This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project to make the world's books discoverable online.
It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.
Marks, notations and other marginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the publisher to a library and finally to you.
Usage guidelines
Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing this resource, we have taken steps to prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:
+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for personal, non-commercial purposes.
+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.
+ Maintain attribution The Google "watermark" you see on each file is essential for informing people about this project and helping them find additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.
+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.
About Google Book Search
Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web
atjhttp : //books . qooqle . com/
NYPL RESEARCH LIBRARIES
II
3 3433 08166788 7
£-
i
i;
Digitized
by Google
,i
Digitized by VjOOQlC
Digitized by VjOOQlC
Digitized by VjOOQlC
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
THE
ST. JAMES'S MAGAZINE
AND
UNITED^EMPlRE-JtEVIEW.
...CAN//, x
VOLUME x#Hr
yftM
JANUARY TO JUNK 18?7.
LONDON:
CHARING CROSS PUBLISHING COMPANY, LIMITED,
5, FRIAR STREET BROAinyAY, fc.O/
1«77.
^^ Digitized^
d by Google
ThLr V
pur-:.;-.:
Y:)HK CiiAP.Y
51350A
a?to:\ i '"NO" and til" i- r •*" AVi i yji
l/>KDON t
rillMbl) BY THE CUAUINO CUOSS PUBLISHING COMPANY, LIMITED.
5, FRIA1I STHKLT, UUOADWAY, B.C.
Digitized by VjOOQlC
COS'TESTS OF rOLUMIi XXXI.
Fkomktiiia. By Ellis J. Davis.
Chap. 1 .— Introductory -
2.— In London - -
3. — Strange Events
4.— A Pursuit • .
5.— At Midnight- -
6. — An Introduction
7.— Promethia - -
8.— Tho Quarrel- -
9.— AKW,m« -
10. — More of the Doctor
11. — Advanced Science
12.— Some Lunatics -
la-" I love thee" -
14. — Women's War -
15.— Down the Tunnel
16, 17— A Strange Dream
18. — " Thou art mine '*
19.— Tho Imago of Wax
20.—** It cannot be "
21.— Genesis - - -
22. — u I have no soul "
23.— A Mid-day Slumber
2 1.— The Doctor Triumphs
25.— Promethia' a Slumber
26. —The Doctor's Reasons
27. — An Interference on my Behalf- â–
Pauk
1
9 IB 20 119 124 133 138 145! 152 159 235 242 '249 257 351 359 368 376' 467 475 483| 490( 585; 597
607
Osi.r a MosioMaster. Aikio- Kortright.
By Fanny
Chap. 9— A Poor Wooer - - -
10. — Ithama'* First Love Letter ....
11. — The Power of Music
12.— Temple's Bachelor Uncle • - - -
13.— Hor.it ia 'm Love- -
1 4.-— Closer Acquaintance
39
14 47
51 2«K> 206
Paol
Only a Music-Master- co,rfiH»i<i.
15.— Parting 210
16.— Meeting of OldFriend* 309
17.-HydePark - - - - 315
18— The House in Park
Lane 319
19.— A Visitor to Lotty - 325
20.— Henry Templo to
Ithama 328
21.— A Lovers Qnarrel - - 400
22— The Reconciliation - 403
23.— A Wedding Party- - 406
24.— A Star gone out - - 411
25.— A Vision 415
26.— Ithama to Henry - - 417
27.— A Weddiug - - - - 516
28.— Ithama to Henry
Temple 521
29. — Improvements in tho
Old Manor House - 523
30.— Horatia and Ellen ro-
turn to the Work - 5C8
31.— Lotty's Penitence - 531
32.— Henry Temple to
Ithama 533
33.— A New Speculation - 536
31. — Tho Laocoon - - - 540
35.— Redurgit 646
36.— Death 618
37.— An Explanation that
ends in Darkness • 652
38. -Nemesis 659
39.— Henry Temple to
Ithama MM
14).— A New Institution - 671
41.- 674
42.- 074
43. - -Hnmlia to Vulorio'i
Brotlvr ---. 675
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
Pa en:
Guoweth down likk a Toad- stool. By Lucius Broughton.
Chap. 13.— The Storm .... 81
14. — A Maiden's Vengeance 87
15. — A Change in our
Prospects ... 93
16.— Doing my Duty - - 98
17.— My Return .... 184
18.— I come to a Dead Stop 187
Valentine Humfrev's Trust. By Nora Neville - - -" - 111,-224,338,425
A Chat about the Post Office. By M. G. M. 212,301
A Cup of Tea in Gray's Inn Road. By J. G. Harwood 556
A Flower Song. By Roger Quiddam • 517
A Flower Story. By Roger Quiddam 542
A Happy Land 499
A Presence which is not to be put by.
By B. N. C. - 645
A Seizure for Queen's Taxes. By
James George Harwood 635
A Song for the Girl I Love. By Fre- derick Langbridgc 576
A Sone of the South. By Leonard Lloyd 104
A Troublesome Girl. By Theo. Gift . 72
Bethune. By Jacob Scott .... 279 Buried Seed. By A. Johnson-Brown 300
England's Colonial Empire. By J. F. Vesey Fitzgerald 693
In a Rose Gardon. By H. L. N. . - 634
Latter Day Verse. By H. T. White - 5i9
Love versus Learning. By C. C. W. Naden * - - - - 621
Magic 505
My Picture: a Royal Academy Story. By Mrs. Leith-Adams 704
OllaPodrida- - - 117,231,465,577,712
Paoe
Only a Retrospect. By Constance Harte 192
On Poetry. By D. R. VViliamson - - 420 •
Our Modern Poets—
6. Matthew Arnold. By Thomas Bayne * .... 436
7. Charles Kingsley and Arthur H. Clough. By S. R. Towns- hend Mayer 265
8. A. C. Swinburne. By Thos. Bayne 436
Recent Political Agitation. By Ed- mond Gaisford 332
Ritualism considered as an Antag- onism to Rome. By Roger Quiddam 677
Shake Hands. By Jacob Scott- - - 106
Sister Agatha. By Roger Quiddam • 448
Song of the Morning 398
Sonnet. By Horace Lennard - - • 555
Sweet are the Uses of Adversity. By Benjamin Forster 633
The Author of the Passion Music, Johann Sebastian Bach. By Archibald: Granger Bowie .... 386
| The Author of " Victor Lescar." By
I Geo. Barnett Smith 165
; The Czar Nicholas' Letters on the Crimean War. By John Augustus O'Shea 24
The Grey Shawl. By W. C. Bennett 514
The Rain. By Horace Lennard - • 692
The Voyage to Come 58
The Water Lily to the Maiden ... 183
To Agnes, who is his only Love - - 57
To Zara, whose Heart he knoweth not 464
Two Sonnets, Winter — Spring. By D. R. Williamson 201
Venite, A Spring Song. By Roger Quiddam 277
Vivisection, A Plea for its Suppression.
By Edmund Gaisford 568
Wagner in London. By Archibald Granger Bowie 622
Digitized by VjOOQlC
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
\v\!yV ':'"-.' v
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
THE
St. James's Magazine
AND
Inito €mpr* gjlrfriefo-
Promethi a.
By ELLIS J. DAVIS,
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
AM a production of the nineteenth century.
I do not believe any age other than the present
could have produced such a specimen of humanity.
No time in the annals of the human race could have given birth or culture to such a being. Is this statement disparaging to the age or to myself? Neither to one nor to the other. The world grows with its inhabitants and the sur- rounding universe, and at no two successive periods of time is our or any other planet under the same conditions. The inhabitants of the earth vary with the condition of its surface and its astronomical relations to the other occupants of space. Never through all the ages, unless indeed the whole course of creation follows a similar rotation after a certain lapse of years, will our earth be under the same conditions as at pre- sent, and our social life is but a reflex of the variation of the life of the earth as a member of the solar system. Man is subject to the same laws as the world he inhabits.; without
VOL I igitizedby Vj<
2 Sf. Jamefs Magazine.
inquiring what his soul shall be, his body is part and parcel of the earth, and earthy enough, and he lives but as the kind mother allows him. We are an elder creation, perhaps only of an infantile existence, but as we know and feel rather of an approaching maturity than a new-born vitality. Our superiors are on their way hither, but it will be some time before they arrive. The Coming Race has not yet announced itself save through the speculations of the fictionist
Meanwhile, the present age produces forms and natures its own in every respect. Life changes with every other varia- tion, and to the .present century a special class of beings belong. The time produces its own children, and the universal mother of man is the age in which he is born as much as the planet from the dust of which he springs. I am a production of the nineteenth century, and of this century only.
Dear reader, you are doubtless, like most Englishmen, dubious of everything beyond the price of wheat and stocks, and possibly the man-and-dog fight of Telegraphic mystery. Assert your privilege of disbelief if you will : before you have concluded the perusal of this introductory chapter you will abandon doubt. Please do not skip it. I wish you to know me, and how else but through this chapter am I to claim the privilege of your acquaintanceship? Read on. Patience, like virtue, is ofttimes its own reward.
Need I tell you that the new world had the honour of supplying my first wants. For my part, the only reason patriotism is a virtue is because our country does two things — helps us at birth, buries us when we are dead. All else is in our own hands, and who shall bid us thank a land for the labour which supplies our own hard necessities ? It were in- deed a different thing if one's birthplace flowed with literal milk and honey, but for a mere permission to breathe and grumble I see no reason to be thankful. However, to accord with conventionalities, I will say I thank America for my birth and country. She supplied my first wants, and they are indeed those with which no man can dispense. I hold the require- ments of babyhood the weakest part of human nature. Even I was not superior to them. America supplied me with the indispensable necessities of origin — viz., a father and mother ; but the former was as benevolent as necessary, for he died a few days after my entrance into the world — why I
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
Promethia. 3
call it so you will presently see, — and left me a fortune more considerable than the revenue of many a State, or the income of the richest English peer.
My mother dFd me justice. Fee'.ing unwell, she went to bed, and could do no more for me than lie there. As far as I remember, I burst through the cerements of nature and drew my first breath with less assistance than I shall require to respire my last. Precocious, you say. Not a bit. As a babe I knew the world was to be enjoyed, and I lost no opportunity of entering it with the object of sounding the heights and depths of pleasure. What was the use of delaying matters and giving unnecessary time, trouble, and expense, not to speak of anguish, to my beloved parent ? Even in the womb I was famed for common sense. I would have spared my mother all agony if I could, but then I was only an acci- dent of nature and not its ruler, or even controlling power. Ahs, my dear mother ! Well may I call her so. My fathers fortune was left to me subject to her life interest, and she was such a fond parent that rather than stand in her child's way she determined to make no struggle against the cold hand nearing her heart. Poor mother ! With me in her arms she ordered her coffin, and did not allow it to remain empty long. When she died I screamed out " Cremation," but they thought I said "dill-water/' And very likely my utterance at four- and-twenty hours was not quite perfect. Even the most precocious baby is apt to be misunderstood.
Poor mother ! I loved you then, but I am not sure whether I now wish you back in this sad world with me. Rest in the grave. Even the monsters of this age respect the dead, or pretend to do so, which for the sake of the repose of those dear to us answers the same purpose. It is true that among some the sacred feelings of respect towards our dead forbears- is vanishing, but the cruelty which would outrage their last resting-places is kept in check, and there are even some people to be found who venerate their parents while they are yet among the living.
It is not improbable that my state of orphanage preyed upon my mind. I have heard that doubts were entertained about my sanity on the matters of pap, milk, cream, and babies' biscuits. Of the utility of such things as articles of food I seem to have had considerable apprehension, Also
i*
Digitized by VjOOQIC
4 «S/. James's Magazine.
did I threaten my nurse's eyes, and occasionally cursed them in the vigorous vernacular of the far west. But this early period of my career fled with such rapidity that I can re- member little about it save only that when three years old I refused to have a nurse any more, and insisted on going to school at once. My guardians had, I beg you to observe, little voice in the matter. I went. I boast that from the act of birthing myself down to the present time I never did any- thing against my free will. No one can control the advanced children of modern civilization, and I am a child of modern times all over. But I must cut these preliminaries short.
As I said, I went to school at the age of three, and during my first half I fought with and conquered no less than five notorious bullies, and in the second I licked the masters Like Caesar at the Capitol, I would say, " Young man, it is as easy for me to lick you as to say I will;" and if the gentle- man was obstreperous after that fair warning, I did as I promised; and to do my schoolfellows and schoolmasters justice, they showed a good deal of pluck in attacking or resisting me at times, though I generally carried my point by dint of sheer superiority of fo:ce. At four I had made my way' into the first. form; at five I passed the most difficult examination ; at six, I was told by the head-master that he could teach me no more ; and at seven I left the private school- Jiouse for the public one — the great wide world.
You wonder what a boy breeched at a year looks like -when he arrives at the great age of seven. I will describe him. My photograph at that age is before me.
I had not quite done growing, being some three foot six inches in height, which was, I assure you, quite far enough off from the ground in those days. My chest was beginning to show immense width, and my limbs gave the strongest evidences of gigantic muscular power. A broad forehead betrayed vigorous intellect ; a firm mouth, resolve ; steely blue eyes, resolution and caution; a prominent nose, pushing powers and fulness of energy, — the ruling passion of the present and the future throughout all that man governs. A capital thing is a prominent nose : you always have something in front of you.
My hair was brown-black, and thick, though in front there were already signs of what would be premature baldness.
Promethia. 5*
This falling of the hair is a mark of early development only to be met with among us fast livers, and by no means an advantage to our personal appearance, for of all beauties — and the human race can boast of many — the chief one is the luxurious head of hair.
I took care that my dress should be by no means peculiar. I wore neat check trousers, according to the fashion, over patent leather boots, a frock coat of the most approved Broadway cut, buttoned above an elegant waistcoat. I parted my hair on one side, and put my hat on towards the other, in order to give my face a bluff appearance, though I did not cock it sufficiently over the left eye to make me look like a dandy. For the rest, I always carried an elegant cane or smart umbrella — the latter, as is the habit in America, generally the property of somebody else; and I was never to be seen without gloves, ^nd a handsome exotic in my buttonhole.
This is a pretty accurate description of my costume and personal appearance at the age of seven. When I left school I looked around me and considered life. What was I to do?
Professions were too slow, and the learned gentlemen who practised in them myht have raised some objection on the score of age, as they have more than once done on that of sex when the ladies have asked to be allowed to earn their living in the mode best suited to their capabilities : they might have said I was too young. I say might, because this is only a supposition. The universities and the professions have in some instances admitted women, and why not infants, idiots and lunatics at the same time ? A few more or less would hardly have made much difference, but I saved them the trouble of making a precedent in my case, for I did not ask to- be admitted into either one or the other.
But my guardian said I must have a career of some kind, and what career was open to a boy of seven ? Somebody suggested the army, but I objected to practising butchery; besides I felt confident that if I entered the army one of two things would happen — either I should at first glance so frighten the foe that they would run away and leave me nothing to fight with or I should engage myself to the Island power of Europe, and then I was safe never even to have a chance of getting in the line of battle, for the Empress-Queen never draws her sword except for the purpose of worrying a
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
6 St. James's Magazine.
few poor savages. She talks a lot — not quite as tall as we Americans do, but then we have done something recently, and she — well, I'll not say what she has done. History will have little to record of big Britain as a belligerent power during the latter half of the nineteenth century, and that little not much to her advantage. So I gave up any idea of war, and having worn out every amusement presented by New York city, I thought I would travel a while and see what the world was like. I knew it to be a very small and uninteresting place, but still as I had none other within reach, I thought it as well to make the best of the puny globe and its finikin inhabitants. Money was no object to me, as I have already told you ; and so, without waiting for season or being bothered at all about making arrangements to suit any- thing but my own fancy, I started on my travels. Very soon I left theYiew world behind, and made an entrance into the old with a bounding heart and the prospect of enjoyment before me.
Which of us gets what he desires ? Which of us plucks fruit in this world's vineyards to find it as fair as it promised to be when hanging in shining bunches before longing eyes ?
Before I had completed my twelfth year all the countries of the civilized world had been explored in search of pleasure, and I had found little, and turned to look at my native land once more with a feeling of bitter disappointment in my breast. It was miserable to find the world empty and sad at the age of twelve, when most persons in Europe were just thinking of school. Alas, I had to pay the penalty of beginning life too early. I returned to America, and stayed for a short time in New York. Money was abundant as usual. My father's fortune procured me everything I could desire, and yet often I wished I had not one penny or one friend in the world. That was a sad time, and my heart was crushed by it. I can only remember that for nearly two years after my return I was wretched and dull. I remained in the town ; I seldom left my house, and lived I hardly know how. I suppose events did happen, but it seemed to me as if the whole world was dead and buried, and I was living on in some interior cavity away from everybody else, and merely sustained in the region of mental knowledge by faint recollections of having existed.
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Promcthia. 7
At fifteen I took a ship and made a voyage round the world, never going on shore, and only stopping at such places as occasion rendered necessary for the purpose of obtaining coal or provisions. I remained on the ocean for two years, and then returned to New York, where I varied the monotony of existence for about a month by falling in love with all the prettiest women of the season. Of course my usual fate fol- lowed me. I got tired of that amusement ; they all fell at my feet, and I was left without end or aim once more. My uncle and I had one or two serious conversations about this time. It appeared he was anxious for me to marry, and he pressed the matter on me so enthusiastically that I began to be bored by him. We had never had one difference before. My nature is pacific, and I never quarrel, but, if angry, annihilate my opponent without the least hesitation. Not wishing to do so to my uncle and guardian, I removed from New York and spent a year in sleeping, like a bear during the winter. When I awoke I returned to New York, and there passed the next few years of my life, feeling every day more and more bored by existence, and only prevented from com- mitting suicide by the fear of going into a duller world after death. Oh, the terrible monotony of that time, I hardly know how I was ever able to endure it. A frightful incubus of experience hung on my shoulders, and if ever I fancied to do the least thing it seemed to drag me away and bind me where I was with a suggestion that I had done it before and found it slow and unprofitable. I was thoroughly worn out for this world. I would have given half my fortune for a new sensation. I hope you will understand this position. It may be difficult for you to realise it at first, but think if you can of a young man of twenty who had seen everything that could have been seen by a sexagenarian, who had read till there was nothing left to read, who had been through every situa- tion capable of affording interest, who had no amusement, no object in life, and a ceaseless energy which made the owner accomplish in a twinkling what would have taken an ordinary individual days and days to overcome. Misery seized me. I went to sleep again — how I do not know, but I recollect the awakening well enough, and it is from that time when I was just twenty-one that I will ask you to give me your attention and sympathy.
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
8 Si. Jamei *s Magazine.
It was late in the autumn of the present year, and I was sitting in my drawing-room in New York city, where I occu- pied a magnificent house entirely alone, when the door opened, and a diminutive creature who I suppose called him- self a man by reason of his head and chest, if on no other account entered, and accosted me.
" Poor fellow," he said, " you have made a great mistake in looking for novelty hitherto. I have lived fifty times over, and the only place fit to live in is London."
I started and stared — both uncommon things enough for me. I recognised the stranger as a man I had once seen before, but where I did not know. Indeed, it struck me I had seen him more than once. I replied, with a burst of unusual violence,
" Oh, tell me, where is there something new ? "
He laughed at my energy.
" There is always something new for those who know how to look for it. Go to London and find a ghost"
I jumped up.
" A ghost ! " I cried enthusiastically, " I have never yet seen a ghost ; why did I not think of that before ? The super- natural world alone offers novelty for me. Shall I find a real ghost in London ?* But my adviser was gone. I fancied his appearance must have been a trick of the brain, and thought perhaps that the miseiy of inactivity had dulled my senses. I rang the bell.
" John/ I said to my faithful servant, " I am going to London in an hour. Get what things we want and meet me on board the steamer."
John left the room with a bow, and I immediately dressed myself, a requisite after my long nap, and walked down to the place of departure. The different lines of steamers have arranged matters so well lately, that an American can start for England at any hour he pleases. There is a steamer leaving every half-hour of the day, if you know where to find it ; and as I knew the whole of the sea and the land by heart, I had no difficulty in finding my way to the place of departure of the ship I was in search of. Everything promised well for a voyage; I soon arranged for any passage, and found out that by spending a different minute with each passenger it was possible to pass at least the first few hours without being
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Promethia. 9
absolutely bored to death. I was more composed than usual. I sat down on the deck, and, for the first time for many a year, enjoyed a cigar and a few moments of the existence ennui had rendered intolerable.
Courteous reader, behold me there on my way to England, and follow my adventures with as much interest as this narra- tive permits. For the truth of what has gone before, I vouch ; and of what follows, it speaks for itself.
CHAPTER II.
IN LONDON.
To arrive in the greatest city of the world under any circum- stances is an interesting incident, and notwithstanding my weariness of all things, I could not fail to be impressed with the evidence of greatness and individuality presented to the mind. It is a wonderful place this London. There is nothing of old-world wonder about it ; nothing of romance ; nothing of mediaeval quaintness; but it is no less impressive on that account. It embodies the Anglo-Saxon genius. It is the home of the greatest nation the world ever saw, excepting only that marvellous, God-selected race which rose to glory by the shores of the Mediterranean, in the far east ; but there is no comparison between the Hebrew genius and the English. Of course all nationalities who have received the descendants of Abraham with open arms have benefited by the contact with the wondrous mental vigour and energy of the chosen race ; but the English Jew is much the same as the American Jew at bottom. Always an alien, and only great so long as he preserves his individuality and separate existence. The Englishman is the most marvellous of all created beings. Pushing his might and his vigour all over the world, England is for ever bis home, and London invariably the pride of his heart. Whatever home attachments may speak in praise of the shore of Sussex, the moors of Yorkshire, the soft, genial clime of fairy-faced Devon, vanishes in the far-off lands. England is the country as a whole, and the man who thinks of his greatness as an Englishman, has London and London's wonders and solid magnificence in his heart when he extols
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
io Si. Javiefs Magazine.
his country. And London has done well to deserve its position. Nations may become temporarily great through individual and ofttimes meretricious genius; but permanent reputation for a nation, as for an individual, is only to be won and preserved by the union of many qualities which go to make up excellence in a race or a man. That which is to endure must be worthy endurance. Nature has decreed it so, and does not preserve the aspen with the same solicitude as the oak.
I, an American and a wanderer, testified by my feelings of awe to the true merit of the great city ; and as I drove through the streets, familiar though they were, I could not but admit that I was roused from my languor and extreme ennui into something more lively. Alas ! the feeling was not enduring. I had hardly been settled in my hotel when the same miserable weariness of life seized me, and I cursed my folly in coming to such a dull place. Throwing myself on the sofa, I was about to give way to a fit of despair, when I remembered the words of the visitor, and thought it as well to ask if a ghost were at hand. The landlord of the hotel came on my demand- ing his presence.
"I hope your rooms are comfortable, Mr. Harte," he said, apologetically ; " you gave us no notice, or you should have had the first-floor suite."
"Any rooms do for me," I answered hastily. "Tell me, Is there a ghost at hand anywhere ? — a real, genuine ghost, mind." The listener stared.
" If you don't know, don't tell me ; but don't stand staring there like a goose at a quart bottle. Is there a ghost to be got at or not ? Do you know ? It is a simple question." " But not easily answered. I will inquire." And without another word he left the room. I waited im- patiently for his return, and when he came in almost startled him by the sharpness of my " Well ? " Englishmen are slow, I must say. They want a lot of polishing to make them go tk smooth and come up to the mark. Why does a man want to vovle su°k a t*me *n com*nS out wfth what he has to say ? that b\^r* ^arte, * have inquired," he mumbled at last, "and was possuon'y find one house supposed to be haunted, and
Digitized by UOOQ IC
Promelhia. 1 1
I interrupted him.
" If there is a haunted house, tell me where it is at once."
" I will write the address," he replied, and did so, with his eyes fixed on me, and ah occasional glance at the door, as if he feared me, and was anxious to make sure of his escape.
I took no notice of his agitation, but when he had finished said —
*' I shall leave my things here, and return in about a week or a month. Are you sure there is a ghost in the house?"
" The facts, as far as I know them, are these. The house is old, and shut up, with the exception of the basement, in which an old woman lives. She will tell you more than I can. It is situated opposite to a private lunatic asylum, kept by a professional gentleman of great repute. A man died there some years ago. He was immensely rich, and his death was a suspicious one. It was said his eldest son had a hand in it.. No inquest was held, and the matter was allowed to drop Some time afterwards, however, a report got about that the house was haunted, and it is said that a ghost is frequently to be seen at one of the windows and on the roof. Scientific men have not been called upon to investigate the phenomenon so it may be all moonshine ; but if you want to see a ghost, it is worth paying the place a visit."
I had remained so quiet while the landlord was giving me this information that he seemed quite reassured, and probably put down my desire to see a ghost to mere curiosity and a love of adventure. Permit me to say here, by way of explanation, that a great many people, who would be ashamed to admit it, believe most firmly in the existence of ghosts. Even among the most educated classes spirits are popular; and I have found it more difficult to find a person who doubts that there are ghosts altogether, than to satisfy anybody of the reality of spiritualistic phenomena. There was much reason in the biblical precept enjoining the death of witches and persons with familiar spirits. They do more harm than any criminals, for they corrupt the mind, whereas the worst murderer or ruffian only injures the body. The belief in the marvellous is one of the most accessible portals to the entrance of error. In America the thing is even worse than it is here ; but if the charlatans who disgrace my country come to England and are
Digitized by VjOOQIC
12 Si. Jamefs Magazine.
made much of, goodbye to the integrity and honesty of the Englishman. Perhaps exposure will be their fate ; but it seems doubtful, for current belief is appealed to to aid the worker of wonders. God's sacred word is forgotten or over- looked, and yet surely a divine can place but one interpretation on the words of Holy Writ ? Scripture has, moreover, given a valuable illustration of the danger of dealing with the unknown in the instance of Saul.
But whatever may be done in a few years, there can be no doubt that ghosts are believed in ; and from one or two people whose opinions I asked before I set out to look for my ghost, I ascertained that their doubt was not as to the existence of the ghost, but the likelihood of his appearing just when I wanted him to. I found out also that the place in which the house was situated was not of good repute, so I waited until the following morning, and got sleep by the use" of coffee, a thing generally supposed to have an opposite effect, but in my case an invaluable soporific.
Early the next morning — a dull October morning it was — I started to try and find the only excitement left to me. The instructions of the landlord led me in a south-westerly direc- tion towards Millbank Prison, and when I passed that vast building, I could not suppress a sigh of pity for the unfor- tunates confined therein. It must be a terrible thing to be immured in a prison. Dull as I was, I had to admit there might be a fate worse than ennui. Passing at the back of the wall of the prison, and twisting among a labyrinth of streets which follow the course of the river Chels^awards, I arrived at an open space or small square which I ascertained to be near my destination. It looked dismal enough. The dark clouds hung low overhead, and a murky atmosphere, full of the damp of the river, pervaded all the surroundings. It was not cold, but damp and dismal, like the inside of a charnel-house. The last night had brought down a great many of the brown and faded leaves from the two or three sycamore trees whose graceless arms stretched skeleton-like over the wall of a garden ground. Perhaps in the summer they and their leafy foliage hid the house behind the wall, and concealed the barred windows from the passers-by, if there ever were such ; but now the trees, with their faded and rotting burdens drip- ping from the recent rains and the present mistiness, only
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
Promethia.
13
served to expose the dull aspect of the house, as the moss on the tombstone indicates the purpose for which it is there and the thing it covers. A few creepers, free from all leaves save those which were sear and red, clinging to the withes or held to them by spiders web, had fixed on the wall of the house, and by no means enlivened the general appearance of the old red bricks. The chimneys had a miserable aspect, and a pair of pigeons sitting on the low parapet seemed as wretched as it was possible for any winged creatures to be. Not a coloured curtain, not a flower, not even the back of a piece of furniture was to be seen in the windows. The front of the house, as visible between the two or three trees, presented an unbroken line of sadness. This was the private lunatic asylum, and on the post of the aged gate was a plate with the name of Dr. Magnus Delgardo.
I cannot say I envied him his residence as I turned to look for the haunted house.
I was standing in a small square, or rather alley. On one side of it was the wall of the lunatic asylum, which might have been about eighty feet in frontage. The house in the rear stood on a considerable quantity of ground, and where the wall was vacant, several trees rose behind it and flung their branches over towards the street. In the further corner the wall adjoined another, somewhat higher, and quite dead. I could see nothing behind it, nor form any conjecture as to what it concealed. It formed a right angle with the other, and served as one wall for the first house of three filling in the third side of the square. I had entered by the fourth side. The square had apparently no outlet save the one by which I had come. Of these three houses, the centre one was Number Two, and the house I was interested in. They were detached. The two were apparently inhabited, / but there was no sign of life about or around them, while the \ third, or centre one, was closely shut up. It stood a little way x back from the road, and had a few feet of garden before it. Peering through the railings and the tangled and neg- lected shrubs behind them, I discovered the windows of the basement open, and with a bold and indifferent air I pushed back the rusted gate and walked up to the front door of the house. After a little search I discovered the bell, and rang it with violence. Its peal sounded shrilly through the empty
Digitized by VjOOQIC
<T. "'
, ^
14 5"/. James* s Magazine.
passages of the deserted habitation, and must have roused any person within, unless he or she belonged to the fraternity of the seven sleepers. I waited patiently, but no one came to answer the summons. I tried it again. Again the bell pealed wildly, and echoed among the deserted chambers ; but no answer. I thought I might as well try and let myself in, but the door was secured. Descending from the front door, I went to the kitchen entrance, which was approached by a flight of steps, and found that unfastened. Taking French leave, I entered, and found myself in a long stone passage. My tread sounded hollow as I walked along, and, opening a door on the right, entered the kitchen.
I cast my eyes around, and discovered it to be wholly vacant There were two or three chairs and a large kitchen table. The grate was empty, and the meat-screen stood on one side, void of plates or dishes. The dresser was also nude, save for a broken cup or two. The furniture, such as it was* had not been touched for some time, for a thick coating of dust and dirt lay on it. The corners of the room were tapes- tried with cobwebs, and the gas bracket had rusted from top to bottom. There was not a sign of living creature in the room, and I turned from it, and, closing the door, proceeded to the next one, which stood partially open.
As I pushed my way in and entered, a low sob caught my ear. Nothing human ever startled me yet. In I went boldly and with confidence.
On a low cane chair near the fireplace, a woman, or at least a creature of the sex usually called female, was seated ; but at first sight she looked more animal than human. She rocked herself to and fro, but made no sound but an occa- sional sob. The room was scantily furnished, and the rem- nant of a fire was all that remained in the grate. On the table lay a broken and battered bonnet, or hat, and beside it a worn-out shawl. On these things my eye rested but a moment. The next it passed from the woman and the table to a black object lying under the darkened window. It was a coffin, to all appearance nailed down and ready for removal, though there was no pall thrown over it, and no indication of any preparation for a funeral. I hardly knew which startled me most, the unexpected sight of the coffin, or the sudden spring of the woman off her chair, and back, cowering and
Digitized by UOOQ IC
Promethia. 1 5
frightened, into the corner of the room, muttering, as she sank down,
" Not yet — not yet. Have pity ! "
She presented a strange spectacle. Her hair was dishevelled, her dress loose and disordered, and her face dirty and hag- gard. She seemed half-starved, and clenched her hands together. She looked frightened and terrified, and her eyes started from her head, but no light came into them. One foot struck out from under her skirt, and it was shoeless, yet a glance at it told me she was not of the lowest class of society. From it I looked at the hands wringing one another, and judged she had been well born. I paused a moment, and then I said slowly,
" Can I stay here to-night ? "
"To-night — to-night," she repeated slowly. "You have come to see the ghost, I suppose." And she came forward and began to arrange her hair and fasten up her dress, trying also to conceal her want of shoes. " You are another curious one. Am not I nearly a ghost, and in life ? " " I hardly knew what to answer. At length I said,
"You look very ill, and with one dead in the house too. You ought to have some one with you. Can I fetch you assistance ? "
She dropped into the chair, and covered her face with her hands.
" Some one will help me. Ah, it is too late ; I shall not live many hours ; but bury me with him, if you will be so good. We were together in life."
" I shall go and fetch assistance for you/" I said quietly, and moving towards the door as I spoke. v She sprang after me and stopped me.
" No one will come. Go upstairs. I have all I want — him and death." She pointed to the coffin, and then upwards. " You can remain as long as you like upstairs, and I want nothing. Take care of the room with the blue paper on the handle. It is haunted worse than the rest."
The exertion of speaking seemed to distress her. She returned to her chair, and cowered down in it as before.
V^^yy/^
' ]^r DigTtfzetfby'
1 6 5/. James's Magazine,
CHAPTER III.
STRANGE EVENTS.
Leaving the unfortunate creature for a few moments, I made my way to the side-door by which I had entered, but found that it was closed and locked. I was quite unable to account for this, but said jestingly, to myself: "In a haunted house doors have a right to lock themselves, if they please ; so I will try the street-door." Partly out of curiosity, and partly because I thought a minute or two could not make a great difference to the poor creature, I thought it as well to have a peep at the other rooms of the house. It just occurred to me that there might be some one else staying upstairs, and then the woman could have immediate assistance from a person of her own sex. Accordingly I tried the front or hall door, and finding I could open that from within easily enough, I ascended the staircase and looked about me. • The house was not built in a modern style. The staircase was very twisty, and^the passages long and rambling. Then there was an unmistakable air of age about the place. The paper on the wall, the oak panelling of the lobby, the cornice of the ceilings, all spoke of the workmanship of bygone days. It was evident, too, that the labour expended on the building had been of an unusual order of merit, and the balustrade, of fine old mahogany, seemed to belong to a time farther back than that of the oak panels. One or two pictures hung on the second landing, but they were so faded that I could not form any idea of their subjects. At the top of the first flight, I looked up and saw that the house was rather a high one, there being at least three flights above that at the top of which I stood, and I thought it as well to explore gradually from the bottom upwards. To my right was a door with the key in it. I turned it in the lock, and entered.
Nothing worthy of notice presented itself. The room was entirely empty and the floor clean ; the shutters were shut, but sufficient light entered through the chinks and the open door to enable me to see all around. Somewhat disappointed, I closed the door again, turned the key, and walked down the passage to the next room. Round the handle of this lock was a piece of blue ribbon, loosely tied ; but to all appearances it
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Promdhia. 1 7
«
had been there for some time, for there was a plentiful coating of blackish dust upon it and the china handle. This must be the dangerous room.
" I ought to wait until night to enter this room," I said to myself, " for ghosts, if genuine ones, never appear by day ; but I suppose there is as much chance of seeing a ghost by day as by night if the truth were known. At any rate, here goes. I can visit the room again at night if it looks promising/'
As I said these words I put my fingers to the key and tried to turn it. The silence of the house oppressed me very much as I paused and drew in my breath for the effort. The key was stuck fast ; it had a great objection to turn. Finding my fingers utterly unequal to the task, I felt for my pencil-case, and, passing it through the round of the key, tried again, using the pencil as a lever. There was a harsh, grating noise, which sounded in my ears very like a squeal or cry of some small animal ; the key turned, and, removing the pencil, I opened ^^». the door— shall I tell the truth >— cautiously. A cold air swept x^^m past me as I moved forward, but the place wa* in total dark^/^*"** ness. I had some matches in my pocket, and I struck qa^f %S^ By the light it afforded I made my way to the window a^l ;^y /^ opened the shutters, not taking the trouble to look at anytlnhg ~ * until the full light of day streamed into the room. It was a very large chamber. The shutters were not at all difficult to remove, and in another moment everything became illu- minated with the peculiar strong light which always seems to enter a long-closed and dark room when the day u first admitted
Looking around me, my gaze first fell upon what I took for a corpse, but on close inspection I found to be only a wax model. It was a beautiful and perfect imitation of the human form, however, and evidenced the workmanship of a true artist. The form and face were those of a woman, and a very beau- tiful one. The model was completely naked, and lay on a sort of tressel table. I approached to examine it carefully ; for, to say the least, it was curious to find it there, and, for all I knew at the first moment, it might be real. I soon tested the substance. Whoever the artist was, he had not made a bad imitation of a human body. The person from whom he had taken his cast was evidently a very young and beautiful woman, fair and pure of skin. The veins were laid on in the VOL. 1. Digitized by (Google
1 8 5"/. James's Magazine.
most wonderful manner, and it, was the perfection of their execution which had deceived or rather made me doubtful as to the reality of the substance. Her figure was about middle size, and the lower limbs were full and well-proportioned. The feet were especially small and delicate, and the toe-nails as natural as if they were real. The thighs had received no less attention from the artist than the rest of the body, and the swell of the virgin hips and fall of ths waist had been made quite a study, and a successful one. . Above rose the breasts, perfect and beautiful, moulded full and shapely like two marble towers, and the nipples were delicately tinted with a dead flesh tint, while every fold and crease in their soft structure was imitated with a marvellous precision. Over and round the breasts the blue veins spread and wound in and out, and shone from the softness of the flesh with the most perfect natural appearance ; and thence glancing at the fair and rounded neck and flie face, it was astonishing to find how wonderful the skill of the modelist must have been. The features were per- fectly regular, the nose rather prominent, the chin deeply dimpled and fully rounded into childlike grace and softness. The lips almost smiled as they closed together, and the fancy could half imagine the warm breath of life flowing gently from the rosy portals of some sweet-bosomed young woman. The cheeks had a healthy glow about them, and the forehead was fair and smooth, though in it, as in the lack of lustre of the golden hair, one could perceive a shadow as of the presence of death. There xwas that indescribable want of vital essence under the brow and in the long coils of golden-hued hair, such -as is to be seen on the freshly dead, — a want of something, but a nameless quality. All we can tell is that we miss something there just before the hand of the destroyer swept across the features. We know that this change is due to what we call death, but what that death is we know not. It was this sort of look which spoilt the perfection of the model. But it only applied to certain parts of the flesh, for the lower portions of the body were perfect and lifelike.
I could not help passing my hand over the hair and the face to satisfy myself that I was not being deceived by my senses. There was no mistake about it : the ghost I had found was a very beautiful though scarcely a commendable or serviceable work of art. Where was the artist ? The man who could do
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Promethia. 1 9
this so perfectly could do many far more beautiful and really valuable works. This might have a certain value to the curious in such matters, but for the general public it would hardly be worth getting possession of. Of course, American-like, to have for my own anything extraordinary, out of the common, and clever, was the first thing I thought of.
While thinking of this, and delighting my eyes by gazing again and again on the perfection of the workmanship before me, I failed to notice what was going on elsewhere in the room. When I did so, I found myself face to face with a sight more terrible than anything ever conceived by the wildest visionary. I cannot describe it. I cannot even say whether the Thing was human, animal, or merely substance. It had form, but I can speak nothing positive of the form. I only know that it was before me, and on the other side of the waxen model. I shivered, and for the first time in my life felt what is called fear. I never knew the feeling before. Nothing horrible — and I had seen horrors enough — ever pro- duced the least effect upon me. I had been over three-days- old battle-fields ; I had walked through all sorts of hospitals ; I had explored anatomical museums in all parts of the world, and I had spent many hours in the dissecting-rooms of London and continental hospitals and colleges. I had done a good deal in the way of experimental vivisection myself, with a view of getting excitement from the suffering of dumb creation, but I had never felt the least repugnance for the sight of blood or suffering, human or otherwise, fa single instances or massed together. Some people had called me brutal. I think I was only callous, and had sufficient self-respect not to pretend to a feeling I did not possess. Do not imagine I was an inhuman man. On the contrary, the poor and the suffering never applied to me in vain ; but though I commiserated their suf- ferings, I could not leathern affect me, as I did not feel with, though I could for them. It was then a very exceptional thing for me to be moved by terror of any kind, and I can only ask you to believe that the object which rose or entered before me was too terrible to be even described. It was there ; I felt its presence, and I was obliged to face it, but only for a moment. The Thing seemed about to move towards me, and the terror and horror it inspired in me were so fearful that my heart suddenly stopped short, and I fell senseless to the
SrOUnd' Digitized by G00gle
20 5/. James's Magazine.
CHAPTER IV.
A PURSUIT.
It is impossible for me to say what occurred during the middle of that eventful day. I remembered nothing until I was aroused by a shriek, and suddenly opening my eyes I found myself lying in the room with nothing to be seen anywhere but the bare walls and a tressel, the one on which the mar- vellous model had rested ; but the model and all vestige of it, and the Thing which had so frightened me, were gone, and there was nothing left to indicate what had become of either the one or the other. I began to fancy that I had been the subject of an illusion. I thought it probable that an attack of indigestion had set in and made my eyes see for themselves imaginary objects, while the same cause might well account for my swoon. True, the impressions— and especially the recent one, of a loud and terrible scream — were strong upon me, but then I knew well that in certain states of the body the mind is entirely free from all control of sense, and often fancies and believes in the existence of the most absurd things. " There is no accounting for the vagaries of the brain," I thought, " and I had better get home and take some medicine before I am worse."
Thinking thus, I rose to my feet and shook the dust off my coat, not wishing to go into the streets in the state I then was, when as I prepared to leave the room another and yet more appalling cry resounded through the house. It pro- ceeded from the lower regions, and I naturally concluded it had some connection with the woman I had seen, as my watch told me, some few hours ago. I made my way below, and found the door of the room shut, and locked on the inside. Feeling certain that my assistance within was needed, I burst open the door, and found the woman prostrate on the ground, and a strong odour of charcoal proceeding from a large lighted pan in the centre of the chamber. At a glance I understood the intention of the poor creature, and I felt some pity for her. She had flung herself down close to the coffin. I had no curiosity to see the man lying in the latter, but I took her up and moved her into the purer air, where she gradually recovered herself. She sat up on the
Digitized by UOOQ IC
Promethia. z I
edge of the stairs, and took my hand between hers, and shed tears over it I let her weep in silence until I thought it necessary to go and fetch some assistance. She could have had little to eat, and her enfeebled frame might succomb to the effects already communicated to it by the pernicious charcoal.
" I must go and get you something," I said, gently dis- engaging myself from her clinging clasp of my hand.
" Do not leave me. You have saved me, and yet I wish you had not. Oh, do not go. I shall die if you do, and I do not want to die alone."
"You shall not die/' I said. " I am going for a few minutes only, to get you some food. You are ill, and need it. Tell me something about yourself. Can I not take you to any friends?"
I felt perfectly certain that though she was reduced to the lowest verge of destitution, she was a lady born and bred. It was not with an idle curiosity merely that I inquired about her friends ; but it seemed to me highly probable that I was there for the very purpose of saving this poor creature ; and though I am no fatalist, I fancied there was something more than chance in my being in time t6 prevent the consummation of her crime. But she entreated me not to leave her, and I puzzled my wits to think how it was possible to get assistance without moving outside the house. Nobody would be likely to come near a house with such an evil reputation ; and if they did pass by, how should I be able to let them know that a fellow-creature was within, in a forlorn condition, and need- ing the necessaries of life? At length I persuaded her to accompany me to the front door and look out there, and I promised not to leave her for a moment. She seemed willing to follow or come with me anywhere ; so we went upstairs, and she took hold of the key of the hall door and opened it We looked out together, but there was not a creature in sight The morning was far advanced ; the weather was not a bit more cheerful than when I started on this strange ex- pedition, and the chance of any one coming into this cul de sac appeared extremely remote unless it should be a trades- man on his way to the asylum opposite. We went into the dining-room, which was on the first floor, and stood looking out of the window. I again tried to persuade her to leave the
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
22 Si. James's Magazine.
house with me, or permit me to go and fetch some assistance, if only from over the way. She shuddered at the mention of th$ asylum ; she put up her hands deprecatingly, and seemed to fear some danger from it. I soothed her and waited a little longer, watching the whole of the road before the house, and especially keeping an open eye on the asylum, for I hoped assistance might come from there, and was fully deter- mined to call for it if I saw the least sign of a Jiving being at the windows, or in the little bit of garden, a glimpse of which I caught over the aged gate. Time passed but slowly, and I was thinking of breaking my word to her, when she suddenly looked up earnestly at the opposite house. I saw her gaze fix itself intently on the window. Her eyes seemed nearly starting from their sockets ; her look grew a fixed one of most intense agony. I followed it, but could only discern the outline of a woman's form through the half-drawn blinds. Presently she uttered a piercing shriek, and starting from my side rushed across the room and the hall, and darted down the steps before I could stop her or find sense enough to do more than follow mechanically.
She firstjof all seemed to make for the exit from the square, but apparently changed her mind. Her feet, all shoeless, turned in the other direction ; and ere I could stop her, or catch her up, she was at the gate of the asylum and pushing against it.
" I will face her once more/' she exclaimed ; " I will see her again and know the truth."
These were the utterances, broken and incoherent, which fell on my ear ; but their meaning did not reach my sense. I was only anxious to restrain her from violence to herself or others, and followed with that object. Everything else was forgotten in the intense suspense of the moment. I crossed the road, and was about to take her by the arm and drag her back from the gate when she succeeded in effecting her pur- pose, and pushed the gate in. It flew back on its rusted hinges with a groaning noise, and she was all but precipitated to the ground by the violence of the effort to which it had yielded. Recovering herself, she went forward, closely followed by me. The front door did not seem to please her, for she passed the steps which led up to it and forced her way through the tangled shrubs of the garden to the rear of the building.
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
Promethia. 23
I closely pursued her. Presently she faced round at a door in the angle of the wall, which apparently led into some of the back offices, and rushed at it like a tigress, as if deter- mined to force it in by the mere weight and impetus of her body. I followed hastily, bent, on seizing her before she could do herself a mischief; but as I stepped forward, and for the purpose of intercepting her, diverged a little to the right, something gave way beneath my feet, and I was precipitated down a hole or trap for a considerable distance. I recollect striking something in my fall, but immediately afterwards I lost all consciousness.
( To be continued, )
Digitized by VjOOQlC
The Czar Nicholas' Letters on the Crimean War,
By JOHN AUGUSTUS O'SHEA.
[ OW that another fierce war in the East is apparently- inevitable, men's minds go back to the war some score years ago, in which British soldiers measured arms with the Russians. Thomas Carlyle con- siders that to have been "a mad war, and a war of the most hideous and tragic stupidity, mismanagement, and disaster." The outspoken — sometimes tOD outspoken — critic of events is right, but in a wider sense than probably he means. In both camps there were blunders of a gross kind. An officer whose military judgment has since received national recognition, Sir Garnet Wolseley, has told us in words unmistakable of the pitiful appearance the British army presented in the Crimea. That is now notorious and admitted ; but th^re are other things which are not notorious, and it is well for the admirers of the Muscovites to know them. That it was not all smooth with the enemy is attested by no less a witness than the high and mighty Autocrat of All the Russias, the Czar Nicholas himself, in letters written deproprid vtanu to the Princes Mentchikof and Gortchakof, at the time the bloody drama was in action. These letters are new to English readers — have never been translated in full, that I am aware ; and now that once more the Eastern problem — unsolvable but by the sword — obtrudes itself, they acquire a fresh and most vital interest. This Czar Nicholas, who was the bugbear of our boyhood, who was preached at in pulpit and railed at on platform, caricatured and cursed in prose and verse and picture, had in him after all some qualities that were very human. He brooked no contradiction, he was imperious as well as imperial; but it is hard for a human being who is taught to believe himself the bearer of a divine
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
The Czar Nicholas' Letters on the Crimean War. 25
mission to be otherwise. But if he tyrannized over subjects, it was only because he believed it to be for their good to chastise them. Firm in the natural conceit of his own ineffable and unquestionable grandeur, he gave his people now the rod, now the kind word, now the quick command, and now the fondling touch that a master gives to his dog— just the affection of patronage, and no more. And his people, who "possess the talent of obedience/' licked his hands — which must mightily please the philosopher of Cheyne Row. But to the letters I propose to introduce to EngHshmen of the practical rather than the transcendental temperament. They tell a story as to Russian fitness in the Crimean war which singularly bears out the French Marshal's saying — not altogether inapplicable to his own countrymen — that "there is much display in all Russian affairs." The strong, stern ruler, who had faith in himself and in his legions— the stately, handsome giant, with the cruel eye and iron hand — this surely a figure to captivate the worshipper of brute force ! — watched the contest in the bleak Chersonese with an anxiety that had in it the germ of fever ; and in his communications with his lieutenants, the changing emotions of his soul are kaleidoscoped, the misgivings, th^ hopes, the anguishes. Those letters are an Iliad in little. There is in them much that is "tragic," and a depth of unsuspected tenderness, a richness of nature, and a delicacy of feeling for which autocrats seldom get credit and more seldom deserve credit. They cannot be overlooked by the historian, projecting as they do a powerful light on the inner wire-pullings of that conflict in the Crimea and on the little-understood character of the Czar.
Let the reader carry himself back to the eventful autumn of 1854. The armies of the Allies on the one side, of Holy Russia on the other, are drawn up in battle-array. Both are full of confidence, and both claim to go to battle in the spell names of religion, an J civilization, and country, and humanity purest, and all that. The first shock wakes Europe from the banks of the Alma on the 20th of September. In less than three hours the onset of the Allies is successful, and the Russians are in full retreat. St. Arnaud pitches his tent on the very spot where Mentchikof was encamped in the morning ; the Russian prince has had to go away in such a hurry that
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
26 Si. James's Magazine.
he leaves his pocket-book and correspondence behind him. It is a stunning, because so unexpected, discomfiture for the Russians, and one will expect that it is a sore blow to their imperial master. So it is, of a verity. He is at Gatchinp, one of his palaces near St. Petersburg, where he hungrily awaits tidings of glorious victory, when the tale of defeat arrives. The blow is indeed sore ; but he bears it with right royal fortitude, and sends written counsel to Mentchikof to be of good cheer. This first letter of the series is dated within four days of the passage of the Alma — that is to say, September 12th of the Russian calendar, 24th of ours ; and if you will read it through, and also those which succeed it, by the light of what afterwards passed, you will learn a lesson. Thus it runs : —
GATCHINO, 12M/24/A September, 1854.
The will of God be accomplished ; you and your subordinates have done your duty. The repulse is cruel, but the losses are much more so. Let us not despair of the supreme goodness ; we must hope for better days. My confidence in you and the army is not in the least diminished. Our turn will come, perhaps. What I consider a happy omen is the well- combined flank movement which succeeded in drawing you out of the •critical position in which you were, and placing you where, I confess, I expected to see you. The communications with the fortifications and the roads for the transport of provisions are thus set free. And what I regard as much more important is that you can, in your turn, intimidate the enemy, finding yourself as you do on his skirts.
I fear much for Sevastopol : is the garrison strong enough against such audacious and enterprising adversaries ? How long is the defence from the north side likely to last? Those are painful questions, the solution of which I ardently wish may be reassuring.
I beg of you, write to me oftener ; my position is most cruel and difficult. I must have frequent news, so that I may know what to do, and be able to prepare myself for all contingencies.
May the Lord bless you as well as the army !
Tell the latter that I have faith in it now as in the past, and that I am firmly convinced that soon it will prove once more that my confidence is justified.
Give my greeting to Kornilof and our brave sailors. Their position causes me much anxiety, but God is merciful, and we must not despair ! Does there still exist some other means of communicating with Sevastopol ?
I embrace you !
Same date.
My dear Mentchikof,— I have just received this instant your second report of the 6th, and you can easily picture to yourself with what feverish impatience I am expecting the continuation. My hope in God
Digitized by VjOOQ l€
The Czjr Nicholas* Letters on the Crimean War. 27
is unshaken, as well as my confidence in you and my faithful troops by land and sea. I believe and I hope that all will do their duty, and I submit with calm to what it may please the divine wisdom to decide.
I am uneasy on account of this new descent which is expected at Theodosia.
If God has decided that Sevastopol will not be able to resist, I hope at least that you will not yield our fleet without striking a blow, that you will rather destroy it yourself. Join the effective of the crews to your army, and strive to keep your ground in the south, or cut yourself a passage towards SimpbeYopol ! ... May the Lord strengthen and preserve you, as well as the brave men who serve under your orders ! My greeting to all our people ! My paternal benediction for future exploits ! I am con- fident that the zeal will be universal.
To Prince Gortchakof.
20th September lind October.
Dear Gortchakof, — Once more you have known how to anticipate my wishes in deciding to direct the tenth and eleventh divisions towards Odessa. It seems to me you could not have acted better. I only hope you have given orders to the twelfth division and to that of the lancers of the reserve to hasten their march, so as to come to the aid of Ment- chikof. This is indispensable, for time is precious. The only chance of safety for Sevastopol is the hope that Mentchikof will receive prompt reinforcements, and that he will be able to take the offensive. We must thank God that Mentchikof has succeeded in operating this flank move- ment in face of the enemy. After this unfortunate affair, after the considerable losses both of chief and subaltern officers, the order with which the movement was effected reflects the greatest honour on him and the troops alike. Now, no matter what happens^ Mentchikof s corps has a free passage, even if it should not succeed in saving Sevastopol. I avow to you that I anticipated worse than that— a complete disaster.
The enemy has invaded our soil : the time has come for each one to sacrifice himself to the service of his country. This is why I have decided to send my two younger sons to the army. I desire that at the commencement they should be attached to your person, in order that they may accustom themselves to their new calling. It will depend on you to dispatch them where there will be advantage for them, and encourage- ment for the army. In confiding them to you, I give you the best proof of my friendship, and of the esteem in which I hold you for the nobility of your sentiments. Strive to instil the same into their minds also. May they in time do their duty as you do yours.
God be with you ! I embrace you cordially.
To Prince Mentchikof.
26th September /StA October.
Two of your bulletins, dear Mentchikof, have reached me to-day : this
morning, that of the 16th of this month, dated from Tatar-Kioi ; the
other in the afternoon, dated the 18th, from the fortifications of the
north. Thanks to God that the danger which threatened Sevastopo
Digitized by VjOOv IC
28 5*/. James's Magazine.
from the north side has been removed ! The only question now is to know if the actual state of things is not still more^dangerous for the town, Recollecting the slender means of defence from the land side, and the want of solidity of the hasty fortifications thrown up, I confess I am not able to overcome serious apprehensions. All my hope is in the Divine mercy, in the valour of the troops, and in the skill they will display in profiting ably of the advantages which the ground offers. As far as I know and can call to mind, the possibility of a stubborn defence exists ; I am convinced nothing will be left undone to that end.
In saluting everybody on my part, I beg of you to tell each one not to let himself be disheartened. God is our defender. No matter what arrives, we shall not cease to have faith in Him, and we shall know how to submit to His will.
I embrace you with all my heart.
2jtA Septembcrfoth October.
Very late yesterday evening, my dear Mentchikof, I received your report of the 21st. God be blessed that everything goes on happily ! I find your manner of seeing things very just ; but will you be able, with the help of God, to hold out for long ? That is the entire question. I wish I could be less uneasy, but, alas ! I fear that in spite of our efforts, in spite of the courage of the troops, the strength of the attack will get the the upper hand of that of the defence. Would to God that I deceive myself ! . . . .
I thank all and each for the zeal displayed.
Tell our brave sailors that I count on them by land as by sea. Let nobody be discouraged. Above all, let us remember that we are Russians, that we defend our country and our religion, and let us resign ourselves to the decrees of Providence.
May the Lord keep you under His holy and powerful protection ! My prayers are for you and our just cause. All my soul and my thoughts are with you !
My greeting to Gortchakof : I embrace Kornilof.
What about our wounded ? Are they well taken care of? Where and how have they been sheltered from the bombs ?
Extract from a Letter to Prince Gortchakof.
27M September j<)th October. To-morrow I give my benediction to my younger sons before they set out on their journey. I presume they will present themselves to you between the 3rd and 5th of October. Be their guide ; make valiant and loyal soldiers of them. I answer for their good will. Do not spoil them, and always tell them the truth.
Extract from a Letter to Prince Mentchikof.
30/i September 1 1 2th October.
Yesterday evening, dear Mentchikof, I received your report of the 24th of September. You are so miserly with your details that I am hardly able to form a judgment either of the situation or of the defence of Sevastopol.
If God in His mercy permit the present state of things to last eight days
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
The Czar Nicholas* Letters en the Crimean War. 29
more — if Liprandi, with his excellent division, which can be depended upon, succeed in rejoining you, you will have at your disposal at Sevastopol nearly seventy-five thousand men, which, please God, you will employ with profit, and save Sevastopol, the fleet, and the country.
I repeat, let nobody be discouraged ; let each one prove that we are those same Russians who defended their country in 1812.
My greeting to all, with the expression of my hope. I embrace you.
yd/ 1 St A October.
The newspapers are filled with official accounts about the battle of Alma, whilst I know nothing more of this encounter than I have gleaned from the four lines you sent me, and the verbal recitals of Creig and D'AlbedinskL
I demand a lengthened and truthful report It is shameful that I am not, up to this moment, in a position to answer these bulletins with con- viction and a perfect knowledge of affairs. Here nobody can understand this silence, I less than anybody else. The whole thing is incomprehen- sible to me, and oppresses me. It is high time that this should end.
Neither do I know in what state Kvitnizki finds himself, and all our other wounded. I want a precise report on everything— the number of those dead from wounds, of those on the way to recovery, and how many there are entirely restored to health.
I am much pleased that the Tartars of the Guard have had the chance of distinguishing themselves. You have done well to reward them for it. Keep the courage of the troops alive, and I am certain soon to have good news.
To Prince Gortchakof.
6////18M October. Your letter of the 30th of September, my dearest Gortchakof, reached me yesterday evening, and this morning Mentchikof s son arrived with news of the same date. Thanks to God, nothing grave has happened up to this day with respect to Sevastopol, which makes me hope that the Lancers and Dragoons of the twelfth division will not delay. Never- theless, I share your opinion that one cannot answer for anything. I am very much pleased 4hat the cholera is not spreading at Ismail ; on the other hand, I regret exceedingly that the mortality is so great at Kischinef. I am, moreover, persuaded you will take the necessary measures to arrest the evil and to remedy it. Is the number considerable of those who quit the other hospitals and re-enter the ranks ? How do you arrange for them to rejoin their respective detachments? Would it not be well to incor- porate those who come from a distance with the nearest reserved troops, so as to avoid too long marches in such bad weather?
I press you in my arms. I beg of you to embrace my children for me.
To Prince Mentchikof.
7M and 8M/19M and 20th October.
Your son, my dear Mentchikof, arrived early yesterday morning, and
has transmitted to me your verbal commissions. I thank God, nothing
new has happened up to the 30th, and that the reserves continue their
march towards you without any obstacle. The communications once free
Digitized by VjOOQIC
30 Si. Jameses Magazine.
the supply of provisions is guaranteed, also the transport of the trains of artillery, and of the materials necessary for defence, if it become inevitable. To judge from your son's words, it seems to me that our ideas agree with respect to future projects. In attacking the enemy in proportion as we shall fortify ourselves in the places most favourable for this purpose, we shall avoid much of the danger to which we should, be exposed were our attack more audacious. And then, by this means, the troops unfamiliar with the smell of powder will get used to fire ; it will give them a taste for arms. Take good care, however, not to fatigue them too much, and to keep them warm and nourish them as well as possible. . . . Is it true that the enemy's trenches are being excavated by means of a steam machine?*
Your son has likewise spoken to me of a new projectile launched against the town from the side of the sea. Have one or two of them sent on, in order to have them well examined.
I have consented to your project of transferring the Tartars from the coast ; you can put it in execution when you judge it indispensable, but take care that this measure may not have vexatious consequences for the innocent — that is to say, the women and children — and that above all it gives no hold for any abuse.
Write to me if many of the wounded are recovered, and what is the total number.
Send me one of those English guns of new pattern introduced lately into their army.t
\oth\22nd October.
I still and always thank Divine Providence that nothing bad has occurred up to the 4th inst. From the advices from Gortchakof, you ought to know that the two last divisions of the fourth corps advance towards you without delay. Thus, dear Mentchikof, all has been done as you see — I dare even add that more, has been done than could be hoped, for the purpose of paralyzing the designs of the enemy. All that remains now to ask of God, is that the last reinforcement may reach its destina- tion in time for the salvation of Sevastopol.
I find it passing strange that, having written to you more than once on the subject, and having: given you distinct orders, I have not received, after tedious waiting, any detailed account of the battle which took place near the Alma. You put me in the most disagreeable position before Russia, for the people know my sincerity ; they are certain I will not hide the truth, no matter how painful. At the present moment no one under- stands this silence, — the more so because the foreign newspapers are full of the most minute details of what has passed among the enemy and even in part amongst us. And we are silent ! Are we not prepared to answer all this ? Probably it is not suspected that even I know nothing except by word of mouth. Confess, dear Mentchikof, that it is not proper to place me in such a false position. This is the last time that I entreat and com- mand you to write to me everything and in^detail. It is I alone, and no
* This rumour must have had its origin in smoke. The Allies had a railway — the first time steam was used in land warfare — from Balaklava to the camp, t The Minie* rifle.
Digitized by VjOOQIC
The Czar Nicholas Letters on the Crimean War. 31
other, who ought to decide what it is necessary to conceal, and what to make known.
I also repeat my demand with reference to the wounded ; what is the number of the dead, of the convalescent, and of those who have resumed service?
Send the registers of the officers killed or wounded. They are pre- paring fur clothes for your soldiers. Nourish them to satiety; if necessary, give them double rations of wine. Raise their courage by telling them that I am satisfied with them, and that I depend on them.
I embrace you from the depths of my soul. After the news of the first Bombardment of Sevastopol.
lit A 1 23rd October,
This moment, dear Mentchikof, I receive your two bulletins of the 5th and 6th. Glory to God! glory to the heroes, defenders of Sevastopol ! The first attempt has been repulsed with success. I thank all and each one separately for having justified thus my confidence in them. Was it I who could not know what those brave men were capable of? By land and by sea they are rivalling each other to see which can better accomplish their duty. Thus it was always — thus jf' shall ever be ! Communicate to them the expression of my pater^jjl ' gratitude — yes, paternal, for I love them as my own children. . \ * '
The glorious end* of our dear and worthy Kornilof has profoundly afflicted me. Peace to his ashes ! Bury him near our illustrious Lasaref. If we live to a tranquil epoch, we will erect a monument on the place wfcer^1" he fell, and the bastion will bear his name. ~"K- «*
What I cannot understand is how the battery (No. 10) could have rested intact. I suppose he who commanded it merits the Cross of Saint George of the fourth class.
When you have leisure summon a council and decide to whom it is right and fitting to distribute recompenses. Give to the men of the above- mentioned battery three roubles each, and to all who took part in the combat two roubles. Besides the crosses which you may distribute, add on my part five roubles for each battery.
To Prince Gortchakof.
14M/26M October.
Thanks, my dear Gortchakof, for your letter of the 7th of October. I rejoice from the bottom of my heart that our thoughts often agree to such a nicety, that one would say we had consulted each other beforehand.
I am perfectly of your opinion with respect to the measures to be taken in the Crimea under present circumstances.
This morning Mentchikof sent me reports of the 8th and 9th in- stants. The bombardment continues, but without causing considerable damage to us. There has been no new attack from the water-side. Mentchikof expects an assault at any moment. He has reinforced the garrison with thirty-eight thousand men, not including the cavalry. The enemy will probably concentrate his efforts on the weakest side. Ment- chikof believes he ought to keep on the defensive before taking the offensive, which cannot be previous to the arrival of the tenth and
Digitized by VjOOQIC
32 SL James's Magazine.
eleventh divisions. I am strongly apprehensive that they will be late- It is improbable that the situation can last more than from twenty-three to twenty-five days. This lapse of time will pass before the arrival of the last reinforcement, and what anguish this waiting ! God alone can save Sevastopol from the extreme danger that menaces it. I suppose honour requires you to send my recruits (I allude to the Grand Dukes Nicolas and Michel) in the Crimea to Mentchikof, in order to remain there until the danger is passed, or rather until the defeat of the enemy. Afterwards they can return to me. If danger exists, it is not for my children to avoid it ; they ought to serve as an example to the others. Therefore, with the aid of God, let them set out on their route. Adieu ! I embrace you with all my soul ; may the Lord protect you !
To Prince Mentchikof.
14/y* /26M October.
Early this morning, my excellent Mentchikof, I received your report of the 8th. I approve in every point your manner of judging our actual position. It is necessary to venture nothing, but to act with decision and prudence. I trust in you, in the zeal and courage of the generals, of the admirals, of soldiers and sailors, with the intimate conviction that Russian heroes can surmount all difficulties, and that they will scrupulously accomplish their duty. After that, it rests with the Lord to decide for us what is or is not to happen. We shall resign ourselves to His will without murmuring. I do not hide it, I fear much that we may not be able, with our feeble means and hastily constructed fortifications, to repulse a cleverly directed assault, or to defend ourselves against con- siderable forces.
If it is decided on High that it is impossible to save Sevastopol, at least it is necessary to collect the remains of the garrison without panic, to retreat with order towards the reserve, and, having occupied some advan- tageous position, to strive, not to leave the enemy time to fortify himself in the town.
I have authorised my sons Nicolas and Michel to return to you. May their presence amongst you be a token of my confidence. May my chil- dren learn to share your perils, and serve as example and encouragement to my brave ones by land and sea, to whom I confide them.
To-day, we have assisted at a dead mass for the repose of the soul of Kornilof, and we have sincerely wept.
16M/28M October.
Your bulletin of the 4th, my dear Mentchikof, reached me this even- ing. The heroic defence which lasts so long, and the individual acts of bravery of which I learn, transport me. It will be so much the more to be regretted, if, after the prodigious efforts of our troops, we abandon Sevastopol to occupy the northern part. When the tenth and eleventh divisions shall have rejoined you, I hope you will find means to give the enemy a good lesson, to sustain the reputation and honour of our army.
I thank each and all for their heroic courage and their faithful service, and tell them how much I regret not to be able to be in their midst. My children are there at least !
I press you to my heart.
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
The Czar Nicholas* Letters on the Crimean War. 33 After the news of the Occupation of Tchorooun.
19////3U/ October.
Thanks to God, thanks to you, and to the companions of your exploits for the excellent commencement of our offensive operations ! I am grate- ful to you, my dear Mentchikof, for having so well interpreted my inten- tions when expressing my thanks to our brave troops : they were well deserved. I feel no less pleasure in the bravery of our incomparable seamen, the intrepid defenders of Sevastopol I rejoice to find that my sailors in the Black Sea still remain the same as I remember them in 1828. I have seen with my own eyes that nothing is impossible to them. Tell them that their old acquaintance, who has so often inspected them, is proud of them, that he thanks them as a father does his dear children ! Let these words be communicated to them in the order of the day. My aide-de-camp, Prince Galitzine, is instructed to visit each of the crews with a greeting from me, and the expression of my gratitude. I anticipate that my sons will arrive in time to take part in what is being prepared. I entrust them to your care. I am pleased to think that they will show themselves worthy of the rank which they occupy. I entrust them also to the troops in token of my attachment May their presence with you compensate for my absence. May our merciful Lord preserve you ! I press you to my heart. My cordial greeting to all.
I embrace Liprandi for his victorious dtbut.
Particularly thank from me the regiment of lancers of the reserve, recently formed from divers elements for having so heroically renewed its service.
The children will probably follow in the footsteps of their fathers.
After Inkermann.
31// October \\2th November.
You must not let yourself be depressed, my dear Mentchikof, whilst you are at the head of the heroes of Sevastopol, having under your orders a body of eighty thousand choice troops, who have just proved once mor: what they are capable of when they are led as they ought to be, and where they ought to be. With such gallant men it would be disgraceful to think of defeat
Again tell them that I thank them— that seeing their true Russian courage I am satisfied with them.
If hitherto we have not had the success which we had a right to expect, God is still full of mercy, and perhaps the success will yet come.
As to abandoning Sevastopol, it would be disgraceful to think of it, so long as there are inside its walls and outside eighty thousand soldiers full of energy : it would be to forget our duty, and to lose all feeling of honour and patriotism. That is why I cannot for a moment think of such a thing. Let us die with glory, but not capitulate nor beat a retreat !
I write no more, for I know not what there is to write about, i am happy that God has preserved my sons safe and sound ; that they have shown themselves equal to their position and its exigencies. I end as I began : Let no one be discouraged— you, as commander, least of all, for all eyes are turned towards you, and your example ought to animate every
VOL. I. Digitized by£i<
34 £/. James's Magazine.
individual to the fulfilment of his duty to the last extremity. May God protect you ! I embrace you affectionately.
2iid\\^h November.
In the name of God, take care of the wounded ; watch over them as much as possible. Encourage the troops ; speak to them in my name ; thank them ! Let them know that their services are appreciated, and that their exploits reach me. Reward as soon as possible those who distinguish
themselves
7////19/A November.
Your report of the 31st of October reached me this evening, my dear Mentchikof. God be praised that nothing very bad has happened as yet I The animated spirit of the army rejoices me very much ; besides, I had no right to doubt it. It would be desirable that the troops should dis- tinguish themselves, show their valour and their zeal : they can do it if they are skilfully directed. Thanks to God, the wounded are recovering. I will not cease to beg of you to do all you can to alleviate their sufferings. It is with a lively sentiment of pleasure I read your report, so honourable to my children ; as a father, I am happy not to have been deceived in them. In my last letter I had already granted you the permission to decorate them, if you thought it just to do so. It would be wrong, too, to forget all those who are meritorious. I suppose Prince Gortchakof will find no obstacle in sending to you what forces he can spare from Nicolatef. Note well that, those forces arrived, there will be no more to send. It would be vexatious to exhaust this last reserve, for it is the only one avail- able to complete the other corps, for God alone knows what awaits us.
It is very much to be regretted that your excellent cavalry had no chance of distinguishing itself.
14M/26M and lyhfath November.
Your report of the 6th of November has been received this morning, dearest Mentchikof. God be praised ! It is more consoling than the preceding ones. The tempest of the 2nd of this month was a provi- dential help, whose consequences have been much more decisive for the -«nemy than we supposed. It would be curious to know what passed between Balaklava and Chersonese ; it is to be supposed that the tempest raged there with no less violence, and caused serious damage. At least, <our men have been able to take breathing-time and rest themselves from this bombardment, which has lasted a month without truce or intermission.
I beseech you, do not forget the rewards ; you must recompense accord- ing to merit.
In answer to a Bulletin of Prince Mentchikof of the 15TH of same Month.
2yd November.' I see with pleasure that your hope of saving Sevastopol does not vanish, that the spirit of heroism and audacity which animates our soldiers, as in past times, seems to increase with the intensity of the danger. It would be a crime to doubt it, and yet, in reading those recitals my heart throbs very fast. How I would wish to fly to you to share your fortune, instead &1 tormenting myself here with incessant fears. Thanks for not having
Digitized by VjOOQ IC .
The Czar Nicholas' Letters on the Crimean War. 35
left without recompense the principal authors of the exploits of the 24th, our brave soldiers. I cannot help weeping when I read what my children write to me, and what Sturler writes to me of the sailors. Those are heroes ! They must be rewarded often and liberally.
And now may the will of God be accomplished ! Let us wait, and let us submit ourselves humbly to His decrees ! May He preserve you all !
I embrace you.
27M November.
I address my thanks to you, dear Mentchikof, for your eagerness in tranquillising me. The want of powder inspired me with much anxiety. It would seem that now this serious difficulty is got over. According to what you tell me, we shall be able to yield in nothing to the enemy's fire, if they recommence with the same vigour, which I expect.
To judge by the news received from you and that which comes to me from different sources, I am more and more persuaded that this is the plan of our adversaries : to be patient until their forces are doubled by the regular arrival of the drafts on their way to them, to drag along until all are assembled, and then to recommence the bombardment with redoubled violence, and, what would not be improbable, to renew the assault on three sides at once.
It is important to take care of the troops as much as possible ; that is to say, to nourish them to repletion, not to fatigue them uselessly, to give them the best shelter available, besides furred garments. As to filling up the gaps in their ranks, it shall be looked after.
At present I must change my theme, and speak to you on a painful subject The health of my wife is so bad that she cannot leave her bed ; her weakness is extreme. Since the departure of her sons she has grown worse. It would be a consolation for her to see them. I fancy that this could be arranged in case hostilities were not renewed, and there is nothing decisive in view. But these obstacles removed^ I see others arise: would not their return produce a bad effect on the troops and weaken their courage ? In short, let them come back only in case you find nothing to say against it
29M November.
I think right to declare to the troops who compose the garrison of Sevastopol for the last two months — soldiers and sailors alike — that in recognition of their zeal, their courage, and their privations, I order each month to count as a year's service, with all due privileges and prerogatives. They merit it fully ; you will declare it to them on the anniversary of the Sovereign's/?/* (6th December). You distribute rewards too parsi- moniously. I beg of you, grant me the pleasure of seeing those who are worthy of it well recompensed. The arms taken from the enemy can be divided among the crews of the fleet Write to me how many wounded have returned to the ranks, how many there are dead, and how many on the road to recovery.
5////17M December. Dear Mentchikof, the evening before yesterday I received your report of the 29th of November. It is with satisfaction I confirm your pre-
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
36 S/. James's Magazine.
sentation of rewards in every particular. Valour ought to be recom- pensed. I beg of you to signalise those who distinguish themselves most frequently. Now or never is the occasion to grant decorations and pro- motions, especially to such of the young officers as are promising.
Are our troops well sheltered ? Are they warm enough ? Are they well fed ? Has the cavalry sufficient forage ? What about the sick and wounded ?
St. Petersburg, 29M December.
Write to me if the victualling of the army is sufficient, and for about how long it will last ? Why has the effective force of the dragoons com- menced to grow so perceptibly weak ?
5M/17M January, 1855.
I hope the troops are not suffering much from the bad weather, for we do not dread the cold, provided they can be well nourished, an object for which it is necessary to spare neither care nor expense. You can increase the ration of brandy. It would be a good notion to introduce sinten* as a drink, if the ingredients to compose it can be found.
How are the sick and wounded ? are there a great many cured ? Is it true that typhus fever has re-appeared? I fear the pest amongst the enemy. By the time this letter reaches you my sons will have rejoined you. Embrace them for me. I salute Sacken and the others. May God have you in His keeping ! I press you to my heart.
20M Januaryjist February. I rejoice that the gaps in the ranks are filled by the arrival of the reserve. I also thank the Lord that more than seven hundred men are spired of their wounds and restored to you. Those heroes are worth I fold !
26M Januaryftth February. I think, with you, that the waggons which return empty should be used for the purpose of bearing the sick, well-clothed and well-sheltered, to the more distant hospitals, in order to make room in those nearer for /the wounded in case of battle.
I repeat that I do not expect peace.
It is indispensable to unite all our efforts to destroy the enemy in the Crimea. All the reinforcements that could be sent to you are already on the spot or on the march. When they are together you will be able to dispose of a sufficient number of soldiers to resist the enemy. The valour of the troops and their officers is a guarantee to me of this. It would be unjust to have the shadow of a doubt in this respect, and the idea would never occur to me. The entire past proves that my expectation has not been in vain. May God do the rest !
I receive this moment, by telegraph from Kief, your bulletin of the 20th of January. Thank God that the mine was discovered. Thus my presentiment did not deceive me. I hope that our miners will make a name for themselves. I suppose it would be time to stop the work of the sapping by a camouflet It is to be presumed that they advance from the enem/s side by a double gallery. It is good practice for our brave * A favourite Russian beverage, made of honey and ginger.
Digitized by VjOOQIC
The Czar Nicliolas' Letters on the Crimean War. 37
miners. I like to think that my former comrades will show you what they are capable of. Reward generously. I thank you for the last sortie, accomplished with so much success. Continue to harass (he enemy from time to time.
3U/ January\\2th February. I continue to receive news about the enemy : to wit, that they are pre- paring for assault ; yesterday it was announced that they had sent four thousand cuirasses to wrap up the attacking columns. I give you this frtelligence for what it is worth. It seems difficult to go to the assault accoutred after such a fashion. Moreover, in spite of those famous cuirasses our soldiers' bayonets will know how to find out the ribs of their assailants. Hasten to distribute the rewards. Sustain the good disposition and emulation of the ranks. Give me more frequent news about everything that passes, for again I have been eight days in the most complete ignorance.
4M/16M February. My thanks to my valiant sappers and miners. Their ancient com- rade takes a lively interest in their exploits. It is incredible that the French have not redoubled their subterranean works. In spite of our success, we must be still more on our guard. It was a providential aid that permitted us to occupy this hole excavated by the explosion, for under the continual fire of the besiegers we have few losses to deplore. In truth, it is almost a miracle !
lOth/llnd February. After a long wait, at length this afternoon my aide-de-camp, Prince Obolenski, arrived. From my heart I regret to hear of your indisposi- tion, my dear Mentchikof ; I hope that God will grant you a speedy and entire cure. The good results obtained by our mining works are very agreeable to me, but we must continue to act with prudence. I also compliment you for having thought of securing the left side of bastion
No. 4.
In effect, it would appear that Eupatoria has sufficient means of de- fence. I only fear that Khroulef,* with his habitual ardour, may launch into some hazardous enterprise, of which the issue, while costing us much, will profit us nothing. For I continue to suppose that the town will not be able to resist the always increasing fire from the side of the sea. It is certain the losses would be considerable and without profit. It would be more sure to wait till Omer Pacha appears, and to attack him then on the flank or rear. This movement could be accomplished with much more facility, and above all with much more security. If this were done skilfully, we might be able, with the aid of the artillery and cavalry forces you have at your disposal, to annihilate him completely, and that without too great sacrifices. The English are, it appears, in a piteous state ; to attack them would be easier than the others. If the French have occupied all the posts of the latter, their line must be very
* A Russian general who highly distinguished himself in the defence of S6vas- t>poL
Digitized by VjOOQIC
38 5/. James's Magazine.
extended. Might there not be there some weak point where one could succeed in making a gap ? That is all I have to say to you. I press you in my arms. May God be with you !
These were the last lines from the pen of the Imperial writer. Ten days afterwards, on the 2nd of March, 1855, the Czar Nicholas died — died, it is not too much to say, of a broken heart. The letters which go before are a great and unequivocal tribute to his memory. Some there are who execrate him, and may execrate those who dare to say a word in his favour ; but reading these literal effusions of his heart, who can deny that he had affection for family, for country, and for his soldiers ? These are noble traits, and these are to be found not seldom in men whose reputation, amongst those who are not of their way of thinking, is infa- mous. From the which the moral may be drawn that not even the devil himself is so black as he is painted.
Digitized by VjOOQlC
Only a Music-M:
By FANNY AIKIN-KORTRIGHT,
AUTHOR OF "ANNE SHERWOOD," "HE THAT OVERCOMETH," ETC.
CHAPTER IX.
A POOR WOOER.
jOMEBODY wrote a book a year or two ago entitled "We're all Low People here ! " (The work deserved success if only for the ingenuity of the title.) In remembering the foregoing pages of our little chronicle, the story-teller is sorry that his poor puppets are all " so handsome/' that a little monotony must neces- sarily prevail in his description. This is the more to be regretted as he is perforce obliged to bring one more hand- some face on the canvas. I really am sorry that Henry Temple is not picturesquely ugly, but in good truth in the morning of life he was a model of beauty, and though he was no flirt he was the cause of many a heartache, and, alas ! now and then of a heart-break too. It was not his fault. Women will love fair faces, and in default of them will love those they imagine to be fair. Yet, however acceptable to young maidens Henry Temple might be, the very charm he had for them, the very grace he found unsought in their eyes, made him peculiarly obnoxious to, and dreaded by, affectionate and anxious parents.
Henry Temple and his mother had seen better days ; perhaps they might be described as a decayed gentleman and lady, yet preserving all external decencies possible, and not suffering from actual want. They had lived some two or three years in a small house, a very small house in Dinston, which was scantily furnished and not much frequented, for none but romantic young folks (and even among the young folks some very prudent ones were found) cared to frequent a
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
40 St. James's Magazine.
house where the only hospitality ever offered was rather poor tea, slices of bread and butter, and a seed-cake. Besides, there was that good-looking idle fellow loitering about with a book in his hand ; dreaming when he ought to be busily em- ployed at a profession — not at all a wholesome atmosphere for the young, nor an entertaining one for the elders.
Mrs. Temple dressed in solemn black that had been brighter a couple of years previously, and was always disfigured by a hideous widow's cap ; she was a gentle and sorrowful woman — the world said peevish and discontented-look- ing. The world said wrong, as it sometimes will ; it is certain that the poor lady was grave and silent, usually reserving her speech till the evening lamp was lit, when she would discourse with her son of such matters as he was reading, or go back with him through the gloom of past years, groping as it seemed to catch the shadows that were fast escaping from her.
They had seen better days indeed, mother and son, but they loved each other devotedly, so their present days could «ot be called evil. Where love dwells, light must dwell also — the lamp of their dwelling was inexhaustible.
Henry was twenty-two, and should have been at work years before, instead of being " tied to his mother's apron-string." This was said with some truth, but the sayers would not stretch forth a little finger to help the poor widow even to apprentice her son to a trade, had she willed to do so, and had he been less of a bookworm.
Not far from the widow's " modest mansion " rose one scarcely more pretentious in size, yet in reality showing more of comfort and ease. This was inhabited by a family from Cornwall called Tresinnan. Mr. Tresinnan was a manager of a bank in the town, not a great bank, giving its manager a noble income, but one on a small scale, with salaries for its officers proportioned to the size of its own speculations. He had a large family, several grown up, and more or less employed. There were also some young motherless children in the group, and there was a daughter who did more than a mother's part, despite her girlish years, to the helpless little ones. Ithama was not handsome, nor even pretty, with which the world in general would recognise as beauty. She was tail and well-formed though, — had chesnut hair, expression
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Only a Music-Master. 41
eyes, and her irregular features were lit by a light from within that spoke of heart and intelligence in a more than ordinary degree.
Ithama's dress was defective ; her acquaintances, and especially her intimate friends, informed the world, and then informed her, that it was "dowdy in the extreme," but she met the remark with a quiet smile, and said it was all very true.
Only one person in all the population of Dinston was found to look with any pleasure upon Ithama's face ; — that was Henry Temple ; and certain it was that as he passed her dwelling his step lingered and he looked wistfully towards the low parlour window. If he saw her within, there was a change of colour in his cheek ; sometimes he knocked timidly at the door, and left a book for her, scrupulously waiting at the door to see if she had any message for his mother. Sometimes she had one ; those were the days when she had just brushed her chesnut ringlets through, or had indulged in, a spotless collar ; then she came to deliver the message her- self.
Henry and Ithama had in certain bygone leisure hours read Tennyson and Longfellow together. Ah, dangerous reading ! I should like to be able to say how many imprudent engagements — nay, how many imprudent matches, have arisen from the unguarded use of the works of those two gentlemen. I have known "Locksley Hall" to pcove as a match to a train in the case of a poor consumptive young clerk ; and " Stars of the Summer Night " has acted on some young folks of my acquaintance more powerfully and less safely than a galvanic battery. Ah, true poets I You write in pathos and in sport, and with either, play on these poor human hearts as strong wind upon harp-strings, waking them to life per- chance only to be broken. Mr. Tresinnan had wisely stopped the poetry, for having made an imprudent match himself, he was resolved that none of his children should split on the same rock. Ithama might have read " Romeo and Juliet/' had she chosen, with the rubicund rector of the parish, who was ready to lay his forty-five years and good living at her feet ; but Mr. Tresinnan, with true paternal feeling and dis- crimination, shrank from his portionless daughter's going through a second course of Tennyson and Longfellow, with a
Digitized by VjOOQIC
42 St. James's Magazine.
youth near her own age, with that fair womanish face, and neither income nor profession.
Of course, Ithama was too good a daughter to brave her father about the books ; she yielded the poetry the moment she was told, and took a fit of something else instead — a something she had no name for, but kept in the lowest depth of her heart sealed down, and only spread forth when no curious eye could see into the hiding-place.
The young folks often met for a few minutes, never de- signedly, but always by some happy accident. There had never been the least mention of love between them, yet they were conscious lovers. The beauty and glory of first love lies in its faith, its cordial and entire faith in itself and in the future. When the tired heart loves again, it may be, it pro- bably is, with more intensity, with more self-abnegation ; but it is without belief in itself or its destiny, therefore must the heart's second love be ever sorrowful.
But Henry and Ithama were happy in their silent affection, and firmly and bravely looked forward on the pathway of life.
One evening Henry suddenly stood before Ithama. Her curls were neatly arranged ; so was her spotless linen collar. Ill-natured people would have said he was expected. I am not ill-natured, so I will say no such thing. Ithama' was lulling her baby brother to sleep in her arms ; Henry Temple stood on the threshold admiring the pretty picture, ere he was himself seen. Her back was nearly turned, but a portion of her profile was seen as she bent over the little child. u May I come in, Ithama ?"
" Yes, Mr. Temple ; only "
"Only what?"
" In a few minutes I have to be busy preparing tea for papa, who will be home very soon. Do you want to see him?"
Now, Ithama perfectly well knew that Henry had not the least wish to see her father. Why should she have asked that question? Why should she have touched the face of the sleeping boy so closely with her own that she woke him up ?
" Ithama, I must speak to you, but a few minutes won't do. I have much to tell you."
Digitized by VjOOQIC
\
Onfy a Music-Master. 43
"But papa's tea?"
" Well, if it cannot be to-night, when can it be ?"
" Mr. Temple, I "
" Oh, I know what you would say, Ithama. If I were a rich suitor "
" Henry, Henry, do you say this to me ?"
" Forgive me, Ithama. I am wrong, but the unfortunate grow embittered and then unjust. You will be at church to-morrow evening?"
"Yes."
" We may walk home together, may we not ? I suppose we may do that, especially as there will be no moon, not even the light of stars ? Shall it be so, Ithama ? "
" How can I say ? I suppose the Rector may watch our footsteps."
" You don't fear him, do you ?"
"Fear him!" cried Ithama, her whole face bursting into a sunshiny smile ; u there is but one human being whom I fear."
" And that is your father ?"
" No-r-he is firm and decided, but ever kind. No, I don'} fear my father. He acts as he supposes for his children's good, but he is never their tyrant. God forbid that I should fear my father/ '
" Well, whom then ?"
" Oh, nothing — nothing — nobody. I shall see you to-morrow if I can."
" You can if you will, Ithama. I must see you I tell you, I must," he repeated earnestly.
" Go now then, Henry."
" I am gone."
He bent down to kiss the sleeping child in Ithama's arms with a good deal of tenderness, and she wondered how one with so glorious a gift of beauty should care for her — for her who had no beauty at all.
Yet Ithama looked very fair in her blushes that night. " What could it be that he would tell her on the morrow? Oh, could it be really, truly, that—? Ah! what golden dreams had Ithama that night, and what a glorious sunrise did the next morning bring to her !
44 St. James's Magazine.
CHAPTER X.
ithama's first love-letter.
1* HE congregation were wending their way from church, and the sounds of the organ grew fainter and fainter.
It was not ill-played, but no one lingered to listen to the
strain as they did in H to catch every note of Luigi
Valerio.
In the porch of the church stood Henry Temple, ruminating. I fear it was not on the text, which had been " Comfort ye," for he did not look at all comfortable or comforted ; in truth » he was too strongly prejudiced against the rector to accept edification at his hands ; he would not hear the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely. It was not that Henry Temple was a man destitute of religious feeling,— on the con- trary ; but where his passions were aroused his will was iron, and under the gentlest and most winning aspect he carried a wonderful determination of character, that might lead him to heroic martyrdom or a stern usurpation of heaven's attributes, as it might be.
The twilight had darkened considerably ere Ithama left the church and felt her hand drawn through Temple's arm as he hurried her out of the crowd and into a path a little less fre- quented than the ordinary road to her home.
"Oh, Mr. Temple, I am afraid this is wrong!"
" Be it so, Ithama. The first offence may be the last. Perhaps you see me for the last time to-night."
"Henry!"
u 1 only said perhaps, Ithama. I have something to say to you which, — indeed, you may yourself say to me, ' Depart for ever!'"
" I could not do that."
" But supposing I told you that disgrace attached to my name ? "
" How could it, unless by your own deeds ? — and that could never happen, never ! You have done nothing shameful, nothing wrong ! "
" Nothing, Ithama, nothing. I swear to you, nevertheless, a cloud hangs over my destiny. Why has the world mocked and derided me, as I know it has, for a worthless idler,
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
Only a Music-Master. 45
dreaming and moping while others are acting and carving out their way to fortune ? Ithama, my energies have been crushed, too effectually crushed by early misfortune to leave room for ambition, or even hope in my character. Mine has been a motiveless existence till now ; now I have an incentive to exertion, for I love you, Ithama — I love you as my own
soul ! And if when you have heard all "
" I would hear nothing that is painful to you to tell." " Ah, but you must hear ! There is a mark of dishonour on my name, yet honour is very dear to me. I will not deceive you ; you shall know the truth. You are young and innocent, dearest, — so innocent that the very name of sins common among men are unknown to you. How shall I say it ? " " Harry, Harry, you terrify me ! "
"Not willingly, my darling. Do you love my mother, Ithama ?"
" As if she were my own. Ah, if she were not sweet and lovable, don't you think, don't you know I should love her as yours ? "
" Ah, that is one of my grievous sorrows, Ithama. I have no right to the name of that noble woman's son, — she is not my mother ! "
" Not your mother ! "
" No. She has reared me as her child, as she reared my brother — a brother whom I lost, having loved him with un- bounded affection. She lavished on me, on him, more than a mother's love and tenderness, exhausted her own slender means to educate and rear us as the sons of a gentleman should be educated and reared, but we had no right to her bounty, still less to her tenderness."
" Adopted sons ? " asked Ithama innocently. " Children of sin and shame, Ithama. Our father had been a man of family and fortune, but dissipated his means, no matter how. In after-years my mother, or the woman whom I call such, married him, — she having a little fortune, he nothing. Her romantic generosity was unbounded. She was at first ignorant of our existence ; when she learned it, as soon as the first shock was over she took us to her heart and home."
"She was, she is, an angel!" said Ithama. "God bless her!"
" God bless her ! " repeated Henry. " We lost my father
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
46 5/. Jameses Magazine.
soon, my brother some years since. We have been all in all to each other. Ithama, I have loved you well; I love you better each sunset. Will you leave me, now you know all ? "
" Never ! " said Ithama.
" Remember, dearest, I have no right to the very name I bear, as my own mother never bore a wife's name ; remember that whoever knows my story will have, or will assume a right, to point a scornful finger at me through life. Could you bear this, darling ? "
" Your life shall be my life, your sorrows mine, your shame, if shame there be, mine also. But your own, your true mother, Henry, did you never see her ? "
" Never, dear one, but my brother did."
"And he "
" Ah, Ithama, don't let us speak of him, it is too bitter a remembrance; and to think that he might have been saved "
"Extremely kind in you to see my daughter home, Mr. Temple. I was just going to the church to fetch her. Good-night — " and Mr. Tresinnen, while speaking in the blandest terms, shut the door gently in the young lover's face.
While he stood there for a few seconds, stunned as if by a physical blow, he had the mortification to see the sleek rector inside the parlour, seated near the supper-table, and evidently considered ali^ady a member of the family. Temple thought of the text "Comfort ye," and instead of taking comfort, he ground his teeth together in chewing the cud of bitter fancy. Finally, he rushed home and wrote to Ithama an epistle which covered four sheets of paper, that is, some sixteen pages, from which I will only make a brief extract: "Tell me you are mine with your own dear hand. I believe in you, dearest, as I believe in God's good angels, but I want your promise in so tangible a form that I can spread it before my eyes in every hour of sadness and depression. I want it as a constant reminder and incentive to exertion. Give me your promise to be my wife, and I shall have courage to labour patiently till I can claim you as mine. I will not tell you that I fear such a rival as our spiritual (?) pastor, — I will not offend you so much, — but pray keep his impertinent pretensions at a distance, as they de- serve," etc., etc.
•:/jr
Only a Music-Master. 47
Now the poor rector deserved no vituperation at all ; he was as good a soul as ever lived, just, upright, generous, pious, with no fault in the world but the large " bay window * he always carried about with him from necessity, not from choice— and the colour of his face, which inclined to carnation more than to lily white; — yet prejudice so blinded Ithama that she /
could not see one noble quality, behind the fat red mask of / '; * flesh and blood; and prejudice, so blinded Temple that he \£* not only denied the excellences of his rival, but attributed . > to him a malignity of purpose in wooing Ithama, which the ^ good man would not have understood, much less expe- '»**' rienced.
Ithama read Temple's letter three times in all, the night she received it, read it so devoutly, that she could almost, if not quite, have placed her hand in the dark upon any par- ticular word in the epistle — her first love-letter. Who ever forgets this, I wonder ? How many sober men and women half-way on the longest journey of life could be found who have not some green spot in the corner of their hearts wherein lies a yellow, crumpled, shrivelled bit of paper, the ink pale and faded, the words, it may be, senseless, yet they take it now and then, and look at it and read it, smile at its soft nonsense with a little wonder that it could ever have cheated them, but after the smile passes, there comes a sigh, and the shrivelled yellow paper is laid back in the heart's sanctum, to be read again, perchance, when the white winter of age has scattered snow on the hair, andthe^tceaibling hand can scarce grasp the scroll. /^^^ft //>
1 & YOK*'
CHAPTER XI.
THE POWER OF MUSIC.
AUTUMN winds were sighing round the old Manor House something else was sighing too, but within — groaning were perhaps the fitter word — it was a maiden's heart.
Yes ! Horatia's heart was groaning, her very soul writhing under a sense of shame and self-abasement. Pride fought against love, love against pride : on the side of pride there seemed a legion of devils armed ; on the side of love was a
Digitized by LjOOQIC
48 S/. James's Magazine.
seraph's head that spoke no words unless through those won- derful melodies that seemed its only proper language. Twice a week came Valerio, twice a week was he received with the same cold manner, the same averted or disdainful looks, the same overbearingly haughty manner. Why did he come at all? "Oh, for the money, of course," commented Horatia, bitterly — as bitterly adding, " Spaniel, despicable cur ! "
Yet Horatia lived only for the hours that should bring Valerio ; counted all those that should intervene between his visits ; and when he departed, watched him from a curtained window, straining her eyes till the last faint outline of his form could be seen no more in the blue distance When she had done this, she would rush to her room and pace up and down with agitated steps, smiting her fair bosom, or clasping her temples in her hands till her fingers left their impress on her skin. " To what can this madness tend ? " she muttered ; " he can never be anything to me — never ! He is a poor, mean- spirited creature, incapable of a noble passion, without ambi- tion, without any great aim in life — incapable of love ; he does nothing but tremble in my presence like a whipped hound. And I — I, an Ormsby, love such a man ! No, no. It is not love. It is a vile infatuation. I will uproot it. Let reason herself go, but I will — I will triumph over this weakness. How can I love my inferior ? — a man I must stoop to men- tally,— a man who could no more enter into my ideas than he could climb to the stars. A man ! — nay, a beardless boy. Yet — yet — Fate, thou art strong, but I will be strong too ; thou shalt not conquer a soul like mine."
Yet, when Valerio came, Horatia had, like a true woman, bestoWed double care on her toilette. She was singing ; her voice was beautiful, and she had more expression than usually falls to the share of an amateur.
To point out the beauty of a phnfse in the music, to indicate its sty le, Valerio sang. He had no need to throw his soul into the strain, it flowed therein naturally. In speech he might have been embarrassed and hesitating ; in melody he stood on his own vantage-ground, and needed no words to gloss his eloquence.
Horatia's breath came shorter ; her voice failed ; her colour went and came ; she could sing no more. The master requested her to proceed.
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
Only a Music-Master. 49
" I am hoarse ; I shall sing no more to-day," said Horatia abruptly ; " I can play."
Of course her will was law ; she played, but perception and memory were both at fault ; she made" mistake after mistake. Valerio laid his hand on hers to direct her fingers.
" Do not touch me," she cried, so harshly that Valerio started with surprise and pain. " We must stop ; I can do nothing to-day ; I am ill."
"111!" repeated Valerio, with alarm, and a tenderness of * tone he could not well restrain.
At that moment Mr. Ormsby entered. Hitherto they had been alone. Horatia drew one long breath, and proceeded with the lesson.
"But if you feel ill, Miss Ormsby!" said Valerio, with anxiety.
" It has passed," said Horatia, and she went on with the piece.
Mr. Ormsby nodded kindly to Valerio, and took up a news- paper.
The lesson concluded, the master prepared to depart. He seemed to have something to say, as he lingered a moment. At last he hesitatingly brought forth — " Will you be so good as to tell me, Miss Ormsby, when Miss Grantley is expected home?"
" I know nothing of her movements."
" I beg your pardon. I took the liberty of asking because I thought you were intimate with her."
" No ; I was intimate with her ; I am never likely to be so again; but this much I will tell you, you will never — never see her again," said Horatia, with a passionate earnestness in her tone that seemed inexplicable ; then she added, with some triumph in her eyes, " She is going to be married."
" Married ! " repeated Valerio, in a tone which Horatia took for despair. Alas ! the poor master was only thinking of his unpaid bill, — only thinking how the white-haired old woman at home was waiting for certain comforts he coveted for her till Miss Grantley's lessons should be paid for !
•' Yes, she is married ; — dream of her, sigh for her as you will, it is in vain ; she is lost to you for ever ! "
" Miss Ormsby ! "
Horatia was so excited that she forgot to act.
VOL. I. Digitized by SOQgle
50 St. James's Magazine.
o
Her father looked up in surprise as the confused maestro withdrew. " What is it, Horatia ? " he asked.
" It is, papa, that I feel it a duty to pull down the impudence of that creature."
" Dear me — what has he done ? "
"Done, sir! He has dared to make love to Ellen Grantley."
"You don't mean to say so! Good heavens! can it be true?"
" Yes, papa, and had I not saved her, her fate was sealed — her eternal disgrace."
" My dear child, Lord Selmore must be informed of this ; it would break off the match directly," said Mr. Ormsby eagerly.
" And dishonour you and me, sir, as spies and informers/' s \id Horatia.
" But, my love, if this fellow is dishonourable, or pretends to tep out of his place with you ! "
" With me, sir ! There is no danger, I can always defend myself."
The next morning arrived a very humble note from Valerio. He " feared he had unconsciously offended Miss Ormsby ; perhaps she wished to discontinue the lessons." She replied " certainly not — she was perfectly satisfied with Mr. Valerio as a master." Valerio was in despair. How he longed to break the spell that lay upon him : yet he wanted firmness even to make the attempt.
In an evening of the hunter's moon, Valerio was playing on the church organ — playing without any lamp but that cold silver light that streamed in through the gothic windows ; he poured forth a flood of harmony that entranced even his own ear and kept him spell-bound. Presently his rich voice melted into the melody, and both seemed ascending to pierce the roof of the sacred dwelling. A slight pause in the strain made the musician conscious of some one near him — nay, very near. He was no coward ; he could have rushed un- hesitatingly into the thick of a mortal fight, but like all people of southern origin, or of warm imagination, he had his own superstition, and now he hesitated to look behind him ; for a minute or two his hands remained motionless on the organ, and his voice was suspended — then, ashamed of his own weak-
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Only a Music-Master. 51
ness, he continued ; but once more became conscious of some one near him, whose breathing reached his ear. With a sadden impulse he darted round, and saw a darkly clad female form retreating, with the rustling sound that silken garments make. " Who — what art thou ? Be thou who thou wilt, by heaven thou shalt not escape me 1 " He darted through the church out into the solemn grave-yard, pursuing the flying phantom, which fled like a spirit. Panting, he overtakes the intruder — he has seized, has snatched the veil from her face, and by the pale moonlight recognises Miss Ormsby. " Horatia, my beloved ! " involuntarily escapes his lips, and the answer to the tender address comes forth. " Thou hast humbled me to the dust — me — such as I was. Take thou for it the hatred of my whole life." But those were only passion- ate words. Valerio could not be deceived by them; the barriers of pride — nay, of reason, were thrown down, the flood-gates of passion were thrown open, and proud Horatia was conquered — nay, she had marched to her own defeat, — drawn onward, and downward, by the power of music.
CHAPTER XII.
temple's bachelor uncle.
UI HAVE fulfilled your injunctions to the letter, my dear mother. I have found out, and been to see, my father's elder brother. You never knew him, so I will be minute in my description of him, his dwelling, and his conversation.
" I remember you specially desired to know every word he said. Some of his words were so peculiarly ungracious that I should omit them entirely but for your admonition. I had no difficulty in finding him,, for his name stands prominently in the list of benefactors of all the known charitable institu- tions, with his address appended.
"I found him in chambers in the Albany, — handsome rooms, at least, as far as size is concerned — for the paper and paint have not been renewed for many years, and they were gloomy. The furniture is of that old substantial mahogany
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
52 Si. James's Magazine.
that never wears out, but looks dull and dingy unless under the care of peculiar housewives. Round the walls are hung several old-fashioned line engravings from historical paintings, meant to be beautiful ; the frames had once been gilt, but now closely resemble the colour of the watch that our old neighbour the gardener winds up and sets every Saturday night for Sunday wear, and devoutly believes too good gold for week-day wear. Several bookcases are in the room, but so closely shut up that they may contain anything but literature. The apartments are not well kept, but there is a precision in the general arrangements which evidently de- pends more on the old gentleman's neatness, than on his servants' industry.
" I was sending in my card, when I was informed that it would be useless to ask for an interview with Mr. Temple for the next two hours, as he was accustomed to spend all the morning in the transaction of business regarding his various pet charities ; in fact, if I could not wait in the anteroom, I had better return later in the day. It was raining hard, so I determined to remain and get through a disagreeable duty, which I confess I should not consider a duty at all unless it it were to fulfil your wishes. How to spend the time I could not imagine, not the slightest sign of a book or paper appear- ing, and the only sound being the rain patter patter against the dim windows. The chairs were uncommonly hard, so I began to walk up and down the room, when the servant who had admitted me put his head in at the door, saying, ' I hope no offence, sir, but master can't bear a noise ; your boots is new, sir, and he's uncommon particular.' So my walk was cut short !
" At length came the end of the two hours, which seemed six. I sent in my card, and followed. My uncle rose, — a tall, thin, stiff figure, a stiffer face, a blue look about the nose and lips — frost-bitten; his fingers were long and thin, his nails like Nebuchadnezzar's, or what we fancy them. I should not have liked to shake hands with him, — but that he did not attempt.
" He stood twisting the card in his fingers, with something that in a warmer temperament I might have called agitation He bowed.
" ' Sir/ the blue lips opened, though I saw no sign of breath
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Only a Music-Master. 53
coming forth — ' You have the advantage of me, sir/ he said shortly.
"' I am the son of your brother, Arthur Temple/ I replied ; * my mother desired me to see ypu sir, and to '
ut Your mother! ' he said, and there was, or I fancied there was, a sneer on his face.
"'My father's wife/ I answered, 'who has been a true mother to me.1
" I tried to restrain myself as best I could, but my blood began to boil.
"'Your father's wife/ he repeated, and again he paused, then resumed : ' To what end did she send you hither ? ' may
'"I presume, to make the acquaintance of my father's brother/
"'It was an ill-judged thought/ he muttered — then spoke aloud, 'Why should she attempt to thrust before me a living evidence of the disgrace of the family, the one blot in our house ? If she chooses to recognise vice, why should I ? '
" I don't know what I answered, but I feel that my words were intemperate. All this time I had been standing*; he drew nearer to me, and looked hard in my face — curiously searchingly. He was struck by something I had said ; I believe it must have been something outrageous. Again the blue lips opened to speak, but I walked out of the room feeling I had had quite enough.
"Oh, mother! mother! will the shame be on my brow till it is in the dust ? Will every man who meets me have the right to burn the brand in deeper? Your affection and Ithama's love are all that God has given me ; sometimes I feel that I shall lose them both and be quite desolate. This man's words have affected me beyond description — his looks still more. I feel myself a pariah, one against whom every man's hand will throw a missile; and, alas, I fear that [the fierce animal will be awakened in me, that I shall not turn the other cheek to the smiter, but shall hurl back harder blows than he deals me. By Heaven ! if my father's blood had not run in that man's veins, I do believe I should have sprung on him, and like a panther seized him by the throat. Oh, my mother, my more than mother ! I need your gentle influence, yours and my Ithama's, to reconcile me to life, to keep the balance of my reason. But, for your dear sakes, I
Digitized by VjOOQI
54 Sf. James's Magazine.
will try, I will indeed, to be calm and firm and moderate, to meet insult with something like philosophy and resignation.
" How mysterious is God's will ! How inscrutable ! How wonderful it seems that a notje heart like yours should have been doomed to shed its treasures of affection upon sterile natures — that Heaven should have denied you a son of your own, a son who might have inherited your heart and head, a son of whom you might have been proud ! Perhaps even my brother, had we saved him, might hatfe proved worthier of you than I can ever be. His was a gentle, generous nature ; and, grown to man's estate, he would have recognised all your goodness, and been grateful. But of what avail to dilate on what might have been, what can never be !
" Farewell ! I will strive to meet your wishes, I will strive to provide in the future a happy home for dear Ithama, and perhaps you will come and sit down at our fireside some day, and teach us by your example life's best lessons."
{To be continued.)
Digitized by VjOOQlC
Digitized
by Google
The Old Sailor to his Wife.
Digitized by vjOOQIC
The Voyage to Come.
'XfK flDito Sailor to W Mitt.
HEN in my youth I sailed the sea,
My love was linked to thine ; I thought of thee when waves ran free, I knew thy heart was mine.
And when my ship to England's shore
Came back from dangers wild, 'Twas thou, whose greeting shone before,
'Twas thou who fairest smiled.
No longer o'er earth's stormy sea
I sail as when a boy ; Old age to home endeareth me,
And perished is youth's joy.
But thou art still beside me, love,
And thou art sea and sky : The shadows grow around us, love,
And wintry things must die.
But high aloft on God's bright sea Our ship shall mount with pride,
And fair our voyage shall ever be With true love side by side.
E. G.
Digitized by VjOOQlC
To Agnes; who is his Only Love.
fe>onff5jeoem, after t&e manner of Hjeccictu
OW will I lead a purer life
Since thou hast smiled on me ; Washed in the waters of the earth My loving heart shall be ; And all my deeply dreaming soul,
By true love purified, Shall gather strength for thy delight When fond love hails thee bride.
Now will I search through all the earth
For flow'rets fresh and fair ; To bloom upon thy breast of snow,
Or grace thy raven hair ; And stars that shine when night glows deep,
And glories of the day, Shall yield their treasures to my prayers
Which at thy feet I'll lay.
Now will I take thee to my heart
And love thee evermore, Faithful as waves whose fond embrace
Entwines the summer shore. Oh, fix those glowing eyes on mine,
Thy lover claims thy charms ; Oh, let him take thee to his heart,
Within loves faithful arms.
f^i^^i
Digitized by VjOOQlC
Our Modern Poets.
No. VL— 90atH)eto acnoltu
By THOMAS BAYNE.
>|NE sometimes wonders what kind of poem an eminent critic would write. He is such an adept at finding all the weak points and the serious faults of his author, that the innocent reader cannot but feel that this is the man whose capabilities are for verse, and not that other whose misfortune, un- doubtedly, must be based upon something very like pre- sumption. The eminent critic must surely have done injustice somehow to his natural longings, otherwise it is odd that he should be so familiar with all the essential elements of
" The light that never was on sea or land."
Satirists, from Dryden to Disraeli, have asserted that critics are the men who have failed, and they are pleased thus to account for their authoritative tone and unwarranted severities. Such an interpretation of the critical attitude is akin to the theory illustrated by the immortal story of sour* grapes, and a certain degree of truth in it is the explanation of its frequent recurrence. But it is also to be noted that there are eminent critics whose censure can hardly be restrained within due limits, and who notwith- standing have achieved high distinction as original poets. Instances will readily occur to those familiar with the subject, and it is only necessary to add here that such critics will generally be found to be the advocates of some special aesthetic dogma or limited poetic culture. It would still be interesting to find an experiment by them in the sphere whose possibilities they denounce or deny.
There is, however, a class of critical workmen wholly different from these, and not less interesting, though perhaps apt to be less attractive in their method. There is an allure- Digitized by VjOOQIC
60 St. James's Magazine.
ment about the incisive vigour and the uncompromising sweep of a Gifford and a Jeffrey that is irresistible, even when the reader may feel that the treatment is not altogether fair. There can be no doubt as to what such writers mean, and at any rate their hard hitting is enjoyable at the moment. It is wholly different with the patient examining genius of a Sainte-Beuve or a Coleridge, whose duty it is to find out exactly what the author has accomplished, and thereafter to inform general readers to the best of their ability. Their method is exemplified for all time in the loving examination of Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads in the " Biographia Lite- raria." Students of this order may be called interpreters in contrast to the mere professional critics. As the danger of the latter is in their haste to miss the author's aim altogether — as Jeffrey did, for instance, with the "White Doe" — so that of the former is to find more than the writer really meant, and to o'erinform the original work with their own metaphysics. It is only necessary to refer to some of Coleridge's own work for examples of this, and to German aesthetic critics of Shakspeare for the develop- ment of the method to its utmost exaggerated form. It is to eminent critics of this class, however, that one is apt to look for interesting original poetry.
Matthew Arnold takes a noteworthy place among the interpreters. His sympathies, on his own showing, are with the criticism whose business it is " simply to know the best that is known and thought in the world, and by in its turn making this known, to create a current of true and fresh ideas." It is in accordance with this spirit that the author is able, in his " Essays in Criticism," to make such interesting studies of Joubert and the De Guerins, where undeniably the original material is meagre enough. Here is one to whom a suggestion is really valuable, one whose method may be liable to exaggerate the worth of his original, while it cannot fail to show the readiness and the fertility of his own interpretative faculty. It is clear, therefore, that funda- mentally this critic must be a poet. He has the delicate instinct, the quick perception, the power of remote and interesting association — it may be, too, some share of the faculty of imagination — and the only remaining necessity is that he should have the capable voice. When we find
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Our Modern Poets. 61
in critical prose a vein of calm meditative reflection and inference, a patient setting forth not merely of what the author says, but also of what the critic takes to be the possible sweep of his idea, we conclude that the interpreter is more than a mere expounder, and it will depend upon the nature of the case whether we set him down as a poet or a philosopher. Now there is something to be said in defence of that older and more liberal definition of the poet which was admitted by our early writers on the subject. Sir Philip Sidney, for instance, would have inclined to esteem certain pure styles as poetic, and would have given writers of "impassioned prose" the title of poet, though it had never been their fortune to link together three mechanical iambics. There is in poetry, too, a value belonging to what is said no less than excellence in the manner of saying it. The contents of a poem must be considered no less than its form. De Quinsey's "Levana," for example, and much more of his writing besides, is thoroughly poetical : if analysed and esti- mated worthily, such writings would have to be classed in a way that would surprise the advocates of strict poetical form — and yet it is not common to speak of the English Opium-Eater as a poet. A good deal also of Mr. Carlyle s writing is nothing if not poetical, and it is only because of our strait definitions that he can be called a Homer without the gift of song. The fact is that there is a tendency to underrate impassioned prose in this generation. We are too apt to become impatient for facts, and are altogether too commercial in the spirit with which we approach our critics and essayists. So far as mere information is -con- cerned, so far as exact knowledge can be said to have profited Matthew Arnold need never have written those articles of his on Maurice and Eugenie de Guerin and Joubert, but then they show him to have the penetrating insight and the lively appreciation that characterize the poet. We should have spontaneously said, after perusal of such reflective prose, this writer is a poet whether he has ever composed in metrical forms or not He has the power to portray, to vary by effects of light and shade, to introduce his readers to close searchings of the heart, and to enable them to have delight in distant perspective. He has a considerable share of that magic power by which Wordsworth can interest the world
Digitized by VjOOQ-IC
62 • 5/. James's Magazine.
in the prattle of a little child, and make rare wisdom fall from the lips of an inspired pedlar.
With such a writer of prose it is perhaps not surprising to find that his poetry sometimes is little other than prose ex- pressed in metrical form. It is sometimes difficult to catch the melody, and occasionally the poetical air is so thin that one has difficulty in breathing it. Some of the sonnets and the reflective poems are open to criticism of this kind. They do not fulfil the requisite conditions that underlie such com- positions ; they are not poetical in sound as well as in sense ; they lack voice though having soul. Were we to apply to this sonnet on " Worldly Place," for example, nothing but the ordinary rules of construction and scansion, we should have little difficulty in deciding on its merits : —
"Even in a palace, life may' be led well I So spoke the imperial sage, purest of men, Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,
Our freedom for a little bread we sell, And drudge under some foolish master's ken, Who rates us, if we peer outside our pen — Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell ?
Even in a palace / On his truth sincere, Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came ; And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame
Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win,
I'll stop, and say : * There were no succour here !
The aids to noble life are all within.'"
The manager of the "poet's corner " in a local newspaper would speedily dispose of such a production as this ; such an agent knows nothing, and cares as little, for the laws of the tercets and the exhaustion of the single idea. To him the prime essential is that there be no limping feet ; the sense and the laws of construction may take care of themselves as best they can, — the one thing clear is that they have not the slightest interest for him. An interesting discussion is at once suggested here as to the comparative merits, in poetical com- positions, of all sound and no sense, and much wisdom minus all melody. It is impossible, however, to do it justice here further than to say that wisdom is valuable in any dress, and
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
Our Modern' Poets. 63
that the variations possible to a ten-stringed instrument are in all circumstances preferable to the monotonous performance of a lonely flute. In other words, the delight in sweet sounds cannot be permanently cherished by mere verbal effects. r\\ Indeed, nothing palls upon the taste sooner than words /J*-\ jangled, however skilfully, for their own sake alone: On the 4-ft* X ' other hand, melody wedded to nobleness of thought con- ^ v* stitutes a beauty whose elements are. divine. This is the ..v sphere of the perfect Apollo. The nearer the approximation made to this ideal, the nobler will be the poet's work, the more godlike the features of the poet. He is sometimes told, indeed, not to try it at all unless he is likely to reach it alto- gether,— a theory that would have the top of Parnassus covered, if possible, but the sides as untenanted as Benharrow It is a tyrannical — at any rate a cynical — spirit that would have perfect poetry or none, that would have good prose rather than average poetry. To put it shortly, a man that tries to say something in poetry, and does not effect his object very well, is not likely to make any attempt at all to express the same thing in prose. Besides, there is the chance that, in writing verse which no one would think of comparing with the compositions of Shakspeare or Wordsworth or Burns, a poet may say something that will benefit the world, and that might never have been said otherwise. We must, in a word, assume that there is a poetry of intellect, as well as a poetry of inspiration. That does not imply, of course, that any and all kinds of feet, and a winged contempt for feet altogether must be tolerated ; but it certainly goes on the assumption that there is a difference between Shakspeare and Pope, and that melody is one thing to the Poet Laureate, and apparently quite another to Mr. Walt Whitman.
- All Mr. Arnold's sonnets are thoughtful and wise, and several of them are not lacking in true poetic expression. As a rule, however, they are overweighted with material, and the closeness and compactness of the ideas and the rigidity of the lines of thought are the outstanding features. The reader will hardly have time for the consideration of metrical graces in the difficulties that will beset him in grasping the argument. There is one sonnet, however, that bears its meaning on its face, as every good sonnet should do; and for that very reason it exhibits, better than most of the others, the authors metrical
64 St. James's Magazine.
resources. It is a tribute to the memory of Shakspeare, and a sturdy appreciation of his universal influence : —
" Others abide our question : Thou art free ! We ask and ask : Thou smilest and art still. Out-topping knowledge ! So some sovran hill Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty,
Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, Spares but the border, often, of his base To the foiPd searching of mortality ;
And thou, whose head did stars and sunbeams know, Self-schoord, self-scannM, self-honourtl, self-secure, Didst walk on earth unguess'd at. Better so ! '
All pains the immortal spirit must endure,
All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow,
Find their sole voice in that victorious brow."
The general meaning of this is apparent at once, while to the practised thinker there are lines that will be suggestive of interesting trains of thought. The impression left, however, by all these sonnets is that they are experiments, and very notable ones too, in difficult verse.
Further illustrations of the poetry of intellect are to be found in Mr. Arnold's reflective poems, some of which are rhymed and lyrical in form, and others not. They are all charged with the rich thought that comes of original strength and superior culture, but there" is a want of that easy spon- taneity which is of the essence of true poetry. Those interested in high thinking are sure to read such reflections or discussions without much thought as to rhythm or metrical feet. But both form and substance are against their popularity with a majority of readers. They are studies of a kind that neither a writer nor a reader would much care for in prose, and there is about them, as they stand, an attractiveness and interest apart altogether from ordinary poetical considerations. They are a sturdy confutation of Mr. Carlyle's thesis that if a man has anything really important to say he is likely to do it in prose. This is the very kind of writing, midway between philosophical prose and didactic verse, which suits the purpose of a thinker that has no time to enter upon a treatise, afnd no inclination to elaborate an " Excursion." Poetical purists may object to the encouragement of such poems as " Resignation/'
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Our Modem Pods. 65
'•The Youth of Man," and "The Future," but after all there is no real ground for alarm. The poet has something to say for at any rate a skilled minority of readers, and these are not likely to set up any new theory of aesthetic taste to suit any such exceptional outcome. Take, for instance, such a passage as the following from " The Buried Life," and it will show exactly what is meant by a composition whos t essence is too ethereal for prose, and whose form is yet not exactly what readers of poetry naturally look for: —
" But often, in the world's most crowded streets, But often, in the din of strife, * There rises an unspeakable desire After the knowledge of our buried life, — A thirst to spend our fire and restless force In tracking out our true, original course ; A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats So wild, so deep in us, — to know Whence our thoughts come and where they go. And many a man in his own breast then delves, But deep enough, alas, none ever mines ! And we have been on many thousand lines, And we have shown, on each, spirit and power ; But hardly have we, for one little tour, Been on our own line, have we been ourselves ! "
This is musing of a kind that will interest in any form, though it is hardly too much to say that there are not likely to be many who will follow it, with an appreciation of all its bearings, throughout this poem. Notwithstanding that, such calm introspection and such a line of meditation belong to the poet rather than the psychologist, they speak of that power of interpretation which is characteristic of the calm critic, and betrays his affinities with the true poet. Thus far, then, we have found Mr. Arnold strong in possibilities ; he is in the right element if he can only develop himself properly. It is not that he has to learn the mechanism of verse, but that he should manage to give free articulation to the poetry of his nature — this is what the analysis hitherto has gone to prove. Nor is it a consideration of time and growth that in any way meets the purpose ; there is a maturity about all the poems that dispenses with all allowances which might, in other cases, be made for greater or less inexperience. It makes no differ- ence, in this survey, whether one poem was written before VOL. I. /5v
Digitized by VjOOQIC
66 St. James's Magazine.
i
another or after it ; such a power of expression as that indi- cated is not a matter of years, but of strength and method. In " Resignation," for instance, and the " Epilogue to Lessing's Laocoon," we find the author very much in the same mood as that which pervades "The Buried Life," but in both his manner is better, and the general outcome altogether more poetical. The former, it has been pointed out, is in Words- worth's vein, and it may just be added that it is well worthy to be compared with its model. The latter is cast very much in the same mould, and is one of the best of Mr. Arnold's meditative poems. One extract will show freedom and delicacy of touch, and more ease and quickness of expression than we have hitherto found. The poem is a study of comparative art, and, after due admiration of musician and painter, the poet sums up thus : —
li Only a few the life-stream's shore With safe unwandering feet explore ; Untired its movements bright attend, Follow its windings to the end. Then from its brimming waves their eye Drinks up delighted ecstasy, And its deep-toned, melodious voice, For ever makes their ear rejoice. They speak ! the happiness divine They feel, runs o'er in every line ; Its spell is round them like a shower, It gives them pathos, gives them power. No painter yet hath such a way, Nor no musician made, as they ; And gathered on immortal knolls Such lovely flowers for cheering souls."
The want of rhyme is a drawback to some of the meditative poems in lyric form, such as " Consolation," and the fine elegy entitled " Heine's Grave." Still there is such an air of lyric sweetness in these poems that occasionally the reader is carried on, and feels that he is under the genuine spell. It almost takes reflection, for example, to discover that this is un rhymed : —
" Charm is the glory which makes Song of the poet divine ; Love is the fountain of charm ! How without charm wilt thou draw, Poet ! the world to thy way ? Not by the lightnings of wit !
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Our Modern Poets. 67
Not by the thunder of scorn ! These to the world, too, are given ; Wit it possesses, and scorn — Charm is the poet's alone."
Still there is the true appreciative critic mainly, but we are coming to the original workmanship at last The charm here celebrated sends us at once to the author's poems " Baccha- nalia " and " Empedocles on iEtna,'* both charged with rare delicacy and grace, breathing the pure ethereal spirit of the Greek. Both of these are delightful poems, the strictly lyrical parts in particular showing the author's easy command of diction and rhythm. The " Bacchanalia " is in two parts, the first depicting the contrast between the calm of evening and the midnight revelry of the mythological Bacchanals, and the second doing the same for the overthrow of the Past by the Present. This introduces us to the very inner circle of the inspired rout : —
" Loitering and leaping, With saunter, with bounds- Flickering and circling In files and in rounds — Gaily their pine-staff green Tossing in air,
Loose o'er their shoulders white Showering their hair. -
See ! the wild Maenads Break from the wood, Youth and Iacchus Maddening their blood ! See ! through the quiet land Rioting they pass. — Fling the fresh heaps about, Trample the grass ! Tear from the rifled hedge Garlands, their prize ; Fill with, their sports the field, Fill with their cries ! n
In the second part the end of an epoch is delineated, all the stillness and repose of evening concentrating, as it were, on the bosom of the dead age. The feeling is that the glory is departed, and there is a sadness like to that which overhung the moody spirit at the close of the eighteeeth century, when it was felt that all poetry was at an end with Pope and his
Digitized by VjOOQIC
68 St. James's Magazine.
followers. But every one knows how sudden and thorough was the revolution.
- " Thundering and bursting In torrents, in waves — Carolling and shouting Over tombs, amid graves — See ! on the cumberM plain Clearing a stage, Scattering the past alout, Comes the new age ! n
The poet sees the beauty of such strength and vigour, just as he sees it in the behaviour of the Maenads, but to him it is fraught with matter for deep meditation. There was so much that was beautiful before the change, that it is just possible the change may not be altogether an unmixed blessing. It is a shepherd that is like to fret over the confusion made by the Bacchanals; and the Poet, looking, upon the new age,cannot but help thinking af the old. Thus; when he is asked to give a reason for being so pale and wan, amid a perfect cornucopia of blessings, he is obliged to declare the little faith he has in the vaunted march of intellect : —
" Look, ah, what genius, Art, science, wit, Soldiers like Caesar, Statesmen like Pitt ! Sculptors like Phidias, Raphaels in shoals, Poets like Shakspeare— Beautiful souls ! See, on their glowing cheeks Heavenly the flush ! . . . Ah, so the silence was / S<i was the hush / "
The delicate satire is in need of no elucidation, and the moral therefore needs not to be quoted. It is hardly necessary, moreover, to add, that in poetry of this kind there is some- thing that makes a direct appeal to the inner consciousness and at once declares the composition to be of the right fibre. So does the perusal of the more elaborate " Empedocles on ^Etna," with its graceful memorable lyrics, impress us with the conviction that the quick sense and appreciation of idea beauty are not merely from of old. Both the lofty meditations
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
Our Modern Poets. 69
of Empedocles and the songs of Callicles arc exquisite studies in and for themselves; and it is quite possible to admire them and feel their influence without being troubled by the reflec- tion that they are worked into a slim dramatic fragment* The poet's conception of Empedocles is perhaps hardly broad enough — it would need some elaboration at any rate to bring it to the true classic dignity ; but the use made of Callicles, the young harp-player, is admirable in the highest degree. We have in his songs the very reflex of pure Greek lyric ; one breathes in this company the azure deep that o'er-canopied the world's youth. Verily, it is true that " charm is the jpoet's alone." Where is painter that could approach this ?
" When from far Parnassus' side, Young Apollo, all the pride Of the Phrygian flutes to tame, To the Phrygian highlands came ! Where the long green reed-beds sway In the rippled waters grey Of that solitary lake Where Maeander's springs are born Where the ridged pine-wooded roots Of Messogis westward break, Mounting westward, high and higher. There was held the famous strife ! There the Phrygian brought his flutes, And Apollo brought his lyre ! '*
But the concluding song is the gem. It were superfluous to ask for painter and musician combined to produce anything like it. The measure in itself is a perfect charm, and the whole atmosphere of the song is charged with the delicacy of romance, and the sweet tenderness of lyric beauty. Empedocles has just plunged into the crater of jEtna, owing to his dissatisfaction with his contemporaries, when Callicles with true inspiration, sings,
" Not here, O Apollo ! Are haunts meet for thee. But, where Helicon breaks down In cliff to the sea ; n
and, after showing what the befitting surroundings are, he has- this immortal vision :
" What forms are there coming So white through the gloom ?
Digitized by VjOOQIC
70 Si. James's Magazine.
What garments out-glistening The gold-flowered broom ?
What sweet-breathing presence Out-perfumes the thyme ? What voices enrapture The night's balmy prime ?
Tis Apollo comes leading His choir, the Nine, ... The leader is fairest, But all are divine.
They are lost in the hollows ! They stream up again ! What seeks on this mountain The glorified train ? . . .
Thfey bathe on this mountain, la the spring by their road ; Then oh to Olympus, Their endless abode ! n
A similar purity of inspiration and classical delicacy pervade "The Strayed Reveller," and "TheForsaken Merman/' the latter of which is aglow with the freshness and buoyancy of sea and shore. It is a poem of tender intimate associations, involving deep pathos in the aspirations and desires that twine them- selves about a mythical domestic bereavement. There is the intensity of deep human grief, based on sad personal expe- rience, in "Rugby Chapel," "Stanzas composed at Carnac," and "A Southern Night," in which a departed father and brother are commemorated. But the best of the memorial poems, and among the best of their kind, are two that for artistic purposes must be taken together, "The Scholar Gipsy," and " Thyrsis." The first leads up to the second — a beautiful tribute to the memory of the authors friend Arthur Hugh Clough. There are in the English language a great many fine poems to the memory of departed friends, but there are only four or five that make an approach to the ancient Greek ideal towardswhich theyall work. Milton's "Lycidas," Shelley's "Adonais/'TennysonV'In Memoriam,"and Arnold's "Thyrsis," may fairly be allowed to hold the first rank alone. A note- worthy recent addition to this class of poems is Mr. Swin- borne's " Ave atque vale," in memory of Baudelaire. Still, however, these four stand very much by themselves, every one of them having a distinctive merit of its own. " Thyrsis " is
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
Out Modern Poets. 71
the least elaborate of the four, but fails them no whit in graceful tenderness and fond regret. Nor in any one of them is there such a vivid realization of wistful reminiscence as there is in this illustration of how " it irked him to be here," and he went in the very prime of his days —
" So, some tempestuous morn in early June,
When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er,
Before the roses and the longest day . ". . When garden walks, and all the grassy floor,
With blossoms, red and white, of fallen May, And chesnut- flowers are strewn . . . So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry,
From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees, N
Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze : The bloom is gone, audwith the bloom go II "
Of the purely narrative poems, there is a Homeric state liness and dignity in " Sohrab and Rustua ," and a Virgilian purity and delicacy in " Balder Dead.* In " Tristram and Iseult " there is subtle analysis of character, dramatic force, and: passionate intensity, which give evidence of Mr. Arnold's fitness for that species of composition towards which he was once en- couraged by the greatest living writer of dramatic poetry. It is probable, however, that Mr. Arnold has done best in follow- - ing his own poetical bent. He has thus written much thoughtful poetry, and shown what a born critic can do towards casting into permanent form the fleeting influences - of the hour, as well as linking Past with Present through sharp perception of the inner spirit of beauty.
" Whose praise do they mention ? Of what is it told? . . . What will be for ever ; What was from of old."
SKjg^fcj
Digitized by VjOOQlC
A Troublesome Girl.
8L Canadian fetorp*
By THEO. GIFT.
^HE was not a beauty at all : not even pretty, in my opinion. A young woman of middle height, but looking decidedly stumpy from undue exuberance of figure and flesh, the former with difficulty packed into cotton gowns always too small for her, and much torn by repeated efforts at " pinning together " across the body ; the latter obtrusively evident in cheeks round and red as winter apples, and arms round also and huge — columns of red, mottled marble, capable of felling an ox, and bared to sun and wind above the elbow ; — a young woman with a square jaw, a wide mouth filled with very fair white teeth, a shock of frizzly red brown hair, never smooth, and eyes round and black as ivy- berries, and sparkling with impudent audacity. Not a very fascinating tout ensemble, I think, and in morals and manners .rather worse than deficient.
I never had such a troublesome girl in the house in all my life before.
We were living in the backwoods of Canada, where I had a large farm, and Janet was our housemaid. A housemaid is, I believe, generally supposed to keep a house clean : ours rivalled an IrL-h cabin for dirt, fleas, flue, and disorder, during the whole period of her reign : likewise to take care of the china, glass, etc. She had not been with us a week before she laid a " smash tax " of fifty per cent, on every breakable article; while the remainder presented a melancholy assem- blage of starred, cracked, and mutilated objects, which would have led a stranger to suppose that some one, following poor Theodore Hook's lead in practical joking, had introduced a lively young Alderncy into our china closet. Her person — well, if the cotton gowns afore-mentioncd have failed to give
Digitized by VjOOQIc
A Troublesome GiiL* 73
you an idea on the subject, I had better let it rest. Dirt and rags may be picturesque in artistic eyes, and even be valu- able as " models " for professional purposes ; but when they bring you your shaving water of a morning, and hand you your soup at dinner, they fail to be agreeable. When I men- tion as one item that I never saw J>inet better shod than with a pair of worn-out labourer's boots, or the down-trodden slippers of her mistress, you may guess at some of the trials endured by an Oxford man of limited means and large ideas of method and orderliness, and a dear little invalid wife too gentle to bully a cat.
Alas ! if Janet had but been only dirty and careless !
She was worse. She was the most finished coquette and the most heartless flirt in the province. The amount of quarrels, jealousies, heartburnings, and heart-breakings caused by that girl since she was nine years old could not be cata- logued, and were never referred to by herself except with a complacent toss of her rumpled head and a peal of laughter as delighted as a child's. And it was of no use to speak to her on that or any subject. I never met a young female with less development of the " bump " of reverence or greater develop- ment in the article of cheek. The mildest rebuke wa^ certain to be followed by a retort, sometimes only good-humouredly saucy ; but generally as explosive (her temper being of the violent and tempestuous order) as though you had pulled the trigger of a loaded gun. She was incorrigibly idle also, and, with the strength and energy of a female Hercules, would desert scrubbing-brush or broom at the merest sound of a labourers whistle; and let our dinner get cold while she was gossiping in the yard with another of the same fraternity. -
u What can they see in her to admire?" I would say, de- spairingly, to Emily after we had caught some handsome, strapping fellow casting hopeless sheep's-eyes at our draggled " Dowsabel " ; and Emily would answer, smiling,
" I don't know, dear ; 1 think it is her tongue — she bullies them all so ; and then there are so few women here."
I expect the latter was the real reason ; and yet qui salt ? Every man on the farm was at Janet's feet; while the cook, a French Canadian, and a tidy, nice-looking, soft-spoken creature, merely came in for what the other girl insolently called her " leavings." ^
Digitized by VjOOQIC
74 Si. James's Magazine.
If ever two women hated one another those two did.
I could understand it with F&ice, who was really a superior young woman, and could hardly be expected to like being shut up with no female society but that fille du diable, as I once heard her mutter plaintively in Janet's direction. But she at least conducted her dislike under decent veils, while the younger girl's voice, raised to storming pitch, and launching out unqualified abuse, would even penetrate to the sitting- room, and call for remonstrance from her mistress. Very prettily Janet was wont to receive such mediation. I can see her now, her cheeks redder than ever, her arms akimbo, and her eyes flashing unsubdued scorn as she retorted.
" Makin' a noise ? I dare say I was makin' a noises an' so 'ould you b6, ma'am, if you'd an aggravatin' faggot like that there in the parlour! Why, she'd strip the skin off a live eel with her lies and wiciousness, the weasel ! " to which Felice would only reply, with a slight shrug of her trim shoulders, and a mild
*Ne faut pas vous deranger, Madame. Je m'y suis bien accoutum^e.
Of course you English people wonder why we kept such a firebrand and ne'er-do-well in the house. In London she would have been turned into the streets at a moment's notice ; or rather never taken thence at all. Unfortunately, however, women in the backwoods are as much too scarce as they are too plentiful at home ; and women servants are as black swans for rarity, hard t© find, and harder still to keep. Under these circumstances Janet had to be taken in default of a better ; and though never a day passed without her receiving at least a dozen well-merited rebukes, and our resolving as many times to get rid of her before another week, the rebukes were as u water spilt upon the plain," and the resolutions went with others to pave a certain place.
The fact was we could not get another girl in the neighbour- hood ; and Emily's health was too delicate either to do without a second, or to stand the fatigue of a journey to Montreal in search of a better. As for Janet, she seemed provokingly satisfied both with her place and her employers ; and though making our lives miserable, causing endless quarrels among the men by her coqueteries, and scandalising her fellow- servant's notions of propriety at every turn, she persisted in
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
A Troublesome GirL 75
snubbing each and all of the offers of marriage lavished on her, and regarded herself in the light of the guardian angel and support of our household, without whom indeed we should have been left helpless and desolate.
" If Liz were gone, perhaps I might think on settling/* she would say, if Emily gently reminded her of the folly, to say the least, of her numerous flirtations ; " but I ain't such a brute as to leave you to the like o* her. Don't you fear ! Why, she'd poison you right off as soon as not ; an' master's that soft he'd never see through her. Men are so precious green, ma am.
I happened to be rn the next room when I heard myself thus flatteringly described to the wife of my bosom ; but I honestly believe it would have made no difference had I been actually present. Like Alaric of old, Janet feared neither God nor man.
Emily used to try and excuse her sometimes, and say she had a good heart at bottom. The fact is, that once when my wife was very ill Janet nursed her night and day, never even taking off her clothes for three weeks, and somehow managing to do the best part of her work as well, and with less noise and destruction than usual. Emily never forgot this, and used to hold it up as a proof of underlying virtues, even though Janet (who slept in her mistress's room for the time) used to avail herself of the dressing-room window as a medium for holding lengthy midnight conversations with one of her lovers, the invalid lying all the while with the door of com- munication open between her and the cold night air. I spoke to her very sharply about it ; not on the score of propriety, (Janet being perfectly hardened there, and fond of boasting . that she was quite capable of " taking keer on herself against a bushel of such poor, miserable things as men, silly bodies ! ") hut simply to remark that if she would talk to Martin at that hour, she might have shut the door into my wife's room. Janet stared at me :
"Shut the door! Why, dear sake! didn't I leave it opei a' purpose in case she should want somethin'. I aren't a girl to leave Madam a-callin' for an hour: an' fresh air never hurt no one in summer yet, an' didn't her either."
It is worthy of note that Janet never attempted to deny or gloss over any of her malpractices, a trait which Emily alluded
Digitized by VjOOQIC
76 5/. James's Magazine.
to as " frankness/' and I as "insolence." My wife's judgment is apt to be biassed by partiality ; and she is besides one of those persons who would find some good in the Prince of Evil if you were to say too much against him.
One day Janet fell in love.
The object was a young Englishman whom I had recently hired as foreman, a good-looking young fellow of very re- spectable parentage ; and I was not displeased to see that his first impression of our handmaidens was decidedly in favour of the Canadian. A little admiration might do our clever modest Felice no harm, while Janet rather wanted a dose of snubbing, which the men in general did not seem inclined to give her.
"It is reaHy disgraceful to ourselves to have such a girl in the kitchen," I said to Emily. " Tom Carter looked at her as if she were a wild beast when I told him he must mess with the women here till his cabin was built If it were not for Felice, I should feel quite ashamed to ask him to sit down with such a savage."
Alas! alas! before a week was over all my hopes were dashed to the ground. Tom Carter preferred savagery to civilisation ; Felice was nowhere ; and Janet, who had set out to conquer, fell hopelessly in love with her easily subjugated victim.
I think she felt that the subjugation was only apparent. Respectable as were Tom's parents, the man himself was a bit of a scamp in matters of morality, and decidedly more skilled in flirtations than our simple, country-bred louts. Janet- was the girl before whom all the other men bowed ; therefore Tom felt bound to "go in" for her also, oust the others, and teach her to bow to him. To do this required a good deal of trouble and ardour, (Janet not appreciating lukewarm devotion,) and Tom accordingly lavished on her such superfine worship that the young woman was fairly caught, and was soon ready to kiss the ground on which her lover trod.
No housework was done now! If Janet was indoors, she was either sitting with her hands in her lap dreaming of Tom, or else botching up her miserable wardrobe to make herself look more worthy in his eyes. Love indeed did what neither self-respect nor reproaches had hitherto achieved.
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
A Troublesome Girl. 77
Her hair was prettily arranged ; she became almost tidy in her dress, and grew quite friendly with Felice, confiding all her hopes and happiness to that young woman, and paying her libe- rally for assistance in the mysteries of cap and collar making.
Emily used to say that if Felice had a fault it was over- acquisitiveness, and that, despite the animosity between the girls, she never made Janet a present of clothing or other needful, but that it, or part of it, was certain to revert to Felice's wardrobe before many days were over. I know nothing about this, of course, but I do know that if love made Janet neater it had no good influence i:i any other respect. She was hardly ever in the house at all now, and took to haunting Tom's footsteps and hindering his work, until more than once I threatened to send them both away, and warned Janet that another offence would entail instant dismissal on herself at any rate. It had no effect. She only waited till dark instead, and then slipped out, keeping us waiting for tea, or preventing Felice from shutting up for the night while she was rambling about the farm-quarters phi- landering with Tom.
Even Emily said that for the girl's own sake she feared it would be better to send her away, and wait for the chance of another turning up.
Fate, or Providence, however, arranged otherwise. The winter was setting in with an aoiount of cold unusual even in Canada; and strong as Janet was, she was not strong enough to brave with impunity constant rushes out of the hot kitchen into the bitter evening frost, to stand about, often with arms and head uncovered, talking to rur lover in the yard. One evening she came in looking flushed and speaking hoarsely. Before morning she was dangerously ill.
It was an attack of bronchitis, combined with inflammation of the lungs, and so bad that for nearly five weeks she never left her room. For the first two days of her illness Tom Carter lounged about in rather an aimless way, and came once or twice into the kitchen to inquire for her. ' On the third he turned his attentions to Felice ; and before the end of a fortnight Felice came to my wife and told her very prettily and modestly that she and Carter were engaged to be married, and would only wait till he had had time to get his cabin finished and furnished.
Digitized by VjOOQIC
78 St. fames' s Magazine.
"And Janet?" Emily asked, rather shocked.
" Jeanette ? " and Felice smiled superiorly. " Tom was only amusing himself with Jeanette. She also amuses herself, and with all men, voyez-vous, Madame ? £a ne fait rien avec ccs femmes-ci. Du reste, she has not of any ' dot.' One does not marry with a girl who has nothing, if one is a prudent man. Pour moi, I have put away two hundred francs in the last two years alone/'
And indeed, leaving the " dot " alone, I was obliged to tell Emily that the girl was rightly served, and only being paid in her own coin.
Who told her I don't know. It was the day after she had first come downstairs, and I was in the hall giving some directions to one of the labourers, a half-silly creattre, and one of Janet's most slavish and ill-used admirers, when the girl came up to us. Her face, which seemed shrunk to half its usual size, was white as paper, and her voice, still husky and weak from illness, sounded hardly intelligible.
" Lend me your clasp knife, will you ? " she said, her breath coming in heavy pants between each word, and her lips shaking like leaves in a hot wind. Sam, at whom she looked, only stared foolishly ; and I asked her what she wanted it for. Her answer made me start.
" To kill Liz. Look here, master," coming nearer to me, and gazing up wildly into my face, her black eyes big and hollow enough now; "did you know she'd been an' took Tom from me? They said so, an' I didn't believe it. I couldn't believe it, even on her — her who knew all along. . . . But it's true. I heard him myself tell her, now this minute, in the yard, as he'd only been playing with me, to take me down a bit. Playing with me ! Good God, master, do lend me a knife, an' I'll take tier down. Aye, that I will. Do, master, please ! "
The girl seemed out of her mind. Her thin hands were burning hot and clenched ; her big, wasted limbs, trembling from head to foot. Emily came out and tried to soothe and take her away. All her persuasions, however, could not damp Janet's rage for vengeance; and Felice, really fright- ened, kept out of her way with care, and slept with the dairyman's wife at night, to be out of the house.
The following day happened to be Sunday, and Felice
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
A Troublesome Girl. 79
who had kept the kitchen door locked all the morning, ob- tained leave to go out for a walk as soon as the early dinner was over. Naturally, Carter was going with her; but not approving of his volatility, I had forbidden him the house for the present
Two hours later, " Silly Sam," as they called the softy, /S;> -
came into the kitchen where Janet was sitting, crouched over /c*** the fire, and coughing dismally. Jfy ' -;-
~ Felice is out wi' Tom," he said shortly. «£& ^ <f* *
Janet made no answer, only sank her head lower over the vr v^ , blaze, and clenched her hands viciously.
" She ain't a-coming back no more, either," he went on.
" Don't lie," retorted Janet hoarsely ; " she's only sleepin' out for fear o' me ; but I'll be even with her yet. See, just ! " and she clenched her hands tighter.
" Never you trouble," said Sam, grinning, " an' give us your hand, Janet, for I've been even wi' her for you."
She lifted her head and stared wonderingly at him, while the triumphant grin deepened on his unmeaning face.
" Aye, she won't vex you again, the sly polecat ! Ye know that stream atween here an' Bill Dairyman's hut, Janet? Now the ice is thick, us crosses straight over that instead o' going round by the bridge. There's quite a path worn i' the snow across it."
" An' what's that to me, mooncalf? "
" Don't 'ee now, Janet ! don't 'ee flurry 'un, an' I'll tell ye. They went over that way going out, an' well the ice bore them ; but it ain't so thick but a saw has cut it through in two places since then ; an' the water's mortal deep below. Felice 'il sleep sound enough to-night, once she steps on that bit of ice, with the sly, mincing foot of her, Janet girl."
u And Tom! — Tom ? " she had leapt up like a panther, and was clutching his arm tightly.
" Let go. Tom's safe enough," he answered, with a surly frown. " Master's sent him to La Garaye this evening, so Felice were to come home alone. I heard them settle it all. Eh, trust me not to hurt your man if I wanted thanks from you," and he laughed savagely.
Janet thrust him from her, — flung him off" as you would a snake.
"An' you'd hurt the thing he loves!" she cried fiercely,
Digitized by VjOOQIC
80 St. . James's Magazine.
" for me-;w, who weren't fit for the likes o' him anyhow ; an' wouldn't grieve him, dear heart!— no, not for all the Lizzies in the world. You villain! didn't you know I wouldn't ha* touched her, for his sake, if my heart broke wif chokin' it. An' she may be there now ! "
Without another word, without a moment's pause, she sprang from him and rushed out of the kitchen, and across the waste of bleak trodden snow-fields in the direction of the stream. I saw a black figure skim past the parlour window, dimly outlined against grey sky and white drifting waste ; and wondered vaguely who it could be. Not Janet, surely ! — Janet barely risen from a sick bed, and with only a ragged shawl over her cotton gown.
Tom Carter had not gone to La Garaye after all. Gal- lantry prevailed over, business, and he coolly disobeyed me and turned back with Felice. They were talking and laughing in lovers' fashion as they came up to the path across the ice- bound stream ; but the talk ceased suddenly, and the laughter changed into a startled cry ; for where the path had been, a square pool of water, dark and sullen, leapt up to meet their gaze, and dashed the fragments of ice, which so lately had covered it from view, against the frozen bank.
" Good heavens ! who has done this ? " cried Tom, and tlien he stopped, for crouched in a dark heap upon the snowy bank lay a stiff, silent figure, one arm still dangling over the edge. Stooping down to it, he uttered a sharp exclamation —
" Janet ! Is it possible ? "
She was speechless then, but she looked up in his face with a smile, and tried to point to the hole. He lifted her in his arms, and carried her home, Felice following in silence ; but Janet's last escapade was over, and life was already fast drifting into eternity. Before midnight, however, she opened her black eyes* once, and tried to mutter something. Emily, who was leaning over her, bent her head nearer.
" Where is he ? " Janet said. " Sam had cut it through ; but I broke it in, an' Liz will see the hole now, an* not step on it. . . . She ain't worth saving; but . . . fie likes hen And with a faint smile of pity for his taste, Janet turned her head aside and died.
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
" GRGWETH DOWN LIKE A TOADSTOOL." SL SDometftic Corned.
By LUCIUS BROUGHTON,
AUTHOR OF "A DAY WITH A BABY," "HOW HE WON HE I," ETC.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE STORM.
CANNOT understand why our ancestor Noah was so particularly commanded to set a door in the side of the Ark. The natural entrance of a building is the front. Neither am I aware of any great architectural structure that boasts a side portal for its principal door.
The Rabbins, who spent most of their time in the elucida- tion of such mysteries as the above, never found out a satis- factory reason. Poetically speaking, a door in front is as good as one behind, but certainly if we had built the A~k we should have kept the side door as a servants' entrance.
Possibly some of the animals may have been considered as servants. The dormouse would assuredly have fallen asieep in the way if he had been obliged to go round to the front ; and indeed if Noah were a sensible man, as his conduct in the dove and raven matter indicates, he in all probability put the whole cargo in by the roof, as we do nowadays in toy imitations of the first specimen of naval architecture. By the way, I should like to know if Mr. Plimsoll would have considered Noah's ark seaworthy, or requested the stork to introduce a new bill upon the subject in his leg-islative council.
Now, friend Noah did as he was told, but his descendant in the direct male line, the architect of Wimerton Castle, did not trouble himself about a door at all. He simply left a hole, and through that hole we enter the courtyard.
VOL- L Digitized by Gfoogk
82 St. James's Magazine.
In ancient days this said hole may have been closed by a gate, but if so the structure has long since become a matter of uncertainty. The walls are firm and erect, but all traces of doors, bolts, and hinges have entirely disappeared. A few feet of mossy ground, dotted here and there with ferns and prickly thistles, have to be crossed, and then we are at the ruins of the castle itself.
Here we pause, and call a council of war, as if we were about to storm the ruins. Before us the towers rise grey and solemn, lit with the sunlight that now has a flush of anger in it, as the rays fall from under the gathering clouds.
"I vote we separate," suggests Kate, "and lose ourselves among the ruins. It will be such fun."
" I can't say I see it," replies Mr. Weston.
" Oh yes, let us do so, by all means," says Mary, with a significant glance at the last speaker which neither escapes him nor me.
Mr. Weston says nothing, however, and I, turning to Laura, observe quietly,
" If you do not mind wandering alone, go, — only take care of the stones and holes. I will keep Amy with me, Kate, and my shout shall be the signal for gathering, eh ! agreed ; come, disperse."
The various members of our party enter upon the plan with spirit. There are many ways of getting into the ruins- — doorwfiys, windows, posterns, and entrances to winding stair- cases. The ruins are very extensive, and there is not much difficulty in losing oneself. I and Amy plunge into a door and traverse several rooms without obstruction, and we arrive at length in a vaulted chamber. The others are scattered abroad, and Amy and I look up with some amazement at the sky visible through an embrasure. It is perfectly red, and the breast of a dark cloud glows like a hot sheet of copper.
" Amy," I say, " we are going to have a severe thunder- storm. You are not afraid, are you ? "
" Afraid, Reggy ? — not I. Thunder is only God's voice speaking to the hills, and telling them to be ready for the coming shower."
" A pretty idea, Miss Amy. Who told you that ? "
" I read it, Reg, and I believe it. Listen ! "
Digitized by VjOOQIC
" Groiveth down like a Toadstool." 83
As she speaks, a low muttering sound like the growl of an angry bear reaches our ears.
" We had better not remain here. We may be able to get home before the storm breaks," say I, running across, the room to a door, through which I fancy lies the quickest way out.
As I reach this door, however, I hear voices. I pause, and motion to Amy to be quiet.
I fancy the persons speaking are Mary and Mr. Weston. Curiosity in this matter, as irresistible an impulse with mc as with any old maid in existence, impels me to stop and listen. Amy, usually inclined to silence, does not disturb me, but sits down on a stone in a spot from which she can gaze at the approaching storm. This is the conversation I overhear, the first speakers voice being that of a woman.
* Mr. Weston, I must speak to you now we are alone."
Recognizing the voice, I peep through the wall, and see as well as hear.
" Miss St. John, I am delighted to have the pleasure of an interview with you, especially in such a picturesque spot as this old castle."
" Don't ' Miss St. John* me. I never was more surprised in my life than to meet you here to-day. What are you doing hanging about this place ? "
("" Oh dear ! ain't he catching it ! " think I.)
" If you will be a little less violent, my dear young lady, I will tell you, — if you don't know already that I came down here for a little fishing."
"And does — I mean, do they at home know where you are ? "
" My much-respected parents do, I believe ; and your people, it would appear, do not, or there would have been no reason for your surprise."
"Don't resort to- any subterfuge. I don't believe anybody knows you are here ; and if, as you pretend, you want fishing, what brought you up to Mr. Thompson's this afternoon ? " 11 Providence intended I should meet you." "I am not sorry that I was there, though. Perhaps you will tell me why you appeared not to know me."
"I did not. Excuse me, you yourself shrank from the recognition I intended."
Digitized by UOOQ IC
84 Si. James's Magazine.
"Anything else ? I will be frank with you. You are not down here for any good, and I wish you would go." " Perch£, my child.,,
" I don't want any nonsense ; and, thank God, I am not your child. Do you think I have no eyes ? "
" No one who has ever had the pleasure of being in yo ur presence can doubt that fact. You have eyes — and uncom- monly brilliant ones, Miss St. John." (How provokingly cool he is, to be sure !)
" And Miss Thompson,— I suppose her eyes are brilliant, too?"
" Well now, real^ Mary, don't you think Miss Thompson an uncommon nice-looking girl ? "
" Why didn't you have the manliness to speak the truth at once, Ralph ? Do you think I don't see that you are trying to fascinate and flirt with that little girl ? I am thoroughly
ashamed of you, indeed I am, and I'll tell "
But who she was going to tell I do not hear, for a few spots of rain falling among the ruins knock some plaster into my eye, and I am obliged to withdraw my head and use a hand- kerchief to remove the troublesome particle. When the opera- tion is over, I hear the following fragments of conversation. " She is only a child," says the male voice. " Child or not, you are none. Suppose, suppose now that you saw the girl you love walking with a good-looking young man, who was doing his best to fascinate her — what would you think ?"
" Think ? — that she was enjoying herself." " And you have no consideration for either the girl or your own self-respect ? What right have you here at all ? As for fishing, that is all moonshine."
" Suppose I am here for air and exercise ?" " Go to Margate."
" You might as well say go to Bath or Jericho at once." "Make no mistake. I will do what I said if you insist on remaining and fooling with that girl. It isn't only on that account, but for her sake. I like Kate Thompson, and I object to your amusing yourself at her expense. I will — I will tell — I mean it."
What she will tell is quite a mystery to me at present. "What do you want me to do ?"
Digitized by VjOOQIC
"Grovueth down like a Toadstool" 85
" Return to your business/' " But this may lead to business."
" Nonsense ! I know more about the man's affairs than you do. You will not be advanced in the way you think, if indeed you do think of it."
" Really, Mary, I am telling you the truth."
" Mr. Weston, I have said all I mean to say. Do what you like, but I warn you, don't defy me. It will not be to your advantage in any way to quarrel with me."
"An amiable " (something I fail to catch).
" Amiable or not, I am resolved. Oh my ! "
The last exclamation is apparently called forth by a vivid flash of lightning.
The persons move from their position. I think it time to summon the wanderers. I climb up an old staircase, and mount a round tower which commands a view of the castle yard and ruins generally. Standing on the top of this, I wave my hat and shout aloud.
Amy is still sitting on her stone. The child is as quiet as a mouse. I can see her from my elevated stand through a large gap in the stonework. I shout again, and am answered by a clear shrill voice. It is Kate's. She soon finds her way to the rendezvous, and after her comes Laura, who has not much relished wandering alone, or is glad to be with us again.
I descend and join them.
" We only want Mary and Mr. Weston," says Laura ; " and I wonder where they are."
. I turn aside to prevent laughing. My sister answers Laura.
" Mary, come in this direction. As for Mr. Weston, he said he would follow me ; but I would not let him, so perhaps he has wandered downstairs to look at the dungeons. Oh, how grand ! "
At that moment a fearful flash of forked lightning lit up the sky, and the next the whole heavens were in a blaze.
The storm bursts overhead with terrible fury. The entire sky is overspread by one vast cloud. In the east it is dark and threatening ; to the west the appearance is of a copper hue, and small clouds detached and raised upon the others indicate the presence of much electricity. The air is heavy and murky* and a few spots of rain fall at intervals. Above
Digitized by VjOOQIC
86 5/. Janus s Magazine.
our heads stand out the grey walls of the ruin, here and there relieved by a branch of ivy or a fluttering piece of feathery groundsel Black is the sky above the walls, and heavy and dull the appearance of the air around us.
The flash to which Kate called our attention is apparently the signal for the commencement of the tempest. Up from the horizon, as if spouted by a dragon with fiery nostrils, burst a succession of lightning