, the bitterness of every 
 other human heart. The words, "He bore our 
 griefs and carried our sorrows," — "in all our 
 afflictions he was afflicted," have a secondary 
 and earthly as well as a Divine significance ; 
 and to be " acquainted with grief," gives to any 
 man a power of consolation, which seems to 
 come direct through him from the great Com- 
 forter of all. The " Christus Consolator " which 
 Scheffer painted, — the Man Divine, surrounded 
 by, and relieving every form of human anguish, 
 is a noble type of this power, to attain which all
 
 222 A FEW WORDS ABOUT SORROW. 
 
 must feel that their own anguish has been 
 cheaply purchased, if by means of it they may 
 have learned to minister unto all these. 
 
 This ministry of consolation is not necessarily 
 external, or intentional. We must all have some- 
 times felt, that the people who do us most good 
 are those who are absolutely unaware of doing it 
 Even as "baby-fingers, waxen touches," will melt 
 into flesh and blood again a heart that has seemed 
 slowly turning into stone, so the chance influence 
 of something or somebody, intrinsically and un- 
 consciously good, will often soothe us like a 
 waft of sweet scent borne across a dull high- 
 road from over a garden wall. It may be the 
 sight of peaceful, lovely, beloved old age, which 
 says silently and smilingly, " And yet I have 
 suffered too ; " or the brightness in some young 
 face, honest and brave, which reminds a man of 
 the days of his own youth, and shames him out 
 of irresolution or cynical unbelief, daring him, 
 as it were, to be such a coward as to let his after 
 life give the lie to the aspirations of his prime. 
 Nay, perhaps the influence, more fugitive still, 
 comes from a word or two found in a book, or 
 a look in a stranger's face, which, however in- 
 explicably, makes us feel at once that this book 
 or this stranger understands us, refreshes and 
 helps us — is to us like a flower in a sick room, 
 or a cup of water in a riverless land. 
 
 It would be curious to trace, if any but im- 
 mortal eyes ever could trace, how strongly many 
 lives have been influenced by these instinctive 
 sympathies ; and what a heap of unknown love
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT SORROW. 223 
 
 and benediction may follow until death many a 
 man — or woman — who walks humbly and un- 
 consciously, on, perhaps, a very obscure and 
 difficult way, fulfilling this silent ministry of 
 consolation. 
 
 We are speaking of consolation first, and not 
 without purpose ; let us now say a little word 
 about sorrow. 
 
 It may seem an anomaly, and yet is most 
 true, that the grief which is at once the heaviest 
 and the easiest to bear is a grief of which no- 
 body knows ; something, no matter what, which, 
 for whatever reason, must be kept in the depth 
 of the heart, neither asking nor desiring sym- 
 pathy, counsel, or alleviation. Such things are 
 — oftener perhaps than we know of ; and, if the 
 sufferer can bear it at all, it is the best and 
 easiest way of bearing grief, even as the grief 
 itself becomes the highest, we had almost said 
 the divinest, form of sorrow upon earth. For it 
 harms no one, it wounds and wrongs no one ; 
 it is that solitary agony unto which the angels 
 come and minister — making the night glorious 
 with the shining of their wings. 
 
 Likewise, in any blow utterly irremediable, 
 which strikes at the very core of life, we little 
 heed what irks and irritates us much in lesser 
 pain — namely, to see the round of daily exist- 
 ence moving on untroubled. We feel it not ; 
 we are rather glad of its monotonous motion. 
 And to be saved from all external demonstra- 
 tions is a priceless relief; neither to be watched, 
 nor soothed, nor reasoned with, nor pitied : to
 
 224 A FEW WORDS ABOUT SORROW. 
 
 wrap safely round us the convenances of society, 
 or of mechanical household association : and 
 only at times to drop them off and stand, naked 
 and helpless as a new-born child, crying aloud 
 unto Him who alone can understand our total 
 agony of desolation. But this great solitude of 
 suffering is impossible to many ; and indeed 
 can only be sustained without injury by those 
 strongly religious natures unto whom the sense 
 of the Divine presence is not merely a tacit 
 belief, or a poetical imagination, but a proved 
 fact — as real as any of the facts of daily life are 
 to other people. With such people it is impos- 
 sible to argue. Let him that readeth under- 
 stand, if he can understand, or if it be given him 
 to understand, these great mysteries. 
 
 But one truth concerning sorrow is simple 
 and clear enough for a child's comprehension ; 
 and it were well if from childhood we were all 
 taught it ; namely, that that grief is the most 
 nobly borne which is allowed to weigh the least 
 heavily upon other people. Not every one, 
 however, is unselfish enough to perceive this. 
 Many feel a certain pride in putting on and 
 long retaining their sackcloth and ashes, nay, 
 they conceive that when they have sustained a 
 heavy affliction, there is a sort of disgrace in 
 appearing too easily to " get over it." But here 
 they make the frequent error of shallow surface- 
 judging minds. They cannot see that any real 
 wound in a deep, true, and loving heart is never 
 " got over." We may bury our dead out of our 
 sight, or out of our neighbour's sight, which is
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT SORROW. 225 
 
 of more importance ; we may cease to miss 
 them from the routine of our daily existence, 
 and learn to name people, things, places and 
 times, as calmly as if no pulse had ever throbbed 
 horribly at the merest allusion to them — but 
 they are not forgotten. They have merely 
 passed from the outer to the inner fold of our 
 double life — which fold lies nearest to us, we 
 know ; and which are usually the most precious, 
 the things we have and hold, or the things we 
 have lost — we also know. 
 
 It may seem a cruel word to say — but a long- 
 indulged and openly displayed sorrow, of any 
 sort, is often an ignoble, and invariably a selfish 
 feeling ; being a sacrifice of the many to the 
 few. If we look round on the circle of our 
 acquaintance, with its percentage, large or small, 
 of those whom we heartily respect, we shall 
 always find that it is the highest and most affec- 
 tionate natures which conquer sorrow soonest 
 and best ; those unselfish ones who can view a 
 misfortune in its result on others as well as on 
 their own individuality ; or those in whom a 
 great capacity of loving acts at once as bane 
 and antidote, giving them, with a keen suscep- 
 tibility to pain, a power of enduring it which to 
 the unloving is not only impossible but incre- 
 dible. It is chiefly the weak, the self-engrossed, 
 and self-important, who make to themselves 
 public altars of perpetual woe, at which they 
 worship, .not the Dii manes of departed joys, but 
 the apotheoses of living ill-humours. 
 
 An incurable regret is an unwholesome, un- 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 A FEW WORDS ABOUT SORROW. 
 
 natural thing to the indulger of it ; an injury to 
 others, an accusation against Divinity itself. 
 The pastor's reproof to the weeping mother — 
 "What, have you not yet forgiven God Al- 
 mighty ? " contains a truth which it were well 
 if all mourners laid to heart. How hard it is to 
 any of us to " forgive God Almighty ; " not only 
 for the heavy afflictions which he has sent to us, 
 but for the infinitude of small annoyances, which 
 (common sense would tell us, if we used it) we 
 mostly bring upon ourselves ! Yet even when 
 calamity comes — undoubted, inevitable calamity 
 — surely, putting religion altogether aside, the 
 wisest thing you can do with a wound is to heal 
 it, or rather to let it heal ; which it will, 
 slowly and naturally, if you do not voluntarily 
 keep it open into a running sore. Some people, 
 with the very best intentions, seem to act upon 
 us like a poultice laid over gaping flesh ; and 
 others again officiate as surgical instruments, 
 laying bare every quivering nerve, and pressing 
 upon every festering spot till we cry out in our 
 agony that we had rather be left to die in peace, 
 unhealed. Very few have the blessed art of 
 letting Nature alone to do her benign work, and 
 only aiding her by those simple means which 
 suggest themselves to the instinct of affection, — 
 that is, of affection and wisdom combined ; which 
 nothing but tender instinct, united to a certain 
 degree of personal suitability, will ever supply. 
 For, like a poet, a nurse, either of body or 
 mind, must be born not made. We all know 
 many excellent and well-meaning people, whom
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT SORROW. 227 
 
 in sickness or misfortune we would as soon 
 admit into our chamber of sorrow as we would 
 an amiable elephant or a herd of wild buffaloes. 
 
 Perhaps (another anomaly) the sharpest afflic- 
 tion that any human being can endure is one 
 which is not a personal grief at all, but the 
 sorrow of somebody else. To see our dearly 
 beloved writhing under a heavy stroke, or 
 consumed by a daily misery which we are 
 powerless to remove or even to soften, is a trial 
 heavy indeed — heavier in one sense than any 
 affliction of our own, because of that we know 
 the height and depth, the aggravations and alle- 
 viations. But we can never fathom another's 
 sorrow. Not even the keenest-eyed and tenderest- 
 hearted among us, can ever be so familiar with 
 the ins and outs of it as to be sure always to 
 minister to its piteous needs at the right time 
 and in the right way. Watch as we may, we 
 are continually more or less in the dark, often 
 irritating where we would soothe, and wounding 
 where we are longing to heal. 
 
 Also, resignation to what may be termed a 
 vicarious grief is cruelly hard to learn. We are 
 sometimes goaded into a state of half-maddened 
 protestation against Providence, feeling as if we 
 — kept bound hand and foot on the shore — 
 were set to watch a fellow-creature drowning. 
 To be able to believe that Infinite Wisdom 
 really knows far more than we do, what ^is 
 best for that beloved fellow-creature, is the 
 highest state to which faith can attain ; and 
 the most religious can only catch it in brief 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 A FEW WORDS ABOUT SORROW. 
 
 glimpses through a darkness of angry doubt 
 that ahnost rises at times into blasphemous 
 despair. From such agonies no human strength 
 can save ; and while they last every human con- 
 solation fails. We can only lie humble at the 
 feet of Eternal Wisdom, yielding into His 
 hands not only ourselves but our all. And 
 surely if there be such a thing as angelic minis- 
 try, much of it must needs be spent not only on 
 sufferers, but on those whose lot it is to stand 
 by and see others suffer, generally having all 
 the time to wear a countenance cheerful, hope- 
 ful, or calmly indifferent, which in its dreary 
 hypocrisy dare give no sign of the devouring 
 anxiety that preys on the loving heart below. 
 
 Mention has been made of those griefs, wholly 
 secret and silent, which are never guessed by 
 even closest friends ; the sacred self-control of 
 which makes them easier to bear than many a 
 lesser anguish. In contrast to these may be 
 placed the griefs that everybody knows and 
 nobody speaks of, — such as domestic unhappi- 
 ness, disappointed love, carking worldly cares, 
 half- guessed unkindnesses, dimly suspected 
 wrongs ; miseries which the sufferer refuses to 
 acknowledge, but suffers on in a proud or heroic 
 silence that precludes all others from offering 
 either aid or sympathy, even if either were pos- 
 sible, which frequently it is not. In many of 
 th^ conjunctures, crises, and involvements of 
 human life, the only safe, or kind, or wise 
 course is this solemn though heart-broken silence, 
 under the shadow of which it nevertheless often
 
 A FEW WORDS ABOUT SORROW. 229 
 
 happens that wrongs slowly work themselves 
 right ; pains lessen to the level of quiet en- 
 durance ; or an unseen hand, by some strange 
 and sudden sweep of destiny, clears the dark 
 and thorny pathway, and makes everything easy 
 and peaceful and plain. 
 
 But this does not always happen. There are 
 hundreds of silent martyrs in whom a keen ob- 
 server can see the shirt of horse-hair or the belt 
 of steel-points under the finest and most ele- 
 gantly-worn clothes ; and for whom, to our 
 short-sighted human eyes, there appears no pos- 
 sible release but death. The only consolation 
 for such is the lesson, — sublime enough to lighten 
 a little even the worst torment, — which is 
 taught by that majestic life-long endurance, 
 sustained by strength celestial that we lookers- 
 on know not of, and for which in the end await 
 the martyr's bliss and the martyr's crown. 
 
 These " few words about sorrow " are said. 
 They may have been said, and better said, a 
 hundred times before. There is hardly any 
 deep-thinking or deep-feeling human being who 
 has not said them to himself over and over 
 again : yet sometimes a truth strikes truer and 
 clearer when we hear it repeated by another, 
 than when we listen to its dim echoes in our 
 own often bewildered mind. To all who under- 
 stand the meaning of the word sorrow, we com- 
 mend these disjointed thoughts to be thought 
 out by themselves at leisure. And so farewell
 
 A HEDGE-SIDE POET. 
 
 A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through 
 The dark." 
 
 WE hear a good deal now of poets of 
 the people. The days are gone by 
 when glorious ploughmen and in- 
 spired shepherds were made much of at noble- 
 men's tables, and treated by noblewomen with 
 something of the magnificent protection which 
 the great Glumdalclitch accorded to Lemuel 
 Gulliver, We no longer meet them led about 
 as tame lions by an admiring, yet patronising 
 host, who hints "hushl" at the least prospect 
 of their roaring ; and they are expected to roar 
 always at the keeper's will — never against it. 
 But if in these times they are more independent, 
 they are much less rare and majestic creatures. 
 They haunt every literary drawing-room by twos 
 and threes, — the mud of their aboriginal fields 
 still sticking to their illustrious boots, — pleased, 
 but awkward ; trying hard to tone down their 
 native accents, manners, and customs, to the
 
 A HEDGE-SIDE POET. 231 
 
 smooth level of what Is termed " good society." 
 Or else, taking tlie opposite tack, are for ever 
 thrusting forward, with obnoxious ostentation, 
 their "origin;" forgetting that the delicate In- 
 born refinement which alone can save a noble- 
 man from being a clown, is also the only thing 
 which can make a clodhopper Into a gentleman. 
 If it have not made him such — In manners as in 
 mind — he may be a poet, but he remains a clod- 
 hopper still. 
 
 But, happily, many of these poets of the 
 people are likewise of the true "gentle" blood ; 
 and thus, be their birth ever so humble, they 
 rise, step by step, educating themselves — heaven 
 knows how — but they are educated : acquiring, 
 as if by instinct, those small social bienseaiices, 
 which are good as well as pleasant, being the 
 outward indication of far better things. Men 
 such as these, wherever met, are at once easily 
 recognisable, and quickly recognised ; society 
 gives them a cordial welcome ; they are neither 
 merely tolerated nor insultingly patronised : but 
 take by right their natural place in the world, as 
 its "best" portion — its truest aristocracy. 
 
 There is yet another class of born poets, 
 whom the muse finds at the plough, the loom, 
 the forge, the tailor's board, or the cobbler's 
 stall, — and leaves them there. This, from 
 various causes. First, because genius, or talent 
 — call it which you please — Is Infinite in Its gra- 
 dations ; the same amount of intellectual capa- 
 city which, found In an educated person, will 
 enable him to take a very high place among
 
 232 A HEDGE-SIDE POET. 
 
 " the mob of gentlemen who write with ease," 
 will not enable a common-day labourer to teach 
 himself everything from the alphabet upwards, 
 and raise himself of his own strength, from the 
 plough-tail to the Laureateship. Secondarily, 
 because, almost invariably, the organisation, 
 mental and physical, which accompanies the 
 poetic faculty is the one least fitted for that in- 
 cessant battle with the world, for which a man 
 must arm himself who aims to rise therein. 
 Therefore it is, that while our noble Stephen- 
 sons, and the like, — men who live poems instead 
 of singing them, — move grandly on through their 
 brave career, which may begin in a hut and end 
 in Westminster Abbey, — these, who may be called 
 our ''hedge-side poets," never rise out of the 
 station in which they were born. Unless some 
 Capel Lofift or Savage Landor should catch 
 them and exhibit them, they probably flutter on 
 through life, singing their harmless songs to 
 themselves, or to a very small audience ; far 
 happier in many things than if they had been 
 set up to plume and strut their little day in 
 the gilded cage of popularity. 
 
 Yet, hear them in their native meadows, 
 expecting from them neither epic hymns nor 
 operatic fioriture ; and we are often charmed 
 and amazed to find how exquisitely they sing : 
 with a note as sweet and unexpected as a robin's 
 warble out of a yellowing hedge, when leaves 
 are falling, and flowers are few. 
 
 Such as this is more than one lyric, which we 
 have discovered in two humble-looking volumes,
 
 A HEDGE-SIDE POET. 233 
 
 printed by subscription, and probably hardly 
 known beyond the subscribers' drawing-room 
 tables, which purport to be " Poems" by a Cam- 
 bridgeshire labouring man, James Reynolds 
 Withers. 
 
 Let us take the first that offers, a " Song of 
 the Butterfly:" 
 
 ' ' I come from bowers of lilacs gay, 
 With honeysuckles blending ; 
 And many a spray of willows gray, 
 Above the waters bending. 
 
 I flutter by the river side, 
 
 Where laves the swan his bosom ; 
 And o'er the open common wide. 
 
 Where yellow ragworts blossom. 
 
 Away on downy pinions borne, 
 
 With many a happy rover, 
 I skim above the rustling corn, 
 
 And revel in the clover. 
 
 I laugh to see the frugal bee 
 
 For others hoard her treasure ; 
 From morn till night a toiler she. 
 
 But mine's a life of pleasure. 
 
 The truant schoolboy loves to chase 
 Me through the winding mazes ; 
 
 I lure him on a merry race, 
 
 O'er meadows white with daisies. 
 
 He creeps and ci-awls with cat-like tread. 
 When I'm on cowslip rocking ; 
 
 Then up I flutter o'er his head, 
 His vain endeavours mocking. 
 
 And when the bee is in her cell, 
 And shrill-tongued cricket calling, 
 
 I sleep within the lily's bell. 
 
 Whilst nightly damps are falling.
 
 234 A HEDGE-SIDE POET. 
 
 There round my clean white- sheeted bed, 
 
 Are pearly dews distilling ; 
 And nightingales, above my head, 
 
 Their sweetest notes are trilling. 
 
 I dance, I play, make love, and sleep, 
 
 This is my whole employment ; 
 For men may smile, or men may weep — 
 
 My life is all enjoyment." 
 
 Now to take a working man from his inherited 
 calling, and exalt him into a poet, is a difficult 
 and dangerous thing. But when an English 
 agricultural labourer, at seven shillings a week, 
 writes such verses as these, those acquainted 
 with the normal condition of the race are natu- 
 rally somewhat surprised. If a Wordsworth, 
 descending from his height of gentlemanly 
 scholarship to this sweet, simple chronicling of 
 simple nature, fresh as a breezy June morning, — 
 if a Wordsworth had done it, we should have 
 set down this poem as " charming ;" but when it 
 comes from the brain of uneducated Hodge, to 
 whom even decent English must have been a 
 difficult acquirement, we are forced to reflect, 
 " This man must have something in him : who 
 and what is he.-^" Let him answer for himself. 
 A letter of his, which has fallen under our 
 notice, is so simple and touching an expression 
 of the man, James Reynolds Withers, that it is 
 a poem in itself We feel we are not breaking 
 confidence, nor infringing on the right of every 
 author to be known only by his published writ- 
 ings, if he so chooses, in giving it here, entire 
 and unaltered : — 
 
 ** I was born in the year 1812, on the 24th of May, at Westou
 
 A HEDGE-SIDE POET. 235 
 
 Colville, in Cambridgeshire— a village with about 400 inha- 
 bitants. My father was a shoemaker there, but had failed in 
 business before I was born. 1 am the youngest of four children, 
 and the only son, born almost out of due season, a sort of Ben- 
 jamin to my parents, being a child of their old age. They could 
 not afford to send me to school, so my mother taught me to read 
 and write a little. At an early age, I was employed at picking 
 stones, weeding corn, and scaring birds, and part of one year i 
 was a keeper of sheep, when i was much alone, and from 
 that time 1 date the first awakening of a poetic feeling. I had 
 a book of old ballads, and Watts's Divine Songs for children, 
 that I used to read a great deal, and many 1 committed to 
 memory. After that, I began to like to be alone, and preferred, 
 when unemployed, strolling in the woods, and rambling in the 
 meadows amongst the trees and flowers, to joining in the games 
 of my playmates. My father had some knowledge of a market 
 gardener at Fordham, and wishing to get me into some way of 
 getting my living, at twelve years old i was put to this man for 
 three years. The first two years I had only my board and lodg- 
 ing ; for the last year I received thirty shillings. I stayed my 
 time, but I learned but little —in fact, there was nothing to learn 
 but what any one might do — plain digging, hoeing, and weeding. 
 After my time was out I went to lodgmgs and continued to work 
 for my old master at seven shillings per week. When I was 
 about nineteen years old my second sister married and was 
 living at Cambridge, and she hearing that an under-porter was 
 wanted at Magdalene College, succeeded in getting the place for 
 me, but I did not stay more than five months. I felt like a 
 caged bird, and sighed for the freedom of the fields again. I 
 returned to Fordham again, to my old place and old wages, but 
 I could study nature in the day and books in the evenuig, and 
 write my jingling vei'ses without interruption; but I was often in 
 straitened circumstances in the winter ; perhaps, for two months 
 I had nothing to do. At such times 1 visited my mother ; my 
 father was stiff living, but it was my mother that 1 always clung 
 to the most. "When I was about twenty-four years old, my 
 mother had a small sum of money left her by her mother, who 
 died at the age of ninety-six, and then it was that 1 thought I 
 should like to learn the shoemaking ; and my mother, wishing 
 always to benefit me all she could, paid a small sum to the suc- 
 cessor of my father to instruct me for one year, and in that year 
 my mother died, and 1 never learned the trade. After two years' 
 absence 1 returned to Foi'dham again, and soon married, and 
 have got a livelihood by mending shoes and sometimes working 
 in the fields, always going to harvest work. It was while reap- 
 ing for R. D. Fyson, Esq., about six years back, that I was so 
 fortunate as to be introduced to Mrs. Fyson, who first brought 
 my works before the public, and has been my constant friend 
 ever since. 
 
 " I have had four children, three of whom are living; the
 
 236 A HEDGE-SIDE POET. 
 
 eldest a girl, eighteen years, and two boys, one seventeen, the 
 other fourteen years old. The girl belongs to the 'stitch, stitch, 
 stitch ' sisterhood ; the boys I am anxious to get out to some- 
 thing where they may get a living. They go out to work in the 
 fields when they can get work to do, but I should rejoice in the 
 hope of being able to give them some trade. 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 "J. R. Withers," 
 
 A simple story ; yet what a picture it gives 
 of this poor man's Hfe, outwardly not different 
 from the lives of thousands of East-Anglian 
 peasants ; the only difference was in t/ie man, to 
 whom nature gave a portion — great or small, 
 time will show, for he is still not old — an un- 
 doubted portion of that strange gift called the 
 poetic faculty. He therefore sees things with 
 other eyes, feels things in another way, than his 
 fellows ; has pleasures they know not, struggles 
 and pains which they cannot comprehend. 
 Whether this has been good for him or ill, God 
 knows ; but it is the necessary lot of all who 
 have ever so small a share of the gift of genius, 
 — God's gift, and therefore never to be under- 
 valued or denied. 
 
 In going through these two volumes, with 
 their occasional errors of rhyme and rhythm, 
 their conventional phraseology, and common- 
 placeness of subjects ; the author, like all un- 
 educated rhymers, choosing themes and think- 
 ing thoughts which scores of poets have lighted 
 on before him, — it is curious to see the mens 
 divinior cropping out, as geologists would say, 
 through the commonest sti-atum of style and 
 ideas. Such as —
 
 A HEDGE-SIDE POET. 237 
 
 " Away, away, through valleys fair 
 * Where flames the mustard bloomy, 
 
 As if the sjin was shining there. 
 When all around is gloomy. " 
 
 Or this picture of the baby year, out of a 
 series of many equally good, which form a 
 poem, rough and careless in diction, but vivid 
 and beautiful in imagery, entitled, " Remi- 
 niscences of the year 1855." 
 
 ** Wrapt in robes of snowy ermine, 
 At first I saw thee slumbering lie, 
 Calm, quiet, still, and beautiful : 
 But soon thy chubby dimpled hands 
 Were playing with the crocus cups, 
 And gingling silver snowdrop bells. 
 And now a toddling fair wee thing. 
 Dressed in a frock of palest green, 
 All sprigged with pinky hawthorn buds, 
 And bordered with hepaticas. 
 Thou lov'dst to tease old Father Frost, 
 Pulling his grizzly crispy beard, 
 Shaking the powder from his locks, 
 Spoiling with fingers moist and warm 
 The pictures of his palsied hand." 
 
 A tender, close, and minute observation of 
 nature is the strongest peculiarity of Withers' 
 poetry. There is not much of the hot current 
 of human emotion in it ; little sentiment, and no 
 passion ; a gentle, moralizing, thoughtful nature, 
 an eminently religious mind, and a shy retiring 
 temperament, characterise it ; as we doubt not, 
 they are the characteristics of the man himself; 
 for with small demonstration, there is yet no 
 pretence or affectation in his verses : all he does 
 is essentially real. Such poems as " The Fire of 
 Sticks," '' The Old Well/' - The Old Lane," in- 
 dicate what a true " poet of the people " he might
 
 238 A HEDGE-SIDE POET. 
 
 have become — nay, might yet become, had he 
 the power to concentrate into careful study of 
 the art of poetry — for it is an art, as well as a 
 native faculty — his delicacy of fancy, accuracy 
 of perception, and truth of delineation. A man 
 who could do this — embalming in real poetry 
 the rural life of England — the poor man's life — 
 would do for it, and us, a thing which has 
 never yet been done. The southern half of 
 our island may boast its Clare and its Bloom- 
 field — with one or two lesser singers — but it has 
 never produced, perhaps never may produce, a 
 Hogg or a Burns. 
 
 One may naturally ask, how is it that a man 
 like Withers, with qualities, intellectual and 
 moral, sufficient to raise him into a much higher 
 and more congenial sphere, should, at forty- 
 eight, remain still a common agricultural la- 
 bourer } Possibly the explanation of this fact 
 he has himself unconsciously given us in a little 
 poem, called " Solitude the best. Society." 
 
 I was not formed to stem the tide, 
 
 Or ride the stormy waves of strife : 
 My Uttle bark can only ghde 
 
 Along the shallow streams of life. 
 Whilst bolder spirits fearless roam, 
 
 And ocean's wildest tracks explore, 
 I linger like a drone at home, 
 
 And play with pebbles on the shore. 
 Wliilst some are proudly gaining 
 A name for valiant deeds, 
 Here lonely I only 
 Gather shells and weeds. 
 I know 'tis called a weakness 
 
 'Gainst which I ought to strive ; 
 And if I had less meekness 
 Perhaps should better thrive.
 
 A HEDGE-SIDE POET. 239 
 
 Why should I feel so shrinking, 
 
 So timid and unwise, 
 Whilst many men unthinking 
 
 By boldness gain the prize ? 
 I see them how they toil and scheme, 
 
 And plan from day to day ; 
 By grove and stream I muse and dream. 
 
 Thus pass my time away, 
 I would not be a senseless clod 
 
 To only eat and sleep : 
 Thou knowest me, my Father God, 
 
 Though I can only creep. 
 Towards thee still my heart doth tend 
 
 Though pressed with sorrow down ; 
 To thee, my everlasting Friend, 
 
 Are all its struggles known. 
 Let bold blind bigots wrangle, 
 And think they only see, 
 I care not, I fear not, 
 I dare to hope in Thee. " 
 
 There is something deeply pathetic in all this ; 
 and one can easily understand the " struggles " 
 which a man so gentle and refined, must, ' in 
 his position, have had to bear. But Withers 
 is no prater of his own personality ; even the 
 incidents of his outward life are rarely more 
 than hinted at : some lines " On the Death of 
 my Child," being almost the only instance of 
 what may be termed personal poetry. Except 
 one, " Written from Newmarket Union to my 
 Sister in Cambridge." 
 
 A poet in a workhouse ! Yes, it was so. In 
 the year 1847, when, during very severe weather, 
 he could get no work, rather than run into debt 
 or subsist upon charity, this honest Englishman 
 had the courage to ask the help which every 
 Englishman, unable to find work or to do it, 
 may claim, not so much as an alms, but a right 
 — he dared to go with all his family, for a few
 
 240 A HEDGE-SIDE POET. 
 
 months, into the union workhouse. And this 
 little song he sung there, in its cheerful patience 
 and self-respect, deserves to be quoted here, 
 if only to shame all maudlin, egotistic, hypo- 
 chondriac rhymsters, who think that genius 
 warrants a man in being, not a man at all, but 
 only a poet. 
 
 " Since I cannot, dear sister, with you hold communion, 
 I'll give you a sketch of our life in the Union. 
 But how to begin I don't know, I declare : 
 Let me see ; well, the first is our grand bill of fare. 
 We've skilly for breakfast ; at night bread and cheese, 
 And we eat it, and then go to bed if we please. 
 Two days in the week we've puddings for dinner, 
 And two we have broth so like water, but thinner ; 
 Two, meat and potatoes, of this none to spare ; 
 One day bread and cheese — and this is our fare. 
 
 And now then my clothes I will tiy to pourtray ; 
 
 They're made of coarse cloth, and the colour is grey ; 
 
 My jacket and waistcoat don't fit me at all ; 
 
 My shirt is too short, or else I am too tall ; 
 
 My shoes are not pairs, though of course I have two, 
 
 They are down at the heel, and my stockings are blue. 
 
 But what shall I say of the things they call breeches? 
 Why mine are so large they'd have fitted John Fitches. 
 John Fitches, you'll say, well, pray who was he ? 
 Why one of the fattest men I ever did see. 
 To be well understood, dear, they ought to be seen ; 
 Neither breeches nor trousers, but something between ; 
 And though they're so large, you'll remember, I beg, 
 That they're low in the waist and high on the leg. 
 
 And no braces allowed me — oh dear, oh dear ; 
 
 We are each other's glass, so I know I look queer. 
 
 A sort of Scotch bonnet we wear on our heads ; 
 
 And I sleep in a room where there are just fourteen beds ; 
 
 Some are sleeping, some snoring, some talking, some playing. 
 
 Some fighting, some swearing, but very few praying. 
 
 Here are nine at a time who work on the mill : 
 We take it by turns, so it never stands still : 
 A half an hour each gang ; 'tis not very hard, 
 And when we are oft we can walk in the yard.
 
 A HEDGE-SIDE POET. 241 
 
 We have nurseries here, where the children are crying ; 
 And hospitals too for the sick and the dying. 
 
 But I must not forget to record in my verse, 
 
 All who die here are honoured to ride in a hearse. 
 
 I sometimes look up to the bit of blue sky 
 
 High over my head, with a tear in my eye, 
 
 Surrounded by walls that are too high to climb. 
 
 Confined as a felon without any crime ; 
 
 Not a field, not a house, not a hedge can I see — 
 
 Not a plant, not a flower, not a bush nor a tree, 
 
 Except a geranium or two that appear 
 
 At the governor's window, to smile even here." 
 
 A noticeable trait in Withers is his exceeding 
 refinement of sentiment and expression. While 
 far loftier versifiers seem to think it poetical 
 to be coarse, and hold that gorgeous diction 
 atones for any sensuousness, or even sensuality ; 
 — this man whose life has been passed in the 
 sphere where the grossness of human nature 
 rarely attempts to disguise itself, never pens a 
 verse which a good man, when grown an old 
 man, might regret having once written, and 
 blush to see one of his own growing-up daughters 
 read. 
 
 " Tea-table Talk," — a conversation between a 
 Dock and a Nettle, in which these two vege- 
 table scandal-mongers tear to pieces a number 
 of floral reputations ; " Retaliation," where the 
 same thing is done by a certain quick-witted 
 Mrs. Sparrow, perched on the — 
 
 " green-budded thoni, 
 
 Where the birds were assembled on Valentine's morn ;" 
 
 and the " Toper's Lament," prove that Withers 
 has a spice of humour in him ; though, on the
 
 242 A HEDGE-SIDE POET. 
 
 whole, he has too much of the meditative, di- 
 dactic tone, to be capable of the strong contrasts 
 of fun and pathos which constitute the dramatic 
 element in poetry. In short, he is more of a 
 dreamer or a moralizer than an emotionalist. 
 But, as we said, he is still far from being an old 
 man ; there may be much undeveloped power 
 in him yet. A late MS. poem, not included in 
 these volufnes, is better than anything they 
 contain. 
 
 As to the man himself — for the core of all a 
 man writes or does, the root and indication of 
 everthing he may live to be, is his ego, his essen- 
 tial manhood, — let us quote what his minister, 
 the clergyman of Fordham parish, has written of 
 him : — 
 
 ' ' Although Withers is in a very humble position of life, his 
 mind is so well stored with valuable information on a variety of 
 subjects, that with the greatest delight I spend much time in his 
 company. I would also add, that his character is irreproachable, 
 and that he delights in doing good." 
 
 Will no one, who also " delights in doing 
 good," try if a little good cannot be done in 
 some way, by raising into a position more suit- 
 able for him, our poor hedge-side poet, James 
 Reynolds Withers .?
 
 THE 
 
 LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 ITS BEGINNING. 
 
 FIVE shillings' worth ! Yes, and full 
 worth too : though, according to sta- 
 tistics at the doors, the public in 
 general do not seem to think so. Only season 
 ticket-holders as yet throng the great World's 
 Fair, that magnificent piece of daring incom- 
 pleteness, which has lately been the talk of 
 London, as if it Avere a sudden only half-com- 
 prehended fact which had just started up under 
 one's very eyes. For, in truth, whatever might 
 be the excitement in the provinces and abroad, 
 the general body of working London had 
 taken the International Exhibition very quietly. 
 After the great gloom of Christmas-time, the 
 Christmas marked by the death of the good 
 Prince who had planned it all, everybody said 
 that of course it would be put off, must be, 
 ought to be ; till everybody acquiesced in the 
 wiser judgment and deeper tenderness which 
 made the accurate and sacred carrying out of 
 the wishes of the dead the best tribute to his 
 
 R 2
 
 244 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 memory. Afterwards "everybody" seemed to 
 think very little about the matter. Hundreds 
 and thousands of the middle class, living within 
 an easy radius of five miles, had actually never 
 seen more of the Great Exhibition than those 
 two ugly domes, that rose month by month, 
 and week by week, first as skeleton scaffolding, 
 and then as dazzling crystal, catching the sun's 
 rays from over the house-tops and the park 
 trees. Country cousins alone, who seem to 
 have the constitutions of elephants, the legs of 
 camels, and the eyes of Argus himself, went to 
 see it, and brought back wonderful stories of 
 that town under glass, with its myriads of work- 
 men, running to and fro along the ground like 
 ants, clustering like bees over the galleries, or 
 dangling perilously from the roof like spinning 
 caterpillars; creating around them an atmo- 
 sphere which might truly be considered "the 
 dust of ages," and a Babel-like noise of un- 
 wearied hammers, and tongues ! As to the 
 building itself — its beauty, convenience, desir- 
 ability, payability, or the contrary — there were 
 disputes and arguments without end : — ending, 
 as most arguments do, in each side sticking 
 only the firmer to its own opinion. But on one 
 point everybody was agreed, namely, that it 
 could not possibly be finished by the first of 
 May. 
 
 Consequently London, as a whole, cared very 
 little about it ; and even up to the middle of 
 April it was a rare thing to find an acquaintance 
 who had done the desperate deed of buying a
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 245 
 
 season-ticket, and actually meant to be present 
 at the opening. Rumours were rife, to the very 
 last, of that opening being quite impracticable : 
 of the infinite difficulties, perplexities, and hin- 
 drances which beset the hapless contractors : 
 how more than even at first feared, was felt, 
 day by day, the want of that guiding Head, to 
 whose clear, calm wisdom, unbiassed and uni- 
 versal kindliness, and decision at once acute and 
 rapid, every doubtful point could be brought, and 
 was brought — in 185 1, but, alas! not in 1862. 
 Now, though no trouble nor exertion was spared, 
 though the Commissioners almost lived in the 
 building, still there were incessant complaints 
 on the one side, incessant changes of purpose 
 on the other. There was no definite ruler to 
 pronounce distinctly of any disputed question, 
 " It had better be so and so ; " no dignified auto- 
 crat to settle differences by a gentle word or 
 two, being universally obeyed, because univer- 
 sally trusted. 
 
 It is a strange comment on the text : " Death 
 is better than life, and the end of a thing better 
 than its beginning " — that until we lost him we 
 never knew what we lost in that good man, 
 true man, true gentleman, true Christian, whom 
 all England now glories in, with affectionate 
 remembrance. Deep, inexpressibly deep and 
 tender, is now the thought of him ; especially 
 among the British middle classes, by whom a 
 character like his, the beauty of which takes half 
 a lifetime to find out, when once found out, is 
 cherished for ever. The regret for him, an
 
 24$ THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 almost household regret, was probably at the 
 root of the great indifference with which most 
 people viewed the Exhibition. Many, both men 
 and women, said outright, ** No, they should not 
 like to go ; they had seen the '5 1 Opening, with 
 the Queen and Prince Albert there, and — and " 
 — with a quiver of the lip — ''they would rather 
 not see this one ; they did iiot like to make fools 
 of themselves in public." 
 
 Even to the very last week of April, when the 
 Times told us daily of the almost miraculous 
 exertions that were being made to get the 
 Exhibition open, nobody seemed to heed, or to 
 believe that the event would really come to pass. 
 And those Avho took the trouble to make the 
 circumbendibus down Exhibition Road, along 
 Cromwell Road, and up Prince Albert's Road, 
 into the main western thoroughfare, shook their 
 heads ominously, and declared it was all non- 
 sense to expect it ; the thing was impossible. 
 
 As the day arrived, however, the public found 
 to its intense amazement that this resolute body 
 of Englishmen were working on the polite 
 Frenchman's principle : " Madam, had it been 
 possible, it would have been done already ; and 
 if it is impossible, it shall be done." And now 
 stories began to grow concerning the throng, 
 gathering from all parts of the world to see the 
 grand show — itself the grandest part of it ; of 
 the terrific rush for season-tickets; of the despair 
 of Sir Richard Mayne, to whom the Lord Mayor 
 had sent word that he was coming with " six 
 hundred carriages," and who was reported to
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 247 
 
 have "answered a nobleman who asked, if he 
 started from May Fair about 9 A.M. on Thurs- 
 day, what time he might expect to reach the 
 Great Exhibition ? — '* On Saturday, my lord ; 
 or,- perhaps, if you are very lucky, by Friday 
 afternoon." 
 
 These tales, gently irritating, tickled the public 
 ear ; but the general mass of society, living 
 only a few miles from the scene of action, was 
 very little disturbed thereby ; read its Times, 
 and congratulated itself that it was " out of the 
 way." A few, who, sitting in their parlours, or 
 walking in their gardens that bright May morn- 
 ing, heard the distant sound of the Park guns, 
 stopped to think, " Oh, this is the Great Exhi- 
 bition day !" and in every heart — every woman's 
 heart assuredly — must have been a stab of pain 
 to remember how heavy a day it must be to 
 another widowed woman, and be thankful that 
 she was distant from the scene of such saddened 
 festivity. 
 
 " I'm glad of it," one house-mother was heard 
 to say with a sob, as she read aloud the brief 
 intimation of the Queen's having that morning 
 reached Perth to. breakfast. " I am glad she is 
 far away. I care more for those two lines than 
 for all the rest of the newspaper." And such 
 was the universal feeling. 
 
 But grief has its blessed side. How good it 
 has been for the general community to discover, 
 as death only fully could have discovered, such 
 virtues in high places, — virtues based on the 
 inward conviction and outward recognition of
 
 248 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 the one great truth of Christianity, self-abnega- 
 tion, " I will spend and be spent for you." 
 How much good may not unconsciously be done 
 to many careless, unloving heads of families, 
 in all ranks, to find that the head of the 
 first Family in the realm, was, voluntarily, as 
 hard-working a man as if he had had to earn 
 his daily bread in a profession or trade : that he 
 was a scrupulous paymaster, a wise, prudent, 
 exact governor of his household ; a liberally 
 educated gentleman, who by his methodical use 
 of talents and opportunities, in spite of his 
 innumerable occupations, found time for every- 
 thing and everybody. Ay, everybody : from 
 his own loyally cherished wife, to the poorest 
 author or artist who came to him for a little 
 help, or a few kindly words. And all this, this 
 noble, admirable, heroic life, was lived with' such 
 a simple, silent, and reticent humility, that the 
 nation, much as it respected him, never really 
 knew what he was, till he was gone. 
 
 No more — for it is only saying what every- 
 body has said and felt, and will feel while this 
 generation lasts — this generation, which remem- 
 bers the familiar face, so sweet and grave, the 
 graceful figure, gradually changing from boyish 
 slenderness into the stateliness of fatherly middle 
 age, — then suddenly missed from among us, out 
 of all our pomps and shows and ceremonies. 
 But I think any one, joining in that May-day 
 festival, must have felt, as the long-drawn halle- 
 lujahs pealed down the crowded aisles, and up 
 to the glittering roof, that it was still better to
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 249 
 
 be away. Better than all this turmoil of jubilee, 
 to be where he is ; among those who, all life's 
 duties done, and burdens borne, and sorrows 
 perfected, sit down among the saints at the feet 
 of " the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the 
 Prince of peace." 
 
 Of the opening of the Exhibition I have nothing 
 to say, being among the innumerable number who 
 contented, or discontented, themselves with the 
 columns of the Times newspaper on the day 
 following ; having not even attempted to get 
 within sight of that wonderful crowd — a crowd 
 is always wonderful — which " Our own Corre- 
 spondent " describes so graphically : which for 
 hours listened outside for the music, and at the 
 faint echoes of " God save the Queen " tried 
 to take off its honest, loyal, British hat, and 
 repeat, with true British warmth, the cheers 
 within, until street after street caught the sound, 
 and carried it even to Hyde Park Corner. 
 Yes, it must have been a grand thing, — that 
 crowd. We shall always count it as one of the 
 " mistakes " one makes sometimes, and repents 
 of too late, that we spent May-day, 1862, at 
 least a day's journey distant from the Inter- 
 national Exhibition. 
 
 But time has its rewards as well as revenges. 
 The 6th of May found us bound, resolutely, in 
 defiance of all impediments, to get a good, 
 honest five shillings' worth out of the commis- 
 sioners. 
 
 " Well, I wish you joy," observed a consola- 
 tory friend. "If you go every day regularly
 
 250 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 for two months, perhaps you may contrive to 
 see the whole of it." 
 
 " Still, on the principle that faint heart never 
 won — never anything in this world ; also, that 
 half a loaf is better than no bread, we'll see as 
 much of it in one day as we can." 
 
 But the strict regulation of ^' no change given," 
 was near stopping us on the threshold. I beg 
 to confess, for the information and warning of 
 future visitors, that my five shillings — was, from 
 the melancholy but utterly unavoidable circum- 
 stances of my having " no change," and Govern- 
 ment declining to give me any, composed of a 
 borrowed half-crown, a florin, a " threepenny 
 bit," a penny, and four halfpennies. Conse- 
 quently, Government — in the shape of one 
 of these commissionnaires, invalided soldiers, 
 whom one is so glad to see filling useful posi- 
 tions about London — hesitated a little at taking 
 such eccentric payment ; but finally consented, 
 and we passed in. 
 
 No — there may be substitutions — higher and 
 better things even than the things gone ; but 
 in this world there are no repetitions. As well 
 might a man expect to find a second first-love, as 
 a second Crystal Palace of 185 1. It was quite 
 per se ; a fairyland ; a dream. Who does not 
 recall his or her first entrance into its exquisite 
 transept, with that lovely vista of trees and 
 fountains, gleaming statues, gorgeous carpets 
 and fabrics of all sorts, making every conceiv- 
 able combination of form and colour } Also 
 the perpetual under-tone of music ; organs^
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 251 
 
 pianofortes, and instruments of all sorts, suffi- 
 ciently apart not to jar unpleasantly on the ear, 
 and yet producing an incessant, circumfluent 
 harmony ; an atmosphere of sound, soothing as 
 that of a wood full of birds ? 
 
 Oh, how delicious it was ! the like of it can 
 never be again ; nor would we wish it. Let it 
 vanish, like a dream of youth, into the immor- 
 tality of the past. 
 
 And now, let us take a fair, wide, unprejudiced 
 view of the Great International Exhibition of 
 1862 ; making no comparisons; for indeed there 
 are none to be made. Here is no fairyland, 
 but a gigantic building, whose very size alone 
 is impressive. Overhead is an enormous glass 
 dome — they say as large as that of St. Peter's 
 at Rome — and opposite stretches the long aerial 
 nave, ending in a second dome, the counterpart 
 of the first. On the right hand and the left run 
 other avenues, the north-west and south-west 
 transepts, both terminating in curved arches ; 
 but the whole three lines of view melt into such 
 shadowy distance, that one can at first hardly 
 distinguish how they end. There is no glow or 
 glare of colour : and, on the whole, the effect 
 is extremely subdued ; the chief thing that 
 catches the eye being the inscriptions, in suf- 
 ficiently large, legible letters, which run along 
 under the rim of the dome, and are formed into 
 arches over the entrance, and at the termination 
 of either transept : — 
 
 ** Tua sunt Domine, regnum, magnificentia, et potentia et 
 gloria atque victoria ; et tibi laus ; cuncta enim quae in coelo sunt 
 et in terra, tua sunt."
 
 252 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 " Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax." 
 
 " Domini est terra et plenitudo ejus." 
 
 " Deus in terram respexit, et implevit illam bonis suis." 
 
 This silent recognition, in the grand old Latin 
 tongue common to all nations, of Him who is 
 the Father of all the nations of the earth, is 
 very impressive. It contributes much to the 
 feeling which many people have already ex- 
 pressed, that the difference between this second 
 building and the first is exactly like that between 
 youth and maturity — less of beauty, more of 
 real greatness ; the greatness of deliberate, per- 
 fected work. It is not a palace ; but it gives 
 in no small degree the idea of a temple — a true 
 temple of industry ; — laborare est orare being the 
 motto thereof. 
 
 That is, it will be so — by and by — for now it is 
 in such an incomplete state that no wonder the 
 sapient British public declines to pay five shil- 
 lings to behold the sight. However it might 
 have been polished up for the opening day, at 
 present the whole scene presented the appear- 
 ance of a gigantic " flitting." Packing-cases 
 everywhere ; planks lying about to be tumbled 
 over ; nails ready to run into your shoes ; rude 
 calico hangings, confronting you with the warn- 
 ing, " No admission : " elegant furniture in hay-* 
 bands and Holland pinafores ; statues swaddled 
 in real drapery ; china and ornaments dispersed 
 about the half-empty, or wholly vacant glass- 
 cases in every stage of that pitiable confusion 
 which all housekeepers, or rather house-quitters, 
 understand. In fact, nothing in the building
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 253 
 
 looking complete and comfortable, except the 
 roof, and the clear glass dome, through which 
 the blue May-morning sky smiled serenely and 
 cheerfully. 
 
 Yes, everybody seemed cheerful. Though 
 everybody was as busy as busy could be — 
 workmen, attendants, exhibitors, policemen, com- 
 missionnaires, running hither and thither, or 
 gathered in little knots, talking vociferously in 
 every language under the sun ; still they all 
 appeared quite at home, and in the best of 
 spirits. The people who looked most uncom- 
 fortable and most "in the way," were the 
 unhappy visitors or season-ticket holders, who 
 were eyed much as a materfamilias would eye a 
 select party of well-dressed guests coming in to 
 spend a social evening on the very first evening 
 of " flitting " into a new house. They swept the 
 dust, nails, and packing-cases with their flounced 
 trains ; they brushed against the china with their 
 tremendous hoops ; they sat down where they 
 had no business to sit, and stood where they 
 ought not to stand, and altogether made them- 
 selves as elegantly inconvenient as might natu- 
 rally be expected under the circumstances. 
 
 But we, who came on business, had no con- 
 scientious qualms. We determined to begin 
 systematically, and see as much as we possibly 
 could see in a given number of hours. So, to 
 economize space, we walked through the north- 
 west transept — where Austria appeared in a per- 
 fect chaos, a wreck of nations — to the north-west 
 Annex — which is devoted to machinery.
 
 254 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 There is something intensely British in ma- 
 chinery. One felt one's heart swell with true 
 Anglo-Saxon pride as one walked down the long 
 row of locomotive engines, painted in marvellous 
 colours — bright blue, dark blue, grass green, sea 
 green, and rifle green, and polished as to their 
 brass and iron to the last extremity of glitter. 
 In their very best coats — of varnish — they stood, 
 these silent monsters, — the genii of our iron 
 roads. There was one belonging to the Caledo- 
 nian line, made by Neilson & Co., Glasgow — a 
 very fine monster he or "she" was, too; and there 
 was C. England's '' Little England " — a brilliant 
 dark-blue creature. Sharp, Stewart & Co., Man- 
 chester, furnished another, shining in the very 
 brightest green ; and there was one " designed 
 by R. Sinclair," which was stated to have " run 
 on the Eastern Counties line 44,450 miles, with 
 no repairs except turning the leading wheels and 
 painting." 
 
 On the other side was machinery of every 
 sort : a paper-mill from George Bertram, 
 Sciennes, Edinburgh, which " made paper from 
 vegetable fibre, at the rate of 100 feet per 
 minute," and various specimens of " mules," and 
 other kinds of dumb factory labourers, attended 
 by live labourers from the same region ; a Man- 
 chester " chap " who stood patiently picking 
 each thread as it broke ; and two tidy Manches- 
 ter lasses, working as briskly as if they were in 
 their own factory. The centre of the Annex is 
 •occupied by a model of the great sugar-mill of 
 Merrilees and Tait, Glasgow, and near it is a
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 255 
 
 rival mill of Heckmann's, Berlin, where the 
 brilliant copper and brass of the sugar-boiler is a 
 perfect picture of mechanical elegance. 
 
 There is something strangely fascinating in 
 fine machinery, — man's design and handiwork, 
 yet in its accuracy, harmony, and, above all, in 
 its invisible force, giving a sense of superhuman 
 perfectness. Wheel upon wheel incessantly 
 convolving, each acting on the other in such 
 a slight and yet miraculous way ; life-like mo- 
 tion ; life-like perpetual sound, as if some spirit 
 were at work in the inert mass which enabled it 
 to go on for ever and ever. Involuntarily, the 
 mind reverts from this to the great mechanism 
 of the universe, of which we know so little, and 
 on that little seem so ready to dogmatize. — 
 Fools that we are ! It is as if one of these ever- 
 spinning reels, one of these threads which break 
 in the instant, one of these tiny wheels whose 
 small gyration influences so many more, were to 
 stop and say to itself, — " This whole mechanism 
 was made for me ; and I — I understand it all." 
 
 But on ; for time does not trot, but gallops in 
 this International Exhibition ; on, through chaotic 
 Austria, bewildered Belgium, and sober Holland, 
 which, like most sober people, is a little before- 
 hand with its neighbours ; on, between the two 
 enormous mirrors that should have been ; but, 
 alas ! one broken in the transit, shows only the 
 melancholy empty frame ; past the wonderful 
 diamond, ** Star of the South," round which is a 
 circle of those most annoyingly fashionable 
 ladies in hoops and trains. Long may they
 
 256 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 remain there, staring at what looks to our un- 
 appreciating eyes no better than a large piece of 
 cut-glass dangling in the centre of a case of 
 other specimens of glass uncut, which look no 
 better than pebbles on the road, but which we 
 understand are of inappreciable value — worth a 
 king's head or a queen's heart. Verily, the 
 world is under some extraordinary delusion 
 about jewellery, especially diamonds. 
 
 Now we come to something really beautiful. 
 It is a group of statuary by Molin of Sweden, 
 " The Grapplers." Two men, elder and younger, 
 are wrestling ; evidently for life or death ; both 
 being armed with short knives. If murder ever 
 could be grand, it is made so here. The fierce 
 intensity of the elder man's face, the wild fury 
 of the younger, and the clasp of terrible hate, 
 closer than of love, are absolutely sublime. Four 
 bas-reliefs round the pediment tell the story : 
 ''Jealousy," "The dream of vengeance, " The 
 contest of battle," '' A woman weeping at the 
 grave." It is awfully real ; for as I watch two 
 young men who stand gazing at it, I fancy I 
 can read the reflection of it in one of their faces. 
 Alas ! human nature is everywhere the same. 
 But is it not a question whether an artist who 
 can so dignify evil, would not have done wiser 
 in choosing a subject that should immortalize 
 good } 
 
 Here is the French Court ; our neighbours 
 having invaded and appropriated about a fourth 
 of the whole Exhibition. Well, let them ! if 
 they do it as charmingly as no doubt they will.
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 257 
 
 Even now, in its imperfectness, our eyes are 
 dazzled by half unpacked splendours ; silks that 
 ''stand alone;" laces of fabulous value; dia- 
 monds which, as a busy but civil assistant of 
 Jacta & Cie. pauses to inform us, " sont vrais — 
 tous vrais, madame f and certainly arranged in 
 tiaras, sprays, and wreaths, are almost as pretty 
 as a common wild-flower. We could almost 
 feel ourselves in Paris, so incessant is the 
 clatter of French around, and so numerous 
 are the specimens of the genus oirorieVy one of 
 whom, complete in beard and blue blouse, and 
 exquisitely worked slippers, is just descending 
 from giving the last arrangement to a large 
 plaster statue, on v/hose base is painted the 
 characteristic translation, " Fondu d'un seul jet " 
 — " Cast in single spotit" 
 
 From France — which, when finished, will 
 likely be one of the most attractive regions in 
 the building — we go on to Italy. There, 
 scattered about in every phase of " pack " 
 and disarrangement, are countless treasures of 
 beauty, especially statuary. We can only stop 
 to admire one, " The Daughter of Zion," by 
 Salvius Salvini, — a grand-limbed, majestic 
 matron, with overhanging brows, and lips pro- 
 truding, sitting passive, sullen, and fierce with 
 her wrongs. 
 
 Here too, stands Gibson's tinted Venus. Much 
 has been said about this statue, and much will 
 be said. Yet, I doubt, most people will own 
 regretfully that it is a great mistake. Marvel- 
 lously beautiful ; for this is no Venus Anadyo- 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 THE LAST GREAT EXHIDiT10x\, 
 
 mene, or Venus Aphrodite, but the "Ahiia 
 Venus Genitrlx," the fruitful chaste mother of 
 gods and men. Had it been in pure white 
 marble, the Venus de' Medici, even the lovely 
 Venus of Milo, could hardly have equalled it ; 
 but as it is, it is neither classic nor human ; it 
 loses all the severe grace of colourless form, and 
 yet approaches no nearer to life than a bad 
 imitation of a wax-work figure. The tinted 
 eyes, the slightly reddened lips, and the hue, 
 certainly not that of flesh, which has been given 
 to the marble limbs, produce an effect at once 
 painful and unnatural. Some connoisseurs may 
 admire, and antiquaries may argue that the 
 Greeks are supposed to have tinted most of 
 their statues ; but a large portion of us fond 
 ignorant art-lovers will always protest, that 
 Gibson's fancy is not the advance but the de- 
 cadence of true classic art. 
 
 But we must go back into the nave, and, con- 
 sulting the plan, make a determined search after 
 that ignominious necessity, food. Certainly, 
 here is plenty, but it is arranged in a hopeless 
 manner in the shape of Trophies. There is one 
 trophy entirely composed of pickles ; another, 
 of sweetmeats ; another, which looks, at a dis- 
 tance, like a Greek temple with alabaster 
 columns, is fabricated of candles. There is an 
 erection invitingly labelled *' To the Juveniles," 
 which consists of every sort of toy that can be 
 imagined ; and another, the centre figure of 
 which is a light-ship, stuck round with tele- 
 scopes, reflector, etc. All down to the eastern
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 259 
 
 dome are dotted these abominations of bad 
 taste, completely obscuring the perspective of 
 the nave, and some of them in themselves 
 grotesque to the last degree of imaginable 
 ugliness. They ought to be swept away with the 
 besom of destruction. May it speedily be done !* 
 The eastern dome, and the north-east and 
 south-east transepts, have their corresponding 
 inscriptions written in English : — 
 
 "The wise and their works are in the hand of God." 
 
 " Lord, both riches and honour come of thee : thou reignest 
 
 over all ; and in thy hand is power and might, and in thy hand 
 
 it is to make great." 
 
 And tv/o blank-verse lines (Query, From what 
 author ?) not too poetical — 
 
 *' Each climate needs what other climes produce." 
 " Alternately the nations learn and teach." 
 
 The south-east transept is devoted chiefly to 
 iron-work : the north-east, to the products of the 
 colonies. Here is the only trophy v/hich is 
 endurable — a fine pile of ornamental woods 
 from Tasmania. Near it is the Australian 
 quarter, where our eyes were caught by a speci- 
 men of art, which proved that the antipodes can 
 boast as bad painters as some of those who, 
 under the wise selection of this year's hanging 
 committee, we yesterday beheld on the Royal 
 Academy's walls ; — acres of canvas spent over 
 full-length portraits, and pounds of good colour 
 lavished over what high art and anti-pre-Ra- 
 
 * A'.B. It is done. Hurrah !
 
 26o THE LAST CiREAT EXHIBTITON. 
 
 phaelite painters consider flesh and blood, but 
 which is in reaHty like nothing in nature, — or 
 art either, for art is the highest nature. How- 
 ever, what care they, the ancient leaders of our 
 R.A.'s — our illustrious Forty ? Like Sir God- 
 frey Kneller, Nature always " puts them 
 out." 
 
 It is to be feared that we are growing savage 
 as wild beasts for want of food, so let us quit 
 the obnoxious pictures, and proceed at once to 
 the refreshment-room. In any place of public 
 resort like this, there is always considerable 
 entertainment in watching the people feed. So 
 much character peeps out, so many phases of 
 domestic or social life, in the little groups that 
 gather themselves round the table. You may, 
 if you have quick observation, make up a whole 
 novelette in ten minutes, or at least gain frag- 
 mentary studies of human nature enough to 
 furnish half a dozen magazine tales. Of such 
 was a trio beside us, finishing off with ices what 
 had apparently been a very comfortable lunch. 
 
 I have said nothing hitherto of the visitors to 
 the Exhibition, and yet we had noticed them a 
 good deal. They consisted — besides the fashion- 
 able dames aforesaid, who were always annihi- 
 lating us with their hoops, or turning round upon 
 us with sudden fierceness, when we accidentally 
 trod on their demi-trains — of people that you 
 at once decided were " from the country ; " 
 healthy-looking squires, with stout matronly 
 squiresses ; magisterial county magnates ; tall, 
 aristocratic gentlemen, possibly peers ; and a
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 261 
 
 large sprinkling of clerical personages, with 
 sedately clad wives and pretty daughters. Also, 
 and they were a goodly sight to see, not a few 
 ancient couples, just husband and wife alone, 
 who took their quiet pleasure together in their 
 life's decline, looking as happy and contented 
 in one another's company as when they were 
 young lovers. Such a pair we saw beside the 
 Armstrong gun, and the elderly, rather military- 
 looking gentleman, was explaining it minutely 
 to his elderly wife. She listened, dear soul ! 
 with a devotedness of attention that indicated a 
 habit, possibly thirty years old, of listening to 
 all he said, admiring all he admired, and sharing 
 with him every pleasantness, as doubtless every 
 pain, in a fulness of love that shines out as 
 sweetly in an old woman's face as in a young 
 girl's. Perhaps more sweetly, because it has 
 been tried — tried and not found wanting. 
 
 A second bit of nature, almost as charming, 
 was beside us in the trio I have mentioned, 
 father, mother, and growing up daughter. They 
 were evidently country people ; for he spoke 
 with a slight provincial accent ; and they were 
 dressed — oh, how many thoughts and mutual 
 consultations those splendid gowns and bonnets 
 must have cost, after " papa " decided to take 
 three season-tickets and come to London. And 
 what plannings — what arrangements — what 
 joyous anticipations, before they were fairly 
 started, and had located themselves In some 
 sober " family hotel," which the squire may 
 have frequented in his young days, when George
 
 262 THE LAST GREAT EXIIIBITIOX. 
 
 the Fourth was king-. Thence, now, they doubt- 
 less emerge, every morning, to spend the day in 
 the International Exhibition. And night after 
 night, while poor mamma rests her wearied 
 limbs, is benign papa coaxed by that coaxing 
 girl — (what a winning way she has, and how 
 mischievously she drinks up the remainder of 
 his wine, which he himself holds playfully to her 
 lips !) — coaxed into taking her to some theatre 
 or other, where she will laugh, and cry, and look 
 about her, with the intense enjoyment that no 
 blasie London young lady ever knows. And 
 how, when the week or fortnight is over, she will 
 go home and tell all the village — the rector's 
 daughter, her bosom friend — and old Betty at 
 the lodge, her nurse — every single thing that has 
 happened in every single day ; and all will de- 
 cide that there never was such a place as the 
 International Exhibition. 
 
 Be it so. Even such little episodes — of which 
 there must be so many now going on, and will 
 be all this year — constitute the Exhibition a 
 good thing, a source of wholesome natural enjoy- 
 ment to thousands. 
 
 Enjoyment .'* Well, even that has its limits, 
 and so have human powers of locomotion. The 
 great drawback to the Exhibition — its enor- 
 mous size. You may walk miles upon miles 
 without recognising the fact, until you suddenly 
 stop, feeling that if your life depended on it, 
 you could not proceed a step farther. And the 
 staircases, when one has been on one's feet for 
 half a day, are literally awful to contemplate !
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 263 
 
 How we overcame them I hardly know, but at 
 last we found ourselves on one of those delicious 
 settees that some merciful and enlightened Com- 
 missioner has provided, in glorious plenty — sit- 
 ting in peace opposite to Gainsborough's " Blue 
 Boy : " and vaguely staring alternately at the 
 washed-out Reynoldses, Hogarths, and Lau- 
 rences on the walls, and the living phantasma- 
 goria of graceful figures, pretty — or occasionally 
 pretty faces, and universally charming toilettes, 
 which moved in a continuous stream up and 
 down along the gallery of British pictures. 
 
 Dare we confess that among all these art- 
 treasures, at first we principally studied nature 
 — especially clothes ? There can be no doubt 
 that a thoroughly well-dressed, elegant English- 
 woman is a very charming sight. These spring 
 toilettes, in which, on the whole, was great sim- 
 plicity, harmony, and, above all, unity of colour, 
 were quite refreshing to behold. Nor, except 
 the atrocious hoops, was there any great exagge- 
 ration or ugliness of costume. It is the under- 
 bred class of quasi-fashionables, who wear spoon- 
 bonnets, with bushels of flowers stuck on the 
 top, and gowns trailing in the mud, or kilted up 
 over scarlet stockings and glaring petticoats, 
 stiff and circular as an iron cage. But these 
 gentlewomen, with their black or subdued- 
 coloured silks, their delicate muslins, their flow- 
 ing white bournous, or dark rich Indian shawls, 
 had, whether or not they possessed actual beauty, 
 a general graciousness, dignity, and sobriety of 
 mien, that I doubt if the Prado, or the Corso, or
 
 264 THE LAST (iREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 Unter den Linden, or even Longchamps itself, 
 could rival. Excellent season-ticket holders ! 
 May they promenade there, gratifying their 
 eyes, and improving their minds if possible, all 
 summer, in this most perfect picture-gallery 
 that England ever possessed. 
 
 It occupies the whole length of the part of 
 the building parallel with Cromwell Road. Well 
 lit, well ventilated ; every picture hung where 
 it really can be seen ; no careless juxtaposition, 
 whereby two equally admirable works of art are 
 made actually to " kill " one another ; arrange- 
 ment without confusion ; the different masters 
 being, wherever it was possible, hung in groups, 
 so that the eye easily takes in the distinctive 
 peculiarities of each ; no dust, no heat, no crowd- 
 ing ; — it is little to be wondered at if all London 
 makes for the next four months of this place Its 
 favourite promenade. 
 
 Of the two galleries, British and Foreign, it 
 were almost invidious to decide which is the 
 finer. Ours has decidedly, and especially among 
 its living painters, the richest glow of colour, the 
 truest rendering of nature, the highest and purest 
 moral tone. Our Continental brethren paint 
 larger pictures, of gallery rather than cabinet 
 size ; are finer draughtsmen, and choose subjects 
 of tragic and personal rather than domestic 
 interest. Some of these are intensely painful. 
 One could hardly find anywhere such a horribly 
 well-painted collection of corpses as that which 
 may be found along one wall of the Foreign 
 gallery. One picture representing the lying in
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 265 
 
 state of two unfortunate gentlemen, Egmont and 
 Count Horn, after their decapitation, is quite 
 ghastly. The two bodies are stretched side by 
 side on a bed, and the two heads, which, as is 
 plainly perceptible, are only just stuck on to the 
 bodies, lie loosely, each in its place, and look as 
 if, with the least shake of the canvas, they would 
 roll down upon the gallery floor. Query — What 
 high purpose can be attained, or what good can 
 possibly be done to any human being by such 
 art as this } 
 
 On the whole, in spite of many excellent pic- 
 tures in the combined foreign schools, our British 
 artists may hold their heads honourably high. 
 Setting aside all the elder painters, our Hunt, 
 Millais, Noel Paton, Faed, Leighton, Hughes, 
 Clark, M'Callum, Hook, and many others, who 
 twenty, or even fifteen years ago, were mere 
 " Academy lads," form of themselves a noble 
 national school : a school that, whatever its 
 shortcomings, is pure, refined, natural ; free from 
 every coarse, meretricious, or melodramatic taint ; 
 appealing to one's highest and tenderest emo- 
 tions, and without being strictly religious art, 
 having throughout a strongly religious and 
 always moral tone. On pictures such as these, 
 the eye, educated or uneducated, rests and 
 lingers with an unconscious sense of refreshment 
 and calm. They " do one good," so to speak ; 
 ay, down to the tiniest bit of green landscape, or 
 the humblest cottage interior — J. Clark's "■ Sick 
 Child," for instance ; and what can the grandest 
 so-called high-art painters desire more t Truly,
 
 266 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 as we walked slowly up and down the long- 
 gallery — not attempting to particularise or ex- 
 amine — only taking a fond look at long-missed 
 familiar favourites, and a speculative glance at 
 the very few, here and there, that we did not 
 know, our British hearts thrilled with a not un- 
 natural delight, to think that " our own " were 
 the best after all. 
 
 Ay, without any obnoxious insular pride, we 
 cannot but feel, cursory and imperfect as has 
 been our investigation of this magnificent build- 
 ing, that no other country in the world could in 
 so short a space, or in any space of time, have 
 erected such an one. No other race than the 
 brave Anglo-Saxon, with its dogged perseve- 
 rance, its untiring energy, and its strong, patient, 
 passive rather than active will, could have so 
 maintained its ground against insuperable diffi- 
 culties, and finally carried out a purpose which 
 even to the very last day, the last hour, appeared 
 all but impracticable. 
 
 There is much to be done still. It will be 
 weeks before the chaos settles into anything 
 like order ; and even then, the daily working 
 arrangements of such an enormous undertaking, 
 must present difficulties, mistakes, mismanage- 
 ments, perplexities without end. 
 
 But for all that, the thing is done, and done 
 successfully. The building, so much ridiculed 
 for its external ugliness (and, perhaps, the less 
 said on that subject the better, even by the most 
 enthusiastic Briton), has been found substantial^ 
 convenient, and within, not unbeautiful. The
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 267 
 
 unpaid, unthanked Commissioners, have tolled 
 early and late to accomplish their self-imposed 
 duties. The whole country, let us say the whole 
 world, has now before it for the next six months, 
 a nucleus of interest, entertainment, instruction 
 if they will, nay, almost whether they will or 
 not ; for the dullest clown, the most indifferent 
 aristocrat, could hardly go through the Inter- 
 national Exhibition without feeling his brains, 
 or his heart, or some recondite portion of his 
 common humanity, a little the better for it. 
 
 And one thing, the grandest thing about the 
 whole, is the public acknowledgment of our 
 nation, of all nations, both in the opening cere- 
 monial, in the inscriptions I have copied, of the 
 Source from whence all these good things do 
 come. It is, more even than the former Exhi- 
 bition, our confession of faith before the whole 
 world. We owe this, doubtless, as we owe the 
 pristine design of Industrial Exhibitions, to that 
 deeply religious heart and active brain now at 
 rest for ever. 
 
 He sleeps, and others have completed his 
 plans ; he laboured, and lived not to see the 
 fruit of his labour. To us, this may seem infi- 
 nitely sad : probably no one, gentle or simple, 
 of the myriads that will visit this place, will do 
 so without a sigh to the memory of our Prince 
 Consort. But for him, who lived so much for 
 others and so little for himself, whose almost 
 perfect life was carried out without the smallest 
 show, or vain-glorying, or personal assertion of 
 any kind, for him it would be enough to know
 
 268 'JllE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 that what he wished done has been done, though 
 done without his aid. What matter ? The good 
 .servant desires only that his master's will should 
 be accomplished, in his master's own way. He 
 was that servant, and so thus early, the Master 
 called him. 
 
 Coming away from this busy place, with its 
 clang of incessant work, its tramp of innumer- 
 able feet, its confused mingling of all possible 
 sights and sounds, one could not but think of 
 him, the originator of it all, now a disembodied 
 soul. Ay, so it is ! We toil and struggle, 
 wTangle and praise, enjoy and endure. 
 
 " But thou, dear spirit, happy star, 
 O'erlook'st tlie tumult from afar. 
 And smilest, knowinc: all is well."
 
 THE 
 
 LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 ITS END. 
 
 IT is all over. Last Saturday's i^oggy day- 
 light shone for the last time on that won- 
 derful crowd surging up and down the 
 nave between dome and dome, on the still 
 thicker mass moving — or moved, for volition 
 was doubtful — inch by inch along the picture- 
 galleries, on the quieter and more scattered 
 groups that, in the various side courts, delighted 
 themselves once more over treasures and curi- 
 osities which they will likely never see again. 
 True, for a " day after the fair," or even fourteen 
 days, our six-months' friend, become such a 
 familiar friend now, may drag on a sort of 
 galvanized semi-existence ; but his real life is 
 ended : the Great International Exhibition of 
 1862 is no more. 
 
 Dc mortiiis nil nisi boninn. There will be 
 plenty of people to abuse it, this .vanished show: 
 let us speak only kindly of it : for, be it bad or 
 good, successful or unsuccessful, it is probably 
 the last of its race. Even should there be, in
 
 270 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 London, and during this generation, another 
 Great Exhibition, that time is so far in the future 
 that wc ourselves shall have grown quite elderly- 
 people. The more reason, therefore, for us to 
 remember this one tenderly, to count up all the 
 good it was meant to do and did, all the inno- 
 cent pleasure that we gained from it. Let us 
 forget the aching heads, wearied limbs, pushing 
 crowds, bad dinners, fights for omnibuses, and 
 insane struggles after cabs, and only recall that 
 bright pleasant place — where, if there was a ray 
 of sunlight to be found anywhere in London, it 
 was sure to be caught by the great glass dome, 
 and reflected upon the odious — well, we'll not 
 call it odious now — Majolica fountain, and borne 
 thence dovv'n the misty vista of the nave. Ay, 
 it was a pleasant place, diffusing a general sense 
 of beauty, both of colour, form, and sound, which, 
 Ave scarcely knew how, put us into a cheerful 
 frame of mind. Probably, out of the multitudes 
 that have visited it, there has not been one who 
 did not carry away from it a certain amount of 
 actual enjoyment, to be, as all pure happiness is, 
 an eternal possession. 
 
 The humours of the Exhibition, its various 
 phases, social, intellectual, and moral, from May 
 to November, would make a curious book, even 
 supposing all instructive views of it were care- 
 fully omitted. Regarded as a place of study 
 and general information, its wonders never ended, 
 its interest never flagged. Has not the Times 
 found matter for one article, often two, cvay day 
 for six months } And is not this present writer
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 271 
 
 acquainted with an energetic juror who has 
 visited it daily ever since it opened, yet on last 
 Saturday was seen as brisk and beaming as ever, 
 though with a certain tender melancholy over- 
 spreading his countenance, investigating some- 
 thing he had never seen before ? Nay, putting 
 aside those who went on business, or for scien- 
 tific study, how continually one heard of people 
 who, for mere entertainment, had been twenty 
 or thirty times, or of whole families who located 
 themselves for a month or tvv^o in Brompton, and 
 spent every day, and the whole day long, in the 
 Great Exhibition — dining, meeting their friends, 
 and transacting their business ; in fact, doing 
 everything but sleep there. 
 
 The mere chronicle of the crowd — as it 
 changed from month to month, from the stately 
 season-ticketers and five-shilling folk of June to 
 the middle-class country visitors of July, and 
 then again to the excursionists, charity-sent 
 schools and workhouses, mechanics with their 
 families, down to the ultra-agricultural element, 
 which appeared in smock-frocks and clouted 
 shoes just before or immediately after harvest — 
 this of itself would be a curious record. What 
 " odd fish " one used to see sometimes ! — people 
 who might have been unearthed from the most 
 distant places and times, of whom you wondered 
 what would have induced them to come here, 
 how they got here, and, still more, how they 
 would ever get home again ? The sight of such 
 as these, mingling in the ordinary crowd, was 
 cither intensely ludicrous or extremely pathetic.
 
 272 THE LAST GREAT EXIIIIUTION. 
 
 I remember one lady, whom I met at intervals 
 during one five-shilling day, who might have 
 been Dickens's study for Miss Havisham. Her 
 costume, rich and good, must have been made, 
 every item, at least twenty years ago. There 
 she was, amidst all the modern crinolines, flow- 
 ing botimoiis, and sweeping demi-trains, in her 
 short-skirted gown, hanging in straight folds to 
 the ancles, her little silk tippet, her large muslin 
 collar, with a point on either shouWer, and her 
 poke bonnet, exactly the attire of our mothers 
 and aunts when we were little children. The 
 sight of her brought back, with an instantaneous 
 flash of memory that strange half-forgotten 
 period of childhood, till it was impossible to 
 laugh : one felt much more inclined to cry. 
 
 Besides apparitions like this, what queer 
 people one used to see perambulating about — 
 chiefly in groups, with a vague perpetual terror 
 of being separated. I saw one day three big 
 grown-up youths who went everywhere in a sort 
 of string, never letting go of each other's hands ; 
 and one met continually little family knots, father, 
 mother, and children, who kept as close as pos- 
 sible to one another, and in whose round healthy 
 faces, full of mingled alarm and ecstasy, was 
 " country cousin " written as plain as light. How 
 amusing it was to listen to their naive comments 
 on the wonders about them, especially the pictures; 
 and how strongly their broad provincial tongues 
 and rough, rugged provincial manners contrasted 
 with the genteelly-dressed and quick-spoken 
 Londoners, who never seemed as if they could
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 273 
 
 condescend to be surprised at anything. Yet, 
 sometimes one of these sharp Londoners — shop- 
 man or clerk — would be found benignly escort- 
 ing two oddly-clad maiden aunts, or a tribe of 
 blowsy cousins ; to whom he was very patronis- 
 ing and kind, though just a thought ashamed of 
 his connexions ; busy imparting much — and 
 perhaps learning more. For how pleasant and 
 honest-looking were many of these country- 
 folk — how intense was their enjoyment — how 
 open their demonstration thereof ! How they 
 would fraternise with anybody or everybody : 
 coming and throwing themselves upon one for 
 information or sympathy, in the most innocent 
 and confiding way ! And, viewed as a whole, 
 what a grand impression they gave — ay, with all 
 their oddities, foibles, and simplicities — of the 
 foundation-class of our empire — the strong, re- 
 liable, persevering Britons, that " never, never 
 will be slaves." 
 
 As the year went on, what a year it became ! 
 London, in 1862, was a sight never to be for- 
 gotten ; the streets, from being full, grew almost 
 impassable, and a journey by cab or omnibus 
 was an event to be contemiplated with awe and 
 doubt. Still, the state of things had its bright 
 side. Be your own inconvenience ever so great, 
 or your temper ever so bad, you could not 
 help being struck with the extreme patience 
 and good-humour of the tired-looking crowd, 
 who thronged every omnibus terminus and rail- 
 way station, making wild and vain rushes for 
 seats. Especially you pitied the continuous
 
 274 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 stream that might be seen flowing daily between 
 Brompton and Hyde Park Corner, vivaciously 
 pouring along of mornings, and of evenings 
 dragging itself wearily back ; husbands helping^ 
 wives, and wives carrying babies — for babies, as 
 in '51, formed one of the grand features of the 
 Exhibition. Then, about August, came the 
 great influx of foreigners, who also went about 
 in groups, or rather in lines stretching across the 
 street pavements, smoking, jabbering, and gesti- 
 culating, perplexing omnibus conductors and 
 squabbling with cabmen ; but, on the whole, 
 very civilly treated by the general British public, 
 and behaving themselves civilly in return. Since 
 — full as London was, so that how the extra 
 population ever found food to eat and beds to 
 sleep on, seemed a perpetual mystery — the 
 crowd was a holiday crowd, disposed to be on 
 the best of terms with both self and neighbour, 
 the word "neighbour" being understood to bear, 
 for this year only, the widest interpretation. 
 
 So much for the external aspect of London. 
 Of its internal and social life, as affected by the 
 International Exhibition, no doubt all house- 
 holders could unfold volumes. Everybody, in 
 every class, seemed to keep open the doors of 
 house and heart, to the last extremity of ex- 
 pansion. Rich and poor, idle and busy, all 
 devoted themselves to the duties and delights of 
 hospitality. Perhaps, in summing up the good 
 done by the year departed, this one small item 
 ought not to be omitted — that the number of 
 old ties riveted afresh, broken ties reunited.
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 275 
 
 and new ties formed by the holiday-making of 
 the year 1862, will probably influence society for 
 half a generation. 
 
 Summer ended, London went " out of town," 
 though by the aspect of the streets you would 
 never have thought it. And still at the Great 
 Exhibition was found the same eager contented 
 crowd, though it varied a good deal in its cha- 
 racter, especially on shilling-days. Then, by far 
 the greatest proportion of visitors was sure to 
 be of the working-class — hard-handed, rough- 
 headed, fustian-coated ; or else clad sublimely 
 in well-kept broadcloth, lighted up by a scarlet 
 waistcoat, or a necktie of every colour of the 
 rainbow. Wives, daughters, and sweethearts 
 emulated the same splendour, and the number 
 of times one's teeth were set on edge by com- 
 binations of pink and crimson, blue and green, 
 lilac and yellow, would defy calculation. Still, 
 how happy they were ! though they enjoyed 
 themselves in a different way from the early 
 frequenters of the place. They deserted the 
 long fashionable promenade of the nave, and, 
 except when the organs were playing, or there 
 was a performance on Cadby's grand piano, or 
 Distin's band, they scarcely lingered even under 
 the pleasant domes. But they pressed eagerly 
 to the picture galleries, and they haunted in 
 banded multitudes the machinery annexe. 
 
 It was grand to watch them there — looking so 
 thoroughly at home among the locomotives, mules, 
 power-looms, steam hammers, and sugar-mills 
 — shaking hands with the smart Manchester girls 
 
 T 2
 
 276 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 or Other operatives who attended to the various 
 machinery : nay, sometimes even trying hard to 
 enter into conversation with the queer foreign 
 ouvricrs, in blouse and moustache, who formed 
 such a contrast to themselves. And their spirit 
 of inquiry knew no limit — witness the tightly- 
 packed circle, wedged as close as human beings 
 could squeeze, that always surrounded the car- 
 pet-weaving, ice-making, printing, and other 
 machines. They had a keen sense of fun, too 
 — as you saw if you watched the faces round 
 that eccentric machine, which could be made at 
 will to puff out wind enough to blow a man's 
 hair confusedly about, or waft his newspaper, or 
 his pocket-handkerchief, right up to the ceiling. 
 Nor could one mingle among this throng with- 
 out being struck by the large average of intelli- 
 gence that exists, and necessarily must exist, 
 among their class, What cool, clear, clever 
 heads they must have — those whom we are 
 wont to term mere " hands." Most deft hands 
 they are ; but there must be a head to guide 
 them ; and a head sound and steady, endowed 
 with both ingenuity and patience — 
 
 "Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill." 
 
 You could read it in their looks, oftentimes. 
 One of the finest faces I ever saw — as fine as 
 that of the wife in Millais' " Order of Release," 
 and of much the same character — was that of a 
 young woman who stood at one of the power- 
 looms, day after day — grave and busy — appa-
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 277 
 
 rently quite unconscious of her own beauty : not 
 merely prettiness, but noble beauty. And I 
 never shall forget the face of a working weaver 
 at, I believe, a Manchester loom. He was 
 weaving a very common material for gowns, 
 such as would be sold for sevenpence or eight- 
 pence the yard — a plain fabric with a stripe at 
 equal distances across it. In looking about (I 
 fear — oh, pardonable weakness ! — it was at a 
 very pretty girl who stood watching his labour) 
 the poor man lost count of the times his shuttle 
 should fly, and wove a double instead of a single 
 stripe. A small error — but it could not be 
 allowed to pass. Looking doleful but deter- 
 mined, he stopped his loom at once, and taking 
 out his penknife, cut, thread by thread, and 
 picked out, with pains and care, the superfluous 
 stripe; refilled his shuttle with a different colour; 
 and then, after full five minutes' delay, he set the 
 loom going and the shuttle flying. The web 
 was all right — the error remedied — the victory 
 won. A lesson, methought, for more of us than 
 Manchester weavers. 
 
 Yes, it was worth being squeezed almost to a 
 pancake, half deafened with the noise of ma- 
 chinery, and half suffocated by the smell of oil 
 and hot iron — to see that earnest, eager, intelli- 
 gent crowd. One ceased to wonder at those 
 heroic, patient, silently-suffering Lancashire ope- 
 ratives — one saw here the sort of stuff they were 
 made of. God help them ! — and may their 
 country-people help them too, out of their pre- 
 sent straits, before the enormous amount of
 
 278 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBmOX. 
 
 dormant power in the class, instead of working 
 itself out healthily in honest labour, be turned by 
 the force of starvation and misery into anarchy, 
 confusion, and crime. 
 
 But I linger over these living memories of our 
 lost friend, when I meant only to speak of his 
 latter days. People began to say he was dying, 
 and that it was time for him to die ; that he 
 ought to be put an end to, ere he faded out, the 
 miserable ghost of his summer splendour, in the 
 November fogs. There was truth in that. As 
 the attendance lessened, the hour of " ringing- 
 out " was made earlier and earlier ; yet still, 
 before visitors departed, mists were seen gather- 
 ing down the vaulted nave, and one gaslight 
 after another — not unneeded — appeared like 
 glowworms about the darkening courts ; one 
 began to feel that our old friend had lived his 
 life, and it was time for him to depart. Never- 
 theless, when we really knew that the ist of 
 November was to be his death-day, we all felt 
 sorry. And it seemed, the final week, as if all 
 the procrastinators in London, or Britain, had 
 made up their minds at last, and come in a body 
 to the Great Exhibition. 
 
 On the penultimate shilling-day, they streamed 
 in a continuous flood, on foot or in omnibuses, 
 down from Hyde Park Corner. Foggy the air 
 was, muddy were the streets — to the heart's de- 
 light of many a busy shoe-black — yet the crowd 
 rolled merrily on, past the shut-up Gospel Hall, 
 the bureau for Bibles in all languages, the tele- 
 graph office, and the ofiice for foreign news-
 
 TliE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 279 
 
 papers — those temporary erections which will 
 soon vanish like mushrooms. Once more the 
 Exhibition doors opened, as if they were to 
 keep open for ever ; and once more the people 
 poured in by tens, twenties, hundreds, thousands, 
 till in an hour or two the building was full. 
 
 Sixty-two thousand human beings collected 
 under one roof is of itself a rare, grand, and 
 touching show. As you sat on the benches 
 under Dent's great clock, which goes solemnly 
 moving on like the visible finger of Time, and 
 looked down on the ever-stirring, yet ever-sta- 
 tionary sea of life below, you were filled with a 
 sense of inexpressible awe. Your own individu- 
 ality dwindled into nothing. Why, every monad 
 before you was just as important as you ; had 
 its own pleasures, pains, and passions, no less 
 keen than yours ; must, like you, live alone, die 
 alone, and pass into eternity alone. What were 
 you, poor atom ! to dare to dictate, criticise, 
 condemn, or hate ; or, indeed, to do anything 
 but love and have pity, even as may the Highest 
 in His infinite pity have mercy on us all ! 
 
 But it was necessary to cease moralizing, and 
 rise from our seats, in order to wander for the last 
 time through the already crowded picture gal- 
 leries, full of riches that we shall never see again. 
 The saddest thing about pictures is, that they 
 are, to the many, such a fleeting possession ; then 
 vanish away into unknown galleries and rich 
 men's drawing-rooms, to delight our eyes no 
 more. It was grievous to bid good-bye to our 
 familiar English favourites ; and scarcely less so
 
 28o THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 to part with those which, more than any other 
 foreign painters, seemed to have taken hold on 
 the British heart — the Norwegian, Danish, and 
 Swedish pictures, so pathetically simple and true 
 in themselves, and so charming as indications of 
 that Northern life of which we know but little. 
 One cannot turn from one to the other, whether 
 it be Tidemand's " Haugians, a Religious Sect 
 in Denmark ; " or the same artist's exquisite 
 *' Administration of the Sacrament to Sick Per- 
 sons in a Norwegian Hut ; " the little cabinet 
 pictures, so womanly and sweet, of Amalia Lin- 
 degren ; or Exner's equally sweet *' Sunday Visit 
 to Grandpapa ; " and Schiott's " Offer of Mar- 
 riage " — nay, I might name a dozen more — 
 without feeling what a fine race these Northmen 
 must be ; how essentially domestic, honest, and 
 sincere. And we go away, glad to think that 
 our newly-betrothed Princess comes from this 
 race ; and that her pleasant girlish face, even in 
 unflattering photographs, has in it all the strength 
 and all the tenderness of the North. 
 
 On, past the Belgian horrors, grandly painted, 
 but horrible still ; and the gaudy rubbish of 
 Southern art— how changed from mediaeval Italy 
 and Spain ! — till we creep downstairs and refresh 
 ourselves with the noble sculpture of the Roman 
 Court, and with Magni's " Girl Reading," said 
 to be a portrait of Garibaldi's daughter. Whe- 
 ther or not, it is enough to comfort us for walls 
 full of bad Italian pictures — this almost perfect 
 bit of sculpture, at once truest Nature and highest 
 Art.
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 281 
 
 This is enough fatigue for one day, even 
 though it be nearly the last day ; so we will just 
 sit quiet until the bells ring and we have to cast 
 ourselves into that awful whirlpool of departure, 
 thankful if we come to the surface somehow, 
 without being engulfed in omnibuses, or dashed 
 under cab-wheels, or meeting otherwise a sum- 
 mary and untimely end. 
 
 Everybody said that Saturday, November ist, 
 would be a very quiet day ; that, there being no 
 ceremonial, the crowd would not be greater than 
 on ordinary Saturdays. But everybody was 
 wrong. The public refused to part so easily 
 from their six months' friend. Half an hour 
 after opening, the picture-galleries were full to 
 suffocation ; not merely with the usual '^ half- 
 crown people," but with many who, from their ap- 
 pearance, must not easily have scraped together 
 their thirty pence, in order to see the Exhibition 
 for, probably, the first and last time. In the 
 nave the regular season-ticketers were in enor- 
 mous force ; not promenading, as usual, in slow 
 lines, but collecting in knots, greeting and talk- 
 ing ; everybody seeming to meet everybody they 
 knew, and to unite in little condolatory chats, as 
 they assisted at this farewell to the scene of so 
 much enjoyment. 
 
 Still there was a change. No gay May and 
 June toilettes ; most of the visitors were in sober 
 winter dress, suited for the day — a thorough 
 November day. Many of the courts were half 
 dark, and the dreary white fog, which Londoners 
 know so well, began soon after noon to gather
 
 282 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 overhead in the arch of the nave. Ay, it was 
 time for our friend to die ; but we were deter- 
 mined he should die bravely, even cheerily, like 
 a Briton. 
 
 Though there was no formal notification of 
 the fact, it was understood that God save the 
 Queen would be. sung about four o'clock under 
 the western dome ; and thither about three 
 o'clock, the visitors slowly pressed. Forty thou- 
 sand of them, the Times stated next day, were 
 gathered together at that one point, and we 
 could well believe it. They filled area, stair- 
 cases, galleries, thick as swarming bees. In the 
 darkening twilight, they became a sight myste- 
 rious, nay, awful ; for they were such an enor- 
 mous mass, and they were so very still. That 
 curious sound, familiar to all Exhibition-goers, 
 almost like the roaring of the sea, only that it 
 came not in waves but continuously, had alto- 
 gether ceased. Wedged together in a compact 
 body, the people waited silently for the first 
 notes, which stir every British heart to the core, 
 and ever will. 
 
 God save the Queen ! Here, at closing of 
 the building, which she must have thought of 
 and looked forward to so long, yet where her 
 foot has never been, who could help a thrill 
 deeper than ordinary as the notes burst out — 
 thin and quavering at first — they were only 
 sopranos in unison and unaccompanied — but 
 gradually growing steadier and clearer, till the 
 ending of the third line, when the organ took 
 it up.
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 283 
 
 That was the moment — a moment never to 
 be forgotten by any who were present. After a 
 bar's pause, the people took it up too. From 
 nave, transepts, and galleries, from the whole 
 forty thousand as with one voice, arose the 
 chorus — 
 
 " God save our gi-acious Queen, 
 Long live our noble Queen, 
 God save the Queen.", 
 
 Again the shrill sopranos led the tune, and again 
 the people answered it, louder, steadier than be- 
 fore : — 
 
 " Send her victorious, 
 Happy and glorious ; 
 Long to reign over us, 
 
 God save the Queen ! " 
 
 It' was an outburst of popular emotion — actual 
 emotion — for I saw many, both men and women 
 — (better terms than " ladies and gentlemen," 
 though they were such likewise) — stand singing 
 out loud with the tears in their eyes. Such a 
 sight was worth all the show ceremonials that 
 could have been planned. Foreigners must have 
 marvelled at it, and have seen in it some index 
 of the reason why amidst crumbling tyrannies 
 and maddened republics, we Britons keep our 
 balance, with love and loyalty, that, Ave pray 
 God, may never end. 
 
 As the anthem ceased, what a cheer arose ! 
 How interminably it lasted I And when, with 
 a multitudinous roar, the public demanded it 
 again, how it was chorussed grander than before 
 — the sound of it whirling and whirling almost
 
 284 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 
 
 like a visible thing up to the great glass dome, 
 where used to be blue sky, but was now all but 
 darkness. 
 
 Here I wish I could end. I wish I had not 
 to record a sad anti-climax — a great mistake. 
 The ill-advised organist, probably in compliment 
 to foreign visitors, struck up '' Partant pour la 
 Syrie." The sopranos began to sing it, and 
 failed ; a few voices started it in the crowd, and 
 also failed ; there was a feeble cry for " Hats 
 off!" but the British public unanimously refused. 
 It would not — how could it } — take its hat off to 
 any but its own rightful Queen. A generally 
 uncomfortable feeling arose. There were out- 
 cries for " Yankee Doodle," and other national 
 airs ; a few hisses, cat-calls, and the like ; and 
 the public, which had taken the ceremony so 
 entirely in its own hands, was becoming a very 
 obstreperous public indeed. It evidently felt, 
 and with justice, that it was not a right or deco- 
 rous thing for the last notes heard in our great 
 International and National Exhibition to be a 
 foreign tune ; nor that the farewell cheer given 
 therein should be given for anybody but our 
 own beloved Queen. 
 
 It was a difficult position, for we could hardly 
 have " God save the Queen " a third time ; until 
 some bold spirit in the crowd settled the matter 
 by shouting out at the top of his voice, " Rule 
 Britannia ! " The crowd leaped at the idea. 
 Overpowered by acclamations, the organist re- 
 turned to his seat ; once more the choir began, 
 and the organ joined in chorus, together with
 
 THE LAST GREAT EXHIBITION. 2S5 
 
 the whole multitude below and around, who 
 testified their not unworthy triumph by singing 
 out, with redoubled emphasis, how '' Britons 
 never, never will be slaves." 
 
 So ended this strange scene, and with it the 
 last day of the Great Exhibition of 1862. Slowly 
 and peaceably the visitors dispersed ; many 
 pacing for a long time up and down the shadowy 
 nave, and in the French or Italian courts, where 
 the cases, already covered up, looked in the dusky 
 light like gigantic biers, faintly outlined under 
 the white palls. And in spite of the deafening 
 clang of innumerable bells, many still lingered 
 round the Majolica fountain — lingered till it was 
 nearly six o'clock, and quite dark, taking their 
 last look of the familiar scene. 
 
 Yes, it is all over ; and the chances are many 
 that we of this generation shall never see an 
 International Exhibition again. Let us remem- 
 ber this one tenderly. Let us say " Rcq^descat 
 in pace,' and go our ways.
 
 TO NOVELISTS, 
 
 AND A NOVELIST. 
 
 ** To justify the ways of God to men." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 THE history of a human Hfe is a strange 
 thing. It is also a somewhat serious 
 thing — to the individual : who often 
 feels himself, or appears to others, not unlike 
 the elder-pith figure of an electrical experi- 
 mentor — vibrating ridiculously and helplessly 
 between influences alike invisible and incompre- 
 hensible. What is life — and what is the heart 
 of its mystery ? We know not ; and through 
 Death only can we learn. Nevertheless, nothing 
 but the blindest obtuseness of bigotry, the mad- 
 dest indifference of epicureanism — two states 
 not so opposite as they at first seem — can stifle 
 those 
 
 "Obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and onward things, 
 FalUngs from us, vanishings, 
 Blank misgivings of a creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realised." 
 
 And continually in our passage through these 
 '' worlds not realised " — either the world of pas-
 
 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 287 
 
 sion, or intellect, or beauty — do we lift up our 
 heads from the chaos, straining our eyes to dis- 
 cern, if possible, where we are, why we are there, 
 what we are doing, or what is being done with 
 us, and by whom. Then if we think we have 
 caught even the fag end of a truth or a belief, 
 how eagerly do we sit down and write about it, 
 or mount pulpits and preach about it, or get on 
 a platform and harangue about it ! We feel so 
 sure that we have something to say ; something 
 which it must benefit the world to hear. Harm- 
 less delusion ! Yet not an ignoble one, for it is 
 a form of that eternal aspiration after perfect 
 good, without which the whole fabric of exist- 
 ence, mortal and immortal, natural and super- 
 natural, slides from us, and there remains nothing 
 worth living for, nothing worth dying for ; since 
 the smallest animalcule in a drop of water — the 
 meanest created organism which boasts the prin- 
 ciple of life — is, in such case, as noble a being 
 as we. 
 
 Now there is something in us which will 
 not " say Amen to that." We will not die — 
 for ever : we will not while any good remains 
 in us, cease to believe in a God, who is all we 
 know or can conceive of goodness made perfect. 
 As utterly as we refuse to regard Him as a mere 
 Spirit of Nature, unto whom our individuality 
 is indifferent and unknown, do we refuse to see 
 in Him a Being omniscient as omnipotent, who 
 nevertheless puts us into this awful world without 
 our volition, leaves us to struggle through it as 
 we can, and, if we fail, finally to drop out of it
 
 288 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 
 
 into hell-fire or annihilation. Is it blasphemy to 
 assert that, on such a scheme of existence, the 
 latter only could be consistent with His deity ? 
 
 No, human as we are, we must have some- 
 thing divine to aspire to. It is curious to trace 
 this instinct through all the clouded wisdoms of 
 the wise ; how the materialist, who conscien- 
 tiously believes that he believes in nothing, will 
 on parting bid you " good bye and God bless 
 you ! " as if there were really a God to bless, 
 that He could bless, and that H^e would take 
 the trouble to bless yoii. Stand with the most 
 confirmed infidel by the cofifin of one he loved, 
 or any coffin, and you will hear him sigh that 
 he would give his whole mortal life, with all its 
 delights, and powers, and possibilities, if he could 
 only see clearly some hope of attaining the life 
 immortal. 
 
 What do these facts imply } That the instinct 
 which prompts us to seek in every way to un- 
 riddle the riddle of existence, or as Milton puts 
 
 it, 
 
 " To justify the ways of God to men," 
 
 is as irrepressible as universal. It is at the root 
 of all the creeds and all the philosophies, of the 
 solid literature which discourses on life, and the 
 imaginative literature which attempts to pour- 
 tray it. 
 
 It were idle to reason how the thing has come 
 about ; but, undeniably, the modern novel is one 
 of the most important moral agents of the com- 
 munity. The essayist may write for his hun-
 
 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 2^9 
 
 dreds ; the preacher preach to his thousands ; 
 but the novelist counts his audience by miUions. 
 His power is three-fold — over heart, reason, and 
 fancy. The orator we hear eagerly, but as his 
 voice fades from us its lessons depart : the moral 
 philosopher we read and digest, by degrees, in 
 a serious, ponderous way : but the really good 
 writer of fiction takes us altogether by storm. 
 Young and old, grave and gay, learned or imagi- 
 native, who of us is safe from his influence ? He 
 creeps innocently on our family-table in the 
 shapes of those three well-thumbed library 
 volumes — sits for days after, invisibly at our 
 fire-side, a provocative of incessant discussion : 
 slowly but surely, either by admiration or aver- 
 sion, his opinions, ideas, feelings, impress them- 
 selves upon us, which impression remains long 
 after we have come to that age, if we ever reach 
 it, which all good angels forbid ! when we " don't 
 care to read novels." 
 
 The amount of new thoughts scattered broad- 
 cast over society within one month of the ap- 
 pearance of a really popular novel, the innumer- 
 able discussions it creates, and the general influ- 
 ence which it exercises in the public mind, form 
 one of the most remarkable facts of our day. For 
 the novelist has in our day ceased to be a mere 
 story-teller or romancist. He — we use the 
 superior pronoun in a general sense, even as an 
 author should be dealt with as a neutral being, 
 to be judged solely by " its " work, — he buckles 
 to his task In solemn earnest. For what is it to 
 " write a novel ? " Something which the multi- 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 
 
 tude of young contributors to magazines, or 
 young people who happen to have nothing to 
 do but weave stories, little dream of. If they 
 did, how they would shrink from the awfulness 
 of what they have taken into their innocent, 
 foolish hands ; even a piece out of the tremen- 
 dous web of human life, so wonderful in its 
 pattern, so mysterious in its convolutions, and 
 of which — most solemn thought of all — warp, 
 woof and loom, are in the hands of the Maker 
 of the universe alone. 
 
 Yet this the true novel-writer essays to do ; 
 and he has a right to do it. He is justified in 
 Aveaving his imaginary web side by side with 
 that which he sees perpetually and invisibly 
 woven around him, of which he has deeply 
 studied the apparent plan, so as to see the under 
 threads that guide the pattern, keener perhaps 
 than other men. He has learned to deduce 
 motives from actions, and to evolve actions from 
 motives : he has seen that from certain cha- 
 racters (and in a less degree certain circum- 
 stances) such and such results, which appear 
 accidental, become in reality as inevitable as the 
 laws which govern the world. Laws physical 
 and moral, with which no Deiis ex macJiind can 
 interfere, else the whole working of the universe 
 would be disturbed. 
 
 Enough has been said, we trust, to indicate 
 the serious position held by what used to be 
 thought " a mere writer of fiction." Fiction 
 forsooth ! It is at the core of all the truths of 
 this world ; for it is the truth of life itself. He
 
 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 291 
 
 who dares to reproduce it is a Prometheus who 
 has stolen celestial fire : let him take care that 
 he uses it for the benefit of his fellow-mortals. 
 Otherwise one can imagine no vulture fiercer 
 than the remorse which would gnaw the heart 
 of such a writer, on the clear-visioned mountain- 
 top of life's ending, if he began to suspect he 
 had written a book which would live after him 
 to the irremediable injury of the world. 
 
 We do not refer to impure or immoral books. 
 There can be but one opinion concerning thefn 
 — away with them to the Gehenna from which 
 they come. We speak of those works, blame- 
 less in plan and execution, yet which fall short 
 — as great works only can — of the highest ideal : 
 the moral ideal, for which, beyond any intel- 
 lectual perfection, a true author ought to strive 
 For he is not like other men, or other writers. 
 His very power makes him the more dangerous. 
 His uncertainties, however small, shake to their 
 ruin hundreds of lesser minds, and 
 
 " When he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
 ])lfever to rise again." 
 
 If a mountebank at a fair plays his antics or mouths 
 out his folly or foulness, we laugh, or pass by — he 
 is but a mountebank : he can do little harm : but 
 when a hierophant connives at a false miracle, 
 or an eloquent, sincere apostle goes about 
 preaching a bewildering lie, we shrink, we grieve, 
 we tremble. By-and-by, we take courage openly 
 to denounce, not the teacher but the teaching. 
 " You are an earnest man — doubtless, a true
 
 292 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 
 
 man — but your doctrine is not true. We, who 
 cannot speak, but only feel — we feel that it is 
 not true. You are treading dangerous ground. 
 You have raised a ghost you cannot lay, you 
 have thrown down a city which you cannot re- 
 build. You are the very Prometheus carrying 
 the stolen fire. See that it does not slip from 
 your unwary hands, and go blasting and de- 
 vastating the world." 
 
 Thoughts somewhat like these must have 
 passed through the mind of many a reader of a 
 novel, the readers of which have been millions. 
 Probably the whole history of fiction does not 
 present an instance of two such remarkable 
 books following one another within so short a 
 time as " Adam Bede," and " The Mill on the 
 Floss." All the world has read them ; and 
 though some may prefer one, and some the 
 other, and, in a moral point of view, some may 
 admire and some condemn — all the world grants 
 their wonderful intellectual power, and is so 
 familiar with the details of them that literary 
 analysis becomes unnecessary. 
 
 Nor do we desire to attempt it. The question 
 which these books, and especially the latter book, 
 have suggested, is quite a different thing. It is 
 a question with which literary merit has nothing 
 to do. Nor, in one sense, literary morality, — 
 the external morality which, thank heaven, our 
 modern reading public both expects and exacts, 
 and here undoubtedly finds. Ours is more an 
 appeal than a criticism — an appeal which any 
 one of an audience has a right to make, if he
 
 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 293 
 
 thinks he sees what the speaker, in the midst of 
 all his eloquence does not see — 
 
 " The little pitted speck in garnered fruit, 
 That, rotting inward, slowly moulders all." 
 
 Of " The Mill on the Floss," in a literary point 
 of view, there can be but one opinion — that, as a 
 work of art, it is as perfect as the novel can well 
 be made ; superior even to " Adam Bede." For 
 the impression it gives of power, evenly culti- 
 vated and clear sighted, — the power of creation, 
 amalgamating real materials into a fore-planned 
 ideal scheme ; and the power of selection, able to 
 distinguish at once the fit and the unfit, choosing 
 the one and rejecting the other, so as to make 
 every part not only complete as to itself, but as 
 to its relation with a well-balanced whole — the 
 " Mill on the Floss " is one of the finest imagi- 
 native works in our language. In its diction, 
 too : how magnificently rolls on that noble Saxon 
 English — terse and clear, yet infinitely har- 
 monious, keeping in its most simple common- 
 place flow a certain majesty and solemnity which 
 reminds one involuntarily of the deep waters of 
 the Floss. The fatal Floss, which runs through 
 the whole story like a Greek fate or a Gothic 
 destiny — ay, from the very second chapter, when 
 
 "Maggie, Maggie," continued the mother, in a tone of half- 
 coaxing fretfulness, as this small mistake of nature entered the 
 room, " where's the use o' my telling you to keep away from the 
 water ? You'll tumble in and be drownded some day, an' then 
 you'll be sorry you didn't do as mother told you." 
 
 This is a mere chance specimen of the care 
 over small things — the exquisite polish of each
 
 294 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 
 
 part, that yet never interferes with the breadth 
 of the whole — which marks this writer as one of 
 the truest artists, in the highest sense, of our own 
 or any other age. 
 
 Another impression made strongly by the first 
 work of " George Eliot," and repeated by " his " 
 (we prefer to respect the pseudonym) second, is 
 the earnestness, sincerity, and heart-nobility of 
 the author. Though few books are freer from 
 that morbid intrusion of self in which many 
 writers of fiction indulge, no one can lay down 
 " The Mill on the Floss " without a feeling of 
 having held commune with a mind of rare in- 
 dividuality, with a judgment active and clear, 
 and with a moral nature, conscientious, generous, 
 religious, and pure. It is to this moral nature, 
 this noblest half of all literary perfectness, in our 
 author, as in all other authors, that we now make 
 appeal. 
 
 " George Eliot," or any other conscientious 
 novelist, needs not to be told that he who appro- 
 priates this strange phantasmagoria of human 
 life, to repaint and re-arrange by the light of his 
 own imagination, takes materials not his own, 
 nor yet his reader's. He deals with mysteries 
 which, in their entirety, belong alone to the 
 Maker of the universe. By the force of his 
 intellect, the quick sympathies of his heart, he 
 may pierce into them a little way — farther, per- 
 haps, than most people — but at best only a little 
 way. He will be continually stopped by things 
 he cannot understand — matters too hard for 
 him, which make him feel, the more deeply and
 
 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 295 
 
 humbly as he grows more wise, how we are, at 
 best, 
 
 " Like infants crying in the dark, 
 And with no language but a cry." 
 
 If by his dimly-beheld, one-sided fragmentary 
 representations, which mimic untruly the great 
 picture of life, this cry, either in his own voice, 
 or in the involuntary utterance of his readers, 
 rises into an accusation against God, how awful 
 is his responsibility, how tremendous the evil 
 that he may originate ! 
 
 We doubt not, the author of the " Mill on the 
 Floss " would shudder at the suspicion of this 
 sort of involuntary blasphemy, and yet such is 
 the tendency of the book and its story. 
 
 A very simple story. A girl of remarkable 
 gifts — mentally, physically, and morally ; born 
 like thousands more, of parents far inferior to 
 herself— struggles through a repressed childhood, 
 a hopeless youth ; brought suddenly out of this 
 darkness into the glow of a first passion for a 
 man who, ignoble as he may be, is passionately 
 in earnest with regard to her : she is tempted to 
 treachery, and sinks into a great error, her extri- 
 cation out of which, without involving certain 
 misery and certain wrong to most or all around 
 her, is simply an impossibility. The author cuts 
 the Gordian knot by creating a flood on the 
 Floss, which wafts this poor child out of her 
 troubles and difficulties into the other world. 
 
 Artistically speaking, this end is very fine. 
 Towards it the tale has gradually climaxed. 
 From such a childhood as that of Tom and
 
 296 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST, 
 
 Maggie TuUiver, nothing could have come but 
 the youth Tom and the girl Maggie, as we find 
 them throughout that marvellous third volume : 
 changed indeed, but still keeping the childish 
 images of little Tom and little Maggie, of Dorl- 
 cote Mill. Ay, even to the hour, when with that 
 sense of the terrible exalted into the sublime, 
 which only genius can make us feel — we see 
 them go down to the deeps of the Floss " in an 
 embrace never to be parted : living through 
 again, in one supreme moment, the days when 
 they had clasped their little hands in love, and 
 roamed through the daisied fields together." 
 
 So far as exquisite literary skill, informed and 
 vivified by the highest order of imaginative 
 power, can go, this story is perfect. But take 
 it from another point of view. Ask what good 
 will it do .'' — whether it will lighten any burdened 
 heart, help any perplexed spirit, comfort the 
 sorrowful, succour the tempted, or bring back 
 the erring into the way of peace ; and what is 
 the answer ? Silence. 
 
 Let us reconsider the story, not artistically, 
 but morally. 
 
 Here is a human being, placed during her 
 whole brief life — her hapless nineteen years — 
 under circumstances the hardest and most fatal 
 that could befal one of her temperament. She 
 has all the involuntary egotism and selfishness 
 of a nature that, while eagerly craving for love, 
 loves ardently and imaginatively rather than 
 devotedly ; and the only love that might have 
 at once humbled and raised her, by showing her
 
 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 297 
 
 how far nobler it was than her own — Philip's — 
 is taken from her in early girlhood. Her in- 
 stincts of right, true as they are, have never 
 risen into principles ; her temptations to vanity, 
 and many other faults, are wild and fierce ; yet 
 no human help ever comes near her to strengthen 
 the one or subdue the other. This may be true 
 to nature, and yet we think it is not. Few of 
 us, calmly reviewing our past, can feel that we 
 have ever been left so long and so utterly with- 
 out either outward aid, or the inner voice — never 
 silent in a heart like poor Maggie's. It is, in 
 any case, a perilous doctrine to preach — the 
 doctrine of overpowering circumstances. 
 
 Again, notwithstanding the author's evident 
 yearning over Maggie, and disdain for Tom, we 
 cannot but feel that if people are to be judged 
 by the only fair human judgment, of how far 
 they act up to what they believe in, Tom, so far 
 as his light goes, is a finer character than his 
 sister. He alone has the self-denial to do what 
 he does not like, for the sake of doing right ; he 
 alone has the self-command to smother his hope- 
 less love, and live on, a brave, hard-working life; 
 he, except in his injustice to poor Maggie, has 
 at least the merit of having made no one else 
 miserable. Perfectly true is what he says, 
 though he says it in a Pharisaical way, " Yes, / 
 have had feelings to struggle with, but I con- 
 quered them. I have had a harder life than you 
 have had, but I have found my comfort in doing 
 my duty." Nay, though perhaps scarcely in- 
 tended, Bob Jakin's picture of the solitary lad,
 
 298 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 
 
 " as close as an iron biler," who " sits by himself 
 so glumpish, a-knitting his brow, an' a-lookin' at 
 the fire of a night," is in its way as pathetic as 
 Maggie's helpless cry to Dr. Kenn, at the bazaar, 
 " O, I must go." 
 
 In the whole history of this fascinating Maggie 
 there is a picturesque piteousness which some- 
 how confuses one's sense of right and wrong. 
 Yet what — we cannot help asking — what is to 
 become of the hundreds of clever girls, born of 
 uncongenial parents, hemmed in with unsympa- 
 thising kindred of the Dodson sort, blest with 
 no lover on whom to bestow their strong affec- 
 tions, no friend to whom to cling for guidance 
 and support } They must fight their way, heaven 
 help them ! alone and unaided, through cloud 
 and darkness, to the light. And, thank heaven, 
 hundreds of them do, and live to hold out a 
 helping hand afterwards to thousands more. 
 " The middle-aged " (says " George Eliot," in 
 this very book), " who have lived through their 
 strongest emotions, but are yet in the time when 
 memory is still half-passionate and not merely 
 contemplative, should surely be a sort of natural 
 priesthood, whom life has disciplined and con- 
 secrated to be the refuge and rescue of early 
 stumblers and victims of self-despair." 
 
 Will it help these victims — such a picture as 
 Maggie, who, with all her high aspirations and 
 generous qualities, is, throughout her poor young 
 life, no stay or comfort to any human being, but, on 
 the contrary, a source of grief and injury to every 
 one connected with her ? If we are to judge
 
 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 299 
 
 character by results — not by grand imperfect 
 essays, but by humbler fulfilments — of how much 
 more use in the world were even fond, shallow 
 Lucy, and narrow-minded Tom, than this poor 
 Maggie, who seems only just to have caught hold 
 of the true meaning and beauty of existence in 
 that last pathetic prayer, " If my life is to be 
 long, let me live to bless and comfort," when 
 she is swept away out of our sight and love for 
 ever. 
 
 True, this is, as we have said, a magnificent 
 ending for the book ; but is it such for the life — the 
 one human life which this author has created so 
 vividly and powerfully, that we argue concerning 
 the girl as if we had actually known her ? Will 
 it influence for good any other lives — this 
 passionately drawn picture of temptation never 
 conquered, or conquered just so far that we see 
 its worst struggle is but beginning ; of sorrows 
 which teach nothing, or teach only bitterness ; 
 of love in its most delicious, most deadly phase ; 
 love — blind, selfish, paramount, seeing no future 
 but possession, and, that hope gone, no alterna- 
 tive but death — death, welcomed as the solution 
 of all difficulties, the escape from all pain ? 
 
 Is this right ? Is it a creed worthy of an 
 author who should have pre-eminently "the brain 
 of a man and the heart of a woman," united 
 with what we may call a pure sexless intelli- 
 gence, clear and calm, able to observe, and reason, 
 and guide mortal passions, as those may, who 
 have come out of the turmoil of the flesh into the 
 region of ministering spirits, and have become
 
 300 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 
 
 " ayy€/\oi," messengers between God and man ? 
 What if the messenger testify falsely ? What if 
 the celestial trumpet give forth an uncertain 
 sound ? 
 
 Yet let us be just. There are those who argue 
 that this — perhaps the finest ending, artistically, 
 of any modern novel, is equally fine in a moral 
 sense : that the death of Maggie and Tom is a 
 glorious Euthanasia, showing that when even at 
 the eleventh hour, temptation is conquered, error 
 atoned, and love reconciled, the life is complete : 
 its lesson has been learnt, its work done ; there 
 is nothing more needed but the vade in pacem to 
 an immediate heaven. This, if the author so 
 meant it, was an idea grand, noble, Christian : 
 as Christian (be it said with reverence) as the 
 doctrine preached by the Divine Pardoner of all 
 sinners to the sinner beside whom He died — 
 *' To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise." 
 But the conception ought to have been worked 
 out so plainly that no reader could mistake it. 
 We should not have been left to feel, as we do 
 feel, undecided whether this death was a trans- 
 lation or an escape ; whether if they had not 
 died, Maggie would not have been again the 
 same Maggie, always sinning and always re- 
 penting ; and Tom the same Tom, hard and 
 narrow-minded, though the least ray of love and 
 happiness cast ov'er his gloomy life, might have 
 softened and made a thoroughly good man of 
 him. The author ought to have satisfied us 
 entirely as to the radical change in both ; else 
 we fall back upon the same dreary creed of
 
 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 301 
 
 overpowering circumstances : of human beings 
 struggling for ever in a great quagmire of un- 
 conquerable temptations, inevitable and hopeless 
 woe. A creed more fatal to every noble effort, 
 and brave self-restraint — above all to that humble 
 faith in the superior Will which alone should 
 govern ours — can hardly be conceived. It is 
 true that there occur sometimes in life positions 
 so complex and overwhelming, that plain right 
 and wrong become confused ; until the most 
 righteous and religious man is hardly able to 
 judge clearly or act fairly. But to meet such 
 positions is one thing, to invent them is another. 
 It becomes a serious question whether any 
 author — who, great as his genius may be, sees 
 no farther than mortal intelligence can — is justi- 
 fied in leading his readers into a labyrinth, the 
 way out of which he does not, first, see clearly 
 himself, and next, is able to make clear to them, 
 so as to leave them mentally and morally at 
 rest, free from all perplexity and uncertainty. 
 
 Now, uncertainty is the prevailing impression 
 with which we close " The Mill on the Floss." 
 We are never quite satisfied in our detestation 
 of the Dodson family, the more odious because 
 so dreadfully natural that we feel we all are 
 haunted by some of the race, could name them 
 among our own connections, perhaps have even 
 received kindnesses from a Mrs. Pullet, a Mrs. 
 Glegg, or a Mrs. TuUiver. We are vexed with 
 ourselves for being so angry with stern, honest, 
 upright, business-like Tom — so contemptuously 
 indifferent to gentle unsuspicious Lucy, with her
 
 302 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 
 
 universal kindness, extending from " the more 
 familiar rodents " to her silly aunt TuUiver. We 
 question much whether such a generous girl as 
 Maggie would have fallen in love with Stephen 
 at all : whether she would not from the first have 
 regarded him simply as her cousin's lover, and 
 if his passion won anything from her, it would 
 but have been the half-angry half-sorrowful dis- 
 dain which a high-minded woman could not help 
 feeling towards a man who forgot duty and 
 honour in selfish love, even though the love were 
 for herself And, last and chief perplexity of 
 all, we feel that, granting the case as our author 
 puts it, the mischief done, the mutual passion 
 mutually confessed, Stephen's piteous arguments 
 have some justice on their side. The wrong 
 done to him in Maggie's forsaking him was 
 almost as great as the wrong previously done to 
 Philip and Lucy : — whom no self-sacrifice on 
 her part or Stephen's could ever have made 
 happy again. 
 
 And, to test the matter, what reader will not 
 confess, with a vague sensation of uneasy sur- 
 prise, to have taken far less interest in all the 
 good injured personages of the story, than in 
 this mad Stephen and treacherous Maggie ? 
 Who that is capable of understanding — as a 
 thing which has been or is, or may one day be 
 — the master- passion that furnishes the key to 
 so many lives, will not start to find how vividly 
 this book revives it, or wakens it, or places it 
 before him as a future possibility ? Who does 
 not think with a horribly delicious feeling, of
 
 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 303 
 
 such a crisis, when right and wrong, bHss and 
 bale, justice and conscience, seem swept from 
 their boundaries, and a whole existence of Dod- 
 sons, Lucys, and Tom TuUivers, appears worth 
 nothing compared to the ecstasy of that " one 
 kiss — the last " between Stephen and Maggie in 
 the lane ? 
 
 Is this right ? The spell once broken — broken 
 with the closing of the book — every high and 
 pure and religious instinct within us answers 
 unhesitatingly — " No." 
 
 No ! It is not right to paint Maggie only as she 
 is in her strong, unsatisfied, erring youth — and 
 leave her there, her doubts unresolved, her pas- 
 sions unregulated, her faults unatoned and un- 
 forgiven ; to cut her off ignobly and accidentally, 
 leaving those two acts of hers, one her recoil of con- 
 science with regard to Stephen, and the other her 
 instinctive self-devotion in going to rescue Tom, 
 as the sole noble landmarks of a life that had in 
 it every capability for good with which a woman 
 could be blessed. It is not right to carry us on 
 through these three marvellous volumes, and 
 leave us at the last, standing by the grave of the 
 brother and sister, ready to lift up an accusatory 
 cry, less to a beneficent Deity than to the 
 humanly-invented Arimanes of the universe. — 
 " Why should such things be ? Why hast Thou 
 made us thus } " 
 
 But it may be urged, that fiction has its coun- 
 terpart, and worse, in daily truth. How many 
 perplexing histories do we not know of young 
 lives blighted, apparently by no fault of their
 
 304 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 
 
 own ; of blameless lives dragged into irresistible 
 temptations ; of high natures so meshed in by- 
 circumstances that they, as well as we, judging 
 them from without, can hardly distinguish right 
 from wrong, guilt from innocence ; of living and 
 loveable beings so broken down by unmerited 
 afflictions, that when at last the end comes, we 
 look on the poor dead face with a sense of 
 thankfulness that there at least, 
 
 *' There is no other thing expressed 
 But long disquiet merged in rest." 
 
 All this is most true, so faj" as zve see. But 
 we can never see, not even the wisest and 
 greatest of us, anything like the zuhole of even 
 the meanest and briefest human life. We never 
 can know through what fiery trial of temptation, 
 nay, even sin, — for sin itself appears sometimes 
 in the wonderful alchemy of the universe to be 
 used as an agent for good, — a strong soul is 
 being educated into a saintly minister to millions 
 of weaker souls : coming to them with the autho- 
 rity of one whom suffering has taught how to 
 heal suffering ; nay, whom the very fact of 
 having sinned once, has made more deeply to 
 pity, so as more easily to rescue sinners. And, 
 lastly, we never can comprehend, unless by 
 experience, that exceeding peace — the '' peace 
 which passeth all understanding," which is often- 
 times seen in those most heavily and hopelessly 
 afflicted : those who have lost all, and gained 
 their own souls : whereof they possess them- 
 selves in patience ; waiting until the '' supreme
 
 TO NOVELISTS— AND A NOVELIST. 305 
 
 moment" of which our author speaks, but which 
 is to them not an escape from the miseries of 
 this world, but a joyful entrance into the world 
 everlasting. 
 
 Ay, thank heaven, though the highest human 
 intellect may fail to hear it, there are millions 
 of human hearts yet living and throbbing, or 
 mouldering quietly into dust, who have heard, 
 all through the turmoil or silence of existence, 
 though lasting for three score years and ten, a 
 continual still small voice, following them to the 
 end : " Fear not : for I am thy GOD." 
 
 Would that in some future book, as powerful 
 as " The Mill on the Floss^' the author might 
 become a true " AyyeAos," and teach us this !
 
 BODIES AND SOULS. 
 
 '' "T^ODIES" are in this title advisedly and 
 I — ^ intentionally placed first. Not, God 
 
 1 J forbid ! in any materialistic denying 
 of the soul, or sensuous Greco-heathenish exalta- 
 tion of the body; but in simple, religious recog- 
 nition of the fact that it has pleased the Maker 
 of both to put the soul into the body ; to cause 
 the soul to be worked on through the body ; 
 and, whether we ignore it or not, to continue for 
 good or for evil that intimate union until it is 
 dissolved by the mysterious change which we 
 call Death. 
 
 Mystics may deny and defy it ; poets may 
 despise it ; devotees may ignore it ; and some 
 few saints and martyrs may rise superior to it, 
 but there the practical truth remains. Our 
 body is our body ; to be made — very much of 
 our own will, or what seems to be such — either a 
 useful, suitable dwelling for the soul to live and 
 work and do her temporary duty in, or a cum- 
 bersome, wretched, ruined mansion in which she 
 wanders miserably, capable of nothing, enjoying
 
 BODIES AND SOULS. 307 
 
 nothing, and longing only for the day when the 
 walls shall crumble, the roof fall, and the pri- 
 soner be set free. 
 
 '* When languor and disease invade 
 This trembling house of clay : 
 'Tis sweet to look beyond our cage, 
 And long to fly away. " 
 
 So it is, God knows ; and He, who never leaves 
 Himself without a witness, gives us continually 
 noble instances in which the divine inmate has 
 so completely triumphed over the frail and 
 perishing tabernacle, as to make the sick-room 
 the brightest room in the house. But there are 
 also other cases when, before " languor and 
 disease" invaded and took captive the entire 
 domain, the wretched struggles of the ill-used 
 and ill-regulated body were mistaken for the 
 writhings of the soul ; when many an " earnest 
 student" — vide one lamentable instance in a 
 book of that name — goes on half-killing himself 
 with study, and then sets down what every 
 sensible person would call dyspepsia, or liver 
 disease, as " convictions of sin," the " wrestling 
 of the flesh against the Spirit," &c., &c. Al- 
 ternations of terrible religious doubt, and 
 agonised remorse for the same. In short, all 
 that morbid introspection by which a certain 
 order of pietists who call themselves *' miserable 
 sinners" gratify at once their conscience and 
 their egotism, by dwelling continually on these 
 said sins; flaunting them, as the Irish beggars do 
 their rags and wounds, in the face of society, by 
 diaries, letters, conversations, instead of keeping
 
 3o8 BODIES AND SOULS. 
 
 them for the sole ear of Him unto whom alone 
 we, who know ourselves so little and our fellow 
 mortals still less, are — we thank and bless Him 
 — however miserable sinners we be, wholly and 
 perfectly and compassionately known. 
 
 It is, therefore, in no irreligious spirit, but the 
 contrary, that we put forward^ a word or two for 
 the doctrine too apt to be forgotten, of Bodies 
 and Souls, which God has, in this state of being, 
 so mysteriously joined together that no man can 
 put them asunder ; no more than we can, how- 
 ever some of us think we can, shut Him out of a 
 portion of His own world by dividing it into 
 secular and religious, sacred and profane. But 
 this is not a question to be entered on here, 
 where all that is wished is to throw out a few 
 suggestions, and also state a few facts, on the 
 great subject of taking care of the body for the 
 sake of the soul, and of getting at men's souls in 
 the way which Providence seems to point out as 
 the true and lawful way, — tJirotigh their bodies. 
 
 I have been led to these reflections by a few 
 walks round about a city, probably one of the 
 most religious cities in the kingdom, at least 
 externally. And why not in reality } since its 
 population mainly consists of those to whom 
 religion must necessarily be the sole consola- 
 tion : the aged, who have lived long enough to 
 see the vanity of all things ; the infirm and 
 feeble ; and the incurable invalid, whose life is 
 and must be passed, not in the wholesome sun- 
 shine of ordinary existence, but in a long pale 
 twilight of suffering, slowly darkening into that
 
 BODIES AND SOULS. 309 
 
 solemn night of which the day-dawn is immor- 
 tality. 
 
 For these, and such as these, the city I speak 
 of opens her friendly arms, and extends to them 
 all her comforts, physical and spiritual. Pro- 
 bably in no given area of town habitations are 
 so many churches and chapels ; all of which, it 
 must be owned, are continuously and devoutly 
 filled. And in many of the faces you there 
 meet — queer, withered, and world-worn though 
 they be — is an expression of earnest piety that 
 cannot be sufficiently respected, ay, whatever 
 form it takes. High Church or Low Church, 
 Methodism, Calvinism, Tractarianism, Unitarian- 
 ism, or any other of the innumerable isms which, 
 despite all their differences, include, to His eyes 
 who seeth not as man seeth. His universal 
 Church. You cannot pass along the streets 
 about eleven on a Sunday morning and mark 
 the grave, respectable, decorous throng which 
 defiles severally into its several places of wor- 
 ship, each ready no doubt to thunder anathemas 
 on every other place of worship, yet devoutly 
 and earnestly bent upon serving God in its own 
 fashion, without feeling certain that somewhere, 
 under or above all these jarring creeds, must lie 
 His Divine Truth ; which He is able to take 
 care of; to impress upon every human soul 
 according to its temporary needs, and ultimately 
 to demonstrate, perfectly and everlastingly, in 
 His own time and way. 
 
 One word about the city herself, as she ap- 
 pears on such a Sunday morning as this, when
 
 3IO BODIES AND SOULS. 
 
 her clean pavements are covered with an ever- 
 moving decent church-going throng, and her 
 bright, sunshiny atmosphere, rarely either foggy 
 or smoky, is filled with the sound of the " church- 
 going bell." Truly she is a fair city. She sits 
 like a lady in the centre of her circle of pro- 
 tecting hills, white and smiling, aristocratically 
 still and calm. No ugly trade defiles her quiet 
 streets ; in her green environs no chimneys 
 blacken and no furnaces blaze. For she is a 
 lady city. She does not work at all, or seems 
 as if she did not. She sits at ease on her 
 picturesque site ; so small that almost at every 
 street corner you can catch a glimpse of green 
 hills ; looking outwards and upwards from her 
 pleasant nest upon a country that for richness is 
 the very garden of England. 
 
 The West of England, for most people will 
 have recognised this beautiful city as Bath. Our 
 island can boast none fairer, except, perhaps, 
 Edinburgh, which in degree she resembles, 
 though with a difference. Edinburgh, bold and 
 manly, sits throned on the hill-tops and com- 
 mands the valleys ; Bath, lovely and feminine, 
 nestles down in her valley and looks up at the 
 hills. But there is in both the same picturesque- 
 ness of situation, the same compactness and 
 elegance, the same atmosphere of white quiet- 
 ness, idleness, and ancient, historical, dignified 
 repose. 
 
 Many a mutation has Bath gone through since 
 the days when she was no city as yet — but a 
 mere morass, spreading over the bottom of that
 
 BODIES AND SOULS, 311 
 
 circular valley or basin, in which bubbled up — 
 as they do still, without change of temperature 
 or diminution of quantity — those mysterious hot 
 springs, which always seem to the stranger as 
 something " uncanny" — something unconsciously 
 reminding us of that Abode beneath, which 
 some people seem to believe in far more re- 
 ligiously and eagerly than in the Abode above. 
 Where can be — what can be that wondrous, 
 inextinguishable fire which boils this unlimited 
 supply of hot water, as it has done for thousands 
 and thousands of years ? 
 
 Strange it is to picture this heated morass as, 
 according to mythic legend, it was first dis- 
 covered by the leper-prince, Bladud, and his 
 leprous swine. More difficult still to conjure up 
 the Roman city there built, and called by the 
 foreign civilizers AqucB Solis — a city coeval 
 with Pompeii and Herculaneum, and, doubtless, 
 equally perfect and luxurious, to judge by the 
 fragments of pavement, the remains of houses, 
 temples, baths, which are even yet disinterred 
 from the buried town — buried many feet below 
 the surface of this our modern Bath — Bath, which, 
 owed its name to Haet Bathan, the substitution 
 for Agues Solis by the plain, rough Saxon con- 
 queror, who set up his barbaric state there on 
 the relics of refined and poetic Rome. What 
 stories could not these hills tell — the unchange- 
 able hills — of all the grim Saxons who abode or 
 visited here — Osric the Monk, Offa the Thane, 
 Ethelstane and Edgar the Kings, 
 
 And so through mediaeval centuries, these hot
 
 312 BODIES AND SOULS. 
 
 Springs kept flowing ; used, as the names of the 
 baths indicated, by kings, queens, abbots, and 
 lepers : afterwards, as the " horse bath " implies, 
 sinking to the use of brute beasts. But at this 
 point of decadence, in the Elizabethan age, 
 which had wisdom enough to care for bodies 
 as well as souls, the Queen elevated the half- 
 forgotten city by granting her a charter, and 
 assigning "of her Majesty's abundant grace, 
 certain knowledge, and mere motion," " all and 
 singular such and the same waters, baths, &c." 
 to the " mayor, aldermen, citizens, and to their 
 successors, for ever." Which " for ever '^ still 
 remains in force, one only exception being made 
 — the Kingston or Roman bath, which is private 
 property. 
 
 The next notice of Bath is by old Samuel 
 Pepys — who certainly had no slight regard for 
 his body, whatever he might have had for his 
 soul — " Looked into the baths and find the 
 King's and Queen's full of a mixed sort of good 
 and bad — and the cross only almost for gentry. 
 So home with my wife : and did pay my guides, 
 two women 5^., and one man 2s. 6^." Hence- 
 forward Bath gradually became a fashionable 
 resort : for the sick to gain health, for the sound 
 to enjoy it. Every pains was taken both to 
 preserve and to entertain those frail bodies, so 
 troublesome yet so dear to us all. Souls, it 
 is to be feared, were rather at a discount — 
 at least to judge by Miss Burney's, Miss Aus- 
 ten's, and Miss Ferrier's novels, and by the 
 historical and biographical records of the time
 
 BODIES AND SOULS. 313 
 
 — probably less veracious than these admirable 
 fictions. 
 
 Yet even then and there — though society was 
 at its lowest ebb of frivolity — must have existed 
 much of that large, loving, noble human nature 
 which is found everywhere indestructible. How 
 many a touching and heroic episode may, nay, 
 must have been enacted along these very streets, 
 and within those squares and crescents of digni- 
 fied old-fashioned houses — whose frontage of 
 white Bath-stone is darkening slowly into sombre 
 harmonious grey. Young gentlewomen, who, in 
 spite of hoops, sacques, paint, and patches, made 
 the tenderest of nurses to exacting old age : 
 young gentlemen, who under flowing wigs, and 
 ruffled shirt-breasts carried sound heads and 
 faithful hearts — and made honest love to those 
 said gentlewomen along Pulteney Street, the 
 Circus, or the Paragon ; yes, or even in the 
 Pump-room itself — or opposite the wonderful 
 " Jacob's ladder " which makes the curious orna- 
 mentation of the Abbey door. 
 
 All, all are away : dropped with their number- 
 less, forgotten joys and sorrows into the peaceful 
 dust. Their life is now — as each of ours shall 
 soon be — 
 
 " No more than stories in a printed book." 
 
 But the city still remains— though changes 
 have come over her too — and in the gradual 
 ebbing of the tide of fashion, Bath has for many 
 years been left, like a faded beauty, to devote 
 herself no. longer to the decoration and disporta-
 
 314 BODIES AND SOULS. 
 
 tion, but to the sanitary preservation of bodies 
 — and also souls. 
 
 For she is, as before stated — a most religious 
 city. Laborare est orare is certainly not her 
 motto. Most of her inhabitants have nothing in 
 the world to do, except to pray. That they do 
 pray, and very sincerely — none would wish to 
 deny. But it might be as well for them, as for 
 most other religious communities, if they would 
 mingle with their orisons a little less of the 
 sounding brass and tinkling cymbal, and a little 
 more of that most excellent gift of charity. 
 Then they would cease disputing about the re- 
 spective virtue of closed pews and open pews, 
 lecterns and reading-desks : — and a " kettle- 
 drum " — (an innocent afternoon party, in demi- 
 toilette, for sociality, music, tittle-tattle, and 
 tea,) would be esteemed no more irreligious, pos- 
 sibly a little less so, than those extraordinary 
 and anomalous dissipations — technically termed 
 Bible routs — where the elite of pious Bath as- 
 sembles in full dress for scripture reading and 
 expounding — and the entertainments are coffee, 
 ices, conversation, psalms and prayers. 
 
 Nevertheless, Bath is a virtuous, decorous 
 city ; containing the average, or beyond the 
 average, of good and kindly people — or so it 
 appears, to judge by her long list of charities. 
 Rarely has any city, so small, so many apparent 
 outlets for her benevolence. These comprise 
 ancient foundations : Blue Alms, Black Alms, 
 Grammar and Blue Coat Schools ; Hospitals, 
 modern and medi£eval, a Penitentiary, and so
 
 BODIES AND SOULS. 31$ 
 
 on. Add to these, that every one of the nume- 
 rous churches and chapels has its own working 
 schemes of schools, district-visitings, Dorcas and 
 other charities, and we may conclude that the 
 poor of Bath are tolerably well cared for. 
 
 Shall we see how ? It will take but a short 
 walk, this sharp but cheery winter day ; the 
 narrowness and compactness of the city's limits 
 being a great advantage to us as well as to its 
 charities. 
 
 Let us begin at the very beginning. How 
 shall we attack poor people's souls — through 
 their bodies, mind — except by the first principle 
 of purification — cleanliness, which is emphati- 
 cally pronounced to be " next to godhness } " 
 
 I have always had a deep faith in cleanliness. 
 I believe earnestly the saying, " that a man is 
 not near so ready to commit a crime when he 
 has got a clean shirt on ;" for the sense of self- 
 respect which accompanies a well-washed and 
 decently clad body, generally, more or less, com- 
 municates itself to the soul. A working-man is 
 always more of a man, more sober and well- 
 conducted, more fit to go to church, or go 
 a-courting, after he has "cleaned himself;" and 
 a working-woman — a respectable mechanic's wife, 
 or civil maid-servant — will be none the less civil 
 and respectable for assuming, toil being over, 
 a tidy apron, face and hands. So let our first 
 peregrination be to certain baths and laundries, 
 built close by the river side, in Milk Street 
 — a street which might have been especially 
 chosen for the purpose, as it and the adjoin-
 
 3i6 BODIES AND SOULS. 
 
 ing Avon Street are principally inhabited by- 
 sweeps. 
 
 It was not always so. This region, now the 
 lowest in Bath, was, not so very long since, noted 
 for handsome residences. Kingsmead House, 
 which still remains, forming one portion of 
 Kingsmead Square, must have been the finest of 
 all, and its gardens are said to have extended 
 down to the river side, over the area now occu- 
 pied by these low streets and a sort of quay. 
 We knock at a humble door (a very humble 
 door, for the originator of the scheme, Mr. Sut- 
 cliffe, was too truly benevolent to waste money 
 upon architecture), with " Bath and Laundries " 
 thereon inscribed. It is opened by an honest- 
 looking, respectable man, as he has opened it 
 for the last seventeen years — ever since its 
 foundation, indeed. 
 
 He is the whole of the staff — governor, house- 
 keeper, secretary, accountant. He lives in two 
 or three small rooms attached to the establish- 
 ment, and devotes his whole time to its manage- 
 ment. He had a wife to help him, but she is no 
 more ; now he does it all himself *' Bless 'ee, I 
 like it," says he. " It's busy work enough, for I 
 never go out except a Sundays : haven't taken 
 a walk three times these seventeen years. But 
 I like it." Easy to see that this manager is a 
 very intelligent man of his class ; working with 
 a will — the root of all really good work. It can 
 do him no harm to set down here his honest 
 name — Cox. 
 
 Cox is evidently a character. He takes us
 
 BODIES AND SOULS. 317 
 
 into his little parlour — very tidy, and adorned 
 with all sorts of curiosities — and, as preliminary 
 information, gives us a printed paper, on which 
 we read as follows : — 
 
 " Bath and Laundries, Milk Street. 
 " The Committee have adopted the following 
 low scale of charges, being far below the rates 
 in most places, with a view to extend the benefits 
 of the Institution to the largest possible number 
 of persons. Charges in the wash-house. — For 
 the use of a tub and boiler, one halfpenny per 
 hour. Drying and ironing (small articles), one 
 halfpenny per dozen ; ditto, ditto, large, one 
 farthing each. N.B. — One penny must be paid 
 on entrance, and the remainder before the clothes 
 are taken away. Charges for Baths. — First-class 
 (hot or cold), threepence ; second-class (ditto, 
 ditto), twopence. N.B. — The baths for women 
 are in a separate part of the buildings, and are 
 provided with female attendance. A female 
 bather may take one child under seven years of 
 age, into the bath with herself, without additional 
 charge." 
 
 Very simple, cheap, and admirable arrange- 
 ments — with which, on more investigation, we 
 are the more pleased. The baths are as good 
 as any ordinary bath-room in a private house. 
 We enquire who are the sort of people that avail 
 themselves of such an easy luxury .-* Sweeps ? 
 " No," replies Cox, gravely ; " we had only two 
 sweeps the whole of last season." " And the
 
 3i8 BODIES AND SOULS. 
 
 poor people in the streets hereabouts — do they 
 come ? " " Never. Our bathers are chiefly 
 mechanics, shop-girls from Milsom Street, and 
 domestic servants. Not at all the class for 
 which the place was started. They won't come. 
 It's a great pity. Still, one sort or other, we get 
 about thirty bathers a day ; an average of 6,000 
 in the course of the year." Well, 6,000 clean- 
 washed folks are not a bad thing. But the other 
 statement only proves more and more that the 
 lower a human being sinks, in moral and physical 
 degradation, the greater is his aversion to water. 
 Let the rising generation take from this a whole- 
 some warning — and a daily bath. 
 
 But the laundry, Cox said with pride, is much 
 more popular — and among the class for which it 
 was intended. One can imagine the comfort it 
 must be to any poor woman, whose whole esta- 
 blishment, perhaps, consists of but one room — 
 to be supplied with all the materials for a family 
 wash — except soap — and to be able to take back 
 her poor bits of " things " at the day's end, dried, 
 ironed, and aired ; no incumbrance of wet, flap- 
 ping clothes, or damp smell of hot water and 
 soap-suds, to irritate the tired husband and 
 drive him to the public-house. Those women — 
 seventy I believe there were — upon whom we 
 opened the door, and gradually distinguished 
 them through the steaming atmosphere — each 
 busy in her separate division — looked thoroughly 
 comfortable, though many of them were very 
 ragged, worn, and poverty-stricken. 8,000, Cox 
 informed us, was the yearly average who used
 
 BODIES AND SOULS. 319 
 
 these wash-houses ; by which we may reckon 
 8,000 httle or large families made comfortable 
 and decent, so far as clean linen will do it. 
 
 "And do they always conduct themselves 
 decently — these women, who bring no certificate 
 of character, no warrant of admission except 
 their need and their entrance-penny } Do they 
 never quarrel, or use ill-language, or steal one 
 another's property — as must be so very easy 
 to do ? " 
 
 Cox shakes his head smiling. " We have 
 had only two dismissions for bad conduct in my 
 time. As for stealing — sometimes there are 
 mistakes, but the clothes are always brought to 
 my room for fair exchange. For bad words — I 
 never hear nothing, except now and then one of 
 'em will be humming a little tune to herself; 
 that's no harm, you know." 
 
 Certainly not, quite the contrary. 
 
 We do not stay long in our examination ; the 
 machinery of the place being much as it is in all 
 public establishments ; water heated by steam, 
 stoves for the irons, and hot air presses for the 
 drying. Besides, we cannot quite feel that we 
 have any right to stare at or hinder these decent 
 women who have paid their honest pennies for 
 liberty to do their honest work. We pass on to the 
 big coal-cellar, which feeds the big steam-engine, 
 which supplies the working power of all these 
 arrangements. And there we are considerably 
 amused to find, lying on the warm roof of the 
 engine, a very good plaster nymph, with several 
 extrinsic arms and legs, the work of a sculptor
 
 320 BODIES AND SOULS. 
 
 — I think we may say tJie sculptor of Bath — to 
 whom Cox has long allowed the liberty of drying 
 his casts here. Cox has evidently a taste for 
 art; for he takes us into another room — his own 
 work-room — which contains the labour of his 
 life; a gigantic chair all encrusted with shells, 
 the two arms formed in imitation of the sea- 
 serpent, and the back of an equally ornamental 
 and original design ;• more original than com- 
 fortable, we should suppose. A chair, not beau- 
 tiful, but very curious, and exactly suited for a 
 presidential chair of the Conchological Society, 
 if there was one. Cox unveils it, and regards it 
 with lingering affection. 
 
 " Yes it took me many years and much labour, 
 for which I shall never be paid, of course. I 
 was advised to present it to the Prince of Wales, 
 but, bless you, he'd never have it. It, and the 
 fountain you see " — another enormous specimen 
 of this shell-work — " would do well in some big 
 lord's conservatory ; but who is to make 'em 
 known, or who will come and buy them of a 
 poor man like me t Well, I enjoyed working at 
 'em," says Cox with a patient sigh, as he covers 
 up his labours of many years. 
 
 We hope he may find a purchaser, for really 
 the lovers of the grotesque and ingenious might 
 do worse than buy. And so with hearty good 
 wishes we leave worthy Cox, his baths and laun- 
 dries, and make our way through the cutting 
 east wind, which rushes like a charge of bayonets 
 at every street corner, to the next place for ad- 
 vantaging poor folks' bodies — the soup kitchens,
 
 BODIES AND SOULS. 321 
 
 belonging to the " Society for Improving the 
 Condition of the Working Classes in Bath." No 
 doubt one of the best ways of doing this is by 
 feeding them ; not by promiscuous charity, which 
 lowers independence — that honest independence 
 which is the best boast of both poor and rich — 
 but by some means of supplying want, and ob- 
 taining for the same benefit fair payment. The 
 soup-kitchens do this. At the head establish- 
 ment, in Chatham-row, Walcot, and at the seven 
 branch establishments distributed about the city, 
 there is an uniform tariff of prices ; one penny 
 the half-pint and so on, when paid by the work- 
 ing-man himself, which price is doubled, when 
 the expenditure is made in tickets to be given 
 away as charity. And the Society especially 
 begs that purchasers will not distribute these 
 tickets promiscuously to beggars, but to the 
 needy and deserving poor of the town. 
 
 Any one who considers how extremely diffi- 
 cult it is for a poor labouring man, or even a 
 respectable mechanic, to get a hot, wholesome, 
 well-cooked dinner at all, will understand that 
 it was a satisfactory sight, on this bitter winter 
 noon, to see those long lines of decent-looking 
 men eating their steaming portions off a clean, 
 tidy board. A cheap dinner — a penny bowl of 
 soup and a halfpenny roll — and yet it was sub- 
 stantial enough for any man's needs — any gen- 
 tleman's either. " I assure you," said a very 
 civil personage, who looked like a cook in his 
 white apron and sleeves, but received us with an 
 air of dignity and authority which betokened 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 BODIES AND SOULS. 
 
 something- higher, *' I assure you, many a colonel 
 and general have been here and made their din- 
 ners off it, and declared they never wished to 
 dine better, and only hoped they might never 
 dine worse." In which sentiment, having tasted 
 the soup, we heartily agreed with those respected 
 military officers. 
 
 The interior working of soup kitchens is pretty 
 well known — this of Bath is like most others. 
 Meat is procured daily from six or seven of the 
 most respectable butchers of the city, cut up in 
 fragments, mixed with vegetables, and thrown 
 into the great boilers which, during the winters 
 of 1 86 1 -2 engulphed — how much think you.? — 
 11,433 lbs. of beef, 35 J sacks of onions, ioy\ 
 sacks of peas, and of salt more than a ton. Out 
 of this materiel, how many a hungry mouth must 
 have been filled, and how many a busy work- 
 man sent cheerily back to his work all the better 
 fitted to earn the family bread. And if, in truth, 
 the nearest way to a man's heart — not to say his 
 conscience — is through his stomach, the police- 
 sheets of the Bath magistrates may have been 
 lightened according as these soup-boilers were 
 filled and emptied. They are, the attendant 
 told us, emptied every day, and newly supplied 
 with fresh meat and vegetables, lest the poor 
 should imagine — as they are so prone to do — 
 " Oh, anything is thought good enough for tis." 
 
 At this head kitchen all the soup is made, and 
 thence distributed, in enormous cans, to the 
 various branch depots. People can either con- 
 sume it on the spot, or carry it away with them.
 
 BODIES AND SOULS. 323 
 
 Last winter, from November, 1862, to April, 
 1863, the consumption was 73,080 quarts, and 
 the number of consumers was 36,333 — average 
 300 per diem ; the greatest number who ever 
 came in one day being 563. The receipts across 
 the counter amounted to 90,945 penny pieces — 
 that is, '})'j'^l. i8i-. 9(^. — while 163/. 19^-. was realised 
 by the sale of tickets for benevolent distribution. 
 This combined sum is more than sufficient to 
 defray all expenses, and, with the addition of 
 subscriptions and donations, has enabled the 
 Committee to lay by a savings-bank fund for 
 future expenses. 
 
 These plain facts are better than any poetical 
 descriptions, and so we may safely congratulate 
 the fair city of Bath on the care she takes of 
 bodies as well as souls — suggesting, en passant^ 
 to her pious inhabitants, the administration of 
 soup-tickets at least as numerously as of tracts ; 
 and the advising of poor women to attend the 
 baths and laundries as regularly as church, 
 chapel, or prayer-meeting. *' This do, not leav- 
 ing the other undone." 
 
 And now let us see what Bath does for those 
 frail and dilapidated bodies to which neither 
 food nor water can give health or soundness — 
 perhaps never again. There are several hospi- 
 tals., but the Mineral Water Hospital, peculiar 
 to this city, is the only one I can speak of here. 
 It was meant " for the relief and support of poor 
 persons from any part of Great Britain and 
 Ireland, afflicted with complaints for which the 
 Bath waters are a remedy ; " and its foundation
 
 324 BODIES AND SOULS. 
 
 stone was laid by the Honourable William Pul- 
 teney, afterwards Earl of Bath, in 1737, nearly 
 a hundred and thirty years ago. 
 
 At that time there v/ere in Bath three remark- 
 able men — Richard Nash, Ralph Allen, and 
 William Oliver. The first is known as Beau 
 Nash, Master of the Ceremonies for many 
 years : gifted with gentlemanly manners, some- 
 what lax principles, an easy conscience, and a 
 very kindly heart. The second raised himself 
 from very humble origin to be thus written of 
 by his friend Alexander Pope : — 
 
 ** Let low-born Allen, with ingenuous shame, 
 Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame ;" 
 
 and to be likewise immortalised by his other 
 friend, Henry Fielding, in the character of 
 Sqidre Allworthy.^ The third has gone down 
 to posterity as the originator of that excellent 
 Bath food, Oliver's biscuits, and as the first 
 physician of the Mineral Water Hospital. To 
 these three worthies it owes its foundation. 
 Beau Nash, whose liberal hand was always in 
 his own or other people's pockets, collected large 
 sums of money ; Ralph Allen bestowed, out of 
 his quarries on Combe Down, the stone for 
 building, and 1,000/. besides ; Dr. Oliver con- 
 tributed all that a wise physician could — skill, 
 advice, influence, and personal supervision. 
 Thus, in May, 1742 — that frivolous and yet 
 
 * For this, and much other information, the writer is indebted 
 to a recent valuable and exceedingly erudite *' Historic Guide to 
 Bath," by the Rev. G. N. Wright, M.A.
 
 BODIES AND SOULS. 325, 
 
 stormy era — just before the memorable '45, was 
 opened that admirable institution ; and, from 
 the date of its opening to its anniversary in 
 May, 1862, it either relieved or cured, out of 
 admitted patients, a proportion of 40,780 per- 
 sons. 
 
 With a feeling of due respect, we stand before 
 its door at the foot of Milsom Street, not the 
 original door, but that of the new wing, which 
 in 1 86 1 was added to the original building. A 
 hospital is never a cheerful place to visit : but 
 this being for chiefly chronic diseases, such as 
 rheumatism, gout, palsy, and cutaneous dis- 
 orders, is less painful than most. For the in- 
 mates are rarely in their beds ; the large, clean, 
 lofty dormitories are nearly empty ; and even in 
 the day-rooms, the women's especially, we find 
 many patient-looking patients, busily pursuing, 
 with as much activity as their complaints allow, 
 many useful avocations. Knitting and sewing 
 with the one side, draught-playing, reading, and 
 mat-making with the other, appear to be the 
 favourite occupations. As we pass through 
 them, guided by the resident surgeon, at whose 
 coming all faces seemed to brighten as if he 
 were a general friend, I noticed how much more 
 cheerful the women looked than the men. Not 
 wonderful, considering how many, nay, all of the 
 latter, are taken from active trades or agri- 
 cultural day-labour, and shut up here, helpless 
 but not hopeless : for the deaths, or those dis- 
 missed incurable, bear an infinitesimal propor- 
 tion to the number *' discharged cured."
 
 326 BODIES AND SOULS. 
 
 We heard many little episodes, more comical 
 than doleful, of hospital life. How respectable 
 elderly patients have sometimes, after leaving, 
 evinced their gratitude by sending proposals of 
 marriage, not invariably, declined, to the equally 
 respectable elderly nurses ; and how other 
 patients, suddenly inheriting money, have thank- 
 fully and gladly contributed portions of it for 
 the benefit of the hospital. One man who was 
 in this fortunate position, we passed, eagerly 
 writing letters in the seclusion of the sleeping- 
 ward ; while in another, by the quiet, solitary 
 fire, sat another patient, and beside him his 
 pleasant-looking wife, who, for six weeks, had 
 been allowed to come every day and nurse him 
 through some accidental, acute illness. ''Do 
 you often allow this, doctor ? " " Always, when 
 needed ; it is such a comfort to them." It 
 must be. 
 
 The doctor told us another episode of a very 
 eccentric patient, by name Kihiringi Te Tuahu, 
 — a New Zealander. He spoke not a word of 
 English ; but still he managed to make himself 
 a general favourite in the ward. His chief 
 difficulty was smoking. He would creep down 
 to forbidden rooms, obtain cigars, and carry 
 them, still lighted, under his sleeve all chapel- 
 time, then exhibit his unlawful booty with 
 an innocent pride which disarmed all punish- 
 ment. He was indeed, like all half-savages, 
 very much of a child ; and when, much better, 
 he left the hospital, it was with an outburst of 
 perfectly childish tears. " In fact," added the
 
 BODIES AND SOULS. 327 
 
 doctor, " I never did see any man who cried so 
 much." 
 
 Generally, no doubt, the tears are few ; the 
 patients have an aspect of quiet endurance and 
 familiarity with pain. They are on the whole 
 an extremely respectable class. And yet 
 nothing is required for entrance, no presenta- 
 tion or applications through subscribers : simply 
 a letter from any medical man, stating the case 
 and its necessities, to which is returned a blank 
 certificate, to be filled up and signed by the 
 clergyman and others, in the parish to which 
 the applicant belongs. Beyond this is required 
 to be deposited a sum of three pounds, if the 
 applicant comes from any part of England ; 
 five pounds if from Scotland or Ireland, to be 
 kept as " caution-money," intended to defray 
 the expenses of homeward journey, or possible 
 death, or great destitution as to clothes. If not 
 wanted for any of these purposes the whole 
 sum is returned to the party or parties who 
 provided it. 
 
 On this simple plan the hospital works, and 
 has worked — these hundred and thirty years. 
 We went all over it — the wards, baths (with 
 most admirable and ingenious contrivances for 
 the feeble and the crippled), the kitchens, 
 laundries, cellars, up to the chapel, which is so 
 beautiful as to be almost a flaw in the estabhsh- 
 ment. One cannot but think that an additional 
 ward would have served God much better than 
 a richly-ornamental chancel and seven gorge- 
 ously-painted windows, illustrating, out of Bible
 
 328 BODIES AND SOULS. 
 
 history, the use and benefit of water. But let 
 us not grumble. People have a right to confer 
 their benefits in their own way. And certainly 
 here bodies are never neglected for the sake of 
 souls. Let us hope that to hundreds and thou- 
 sands of poor men and women this brief haven 
 of rest, in an admirably well-conducted hospital, 
 may be good for both bodies and souls. 
 
 We end our investigations in the board-room, 
 round whose oaken table a century's meetings 
 have been held. What tales it could tell of 
 those old worthies whose portraits alone now 
 look down upon their successors' deliberations. 
 Besides a very imaginative likeness of Hygeia, 
 a buxom young woman who flaunts it over the 
 fire-place, there is a curious picture of Dr. Oliver 
 and Mr. Peirce, the first physician and first 
 surgeon to the hospital, examining patients 
 afifected with paralysis, rheumatism, and leprosy 
 — a subject that, in spite of its repulsiveness, is 
 interesting, and well painted. The painter is 
 W. Hoare, R.A., who also leaves his own por- 
 trait, a thoughtful head, somewhat after the 
 manner of Opie. Others besides adorn the 
 walls ; Mr. Morris, the first apothecary, his 
 father, mother, and wife — Mr. Morris, senior, 
 being a meek old gentleman, and Mrs. Morris, 
 senior, a large grim woman, in rufifies and 
 mittens, who looked as if she had ruled with a 
 rod of iron both spouse, son, and daughter-in- 
 law. There, too, smirks poor Beau Nash's 
 jovial countenance, with the round cheeks (nearly 
 all the men of that period seem to have been
 
 BODIES AND SOULS. 329 
 
 jolly and round-cheeked) and the weak irresolute 
 mouth ; just like him who was, as the saying is, 
 "Nobody's enemy but his own." And there 
 also is the thin, acute, kindly face of good 
 Ralph Allen, who was everybody's friend, and 
 whose palatial home, at Prior Park, still remains 
 as one of the most magnificent yet forlorn 
 mansions in England. It and Beckford's Tower 
 gaze at one another across Bath, from opposite 
 hills, strange monuments of the passing away of 
 all human things. As one looks round at these 
 faded and fading portraits, and thinks of the 
 living men who week by week assemble at this 
 table beneath them, one by one disappearing 
 thence, to reappear, if they ever re-appear at all, 
 but as silent portraits on the wall, the deep truth 
 of the oft-quoted yet ever beautiful rhyme 
 forces itself for the hundredth time upon one's 
 mind : — 
 
 '* Only the actions of the just, 
 Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust" 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 EKADBURV, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS, LONDON.