INTERLUDESBEINGTWO ESSAYS, A STORY, AND SOME VERSES

BYHORACE SMITH

LondonMACMILLAN AND COAND NEW YORK1892

ESSAYS. 

I. ON CRITICISM. 

Criticism is the art of judging. As reasonable persons we are calledupon to be constantly pronouncing judgment, and either acting upon suchjudgment ourselves or inviting others to do so. I do not know howanything can be more important with respect to any matter than theforming a right judgment about it. We pray that we may have "a rightjudgment in all things. " I am aware that it is an old saying that"people are better than their opinions, " and it is a mercy that it is so, for very many persons not only are full of false opinions upon almostevery subject, but even think that it is of no consequence what opinionsthey hold. Whether a particular action is morally right or wrong, orwhether a book or a picture is really good or bad, is a matter upon whichthey form either no judgment or a wrong one with perfect equanimity. Thesecret of this state of mind is, I think, that it is on the whole toomuch bother to form a correct judgment; and it is so much easier to letthings slide, and to take the good the gods provide you, than tocarefully hold the scales until the balance is steady. But can anybodydoubt that this abdication of the seat of judgment by large numbers ofpeople is most hurtful to mankind? Does anyone believe that there wouldbe so many bad books, bad pictures, and bad buildings in the world ifpeople were more justly critical? Bad things continue to be produced inprofusion, and worse things are born of them, because a vast number ofpeople do not know that the things are bad, and do not care, even if theydo know. What sells the endless trash published every day? Not the_few_ purchasers who buy what is vile because they like it, but the_many_ purchasers who do not know that the things are bad, and when theyare told so, think there is not much harm in it after all. In short, they think that judging rightly is of no consequence and only a bore. 

But I think I shall carry you all with me when I say that this society, almost by its very _raison d'etre_, desires to form just and properjudgments; and that one of the principal objects which we have in view inmeeting together from time to time is to learn what should be thought, and what ought to be known; and by comparing our own judgments of thingswith those of our neighbours, to arrive at a just modification of ourrough and imperfect ideas. 

Although criticism is the act of judging in general, and although I shallnot strictly limit my subject to any particular branch of criticism, yetnaturally I shall be led to speak principally of that branch of whichwe--probably all of us--think at once when the word is mentioned, viz. , literary and artistic criticism. I think if criticism were juster andfairer persons criticized would submit more readily to criticism. It iscertain that criticism is generally resented. We--none of us--like to betold our faults. 

"Tell Blackwood, " said Sir Walter Scott, "that I am one of the BlackHussars of Literature who neither give nor take criticism. " Tennysonresented any interference with his muse by writing the now nearlyforgotten line about "Musty, crusty Christopher. " Byron flew into arhapsodical passion and wrote _English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_--

 "Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all. "

He says--

 "A man must serve his time to every trade Save censure. Critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote; A mind well skilled to find or forge a fault; A turn for punning--call it Attic salt; To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, -- His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet; Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit; Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit; Care not for feeling--pass your proper jest, -- And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. "

Lowell retorted upon his enemies in the famous _Fable for Critics_. Swift, in his _Battle of the Books_, revenges himself upon Criticism bydescribing her. "She dwelt on the top of a snowy mountain in NovaZembla. There Momus found her extended in her den upon the spoils ofnumberless volumes, half devoured. At her right hand sat Ignorance, herfather and husband, blind with age; at her left Pride, her mother, dressing her up in the scraps of paper herself had torn. About herplayed her children Noise and Impudence, Dulness and Vanity, Pedantry andIll-manners. The goddess herself had claws like a cat. Her head, ears, and voice resembled those of an ass. " Bulwer (Lord Lytton) flew outagainst his critics, and was well laughed at by Thackeray for his pains. Poets are known as the _genus irritabile_, and I do not know that prosewriters, artists, or musicians are less susceptible. Most of us willremember Sheridan's _Critic_--

Sneer: "I think it wants incident. "

Sir Fretful: "Good Heavens, you surprise me! Wants incident! I am onlyapprehensive that the incidents are too crowded. "

Dangle: "If I might venture to suggest anything, it is that the interestrather falls off in the fifth act. "

Sir Fretful: "Rises, I believe you mean, sir. "

Mrs. Dangle: "I did not see a fault in any part of the play from thebeginning to the end. "

Sir Fretful: "Upon my soul the women are the best judges after all. "

In short, no one objects to a favourable criticism, and almost every oneobjects to an unfavourable one. All men ought, no doubt, to be thankfulfor a just criticism; but I am afraid they are not. As a result, tocriticize is to be unpopular. Nevertheless, it is better to be unpopularthan to be untruthful. 

 "The truth once out, --and wherefore should we lie?-- The Queen of Midas slept, and so can I. "

I am going to do a rather dreadful thing. I am going to divide criticisminto six heads. By the bye, I am not sure that sermons now-a-days areany better than they used to be in the good old times, when there werealways three heads at least to every sermon. Criticism should be--1. Appreciative. 2. Proportionate. 3. Appropriate. 4. Strong. 5. Natural. 6. _Bona fide_. 

1. _Criticism should be appreciative_. 

By this I mean, not that critics should always praise, but that theyshould understand. They should see the thing as it is and comprehend it. This is the rock upon which most criticisms fail--want of knowledge. Inreading the lives of great men, how often are we struck with the want ofappreciation of their fellows. Who admired Turner's pictures untilTurner's death? Who praised Tennyson's poems until Tennyson was quite anold man? Nay, I am afraid some of us have laughed at those whoendeavoured to ask our attention to what we called the daubs of the oneor the doggerel of the other. {5}This, I think, should teach us not evento attempt to criticize until we are sure that we appreciate. Yet what avast amount of criticism there is in the world which errs (like Dr. Johnson) from sheer ignorance. When Sir Lucius O'Trigger found faultwith Mrs. Malaprop's language she naturally resented such ignorantcriticism. "If there is one thing more than another upon which I pridemyself, it is the use of my oracular tongue and a nice derangement ofepitaphs. " It was absurd to have one's English criticized by anyIrishman. It is said that "it's a pity when lovely women talk of thingsthat they don't understand"; but I am afraid that men are equally givento the same vice. I have heard men give the most confident opinions uponsubjects which they don't in the least understand, which nobody expectsthem to understand, nor have they had any opportunity for acquiring therequisite knowledge. But I suppose an Englishman is nothing if he is notdictatorial, and has a right to say that the pictures in the Louvre are"orrid" or that the Colosseum is a "himposition. " "I don't know whatthey mean by Lucerne being the Queen of the Lakes, " said a Yankee to me, "but I calc'late Lake St. George is a doocid deal bigger. " The criticismwas true as far as it went, but the man had no conception of beauty. 

 "Each might his several province well command Would all but stoop to what they understand. "

The receipt given for an essay on Chinese Metaphysics was, look out Chinaunder the letter C and metaphysics under the letter M, and combine yourinformation. "Would you mind telling me, sir, if the Cambridge boatkeeps time or not to-day?" said a man on the banks of the Thames to me. He explained that he was a political-meeting reporter on the staff of apenny paper, and the sporting reporter was ill. Sometimes the want ofappreciation appears in a somewhat remarkable manner, as where a reallygood performance is praised for its blemishes and not for its merits. This may be done from a desire to appear singular or from ignorance. Thepopular estimate is generally wrong from want of appreciation. Themajority of people praise what is not worthy of praise and dislike whatis. So that it is almost a test of worthlessness that the multitudesapprove. Baron Bramwell, in discharging a prisoner at the Old Bailey, made what he thought some appropriate observations, which were followedby a storm of applause in the crowded court. The learned judge, withthat caustic humour which distinguishes him, looked up and said, "Blessme! I'm afraid I must have said something very foolish. " An amusingscene occurred outside a barrister's lodgings during the NorthamptonAssizes. Two painters decorating the exterior of the lodgings wereoverheard as follows:--"Seen the judge, Bill?" "Ah, I see him. Cheeryold swine!" "See the sheriff too?" "Yes, I see him too. I reckon hegot that place through interest. Been to church; they tell me the judgepreached 'em a long sarmon. Pomp and 'umbug I call that!" This was nodoubt genuine criticism, but it was without knowledge. These men wereprobably voters for Bradlaugh, and the judge and the sheriff were to themthe embodiment of a hateful aristocracy. These painters little knew howmuch the judge would like to be let off even listening to the sermon, andhow the sheriff had resorted to every dodge to escape from his onerousand thankless office. 

It is recorded in the Life of Lord Houghton that Prince Leopold, beingrecommended to read Plutarch for Grecian lore, got the British Plutarchby mistake, and laid down the Life of Sir Christopher Wren in greatindignation, exclaiming there was hardly anything about Greece in it. 

I am sure, too, that in order to understand the work of another we musthave something more than knowledge; we must have some sympathy with thework. I do not mean that we must necessarily praise the execution of it;but we must be in such a frame of mind that the success of the work wouldgive us pleasure. I am sure someone says somewhere that a man whosefirst emotion upon seeing anything good is to undervalue it will never doanything good of his own. It argues a want of genius in ourselves if wefail to see it in others; unless, indeed, we do really see it, and only_say_ we don't out of envy. This is very shameful. I had rather do likesome amiable people I have known, disparage the work of a friend in orderto set others praising it. 

Criticism should therefore be appreciative in two ways. The criticshould bring the requisite amount and kind of knowledge and the properframe of mind and temper. 

2. _Criticism should be proportionate_. 

By this I mean that the language in which we speak of anything should beproportioned to the thing spoken of. If you speak of St. Paul's Church, Beckenham, as vast, grand, magnificent, you have no language leftwherewith to describe St. Paul's, London. If you call Millais' Huguenotssublime or divine, what becomes of the Madonna St. Sisto of Raphael? Ifyou describe Longfellow's poetry as the feeblest possible trash, thecoarsest and most unparliamentary language could alone express yourcontempt of Martin Tupper. 

"What's the good of calling a woman a Wenus, Samivel?" asked the elderWeller. What indeed! The elder Weller probably perceived that thelanguage would be out of all proportion to the object of Samivel'saffections. Of course, something may be allowed to a generousenthusiasm, and, with regard to this fault in criticism, it shouldperhaps be said that exaggerated praise is not so base in its beginningor so harmful in the end as exaggerated blame. From the use of theformer Dr. Johnson defended himself with his usual vigour. Boswellpresumed to find fault with him for saying that the death of Garrick hadeclipsed the gaiety of nations. Johnson: "I could not have said more, nor less. It is the truth. His death did eclipse, it was like a storm. "Boswell: "But why nations? Did his gaiety extend further than his ownnation?" Johnson: "Why, sir, some exaggeration must be allowed. Besides, 'nations' may be said--if we allow the Scotch to be a nation, and to havegaiety, --which they have not. "

But there is more in this matter of proportion than at first meets theeye. How often do we converse with a man whose language we wonder at andcannot quite make out. It is somehow unsatisfactory. We do not quitelike it, yet there is nothing particular to dislike. Suddenly weperceive that there is a want of perspective, or perhaps a want of whatartists call value. His mountains are mole-hills, and his mole-hills aremountains. His colouring is so badly managed that the effect ofdistance, light, and shade are lost. Thus a man will so insist upon theuse of difficult words by George Elliot that a person unacquainted withher writings would think that the whole merit or demerit of that authorlay in her vocabulary. A man will so exalt the pathos of Dickens orThackeray that he will throw their wit and humour into the background. Some person's only remark on seeing Turner's Modern Italy will be thatthe colours are cracked, or, upon reading Sterne, that he always wrote"you was" instead of "you were. " "Did it ever strike you, " said a friendof mine, "that whenever you hear of a young woman found drowned shealways is described as having worn elastic boots?" Such persons look atall things through a distorting medium. Important things becomeunimportant and _vice versa_. The foreground is thrust back, thedistance brought forward, and the middle distance is nowhere. The effectof an exaggerated praise generally is that an unfair reaction sets in. Mr. Justin M'Carthy, in his _History of Our Own Times_, points out howmuch the character of Lord Stratford de Redcliffe has suffered from theabsurd devotion of Kinglake. Kinglake writes (he says) of Lord Stratfordde Redcliffe "as if he were describing the all-compelling movements ofsome divinity or providence. " What nonsense has been talked aboutMillais' landscapes, Whistler's nocturnes, Swinburne poetry--allexcellent enough in their way, and requiring to be praised according totheir merits, with a reserve as to their faults. The practice of puffingtends to destroy all sort of proportion in criticism. When singlesentences or portions of sentences of apparently unqualified praise aredetached from context, and heaped together so as to induce the public tothink that all praise and no blame has been awarded, of course allproportion is lost. Macaulay lashed this vice in his celebrated essay onRobert Montgomery's poems. "We expect some reserve, " he says, "somedecent pride in our hatter and our bootmaker. But no artifice by whichnotoriety can be obtained is thought too abject for a man of letters. Extreme poverty may indeed in some degree be an excuse for employingthese shifts as it may be an excuse for stealing a leg of mutton. "

Upon the other hand, how unfair is exaggerated blame. I am not speakinghere of that which is intentionally unfair, but of blame fairly meant andin some degree deserved, but where the language is out of all proportionto the offence. 

Ruskin so belaboured the poor ancients about their landscapes that when Iwas a youth he had taught me to believe that Claude and Ruisdael weremere duffers. So when he speaks of Whistler, as we shall presently see, his blame is so exaggerated that it produces a revulsion in the mind ofthe reader. He said Whistler's painting consisted in throwing a pot ofpaint in the public's face. Well! we may say Whistler is somewhatsketchy and careless or wanting in colour, but it is quite possible tokeep our tempers over it. 

"This salad is very gritty, " said a gentleman to Douglas Jerrold at adinner party. "Gritty, " said Jerrold, "it's a mere gravel path with afew weeds in it. " That was very unfair on the salad. 

3. _Criticism should be appropriate_. 

I mean by this something different from proportionate. Sometimes thelanguage of criticism is not that of exaggeration, but yet it is quite asinappropriate. The critic may have taken his seat too high or too lowfor a proper survey, or he may, by want of education or by carelessness, use quite the wrong words to express his meaning. You will hear a mansay, "I was enchanted with the Biglow Papers, " or "I was charmed with thehyenas at the Zoological Gardens. " I think one of the distinguishingcharacteristics of a gentleman, and what makes the society of educatedgentlemen so pleasant, is that their language is appropriate withouteffort. "'What a delicious shiver is creeping over those limes!' saidLancelot, half to himself. The expression struck Argemone; it was theright one. " This is what makes some people's conversation sointeresting. It is full of appropriate language. This is perhaps evenmore the case with educated ladies. I think it is Macaulay who says thatthe ordinary letter of an English lady is the best English style to befound anywhere. 

"It would be bad _grammar_, " said Cobbett, "to say of the House ofCommons, 'It is a sink of iniquity, and they are a set of rascallyswindlers. '" Of course, the bad grammar is almost immaterial. Theexpression is either a gross libel or a lamentable fact. "If a man, "said Sydney Smith, "were to kill the minister and churchwardens of hisparish nobody would accuse him of want of taste. The Scythians alwaysate their grandfathers; they behaved very respectfully to them for a longtime, but as soon as their grandfathers became old and troublesome, andbegan to tell long stories, they immediately ate them; nothing could bemore _improper_ and even _disrespectful_ than dining off such near andvenerable relations, yet we could not with any propriety accuse them ofbad taste. " This is very humorous. To say that it is improper ordisrespectful is as absurd as to say that it is bad taste. It isproperly described as cruel, revolting, and abominable. 

Not being at all a French scholar, and coming suddenly in view of MontBlanc, I ventured to say to my guide, "_C'est tres joli_. " "_Non_, _Monsieur_, " said he, "_ce n'est pas joli_, _mais c'est curieux a voir_. "I think we were both of us rather out of it that time. 

I remember an old lady of my acquaintance pointing to her new chintz ofpeonies and sunflowers, and asking me if I did not think it was very"chaste. " I should like to have said, "Oh, yes, very, quite rococo, " butI daren't. 

The wife of a clergyman, writing to the papers about the "Penge Mystery, "said that certain of the parties (whom most right-minded people thoughthad committed most atrocious crimes, if not actual murder) had beenguilty of a breach of "les convenances de societe. " This is almost equalto De Quincey's friend, who committed a murder, which at the time hethought little about. Keble said to Froude, "Froude, you said youthought Law's _Serious Call_ was a clever book; it seemed to me as if youhad said the Day of Judgment will be a pretty sight. "

I ought here to mention the use, or rather misuse, of words which areoften called "slang, " such as "awfully jolly, " "fearfully tedious, ""horribly dull, " or the expression "quite alarming, " which young ladies, I think, have now happily forgotten, and the equally silly use of theword "howling" by young men. Such expressions mean absolutely nothing, and are destructive of intelligent conversation. A man was being triedfor a serious assault, and had used a violent and coarse expressiontowards the prosecutor. "You must be careful not to be misled by the badlanguage reported to have been used by the prisoner, " said the judge. "You will find from the evidence that he has applied the same expressionto his best friend, to a glass of beer, to his grandmother, his boots, and his own eyes. "

4. _Criticism should be strong_. 

I hope from the remarks I have previously made it will not be supposedthat I think all criticism should be of a flat, neutral tint, or what maybe called the washy order. On the contrary, if criticism is not strongit cannot lift a young genius out of the struggling crowd, and it cannotbeat down some bumptious impostor. If the critic really believes that anew poet writes like Milton, or a new artist paints like Sir Joshua, lethim say so; or if he thinks any work vile or contemptible, let him sayso; but let him say so well. Mere exaggerated language, as we have seen, is not strength; but if there is real strength in the criticism, and itis proportionate and appropriate, it will effect its purpose. It willfree the genius, or it will crush the humbug. A good critic should befeared:

 "Good Lord, I wouldn't have that man Attack me in the _Times_, "

was said of Jacob Omnium. 

 "Yes, I am proud, I own it, when I see Men not afraid of God afraid of me, "

Pope said, and I can fancy with what a stern joy an honest critic wouldarise and slay what he believed to be false and vicious. In no time wasthe need of strong criticism greater than it is at present. The press isteeming with rubbish and something worse. Everybody reads anything thatis published with sufficient flourish and advertisement, and those whoread have mostly no power of judging for themselves, nor would they beturned from the garbage which seems to delight them by any gentlepersuasion. It is therefore most necessary that the critic should speakout plainly and boldly, though with temper and discretion. I suppose wehave all of us read Lord Macaulay's criticism upon Robert Montgomery'spoems. The poems are, of course, forgotten; but the essay still lives asa specimen of the terribly slashing style. This is the way one coupletis dealt with--

 "The soul aspiring pants its source to mount, As streams meander level with their fount. "

"We take this on the whole to be the worst similitude in the world. Inthe first place, no stream meanders, or can possibly meander, level withits fount. In the next place, if streams did meander level with theirfounts, no two motions can be less like each other than that ofmeandering level and that of mounting upwards. After saying thatlightning is designless and self-created, he says, a few lines furtheron, that it is the Deity who bids

 'the thunder rattle from the skiey deep. '

His theory is therefore this, that God made the thunder but the lightningmade itself. " Of course, poor Robert Montgomery was crushed flat, andrightly. Yet before this essay was written his poems had a largercirculation than Southey or Coleridge, just as in our own time MartinTupper had a larger sale than Tennyson or Browning. Fancy if Tupper hadbeen treated in the same vein how the following lines would have fared:--

 "Weep, relentless eye of Nature, Drop some pity on the soil, Every plant and every creature Droops and faints in dusty toil. "

What do the plants toil at? I thought we knew they toil not, neither dothey spin. It goes on--

 "Then the cattle and the flowers Yet shall raise their drooping heads, And, refreshed by plenteous showers, Lie down joyful in their beds. "

Whether the flowers are to lie down in the cattle beds or the cattle areto lie down in the flower beds does not perhaps distinctly appear, but Iventure to think that either catastrophe is not so much to be desired asthe poet seems to imagine. 

In the Diary of Jeames yellowplush a couplet of Lord Lytton's _SeaCaptain_ is thus dealt with--

 "Girl, beware, The love that trifles round the charms it gilds Oft ruins while it shines. "

"Igsplane this men and angels! I've tried everyway, back'ards, for'ards, and in all sorts of tranceposishons as thus--

 The love that ruins round the charms it shines Gilds while it trifles oft, or

 The charm that gilds around the love it ruins Oft trifles while it shines, or

 The ruin that love gilds and shines around Oft trifles while it charms, or

 Love while it charms, shines round and ruins oft The trifles that it gilds, or

 The love that trifles, gilds, and ruins oft While round the charms it shines. 

All which are as sensable as the fust passidge. "

Dryden added coarseness to strength in his remarks when he wrote of oneof Settle's plays:--"To conclude this act with the most rumbling piece ofnonsense spoken yet--

 'To flattering lightning our feigned smiles conform, Which, backed with thunder, do but gild a storm. '

Conform a smile to lightning, make a smile imitate lightning; lightningsure is a threatening thing. And this lightning must gild a storm; andgild a storm by being backed by thunder. So that here is gilding byconforming, smiling lightning, backing and thundering. I am mistaken ifnonsense is not here pretty thick sown. Sure the poet writ these twolines aboard some smack in a storm, and, being sea-sick, spewed up a goodlump of clotted nonsense at once. " Dryden wrote in a fit of rage andspite, and it is not necessary to be vulgar in order to be strong; but itis really a good thing to expose in plain language the meanderingnonsense which, unless detected, is apt to impose upon careless readers, and so to encourage writers in their bad habits. 

A young friend of mine imagined that he could make his fame as a painter. Holding one of his pictures before his father, and his father saying itwas roughly and carelessly done, he said, "No, but, father, look; itlooks better if I hold it further off. " "Yes, Charlie, the further youhold it off the better it looks. " That was severe, but strong and just. The young man had no real genius for painting, and his father knew it. 

It must be remembered that criticism cannot be strong unless it be thereal opinion of the writer. If the critic is hampered by endeavouring tomake his own views square with those of the writer, or the publisher, orthe public, he cannot speak out his mind, but is half-hearted in hiswork. 

5. _Natural_. 

Criticism should be natural, that is, not too artificial. This is asomewhat difficult matter upon which to lay down any rules; but one oftenfeels what a terrible thing it is when one wants to admire something tobe told, "Oh, but the unities are not preserved, " or this or that isquite inadmissible by all the rules of art. 

"Hallo! you chairman, here's sixpence; do step into that bookseller'sshop, and call me a day-tall critic. I am very willing to give any ofthem a crown to help me with his tackling to get my father and my uncleToby off the stairs, and to put them to bed. "

"And how did Garrick speak the soliloquy last night?" "Oh, against allrule, my lord, most ungrammatically! Betwixt the substantive and theadjective, which should agree together in number, case, and gender, hemade a breach thus--stopping as if the point wanted settling; and betwixtthe nominative case, which your lordship knows should govern the verb, hesuspended his voice a dozen times, three seconds, and three fifths, by astop watch, my lord, each time. " Admirable grammarian! "But, insuspending his voice, was the sense suspended likewise? Did noexpression of attitude or countenance fill up the chasm? Was the eyesilent? Did you narrowly look?" "I looked only at the stop watch, mylord. " Excellent observer!" And what about this new book that the wholeworld makes such a rout about?" "Oh, it is out of all plumb, my lord, quite an irregular thing! Not one of the angles at the four corners wasa right angle. I had my rule and compasses, my lord, in my pocket. "Excellent critic! "And for the epic poem your lordship bid me look at;upon taking the length, breadth, height, and depth of it, and trying themat home upon an exact scale of Bossu's, 'tis out, my lord, in every oneof its dimensions. " Admirable connoisseur! "And did you step in to takea look at the grand picture on your way back. " "It is a melancholy daub!my lord, not one principle of the pyramid in any one group; there isnothing of the colouring of Titian, the expression of Rubens, the graceof Raphael, the purity of Domenichino, the corregiescity of Corregio, thelearning of Poussin, the airs of Guido, the taste of the Caraccis, or thegrand contour of Angelo. " "Grant me patience, just heaven! Of all thecants which are canted in this canting world, though the cant ofhypocrites may be the worst--the cant of criticism is the mosttormenting! I would go fifty miles on foot, for I have not a horse worthriding on, to kiss the hand of that man whose generous heart will give upthe reins of his imaginations into his author's hands; be pleased, heknows not why, and cares not wherefore. Great Apollo! if thou art in agiving humour, give me--I ask no more--but one stroke of native humourwith a single spark of thy own fire along with it, and send Mercury withthe rules and compasses if he can be spared, with my compliments, to--nomatter. "

This is all very amusing, and I don't know that the case upon that sidecould be better stated, except that it is overstated; for, if this betrue, there ought to be no such thing as criticism at all, and all rulesare worse than useless. Everybody may do as he pleases. And yet we knowthat not only is there a right way and a wrong of painting a picture, writing a book, making a building, or composing a symphony, but there arerules which, if disobeyed, will destroy the work. These rules, apparently artificial, have their foundation in nature, and were firstdictated by her. Only we must be careful still to appeal constantly toher as the source and fountain of our rules. 

 "First follow nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same, Unerring nature, still divinely blight, One clear, unchanged, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of art. "

By too much attention to theory, by too close a study of books, we maybecome narrow-minded and pedantic, and gradually may become unable toappreciate natural beauties, our whole attention being concentrated onthe defects in art. We want to listen to the call of the poet, "Come forth into the light of things, Let nature be your teacher. "

It is nature that mellows and softens the distance, and brings outsharply the lights and shadows of the foreground, and the artist mustfollow her if he would succeed. It is nature who warbles softly in thelove notes of the bird, and who elevates the soul by the roar of thecataract and the pealing of the thunder. To her the musician and thepoet listen, and imitate the great teacher. It is nature who, in thestructure of the leaf or in the avenue of the lofty limes, teaches thearchitect how to adorn his designs with the most graceful ofembellishments, to rear the lofty column or display the lengthening vistaof the cathedral aisle. It is nature who is teaching us all to betender, loving, and true, and to love and worship God, and to admire allHis works. Let us then in our criticism refer everything first of all tonature. Is the work natural? Does it follow nature? Secondly, does itfollow the rules of art? If it passes the first test, it is well worththe courteous attention of the critic. If it passes both tests, it isperfect. But if only the second test is passed, it may please a fewpedants, but it is worthless, and cannot live. 

6. _Criticisms should be bona fide_. 

You will be rather alarmed at a lawyer beginning this topic, and willexpect to hear pages of "Starkie on Libel, " or to have all theperorations of Erskine's speeches recited to you. For one terriblemoment I feel I have you in my power; but I scorn to take advantage ofthe position. I don't mean to talk about libel at all, or, at least, notmore than I can help. I have been endeavouring to show what goodcriticism should be like. If criticism is so base that there is aquestion to be left to a jury as to what damages ought to be paid for thespeaking or writing of it, one may say at once that it is unworthy of thename of criticism at all. Slander is not criticism. But there is agreat deal of criticism which may be called not _bona fide_, which is yetnot malicious. It is biassed perhaps, even from some charitable motive, perhaps from some sordid motive, perhaps from indolence, from a desire tobe thought learned or clever, or what not--in fact, from one or other ofthose thousand things which prevent persons from speaking fairly andstraightforwardly. When you take up the _Athenaeum_ or the _Spectator_, and read from those very able reviews an account of the last new novel, do you think the writer has written simply what he truly thinks and feelsabout the matter? No! he has been told he has been dull of late. Hefeels he must write a spicy review. He has a cold in his head, he issavage accordingly. A friend of his tells him he knows the author, or herecognizes the name of a college friend--he will be lenient. The book ison a subject which he meant to take up himself; and, without knowing it, he is jealous. I need not multiply further these suggestions which willoccur to anyone. We all remember the dinner in Paternoster Row given byMrs. Bungay, the publisher's wife. Bungay and Bacon are at daggersdrawn; each married the sister of the other, and they were for some timethe closest friends and partners. Since they have separated it is afurious war between the two publishers, and no sooner does one bring outa book of travels or poems, but the rival is in the field with somethingsimilar. We all remember the delight of Mrs. Bungay when the Hon. PercyPopjoy drives up in a private hansom with an enormous grey cab horse anda tiger behind, and Mrs. Bacon is looking out grimly from the window onthe opposite side of the street. "In the name of commonsense, Mr. Pendennis, " Shandon asked, "what have you been doing--praising one of Mr. Bacon's books? Bungay has been with me in a fury this morning at seeinga laudatory article upon one of the works of the odious firm over theway. " Pen's eyes opened wide with astonishment. "Do you mean to say, "he asked, "that we are to praise no books that Bacon publishes; or thatif the books are good we are to say that they are bad?" Pen says, "Iwould rather starve, by Jove, and never earn another penny by my pen, than strike an opponent an unfair blow, or if called upon to place him, rank him below his honest desert. "

There was a trial in London in December, 1878, which illustrates thesubject I am upon. It was an action for libel by the well-known artist, Mr. Whistler, against Mr. Ruskin, the most distinguished art critic ofthe age. The passage in the writing of Mr. Ruskin, of which Mr. Whistlercomplained, contains, I think, almost every fault which, according to mydivisions, a criticism can contain. The passage is as follows:--"For Mr. Whistler's own sake no less than for the protection of the purchaser, SirCoutts Lindsey ought not to have admitted works into the gallery in whichthe ill-educated conceit of the artist so nearly approached the aspect ofwilful imposture. I have seen and heard much of cockney impudence beforenow, but never expected to hear a coxcomb ask 200 guineas for flinging apot of paint in the public's face. "

The Attorney-General of the day, as counsel for Mr. Ruskin, said thatthis was a severe and slashing criticism, but perfectly fair and _bonafide_. 

Now, let us see. First, there is the expression, "the ill-educatedconceit of the artist nearly approached the aspect of wilful imposture. "That may be severe and slashing, but is it fair? If there _was_ a wilfulimposition, why not say so; but, of course, there was not, and could notbe; but it is most unfair to insinuate that there nearly was. The truthis, the words "wilful imposture" are a gross exaggeration. The jury, after retiring, came into court and asked the judge what was the meaningof wilful imposture, and, being told that it meant nothing in particular, they returned a verdict of damages one farthing, which meant to say thatthey thought equally little of Whistler's picture and of Ruskin'scriticism. Next we come to "Cockney impudence" and "coxcomb. " Surelythese terms must be grossly inappropriate to the subject in hand, whichis Whistler's painting, and not his personal qualities. Next, it seemsthat Mr. Ruskin thinks it is an offence to ask 200 guineas for a picture, but where the offence lies we are not told. It might be folly to _give_200 guineas for one of Whistler's pictures, but why should he be abusedfor asking it? The insinuation is that it is a false pretence, and suchan insinuation is not _bona fide_. Lastly, we are told that Mr. Whistlerhas been flinging a pot of paint in the public's face. In the firstplace, this is vulgar. In the next place, it is absurd. When SydneySmith said that someone's writing was like a spider having escaped fromthe inkstand and wandered over the paper, it was an exaggeratedcriticism, but it was appropriate. But if Mr. Whistler flung a pot ofpaint anywhere, it was upon his own canvas, and not into the face of thepublic. Now, let anybody think what is the effect of such criticism. Isone enabled by the light of it to see the merits or faults of Whistler'spainting? And yet this was written by the greatest art critic in thiscountry, by the man who has done more to reveal the secrets of Nature andof Art to us all than any man living, and, I had almost said, than anyliving or dead. But passion and arrogance are not criticism; and, in thesense in which I have used the term, such criticism is not _bona fide_. Well may Mr. Matthew Arnold say, speaking of Mr. Ruskin's criticism uponanother subject, that he forgets all moderation and proportion, and losesthe balance of his mind. This, he says, "is to show in one's criticismto the highest excess the note of provinciality. "

There was, once upon a time, a very strong Court of Appeal. It wasuniversally acknowledged to be so, and the memory of it still remains, and very old lawyers still love to recall its glories. It was composedof Lord Chancellor Campbell and the Lords Justices Knight-Bruce andTurner. Bethell (afterwards Lord Westbury) was an ambitious and aspiringman, and was always most caustic in his criticisms. He had been arguingbefore the above Court one day, and upon his turning round afterfinishing his argument, some counsel in the row behind him asked, "Well, Bethell, how will their judgment go?" Bethell replied, in his softestbut most cutting tones, "I do not know. Knight-Bruce is a jack-pudding. Turner is an old woman. And no human being can by any possibilitypredict what will fall from the lips of that inexpressibly fatuousindividual who sits in the middle. " This is funny, but it is vulgar, andit is not given in good faith. It is the offspring of anger and spitemixed with a desire to be clever and antithetical. 

I gather from Mr. Matthew Arnold's essays on criticism that the endeavourof the critic should be to see the object criticized "as in itself itreally is, " or as in another passage he says, "Real criticism obeys aninstinct prompting it to know the best that is known and thought in theworld. " "In order to do or to be this, criticism, " he says, in italics, "ought to be _disinterested_. " He points out how much English criticismis not disinterested. He says, "We have the _Edinburgh Review_, existingas an organ of the old Whigs, and for as much play of mind as may suitits being _that_; we have the _Quarterly Review_, existing as an organ ofthe Tories, and for as much play of mind as may suit its being that; wehave the _British Quarterly Review_, existing as an organ of thepolitical Dissenters, and for as much play of mind as may suit its beingthat; we have the _Times_ existing as an organ of the common satisfiedwell-to-do Englishman, and for as much play of mind as may suit its beingthat. . . . Directly this play of mind wants to have more scope, and toforget the pressure of practical considerations a little, it is checked, it is made to feel the chain. We saw this the other day in theextinction so much to be regretted of the _Home and Foreign Review_;perhaps in no organ of criticism was there so much knowledge, so muchplay of mind; but these could not save it. It must needs be that menshould act in sects and parties, that each of these sects and partiesshould have its organ, and should make this organ subserve the interestof its action; but it would be well too that there should be a criticism, not the minister of those interests, nor their enemy, but absolutely andentirely independent of them. No other criticism will ever attain anyreal authority, or make any real way towards its end, --the creating acurrent of true and fresh ideas. "

This, it must be remembered, was written in 1865. Would Mr. MatthewArnold be happier now with the _Fortnightly_ and the _Nineteenth Century_and others? There is, I think, a good deal of truth in the passage Ihave just quoted. I think he might have allowed that, among so manywriters, each advocating his own view or the view of his party or sect, we ought to have some chance of forming a judgment. A question seems toget a fair chance of being

 "Set in all lights by many minds To close the interests of all. "

But, as I said, there is a good deal in what the writer says. The _DailyNews_ says the Government is all wrong, and the _Daily Telegraph_ says itis all right; and if any paper ventured to be moderate it would go to thewall in a week. I think what he says is true, but there is no occasionto be so angry about it. We really are very thankful for such men asCarlyle, Ruskin, and Matthew Arnold, and I can't help thinking they havehad their proper share of praise, and have had their share of influenceupon their age. The air of neglected superiority, which they assume, detracts not a little from the pleasure with which one always reads them. 

Perhaps some of my conservative friends will regret the good old times inwhich criticism was really criticism, when a book had to run the gauntletof a few well established critics of _the_ club, or a play was applaudedor damned by a select few in the front row of the pit. I agree to lamenta past which can never return, but, on the whole, I think we are thegainers. Also, I very much incline to think that the standard ofcriticism is higher now than in the very palmy days when Addison wrote;or when the _Edinburgh_ or _Quarterly_ were first started. I incline toagree with Leslie Stephen in his _Hours in a Library_, that, if most ofthe critical articles of even Jeffrey and Mackintosh were submitted to amodern editor, he would reject them as inadequate; but I think thatperhaps they excel our modern efforts in a certain reserve and dignity, and in a more matured thoughtfulness. 

If criticism is an art, such as I have described it, and is subject tocertain rules and conditions; if good criticism is appreciative, proportionate, appropriate, strong, natural, and _bona fide_, and badcriticism is the reverse of all this, why, you will ask, cannot the artbe taught by some School or Academy; and if criticism is so important amatter as you say, surely the State might see to it? I must own I amagainst it. Mr. Matthew Arnold, who is much in favour of founding anacademy, which is not only to judge of original works but of thecriticisms of others upon them, states the matter very fairly. He says, "So far as routine and authority tend to embarrass energy and inventivegenius, academies may be said to be obstructive to energy and inventivegenius; and, to this extent, to the human spirit's general advance. Butthen this evil is so much compensated by the propagation on a large scaleof the mental aptitudes and demands, which an open mind and a flexibleintelligence naturally engender; genius itself in the long run so greatlyfinds its account in this propagation, and bodies like the French Academyhave such power for promoting it, that the general advance of the humanspirit is perhaps, on the whole, rather furthered than impeded by theirexistence. "

But I do not accede to this opinion. It is under the free open air ofheaven, in the wild woods and the meadows that the loveliest and sweetestflowers bloom, and not in the trim gardens or the hot-houses, and even inour gardens in England we strive to preserve some lingering traits of theopen country. I believe that just as the gift of freedom to the massesof our countrymen teaches them to use that freedom with care andintelligence, just as the abolition of tests and oaths makes men loyaland trustworthy, so it is well to have freedom in literature andcriticism. Mistakes will be made and mischief done, but in the long runthe effect of a keen competition, and an advancing public taste willtell. I don't hesitate to assert, without fear of contradiction, thatcritical art has improved rapidly during the last twenty years in thiscountry, where a man is free to start a critical review, and to writeabout anybody, or anything, and in any manner, provided he keeps withinthe law. He is only restrained by the competition of others, and by thepublic taste, which are both constantly increasing. No doubt an authorwill write with greater spirit, and with greater decorum, if he knowsthat his merits are sure to be fairly acknowledged, and his faultscertain to be accurately noted. But this object may be attained, Ibelieve, without an academy. On the other hand, what danger there is inan academy becoming cliquey, nay even corrupt. We have an academy herein the painting art, but except that it collects within its walls everyyear a vaster number of daubs than it is possible for any one ever to seewith any degree of comfort, I don't know what particular use it is of. Asa school or college it may be of use, but as a critical academy it doesvery little. 

I have thus endeavoured to show what I mean by my six divisions ofcriticism, and I have no doubt you will all of you have divined that mysix divisions are capable of being expressed in one word, Criticism mustbe _true_. To be true, it must be appreciative, or understanding, itmust be in due proportion, it must be appropriate, it must be strong, itmust be natural, it must be _bona fide_. There is nothing which anEnglishman hates so much as being false. Our great modern poet, in oneof his strongest lines, says--

 "This is a shameful thing for men to lie. "

And he speaks of Wellington--

 "Truth teller was our England's Alfred named, Truth lover was our English Duke. "

Emerson notices that many of our phrases turn upon this love of truth, such as "The English of this is, " "Honour bright, " "His word is as goodas his bond. "

 "'Tis not enough taste, learning, judgment join; In all you speak let truth, and candour shine. "

I am certain that if men and women would believe that it is importantthat they should form a true judgment upon things, and that they shouldspeak or write it when required, we should get rid of a great deal of badart, bad books, bad pictures, bad buildings, bad music, and bad morals. Iam further certain that by constantly uttering false criticisms weperpetuate such things. And what harm we are doing to our own selves inthe meantime! How habitually warped, how unsteady, how feeble, thejudgment becomes, which is not kept bright and vigorous through rightuse. How insensibly we become callous or indolent about forming acorrect judgment. "It is a pleasure to stand upon the shore and see theships tossed upon the sea; a pleasure to stand in the window of a castleand to see a battle and the adventures thereof below: but no pleasure iscomparable to the standing upon the vantage ground of truth (a hill notto be commanded and where the air is always clear and serene) and to seethe errors and wanderings and mists and tempests in the vale below, soalways that this prospect be with pity and not with swelling or pride. Certainly it is heaven upon earth to have a man's mind move in charity, rest in Providence, and turn upon the poles of truth. "

In conclusion, I am aware that I have treated the subject mostinadequately, and that others have treated the same subject with muchmore power; but I am satisfied of the great importance of a right use ofthe critical faculty, and I think it may be that my mode of treatment mayarrest the attention of some minds which are apt to be frightened at alearned method, and may induce them to take more heed of the judgmentswhich they are hourly passing on a great variety of subjects. If westill persist in saying when some one jingles some jig upon the pianothat it is "charming, " if we say of every daub in the Academy that it is"lovely, " if every new building or statue is pronounced "awfully jolly, "if the fastidious rubbish of the last volume of poetry is "grand, " if theslip-shod grammar of the last new novel is "quite sweet, " when shall wesee an end of these bad things? And observe further, these bad thingslive on and affect the human mind for ever. Bad things are born of bad. Who can tell what may be the effect of seeing day by day an hideousbuilding, of hearing day by day indifferent music, of constantly readinga lot of feeble twaddle? Surely one effect will be that we shallgradually lose our appreciation of what is good and beautiful. "A thingof beauty is a joy for ever. " Ah! but we must have eyes to see it. Thisspringtime is lovely, if we have the eyes to see it; but, if we have not, its loveliness is nothing to us, and if we miss seeing it we shall havedimmer eyes to see it next year and the next; and if we cannot now seebeauty and truth through the glass darkly, we shall be unable to gaze onthem when we come to see them face to face. 

II. ON LUXURY. 

An eminent lawyer of my acquaintance had a Socratic habit of interruptingthe conversation by saying, "Let us understand one another: when you sayso-and-so, do you mean so-and-so, or something quite different?" Now, although it is intolerable that the natural flow of social intercourseshould be thus impeded, yet in writing a paper to be laid before alearned and fastidious society one is bound to let one's hearers a littleinto the secret, and to state fairly what the subject of the essay reallyis. I suppose we shall all admit that bad luxury is bad, and good luxuryis good, unless the phrase good luxury is a contradiction in terms. Wemust try to avoid disputing about words. The word luxury, according toits derivation, signifies an extravagant and outrageous indulgence of theappetites or desires. If we take this as the meaning of the word, weshall agree that luxury is bad; but if we take luxury to be only anothername for the refinements of civilization, we shall all approve of it. Butthe real and substantial question is not what the word means, but, whatis that thing which we all agree is bad or good; where does the bad beginand the good end; how are we to discern the difference; and how are we toavoid the one and embrace the other. In this essay, therefore, I intendto use the word luxury to denote that indulgence which interferes withthe full and proper exercise of all the faculties, powers, tastes, andwhatever is good and worthy in a man. Enjoyments, relaxations, delights, indulgences which are beneficial, I do not denominate "luxury. " Allindulgences which fit us for our duties are good; all which tend to unfitus for them are bad; and these latter I call luxuries. Some one willsay, perhaps, that some indulgences are merely indifferent, and produceno appreciable effect upon body or mind; and it might be enough todismiss such things with the maxim, "_de minimis non curat lex_. " Butthe doctrine is dangerous, and I doubt if anything in this world isabsolutely immaterial. De Quincey mentions the case of a man whocommitted a murder, which at the time he thought little about, but he wasled on from that to gambling and Sabbath breaking. Probably in thisweary world any indulgence or pleasure which is not bad is notindifferent, but absolutely good. The world is not so bright, socomfortable, so pleasant, that we can afford to scorn the good the godsprovide us. In Mr. Reade's book on _Study and Stimulants_, MatthewArnold says, a moderate use of wine adds to the agreeableness of life, and whatever adds to the agreeableness of life, adds to its resources andpowers. There cannot be a doubt that the bodily frame is capable ofbeing wearied, and that it needs repose and refreshment, and this is alaw which a man trifles with at his peril. The same is true of theintellectual and moral faculties. They claim rest and refreshment; theymust have comfort and pleasure or they will begin to flag. It must alsobe always remembered that in the every-day work of this world the bodyand the mind have to go through a great deal which is depressing andtaxing to the energy, and a certain amount of "set off" is required tokeep the balance even. We must remember this especially with respect tothe poor. Pipes and cigars may be a luxury to the idle and rich, but weought not to grudge a pipe to a poor man who is overworked and miserable. Some degree of comfort we all feel to be at times essential when we havea comfortless task to perform. With good food and sleep, for instance, we can get through the roughest work; with the relaxation of pleasantsociety we can do the most tedious daily work. If, on the other hand, weare worried and uncomfortable, we become unfitted for our business. Weall have our troubles to contend against, and we require comfort, relaxation, stimulation of some sort to help us in the battle. There arecertain duties which most of us have to perform, and which, to use acommon expression, "take it out of us. " Thus most of us are compelled totravel more or less. An old gentleman travelling by coach on a longjourney wished to sleep off the tediousness of the night, but histravelling companion woke him up every ten minutes with the inquiry, "Well, sir, how are you by this. " At last the old gentleman's patiencewas fairly tired out. "I was very well when I got into the coach, andI'm very well now, and if any change takes place I'll let you know. " Iwas coming from London to Beckenham, and in the carriage with me was agentleman quietly and attentively reading the newspaper. A lady oppositeto him, whenever we came to a station, cried out, "Oh, what station'sthis, what station's this?" Being told, she subsided, more or less, tillthe next station. The gentleman's patience was at last exhausted. "Ifthere is any _particular_ station at which you wish to alight I willinform you when we arrive. "

Such are some of the annoying circumstances of travel. Then, at the endof the journey, are we sure of a comfortable night's rest? It was a ruleupon circuit that the barristers arriving at an inn had the choice ofbedrooms according to seniority, and woe betide the junior who dared toinfringe the rule and endeavour to secure by force or fraud the bestbedroom. The leaders, who had the hardest work to do, required the bestnight's rest. A party of barristers arrived late one night at theiraccustomed inn, a half-way house to the next assize town, and found oneof the best bedrooms already occupied. They were told by some wag thatit was occupied by a young man just joined the circuit. There was a rushto the bedroom. The culprit was dragged out of bed and deposited on thefloor. A venerable old gentleman in a nightcap and gown addressed theringleader of his assailants, Serjeant Golbourne, "Brother Golbourne, brother Golbourne, is this the way to treat a Christian judge?" I shouldnot have liked to have been one of those who had to conduct a causebefore him next day. Who can be generous, benevolent, kindly, and even-tempered if one is to be subjected to such harassing details as I haveabove narrated? and I have no doubt that a fair amount of comfort isnecessary to the exercise of the Christian virtues. I am not at all surethat pilgrims prayed any better because they had peas in their shoes, andit is well known that soldiers fight best when they are well fed. Acertain amount of comfort and pleasure is good for us, and is refreshingto body and spirit. Such things, for instance, as the bath in themorning; the cup of warm tea or coffee for breakfast; the glass of beeror wine and variety of food at dinner; the rest or nap in the arm-chairor sofa; an occasional novel; the pipe before going to bed; the change ofdress; music or light reading in the evening; even the night-caprecommended by Mr. Banting; games of chance or skill; dancing;--surelysuch things may renovate, soothe, and render more elastic and vigorousboth body and mind. 

While, therefore, I have admitted fully that we all require "sweetnessand light, " that some indulgence is necessary for the renovation of ourwearied souls and bodies; yet it very often will happen that the thing inwhich we desire to indulge does not tend at all in this direction, or itmay be that, although a moderate indulgence does so tend, an immoderateuse has precisely the reverse effect. My subject, therefore, dividesitself, firstly, into a consideration of those luxuries which are _perse_ deleterious, and those which are so only by excessive use. 

I suppose you will not be surprised to hear that I think we are indanger, in the upper and middle classes at all events, of going farbeyond the point where pleasures and indulgences tend to the improvementof body and mind. Surely there are many of us who can remember when thehabits of our fathers were less luxurious than they are now. In aleading article in a newspaper not long ago the writer said, "All classeswithout exception spend too much on what may be called luxuries. A verymarked change in this respect has been noticed by every one who studiesthe movements of society. Among people whose fathers regarded champagneas a devout Aryan might have regarded the Soma juice--viz. , as a beveragereserved for the gods and for millionaires--the foaming grape of EasternFrance is now habitually consumed. . . . " He goes on, "The luxuries ofthe poor are few, and chiefly consist of too much beer, and of littleoccasional dainties. What pleasures but the grossest does the Stateprovide for the artisan's leisure?" "It does not do, " says the writer, "to be hard upon them, but it is undeniable that this excess ofexpenditure on what in no sense profits them is enormous in the mass. "

Not long ago a great outcry was heard about the extravagance and luxuryof the working man. It was stated often, and certainly not withoutfoundation, that the best of everything in the markets in the way of foodwas bought at the highest prices by workmen or their wives; and althoughthe champagne was not perhaps so very freely indulged in, nor so pure asmight be wished, yet, that the working men indulged themselves in moredrink than was good for their stomachs, and in more expensive drinks thanwas good for their purses, no man can doubt. 

If this increase of luxury is observable in the lower classes, how muchmore easily can it be discerned in the middle classes. Take for instancethe pleasures of the table. I do not speak of great entertainments orlife in palaces or great houses, which do not so much vary from one ageto another, but of the ordinary life of people like ourselves. Spensersays:--

 "The antique world excess and pryde did hate, Such proud luxurious pomp is swollen up of late. "

How many more dishes and how many more wines do we put on the table thanour ancestors afforded. Pope writes of Balaam's housekeeping:--

 "A single dish the week day meal affords, An added pudding solemnized the Lord's. "

Then when he became rich:--

 "Live like yourself was soon my lady's word, And lo, two puddings smoked upon the board!"

Then his description of his own table is worth noting:--

 "Content with little, I can manage here On brocoli and mutton round the year, 'Tis true no turbots dignify my boards, But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords. 

 To Hounslow Heath I point, and Banstead Down; Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own, From yon old walnut tree a show'r shall fall, And grapes, long lingering on my only wall, And figs from standard and espalier join-- The deuce is in you if you cannot dine. "

Now, however, the whole world is put under contribution to supply ourdaily meals, and the palate is being constantly stimulated, and in somedegree impaired by a variety of food and wine. And I am sure that theeffect of this is to produce a distaste for wholesome food. I daresay wehave all heard of the Scotchman who had drunk too much whisky. He said, "I can't drink water; it turns sae acid on the stomach. " This increaseof the luxuries of the table, beyond what was the habit of our fathers, is shown chiefly, I think, when we are at home and alone; but if one isvisiting or entertaining others, how often is one perfectly bored by thequantity of food and drink which is handed round. Things in season andout of season, perhaps ill assorted, ill cooked, cold, and calculated tomake one extremely ill, but no doubt costing a great deal of money, time, and anxiety to the givers of the feast. Then we fall to grumbling, andare discontented with having too much, but having acquired a habit ofexpecting it we grumble still more if there is not as much as usualprovided. 

 "He knows to live, who keeps the middle state, And neither leans on this side or on that; Nor stops, for one bad cork, his butler's pay; Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away; Nor lets, like Nevius, every error pass-- The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy glass. "

But what is the modern idea of a dinner?--

 "After oysters Sauterne; then sherry, champagne, E'er one bottle goes comes another again; Fly up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above, And tell to our ears in the sounds that they love, How pleasant it is to have money, Heigh ho; How pleasant it is to have money!

 Your Chablis is acid, away with the hock; Give me the pure juice of the purple Medoc; St. Peray is exquisite; but, if you please, Some Burgundy just before tasting the cheese. So pleasant it is to have money, Heigh ho; So pleasant it is to have money!

 Fish and soup and omelette and all that--but the deuce-- There were to be woodcocks and not Charlotte Russe, And so suppose now, while the things go away, By way of a grace, we all stand up and say-- How pleasant it is to have money, Heigh ho; How pleasant it is to have money!

This, of course, is meant to be satirical; but no doubt many personsregard the question of "good living" as much more important than "highthinking. " "My dear fellow, " said Thackeray, when a dish was served atthe Rocher de Cancalle, "don't let us speak a word till we have finishedthis dish. "

 "'Mercy!' cries Helluo. 'Mercy on my soul! Is there no hope? Alas!--then bring the jowl. '"

A great peer, who had expended a large fortune, summoned his heir to hisdeath-bed, and told him that he had a secret of great importance toimpart to him, which might be some compensation for the injury he haddone him. The secret was that crab sauce was better than lobster sauce. 

"Persicos odi, " "I hate all your Frenchified fuss. "

 "But a nice leg of mutton, my Lucy, I prithee get ready by three; Have it smoking, and tender, and juicy, And, what better meat can there be? And when it has served for the master, 'Twill amply suffice for the maid; Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster, And tipple my ale in the shade. "

Can anything be more awful than a public dinner--the waste, theextravagance, the outrageous superfluity of everything, the enormouswaste of time, the solemn gorging, as if the whole end and aim of lifewere turtle and venison. I do not know whether to dignify suchproceedings by the name of luxury. But what shall I say of gentlemen'sclubs. They are the very hotbed of luxury. By merely asking for it youobtain almost anything you require in the way of luxury. I am aware thatmany men at clubs live more carefully and frugally, but I am aware alsothat a great many acquire habits of self-indulgence which produceidleness and selfish indifference to the wants of others. In a stillmore pernicious fashion, I think that refreshment bars at railwaystations minister to luxury; at least I am sure they foster a habit ofdrinking more than is necessary, or desirable; and that is one form ofluxury, and a very bad one. The fellows of a Camford college arereported to have met on one occasion and voted that we do sell our chapelorgan; and the next motion, carried _nem. Con_. , was that we do have adinner. As to ornaments for the dinner table what affectation andexpense do we see. But in the days of Walpole it was not amiss. "Thelast branch of our fashion into which the close observation of nature hasbeen introduced is our desserts. Jellies, biscuits, sugar plums, andcreams have long since given way to harlequins, gondoliers, Turks, Chinese, and shepherdesses of Saxon china. Meadows of cattle spreadthemselves over the table. Cottages in sugar, and temples in barleysugar, pigmy Neptunes in cars of cockle shells trampling over oceans oflooking glass or seas of silver tissue. Gigantic figures succeed topigmies; and it is known that a celebrated confectioner complained that, after having prepared a middle dish of gods and goddesses eighteen feethigh, his lord would not cause the ceiling of his parlour to bedemolished to facilitate their entree. "_Imaginez-vous_, " said he, "_quemilord n'a pas vouler faire oter le plafond_!"

To show how much luxurious living has increased during the presentcentury I propose to quote a portion of that wonderfully brilliant thirdchapter of Macaulay's _England_ which we all know. Speaking of thesquire of former days, he says, "His chief serious employment was thecare of his property. He examined samples of grain, handled pigs, and, on market days, made bargains over a tankard with drovers and hopmerchants. His chief pleasures were commonly derived from field sportsand from an unrefined sensuality. His language and pronunciation weresuch as we should now expect to hear only from the most ignorant clowns. His oaths, coarse jests, and scurrilous terms of abuse were uttered withthe broadest accent of his province. It was easy to discern from thefirst words which he spoke whether he came from Somersetshire orYorkshire. He troubled himself little about decorating his abode, and, if he attempted decoration, seldom produced anything but deformity. Thelitter of a farm-yard gathered under the windows of his bed-chamber, andthe cabbages and gooseberry bushes grew close to his hall door. Histable was loaded with coarse plenty; and guests were cordially welcomedto it. But as the habit of drinking to excess was general in the classto which he belonged, and as his fortune did not enable him to intoxicatelarge assemblies daily with claret or canary, strong beer was theordinary beverage. The quantity of beer consumed in those days wasindeed enormous. For beer was then to the middle and lower classes notonly what beer is now, but all that wine, tea, and ardent spirits noware. It was only at great houses or on great occasions that foreigndrink was placed on the board. The ladies of the house, whose businessit had commonly been to cook the repast, retired as soon as the disheswere devoured, and left the gentlemen to their ale and tobacco. Thecoarse jollity of the afternoon was often prolonged till the revellerswere laid under the table. "

I quote again from another portion of the same chapter inMacaulay:--"Slate has succeeded to thatch, and brick to timber. Thepavements and the lamps, the display of wealth in the principal shops, and the luxurious neatness of the dwellings occupied by the gentry, would, in the seventeenth century, have seemed miraculous. " Speaking ofwatering-places he says:--"The gentry of Derbyshire and of theneighbouring counties repaired to Buxton, where they were crowded intolow wooden sheds and regaled with oatcake, and with a viand which thehosts called mutton, but which the guests strongly suspected to be dog. "Of Tunbridge Wells he says--"At present we see there a town which would, a hundred and sixty years ago, have ranked in population fourth or fifthamong the towns in England. The brilliancy of the shops and the luxuryof the private dwellings far surpasses anything that England could thenshow. " At Bath "the poor patients to whom the waters had beenrecommended, lay on straw in a place which, to use the language of acontemporary physician, was a covert rather than a lodging. As to thecomforts and luxuries to be found in the interior of the houses at Bathby the fashionable visitors who resorted thither in search of health andamusement, we possess information more complete and minute than generallycan be obtained on such subjects. A writer assures us that in hisyounger days the gentlemen who visited the springs slept in rooms hardlyas good as the garrets which he lived to see occupied by footmen. Thefloors of the dining-room were uncarpeted, and were coloured brown with awash made of soot and small beer in order to hide the dirt. Not awainscot was painted. Not a hearth or chimney piece was of marble. Aslab of common freestone, and fire-irons which had cost from three tofour shillings, were thought sufficient for any fireplace. The bestapartments were hung with coarse woollen stuff, and were furnished withrush-bottomed chairs. "

Of London Macaulay says:--"The town did not, as now, fade byimperceptible degrees into the country. No long avenues of villas, embowered in lilacs and laburnum, extended from the great source ofwealth and civilization almost to the boundaries of Middlesex, and farinto the heart of Kent and Surrey. " In short, there was nothing like theAvenue and the Fox Grove, Beckenham, in old times, and we who live thereought to be immensely grateful for our undeserved blessings. "Atpresent, " he says, "the bankers, the merchants, and the chief shopkeepersrepair to the city on six mornings of every week for the transaction ofbusiness; but they reside in other quarters of the metropolis or suburbancountry seats, surrounded by shrubberies and flower gardens. " Again, "Ifthe most fashionable parts of the capital could be placed before us, suchas they then were, we should be disgusted by their squalid appearance, and poisoned by their noisome atmosphere. In Covent Garden a filthy andnoisy market was held close to the dwellings of the great. Fruit womenscreamed, carters fought, cabbage stalks and rotten apples accumulated inheaps at the thresholds of the Countess of Berkshire and of the Bishop ofDurham. "

Well, you will say, all this proves what a vast improvement we haveachieved. Yes; but we must remember that Macaulay was writing on thatside of the question. Are we not more self-indulgent, more fond of ourflowers, villas, carriages, etc. , than we need be; less hard working andindustrious; more desirous of getting the means of indulgence by someshort and ready way--by speculation, gambling, and shady, if notdishonest dealing--than our fathers were? I need not follow at furtherlength Macaulay's description of these earlier times--of the blackrivulets roaring down Ludgate Hill, filled with the animal and vegetablefilth from the stalls of butchers and greengrocers, profusely thrown toright and left upon the foot-passengers upon the narrow pavements; thegarret windows opened and pails emptied upon the heads below; thievesprowling about the dark streets at night, amid constant rioting anddrunkenness; the difficulties and discomforts of travelling, when thecarriages stuck fast in the quagmires; the travellers attacked byhighwaymen. He narrates how it took Prince George of Denmark, whovisited Petworth in wet weather, six hours to go nine miles. Comparethis to a journey in a first-class carriage or Pullman car upon theMidland Railway, and think of the luxuries demanded by the traveller onhis journey if he is going to travel for more than two or three hours:the dinner, the coffee, the cigar, the newspaper and magazine, etc. , etc. 

There is a passage in the beginning of _Tom Brown's School Days_ in whichthe author ridicules the quantity of great coats, wrappers, and rugswhich a modern schoolboy takes with him, though he is going to travelfirst class, with foot-warmers. Then, in our houses, what stoves and hot-water pipes and baths do we not require! How many soaps and powders, rough towels and soft towels! Sir Charles Napier, I think, said that allan officer wanted to take with him on a campaign was a towel, a tooth-brush, and a piece of yellow soap. The great excuse for the bath is thatif it is warm it is cleansing; if it is cold, it is invigorating; butwhat shall we say to Turkish Baths? Surely there is more time wastedthan enough, and, unless as a medical cure, it may become an idle habit. I have seen private Turkish Baths in private houses. What are we comingto? We used to be proud of our ordinary wash-hand basins, and make funof the little saucers that we found provided for our ablutions upon theContinent. At the time of the great Exhibition of 1851 _Punch_ had apicture of two very grimy Frenchmen regarding with wonder an ordinaryEnglish wash-stand. "_Comment appelle-t'on cette machine la_, " says one;to which the other replies, "_Je ne sais pas_, _mais c'est drole_. " Agreat advance has been made in the furniture of our houses. We fill ourrooms, especially our drawing-rooms or boudoirs, with endless arm-chairsand sofas of various shapes--all designed to give repose to the limbs;but I am sure they tend towards lazy habits, and very often interferewith work. Surely there has lately risen a custom of overdoing theembellishment and ornamentation of our houses. We fill our rooms toofull of all sorts of knick-knacks, so much so that we can hardly moveabout for fear of upsetting something. "I have a fire [in my bedroom]all day, " writes Carlyle. "The bed seems to be about eight feet wide. Ofmy paces the room measures fifteen from end to end, forty-five feet long, height and width proportionate, with ancient, dead-looking portraits ofqueens, kings, Straffords and principalities, etc. , really theuncomfortablest acme of luxurious comfort that any Diogenes was set intoin these late years. " Thoreau's furniture at Walden consisted of a bed, a table, a desk, three chairs, a looking-glass three inches in diameter, a pair of tongs, a kettle, a frying-pan, a wash-bowl, two knives andforks, three plates, one cup, one spoon, a jug for oil, a jug formolasses, and a japanned lamp. There were no ornaments. He writes, "Ihad three pieces of limestone on my desk, but I was terrified to findthat they required to be dusted daily, and I threw them out of the windowin disgust. "

"Our cottage is quite large enough for us, though very small, " wrote MissWordsworth, "and we have made it neat and comfortable within doors; andit looks very nice on the outside, for though the roses and honeysucklewhich we have planted against it are only of this year's growth, yet itis covered all over with green leaves and scarlet flowers, for we havetrained scarlet beans upon threads, which are not only exceedinglybeautiful, but very useful, as their produce is immense. We have made alodging room of the parlour below stairs, which has a stone floor, therefore we have covered it all over with matting. We sit in a roomabove stairs, and we have one lodging room with two single beds, a sortof lumber room, and a small, low, unceiled room, which I have paperedwith newspapers, and in which we have put a small bed. Our servant is anold woman of 60 years of age, whom we took partly out of charity. " HereMiss Wordsworth and her brother, the great poet, lived on the simplestfare and drank cold water, and hence issued those noble poems which morethan any others teach us the higher life. 

 "Blush, grandeur, blush; proud courts, withdraw your blaze; Ye little stars, hide your diminished rays. "

"I turned schoolmaster, " says Sydney Smith, "to educate my son, as Icould not afford to send him to school. Mrs. Sydney turnedschoolmistress to educate my girls as I could not afford a governess. Iturned farmer as I could not let my land. A man servant was tooexpensive, so I caught up a little garden girl, made like a milestone, christened her Bunch, put a napkin in her hand, and made her my butler. The girls taught her to read, Mrs. Sydney to wait, and I undertook hermorals. Bunch became the best butler in the country. I had littlefurniture, so I bought a cartload of deals; took a carpenter (who came tome for parish relief) called Jack Robinson, with a face like a full moon, into my service, established him in a barn, and said, 'Jack, furnish myhouse. ' You see the result. "

Then what shall I say of the luxury of endless daily papers, leadingarticles, short paragraphs, reviews, illustrated papers, --are not theseluxuries? Are they not inventions for making thought easy, or rather forthe purpose of relieving us from the trouble of thinking for ourselves. May I also, without raising a religious controversy, observe that inreligious worship we are prone to relieve ourselves from the trouble ofdeep and consecutive thought by surrounding our minds with a sort of mistof feeling and sentiment; by providing beautiful music, pictures, andornaments, and so resting satisfied in a somewhat indolent feeling ofgoodness, and not troubling ourselves with too much effort of reason. Alove of the beautiful undoubtedly tends to elevate and refine the mind, but the follies of the false love and the dangers of an inordinate loveare numerous and deadly. It is absurd that a man should either be orpretend to be absolutely absorbed in the worship of a dado or a China teacup so as to care for nothing else, and to be unable to do anything elsebut stare at it with his head on one side. With most people the wholething is the mere affectation of affected people, who, if they were notaffected in one way, would be so in another. Boswell was a very affectedman. He says, "I remember it distressed me to think of going intoanother world where Shakespeare's poetry did not exist; but a ladyrelieved me by saying, 'The first thing you will meet in the other worldwill be an elegant copy of Shakespeare's works presented to you. '"Boswell says he felt much comforted, but I suspect the lady was laughingat him. I like the "elegant copy" very much. It is certain that in thisworld there is a deal of rough work to be done, and I feel that, attractive and beautiful as so many things are, too much absorption ofthem has a weakening and enervating effect. 

I have spoken of the luxuries of the table, of the house, of travel, andof a love of ease and beautiful surroundings. There are, however, somepeople who are very luxurious without caring much for any of thesethings. Their main desire appears to be to live a long time, and topreserve their youth and beauty to the last. For this purpose theysurround themselves with comfort, they decline to see or hear of anythingwhich they don't like for fear it should make their hair grey and theirfaces wrinkled, and their whole talk is of ailments and German waters. Swift somewhere or other expresses his contempt for this sort of person. "A well preserved man is, " he says, "a man with no heart and who has donenothing all his life. " Old ruins look beautiful by reason of the rainand the wind, the heat of August and the frost of January, and I am sureI have often seen in men--aye, and in women too--far more beauty wherethe tempests have passed over the face and brow, than where the life hasbeen more sheltered and less interesting. 

But I must notice before I conclude this part of my subject one of theprincipal causes of a fatal indulgence in luxury, and that is adespairing sense of the futility of attempting to do anything worthdoing, and of inability to strive against what is going on wrong. Thisis the meaning of that rather vulgar phrase, "Anything for a quiet life";and this is the reason why with many people everything and everybody isalways a "bore. " Here, too, is the secret of that suave, polished, soft-voiced manner so much affected nowadays by highly-educated young men, andthat somewhat chilly reserve in which they wrap themselves up. "Praydon't ask us to give an opinion, or show an interest, or discuss anyserious view of things. "

 "For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more Than to walk all day, like the Sultan of old, in a garden of spice. "

"Let us surround ourselves with every luxury; let us cease to strive orfret; let us be elegant, refined, gentle, harmless, and, above all, undisturbed in mind and body. " "We have had enough of motion and ofaction we. " "Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil. " "Let usget through life the best way we can, and though there is not much thatcan delight us, let us achieve as much amelioration of our lot as ispossible for us. "

These, then, are some of the forms which luxury takes in the presentcentury, and these are some of the outcomes of an advanced, and stillrapidly advancing, civilization. These, too, seem to be the invariableaccompaniments of such an advance. A very similar picture of Rome in thedays of Cicero and Caesar is drawn by Mr. Froude in his _Caesar_. Hesays: "With such vividness, with such transparent clearness, the agestands before us of Cato and Pompey, of Cicero and Julius Caesar; themore distinctly because it was an age in so many ways the counterpart ofour own, the blossoming period of the old civilization. It was an age ofmaterial progress and material civilization; an age of civil liberty andintellectual culture; an age of pamphlets and epigrams, of salons and ofdinner parties, of sensational majorities and electoral corruption. Therich were extravagant, for life had ceased to have practical interest, except for its material pleasures; the occupation of the higher classeswas to obtain money without labour, and to spend it in idle enjoyment. Patriotism survived on the lips, but patriotism meant the ascendancy ofthe party which would maintain the existing order of things, or wouldoverthrow it for a more equal distribution of the good things, whichalone were valued. Religion, once the foundation of the laws and rule ofpersonal conduct, had subsided into opinion. The educated, in theirhearts, disbelieved it. Temples were still built with increasingsplendour; the established forms were scrupulously observed. Public menspoke conventionally of Providence, that they might throw on theiropponents the odium of impiety; but of genuine belief that life had anyserious meaning, there was none remaining beyond the circle of thesilent, patient, ignorant multitude. The whole spiritual atmosphere wassaturated with cant--cant moral, cant political, cant religious; anaffectation of high principle which had ceased to touch the conduct andflowed on in an increasing volume of insincere and unreal speech. Thetruest thinkers were those who, like Lucretius, spoke frankly out theirreal convictions, declared that Providence was a dream, and that man andthe world he lived in were material phenomena, generated by naturalforces out of cosmic atoms, and into atoms to be again resolved. "

Next I am going, as I promised, to consider those indulgences whichbecome luxuries by excessive use, and in this I shall be led also toconsider the effects of luxury. It has become a very trite saying thatriches do not bring happiness; and certainly luxury, which riches cancommand, does not bring content, which is the greatest of all pleasures. On the contrary, the moment the body or mind is over-indulged in any way, it immediately demands more of the same indulgence, and even in strongerdoses. Who does not know that too much wine makes one desire more? Who, after reading a novel, does not feel a longing for another?

The rich and poor dog, as we all know, meet and discourse of these thingsin Burns's poem--

 "Frae morn to e'en it's naught but toiling At baking, roasting, frying, boiling, An', tho' the gentry first are stechin, Yet e'en the hall folk fill their pechan With sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That's little short of downright wastrie. An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in I own it's past my comprehension. "

To which Luath replies--

 "They're maistly wonderful contented. "

Caesar afterwards describes the weariness and ennui which pursue theluxurious--

 "But human bodies are sic fools, For all their colleges and schools, That, when nae real ills perplex 'em, They make enow themselves to vex 'em. They loiter, lounging lank and lazy, Though nothing ails them, yet uneasy. Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless, An' e'en their sports, their balls and races, Their gallopin' through public places, There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. "

After this description the two friends

 "Rejoiced they were not men, but dogs. "

An Italian wit has defined man to be "an animal which troubles himselfwith things which don't concern him"; and, when one thinks of theindefatigable way in which people pursue pleasure, all the while derivingno pleasure from it, one is filled with amazement. "Life would be verytolerable if it were not for its pleasures, " said Sir Cornewall Lewis, and I am satisfied that half the weariness of life comes from the vainattempts which are made to satisfy a jaded appetite. 

There are many things which are not luxuries _per se_, but become so ifindulged in to excess. Take, for instance, smoking and drinking. Onepipe a day and one glass of wine a day are not luxuries, but a great manya day are luxuries. So lying in bed five minutes after you wake is not aluxury, but so lying for an hour is. The man who is fond precociously ofstirring may be a spoon, but the man who lies in bed half the day issomething worse. Then it must be remembered that a single indulgence inone luxury produces scarcely any effect on the mind or body, but a habitof indulging in that luxury has a great effect. 

 "The sins which practice burns into the blood, And not the one dark hour which brings remorse Will brand us after of whose fold we be. "

I am surely right in noticing that the rich man is said to have faredsumptuously _every_ day, as though faring sumptuously might have nosignificance, but the constantly faring sumptuously was what had degradedand debased the man below the level of the beggar at his gate. I feelthat to be luxurious occasionally is no bad thing, if we can keep ourself-control, and return constantly to simple habits. There is somethingvery natural in the prayer which a little child was overheard tomake--"God, make me a good little girl, but"--after a pause--"naughtysometimes. " It is the habit of being naughty which is pernicious. Cananyone doubt that the man who, on the whole, leads a hardy and not over-indulgent life will be more capable of performing any duty which maydevolve upon him than a man who "had but fed on the roses and lain in thelilies of life. "

Sydney Smith, in his sketches of Moral Philosophy, notices that habits ofindulgence grow on us so much that we go through the act of indulgencewithout noticing it or feeling the pleasure of it; yet, if some accidentoccurs to rob us of our accustomed pleasure, we feel the want of it mostkeenly. Speaking of Hobbes, the philosopher, he says that he had twelvepipes of tobacco laid by him every night before he began to write. Without this luxury "he could have done nothing; all his speculationswould have been at an end, and without his twelve pipes he might havebeen a friend to devotion or to freedom, which in the customary tenour ofhis thoughts he certainly was not. "

In Fielding's _Life of Jonathan Wild_ Mr. Wild plays at cards with theCount. "Such was the power of habit over the minds of these illustriouspersons that Mr. Wild could not keep his hands out of the Count's pocketsthough he knew they were empty, nor could the Count abstain from palminga card though he was well aware Mr. Wild had no money to pay him. "

If we are curious to know who is the most degraded and most wretched ofhuman beings, look for the man who has practised a vice so long that hecurses it and clings to it. Say everything for vice which you can say, magnify any pleasure as much as you please; but don't believe you cankeep it, don't believe you have any secret for sending on quicker thesluggish blood and for refreshing the faded nerve. 

There is no doubt that habits of luxury produce discontent, the more wehave the more we want. The sin of covetousness is not (curiously enough)the sin of the poor, but of the rich. It is the rich man who covetsNaboth's vineyard. I knew an old lady who had a beautiful house facingHyde Park, and lived by herself with a companion, and certainly had roomenough and to spare. Her house was one of a row, and the next housebeing an end house projected, so that all the front rooms were about afoot longer than those of the old lady. "Ah, " she used to sigh, "he's adear good man, the old colonel, but I should like to have hishouse--please God to take him!" This showed a submission to the will ofProvidence, and a desire for the everlasting welfare of her neighbourwhich was truly edifying; but covetousness was at the root of it, and alonging to indulge herself. 

The effect of habits of luxury upon the brute creation is easily seen. How dreadfully the harmless necessary cat deteriorates when it is over-fed and over-warmed. It may, for all I know, become more humane, but itbecomes absolutely unfit to get its own living. What is more despicablethan a lady's lap-dog, grown fat and good for nothing, and only able toeat macaroons! Even worms, according to Darwin, when constantly fed ondelicacies, become indolent and lose all their cunning. 

I will note next that habits of self-indulgence render us careless of themisfortunes of others. Nero was fiddling when Rome was burning. Andupon the other hand privations make us regardful of others. In Bulwer's_Parisians_ two luxurious bachelors in the siege of Paris, one of whomhas just missed his favourite dog, sit down to a meagre repast, on whatmight be fowl or rabbit; and the master of the lost dog, after finishinghis meal, says with a sigh, "Ah, poor Dido, how she would have enjoyedthose bones!" Probably she would have done so, in case they had not beenher own. Of course we all know Goldsmith's _Deserted Village_, and thatit is all about luxury. It is, however, very poetical poetry (if I maysay so), and I don't know that it gives much assistance to a sober, prosaic view of the subject like the present. "O Luxury, thou curst byheaven's decree, " sounds very grand; but I have not the least idea whatit means. The pictures drawn in the poem of simple rural pleasures, andof gaudy city delights, are very pleasing; and the moral drawn from itall, viz. , that nations sunk in luxury are hastening to decay, may betrue enough; but what strikes one most is that, if Goldsmith thought thatEngland was hastening to decay when he wrote, what would he think if hewere alive now. 

Well then, if the pleasures of luxury bring nothing but pain and troublein the pursuit of them, to what end do they lead?

 "Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend, And see what comfort it affords our end. In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung, The floors of plaister, and the walls of dung; On once a flock-bed, but repaired with straw, With tape-ty'd curtains never meant to draw; The George and Garter dangling from that bed, Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red;-- Great Villers lies--alas, how changed from him, That life of pleasure and that soul of whim. Gallant and gay in Clieveden's proud alcove, The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love; No wit to flatter, left of all his store; No fool to laugh at, which he valued more; There victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame; this lord of useless thousands ends. "

If these be the effects of luxuries, why is it that we continue to striveto increase them with all our might? I have already insisted that I amnot speaking of such things as are beneficial to body and soul, but suchas are detrimental. But it will be said, you are spending money, and togratify your longings labourers of different sorts have been employed, and the wealth of the world is thereby increased. But we must considerthe loss to the man who is indulging himself, and therefore the loss tothe community; and further, that his money might have gone in producingsomething necessary, and not noxious, something in its turn reproductive. In Boswell's _Life of Johnson_ is this passage, "Johnson as usualdefended luxury. You cannot spend money in luxury without doing good tothe poor. Nay, you do more good to them by spending it in luxury; youmake them exert industry, whereas by giving it you keep them idle. I ownindeed there may be more virtue in giving it immediately in charity, thanin spending it in luxury. " He was then asked if this was notMandeville's doctrine of "private vices are public benefits. " Of coursethis did not suit him, and he demolished it. He said, "Mandeville putsthe case of a man who gets drunk at an alehouse, and says it is a publicbenefit, because so much money is got by it to the public. But it mustbe considered that all the good gained by this through the gradation ofalehouse-keeper, brewer, maltster, and farmer, is overbalanced by theevil caused to the man and his family by his getting drunk. "

Perhaps you will say, what is a man to do with his money, if he may notspend it in luxury? If, as Dr. Johnson says, and as we all of us findout occasionally, it is worse spent if given in charity, are we to hoardit? No, surely this is more contemptible still. "What is the use of allyour money, " said one distinguished barrister to another, "you can't livemany more years, and you can't take it with you when you go? Besides, ifyou could, it would all melt where you're going. " This hoarding ofwealth, this craving for it, is only another form of luxury, the luxuryof growing rich. Some like to be thought rich, and called rich, andtreated with a fawning respect on account of their riches; others love tohide their riches, but to hug their money in secret, and seem to enjoythe prospect of dying rich. I was engaged in a singular case some timeago, in which an old lady who had starved herself to death, and lived inthe greatest squalor, had secreted 250 pounds in a stocking under themattress of her bed. It was stolen by one nephew, who was sued for it byanother, and all the money went in law expenses. If then we are not tospend our money upon luxuries, and if we are not to hoard it, what are weto do with it if we have more than we can lay out in what is useful. Ihave not time (nor is the question a part of my subject) to discuss whatshould be done with the money hitherto spent in idle luxury. We know, however, that we have the poor always with us, and that we can alwayslearn the luxury of doing good. In one way or another we ought to seethat our superfluous wealth should drain from the high lands into thevalleys; not indeed to make the poor luxurious, but to provide them withcomfort, to give them health, strength, and enjoyment. I think then thatif we are wise men, seeing that we are placed in a world of care, trouble, and hard work, from which no man can escape; and seeing that, upon the other hand, we are living in a country and in an age when we aresurrounded with all that makes life pleasant and enjoyable, we shallendeavour to find out some mode of harmonizing these different chords. Itneed hardly be said how far removed luxury is from the spirit ofChristianity, and from the life of its Founder; yet it may reverently beremembered that on more than one occasion He showed His tender regard forthe weakness of human nature by stamping with His approval the pleasuresof convivial festivity. 

What then is the remedy against luxury? I would say shortly, --in work. Abusy man has no time for luxury, and there is no reason why every manshould not have enough to do, if he will only do it. And I am sure thesame rule applies to the ladies, although a very busy man once wrote ofhis wife--

 "In work, work, work, in work alway My every day is past; I very slowly make the coin-- She spends it very fast. "

But speaking seriously, I am sure that in some sort of work lies theantidote to luxury. When Orpheus sailed past the beautiful islands"lying in dark purple spheres of sea, " and heard the songs of the idleand luxurious syrens floating languidly over the waters, he drowned theirsinging in a paean to the gods. Religion often affords a great incentiveto work for the good of others; and, in working for others, we haveneither the time, nor the inclination, to be over indulgent of ourselves. So, the desire to obtain fame and renown has often produced men of theaustere and non-indulgent type, as the Duke of Wellington and manyothers:--

 "Fame is the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, That last infirmity of noble mind, To scorn delights and live laborious days. "

Nay, even the desire to obtain riches, and the strife after them, willleave a man little room for luxury. To be honest, to be brave, to bekind and generous, to seek to know what is right, and to do it; to beloving and tender to others, and to care little for our comfort and ease, and even for our very lives, is perhaps to be somewhat old-fashioned andbehind the age; but these are, after all, the things which distinguish usfrom the brute beasts which perish, and which justify our aspirationstowards eternity. 

A STORY. THE READING PARTY. 

CHAPTER I. --THE COACH. 

Charles Porkington, M. A. , sometime fellow of St. Swithin, was born ofhumble parents. He was educated, with a due regard for economy, in themathematics by his father, and in the prevailing theology of the districtby his mother. The village schoolmaster had also assisted in thecompletion of his education by teaching him a little bad Latin. He wasultimately sent to college, his parents inferring that he would make asuccess of the study of books, because he had always shown a singularinaptitude for anything else. At college he had read hard. The commonsights and sounds of University life had been unheeded by him. Theypassed before his eyes, and they entered into his ears, but his mindrefused to receive any impression from them. After taking a high degree, and being elected a fellow, he had written a novel of a stronglymelodramatic cast, describing college life, and showing such an intimateacquaintance with the obscurer parts of it, that a great many ladiesdeclared that "they always thought so;--it was just as they supposed. "The novel, however, did not meet with much success, and he then turned tothe more lucrative but far less noble occupation of "coaching. " He couldnot be said to be absolutely unintellectual. As he had not profited bythe experience of life, so he had not been contaminated by it. He wasmoral, chiefly in a negative sense, and was not inclined to irreligion. The faith of his parents sat, perhaps, uncomfortably upon him; and he hadnot sufficient strength of mind to adopt a new pattern. He was in shortan amiable mathematician, and a feeble classic; and I think that is allthat could be said of him with any certainty. There seemed to be anabsence of character which might be called characteristic, and afeebleness of will so absolute as to disarm contempt. 

A portion of Porkington's hard earned gains was transmitted regularly tohis two aged parents, while he himself, partly from habit and partly fromindifference, lived as frugally as possible. 

"Bless me!" cried Mrs. Porkington, within six months of her marriage, "Tothink that you should have squandered such large sums of money uponpeople who seem to have got on very well without them. "

"My dear, " replied he, "they are very poor, and in want of manycomforts. "

"Of course I am sorry they cannot have them now, " retorted she, "and itis therefore a pity they ever should have had them. "

Porkington sighed slightly, but had already learned not to contend, if hecould remember not to do so. Mrs. Porkington was of large stature andmajestic carriage; and had moreover a voice sufficiently powerful to keeporder in an Irish brigade, or to command a vessel in a storm without theassistance of a trumpet. Mr. Porkington, on the other hand, was alittle, dry, pale, plain man, with an abstracted and nervous manner, anda voice that had never grown up so as to match even the little body fromwhich it came, but was a sort of cracked treble whisper. Moreover, whenMrs. Porkington wished to speak her mind to her husband, she wouldrecline upon a sofa in an impressive manner, and fix her eyes upon theceiling. Mr. Porkington, on these occasions, would sit on the very edgeof the most uncomfortable chair, his toes turned out, his hands embracinghis knees, and his eyes tracing the patterns upon the carpet, as thoughwith a view of studying some abstruse theory of curves. On which sidethe victory lay under these circumstances it is easy to guess. 

Mrs. Porkington felt the advantage of her position and followed it up. 

"I never, my dear, mention any subject to you, but you immediately flingyour parents at me. "

Mr. Porkington would as soon have thought of throwing St. Paul'sCathedral. 

After a honeymoon spent in the Lake district the happy pair went to pay avisit to the parents of the bridegroom, and Porkington had so brightenedand revived during his stay there, and had expressed himself so happy intheir society, that Mrs. Porkington could not forgive him. In thecompany of his wife's father, on the contrary, he relapsed into a statebordering upon coma; and no wonder, for that worthy retired tallowmerchant was a perfect specimen of ponderous pomposity, and hadabsolutely nothing in common with the shy scholar who had become his son-in-law. Mr. Candlish had lost the great part of the money he had made bytallow, and by consequence had nothing to give his daughter; but shebehaved herself as a woman should whose father might at one time havegiven her ten thousand pounds. "My papa, my dear, was worth at least40, 000 pounds when he retired, " was the form in which Mrs. Porkingtonflung her surviving parent at the head of her husband, and crushed himflat with the missile. To the world at large she spoke of her father as"being at present a gentleman of moderate means. " Now, as a gentleman ofmoderate means cannot be expected to provide for a sister of no means atall; and as Mrs. Porkington, not having been blessed with children by hermarriage, required a companion, her aunt tacked herself on to Mr. Porkington's establishment, and became a permanent and substantialfixture. Fat, ugly, and spiteful when she dared, she became a thorn inthe side of the poor tutor, and supported on all occasions the whims andsquabbles of her niece. Whenever the "coach" evinced any tendency totravel too fast, Mrs. Porkington put the "drag" on, and the vehiclestopped. 

Mr. And Mrs. Porkington had now been married three years; and, as thelong vacation was at hand, it became necessary to arrange their plans fora "Reading Party. "

"If I might be allowed to suggest, " said Mrs. Porkington, reclining onher sofa, with her eyes fixed upon the ceiling, "I think a continentalreading party would be the most beneficial to the young men. The air ofthe continent, I have always found (Mrs. Porkington had crossed thechannel upon one occasion) is very invigorating; and, though I know youdon't speak French, my dear, yet you should avail yourself of everyopportunity of acquiring it. "

"But, my love, " he replied, "we must consider. Many parents have anobjection to the expense, and--"

"Oh, of course!" she interrupted, "if ever I venture, which I seldom do, to propose anything, there are fifty objections raised at once. Pray, may I ask to what uncomfortable quarter of the globe you propose to takeme? Perhaps to the Gold Coast--or some other deadly spot--quite likely!"

"Well, my love, " said the Coach, "I thought of the Lakes. "

"Thought of the Lakes!" slowly repeated his wife. "Since I have had thehonour of being allied with you in marriage, I believe you have neverthought of anything else!"

There was some truth in this, and the tutor felt it. "Then, my dear, "said he mildly, "I really do not know where we should go. "

Thereupon his wife ran through the names of several likely places, toeach of which she stated some clear and decided objection. Ultimatelyshe mentioned Babbicombe as being a place she might be induced to regardwith favour; the truth being that she had made up her mind from the firstnot to be taken anywhere else. "Babbicombe by all means let it be, " saidhe, "since you wish it. "

"I do not wish it at all, " she cried, "as you know quite well, my dear;and it is very hard that you should always try to make it appear that Iwish to do a thing, when I have no desire at all upon the subject. Haveyou noticed, aunt, how invariably Charles endeavours to take an unfairadvantage of anything I say, and tries to make out I wish a thing whichhe has himself proposed?"

The Drag said she had noticed it very often, and wondered at it verymuch. She thought it was very unfair indeed, and showed a domineeringspirit very far from Christian in her opinion, though, of course, opinions might differ. 

Porkington took a turn in his little back garden, and smoked a pipe, which seemed to console him somewhat; and, after a few more skirmishes, the coach, harness, drag, team and all arrived at Babbicombe. 

CHAPTER II. --THE TEAM. 

Let the man who disapproves of reading parties suggest something better. "Let the lads stop at home, " says one. Have you ever tried it? Theysoon become a bore to themselves and all around them. "Let them go bythemselves, then, to some quiet seaside lodging or small farmhouse. "Suicide or the d---1. "Let them stop at the University for the Long. "The Dons won't let them stop up, unless they are likely to take highdegrees; and, even if the Dons would permit it, it would be toooppressively dull for the young men. "At all events, let reading partiesbe really _reading_ parties. " Whoever said they should be anything else?For my part I know nothing in this life equal to reading parties. DoJones and Brown, who are perched upon high stools in the city, ever dreamof starting for the Lakes with a ledger each, to enter their accounts andadd up the items by the margin of Derwentwater. Do Bagshaw and Tomkins, emerging from their dismal chambers in Pump Court, take their Smith's_Leading Cases_, or their _Archbold_, to Shanklyn or Cowes? Do Sawyerand Allen study medicine in a villa on the Lake of Geneva? I take it, itis an invincible sign of the universality of the classics and mathematicsthat they will adapt themselves with equal ease to the dreariest ofcollege rooms or to the most romantic scenery. 

Harry Barton, Richard Glenville, Thomas Thornton, and I, made upPorkington's Reading Party. 

Harry Barton's father was a Manchester cotton spinner of great wealth. Himself a man of no education, beyond such knowledge as he had picked upin the course of an arduous life, the cotton spinner was not oblivious tothose advantages which ought to accrue to a liberal education; and heresolved that his son, a fine handsome lad, should not fail in life forwant of them. Young Barton had, therefore, in due course been sent toEton and Camford with a full purse, a vigorous constitution, a lightheart, and a fair amount of cramming. At Camford he found himself in themidst of his old Eton chums, and plunged eagerly into all the animatedlife and excitement of the University. Boating, cricket, rackets, billiards, wine parties, betting--these formed the chief occupation ofthe two years which he had already passed at college. Reading, upon somedays, formed an agreeable diversion from the monotony of the above-namedmore interesting studies. Porkington, however, who seldom placed a manwrong, still promised him a second class. Hearty, generous, a lover ofease and pleasure, good-natured and easily led, he was a generalfavourite; and in some respects deserved to be so. 

Richard Glenville was the son of an orthodox low church parson, a fatvicar and canon, a man who, if he was not conformed to the world atlarge, was a mere reflection of the little world to which he belonged. His son Richard was a quick-sighted youth, clear and vigorous inintellect, not deep but acute. He was high church, because he had livedamong the low church party. He was a Tory, because his surroundings weremostly Liberal. He was inclined to be profane, because his father'sfriends bored him by their solemnity. He was flippant, because they weredull; careless, because they were cautious; and fast, because they wereslow. He had an eye for the weak points of things. He delighted in whatis called "chaff. " He affected to regard all things with indifference, and was tolerant of everything except what he was pleased to denounce asshams. Upon this point he would occasionally become very warm. If hissense of truth and honour were touched, he became goaded into passion;but most things appealed to him from their humorous side. He was tall, fair, and handsome, the features clean cut and the eyes grey. Hismanners were polished, and he was always well dressed. He was full ofhigh spirits and good temper, and was a most agreeable companion to allto whom his satire did not render him uncomfortable. Strange to say, hestood very high in the favour of Mrs. Porkington, who, had she known whatfun he made of her behind her back, would, I think, have sometimesforgotten that he was the nephew of a peer. He studied logic, classics, mathematics, moral philosophy indifferently, because he found that acertain amount of study conduced to a quiet life with the "governor. " Heproposed ultimately, he said, to be called to the Bar, because that wasequivalent to leaving your future career still enveloped in mystery formany years. 

I do not know that I have very much to say about Thornton. He was a veryestimable young man. I think he was the only one of the party who mightsay with a clear conscience that he did some work for his "coach. " Hewas not short, nor tall, nor good-looking, nor very rich, nor very poor. He was of plebeian origin. His father was a grocer. I am sure the youngman had been well brought up at home, and had been well taught at school;and he was a brave, frank, honest fellow enough, but there was withal acertain common or commonplace way with him. He acquitted himself well atcricket and football; and I have no doubt he will succeed in life, and bemost respectable, but on the whole very uninteresting. 

The present writer is one of the most handsome, most amiable, and mostwitty of men; but if there is one vice more than another at which hissoul revolts, it is the sin of egotism. Else the world would here havebecome the possessor of one of the most eloquent pages in literature. Itis said that artists, who paint their own portraits, make a mere copy oftheir image in the looking glass. For my part, if I had to draw my ownlikeness, I would scorn such paltry devices. The true artist draws fromthe imagination. Let any man think for a moment what manner of man heis. Is he not at once struck with the fact that he is not as other menare--that he is not extortionate, nor unjust, and so forth? But, intruth, if I were to paint my own portrait, I know there are fifty foolswho would think I meant it for themselves; and as I cannot toleratevanity in other people, I will say no more about it. 

So at length here at Babbicombe were the coach, harness, drag, and teamduly arrived, and settled for six weeks or more, in a fine large house, far above the deep blue ocean, and far removed from all the turmoil andbustle of this busy world. Wonderful truly are the happiness andprivileges of young men, if they only knew how to enjoy them wisely. 

"I think it is somewhat unthoughtful, to say the least of it, " said Mrs. Porkington to Glenville, "that Mr. Porkington should have taken a houseso very far from the beach. He knows how I adore the sea. "

"Perhaps he is jealous of it on that account, " said Glenville. 

The Drag said she believed he would be jealous of anything. For her partif she were tied to such a man she would give him good cause to bejealous. 

Glenville replied in his most polite manner that he was sure she couldnever be so cruel. 

The Drag did not understand him. 

"Confound the old aunt, " said he, as he sat down to the table in thedining-room to his mathematical papers, "why did she not stick to thetallow-chandling, instead of coming here? Don't you think, Barton, ourrespected governors ought to pay less for our coaching on account of thedrag? Of course we really pay something extra on her account; but, generally speaking, you know an irremovable nuisance would diminish thevalue of an estate, and I think a coach with an irremovable drag ought tofetch less than a coach without encumbrances. "

"I daresay you are right, " said Barton. "The two women will ruin Porkybetween them. The quantity of donkey chaises they require is somethingawful. To be sure the hill is rather steep in hot weather. "

"Yes, " said Glenville, "they began by trying one chaise between them, ride and tie; but Mrs. Porkington always would ride the first half of theway, and so Miss Candlish only rode the last quarter, until at last thefirst half grew to such enormous proportions that it caused a differencebetween the ladies, and Porkington had to allow two donkey chaises. Howthey do squabble, to be sure, about which of the two it really is whorequires the chaise!"

"I can't help thinking Socrates was a fool to want to be killed when hehad done nothing to deserve it, " said Thornton, with a yawn, as he putdown his book. 

"Yes, " said Glenville, "nowadays a man expects to take his whack first--Imean to hit some man on the head, or stab some woman in the breast, first. Then he professes himself quite ready for the consequences, andpoetic justice is satisfied. "

"How a man can put the square root of minus three eggs into a basket, andthen give five to one person, and half the remainder and the square ofthe whole, divided by twelve, and so on, I never could understand; butperhaps the answer is wrong, I mean the square root of minus three. "

"Oh, if that is your answer, Barton, " said Glenville, "you are fairlyfloored. Take care you don't get an answer of that sort--a facer, Imean--from the 'pretty fisher maiden. '"

"Don't chaff, Glenville, " cried Barton; "you are always talking somefolly or other. "

"Well, well, let us have some beer and a pipe. 

 'He, who would shine and petrify his tutor, Should drink draught Allsopp from its native pewter. '

We shall all go to the dance to-night, I suppose--Thornton, of course, lured by the two Will-o-the-wisps in Miss Delamere's black eyes. "

"Go, and order the beer, Dick, " said Thornton, "and come back a wiser, ifnot a sadder man. " Dick procured the beer; and, it being now twelveo'clock at noon, pipes were lit, and papers and books remained inabeyance, though not absolutely forgotten. At half-past twelve Mr. Porkington looked in timidly to see how work was progressing, to assistin the classics, and to disentangle the mathematics; but the liberalsciences were so besmothered with tobacco smoke and so bespattered withbeer, that the poor little man did not even dare to come to theirassistance; but coughed, and smiled, and said feebly that he would comeagain when the air was a little clearer. 

"Upon my word, it is too bad, " said Barton. "Many fellows would notstand it. I declare I won't smoke any more this morning. "

The rest followed the good example. Pipes were extinguished, andGlenville was deputed to go and tell the tutor that the room was clear ofsmoke. They were not wicked young men, but I don't think their mothersand sisters were at all aware of that state of life into which a love ofease and very high spirits had called their sons and brothers. 

CHAPTER III. --THE VISITORS. 

Babbicombe was full. The lodgings were all taken. There were stillbills in the windows of a few of the houses in the narrower streets ofthe little town announcing that the apartments had a "good sea view. " Thedisappointed visitor, however, upon further investigation, would discoverthat by standing on a chair in the attic it might be possible to obtain aglimpse of the topmasts of the schooners in the harbour, or the furthestcircle of the distant ocean. Mr. And Mrs. Delamere, with their twodaughters, occupied lodgings facing the sea. Next door but one were ourfriends, Colonel and Mrs. Bagshaw. Two Irish captains, O'Brien andKelly, were stopping at the Bull Hotel, in the High Street. On the sideof the hill in our row lived the two beautiful Misses Bankes with theirparents and the younger olive branches, much snubbed by those who had"come out" into blossom. The visitors' doctor also lived in our row, anda young landscape painter (charming, as they all are) had a roomsomewhere, but I never could quite make out where it was or how he lived. 

"There are your friends the Delameres, " cried Glenville to Thornton, aswe all lounged down one afternoon, not long after our arrival, to theparade, where the little discordant German band was playing. "Lookingfor you, too, I think, " added he. 

"I am sure they are not looking at all, " said Thornton. 

"Why, not now, " said Glenville; "their books have suddenly becomeinteresting, but I vow I saw Mrs. Delamere's spyglass turned full upon usa minute ago. " We all four stepped from the parade upon the rocks, andapproached the Delameres' party, who were seated on rugs and shawlsspread upon the huge dry rocks overlooking the deep, clear water whichlapped underneath with a gentle and regular plash and sucking sound. Itwas a brilliant day. Not a cloud was in the sky, and the blue-green seaslay basking in the sunshine. A brisk but gentle air had begun to crispthe top of the water, making it sparkle and bubble; and there was justvisible a small silver cord of foam on the coast line of dark crags. Awhite sail or a brown, here and there, dotted about the space of ocean, gleamed in the light of the noon-day sun. Porpoises rolled and gamboledin the bay, and the round heads of two or three swimmers from the bathingcove appeared like corks upon the surface of the water. Half lost in thehazy horizon, a dim fairy island hung between sky and ocean; whileoverhead flew the milk-white birds, whose presence inland is said topresage stormy weather. 

"What was Miss Delamere reading?"

"Oh, only Hallam's _Constitutional History_. "

"Great Heavens!" whispered Glenville to me, "think of that!"

"Do you like it?" asked Thornton. 

"Well, I can't say I do, but I suppose I ought. My mother wanted me tobring it. "

"I think it must be very dull, " said Thornton, "though I have never triedit. I have just finished Kingsley's _Two Years Ago_. It is awfullygood. May I lend it to you?"

"Oh, I do so like a good novel when I can get it, but I am afraid Imayn't. "

"What is that, Flo?" asked her mother. "You know I do not approve ofnovels, except, of course, Sir Walter's. My daughters, Mr. Thornton, have, I hope, been brought up very differently from most young ladies. Ialways encourage them to read such works as are likely to tend to theimprovement of their understanding and the cultivation of their taste. Ialways choose their books for them. "

"Nonsense, my dear, " said Mr. Delamere, "if Mr. Thornton recommends thebook, Flo can have it. I know nothing of books, sir, and care less; butif you say it is a good book, that is sufficient. "

"Oh, quite so indeed, " exclaimed Mrs. Delamere, "if Mr. Thorntonrecommends the book. My daughter Florence has too much imagination, dearchild, and we have to be very careful. May I inquire the name of thework which you recommend?"

She called everything a work. 

"Oh, only _Two Years Ago_, by Kingsley, " said Thornton. 

"Ah!" said Mrs. Delamere, "a delightful writer. The Rev. CharlesKingsley was a man whom I unfeignedly admire. Perhaps I might notaltogether approve of his writings for young persons, but for those whoseminds have been matured by a considerable acquaintance with ourliterature it is, of course, different. He is a bold and fearlessthinker. He is not fettered and tied down by those barriers which impedethe speculations of other writers. "

"Off she goes!" whispered Glenville to me, "broken her knees over thefirst metaphor. She will be plunging wildly in the ditch directly, andnever fairly get out of it for about an hour and a half. Let us escapewhile we can. " We rose and left Mrs. Delamere explaining to Thornton howdarling Florence and dearest Beatrix were all that a fond andintellectual mother could desire. She was anxious to be thought to betrembling on the verge of atheism, to which position her highly-giftedintelligence quite entitled her; while, at the same time, her strongjudgment and moral virtues enabled her to assist in supporting theorthodox faith. The younger Miss Delamere (Beatrix) was doing one ofthose curious pieces of work in which ladies delight, which appear to bedesigned for no particular purpose, and which, curiously enough, arealways either a little more or less than half finished. I think she veryseldom spoke. She was positively crushed by that most superior person, her mother. Flo was gazing abstractedly into the sea, hearing her motherbut not listening, while Thornton was seated a foot or two below her, gazing up into her deep-blue eyes, shaded by her large hat and dark hair, as happy and deluded as a lunatic who thinks himself monarch of theworld. 

The Squire said he would join us. I expect his wife rather bored the oldgentleman. We all sauntered up to the little crush of people who werelistening (or not listening) to the discordant sounds of the German band. Here we found the whole tribe of Bankes' and the two Irish captains, onestanding in front of each beautiful Miss Bankes; and a little furtherremoved from this party were Colonel and Mrs. And Miss Bagshaw, with thedoctor's son. Above the cliff, on a slope of grass, lay the youngartist, smoking his pipe and enjoying the scenery. 

"I hope you intend to honour the Assembly Wooms with your pwesence thisevening, " drawled Captain Kelly to the elder Miss Bankes--the dark onewith the single curl hanging down her back. Her sister wore two lightones, and it puzzled us very much to account for the difference innumber, and even in colour, for the complexions were the same. WasGlenville justified in surmising that the art of the contrivance was toprove that the curls were natural and indigenous, for if false, he said, surely they would be expected to wear two or one each. 

"My sister and I certainly intend going this evening, " replied the younglady, "but really I hear they are very dull affairs. "

"They will be so no longer, " said he. 

"Well, I suppose we must do something in this dreadful little place tokeep up our spirits. "

"Yes, I must own it is very dull here, and I certainly should not havecome had not a little bird told me at Mrs. Cameron's dance who was cominghere, " said the Captain, with a languishing air. 

"I am sure I said nothing about it, " said Miss Bankes, poutingly. 

"Beauty attracts like a magnet, Miss Bankes, and you must not be angrywith a poor fellow for what can't be helped. "

"Very well, now you are come, you must be very good, and keep us allamused. "

"I will endeavour to do my best, " said the gallant soldier. 

"Bagshaw, come here!" shouted Mrs. Bagshaw right athwart the parade, startling several of the performers in the band, and drawing all eyestowards her. "Bagshaw, behave yourself like a gentleman. Don't leaveme, sir; I should be ashamed to let the people see me following thatwoman. It's disgraceful, mean, and disgusting. "

Bagshaw came back, looking ridiculous. He hated to look ridiculous, aswho does not? He approached his wife, and said in a low, but angry tone, "You are making a fool of yourself; the people will think you are mad;and they are not far wrong, as I have known to my cost this twentyyears. "

Porkington, wife, and drag had just passed up the parade. 

"I saw you, I tell you I saw you, " she went on excitedly. "You weresneaking away from my side--you know you were. Don't laugh at me, Mr. Bagshaw, for I won't have it. I don't care who hears me, " she cried in alouder voice, "all the world shall hear how I am treated. "

"Look at Miss Bagshaw, " said the artist to me. "What a good girl she is!I am so sorry for her!" Pity is kin to love, thought I, as I watched thebeautiful girl move swiftly up to her father and mother, and in a momentall three moved quietly away. 

"Who's the old girl?" asked Captain O'Brien of Captain Kelly. 

"The celebwated Mrs. Bagshaw, wife of Colonel Bagshaw. She was a gweatsinger or something not very long ago. Very wich, Tom; chance for you, you know; only daughter, rather a pwetty girl, not much style, father-in-law and mother-in-law not desiwable, devil of a wow, wampageous, both ofthem!"

"How much?" "Say twenty thou. " "Can't be done at the pwice. " "Don'tknow that--lunatic asylums--go abroad--that sort of thing---young ladychawming!" "Ah!"

"What do you say to a row in the old four oar?" said Harry Barton. "Withall my heart, " said I. "Let us make up a party. The Delameres will go, the two young ladies and Thornton. Don't let's have the mother, she jawsso confoundedly. Go and ask Mrs. Bagshaw and her daughter to make thingsproper. "

"All right! Thornton shall steer; you three; I stroke; Glenville two;Hawkstone bow, to look out ahead and see all safe. " And off he went toask Mrs. Bagshaw, who was now all smiles and sunshine, and managed verycleverly to secure the two Misses Delamere and Thornton without themamma. And so we all went down to the harbour, where we found Hawkstonelooking out for our party as usual. 

CHAPTER IV. --BOATING. 

"Muscular Christianity is very great!" said the Archangel. "The devil itis!" said Satan, "see how I will deal with it!" In the days of Job hesaid, "Touch his bone and his flesh, and he will curse thee to thy face"--

 "But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making _strong_, not making poor. "

Muscular Christianity was at one time the cant phrase. Can we even nowtalk of Christian muscularity? For my part I think an Eton lad or aCamford man is a sight for gods and fishes. The glory of his neck-tie isterrible. He saith among the cricket balls, Ha, ha, and he smelleth thebattle afar off, the thud of the oars and the shouting. I suppose thevoice of the people is the voice of God; but let a thing once becomefashionable and the devil steps in and leads the dance. When LadySomebody, or Sir John Nobody, gives away the prizes at the countyathletic sports, amid the ringing cheers of the surrounding ladies andgentlemen, I suspect the recipient, in nine times out of ten, is littlebetter than an obtainer of goods by false pretences. When that ardentyouth, Tommy Leapwell, brings home a magnificent silver goblet for the"high jump, " what a fuss is made of it and of him both at home and in thenewspapers; whereas when that exemplary young student, Mugger, after aterm's hard labour, receives as a reward a volume of Macaulay's _Essays_, in calf, price two and sixpence, very little is said about the matter;and, at all events, the dismal circumstance is not mentioned outside thefamily circle. 

Nelly Crayshaw was talking saucily with Hawkstone as we came down to thequay. I noticed Barton shaking hands with her, and whispering a fewwords as we got into the boat; and I noticed also a certain sheepish, andrather sulky look upon Hawkstone's face, as he did so; and if I was notmistaken, my learned friend Glenville let something very like an oathescape him as he shouted: "Barton, Barton, come along; we are all waitingfor you!"

I do not think Nelly could be called a beauty. The face was too flat, the mouth was too large, and the colour of the cheeks was too brilliant. Yet she was very charming. The blue of her eyes underneath darkeyelashes and eyebrows was--well--heavenly. The whole face beamed andglowed through masses of brown hair, which were arranged in a somewhatdisorderly manner, and yet with an evident eye to effect. The aspect wasfrank and good-humoured, though somewhat soft and sensuous; and the form, though full, was not without elegance, and showed both strength andagility. No one could pass by her without being arrested by herappearance, but we used to quarrel very much as to her claims to becalled a "clipper, " or a "stunner, " or whatever was the word in use amongus to express our ideal. 

Barton jumped into the boat and away we went, Thornton steering, Mrs. Bagshaw, her daughter, and the Misses Delamere in the stern, Bartonstroke, myself three, Glenville two, and Hawkstone bow--a very fine crew, let me tell you, for we all knew how to handle an oar, --especially insmooth water. And so we passed in front of the parade, waving our pockethandkerchiefs in answer to those which fluttered on the shore, and rowingaway into the wide sea. Mrs. Bagshaw, who was an excellent musician, andher daughter, who had a lovely voice, sang duets and songs for ouramusement; and, with the aid of the two Misses Delamere, made up sometolerable glees and choruses, in the latter of which we all joined atintervals, to the confusion of the whole effect, --of the singing in pointof tune, and of the rowing in point of time. 

As we were rounding Horn Point, Thornton said to Mrs. Bagshaw, "Do youknow, there are some such splendid ferns grow in a little ravine you cansee there on the side of that hill. Do let us land and get some. "

"What do you want ferns for?" asked I, innocently. 

"Silence in the boat, three, " cried Glenville. "What a hard-heartedmonster you must be!" he whispered in my ear. 

"Oh, do let us land, " said Miss Delamere, "I do so want some commonbracken"--or whatever it was, for she cared no more than you or I aboutthe ferns--"I want some for my book, and mamma says we really mustcollect some rare specimens before we go home. " Mrs. Bagshaw guessedwhat sort of flower they would be looking for--heartsease, I suppose, orforget-me-not; but she very good-naturedly agreed to the proposal, andHawkstone undertook to show us where we could land. We were soon ashore, and Hawkstone said, "You must not be long, gentlemen, if you please, forthe wind is rising, and it will come on squally before long; and we havewind and tide against us going back, and a tough job it is often to roundthe lighthouse hill. "

"All right, " said Thornton, "how long can you give us?"

"Twenty minutes at the most, " said the boatman, "and you will only justhave time to mount the cliff and come back. "

I heard an indistinct, dull murmur, half of the sea and half of the wind, and, looking far out to sea, could fancy I saw little white sheep on thewaves. We left Glenville with Hawkstone talking and smoking. They werereally great friends, although in such different ranks in life. Glenvilleused to rave about him as a true specimen of the old Devon rover. He wasa tall, well-proportioned man, with a clear, open face, very ruddy withsun and wind and rough exercise, a very pleasant smile, and grey eyes, rather piercing and deep set. The brow was fine, and the featuresregular, though massive. The hair and beard were brown andrough-looking, but his manner was gentle, and had that peculiar courtesywhich makes many a Devon man a gentleman and many a Devon lass a lady, let them be of ever so humble an origin. 

Barton paired off with the younger Miss Delamere, Thornton with theelder. Mrs. Bagshaw and I followed, conversing cheerfully of manythings. I found her a very entertaining and agreeable lady, accomplished, frank, and amiable. There was nothing at all peculiareither in her appearance or conversation. While I was talking to her Ikept wondering whether her outbreaks of temper were the result of somereal or supposed cause of jealousy, or were to be attributed solely to achronic feeling of irritability against her husband. In the course ofour walk together Mrs. Bagshaw said to me--

"Your friend, Mr. Thornton, is evidently very much smitten with FlorenceDelamere. "

"Yes, I think so, " I replied, "but I daresay nothing will come of it. Herfamily would not like it, I suppose; for, you know, they are of a goodfamily in Norfolk, and Thornton is only the son of a grocer. "

"I did not know that, " she said, "but I have thought your friend had notquite the manners of the class to which the Delameres clearly belong. Mrs. Delamere is perhaps not anyone in particular, and she certainlytalks overmuch upon subjects which probably she does not understand. Theyoung ladies are most agreeable and lady-like, and I think Mr. Thorntonhas found that out. It is easy to see that objections to any engagementwould be of the gravest sort--indeed, I imagine, insurmountable. It ismost unfortunate that this should happen when the young man is away fromhis parents, who might guide him out of the difficulty. I think Mrs. Delamere is aware of the attachment, and is not inclined to favour it. Doyou think you could influence your friend in any way? You will do him agreat service if you can warn him of his danger; if he does not attend toyou, you might tell Mr. Porkington, and consult with him. "

I promised to follow her advice as well as I could, for I felt that itwas both kindly meant and reasonable, although I felt myself rather tooyoung to be entangled in such matters. 

* * * * *

"Oh what a lovely fern, such a nice little one too. Do try and dig it upfor me, " said Florence. 

"I will try to do my best, " said Thornton; "I have got a knife. " Anddown he went upon his knees, and soon extracted a little brittle bladder, which he handed to the young lady, saying, "I hope it will live. Do youthink it will?"

"Oh, yes, " she said. "I can keep it here till we go home, and then plantit in my rockery, where they flourish nicely, as it is beautifullysheltered from the sun. "

"I wish it were rather a handsomer-looking thing, " said the young man, looking rather ruefully at the little specimen. 

"I shall prize it for the sake of the giver, " she said, with a slightblush. "But I am afraid you have spoilt your knife. "

"Oh, not at all. Do let me dig up some more. "

"No, thank you; do not trouble. See what a pretty bank of wild thyme. "

"Would you like to sit down upon it? You know it smells all the sweeterfor being crushed. "

"Well, it does really look most inviting. " Florence sat down, saying asshe did so, "How lovely the wild flowers are--heather and harebells. "

"Let me gather some for you. " He began plucking the flowers, whichflourished in such profusion and variety that a nosegay grew in everyfoot of turf. "When do you think of leaving Babbicombe?"

"In two or three days. "

"So soon!"

"Yes; for papa has to go back to attend to his Quarter Sessions. "

"I am very, very sorry you are going. I had hoped you would stay muchlonger. These three weeks have flown like three days. "

"Why, Mr. Thornton, I declare you are throwing my flowers away as fast asyou gather them. "

"So I am, " he said. "The fact is I hardly know what I am doing. " Thecolour was blazing into his face, and his heart beating wildly. "Florence, " he cried, flinging himself upon his knees beside her, "forgive me if I speak rashly or wildly--I don't know how to speak. Idon't know what to tell you--but I love you dearly, dearly, with my wholeheart. I cannot tell--I hope--I think you may like me. Do not say no, Iimplore you. If you do not like me to speak so wildly, tell me so; butdon't say you will not love me. Tell me you will love me--if you can. "

Florence was young, and was taken by surprise, or perhaps she might havestopped the young gentleman at once; but after all it is not unpleasantto a pretty girl to see a good-looking young lad at her feet and tolisten to his passionate words of homage. At length, when he seemed tocome to a pause, she replied: "Oh, Mr. Thornton, please, please do nottalk so. This is so sudden. Our parents know nothing of this!"

"Do you love me--tell me?"

"We are too young. You really must not--"

"It does not matter about being young. "

"Oh, do not speak any more. "

"Florence, do you love me? I shall go mad if you will not answer. " Heseized her hand as he leant forward, and gazed eagerly into her face, while he trembled violently with his own emotion. "Do you love me--say?"

"I think, I think--I do, " she said very softly, looking him full in theface, while he seized her round the waist, and her head leant for onemoment on his shoulder, and he kissed her forehead. 

She started up, saying, "Oh, do let me go, please. I ought not to havesaid so. "

He rose first, and lifted her up by the hand. 

* * * * *

"I will tell you what it is, Hawkstone, " said Glenville. "I think it isa d---d shame, and I shall tell him so. He may be a bigger fellow thanI, but I could punch his head for him, if he were in the wrong and I inthe right. "

"I dare say you could, sir, and thank you, sir, for what you say. Ithought you were a brave, kind gentleman when I first saw you, though youdo like to have a bit of a joke at me at times. "

"Bit of a joke! That's another matter. But I will never joke again, ifthis goes wrong. But are you quite sure that Nelly is in love with youreally, and you with her. "

"Why, sir, we have told each other so this hundred times; and I feel assure she spoke the truth as God knows I did; and sometimes I think I am afool to doubt her now. But you see, sir, she is flattered by the noticeof a grand gentleman. It may be nothing, but, when I talk to her now, she seems weary like. It is not like what it was in the old days beforeyou came, sir. We were to be married, sir, so soon as the gentle folkhave left the town, that is about six weeks from to-day; but now I hardlyknow what to think. I think one thing one day, and another the next. Sometimes I think I am jealous about nothing. Sometimes I think he is agentleman, and will act as such; and sometimes I think, suppose he shouldharm her; and then I feel that if he dared to do it I would throttlehim. " Glenville could see the sailor's fists clenching as he spoke, andhe replied, "Hush, Hawkstone, hush! This will all come right. I feelfor you very much, but you must not be violent. I believe it is allfolly, and Barton will forget all about it in a day or two. "

"May be, may be, sir; but will she forget so soon? When a woman gets athing of this sort into her head it sticks there, sir. There is nothingto drive it out. He will go off among his fine friends in London, orwherever it is; but she will be alone here in the little dull town, andit is mighty dull in the winter, sir. "

"You see, Hawkstone, Barton is a friend of mine; and, though I have onlyknown him a couple of years, I am sure he is a generous, good sort offellow, and honest and truthful, though a bit thoughtless and careless. Iam sure he will see his own folly and bad conduct when it is shown tohim. This is a sham love of his. She is a very pretty girl, it is true. You won't mind my saying that?"

"Say away, sir. I look more to what people mean than what they say. "

"Well, no doubt, he has been struck by her beauty; but their positionsare different, and he has only seen her for a week or two. Besides, heknows that you and she are fond of one another. I believe he is onlyidle and thoughtless. If I thought for a moment that he wascontemplating a blackguardly act, he should be no friend of mine, and Iwould not only tell him so, but I would give him a good kicking, or lookon with pleasure while you did it. But you must be quiet, Hawkstone, atpresent, for you know nothing, and a quarrel would only do you harm allround. "

"It's not so easy to be quiet. The neighbours are beginning to talk, sir, though they don't let me hear what they say. I can see by theirlooks. What business has he to sit beside her on the quay? He is makinga fool of her and of me. I cannot bear it. Sometimes I feel as if Ishould go mad. I don't know what those poor creatures in the Bible feltwhen they were possessed by the devil, but I believe he comes right intome when I think of this business. " Then he bent over the boat andcovered his face with his arms, and his great broad back heaved up anddown, like a boat on the sea. Glenville left him alone, and puffed awayvigorously at a cigar he was smoking in order to quiet his own feelings, which had been more excited than he liked. 

After a few minutes, Hawkstone raised his head as if from a sleep, andsuddenly exclaimed, "Hey, sir! The wind and the sea have not been idlewhile we have been talking. We must be sharp now. Shout to yourfriends, sir. I cannot shout just yet, I think. "

Glenville shouted as loud as he was able. 

"That won't do, I'm afeard, " said Hawkstone, and he gave a loud halloo, which rang from cliff to cliff, and brought out a cloud of gulls, sailinground and round for a while in great commotion, but soon disappearinginto the cliffs again. 

We were most of us already descending when we heard Hawkstone's voice;the boat was soon ready; but where were Thornton and his lady love? Afterwaiting a while, Hawkstone shouting more than once, it was proposed thatsomeone should go in search for them. Hawkstone was getting veryimpatient, and warned us we should have a hard struggle to get homeagain. 

"It will be a bad job if we cannot get round the point, " cried he, "forthen we shall have to land in the bay, and although there will be nodanger if we get off soon, yet the ladies will get a wetting, and maybethe boat will be damaged. We shall just get a little water going out, for the surf is running in strong. "

"It is very wonderful, " said Mrs. Bagshaw, "how suddenly the wind riseson this coast, and the waves answer to the lash like wild colts. Thechange from calm to storm is most remarkable. "

"Very, " thought I to myself, when I called to mind the sudden changes oftemper which I had noticed in her. 

"What can that duffer Thornton be about all this long time?" askedBarton. 

Mrs. Bagshaw and I exchanged glances. "I am not sure, " said she to me, "that I have not been doing a very imprudent thing in letting them land. "

It was full ten minutes after the arrival of the rest of the party beforeThornton and Florence made their appearance, looking very confused andawkward. Glenville preceded them, shouting and laughing. "Here theyare, caught at last, and apparently quite pleased at keeping us allwaiting, and quite unable to give any account of what they have beendoing. One little fern has fallen before their united efforts in thespace of half an hour or more. Hawkstone says he'll be shot if he lendsyou his boat to go a row in another time. Don't you, Hawkstone?"

"No, sir, I didn't say that. If a gentleman and a lady like to loiter onthe hill it's nothing to a poor boatman how long they stay, leastwayswind and weather permitting, as the packet says. "

Hawkstone pushed us off through the surf, and it was no easy matter, and, I daresay, required some judgment and presence of mind to seize the rightmoment between the breaking of the great waves. With all his skill wemanaged to ship a little water, amid the laughing shrieks of the ladiesand the boisterous shouts of "two" and "three, " who got some of the waterdown their backs. We were soon under weigh, however, and tuggingmanfully on, occasionally missing a stroke when the boat lurched on agreat wave, and making but slow progress. Fortunately we had not far togo before we arrived opposite to the parade, where a small crowd ofpeople was watching our movements with great interest, and the pockethandkerchiefs again fluttered from the land. The signals, however, metwith no response from us. Tug as we would, we seemed to make very littleway, notwithstanding Hawkstone's "Well rowed, gentlemen, she's movingfast. We shall do it yet. "

The waves were now running high, white crested, and with a long, widesweep in them. We were forced to steer close to the rocks at the pointin order to keep as much as possible out of the tide, which was runningso strongly a few yards from the land that we never could have made anyway against it there. As it was I could see that for many seconds we didnot open a single point of rock, and it was all we could do to keep theboat from dropping astern. Just as I was beginning to despair of evergetting back in safety, and was aware that my wind was going, and thatboth arms and legs were on the point of giving way, a loud shout fromHawkstone alarmed us all. He jumped up, shouting, "Row hard on the bowside, ease off on the stroke, " and in a moment (how he got from the bowsI shall never know!) we saw him seated behind the stern-board with thetiller in his hand. The boat shot round, shipping a heavy sea, and wewere at one moment within a yard of the rock underneath the parade. "Rowhard, all!" was soon the cry, and away we shot before wind and tide inthe opposite direction to that in which we had been going. Again weheard Hawkstone's voice, "Steady, keep steady. There's nothing to fear. We can run her into the bay!" Nothing to fear! But there had been. Onemoment of delay, and we should have been dashed on the rocks. I do notknow why it was, but the waves now seemed gigantic. Perhaps excitementor fear made them seem larger, or perhaps the change in the direction ofthe course of the boat had that effect. Certainly they now seemed torear their white crests high above us, and to menace us with their hugeforms. The roar of the breakers upon the beach added to the excitementof the scene. The ladies sat pale and silent. I believe all would havegone well, but at the most exigent moment, when we were riding on thesurf which was to land us, "bow" and "three" missed their strokes andfell into the bottom of the boat; and, amid great confusion, the boatswerved round; and, a great wave striking her upon her broadside, sheupset, and rolled the whole party over and over into about three feet ofwater. All scrambled as well as they could to the shore; but in a momentwe saw with dismay that one of the ladies was floating away on theretreating wave, and Thornton was plunging after the helpless form. Meanwhile the party on the parade had rushed frantically round to thebay, shouting and screaming as they came. 

"Where's the life-buoy?" shouted Captain O'Brien vaguely. 

"Fetch the life-boat!" cried Captain Kelly, in a voice of command, although there was no one to fetch it, and, for aught he knew, thenearest was in London. The two Misses Bankes screamed at intervals likeminute guns. Mr. And Mrs. Delamere and their younger daughter looked onin speechless agony. The young artist, like a sensible fellow, seized upa coil of rope and dragged it towards the sea. The colonel embraced Mrs. Bagshaw before the multitude. 

"She will be drowned!" cried one. 

"She is saved!" cried another. 

"He has caught her, thank God! Well done!" shrieked a third. 

Thornton had reached Florence, and was endeavouring to stagger back withher in his arms; but the waves were too strong for him, and they bothfell, and were lost to sight in an enormous breaker, while everyone heldtheir breath. As the wave dispersed three forms could be seen strugglingforwards; and, amid the wildest cheers and excitement Hawkstone rolledThornton and his lady love upon the sand, and then threw himself on hisback quite out of breath. 

Florence neither heard nor saw anything for some time. Captain Kellysuggested water as being the best restorative under the circumstances. Porkington wished he had not forgotten his brandy flask. The doctor'sson thought of bleeding, and played with a little pocket-knife in asuggestive fashion. On a sudden Glenville, who always had his wits abouthim, discovered the Drag seated on a rock in a state of helpless terror, and smelling at a bottle of aromatic vinegar as though her life was indanger. "Lend that to me--quick, Miss Candlish!" he cried, and seizedthe bottle. The Drag struggled to keep possession of it, but in vain, and then fainted away. The young lady soon recovered sufficiently underthe influence of the smelling bottle to walk home with the assistance ofThornton and Mrs. Delamere. The rest of the party began to separate amidmuch talking and laughter; for as soon as the danger was passed the wholething seemed to be a joke; and we had so much to talk of, that we hardlynoticed how we got away. But on looking back I observed that the youngartist brought up the rear with Miss Bagshaw, and was evidently beingmost attentive. Hawkstone received everybody's thanks and praise in asimple, good-humoured way, and proceeded to fasten up the boat out ofreach of the tide. 

CHAPTER V. --THE BALL. 

Mrs. Porkington, attired in the white silk which we all knew so well, reclined upon the sofa. Porkington, who was, or should be, her lord andmaster, was perched upon the music stool. The Drag, in a pink muslin ofa draggled description, sat in a deep easy chair, displaying a great dealof skinny ancle and large feet. 

"It has always surprised me, my dear, " said Mrs. Porkington, "how fondyou are of dancing. "

"Why, what can you mean?" said he. "Why, I never danced in my life. "

"Oh, of course not, " replied she. "I am aware you cannot dance, nor didI insinuate that you could, my dear, nor did I say so that I am aware. But you enjoy these balls so much, you know you do. "

"Well, yes, " he said, languidly, "I like to see the young folks enjoythemselves. "

"Now, for my part, " said his wife, "I am sure I am getting quite tired, and wish the balls were at an end. "

"My dear, I am sure I thought you liked them, or I would never have takenthe tickets. "

"Now, my dear, my dear, I must beg, I must entreat, that you will notendeavour to lay the expense of those tickets upon my shoulders. I amsure I have never been asked to be taken to one of the balls thisseason. "

When a man tells a lie, it is with some hope, however slight, that he maynot be found out; but a woman will lie to the very person whom she knowsto be as fully acquainted with the facts as she is herself. Which is themore deadly sin I leave to the Jesuits. 

"I am sure, " said the Coach, making a desperate effort, "you appeared toenjoy them, for you danced a great many dances. "

"Aunt!" exclaimed the lady, "is it true that I always dance every dance?"

"No indeed!" chimed in Miss Candlish, "far from it. No doubt you wouldget partners for all if you wished. "

"And is it true, " she continued, "that I wish to go to these ridiculoussoirees?"

"Certainly not, indeed, " said the Drag, "nor do I wish to go, I am sure!"

"In that case I can dispose of your ticket, " said he. Unlucky man! Inthese cases there is no _via media_. A man should either resist to thedeath or submit with as good a grace as he can. Half measures are fatal. 

"No, my dear, you cannot dispose of that ticket, " said his wife, "and Itake it as very unkind in you to speak to Aunt in that manner. It is notbecause she is poor, and dependent upon us, that she is to be sneered atand ill-treated. " At this speech the Drag burst into tears, and declaredthat she always knew that Mr. Porkington hated her; that she might bepoor and old and ugly, etc. , etc. , but she little expected to be calledso by him; that she would not go to the ball now, if he implored her onhis knees, and so on, and so on. 

Now, who could have thought it? All this fuss was occasioned by Mr. P. Having meanly backed out of giving Mrs. P. A new dress in which toelectrify the fashionable world at Babbicombe. Ah me! Let us hope thatin some far distant planet there may be some better world where allunfortunate creatures, --dogs which have had tin kettles tied to theirtails, --cockchafers which have been spun upon pins, --poor men who havebeen over-crawed by wives, aunts, mothers-in-law, and otherterrors, --donkeys which have been undeservedly belaboured bycostermongers, --and authors who have been meritoriously abused bycritics, --rest together in peace in a sort of happy family. 

At this point Barton, Glenville, Thornton, and I all entered the room. 

"Oh, I am so glad to see the ladies are ready, " said Thornton. "Thiswill be our last ball, and we ought to make a happy evening of it. Areyou not sorry we are coming to the end of our gaieties, Miss Candlish?"

"Sorry!" exclaimed the Drag, ferociously. "Sorry! I never was morepleased--pleased--pleased!" Every time she repeated the word "pleased"she launched it at the head of the unfortunate tutor, as if she hoped herwords would turn into brickbats ere they reached him. 

"I am glad to see you are going, however, " said Glenville. 

"There you are mistaken, " said the Aunt, "for Mr. Porkington has been sovery kind as to say he had rather I did not go. "

"Really, really, " cried Porkington, "I can assure you it is quite thereverse. I am so misunderstood that really I am sure I can't tell--"

"Oh, pray do not disappoint us in our last evening together, MissCandlish, " said Glenville, coming to the rescue of the unfortunate tutor, and speaking in his most fascinating manner, "I have hoped for thepleasure of a quadrille and lancers and" (with an effort) "a waltz withyou this evening if you will allow me. "

The Drag became calm, and after a little while diplomatic relations werefairly established, and away we all went to the Assembly Rooms, Glenvillewhispering to me and Barton, "I have made up my mind to get rid of thatpink muslin to-night or perish in the attempt. " I had no opportunity atthe moment of asking him what he meant, but I was sure he meant mischief. However, I never gave the matter a second thought, as the business ofdancing soon commenced. Captains O'Brien and Kelly were already waltzingwith the two Misses Bankes, and whispering delightful nothings into theircurls as we entered. The artist was floundering in a persevering mannerwith pretty Miss Bagshaw, and the doctor was standing in the doorwayruminating hopefully on the probable effects of low dresses and colddraughts. Thornton was soon engrossed in the charms of his lady love, and Barton, Glenville, and I were doing our duty by all the young ladies. The room was well filled, and, though not well lighted nor wellappointed, was large and cheerful enough. The German Band performedprodigies; the row was simply deafening. There were a few seats by thewalls for those who did not dance, and there was a room for lemonade, cakes, and bad ices for those who liked them, as well as a small room inwhich the old fogies could play a rubber of whist. 

Mrs. Delamere had pinned Mr. Bankes in a corner, and was enlarging to himupon one of her favourite topics. 

"The Church of England, " said she, "is undoubtedly in great danger, butwhy should we regret it? It has become a thing of the past, and so havechivalry and monasteries. The mind of the nineteenth century is marchingon to its goal. The intellect of England is asserting itself. I haveever loved the intellect of England, haven't you?"

"Oh, quite so--ah, yes, certainly, of course!" said Mr. Bankes. 

"You agree with me, " said Mrs. Delamere; "I was sure you would. This ismost delightful. I have seldom talked with any true thinker who does notagree with me. "

"I am sure, " said Mr. Bankes gallantly, "no one would venture to copewith such an accomplished disputant. "

"Perhaps not, " she said complacently, "but I should not desire todisagree with anyone upon religious subjects. The great desideratum--yousee I understand the Latin tongue, Mr. Bankes--the great desideratum isharmony--the harmony of the soul! How are we to arrive at harmony? thatis the pressing question. "

* * * * *

"Bagshaw, you are a low cheat, sir: you are nothing better than a commonswindler, sir. I will not play with you any more. Do you call yourselfa whist player and make signs to your partner. I should be ashamed tostay in the same room with you. "

Several of the dancers hastened into the card-room. Mrs. Bagshaw wasstanding up flushed and excited, and talking loudly and wildly. She hadoverset her chair, and flung down her cards upon the table. SeeingPorkington enter, she cried out, "Look to your wife, sir, look to yourwife. She received signals across the table. It has nothing to do withthe cards. Look at that man who is called my husband--that monster--thatbundle of lies and deceit, who has been the ruin of hundreds. "

"By heavens, this is too bad!" exclaimed Colonel Bagshaw. "I declarenothing has happened that I know of, except that my wife has forgotten tocount honours. "

"It is a lie, sir, and you know it. You are trying to ruin a womanbefore my very eyes. Oh, you man, you brute! Oh, help, help me, help!"and in act to fall she steadied herself by clenching tightly the back ofher chair. Her daughter was luckily close to her, "Oh, mamma, mamma, "whispered she, "how can you say such things? Come away, come away; youare ill. Do come. " She led her out into the hall, and hurriedlyadjusting the shawls, went home with her mother. 

Porkington showed himself a man. He took Colonel Bagshaw by the hand. "Iam very sorry, " said he, "that Mrs. Bagshaw should have made somemistake. Some sudden vexation, and I am afraid some indisposition, mustbe the cause of her excitement. Allow me to take her place and finishthe game. I am afraid you will find me a poor performer, Colonel. "

"Oh, not at all. Let us begin. I will deal again, and the scoringstands as it did. "

Mrs. Porkington during this scene had turned pale and red alternately. Her husband's dignity and presence of mind astonished her. She was soexcited as to be almost unable to play her cards, and her lips and eyesbetrayed very great emotion. The tutor's cheek showed some trace ofcolour, and his manner was even graver than usual, but that was all; andhis wife felt the presence of a superior force to her own, and waschecked into silence. I had always felt sure that there was a reserve offorce in the timid nature of our Coach which seemed to peep forth attimes and then retire again. It was curious to mark on these rareoccasions how the more boisterous self-assertion of Mrs. Porkingtonseemed for a time to cower before the gentler but finer will. Naturesare not changed in a day, but the effect of the singular scene which hadbeen enacted at that time was never effaced, and a gradual and mutualapproach was made between husband and wife towards a more cordial andcomplete sympathy. 

The music had not ceased playing during the disturbance, and the dancers, with great presence of mind, quickly returned to their places, and theusual frivolities of the evening continued to the accustomed hour ofmidnight, when the party began to break up. I could not find Glenvilleor Barton. Where could they be? Once or twice in the pauses of thedance I had noticed them talking earnestly together, and occasionallywith suppressed laughter. "Now, what joke are these fellows up to, Iwonder?" However, it was not my business to inquire, though I had a kindof fear that the combination of gunpowder with lucifer matches in a hightemperature could hardly be more dangerous than the meeting of Glenvilleand Barton in a mischievous mood. Before the last dance had commencedthey had left the hall, and, as soon as they got outside, they found MissCandlish's sedan chair in the custody of the two men who usually carriedher to and fro when she attended the balls. Two other sedan chairs, several bath chairs and donkey chairs, and a couple of flys were inattendance. Aided by the magical influence of a small "tip, " Glenvilleeasily persuaded the men in charge that the dance would not be over for afew minutes, and that they had time to go and get a glass of beer, which, he said, Miss Candlish wished them to have in return for the care andtrouble they had several times taken in carrying her home. As soon asthey had gone, he and Barton came back into the ball-room; and, as thelast dance was coming to an end, and the band was beginning to scramblethrough "God save the Queen, " in a most disloyal manner, he came up toMiss Candlish, and said, "May I have the pleasure of seeing you to yourchair, and thanking you for that very delightful dance?"

"My dear Mr. Glenville, " said the Drag, "your politeness is quiteoverpowering. Ah, if all young men were like you, what a very differentworld it would be. "

"You must not flatter me, " said Glenville, "for I am very soft hearted, especially where the fair sex is concerned. "

"Ah, how I wish I had a son like you!" sighed the Drag. 

"And how I wish you were my m--m--mother!" replied that villainGlenville, as he adjusted her cloak, and led her out to her chair. Itwas pitchy dark outside (only a couple of candle lanterns to see by), andthe usual confusion upon the breaking up of a large party was takingplace. Miss Candlish stepped into her chair, and the door was closed. Glenville and Barton took up the chair, and, going as smoothly as theycould (which was not as smoothly as the usual carriers), they turnedaside from the main stream of the visitors, and made at once for theharbour. Here they had intended to deposit the chair, and leave the restto fate; but, as luck would have it, in setting down the chair in thedarkness, one side of it projected over a sort of landing-place. Ittoppled over and fell sideways with a splash into the muddy water. Screamupon scream followed rapidly. "Murder! thieves! help!" Shriek aftershriek, and at last a female form, wildly flinging her arms into the air, could be seen emerging from the half buried chair. Glenville and Bartonhad run away before the chair fell, but, hearing the fall, looked back, and were at first spellbound with terror at what had happened. When, however, they saw the Drag emerge, they fairly fled for their lives by acircuitous way little frequented by night, and reached home just beforethe rest of us arrived. There was some alarm when Miss Candlish did notarrive for about twenty minutes or half an hour. Glenville and Bartontold Thornton and myself what had happened, and wanted to know what theyshould do. Of course, we advised that they should say and do nothing, but wait upon the will of the Fates. They were in a great fright, andwhen Miss Candlish arrived in charge of two policemen their terror becamewild. And yet they both said afterwards that they could hardly helplaughing out loud. The pink muslin was draggled and besmeared withharbour mud, and torn half out of the gathers. Its owner was in a stateof rage, terror, and hysterics. The commotion was fearful. It was verystrange she did not seem to have the faintest suspicion of any of ourparty. She was sure the men were drunk because they carried her sounsteadily. She was positive they meant to rob her or something worse. She saw them as they were running away. They were the very same men whoalways carried her. She never could bear those men. They looked morelike demons than men. She would leave the place next day. She had beendisgraced. Everybody hated her, nobody had any pity. She would go tobed. Don't speak to her--go away--go away, do! Brandy and water, certainly not! and so on. Till at last Mrs. Porkington prevailed on herto go to bed. We had all vanished as quickly as we could and smoked apipe, discussing in low tones the lowering appearance of the skies aboveus, and the consequences which might ensue upon those inquiries which weforesaw must inevitably take place. 

I never quite knew how it was managed, but two policemen came the nextmorning and actually examined our boots and trousers, and then had a longinterview with Mr. Porkington; and finally we, who were waiting in terrorin the dining-room, saw the pair of them go out of the front door, touching their hats to Porkington. I thought at the time that he musthave bribed them; but afterwards, on thinking it over, I came to theconclusion that there was no evidence of the complicity of our party. Ofcourse, the sedan men did not know what had happened. Porkington stoutlyrefused to let the policemen come into our study, and told them he shouldregard them as trespassers if they ventured to go into any other room. The Drag, although she declared she knew the two men, had no desire tobring the matter before the public. Porkington never said a word to anyof us upon the subject, though he looked cross and nervous. As soon asthe aunt had taken her departure (which she did the next day) he quiterecovered his good humour, and, I believe, even chuckled inwardly at theepisode. The _Babbicombe Independent_ had an amusing paragraph upon theincident, and opined that some drunken sailors from one of theneighbouring ports were the perpetrators of the coarse practical joke;but we found that the general opinion among the visitors was not so wideof the truth. However, as no one cared for the lady it took less thannine days to get rid of the wonder. 

CHAPTER VI. --THE SHORE. 

"Barton, " said Glenville, "I want to speak to you, old chap. You won'tmind me speaking to you, will you?"

Barton's brow clouded at once. He knew what was coming. "I don't knowwhat you mean, " said he. 

"Well, I want to talk to you about that girl. "

"What right have you to interfere? That's my business, not yours. "

"If you are going to be angry, I'll shut up. But I tell you plainly, it's a beastly shame; and if you dare to do any harm to her I'll kick youout of the place. "

"Out of what place?"

"Why, out of this or any other place I find you in. You've no right togo meeting her as you do. "

"And you've no right to speak of her like that. She is as pure as anychild in the world, and you ought to know I would do her no harm. Youare trying to insult both me and her. "

"Well, I'm very glad to hear you say so. But, see what folly it all is. You know you don't intend to marry her. Do you?"

"Why, as to that I don't know. I'm not obliged to tell you what I meanto do. "

"No; but you ought to think about what you mean to do. You know she isengaged to be married to Hawkstone. "

"Yes; but I don't think she cares for him a bit--only to tease him. "

"Do just think what you are doing as a man and a gentleman--I won't sayas a Christian, for you tell me you mean nothing bad. But is it manly, is it fair to play these sort of tricks? I must tell you we must give upbeing chums any longer if this goes on. "

"I tell you what, Glenville, I think you are giving yourself mighty fineairs, and all about nothing; but just because you have an uncle who is alord you think you may preach as much as you like. "

"Oh, come now, that's all nonsense!" said Glenville. "If you aredetermined to shut me up, I've done. _Liberavi animam meam_. I am sorryif I have offended you. I say it's quite time we went to join the otherfellows. They want us to go with some of the ladies over the cliffs. "

"Thanks, I can't come. I've a lot more work to do, and--and I've hurt myheel a bit and don't care to go a stiff climb to-day. "

Glenville looked at him, and saw a red glow rising in his neck as heturned away his face and sat down to a book on the table, pretending toread, as Glenville left the room. 

The sky was dark, and ominous of storm. It had a torn and raggedappearance, as if it had already had a fight with worse weather and wastrying to escape. The sea-gulls showed like white breakers upon the darksky. The waves roared and grumbled, lashing themselves into a fury asthey burst in white, wrathful foam against the black rocks, and then drewback, torn and mangled, to mingle with the crowd of waves rushing on totheir doom. The visitors, dressed for squally weather, in waterproofs orrough suits, walked up and down the parade, enjoying the exhilaratingbreeze, or stood watching with eager excitement the entry of a fishingsmack into the harbour. Far away out at sea in the mist of distant sprayand rain two or three brigantines or schooners could be dimly descriedlabouring with the storm;--mysterious and awful sight as it always seemsto me. Will she get safe to port? What is her cargo? What her humanfreight? What are they doing or thinking? What language do they speak?Are there women or children aboard? Who knows? Ah, gentle reader, whatdo you and I know of each other, and what do we know of even our nearestfriends; to what port are they struggling through the mists which envelopthem, and who will meet them on the shore?

An hour had not elapsed since Glenville had left Barton before the latterhad reached the first promontory of rocks which shut in the little bay ofBabbicombe, and on turning the corner found, as he had expected andappointed, the young woman who had been the subject of their angryconversation. She rose from a rock on which she had been sitting, andcame to meet him with a frank smile, saying, "Good afternoon, Mr. Henry. "Somehow the slightly coarse intonation struck him as it had never donebefore, and the freedom of manner which a few hours ago would havedelighted him now sent a chilling sensation to his heart. "Goodafternoon, " he replied, and, drawing his arm round her waist, he kissedher several times, and held her so firmly that at last she said, "Oh, sir, you'll hurt me. Let me go!" Then holding him away from her, andlooking him full in the face, she said, "Oh, Mr. Henry, whatever can bethe matter!" "Come and sit down, darling, " he said, "I want to saysomething to you. " He led her to a seat upon the rocks, and they bothsat down. "Darling, " he said, "I am afraid I must go away at once andleave you for ever. " "Oh, no, no, no! not that!" she cried, starting up. In a moment her manner changed from fear to anger. "I know what it is!"she exclaimed, "Hawkstone has been rude to you. There now, I will neverforgive him. I will never be friends with him again--never!"

"No, darling, it is nothing about Hawkstone at all. I haven't seen him. But come here, you must be quiet and listen to what I have to say. "

She sat down again beside him. Her lips quivered. Her blue eyes werestaring into the cliff in front of her, but she saw nothing, feltnothing, except that a dreadful moment had come which she had for sometime dimly expected, but never distinctly foreseen. 

"I hardly know how to tell you, " he began. "You know I love you verydearly, and if I could--if it was possible, I would ask you to marry me. But I cannot. It is impossible. It would bring misery upon all, upon myfather and mother, and upon you. How can I make you understand? Mypeople are rich, all their friends are rich, and all very proud. "

The tears were streaming down her face, and she sat motionless. 

"But I don't want to know your friends, " she said, in a choking voice. 

"I know, I know, " he said, "and I could be quite happy with you if theywere all dead and out of the way, and if the world was different fromwhat it is. But I have thought it all out, and I am sure I ought to goaway at once, and never come back again. "

There was a long pause, but at last she rose and said, "Mr. Barton, Ihave felt that something of this sort might happen, but I have neverthought it out, as you say you have. I am confused now it has come, justas if I had never feared it beforehand. I was very, very happy, and Iwould not think of what might come of it. I might have known that agrand gentleman like you would never live with the like of me; but then Ithought I loved you very, very dearly; you seemed so bright, and grand, and tender, that I loved you in spite of all I was afraid of, and Ithought if you loved me you might perhaps be--" Here she broke downaltogether, and burst into sobs, and seemed as though she would fall. Herose and threw his arms round her, led her back to the rock, called herall the sweet names he could think of, kissed her again and again, andtried to soothe her; while she, poor thing, could do nothing but sob, with her head upon his shoulder. 

A loud shout aroused them. They both rose suddenly, and turned theirfaces towards the place whence the sound proceeded. Hawkstone was justemerging from the surf, which was lashing furiously against the corner ofthe cliff, round which they had come dry-shod a short time before, Theyat once guessed their fate, and glanced in dismay at one another and thenat the sea, and again at Hawkstone, who rapidly approached them, drenchedthrough and through, and in a fierce state of wrath and terror, added tothe excitement of his struggle with the waves. 

"What are you doing here?" he cried, and in the same breath, "Don'tanswer--don't dare to answer, but listen. You are caught by the tide. Ihave sent a boy back to Babbicombe for help. No help can come by sea insuch a storm. They will bring a basket and ropes by the cliff. It willbe a race between them and the tide. If all goes well, they will be herein time. If not, we shall all be drowned. "

"Is there no way up the cliff?" said Barton. 

"None. The cliff overhangs. There is a place where I have just comethrough, but I doubt if I could reach it again; and I am sure neither ofyou could stand the surf. You must wait. " He then turned from them, andsat himself down on a fallen piece of the cliff, and buried his face inhis hands. Nellie sank down on the rock where she and Barton had beensitting, and he stood by her, helplessly gazing alternately with a paleface and bewildered mind at his two companions. Two or three minutespassed without any motion or sound from the living occupants of the bay;but the roaring of the sea grew louder and louder, and the terror of itsank into the hearts of all three. At last Hawkstone raised his head, and immediately Barton approached him. 

"Forgive me, Hawkstone, " he said, "I have done you a great wrong, and Iam sorry for it. "

"What's the good in saying that? You can't mend the wrong you havedone, " and his head sank down again between his hands. 

There was a pause. Barton felt that what had been said was true and nottrue. One of the most painful consequences of wrong-doing is that thewrong has a sort of fungus growth about it, and insists upon appearingmore wrong than it ever was meant to be. 

"Hawkstone, " he said at last, "I swear to you, on my honour as agentleman, I have never dreamed of doing her an injury. I have beenvery, very foolish; I have come between you and her with my cursed folly. I deserve anything you may say or do to me. I care nothing about thewaves; let them come. Take her with you up the cliff, and leave me todrown. It's all I'm fit for. She will forget me soon enough, I feelsure, for I am not worth remembering. "

Hawkstone still kept himself bent down, his hands covering his face, andhis body swaying to and fro with his strong emotions. 

"You talk, you talk, " he muttered. "You seem to have ruined her, and me, and yourself too. "

"Not ruined her!" cried Barton, "I have told you, I swear to you. Iswear--"

"Yes!" cried Hawkstone, springing up in a passion and towering aboveBarton, with his hands tightly clenched and his chest heaving, "Yes! youare too great a coward for that. In one moment I could crush you as Icrush the mussels in the harbour with my heel. "

Nelly threw herself upon him, "Jack, spare him, spare him. He meant noharm. Not now, not now! The sea, Jack, the sea! Save us, save us!"

The man's strength seemed to leave him, and she seemed to overpower him, as he sank back into his former position, muttering "O God, O God!" Atlast he said, "Let be, let be--there, there, I've prayed I might not killyou both, and the devil is gone, thank the Lord for it. There, lass, don't fret; I can't abide crying. The sea! the sea! Yes, the sea. Ihad almost forgotten it. Cheer up a bit--fearful--how it blows--butthere's time yet--a few minutes. Keep up, keep up. There's a God aboveus anyway. "

At this moment a shout was heard above them. "There they are at last, "cried Hawkstone, and he sent a loud halloo up the cliff, which wasimmediately responded to by those at the top, though the sound seemedfaint and far off. After the lapse of about five minutes, a basketattached to two ropes descended slowly and bumped upon the rocks. 

"Now, lass, you get up first. Come, come, give over crying. It's notime for crying now. Be a brave lass or you'll fall out. Sit down andkeep tight hold. Shut your eyes, never mind a bump or two, and keeptight hold. Now then!" He lifted her into the basket. She tried totake his hand, but he drew it sharply away. 

"Oh, forgive me, forgive me, Jack, " she said, "I have been very wicked, but I will try to be good. "

"That's right, lass, that's right. God keep you safe. Hold on, " and hegave a shout up the cliff, and the basket began slowly to ascend. Thetwo men gazed at it in silence till it reached the summit, when, with arapid swirl, it disappeared. 

"Thank God, she is safe, " said Hawkstone. 

"Look, look!" cried Barton, catching hold of Hawkstone in alarm. "Lookhow fast the waves are coming. They will be on us directly. "

"Yes, " said Hawkstone, "there will be barely time to get the two of us upunless they make great haste. I don't know why they don't lower at once. Something must have gone wrong with the rope, but they will do theirbest, that's certain. "

They waited in anxiety amounting to horror, as wave after wave, largerand louder, roared at them, and rushed round the rocks on which they werestanding. Presently down came the basket, plunging into the retreatingwave. 

"Now, then, sir, in with you, " said Hawkstone. 

"No, you go first. I will not go. It is my fault you are here. "

"Nonsense, sir, there's no time for talk. "

"I will not go without you. Let us both get in together. "

"The rope will hardly bear two. Besides, I doubt if there is strengthenough above to pull us up. Get in, get in. "

Barton still hesitated. "I am afraid to leave you alone. Promise me ifI go that you will not--. I can't say what I mean, but if anythinghappened to you I should be the cause of it. "

"For shame, sir, shame. I guess what you mean, but I have not forgottenwho made me, though I have been sorely tried. In with you at once. " Hesuddenly lifted Barton up in his arms, and almost threw him into thebasket, raising a loud shout, upon which the basket again ascended thecliff more rapidly than on the first occasion. Hawkstone fell upon hisknees at the base of the cliff, while the waves roared at him like wildbeasts held back from their victim. He was alone with them and with theGod in whom his simple faith taught him to trust as being mightier thanall the waves. Down came the basket with great rapidity, and Hawkstonehad a hard fight before he could drag it out from the waves and get intoit. Drenched from head to foot, and cold and trembling with excitementand grief, he again shouted, and the basket once more ascended. Heremembered no more. A sudden faintness overcame him, and the first thinghe remembered was feeling himself borne along on a kind of extemporarylitter, and hearing kind voices saying that he was "coming to, " and wouldsoon be all right again. 

Luckily there was no scandal. It was thought quite natural thatHawkstone should be with Nelly, and Barton was supposed to have beenthere by accident. Of course, we knew what the real state of the casewas, and were glad that Barton had got a good fright; but we kept our owncounsel. 

CHAPTER VII. --CONCLUSION. 

Very soon after the events recorded in the last chapter, the ReadingParty broke up, and it only remains now for the writer of this veraciousnarrative to disclose any information he may have subsequently obtainedas to the fate of his characters. Porkington still holds an honouredposition in the University, and still continues to take young men in thesummer vacation to such places as Mrs. Porkington considers sufficientlyinvigorating to her constitution. They grow better friends every year, but the grey mare will always be the better horse. One cause ofdifference has disappeared. The Drag died very shortly after leavingBabbicombe; not at all, I believe, in consequence of her ducking in theharbour; but, being of a peevish and "worritting" disposition, she hadworn herself out in her attempts to make other people's lives a burden tothem. I do not know what has become of Harry Barton; but I know that hehas never revisited Babbicombe, nor even written to the fair Nelly. Isuppose he is helping to manage his father's cotton mill, and will in duecourse marry the daughter of a wealthy manufacturer. Glenville hasbecome quite a rising barrister, popular in both branches of hisprofession, and has announced his fixed intention to remain happy andunmarried till his death. Looking into the future, however, with the eyeof a prophet, the present writer thinks he can see Glenville walking armin arm with a tall, graceful lady, attended by two little girls to whomhe is laughingly talking--but the dream fades from me, and I wonder willit ever come true. Thornton, of course, married Miss Delamere (how couldit be otherwise), but, alas! there are no children, and this unhappy wantis hardly compensated by the indefatigable attentions of Mamma Delamere, who is never weary of condoling with that poor, desolate couple, imploring them to resign themselves to the fate which has been assignedto them, and to strengthen their minds by the principles of truephilosophy and the writings of great thinkers; by which she hopes theymay acquire that harmony of the soul in private life which is so much tobe desiderated in both politics and religion. Nobody knows what shemeans. 

Nelly was not forgiven for one whole year. When she and Hawkstone met, they used only the customary expressions of mere acquaintances; butlovers are known to make use of signals which are unperceived by theoutside world; and, after a year's skirmishing, a peace was finallyconcluded, and a happier couple than John Hawkstone and Nelly cannot befound in the whole country, and I am afraid to say how many of theirchildren are already tumbling about the boats in the harbour. 

The colonel died, and Mrs. Bagshaw lamented his death most truly, and hasnothing but gentleness left in her nature. Her daughter has married theyoung artist, whose pictures of brown-sailed boats and fresh seasbreaking in white foam against the dark rocks have become quite the rageat the Academy. The minor characters have disappeared beneath the waves, and nothing remains to be said except the last word, "farewell. "

A FARRAGO OF VERSES. 

MY BOATING SONG. 

I. 

Oh this earth is a mineful of treasure, A goblet, that's full to the brim, And each man may take for his pleasure The thing that's most pleasant to him;Then let all, who are birds of my feather, Throw heart and soul into my song;Mark the time, pick it up all together, And merrily row it along. 

 Hurrah, boys, or losing or winning, Feel your stretchers and make the blades bend; Hard on to it, catch the beginning, And pull it clean through to the end. 

II. 

I'll admit 'tis delicious to plunge in Clear pools, with their shadows at rest;'Tis nimble to parry, or lunge in Your foil at the enemy's chest; 'Tis rapture to take a man's wicket, Or lash round to leg for a four;But somehow the glories of cricket Depend on the state of the score. 

 But in boating, or losing or winning, Though victory may not attend; Oh, 'tis jolly to catch the beginning, And pull it clean through to the end. 

III. 

'Tis brave over hill and dale sweeping, To be in at the death of the fox;Or to whip, where the salmon are leaping, The river that roars o'er the rocks;'Tis prime to bring down the cock pheasant; And yachting is certainly great;But, beyond all expression, 'tis pleasant To row in a rattling good eight. 

 Then, hurrah, boys, or losing or winning, What matter what labour we spend? Hard on to it, catch the beginning, And pull it clean through to the end. 

IV. 

Shove her off! Half a stroke! Now, get ready! Five seconds! Four, three, two, one, gun!Well started! Well rowed! Keep her steady! You'll want all your wind e'er you've done. Now you're straight! Let the pace become swifter! Roll the wash to the left and the right!Pick it up all together, and lift her, As though she would bound out of sight!

 Hurrah, Hall! Hall, now you're winning, Feel your stretchers and make the blades bend; Hard on to it, catch the beginning, And pull it clean through to the end. 

V. 

Bump! Bump! O ye gods, how I pity The ears those sweet sounds never heard;More tuneful than loveliest ditty E'er poured from the throat of a bird. There's a prize for each honest endeavour, But none for the man who's a shirk;And the pluck that we've showed on the river, Shall tell in the rest of our work. 

 At the last, whether losing or winning, This thought with all memories blend, -- We forgot not to catch the beginning, And we pulled it clean through to the end. 

LETTER FROM THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE. 

I. 

Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field! I ask no more Than one plain field, shut in by hedgerows four, Contentment sweet to yield. For I am not fastidious, And, with a proud demeanour, IWill not affect invidious Distinctions about scenery. I sigh not for the fir trees where they riseAgainst Italian skies, Swiss lakes, or Scottish heather, Set off with glorious weather; Such sights as these The most exacting please;But I, lone wanderer in London streets, Where every face one meets Is full of care, And seems to wear A troubled air, Of being late for some affair Of life or death:--thus I, ev'n I, Long for a field of grass, flat, square, and greenThick hedges set between, Without or house or bield, A sense of quietude to yield; And heave my longing sigh, Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!

II. 

For here the loud streets roar themselves to rest With hoarseness every night; And greet returning lightWith noise and roar, renewed with greater zest. Where'er I go, Full well I knowThe eternal grinding wheels will never cease. There is no place of peace! Rumbling, roaring, and rushing, Hurrying, crowding, and crushing, Noise and confusion, and worry, and fret, From early morning to late sunset--Ah me! but when shall I respite get--What cave can hide me, or what covert shield? So still I sigh, And raise my cry, Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!

III. 

Oh for a field, where all concealed, From this life's fret and noise, I sip delights from rural sights, And simple rustic joys. Where, stretching forth my limbs at rest, I lie and think what likes me best;Or stroll about where'er I list, Nor fear to be run overBy sheep, contented to exist Only on grass and clover. In town, as through the throng I steer, Confiding in the Muses, My finest thoughts are drowned in fear Of cabs and omnibuses. I dream I'm on Parnassus hill, With laurels whispering o'er me, When suddenly I feel a chill-- What was it passed before me?A lady bowed her gracious head From yonder natty brougham--The windows were as dull as lead, I didn't know her through them. She'll say I saw her, cut her dead, -- I've lost my opportunity;I take my hat off when she's fled, And bow to the community!Or sometimes comes a hansom cab, Just as I near the crossing;The "cabby" gives his reins a grab, The steed is wildly tossing. Me, haply fleeing from his horse, He greets with language somewhat coarse, To which there's no replying; A brewer's dray comes down that way, And simply sends me flying!I try the quiet streets, but thereI find an all-pervading airOf death in life, which my despair In no degree diminishes. Then homewards wend my weary way, And read dry law books as I may, No solace will they yield. And so the sad day finishesWith one long sigh and yearning cry, Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!

IV. 

 The fields are bright, and all bedight With buttercups and daisies; Oh, how I long to quit the throng Of human forms and faces: The vain delights, the empty shows, The toil and care bewild'rin', To feel once more the sweet repose Calm Nature gives her children. At times the thrush shall sing, and hush The twitt'ring yellow-hammer; The blackbird fluster from the bush With panic-stricken clamour; The finch in thistles hide from sight, And snap the seeds and toss 'em; The blue-tit hop, with pert delight, About the crab-tree blossom; The homely robin shall draw near, And sing a song most tender; The black-cap whistle soft and clear, Swayed on a twig top slender; The weasel from the hedge-row creep, So crafty and so cruel, The rabbit from the tussock leap, And splash the frosty jewel. I care not what the season be-- Spring, summer, autumn, winter-- In morning sweet, or noon-day heat, Or when the moonbeams glint, or When rosy beams and fiery gleams, And floods of golden yellow, Proclaim the sweetest hour of all-- The evening mild and mellow. There, though the spring shall backward keep, And loud the March winds bluster, The white anemone shall peep Through loveliest leaves in cluster. There primrose pale or violet blue Shall gleam between the grasses; And stitchwort white fling starry light, And blue bells blaze in masses. As summer grows and spring-time goes, O'er all the hedge shall ramble The woodbine and the wilding rose, And blossoms of the bramble. When autumn comes, the leafy ways To red and yellow turning, With hips and haws the hedge shall blaze, And scarlet briony burning. When winter reigns and sheets of snow, The flowers and grass lie under; The sparkling hoar frost yet shall show, A world of fairy wonder. To me more dear such scenes appear, Than this eternal racket, No longer will I fret and fag! Hey! call a cab, bring down my bag, And help me quick to pack it. For here one must go where every one goes, And meet shoals of people whom one never knows, Till it makes a poor fellow dyspeptic;And the world wags along with its sorrows and shows, And will do just the same when I'm dead I suppose; And I'm rapidly growing a sceptic. For its oh, alas, well-a-day, and a-lack!I've a pain in my head and an ache in my back; A terrible cold that makes me shiver, And a general sense of a dried-up liver; And I feel I can hardly bear it. And it's oh for a field with four hedgerows, And the bliss which comes from an hour's repose, And a true, true friend to share it. 

PROTHALAMION. 

The following "Prothalamion" was recently discovered among some otherrubbish in Pope's Villa at Twickenham. It was written on the backs ofold envelopes, and has evidently not received the master's last touches. Some of the lines afford an admirable instance of the way in which greatauthors frequently repeat themselves. 

Nothing so true as what you once let fall, --"To growl at something is the lot of all;Contentment is a gem on earth unknown, And Perfect Happiness the wizard's stone. Give me, " you cried, "to see my duty clear, And room to work, unhindered in my sphere;To live my life, and work my work alone, Unloved while living, and unwept when gone. Let none my triumphs or my failures share, Nor leave a sorrowing wife and joyful heir. "

Go, like St. Simon, on your lonely tower, Wish to make all men good, but want the power. Freedom you'll have, but still will lack the thrall, --The bond of sympathy, which binds us all. Children and wives are hostages to fame, But aids and helps in every useful aim. 

You answer, "Look around, where'er you will, Experience teaches the same lesson still. Mark how the world, full nine times out of ten, To abject drudgery dooms its married men:A slave at first, before the knot is tied, But soon a mere appendage to the bride;A cover, next, to shield her arts from blame;At home ill-tempered, but abroad quite tame;In fact, her servant; though, in name, her lord;Alive, neglected; but, defunct, adored. "

This picture, friend, is surely overdone, You paint the tribe by drawing only one;Or from one peevish grunt, in haste, concludeThe man's whole life with misery imbued. 

Say, what can Horace want to crown his life, Blest with eight little urchins, and a wife?His lively grin proclaims the man is blest, Here perfect happiness must be confessed!Hark, hear that melancholy shriek, alack!--That vile lumbago keeps him on the rack. 

This evil vexed not Courthope's happy ways, Who wants no extra coat on coldest days. His face, his walk, his dress--whate'er you scan, He stands revealed the prosperous gentleman. Still must he groan each Sabbath, while he hearsThe hoarse Gregorians vex his tortured ears. 

Sure Bosanquet true happiness must know, While wit and wisdom mingle as they flow, Him Bromley Sunday scholars will obey;For him e'en Leech will work a good half day;He strives to hide the fear he still must feel, Lest sharp Jack Frost should catch his Marshal Niel. 

Peace to all such; but were there one, whose firesTrue genius kindles and fair fame inspires;Blest with demurrers, statements, counts, and pleas, And born to arbitrations, briefs, and fees;Should such a man, couched on his easy throne, (Unlike the Turk) desire to live alone;View every virgin with distrustful eyes, And dread those arts, which suitors mostly prize, Alike averse to blame, or to commend, Not quite their foe, but something less than friend;Dreading e'en widows, when by these besieged;And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged;Who, in all marriage contracts, looks for flaws, And sits, and meditates on Salic laws;While Pall Mall bachelors proclaim his praise, And spinsters wonder at his works and ways;Who would not smile if such a man there be?Who would not weep if Atticus were he?

Oh, blest beyond the common lot are they, On whom Contentment sheds her cheerful ray;Who find in Duty's path unmixed delight, And perfect Pleasure in pursuit of Right;Thankful for every Joy they feel, or share, Unsought for blessings, like the light and air, And grateful even for the ills they bear;Wedded or single, taking nought amiss, And learning that Content is more than Bliss. 

Oh, friend, may each domestic joy be thine, Be no unpleasing melancholy mine. As rolling years disclose the will of Fate, I see you wedded to some equal mate;Thronged by a crowd of growing girls and boys, A heap of troubles, but a host of joys. On sights like these, should length of days attend, Still may good luck pursue you to the end;Still heaven vouchsafe the gifts it has in store;Still make you, what you would be, more and more;Preserve you happy, cheerful, and serene, Blest with your young retainers, and your Queen. 

YOUNG ENGLAND. 

The times still "grow to something strange"; We rap and turn the tables;We fire our guns at awful range; We lay Atlantic cables;We bore the hills, we bridge the seas-- To me 'tis better farTo sit before my fire at ease, And smoke a mild cigar. 

We start gigantic bubble schemes, -- Whoever _can_ invent 'em!--How splendid the prospectus seems, With int'rest cent. Per centumHis shares the holder, startled, sees At eighty below par:I dawdle to my club at ease, And light a mild cigar. 

We pickle peas, we lock up sound, We bottle electricity;We run our railways underground, Our trams above in this cityWe fly balloons in calm or breeze, And tumble from the car;I wander down Pall Mall at ease, And smoke a mild cigar. 

Some strive to get a post or place, Or entree to society;Or after wealth or pleasure race, Or any notoriety;Or snatch at titles or degrees, At ribbon, cross, or star:I elevate my limbs at ease, And smoke a mild cigar. 

Some people strive for manhood right With riots or orations;For anti-vaccination fight, Or temperance demonstrations:I gently smile at things like these, And, 'mid the clash and jar, I sit in my arm-chair at ease, And smoke a mild cigar. 

They say young ladies all demand A smart barouche and pair, Two flunkies at the door to stand, A mansion in May Fair:I can't afford such things as these, I hold it safer farTo sip my claret at my ease, And smoke a mild cigar. 

It may be proper one should take One's place in the creation;It may be very right to make A choice of some vocation;With such remarks one quite agrees, So sensible they are:I much prefer to take my ease, And smoke a mild cigar. 

They say our morals are so so, Religion still more hollow;And where the upper classes go, The lower always follow;That honour lost with grace and ease Your fortunes will not mar:That's not so well; but, if you please, We'll light a fresh cigar. 

Rank heresy is fresh and green, E'en womenkind have caught it;They say the Bible doesn't mean What people always thought it;That miracles are what you please, Or nature's order mar:I read the last review at ease, And smoke a mild cigar. 

Some folks who make a fearful fuss, In eighteen ninety-seven, Say, heaven will either come to us, Or we shall go to heaven;They settle it just as they please; But, though it mayn't be far, At any rate there's time with ease To light a fresh cigar. 

It may be there is something true; It may be one might find it;It may be, if one looked life through, That something lies behind it;It may be, p'raps, for aught one sees, The things that may be, are:I'm growing serious--if you please We'll light a fresh cigar. 

AN OLDE LYRIC. 

I. 

Oh, saw ye my own true love, I praye, My own true love so sweete?For the flowers have lightly toss'd awaye The prynte of her faery feete. Now, how can we telle if she passed us bye? Is she darke or fayre to see?Like sloes are her eyes, or blue as the skies? Is't braided her haire or free?

II. 

Oh, never by outward looke or signe, My true love shall ye knowe;There be many as fayre, and many as fyne, And many as brighte to showe. But if ye coude looke with angel's eyes, Which into the soule can see, She then would be seene as the matchless Queene Of Love and of Puritie. 

LULLABY. 

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep! Evening is coming, and night is nigh;Under the lattice the little birds cheep, All will be sleeping by and by. Sleep, little baby, sleep. 

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep! Darkness is creeping along the sky;Stars at the casement glimmer and peep, Slowly the moon comes sailing by. Sleep, little baby, sleep. 

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep! Sleep till the dawning has dappled the sky;Under the lattice the little birds cheep, All will be waking by and by. Sleep, little baby, sleep. 

ISLE OF WIGHT--SPRING, 1891. 

I know not what the cause may be, Or whether there be one or many;But this year's Spring has seemed to me More exquisite than any. 

What happy days we spent together In that fair Isle of primrose flowers!How brilliant was the April weather! What glorious sunshine and what showers!

I think the leaves peeped out and in At every change from cold to heat;The grass threw off a livelier sheen From dewdrops sparkling at our feet. 

What wealth of early bloom was there-- The wind flow'r and the primrose pale, On bank or copse, and orchis rare, And cowslip covering Wroxhall dale. 

And, oh, the splendour of the sea, -- The blue belt glimmering soft and far, Through many a tumbled rock and tree Strewn 'neath the overhanging scar!

'Tis twenty years and more, since here, As man and wife we sought this Isle, Dear to us both, O wife most dear, And we can greet it with a smile. 

Not now alone we come once more, But bringing young ones of our brood--One boy (Salopian), and four Girls, blooming into maidenhood. 

And I had late begun to fret And sicken at the sordid town--The crime, the guilt, and, loathlier yet, The helpless, hopeless sinking down;

The want, the misery, the woe, The stubborn heart which will not turn;The tears which will or will not flow; The shame which does or does not burn. 

And Winter's frosts had proved unkind, With darkest gloom and deadliest cold;A time which will be brought to mind, And talked of, when our boys are old. 

And thus the contrast seemed to wake New vigour in the heart and brain;Sea, land, and sky conspired to make The jaded spirit young again;

Or hopes for growing girl or boy, Or thankfulness for things that be, Or sweet content in wedded joy, Set all the world to harmony. 

And so I know not if it be That there are causes one or many, But this year's Spring still seems to me More exquisite than any. 

LOVE AND LIBERTY. 

The linnet had flown from its cage away, And flitted and sang in the light of day--Had flown from the lady who loved it well, In Liberty's freer air to dwell. Alas! poor bird, it was soon to prove, Sweeter than Liberty is Love. 

When night came on it had ceased to sing, And had hidden its head beneath its wing. It thought of the warm room left behind, The shelter from cold and rain and wind;It could not sleep, when to sleep it strove--Liberty needeth the help of Love. 

The night owls shrieked as they wheeled along, Bent upon slaughter, and rapine, and wrong:There was devilish mirth in their wild halloo, And the linnet trembled when near they drew;'Twas fearful to watch them madly rove, Drunken with Liberty, left of Love. 

When morning broke, a grey old crowWas pecking some carrion down below;A poor little lamb, half alive, half-dead, And the crow at each peck turned up its headWith a cunning glance at the linnet above--What a demon is Liberty left of Love!

Then an eagle hovered far up in the sky, And the linnet trembled, but could not fly;With a swoop to the earth the eagle fell, And rose up anon with a savage yell. The birds in the woodlands dared not move. What a despot is Liberty left of Love!

By and bye there arrived, with chattering loud, Chaffinch and sparrow and finch, in a cloud;Round and around in their fierce attack, They plucked the feathers from breast and back;And the poor little linnet all vainly strove, Fighting with Liberty left of Love. 

"Alas!" it said, with a cry of pain, "Carry me back to my cage again;There let me dwell in peaceful ease, Piping whatever songs I please;Here, if I stay, my death shall prove, Liberty dieth left of Love. "

TO THE REV. A. A. IN THE COUNTRY FROM HIS FRIEND IN LONDON. 

(AFTER HEINE. )

Thou little village curate, Come quick, and do not wait;We'll sit and talk together, So sweetly _tete-a-tete_. 

Oh do not fear the railway Because it seems so big--Dost thou not daily trust thee Unto thy little gig. 

This house is full of painters, And half shut up and black;But rooms the very snuggest Lie hidden at the back. Come! come! come!

THE CURATE TO HIS SLIPPERS. 

Take, oh take those boots away, That so nearly are outworn;And those shoes remove, I pray-- Pumps that but induce the corn!But my slippers bring again, Bring again;Works of love, but worked in vain, Worked in vain!

AN ATTEMPT TO REMEMBER THE "GRANDMOTHER'S APOLOGY. "

(WITH MANY APOLOGIES TO THE LAUREATE. )

And Willie, my eldest born, is gone, you say, little Anne, Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man;He was only fourscore years, quite young, when he died;I ought to have gone before, but must wait for time and tide. 

So Harry's wife has written; she was always an awful fool, And Charlie was always drunk, which made our families cool;For Willie was walking with Jenny when the moon came up the dale, And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale. 

Jenny I know had tripped, and she knew that I knew of it well. She began to slander me. I knew, but I wouldn't tell!And she to be slandering me, the impertinent, base little liar;But the tongue is a fire, as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire. 

And the parson made it his text last week; and he said likewise, That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies;That a downright hearty good falsehood doesn't so very much matter, But a lie which is half a truth is worse than one that is flatter. 

Then Willie and Jenny turned in the sweet moonshine, And he said to me through his tears, "Let your good name be mine, ""And what do I care for Jane. " She was never over-wise, Never the wife for Willie: thank God that I keep my eyes. 

"Marry you, Willie!" said I, and I thought my heart would break, "But a man cannot marry his grandmother, so there must be some mistake. "But he turned and clasped me in his arms, and answered, "No, love, no!Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago!"

So Willie and I were wedded, though clearly against the law, And the ringers rang with a will, and Willie's gloves were straw;But the first that ever I bear was dead before it was born--For Willie I cannot weep, life is flower and thorn. 

Pattering over the boards, my Annie, an Annie like you, Pattering over the boards, and Charlie and Harry too;Pattering over the boards of our beautiful little cot, And I'm not exactly certain whether they died or not. 

And yet I know of a truth, there is none of them left alive, For Willie went at eighty, and Harry at ninety-five;And Charlie at threescore years, aye! or more than that I'll be sworn, And that very remarkable infant that died before it was born. 

So Willie has gone, my beauty, the eldest that bears the name, It's a soothing thought--"In a hundred years it'll be all the same. ""Here's a leg for a babe of a week, " says doctor, in some surprise, But fetch me my glasses, Annie, I'm thankful I keep my eyes. 

AIR--"Three Fishers went Sailing. "

Three attorneys came sailing down Chancery Lane, Down Chancery Lane e'er the courts had sat;They thought of the leaders they ought to retain, But the Junior Bar, oh, they thought not of that; For serjeants get work and Q. C. 's too, And solicitors' sons-in-law frequently do, While the Junior Bar is moaning. 

Three juniors sat up in Crown Office Row, In Crown Office Row e'er the courts had sat, They saw the solicitors passing below, And the briefs that were rolled up so tidy and fat, For serjeants get work, etc. 

Three briefs were delivered to Jones, Q. C, To Jones, Q. C. , e'er the courts had sat;And the juniors weeping, and wringing their paws, Remarked that their business seemed uncommon flat; For Serjeants get work and Q. C. 's too, But as for the rest it's a regular "do, " And the Junior Bar is moaning. 

AIR--"Give that Wreath to Me"

("Farewell, Manchester"). 

I. 

 Give that brief to me, Without so much bother; Never let it be Given to another. Why this coy resistance? Wherefore keep such distance?Why hesitate so long to give that brief to me?

II. 

 Should'st thou ever find Any counsel willing To conduct thy case For one pound one shilling; Scorn such vulgar tricks, love; One pound three and six, love, Is the proper thing, --then give that brief to me. 

III. 

 Should thy case turn out Hopeless and delusive, Still I'd rave and shout, Using terms abusive. Truth and sense might perish, Still thy cause I'd cherish, Hallow'd by thy gold, --then give that brief to me. 

IV. 

 Should the learned judge Sit on me like fury, Still I'd never budge-- There's the British Jury! Should that stay prove rotten, Bowen, Brett, and Cotton {143}Would upset them all, --then give that brief to me. 

ON CIRCUIT. 

Two neighbours, fighting for a yard of land;Two witnesses, who _lie_ on either hand;Two lawyers, issuing many writs and pleas;Two clerks, in a dark passage counting fees;Two counsel, calling one another names;Two courts, where lawyers play their little games;Two weeks at Leeds, which wear the soul away;Two judges getting limper every day;Two bailiffs of the court with aspect sour--So runs the round of life from hour to hour. 

AT THE "COCK" TAVERN. 

Champagne doth not a luncheon make, Nor caviare a meal;Men gluttonous and rich may take These till they make them ill. If I've potatoes to my chop, And after that have cheese, Angels in Pond & Spiers's shop Serve no such luxuries. 

IMPROMPTU IN THE ASSIZE COURT, NOTTINGHAM, _On seeing_ BRET HARTE _come upon the Bench_. 

Thanks for an hour of laughing In a world that is growing old;Thanks for an hour of weeping In a world that is growing cold;For we who have wept with Dickens, And we who have laughed with Boz, Have renewed the days of our childhood With his American Coz. 

IMPROMPTU IN THE ASSIZE COURT AT LINCOLN. 

_Sir W. Bovill was specially retained in an action for damages caused bythe overflowing of the banks of the Witham. With great spirit hecontended that the river had for three days flowed from the sea_. 

The moon in the valley of Ajalon Stood still at the word of the prophet;But since certain "Essays" were written We don't think so very much of it. Now, a prophet is raised up among us, Whose miracles none can gainsay;For he spoke, and the great river Witham Flowed three days, uphill, the wrong way. 

PROLOGUETO A CHARADE. --"DAMN-AGES. "

In olden time--in great Eliza's age, When rare Ben Jonson ruled the humorous stage, No play without its Prologue might appearTo earn applause or ward the critic's sneer;And surely now old customs should not sleepWhen merry Christmas revelries we keep. He loves old ways, old faces, and old friends, Nor to new-fangled fancies condescends;Besides, we need your kindly hearts to moveOur faults to pardon and our freaks approve, For this our sport has been in haste begun, Unpractised actors and impromptu fun;So on our own deserts we dare not stand, But beg the favour that we can't command. Most flat would fall our "cranks and wanton wiles, "Reft of your favouring "nods and wreathed smiles, "As some tame landscape desolately bareIs charmed by sunshine into seeming fair;So, gentle friends, if you your smiles bestow, That which is tame in us will not seem so. Our play is a charade. We split the word, Each syllable an act, the whole a third;My first we show you by a comic play, Old, but not less the welcome, I dare say. My second will be brought upon the stageFrom lisping childhood down to palsied age. Last, but not least, our country's joy and pride, A British Jury will my whole decide;But what's the word you'll ask me, what's the word?That you must guess, or ask some little bird;Guess as you will you'll fail; for 'tis no doubtOne of those things "no fellow can find out. "

TO A SCIENTIFIC FRIEND. 

You say 'tis plain that poets feign, And from the truth depart;They write with ease what fibs they please, With artifice, not art;Dearer to you the simply true-- The fact without the fancy--Than this false play of colours gay, So very vague and chancy. No doubt 'tis well the truth to tell In scientific coteries;But I'll be bold to say she's cold, Excepting to her votaries. The false disguise of tawdry lies May hide sweet Nature's face;But in her form the blood runs warm, As in the human race;And in the rose the dew-drop glows, And, o'er the seas serene, The sunshine white still breaks in light Of yellow, blue, and green. In thousand rays the fancy plays; The feelings rise and bubble;The mind receives, the heart believes, And makes each pleasure double. Then spare to draw without a flaw, Nor all too perfect make her, Lest Nature wear the dull, cold air Of some demurest Quaker--Whose mien austere is void of cheer, Or sense of sins forgiven, And her sweet face has lost all grace Of either earth or heaven. 

GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE. 

Footnotes

{5} Milton only received 10 pounds for _Paradise Lost_, and there is agood story told that some one copied it out in manuscript and sent itsuccessively to three great London publishers, who all declined it asunsuitable to the public taste. 

{143} Three of the Justices of Appeal.